“Is she here?” she breathlessly asked.

Mr. Parmalee nodded toward the window.

Sybilla gazed up a moment at the pale, haggard face.

“They are alike,” she said, under her breath—­“mother and daughter—­and that face is scarcely more haggard than the other now.  We have had a dreadful quarrel, Mr. Parmalee, since you left, up at the Court.”

“Want to know about me?”

“Partly.  About the secret—­about that meeting in the Beech Walk.  He absolutely threatened her life.”

“Should like to have been there to hear him,” said Mr. Parmalee.  “It would be paying off old scores a little.  How did she take it?”

“She fainted.  Her maid found her in a dead swoon next morning.  She did not tell Sir Everard, by my advice; he would have been for making it up directly.  They have not met since—­my doing, too.  He thinks she is sulking in her room.  He is half mad to be reconciled—­to make a fool of himself, asking pardon, and all that—­but I have taken good care he shall not.  He thinks she is obstinate and sullen; she thinks he is full of nothing but rage and revenge.  It is laughable to manage them.”

“Fun to you, but death to them,” observed the artist.  “You are flinty, Sybilla, and no mistake.  I’m pretty hard myself, but I couldn’t torment folks like that in cold blood.  It’s none of my business, however, and I don’t care how high you pile the agony on him.  Did you tell her the elderly party was here?”

“Yes.  She has not left her room for three days.  She is the shadow of her former self, and she was dreadfully agitated upon hearing it; but she answered, firmly, ’I will see her, and at once.  I will meet her to-night.’  I asked where, and then, for the first time, she was at a loss.”

“The Beech Walk,” suggested the artist.

“The Beech Walk is watched.  Sir Everard’s spies are on the lookout.  No—­I know a better place.  The young plantation slopes down to the very water’s edge; the shrubbery is thick and dense, the spot gloomy; no one ever goes there.  You can come by water and fetch her in the boat.  Land on the shore under the stone terrace, about midnight, and my lady will meet you there.”

“And you, Sybilla?  The old lady and me, we sail at the turn of the tide for Southampton, to take passage for America.  I suppose you hain’t forgotten your promise?”

“Is it likely, George?  I will follow you to America and we will be married there.  It is impossible for me to go with you now.  You can wait a couple of months, can you not?”

“But—­”

“You must wait, George.  I love you, and I will follow you and be your true and devoted wife.  But you must wait a little.  Say you agree, and let us part until we meet again—­where?  In New York?”

“I suppose so,” Mr. Parmalee responded, gruffly.  “You’re boss in this business, it seems, and I’ve got to do as you say.  But it’s hard on a fellow; I calk’lated on taking you over with me.”