“She said that, did she? little hypocrite! For your father, read yourself, and tell me what else she babbled about in that early tête-à-tête of yours.”
“You are as curious as a woman, sir, and always make me tell you all I do and say, yet never tell me any thing in return, except this business, which I hate, because my liberty is the price, and my poor little cousin is kept in the dark. I’ll tell her all, before I marry her, father.”
“As you please, hot-head. I am waiting for an account of the first love passage, so leave blushing to Sybil and begin.”
I knew what was coming and stayed no longer, but caught one glimpse of the pair, Guy in his favorite place, erect upon the rug, half-laughing, half-frowning as he delayed to speak, my uncle serenely smoking on the couch; then I sped away to my own room, thinking, as I sat down in a towering passion,—
“So he does know of the baby betrothal and hates it, yet submits to please his father, who covets my fortune,—mercenary creatures! I can annul the contract, can I? I’m glad to know that, for it makes me mistress of them both. I like you already, do I? and you see it in my eyes. Coxcomb! I’ll be the thornier for that. Yet I do like him; I do wish he cared for me, I’m so lonely in the world, and he can be so kind.”
So I cried a little, brushed my hair a good deal, and went to bed, resolving to learn all I could when, where, and how I pleased, to render myself as charming and valuable as possible, to make Guy love me in spite of himself, and then say yes or no, as my heart prompted me.
That day was a sample of those that followed, for my cousin was by turns attracted or repelled by the capricious moods that ruled me. Though conscious of a secret distrust of my uncle, I could not resist the fascination of his manner when he chose to exert its influence over me; this made my little plot easier of execution, for jealousy seemed the most effectual means to bring my wayward cousin to subjection. Full of this fancy, I seemed to tire of his society, grew thorny as a briar rose to him, affectionate as a daughter to my uncle, who surveyed us both with that inscrutable glance of his, and slowly yielded to my dominion as if he had divined my purpose and desired to aid it. Guy turned cold and gloomy, yet still lingered near me as if ready for a relenting look or word. I liked that, and took a wanton pleasure in prolonging the humiliation of the warm heart I had learned to love, yet not to value as I ought, until it was too late.
One dull November evening as I went wandering up and down the hall, pretending to enjoy the flowers, yet in reality waiting for Guy, who had left me alone all day, my uncle came from his room, where he had sat for many hours with the harassed and anxious look he always wore when certain foreign letters came.
“Sybil, I have something to show and tell you,” he said, as I garnished his button-hole with a spray of heliotrope, meant for the laggard, who would understand its significance, I hoped. Leading me to the drawing-room, my uncle put a paper into my hands, with the request,—
“This is a copy of your father’s will; oblige me by reading it.”