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.