 | XXIX.
IN JAIL. LEAVE-TAKING. Neighbor's wives |  |
29. XXIX.
IN JAIL. LEAVE-TAKING.
Eliza warmed her numbed hands in the vestibule of
the jail, while Faustina, with Ebby in her arms, followed
the keeper.
He opened the first heavy door, and, after ushering
her in, clanged it together and locked it again.
Then they were ready to advance to the second door.
The ring of the iron, the formality and preparation,
the dim light in the passage, the sound of the keeper's
feet on the echoing stone floor, added to the
thought of so soon meeting her husband, filled her limbs
with trembling, and her soul with almost superstitious
dread. She could scarcely support the burden of her
child upon her fainting heart. As if to enhance her
trouble, Ebby began to cry. She stood waiting for the
jailer to precede her. White and terrified, she obeyed
his summons to follow. Before her was the grated
door, through the bars of which he called Abel to approach;
and she heard his slow footsteps coming along
the floor of the hollow cell, — tramp, tramp, — while
each moment there was danger that the swoon she had
take vengeance for being trifled with, and master her in
good earnest.
But the grated door was opened also; and Ebby, as
he slipped from his mother's breast, was caught in the
arms of his father. And Faustina, bowing her face
upon Abel's shoulder, clung and wept there until her
limbs fairly failed beneath her, and she sank down helplessly
upon the jail-floor.
Half-kneeling and half-sitting, she sank and bent her
fair head, from which the bonnet had fallen, and covered
her fairer face, — a rather graceful and exceedingly pathetic
figure; the sight of whom, together with the prisoner
standing by, hugging the child, and saturating his
little curls with big, manly tears, did mightily wrench
that unofficial part of the jailer's nature, called a heart;
for the jailer was the sheriff also. It was excellent Mr.
Wilkins, whom we remember; the same who went to
arrest Abel, and was sorry to see him come out of the
house with Ebby in his arms, that moonlight night in
autumn. He was not one of the brutal, relentless turnkeys
you read about in romances, but a man. And
now, retiring with the keys, having locked the duplicate
doors, and wiped the duplicate tears that surprised him,
he went and sat down in the vestibule, and talked feelingly
to Eliza, and told her how grievous a thing it was
for a young wife, so beautiful and affectionate, to see
her convict husband in jail, and to take leave of him.
And he brushed his misty eyes again, — good, honest
her of something new; for Eliza did not find occasion
to wipe her eyes, but sat in a sort of dreamy stupor, and
warmed her benumbed hands, and tried to warm her
benumbed heart by the fire.
Abel assisted his wife to arise, and led her, reluctant
and sobbing, to a bench. There they sat down, silent
both, a long time, — he with Ebby in his arms, Faustina
weeping still.
“Papa,” said the child, frowning with dislike at the
walls, as he glanced furtively around, “go home, papa!
go!”
Abel heaved a tremendous sigh.
“Home, my poor boy? Papa can't go home any
more,” he said, in a convulsed voice.
The baby frown contracted to a scowl of pain and terror.
“Home, papa! home!” he entreated. “Ebby 'faid.”
“Hush, my boy,” answered Abel, soothingly, stroking
the child's hair, and kissing again and again his beautiful
white forehead. “Papa will go home some time, —
yes, some time, darling! Ebby must love mamma, and
mamma must take care of Ebby now.”
“O Abel,” uttered Faustina, with wild and stifling
grief, “I can't have it so! I never believed it could be!
It is too hard! too unjust!”
“Hard and unjust, truly,” said Abel; “but it must
be borne. Be calm, now, Faustina; for I have many
things to say to you, and the time is short.”
But the distressed one seemed resolved not to be calm.
moan after moan. At length she lifted her head,
and, with wet, flashing eyes, whispered passionately, —
“Abel, I am determined! You shall never go to
prison! If either must go, I will! I'll see the judge,
and tell him everything. I'd have done it before; but
I thought you would be acquitted. You know — you
know I can't let you suffer in my place, — for my fault,”
— looking around to see that no one was listening.
And she made a motion towards rising, — thinking, no
doubt, that Abel, the devoted, would detain her.
But he didn't. Whether he suspected the sincerity
of her declaration, or was indeed willing that she should
assume the responsibility and odium of her own act, he
sat seemingly content to let her do as she pleased.
That was a more effective damper to her resolution
than any opposition could have been. She had no more
than half-risen when she fell again upon his breast.
He regarded her with a dreary smile and head-shake,
but said nothing.
“Oh, what shall I do?” she inquired, embracing him.
“Ask your conscience, not me,” said Abel. “I've
as much as I can do to give counsel to my own heart.
These are bitter days, Faustina. I shall try to do my
duty, and I pray God you may do yours.”
“What is my duty? Tell me, and I'll do it, if it is
to kill myself!” vowed the fair one.
“It is not to kill yourself, but to live, — if not for
yourself nor for me, for our child here,” said Abel.
“I will! I will!” Faustina eagerly cried; for truly
she had no very lively wish to die; and to promise that
she would devote herself to Ebby out of prison, whilst
Abel devoted himself to her in it, struck her as an easy
and reasonable compromise.
“As for your acknowledging to the world the error
for which I suffer, I have no advice to give,” he went
on. “At first, I should have honored you, had you
been so brave and true. Such nobleness would have
more than purchased my pardon. But I have given
you my pardon without it. And I don't think now
that you have any heart to redeem me from infamy and
imprisonment by criminating yourself. Well, I am
satisfied. I have given you my word not to expose
you; and I shall keep my word. In return I ask only
one favor, — and that not for my sake, but for your
own and our child's. Remember me in prison. Think
of the long days and long nights of those terrible and
solitary years. And atone, Faustina! before God, atone
for the wrong you have done, by becoming a true
woman and mother!”
She only wailed in low, disconsolate tones. And he
continued: —
“So this awful calamity may be made a blessing to
us all. For I shall not regret it, if five years from now,
I see you the woman you may be, Faustina! Oh, put
away falsehood and frivolity now! Conquer that restlessness,
that hankering for excitement, which argues a
mind uncentred in itself, and unblessed by duty. Let
be occupation enough; it will be amusement enough.
For what other amusement can you have while I am
serving out my sentence? Oh, deepen your heart; deepen
your heart!” he entreated her. “It is shallow, Faustina;
even here, and now, it is shallow and vain and
full of pretence. I say it not unkindly, but pityingly
and in sorrow.”
He laid his hand upon her head; and for the moment
something of his own overmastering earnestness seemed
to pass into her.
“Oh, yes! pity me!” she said. “Be sorry for me!
I can't help being as I am, — I would help it if I could.
But I will be better; I will try, oh, so hard!”
“I think you will try,” said Abel.
“Every day, every night, I will remember you; and
I will not be vain any more. I will not be idle and
proud any more. How can I be proud now?”
“Poor child! poor child!” said Abel, very heavy-hearted,
but full of the tenderness of mercy. “God
help you! Pray to Him. Oh, be faithful and sincere!
Again, I entreat you! don't forget me; and love, oh,
love and cherish this our darling boy!”
Ebby cried again, shrinking from his mother, and
nestling in Abel's bosom.
Vehemently, then, Faustina pledged herself to do all
he required of her. She would avoid unprofitable associates.
She would do everything he could wish. A crop
of fair promises, profuse and instantaneous as fungi, —
rottenness of her heart. And once more Abel almost
believed in her, and almost hoped.
“And Abel!” she said so softly and sadly and fondly,
that it was impossible for the strong, tender man not to
be touched, — “I want you to say one thing. Only one
thing, dearest! I can't be strong, I can't hope, I can't
even live without it!”
“Speak, and I will say all I can,” replied Abel.
“You know,” murmured the sorrowful one, — resuming
more and more of her old winsome ways, which became
marvellously her depressed and tearful state, —
“you know, Abel, you haven't been to me what you were
before” — (with a shudder). “You have forgiven me;
and you have been kind, — too kind. But the dreadful
separation! Oh, if I have nothing better to look forward
to, I had better die now. If I am never to have your
confidence and affection again, if you are not to be my
husband again, but only as a friend, a father, so distant,
so cold, — oh! what have I to live for?”
Abel kept silent a moment, mightily shaken by this
appeal. He thought of Eliza, — a wife. He recalled
his first hopeful and fresh passion for this erring daughter
of Eve, —
Now at his feet, submissive, in distress.”
broken, despised, after five years of shame and insult to
love him, who would comfort him then? She kissed
his hand; she pleaded. Oh, would he not give her one
word of hope?
“I will! I will!” said Abel, with quivering lips.
“Faustina, be assured. In the sight of Heaven, now,
we will plight our vows, — not idly, as when we plighted
them for our first, false marriage; but this second marriage
shall be solemn and true. It is a long engagement,
— five gloomy, gloomy years; but the probation
will be blessed to us, if we are equal to it. And, hear
me now, — if, when I come again into the light and air
of liberty, I find you faithful to your promises, a true
woman and mother, then I will be indeed your husband,
and give you more love and confidence than you ever
had or asked.”
With a cry of joy and gratitude Faustina clasped
him, and entered into this strange second engagement
with plenteous vows.
Then Abel spoke to her of his worldly affairs, and
finally came to the subject which he had reserved for
the last, because what he had to say on that he wished
especially to be remembered and esteemed sacred, —
her duty to his mother.
But hardly had he commenced his earnest charges
when, greatly to his amazement and alarm, Mr. Sheriff
Wilkins reappeared, jingling keys and opening doors,
followed by Eliza and excellent Mrs. Apjohn, who supported
between them the feeble, tottering form of old
little cooper walked humbly in the rear.
Abel, at sight of his mother, set Ebby hastily down
and rose to his feet. He extended his arms, and, with a
cry, she fell forward upon his neck. Eliza supported
her still, and helped to place her gently on the bench;
whilst Prudence found her handkerchief and wiped her
red nose, and the honest man, her husband, hid his face
behind his hat.
“Come, John!” said Prudence, turning away; “this
ain't no place for us. We've done our duty, and showed
our good will; and now le's leave.”
But, lo! the door was locked, and soft-hearted Sheriff
Wilkins had retired. And John, strangling behind his
hat, gave no heed to his good wife's suggestion. And
now Abel, emerging, as it were, from the sea and tempest
of his grief, lifted his head, and addressed the Apjohn
pair.
“No, don't go! I have something to say to you.
Neighbor Apjohn, I have to thank you for your kindness.
You have not persecuted me. You have not willingly
borne witness against me. And you have done a
neighborly act in bringing my mother here to see me;
though, Heaven knows, I hoped she would not come.
Still, I thank you; I thank you for your good will from
the bottom of my heart.”
But the cooper did not seem to hear. He stood where
he had stood from the first, stifling behind his hat.
Prudence changed from purple-red to sallow-pale, and
her, and coughed, and blew her nose, not knowing what
else to do.
Abel sat with his arms about his mother, endeavoring
to solace and soothe her. But she, heart-broken,
could do nothing but weep helplessly, and choke with her
own tears, — a piteous spectacle, — she was so old and
feeble, and loved her son with such entire and dependent
affection, and had always been so proud of him, and was
left so desolate now.
“If you had died, my son!” she broke forth incoherently,
“it would not have been so hard. I shall die
soon, and we might hope to meet again. But this! —
Oh, I can't be reconciled to it! Heaven forgive me,
but I can't!”
It was singular that sorrow seemed to have swept
away the old obstruction in her speech, and that her
words flowed now with her tears.
Eliza could not endure the scene; but, turning to the
iron-grated door, she put her face between the bars,
and sobbed alone. And she was guiltless of any wrong
towards Abel: what, then, must have been her pangs
had she felt upon her conscience the burden which Mrs.
Apjohn was trying to carry off so stoutly, or that which
Faustina was laboring to conceal? As for the latter,
she occupied the time in crying, and so played her part;
whilst Prudence pinched her lips together, and used her
handkerchief, and tossed her chin, and so played hers.
| XXIX.
IN JAIL. LEAVE-TAKING. Neighbor's wives | |