THE TEMPTATION.
"Gen. Harrington wants to see you!"
A new chambermaid had been introduced into Gen. Harrington's household,
and it was this woman who addressed James Harrington as he sat in the
remote chamber which had fallen to his lot in a wing of the family
mansion.
Harrington looked up as the mulatto presented herself, startled by the
southern accent and appearance of the woman, which struck him
disagreeably; when she moved away, with her indolent walk and
indifferent air, he watched her with a sense of relief of which he was
himself unconscious.
"The General am in his own room," she muttered in answer to his
question, turning back as she spoke, "something don't seem to 'gree with
him somehow this mornin', 'pears like he ain't right well."
The unpleasant impression left by this woman passed but partially away;
trifles sometimes affect sensitive characters with a feeling of unrest
long after the cause is displaced from the memory; disturbed by this
shadowy feeling, James arose and sought General Harrington's room,
wondering a little in his mind what the business might be which
occasioned this unusual request for an interview. He passed the mulatto
woman in one of the passages, who retreated to the wall and stood with
her gaze bent on the floor as he passed, but the moment his back was
turned the sleepy lids rose suddenly from over her black eyes that
flamed out with evil passions, and a repulsive smile stirred her mouth
till it worked like a nest of reptiles. Again an unpleasant sensation
crept over James Harrington, and he hurried forward with an
unconquerable desire to escape her presence.
He found General Harrington alone, surrounded by the luxurious
appointments which distinguished his apartments above all others in the
house; but the old man was restless and even pallid, as if some unusual
moral force had been necessary to urge on this interview with a man
against whom he meditated a temptation so atrocious.
For the first moment these two men stood regarding each other in
silence. General Harrington stood up at his visitor's approach, but all
his self-possession was insufficient to keep his limbs from trembling
and the color from fleeing his face. The painful compression of his lips
grew more rigid, and a cold glitter stole into his eyes as they met the
calm questioning gaze fixed upon them.
"You desired to speak with me, sir," said James Harrington at length,
with that gentle respect which had become a habit of self-control,
rather than a genuine impulse of reverence for the man before him.
"Yes, sit down," said the General, with a cold harshness of tone so at
variance with his usual bland insincerity, that James Harrington looked
at him in grave surprise, as he drew a seat toward the library table.
For a moment there was profound silence between the two; then the
General turned stiffly in his chair, placed one hand on a book with
broken clasps that lay before him, and spoke. There was something more
than bitterness in his voice; it was harsh with poisonous malice.
"Mr. James Harrington, you loved my wife before I married her," he said,
with rude abruptness, that made his auditor rise from his chair, pale
and aghast.
"Sir, sir!" broke from his white lips.
"Before and since; before and since! Do you understand, sir, your
hypocrisy is at last exposed? I say again"----
"Stop!" said James Harrington, lifting his hand with authority, though
it shook like an aspen. "Stop, sir; you are dealing with things that
only God himself has power to scrutinize. For my acts, sir, you have a
right to arraign me; and there I will answer you with the frankness of a
little child, for as childhood they are innocent."
James Harrington stood upright as he spoke, with one arm folded across
his chest, guarding the secret which that old man was attempting to
wrench from his heart with such ruthless cruelty.
"Innocent!" sneered the old man; "innocent! But I do not blame you, sir!
Among men of honor, it is a gentleman's duty to lie broadly and boldly
where a lady's reputation is at stake. You have enough of the Harrington
blood in your veins to deny this woman's guilt with sufficient
indignation; but I, sir, am not mad or blind enough to believe you."
The very might of his emotions kept James Harrington still as he
listened to these scathing words. He sat down very quietly, and gazed
into the old man's face, shocked to the soul, yet unable to comprehend
the reality of a charge so atrocious.
"Will you explain?" he faltered.
"I have explained sufficiently, sir! You loved the lady, and she"----
"Hush! sir; say what you will of me, but do not dare to utter Mabel
Harrington's name in this connection. The angels of Heaven are not more
blameless than that woman."
"Indeed!" sneered the old man again, dashing open the book before him,
and clenching his hand fiercely among its leaves. "Read, sir, read!"
James Harrington reached out his hands, and took the volume held toward
him; it had been opened at random, and the passage that met his eye
contained a pathetic appeal to Heaven for help to conquer the passion
which Mabel confessed to herself as a grievous fault.
The blood rushed athwart James Harrington's forehead as he read; for
through the mist that floated over his eyes and brain, he recognized
Mabel's handwriting, and felt how coarsely her unhappiness was being
revealed to his own heart, which had hardly dared to suspect it before.
He was bewildered by the suddenness with which this subject had been
forced upon him, and for a moment sat like one fascinated, gazing in
pale wonder at the written characters that proved how much he had been
beloved.
"Read on!" said the old man. "It is a book which makes research
pleasant. Read it through, sir, and then, if you can, repeat the
gentlemanly lie which contradicts her own written confession."
James closed the book reverently, and laid it down.
"I have been surprised into reading a few words that should have been
kept sacred--it was not my fault, I was bewildered; but no power on
earth could induce me to open that book again, though I am very certain
nothing can be found in it which an angel need condemn; for, if an
honorable and upright woman lives on earth, it is the lady who bears
your name."
"You dare not read the proofs of her dishonor, and yours!"
"I deny that such proofs exist, or can exist!"
General Harrington opened the book, and glanced at the passage which had
just been read.
"Even here, she confesses her love; you have seen it in her own
handwriting--the whole world shall see not only this passage, but the
whole book. I will scatter its pages broadcast over the country. See,
then, if your denial will shield her from universal scorn."
"You could not do this!"
"I can!"
"She would die under the first bitter sneer."
"Let her die, then! The woman who marries a Harrington, should at least
learn not to commit herself."
James Harrington shrunk back in his seat, appalled by the vision of
humiliation that opened itself before him. He saw Mabel's name bandied
from lip to lip with pity or sneers, by the very society in which she
had been held in so much honor. He saw her reputation, so spotless now,
consigned to a thousand reckless presses, each tearing her secret forth
with its cruel iron fingers, crushing it into some slanderous shape
between its ponderous cylinders, and hurling it, blackened with lies and
coarse jests, scoffingly to the world.
He saw the effect of this murderous publicity upon Mabel herself, when
it should recoil back to her. She, so generous, so kindly, and yet so
proud--how would she endure this outrage upon feelings held secret
almost from her prayers--feelings struggled against and forced back
without a word of utterance, save when they broke forth in the pages of
a journal locked so vigilantly from all eyes but her own; that luckless
journal to open which seemed like pillaging her proud heart.
Would she yield at once to the extreme delicacy of her nature, and
shrinking away from notice, perish under this rude publicity?--or,
struggling against it, go mad, and die like an eagle striving to keep
its wings poised on high, though pierced with a thousand arrows. He knew
that she would resist to the last. The exquisite sensitiveness which
rendered her so unlike ordinary women, was matched with a strength of
will which would give suffering its keenest power. It would not be
death--that is the relief of weaker natures--but relentless life--life
full of those torturing agonies that trample every upspringing joy from
the heart. Compared to this life, poisoned in all its sources, death
would be a sweet dream to a woman like Mabel. The intense vitality of
her own nature, would be its torment.
As this picture rose upon his brain, James Harrington shrouded his face,
silent and appalled. His strong heart was racked to the centre--a
tortuous strain closed in upon his nerves, and for the time, that stout,
brave man was helpless as a child.
"You love this woman yet, I see."
General Harrington's voice had resumed its usual slow intonation. The
first anger had left it with a harsh, cold attempt at composure; his
eyes moved from object to object, and his soft white fingers worked
nervously with the tassel of his dressing-gown: if at any moment of his
life this old man could have been awkward, it must have been then, for
he was too keen-sighted not to feel his own meanness, but not honest
enough to crush it beneath his feet.
"You love this woman yet?"
James Harrington dashed the hands away from his pale face, and sat
upright.
"Ask me that, or anything else that appertains only to my own feelings,
and I will answer. I did love the woman you married with every power of
my soul!"
"And now?"
"Now, sir, and from the day she took your name, she has been sacred to
my thoughts, as an angel in Heaven."
General Harrington smiled incredulously.
"I have answered the simple truth, sir," said James, in reply to the
smile.
Instead of being pleased with the honest simplicity of this answer, the
old man looked disappointed; his brow clouded, and his eye fell.
"You would gladly have married her at the time, though?"
James again shrouded his eyes. These questions were so coldly put--so
rudely forced upon him, that he could only answer by an inward shudder
of repulsion.
"You are not a man to change in anything," continued the General. "You
loved the woman once--I knew it at the time."
"Knew it, and yet married her!" cried James, with bitterness.
"You seemed to be playing a dog in the manger part--this might do for
young fellows who were too timid for speech, or too certain for doubt.
The lady was young, beautiful, rich, and appeared to give me the
preference. You did not speak. I did; that is all."
"I was not selfishly silent, sir. Before my mother's unhappy death, I
was dependent entirely on her bounty, and that you controlled. Mabel was
an heiress. I was not mercenary, and hesitated to appear so. My mother
loved her. She was very young, and your ward. It would have seemed like
taking an unfair advantage of her inexperience, had I used my mother's
hospitality as a means of reaching her favor. After that came a more
painful reason for silence."
"And what was that, sir?" demanded the General, sharply.
"I learned that her fortune had disappeared; that, large as it was, her
guardian, unable to control more than the income of his wife's property,
had staked this poor orphan's wealth at the gaming-table, and lost it."
General Harrington half rose from his chair, and sat down again, looking
at James in pale astonishment.
"To have declared my love under circumstances so disgraceful to my
family, would have been to expose you, sir, both to my gentle mother and
to the world. The will which gave Mabel her wealth, provided that a full
settlement should be made on the day of her marriage. I had not the
courage to hurry on an event that would brand my mother's husband with
dishonor."
Still the General sat mute and pale, looking steadfastly on the floor;
he seemed for a time unconscious that James had ceased to speak, but at
last raising his head slowly, he cast a look that was almost fiendish on
the younger Harrington.
"Go on, go on!" he said, hoarsely.
"I will, sir! Heaven knows it was my wish to bury this secret forever,
but you force me to speak. My poor mother's sickness added new pain to
my unhappy situation; she died"----
"And left me a beggar--you a rich man!" said the General, hoarsely. "I
have not forgotten it!"
"Then," continued James, "I was free to marry the lady on equal
terms--free to replace her fortune from my own inheritance, and keep
your secret still from her knowledge--but it was no time for selfish
affection, just as my angel mother was laid in a foreign grave. It
required time before I could control so large a portion of the property
that had been hers. I left you in Spain, sad, but hopeful, a few months
would have brought me back prepared to save your honor and my own
happiness. You know the rest!"