ON THE BANKS AND ON THE RIVER.
There are moments in every human life when we would gladly flee from
ourselves and plunge into action of any kind, to escape from the
recognition of our own memories. This recoil from the past seldom comes
to early youth, for to that, memories are like the light breezes of
April, with nothing but tender green foliage, and opening buds to
disturb. With youth the past is so close to the present, that thought
always leaps forward into the future, and in the first flush of
existence that is invariably beautiful. But it is a different thing when
life approaches its maturity. Then the spirit, laden down with events
that have culminated, and feelings that have been shaken by many a heart
storm, bends reluctantly to the tempest like the stately old forest
trees laden with foliage, which bow to nothing but the inevitable
tornado.
Mabel Harrington left the old Mansion House with a quicker movement and
more rapid step than was natural to her, unless some strong feeling was
aroused, or some important aim to be accomplished. At such times her
action was quick, almost imperious, and all the evidences of an ardent
nature, fresh as youth and strong as maturity, broke forth in each
movement of her person and in every thought of her mind.
She walked more and more rapidly as the distance between her and the
house increased, for the open air and wider country gave freedom to her
spirit. As she walked her earnest grey eyes turned from the river to the
sky and abroad upon the hills, as if seeking for something in nature to
which her soul might appeal for sympathy in the swell and storm of
feeling that a few simple words had let loose upon her, after a sleep of
many years.
"Does he know what I have felt and how I have suffered, that he stings
me with such words? His father's marriage! And was I not the
spirit--nay, the victim of that marriage? Why should he speak to me
thus? The air was enough--the calm sleep of the winds--the fragrance. I
was a girl again, till his quiet taunt awoke me. Does he think that I
have lost a thought or a feeling because of this dull heavy routine of
cares? Why did he speak to me in that cold tone? I have not deserved it.
Heaven knows I have not deserved it from him, or from any of them!"
Mabel uttered these words aloud, as she approached the banks of the
river, and her voice clear and rich with feeling, was swept out upon the
wind which bore it away, mingled with fragrance from the dying leaves.
"Does he think with common men, that the impulses of youth die out and
are gone? As if the passions of youth did not become the power of
maturity, and mellow at last into the calm grandeur of old age. If love
were not immortal, how dreary even this beautiful world would seem, yet
being so, I can but look forward to another, when the shackles of this
life will fall away."
It was a relief to speak aloud. The sound of her own voice came back
like the sympathy she dared to claim only of the wind and the waters,
that flowed on with their eternal rush of sound, like the years of life
that Mabel was mourning over. She stood upon the shore, stately and
motionless, her eyes full of trouble, her lips tremulous with impulsive
words that betrayed a soul at once ardent and pure. The wind rose around
her, and seizing upon her shawl swept it in picturesque folds about her
person, half drowning her voice, or she would not have dared to give her
thoughts this bold utterance.
It was this picturesque attitude which had attracted the attention of
her husband in the library, and that moment he resolved to join her on
the shore.
As if this resolve had been expressed to her in words, a feeling of
unrest seized upon Mabel, and long before the old man was ready to come
forth, she was walking rapidly across the brow of a hill that bounded
the valley southward, keeping along the bank, but concealed by the
undergrowth.
She paused upon a rocky cliff that broke the hill side, breathing more
freely as if conscious that she had escaped some unwelcome intrusion. A
boat upon the river drew her attention, and she saw within it her son
and Lina floating pleasantly down the stream together.
"How happy and how young they are!" she said with a gush of gentle
affection. "No cares--no broken hopes--no wishes unexpressed--no
_secrets_; oh! in this lies the great happiness of existence. Until he
has a secret to keep, man is, indeed, next to the angels."
Mabel sat down upon a fallen tree, covered with a drapery of pale green
moss. She watched the boat in a sort of dream, as it drifted toward her.
How much of the suffering she endured might yet be saved to the young
persons it contained! Was not that an object worth living and enduring
for? Might she not renew her youth in them?
Renew her youth? What need was there of that? In all her existence had
she ever been so full of life--so vigorous of mind--so capable of the
highest enjoyment? In the very prime and glory of all her
faculties--wise in experience--strong from many a silent heart-struggle,
what could she gain by a return of youth? Nothing! surely nothing! Yet
she watched those two young persons with a vague feeling of sadness.
They had life before them, a thousand dreamy delusions--a thousand
alluring hopes evanescent as the apple blossoms of May, but as sweet
also.
Mabel was too noble for envy, but these thoughts subdued her excitement
into silent mournfulness. At first, she thought to walk slowly back and
meet the young people when they landed, but something withheld her and
she sat still, dreamily watching them.
She saw the boat drifting idly upon the current. The gorgeous forest
leaves with which it was literally carpeted struck her eyes in rich
masses of colors, as if the young people had imprisoned a portion of the
sunset around their feet. She could distinguish Ben stooping forward
seemingly half asleep upon his oars. All in the boat seemed tranquil and
happy, like creatures of another life afloat upon the rivers of
paradise; she could almost see their faces--those happy faces that made
the fancy still more natural.
As she watched them a strange pain stole to her heart. She rose suddenly
to her feet, and sweeping a hand across her eyes as if to clear their
vision, cast long searching glances toward the boat, striving to read
those young faces afar off, and thus relieve her mind of a powerful
suspicion.
"Why has this thought never presented itself before?" she said with a
pang of self reproach. "Has this eternal dream blinded me, or am I now
mistaken? Poor children--poor Lina--is this cruel destiny to fall on you
also?"
The boat came drifting toward her now in the crimson light, again
enveloped in purple shadows like those fairy skiffs that glide through
our dreams. Mabel watched it till her eyes filled with tears, a strange
thing--for she was not a woman given to weeping, save as tears are
sometimes the expression of a tender or poetic thought. Pain or wrong
were things for her to endure or redress; she never wept over them.
That night the interest which she felt in these young persons blended
painfully with memories that had risen, like a sudden storm, in her
nature. She felt as if they were destined to carry forth and work out
the drama of her own life, and that this agency was just commencing. As
she stood thus wrapped in turbulent thoughts, there came through the
brushwood a crash of branches and a stir of the foliage louder than the
wind could have produced.
Mabel Harrington was in no mood for companionship. She had fled from the
house to be alone, and this approach startled her.
A little footpath led down the brow of the hill to a tiny promontory on
which a few hickory trees were now dropping their nuts. She struck
hastily into this path and descended to the river. Close to the bank,
half hidden among the dying fern leaves that drooped over it, lay a
miniature boat scarcely larger than an Indian canoe. It was a highly
ornamented and symmetrical little craft, that any child might have
propelled and which a queen fairy would have been proud to own.
Mabel sprang into the boat, and seating herself on a pile of cushions
heaped in the centre, pushed out into the stream. There was no hardihood
in this, she had been accustomed to action and exercise all her life,
and could propel her little skiff with the skill and grace of any Indian
girl.
Her boat ran out from the promontory and shot like an arrow across the
water, for she trembled lest some voice should call her back, and urged
her light oars with all the impetuosity of her nature.
At last, beyond hail from the shore, she looked back and saw a man
standing upon the brow of the hill, leaning against the oak that had
sheltered her a few moments before. Mabel paused and rested on her oars.
The distance would not permit her to distinguish his features, but the
size and air might have been that of her husband had his usual habits
permitted the idea. She put it aside at once, nothing could have induced
the General to climb the steeps of that hill. It must be James. These
two persons were alike in stature and partook of the same imposing air.
Yes, it must be James Harrington, and was it from him she had fled? Had
he repented of the harsh words that had driven her forth and followed
her with hopes of atonement? Her heart rose kindly at the thought. She
half turned her little boat, tempted back by that longing wish for
reconciliation, which was always uppermost in her warm nature.
But then came the wholesome after-thought which had so often checked
these genial impulses. She turned the boat slowly back upon its course
and let it float with the current, watching the rise of land on which he
stood, with sad, wistful glances, that no one saw, save the God who
knows how pure they were, and how much the resolution to go on had cost
her.
As the boat drifted downward, she saw the person turn as if speaking to
some one, and directly a female form stood by his side. They drew close
together, and seemed to be conversing eagerly. His look was no longer
towards the boat; he had doubtless forgotten its existence.
Mabel held her breath, the color left her lips and she grasped the oars
with each hand, till the blood was strained back from her fingers,
leaving them white as marble.
"Oh, not that! not that! I can endure anything but that! God help me! O
my God, help me! if this is added to the rest, I cannot live."
Drops of perspiration sprang to her temples as she spoke. Unconsciously
she expended the first strength of her anguish on the oars, and the boat
shot like a mad thing into the rapids which swept round a projection of
rocks, and like some tormented spirit, she was borne away from the sight
that had wounded her.
There was danger now. The rush of the current, tortured by hidden rocks,
sent the little craft onward, as if it had been a dead leaf cast into
the eddy. Mabel liked the danger and the tumult. The rising wind blew in
her face. The waters sparkled and dashed around her. The frail oars bent
and quivered in her hands. It was something to brave and fight against;
but for this scope of action the new anguish that had swept through the
soul of that woman must have smothered her.
On the little boat went, dancing and leaping down the current, recoiling
with a quiver from the hidden rocks which it touched more than once, but
springing vigorously back to its flight, like a bird upon the wing.
"Oh, if this be so, let me die now. Why will it not strike? How came
they to make the boat so light and yet so strong? It is true! It is
true! I feel it in every throb of my pulse. After this, the life that I
thought so dreary, will be a lost paradise, to which, plead as I may,
there is no going back. I will know, God help me, but I must know if
this is a wild suspicion, or a miserable, miserable reality!"
These words bespoke the concentration of some resolves. She grasped her
oars more firmly, and with a sharp glance around, put her boat upon its
course. It shot through hidden rocks; it cut across the eddies
recklessly as before, but all the time a single course was pursued. At
last the little craft entered the mouth of a mountain stream that came
sparkling down a pretty hemlock hollow in the hills. The hollow was
dusky with coming night, but the tree-tops were still brightened by a
red tinge from the sunset, and there was light enough to find a footpath
which wound upward along the margin of the brook.