Cruel as the grave

by Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

It was the first time in his life that he had ever spoken angrily to Sybil, or even felt angry with her.

Hitherto he had borne her fierce outbursts of jealousy with “a great patience,” feeling, perhaps, that they flamed up from the depths of her burning love for him; feeling, also, that his own thoughtless conduct had caused them.

Now, however, he was thoroughly incensed by the deportment of his wife, and deeply mortified at the effect it might have upon their company.

He went around to the opposite side of the table. He did not again join Rosa, for he dreaded a scene, and even a catastrophe; but he mingled with the crowd, and stood where he could see Sybil, without being seen by her.

Her face remained the same—awful in the marble-like stillness of her agonized features; terrible in the fierceness of her flaming eyes!

This was at length observed by some of the guests, who whispered their comments or enquiries to others. And the hum of voices and the burden of their low-toned talk at length reached the ears or excited the suspicions of Lyon Berners. The ordeal of the supper-table was a frightful trial to him. He longed for it to be over.

At length the longing was gratified—the torture was over. The guests, by twos and by fours, by small groups and large parties, left the supper-room for the saloon, where the musicians struck up a grand march, and the greater portion of the company formed into a leisurely promenade as a gentle exercise after eating, and a prudent prelude to more dancing.

Some among the guests, however, preferred to seat themselves on the sofas that lined the walls, and to rest.

Among these last was Rosa Blondelle, who sat on a corner sofa, and sulked and looked sad and sentimental because Lyon Berners had not spoken to her, or even approached her since he had seen that look on Sybil’s face. To the vain and shallow coquette, it was gall and bitterness to perceive that Sybil had still the power, of whatever sort, to keep her own husband and her admirer from her side. So Rosa sat and sorrowed, or seemed to sorrow, on the corner sofa, from which nobody invited her to rise, for there was a very general feeling of disapprobation against the beautiful blonde.

Sybil also sank upon a side seat, where she sat with that same look of agony turned to marble, on her face. Some one came up and invited her to join in the promenade. Scarcely recognizing the speaker, or comprehending what he said, she arose, more like an automaton than a living woman, and let herself be led away to join the march.