Cruel As The Grave

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.

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.