SIBYL.

New Zealand Mail, 27 August 1902, Page 7

SIBYL.

(By J. J. Bell.)

I.—WINTER. “You’re a funny boy,” she said, as she removed her fingers from mine. “I’m glad that I appeal to .you in some way,” I returned, with all the dignity I could muster. I should mention that I had just proposed to Sibyl for the twelfth time. “You needn’t get cross, Bill,” she said, not unkindly. “I’ve told you so often that I can’t —er —marry you, that you really ought to De used to it by now.”

“I’ll never get used to your not marrying me. Sibyl, and ” “Oh, nonsense! You’ve simply acquired a foolish habit of—you kiynv. You must try to cure yourself of it.” I sighed. “You alone can cure me.” “How ?”—eagerly. “By marrying me. I swear that, if you marry me. I’ll never ask you again.”

“Chut!” she exclaimed impatiently. “That’s a silly thing to say! Why don’t you propose to somebody else?” “Somebody else might accept me.” “Well?” “And then I couldn’t go on being fond of you.”

“Of course not.” “Without feeling uncomfortable. Ah! Sibyl, please marry me.” She laughed out. “Oh, Bill, Bill! you’re a funny hoy!” “So you have already remarked. Can’t you believe that I’m serious—terribly serious?”

“H’m! I—l am not quite sure. But I can’t understand why you have no pride. Other men ”

“I don’t know anything about other men; but it’s a poor sort of pride that comes after a fall. I’ve had a dozen falls, and pride is pretty well knocked out of me.”

“Er—how about • conceit, Bill ?” “Oh, that’s another matter. I’d only lose that if I knew you cared for somebody else; and you’ve told me several times that you don’t. But perhaps you have changed since last month in that respecf. Have you, Sibyl?” “No, I' haven't changed. The truth is that I don’t want to marry anyone—ever! Now you will purely understand, Bill. I like you as well as ” “Pray don’t apologise.” “I did no such thing.” “Well, pray don’t like me. It makes me feel like a bread pudding. I wish you hated me, Sibyl, so that I might become an acquired taste, or even an object of passionate devotion. Couldn’t you hate me, Sibyl?”

She shook her head and smiled, hut made no reply. Presently I rose to take my leave. tj'ii m you wait to see the others, f sl ” ■ she asked in her friendliest “ Thcy s^lou ki ke home by now.” Thanks, no. I’m not in a nice humour.”

OJb you’re all right, Bill. However, you 11 come to see us again soon, won’t you?”

«j 1? a^ I shall. You see, I can’t aord to go abroad—like the heroes who get rejected.” you cau>t * But, Bill, you •/pt Hy to be—er—a little—er—sensible, and let us be good friends.”

“You mean that I’m not to ask you to marry me again, Sibyl?” appeS 1 g hafc ’ sib > Bm ” Her eycs were )|Bo you wish me to promise ?” °k, yes, please!” "&» honestly, i can ’t.” tVi? Her lips were beseeching. suddeSfu S° r a 1^ m , nent i and realised of iJ • unselfishness was apt one OI virtues. “Ana .Premise,” I said with a sigh, me “ return you>ll Promise to-tell ' auybSy.» oyGr y<m come to care for Ok, thank you I” she exclaimed, hold-

ing out her. hands. “Of course, I’d tell you if that happened.” I grasped her fingers, and bent over her.

“Would you mind if I. ... once—just once?” i whispered. She said nothing, but she turned her face slightly. “Your lips, Sibvl.” “Oh, no, no.” “Just once.” “Ah!”.... “Good-bye,, Sibyl.” Silence. And so I left her.

lI.—SUMMER. “It doesn’t seem like six months,” remarked Sibyl. “No; it seems like six years,” said I. By which it may be understood that half a year’s absence had not cured me. For I had gone abroad alter all, having been offeree! a business trip to the Antipodes, which I had gladly accepted, and upon which I had proceeded almost immediately after my twelfth rejection by Sibyl. “You went away very suddenly, Bill.” “Yes; I didn’t have time for many good-byes.” “I’m afraid mother was a little hurt at your not giving her a call before you left. She had some letters of introduction to friends out- there for you, and kept them by her, expecting you would come to say good-bye.” “I’m very sorry, Sibyl, and I’ll tell your mother so when she appears. I seem to have arrived rather early this afternoon.”

Sibyl said nothing, and I relapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Not being allowed to propose to my companion, I had really nothing to say, and I felt more awkward in her presence than ever before.

“You’re looking a deal the better of your voyage,” she said ht last, simply, I supposed, for the sake .of breaking the silence.

“I don’t feel any the worse, thanks. How have you been yourself?” I inquired politely.

“Oh, splendid! We had such a gay spring one. way and another. You missed a lot of things by being awav. but ”

“At any rate, I missed you,” I muttered, with a bitter smile.

“Am I a thing?” she asked lightly

“Bali!” “How rude you are, Bill. Did you leave your manners in Australia?” “Why don’t you ask me if- I left my heart- there?”

‘‘Because it’s uoue of my business,” she replied cruelly, but with justice. “I beg your pardon. I should have remembered that more carefully.” “Oh, Bill, don’t be so horrid!” she cried. “Sensible, you mean.”

“You’re not a bit sensible. You’re only nasty and sneery. I—l wish you hadn’t come to-day.” “There we agree.” Sibyl rose from her seat with a pretty girlish air of offended majesty. “You can sit by yourself tin mother comes home,” she said, and moved towards the door.

I followed her and secured the handle. “Forgive me,” I said ' humbly. “I’m awfully sorry for being such a brute, Sibyl.- Come back and stay with me, and I’ll try to— ej^—behave.” “You don’t deserve it, but I’ll forgive you this time,” she replied. “It was own fault that you came ' early. Oli, I mean ” and she stopped short in confusion.

“You mean you put the wrong hour in your letter. #Well, you see, you’ve suffered for your error, so don’t worry any more about it.” Sibyl sat down in one corner of the couch and I occupied the other. “It wasn’t a mistake,” she said hesitatingly. “Mother told me to ask you for four o’clock, and I put in three instead. ... I wanted to—to—to- ”

“Yes, Sibyl? You wanted to ”

“To t—tell you something.” “Yes,” I said, feeling cold and miserable. I had a pretty good idea of what was coming.

“And now—” she began, and stopped. “Well?” I said, trying to speak encouragingly.

“And now—oli, I can’t tell you.” “Suppose I were to try to guess, Sibyl?”

“Yes, yes!”—very eagerly—“try to guess, Bill.” “Well, you’ve been worried about something since I saw you last?” “Oh, terribly 1” “Although it wasn’t altogether disagreeable ?” “No—n—no.”

“And you’ve made up your mind about something?” Here I sighed to myself. “Y—y—yes; I think so.” “And you’re quite a different girl from what you were six months ago ?” A nod. “In short, you’ve fallen in love, Sibyl?”

A blush. “Do you care for ihim. very muchP” I asked sadly, after a pause.Something like a sob. “And, of course, he cares for you P” No answer.

“Good heavens! if he doesn’t, I’ll— I’ll—why, Sibyl, what’s the matter?”

Her eyes, bright with tears, stared at me, and her face was woefully pale. For a moment she gazed at me, then hid her face in the cushion at her side. “Sibyl!” “Oh, go away, go away—and never come back!” she cried. “I’ll do no such thing! You want a friend, Sibyl, and I’m “I don’t want a friend.”

“Oh, Sibyl, can’t you understand that I’ve got trouble to bear as well a 9 you ?”

“I cudn’t say I had any trouble.” Her voice was quivering, but defiant. “But I know you have. You love—and so do I. You ere sad—and so am I. Only yours is a new sorrow, and mine is an old one. I ” “Bill!”

“I know I shouldn’t speak about i'iyself; but I won’t break my promise—indeed, there’s no temptation to ” “Oh!” “Sibyl, what is it?” “You’re awfullv mean!” “How ? Why ?” “To say there’s no t-temptation to b-break your silly old p-p-p-promise. B-break it at once, or I’ll die of Shame.” “Sit up and look at me, Sibyl.” •“Shan’t!”

“Then, for the thirteenth time, will you marry me?” I asked, rising as I spoke.

“No.” - I moved towards the door, wild with rage.

"I haven’t been m-married twelve times,” she murmured so that I could just hear her.

I returned hastily to her side. “Sibyl, I think I heard your mother come in.” “Oh, Bill!” she cried, sitting up to dry her eyes, tidy her hair, and so on. Whereupon I kisseddier. “Perhaps it wasn’t your mother after all,” I xtAd presently.

“You fraud,” she sighed, laughingly. “But are you going to marry me, dear ?”

“Well, d’you know, I believe I am, though you don’t deserve it after giving me such a fright as you did a little ago. For a moment I thought you had changed your mind.” “Ah, Sibyl!” “Oli, I’ve been disgracefully bold—blit—but the last six months have been terrible.” \ “Dear little woman! Tell me wliat made you change your mind.” “No; I’ll tell you another time.” She had grown rosy. “Tell me now.”

“Well, I think it was the—the—l’ll try to whisper it, Bill—no, not in your mouth; into your ear—oli, if you insist, of course, I niust—well, then, there!” And she gave me gladly what I had given her sadly six months before.