“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.”