"_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.