A DIABOLICAL PLOT.
Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream;
The genius and the mortal instruments
Are then in council; and the state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection.
--SHAKESPEARE'S _Julius Caesar_.
No language can adequately describe the mortification and rage that
filled the bosom of Mary Grey as she read the foregoing letter.
Two of her once ardent worshipers--handsome Alden Lytton and eloquent
Stephen Lyle--had forsaken her shrine and were offering up their
devotion to other divinities.
They had wounded her vanity to the very quick.
And to wound Mary Grey's vanity was to incur Mary Grey's deadly hatred.
She was always a very dangerous woman, and under such an exasperation
she could become a very desperate enemy.
She had felt so sure that no woman, however young and lovely, could ever
become her rival, or even her successor, in any man's affections. So
sure, also, that no man, however wise and strong, could ever resist her
fascinations or escape from her thraldom.
And now that charming illusion was rudely dispelled! She saw herself
even contemptuously abandoned by her subjects, who transferred their
allegiance to a couple of "bread-and-butter school-girls," as she
sneeringly designated Emma Cavendish and Laura Lytton.
She was consumed with jealousy--not the jealousy born of love, which is
like the thorn of the rose, a defence of the rose--but the jealousy born
of self-love, which is like the thorn of the thorn-apple, a deadly
poison.
She sat on one of her trunks, with her elbows on her knees and her
clutched fists supporting her chin. Her lips were drawn back from her
clinched teeth and her black eyes gleamed like fire from the deathly
whiteness of her face.
And so she sat and brooded and brooded over her mortification, and
studied and studied how she might pull down ruin upon the heads of those
hated young people who were loving each other and enjoying life at the
cost of her humiliation.
And of course the foul fiend very soon entered into her counsels and
assisted her.
"I have one devoted slave--one willing instrument left yet," she
muttered to herself: "he would pay any price--yes, the price of his
soul--for my love! He shall pay _my_ price down! He shall be the means
of drawing destruction upon all their heads! Yes, Miss Cavendish, marry
Alden Lytton, if you _will_, and afterward look honest men and women in
the face if you _can_! Yes, Stephen Lyle, become the husband of Laura
Lytton, and then hold up your head in the pulpit--if you dare! Ah, if my
plot succeed! Ah, if my plot succeed, how terribly will I be avenged!
And it _shall_ succeed!" she hissed through her grinding teeth, with a
grim hatred distorting her white features and transforming her beautiful
face for an instant into demoniac hideousness.
She started up and commenced traversing the floor, as a furious tigress
her den.
When she had raged herself into something like composure she opened her
writing-case and wrote the following letter:
"RICHMOND, VA., Aug. --, 18--.
"TO CRAVEN KYTE, ESQ.
"_Dear Friend_:--My wanderings have come to a temporary end here
in this city, where I expect to remain for some weeks, even if I
do not conclude to make it my permanent residence.
"Shall I trouble you to do me a favor? Some time ago I left in
the hands of the jeweler at Wendover a little pearl brooch, which
I forgot to call for when I left, and have neglected to send for
ever since.
"The brooch in itself is of small intrinsic value; but as it is
an old family relic I should like to recover it. Will you,
therefore, please go to the jeweler's and get it and send it to
me in a registered letter by mail? and I shall be very much
indebted to you. And if you should happen to come to this city
during my stay here I hope you will call to see me; for I should
be very glad to see any old friend from Wendover.
"Yours truly,
M. GREY."
She immediately sealed this letter, rang for a waiter, and dispatched it
to the post-office.
This letter had been written for but one purpose--to bring Craven Kyte
immediately to Richmond, without seeming especially to invite him to
come.
She always wrote her letters with an eye to the remote contingency of
their being produced in court or read in public.
This letter to Craven Kyte was a sample of her non-committal style--it
compromised no one.
When she had sent it off she began to pack up her effects, in
preparation for their removal, on Monday morning, to the Misses Cranes'.
Even after that work was done she could not be still. Like an uneasy
beast of prey, she must needs move to and fro.
So she put on her bonnet, called a carriage and drove out to the rectory
to spend the evening.
But though she was received in the most friendly manner she could not
enjoy the visit. She was absent and distracted during the whole evening.
She returned late to a restless bed. And then she got up and took
laudanum to put her to sleep. And this was not the first time she had
had to resort to the same dangerous narcotic.
No more rest for Mary Grey!
Remorse sometimes begins _before_ the commission of a contemplated and
determined crime; repentance never. That is one difference between the
two.
On Sunday morning, to keep herself actively employed, as well as to win
"golden opinions," Mrs. Grey dressed herself plainly, but very
becomingly, and went early to the Sunday-school at old St. John's, to
offer herself as a teacher.
She was soon appointed to the temporary charge of a class of little
girls, whose regular teacher was then absent on a summer tour of the
watering places.
Afterward she attended both morning and afternoon services, and went to
a missionary meeting in the evening.
Still, after all the fatigues of the day, she was unable to sleep at
night, and again she had recourse to the deadly drug.
On Monday morning she paid her week's bill at the hotel and removed to
the Misses Cranes'.
She was received with lofty politeness by the two maiden ladies; and she
was put in immediate possession of her apartment--a spacious chamber,
with a balcony overhanging the front flower-garden.
She had scarcely finished unpacking her effects and transferring them
from her trunks to the bureaus and wardrobes of the chamber, before a
card was brought to her by the neat parlor-maid of the establishment.
The card bore the name of Mr. Craven Kyte.
"Where is the gentleman?" inquired Mrs. Grey.
"In the drawing-room, madam," answered the maid.
"Ask him to be so kind as to wait. I will be down directly," said Mrs.
Grey.
The girl left the room to take her message, and Mrs. Grey began to
change her dress, smiling strangely to herself as she did so.
She gave a last finishing touch to the curls of her glossy black hair,
and a last lingering look at the mirror, and then she went down-stairs.
There, alone in the drawing-room, stood the one devoted lover and slave
that she had left in the whole world.
He came down the room to meet her.
"You here! Oh, I'm so delighted to see you!" she said, in a low tone,
full of feeling, as she went toward him, holding out both her hands.
He trembled from head to foot and turned pale and red by turns as he
took them.
"I am so happy--You are so good to say so! I was almost afraid--I
thought you might consider it a liberty--my coming," faltered the poor
fellow, in sore confusion.
"A liberty? How could you possibly imagine I would consider your coming
here a liberty on your part? Why, dearest friend, I consider it a favor
from you, a pleasure for me! Why should you think otherwise?" inquired
Mary Grey, with her most alluring smile.
"Oh, thanks--thanks! But it was your letter!"
"My letter? Sit down, Craven, dear, and compose yourself. Here, sit
here," she said, seating herself on the sofa and signing for him to take
the place by her side.
He dropped, trembling, flushing and paling, into the indicated seat.
"Now tell me what there was in my harmless letter to disturb you," she
murmured, passing her soft fingers over his forehead and running them
through the dark curls of his hair.
"Nothing that was _meant_ to disturb me, I know. It was all kindness.
You could not write to me, or to any one, otherwise than kindly,"
faltered the lover.
"Well, then?" inquired Mary Grey, in a pretty, reproachful tone.
"But I felt it was cold--cold!" sighed the young man.
"Why, you dearest of dears, one must be discreet in writing letters!
Suppose my letter had expressed all my feelings toward you, and then had
fallen into the hands of any one else? Such mistakes are made in the
mails sometimes. How would you have liked it?" she inquired, patting his
cheeks.
"I should have been wild. But it would only have been at the loss of
your letter. As for me, Heaven knows, I should not mind if all the world
knew how much I adore you. On the contrary, I should glory in it," added
the lover.
"But a lady feels differently. She only lets her _lover_ know how well
she loves him; and not always does she even let him know," softly
murmured the beautiful temptress, as she lightly caressed his raven
curls. "And now tell me the news, dear Craven. How are all our friends
at Blue Cliffs?" she archly inquired.
"I only want to tell you how much I adore you," whispered the lover, who
was beginning to recover his composure.
"That would be a vain repetition, darling, especially as I know it all
quite well," murmured Mary Grey, with a smile, and still passing her
hand with mesmeric gentleness over his hair.
"Aye; but when will you make me completely happy?" sighed the poor
fellow.
"Whew!" smiled Mary Grey, with a little bird-like whistle. "How fast we
are getting on, to be sure! Why, a few minutes ago we were afraid that
we were taking a liberty in coming here to call on our lady-love at all!
And now we are pressing her to name the day! See here, you impatient
boy, answer me this: When did I ever promise to 'make you happy' _at
all_?" she inquired, in a bantering tone.
"But you gave me hopes--oh, do not say that you never gave me hopes!" he
pleaded, turning red and pale and trembling from head to foot as before.
"Well, I don't say it; for I know I promised if ever I should marry
living man I should marry you. I repeat that promise now, dear Craven,"
she added, gravely and tenderly.
"Ah, Heaven bless you for those blessed words! But when--_when_ will you
make me happy? Oh, if I possess your love, when--_when_ shall I possess
your hand?" he pleaded.
And then, as if suddenly ashamed of his own vehemence, he stopped in
confusion.
"You have won my love, you petulant boy!" she answered, archly. Then,
dropping her voice to its tenderest music, she murmured: "What would you
do to win my hand?"
"Anything--anything under the sun!" he answered, wildly, and forgetting
all his embarrassment. "Whatever man has done to win woman would I do to
win you--more than ever man did to win woman would I do to win you! I
would renounce my friends, betray my country, abjure my faith, _lose my
soul_ for you!"
"Words, words, words! You talk recklessly! You know you would not do the
least one of these dreadful deeds for me," answered Mary Grey, laying
her hand on his lips.
"Try me!"