"Oh, my soul! was it for this I poured out such priceless treasures of love at this man's feet? Was it for this I forgot God to worship him? Was it for this that I would have given my soul to perdition that his might be saved? Was it for this I would have devoted my life, with all its high hopes and aspirations, all that I was, all that I might become, to make him happy? Was it for this that I thought of him day and night, sleeping and waking? Was it for a return like this that I would have given my very life-blood to free him from all pain? Oh, this heart—this heart! Oh, my lost faith! my blasted hopes! my ruined life! Wealth, and youth, and beauty, were given to me, but what are they worth, when all is desolation here?"
She struck her breast with her clenched hand, and dropping into a seat, her arms fell upon the table, and her grief-bowed young head dropped heavily upon them.
The dead silence that for an instant followed her vehement outburst, was like a sudden lull in a furious storm when the spirit of the tempest pauses for a moment, and breaks forth in redoubled fury.
"Sibyl!"
Soft, low, and gentle, like oil poured upon troubled waves, came the voice of Willard Drummond to her passion-tossed heart, that voice which, in spite of all, was still dearer to her than all the world beside.
Only a convulsive shiver, a fierce grasping of her breast, as though she would tear from it the unspeakable gnawing of her agony, but no reply.
"Dearest Sibyl!"
He came over, and folding her in his arms, bent over her till his face rested on her silken hair.
"Oh, Willard!" she cried, looking suddenly up, and speaking in a tone of piercing anguish, "why did you deceive me so?"
"Sibyl, speak and tell me what you mean. As heaven hears me I have not deceived you. I love you still, as I have always loved you!"