I. THE ADOPTED SISTER.
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IT was three years since old Abel Dane laid down
the compass and the chisel on his work-bench in
the old shop, and himself on his bed in the new
house which he had so lately built for his comfort,
and which he never left again until he was carried
out by his neighbors.
“To be sure!” moralized one of the pall-bearers, on
that occasion, — a pale, meagre, bald little man, John
Apjohn by name, and a cooper by trade, — “it's with
houses as 'tis with every other airthly blessin'. We're
no sooner ready to enjoy 'em than either they go or we
go. Here's neighbor Dane, been so busy building houses
for other people all his life that he never had time till
now to build one for himself; and to think on 't!” said
the cooper, with mournful, wondering eyes, “there the
house is, and here he is a-goin' to his final home, and
leavin' everything to his heir! To be sure, to be sure!”
and he shook his head solemnly at the decrees of fate.
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The heir mentioned was Abel Dane the younger, who
inherited his father's trade, the old shop, the new house,
and a faithful foster-sister.
It was three years since that dark day in autumn; and
now just such another dark day in the fall of the year
was drawing to a close; and Abel's foster-sister, having
set the supper-table, took her favorite place at the window
to watch for his coming. And there, sitting in the
cheerful room, which would soon be made more cheerful
by his presence; remembering the sad day of the funeral,
so like this day; thinking of all God's mercles to
her, before and since, — to her, a poor orphan, so unworthy
such a home and such a brother; looking across
the gloomy common, whose very bleakness enhanced her
sense of life-warm comfort in house and heart, she saw,
through thick tears of happiness, which magnified him
into a glimmering seraph, with irregular, shining wings,
her “more than brother,” returning.
Across the brown common, under the wild elm-boughs
swinging in the wind, he came rapidly walking.
He stopped to leave some tools he carried at the shop,
and that gave the little housekeeper time to get the tea
and toast on the table. Then she drew up the invalid's
chair, beat the cushion, and helped the invalid to her
seat, — for this was another important item of Abel's
inheritance which we have neglected to mention, namely,
a paralytic mother. She was a cheerful old Christian,
with the most benignant of double chins, in the full possession
of her mental faculties, but physically shattered.
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She had suffered two or three strokes, the last of which
had produced a singular effect upon her organs of
speech.
“Thank you, Gridiron,” said she, — for this was the
oddity of it, that sometimes she could not speak at all,
and sometimes she suddenly shot out the most unexpected
and irrelevant speeches quite involuntarily; and
sometimes when she meant to say one word, another
ludicrously inappropriate would drop out in its place,
as much to her own astonishment as anybody's. The
name of her adopted daughter was Eliza; but the nearest
she could come to it at that moment was Gridiron.
Abel washed his stout carpenter's hands at the sink,
kicked off his boots, slipped on his slippers, and the
three sat around the little table together, Abel opposite
Eliza, — a goodly young man and a strong, browncheeked
and chestnut-haired, with a countenance not
lacking in brightness generally, and particularly radiant
on this occasion.
Eliza noticed his gayety, and was glad. They were
not lovers, though she loved him. She had never confessed
to herself that she hoped in her inmost heart to
be nearer and dearer to him some day than she was now.
To be to him what she was seemed happiness enough, —
his sister, his servant, — his, whom it was so sweet to
serve: preparing his meals, which it was her meat and
her drink to see him eat with appetite; making his bed
and smoothing his dear pillow, with hands magnetic
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with affection; stealing his boots, and blacking them,
with the delight which love lends to the meanest occupation;
reading to him evenings and Sundays, or hearing
him read from the books that gave her a twofold
pleasure because he enjoyed them; living thus day
after day and year after year in the nourishing atmosphere
of his out-going and in-coming, and satisfied to
live on thus forever.
And now, without questioning what made Abel so
joyous, she was joyous too; for this is the blessedness
of love, that it annihilates selfishness, and makes us
happy in others' happiness. Filling the cups, she poured
her own thankful spirit into them with the fragrant beverage,
and sweetened them, not with sugar only, but
with her own spiritual sweetness, which both Abel and
his mother tasted in the tea she made and gave them,
and missed in that which others made and gave them,
without comprehending the subtle cause.
“Have another cup, mother?”
“No, my dear,” said the old lady. “But I'll thank
you for a piece of the contribution-box.”
She meant to ask for cheese. Then she laughed at
herself, half-vexed. Abel roared with mirth. And Eliza
said, — for Eliza was the wit of the family, —
“I'm sure, old cheese bears a strong resemblance to a
contribution-box; for when it is passed around, you
often find a few mites in it.”
Upon which Abel flashed his beaming eyes upon his
foster-sister. He was going to compliment her wit; but
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something better than that, — something glowing in her
face, — attracted his attention.
“Why, 'Liza! how handsome you are to-night!”
Now Eliza was not handsome, and she knew it. She
knew that she was a plain little girl. She did not doubt,
however, but that Abel saw something pleasing in her
face just then, and the delicious consciousness made her
blush like a rose.
“Positively beautiful! ain't she, mother?” cried Abel,
with fond enthusiasm.
“She is always beautiful to me, she is always so good,”
the old woman managed to say, without a slip.
“A beautiful soul makes a beautiful face, they say,”
added Abel. “Consequently a beautiful face indicates
a beautiful soul, don't it?” — with a gay, triumphant
smile, which Eliza did not understand till two hours
later, — thinking, poor child, that his words referred to
her.
But, two hours later, Mrs. Dane having fallen asleep
in her chair, and Abel having shut the book he was
reading, and taken Eliza's work out of her hand, they
two sat together before the fire, which blazed up
brightly with shavings from the shop, and Abel looked
into her face with ardent eyes.
“'Liza, I'm going to tell you something.”
A sweet tremor rippled all over her, as if she had
been a fountain, and his breath the warm south wind.
She looked through his eyes into his soul, and saw love
there; while he looked — not into her soul.
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“It is my heart's secret,” he went on; for she was
dumb with fear and gladness. “I have wanted to tell
you; I hope it will make you happy. We can't live always
in the way we do, you know; and I never can
think of parting from you, 'Liza.”
How she trembled! And now she felt a growing
terror in her joy; for, to one whose daily life is blessed,
the thought of a great change, whether for good or evil,
comes like a portentous shadow.
“So I have concluded it is best to be married. I am
going to be married, 'Liza. When we were talking of
faces, do you know whose face I was thinking of? The
most beautiful face in all this world! Her face who
wrote this letter which I got to-day, and which has
made me the happiest of men. You may read it, 'Liza.”
He placed it in her hands. It dropped from them to
the floor. She sat rigid, speechless, pallid — a spasm of
misery in her face, something like death in her heart.
“Won't you read it?” He stooped to pick up the
letter. “Don't think her coming into the family will
make any difference with you. We will all live here
together. You will always have a home here with us;
you will love her; you can't help it, Eliza.” He regarded
her a minute in silence, his brows darkening.
“You disappoint me,” he added, heavily; “I didn't
expect you would receive the news in this way. Don't
you like Faustina?”
“I think — she is — very pretty,” poor Eliza forced
her despairing lips to say.
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“Why, then, do you object to her?”
“I? object? Oh, I don't! — if you can make her
happy.”
“What made you look so, then, when I told you?
It made my heart sick. And now that smile is worse
yet — such a wretched smile! I see you don't approve
of my choice,” turning away resentfully. “I wanted
you, of all persons, to love and welcome her. But never
mind.”
“Oh, Abel!” she chokingly said, “don't blame me.
I can't bear it. I — I am glad — I will be glad — for
your sake.”
“You act glad, surely!” grinned Abel, sarcastic; for
he thought her unreasonable, unkind; and so he stabbed
her with a look to punish her.
“Mother — I think of her,” gasped the miserable
girl; “so old, with her infirmity, which every person
will not bear with, and cherish her all the more tenderly
for, as we do.” And covering her face, she shook with
a violent, convulsive breath, but did not sob.
Abel frowned at what he considered a mean insinuation
against his beautiful Faustina; and, holding the
letter in his hand, looked moodily at the fire, utterly ignorant
and regardless of the agony in the weak woman's
breast at his side. “A girl's caprice; a little trait of
envy, — angry, perhaps, because I haven't consulted her
before; but she'll be sorry for it; and if she isn't, why,
I shall be independent of her” — with such a glorious
young creature for his wife! And the young man
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selfishly calculated the slight loss it would be to him, even
if Eliza should carry her resentment so far as to leave
his house; not, of course, seriously supposing such an
event possible.
Eliza conquered her agony, uncovered her face, and
quietly resumed her work. And there they sat by the
fire, in silence, with such different thoughts! Silence
which rose like a rock in their hitherto united lives, its
hardness and coldness sundering them, — two separate
streams henceforth, with leagues of misunderstanding
and estrangement broadening between them. Did you
never feel such a rock rise between you and one you
loved? and see the stream of his future flow toward
flowery embowered vistas of hope, while yours took a
sudden plunge into some chilly, unsunned, melancholy
cave?
“Well, children,” said the old lady, waking, “I guess
I'll — night-cap!”
“Go to bed?” said Abel.
“Yes, — I believe I was almost asleep; but I didn't
quite lose myself, did I? Evenings are growing longer.
Interesting story — where did you leave off? I'm so”—
touching her forehead — “what do you call it? —
jewsharp.”
“Absent-minded,” suggested Abel.
That was the word. And so she went off to bed, trying
to recall the story they had been reading; but catching
not even a hint of the drama they had been acting
before her face. Such is life; and such are its
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spectators. Daily and nightly, in street and dwelling, even
under the roofs where we abide, and in the very rooms
where we meet to laugh and sing away the hours together,
tragedies are acting in that little theatre, the
heart, and we catch so seldom any hint of them!
Eliza conducted Mrs. Dane to her chamber; nor did
she return to sit a little while alone with Abel as usual,
but went to her own room, unlighted, and shut herself
up there with the dark and cold.
And now once more kneeling, with her throbbing head
pressed against the casement, she looked across the
bleak common, where the wild elm-boughs were swaying
in the wind, and the pallid moonlight fell. The
loose leaves rustled along the ground under the window.
The gables moaned and thrilled, and the lone
crickets sang. And remembering how lately the outdoor
desolation had enhanced her idea of life-warm
comfort within, she thought her heart would burst.
Leaves of the dying autumn! moonlight spread so
white and cold over the face of the night! crickets
and whistling wind! who gave you your power over the
human soul? and why do you pierce and wring the
heart of a poor girl, pierced and wrung enough already
with unrequited love? No wonder our forefathers
thought the moonlight fairy-haunted, and deemed the
waving elder-boughs the beckoning fingers of elves.
The next day, just a little paler than usual, but quite
self-possessed, Eliza went about her household-work.
She was the same to Abel, in most outward things, as she
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had ever been; but oh, the hidden mind! This Abel
could not see. He resented her last night's conduct, and
waited for her to come to him humbly and ask his forgiveness,
when he intended to pardon her magnanimously,
after administering a fitting rebuke, and then be again
to her the kind brother he had always been, and always
meant to be, in spite of her faults. He had even pondered
what he ought to say to her on that occasion. And in
the mean time he treated her with very proper reserve.
The days passed, the leaves all fell from the trees; it
was now November; and Eliza, having worked industriously
to prepare the house for the coming bride, when
all was done, requested Abel, one Sunday afternoon, to
grant her a few minutes' conversation. The generous
young man put aside his newspaper, and appeared quite
ready to receive her penitent confession.
“Well, Eliza, what is it?” he said, encouragingly,
trying to recall his speech.
“I thought you ought to know,” she began, in a very
low, slightly tremulous voice, “that I — am going away
to-morrow.”
Abel forgot his speech, — opened his eyes.
“Going! where?”
“I think — to Lowell.”
“To Lowell! what for? Not to stay?”
“Yes,” she answered, quietly, “if I can find work in
the mills.”
“The mills!” ejaculated Abel, frowningly. “What
are you talking of work in the mills for?”
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“Because I shall not be needed here any more, and I
must get my living.”
“Eliza,” said Abel, sternly, “you are a strange girl!
Can't you understand me? Haven't I told you that you
could always have a home here? And now what is this
absurd notion about getting your living?”
“Don't be angry. You will do very well without
me. You won't miss me, after a few days. I go to-morrow.”
Abel looked at her a minute, with fixed teeth. Her
subdued, calm, independent way exasperated him.
“You are a stubborn, ungrateful girl!”
“I hope not,” she murmured.
“To leave us at this time!” he exclaimed; though he
did not like to own that he needed her to receive and
attend his bride. “I can't understand such perverseness!”
Cut to the heart, Eliza did not answer, and he stalked
away.
What gave edge to his reproof was the consciousness
that she was acting unreasonably. Why not stay till the
wedding, and welcome the beautiful Faustina, like a
sensible girl? Simply because she could not. It was
not jealousy, but something far deeper than jealousy
that set her soul against this marriage. The entire
instinct of the woman rose up and prophesied the unsuitableness
of Abel's chosen bride. Not solely for
her own sake, but for Abel's also, and equally for
his mother's, she must regard the wedding-day as an evil
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one to them all; and to join in the festivities of that occasion,
to mask her misery with smiles, to kiss and congratulate
and witness the joy over an event which was
worse than death to her, would have been too terrible a
mockery. And so, even at the risk of seeming ungrateful
and perverse, she must depart before the bride
came.
Did you ever leave a place that had been all that
home could be to you, and go forth shivering into the
dark future? Some dreary November afternoon, you
take down the pictures from the walls which you may
never see again; empty the familiar drawers and shelves
which you will use no more, but which somebody else
to whom you give place will cheerfully occupy after
you; pull out the wretched trunk from its hiding-place,
and commence packing. Here are old letters to be destroyed.
Here are keepsakes you hardly know whether
to take with you or return, Ophelia-like, to the giver
who has “proved unkind,” they are still so precious to
you, while they make your heart so ache and sicken.
For relief you turn away and look out upon the bleak
sky of November. Small comfort you derive from the
drifts of gray clouds that lie like sandbars in the blue,
cold ocean of infinity, type of the sea you are about to
sail. It is insupportable! The very roots of your being
seem torn up by this change. How golden are the days
that are no more! How like iron the grim gates of the
morrow! Where will these miserable trifles you are
packing up be next unpacked? Upon the walls of what
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lonely room will you hang this little Madonna, and this
print of the Saviour? Among what unsympathizing
strangers will your solitary, toilsome lot be cast?
There is One who knows; and what is best for you, he
knows far better than you.
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II. MR. TASSO SMITH AND THE APJOHNS.
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“To be sure!” said John Apjohn, the cooper, entering
his house the next day, and putting his feet on the
stove, with a prodigious sigh. “It is a sad world, Prudy!
What would old Abel Dane have said, I wonder?
I'm glad we've no children. To be sure, to be sure!”
“There now! let that stove alone!” exclaimed Mrs.
Apjohn. “You burn out more wood when you are in
the house five minutes, than I do in all day.”
The meagre, shivering little man crouched over the
fire; and, glancing timidly up at the glowing face, ample
proportions, and huge arms of that warm-blooded and
superior female, his wife, who stood before him, breadknife
in hand, to see her command enforced, he discreetly
laid back in the wood-box a stick he had taken out.
“It's a cold world,” he sighed.
“So much the more need to be savin' o' fuel. We
should be in the poor-house 'fore spring if 'twan't for
me.” And Mrs. Prudence trod heavy and strong about
her work.
As she disappeared in the pantry, the cold-blooded
cooper took occasion to peep under one of the griddles;
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and he had his hand on the interdicted stick again, when
her sudden reappearance with some bowls and spoons,
caused him to drop the griddle, the stick, and the following
philosophical remark:
“Changes in this world is very wonderful.” He
rubbed his hands over the stove, and proceeded: “Who
knows but what it 'll be our turn next? I knowed old
Mis' Dane when she seemed as fur removed from trouble
as anybody. Then she lost her husband. Then she
was afflicted in her speech. And now — to be sure, to
be sure!”
“What now?” demanded Prudence. “Has anything
re'ly happened? or is it only your hypoes?”
“My hypoes? As if I didn't have reason to! Hain't
I seen 'Lizy take the stage this mornin,' goin' nobody
knows where, to 'arn a livin' amongst strangers? She's
growed jest as thin as a stave lately, and she looked like
death when I put out my hand to say good-by.”
“Why! I want to know!” said Prudence, from the
pantry. “Has she re'ly gone? Wal, I can't blame her,
as I know on, for wantin' to be 'arnin' somethin', — it's
nat'ral. — I hear that stove!”
The cooper softly closed the griddle.
“I see old Mis' Dane as I come by; thought I'd look
in; and there she was, a-cryin'. I tell ye it's too
bad!”
“I sh 'd 'most thought 'Lizy'd staid to the weddin';
most gals would,” said Mrs. Apjohn, bringing a pan of
milk from the pantry. “But probably she felt the
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necessity of doin' somethin' for herself; for Abel can't
afford to support three women in that house, massy
knows! Fustiny 'll have to put them perty hands o'
her'n into dish-water. For my part, I don't think she 's
any more fit to be Abel Dane's wife, than you be to be
president, John Apjohn.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” said John, mournfully acknowledging
the force of the comparison. “Or than
you be,” he added, “to be one of them circus-ridin' women.”
And at the quaint conceit of those immense
feminine proportions, decked out in gauze and tinsel,
balanced upon one foot on a galloping saddle, or taking a
flying leap through a hoop, the solemn face of the man
puckered into a dull, feeble smile. “To be sure!” he
cackled.
“Wal, come to dinner,” said Prudence, cutting the
bread against her bosom.
“Ain't we goin' to have nothin' but bread and
milk?” said John, imploringly.
“Bread and milk is good enough. I couldn't afford
to cook anything to-day. Here's some o' that corned
beef, and beautiful apple-sas.”
“Cold day like this, ought to have somethin' warmin',”
the cooper mildly remonstrated. “Cup o' tea, — bile
an egg; some sich thing.”
“Eggs! when we can git thirteen cents a dozen for
em!” exclaimed Prudence.
“To be sure!” And Cooper John submissively took
his seat at the uninviting board.
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“Did you hit the table then?” with a look of alarm.
“No!” said Prudence. “Wasn't it you?” Another
knock.
“There's somebody to the front door, Prudy!” gasped
the little man. “What shall we do?”
“Let 'em in, of course; they ain't robbers this time
o' day,” and she tramped ponderously through the entry.
It was not robbers the cooper feared, but some dread
messenger of fate. He was one of those timorous,
doubting souls, to whose morbid imagination life is
ever full of terror and difficulty; and even so trifling an
incident as a knock at the door has in it sometimes
something mysterious and awful. Though the most
harmless being in the world, he often thought, and often
said to his wife, when a stranger rapped, “What if that
should be the sheriff come to tell me I am arrested for a
murder or a forgery! To be sure, to be sure, Prudy!”
He was slightly relieved on this occasion to hear the
soft, simpering voice, and to see the soft, simpering face,
of a flashily dressed young fellow, with greased hair, a
tender moustache, a thick, unwholesome complexion,
pimples, and a very extensive breast-pin.
“Tasso Smith,” said Prudence, as with a curious,
amused, half-contemptuous lifting of her brow-wrinkles,
she ushered the grimacing phenomenon into the kitchen.
“Possible! Tasso! Mr. Smith!” confusedly cried
the cooper, springing to his feet, upsetting his chair behind
him, and spilling the milk from the pan with the
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jostle he gave the table. “I shouldn't have knowed
ye, you've altered so!”
The young man looked conscious of having altered
very much to his own satisfaction; and condescendingly
gave the cooper two fingers.
“Seddown, seddown,” said John, righting his chair,
and placing it for the visitor. “Don't it beat all, Prudy! —
Where did you come from, Tasso — Mr. Smith?”
for he thought he ought to mister such a smart young
gentleman, though he had known him from his babyhood.
“From the city,” grimaced Tasso.
“To be sure, to be sure!” repeated the cooper; and
regarded him wonderingly.
“Been makin' money, I guess, hain't ye, Tasso?”
said practical Mrs. Apjohn.
She stood with a shrewd sceptical smile, amusedly
perusing him; while before her sat Tasso, perfumed,
pomatumed, twirling his rattan, delightfully aware that
he was a cynosure.
“Managed to live.” He nodded significantly at Prudence.
“City 's good place for enterpris'n' young men.”
He nodded at the cooper. “Thought I'd come out 'n'
see what I could do for the ol' folks.” Crossing his
legs, he thrust his rattan into a button-hole of his blue
brass-buttoned coat, hung his hat on the toe of his
tight-fitting patent-leather boot, and pompously produced
his pocket-book. “I've called to pay — to remunerate—
you for them barrels pa had of you some
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time ago. Can you change a fifty-dollar bill?” Which
stunning proposition he uttered as if it was one of the
commonplaces of his life.
Cooper John sat right down and stared. Tasso
smoothed his moustache, and smiled. Mrs. Apjohn was
so well pleased at the prospect of the payment of a debt
she had long despaired of, that she began to regard the
cynosure with more favorable eyes.
“I declare, Tasso, I never expected you would turn
out so well. Re'ly payin' your pa's debts, be you? I
remember when you used to be around, the dirtiest, raggedest
boy 't ever I see!” She meant this for praise;
but it was gall to Mr. Smith. “And now you're payin'
your pa's debts! Think o' that, John Apjohn!” — in a
tone which conveyed a triumphant reproof to the soul
of the said J. A.; for the worthy woman had this way
of convicting her consort of his short-comings, by citing
to him illustrious examples of human conduct. “Think
of that, John Apjohn!” always meant “Now, why
don't you go and be a man like the rest of 'em?”
“To be sure, to be sure!” murmured the cooper,
feeling very much disparaged, and turning an awe-struck
glance upon the shining paragon who was paying
“his pa's debts.” “Only ten and six, I believe, the account
is.”
“With interest, it's more'n two dollars by this time,”
struck in his wife's strong treble.
“Oh, never mind interest, Prudy,” said the weak,
quavering tenor.
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“Yes, I will,” insisted Prudence. “Call it two dollars,
anyhow.”
“Sorry I hain't got no smaller bills,” said Tasso,
glancing over a handful of bank-notes. “But you can
prob'ly break a fifty.”
John and Prudence looked at each other. Then both
looked at the visitor.
“Why, if you can't do no better,” said Prudence,
hesitatingly, “I don'o' — mabby I can change it.”
It was Tasso's turn to be astonished, and he looked,
for a moment, very much as if he had no large note to
change. He reddened with embarrassment, and fumbled
his money, and presently began muttering, as he
turned each bill, —
“Hunderd, hunderd, hunderd, — I declare! don't
b'lieve got a fifty — hunderd, hunderd, — thought I had—
remember, now, paying it out. Can you break a
C.?” And he turned on the cooper a foolish smile.
John appealed to Prudence, and Prudence nodded
consent. The C. was not such cold water to her as
Tasso had hoped.
“Yes, I can break a C.!” she answered, with just
perceptible disdain. “Though you thought it would
break me, I guess.”
Tasso's smile faded; and the effort he made to appear
business-like and at ease, sweating over his bills and
wiping his red, pimply face, was odd to see. Prudence
did not give him time to raise the value of his notes to
five hundred; but, taking a key from the clock-case,
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proceeded to an adjoining room, followed by the cooper.
They left the door unlatched, and Tasso could hear busy
whisperings behind it. He got up, peeped through the
crack, and saw the thrifty couple on their knees by an
open chest, counting money. In a little while they came
out, and found their guest respectably seated, twirling
his rattan, with a serious, honest face, — bank-notes and
pocket-book having disappeared.
“I'll look at your bill, if you please,” said Prudence,
clasping a handful of money.
“Oh,” said Tasso, as if he had quite forgotten the
subject, “le' me see! Oh, yes! After you went out, I
found some small bills in my vest-pocket. Save you
the trouble.” And, fingering the said vest-pocket, he
brought to light a little, dirty, rolled-up rag of paper.
“`He put in his thumb, and pulled out a plum; and
what a brave boy was I!”' laughed Prudence, as she
scornfully unrolled the rag. “Two one-dollar bills!
Wal, that's what I call comin' down a little. Great deal
of talk for a little bit of cider.”
Tasso felt cheap. His game of brag, at which he had
been so unexpectedly beaten, had cost him more pride
and money than he could afford. He winced and simpered
and switched his stick, and said, —
“Might gi'e me back th' change, 'f you're mind to, as
pa didn't authorize me to pay no interest.”
That was too much for Prudence, already sufficiently
provoked; and she spoke hasty words, which, lodging
like evil seed in the breast of the young man Tasso, took
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root there, and grew, and in due season brought forth
bitter fruit for the future of more than one actor in our
drama.
“Idee o' your hagglin' 'bout a little interest money,
arter sech a swell with your hundred-dollar bills!”
(“Come, come, Prudy!” said her husband, deprecatingly.)
“I don't believe you've got a hunderd-dollar
bill in the world. No Smith of your breed ever had!”
(“There, there, Prudy!” said the conciliatory John.)
“You'd no more notion o' payin' that debt, when you
come into this house, than I have to fly; and you
wouldn't, if I hadn't ketched ye in a trap ye didn't suspect.”
(“Prudy, Prudy! you're sayin' too much!”
parenthesized the pale cooper.) “I ain't sayin' anything
but the truth; and he can afford to hear that,
arter all the trouble he has put me to. Here's a ninepence;
I'll divide the interest with ye, and say no more
about it.”
Tasso pocketed the ninepence and the affront, and,
white with rage, yet too much afraid of the strong, indignant
woman to give vent to it, just showed his
yellow teeth, with a sickly, malicious grin, as he put on
his hat, and went strutting under difficulties through
the entry.
“I wouldn't have had it happen, Prudy!” began the
wretched cooper.
“I would!” said Prudence, with gleaming scorn and
triumph. “Sich a heap of pretension! with that little
bit of a cane, and them nasty soaplocks, and all that
-- 029 --
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big show of one-dollar bills! I like to come up with
sich people!” And she grimly counted her money;
while Tasso, who had heard every word she said, as
he listened at the door, let himself out, and sneaked
away.
-- 030 -- p471-035
III. ABSENCE.
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
It takes a woman to read a woman. A man, especially
a lover, is apt to confide too much in the title-page,
namely, the face; although, like other title-pages, this
is often so false that its smiling promise affords scarce a
hint, to the unsophisticated, of the actual contents of the
volume.
The book of beauty which Abel Dane had chosen,
which he took out of the modest covers of maidenhood,
and bound in bridal gilt and velvet, and placed in the
closet of his affections, to be his inseparable companion
and book of life, — was now to be tested. How soon
the gilt began to tarnish, the sumptuous velvet to fade,
the contents to belie the title, and Abel to learn how
much better Eliza had discerned their true character at
a glance, than he with all his admiring attention, let
us not too closely inquire.
There were at least two individuals that mourned
Eliza's departure, and could not be comforted by Faustina's
coming. One was old Mrs. Dane; she felt that
one of her roots of life had been severed, when her
adopted daughter went, and that she was too old a
-- 031 --
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tree to put forth vigorous young fibres to supply its
place.
“Wal, old friend, how do ye git along? to be sure!”
said Cooper John, looking in upon her one day.
“Narrowing at the heel,” smiled Mrs. Dane; then
laughed at herself, for she had meant to say, “Pretty
well, I thank you, John.” “That's true, though, I suppose.
My stocking of life is fast knitting up, and I shall
soon be at the toe.”
“To be sure, yes!” the cooper snuffled, and produced
his red silk handkerchief. “We shall all go soon or
late. Dreadful changes. Heard from 'Lizy?”
“I had a wood-box from her — dear me! you know
what I mean.”
“To be sure, a letter.”
“She writes she's gone to work in the mills, and appears
to be contented; but, oh, John!”
She wept; and John wept with her; and Turk, the
house-dog, laid his great, shaggy head between his
paws, and winked sympathetically; for Turk was the
other mourner aforesaid: a faithful, grim old dog, that
would sometimes lie down before Eliza's vacant chair,
and growl at any one who approached it; or, like the
old man in the story, go about
“Wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find, — he knew not what;” —
then suddenly take it into his head to bounce up stairs,
and bark furiously at her door, as if he had at last
-- 032 --
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discovered the chest in which his Ginevra was concealed.
What was singular, not all Faustina's attentions, — feeding
him and patting him with her fair hand, — could
flatter him into forgetting his old mistress and accepting
a new one.
Mrs. Dane did not fail to answer Eliza's letter; and
others also wrote to her; for she had left behind her
many friends in the village. And now, in her lonely
retreat, she heard again and again how handsome Faustina
was, and how much she was admired, and how
happy Abel seemed, and what new furniture he had
purchased, and what a gay winter they were having,
and how almost everybody except the joyous wedded
pair often inquired for her, and sent love. And do you
suppose that, as Eliza pondered these things all day, and
day after day, to the tune of the whirling spindles, her
sharp thoughts did not sometimes whirl too, and pierce
into her soul?
So the winter passed, and the summer followed; and
she learned that now Abel had especial reason to be
tender of his bride; that he had bought a new carriage
to drive her out in; that, in his devotion, he spared no
time or trouble or expense, if a whim of hers was to be
gratified. Then came the intelligence which she had
been long prepared to hear, but which, when at last she
heard it, smote her with faintness of heart. Abel, far
from her, forgetting her entirely, no doubt, in his separate
delight, was the father of a beautiful boy.
How the child thrived, and grew to look like his
-- 033 --
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mother; how Faustina once more flashed into society,
which she dazzled by her beauty and jewels and dresses;
how envious ones reported that she was running Abel
into debt by her extravagance; how careworn he was
really beginning to look; all this, with many dark hints
of things going wrong at home, Eliza heard during the
two years that followed. But never, directly or indirectly,
did she get one word from Abel. Others invited
her to return to the village; he never invited her. His
resentment seemed eternal. And though, often and long
after, when her life had grown less lonely, her thoughts
would fly back to her old home, and her heart, despite
of her, would yearn to follow, she saw ever the iron
gates, through which she had passed, closed and barred
behind her.
But at length, one September evening, as she went
home from her work, at the door of her boarding-house
a letter was given her.
The well-known hand-writing made her tremble so
that she could scarcely break the seal. It was Abel's
hand, — changed, agitated, hurried, — but still she knew
it well.
This was the letter: —
“Come to me, Eliza. Do not remember my unkindness.
Let nothing keep you. I am in great trouble.
Come at once.
Abel.”
Terror and dread swept over her. She did not stop
-- 034 --
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to remember or to forgive. But love, like a strong
power, seized upon her, gave her strength, and guided
her hands, and sent her, the next day, whirling away
upon the train that bore her back to Abel and her home.
-- 035 -- p471-040
IV. MRS. APJOHN'S ADVENTURE.
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
And now, what stress of ill-fortune had hurried Abel
into sending this alarming missive? To answer which
question, we must go back to Tasso Smith and the Apjohns,
and to one bright, particular Sunday in this history.
A still, September day, with the peculiar sentiment
of the Sabbath breathing in the air, yellowing in the
sunshine, brooding over field and orchard almost like a
conscious presence, and filling all the silent rooms of the
house with its cool hush. The bells have ceased ringing;
the choirs have ceased singing; and the naughty
boys, sitting in the wagons under the meeting-house
sheds, can hear far off the monotonous tones of the
minister's discourse.
Abel Dane sits by his brilliant and showily-dressed
wife in their smart pew. His mother has also, by a
strong resolution and effort, got to church this afternoon,
thinking it the last Sunday of the season, and perhaps the
last Sunday of her life that she shall be able to hear the
good old man preach. On one side of this group you
may see the young man, Tasso Smith, occasionally stroking
his moustache, with a display of finger-rings, and
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
casting significant glances at Faustina; while, on the
other, his bald pate shining in the light, sits solemn John
Apjohn, choking in black cravat, rolling up his large
eyes at the preacher, and now and then drawing down
the corners of his mouth with a dismal sigh.
Prudence is not present. In the morning she can
usually endure a sermon of reasonable length; but in
the afternoon it is impossible for her to avoid the sin
of drowsiness. “The more flesh, the more frailty.”
And it is so mortifying to the sensitive John to have
to keep waking her up, in order to prevent her nodding
and snoring, that she has wisely resolved to spend
her Sunday afternoons at home.
She reads a little, sleeps a good deal, opens the till
of the chest to see that her money is safe, and perhaps
counts it over, then thinks of preparing supper. With
a basket on her arm, she visits the garden for vegetables.
She is sorry the tomatoes are poor and puny. She is
fond of tomatoes, and involuntarily looks over the fence
into Abel Dane's garden, where there are bushels of
nice, ripe ones. Before Eliza went and Faustina came,
the Danes used to give her all the vegetables she wanted;
for they always had a large garden generously cultivated,
while she had but a poor little strip of ground,
with only a shiftless husband to look after it.
“Think of that, John Apjohn!” she says to herself.
“If I only had a husband that was wuth a cent!” —
doubtless forgetting that it is not alone John's inefficiency,
but her own tight hold of the purse-strings, which
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
prevents his enriching the soil in a manner to insure
good crops. “Now, old Mis' Dane, and Abel, too, for
that matter, had jest as lives we'd have some of them
tomatuses as not. It's a pity to see 'em wasted. They
look to me to be a-rottin' on the ground. Anyway,
frost'll come and finish 'em 'fore their folks can ever use'
em up. I've a good notion jest to step over and pick a
few. They never'd know it; and John'll think they
come off'm our own vines.”
Up and down and all around she looks, and sees no
eye beholding her.
“They've all gone to meetin' 'cept the baby, and I
see Melissy take him and carry him over to her folks's.
House is all shet up, I know. Only a few tomatuses.
What's the harm, I'd like to know? I'm sure I'd
ruther any one would have my tomatuses than leave 'em
to rot on the ground. I will jest step over and take two
or three.”
“Stepping over” was a rather light and airy way of
expressing it. Did you ever see a fat woman climb a
fence, and didn't laugh? Cautiously feeling the boards
till she finds one she has confidence in; hugging the
post affectionately; tangling her knees in her skirts;
putting her elbows over the topmost board, and finally
getting one foot over; then turning around, as she
brings up the other foot; stopping a minute to arrange
skirts, then getting down backwards, very much as she
got up, — all this is in the programme. Prudence is
not nearly so spry as a eat; but, give her time, and she
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
is good for any common board-fence, provided nobody is
looking. She is particularly anxious, on this occasion,
to assure herself that nobody is looking. And so the
feat is accomplished, and she treads carefully among
the tomatoes.
Although purposing to pick only a few, they are so
large and so plenty that she fills her basket almost before
she knows it. Then, it is “sich a pity to see 'em
wasted,” she thinks she will put two or three in her
apron. For this is the subtlety of sin; that a thousand
excuses suggest themselves for taking just a little of the
forbidden fruit; then to add a little more to that little
cannot really make much difference in the offence; and
so you progress by degrees in the indulgence, till you
have not only filled your basket, but your apron also.
Stooping, with broad back to the golden sunshine and
blue Sabbath sky; holding up her apron with one hand,
and loading it with the other, she is peering among the
vines, when suddenly she is startled by a harsh growl.
In great fright she looks up and sees Turk bristling before
her.
“Massy sakes! why, Turk! don't you know me?”
“Gur-r-r-r!” answers Turk.
“Dear me!” gasps Prudence. “You never acted so
before, Turk! You never barked at me! Come, doggy!
poor fellow! poor fellow!”
She reaches out her hand coaxingly, and the brute
snaps at it. Then the soul of the woman grows sick
within her, and her knees shake. Right before her
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
stands the red-eyed, snarling monster,—between her and
the fence, between her and her basket; and what shall
she do?
“Turk, it's me, Turk! your old friend, doggy!” she
tells him.
“Can't help it!” plainly answers doggy, deep in his
thundering throat.
But he won't dare to bite her, she thinks. And, if she
dies for it, she must get out of the garden before the folks
come from meeting. She makes a charge at her basket.
Turk meets her with a terrific leap and snarl, and seizes
her apron with his teeth. Involuntarily screaming, she
retreats. She clings to the apron with her hands, he
with his jaws. She pulls one way, he tugs the other.
The string breaks. Prudence loses her hold of the
apron, and falls in the entangling tomato-vines. Turk
goes back upon his haunches, with the captured apron
in his teeth.
“I never, never! Oh, dear, dear! What shall I do?
what shall I do?” splutters Prudence, as she disengages
her feet from the vines, feels the smashed tomatoes
under her, gets up, and still sees Turk, with her apron
and basket, between her and the fence. And now she
thinks she hears the carriages coming from meeting.
The impulse is to run. And leave her basket and
apron in possession of the enemy? No, they must be
brought off from the battle-field at all hazards. Prudence
is wild, or she would never dare advance again to
the contest. Turk waits till she has reached the
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
apronstring, and begun to pull it gently, when, once more
considering it time to assume the offensive, he gives a
bound, rescues the rag, hurls her backwards to the
ground, and seats himself beside her, with his fore
paws on her dress, and his red tongue, white teeth, hot
breath, and ferocious eyes close to her face. She does
not scream; she does not attempt to rise; for when she
stirs, his growl reverberates in her ear, and she feels his
moist muzzle wetting her throat.
A sad predicament for a respectable woman, isn't it?
Oh, what would she give if she had only stayed in her
own garden, and never cast covetous eyes at her neighbor's?
If she only had her apron and basket safe and
empty the other side of the fence, would she ever, ever
do such a thing again? Never, never!
“Turk, Turk, good doggy!” she pleads, in her desperation,
“do let me go! Only this time, Turk! I
never will agin! Please do, that's a nice dog, now!”
But the inexorable Turk glares over her, looking greedily
up the road, and listening, not to her entreaties, but
to the sound of the approaching wheels. And there we
may as well leave her, for the present, to her interesting
reflections.
-- 041 -- p471-046
V. COOPER JOHN TO THE RESCUE.
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
The meetings are indeed out; the wagons have begun
to go by, and now the feet of scattered pedestrians clatter
along the wooden village sidewalks. A happy throng!
they who ride and they who walk; those in fine silks
and broadcloth, and those in cheap prints and homespun;
verily all are blessed whom the sun shines upon this
day, except one. If you are not lying on your back
among your neighbor's vines, with your neighbor's
watch-dog growling at your throat, what more felicity
can you desire?
There goes, with the rest, the sweet youth, Tasso
Smith, elegantly strutting. If he but knew! Behind
him — curious contrast! — walks the meek John Apjohn,
choking in his Sunday cravat, winking over it,
ever and anon, with his melancholy eyes, and screwing
his mouth into a serious one-sided twist, as he goes pondering
awful things. He passes within a stone's throw
of the crushed tomatoes, whose juice is oozing out from
under Mrs. Apjohn's unhappy shoulder-blades, but sees
not the pleasing sight for the intervening cabbages.
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
And now Prudence, where she lies, can hear the familiar
sound of her own gate slammed. John has got home.
“To be sure, Prudy!” begins the cooper, as he enters
the house, carefully laying off his black hat the first
thing, and giving it a final polish with his red silk before
putting it away for the week. “Them was two dreadful
good sermons to-day. Desperate smart man, old Mr.
Hardwell, — as feeling a preacher as ever I sot under.
You should have heard him dwell upon the vanities of
this world this arternoon! All our pride and selfishness,
and what we call the good things of life, where'll they
all be in a few years?” he said. “You ought to have
heard him, Prudy; to be sure! to be sure!”
Indeed, Prudy would give anything just now if she
had heard him; even if she were but present to hear her
worthy John! How free-hearted and beatified she
would feel if she were at this moment taking off her silk
dress after church, instead of spoiling her calico gown
down there among the tomatoes!
“Why, where be you, Prudy?” says John, entering
the bedroom; for he had surely thought she was there,
not finding her in the kitchen. Still not much alarmed,
he takes off his Sunday coat and cravat; and having
laid the one away in a drawer, and hung the other up in
the closet, he feels more comfortable. “Prudy,” he
calls, “are you there?” putting his polished little head
up the unanswering stair-way.
No Prudence in the house, no Prudence in the garden,
where her husband looks next. What can it all
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
mean? It is one of those little mysteries that appall the
imaginative John. He remembers that the back-door of
the house was open when he came in. The stove is
filled with fuel just ready to kindle. A fresh pail of
water has been drawn. The cloth is on the table. But
where is Mrs. Apjohn? Pale, at the wood-pile, the
cooper stands and startles the Sabbath stillness by feebly
trilling her name.
“Pru-d-u-n-ce!”
“D-u-n-ce!” echoes Abel Dane's shop, as if it were
laughing at him.
But what is that? Another voice! a faint, far-off,
stifled scream.
“John! John! help!”
“Where be ye?” cries the terrified John.
“Here!” says the voice.
It sounds as if it were in the well. Prudence in the
well! In an instant the cooper's vivid fancy pictures
that excellent and large-sized woman fallen, head-foremost
and heels upward, into the deep and narrow
cavity. How can she ever be got out? A rope tied
round her heels and several men strenuously hoisting, is
the image which flashes through his brain. He is at the
curb in a second; peering fearfully in, with his eyes
shaded by his hands; but making no discovery there, except
the silhouette of himself projected black upon the
glimmering reflection of the sky in the placid water.
“John! come quick!” calls the muffled voice again.
On the roof of the house this time! How came
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
Prudence on the roof of the house? To run over to Abel
Dane's and borrow a long carpenter's ladder is John's
first thought. To get a good view of the roof, his next.
To this end he hastens down into the garden, and is
standing on tiptoe to discover Prudence on the ridgepole,
when once more calls the voice, this time unmistakably
behind him, —.
“Where be ye? and what's the matter?” gasps the
cooper, gazing all around in vain.
“Here I am, and you'll see what's the matter. Don't
make no noise, but come as quick as you can, and git
away this horrid dog!”
Then John Apjohn, rushing to the fence, sees the
prostrate woman, and sedentary dog, and the guilty tomatoes, —
some in the apron and basket, and some on
the ground. He clings to the fence, bareheaded, in his
shirt-sleeves, white as any cheese-curd, by trembling and
ghastliness quite overcome, and uttering not a word.
“Quick, I say!” cries Prudence on her back. “Take
off this dog, and I'll tell ye all about it by'm'by.”
Over the fence tumbles the astonished cooper. But
to take off the dog is not so easy a matter. Turk is
averse to being taken off. He glares and growls and
snaps at the little man, as if he would swallow him.
“I can't, Prudy!” falters John, retreating.
“Ketch right hold of him!” commands Prudence.
“Choke him! pull him!”
“I da'sn't!” articulates John.
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
“If I had a man for a husband!” exclaimed Prudence.
“Git a club! Kill the brute!”
“To be sure! to be sure!” and John starts to find a
club. There is a pole leaning on an apple-tree near by.
He secures it, and hurries back to stir up Turk. The
combat begins, with John at one end of the pole and
Turk at the other. Turk seizes his end with his teeth;
John holds his in his hands; and there they stand.
Turk growls to make John let go; John shooes and steboys
to make Turk let go.
“Pull it away from him!” exclaims Prudence.
John pulls till he has dragged the dog half across the
good woman's waist, when, as it would seem, the sagacious
brute, seeing a chance for a fine strategic effect,
suddenly releases his grip, and leaves the pole with the
cooper, who loses his balance, staggers backward rapidly,
and sits down, with his Sunday trousers, in an
over-ripe muskmelon.
“Now take the pole,” says the commander-in-chief,
“and knock him on the head with it, hard!”
“I shall hit you!” utters John.
“Never mind me!” says the resolute Prudy.
Up goes the pole, unsteadily and slow.
“Ready?” says John.
“Yes; strike!”
And down comes the heavy, unwiedly weapon. Turk
sees it descending to damage him, and considers it honorable,
under the circumstances, to dodge. He is out
of the way before the radius has passed through one
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
half the arc; but the momentum of the stroke is such
that it is impossible for the cooper to stay his hold; and
the blow alights upon Mrs. Apjohn's stomach.
“Ugh!” says Mrs. Apjohn.
“Now I've killed ye!” exclaims John, despairingly,
throwing away the weapon.
“Don't ye know no better'n to be murderin' me 'stid
of the dog?” cries Prudy.
“I didn't mean to!” murmurs the wretched man.
“Broke any ribs, think?”
“I don't care for my ribs, if I could only — Oh, dear!
why can't ye beat off this dog? Empty out them tomatuses,
and throw the basket over the fence, anyway.
And give me my apron. Quick!”
But Turk, also, has something to say about that.
Neither apron nor basket shall John touch; they are
confiscated.
“How come the tomatuses in the basket? in your
apron?” asks the cooper. “O Prudy, Prudy! To be
sure! to be sure!”
“Wal! wal! wal!” chafes the impatient woman.
“I s'pose I'm to lay here till doomsday, or till Abel's
folks come home. There they come now, — don't
they?”
“Yes,” answers the cooper. “They're late, on the
old lady's account. I'll tell Abel to come and call off
his dog.”
“Don't ye for the world! Squat right down; mabby
they wont see us!”
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
“What! ye don't re'ly mean to say you — you've
been — hooking the tomatuses?” For hitherto John
has indulged a feeble hope that the affair could be honorably
explained.
“Squat down, I say!” And John squats, hugging
his knees, with his chin between them, — as ludicrous a
picture of dismay and terror as was ever seen. He
feels like a thief; he knows he looks like a thief; and
the storm of calamity and disgrace, which he has imagined
impending above his little bare, bald head so
long, he is sure is now going to burst.
And there the three wait, — Turk guarding both his
prisoner and the prizes; for the basket and apron are so
near that he can protect them without letting Prudence up.
“Prudy!” whispers John.
“What!” mutters Prudy.
“It's dreadful! it's dreadful!” moans John.
“Hold your tongue!” says Prudy.
The cooper sinks his chin still lower between his knees,
sighing miserably.
“Prudy!” — after a long pause.
“What do you want now?”
“I wish you'd gone to meetin' this arternoon, Prudy!”
“You can't wish so any more'n I do!”
“If you had only heard that sermon, Prudy!”
“Stop your noise about the sermon!”
Another long pause.
“Prudy!”
“Well! what?”
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
“I wish I was dead! — don't you?”
“I wish this dog was dead!”
Upon which, to convince them that he is not nor anything
like it, Turk begins to bark.
“It's all over now!” says Prudence.
John feels that there is nothing left him but suicide.
He can never confront Abel Dane after this; so he looks
about him for something on which to beat out his brains.
No convenient and comfortable object for the purpose
meets his eye, but a good big squash. And before he
has time to consider which may prove the softer of the
two, his pate or the vegetable, in case of a collision, he
hears a foot in the grass. He twists his neck around on
his shoulders, as he crouches, softly turns up his timid
glance over the cabbages, and beholds the dreaded visage
of Abel Dane.
Abel stops and gazes, too much amazed to speak.
Turk wags his tail, and looks wistfully for approbation
of his exploit.
“Come here, Turk!” says the severe voice of Abel.
With ill-concealed misgivings, Turk takes his paws off
his captive's calico, drops his head between his fore legs,
and his tail between his hind legs, and cringes at his
master's feet.
Cooper John, having once turned round his head,
softly turns it back again, and sits as still, in his former
toad-like posture, as if he had seen the face of a Gorgon,
with the old-fashioned result. Only the rear slope of his
little, shining bald crown, his broad, striped suspenders
-- 049 --
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crossed behind over the back of his clean Sunday shirt,
and a section of the Sunday trousers, bearing the imprint
of the aforesaid over-ripe melon, are visible to the
wondering eyes of Abel.
As for Prudence, she loses no time, but gathers herself
up as soon as Turk permits, and begins hurriedly
to shake and brush her gown.
“Wal, Abel Dane, this is a pooty sight for Sunday,
I 'spose you think! And so it is!” flirting violently,
and speaking as if he had done her an injury. “And I
want to know, now, if you think it's neighborly to keep
a brute like that, to tear folks to pieces that jest set a
foot on to your premises? For here he's kep' me
groanin' on my back an hour, if he has a minute.” Then,
turning sharply to her husband: “John Apjohn! what
are ye shirkin' there for?”
Thus summoned, the petrified man limbers, and rises
slowly upon his miserable feet; glancing, with those
woe-begone, large eyes of his, first at his wife, then at
Abel Dane, and lastly at the fliched tomatoes.
“I am sorry,” says Abel, “if my dog has put you to
any inconvenience. He didn't bite you, I hope!”
“No! well for him!” exclaims Prudence, red and
embarrassed, but trying still to pass the affair off with a
brave air. “The fact is jest this, Abel Dane: if you
begrutch me a few tomatuses, it's what your father never
done before ye, and I never expected it of you; and I'll
cheerfully pay you for 'em, if you'll accept of any pay;
and my husband here knows I only jest stepped over
-- 050 --
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the fence to save a few that was bein' wasted, which I
thought was sech a pity, and you'd jest as lives we'd
have 'em; and I meant all the time to tell ye I took
some, when that plaguy dog!” —
Here, having poured forth these words in a wild and
agitated manner, the worthy woman broke down, and
wept and sobbed, and continued confusedly to brush her
gown. John stood by and groaned.
“Well, well, neighbors,” said Abel, “you're quite
welcome to the tomatoes. I haven't known what I
should do with 'em all, and I'm glad to get rid of 'em.
If you had come in through the gate, Turk wouldn't
have meddled with you.”
As he spoke, kindly and consolingly, Prudence only
cried the more, and blindly flirted her skirts; while
John, wretchedly bent, with a supplicating countenance,
approached his neighbor.
“Abel Dane,” said he, in a voice scarcely audible, it
was so weak and hoarse, “me and you've knowed each
other ever sence you was a child, and I knowed your
father 'fore ever you was born; and I believe I've always
had an honest name with you till now.”
“And so you have now, Mr. Apjohn,” said Abel,
cheeringly. “Don't let a little thing like this trouble
you. I understand you,” — and he shook the cooper's
helpless, cold hand with genuine cordiality.
“Thank ye, thank ye; to be sure!” murmured John.
I am an honest man; and, though things don't look jest
right, I own, yet you know, Abel Dane, I'd no more be
-- 051 --
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guilty of takin' anything that didn't belong to me than
I would cut my own head off.”
Abel, pitying him sincerely, and seeing well enough
that this poor, shaking creature was innocent, whoever
was guilty, assured him again and again of his confidence
and good-will.
“Thank ye, thank ye; to be sure, to be sure!” said
John, gratefully, hunting in vain in his pockets and on
the ground for his red silk handkerchief to wipe his
eyes with. “And, if 'twon't be too much, I've one
request to make. 'Twould make talk if it should be
known, and we would never hear the last on't, probably;
and I'd ruther die at once than be pinted at.”
“I promise you,” interrupted Abel, “nobody shall
ever hear of it from me. Never fear; you won't be
pointed at. Now let's say no more about the matter.
Here are your tomatoes, Mrs. Apjohn; and, whenever
you want any more, you've only to come in through the
gate and get them.”
“I declare!” gulped the woman; “I've no words,
Abel! And, if you will be so kind as never to mention
it, I'll be so much obleeged!”
“I never will. So that's settled.” And Abel hurried
them away; for he saw Faustina approaching.
John took the basket of tomatoes, heavily against his
will, and Prudence, with a sick heart, gathered up her
apron with its original contents; for it would not do to
refuse the gift which she was willing to take before it
was given. And so, dejected and chagrined, making
-- 052 --
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sickly attempts to utter their thanks to Abel and to be
civil to Faustina, who came out, splendid in silk, and
stared at them, the cooper and his wife departed through
the gate, and went home to their waiting, vacant house,
every room of which seemed conscious of the shame
that had befallen them, and the very atmosphere to be
heavy and depressed therewith.
-- 053 -- p471-058
VI. SUNDAY EVENING AT ABEL'S.
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
“Abel,” said the astonished Faustina, “what has
happened to Mrs. Apjohn?”
The cooper and his wife were hardly yet out of hearing,
and, as Abel walked slowly toward his own door,
with the beautiful face in the beautiful bonnet by his
side, he shook his head and was silent.
“Who told them they could have the tomatoes?”
Faustina insisted.
“I did,” said Abel.
“But what has she been down in the dirt for? And
what makes 'em both look so like death? Come, I am
dying to know!”
Faustina had one of those restless minds which crave
excitement, and which, having no solid food of thought
or occupation, keep the appetite of curiosity continually
whetted for such slight morsels of village gossip as you,
of course, sage reader, hold in disdain. Abel saw at
once how difficult it would be to hide the secret from
her.
“You didn't give them liberty to take the tomatoes,—
did you?” she questioned, suspiciously.
-- 054 --
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“Yes,” said he, resolving to trust her, and relying
upon her discretion. “Mrs. Apjohn had got a little the
start of me, however, and helped herself before I came.”
“Stealing!” ejaculated Faustina.
“Absurd!” answered Abel. “She intended, of course,
to tell us what she had done; but, unluckily, Turk interfered,
and rather disconcerted the poor woman by
keeping her on her back, as she declares, a full hour.”
The handsome face grew excited.
“But it was stealing! What right had she? Such
people ought to be exposed at once, and made an example
of.”
“On the contrary, my dear, I look upon it as a very
unfortunate affair. The less said about it the better,
and I pledged my word to them never to speak of it.”
“You did, did you!” said Faustina, indignantly.
“The idea of letting a thief off that way!”
Abel sighed, as he did very often lately; and the
weary, care-worn look he gave his wife was nothing
new.
“I don't think she meant to steal, I tell you,” he said,
with some impatience. “And if she did, I wouldn't tell
of it. What should I ruin a poor woman's reputation
for, when it is probable she never did such a thing before,
and would never do it again?”
“You are mighty easy with such folks, seems to me.
For my part, I am not. I say they ought to be punished.”
“Let him that is without sin, cast a stone; I will not.
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
It isn't at all likely,” added Abel, “that you or I will
ever be tempted to commit so foolish a trespass. But
are we never guilty of anything we need to be forgiven
for? In this case, if only for Cooper John's sake, I
would hush up the affair. I pity him from the bottom of
my heart. His wife might survive an exposure, but
it would kill him. So remember that my word is
pledged.”
Faustina sneered. She was not so very beautiful
then. And as Abel looked at her, he saw, as he had seen
many times before when he had refused to credit his
perceptions, that there was no beauty of soul, no informing
loveliness, in that fair shape; and that hers was a
shallow, selfish, merely brilliant face at the best.
They entered the house, — a far more showy dwelling
now than when Eliza left it, but to Abel a home no
longer. The atmosphere of comfort and content was
wanting. For houses, like individuals, have their atmosphere,
and a sensitive soul entering your abode can discern,
before he speaks with its inmates, whether harmony
and blessedness dwell there, or whether it is the lodging
of discord and mean thoughts.
Proud and stern as he was, Abel could not hide from
himself how much he missed his foster-sister. He
missed that even and gentle management of his household
affairs, which he had never known how to prize
until her place was filled by an extravagant wife and
wasteful servants. He felt the need of her sympathy
and counsel in the worldly troubles that were thickening
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
upon him; for, somehow, he could never open his heart
one these subjects to Faustina. The holes in his socks,
the wandering shirt-buttons, the heavy bread, the want
of neatness and order from cellar to garret, reminded
him daily of his loss. In his mother's face he saw, under
a thin veil of cheerfulness, perpetual sorrow for
Eliza's absence. When he came home to his meals, he
thought of the tender spirit that had welcomed him
once. And in the evening he remembered with regret
the books they used to read together. Faustina did not
like to read, and no book had power to interest her, unless
it were one of those high-wrought fictions, romances
of unreal life, which disgusted Abel.
What she liked was company. Every evening, to
please her, they must go out somewhere, or have callers
and cards at home, and the small talk of some such nice
young man as Tasso Smith. Abel hated Tasso Smith.
“I like him,” Faustina would say, with a little toss of
her head, which added, as plainly as words could do,
“and that settles it.”
So Tasso, when he was in town, frequently favored
the Danes with his choice company. Faustina expects
him this Sabbath evening. She is irritable and restless.
“Go to your father, do!” she says to little Ebby, who
is pulling her dress, and begging to be taken up. Grief
swells the baby face at the repulse; and he hastens for
refuge and comfort to his father's bosom.
And now, suddenly, having had a glimpse of a visitor
from the window, Faustina's discontented brow lights
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
up. Abel's countenance, a moment since, gentle and
tender, darkens as suddenly when the nice young man
walks in.
“Goin' by, thought I'd look in, see how you liked
the disquisition 's aft'noon,” says Tasso, munching his
words and grimacing.
“I do wish the minister wouldn't have so much to say
about extravagance in dress!” exclaims Faustina.
“If we can't go to heaven in decent clo'es, what's
the use?” says Tasso, stroking the moustache, and
showing the finger-rings.
“Besides,” adds the lady, “I don't think the dresses
in our society are much to brag of, anyway. Taken as
a set, they are the homeliest women, and the worst
dressed women I ever saw.”
“One or two 'xceptions, could mention,” responds
Tasso, with a flattering simper.
“There's Mrs. Grasper's bonnet, — what a fright!”
“That's so! Looks like a last year's bird's nest,
feathers left in. Do to go with her shawl, though. Same
shawl Grasper used last winter for a hoss-blanket; 'pon
my honor; hi, hi, hi!” giggles Mr. Smith, twisting his
ear-locks. “How je like the disquisition, t'-day?” patronizingly,
to the old lady.
She smiled placidly, and, struggling a moment with
her organs of speech, which refused at first to articulate,
she observed, —
“`Withdraw thy foot from thy neighbor's house, lest
he be weary of thee,”'
-- 058 --
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The text happened to be in her mind, and when she
opened her mouth to give Tasso a civil answer, it leaped
out. She tried to catch it, but it was gone. And it
seemed such a decided hit at Tasso, that he could do
nothing but look confused and silly, while Faustina reddened
with resentment, and Abel just lifted his eyebrows
with a smile of surly humor.
“Excuse me, Mr. Squash,” the kind old lady hastened
to say. That did not mend the matter; and she frowned
and shook her head at herself with good-natured impatience.
“Mr. Smith! — there, now I've got it! I meant
to say, I think the minister gave us, this afternoon, one
of his very best fricassees — no — what is the word?”
“Sermons, I call them,” said Abel. “Tasso calls them
disquisitions.”
“One of the best sermons I ever heard,” added the
old lady; “and probably the last I shall ever hear.”
“Old Deacon Judd 'peared to like it,” said Tasso, rallying.
“Je see his mouth stand open? Ye c'd 'a' drove
in a good-sized carriage, and turned around. — Fricassees!”
he whispered aside to Faustina, and tittered.
“Mrs. Judd's ribbons took my eye!” said Faustina.
“They look like pine shavings nailed to a well-sweep!”
added Tasso. “Ye mind what a long neck she's got?
Most extensive curvical appendage, ye und'stand, they
is in town. Comes by stretching it up every Sunday
so's't she can hear the minister; deaf, I 'spose. It's so
long a'ready, she has to get up on to a barrel to tie her
bunnit.” He whispered again, “Fricassees!” and
snickered as before.
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
Abel, weary of this unworthy Sunday-evening talk,
and perceiving that his mother was a subject of ridicule,
felt his wrath boiling up within him.
“Jim Locke's bought him a melodeon,” was the next
theme started by Tasso.
“What for? He never can learn to play!”
“He? no! soft! Think of Jim Locke with a melodeon,
Abel!”
“And why not?” sternly demanded Abel.
“Pshaw!” said Tasso; “he don't want a melodeon,
more'n a dog wants a walking-stick.”
“And why shouldn't a dog have a walking-stick, as
well as a puppy?” And Abel glanced contemptuously
at Mr. Smith's rattan.
Melissa, the servant, now came to help the old lady to
bed; performing, as well as such unsympathizing hands
could, the task which always painfully reminded both
Abel and his mother of Eliza. And now, Abel, full of
ire and spleen, arose and left the room, hugging little
Ebby in his arms.
“Crusty t'-night. What's the matter?” whispered
Tasso.
“I don't know. Nothing pleases him,” sighed Faustina.
“Don't believe that, now.”
“Don't believe it? why?”
“'Cause,” simpered the eloquent youth, “there ain't a
man in the world you can't please, though he was as
cross as seven bears.”
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
She sighed again, and regarded her visitor gratefully.
“Did you ever see such a tiresome old woman?
Don't care if I do say it!” she exclaimed. “And he
thinks I ought to be thankful for the privilege of having
her in the house.”
“Fricassees!” said Tasso.
“He don't like company, and thinks I ought to settle
down and be a dull old woman with her, and never see
anybody else from one year's end to the other.” The
pretty face pouted. “In such a stupid place as this!”
“Ought to be thankful for such near neighbors.”
Tasso never neglected an opportunity to speak disparagingly
of the Apjohns. “Interesting! I could tell a
story!”
“So could I.” Faustina laughed. “Some of our
neighbors are extravagantly fond of tomatoes.”
“Do tell! How fond?”
“Oh, enough so that they don't mind getting over
fences into other folks' gardens, and helping themselves!”
“You don't say!” cried Tasso, eagerly.
“Of course I don't; for I was told not to. And you
mustn't let Abel know I've hinted a word about it, nor
any one else. What do you suppose we found when we
came home from meeting to-day?”
“Something funny, I bet! Give us the story!
Come!”
“Will you give me yours? You said you could tell
one.”
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
Tasso promised.
“But then,” laughed Faustina, “Abel charged me
strictly not to mention how we found Mrs. Apjohn on
her back among the tomatoes, her apron and basket
well filled, and honest Turk holding her down, while
John skulked behind the cabbages.”
Tasso was so delighted that he jumped up, clapped
his hands, and laughed with unbounded glee.
“Oh, that's too good! it kills me! Oh, no! I'll never
mention it, if you say so. But wouldn't I have been
tickled to have been there?”
“Now, what's your story?”
“I don't dare to tell it now; you won't believe me.
You won't believe these poor people, who steal their
neighbor's tomatoes, are — misers!” whispered Tasso.
“Nonsense!”
“It's so, I tell ye. Perfect misers! Rich as Jews!
Keep a pile of money in the house all the time, and nobody
knows how much more in the bank!”
“How do you know that?”
“I'll tell ye. 'Bout the time you was married, —
united in the bonds of high menial blessedness, y'understand,
with your amiable consort, — hem! — 'bout
that time I'd just come out fr'm the city, toler'ble flush,
so I thought I'd look into Apjohn's and pay him some
money father was owing him, — compensation for work,
ye know. Well, so happened I had some large bills;
and so I thought I'd bother Cooper John a little, and
asked him to change a C., — y'understand, a hundred.
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
By George! I never was so surprised 's I was when
Mrs. Apjohn took a key from the clock-case, and went
into the bedroom, and, after jingling silver and counting
bills there for five minutes, brought out change for my
hundred-dollar note! It's so,” said Tasso, as Faustina
appeared incredulous. “I never told on't before, fear
somebody'd rob the old misers. Now, by George, since
they've hooked your tomatoes, I don't care whether
they get robbed or not! I can tell you just where they
keep their treasure,” — and Tasso specified the chest-till.
“Yes,” said Faustina, “very pleasant weather indeed,”
as Abel, having tucked Ebby away in his crib,
reëntered the room and sat down.
-- 063 -- p471-068
VII. MR. SMITH'S FRIEND'S JEWELS.
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
More than one cause was operating, that Sunday
evening, to make Abel appear, as Tasso expressed it,
crusty. The cheerlessness of his home was nothing
new. These frivolities of the evening had long since
usurped the place of the good old-fashioned readings
and social comforts. He had become accustomed to
seeing Faustina's features light up with animation at
the silly conceits of Mr. Smith, and he was not jealous.
But now there was a new burden on his mind; his pecuniary
troubles were culminating. Not long after his
marriage he had been obliged to mortgage his house.
Since then his debts had been constantly increasing.
He had many times been sorely pushed to meet his liabilities;
but never had he seen a darker week before
him than this which was coming.
He slept little that night. Monday dawned. After a
light slumber, the gray morning beam stole in upon
him, and with it came the thought of the payments
which he could devise no means of making. A tide of
restlessness tossed him. He looked at the beautiful
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
being by his side. She was sleeping a heavy, most unspiritual
sleep.
“Oh! if she would only sympathize with me and help
me,” thought Abel, “I could bear anything; but she
doesn't care. I have been too indulgent to her; I could
refuse her nothing, and so I am deep in debt.” He
glanced at their sleeping child. “For your sake, little
one, I will be a braver and stronger man in future!”
He arose. His movements in the room awoke Faustina.
“Are you going, Abel?”
“I have a hard week's work before me, and I must
begin it,” he answered.
“O Abel! I don't feel very well, and I don't know as
I shall get up to breakfast; but can't you leave me a
little money before you go?”
“How much?”
“Oh, ten, or fifteen, or twenty dollars, — I don't care.”
A bitter smile contorted Abel's face. “For what?”
he asked.
“I am going into the village, by-and-by, and I always
see so many things I want; and I haven't had any money
to spend for myself for ever so long. I must have me a
dress right away,” she said complainingly.
“Don't you know well enough,” demanded Abel,
“that I am harassed almost to death with money-matters
already? Haven't I told you that I have no more
idea than a man in his grave how I am to raise half
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
enough to pay what must be paid this week? And you
talk to me of new dresses!”
When he was gone, Faustina consoled herself with
the reflection that he was the cruelest husband and she
the most injured wife in the world; sighed to think she
couldn't have a new dress immediately, and went to
sleep again.
For three days Abel struggled manfully with the
obstacles in his way; and when his utmost was done, he
wanted still a hundred dollars to make up the necessary
amount. A small sum to you, flush reader, but an
immense one at that time to Abel Dane. But on the
fourth day he entered the house with tears of joy in his
eyes.
“What good news?” asked his mother.
“A miracle!” exclaimed Abel. “I will never lose
my faith in Providence again. Just as my last resources
were exhausted, and I had given up all hope,
what should come to me, in a blank envelope from Boston,
but a draft for a hundred dollars!”
Faustina, who had not yet got over the feeling that he
was an inhuman husband and she an injured wife, and
did not neglect to manifest, by her morose conduct, how
much she was aggrieved, was almost surprised out of
her sulkiness by this strange announcement.
“Who sent it?” she inquired.
“I have not the remotest suspicion; but whoever he
may be, he has saved me from ruin.”
Whilst he was putting the draft away in the drawer
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
which contained the money he had raised, and his
mother was inwardly offering up a prayer of thankfulness
for this favor to her son, Faustina was saying to
herself, “Well, I should think he might let me have a
new dress now, if I have to run in debt for it.”
Poor Faustina! let us not blame her too severely.
Her beauty was her misfortune. It was that which had
spoiled her. From her childhood, flattery and the unwise
indulgence of over-careful friends, had instilled
into her the pernicious belief that she was the fairest and
choicest of God's creatures, and that it was the duty of
everybody to administer to her pleasures, while it was
her privilege to think only of herself. She had never in
her life known what it was to make a sacrifice. The
blessed habit of helping others,— of forgetting one's own
happiness in caring for the happiness of others, — this
unfortunately fortunate beauty had never learned. No
doubt she had in her soul germs of noble womanhood,
which affliction, and wise kindness on the part of her
teachers, might have developed. But, as it was, she had
grown up to be a child still, with the proportions of a
woman, unreasonable, self-willed, with a mind undisciplined,
and impulses uncontrolled.
That forenoon Tasso Smith called. He found Faustina
with her hair in curl-papers.
“Got sumthin' t' show ye; sumthin' nice, or I
wouldn't have took the trouble. How's tomatoes? and
how's fricassees?” he chuckled, as he undid a package.
“Friend of mine's got some jewelry he wants to raise
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
money on, and he sent some of it to me. You know
what jewelry is; so, just for curiosity, thought I'd bring
it over.”
“Oh-oh-h — splendid!” cries the enraptured Faustina.
“That's the most magnificent bracelet I ever
saw. O Tasso! you must give me that bracelet!”
“Most happy, if 'twas only mine,” smiles the sweet
young man. “Just the thing for you, Faustiny!” He
clasped it on her too willing arm. “By George! ain't
it a stunner? Didn't know it was so splendid, by
George! Takes a beautiful arm to show off a fine
bracelet like that.”
Faustina's cheeks were kindling, and her eyes began
to burn. Jewelry was an intoxication to the poor
child. She passed before the glass with her jewelled
arm gracefully folded beneath her breast. “O Tasso!
I must have this bracelet, some way! Come, you never
gave me anything in your life. All my friends make me
presents but you,” poutingly.
“I'd give ye the set that goes with it, if I could.
By George! if you was my wife, Faustiny, — 'xcuse me
for saying it, — I'd make ye sparkle till men's eyes
watered! If Abel was only a man of taste!”
“Don't talk of Abel. Taste!” said Faustina, scornfully;
and she sighed and caressed the bracelet.
“What did a plodding fellow like him ever marry
such a lady as you are for?” said the insinuating Tasso.
“He don't want a brilliant wife, no more'n a toad wants
a side-pocket. You ought to be the lady of some man
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
of taste and enterprise, — see the world, and not live
cooped up here.”
“Hold your tongue, Tasso Smith!” cried she, with
flashing eyes. “You make me wild. Do you think I
don't know what I might have been, and that I like
to be reminded of it?” Yet it was evident that she was
not displeased; and Tasso knew that his flatteries were
wine to her ambitious heart.
“Here, put 'em all on,” said he. “That's a love of a
pin!”
“Oh, it is! And those ear-rings, — what beauties!
Tasso, you make me crazy showing me these things.
Oh, if I had some money!”
“They can be had dog-cheap,” Mr. Smith observed.
“It's a rare chance for anybody that wants such a set of
jewels. They won't become everybody, you know.
Takes a woman of style to wear such things. It's nothing
to me, — I've nothing to gain by it, — but I should
like to see you in them sparkling gems. I tell ye, that
bracelet is a screamer! Why don't ye buy 'em?”
“Buy them?” repeated Faustina, tremblingly. “I
wish I could! What do they cost?”
“That bracelet and the set together retails for a hunderd
dollars in Boston. The lowest wholesale price is
sixty, and they cost my friend about that. He wants
me to get sixty for 'em if I can; but, if you like, I'll
take the responsibility and let you have 'em for fifty.
If he ain't satisfied, why, 'twon't be but a few dollars difference,
and I'll make it up to him.”
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
“Fifty dollars!” sighed Faustina. “Oh, I can't buy'
em, Tasso.”
“Sorry,” said Tasso. “You never'll have another
such a chance. You might go all over Boston, and you
couldn't find another such set as that for less 'n ninety
dollars, 't the very lowest. I don't care so much about'
commodatin' my friend, as I do to see you wear somethin'
that becomes you.” He watched her cunningly.
“Well, I suppose I must be going; for I must write to
town by the next mail, and either send back the jewels
or the money.”
The thought of giving up those precious ornaments
was too much for Faustina.
“I'll keep them,” said she, “and pay you as soon as I
can get the money of my husband.”
“If 'twas my affair, I'd give ye as long a time to pay
for 'em as you want,” replied the smooth-tongued
Smith; “but my friend's only object in disposing of 'em
for any such low price is to raise money the quickest
possible. I don't happen to have the funds to spare jest
now, myself, or I'd 'commodate ye. You may never
come acrost another such a set of gems; for there's very
little such gold in the market; not to speak of the stones,
which are re'l Berzil di'muns.”
“What's fifty dollars?” suddenly burst forth Faustina,
in one of her ungovernable impulses. “I'll take
them, Tasso! I may as well have something now and
then to make life pleasant, as to live in constant
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
submission to — I hate the grovelling necessities of life, and I
won't be a slave to them any longer!”
What she meant by these wild words, Tasso did not
know nor care to know. His mind was fixed on the
sale of his fictitious friend's very fictitious gold and
“di'muns;” and when he saw her sweep from the room,
impetuously, and presently sweep back again with a
fifty-dollar bank-note in her hand, he was content, without
raising any more questions.
“There, my beauty!” said he, “though I've no personal
interest in the matter, allow me to congratulate you on
securing a bargain, which wouldn't happen to you again
prob'bly in a lifetime. And now, I must hurry and get
this bill into a letter, and mail it to my friend, — enclose
it t' my correspondent, y' understand; — bless me, by
George!” looking at his watch, which, by the way, did
not go, being pinchbeck, like the rest of his jewelry,
“I've scarcely time to get around now! Good-by!”
He was gone almost before she knew it. Then, looking
once more at the ornaments he had left upon her
person, remembering Abel and his payments, and realizing
fully, for the first time, what she had done, a guilty
fear came over her, and she ran to call Tasso back.
Too late; he was already out of sight.
-- 071 -- p471-076
VIII. FAUSTINA'S TANGLED WEB.
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
“A weight like a mountain has been taken from my
mind!” exclaimed Abel, coming in to dinner. “I don't
see how I could raise another dollar without putting up
my goods at auction. What I should have done but
for the draft which came this morning, I don't know, —
yes I do, too; I should have been a bankrupt for the want
of a hundred dollars. To have been fifty dollars short
would have been just as bad. I have seen Mr. Hodge
to-day, and he says he must have the money without
fail. I am to see him this evening and have a settlement.
Faustina,” Abel added, with real tenderness, “if
you could know what an ordeal I have passed, and the
relief it is now, to feel that I have in the drawer there the
means to help myself out of the worst place I was ever
in, you'd forgive me for refusing you money as harshly
as I did, and be glad I did refuse you.”
Faustina listened to these words with conscience-smiting
fear. The jewels, which she had hastily hidden
away at his coming, were no solace now, but only a terror
to her soul. What would he do when he found he
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
had been robbed? What would he say when he learned
how she had squandered the missing money, and for
what? Could she hope to pacify him by a display of the
baubles which had, in the hour of temptation, seemed to
her more precious than his honor and his peace? They
were beginning to appear, in her own eyes, worthless as
they were. His scorn and wrath, if he should see them,
she could well imagine. More and more, as she looked
forward to it, she dreaded the inevitable exposure. Abel
perceived her flush and agitation; but, remembering how
sullen she had been since he refused her the money she
required, he thought her resentment had taken some
new form, and was not surprised at it.
“You don't mean to say,” she ventured at last to suggest,
“that only just fifty dollars would make such a difference
in your affairs?”
“The difference would be,” replied Abel, “that in
helping myself out of the well, the chain I am to climb
up by would lack just so much of reaching down to my
hand. And when a man has strained every nerve to
grasp an object, it might as well be withdrawn ten
yards from his hand, as ten inches.”
“But,” faltered Faustina, “ain't you afraid — the
money will be stolen?”
“Not with you in the house,” replied the confiding
Abel. “Guard it as you would my life! I could about
as soon face death as learn that any part of that money
had been lost! Faustina,” he said, cheeringly, “don't
look so gloomy. Better times are coming. We will live
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
more within our means, think less of the world and its
trifles, and be much happier. It don't require silks and
gewgaws to make a home comfortable.”
He folded her in his arms. He was so thankful and
happy that he desired to bless her also with the overflow
of his large heart.
She suppressed her feelings as well as she could till after
he was gone. He had eaten his dinner, and departed
full of joy in his present good fortune and hope for the
future. But night would soon come, and with it disclosure
and disgrace. She could imagine him unsuspectingly
welcoming Mr. Hodge, taking out the money to
pay him, and starting suddenly appalled by the discovery
of her theft. What should she do? At heart a
coward, she felt that she could never meet her husband's
just and terrible wrath. It was a characteristic trait of
her selfishness, that, all this while, she thought little of
his ruin, and of what he would suffer when the disclosure
was made, but only of the shock and the shame
that would befall herself. And now, the restraint of his
presence removed, she gave way to wild and desperate
resolves. Without staying to take her hair out of the
curl-papers, she threw on her bonnet.
“Melissa,” she said, “stop this child's crying. I am
going out a little while. Perhaps” — the bitter impulse
prompted her, and she muttered the words through her
teeth — “perhaps I shall never come back.”
For she had thrust the jewels into her bag, and taken
the bag upon her arm, with the blind, passionate feeling
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
that she would never return to that house and to her
wronged husband without bringing back with her the
money of which she had robbed him.
In the slovenly kitchen of a slovenly house, in company
with a slovenly woman, two slovenly girls, and a
ragged old man, the elegant Tasso Smith was at dinner,
in his shirt-sleeves, when a quick rap came at the
door.
“It's Faustiny Dane; she wants to see you, Tasso,”
said Miss Smith, having gone to the stoop with her frizzled
hair.
Tasso turned all colors in quick succession during the
half-minute that ensued, — either from embarrassment
at having the beautiful Faustina find him in such a home,
and see his uncombed, slatternly sister open the door, or
because he supposed she had discovered the worthless
character of the trinkets he had sold her. He wiped
his lips hurriedly on the dirty table-cloth, put on his
coat, and went palpitating to the door, with the most inane,
simpering expression which it is possible for the
human countenance to wear.
“Tasso,” said Faustina, in quick, decisive tones, “I
want to speak with you a minute.”
“W-w-will ye walk in?” stammered the reluctant
Tasso, “or sh'll I get m' hat?”
For he knew that it was not a house fit to show her
into.
“Get your hat,” said Faustina, with strange eyes and
hectic cheeks.
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
She walked with nervous steps to and fro on the half-rotten
plank before the door, until Tasso got his hat and
came out.
“Folks ain't very well; m' sister hain't had time to
change her dress to-day; I'd invite ye in, but” —
She interrupted the silly apology.
“Tasso, I can't keep the jewels!”
“Can't? Why not?”
Mr. Smith grinned and picked his foolish teeth.
“I took some money my husband had got to pay off a
note with and the interest on a mortgage; he don't
know it yet, but when he does, I suppose he will kill me;
and I must have that money, and take it back. Here
are the jewels.”
She pulled open her bag, and eagerly handed out the
package, which Tasso did not touch.
“Don't speak quite so loud,” he said. “Step this
way.”
For the truth about that interesting young man was,
that, when not absent in the city, he was living upon his
triftless relations, without making them any other
compensation than that which his elegant manners and
the value of his society afforded; and he was unwilling
they should know that he had that day received a sum
of money which would have gone far toward paying his
summer's board.
“Like to keep my business little bit private; sisters'
u'd think might give them some jewels, if they knew I
had any in my possession.”
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
“Take them,” said Faustina, “and give them to anybody
you please. And give me back the money, at
once!”
“Sorry to say,” replied Tasso, “I've jest sent the
money off to my friend. Why didn't you tell me of this
before? It was no interest to me to sell you the jewels.
I mailed the letter an hour ago,” he added, with a smile
on his countenance, and the money in his pocket at the
moment.
Faustina drew a quick breath, and cast upon him a
stony, despairing look; the hand which held the jewels
dropping by her side.
“Tasso,” she said, “you have been my ruin. I can
never go back to that house without the money. What
shall I do?”
“Sure, I don't know,” palavered the deceiver. “I consider
it the most unfortunate circumstance 'n th' world, 't
you didn't mention the way you was situated, 'fore I sent
off the money. Might stop the letter now, only the mail
has been gone as much as an hour. What will you do?
If I only had the money to lend you now! Most always
have as much as that about me,” said he sympathetically,
with the only fifty-dollar bank-note he had
had in his possession for six months peeping then out
of his waistcoat pocket.
“You must lend me the money!” exclaimed Faustina.
“You must get it for me! or else” — her heart throbbed
up into her throat with the wildness of the thought that
dared to enter it — “you will never see me again, Tasso:
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
I shall go — I don't know where; but I shan't go back
to his home, that is settled.”
“I have it!” said Tasso. “I know where you can
borry the money.”
“Where? for mercy's sake!”
“Of those misers so fond of tomatoes, you know.”
“The Apjohns!” she exclaimed. “Oh, I don't believe
they have got so much as you tell of; and they
wouldn't lend it, if they have.”
“By George! what I told you, now, it's a fact, by
George! — hope to die if 'tain't!” said Tasso. “And
they'll lend, I guess,” significantly.
“Go and ask them!”
“Not to me, I don't mean; they wouldn't lend to me.
But you jest go and mention the tomatoes, and tell the old
woman you can't keep the secret no longer without she'
commodates you to a hunderd dollars, — may as well
get a hunderd while you're about it” (Tasso remembered
he had more pinchbeck to sell), — “and she'll
shell out her miserly hoards, I bet ye, now!”
“O Tasso, I don't know! But I'll try. Wait here for
me, won't you? Or, no; meet me somewhere, — where?”
“Up by the meeting-house,” suggested Tasso.
“Yes! Don't fail me, now! for if they won't lend me
the money, I don't know what I can do without you.”
She hurried away on her exciting errand; while
Tasso looked after her with a pale, sickly, cunning leer,
picking his rotten teeth with one hand, and fingering
the bank-note in his pocket with the other.
-- 078 -- p471-083
IX. FAUSTINA RETURNS MRS. APJOHN'S VISIT.
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
Faustina walked back toward the cooper's house,
with dubious and undecided steps at first, but gradually
quickening her pace as her doubts gave place to determination.
Why had she not thought of the Apjohns
before? They should help her. Would they dare to
refuse what she asked? And could she not compel
them, by threats, to lend her the money?
She reached the cooper's house. In her impetuous
impatience, she did not stop to knock, but would have
entered straight, without ceremony, had not the door
been locked. She hurried around to the kitchen door, —
that was fastened also. A shade of disappointment
passed over her; but it fell like the shadow of a cloud
on a rushing stream, without checking its course. Her
purpose could not be thwarted; though she might have
to wait.
Mrs. Apjohn was certainly not at home. Perhaps the
cooper was. So much the better; for it would be easier
to deal with him than with his wife. She hastened to
the shop. That was likewise shut and silent. Here
was an unforeseen difficulty.
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
Should she go and meet Tasso, and then come back
after the Apjohns had returned? Or should she go
home and wait? She could do nothing, think of nothing,
till this exciting business was over. If she could
only get into the house!
Then she remembered a circumstance which she had
several times observed, looking across from her own
house to her neighbor's. When Mrs. Apjohn was going
away and leaving John in the shop, it was her custom,
after putting on her bonnet and shawl and locking the
back door on the outside, to carry him something, which
Faustina conjectured was the key. But when John was
not there, she used to stoop down and secrete the said
something under the door-step; in order, probably, that
he could have the means of entering the house in case
he should come home before her. Faustina had also
observed that the one who returned first, on such occasions,
invariably took something from beneath the step
before unlocking the door.
What if the key were there now? She was back
again at the rear of the house in a moment. There she
stood, just long enough to look about her. Nobody was
in sight. No unneighborly watch-dog was there to interfere
with her operations, as Turk had interfered with
those of Mrs. Apjohn in the tomato-patch. Quickly
she put down her hand where she had seen Prudence put
down hers. She touched something metallic, smooth,
and cold. It was the door-key.
“I'll go in and wait anyway. There can't be any
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
harm in that,” was Faustina's excuse, as she unlocked
the door.
The next minute she was alone in the closed and silent
house.
She sat down and breathed. But she was too nervous
to remain long seated. She got up, and walked about,
and looked out of the windows, and peeped into the different
rooms. She listened to hear her neighbors coming;
yet she almost dreaded to have them come. Supposing
they should refuse her the money, and laugh
at her threats? Oh, if she was only sure they had
money!
In the bedroom she saw the chest as Tasso had described
it. She entered softly, hesitating with that superstitious
feeling which often haunts the visitor in a
still and empty house, especially if he has no rightful
business there. Perhaps Prudence was hid behind her
own petticoats that hung over the bed; or what if the
little cooper was tucked away in the corner behind the
bureau, on the lookout for burglars? Faustina just
tried the lid of the chest, and, finding it fastened, walked
back rather quickly to the kitchen, with starting and
creeping sensations in her nerves, which were not agreeable.
“Will they never come?” she said to herself. “I
won't wait much longer!”
She looked at the clock; but she forgot to notice the
time in the perturbation of thinking of the key which
Tasso said was kept hidden there. Summoning a bold
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
resolution, she stepped to the high mantel-piece, opened
the clock, and found, sure enough, a key hung up within
the case. She ran with it to the bedroom, and was
almost frightened to find that it fitted the chest.
Well, she might as well finish what she had begun.
Though the Apjohns should suddenly come in and catch
her, she could easily silence them by holding the tomatoes
over their heads. So she turned the key, and the
chest opened.
But here she met with an unexpected obstacle. The
till, in which she now firmly believed that there was
cash, was also locked; and Mrs. Apjohn, if she was the
prudent female we take her for, no doubt had the key
of it in her reticule. What was to be done? Break
open the slender till? That Faustina dared not do.
Abandon the search? That she would not. Into every
corner of the chest she thrust her hand, and overhauled
John Apjohn's shirts and Mrs. Apjohn's folded pillow-cases
and sheets and bedspreads, in pursuit of the missing
key. She often thought she heard footsteps, and
stopped to listen, then with trepidation renewed her
search.
But no key was to be found. She tried the key of
the clock-case and the winding-up key; but neither of
them would fit. Should she give up so? There was a
key in her bag; she would try that. It was too large.
Then she bethought her of the key to the case of jewels.
She tried it, — it was too small. No, it would enter!
she could turn it; and lo, the till was unlocked!
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
Ah, well was it for Faustina, who had condemned her
neighbor's trespass so severely, that there was no big
dog to pounce in upon her now, and arrest her in the
midst of an act that looked quite as much like larceny
as anything Prudence Apjohn ever did! It would be
interesting to know if she thought of the stolen tomatoes
then, and the remarks she had made on the occasion.
Alas for this poor human nature of ours, which prompts
us to pass sentence to-day upon the very sins we may
have been guilty of yesterday, or may commit to-morrow!
The more liable we ourselves are to yield to
temptation, the sterner our judgment is apt to be of
those who have fallen. Whereas the truly wise man,
who has known by experience what temptation is, and
has conquered it, is he of all others whose cloak of
charity is broadest and warmest.
Yet Faustina had never believed herself capable of
such an act as she was now committing. She had approached
the cooper's house full of virtuous indignation
against robbing and pilfering, and had the speech ready
by which she intended to humiliate the wrong-doer, and
exact indemnity for the wrong. And here she is, self-abandoned
to the sin which she had deemed so monstrous
and unpardonable in another!
For Tasso had spoken truly once. In the till there
was a pocket-book. In the pocket-book there was a
roll of bills. These she hastily opened, and folded up
again as hastily. With quivering fingers she had extracted
the sum she required, — a fifty-dollar note, the
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
sight of which had sent a thrill of terrified joy to her
soul. This she thrusts into her bosom. The rest of the
money she returns to the pocket-book, places the pocket-book
in the till, and locks the till with the key of the
jewel-case. Then, having smoothed the rumpled linen
in the chest as well as she can, she lets down the heavy
lid again, and locks it with the key, which she returns
to the clock-case.
All this has passed almost too quickly for thought.
But now, standing in the room, lingering and listening,
with tremors of heart, she begins to reflect, —
“Maybe they never'll know who took it. I'll threaten
to tell about the tomatoes if they go to make a fuss.”
But suppose she should meet them as she goes out?
This is now her great trouble. “Who cares?” she
says to herself. “I'll tell them I came to borrow some
money, and have taken it, and mean to repay it; and if
they say a word, they shall hear of the tomatoes all
over town. I've got the money and they can't help
themselves.”
So saying, she flirts a curl-paper out of her hair.
Without perceiving the insignificant loss, — for has she
not a far more precious bit of paper in her bosom? —
she quits the house, locks it after her, puts the key under
the door-step, and hurries home — unobserved?
Now, breathless, in her own room she stands; takes
off her things, and arranges her hair before the glass;
incorporates Mrs. Apjohn's note with the sum which
Abel had saved, inventing a score of arguments towards
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
self-justification; hides away the miserable jewels; and
then, forgetful of her engagement with Tasso, establishes
herself at the window to watch, through the curtains,
for Mrs. Apjohn's return.
-- 085 -- p471-090
X. FAUSTINA'S SUSPENSE.
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
It is an anxious hour to Faustina. With all her reiterated
assurances to herself that she has done only what
necessity compelled her to do, and what she had a perfect
right to do after Mrs. Apjohn's example, she feels a
deep concern to know whether her visit to the house
will be discovered, and, in that case, what will be the
issue. For a long time she perceives no signs of life
about the Apjohn premises. The grocer's boy comes
with a bundle, knocks, and, after waiting a few minutes,
deposits it on the door-step. Then Cooper John appears,
and Faustina holds her breath. But he passes
by, just looking at the bundle on the door-step, and enters
his shop, where presently he can be heard hammering
the old tune on the hoop, — “Cooper Dan, Cooper
Dan, Cooper Dan, Dan, Dan!” — sounds which never
fell so heavily on Faustina's heart before.
But soon she has more dreadful things to contemplate.
Prudence Apjohn has returned, with her arms full of
packages from the store. These she lays beside the
larger bundle which has already arrived, and inserts a
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
hand beneath the door-step. Then she unlocks the door,
and opens it. Then she loads up her apron with the
packages, and enters. Then she shuts the door behind
her, and all is ominously still, and Faustina waits for
the anticipated explosion. Prudence has had plenty of
time to go to the chest and discover the burglary; still
there is no movement of alarm. But now it is coming!
Faustina feels her cheek blanch as the kitchen-door of
the Apjohn cottage flies open, and the portly figure of
Prudence appears. But apprehension is useless. No
scream is heard; the ponderous arms are not flung upward
with despair at the loss of half her treasure;
Mrs. Apjohn has a tin teakettle in her hand, which she
fills at the well, and goes back with it to the house
again.
Faustina's fear is relieved. And now she considers
within herself the expediency of going over and telling
Mrs. Apjohn what she has done. But her evil genius
whispers, “You will never be discovered; keep still!”
Faustina kept still accordingly. She entered the
kitchen, and finding some work to do, set herself about
it with remarkable industry. Faustina was cheerful.
Faustina was demure. She spoke pleasantly to Melissa,
and did not scold. She actually tolerated little
Ebby, and did not say, as usual, “Oh, go away; you
spoil my nice collar; take him, Melissa.” And what
was most extraordinary, she appeared quite amiable toward
the old lady.
“Do you feel pretty well to-day, dear mother?” with
a smile of filial solicitude.
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
“Oh, quite well,” smiles back the old lady, “with the
exception of the pain in my bootjack,” — meaning her
rheumatic shoulder.
Abel comes home to supper, and is, at first, pleased
with the change in his fair young wife. The cloud has
passed from her brow. She greets him with a serene
aspect. But she is almost too affectionate, too eager to
please. He half-suspects that she means to coax money
out of him by putting on these fascinations. There is a
nervousness in her manner, an ill-concealed excitement
in her looks, and often an incoherence and singular abruptness
in her words, which do not seem quite natural.
Lively as she would fain appear, her replies are frequently
mechanical and absent-minded. So that Abel
hardly knows whether he ought to feel gratified, or
view her behavior with suspicion.
But she lisps no syllable of a wish for money. He
therefore concludes that what he said to her at noon has
produced a salutary effect. She evidently regrets her
late extravagance and unreasonableness; means to be a
better wife to him than she has been; and is now trying
hard to appear contented with her lot. Regarding in
this light the part she is playing, he can well forgive her
for overdoing it. And once more he hopes — as he has
so often vainly hoped before — that happier days are at
hand. Alas, Abel!
Faustina cannot help starting and losing her color,
when she hears any noise without. Visions of the
affrighted cooper, of Prudence, furious at the loss of her
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
money, rise before her at every slight sound. Turk,
knocking at the door with his wishfully-wagging tail, as
he waits to be let in, makes her heart sink. And now
footsteps actually approaching take her very breath
away.
It is Mr. Hodge, come to have his settlement with
Abel. She is glad it is not somebody else. Yet his
presence disturbs her; for now the money is to be
counted, and change hands, and she dreads she knows
not what. Her hand shakes so that she puts the candle
out when she goes to snuff it. She lights it with a match,
and then blows the candle out instead of the match,
which burns her fingers. Fortunately, Mr. Hodge and
Abel are talking and do not observe her.
The settlement takes place in the sitting-room. There
she leaves the candle with Abel and the visitor, and pretends
to return to the kitchen, but finds some excuse to
linger at the door and listen.
“Well,” exclaimed Abel, looking over his money, “I
didn't know I had a bill on the Manville Bank! I had a
fifty-dollar bill — but — it's curious! I should think I'd
have noticed it.”
“One bill is as good as another, if the banks are good
and the bills genuine,” carelessly observes the merchant.
“Yes; but I don't see how I could have that bill in
my possession, and not know it,” says the puzzled Abel,
while Faustina's heart throbs suffocatingly.
“If you handled as much money as I do,” replies
Hodge, “you couldn't always think of keeping the run
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
of it.” And the conversation turns upon other matters.
Faustina is faint.
Hodge soon after took his departure, which now
proved as serious a cause of disturbance to Faustina as
his coming had been; for he carried away with him the
irrevocable bank-note, to which his attention had been
drawn in such a manner that he could not fail to remember
and trace it back to Abel, in case any trouble
came of it in future. She had fondly imagined that, as
soon as the money was out of her husband's hands, her
mind would be at rest. But there is no rest for the
guilty conscience. Half the night she lay tormenting
herself with fears of detection; while Abel, for the first
time in weeks, slept tranquilly at her side. Then she
also slept, and dreamed that Mrs. Apjohn's apron was a
huge bank-bill, and that it contained, in place of tomatoes,
several red and bleeding hearts, one of which was
hers and one Abel's. She thought that she and Tasso
were waiting for Mrs. Apjohn to fall asleep, in order
that they might unlock the lid of the apron, and steal
her heart out of it, which they had just succeeded in
doing, and were running away with it, when she —
Faustina, not Mrs. Apjohn — awoke.
There was a loud knocking below; Abel was bestirring
himself; and presently Melissa screamed at their
chamber-door, —
“Mr. Dane! Mr. Dane! here's Mr. Apjohn wants
to see you!”
“Well, well; I'm coming,” answered Abel. “What
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
can the cooper want, making such a racket this time of
day?”
It was just daylight. Abel, half-dressed, hastened to
the door, where the cooper met him, with a face as white
as chalk and eyes starting from his head.
“Good-morning, Mr. Apjohn,” said Abel. “What's
the news this morning?”
“I'm a ruined man!” said the cooper, with grief,
despair, and bitter reproach in his tones; “and it's you
that has ruined me.”
-- 091 -- p471-096
XI. TASSO'S REVENGE.
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
Whilst Abel is drawing the poor man into the house
and getting from him his story, and whilst Faustina,
having overheard the alarming outburst at the door, is
quaking with consternation, and trying in vain to
harden her heart with indifference and stubbornness,
it is necessary to go back a few hours in our narrative,
and relate how John Apjohn came to be knocking at
Abel Dane's kitchen in the gray morning.
Prudence, on her way home from the village with her
purchases the previous afternoon, had encountered Tasso
Smith, walking up and down by the meeting-house
green. Tasso was waiting for Faustina, and impatient
at her failure to keep the engagement. He had some
more of his friend's jewelry to show her, in case she had
succeeded in borrowing more than fifty dollars of Mrs.
Apjohn. At length he had a glimpse of a female figure
approaching by the young elms up the street. That
was not the direction from which he expected Faustina;
but he concluded that she had gone around the square,
and come that way to the rendezvous, in order to avoid
the appearance of going directly to meet him. He
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turned and walked back slowly, that she might overtake
him; when with mutual surprise they would recognize
each other, and walk on together. He had his face made
up to the premeditated expression; he lifted his hand to
his hat as the footsteps came beside him, and, turning with
his genteelest bow and most ravishing smile, saluted —
Mrs. Apjohn!
Did you ever, when a child, throw a chip at some proud
cock of the walk, just as he was stretching up his neck
and beginning to crow? The jubilant, shrill-swelling
note breaks off in the middle, and dies in a miserable
choking croak; the loftily curving neck and haughty
crimson crest are suddenly abashed; down sink the flapping
wings; and chanticleer, dodging the chip, hops
from the fence to the ground, humiliated at being put thus
to confusion in sight of the admiring pullets and envious
young cockerels, before whom he is desirous of showing
off.
Such a bird was Tasso; and such a chip the look Prudence
Apjohn gave him. It was too ridiculous; it was
exasperating: instead of the anticipated smile from
Faustina, a sarcastic sneer from that hateful woman!
Instead of the beautiful countenance, that great, round
russet face! Instead of the superb form, about which
there was such a grace and style, an immense, waddling
female shape, with adipose folds rolling over the tight-drawn
apron-string. And he had got up all that elaborate
flourish, put on his sweetest expression, and actually
touched his hat, to that disgusting creature! The
-- 093 --
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smile petrified on his lips. His waving bow broke,
withered, bore no fruit.
“'Scuse me!” he muttered. “Thought 'twas someb'dy
else.”
“No doubt you did think it was somebody else!”
answered Prudence. “You wouldn't have took sech
pains to bend your back and look sweet to me, I know!
You han't liked me a bit sence that affair of changin'
the hunderd-dollar bill which you never had, — come,
now, ain't that the reason? You used to come to my
house, often enough, and beg a doughnut, or a piece of
gingerbread, when you was a little boy. You remember,
don't ye? You used to sing them days. Don't ye
remember how you used to sing? You'd come in when
we was to supper; I can see you now in that ragged
little roundabout you wore, all grease and dirt; hair
wasn't quite so slick as 'tis now, for if it see a brush or a
comb once a month them days, 'twas a wonder; and
you'd commence and walk round the table, and sing that
little song of your'n, —
`I wish I had somethin' to eat,
I wish I had somethin' to eat.' —
Remember it, don't ye?”
Tasso remembered it only too well; and he could
have throttled Mrs. Apjohn for remembering it too.
“Many's the doughnut you've had to my house, and
welcome,” she resumed. “I never'd refuse even a beggar'
t I never see before, — much less a neighbor's boy
-- 094 --
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that never seemed to have enough to eat to hum. I don't
say this 'cause I've anything laid up ag'inst ye; only to
remind you 't I've always been your friend, and never
give you no reason, as I know on, to act so insolent
towards me as you do lately. You think you're a gentleman,
Tasso Smith; but you ought to know that
wearin' Sunday-clo'es every day, and them mustawshy
things on your upper lip, and that great, danglin' watchchain,
and struttin' up and down when you should be
helpin' your pa git a livin', and sayin' to a woman like
me, after bowin' to her by mistake, Oh, you thought'
twas somebody else! — so insultin'! — this kind o' conduct
don't make a gentleman, and you ought to know
it. If you was re'ly a gentleman now, you'd offer to
carry some of these bundles, seein' you're goin' the
same way I am.”
“Much obliged to you,” said Tasso; “I turn off
here.” And he took a by-street, returning to the meeting-house,
while Prudence trudged along home.
Stung to fury, — burning for revenge, — he parted
from her with a white smile. A generous soul would
either have forgiven her on the spot or have answered
her on the spot. But his was one of your grovelling and
cowardly natures. He preferred a secret and safe revenge,
to an open one that might expose him to danger.
Besides, he saw an advantage in postponing his resentment
on this occasion. He felt that he held in his hand
a weapon that would have annihilated the strong, plainspeaking
woman. As David slew the Philistine with a
-- 095 --
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pebble, so he could have brought Prudence low with a
tomato. He longed to suggest that she was hardly a fit
person to give lessons in good behavior, who furtively
filled her apron in her neighbor's garden. But that
would take the wind out of Faustina's sails, he reflected;
for what would her threats of exposure avail with Prudence,
if the latter knew that her fault was already
published? “After Faustina has got the money,
then!” — and he walked back towards the church, pondering
an ingenious revenge.
Home went the unsuspecting Prudence in the mean
time, unlocked the house, took off her things, and put
on the tea-kettle. She had cheated John and herself
out of a dinner that day; and she was going to have
supper early. The cooper, cold and starved as usual,
came in just as she was blowing ashes and smoke into
her face and eyes, trying to kindle a smouldering brand
and save a match.
“Now, what do you want, I'd like to know?” she
cried, naturally cross under the circumstances. “Supper'
ll git along jest as fast without you, and a little
faster.” (Blow, blow.) “Musn't bother me now.”
(Blow, blow, blow.) “Hateful smoke! And I've got
my mouth full of ashes. I do declare! why can't the
pleggy thing kindle?”
“Shan't I blow?” said the meek cooper.
“You! ther's no more breath in you than there is in
my shoe! I wish you'd stay in the shop. How I do
hate to have a man nosin' around!”
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“To be sure! to be sure!” answered John, more
melancholy and submissive than ever since the affair of
the tomatoes. “I haven't got a right to come into my
own house, I suppose. But I was gitt'n' hungry.
Haven't had anything but a crust to eat sence mornin'.
But never mind.” And he turned up his eyes with a
resigned expression.
“Guess you won't starve; it's only a quarter-past
two.” Blow, blow, — smoke, ashes, blow.
“Prudy!” remonstrated John, in a feeble, dejected
way, “it was two o'clock before I come home; and that
was an hour ago.”
“Jest look at the clock there. If you won't believe
your ears, maybe you will your eyes.”
“To be sure, to be sure!” said the cooper, in mild
astonishment. “But, Prudy! Prudy! that clock has
stopped!”
True enough; when Faustina replaced the key of the
chest, she had touched the pendulum unwittingly, and
the pointers remained fixed at the minute when the
larceny was consummated.
“Massy sakes! so it has! and it may have been stopped
an hour, fur's I know. You didn't wind it up last
night; jest like your carelessness, John Apjohn!”
But John demonstrated to her, by the position of the
weights, that the clock had not run down. And he
seemed to consider the mysterious circumstance as the
forerunner of some dire chance.
“It never done sich a thing afore, Prudy; it never done
sich a thing afore.”
-- 097 --
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“Wal!” — contemptuously — “I wouldn't be so scart
by a little trifle like the stoppin' of a clock! Here's
the chist-key all right. And now, while I'm puttin'
away my things, and the fire's kindlin', you run over
to Abel's and see what time it is.”
The cooper only groaned and shook his head. Not
even his wife's energetic wishes could induce him to face
one of the Dane family, after his last humiliating errand
to their garden.
“Wal, now, I wouldn't be so sheepish! I ain't goin'
to let that thing trouble me. I'll hold up my head,
while I've got one; and let folks put upon me, if they
da's't! I give that Tasso Smith a piece of my mind, as
I was comin' home. He mustn't think he's goin' to
have over his impudence to me, and not git as good as
he gives. I say for't, John Apjohn!” opening the chest,
to lay her shawl into it, “you shan't come to this chist
at all if you've always got to tumble it up so, — now jest
look here! You shall keep your shirts in the ketchall,
and never come near my things, if you can't be a little
more careful.”
In vain the cooper protested that he had not opened
the chest. Who had, if he hadn't, she desired to know.
“To be sure!” he answered, helplessly, the evidence
being against him. “I must have done it in my sleep,
though.”
“I say, in your sleep! You're never more'n half
awake. You han't touched the money, have you? I
ain't goin' to have that touched, till we buy two more
-- 098 --
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railroad shares with it and what Mr. Parker will be payin'
us now in a few days. I run in debt for the things
I got to-day, for fear we might fall short, and I'm very
anxious to have the shares, and put the money out of
our hands, and have it bringin' in somethin'.”
Then, having unlocked the till, to see that the pocket-book
was there, she locked it again, and returned to the
kitchen. The smoke had by this time got out of her
eyes; the tea-kettle was simmering, and her heart, too,
began to simmer cheerfully. She told John about her
purchases, whilst she was setting the table; the pork
was soon fried and the potatoes warmed up; and they
sat down to supper. They had no tomatoes that
night. Indeed, John had lost his appetite for tomatoes,
and Prudence herself was not very fond of them
lately.
The cooper felt lost without the time. He was afraid
they might not go to bed at just eight o'clock, and seemed
to think something dreadful would happen if they failed
in that important particular. And then, how would
they ever know when to get up in the morning? These
doubts so harassed the poor man's mind, that he lay
awake half of the night, and heard robbers around the
house, and was out of bed at four o'clock, with a candle
in his hand, looking for daylight and burglars.
“I guess if there'd been anybody around I should
have heard 'em as soon as you would,” said Prudence.
“I don't care half so much about the thieves as I do
about the taller you're burnin' out with your
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
narvousness. Come, either dress ye or come back to bed agin.
I don't think it's much after midnight, anyway.”
But John is so sure of the noises he has heard during
the night, that he cannot be easy till he has opened the
door and looked out. It is a still, cold morning. The
earth is hushed and dark; the east is scarcely yet tinged
with the dawn; overhead the constellations glitter.
Hesperus stands with golden candle in the dim doorway
of the world, and looks down upon John Apjohn standing
with tallow dip in the doorway of his humble
kitchen. In the northern sky, Cassiopeia and the Bear
are having their eternal see-saw, balanced on the Pole.
The cooper beholds and wonders, for the vastness and
silence and majesty of the night have a meaning for the
soul of this man also.
Forgetful of the burglars, heedless of the flaring and
dripping candle, he stands in his shirt and trousers,
agaze at the heavens. An astounding circumstance recalls
him to himself. Something is dangling at the
door. He feels to ascertain what it is, — advances the
candle, — utters one stifled cry of dismay, and retreats
into the house, horrified.
“John Apjohn! what is the matter?” demands Prudence,
rushing to his side in her night-clothes.
He cannot speak, but he points; he helplessly holds
the candle, to call her attention to an object which he
has partially dragged into the house, and let fall across
the threshold.
“Sakes alive! what is it? Where did you find it?
-- 100 --
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Vines! What under the sun? Tomatuses!” And
the terrible significance of the symbol burst upon her,
too.
Tasso was revenged.
“To be sure! to be sure! to be sure!” were the only
words the miserable cooper could utter, as he stared at
the portent.
But Prudence, more resolute, pulled the vines from
the outer door-handle to which they were attached, and
finding a piece of paper pinned to them, took it off, and
held it to the light. It bore the following inscription:
“For Mrs. Apjohn's opern.”
She spelled it out, aloud, as she deciphered it. If
Cooper John had any strength remaining up to this
time, it was now taken from him, and he sat down shivering
on the cold stove. Mrs. Apjohn also succumbed
to the chirographical thunder-bolt, and went down
upon the wood-box, with all her burden of flesh.
The light she placed on a chair; the trail of vegetables
variegated the floor; in her hand she still held the missive.
And there the twain sat, in a long and very awful
silence, — a scene for a Dutch painter.
“Wal!” said Prudence, as soon as she could regain
her powers of respiration and utterance, “I hope that's
mean enough, anyway! That's Abel Dane's work,
John!”
“Oh, no! no! Abel Dane wouldn't do sich a thing
as that,” moaned the cooper.
“So much the wus, then! If he didn't do it, he has
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told somebody; and didn't he promise never to tell?
And which is the wust for us, I'd like to know, — to have
him insult us in this way, or tell all over town, and send
somebody else to do it?”
“To be sure! to be sure!” The stricken man took
the paper from her hand, and held it to the light to study
it. “A, p, c, r, n, apern! It is somebody that knows
how to spell, Prudy; it's somebody that knows how to
spell!” And he turned to his wife with the air of one
who has made an appalling discovery.
Like most ignorant men who have a large element of
wonder in their nature, he stood greatly in awe of learning;
and he naturally thought that if the vicious joke had
been perpetrated by some blockhead, whose orthographical
attainments were not equal to the spelling of apern,
it would not be so bad.
“It's Abel Dane, or he's to the bottom on't, take my
word!” said Prudence, with mingled chagrin and exasperation.
“Oh, the smooth-spoken, desaitful wretch!
He never'd have da's't to do it if I'd had a man for a
husband! Oh, it's too mean! too mean!” and the
worthy woman burst into tears of anger and shame.
Suddenly the cooper started to his feet.
“I'll know the truth of it, Prudy! I'll see Abel, and
know the truth. If it's all over town, we may as well
go and jump into the well fust as last; for what'll be
the use of tryin' to live where everybody'll be pintin'
at us and hootin'?”
“I'll live to be even with Abel Dane!” vowed
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Prudence. “I shan't think of dyin' till I've come up with
him! Oh-h! you'll see!” (through her teeth). “If
he hadn't been so 'ily-tongued and ready to promise, I
wouldn't mind. Goin' right over now? That's right.
Show your spunk for once, John. But put on your hat,—
put on your hat, and your jacket, too.”
“To be sure, to be sure!” murmured John, confusedly
turning round and round, till at last he got hold
of the table-cloth instead of his jacket, and was on the
point of donning the skillet in place of his hat.
“Don't you know what you're about?” said Prudence,
putting her hand on her knee and helping herself
to get upon her feet, which ponderous operation was
performed with considerable more alacrity than usual.
“Here's your hat.” She clapped it on his head. Then she
opened his jacket for him to get into. “Here, stick out
your arms!” And, having thus equipped him as if he
were a knight of old and these coverings his armor and
coat-of-mail, she sent him to meet the foe. “Look out
for that pesky dog!” she counselled him as he sallied
forth.
The earth, that slept under the night's dark blanket
and spangled coverlet, was now throwing them off and
putting on her glorious morning-gown. Dim in its
socket flickered the candle of the watcher Hesperus, his
feet on a threshold of silver. Immortal youth and
freshness breathed in the atmosphere like a finer air.
Music awoke with beauty, the birds twittered, and the
cock blew his bugle in the misty tent of dawn. But
-- 103 --
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what was the joy of sight and sound and honeyed taste
of life to Cooper John Apjohn, rushing to his neighbor's
on such desperate business? What to Faustina, peeping
wildly from the window, were the crimson sleeves and
refulgent, rosy scarf of mother earth at her dewy toilet?
Alas, for mortal man! Daily the harmonious doors of
the museum and picture-gallery of God open to invite
us; nor is wanting the mystic key by night, which unlocks
them again to the wise; and there, in celestial
livery, with star-torches, attendants wait to guide us
among the white and awful forms of contemplation, as
the pope's servitors show, by the light of flambeaus,
the statuary of the Vatican. But we are hurrying to
market or to mill, chasing pleasure, or pursued by fear,
absorbed in calculations of profit and loss, or preoccupied
by shame and heart-ache, — the hat of vulgar habit
slouched over the eyes, — so that glimpses of the shining
vestibule and perfect pageant do not reach and win the
soul.
-- 104 -- p471-109
XII. THE GUILTY CONSCIENCE.
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
After the cooper entered, Faustina drew back from
her window, and waited, scared and palpitating, for the
expected catastrophe. It did not come. The sitting-room
door closed upon the voices of Cooper John and
her husband; and now all was still. Her guilty and impatient
spirit tormented itself with conjectures; and she
stood with brows knitted and lips apart, wringing her
thoughts for some drop of certainty regarding the object
of their neighbor's early visit, when Melissa ran to
the door and rapped.
“Mrs. Dane, you're wanted!”
The summons went to the wretched woman's heart.
So the hour had arrived, and she was to be arraigned
and accused.
“Melissa!” she whispered, “come in! — What is
it?”
“That's more'n I know, ma'am. But Mr. Apjohn 's
in a terrible way; and it seems it's something you've
done.”
“I? What? What have I done?” And poor Faustina
catches hold of the girl's arm, as if she meant to
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hold her till she hears the truth. “What have I done,
Melissa?”
“That you know best, ma'am. Mr. Dane says come
quick. Shall I help you?” offering to assist in dressing
her mistress.
“I don't know — O Melissa! — if I dared to tell you!
How do they know it was me?”
“You went into Mr. Apjohn's house yesterday, when
they wa'n't to home, and mabby that's it,” suggested
Melissa, thinking to throw a little light on the subject.
“I did? — How dare you say I did, you wicked girl!”
shaking her.
“Why, I seen ye!” says the innocent and amazed
Melissa. “But I didn't think there was any harm in
it.”
“Did you tell any one? Did anybody else see? Tell
me the truth, Melissa!”
“No! not as I know on. I hain't mentioned it.”
“Don't you, then! not for your life. I'll give you
that watered silk — I'll get Abel to raise your wages —
you shall have those satin shoes you like so. O Melissa!
I'll be the best friend you ever had, if you'll stand
by me.”
“Why, ma'am!” — the girl opened her honest eyes
betwixt delight and incredulity at these extravagant
promises, — “I'll stand by ye, and be thankful; but
what dreadful thing is't you've been and done?”
“Melissa!” said the unhappy woman, eager to gain
the sympathy and counsel of some one, no matter if it
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[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
was only her servant, “promise me never to lisp the
secret so long as you live!”
Melissa, who had suffered enough from the capricious
pride and temper of her mistress, was glad of an opportunity
to establish more confidential and friendly relations
between them. To promise secrecy is easy; and
she promised.
“Swear it!” said Faustina, like the heroine of a melodrama.
“Put your hand on this Bible, and swear!
Say, I swear a solemn oath” —
“I swear a solemn oath!” repeated the staring Melissa.
“Never to breathe to any mortal soul” —
“Never to breathe to any mortal soul” —
“What I am going to tell you.”
“What I am going to tell you.”
“Now kiss the book.”
Melissa smacked the leather. Then Faustina poured
forth her story.
“But I didn't steal the money; I meant it for borrowing,
true as I live, Melissa. But won't it seem like stealing?
And now they have found it out, — oh, what shall
I do? What would you do, Melissa?”
“La, ma'am!” said Melissa, with unaffected concern,
“I don't know! Seems to me I should go and tell 'em
I only borrowed it, and meant to pay it back.”
“It's too late!” Faustina shook her head and compressed
her lips. “I shouldn't care for the Apjohns, if'
twasn't for my husband. What will he say? Melissa,
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I shall deny it. And you must bear me out in it. Oh,
dear! there's Abel calling, and I must go. Am I very
pale?” And she turned to the glass, and put her
knuckle into her fair cheek, which whitened under the
pressure.
“No, you look red,” said Melissa.
“Do I? I mustn't appear agitated. I won't! There!”
with sudden resolution, putting on a haughty and brazen
air, “I am not going to be afraid. — Remember, Melissa,—
the watered silk and the shoes!”
Little Ebby had been crying unheeded for the last five
minutes. Melissa remained to take care of him, while
Faustina, trembling and faint-hearted in spite of her effort
to seem unconcerned, went to the dreaded interview.
The cooper was sitting with his feet upon the chairround,
brooding dejectedly over his knees; and Abel
was endeavoring to soothe and reassure him, when she
entered.
“Here she is,” said Abel. John lifted his colorless and
woe-begone countenance. “Faustina, neighbor Apjohn
brings a serious charge against us; and I want you to
clear yourself from it, if you are innocent.”
He spoke earnestly. He was convinced of her guilt,
she thought. She did not answer, but looked down as
coldly as she could at the cooper, who looked up aggrieved
and disconsolate at her.
“I wouldn't have supposed,” said John, with an affecting
quaver in his voice, “that a lady like you could do
sich a thing. Have I ever done you any harm?”
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“No, Mr. Apjohn,” replied Faustina. “Who said
you had? And what have I done to you?”
“Done! What have you done! To be sure! to be
sure! O Mrs. Dane, I hope you may never suffer
as you have made me. To be robbed of the hard earnings
of years, — that would be nothing, but” —
“Robbed!” interrupted Faustina, feigning surprise,
“who has robbed you, Mr. Apjohn?”
“Who has, if you have not? And sich a robbery!
Not gold or silver!” sobbed the poor man, thinking of
his good name gone forever.
“Gold? silver?” cried Faustina. “I haven't touched
your gold and silver. Not a dollar of it. Who says I
have?”
“It isn't gold or silver I've lost,” said John, moaning,
as he brooded over his knees. “Gold and silver, —
no! no!” And he shook his sorrowful head.
“I haven't touched your paper-money, either!” cried
Faustina, assuming an indignant air. “How should I
know you had any? You might keep thousands of dollars
in your house, and I never should know it; and I
never should care. But you mustn't come here accusing
me of breaking into your house, and stealing the money
you have been hoarding up, while you have passed for
poor people with your neighbors. No, John Apjohn!
And I shouldn't think it was for you to charge others
with stealing, any way. If you live in glass houses,
you mustn't throw stones. I warn you, Mr. Apjohn!”
This vehement speech produced a strange effect upon
-- 109 --
[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
her audience. The cooper raised himself gradually upon
his elbows, then sat bolt upright in his chair, regarding
her with vague and helpless wonder. Abel fixed upon
her an expression of severe disapprobation, believing that
this vociferous denial of an offence with which she had
not been charged, was only a feint to parry the real
point at issue.
“These are useless words, Faustina,” he said. “What
do they mean?”
“Useless words!” she echoed; “what do they mean!”
Flushed with passion, and chafing violently, she turned
upon him. “You, Abel Dane! my husband! YOU!
would have me stand here and listen tamely to an insult
from this man! I, guilty of purloining money from his
till! And you credit it! Oh, it is too much!” And
she swept across the room, flirting out her folded handkerchief,
and stanching with it imaginary tears.
“Faustina!” cried Abel, amazed, and utterly at a loss
to comprehend her conduct, “hear me a moment. I said
they were useless words, because you have misunderstood
the poor man.”
“To be sure! to be sure!” broke in the cooper, sympathizing
with her passion and distress, “I never thought
of laying such a thing to you, Mrs. Dane.”
“Oh, didn't you?” she retorted, with bitter scorn.
“I wonder what you call it then. You 'd better take it
back! If you've been robbed, I'm sorry for it. You
shouldn't keep so much money locked up in your chest,
if you don't want to invite burglars. They broke in last
-- 110 --
[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
night, I suppose. You must have slept soundly! I'm
sorry for you,” she went on, so rapidly that neither Abel
nor the bewildered cooper could put in a word; “but
you must take care how you accuse innocent people.
When you talk of robbing neighbors, look at home.
What if I should accuse? What if I should tell about
the tomatoes? Take care, then!”
“Now you touch upon the subject,” said Abel.
“Haven't you already told about that unfortunate
affair?”
“I? No!” replied Faustina, surprised.
“You have not mentioned or hinted it to any one?”
“No! truly!” A positive denial; though she had
not quite forgotten her confidences with Tasso. But
this was only a white lie, she thought, and necessary to
cover the black one. For, in order to hold the Apjohns
in awe of her power, they must believe that she had not
yet made the exposure which, of course, she would
make, if the charge of robbing them was persisted in.
“There, Mr. Apjohn,” said Abel, “I told you she
would clear herself. We have not betrayed you. And
you may be assured that neither of us would stoop to
the pitiful device of insulting you in the way you complain
of.”
The cooper only groaned, and got down over his knees
again, in an attitude of the deepest despondency.
“So much the wus, then! as Prudy said. Our disgrace
is known; but to who? and how many? That's
the misery on't!” And he buried his face.
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Faustina, sobered by surprise, and unable to comprehend
the cooper's mysterious trouble, asked an explanation.
“Why,” said Abel, “some wretched scamp went last
night, — in the night, wasn't it?” he asked, to divert
John Apjohn from his gloom.
“Yes; I heerd 'em around the house,” said the cooper,
to the relief of Faustina, who was afraid he would say,
“No, it was in the afternoon, when we were gone from
home.”
“Went and hung some tomato vines on his outsidedoor,
labelled, `For Mrs. Apjohn's apern.' And he
thought I had done it,” continued Abel. “And when
I assured him I had not only not done it, but had not
told anybody but you of the little mistake his wife made
in getting the wrong side of the fence, the good man
thought you must have told somebody else, or have
gone yourself and left the tomato vines.”
“I? I never dreamed of such a thing! But is that—
is that — all?” Faustina eagerly asked.
“All? Ain't it enough?” said the cooper, between
his knees.
“Why, I thought — dear me! — indeed!” Faustina
fluttered, and grew wonderfully smiling and affable —
“you haven't been robbed, then?” I'm so glad of that!
How could I have misunderstood?” Her smiles became
sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. What
folly had she given utterance to, betraying her guilt,
perhaps, in her very eagerness to deny it! Still she
-- 112 --
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smiled. “I'm sure, Mr. Apjohn, you don't think I would
go and hang tomatoes on your doors, do you?”
“No! no! no! — to be sure! to be sure! to be sure!—
well! well! well!” He rose to go, looking about
him like one whose wits are slightly damaged. “Did I
have a hat? I think I had a hat! Thank ye, Abel. A
fine morning, a very fine morning, Mrs. Dane,” he said,
in accents which foreboded that there were no more fine
mornings for him in all this weary world.
He bowed with feeble politeness, and, after trying to
get into the closet, found his way, with Abel's assistance,
to the outer door. Faustina followed, with the same
forced smiles, and strongely shining eyes.
“Good morning,” she said lightly. “A pleasant day
to you, Mr. Apjohn.”
“You'll excuse me for troubling you,” said the cooper,
from out the dust of his humiliation. “I — I wish you
well. You're both young. There's happiness for you;
but none for me! none for me!” and he pulled his rueful
hat over his eyes.
“Come, come, man!” cried Abel, encouragingly;
“don't take it too much to heart. Cheer up, cheer up.
If the matter has got out, never mind; it will soon
be forgotten; you'll live it down, honest man as you
are. I wouldn't mind the mean insult of a spy and
coward, who plays his tricks in the dark, and dares not
show his face by daylight.”
“Ah, yes! you're right, Abel, you're right, and very
kind. To be sure, to be sure. I hope the old lady is
-- 113 --
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well this morning! I hope she is very comfortable. I
hope — yes, sincerely — I” —
He faltered, like one who forgets what he is saying,
stood aimlessly pondering a moment, then, suddenly
catching his breath, as it were with a stitch in the side
of his memory, he blindly waved his hand, and, without
looking up, jogged heavily homewards.
-- 114 -- p471-119
XIII. THE SAD CASE OF THE COOPER.
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
Prudence had all this while been waiting anxiously
for her good-man's return; wishing a hundred times,
in her impatience, that she had gone herself and settled
the affair with Abel. The hour of John's absence was
perhaps the longest in that worthy woman's life. The
morning twilight was never so provokingly cool and
slow. The mists were in no hurry to lift from the hills;
the sun took his time to rise, just as if nothing had
happened. “I shall fly!” she repeatedly informed the
deliberate universe, as she looked over towards her
neighbor's, and the sluggish wheel of time brought no
sign of the cooper's coming.
The wings were not yet grown, however, with which
that massy female was to perform the threatened aërial
excursion. She was by no means a volatile animal. The
consequence was, that when at last John's doleful physiognomy
appeared coming through the gate (the very
posts of which looked solemn, in sympathy with him,
and seemed to squint pathetically at each other, from
under their wooden caps, as he passed), the solid housewife
still gravitated as near the planet as any unfledged
biped on its surface.
-- 115 --
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“O John Apjohn!” said she, reproachfully, “I've
wanted to git hold of you! What was you gone so long
for?”
“To be sure, to be sure!” said meek John, “I might as
well have not gone at all. No use, no use, Prudy.” And
he sat down as if he didn't expect ever to get up again.
“O you dish-rag!” ejaculated Mrs. Apjohn. “There's
no more sperit or stiffenin' in you than there is in my
apron-string!”
“Don't speak of aprons! don't speak of aprons!” implored
the cooper; the subject being so painfully associated
with that of tomatoes, that he did not think he
could ever see an apron again without qualms.
“Well!” — sharply — “what did you find out? You
let Abel soft-soap you to death, I know by your looks!”
“Prudy,” answered the cooper, lifting his earnest,
melancholy eyes, “Abel Dane's an innocent man. So is
his wife. 'Twasn't neither of them that hung them
things on our door, and they haven't told nobody. I've
their word for 't.”
“That for their word!” Prudence snapped her fingers
scornfully. “Don't tell me! don't tell me, John
Apjohn! They may make you believe that absurd
story, but I know better. Jest look here!”
She displayed before his eyes an old letter-envelope
which had been rolled up, pipe-stem fashion, and which,
when unrolled, showed an obstinate tendency to fly together
again, — very much after the manner of one of
Faustina's curl-papers.
-- 116 --
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“What is it? where did you get it?” John asked, with
feeble interest.
“Don't you see what it is? It's one of the kivers, —
what ye call 'ems, — of Abel Dane's letters. Here's his
name on't, — don't ye see? And where do you s'pose I
got it? On this very floor, — see!” exclaimed Prudence,
“when I went to sweep up after them nasty tomatuses.”
“Abel Dane!” pronounced the cooper, with difficulty
holding the scroll open with his unsteady fingers, whilst
he spelled out the name. “To be sure, Prudy; to be
sure! On the floor? How come it on the floor? I
don't understand. I don't understand.”
“No, you never understand!” said bitter Prudence.
“You can't see through a grin'stun without somebody
stands by and shows you the hole. It's jest as plain as
day to me now that Abel Dane come here last night and
stuck them tomatuses on our door, — jest as plain as if
I'd seen him do it. He had his label ready to put on to'
em, but in takin' it out of his pocket, he dropped this.
Then when you dragged the vines into the house, you
swep' it along in with 'em. Who else should have one
of his letters? Answer me that, John Apjohn!”
“Wal, wal!” said the cooper, convinced by this overwhelming
circumstantial evidence, “it must be as you
say, Prudy. But I wouldn't have thought he'd have
done it; I wouldn't have thought he'd have done it!”
“I swep' the house only ye's'd'y mornin', and there's
been nobody in't sence but us two, has there? Tell me
that!”
-- 117 --
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“No, not as I know on,” said John.
“There!” she exclaimed, arrogantly, as if he had been
opposing her theory. “How, then, I'd like to know, did
this paper come here? If you know any better'n I do,
why don't you say? If you can explain it, why don't
you? Come, you know so much!”
“I don't pretend, I don't pretend,” murmured John.
“Wal!” — triumphantly — “I guess you'll give it up,
then, that I'm right for once. Takes me, after all; as
you'll learn after I'm dead and gone, if you don't before,
and I never expect you will; but you'll think of me, and
miss my advice and judgment in matters when I'm laid
in my grave; and I guess you'll wish then you'd heerd
to me more, and thought more of my opinions; but I
hope your conscience won't trouble you on that account,
Mister Apjohn!”
“Don't, don't, Prudy!” entreated the cooper, holding
his leg on his knee, and bending over it, and rocking it
plaintively. “I can't bear it!”
For the frail mortal saw nothing absurd in the hypothesis
of surviving his robust spouse; and he didn't
know but he might feel remorse for his supposed cruel
treatment of her.
“I shan't be always spared to you, Mister Apjohn!”—
The Mister was peculiarly cutting. — “I hope you
don't wish me out of the way before my time comes;
though I sometimes half think you do,” she continued,
giving vent to her feelings in a strain to which she commonly
had recourse, when very much in fault, or very
-- 118 --
[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]
much perplexed and depressed. “It's nat'ral, I know;
and I don't say I blame you. A woman can't expect to
git credit for her vartews now-days; but if she happens
for once to be a little unfort'nate in her ca'c'lations, oh,
it's a dreadful thing! and it's laid up ag'inst her as long
as she lives.” Prudence sighed and snuffed.
“Prudy,” said John, “I hain't laid up nothing agin
ye; nor I don't blame ye for nothin', nuther;” which
powerful array of negatives, seconded by a strong sympathetic
snuffing on the part of the cooper, afforded her
the solace she sought for her wounded self-respect.
“Wal!” she exclaimed, wiping her eyes with the corner
of her apron, “as I said afore, I ain't a goin' to die
till I'm even with Abel Dane, if I have to live to be as
old as Methusalem. Come, don't set mopin' there over
your knees! I'm a goin' to have breakfast; and I shan't
let this thing spile my appetite, nuther!”
Prudence was herself again. But John could not so
easily extricate himself from the slough of despond; and
she felt that she ought to do something to encourage him.
“Come, John,” said she, at table, “drink your tea, and
eat your flapjacks, and be a man! Don't let it worry you
a mite. We've got our house and home left, and a little
property to make us comf'table and respected in our
old age, and about money enough a'ready to buy two
more shares; and I'll tell ye what, John Apjohn, — don't
le's lot on doin' much work to-day. We're gittin' forehanded,
so's't we can begin to think of a holiday once in
a while. And I've an idee of what we'll do. Soon's I
-- 119 --
[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]
git the dishes cleared away, we'll count over the money
and see jest how much there is, though I s'pose I know
perty near; then we'll go and see about gittin' that
money of Mr. Parker, and buyin' two more shares.
And jest think, John! that will give us sixteen dollars
more dividends every year, which'll be a comfort to think
of dull days, now, won't it!”
John failed to be much enlivened by his wife's
schemes. He had not the heart to show himself to the
eyes of the world that day; and, sorrowfully shaking
his head, he answered, as she urged the subject of going
out, —
“No, Prudy, no; you may go and enjoy yourself, but
I shall stay to hum.”
Accordingly Prudence, craving some stimulus to her
dashed spirits, set out, about an hour afterwards, unaccompanied,
to see Mr. Parker about the money, — her
proposal to compute, in the mean time, the contents of
the till, not having been carried into effect, in consequence
of John's dismal lack of interest.
“What's money now?” said the poor man to himself,
sighing as he saw her depart, and wondering how
she could care for such things any more. “O Prudy,
Prudy! I'd give all we've got in this world if we could
hold up our heads as respectable as we did a week ago!
But now!” —
He was going mechanically to feed the pigs; but at
the door his eye fell upon a coil of green vines in a basket,
where Prudence had thrown them, and some red
-- 120 --
[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]
tomatoes floating on the swill; and he was so overcome
by the sight, that the swine were left to squeal in vain
for their breakfast the rest of the morning.
Back into the kitchen crept the cooper, and shut himself
up. There was no one to observe him now; and he
gave vent to his woe, uttering a groan at every breath,
tearing out imaginary handfuls of hair, and scouring
with imaginary ashes that smooth, naked scalp of his,
until it shone. Then for a long time all was still in
that doleful kitchen; and he might have been seen sitting,
in a reversed position, astride, upon one of the
splint-bottomed chairs, his arms folded upon the back of
it, and his head bolstered upon his arms, — a little
doubled-up human figure, motionless as an effigy.
John was having a vision, — not of the heavenly kind.
He saw innumerable doors festooned with tomato-vines.
He saw his neighbors, with sarcastic polite faces, nod
coldly at him as he passed on the street, and wink significantly
at each other behind his back. He saw the
children rush out of the school-house to jeer and hoot,
whenever he and his wife appeared. He saw the suspicious
clerks keep an unusually sharp watch over the
goods on the counters, when they entered a store. He
observed the sly glances, and the unnatural hush, — indicative
of a sensation, — when they walked down the
church-aisle on a Sunday morning. He beheld troops
of roguish boys flocking to his house by night to fasten
the badge of disgrace to his latch; and he heard the
scornful laughter. This part of his vision was so vivid,
-- 121 --
[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]
that he, for a moment, actually believed that there were
impish, leering faces at the windows, looking in upon
him, and insulting hands holding up red tomatoes to
taunt him. He started to his feet. The vision vanished;
but the intolerable burden of his shame and distress was
with him still.
“Oh, I can't live! I can't live!” he burst forth. “I
never can show myself where I'm known again; and
what's the use?”
He thought of the well. He went and looked into it.
It was thirty feet deep,— cold, dark, and uninviting. If
Prudy had been there, to fortify his resolution by her
sympathy and example, he might have jumped in. But,
alone, he had not the heart. He concluded that his razor
would open the most expeditious and least disagreeable
door of exit from this dreary world, and went back
into the house. He examined the tonsorial implement,
and honed it. But at every stroke his dread of wounds
and his horror of blood increased. He would not like to
present a ghastly, mangled appearance afterwards, and
aggravate Prudy's feelings by staining her clean floor.
He cast his eyes upwards. There were hooks in the ceiling,
supporting a kitchen pole, — one of those old-fashioned
domestic institutions devoted to towels, dishcloths,
coils of pumpkins, sliced in rings, drying for winter use,
and on the ends of which farmers' hats are hung.
John thought of ropes and straps, clothes-line and
bed-cord, — none of which promised to be very comfortable
to the neck, — and concluded that his red silk
-- 122 --
[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]
handkerchief would best answer his purpose. The red silk
was brought out of the bedroom, folded to the requisite
shape, and a solemnly suggestive noose tied in it. This
he slipped over his neck, and drew reasonably close, to
see how it would seem. Then he ascended a chair, and
passed the loose end of the handkerchief over the middle
of the pole, and fastened it, — only to see how it would
seem, you know; for it was his intention to write Prudy
an affectionate letter of farewell before committing himself
to the fatal leap.
Or it may be he had as yet formed no inflexible determination
to destroy himself, — wiser men than he having
been known to divert their melancholy by playing at
suicide. Perhaps, in a little while, he would have descended
from the improvised scaffold, removed the halter,
wiped his eyes with it, and felt better. Let us hope so.
Unfortunately, however, at a critical juncture, a noise,
real or imaginary, startled him. What if his neighbors
were coming once more to insult him? He turned
to look; then turned again hastily to disengage his neck,
and get down. It was an old splint-bottomed chair he
was using, and to avoid injuring the half-worn seat, he
stood on the edges of it. In his agitation, he made a
terrible misstep; the chair was overturned, — it flew
from beneath his feet, — and he was launched.
-- 123 -- p471-128
XIV. MORE AND MORE ENTANGLED.
[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]
Well might Faustina's heart, meanwhile, be filled
with stinging regrets and fears, — a restless swarm, —
although she knew not yet half the mischief she had
done. She wished she had never seen Tasso Smith;
she bitterly repented confiding her secret to Melissa.
Of her blind and foolish haste to deny her real guilt,
when only a minor fault was charged against her, she
could not think without anger at her own stupidity and
dread for the result. And the jewels, — she loathed
them. And the purloined money, — the remorse and
terror it gave her grew momently. She was in such a
state of suspense and alarm that, when she saw Mrs.
Apjohn going to the village that morning, a wild fancy
seized her that the robbery was discovered, that Prudence
was in pursuit of a magistrate, and that the safest
course now would be to overtake her, confess the borrowing,
and offer the jewels as a pawn for the repayment
of the money.
Accordingly, this creature of impulse once more
threw on her bonnet, thrust the jewels into her bag, and
hurried forth. Not often had she ventured to show
-- 124 --
[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]
herself in the street in a calico morning-dress; but this
time apprehension conquered pride. Her step was
swift, and she came in sight of Prudence as she was
passing the meeting-house green. Then well would it
have been for all, had Faustina promptly carried out
her original intention! But, at the critical moment, her
courage failed. She shrank from the humiliation of
placing herself, by a confession of her trespass, on a level
with her neighbor. And the secret hope revived that
her fears were after all groundless, and that her guilt
might never be known. So she resolved to delay a
little, and watch Mrs. Apjohn's movements.
Prudence passed down the main street of the village,
and appeared to enter a shoe-store, — Faustina following,
vigilant and anxious, at a safe distance. Waiting for
her to transact her business and come out, the young
wife proceeded more leisurely, and began to think of
her unpresentable attire, and to hope that she might not
see anybody that she cared for. Vain wish! A young
gentleman was sunning himself on the sidewalk. He
had a self-satisfied smirk, a complacent, airy strut, a
little moustache, and a little rattan. He bowed rather
formally to Faustina, and was passing on.
“O Tasso,” she cried, stopping him, “you're doing
everything you can to destroy my peace!”
“Be I? Wasn't aware.” And Tasso, who not only
resented her failure to keep her engagement with him
the day before, but also foreboded importunities anent
the jewels, treated her with provoking coolness.
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[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
“Didn't you promise me you never would tell about
Mrs. Apjohn? But I was a fool,” said Faustina, “to
expect you to keep a secret I couldn't keep myself!
Though I did rely on your promise, Tasso, and never
suspected you of betraying confidence!”
“Who said I had betrayed confidence? I haven't
betrayed no confidence, madam!” said Tasso, stiff and
distant. “I said I wouldn't tell, and no more I hain't.”
“Then it was you that hung the tomatoes on her door
last night!”
“Have I promised not to hang tomatoes on anybody's
door?” retorted Tasso, with an inward chuckle. “And
what if I did, — though I don't say I did, mind, — what's
the harm to you?”
“Oh, you don't know, Tasso!” And Faustina did
not dare to inform him, though she longed to.
“I sh'd think you had time enough to borrow the
money, by the way you kept me walking up and down
yesterday, waiting for you, by George!” And Smith
tapped his patent leather with the aforesaid rattan. “I
walked in sight of the church there fourteen hours
or more. Never was so disappointed in my life, by
George!” — Switch. — “I keep my engagements.”
“Forgive me, Tasso. You know what a trouble I
was in. I couldn't come.”
“Well, never mind,” said Tasso, softening. “Good
joke, though, about the tomatoes! Hung on Apjohn's
door? Hi! hi! hi! How'd you learn?”
“Oh, there's been such a time about it! Mr. Apjohn
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[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
was at our house before daylight to know if we had done
it.”
“Hi! hi!” tittered Mr. Smith. “Capital joke, by
George! Wish I'd seen him! I'm waiting now to meet
the old woman, when she comes out of the lawyer's
office; see how she looks; see if she'll be so deuced independent
with me to-day. Look here; I've got something
to please her!” Tasso unfolded his handkerchief, and
displayed a tomato.
Faustina scarcely heeded the malicious insinuation, a
word he had previously dropped distracting her thoughts.
“What lawyer's office?” she asked, excitedly gazing.
“She went into the shoe-shop, — if you mean Mrs. Apjohn.”
“No, she didn't; though't might have looked so to you.
She's in Lawyer Parker's office now; over the shoe-shop;
entrance next door.”
Taking legal counsel! Then all was lost; and all
might have been well, Faustina thought, had she but
made haste and carried out her first intention, instead of
delaying to reconsider and observe. And yet, perhaps,
the faint hope kindled within her, it was not too late to
retrieve her error. Why not go straight to the lawyer's
room, call out Mrs. Apjohn, and stop legal proceedings?
“What's the matter?” said Tasso. “You look
scared! Going? What's your hurry? Didn't you git
the money of her yist'day?”
“Yes — no — I must see her now. Wait till I come
back, Tasso!”
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[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
And she hurried away from him; while he, crossing
the street with the smiling air of a gentleman of elegant
leisure and happy adventures, ensconced himself in an
alley where the warm sunshine fell, and where, screened
from general observation, he could mellow his tomato
and watch the course of events.
Up the lawyer's stairs rushed Faustina; and her hand
was on the latch before she had taken an instant to reflect
upon what she was doing. There she paused to
regain her breath, still her rapid heart-beats, and think
over a speech to Prudence. But already the wind of
impulse began to fail her, the sails of her spirit to collapse
and shake, and the fogs of doubt to loom before
her. And such were this woman's feebleness of conscience
and fickleness of heart, that she might have
changed her purpose once more, and stolen away without
lifting the latch, had not the lawyer, hearing a movement,
opened the door, and found her standing there
confused and irresolute, and invited her in.
“You — are occupied?” she faltered.
“I shall soon be at leisure,” said the cordial old man;
“won't you sit down and wait?”
His broad and genial manners restored Faustina's
confidence. He would not be so civil, she was sure, if
he had undertaken a case against her. The proposal to sit
down and wait seemed to her almost providential; for, so
deep is the natural instinct of faith, that even the wrong-doer
will often flatter himself that his course is shaped
by some divinity. An opportunity to compose herself,
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[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]
frame excuses, look about her, and then proceed warily,
was what she most desired. And she went in.
Near the desk sat a farmer. He had the appearance
of doing business with Mr. Parker, who went back to
him, after placing a seat for Faustina. In a retired corner
was a third visitor, — a female, russet-faced and
portly, with stoutest arms, and a form whose adipose
folds quite buried her close-drawn apron-strings, as she
sat compressed into one of the office-chairs.
We recognize our friend, Mrs. Apjohn. She has the
look of a client, awaiting her turn. A most fortunate
circumstance for young Mrs. Dane, you think; for of
course she will take advantage of it, to do her difficult errand,
won't she? Not at all. She nods a good-morning,
takes her position as far from Prudence as possible, and
pretends to read a newspaper which she picks up;
while the other holds aloft her head with an air of indifference, —
not at all natural, — and by sneers and frowns
and wry faces and contemptuous snuffs, expresses the
opinion she has formed, since yesterday, of her fair
neighbor.
Faustina, who nervously turns and rustles the newspaper,
and runs her eye over it without understanding
a word that is in it, understood very well these demonstrations
of resentment on the part of Prudence. But
she is at a loss to determine the cause of that resentment.
Is it the money of yesterday, or the tomatoes of last
night? In either case, she feels that she ought to be
more conciliatory in her manner, and prepare the way
for explanations.
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[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]
“How pleasant it is, this morning, Mrs. Apjohn!”
“Pleasant!” mutters Prudence, with a scowl, elevating
her chin another degree. And with grim satisfaction
she perceives that the cut has told.
Poor, proud Faustina! At another time such insolence
would have angered her forever. But this morning
she cannot afford to take offence. She must humble
herself even at the feet of that miserable, low-bred woman;
and, with her heart guiltily sinking, and her throat
rebelliously rising, she must smile serenely, and respond
sweetly, —
“Rather cool, however; quite a change in the weather
since Sunday.”
“Change!” snarls Mrs. Apjohn, regarding this as an
insulting allusion to her Sunday-afternoon adventure.
And, giving her head a jerk, her frock a flirt, and her
chair a hitch, with a parting look of hatred, she turns
upon Faustina a shoulder of the very broadest and coldest
description. The latter was smitten dumb; not
doubting but it was the complete and certain knowledge
of her guilt which made Prudence so insufferably rude
to her. Then, to increase her confusion, she perceived
that the outrage she dared not resent was observed by
the farmer, who had risen to go, and by the lawyer, who
was advancing to learn the business of his female visitors.
And the time had come for her to act, or at least,
to offer some pretext for being there; and she had not
yet formed a plan, and her wits were a chaos. She was
glad that the lawyer addressed himself first to Mrs.
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[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]
Apjohn; though she expected the next minute to hear her
crime denounced.
But Prudence was averse to transacting business in
the presence of her neighbor. “I am in no petic'lar
hurry,” she said. “I can wait, while you attend to that
other person.”
So the bland-faced lawyer turned to the “other person.”
“I prefer to take my turn,” Faustina managed to say.
“Mrs. Apjohn was here first.”
“I'll wait for her,” said Prudence, obstinately. “Never
mind who come first. The first shall be last, and
the last shall be first, we are told,” with a significant
scoff at the handsome and once haughty Faustina.
The lawyer looked bothered, and he once more applied
to his younger visitor.
“I — really — cannot come in before her; it wouldn't
be fair,” Faustina stammered.
“Wal,” exclaimed Prudence, sharply, “I hope I ain't
so silly as to stand upon ceremony and all that nonsense!
My business is ruther private; but if Mis' Dane
wants to stay and hear it, I've no petic'lar objection.”
“I'll go,” — and Faustina made a flutter toward leaving.
“No, you needn't, — you may as well stay. I jest as
lives you would. Come to think on't, I'd a leetle druther
you would.”
For Mrs. Apjohn, who had hitherto, for reasons of
her own, kept her financial concerns a secret from her
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neighbors, determined of a sudden to manifest her independence
and command the respect of the worldlings,
by letting her wealth be known. She drew near the
desk.
“I have come, Mr. Parker, to see about that fifty
dollars.”
It needed not the surly, exultant glance she flung at
Faustina to carry consternation to that trembling woman's
soul. It was time to speak. She began, —
“As for that fifty dollars, Mrs. Apjohn, you can have
it almost any time. I suppose,” —
She hesitated, quite out of breath.
“I can, — can I?” said the astonished Prudence,
while the lawyer lifted his mild eyes with a puzzled
expression.
“Yes — I — I have just a word to say.”
“You have, — have you? I should like to know!”
Faustina's face was scarlet, and she spoke in a wild
and hurried whisper, —
“I hope — I assure you — your money won't be lost.
If you will have the patience to wait” —
Prudence regarded her with grisly scorn.
“Wait? Didn't I offer to wait? I gave you a
chance to speak, and you wouldn't take it. Now I'll
thank you jest to hold your tongue,” she added, with
overpowering arrogance, “and let me do my business
with Mr. Parker in peace. I've no idee of my money
bein' lost! Trust Mr. Parker for that! 'Tisn't as
though I was goin' to look to you for it!”
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This cool cup of impudence dashed the color from
Faustina's cheeks. She stood up, white and quivering
with excitement, — defiant and desperate now that the
worst, as she believed, had come.
“Threaten, — do you? Very well! what do I care?
I laugh at you! Get your money if you can! I fancy
you'll get it about the time I get the tomatoes stolen
out of our garden. Come, my lady” (with frightful
irony), “you see two can play at your game. Finish
your business with Mr. Parker; then I'll propose
mine. You can guess by this time what it is!”
Passion had concentrated the rash young woman's
scattered wits, and she had come to the quick determination
to enter a complaint against Prudence for
a theft of vegetables, if the latter persisted in taking
legal measures to recover the stolen money. Perhaps
Mrs. Apjohn understood something of the malign
intent. Certain it is that her contumeliousness was
very suddenly suppressed.
“Mr. Parker, I leave it to you if I've said or done
anything to merit sech treatment as this!”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Parker, “I am utterly at a loss
to understand this unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“I offered to explain,” cried Faustina. “I'm not
ashamed to have Mr. Parker know all, if you are not.
Begin now, — tell your story; then I'll give my side,”
and she sat down with flashing eyes.
“I come here,” said Prudence, “on a quiet matter of
business. I shall go on with it. I — am sorry — if I
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have offended you,” she humbled herself to say, the
words sticking in her throat. “Now, Mr. Parker, le's
see! About that fifty-three dollars” —
“Fifty!” spoke up the excited Faustina. “It was
only fifty! Don't try to make it more than it is.”
The simmering wrath of Prudence came near boiling
over again at this interference.
“I said fifty at first,” — she spoke patiently as she
could, — “but with interest it's fifty-three and a trifle
over.”
“Interest? interest since yesterday! — but go on; go
on!” said Faustina, “see what you'll make of it.”
Mrs. Apjohn could hardly restrain her fury.
“Will you stop, and wait till I am through? I guess
me and Mr. Parker knows what we're about. Interest
since yesterday!” she repeated. “Think I'm a fool?
It's interest for the past year, as Mr. Parker knows.”
Mr. Parker smiled assent, and inquired if she had the
note.
“Yes, I brought it with me,” said she; “for it's on demand,
and you spoke as if you'd like to pay it, and we're
making up a little sum for the first of October, which'll
be here next week; and if it's jest as convenient to-day,
why, you can pay it to-day; if not, some other time;
though we should like it by the first, anyway.”
It seemed to rain riddles around Faustina, who heard,
and stared, and rubbed her forehead, as if to awaken
some benumbed sense which would enable her to see
through the bewildering drizzle.
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“I'm very glad to pay you now,” said Mr. Parker.
A little time was consumed in computing the interest
to Mrs. Apjohn's satisfaction; which gave Faustina an
opportunity to recover herself, and see upon what a
brink of folly she had rushed once more, hurried thither
by her own accusing conscience.
“What a simpleton I am!” she said to herself, trembling
at her narrow escape. “Fool to think I had been
found out, or would be!”
And she resolved she would not open her lips again to
speak of the transgression which she now firmly believed
would never be discovered.
She was still hardening her heart with this determination,
when Mrs. Apjohn exclaimed, —
“Why, Mr. Parker, where did you git that bill?”
“The fifty?” said the lawyer.
“Yes! I declare, it's jest like one I've got to hum, —
on the Manville bank, — my mark on't, too!” with increasing
trepidation.
“I had that bill not over an hour ago, of neighbor
Hodge,” replied Mr. Parker.
“Do ye know where he got it?” demanded Mrs. Apjohn,
her russet face actually pale with fright.
“No, I don't; but I've no doubt he can tell you.”
“If he didn't have it of my husband, then I've been
robbed! And John Apjohn wouldn't dare — no — I —
is Mr. Hodge to his store now?” And Prudence hastily
rising, lifted along with her the chair into which her
ample proportions were compressed, upsetting it with a
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noise that went to Faustina's quaking soul like a crash
of thunder.
The next moment she was gone. And Mrs. Dane,
rousing from her stupor, ran to the window to see which
way she went.
Prudence, issuing from the office stairway, started
first towards Hodge & Company's store. Then she
changed her mind, determining to rush home and know
for a certainty if her till had been robbed. Then
she changed her mind again, and concluded that she had
better see Mr. Hodge. While she was hesitating thus,
something fell at her feet. She gave it a glance: 'twas a
ripe and well-mellowed tomato. She did not see Tasso
tittering in the alley; but, casting a lurid look upwards,
caught sight of Faustina's sleeve, disappearing from the
window.
Faustina was moved by another gust of impulse to
give chase to Mrs. Apjohn. But how was she to run
the blockade of that craft of the law, — the man-of-warrants, —
standing off and on to ascertain what had
brought her into those straits?
“Excuse me if I have acted rudely this morning,” she
said. “Circumstances have made me irritable. I am in
great haste. I” —
She was trying to beat out of the channel betwixt the
table and the wall; but he intercepted her, and, tack
which way she would, she found herself running under
his bows.
“What can I do for you, this morning, madam?”
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This round shot brought her to.
“I wish — to — raise a little money. I thought perhaps
you might” —
“Might aid you. Likely enough; but you will have
to enlighten me in regard to your plans. Sit down.”
“Thank you — I must go — unless” — a new idea. “I
have some jewels here which I should like to borrow
fifty dollars on.”
Mr. Parker smiled curiously, as he glanced at the
trinkets, and returned them to her.
“This is a kind of business I never do,” he politely
informed her.
Her heart sank; but she drew herself up coldly and
proudly, as she put the dross back into her bag, begged
his pardon for calling upon him, and quickly took
leave.
In the street, Prudence was nowhere in sight. Faustina,
in an agony of shame, apprehension, and uncertainty,
was hesitating which way to go, when she saw
Mrs. Apjohn issue from Hodge & Company's store
and run — actually run — up the opposite sidewalk.
She crossed over to accost her; this time with the full
determination to tell her everything.
“Mrs. Apjohn!”
“Don't you stand in my way!” screamed the furious
woman. “Git out, you thing! No more of your insults
to me, or I'll” —
Faustina stood aside as the broad red face blazed past
her.
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“You better! — Throw any more tomatuses at me,
if you da's't! — I've been robbed, or I'd 'tend to your
case now, you stuck-up silly upstart!” And Prudence,
with a glare of rage, turned her capacious back, and set
off at an elephantine trot; while Tasso walked softly out
of the alley, and joined Faustina.
“Wish she'd tread on that tomato, and slip up;
wouldn't she make a spread?” observed that genteel
youth.
“I won't try again! That's twice I've tried to tell
her; and you saw how she treated me!” said the incensed
Faustina. “Let her find out if she can!”
Tasso regarded her admiringly. “By George, you
look splendid, now — perfec'ly superb! 'S wuth while to
see you mad once, if's only to get one flash of them
splendid eyes! — What's the scrape?”
“You got me into it, Tasso! — not that I blame you.
We mustn't stand talking here. Come along with me,
and I'll tell you all about it.”
-- 138 -- p471-143
XV. TRAGICAL.
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We left the cooper noosed. And we must beg his
pardon for neglecting him so long in that ticklish situation.
It was necessary to bring forward the array of
events to the moment when he heard the noise which
precipitated the leap. That done, the reader is prepared
to learn the nature of that noise; and he will, we
hope, be gratified to know that it is the bustle of Prudence
returning. She flings open the door, and is plunging
straight into the house, bent on the examination of
her coffers, when the lamentable spectacle meets her
eyes.
The chair overthrown, face to the floor and heels up,
as if cowering in fright and horror; the kitchen pole
sagging and shaking with its unusual burden; the red
silk tied to the pole; and John Apjohn tied to the red
silk: this was the tragical picture. As when some foggy
morning Phœbus, belated, having overslept himself, or
lingered too long over the Olympian beef-steaks and
coffee, looks at his watch, cries “Bless me! is it so late?”
claps on his hat, mounts his omnibus, and whips in hot
haste out of the stables of night into the broadway of
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the zodiac: like that original red-faced stage-driver,
Prudence, all in a fume, blown as was never fat woman
before, glows in the entrance of the misty and dismal
kitchen; her eyes so inflamed with heat and sweat that
she can hardly discern at first the character of the
ghostly object strung between the zenith and nadir of
that little universe.
Then the truth, or at least a fragment of it, bursts in
upon her preoccupied mind. John has discovered the
robbery and hung himself! The hanging was obvious;
though Prudence, who would have deemed the finding
of superfluous vegetables on the door-latch a very poor
excuse for the deed, and the loss of a large sum of money
the very best excuse, fell naturally into an erroneous
conjecture of the cause.
John's attitude was extraordinary for that of a hanged
man. He did not kick. Was he then past kicking?
No; he had not indulged at all in that little conventionality
of the gallows. He had other work for his legs to
do. They were straightened and stretched to their utmost,
whilst his feet maintained a painful tiptoe posture,
in the effort to avoid the extremely disagreeable exercise
of dancing upon nothing; for the sanguinary handkerchief
had relented a little, and the remorseful pole
had yielded a good deal, so that he could just reach and
support himself on the floor, as the sagacious reader
has no doubt foreseen, having been all this time, like the
cooper, only imperfectly held in suspense.
And there, in the midst of the kitchen, hung, or rather
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stood, or partly hung and partly stood, the melancholy
man, considerably dark in the face, his eyes protruded
and rolling, mouth open, and tongue out, with serious
symptoms of asphyxia, and both hands raised, one above
his head, grasping the red halter for a stay, and the other
struggling in terror and haste with the silken knot under
his ear.
“John! John Apjohn!” ejaculated Mrs. J. A., “what
you doing?”
“Ich — ich — yaw!” said John. For you have only
to choke a man sufficiently in order to make him talk
like a Dutchman.
“Be ye dead, John?” cried his spouse.
“Yaw — yaw,” gurgled Meinherr.
“O John!” groaned Prudence, clutching the handkerchief,
and swaying down the gallows to ease his windpipe.
“Tried to hang yourself! Why did you, John?
Oh, dear! About killed ye, has it?”
John essayed to speak, but only croaked and clucked.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear! Misfortins never come singly!
What shall I do, if I lose you and the money too?” Her
mind flew between those two buffeting disasters like a
distracted shuttlecock. “Don't die just at this time,
John! don't. Can't ye git it off now?” And she pulled
the red silk like a bell-rope, in her endeavor to unhang
him.
“C-c-u-t i-it!” cackled John.
“Wal now, you've said it!” exclaimed Prudence.
“Guess you'll git along! Cut a good new han'kerchief
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[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]
like this 'ere! Why didn't ye take somethin' else, some
old thing, if you was detarmined to hang yourself?
Your Sunday silk! Jest like you, John Apjohn, for all
the world!”
“Knife — in my p-p-pocket!” strangled the cooper.
“Come!” cried Prudy, losing patience. “I wouldn't
try to talk if I couldn't talk sense. Can't you untie
a knot? Take your teeth!” Query: how was he to
apply his incisors to a knot under his own chin? But
Prudy did not consider that little difficulty. “Bite it!”
“C-c-a-n-t!” quacked John.
“Can't! let me then! Why, it's a slip-noose! Why
don't ye slip it? Oh!” moaned Prudence, “if I was
half as sure of gittin' back my money as I be of gittin'
you out of this trap! How did we git robbed, John?”
“Robbed?” said John, in a more human accent.
“Why! didn't you know it? Ain't that what you
went and hung yourself for?”
“No!”
“And — haven't you been to the till?”
“No!” said John, getting his eyes back into his head
again. But the relief was only temporary.
“Haven't you? Then — maybe — wait a minute!”
and in her agitation she let up the pole, which carried
with it the handkerchief, which once more tightened
around John's gullet.
“Oh! what you 'b-b-bout?” he bubbled.
“Hold on!” cried Prudence, “you can stan' it a minute!
I'm dyin' to know!”
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“Yiz — iz — ich!” choked the cooper, up again on his
toes.
Prudence, eager as she was to get to the till, stopped
to right the chair and help him up on to it, where he
stood, like a reprieved culprit, with the noose about his
neck; while she snatched the key from the clock, flew to
the chest, unlocked it, and unlocked the till with another
key from beneath it.
Her great fear was that all her money had been
stolen; for the possibility of a burglar taking the trouble
to extract fifty dollars and leave the rest had not entered
her mind. Equally great now was her joy when she saw
the pocket-book in its place and money in the pocket-book.
Her fright, then, had been causeless. There
were two bills on the Manville Bank precisely similar;
and somebody had put a private mark, exactly like her
own, on the extraordinary duplicate. Such were her
reflections as she came out of the bedroom, with delight
on her countenance, and her treasure in her grasp.
John had in the mean time slid the ends of the pole out
of its supports, taken down his gallows, and seated himself,
with it across his lap, on his scaffold. And there he
was, bent double, patiently loosening the tie of his red
choker, when Prudy threw herself on the wood-box, exclaiming, —
“We hain't been robbed arter all, John! Here's the
wallet and all the money, I s'pose, — though it's the
greatest mystery about that fifty-dollar bill! And oh!
it's well for Abel Dane that he hain't been meddlin' with
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our cash. I've bore enough from them Danes. To
think that stuck-up Faustiny had the impudence to fling
one of her nasty tomatuses at me in the street, the trollop!”
John uttered a lugubrious whine, and dropped his
hands from the noose as if he had half a mind to leave it
where it was, get up, and finish the hanging.
“So I KNOW now 'twas one of the Danes that tied 'em
onto our door! And only think! she had the meanness
to twit me of 'em 'fore Mr. Parker! Oh! only give me
a chance, and I'll make her and Abel smart! I'd be
willin' to lose a little money, if I could prove Abel Dane
had stole it. Come, John! don't have that mopin' face
on. You look blue as a whetstun. And don't you go to
hangin' yourself ag'in, if you expect me to help you down,
for I shan't.” Here Prudence, who, in her excitement on
the subject of her neighbors and their insulting ways,
had held the pocket-book open, commenced a more careful
examination of its contents. “Gracious!” she
screamed.
“Was't a spider?” inquired the cooper, in a weak
voice. For Prudence, with all her strength of character
and robustness of frame, had a horror of spiders,
and he was used to hearing her shriek at them.
“That bill, it's gone! We have been robbed!” Again
she turned over the money. “Sure's the world, John!'
thout you have took it. Have you, sir?”
John, who had succeeded in removing his uncomfortable
cravat, was resting the pole on his knee, and
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[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]
meekly rubbing his throttle, with a most piteous expression.
“No, Prudy; I hain't,” he answered, taking
no interest.
“Then, oh!” Vengeance gleamed in Mrs. Apjohn's
eyes. “The bill ain't lost; for we can both swear to't,
and recover it as stolen property. I left it in Parker's
hands; he must look to Hodge, and Hodge must look to
Abel; and Abel, — let him be prepared to give a pretty
strict account of how he come by that bill, or it'll go
hard with him! He'll have trouble, or I'll miss my
guess! A man that would serve us sech a trick with the
tomatuses would hook our money. O Faustiny! Faustiny!
you'll come down from your high-heeled shoes!
you'll haul in your horns!”
And Prudence, still reeking from her recent exertions,
set off again at full speed for Mr. Parker's office, — the
cooper rolling his eyes after her with feeble astonishment,
foreboding fresh woes, but scarcely comprehending
the seriousness of her charges and threats against
the Danes.
-- 145 -- p471-150
XVI. THE ARREST.
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Abel, flattering himself that his pecuniary difficulties
were ended, sat down that evening to enjoy himself.
“Thank Providence, I've weathered this storm.
Though I thought I was going to have another little
squall this afternoon. I had a lawyer's letter, — from
Mr. Parker, — and what do you think he wanted?”
Fancy Faustina's alarm at hearing that name, and
seeing Abel's honest eyes look over the tea-table at her,
as he put the question.
“You needn't be so frightened,” he laughed. “I was
a little bit startled myself, though, till I ran up to
Parker's office and found out what the trouble was. It
seems Mrs. Apjohn is determined to be revenged on me
for an offence I never dreamed of committing. She
won't believe it possible that anybody else could see what
was done in our garden last Sunday, and contrive a
sorry joke to remind her of it; but I must have done it!
And how do you suppose she has gone to work to pay
me?”
“I can't imagine!” said Faustina.
“I laughed in Parker's face when he told me. She
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accuses me of a robbery. At least she claims that a bill
I gave Hodge last night was stolen from her!”
“Who ever heard of such a thing?” said Faustina.
“Ridiculous, isn't it? I told Parker I wasn't going to
submit to any annoyance from that source. I referred
him to Deacon Cole, from whom I had all the large bills
that I paid to Hodge. But what is curious,” added
Abel, “I can't remember receiving that particular bill,
though I noticed it when I was settling with Hodge last
night. Here! hello! you're making my cup run over!”
“What was I thinking of?” And the trembling woman,
to make matters worse, instead of pouring the
superfluous liquid into the bowl, turned it into the
cream-pitcher.
“I should think you had been accused of stealing, and
might be guilty,” Abel jestingly said. Then, as he
watched her, a grave suspicion crossed his mind, — that,
notwithstanding her positive denial of the fact in the
morning, it might be through some complicity or indiscretion
on her part that the affront for which vengeance
was now threatened had been put upon the Apjohns,
and that her agitation arose from the consciousness of
having thus brought him into danger.
“Faustina,” said he, with deep seriousness and kindliness,
“if we are aware of having committed any fault
by which our neighbors are aggrieved, we ought to
acknowledge it, and, if possible, make reparation for it.
The honestest course is the wisest. A word of frank
avowal now may save a world of vexation and vain
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[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]
regret hereafter. At least, do not keep anything from
me; but, I beg of you, if you have anything on your
mind that I ought to know, speak it now.”
It seemed that Faustina could not resist this earnest
appeal. She felt that her husband was, after all, her
best, her only friend; and she longed to confess to him,
and throw herself upon his generosity and mercy. But
she remembered her last interview with Tasso, who had
counselled her by no means to avow her misdeed to her
husband or to any one, but persistently to deny it,
whatever happened.
“That's the only way when you've once got into a
scrape,” said Tasso. “It's bad; but you must lie it
out.”
These words she recalled, and again the dread of
Abel's condemnation dismayed her, and Tasso's prediction,
that the Apjohns, though they should try, could
prove nothing, comforted her; and the false wife, in an
evil moment, looked up at her deceived husband with
feigned wonder, and replied, —
“I can't think of anything I've done, Abel. Why do
you ask?”
“Well, then, never mind,” said Abel. “I'm not
suspicious; but I feel extreme anxiety to be entirely
free from offence toward my neighbors, and I put as
strict questions to my own heart as I put to you. Consciousness
of being in the wrong makes me a perfect
coward; but let me be assured of the righteousness of
my course, and I can face any misfortune. The longer
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I live, the better I know what a precious refuge truth
is, and what a den of serpents is falsehood.”
“Oh, yes! I know it!” assented Faustina, with the
accent and the aspect of a saint, and with her soul in
that den, amidst the writhing and the hissing, at the
moment.
Abel was convinced; for that creature could assume
a seeming that might have deceived even the elect; and,
shoving back his chair with satisfaction, he called to
Melissa, who showed her face at the door with Ebby in
her arms.
“Come to your supper. Give me the young gentleman.
Did you leave mother comfortable? Ho, you
Goliath of babies!” — tossing the delighted Ebby.
“Ha, you fat pig!” — tickling him. “Ebby has no
cares yet to work down his flesh. Care is a jack-plane,
that takes thick shavings from the breast and ribs.
You little sultan!” — standing him up on his knees
in a royal attitude; for he was a proud and splendid
child. “Wonder if my little fairy will ever be a man,
and have whiskers, and a little boy to pull 'em, — a real,
plump, loving little boy, to make him forget all his
troubles when he comes home at night?” And, with a
sense of his own blessedness, and with a gush of affection,
he clasped the happy boy to his heart. “Come,
now let's go and see grandma.”
“Poor thick ga'ma!” said Ebby, with his chubby fingers
in the paternal hair.
“Yes, poor sick grandma; and we'll go and make her
well.”
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Abel had risen, and was carrying Ebby gayly on his
arm, when, as they passed the door, there came a rap
upon it. Faustina, at the sound, grew pale, — more apprehensive,
now, of fateful visitors, than Cooper John
himself. But Abel, joyous of countenance, and free of
soul, feeling, like Romeo, “his bosom's lord sit lightly
in his throne,” — ignorant that the gleam, which illumined
that moment in his life, was not sunshine, but a
flash out of the gathering thunder-cloud, — the young
father, holding up his boy with one hand, threw open
the door with the other, and met the sheriff face to face.
The sheriff was a kind-hearted man, and, at sight of
the happy domestic scene, which it was his thankless office
to disturb, no doubt his feelings were touched. He
shook hands with Abel, — for they were well acquainted,—
and gave a hard finger to the fat little hand which, at
the paternal instigation, Ebby bashfully stuck out to him.
“Come in, won't you?” cried Abel, thinking of him
only as friend Wilkins, and not once connecting him
with his commission.
“Perhaps you'd better step out a minute,” answered
Wilkins. “I've a disagreeable errand to do.”
“Here, mamma! take baby!” cried Abel. But baby
did not want to go to mamma. And mamma had no
word or look for baby, in the consternation of thinking
the sheriff was there to arrest some one, — it might be
Abel, — it might be herself! “Well, then, where's his
little shawl? and papa's hat? We'll go out and see the
man. Hurrah!”
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“Co-ah!” crowed Ebby, throwing up his arms with
delight. He liked papa best of anybody at all times;
and now he and papa were going to have an adventure.
Sheriff Wilkins was sorry to see the boy come riding
out in triumph on his father's arm. He felt it would be
easier to do his errand out of sight of wife and child.
“He has such a pretty wife! and such a beautiful
child!” thought sheriff Wilkins.
It was a moonlight evening; and there, in the quiet
and white shine, with the shadows of the pear-tree mottling
the ground at their feet, spotting old Turk's
shaggy back, as he snuffed suspiciously at the officer's
shins, and flinging an impalpable shadow-crown upon
King Ebby's head, — in low voices, friendly and business-like,
the two men talked, and the errand was done;
Faustina, meanwhile, peering eagerly from the kitchen-window,
and those other witnesses, the stars, looking
placidly down through the misty skylight of heaven.
Then Abel, bearing the babe, returned into the house;
and Faustina, like the guilty creature she was, started
back from the window, and stood, white and still as
the moonlight without, waiting to hear the worst.
Abel came up to her, with a curious expression of
amusement and disgust, — a smile married to a scowl.
“It grows interesting!” he said.
“How? what?” whispered Faustina.
“I am arrested!” growled Abel.
“Arrested!” Faustina tried to echo; but her voice
refused to articulate.
-- 151 --
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“Don't be alarmed, — I am not!” added Abel, with
mocking levity. “It's such a neat revenge! Mrs. Apjohn
is welcome to all she can make out of it. Wonder
how it will seem to go to jail? How would you like to
go with me?”
For an instant, Faustina thought she was arrested
too, and that this was his mild way of breaking it to her.
“Fudge, child!” he laughed; “don't take it so seriously.
I thought it would be a good joke for you to
insist on keeping me company, and to take Ebby along
with us. I guess we could enjoy ourselves as well in
jail as the Apjohns out of it.”
“Ebby go!” cooed the enterprising infant, thinking
some pleasant journey was contemplated.
“No, Ebby can't go; he must stay at home with
mamma, to take good care of grandma. She may as
well not know it,” continued Abel, the smile dying, and
leaving the scowl a grim widower. “It would disturb
her too much. I almost wish Turk had finished Mrs.
Apjohn when he was about it. I shall get off, or, at all
events, get bail in the morning; but to-night I may have
to sleep in jail.”
“In jail! O Abel!” said Faustina, relieved to learn
that it was he, and not herself, who must go, yet terrified
at the consequences of her folly.
“There! don't be childish!”
Abel put his right arm about her tenderly, still holding
Ebby with the other.
“I don't care a cent on my own account. I'd just as
-- 152 --
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lief go to jail as not. You and I are not to blame, and
why should we be disturbed? Mrs. Apjohn, or whoever
is to blame, will get the worst of it. Or perhaps you
think we shall be disgraced? Villain of a husband, to
put his innocent young wife to such a trial! You forgive
me?”
“Oh, yes!” — Very magnanimous in Faustina. —
“But what — what proof is there?”
“Proof!” exclaimed Abel. “Do you think there is any
proof? Do you — heavens and earth, Faustina! — do
you imagine I am a scoundrel?”
“No, Abel! But if you had — taken money,” she
gasped out, — “I could forgive you.”
“I should despise you if you could!” he answered,
haughtily. “I could never forgive myself.”
“But — you forgave Mrs. Apjohn,” she reminded him,
almost pleadingly.
“That's another thing. A few tomatoes. But
money! — I could no more take my neighbor's cash
than I could take his life; and I don't suppose anybody
really thinks I could. Deacon Cole has no recollection
of paying me the bill Mrs. Apjohn says was stolen from
her; and they have got up an absurd story about finding
the envelope of one of my letters in their house, — proof
positive that I got in and lost it there when I stole the
money! That's the proof, as you call it. Come, be
yourself, Faustina, and let me see a hopeful smile on
your face when I go. What's a clear conscience good
for, if it can't sustain us at such times?”
-- 153 --
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“Oh, I am sustained!” Faustina tried the hopeful
smile, but it was a failure. “I know my dear, noble
husband is innocent!” And she put her lovely arms
about his neck and kissed him.
“Good-by,” he said, more convinced than ever of late
that she loved him. “I am on parole, and Wilkins is
waiting for me. Tell mother I have business, and put
her to bed. And, Faustina, whatever occurs, let us be
true to each other and to our own consciences, and all
will be well.”
“We will! we will!” she murmured, kissing him
again with lips as chill as dew.
“Now, mamma, take Ebby,” said Abel, with moist
eyes.
“No! no! Ebby go! Ebby go!”
“Oh, Ebby can't go with papa to-night. Mamma take
him.”
“No! no! no!” remonstrated the child, stoutly.
And he flirted his ungrateful hands, and kicked his unfilial
feet, when she reached to receive him; and lamented,
and screamed “Ebby go! Ebby go!” with ungovernable
persistence.
“What shall I do?” said Abel, with strong parental
emotion. “It would almost seem that his wise little
spirit foresees some greater wrong than we suspect.
The instincts even of babes are so wonderful. See! he
won't let me go without him!”
And Abel looked proud and gratified, though perplexed,
when the subtle-sensed child, shunning the guilty
-- 154 --
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parent with all his might, put his arms about the neck of
the innocent, and hugged him with all his heart and
strength.
“He knows!” cried Abel, with laughter and tears, little
guessing how much more there was in the divine instincts
of the infant than even his words had expressed.
“There now, Ebby, be papa's good boy. Melissa, take
him.”
Then Ebby loosed his hold, stayed only to kiss the
father he loved, one long kiss over his whiskers, put out
his hands to Melissa, and, without a murmur, only the
corners of the little serious mouth drawn down, went
to her unresistingly, though he still refused the hospitality
of the maternal bosom.
Faustina was cut to the heart. For, though she had
never loved her beautiful boy too well, she was jealous
of his affection; and to feel, at this time, when she was
conscious of having forfeited her husband's esteem, that
neither had she any part in her child's love, made her
seem to herself worse than a widow and childless.
“'By-'by, Ebby! — Keep good heart, Faustina!”
These were Abel's parting words; and, rejoining the
sheriff, he walked off gayly with him to the magistrate's.
But Faustina, with an indescribable sense of heaviness,
loneliness, and guilt, — wishing herself dead, wishing
herself where she might never see husband, or child,
or any face she ever knew, again, — shrank back into
the house, with the long night of remorse and dread
before her.
-- 155 -- p471-160
XVII. FAUSTINA CONSOLES HERSELF.
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The long, dreary night! how could she endure it?
Never a woman of courage, or of resources within herself
against ennui, no wonder that the coming lonesome
hours were awful as phantoms to her. She gazed out
of the windows; the moonlight and the stillness were
chill and forbidding. She could not content herself
a moment with the old lady; Ebby was no comfort;
and Melissa, who knew her secret, she was beginning to
hate and fear. She went to her chamber; its solitariness
was intolerable; a gust from the door, as she closed
it, extinguished her light, and the moonshine came between
the curtains like the face of a ghost.
Pitiful for one who at all times loved company so
well, and was never willingly alone an hour in her life!
What would she not resort to for relief from her own
fears and imaginings? She would have swallowed
laudanum, if she had had any. She thought of a bottle
of brandy in the kitchen closet. That would do. She
would stupefy herself.
Melissa was in the kitchen, suffering great distress of
mind at the occurrences of the evening.
-- 156 --
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“O Mis' Dane!” she exclaimed, “ain't it too bad he
has to go to jail! And we know he didn't take the
money!”
“Hold your tongue!” said Faustina. “Of course he
didn't; and they can't do anything with him.”
“Can't they?” cried Melissa, eagerly; for she had
felt the remorse of an accomplice in sharing Faustina's
secret. “Oh, I'm glad!”
“You stupid girl!” — Faustina seized her arm. “Melissa!
Melissa!” in a menacing whisper, “hear what I
say! As you value your oath, as you value your life,
never breathe a syllable of what you know!”
“La, ma'am!” — with open-mouthed astonishment,—
“what will happen to me if I do?”
“You will die! You will die a most sudden and
dreadful death!”
“La, ma'am! will I though? Oh dear!” And Melissa
began to whimper with fright, thinking her mistress
must surely be in league with supernatural avengers.
“There! stop crying! They shan't hurt you, if you
mind me.” There was something awfully suggestive in
the indefinite, mysterious plural they. “Only keep your
oath, Melissa! An oath's a shocking thing to break.
Nobody is safe afterwards.”
“Why, what happens to 'em?”
“Some are sent to prison, — lucky if they ever get out
again. Some are struck by lightning. Some are murdered
in broad daylight, nobody ever knows how. Some
are found dead in their beds, though as well the night
-- 157 --
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before as you are this minute. A great many disappear,
and are never heard of again; — it's supposed the goblins
catch them.”
“Oh, la, ma'am! how you scare me!”
“You needn't be scared, only keep your oath. Remember!
Now go and put Ebby to bed, and see to the
old woman. I can't, — I'm sick. Where's that brandy?”
The brandy was got. Melissa was gone. And Faustina
in her madness began to drink. She placed the
bottle on the table, with water and sugar, and sat down,
deliberately and systematically to lay siege to the castle
of oblivion, of which drunkenness opens the gates.
“Hillo! by George, I cotched ye at it this time!”
Faustina started up with trepidation; but when she
saw what visitor had entered so softly as to stand beside
her before she was aware, she was pacified, and sat
down again.
“I've an excruciating toothache, Tasso! I was putting
a little brandy into it.”
“I've an excruciating toothache, too,” said Tasso.
“I'd like to put a little brandy into mine.”
The liquor had begun to do its office. Faustina was
delighted to have company. She was social; she was
ardent; she wrung Tasso's hand confidentially, and
brought him a glass from the closet.
“Seein' Abel's off, thought I'd drop in. Hi, hi!'
tain't a bad joke after all! Got him up 'fore the justice!
Couldn't help laughing!” And Tasso illustrated
with a giggle, which he quenched with a dash of
-- 158 --
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sweetened brandy and water. “That's good liquor, I swow!”
He smacked, and filled again, confirming his verdict, —
being no doubt a discriminating judge of strong waters;
for he had tended bar in Boston till he was suspected of
pilfering from the drawer, when he retired at his employer's
urgent request, second by a boot which
accelerated his progress down the stairs. He had lost
his situation, but retained his taste.
“It's dreadful, Tasso!” said Faustina. “He won't
come home to-night, I suppose. Oh, I'm so glad you've
come; it's so horrible lonesome here! Let's go into
the sitting-room; for Melissa'll be back in a minute.
Bring the sugar.”
“Toothache hain't a chance in this house,” observed
Tasso, smilingly holding up the bottle to the light.
“Come! I've so many things to tell you!” And
Faustina led the way, carrying the pitcher of water
and the candle.
-- 159 -- p471-164
XVIII. “HE ENTERED IN HIS HOUSE, HIS HOME NO MORE. ”
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Later in the night, when the village streets were
silent, and the village lights mostly extinguished, a man
appeared briskly walking across the common, in the
moonlight.
It was Abel Dane. He was softly whistling a lively
air, to which his feet kept time. He had not yet seen
the inside of the big stone jug, as the jail was called,
and didn't think now that he ever would. He had had
the good fortune to gain a hearing before the magistrate
that night, and to get admitted to bail. Deacon
Cole himself had volunteered to be his surety. Everybody
was inclined to take a jocular view of the charge
against him. And Abel was happy; congratulating
himself that Mrs. Apjohn's malice was baffled, and enjoying,
in pleasant anticipation, Faustina's surprise and
delight at his unexpected return.
For Abel, poor fellow, was so eager to snatch at every
bubble of circumstance in which his hope of fancy saw
glimmer some floating, unsubstantial image of domestic
happiness! He was rushing to grasp a very large and
extremely flattering bubble of this description now. His
-- 160 --
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wife's distress, on seeing him torn from her embrace
and dragged away to jail, — so to speak, — had moved
him greatly. “After all,” he thought, “she loves me. A
change is taking place in her character, I sincerely hope.
She never manifested so much concern for my welfare before.
And she said she could forgive me, even if I had
taken money! Such charity, such affection, I did not
expect to find in her. Who knows but the faults of her
spoiled girlhood and false education may be cured, and
she may prove a true wife and mother after all? God
grant it!” he murmured aloud, his eyes upturned mistily
to the moonbeams, his features glowing and surcharged
with the emotion of his prayer.
He hurried on. He saw a light in his own house.
“Poor girl! she is too anxious to sleep! She could
not go to bed and rest while I was supposed to be
locked up in stone walls. Foolish child! But I am
glad she is wakeful; I wouldn't have her make light of
my arrest, though I do. I can imagine how lonesome
she is, sitting up, thinking of me. I'll go softly to the
door, and surprise her. Now I shall know, — I'll take
her behavior as a sign, — whether she really loves me.”
He drew near. He heard — what? Laughter! That
did not please him so well.
“Who has she got there?” He listened. “Tasso
Smith!”
He went to the kitchen door; it was unfastened. He
entered, and closed it after him. The moon lighted his
steps, and he advanced, stepping noiselessly, to the
-- 161 --
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sitting-room door. His purpose to afford Faustina a
surprise had become a dark and deadly purpose, and
the blackness of darkness clothed his soul. He waited;
for, in that first terrible revulsion, he felt that Tasso
could not fall into his hands without danger, and he
feared the violence of his own rage in confronting
Faustina. He was determined to be calm; yet it was
not easy to get his wrath under control, with the intolerable
tittering from within irritating it like sputters
of vitriol.
When his hand was quite steady, he found the doorknob,
touched it warily, turned it charily, opened it
with silence and caution, and laid bare the scene within.
Do you think this dishonorable in Abel? No matter.
In his place you would very likely have acted dishonorably
too.
The scene: A table, with the tools of intoxication
upon it; beside it two chairs, unsuitably near together.
In that nearest the door you saw the nice youth, Tasso
Smith, — one hand encircling a glass which rested on
the edge of the table, the other resting familiarly on
the back of the chair beyond, — his countenance, like
silly cream, wrinkled up with the last inanity of tipsy
merriment.
In that other chair sat Faustina, her eyes swimming
with an unmistakable tendency to double-vision, and
her lovely head so tipsy that she could hardly resist its
proclivity to rest on Tasso's shoulder. A pretty picture
for a husband!
-- 162 --
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One minute, — two minutes, the petite comedy went
on; two unconscious actors playing their parts with
perfect naturalness and abandonment, such as you seldom
see on the stage, before an intensely interested
audience of one.
Then you might have heard a fall. Mr. Smith heard
it as soon as anybody. Indeed, something had happened
to that individual. He had tumbled, in a most
astonishingly sudden and mysterious manner, under the
table. Over him stood Abel, and in Abel's hand was
the chair which had been jerked from beneath him.
And there was danger in the atmosphere, as the sagacious
youth sniffed readily when once he put out his
head carefully from under the table and carefully drew
it back again. He had done curing the toothache, and
done tittering, too, for that night.
But Faustina laughed on, not perceiving the spectre
of wrath that had stalked in behind her, and now stood
holding her companion's tilted chair. She looked down
by the table, and was presently aware of a pair of perpendicular
legs, not Tasso's. Or was Mr. Smith double,
and had he four legs? He appeared to be rapidly crawling
off with a horizontal pair, and, at the same time, to
be standing firmly on the two at her side.
She looked up, and was shocked into something like
sobriety by the apparition of her husband.
“Abel! — why — where — I thought you — is it morning?”
And she winked to see if it was day, thinking
he had passed the night in jail and come home and
caught her carousing.
-- 163 --
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Abel stood motionless and white, still clinching the
chair, as if diabolically tempted to break it over the
head of Tasso, rising from behind the table and retreating,
with the grimace of a scared monkey, to the door.
But with extraordinary self-control, he neither spoke
nor stirred until Mr. Smith had slunk out; then he
kicked his hat after him, — for that young gentleman
had quite forgotten that he was bareheaded, — broke
the cane that stood in the corner, and threw the splinters
into the retiring face. Then, having closed and
locked the door, he turned and confronted Faustina.
-- 164 -- p471-169
XIX. HUSBAND AND WIFE.
[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
“Why — Abel — what's the matter?” gasped the
wretched woman, trying to gild her guilty fright with
smiles.
“My wife! — disgraced forever!”
These words, uttered incoherently, with suppressed
fury, carried to the heart of the half-sobered Faustina
the stunning conviction that all had been discovered.
She slipped down uon her knees before him.
“Mercy! mercy! Don't cast me off, Abel, — don't!
I will tell you everything!”
“Where did you get these trinkets?” For the jewels
had been brought out, and now lay on the table.
“I bought them, Abel.”
“You bought them! With whose money?”
“With — with yours. I took it from the drawer.
Yesterday Tasso came and showed them to me, and
made me buy them.”
“Faustina, don't dare to tell me anything but the
truth now!” he muttered, wringing her wrist.
“I won't. I'll tell you everything. But, oh, don't
cast me off! Don't shame me before the world! I've
-- 165 --
[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]
been a bad and selfish wife to you, I know; but I'll be
better. Oh, I'll be so true always, always, Abel! if you
won't expose me now.”
“Speak!” said Abel, — hoarse, bewildered, chills of a
strange new terror creeping over him. “What have
you done?”
“I was so frightened afterward, — I thought you
would kill me when you missed the money!” —
“How much was it?”
“Fifty dollars.”
Abel dropped her arm and staggered back. He knew
all. No need for her to tell him more. But she talked
on, eager in self-excuse.
“I went to borrow it of Mrs. Apjohn. But she
wasn't there when I took it; and I didn't dare to go and
tell her of it, — and you had paid the money to Mr.
Hodge, — and, — O Abel! I have been so wretched! If
you only knew, you would have mercy! Don't expose
me now, and cast me off! — don't let me go to jail!
don't! don't! don't!”
In the most abject servility, with passionate terror and
entreaty, she pleaded, kneeling and wringing her hands.
Abel had sat down. Under the calamity that had smitten
him, he could not stand. He felt weak and shattered
and lost.
“Oh, do pity me!” she prayed, creeping toward him.
“You pity others! You forgave Mrs. Apjohn the tomatoes.
She is nothing to you, and I am your wife;
-- 166 --
[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
and such a wife I will be to you, O Abel! if you will
only be merciful to me now!”
She cut her knee on something sharp. It was Tasso's
glass, which had been thrown down and broken when he
fell. It reminded her of the carousal which had been
interrupted. Sobered more and more, she felt now how
unpardonable that scene must have appeared in Abel's
eyes.
“I didn't know what to do. I was so wretched, I felt
such remorse when you were gone. I thought I couldn't
live through the night. I was wild, frantic, and I got
the brandy. I never did such a thing before, — you
know I never did. I meant to kill myself. I hoped I
should. I wish I had! Then Tasso came in. There
was never anything more between us than you saw to-night, —
nor half so much. I swear it! I'll swear it on
the Bible, and call Heaven to witness! It was the brandy,
it was the brandy, Abel! Oh, don't look so stony
and cruel at me; for I see my fate in your eyes! They
are like dead men's eyes, — there's no compassion in
them. Don't, don't look at me so, Abel!” And she
grovelled at his feet.
Still he made no motion, but sat as he had fallen, with
a blind and frozen look, which well might awe Faustina.
“Abel! dear Abel! my husband! remember how
you have loved me!”
Her voice, which had been wild and strong in its eloquence
of fear, now grew tremulous and fond. She
kissed his feet. She wept and laughed. “Oh, you will
-- 167 --
[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
love me again! You do love me! Think how happy
we have been! And we will be happier now. For I
shall never care for anybody or anything but you after
this. If you only forgive me,— and I know you will!” —
looking up in his face with pleading sweetness and tears.
“You are so good, Abel!” And she flung herself upon
his bosom, kissing and clinging with the witchery she
knew so well how to use.
But Abel was inexorable. Her caresses — he loathed
them.
“Get off!” said he. She turned from him with such
semblance of despair that he could not but relent a
little. “Go to bed. You are not yourself to-night;
and I am sick! In the morning I will tell you what I
will do.”
“I can't go till you forgive me!” she answered,
fawning upon him, and covering his hand with kisses.
“Why do you say, `Go to bed?' It was always, `Come
to bed,' till now. — Oh, I see by your face, so cold, so
cold, that I am not to be your wife any more!”
She fell upon the floor. There she lay motionless and
unnoticed for many minutes. Then he stooped, sternly
commanding her, and lifted her up.
“Come with me!”
“Oh, you hurt me, Abel! Your hand is iron!”
“There is iron in my soul!” said Abel.
“Pity me, pity me, Abel!” she implored, “when I
suffer so!”
-- 168 --
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“You suffer! And I? Who will pity me? Alone;
and the ruins fall upon me!”
“Dear Abel, I pity you. Don't look so terrible! You
are not alone, — I am with you.”
For a minute he stood in a sort of trance, his visage
pallid and awful, his eyes fixed on vacancy. She watched
him, in dread and distress, waiting for him to look at
her and speak.
“Faustina,” he said, with deep and strange calmness—
but there was something sepulchral in his voice, —
“do you know that I am under bonds to answer for
your crime?”
“My crime!” she gasped.
“Crime!” he repeated. “It is worse than simple
larceny, — it is house-breaking. I thought it an idle accusation
till now. Now I see what it means. It means
dishonor. It means endless disgrace. It means trial,
conviction, sentence, — for one of us. Years in prison,—
for one of us. Does any one know of your guilt?”
“No one, — no one but you. And you will spare me,
Abel! dear Abel! won't you?” Thus she lied, and
pleaded.
“And suffer in your place!”
“No, no, Abel. You are innocent. They cannot
punish you for what you have not done. And you are
a man!”
He smiled; but his smile was even more frightful to
her than his frown.
“Punishment has no terrors for me now. I think I
-- 169 --
[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
shall soon be glad to hide my head even in prison. If
it wasn't for Ebby — my boy!” —
“What do you mean?” she cried. “Don't frighten
me so, Abel! They can't imprison you, — how can
they?”
“You have made your act appear as my act. You
did the robbery, and I received and used the money.
People know how I was distressed for money at the
time; — that is evidence against me. The Apjohns
identify the stolen bill; they can produce proof to show
how they came by it, which I cannot do. Then there
is one of my letter-envelopes, — how came it in their
house? They found it rolled up in the kitchen.”
“I don't know, — I don't know!” said Faustina.
“I know!” answered Abel. “If others only knew!”
A powerful emotion shook him, as he looked upon her,
so young and beautiful and proud, and thought of her
ruin and disgrace. “'Twas one of your curl-papers.
You lost it when you took the money. And you stopped
the clock, when you took the key of the chest out of it.
Did you leave any other trace of your guilt?”
Then Faustina's strength went from her, and hope
went with it, and despair possessed her.
“I will certainly kill myself, Abel!” she said.
“Would one of us had died already!” he answered.
“But killing ourselves now will not mend matters. I
am sick enough of the world, to leave it very willingly.
But I shall bide my time. Come!”
She followed him, walking in a sullen stupor. He
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[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
conducted her to her chamber, — their chamber heretofore, —
where Ebby lay sweetly slumbering. He led
her to the bedside; and there they both stood for some
moments gazing upon the lovely little sleeper, each with
what different thoughts!
“Go to bed,” then said Abel.
She obeyed him without word or resistance. He
waited till she had lain down. Then he put his arms
gently about the unconscious babe, and took him from
her side. At that she roused.
“Oh! are you going to leave me?”
“Yes, Faustina.”
“Go, then! Be kind and forgiving to every one but me.
But leave me my child, — our child, Abel, — won't you?”
“No, Faustina.”
Then she turned upon her face, burying it in the pillow,
which she clutched and bit convulsively.
And bearing the dewy-cheeked infant in his arms,
Abel went out, closed the door behind him gently and
firmly, and entered another room.
It was the room that had been Eliza's. In the bed
that had been Eliza's he laid down his precious burden,
and threw himself heavily down beside him.
“Papa! papa!” said Ebby, waking, and glad to find
the whiskers he loved on his face. And stretching up
his little arms, he hugged the dear good head of his
father to his sweet moist bosom.
Abel sobbed. And there he lay, thinking of his desolation
and remembering his sins. Who could help
-- 171 --
[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]
him? God can help us, but not always within ourselves.
He uses instruments and mediators. Abel
longed for human sympathy and aid. And he thought
of one whom he had wronged.
“How I wronged her!” he said, and gnashed his
teeth. “Idiot that I was! and she so wise and good!
Nobody but her! nobody but her!” he repeated, thinking
of those who, out of all the world, might be of
service to him then. “And I grieved her away! O my
baby! — my mother! — my good name among men!—
if only Eliza was here!”
A soothing influence stole over him, as he thought of
her. Something of her spirit seemed still to pervade
the room; and he found rest in it. Then what if she
herself were there? His longing for her, the cry of
his inmost soul became irresistible. He arose, and
penned the brief letter which called her home; then
returned to bed, drew Ebby to his heart, and slept the
sleep of the innocent.
-- 172 -- p471-177
XX. THE RETURN OF ELIZA.
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The letter went the next day to its destination. The
day after was Saturday. Would Eliza be here before
the Sabbath? Would she come at all?
It is another moonshiny night; — the chill mists
rising, the village dogs barking, the elm-trees drooping
in the dew, with now and then a liquid rustle, and
a young woman hurrying across the common through
shadow and gloom.
It is a plain, earnest face you see under the brown
bonnet, — pale, in the moonlight, and full of anxious
thought, — gazing toward Abel's house. Why does her
bosom swell so, and her heart beat so fast?
Oh, the realization that she is going home, — that
here she is again in sight of the house, which stands
with its white gable to the moon, waiting as in the wellremembered
bygone sheeny nights! No, it is not a
dream, Eliza; you are fully awake.
The feeling of the old, frequented paths under her
feet; the familiar scent of the soil and trees; Abel's
shop, Cooper John's shop, and Cooper John's squatty
house, which always to her mind bore such a ludicrous
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likeness to good Mrs. Apjohn; again, the night-fog stealing
up from the hollow, mingled with which comes an
indefinable, tantalizing sense of change in the native
atmosphere of the town; something, after all, foreign
and forbidding in the features of the landscape lying
dim in the moonlight; — all this makes her strangely
afraid and strangely glad.
Her hands are encumbered with travelling-gear; yet
she walks swiftly. And now she is near the gate; and
now she pauses and shrinks. What is this that rushes
upon her? All the past in a flood, — the old, warm
current of love; the cutting ice of disappointment;
the wrecks of happiness; faces of dead friendships;
pleasures and hopes and pains; all which she sees, like
a drowning person, in one wild, stifling instant of time.
Then comes a sudden dash through the yard. Old
Turk, who has been for the last hour assiduously serenading
the moon, — his big, bluff barytone, distinguishable
afar off amid the chorus of village curs, — leaves
that thankless occupation, gives a bounce at the gate,
which flies open, and, with yelps of furious delight and
frenzied wags of tail, madly leaping and licking, gives
her a devouring welcome. Eliza drops bag and bandbox,
and hugs the dear old monster in her arms, crying
for very joy.
“Old Turk! dear Turk! There, stop, you saucy
boy! Can't you be glad without tearing me to pieces?
You dear fellow! Down!”
To be thus remembered and greeted by her dumb
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friend is a great comfort. She accepts it as a good
omen, and her heart grows light, — only to grow heavy
again, however, a moment later.
Her hand is on the latch. Shall she open, as in old
times, — the good old times, forever past, when she
was as the mistress of that house? She remembers
that another woman is mistress there now, and, awkward
and unnatural as it seems, she knocks like any
wayfarer. What tremor, what suspense, — waiting
there on that door-step for some one to open unto her!
Who will come? Will Abel's face be the first to meet
her, or the beautiful Faustina's, which she somehow
dreads, or dear old Mrs. Dane's, benevolent and beloved?
Oh, to think she is now to see these faces once
more, — that the moment, which she thought would
never come, has at last arrived! If only the door
would open! But it doesn't.
She knocks again, less timidly, — louder even than
her heart is knocking all this time. And now there is a
stir within. She is aware of some one peeping out at
her from the window. Then the door is cautiously
opened, and the edge of a face appears, — a face unknown
to Eliza.
“Is Abel — Mr. Dane — at home?”
Alas, Eliza! that ever you should come to that door
with such a formal question, and stand coldly outside
till a stranger's tongue has answered it!
“No; gone away,” says the face through the crack —
the door yielding only about a hand's breadth.
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In her disappointment, Eliza is half a mind to go
away too, and come again no more. Indeed, what business
has she there? The letter which brought her —
she must have merely dreamed of such a letter. Or,
even were it a reality, why was she so foolishly eager to
answer the summons? Abel did not expect she would
be, it is evident. Since he had been so long reticent and
cold, ought she not to be ashamed of her ready and ardent
zeal?
“I would like to see old Mrs. Dane,” she falters.
“She's wus; don't see nobody,” replies the face
through the crack.
What shall she do? Is this then coming home? Is
this the hour she looked forward to with such palpitating
hope during her long journey? She turns half
round. She sees the moon shining on the trees and fields
as she has seen it a hundred times before. Its cold
beams are more hospitable than the glimpse of light in
the forbidden house. The wide, roofless night is not
so solitary as this half-shut guarded door. “Abel!
Abel!” says her heart, “if you sent for me, why are you
not here to welcome me?”
“But this is morbid,” says her better sense.
“Is young Mrs. Dane at home?” she forces herself to
inquire.
“Yes'm; but she's sick a-bed too. Don't see nobody.”
This, then, is Abel's trouble, Eliza thinks. His wife
is ill, — perhaps dying, — and she has been sent for to
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save for him that precious life. Well, she will do her
duty.
“Will Abel be home soon?”
“Don't know. Guess bimeby. Didn't say, when he
went out.”
“I will come in and wait,” says Eliza. Still the door
does not open; and the face at the crack looks out suspiciously
at her, with a foolish, doubting smile.
“Do you know if they were expecting any one to-night?”
“Guess not; hain't heerd 'em say.”
“This used to be my home. Did you ever hear them
speak of Eliza?”
At which word, Turk, grown impatient of delay,
brushes past her, forcing the door.
“La, ma'am! is this Eliza?” cries the flustered
housemaid, recovering from Turk and the surprise.
“I've heerd old Mrs. Dane talk of you ever so many
times! My name's Melissy, — Melissy Jones, ye
know; though mabby ye never heerd of me afore,
seein' as how my folks only jest moved into the place a
little more'n a year ago. Old Mrs. Dane 'll be dreadful
tickled to see ye, I know! La, I thought 'twas a straggler!
and I'm kind o' skeery, folks bein' sick so, and
Abel away from home. Take a seat and set down, won't
ye?”
Eliza is gazing vacantly about the room, and beginning
to take off her things. What object is it which
suddenly fixes her sight?
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“That's baby, — that's Ebby,” Melissa explains. “I
was lonesome, so I kep' him up for comp'ny; but, la!
he dropt right off to sleep, jest as he never will evenings
when we want him to.”
In the rocking-chair, sunken in pillows, dimpled
cheek on dimpled arm, with the smile of some happy
dream just stirring the sweet mouth, the chubby cherub
sleeps. Eliza bends over him, kneeling. Her face,
bowed low, is hidden from Melissa. Long she gazes,
silent. O fortunate Abel, parent of that darling boy!
O proud Faustina, to be the mother, and the father's
cherished wife! Eliza touches, with quivering lips, the
lily-white, dewy skin, the warm, aromatic, rosy mouth.
Then she says, calmly, —
“He looks like Abel, I think.”
“Yes'm,” assents Melissa, “he dooes. Most folks
thinks he favors his pa the most.”
“How long has his mother been sick?”
“Only sence yist'day.”
“Is she very sick?” asks Eliza, surprised.
“Don't know. Perty considerable, — though not very,
I guess,” Melissa confusedly answers.
“Does she see the doctor?”
“No, ma'am; she don't see nobody. Better take a
seat and set down.”
Melissa would like to change the subject. Eliza,
seating herself, persists in questioning her.
“But she must see somebody. Who takes her food
to her?”
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“I do; but she won't eat, and she sca'cely looks at
me, but keeps her head kivered up under the bedclo'es.
Oh, dear!” sighs Melissa, remembering the secret,
which she dreads to keep, yet fears to betray.
“But she sees her husband!” says the astonished
Eliza.
“Ruther guess not; for he sleeps in t'other room
now, 'long 'ith Ebby.”
“How long has he done so?”
“Only last night and the night afore, ma'am.”
“She can't be very sick, then, — or else he would go
to her.”
“Wal, I do'no; she don't git up. I guess it's trouble
more'n anything.”
“What trouble? Tell me! I am come to help them,
and I must know.”
“Don't ax me! it's too bad! Oh, dear!” And up
goes Melissa's apron, and down goes her face into it,
with a sob.
Eliza, with her quick sense of the comical, smiles, but
faintly. There is no laughter in her heart to-night.
“Melissa,” — she assumes authority, — “put down
your apron!”
The girl only clutches it more closely to her weeping
face.
“Will crying mend matters? Don't keep me in
suspense! Tell me at once!”
“O ma'am,” — Melissa uncovers her interesting lineaments,
but holds the apron under them with both hands,
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like a basin, to catch the sacred drops of grief, — “it's
all sence day before yist'day. She was well enough
then. But that night — that night,” — another explosion
is coming; she has the extinguisher ready, — “he — he—
was took up for stealing!”
This time she flings the apron completely over her
head, and rocks and wrings herself in it tempestuously.
Eliza is calm, you would say. But how very white! It
is a minute before she can get herself heard. She takes
hold of Melissa's hands as she would a child's, and endeavors
to remove the muffler. At length the weeper
permits her frizzled head and one corner of the corrugated
countenance to be uncovered, peeps out with one
streaming red eye over the saturated calico, and whimpers
forth the story. It is given in bursts and snatches,
incoherently enough; and, of course, one very important
portion of it is suppressed, in terror of her mistress and
her oath.
Eliza listens, sick at her very soul.
“And Abel is in jail to-night! Why didn't you tell
me?”
“Oh, he ain't! He's innocent, ye know. And they
can't keep him in jail, can they? Say!” Both eyes
come out of their retreat, and appeal earnestly to Eliza,—
“Do you s'pose they can?”
“How do you know he is innocent?”
“Oh, I don't know — only — his wife says he is!” so
much she dares confess.
“If she says so, and thinks so, why does she give up
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to the shame and misery of the thing, and keep her bed,
instead of rising, like a woman, to cheer and help him?”
demands Eliza, her heart growing great within her. “I
am sure he is innocent! My Abel! steal? — Come,
come, Melissa! We have something else to do besides
lying in bed or hiding our heads in our aprons. Go and
tell mother I have come. It will comfort her to see me,
I know. Has she heard about Abel?”
“I guess he told her yesterday,” answered Melissa,
finding a dry edge of her apron to wipe up with.
“They was alone together for ever so long; and I could
see something had a'most killed her afterwards. Oh, I'm
so glad you've come!” — looking up with hope and
confidence at Eliza. “The house seems so dreadful
lonesome! Le'me pump you some water, if you want
to wash. La, now, there's Ebby waking up jest at the
wrong time!”
“I'll take care of him. Go and prepare mother for
seeing me,” said Eliza.
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XXI. HOME ONCE MORE.
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Now, with slow footsteps and a leaden heart, Abel
Dane came home to his dishonored house. For some
moments he stood gloomily outside, without the courage
to enter. His wife sullen and mad with he knew
not what remorse or shame, his child worse than motherless,
his own mother broken-hearted by the disgrace of
his arrest, though she knew not all; — what was then
left to him? And Eliza had not come, as he believed,
and would not come, he feared.
He opened the door. Turk bounced upon him, heralding
the good news. And there, demurely sitting,
with Ebby awake and happy in her arms — who?
Could he believe his eyes?
“Eliza!” He ran to embrace her. “Bless you for
this, Eliza!” And he bowed himself.
She did not rise. “My brother,” she whispered.
And with one arm holding his infant boy, and the other
gathering his head to her bosom as he knelt, she felt
that she was blessed.
“How came you here?” he asked, holding her hand,
and looking at her in a kind of rapture. “I have been
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to meet you. I was never so disappointed as when the
stage came without you. I thought I should have to
wait till next week, and that maybe you wouldn't come
at all.”
“If I had only known you would meet me!” said
Eliza. “It would have saved me so much. But the
stage was coming by the common; so I got out, and ran
across. And here I am, though we missed each other.”
“And glad to be home again?” he tenderly inquired.
“I am glad now, — now that you have come; for I
see you are glad.”
“Glad? Eliza,” — and he stroked her hand, still
gazing at her with joy and tears. “I can bear anything
now. You have heard?”
“Melissa has told me.”
“And you believe in me?”
“Implicitly, Abel.”
“I knew you would! And you have forgiven me?”
“Forgiven you?”
“Yes; for I was very harsh, very unjust to you, sister.”
“But you did not mean to be,” she answered, with
melting gentleness.
“No, I did not; I was so wise and virtuous in my
own conceit. But, Eliza, you were so much wiser and
better than I, that I am amazed, I am incensed at myself
when I think how we parted. I feel like the prodigal
son. I have been wandering, Eliza, wandering!
Now I am once more at home. But I am selfish,” he
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continued, saddening; “I have no such home to offer
you as you left; and, if you stay, it will be to sacrifice
your better interests, and share my broken hopes.”
“I never had any interests that were not yours,” answered
Eliza. “And as for your broken hopes, I will
mend them!” — her pale face beaming so with love
and truth that it warmed his inmost heart.
And now he saw how time and absence had changed
her. She had grown older; but years and affliction had
not curdled the current of her life. Deep and clear and
bright it shone out upon him from the blue of her pure
eyes; and the tones of her voice betrayed how musical
and how full were the waters of that inward stream.
For Eliza, in those years, had not lain supinely on
the bed of disappointment, as many do, while brooding
sorrow sucks their blood; but, by a generous activity
of hands and head and heart, she had driven away that
vampire; and her soul, hungering in the wilderness for
human sympathy, had been fed by manna from God;
and, on the rough brier of trial, for her had blossomed
the white rose of peace.
Who has not suffered? Bereavement comes some
time to all, and it depends upon ourselves whether it
shall be unto us a blessing or a curse. Like the dwarfed
little old woman of the story-book, when ill-received by
a grumbling and grudging housewife, it proves an evil
guest, and goes not without leaving behind some bitter
token of resentment. Yet, when the same dark and
unlovely disguise enters the abode of a cheerful and,
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though poor, benevolent host, and is kindly entertained,
a wondrous charm enters with it, — the larder is replenished,
the fire never goes out, the household work is
done by unseen hands, floors are miraculously swept
over night, and all troublesome and venomous insects
are banished; till, by-and-by, the visitor, departing, lets
fall the tattered mantle and brown hood; the fairy
stands an instant revealed, then leaps, with a laugh,
upon a yellow-tailed sunbeam, and vanishes, leaving the
house filled with her beautiful gifts.
Unto Eliza had come such a fairy in that humble, still
abode, her breast; and the cupboard of its charities had
been kept well supplied, and the fire of the heart had
not failed, and those busy fingers, the faculties, were
sped magically in their tasks; and lo, when the night was
gone, and the morning of consolation come, the world's
dust was found swept clean from the chambers! and,
though the fairy had flown, her charm and her blessing
remained; all because Eliza had used gentle behavior
towards her unwelcome guest, and had not shut her
door against the messenger of God.
“Mamma!” said Ebby, exploring with his pleased
fingers the new, kind face, with which he already felt
himself at home. And he looked at his father, and again
pointed at Eliza, and repeated, with a little crow of delight,
“mamma!” — curiously feeling the eyes and
mouth and chin, which he evidently found beautiful,
whatever others might think.
Abel was strangely affected.
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“Yes, precious!” said Eliza, smiling with suffused
eyes, “I will be his mamma if ever he needs one. But
I am his auntie now.”
“Mamma!” insisted Ebby, trying to put his thumb
into her nose. “Dood mamma!”
Abel trembled, and clinched his teeth hard, and tried
to fix his features, which worked and quivered in spite
of him. Eliza did not speak, but bent over the boy,
whom she held close to her heart, gazing upon him with
absorbing tenderness; bathing him, so to speak, in softest
dews of blessing from the heaven of her soul.
Oh, had his mother such a soul, and such a heart of
love! the father thought. But what now was the use,
he added bitterly within himself, of vain wishes or regrets?
“I was sorry afterwards that I had written you such
a letter,” he said. “What did you think?”
“I knew you were having a good deal of trouble
about money.”
“You knew!” interrupted Abel. “How?”
“By letters. I have two or three correspondents. I
heard you were likely to fail; so I thought — I hoped —
your distress was nothing worse than that.”
“Eliza!” — a new revelation had suddenly broken
in upon Abel, — “one mystery is explained! Fool, that
I didn't think of you before!”
“Of me?” said Eliza.
“Look in my eyes! 'Twas you that sent me that
draft for a hundred dollars! You had it mailed from
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Boston, that I might not suspect you. And that after
all my unkind treatment of you!” And Abel bent his
face upon her hand, which he wrung and kissed with
mingled gratitude and self-reproach.
It is not probable that Eliza was sorry now to have
her benevolent action known. And somehow the emotion
he betrayed thrilled a nerve of joy in her breast.
“I told you,” she murmured, “that I have no interests
apart from yours. I never had. It seemed that an
eternity of silence could not make me forget that I was
still your sister, — that I owed more to you than I could
ever repay.”
“O 'Liza, 'Liza!” said Abel, “don't heap such coals
on my head!”
“And now I have come to share all your troubles,”
she went on, cheerfully. “And, in the first place, tell
me all about them.”
Abel's forehead gloomed. He thought of the guilty
woman, cowering in the bedclothes in the chamber,
waiting to hear her doom from him. He remembered
her anguish and her prayers, and knew that he held her
destiny in his hands. It was hard to abandon her to
the shame her folly had earned. It was easier to bear
himself the obloquy, and, if needful, suffer punishment
in her stead; for she was still his wife, — the mother of
his boy. He could not forget that; and what would
life be worth to him after giving her up to ignominy?
Here was Eliza. She might more than recompense him
for the loss of a selfish, shallow-hearted wife. But
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he chased instantly the unworthy thought from his
mind.
“Sister,” he said solemnly, lifting his head, after a
moment's heavy thought, — and there was an ague in
his voice as he spoke, — “I shall tell you all I can honorably
tell you, be sure; for I must have your sympathy
and trust. But some things may be left long untold,
and you must not question me concerning them. In
due time, now or hereafter, you shall know all. I am
innocent, of course; though Mrs. Apjohn's malice has a
better foundation than I at first thought.”
“Enough,” said Eliza; “I trust you wholly, and I
ought to be above idle curiosity. But here is Melissa.
What did mother say?”
“She couldn't believe me when I fust told her you'd
come,” replied Miss Jones. “Then she chirked right
up as pleased! I had to stop and put clean piller-cases
on the bed, though, 'fore she'd let me bring you in to
see her; for she says you're dreadful petic'lar, and I
guess she don't want you to know things ain't kep' lookin'
quite so scrumptious around as they used to be.
But you'll find it out fast enough,” added the simpleminded
girl; “and you'll find 'tain't all my fault,
neither.”
While she was speaking, Eliza delivered Ebby to
Abel, and prepared to accompany her. Melissa went
as far as the old lady's door; saw her rise up in bed to
meet the long-lost daughter of her adoption; heard the
stifled sobs and kisses as they fell into each other's
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arms; then drew back from the closed door, rubbing
her red eyes redder still with sympathy.
Like her let us also retire, and leave these two, reunited,
to their sacred privacy. The evening is now
advanced. Eliza makes up a bed in her mother's room,
resolved to lie there that night and the nights thereafter,
so long as her faithful attendance can be of comfort to
the invalid. And there, when the deep, still hours
come, blissful rest steals upon her, and she sleeps when
she would watch. And the invalid becomes herself the
watcher, too happy in the wanderer's return to close
her eyes that night. And the night passes over them
and over all, — aged watcher, youthful dreamer; Abel
in the chamber apart, at peace, with Ebby at his side;
and Faustina, moaning in her sleep with evil dreams, or
starting awake by fits, to find herself alone, and bite her
pillow with convulsive teeth until she sleeps again.
-- 189 -- p471-194
XXII. ANOTHER SUNDAY.
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Another Sunday morning, — how pure and tranquil
after the fever of the week! The farm-wagon is housed,
and the unyoked oxen graze in the autumn pastures.
The mill is silent; the cool, damp cavern under it echoing
only to the plash of the water dripping over the
great wheel. The carpenter's chest is locked, the shop
closed and solitary; only mice in the shavings rustling,
and flies buzzing in the dust and cobwebs of the sunny
windows. Even the active young jackplane, resting on
the work-bench, has a serious, composed look, — as it
were, an air of keeping the Sabbath.
And the cooper's tools lie idle. And the freshlyshaped
staves, standing in the corners, seem to be looking
at each other, and wondering at the vicissitudes of
life; feeling, no doubt, that they have been dreadfully
shaved. While the rows of sober, adult barrels and little
juvenile firkins, all in their new, clean dresses, are holding
a solemn Quaker-meeting, so very life-like, you
would say yonder pretty matron in hoops is just going
to open her head and say something.
Judging from the aspect of the cooper this fine
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morning, you would furthermore infer that the said solemnity
will never be interrupted by him, that it will be always
Sunday henceforth in his shop, and Quaker-meeting
among the casks. He himself, he thinks, is through with
church-going, and listening to psalms and sermons forever.
No more shall he sit piously in his pew, while the
words from the pulpit fall and feed him, or the singing
of the sweet-voiced choir breaks silvery over his soul.
Never again shall he hold up his head, unshamed in the
congregation. Even the ringing of the church-bells, in
the holy calm, is intolerable to him; their swelling, sonorous
roar, their dying moan and murmur, awakening in
his breast such vibrant memories, vague terrors, and
sick regrets.
Astride his chair he sits, his head bowed upon the
back of it, a pitiable object. Not even Mrs. Apjohn's
robust bosom can resist a thrill of pity as she looks at
him. Or does the ringing of the church-bells disturb
her also? She has resolutely put on her black silk, declaring
that she is going to meeting, anyway; that she
can hold up her head in church or out of church. But,
the hour arrived, her heart succumbs. Can she bear
the ordeal of jeers and significant glances? What if she
should find a tomato in her pew? Will there not be
some text read at her from the Scriptures, or some application
to her trespass made in the sermon? She has
put on her bonnet with indecision; her fingers hesitate
with the ribbons.
“Sick, John?” she says, turning partly round, as she
stands before the glass.
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“I ain't well, Prudy; I ain't well; not over'n above,”
answers melancholy John, under his elbow.
Now, Prudence flatters herself that she is not afraid
to face the nation. But John is poorly; John is downhearted;
maybe John will resort again to his sanguinary
handkerchief. Ought she, as a faithful wife, to leave him
alone? she asks herself, glancing from his submissive
neck to the kitchen pole.
“I declare, John,” she says, out of one corner of her
mouth, — pins in the other corner, — “I won't go to
meetin', after all! You're sick; and I'll stay to hum
and nu's' ye.”
“Never mind me; never mind me,” says Cooper John.
“Go if ye can, and take the good on't. To be sure, to
be sure.”
These were the only words he spoke, until Prudence
had taken off her black silk, put on her every-day gown
again, and sat down in the rocking-chair, with the Bible
on her lap.
“Come, John! le's be sociable, and have a sort of
comf'table Sunday to hum. What ye thinkin' about?”
asks Prudence.
“What a week can bring forth! — the difference'
twixt this Sunday and last, Prudy!” And remembering
how then, in his sleek Sunday clothes, he walked to
church, a respected cooper, and the honest husband of
an honest wife; no neighbors incensed against them,
no finger of scorn pointed at them; the sight of a blushing
tomato no more to him than the aspect of your chaste
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cucumber or innocent pippin; everybody friendly to him,
the deacons recognizing him, the selectmen often deigning
to shake hands with him, even the minister saying,
kindly, “Good-morning, Mr. Apjohn!” or, “I hope
you are well this blessed morning, brother Apjohn!”—
remembering such things were one brief week ago,
and can never be again, he takes his little bald head in
his two hands, and wrings it, as if he would force tears
of blood out of that juiceless turnip.
“Highty-tighty, John!” says Prudence; “don't be so
foolish!”
“It won't be Mr. Apjohn any more!” laments the
cooper. “But it'll be Old Apjohn; or Tomato Apjohn.”
“Never mind, John!” says Prudence the inexorable.
“We'll spite 'em to our heart's content! Le's think
o' that, and take comfort.”
“Spite 'em? — Comfort?” repeats the cooper. “No,
no, no!” And the tolling bell says “No — no — no!”
with slow and mournful roar. And the angels whisper
in their hearts, “No, no, no!” But though the sorrowful
tongue of her husband, and the iron tongue of the
bell, and angels' sweetly persuasive lips, should all unite
to warn or to entreat, they could not turn Prudence
from her revenge.
“I can't see a sign of their gittin' out to meetin',” she
observes, looking out of the window towards Abel's
house. “No wonder they don't go! They're deeper'n
the mud'n we be'n the mire, enough sight; we've got
that to console us! Why, John, what's a few tomatuses
-- 193 --
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'twixt neighbors? only think on't! But breaking into
a house, and into a chist, and stealin' fifty dollars in
money, — that's a State's-prison job, John! Oh, we'll
give folks somethin' to talk about, that'll make 'em forgit
the tomatuses, John!” And with a gleam of malicious
joy, she sits down again, with the Bible on her
lap.
“Read a chapter, Prudy,” says the cooper.
And she reads, —
“But why dost thou judge thy brother? or why dost
thou set at naught thy brother? for we shall all stand
before the judgment-seat of Christ.”
“That's it! to be sure!” comments the humble listener.
“Prudy, how can we be unforgivin' to others?
when we stand so much in need of mercy ourselves?
`Before the judgment-seat of Christ,' Prudy! remember
that!”
Prudence turns to read in another place: “Woe
unto you, when all men shall speak well of you!” and
thinks that here is solace, — that here is something that
will suit her better. But the very next paragraph commences
that sublime and beautiful injunction, “Love
your enemies, do good to them that hate you, bless them
that curse you.”
And she closes the book impatiently. The Bible does
not please her to-day.
In the meanwhile very different scenes are passing in
Abel's house. Faustina still keeps her bed. But Eliza,
active, helpful, effusing an atmosphere of cheerfulness
-- 194 --
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around her wherever she moves, more than fills the
place of the sullen, absent wife. She has quickly learned
the ways of the altered household; she has the old lady
once more in her chair, in the cosey kitchen-corner; and
again she is the sunshine of the house, as in old times.
Indeed, it seems as if the old times, and the beautiful,
harmonious order of departed days were now restored.
And, but for Ebby prattling yonder, watching his new
“mamma” with pleased eyes, Abel could almost fancy
his married life a wild dream.
“Oh, this is Sunday!” he thinks. No such day of
rest has he known for months. The light of Eliza's
countenance is joy to him; the sense of her presence is
a balm to all his hurts. He looks at his mother's dear
old face, freshly washed with dews of gladness and
gratitude, and shining in the morning brightness of a
new hope; he sees Melissa inspired with unwonted
activity and cleverness; he observes even the dumb
inmate, Turk, thumping his susceptible tail against
every object he passes, in his restless delight at Eliza's
coming; he almost forgets the guilty, despairing woman
in the chamber, and her crime, which he must answer
for; and still he says in his soul, “Oh, this indeed is
Sunday!”
Again Eliza sat with him and his mother at breakfast;
and again she poured the elixir of her own sweet
spirit into the cups she gave them. And the muffins, —
Abel would have known they were of her cooking.
Taste them wherever he might, he could not have been
-- 195 --
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deceived. They possessed an ingredient which is not
mentioned in any receipt-book. They had the real
Eliza flavor. No such muffins had been eaten in his
house since she left it; and as for that unmistakable
flavor, how often had he longed for it, sitting down to
an ill-furnished table, and turning heart-sick from the
uninviting edibles!
Then, sometimes, in the midst of his thankfulness,
the recollection of Faustina and of her crime crosses
his spirit like an eclipse; and all the future is darkened.
Then, too, the aching thought of what might have
been, had Eliza never gone and Faustina never come,
pierces him. And the thought of what may be still, if
he will but decide to sacrifice his wife, agitates him like
a temptation.
For he knows now, with certainty, that all hope of
happiness with her is shattered; that, under the thin
veneering of her beauty, there is no true grain of
character; that what the deep heart of man forever
hungers for, and can find only in the deep heart of
woman, — what he has sought so ardently and long in
her, and sought always in vain, — can never be his so
long as she is his; and that to be her husband now, in
aught but the name and outward form, will be a sin
against his own divine instinct of marriage.
And, with equal certainty, he knows that, in this
woman whom he once called sister, and loved so calmly
and purely and habitually, under the illusion of that
name, that he never guessed the strength and sacredness
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of the tie between them, there exists a soul richly furnished
with all the grace and goodness and sympathy
which he has longed for in a wife, but which he did not
find when he set the vanity of his eyes to choose for him.
It avails not for Abel to put away these thoughts.
They return: when the small, sprightly, electric form
moves before him, or he catches the flash of her sunny
glances; when his ears drink the soft music of her conversation
or laughter; when once more, as in bygone
years, in the mild Sunday afternoon, they read together,
aloud, in the consolatory Gospels, or the mighty poem
of Job; when their voices blend in singing again the
old beloved tunes, and their spirits blend also in a more
subtile and delicious harmony; continually the wishes,
the regrets, the passionate yearnings return, with their
honey and their stings.
It is too much. Oh that the simple strain of an old
tune, flinging out its spiral coil, should have power to
lasso the will and master it! that the near rustle of a
robe should convulse a strong man's affections! that
the mere sight of an industrious little hand setting the
supper-table should thrill the heart to tears!
After supper, Abel went out to walk, to calm his
emotions, to cool his spirit in the bath of the evening
air, — to read the riddle of his life, if possible, in the
light of the sunset and the stars. And as he walked,
thinking of the two women, — her he loved, and her he
loathed, — doubting, hoping, in anguish and humility;
he remembered the prayer of Jesus, and a part of it,
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which had always been dark, suddenly became clear.
And he prayed within himself, —
“O Father in Heaven! hallowed be thy name, which
is Love!
“O Love! lead us not into temptation!”
This day it had been revealed to him that, by the deeper
law of marriage, he and Eliza belonged to each other,—
and that she, with her woman's nature, supreme in
matters of the heart, had recognized the truth, long since,
and been moved by it when he deemed her conduct so
strange and unpardonable. If he had hitherto repented
of his unkindness to her, how did he now gnash his teeth
at the recollection of his own blindness and madness!
At sunset he stood upon a hill, and overlooked a
landscape which had all his life been familiar to him; —
the same earth, the same sky, the spectacle of the sundown.
But now, for the first time, by some chance,
bending his head, he discovered a phenomenon, known to
every shrewd lover of nature. His eyes inverted, looking
backwards under his shoulder, saw the world upsidedown.
The unusual order in which the rays of color impinged
the nerve of vision exhibited them with surprising
distinctness and delicacy. The green valley, the
glimmering stream, the tints of early autumn on hillside
and cliff, the light on the village roofs far and near, the
blue suffused horizon, the glittering sun beyond, were
transfigured with magical loveliness. In the cloudless
purity of the sky, which had scarcely attracted his attention
before, burned the most exquisitely beautiful belts
-- 198 --
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of color, more splendid than any rainbow. And Abel
said, “How blind we are to the glories that are always
before our eyes! Eliza was with me every day. I was
as ignorant of her dearness and worth as I have always
been of the beauty of the world until now. Oh, why
have I discovered the charms of the earth and sky just
as I am threatened with being shut up from the sight of
them in the walls of a prison? And why have I never
felt her charms until now I look at them through the
grated windows of wedlock?”
So saying, or rather thinking, or rather feeling, — for
his emotions did not shape themselves in words, — he
turned to descend the hill.
“Why should I suffer in that wretched woman's
place?” he repeatedly asked himself, in the sweating
agony of his heart. “I can force her to write a full confession.
That will exculpate me. That may lead to — O my
God! let me not sin in this! Let my duty be made
plain!”
He walked far. He returned by the common, and
stood struggling with himself in sight of his house.
It was now moonlight; and the stars twinkled in their
eternal spheres. He could see the windows, behind
which his wife lay writhing with terror and shame. He
could see the door of his house, once more rendered dear
to him by her, the very thought of whom could agitate
and swell his breast.
“I will talk with Eliza, — I will tell her everything, —
and she shall tell me what to do.”
-- 199 -- p471-204
XXIII. ABEL AND ELIZA.
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Abel walked on, strong in his new resolution, and was
near his own door, when it opened, and some one came
out. It was Eliza with her bonnet on. She was hurrying
past him, when he spoke.
“Abel?” she said, with a start, not glad to meet him
then.
“Where are you going?”
“Not far; a little walk.”
“Let me go with you?”
“Certainly, — if you wish to.”
Yet she spoke with a hesitation and reserve which
dampened his ardor.
“You are low-spirited?” she asked, as they walked
by the common.
“Do you wonder that I am?” said Abel.
“No; it is natural; but all will come out right, Abel,
I am sure. We must all go through the wilderness
some time, if we would see the bright land beyond.”
“You have been through?” asked Abel, falteringly.
“I have,” she answered in a low, very tender voice.
“Thank Heaven!”
-- 200 --
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“And you are happy?”
“I am happy, Abel.”
He was startled. That she could be happy, and at
peace, while before him was tempestuous darkness, gave
him a pang.
“Your happiness is not my happiness,” he said despondingly.
“But I can reach out a hand to help you, dear
brother!” And she pressed the hand that was laid
upon hers.
That was meagre comfort. Reach out to him? Only
that?
“Eliza, I am miserable! My married life — you may
as well be told — is a wretched failure!”
“I know it; I have known it all along,” she answered.
“Yes; and you foresaw it. And you warned me,”
groaned Abel.
“Did I?” There was a slight tremor in her sweet,
clear voice. “Well, it was better, I suppose, that you
should follow your own choice.”
“When it was leading me into the pit!” he exclaimed.
“We are sometimes permitted to go very, very wrong,
for the benefit the experience will bring with it, Abel.”
“But a life-long experience of disappointment and
misery!”
“There is something that will sanctify and sweeten
all that to you,” said Eliza.
“What is it, for God's sake?”
“Duty! Never swerve aside from that.”
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“But what is my duty?” demanded Abel, with a
bitter outburst. “What is the duty of a man, who
wakes from a dream of folly, to find himself bound for
all time to a woman who proves unworthy of his trust
and repugnant to his whole nature?”
“It is the question of questions!” said Eliza, after a
deep pause.
“Which you cannot answer,” cried Abel, “any more
than I can.”
“No; nor as well. What your private relations to
her shall be,” said Eliza, timidly, “must be left entirely
to your own conscience. But you have assumed outward
obligations towards her,” she added, in a firm, unhesitating,
spiritually clear tone of voice; “you have
taken her from her father's house, and you have vowed
to cherish her through evil report and through good
report. You must never forget that; you must remember
how we all stand in need of charity and forbearance,
and suffer long and be kind. Do not shrink from suffering.
In the end it will be gain to you. I know.”
She spoke with generous sympathy, yet out of the
depths of a spirit whose tranquillity and firm faith
seemed to remove her farther and farther from his
troubled sphere. For she perceived his fever and weakness;
perhaps, also, she knew his temptation; and had
fortified herself. To the strength which had been born
to her out of trial and endurance, had been added a
power beyond herself for this hour and this meeting.
So that Abel might well exclaim, —
-- 202 --
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“You seem nearer to the cold stars up there than to
me. You talk like an angel. It is all beautiful and
true, what you say; but I'd rather you'd be a woman
now. You do not know all, Eliza!” — Emotions crowded
his voice. — “I have something terrible to tell you.”
They were passing near the post-office.
“Wait a minute,” she said; “then I will hear you.”
She stepped aside to drop a letter in the box, then
rejoined him.
“A letter!” murmured Abel. A jealous fear overshadowed
him. He took her hands; he stood looking
down at her pale face in the moonlight for a minute,
without a word.
“You were going to tell me something,” she said.
“You are going to tell me something! Eliza, who
have you been writing to?”
“To a friend. Why do you ask?”
“A dear friend?”
“A very dear friend.” And the pale face met his
gaze with a frank smile in the moonlight.
“A man, Eliza?”
“A man, Abel. Why not?”
He gave her wrist a convulsive pressure, then dropped
it, and, with a tremendous sigh, drew back from her,
almost staggering. She was alarmed. She took his
hand.
“What is the matter, Abel?”
“It is well; it is well! Come, Eliza; we will go
home now.”
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She leaned upon his arm, too full of love and pity and
regret for the mockery of words.
“I am glad you have found friends in your absence,”
he said, after a brief silence.
“I have found some very excellent friends,” she answered.
“You did not wish me to know you had a letter to
mail. I understand now.”
“I think it is better you should know, Abel.”
This was not the reply he hoped for. Every minute
and every word seemed to sharpen the fangs that
gnawed his heart. He could not endure suspense.
“When are you to be married?” he demanded, abruptly.
“I don't know. Not while I feel that I am needed
here,” came the low, unfaltering response.
“I beg of you,” said Abel, “don't let your regard for
us interfere with your happiness,” — with something of
his irrespressible despair writhing in his voice.
“Duty first and always, and happiness cannot fail,”
said Eliza.
“I hope he is worthy of you,” he added.
“I wish,” she replied, “that I was half as worthy of
him.”
They passed on in silence; his hot thoughts almost
stifling him.
“But you were to tell me something,” she reminded
him.
“It is this,” said Abel. “I thank you from the
-- 204 --
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bottom of my soul for your advice to me. I shall do my
duty.”
“I am sure you will, Abel!”
“Yes, — thanks to you. Whatever happens, I can suffer.
God grant your married life may be happier than
mine has been!”
Eliza's serenity was fast forsaking her. She loved Abel
too well, she sympathized with his sorrow too much, to
answer now with calm words of counsel. Misgivings,
also, it may be, with regard to her own future and duty,
disquieted her.
What right had she, loving this man, to be happy in
another's arms? Had she sinned, when, lonely and cold
and famished, she accepted the solace of a good man's
affection? Because one hope had perished, should she
go through God's bright universe refusing to be comforted?
Because Abel was married, should she forever
obstinately shun the high destiny of woman, — wifehood
and motherhood?
These were no new questions. Long, in anguish and
supplication, she had wrestled with the great problem.
Many a woman and many a man has wrestled with it
the same, — wrestles with it still. Each must solve it for
himself or herself. It is good to live true to one's own
heart; sacrificing all things else to that; through absence,
and lapse of time, and death of hope. And to
renounce the impossible, accepting cheerfully the best
that is given, is also good. Consider it well; let the
soul choose; and who shall condemn?
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Eliza had chosen. Yes, and even now she felt that she
had chosen wisely. Excepting only Abel, this other, of
all men, stood highest in her regard. She had acquainted
him with all the doubts of her heart; nor had she left
him to enter this ordeal of danger without his consent
and blessing.
And in all things, so noble did he appear to her, so
dear had he rendered himself by his generosity and truth,
that she knew she could make him a true and happy
wife. Yet once more, to-night by Abel's side, stirred by
his love and grief, the old perturbations arise. Only
solitude and prayer can put them again at rest. She
was glad that the gate was near, and that Abel did not
offer to go in with her.
“I shall walk a little further,” he said. “Comfort
mother till I come.”
And the gate closed between them with a harsh sound.
And both felt that another gate shut also between them;
the gate whose hinges are providence, and whose latch is
fate.
“Idiot! idiot!” muttered Abel, with angry and bitter
scorn of himself. “I merit what I have. I will
take with calmness what is still to come. Tongue, hold
your peace! Misery, do your worst! Misfortunes,
rain, hail, pour!”
He walked in the placid and smiling moonlight. And
something of the silence and vastness and chasteness
of the night glided into him. His thoughts grew great
and solemn and tender. To go to prison for another's
-- 206 --
[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
sake did not seem much to him then. To die for another's
sake did not seem so bitter. He murmured
Eliza's name with a prayer for her happiness. He
thought of Faustina with gentleness and compassion.
He remembered how near his mother's feet were to the
still portals of eternity, and smiled. Only when he
thought of his child he wept.
For his child's sake he would willingly humble himself;
and, seeing a light in the cooper's house, he bethought
him to go in, and try if it were possible to
conciliate the enemy.
-- 207 -- p471-212
XXIV. THE NIGHT.
[figure description] Page 207.[end figure description]
The Apjohns were just going to bed; and Cooper
John came to the door, with a candle, in his shirt and
trousers. He looked aghast at Abel.
“Come in: to be sure, to be sure!” he said. “Prudy!
Prudy!”
Prudy came out of the bedroom, presently, in her
petticoat, with a shawl over her shoulders, nodding sarcastically.
“How do you do, Mr. Dane?” she carelessly inquired,
arranging a corner of the shawl the better to
cover her portliness. “John Apjohn,” — turning to the
shivering cooper, — “go to bed!”
Meekly snuffing, John set the candle on the table, and
withdrew.
“Is it peace?” said Abel, holding out his hand.
“Peace, Abel Dane? I should say peace!” retorted
the grim housewife, scornfully laughing. “I wonder
the word don't blister your mouth! Peace, after sech
treatment as I have had from you and your upstart
wife! I say for't!”
“Prudy,” whispered the cooper, putting his head out
of the bedroom.
-- 208 --
[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]
“What now?” she demanded, sharply.
“Let it be peace, Prudy; let it be peace,” said John.
“Shet up!” ejaculated Prudence.
And the imploring visage was slowly withdrawn, and
the door softly closed again.
“When you were in my garden a week ago,” said
Abei, “did I look at you with scorn? Did I magnify
your offence? Did I set myself up as your judge, and
make haste to pronounce sentence?”
“No, no; to be sure! Remember that, Prudy!”
answered a ghostly voice in the direction of the bedroom.
“No, to be sure!” repeated Prudence, with a vindictive
toss. “He didn't da's to, to my face. But what
did he do behind my back? — the sarpent! Strung tomatuses
on to my door! And that wasn't enough, but
you must come and rob us of our hard-earned money,—
thinkin' we wouldn't da's to make a fuss about it, I
s'pose. But you'll see, — you'll see, Abel Dane! Talk
of peace! Ha! ha!”
Abel commenced, protesting his innocence of the
string of “tomatuses.”
“Tut, tut,” said Mrs. Apjohn; “I s'pose you'll deny
you stole the money next!”
Once more the meek, bald pate of the cooper was
pushed into the room.
“Hear what the man has got to say, Prudy dear, —
do!”
“John Apjohn!”
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[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]
“What, Prudy?”
“I said go to bed.”
“Yes, Prudy!” (Exit bald head.)
“My worthy woman,” then said Abel, seating himself,
and speaking candidly and earnestly, “I have come
to talk with you as neighbors should talk, and I beg of
you to hear me with patience and without prejudice.”
“Wal, sir,” — Prudence occupied the wood-box for a
seat, and pulled her shawl together and looked crank, —
“I hear you, sir!”
“I see it is useless for me to deny the charge of insulting
you with tomato-vines, and I have no intention
of setting up a claim to the fifty dollars, which, I presume,
belongs rightfully to you; but I here solemnly
protest that I never meant to rob you, or injure your
reputation, or wound your feelings. I call Heaven to
be my witness!”
Again the bedroom-door opened, and again the cooper's
head appeared, this time with a night-cap on.
“Prudy,” he said, in an awe-struck voice, “he calls
Heaven to witness!”
“He didn't call you!” retorted the Juno of this little
Olympus, and the night-capped Jupiter disappeared
again.
“Furthermore,” said Abel, “I pledge you my honor
that whatever reparation can be made for the injuries
you complain of, shall be made. And I tell you I am
sincerely sorry for all that has happened; and for whatever
I have done amiss I humbly ask your pardon.”
-- 210 --
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“Wal, sir?”
“Well, Mrs. Apjohn, I believe it depends upon you
whether this charge against me shall be prosecuted. If
we can come to an understanding, and you withdraw
your complaint, there will not be much difficulty in
avoiding an indictment. Question your own conscience
before you answer,” said Abel, foreboding evil from the
grimace and toss with which she prepared to reply;
“and consider whether you can afford to be unmerciful;
remembering that what mercy we show shall be shown
to us.”
Prudence pulled her shawl together nervously and
compressed her lips, and elevated her chin and said, —
“Wal, Abel Dane, you've had your say; now hear me.
Nobody can accuse me of havin' an Injin temper; and
you can't say't ever in all my life I spoke of you one misbeholden
word. You was always as decent a kind of a
man till you got married, as ever I knowed; and you
would be now, if it wa'n't for that pesky proud wife of
your'n, that I'm bound to come up with some way, and
I only wish it was her that took the money, and not you!
She's made a fool of ye, and made a proud, desaitful,
mean, underhanded scamp of you that was a perty honest
and tolerable respectable neighbor afore. I feel bad for
you, Abel Dane; and, as I said, I only wish it was her
that I could prove took the money; then if she wouldn't
smart for't, I miss my guess.”
Abel sighed; for now he saw how vain it would be to
shift the responsibility of the theft from himself to his
-- 211 --
[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]
wife, in the hope that their enemy would be more merciful
to her than to him.
The night-capped head was at the bedroom door again;
but it was only moved with a slow and dismal shake, in
silence.
“You are a hard-hearted woman,” said Abel, sadly
smiling, as he rose to go.
“Mabby I be! I can't help it! Human natur' is human
natur'!” Prudence grinned, put her hand on her
knee for a support, and got up from the wood-box. “I
tell ye, I never laid up anything ag'in you, Abel; and if
it wa'n't for that stuck-up critter, your wife, we never'd
quarrel; though I don't know but you're 'bout as bad as
she is now. There!” — holding her shawl together with
one hand, and taking up the candle with the other, —
“You've had your say, and I've had my say, and now
good-night.”
“One word more. Remember I have a mother and a
child.” The emotion in Abel's voice would have shaken
Prudence, if it had been possible to shake her. But she
only compressed her lips as before and said, —
“I've thought of them; I've thought it all over; and
I've said all I've got to say.”
The cooper, at these words, retreated, and crept in
between the sheets with a groan.
“Very well,” answered Abel, sternly and impressively.
“I have done. I leave you to your conscience
and your Maker.”
“I guess my conscience and my Maker will use me
-- 212 --
[figure description] Page 212.[end figure description]
perty well, sir!” And, with sarcastic courtesy, Mrs.
Apjohn lighted him from the door with the candle.
“Remember me to your wife,” she added; “and tell
her, if you please, what I say.”
Eliza had retired with the old lady to her room,
when Abel returned home. He found the kitchen forsaken,
silent, and lighted only by the pale shimmer of
the moon. He entered the sitting-room; that, too, was
forsaken, silent, and lighted only by the pale shimmer
of the moon. There was something in the aspect of his
house that struck like desolation to his soul.
Half an hour later, he opened gently the door of
Faustina's chamber, and stood at the threshold. There
he stood, dark and stern, for a minute or two, and looked
in. By the bedside sat Melissa, with Ebby crying in
her arms. In the bed, covered completely, even to the
crown of her head, round which the bedclothes were
twisted in a disordered heap, lay the boy's mother.
“O papa!” said Ebby, stretching up his little arms,
in his night-gown.
Melissa started, and gave a frightened look at her
master.
“Put that child to bed!” said Abel.
“Oh, I did, sir!” Melissa hastened to explain. “I
put him to bed all of an hour'n'a'f ago.”
“Then what is he here for?”
“She wanted him; she had me take him up, and
bring him to her, jest so's't she could see him, she said;
her own baby, so!”
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Abel was touched; as no doubt Faustina meant he
should be, when he should learn what the yearning, maternal
heart of her had prompted.
“Why don't she look at him, then? What was the
child crying for?” she heard his deep voice demand.
“O sir! mabby you think she don't keer for her
baby; but she dooes!” — This was a part of the lesson
Faustina had taught Melissa, and she repeated it very
pathetically. — “And when she wanted to have him in
bed with her, and he didn't want to go, she was so
worked! her own baby so, you know. And she jest
kivered up her head, and said, no matter, she would die,
and he wouldn't have no mother, not no more; and
that's what made him cry.”
“Me dot new mamma!” Ebby declared, with a sob
of subsiding grief between the words.
“Take him to bed,” said Abel.
“Tiss, papa!” implored the beautiful, aggrieved face,
through its tears.
The father gave the wished-for kiss; and Melissa took
the child away. Then Abel shut the door, and sat down
by the bed.
All this time, Faustina had not stirred. Abel gazed
at the vortex of bedclothes in which she had coiled herself,
and sighed, and clenched his teeth hard, and waited.
O memory! was this his marriage-bed?
“Faustina!” No motion; no response. “Have you
anything to say to me?” he continued.
“I won't stir. I'll make him think I'm dead!”
-- 214 --
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thought the wretched being under the clothes. Then
she almost wished she was dead, and could stand by and
witness his terror and remorse when he should lift the
sheet and discover her lifeless form.
But it was a difficult part to play. Madam was
smothering; and if she kept covered much longer, she
felt that, instead of making believe dead, she would be
dead in earnest. That was not so pleasant to think of,
notwithstanding the fancied satisfaction of breaking his
heart with the sight of her lovely corpse. Vanity and
spite was not quite equal to the occasion; and she waited
accordingly, with increasing ache and anxiety, for him to
make another and more moving appeal, which she resolved
beforehand not to resist. Why didn't he speak, and
afford her the longed-for excuse for uncovering? He was
in no hurry; he took his time; deliberate was Abel, — a
good deal more so, she thought, than he would have
been, had his own head been under the blanket.
But it was serious business with her, poor thing, despite
all her foolish artifice. Dread and despair were
with her there under the bedclothes.
“If you have nothing to say to me,” Abel resumed,
at last, “I have still a few words which I want you to
listen to. Will you hear me?”
At that, the arms were suddenly disengaged, the
clothes thrown back, and staring eyes rolled up wildly at
Abel, from a tragic face still half concealed by rumpled
pillows and tangled hair.
“Is this you, Faustina?” exclaimed Abel, astonished
and heartsick at the sight.
-- 215 --
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Upon which she glared, and rolled her orbs, and grated
her teeth, with superior artistic effect, for a matter of
twenty seconds, or thereabouts; then dived again, and
twisted herself up in the bed-covering, with writhings
and moanings extraordinary. Abel sighed deeply, and
waited patiently for her to come up to breathe again,
which she was not slow in doing, then said, —
“When you are calm, and in your right mind, I will
speak.”
In her right mind? That gave her a cue to another
fine piece of acting. What if she could convince him
she was insane, — overwhelm him with a spectacle of the
wreck his hard-heartedness had made of her? She
would try it, — the inconsiderate and impulsive creature.
And, indeed, she was not altogether in her right mind,
but just excited enough with fear and suffering to enter
well into the part.
This is what she did:
She sat up in bed, swept her hair from her face with
both hands, in a terrific frizzled mass, stared at Abel
again frightfully, rolled her eyes hideously, grinned
idiotically, chattered her teeth, and burst into a laugh of
frenzy.
She laughed to be heard a mile. She laughed with an
ease and inspiration for the exercise which astonished
herself, and without cessation or interval, except to
catch her breath and recommence. She laughed, in
short, until she laughed away all self-control, and could
not stop, for the life of her; having, as you perceive,
-- 216 --
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like an actor of first-class imagination, slipped swiftly
from the counterfeit into the reality, — just as sometimes
the elder Booth, from playing Richard, became
Richard, and would rant and foam at the mouth, and
fight the feigning Richmond in right deadly fashion.
Madam had, in fact, gone off in a genuine fit of hysterics.
She laughed till she sobbed, and sobbed till she
fell into convulsions, in which she was wrenched and
rolled, like a body in the breakers of an Atlantic storm,
and which finally heaved her, breathless and quivering,
upon the strands of unconsciousness.
And Abel thought her dead. He stood like one
stunned, gazing at her with a stony wonder, his lips
parted, and his hair lifting with horror. Deep, solemn
gladness, an awful hope, mingled with his fear.
He looked across the bed at Eliza, for she was there,—
all the women in the house having been summoned by
the hysteric shrieks. Their eyes met over the insensible
form. Something like lightning flashed between them,—
an instant only, — and it passed — forever.
Faustina was not dead, nor would she die yet for a
score of years at least. Things do not happen in life as
they do in romances. 'Tis pity, for now might we bring
our tale joyfully to a close, would she but revive
enough to make a free confession, before witnesses, of
her sins against the Apjohns, murmur her repentance,
ask to see a clergyman, place Eliza's hand in Abel's,
declare they are for each other, smile contentedly, and
die at a most convenient season. Then Eliza's absent
-- 217 --
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lover should be opportunely tossed by some iron bull of
a locomotive, or sent to heaven by an exploding steamboat
boiler; leaving, of course, a will in her favor; when
nothing would remain but for the surviving hero and
heroine to be married, and enter upon the enjoyment of
that limpid existence of lymph and honey miscalled
happiness, which never was on earth, and never will be
anywhere, probably, except in story-books.
But this is no fine fiction; no far away Eden of unimaginable
beauty this, but a plain little garden-plat,
where a few common flowers grow, with many coarse
plants and weeds, rooted in this homely New England
soil, and breathing the actual air of the present. And
we must plod our way patiently to the end of the prosaic
path.
“Rub her hand!” cried Eliza, setting a brisk example,
having first dashed water into Faustina's face.
“Stand her on her head and let the blood run back
into it ag'in!” gasped Melissa, seeing the utter pallor of
her mistress, and having some dim notion that the head
was a vital part, and that when the blood forsook that,
then came death.
“Bathe her nostrils with the land of Canaan!” said
the old lady, meaning the contents of a camphor-bottle
which she brought.
“Brandy!” ejaculated Abel, remembering that a few
drops of his little store of spirits had been saved by his
timely interruption of a certain convivial entertainment,
not many nights ago.
-- 218 --
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All the proposed remedies were tried, except Melissa's,
who could find no one to favor her novel theory of
the blood. And the result was that Faustina came
duly back to consciousness, without having been stood
upon her head; and Abel had — shall we say the satisfaction? —
of seeing her breathe and live again.
But by this time all his unworthy thoughts and wicked
wishes regarding her had given place to repentance and
pity. And as soon as he could dispense with assistance,
he sent the rest away, and remained alone to watch by
her bedside.
“Don't let me die!” whispered Faustina, in a weak
voice of entreaty.
“No, no,” said Abel, confidently, “you shall not die.”
“I didn't mean to do it,” she added, whimperingly, in
terror of what had happened.
“I know you didn't,” he answered, kindly. “But
you must keep perfectly quiet now. I shall stay with
you. No harm will come whilst I am here.”
She looked up gratefully into his face.
“Oh, you are good, Abel! Kiss me, — won't you?”
And he touched his lips to her cheek.
“Oh, we can be happy yet, — can't we?” she pleaded.
“I hope so,” he replied, to quiet her.
“Oh, and you will not” —
He knew what she would say.
“No, I will not,” he promised.
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” and she covered his
hand with kisses. “But tell me true, — you will save
me?”
-- 219 --
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“I tell you true, I will. At every risk to myself, I
will shield you. And I forgive you, too. There; now
rest.”
“Oh! oh! oh!” she cried, in an ecstasy of gratitude;
“you are such a good Abel! And we shall be so happy
once more!”
But Abel's brow was dark.
“You must keep quiet, Faustina,” he said. “If you
have another such fit, you may die in it.”
“And you don't want me to die?” she said, with that
childlike simplicity which was one of her girlish arts to
please or touch.
“I want you to live,” replied Abel, in a low voice,
out of a conscience grim as night.
“Come to bed then, — won't you, my Abel?”
“No; I shall sit up and watch.”
“But you won't leave me?” she implored, with selfish
and clinging fear. “And — tell me again you won't
expose me, not even to her, — Eliza.”
“Not even to her. The secret is locked here.” Abel's
hand pressed his bosom. “Now sleep.”
And she slept. And he watched by her side all
night. And the lamp burned out, and the moon set
upon his watching, and the sun rose.
And Abel had not said to her what he entered her
room that night to say; but he kept that also locked in
his breast.
-- 220 -- p471-225
XXV. FIAT JUSTITIA.
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Eliza had written to her friend of the condition of
affairs in her old home. He promptly and generously
replied: —
“Your place seems to be there for the present.... I
trust all to you; for I know you will do what is right.”
So Eliza remained. And more, — she placed what
was left of her savings at Abel's disposal.
It was a grief for him to be obliged to accept still
further pecuniary assistance from her.
“It is all one,” she said. “Even if I did not owe you
more for years of kindness to me than I can ever hope
to acknowledge, still I am your sister, you know, and
all that is mine is yours.” And she forced her earnings
into his hands.
“I can't!” he exclaimed. “I have no right to your
poor little purse, Eliza.”
“Don't you go to making fun of it, if it is little,” she
cheerily replied. “I am little, and, I tell you, little
things are not to be despised.”
“But your marriage,” said Abel. “You must not
go to your husband penniless.'
-- 221 --
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“He is well-off, and needs none of my money. He
has told me so.”
“I — am glad he is well off,” faltered Abel, with an
indescribable contraction of the heart.
“So am I — for his sake. And for ours, too, Abel,”
she added, frankly. “For you will need more than I
have, to pay your lawyers; he mentions that in his
letter, and offers to lend you.”
This was rather too much for proud Abel Dane. He
choked upon it a minute, and wrung her hand.
“Thank him for me. I am in your power; I am at
your mercy, Eliza. Don't be too kind to me!”
So it was settled that Eliza should remain till after
Abel's trial. And there was need; for the old lady
could not endure even the thought of her going; and
Ebby clung to his new mamma; and Faustina continued
a prey to depression and nervous caprice; and both the
management and cheerfulness of the household depended
upon Eliza.
And the weeks went swiftly by, and the time of the
trial arrived.
It was now December, — a bleak sky overhead, a barren,
paralyzed world beneath, cold winds blowing,
streams freezing over, and thin flurries of snow flying
here and there in the sullen, disheartened weather.
During two days the trial progressed; two days of
dread and uncertainty to the innocent accused, and no
less to the guilty unaccused; two days of general excitement
in the village, and of sharp forensic fencing,
-- 222 --
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harassing legal quibbles, flushed and gaping crowds, and
much unwholesome heat and fetor in the court-room.
With the feverish details of those days, — how Abel
bore himself in that shameful public position, confronting
the abusive attorneys, the grave judges, the silent
twelve, and the open-mouthed multitude; what his
mother suffered, awaiting the result which was to decide
not his fate only, but which would also prove a
word of life or death to her; and how Faustina experienced
a plentiful lack of amusement during those two
days and nights, — it is needless to weary the reader.
It was the wish of Abel's lawyers to have both his
wife and mother present in the court-room. The age,
infirmities, and tears of the elder lady, and the beauty and
affection of the younger, could not fail, they argued, to
have a favorable effect on the jury. And Ebby, held up
in their arms, would have been an important addition to
the group. But old Mrs. Dane was already worn out
with anxiety in his behalf, and he knew that it was not
possible for her to support the fatigue and agitation of
witnessing his arraignment. And Faustina was kept at
home by her own miserable terrors and an illness either
feigned or real.
With two invalids to care for, Eliza could not easily
leave, to go and sit by Abel's side in this hour of doubt
and peril. But, on the morning of the third day, she felt
irresistibly impelled to the court-house. The case had
been given to the jury the night before, and at the opening
of the court it was expected they would bring in
-- 223 --
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their verdict. She could not wait for the news to reach
her; but she must hasten, and be on the spot.
Accordingly, she left Melissa in charge, and set out on
foot for the centre of the town. It was full two miles to
the court-house. She walked all the way, through a
blinding storm. The snow, which had evidently been
trying hard to fall during those two days, was now filling
the air, and whirling in the wintry gale. It drove
full in Eliza's face, but little she cared for it, hastening
on a business the thoughts of which were far more biting
and bitter.
The court-room was already crowded on her arrival;
and, to her despair, she found herself unable to penetrate
the steaming throngs that choked the passages. She did
not know the way to the more private entrance, where,
as a friend of the accused, she might have gained admission
and found a seat near his side. So, after all her
trouble, she could not get in; and, being shorter than
anybody else, she could see nothing but the elbows and
backs between which she was soon tightly wedged, the
gray, unsympathizing ceiling when she looked up, and
now and then, when she looked down, a glimpse of the
little close-shaded puddles of trodden and melting snow
under her feet.
The court had not yet come in; and some of the spectators
near her filled the interval with conversation and
comment.
“They say his wife used to be a great belle,” said a
red-cheeked maiden.
-- 224 --
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“Used to?” retorted an affectedly soft masculine voice.
“Handsomest woman th' is in this county, to-day!”
“I want to know!” whistled a toothless woman's
voice. “You know her, then?”
“Like a book; neighbor o' mine! such a figger! and
eyes, — glorious, you better believe!”
“Is she so very perty, though?” asked she of the red
cheeks, with a slightly envious intonation.
“Pufficly magnificent, I assure ye! Unlucky day for
her, though, when she married that sneaking Abel Dane.”
Moved by an impulse of angry indignation, Eliza
thrust herself forward, till she could see, over the old
woman's hood, the half-shut, simpering eyes and smirking
mouth of the speaker. She would have been tempted to
strike that lying mouth, had it not been safe beyond her
reach.
“So you set it down he's guilty,” whistled the old
woman.
“Guilty!” echoed the young man. “Nobody doubts
that, that knows him as well as I do.”
“Oh, ain't it too bad, aunt!” said the girl. “They
say his conduct has broke her heart.”
“Yes,” corroborated the youth. “She's been sick
a-bed ever since he was took up, — apprehended, ye
know,” — hastening to amend his speech with the more
elegant word that occurred to him. “Naturally harrowing
to a wife's feelings, y' und'stand.”
“What a shame, to disgrace his family that way!”
said the elderly female.
-- 225 --
[figure description] Page 225.[end figure description]
“He might at least have had some regard for his
wife!” chimed in the girl.
“Outrageous!” added the smirking mouth. “Take a
beautiful girl away from her home, — creature of exqueezit
sensibilities, ye know; genteel folks, fust-rate
tip-top 'ristocratic s'ciety, ye know; surrounded by the
lap of luxury” —
“I want to know if she was, poor thing!” exclaimed
the whistler.
“Better believe!” And a dingy hand, presenting a
remarkable contrast of foul nails and showy rings,
stroked a languid mustache that shaded the smirking
mouth. “Outrageous, I say, — get a wife on false pretences
that way, and then go to committing burglary,
as if expressly a-puppus to overwhelm her with
obliquity!”
“Tasso Smith!” cried a warning tongue in the
crowd.
The proprietor of the rings started, and looked all
around, with a foolish, apprehensive stare, to see who had
spoken. It was apparently a female voice, and it seemed
to come from some mysterious depths in the crowd.
“Is't re'ly burglary now!” exclaimed the woman, to
whose ear the word had an appalling sound.
“Burglary in th' secon' degree,” the youth answered,
lowering his voice, and still glancing uneasily around.
“'Twould have been burglary in the fust degree, if he'd
broke into the house — entered the tenement, ye know,”
he added, in more classic phrase, — “in the night.
-- 226 --
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Perpetrating the attempt in the daytime, that makes secon'
degree.”
“But I thought they couldn't prove just when he
broke in; that's how I understood it,” observed a roughlooking
man, whose shaggy coat concealed Eliza.
“My friend,” — the youth, recovering his equanimity,
spoke with a complacent, patronizing air, as if conscious
of showing off his attainments to an admiring audience,—
“My friend, you understood puffic'ly correct. Nobody
seen him break in, of course. But it's mos' probable he
done it — consummated the atrocity, ye know,” he translated
himself, — “the afternoon the Apjohns was away;
absent from the dormitory, ye understand.”
“Absent from the domicile, you mean!” sneered a lad
of fifteen, regarding him with immense disgust.
“Same thing,” — and the ringed and grimy paw was
passed once more across the conceited mouth. “Clock
being stopped at certain hour that afternoon, which was
effected mos'; probable, when he took out the key of the
chist or put it back ag'in, — ye know, — seems to indicate
the time of the operation. That's no consequence,
though; they'll prove a compound larceny, safe enough,
and that covers the hull ground, y' und'stand.”
“His lawyers made a bad job, trying to prove his
whereabouts all that afternoon,” observed the rough-coated
stranger.
“Puffic'ly! Ye see, it couldn't be did. Lucky for
him a wife ain't permitted to testify against her husband;
if he gets off, — successful acquittal, ye know, —
it 'll be on that account.”
-- 227 --
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“What, sir!” whizzed the imperfect dental apparatus
of the girl's aunt, “ye don't think she know'd of his
hookin' the money?”
A peculiarly knowing smile stirred the young man's
mustache. “I — ah — apprehend she knowed as much
about it as anybody. Ye see, she might 'a' been convicted,
in her own mind, of his turbitude, or else she
wouldn't been so puffic'ly succumbed by the dispensation!”
he added, with that characteristic elegance of
diction which corresponded well with his jewelry, being,
one may say, the pinchbeck of language displayed on
the unwashed joints of a vulgar mind.
“Have you seen the poor creetur' lately?” inquired
the toothless one.
“No, madam, I hain't, not very recent.” The youth
drew himself up pompously. “Ye see, after that — ah,
despisable affair — I cut her husband's acquaintance.
A gentleman don't like to compromise his repetation, y'
und'stand, by calling at the house of a thief, if he has
got a charming woman for a wife.”
“Tasso Smith!” called once more the mysterious,
warning voice.
“Hello!” said Pinchbeck, with a gasp, and a sallow
grin. “Who speaks? Good joke! ha! ha!” — with a
forced laugh.
“Somebody's callin' Tasso Smith!” said the woman.
“Be you Tasso Smith?”
“That's my — ah — patternimic,” the young man acknowledged.
-- 228 --
[figure description] Page 228.[end figure description]
“Now I wan'to know! Huldy Smith's boy, be ye?
Huldy Bobbit that was? Why, me an' her was schoolgals
together. Didn't ye never hear her tell of Marshy
Munson?”
“Can't say I ever did!” and the young man lifted
his head superciliously.
“Wal, you tell her how you seen Marshy Munson to
the trial. It's Munson still, tell her. I'm a livin' now
to my brother's, 'Gustus Munson's; this's his darter.
Your mother married a Smith, I heerd, and had a son
Tasso; though it's years sence I've seen her; but I hope
now we shall visit back and forth a little. Dear me!”—
the scraggy-toothed spinster interrupted herself, regarding
Tasso admiringly, — “is it possible Huldy Bobbit's
got a boy that tall! smart and good-lookin' too; I
can say that 'thout flatterin'. And to think I should
meet you here, and find out who you be, and that
you knowed all about the case 'fore ever it come to
trial!”
“I — congratulate myself,” said Tasso, haughtily,
“that I was 'bout as well posted as mos' folks, — generality
of individuals, y' und'stand.”
“How about the letter he lost in Apjohn's house?”
inquired Marshy Munson's niece. “Was that proved
against him?”
“It was, miss, supposed to be,” smiled Tasso; “and it's
one of the mos' overwhelming circumstances in the case.”
“And the tomatoes, that was hung onto Apjohn's
door — wasn't that mean?”
-- 229 --
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“Mean? I believe ye!” said Tasso, slightly wincing.
“And of course he done it, you think?”
“Of course? Nobody mean enough to — perpetrate
such a thing, without it's Abel Dane; as anybody that
knows him” —
“Tasso Smith, you are a liar!”
Tasso turned yellow as his linen, and stopped short as
if the little hand, instead of the little tongue, of the concealed
speaker, had smitten him. From that moment, he
became singularly reserved, not venturing to open again
his mendacious mouth. He now turned his eyes steadfastly
towards the bar; and the tittering occasioned by
his discomfiture had scarcely ceased, when the court
came in.
“Hello, my little girl,” said the rough-coated stranger
to Eliza, “you seem bound to git a look.”
“Oh, sir! if I only could?”
“Sho! some friend of your'n, is he? — this Abel
Dane?”
“He — is — a dear friend — my adopted brother!”
faltered Eliza, from her anxiously throbbing heart.
“Ye don't say! Here, I'll make a place for you.
Give way a little there, you square-shouldered fellers;
let this young woman pass in; she's the man's sister, —
Abel Dane's sister!”
Although ashamed of being thus publicly announced,
Eliza was glad of the advantage the kind, rough man
obtained for her; and in a minute she had passed, she
scarcely knew how, the close barrier of the crowd, and
-- 230 --
[figure description] Page 230.[end figure description]
stood in front of it, with garments sadly disordered by
the strain and pressure they had sustained.
Before her was a railing as high as her arms, and
within that a bewildering scene; — the lawyers and privileged
visitors, whispering, writing, arranging papers,
or getting their seats, — in the midst of whom her eye
singled out the well-known side-head of the man she
sought. He was seated, composedly awaiting the arrival
of the jury with their verdict. He turned to speak
to a friend by his side, and then she saw his features,
which were firm, but careworn and haggard. She dared
not move beyond the rail; but at sight of that dear, suffering
face, she flew to him in spirit, and flung her arms
about him, and irrepressible tears ran down her cheeks.
Order was soon secured in the court, and from a distant
door an official-looking personage entered, bearing a
portentous perpendicular staff, and ushering in a file of
twelve men, who silently took their places upon seats
reserved for them beyond the bar, at the right-hand of
the judicial bench. Eliza almost forgot to breathe, and
leaned faintly upon the rail before her, as she thought
that the fate of Abel lay in the voice of these twelve
men, and that in another instant she might hear his
doom pronounced.
There was a brief delay, she knew not for what; then
the question was asked, — had the jury agreed upon their
verdict.
They had agreed. Low and ominous came the response
from the foreman.
-- 231 --
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Was the accused at the bar guilty or not guilty?
Eliza's brain reeled. She did not know whether she
heard the answer, or only a part of it. She looked dizzily
around. She saw the excited faces; she heard the whispered
echoes; then all was chaos and darkness about
her. But she still clung to the rail, and did not
faint.
“Told ye so!” said Tasso, with a look of malicious
satisfaction at his new acquaintances. “Yes!” he
whispered to the tiptoe listeners behind him; “GUILTY!
GUILTY!”
When Eliza recovered the mastery of her senses, she
saw, as in a dream, Abel standing up in court, erect and
pale; and heard some one inquiring if he had anything
to say why sentence should not be passed upon him.
Abel's voice was deep and agitated, as he answered, —
“I have nothing to say, but once more to protest
my innocence, and that is idle now. I believe the jury
have come honestly to their decision; but, God knows,
they have condemned an innocent man.”
Silence followed these impressive words, broken only
by a single cry of pain, — a sharp moan wrung from
Eliza's very soul.
Abel, after hesitating a moment, as if there was more
he would have said, passed his hand across his forehead,
and sat down. But he was presently required to stand
up again, and receive the sentence of the court.
“Oh, his poor old mother! his poor little baby!”
sobbed Eliza, audibly.
-- 232 --
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Abel hid his face with his hand for a minute, struggling
with the emotions that had well-nigh mastered
him, then stood up, stern and calm.
In the midst of the hushed and crowded court-room,—
confronting the jury that had pronounced him guilty,
and the judge who was to declare his sentence, — the focus
of a thousand eyes which well might burn his cheeks to
coals, or whiten them to ashes, — the one absorbing object
of pity, or wonder, or gloating satisfaction, to all those
packed benches, and thronged windows and doorways,—
a spectacle also, no doubt, to bands of angels, weeping
over the weakness of human judgments, or tenderly
smiling with joy at the divine wisdom which underlies
them, and works through them, and changes the bitterness
of wrong into the sweetness of mercy at last, —
there, on that wild December day, which blinded the windows
with snow, and darkened all the air with storm,
Abel Dane, the carpenter, stood up to receive the doom
of a felon.
In a slow, monotonous, and dogmatic speech, the
judge commented on the majesty of the law, which had
been offended, and the necessity of dealing justice to the
offender. Next, the enormity of Abel's crime against
society was duly made clear to him. He was also reminded
of the obligation he was under to feel grateful
for the enlightened process of law by which he had been
convicted, and for the patience and impartiality with
which his case had been heard. It now remained to determine
the punishment, which should be at once a just
-- 233 --
[figure description] Page 233.[end figure description]
retribution for his offence, and serve as a solemn warning
to other wrong-doers.
Then, in the same unmoved, formal, droning tone of
voice, the court proceeded to discharge its heavy responsibility,
by pronouncing judgment.
This was the judgment:
To serve a term of FIVE YEARS, AT HARD LABOR, IN
THE STATE PRISON.
This was the doom of Abel Dane.
It smote the appalled heart of Eliza. Five years!
It seemed to her that the heavens had fallen, and justice
had not been done.
Abel bowed his head, and sat down, and the sentence
was irrevocably recorded against his name. He was
committed to the charge of the sheriff, to be taken from
the court to the jail, and thence to be conveyed to the
place of his long, weary, ignominious confinement.
He was marched away by the officers. The distant door
opened before him and closed again behind him. It was
done. And Eliza, forced into something like calmness by
the very intensity of her despair, or stunned by the awfulness
of the stroke, or held by a ghastly unbelief, looked
about her, — saw the soulless visage of the judge still
sitting there; the misty sea of faces around; the windows
streaming, as it were, with tears; the vast, dim, empty
space under the dome, but nowhere Abel; receiving, in
that instant of time, upon the tablet of her brain, a picture
of blurred desolation, of sickening unreality, to haunt her
days thenceforward, and to wake her by night from harrowing
dreams.
-- 234 --
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She was roused from that momentary palsy of the
soul, by the audience breaking up; — for the show was
over, the tragedy ended; the strained chord of excited
interest had snapped; and the next case on the docket
was too tame to excite the public appetite after such a
highly seasoned entertainment as had just been enjoyed.
The jury went out and another came in. And the court
coldly turned to the next case. And the lawyers scribbled
and quibbled. And the darkening storm whirled
and whistled without. And the affairs of the great
world went on, and there was joy, and there was laughter,
just the same now as when Abel Dane, the convict,
was a free and happy man.
-- 235 -- p471-240
XXVI. THROUGH PRISON-BARS.
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But now the heavy doors of the jail were clanging
behind him, and the keys turning in the locks. He
was no longer of the world.
Henceforth solitude, hopeless toil, years of corroding
misery, which seemed a lifetime to look forward
to, and years of reflected infamy afterwards, if he was
so unfortunate as to live to be old, — a despised and
broken-spirited old age; such was the dismal vista of
the future.
There was no escape now. The cold walls of the jail,
the suppressed, sad voice and compassionating look of
the sheriff, as he took leave of him, the portentous click
and jingle of the retiring keys, the grated windows, and
the wild, white-maned storm plunging by outside, as
if to mock him with the terrors and beauty of its
magnificent freedom, — all conspired to assure him that,
marvellous and past belief as such a fate appeared to
him, it was no dream, but a stern, stony reality.
An hour ago there was hope; but now there was no
hope. Then it seemed not impossible but the bitter cup
might pass from him; and the thought of returning to
-- 236 --
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his humble occupation, to his mother and his child, to his
old home, and the old life of care and trial, which did
not seem so bad a life after all, would thrill his heart
most tenderly. But that is denied him — inexorably!
The lot of a felon is his.
To go with inglorious cropped hair; to work at his
trade under a task-master, in a silent company of convicts;
to be dressed like them in the shameful prison
uniform; to be marshalled in degrading mechanical order
to the workshops in the morning, and driven back
in a dull tramping row at night, — himself one of that
jeering, grotesque, melancholy file, stamping with bi-colored
legs, in sullen time with the rest; crowding close
at the prison-doors, with some reckless horse-thief before
him, and some muttering murderer treading close
behind; turning his head now over his red shoulder, and
now over his blue one, for a breath of untainted air; to
take his turn at the kitchen slide, receiving his morsel of
black bread and tin plate of mush, and carrying them to
his allotted cell in the row of cells; his lonely supper; no
wife, no child, to comfort him, no friend dropping in of
an evening, no plans for to-morrow, or for next week,
or for next year; no human face to cheer him ever, —
only the dreary face of the chaplain, the unsympathizing
countenances of his keepers, and the morose, brutal visages
of his fellow-convicts; a spectacle to curious visitors,
who come to stare and make careless remarks while
he marches in or out, or feeds, or cringes at his work,
forbidden to look up; and this life day after day, and
-- 237 --
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week after week, and month after month, and year after
year; — O merciful God! must it be?
Did the judge, who enunciated the sentence with business-like
precision, or the listeners, who heard it with
keen relish of the tragical, measure the depth and
breadth of its fearful significance; or weigh well one
little grain of the load of grief and shame those few easily-spoken
words heaped irretrievably on the convict's
head?
And Abel was innocent; but what if he had been
guilty? It seems, when we think of it, a very special
act of divine favor that any man is innocent of crime.
The coil of circumstance has such subtile entanglements;
and the glue of evil, wherever we move, is so
plentiful and adhesive, and the way to the pit is so
often in appearance the very path of necessity, and to
advance step by step is so easy, while to return is so
difficult; and ever the illusions of sin are so seductive,
and the human heart so weak, — how is it any one escapes?
Guilty! innocent! — are these mere words? Who is
there that never did a wrong act, or felt a sinful desire?
And what is the mighty difference, in God's sight, between
wicked wishing and wicked doing? or between
the great and daring transgressor, and the small, weak,
timid one? or between him who is powerfully tempted,
and sins accordingly, and him who is tempted not at all,
and so never, as we say, sinned? Man provides punishment
for a few; but how about the rest, who may be
-- 238 --
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equally deserving? Are there no murderers, loose in
society, whom the law cannot touch, whose victims
died, not by bludgeon and drug, perhaps, yet by the
poison of secret wrong, and the strokes which make
broken hearts? How many robbers, think you, walk
abroad with high heads, respectable, and defiant of
grand and petit jury; who have committed no literal
larceny, indeed, nor positive act of pocket-picking; but,
by more cautious practices in craft, have possessed
themselves of their neighbors' goods, rendering no
equivalent? On the other hand, how many comparatively
honest men, like Abel Dane, have been subjected
to punishment and life-long dishonor more by the iniquity
of others than their own? And, to pry closely
into the roots of things, what precious right have you,
sir, or you, madam, to condemn your brother or your
sister? Have you thought of it, ye proud, who esteem
yourselves better than the rest? And you, O virtuous
judge! have you considered it, sitting there on your
cushioned bench, and uttering judgment, while your less
fortunate brother stands trembling in the dock to be
doomed?
If these be riddles to the wise, well may they puzzle
the poor wits of honest Abel Dane. Social order must
be had. The time has not come when the prison-house
can be safely demolished. The world is not yet wise
and good enough to put into practice the sublime and
sweet doctrine of love, which knows neither gallows
nor chain. In the mean while appearances and the rule
-- 239 --
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of force have their day. The outward semblance of
good-citizenship shall pass for good-citizenship. The
gross transgressor, who maintains but one virtue to a
thousand crimes, if that one virtue be a hen-like prudence
hiding the evil brood under its wings, shall
be, perhaps, one of the guardians of society. And the
man of many unknown virtues, and one poor little crime
that betrays him, shall be delivered over to the judgment.
What else? Peace, loud-mouthed reformer!
Patience, ye seething brains, that have begun to think,
or to think you think! Charity, all! charity not for
the criminal only, but for those, also, who hate the criminal;
and, if they did not help to make him what he is,
at least help to keep him so. God lives; and his infinite
providence enfolds alike the noble and the ignoble, the
accuser and the accused; and the proud have their reward,
and the meanest are not forgotten; and perfect
justice is perfect mercy; and that shall comfort us.
But was Abel Dane so comforted? The hour of anguish
is not just the time to compute carefully the compensations
of suffering. No doubt truth shall triumph
in the long run; and the gloss of appearances shall not
always avail; and every wrong shall be made right at
last. At last! — but is that a salve to quiet the grief
of a present wound?
Staggering and heavy within him was the soul of
Abel, as he stood and looked around him in the jail,
and tried to understand, to feel, to be assured of himself.
A convict! a jail-bird! one of the despised and
-- 240 --
[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]
outcast of the earth! How was it? He had endeavored
to prepare himself for this emergency, but somehow
it found him altogether unprepared. He had anticipated,
even if condemned, a light sentence, — not more
than a year, at the most; and he had believed he could
endure so much. But FIVE YEARS! — the thought bewildered
him. He remembered how lately he had said
in his heart that it would be easy to go to prison for
another's sake; but now that seemed an idle conceit, a
flower of sentimentalism that could not stand the withering
heat of this terrible day; and the memory of it
sickened him.
He could not help feeling that there was some mistake
about the sentence. In his shaken state, he even had a
dim hope that it had been pronounced only to try his
manhood; or that the judge would think better of it, and
order him to be released. Yes! there were the rattling
keys again, — the sheriff was coming to set him free.
Abel indulged in these miserable fancies, as sometimes
men, in the most utter hopelessness, will play with
the phantoms of hope, — as the child at its mother's
funeral will gaze on the pallid face; and though it knows
what death is, and that this is death, thinks it impossible
but that the closed eyes shall open again and the
cold lips smile once more.
But the sound of the keys and of opening locks was
no delusion. And what was this that flew like a bird,
yet with a human cry and sob, to the grated door, and
looked in upon him, clinging to the iron bars?
-- 241 --
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“Abel! O Abel!”
He had sat down, without knowing it, upon a wooden
bench. His face was buried in his hands. But at the
call, he lifted his head, and then got up, moving slowly
to the door.
“Eliza!” he said, in a hollow voice, trying to smile.
He reached her his hand. She seized it and kissed it
through the bars.
“Why, Eliza — Eliza,” — he spoke in the same hollow,
broken voice, but tenderly and soothingly, much
as in old times, — “don't cry, child! there, there!
don't cry.”
“O Abel! I never thought it would be so!”
“Neither did I, my girl. But so it is. I try to believe
there is a God!” he said, and paused, — the blackness
of atheism rising like a cloud in his soul, shedding
a sullen gloom, and darting defiant lightnings. He
stood, with clenched teeth, grim and dark.
“O brother! don't!” sobbed Eliza. “There is a
God!”
“I say, I try to believe it,” returned Abel; “and I
suppose this is all right, if we could only see it so. But
there is a black devil in my heart. He says to me what
Job's wife said to Job, — `Curse God, and die!”'
Eliza could only wring his hand and weep.
“Why did you come to me?” he asked. Haven't you
begun to think of me as the world will think? I am
going into a living tomb; to be buried five years; to
rot in the memories of men, and be eaten by worms.
-- 242 --
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There are worms that eat the body, and there are worms
that consume heart and hope and good name. In a little
time my friends will think of me with loathing, — that
is the worst to bear.”
“Never! never!” Eliza interrupted. “You must
not imagine such a thing. I would die for you now,
Abel! And do you think I will ever forget you, or
distrust you, or anything but love you?”
“You are a good girl. I know you are sincere, and
mean all you say. But I see!” — And the prisoner
sighed with unutterable sadness, and shook his head.
“In a little while you will be a wife, and happy, and full
of interest for your husband and household and little
ones. And you will have new acquaintances, and a bright
world all open to you, and occupation, and diversion; and
what will I be to you then?”
“What no one else will ever be!” she answered, with
strange energy. “No one can ever fill your place, — not
even my husband. Abel, you never knew how I loved
you, — I never told you, — but I will tell you now; and,
oh, if my love could only give you strength and comfort!
If I could give up all my happiness, which you
speak of, and save you, how gladly I would do it!”
“What! your husband, your future, your friends, —
all, Eliza?”
“All! I would give all to you, and feel that I was
more blessed by the sacrifice. Then don't say I will
ever forget you. Don't think I will in spirit forsake
you one moment in all those dark coming years. Never
-- 243 --
[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
imagine, though all should neglect you, that I shall for
an instant neglect you in my wishes and in my prayers.”
“Eliza! angel!” murmured the prisoner, thrilling
from head to foot, and regarding her with a look all
love and tears; “if we had only known each other,
I should not now be here, — I should not now be the
son of a worse than childless mother or the father of a
worse than fatherless child, or the husband of — of anybody
but you, darling Eliza!” he said, with ineffable
tenderness, folding her hand between both his, as if it
were the most precious thing to him in all the world.
“We do not know,” said Eliza with a strange abstraction,
her face full of pain and vague yearning, her eyes
full of sorrow and tears, looking, not at him, but, tremulously,
far away. She seemed neither to be offended nor
much surprised by what he said; but to accept it as simple
truth that might be spoken and heard without shame,
now that prison-bars and the gulf of years were between
them. “God only knows,” she added. “And
his ways are best, Abel. Oh, believe that! Oh, let us
never doubt that, whatever comes!”
“Pray for me!” said the prisoner, his whole manhood
shaken. “I am afraid I have lost the power to
pray for myself. I tried to, as I sat on the bench there,
but couldn't. My thoughts were like lead. Frozen
clods weighed me down. And I said, `I will pray no
more, for God will not hear.' But you awaken something
in me that I thought was dead. For your sake, for
your love's sake, Eliza, I would not be lost. For your
-- 244 --
[figure description] Page 244.[end figure description]
sake, for your love's sake, I would live through the
dreary years before me, and keep my faith in God, and
in man, and in justice. Pray; and save me from that
scepticism that is ten times worse than death!”
Eliza did not answer. She was weeping softly and
unrestrainedly now, holding his hand pressed close
against her cheek. Her head was bowed against the
iron bars, through which, reaching, he laid his other
hand soothingly upon it.
“Don't cry!” he said again, with wondrous depth
and sweetness of love in his tones; “I am better now
and stronger. You have given me strength. Bless
you, sister, — dearer than any sister! Go to your husband.
Be happy, dearest. I want you to be very happy.
It will lighten my heavy loneliness, thinking of you and
your happiness. From this day I am but as a dead
man. But you are still in the world, and you do right
to enjoy it.”
“How can I ever?” burst forth the heart-broken
girl. “O Abel, how can you say so?”
“I am not speaking bitterly, but in all soberness and
truth. It will solace my solitude to remember you, and
know you are happy. And, though I am dead, I shall
hope for the resurrection, in this world or the next,
when we shall meet again. Go now, darling. I want
you to carry the news to my mother — and my wife.
My horse is at the tavern; you can drive him home.
Make haste; for I don't want mother to hear the news
from anybody but you. You will know how to be
-- 245 --
[figure description] Page 245.[end figure description]
gentle and tender with her. Heaven comfort her poor
old heart!”
“How can I tell her? Abel, it will kill her; she
loves you so, and you are all she has!”
“Not all, — she has you now. Stay a little while
with her, Eliza, if you can. It will not be long that she
will need you.”
“I will never leave her while she lives, — be sure of
that!” said Eliza.
“Then I am content. I have settled up my affairs,
so that I think the little remnant of my property will
last out her days. As for my wife, — she has friends
she can go to, if necessary. But Ebby, — my boy, —
what will become of him?”
“If his own mother cannot provide for him, I will
take him, and be thankful for the privilege. I will be
his mother; and I will love him for your sake, Abel.”
“Will you? Then my mind is at rest. He may
call you mother; but, darling, do not forget, nor let him
forget, that I am his father. I could not bear to have
him learn to call any one else father, — even so good
a man as your husband. And, Eliza, you will bring
him up to think of me with affection, and without
shame for the name he bears. Forgive me for saying
it; I know you will be true to us both. There, wipe
your tears, child. You must go.”
“Go! and not see you again? Oh, I can't,” she
sobbed, “I can't say good-by!”
“I am told I shall not be removed till to-morrow,”
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[figure description] Page 246.[end figure description]
said Abel; “so any one that wishes to visit me, can
do so this afternoon. If Faustina wants to come, maybe
you will come with her. And bring Ebby. I would
like to kiss him for the last time, and have one last look
to remember him by; he will be changed, he will be another
child, five years from now. You must bring him to
me in prison, at least once a year, Eliza. I can't bear
the thought of his growing beyond my remembrance.”
With incoherent words, Eliza promised. And now,
consoled by the thought of returning to him again in
the afternoon, she found strength to take leave.
“I hope mother will not think of coming with you,”
said Abel. “She couldn't stand it, and it would be too
much for me. By all means, persuade her to stay at
home. Yet” — a spasm twitched the muscle of his
mouth — “perhaps I shall never see her again. But
it will be better, — yes, it will be better for her not to
come. The storm is dreadful.” And he looked up at
the gusts of snow driving by the jail-windows.
“Kiss me, brother,” whispered Eliza.
Between the bars of the grated door their lips met.
Their hands clung together in a last embrace. Neither
spoke. Then Eliza, hiding her face in her veil, disappeared
in the dark passage. At the end of it was another
door, which had been locked behind her as she
entered. She gave the necessary signal; it was soon
opened again, and closed again; and Abel was alone
and she was gone.
-- 247 -- p471-252
XXVII. THE CONVICT'S BEAUTIFUL WIFE.
[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
Meanwhile Faustina waited, in torments of anxiety,
to learn the result of the trial, — Abel's fate and her own.
Now she tossed and groaned upon the bed. Now she
went to the window, and looked out upon the tempestuous
snow-storm, straining her eyes to see, through the
white, driving cloud, Abel or Eliza, or at least some
friendly neighbor coming with the news. But no Abel
appeared; and nevermore would she behold, in storm or
shine, that goodly form of manhood returning home to
her as she had seen it countless times and cared not, in
the by-gone, wasted years.
Sigh, wretched wife! Wring your passionate, white
hands, O woman fair to see! Weep; blind your eyes
with hot, impatient tears, as you gaze! He is nowhere
in the storm. He is not just beyond the corner of the
common, where you could see him but for the dim vortex
of snow, as you sometimes fancy. He will never
come to you again, he will never smile kindly upon you
again, at noon or evening, coming from his work, in all
this weary world. Toss then upon your bed, and groan,
thinking of what has been lost, and fearing what is to
come.
-- 248 --
[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]
For she was tortured also with fears. Up to the last she
could not believe that Abel would really sacrifice himself
for her. If conviction became certain, then surely he
would save himself by giving her up. It was for his
interest to preserve her good name, if possible to do so
and at the same time avoid suffering the penalty of the
law in her place. But more magnanimous conduct she
could not understand. Each day of the trial, therefore,
and now on this third day especially, she trembled with
dread of exposure. And when she looked for her husband,
she more than half-expected to be frightened with
the sight of an officer sent to summon her before the
awful court.
But nobody came. She could not have even the miserable
satisfaction of knowing the worst. And there
was no one to sympathize with her, and listen to her
conjectures and complaints, and help her waste the lonely
hours of waiting, except Melissa. She made the
most of Melissa, which indeed was not much. Now
she called her to her bedside, and clung to her desperately,
and confessed to her, and questioned her; promised
extravagant favors if she remained true to her, and
threatened all the pains of death and hell if ever she betrayed
her secret. Then she would send her to the
windows to look, or to the outer door to listen, to know
if anybody was coming, — or at least to form some
opinion whether anybody would come or not.
“What do you think?” she asked once when the girl
had been absent some minutes from the room, and
-- 249 --
[figure description] Page 249.[end figure description]
returned to it — as appeared to Faustina — with the same
slow discouraging step as usual. “Is he coming? Has
he got clear? Oh, dear! dear! Melissa, why don't you
speak?”
But it was not Melissa who mournfully drew near the
head of the bed, and stood there, unseen by Faustina,
regarding her with speechless grief.
“Oh, I shall die! I shall have another dreadful fit, I
know I shall. Melissa, if you would save my life, why
don't you tell me again you think he is acquitted, and
will be here soon? I want you to keep saying it.
That's all the consolation I have. And he wouldn't betray
me, would he? Do you think he would?”
No answer from the figure at the bed-head. But now
wonder began to mingle with the heavy sorrow of the
eyes that watched the writhing woman.
“He promised me so faithfully! But if he should not
get clear! Oh, what shall I do? What would you do
in my case, Melissa? I wish I had run away a month
ago! What a fool I was! I'd have done it if it hadn't
been for Tasso. He told me not to be afraid, but to stay,
and never care what happened to my husband, — as if a
body could! — as if I hadn't before my eyes every minute
what may happen to myself. Oh, dear!”
And Faustina, restless, rose up in bed, and pushed
back her hair, moaning as she twisted it away and threw
it over her shoulder, and looked with burning languor
and despair around her, as if in search of some object
of hope on which to cast her weary heart; but saw
-- 250 --
[figure description] Page 250.[end figure description]
instead, with a start of alarm, the silent figure behind her
pillow.
“Eliza!” she scarcely articulated, staring pallidly.
“Where — where is Melissa?”
“She is gone to put the horse in the barn,” replied
Eliza.
“The horse! What horse?” Faustina hardly knew
what she was saying, so great was her trepidation, thinking
of what she had already said, and Eliza — not Melissa—
had heard. “How did you come? I — I —
what did I say?”
Eliza advanced to the side of the bed, and sat down
upon it. The two looked at each other, — one with a
countenance full of anguish and pity, the other with
guilty, affrighted eyes.
“You know best what you were saying, and what you
meant by it,” Eliza answered. “I was thinking of what
I have come to say, and what you must prepare yourself
to hear.”
“Abel?” Faustina whispered, “did he — has he
come?”
“Mrs. Dane,” Eliza said, with indescribable repugnance
in her heart, when she felt that she ought to show all
sympathy and pity to the distressed creature before her,
“your husband cannot come now; if you wish to see
him you must go where he is.”
Faustina did not speak; but, putting both hands to
her head, slid them into her hair, and clenched them thus
entangled over her neck, with an aspect of abject fear.
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[figure description] Page 251.[end figure description]
“I have come for you, if you wish to visit him. You
must get ready, while I go and break the news to
mother.”
“Where is he?”
“In jail. To-morrow he will be taken to prison.”
“To prison? O heavens! You are dreaming, trying
to frighten me!”
“It is only too true,” said Eliza. “I heard his sentence,” —
clasping her hand on her heart at the remembrance.
Faustina was not so full of astonishment and grief for
her husband, as not to reflect, with a secret, selfish hope,
that her own guilt had probably remained concealed.
She remembered also, in the midst of her consternation,
that she had a part to play.
“To prison, did you say? What prison?” she asked.
“For how long?”
“To the State prison. For five years,” replied Eliza.
“State prison! — my husband! — Five years!” —
And the miserable woman wrung her hair, and thrust
it into her mouth, biting it. How much of this seeming,
too, was real and unaffected, and how much disguised or
assumed, it would be hard to say. And whether it
was chiefly grief for Abel, or remorse for her own misconduct,
or only a selfish sorrow and alarm, who shall
judge? But that fear and dismay were upon her, there
could be no doubt.
And why did not Eliza endeavor to soothe and encourage
her? She believed it her duty, and accounted it
-- 252 --
[figure description] Page 252.[end figure description]
a privilege, to give aid and counsel wherever they were
needed. But, when she would have spoken sympathizing
words to this unhappy being, her heart contracted
and her tongue refused to utter. It was not her own
affliction, it was not jealousy, or vindictive hatred, because
of the irremediable wrong she knew this woman
had done to her and to Abel, which made her shrink
away and close her lips; but rather a sense of falsehood,
and of a deeper wrong concealed, which her sensitive
nature scented like a corruption in the very air Faustina
breathed. She arose from the bed.
“Will you be ready?” she asked, going. “We are
to take Ebby with us.”
“Oh, I can't!” cried Faustina. “Such a storm! —
Besides, I am sick. How can I go?” She threw herself
upon her face. To confront her husband in jail; to
be present, knowing what he suffered, and was doomed
still to suffer, for her, — and she wickedly permitting;
to listen to his reproaches, or, if he uttered none, to witness
the uncomplaining trouble his soul was in for her
sake, more cutting than any reproach; to hear his tremulous
words of leave-taking, to look into his face, and to
part for so long, — oh, it seemed impossible to go
through all this! Nevertheless, she reflected that it
would be far the safest policy to visit him; to go, and
show her love; yes, and carry Ebby with her, to touch
his heart; repeat her professions of fidelity, and make
him promise again, and once for all, never to betray her.
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[figure description] Page 253.[end figure description]
“Tell me what to do!” she cried. “It shall be as you
say. Did he send for me?”
She raised her head as she spoke, and looked for Eliza.
But Eliza was not there. She was at another bedside
now, holding in her arms the almost dying form of the
convict's stricken mother; trying in vain to impart to
her a little consolation out of her own scanty store.
Then Faustina, left alone, resolved to rise and dress
herself whilst she was deciding in her mind what to do.
She found a sort of distraction and relief in the occupation.
And though she vowed incessantly to herself that
she could not go, and that she would not go, she continued
to put her apparel on, even to her mantle and
furs; so that, when Eliza sent for her, lo, she was
ready. And though she now, almost frantically, informed
Melissa that she could not and that she would
not, nevertheless, as if a spell had been upon her which
she was powerless to resist, she went trembling and
sighing to the outer door, where the wagon stood, and
got into it, and took Ebby with her under the buffalo-skin;
and did not faint dead away, as she had determined
to do in Eliza's sight, so that she might be left
behind, but, irresolutely holding that strategy in reserve
until it was too late, rode through the storm of wind and
snow, and through the wilder storm of her own thoughts,
to the centre of the town, and found herself at last
alighting at the jail-door, as weak and helpless as Ebby
himself, in Eliza's governing hands.
-- 254 -- p471-259
XXVIII. THE CONVICT'S CHRISTIAN NEIGHBORS.
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From the window of his shop John Apjohn had seen
Abel Dane's wagon arrive and depart again. For the
cooper did not attend court that morning. The two
previous days, when he was required to be on the spot,
had been enough for him, yea, too much. To swear
the solemn oath; to stand up, in the presence of judge
and jury and spectators, and bear witness against his
neighbor, whose eyes were upon him; to tell, in terror
of perjuring himself, the story of the tomatoes, and to
hear the tittering, had been the most fearful ordeal of
his life. How he was gored by ruthless forensic horns,
and ferociously trampled and tossed as if the truth had
been his life-blood, to be worried out of him in this madbull
fashion; how he fainted, and was carried out to be
revived, and then brought back into the arena, to be
whirled again in the air and trodden again in the dust;
and how he was at last pitched carelessly out of
the arena, a used up man, covered with sweat and
flushes, while Prudence took the stand, and made sport
for the Philistines, — all this he remembered sufficiently
-- 255 --
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well to be made sick ever after by the sight of a court-house.
But John's was no merely selfish woe. He had been
in a measure diverted from his own shame by his conscientious
concern for Abel. With the vindictive feelings,
which animated his worthy wife, he had no sympathy;
and this third morning, he waited and watched from his
shop-window, afflicted with pangs of conscience, and unable
to work until he should learn that his neighbor had
been acquitted. After seeing the wagon come and go,
his restlessness grew intense. Remain in his shop he
could not. A bold resolution inspired him, and putting
on his coat, and turning up the collar about his ears, he
issued forth. Mrs. Apjohn called to him as he passed
the house; but the said collar, and the storm that
whistled about it, prevented her being heard.
“Where on airth can he be goin'? Why, he's stoppin'
into Abel Dane's gate, sure's the world. The man's
crazy!” said Prudence.
When the cooper returned, after a short absence, she
flew to the door to meet him.
“Wal sad, John Apjohn! What have you done?”
she cried, grasping him as if he had been a little boy,
and dragging him into the house. “Give an account of
yourself, sir!”
“What have we done?” iterated the cooper; “what
have we been and done, Prudy? To be sure, to be
sure!”
“We? what do you mean by we?” She helped him
-- 256 --
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shake the snow from his coat, not very gently. “What
have we done, say!”
“I've seen Abel's mother. She's a sight to make any
man sick of life, — most of all, one that's been helpin' to
heap her troubles on to her. For Abel, Prudy, Abel —
he's sent to State's prison for five year'! for five year',
Prudy! And it's all our doin's; it's all our doin's
from the very fust!” And as he uttered this speech,
the agitated and remorseful John, having previously unbuttoned
his coat, began to button it up again excitedly,
with the collar about his ears.
The moment of triumph had arrived for good Mrs.
Apjohn. But, alas! where was the satisfaction? She
looked somehow as if smitten by ill tidings. She had
achieved a signal victory over her supposed enemy, and
she was not glad. All the imps that had been goading
her on, and whispering in her soul night and day how
good the revenge would taste, seemed suddenly to have
deserted and left her to bite barren ashes. She sat
down on the wood-box; and it was some seconds before
she spoke.
“Wal, I don't know as it's my fault now. I'm as
sorry for ol' Mis' Dane as anybody, and for her little
gran'child, — he's a re'l pooty little boy, and I pity him.
And nobody can say't ever I hated Fustiny bad enough
to want her husband sent for five year' — that seems
mos' too bad, I allow!” Prudy's voice quavered, and
her countenance betrayed trouble. “And I'd no idee of
his gittin' so long a sentence! had you, John?”
-- 257 --
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John had been busy tying his red silk in a broad fold,
over his upturned coat-collar, around his nose and ears,
so that he now stood muffled to the eyes; and the voice
of him seemed to issue from a tomb.
“I'm a goin' for to see him, Prudy.”
“To see — who?”
“Abel. I'm a goin' with ol' Mis' Dane. 'Lizy and
Faustiny and the boy had gone off; and she was in a
dreffle state, sayin' they'd insisted on her stayin' to
hum; but she know'd she never'd see Abel agi'n in the
world, if she didn't see him to-day, and she didn't keer
for the storm, nor for sickness, nor for nothin'; but go
she must and would; and if I'd harness up and carry
her over, she'd be obliged. And I'm a goin', Prudy!”
With which announcement, he closed up the aperture
which he had opened between his handkerchief and his
nose to make a passage for the words, and, putting on
his hat, tightened the muffler about his ears as if determined
neither to say nor hear more on the subject.
“Now, John!” began Prudence disconcerted, “I don't
know 'bout your goin' off on any sech wild-goose chase!
Why didn't you ask my advice? Old Mis' Dane ain't
fit to stir out of the house, in the best weather, 'cordin'
to all accounts; and to start off in sech a storm” —
“I'm a goin', Prudy,” said the voice from the tomb.
And John's hand was on the door-latch.
“No you ain't goin', neither!” exclaimed Prudence,
astonished by this act of rebellion. “Jest stop a minute,
can't you, and hear to reason? You do beat all
-- 258 --
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the obstinate, headstrong critters! Come!” She put her
hand quickly on her knee, and got upon her feet with all
possible dispatch, and launched herself towards the door,
with arm extended to seize him. But too late. Obstinate
or not, John Apjohn meant to have his own
way this time. Headstrong or not, for once in his life he
determined to defy her conjugal authority, and take the
risks. If she was the more muscular of the two, he was
the more nimble. She was ponderous; but he was fleet.
Prudence saw that she had no chance; and to stand in
the door, and shout, against the indriving tempest, for
him to return, she soon perceived to be idle. So she
retired into the house, baffled, and inspired with a certain
respect for her husband which she never felt before.
He was going to take Mrs. Dane over to the jail, —
that was settled. What should she do in the mean
time? Suffer it to be said that she was less neighborly
than her husband? And leave him alone to be wrought
upon by the scenes he was to witness? She seemed
boiling with trouble for a minute; then she, too, formed
a novel resolve. Off went her old frock, and on went her
second-best gown, in a twinkling. The hooks and eyes
flew together with amazing rapidity, considering the
capaciousness of the charms enclosed. And so great
was her industry, that, by the time John had obtained
a pony at a stable near by, and harnessed him, Prudence
had locked the house, and stood ankle-deep in the snow,
with her bonnet and cloak on, ready to accompany him.
-- 259 --
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At sight of her, John was alarmed. But she said
kindly, —
“Put in a board, John, for you to set on. Me and
Mis' Dane I guess 'll about fill up the seat.”
And John, without a word, put in a board.
-- 260 -- p471-265
XXIX. IN JAIL. LEAVE-TAKING.
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Eliza warmed her numbed hands in the vestibule of
the jail, while Faustina, with Ebby in her arms, followed
the keeper.
He opened the first heavy door, and, after ushering
her in, clanged it together and locked it again.
Then they were ready to advance to the second door.
The ring of the iron, the formality and preparation,
the dim light in the passage, the sound of the keeper's
feet on the echoing stone floor, added to the
thought of so soon meeting her husband, filled her limbs
with trembling, and her soul with almost superstitious
dread. She could scarcely support the burden of her
child upon her fainting heart. As if to enhance her
trouble, Ebby began to cry. She stood waiting for the
jailer to precede her. White and terrified, she obeyed
his summons to follow. Before her was the grated
door, through the bars of which he called Abel to approach;
and she heard his slow footsteps coming along
the floor of the hollow cell, — tramp, tramp, — while
each moment there was danger that the swoon she had
-- 261 --
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had in contemplation so long, and kept in reserve, would
take vengeance for being trifled with, and master her in
good earnest.
But the grated door was opened also; and Ebby, as
he slipped from his mother's breast, was caught in the
arms of his father. And Faustina, bowing her face
upon Abel's shoulder, clung and wept there until her
limbs fairly failed beneath her, and she sank down helplessly
upon the jail-floor.
Half-kneeling and half-sitting, she sank and bent her
fair head, from which the bonnet had fallen, and covered
her fairer face, — a rather graceful and exceedingly pathetic
figure; the sight of whom, together with the prisoner
standing by, hugging the child, and saturating his
little curls with big, manly tears, did mightily wrench
that unofficial part of the jailer's nature, called a heart;
for the jailer was the sheriff also. It was excellent Mr.
Wilkins, whom we remember; the same who went to
arrest Abel, and was sorry to see him come out of the
house with Ebby in his arms, that moonlight night in
autumn. He was not one of the brutal, relentless turnkeys
you read about in romances, but a man. And
now, retiring with the keys, having locked the duplicate
doors, and wiped the duplicate tears that surprised him,
he went and sat down in the vestibule, and talked feelingly
to Eliza, and told her how grievous a thing it was
for a young wife, so beautiful and affectionate, to see
her convict husband in jail, and to take leave of him.
And he brushed his misty eyes again, — good, honest
-- 262 --
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gentleman, — and no doubt thought he was informing
her of something new; for Eliza did not find occasion
to wipe her eyes, but sat in a sort of dreamy stupor, and
warmed her benumbed hands, and tried to warm her
benumbed heart by the fire.
Abel assisted his wife to arise, and led her, reluctant
and sobbing, to a bench. There they sat down, silent
both, a long time, — he with Ebby in his arms, Faustina
weeping still.
“Papa,” said the child, frowning with dislike at the
walls, as he glanced furtively around, “go home, papa!
go!”
Abel heaved a tremendous sigh.
“Home, my poor boy? Papa can't go home any
more,” he said, in a convulsed voice.
The baby frown contracted to a scowl of pain and terror.
“Home, papa! home!” he entreated. “Ebby 'faid.”
“Hush, my boy,” answered Abel, soothingly, stroking
the child's hair, and kissing again and again his beautiful
white forehead. “Papa will go home some time, —
yes, some time, darling! Ebby must love mamma, and
mamma must take care of Ebby now.”
“O Abel,” uttered Faustina, with wild and stifling
grief, “I can't have it so! I never believed it could be!
It is too hard! too unjust!”
“Hard and unjust, truly,” said Abel; “but it must
be borne. Be calm, now, Faustina; for I have many
things to say to you, and the time is short.”
But the distressed one seemed resolved not to be calm.
-- 263 --
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She threw her face down despairingly upon his lap, uttering
moan after moan. At length she lifted her head,
and, with wet, flashing eyes, whispered passionately, —
“Abel, I am determined! You shall never go to
prison! If either must go, I will! I'll see the judge,
and tell him everything. I'd have done it before; but
I thought you would be acquitted. You know — you
know I can't let you suffer in my place, — for my fault,”—
looking around to see that no one was listening.
And she made a motion towards rising, — thinking, no
doubt, that Abel, the devoted, would detain her.
But he didn't. Whether he suspected the sincerity
of her declaration, or was indeed willing that she should
assume the responsibility and odium of her own act, he
sat seemingly content to let her do as she pleased.
That was a more effective damper to her resolution
than any opposition could have been. She had no more
than half-risen when she fell again upon his breast.
He regarded her with a dreary smile and head-shake,
but said nothing.
“Oh, what shall I do?” she inquired, embracing him.
“Ask your conscience, not me,” said Abel. “I've
as much as I can do to give counsel to my own heart.
These are bitter days, Faustina. I shall try to do my
duty, and I pray God you may do yours.”
“What is my duty? Tell me, and I'll do it, if it is
to kill myself!” vowed the fair one.
“It is not to kill yourself, but to live, — if not for
yourself nor for me, for our child here,” said Abel.
-- 264 --
[figure description] Page 264.[end figure description]
“I will! I will!” Faustina eagerly cried; for truly
she had no very lively wish to die; and to promise that
she would devote herself to Ebby out of prison, whilst
Abel devoted himself to her in it, struck her as an easy
and reasonable compromise.
“As for your acknowledging to the world the error
for which I suffer, I have no advice to give,” he went
on. “At first, I should have honored you, had you
been so brave and true. Such nobleness would have
more than purchased my pardon. But I have given
you my pardon without it. And I don't think now
that you have any heart to redeem me from infamy and
imprisonment by criminating yourself. Well, I am
satisfied. I have given you my word not to expose
you; and I shall keep my word. In return I ask only
one favor, — and that not for my sake, but for your
own and our child's. Remember me in prison. Think
of the long days and long nights of those terrible and
solitary years. And atone, Faustina! before God, atone
for the wrong you have done, by becoming a true
woman and mother!”
She only wailed in low, disconsolate tones. And he
continued: —
“So this awful calamity may be made a blessing to
us all. For I shall not regret it, if five years from now,
I see you the woman you may be, Faustina! Oh, put
away falsehood and frivolity now! Conquer that restlessness,
that hankering for excitement, which argues a
mind uncentred in itself, and unblessed by duty. Let
-- 265 --
[figure description] Page 265.[end figure description]
your tender care of our child occupy you now. It will
be occupation enough; it will be amusement enough.
For what other amusement can you have while I am
serving out my sentence? Oh, deepen your heart; deepen
your heart!” he entreated her. “It is shallow, Faustina;
even here, and now, it is shallow and vain and
full of pretence. I say it not unkindly, but pityingly
and in sorrow.”
He laid his hand upon her head; and for the moment
something of his own overmastering earnestness seemed
to pass into her.
“Oh, yes! pity me!” she said. “Be sorry for me!
I can't help being as I am, — I would help it if I could.
But I will be better; I will try, oh, so hard!”
“I think you will try,” said Abel.
“Every day, every night, I will remember you; and
I will not be vain any more. I will not be idle and
proud any more. How can I be proud now?”
“Poor child! poor child!” said Abel, very heavy-hearted,
but full of the tenderness of mercy. “God
help you! Pray to Him. Oh, be faithful and sincere!
Again, I entreat you! don't forget me; and love, oh,
love and cherish this our darling boy!”
Ebby cried again, shrinking from his mother, and
nestling in Abel's bosom.
Vehemently, then, Faustina pledged herself to do all
he required of her. She would avoid unprofitable associates.
She would do everything he could wish. A crop
of fair promises, profuse and instantaneous as fungi, —
-- 266 --
[figure description] Page 266.[end figure description]
and alas, equally unsubstantial, — whitened over the
rottenness of her heart. And once more Abel almost
believed in her, and almost hoped.
“And Abel!” she said so softly and sadly and fondly,
that it was impossible for the strong, tender man not to
be touched, — “I want you to say one thing. Only one
thing, dearest! I can't be strong, I can't hope, I can't
even live without it!”
“Speak, and I will say all I can,” replied Abel.
“You know,” murmured the sorrowful one, — resuming
more and more of her old winsome ways, which became
marvellously her depressed and tearful state, —
“you know, Abel, you haven't been to me what you were
before” — (with a shudder). “You have forgiven me;
and you have been kind, — too kind. But the dreadful
separation! Oh, if I have nothing better to look forward
to, I had better die now. If I am never to have your
confidence and affection again, if you are not to be my
husband again, but only as a friend, a father, so distant,
so cold, — oh! what have I to live for?”
Abel kept silent a moment, mightily shaken by this
appeal. He thought of Eliza, — a wife. He recalled
his first hopeful and fresh passion for this erring daughter
of Eve, —
“His life and sole delight
Now at his feet, submissive, in distress.”
And the wreck of himself thrown back upon the world,
broken, despised, after five years of shame and insult to
-- 267 --
[figure description] Page 267.[end figure description]
his manhood, he well enough foresaw. Who would
love him, who would comfort him then? She kissed
his hand; she pleaded. Oh, would he not give her one
word of hope?
“I will! I will!” said Abel, with quivering lips.
“Faustina, be assured. In the sight of Heaven, now,
we will plight our vows, — not idly, as when we plighted
them for our first, false marriage; but this second marriage
shall be solemn and true. It is a long engagement, —
five gloomy, gloomy years; but the probation
will be blessed to us, if we are equal to it. And, hear
me now, — if, when I come again into the light and air
of liberty, I find you faithful to your promises, a true
woman and mother, then I will be indeed your husband,
and give you more love and confidence than you ever
had or asked.”
With a cry of joy and gratitude Faustina clasped
him, and entered into this strange second engagement
with plenteous vows.
Then Abel spoke to her of his worldly affairs, and
finally came to the subject which he had reserved for
the last, because what he had to say on that he wished
especially to be remembered and esteemed sacred, —
her duty to his mother.
But hardly had he commenced his earnest charges
when, greatly to his amazement and alarm, Mr. Sheriff
Wilkins reappeared, jingling keys and opening doors,
followed by Eliza and excellent Mrs. Apjohn, who supported
between them the feeble, tottering form of old
-- 268 --
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Mrs. Dane. Hat in hand and awe-stricken, the bald
little cooper walked humbly in the rear.
Abel, at sight of his mother, set Ebby hastily down
and rose to his feet. He extended his arms, and, with a
cry, she fell forward upon his neck. Eliza supported
her still, and helped to place her gently on the bench;
whilst Prudence found her handkerchief and wiped her
red nose, and the honest man, her husband, hid his face
behind his hat.
“Come, John!” said Prudence, turning away; “this
ain't no place for us. We've done our duty, and showed
our good will; and now le's leave.”
But, lo! the door was locked, and soft-hearted Sheriff
Wilkins had retired. And John, strangling behind his
hat, gave no heed to his good wife's suggestion. And
now Abel, emerging, as it were, from the sea and tempest
of his grief, lifted his head, and addressed the Apjohn
pair.
“No, don't go! I have something to say to you.
Neighbor Apjohn, I have to thank you for your kindness.
You have not persecuted me. You have not willingly
borne witness against me. And you have done a
neighborly act in bringing my mother here to see me;
though, Heaven knows, I hoped she would not come.
Still, I thank you; I thank you for your good will from
the bottom of my heart.”
But the cooper did not seem to hear. He stood where
he had stood from the first, stifling behind his hat.
Prudence changed from purple-red to sallow-pale, and
-- 269 --
[figure description] Page 269.[end figure description]
looked with an embarrassed, restless expression about
her, and coughed, and blew her nose, not knowing what
else to do.
Abel sat with his arms about his mother, endeavoring
to solace and soothe her. But she, heart-broken,
could do nothing but weep helplessly, and choke with her
own tears, — a piteous spectacle, — she was so old and
feeble, and loved her son with such entire and dependent
affection, and had always been so proud of him, and was
left so desolate now.
“If you had died, my son!” she broke forth incoherently,
“it would not have been so hard. I shall die
soon, and we might hope to meet again. But this! —
Oh, I can't be reconciled to it! Heaven forgive me,
but I can't!”
It was singular that sorrow seemed to have swept
away the old obstruction in her speech, and that her
words flowed now with her tears.
Eliza could not endure the scene; but, turning to the
iron-grated door, she put her face between the bars,
and sobbed alone. And she was guiltless of any wrong
towards Abel: what, then, must have been her pangs
had she felt upon her conscience the burden which Mrs.
Apjohn was trying to carry off so stoutly, or that which
Faustina was laboring to conceal? As for the latter,
she occupied the time in crying, and so played her part;
whilst Prudence pinched her lips together, and used her
handkerchief, and tossed her chin, and so played hers.
-- 270 -- p471-275
XXX. THE OLD LADY TAKES FINAL LEAVE.
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DEAR mother,” said Abel, “it is not so bad as
it might be. Though convincted and sentenced,
still I am innocent; and that ought to comfort
us. Whatever others may believe, we have that
knowledge, and that comfort.”
“Poor comfort!” replied his mother, convulsively.
“The innocent suffer, and the wicked go unpunished.
The wrong is too great to endure. I have no malice,” —
she went on, after a paroxysm of silent anguish, — “I
never cursed anybody in my life; but I do pray that
them that's done this deed, and made you the scapegoat
of their sin and spite, I pray they may feel the
evil they have done recoil upon their own heads. I
may not live to see it; but I humbly pray it may
be so.”
This was uttered with an energy which the mild and
benevolent old lady rarely manifested; then she relapsed
again into unconstrained grief. Faustina still
kept masked; but Mrs. Apjohn winced.
“Wal, Mis' Dane,” she began, “I 'spose you mean
that for a hit at me and my husband here” —
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“Not your husband! not John!” — the old lady interrupted
her, — “I believe he's as harmless as this child
here.”
At which allusion to himself, Master Ebby, who had
long been looking on, in wonder and terror and pity, to
see the grief of them all, and especially the grief of his
good old grandmother, in that strange, ugly place, set
up a scream. Eliza came and took him. John Apjohn,
meanwhile, touched by Mrs. Dane's testimony in his
favor, might have been seen strangling harder than ever
behind his hat.
“Come, come, mother,” said Abel, smoothing her thin,
gray hair with his troubled hands, as he strove to pacify
her; “we will blame nobody; we will bear all patiently,
and blame nobody.”
“Yes, I would, now!” said Mrs. Apjohn, flushed, her
lips violently compressing and relaxing, and her entire
frame (which is saying a good deal) trembling with her
emotion. “You may blame me; I'm perfectly willin'.
And I don't mean to say but what I'm desarvin' of
some blame, but not all. I jest as much believed Abel
hung them tomatuses on to my door, and stole my money,
as that my name is Prudence Apjohn; and I hain't seen
no good reason yit for changin' my mind. And I consider
I had a right to feel hurt, and make a complaint'
fore a justice, under the circumstances. But as for
wishin' Abel Dane to go to State's prison for five year',
my husband here he knows I never wished any sech
thing; and I'm as sorry for't as anybody.” So saying
-- 272 --
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the worthy woman dropped some penitent water from
her eyes, — without appearing to know it, however, for,
instead of using her handkerchief, now there was really
need of it, she bore up like a good ship against the storm,
carrying her head high.
“Well, well! the Lord knows! the Lord knows!”
murmured old Mrs. Dane. “He knows many a secret
that's hid from our eyes. And the day of reckoning will
come for us all soon. I bear no malice; I bear no malice,”
she repeated. “You was kind to come over here
with me; though I don't suppose you'd have come, if't
hadn't been for John. I had always generally found
you a kind neighbor enough till this quarrel. You got
a terrible quirk into your head then, which I never could
account for; though it was nat'ral enough, I presume.
But that you may know how you have misjudged my
son, let me tell you this, that he never mentioned, even
to me, about your taking the tomatoes from our garden
till after he was arrested.”
“As for the tomatoes,” spoke up Faustina, seized by
one of her unreasonable impulses, “you have been a
fool, Mrs. Apjohn! It was not my husband who hung
them on to your door. It was” —
She had commenced speaking under the influence of a
wild feeling that the misunderstanding about that unhappy
retaliatory trick of Tasso's was the origin of all
this trouble, which might even now be remedied by
declaring the truth. But having spoken thus far, a
fear that she was saying something indiscreet caused
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[figure description] Page 273.[end figure description]
her to hesitate. Abel had started with surprise; and
the suspicion that alarmed him had entered Mrs. Apjohn's
mind also.
“It was you, then! Own up now!” cried Prudence.
“You can't deny it! It's too late! you've half-confessed
it!”
That decided Faustina to avow the truth.
“It wasn't me, nor my husband. But I'll tell you
who it was; it was Tasso Smith.”
Prudence was struck dumb.
“Do you know what you say?” demanded Abel.
“Yes, I do; for he told me.”
“And how did he know tomatoes would insult Mrs.
Apjohn?”
“I — I suppose I — told him!” confessed Faustina,
perceiving now what a rash thing she had done. “But
I — I had forgotten it.”
Abel breathed thick and hard, restraining himself, as
he looked upon her and listened to these words.
“And why on airth,” burst forth Prudence, with all
her power of astonishment and indignation, “didn't you
never tell it was Tasso, and so save all this trouble to all
on us?”
Poor Faustina scarcely remembered why she didn't.
Ah, yes! it was because she feared Tasso would betray
her, if she did! And here she was implicating him, and
laying herself open to his revenge! — ever as foolish as
she was false. But she would see him and excuse herself
to him, she thought. And now a convenient lie
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suggested itself as an answer to Mrs. Apjohn's reasonable
inquiry. “Because,” said she, “I never knew it
myself; Tasso never told me till — long after. I met
him the other day in the street, and he was very
sorry, and begged of me not to tell. Abel was indicted
then, and I knew nothing could prevent his
having a trial.”
Abel groaned. “But you should have told me, Faustina!
Why didn't you?”
“I didn't want you to know I had seen Tasso. I
didn't mean to see him, — it was an accident, — but you
dislike him so, I thought you would be offended.”
Faustina possessed a decided talent for mendacity;
by the exercise of which she was now in a fair way to
repair her recent indiscretion. There was such a varnish
of vraisemblance on these lies, that all were deceived
by them.
“O Tasso Smith! Tasso Smith!” muttered Prudence,
quivering with rage.
Abel groaned again. “You see, my friends, you had
truly no reason to seek revenge against me.”
“And some day, Mrs. Apjohn,” cried old Mrs. Dane,
“some day, you will know that my son was as innocent
of stealing your money as of contriving that trick with
the tomatoes. I shan't envy you your conscience then!
I shan't envy you your conscience then!”
Poor Prudence, confused, convinced, pricked to the
heart, knew not which way to turn or what to say. At
this juncture, however, there occurred a circumstance
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which gave her something to do. Cooper John, defending
himself from observation behind his hat, and at
the same time shutting out from his eyes the spectacle
of the convict's interview with his family; strangling
more and more; and leaning latterly against the wall
for faintness, as he listened to the last stunning revelation;
the sensitive and conscientious little man, over-whelmed
at length by a cumulative sense of error
and fatality, as by a slowly-gathered tremendous wave,
grew dizzy under it, saw all things color of dim purple
a moment, and was carried off his legs. A cry and a
tumbling fall announced his catastrophe.
“Prudy, P-r-u—” he weakly gasped, and measured
his length along the jail floor.
The swoon, which Faustina had kept by her so long,
had deserted, and gone over to Mr. Apjohn. And a
very mortal-seeming swoon it was. Pallid, breathless,
and apparently pulseless and bloodless, lay the limp,
insensible cooper, — his tuftless crown having struck
the pavement with a concussion of itself almost sufficient
to rive the rind of life round that “distracted globe.”
Prudence picked him up, getting down with no little
difficulty to perform that office. But his lifeless hands
fell from him, and his head rolled this way and that, as
she endeavored to set him up and hold him in position
on her knee and arm. Meanwhile, Abel seized his
pitcher (the prisoner's solitary pitcher), and besprinkled
the white face with its contents. All in vain. The last
tick of life's timepiece seemed over in that still breast.
-- 276 --
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“O John! John! John!” cried Prudence, wildly,
“don't die! — Somebody run for a doctor! — Oh, dear!
to be locked up in jail at sech a time, and my husband
dyin'!” And she screamed for help, not perceiving
that Abel was doing all in his power to summon assistance.
“That's right, 'Lizy, — rub him! Blow in his
face! Does he breathe?”
No; John did not breathe, and there was no lively
prospect that he would ever breathe again. Observing
which, all the latent affection and regret in Mrs.
Apjohn's large, blunt nature was aroused.
“Oh, I've been a wicked woman! and this is to punish
me! I never desarved so good a husband; for he was
the bestest that ever was! Do you hear me, John?
Squeeze my hand, John, if you do!”
But John did not squeeze her hand. However, Eliza
now declared that he exhibited signs of returning consciousness.
“Oh, bless him! bless him! if he will only live!”
cried Prudence, hoping fondly for a reprieve from what
seemed certain widowhood. “I never'll be ha'sh with
him agin! I'll listen to his advice always, — which if
I'd done it in this affair of Abel's, we wouldn't none of
us be here now! Comin' to, ain't you, John? Don't
ye know me, John? Oh, the blessedest man! Give
me some sign, can't ye?”
The “blessedest man” had been laid upon his back,
with Abel's coat for a pillow. And now, anxiously and
-- 277 --
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tenderly, broad-bosomed Prudence bent over him, looking
for “some sign.”
“If you love me, John, spit in my face!” she entreated
him.
John did not grant this expressive token of endearment.
But he moved his mouth, uttered a faint groan,
and opened his eyes. About this time the jailer appeared;
some spirits were quickly brought and administered;
and the cooper was soon able to rub his contused
scalp, stare about him, and spit in anybody's face that
might request that precious favor.
“I've saved him! I've saved my man!” exclaimed
Prudence. “And O Mis' Dane!” she continued, in the
fulness of her heart, “I'd save your son for you if I
could! I've done wrong, and I regret it, and shall regret
it the longest day I live. Oh, that Tasso Smith! that
Tasso Smith! Whuther you took the money or not,
Abel, I don't know, and I don't keer; for we're all on us
liable to be tempted,” — as that virtuous woman knew
from experience. “Fustiny hain't used me well, and
she knows it; but I'm sorry I've had a spite agin
her. And as for you, Abel Dane, I've always sot
by you from a boy, and my husband here, he knows” —
What the sad, gaping, half-stupefied cooper knew did
not appear, for the good wife's speech was lost in inward
convulsion; the snow-mountains of her breast (to compare
great things with things which can hardly be called
small) had melted, and avalanche and torrent were
plunging.
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When she recovered, and her man had altogether come
to, they witnessed an alarming movement. Attention
had too long been directed to them. The excitement
which had so far sustained old Mrs. Dane, and the emotion
which agitated her, had passed away, and taken her
life-force with them. Abel and Eliza had simultaneously
observed her sinking. They caught her, they bore her
to the prisoner's narrow bed. No shriek, no violent outcry
for help; but silent celerity, a murmur of grief,
and all-absorbing sadness and tenderness, gave token of
the entrance within those walls of the unseen messenger,—
the same who enters alike the abode of the fortunate
and the dwelling of the wretched, and waits not for doors
to be opened, and stops not for prison-bolts and bars.
“Abel — children,” — faintly fell the voice of the dying, —
“where am I?” She revived a little, and saw
the beloved faces bending over her surcharged with
love and sorrow. “I remember!” And the smile of
the dying was sweet. “My son! I shall be with you!”
The assistant-jailer entered, and, failing to perceive
the solemn mystery that was enacting, announced that
the visitors' time was up.
“True,” whispered the scarce audible voice, “my time—
is up. I am going. Eliza! do not mourn! Our
heavenly Father, — he is merciful! He has sent for
me!”
Her clear and beautiful countenance became singularly
illumined. Something had been said of calling a physician.
-- 279 --
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“No — tell them,” she roused herself to remonstrate.
“Let me go — in peace. Only my children around me.
Tell Mr. Apjohn — I thank him. And Mrs. Apjohn —
I forgive her.”
Aghast and pale, like one lately raised from the dead,
the cooper stood behind the bed, and saw and heard.
Mrs. Apjohn wrung her hands with unavailing remorse.
“It's me that's done it! it's me that's done it!” came
bubbling from her lips.
“Where is Ebby?” the dying woman asked. Abel
lifted up the boy. “Here,” she added, with a feeble
motion of her hand upon her breast. Abel placed him
softly there. She kissed him with her pallid lips; she
caressed him with her pallid hands, and murmured a
blessing; and Abel took him gently away. “Faustina,—
where is she?”
The guilty girl was crouching, fear-stricken, over the
foot of the bed; watching, with I know not what frenzied
thoughts, the death of which her own heart told
her she was the cause. Eliza led her forward, strangely
shrinking.
“My daughter!” Weakly the cold, death-stricken
hand took the fevered hand of the living. Starting back
instinctively, Faustina snatched away her hand, and
Eliza's was taken instead. “Abel — my son!” His
hand was taken also; and, now in the blindness of death
not seeing what she did (though I think the spirit saw,
and knew), the parting mother placed Eliza's hand in
Abel's.
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“Be a true — loving wife! — My son! love her always! —
God bless” —
She drew the united hands to her lips, which closed
upon them. Astounded, plunged in deepest affliction,
Abel could not withdraw his hand; nor could Eliza
hers. Long and lingering was that prophetic, dying
kiss. Nor did the hold and pressure of the thin aged
fingers relax when all was over.
For all was over in very deed. The fingers that clung
still, and the lips that kissed still, were the lips and fingers
of the dead. And Abel and Eliza lifted up their
eyes, and looked at each other with emotion unutterable;
while Faustina crouched again at the foot of the bed,
white and shivering, like an outcast.
-- 281 -- p471-286
XXXI. THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
[figure description] Page 281.[end figure description]
The storm whirled and whistled by the window, and
the afternoon grew dim, in that solemn cell. The hands
of the living had been withdrawn, and the hands of the
dead were placed composedly upon the breast now
stilled forever. Abel stood and gazed long; his countenance
emerging from its cloud and agitation into a
strange, almost smiling tranquility.
“It is well! She is happier.” — He turned to his wife:
“You have now no care but our child; be faithful and
remember.” — Then, laying his hand upon Eliza's forehead:
“You are free now. Go to your husband and be
happy.”
Dimmer still grew the afternoon; and the hour came
when the corpse must be carried out, and Abel must look
his last upon it, and behold Eliza go with it, to return to
him no more. Mrs. Apjohn, assiduous and energetic,
accompanied; the cooper had glided out before, like a
silent ghost. Lastly, Faustina took leave, with Ebby.
And Abel was left alone.
Alone; and the night descended, tempestuous, — sifting
snow and sleet beating all night upon the pane; howls
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and moans resounding all night about the prisoner's cell.
Sitting or walking, he pondered; or, lying on the hard
couch on which his mother had died, he waked, or slept,
waiting for the morrow.
The morrow! what a day was that! The storm raging
still; the corpse lying in the house; neighbors coming
in; preparations for the funeral; the hush as of
ashes strewn upon the floor; the utter, bewildering
vacancy, — the silent ache of the heart, — which one
mourner felt, thinking of the empty morrows still to
come, and of her fellow-mourner far away.
The next day was the funeral. Where was Abel
then? When the sexton tramped through the drifts
with pick and spade to the graveyard; when the customary
sermon was preached, and the psalm sung, and
the prayer said; when the little procession followed the
corpse to the fresh heap of earth thrown up beside the
snowy mound beneath which mouldered the ashes of old
Abel Dane, the carpenter, — the dog Turk walking seriously
through the snow by Eliza's side, leaving the prints
of his feet; when Eliza lifted Ebby up to take a last
look of what had been his good old grandmamma's face,
before the coffin-lid was closed and screwed down;
when the coffin was lowered, and the gravel shovelled in
upon it, to the sound of the tolling bell; and the
mourners and neighbors returned, dazzled by the sudden
glitter of sunshine on the pure, new-fallen snow; and
Eliza entered once more the hollow house, and listened
to the drip of the eaves, and the blue sky smiled
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[figure description] Page 283.[end figure description]
overhead, and neighbors came and went; — where, all
this time, was Abel?
Side by side now, in the white and quiet field, under
the pacified December weather, slept all that was mortal
of old Abel Dane the carpenter, and of Abigail his
wife; while Abel, son of the preceding, was buried,
mortal part with the immortal, in a very different tomb.
Would you penetrate that mausoleum of the living, —
behold him with shaven crown, in convict's cap and coat,
the livery of the doomed, — visit him when he eats, in
his whitewashed solitary cell, the crust by the state
provided, — stand by when he subdues his spirit to work
under an overseer, at the work-bench of condemed horse-thieves
and burglars, his predecessors and companions,—
witness the sweat of his body and the sweat of his
soul, the days and nights of his long death? —
For this living is true dying;
This is lordly man's down-lying”,
Nay, rather let us leave him there, as we leave his
mother where she also lies buried, and keep with those
who still walk abroad in the sun.
Faustina walks abroad, — or is at liberty to do so.
And Mrs. Apjohn enjoys that precious privilege. And
Tasso Smith, this wild December morning, comes forth,
basking.
Pleased is Tasso; smiling and airy his port. A note,
sent by Melissa's hand, has summoned him to an interview
with Faustina. Locks well greased and curled,
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[figure description] Page 284.[end figure description]
coat buttoned close, to conceal his unpresentable linen,
his showy red-topped boots drawn over his strappeddown
pantaloons, he treads daintily through the thawing
snow, flourishing his light stick. For the first time
since the memorable night of his discomfiture, he stops
at Abel's gate, and rings the door-bell with complacent
mien; considering that, by consummate diplomacy and
strategic skill, he has, without loss to himself, but
through the agency of others, routed his enemy, Abel,
whose castle now lies at his mercy; never suspecting
that he himself, like all the rest, is the agent of a
Power above them all.
The garrison of the place, in the person of old Turk,
growls at his red-topped boots, in a way the conquering
hero does not like. But Melissa makes haste to admit
him, and he is ushered into the presence of Faustina.
In the parlor sits the afflicted daughter-in-law, clad in
deep mourning. With a dreary sigh she recognizes
Tasso, and, half-rising, gives him her sad hand.
“Come to condole with you,” says Mr. Smith. “Awful
dispensation, old lady's dying so. Mus'n't let it
break your heart.”
“Don't mock me, Tasso! I'm in a dreadful situation!
You've no idea of it!”
“Well, no, I don't see it.”
“Oh, I am! Think of my husband! What will
become of me, Tasso?”
“Good joke, I say, 'bout your husband, as you call
him!” chuckles Tasso. “Good 'nough for him;
-- 285 --
[figure description] Page 285.[end figure description]
jealous, grouty, unhospitable feller, like him! Don't you
go to sheddin' no unnecessary tears on his account, —
le'me me advise ye.”
But Faustina had fears for her own safety and reputation.
“Murder will out, folks say; and I believe it,”
she declared, in allusion to her own guilty secret.
“Fudge, no danger! Only you walk pertty straight
now, and do as I tell ye, — conform'ble to my s'gestions,
y' und'stand. If a feller's only shrewd enough,
he can do what he's a mind to in this world, and not git
found out. There's my little compliment to Ma'am Apjohn, —
tomatuses, ye know,” whispered the highly satisfied
Tasso, — “who's found that out? By George!
they think 'twas Abel, to this day!”
“O Tasso!” exclaimed Faustina, “that's one thing
I wanted to see you about. Mrs. Apjohn knows, —
she has heard, somehow, — the gracious knows how, I
don't!”
“Heard what! Not that I” — began the startled, incredulous
Mr. Smith.
“Yes; in the jail, before Abel, she declared that it
was you, as she had certain means of knowing.”
“Most 'stonishing thing!” muttered Tasso, confused
to learn that his brag of superior shrewdness had been
somewhat premature. “She must have guessed at it.”
“So I suppose. But she turned, and accused me so
positively of having first told you of her stealing
our tomatoes, that I couldn't deny it. How she ever
knew that, I can't surmise.”
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[figure description] Page 286.[end figure description]
But Tasso thought he could; for it had not been in
his nature to refrain from imparting the pith of so excellent
a jest to one or two choice companions, whom he
now cursed in his heart. Faustina, perceiving that her
version — or rather perversion — of the facts was
received, assumed the air of a person who had had
injuries, and went on, —
“So you see the blame all fell on me, after all. And
I thought it was too bad! I shall hear of somebody's
betraying me altogether, next.”
Tasso, completely outlied by the fair Faustina, after
all his conceited cunning, protested that her suspicion
was unfounded, and volunteered some excellent advice
and consolation.
“Don't you have no fears whatever, — indulg'n' in
unfounded apprehensions, y' und'stand. No use; all
right you are; and you can jest go and take your pick
of another husband soon as ye please, — handsome
woman like you. Ye can git a divorce now, j'e know
it?”
“A divorce?” Faustina looked up with interest.
“From Abel?”
“Of course! didn't you know? Five years in state's-prison, —
that's a sufficient ground for a divorce, in this
State. And, by George, Faustina! — charming woman
like you, — of course you aint so soft as to keep tied to
a state's-prison culprit, in for five years, when you've
only got to say the word, to swap him off for somethin'
more attractive, more suitable to your refined
-- 287 --
[figure description] Page 287.[end figure description]
tastes;” and Mr. Smith smoothed the curve of his
mustache with a significant, seductive smile.
Much more sage counsel of the kind the disinterested
visitor gave freely, without incurring any very severe
reprimand from Faustina, who only sighed and raised
feeble objections. They then parted, on quite confidential
terms. Thus Faustina had made haste to break
one of her solemn promises to Abel, — that she would
avoid all unprofitable associates; and it could hardly
be expected that her other promises would be kept
more sacredly.
The remainder of the day, and the night that followed,
when she should have remembered Abel, in
prison for her sake, and have had no care but for his
child, what was she feverishly dreaming?
The next morning, hurried and fluttering, she appeared
before Eliza. For Eliza still remained in the
house, from which she could not resolve to depart, although
those she loved had gone, and a husband and
a home awaited her in another place.
“I have concluded,” said Faustina, “that I ought to
go and see my relations, and make some arrangements
for the future. I suppose I can live with them, and
this house can be let until Abel — until we want it
again.”
“And Ebby?” said Eliza.
“Oh! — Ebby, — I was about to say, — I suppose —
I'd better not take him with me; for I don't know yet
what I am going to do. If I make such arrangements
-- 288 --
[figure description] Page 288.[end figure description]
as I hope to, I will either return for him, or have Melissa
bring him to me. You wont object to waiting a
few days, until I can decide, will you?”
“By no means,” answered Eliza. “I will remain as
long as I can be of service here, and do all I can for
you. With regard to Ebby, I have had it in my mind
to say to you, that, if you cannot conveniently keep
him with you, I shall be only too glad to take him.”
“What! you?” exclaimed Faustina, with real or
affected surprise. “Abel would never consent to such
a thing!”
Eliza suppressed some words of bitter truth that rose
from her heart almost to her lips; and, after a little
pause, replied calmly, —
“I ventured to speak to Abel about it. And he said
that in case you should find it too hard to take care
of Ebby, he was willing that I should have him.”
“I'm not willing, if he is,” retorted Faustina, decidedly.
“I can never, never be parted from my darling
boy!”
Eliza regarded her with deep, sad eyes. “I know,”
she said, very quietly, “it would be too cruel to separate
you from him.”
“No,” said Faustina; “I could never suffer it. It
would not be kindness to the child. Who can fill a
mother's place?”
“True,” said Eliza, with something too solemn for
sarcasm, from the depths of her aggrieved spirit; “who
can fill the place of a mother?”
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[figure description] Page 289.[end figure description]
“So that is settled,” exclaimed the exemplary mother,
very positively.
“Still,” replied Eliza, “you may remember my
offer.”
“I'll remember it; and it is very kind in you, certainly.
But if you will have the goodness to remain.
here a few days, as I said, — not more than a week, at
the most, — I'll be infinitely obliged to you; after that,
I think I shall not find occasion to trouble you any
farther.”
That day Faustina departed. At the end of a week
Eliza had not heard from her. Another week also passed
without bringing any tidings of the absent mother. Accordingly
Eliza, finding herself in a perplexing situation,
wrote to inquire what were her prospects and intentions.
Several days after the letter was sent, there came a
tardy, despondent, indefinite reply. Faustina had not
been able to accomplish her object as yet. She had
been ill, — else she would have written earlier. Some
of her relatives were absent, and she could not form any
plans until their return, etc.
Eliza could not peer through the mists of distance,
and see this passionately devoted mother of the child
from whom she could never, never be separated, seeking
distraction and solace in the home of her spoiled
and petted girlhood. She could not hear the objurgations
hurled by her flatterers at the villain husband, the
utterly remorseless Abel, who had ruined the hopes and
happiness of so beautiful a being. She possessed no
-- 290 --
[figure description] Page 290.[end figure description]
means to penetrate that beautiful being's breast, and discover,
among the selfish purposes there cherished, the secret
determination never to return to the convict's home
again, and never to be troubled with the maintenance
of his child. So Eliza remained in doubt, and did her
duty to Ebby, and wrote to Abel as cheerful and comforting
letters as she could, — letters, by the way, which
were not nearly so abundant in protestations of affection
and fidelity as those he was at the same time receiving
from Faustina.
At length Eliza became weary. The house had grown
lonesome and ghostly to her oppressed heart. She wished
to be away. She resolved, therefore, to place no more
reliance upon the mother's promises, but to go, and take
Ebby with her.
-- 291 -- p471-296
XXXII. MISS JONES AND MR. SMITH.
[figure description] Page 291.[end figure description]
“We will shut up the house, Melissa. You can keep
the key of it until Mrs. Dane decides what she is going
to do. Those things in the closet ought to be sent to
her, so as to leave as few as possible locked up in the
house.”
“Them things is mine, if you please, ma'am,” said
Melissa, hanging her head, and casting up timid glances
at Eliza.
“Yours, girl! Did Mrs. Dane give you those
dresses?”
Melissa hesitated, corkscrewing a foolish finger into a
corner of her mouth, as if she meant to uncork it.
“Yes, she did, if you please, ma'am.”
“Why did you never take them, then?”
“'Cause, ma'am” — Melissa was making a spiritless
attempt to introduce her fist after her finger, and talking
at the same time, — “I wa'n't sure, ma'am, 's I'd
ought'er take 'em. I don't know hardly now whuther
I'd ought'er take 'em, or whuther I hadn't 'dought'er. I
ruther guess” (down went the timid eyes, very meekly)
“I hadn't 'dought'er take 'em, after all.”
-- 292 --
[figure description] Page 292.[end figure description]
“If she gave them to you, they are yours, and you
shall certainly have them,” said Eliza.
But now a sense of guilt and shrinking fear overcame
the conscientious Melissa.
“No, no, ma'am; I wont take 'em, if you please,
ma'am; it wouldn't be right.”
“Why not, if they were given to you for honest service?”
“Oh, dear! they wa'n't! I'm afraid they wa'n't,
ma'am!” whimpered the girl. “Don't ax me no more
about it, if you please, ma'am.” And the apron was
got in readiness for an imminent outburst.
Now Eliza had not lived three months in that house,
and observed the external daily life of it, without suspecting
that there were things hidden beneath the
surface which should be brought to light. Especially
since the morning when she returned from Abel in the
jail, and entered the room where his wife lay expecting
Melissa, had she been conscious of extraordinary
confidences between mistress and maid, in which, perhaps,
Abel's honor was concerned. Still she had
avoided hitherto any attempt to pry into these secrets;
and, but for the girl's singular conduct on this occasion,
what followed might never have occurred.
Miss Jones threw her apron over her head to defend
herself, begging for mercy.
“Mercy, child?” said Eliza. “Why do you talk and
act in this way? What harm will happen to you, if
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[figure description] Page 293.[end figure description]
you tell the truth about the dresses, and, if they are
yours, take them?”
“I don't want 'em!” sobbed Melissa, in her apron.
“Please, ma'am, don't make me take 'em; and don't
make me tell the truth about 'em, for Mrs. Dane told
me never to tell the truth, so long as I live. Oh! Oh!
Oh!”
“Hush! hush! She told you never to tell the truth?
Nonsense!”
“Oh, yes, she did, ma'am! She give me the things
to hire me never to tell; and I wa'n't never to tell why
she give 'em to me; and now, oh, dear, dear, dear, I've
been and gone and told!”
Eliza, now fully roused, endeavored to pacify her,
then said, firmly, —
“I certainly do not wish you to tell anything which
you ought not to. But, do you know, Melissa, it may
be very wrong for you not to tell?”
“Oh, yes, ma'am; I've thought so myself many and
many a time, and told Mrs. Dane so; and then she'd
give me something else, and make me promise ag'in,
and tell me buggers would ketch me if ever I lisped a
word on't! And, oh, dear, dear, what shall I do?”
“Think it over,” said Eliza, “then do just what you
think is right. If what you know has any connection
with Abel's being in prison, where we are so sure he
ought not to be, then, as you fear God more than you
do Mrs. Dane, speak!”
“Oh, I will! I will!” exclaimed Melissa, throwing
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[figure description] Page 294.[end figure description]
off her apron, and all concealment with it. And as her
face emerged red and wet from that covering, so the
truth came out glowing, and saturated with tears of
repentance, from the cloud of deception which had been
so long laid over it. A tragic interest held Eliza, as
she listened.
“Who else knows of this but you? anybody?” she
asked.
“Nobody, not as I know on, 'thout 'tis Tasso Smith,—
she's told him some things, I don't know how much.”
Eliza left the girl wiping her face; and, throwing on
her bonnet and shawl, set out to call on Mr. Smith.
As she was passing Mr. Apjohn's house, Mrs. Apjohn
threw open a front window, showed her animated
russet face, and, putting out an arm of the biggest,
beckoned violently.
“Come in here! come in here!” she cried. “Come
right straight in, 'Lizy; without a word!”
Not knowing what momentous question was at issue
or what lives were at stake, Eliza felt impelled to go in
and see. She ran to the door, which the excited Prudence
opened for her, and, entering, beheld with surprise
the pale, pimpled, simpering face of a worried youth,
whom Mrs. Apjohn indignantly pointed out to her.
It was Mr. Tasso Smith, — entrapped, it seemed, expressly
for her. Behind Tasso stood Mr. Cooper Apjohn,
submissive, sighing and winking, and meekly endeavoring
to deprecate his wife's wrath.
“Look at him!” said Prudence. “I want ye to look
-- 295 --
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at him well, 'Lizy! See if ye can't make him blush, —
for I can't! the miserable, lyin', pompous, silly, consaited
jackanapes!”
“Prudy! Prudy! don't be rash! don't be rash,
Prudy!” interposed the cooper.
“Oh, let her speak her mind,” said Tasso, with a
ghastly grimace. “Like to have folks speak their
minds, — express their honest sentiments, y' und'stand;”
and he pulled his mustache nervously.
“You needn't be the leastest mite consarned but
what I'll speak mine,” Mrs. Apjohn informed him.
“I've been waiting to git holt of ye ever sence the
trial. An' you've kep' out of my way perty well, —
as if you knowed what was good for yourself, you
sneakin', desaitful, underhand, silly, grinnin',” —
“Prudy! Prudy!” interrupted the cooper.
“I was jest walking by, like any quiet gentleman,”
Tasso explained to Eliza, “when she reshed out, by
George! and actchilly collared me, by George! J'ever
hear of such a thing? By George, I thought she meant
to serve me as she did Dane's tomatoes, — steal me and
cook me and eat me for dinner! by George!”
At that Prudence collared him again, and choked and
shook the pale joker till his teeth chattered.
“See here! better take care! my clo'es!” observed
Tasso, startled by the cracking of stitches.
“I don't care for your clo'es!” said Prudence, furiously.
“Insult me to my face, will ye? You dirty,
mean, impudent, dastardly, squash-faced, measly,” —
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“Prudy! Prudy!” whispered the cooper.
Eliza now thought it time to interfere. Her calm,
decisive manner exerted a Christianizing influence over
the energetic Prudence.
“Wal, then!” said the latter, “to come to the p'int,
what I wanted of you is this: I've charged this scoundrel
here with hangin' them tomatuses on to my door,
and he denies it.”
“Certainly I do,” corroborated Tasso, — who, it may
as well be told, having conferred with his cronies, who
he feared had betrayed his secret, and become convinced
that they had not, was now prepared to maintain
his innocence by stoutest lies. “And I defy her to
prove it.”
“And I,” added Prudence, “of course, told him what
Faustina said that day in jail. But he declares she
never said no sech thing, but I said it, and tried to git
her to own up to it! Now, what I want of you is, to
tell jest what was said that day, and who said it.” And
Mrs. Apjohn folded her immense arms.
Thereupon, in few words, Eliza related the simple,
direct truth. That dashed the spirits of young Smith
more than all Mrs. Apjohn's hard names and shaking
had done.
“By George! 'd she say that? What else 'd she
say? by George!” — glaring maliciously.
Eliza perceived that the moment was ripe for her purpose.
Her eyes held him, as she spoke, by the power
of their earnestness and truth.
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“She did not say all she might have said. She was
more ready to accuse others than to take any blame to
herself. It is your turn now, Tasso Smith, to speak the
truth concerning Faustina Dane.”
Tasso smirked and glared, hesitating between resentment
against Faustina and an unforgotten grudge
against Eliza.
“Shouldn't think you'd expect much truth from me,
after the ruther hard joke you tried onto me that day
in the court-house; callin' me a liar, right 'fore all the
people, by George!”
Sturdy little Eliza, unabashed by this retort, stood up
unflinchingly facing him, her brow beaming with courage
and sincerity.
“And did you not deserve that I should call you a
liar? Remember what you were saying of Abel at the
very time, — and of Faustina, — when you knew every
word you said was false. If I had known then, what
I know now, I'd have dragged you before the court, and
compelled you to testify!”
“Hey? By George! what did I know?” said Tasso.
“That's what you are to confess before ever you quit
this house! And don't imagine you can deceive me in
any particular. Mrs. Dane had more confidants than
one; and everything has been revealed. I was on my
way to see you; for it is time you should do something
to avert the suspicion of being her accomplice.”
“By George! I warn't no accomplice of nobody's:
I'll resk that suspicion!”
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“Don't be too sure!” Eliza warned him. “Abel Dane
felt himself safe against a false charge, trusting in his
own innocence. You are in some danger, Tasso! You
sold Mrs. Dane the jewels; you are aware how she
paid for them, and how she replaced the money with
which she paid for them. You see the truth is
known.”
Tasso saw, and felt sick. It took him not long now to
make up his mind what to do. Since Faustina had set
the example of treachery by betraying him, — and since
her other confidants, of whom, he now thought, she
might have twenty, had also set the example, — he
resolved to waste no time in purging himself of the
aforesaid suspicion.
“Sit down,” Eliza directed, with a quick, quiet, dominant,
business-like manner. And Tasso sat down.
“Mrs. Apjohn, bring me a pen and ink.”
A pen, used in keeping the cooper's accounts, and in
making memoranda in the almanac, was produced, together
with some muddy ink.
“Now, sir, tell your story. You are not under oath
yet, but you will be before I am through with you.
Mr. and Mrs. Apjohn, listen.”
They listened; and Eliza wrote; while Tasso proceeded
to make his astounding revelations, by which
Melissa's statement was fully confirmed.
“O Prudy! Prudy!” cried the wonder-stricken
John. “Abel is a innocent man, arter all! And he is
in for five year'! and his mother has been killed by it!
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and we — we've been — O Prudy! Prudy! To be sure,
to be sure!”
Eliza did not wait to hear the exclamations and
lamentations of the worthy pair; but, fastening herself
to Tasso, informed him that he was to go presently before
a magistrate and take oath to the statement she
had received from his lips. They were to stop on their
way for Melissa; and Mrs. Apjohn eagerly volunteered
to “run over and take care of the baby,” during the
girl's absence; for that solid and sterling woman was
now enlisted with her whole body and soul in Abel's
cause, showing herself even more anxious for his deliverance
than she had ever been for his condemnation.
-- 300 -- p471-305
XXXIII. ELIZA'S MISSION.
[figure description] Page 300.[end figure description]
Tasso's elegant signature was soon affixed, under oath
and in the presence of witnesses, to the paper Eliza
had drawn up. Next, Melissa's affidavit was secured.
Then, how to proceed, with these instruments, to effect
Abel's liberation, became the important question. For
now Eliza could not rest, day or night, until the requisite
steps had been taken to restore him to honor, and
freedom, and happiness.
She was dismayed when told that the sentence must
be set aside by due process of law; and that, to make
the necessary appeal, and await the slow course of justice,
would require patience and time, — perhaps months,—
when every moment was precious. “Besides,” she
was assured, “any confession Faustina might have
made, or might still make, would probably be insufficient
to exculpate her husband. They were one, by
marriage; for her actions he was in a certain sense accountable;
he had shared the fruit of her crime; and
her evidence, even if she chose to give it, could hardly
be received in court, she being his wife; and there were
many other difficulties to be overcome. Individuals
-- 301 --
[figure description] Page 301.[end figure description]
might be easily convinced of Abel's inocence; but the
law was not an individual. The law had no conscience;
it was without sympathy or understanding; it was a
machine.”
Still she was not disheartened, she would not rely
upon the law to right the wrong the law had done. She
would rely upon the human heart, and upon the justice
of her cause; and nothing should divert her from her
purpose, or induce her to waste an hour in idle delay, till
Abel was free.
In addition to the affidavits of Tasso and Melissa, she
procured those of John and Prudence Apjohn, in which
they, as chief witnesses against Abel, now declared their
conviction of his innocence, for reasons assigned. She
also visited the attorneys who had prosecuted him, the
judge who had sentenced him, and each individual
of the twelve who had found him guilty. She carried
with her a well-worded petition which she had
prepared; and such was her eloquence, such her magnetic
and persuasive earnestness, that lawyers, judge,
and jury, all signed it. To these names she found
no difficulty in adding the signatures of a hundred
of Abel's townsmen, including three ministers, a congressman,
two ex-members of the State legislature,
together with several selectmen, deacons, and other
prominent citizens.
Mere than a week was consumed in these preliminary
labors, notwithstanding Eliza's utmost endeavors to
despatch them in a day or two. From dawn to
-- 302 --
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midnight she was incessantly employed, with a vigor and
vigilance and hope that never flagged. At length all
was ready. And, armed with her affidavits, her petition,
and a formidable legal document which Abel's
counsel had furnished, she set out, one memorable
morning, on a journey.
The petition was to the governor of the State. Her
mission was to him. On the evening of the same day
she reached the capital of the State; and, without stopping
even to change her attire, inquired her way hurriedly
through the strange streets till she came to the
governor's house.
He was at home. How her heart throbbed on being
told this by the servant at the door, and being invited
in! And so, tremblingly, yet with a brave and resolute
heart, she entered the warmly-lighted hall of the house
in which she felt that the question of Abel's destiny was
to be finally decided.
-- 303 -- p471-308
XXXIV. ELIZA AND THE GOVERNOR.
[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]
In a quiet little room she was told to sit down, while
the servant communicated her name and the nature of
her errand to the governor. She had not long to wait.
His Excellency — a kind, affable person — came presently
into the apartment, looked at her somewhat curiously,
shook hands with her, and sitting down, like any
pleasant gentleman, with no frown of the high official
about him, listened to her story.
He was a man who loved straightforward dealing and
despatch; and the directness, simplicity, and brevity
with which she laid her business before him made him
smile.
But he was a cautious man withal; and, when she
had finished, all he could promise was, that the petition,
with the accompanying documents, should be carefully
examined, and laid before his council; and that he
would endeavor to do impartial justice in the matter.
It might be several days, he said, before he would be
prepared to grant or refuse the pardon for which the
hundred petitioners prayed; but there should be no needless
delay; and, if it would be any satisfaction to her
-- 304 --
[figure description] Page 304.[end figure description]
impatience, she might call on him again the next evening
at his house.
“If I am occupied, and cannot see you, of course,” he
added, “you will not take it unkindly, nor be discouraged.”
She thanked him, with tears, which his gentle and
frank speech called forth. Hitherto she had controlled
herself well, — concentrating all her emotions to give
power to her appeal. But now the grief she had held
back, the suffering of nights and days, kept down by
constant activity, the hope and fear she felt, and her
deep conviction of Abel's innocence, — deeper and
stronger than any reason she could give, — found utterance
in a few broken but fervent words of thanks and of
entreaty. And so she departed; not knowing whether
she had spoken well or ill, shedding silent tears, and
moving her lips to silent prayers, as she once more
threaded the strange streets.
She slept that night — for, after all her toils, she slept
well — at a boarding-house to which one of the ex-members
of the legislature had recommended her. The next
day she felt refreshed and strong. But do you think
she spent the hours that intervened till night in viewing
the sights of the city? Not she. Having learned, by
inquiry, where the state-prison was, she went to learn
her way to it; so that, the pardon procured, she could
hasten, without an instant's uncertainty, to bear it to
her dear prisoner. A half-hour's ride and a few minutes'
walk brought her in sight of the formidable pile.
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There rose the impassive gray walls, somewhere within
which she knew her Abel breathed the air of captivity,
that calm winter's morning, while she breathed the air
of freedom without. How mournfully and hopefully she
walked by them, and far around, viewing them on every
side; with what memories and thrills of tenderness she
thought of him there immured, hopelessly plodding,
never suspecting how near she was to him; with what
stifled aspiration and rapture she anticipated their next
meeting; and how she lingered, feeling a strange satisfaction
in being there, though she could not see him nor
make her presence known, — all this may be imagined,
but not told.
In the afternoon she returned to her boarding-house,
and prepared for the evening. The hope of seeing the
governor, and of hearing something favorable to her mission,
kept her heart occupied. But the hope was destined
to disappointment. His Excellency was absent
from home. And the only consolation she received was
a notification that he would expect to see her at his
office the next day.
The next morning, at the hour assigned, little Eliza
was already at the state-house, waiting for the bell to
strike the minute. She had taken care to find the doors
of the executive department; and punctually, at the appointed
hour, she entered the awful precincts, and was
ushered into the presence of the governor.
He appeared absorbed in business; but, recognizing
-- 306 --
[figure description] Page 306.[end figure description]
her, and, looking up at the clock, he immediately turned,
and motioned her to a seat near him.
“I have not forgotten you,” he said, “though I was
obliged to disappoint you last night.”
He then spoke to a clerk, who brought to him a package
of papers, which Eliza perceived to be her petition,
affidavits, and so forth.
“I have done something in this unfortunate affair,
too,” he added; but his manner was not promising.
Eliza's eyes were delighted by no pardon, and her hopes
began to sink. “But how happens it,” he inquired,
“that, among all these papers, there is no memorial
from the prisoner himself?”
“Sir,” said the earnest girl, “I can explain that. He
does not know yet that a pardon has been applied for.
I thought it best not to inform him; for I would not
raise false expectations in his mind. Besides, — for I
wish to be entirely frank with you, and rely upon your
goodness, — I think it possible that he might not have
approved of what his friends were doing.”
“And why not?” said the governor, lifting his eyebrows
with some surprise.
“I will not conceal anything,” replied Eliza. “I
think Mr. Dane was aware of his wife's guilt; yet he
would not expose her. He preferred to sacrifice himself
in her place.”
“It would appear, then, that he not only accepted and
used the stolen money” —
“O sir! that was without his knowledge, — the
-- 307 --
[figure description] Page 307.[end figure description]
affidavits show that, — and I would pledge my life that it
is true.”
“And yet,” said the governor, “according to your
own representation, he concealed her crime, and thus
became an accessory after the fact.”
“Do not, sir! do not let appearances and technicalities
stand in the way of justice!” Eliza conjured him.
“If appearances were truths, if the law was infallible, I
should not be here. Grant that, in the eyes of the law,
he was an accomplice; grant that it was criminal to
conceal her crime, — I don't care!” she cried, with
flashing spirit. “I know, and you know, sir, that it
was nobler in him to conceal than to expose it. It was a
holy sacrifice he made of himself, unworthy as she was.
His conduct is to be admired, and not blamed. In your
heart you must commend it, whatever you may say.
If what he did was a sin, I think such a sinner is worthier
of heaven than many a precise saint. Such a spirit
of self-sacrifice, — it overcomes me now to think of
it” — and Eliza dashed the quick tears from her eyes.
“But will this fine sinner thank us for what we are
doing?” asked the governor, with a smile.
“He will at least forgive me for saving him in spite
of himself and without his knowledge. And when he
learns how his wife has repaid his devotion by deserting
his child, he will not regret that justice has come about
through her own indiscretion.”
“Well,” said the governor, smiling again very curiously,
“if that does not satisfy him, I have something
-- 308 --
[figure description] Page 308.[end figure description]
here that I think will. Have you seen the morning
papers?” So saying, he took one from a pile on the
desk, and handed it to Eliza, pointing to a paragraph.
“That will interest him, I think.”
Eliza read, and turned white with astonishment and
indignation.
“O sir!” she said in thick, tremulous tones, after a
pause of speechless amazement, “after this” —
“After this,” interrupted the governor, “I think both
he and you will be satisfied with what I have done.”
With which quiet speech, he opened a drawer, and produced
a large unsealed envelope, which he placed in her
hand.
Eliza knew well what it contained; and as she drew
forth the precious paper, and unfolded it, she could but
just see the great shining seal and blurring signature
through the tears of joy that blinded her.
-- 309 -- p471-314
XXXV. DELIVERANCE.
[figure description] Page 309.[end figure description]
And now Abel Dane was summoned from the prison
workshop. In his bi-colored convict's cap and coat and
trousers, — one-half the man from head to heel blue,
the other half red; one side the hue of despondency,
the other the tint of shame, — forth he came, curious
to know what was wanted. Following the warden, he
crossed the prison-yard, ascended the steps he had
descended on his arrival thither, and entered once more
the room he had passed through when he left all hope
behind; — so changed, since then, that she who waited
for him there did not know him, but took him for some
other.
But he knew her in an instant. And at the first
sound of his voice, at a look out of those deep, glad
eyes, she recognized, in the grotesque wight before her,
the transformed manhood of Abel.
How they met; how she revealed to him the cause
of her coming, and put with her own hands into his the
governor's pardon; and he knew that he was raised
from the dead, and that she, his best-beloved was also
his deliverer; — I am aware what a moving scene
-- 310 --
[figure description] Page 310.[end figure description]
might be made of all this. But enough, — our story
draws to a close.
Abel was taken in charge by the warden for the last
time. The clothes he put off at his entrance into prison
were restored to him; and he left behind his convict's
costume, for the benefit of some sad successor. Then
he rejoined Eliza; and they quitted the prison together.
But it was all like a dream to him yet. Explanations
were needed to relieve his uncertainty and suspense.
And as they walked the street together, and he tasted
with her the sweet air of liberty, and knew that his
brief, terrible nightmare of prison life was indeed
shaken off, she told him how his redemption had been
achieved.
Abel was troubled. In the midst of his gratitude and
joy he was grieved for Faustina. She was his wife
still. “And I had hoped,” — he began.
“I know what you hoped,” Eliza tenderly replied.
“And I know — we all know — you have done everything
for her a hero and Christian could do. But in
vain. And, Abel, she is no longer your wife.”
“True! true!” said Abel. “By God's law, may-be,
she is not. But man's laws, — they are different, — I
must abide by them.”
He said this with a great sigh; hoping perhaps for
some word of comforting assurance from Eliza. She
too was agitated. She could hardly control her voice
to answer him.
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[figure description] Page 311.[end figure description]
“Yes, Abel. You must — you will be willing to submit,
I think. But the law, — human law, — what strange,
strange things it is sometimes made to do! Abel, I
have brought this to show you.” And she gave him the
governor's newspaper, putting her finger on the paragraph
his Excellency had pointed out to her.
Abel read as they walked the street. It was a notice
of divorces granted; among which was one to Faustina
Dane, from her husband, Abel Dane. “Cause —
state-prison.”
Grief and indignation convulsed him a moment.
“The injustice of it, Eliza! — I in prison for her
fault! — and this after all her promises! O Faustina!
selfish and impulsive! foolish and false! Thank Heaven,
it is she that has done this, and not I!”
So saying, with a deep breath of the pure electric air,
a sense of relief, a new sense of freedom, and of something
deeply and divinely great and glad, entered into
him. Eliza perceived it.
“Yes, Abel; it is better. And oh, is it not wonderful,
that God often makes those who would injure us
the agents of our good! Oh, let us trust him, let us
trust him always!”
But even as she spoke, a shadow as of a brooding
fatality fell upon them both. Not from the prison of
stone alone, but also from the bondage of a false marriage,
Abel saw himself, this day, as it were miraculously
delivered. And he could see how Tasso's meanness,
and Mrs. Apjohn's spite, and Faustina's perfidy, — how
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[figure description] Page 312.[end figure description]
all his misfortunes, even that which had seemed the
greatest, — had tended steadily, by sure degrees, to this
consummation. And here he was, a free man, superior
to disaster and disgrace, walking by the side of the
woman he loved, and to whom he owed his rescue;
and she, — her work was now done, and nothing remained
but for her to go and bless the husband who had
been so long waiting for her, in the home he had proffered,
and which she had promised to accept.
-- 313 -- p471-318
XXXVI. HOME.
[figure description] Page 313.[end figure description]
They stopped in town to get some presents for
Ebby, then took the train, and reached home the same
evening.
Alighting at the village, they looked in at the post-office,
and found a letter for Eliza. Whence and from
whom it came, both knew. Abel was deeply moved;
and Eliza, it must be owned, felt heavy misgivings as
she pressed it unopened into her pocket.
It was late; the fire was nearly out in the kitchen;
the candle burned low in its socket; Melissa had fallen
asleep over her knitting; Ebby was dreaming and
smiling in the cushioned arm-chair; and old Turk lay in
the corner.
Suddenly the scene changed. Melissa jumped up,
rubbed her eyes, and, at the summons of a well-known
voice, ran to open the door. Turk bounced from the
hearth, and madly welcomed his master. Ebby also
awoke, and saw his mamma (as he always persisted in
calling Eliza), and his father who had come home with
her, and the playthings they had brought him, and was
the gladdest boy the round world then contained.
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[figure description] Page 314.[end figure description]
There are kisses, and questions, and supper for the
new-comers; and again the scene changes. Melissa is
sent to put Ebby to bed. Then Abel and Eliza alone,—
the clock telling the minutes of midnight; the long,
earnest, tender, sorrowful talk; — she, yielding to him
one all too sympathetic trembling hand, while with the
other she clasps the still unopened letter in her pocket,
as if that alone could keep her true to the absent one;
there parting at last, in anguish, after all the joy and
triumph of the day, — he lonely and bereft, she faithful
still in purpose to her affianced, despite her most unfaithful
heart; the sound of the door that closed between
them, and the utter silence and solitude of the
night that followed; — at which closing scenes of our
drama we can only hint, for were we to relate in detail
all that passed,
The story would outlast a night in Russia,
When nights are longest there.”
Early the next morning, Abel, “wrapped in dismal
thinkings,” having vainly endeavored to sleep,
sat alone by the fire, in the home to which he had
been restored, only, as it seemed, to feel its vacancy, —
Faustina lost, his mother gone, Eliza about to go. No
doubt Eliza was fast asleep, and dreaming of her distant
lover, to whom she was so soon to return. So
Abel thought, disconsolately enough; reflecting ungratefully
that even his saddest night in prison had been
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[figure description] Page 315.[end figure description]
happier than this; when he heard the door softly open,
and, looking up, saw Eliza. She smiled faintly.
“Darling!” he cried; — “I knew you could not!
I knew you would come back to me!” — though, poor
fellow, he certainly knew no such thing, or else, as he
sat there, the world would have looked to him somewhat
less dreary.
But Eliza, although she smiled, was shivering, and
very pale; and he knew not yet whether to hope, or
still to keep company with despair.
“There is something here — which I thought you
ought to know of” — she said, in a voice shaking with
the cold. And the letter of her betrothed, which, after
much unhappy delay, she had summoned the resolution
to read, she placed in Abel's hand. Ah, different now
the times from those long ago, when he placed in her hand
the letter of his love, the beautiful Faustina, and she could
not read it for the wrong that was wringing her heart!
Perhaps, by this time, that wrong had been amply
avenged; as all wrongs are, soon or late, in this world
or the next.
Abel read with interest, which darkened into pain as
he proceeded, then kindled into surprise, and brightened
at last into a blaze of triumph.
The devoted lover, the generous, disinterested friend,
had grown at length impatient. Eliza's letters had
not satisfied him; that she cared more for Abel in
prison than for him in the home he had offered her, was
but too evident; and so, without penning a single
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[figure description] Page 316.[end figure description]
reproach (for, indeed, she had dealt truly with him from
the first, as he acknowledged), but not without profound
regret on his part, he begged leave to release
her from her engagement.
“But, Abel!” suddenly exclaimed Eliza, disengaging
herself from his arms; and a shadow fell upon her
glowing, suffused face.
“What is it?” Abel asked, starting from the dream
that their bliss was perfect now.
“I owe that dear man three hundred dollars!”
“Phew!” whistled Abel, pursing up his brows; for
he knew this debt had been incurred for his sake, and
that she had impoverished herself to fee his lawyers,
and could not pay it, and that he had never a cent.
“He must be paid,” said Eliza.
“Certainly, he must be paid,” Abel muttered, plunged
in thought, “but how? All my property is mortgaged.
I can't borrow. I've sold even my tool-chest. I can
go to work, — and if ever I worked with a will, I shall
now, — but that is a debt that should be paid at once.
He is a noble man: he certainly deserved you, 'Liza,
better than I do, I'm afraid, — I know!” feeling with
deep humility how selfishly he had acted towards her
from the first.
They sat talking until the morning was well advanced, —
Abel's mind still perplexed.
There came a knock at the door, and, Melissa opening
it, in walked John Apjohn the cooper, and Prudence
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[figure description] Page 317.[end figure description]
Apjohn his wife; who, having heard of Abel's return,
had hastened to be the first to congratulate him.
Prudence was radiant, and John was gay and smiling,
all his melancholy having been dissipated by the
glad tidings of Abel's release from prison.
“And if ever I heerd a bit o' news that done my soul
good,” said Prudence, all smiles and tears, “it was when
old Mr. Smith come to our house jest now for a firkin,
and said you was seen gittin' out o' the stage, you and'
Lizy, up to the square, last night.”
“And, I was a goin' for to say,” said John, with boyish
eagerness, — “knowin' as how you was put to't for
money 'fore the trial, — I was a goin' for to say,” —
“Fact is,” — Prudence snatched the thread of his
discourse, — “me and my husband here has got three or
four hunderd dollars a comin' in jest about this time, —
money we've lent in years past, — an' as we've no'
airthly use for it right away,” —
“An' knowin' 't you sold off everything,” struck in
the cooper, — “an' you must stand in need o' somethin'
for to give ye a start,” —
“An' if 'twould be any sort o' 'commodation to you,”
resumed Prudence, “to have the use o' that money,'
thout interest, for a year or so, or as long as ye want,
till ye git a little 'forehanded agin, — 'thout interest,”
she repeated, emphatically, — “why, you're welcome to
it, you're welcome to it, Abel Dane, as much as if you
was my own son!”
“To be sure, to be sure,” assented the cooper.
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“O Abel! how we are provided for!” exclaimed
Eliza.
Abel shook his neighbors heartily by the hand, and
thanked them with deeper joy and gratitude than he
could express, and of course consented to relieve them
of their superfluous hundreds; sending them home
rejoicing.
The debt was paid, and Abel began life anew.
And so all things came duly round at last: the circle
grew complete, — Abel obtaining without long delay a
divorce from his already divorced wife, and entering
with Eliza the path of blessedness into which the devious
ways of difficulty and the sometimes dark ways of
duty had led them.
It remains to add only a word. Faustina never saw
husband or child again. But while Abel consoled himself,
and Ebby found indeed a mother in Eliza, she, the
beautiful one, married a second time, and lives, as I
learn, a gay life.
And so poetical justice is not done? Very well;
divine justice is done, nevertheless. I am not aware
that either she or Tasso Smith ever received for their
misdeeds what the world calls punishment. But that
any one is permitted to live on, unrepentant and unchecked,
a life of selfishness, is perhaps, in the sight of
a higher Wisdom, the greatest punishment of all.
