"I do pardon you, but require you to explain—"
"The object of such a visit at such a time," said he, lowering his voice lest he should be overheard in the stillness of the night.
"Most certainly," said she, weeping.
"Have you indeed discarded me—withdrawn your heart from me, and for ever, Sybil?"
"What would you have me to do, Audley?"
"There is an arbour in the garden—throw a shawl over you, and grant me but a minute to say a few farewell words."
"The moment you first asked for has become a minute—so would the minute soon become an hour."
"In pity to me, Sybil," urged Audley, with clasped hands.
After a little indecision, seeming to listen and perceive that all was still, she threw a shawl over her head, unbolted the French sash, and stepped forth into the garden, where now the light of an uprisen moon fell in a bright flood upon the grass plots, the shining evergreens, and tipped all the leafless trees with liquid silver. There seemed a divine peace over all the earth and sky; but the hearts of these two young people were sad and aching, while Audley pressed a long and silent kiss upon her upturned face, as he led her towards the bower in question.
"I leave this to-morrow, Sybil," said he, as he seated himself by her side, and took her hands caressingly in his own, "and I could not resist the craving, the desire to see you once again, and explain much that my returned letters were meant to elucidate to you and your mamma—that I have no share in the spirit of animosity—hostility—how shall I term it?—cherished by my family against you and yours. With this family quarrel, for so shall I style it, I have nothing to do, and you, dear Sybil, have nothing to do. The employment of a legal wretch like Sharkley was, of course, a fatal mistake, making much public that need never have been so, and tending greatly to complicate and embitter our affairs."