Cruel As The Grave. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth
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