University of Virginia Library

11. XI.
TASSO'S REVENGE.

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

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

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, —

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

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' watch-chain,
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, plain-speaking
woman. As David slew the Philistine with a

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!”

“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.”

“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

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 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?

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

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 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

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.