Cruel As The Grave. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

and as helpless as her own child. She has not the faintest notion of self-reliance. And here is where the trouble is with me. I have already lost several hundred dollars through this swindling villain. The wife and child he has left behind him are still occupying my best suite of apartments, for which, during their stay here, I shall not receive one penny of remuneration: therefore you see I cannot afford to keep this lady and her suite here, and neither can I find it in my heart to tell her to leave the house. For where, indeed, can she go? She has no friends or acquaintances in this country, no money, and no property that she can effectually turn into money.”

      “Has she no one to pity her among the ladies in the house?” inquired Sybil.

      “There are no ladies staying in the house at present, madam. Our patrons are usually travellers, who seldom remain over one night.”

      “But—the women of your family?” suggested Sybil.

      “There are no women in this family, except my old mother, who keeps house for me, and the female servants under her. I am a widower, madam, with half a dozen sons, but no daughters,” returned the landlord.

      Sybil lifted her head from her husband’s shoulder, where it had rested so long, and looked wistfully in her husband’s eyes. He smiled, and nodded assent to what seemed to have been a silent interrogation. Then she took from her pocket a little gold-enamelled card-case, drew from it a card and a pencil, and wrote a few lines and handed it to the landlord, saying:

      “Mr. Judson, will you do me the favor to take this in to the unhappy lady at once, and see if she will receive me this evening? I feel as if I would like to try to comfort and serve her,”

      “I will with pleasure, madam; and I have no doubt that the mere expression of sympathy from another lady will be to her like a drop of water to a feverish palate,” said the landlord, as he left the room.

      “Dear Lyon, I have a favor to ask of you,” said Sybil, as soon as she was alone with her husband.

      “A favor! a right, my beloved! There is nothing that you can ask of me that is not your right to receive!”

      “No, no; a favor. I like to ask and receive favors from you, dear Lyon.”

      “Call my service what you will, dear love! a right or a favor, it is always yours! What, then, is this favor, sweet Sybil?”

      “That you will give me a perfect carte blanche in my manner of dealing with this poor little lady, even though my manner should seem foolish or extravagant.”

      At these words from his ardent, generous, romantic wife, Lyon Berners looked very grave. What, indeed might Sybil, with her magnanimity and munificence not think proper to do for this utter stranger—this possible adventuress? Lyon looked very solemn over this proposal from his wife. He hesitated for a moment; but her large, clear, honest eyes were fixed full upon him, waiting for his reply. Could he refuse her request? Did he not owe everything to her, and to that very high-flown spirit of generosity which was not only a fault (if it were a fault) of Sybil, but a trait common to all her race.

      “As you will, my darling wife! I should be a cur, and worse than a cur—a thankless wretch—to wish to restrain you in anything!” he answered, sealing his agreement on her velvet lips.

      In another minute the landlord re-entered the room.

      “Mrs. Blondelle’s thanks and compliments, and she will be very grateful for Mrs. Berners’ visit, as soon as Mrs. Berners pleases to come,” was the message that Mr. Judson brought.

      Sybil arose with a smile, kissed her hand playfully to her husband, and passed out of the room.

      The landlord went before her, rapped at the opposite door, then opened it, announced the visitor, and closed it behind her.

      Sybil advanced a step into the stranger’s apartment, and then paused in involuntary admiration.

      She had heard and read of celebrated beauties, whose charms had conquered the wisest statesmen and the bravest warriors, who had governed monarchs and ministers, and raised or ruined kingdoms and empires. And often in poetic fancy she had tried to figure to herself one of these fairy forms and faces. But never, in her most romantic moods, had she imagined a creature so perfectly beautiful as this one that she saw before her.

      The stranger had a form of the just medium size, and of the most perfect proportions; a head of stately grace; features small, delicate, and clearly cut; a complexion at once fair and rosy, like the inside of an apple blossom; lips like opening rose-buds; eyes of dark azure blue, fringed with long dark eye-lashes, and over-arched by slender, dark eyebrows; and hair of a pale, glistening, golden hue that fell in soft, bright ringlets, like a halo around her angelic face. She wore a robe of soft, pale, blue silk, that opened over a white silk skirt.

      She arose with an exquisite grace to welcome her visitor.

      “It is very good of you, madam, to come to see me in my misery,” she murmured, in a sweet, pathetic tone that went to her visitor’s heart, as she sat a chair, and, by a graceful gesture invited her to be seated.

      Sybil was herself impulsive and confiding, as well as romantic and generous. She immediately drew her chair up to the side of the strange lady, took her hand affectionately, and tried to look up in her eyes, as she said:

      “We are personal strangers to each other; but we are the children of one Father, and sisters who should care for each other.”

      “Ah! who would care to claim sisterhood with such a wretch as I am?” sighed the unhappy young creature.

      “I would; but you must not call yourself ill-names. Misfortunes are not sins. I came here to comfort and help you—to comfort and help you not in words merely, but in deeds; and I have both the power and the will to do it, if you will please to let me try,” said Sybil, gently.

      The young creature looked up, her lovely, tearful, blue eyes expanded with astonishment.

      “You offer to comfort and help me! Me—a perfect stranger, with a cloud of dishonor hanging over me! Oh, madam, if you knew all, you would certainly withdraw your kind offer,” she said.

      “I will not withdraw it in any event. I do know all that your landlord could tell me, and that awakens my deepest sympathy for you. But I do not know all that you could tell me. Now, dear, I want you to confide in me as you could not confide either in your landlord, or even in his mother.”

      “Oh, no, no! I could not tell either of them. They were kind; but—oh, so hard!”

      “Now, dear, then, look in my face, look well, and tell me whether you can confide in me,” said Sybil, gently.

      “If I had never seen your heavenly countenance—if I had only heard your heavenly voice, I could confide in you, as in the holy mother of Christ,” said the stranger fervently.

      “Tell me then, dear; tell me all you wish to tell; relieve your heart; lay all your burdens on my bosom; and then you shall feel how well I can comfort and help you,” said Sybil, putting her hand around the fair neck and drawing the little golden-haired head upon her breast.

      Then and there the friendless young stranger—friendless now, no more—told her piteous story.

CHAPTER VI.

       Table of Contents

ROSA BLONDELLE.

       Table of Contents

Her form had all the softness of her sex, Her face had all the sweetness of the devil When he put on the cherub to perplex Eve, and to pave, Heaven knows how, the road to evil.—Byron.