"My dear Sibyl, be reasonable," said the minister, delighted that even anger should rouse her from her apathy, "Mr. Drummond has saved your life."
"I would sooner die than owe my life to him!" she said, passionately.
"My dear Sibyl," said the minister, soothingly, as he cast a deprecating glance at Willard, "You mustn't talk like this; it's very wrong, you know."
"Let her speak, Mr. Brantwell; I deserve it all," said Willard, bitterly.
His words, the sound of his voice, wrought a revulsion in her feelings, and she cried out, in a tone of passionate reproach:
"Oh, Willard, Willard! how could you deceive me so? I loved you so much, so much Willard, and yet you deceived me! Oh, it was cruel, it was base, it was treacherous, it was unmanly to trifle with a poor young girl thus!"
"Sibyl, I am a wretch! I dare not ask you to forgive me!" he groaned, in bitterest remorse.
"And she—she is your wife, is she not?" she said, fixing her flaming eyes, on the pale, wan face of Christie.
"She is; but she had no part in deceiving you, Sibyl; all the blame must rest on me. As I deceived you, so did I deceive her, villain that I was," he replied.
"Mr. Drummond, she is dead, I fear," said Mr. Brantwell, looking in alarm at the white, rigid face of Christie.