Cruel as the grave
Eve, and to pave, Heaven knows how, the road to evil.--BYRON.
She had been the penniless orphan daughter of a noble, but impoverished
Scotch family. She had been left, by the death of her parents, dependent
upon harsh and cruel relatives. She had been given in marriage, at the
age of fifteen, to a wealthy old gentleman, whose years quadrupled hers.
But he had used her very kindly, and she had performed her simple duty
of love and obedience as well as she knew how to do it. After two years
of tranquil domestic happiness, the old man died, leaving her a young
widow seventeen years of age, sole guardian to their infant son, between
whom and herself he had divided his whole estate.
After the death of her old husband, the youthful widow lived in strict
seclusion for nearly two years, devoting herself exclusively to the care
of her child.
But in the third year the health of the little Cromartie required a
change, and his mother, by her physician's advice, took the boy to
Scarborough. That fashionable watering place was then at the height of
its season, and filled with visitors.
Thus it was impossible but that the wealthy young widow should attract
much attention. She was inevitably drawn into the maelstrom of society,
into which she rushed with all the impetuosity of a novice or an
inexperienced recluse, to which all the scenes of the gay world were as
delightful as they were novel.
She had many suitors for her hand; but none found favor in her eyes but
Mr. Horace Blondelle, a very handsome and attractive young gentleman,
whose principal passport into good society seemed to be his distant
relationship to the Duke of Marchmonte. _How_ he lived no one knew.
_Where_ he lived everyone might see, for he always occupied the best
suits of apartments in the best hotel of any town or city in which he
might be for the time sojourning.
We, every one of us know, or know _of_, Mr. Horace Blondelle. There are
scores of him scattered about the great hotels of all the large cities
in Europe and America. But the simplest maiden or the silliest widow in
society, is seldom taken in by him.
There, however, at Scarborough, was an inexperienced poor little
creature from the Highlands, who had never in her life seen any one more
attractive than the red-headed heroes of her native hills, and who,
having aurific tresses of her own, was particularly prejudiced against
that splendid hue, and fatally ensnared by the raven ringlets and dark
eyes of this professional lady-killer.
And thus it followed of course, that this beast of prey devoured the
pretty little widow and all her substance with less hesitation or
remorse than a cobra might have felt in swallowing a canary bird.
So complete was her hallucination, so perfect her trust in him, that
she took no precaution of having any part of her property settled upon
herself; and, in marrying this man she gave him an absolute control over
her own fortune, and a dangerous, if limited, influence over that of her
infant son.
This very imprudent marriage was followed by a few months of delusive
happiness on the part of the bride; for the little fair beauty adored
her dark-haired Apollo, who graciously accepted her adoration.
But then came satiety and weariness and inconstancy on the part of the
husband, who soon commenced the pleasing pastime of breaking the wife's
heart.
Yet still, for some little time longer, she, with a deplorable fatuity,
believed in and loved him. After he had squandered her own fortune on
gaming-tables and race-courses, he wished to get possession of the
fortune of her son. To do this he persuaded her to sell out certain
stock and entrust him with the proceeds, to be invested, as he convinced
her, in railway shares in America, that would pay at least two hundred
per cent. dividends, and in a few months double that money.
Acting as her son's guardian and trustee, acting also, as she thought,
in his best interests, the deluded mother did as her husband directed.
She sold out the stocks, and confided the proceeds to him.
Then it was that they made the voyage to America, ostensibly to purchase
the railway shares in question. His real motive in bringing her to this
country was, doubtless, to take her as far as possible from her native
place and her old acquaintances, so as to prosecute the more safely and
effectually his fraudulent designs.
How they had arrived at Norfolk and taken rooms at the Anchor, and how
he had robbed and deserted her there, has already been told.
Sybil Berners listened to this sad and revolting story of woman's
weakness and man's criminality with mingled emotions of pity and
indignation.
"Believe me," she said, tenderly taking the hand of the injured wife, "I
feel the deepest sympathy with your misfortunes. I will do everything in
my power to comfort and help you--not in words only, but in deeds; and I
only grieve, dear, that I cannot give you back your husband in his honor
and integrity as you once regarded him," added this loving and confiding
wife, to whom no misery seemed so great as that caused by the default
and desertion of a husband.
"Oh, do not name him to me!" burst forth in pain from the lips of Rosa
Blondelle; "oh, I hope, as long as I may live in this world, never to be
wounded by the sound of his base name, or blasted with the sight of his
false face again."
Sybil Berners shrank in dismay from the excited woman, who continued,
vehemently:
"Do you wonder at this? I tell you, madam, it is possible for love to
die a sudden and violent death, for mine has done so within the last
three days."
"I am deeply grieved to hear you say so, for it proves how much you must
have suffered--how much more than even I had imagined. But try to take a
little comfort. I and my own dear husband will be your friends, will be
a sister and a brother to you," said Sybil earnestly, with all the
impulsive, unlimited generosity of her youth and her race, awakened by
her sympathy with the sorrows of this young stranger.
"Oh, madam, you--" began Rosa, but her voice broke down in sobs.
"Take comfort," continued Sybil, laying her little brown hand on that
fair golden head, "take comfort. Think, you have not lost all. You have
your child left."
"Ah, my child!" cried Rosa, in a tone like a shriek of anguish, "my
child, my wronged and ruined babe! The sight of him is a sword through
my bosom! my child that _he_ robbed and made _me_ an accomplice in
robbing--it is maddening to think of it."
"Then do not think of it," said Sybil, gently, and still caressing the
bowed head; "think of anything else--think of what I am going to say to
you. Listen. While you remain in this crowded and noisy hotel, you can
never recover calmness enough to act with any good effect. So I wish you
to come home with me and my dear husband to our quiet country house, and
be our cherished guest until you can communicate with your friends, or
come to some satisfactory decision concerning your future course."
While Sybil spoke these words, the young stranger raised her head and
looked up with gradually dilating eyes.
"Come, now; what say you? Will you be our dear and welcome guest this
autumn?" smiled Sybil.
"Oh, _do_ you mean this? _can_ you mean it?" exclaimed Rosa, in
something like an ecstasy of surprise and gratitude.
"In our secluded country house, with sympathizing friends around you,"
continued Sybil, still caressing Rosa's little golden-haired head, and
speaking all the more calmly because of Rosa's excitement, "you will
have repose and leisure to collect your thoughts and to write to your
friends in the old country, and to wait without hurry or anxiety to hear
from them."
"Oh, angels in Heaven, do you hear what this angel on earth is saying to
me! Oh, was ever such divine goodness seen under the sun before! Oh,
dear lady, you amaze, you confound me with your heavenly goodness!"
exclaimed the young stranger, in strong emotion.
Sybil took her hand, and still all the more gently for the increasing
agitation of Rosa, she continued:
"We are daughters of the Divine Father, sisters in one suffering
humanity, and so we should care for each other. At present you are
suffering, and I have some power to comfort you. In the future our
positions may be reversed, and _I_ may be the sufferer and you the
comforter. Who can tell?"
"O, dear lady, Heaven forbid that great heart of yours should ever be
called to suffer, or that you should ever need such poor help as mine.
But this I know: so penetrated am I by your goodness, that, if ever you
should lose your present happiness and my death would restore it, I
would die to give it back to you," fervently exclaimed the stranger.
And for the moment she felt as she had spoken, for she was most
profoundly moved by a magnanimity she had never seen equalled.
Sybil blushed like a child, and found nothing to say in reply to this
excessive praise. She only left her hand in the clasp of the stranger,
who covered it with kisses, and then continued:
"When I first saw your little white card and the delicate tracery of
your name and your kind words, I seemed to know it was a friend's
writing. And when I first saw your sweet face and heard your tender
tones, both so full of heavenly pity, I felt that the good Lord had not
forsaken me, for He had sent one of his holy angels to visit me. Ah,
lady, if you had only come and looked at me so and spoken to me so, and
then passed out and away forever, still, still, that look and that tone
would have remained with me, a comfort and a blessing for all time. But
now--but now to hold out your hands to lead me to a place in your own
home, by your own side--oh, it is too much! too much!"
And tears of many mingled emotions flowed down the speaker's cheeks.
"There, there!" said Sybil, utterly confused by this excessive, but most
sincere adulation, yet still caressing the stranger's fair head, "there,
dear, dry your eyes, and tell me if you can be ready to leave this place
with us to-morrow morning."
Again the foreign lady seized and kissed the hands of her new friend,
exclaiming fervently:
"Yes dear lady, yes! I am too deeply touched by your heavenly goodness
not to be anxious to profit by it as soon as possible."
"Then I will leave you to your preparations for the journey," said
Sybil, rising.
Rosa also stood up.
"There will be much to be done in a short time. Will you let me send my
maid to help yours?" inquired Sybil, with a hesitating smile.
"Thanks, dear madam. I shall be much obliged," replied Rosa, with a bow.
"And there is yet another request I have to make," added Mrs. Berners,
pausing with her hand upon the latch of the door--"Will you kindly meet
us at breakfast at eight o'clock to-morrow morning in our private
sitting-room, so that I may make you acquainted with my husband before
we all start on our journey together?"
"With pleasure, dear lady! It is your will to load me with benefits, and
you must be gratified," replied Rosa, with a faint smile.
"Then I will come myself and fetch you, a little before the hour," added
Sybil, playfully throwing a kiss as she darted through the door.
When she re-entered her own apartment, she found her husband impatiently
pacing up and down the floor.
"How very long you have been, my darling Sybil," he said, with all the
fondness of a newly-wedded lover, as he went to meet her.
"Oh, I am so glad you thought it long!" she answered mischievously, as
she took his hand and pulled him to the big easy-chair and pushed him
down into it.
"Sit down there, and listen to me," she said, with a pretty little air
of authority. Then she drew an ottoman to his side and sunk down upon
it, and leaned her arms upon his knees, and lifted her beautiful dark