 | VI.
SUNDAY EVENING AT ABEL'S. Neighbor's wives |  |
6. VI.
SUNDAY EVENING AT ABEL'S.
“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.
“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.
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
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
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,”'
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.
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.”
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.”
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.
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.
| VI.
SUNDAY EVENING AT ABEL'S. Neighbor's wives | |