“And so, if thou wert wedded to one worthy of thee, in his ambition thou wouldst soar and dare?”
“Perhaps,” answered Sibyll, coyly.
“But if thou wert wedded to sorrow and poverty and troublous care, thine ambition, thus struck dead, would of consequence strike dead thy love?”
“Nay, noble lord, nay; canst thou so wrong womanhood in me unworthy? for surely true ambition lives not only in the goods of fortune. Is there no nobler ambition than that of the vanity? Is there no ambition of the heart,—an ambition to console, to cheer the griefs of those who love and trust us; an ambition to build a happiness out of the reach of fate; an ambition to soothe some high soul, in its strife with a mean world,—to lull to sleep its pain, to smile to serenity its cares? Oh, methinks a woman’s true ambition would rise the bravest when, in the very sight of death itself, the voice of him in whom her glory had dwelt through life should say, ‘Thou fearest not to walk to the grave and to heaven by my side!”’
Sweet and thrilling were the tones in which these words were said, lofty and solemn the upward and tearful look with which they closed.
And the answer struck home to the native and original heroism of the listener’s nature, before debased into the cynic sourness of worldly wisdom. Never had Katherine herself more forcibly recalled to Hastings the pure and virgin glory of his youth.
“Oh, Sibyll!” he exclaimed passionately, and yielding to the impulse of the moment,—“oh, that for me, as to me, such high words were said! Oh, that all the triumphs of a life men call prosperous were excelled by the one triumph of waking such an ambition in such a heart!”
Sibyll stood before him transformed,—pale, trembling, mute,—and Hastings, clasping her hand and covering it with kisses, said,—
“Dare I arede thy silence? Sibyll, thou lovest me—O Sibyll, speak!”
With a convulsive effort, the girl’s lips moved, then closed, then moved again, into low and broken words.