University of Virginia Library

31. XXXI.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

The storm whirled and whistled by the window, and
the afternoon grew dim, in that solemn cell. The hands
of the living had been withdrawn, and the hands of the
dead were placed composedly upon the breast now
stilled forever. Abel stood and gazed long; his countenance
emerging from its cloud and agitation into a
strange, almost smiling tranquility.

“It is well! She is happier.” — He turned to his wife:
“You have now no care but our child; be faithful and
remember.” — Then, laying his hand upon Eliza's forehead:
“You are free now. Go to your husband and be
happy.”

Dimmer still grew the afternoon; and the hour came
when the corpse must be carried out, and Abel must look
his last upon it, and behold Eliza go with it, to return to
him no more. Mrs. Apjohn, assiduous and energetic,
accompanied; the cooper had glided out before, like a
silent ghost. Lastly, Faustina took leave, with Ebby.
And Abel was left alone.

Alone; and the night descended, tempestuous, — sifting
snow and sleet beating all night upon the pane; howls

and moans resounding all night about the prisoner's cell.
Sitting or walking, he pondered; or, lying on the hard
couch on which his mother had died, he waked, or slept,
waiting for the morrow.

The morrow! what a day was that! The storm raging
still; the corpse lying in the house; neighbors coming
in; preparations for the funeral; the hush as of
ashes strewn upon the floor; the utter, bewildering
vacancy, — the silent ache of the heart, — which one
mourner felt, thinking of the empty morrows still to
come, and of her fellow-mourner far away.

The next day was the funeral. Where was Abel
then? When the sexton tramped through the drifts
with pick and spade to the graveyard; when the customary
sermon was preached, and the psalm sung, and
the prayer said; when the little procession followed the
corpse to the fresh heap of earth thrown up beside the
snowy mound beneath which mouldered the ashes of old
Abel Dane, the carpenter, — the dog Turk walking seriously
through the snow by Eliza's side, leaving the prints
of his feet; when Eliza lifted Ebby up to take a last
look of what had been his good old grandmamma's face,
before the coffin-lid was closed and screwed down;
when the coffin was lowered, and the gravel shovelled in
upon it, to the sound of the tolling bell; and the
mourners and neighbors returned, dazzled by the sudden
glitter of sunshine on the pure, new-fallen snow; and
Eliza entered once more the hollow house, and listened
to the drip of the eaves, and the blue sky smiled

overhead, and neighbors came and went; — where, all
this time, was Abel?

Side by side now, in the white and quiet field, under
the pacified December weather, slept all that was mortal
of old Abel Dane the carpenter, and of Abigail his
wife; while Abel, son of the preceding, was buried,
mortal part with the immortal, in a very different tomb.

Would you penetrate that mausoleum of the living, —
behold him with shaven crown, in convict's cap and coat,
the livery of the doomed, — visit him when he eats, in
his whitewashed solitary cell, the crust by the state
provided, — stand by when he subdues his spirit to work
under an overseer, at the work-bench of condemed horse-thieves
and burglars, his predecessors and companions,
— witness the sweat of his body and the sweat of his
soul, the days and nights of his long death? —

Nay, rather let us leave him there, as we leave his
mother where she also lies buried, and keep with those
who still walk abroad in the sun.

Faustina walks abroad, — or is at liberty to do so.
And Mrs. Apjohn enjoys that precious privilege. And
Tasso Smith, this wild December morning, comes forth,
basking.

Pleased is Tasso; smiling and airy his port. A note,
sent by Melissa's hand, has summoned him to an interview
with Faustina. Locks well greased and curled,

coat buttoned close, to conceal his unpresentable linen,
his showy red-topped boots drawn over his strapped-down
pantaloons, he treads daintily through the thawing
snow, flourishing his light stick. For the first time
since the memorable night of his discomfiture, he stops
at Abel's gate, and rings the door-bell with complacent
mien; considering that, by consummate diplomacy and
strategic skill, he has, without loss to himself, but
through the agency of others, routed his enemy, Abel,
whose castle now lies at his mercy; never suspecting
that he himself, like all the rest, is the agent of a
Power above them all.

The garrison of the place, in the person of old Turk,
growls at his red-topped boots, in a way the conquering
hero does not like. But Melissa makes haste to admit
him, and he is ushered into the presence of Faustina.

In the parlor sits the afflicted daughter-in-law, clad in
deep mourning. With a dreary sigh she recognizes
Tasso, and, half-rising, gives him her sad hand.

“Come to condole with you,” says Mr. Smith. “Awful
dispensation, old lady's dying so. Mus'n't let it
break your heart.”

“Don't mock me, Tasso! I'm in a dreadful situation!
You've no idea of it!”

“Well, no, I don't see it.”

“Oh, I am! Think of my husband! What will
become of me, Tasso?”

“Good joke, I say, 'bout your husband, as you call
him!” chuckles Tasso. “Good 'nough for him; jealous,

grouty, unhospitable feller, like him! Don't you
go to sheddin' no unnecessary tears on his account, —
le'me me advise ye.”

But Faustina had fears for her own safety and reputation.
“Murder will out, folks say; and I believe it,”
she declared, in allusion to her own guilty secret.

“Fudge, no danger! Only you walk pertty straight
now, and do as I tell ye, — conform'ble to my s'gestions,
y' und'stand. If a feller's only shrewd enough,
he can do what he's a mind to in this world, and not git
found out. There's my little compliment to Ma'am Apjohn,
— tomatuses, ye know,” whispered the highly satisfied
Tasso, — “who's found that out? By George!
they think 'twas Abel, to this day!”

“O Tasso!” exclaimed Faustina, “that's one thing
I wanted to see you about. Mrs. Apjohn knows, —
she has heard, somehow, — the gracious knows how, I
don't!”

“Heard what! Not that I” — began the startled, incredulous
Mr. Smith.

“Yes; in the jail, before Abel, she declared that it
was you, as she had certain means of knowing.”

“Most 'stonishing thing!” muttered Tasso, confused
to learn that his brag of superior shrewdness had been
somewhat premature. “She must have guessed at it.”

“So I suppose. But she turned, and accused me so
positively of having first told you of her stealing
our tomatoes, that I couldn't deny it. How she ever
knew that, I can't surmise.”

But Tasso thought he could; for it had not been in
his nature to refrain from imparting the pith of so excellent
a jest to one or two choice companions, whom he
now cursed in his heart. Faustina, perceiving that her
version — or rather perversion — of the facts was
received, assumed the air of a person who had had
injuries, and went on, —

“So you see the blame all fell on me, after all. And
I thought it was too bad! I shall hear of somebody's
betraying me altogether, next.”

Tasso, completely outlied by the fair Faustina, after
all his conceited cunning, protested that her suspicion
was unfounded, and volunteered some excellent advice
and consolation.

“Don't you have no fears whatever, — indulg'n' in
unfounded apprehensions, y' und'stand. No use; all
right you are; and you can jest go and take your pick
of another husband soon as ye please, — handsome
woman like you. Ye can git a divorce now, j'e know
it?”

“A divorce?” Faustina looked up with interest.
“From Abel?”

“Of course! didn't you know? Five years in state's-prison,
— that's a sufficient ground for a divorce, in this
State. And, by George, Faustina! — charming woman
like you, — of course you aint so soft as to keep tied to
a state's-prison culprit, in for five years, when you've
only got to say the word, to swap him off for somethin'
more attractive, more suitable to your refined

tastes;” and Mr. Smith smoothed the curve of his
mustache with a significant, seductive smile.

Much more sage counsel of the kind the disinterested
visitor gave freely, without incurring any very severe
reprimand from Faustina, who only sighed and raised
feeble objections. They then parted, on quite confidential
terms. Thus Faustina had made haste to break
one of her solemn promises to Abel, — that she would
avoid all unprofitable associates; and it could hardly
be expected that her other promises would be kept
more sacredly.

The remainder of the day, and the night that followed,
when she should have remembered Abel, in
prison for her sake, and have had no care but for his
child, what was she feverishly dreaming?

The next morning, hurried and fluttering, she appeared
before Eliza. For Eliza still remained in the
house, from which she could not resolve to depart, although
those she loved had gone, and a husband and
a home awaited her in another place.

“I have concluded,” said Faustina, “that I ought to
go and see my relations, and make some arrangements
for the future. I suppose I can live with them, and
this house can be let until Abel — until we want it
again.”

“And Ebby?” said Eliza.

“Oh! — Ebby, — I was about to say, — I suppose —
I'd better not take him with me; for I don't know yet
what I am going to do. If I make such arrangements

as I hope to, I will either return for him, or have Melissa
bring him to me. You wont object to waiting a
few days, until I can decide, will you?”

“By no means,” answered Eliza. “I will remain as
long as I can be of service here, and do all I can for
you. With regard to Ebby, I have had it in my mind
to say to you, that, if you cannot conveniently keep
him with you, I shall be only too glad to take him.”

“What! you?” exclaimed Faustina, with real or
affected surprise. “Abel would never consent to such
a thing!”

Eliza suppressed some words of bitter truth that rose
from her heart almost to her lips; and, after a little
pause, replied calmly, —

“I ventured to speak to Abel about it. And he said
that in case you should find it too hard to take care
of Ebby, he was willing that I should have him.”

“I'm not willing, if he is,” retorted Faustina, decidedly.
“I can never, never be parted from my darling
boy!”

Eliza regarded her with deep, sad eyes. “I know,”
she said, very quietly, “it would be too cruel to separate
you from him.”

“No,” said Faustina; “I could never suffer it. It
would not be kindness to the child. Who can fill a
mother's place?”

“True,” said Eliza, with something too solemn for
sarcasm, from the depths of her aggrieved spirit; “who
can fill the place of a mother?”

“So that is settled,” exclaimed the exemplary mother,
very positively.

“Still,” replied Eliza, “you may remember my
offer.”

“I'll remember it; and it is very kind in you, certainly.
But if you will have the goodness to remain.
here a few days, as I said, — not more than a week, at
the most, — I'll be infinitely obliged to you; after that,
I think I shall not find occasion to trouble you any
farther.”

That day Faustina departed. At the end of a week
Eliza had not heard from her. Another week also passed
without bringing any tidings of the absent mother. Accordingly
Eliza, finding herself in a perplexing situation,
wrote to inquire what were her prospects and intentions.
Several days after the letter was sent, there came a
tardy, despondent, indefinite reply. Faustina had not
been able to accomplish her object as yet. She had
been ill, — else she would have written earlier. Some
of her relatives were absent, and she could not form any
plans until their return, etc.

Eliza could not peer through the mists of distance,
and see this passionately devoted mother of the child
from whom she could never, never be separated, seeking
distraction and solace in the home of her spoiled
and petted girlhood. She could not hear the objurgations
hurled by her flatterers at the villain husband, the
utterly remorseless Abel, who had ruined the hopes and
happiness of so beautiful a being. She possessed no

means to penetrate that beautiful being's breast, and discover,
among the selfish purposes there cherished, the secret
determination never to return to the convict's home
again, and never to be troubled with the maintenance
of his child. So Eliza remained in doubt, and did her
duty to Ebby, and wrote to Abel as cheerful and comforting
letters as she could, — letters, by the way, which
were not nearly so abundant in protestations of affection
and fidelity as those he was at the same time receiving
from Faustina.

At length Eliza became weary. The house had grown
lonesome and ghostly to her oppressed heart. She wished
to be away. She resolved, therefore, to place no more
reliance upon the mother's promises, but to go, and take
Ebby with her.