"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 rea.s.sure 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?"

Again she nodded acquiescence.

"Then, dear Sybil, you must believe my words when I a.s.sure 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 amus.e.m.e.nt! 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!"

"Is this true? Oh! is this indeed true?" exclaimed Sybil, in deep emotion.

"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 her face with bis.m.u.th, to make it look pale and interesting, and she arranged her golden locks and flowing robes with the most studied air of graceful neglect, and she affected silence, pensiveness, and abstraction; and thus she utterly imposed on Lyon Berners, whose sympathies were awakened by her.

"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 changed to me of late," murmured Rosa, with her blue eyes full of tears.

"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 n.o.ble 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."