The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин

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СКАЧАТЬ times, and once I thought she was going to, but suddenly she turned straight about and sent her lover packing, and that made me mad beyond everything. Why should she hang on to me like a burr when there are other folks willing to take on the burden?”

      It was the most palpable display of egotism I had ever seen and one of the most revolting. I was so disgusted by it that I spoke up without any too much caution.

      “Perhaps she thinks she can be useful to you,” I said. “I have known sisters give up their own happiness on no better grounds.”

      “Useful?” he sneered. “It’s a usefulness a man like me can dispense with. Do you know what I would like?”

      We were standing in one of the tangled pathways, with our faces turned toward the house. As he spoke, he looked up and made a rude sort of gesture toward the blank expanse of empty and curtainless windows.

      “I would like that great house all to myself, to make into one huge, bachelor’s hall. I should like to feel that I could tramp from one end of it to the other without awakening an echo I did not choose to hear there. I should not find it too big. I should not find it too lonesome. I and my dogs would know how to fill it, wouldn’t we, Saracen? Oh, I forgot, Saracen is locked up.”

      The way he mumbled the last sentence showed displeasure, but I gave little heed to that. The gloating way in which he said he and his dogs would fill it had given me a sort of turn. I began to have more than an aversion for the man. He inspired me with something like terror.

      “Your wishes,” said I, with as little expression as possible, “seem to leave your sisters entirely out of your calculations. How would your mother regard that if she could see you from the place where she is gone?”

      He turned upon me with a look of anger that made his features positively ugly.

      “What do you mean by speaking to me of my mother? Have I spoken of her to you? Is there any reason why you should lug my mother into this conversation? If so, say so, and be——”

      He did not swear at me; he did not dare to, but he came precious near to it, and that was enough to make me recoil.

      “She was my friend,” said I. “I knew and loved her before you were born. That was why I spoke of her, and I think it very natural myself.”

      He seemed to feel ashamed. He grumbled out some sort of apology and looked about quite helplessly, possibly for the dog he manifestly was in the habit of seeing forever at his heels. I took advantage of this momentary abstraction on his part to smooth my own disturbed features.

      “She was a beautiful girl,” I remarked, on the principle that, the ice once broken, one should not hesitate about jumping in. “Was your father equally handsome for a man?”

      “My father—yes, let’s talk of father. He was a judge of horses, he was. When he died, there were three mares in the stable not to be beat this side of Albany, but those devils of executors sold them, and I—well, you had a chance to test the speed of old Bess yesterday. You weren’t afraid of being thrown out, I take it. Great Scott, to think of a man of my tastes owning no other horse than that!”

      “You have not answered my question,” I suggested, turning him about and moving toward the gate.

      “Oh, about the way my father looked! What does that matter? He was handsome, though. Folks say that I get whatever good looks I have from him. He was big—bigger than I am, and while he lived—What did you make a fellow talk for?”

      I don’t know why I did, but I was certainly astonished at the result. This great, huge lump of selfish clay had actually shown feeling and was ashamed of it, like the lout he was.

      “Yesterday,” said I, anxious to change the subject, “I had difficulty in getting in through that gate we are pointing for. Couldn’t you set it straight, with just a little effort?”

      He paused, looked at me to see if I were in earnest, then took a dogged step toward the gate I was still indicating with my resolute right hand, but before he could touch it he perceived something on that deserted and ominous highway which made him start in sudden surprise.

      “Why, Trohm,” he cried, “is that you? Well, it’s an age since I have seen you turn that corner on a visit to us.”

      “Sometime, certainly,” answered a hearty and pleasant voice, and before I could quite drop the look of severity with which I was endeavoring to shame this young man into some decent show of interest in this place, and assume the more becoming aspect of a lady caught unawares at an early morning hour plucking flowers from a stunted syringa, a gentleman stepped into sight on the other side of the fence with a look and a bow so genial and devoid of mystery that I experienced for the first time since entering the gloomy precincts of this town a decided sensation of pleasure.

      “Miss Butterworth,” explained Mr. Knollys with a somewhat forced gesture in my direction. “A guest of my sisters,” he went on, and looked as if he hoped I would retire, though he made no motion to welcome Mr. Trohm in, but rather leaned a little conspicuously on the gate as if anxious to show that he had no idea that the other’s intention went any further than the passing of a few neighborly comments at the gate.

      I like to please the young even when they are no more agreeable than my surly host, and if the gentleman who had just shown himself had been equally immature, I would certainly have left them to have their talk out undisturbed. But he was not. He was older; he was even of sufficient years for his judgment to have become thoroughly matured and his every faculty developed. I therefore could not see why my society should be considered an intrusion by him, so I waited. His next sentence was addressed to me.

      “I am happy,” said he, “to have the pleasure of a personal introduction to Miss Butterworth. I did not expect it. The surprise is all the more agreeable. I only anticipated being allowed to leave this package and letter with the maid. They are addressed to you, madam, and were left at my house by mistake.”

      I could not hide my astonishment.

      “I live in the next house below,” said he. “The boy who brought these from the post office was a stupid lad, and I could not induce him to come any farther up the road. I hope you will excuse the present messenger and believe there has been no delay.”

      I bowed with what must have seemed an abstracted politeness. The letter was from New York, and, as I strongly suspected, from Mr. Gryce. Somehow this fact created in me an unmistakable embarrassment. I put both letter and package into my pocket and endeavored to meet the gentleman’s eye with my accustomed ease in the presence of strangers. But, strange to say, I had no sooner done so than I saw that he was no more at his ease than myself. He smiled, glanced at William, made an offhand remark or so about the weather, but he could not deceive eyes sharpened by such experience as mine. Something disturbed him, something connected with me. It made my cheek a little hot to acknowledge this even to myself, but it was so very evident that I began to cast about for the means of ridding ourselves of William when that blundering youth suddenly spoke:

      “I suppose he was afraid to come up the lane. Do you know, I think you’re brave to attempt it, Trohm. We haven’t a very good name here.” And with a sudden, perfectly unnatural burst, he broke out into one of his huge guffaws that so shook the old gate on which he was leaning that I thought it would tumble down with him before our eyes.

      I saw Mr. Trohm start and cast him a look in which I seemed to detect both surprise and horror, before he turned to me and with СКАЧАТЬ