A VERY DESPERATE GAME.
I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die.
—Shakespeare.
Craven Kyte, the infatuated and doomed instrument and victim of a cruel and remorseless woman, returned to Wendover and resumed his place in Bastiennello's establishment, where he culpably neglected his business, and lived only on the thought of receiving her daily letters and of soon returning to Richmond to be blessed by her promised hand in marriage.
Every morning he was the first man at the post-office, waiting eagerly, impatiently, for the arrival and opening of the mail.
And he was never disappointed of receiving her letter, and—never satisfied with its contents.
Every letter was in itself something of a mortification to him, containing no expression of confidence or affection, no word by which any one might suspect that the correspondent was writing to one she loved and trusted, much less to her betrothed husband.
Every letter began and ended in the most polite and formal manner; never alluded to the matrimonial intentions between the correspondents, but treated only of church services, Sunday-schools, sewing circles and missionary matters, until the young man, famishing for a word of affection, with pardonable selfishness, sighed forth:
"She is a saint; but oh, I wish she was a little less devoted to the heathen, and all that, and a little more affectionate to me!"
But the instant afterward he blamed himself for egotism, and consoled himself by saying:
"She always told me that, however much she loved, she would never write love-letters, as they might possibly fall into the hands of irreverent and scoffing people who would make a mockery of the writer. It is a far-fetched idea; but still it is her idea and I must submit. It will be all right when I go to Richmond and claim her darling hand."
And the thought of this would fill him with such ecstasy that he would long to tell some one, his partner especially, that he was the happiest man on earth, for he was to be married in a week to the loveliest woman in the world. But he was bound by his promise to keep his engagement, as well as all other of his relations with the beautiful widow, a profound secret. And though the poor fellow was a fool, he was an honorable fool, and held his pledged word sacred.
Every letter that came to him also contained another letter, to which it never referred by written word. This inclosed letter was sealed in an envelope bearing the initial "L" embossed upon its flap. And it was directed to "Mrs. Mary Grey, Old Crane Manor House, Richmond."
Craven Kyte would gaze at this mysterious letter in the utmost confusion and obscurity of mind.
"Now, why in the world does she write a letter and direct it to herself and send it to me to post privately, by night, at the Wendover post-office? And why did she give me only verbal instructions about it? And why does she avoid even alluding to it in her letter to me? Why is the envelope stamped with the letter L? And why, oh, why does the handwriting so closely resemble that of Mr. Lytton?" he inquired of himself, as his eyes devoured the superscription of the letter. "I can not tell," he sighed. "It is too deep for my fathoming. I give it up. I must blindly do her bidding, trusting to her implicitly, as I do, and as I will."
Then, following her verbal instructions, given him in Richmond, in regard to these mysterious letters, he put it away until dark, and then stole out and dropped it secretly into the night-box at the post-office.
Five days passed, in which he received and re-mailed three of these inexplicable documents.
Then, on Saturday morning, Bastiennello, the head of his firm, returned to Wendover and resumed the control of his business.
On the evening of the same day a van arrived from Blue Cliff Hall, bringing the heavy baggage of Mr. Alden Lytton, to be deposited at the railway station and left until Monday morning, when the owner intended to start for Richmond by the earliest train.
When Craven Kyte heard this he went straight to his principal and claimed his promised leave of absence.
"Why, Kyte, you are in a tremendous hurry! Here I have not been back twelve hours and you want to be off," said Bastiennello, with a shrug of his shoulders.
"It is a case of necessity, sir, believe me," pleaded Craven Kyte.
"And this is Saturday night, the busiest time in the whole week," complained Bastiennello.
"Well, sir, you will not keep open after twelve, will you?"
"Certainly not after eleven."
"Nor will you need my services after that hour?"
"Of course not."
"Then that will enable me to serve here as usual until the hour of closing, and then give me time to catch the midnight train to Richmond."
"Oh, well, if you can do that it will be all right, and I can have no objection to your going to-night," said Bastiennello.
And so the affair was concluded.
The great village bazaar closed at eleven that night.
As soon as he had put up the last shutter, Craven Kyte rushed off to his humble lodgings, stuffed a carpet-bag full of needed clothing and hurried to the railway station to catch the train.
It came thundering along in due time, and caught up the waiting victim and whirled him along on his road to ruin, as far as Richmond, where it dropped him.
It was nearly eleven o'clock in the morning, and all the church bells were ringing, when the train ran in to the station.
Craven Kyte, carpet-bag in hand, rushed for the gentlemen's dressing-room nearest the station, hastily washed his face, combed his hair, brushed his clothes, put on a clean collar and bosom-piece, and fresh gloves, and hurried off to old St. John's Church, which he thought the most likely place on that Sunday forenoon to meet Mary Grey.
The service was more than half over when he reached the church, but he slipped in and seated himself quietly on one of the back seats near the door and looked all over the heads of the seated congregation to see if he could discover his beloved in the crowd.
Yes, there she was, in a front pew of the middle aisle, immediately under the pulpit.
To be sure he could only see the back of her head and shoulders, but he felt that he could not be mistaken.
And from that moment he paid but little attention to the service.
Do not mistake the poor soul. He was not impious. He had been religiously brought up in the family of the late Governor Cavendish. He was accustomed to be devout during divine worship. And on this occasion he wrestled with Satan—that is, with himself—and tried to fix his mind in succession on anthems, psalms, collects and sermon. All to little purpose. His mind went with his eyes toward Mary Grey.
And even when he closed those offending orbs he still found her image in his mind.
At length the sermon was finished and the benediction pronounced.
The congregation began to move out.
Craven Kyte went out among the first, and placed himself just outside the gate to wait until his adored should pass by.
In a continued stream the congregation poured forth out of the church until nearly all had passed out, but still he did not see Mary Grey.
In truth, that popularity-seeking beauty was lingering to bestow her sweet smile and honeyed words upon "all and sundry" who would give her the opportunity.
At length, among the very last to issue from the church, was Mrs. Grey.
She came out chatting demurely with a group of her friends.
Craven Kyte made a single step toward her, with the intention of speaking; but seeing that she did not notice him, and feeling abashed by the presence of strangers about her, he withdrew again and contented himself with following at a short distance until he saw her separate herself from the group and turn down a by-street.
Then he quickened his footsteps, turned down the same street and joined her.
At the same instant she looked back upon him with a smile, saying:
"You clever boy, how good and wise of you to refrain from speaking to me before so many strangers! Now what is the news?"
"The news is—Oh, my dear, dearest, dearest Mary! I am so delighted to meet you!" he exclaimed, breaking suddenly off from his intended communications.
"So am I to see you, darling. But that is no news. Come, this is a quiet street, and leads out of the city. Let us walk on, and as we walk you can tell me all the news," she said, smilingly, resting her delicate hand on his arm.
"I can tell you nothing—nothing yet, but that I love you—I love you!" he fervently breathed, as he drew her arm within his own and pressed her hand to his bosom.
"And I love you," she murmured, in the lowest, sweetest music. And then, after a moment's pause, she added, gayly: "And now tell me what has brought you here so suddenly."
"Did I not promise you that I would be in Richmond this Sunday morning, in time to attend you to church?"
"Yes, you did, but—"
"Well, I could not get in so early as I intended, because I came on by the train that leaves Wendover at midnight. So I did not reach the city until nearly noon to-day. However, if I was not in time to attend you to church, I was in time to attend you from church. So I kept my promise tolerably well."
"Yes; but, my dear friend, I particularly requested that you would wait at Wendover and watch certain events, and not come to Richmond until something had happened or was about to happen."
"Well then?"
"You gave me your word that you would do as I directed you."
"Yes, certainly I did."
"Then, seeing you here, I am to presume that all the conditions of your engagement have been fulfilled."
"Yes, they have, dear lady mine."
"First, then, as you were not to come here until Mr. Alden Lytton was about to start or had started for this place, why, I am to presume, by seeing you here, that Mr. Lytton is either present in the city or on his way here."
"Mr. Lytton will leave Wendover for Richmond by the earliest train to-morrow. He will be here to-morrow evening," said Craven Kyte, gravely.
"You are absolutely sure of this?" inquired Mrs. Grey.
"As sure of it as any one can be of any future event. His heavy baggage came over from Blue Cliff Hall yesterday evening, and was left at the station to be ready for transportation on Monday morning, when Mr. Lytton intended to take the earliest train for this city."
"Then there can be no mistake," said Mary Grey.
"None whatever, I think."
"You say you have fulfilled all the conditions of our engagement?"
"Yes, dearest, I have indeed."
"How about those letters I inclosed to you to be re-mailed?"
"I received them all, and re-mailed them all. Did you get them? You never acknowledged the receipt of one of them, however," said Craven Kyte, thoughtfully.
"I got them all safe. There was no use in acknowledging them by letter, as I expected to see you so soon, and could acknowledge them so much better by word of mouth. But that is not exactly what I meant by my question, darling. Of course I knew without being told that you had re-mailed all those letters, as I had received them all."
"Then what was it you wished me to tell you, dearest Mary? Ask me plainly. I will tell you anything in the world that I know."
"Only this: Did you post those letters with great secrecy, taking extreme care that no one saw you do it?"
"My dearest, I took such care that I waited until the dead of night, when no one was abroad in the village, and I stole forth then, and, all unseen, dropped the letters into the night box."
"You darling! How good you are! What shall I ever do to repay you?" exclaimed the traitress, with well-acted enthusiasm.
"Only love me—only love me! That will richly repay me for all. Ah, only love me! Only love me truly and I will die for you if necessary!" fervently breathed the poor doomed young man, fondly gazing upon her, who, to gain her own diabolical end, was almost putting his neck into a halter.
"You foolish darling! Why, you would break my heart by dying! You can only make me happy by living for me," she said, with a smile.
"I would live for you, die for you, suffer for you, sin for you—do anything for you, bear anything for you, be anything for you!" he burst forth, in a fervor of devotion.
"There, there, dearest, I know you would! I know it all! But now tell me: Have you kept our engagement a profound secret from every human being, as I requested you to do?"
"Yes, yes, a profound secret from every human being, on my sacred word and honor! Although it was hard to do that. For, as I walked up and down the streets of Wendover, feeling so happy—so happy that I am sure I must have looked perfectly wild, as the people stared at me so suspiciously—I could scarcely help embracing all my friends and saying to them, 'Congratulate me, for I am engaged to the loveliest woman in the world, and I am the happiest man on earth!' But I kept the secret."
"You mad boy! You love too fast to love long, I doubt! After a month or two of married life you will grow tired of me, I fear," said Mary Grey, with mock gravity.
"Tired of you! Tired of heaven! Oh, no, no, no!" he burst forth, ardently.