Again ’Lena’s rebuking glance went over to John Jr., who, advancing nearer to Mabel, gently laid his hand upon her white brow, saying, softly, “Poor, poor Meb.”
There was genuine pity in the tones of his voice, and while the hot tears gushed forth, the sick girl murmured, “Forgive me, John, I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know it, and now, if you say so, I’ll go away, alone—where you’ll never see me again.”
She comprehended it all. Her mother-in-law had rudely torn away the veil, and she saw why she was there—knew why he had sought her for his wife—understood all his coldness and neglect; but she had no word of reproach for him, her husband, and from the depths of her crushed heart she forgave him, commiserating him as the greater sufferer.
“May be I shall die,” she whispered, “and then——”
She did not finish the sentence, neither was it necessary, for John Jr. understood what she meant, and with his conscience smiting him as it did, he felt half inclined to declare, with his usual impulsiveness, that it should never be; but the rash promise was not made, and it was far better that it should not be.
CHAPTER XXVII.
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?”