"Blue Cliffs, April 29th, 18—"Dear Aunt:—Come home to me here as soon as possible. I will write to-day.Emma Cavendish."
"Blue Cliffs, April 29th, 18—
"Dear Aunt:—Come home to me here as soon as possible. I will write to-day.
Emma Cavendish."
And in the course of that day she did write a kind and comforting letter to the bereaved and suffering woman, expressing much sympathy with her in her affliction, inviting her to come and live at Blue Cliffs for the rest of her life, and promising all that an affectionate niece could do to make her life easy and pleasant.
Miss Cavendish had but just finished this letter, when Mr. Craven Kyte was announced.
Emma, who was always kind to the ward of her late father, at once received him and sent for Electra to help to entertain him.
But notwithstanding the presence of two beautiful girls, one the fairest blonde, the other the brightest brunette, and both kind and affable in their manners to him, the young man was restless and anxious, until at length, with fierce blushes and faltering tones, he expressed a hope that Mrs. Grey was well, and made an inquiry if she were in.
Electra laughed.
Emma told him that Mrs. Grey had gone for change of air to Charlottesville, and would be absent for some time. She also added—although the young man had not once thought of inquiring for Miss Lytton—that Laura had likewise gone to visit her uncle's family at Lytton Lodge.
The foolish young victim of the widow's false wiles looked very much disappointed and depressed, yet had sense enough left him to remember to say that, as he himself was on the road to Perch Point and should take Lytton Lodge on his way, he would be happy to convey any letter or message from the ladies of Blue Cliffs to Miss Lytton.
Emma thanked him and availed herself of his offer by sending a letter, as we have seen.
And then she went about the house, attended by old Moll, selecting and arranging rooms for her new-expected guests.
The next afternoon she was quite surprised by another callfrom Craven Kyte. He was shown into the parlor, where she sat at work with Electra.
"You have come back quickly; but we are glad to see you," she said, as she arose to shake hands with him.
"Yes, miss," he answered, after bowing to her and to Electra; "yes, miss, I reached Perch Point last night, and I left it early this morning. In going I called at Lytton Lodge and delivered your letter, miss."
"The family at the lodge are well, I hope."
"All well, miss. And as I passed by the gate this morning the man Taters, who was at work on the lawn, told me that Mr. Alden and Miss Laura Lytton would leave for this place at noon."
"Then they will be here to-night," said Electra.
"Yes, miss."
"Will you stay and spend the afternoon and evening with us, Mr. Kyte? Shall I ring and have your horse put up?" inquired Miss Cavendish.
"No, thank you, miss. I must get back to Wendover to-night. Fact is, I'm on the wing again," said the young man, stammering and blushing. "Business of importance calls me to—to Charlottesville, miss. So if you should have a letter or a message to send to—to Mrs. Grey I should be happy to take it."
Emma Cavendish and Electra Coroni looked at each other in comic surprise.
"Why, you must be an amateur postman, Mr. Kyte! To fetch and carry letters seems to be your mission on earth," laughed Electra.
"So it has often been said of me, miss. And if you or Miss Cavendish have any to send, I should be happy to take them," answered the young man, quite seriously.
"I have none," said Electra.
"Nor I, thank you," added Emma; "but you may, if you please, give my love to Mrs. Grey, and tell her we shall feel anxious until we hear of her safe arrival and improved health."
"I will do so with much pleasure," said Mr. Kyte, rising to take leave.
As soon as the visitor had left them the two young ladies exchanged glances of droll amazement.
"As sure as you live, Emma, the business of importance that takes him to Charlottesville is Mrs. Mary Grey! He's taken in and done for, poor wretch! I shouldn't wonder a bit if he sold out his share in the fancy dry-goods store at Wendover and invested all his capital in college fees and entered himself as a student at the University, for the sake of being near his enchantress," said Electra.
"Poor boy!" sighed Emma, with genuine pity.
And before they could exchange another word, the sound of carriage-wheels at the gate announced the arrival of Alden and Laura Lytton.
Did woman's charms thy youth beguile,And did the fair one faithless prove?Hath she betrayed thee with a smileAnd sold thy love?Live! 'Twas a false, bewildering fire:Too often love's insidious dartThrills the fond soul with wild desire,But kills the heart.A nobler love shall warm thy breast,A brighter maiden faithful prove,And thy ripe manhood shall be blestIn woman's love.—Montgomery.
Did woman's charms thy youth beguile,And did the fair one faithless prove?Hath she betrayed thee with a smileAnd sold thy love?Live! 'Twas a false, bewildering fire:Too often love's insidious dartThrills the fond soul with wild desire,But kills the heart.A nobler love shall warm thy breast,A brighter maiden faithful prove,And thy ripe manhood shall be blestIn woman's love.—Montgomery.
Did woman's charms thy youth beguile,And did the fair one faithless prove?Hath she betrayed thee with a smileAnd sold thy love?
Live! 'Twas a false, bewildering fire:Too often love's insidious dartThrills the fond soul with wild desire,But kills the heart.
A nobler love shall warm thy breast,A brighter maiden faithful prove,And thy ripe manhood shall be blestIn woman's love.
—Montgomery.
Emma Cavendish, with her cheeks blooming and eyes beaming with pleasure, ran out to meet her friends.
Alden and Laura Lytton, just admitted by the footman, stood within the hall.
Miss Cavendish welcomed Laura with a kiss and Alden with a cordial grasp of the hand.
"I am so delighted to see you, dear Laura; and you also, Mr. Lytton," she said, leading the way into the parlor.
"Well as I like my kind relatives at Lytton Lodge, I am very glad to get back to you, Emma, dear, and that is the truth," answered Laura, as she sank into an arm-chair and began to draw off her gloves.
Alden said nothing. He had bowed deeply in response to Miss Cavendish's words of welcome, and now he was thinking what a bright and beautiful creature she was, how full of healthful, joyous life she seemed, and wondering that he had never noticed all this before.
But he had noticed it before. When he first saw Emma Cavendish in her father's house in the city he had thought her the most heavenly vision of loveliness that had ever beamed upon mortal eyes; and he would have continued to think so had not the baleful beauty of Mary Grey glided before him and beguiled his sight and his soul.
But Mary Grey was gone with all her magic arts, and the very atmosphere seemed clearer and brighter for her absence.
"As soon as you have rested a little come up to your room, Laura, and lay on your wraps. Tea will be ready by the time we come down again. And, Mrs. Lytton, your old attendant, Jerome, will show you to your apartment," said the young hostess, as she arose, with a smile, to conduct her guest.
They left the drawing-room together.
And while Laura Lytton was arranging her toilet in the chamber above stairs, Emma Cavendish told her the particulars of Mary Grey's departure, and also of the letter she had received from her long-estranged relative, Mrs. Fanning.
They went down to tea, where they were joined by Electra and the Rev. Dr. Jones.
Miss Cavendish presented Mr. Lytton to Dr. Jones. And then they sat down to the table.
Alden Lytton's eyes and thoughts were naturally enough occupied and interested in Emma Cavendish. He had not exactly fallen in love with her, but he was certainly filled with admiration for the loveliest girl he had ever seen. And he could but draw involuntary comparisons between the fair, frank, bright maiden and the beautiful, alluring widow.
Both were brilliant, but with this difference: the one with the pure life-giving light of Heaven, and the other with the fatal fire of Tartarus.
After tea they went into the drawing-room, where they spent a long evening talking over old times—their"old times" being something less than one year of age.
And every hour confirmed Alden Lytton's admiration of Emma Cavendish.
The next day Alden Lytton was invited upstairs to the old lady's room and presented to Madam Cavendish, who received him with much cordiality, telling him that his grandfather had been a lifelong personal friend of hers, and that she had known his father from his infancy up to the time that he had left the neighborhood to practice law in the city.
And after a short interview the ancient gentlewoman and the young law student parted mutually well pleased with each other.
"A fine young man—a very fine young man indeed; but more like his grandfather, as I remember him in his youth, than like his father, whom I could not always well approve," said the old lady to her confidential attendant, Aunt Moll, who had closed the chamber door after the departing visitor.
"Dunno nuffin 'tall 'bout dat, ole mist'ess, but he monsus hansume, dough—umph-um; a'n't he dough? And a'n't he got eyes—umph-um!"
Alden went down-stairs.
"The most interesting old lady I have ever seen in my life, with the balsamic aroma of history and antiquity about her and all her surroundings," he said, as he joined the young ladies in the drawing-room.
"Balsamic aroma ofwhat?" inquired Electra, who had no taste for poetry and no reverence for antiquity. "Young man, it was the dried 'yarbs' she keeps in her closet that you smelled. Besides, antiquity has no other odor than that of mold and must."
Alden blushed, laughed and looked at Emma Cavendish.
"You must not mind my cousin Electra, Mr. Lytton. She is a privileged person among us. By the way, Laura has told you, I presume, of our relationship," said Emma, pleasantly.
"Oh, yes!" returned young Lytton, with a smile and a bow. "And I am happy to have this opportunity of congratulating you both."
"Thanks," said Miss Cavendish, with a vivid blush.
"I believe there was some talk about a picnic party to the top of Porcupine Mountain, was there not?" inquired Electra, to cut short all sentiment.
"Yes, my dear, and the horses are ordered for eleven o'clock. It is half-past ten now, and we will go and put on our hats and habits," replied Miss Cavendish, playfully rising and breaking up the conference.
The party of young friends remained one week longer at Blue Cliffs, every day deepening and confirming the admiration and respect with which the beauty and the excellence of Emma Cavendish inspired Alden Lytton. But yet he was not in love with her.
Every morning was spent by the young people in riding or driving about through the sublime and beautiful mountain and valley scenery of the neighborhood.
And every evening was passed in fancy work, music, reading or conversation in the drawing-room.
And so the pleasant days of the Easter holidays passed away, and the time for study and for work commenced.
Laura and Electra went away from Blue Cliffs on the same day—Laura escorted by her brother Alden, and Electra by her grandfather, the Rev. Dr. Jones.
As the party were assembled in the front hall to take leave of their fair young hostess before entering the large travelingcarriage that was to take them to the Wendover railway station, Emma Cavendish went up to Alden Lytton and placed a letter in his hand, saying, with a frank smile:
"As you are going direct to Charlottesville, Mr. Lytton, I will trouble you to take charge of this letter to our mutual friend, Mrs. Grey, who, you know, is now staying in that town. Will you do so?"
"Certainly—with great pleasure," stammered Alden in extreme confusion, which he could scarcely conceal, and without the slightest consciousness that he was telling an enormous falsehood, but with full assurance that he should like to oblige Miss Cavendish.
"I hope it will not inconvenience you to deliver this in person, Mr. Lytton," added Emma.
"Certainly not, Miss Cavendish," replied Alden, telling unconscious fib the second.
"For, you see, I am rather anxious about our friend. She left in ill health. She is almost a stranger in Charlottesville. And—this is the point—I have not heard from her, by letter or otherwise, since she left us; so I fear she may be too ill to write, and may have no friend near to write for her. This is why I tax your kindness to deliver the letter in person and find out how she is; and—write and let us know. I am asking a great deal of you, Mr. Lytton," added Emma, with a deprecating smile.
"Not at all. It is a very small service that you require. And I hope you know that I should be exceedingly happy to have the opportunity of doing any very great service for you, Miss Cavendish," replied Alden, truthfully and earnestly.
For in itself it was a very small service that Miss Cavendish had required of him, and he would have liked and even preferred another and a greater, and, in fact, a different service.
"Many thanks," said Miss Cavendish, with a frank smile, as she left the letter in his hands.
Then the adieus were all said, and promises of frequent correspondence and future visits exchanged among the young ladies. And the travelers departed, and the young hostess re-entered her lonely home and resumed her usual routine of domestic duties.
She was anxious upon more than one account.
More than a week had passed since the departure of Mary Grey, and yet, as she had told Alden Lytton, she had never heard even of her safe arrival at Charlottesville, and she feared that herprotégéemight be suffering from nervous illness among strangers.
More than a week had also passed since she had telegraphed and written to her Aunt Fanning in New York. But no answer had yet come from that unhappy woman. And she feared that the poor relative whom she wished to succor might have met with some new misfortune.
However, Emma had hoped, from day to day, that each morning's mail might bring her good news from Charlottesville or New York, or both.
And even to-day she waited with impatience for the return of Jerome, who had driven the traveling-carriage containing the departing visitors to Wendover, and who might find letters for Blue Cliffs waiting at the post-office.
Emma could not be at rest all that day, partly because she missed her young companions, whose society had made the lonely house so cheerful, and partly because she half expected news with the return of Jerome.
She wandered up and down the deserted drawing-room, and then went upstairs to the chambers just vacated by her young friends, where she found Sarah, the chamber-maid, engaged in dismantling beds and dressing-tables preparatory to shutting up the "spare rooms" for the rest of the season.
All this was very dreary and dispiriting.
She left these apartments and would have gone into the old lady's room, only that she knew her grandmother was at this hour taking the first of her two daily naps.
As she turned to go down-stairs she glanced through the front hall window and caught a glimpse of the traveling-carriage, with Jerome perched upon the box, slowly winding its way around the circular avenue that led to the house.
She ran down-stairs briskly enough now, and ran out of the front door.
"Any letters to-day, Jerome?" she inquired.
"No, miss," answered Jerome, shaking his head.
"Oh, dear, how depressing!" sighed Emma, as she turned to go into the house.
But a sound arrested her steps—the opening of the carriage-door. She turned and saw Jerome standing before it and in the act of helping some one to alight from the carriage.
Another moment and a tall, thin, dark-eyed woman, with very white hair, and clad in the deepest widow's weeds, stood before Miss Cavendish.
By instinct Emma recognized her aunt. And she felt very much relieved, and very much rejoiced to see her, even while wondering that she should have come unannounced either by letter or telegram.
As for Jerome, he stood wickedly enjoying his young lady's astonishment, and looking as if he himself had performed a very meritorious action.
"Miss Emma Cavendish, I presume?" said the stranger, a little hesitatingly.
"Yes, madam. And you are my Aunt Fanning, I am sure. And I am very glad to see you," answered Emma Cavendish.
And she put her arms around the stranger's neck and kissed her.
"Dat's better'n letters, a'n't it, Miss Emmer?" inquired Jerome, grinning from ear to ear, and showing a double row of the strongest and whitest ivories, as he proceeded to take from the carriage various packages, boxes and traveling-bags and so forth.
"Yes, better than letters, Jerome. Follow us into the house with that luggage. Come, dear aunt, let us go in. Lean on my arm. Don't be afraid to lean heavily. I am very strong," said Emma; and drawing the poor lady's emaciated hand through her own arm she led her into the house.
She took her first into the family sitting-room, where there was a cheerful fire burning, which the chilly mountain air, in this spring weather, made very acceptable.
She placed her in a comfortable cushioned rocking-chair and proceeded to take off the traveling-bonnet and shawl with her own hands, saying:
"You must get well rested and refreshed here before you go up to your room. You look very tired."
"I am very weak, my dear," answered the lady, in a faint voice.
"I see that you are. I am very sorry to see you so feeble; but we will make you stronger here in our exhilarating mountain air. If I had known that you would come by this train I should have gone to the railway station in person to meet you," said Emma, kindly.
Mrs. Fanning turned her great black eyes upon the young lady and stared at her in surprise.
"Why, did you not get my letter?" she inquired.
"No," said Emma. "I anxiously expected to hear from you from day to day, but heard nothing either by letter or telegram."
"That is strange! I wrote to you three days ago that I should be at Wendover this morning, and so, when I found your carriage there, I thought that you had sent for me."
"It was very fortunate that the carriage was there, and I am very glad of it; but it was not in fact sent to meet you, for, not having received your letter, I did not know that you would arrive to-day. The carriage was sent to take some visitors who had been staying with us, and were going away, to the railway station. It is a wonder Jerome had not explained this to you. He is so talkative," said Emma, smiling.
"I never talk to strange servants," gravely replied the lady. "But I will tell you how it happened. I really arrived by the earliest train, that got in at Wendover at five o'clock in the morning. There was no carriage from Blue Cliffs waiting for me at the railway station, and, in fact, no carriage from any place, except the hack from the Reindeer Hotel. So I got into that, and, having previously left word with the station-master to send the Blue Cliffs carriage after me to the Reindeer when it should come, I went on to the hotel to get breakfast and to lie down and rest. But when half the forenoon had passed away without any arrival for me, I began to grow anxious, fearing that some mistake had been made."
"I am very sorry you had to suffer this annoyance, immediately upon your arrival here too," said Emma, regretfully.
"Oh, it did not last long! About noon the landlord, Greenfield, rapped at my door and told me that the Blue Cliffs carriage had come, and that the ostler was watering the horses while the coachman was taking a glass of beer at the bar."
"Jerome had doubtless taken our visitors to the station, and called at the Reindeer to refresh himself and his horses."
"Yes, I suppose so. Almost at the same moment that the landlord came to my door to announce the carriage, I heard some one else, under my window, saying to the coachman that there was a lady here waiting to be taken to Blue Cliffs; and I went down and got into the carriage with bag and baggage. Jerome, if that's his name, very gravely, with a silent bow, put up the steps and closed the door and mounted his box and droveoff."
"But you must have left some baggage behind."
"Yes, three trunks; one very large. Mr. Greenfield, of the Reindeer, promised to send them right after me in his wagon."
While they had been speaking, Emma Cavendish had touched the bell and given a whispered order to the servant who answered it.
So now the second footman, Peter, appeared with a waiter in his hands, on which was served tea, toast, a broiled squab and glass of currant jelly.
This was set upon a stand beside Mrs. Fanning's easy-chair.
"I think that you had better take something before you go upstairs," said the young hostess, kindly, as she poured out a cup of tea.
Consumptives are almost always hungry and thirsty, as if nature purposely created an unusual appetite for nourishment in order to supply the excessive waste of tissue caused by the malady.
And so Mrs. Fanning really enjoyed the delicate luncheon set before her so much that she finished the squab, the jelly, the toast and the tea.
When she had been offered and had refused a second supply, Emma proposed that she should go up to her room, and she took her at once to the beautiful corner chamber, with its southern and eastern aspect, that had been fitted up for her.
Here she found that her traveling-trunks, which had already arrived from Wendover, were placed.
And here, when she had changed her traveling-dress for a loose wrapper, she laid down on a lounge to rest, while Emma darkened the room and left her to repose.
Miss Cavendish went straight to the old lady's apartment.
Mrs. Cavendish was sitting in her great easy-chair by the fire, with her gold-rimmed spectacles on her nose and her Bible lying open on her lap.
As Emma entered the room the old lady closed the book and looked up with a welcoming smile.
"I have come to tell you, my dear grandma, that Aunt Fanning has arrived," said Emma, drawing a chair and seating herself by the old lady's side.
"Yes, my dear child; but I'll trouble you not to call her Aunt Fanning," said Madam Cavendish, haughtily.
"But sheismy aunt, dear grandma," returned Emma, with a deprecating smile.
"Then call her Aunt Katherine. I detest the name of that tavern-keeper whom she married."
"Grandma—grandma, the man has gone where at least there can be no distinctions of mere family rank," said Emma.
"That's got nothing to do with it. We areherenow.Well, and when did Katherine arrive, and where have you put her? Tell me all about it."
Emma told her all about it.
"Well," said the old lady, "as she is here, though sorely against my approbation—still, as she is here we must give her a becoming welcome, I suppose. You may bring her to my room to-morrow morning."
"Thank you, grandma, dear; that is just what I would like to do," replied the young lady.
Accordingly, the next morning Mrs. Fanning was conducted by Emma to the "Throne Room," as Electra had saucily designated the old lady's apartment.
Madam Cavendish was dressed with great care, in a fine black cashmere wrapper, lined and trimmed with black silk, and a fine white lace cap, trimmed with white piping.
And old Moll, also in her best clothes, stood behind her mistress's chair.
The old lady meant to impress "the tavern-keeper's widow" with a due sense of reverence.
But the gentlewoman's heart was a great deal better than her head. And so, when she saw the girl whom she had once known a brilliant, rich-complexioned brunette, with raven hair and sparkling eyes and queenly form changed into a woman, old before her time, pale, thin, gray and sorrow-stricken, her heart melted with pity, and she held out her hand, saying, kindly:
"How do you do, Katie, my dear? I am very sorry to see you looking in such ill-health. You have changed very much from the child I knew you, twenty-five years ago."
"Yes," said Mrs. Fanning, as she took and pressed the venerable hand that was held out to her. "I have changed. But there is only one more change that awaits me—the last great one."
"Moll, wheel forward that other easy-chair. Sit down at once, my poor Katie. You look ready to drop from weakness. Emma, my child, pour out a glass of that old port wine and bring it to your aunt. You will find it in that little cabinet," said Madam Cavendish, speaking to one and another in her hurry to be hospitable and to atone for the hard thoughts she had cherished and expressed toward this poor suffering and desolate woman.
And Mrs. Fanning was soon seated in the deep, soft "sleepy hollow," and sipping with comfort the rich old port wine.
"Yes, Katie," said the old lady, resuming the thread of the conversation, "that last great change awaits us all—aglorious change, Katie, that I for one look forward to with satisfaction and desirealways—with rapture and longingsometimes. What will the next life be like, I wonder? We don't know. 'Eye hath not seen—ear heard,'" mused the old lady.
The interview was not a long one. Soon Emma Cavendish took her aunt from the room.
"You must come in and see me every day, Katie, my dear," said the old lady, as the two visitors left.
And from that time the desolate widow, the homeless wanderer, found loving and tender friends, and a comfortable and quiet home.
Meanwhile the visitors that had left Blue Cliffs that morning traveled together until they reached Richmond.
The train got in at ten o'clock that night.
There was no steamboat to Mount Ascension Island until the next day.
So the party for that bourne were compelled to spend the night at Richmond.
Alden, although he might have gone on to Charlottesville that night, determined to remain with his friends.
The whole party went to the Henrico House, where they were accommodated with adjoining rooms.
The next morning they resumed their journey, separating to go their several ways. Alden saw the two young ladies safely on the steamboat that was to take them to Mount Ascension, and then bade them good-bye, leaving them in charge of the Rev. Dr. Jones, who was to escort them to the end of their journey.
He had barely time to secure his seat for Charlottesville, where he arrived on the afternoon of the same day.
The letter he had to deliver to Mary Grey "burned in his pocket." He could not have done otherwise than promise to deliver it in person, when fair Emma Cavendish had requested him to do so. And now, of course, he must keep his word and go and carry the letter to her, although he would rather have walked into a fire than into that false siren's presence.
It is true that his love for her was dead and gone. But it had died such a cruel and violent death that the very memoryof it was full of pain and horror, and to meet her would be like meeting the specter of his murdered love. Nevertheless he must not shrink from his duty; he must go and do it.
Before reporting at his college, he went to a hotel and changed his clothes, and then started out to find Mary Grey's residence. That was not so easily done. She had omitted to leave her address with her friends at Blue Cliffs, and Emma's letter was simply directed to Mrs. Mary Grey, Charlottesville.
True, Charlottesville was not a very large place; but looking for a lady there was something like looking for the fabulous needle in the haystack.
Still, he had formed a plan of action to find her. He knew that she pretended to great piety; that she was a member of the Protestant Episcopal Church, and that wherever she might happen to sojourn she would be sure to join the church and make friends with the clergy of her own denomination.
So Alden bent his steps to the house of the Episcopal minister at Charlottesville.
He found the reverend gentleman at home, and received from him, as he had expected to do, the address of Mrs. Grey.
"A most excellent young woman, sir—an earnest Christian. She lost not a day in presenting her church letter and uniting herself with the church. She has been here but ten days, and already she has taken a class in the Sunday-school. A most meritorious young woman, sir," said the worthy minister, as he handed the card with Mrs. Grey's new address written upon it.
To Alden, who knew the false-hearted beauty so well, all this was surprising.
But he made no comment. He simply took the card, bowed his thanks, and left the house to go and seek the home of Mrs. Grey.
Among many falsehoods, the woman had told one truth when she had informed Emma Cavendish that she had a lady friend at Charlottesville who kept a students' boarding-house. She had met this lady just previous to engaging as drawing-mistress at Mount Ascension. And by her alluring arts she had won her sympathy and confidence. She was staying with this friend at the time that Alden sought her out.
He now easily found the house.
And when he inquired of the negro boy who answered the bell whether Mrs. Grey was at home, he was answered in the affirmative and invited to enter the house.
The boy opened a door on the right hand of the narrowentrance passage, and Alden passed into the parlor and found himself, unannounced, in the presence of his false love.
There was no one with her, and she was sitting at a table, with drawing materials before her, apparently engaged in copying a picture.
Hearing the door open and shut, she lifted her head and looked up.
Seeing Alden Lytton standing before her, she dropped the pencil from her fingers, turned deathly pale and stared at him in silence.
Alden, if the truth must be told, was scarcely less agitated; but he soon recovered his self-command.
"I should apologize," he said, "for coming in unannounced; but I did not know that you were here. I was shown into this room by the waiter, supposing that I was to remain here until he took my card to you."
She neither moved nor spoke, but sat and stared at him.
"I have only come as the bearer of a letter to you from Miss Cavendish—a letter that I promised to deliver in person. Here it is," he said, laying the little packet on the table before her.
Still she made no answer to his words, nor any acknowledgment of his service. She did not even take up Emma's letter.
"And now, having done my errand, I will bid you good-afternoon, Mrs. Grey," he said, bowing and turning to leave the room.
That broke the panic-stricken spell that held her still.
She started up and clasped her hands suddenly together, exclaiming:
"No, no, no; for pity's sake don't go yet! Now that you are here, for Heaven's sake stay a moment and listen to me!"
"What can you possibly have to say to me, Mrs. Grey?" coolly inquired the young man.
"Oh, sit down—sit down one little moment and hear me! I have not got the plague, that you should hasten from me so," she pleaded.
It was in Alden's thoughts to say that moral plagues were even more dangerous and fatal than material ones; but the woman before him looked so really distressed that he forbore.
"I know that you have ceased to love me," she went on in a broken voice. "I know, of course, that you have ceased to love me—"
"Yes, I am thoroughly cured of that egregious boyish folly," assented Alden, grimly.
"I know it, and I would not seek to recover your lost, lost love; but—"
Her voice, that had been faltering, now quite broke down, and she burst into tears and sobbed as if her heart was breaking.
And her grief was as real as it was violent; for she had loved the handsome young law student, and she mourned the loss of his love.
Alden sat apparently unmoved, but in truth he was beginning to feel very sorry for this woman, but it was with the sorrow we feel for a suffering criminal, and totally distinct from sympathy or affection.
Presently her gust of tears and sobs exhausted itself, and she sighed and dried her eyes and said:
"Yes, I know that all love is quite over between us."
"Quite over," assented Alden, emphatically.
"And it is not to renew that subject that I asked you to stay and listen to me."
"No," said Alden, gently, "I presume not."
"But, though all thoughts of love are forever over between us, yet I can not bear that we should live at enmity. As for me, I am not your enemy, Alden Lytton."
"Nor am I yours, Mrs. Grey. You and I can live as strangers without being enemies."
"Live as strangers! Oh, but that is just what would break my heart utterly! Why should we live as strangers? If all love is over between us, and if we are still not enemies, if we have forgiven each other, why should we two live as strangers in this little town? Why may we not meet at least as the common friends of every day?"
"Because the memory of the past would preclude the possibility of our meeting pleasantly or profitably."
"Oh, Alden, you are very hard! You have not forgiven me!"
"I have utterly forgiven you."
"But you cherish hard thoughts of me?"
"Mrs. Grey, I must regard your actions—the actions that separated us—as they really are," answered Alden, sadly and firmly, as he arose and took his hat to leave the room.
"No, no, no;don'tgo yet! Youmusthear me—youshallhear me! Even a convicted murderer is allowed to speak for himself!" she exclaimed, with passionate tears.
Alden sighed and sat down.
"You must regard my actions as they really are, you say.Ah, but the extenuating circumstances, the temptations, the motives—aye, the motives!—have you ever thought of them?"
"I can see no motive that could justify your acts," said Alden, coldly.
"No, not justify—I do not justify them even to myself—not justify, butpalliatethem, Alden—palliate them at least in your eyes, if in no others."
"And why in my eyes, Mrs. Grey?"
"Oh, Alden, all was planned for your sake!"
"Formysake? I pray you do not say that!"
"Listen, then, and consider all the circumstances. I loved you and promised to be your wife at that far distant day when you should come into a living law practice. But I was homeless, penniless and helpless. I had lost my situation in the school, and I had no prospect of getting another. The term of my visit to Emma Cavendish had nearly expired and I had nowhere to go. Governor Cavendish loved me with the idolatrous love of an old man for a young woman, and besought me to be his wife with such insane earnestness that I thought my refusal would certainly be his death, especially as it was well known that he was liable to apoplexy and that any excitement might bring on a fatal attack. Under all these circumstances I think I must have lost my senses; for I reasoned with myself—most falsely and fatally reasoned with myself thus: Why should not I, who am about to be cast out homeless and penniless upon the wide world—why should not I secure myself a home and save this old man's life for a few years longer by accepting his love and becoming his wife? It is true that I do not love him, but I honor him very much. And I would be the comfort of his declining years. He could not live long, and when he should come to die I should inherit the widow's third of all his vast estates. And then, after a year of mourning should be over, I could marry my true love, and bring him a fortune too. There, Alden, the reasoning was all false, wicked and fatal. I know that now. But oh, Alden, it was not so much for myself as for others that I planned thus! I thought to have blessed and comforted the old man's declining years, and after his death to have brought a fortune to you. These were my motives. They do not justify, but at least they palliate my conduct."
She ceased.
Alden did not reply, but stood up again with his hat in his hand.
"And now, Alden, though we may never be lovers again, may we not meet sometimes as friends? I am so lonely here!I am, indeed, all alone in the world. We may meet sometimes as friends, Alden?" she asked, pathetically.
"No, Mrs. Grey. But yet, if ever I can serve you in any way I will do so most willingly. Good-afternoon," said the young man.
And he bowed and left the room.
As he disappeared her beautiful face darkened with a baleful cloud. "No fury like a woman scorned," wrote one who seemed to know. Her face darkened like a thunder-storm, and from its cloud her eyes shot forked lightning. She set her teeth, and clinched her little fist and shook it after him, hissing:
"He scorns me—he scorns me! Ah, he may scorn my love! Let him beware of my hate! He will not meet me as a friend, but he will serve me willingly! Very well; he shall be often called upon to serve me, if only to bring him under my power!"
She'd tried this world in all its changes,States and conditions; had been loved and happy.Scorned and wretched, and passed through all its stages;And now, believe me, she who knew it best,Thought it not worth the bustle that it cost.—Madden.
She'd tried this world in all its changes,States and conditions; had been loved and happy.Scorned and wretched, and passed through all its stages;And now, believe me, she who knew it best,Thought it not worth the bustle that it cost.—Madden.
She'd tried this world in all its changes,States and conditions; had been loved and happy.Scorned and wretched, and passed through all its stages;And now, believe me, she who knew it best,Thought it not worth the bustle that it cost.
—Madden.
Mary Grey now set systematically to work. Partly from love or its base counterfeit, partly from hate, but mostly from vanity, she determined to devote every faculty of mind and body to one set object—to win Alden Lytton's love back again and to subjugate him to her will.
To all outward seeming she led a most blameless and beneficent life.
She lived with the bishop's widow, and made herself very useful and agreeable to the staid lady, who refused to take any money for her board.
And although the house was full of students, who boarded and lodged and spent their evenings there, with the most wonderful self-government she forebore "to make eyes" at any of them.
She now no longer said in so many words that "her heart was buried in the grave," and so forth; but she quietly acted as if it was.
She put away all her mourning finery—her black tulles and silks and bugles and jet jewelry—and she took to wearing theplainest black alpacas and the plainest white muslin caps. She looked more like a Protestant nun than a "sparkling" young widow. But she looked prettier and more interesting than ever, and she knew it.
She was a regular attendant at her church, going twice on Sunday and twice during the week.
On Sunday mornings she was always sure of finding Alden Lytton in his seat, which was in full sight of her own. But she never looked toward him. She was content to feel that he often looked at her, and that he could not look at her and remain quite indifferent to her.
She was also an active member of all the parish benevolent societies, a zealous teacher in the Sunday-school, an industrious seamstress in the sewing-circle, and a regular visitor of the poor and sick.
Her life seemed devoted to good works, apparently from the love of the Lord and the love of her neighbor.
She won golden opinions from all sorts of men, and women too. Only there was one significant circumstance about her popularity—she could not win the love of children. No, not with all her beauty and grace of person, and sweetness and softness of tone and manner, she could not win the children. Their sensitive spirits shrank from the evil within her which the duller souls of adults could not even perceive. And many an innocent child was sent in disgrace from the parlor because it either would not kiss "sweet Mrs. Grey" at all, or would kiss her with the air of taking a dose of physic.
But all the people in Charlottesville praised the piety and, above all, the prudence of Mrs. Grey—"Such a young and beautiful woman to be so entirely weaned from worldliness and self-love and so absorbed in worship and good works!"
All this certainly produced an effect upon Alden Lytton, who, of course, heard her praises on all sides, who saw her every Sunday at church, and who met her occasionally at the demure little tea-parties to which both might happen to be invited.
When they met thus by chance in private houses he would bow and say, quietly:
"Good-evening, madam;" a salutation which she would return by a grave:
"Good-evening, sir."
And not another word would pass between them during the evening.
But all the young man observed in her at such times was a certain discreet reserve, which he could but approve.
"She seems to be much changed. She seems to be truly grieved for the past. Perhaps I have judged her too harshly. And yet what a base part that was she proposed to play! may be that she herself did not know how base it was. Such ignorance would prove an appalling moral blindness. But then, again, should she be held responsible for her moral blindness? It sometimes requires suffering to teach the nature of sin. A child does not know that fire is dangerous until it burns itself.Hersuffering must have opened her eyes to the 'exceeding sinfulness of sin.' For her own sake I hope it is so. As for myself, it does not matter. I have ceased to regard her with any other feeling than pity and charity. And although she would become a saint I could never love her again," he said to himself one night, after passing an evening with her at one of the professor's houses.
And his thoughts reverted to that lovely maiden whose golden hair formed an appropriate halo around her white brow, and whose pure soul looked frankly forth from her clear blue eyes.
He was not in love with Miss Cavendish, he said to himself, but he could not help feeling the difference between radiant frankness and dark deceit.
One evening, about this time, they met at a strawberry festival, held in the lecture-room of the church, for the benefit of the Sunday-school.
While the festival was at its height a thunder-storm came up, with a heavy shower of rain. But the company at the festival cared little about that. They were housed, and enjoyed themselves with light music, fruits, flowers and friends. And before the hour of separation the storm would probably be over, and carriages, or at least water-proof cloaks, overshoes and umbrella's, would be in attendance upon every one.
So they made merry until eleven o'clock, when the storm was passing away with a steady light rain.
Every lady who had a carriage in waiting offered to give Mrs. Grey a seat and to set her down at her own door.
Mary Grey thanked each in succession and declined the kind offer, adding that she expected some one to come for her.
At last nearly everybody had left the room but the treasurer of the festival, who was counting the receipts, and the sexton, who was covering the tables, preparatory to closing for the night.
Alden Lytton had lingered to make a quiet donation to the charity, and he was passing out, when, he saw Mary Grey standing shivering near the door.
As he came up to her she stepped out into the darkness and the rain.
He hastened after her, exclaiming:
"Mrs. Grey! I beg your pardon! Are you alone?"
"Yes, Mr. Lytton," she answered, quietly.
"And you have no umbrella!" he said, quickly, as he hoisted his own and stepped to her side. "Permit me to see you safe to your door. Take my arm. It is very dark and the walking is dangerous. The sidewalks are turned to brooks by this storm," he added, as he held his umbrella carefully over her.
"I thank you very much, Mr. Lytton; but indeed I do not wish to give you so much trouble. I can go home quite well enough alone. I have often to do it," she answered, shrinking away from him.
"It is not safe for you to do so, especially on such a night as this. Will you take my arm?" he said; and, without waiting for her answer, he took her hand and drew it through his arm and walked on with her in silence, wondering at and blaming the heartlessness of the ladies of her circle who had carriages in attendance, and had, as he supposed, every one of them, gone off without offering this poor lonely creature a seat, leaving her to get home through the night and storm as she could.
As they walked on he felt Mary Grey's arm trembling upon his own, and involuntarily he drew it closer, and, in so doing, he perceived the tremor and jar of her fast-beating heart, and he pitied her with a deep, tender, manly pity.
"I am afraid you feel chilled in this rain," he said, by way of saying something kind.
"No," she answered, softly, and said no more.
They got to the door of her dwelling, and he rang the bell and waited there with her until some one should come.
"I am very much indebted to you, Mr. Lytton," she said, softly and coolly; "but I am also very sorry to have given you so much trouble."
"I assure you it was no trouble; and I beg that you will not again attempt to go alone at night through the streets of Charlottesville," he answered, sadly.
"But why?" she asked. "What harm or danger can there be in my doing so?"
"Ladies never go out alone at night here. Many of the wild students are on the streets at night and are not always in their senses."
"Oh, I see! Well, I will try to take care of myself. Ihear the page coming to open the door. Good-night, Mr. Lytton. You have been very kind. I thank you very much," said Mrs. Grey, coldly.
He touched his hat and turned away just as the door was opened.
Alden Lytton went back to the college with somewhat kinder thoughts of Mary Grey.
And Mrs. Grey went into the house and into the back parlor, where the bishop's widow was waiting up for her.
"Why, my dear, your shoes are wet through and your skirts are draggled up to your knees! Is it possible you walked home through the rain?" inquired the lady.
"Yes, madam; but it will not hurt me."
"But how came you to walk home when Mrs. Doctor Sage promised faithfully to bring you home in her carriage?"
"Oh, my dear friend, the storm came up, and so many people were afraid of wetting their feet that I gave up my seat to another lady," answered Mary Grey.
"Always the same self-sacrificing spirit! Well, my dear, I hope your reward will come in the next world, if not in this. Now go upstairs and take off your wet clothes and get right to bed. I will send you up a glass of hot spiced wine, which will prevent you from taking cold," said the hospitable old lady.
Mary Grey kissed her hostess, said good-night, and ran away upstairs to her own cozy room, where, although it was May time, a bright little wood fire was burning in the fire-place to correct the dampness of the air.
"Well," she said, with her silent laugh, as she began to take off her sodden shoes, "it was worth the wetting to walk home with Alden Lytton, and to make one step of progress toward my object."
And the thought comforted her more than did the silver mug of hot spiced wine that the little page presently brought her.
A few days after this she met Alden Lytton again, by accident, at the house of a mutual friend. Alden came up to her and, after the usual greeting, said:
"I have received a short note from Miss Cavendish inquiring of me whether I had delivered her letter to you, and saying that she had received no answer from you, and indeed no news of you since your departure from Blue Cliffs. Now if I had not supposed that you would have answered Miss Emma's letter immediately I should certainly have written myself to relieve her anxiety on your account."
"Oh, indeed I beg her pardon and yours! But I have sprained the fore-finger of my right hand and can not write at all. Otherwise I am quite well. Pray write and explain this to Emma, with my love, and my promise to write to her as soon as my finger gets well," said Mary Grey.
And then she arose to take leave of her hostess, and, with a distant bow to Alden Lytton, she left the house.
Two days after this she received a very kind letter from Miss Cavendish expressing much regret to hear of her disabled hand, and affectionately inquiring of her when she should return to Blue Cliffs, adding that Mrs. Fanning had arrived, and was then domiciled at the house; and, though a widow and an invalid, she was a very agreeable companion.
This letter also inclosed a check for the amount of the quarterly allowance Emma Cavendish wasted upon Mary Grey.
"For whether you abandon us or not, dear Mrs. Grey, or wherever you may be, so long as I can reach you I will send you this quarterly sum, which I consider yours of right," she wrote. And with more expressions of kindness and affection the letter closed.
This letter was a great relief to Mary Grey's anxiety; for now that this worshiper of mammon was sure of her income she had no fears for the future.
But she dared not herself answer the letter. While Mrs. Fanning should remain at Blue Cliffs, Mary Grey must not let her handwriting go there, lest it should be seen and recognized by Frederick Fanning's widow.
But the next day was Sunday, and Mrs. Grey went to church, taking Emma's letter in her pocket.
Usually she avoided Alden Lytton on these occasions, refraining even from looking toward him during the church service or afterward, for she did not wish him to suppose that shesoughthis notice.
But now she had a fair and good excuse for speaking to him; so when the service was over and the congregation was leaving the church she waited at the door of her pew until Alden passed by, when she said, very meekly and coolly:
"Mr. Lytton, may I speak with you a moment?"
"Certainly, madam," said Alden, stopping at once.
"I have a letter from dearest Emma, but I can not answer it. Ah, my poor crippled finger! Would you be so very kind as to write and tell my darling that I have received it and how much I thank her? And here; perhaps, as you are to acknowledge the letter for me, you had better read it. There is really nothing in it that a mutual friend may notsee," she said, drawing the letter from her pocket and putting it into his hand.
"Certainly, madam, if you wish me to do so; certainly, with much pleasure," answered Alden Lytton, with more warmth than he had intended; because, in truth, he was beginning to feel delight in every subject that concerned Emma Cavendish, and he was now especially pleased with having the privilege of reading her letter and the duty of acknowledging it.
"Many thanks! You are very kind! Good-morning," said Mary Grey, with discreet coolness, as she passed on before him to leave the church.
"Step number two! I shall soon have him in my power again!" chuckled the coquette, as she walked down the street toward her dwelling.
For Mary Grey had utterly misinterpreted the warmth of Alden Lytton's manner in acceding to her request. It never entered her mind to think that this warmth had anything to do with the idea of Emma Cavendish. She was much too vain to be jealous.
She did not really think that there was a man in the world who could withstand her charms, or a woman in the world who could become her rival.
And certainly her personal experience went far to confirm her in that vain theory. Therefore she did not fear Emma Cavendish as a rival.
And while she did not dare to write to Blue Cliffs, she did not hesitate to make Alden Lytton the medium of communication with Emma Cavendish.
Her other lover, the counterpart of Alden Lytton, had not appeared since he had called on her on his first visit to Charlottesville.
But he wrote to her six times a week, and she knew what he was doing—he was trying hard to settle up his business at Wendover, with the distant hope of removing to Charlottesville and opening a store there.
Affairs went on in this way for one year longer. Emma Cavendish continued to write regularly to Mrs. Grey, telling her all the little household and neighborhood news. Among the rest, she told her how Mrs. Fanning, by her gentleness and patience, was winning the affections of all her household, and especially of Madam Cavendish, who had been most of all prejudiced against her; and how much the invalid's health was improving.
"She will never be perfectly well again; but I think, with proper care, and under Divine Providence, we may succeed in preserving her life for many years longer."
Now, as Mary Grey could not venture to return to Blue Cliffs, or even to write a letter to that place with her own hand, so long as Mrs. Fanning should live in the house, the prospect of her doing either grew more and more remote.
She could not plead her sprained finger forever as an excuse for not writing; so one day she put on a very tight glove and buttoned it over her wrist, and then took a harder steel pen than she had ever used before, and she sat down and wrote a few lines by way of experiment. It was perfectly successful. Between the tight-fitting glove and the hard steel pen her handwriting was so disguised that she herself would never have known it, nor could any expert ever have detected it. So there was no possible danger of any one at Blue Cliffs recognizing it as hers.
Then, with this tightly-gloved hand and this hard steel pen, she sat down and wrote a letter to Emma Cavendish, saying that she could no longer deny herself the pleasure of writing to her darling, though her finger was still so stiff that she wrote with great difficulty, as might be seen in the cramped and awkward letters, "all looking as if they had epileptic fits," she jestingly added.
When Miss Cavendish replied to this letter she said that indeed Mrs. Grey's hand must have been very severely sprained, and that she herself would never have known the writing.
After this all Mrs. Grey's letters to Miss Cavendish were written by a hand buttoned up in a tight glove, and with a hard steel pen, and continued to be stiff and unrecognizable.
And in all Emma's answers there was surprise and regret expressed for the long-continued lameness of Mary Grey's right hand.
One day Emma communicated a piece of neighborhood gossip that quite startled Mary Grey.
"You will be sorry to hear," she wrote, "that our excellent pastor, Dr. Goodwin, has had a paralytic stroke that disables him from preaching. The Rev. Mr. Lyle, formerly of Richmond, is filling the pulpit."
Mary Grey was very much interested in this piece of news, that her own old admirer should be even temporarily located so near Blue Cliffs, with the possibility of his being permanently settled there.
She had not heard from this devoted clerical lover once since she had left Mount Ascension. She did not understand his sudden withdrawal, and she had often, with much mental disquietude, associated his unexpected estrangement with her own unceremonious dismissal from her situation as drawing-mistress at that academy.
It is true that when they corresponded, in answer to his ardent love-letters, she would write only such kind and friendly notes that could never have compromised her in any way, even if they should have been read in open court or published in a Sunday newspaper.
And he had sometimes complained of the formal friendliness of these letters from one for whom he had truly professed the most devoted love, and who had also promised to be his wife—if ever she was anybody's.
But Mrs. Grey had artfully soothed his wounded affection without departing from her prudential system of writing only such letters as she would not fear to have fall in the hands of any living creature, until suddenly he ceased to write at all.
At the time of this defection she had been too much taken up with her purpose of winning the affection of the wealthy and distinguished statesman, Governor Cavendish, to pay much attention to the fact of the Rev. Mr. Lyle's falling away.
But in these later and calmer days at Blue Cliffs and at Charlottesville she had pondered much on the circumstance in connection with her simultaneous dismissal from her situation at Mount Ascension; and she thought all but too likely that Mr. Lyle had, like Mrs. St. John, learned something of her past life so much to her disadvantage as to induce him to abandon her.
And now to have him so near Blue Cliffs as Wendover parish church seemed dangerous to Mary Grey's interests with the Cavendish family.
Sometimes the unhappy woman seemed to think that the net of Fate was drawing around her. Mrs. Fanning was at Blue Cliffs. Mr. Lyle was at Wendover. What next?
Why, next she got a letter from Emma Cavendish that struck all the color from her cheeks and all the courage from her soul.
Miss Cavendish, after telling the domestic and social news of the week, and adding that the Rev. Mr. Lyle was now settled permanently at Wendover, as the assistant of the Rev. Dr. Goodwin, whose health continued to be infirm, wrote: