"I knew nothing of this, Sibyl, and yet, for not one fraction or a second did the slightest, faintest doubt of you enter my mind. Oh, Sibyl! Sibyl! when will you have faith like this in me?"
"Now!—forever! Oh, Willard, I must believe—I do believe, and I will never doubt you more!" said Sibyl, her beautiful face growing radiant with new hope. "If I judged you rashly, at least I have atoned for it, for never while you live can you dream of all I have endured for your sake. Oh, Willard, with your cool nature and calmly pulsating heart, you can never form any idea of the passionate heart throbbing here—of the fiery blood that has descended to me from a fiery race. Oh, Willard, for all my unjust doubts, and suspicions, and accusations, can you ever forgive me!"
He had borne her frenzied outbursts of passion, her bitter, withering sarcasm, her utter woe and desolation, calmly enough; but now her renewed hopes, and trust, and confidence, pierced to his very heart. He felt the blood rush to his very temples, but her head was bent on his shoulder, and she did not observe it. How intensely in that moment did he despise himself, and this necessity of lying, which his own fault had created! Without thinking of the guilt, as a gentlemen he felt himself degraded by a falsehood—something which he had never hitherto stained his lips with. And yet, in the last hour how low he had sunk! Verily, in that moment he felt "the way of the transgressor is hard."
But Sibyl Campbell, loving and hating alike with utter abandon—going from one extreme to the other, without knowing what a medium meant—knew nothing of the thoughts that set the heart she prized even above her hope of heaven, beating so tumultuously against her own. Casting all doubt to the winds, resolving she would not believe him guilty—the delicious joy of knowing and believing she was still beloved filled her heart. And so for the present she gave herself wholly up to this new happiness. But how long was this delicious joy destined to last?
CHAPTER XVII.
A LULL BEFORE THE TEMPEST.
"We hold our greyhound in our hand,
Our falcon on our glove;
But where shall we find leash or band
For dame that loves to rove?"—SCOTT.
"Now, my dear Mrs. Courtney, you really must not think of going back to the island, any more. Sibyl is to remain with me, for a week or two longer, and you, positively, must stay, for, let me tell you, I have taken a desperate fancy to you, during the last few hours. Then, too, Sibyl, poor child! has seemed ill and out of spirits for the past few days—-and the presence of your lively little ladyship will tend to restore her to cheerfulness, again. So, Mrs. Courtney, you will just consider it settled; and, yourself, and husband must remain my guests for the present."
The company, were already dispersing, and Mrs. Courtney, on going to take leave of her hostess, had listened to the above harangue.
"But, Mr. Courtney," she began, rather hesitatingly,