Between the acting of a dreadful thingAnd the first motion, all the interim isLike a phantasma, or a hideous dream;The genius and the mortal instrumentsAre then in council; and the state of man,Like to a little kingdom, suffers thenThe nature of an insurrection.—Shakespeare'sJulius Cæsar.
Between the acting of a dreadful thingAnd the first motion, all the interim isLike a phantasma, or a hideous dream;The genius and the mortal instrumentsAre then in council; and the state of man,Like to a little kingdom, suffers thenThe nature of an insurrection.—Shakespeare'sJulius Cæsar.
Between the acting of a dreadful thingAnd the first motion, all the interim isLike a phantasma, or a hideous dream;The genius and the mortal instrumentsAre then in council; and the state of man,Like to a little kingdom, suffers thenThe nature of an insurrection.
—Shakespeare'sJulius Cæsar.
No language can adequately describe the mortification and rage that filled the bosom of Mary Grey as she read the foregoing letter.
Two of her once ardent worshipers—handsome Alden Lytton and eloquent Stephen Lyle—had forsaken her shrine and were offering up their devotion to other divinities.
They had wounded her vanity to the very quick.
And to wound Mary Grey's vanity was to incur Mary Grey's deadly hatred.
She was always a very dangerous woman, and under such an exasperation she could become a very desperate enemy.
She had felt so sure that no woman, however young and lovely, could ever become her rival, or even her successor, in any man's affections. So sure, also, that no man, however wise and strong, could ever resist her fascinations or escape from her thraldom.
And now that charming illusion was rudely dispelled! She saw herself even contemptuously abandoned by her subjects, who transferred their allegiance to a couple of "bread-and-butter school-girls," as she sneeringly designated Emma Cavendish and Laura Lytton.
She was consumed with jealousy—not the jealousy born of love, which is like the thorn of the rose, a defence of the rose—but the jealousy born of self-love, which is like the thorn of the thorn-apple, a deadly poison.
She sat on one of her trunks, with her elbows on her knees and her clutched fists supporting her chin. Her lips were drawn back from her clinched teeth and her black eyes gleamed like fire from the deathly whiteness of her face.
And so she sat and brooded and brooded over her mortification, and studied and studied how she might pull down ruin upon the heads of those hated young people who were loving each other and enjoying life at the cost of her humiliation.
And of course the foul fiend very soon entered into her counsels and assisted her.
"I have one devoted slave—one willing instrument left yet," she muttered to herself: "he would pay any price—yes, the price of his soul—for my love! He shall paymyprice down! He shall be the means of drawing destruction upon all their heads! Yes, Miss Cavendish, marry Alden Lytton, if youwill, and afterward look honest men and women in the face if youcan! Yes, Stephen Lyle, become the husband of Laura Lytton, and then hold up your head in the pulpit—if you dare! Ah, if my plot succeed! Ah, if my plot succeed, how terribly will I be avenged! And itshallsucceed!" she hissed through her grinding teeth, with a grim hatred distorting her white features and transforming her beautiful face for an instant into demoniac hideousness.
She started up and commenced traversing the floor, as a furious tigress her den.
When she had raged herself into something like composure she opened her writing-case and wrote the following letter:
"Richmond, Va., Aug. —, 18—."To Craven Kyte, Esq."Dear Friend:—My wanderings have come to a temporary end here in this city, where I expect to remain for some weeks, even if I do not conclude to make it my permanent residence."Shall I trouble you to do me a favor? Some time ago I left in the hands of the jeweler at Wendover a little pearl brooch, which I forgot to call for when I left, and have neglected to send for ever since."The brooch in itself is of small intrinsic value; but as it is an old family relic I should like to recover it. Will you, therefore, please go to the jeweler's and get it and send it to me in a registered letter by mail? and I shall be very much indebted to you. And if you should happen to come to this city during my stay here I hope you will call to see me; for I should be very glad to see any old friend from Wendover."Yours truly,M. Grey."
"Richmond, Va., Aug. —, 18—.
"To Craven Kyte, Esq.
"Dear Friend:—My wanderings have come to a temporary end here in this city, where I expect to remain for some weeks, even if I do not conclude to make it my permanent residence.
"Shall I trouble you to do me a favor? Some time ago I left in the hands of the jeweler at Wendover a little pearl brooch, which I forgot to call for when I left, and have neglected to send for ever since.
"The brooch in itself is of small intrinsic value; but as it is an old family relic I should like to recover it. Will you, therefore, please go to the jeweler's and get it and send it to me in a registered letter by mail? and I shall be very much indebted to you. And if you should happen to come to this city during my stay here I hope you will call to see me; for I should be very glad to see any old friend from Wendover.
"Yours truly,
M. Grey."
She immediately sealed this letter, rang for a waiter, and dispatched it to the post-office.
This letter had been written for but one purpose—to bring Craven Kyte immediately to Richmond, without seeming especially to invite him to come.
She always wrote her letters with an eye to the remote contingency of their being produced in court or read in public.
This letter to Craven Kyte was a sample of her non-committal style—it compromised no one.
When she had sent it off she began to pack up her effects, in preparation for their removal, on Monday morning, to the Misses Cranes'.
Even after that work was done she could not be still. Like an uneasy beast of prey, she must needs move to and fro.
So she put on her bonnet, called a carriage and drove out to the rectory to spend the evening.
But though she was received in the most friendly manner she could not enjoy the visit. She was absent and distracted during the whole evening.
She returned late to a restless bed. And then she got up and took laudanum to put her to sleep. And this was not the first time she had had to resort to the same dangerous narcotic.
No more rest for Mary Grey!
Remorse sometimes beginsbeforethe commission of a contemplated and determined crime; repentance never. That is one difference between the two.
On Sunday morning, to keep herself actively employed, as well as to win "golden opinions," Mrs. Grey dressed herself plainly, but very becomingly, and went early to the Sunday-school at old St. John's, to offer herself as a teacher.
She was soon appointed to the temporary charge of a class of little girls, whose regular teacher was then absent on a summer tour of the watering places.
Afterward she attended both morning and afternoon services, and went to a missionary meeting in the evening.
Still, after all the fatigues of the day, she was unable to sleep at night, and again she had recourse to the deadly drug.
On Monday morning she paid her week's bill at the hotel and removed to the Misses Cranes'.
She was received with lofty politeness by the two maiden ladies; and she was put in immediate possession of her apartment—a spacious chamber, with a balcony overhanging the front flower-garden.
She had scarcely finished unpacking her effects and transferring them from her trunks to the bureaus and wardrobes of the chamber, before a card was brought to her by the neat parlor-maid of the establishment.
The card bore the name of Mr. Craven Kyte.
"Where is the gentleman?" inquired Mrs. Grey.
"In the drawing-room, madam," answered the maid.
"Ask him to be so kind as to wait. I will be down directly," said Mrs. Grey.
The girl left the room to take her message, and Mrs. Grey began to change her dress, smiling strangely to herself as she did so.
She gave a last finishing touch to the curls of her glossy black hair, and a last lingering look at the mirror, and then she went down-stairs.
There, alone in the drawing-room, stood the one devoted lover and slave that she had left in the whole world.
He came down the room to meet her.
"You here! Oh, I'm so delighted to see you!" she said, in a low tone, full of feeling, as she went toward him, holding out both her hands.
He trembled from head to foot and turned pale and red by turns as he took them.
"I am so happy—You are so good to say so! I was almost afraid—I thought you might consider it a liberty—my coming," faltered the poor fellow, in sore confusion.
"A liberty? How could you possibly imagine I would consider your coming here a liberty on your part? Why, dearest friend, I consider it a favor from you, a pleasure for me! Why should you think otherwise?" inquired Mary Grey, with her most alluring smile.
"Oh, thanks—thanks! But it was your letter!"
"My letter? Sit down, Craven, dear, and compose yourself. Here, sit here," she said, seating herself on the sofa and signing for him to take the place by her side.
He dropped, trembling, flushing and paling, into the indicated seat.
"Now tell me what there was in my harmless letter to disturb you," she murmured, passing her soft fingers over his forehead and running them through the dark curls of his hair.
"Nothing that wasmeantto disturb me, I know. It was all kindness. You could not write to me, or to any one, otherwise than kindly," faltered the lover.
"Well, then?" inquired Mary Grey, in a pretty, reproachful tone.
"But I felt it was cold—cold!" sighed the young man.
"Why, you dearest of dears, one must be discreet in writing letters! Suppose my letter had expressed all my feelings toward you, and then had fallen into the hands of any one else? Such mistakes are made in the mails sometimes. How would you have liked it?" she inquired, patting his cheeks.
"I should have been wild. But it would only have been at the loss of your letter. As for me, Heaven knows, I should not mind if all the world knew how much I adore you. On the contrary, I should glory in it," added the lover.
"But a lady feels differently. She only lets herloverknow how well she loves him; and not always does she even let him know," softly murmured the beautiful temptress, as she lightly caressed his raven curls. "And now tell me the news, dear Craven. How are all our friends at Blue Cliffs?" she archly inquired.
"I only want to tell you how much I adore you," whispered the lover, who was beginning to recover his composure.
"That would be a vain repetition, darling, especially as I know it all quite well," murmured Mary Grey, with a smile, and still passing her hand with mesmeric gentleness over his hair.
"Aye; but when will you make me completely happy?" sighed the poor fellow.
"Whew!" smiled Mary Grey, with a little bird-like whistle. "How fast we are getting on, to be sure! Why, a few minutes ago we were afraid that we were taking a liberty in coming here to call on our lady-love at all! And now we are pressing her to name the day! See here, you impatient boy, answer me this: When did I ever promise to 'make you happy'at all?" she inquired, in a bantering tone.
"But you gave me hopes—oh, do not say that you never gave me hopes!" he pleaded, turning red and pale and trembling from head to foot as before.
"Well, I don't say it; for I know I promised if ever I should marry living man I should marry you. I repeat that promise now, dear Craven," she added, gravely and tenderly.
"Ah, Heaven bless you for those blessed words! But when—whenwill you make me happy? Oh, if I possess your love, when—whenshall I possess your hand?" he pleaded.
And then, as if suddenly ashamed of his own vehemence, he stopped in confusion.
"You have won my love, you petulant boy!" she answered, archly. Then, dropping her voice to its tenderest music, she murmured: "What would you do to win my hand?"
"Anything—anything under the sun!" he answered, wildly, and forgetting all his embarrassment. "Whatever man has done to win woman would I do to win you—more than ever man did to win woman would I do to win you! I would renounce my friends, betray my country, abjure my faith,lose my soulfor you!"
"Words, words, words! You talk recklessly! You know you would not do the least one of these dreadful deeds for me," answered Mary Grey, laying her hand on his lips.
"Try me!"
I love you, love you; for your love would loseState, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem.—Byron.
I love you, love you; for your love would loseState, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem.—Byron.
I love you, love you; for your love would loseState, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem.
—Byron.
He spoke these two words with such a desperate look, in such a desperate tone, that Mary Grey was half frightened; for she saw that he was in that fatal mood in which men have been driven to crime or death for the love of woman.
This was the mood to which she wished to bring him, and in which she wished to keep him until he should have done his work; and yet it half frightened her now.
"Hush—hush!" she murmured."Bequiet! There are people in the next room. They may hear you. And I am sure they should do so they would take you for a lunatic."
"But—do you believe me? Do you believe that I would defy the universe in your service? Do you believe me? If not, try me!" he aspirated, vehemently.
"Idobelieve you. And some day Iwilltry you. You have won my love; but he who wins my hand must first prove his love for me in a way that will leave no doubt upon the fact."
"Then I am safe, for I am sure to prove it," he said, with a sigh of intense relief.
She looked at him again, and knew that he spoke as he felt. Yes, for her sake he would "march to death as to a festival."
"Now, then, will you be good and quiet and tell me news of my old neighbors at Wendover and Blue Cliffs?" she archly inquired.
"I do not think I can. I wish to sit here and look at you and think only of you. It would be a painful wrench to tear away my thoughts from you and employ them upon anything else. Let me sit here in my heaven!" he pleaded.
"Yes, love; but remember I am very anxious to know something about my dear friends, whom I have not heard from for a month. Can not you gratify me?" coaxed Mary Grey.
"I can not fix my mind upon them long enough to remember anything. You absorb it all," he answered, dreamily gazing upon her.
"But if I ask you questions surely you can answer them," said Mary Grey, who, though very anxious for information later than that afforded by Mrs. Wheatfield's letter, was not ill-pleased at the devotion which baffled her curiosity.
"Yes, I will answer any question you ask. That will not be so much of a wrench," he said.
"Then how is my dear friend, Emma Cavendish?" inquired the traitress.
"Well and happy, at Blue Cliffs," answered the lover.
"Is it true, as I hear, that she is to marry—" Mary Grey hesitated for a moment before her choking voice could pronounce his name—"Mr. Alden Lytton?"
"Yes, I believe so. Everybody says so."
"When?"
"As soon as he gets established in his profession, I suppose."
"Tell me about him."
"Well, he is coming here on the first of the month to find an office and fit it up. And then he is going on to Philadelphia to select books for a law library."
"Ah, he is coming here and he is going on to Philadelphia. Yes, yes, yes, yes! That will do," murmured Mary Grey, to herself.
"What did you say?" inquired Craven Kyte.
"I said that it was a good plan; but it will take money," answered Mrs. Grey.
"Yes, that it will. And he has got it. That mysterious guardian of his has sent him ten thousand dollars to begin with."
"A round sum! When did you say he was coming here?"
"On the first of next month; or, perhaps, before the end of this month."
"Good! Very good!"
"Good for what?" innocently inquired Craven Kyte.
"Good for his professional prospects, of course! The sooner he begins the better, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes; certainly!"
"And when does he go to Philadelphia?"
"Just as soon as he has selected his law office and set painters and glaziers and paper-hangers and upholsterers and such to fit it up. For no expense is to be spared, and the young lawyer is to set up in style. For such is the wish of his guardian."
"You know this?"
"Yes, I know it. One knows everything that anybody else knows in a small village like Wendover."
"You do not know when Mr. Lytton and Miss Cavendish are to be married?"
"No, because I do not think they know themselves. But the people say it will be as soon as the young gentleman gets settled in his practice."
"Good again! The delay is favorable," muttered Mary Grey to herself.
"What did you say?" again inquired the ingenuous young man.
"I say the delay is wise, of course."
"Oh, yes; certainly!" assented Mr. Kyte.
"And now tell me about the others," said Mrs. Grey.
But her lover took her hand and gazed into her face, murmuring:
"Oh, my love, my life, let me sit here and hold your thrilling little hand and gaze into your beautiful eyes, and think only of you for a moment!"
She put her hand around his head and drew it toward her and pressed a kiss upon his forehead, and then said:
"There! Now you will go on for me, will you not?"
"I would die for you!" he earnestly exclaimed.
"I would rather you would live for me, you mad boy!" she answered, smiling archly.
"I will do anything for you."
"Then answer my questions. Is it also true that Mr. Lyle and Miss Lytton are to be married?"
"Oh, yes! That is certain. Their engagement is announced. There is no secret about that."
"When are they to be married?"
"Well, there is a slight obstacle to their immediate union."
"What is that?"
"An old school-girl compact between Miss Cavendish and Miss Lytton, in which they promised each other that they would both be married on the same day or never at all."
"A very silly, girlish compact."
"Very."
"Why do they not break it by mutual consent?"
"Because mutual consent can not be had. Miss Cavendish indeed offers to release Miss Lytton from her promise; but Miss Lytton refuses to be released. And although her clerical lover presses her to name an earlier day, she will name no other than the day upon which Miss Cavendish also weds, be that day sooner or later."
"So it is settled that they will be married upon the same day?"
"Quite settled."
"How do you know?"
"Everything is known in a little country town like Wendover, as I said before."
"They will be married the same day. Better and better. If I had arranged it all myself it could not be better for my plans," muttered Mary Grey to herself.
"What did you say?" inquired Craven Kyte.
"I say I think, upon the whole, the arrangement is a good one."
"Oh, yes; certainly!" admitted the young man.
"Where are you stopping, Craven?" softly inquired Mrs. Grey.
"Oh, at the same hotel from which you dated your letter! I thought you were there, and so I went directly there fromthe cars. When I inquired for you—I hope you will pardon my indiscretion in inquiring for you," he said, breaking off from his discourse.
"Oh, yes, I will pardon it! But it was a very great indiscretion, you thoughtless boy, for a handsome youth like you to be inquiring for a young widow like me at a public hotel. Now go on with what you were talking about."
"Well, when I inquired for you they told me you had left this very morning, and they gave me your present address."
"That was the way in which you found me?"
"That was the way I found you. But, before starting to come here, I engaged my room at that hotel; for, after it had been blessed by your dear presence, it had quite a home-like feeling to me," said the lover, fervently.
"How long do you stay in the city, Craven, dear?" sweetly inquired the siren.
His face clouded over.
"I must return to-morrow," he said. "It was the only condition upon which our principal would consent to my leaving yesterday. He is going North to purchase his fall and winter goods, you see, and wants me to be there."
"How long will he be absent?"
"He says only four days, at the longest."
"And when does he go?"
"By the next train following my return."
"Then he will be back again at his post by Saturday evening?"
"Yes; in fact, he intends to be back by the end of the week, and that is the very reason why he is so anxious to get away to-morrow night."
"Craven, dear, when your senior partner gets back do you think you will be able to return here for a few days?"
"Do you really wish me to come back so soon?" exclaimed the lover, his face flushing all over with pleasure.
"Yes; but don't cry out so loud—that's a dear! I repeat, there are people in the nextroom.But you have not yet answered my question."
"Oh, yes, I can return here as soon as my partner gets back! He promised that I should take a week's holiday then. So, if he gets back on Saturday evening, expect to see me here on Sunday morning, in time to wait on you to church."
"Stop; not so fast, my dear! You can take your week's holiday at any time, I suppose?"
"At any time this month or next."
"Very well. Now, dear boy, I want you to promise me two or three things."
"I will promise you anything in the world you wish."
"Then listen. Every time I write to you I will inclose within my letter another letter, sealed and directed to me, which you must stamp and post at the Wendover post-office. Will you do that for me?"
While she spoke the young man gazed at her in unqualified amazement.
"Will you do that for me?" she repeated.
"I solemnly promise to do that for you, although I am all in the dark as to what you would be at," earnestly answered Craven Kyte.
"I thank you, dearest dear," cooed the siren, caressing him tenderly.
"I would do anything in the world for you," he answered fervently. "I would die for you or live for you!"
"Well, secondly, I want you, when you go back, to keep an eye on Mr. Alden Lytton. Find out, if possible, the day that he comes to this city. And precede him here yourself by one train. Or, if that is not possible, if you can not find out beforehand the day that he is to come, at least you can certainly know when he actually does start, for every passenger from Wendover is noticed. And then follow him by the next train, and come directly from the depot to me, before going to a hotel or showing yourself at any other place. Will you do that for me?"
"I promise, on my sacred word and honor, that I will, although I have not the slightest idea why you wish me to do this," said Craven.
"You are a true knight, worthy of any lady's love! Well, thirdly, and lastly, as the preachers say, I wish you to promise me never to divulge to a human being anything that has been said between us during this interview."
"I not only promise, but I solemnly vow, in the sight of Heaven and all the holy angels, sacredly to observe the silence you require of me, although I feel more and more deeply mystified by all this."
"You must trust in me, my dear, blindly trust in me for the present, and in time you shall know why I require these things of you," she said, very sweetly.
"I trust in you blindly, utterly, eternally!" answered the lover.
"And now, do you know what your reward shall be?"
"Your smile of approval will be my all-sufficient reward!" exclaimed the young man, earnestly.
"Ah, but you shall hear! When you have done these little favors for me, andone more, which I will tell you about when you come back from Wendover, then—" she said, pausing and looking at him with a bewildering smile.
"Then? Yes! Then?" eagerly aspirated the young man, gazing at her in rapt admiration and expectancy.
"Then I will give you my hand in marriage. I solemnly promise it."
"Oh, you angel—you angel! You have made me so happy!" fervently breathed the infatuated lover, as he drew her, unresisting, and pressed her to his heart.
At this point there was heard the sound of light footsteps approaching.
And the moment after, several of the lady boarders opened the door and entered the room.
Craven Kyte, always shy of strangers, arose to take leave.
As he did so, he seemed suddenly to recollect something.
He put his hand in his breast-pocket and drew forth a little box, which he handed to Mrs. Grey, saying:
"It is your brooch that you requested me to get from the jeweler."
And then, with a bow, he left her.
Mary Grey went back to her room.
"I shall succeed in ruining them all now!" she said, her dark eyes on fire with anticipated triumph.
I have set my life upon a cast,And I will stand the hazard of the die.—Shakespeare.
I have set my life upon a cast,And I will stand the hazard of the die.—Shakespeare.
I have set my life upon a cast,And I will stand the hazard of the die.
—Shakespeare.
Craven Kyte, the infatuated and doomed instrument and victim of a cruel and remorseless woman, returned to Wendover and resumed his place in Bastiennello's establishment, where he culpably neglected his business, and lived only on the thought of receiving her daily letters and of soon returning to Richmond to be blessed by her promised hand in marriage.
Every morning he was the first man at the post-office, waiting eagerly, impatiently, for the arrival and opening of the mail.
And he was never disappointed of receiving her letter, and—never satisfied with its contents.
Every letter was in itself something of a mortification to him, containing no expression of confidence or affection, no word by which any one might suspect that the correspondent was writing to one she loved and trusted, much less to her betrothed husband.
Every letter began and ended in the most polite and formal manner; never alluded to the matrimonial intentions between the correspondents, but treated only of church services, Sunday-schools, sewing circles and missionary matters, until the young man, famishing for a word of affection, with pardonable selfishness, sighed forth:
"She is a saint; but oh, I wish she was a little less devoted to the heathen, and all that, and a little more affectionate to me!"
But the instant afterward he blamed himself for egotism, and consoled himself by saying:
"She always told me that, however much she loved, she would never write love-letters, as they might possibly fall into the hands of irreverent and scoffing people who would make a mockery of the writer. It is a far-fetched idea; but still it isheridea and I must submit. It will be all right when I go to Richmond and claim her darling hand."
And the thought of this would fill him with such ecstasy that he would long to tell some one, his partner especially, that he was the happiest man on earth, for he was to be married in a week to the loveliest woman in the world. But he was bound by his promise to keep his engagement, as well as all other of his relations with the beautiful widow, a profound secret. And though the poor fellowwasa fool, he was anhonorablefool, and held his pledged word sacred.
Every letter that came to him also contained another letter, to which it never referred by written word. This inclosed letter was sealed in an envelope bearing the initial "L" embossed upon its flap. And it was directed to "Mrs. Mary Grey, Old Crane Manor House, Richmond."
Craven Kyte would gaze at this mysterious letter in the utmost confusion and obscurity of mind.
"Now, why in the world does she write a letter and direct it toherselfand send it to me to post privately, by night, at the Wendover post-office? And why did she give me only verbal instructions about it? And why does she avoid even alluding to it in her letter to me? Why is the envelope stamped with the letter L? And why, oh, why does thehandwriting so closely resemble that of Mr. Lytton?" he inquired of himself, as his eyes devoured the superscription of the letter. "I can not tell," he sighed. "It is too deep for my fathoming. I give it up. I must blindly do her bidding, trusting to her implicitly, as I do, and as I will."
Then, following her verbal instructions, given him in Richmond, in regard to these mysterious letters, he put it away until dark, and then stole out and dropped it secretly into the night-box at the post-office.
Five days passed, in which he received and re-mailed three of these inexplicable documents.
Then, on Saturday morning, Bastiennello, the head of his firm, returned to Wendover and resumed the control of his business.
On the evening of the same day a van arrived from Blue Cliff Hall, bringing the heavy baggage of Mr. Alden Lytton, to be deposited at the railway station and left until Monday morning, when the owner intended to start for Richmond by the earliest train.
When Craven Kyte heard this he went straight to his principal and claimed his promised leave of absence.
"Why, Kyte, you are in a tremendous hurry! Here I have not been back twelve hours and you want to be off," said Bastiennello, with a shrug of his shoulders.
"It is a case of necessity, sir, believe me," pleaded Craven Kyte.
"And this is Saturday night, the busiest time in the whole week," complained Bastiennello.
"Well, sir, you will not keep open after twelve, will you?"
"Certainly not after eleven."
"Nor will you need my services after that hour?"
"Of course not."
"Then that will enable me to serve here as usual until the hour of closing, and then give me time to catch the midnight train to Richmond."
"Oh, well, if you can do that it will be all right, and I can have no objection to your going to-night," said Bastiennello.
And so the affair was concluded.
The great village bazaar closed at eleven that night.
As soon as he had put up the last shutter, Craven Kyte rushed off to his humble lodgings, stuffed a carpet-bag full of needed clothing and hurried to the railway station to catch the train.
It came thundering along in due time, and caught up thewaiting victim and whirled him along on his road to ruin, as far as Richmond, where it dropped him.
It was nearly eleven o'clock in the morning, and all the church bells were ringing, when the train ran in to the station.
Craven Kyte, carpet-bag in hand, rushed for the gentlemen's dressing-room nearest the station, hastily washed his face, combed his hair, brushed his clothes, put on a clean collar and bosom-piece, and fresh gloves, and hurried off to old St. John's Church, which he thought the most likely place on that Sunday forenoon to meet Mary Grey.
The service was more than half over when he reached the church, but he slipped in and seated himself quietly on one of the back seats near the door and looked all over the heads of the seated congregation to see if he could discover his beloved in the crowd.
Yes, there she was, in a front pew of the middle aisle, immediately under the pulpit.
To be sure he could only see the back of her head and shoulders, but he felt that he could not be mistaken.
And from that moment he paid but little attention to the service.
Do not mistake the poor soul. He was not impious. He had been religiously brought up in the family of the late Governor Cavendish. He was accustomed to be devout during divine worship. And on this occasion he wrestled with Satan—that is, with himself—and tried to fix his mind in succession on anthems, psalms, collects and sermon. All to little purpose. His mind went with his eyes toward Mary Grey.
And even when he closed those offending orbs he still found her image in his mind.
At length the sermon was finished and the benediction pronounced.
The congregation began to move out.
Craven Kyte went out among the first, and placed himself just outside the gate to wait until his adored should pass by.
In a continued stream the congregation poured forth out of the church until nearly all had passed out, but still he did not see Mary Grey.
In truth, that popularity-seeking beauty was lingering to bestow her sweet smile and honeyed words upon "all and sundry" who would give her the opportunity.
At length, among the very last to issue from the church, was Mrs. Grey.
She came out chatting demurely with a group of her friends.
Craven Kyte made a single step toward her, with the intention of speaking; but seeing that she did not notice him, and feeling abashed by the presence of strangers about her, he withdrew again and contented himself with following at a short distance until he saw her separate herself from the group and turn down a by-street.
Then he quickened his footsteps, turned down the same street and joined her.
At the same instant she looked back upon him with a smile, saying:
"You clever boy, how good and wise of you to refrain from speaking to me before so many strangers! Now what is the news?"
"The news is—Oh, my dear, dearest, dearest Mary! I am so delighted to meet you!" he exclaimed, breaking suddenly off from his intended communications.
"So am I to see you, darling. But that is no news. Come, this is a quiet street, and leads out of the city. Let us walk on, and as we walk you can tell me all the news," she said, smilingly, resting her delicate hand on his arm.
"I can tell you nothing—nothing yet, but that I love you—I love you!" he fervently breathed, as he drew her arm within his own and pressed her hand to his bosom.
"And I love you," she murmured, in the lowest, sweetest music. And then, after a moment's pause, she added, gayly: "And now tell me what has brought you here so suddenly."
"Did I not promise you that I would be in Richmond this Sunday morning, in time to attend you to church?"
"Yes, you did, but—"
"Well, I could not get in so early as I intended, because I came on by the train that leaves Wendover at midnight. So I did not reach the city until nearly noon to-day. However, if I was not in time to attend youtochurch, I was in time to attend youfromchurch. So I kept my promise tolerably well."
"Yes; but, my dear friend, I particularly requested that you would wait at Wendover and watch certain events, and not come to Richmond until something had happened or was about to happen."
"Well then?"
"You gave me your word that you would do as I directed you."
"Yes, certainly I did."
"Then, seeing you here, I am to presume that all the conditions of your engagement have been fulfilled."
"Yes, they have, dear lady mine."
"First, then, as you were not to come here until Mr. Alden Lytton was about to start or had started for this place, why, I am to presume, by seeing you here, that Mr. Lytton is either present in the city or on his way here."
"Mr. Lytton will leave Wendover for Richmond by the earliest train to-morrow. He will be here to-morrow evening," said Craven Kyte, gravely.
"You are absolutely sure of this?" inquired Mrs. Grey.
"As sure of it as any one can be of any future event. His heavy baggage came over from Blue Cliff Hall yesterday evening, and was left at the station to be ready for transportation on Monday morning, when Mr. Lytton intended to take the earliest train for this city."
"Then there can be no mistake," said Mary Grey.
"None whatever, I think."
"You say you have fulfilled all the conditions of our engagement?"
"Yes, dearest, I have indeed."
"How about those letters I inclosed to you to be re-mailed?"
"I received them all, and re-mailed them all. Did you get them? You never acknowledged the receipt of one of them, however," said Craven Kyte, thoughtfully.
"I got them all safe. There was no use in acknowledging them by letter, as I expected to see you so soon, and could acknowledge them so much better by word of mouth. But that is not exactly what I meant by my question, darling. Of course I knew without being told that you had re-mailed all those letters, as I had received them all."
"Then what was it you wished me to tell you, dearest Mary? Ask me plainly. I will tell you anything in the world that I know."
"Only this: Did you post those letters with great secrecy, taking extreme care that no one saw you do it?"
"My dearest, I took such care that I waited until the dead of night, when no one was abroad in the village, and I stole forth then, and, all unseen, dropped the letters into the night box."
"You darling! How good you are! What shall I ever do to repay you?" exclaimed the traitress, with well-acted enthusiasm.
"Only love me—only love me! That will richly repay me for all. Ah, only love me! Only love me truly and I will die for you if necessary!" fervently breathed the poor doomedyoung man, fondly gazing upon her, who, to gain her own diabolical end, was almost putting his neck into a halter.
"You foolish darling! Why, you would break my heart by dying! You can only make me happy by living for me," she said, with a smile.
"I would live for you, die for you, suffer for you, sin for you—do anything for you, bear anything for you, be anything for you!" he burst forth, in a fervor of devotion.
"There, there, dearest, I know you would! I know it all! But now tell me: Have you kept our engagement a profound secret from every human being, as I requested you to do?"
"Yes, yes, a profound secret from every human being, on my sacred word and honor! Although it was hard to do that. For, as I walked up and down the streets of Wendover, feeling so happy—so happy that I am sure I must have looked perfectly wild, as the people stared at me so suspiciously—I could scarcely help embracing all my friends and saying to them, 'Congratulate me, for I am engaged to the loveliest woman in the world, and I am the happiest man on earth!' But I kept the secret."
"You mad boy! You love too fast to love long, I doubt! After a month or two of married life you will grow tired of me, I fear," said Mary Grey, with mock gravity.
"Tired of you! Tired of heaven! Oh, no, no, no!" he burst forth, ardently.
She suddenly brought him down to the earth with a homely remark.
"I am tired of walking. And here is a vacant house placarded 'To Let,' with a nice long porch in front. Come, let[us]go in and sit down on one of the benches and rest."
And she drew him toward the little gate that led into the yard in front of the house.
It was a rustic two-story frame cottage, with a long porch in front, all overgrown with honeysuckles, clematis, woodbine and wild roses.
They went in together and sat down on the porch, under the shadow of the blooming and fragrant vines.
Then she turned and looked at him attentively for the first time since they met at the church.
"You look tired," she said, with alluring tenderness."You look more exhausted than I feel. And that is saying a great deal, for I am quite out of breath."
"I am grieved that you feel so, dearest! It was selfish and thoughtless in me to keep you walking so long," said Craven, compunctiously.
"Oh, it is nothing! But about yourself. You really look quite prostrated."
"Do I, dearest? I am not conscious of fatigue. Though indeed I should never be conscious of that by your dear side."
"Now tell the truth," she said, again bringing him down from his flights. "Have you had your breakfast this morning?"
"Breakfast? I—don't remember," he said, with a perplexed air.
"Come to your senses and answer me directly. What have you taken this morning?" she demanded, with a pretty air of authority.
"I—Let me see. I believe I bought a package of lemon-drops from a boy that was selling them in the cars. I—I believe I have got some of them left yet," he said, hesitating, and drawing from his pocket one of those little white packets of candy so commonly sold on the train.
Mary Grey burst into a peal of soft, silvery laughter as she took them, and said:
"An ounce of lemon-drops and nothing else for breakfast! Oh, Cupid, God of Love, and Hebe, Goddess of Health, look here, and settle it between you!"
"But I do not feel hungry. It is food enough for me to sit here and feast upon the sight of your face, your beautiful face!"
"You frenzied boy! I see that I must take care of you. Come, now that we have recovered our breath, we will go on a little further to a nice, quiet, suburban inn, kept by an old maid. I have never been there myself, but I have seen it in driving by with the rector's family. It is such a nice place that the school children go there to have picnic parties in the grounds. We will go and engage a parlor, and have a quiet little breakfast or dinner, whichever you may please, for it shall combine the luxuries of both. Now will you go?" said Mary Grey, rising from her shady seat.
"Of course, if you wish me to do so; but indeed I do not need anything."
"But I do; for I breakfasted at seven o'clock this morning, before going to the Sunday-school. It is now one o'clock. I have been fasting six hours, and as I intend to spend the mostof the day with you, I shall miss our luncheon at home; for, you see, we are deadly fashionable at the Misses Cranes'. We lunch at two and dine at six. So come along."
Craven Kyte arose and gave her his arm, and they walked on together until they reached the little cottage, half farmhouse, half hotel, that was so well-kept by the nice old maiden hostess.
The good woman looked rather surprised to see Sunday visitors walk into her house.
But Mary Grey, prayer-book ostentatiously in hand, took her aside, out of the hearing of Craven Kyte, and explained:
"I and my brother walked in from the country to attend church this morning. We have a carriage and might have ridden, only we do not think it is right to make the horses work on Sunday, do you?"
"No, miss, I candidly don't; and that's a fact," replied the good creature.
"Mrs.," amended Mary Grey, with a smile.
"'Mrs.' of course! I beg your pardon, ma'am! But you looked so young, and I may say childish, and I didn't notice the widow's cap before," apologized the hostess.
"Well, as we had no friends in the town—no one with whom we could stop to dinner—I and my brother set out to walk home again. He is an invalid, and is quite exhausted with fasting and fatigue. So perhaps, under the circumstances, you would not mind letting us have a parlor to rest in and a little dinner."
"Of course not, ma'am; for under such circumstances it is clearly my duty to entertain you," answered the good soul, who, under no possible circumstances, would have been false to her ideas of right.
"You are very kind. I thank you very much," said Mary Grey, sweetly.
"Here is a room at your and your brother's disposal, ma'am. No one will intrude upon you here," said the hostess, opening a door that led into a neat back parlor, whose windows overlooked the garden and orchard attached to the house.
"Come," said Mary Grey, beckoning to her companion.
"Dear me! I never saw a brother and sister look so much alike as you two do," remarked the hostess, admiringly, as she showed them into the back parlor.
She left them, promising to send in a nice dinner.
"And coffee with it, if you please," added Mary Grey, as the landlady went out.
"Yes, certainly, ma'am, if you wish it," she answered, as she disappeared.
Mary Grey went to the back window and looked out upon the pleasant garden, verdant and blooming with shrubs, rose-bushes and flowers.
Craven Kyte joined her.
"Did you hear that old lady call us brother and sister?" inquired the young man.
"Yes," answered Mary Grey, with her false smile. "But I did not think it necessary to set her right."
"And she said we looked so much alike," smiled Craven.
"We both have dark hair and dark eyes. And we are both rather thin in flesh. That is the beginning and the ending of the likeness. And her imagination did the rest," explained Mary Grey.
They were interrupted by a pretty mulatto girl, who came in to lay the cloth for dinner.
And this girl continued to flit in and out of the room, bringing the various articles of the service, until, on one of her temporary absences, Craven Kyte exclaimed:
"I would rather have sat and fasted with you under that pretty porch of the old road-side empty house than sit at a feast here, with that girl always running in and out to interrupt us."
"Never mind, dear. As soon as we get something to eat we will go," said Mary Grey, with her sweet, false smile.
In a reasonable time a dainty little dinner was placed upon the table, consisting of broiled chickens, green corn, asparagus and mashed potatoes, with fragrant coffee for a beverage and peaches and cream for dessert.
When they had partaken of this, and had rested a while, Craven Kyte went out and paid the bill. And Mary Grey again drew the landlady aside, out of hearing of her companion, and said:
"We are so much rested and refreshed by your admirable hospitality that my brother and myself think we shall walk back to town and attend afternoon service."
The good hostess smiled approval, but expressed a hope that they would not overdo themselves.
Mary Grey smiled and took leave, and walked off with her captive.
They went on until they came in front of the vacant house with the vine-clad porch.
"Come, won't you rest here a little while?" inquired Craven Kyte, laying his hands upon the latch of the gate.
"Yes, for a little while only," said Mary Grey, consulting her watch. "It is now half-past three o'clock, and service commences at half-past four. And Imustbe at church in time for the commencement of the service. You will go to church with me, of course," she added.
"Of course!" answered Craven Kyte, emphatically.
"I am sorry that I can not ask you to sit with me; but the fact is I have only one seat that I can call my own in a crowded pew belonging to the Blairs. But you can walk with me to church, and join me again after the service," exclaimed Mary Grey.
"I should so much like to sit by your side!" said poor Craven, with a disappointed look.
"Don't you see, my dear, it is quite impossible? The service, however, is short, and I will join you immediately after it."
And as they talked they went in and sat down on the porch.
"This is a pretty little old-fashioned cottage. Don't you think so?" inquired the beauty, as they looked around them.
"Very pretty," agreed her victim, who would equally have agreed to anything she might have proposed.
"Look what a fine luxuriant garden it has behind it, all growing wild with neglect."
"Yes."
"And the orchard back of that. See the trees bending under their loads of ripening apples or peaches."
"Yes. It's a wonder the boys don't go in and steal them."
"No boy would enter there for love or money."
"Why?"
"Because this is the house in which Barnes killed his wife and child, in a fit of insane jealousy; and the place has the terrible reputation of being haunted."
"Oh!"
"Yes; it is said that the ghost of a weeping woman, carrying a weeping child in her arms, is seen to wander through garden and orchard at all hours of the night, or to come in and look over the beds of the sleepers in the house, if any are found courageous enough to sleep there."
"Oh! And that is the reason, I suppose, that the house remains untenanted?" said Craven Kyte.
"Yes, that is the reason why the house, pleasant and attractive as it looks, remains untenanted; and why the garden and orchard, with their wealth of flowers and fruit, remain untouched by trespassers," said Mrs. Grey.
"It is a pity such a pretty place should be so abandoned," mused the young man.
"It is. But, you see, family after family took it and tried to live in it in vain. No family could stay longer than a week. It has now been untenanted for more than a year. I have heard that the owner offers to rent it for the paltry sum of fifty dollars a year."
"For this delightful house!"
"For this haunted house, you mean!" said Mrs. Grey.
"Oh, nonsense! I beg your forgiveness, my dearest, I did not mean that for you, but for the gabies that believe in ghosts!" said Craven Kyte.
"Then you do not believe in ghosts?"
"I!"
"Well, I thought you did not. In fact, I knew you did not. Now I want you to do something to please me," said the siren, laying her soft hand upon his shoulder.
"Anything in this world, you know, I will do to please you."
"Well, I want you to rent this house."
Craven Kyte started with surprise and looked at the speaker.
She went on, however, regardless of his astonishment.
"And I want you to purchase furniture enough to fit up one room for yourself; and I want you to do that the first thing to-morrow. And I want you to lodge here alone, while you remain in Richmond."
He still stared at her in amazement, but with no sign of a wish to disobey her strange commands.
She went on with her instructions.
"You can walk into the city, and take your meals at any restaurant you please; but you must lodge here alone while you stay in the city."
"I will do so," he answered, earnestly, as he recovered the use of his tongue—"I will do anything you tell me. I am entirely under your orders."
"You are the best fellow in the whole world, and I love the very ground you walk on!" exclaimed the traitress, warmly.
He grasped her hand convulsively and pressed it to his lips, and then waited her further directions.
"To reward you I will come out here every morning and spend the whole day with you."
"Oh, that will be heavenly! I should be willing to live in a cave on such delightful conditions!"
"But mind, my dearest one, you must not come to see me at my boarding-house, or try to meet me, or to speak to me, after to-day, anywhere where I am known," added Mrs. Grey, gravely.
"Oh, that seems very hard!" sighed the victim, with a look of grief, almost of suspicion.
"Why should it seem hard, when I tell you that I will come out here every morning to spend the whole day with you?" inquired Mrs. Grey.
"But why, then, can I not go home with you and spend the whole evening in your company at your boarding-house?" pleaded the poor fellow.
"Because we should have no comfort at all in a whole parlor full of company, as there is at the Misses Cranes' every evening. And because we should be talked about in that gossiping boarding-house circle. And, finally, because I should much rather stay with you alone here in this house, where there is no one to criticise us, as late every evening as I possibly can, and let you walk home with me and leave me at the door at bed-time. Now don't you think mine the better plan?"
"Oh, yes, indeed, if you really will spend the evenings with me also!"
"Why, certainly I will! And now let us walk on to church. And mind, you must leave me at the church door and find a seat for yourself, while I go to mine. After church I will come out here with you again and sit with you all the evening. I have no doubt the good woman at the rustic inn down the road will give us tea, as she gave us dinner," said the beauty, as she arose and slipped her hand within her companion's arm.
They left the house together and walked on to the church.
And the programme for the afternoon and evening was carried on according to the beautiful schemer's arrangement.
After the services were concluded they walked out to the suburban inn, where the simple-minded hostess willingly agreed to furnish tea for such a pious church-going brother and sister.
And when they had had this tea, Mary Grey, to beguile the landlady, took her willing captive for a walk further out toward the country; and then returning by a roundabout route,came to the vacant road-side cottage, where, as the September evening was very warm, they sat under the vine-clad porch until ten o'clock.
Then they walked back to the town together.
Craven Kyte took Mary Grey to the gate of her boarding-house, where, as the place was silent and deserted, they paused for a few last words.
"Mind, the first thing you do to-morrow morning will be to go and find the owner of the haunted house and rent it from him," said the widow.
"Yes," answered her white slave.
"And the next thing you do will be to go and buy the furniture necessary to fit up one room for yourself, and have it taken out there and arranged."
"Yes," he answered again, very submissively.
"That will take you nearly all day, I think."
"I will hurry through the business as fast as I can, so that I may see you the sooner. When can I see you to-morrow?" he pleaded.
"At seven o'clock to-morrow evening wait for me at the haunted house. I will come and stay with you there until eleven."
"Oh, that is so long to wait! May I not see you sooner?"
"Impossible! I have a sacred duty to do to-morrow that will engage me all day. But you too will be busy. And we can look forward all day to our meeting in the evening. And after to-morrow we can meet every morning and spend the whole day together," said the traitress, sweetly.
"I suppose I must be content!" sighed the victim.
"Now good-night, dear. And good-bye until to-morrow night," murmured the siren, as she gave her lover a Judas kiss and dismissed him.
Mary Grey hurried into the drawing-room, where the Misses Crane were still sitting up.
"My dear Mrs. Grey, we feared that something had happened to you," said the elder Miss Crane.
"Oh, no! I went to see one of my Sunday-school pupils, whom I missed from my class, and whom, upon inquiry, I found to be ill at home. I have spent the whole day with the sick child, except the hours spent at church. And I must go to see her again to-morrow morning," said the widow, with a patient smile.
"How good you are!" murmured Miss Crane.
Mary Grey shook her head deprecatingly, bowed good-night to the slim sisters and went upstairs to her own room.
Early the next morning Mary Grey, telling her hostesses that she was then going to sit with the sick child, left the old manor-house and walked rapidly to the railway station and took a ticket for Forestville, a village about twenty miles from the city, on the Richmond and Wendover Railroad.