 | CHAPTER XXVII.
THE SHADOW. 'Lena Rivers |  |
27. 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 soliloquy,
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 up stairs, 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.
“May be 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
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 disese 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 to-night?”
The stifled cough which Mabel tried to suppress because
it was offensive to him, brought a scowl to his forehead,
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.
'T was 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
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 to 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,
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 daylight
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
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-by.
“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 tapping her
be grandmother yet, who knows? But I must be off or
lose the train. Good-by, little Meb,” grasping her hand,
“Good-by, 'Lena. I'll bring you both something nice—
good-by.”
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 't will 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.
“'T is 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
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 now.”
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
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 stair-case 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
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 sweet
wild flowers are earliest seen, they laid her down to sleep.
That night, when all around was still, John Jr. lay musing
sadly of the past. His affection for Mabel had been
slight and variable, but now that she was gone, he missed
her. The large, easy chair, with its cushions and pillows,
was empty, and as he thought of the pale, dark face and
aching head he had so often seen reclining there, and
which he would never see again, he groaned in bitterness
of spirit, for well he knew that he had helped to break
the heart now lying cold and still beneath the coffin-lid.
There was no shadow on the wall, for the lamp had gone
out with the young life for whom it had been kept burning,
but many a shadow lay dark and heavy across his
heart.
With the sun-setting a driving rain had come on, and
as the November wind went howling past the window,
and the large drops beat against the casement, he thought
of the lonesome little grave on which that rain was falling;
and shuddering, he hid his face in the pillows, asking
to be forgiven, for he knew that all too soon that grave
was made, and he had helped to make it. At last, long
after the clock had told the hour of midnight, he arose,
and lighting the lamp which many a weary night had
burned for her, he placed it where the shadow would fall
upon the wall as it had done of old. It was no longer a
fell asleep, dreaming that Mabel had come back to bring
him her forgiveness, but when he essayed to touch her,
she vanished from his sight, and there was nothing left
save that shadow on the wall.
| CHAPTER XXVII.
THE SHADOW. 'Lena Rivers | |