“I know; it is for Heaven’s blessing to rest upon our wedded lives.”
“Yes, my prayer is for that always, of course! but that is not what I mean now! That is not the stronger, stronger prayer which I offer up from the deeps of my spirit in almost an agony of supplication!”
“And what is that prayer, so awful in its earnestness, dear love?”
“Oh, Lyon! it is that you may never love me less than now, or if you should, that I may never live to know it,” she breathed with an intensity of suppressed emotion that drew all the glowing color from her crimson cheeks and lips and left them pale as marble.
“Why, you beautiful mad creature! You are a true daughter of your house! A Berners of the burning heart! A Berners of the boiling blood! A Berners of whom it has been said, that it is almost as fatal to be loved, as to be hated, by one of them! Dear Sybil! never doubt my love; never be jealous of me, if you would not destroy us both,” he earnestly implored.
“I do not doubt you, dearest Lyon; I am not jealous of you! What cause, indeed, have I to be so? But—but——”
“But what, my darling?”
“—Ever since I have been in this house, a darkness and coldness and weight has fallen upon my spirits, that I cannot shake off—a burden, as of some impending calamity! And as there is no calamity that can possibly affect me so much as the lessening of your love, I naturally think most of that,” she answered, with a heavy sigh.
“Dear love! this depression is only reaction! fatigue! the effect of this damp, dull, dreary room! We will change all this!” said Lyon Berners, cheerfully, as he pulled the bell-cord and rang a peal that presently brought the waiter to his presence.
“Are our rooms ready?” shortly demanded Mr. Berners.