"Oh, it was black everywhere last night; but no blacker here than elsewhere, so I don"t see the justice of calling this the Black Valley.
I should call it rather the "Valley of the Sun.""
"Would not the "Valley of the Pyrotechnics" do as well?" inquired Lyon Berners, with dry humor.
"I think it would," replied Rosa, quite seriously, "for certainly this morning, with this glorious sunshine and these glowing, sparkling woods and waters, the place is a perfect spectacle of fire-works!"
"You view the scenery at its best and brightest. It is never so beautiful and brilliant as on a clear sunny autumn noon-day. At all other seasons, and at all other hours, it is gloomy enough. In a very few hours from this, when the sun gets behind the mountain, it will be quite black enough to justify its name," said Mr. Berners very gravely.
The conversation had been carried on between Mr Berners and Mrs.
Blondelle exclusively. Sybil had not volunteered a word; and it happened also that neither of her companions had addressed a word to her. She felt as if she were dropped out of their talk, and though bodily present, dropped out of their company as well. She felt that this was very hard; and once more she experienced the wild and vain regret that she had ever invited this too-alluring stranger to become an inmate of her house.
Before now, when they had been together, Lyon Berners had been accustomed to think of, smile on, talk to, only her, his wife! Now his thoughts, smiles, conversation were all divided with another!--Oh no! Oh no! _not divided_, but almost entirely absorbed by that other! At least so suspected the jealous wife.
"Is it possible, oh! is it possible that he loves me less than formerly?
that he loves me not at all? that he loves this stranger?" thought Sybil, as she watched her husband and her friend, entirely taken up with each other, and entirely oblivious of her! And at this thought a sensation of sickness and faintness came over her, and she saved herself from falling, only by a great effort of self-command. They, talking to each other, smiling at each other, enjoying each other"s exclusive attention, did not observe her emotion, although almost any casual spectator must have seen it in the deadly pallor of her face.
In all this there was little to arouse her jealousy; and perhaps there was nothing at all. Her heart pang may have come of a false fear, or a true one; who could then tell?
For my own part, looking towards this situation of affairs through the light of after knowledge, I think that her fears were, even then, well-founded; that even then it was a true instinct which warned her that her adored husband, he to whom her whole heart, soul, and spirit were entirely given, he for whom only she "lived and moved and had her being," he was becoming fascinated, for the time being at least, by this beautiful stranger, who was evidently also flattered by his attentions. And this in the very honeymoon of the bride to whom he owed so much!
And yet indeed, I say, still speaking in the light of after knowledge, that at this time he was equally unconscious of his wife"s jealousy, or of any wrong-doing on his own part, calculated to arouse it. Had Lyon Berners suspected that his attentions to their fair guest gave such deep pain to his high-spirited wife, he would at least have modified them to retain her confidence. But he suspected nothing. Sybil revealed nothing; her pride was even greater than her jealousy; for this last daughter of the House of Berners inherited all the pride of all her line. At this time, this pride quite enabled her to keep her pain to herself.
At length the severe ordeal was, for the moment, over. She perceived that her companions had finished breakfast, and so she arose from the table, leaving her example to be followed by them.
"Let me lead you to our pleasant morning parlor. It is just across the hall, and commands the same view of the lake and mountains that this room does--from the front windows I mean; but from the end windows you get a view _up_ the valley, and may catch glimpses of the Black Torrent as it rushes roaring down the side of the mountain," said Mr. Berners, as he offered his hand to Mrs. Blondelle and led her from the breakfast parlor.
Sybil looked after them with pallid cheeks and darkening brows; then she rushed up into her own chamber, locked her door, threw herself upon her bed and gave way to a storm of sobs and tears. While she was still weeping vehemently, there came a knock at the door. She lifted up her head and listened; controlling her voice as well as she could, she inquired:
"Who is there, and what is wanted?"
"It is I, my dear, and I want to come in," answered the voice of her husband.
"I have not even the privilege of shutting myself up to weep alone! for I belong to one who can invade my privacy or command my presence at his pleasure!" exclaimed Sybil in bitterness of spirit; and yet bitterness that was mingled with a strange, deep sweetness too! for she loved to feel that _she did_ belong to Lyon Berners; that _he had_ the privilege of invading her privacy, or commanding her presence at his pleasure. And ah! _that_ was a happiness Rosa Blondelle would not share!
"Well, well, my darling! are you going to let me in?" inquired Mr.
Berners, after a moment of patient waiting.
"Yes, in an instant dear!" exclaimed Sybil, hastily wiping her eyes and trying to efface all signs of weeping from her countenance.
Then she opened the door.
Her husband entered, closed the door, and then turned around with some light, gay word; but at the sight of his wife"s pale and agitated face, he started in surprise and distress, exclaiming:
"Why, Sybil! Why, my darling! What on earth is the matter? What has happened?"
At the sound of his anxious voice, at the sight of his troubled face, Sybil turned aside, sank upon the corner of the sofa, dropped her head upon its cushions, and yielded to a tempest of sobs and tears.
He hurried to her side, sat down and drew her head upon his bosom, and in much alarm exclaimed again:
"In the name of Heaven, Sybil! what is all this about? What has happened to distress you so deeply? Have you heard any bad news?" he inquired as he caressed and tried to soothe her.
She did not repel his caresses; for, jealous as she was, she felt no anger towards him then. She laid her head upon his bosom, and sobbed aloud.
"What bad news have you heard, dear Sybil?" repeated Mr. Berners.
"Oh, none at all! What bad news _could_ I hear to make _me_ weep? I do not care as much as that for anything on earth, or anybody except you!"
she answered, lifting her head from his bosom as she spoke, and then dropping it again when she had finished.
"Then what is it that troubles you, my own dear wife? What cause can you have for weeping?" he inquired, tenderly caressing the beautiful, wayward creature.
She lifted her head, and smiled through her tears as she answered:
"None at all, I believe. What does Kotzebue say? "To laugh or cry without a reason, is one of the few privileges women have." I have no good reason to weep, dear Lyon! I know that I have not. But I am nervous and hysterical, I believe," she added; for, as before, his tender caresses dispelled her jealousy and restored her trust. With her head resting on his bosom; with his arms around her; with his eyes smiling down upon hers, she could not look in his face and retain her jealous doubts.
"I have no reason in the world for weeping. I am just a nervous, hysterical woman--_like the rest_! It is no wonder men, who see the weakness of our s.e.x, refuse to trust us with any power," she added, with a light laugh.
"But I utterly deny this alleged "weakness of your s.e.x." You bewray yourself and s.e.x by repeating the slander, though even in jest, as I see you are. _You_ are not weak, my Sybil. Nor do you weep without a cause.
You have some good and sufficient reason for your tears."
"Indeed, no; I have none. I am only nervous and hysterical, and thoroughly ashamed of myself for being so," she answered, very sincerely, for she _was_ really thoroughly ashamed of her late jealousy, and anxious to conceal it from her husband.
He looked at her so inquisitively, not to say so incredulously, that she hastened to add;
"This is really nothing but nervous irritability, dear Lyon. Do not distress yourself about my moods."
"But I must, my darling. Whether their cause is mental or physical, real or imaginary, I must trouble myself about your tears," answered Lyon Berners, with grave tenderness.
"Then let it be about my _next_ ones; not these that are past and gone.
And now to a pleasant topic. The ball that we are expected to give."
"Yes, dear, that is _your_ affair. But I am ready to give you any a.s.sistance in my power. Your cards, I believe, are all printed?"
"Yes; that was a happy idea to get the cards printed while we stopped in New York."
"Now they only need filling up with names and dates."
"And the addition of one little word, Lyon."
"Well, and what is that?"
"_Masks._"
"MASKS!" echoed Mr. Berners, in surprise.
"MASKS," reiterated Mrs. Berners, with a smile.
"Why, my dear Sybil, what on earth do you mean?"