University of Virginia Library

23. XXIII.
ABEL AND ELIZA.

Abel walked on, strong in his new resolution, and was
near his own door, when it opened, and some one came
out. It was Eliza with her bonnet on. She was hurrying
past him, when he spoke.

“Abel?” she said, with a start, not glad to meet him
then.

“Where are you going?”

“Not far; a little walk.”

“Let me go with you?”

“Certainly, — if you wish to.”

Yet she spoke with a hesitation and reserve which
dampened his ardor.

“You are low-spirited?” she asked, as they walked
by the common.

“Do you wonder that I am?” said Abel.

“No; it is natural; but all will come out right, Abel,
I am sure. We must all go through the wilderness
some time, if we would see the bright land beyond.”

“You have been through?” asked Abel, falteringly.

“I have,” she answered in a low, very tender voice.
“Thank Heaven!”

“And you are happy?”

“I am happy, Abel.”

He was startled. That she could be happy, and at
peace, while before him was tempestuous darkness, gave
him a pang.

“Your happiness is not my happiness,” he said despondingly.

“But I can reach out a hand to help you, dear
brother!” And she pressed the hand that was laid
upon hers.

That was meagre comfort. Reach out to him? Only
that?

“Eliza, I am miserable! My married life — you may
as well be told — is a wretched failure!”

“I know it; I have known it all along,” she answered.

“Yes; and you foresaw it. And you warned me,”
groaned Abel.

“Did I?” There was a slight tremor in her sweet,
clear voice. “Well, it was better, I suppose, that you
should follow your own choice.”

“When it was leading me into the pit!” he exclaimed.

“We are sometimes permitted to go very, very wrong,
for the benefit the experience will bring with it, Abel.”

“But a life-long experience of disappointment and
misery!”

“There is something that will sanctify and sweeten
all that to you,” said Eliza.

“What is it, for God's sake?”

“Duty! Never swerve aside from that.”

“But what is my duty?” demanded Abel, with a
bitter outburst. “What is the duty of a man, who
wakes from a dream of folly, to find himself bound for
all time to a woman who proves unworthy of his trust
and repugnant to his whole nature?”

“It is the question of questions!” said Eliza, after a
deep pause.

“Which you cannot answer,” cried Abel, “any more
than I can.”

“No; nor as well. What your private relations to
her shall be,” said Eliza, timidly, “must be left entirely
to your own conscience. But you have assumed outward
obligations towards her,” she added, in a firm, unhesitating,
spiritually clear tone of voice; “you have
taken her from her father's house, and you have vowed
to cherish her through evil report and through good
report. You must never forget that; you must remember
how we all stand in need of charity and forbearance,
and suffer long and be kind. Do not shrink from suffering.
In the end it will be gain to you. I know.”

She spoke with generous sympathy, yet out of the
depths of a spirit whose tranquillity and firm faith
seemed to remove her farther and farther from his
troubled sphere. For she perceived his fever and weakness;
perhaps, also, she knew his temptation; and had
fortified herself. To the strength which had been born
to her out of trial and endurance, had been added a
power beyond herself for this hour and this meeting.
So that Abel might well exclaim, —

“You seem nearer to the cold stars up there than to
me. You talk like an angel. It is all beautiful and
true, what you say; but I'd rather you'd be a woman
now. You do not know all, Eliza!” — Emotions crowded
his voice. — “I have something terrible to tell you.”

They were passing near the post-office.

“Wait a minute,” she said; “then I will hear you.”

She stepped aside to drop a letter in the box, then
rejoined him.

“A letter!” murmured Abel. A jealous fear overshadowed
him. He took her hands; he stood looking
down at her pale face in the moonlight for a minute,
without a word.

“You were going to tell me something,” she said.

“You are going to tell me something! Eliza, who
have you been writing to?”

“To a friend. Why do you ask?”

“A dear friend?”

“A very dear friend.” And the pale face met his
gaze with a frank smile in the moonlight.

“A man, Eliza?”

“A man, Abel. Why not?”

He gave her wrist a convulsive pressure, then dropped
it, and, with a tremendous sigh, drew back from her,
almost staggering. She was alarmed. She took his
hand.

“What is the matter, Abel?”

“It is well; it is well! Come, Eliza; we will go
home now.”

She leaned upon his arm, too full of love and pity and
regret for the mockery of words.

“I am glad you have found friends in your absence,”
he said, after a brief silence.

“I have found some very excellent friends,” she answered.

“You did not wish me to know you had a letter to
mail. I understand now.”

“I think it is better you should know, Abel.”

This was not the reply he hoped for. Every minute
and every word seemed to sharpen the fangs that
gnawed his heart. He could not endure suspense.

“When are you to be married?” he demanded, abruptly.

“I don't know. Not while I feel that I am needed
here,” came the low, unfaltering response.

“I beg of you,” said Abel, “don't let your regard for
us interfere with your happiness,” — with something of
his irrespressible despair writhing in his voice.

“Duty first and always, and happiness cannot fail,”
said Eliza.

“I hope he is worthy of you,” he added.

“I wish,” she replied, “that I was half as worthy of
him.”

They passed on in silence; his hot thoughts almost
stifling him.

“But you were to tell me something,” she reminded
him.

“It is this,” said Abel. “I thank you from the bottom

of my soul for your advice to me. I shall do my
duty.”

“I am sure you will, Abel!”

“Yes, — thanks to you. Whatever happens, I can suffer.
God grant your married life may be happier than
mine has been!”

Eliza's serenity was fast forsaking her. She loved Abel
too well, she sympathized with his sorrow too much, to
answer now with calm words of counsel. Misgivings,
also, it may be, with regard to her own future and duty,
disquieted her.

What right had she, loving this man, to be happy in
another's arms? Had she sinned, when, lonely and cold
and famished, she accepted the solace of a good man's
affection? Because one hope had perished, should she
go through God's bright universe refusing to be comforted?
Because Abel was married, should she forever
obstinately shun the high destiny of woman, — wifehood
and motherhood?

These were no new questions. Long, in anguish and
supplication, she had wrestled with the great problem.
Many a woman and many a man has wrestled with it
the same, — wrestles with it still. Each must solve it for
himself or herself. It is good to live true to one's own
heart; sacrificing all things else to that; through absence,
and lapse of time, and death of hope. And to
renounce the impossible, accepting cheerfully the best
that is given, is also good. Consider it well; let the
soul choose; and who shall condemn?

Eliza had chosen. Yes, and even now she felt that she
had chosen wisely. Excepting only Abel, this other, of
all men, stood highest in her regard. She had acquainted
him with all the doubts of her heart; nor had she left
him to enter this ordeal of danger without his consent
and blessing.

And in all things, so noble did he appear to her, so
dear had he rendered himself by his generosity and truth,
that she knew she could make him a true and happy
wife. Yet once more, to-night by Abel's side, stirred by
his love and grief, the old perturbations arise. Only
solitude and prayer can put them again at rest. She
was glad that the gate was near, and that Abel did not
offer to go in with her.

“I shall walk a little further,” he said. “Comfort
mother till I come.”

And the gate closed between them with a harsh sound.
And both felt that another gate shut also between them;
the gate whose hinges are providence, and whose latch is
fate.

“Idiot! idiot!” muttered Abel, with angry and bitter
scorn of himself. “I merit what I have. I will
take with calmness what is still to come. Tongue, hold
your peace! Misery, do your worst! Misfortunes,
rain, hail, pour!”

He walked in the placid and smiling moonlight. And
something of the silence and vastness and chasteness
of the night glided into him. His thoughts grew great
and solemn and tender. To go to prison for another's

sake did not seem much to him then. To die for another's
sake did not seem so bitter. He murmured
Eliza's name with a prayer for her happiness. He
thought of Faustina with gentleness and compassion.
He remembered how near his mother's feet were to the
still portals of eternity, and smiled. Only when he
thought of his child he wept.

For his child's sake he would willingly humble himself;
and, seeing a light in the cooper's house, he bethought
him to go in, and try if it were possible to
conciliate the enemy.