with a
growing sense of importance about midday; amorous, obtrusive, and
consequential later; hilarious after dinner; quarrelsome before tea; and
down in the ditch before dawn. This was Burrill's notion of enjoying
life in leisurely, gentlemanly fashion. And this was his daily routine,
with variations to suit the occasion.

But sober or drunk, morning, noon, or night, he never ceased to remind
the Lamottes that he was one of them, their equal; never forgot his
purpose, or allowed them to forget it, or him. He was their old man of
the sea, their blight, their curse, and, they could never hope to shake
him off.

CHAPTER XVI.

IN OPEN MUTINY.

Sybil sat alone in her boudoir. It was yet early in the evening, but,
feeling little inclined to remain in the society of her family, who
assembled, with all due formality, in the drawing room on "at home"
evenings, and most of their evenings were spent at home now, she had
withdrawn, pleading fatigue after their drive.

The night outside was balmy enough, but Sybil had ordered a light fire
in the grate, and she sat before it with all the rays from a fully
illuminated chandelier falling directly over her.

She still wore the rich dress she had put on for her drive; and
excitement, exercise, _something_, had lent an unusual glow to her
cheeks, and caused her dusky eyes to shine clear and steady, almost too
clear, too steadfast, was their gaze as it was fixed upon the glowing
coals; she had not looked so thoughtful, so self forgetful, yet self
absorbed, since she came back to Mapleton, John Burrill's wife.

Sitting thus, she heard a shambling step in the hall, and the heavy
voice of her husband, trolling out a snatch of song, caught up most
likely in some bar-room.

He was approaching her door, and quick as thought, she sprang from her
chair, and noiselessly examined the fastenings, to assure herself
against him. Then, while her hand still rested on the door, his hand
struck a huge blow upon the outside, and he called out gruffly:

"Sybil."

No answer; she dared not move, lest the rustle of her silks should
betray her. "S-Sybil, I say, lemme in." Still no reply, and John Burrill
shook the door violently, and ground out an oath.

Just then came the sound of another door further up the hall, her
mother's door. It opened easily, and closed softly, and then quick,
cat-like steps approached, and the voice of Jasper Lamotte, low and
serene as usual, arrested the noise