The Failure of Sibyl Fletcher

Front matter

BY THE SAME AUTHOR Price Six Shillings OUT OF DUE SEASON A stirring and interesting novel." — Athenæum Price Three Shillings and Sixpence THE SURRENDER OF MARGARET BELLARMINE The book is absorbing in its intense interest." Observer Price Three Shillings and Sixpence THE STORY OF A PENITENT SOUL " This is one of its author's best stories — a strong and interesting romance." — Scotsman London : WILLIAM HEINEMANN 21 BEDFORD STREET, W.C. By Adeline Sergeant Author of " Out of Due Season," __ c. " Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eye to behold the sun." London William Heinemann CONTENTS Chapter Page 1. Little by Little 5 II. Clement's Escape 18 III. A Lift in the Cart 32 IV. Ashdale 46 V. Michael's Confession 60 VI. A Strange Lover 74 VII. Estranged 87 VIII. Success 100 IX.

The Madness of Michael . . . .114 X. Her Secret 127 XI. A Strange Marriage 141 XII. Wedded Loves 154 XIII. Regret 168 XIV. Mrs. Clement Atherley 181 XV. At Drage Court 195 XVI. A Narrow Escape 208 XVII. A Great Love 221 XVIII. Love and Death 234 XIX. Tlie Centre of the Labyrinth .... 246 XX. Sibyl's Success

Chapter I. Little By Little

Everyone said that Miss Fletcher's surround ings were perfect. She had extremely good taste. When anyone has good taste and a little spare cash, it is tolerably easy to create a pleasant en vironment for oneself; but Sibyl Fletcher's rooms were really quite uncommonly successful. Of course, people said that it was not her doing at all : that as she was engaged to the eminent art critic and literary man, Clement Atherley, it must be he who had chosen for her the wall-paper, the draperies, the old china, which were so much ad mired, and the general remark upon her drawing room was that " it did so remind one of dear Mr. Atherley." Whereat Sibyl would smile in silence; for Clement Atherley had had positively nothing to do with her scheme of decoration. She was a painter in water-colours, and the sitting-room walls were hung with her sketches, framed for the most part in ivory-white, which showed well on the background of pale sage green.

The furniture was also ivory-white, and the seats were covered with old brocade, where a dash of coral-pink was interspersed with darker tints of olive. The window-hangings were of the same tone, lined with pink ; and there was little other colour in the room, for even the china was of the most delicate and subdued shades, and there was no attempt to mingle with these the cruder notes of popular Oriental stuffs and pot tery. In fact, the room was peculiarly English, with an air of refinement and delicacy which accorded well with the scent of rose-leaves and the carefully chosen flowers — all white and green and pink — in the china bowls upon the side-tables. Sibyl Fletcher herself was not out of keeping with the room. As she leaned back in a long, low, lounging chair, a slim, graceful figure " gowned in pure white which fitted to the shape," she looked the very incarnation of that exquisiteness which seemed to mark the room.

It was only when you observed her more closely that you realised the fact that she was not exactly the slender maiden of eighteen which you had at first imagined her. She was nearer seven-and-twenty than eighteen, and sometimes she looked her age. The delicate pallor of her complexion was a little deadened, the curved grave mouth was scarcely red, although its lines were inexpressibly sweet ; the large dark eyes were a trifle heavy, and there were one or two lines upon the forehead which betokened past or present anxiety. Yet it was an attractive face in spite of the spiritual gravity of the expression; and the charming arrangement of soft dark curls above her brow, as well as the cut and material of her dress, and the beauty of her silver ornaments, betokened a considerable regard for her appearance.

Perhaps she would not have dressed so carefully that afternoon had she not expected Mr. Atherley to come to tea. She had washed the paint stains from her long white fingers ; she had doffed the painting-apron which he did not like to see; she had laid out the thinnest china and the oldest silver, such as added a choicer flavour even to the curls of bread and butter and the thick cream which she liked to pour into his tea, and then she had sat down and waited. It was now six o'clock, and a messenger had just left a note at her door ; the note that now lay open upon her lap. " Dearest, — I shall not be with you this after noon. The Fates have seen fit to scourge me with the appearance of some old friends from the coun try, whom I must pilot to a picture-gallery and dine with at their hotel. But we shall meet this evening, so I will not say good-bye, only — au revoir.

" Yours always, C. A." That was all. She had given up her afternoon work, dressed herself prettily, waited for more than an hour, — and this was the result. She was not altogether unused to it. He had treated her in this way several times lately; he had promised to come, or to go out with her, and had then thrown her over at the last moment. He was always very affectionate afterwards, and profuse in apologies, which at first she had re ceived with eager assurances that " she did not mind ;" but the readiness to forgive was growing a little fainter, and she was beginning to feel distinctly hurt and offended. Was it possible that Clement did not care for her as he had done ? They had been engaged for two years, and she noticed, with a shrinking sensation of shame and bitterness, that he had of late dropped the subject of marriage, which had formerly been continually on his lips, that he had adverted several times to the worries and cares of housekeeping, and that he took no interest in the auctioneers' list, which had seemed to give him so much pleasure at the beginning of their engagement.

It was perhaps not unnatural that she should sit and remember all these things when she had read his note. There was a postman's rap at the door. Presently the maid brought in another letter. Sibyl opened it mechanically. I It was from the secretary of an art gallery to which she had sent a picture for exhibition. In a few curt lines he told her that it had been de clined, and that he was sending it back. The disappointment brought tears to her eyes, she had counted so confidently on its acceptance, — and it was the third picture of hers that had been refused that spring. Had her hand lost its cun ning ? Or was it that fashion had changed, and that the silvery lines of her little sea-pieces, the misty shadows of her sylvan glades, the shimmer ing lights upon the river reaches were not appreciated by the British public any longer ?

As she meditated, a visitor was announced. Miss Adela Sherwin, journalist. Sibyl was a little sorry to see her, but, of course, she mur mured that she was very, very glad. She had sometimes found Miss Sherwin trying when she herself was in the highest spirits; and just now, when she felt rather depressed, she fancied that MissSherwin's company would not be exhilarating. For the lady journalist was quick of eye, sharp of tongue, and critical by nature as well as by profession. Miss Sherwin was not unpleasant to look upon. She was rather a handsome woman, but with features too sharply accentuated for beauty; her eyes were bright, dark, and restless, her yellow hair curled tightly almost to her eyebrows, and her dress was in the latest style of smartness, with every possible adjunct of chatelaine, watch, bracelet, and brooch that the fashion of the day permitted.

Rumour said that Miss Sherwin was " dressed by the shops" — that is, that enterprising tradesmen presented her with clothes and jewellery in return for the notices she gave them in her " ladies' letters" to the provinces, and the picture papers. Otherwise, as her friends observed, how could she dress so well or wear so many ornaments ? The income of a lady journalist maybe good, but it does not run to jewelled watches, and a dozen new bonnets every season. So it hap pened that other women who wrote for the papers looked a little askance on Miss Sherwin, but the world smiled on her because she dressed well and " was so amusing." There were certain great houses where Adela Sherwin was always welcome, chiefly because she never failed to bring with her a host of scandalous stories or a very doubtful joke or two, which commended her to idle women and gossip-loving men.

But wiser folk were learn ing to avoid her, discovering that their character was not safe in her hands. Sibyl, who knew her reputation, looked on her as a bird of ill-omen. Adela Sherwin always scented disaster afar off, and swooped down on the victim of ill-luck at its first approach. She seemed to be guided by a sort of inspiration in such matters, and the moment a novelist had had a bad review, or the painter's last picture had been refused, or the actor had been hissed at the theatre, Miss Sherwin was sure to be on the spot, pencil in hand, ready to jot down all particulars in her next column of news. She put up her long-handled eye-glass and smiled affably at Sibyl as she sat down. " Well, you poor dear, how are you ?" she said. Sibyl felt as if a pin had pricked her. " I am very well," she answered, rather stiffly.

" Did you think that there was anything the matter ?" " You are quite right," said Miss Sherwin, nod ding her plumed head confidentially. " Brazen it out. Never acknowledge that you are hurt, and the world soon forgets it. I always go on that principle myself." " Were you ever hurt ? I shouldn't have thought it," said Miss Fletcher, in lazy scorn. " I am the most sensitive creature in the world," said Miss Sherwin. " I am always being stabbed, but I go about with a smiling face, like that tire some Spartan boy you know, with the remarkable fox under his cloak. I can bear it . . . but you/" " I have nothing to bear," said Sibyl. " My dear creature ! then you haven't seen that awful criticism in the Times? I'm afraid it will do you a lot of harm. ' Feeblt and washy,' they call you. I saw old Barry, the picture dealer, this afternoon, and he said that he didn't suppose you would sell another picture this season after that critique."

" It matters very little what the papers say," returned Sibyl, smiling bravely, although she felt the sting. (Not sell another picture this season ! Then how could she go to the Engadine? and what about those pretty things that she had been planning to buy for her trousseau ? She would have to economise, and it was not a pleasant thought.) " You take it very well," said Miss Sherwin, with pleased commiseration ; " but anybody that knows you, dear, can see that you are feeling things very much. You don't look like yourself at all." " I am perfectly well, thank you." " You may be well, but you look awfully de pressed and worn. I wouldn't worry, Sibyl, dear. Nothing is so bad for the complexion ; if I were you, I would use that preparation of Madame Ni non's, — it restores the colour, and smooths out wrinkles quite wonderfully."

" Am I so very old and wrinkled ?" asked Sibyl, with a gleam of humour. But she was anxious, nevertheless. Miss Sherwin put up her eye-glass and surveyed her critically. " If I must speak the truth, dear, you do look older since I saw you last. You look so run down, so colourless, you know, as if you were worried about something, or thoroughly out of health. If I were you I should just go out of town for the rest of the summer and recruit. I'm sure it would be better for you in the end." " I dare say," with a faint smile. " But I like to be in town for the season." Miss Sherwin's face wore a significant expres sion. " I don't wonder ; men flirt so dreadfully, don't they ? Still, absence is a good thing some times; brings a man to his senses, does it not? And Clement Atherley thinks such a lot of beauty, you know."

Sibyl's attitude stiffened. " I hardly understand what you are speaking of," she observed. " But I may say that I have no desire to bring any man to his senses who is not in them already." " Do you mean that it's come to a quarrel ?" asked Miss Sherwin, breathlessly. " Really . " Oh ! my dear Sibyl, you must excuse me, but you know what an interest I have always taken in Clement Atherley. He took an interest in me once upon a time, you know," and Miss Sherwin laughed affectedly. " But that was before he met you, of course. I do hope there is nothing wrong between you, although all the world is saying so " " The world has no business to say anything of the kind." " Indeed ! Oh, I am so glad to hear it. Then I may contradict it wherever I go ?" " Contradict what ?" said Sibyl, who was very angry.

" That the engagement is broken off. Every body is saying so. I suppose it is because he has been about so much lately with that pretty little blond girl " " What !" There Sibyl stopped short, and wished she could have bitten her tongue out before she spoke. She had not known that Clement Atherley's name was associated with that of any woman but herself. " Don't you know /" cried Miss Sherwin, now quite in her element ; " oh ! I am so sorry, — and you look quite white ; I hope it isn't a great blow to you, dear ? It's that little Brooke girl, — Ethel Brooke. She's awfully pretty, you know, and so young ; that's what takes with the men nowadays ; and she drags him at her chariot-wheels till it's quite ridiculous." " I know her," said Sibyl, trying to recover her self. " She is a very pretty girl, and Mr. Atherley admires her very much ; but there is no harm in that."

" Of course not," Miss Sherwin readily agreed. " And, if you've given him a roving commission, I'm sure it is very nice of you. But don't you think it is rather dangerous ?" " Not at all," said Sibyl, proudly, " where perfect confidence exists." " How nice !" said the journalist. But she was evidently disconcerted. She put down her eye glass, and thrust her note-book back into her side pocket. " Then the engagement is not broken off?" " Certainly not," said Sibyl. "And what does Mr. Atherley say to these horrid criticisms you have been having lately ?" It was a hit, a palpable hit. The criticisms of her pictures had been severe, and Clement had not liked them at all. He worshipped success. She tried to smile. " We can afford to despise criticism," she said, with a last supreme effort. And then Miss Sherwin went away, loudly de ploring her inability to stay longer, and primed with no end of speculations and suggestions for the next drawing-room she entered.

" Poor Sibyl Fletcher ! Awfully down in the mouth. Clement so disgusted with her bad work, you know ; and really it is quite too shockingly bad for anything. Have you seen this morning's critique in the Times ?" When she had gone, Sibyl stood motionless for a little time, looking into space, with lines of pain upon her brow. Then she went into her bed room and inspected herself in the looking-glass. Yes, it was true ; she was thin, pale, haggard even ; spiritless. What chance had she against Ethel Brooke's fair, fresh beauty, her girlish gaiety, and thoughtlessness ? From her mirror she turned to her studio. Hanging on the walls were several of her earlier sketches, delicate and graceful as was all her work, remarkable rather for its suggestiveness than for its power. They were mostly land scapes, but there were a few figure pieces as I! well.

Many of them had been exhibited, and had won great praise from the critics. She turned from them to her later work, and here it seemed to her that she distinguished a change. Perhaps her distempered fancy was to blame, but it seemed to her that the distinction and the grace had gone out of her later pictures, that nothing but feeble prettiness remained. " I am surely rather young to find my powers failing," she said to herself, with a bitter smile. " But it must be so. I have worked too hard, and I suppose I am a little overdone. I will see a doctor to-morrow. I dare say he will tell me that I shall be all right again after a few weeks or months of rest. But in the meantime . . ." She could not go on. She was wondering whether a temporary failure of health and power was not only to deprive her of her professional reputation but of her lover, and she could not bear to put the question into words.

In her heart she knew that Clement was deeply influ enced by success of any kind, and that he wor shipped beauty. If her beauty, such as it was (and he had once praised it extravagantly), were to fail her, and her success as an artist to become a thing of the past, how long would his love sur vive? She had no appetite for dinner or inclination to go out, but she was due at a party where she hoped to meet Clement that very night, and she could not string herself up to the point of send ing an excuse. Besides, and the hot blood leaped to her temples at the thought, it would look as if there were some truth in Adela Sher win's insinua tions ; it would look as if she had quarrelled with Clement, and could not bear to meet him again. No ; she must dress herself and go. She put on a dress which Clement had always liked, — it was of soft yellow silk, very becoming, as a rule, to her dark eyes and ivory-white skin.

But she could not make herself look well that night, do what she would. There were dark shadows underneath her eyes, there was a weary droop at the corner of her mouth, and her cheeks remained unnaturally pale. For a moment she was tempted to rub a little artificial colour into their whiteness, but she refrained. " I am a hag," she said, turning bitterly away from her looking-glass, " and no amount of rouge will prevent Clement from discovering the fact. Why should I try to deceive him — or myself?"

Chapter II

Clement's escape. Sibyl dined at one house, and went on with her hostess to a great soiree which was given that evening at a picture-gallery in honour of some distinguished foreigners who were sojourning in London for a few weeks. She had not known exactly whether Mr. Atherley had been invited to the dinner or not; but she knew that she might expect to see him at the conversazione, and she looked forward with a sort of hungry yearn ing towards the moment when she should be able to exchange a few words with her lover. The galleries were brightly lighted, and filled with a crowd of immaculately dressed men and women in daintiest attire, whose presence threw the pictures into the shade. But who cared about pictures when there were people to talk to, and ices to eat, and music to hear ? Only as regarded the music, it was generally inaudible at a few yards' distance, on account of the buzz of conversation.

In spite of the crowd, Sibyl Fletcher in her yellow dress was a good deal observed, — at any rate by people of her own set. Her pictures had recently been the object of a very unfair kind of criticism in one or two papers, and there was a good deal of talk about her relations with Mr. Atherley. Sibyl, to whom some knowledge of this gossip came at a later date, used to wonder whether Miss Sherwin were not responsible for many of the current rumours about herself. There was too great a crowd to enable friends to meet easily, and for some time Sibyl did not catch sight of Mr. Atherley. The effort to hide her watchfulness, the disappointment at his non appearance, told upon her strength ; the colour gradually died from her lips, and the shadows deepened round her eyes. Some of her acquaintances looked at her pityingly, and asked if she were quite well.

The situation was becoming in tolerable, and she thought of saying good-bye to her friends and slipping quietly away. But for the remarks that she knew would be made behind her back, she would have done so at once. At last the suspense was over, and she saw him. Even although he did not come to her at once, did not appear even to be looking for her, she was pleased to see him. His very presence was a relief to her, for she had been half afraid that he did not mean to appear at all. She saw him making his bow to the host and hostess of the evening ; he then turned smilingly and grace fully to a group of friends whom he distinguished at a little distance, and with them he was for a time lost to view, When Sibyl next saw him he was walking beside a very pretty fair-haired girl, laughing and talking with her as if he saw no one else, and Sibyl's heart sank like a stone.

This girl, Ethel Brooke, this fresh, young, graceful girl, was said to be Sibyl's rival. Was it true ? Clement Atherley was a good-looking man, of an urban type : that is, he was slighter and paler than a man would be if he had enough fresh air and exercise. His dark eyes and small moustache suggested Paris rather than London, and there was a touch of something that differed from an English manner in his look and air. This was not entirely due, as many people believed, to affectation ; he had had a French mother and lived for many years in Paris, speaking French, therefore, quite as well as English. He was a singularly successful man, but not very popular with other men ; a sort of finikin refinement usually prejudiced them against him, and he succeeded better with women than with his own sex.

Sibyl was by no means the only woman who believed in him, and thought that his verses, his essays, and his art criticism bore the hall-mark of genius. He walked through the room with Ethel on his arm, and Sibyl thought that his movements were watched by a score of malicious eyes. In imagination she heard a dozen comments on his desertion of her. She began to feel sick and faint with vexa tion, so that when at last he approached her she knew that she was very tired, and of a most unbecoming whiteness. His glance at her was a little cold, a little startled; and his first words were hastily spoken in an irritable undertone. " What have you been doing to yourself? You are a veritable death's head !" " That is cheering for me to hear," she said, trying to laugh. " I am tired, that is all. It is late."

" Late !" he echoed. " Why, little Miss Brooke is going on to two more parties, and she is as fresh as a daisy." "Ah !" Sibyl's tone grew bitter. " I am grow ing old, you see, and I have worked harder than Miss Brooke." " Not to very good purpose, I am afraid," said Mr. Atherley. " Have you seen the papers lately ?" " I think I have heard enough of them to last me all my life." " I am sorry you take that tone. You should try to profit by criticism, not resent it." They were standing in the corridor, seemingly to watch from over the balustrade the stream of people going up and down the flower-bedecked staircase ; but Sibyl saw very little. The lights, and the flowers, and the well-dressed crowd danced before her eyes. She spoke unsteadily. " I always try to profit by criticism. But the re marks in the Times this morning were hardly fair."

" Were they not ? You will " — with some reserve of tone — "have seen that the Critic says almost exactly the same things." "You agreed with the article in the Critic?" said Sibyl, remembering a few crushing sentences about her work which had lately appeared in a well-known review. " Well, yes, I agreed with it." " I suppose you know the writer ?" she said, in a tone of subdued sarcasm. " I am aware that you like to agree with your friends." There was a sting in this remark. She had more than once reproached Clement with sub serviency to the opinions of others. Mr. Atherley was attentively watching the progress of two ladies down the stairs. He bowed and smiled as one of them turned and glanced at him. It was Ethel Brooke, — but this time Sibyl did not see. There was an added crispness in his tone, as he spoke again to his betrothed.

" What were we saying ? Oh, about the Critic. I may as well tell you, Sibyl, that I wrote that article myself. I thought you wanted a little waking up ; so you need not get into a rage about it." She flushed a deep crimson, and then paled again. But for a moment or two she did not reply. The silence made Mr. Atherley uncomfortable. " I paid you a compliment, I consider, by speak ing so frankly. It showed that I thought you a sensible woman. Of course, if you desire to take offence " " I have not taken offence," she said, faintly. From the expression of his face, one would almost have supposed that he wished she had. " I am only a little tired," she went on. " Would you mind finding Lady Basset for me and telling her I should like to go home? She is quite ready ; she was only waiting for me."

" If you are tired, perhaps you had better go," he said, indifferently, as he turned away to look for Sibyl's friend. During his absence Sibyl went through an agony of pain. The first turn of the rack is perhaps the most severe. Insensibility comes afterwards, when the pain is beyond bearing ; but the first rending of the sinews, the first tearing of the nerves, when none of the senses have been dulled by long continuance of torture, is the most acute. And thus it was that Sibyl's sudden realisa tion of Clement's coldness brought sharper pangs during these first few minutes than at any later time. " You look awfully ill, my dear Sibyl," said Lady Basset, with real concern. " No, Mr. Atherley, don't give me your arm ; give it to Sibyl. I'm sure she wants support more than I do." Certainly, Lady Basset, who was middle-aged and ponderous, and expensively dressed, did not look as if she were in great need of support, while Sibyl, who was leaning against the balustrade, was white to the very lips.

Clement offered her his arm. He felt some alarm as well as a little irritation when he looked at her face. " Can you walk ?" he said. " Do you want a glass of water ? you look faint." " I want to get into the fresh air, that is all," said Sibyl, quite steadily. She touched his arm with the tips of her gloved fingers, but did not lean upon it, as she went down the stairs. And she did not even look at him. " I shall see you to-morrow, I suppose ?" Clement said, as he put her into the carriage. " I don't know — where?" " I thought you were coming to Murray's tea party, at the club ?" Yes ; I shall be there." In Lady Basset's presence they did not like to make further arrangements, but each felt that the next interview was likely to be a momentous one. Sibyl's pillow was wet that night with tears, and Clement Atherley did not slumber quite as peace fully as usual.

He Was torn by conflicting desires, and he was also a little ashamed of himself, a state of mind which did not conduce to quiet sleep. He wondered uneasily what Sibyl meant to do. If she chose to keep him to his word, why, of course, he would have to keep it. Naturally, he could not openly jilt a woman. But if she had any sense, — and Sibyl always used to be sensible, — she would see that they were unsuited to one another, grace fully retire into the background, and leave him free to engage himself to Ethel Brooke. The tea-party to which both had been invited was to be held on the terrace overlooking the river, at a well-known London club. Once a week ladies were admitted to its sacred precincts ; and Bernard Murray, a journalist of some repute, had chosen this way of entertaining his friends.