  Go, when the hunter’s hand hath wrung |
Lyon Berners was utterly perplexed and troubled. He could not in any way explain to himself the sudden and furious passion of his wife.
Suddenly it occurred to him that it was in some way connected with the cards she had thrown into the fire. They were not all burned up. Some few had fallen scorched upon the hearth. These he gathered up and examined; and as he looked at one after another, his face expressed, in turn, surprise, dismay, and amusement. Then he burst out laughing. He really could not help doing so, serious as the subject was; for upon every single card, instead of Rosa Blondelle, he had written:
Mrs. Rosa Berners.
“Was there ever such a mischief of a mistake?” he exclaimed, as he ceased laughing and sat down by his table to consider what was to be done next.
“Poor Sybil! poor, dear, fiery-hearted child, it is no wonder! And yet, Heaven truly knows it was because I was thinking of you, and not of the owner of the cards, that I wrote that name upon them unconsciously,” he said to himself, as he sat with his fine head bowed upon his hand, gravely reviewing the history of the last few days.
His eyes were opened now—not only to his wife’s jealousy, but to his own thoughtless conduct in doing anything to arouse it.
In the innermost of his own soul he was so sure of the perfect integrity of his love for his wife, that it had never
Now, however, he remembered with remorse that, of late, since the rising of the court, all his mornings and evenings had been spent exclusively in the company of the beautiful blonde. Any wife under such circumstances might have been jealous; but few could have suffered such agonies of wounded love as wrung the bosom of Sybil Berners,—of Sybil Berners, the last of a race in whose nature more of the divine and more of the infernal met than in almost any other race that ever lived on earth.
Her husband thought of all this now. He remembered what lovers and what haters the men and women of her house had been.
He recalled how, in one generation, a certain Reginald Berners, who was engaged to be married to a very lovely young lady, on one occasion found his betrothed and an imaginary rival sitting side by side, amusing themselves with what they might have considered a very harmless flirtation, when, transported with jealous fury, he slew the man before the very eyes of the girl. For this crime Reginald was tried, but for some inexplicable reason, acquitted; and he lived to marry the girl for whose sake he had imbrued his hands in a fellow-man’s blood.
He recalled how, in another generation, one Agatha Berners, in a frenzy of jealousy, had stabbed her rival, and then thrown herself into the Black Lake. Fortunately neither of the attempted crimes had been consummated, for the wounded woman recovered, and the would-be suicide lived to wear out her days in a convent.
Reflecting upon these terrible outbursts of the family passion, Lyon Berners became very much alarmed for Sybil.
He started up and went in search of her. He looked
“I will search every square yard within these walls,” he said, as he hurried through all the empty chambers of that floor, and then went up into the attic.
There, in the lumber-room—the chamber of desolation—he found his wife, lying with her face downwards on the floor. He hastened towards her, fearing that she was in a swoon. But no; she was only exhausted by the violence of her emotions.
Without saying a word, he lifted her in his arms as if she had been a child. She was too faint now to resist him. He carried her down stairs to her own chamber and laid her on the sofa, and while he gently smoothed the damp dark hair from her pale brow, he whispered softly:
“My wife, I know now what has troubled you. It was a great error, my own dear Sybil. You have no cause to doubt me, or to distress yourself.”
She did not reply, but with a tearless sob, turned her face to the wall.
“It was of you that I was thinking, my beloved, when I wrote that name on the cards,” he continued, as he still smoothed her hair with his light mesmeric touch. She did not repel his caresses, but neither did she reply to his words. And he saw, by the heaving of her bosom and the quivering of her lips, that the storm had not yet subsided.
He essayed once more to reassure her.
“Dear wife,” he earnestly commenced, “you believe that my affections are inconstant, and that they have wandered from you?”
She answered by a nod and another tearless sob, but she did not look around or speak to him.
“Yet withal you believe me to be a man of truthful words?”
“Then, dear Sybil, you must believe my words when I assure you, on my sacred truth and honor, that your suspicions of me are utterly erroneous.”
Now she turned her head, opened her large dark eyes in astonishment, and gazed into his earnest face.
“As Heaven hears me, my own dear wife, I love no other woman in the world but you.”
“But—you are almost always with her!” at length replied Sybil, with another dry sob.
“I confess that, dear; but it was because you were almost always absent on your domestic affairs.”
“You hang enraptured over her, when she sings and plays!”
“Enraptured with her music, darling, not with her. To me she is a prima donna, whose performances I must admire and applaud—nothing more.”
“Then I wish I was a prima donna too,” said Sybil, bitterly.
“My wife!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, I do! I would be all in all to you, Lyon, as you are everything to me,” she cried, her face quivering, her bosom heaving with emotion.
“My own dear Sybil, you are all in all to me. Do you not know, dear, that you are unique? that there is not another like you in the world; and that I value you and love you accordingly? What is this shallow-hearted blonde beauty to me? This woman, who, in a week, could forget the man who had robbed and deserted her, and give herself up to amusement! No, dear wife. I may be pleased with her good-natured efforts to please me; I may admire her beauty and delight in her music; but I care so little for herself, that were she to die to-day, I should only say, ‘Poor thing,’ and immediately forget her! While, if you were to die, dear wife, life would be a living death, and the world a sepulchre to me!”
“As I am a man of truth, it is, as true as Heaven!” answered Lyon Berners, earnestly.
And Sybil turned and threw herself in his arms, weeping for joy.
“You shall have no more cause for distress, dear, warm-hearted wife. This lady must find other audience for her music. For, as to me, I shall not indulge in her society at such a cost to your feelings,” said Lyon Berners earnestly, as he returned her warm caress.
“No, no, no, no,” exclaimed Sybil, generously. “You shall deny yourself no pleasure, for my sake, dear, dear Lyon! I am not such a churl as to require such a sacrifice. Only let me feel sure of your love, and then you may read with her all the morning, and play and sing with her all the evening, and I shall not care. I shall even be pleased, because you are so. But only let me feel sure of your love. For, oh! dear Lyon! I live only in your heart, and if any woman were to thrust me thence, I should die!”
“Nor man, nor woman, nor angel, nor devil, shall ever do that, dear Sybil,” he earnestly answered.
The reconciliation between the husband and the wife was perfect. And Sybil was so happy that, in the lightness of her heart, she became kinder to Mrs. Blondelle than she had been for many days past.
But as for Mr. Berners, from this time he carefully avoided Mrs. Blondelle. He was as courteous to her as ever, even more courteous than ever when his wife was present, but as soon as Sybil would leave the room, Lyon would make some excuse and follow her. This went on for some days, during which Mrs. Blondelle, being cut short in her platonic flirtation, first wondered and then moped, and then resolved to win back her fancied slave. So she whitened
“Is it possible, that this pretty little fool can really be pleased with me, and pained by my neglect?” he inquired of himself. And then, human being like, he flattered himself and pitied her.
When this course of conduct had been kept up for a week, it happened one day that Sybil went alone to Blackville to purchase some articles for her approaching mask ball.
Lyon Berners was reclining on the sofa in the drawing-room, with the last number of the “North American Review” in his hands.
Suddenly a soft hand stole into his, and a soft voice murmured in his ear:
“Mr. Berners, how have I been so unhappy as to offend you?”
He looked up in surprise to see Rosa Blondelle standing by him. Her lovely face was very pale, her beautiful hair in disorder, her blue eyes full of tears, her tender voice tremulous with emotion.
As Lyon Berners met her appealing gaze, his heart smote him for his late coldness to her.
“In what manner have I been so unhappy as to offend you, Mr. Berners?” she repeated, tearfully.
“In no manner at all, dear. How could one so gentle as yourself offend any one?” exclaimed Lyon Berners, rising, and taking both her unresisting hands in his own; and feeling for the first time a sentiment of tenderness, as well as of admiration, for her.
“But I thought I had offended you. You have been so
“No, no, dear, not really changed, indeed. Only—absorbed by other engagements,” answered Lyon Berners, evasively.
“You are the only friend I have in the whole world. And if you should desert me, I should perish,” murmured Rosa, pathetically.
“But I will never desert you, dear. Nor am I the only friend you have in the world. My wife is surely your friend,” said Lyon Berners, earnestly.
Slowly and sorrowfully Rosa Blondelle shook her head, murmuring sadly:
“No woman ever was my friend. I know not why.”
“I can easily imagine why. But in regard to my dear wife, you are mistaken. Surely she has proved herself your friend.”
“She is a noble lady, and I honor her. She is my benefactress, and I thank her. But she is not my friend, and so I do not love her.”
“I am sorry to hear you say so, dear.”
“And I am sorry to be obliged to say so. But it is true. You are my only friend, Mr. Berners. The only friend I have in the wide, wide world.”
“And do you love me?” inquired Lyon Berners, taking the siren’s hand, and utterly yielding to her allurements; “say, fair one, do you love me?”
“Hush! hush!” breathed Rosa, drawing away her hand and covering her face—“hush! that is a question you must not ask, nor I answer.”
“But—as a brother, I mean?” whispered Lyon.
“Oh! yes, yes, yes! as a dear brother, I love you dearly,” fervently exclaimed Rosa.
“And as a dear sister you shall share my love and care always,” earnestly answered Mr. Berners.
“No, dear.”
“And you will come and listen to my poor little songs this evening, and let me do my best to amuse you?”
“Yes, dear, I will throw over all other engagements, and delight myself in your heavenly strains to-night,” answered Lyon Berners.
“Oh! I am so happy to hear you promise that! Of late I have had no heart to open the piano. But to-night I will awaken for you its most glorious chords!”
He raised her hand to his lips, and thanked her warmly.
And just at that very instant Miss Tabitha Winterose appeared in the doorway, her tall, thin form drawn up to its utmost height, her pale, pinched face lengthened, and her dim blue eyes and skinny hands lifted up in surprise and disapprobation.
“Well!” simultaneously exclaimed Mr. Berners and Mrs. Blondelle, as they instinctively drew away from each other.
But Miss Tabitha could not easily recover her composure. She was shocked and scandalized to see a gentleman and lady, who were not related to each other, sitting so close together, while the gentleman kissed the lady’s hand!
“Did you want anything?” inquired Mr. Berners, rather impatiently.
“No, I didn’t. Yes, I did,” answered Miss Winterose, crossly and confusedly. “I came after that lady there to tell her that I think her child is going to be very sick, and I want her to come and look after him. That is, if she an’t more pleasanter engaged!” added Miss Tabitha, scornfully.
“Please excuse me, Mr. Berners,” murmured Rosa, sweetly, as she got up to go out with the housekeeper “Old Cat!” she muttered, under her breath, as soon as she was out of Lyon’s hearing.
When Mr Berners was left alone, he did not resume the
“That beautiful creature does care for me, and is pained by my coldness! Ah! but I hope and trust she loves me only as a sister loves a brother! She has no brother, poor child! And her heart must have some one to lean on! I must be that one, for she has chosen me, and I will not be so recreant to humanity as to reject her trust.”
Then his conscience smote him. And he felt that he had shown more tenderness for this lady than the occasion called for, or than his duty warranted. He had called her “dear;” he had kissed her hand; he had asked her if she loved him! And this in the face of all his late protestations to his wife!
Lyon Berners was an honorable man and devotedly attached to his wife, and he was shocked now at the recollection of how far he had been drawn away from the strict line of duty by this lovely blonde!
But then he said to himself that he had only caressed and soothed Rosa in a brotherly way; and that it was a great pity Sybil should be of such a jealous and exacting nature, as to wish to prevent him from showing a little brotherly love to this lovely and lonely lady.
And worried by these opposing thoughts and feelings, Lyon Berners left his sofa and began to pace up and down the length of the drawing-room floor.
In truth now, for the first time, the mischief was done! The siren had at last ensnared him, in her distress and dishabille, with her tears and tenderness, as she never had done in the full blaze of her adorned beauty, or by the most entrancing strains of divine melody.
While Lyon Berners paced up and down the drawing-room floor, he seemed to see again the tender, tearful gaze of her soft blue eyes upon him; seemed to hear again the
While he was almost involuntarily drawing this comparison, he heard the wheels of the carriage that brought Sybil home roll up to the door and stop.
From her morning drive through the bright and frosty air, Sybil entered the drawing-room blooming, and glowing with health and happiness. For since that full explanation with her husband, she had been very happy.
Lyon Berners hastened to meet her. And perhaps it was his secret and painful consciousness of that little episode with Rosa, that caused him to throw into his manner even more than his usual show of affection, as he drew her to his bosom and kissed her fondly.
“Why!” exclaimed Sybil, laughing and pleased, “you meet me as if I had been gone a month, instead of a morning!”
“Your absence always seems long to me, dear wife, however short it may really be,” he answered earnestly. And he spoke the truth; for notwithstanding his admiration of Rosa, and the invidious comparison he had just drawn between her and Sybil, in his heart of hearts he still loved his wife truly.
She threw off her bonnet and shawl, and sat down beside him and began to rattle away like a happy girl, telling him all the little incidents of her morning’s drive—whom she had seen, what she had purchased, and how excited everybody was on the subject of her approaching fancy ball.
“The first one ever given in this neighborhood, you know. Lyon,” she added.
And having told him all the news, she snatched up her bonnet and shawl and ran up-stairs to her own room, where she found her thin housekeeper engaged in sorting out laces and snivelling.
“Well, then, to tell you the truth, ma’am, I am dreadfully exercised into my own mind,” answered Miss Winterose, wiping a tear from the tip of her nose.
“What about, now?” gayly demanded Sybil, who felt not the slightest degree of alarm on account of Miss Tabby, knowing that lady to be a constitutional and habitual whimperer.
“Then, it’s all along of the wickedness and artfulness and deceitfulness of this here world.”
“Well, never mind, Miss Tabby; you’ll not have to answer for it all. But what particular instance of wickedness frets your soul now?” laughed Sybil.
“Why, now, there’s where it is! I don’t know whether I ought to tell, or whether I ought’n to; nor whether, if I was to tell, I would be looked upon into the light of a mischief-maker, or into the light of a true friend!” whimpered Miss Winterose.
“I can soon settle that question of ethics for you,” laughed Sybil, all unsuspicious of what was coming.
“Do just as your conscience directs you, Miss Tabby, no matter how people may look upon you.”
“Very well, then, ma’am; for my conscience do order me to speak! Oh, Miss Sybil! I have knowed you ever since you was a baby in my arms, and I can’t bear to have you so deceived and imposed upon by that there treacherous, ungrateful White Cat!”
“White Cat?” echoed Sybil, in perplexity.
“Yes, Miss Sybil, that red-headed, false-hearted White Cat, as you took into your house and home, for to beguile and corrupt your own true husband!”
With a gasp and a suppressed cry, Sybil sank into her seat.
Miss Tabby, too full of her subject to notice Sybil’s agitation, continued:
With a powerful effort Sybil controlled her violent emotion, held herself still, and listened.
“And that was bad enough, Miss Sybil! but that was nothing to what followed!” sighed Miss Tabby, wiping another tear from the end of her nose.
“What followed?” echoed Sybil, in an expiring voice.
“What followed, ma’am, was this: but to make you understand, I must tell you what I ought to a told you at the start, which is how it happened as I seen her tip, tip, tip, on her tiptoes to the drawing-room, just for all the world like a cat after cream. Well, I was up here, in this very room where I am now, a sorting out of your fine things as come up from the wash, and I found one o’ her lace handkerchers among yourn, fotch up by mistake. So I jes took it and went down them back stairs as leads from this room down to hern, to give her back her handkercher; when jes as I got into her room, I seen her slip outen the other door leading into the hall. So after her I goes, to give her her handkercher—which I thought it was best to give it intor her own hands, than to put it anywhere in her room, because I didn’t know nothing about this forring nuss o’ hern; and you know yourself, ma’am, as we ought to be cautious in dealing with strangers.”
“Yes, yes! Go on! go on!” gasped Sybil.
“Well, ma’am, she flitted through them passages too fast for me, jes as if she was afraid o’ being caught afore she got out o’ sight! I jes seen her slip into the drawing-room, where I knowed as Mr. Berners was a lying onto the sofa, and then I turns back and runs away.”
“Yes, why didn’t I, ma’am; which I wish I had, and would a done if it hadn’t a been for that forring nuss a coming outen her room, and a screeching after me:
“‘Missus Winterblossom! Missus Winterblossom!’ which I allus told that huzzy as I wasn’t a ‘missus,’ but a ‘miss,’ nor likewise a ‘blossom,’ but a ‘rose.’ Howsever, there she was, a yelling at the top of her voice, ‘Missus Winterblossom! Missus Winterblossom!’ until I had to run to her, only to stop her mouth!”
“Ah! the wretch! she was the accomplice of her mistress, and wished to bring you away,” breathed Sybil more to herself than to her housekeeper, and in a tone too low to reach the ears of Miss Tabby, who continued:
“It was the baby, as had been eating of new chestnuts, and got the cramp. So the forring nuss, as wasn’t worth her salt, comes screaming after me to come and do something for the baby. Of course I went and did what was right and proper for the poor little suffering creetur; and when I had put him to sleep, I thinks about his neglectful mother, and so I ups and goes after her. And when I opens the drawing-room door, ma’am—well, I sees a sight as strikes me intor a statty o’ stone, or a pillar o’ salt, like Lot’s wife.”
“What? what?” panted Sybil.
“I seen ’em both, him and her, a sitting close together and a going on jes like two lovyers as was going to be married to-morrow, or a bride and groom as was married yesterday.”
“How? how?”
“Well, ma’am, if her head wasn’t a leaning on his shoulder, it was so nigh it as it made no difference! And her hand was squeezed inter hizzen, and her eyes was rolled up inter hizzen in the most be-devilling way as ever I see in my life—for all the world as if she was a loving of
“And he!—and he!”
“Oh, my dear honey! what can you expect of a poor, weak, he-man? He looks down on her as if he enjoyed being loved and worshipped and praised and prayed to, and he squeezes of her hand up to his mouth as if he’d like to have eaten it!”
“Oh, my heart! my heart!” moaned Sybil, turning deadly pale.
Still, Miss Tabby, full of her own subject, scarcely noticed the pain she was inflicting, so she continued:
“And jes that minute they happened either to see or to hear me, I don’t know which. Anyways, they looks up, and—whew! they jumps apart as if a fire-cracker had gone off between ’em! Well, I tells my lady as her child is sick, and she jumps up, impatient like, to go and look after him. And I comes away too. And that was just about ten minutes before you got home yourself.”
“Deceived! Betrayed! Scorned! Laughed at!” bitterly exclaimed Sybil.
“And that’s all. And now look here, honey! Don’t you go to taking on about this here piece o’ business! And don’t you get mad long o’ your husband on any woman’s account, whatever you do! Come down on the woman! That’s what you do. It is all her fault, not hizzen! He couldn’t help himself, poor innocent creetur! Lor! honey, I don’t know much about married life, bein’ of a single woman myself; but I have heard my mother say as men are mons’rous weak-minded poor creeturs, and need to be guided by their wives; and if they an’t ruled by their wives, they are sure to be by some other woman! And it stands to reason it is more respectable to be ruled by their wives! And so, honey, my advice to you is, to send that bad woman about her business, and take that innocent man firmly in hand.”
