 | XIX.
HUSBAND AND WIFE. Neighbor's wives |  |
19. XIX.
HUSBAND AND WIFE.
“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
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;
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
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!”
“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
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
— 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
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.
| XIX.
HUSBAND AND WIFE. Neighbor's wives | |