Cruel As the Grave 13 – Southworth · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
Cruel As the Grave 13More Than the Bitterness of Death
18
Literature · Romance
Cruel As the Grave 13
More Than the Bitterness of Death
SouthworthEnglish
He to whom
I gave my heart with all its wealth of love,
Forsakes me for another.--MEDEA.
"Oh my heart! my heart!" moaned Sybil, as she sank down upon the floor of that spare-room, the door of which she had bolted, to secure herself from intrusion.
"Oh, my heart! my heart!" she wailed, pressing her hand to her side like one who had just received a mortal wound.
"Oh, my heart! my heart!" she groaned, as one who complains of an insupportable agony. And for some moments she could do no more than this. Then at length the stream of utterance flowed forth, and--
"He loves me no longer! my husband loves me no longer!" she cried in more than the bitterness of death. "He loves that false siren in place of me, his true wife. He gives her all the tender words, all the warm caresses he used to lavish on me. His heart is won from me. I am desolate! I am desolate, and I shall die! I shall die! But oh, how much I must suffer before I can die, for I am so strong to suffer! Ah, how I wish I might die at once, or that suicide were no sin!"
But suddenly, out of this deep abasement of grief, blazed up a fierce and fiery anger. She started from her recumbent position, and began to walk wildly up and down the floor, beating her hands together, and exclaiming distractedly:
"But why should I die in my youth, and go down to the dark grave, to make room for her, the traitress! to make room in the heart of my husband and the home of my fathers for her, the--! Oh! there is no word bad enough to express what she is! And shall she live to bloom and smile and brighten in the sunshine of his love, while I moulder away in the earth? Oh!" she cried, striking her hands violently together, "there is madness and more than madness in the thought! I will not die alone; no, no, no, no, so help me, just Heaven! I will not die alone. Oh, Samson was a brave man as well as a strong one when he lifted the pillars of the temple, and willingly fell beneath its crumbling ruins, crushing all his foes. I will be another sort of Samson; and when I fall, I too will pull down destruction upon the heads of all who have wronged me!"
These and many more wild and wicked words she uttered as she walked fiercely up and down the room, her eyes blazing, her cheeks burning, her whole aspect full of frenzy.
At length, again her mood changed; the fire died out of her eyes, the color faded from her cheeks; her frenzy subsided, and gave place to a stillness more awful than any excitement could possibly be. She sank down upon a low ottoman, and rested her elbows upon her knees and her chin upon the palms of her hands, and gazed straight before her into vacancy. Her face was deadly pale; her lips bloodless and compressed; her eyes contracted and glittering with a cold, black, baleful light; her hair unloosed in her agitation, streamed down each side, and fell upon her bosom like the ends of a long black scarf. At times she muttered to herself like any maniac:
"And oh, how deeply deceitful they have both been with me, affecting a mutual indifference while I was by; falling to caressing each other just as soon as my back was turned! She--she only acted out her false and treacherous nature. But he--oh, he! in whose pure truth I had such pride. Ah, Heaven! how low she must have drawn him before he could have gained his own consent to deceive me so! before he could come fresh from her side and her caresses, and meet and embrace me! What stupendous duplicity! Well, well!" she continued, nodding grimly; "well, well, since deceit is the fashion of the day, I too will be in the fashion; I too will wear a mask of smiles! But behind that mask I will watch!--Oh, how I will watch! Not at my fancy-ball alone will I play a part, but before it, and perhaps, after it! None shall ever know how I watch, what I see, until I descend with the fell swoop of the eagle. And henceforth let me remember that I am a daughter of the house of Berners, who never failed a friend or spared a foe. And oh, let the spirit of my fathers support me, for I must ENDURE until I can AVENGE!" she said, as she got up with a grim calmness and paced up and down the floor to recover full self-command.
At length, when she felt sufficiently composed, she went to her own chamber, where she made a more elaborate and beautiful toilet than usual, preparatory to joining her husband and their guest at the dinner-table.
"Now smile, eyes! smile, lips! flatter, tongue! Be a siren among the sirens, Sybil! Be a serpent among the serpents!" she hissed, as she glided down the stairs and entered the dining-room.
They were there! They were standing close together, in the recess of the west window, gazing out at the sun, which was just setting behind the mountain. They started, and turned towards her as she advanced. But Sybil, true to her tactics, spoke pleasantly, saying:
"You get a beautiful view of the sunset from that window, Mrs. Blondelle."
"Yes, dear," answered Rosa, sweetly. "I was just drawing Mr. Berners' attention to it, and telling him that I really believe use has blinded him to its beauty."
"Possession is a great disenchanter," answered Sybil.
Both the others looked up to see if she had any hidden meaning under her words. But apparently she had not. She was smiling very gayly as she took her place at the head of the table and invited her companions to take their seats.
Throughout the dinner-hour Sybil seemed in very high spirits; she was full of anecdote and wit; she talked and laughed freely. Her companions noticed her unusual gayety; but they ascribed it to the exhilarating effects of her morning drive, and to the anticipations of her mask ball, which now formed the principal subject of conversation at the table.
After dinner, they went into the drawing-room, where Sybil soon left her husband and her guest alone together; or rather, she pretended to leave them so; but really, with that insanity of jealousy which made her forget her womanhood, she merely went out and around the hall into the library, and placed herself behind the folding doors communicating with the drawing room, where she could hear and see all that might be going on between her husband and her rival.
It is proverbial that "listeners never hear any good of themselves."
Sybil's case was no exception to this rule. This is what she heard of herself.
"What ever could have ailed Mrs. Berners," inquired Mrs. Blondelle, with a pretty lisp.
"What could have ailed Sybil? Why, nothing, that I noticed. What should have ailed her?" on his side inquired Mr. Berners.
"She was very much excited!" exclaimed Mrs. Blondelle, with a significant shrug of her shoulders.
"Oh! that was from her exhilarating morning ride, which raised her spirits."
"Which excited her excessively, I should say, if it really was the ride."
"Of course it was the ride. And I admit that she was very gay," laughed Mr. Berners.
"Gay?" echoed Rosa, raising her eyebrows--"Gay? Why, she was almost delirious, my friend."
"Oh! well; Sybil gives full vent to her feelings; always did, always will. My little wife is in many respects a mere child, you know," said Mr. Berners, tenderly.
"Ah! what a happy child, to have her faults so kindly indulged! I wish I were that child!" sighed Rosa.
"But why should you wish to be anything else but yourself, being so charming as you are?" he softly inquired.
"Do you really like me, just as I am, Mr. Berners?" she meekly inquired, dropping her eyes.
"I really do. I have told you so, Rosa," he answered, approaching her, and taking her hand.
She sighed and turned away her head; but she left her hand in his clasp.
"Dear Rosa! dear child!" he murmured. "You are not happy."
"No, not happy," she echoed, in a broken voice.
"Dear Rosa! what can I do to make you happy?" he tenderly inquired.
"You? What can you do? Oh!--But I forget myself! I know not what I say! I must leave you, Mr. Berners!" she exclaimed, in well-acted alarm, as she snatched her hand from his grasp and fled from the room.
Mr. Berners looked after her, sighed heavily, and then began to walk thoughtfully up and down the room.
Sybil, from her covert, watched him, and grimly nodded her head. Then she also slipped away.
An hour later than this, the three, Mr. and Mrs. Berners and Mrs. Blondelle, were in the drawing-room together.
"You promised me some music," whispered Lyon to Rosa.
"Oh yes; and I will give you some. I am so glad you like my poor songs. I am so happy when I can do anything at all to please you," she murmured in reply, lifting her humid blue eyes to his face.
"Everything you do pleases me," he answered, in a very low voice.
Sybil was not standing very near them, yet, with ears sharpened by jealousy, she overheard the whole of that short colloquy, and--treasured it up.
Lyon Berners led Rosa Blondelle to the piano, arranged her music-stool, and placed the music sheets before her. She turned to one of Byron's impassioned songs, and while he hung enraptured over her, she sang the words, and ever she raised her eyes to his, to give eloquent expression and point to the sentiment. And then his eyes answered, if his voice and his heart did not.
That song was finished, and many more songs were sung, each more impassioned than the other, until at last, Rosa, growing weary and becoming slightly hoarse, arose from the piano, and with a half-suppressed sigh sank into an easy-chair.
Then Sybil--who had watched them through the evening, and noted every look and word and smile and sigh that passed between them, and who now found her powers of self-command waning--Sybil, I say, rang for the bedroom candles. And when they were brought, the little party separated and retired for the night.
From this time forth, in the insanity of her jealousy, and with a secretiveness only possible to the morally insane, Sybil completely concealed her suspicions and her sufferings from her husband and her guest. She was affectionate with Lyon, pleasant with Rosa, and confiding in her manners towards both.
And they were completely deceived, and never more fatally so than when they imagined themselves alone together.
They were never alone.
There was never a tender glance, a fluttering sigh, a soft smile, a low-toned, thrilling word passed between the false flirt and the fascinated husband, that was not seen and heard by the heart-broken, brain-crazed young wife!
And oh! could these triflers with sacred love--these wanderers on the brink of a fearful abyss--have seen the look of her face then, they would have fled from each other for ever, rather than to have dared the desperation of her roused soul.
But they saw nothing, knew nothing, suspected nothing! They were, like children playing with deadly poisons, with edge tools, or with fire, ignorant of the fatal toys they handled.
And, moreover they meant nothing. Theirs was the shallowest pretence of love that ever went by the name of a flirtation. On the woman's side, it was but a love of admiration and an affectation of sentiment. On the man's side, it was pity and gratified self-love. So little did Rosa Blondelle really care for Lyon Berners, and so truly did she estimate the value of her very luxurious home at Black Hall, that had she known the state of Sybil's mind, she would very quickly have put an end to her flirtation with the husband, and done all that she could to recover the confidence of the wife, and then--looked out among the attractive young men of the neighborhood for another party to that sentimental, meaningless love-making, which was yet a necessity to her shallow life.
And as for Mr. Berners, had he dreamed of the real depth of anguish this trifling with the blonde beauty caused his true-hearted wife, he would have been the first to propose the immediate departure of their guest.
Had Sybil been frank with either or both the offenders, much misery might have been saved. But the young wife, wounded to the quick in her pride and in her love, hid her sufferings and kept her secret.
And thus the three drifted towards the awful brink of ruin.
