One sole desire, one passion, now remainsTo keep life's fever still within her veins.For this alone she lives—like lightning's fire,To speed one bolt of ruin—and expire.—Byron.
One sole desire, one passion, now remainsTo keep life's fever still within her veins.For this alone she lives—like lightning's fire,To speed one bolt of ruin—and expire.—Byron.
One sole desire, one passion, now remainsTo keep life's fever still within her veins.For this alone she lives—like lightning's fire,To speed one bolt of ruin—and expire.
—Byron.
Alden sat down at the table and began to carve a roasted chicken.
While he was intent upon his task, Mary Grey drew from her watch-pocket a little folded paper. With her eyes upon him, to be sure that he was not observing her, she deftly poured a white powder from this paper into one of the coffee-cups, and then quickly returned the empty paper to her watch-pocket.
Meanwhile he had taken off the liver-wing from the roasted chicken and placed it on a warm plate, which he passed to her.
"Will you have a cup of coffee now, or afterward?" she inquired, as she took the offered plate.
"Now, please. Coffee is the most refreshing of all beverages after a fatiguing journey," he added, as he received the cup from her hands.
It was a very nice supper, yet neither of them seemed inclined to eat.
Mary Grey trifled with her chicken-wing, tasted her milk-toast and sipped a little coffee. She looked pale, frightened and self-concentrated.
Alden Lytton drank his coffee, remarking, with a smile, that it was very, very strong, in fact quite bitter in its strength.
And when he had finished it he pushed the cup away, saying that it had quite satisfied him and deprived him of the inclination to take anything else.
As he said this he looked at his companion, and noticed for the first time the ghastliness of her countenance.
"Mrs. Grey, are you ill?" he inquired, in some alarm.
"No; only fatigued from that railway journey. The train always shakes me into a jelly," she answered, shivering.
"How very delicate you are, poor child! It is a great pity you should ever be called to bear any of the roughness of life.And when my dear Emma and I have a home together we must take care to shield you from all that," he said.
And then he sank into a sudden silence, while she watched him closely.
"Willyounot take anything?" she inquired.
"No, thank you. That coffee was no doubt very fine; but it was a bitter draught, and it has taken away my appetite for anything else," he answered, with a smile and a half-suppressed yawn.
"Are you not well?" she next inquired.
"Oh, yes; quite well; never better in my life!" he answered, putting his hands on his lips to conceal an irrepressible yawn.
"But you also seem very tired."
"No, only deliciously sleepy, as if I would like to go to sleep and never wake up again," he said, with a laugh and a smothered gape.
"Then do not stand on ceremony with an old friend like me. Bid me good-night and go at once," she said.
"And you?" he inquired.
"I am too tired to go to sleep yet. I shall sit in that rocking-chair and rock gently. That motion will soothe and rest me better than anything else, and after an hour I shall be able to go to bed and go to sleep."
As Mary Grey spoke, Alden Lytton staggered to his feet and tottered toward her, held out his hand and faltered, drowsily:
"I am forced to take your advice. I must retire at once or I shall not be able to reach my room. I never felt so over-powered by sleep in all my life before. Good-night, my dear Mrs. Grey. I hope that you will sleep as well as I am sure that I shall. Good-night."
He pressed her hand, and then, groping like a blind man, he passed into his own room and shut the door behind him.
Mary Grey gazed breathlessly at the closed door for a while, murmuring to herself:
"I doubt if that fellow will be able to divest himself of his outer garments before he falls down headlong in a dead stupor. I have him in my power now—I have him in my power now! At last—at last! Oh, yes! Oh, yes, Miss Cavendish, you will marry him, will you not? And you, Stephen Lyle, how proud you will be to have his sister for your wife and himself for a brother-in-law! But I must cover up my tracks," she added, suddenly, as she went around to his vacated place at the table and took his empty cup and rinsed itout carefully several times, throwing the water into the empty grate, where it soon dried up. Then she poured some of the coffee-grounds from her own cup into the rinsed cup to conceal the rinsing. Finally she drew from her watch-pocket the little white paper from which she had poured the powder into the coffee-cup and she held it in the blaze of the gas-light until it was burned to ashes.
Then she sat down in the rocking-chair and smiled as she rested.
At intervals she bent her head toward the door leading into Alden Lytton's room and listened; but she heard no sound of life in there.
She sat on in the rocker until the striking of a large clock somewhere in the neighborhood aroused her.
It was twelve o'clock.
Midnight!
She arose and cautiously opened the door leading into Alden Lytton's room.
She looked like a thief.
The gas was turned down very low; but by its dim light she saw him sleeping a heavy, trance-like sleep.
She went into the room and to the door leading into the passage and bolted it.
Then she closed every window-shutter and drew down every window-shade and let down the heavy moreen curtains, making all dark.
Then she returned to the parlor, closed the intervening door and threw herself into the rocking-chair and closed her eyes in the vain endeavor to rest and sleep.
But sleep and rest were far from her that night.
The clock struck one.
All sounds even about that busy hotel gradually ceased. The house was still, awfully still, yet she could not sleep.
The clock struck two.
She started up with a shiver, exclaiming:
"I can not sleep; but I can go to bed and lie there."
And she went into her own room and went to bed, but not to rest.
She heard the clock strike in succession every hour of the night, until it finally struck four.
Then, when the people of the house were beginning to stir, she, overcome with fatigue and watching, at length fell asleep.
As usual in such cases of long night watching and early morning sleep, she slept long into the forenoon. When she awoke and looked at her watch she found it was nine o'clock.
She arose in haste and dressed herself.
This was the morning in which she was to meet her unconscious confederate in crime, Craven Kyte.
As soon as she was dressed she went into the parlor, where, it appeared, the waiter with his pass-key had already been before her, for the remains of the last night's supper had been carried away and the room had been restored to order.
She then listened at Alden Lytton's door.
All was dark as a vault and still as death there.
She opened the door cautiously and went in.
He was still sleeping a death-like sleep in the pitch-dark room. She went and looked to the door leading into the passage and found it still bolted.
Then she came out of the room, locked the door between it and the parlor, and so isolated the sleeper from all the house.
Lastly she put on her bonnet and shawl and walked out. She walked down the street for several blocks, and then hailed an empty cab that was passing and engaged it to take her to a certain picture-shop in a distant part of the city.
It was at this shop that she had engaged to meet Craven Kyte that morning at ten o'clock.
A half-hour's rapid drive brought her to the place.
On arriving, she got out, paid and dismissed the cab, and entered the shop.
It was not yet ten o'clock, nor had her intended tool and victim yet made his appearance.
It was also too early for the usual customers of the establishment.
But a polite clerk came forward and placed a catalogue and a small telescope in her hands, that she might the better examine the pictures.
"Thank you. I would like to look at a city directory first, if you please," she said, as she put aside the catalogue and the telescope.
The clerk handed her the required volume.
She turned to the church directory, and looked down its columns until she found what she seemed to be in search of.
And then she marked it with a pencil and closed the book.
At that moment Craven Kyte entered the shop.
On catching sight of her whom he loved and came to meet his face lighted up with joy and he hastened toward her.
But she held up a warning finger to him, and in obedience to its signal he moderated his transports and came to her quietly.
"This is no place to make demonstrations of that sort,"she said. "Here, take your pencil and a bit of paper and copy off this address for me," she added, opening the directory and pointing to the name she had marked.
"The Reverend Mr. Borden, number —, —— street," said Craven Kyte, reading the address that he had copied.
"That will do; now come along. We will go straight to that reverend gentleman's house," said Mary Grey.
And they left the shop together.
"Oh, Mary, my love—my love! How tantalizing it is to me to meet you here in public, where I may scarcely take your dear hand, when my heart is nearly breaking with its repressed feelings!" he whispered, in eager tones.
"You impatient boy, you are worse than any spoiled child!" she said, archly.
"Oh, Mary, my love, my lady, you will keep your promise? You will be mine to-day?" he pleaded.
"I will be yours within two hours—upon one condition."
"Name it—name it!" he eagerly exclaimed.
"You must not marry me under your own name, but under that of Alden Lytton."
When she had said this, she stole a glance at him to see how he took it, and she was somewhat abashed by the look of unutterable amazement on the honest face of the young man.
"Come, what do you say to that?" she inquired.
"My dear Mary, what an astounding proposition!" he exclaimed.
"But you will agree to it?"
He was silent.
"You will agree to this, because you love me," she added.
But he continued silent and very sad.
"You will agree to do this for the sake of making me your wife?" she persisted.
"My dearest Mary, it is impossible!" he answered, with a painful effort.
"There! I knew it! Say no more! You professed great love for me once. You were willing to do, dare, or die for me, if necessary. You wished me to put you to the test, totryyou, as you called it; yet, the very first time I have tested your sincerity, you have failed me, as I foresaw that you would. Good-bye, Mr. Craven Kyte. We part here, and we part forever," said Mary Grey, with cold contempt, as she turned away from him.
"No, no, no—for Heaven's sake, no!" cried the young man, piteously. "Do not leave me so suddenly. Give metime to think. Oh, I can not part with you! I must—must have you at any cost!" he muttered to himself.
She stopped and contemplated him as with scornful pity.
"Come—come into the square here and sit down. Let us talk this matter over. Pray do! Oh, I can not lose you so!" he pleaded, seizing her hand.
"Well, I will go in and sit on one of those benches for a few moments, and give you the opportunity of recovering your place in my confidence," she said, with a sort of contemptuous pity, as she turned and entered the square.
He followed her immediately, and they sat down together.
Bid me to leapFrom off the battlements of yonder towerAnd I will do it.—Shakespeare.
Bid me to leapFrom off the battlements of yonder towerAnd I will do it.—Shakespeare.
Bid me to leapFrom off the battlements of yonder towerAnd I will do it.
—Shakespeare.
"Now tell me what you wish me to do, and why you wish me to do it," said the lover, submissively.
"I have already told youwhatI wish you to do.WhyI wish you to do it must remain my secret for the present. You must trust me. Oh, Craven," she added, suddenly changing her tone to one of soft, sorrowful pleading, "why will you not trust me, when I am about to trust you with the happiness of my whole future life?"
"I do trust you! I trust you, as I love you, without limit!" answered the poor fellow, almost weeping.
"Ah, yousayyou do, yet you refuse to do as I wish you," sorrowfully replied the siren.
"I refuse no longer! I will do anything in the world you wish me to do with joy, if in that way I can have you for my own," he declared, with tearful emphasis.
"I knew you would. You are a dear, good, true heart, and I love you more than life!" she said, giving his arm a squeeze. "Listen, now."
He became suddenly all devoted attention, as she artfully unfolded to him just as much of her nefarious plan as was absolutely necessary to secure his co-operation in it. The whole of her scheme in all its diabolical wickedness she dared not expose to his honest soul.
She told him now that she had set her mind on a harmless practical joke, to win a wager with Emma Cavendish.
She said that he must so with her to see the Rev. Mr. Borden, rector of St. —— Church, and ask him to perform the marriage ceremony between them, and that he must give his own name as Mr. Alden Lytton, attorney at law, Richmond, Virginia, and give her name as it was—Mrs. Mary Grey, of the same city. And that they must be married under those names.
The young man stared until his black eyes looked big as old Booth's in the last scene of "Richard."
"But why?" he inquired.
"A practical joke, I tell you. Ah, how hard you are to manage! Why can you not trust me through a little mystery like this—a little practical joke like this?"
"Idotrust you; but I am afraid that it might seem like a practical forgery to be married under another person's name," he replied.
"Nonsense! Do you think that I could be such an idiot as to implicate you in any act that might be construed into forgery, practical or otherwise?" she inquired, with a light laugh.
"Oh, no, certainly you are not the lady to do that!" he admitted.
"Well, then, what next? You look as solemn as a judge or an owl!"
"I am afraid, also, that if I should be married under any other name than my own our marriage itself might turn out to be nothing more than a practical joke instead of a legal union."
"Mr. Kyte!" she suddenly exclaimed, with her eyes flashing fire. "You insult me! Am I the sort of woman that would compromise my good name in a marriage of doubtful legality?"
"Oh, no; certainly you would not! Nor did I mean that. I earnestly beg your pardon!" said Craven, penitently.
"You are a silly gander, and a dear, darling duck of a boy! And I love you! But you must understand that I know what I am about. And you must trust me—you must trust me; and, once for all, you musttrustme!" she said, archly, giving his arm another squeeze.
"I do—I do! Come; shall we be going? I am on the rack till our wedding is over."
"Yes; but we must take a cab. The distance is a long one."
"There is a cab-stand a couple of blocks from here. I noticed it as I came along. We will take one there, if you please."
She assented, and they walked on to the stand and engaged a cab.
When they were seated in it Craven Kyte ordered the cabman to drive to the rectory of St. —— Church.
Half an hour's driving brought them to their destination.
When the cab drew up to the door of the house, Craven was about to alight, when Mary Grey stopped him.
"Wait," she said.
And taking from her card-case a pencil and a blank card, she wrote upon it the name:
"Mr. Alden Lytton."
"Send that in," she said, handing the card to the bewildered young man.
Craven Kyte took it, looked at it attentively, and then exclaimed:
"Why, that is exactly like Mr. Lytton's own handwriting! If I had not seen you write it I should have taken it to be his autograph."
"Should you? So much the better. But never mind that now. Go and do as I told you."
He alighted immediately and went up to the door of the house. He rang the bell, and sent in the card by the servant who answered it.
After the lapse of a few moments the servant came back with a very favorable message.
Craven Kyte returned to the cab and whispered:
"Mr. Borden is at home and will see us. Come."
And he assisted her to alight.
And they went into the rectory, and were shown by a servant into the study of the rector.
Mary Grey courtesied to the gray-haired, dignified clergyman, who arose to receive her; but she kept her veil down as she took her seat in the chair he placed for her.
Craven Kyte then drew the reverend gentleman aside and spoke to him in a low voice.
Mr. Borden nodded and nodded as the speaker proceeded.
When he had finished speaking, the rector inquired:
"Both of legal age?"
"Both of more than legal age, and both quite independent of others," answered Craven Kyte.
"I merely asked the question because in cases of this kind I prefer that the parties should be of legal age; though were they minors I should feel it to be my duty to marry them all the same, because, I think, when a youth and maiden runaway with each other the best thing a Christian minister can do for them is to tie them together for life."
"I am a bachelor of twenty-two years of age, and my chosen wife is a widow of twenty-one. We take this simple method of getting married for economy and convenience, and for no other reason; for there is no one in the world who has either the power or the will to prevent us," said Craven Kyte.
"Very well, Mr. Lytton; I am ready to wait on you. I prefer, however, to solemnize marriage in the church, when possible. There must be witnesses also. And if you have none at hand the sexton and some members of his family can serve."
Craven Kyte winced at the prospect of all these formalities.
"I thought that in the Quaker City marriage was a matter of less form," he said.
"Yes, among the Quakers; but even they must have witnesses. If you and the lady will go into the church I will join you there in a few minutes. You will find the doors open and the sexton in the building, preparing for the usual Friday afternoon service," said the rector.
And Craven Kyte again offered his arm to his companion and led her out of the rectory and into the church.
It was evident from all signs that the interior had just been swept out.
And an old man and a young woman, whom Craven Kyte and his companion rightly guessed to be the sexton and the sexton's daughter, were busily engaged in dusting the pews.
Craven Kyte and Mary Grey sat down upon a front seat before the altar to wait until the rector should make his appearance.
Mr. Borden did not keep them long in suspense. He soon entered, dressed in his surplice, and took his place within the chancel.
The candidates for matrimony advanced and stood before him.
He beckoned the sexton and the sexton's daughter to draw near and stand as witnesses.
And they came up, dusting-brushes in hand, and stood staring while the ceremony was performed.
After the preliminary exhortation and prayers the important questions were put:
"Will you, Alden, take Mary to be your wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?" and so forth, and so forth, and so forth.
To which Craven Kyte, turning pale at his own unwilling duplicity in answering to a false name, replied:
"I will."
"Will you, Mary, take Alden to be your wedded husband?" and so forth, and so forth.
To which Mary Grey answered firmly:
"I will."
And the ring was placed upon her finger. And her marriage vows were solemnly repeated, the last prayer said, and the benediction pronounced.
It was all over.
"Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."
The newly-married pair were about to turn from the altar, when the rector said:
"Come with me into the vestry for a moment."
And they followed him into the vestry, attended by the two witnesses.
The rector made an entry into a large book, and then called upon the bridegroom and the bride to sign their names.
Again Craven Kyte turned pale as death as he registered the false name under which he had been married.
But his companion wrote her name in firm and steady characters.
Then the sexton and his daughter signed as witnesses.
The rector filled out a blank form, which he also signed and caused to be signed by the two witnesses.
This he put into an envelope and handed to the bride.
Then he bowed to both, as a signal that all the forms had been complied with, and they were at liberty to depart.
"What was that paper the minister gave you, my dearest love?" whispered Craven, as they left the church.
"It was the certificate of marriage which the minister usually—and very properly—gives to the newly-married woman," answered the bride.
"Oh, quite right, my angel!" replied the doomed bridegroom, as he tenderly put her into the cab and took his seat beside her.
And then he clasped her to his honest heart in an ecstasy of love and went off into the most extravagant rhapsodies about his happiness.
"And I no friends to back my cause withal,But the plain devil and dissembling looks.I have him, but I will not keep him long."
"And I no friends to back my cause withal,But the plain devil and dissembling looks.I have him, but I will not keep him long."
"And I no friends to back my cause withal,But the plain devil and dissembling looks.I have him, but I will not keep him long."
"Did you tell the coachman where to drive?" inquired the bride, as the carriage rolled rapidly through one of the principal streets of the city.
"Yes, dearest," answered the infatuated bridegroom. "I told him to drive to the Asterick, where I am stopping, and where I have had elegant rooms prepared for your reception. Do you think I could have forgotten anything in which your comfort was concerned?"
"No, I am sure you could not; but—" She hesitated a moment, and then added: "I wanted to go somewhere else."
"My love—my love, you shall go where you please. After we have got to our rooms at the Asterick, and refreshed and rested ourselves, we will consult about where to go and spend a pleasant fortnight together," he answered, affectionately.
"Yes; but I don't want to go to the Asterick just yet."
"Where then? I will go anywhere you wish."
"You know I did not come to this city alone."
"Didn't you, dear? I thought you did."
"No; I came with a party of lady friends. And I left them all abruptly this morning to meet you, without telling them where I was going or when I should be back. I have now been gone two hours. They will be uneasy about me by this time. I must go back there and relieve their anxiety, and also get my traveling-bag."
"Very well, my darling, we will drive there immediately."
"No, no;youmust not go there! I have not told them anything about my intended marriage, so I don't want them to know anything about it, lest they should be offended. There is a reading-room at the corner of the street near the hotel. Stop there, and I will get out and walk to the house and take leave of my friends, and then return to the reading-room and join you. In the meantime you can send the carriage away, and while waiting for me you can amuse yourself looking over the books."
"But I hate to lose you even for an hour."
"Ah, be reasonable, and remember that it will be but for an hour or less time. And when we meet again it will be to part no more forever—or until death himself shall part us."
"I must submit, I suppose," said Craven, with a sigh.
"Submit? Oh, you crazy boy! You talk as if you were making some painful sacrifice!" she answered, with a light laugh.
"Itispainful to let you leave me even for an hour."
"Bah! You'll be glad to be rid of me some of these days."
"Never!"
"Bah, I say again! Come, here we are at the reading-room. Stop the carriage."
He did so.
"Let me out here and I will walk on," she said.
"Had you not better let me get out here, and keep your own seat and drive on?" he inquired.
"No. I don't want the carriage to take me to the hotel. The distance is short. I prefer walking. You had better dismiss it, and go into the reading-room and amuse yourself while waiting for me," she said.
He acquiesced, and she got out and walked rapidly on toward the Blank House.
With her thick veil let down, she slipped in through the ladies' entrance with some visitors that just happened to be going there.
She hurried upstairs to her own rooms and unlocked the door of the private parlor.
All within the place was just as she had left it two hours before.
She opened the window-shutters to let in the daylight, and then she went and listened at the door communicating with Alden Lytton's room.
At first all was still. But presently she heard a step about the room, and soon after other motions that proved the inmate to be busy at his toilet.
"He is up and dressing himself. I have not returned one minute too soon," she said, as she seated herself in an easy-chair near the window.
The next moment the door opened and Alden Lytton entered, smiling.
"I do not know how to apologize for my stupid neglect. But I hope you will believe me when I assure you it was inadvertent. The truth is I overslept myself. I can't think what made me do it," he said, actually blushing like a boy at the thought of his involuntary sluggishness.
"You were very much fatigued last night. I am very glad you had a refreshing sleep. I hope you feel the better for it," she answered, with her sweet smile.
"Well, no; not much better. You know there is such a thing as taking too much sleep. I feel quite as if I had taken twice too much—dull and heavy, with a stupid headache. I never was inebriated in my life, but I should think a man that had been so, over night, would feel just as I do this morning."
"Ah, I am sorry! But the fresh air will do you good, no doubt."
"No doubt. And really it is not worth speaking of. I see you have your hat on. You have been taking a walk this fine morning, while I lay like a sluggard, sleeping myself into a headache?"
"No, I have not been out. I put my hat on merely to be ready to start the moment we had breakfasted. For I must go and see the principal of the ladies' school this morning."
"Why, I hope you have not waited breakfast for me all this time!" exclaimed Alden, in a tone of regret.
"I have not waited very long. And if I must confess the fault, I have not been up very long myself."
"Ah!" laughed Alden Lytton. "So somebody else overslept herself!"
"Yes; ''tis true, 'tis pity, and pity 'tis 'tis true!'"
"You must be hungry, however. I will ring and order breakfast directly."
"No, please don't. It will take too much time. For once we will go down in the dining-room and get our breakfast."
"As you please," said Alden Lytton, as he arose to attend her down-stairs.
The guests had nearly all left the dining-room, so there were waiters enough at leisure to attend to these late arrivals; and it followed, of course, that they had not long to wait for their coffee and rolls.
They did not tarry over their meal. Both were in a hurry.
"I should have been at the law publisher's two hours ago," said Alden.
"And I should have been at the ladies' school about the same time," added Mary.
"I shall never forgive myself for sleeping so ridiculously long and detaining you," said Alden.
"Say no more about it. We shall only have to hurry over our breakfast to make up for lost time," answered the traitress.
And they soon finished and arose from the table.
"Will you be so good as to order a carriage for me while I run upstairs and get my traveling-bag?" she inquired.
"Certainly," he answered, as he gave her his arm and led her to the foot of the grand staircase.
And as she ran up, he turned and sent a hall porter for the carriage.
And then he waited at the foot of the stairs for her return.
The carriage was announced, and she reappeared about the same time.
She carried in her hand a leather bag and a small silk umbrella, both of which she handed to a porter.
"This looks like a departure," said Alden Lytton, as he gave her his arm to lead her to the carriage.
"It may be a departure," she answered; "and I must take this, perhaps last, opportunity of thanking you for all your brotherly kindness to me. If I should not return by six o'clock this evening, please give up my room."
"I will do so," said Alden Lytton. "And in that case I also shall give up my room, for I think I shall be able to get through with my business to-day. If you should be returning to Virginia I should be pleased to escort you back."
"Thanks! But I rather think that I shall try the school. That will do. I am very comfortable. Thanks, very much!" she added, as she settled herself in the seat where he had placed her.
"Where shall I tell the coachman to drive?" inquired Alden.
"Tell him to call first at the reading-room at the corner of the next street. I wish to look at the directory there before going further."
This order was given to the coachman, who immediately started his horses.
In a very few minutes the carriage drew up before the reading-room door.
Mary Grey—as I still prefer to call her—got out and ran into the room.
Craven Kyte was there, trying to interest himself in a morning paper. As soon as he saw her he dropped the paper and started to meet her.
"It seems to me you have been gone four hours instead of one," he said.
"I have been gone just an hour and seven minutes, you very bad boy!" she answered, playfully. "Now, then, I am at your lordship's service."
"Oh, my beloved, do not speak so to me, even in sport, for you are my queen and I am your subject! Shall we go now?"
"Yes, I have a carriage at the door, with my little luggage in it."
"Come then, love."
They went out together and entered the carriage.
"Drive to the Asterick Hotel," said Craven Kyte to the coachman.
"And tell him to drive slowly, for I wish to talk to you as we go along," she whispered.
"Drive slowly," said Mr. Kyte, giving her order.
"Now, Craven, dear," she said, as they went along, "I wish you to understand that I don't want to stop at the Asterick longer than it will take you to pay your bill and pack your portmanteau."
"Where do you want to go then, my darling? I am ready to go anywhere with you," he replied.
"Then I have a fancy for spending a few days at Havre-de-Grace. It is a very pretty place. We can take the next train and get there in two or three hours."
"Very well, my angel, I will make every effort to catch that train."
"Now, then, tell the coachman to drive fast."
Again Craven Kyte conveyed her orders to the man on the box, who touched up his horses.
And they were whirled rapidly on toward the Asterick Hotel, where they soon arrived.
"Hadn't I better tell the carriage to wait?" inquired Craven Kyte.
"No; send it away. We can pick up another one in a moment," answered his companion.
Craven Kyte paid and discharged the carriage, and they went into the house.
He took his companion up into the private parlor he had engaged for her, and he pressed her to partake of some refreshments while he packed up his portmanteau and paid his bill.
But she declined the refreshments and said she would wait, keeping herself closely veiled all the time.
He hurried through his business as fast as he could, and soon rejoined her.
He took her down to the cab he had engaged, and which was already packed with their luggage.
A half-hour's rapid drive took them to the railway station,which they reached only in time to buy their tickets, check their baggage and take their seats before the train started.
It was the express. And they were soon whirled through the country to the town where the bride chose to spend her honeymoon.
They took rooms in a pleasant hotel in the town, and after an early tea they strolled down to the water-side to look at the small shipping.
It was a delicious evening in September. The sun had just set, and the whole expanse of water was aflame with the afterglow.
A refreshing breeze had sprung up, and the river was alive with pleasure boats of every description, from the sail- to the row-boat.
And there were more boats for hire, at the service of any who might wish to amuse themselves upon the water.
"Take a boat. Craven, and let us go out for a row. The evening is so delightful, the sky and the water so beautiful," said the bride, coaxingly.
"I would like to do so, my angel; but, to tell the truth, I am a very inexperienced oarsman, and I can not swim at all," answered the poor fellow, apologetically.
"Are you afraid then, Craven?" she asked, with exasperating archness.
"No, love, not for myself, but for you. If by my awkwardness any accident should happen to you I think I should run raving mad," he answered, earnestly.
"Oh, well, never mind me! There is no cause for fear whatever, as far as I am concerned. I can row like a squaw and I can swim like a duck. And I think I could do so ever since I could walk. At least, I certainly do not remember the time when I could not swim," said the lady, laughingly.
"What a wonder you are—in everything!" exclaimed the lover-bridegroom, in a rapture of admiration.
"No wonder at all. I was brought up on the water-side, and was always a sort of amphibious little creature, as often in the water as out of it. Come, now, will you hire a boat to please me?"
"Of course! I would do anything in the world to please you, my angel!"
"Then engage that little pea-green boat. It is a nice one," she said, pointing to a frail skiff moored near them.
"That, my dearest Mary? Why, that is a mere egg-shell! It could not live in rough water. And if this gentle breeze should rise into a wind—"
"Are you afraid?" she inquired, with provoking sarcasm.
"I say again not for myself, but for you."
"And I say again that there can be no ground of fear for me. I say again I can row like a squaw and swim like a duck. There! Now will you get the boat I want?"
"Yes, my darling, I will. And I will also take the precaution to hire the man in charge of it to help us row, in case of accidents."
"No, no, no; I won't have the man! He would spoil all our pleasure. I want you and myself to go out alone together, and have no interloper with us."
"But, my beloved—"
"I don't believe you love me at all, when you want a great hulking boatman to be in the boat with us, watching us," said the bride, with pretty childish petulance.
"Not love you? Oh, heaven of heavens! Youknowhow I love you—how Iadoreyou—how Iworshipyou!" he whispered, earnestly.
"Will you get the boat I want before it grows too dark?"
"Yes, yes, I will, my darling! I can refuse you nothing," said the infatuated bridegroom as he walked down to the water's edge and forthwith hired the one she had set her heart on.
Then he came back to take her down to the boat.
It was a mere shell, as he had said; and though the boatman declared that it could easily carry six if required, it did not look as if it would safely bear more than two or three passengers at most.
They were soon floating out upon the water and down with the tide past the dingy colliers and the small trading vessels that were anchored there, and out among the coming and going sloops and schooners.
"Let me row toward that beautiful wooded shore. It is so lovely over there!" said Mary Grey, coaxingly.
"'Distance lends,' and so forth," smiled Craven Kyte, as he at once headed for the shore.
But the outgoing tide had left a muddy beach there, and so they had to keep at a respectful distance from it.
They rowed again to the middle of the river.
The afterglow had faded away, but the blue-black starlit sky was brilliantly reflected in the dark water.
When they had rowed an hour longer, back and forth from shore to shore, Craven Kyte drew in his oar and said:
"It is growing late and very dark, love. Had we not better go in?"
"No, no, no!" answered the bride, with prettily assumed authority.
"But, dear love—"
"The night is beautiful! I could stay out here until morning!"
"But chills and fevers, these September nights, darling!"
"Fiddle-de-dee! Are you afraid?"
"Not for myself, love, but for you."
"I never had a chill in my life! I am acclimated to these water-side places. If you are tired of rowing give me the oars."
"Not for the world! What, fatigue your dear arms? I would sooner mine dropped from my shoulders with weariness!"
And he took up both oars again and plied them actively, although his unaccustomed muscles were aching from the long-continued exercise.
"Turn down the stream then and row with the tide. It will be so much lighter work than rowing back and forth across the river."
"But it will take us so far from the town."
"Never mind!"
"And it will make it very difficult, when we turn back, to row against wind and tide."
"Bah, we will not stay out long! We will only go around that point that I see before us. What a fascination there is in a turning point! We always want to see what is on the other side," said Mary Grey, lightly.
Meantime, Craven Kyte had turned the boat and they were floating down stream very fast.
They soon passed the point, and saw on the other side a flat, sandy shore, with the woods at a little distance.
They were still off the point, when Mary Grey suddenly uttered an exclamation of dismay.
"What is the matter?" hastily inquired Craven Kyte.
"Oh, my hat! My hat has fallen off my head and is in the water! If you stoop over quick you can reach it before it floats quite away!" she said, eagerly.
Craven Kyte immediately drew in his oars and secured them, and then bent over the side of the boat to reach the hatthat was still floating within three feet of his hands. He bent very far out and endangered his balance.
Mary Grey arose to her feet. Her eyes were glittering like phosphorus in the night, her face pallid in the starlight.
He bent lower down and further out, trying to reach the hat, when suddenly she gave him a push and he fell into the river, and went down before he could utter the cry upon his lips.
The force with which she had pushed her victim into the water had given the little boat an impetus that sent it flying down the stream, and rocking violently from side to side.
It was as much as she could do to keep her place in it. Any other than an experienced boat-woman like herself must have been shaken out and drowned.
She heard her victim's agonized scream for help as he rose the first time to the surface of the water.
But she gave it no attention.
For even if she had repented, and had wished to save him, she could not do so now.
She could, with the greatest difficulty, keep her place in the rocking boat until the impetus that had started it was spent.
Yet again that awful cry for help pierced the night sky as the drowning man arose the second time to the surface; but on this occasion the cry sounded farther off, and the boat, though it had ceased to rock, was flying rapidly down stream.
She took hold of the rudder and tried to guide the flying little shell.
Her situation, self-sought as it had been, was one of almost intolerable horror.
The night sky was above her, the dark waters beneath her, and around her, at various distances, like little dim white specks, were to be seen the sails of the coming and going colliers, and other small trading craft.
She steered down the stream with the tide, pausing now and then and listening. But she heard no more that agonized cry of the drowning man, though she knew it would ring in her spirit's ears forever.
She steered down stream until she heard the sound of oars, and of merry laughter and cheerful talk, and then she dimly perceived the approach of a large pleasure boat crowded with gentlemen and ladies.
Then she, knowing it was too late to save her victim, deceitfully raised a shrill scream, that attracted the attention of the people in the large boat, which was immediately rowed in the direction of the cry.
Soon the two boats were side by side.
"What is the matter?" inquired a man's voice from the larger boat.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, help! My companion has fallen overboard, and, I fear, is drowned!" cried Mary Grey, wringing her hands in well-simulated grief and terror.
"Where? Where?" inquired a dozen eager, interested voices, all at once.
"Just about here. Oh, look for him, listen for him! Do try to save him!" cried the hypocrite, seizing her own hair, as if she would have pulled it out by the roots, in her pretended anguish of mind.
"Where did he fall? Did he not struggle?" inquired two or three voices, as the oarsmen rowed their boat around and around in a circle and peered over the surface of the water for some sign of the lost man.
"Oh, he sank at once—he sank at once!" cried Mary Grey, beating her breast.
"But he will come up again. They always do, unless they are seized with the cramp and it holds them. Keep a bright lookout there, boys, and if you see so much as a ripple in the water make for it at once! We may save the poor fellow yet!" said the voice of a man who seemed to be in authority.
"How in the world did he happen to fall over, miss?" inquired another voice.
"Oh, my miserable, unlucky hat blew off my head and fell into the water. I begged him not to mind it—told him I would tie a pocket-handkerchief over my head—but he wouldn't listen to me. Oh, he wouldn't listen me! And so, in stooping to recover my wretched hat, he bent over too far, lost his balance and fell into the water. And oh, he sank at once like lead! Oh, do try to find him! Oh, do try to save him! He might be resuscitated even now, if you could find him—might he not?" she cried, wringing her hands.
"Oh, yes, ma'am!" answered a man, in his good-natured wish to soothe who he took to be a distracted woman.
And they rowed around and around, peering into the water and listening for every sound.
But there was no sign of the lost man.
After they had sought for him about an hour the man who seemed to be the chief among them said:
"I am afraid it is quite vain, ma'am. It is not a drowning, but a drowned man that we have been seeking for the last hour. Tell us where you wish to go, and we will take you home. To-morrow the body may be recovered."
But Mary Grey, with a wild shriek, fell back in her boat and lay like one in a swoon.
"We must take the lady into this boat of ours, and tow the little one after us," said the man.
Mary Grey was lifted, in an apparently fainting condition, from her own little boat into the larger one beside it. She was laid down carefully and waited on tenderly by the sympathizing ladies in the larger boat.
Meanwhile the little boat was tied to the stern of the larger one, to be towed up the river.
"Where are we to take the poor unfortunate woman, I wonder?" said one of the ladies.
"If she does not come to her senses in time to tell us where she lives you can bring her to my house," answered another lady.
"Or to mine," said a third.
"Or mine," added a fourth.
"Or mine," "or mine," chimed in others.
Everybody was emulous to succor this unhappy one.
As they neared the city Mary Grey condescended to heave a deep sigh, shudder and open her eyes.
Then a chorus of sympathizing voices saluted her. But she wept and moaned, and pretended to refuse to be comforted.
It was some time before the persevering efforts of a gentleman succeeded in persuading her to understand and answer his question as to where she lived.
"At the Star Hotel," she said, with a gasp and a sigh, as if her heart were broken.
The boat landed; and the "poor lady," as she was compassionately called, was tenderly lifted out by the gentlemen and carefully supported between two of them while she was led to the hotel, followed by the ladies.
The sad news of the young gentleman's fate was immediately communicated to the people at the hotel, and soon spread through the town.
Ah, the drowning of a man at that point was not such an unusual event after all, and it made much less impression than it ought to have done.
Some people said they felt sorry for the poor young womanso suddenly bereaved and left among strangers; and perhaps they really believed that they did so; but the next instant they thought of something else.
But the ladies who had been present near the scene of the catastrophe, and had witnessed Mary Grey's well-acted terror, grief and despair, really did sympathize with her supposed sorrows to a very painful extent.
After following her to the hotel, they went with her to her room, and helped to undress her and put her to bed.
And two among them offered to remain and watch with her during the night.
The sinful woman, already a prey to the horrors of remorse and superstition, dreading the darkness and solitude of the night, fearing almost to see the dripping specter of the drowned man standing over her bed, gratefully accepted their offer, and begged, at the same time, for morphia.
Her kind attendants were afraid to administer a dangerous opiate without the advice of a physician; so they sent for one immediately, who, on his arrival and his examination of the terribly excited patient, gave her a dose that soon sent her to sleep.
The two ladies took their places by her bed and watched her.
She slept well through the night, and awoke quite calmly in the morning. The composing influence of the morphia had not yet left her.
And with the returning daylight much of her remorse and all of her superstition vanished for the time being.
She thanked the ladies who had watched her during the night, and, in reply to their inquiries, assured them that she felt better, but begged them to keep her room dark.
They expressed their gratification to hear her say so. One of them bathed her face and hands and combed her hair, while the other one rang the bell, and ordered tea and toast to be brought to the room.
And they tenderly pressed her to eat and drink, and they waited on her while she partook slightly of this light breakfast.
Then they rang and sent the breakfast service away, and they put her room in order, and smoothed her pillows and the coverlet of her bed, and finally they kissed her and bade her good-morning for a while, promising to return again in the course of the afternoon, and begging that she would send for them, at the address they gave her, in case she should require their services sooner.
When she was left alone, Mary Grey slipped out of bed, locked the door after the ladies, and then, having secured herself from intrusion, she opened her traveling-bag and took from it a small white envelope, from which she drew a neatly-folded white paper.
This was the marriage certificate, setting forth that on the fifteenth day of September, eighteen hundred and ——, at the parish church of St. ——, in the city of Philadelphia, Alden Lytton, attorney at law, of the city of Richmond, and Mary Grey, widow, of the same city, were united in the holy bonds of matrimony by the Rev. Mr. Borden, rector of the church, in the presence of John Martin, sexton, and Sarah Martin, his daughter.
The certificate was duly signed by the Rev. Mr. Borden and by John Martin and Sarah Martin.
Mary Grey sat down with this document before her, read it over slowly, and laughed a demoniac laugh as she folded it up and put it carefully into its envelope and returned it to her traveling-bag, while she reviewed her plot and "summed up the evidence" she had accumulated against the peace and honor of Alden Lytton and Emma Cavendish.
"Yes, I will let him marry her," she said, "and then, in the midst of their fancied security and happiness, I will come down upon them like an avalanche of destruction. I will claim him for my own husband by a previous marriage. I have evidence enough to convict and ruin him.
"First, I have all his impassioned letters, written to me from Charlottesville, while I was a guest at the Government House in Richmond.
"Secondly, I have those perfectly manufactured letters addressed to me in a fac-simile of his handwriting, signed by his name and mailed from Wendover to me at Richmond.
"Why, these alone would be sufficient to prove his perfidy even to Emma Cavendish's confiding heart! And they would be good for heavy damages in a breach of promise case.
"But I do not want damages—I want revenge. I do not want to touch his pocket—I want to ruin his life. Yes—and hers! I want to dishonor, degrade and utterly ruin them both! And I have evidence enough to do this," she said, resuming her summing up, "for there is—
"Thirdly, his meeting me at Forestville and his journey with me to Richmond.
"Fourthly, his journey with me to Philadelphia.
"Fifthly, the rector's certificate, setting forth the marriage of Alden Lytton and Mary Grey.
"Sixthly, the testimony of the rector, who will swear that he performed the ceremony, and of the sexton and the sexton's daughter, who will swear that they witnessed the marriage of Alden Lytton and Mary Grey; and swear, furthermore—from his exact resemblance to Craven Kyte—to the identity of Alden Lytton as the bridegroom.
"Alden Lytton can not disprove this by an alibi, for at the very time Craven Kyte personated him, and under his name and character married me, Alden Lytton, in a dead stupor, was locked up in his darkened chamber, and no one knew of his whereabouts but myself, who had the key of his room.
"Nor can Craven Kyte 'ever rise to explain,' for death and the Susquehanna mud has stopped his mouth.
"So this chain of evidence must be conclusive not only to the minds of the jury, who will send my gentleman to rusticate in a penitentiary for a term of years, but also to Miss Cavendish, who will find her proud escutcheon blotted a little, I think."
While Mary Grey gloated over the horrors of her plotted vengeance, there came a rap at the door. She hastily put on a dressing-gown, softly unlocked the door, threw herself into an easy-chair, with her back to the window, and bade the rapper to come in.
The door opened and the clerk of the house entered, bringing with him the house register, which he held open in his hand.
"I beg your pardon for this unseasonable intrusion, madam," he said, as he laid the open book down on the table before her; "but being called upon to report this sad case of the drowning of a guest of this house, I find some difficulty in making out the name, for the poor young gentleman does not seem to have written very clearly. The name is registered C. or G. something or other. But whether it is Hyte or Flyte or Kyle or Hyle, none of us can make out."
Mary Grey smiled within herself, as she secretly rejoiced at the opportunity of concealing the real name and identity of Craven Kyte with the drowned man.
So she drew the book toward her and said, with an affectation of weariness and impatience, as she gazed upon poor Craven's illegible hieroglyphics:
"Why, the name is quite plain! It is G. Hyle—H-y-l-e. Don't you see?"
"Oh, yes, madam! I see now quite plainly. Excuse me: they ask for the full name. Would you please to tell me what the initial G stands for?"
"Certainly. It stands for Gaston. His name was Gaston Hyle. He was a foreigner, as his name shows. There, there, pray do not talk to me any more! I can not bear it," said Mary Grey, affecting symptoms of hysterical grief.
"I beg your pardon for having troubled you, madam, indeed! And I thank you for the information you have given me. Good-day, madam," said the clerk, bowing kindly and courteously as he withdrew.
The next day the newspapers, under the head of casualties, published the following paragraph: