Читать книгу Victor's Triumph - Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth - Страница 19

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All started to their feet and rushed to the prostrate woman's assistance.

She was but a slight creature, and Dr. Jones lifted her easily and laid her on one of the sofas.

Electra flew upstairs to bring down a bottle of Florida water.

Emma patted and rubbed her hands.

Dr. Jones bathed her brow with cold water, sighing and muttering to himself:

"Poor girl! Poor unfortunate girl!"

"I take blame to myself," said Emma. "She is evidently much iller than I thought. I ought not to have persuaded her to leave her room so soon after her cold. It is my fault."

At that instant Electra ran in with the Florida water and dashed a liberal portion of it over the head and face of the fainting woman.

The shock and the penetrating odor combined to rouse her from insensibility; and with a few gasps she recovered her consciousness; though her face, after one sudden flush, settled into a deadly paleness.

"My poor dear, how are you?" inquired Emma Cavendish, kindly.

"Dying, I think; dying, I hope! Let some one help me to my room," she murmured.

Dr. Jones at once lifted her in his arms and bore her upstairs, preceded by Electra, who flew on before to show the way to Mary Grey's room, and followed by Emma Cavendish, who still blamed herself for the invalid's supposed relapse.

Dr. Jones laid her on her bed, and was about to leave her to the care of Emma and Electra, when she seized his hand and drew him down to her face and said:

"I wish to speak to you for a moment now. Send Miss Cavendish and Miss Coroni out of the room for a little while."

"My dear children, go away for a moment. Mrs. Grey wishes to speak to me alone," said Dr. Jones.

And Emma and Electra softly retired, with the belief that Mary Grey only wished to consult the minister on religious subjects.

As soon as the door was closed behind them Mary Grey seized the old man's hand and, fixing her great black eyes fiercely upon him, demanded:

"Do they suspect?"

"No; certainly not."

"Did you drop no word during my swoon that might have led them to suspect?"

"Not one syllable."

"I thank you then!" she exclaimed, with a long sigh of relief.

"But, my child, was that all you wished to talk to me about?"

"That was all, except this: to beg you still to be silent as the grave in regard to my identity."

"My child, your words disappoint and grieve me. I did hope that you asked this private interview with the design to consult me about the propriety of making yourself known."

"Making myself known!" she exclaimed, with a half-suppressed shriek, as she started up upon her elbow and stared at the speaker. "Making myself known!"

"The opportunity, my dear child, is such an excellent one. And, of course, you know that if Mrs. Fanning comes here—as she must; for there is no other refuge open to her—if she comes and finds you here, discovery is inevitable."

"But she will not find me here! She shall not! I could not look her in the face. Sooner than do that, I will hurl myself from the turnpike bridge into the Mad River!" she fiercely exclaimed.

"My child, do not talk so wickedly. It is frightful to hear such things!" cried the old man, shuddering.

"You will see such things, if you do not mind. I am quite capable of doing what I said, for I am tired and sick of this life of constant dependence, mortification and terror—an insupportable life!" she wildly exclaimed.

"Because, my poor girl, it is a life of concealment, in constant dread of discovery and the humiliation attending discovery. Change all that and your life will be happier. Trust in those who are nearest to you, and make yourself, your name, your errors, and your sufferings and repentance fully known. Emma Cavendish is the ruling power in this house, and she is a pure, noble, magnanimous spirit. She would protect you," pleaded the old man, taking her hand.

"Oh, yes, she is all that! Do you think that makes it any easier for me to shock her with the story of my own folly, weakness and cowardice? Oh, no, no! I could not bear the look of her clear, truthful blue eyes! And I would not! There; it is useless to talk to me, Doctor Jones! There are some things that I can not do. I can not stay here!"

"My poor, poor child, whither will you go? Stay! Now I think of it, I can send you to my house at Beresford Manors. That shall be your home, if you will accept it. But what excuse can you make for leaving this place so abruptly?"

"You are very kind, Doctor Jones. You are very kind. But a moment's reflection will teach you that I could not accept your hospitality. You have no lady, I believe, at Beresford Manors? No one there except the colored servants? Therefore, you see, it would not be proper for me to go there," said Mary Grey, affecting a prudery that she did not feel, and objecting to the place only because she did not choose to bury herself in a house more lonely, dreary and deserted, if possible, than Blue Cliff Hall itself.

"Then where can you go, my poor girl?" compassionately questioned the old minister.

"I have thought of that. Sudden as this emergency is, I am not quite unprepared for it. This crisis that I feared might come has come, that is all. Only it has come in a far different manner from what I feared. But the result must be the same. I must leave the house immediately. And you must help to smooth my way toward leaving it."

"But whither will you go, poor shorn lamb?"

"I have planned out all that, in view of this very contingency. I will go to Charlottesville, where I have a lady friend who keeps a boarding-house for the University students. I can stay with her, and make myself useful in return for board and lodging, until I get something to do for a living. That is all settled. I asked you for this interview only to satisfy myself that no hint of my identity had been dropped, and no suspicion of it excited, during my swoon; and, further, to beg you to keep my miserable secret hereafter, as you have hitherto."

"I have satisfied you, I hope, upon all those subjects."

"Yes; and I thank you."

"But still I can not abandon the hope that you will yet heed good counsel and make yourself known to your best friends," pleaded the old man.

But Mary Grey shook her head.

Dr. Jones coaxed, argued, lectured, all in vain.

At length, worn out by his importunities, Mary Grey, to gain her own ends, artfully replied:

"Well, dear, good, wise friend, if ever I do gain courage to make myself known to my family, I must do it from some little distance, and by letter, so as to give them time to get over the shock of the revelation, before I could dare to face them. Think of it yourself. How could we bear to look each other in the eyes while telling and hearing such a story?"

"I believe you are right so far. Yes, in that view of the case it is, perhaps, better that you should go away and then write," admitted Dr. Jones.

"And you will aid me in my efforts to get away at once and without opposition? Tell them that it is better for my health and spirits that I should go away for a while, and go immediately—as it really is, you know. Will you do this?"

"Yes, I will do it, in the hope that your nervous system may be strengthened, and you may find courage to do the duty that lies before you," said the doctor, as he pressed her hand and left the room.

Dr. Jones went down-stairs to the drawing-room, where the young ladies waited in anxious suspense.

Emma Cavendish arose and looked at him in silent questioning.

"There is no cause for alarm, my dear Emma. Your friend will do very well. No, you need not go up to her room. She requires absolutely nothing but to be left to repose. You can look in on her, if you like, just before you go to bed. That will be time enough," explained Dr. Jones, as he took his seat at the table and took up his Review again as if nothing had happened to interrupt his reading.

Emma Cavendish breathed a sigh of relief and resumed her seat. She and Electra read or conversed in a low voice over their magazines until the hour of retiring.

Electra was the first to close her pamphlet, as with an undisguised yawn, for which her school-mistress would have rebuked her, she declared that she could not keep her eyes open a minute longer, much less read a line, and that she was going to bed.

Dr. Jones, with as much courtesy as if he had not been her grandfather, arose and lighted her bedroom candle and put it in her hand.

And she kissed him a drowsy good-night and went upstairs.

Emma was about to follow, when the doctor motioned her to resume her seat.

She did so, and waited.

"I want a word with you about Mrs. Grey, my dear Emma. She is very much out of health."

"I feared so," replied Emma Cavendish.

"Or, to speak with more literal truth, I should say that her nervous system is very much disordered."

"Yes."

"She is full of sick fancies. She wishes to go away for a while to get a change of scene."

"I will go with her to any watering-place she desires to visit, in the season," said Emma Cavendish, readily.

"Yes; but, my dear, she must have this change now, immediately."

"I would go with her now if I could leave my guests. You know I have Electra here, and Laura will return in two days perhaps, with her brother also."

"My good child, she does not ask or need any attendance. She wants to go away by herself for a while. She wants to go to an old lady friend in Charlottesville."

"I have heard her lately speak of such a friend, and of her intention, some day, to visit her."

"Well, she wishes to go now, immediately, but is afraid to mention her desire lest it should meet with opposition, which she has no nerve to contest."

"Dear uncle, how strange that she should feel this way! Why, she is not a prisoner here! And if she wishes to leave us for a short or a long time she can do so."

"Of coarse she can, my dear; but she is full of sick fancies. And my advice to you is that you let her go at once. To-morrow morning, if she wishes."

"Why certainly, Uncle Beresford! I have neither the power nor the will to prevent her."

"So let it be then, my dear. And now good-night," said the doctor, taking his candle to leave the room.

Thus the matter was settled.

But the next day old Mrs. Cavendish, Electra, and, in fact, the whole house, were thrown into a state of consternation at the announcement of Mrs. Grey's immediate departure.

When or how she had managed to get her personal effects together, whether she had kept them packed up for the emergency, or whether she had sat up all night to pack them, I do not know; but it is certain that by seven o'clock that morning she had three enormous Saratoga trunks packed, strapped and locked ready for the wagon that she asked for to take them to the railway station.

It was not until her luggage was in the wagon, and the carriage was waiting for her at the door, and she herself in her traveling-suit and hat, that she went to bid the old lady good-bye.

Mrs. Cavendish had been informed by Emma of the intended abrupt departure of Mary Grey, and she had begun to oppose it with all her might.

But Emma endeavored to convince her that the change was vitally necessary to Mary Grey's health and strength.

So now when the traveler entered the old lady's room the latter feebly arose to her feet, holding on to the arm of her chair, while she faltered:

"Mary—Mary, this is so sudden, so shocking, so sorrowful, that I almost think it will make me ill! Why must you go, my dear?"

"Sweet mother—may I call you so?—sweet mother, I will tell you what I did not like to tell dear Emma, for fear it might distress her; she is so sensitive, you know!" murmured the siren, sitting down and tenderly caressing the old lady.

"Tell me then, my love, tell me anything you like," said Mrs. Cavendish, weeping.

"Well, you know that dear old lady friend in Charlottesville, of whom I spoke to you a week or so ago?"

"Ah, yes! The bishop's widow, who is reduced to keeping a student's boarding-house to help support her fifteen children," sighed the ancient dame.

"Yes, and my dear dead mother's dearest friend. Well, I have heard that she is in a dying condition and desires above all things to see me before she departs. That's what shocked me so severely as to make me quite ill. But I never should forgive myself if by any delay of mine she really should depart without having her last wish gratified. Do you blame me for hurrying away?"

"No, no, no, my child—my own lovely child! I do not wonder my poor Charley worshiped you, you are so very good! Go, Mary, my darling! But hurry back as soon as possible."

"Yes, sweet mother, I will. And now, not a word to Emma, or to any one else who might tell her of these distressing circumstances."

"No, no; certainly not! How thoughtful you are, for one so young, my good child! Bend down and take my blessing."

Mary Grey bowed her head.

The venerable lady placed her withered hands upon the bent head, raised her eyes to heaven, and solemnly invoked a blessing on the traitress.

And then Mary Grey arose, kissed her in silence, and left the room.

And thus they parted.

In the hall below she had to part with Emma and Electra.

"We hope you will return to us very soon, dear Mrs. Grey," said Emma Cavendish, as she kissed her good-bye.

"I hope so too, my dear," answered the widow.

"But you will scarcely get back before I return to school, so ours must be a very long good-bye," said Electra, as she also kissed the "parting guest."

"'Tis true, 'tis pity," said Mrs. Grey, between a smile and a sigh.

Dr. Jones then handed her into the carriage, and followed and took a seat by her side, for he was to attend her to the station and see her off on her journey.