Mabel's Mistake Part 62

It is a hard penalty for sins, which the world will not recognize as such, when every hour calls for some atonement--when each household step is made heavy by loveless thoughts; Mabel was conscious of her own wrong, and even these small doling atonements never regarded by the world, yet which tell so fearfully on the life, had been patiently performed. She had given way to no sentimental repinings--nor striven to cast the blame upon others that justly belonged to herself; but, like a brave true-hearted woman, had always been willing to gather up the night-shade her own hands had planted, with the flowers that G.o.d had still left in her path, without appealing to the world for sympathy or approval.

This had been Mabel Harrington's life--a coa.r.s.e woman would, perhaps, have contented herself with its material comforts, and, without loving, ceased to desire the capacities of love; the world is full of such. A wicked woman would have skulked out of her fate through the oily-hinged portals of the law--a feeble woman would have pined herself to death; but Mabel was none of these, else my pen would not love to dwell upon her character, as it does now. She had gone through her life honestly, cultivating all her good feelings with genial hopefulness, seizing upon the bad with a firm will, and crowding them back into the darkness, where they had little chance to grow.

But, sin is like the houseleek planted upon a mossy roof,--after one fibre has taken root, you find the tough heads springing up everywhere, fruitful of harsh, th.o.r.n.y-edged leaves, and nothing else. You work diligently, tear them up by the roots, trample them to pieces, and, when you think the evil of that first planting is altogether eradicated, up from the heart of some moss-flower, or creeping out from the curved edge of the eaves, comes a fresh crop; and you know that the one fibre is spreading and entangling itself constantly with a hold that you little dreamed of in the outset.

Mabel had planted her one houseleek, and it was with faithful exertion she kept it from covering her whole nature. At times it seemed that every beautiful thing of life would be eaten up and choked to death in this one tough growth, and at this period of her life, Mabel felt like sitting down in apathy, while she watched the evil thing thrive.

CHAPTER LXXI.

THE MISSING BOOK.

Mabel sat, hour after hour, week after week, pa.s.sive, still, and sad, with a world of sorrow in her face, looking back upon the jewels that had dropped away from her life, mournfully, but with little wish to gather them up again. Her husband never asked an explanation of this strange mood in his wife, but at times he seemed perfectly conscious of it, and to feel a hidden pleasure in her depression; for, though he did not love this woman, the old man's vanity was as quick as ever, and it pleased him to see that her own soul was taking the vengeance on itself that he had bartered off for a price. Miserable, selfish, old man! All the gold of his life had turned to paltry tinsel years ago.

At another time, Mabel was too quick of thought not to have remarked the singularity of General Harrington's silence regarding the departure of his step-son, but now she was only thankful to shrink away from the subject; and, during their brief interviews, nothing but the most bland inquiries, and polite common-places, marked his behavior. He seemed in high good humor--more than usually lavish of money, and altogether one of the most charming, antique gentlemen in the world. Shallow worldlings would tell you that this decorous old rebel was happier than his victims, and point to his rosy cheeks, his eyes twinkling with sunshine, and his handsome, portly figure, as the proof. Let worldlings think so, if they like; for my part, I would rather have the pain of a fine nature like Mabel's, than the smooth, selfish sensuality, which some men honestly call happiness. Shallow and frozen waters are never turbulent, but who envies the ice over one, or the pebbles under the other?

Happiness! Why, one little word in that handsome, old man's ear, would make him shiver, and tremble, and look the coward, as Mabel would never do, woman though she was--the one word _death_; just speak it! Mark how the color will flee from his frightened face! Speak that same word to her, and you will see her features, so sad before, light up with a pearly glow, like that shed through an alabaster lamp when its perfumed oil is alight.

But Mabel is just beginning to awake from the thrall in which her mind has been held, and wonder a little at Ralph's changed manner--his look is so grave and stern now--he utters no complaint, and says but little in any way; these moods shock his mother less than the old one, but it lifts her out of her dreams, and makes her thoughtful once more. But, Ralph is no longer communicative--he is sometimes seen holding long conversations with Agnes Barker in the now deserted breakfast-room, but he avoids honest old Ben, and talks cautiously and under restraint with his mother. This is a new phase of Ralph's character which Mabel regards with something like surprise; but her energies are all prostrated for the time, and in these vague surmises there is not shock enough to arouse them into life again.

There was one thing which Mabel, with all her thinking, had never yet been able to solve--why had James Harrington found it needful to persuade that inexperienced girl away from her home? There existed no reason for it. He was wealthy--his own master--accountable to no one; surely it was not fear of his younger brother, who would have given the very heart from his bosom, had James desired it. If he loved Lina, a single appeal to the n.o.ble young fellow's generosity would have been enough--then why wound and insult him by a course so unnecessarily cruel?

Mabel revolved these questions over and over in her mind, till they threw her thoughts back upon herself. Had she anything to account for--had James suspected the secret of her own weary life, and, fearing to wound her by his love for another, fled to be alone with his happiness?

This thought broke up the apathy into which she had fallen, with a sudden shock, as we hear sheets of ice crack, and shoot a thousand silver arrows over what has been a smooth surface the moment before. A new thought seized upon her--a fear that made her tremble from head to foot.

Mabel was alone in her boudoir, when this new terror fell upon her. She arose suddenly, and going up to her escritoire, unlocked it, and searched for the vellum book. It was nowhere to be found. She tore the papers out in pale eagerness, opened drawers, unlocked secret compartments, searched in other cabinets, till every nook and corner of her apartments had been examined. Then she sat down, breathless, and so pale that the face which looked back on her from the opposite mirror, seemed that of another person. Where had the book gone--who had dared to remove it from the place where, for years and years, it had been kept sacred from all eyes, as the pulses of her own heart?

Breathless with anxiety, desperate with apprehension, determined to question every servant of the house, she rang the bell.

Agnes Barker presented herself in answer to this summons. The girl had, of late, seemed to find pleasure in forcing herself upon Mabel, and would frequently make an excuse to seek her room in place of the servant, whenever one was summoned. Though her presence was generally unwelcome, Mabel was glad to see her then. Excitement had, for the moment, swept away the nervous recoil with which she always regarded her.

"Miss Barker, I had a book in this escritoire, bound in vellum, and filled with ma.n.u.script notes. It had a curious gold clasp. You cannot mistake the description. That book is missing."

"Well, madam!" answered the girl, with cold composure; "is it of me you demand that book? I have not seen it. This is the first time I ever saw your desk open. I believe the key has always been in your own possession!"

"I thought so," answered Mabel, feeling once more among the charms attached to her watch, to be sure the key was still there; "I thought so, but the book is gone."

"Shall I call the servant, madam? The new chambermaid possibly knows something of it; she has taken charge of this room lately."

"Indeed, I have not observed," said Mabel. "Yes, send her here."

CHAPTER LXXII.

FRAGMENTS OF MABEL'S JOURNAL.

Agnes went out quietly, as if there had been neither anger nor suspicion in Mrs. Harrington's voice. The poor lady sat trembling from head to foot, still searching the room wildly with her eyes, till the mulatto chambermaid came in.

"What's de matter wid de chile; she's white as snow, and seems a'most as cold; 'pears like something 'stresses her," said the woman, casting a sidelong glance at the lady from under the half-closed lids of her eyes, which never seemed capable of opening themselves fully in Mabel's presence.

"Woman!" said Mabel, sharply, for her anxiety was like a pain. "Woman, I have lost a book from my escritoire yonder--a white book, clasped with gold--what has become of it?"

"Goodness knows, missus! I don't know nothin' 'bout no book, praise de Lor'! I dussent know one kind of readin' from t'other. Books ain't no kind o' use to dis colored pusson, no how; so t'ain't I as has gone and tuk it."

"No, no, but you may have seen it. Possibly the desk may have been left open, and you, not knowing it from other books, have put it away among those of the library. See, it was filled with writing like this."

Here Mabel took up a pen, and hastily dashed off a line or two on a loose sheet of paper. The woman took the paper, turned it wrong end up, and began to examine it with serious scrutiny, as if she were striving to make out its meaning.

"'Pears like the inside was like this, miss?" she said at last, with another glance at the pale face of her mistress.

Mabel took the paper impatiently from her. "No, like this," she cried, reversing the page. "You should be able to understand the peculiarities of the marks, even though you cannot read."

"Like dis is it--de high marks shootin' up so, and the long one running out scrigly scrawley like dis one; 'pears 's if I'd seen 'em afore, but 'twasn't in a bounden book, golly knows."

"You have seen the writing--very well--where was it?"

"Up in Master James' room, the day he went off. Them's the same marks, Lor' knows."

"In Mr. James Harrington's room!" exclaimed Mabel, white as snow.

"Please, missus, tell jus' what the book was outside and in."

Mabel held up the sheet of paper on which she had written, but it trembled like a plucked leaf in her hand.

"This size, with a white cover, edged with gold. The lock was clasped with a trinket like this on my watch, only larger, and with red sparks set in it."

"Like dis, with little red stuns--the cover white, and shut wid a thing like this. Yes, missus, Master James had a book jus' like de one you mean in his room, de berry morning afore he done and went off!"

"Go," said Mabel, shivering, "go search for it!"

The woman shuffled herself out of the room; directly she returned, with several leaves of crumpled writing in one hand, and some small object clenched in the other.

"The book's done gone, missus; but here's something dat I found on his table, 'sides dis what I sifted out of de ashes."

She handed Mabel some crumpled pages of her journal, evidently torn from the book; the half of a broken heart, dulled with fire, and the corner of what had once been a vellum cover, burned almost away, but with a gleam of the tarnished gold and white upon the edge.

"Sakes alive, how white you is, missus!" exclaimed the woman, and a disagreeable gleam broke from under her half-shut eyelids, as she saw Mabel stagger and sink faintly back into her chair, grasping the fragments of her journal as she fell.

"No, no!" she gasped, repulsing the mulatto with her hand: "I am not white--I am not ill. These--these--you found them in Mr. James Harrington's room!"

"Them papers was on his table wid his cigar-case, an' pipe, an' dem tings. De gol' heart, and dat oder, dis chile fished out o' de grate, for de Lord just as 'tis dare."

"Go!" commanded Mabel, hoa.r.s.ely. "I know where the book went to; that is enough!"