MABEL'S MISTAKE.
BY
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
AUTHOR OF "FASHION AND FAMINE," "THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS," "DOUBLY FALSE,"
"SILENT STRUGGLES," "THE OLD HOMESTEAD," "THE REJECTED WIFE," "THE
HEIRESS," "THE GOLD BRICK," "MARY DERWENT," "THE WIFE'S SECRET," ETC.,
ETC.
"Imagine something purer far,
More free from stain of clay,
There friendship, love, or passion are,
Yet human still as they:
And if thy lips for love like this
No mortal word can frame,
Go ask of angels what it is,
And call it by that name."
PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States,
in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
* * * * *
ANN S. STEPHENS' WORKS.
Each work complete in one vol., 12mo.
_THE CURSE OF GOLD._
_WIVES AND WIDOWS._
_THE REJECTED WIFE._
_FASHION AND FAMINE._
_THE GOLD BRICK._
_SILENT STRUGGLES._
_THE OLD HOMESTEAD._
_MARY DERWENT._
_THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS._
_THE WIFE'S SECRET._
_MABEL'S MISTAKE._
_DOUBLY FALSE._
_THE HEIRESS._
Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.
* * * * *
Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of the
above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, on
receipt of their price by the Publishers,
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.
TO
MY DEAR, YOUNG FRIEND,
MISS EUDORA J. HART,
OF NEW YORK,
THIS VOLUME
IS
MOST AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
ANN S. STEPHENS.
WASHINGTON, D. C., OCTOBER 17, 1868.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--THE STEP-MOTHER AND STEP-SON 23
II.--OLD MR. HARRINGTON 29
III.--THE HILL SIDE ADVENTURE 32
IV.--LINA COMES OUT OF HER FAINTING FIT 38
V.--ON THE BANKS AND ON THE RIVER 45
VI.--THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE HILL 51
VII.--THE UNEXPECTED PASSENGER 57
VIII.--OUT OF THE STORM 63
IX.--THE BURNING CEDAR 70
X.--HOME IN SAFETY 75
XI.--GENERAL HARRINGTON IS SHOCKED 82
XII.--LOVE DREAMS 85
XIII.--THE BROKEN CONFESSION 93
XIV.--RALPH'S LOVE DREAM 101
XV.--THE STOLEN JOURNAL 107
XVI.--JAMES HARRINGTON'S RIDE 111
XVII.--THAT WOMAN 117
XVIII.--OLD HEADS AND YOUNG HEARTS 125
XIX.--THE LOVER'S CONFESSION 131
XX.--THE BOUQUET OF ROSES 136
XXI.--BEN BENSON GIVES AN OPINION 139
XXII.--A RENEWAL OF CONFIDENCE 147
XXIII.--THE LOVE SONG 152
XXIV.--A MEETING IN THE HILLS 155
XXV.--CONTINUED PLOTTING 160
XXVI.--THE NOTE WITH A GREEN SEAL 165
XXVII.--GENERAL HARRINGTON'S CONFESSION 168
XXVIII.--THE NOTE ON THE BREAKFAST TABLE 172
XXIX.--FATHER AND DAUGHTER 179
XXX.--BROTHER AND SISTER 186
XXXI.--THE SLAVE AND HER MASTER 190
XXXII.--THE BOAT-HOUSE 198
XXXIII.--GENERAL HARRINGTON READS THE VELLUM BOOK 202
XXXIV.--AMONG THE WATER LILIES 211
XXXV.--AFTER THE STORM 216
XXXVI.--MISTRESS AND MAID 218
XXXVII.--THE SLAVE WE LEFT BEHIND US 223
XXXVIII.--THE EATON FAMILY 226
XXXIX.--THAT SPANISH NOBLEMAN 230
XL.--THE MANOEUVRING MOTHER 236
XLI.--THE CATHEDRAL AT SEVILLE 239
XLII.--A DUKE IN THE HOUSE 245
XLIII.--HOPES AND PERSUASIONS 248
XLIV.--THE INFANTA AND HER GUESTS 252
XLV.--THE PROCESSION OF THE MADONNAS 256
XLVI.--WHERE WE SAW THE DUKE 259
XLVII.--MRS. EATON'S TRIBULATION 265
XLVIII.--ZILLAH'S LETTER 270
XLIX.--THE GENERAL PROPOSES A TRIP TO CADIZ 273
L.--MISS EATON MAKES MISS CRAWFORD A VISIT 279
LI.--CONTINUED MISUNDERSTANDING 286
LII.--GENERAL HARRINGTON RETURNS WITH ZILLAH 290
LIII.--ZILLAH IS ANXIOUS ABOUT THE HEALTH OF HER
MISTRESS 296
LIV.--BEHIND THE GIPSIES' TENT 301
LV.--BURDENED WITH A SECRET 304
LVI.--TOO LATE, TOO LATE 313
LVII.--ZILLAH 318
LVIII.--GENERAL HARRINGTON'S TEMPTATION 323
LIX.--A STORM IN THE WOODS 328
LX.--THE DARK-HOUSE 332
LXI.--STRANGE PLANS 337
LXII.--THE TEMPTATION 339
LXIII.--JAMES HARRINGTON'S GREAT STRUGGLE 347
LXIV.--THE LIFE DEED 352
LXV.--WHO WAS LINA FRENCH? 355
LXVI.--THREATS AND PERSUASIONS 360
LXVII.--THE EVENING RIDE 367
LXVIII.--RALPH FINDS LINA 372
LXIX.--AGNES BECOMES PATHETIC 376
LXX.--MABEL HARRINGTON AND HER SON 382
LXXI.--THE MISSING BOOK 387
LXXII.--FRAGMENTS OF MABEL'S JOURNAL 391
LXXIII.--THE TWO BROTHERS 393
LXXIV.--GENERAL HARRINGTON'S SECRET 399
LXXV.--THE DESERTED CHAMBER 404
LXXVI.--THE UNEXPECTED RETURN 407
LXXVII.--MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 411
LXXVIII.--A STORMY PARTING 414
LXXIX.--UNDER THE ICE 419
LXXX.--WHO WAS LINA 423
LXXXI.--THE MANIAC 426
MABEL'S MISTAKE.
CHAPTER I.
THE STEP-MOTHER AND STEP-SON.
It was autumn, one of those balmy Indian summer days which, if the eyes
were closed, would remind you of Andalusia when the orange trees put
forth their blossoms with the matured fruit still clinging to their
boughs, burying its golden ripeness among cool, green leaves, and buds
of fragrant snow. Still, save in the delicious atmosphere that autumnal
sunset would not have reminded you of any land but our own. For what
other climate ever gave the white wings of the frost the power to
scatter that rich combination of red, green, gold and dusky purple upon
a thousand forests in a single night? What other land ever saw the sun
go down upon a world of green foliage, and rise to find the same foliage
bathed in a sea of brilliant tints, till the east was paled by its
gorgeousness?
Indeed, there was nothing in this calm, Indian-summer twilight to remind
you of any other land, save its stillness and the balm of dying flowers
giving up their lives to the frost. But the links of association are
rapid and mysterious, and the scenes that awaken a reminiscence are
sometimes entirely opposite to the memory awakened.
Be this as it may, there was something in the landscape suddenly clad
in its gorgeous fall tints--in the river so coldly transparent twelve
hours before, now rolling on through the glowing shadows as if the sands
and pebbles in its bed had been turned to jewels, which reminded at
least one person in that old mansion house, of scenes long ago witnessed
in the south of Spain.
The old mansion house which we speak of, stood some miles above that
gorge in the Harlem River which is now spanned by the High Bridge. This
region of Manhattan Island is even yet more than half buried in its
primeval forest trees. Hills as abrupt, and moss as greenly fleecy as if
found on the crags of the Rocky Mountains, still exist among the wild
nooks and wilder peaks which strike the eye more picturesquely from
their vicinity to the great metropolis.
At the particular spot I wish to describe, the hills fall back from the
Hudson, north and south, far enough to leave a charming little valley of
some two or three hundred acres cradled in their wildness and opening
greenly to the river, which is sure to catch a sheaf of sunbeams in its
bosom when the day fires its last golden salute from behind the
Palisades. Sheltered by hills, some broken into cliffs, some rolling
smoothly back, clothed in variously tinted undergrowth and fine old
trees, the valley itself received a double charm from the contrast of
cultivation. It was entirely cleared of trees and undergrowth, save
where a clump of cool hemlocks, a grove of sugar maples, or a drooping
elm gave it those features we so much admire in the country homes of old
England.
In the centre of the valley was a swell of land sloping down to the
river in full, grassy waves, which ended at the brink in a tiny cove
overhung by a clump of golden willows.
Crowning the swell of this elevation stood the old mansion commanding a
fine view of the river, with a glimpse of the opposite shore, where the
Weehawken hills begin to consolidate into the Palisades. A score of
picturesque and pleasant little nooks were visible from the numerous
windows, for it was an irregular old place, varying as much as an
American house can vary in its style of architecture. The original idea
had undoubtedly sprung from our Knickerbocker ancestors, for the gables
were not only pointed, but notched down the steep edges after a
semi-battlemented fashion, while stacks of quaint chimneys and heavy
oaken doors bespoke a foundation far antecedent to the revolution.
But in addition to these proofs of antiquity, were balconies of carved
stone, curving over modern bay windows, which broke up the stiff
uniformity of the original design; and along one tall gable that fronted
on the river, French windows, glittering with plate glass, opened to a
verandah of stone-work, surrounded by a low railing also of stone; and
if these windows were not one blaze of gold at sunset, you might be
certain that a storm was lowering over the Palisades, and that the next
day would be a cloudy one.
Another gable facing the south was lighted by a broad arched window
crowded full of diamond-shaped glass, tinted through and through by the
bloom and glow of a conservatory within. In short the mansion was a
picturesque incongruity utterly indescribable, and yet one of the most
interesting old houses in the world.
Whatever might be said of its architecture, it certainly had a most
aristocratic appearance, and bore proofs in every line and curve of its
stone traceries, both of fine taste and great wealth, inherited from
generation to generation. Time itself would have failed to sweep these
traces of family pride from the old house, for each century had carved
it deeper and deeper into the massive stone, and it was as much a
portion of the scenery, as the stately old forest trees that sheltered
it.
But we have alluded to one who sat in a room of this old mansion,
looking thoughtfully out upon the change that a single night had left
upon the landscape. Her seat, a crimson easy-chair, stood near one of
the broad bay windows we have mentioned. The sashes were folded back,
and she looked dreamily out upon the river and the opposite shore. The
whole view was bathed in a subdued glow of crimson and golden purple;
for the sun was sinking behind the Palisades, and shot sheaf after sheaf
of flashing arrows across the river, that melted into a soft glowing
haze before they reached the apartment which she occupied.
The room behind was full of shadows, and nothing but the light of a
hickory-wood fire revealed the objects it contained. She was looking
forth upon the sunset, and yet thinking of other countries and scenes
long gone by. Her mind had seized upon the salient points of a history
full of experience, and she was swept away into the past.
No, she was not young, nor beautiful even. The flush of youth was gone
for ever. Her features were thoughtful, almost severe, her form stately
and mature.
No, she was not beautiful. At her age that were impossible, and yet she
was a woman to fix the attention at a glance, and keep herself in the
memory for ever--a grand, noble woman, with honor and strength, and
beautiful depths of character, apparent even in her thoughtful repose.
But this woman shakes off the reverie that has held her so long in
thrall, and looks up at the sound of a voice within the room, blushing
guiltily like a young girl aroused from her first love thoughts. She
casts aside the remembrance of black fruited olive groves and orange
trees sheeted with snowy fragrance, and knows of a truth that she is at
home surrounded by the gorgeous woods of America, in the clear chill air
inhaled with the first breath of her life.
"Did you speak, James?"
She turned quietly and looked within the room. Near her, sitting with
his elbows on a small table and his broad forehead buried in the palms
of his hands, sat a man of an age and presence that might have befitted
the husband of a woman, at once so gentle and so proud as the one who
spoke to him; for even in the light produced by the gleams of a dull
fire and the dusky sunset, as they floated together around his
easy-chair, you could see that he was a man of thought and power.
The man looked up and, dropping his hands to the table with a sort of
weariness, answered, as if to some person away off--
"No, I did not speak--I never did speak!"
It was a strange answer, and the lady's face grew anxious as she looked
upon him. Certainly he had uttered some sound, or she would not have
asked the question. She arose and moving across the room, leaned her
elbow upon his chair, looking thoughtfully down in his face.
He started, as if but that moment conscious of her presence, and arose
probably to avoid the grave questioning of her look.
"Of what were you thinking, James?" she said almost abruptly, for a
superstitious thought forced the question to her lips almost against her
will.
"I was thinking," said the man, resting his head against the oak
carvings of his chair, "I was thinking of a time when we were all in the
south of Spain."
"Of your mother's death?" inquired the lady in a low voice. "It was a
mournful event to remember. What is there in this soft twilight to
remind us both of the same thing, for I was thinking of that time also!"
"Of my mother's death?" inquired the gentleman, lifting his eyes to her
face suddenly, almost sternly. "I was not thinking of that, but of my
father's marriage."
The lady did not speak, but her face grew pale, and over it swept a
smile so vivid with surprise, so eloquent of mournfulness, that she
seemed transfigured. Her hand dropped away from the chair, and walking
back to the window she sat down, uttering a faint sigh, as if some
slumbering pain had been sharpened into anguish by the few words that
had been spoken. Twenty years had she lived in the house with James
Harrington, and never before had the subject of her marriage with his
father been mentioned between them, save as it arose in the discussion
of household events.
Her marriage with his father, that was the subject of his gloomy
thoughts. Had she then failed to render him content in his home? Had she
in anything fallen short of those gentle duties he had received so
gratefully from the mother that was gone? Why was it that thoughts of
Spain and of events that had transpired there, should have seized upon
them both at the same time?
She arose again, pale and with a tremor of the limbs. The balmy air grew
sickening to her--his presence an oppression. For the first time she
began to doubt if she were not an object of dislike to her husband's
guest. He saw her pass from the room without turning a glance that way,
and followed her with a look of self-reproach. He felt pained and
humiliated. After a silence of so many years, why had he dared to utter
words to that woman--his best friend--which could never be explained?
Had all manhood forsaken him? Had he sunk to be a common-place carper in
the household which she had invested with so much beautiful happiness?
Stung with these thoughts he arose and sought the open air also.