“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!”
“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.