MARY GREY'S MANEUVER.
She'd tried this world in all its changes,
States and conditions; had been loved and happy.
Scorned and wretched, and passed through all its stages;
And now, believe me, she who knew it best,
Thought it not worth the bustle that it cost.
--MADDEN.
Mary Grey now set systematically to work. Partly from love or its base
counterfeit, partly from hate, but mostly from vanity, she determined to
devote every faculty of mind and body to one set object--to win Alden
Lytton's love back again and to subjugate him to her will.
To all outward seeming she led a most blameless and beneficent life.
She lived with the bishop's widow, and made herself very useful and
agreeable to the staid lady, who refused to take any money for her
board.
And although the house was full of students, who boarded and lodged and
spent their evenings there, with the most wonderful self-government she
forebore "to make eyes" at any of them.
She now no longer said in so many words that "her heart was buried in
the grave," and so forth; but she quietly acted as if it was.
She put away all her mourning finery--her black tulles and silks and
bugles and jet jewelry--and she took to wearing the plainest black
alpacas and the plainest white muslin caps. She looked more like a
Protestant nun than a "sparkling" young widow. But she looked prettier
and more interesting than ever, and she knew it.
She was a regular attendant at her church, going twice on Sunday and
twice during the week.
On Sunday mornings she was always sure of finding Alden Lytton in his
seat, which was in full sight of her own. But she never looked toward
him. She was content to feel that he often looked at her, and that he
could not look at her and remain quite indifferent to her.
She was also an active member of all the parish benevolent societies, a
zealous teacher in the Sunday-school, an industrious seamstress in the
sewing-circle, and a regular visitor of the poor and sick.
Her life seemed devoted to good works, apparently from the love of the
Lord and the love of her neighbor.
She won golden opinions from all sorts of men, and women too. Only there
was one significant circumstance about her popularity--_she could not
win the love of children_. No, not with all her beauty and grace of
person, and sweetness and softness of tone and manner, she could not win
the children. Their sensitive spirits shrank from the evil within her
which the duller souls of adults could not even perceive. And many an
innocent child was sent in disgrace from the parlor because it either
would not kiss "sweet Mrs. Grey" at all, or would kiss her with the air
of taking a dose of physic.
But all the people in Charlottesville praised the piety and, above all,
the prudence of Mrs. Grey--"Such a young and beautiful woman to be so
entirely weaned from worldliness and self-love and so absorbed in
worship and good works!"
All this certainly produced an effect upon Alden Lytton, who, of course,
heard her praises on all sides, who saw her every Sunday at church, and
who met her occasionally at the demure little tea-parties to which both
might happen to be invited.
When they met thus by chance in private houses he would bow and say,
quietly:
"Good-evening, madam;" a salutation which she would return by a grave:
"Good-evening, sir."
And not another word would pass between them during the evening.
But all the young man observed in her at such times was a certain
discreet reserve, which he could but approve.
"She seems to be much changed. She seems to be truly grieved for the
past. Perhaps I have judged her too harshly. And yet what a base part
that was she proposed to play! may be that she herself did not know how
base it was. Such ignorance would prove an appalling moral blindness.
But then, again, should she be held responsible for her moral blindness?
It sometimes requires suffering to teach the nature of sin. A child does
not know that fire is dangerous until it burns itself. _Her_ suffering
must have opened her eyes to the 'exceeding sinfulness of sin.' For her
own sake I hope it is so. As for myself, it does not matter. I have
ceased to regard her with any other feeling than pity and charity. And
although she would become a saint I could never love her again," he said
to himself one night, after passing an evening with her at one of the
professor's houses.
And his thoughts reverted to that lovely maiden whose golden hair formed
an appropriate halo around her white brow, and whose pure soul looked
frankly forth from her clear blue eyes.
He was not in love with Miss Cavendish, he said to himself, but he could
not help feeling the difference between radiant frankness and dark
deceit.
One evening, about this time, they met at a strawberry festival, held in
the lecture-room of the church, for the benefit of the Sunday-school.
While the festival was at its height a thunder-storm came up, with a
heavy shower of rain. But the company at the festival cared little about
that. They were housed, and enjoyed themselves with light music, fruits,
flowers and friends. And before the hour of separation the storm would
probably be over, and carriages, or at least water-proof cloaks,
overshoes and umbrella's, would be in attendance upon every one.
So they made merry until eleven o'clock, when the storm was passing away
with a steady light rain.
Every lady who had a carriage in waiting offered to give Mrs. Grey a
seat and to set her down at her own door.
Mary Grey thanked each in succession and declined the kind offer, adding
that she expected some one to come for her.
At last nearly everybody had left the room but the treasurer of the
festival, who was counting the receipts, and the sexton, who was
covering the tables, preparatory to closing for the night.
Alden Lytton had lingered to make a quiet donation to the charity, and
he was passing out, when, he saw Mary Grey standing shivering near the
door.
As he came up to her she stepped out into the darkness and the rain.
He hastened after her, exclaiming:
"Mrs. Grey! I beg your pardon! Are you alone?"
"Yes, Mr. Lytton," she answered, quietly.
"And you have no umbrella!" he said, quickly, as he hoisted his own and
stepped to her side. "Permit me to see you safe to your door. Take my
arm. It is very dark and the walking is dangerous. The sidewalks are
turned to brooks by this storm," he added, as he held his umbrella
carefully over her.
"I thank you very much, Mr. Lytton; but indeed I do not wish to give you
so much trouble. I can go home quite well enough alone. I have often to
do it," she answered, shrinking away from him.
"It is not safe for you to do so, especially on such a night as this.
Will you take my arm?" he said; and, without waiting for her answer, he
took her hand and drew it through his arm and walked on with her in
silence, wondering at and blaming the heartlessness of the ladies of her
circle who had carriages in attendance, and had, as he supposed, every
one of them, gone off without offering this poor lonely creature a seat,
leaving her to get home through the night and storm as she could.
As they walked on he felt Mary Grey's arm trembling upon his own, and
involuntarily he drew it closer, and, in so doing, he perceived the
tremor and jar of her fast-beating heart, and he pitied her with a deep,
tender, manly pity.
"I am afraid you feel chilled in this rain," he said, by way of saying
something kind.
"No," she answered, softly, and said no more.
They got to the door of her dwelling, and he rang the bell and waited
there with her until some one should come.
"I am very much indebted to you, Mr. Lytton," she said, softly and
coolly; "but I am also very sorry to have given you so much trouble."
"I assure you it was no trouble; and I beg that you will not again
attempt to go alone at night through the streets of Charlottesville," he
answered, sadly.
"But why?" she asked. "What harm or danger can there be in my doing so?"
"Ladies never go out alone at night here. Many of the wild students are
on the streets at night and are not always in their senses."
"Oh, I see! Well, I will try to take care of myself. I hear the page
coming to open the door. Good-night, Mr. Lytton. You have been very
kind. I thank you very much," said Mrs. Grey, coldly.
He touched his hat and turned away just as the door was opened.
Alden Lytton went back to the college with somewhat kinder thoughts of
Mary Grey.
And Mrs. Grey went into the house and into the back parlor, where the
bishop's widow was waiting up for her.
"Why, my dear, your shoes are wet through and your skirts are draggled
up to your knees! Is it possible you walked home through the rain?"
inquired the lady.
"Yes, madam; but it will not hurt me."
"But how came you to walk home when Mrs. Doctor Sage promised faithfully
to bring you home in her carriage?"
"Oh, my dear friend, the storm came up, and so many people were afraid
of wetting their feet that I gave up my seat to another lady," answered
Mary Grey.
"Always the same self-sacrificing spirit! Well, my dear, I hope your
reward will come in the next world, if not in this. Now go upstairs and
take off your wet clothes and get right to bed. I will send you up a
glass of hot spiced wine, which will prevent you from taking cold," said
the hospitable old lady.
Mary Grey kissed her hostess, said good-night, and ran away upstairs to
her own cozy room, where, although it was May time, a bright little wood
fire was burning in the fire-place to correct the dampness of the air.
"Well," she said, with her silent laugh, as she began to take off her
sodden shoes, "it was worth the wetting to walk home with Alden Lytton,
and to make one step of progress toward my object."
And the thought comforted her more than did the silver mug of hot spiced
wine that the little page presently brought her.
A few days after this she met Alden Lytton again, by accident, at the
house of a mutual friend. Alden came up to her and, after the usual
greeting, said:
"I have received a short note from Miss Cavendish inquiring of me
whether I had delivered her letter to you, and saying that she had
received no answer from you, and indeed no news of you since your
departure from Blue Cliffs. Now if I had not supposed that you would
have answered Miss Emma's letter immediately I should certainly have
written myself to relieve her anxiety on your account."
"Oh, indeed I beg her pardon and yours! But I have sprained the
fore-finger of my right hand and can not write at all. Otherwise I am
quite well. Pray write and explain this to Emma, with my love, and my
promise to write to her as soon as my finger gets well," said Mary Grey.
And then she arose to take leave of her hostess, and, with a distant bow
to Alden Lytton, she left the house.
Two days after this she received a very kind letter from Miss Cavendish
expressing much regret to hear of her disabled hand, and affectionately
inquiring of her when she should return to Blue Cliffs, adding that Mrs.
Fanning had arrived, and was then domiciled at the house; and, though a
widow and an invalid, she was a very agreeable companion.
This letter also inclosed a check for the amount of the quarterly
allowance Emma Cavendish wasted upon Mary Grey.
"For whether you abandon us or not, dear Mrs. Grey, or wherever you may
be, so long as I can reach you I will send you this quarterly sum, which
I consider yours of right," she wrote. And with more expressions of
kindness and affection the letter closed.
This letter was a great relief to Mary Grey's anxiety; for now that this
worshiper of mammon was sure of her income she had no fears for the
future.
But she dared not herself answer the letter. While Mrs. Fanning should
remain at Blue Cliffs, Mary Grey must not let her handwriting go there,
lest it should be seen and recognized by Frederick Fanning's widow.
But the next day was Sunday, and Mrs. Grey went to church, taking Emma's
letter in her pocket.
Usually she avoided Alden Lytton on these occasions, refraining even
from looking toward him during the church service or afterward, for she
did not wish him to suppose that she _sought_ his notice.
But now she had a fair and good excuse for speaking to him; so when the
service was over and the congregation was leaving the church she waited
at the door of her pew until Alden passed by, when she said, very meekly
and coolly:
"Mr. Lytton, may I speak with you a moment?"
"Certainly, madam," said Alden, stopping at once.
"I have a letter from dearest Emma, but I can not answer it. Ah, my poor
crippled finger! Would you be so very kind as to write and tell my
darling that I have received it and how much I thank her? And here;
perhaps, as you are to acknowledge the letter for me, you had better
read it. There is really nothing in it that a mutual friend may not
see," she said, drawing the letter from her pocket and putting it into
his hand.
"Certainly, madam, if you wish me to do so; certainly, with much
pleasure," answered Alden Lytton, with more warmth than he had intended;
because, in truth, he was beginning to feel delight in every subject
that concerned Emma Cavendish, and he was now especially pleased with
having the privilege of reading her letter and the duty of acknowledging
it.
"Many thanks! You are very kind! Good-morning," said Mary Grey, with
discreet coolness, as she passed on before him to leave the church.
"Step number two! I shall soon have him in my power again!" chuckled the
coquette, as she walked down the street toward her dwelling.
For Mary Grey had utterly misinterpreted the warmth of Alden Lytton's
manner in acceding to her request. It never entered her mind to think
that this warmth had anything to do with the idea of Emma Cavendish. She
was much too vain to be jealous.
She did not really think that there was a man in the world who could
withstand her charms, or a woman in the world who could become her
rival.
And certainly her personal experience went far to confirm her in that
vain theory. Therefore she did not fear Emma Cavendish as a rival.
And while she did not dare to write to Blue Cliffs, she did not hesitate
to make Alden Lytton the medium of communication with Emma Cavendish.
Her other lover, the counterpart of Alden Lytton, had not appeared since
he had called on her on his first visit to Charlottesville.
But he wrote to her six times a week, and she knew what he was doing--he
was trying hard to settle up his business at Wendover, with the distant
hope of removing to Charlottesville and opening a store there.