The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин
Читать онлайн книгу.
her picture?”
I did not answer that question.
On my way downstairs, I bethought me of a letter which I had in my pocket for Mr. Veeley’s son Fred, and, knowing of no surer way of getting it to him that night than by leaving it on the library table, I stepped to the door of that room, which in this house was at the rear of the parlors, and receiving no reply to my knock, opened it and looked in.
The room was unlighted, but a cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and by its glow I espied a lady crouching on the hearth, whom at first glance I took for Mrs. Veeley. But, upon advancing and addressing her by that name, I saw my mistake; for the person before me not only refrained from replying, but, rising at the sound of my voice, revealed a form of such noble proportions that all possibility of its being that of the dainty little wife of my partner fled.
“I see I have made a mistake,” said I. “I beg your pardon”; and would have left the room, but something in the general attitude of the lady before me restrained me, and, believing it to be Mary Leavenworth, I inquired:
“Can it be this is Miss Leavenworth?”
The noble figure appeared to droop, the gently lifted head to fall, and for a moment I doubted if I had been correct in my supposition. Then form and head slowly erected themselves, a soft voice spoke, and I heard a low “yes,” and hurriedly advancing, confronted—not Mary, with her glancing, feverish gaze, and scarlet, trembling lips—but Eleanore, the woman whose faintest look had moved me from the first, the woman whose husband I believed myself to be even then pursuing to his doom!
The surprise was too great; I could neither sustain nor conceal it. Stumbling slowly back, I murmured something about having believed it to be her cousin; and then, conscious only of the one wish to fly a presence I dared not encounter in my present mood, turned, when her rich, heart-full voice rose once more and I heard:
“You will not leave me without a word, Mr. Raymond, now that chance has thrown us together?” Then, as I came slowly forward: “Were you so very much astonished to find me here?”
“I do not know—I did not expect—” was my incoherent reply. “I had heard you were ill; that you went nowhere; that you had no wish to see your friends.”
“I have been ill,” she said; “but I am better now, and have come to spend the night with Mrs. Veeley, because I could not endure the stare of the four walls of my room any longer.”
This was said without any effort at plaintiveness, but rather as if she thought it necessary to excuse herself for being where she was.
“I am glad you did so,” said I. “You ought to be here all the while. That dreary, lonesome boarding-house is no place for you, Miss Leavenworth. It distresses us all to feel that you are exiling yourself at this time.”
“I do not wish anybody to be distressed,” she returned. “It is best for me to be where I am. Nor am I altogether alone. There is a child there whose innocent eyes see nothing but innocence in mine. She will keep me from despair. Do not let my friends be anxious; I can bear it.” Then, in a lower tone: “There is but one thing which really unnerves me; and that is my ignorance of what is going on at home. Sorrow I can bear, but suspense is killing me. Will you not tell me something of Mary and home? I cannot ask Mrs. Veeley; she is kind, but has no real knowledge of Mary or me, nor does she know anything of our estrangement. She thinks me obstinate, and blames me for leaving my cousin in her trouble. But you know I could not help it. You know,—” her voice wavered off into a tremble, and she did not conclude.
“I cannot tell you much,” I hastened to reply; “but whatever knowledge is at my command is certainly yours. Is there anything in particular you wish to know?”
“Yes, how Mary is; whether she is well, and—and composed.”
“Your cousin’s health is good,” I returned; “but I fear I cannot say she is composed. She is greatly troubled about you.”
“You see her often, then?”
“I am assisting Mr. Harwell in preparing your uncle’s book for the press, and necessarily am there much of the time.”
“My uncle’s book!” The words came in a tone of low horror.
“Yes, Miss Leavenworth. It has been thought best to bring it before the world, and——”
“And Mary has set you at the task?”
“Yes.”
It seemed as if she could not escape from the horror which this caused. “How could she? Oh, how could she!”
“She considers herself as fulfilling her uncle’s wishes. He was very anxious, as you know, to have the book out by July.”
“Do not speak of it!” she broke in, “I cannot bear it.” Then, as if she feared she had hurt my feelings by her abruptness, lowered her voice and said: “I do not, however, know of any one I should be better pleased to have charged with the task than yourself. With you it will be a work of respect and reverence; but a stranger—Oh, I could not have endured a stranger touching it.”
She was fast falling into her old horror; but rousing herself, murmured: “I wanted to ask you something; ah, I know”—and she moved so as to face me. “I wish to inquire if everything is as before in the house; the servants the same and—and other things?”
“There is a Mrs. Darrell there; I do not know of any other change.”
“Mary does not talk of going away?”
“I think not.”
“But she has visitors? Some one besides Mrs. Darrell to help her bear her loneliness?”
I knew what was coming, and strove to preserve my composure.
“Yes,” I replied; “a few.”
“Would you mind naming them?” How low her tones were, but how distinct!
“Certainly not. Mrs. Veeley, Mrs. Gilbert, Miss Martin, and a—a——”
“Go on,” she whispered.
“A gentleman by the name of Clavering.”
“You speak that name with evident embarrassment,” she said, after a moment of intense anxiety on my part. “May I inquire why?”
Astounded, I raised my eyes to her face. It was very pale, and wore the old look of self-repressed calm I remembered so well. I immediately dropped my gaze.
“Why? because there are some circumstances surrounding him which have struck me as peculiar.”
“How so?” she asked.
“He appears under two names. To-day it is Clavering; a short time ago it was——”
“Go on.”
“Robbins.”
Her dress rustled on the hearth; there was a sound of desolation in it; but her voice when she spoke was expressionless as that of an automaton.
“How many times has this person, of whose name you do not appear to be certain, been to see Mary?”
“Once.”
“When was it?”
“Last night.”
“Did he stay long?”
“About twenty minutes, I should say.”
“And do you think he will come again?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He has left the country.”
A short silence followed this, I felt her eyes searching my face, but doubt whether, if I had known she held a loaded pistol, I could have looked up at that moment.