My mother promised, and I got some hours of undisturbed slumber.

Rehearsal was over—­the last rehearsal.  I had gone through my part thinking of my woes.  I had swallowed the draught as if it had indeed been a potion to put me out of all remembrance of my misery.  I had snatched the dagger and stabbed myself with great satisfaction, and I felt I should at least have the comfort of confounding my enemies and triumphing over them.

I was passing Charing Cross Station, delayed by the streams of vehicles issuing forth, when in a hansom at a little distance I saw a form—­a face—­which made me start and tremble, and turn hot and cold, and red and white, all at the same time.  It could not be Jack.  It ought not, must not, should not be Jack.  Had I not to act in suffering and despair to-night?  Well, even if he had returned in safety from his cruise it was without a thought of me in his heart.  He was engaged—­married—­for aught I knew.  It was possible, nay, certain, that I should never see him again.

And yet I ran all the way home.  And yet I told the servant breathlessly—­“If any visitors call I do not wish to be disturbed.”  And yet I made my mother repeat the promise she had given me the previous night.  Then I flew to my den at the top of the house; bolted myself in, and set a chair against the door as if I were afraid of anyone making a forcible entry.  I stuffed my fingers in my ears, and went over my part with vigour, with more noise even than was absolutely necessary.  Still, how strangely I seemed to hear every sound.  A hansom passing—­no, a hansom drawing up at our house.  I went as far from the window as possible.  I wedged myself up between the sofa and the wall, and I shut my eyes firmly.  Surely there were unaccustomed sounds about, talking and laughing, as if something pleasant had happened.  Presently heavy footsteps came bounding up, two steps at a time.  Oh! should I have the courage not to answer if it should be Jack?

But it was not.  Kitty’s voice shouted—­

“Sybil, Sybil, come down.  Here’s——­”

“Kitty, be quiet,” I called out furiously.  “If you do not hold your tongue, if you do not go away from the door immediately, I’ll—­I’ll shoot you.”

She went away, and I heard her telling them downstairs that she believed Sybil had gone mad.

I waited a little longer,—­then I stole to the window.

Surely Juliet would not be spoiled by the sight of a visitor leaving the house.  But there was no one leaving.  Indeed, I saw the prospect of a fresh arrival—­Isabel Chisholm was coming up the street in a brand new costume and hat to match.  Her fringe was curled to perfection.  A tiny veil was arranged coquettishly just above her nose.  Flesh and blood could not stand this.  Downstairs I darted, without even waiting for a look in the glass.  Into the drawing-room I bounced, and there, in his six feet two of comely manliness, stood Jack, my Jack, more bronzed and handsome and loveable than ever.  He whom I had been mourning for by turns as dead and faithless, but whom I now knew was neither; for he came towards me with both hands outstretched, and he held mine in such a loving clasp, and he looked at me with eyes which I knew were reading just such another tale as that written on his own face.