They were sitting very close together, talking in a very low tone. Her hand rested in his. At length, Sybil heard her inquire:
“Where is your wife? I have not seen her for some time.”
“She has left the room, I believe,” answered Mr. Berners.
“Oh, that is such a relief! Do you know that I am really afraid of her?”
“Afraid of her! why? With me you are always perfectly safe. Safe!” he repeated, with a light laugh—“why, of course you are! Besides, what could harm you? Of whom are you afraid? Your friend, my wife, Sybil? She is your friend, and would do you only good.”
Rosa Blondelle slowly shook her head, murmuring:
“No, Lyon, your wife is not my friend—she is my deadly enemy. She is fiercely jealous of your affection for me, though it is the only happiness of my unhappy life. And she will make you throw me off yet.”
“Never! no one, not even my wife, shall ever do that! I swear it by all my hopes of—”
“Hush! do not swear, for she will make you break your oath. She is your wife. She will make you forsake me, or—she will do me a fatal mischief. Oh, I shiver whenever she comes near me. Ah, if you had seen her eyes as I saw them through her mask to-night. They were lambent flames! How they glared on me, those terrible eyes!”
“It was your fancy, dear Rosa; no more than that. Come, shake off all this gloom and terror from your spirit, and be your lovely and sprightly self!”