Читать книгу The Step On The Stair - Anna Katharine Green - Страница 12

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“Friends!”

Was that Edgar speaking? Surely this was not his voice I heard.

But it was. Through the mist which had suddenly clouded everything in that long room, I could see him standing at his full height, with his glass held high in hand.

The hush was instantaneous. This seemed to unnerve him for I saw a drop or two of wine escape from that overfilled glass. But he quickly recovered the gay sang-froid which habitually distinguished him, and with the aspect and bearing which made him the most fascinating man I had ever met, went on to say:

“I have a word to speak for my uncle who I am sorry to say is detained in his room by a passing indisposition. First, he bids me extend to you his hearty greetings and best wishes for your very good health.”

He drank—we all drank—and joy ran high.

“Secondly:”—a forced emphasis, for all his strong command over himself breaking in upon the suavity of his tone, “he bids me say that this bringing together of his best friends is in celebration of an event dear to his heart and as he hopes of interest to yourselves. It is my pleasure, good friends, to announce to you the engagement of my uncle’s ward, Miss Colfax, to one whom you all know, Dr. Hunter. Harry, stand up. I drink to your future happiness, and—hers.” Oh, that slight, slight pause!

Was I dreaming? Were we all dreaming? From the blank looks I espied on every side, it was evident that the surprise was not confined to myself, but, was in the minds of every one present. Miss Colfax and Dr. Hunter! when the understanding was that we were here in celebration of his own engagement to Orpha! It took a full minute for the commotion to subside, then the whole crowd rose, I with the rest, and glasses were clinking and shouts of good feeling rising in merry chorus from one end of the room to the other.

Dr. Hunter spoke in response and Orpha smiled and I believe I uttered some words myself when they all looked my way; but there was no reality in any of it for me; instead, I seemed to be isolated from the whole scene, in a rush of joy and wonder; seeing everything as through a mist and really hearing nothing but the pounding of my own heart reiterating with every throb, “All is not over for me. There is yet hope! There is yet hope!”

But a doubt which came all too soon for my comfort drove much of this mist away. What if we had heard but half of what our young host had to say? What if his next words were those which I for one most dreaded? Uncle was too just and kind a man to exact so painful a service from one he so deeply loved, without the intention of seeing him made happy in the end. And what to his mind, could so insure that blessing as a final union between the two most dear to him?

In secret trepidation I waited for the second and still more profound hush which would follow another high lifting of the glass in Edgar’s hand. But it did not come. The ceremony, or whatever you might call it, was over, and Orpha sat there, beaming and serene and so far as appearances went, free to be loved and courted.

And then it came to me with sudden and strong conviction that Uncle would never have countenanced such a blow to my hopes (hopes which he had himself roused as well as greatly encouraged)—without giving me some warning that his mind had again changed. He did not love me,— not with a hundredth part of the fervor with which he regarded Edgar—but he respected our relationship and must, unless he were a very different man from what I believed him to be, have an equal respect for the attachment I had professed for his daughter. He had sent me no warning, therefore I need fear no further move this night.

But to-morrow? Well, I would let to-morrow take care of itself. For this night I would be happy; and under the inspiration of this resolve, I felt a lightness of spirit which for the first time that evening allowed me to be my full and natural self. Perhaps the grave almost inquiring look I received from Orpha as chance brought us for a moment together gave substance to this cheer. I did not understand it and I dared not give much weight to it, but from that time on the hours dragged less slowly.

At four o’clock precisely we three stood in an empty parlor.

“Now for Father!” cried Orpha. And with a kindly good-night to Edgar and an equally kindly one to me, she sped away and vanished upstairs leaving Edgar and myself alone together for the first time that evening.

It was an awkward moment for us both. I had no means of knowing what was in his mind and was equally ignorant of how much he knew of what was in mine. One thing alone was evident. The excitement of doing a difficult thing, possibly a heart-breaking thing, had ebbed with the disappearance of Orpha. He looked five years older, and blind as I was to his motives or the secret springs of the action which had left him a desolate man, I could not but admire the nerve with which he had carried off his bitter, self-sacrificing task. If he loved this stunning brunette as I loved Orpha he had my sympathy, whatever his motives, for the manner in which he had yielded her thus openly to another. But, by this time, I knew him well enough to recognize his mercurial, joy-seeking nature. In a month he would be the careless, happy-go-lucky fellow in whom everybody delighted.

And Uncle? And Orpha? What of them? Reminded thus of other sufferings than my own, I asked, with what calmness I could:

“Have you had any further news from upstairs? I thought our uncle looked far from well when I saw him in the early evening.”

“Wealthy sent for a doctor. I have not heard his report,” was the somewhat curt answer I received. “I am going up now,” he added. Then with continued restraint in his manner, he looked me full in the face and remarked, “Of course you know that you are to remain here till Uncle considers himself well enough for you to go. You will explain the situation to your firm. I am but repeating Uncle’s wishes.”

I nodded and he stepped to the foot of the stairs. But there he turned.

“If you will make yourself comfortable in your old room,” he said, “I will see that you receive that report as soon as I know it myself.”

This ended our interview.

* * * * * * * *

Fifteen minutes later Wealthy appeared at my door. She did not need to speak for me to foresee that dark days confronted us. But what she said was this:

“Miss Orpha is not to know the worst. Mr. Bartholomew is in no immediate danger; but he will never be a strong man again.”