Chapter XIV: A Maddened Lover

Sibyl St. Alban gained her room, turned the key hurriedly in the door lock, and looked at the letter she had brought from Nina’s room. It was addressed in a firm strong hand that she knew well, and she shivered with rage as she tore it open.

“Why is he writing to her? I _will_ know,” she said, and she ran her gleaming eyes hurriedly over the letter, murmuring bitter words to herself as she took in the full import of the words the repentant, shame-stricken husband had written for the eyes of the fair young wife that now would never rest upon those pages.

“Nina, my beloved, my darling wife,” he wrote, in deep haste and agitation, “On my knees I beg you to forgive me for the folly and madness of which I have been guilty. Oh, if you could know how remorseful, how shame-stricken, how repentant I feel, you could not help but pardon me. I am not worthy of you, my beautiful wife, but I love you with a deep and passionate love that sprung into full growth in the first moment I saw you last night with the orange-blossoms on your hair and breast. In that very moment my mad penchant for a fair coquette died an instant death, slain by the glances of your innocent eyes. I know now that she was not worthy the foolish passion I wasted on her for years, and I beg your pardon for permitting her presence beneath your roof. Oh, my sweet and deeply injured wife, I can explain all if you will grant me an interview to-night, to-morrow, or at any time you may select. I shall not sleep to-night. I shall wait in my room, hoping that you will send me word that I may come to you and plead my cause. Oh, my bride, my wife, do not be hard upon me, do not judge me as I deserve! Only remember my love and my repentance that I place humbly at your feet, hoping prayerfully that you will accept them, and that you will give me a chance to win your forgiveness, and then your love, my beautiful fate. Remember, I am waiting for a single word from your lips, Nina, and be merciful to me, although my past egregious folly merits no mercy at your pure hands!”

Sibyl crushed the letter in her little white hands, and paced madly up and down the floor, her silken robes trailing over the carpet with a low swish, swish, that sounded like the hissing of a serpent in the silence of the room. Her blue eyes scintillated fury beneath her frowning brows.

“How dare he, how dare he!” she muttered. “A fair coquette! unworthy of the passion he has wasted on me for years, am I? We shall see, we shall see about that my fickle lover! It is most fortunate that I went in there to-night. If she had received this letter it would have made all clear between them, for I could see, poor fool, that she was dying for him! But she will go away, after what I told her about the divorce, her pride will not permit her to accept any overtures toward a reconciliation. She will set him free that he may be mine. She has promised me, and I am sure she will keep her word. But what will she do? Will she separate from him, or will she commit suicide? The latter, I hope, for I do not believe I could win his love again unless he knew that she was dead. Death! oh, what a horrible thing that is! The very thought of it frightens me alone in my room, and so late into the night!”

And she shuddered and hid her face for a moment in her hands with a vague presentiment of horror stealing wierdly over her.

After a little she lifted her face and looked half-fearfully around her at the dark shadows in the corners of the elegant chamber.

“What is it that I am so afraid of?” she asked herself, aloud, “I never felt so strangely before. I have a horrible dread upon me. Perhaps I am going to be ill. I think I will go to Helen Starr’s room and ask her to let me stay with her to-night. This large room with its dark corners makes me feel frightened and lonely.”

She caught up a light shawl, threw it about her shoulders, and softly opening the door peered out into the hall. She drew back with a smothered exclamation.

She had caught sight of a slender, dark-cloaked figure moving with swift and noiseless footsteps along the dimly lighted hall toward the stairway.

Forgetting all her nervousness and terror of a little while ago, Sibyl peered through a crevice of the slightly open door at the vanishing form.

“It is Nina,” she muttered, with a cruel, exultant laugh. “She is going away, and I think I may safely predict that this is the last we shall ever see of the heiress of Selwyn Heights.”

In her glad excitement over Nina’s flitting she forgot her momentary fears, and her intention of going to Helen Starr’s room to pass the night. She hastily disrobed, and lay down to rest on her soft bed, under the flowing canopy of silk and lace.

“I can rest in peace now that I know that I am rid of my dangerous rival,” she said, with a low laugh of triumph, as she nestled her flaxen head among the lace-trimmed pillows. “Perhaps even now she has plunged into the cold, dark sea out yonder, and Talbot may be already a widower.”

Too heartless to give even one regret to the fate of the hapless girl she had wronged so cruelly, she closed her eyes and was soon fast asleep, dreaming of the day when she should be Talbot Strangemore’s bride, and mistress of Selwyn Heights.

The night hours wore on to midnight. The light of the shaded lamp fell on Sibyl’s fair, placid face, its round cheeks daintily flushed by warmth, its red lips slightly parted with the soft, even breath of her happy slumber. From one of those shadowy corners that had so affrighted her with their gloom and darkness, a stealthy form crept forth to gaze upon the sleeping beauty.

Oh, how the dark, blazing eyes of this sinister intruder gloated upon her loveliness! How the strong, passionate features worked with emotion beneath the shade of the dark hat drawn down over his brows! How his muscular hand trembled as it closed nervously over the hilt of a slender dagger, half hidden in his breast.

“So she was afraid, was she?” came in a low, fierce sneer from his lips. “The spirit of murder made itself felt in the room, I think, and yet she wondered what it was she feared. Why did she not remember me and my wrongs that I had sworn to avenge? Ah, how lovely she is, the base little coquette! Too lovely to live, because a devil’s heart with a face like that has too much power for evil in this world! Die, my beautiful false lover, my blue-eyed siren, and go home to Hades, where you justly belong!”

The gleaming, upraised steel descended on the bare, white breast, and Sibyl’s eyes flared wide open, while her dying shriek rang through the house, “Murder! Murder! Murder!”