THE MISSING BOOK.
Mabel sat, hour after hour, week after week, passive, still, and sad,
with a world of sorrow in her face, looking back upon the jewels that
had dropped away from her life, mournfully, but with little wish to
gather them up again. Her husband never asked an explanation of this
strange mood in his wife, but at times he seemed perfectly conscious of
it, and to feel a hidden pleasure in her depression; for, though he did
not love this woman, the old man's vanity was as quick as ever, and it
pleased him to see that her own soul was taking the vengeance on itself
that he had bartered off for a price. Miserable, selfish, old man! All
the gold of his life had turned to paltry tinsel years ago.
At another time, Mabel was too quick of thought not to have remarked the
singularity of General Harrington's silence regarding the departure of
his step-son, but now she was only thankful to shrink away from the
subject; and, during their brief interviews, nothing but the most bland
inquiries, and polite common-places, marked his behavior. He seemed in
high good humor--more than usually lavish of money, and altogether one
of the most charming, antique gentlemen in the world. Shallow worldlings
would tell you that this decorous old rebel was happier than his
victims, and point to his rosy cheeks, his eyes twinkling with sunshine,
and his handsome, portly figure, as the proof. Let worldlings think so,
if they like; for my part, I would rather have the pain of a fine nature
like Mabel's, than the smooth, selfish sensuality, which some men
honestly call happiness. Shallow and frozen waters are never turbulent,
but who envies the ice over one, or the pebbles under the other?
Happiness! Why, one little word in that handsome, old man's ear, would
make him shiver, and tremble, and look the coward, as Mabel would never
do, woman though she was--the one word _death_; just speak it! Mark how
the color will flee from his frightened face! Speak that same word to
her, and you will see her features, so sad before, light up with a
pearly glow, like that shed through an alabaster lamp when its perfumed
oil is alight.
But Mabel is just beginning to awake from the thrall in which her mind
has been held, and wonder a little at Ralph's changed manner--his look
is so grave and stern now--he utters no complaint, and says but little
in any way; these moods shock his mother less than the old one, but it
lifts her out of her dreams, and makes her thoughtful once more. But,
Ralph is no longer communicative--he is sometimes seen holding long
conversations with Agnes Barker in the now deserted breakfast-room, but
he avoids honest old Ben, and talks cautiously and under restraint with
his mother. This is a new phase of Ralph's character which Mabel
regards with something like surprise; but her energies are all
prostrated for the time, and in these vague surmises there is not shock
enough to arouse them into life again.
There was one thing which Mabel, with all her thinking, had never yet
been able to solve--why had James Harrington found it needful to
persuade that inexperienced girl away from her home? There existed no
reason for it. He was wealthy--his own master--accountable to no one;
surely it was not fear of his younger brother, who would have given the
very heart from his bosom, had James desired it. If he loved Lina, a
single appeal to the noble young fellow's generosity would have been
enough--then why wound and insult him by a course so unnecessarily
cruel?
Mabel revolved these questions over and over in her mind, till they
threw her thoughts back upon herself. Had she anything to account
for--had James suspected the secret of her own weary life, and, fearing
to wound her by his love for another, fled to be alone with his
happiness?
This thought broke up the apathy into which she had fallen, with a
sudden shock, as we hear sheets of ice crack, and shoot a thousand
silver arrows over what has been a smooth surface the moment before. A
new thought seized upon her--a fear that made her tremble from head to
foot.
Mabel was alone in her boudoir, when this new terror fell upon her. She
arose suddenly, and going up to her escritoire, unlocked it, and
searched for the vellum book. It was nowhere to be found. She tore the
papers out in pale eagerness, opened drawers, unlocked secret
compartments, searched in other cabinets, till every nook and corner of
her apartments had been examined. Then she sat down, breathless, and so
pale that the face which looked back on her from the opposite mirror,
seemed that of another person. Where had the book gone--who had dared to
remove it from the place where, for years and years, it had been kept
sacred from all eyes, as the pulses of her own heart?
Breathless with anxiety, desperate with apprehension, determined to
question every servant of the house, she rang the bell.
Agnes Barker presented herself in answer to this summons. The girl had,
of late, seemed to find pleasure in forcing herself upon Mabel, and
would frequently make an excuse to seek her room in place of the
servant, whenever one was summoned. Though her presence was generally
unwelcome, Mabel was glad to see her then. Excitement had, for the
moment, swept away the nervous recoil with which she always regarded
her.
"Miss Barker, I had a book in this escritoire, bound in vellum, and
filled with manuscript notes. It had a curious gold clasp. You cannot
mistake the description. That book is missing."
"Well, madam!" answered the girl, with cold composure; "is it of me you
demand that book? I have not seen it. This is the first time I ever saw
your desk open. I believe the key has always been in your own
possession!"
"I thought so," answered Mabel, feeling once more among the charms
attached to her watch, to be sure the key was still there; "I thought
so, but the book is gone."
"Shall I call the servant, madam? The new chambermaid possibly knows
something of it; she has taken charge of this room lately."
"Indeed, I have not observed," said Mabel. "Yes, send her here."