The lover is a king; the groundHe treads on is not ours;His soul by other laws is bound,Sustained by other powers.Liver of a diviner life,He turns a vacant gazeToward the theater of strife,Where we consume our days.—R. M. Milnes.
The lover is a king; the groundHe treads on is not ours;His soul by other laws is bound,Sustained by other powers.Liver of a diviner life,He turns a vacant gazeToward the theater of strife,Where we consume our days.—R. M. Milnes.
The lover is a king; the groundHe treads on is not ours;His soul by other laws is bound,Sustained by other powers.Liver of a diviner life,He turns a vacant gazeToward the theater of strife,Where we consume our days.
—R. M. Milnes.
On that Monday morning Alden Lytton left Blue Cliff Hall with his heart full of joy and thankfulness.
He was the accepted lover of Emma Cavendish. And he was so somewhat to his own amazement, for he had not intended to propose to her so soon.
She was a very wealthy heiress, and he was a poor young lawyer, just about to begin the battle of life.
They were both still very young and could afford to wait a few years. And, ardently as he loved her, he wished to see his way clearly to fame and fortune by his profession before presuming to ask the beautiful heiress to share his life.
But the impulse of an ardent passion may, in some unguarded hour, overturn the firmest resolution of wisdom.
This was so in the case of Alden Lytton.
Up to Saturday, the last day but one of his stay at Blue Cliff Hall, the lovers were not engaged.
Rumor, in proclaiming their engagement, had been, as she often is, beforehand with the facts.
But on that Saturday evening, after tea, Alden Lytton found himself walking with Emma Cavendish up and down the long front piazza.
It was a lovely summer night. There was no moon, but the innumerable stars were shining with intense brilliancy from the clear blue-black night sky; the earth sent up an aroma from countless fragrant flowers and spicy shrubs; the dew lay fresh upon all; and the chirp of myriads of little insects of the night almost rivaled the songs of birds during theday. And so the night was filled with the sparkling light of stars, the fresh coolness of dew, the rich perfume of vegetation and the low music of insect life.
The near mountains, like walls of Eden, shut in the beautiful scene.
Alden Lytton and Emma Cavendish sauntered slowly up and down the long piazza feeling the divine influence of the hour and scene, without thinking much about either.
Indeed, they thought only of each other.
They were conscious that this was to be their last walk together for many months, perhaps for years.
Something to this effect Alden murmured.
He received no reply, but he felt a tear drop upon his hand.
Then he lost his self-control. The strong love swelling in his soul burst forth into utterance, and with impassioned tones and eloquent, though broken words, he told her of his most presuming and almost hopeless love.
And then he waited, trembling, for the rejection and rebuke that his modesty made him more than half expect.
But no such rebuff came from Emma Cavendish.
She paused in her walk, raised her beautiful eyes to his face and placed both her hands in his.
And in this manner she silently accepted him.
How fervently he thanked and blessed her!
Emma Cavendish had always been a dutiful daughter to the doting old lady in the "throne room;" so that night, before she slept, she went in and told her grandmother of her engagement to Alden Lytton.
Now, by all the rules of wrong, Madam Cavendish should have resolutely set her face against the betrothal of her wealthy granddaughter to a young lawyer with no fortune of his own and with his way yet to make in the world.
And if the old lady had been somewhat younger she would probably have done this very thing.
But as it was, she was "old and childish;" which means that she was more heavenly-minded and nearer heaven than she ever had been since the days of her own infancy and innocence.
So, instead of fixing a pair of terrible spectacled eyes upon the young girl and reading her a severe lecture upon "the eternal fitness of things," as illustrated in wealth mating with wealth and rank with rank, she looked lovingly upon her granddaughter, held out her venerable hand, and drew her up to her bosom, kissed her tenderly, and said:
"Heaven bless you, my own darling! This has come rathersuddenly upon me; but since, in the course of nature, you must some time marry, I do not know a young gentleman in this world to whom I would as soon see you married as to Mr. Alden Lytton. But, my child, I do not think you ought to be married very soon," she added.
"No, dear grandma, I know that," said Emma, kneeling down by her side and tenderly caressing and kissing her withered hands. "No, dear grandma, I will never leave you—never for any one—not even for him!"
"My darling child, you mistake my meaning. It is not for the selfish purpose of keeping you here near me that I advise you to defer your marriage for a time. It is because I think it is decorous that some months should elapse between the betrothal of a young pair and their wedding. Though, of course, there are some cases in which a short engagement and a speedy marriage become expedient or even necessary. As, for instance, my child, if I felt myself near death now I should certainly wish to hasten your marriage, rather than leave you unprotected in this world."
Emma Cavendish could only kiss her grandmother's hands and thank her through falling tears.
"And now; my child, I must go to sleep. I always want to go to sleep after anything exciting has happened to me. Good-night, and may Heaven bless you, my love!" said the old lady, affectionately, as she dismissed her granddaughter.
While Emma Cavendish was talking with her grandmother, Alden Lytton went into the parlor, where he found his sister alone, sitting by one of the windows, gazing thoughtfully out upon the beautiful night.
He drew a chair to her side, seated himself and, with his arm around her waist, told her of his new-born happiness.
She congratulated him fervently and earnestly; and then, returning confidence for confidence, told him of her engagement to the young minister of Wendover.
For rumor, in Mr. Lyle's and Miss Lytton's case also, had anticipated the facts, and had reported their betrothal all over the country long before it was announced to their nearest friends.
Alden Lytton, with all his approving heart, wished his sister joy in her prospective union with the worthy young clergyman.
And then the two, talking together over their future, decided that they must write at once to their Uncle John Lytton and inform him of their engagements.
Alden undertook to write a letter on the part of both his sister and himself that night.
And, on further discussion, it was decided that at the close of her visit to Blue Cliff Hall, Laura should go to Lytton Lodge to make a visit to her relatives there.
The entrance of Emma Cavendish put an end to the discussion, and was the occasion of new congratulations.
The next morning Madam Cavendish sent for Alden Lytton and Emma Cavendish to come up to her room together.
And she then and there read them a grave and affectionate little lecture upon the duties and responsibilities of an engaged couple, gave them her blessing and dismissed them to go to church.
That Sunday morning every one at Blue Cliffs knew of the betrothal of Mr. Lytton to the young mistress of the Hall.
And on Monday morning all the county knew it just as well as they had known it a month before it happened.
And every one said over once more what they had already said so often—that it was a great pity the daughter of the late Governor Cavendish should be allowed to throw herself and her wealth away upon a penniless young fortune-hunter like Alden Lytton, and all for the want of a proper guardian at hand to restrain her. Old Madam Cavendish, they said, was no better than none at all. And really the Orphans' Court ought to interfere, etc.
But the very bitterest of the malcontents were parents with marriageable sons of their own, any one of which might one day have aspired to the hand of the heiress.
Little cared the happy lovers what their neighbors might think about their betrothal.
They parted that morning, not with tears, but with bright smiles and promises of frequent correspondence.
Alden Lytton stopped in Wendover to take leave of his friend, Mr. Lyle, and to announce the betrothal of Miss Cavendish and himself.
And then, scarcely waiting to receive the congratulations of the minister, he hurried off to catch his train for Richmond.
An hour after this Mr. Lyle had an interview with Victor Hartman, and delighted that poor fellow's soul with the announcement of the betrothal.
And on the same day Mr. Lyle, commissioned by Victor Hartman, went to Blue Cliff Hall and requested an interview with Madam Cavendish.
The old lady, thinking this was the usual pastoral call from the minister, sent word for him to come up to her room.
And there she received him alone, and after the usual greetings opened the conversation herself by informing him of the betrothal of her granddaughter to Mr. Alden Lytton.
"It was upon that very subject that I came to see you, madam, on the part of the young gentleman's guardian," replied the minister, and then and there announced the fact that Mr. Alden Lytton's "guardian" would be prepared to pay down to his ward one hundred thousand dollars on the day of his marriage with Miss Cavendish.
"Emma has money enough," said the old lady; "but that indeed is very liberal. I never could understand about that secret guardian, friend, patron, or whatever you might call him, of the young Lyttons," she added, as if she would have liked some information on the subject.
"No, madam, and I am sorry that I am not yet at liberty to tell you more about him. This, however, I may say, that he is able and willing to keep his word."
And so that interview ended.
Meanwhile, Alden Lytton sped on toward the city. He traveled by the express train, which stopped at but few stations.
About two o'clock in the afternoon the train made its longest pause, at a little station about midway between Wendover and Richmond, where it stopped twenty minutes for dinner.
Many of the passengers left the train to stretch their cramped limbs or to satisfy their hunger.
Alden Lytton got out and went into the waiting-room, when the first form his eye fell upon was that of Mary Grey.
She looked pale, weary and harassed, as she sat alone on one of the benches, with a small carpet-bag at her feet.
Now Alden Lytton's heart was so full of happiness that it expanded with affection for the whole human race, and even warmed with sympathy for this erring woman, who had once possessed and forfeited his faithful boyish love.
And now, in his compassion, he went to her and, smiling very kindly, he said:
"Why, Mrs. Grey! I am so surprised to see you here, and alone too!" he added.
"When, since I left Blue Cliff Hall, have you ever seen mewhen I have not been alone?" she inquired, with a sad smile.
"True," he answered, gently. "Even in a church, or a crowded parlor, you have still been ever alone. But why should this be so, while you have so many faithful friends? Miss Cavendish I know is—"
She put up her hand to stop him. She turned paler than before, and trembled as with a chill. For she had loved this manonly, of all that she had fascinated and fooled; she had loved himutterly; and even now, when she bitterly hated him, she could not bear to hear her rival's name from his lips.
"'The heart knoweth its own bitterness,'" she murmured, in faltering tones. "Let us talk of something else. I came down here to bring some funds that I had collected from charitable friends for a poor family who were burned out near this village. And now I am going back by this train. Pray pardon my nervousness! But the crowd and bustle and excitement of a railway station always does make me very nervous."
"You need refreshment. Come to the table with me and have something. There is yet plenty of time," he said, kindly, offering her his arm.
He felt so safe and happy in his wisely placed affection and firmly based engagement to Emma Cavendish that he could afford to be very kind to this poor woman, although she had once possessed—and by her conduct forever forfeited—his honest youthful love.
He gave her his arm and led her away to the dining-room, where a crowd was collected at the refreshment table.
There was a whisper between two attendants as they passed by.
"Hush! That is the young fellow she has been waiting here to meet. It is a runaway marriage, bless you!"
This whisper reached the ears of Alden Lytton and Mary Grey.
Alden Lytton paid no attention to it, thinking that it referred to some "levanting" youth and girl who had chosen this station for their escapade.
But Mary Grey smiled grimly to herself as she heard it.
They had barely time to get a cup of coffee each before the warning shriek of the steam engine called the passengers to take their places.
Alden Lytton drew his companion's arm within his own, led her into the ladies' car, put her into a comfortable seat, and took his place beside her.
Purposely suggested by Mary Grey's own calculated actions while waiting at the station, a whisper had got around among the attendants that the lovely young lady in black had come down to meet her lover and elope with him; and from the attendants it had reached the ears of some of the passengers.
And now, as Alden Lytton placed himself innocently enough on the seat beside Mary Grey, the eyes of several of their fellow-travelers turned with curiosity toward them.
Certainly the demeanor of both rather favored the idea of their being a pair of engaged lovers.
Alden Lytton, with his beaming and happy face, and his careful attentions to his companion, wore the look of a successful suitor and prospective bridegroom. Mary Grey, with her pale, pretty face and nervous manner, had as much the appearance of a runaway girl, trembling and frightened at what she was daring.
Meanwhile the train whirled onward, bearing many passengers to happy homes or on pleasant visits; but carrying one among them on to crime and another to disaster.
As they drew near the end of the journey the crowd in the ladies' car was thinned out by the leaving of passengers at the smaller stations, until at length Alden Lytton and Mary Grey were left nearly alone and quite out of hearing of any fellow-traveler.
Then Alden said to her:
"I hope you have some plan of occupation and happiness for your future life."
"Yes," murmured Mary Grey, "I have some little prospect. I have the offer of a very good position in a first-class ladies' college near Philadelphia."
"I hope it will suit you."
"I do not know. I have promised to go on and see the institution and talk with the principal before concluding the engagement."
"That would be safest, of course," said Alden.
"And I should have gone on a day or two since, but the journey, with its changes from steamer to car and car to steamer, is really quite a serious one for me to take alone, especially as I always get frightened and lose my presence of mind in the terrible uproar of a steamboat landing or a railway station."
"Then you should never undertake such a journey alone," said Alden, compassionately.
"No, I know it. But yet I shall have to do so, unless Ican hear of some party of friends going on in a few days whom I could join," sighed Mary Grey.
"I am not 'a party of friends,'" smiled Alden; "but I amonefriend who will be pleased to escort you on that journey, as I am myself going to Philadelphia in a few days."
"You!" exclaimed Mary Grey, in well-affected astonishment.
"Yes, madam," replied Alden, with a bow.
"I did not know you ever went North at all," she added, lifting her eyebrows.
"I never yet have been north of Baltimore, strange to say," smiled Alden Lytton; "but I am going in a few days to Philadelphia to purchase a law library, and should be happy to escort you to your place of destination."
"You are very kind to me, and I am very grateful to you. I accept your offer, and will try to give you as little trouble on the journey as possible."
"Oh, do not speak of trouble! There will be none, I assure you," said Alden, pleasantly.
"You are very good to say so, at all events."
"What day would it suit you to go on?" inquired Alden.
"Any day this week—whenever it will be convenient to you. I am the obliged party and should consider your convenience."
"Not by any means! Any day this week would suit me equally. So I beg that you will please yourself alone."
"No."
"Let me be frank with you then and prove how little it really would matter to me whether we go to-morrow or any day thereafter. I have to select and fit up a law office, and I have to select and purchase a law library; and I do not care in the least which I do first," said Alden, with earnest politeness.
"Then, if it really is a matter of indifference to you, I think we will go to Philadelphia on Wednesday morning."
"Very well. I will make my arrangements accordingly. This is Monday night. We have one intervening day. Where shall I call for you on Wednesday morning?"
"You need not call. I will meet you on the Washington boat."
"Just as you please. I will be there."
The engine shrieked its terrific warning, slackened its speed, and ran slowly into the station.
"I will call a carriage for you," said Alden Lytton.
And he left his companion in the waiting-room while he went out and selected a good carriage for her use.
Then he came back, took up her traveling-bag, drew her arm in his own, and led her out to it.
"Where shall I tell the coachman to take you?" he inquired, when he had placed her comfortably in her seat.
"To the Misses Cranes', Old Manor, near the Government House," she answered.
Alden Lytton bowed and closed the door, gave the order to the coachman, and then walked off to his own old quarters at the Henrico House.
The carriage started, but had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when Mrs. Grey stopped it.
The coachman got off his box and came to the window to know her will.
"Turn into the old paper-mill road. I wish to call on a sick friend there before going home. Go on. I will keep a lookout and stop you when we get near the house."
The coachman touched his hat, remounted, and turned his horses' heads to the required direction.
Mary Grey sat close on the left-hand side of the cushion, and drew the curtain away, so that she could look through the window and watch their course.
The night was clear, starlit and breezy after the hot September day.
It was still early, and the sidewalks were enlivened by young people sauntering in front of their own houses to enjoy the refreshing evening air, while the porches and door-steps were occupied by the elders taking their ease in their own way.
But in the next mile the scene began to change, and instead of the populous street, with its long rows of houses and the cheerful sidewalks, there was a lonely road with detached dwellings and occasional groups of people. In the second mile the scene changed again, and there was an old turnpike, with here and there a solitary road-side dwelling, with perhaps a man leaning over the front gate smoking his pipe, or a pair of lovers billing and cooing under the starlit sky.
Mary Grey kept a bright lookout for the "haunted house," and presently she recognized it, and saw a light shining through the little front window under the vine-covered porch.
"He is there, poor wretch, sure enough, waiting for me. I feel a little sorry for him, because he loves me so devotedly. But heigho! If I do not spare myself, shall I spare him? No!" said Mary Grey to herself, as she ordered the coachman to draw up.
He stopped and jumped off his box, and came and opened the carriage door. But it was the door on the other side of the carriage, opposite the middle of the road, and not opposite the house, where she wanted to get out.
"Open the other door," she said.
But the negro's teeth were chattering and the whites of his eyes rolling, in fearful contrast with the darkness of his skin.
"Open the other door and let me out. I want to go into that house," repeated Mrs. Grey, a little impatiently.
"Dat dere house? Oh, laws-a-messy! Bress my soul, missy, you don't want to go in dat house! Dat's de haunted house! And oh, law, dere's de corpse lights a-burnin' in dere now!" gasped the negro, shudderingly, pointing to the dimly-lighted windows under the porch.
"You blockhead, those are the tapers in my friend's sickroom! Open the other door, I tell you!" said Mrs. Grey, angrily.
"'Deed—'deed—'deed, missy, you must scuse ole nigger like me! I dussint do it, missy! I dussint go on t'other side ob de carriage nex' to de ghoses at no price!" said the negro, with chattering teeth.
Mary Grey turned and tried to open the other door for herself, but found it impossible, and then turned again and said:
"Well, stand out of my way then, you idiot, and let me out ofthisdoor!"
The negro gave way, and she got out of the carriage into the middle of the dusty road.
At the same moment some one came softly through the cottage gate and looked up and down the road, as if watching for some one else.
As Mary Grey came round the carriage to the front of the house, she recognized in the watcher Craven Kyte, who at the same instant perceived her.
"Wait here for me," she said to the frightened coachman, as she walked rapidly toward the man who was hurrying to meet her.
"My darling! I have been waiting for you so long!" he said, seizing her hand.
"Hush! The coachman might hear you," she whispered. "Let me come in."
He drew her arm within his own and led her into the cottage, and into a cool, well-lighted and tastefully-furnished parlor.
Poor fellow, he had not only put in a few necessary articles of furniture for his own sleeping-room, but he had fitted up a pretty parlor for her reception, and provided a dainty feast for her entertainment.
To do this in time, he had worked like a mill-horse all day long, and he had spent all his available funds, and even pawned his watch and his little vanities of jewelry to raise more purchase-money.
And now he felt rewarded when he saw her look of surprise, which he mistook for a look of pleasure.
There was an Indian matting of bright light colors on the floor, white lace curtains lined with rose-colored cambric at the windows, and a sofa and easy-chairs covered with rose-colored French chintz. There were a few marble-top stands, and tables covered with white crochet-work over rose-colored linings. There were vases of fragrant flowers on the mantle-shelf, and on the window-sills and stands, and every available place.
In the center of the room stood a small table, covered with fine white damask, decorated with a Sevres china set for two, and loaded with a variety of choice delicacies—delicious cakes, jellies, fruits, preserves and lemonade.
"This is a surprise," said Mary Grey, sinking into one of the tempting easy-chairs.
"Oh, I am glad you like it as it is! But oh, indeed, I wish everything here was more worthy of you! If it were in my power I would receive and entertain you like a queen."
"You are so good—so thoughtful! And nothing in the world could be pleasanter than this cool, pretty parlor," said Mary Grey, trying to rouse herself from the abstraction into which she had fallen after her first look of surprise at the decorated room; for, truth to tell, her mind was occupied with graver thoughts than appertained to house or furniture, flowers or fruits.
"And this has been ready for you, my queen, ever since sunset. And here I have sat and waited for you, running out every five minutes to see if you were coming," he said, half reproachfully.
"Well, I am here at last, you impatient boy! I could not come before. I was sitting with a sick friend and could not leave her until she went to sleep," smiled the siren.
"I shall end in being very wickedly jealous of your sickfriends, and your poor friends, and your lame friends, and all the other forlornities that take you away from me, and keep you away from me so much," he sighed.
"Ah, but when we are married I shall give up this sort of life! For I know that 'charity begins at home;' and though it ought not always to stay there, yet should it stay there the principal part of its time," smiled the witch.
"Ah, I am so glad to hear you say so, dearest dear! Youwillstay at home for me most of your time then?"
"It will be my delight to do so!"
He caught her hand and kissed it ardently, and drew her slightly toward him, looking at her longingly, as if pleading for a closer kiss.
But she smiled and shook her head, saying, archly:
"Remember—remember, if I come here to see you, you must treat me with some respectful reserve, or I will never come again."
"I will do exactly as you wish. I am your slave, and can do no otherwise than as you bid me," he said, with a sigh.
"That is a good, dear boy!" she answered, patting his cheeks; and then adding, archly, "A few days, you know, and 'the tables will be turned.' It will then beyouwho will have the right to command, and some one else who must obey."
As the Circe murmured these words, his color went and came, and when she ceased he panted out his answer:
"Oh, the thought of ever having you for my own is—too much rapture to be credited! But, Mary, my queen Mary, then and ever I shall be your slave as now!"
"Well, we'll see," she murmured, smiling and caressing him. "But now I am tired and hungry, and you are forgetting the duties of a host."
"I am forgetting everything in looking at your beautiful face. But now, will you let me take off your bonnet and shawl here, or will you go into the next room and do it for yourself, I remaining here until you come back?"
"I will go into the next room, if you please," said Mary Grey.
And he arose and opened the back door of the cottage parlor and held it open for her.
She passed through into a prettily-furnished and well-lighted little bed-room, whose back windows opened upon the fragrant flower-garden.
Here she found everything prepared for her comfort, as if it had been done by the hands of a woman. She took off herbonnet and shawl, brushed her clothes, bathed her face and hands, smoothed her raven ringlets, took a fresh cambric handkerchief from her pocket and saturated it with Cologne from the toilet-table, and then passed out again into the parlor.
Her devoted slave was waiting forherthere. And on the table, in addition to the other comforts, there was a little silver pot of rich aromatic coffee.
"Why, have you a cook?" inquired Mrs. Grey, in some disturbance.
"No, darling; I made that coffee myself. Sit down now and try it," smiled the poor fellow.
"You are a jewel!" she said, as all her disturbance disappeared, and she sat down to the table.
He waited on her with affectionate solicitude, helping her to coffee and cream, to chicken salad and pickled oysters; changing her plate and pressing her to try the jellies and the cakes, or the fruit and ices, until she had feasted like a princess.
He, in the meantime, ate but little, seeming to feed upon the sight of her enjoyment. At length she pushed her plate and cup away and declared she could touch nothing more.
Then he arose as if to clear the service; but she stopped him, saying:
"Leave it just as it is and come and sit with me on the porch outside. The night is beautiful, and I want to sit there and talk with you. I have something to propose."
And she ran into the back room for her bonnet and shawl.
He got up and gave her his arm and took her out upon the porch.
And they sat down together on the bench, under thickly overhanging vine-leaves.
"Craven," she murmured, with her head upon his shoulder, "do you really love me as much as you profess to do?"
"Do I really love you?" he repeated, with impassioned earnestness. "Oh, how shall I prove to you how much? Protestations are but words. Show me how I can prove to you how much I love you! Put me to the test! Try me—try me!"
She hesitated and sighed—perhaps in pity and remorse for this poor boy, who loved her so devotedly, and whom she was about to require to pay down his honor and his life as the price of her hand.
"Oh, tell me how I can show you the height and depth andbreadth—no; I should rather say the immeasurability of my infinite love!" he pleaded, prayerfully.
Again she sighed and trembled—yes, trembled at the contemplation of the wickedness she was about to perpetrate; but she did not draw back from it. She slid her arm around his neck and kissed him softly, and then said:
"Listen to me, Craven, my dearest. This is Monday night, you know."
"Yes," he said, attentively.
"On Wednesday morning I am to start for Philadelphia."
"Oh!" he exclaimed, uneasily.
"Hush! Wait until you hear me out. You must meet me in Philadelphia on Friday morning. And we will be married on Friday noon."
He was struck speechless, breathless, for a few moments with the excess of his delight.
Then he panted forth the words:
"Oh, bless you! Bless you, my queen, my angel! I bless you for this great joy!"
"You must be calm, my dear, and hear me out. You must be punctual, and meet me on Friday morning at ten o'clock, atthisaddress," she continued, handing him a slip of paper with the address in question written upon it. "There; now put it into your pocket-book and keep it safe."
"I will—I will, my queen! But why may I not go with you?"
"For reasons that I will explain soon. Till I do, you must trust me."
"I trust you utterly."
"Then please leave here for Philadelphia on Tuesday evening, so as to precede me by twelve hours. And on Friday morning, by ten o'clock, be at the place I have designated, and wait until I join you."
"And we will be married the same day?"
"We will be married at noon on the same day. Now do you understand?"
"My mind is in a delirium of joy, but I understand."
"Now, dearest, you must take me out to the carriage," she said, rising and drawing her shawl around her.
He gave her his arm and led her out to the carriage, which the frightened negro coachman had driven quite to the opposite side of the road from the terrible haunted house.
"Now go on to the Misses Cranes'," she said, after she had taken leave of her victim and settled herself in her seat.
It was nearly twelve o'clock when she entered her boarding-house; but she told her waiting landladies that she had spent the day and half the night with the sick child, and they were satisfied.
Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge,Accursed and in a cursed hour, she hies.—Milton.
Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge,Accursed and in a cursed hour, she hies.—Milton.
Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge,Accursed and in a cursed hour, she hies.
—Milton.
On that Wednesday morning the fine steamer "Pocahontas" lay at her wharf receiving freight and passengers for Washington and Alexandria.
Her decks were crowded with men, women and children, all either going on the voyage or "seeing off" departing friends and acquaintances.
Among the passengers on the forward deck stood a slight, elegant, graceful woman, clothed in widow's weeds and deeply veiled.
This was, of course, Mary Grey, bound upon her baleful errand.
She had spent the intervening Tuesday with her infatuated instrument, Craven Kyte. But when he pleaded to attend her to the boat and see her off she forbid his doing so on pain of an eternal separation from her.
But she renewed their agreement that he should precede her by twelve hours, and meet her at a designated place in Philadelphia on Friday morning.
And she stayed with him until quite late in the evening, and finally left him comforted with the hope of a speedy meeting and a certain marriage.
For the edification of her landladies, the precise Misses Crane, she trumped up a story that at once explained the necessity of her sudden journey North, and, as usual, redounded to her own credit.
She had received a telegram, she said, from a friend who had just lost her father, and who was in great affliction. And she must go on immediately to comfort that bereaved soul.
The Misses Crane, as usual, thought she was an angel in woman's form, and bade her heaven speed on her benevolent errand.
And now she stood upon the deck of the "Pocahontas," waiting for that traveling companion whom she had fatally beguiled to be her escort.
The boat was getting up her steam, and yet he had not made his appearance.
What if he should not come, after all?
Just as she asked this question it was answered by his rapid approach.
He came up, traveling-bag in hand, happy, smiling, radiant.
"Mrs. Grey, I have been looking for you all over the boat. I feared that I had missed you," he said, gayly, holding out his hand.
"I have been waiting for you here," she answered, with a smile.
"I am glad to find you at last. But will you not come into the cabin? The deck is not a pleasant place while the boat is at the wharf," he said, as he offered her his arm.
She thanked him with a smile, took his arm and let him lead her into the saloon.
It was at that moment empty of other visitors. And those two weretête-à-tête.
He gave her a pleasant seat, placed himself beside her, and then and there he told her of his betrothal to Emma Cavendish.
Of course she already knew all about it. But he was not aware of her knowledge. And his motive in announcing the intelligence to her was evident even to Mary Grey's vanity-blinded mind. It was to set their own relations at once upon a true basis, and prevent all misunderstanding and all false hopes growing out of their long-lost love.
Although she had known all this so well before he spoke of it, yet it required all her powers of self-control and duplicity to listen quietly while he spoke of her rival and to affect a sympathy with his happiness.
Yet she did this so well that he was thoroughly deceived.
"It was all a foolish mistake our fancying we loved each other so much, was it not, Alden, dear?" she inquired, with an arch smile.
"I think so," he answered, quite frankly.
"I am glad to hear you admit that, for now we can understand each other and be good friends, and nothing more," she added, sweetly.
"Yes, good friends always, Mary," he agreed.
He was so happy in his blessed love for Emma Cavendish that he felt kindly toward all the world, and especially toward this "friendless young widow," as he called her.
"But you know, Alden, that it is quite common for youngmen of earnest souls like yours to take a liking to women older than themselves."
"You are not older than myself, Mary."
"Not in years, perhaps, but oh, ever so much in suffering, and in the bitter knowledge of the world it brings! And thus, for this reason, I was no proper wife for a happy young man like you. No young man should ever marry a widow, and no young girl should ever marry a widower. Our fancied love for each other was a mistake, dear Alden, and I am very glad it was discovered before it was rendered irremediable."
"So am I," replied the young man, quite frankly. "But, dear Mary, I hope you will henceforth look upon me and my dearest Emma as your brother and sister, for we will be truly such in deed as well as in word to you," he added, with grave gentleness.
"I know you will; I feel certain of that. And I thank you from my heart, while I rejoice in your happiness. Yours will be a good, wise and beautiful marriage with Emma, Alden," she murmured, with emotion.
"Yes, I think so too. Thanks be to Heaven!" replied the young man, reverently bowing his head.
The steamer was now pushing off from the wharf amid much pulling, hauling, hallooing and shouting.
You couldn't "hear yourself think," even in the cabin, for a while.
"We are off, I believe," said Mary Grey, at length, when the uproar had subsided and they were moving swiftly and smoothly along.
"Yes. Will you come on deck? It is pleasanter there now," said Alden, rising and offering her his arm.
She took it with a smile and let him lead her up on deck.
And as they promenaded slowly up and down, enjoying the fine September morning and the beautiful river scenery, Mary Grey drew him on to speak of Emma Cavendish.
Of course the young lover desired no better theme.
And in this way, leading him to discourse of his love, listening to him with attention, pretending sympathy with his happiness, she effected several objects important to the success of her demoniac plot. She pleased him with himself and with her. She dispelled his suspicions, if any still lurked in his candid soul, and she kept him always near her, talking with her, and unconsciously attracting the attention of their fellow-voyagers, and leading them to believe that this handsome young man, speaking so earnestly in such low tones to his companion, and the lovely youthful widow, who waslisteningto him with such rapt attention, were a pair of happy and devoted lovers.
Thus passed the forenoon.
When the early steamboat dinner was ready he took her down to the table, sat beside her, and assiduously attended to her wants.
After dinner, when she was disinclined to walk or to talk, he brought out some newspapers and magazines and sat down beside her on deck and they read together.
At tea-time he took her down to the table again.
And after tea, as the September night was cool on the water, they sat down at one of the cabin tables and played checkers together until it was time to retire.
And thus all day long and all the evening through, in sight of all the people, Alden Lytton unconsciously conducted himself, as Mary Grey intended that he should, like her betrothed lover.
In due time they reached Washington, and crossed the length of the city to take the train for Philadelphia, where they arrived late on Thursday night.
"Have you any preference for one hotel over another?" inquired Alden, as they stood amid the horrible din of contesting hackmen, porters, 'bus-drivers,et cætera.
"None whatever," she answered.
"Then we'll go to the Blank House, if you have no objection."
"None. We will go there."
"Here's your Blank House 'bus!" shouted a driver above all the other shouts.
"Oh, don't let us get into that crowded cage! A carriage, please," pleaded Mrs. Grey.
And Alden Lytton, believing her fastidiousness and timidity to be real and not affected, and withal feeling bound to be guided by her wishes, called a carriage and put her into it.
As they were rolling rapidly on their way to the Blank House, Mary Grey shivered and suddenly said:
"Oh, please, when we get to that great rambling hotel do not let them put me away off in a room in a remote part of the house by myself or among total strangers. I always feel so frightened in a great hotel. And I am always sure to lose myself, or do something ridiculous, or get into trouble, whenever I attempt to find my way through the labyrinth of halls and passages between the bedrooms and parlors. Will you please take care of me?"
"I will take the same care of you that I would take of mysister Laura. I will see that you have a room adjoining my own," answered Alden Lytton, unsuspiciously, and smiling indulgently at what he thought her childish cowardice.
When their carriage reached the Blank House he took her up to the reception-room and left her there, while he went to the office and engaged apartments for himself and for her.
And then he came for her, attended by the porter, who loaded himself with their traveling-bags, umbrellas, and so forth, and led the way up two pairs of stairs to a little suite of apartments, consisting of two small chambers, with a small parlor between them.
They entered the parlor first, where communicating doors on the right and left led into opposite chambers.
The porter put down the luggage, received his fee, and retired.
"I hope you like these rooms, Mrs. Grey. The two chambers are exactly alike; but if you have a preference, please take it," said Alden, pleasantly.
"It does not matter the least. I will go in here," answered Mary Grey, opening the right-hand door and disappearing through it, with her traveling-bag in her hand.
She found every convenience for making a clean toilet there. And when she had refreshed herself with a wash and a change of dress, she re-entered the little parlor, where she found supper laid on the table and an attentive waiter at hand.
"I ordered supper here, because I remembered your fastidiousness and thought you would prefer this to the public dining-room," explained Alden.
"Thanks! Oh, I do like it ever so much better! I can not endure the public rooms," said Mary Grey, as she took the seat the obsequious waiter placed for her.
"Anything more, if you please, sir?" inquired the man.
"N-n-no," answered Alden, hesitatingly; for in fact, if he could have found a fair excuse, he would have preferred to have the waiter remain in attendance.
The man bowed and left the room.