A RENEWAL OF CONFIDENCE.
Mabel saw him depart almost unconsciously. The morning had been one of
surprises and painfully conflicting feelings. She felt that a crisis in
her life had arrived, that the time for dreamy thoughts and gentle
endurance was at an end, and her strength rose to meet the occasion. The
lassitude and nervous reluctance to give up her seclusion which had
oppressed her of late, gave way, and with that dignity which is born of
womanly self-command, she changed her toilet, and passed from the
solitude of her sick room.
The sitting-room which we described in a chapter of this narration was
empty when Mrs. Harrington entered it. The luxurious easy-chairs stood
about the floor, as if recently occupied, and the fire of hickory-wood
burned brightly behind a fender of steel lace-work that broke the light
in a thousand gleams and scattered it far out on the moss-like rug.
Everything was as she had left it, even to the position of her own
easy-chair in a corner of the bay window, but the absence of all living
objects chilled her, and a presentiment of perpetual loneliness crept
slowly to her heart, as she sat down, looking out of the window with
that peculiar vividness of interest which we always feel in seeing
familiar objects after convalescence.
The gorgeousness and wealth of the autumn had gone by during her
illness; a few red and golden trees, contrasted with the hemlocks and
pines in sheltered hollows; but, on the hill-tops, half the trees had
cast off their leaves, while those which clung to the boughs had lost
all their vivid tints, and thrilled mournfully to every breath of wind,
like humanity trembling at the approach of death.
But the calm flow of the Hudson was the same. Its hills might be
stripped of their affluent foliage, the grass grow crisp along its
banks, but this had no effect on the grand, old stream, that flowed on
ever the same, like that river of Christian faith that Mabel fed from
the humble springs of a heart, already smitten down to its deepest
waters.
She was a strong woman, that Mabel Harrington, and knew well that no
trouble could fall upon her, of which she had not already tasted the
bitterness, and lived.
But the flow of those waters, gliding by her ever and returning no more,
filled her with mournfulness. She felt like a pilgrim who drops his
scrip on the wayside for a moment's rest, and dreads the hour when he
must take it up and toil on, with a patient hope of finding some shrine
at which he may repose, though none is in sight.
"Well," she murmured with a patient smile, which came across her mobile
features with a gleam of heavenly beauty, "Let it flow on, this earthly
life; be it laggard or fast, the moments that we leave behind but send
us onward with a swifter speed. The descent grows steeper every day, and
years rush on impetuously, as hours did in that beautiful time of youth.
The stream of life was impetuous then. Now it is slow and powerful, nor
stops to foam and ripple at the troubles that are always falling, like
drift-wood upon it."
Thus Mabel mused within herself--confident that some stern trial was at
hand, but resolved to meet it steadily, and trust to God for help. She
needed such help; for, in solemn truth, the great battle of her life was
at hand.
The door opened softly behind her, as she sat gazing upon the river. The
back of her chair was toward him, and James Harrington saw only the
garments of a female flowing downward to the carpet; and, thinking that
it was Lina, he came into the room. He, too, had been gazing upon the
scene without, and thoughts kindred to those stirring in Mabel's heart,
and left him sad and gentle as a child.
"Lina, my sweet child," he said approaching the chair, "I am glad to
find you in-doors."
Mabel started at the sound of his voice, with a quick leap of the heart;
then, she arose slowly and stood up, holding forth her hand, as a sister
might claim congratulations of her brother after illness.
"It is not Lina, James, but one whom you will not be less pleased to
see, I am sure. How is this? You look pale and careworn, my friend; have
you, also, been ill?"
For one instant, the flash that lighted up Harrington's eyes was
dazzling--the next, he grew calm again; but the expression of his face
was unutterably mournful.
"I had a very long walk; the fine weather tempted me too far," he said,
with a faint smile, relinquishing her hand almost the moment it was
taken.
He did not inquire after her health, but stood for a moment,
thoughtfully regarding her.
Mabel smiled, and instantly his own features grew luminous.
"I am glad, I am very glad to see you so much better," he said, yielding
to the old friendly habit; "it has been very lonely without you."
"I hope you missed me," said Mabel, the pure joy of an affectionate
heart breaking over her face. "That was a fearful night, Harrington."
"It was, indeed, fearful. I shudder to remember that night. It seems
impossible to imagine anything more dreadful than the scene, as that
steamer ploughed over your boat. When you came up, with the blue
lightning quivering around you, the rocks seemed to reel under my feet.
Nothing but the power of God could have saved you then."
"I remember--I knew it all," said Mabel, lifting her clasped hands
gratefully upward. "The last thing that left me, was your figure on the
rock; no, not on the rock, but midway between me and the bleak waves. I
tried to scream, but the waters choked me."
Harrington took her hand, and wrung it with unconscious warmth.
"Thank God, it is over," he said fervently.
"I do thank God, first, that I am alive, and, then, that it was one of
our own household that saved me. But this coming back from death, it is
full of pain, to which the last agony seems but little. The scene around
that old tree haunts me yet."
"And me," said Harrington, thoughtfully.
"You all looked so strange and wild, I could not comprehend the identity
of any one. Even Ben Benson appeared like an angel luminous from Heaven,
and that cedar a pillar of holy flame, around which he ministered."
"You did not know any of us, then?" inquired Harrington, eagerly.
"I did not know myself, for I, too, seemed like an angel, bound to love
everything around me, as heavenly spirits do."
"Then you remembered nothing?" questioned Harrington, bending his
earnest eyes upon her with a power that would have won the truth from a
statue.
She did not blush; her eyes looked quietly and truthfully into his, and
a pang both of joy and regret came to his heart, as he regarded the
innocence of that look.
"It was, after all, a pleasant hallucination," said Mabel, "for even
the governess, whom I do not much like, seemed transformed into a
seraph, as she bent over me. As for Ben Benson, he was really sublime."
"Thank God!" answered Harrington, but the exclamation was followed by a
deep sigh, as if the anxiety preying upon him had been changed, not
entirely removed. Still there was a relief and freedom in his manner, as
he drew a chair up to the window, and fell into his old habit of talk.
"Why is it," inquired Mabel, "that you have not once been to inquire
after me? It was very strange."
"I did inquire after you every day," was the rather embarrassed answer.
"I did not hear of it," said Mabel, easily satisfied, and too happy for
repining at anything.
"You may not know," answered her companion, "that I have been making
arrangements to go abroad?"
"Abroad? But when--why?"
"Indeed, it seems impossible to give a reason, except that my health
seemed to require change."
"Your health?"
"Remember, please, that your first remark was about my looks."
"But you are not really suffering?"
"Not now--not as I have been."
"But you will leave us?"
Harrington left his seat, and began to pace the room, as was his habit,
when conflicting thoughts beset him. Mabel followed his movements sadly
with her eyes, which were eloquent of a thousand gentle feelings.
"And you _will_ go?" she said at last, with a quiver of the voice. "You
will leave us all?"
"No," answered Harrington with energy, "I will not go. Why undertake a
pilgrimage when there is nothing to gain, and nothing to avoid."
"Thank you--thank you," said Mabel, with her eyes full of tears.