Mabel's Mistake

Ann S. (Ann Sophia) Stephens

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• Publié par: erri
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 22
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mabel's Mistake, by Ann S. Stephens This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Mabel's Mistake Author: Ann S. Stephens Release Date: October 13, 2009 [EBook #30247] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MABEL'S MISTAKE *** Produced by Roberta Staehlin and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) MABEL'S MISTAKE. BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. AUTHOR OF "FASHION AND FAMINE," "THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS," "DOUBLY FALSE," "SILENT STRUGGLES," "THE OLD HOMESTEAD," "THE REJECTED WIFE," "THE HEIRESS," "THE GOLD BRICK," "MARY DERWENT," "THE WIFE'S SECRET," ETC., ETC. "Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay, There friendship, love, or passion are, Yet human still as they: And if thy lips for love like this No mortal word can frame, Go ask of angels what it is, And call it by that name." T . 3 P 0 H B 6 I . L C A P H D E E E T S L E T P Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. ANN S. STEPHENS' WORKS. Each work complete in one vol., 12mo. THE CURSE OF GOLD. WIVES AND WIDOWS. THE REJECTED WIFE. FASHION AND FAMINE. THE GOLD BRICK. SILENT STRUGGLES. THE OLD HOMESTEAD. MARY DERWENT. THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS. THE WIFE'S SECRET. MABEL'S MISTAKE. DOUBLY FALSE. THE HEIRESS. Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover. Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of the above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers, T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 306 C HESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA. TO MY DEAR, YOUNG FRIEND, MISS EUDORA J. HART, OF NEW YORK, THIS VOLUME IS MOST AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. ANN S. STEPHENS. WASHINGTON, D. C., OCTOBER 17, 1868. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I.—THE STEP-MOTHER AND STEP-SON. II.—OLD MR. HARRINGTON. III.—THE HILL SIDE ADVENTURE. IV.—LINA COMES OUT OF HER FAINTING FIT. V.—ON THE BANKS AND ON THE RIVER. VI.—THE LITTLE HOUSE ON THE HILL. VII.—THE UNEXPECTED PASSENGER. VIII.—OUT OF THE STORM. IX.—THE BURNING CEDAR. X.—HOME IN SAFETY. XI.—GENERAL HARRINGTON IS SHOCKED. XII.—LOVE DREAMS. XIII.—THE BROKEN CONFESSION. XIV.—RALPH'S LOVE DREAM. XV.—THE STOLEN JOURNAL. XVI.—JAMES HARRINGTON'S RIDE. XVII.—THAT WOMAN. XVIII.—OLD HEADS AND YOUNG HEARTS. XIX.—THE LOVER'S CONFESSION. XX.—THE BOUQUET OF ROSES. XXI.—BEN BENSON GIVES AN OPINION. XXII.—A RENEWAL OF CONFIDENCE. XXIII.—THE LOVE SONG. XXIV.—A MEETING IN THE HILLS. XXV.—CONTINUED PLOTTING. XXVI.—THE NOTE WITH A GREEN SEAL. XXVII.—GENERAL HARRINGTON'S CONFESSION. XXVIII.—THE NOTE ON THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 23 29 32 38 45 51 57 63 70 75 82 85 93 101 107 111 117 125 131 136 139 147 152 155 160 165 168 172 XXIX.—FATHER AND DAUGHTER. XXX.—BROTHER AND SISTER. XXXI.—THE SLAVE AND HER MASTER. XXXII.—THE BOAT-HOUSE. XXXIII.—GENERAL HARRINGTON READS THE VELLUM BOOK. XXXIV.—AMONG THE WATER LILIES. XXXV.—AFTER THE STORM. XXXVI.—MISTRESS AND MAID. XXXVII.—THE SLAVE WE LEFT BEHIND US. XXXVIII.—THE EATON FAMILY. XXXIX.—THAT SPANISH NOBLEMAN. XL.—THE MANŒUVRING MOTHER. XLI.—THE CATHEDRAL AT SEVILLE. XLII.—A DUKE IN THE HOUSE. XLIII.—HOPES AND PERSUASIONS. XLIV.—THE INFANTA AND HER GUESTS. XLV.—THE PROCESSION OF THE MADONNAS. XLVI.—WHERE WE SAW THE DUKE. XLVII.—MRS. EATON'S TRIBULATION. XLVIII.—ZILLAH'S LETTER. XLIX.—THE GENERAL PROPOSES A TRIP TO CADIZ. L.—MISS EATON MAKES MISS CRAWFORD A VISIT. LI.—CONTINUED MISUNDERSTANDING. LII.—GENERAL HARRINGTON RETURNS WITH ZILLAH. LIII.—ZILLAH IS ANXIOUS ABOUT THE HEALTH OF HER MISTRESS. 179 186 190 198 202 211 216 218 223 226 230 236 239 245 248 252 256 259 265 270 273 279 286 290 296 LIV.—BEHIND THE GIPSIES' TENT. LV.—BURDENED WITH A SECRET. LVI.—TOO LATE, TOO LATE. LVII.—ZILLAH. LVIII.—GENERAL HARRINGTON'S TEMPTATION. LIX.—A STORM IN THE WOODS. LX.—THE DARK-HOUSE. LXI.—STRANGE PLANS. LXII.—THE TEMPTATION. LXIII.—JAMES HARRINGTON'S GREAT STRUGGLE. LXIV.—THE LIFE DEED. LXV.—WHO WAS LINA FRENCH? LXVI.—THREATS AND PERSUASIONS. LXVII.—THE EVENING RIDE. LXVIII.—RALPH FINDS LINA. LXIX.—AGNES BECOMES PATHETIC. LXX.—MABEL HARRINGTON AND HER SON. LXXI.—THE MISSING BOOK. LXXII.—FRAGMENTS OF MABEL'S JOURNAL. LXXIII.—THE TWO BROTHERS. LXXIV.—GENERAL HARRINGTON'S SECRET. LXXV.—THE DESERTED CHAMBER. LXXVI.—THE UNEXPECTED RETURN. LXXVII.—MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. LXXVIII.—A STORMY PARTING. LXXIX.—UNDER THE ICE. LXXX.—WHO WAS LINA. LXXXI.—THE MANIAC. 301 304 313 318 323 328 332 337 339 347 352 355 360 367 372 376 382 387 391 393 399 404 407 411 414 419 423 426 [23] MABEL'S MISTAKE. CHAPTER I. THE STEP-MOTHER AND STEP-SON. IT was autumn, one of those balmy Indian summer days which, if the eyes were closed, would remind you of Andalusia when the orange trees put forth their blossoms with the matured fruit still clinging to their boughs, burying its golden ripeness among cool, green leaves, and buds of fragrant snow. Still, save in the delicious atmosphere that autumnal sunset would not have reminded you of any land but our own. For what other climate ever gave the white wings of the frost the power to scatter that rich combination of red, green, gold and dusky purple upon a thousand forests in a single night? What other land ever saw the sun go down upon a world of green foliage, and rise to find the same foliage bathed in a sea of brilliant tints, till the east was paled by its gorgeousness? Indeed, there was nothing in this calm, Indian-summer twilight to remind you of any other land, save its stillness and the balm of dying flowers giving up their lives to the frost. But the links of association are rapid and mysterious, and the scenes that awaken a reminiscence are sometimes entirely opposite to the memory awakened. [24] Be this as it may, there was something in the landscape suddenly clad in its gorgeous fall tints—in the river so coldly transparent twelve hours before, now rolling on through the glowing shadows as if the sands and pebbles in its bed had been turned to jewels, which reminded at least one person in that old mansion house, of scenes long ago witnessed in the south of Spain. The old mansion house which we speak of, stood some miles above that gorge in the Harlem River which is now spanned by the High Bridge. This region of Manhattan Island is even yet more than half buried in its primeval forest trees. Hills as abrupt, and moss as greenly fleecy as if found on the crags of the Rocky Mountains, still exist among the wild nooks and wilder peaks which strike the eye more picturesquely from their vicinity to the great metropolis. At the particular spot I wish to describe, the hills fall back from the Hudson, north and south, far enough to leave a charming little valley of some two or three hundred acres cradled in their wildness and opening greenly to the river, which is sure to catch a sheaf of sunbeams in its bosom when the day fires its last golden salute from behind the Palisades. Sheltered by hills, some broken into cliffs, some rolling smoothly back, clothed in variously tinted undergrowth and fine old trees, the valley itself received a double charm from the contrast of cultivation. It was entirely cleared of trees and undergrowth, save where a clump of cool hemlocks, a grove of sugar maples, or a drooping elm gave it those features we so much admire in the country homes of old England. In the centre of the valley was a swell of land sloping down to the river in full, grassy waves, which ended at the brink in a tiny cove overhung by a clump of golden willows. [25] Crowning the swell of this elevation stood the old mansion commanding a fine view of the river, with a glimpse of the opposite shore, where the Weehawken hills begin to consolidate into the Palisades. A score of picturesque and pleasant little nooks were visible from the numerous windows, for it was an irregular old place, varying as much as an American house can vary in its style of architecture. The original idea had undoubtedly sprung from our Knickerbocker ancestors, for the gables were not only pointed, but notched down the steep edges after a semi-battlemented fashion, while stacks of quaint chimneys and heavy oaken doors bespoke a foundation far antecedent to the revolution. But in addition to these proofs of antiquity, were balconies of carved stone, curving over modern bay windows, which broke up the stiff uniformity of the original design; and along one tall gable that fronted on the river, French windows, glittering with plate glass, opened to a verandah of stone-work, surrounded by a low railing also of stone; and if these windows were not one blaze of gold at sunset, you might be certain that a storm was lowering over the Palisades, and that the next day would be a cloudy one. Another gable facing the south was lighted by a broad arched window crowded full of diamond-shaped glass, tinted through and through by the bloom and glow of a conservatory within. In short the mansion was a picturesque incongruity utterly indescribable, and yet one of the most interesting old houses in the world. Whatever might be said of its architecture, it certainly had a most aristocratic appearance, and bore proofs in every line and curve of its stone traceries, both of fine taste and great wealth, inherited from generation to generation. Time itself would have failed to sweep these traces of family pride from the old house, for each century had carved it deeper and de