University of Virginia Library

21. XXI.
HOME ONCE MORE.

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

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

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,

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.

“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

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

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

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.