for the sense of freedom that would follow; but he agreed, as always, to whatever his wife preferred. They talked with unwonted animation. A great atlas was opened, routes were fingered; half the earth's circumference vanished in a twinkling. Sibyl, hitherto mewed within the circle of European gaieties and relaxations, all at once let her fancy fly—tasted a new luxury in experiences from which she had shrunk.
'I'll order my outfit tomorrow. Very light things, I suppose? Who could advise me about that?'
Among a number of notes and letters which she wrote next day was one to Miss Frothingham. 'Dear Alma,' it began, and it ended with 'Yours affectionately'—just as usual.
'Could you possibly come here some day this week? I haven't written before, and haven't tried to see you, because I felt sure you would rather be left alone. At the same time I feel sure that what has happened, though for a time it will sadden us both, cannot affect our friendship. I want to see you, as we are going away very soon, first of all to Honolulu. Appoint your own time; I will be here.'
By return of post came the black-edged answer, which began with 'Dearest Sibyl,' and closed with 'Ever affectionately'.
'I cannot tell you how relieved I am to get your kind letter. These dreadful days have made me ill, and one thing that increased my misery was the fear that I should never hear from you again. I should not have dared to write. How noble you are!—but then I always knew that. I cannot come tomorrow—you know why—but the next day I will be with you at three o'clock, if you don't tell me that the hour is inconvenient.'
They met at the appointed time. Mrs. Carnaby's fine sense of the becoming declared itself in dark array; her voice was tenderly subdued; the pressure of her hand, the softly lingering touch of her lips, conveyed a sympathy which perfect taste would not allow to become demonstrative. Alma could at first say nothing. The faint rose upon her cheek had vanished; her eyes were heavy, and lacked their vital gleam; her mouth, no longer mobile and provocative, trembled on the verge of sobs, pathetic, childlike. She hung her head, moved with a languid, diffident step, looked smaller and slighter, a fashionable garb of woe aiding the unhappy transformation.
'I oughtn't to have given you this trouble,' said Sibyl. 'But perhaps you would rather see me here——'
'Yes—oh yes—it was much better——'
'Sit down, dear. We won't talk of wretched things, will we? If I could have been of any use to you——'
'I was so afraid you would never——'
'Oh, you know me better than that,' broke in Mrs. Carnaby, almost with cheerfulness, her countenance already throwing off the decorous shadow, like a cloak that had served its turn. 'I hope I am neither foolish nor worldly-minded.'
'Indeed, indeed not! You are goodness itself.'
'How is Mrs. Frothingham?'
The question was asked with infinite delicacy, head and body bent forward, eyes floatingly averted.
'Really ill, I'm afraid. She has fainted several times—yesterday was unconscious for nearly half an hour.'
Sibyl flinched. Mention of physical suffering affected her most disagreeably; she always shunned the proximity of people in ill health, and a possibility of infection struck her with panic.
'Oh, I'm so sorry. But it will pass over.'
'I hope so. I have done what I could.'
'I'm sure you have.'
'But it's so hard—when every word of comfort sounds heartless—when it's kindest to say nothing——'
'We won't talk about it, dear. You yourself—I can see what you have gone through. You must get away as soon as possible; this gloomy weather makes everything worse.'
She paused, and with an air of discreet interest awaited Alma's reply.
'Yes, I hope to get away. I shall see if it's possible.'
The girl's look strayed with a tired uncertainty; her hands never ceased to move and fidget; only the habits of good breeding kept her body still.
'Of course, it is too soon for you to have made plans.'
'It's so difficult,' replied Alma, her features more naturally expressive, her eyes a little brighter. 'You see, I am utterly dependent upon Mamma. I had better tell you at once—Mamma will have enough to live upon, however things turn out. She has money of her own; but of course I have nothing—nothing whatever. I think, most likely, Mamma will go to live with her sister, in the country, for a time. She couldn't bear to go on living in London, and she doesn't like life abroad. If only I could do as I wish!'
'I guess what that would be,' said the other, smiling gently.
'To take up music as a profession—yes. But I'm not ready for it.'
'Oh, half a year of serious study; with your decided talent, I should think you couldn't hesitate. You are a born musician.'
The words acted as a cordial. Alma roused herself, lifted her drooping head and smiled.
'That's the praise of a friend.'
'And the serious opinion of one not quite unfit to judge,' rejoined Sibyl, with her air of tranquil self-assertion. 'Besides, we have agreed—haven't we?—that the impulse is everything. What you wish for, try for. Just now you have lost courage; you are not yourself. Wait till you recover your balance.'
'It isn't that I want to make a name, or anything of that sort,' said Alma, in a voice that was recovering its ordinary pitch and melody. 'I dare say I never should; I might just support myself, and that would be all. But I want to be free—I want to break away.'
'Of course!'
'I have been thinking that I shall beg Mamma to let me have just a small allowance, and go off by myself. I know people at Leipzig—the Gassners, you remember. I could live there on little enough, and work, and feel free. Of course, there's really no reason why I shouldn't. I have been feeling so bound and helpless; and now that nobody has any right to hinder me, you think it would be the wise thing?'
Alma had occasionally complained to her friend, as she did the other evening to Harvey Rolfe, that easy circumstances were not favourable to artistic ambition, but no very serious disquiet had ever declared itself in her ordinary talk. The phrases she now used, and the look that accompanied them, caused Sibyl some amusement. Only two years older than Alma, Mrs. Carnaby enjoyed a more than proportionate superiority in knowledge of the world; her education had been more steadily directed to that end, and her natural aptitude for the study was more pronounced. That she really liked Alma seemed as certain as that she felt neither affection nor esteem for any other person of her own sex. Herself not much inclined to feminine friendship, Alma had from the first paid voluntary homage to Sibyl's intellectual claims, and thought it a privilege to be admitted to her intimacy; being persuaded, moreover, that in Sibyl, and in Sibyl alone, she found genuine appreciation of her musical talent. Sibyl's choice of a husband had secretly surprised and disappointed her, for Hugh Carnaby was not the type of man in whom she felt an interest, and he seemed to her totally unworthy of his good fortune; but this perplexity passed and was forgotten. She saw that Sibyl underwent no subjugation; nay, that the married woman did but perfect herself in those qualities of mind and mood whereby she had shone as a maiden. It was a combination of
