Cruel As The Grave. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

Since old Mr. Godwin died you have had no agent for your large estate, and its accounts must be falling into disorder, Lyon is a lawyer, you know. Offer him the agency of your estate, with a liberal salary.”

      “Upon my word, I never thought of that before. Here for three months I have been thinking whom I could get as an agent, and much as I esteemed that young man I never once thought of applying to him! But the fact is, I never looked upon him in the light of a business man, but only as a brilliant barrister, and eloquent pleader.”

      “Yet, father, you know he must be a good business man to have collected such great stores of statistics as he has always at command.”

      “Well, my love, I will go to-day and offer him the agency. Now what next?”

      “He was too poor and too proud to come before, but as your agent, father, you must bring him often to the house on business.”

      “And then?”

      “You must leave the rest to me.”

      Thus it was that the young lawyer became the agent for the great Black Valley Manor. This agency included not only the management of the revenues from several rich farms, but also those from the stone quarries, iron mines, and the water mill at the head of the valley, and also from the real estate in the village at the foot, all of which was included in the Black Valley Manor.

      The new agent was frequently called to Black Hall, where he was always received with the utmost courtesy. And as the acquaintance between the proprietor and the agent ripened into intimacy, a deep and strong attachment grew between them.

      “Youth never showed itself wiser or better than in this young man,” murmured Mr. Berners to himself.

      “Age was never so venerable and beautiful as in this old man,” thought John Lyon Howe to himself.

      The old man loaded the young one with many marks of his esteem and affection. The young man returned these with the warmest gratitude and highest reverence.

      When John Lyon Howe, with his heart filled with love for Sybil Berners, first entered Black Hall, it was without the slightest suspicion of her responsive love for him. But when they were thrown so much together, he was not very long in making the discovery so delightful to his soul, and yet—so trying too! for, as a man of good principles, there seemed to be but one course left open to him—the course of self-denial! He loved the great heiress, and had unintentionally won her love! Therefore he must fly from her presence, trying to forget her, hoping that she might forget him.

      He summoned up courage for the sacrifice, and went into the study of his employer and in a few words told him that he had come to say good-bye.

      The astonished old man looked up for an explanation.

      John Lyon Howe gave it to him.

      “And so you wish to leave me, never to return to the Hall, because you love my daughter.”

      The young man bowed in silence; but could not conceal the misery it caused him to make this acknowledgment.

      “But why should that oblige you to leave the house?” inquired Mr. Berners.

      “Oh, sir! can you ask?” exclaimed Mr. Howe.

      “Oh, I see! the little witch has refused you!” exclaimed old Bertram with a twinkle in his eye. “Come, is it not so?”

      “Sir, I have never abused your confidence so far as to seek her hand! I could not make so base a return for your kindness to me.”

      “Oh, you have never asked her to marry you! How in the world, then, can you know whether she will accept you or not? or, consequently, whether it will be necessary for you to leave or not?”

      “Oh, sir! what is it that you would say?” exclaimed the young man, in quick, broken tones, while his face turned pale with agitation.

      “Nonsense, my boy! When I was young a youth didn’t require so much encouragement to woo a maiden. Before you make up your mind to leave me, go and ask Sybil’s consent to the step.”

      “Oh, sir! oh, Mr. Berners! do you mean this?” gasped the young man, catching at the back of the chair for support. He was inured to sorrow, but not to joy. And this joy was so sudden and overwhelming that he reeled under it.

      “I mean what I say, Mr. Howe. I esteem and respect you. I sanction your addresses to my daughter,” said old Bertram, speaking with more gravity and dignity than he had before displayed.

      John Lyon fervently kissed his old friend’s hand, and went immediately in search of Sybil. And that same night, old Bertram had the pleasure of joining their hands together in solemn betrothal.

      “And now I can die happy,” said the old man, earnestly; “for it was not another great fortune, but a good husband that I coveted for my darling child.”

      Ten days from this night, old Bertram Berners dropped into his last sleep. He was well and happy up to the last hour of his life. The “Wave of Death,” found him in his arm-chair, and bore him off without a struggle to the “Ocean of Eternity.” So old Bertram Berners was gathered to his fathers.

      The year of mourning was permitted to pass, and then John Lyon Howe, having, according to the conditions of the marriage contract, assumed the name and arms of Berners, was united in marriage to the beautiful Sybil. And they set out on their bridal tour as Mr. and Mrs. Lyon Berners.

      And now we will again look in upon them as they linger over their tea-table in the old inn at Norfolk, where we first introduced them to our readers.

CHAPTER IV.

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THE BEAUTIFUL STRANGER.

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“From the glance of her eye Shun danger and fly, For fatal ’s the glance.”

      Very happy were the married lovers as they sat over their tea, even though the scene of their domestic joy was just now but an inn-parlor. Both the young people had good appetites: gratified love had not deprived them of that.

      They talked of their homeward journey and how pleasant it would be in this glorious autumn weather, and of their home and how glad they would be to reach it—yes, how glad! For, paradoxical as it may seem to say so, there is no happiness so perfect as that which looks forward to something still more perfect, if such could be possible in the future. They talked of the Black Valley, and how beautiful even that would look in its gorgeous October livery.

      Suddenly in the midst of their sweet converse they heard the sound of weeping—low, deep, heart-broken weeping.

      Both paused, looked at each other and listened.

      The sound seemed to come from a room on the opposite side of the passage to their own apartment.

      “What is that?” inquired Sybil, looking up to her husband’s face.

      “It seems to be some woman in distress,” answered Lyon.

      “Oh! see what it is, dear, will you?” entreated Sybil.

      She was herself so happy, that it was really dreadful to be reminded just then that sorrow should exist in this world; at all.

      “Oh, go and see what is the matter. Do, dear,” she insisted, seeing that he hesitated.

      “I would do so, dear, in a moment, but it might be indiscreet on my part. The lady may be a party to some little domestic misunderstanding, with which it would be impertinent in any stranger to interfere,” answered the more thoughtful