"Oh, Audley, could I ever forget you?" They were lingering now midway between the bower and the house, and the full splendour of the moonlight fell around them. "And you will take back your ring," he whispered; and once more the eye of Vishnu glittered on the hand of Sybil. "Keep it as the memento of a poor fellow who loves you well--and you must do something more for me." "In what way, Audley?" asked Sybil, pausing on the upper step, and near the still open window of her room. "Keep poor Rajah for me; my lady mother won't abide the dog, and I can't take him back all the way to India, as I am perhaps going overland by the desert; and now my beloved girl--dear, dear Sybil--I must leave you, perhaps never to see you again." A desperate calm seemed to come over Sybil, as she replied,-- "Situated as we are; related as we are, and enemies as my mamma and your parents must ever be, it is indeed better that we should meet no more--yet part as friends." "As friends--oh, Sybil--as friends!" murmured Audley, becoming more excited as she grew calm. "Yes--this meeting and parting will form a pleasant memory to look back upon, in years to come, when we are far apart." Often in after times did these words come back to the heart of Audley Trevelyan. "And you will always wear my ring?" "For life--dear cousin Audley--farewell." She was about to close the casement, her hands trembling and her cheeks ghastly pale, when he urged,-- "I must write to you--under cover to some one--permit me--oh, permit me?" "I cannot--I cannot," she replied, with a torrent of tears. "I must--pardon my importunity, darling." "Go--go, I entreat you--good-bye--farewell." She was about to shut the French sash, when a voice startled her, by exclaiming,-- "Oh, my God--what is this I see?" and as Sybil started back, Audley found himself confronted by Constance, in her dressing-gown, for she had entered the room, candle in hand, having been roused by the sound of their voices at the open window. This _dénouement_, so unexpected, was very awkward, and liable to the most serious misconstruction; so Audley's doctrine of chances proved a failure here. CHAPTER XXV. MISCONCEPTION. Little could Sybil or Audley have foreseen how fatal was to be the ultimate termination of this night's adventure. The usually sweet and placid little face of Constance was now inflamed with rage and distorted by grief. Her colour came and went, like her breath, rapidly; and through their tears, her dark eyes were sparkling with fire. A painful silence was maintained by the three for a few moments. Sybil scarcely understood the cause of her mother's terrible excitement, while Audley, who knew more of life and the world's ways, was filled with genuine shame and mortification on finding that his presence there was misunderstood, and the perfect purity of his intentions misconceived or entirely doubted.