ely that he had put his stupid conscience at rest by
telling her everything. Were it so, what motive would weigh with Sibyl
to keep her silent? One, and one only, could be divined: a fear lest
Alma, through intimacy with Redgrave, might have discovered things
which put her in a position to dare the enmity of her former friend.
This, no doubt, would hold Sibyl to discretion. Yet it could not
relieve Alma from the fear of her, and of Hugh Carnaby himself--fear
which must last a lifetime; which at any moment, perhaps long years
hence, might find its bitter fulfilment, and work her ruin. For Harvey
Rolfe was not a man of the stamp of Hugh Carnaby: he would not be
hoodwinked in the face of damning evidence, or lend easy ear to
specious explanations. The very fact that she _could_ explain her
ambiguous behaviour was to Alma an enhancement of the dread with which
she thought of such a scene between herself and Harvey; for to be
innocent, and yet unable to force conviction of it upon his inmost
mind, would cause her a deeper anguish than to fall before him with
confession of guilt. And to convince him would be impossible, for ever
impossible. Say what she might, and however generous the response of
his love, there must still remain the doubt which attaches to a woman's
self-defence when at the same time she is a self-accuser.

In the semi-delirium of her illness, whilst waiting in torment for the
assurance that Carnaby had kept her secret, she more than once prayed
for Sibyl's death. In her normal state of mind Alma prayed for nothing;
she could not hope that Sibyl's life would come to a convenient end;
but as often as she thought of her, it was with a vehemence of
malignity which fired her imagination to all manner of ruthless
extremes. It revolted her to look back upon the time when she sat at
that woman's feet, a disciple, an affectionate admirer, allowing
herself to be graciously patronised, counselled, encouraged. The repose
of manner which so impressed her, the habitual serenity of mood, the
unvarying self-confidence--oh, these were excellent qualities when it
came to playing the high part of cold and subtle hypocrisy! She knew
Sibyl, and could follow the workings of her mind: a woman incapable of
love, or of the passion which simulates it; worshipping herself,
offering luxuries to her cold flesh as to an idol; scornful of the
possibility that she might ever come to lack what she desired; and, at
the critical moment, prom