 | XII.
THE GUILTY CONSCIENCE. Neighbor's wives |  |
12. XII.
THE GUILTY CONSCIENCE.
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
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
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,
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 chair-round,
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?”
“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
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
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.
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 outside-door,
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
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
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.
| XII.
THE GUILTY CONSCIENCE. Neighbor's wives | |