A FATAL JOURNEY.
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 were
_tete-a-tete_.
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 young men 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 was listening to 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 caetera_.
"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 my sister 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.