PLOTTING AGAINST THE INNOCENT.
NURSE was gone, and Margie fairly established in her place, yet
managing to do a great deal besides caring for the invalid. There was
not an atom of selfishness or anything that was exacting in Clara
Raye's nature.
All that there was of these qualities and of jealousy had gone to mar
the character of Mabel, who had never known the restraining power of
religion in her own experience, the fear of God, which purifies the
life; the love of Jesus, which intensifies and makes more true, more
abiding, all worthy love; the vivifying influence of the Holy Spirit,
at once the Convincer, the Awakener, and the Comforter of the human
life that has learned the great secret of the life to come.
There was thus nothing to control the strong passions inherited from
that beautiful Creole mother of hers; no steady motive to hold in check
the many headlong impulses and wild ideas which seemed sometimes to
take possession of this undisciplined nature, as we read the demons
did of those unhappy sufferers in the olden times. And, unfortunately
for Mabel, Nicholas had begun to tire and sicken of her intensity.
The man's nature was fickle, changeable, incapable of any steady or
faithful love; and the fierce and exacting fidelity of this girl
wearied him till he could no longer hide from her his distaste alike of
her passionate endearments and her equally passionate suspicions and
accusations. And she, on her side, laid the whole blame of what she
called this change in him upon his fancy—or supposed fancy—for Margery
Grayling.
As for Margie, now that her work was all upstairs, she and Nicholas
seldom met. Much of her time was spent in the east wing, where no one
else went, except at rare intervals. And whenever Clara could spare
her, she returned for a while to the old lady; and yet, in spite of
this, Mabel's unreasoning jealousy invented all sorts of imaginary
circumstances connecting together the objects of her love and hate—both
love and bate bordering upon madness in their intensity.
"You're getting to care less and less for me," sobbed Mabel one
evening, when she had gone down to say good-night to Nicholas, and
found him alone in the library. "And I know why it is. I'd like to kill
that girl, I would!"
"What girl?" questioned the young man coldly.
"That detestable little minx upstairs," replied Mabel, with vindictive
emphasis.
"If you mean Margery Grayling, I never see her nowadays," said Nicholas
lazily. "More's the pity, for it's refreshing now and again to meet a
modest lass who doesn't throw herself at a man's head, but gives him
'what-for' when he tries it on with her. I shall never forget," he went
on, with more enthusiasm than one might have expected from him, "how
fine she looked that day in her workroom, when she told me to get out,
and I wouldn't. I tell you, Mab, I couldn't help thinking that a girl
with that proper pride and dignity about her would be worth winning,
however hard to be won she might be. A man values what he has to work
for."
Nicholas Beach was smoking while he talked, puffing curling wreaths
between the sentences, and dreamily watching them as they dispersed.
Had he been looking at Mab's handsome face, he would have seen the very
spirit of hate and menace flashing out from the depths of her glorious
eyes and setting in hard lines the curves of that beautiful red mouth.
But she made no reply; nor did she offer to kiss him as she said
good-night, but merely gave him a nod as cool as his own, ere she went
upstairs.
Margery slept in a little room leading out of Clara's, so her own
bedchamber—used also as a workroom—was now left unoccupied, and there
was no one on the same storey with Mabel, except the occupants of the
distant east wing.
For a while that night, Mabel sat on the side of her bed thinking. At
first her feelings were too chaotic and stormy for her thoughts to
shape any definite plan.
"If I could kill that girl, I would!" she said to herself; but she knew
that, strong and murderous though her hate might be, to wreak it thus
would only be to separate herself from Nicholas for ever. "I can't kill
her, so she must go," she said. "She must go away from this place, and
with such a stain on her character that Nick will never think of her
again, unless with disgust. But how am I to get her off?—That's the
point! They're all so insanely fond of her. There must be very clear
proof that she is unprincipled, or Aunt and Clara will never part with
her."
At last, with a start, her resolution was taken. She went to her
dressing-table, and, opening her jewel-case, took out a handsome
diamond ring. This she wrapped up in a bit of tissue paper, and taking
the little parcel in her hand, she walked across the corridor to
Margie's room, which was empty now, and the door standing open.
Mabel stole in. There was light enough, from a lamp outside, to see
things pretty clearly. Close by the window, opposite to the door, was
Margie's table with her work-box, her little writing-desk, and a pile
of sewing and mending neatly folded up, beside it. Mabel stole across
the floor, looking about her in a furtive, stealthy way, till she
spied the desk on the table. She opened this, slipped the tiny parcel
into a corner, under a packet of envelopes, where it was quite hidden,
and softly shut the lid of the desk. Then, all of a sudden, the demon
of jealousy seized her again, and she began wondering whether there
had not, perhaps, been some secret correspondence between Margie and
Nicholas.
In the little letter-stand near was a bundle of letters tied up with
ribbon. She was about to put this into her pocket to take away and
examine, when she fancied she heard a slight sound, which might have
been the closing of some door, and, fearful of being discovered, Mabel
replaced the letters, stole out, and, after a long look up and down the
corridor, she returned to her own room, closed and locked her door, and
proceeded to undress, well satisfied that at all events her principal
object was attained.
But the best laid plans are often defeated by what we are accustomed
to call an accident, forgetting that in the universe of the Almighty's
plans, accidents and things of chance have no place. That night Clara
turned faint, as she sometimes did after a day of unusual pain, and
Margie, finding the eau de Cologne bottle empty, remembered that
there was one half full on her own dressing-table. Knowing that Mabel
occupied the only other chamber opening on the corridor, and fearing
to disturb her in her slumber, Margie trod the passage very softly
on tiptoe, and was just about to enter her own room, when she saw,
outlined against the light from the window, the tall form of Mabel
Raye, with one hand holding up the lid of the desk, while with the
other she slipped the packet into it.
Margie had seen enough, and she must now get away quickly, lest the
plotter should spy her; but she resolved to return presently and see
what new wickedness Mabel had been planning against her, for well the
girl knew what a malignant enemy she had in Mabel Raye. She watched in
the dark corner at the east wing end of the passage till Mabel had been
a minute or two in her chamber; then she fetched the eau de Cologne,
and when Clara was better, and had fallen asleep, she lighted a candle,
and went softly back to her own room, and straight up to the table. She
opened the desk, and after a little search—with the faint hope that she
should find nothing, and that perhaps Mabel had only been wanting a
sheet of paper or a pen—she suddenly came upon the little parcel, and,
opening it, discovered the ring.
The whole diabolical wickedness of the plot came upon and appalled
her. What could she do? She must not tell Clara; the invalid would not
sleep a wink after such a story as this. And yet some one must know,
and know before morning, or she would find herself involved in the web
that had been spun for her, and be deprived of all defence. At last she
remembered that Mrs. Beach never went to sleep till very late at night,
and that it was her habit to read in bed by the light of a specially
contrived lamp. Margie's resolve was taken. She first returned to
Clara, and found that she was peacefully sleeping under the influence
of a soothing draught which had been administered. The patient was not
likely to wake, and might safely be left for a few minutes.
Down went Margie with the ring in her hand, and softly knocked at Mrs.
Beach's door.
"Come in," called the old lady, and in walked Margie, and came near to
the bed, having first carefully closed the door behind her.
"I am sorry to disturb you at such a time, ma'am," said the girl, "but
I have just found out something accidentally which might, had I not
discovered it, have ruined my character and driven me away from here in
disgrace."
"My dear girl," said the old lady, "you surprise me! What has happened?
Tell me exactly, and keep back nothing."
"You know, ma'am, that Miss Mabel has always from the first disliked
me; every one in the house has seen this, and of late, the dislike has,
I fear, grown to hatred."
Then Margie related how she had seen Mabel putting something into her
desk, and had afterwards found the ring.
"But what is to be done?" said the good old lady, much distressed. "I
can hardly believe, Margery, that my niece could do such a thing as
make a false accusation against you."
"Well, ma'am, I wish and pray that you may be right," replied the girl.
"But, to prove it, may I propose something?"
"Certainly, Margery. You have been a dear, good girl ever since you
came to me, and you shall not have your character taken away in my
house, if I can help it."
The grateful tears rushed into Margie's eyes, and she kissed the kind
old hand that was outstretched to her.
"If, ma'am, you will be so good as to lock up this ring in your own
jewel-case, and not say one word to any one, I shall be much obliged,"
said Margie, as soon as she could command her voice; "then it will soon
be seen what Miss Mabel intended. If she says, to-morrow or the next
day, that she has lost her ring, and accuses me of stealing it, and
insists upon a search being made, and in the search includes my little
writing-desk, that will be unmistakable proof, will it not?"
"Alas, yes, Margery, it will!" sighed the old lady. "God grant it may
not come to that!"
Then Margie gave Mrs. Beach her jewel-case and her keys, and the ring
was put away safely; after which the girl thanked her mistress, said
good-night, and went back to Clara's room.