"How long will it take you to reach your beautiful home?" sweetly
inquired Rosa Blondelle.
"We might reach it in two days, if we were to travel day and night; but
we shall be four days on the road, as we propose to put up at some
roadside inn or village each night," answered Lyon Berners.
Meanwhile the coach rattled out of the city and into the open country,
where the landscape was fair, well-wooded, well-watered, but not
striking.
"You must not judge the scenery of our State by this flat country around
our seaport," said Mr. Berners to his guest, with the air of a man
making an apology.
"Yet this is very pleasant to look upon," answered Rosa, sincerely.
"Yes, very pleasant, as you say; but you will use stronger language when
you see our vast forests, our high mountains, and deep valleys,"
answered Lyon Berners with a smile.
Sybil did not join in the conversation. She had not spoken since she had
unwillingly taken that corner seat. And worse than all, to her
apprehension, neither her husband nor her guest had noticed her silence.
They were apparently quite absorbed in each other.
Some hours of jolting over bad turnpike roads brought the coach to the
interior of an old forest, where, at a wayside inn, the horses were
changed, and the travellers dined. Here, on resuming their seats in the
coach, they were joined by two other travellers, elderly country
gentlemen, who took the two vacant places inside, and who would have
made themselves very confidential with Mr. Berners on any subject
within their knowledge, from crops to Congress, if he had not been too
engaged with his fair guest to pay them much attention. Sybil continued
silent, except when occasionally her husband would ask her if she was
comfortable, or if he could do anything for her, when she would thank
him and answer that she was quite comfortable; and that he could do
nothing. And as far as bodily ease went, she spoke the truth. For the
rest, Sybil could not then and there ask him to leave off devoting
himself to their guest, and show her more attention.
A few more hours of more jolting over worse turnpike roads brought the
coach to the foot of the Blue Ridge, and to the picturesque village of
Underhill, where our party passed the night. Here, in the village inn,
Sybil Berners, feeling that Rosa Blondelle, as her guest, was entitled
to her courtesy, made an effort to forget the pain in her heart, the
shadow on her mind, and to do the honors of the table with her usual
affability and grace.
After supper, which was pleasantly prolonged, the travellers separated,
and were shown to their several bed-chambers.
And now, after twelve hours, Sybil found herself once more alone with
her husband. He had not perceived her silence and dejection during the
journey, or if he had, he certainly had not ascribed it to the right
cause. He was equally unconscious of having done a wrong, or inflicted a
wound. And now his manner to his wife was as tender, loving, and devoted
as it had ever been since their marriage. His very first words showed
this. On entering the room and closing the door, he suddenly threw his
arms around her, and clasped her to his bosom as a recovered treasure,
exclaiming: "Now, my darling, we are alone together once more, with no one to divide
us."