CHAPTER XI.

LOVE AND JEALOUSY.

There was a time when bliss

Shone o'er her heart from every look of his;

When but to see him, hear him, breathe the air

In which he dwelt, was her soul's fondest prayer;

When round him hung such a perpetual spell,

Whate'er he did none ever did so well;

Yet now he comes, brighter than ever, far,

He beamed before; but ah! not bright for her.--MOORE.

Fortunately for the fascinated husband and the jealous wife, the Circuit

Court was now sitting at Blackville, and the lawyer's professional

duties demanded all Mr. Berner's time.

Only one year before this, when the struggling young lawyer depended

upon his work for his bread, he could hardly get a paying client; now

that he was entirely independent of his profession, he was overwhelmed

with business. As the wealthy master of the Black Valley manor, with its

rich dependencies of farms, quarries, mills, and hamlets, he might have

led the easy life of a country gentleman. But in Lyon Berners'

apprehension, work was duty; and so to work he went, as if he had had to

get his living by it.

Every day he left home at nine o'clock in the morning, in order to be

present at the opening of the court at ten. He reached home again at

four in the afternoon, and dined with Sybil and Rosa. After dinner he

retired to his study, and spent the evening in working up his briefs and

preparing for the next day's business.

Thus he was entirely separated from his guest, who never saw him except

at the table, with the breadth of the board between them, and almost

entirely from his wife, who only had his company to herself at night.

Yet Sybil was content. Her love, if, in some of its phases, it was a

jealous and exacting passion, in others was a noble and generous

principle. She would not spare a glance, a smile, a caress of his, to

any other woman; yet she would give him wholly up to his duty, his

profession, his country, or to any grand _impersonal_ object. And the

few hours out of the twenty-four when she could enjoy his society apart

from her dreaded rival, compensated her for the many when he was absent

or engaged upon his professional duties.

But ah! this could not last!

It happened, very naturally, that while Mr. Lyon Berners spent his

mornings in the court-house, Mrs. Lyon Berners spent hers in receiving

the calls and congratulations of her friends, to whom she always

presented her permanent visitor, Mrs. Blondelle.

At length two unconnected events happened at the same time. The court

adjourned, and the last visit of ceremony was paid.

Sybil, at the instance of Mr. Berners, gave a dinner-party, and they

entertained the judges and barristers of the court. And upon that

occasion, Mrs. Blondelle of course was introduced, and equally of

course, her beauty made a very great sensation. And Sybil was well

pleased. She was perfectly willing that her protege should outshine her

in every company, if only she did not outrival her in her husband's

admiration.

But ah! whether it was that the long interruption of his conversations

with the beautiful blonde had given a new zest to the pleasure he

enjoyed in her society, or whether his admiration for her had been ever,

under all circumstances, on the increase, or whether both these causes

combined to influence his conduct, is not known; but it is certain that

from this time, Lyon Berners became more and more blindly devoted to

Rosa Blondelle. And yet, under and over and through all this, the

husband loved his wife as he never did or could love any other woman.

But Rosa Blondelle was one of those vain and shallow women who must and

will have a sentimental flirtation or a platonic friendship with some

man or boy, always on hand. She, like those of her mischievous class,

really meant no harm, while doing a great deal of wrong. Such a woman

will engage a husband's affections and break a wife's heart from mere

vanity, and for mere pastime, without the slightest regard for either of

her victims. And yet, because, they have not been grossly guilty, as

well as deeply sinful, they retain their positions in society.

Rosa Blondelle's whole life lay in these sentimental flirtations and

platonic friendships. Without a lover, she did not care to live at all.

Yet hers was a sham love, though her victims were not often sham lovers.

With her fair and most innocent face, Rosa Blondelle was false and

shallow. And Lyon Berners knew this; and even while yielding himself to

the fascination of her smiles, he could not help comparing her, to her

great disadvantage, with his own true, earnest, deep-hearted wife.

But every morning, while Sybil was engaged in her domestic duties, which

were now greatly increased by the preparations that were going on for

the masquerade ball, Lyon Berners would be walking with Rosa Blondelle,

exploring the romantic glens of the Black Valley, or wandering along the

picturesque banks of the Black River. Or if the weather happened to be

inclement, Mr. Berners and Mrs. Blondelle would sit in the library

together, deep in German mysticism or French sentiment.

Every evening Rosa sat at the grand piano, singing for him the most

impassioned songs from the German and Italian operas; and Lyon hung over

her chair turning her music, and enraptured with her beauty.

Ah! Rosa Blondelle! vain and selfish and shallow coquette! Trifle, if

you must, with any other man's love, with any other woman's peace; but

you had better invade the lair of the lioness, and seize her cubs--you

had better walk blindfold upon the abyss of Hades, than come between

Sybil Berners and her husband!

For Sybil saw it all! and not only as any other woman might have seen

it, just as it was, but as the jealous wife did--with vast exaggerations

and awful forebodings.

They did not suspect how much she knew, or how much more she imagined.

Before them the refined instincts of the lady still kept down the angry

passions of the woman.

Whenever her emotions were about to overcome her, she slipped away, not

to her own room, where she was liable to interruption, but far up into

the empty attics of the old house, where, in some corresponding chamber

of desolation, she gave way to such storms of anguish and despair as

leave the deepest

"Traces on heart and brain."

And after an hour or two she would return to the drawing-room, whence

she had never been missed by the pair of sentimentalists, who had been

too much absorbed in each other, and in Mozart or Beethoven, to notice

her absence.

And while all unconscious of her, they continued their musical

flirtation, she would sit with her back to the light, toying with her

crochet-work and listening to Rosa's songs.

She was still as a volcano before it bursts forth to bury cities under

its burning lava flood!

Why did she not, in the sacred privacy of their mutual apartment appeal

to the better nature of her husband by telling him how much his

flirtation with their guest pained her, his wife? Or else, why had she

not spoken plainly with her guest?

Why? Because Sybil Berners had too much pride and too little faith to do

the one or the other. She could not stoop to plead with her husband for

the love that she thought he had withdrawn from her; still less could

she bend to tell her guest how much his defection troubled her. Nor did

she believe her interference would do any good. For, to Sybil Berners

earnest nature, all things seemed earnest, and this vain and shallow

flirtation wore the aspect of a deep, impassioned attachment. And in her

forbearance she acted from instinct rather than from reason, for she

never even thought of interfering between these platonists. So,

outwardly at least, she was calm. But this calmness could not last. Her

heart was bleeding, burning, breaking! and its prisoned flood of fire

and blood must burst forth at length. The volcano seems quiet; but the

pent up lava in its bosom must at last give forth mutterings of its

impending irruption, and swiftly upon these mutterings must follow

flames and ruin!

It happened thus with Sybil.

One morning, when the weather was too threatening to permit any one to

indulge in an outdoor walk, it chanced that Lyon and Sybil Berners were

sitting together at a centre-table in the parlor--Lyon reading the

morning paper; Sybil _trying_ to read a new magazine--when Rosa

Blondelle, with her flowing, azure-hued robes and her floating golden

locks, and her beaming smiles, entered the room and seated herself at

the table, saying sweetly:

"My dear Mrs. Berners, is it to-morrow that you and I have arranged to

drive out and return the calls that were made upon us?"

"Yes, madam," politely replied Sybil.

"Then, dear Mr. Berners, I shall have to ask you to write a few

visiting-cards for me. I have not an engraved one in the world. But you

write such a beautiful hand, that your writing will look like

copper-plate. You will oblige me?" she inquired, smiling, and placing a

pack of blank cards before him.

"With the greatest pleasure," answered Lyon Berners, promptly putting

aside his paper.

Rosa turned to leave the room.

"Will you not remain with us?" courteously inquired Sybil.

"No, dear; much as I should like to do so," replied Rosa.

"But why?" inquired Lyon Berners, looking disappointed.

"Oh! because I have my dress to see about. We are far from all

fashionable modistes here; but I must try to do honor to madam's

masquerade for all that," laughed Rosa, as she passed gracefully out of

the room.

With a sigh that seemed to his sorrowing wife to betray his regret for

the beauty's departure, Lyon Berners drew the packet of blank cards

before him, scattered them in a loose heap on his left hand, and then

selecting one at a time, began to write. As he carefully wrote upon and

finished each card, he as carefully laid it on his right hand, until a

little heap grew there.

Sybil, who gloried in all her husband's accomplishments, from the

greatest to the least, admired very much his skill in ornamental

chirography. She drew her chair closer to the table, and took up the

topmost card, and began to decipher, rather than to read, the name in

the beautiful old English characters, so tangled in a thicket of

rose-buds and forget-me-nots as to be scarcely legible. She looked

closely and more closely at the name on the card.

What was there in it to drive all the color from her cheeks?

She snatched up and scrutinized a second card, a third, a fourth; then,

springing to her feet, she seized the whole mass, hurled them into the

fire, and turned, and confronted her husband.

Her teeth were clenched upon her bloodless lips, her face seemed marble,

her eyes lambent flames.

He rose to his feet in surprise and dismay.

"SYBIL! what is all this? Why have you destroyed the cards?"

"Why?" she gasped, pressing both hands upon her heart, as if to keep

down its horrible throbbings. "Why? Because they are lies! _lies!_

LIES!"

"SYBIL! have you gone suddenly mad?" he cried, gazing at the "embodied

storm" before him with increasing astonishment and consternation.

"No! I have suddenly come to my senses!" she gasped between the catches

of her breath, for she could scarcely speak.

"You must calm yourself, and tell me what this means, my wife," said

Lyon Berners, exerting a great control over himself, and pushing aside

the last card he had written.

But she snatched up that card, glanced at it fiercely, tore it in two,

and threw the fragments far apart, exclaiming in bitter triumph:

"Not yet! oh! not yet! I am not dead yet! Nor have the halls and acres

of my fathers passed quite away from their daughter to the possession of

a traitor and an ingrate."

He gazed upon her now in amazement and alarm. _Had_ she gone suddenly

mad?

She stood there before him the incarnation of the fiercest and intensest

passion he had ever seen or imagined.

He went and took her in his arms, saying more gently than before:

"Sybil, what is it?"

She tried, harshly and cruelly, to break from him. But he held her in a

fast, loving embrace, murmuring still:

"Sybil, you must tell me what troubles you?"

"What troubles me!" she furiously exclaimed. "Let me go, man! Your touch

is a dishonor to me! Let me go!"

"But, dearest Sybil."

"Let me go, I say! What! will you use your _brute strength to hold me_?"

He dropped his arms, and left her free.

"No; I beg your pardon, Sybil. I thought you were my loving wife," he

said.

"You were mistaken. I am not Rosa Blondelle!" she cried.

"Hush! hush! my dearest Sybil!" he muttered earnestly, as he went and

closed and locked the parlor door, to save her from being seen by the

servants in her present insane passion.

But she swept past him like a storm, and laid her hand on the lock. She

found it fast.

"Open, and let me pass," she cried.

"No, no, my dear Sybil. Remain here until you are calmer, and then tell

me--"

"Let me out, I say!"

"But, dearest Sybil."

"What! would you _keep me a prisoner--by force_?" she cried, with a

cruel sneer.

He unlocked the door and set it wide open.

"No, even though you are a lunatic, as I do believe. Go, and expose your

condition, if you must. I cannot restrain you by fair means, and I will

not by foul."

And Sybil swept from the room, but she did not expose herself. She fled

away to that "chamber of desolation" where she had passed so many

agonizing hours, and threw herself, face downwards, upon the floor, and

lay there in the collapse of utter despair.

Meanwhile Lyon Berners paced up and down the parlor floor.