Cruel as the grave
of the oak and the flaming orange of the elm mingled with the royal
purple of the dogwood and the deep green of the cedar. And all this
gorgeousness of coloring was reflected in the lake, whose waters seemed
dyed with all the prismatic hues of the rainbow.
"'Black Valley,' indeed!" said Rosa Blondelle, with a smile, as she
entered the breakfast-room and glanced through the windows upon the
magnificent scene; "'Black Valley,' call you this? I should rather call
it 'Bright Valley.' Oh, what a glorious day and oh, what a glorious
scene! Good-morning, Mrs. Berners. Good-morning, Mr. Berners. Little
Crow, this kind gentleman is spoiling you," she said, as she advanced
with smiling eyes and outstretched hands to greet her host and hostess,
who had risen from their chairs to meet her.
They both received her very kindly, even affectionately, and as they had
waited only for her presence to have breakfast, Sybil now rang and
ordered it to be brought in.
Sybil's own little "high chair" had been rummaged out from its corner in
the lumber-room and dusted, and brought in for the use of the baby-boy;
who, in honor of his mother, was permitted to sit up to the table with
the grown people.
"But why, I repeat, should you call this glorious vale the 'Black
Valley'?" inquired Rosa, as they all gathered around the board.
"It was black enough last night, was it not?" asked Mr. Berners, with a
smile.
"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 sex, refuse to trust us with any power," she added, with
a light laugh.
"But I utterly deny this alleged 'weakness of your sex.' You bewray
yourself and sex 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
assistance 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?"
"Why, that our party shall be a masked, fancy-dress ball. That will be
something new in this old-fashioned neighborhood."
"Yes, and something startling to our old-fashioned neighbors," said Mr.
Berners, with a dubious shake of his head.
"So much the better. They need startling, and I intend to startle them."
"As you please, my dear, wayward Sybil. But when do you propose this
affair to come off?"
"On All-Hallow Eve."
"Good. All-Hallow Eve is the proper sort of an eldritch night for such
a piece of diablerie as a mask ball to be held," laughed Mr. Berners.
"But now, seriously, Lyon; do you really dislike or disapprove this
plan? If you do I will willingly modify it according to your judgment;
or even, if you wish it, I will willingly drop it altogether," she said,
very earnestly.
"My dear impetuous Sybil, you should make no such sacrifices, even if I
_did_ dislike or disapprove your plan; but I do neither. I dare say I
shall enjoy the masquerade as much as any one; and that it will be very
popular and quite a success. But now, dear Sybil, let me hear what
fantastic shape you will assume at this witches' dance?"