“Hannah, I want you,” said she, and would have left the house without another word, but I caught her by the arm.
“Oh, miss—” I began, but she gave me such a look, I dropped her arm.
“I have nothing to say to you!” she cried in a low, thrilling voice. “Do not detain me.”
And, with a glance to see if Hannah were following her, she went out.
For an hour I sat crouched on the stair just where she had left me.
Then I went to bed, but I did not sleep a wink that night.
You can imagine, then, my wonder when, with the first glow of the early morning light, Mary, looking more beautiful than ever, came running up the steps and into the room where I was, with the letter for Mr. Clavering trembling in her hand.
“Oh!” I cried in my joy and relief, “didn’t she understand me, then?”
The gay look on Mary’s face turned to one of reckless scorn.
“If you mean Eleanore, yes. She is duly initiated, Mamma Hubbard.
Knows that I love Mr. Clavering and write to him.
I couldn’t keep it secret after the mistake you made last evening; so I did the next best thing, told her the truth.”
“Not that you were about to be married?”
“Certainly not.
I don’t believe in unnecessary communications.”
“And you did not find her as angry as you expected?”
“I will not say that; she was angry enough.
And yet,” continued Mary, 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.”