The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин

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СКАЧАТЬ with a burst of self-scornful penitence, “I will not call Eleanore’s lofty indignation anger. She was grieved, Mamma Hubbard, grieved.” And with a laugh which I believe was rather the result of her own relief than of any wish to reflect on her cousin, she threw her head on one side and eyed me with a look which seemed to say, “Do I plague you so very much, you dear old Mamma Hubbard?”

      She did plague me, and I could not conceal it. “And will she not tell her uncle?” I gasped.

      The naive expression on Mary’s face quickly changed. “No,” said she.

      I felt a heavy hand, hot with fever, lifted from my heart. “And we can still go on?”

      She held out the letter for reply.

      The plan agreed upon between us for the carrying out of our intentions was this. At the time appointed, Mary was to excuse herself to her cousin upon the plea that she had promised to take me to see a friend in the next town. She was then to enter a buggy previously ordered, and drive here, where I was to join her. We were then to proceed immediately to the minister’s house in F——, where we had reason to believe we should find everything prepared for us. But in this plan, simple as it was, one thing was forgotten, and that was the character of Eleanore’s love for her cousin. That her suspicions would be aroused we did not doubt; but that she would actually follow Mary up and demand an explanation of her conduct, was what neither she, who knew her so well, nor I, who knew her so little, ever imagined possible. And yet that was just what occurred. But let me explain. Mary, who had followed out the programme to the point of leaving a little note of excuse on Eleanore’s dressing-table, had come to my house, and was just taking off her long cloak to show me her dress, when there came a commanding knock at the front door. Hastily pulling her cloak about her I ran to open it, intending, you may be sure, to dismiss my visitor with short ceremony, when I heard a voice behind me say, “Good heavens, it is Eleanore!” and, glancing back, saw Mary looking through the window-blind upon the porch without.

      “What shall we do?” I cried, in very natural dismay.

      “Do? why, open the door and let her in; I am not afraid of Eleanore.”

      I immediately did so, and Eleanore Leavenworth, very pale, but with a resolute countenance, walked into the house and into this room, confronting Mary in very nearly the same spot where you are now sitting. “I have come,” said she, lifting a face whose expression of mingled sweetness and power I could not but admire, even in that moment of apprehension, “to ask you without any excuse for my request, if you will allow me to accompany you upon your drive this morning?”

      Mary, who had drawn herself up to meet some word of accusation or appeal, turned carelessly away to the glass. “I am very sorry,” she said, “but the buggy holds only two, and I shall be obliged to refuse.”

      “I will order a carriage.”

      “But I do not wish your company, Eleanore. We are off on a pleasure trip, and desire to have our fun by ourselves.”

      “And you will not allow me to accompany you?”

      “I cannot prevent your going in another carriage.”

      Eleanore’s face grew yet more earnest in its expression. “Mary,” said she, “we have been brought up together. I am your sister in affection if not in blood, and I cannot see you start upon this adventure with no other companion than this woman. Then tell me, shall I go with you, as a sister, or on the road behind you as the enforced guardian of your honor against your will?”

      “My honor?”

      “You are going to meet Mr. Clavering.”

      “Well?”

      “Twenty miles from home.”

      “Well?”

      “Now is it discreet or honorable in you to do this?”

      Mary’s haughty lip took an ominous curve. “The same hand that raised you has raised me,” she cried bitterly.

      “This is no time to speak of that,” returned Eleanore.

      Mary’s countenance flushed. All the antagonism of her nature was aroused. She looked absolutely Juno-like in her wrath and reckless menace. “Eleanore,” she cried, “I am going to F—— to marry Mr. Clavering! Now do you wish to accompany me?”

      “I do.”

      Mary’s whole manner changed. Leaping forward, she grasped her cousin’s arm and shook it. “For what reason?” she cried. “What do you intend to do?”

      “To witness the marriage, if it be a true one; to step between you and shame if any element of falsehood should come in to affect its legality.”

      Mary’s hand fell from her cousin’s arm. “I do not understand you,” said she. “I thought you never gave countenance to what you considered wrong.”

      “Nor do I. Any one who knows me will understand that I do not give my approval to this marriage just because I attend its ceremonial in the capacity of an unwilling witness.”

      “Then why go?”

      “Because I value your honor above my own peace. Because I love our common benefactor, and know that he would never pardon me if I let his darling be married, however contrary her union might be to his wishes, without lending the support of my presence to make the transaction at least a respectable one.”

      “But in so doing you will be involved in a world of deception—which you hate.”

      “Any more so than now?”

      “Mr. Clavering does not return with me, Eleanore.”

      “No, I supposed not.”

      “I leave him immediately after the ceremony.”

      Eleanore bowed her head.

      “He goes to Europe.” A pause.

      “And I return home.”

      “There to wait for what, Mary?”

      Mary’s face crimsoned, and she turned slowly away.

      “What every other girl does under such circumstances, I suppose. The development of more reasonable feelings in an obdurate parent’s heart.”

      Eleanore sighed, and a short silence ensued, broken by Eleanore’s suddenly falling upon her knees, and clasping her cousin’s hand. “Oh, Mary,” she sobbed, her haughtiness all disappearing in a gush of wild entreaty, “consider what you are doing! Think, before it is too late, of the consequences which must follow such an act as this. Marriage founded upon deception can never lead to happiness. Love—but it is not that. Love would have led you either to have dismissed Mr. Clavering at once, or to have openly accepted the fate which a union with him would bring. Only passion stoops to subterfuge like this. And you,” she continued, rising and turning toward me in a sort of forlorn hope very touching to see, “can you see this young motherless girl, driven by caprice, and acknowledging no moral restraint, enter upon the dark and crooked path she is planning for herself, without uttering one word of warning and appeal? Tell me, mother of children dead and buried, what excuse you will have for your own СКАЧАТЬ