THE SERPENT AT WORK.
One sole desire, one passion, now remains
To 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.
"Will _you_ not 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 it out 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, to _try_ you, 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 me time 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.