And the bride-maids, in great agitation, not to say deep disappointment at losing the ball in the evening, dressed themselves and went immediately home.
Mrs. Brantwell sat weeping in a perfect abandon of grief, in the parlor below, and would not be comforted. Mr. Brantwell and Mr. Stafford, themselves in deep distress, strove to console her in vain.
Poor Will Stafford! it was not without a struggle he had seen Sibyl given up to another; but hiding the sharp, dreary pain at his heart under a gay exterior, he had resolutely determined to be gay, and conquer his ill-starred passion. From the first moment he had seen Willard Drummond, an uneasy consciousness that he had beheld him somewhere before was ever upon him. He thought of the secret marriage he had long ago beheld, and he thought Mr. Drummond looked suspiciously like the bridegroom on that occasion; but he "pooh-poohed" the notion as preposterous, and strove to forget it. It was nearly dark when he had beheld that "run-away pair," as he called them; and he could not distinctly see the face of the man—their general appearance was alike, but not sufficiently so to warrant his speaking on the subject; and, of course, it could not have been Mr. Drummond, the betrothed of Sibyl Campbell. So he had hitherto scouted the idea until he had nearly forgotten it; but now, strange to say, it came back to him more vividly than ever.
While many suspicious thoughts of Willard Drummond, but not one of Sibyl, were passing through his mind, Mrs. Brantwell was still sobbing on the sofa, in passionate grief.
"Now, really, Harriet, this is wrong—this is sinful. You know," said Mr. Brantwell, fidgetting uneasily, "such violent grief is forbidden. We should be resigned to the dispensations of Providence, no matter in what shape they come."
"Oh, Mr. Brantwell, go away! I don't believe this is a dispensation of Providence; it is all the villainy of that miserable wretch, Courtney! And to think we should have kept him here, too. Oh, Sibyl! Sibyl!" concluded Mrs. Brantwell, with a fresh burst of grief.
"My dear madam, let us hope for the best. This absurd, this monstrous, this horrible charge will soon be explained, and Sibyl set at liberty," said Stafford, soothingly.
"Oh, I know all that—I have not the slightest doubt but she will be discharged, soon—very soon! But think of the horrible injustice of this deed! that she, my beautiful, high-minded, proud-spirited Sibyl, should ever set foot within a prison cell, much less be brought there as a prisoner—and on her wedding-day, too! Oh, it is cruel! it is most unjust! I have no words to express the unspeakable wrong it inflicts upon her. That her name should be bandied on every tongue—should be proclaimed as a felon's in all the papers—should be the topic of every tavern far and near! Oh, Heaven! why is this monstrous injustice permitted?" cried Mrs. Brantwell, in still-increasing sorrow and indignation.
"Now, really, Mrs. Brantwell," began the more moderate spouse.
"Mr. Brantwell," sobbed his wife, looking indignantly at him through her tears, "if you can stand there, looking so cool and unmoved, it's no reason why others should be equally heartless. Oh, Mr. Stafford! won't you ride to Westport and learn the issue of this arrest, or I shall die of suspense!"