THE SHADOW.
Mabel’s nerves had received too great a shock to rally immediately, and
as day after day went by, she still kept her room, notwithstanding the
very pointed hints of her mother-in-law that “she was making believe
for the sake of sympathy.” Why didn’t she get up and go out
doors—anybody would be sick to be flat on their back day in and day
out; or did she think she was spiting her by showing what muss she
could keep the “best chamber” in if she chose?
This last was undoubtedly the grand secret of Mrs. Livingstone’s
dissatisfaction. Foiled in her efforts to dislodge them, she would not
yield without an attempt at making Mabel, at least, as uncomfortable in
mind as possible. Accordingly, almost every day when her son was not
present, she conveyed from the room some nice article of furniture,
substituting in its place one of inferior quality, which was quite good
enough, she thought, for a penniless bride.
“’Pears like ole miss goin’ to make a clean finish of her dis time,”
said Aunt Milly, who watched her mistress’ daily depredations. “Ole Sam
done got title deed of her, sure enough. Ki! won’t she ketch it in
t’other world, when he done show her his cloven foot, and won’t she
holler for old Milly to fotch her a drink of water? not particular
then—drink out of the bucket, gourd-shell, or anything; but dis
nigger’ll sign her post in de parlor afore she’ll go.”
“Why, Milly,” said ’Lena, who overheard this colloquy, “don’t you know
it’s wrong to indulge in such wicked thoughts?”
“Bless you, child,” returned the old negress, “she ’sarves ’em all for
treatin’ that poor, dear lamb so. I’d ’nihilate her if I’s Miss Mabel.”
“No, no, Milly,” said Aunt Polly, who was present. “You must heap coals
of fire on her head.”
“Yes, yes, that’s it—she orto have ’em,” quickly responded Milly,
thinking Polly’s method of revenge the very best in the world, provided
the coals were “bilin’ hot,” and with this reflection she started
upstairs, with a bowl of nice, warm gruel she had been preparing for
the invalid.
Several times each day Grandma Nichols visited Mabel’s room, always
prescribing some new tea of herbs, whose healing qualities were
wonderful, having effected cures in every member of Nancy Scovandyke’s
family, that lady herself, as a matter of course, being first included.
And Aunt Milly, with the faithfulness characteristic of her race, would
seek out each new herb, uniting with it her own simple prayer that it
might have the desired effect. But all in vain, for every day Mabel
became weaker, while her dark eyes grew larger and brighter, anon
lighting up with joy as she heard her husband’s footsteps in the hall,
and again filling with tears as she glanced timidly into his face, and
thought of the dread reality.
“Maybe I shall die,” was more than once murmured in her sleep, and John
Jr., as often as he heard those words, would press her burning hands,
and mentally reply, “Poor little Meb.”
And all this time no one thought to call a physician, until Mr.
Livingstone himself at last suggested it. At first he had felt no
interest whatever in his daughter-in-law, but with him force of habit
was everything, and when she no longer came among them, he missed
her—missed her languid steps upon the stairs and her childish voice in
the parlor. At last it one day occurred to him to visit her. She was
sleeping when he entered the room, but he could see there had been a
fearful change since last he looked upon her, and without a word
concerning his intentions, he walked to the kitchen, ordering one of
his servants to start forthwith for the physician, whose residence was
a few miles distant.
Mrs. Livingstone was in the front parlor when he returned, in company
with Doctor Gordon, and immediately her avaricious spirit asked who
would pay the bill, and why was he sent for. Mabel did not need him—she
was only babyish and spleeny—and so she told the physician, who,
however, did not agree with her. He did not say that Mabel would die,
but he thought so, for his experienced eye saw in her infallible signs
of the disease which had stricken down both her parents, and to which,
from her birth, she had been a prey. Mabel guessed as much from his
manner, and when again he visited her, she asked him plainly what he
thought.
She was young—a bride—surrounded apparently by everything which could
make her happy, and the physician hesitated, answering her evasively,
until she said, “Do not fear to tell me truly, for I want to die. Oh, I
long to die,” she continued, passionately clasping her thin white hands
together.
“That is an unusual wish in one so young,” answered the physician, “but
to be plain with you, Mrs. Livingstone, I think consumption too deeply
seated to admit of your recovery. You may be better, but never well.
Your disease is hereditary, and has been coming on too long.”
“It is well,” was Mabel’s only answer, as she turned wearily upon her
side and hid her face in the pillows.
For a long time she lay there, thinking, weeping, and thinking again,
of the noisome grave through which she must pass, and from which she
instinctively shrank, it was so dark, so cold, and dreary. But Mabel
had trusted in One who she knew would go with her down into the lone
valley—whose arm she felt would uphold her as she crossed the dark,
rolling stream of death; and as if her frail bark were already safely
moored upon the shores of the eternal river, she looked back dreamily
upon the world she had left, and as she saw what she felt would surely
be, she again murmured through her tears, “It is well.”
That night, when John Jr. came up to his room, he appeared somewhat
moody and cross, barely speaking to Mabel, and then walking up and down
the room with the heavy tread which always indicated a storm within. He
had that day been to Frankfort, hearing that Nellie was really coming
home very soon—very possibly she was now on her way. Of course she
would visit Mabel, when she heard she was sick, and of course he must
meet her face to face, must stand with her at the bedside of _his wife_
and that wife Mabel. In his heart he did not accuse the latter of
feigning her illness, but he wished she would get well faster, so that
Nellie need not feel obliged to visit her. She could at least make an
effort—a great deal depended upon that—and she had now been confined to
her room three or four weeks.
Thus he reflected as he walked, and at last his thoughts formed
themselves into words. Stopping short at the foot of the bed, he said
abruptly and without looking her in the face, “How do you feel
tonight?”
The stifled cough which Mabel tried to suppress because it was
offensive to him, brought a scowl to his forehead, and in imagination
he anticipated her answer, “I do not think I am any better.”
“And I don’t believe you try to be,” sprang to his lips, but its
utterance was prevented by a glance at her face, which by the
flickering lamplight looked whiter than ever.
“Nellie is coming home in a few weeks,” he said at length, with his
usual precipitancy.
’Twas the first time Mabel had heard that name since the night when her
mother-in-law had rang it in her ears, and now she started so quickly,
that the offending cough could not be forced back, and the coughing fit
which followed was so violent that John Jr., as he held the bowl to her
quivering lips, saw that what she had raised was streaked with blood.
But he was unused to sickness, and he gave it no farther thought,
resuming the conversation as soon as she became quiet.
“To be plain, Meb,” said he, “I want you to hurry and get well before
Nellie comes—for if you are sick she’ll feel in duty bound to visit
you, and I’d rather face a loaded cannon than her.”
Mabel was too much exhausted to answer immediately, and she lay so long
with her eyes closed that John Jr., growing impatient, said, “Are you
asleep, Meb?”
“No, no,” said she, at the same time requesting him to take the vacant
chair by her side, as she wished to talk with him.
John Jr. hated to be talked to, particularly by her, for he felt that
she had much cause to reproach him; but she did not, and as she
proceeded, his heart melted toward her in a manner which he had never
thought possible. Very gently she spoke of her approaching end as sure.
“You ask me to make haste and be well,” said she, “but it cannot be. I
shall never go out into the bright sunshine again, never join you in
the parlor below, and before the cold winds of winter are blowing, I
shall be dead. I hope I shall live until Nellie comes, for I must see
her, I must make it right between her and you. I must tell her to
forgive you for marrying me when you loved only her; and she will
listen—she won’t refuse me, and when I am gone you’ll be happy
together.”
John Jr. did not speak, but the little hand which nervously moved
toward him was met more than half-way, and thus strengthened, Mabel
continued: “You must sometimes think and speak of Mabel when she is
dead. I do not ask you to call me wife. I do not wish it, but you must
forget how wretched I have made you, for oh, I did not mean it, and had
I sooner known what I do now, I would have died ere I had caused you
one pang of sorrow.”
Afterward, when it was too late, John Jr. would have given worlds to
recall that moment, that he might tell the broken-hearted girl how
bitterly he, too, repented of all the wrong he had done her; but he did
not say so then—he could only listen, while he mentally resolved that
if Mabel were indeed about to die, he would make the remainder of her
short life happy, and thus atone, as far as possible, for the past. But
alas for John Jr., his resolutions were easily broken, and as days and
weeks went by, and there was no perceptible change in her, he grew
weary of well-doing, absenting himself whole days from the sick-room,
and at night rather unwillingly resuming his post as watcher, for Mabel
would have no one else.
Since Mabel’s illness he had occupied the little room adjoining hers,
and often when in the still night he lay awake, watching the shadow
which the lamp cast upon the wall, and thinking of her for whom the
light was constantly kept burning, his conscience would smite him
terribly, and rising up, he would steal softly to her bedside to see if
she were sleeping quietly. But anon he grew weary of this, too; the
shadow on the wall troubled him, it kept him awake; it was a continual
reproach, and he must be rid of it, somehow. He tried the experiment of
closing his door, but Mabel knew the moment he attempted it, and he
could not refuse her when she asked him to leave it open.
John Jr. grew restless, fidgety, and nervous. Why need the lamp be kept
burning? He could light it when necessary; or why need he sleep there,
when some one else would do as well? He thought of ’Lena—she was just
the one, and the next day he would speak to her. To his great joy she
consented to relieve him awhile, provided Mabel were willing; but she
was not, and John Jr. was forced to submit. He was not accustomed to
restraint, and every night matters grew worse and worse. The shadow
annoyed him exceedingly. If he slept, he dreamed that it kept a
glimmering watch over him, and when he awoke, he, in turn, watched over
that, until the misty day-light came to dissipate the phantom.
About this time several families from Frankfort started for New
Orleans, where they were wont to spend the winter, and irresistibly,
John Jr. became possessed of a desire to visit that city, too. Mabel
would undoubtedly live until spring, now that the trying part of autumn
was past and there could be no harm in his leaving her for awhile, when
he so much needed rest. Accordingly, ’Lena was one day surprised by his
announcing his intended trip.
“But you cannot be in earnest,” she said; “you surely will not leave
Mabel now.”
“And why not?” he asked. “She doesn’t grow any worse, and won’t until
spring, and this close confinement is absolutely killing me! Why, I’ve
lost six pounds in six months, and you’ll see to her, I know you will.
You’re a good girl, and I like you, if I did get angry with you, weeks
ago when I went a hunting.”
’Lena knew he ought not to go, and she tried hard to convince him of
the fact, telling him how much pleasure she had felt in observing his
improved manner toward Mabel, and that he must not spoil it now.
“It’s no use talking,” said he, “I’m bent on going somewhere. I’ve
tried to be good, I know, but the fact is, I can’t stay _put_. It isn’t
my nature. I shan’t tell Meb till just before I start, for I hate
scenes.”
“And suppose she dies while you are gone?” asked ’Lena.
John was beginning to grow impatient, for he knew he was wrong, and
rather tartly he answered, as he left the room, “Give her a decent
burial, and present the bill to mother!”
“The next morning, as ’Lena sat alone with Mabel, John Jr. entered,
dressed and ready for his journey. But he found it harder telling his
wife than he had anticipated. She looked unusually pale this morning.
The sallowness of her complexion was all gone, and on either cheek
there burned a round, bright spot. ’Lena had just been arranging her
thick, glossy hair, and now, wholly exhausted, she reclined upon her
pillows, while her large black eyes, unnaturally bright, sparkled with
joy at the sight of her husband. But they quickly filled with tears
when told that he was going away, and had come to say good-bye.
“It’s only to New Orleans and back,” he said, as he saw her changing
face. “I shan’t be gone long, and ’Lena will take care of you a heap
better than I can.”
“It isn’t that,” answered Mabel, wiping her tears away. “Don’t go,
John. Wait a little while. I’m sure it won’t be long.”
“You are nervous,” said he, playfully lapping her white cheek. “You’re
not going to die. You’ll live to be grandmother yet, who knows? But I
must be off or lose the train. Good bye, little Meb,” grasping her
hand, “Good-bye, ’Lena. I’ll bring you both something nice—good-bye.”
When she saw that he was going, Mabel asked him to come back to her
bedside just for one moment. He could not refuse, and winding her long,
emaciated arms around his neck, she whispered, “Kiss me once before you
go. I shall never ask it again, and ’twill make me happier when you are
gone.”
“A dozen times, if you like,” said he, giving her the only husband’s
kiss she had ever received.
For a moment longer she detained him, while she prayed silently for
heaven’s blessing on his wayward head, and then releasing him, she bade
him go. Had he known of all that was to follow, he would not have left
her, but he believed as he said, that she would survive the winter, and
with one more kiss upon her brow, where the perspiration was standing
thickly, he departed. The window of Mabel’s room commanded a view of
the turnpike, and when the sound of horses’ feet was heard on the lawn,
she requested ’Lena to lead her to the window, where she stood watching
him until a turn in the road hid him from her sight.
“’Tis the last time,” said she, “and he will never know how much this
parting cost me.”
That night, as they were alone in the gathering twilight, Mabel said,
“If I die before Nellie comes I want you to tell her how it all
happened, and that she must forgive him, for he was not to blame.”
“I do not understand you,” said ’Lena, and then, in broken sentences,
Mabel told what her mother-in-law had said, and how terribly John was
deceived. “Of course he couldn’t love me after that,” said she, “and
it’s right that I should die. He and Nellie were made for each other,
and if the inhabitants of heaven are allowed to watch over those they
loved on earth, I will ask to be always near them. You will tell her,
won’t you?”
’Lena promised, adding that she thought Mabel would see Nellie herself
as she was to sail from Liverpool the 20th, and a few days proved her
conjecture correct. Entering Mabel’s room one morning about a week
after John’s departure, she brought the glad news that Nellie had
returned, and would be with them to-morrow.
The next day Nellie came, but she, too, was changed. The roundness of
her form and face was gone; the rose had faded from her cheek, and her
footsteps were no longer light and bounding as of old. She knew of John
Jr.’s absence or she would not have come, for she could not meet him
face to face. She had heard, too, of his treatment of Mabel, and while
she felt indignant toward him, she freely forgave his innocent wife,
who she felt had been more sinned against than sinning.
With a faint cry Mabel started from her pillow, and burying her face on
Nellie’s neck, wept like a child. “You do not hate me,” she said at
last, “or you would not have come so soon.”
“Hate you?—no,” answered Nellie. “I have no cause for hating _you_.”
“And you will stay with me until I die—until he comes home—and forgive
him, too,” Mabel continued.
“I can promise the first, but the latter is harder,” said Nellie, her
cheeks burning with anger as she gazed on the wreck before her.
“But you must, you will,” exclaimed Mabel, rapidly telling all she
knew; then falling back upon the pillow, she added, “You’ll forgive him
Nellie?”
As time passed on, Mabel grew weaker and weaker, clinging closer to
Nellie as she felt the dark shadow of death creeping gradually over
her.
“If he’d only come,” she would say, “and I could place your hand in his
before I died.”
But it was not to be. Day after day John Jr. lingered, dreading to
return, for he knew Nellie was there, and he could not meet her, he
thought, at the bedside of Mabel. So he tarried until a letter from
’Lena, which said that Mabel would die, decided him, and rather
reluctantly he started homeward. Meantime Mabel, who knew nothing of
her loss, conceived the generous idea of willing all her possessions to
her recreant husband.
“Perhaps he’ll think more kindly of me,” said she to his father, to
whom she first communicated her plan, and Mr. Livingstone felt that he
could not undeceive her.
Accordingly, a lawyer was summoned from Frankfort, and the will duly
drawn up, signed, sealed, and delivered into the hands of Mr.
Livingstone, whose wife, with a mocking laugh, bade him “guard it
carefully, it was so valuable.”
“It shows her goodness of heart, at least,” said he, and possibly Mrs.
Livingstone thought so, too, for from that time her manner softened
greatly toward her daughter-in-law.
It was midnight at Maple Grove. On the table, in its accustomed place,
the lamp was burning dimly, casting the shadow upon the wall, whilst
over the whole room a darker shadow was brooding. The window was open,
and the cool night air came softly in, lifting the masses of raven hair
from off the pale brow of the dying. Tenderly above her Nellie and
’Lena were bending. They had watched by her many a night, and now she
asked them not to leave her, not to disturb a single one—she would
rather die alone.
The sound of horses’ hoofs rang out on the still air, but she did not
heed it. Nearer and nearer it came, over the lawn, up the graveled
walk, through the yard, and Nellie’s face blanched to an unnatural
whiteness as she thought who that midnight-rider was. Arrived in
Frankfort only an hour before, he had hastened forward, impelled by a
something he could not resist. From afar he had caught the glimmering
light, and he felt he was not too late. He knew how to enter the house,
and on through the wide hall and up the broad staircase he came, until
he stood in the chamber, where before him another guest had entered,
whose name was Death!
Face to face he stood with Nellie Douglass, and between them lay _his_
wife—_her_ rival—the white hands folded meekly upon her bosom, and the
pale lips just as they had breathed a prayer for him.
“Mabel! She is dead!” was all he uttered, and falling upon his knees,
he buried his face in the pillow, while half scornfully, half
pityingly, Nellie gazed upon him.
There was much of bitterness in her heart toward him, not for the wrong
he had done her, but for the sake of the young girl, now passed forever
away. ’Lena felt differently. His silent grief conquered all
resentment, and going to his side, she told him how peacefully Mabel
had died—how to the last she had loved and remembered him, praying that
he might be happy when she was gone,
“Poor little Meb, she deserved a better fate,” was all he said, as he
continued his kneeling posture, until the family and servants, whom
Nellie had summoned, came crowding round, the cries of the latter
grating on the ear, and seeming sadly out of place for her whose short
life had been so dreary, and who had welcomed death as a release from
all her pain.
It was Mrs. Livingstone’s wish that Mabel should be arrayed in her
bridal robes, but with a shudder at the idle mockery, John Jr.
answered, “No,” and in a plain white muslin, her shining hair arrayed
as she was wont to wear it, they placed her in her coffin, and on a
sunny slope where the golden sunlight and the pale moonbeams latest
fell, and where in spring the bright green grass and the sweet wild
flowers are earliest seen, laid her down to sleep.
That night, when all around was still, John Jr. lay musing sadly of the
past. His affection for Mabel had been slight and variable, but now
that she was gone, he missed her. The large easy-chair, with its
cushions and pillows, was empty, and as he thought of the pale, dark
face and aching head he had so often seen reclining there, and which he
would never see again, he groaned in bitterness of spirit, for well he
knew that he had helped to break the heart now lying cold and still
beneath the coffin-lid. There was no shadow on the wall, for the lamp
had gone out with the young life for whom it had been kept burning, but
many a shadow lay dark and heavy across his heart.
With the sun-setting a driving rain had come on, and as the November
wind went howling past the window, and the large drops beat against the
casement, he thought of the lonesome little grave on which that rain
was falling; and shuddering, he hid his face in the pillows, asking to
be forgiven, for he knew that all too soon that grave was made, and he
had helped to make it. At last, long after the clock had told the hour
of midnight, he arose, and lighting the lamp which many a weary night
had burned for _her_, he placed it where the shadow would fall upon the
wall as it had done of old. It was no longer a phantom to annoy him,
and soothed by its presence, he fell asleep, dreaming that Mabel had
come back to bring him her forgiveness, but when he essayed to touch
her, she vanished from his sight, and there was nothing left save that
shadow on the wall.