He felt himself to be still solemnly engaged to Sybil, yet hopelessly separated from her, through no fault of his own—separated without even a lovers' quarrel. He wondered now at the selfish thoughts which more than once had occurred to him, particularly on that day when he quitted the library, and even the house, in such haste to avoid her, and times there were when he blushed at the memory of it. Relations they were unquestionably by blood, whether there had been a marriage or no marriage; and this made Audley reflect all the more deeply and tenderly on the subject of his severed ties with Sybil.
He wished to restore the ring to her in person, to replace it on her finger as a memento of himself; for the repossession of it made him restless and uneasy, as the crazed Halfheller with his bottle-imp; and if he was to do this, there was no time to be lost, as he had but one day to spend in Cornwall now.
The wild longing or craving to see her once again, to have an explanation of some kind—he knew not what—but beyond anything a letter could contain (even were she permitted to receive it), still inspired him, though prudence might have suggested the utter inexpediency of further interviews between them, circumstanced as they were. Audley, however, was not of an age, neither was he of the temperament, of one to play the part of casuist.
"Why may I not baffle them all—this strange mother, who can be so winning and yet is so repellant, my cold and calculating father too—and carry off the dear girl in defiance of all and everything? This very night I might do it," he pondered: "the train in an hour or so would set me down close by her; and if we make allowance for human frailty and the 'doctrine of chances,' why the deuce should I not succeed, for I know that she loves me?"
He started from a deep and easy library-chair, in which he had been seated, enjoying a pipe of cavendish, as this idea, or chain of ideas, occurred to him; but then calmer reflection suggested a view of the future—his father's rage, his proud mother's disgust, his allowance cut off, and no home for his bride in India, but barrack accommodation or a subaltern's bungalow.
"No—no—by Jove, that would never do!" he muttered, and reseated himself. Yet he was resolved to see her, if he could. Perhaps old Winny Braddon might not have a heart so flinty as her mistress; and even if she had, it might not be inaccessible to temptation; so that night, when dusk was closing over land and sea, saw Audley Trevelyan speeding along the Cornwall Railway, with no very defined idea, save a desire to see, to speak with Sybil, and to hold once again her little hand in his, ere he left the country, it might be for ever.
The train had been unaccountably delayed; so the hour was late, almost close on ten, when he passed down the avenue, and found himself near the villa. To hope to see Sybil at that unwonted hour was absurd; but, after having come so far, he could not deny himself the pleasure of hovering near the place which, from its association with her presence, had for him so great a charm.
Thus it was with much of tender interest he surveyed the façade of the little villa, the walls and rose-bound portico of which glimmered white in the light of the stars; for, as yet, the moon had not risen, but he could not fail to observe with genuine concern that the stables, as he passed them, and the coach-house too, seemed empty and deserted; for the little phaeton and its pretty ponies, so long the pets of Sybil, had been sold, with many other things, to furnish fees for the grasping Mr. Sharkley: moreover, the villa was ticketed to let.
There might be company, guests, or visitors at the villa; if so, even at that hour, he might perhaps see at least her figure. But no; as he drew nearer, all seemed dark and silent,—on the entrance floor at least; and now the barking of a watch-dog from its kennel near the house made him pause and consider how strange it was that he should be prowling thus, like a housebreaker in the night, when he might, under happier auspices, have been an honoured and welcome guest.
Constance and her daughter had evidently retired for the night, lights being visible in their bedrooms only. That of Sybil, he had chanced to know, was in the north wing of the house, and faced the garden, through the iron gate of which he could see a ray of light from her window falling on the trees, parterres, and shrubbery.