CHAPTER III.

SYBIL BERNERS.

"All that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eye."

Sybil Berners was at this time about eighteen years of age--a beautiful,

black-haired, bright-eyed little brunette, full of fire, spirit,

strength, and self-will. She was a law to herself. No one, not even her

aged father, had the slightest control over her except through her

affections, when they could be gained, or her passions, when they could

be aroused; but this last means was seldom tried, for no one cared to

raise the storm that none could quell.

Her father was now nearly eighty years old. And fondly, jealously,

selfishly as he loved this darling daughter of his age, he wished to see

her safely married before he should be called from the earth.

And certainly the beautiful heiress had suitors enough to select

from--suitors drawn no less by her personal charms than by her great

fortune. But one and all were politely refused by the fastidious maiden,

who every one said was so very hard to please.

But even if Sybil Berners had accepted any one among the numerous

suitors for her hand, the conditions of her father's consent would have

been made rather difficult. The husband of the heiress would have been

required to assume the name and arms of Berners in order to perpetuate

the family patronymic, and to live with his wife at the old manor house

in order not to separate the only child from her aged father. And it was

not every proud young Virginian who would have given up his own family

name either for a fortune or a beauty. But none of her suitors were put

to the test, for Sybil promptly and unconditionally refused all offers

of marriage.

And the reason of all this was, that Miss Berners of Black Hall loved a

poor, briefless young lawyer, who had nothing but his handsome person,

his brilliant mind, and his noble heart to recommend him. When, or

where, or how her love for him began, she herself could never have told.

Since his return from the university she had seen him every Sunday at

church, and had grown to look and to long for his appearance there,

until it came to this pass with her soul, that the very house of God

seemed empty until _his_ place was filled. And besides this, she often

saw him and heard him speak at political and other public meetings,

which she always attended only to beam in the sunshine of his presence,

only to drink in the music of his voice. She took in all the local

papers only to read his leaders and dream over his thoughts.

Moreover, she felt by a sure instinct that he passionately adored her,

even while ignorant of her love for him, and silent upon the subject of

his own passion.

This state of affairs exasperated the fiery and self-willed little

beauty almost to phrensy. She had never in her life been contradicted or

opposed. No desire of her heart had ever been left for a moment

unsatisfied. She never knew until now the meaning of suspense or

disappointment. And now here was a man whom she wildly loved, and who

worshipped her, but who, from some delicate pride in his poverty,

_would_ not speak, while she, of course, _could_ not.

Yet Sybil Berners was no weak "Viola," who would

"Let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek, and pine in thought."

She was rather a strong "Helena," who would dare all and bear all to

gain her lover.

Sybil did all that a young lady of her rank could do in the premises.

She made her doting father give dinner parties and invite her lover to

them. But the briefless young lawyer in the napless hat and thread-bare

coat never accepted one of these invitations, for the very simple

reason that he had no evening dress in which to appear.

Under these circumstances, where any other young girl might have grown

languid and sorrowful, Sybil became excitable and violent. She had

always had the fiery temper of her race, but it had very seldom been

kindled by a breath of provocation. Now, however, it frequently broke

out without the slightest apparent cause. No one in the house could

account for this accession of ill-temper--not her anxious father, nor

Miss Tabitha Winterose, the housekeeper, not Joseph Joy, the house

steward, nor any of the maids or men-servants under them.

"She's possessed of the devil," said Miss Winterose, to her confidant,

the house steward.

"That's nothing new. All the Berners is possessed of _that_ possession.

It's entailed family property, and can't be got rid of," grimly

responded Joe.

"Something has crossed her; something has crossed her very much,"

muttered her old father to himself, as he sat alone in his arm-chair in

the warm chimney-corner of his favorite sitting-room.

Yes, indeed, everything crossed her. She was unhappy for the first time

in her life, and she thought it was clearly the duty of her father or

some other one of her slaves to make her happy. She was kept waiting,

and it was everybody's fault, and everybody should be made to suffer for

it. It was no use to reason with Sybil Berners. One might as well have

reasoned with a conflagration.

It was about this time, too, that her aged father began to feel symptoms

that warned him of the approach of that sudden death by congestion of

the brain, which had terminated the existence of so many of his

ancestors.

More than ever he desired to see his motherless daughter well married

before he should be called away from her. So, one evening, he sent for

Sybil to come into his sitting-room, and when she obeyed his summons,

and came and sat down on a low ottoman beside his arm-chair, he said,

laying his hand lovingly on her black, curly head:

"My darling, I am very old, and may be taken from you any day, any hour,

and I would like to see you well married before I go."

"Dear father, don't talk so. You may live twenty years yet," answered

the daughter, with a blending of affectionate solicitude and angry

impatience in her tones and looks, for Sybil was very fond of the old

man, and also very intolerant of unpleasant subjects.

"Well, well, my dear, since you prefer it, I will live twenty years

longer to please you--_if I can_. But whether I live or die, my

daughter, I wish to see you well married."

"Ah, father, why can you not leave me free?"

"Because, my darling, if anything should happen to me, you would be left

utterly without protection; your hand would become the aim of every

adventurer in the county; you would become the prey of some one among

them who would squander your fortune, abuse your person, and break your

heart."

"You know very well, father, that I should break such a villain's head

first. _I_ a victim--_I_ the prey of a fortune-hunter, or the slave of a

brute! I look as if I was likely to be--do I not? Father, you insult

your daughter by the thought," exclaimed Sybil, with flushing cheeks and

flashing eyes.

"There, there, my dear! don't flame up!" said the old man, laying his

hand upon the fiery creature's head; "be quiet as you can, Sybil--I

cannot bear excitement now, child."

"Forgive me, dear father, and forbear, if you love me, from such talk as

this. I never could become an ill-used, suffering, snivelling wife. I

_detest_ the picture as I utterly despise all weak and whimpering women.

I have no sympathy whatever for your abused wives--even for your

dethroned or beheaded queens. Why should a wife permit herself to be

abused, or a queen suffer herself to be dethroned or beheaded, without

first having done something to redeem herself from the contemptible role

of a victim, even if it was to change it for the awful one of

criminal--"

"--Hush, Sybil, hush! You know not what you say. The Saviour of the

world--"

"----Was a divine martyr, father," said Sybil, reverently bowing her

head--"was a divine martyr, not a victim. All who suffer and die in a

great cause are martyrs; but those who suffer and die for nothing but of

their own weakness are victims, with whom I have no sympathy. I never

could be a _victim_, father."

"Heaven help you, Sybil!"

"You need not fear for me, father. I can take care of myself as well as

if I were a son, instead of a daughter of the House of Berners," said

Sybil, haughtily.

"You may be able to protect yourself from all others, but can you always

protect yourself _from yourself_?" sighed the old man.

Sybil did not answer.

"But, to come back to the point from which you started, like the fiery

young filly that you are--Sybil, I greatly desire to see you married to

some worthy young gentleman whom you can love and I approve."

"Where can you find such an one, father?" murmured Sybil, with a quick,

strange, wild hope springing up in her heart.

What if he should speak of the young lawyer? But that was not likely. He

spoke of some one else.

"There is Ernest Godfree. No better match for you in the county. And I'm

sure he worships the very ground you walk on."

Sybil made an angry gesture, exclaiming:

"Then I wish he would have respect enough for the ground he worships to

keep himself off it altogether! I hate that man!"

"Well, well, hate is a poor return for love! But we'll say no more of

him. But there's Captain Pendleton, a brave young officer."

"I wish his bravery were better employed in fighting the Indians on the

frontier instead of besieging our house. I cannot endure that man!"

"Let him pass then! Next there is Charles Hanbury--"

"Ugh! the ugly little wretch."

"But he is so good, so wise, for so young a man. And he is your devoted

slave."

"Then I wish my slave would obey his owner's orders, and keep out of her

sight."

"Sybil, you are incorrigible," sighed the old man, but he did not yield

his main point.

One after another he proposed for her consideration all the eligible

young bachelors of the neighborhood, who, he knew, were ready upon the

slightest encouragement to renew their once rejected suits for the hand

of the beauty and heiress.

But one after another Sybil, with some sarcastic word, dismissed.

"Sybil, you are a strange, wayward girl! It seems to me that for any man

to love you is to take a sure road to your hatred! And yet, oh, my dear!

I wish to see you safely married. Is there not one among those whom you

might prefer to all the rest?"

"No, my father, not one whom I could endure for an instant as a lover."

"And oh! when I feel this fatal rising of the heart and fulness of the

head--this Wave of Death that is sure to bear me off sooner or later to

the Ocean of Eternity--Oh, then, my Sybil, how my soul travails for

you!" groaned the old man.

"Father! do you so much wish to see me married?"

"I wish it more than anything else in the world, my child."

"Father, you have named every young man in the neighborhood whom you

would like as a son-in-law?"

"Every one, my daughter."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure, my love. Why do you ask?"

She slid down from her low ottoman to the floor, and laid her arms upon

his knees and her beautiful black ringleted head upon her folded hands,

and whispered:

"Because, dear father, there is one whom you have forgotten to name: one

who loves me, and is altogether well worthy to be called your son."

"Ah!" cried the old man fiercely, under his breath--"a fortune-hunter,

on my life! the danger is nearer than I had even apprehended!"

"No, father, no! He is as far as possible from being what you say!"

fervently exclaimed Sybil.

"He is wealthy, then?"

"No, no, no! he is poor in everything but in goodness and wisdom!"

"Oh, no doubt you think him rich in these! But who is he, unhappy child?

What is his name?"

Very subdued came the answer. Old Bertram was obliged to bend his gray

head to his daughter's lips, and put his shrivelled hand behind his ear

to catch the sound of her low voice.

"He is the young lawyer newly settled in Blackville, whose praise is on

everybody's lips."

"JOHN LYON HOWE!" exclaimed the old man, throwing up his head in

astonishment.

"Yes, father," breathed the girl.

"And he loves you?"

She nodded.

"And you love him?"

She nodded again.

"A briefless young lawyer, with a long list of impoverished brothers and

sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins! Bad enough; but not as it might

have been. She can gain nothing by that connection! But then she need

not lose anything either," murmured the old man to himself. After

reflecting for a few moments, with his head upon his breast, he suddenly

raised his eyes and exclaimed:

"But I have never seen the young man at this house!"

"No, father!"

"Nor at any other house where we visit."

"No, father; for although he receives many invitations to visit his

friends, he accepts none. Father, I think he cannot afford to do so."

"Cannot afford to visit! Why?"

"Visiting requires dress, and dress money. And he does so much

gratuitous work now in the beginning of his career that he has but

little money; and his father will not help him at all, because they

differ in politics."

"Yes, I know they do; but the young man is quite right. I agree with his

views perfectly. He will make his mark in the world some of these days,

and then his father will be proud of him."

Sybil blushed with delight to hear her lover so praised by one in whose

hands their happiness rested.

"But, my child, he was wrong and you were wrong to have entered into any

engagement without my sanction," said the old man very gravely.

"There is no engagement, father," gently answered Sybil.

"Ah! no engagement? that is well! By my soul, though, it was not right

for him even to have wooed you without my consent! Nor can I conceive

what opportunity he has ever had to do so. He never comes here."

"He has never wooed me, dear father."

"EH!"

"He has never sought my hand."

"But I thought you gave me to understand that you love each other!"

"So we do, father."

"Then, if he loves you, why don't he come and tell me so like an

honorable man?"

"Father, he has never even told _me_ so."

"EH!"

"He has never breathed a word of love to me."

"Then how the deuce do you know that he loves you, girl?"

"Oh, by every glance of his eyes, by every tone of his voice, and by my

own heart! Oh, father, do you think I would bear to tell you this, if I

were not sure of it."

"Umph, umph! But why don't he speak?--that's what I want to know! Why

don't he speak?"

"Dear father, can you not comprehend that he is too proud to do so?"

"Too proud! By my word! It is a new hearing that a Howe should be too

proud to seek an alliance with a Berners!" exclaimed old Bertram hotly,

rising from his chair.

"Old age ne'er cooled the Douglas blood,"

and it had not cooled his.

Sybil smiled to see how utterly he had misunderstood her, and making him

sit down again, she said,

"You dear old darling, it is not that! It is the very opposite to that.

It is because he is poor and we are rich, and he is too proud to be

called a fortune-hunter."

"Oh, I understand! I understand!

'Among the rest young Edwin bowed,

But never told his love.

Wisdom, and worth were all he had.'"

"Yes, dear father, that is just the truth. You wish me to marry; but,

dear, dear father, I can never bring myself to marry any one but _him_;

and he loves me truly, but does not seek me?" she breathed in a low and

tremulous tone, half smothered also by the hands with which she covered

her blushing face.

"Now what am I to do in this case? I have nothing against the young man

whatever, except his poverty and big long line of poor relations, that

will be sure to be a burden to him!" grumbled old Bertram to himself.

"But, father, we are so rich! We have enough for so many people,"

pleaded Sybil.

"Not enough to enrich all the Howes, my dear! But I like the young man,

I really do like him, and if he had more money, and less relations, I

should prefer him to any young man in the neighborhood for a

son-in-law."

"O father, dear father, thank you, thank you for saying that," exclaimed

Sybil, fervently kissing his hands.

"And now that you have told me your mind, what do you want me to do, my

darling?" he inquired, returning her caresses.

"Oh, dear father! an old man like you must know! I do want you to give

Lyon help and encouragement as you know best how to do it, without

wounding his pride. You sympathize with his political principles; let

him know that you do. You admire his character; let him feel that you

do."

"What else?"

"This. Since old Mr. Godwin died you have had no agent for your large

estate, and its accounts must be falling into disorder, Lyon is a

lawyer, you know. Offer him the agency of your estate, with a liberal

salary."

"Upon my word, I never thought of that before. Here for three months I

have been thinking whom I could get as an agent, and much as I esteemed

that young man I never once thought of applying to him! But the fact is,

I never looked upon him in the light of a business man, but only as a

brilliant barrister, and eloquent pleader."

"Yet, father, you know he _must_ be a good business man to have

collected such great stores of statistics as he has always at command."

"Well, my love, I will go to-day and offer him the agency. Now what

next?"

"He was too poor and too proud to come before, but as your agent, father,

you must bring him often to the house on business."

"And then?"

"You must leave the rest to me."

Thus it was that the young lawyer became the agent for the great Black

Valley Manor. This agency included not only the management of the

revenues from several rich farms, but also those from the stone

quarries, iron mines, and the water mill at the head of the valley, and

also from the real estate in the village at the foot, all of which was

included in the Black Valley Manor.

The new agent was frequently called to Black Hall, where he was always

received with the utmost courtesy. And as the acquaintance between the

proprietor and the agent ripened into intimacy, a deep and strong

attachment grew between them.

"Youth never showed itself wiser or better than in this young man,"

murmured Mr. Berners to himself.

"Age was never so venerable and beautiful as in this old man," thought

John Lyon Howe to himself.

The old man loaded the young one with many marks of his esteem and

affection. The young man returned these with the warmest gratitude and

highest reverence.

When John Lyon Howe, with his heart filled with love for Sybil Berners,

first entered Black Hall, it was without the slightest suspicion of her

responsive love for him. But when they were thrown so much together, he

was not very long in making the discovery so delightful to his soul,

and yet--so trying too! for, as a man of good principles, there seemed

to be but one course left open to him--the course of self-denial! He

loved the great heiress, and had unintentionally won her love! Therefore

he must fly from her presence, trying to forget her, hoping that she

might forget him.

He summoned up courage for the sacrifice, and went into the study of his

employer and in a few words told him that he had come to say good-bye.

The astonished old man looked up for an explanation.

John Lyon Howe gave it to him.

"And so you wish to leave me, never to return to the Hall, because you

love my daughter."

The young man bowed in silence; but could not conceal the misery it

caused him to make this acknowledgment.

"But why should that oblige you to leave the house?" inquired Mr.

Berners.

"Oh, sir! can you ask?" exclaimed Mr. Howe.

"Oh, I see! the little witch has refused you!" exclaimed old Bertram

with a twinkle in his eye. "Come, is it not so?"

"Sir, I have never abused your confidence so far as to seek her hand! I

could not make so base a return for your kindness to me."

"Oh, you have never asked her to marry you! How in the world, then, can

you know whether she will accept you or not? or, consequently, whether

it will be necessary for you to leave or not?"

"Oh, sir! what is it that you would say?" exclaimed the young man, in

quick, broken tones, while his face turned pale with agitation.

"Nonsense, my boy! When I was young a youth didn't require so much

encouragement to woo a maiden. Before you make up your mind to leave me,

go and ask Sybil's consent to the step."

"Oh, sir! oh, Mr. Berners! do you mean this?" gasped the young man,

catching at the back of the chair for support. He was inured to sorrow,

but not to joy. And this joy was so sudden and overwhelming that he

reeled under it.

"I mean what I say, Mr. Howe. I esteem and respect you. I sanction your

addresses to my daughter," said old Bertram, speaking with more gravity

and dignity than he had before displayed.

John Lyon fervently kissed his old friend's hand, and went immediately

in search of Sybil. And that same night, old Bertram had the pleasure of

joining their hands together in solemn betrothal.

"And now I can die happy," said the old man, earnestly; "for it was not

another great fortune, but a good husband that I coveted for my darling

child."

Ten days from this night, old Bertram Berners dropped into his last

sleep. He was well and happy up to the last hour of his life. The "Wave

of Death," found him in his arm-chair, and bore him off without a

struggle to the "Ocean of Eternity." So old Bertram Berners was gathered

to his fathers.

The year of mourning was permitted to pass, and then John Lyon Howe,

having, according to the conditions of the marriage contract, assumed

the name and arms of Berners, was united in marriage to the beautiful

Sybil. And they set out on their bridal tour as Mr. and Mrs. Lyon

Berners.

And now we will again look in upon them as they linger over their

tea-table in the old inn at Norfolk, where we first introduced them to

our readers.