Mabel's Mistake

CHAPTER LII.

GENERAL HARRINGTON RETURNS WITH ZILLAH.

"I got so weary of hearing about dress, that I felt that I should never care again whether I had anything pretty or not. As for young men, and marriage, and the pleasures of society, I heard them discussed until I wished that neither of them had ever had an existence.

"But I have no doubt it was all greatly owing to the state of feeling into which I had fallen, and I knew it was wrong, but at that time I could not exercise the least control over myself.

"At last the General returned, bringing Zillah with him. I was out of the room when he arrived, so that I did not witness the meeting between him and his wife; but when I joined them soon after, one glance at Mrs. Harrington's face was sufficient to show how happy his return had made her.

"The General greeted me in his usual cordial, gallant manner. I was very glad to have him with us once more.

"'James cannot know you have come,' Mrs. Harrington said, 'or he would be here.'

"'He is quite well, I hope,' the General said.

"'Quite. Oh dear, how glad I am to have you back.'

"'You may know by your own pleasure, how glad I am to return,' he answered. 'Nothing would have induced me to go but that I felt it right. I did not approve—I may speak before my dear ward,—I thought James quite too young to be entrusted with the business of bringing back so pretty a girl as Zillah, even if she was only a servant.'

"'I must send for her,' Mrs. Harrington said. 'Poor thing, she will take it dreadfully to heart if she thinks I am not glad to see her.'

"She rang the little bell that sat on the table, and asked the man to send Zillah in. Just as he went, James entered. I looked with a little curiosity to see the meeting between him and his step-father.

"The General's manner was the same as ever—that exquisite blending of courtesy and kindly feeling which always characterized his communications with his wife's son. But young Mr. Harrington was constrained, almost cold. I knew that he had not forgiven the General for the course he had taken regarding that journey.

"When I saw that, I fairly hated him. He exchanged a little conversation with the General, talked for a moment with his mother, and after a frigid salutation to me passed on to a window, and stood there looking out into the court.

"In a short time the door opened again, and Zillah entered. The creature fairly bounded toward Mrs. Harrington like some beautiful wild animal, and fell at her feet, kissing her hands, and pouring out a torrent of delighted exclamations.

"The slave was more gorgeously lovely than ever; somewhat paler and thinner, and her great eyes beamed with more eager light.

"Mrs. Harrington was touched almost to tears by the girl's manner, but to me it was fairly repulsive. Her gladness was so exaggerated that I could not help thinking it all acting from beginning to end.

"'I am so glad, so glad!' she kept repeating. 'Dear mistress, I thought I should die and never see you again! It broke my heart! Oh, I am so happy.'

"'And I am very glad to have you back, my pretty Zillah,' Mrs. Harrington said. 'I have missed you very much.'

"Zillah kissed the fair hands again, but it seemed to me—oh, how suspicious I had grown—that the evil light I had so often noticed in her eyes deepened till, in defiance of her beauty, she looked absolutely fiendish.

"'See,' said Mrs. Harrington, 'you have not spoken to Miss Mabel.'

"The girl rose from her knees and came toward me, dropping a graceful curtsey that seemed to me fairly insulting, instead of a mark of respect.

"'I am glad you are quite well again, Zillah,' was all I could bring myself to say.

"She murmured something—I do not know exactly what—at the same moment she caught sight of James standing in the window. The color rushed in a torrent to her face, then as suddenly receded, leaving her pale and trembling with excitement.

"She went timidly toward him. He did not stir—did not even look round. Was it because he was afraid to let us see his face?

"Zillah stopped in the recess, and I heard her say in a faltering voice—

"'Mr. James, Mr. James! Everybody else is glad to see poor Zillah back, but you will not even speak to me.'

"He turned then. He was very pale, and his features were set and hard. I was certain this arose from a violent effort to conceal his feelings.

"'I am very glad you are well again,' he said; 'my mother has missed you.'

"The girl made a quick, angry gesture, and I saw—yes, I could swear that it was not fancy—I saw James Harrington make a little sign with his hand, as if to caution her.

"She checked herself at once, and with a few broken words about her love of her mistress, she turned away and went hastily out of the room.

"'Poor Zillah,' said Mrs. Harrington, 'she could not bear it any longer; she has gone away to have a good cry all by herself. She is the most sensitive, affectionate creature I ever saw in my life. I must go after her or she will be getting into one of her desperate fits, thinking nobody is pleased to have her back.'

"'Better leave her to herself,' the General said, carelessly; 'I think the girl is a good deal spoiled already—better not add to it.'

"James darted a perfectly furious glance at him as he spoke, then turned and looked out of the window again.

"'Perhaps you are right, dear,' Mrs. Harrington said; 'I do spoil the child, but she is so pretty, I really cannot help it.'

"'A reason that answers with women,' said the General, smiling, 'and young men,' he added to himself, but I caught the words, low as they were spoken.

"I suppose my face betrayed that I had heard him, for he gave me a little deprecatory bow and smile, half playful, half apologetic.

"James moved suddenly from the window and was leaving the room.

"'Are you going out, dear?' his mother asked.

"'Not yet,' he answered, 'Have you any commands, madre mia?'

"'None, I believe,' she replied with her happiest smile. 'Perhaps Mabel has, though.'

"'Miss Crawford has only to express them,' he replied, half turning toward me, his voice changing so quickly, growing so cold and indifferent, that I wondered even his mother, unobservant as she was, did not notice it.

"'You are too kind,' I answered, and if his tone was cold, mine certainly, was haughty enough. 'I have none with which I need trouble you.'

"The General, whom nothing escaped, looked curiously from one to the other, but did not speak.

"'You will not be gone long, James?' Mrs. Harrington asked, with the unconscious spirit of exaction which is apt to grow upon those who have been ill and suffered a good deal.

"'Not long enough for you to miss me, dear,' he replied, and his voice was kind and gentle as ever.

"I must do him that justice at least—his manner to his mother never varied. Whatever the secret was that disturbed him, however much preoccupied he might be—and sometimes he looked worn and troubled, as a man might who was struggling with evil spirits—he had always cheerful words and smiles at his command for her.

"He went up to her now, kissed her and said something in a low voice—some pleasant, affectionate words, I knew by the light that came over her face.

"'Good morning, James,' said the General kindly.

"'Good morning, General Harrington,' returned he in a hard, steely voice, bowed to me, and quitted the room abruptly.

"The General shrugged his shoulders, looked somewhat impatient, and a little amused.

"I had withdrawn to the window, and the General, walking up and down the room, passed me, and stopped a moment.

"'I gave up being astonished a good many years ago,' said he, 'but I confess the conduct of that eccentric young gentleman almost surprises me.'

"I am afraid my smile expressed something like contempt.

"'Wasn't it Rochefoucault who said, a woman is happiest when most deceived?' he asked, with a glance towards his wife. 'Either he or some other misanthropic old Frenchman; but whoever it was, master James has evidently read and remembered the maxim.'

"'What conspiracy are you and Mabel hatching?' laughed Mrs. Harrington from her chair.

"'Just at this instant,' returned the General, 'I am telling Miss Mabel that she looks a little pale and out of spirits.'

"'She has been kept in the house too much since you went away,' his wife said. 'Mabel, dear, James must take you and Miss Eaton to drive.'

"'I dare say he has engagements,' I answered carelessly. 'The courier can go with us perfectly well, and with him we can take the liberty of changing our minds as often as we please, about what we shall do.'

"'And that, I suppose, is a great happiness to young ladies,' said the General, playfully.

"'At all events, it is the charge made against us from time immemorial,' I replied, trying to speak in the same tone.

"'I am sure Mabel is not given to changing her mind,' said Mrs. Harrington.

"'No,' said the General, 'there are many subjects upon which her opinion, once formed, she would never change, I fancy,' and he smiled with a significance which I thoroughly understood.

"I murmured some unintelligible excuse, and left the room. I heard Mrs. Harrington say—

"'See Miss Eaton, dear, and settle about going to ride.' But I did not promise to do so."

CHAPTER LIII.

ZILLAH IS ANXIOUS ABOUT THE HEALTH OF HER MISTRESS.

"'Oh, Miss Crawford, I am so near crazy with joy at finding myself with the mistress and all of you, again, that I don't know what I do or say. I was just telling Mr. James how happy it made me to see my dear mistress looking so much better. She is better, Miss Mabel, you are certain sure of that.'

"Her look was eager; her eyes searched mine with keen scrutiny.

"'She is greatly improved,' I replied, coldly.

"'I was very sick, too, Miss Mabel,' she went on; 'at one time I thought I should die, and never see her again, or the master; master James, I mean, or any one. Oh, it seemed as if heaven was cruel to me, as if everything I saw was cruel.'

"'That is absolutely wicked, Zillah,' I answered, almost harshly.

"'I know it. I am sorry now—but I could not help it. We cannot always put down wicked feelings. But you are sure that the mistress is better—getting well?'

"I was a little conscience-stricken by the thought that there had been slight Christian feeling in the admonition I had given her, and so found nothing to say, except that I was sure Mrs. Harrington was almost quite well.

"'Are we going to stay here long, Miss Mabel?' she asked, following me, 'now that she is so much better—quite well—did you say quite well, young mistress.'

"'I don't know—perhaps, since Mrs. Harrington seems so much benefited by the air. The doctor considers her almost cured—there is only the weakness to overcome now. You can see how the color has come back to her face, yourself, Zillah.'

"Zillah gave a little groan, and staggered back against the wall, pressing her hand on her heart. She was deathly white, and her face was convulsed with pain.

"'Are you sick?' I demanded, really frightened, 'What is the matter, Zillah?'

"'Nothing—nothing,' she gasped. 'Let me sit down a minute—only a pain. I'm not very strong yet, young mistress.'

"She sank on a lounge that stood in the corridor, and covered her face with her hand. We were near my room, so I ran in there and got a glass of water and carried it to her.

"'Drink a little,' I said.

"The creature's hand shook so that she could scarcely hold the goblet, but the tremor passed quickly.

"'Thank you, young mistress,' she said, with a humility that displeased me, because it looked like acting. 'It is not the thing for you to wait on me.'

"'Are you better?' I asked.

"'Yes—yes—well now! I think it was only joy—my dear, dear mistress! I have this queer pain lately when I am taken of a sudden. It will go away by and by; I'm going to lie down—mayn't I, Miss Mabel?'

"It was absurd to ask the question—the girl had always done just as she pleased.

"'You know that you can,' I said.

"'If my mistress wants me, I'll come at once—I want to do everything for her now. I'm quite well—quite strong.'

"She got up from the lounge and walked down the corridor, but her step was unsteady and faltering. I was sorry for her, but my repugnance, my absolute repulsion toward the beautiful creature was only increased, though I could not have told why.

"Even her affection for her mistress seemed so exaggerated, that I could not believe it. Oh, I was growing very hard and wicked. I reproached myself bitterly, but the strange distrust would not be overcome.

"There is a fair in Seville, where many curious and beautiful things are offered for sale. This morning the Eatons were urgent that we should go. Some of the Rommany gipsies, from Grenada, had camped on the ground, and Lucy was dying to have her fortune told. Did the silly wish affect me? Was I weak enough to cover a latent desire to consult these strange people under the pretence of obliging Lucy Eaton? I fear so. In the restless state of mind which disturbed me, I was willing to fly even to absurdities for relief. Mrs. Harrington, greatly to my astonishment, consented to go with us. James protested a little against this, for she had not been so well for a day or two, and he feared the fatigue; but she, too, had a curiosity to see the gipsies, and protested that she could do well enough. If they had any fears, Zillah should go with us; and if she got weary, the carriage could take them back to the hotel, and return.

"No one objected to this arrangement, which delighted Zillah inexpressibly. The girl had been out a good deal since her arrival, especially after the fair commenced. Once or twice I had seen her come in with traces of strange excitement in her face and manner. She gave no account of herself, when questioned, more than to say she had been out to see the town; but I, who watched her closely in spite of myself, saw that she was pale, silent and preoccupied, for hours after these excursions.

"This morning she came to me in a quiet, mysterious manner, which seemed to spring out of suppressed excitement, and hesitating like a bashful child, asked me to give her a little money. She wanted to buy some ribbons for her hair, she said, but hated to ask the master or mistress for money. The Spanish servants had a way of braiding the hair down the back, and knotting it with bows of ribbon. She wanted to surprise the mistress by the length of her own hair, that was why she came to me for money.

"I gave her a napoleon, and in doing so my hand touched hers. It was cold as snow, and shook nervously as I laid the gold in her palm. This agitation surprised me, and I looked suddenly in her face to read the cause there; but her eyes were cast down, and, but for a cold whiteness about the mouth, I should have seen but little difference from her usual manner.

"'Zillah,' I said, 'what is the matter that you look so white?'

"She started and cast a frightened look upon me, while a rush of crimson swept her face like a stormy sunset.

"'So white?' she stammered. 'Do I look white?' Then she added quickly, with a faded smile, so evidently forced that it was unpleasant to me, 'Miss Mabel forgets how ill I have been; I am not strong yet, and it doesn't take much to tire me—I suppose I ran down stairs too quick.'

"She slipped the gold I had given her into her bosom, and thanking me again for it, started away down the corridor. I had risen and was moving to the door, intending to go to Mrs. Harrington's room to speak to her for a moment, when Zillah came back.

"'Miss Mabel,' she said, speaking like a person who had been running, 'I want to say something to you—don't be anxious, may be it is only my foolishness—but I'm afraid the dear mistress isn't so well as you have all thought.'

"'What makes you think that, Zillah?'

"'This morning, when I was dressing her, she had one of her old faint attacks, but she made me promise not to tell. Oh! Miss Mabel, I was so frightened—that was what made me look so strange when I came up. I can't bear to think of it! My mistress, my dear mistress!'

"She was wringing her hands in a wild agitation that was not feigned, and I did all that I could to comfort her, though this sad news unnerved me almost as much as herself."

CHAPTER LIV.

BEHIND THE GIPSIES' TENT.

"The Gipsies were grouped in a green lane just on the outskirts of the fair. I had seen persons in my own country who claimed to be these people, but they were as unlike the pure Rommany gipsies as races of men could be. These people were thin, wiry and keen; their features, in most instances, finely cut, and the expression of their countenances full of sharp intelligence. They had pitched a double line of tents, where the elder women were busy selling drinks, and frying cakes, which they sold hot from an iron cauldron full of simmering fat, out of which the smoking cakes were lifted with a skimmer, as customers wanted them. The young girls of the tribe hovered around the doors of the tents, or were grouped in a larger tent, dancing for money, at the behest of any stranger who cared to amuse himself by their wild and eccentric movements.

"We were told that these dances were not always such as ladies would care to witness, and so avoided the great tent, and gave ourselves up to the swarms of women who were eager to tell our fortunes, or steal our purses, as the case might be. In the midst of this confusion, Mrs. Harrington took hold of my arms in a wild, agitated way, whispering that she was tired, and would like to go home.

"I looked around for Zillah, but she had disappeared, and the gentlemen, just at the moment, were out of sight.

"'Sit here,' I said, leading Mrs. Harrington into one of the tents, 'while I go in search of some one who can tell me where the carriage is.'

"Mrs. Harrington sat down, white and faint, both Mrs. Eaton and her daughter came to her and offered help. I left Lucy fanning the gentle lady, and went into the lane in search of Zillah, though her mistress, made a faint effort to prevent it. As I turned a corner of the lane, two women who stood a little apart from the road, near the back of one of the tents, struck me as familiar. They stood upon the turf, and were talking earnestly. One held something in her hand, which she looked down upon, now and then, as she talked. After a moment, I became sure that one of these persons was Zillah, and went toward her. The turf on which I walked gave forth no sound, and I moved close to the girl before she could be aware of my presence. That moment a small phial passed from the hand of that old gipsy woman to that of Zillah, who held the little flask up to the light, and examined it curiously, speaking in a quick, abrupt way, in Spanish.

"I could not distinguish the meaning, she spoke so rapidly. When the gipsy answered, I caught the word Droa, uttered under the breath two or three times. The woman seemed to be giving some directions; she spoke almost in a whisper, and I saw the long bony hand clutch Zillah's arm, as if to impress what she was saying more forcibly upon the girl's attention. Then I saw Zillah hand the piece of gold I had given her that morning, to the woman, while she asked other questions in a whisper.

"'Zillah!'

"The girl fairly leaped from the ground, and uttered a sharp scream, as if I had struck her to the heart.

"'Zillah, what is this? Why are you so terrified?' She had drawn back towards the tent, grasping the phial close in her hands; then with her wild eyes on my face, and her features locked in gray whiteness, she stood a full minute staring at me in dumb terror. At last, she faltered out, 'Miss, Miss Crawford, how—how you frightened me. I—I am so nervous.'

"'But there is nothing to make you nervous, Zillah. I only came to say that your mistress wishes to go home.'

"'Oh! I am ready—I am ready, but—but when did you get here? We—we were talking—'

"'About something you had in your hand. What is it, Zillah?'

"I saw the girl's slender fingers close spasmodically on the phial, and the dead whiteness returned to her face.

"'Oh! it is—'

"Then the gipsy broke in. 'It is a love philter—something that will make her sweetheart tender and faithful—would the senorita like to buy one?'

"I turned my eyes on Zillah; she was still pale, and trembled visibly. With her magnificent eyes cast down, and her whole figure bowed as if by some invisible power, she seemed to deprecate my scorn or anger. I was angry. What did she want with the philter in her hand—to whom was it applicable?

"'Foolish, ignorant girl,' I said. 'So it was for this poor fraud you wanted money. Zillah, I thought you had more sense?'

"The girl stood up more firmly. It seemed as if a load had dropped from her shoulders. She gave a sharp laugh, and said 'I know it, young mistress. It is a folly—but I could not help it—the gipsies have such power—and I may never see them again. Don't tell of me, they will laugh so?'"

CHAPTER LV.

BURDENED WITH A SECRET.

"'Indeed I don't, Miss Mabel—unless it's about some foolishness like this. I'm not a big story teller—don't think I am.'

"'I shall not unless you force me to,' I answered. 'Come, we must find your mistress now.'

"I walked quickly on, and she followed me in silence. Once I glanced back at her—there was an expression on her face which puzzled me, yes, almost made me afraid. I could imagine Clytemnestra holding her midnight watch, with a face like that—Lady Macbeth waiting for her husband's return, with eyes like those—oh, I had grown so fanciful and silly during those past days.

"We found Mr. James Harrington with his mother, who was just driving away in the carriage.

"When it came back, I saw him return to the Eatons, who seemed to occupy him entirely. Feeling myself completely unregarded, I wandered off by myself, interested in the strange people that surrounded me.

"I looked about and found that I had lost sight of the whole party. I was not frightened, because the fair grounds were in full view, and I could find my way back easily enough, but I was a little amazed to think that my presence had been of so little consequence to the gentlemen of the party, that I had been permitted to steal away unnoticed.

"I walked on among the tents—nobody looked at me unpleasantly or spoke rudely to me, and when my first feeling of pique had subsided, I was not sorry to have an opportunity of examining more closely these strange and incomprehensible people who, during so many ages, have kept up their distinctive manners and customs, as much a mystery now as when they first made their appearance among the inhabitants of Europe.

"Such picturesque looking men, lazily basking in the noon-tide sun—such groups of lovely children, that would have sent Murillo into ecstacies—such beautiful girls, whose every movement had a willowy, sensuous grace that the women of no other people ever possessed—weird, witch-like old crones, with such depths of wickedness in their fiery eyes, that in looking at them one could easily have believed in the old-time evidence of those who made bargains for their souls with the Evil One. On I wandered, sometimes stopping to admire the children, or speak a few words to the young girls.

"While I was thus occupied, James Harrington joined me, and began speaking of his mother.

"'She is getting worse,' he said, 'and I can do nothing for her. It seems as if the presence of this slave girl has a baleful influence on every one she approaches!'

"I looked at him wonderingly. Why had he opened that subject with me. I had no wish to discuss it, even in reference to his mother. Before I could answer him, General Harrington and the Eatons joined us, and we all walked back to the hotel together.

"I went at once to Mrs. Harrington's room. She was lying on a couch near the window, with her hands clasped, and her eyes closed; but I saw the lids quivering, and discovered heavy tears dropping one by one, on the cushion beneath her head.

"'Are you so ill,' I said, sitting down on the edge of the couch and kissing her troubled forehead.

"'Ill!' she sobbed, lifting both arms toward my neck, like an unhappy child, 'Oh Mabel, my heart is broken. I shall never, never be well again!'

"She trembled all over, and seemed ready to go into convulsions in my arms.

"'What is it,' I said. 'What could have happened to distress you so?'

"She looked into my face so helplessly, that my soul yearned toward her.

"'Tell me, oh tell me of the trouble, for it is trouble, and nothing else,' I said, holding her close in my arms, for I felt that we were fellow-sufferers, and that my heart must ache with something more painful than sympathy.

"She began to tremble again, and clung closer to me.

"'It was foolish. I did wrong, but who would have thought what would follow. I—I saw him going toward that large tent, where the music was. Zillah had gone in just before, while I was buying some embroidery of a woman. You had all walked on—I wanted to speak with Zillah, and followed him.'

"'Go on,' I said, as well as the pain at my heart would permit of speech—for she stopped suddenly, and made a faint effort to leave the clasp of my arms. 'Go on, you cannot feel this more than I do.'

"'Ah, you love me so, thank God for that.'

"'And you can trust me, I would not speak of this, dear friend, to a living soul, not to save my own life.'

"'It is not that, Mabel, but I have loved him so,—been so proud of him. Never, till this day, have I known what it was to suspect any one dear to me. Now it is not suspicion, but certainty. He loves her, Mabel! My own servant! I saw her clinging to his arm, while those wild girls were dancing before them. I heard him tell her how much more beautiful she was than any woman he had ever seen. Don't look at me so wildly, Mabel! I cannot repeat the words, but they are buried in here.'

"'And you heard this, there is no mistake.'

"'Mistake, oh if there could be!'

"'Still this man is—'

"'I know it—the shame and disgrace must be buried here. I dare not speak of it, dare not reproach him—for there is one who loves me so dearly that he would take revenge, and there might be bloodshed as well as perfidy. Oh Mabel, I am glad you did not make yourself a slave by loving as I wished. All this is terrible.'

"'Yes,' I said hoarsely, 'It is terrible, but it does not take me by surprise.'

"'Then you have suspected something—oh Mabel, keep that girl away from me. I will be silent, I will do anything a good woman ought, but the sight of her will be too great a torment.'

"I promised to keep Zillah away if that were possible, without giving a reason, and again pledged my word to hold all that she had said, secret as the grave. But I went to my own room, fell upon the bed, and passed into an agony of jealous shame.

"During the last two weeks Mrs. Harrington is much worse. All her old complaints have come back, and she lies upon her sofa all day long, weary and languid. Nothing can equal the devotion of her husband; as for the son, his attentions are unremitting; does he guess why she is so much worse, and is he striving by kindness to silence her unspoken reproaches? She gives no sign of the trouble that is sapping away her life, not a word has passed between us since that day. The Eatons have left us. The atmosphere of a sick room disturbs them. Worse and worse—alas! I greatly fear this gentle lady will never leave Seville alive. The last remnant of strength seems to be dying out of that fragile form.

"Zillah is most attentive—always by her door—always ready to be of service, yet I loathe and fear the girl. There are times when her eyes have a look that makes me shudder, and I long to remove that pale, gentle creature from her care. But, strange enough, General Harrington has taken a singular liking to the girl, and insists upon it that no one can prepare his wife's medicines, or soothe her, so well. Poor lady, she must submit, or destroy all her husband's respect for the son who has wounded her so.

"Weaker and weaker—alas! poor lady, she seems to have no real illness, but fades away calmly and softly, like a flower that the frost had kissed to death.

"Harrington watches the gentle decline with silent anguish, that I can feel, while I bitterly condemn him. How cold and distant this trouble renders me! He speaks sometimes of his fears as she grows worse and worse, but it is with mournful restraint, and when I lift my look to his, or attempt those broken words of comfort that spring naturally to the lips, he turns away without reply, as if my attempt at consolation had only deepened his remorse. Was that wild confession on the raft all a dream? Had terror and privation rendered me delirious? Could these words, so deeply written in my memory, have been only a wild hallucination? Is this man the same being I almost worshiped then?

"She is dead—oh, heavens! She died last night, with no one near but the slave, and, as the girl Zillah said, without a struggle or a sigh.

"The slave came to my room just at daylight, weeping and wringing her hands in such distress, that she fairly terrified me, when I saw her standing in the open door.

"'Oh,' she said, tossing her arms on high, 'she is gone, she is gone.' I watched her, young mistress, just like a mother hangs over her sick child. She made a motion with her hand,—I thought she wanted more drink, but she turned her face on the pillow, and looked at me so wild, I couldn't turn my eyes away, but sat watching, watching, watching till her face turned gray under my eyes, and I could see the white edges of the teeth, between her lips, as they fell more and more apart. I reached out my hand to touch hers. It was cold as snow, but her eyes were wide open, looking straight into mine, dull and heavy, as if they had been filling with frost.

"In the gray light of that morning, I went down to the death chamber. General Harrington and James received me in mournful silence. I had no heart even for unspoken reproaches, there. If ever forgiveness was glorified, I saw it on that sweet, dear face.

"We passed a gloomy day. The shock has been terrible to James, terrible to us all—for the General is greatly disturbed, and, as for the slave-girl, her grief is fearful; she raves rather than weeps, and trembles like an aspen at the mention of her dead lady's name.

"With the solemn burial services of the Catholic Church, we have consigned the remains of this lovely woman to her grave, and now my loneliness is complete. My own poor heart seems to have partaken of the chill that has quenched her life. I am weary of this beautiful land—weary of everything—alone and unloved; for now I am almost sure my own wild brain coined the words that seemed to come from his lips in the storm—alone, unloved—what remains for me but——

"A great disappointment has fallen upon General Harrington. A will is found, and every dollar of his wife's property is left to her son. All this seems incomprehensible. I pity the proud old man.

——"It is all over now! Oh, Heaven, that I should have so deceived myself! Harrington loves another—Lucy whom he has known almost since childhood, and from whom a series of untoward circumstances separated him. There is, there can be no doubt—no room for a single hope—the General himself informed me of it to-day.

"I cannot write—I cannot even think! There is a strange confusion in my brain—a fever in my heart which give me no rest. I long for some one to advise me—some one to whom I can look for sympathy—but I have no counsellor. Kindred—mine are in the grave! Friends—the last one sleeps in the cemetery yonder—in the wide world I am utterly alone. The General grows kinder to me daily, but to him how could I speak of all these things? No! I must bury the secret deep, deep in my own heart—must endure this suffering in silence and alone.

"I have but one wish now—could I but be the means of uniting James Harrington with the woman he loves. The only consolation left to me, would be to know that he was happy, and that it was to me he owed that happiness. But I can do nothing; the General only hinted at some mysterious history, and he requested me to consider all that he had revealed as sacred. Is this the secret? Does Lucy Eaton suspect the unworthiness which it kills me to know?

"Six months in a convent. It is too late to look back, or to retract anything I have promised. I have consented to become General Harrington's wife—to fill the place of one who took me to her heart as if I had been her own child, bestowing upon me the fondness which I could have no right to claim, except from a mother.

"The change I had remarked in the General's manner was not fancy, as I strove to think. He desires to make me his wife. He alluded to it yesterday for the first time, and to-night I gave him my answer. I can but confess that the arguments he employed were just; a young girl could not remain in the house with a man no older than he without being connected to him by a nearer tie than that which binds us. He spoke to me very kindly, more gently and tenderly than I had thought he could do. He believes that I have formed no other attachment, or, if not entirely heart free, it was but a girlish fancy, which had no real basis. He assures me that I shall be happy as his wife, but my heart answers how impossible that is! I do not ask happiness—let me but find quiet and contentment—I seek no more.

"A year has gone by. We are in America again. General Harrington will join me to-morrow. Ay, it is better thus—I would have it over. Perhaps, in the peaceful home I shall find in my native land, I may learn to still this poor heart to rest. I long to return.

"He is not here. He left us when we reached Madrid, for the purpose of entering France through the Basque countries; but this month the General received another letter from him—he is staying in Italy. The General, it seems, had written that he had obtained my consent to become his wife, and the answer is—'Whatever will conduce to your happiness, and that of the lady, must be acceptable to me.'

"Nothing more—not even an expression of astonishment! Yes, it is better thus! I will marry General Harrington—he is the only being on earth who cares for me—the only one who would seek to render me happy. In a few years he will be an old man, and the trust and friendship I now feel, will be sufficient to his contentment. This firm and trusting friendship I shall always be willing to give. If I do not accept him, where am I to turn for a protector—of what avail is my great wealth, since it cannot win for me a home in any human heart?

"I marvel at my own calmness—pray Heaven that when too late, I do not find that it has been only the apathy of despair. I will be calm—my hushed and trembling heart shall at least be silent—by-and-by it will, perhaps, be numbed into insensibility. I can expect nothing more; for I know that the uprooted flowers of a love like mine can have no second-blossom, the sweet fountain of affection once wasted, its waters may never flow again.

"I will write no more in my journal for a season—why should I make this record of my weary life—this plaint of my troubled soul?

"I have suffered the one terrible grief of a lifetime; of what avail to inscribe upon these pages a memento of a lasting wretchedness!"

CHAPTER LVI.

TOO LATE, TOO LATE.

"A new blessing has been granted to me! Forgive me my God, that I have dared thus to repine and forget that Thy protecting care was over me! I am a mother! My baby sleeps in his cradle by my side, and one glance at his face makes me forget all the misery I have endured. James returned during my illness. My heart was too full of its new bliss for any other feeling. With my child folded over my heart, I could meet him without one of its pulses being stirred—there is a sacredness in the duties God has now given me, which I should not have dared profane by one human regret.

"He looks ill and careworn—would that I might speak of his affairs, but I can do nothing, though it is fearful to see him thus; to know that he suffers and feel that I have no power to relieve him. He seems to love my baby. Heaven bless him for that! The General's indifference has pained me, but the nurse says men never like children—when he grows older and his father sees him all that is noble and good he will love him; how could he do otherwise?—my precious, precious child.

"This little girl, poor, forsaken, young, innocent, she seems to have been sent to be the companion of my boy. How he loves her already; bending over the cradle where she lies to touch her little face with his dimpled hands, his great eyes lit up, and his whole countenance aglow with feeling, such as one seldom witnesses in a child. This is only another kind act for which I have to bless Ben Benson. He found the infant wandering away from some unknown home in a fearful storm, almost perished, and unable to tell even her name.

"It is a beautiful child, and the nurse pronounces her a very healthy one. The General seems quite willing that I should adopt her; so I have now a daughter—the word sounds sweet, very sweet to me. James looks at me strangely as I sit with Lina in my lap, and little Ralph by my side, there is a mournfulness in his face which wrings my very heart; doubtless he reflects upon the happiness denied him—ah! he need not envy me a few blessings which have been bestowed upon me.

"Am I happier now! My children are growing all that I could wish. I have wealth, kind friends—say, am I happy? I would not repine nor be ungrateful, but, oh! were it not for the little ones Heaven has confided to my care, how gladly would I seek a quiet resting place in the grave!

"I know now that time cannot alleviate suffering, that nothing can teach the heart to forget or still it into quietude, save for a little season. Yet my existence is not wholly vain, and while those youthful creatures need my care I am willing to live, but there are times when the burden forced upon my soul seems harder than I can endure. When I fling myself down in utter despair, feeling unable to tread longer the weary path which lies before me.

"It seems to me that I should suffer less could I but see James happy, but his sad silence increases my own pain. He is always gentle and kind, devoted to the children; full of respect and quiet attentions for me; but how changed from the bright youth of former years. How distant that season—through what a fearful gloom I look back upon the brightness of those summer years! How often I ask myself if I am indeed the dreaming girl who, in her chamber at Neathcote watching the stars out in a vigil which was like a charmed vision, believing that life was to be one long fairy dream of delight.

"I have been thinking of that sail upon the lake. I could not help it! Ralph brought me some water lilies that he and Lina had gathered; as if the odor of those flowers had possessed a spell to conjure up the past, the fleeting happiness of that summer day came back to me.

"Ralph left me alone, and for a long hour I gave myself up to the feelings which his simple offering had aroused. I had not thought there could be so much of passion in my suffering now—the tears I shed burned my cheek like flame; and, when the storm gust had spent its might, I lay back on my couch, weak and faint.

"I was roused from those haunting memories by voices beneath my window—it was his voice; he was conversing with Ralph. I leaned forward, and looked down upon them—then I realized how fearful was the change which had passed over him. I had been dreaming of him, as he appeared upon that blessed day, and the being I beheld beneath my casement looked like the ghost of the happy-eyed boy of my vision.

"O, had he but confided in me—would he but have trusted me as his sister—hush! am I not a wife? Whither have my mad thoughts led me! My God, have mercy upon me, stay the terrible tempest which has desolated my whole being, and now breathes its deadly simoon through the sepulchre which was once a heart. I will neither write, nor think more—there must be an end of this weakness—how unlike the fortitude I had promised myself to acquire.

"Yet it seems strange that I have no right to indulge in these memories of an era in my existence gone forever! How few and fleeting were those moments of unshadowed sunlight; the brightest twin memories which my soul can recall, were given to me under such different auspices. Of the first sweet hour, I have just promised my soul never again to think—upon the gloomy waters of my existence, no lilies are blossoming now—the last withered flowers have been torn from their roots, and swept idly down the current to perish, leaving only a faint perfume in my heart, which is but an added pain.

"Now I know that its very bliss was a delusion of my fancy, like the words, I believed to have heard, wrung from Harrington's breast during that fearful tempest, when we stood upon the deck of the ill-fated vessel, and death seemed so near us. Could I have died then, died with his arms enfolding me, his manly heart against my own, the measure of my existence had been complete—it began beneath the sunlight of his smile, it would have ended with the last life-pulse within his noble bosom.

"Now I will lay this book aside nor shall my hand again turn its pages, until I have taught myself something of the quiet I have so long striven to attain. If in the sight of Heaven I have sinned, cannot my sufferings atone for it?—the evil, if evil there has been, was involuntary; the penitence has been deep and earnest; surely the angels watching over me will not let it be without avail.

"Great heavens! will this heart never have rest—will years do nothing for me? Ralph is now a man; Lina, one of the most lovely creatures I ever saw. These two children, whose infant kisses seem, even now, upon my lips, have sprung up into sudden youth, and seem ready to escape my love. Yesterday, Lina came to me with a world of innocent blushes, and hung about my chair, as if longing to whisper some secret into my ear, yet without the courage to speak. I wondered what the child wanted, but would not force her confidence.

"I thank God, oh! I thank my God that I am alive. The terrible shock of that night is still through my frame. I have been so close to death, that the vitality at my heart seems unreal. Last night I was hurled into the depths of the river, that is even now rushing onward to the ocean so near to my window, that the eternal sweep of its waters haunt me like a threat of death.

"He saved me—or rather they—for Ben Benson was in the midst of the storm, resolute, like the other. I must have been dead for a time, for, when my memory came back, it seemed as if I had forgotten all these miserable years of married life, and was upon that heaving raft again, with his arms around me, and whispering those low, passionate words in my ear. Why did that dream come back then? Was it to lay my heart open, and reveal to me how little prayer and time have done to wrest this first and last love from my heart?"

CHAPTER LVII.

ZILLAH.

As General Harrington hurried through his wife's journal, his eyes grew bright and cold, like steel when the sun strikes it; his lips, always so soft and sensual in their expression, became rigid with passion, and clung together hardened by the silent rage that burned in the depths of his heart. Had Mabel proved herself vicious or unprincipled in the book so cruelly purloined, he might have forgiven it; but here the struggle to love him had been so great, that it wounded his self-love in every fibre. The struggle to love him—General Harrington, the invincible, the adored of so many hearts! "He would soon be an old man, and then the friendship, which was all her heart could ever give, would content him. He an old man—he who had solemnly determined never to know what age or infirmity was." The insult was too much. His outraged vanity hardened into absolute malice. For the first time he positively hated the man who could be loved better than himself. He forgot the self-sacrifice, the wealth given up to his use—the sublime devotion which had made James Harrington a guardian angel to Mabel's son. He forgot everything save that the noble girl he had married for her wealth—wealth even on her wedding-day half squandered at the gaming table, by an unfaithful guardian, had give the preference of her taste—he cared little for a deeper feeling—to one younger than himself, and that one the man to whom his first wife's wealth had descended in one vast property.

Was it not enough that the young man had stepped into his place on the death of his mother—that when he fancied himself in the untrammelled possession of her fortune, a will, undreamed of during her life, should have been found, transmitting every dollar of her property into the uncontrolled possession of a son—was not this disappointment enough? Must his self-love and pride be swept into the same vortex? Had both wives proved their treason against him where he was most sensitive?

The old man would not remember that James Harrington had not only allowed him to remain the ostensible possessor of this large fortune, undoubtedly his own just inheritance, but that more than two thirds of the annual income had for nearly twenty years been surrendered to his unquestioned disposal. He forgot that Mabel's fortune had melted away at the gaming-table without inquiry or protest on her part, and that, in fact, his own luxurious life was fostered only by their magnanimous bounty. All these things were ignored in his rage at the secrets revealed in that unhappy journal, and he really believed himself the most wronged and outraged of human beings—wronged because the woman whom he had first married for her wealth alone, had divined the truth, and left all that she possessed to her son, which seemed a new offense to him then—and outraged that any woman honored by his preference, should ever have given another place in her thoughts. His grounds for anger went no deeper than this at the moment, for even his stony heart would not give birth to a thought of wrong against Mabel, beyond the erring love so feelingly regretted in every line of that book; but there was a tempter at hand, ready to infuse venom into even his selfish nature.

General Harrington sat with the book open before him. One hand, on which was a costly seal-ring, had, in unconscious warmth, grasped a dozen of the leaves, and half-torn them from the cover, while his eye read on, fascinated, and yet repulsed by the secret thoughts thus torn with unmanly violence from poor Mabel's life. All the craft and coolness of his nature had disappeared for the moment. His whole being was fired with disgust and bitter rage. Still, in his soul, he felt that these two persons had in reality suffered a deadly wrong from himself; that, after encouraging the attachment which he had hoped might spring up between them before his wife's death had swept her great wealth out of his hands, he had ruthlessly, and without questioning the state of these two souls, severed them for the accomplishment of his own interests. It had not once occurred to him that any lasting attachment for another could exist, while he condescended to solicit a woman's preference; and that which had for a time made itself manifest between the two young people, only gave a fresher zest to his conquest. To win a woman from one so much younger than himself, was even then, a triumph almost as agreeable as the possession of Mabel's fortune.

But now, when he was beginning to feel the approach of age, and to wither under the preference given to younger men—a preference rendered each day more decided in a country where statesmen are jostled aside by beardless boys, and the senseless giggle of pert school girls might drive Sappho into a second watery grave, sickened with disgust. His personal vanity became almost a monomania, and he sat there, clutching Mabel's book, pale as death, and with flecks of foam gathering upon his lips, longing to appease his mortified vanity by tearing fiercely at something, as a baffled hound digs his claws into the earth when his prey is beyond reach.

As he sat there shaking with silent rage, a door, not used for years, opened in his bed-chamber, and a woman came through, leaving the dark and dusty room which had for a short time been occupied by the first Mrs. Harrington, before her fatal voyage to Europe, in total darkness again. She stood for a moment, concealed by the crimson curtains, and keenly watched the old man, as he sat trembling before her in the first rage of his humiliation. Then, having satisfied herself that her hour was propitious, she stole softly into the library, and dropping one arm softly over General Harrington's shoulder, stooped down and kissed his forehead. The old man started, looked up, and a faint laugh, almost childish in the sudden reaction from which it sprung, broke from his lips.

"Zillah, my beautiful, my true-hearted, is it you?"

The woman dropped on one knee, trembling from head to foot. Some endearing epithet, uttered in French, which converted the laugh on his lips into a smile, broke as it were, unconsciously from her; and he felt the arm upon his shoulder shiver like the wing of a bird just as it settles after flight.

He answered her in French, and his eyes, full of gratitude for the balm her emotion brought to his vanity, sought hers.

"Zillah, you loved me. I am at least sure of that!"

"Loved!" said the woman, lifting her black eyes, to his face. "Loved my master. You speak as if such feelings were not eternal; to say that your poor slave loved once, is nothing; turn over every leaf of her heart, and you will find the same record upon them all. Thank Heaven, I am not entirely white! There is enough of tropical fire in my blood, to save me from burying my soul under the ashes of a dead love."

"How beautiful you are still," muttered the old man, passing his palm over the black waves of her hair, with a light caress. "Your presence kindles the very atmosphere. This is to be worshipped worthily. You loved me, and I sold you for her sake. I bartered you off for so much money to another; it was a cruel act, Zillah; but your love surmounted even that, while hers"——

"She never loved you; never—never!" cried the woman, passionately. "I, I alone of all the women on earth, really loved you. As for her"——

"Hush, Zillah, hush! I know all. I have read that book. I know all her treachery; and he, ever a serpent in my path, ever a restraint upon my actions, he has in this point also assailed me."

"But there is revenge!" said the woman, with a fierce gleam of the eyes; "revenge on him and her!"

"No!" answered the General, gloomily. "To anger him, would be to make myself a beggar. I must bear this in silence."

"Not if he loves her yet."

"But, does he? What man ever remained faithful to a first love twenty years?"

A faint moan broke from the woman's lips, and dropping her face between her hands, she cowered at his feet, as if he had stricken her down with a blow, instead of those cruel words that no physical pain can equal, when they fall upon a woman's heart.

"What is the matter, Zillah? Why do you moan and droop in this fashion?" said the General, quite unconscious of the pang he had given.

The woman looked up; her eyes were heavy with pain, and a scarcely perceptible quiver stirred her mouth.

"He sold me, and I lived; this cannot kill me either," she murmured drearily.

"Oh," said the General, smiling, for he began to divine the cause of her stricken attitude. "But remember, Zillah, you were not my first love. I was no boy when we met, and it was of boyish dreams that I spoke."

CHAPTER LVIII.

GENERAL HARRINGTON'S TEMPTATION.

"A sin of feeling!" she almost shrieked, seizing the vellum book, and turning over the crushed leaves rapidly with her trembling hands. "You have not read all. You have only glanced at passages, perhaps!"

"And they have been sufficiently unpleasant. I do not care to search farther!"

Zillah still turned over the leaves, tearing them more than once in her rude haste. Her fierce eyes glanced from passage to passage. At length, like a hawk pouncing upon its prey, she opened the book wide, and pressed her hand hard upon a page which seemed more hastily written than the rest, for it was blotted and broken up, evidently full of exclamations and bursts of passionate thought.

"Read that!" said the woman, pressing her finger upon the page till the blood was strained back to the wrist, leaving the hand pallid as marble. "Read that!"

The General took up the journal, and read. Again that expression of white rage crept over his face, and a smile rose up to his mouth, coiling around it like a viper.

"Yes," he said, hoarsely. "This means something. It is her own confession."

"It is enough to crush her forever!" cried the woman.

"Yes, yes, that society may laugh at me as a dupe; vengeance is sweet, but I cannot afford it. To assail her, would be to arm him against me."

"And you will submit to this wrong?" cried the woman, while her eyes flashed fire and her lips writhed in scorn.

"Submit, no—my fiery Zillah; but the richest enjoyments of life should be tasted daintily—a noisy revenge is not to my taste."

"But you will live with this woman yet?"

The General smiled meaningly.

"She will, perhaps, remain under my roof."

"And you will not take away the name she has disgraced?" persisted Zillah, pale with suspense.

"You are a little too fast there, my friend. A name is never dishonored by anything kept secret within the bosom of a family. Disgrace is the scorn of society, and how can the world scorn that which it does not know?"

"But it shall know. I will myself proclaim this infamy!" cried the woman, clenching her hand, and shaking from head to foot with internal rage.

The General cast on her a look half-surprised, half-amused.

"Ah, Zillah, and who on earth of our world can you know, or—if that were possible—what would your word be against the life of a woman so universally admired and beloved, as my wife has been?"

"But, I will prove what I say by that book."

"Which is just now in my possession, where it is likely to remain. Be content, beautiful Zillah. The fate of Mabel Harrington rests with me. I shall not trust her to your jealous rage."

"To my jealous rage!" repeated Zillah, hardening down in her passion till she seemed turning to marble from a single effort of will. "I thought of your honor, not of my own wrongs. I struggle against contempt for the man whom I have so long and so miserably loved."

"Contempt, Zillah?"

"Yes, sir, contempt. Even your slave has a right to despise the man who connives at his own dishonor."

"Woman, are you mad!—but no matter. I am too weary for much anger. You should have remembered of old that I hate scenes. This has been gotten up with too much intensity. I am tired of it."

"I see, I see!" replied the woman, resuming her slave-like submission. "You are tired, with no one to care about it. Let me serve you once more."

Zillah went to a marble console in another part of the room, poured out a glass of wine, and, sinking gently at his feet, presented it after the Oriental fashion which he had taught her years before.

He took the wine and drank it off, dropping his hand carelessly upon her shoulder as he returned the glass. The woman sat gazing into his face, her brow knitted, and her eyes full of thought.

"Then you shrink from a public exposure in this matter?" she said at last, bending her head on one side and touching his hand with her lips, which fell upon it cold as ice, so deep was the craft and so cruel was the passion that prompted this caress.

"I shrink from purchasing revenge at the cost of everything that renders life worth having. Once for all, Zillah, to quarrel with James Harrington is to give up all that I enjoy. Of my wife's fortune, nothing but this old mansion, and some fragments of real estate, remain. My first wife, as you know, left every dollar of her property to James, else the marriage which has created all this turmoil would never have taken place. Up to this hour, the young man has given me almost the entire control of his income. Mrs. Harrington has no idea that her property has not always supplied our income. To assail them, is to expose my own losses at the gambling-table—both while I was her guardian and her husband—I only wish the accursed book had never reached my hands. So long as she was acknowledged the most correct and splendid woman in society, what was her heart and its secrets to me? I tell you, I am tied to silence in this matter, and your interference can but annoy me."

"Not if I point out the way by which the vengeance you pant for may enrich yourself," said the woman, arousing from her thoughtfulness.

"Oh, that would be a discovery, indeed."

"James Harrington loves the lady."

"I am not so sure of that; but, suppose it so, what then?"

"Legal separations are easy in this country. Let her go to one of those States where incompatibility of temper, absence, or caprice, is deemed sufficient reason for divorce. This will be generous, and they must be grateful for a forbearance that she has no right to expect. Half his fortune—nay, the whole of it—will be little to ask in return."

"Woman, has a fiend or angel put this thought into your head?"

"Both; if love is an angel, and hate a fiend."

"And, what can you expect from this?"

"Nothing!"

"Nothing! This is not true, Zillah!"

"Is it hoping much, when I only wish to be a slave again?"

"My poor Zillah; and did you, indeed, care for me so much?"

The woman fell down upon her knees, buried her face between both hands, and burst into a passion of tears.

The General was annoyed; there was something too much like a scene in the attitude and tears of his former slave. He leaned back in his chair, regarding her with a glance of cynical impatience. She caught the look, as her hands fell apart; and the hot blood that rushed over her face seemed to burn up her tears. She broke into a smile, and arose, sweeping a hand across her eyes fiercely, as if to punish them for weeping.