Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth Yea, she was jealous, though she did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.—Byron.

Rosa was the last to wake up in the morning. The nurse had already dressed the child and taken him from the room; so Rosa rang her bell to bring the truants back.

Janet came alone.“Where is little Crow?” inquired Crow’s mamma.

“In the breakfast-room, me leddy, on the laird’s knee,” answered the girl.

“I tell you there are no lairds in America, Janet!” said the lady, impatiently.

“Well, on the gentleman’s knee, ma’am.”

“Very well, now come help me to dress.”

Janet hastened to obey, and in half an hour Rosa Blondelle issued from her chamber, looking if possible even more beautiful than she had looked on the previous evening; for she wore an elegant morning robe of white cashmere, embroidered down the front and around the bodice, sleeves, and skirt with a border of blue bells, and she had her splendid hair dressed in the simple natural ringlets that were the most becoming to her.

Janet walked before her mistress, to show the way. Far up the great hall, she opened a door on the left-hand side, admitting the lady to a delightful front room, whose front windows looked out upon the lake, the valley, and the opposite range of mountains.

It was a golden October morning, and from a cloudless deep-blue sky the sun shone down in dazzling splendor upon the valley, kindling up into a conflagration of living light all the variegated foliage of the trees, upon the mountain sides and the river’s banks, where the glowing crimson 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?”

“I will tell you, Lyon; but mind, you must keep the secret.”

“Oh! inviolably,” said Mr. Berners, with a laugh.

“Oh! I mean only that you must not speak of it outside the family, because, you see, it is such a perfectly original character that if it was known it would be taken by half a dozen people at least.”

“I will never breathe its name,” laughed Lyon.

“Then the character I shall take is—”

“What?”

“Fire!”

“Fire?”

“Fire.”

“Ha! ha! ha! it will suit you admirably, my little Berners of the Burning Heart. But how on earth will you contrive to costume and impersonate the consuming element?”

“It would take me a week to tell you, and then you would not understand. But you shall see.”

“I hope you will not set all your company in a flame; that is all, my dear.”

“But I shall try to do so. And now, dear Lyon, if you wish to help me, sit down at my writing-table there, and fill out and direct the invitations, you will find the visiting list, printed cards, and blank envelopes all in a parcel in the desk.”

“But is it not early to send them?” inquired Mr. Berners, as he seated himself at the table.

“No; not for a mask ball. This is the tenth. The ball is to come off on the thirty-first. If the cards are sent to-day, our friends will have just three weeks to get ready, which will not be too long to select their characters and contrive their costumes.”

“I suppose you know best, my dear,” said Mr. Berners, as he referred to the visiting list and began to prepare for his task.

Sybil went to her dressing-glass and began to arrange her somewhat disordered hair. While she stood there, she suddenly inquired:

“Where did you leave Mrs. Blondelle?”

“I did not leave her anywhere. She left me. She excused herself, and went—to her room, I suppose.”

“Ah!” sighed Sybil. She did not like this answer. She was sorry to know that her husband had remained with the beauty until the beauty had left him. She tortured herself with the thought that, if Mrs. Blondelle had remained in the morning room, Mr. Berners would have been there at her side.

So morbid was now the condition of Sybil that a word was enough to arouse her jealousy, a caress sufficient to allay it. She would not leave Lyon to himself, she thought. He should know the difference between his wife and his guest in that particular. So the guest, being now in her own room, where her hostess heartily wished she might spend the greater portion of the day, Sybil felt free from the pressing duties of hospitality, at least for the time being; and so she drew a chair to the corner of the same table occupied by her husband, and she began to help him in his task by directing the envelopes, while he filled out the cards. Thus sitting together, working in unison, and conversing occasionally, they passed the morning—a happier morning than Sybil had seen for several days.

But of course they met their guest again at dinner, where Rosa Blondelle was as fascinating and Lyon Berners as much fascinated as before, and where Sybil’s mental malady returned in full force.

Oh, these transient fascinations, what eternal miseries they sometimes bring!

But a greater trial awaited the jealous wife in the evening, when they were all gathered in the drawing-room, and Rosa Blondelle, beautifully dressed, seated herself at the grand piano, and began to sing and play some of the impassioned songs from the Italian operas; and Lyon Berners, a very great enthusiast in music, hung over the siren, doubly entranced by her beauty and her voice. Sybil, too, stood with the little group at the piano; but she stood back in the shade, where the expression of her agonized face could not be seen by the other two, even if they had been at leisure to observe her. She was suffering the fiercest tortures of jealousy.

Sybil’s education had been neglected, as I have told you. She had a fine contralto voice and a perfect ear, but these were both uncultivated; and so she could only sing and play the simplest ballads in the language. She had often regretted her want of power to please the fastidious musical taste of her husband; but never so bitterly as now, when she saw that power in the possession of another, and that other a beauty, a rival, and an inmate of her house. Oh, how deeply she now deplored her short-sightedness in bringing this siren to her home!

At the most impassioned, most expressive passages of the music, Rosa Blondelle would lift her eloquent blue eyes to those of Lyon Berners, who responded to their language.And Sybil stood in the shadow near them, with pallid cheeks, compressed lips, and glittering eyes—mute, still, full of repressed anguish and restrained fury.

Ah, Rosa Blondelle, take heed! Better that you should come between the lioness and her young than between Sybil Berners and her love!

Yet again, on this evening, this jealous wife, this strange young creature, so full of contradictions and inconsistencies; so strong, yet so weak; so confiding, yet so suspicious; so magnanimous, yet so vindictive; once again, I say, successfully exerted her wonderful powers of self-control, and endured the ordeal of that evening in silence, and at its close bade her guest good-night without betraying the anguish of her heart.

When she found herself alone with her husband in their chamber, her fortitude nearly forsook her, especially as he himself immediately opened the subject of their beautiful guest.

“She is perfectly charming,” said Mr. Berners. “Every day develops some new gift or grace of hers! My dear Sybil, you never did a better deed than in asking this lovely lady to our house. She will be an invaluable acquisition to our lonely fireside this winter.”

“You did not use to think our fireside was lonely! You used to be very jealous of our domestic privacy!” Sybil thought to herself; but she gave no expression to this thought. On the contrary, controlling herself, and steadying her voice with an effort, she said smilingly:

“If you had met this ‘lovely lady’ before you married me, and had found her also free, you would have made her your wife.”

“I! No, indeed!” impulsively and most sincerely answered Lyon Berners, as he raised his eyes in astonishment to the face of Sybil. But he could see nothing there. Her face was in deep shadow, where she purposely kept it to conceal its pallor and its tremor.“But why, if you had met her before you married me, and found her free, why should you not have made her your wife?” persisted Sybil.

“‘Why?’—what a question! Because, in the first place dear Sybil, I loved you, you only, long before I ever married you!” said Lyon Berners in increasing surprise.

“But—if you had met her before you had ever seen me, you would have loved and married her.”

“No! On my honor, Sybil!”

“Yet you admire her so much!”

“Dear Sybil! I admire all things beautiful in nature and art, but I don’t want to marry all!”

“And are you sure that this beautiful Rosa Blondelle would not make you a more suitable companion than I do?” she inquired.

His whole manner now changed. Turning towards her, he took both her hands in his own, and looking gravely and sweetly in her face, he answered:

“My wife! such questions between you and me ought never to arise, even in jest. I hold the marriage relation always too sacred for such trifling! And our relations towards each other seem to me dearer, sweeter, more sacred even, than those of most other married couples! No, my own Sybil! Soul of my soul! there is no woman that I ever did, or ever could prefer to you!” And he drew her to his bosom, and pressed her there in all good faith and true love. And his grave and tender rebuke did even more to tranquilize her jealousy than all his caresses had done.

“I know it! I know it, my dear husband! But it is only when I feel how imperfect, how unworthy of you, I am, that I ever have doubts!” she murmured with a sigh of infinite relief.