I’ve heard enough. Nothing which Mrs. Livingstone could say would have weighed a straw, but the conviction of my own eyes and ears have undeceived me, and henceforth ‘Lena and I are as strangers.”
Nothing could please Mrs. Graham better, for the idea of her son’s marrying a poor, unknown girl, was dreadful, and though she felt indignant toward her husband so peculiar was her nature that she would not have had matters otherwise if she could and when Durward, who disliked _scenes_, suggested the propriety of her not speaking to his father on the subject at present he assented, saying that it would be more easy for her to refrain, as she was intending to start for Louisville on the morrow.
“I’ve been contemplating a visit there for some time and before Mr. Graham left home this morning, I had decided to go,” said she, at the same time proposing that Durward should accompany her.
To this consented willingly, for in the first shock of his disappointment, a change of place and scene was what he most desired. The hot blood of the south, which burned in his veins, seemed all on fire, and he felt that he could not, for the present, at least be daily associated with his stepfather. An absence of several days, he thought, might have the effect of calming him down. It was accordingly decided that he should on the morrow, start with her for Louisville, to be gone two weeks; and with this understanding they parted, Durward going to his own chamber, there to review the past and strive, if possible, to efface from his heart every memory of ‘Lena, whom he had loved so well. But ’twas all in vain; he could not so soon forget her and far into the hours of night he sat alone striving to frame some excuse for her conduct. The fact that his father possessed her daguerreotype might possibly be explained, without throwing censure upon her; but the falsehood–never; and with the firm conviction that she was lost to him forever, he at last retired to rest, just as the clock in the ball below proclaimed the hour of midnight.
Meantime, Mrs. Graham was pondering in her own mind the probable result of a letter which, in the heat of passion, she had that day dispatched to ‘Lena, accusing her of “marring the domestic peace of a hitherto happy family,” and while she cast some reflections upon her birth, commanding her never, under any circumstances, “to venture into her presence!”
This cruel letter had been sent to the office before Durward’s return, and as she well knew how much he would disapprove of it, she resolved not to tell him, secretly hoping ‘Lena would keep her own counsel. “Base creature!” said she, “to give my husband her likeness–but he shall never see it again;” and with stealthy step she advanced toward the secret drawer, which she again opened, and taking from it both daguerreotype and ringlet, locked it, replacing the key in the pocket where she found it. Then seizing the long, bright curl, she hurled it into the glowing grate, shuddering as she did so, and trembling, as if she really knew a wrong had been done to the dead.
Opening the case, she looked once more upon the hated features, which now seemed to regard her mournfully, as if reproaching her for what she had done. No part of the dress was visible–nothing except the head and neck, which was uncovered, and over which fell the chestnut curls, whose companion so recently lay seething and scorching on the burning coals.
There was a footstep without–her husband had returned–and quick as thought was the daguerreotype concealed, while Mrs. Graham, forcing down her emotion, took up a book, which she seemed to be intently reading when her husband entered. After addressing to her a few commonplace remarks, all of which she answered civilly, he went to the wardrobe, and on pretense of looking for his knife, which, he said he believed he left in his vest pocket, he took out the key, and then carelessly proceeded to unlock his private drawer, his wife watching him the while, and keenly enjoying his look of consternation when he saw that his treasure was gone. Again and again was his drawer searched, but all to no purpose, and casting an anxious glance toward his wife, whose face, for a wonder, betrayed no secret, he commenced walking the floor in a very perturbed state of mind, his wife exulting in his discomfiture, and thinking herself amply avenged for all that she had endured.
At last he spoke, telling her of a letter which he had that day received from South Carolina, containing the news of the death of a distant relative, who had left him some property. “It is not necessary for me to be there in person,” said he, “but still I should like to visit my old home once more. What do you think of it?”
“Go, by all means,” said she, glad of anything which would place distance between him and ‘Lena. “No one can attend to your business one-half as well as yourself. When will you start if you go?”
“Immediately–before your return from Louisville–unless you wish to accompany me.”
“I’m afraid I should be an incumbrance, and would rather not,” said she, in a way which puzzled him, causing him to wonder what had come over her.
“You can do as you choose,” said he, “but I should be glad of your company.”
“No, I thank you,” was her laconic reply, as she, in turn, wondered what had come over him.
The next morning the carriage came up to the door to convey Mrs. Graham and Durward to Frankfort. The latter was purposely late, and he did not see his father until he came down, traveling-bag in hand, to enter the carriage. Then Mr. Graham asked, in some surprise, “where he was going?”
“With my mother to Louisville, sir,” answered Durward, stiffly. “I am not willing she should travel alone, if you are;” and he sprang into the carriage, ordering the coachman to drive off ere another word could be spoken.
“Gone, when I had nerved myself to tell him everything!–my usual luck!” mused Mr. Graham, as he returned to the house, and sure of no prying eyes, recommenced his search for the daguerreotype, which was nowhere to be found. Could she have found it? Impossible! for it was not in her jealous nature to have held her peace; and again he sought for it, but all to no purpose, and finally thinking he must have taken it with him and lost it, he gave it up, mourning more for the loss of the curl, which could never, never be replaced, while the picture might be found.
“Why do I live so?” thought he, as he nervously paced the room. “My life is one of continual fear and anxiety, but it shall be so no longer. I’ll tell her all when she returns. I’ll brave the world, dare her displeasure, take ‘Lena home, and be a man.”
Satisfied with this resolution, and nothing doubting that he should keep it, he started for Versailles, where he had an engagement with a gentleman who transacted business for him in Lexington.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE LETTER AND ITS EFFECT.
Mabel had gone out, and ‘Lena sat alone in the little room adjoining the parlor which Mr. Douglass termed his library, but which Nellie had fitted up for a private sewing-room. It was ‘Lena’s favorite resort when she wished to be alone, and as Mabel was this morning absent, she had retired thither, not to work, but to think–to recall every word and look of Durward’s, to wonder when and how he would repeat the question, the answer to which had been prevented by Mr. Graham.
Many and blissful were her emotions as she sat there, wondering if it were not a bright dream, from which she would too soon awaken, for could it be that one so noble, so good, and so much sought for as Durward Bellmont had chosen her, of all others, to be his bride? Yes, it must be so, for he was not one to say or act what he did not mean; he would come that day and repeat what he had said before; and she blushed as she thought what her answer would be.
There was a knock on the door, and a servant entered, bringing her a letter, which she eagerly seized, thinking it was from him. But ’twas not his writing, though bearing the post-mark of Versailles. Hastily she broke the seal, and glancing at the signature, turned pale, for it was “Lucy Graham,” his mother, who had written, but for what, she could not guess. A moment more and she fell back on the sofa, white and rigid as a piece of marble. ‘Twas a cruel and insulting letter, containing many dark insinuations, which she, being wholly innocent; could not understand. She knew indeed, that Mr. Graham had presented her with Vesta, but was there anything wrong in that? She did not think so, else she had never taken her. Her uncle, her cousin, and Durward, all three approved of her accepting it, the latter coming with it himself–so it could not be that; and for a long time Lena wept passionately, resolving one moment to answer the letter as it deserved determining, the next, to go herself and see Mrs. Graham face to face; and then concluding to treat it with silent contempt, trusting that Durward would erelong appear and make it all plain between them.
At last, about five o’clock, Mabel returned, bringing the intelligence that Mrs. Graham was in the city, at the Weisiger House, where she was going to remain until the morrow. She had met with an accident, which prevented her arrival in Frankfort until the train which she was desirous of taking had left.
“Is her husband with her?” asked ‘Lena, to which Mabel replied, that she understood she was alone.
“Then I’ll see her and know what she means,” thought ‘Lena, trembling, even then, at the idea of venturing into the presence of the cold, haughty woman.
* * * * * *
Supper was over at the Weisiger House, and in a handsome private parlor Mrs. Graham lay, half asleep, upon the sofa, while in the dressing-room adjoining Durward sat, trying to frame a letter which should tell poor ‘Lena that their intimacy was forever at an end. For hours, and until the last gleam of daylight had faded away, he had sat by the window, watching each youthful form which passed up and, down the busy street, hoping to catch a glimpse of her who once had made his world. But his watch was in vain, and now he had sat down to write, throwing aside sheet after sheet, as he thought its beginning too cold, too harsh, or too affectionate. He was about making up his mind not to write at all, but to let matters take their course, when a knock at his mother’s door, and the announcement that a lady wished to see her arrested his attention.
“Somebody want to see me? Just show her up,” said Mrs. Graham, smoothing down her flaxen hair, and wiping from between her eyes a spot of powder which the opposite mirror revealed.
In a moment the visitor entered–a slight, girlish form, whose features were partially hidden from view by a heavy lace veil, which was thrown over her satin hood. A single glance convinced Mrs. Graham that it was a lady, a well-bred lady, who stood before her, and very politely she bade her be seated.
Rather haughtily the proffered chair was declined, while the veil was thrown aside, disclosing to the astonished gaze of Mrs. Graham the face of ‘Lena Rivers, which was unnaturally pale, while her dark eyes grew darker with the intensity of her feelings.
“‘Lena Rivers! why came you here?” she asked, while at the mention of that name Durward started to his feet, but quickly resumed his seat, listening with indescribable emotions to the sound of a voice which made every nerve quiver with pain.
“You ask me why I am here, madam,” said ‘Lena. “I came to seek an explanation from you–to know of what I am accused–to ask why you wrote me that insulting letter–me, an orphan girl, alone and unprotected in the world, and who never knowingly harmed you or yours.”
“Never harmed me or mine!” scornfully repeated Mrs. Graham. “Don’t add falsehood to your other sins–though, if you’ll lie to my son, you of course will to me, his mother.”
“Explain yourself, madam, if you please,” exclaimed ‘Lena, her olden temper beginning to get the advantage of her.
“And what if I do not please?” sneeringly asked Mrs. Graham.
“Then I will compel you to do so, for my good name is all I have, and it shall not be wrested from me without an effort on my part to preserve it,” answered ‘Lena.
“Perhaps you expect my husband to stand by you and help you. I am sure it would be very ungentlemanly in him to desert you, now,” said Mrs. Graham, her manner conveying far more meaning than her words.
‘Lena trembled from head to foot, and her voice was hardly distinct as she replied, “Will you explain yourself, or will you not? What have I done, that you should treat me thus?”
“Done? Done enough, I should think! Haven’t you whiled him away from me with your artful manners? Has he ever been the same man since he saw you? Hasn’t he talked of you in his sleep? made you most valuable presents which a true woman would have refused? and in return, haven’t you bestowed upon him your daguerreotype, together with a lock of your hair, on which you no doubt pride yourself, but which to me and my son seem like so many coiling serpents?”
‘Lena had sat down. She could stand no longer, and burying her face in her hands, she waited until Mrs. Graham had finished. Then, lifting up her head, she replied in a voice far more husky than the one in which she before had spoken–“You accuse me wrongfully, Mrs. Graham, for as I hope for heaven, I never entertained a feeling for your husband which I would not have done for my own father, and indeed, he has seemed to me more like a parent than a friend—-“
“Because you fancied he might some day be one, I dare say,” interrupted Mrs. Graham.
‘Lena paid no attention to this sarcastic remark, but continued: “I know I accepted Vesta, but I never dreamed it was wrong, and if it was, I will make amends by immediately returning her, for much as I love her, I shall never use her again.”
“But the daguerreotype?” interrupted Mrs. Graham, anxious to reach that point. “What have you to say about the daguerreotype? Perhaps you will presume to deny that, too.”
Durward had arisen, and now in the doorway watched ‘Lena, whose dark brown eyes flashed fire as she answered, “It is false, madam. You know it is false. I never yet have had my picture taken.”
“But he has it in his possession; how do you account for that?”
“Again I repeat, that is false!” said ‘Lena, while Mrs. Graham, strengthened by the presence of her son, answered, “I can prove it, miss.”
“I defy you to do so,” said ‘Lena, strong in her own innocence.
“Shall I show it to her, Durward,” asked Mrs. Graham, and ‘Lena, turning suddenly round, became for the first time conscious of his presence.
With a cry of anguish she stretched her arms imploringly toward him, asking him, in piteous tones, to save her from his mother. Durward would almost have laid down his life to prove her innocent, but he felt that could not be. So he made her no reply, and in his eye she read that he, too, was deceived. With a low, wailing moan she again covered her face with her hands, while Mrs. Graham repeated her question, “Shall I show it to her?”
Durward was not aware that she had it in her possession, and he answered, “Why do you ask, when you know you cannot do so?”
Oh, how joyfully ‘Lena started up; he did not believe it, after all, and if ever a look was expressive of gratitude, that was which she gave to Durward, who returned her no answering glance, save one of pity; and again that wailing cry smote painfully on his ear. Taking the case from her pocket, Mrs. Graham advanced toward ‘Lena, saying, “Here, see for yourself, and then deny it if you can.”
But ‘Lena had no power to take it. Her faculties seemed benumbed and Durward, who, with folded arms and clouded brow stood leaning against the mantel, construed her hesitation into guilt, which dreaded to be convicted.
“Why don’t you take it?” persisted Mrs. Graham. “You defied me to prove it, and here it is. I found it in my husband’s private drawer, together with one of those long curls, which last I burned out of my sight.”
Durward shuddered, while ‘Lena involuntarily thought of the mass of wavy tresses which they had told her clustered around her mother’s face, as she lay in her narrow coffin. Why thought she of her mother then? Was it because they were so strangely alike, that any allusion to her own personal appearance always reminded her of her lost parent? Perhaps so. But to return to our story ‘Lena would have sworn that the likeness was not hers, and still an undefined dread crept over her, preventing her from moving.
“You seem so unwilling to be convinced, allow me to assist you,” said Mrs. Graham, at the same time unclasping the case and holding to view the picture, on which with wondering eyes, ‘Lena gazed in astonishment.
“It is I–it is; but oh, heaven, how came he by it?” she gasped, and the next moment she fell fainting at Durward’s feet.
In an instant he was bending over her, his mother exclaiming, “Pray, don’t touch her–she does it for effect.”
But he knew better. He knew there was no feigning the corpse-like pallor of that face, and pushing his mother aside, he took the unconscious girl in his arms, and bearing her to the sofa, laid her gently upon it, removing her hand and smoothing back from her cold brow the thick, clustering curls which his mother had designated as “coiling serpents.”
“Do not ring and expose her to the idle gaze of servants,” said he, to his mother, who had seized the bell-rope. “Bring some water from your bedroom, and we will take charge of her ourselves.”
There was something commanding in the tones of his voice, and Mrs. Graham, now really alarmed at the deathly appearance of ‘Lena, hastened to obey. When he was alone, Durward bent down, imprinting upon the white lips a burning kiss–the first he had ever given her. In his heart he believed her unworthy of his love, and yet she had never seemed one-half so dear to him as at that moment, when she lay there before him helpless as an infant, and all unmindful of the caresses which he lavished upon her. “If it were indeed death;” he thought, “and it had come upon her while yet she was innocent, I could have borne it, but now I would I had never seen her;” and the tears which fell like rain upon her cheek, were not unworthy of the strong man who shed them. The cold water with which they profusely bathed her face and neck, restored her, and then Durward, who could bear the scene no longer, glided silently into the next room.
When he was gone, Mrs. Graham, who seemed bent upon tormenting ‘Lena, asked “what she thought about it now?”
“Please don’t speak to me again, for I am very, very wretched,” said ‘Lena softly, while Mrs. Graham continued: “Have you nothing to offer in explanation?”
“Nothing, nothing–it is a dark mystery to me, and I wish that I was dead,” answered ‘Lena, sobbing passionately.
“Better wish to live and repent,” said Mrs. Graham, beginning to read her a long sermon on her duty, to which ‘Lena paid no attention, and the moment she felt that she could walk, she arose to go.
The moon was shining brightly, and as Mr. Douglass lived not far away, Mrs. Graham did not deem an escort necessary. But Durward thought differently. He could not walk with her side by side, as he had often done before, but he would follow at a distance, to see that no harm came near her. There was no danger of his being discovered, for ‘Lena was too much absorbed in her own wretchedness to heed aught about her, and in silence he walked behind her until he saw the door of Mr. Douglass’s house close upon her. Then feeling that there was an inseparable barrier between them, he returned to his hotel, where he found his mother exulting over the downfall of one whom, for some reason, she had always disliked.
“Didn’t she look confounded, though, when I showed her the picture?” said she; to which Durward replied, by asking “when and why she sent the letter.”
“I did it because I was a mind to, and I am not sorry for it, either,” was Mrs. Graham’s crusty answer, whereupon the conversation was dropped, and as if by a tacit agreement, the subject was not again resumed during their stay in Louisville.
* * * * * *
It would be impossible to describe ‘Lena’s emotion as she returned to the house. Twice in the hall was she obliged to grasp at the banister to keep from falling, and knowing that such excessive agitation would be remarked, she seated herself upon the stairs until she felt composed enough to enter the parlor. Fortunately, Mabel was alone, and so absorbed in the fortunes of “Uncle True and little Gerty,” as scarcely to notice ‘Lena at all. Once, indeed, as she sat before the grate so motionless and still, Mabel looked up, and observing how white she was, asked what was the matter.
“A bad headache,” answered ‘Lena, at the same time announcing her intention of retiring.
“Alone in her room, her feelings gave way, and none save those who like her have suffered, can conceive of her anguish, as prostrate upon the floor she lay, her long silken curls falling about her white face, which looked ghastly and haggard by the moonlight that fell softly about her, as if to soothe her woe.
“What is it,” she cried aloud–“this dark mystery, which I cannot explain.”
The next moment she thought of Mr. Graham. He could explain it–he must explain it. She would go to him the next day, asking him what it meant. She felt sure that he could make it plain, for suspicious as matters looked, she exculpated him from any wrong intention toward her. Still she could not sleep, and when the gray morning light crept in, it found her too much exhausted to rise.
For several days she kept her room, carefully attended by Mabel and her grandmother, who, at the first intimation of her illness, hastened down to nurse her. Every day did ‘Lena ask of Mr. Douglass if Mr. Graham had been in the city, saying that the first time he came she wished to see him. Days, however, went by, and nothing was seen or heard from him, until at last John Jr.; who visited her daily, casually informed her that Mr. Graham had been unexpectedly called away to South Carolina. A distant relative of his had died, bequeathing him a large property, which made it necessary for him to go there immediately; so without waiting for the return of his wife, he had started off, leaving Woodlawn alone.
“Gone to South Carolina!” exclaimed ‘Lena. “When will he return?”
“Nobody knows. He’s away from home more than half the time, just as I should be if Mrs. Graham were my wife,” answered John Jr., at the same time playfully remarking that ‘Lena need not look so blank, as it was not Durward who had gone so far.
For an instant ‘Lena resolved to tell him everything and ask him what to do, but knowing how impetuous he was when at all excited, she finally decided to keep her own secret, determining, however, to write to Mr. Graham, as soon as she was able. Just before John Jr. left her, she called him to her side, asking him if he would do her the favor of seeing that Vesta was sent back to Woodlawn, as she did not wish for her any longer.
“What the plague is that for–has mother been raising a row?” asked John Jr., and ‘Lena replied, “No, no, your mother has nothing to do with it. I only want Vesta taken home. I cannot at present tell you why, but I have a good reason, and some time, perhaps, I’ll explain. You’ll do it, won’t you?”
With the determination of questioning Durward as to what had happened, John Jr. promised, and when Mrs. Graham and her son returned from Louisville, they found Vesta safely stabled with their other horses, while the saddle with its tiny slipper hung upon a beam, and seemingly looked down with reproach upon Durward, who turned away with a bitter pang as he thought of the morning when he first took it to Maple Grove.
The next day was dark and rainy, precluding all outdoor exercise, and weary, sad, and spiritless, Durward repaired to the library, where, for an hour or more, he sat musing dreamily of the past–of the morning, years ago, when first he met the little girl who had since grown so strongly into his love, and over whom so dark a shadow had fallen. A heavy knock at the door, and in a moment John Jr. appeared, with dripping garments and a slightly scowling face. There was a faint resemblance between him and ‘Lena, manifest in the soft, curling hair and dark, lustrous eyes. Durward had observed it before–he thought of it now–and glad to see any one who bore the least resemblance to her, he started up, exclaiming, “Why, Livingstone, the very one of all the world I am glad to see.”
John made no reply, but shaking the rain-drops from his overcoat, which he carelessly threw upon the floor, he took a chair opposite the grate, and looking Durward fully in the face, said, “I’ve come over, Bellmont, to ask you a few plain, unvarnished questions, which I believe you will answer truthfully. Am I right?”
“Certainly, sir–go on,” was Durward’s reply.
“Well, then, to begin, are you and ‘Lena engaged?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you been engaged?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you ever expect to be engaged?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you quarreled?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know why she wished to have Vesta sent home?”
“I suppose I do.”
“Will you tell me?”
“No, sir,” said Durward, determined, for ‘Lena’s sake, that no one should wring from him the secret.
John Jr. arose, jammed both hands into his pockets–walked to the window–made faces at the weather–walked back to the grate–made faces at that–kicked it–and then turning to Durward, said, “There’s the old Nick to pay, somewhere.”
Nothing from Durward, who only felt bound to answer direct questions.
“I tell you, there’s the old Nick to pay, somewhere,” continued John, raising his voice. “I knew it all the while ‘Lena was sick. I read it in her face when I told her Mr. Graham had gone south—-“
A faint sickness gathered around Durward’s heart, and John Jr. proceeded: “She wouldn’t tell me, and I’ve come to you for information. Will you give it to me?”
“No, sir,” said Durward. “The nature of our trouble is known only to ourselves and one other individual, and I shall never divulge the secret.”
“Is that other individual my mother?”
“No, sir.”
“Is it Cad?”
“No, sir.”
“Had they any agency in the matter?”
“None, whatever, that I know of.”
“Then I’m on the wrong track, and may as well go home,” said John Jr., starting for the door, where he stopped, while he added, “If, Bellmont, I ever do hear of your having misled me in this matter—-” He did not finish the sentence in words, but playfully producing a revolver, he departed. The next moment he was dashing across the lawn, the mud flying in every direction, and himself thinking how useless it was to try to unravel a love quarrel.
In the meantime, ‘Lena waited impatiently for an answer to the letter which she had sent to Mr. Graham, but day after day glided by, and still no tidings came. At last, as if everything had conspired against her, she heard that he was lying dangerously ill of a fever at Havana, whither he had gone in quest of an individual whose presence was necessary in the settlement of the estate.
The letter which brought this intelligence to Mrs. Graham, also contained a request that she would come to him immediately, and within a few days after its receipt, she started for Cuba, together with Durward, who went without again seeing ‘Lena.
They found him better than they expected. The danger was past, but he was still too weak to move himself, and the physician said it would be many weeks ere he was able to travel. This rather pleased Mrs. Graham than otherwise. She was fond of change, and had often desired to visit Havana, so now that she was there, she made the best of it, and for once in her life enacted the part of a faithful, affectionate wife.
Often, during intervals of mental aberration, Mr. Graham spoke of “Helena,” imploring her forgiveness for his leaving her so long, and promising to return. Sometimes he spoke of her as being dead, and in piteous accents he would ask of Durward to bring him back his “beautiful ‘Lena,” who was sleeping far away among the New England mountains.
One day when the servant, as usual, came in with their letters, he brought one directed to Mr. Graham, which had been forwarded from Charleston, and which bore the post-marks of several places, it having been sent hither and thither, ere it reached its place of destination. It was mailed at Frankfort, Kentucky, and in the superscription Durward readily recognized the handwriting of ‘Lena.
“Worse and worse,” thought he, now fully assured of her worthlessness.
For a moment he felt tempted to break the seal, but from this act he instinctively shrank, thinking that whatever it might contain, it was not for him to read it. But what should he do with it? Must he give it to his mother who already had as much as she could bear? No, ’twas not best for her to know aught about it, and as the surest means of preventing its doing further trouble, he destroyed it–burned it to ashes–repenting the next moment of the deed, wishing he had read it, and feeling not that he had wronged the dead, as his mother did when she burned the chestnut curl, but as if he had done a wrong to ‘Lena.
In the course of two months he went back to Woodlawn, leaving his father and mother to travel leisurely from place to place, as the still feeble state of the former would admit. ‘Lena, who had returned from Frankfort, trembled lest he should come to Maple Grove, but he seemed equally desirous of avoiding a meeting, and after lingering about Woodlawn for several days, he suddenly departed for Louisville, where, for a time, we leave him, while we follow the fortunes of others connected with our story.
CHAPTER XXIV.
JOHN JR. AND MABEL.
Time and absence had gradually softened John Jr.’s feelings toward Nellie. She was not married to Mr. Wilbur–possibly she never would be–and if on her return to America he found her the same, he would lose no time in seeing her, and, if possible, secure her to himself. Such was the tenor of his thoughts, as on one bright morning in June he took his way to Lexington, whither he was going on business for his father. Before leaving the city, he rode down to the depot, as was his usual custom, reaching there just as the cars bound for Frankfort were rolling away. Upon the platform of the rear car stood an acquaintance of his, who called out, “Halloo, Livingstone, have you heard the news?”
“News, no. What news?” asked John Jr., following after the fast moving train.
“Bob Wilbur and Nellie Douglass are married,” screamed the young man, who, having really heard of Mr. Wilbur’s marriage, supposed it must of course be with Nellie.
John Jr. had no doubt of it, and for a moment his heart fainted beneath the sudden blow. But he was not one to yield long to despair, and soon recovering from the first shock, he raved in uncontrollable fury, denouncing Nellie as worthless, fickle, and good for nothing, mentally wishing her much joy with her husband, who in the same breath he hoped “would break his confounded neck,” and ending his tirade by solemnly vowing to offer himself to the first girl he met, whether black or white!
Full of this resolution he put spurs to Firelock and sped away over the turnpike, looking neither to the right nor the left, lest a chance should offer for the fulfillment of his vow. It was the dusk of evening when he reached home, and giving his horse into the care of a servant, he walked with rapid strides into the parlor, starting back as he saw _Mabel Ross_, who, for a few days past, had been visiting at Maple Grove.
“There’s no backing out,” thought he. “It’s my destiny, and I’ll meet it like a man. Nellie spited me, and I’ll let her know how good it feels.”
“Mabel,” said he, advancing toward her, “will you marry me? Say yes or no quick.”
This was not quite the kind of wooing which Mabel had expected. ‘Twas not what she read of in novels, but then it was in keeping with the rest of John Jr.’s conduct, and very frankly and naturally she answered “Yes.”
“Very well,” said he, beginning to feel better already, and turning to leave the room–“Very well, you fix the day, and arrange it all yourself, only let it be very soon, for now I’ve made up my mind, I’m in a mighty hurry.”
Mabel laughed, and hardly knowing whether he were in earnest or not, asked “if she should speak to the minister, too.”
“Yes, no,” said he. “Just tell mother, and she’ll fix it all right. Will you?”
And he walked away, feeling nothing, thinking nothing, except that he was engaged. Engaged! The very idea seemed to add new dignity to _him_, while it invested Mabel with a charm she had not hitherto possessed. John Jr. liked everything that belonged to him exclusively, and Mabel now was his–his wife she would be–and when next he met her in the drawing-room, his manner toward her was unusually kind, attracting the attention of his mother, who wondered at the change. One after another the family retired, until there was no one left in the parlor except Mabel and Mrs. Livingstone, who, as her husband chanced to be absent, had invited her young visitor to share her room. When they were alone, Mabel, with many blushes and a few tears, told of all that had occurred, except, indeed, of John’s manner of proposing, which she thought best not to confide to a third person.
Eagerly Mrs. Livingstone listened, mentally congratulating herself upon the completion of her plan without her further interference, wondering the while how it had been so suddenly brought about, and half trembling lest it should prove a failure after all. So when Mabel spoke of John Jr.’s wish that the marriage should be consummated immediately, she replied, “Certainly–by all means. There is no necessity for delay. You can marry at once, and get ready afterwards. It is now the last of June. I had thought of going to Saratoga in July, and a bride is just the thing to give eclat to our party.”
“But,” answered Mabel, who hardly fancied a wedding without all the usual preparations, which she felt she should enjoy so much, “I cannot think of being married until October, when Nellie perhaps will be here.”
Nellie’s return was what Mrs. Livingstone dreaded, and very ingeniously she set herself at work to put aside Mabel’s objections, succeeding so far that the young girl promised compliance with whatever she should think proper. The next morning, as John Jr. was passing through the hall, she called him into her room, delicately broaching the subject of his engagement, saying she knew he could not help loving a girl possessed of so many excellent qualities as Mabel Ross. Very patiently John Jr. heard her until she came to speak of love. Then, in much louder tones than newly engaged men are apt to speak of their betrothed, he exclaimed, “Love! Fudge! If you think I’m marrying Mabel for love, you are greatly mistaken, I like her, but love is out of the question.”
“Pray what are you marrying her for? Her property?”
“Property!” repeated John, with a sneer, “I’ve seen the effect of marrying for property, and I trust I’m not despicable enough to try it for myself. No, madam, I’m not marrying her for money–but to spite Nellie Douglass, if you must know the reason. I’ve loved her as I shall never again love womankind, but she cheated me. She’s married to Robert Wilbur, and now I’ve too much spirit to have her think _I_ care. If she can marry, so can I–she isn’t the only girl in the world–and when I heard what she had done, I vowed I’d offer myself to the first female I saw. As good or bad luck would have it, ’twas Mabel, who you know said yes, of course, for I verily believe she likes me far better than I deserve. What kind of a husband I shall make, the Lord only knows, but I’m in for it. My word is passed, and the sooner you get us tied together the better, but for heaven’s sake, don’t go to making a great parade. Mabel has no particular home. She’s here now, and why not let the ceremony take place here. But fix it to suit yourselves, only don’t let me hear you talking about it, for fear I’ll get sick of the whole thing.”
This was exactly what Mrs. Livingstone desired. She had the day before been to Frankfort herself, learning from Mrs. Atkins of Mr. Wilbur’s marriage with the English girl. She knew her son was deceived, and it was highly necessary that he should continue so. She felt sure that neither her daughters, Mabel, nor ‘Lena knew of Mr. Wilbur’s marriage, and she resolved they should not. It was summer, and as many of their city friends had left Frankfort for places of fashionable resort, they received but few calls; and by keeping them at home until the wedding was over, she trusted that all would be safe in that quarter. Durward, too, was fortunately absent, so she only had to deal with Mabel and John Jr. The first of these she approached very carefully, casually telling her of Mr. Wilbur’s marriage, and then hastily adding, “But pray don’t speak of it to any one, as there are special reasons why it should not at present be discussed. Sometime I may tell you the reason.”
Mabel wondered why so small a matter should be a secret, but Mrs. Livingstone had requested her to keep silence and that was a sufficient reason why she should do so. The next step was to win her consent for the ceremony to take place there, and in the course of three weeks, saying that it was her son’s wish. But on this point she found more difficulty than she had anticipated, for Mabel shrank from being married at the house of his father.
“It didn’t look right,” said she, “and she knew Mr. Douglass would not object to having it there.”
Mrs. Livingstone knew so, too, but there was too much danger in such an arrangement, and she replied, “Of course not, if you request it, but will it be quite proper for you to ask him to be at all that trouble when Nellie is gone, and there is no one at home to superintend?”
So after a time Mabel was convinced, thinking, though, how differently everything was turning out from what she expected. Three weeks from that night was fixed upon for the bridal, to which but few were to be invited, for Mrs. Livingstone did not wish to call forth remark.
“Everything should be done quietly and in order,” she said, “and then, when autumn came, she would give a splendid party in honor of the bride.”
Mr. Douglass, when told of the coming event by Mrs. Livingstone, who would trust no one else, expressed much surprise, saying he greatly preferred that the ceremony should take place at his own house.
“Of course,” returned the oily-tongued woman, “of course you had, but even a small wedding party is a vast amount of trouble, and in Nellie’s absence you would be disturbed. Were she here I would not say a word, but now I insist upon having it my own way, and indeed, I think my claim upon Mabel is the strongest.”
Silenced, but not quite convinced, Mr. Douglass said no more, thinking, meanwhile, that if he only _could_ afford it, Mabel should have a wedding worthy of her. But he could not; he was poor, and hence Mrs. Livingstone’s arguments prevailed the more easily. Fortunately for her, John Jr. manifested no inclination to go out at all. A kind of torpor seemed to have settled upon him, and day after day he remained at home, sometimes in a deep study in his own room, and sometimes sitting in the parlor, where his very unlover-like deportment frequently brought tears to Mabel’s eyes, while Carrie loudly denounced him as the most clownish fellow she ever saw.
“I hope you’ll train him, Mabel,” said she, “for he needs it. He ought to have had Nellie Douglass. She’s a match for him. Why didn’t you have her, John?”
With a face dark as night, he angrily requested Carrie “to mind her own business,” saying “he was fully competent to take charge of himself, without the interference of either wife or sister.”
“Oh, what if he should look and talk so to me!” thought Mabel, shuddering as a dim foreboding of her sad future came over her.
‘Lena who understood John Jr. better than any one else, saw that all was not right. She knew how much he had loved Nellie; she believed he loved her still; and why should he marry another? She could not tell, and as he withheld his confidence from her, appearing unusually moody and cross, she dared not approach him. At last, having an idea of what she wanted, and willing to give her a chance, he one day, when they were alone, abruptly asked her what she thought of his choice.
“If you ask me what I think of Mabel,” said she, “I answer that I esteem her very highly, and the more I know her the better I love her. Still, I never thought she would be your wife.”
“Ah–indeed!–never thought she would, hey?” answered John, beginning to grow crusty, and elevating his feet to the top of the mantel. “You see now what _thought_ did; but what is your objection to her?”
“Nothing, nothing,” returned ‘Lena. “Mabel is amiable, gentle, and confiding, and will try to be a good wife.”
“What the deuce are you grumbling for, then?” interrupted John Jr. “Do you want me yourself? If you do, just say the word, and it shall be done! I’m bound to be married, and I’d sooner have you than anybody else. Come, what do you say?”
‘Lena smiled, while she disclaimed any intention toward her cousin, who, resuming the position which in his excitement he had slightly changed, continued: “I have always dealt fairly with you, ‘Lena, and now I tell you truly, I have no particular love for Mabel, although I intend making her my wife, and heartily wish she was so now.”
‘Lena started, and clasping John’s arm, exclaimed, “Marry Mabel and not love her! You cannot be in earnest. You will not do her so great a wrong–you shall not.”
“I don’t know how you’ll help it, unless you meddle with what does not concern you,” said John. “I am doing her no wrong, I never told her I loved her–never acted as though I did, and if she is content to have me on such terms, it’s nobody’s business. She loves me half to death, and if the old adage be true that love begets love, I shall learn to love her, and when I do I’ll let you know.”
So saying, the young man shook down his pants, which had become disarranged, and walked away, leaving ‘Lena to wonder what course she had better pursue. Once she resolved on telling Mabel all that had passed between them, but the next moment convinced her that, as he had said, she would be meddling, so she decided to say nothing, silently hoping that affairs would turn out better than she feared.
It was Mabel’s wish that ‘Lena and Anna should be her bridesmaids, Durward and Malcolm officiating as groomsmen, and as Mr. Bellmont was away, she wrote to him requesting his attendance, but saying she had not yet mentioned the subject to ‘Lena. Painful as was the task of being thus associated with ‘Lena, Durward felt that to refuse might occasion much remark, so he wrote to Mabel that “he would comply with her request, provided Miss Rivers were willing.”
“Of course she’s willing,” said Mabel to herself, at the same time running with the letter to ‘Lena, who, to her utter astonishment, not only refused outright, but also declined giving any particular reason for her doing so. “Carrie will suit him much better than I,” said she, but unfortunately, Carrie, who chanced to be present, half hidden in the recess of a window, indignantly declined “going Jack-at-a-pinch” with any one, so Mabel was obliged to content herself with Anna and Mr. Everett.
But here a new difficulty arose, for Mrs. Livingstone declared that the latter should not be invited, and Anna, in a fit of anger, insisted that if _he_ were not good enough to be present, neither was she, and she should accordingly remain in her own room. Poor Mabel burst into tears, and when, a few moments afterward, John Jr. appeared, asking what ailed her, she hid her face in his bosom and sobbed like a child. Then, frightened at her own temerity, for he gave her no answering caress, she lifted up her head, while with a quizzical expression John Jr. said, “So-ho, Meb, seems to me you’ve taken to crying on my jacket a little in advance. But what’s the matter?”
In a few words Mabel told him how everything went wrong, how neither ‘Lena, Carrie, nor Anna would be her bridesmaids, and how Anna wouldn’t see her married because Malcolm was not invited.
“I can manage that,” said John Jr. “Mr. Everett _shall_ be invited, so just shut up crying, for if there’s anything I detest, it’s a woman’s sniveling;” and he walked off thinking he had begun just as he meant to hold out.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE BRIDAL.
‘Twas Mabel’s wedding night, and in one of the upper rooms of Mr. Livingstone’s house she stood awaiting the summons to the parlor. They had arrayed her for the bridal; Mrs. Livingstone, Carrie, ‘Lena, Anna, and the seamstress, all had had something to do with her toilet, and now they had left her for a time with him who was so soon to be her husband. She knew–for they had told her–she was looking uncommonly well. Her dress, of pure white satin, was singularly becoming; pearls were interwoven in the heavy braids of her raven hair; the fleecy folds of the rich veil, which fell like a cloud around her, swept the floor. In her eye there was an unusual sparkle and on her cheek an unwonted bloom.
Still Mabel was not happy. There was a heavy pain at her heart–a foreboding of coming evil–and many an anxious glance she cast toward the stern, silent man, who, with careless tread, walked up and down the room, utterly regardless of her presence, and apparently absorbed in bitter reflections. Once only had she ventured to speak, and then, in childlike simplicity, she had asked him “how she looked.”
“Well enough,” was his answer, as, without raising his eyes, he continued his walk.
The tears gathered in Mabel’s eyes–she could not help it; drop after drop they came, falling upon the marble table, until John Jr., who saw more than he pretended, came to her side, asking “why she wept.”
Mabel was beginning to be terribly afraid of him, and for a moment she hesitated, but at length, summoning all her courage, she wound her arms about his neck, and in low, earnest tones said, “Tell me truly, do you wish to marry me?”
“And suppose I do not?” he asked, with the same stony composure.
Stepping backward, Mabel stood proudly erect before him, and answered, “Then would I die rather than wed you!”
There was something in her appearance and attitude peculiarly attractive to John Jr. Never in his life had he felt so much interested in her, and drawing her toward him and placing his arm around her, he said, gently, “Be calm, little Meb, you are nervous to-night. Of course I wish you to be my wife, else I had not asked you. Are you satisfied?”
The joyous glance of the dark eyes lifted so confidingly to his, was a sufficient answer, and as if conscious of the injustice he was about to do her, John Jr. bent for an instant over her slight figure, mentally resolving, that so far as in him lay he would be true to his trust. There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Livingstone herself looked in, pale, anxious, and expectant. Mr. Douglass, who was among the invited guests, had arrived, and _must_ have an interview with John Jr. ere the ceremony. ‘Twas in vain she attempted politely to waive his request. He _would_ see him, and distracted with fear, she had at last conducted him into the upper hall, and out upon an open veranda, where in the moonlight he awaited the coming of the bridegroom, who, with some curiosity, approached him, asking what he wanted.
“It may seem strange to you,” said Mr. Douglass, “that I insist upon seeing you now, when another time might do as well, but I believe in having a fair understanding all round.”
“Meddling old rascal!” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, who, of course, was within hearing, bending her ears so as not to lose a word.
But in this she was thwarted, for drawing nearer to John Jr., Mr. Douglass said, so low as to prevent her catching anything further, save the sound of his voice:
“I do not accuse you of being at all mercenary, but such things have been, and there has something come to my knowledge to-day, which I deem it my duty to tell you, so that hereafter you can neither blame me nor Mabel.”
“What is it?” asked John Jr., and Mr. Douglass replied, “To be brief, then, Mabel’s large fortune is, with the exception of a few thousands, of which I have charge, all swept away by the recent failure of the Planters’ Bank, in which it was invested. I heard of it this morning, and determined on telling you, knowing that if you loved her for herself, it would make no difference, while if you loved her for her money, it were far better to stop here.”
Nothing could have been further from John’s thoughts than a desire for Mabel’s wealth, which, precious as it seemed in his mother’s eyes, was valueless to him, and after a moment’s silence, in which he was thinking what a rich disappointment it would be to his mother, who, he knew, prized Mabel only for her money, he exclaimed, “Good, I’m glad of it. I never sought Mabel’s hand for what there was in it, and I’m more ready to marry her now than ever. But,” he added, as a sudden impulse of good came over him, “She need not know it; it would trouble her uselessly, and for the present we’ll keep it from her.”
John Jr. had always been a puzzle to Mr. Douglass, who by turns censured and admired him, but now there was but one feeling in his bosom toward him, and that was one of unbounded respect. With a warm pressure of the hand he turned away, thinking, perchance, of his fair young daughter, who, far away o’er the Atlantic waves, little dreamed of the scene on which that summer moon was shining. As the conference ended; Mrs. Livingstone, who had learned nothing, glided, from her hiding-place, eagerly scanning her son’s face to see if there was aught to justify her fears. But there was nothing, and with her heart beating at its accustomed pace, she descended the stairs in time to meet Durward, who, having reached Woodlawn that day, had not heard of ‘Lena’s decision.
“This way, Marster Bellmont–upstars is the gentleman’s room,” said the servant in attendance, and ascending the stairs, Durward met with Anna, asking her for her cousin.
“In there–go in,” said Anna, pointing to a half-open door, and then hurrying away to meet Malcolm, whose coming she had seen from the window.
Hesitatingly, Durward approached the chamber indicated, and as his knock met with no response, he ventured at last to enter unannounced into the presence of ‘Lena, whom he had not met since that well-remembered night. Tastefully attired for the wedding in a simple white muslin, she sat upon a little stool with her face buried in the cushions of the sofa. She had heard his voice in the lower hall, and knowing she must soon meet him, she had for a moment abandoned herself to the tumult of bitter thoughts, which came sweeping over her in that trying hour. She was weeping–he knew that by the trembling of her body–and for an instant everything was forgotten.
Advancing softly toward her, he was about to lay his hand upon those clustering curls which fell unheeded around her, when the thought that from among them had been cut the hated tress which his mother had cast into the flames, arrested his hand, and he was himself again. Forcing down his emotion, he said, calmly, “Miss Rivers,” and starting quickly to her feet, ‘Lena demanded proudly what he would have, and why he was there.
“Pardon me,” said he, as he marked her haughty bearing and glanced at her dress, which was hardly in accordance with that of a bridesmaid; “I supposed I was to be groomsman–am I mistaken?”
“So far as I am concerned you are, sir. I knew nothing of Mabel’s writing to you, or I should have prevented it, for after what has occurred, you cannot deem me weak enough to lend myself to such an arrangement.”
And ‘Lena walked out of the room, while Durward looked after her in amazement, one moment admiring her spirit, and the next blaming Mabel for not informing him how matters stood. “But there’s no help for it now,” thought he, as he descended the stairs and made his way into the parlor, whither ‘Lena had preceded him.
And thus ended an interview of which ‘Lena had thought so much, hoping and praying that it might result in a reconciliation. But it was all over now–the breach was wider than ever–with half-benumbed faculties she leaned on the window, unconscious of the earnest desire he felt to approach her, for there was about her a strange fascination which it required all his power to resist.
When at last all was in readiness, a messenger was dispatched to John Jr., who, without a word, offered his arm to Mabel, and descending the broad staircase, they stood within the parlor in the spot which had been assigned them. Once during the ceremony he raised his eyes, encountering those of ‘Lena, fixed upon him so reproachfully that with a scowl he turned away. Mechanically he went through with his part of the service, betraying no emotion whatever, until the solemn words which made them one were uttered. Then, when it was over–when he was bound to her forever–he seemed suddenly to awake from his apathy and think of what he had done. Crowding around him, they came with words of congratulation–all but ‘Lena, who tarried behind, for she had none to give. Wretched as she was herself, she pitied the frail young bride, whose half-joyous, half-timid glances toward the frigid bridegroom, showed that already was she sipping from the bitter cup whose very dregs she was destined to drain.
In the recess of a window near to John Jr., Mr. Douglass and Durward stood, speaking together of Nellie, and though John shrank from the sound of her name, his hearing faculties seemed unusually sharpened, and he lost not a word of what they were saying.
“So Nellie is coming home in the autumn, I am told,” said Durward, “and I am glad of it, for I miss her much. But what is it about Mr. Wilbur’s marriage. Wasn’t it rather unexpected?”
“No, not very. Nellie knew before she went that he was engaged to Miss Allen, but at his sister’s request she kept it still. He found her at a boarding-school in Montreal, several years ago.”
“Will they remain in Europe?”
“For a time, at least, until Mary is better–but Nellie comes home with some friends from New Haven, whom she met in Paris;” then in a low tone Mr. Douglass added, “I almost dread the effect of this marriage upon her, for I am positive she liked him better than anyone else.”
The little white, blue-veined hand which rested on that of John Jr., was suddenly pressed so spasmodically, that Mabel looked up inquiringly in the face which had no thought for her, for Mr. Douglass’s words had fallen upon him like a thunderbolt, crushing him to the earth, and for a moment rendering him powerless. Instantly he comprehended it all. He had deceived himself, and by his impetuous haste lost all that he held most dear on earth. There was a cry of faintness, a grasping at empty space to keep from falling, and then forth into the open air they led the half-fainting man, followed by his frightened bride, who tenderly bathed his damp, cold brow, unmindful how he shrank from her, shuddering as he felt the touch of her soft hand, and motioning her aside when she stooped to part from his forehead the heavy locks of his hair.
That night, the pale starlight of another hemisphere kept watch over a gentle girl, who ‘neath the blue skies of sunny France, dreamed of her distant home across the ocean wave; of the gray-haired man, who, with every morning light and evening shade, blessed her as his child; of another, whose image was ever present with her, whom from her childhood she had loved, and whom neither time nor distance could efface from her memory.
Later, and the silvery moon looked mournfully down upon the white, haggard face and heavy bloodshot eye of him who counted each long, dreary hour as it passed by, cursing the fate which had made him what he was, and unjustly hardening his heart against his innocent unsuspecting wife.
CHAPTER XXVI
MARRIED LIFE.
For a short time after their marriage, John Jr. treated Mabel with at least a show of attention, but he was not one to act long as he did not feel. Had Nellie been, indeed, the wife of another, he might in time have learned to love Mabel as she deserved, but now her presence only served to remind him of what he had lost, and at last he began to shun her society, never seeming willing to be left with her alone, and either repulsing or treating with indifference the many little acts of kindness which her affectionate nature prompted. To all this Mabel was not blind, and when once she began to suspect her true position, it was easy for her to fancy slights where none were intended.
Thus, ere she had been two months a wife, her life was one of constant unhappiness, and, as a matter of course, her health, which had been much improved, began to fail. Her old racking headaches returned with renewed force, confining her for whole days to her room, where she lay listening in vain for the footsteps which never came, and tended only by ‘Lena, who in proportion as the others neglected her, clung to her more and more. The trip to Saratoga was given up, John Jr. in the bitterness of his disappointment bitterly refusing to go, and saying there was nothing sillier than for a newly-married couple to go riding around the country, disgusting sensible people with their fooleries. So with a burst of tears Mabel yielded and her bridal tour extended no further than Frankfort, whither her husband _did_ once accompany her, dining out even then with an old schoolmate whom he chanced to meet, and almost forgetting to call at Mr. Douglass’s for Mabel when it was time to return home.
Erelong, too, another source of trouble arose, which shipwrecked entirely the poor bride’s happiness. By some means or other it at last came to Mrs. Livingstone’s knowledge that Mabel’s fortune was not only all gone, but that her son had known it in time to prevent his marrying her. Owing to various losses her own property had for a few years past been gradually diminishing, and when she found that Mabel’s fortune, which she leaned upon as an all-powerful prop, was swept away, it was more than she could bear peaceably; and in a fit of disappointed rage she assailed her son, reproaching him with bringing disgrace upon the family by marrying a poor, homely, sickly girl, who would be forever incurring expense without any means of paying it! For once, however, she found her match, for in good round terms John Jr. bade her “go to thunder,” his favorite point of destination for his particular friends, at the same time saying, “he didn’t care a dime for Mabel’s money. It was you,” said he, “who kept your eye on that, aiding and abetting the match, and now that you are disappointed, I’m heartily glad of it.”
“But who is going to pay for her board,” asked Mrs. Livingstone. “You’ve no means of earning it, and I hope you don’t intend to sponge out of me, for I think I’ve enough paupers on my hands already!”
“_Board_!” roared John Jr. in a towering passion. “While you thought her rich, you gave no heed to board or anything else; and since she has become poor, I do not think her appetite greatly increased. You taunt me, too, with having no means of earning my own living. Whose fault is it?–tell me that. Haven’t you always opposed my having a profession? Didn’t you _pet_ and _baby_ ‘Johnny’ when a boy, keeping him always at your apron strings, and now that he’s a man, he’s not to be turned adrift. No, madam, I shall stay, and Mabel, too, just as long as I please.”
Gaining no satisfaction from him, Mrs. Livingstone turned her battery upon poor Mabel, treating her with shameful neglect, intimating that she was in the way; that the house was full, and that she never supposed John was going to settle down at home for her to support; he was big enough to look after himself, and if he chose to marry a wife who had nothing, why let them go to work, as other folks did.
Mabel listened in perfect amazement, never dreaming what was meant, for John Jr. had carefully kept from her a knowledge of her loss, requesting his mother to do the same in such decided terms, that, hint as strongly as she pleased, she dared not tell the whole, for fear of the storm which was sure to follow. All this was not, of course, calculated to add to Mabel’s comfort, and day by day she grew more and more unhappy, generously keeping to herself, however, the treatment which she received from Mrs. Livingstone.
“He will only dislike me the more if I complain to him of his mother,” thought she, so the secret was kept, though she could not always repress the tears which would start when she thought how wretched she was.
We believe we have said elsewhere, that if there was anything particularly annoying to John Jr., it was a sick or crying woman, and now, when he so often found Mabel indisposed or weeping, he grew more morose and fault-finding, sometimes wantonly accusing her of trying to provoke him, when, in fact, she had used every means in her power to conciliate him. Again, conscience-smitten, he would lay her aching head upon his bosom, and tenderly bathing her throbbing temples, would soothe her into a quiet sleep, from which she always awoke refreshed, and in her heart forgiving him for all he had made her suffer. At such times, John would resolve never again to treat her unkindly, but alas! his resolutions were too easily broken. Had he married Nellie, a more faithful, affectionate husband there could not have been. But now it was different. A withering blight had fallen upon his earthly prospects, and forgetting that he alone was to blame, he unjustly laid the fault upon his innocent wife, who, as far as she was able, loved him as deeply as Nellie herself could have done.
One morning about the first of September, John Jr. received a note, informing him that several of his young associates were going on a three days’ hunting excursion, in which they wished him to join. In the large easy-chair, just before him, sat Mabel, her head supported by pillows and saturated with camphor, while around her eyes were the dark rings which usually accompanied her headaches. Involuntarily John Jr. glanced toward her. Had it been Nellie, all the pleasures of the world could not have induced him to leave her, but Mabel was altogether another person, and more for the sake of seeing what she would say, than from any real intention of going, he read the note aloud; then carelessly throwing it aside, he said, “Ah, yes, I’ll go. It’ll be rare fun camping out these moonlight nights.”
Much as she feared him, Mabel could not bear to have him out of her sight, and now, at the first intimation of his leaving her, her lip began to tremble, while tears filled her eyes and dropped upon her cheeks. This was enough, and mentally styling her “a perfect cry baby,” he resolved to go at all hazards.
“I don’t think you ought to leave Mabel, she feels so badly,” said Anna, who was present.
“I want to know if little Anna’s got so she can dictate me, too,” answered John, imitating her voice, and adding, that “he reckoned Mabel would get over her bad feelings quite as well without him as with him.”
More for the sake of opposition than because she really cared, Carrie, too, chimed in, saying that “he was a pretty specimen of a three months’ husband,” and asking “how he ever expected to answer for all of Mabel’s tears and headaches.”
“Hang her tears and headaches,” said he, beginning to grow angry. “She can get one up to order any time, and for my part, I am getting heartily tired of the sound of aches and pains.”
“Please _don’t_ talk so,” said Mabel, pressing her hands upon her aching head, while ‘Lena sternly exclaimed, “Shame on you, John Livingstone. I am surprised at you, for I did suppose you had some little feeling left.”
“Miss Rivers can be very eloquent when she chooses, but I am happy to say it is entirely lost on me,” said John, leaving the room and shutting the door with a bang, which made every one of Mabel’s nerves quiver anew.
“What a perfect brute,” said Carrie, while ‘Lena and Anna drew nearer to Mabel, the one telling her “she would not care,” and the other silently pressing the little hand which instinctively sought hers, as if sure of finding sympathy.
At this moment Mrs. Livingstone came in, and immediately Carrie gave a detailed account of her brother’s conduct, at the same time referring her mother for proof to Mabel’s red eyes and swollen face.
“I never interfere between husband and wife,” said Mrs. Livingstone coolly, “but as a friend, I will give Mabel a bit of advice. Without being at all personal, I would say that few women have beauty enough to afford to impair it by eternally crying, while fewer men have patience enough to bear with a woman who is forever whining and complaining, first of this and then of that. I don’t suppose that John is so much worse than other people, and I think he bears up wonderfully, considering his disappointment.”
Here the lady flounced out of the room, leaving the girls to stare at each other in silence, wondering what she meant. Since her marriage, Mabel had occupied the parlor chamber, which connected with a cozy little bedroom and dressing-room adjoining. These had at the time been fitted up and furnished in a style which Mrs. Livingstone thought worthy of Mabel’s wealth, but now that she was poor, the case was altered, and she had long contemplated removing her to more inferior quarters. “She wasn’t going to give her the very best room in the house. No, indeed, she wasn’t–wearing out the carpets, soiling the furniture, and keeping everything topsy-turvy.”
She understood John Jr. well enough to know that it would not do to approach him on the subject, so she waited, determining to carry out her plans the very first time he should be absent, thinking when it was once done, he would submit quietly. On hearing that he had gone off on a hunting excursion, she thought, “Now is my time,” and summoning to her assistance three or four servants, she removed everything belonging to John Jr. and Mabel, to the small and not remarkably convenient room which the former had occupied previous to his marriage.
“What are you about?” asked Anna, who chanced to pass by and looked in.
“About my business,” answered Mrs. Livingstone. I’m not going to have my best things all worn out, and if this was once good enough for John to sleep in, it is now.”
“But will Mabel like it?” asked Anna, a little suspicious that her sister-in-law’s rights were being infringed.
“Nobody cares whether she is pleased or not,” said Mrs. Livingstone. “If she don’t like it, all she has to do is to go away.”
“Lasted jest about as long as I thought ‘twood,” said Aunt Milly, when she heard what was going on. “Ile and crab-apple vinegar won’t mix, nohow, and if before the year’s up old miss don’t worry the life out of that poor little sickly critter, that looks now like a picked chicken, my name ain’t Milly Livingstone.”
The other negroes agreed with her. Constantly associated with the family, they saw things as they were, and while Mrs. Livingstone’s conduct was universally condemned, Mabel was a general favorite. After Mrs. Livingstone had left the room, Milly, with one or two others, stole up to reconnoiter.
“Now I ‘clar’ for’t,” said Milly, “if here ain’t Marster John’s bootjack, fish-line, and box of tobacky, right out in far sight, and Miss Mabel comin’ in here to sleep. ‘Pears like some white folks hain’t no idee of what ‘longs to good manners. Here, Corind, put the jack in thar, the fish-line thar, the backy thar, and heave that ar other thrash out o’door,” pointing to some geological specimens which from time to time John Jr. had gathered, and which his mother had not thought proper to molest.
Corinda obeyed, and then Aunt Milly, who really possessed good taste, began to make some alterations in the arrangement of the furniture, and under her supervision the room began to present a more cheerful and inviting aspect.
“Get out with yer old airthen candlestick,” said she, turning up her broad nose at the said article, which stood upon the stand. “What’s them tall frosted ones in the parlor chamber for, if ’tain’t to use. Go, Corind, and fetch ’em.”
But Corinda did not dare, and Aunt Milly went herself, taking the precaution to bring them in the tongs, so that in the _denouement_ she could stoutly deny having even “tached ’em, or even had ’em in her hands!” (So much for a subterfuge, where there is no moral training.)
When Mabel heard of the change, she seemed for a moment stupefied. Had she been consulted, had Mrs. Livingstone frankly stated her reasons for wishing her to take another room, she would have consented willingly, but to be thus summarily removed without a shadow of warning, hardly came up to her ideas of justice. Still, there was no help for it, and that night the bride of three months watered her lone pillow with tears, never once closing her heavy eyelids in sleep until the dim morning light came in through the open window, and the tread of the negroes’ feet was heard in the yard below. Then, for many hours, the weary girl slumbered on, unconscious of the ill-natured remarks which her non-appearance was eliciting from Mrs. Livingstone, who said “it was strange what airs some people would put on; perhaps Mistress Mabel fancied her breakfast would be sent to her room, or kept warm for her until such time as she chose to appear, but she’d find herself mistaken, for the servants had enough to do without waiting upon her, and if she couldn’t come up to breakfast, why, she must wait until dinner time.”
‘Lena and Milly, however, thought differently. Softly had the latter stolen up to her cousin’s room, gazing pityingly upon the pale, worn face, whose grieved, mournful expression told of sorrow which had come all too soon.
“Let her sleep; it will do her good,” said ‘Lena, adjusting the bed-clothes, and dropping the curtain so that the sunlight should not disturb her, she left the chamber.
An hour after, on entering the kitchen, she found Aunt Milly preparing a rich cream toast, which, with a cup of fragrant black tea, were to be slyly conveyed to Mabel, who was now awake.
“Reckon thar don’t nobody starve as long as this nigger rules the roost,” said Milly, wiping one of the silver tea-spoons with a corner of her apron, and then placing it in the cup destined for Mabel, who, not having seen her breakfast prepared, relished it highly, thinking the world was not, after all, so dark and dreary, for there were yet a few left who cared for her.
Her headache of the day before still remained, and ‘Lena suggested that she should stay in her room, saying that she would herself see that every necessary attention was paid her. This she could the more readily do, as Mrs. Livingstone had gone to Versailles with her husband. That afternoon, as Mabel lay watching the drifting clouds as they passed and repassed before the window, her ear suddenly caught the sound of horses’ feet. Nearer and nearer they came, until with a cry of delight she hid her face in the pillows, weeping for very joy–for John Jr. had come home! She could not be mistaken, and if there was any lingering doubt, it was soon lost in certainty, for she heard his voice in the hall below, his footsteps on the stairs. He was coming, an unusual thing, to see her first.
But how did he know she was there, in his old room? He did not know it; he was only coming to put his rifle in its accustomed place, and on seeing the chamber filled with the various paraphernalia of a woman’s toilet, he started, with the exclamation, “What the deuce! I reckon I’ve got into the wrong pew,” and was going away, when Mabel called him back. “Meb, you here?” said he. “_You_ in this little tucked-up hole, that I always thought too small for me and my traps! What does it mean?”
Mabel had carefully studied the tones of her husband’s voice, and knowing from the one he now assumed that he was not displeased with her, the sense of injustice done her by his mother burst out, and throwing her arms around his neck, she told him everything connected with her removal, asking what his mother meant by saying, “she should never get anything for their board,” and begging him “to take her away where they could live alone and be happy.”
Since he had left her, John Jr. had _thought_ a great deal, the result of which was, that he determined on returning home much sooner than he at first intended, promising himself to treat Mabel decently, and if possible win back the respect of ‘Lena, which he knew he had lost. To his companions, who urged him to remain, he replied that “he had left his wife sick, and he could not stay longer.”
It cost him a great effort to say “my wife,” for never before had he so called her, but he felt better the moment he had done so, and bidding his young friends adieu, he started for home with the same impetuous speed which usually characterized his riding. He had fully expected to meet Mabel in the parlor, and was even revolving in his own mind the prospect of kissing her, provided ‘Lena were present. “That’ll prove to her,” thought he, “that I am not the hardened wretch she thinks I am; so I’ll do it, if Meb doesn’t happen to be all bound up in camphor and aromatic vinegar, which I can’t endure, anyway.”
Full of this resolution he had hastened home, going first to his old room, where he had come so unexpectedly upon Mabel that for a moment he scarcely knew what to say. By the time, however, that she had finished her story, his mind was pretty well made up.
“And so it’s mother’s doings, hey?” said he, violently pulling the bell-rope, and then walking up and down the room until Corinda appeared in answer to his summons.
“How many blacks are there in the kitchen?” he asked.
“Six or seven, besides Aunt Polly,” answered Corinda.
“Very well. Tell every man of them to come up here, quick.”
Full of wonder Corinda departed, carrying the intelligence, and adding that “Marster John looked mighty black in the face”, and she reckoned some on ’em would catch it, at the same time, for fear of what might happen, secretly conveying back to the safe the piece of cake which, in her mistress’ absence, she had stolen! Aunt Milly’s first thought was of the frosted candlesticks, and by way of impressing upon Corinda a sense of what she might expect if in any way she implicated her, she gave her a cuff in advance, bidding her “be keerful how she blabbed”, then heading the sable group, she repaired to the chamber, where John Jr. was awaiting them.
Advancing toward them, as they appeared in the doorway, he said, “Take hold here, every one of you, and move these things back where they came from.”
“Don’t, oh don’t,” entreated Mabel, but laying his hand over her mouth, John Jr. bade her keep still, at the same time ordering the negroes “to be quick.”
At first the younger portion of the blacks stood speechless, but Aunt Milly, comprehending the whole at once, and feeling glad that her mistress had her match in her son, set to work with a right good will, and when about dusk Mrs. Livingstone came home, she was astonished at seeing a light in the parlor chamber, while occasionally she could discern the outline of a form moving before the window. What could it mean? Perhaps they had company, and springing from the carriage she hastened into the house, meeting ‘Lena in the hall, and eagerly asking who was in the front chamber.
“I believe,” said ‘Lena, “that my cousin is not pleased with the change, and has gone back to the front room.”
“The impudent thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, ignorant of her son’s return, and as a matter of course attributing the whole to Mabel.
Darting up the stairs, she advanced toward the chamber and pushing open the door stood face to face with John Jr., who, with hands crammed in his pockets and legs crossed, was leaning against the mantel, waiting and ready for whatever might occur.
“John Livingstone!” she gasped in her surprise.
“That’s my name,” he returned, quietly enjoying her look of amazement.
“What do you mean?” she continued.
“Mean what I say,” was his provoking answer.
“What have you been about?” was her next question, to which he replied, “Your eyesight is not deficient–you can see for yourself.”
Gaining no satisfaction from him, Mrs. Livingstone now turned upon Mabel, abusing her until John Jr. sternly commanded her to desist, bidding her “confine her remarks to himself, and let his wife alone, as she was not in the least to blame.”
“Your wife!” repeated Mrs. Livingstone–“very affectionate you’ve grown, all at once. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that you married her to spite Nellie, who you then believed was the bride of Mr. Wilbur, but you surely remember how you fainted when you accidentally learned your mistake.”
A cry from Mabel, who fell back, fainting, among the pillows, prevented Mrs. Livingstone from any further remarks, and satisfied with the result of her visit, she walked away, while John Jr., springing to the bedside, bore his young wife to the open window, hoping the cool night air would revive her. But she lay so pale and motionless in his arms, her head resting so heavily upon his shoulder, that with a terrible foreboding he laid her back upon the bed, and rushing to the door, shouted loudly, “Help–somebody–come quick–Mabel is dead, I know she is.”
‘Lena heard the cry and hastened to the rescue, starting back when she saw the marble whiteness of Mabel’s face.
“I didn’t kill her, ‘Lena. God knows I didn’t. Poor little Meb,” said John Jr., quailing beneath ‘Lena’s rebuking glance, and bending anxiously over the slight form which looked so much like death.
But Mabel was not dead. ‘Lena knew it by the faint fluttering of her heart, and an application of the usual remedies sufficed, at last, to restore her to consciousness. With a long-drawn sigh her eyes unclosed, and looking earnestly in ‘Lena’s face, she said, “Was it a dream, ‘Lena? Tell me, was it all a dream?”–then, as she observed her husband, she added, shudderingly, “No, no, not a dream. I remember it all now. And I wish I was dead.”
Again ‘Lena’s rebuking glance went over to John Jr., who, advancing nearer to Mabel, gently laid his hand upon her white brow, saying, softly, “Poor, poor Meb.”
There was genuine pity in the tones of his voice, and while the hot tears gushed forth, the sick girl murmured, “Forgive me, John, I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know it, and now, if you say so, I’ll go away, alone–where you’ll never see me again.”
She comprehended it all. Her mother-in-law had rudely torn away the veil, and she saw why she was there–knew why he had sought her for his wife–understood all his coldness and neglect; but she had no word of reproach for him, her husband, and from the depths of her crushed heart she forgave him, commiserating him as the greater sufferer.
“May be I shall die,” she whispered, “and then—-“
She did not finish the sentence, neither was it necessary, for John Jr. understood what she meant, and with his conscience smiting him as it did, he felt half inclined to declare, with his usual impulsiveness, that it should never be; but the rash promise was not made, and it was far better that it should not be.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE SHADOW.
Mabel’s nerves had received too great a shock to rally immediately, and as day after day went by, she still kept her room, notwithstanding the very pointed hints of her mother-in-law that “she was making believe for the sake of sympathy.” Why didn’t she get up and go out doors–anybody would be sick to be flat on their back day in and day out; or did she think she was spiting her by showing what muss she could keep the “best chamber” in if she chose?
This last was undoubtedly the grand secret of Mrs. Livingstone’s dissatisfaction. Foiled in her efforts to dislodge them, she would not yield without an attempt at making Mabel, at least, as uncomfortable in mind as possible. Accordingly, almost every day when her son was not present, she conveyed from the room some nice article of furniture, substituting in its place one of inferior quality, which was quite good enough, she thought, for a penniless bride.
“‘Pears like ole miss goin’ to make a clean finish of her dis time,” said Aunt Milly, who watched her mistress’ daily depredations. “Ole Sam done got title deed of her, sure enough. Ki! won’t she ketch it in t’other world, when he done show her his cloven foot, and won’t she holler for old Milly to fotch her a drink of water? not particular then–drink out of the bucket, gourd-shell, or anything; but dis nigger’ll ‘sign her post in de parlor afore she’ll go.”
“Why, Milly,” said ‘Lena, who overheard this colloquy, “don’t you know it’s wrong to indulge in such wicked thoughts?”
“Bless you, child,” returned the old negress, “she ‘sarves ’em all for treatin’ that poor, dear lamb so. I’d ‘nihilate her if I’s Miss Mabel.”
“No, no, Milly,” said Aunt Polly, who was present. “You must heap coals of fire on her head.”
“Yes, yes, that’s it–she orto have ’em,” quickly responded Milly, thinking Polly’s method of revenge the very best in the world, provided the coals were “bilin’ hot,” and with this reflection she started upstairs, with a bowl of nice, warm gruel she had been preparing for the invalid.
Several times each day Grandma Nichols visited Mabel’s room, always prescribing some new tea of herbs, whose healing qualities were wonderful, having effected cures in every member of Nancy Scovandyke’s family, that lady herself, as a matter of course, being first included. And Aunt Milly, with the faithfulness characteristic of her race, would seek out each new herb, uniting with it her own simple prayer that it might have the desired effect. But all in vain, for every day Mabel became weaker, while her dark eyes grew larger and brighter, anon lighting up with joy as she heard her husband’s footsteps in the hall, and again filling with tears as she glanced timidly into his face, and thought of the dread reality.
“Maybe I shall die,” was more than once murmured in her sleep, and John Jr., as often as he heard those words, would press her burning hands, and mentally reply, “Poor little Meb.”
And all this time no one thought to call a physician, until Mr. Livingstone himself at last suggested it. At first he had felt no interest whatever in his daughter-in-law, but with him force of habit was everything, and when she no longer came among them, he missed her–missed her languid steps upon the stairs and her childish voice in the parlor. At last it one day occurred to him to visit her. She was sleeping when he entered the room, but he could see there had been a fearful change since last he looked upon her, and without a word concerning his intentions, he walked to the kitchen, ordering one of his servants to start forthwith for the physician, whose residence was a few miles distant.
Mrs. Livingstone was in the front parlor when he returned, in company with Doctor Gordon, and immediately her avaricious spirit asked who would pay the bill, and why was he sent for. Mabel did not need him–she was only babyish and spleeny–and so she told the physician, who, however, did not agree with her. He did not say that Mabel would die, but he thought so, for his experienced eye saw in her infallible signs of the disease which had stricken down both her parents, and to which, from her birth, she had been a prey. Mabel guessed as much from his manner, and when again he visited her, she asked him plainly what he thought.
She was young–a bride–surrounded apparently by everything which could make her happy, and the physician hesitated, answering her evasively, until she said, “Do not fear to tell me truly, for I want to die. Oh, I long to die,” she continued, passionately clasping her thin white hands together.
“That is an unusual wish in one so young,” answered the physician, “but to be plain with you, Mrs. Livingstone, I think consumption too deeply seated to admit of your recovery. You may be better, but never well. Your disease is hereditary, and has been coming on too long.”
“It is well,” was Mabel’s only answer, as she turned wearily upon her side and hid her face in the pillows.
For a long time she lay there, thinking, weeping, and thinking again, of the noisome grave through which she must pass, and from which she instinctively shrank, it was so dark, so cold, and dreary. But Mabel had trusted in One who she knew would go with her down into the lone valley–whose arm she felt would uphold her as she crossed the dark, rolling stream of death; and as if her frail bark were already safely moored upon the shores of the eternal river, she looked back dreamily upon the world she had left, and as she saw what she felt would surely be, she again murmured through her tears, “It is well.”
That night, when John Jr. came up to his room, he appeared somewhat moody and cross, barely speaking to Mabel, and then walking up and down the room with the heavy tread which always indicated a storm within. He had that day been to Frankfort, hearing that Nellie was really coming home very soon–very possibly she was now on her way. Of course she would visit Mabel, when she heard she was sick, and of course he must meet her face to face, must stand with her at the bedside of _his wife_ and that wife Mabel. In his heart he did not accuse the latter of feigning her illness, but he wished she would get well faster, so that Nellie need not feel obliged to visit her. She could at least make an effort–a great deal depended upon that–and she had now been confined to her room three or four weeks.
Thus he reflected as he walked, and at last his thoughts formed themselves into words. Stopping short at the foot of the bed, he said abruptly and without looking her in the face, “How do you feel tonight?”
The stifled cough which Mabel tried to suppress because it was offensive to him, brought a scowl to his forehead, and in imagination he anticipated her answer, “I do not think I am any better.”
“And I don’t believe you try to be,” sprang to his lips, but its utterance was prevented by a glance at her face, which by the flickering lamplight looked whiter than ever.
“Nellie is coming home in a few weeks,” he said at length, with his usual precipitancy.
‘Twas the first time Mabel had heard that name since the night when her mother-in-law had rang it in her ears, and now she started so quickly, that the offending cough could not be forced back, and the coughing fit which followed was so violent that John Jr., as he held the bowl to her quivering lips, saw that what she had raised was streaked with blood. But he was unused to sickness, and he gave it no farther thought, resuming the conversation as soon as she became quiet.
“To be plain, Meb,” said he, “I want you to hurry and get well before Nellie comes–for if you are sick she’ll feel in duty bound to visit you, and I’d rather face a loaded cannon than her.”
Mabel was too much exhausted to answer immediately, and she lay so long with her eyes closed that John Jr., growing impatient, said, “Are you asleep, Meb?”
“No, no,” said she, at the same time requesting him to take the vacant chair by her side, as she wished to talk with him.
John Jr. hated to be talked to, particularly by her, for he felt that she had much cause to reproach him; but she did not, and as she proceeded, his heart melted toward her in a manner which he had never thought possible. Very gently she spoke of her approaching end as sure.
“You ask me to make haste and be well,” said she, “but it cannot be. I shall never go out into the bright sunshine again, never join you in the parlor below, and before the cold winds of winter are blowing, I shall be dead. I hope I shall live until Nellie comes, for I must see her, I must make it right between her and you. I must tell her to forgive you for marrying me when you loved only her; and she will listen–she won’t refuse me, and when I am gone you’ll be happy together.”
John Jr. did not speak, but the little hand which nervously moved toward him was met more than half-way, and thus strengthened, Mabel continued: “You must sometimes think and speak of Mabel when she is dead. I do not ask you to call me wife. I do not wish it, but you must forget how wretched I have made you, for oh, I did not mean it, and had I sooner known what I do now, I would have died ere I had caused you one pang of sorrow.”
Afterward, when it was too late, John Jr. would have given worlds to recall that moment, that he might tell the broken-hearted girl how bitterly he, too, repented of all the wrong he had done her; but he did not say so then–he could only listen, while he mentally resolved that if Mabel were indeed about to die, he would make the remainder of her short life happy, and thus atone, as far as possible, for the past. But alas for John Jr., his resolutions were easily broken, and as days and weeks went by, and there was no perceptible change in her, he grew weary of well-doing, absenting himself whole days from the sick-room, and at night rather unwillingly resuming his post as watcher, for Mabel would have no one else.
Since Mabel’s illness he had occupied the little room adjoining hers, and often when in the still night he lay awake, watching the shadow which the lamp cast upon the wall, and thinking of her for whom the light was constantly kept burning, his conscience would smite him terribly, and rising up, he would steal softly to her bedside to see if she were sleeping quietly. But anon he grew weary of this, too; the shadow on the wall troubled him, it kept him awake; it was a continual reproach, and he must be rid of it, somehow. He tried the experiment of closing his door, but Mabel knew the moment he attempted it, and he could not refuse her when she asked him to leave it open.
John Jr. grew restless, fidgety, and nervous. Why need the lamp be kept burning? He could light it when necessary; or why need he sleep there, when some one else would do as well? He thought of ‘Lena–she was just the one, and the next day he would speak to her. To his great joy she consented to relieve him awhile, provided Mabel were willing; but she was not, and John Jr. was forced to submit. He was not accustomed to restraint, and every night matters grew worse and worse. The shadow annoyed him exceedingly. If he slept, he dreamed that it kept a glimmering watch over him, and when he awoke, he, in turn, watched over that, until the misty day-light came to dissipate the phantom.
About this time several families from Frankfort started for New Orleans, where they were wont to spend the winter, and irresistibly, John Jr. became possessed of a desire to visit that city, too. Mabel would undoubtedly live until spring, now that the trying part of autumn was past and there could be no harm in his leaving her for awhile, when he so much needed rest. Accordingly, ‘Lena was one day surprised by his announcing his intended trip.
“But you cannot be in earnest,” she said; “you surely will not leave Mabel now.”
“And why not?” he asked. “She doesn’t grow any worse, and won’t until spring, and this close confinement is absolutely killing me! Why, I’ve lost six pounds in six months, and you’ll see to her, I know you will. You’re a good girl, and I like you, if I did get angry with you, weeks ago when I went a hunting.”
‘Lena knew he ought not to go, and she tried hard to convince him of the fact, telling him how much pleasure she had felt in observing his improved manner toward Mabel, and that he must not spoil it now.
“It’s no use talking,” said he, “I’m bent on going somewhere. I’ve tried to be good, I know, but the fact is, I can’t stay _put_. It isn’t my nature. I shan’t tell Meb till just before I start, for I hate scenes.”
“And suppose she dies while you are gone?” asked ‘Lena.
John was beginning to grow impatient, for he knew he was wrong, and rather tartly he answered, as he left the room, “Give her a decent burial, and present the bill to mother!”
“The next morning, as ‘Lena sat alone with Mabel, John Jr. entered, dressed and ready for his journey. But he found it harder telling his wife than he had anticipated. She looked unusually pale this morning. The sallowness of her complexion was all gone, and on either cheek there burned a round, bright spot. ‘Lena had just been arranging her thick, glossy hair, and now, wholly exhausted, she reclined upon her pillows, while her large black eyes, unnaturally bright, sparkled with joy at the sight of her husband. But they quickly filled with tears when told that he was going away, and had come to say good-bye.
“It’s only to New Orleans and back,” he said, as he saw her changing face. “I shan’t be gone long, and ‘Lena will take care of you a heap better than I can.”
“It isn’t that,” answered Mabel, wiping her tears away. “Don’t go, John. Wait a little while. I’m sure it won’t be long.”
“You are nervous,” said he, playfully lapping her white cheek. “You’re not going to die. You’ll live to be grandmother yet, who knows? But I must be off or lose the train. Good bye, little Meb,” grasping her hand, “Good-bye, ‘Lena. I’ll bring you both something nice–good-bye.”
When she saw that he was going, Mabel asked him to come back to her bedside just for one moment. He could not refuse, and winding her long, emaciated arms around his neck, she whispered, “Kiss me once before you go. I shall never ask it again, and ’twill make me happier when you are gone.”
“A dozen times, if you like,” said he, giving her the only husband’s kiss she had ever received.
For a moment longer she detained him, while she prayed silently for heaven’s blessing on his wayward head, and then releasing him, she bade him go. Had he known of all that was to follow, he would not have left her, but he believed as he said, that she would survive the winter, and with one more kiss upon her brow, where the perspiration was standing thickly, he departed. The window of Mabel’s room commanded a view of the turnpike, and when the sound of horses’ feet was heard on the lawn, she requested ‘Lena to lead her to the window, where she stood watching him until a turn in the road hid him from her sight.
“‘Tis the last time,” said she, “and he will never know how much this parting cost me.”
That night, as they were alone in the gathering twilight, Mabel said, “If I die before Nellie comes I want you to tell her how it all happened, and that she must forgive him, for he was not to blame.”
“I do not understand you,” said ‘Lena, and then, in broken sentences, Mabel told what her mother-in-law had said, and how terribly John was deceived. “Of course he couldn’t love me after that,” said she, “and it’s right that I should die. He and Nellie were made for each other, and if the inhabitants of heaven are allowed to watch over those they loved on earth, I will ask to be always near them. You will tell her, won’t you?”
‘Lena promised, adding that she thought Mabel would see Nellie herself as she was to sail from Liverpool the 20th, and a few days proved her conjecture correct. Entering Mabel’s room one morning about a week after John’s departure, she brought the glad news that Nellie had returned, and would be with them to-morrow.
The next day Nellie came, but she, too, was changed. The roundness of her form and face was gone; the rose had faded from her cheek, and her footsteps were no longer light and bounding as of old. She knew of John Jr.’s absence or she would not have come, for she could not meet him face to face. She had heard, too, of his treatment of Mabel, and while she felt indignant toward him, she freely forgave his innocent wife, who she felt had been more sinned against than sinning.
With a faint cry Mabel started from her pillow, and burying her face on Nellie’s neck, wept like a child. “You do not hate me,” she said at last, “or you would not have come so soon.”
“Hate you?–no,” answered Nellie. “I have no cause for hating _you_.”
“And you will stay with me until I die–until he comes home–and forgive him, too,” Mabel continued.
“I can promise the first, but the latter is harder,” said Nellie, her cheeks burning with anger as she gazed on the wreck before her.
“But you must, you will,” exclaimed Mabel, rapidly telling all she knew; then falling back upon the pillow, she added, “You’ll forgive him Nellie?”
As time passed on, Mabel grew weaker and weaker, clinging closer to Nellie as she felt the dark shadow of death creeping gradually over her.
“If he’d only come,” she would say, “and I could place your hand in his before I died.”
But it was not to be. Day after day John Jr. lingered, dreading to return, for he knew Nellie was there, and he could not meet her, he thought, at the bedside of Mabel. So he tarried until a letter from ‘Lena, which said that Mabel would die, decided him, and rather reluctantly he started homeward. Meantime Mabel, who knew nothing of her loss, conceived the generous idea of willing all her possessions to her recreant husband.
“Perhaps he’ll think more kindly of me,” said she to his father, to whom she first communicated her plan, and Mr. Livingstone felt that he could not undeceive her.
Accordingly, a lawyer was summoned from Frankfort, and the will duly drawn up, signed, sealed, and delivered into the hands of Mr. Livingstone, whose wife, with a mocking laugh, bade him “guard it carefully, it was so valuable.”
“It shows her goodness of heart, at least,” said he, and possibly Mrs. Livingstone thought so, too, for from that time her manner softened greatly toward her daughter-in-law.
* * * * * *
It was midnight at Maple grove. On the table, in its accustomed place, the lamp was burning dimly, casting the shadow upon the wall, whilst over the whole room a darker shadow was brooding. The window was open, and the cool night air came softly in, lifting the masses of raven hair from off the pale brow of the dying. Tenderly above her Nellie and ‘Lena were bending. They had watched by her many a night, and now she asked them not to leave her, not to disturb a single one–she would rather die alone.
The sound of horses’ hoofs rang out on the still air, but she did not heed it. Nearer and nearer it came, over the lawn, up the graveled walk, through the yard, and Nellie’s face blanched to an unnatural whiteness as she thought who that midnight-rider was. Arrived in Frankfort only an hour before, he had hastened forward, impelled by a something he could not resist. From afar he had caught the glimmering light, and he felt he was not too late. He knew how to enter the house, and on through the wide hall and up the broad staircase he came, until he stood in the chamber, where before him another guest had entered, whose name was Death!
Face to face he stood with Nellie Douglass, and between them lay _his_ wife–_her_ rival–the white hands folded meekly upon her bosom, and the pale lips just as they had breathed a prayer for him.
“Mabel! She is dead!” was all he uttered, and falling upon his knees, he buried his face in the pillow, while half scornfully, half pityingly, Nellie gazed upon him.
There was much of bitterness in her heart toward him, not for the wrong he had done her, but for the sake of the young girl, now passed forever away. ‘Lena felt differently. His silent grief conquered all resentment, and going to his side, she told him how peacefully Mabel had died–how to the last she had loved and remembered him, praying that he might be happy when she was gone,
“Poor little Meb, she deserved a better fate,” was all he said, as he continued his kneeling posture, until the family and servants, whom Nellie had summoned, came crowding round, the cries of the latter grating on the ear, and seeming sadly out of place for her whose short life had been so dreary, and who had welcomed death as a release from all her pain.
It was Mrs. Livingstone’s wish that Mabel should be arrayed in her bridal robes, but with a shudder at the idle mockery, John Jr. answered, “No,” and in a plain white muslin, her shining hair arrayed as she was wont to wear it, they placed her in her coffin, and on a sunny slope where the golden sunlight and the pale moonbeams latest fell, and where in spring the bright green grass and the sweet wild flowers are earliest seen, laid her down to steep.
That night, when all around was still, John Jr. lay musing sadly of