University of Virginia Library

32. XXXII.
MISS JONES AND MR. SMITH.

“We will shut up the house, Melissa. You can keep
the key of it until Mrs. Dane decides what she is going
to do. Those things in the closet ought to be sent to
her, so as to leave as few as possible locked up in the
house.”

“Them things is mine, if you please, ma'am,” said
Melissa, hanging her head, and casting up timid glances
at Eliza.

“Yours, girl! Did Mrs. Dane give you those
dresses?”

Melissa hesitated, corkscrewing a foolish finger into a
corner of her mouth, as if she meant to uncork it.

“Yes, she did, if you please, ma'am.”

“Why did you never take them, then?”

“'Cause, ma'am” — Melissa was making a spiritless
attempt to introduce her fist after her finger, and talking
at the same time, — “I wa'n't sure, ma'am, 's I'd
ought'er take 'em. I don't know hardly now whuther
I'd ought'er take 'em, or whuther I hadn't 'dought'er. I
ruther guess” (down went the timid eyes, very meekly)
“I hadn't 'dought'er take 'em, after all.”

“If she gave them to you, they are yours, and you
shall certainly have them,” said Eliza.

But now a sense of guilt and shrinking fear overcame
the conscientious Melissa.

“No, no, ma'am; I wont take 'em, if you please,
ma'am; it wouldn't be right.”

“Why not, if they were given to you for honest service?”

“Oh, dear! they wa'n't! I'm afraid they wa'n't,
ma'am!” whimpered the girl. “Don't ax me no more
about it, if you please, ma'am.” And the apron was
got in readiness for an imminent outburst.

Now Eliza had not lived three months in that house,
and observed the external daily life of it, without suspecting
that there were things hidden beneath the
surface which should be brought to light. Especially
since the morning when she returned from Abel in the
jail, and entered the room where his wife lay expecting
Melissa, had she been conscious of extraordinary
confidences between mistress and maid, in which, perhaps,
Abel's honor was concerned. Still she had
avoided hitherto any attempt to pry into these secrets;
and, but for the girl's singular conduct on this occasion,
what followed might never have occurred.

Miss Jones threw her apron over her head to defend
herself, begging for mercy.

“Mercy, child?” said Eliza. “Why do you talk and
act in this way? What harm will happen to you, if

you tell the truth about the dresses, and, if they are
yours, take them?”

“I don't want 'em!” sobbed Melissa, in her apron.
“Please, ma'am, don't make me take 'em; and don't
make me tell the truth about 'em, for Mrs. Dane told
me never to tell the truth, so long as I live. Oh! Oh!
Oh!”

“Hush! hush! She told you never to tell the truth?
Nonsense!”

“Oh, yes, she did, ma'am! She give me the things
to hire me never to tell; and I wa'n't never to tell why
she give 'em to me; and now, oh, dear, dear, dear, I've
been and gone and told!”

Eliza, now fully roused, endeavored to pacify her,
then said, firmly, —

“I certainly do not wish you to tell anything which
you ought not to. But, do you know, Melissa, it may
be very wrong for you not to tell?”

“Oh, yes, ma'am; I've thought so myself many and
many a time, and told Mrs. Dane so; and then she'd
give me something else, and make me promise ag'in,
and tell me buggers would ketch me if ever I lisped a
word on't! And, oh, dear, dear, what shall I do?”

“Think it over,” said Eliza, “then do just what you
think is right. If what you know has any connection
with Abel's being in prison, where we are so sure he
ought not to be, then, as you fear God more than you
do Mrs. Dane, speak!”

“Oh, I will! I will!” exclaimed Melissa, throwing

off her apron, and all concealment with it. And as her
face emerged red and wet from that covering, so the
truth came out glowing, and saturated with tears of
repentance, from the cloud of deception which had been
so long laid over it. A tragic interest held Eliza, as
she listened.

“Who else knows of this but you? anybody?” she
asked.

“Nobody, not as I know on, 'thout 'tis Tasso Smith,
— she's told him some things, I don't know how much.”

Eliza left the girl wiping her face; and, throwing on
her bonnet and shawl, set out to call on Mr. Smith.

As she was passing Mr. Apjohn's house, Mrs. Apjohn
threw open a front window, showed her animated
russet face, and, putting out an arm of the biggest,
beckoned violently.

“Come in here! come in here!” she cried. “Come
right straight in, 'Lizy; without a word!”

Not knowing what momentous question was at issue
or what lives were at stake, Eliza felt impelled to go in
and see. She ran to the door, which the excited Prudence
opened for her, and, entering, beheld with surprise
the pale, pimpled, simpering face of a worried youth,
whom Mrs. Apjohn indignantly pointed out to her.

It was Mr. Tasso Smith, — entrapped, it seemed, expressly
for her. Behind Tasso stood Mr. Cooper Apjohn,
submissive, sighing and winking, and meekly endeavoring
to deprecate his wife's wrath.

“Look at him!” said Prudence. “I want ye to look

at him well, 'Lizy! See if ye can't make him blush, —
for I can't! the miserable, lyin', pompous, silly, consaited
jackanapes!”

“Prudy! Prudy! don't be rash! don't be rash,
Prudy!” interposed the cooper.

“Oh, let her speak her mind,” said Tasso, with a
ghastly grimace. “Like to have folks speak their
minds, — express their honest sentiments, y' und'stand;”
and he pulled his mustache nervously.

“You needn't be the leastest mite consarned but
what I'll speak mine,” Mrs. Apjohn informed him.
“I've been waiting to git holt of ye ever sence the
trial. An' you've kep' out of my way perty well, —
as if you knowed what was good for yourself, you
sneakin', desaitful, underhand, silly, grinnin',” —

“Prudy! Prudy!” interrupted the cooper.

“I was jest walking by, like any quiet gentleman,”
Tasso explained to Eliza, “when she reshed out, by
George! and actchilly collared me, by George! J'ever
hear of such a thing? By George, I thought she meant
to serve me as she did Dane's tomatoes, — steal me and
cook me and eat me for dinner! by George!”

At that Prudence collared him again, and choked and
shook the pale joker till his teeth chattered.

“See here! better take care! my clo'es!” observed
Tasso, startled by the cracking of stitches.

“I don't care for your clo'es!” said Prudence, furiously.
“Insult me to my face, will ye? You dirty,
mean, impudent, dastardly, squash-faced, measly,” —

“Prudy! Prudy!” whispered the cooper.

Eliza now thought it time to interfere. Her calm,
decisive manner exerted a Christianizing influence over
the energetic Prudence.

“Wal, then!” said the latter, “to come to the p'int,
what I wanted of you is this: I've charged this scoundrel
here with hangin' them tomatuses on to my door,
and he denies it.”

“Certainly I do,” corroborated Tasso, — who, it may
as well be told, having conferred with his cronies, who
he feared had betrayed his secret, and become convinced
that they had not, was now prepared to maintain
his innocence by stoutest lies. “And I defy her to
prove it.”

“And I,” added Prudence, “of course, told him what
Faustina said that day in jail. But he declares she
never said no sech thing, but I said it, and tried to git
her to own up to it! Now, what I want of you is, to
tell jest what was said that day, and who said it.” And
Mrs. Apjohn folded her immense arms.

Thereupon, in few words, Eliza related the simple,
direct truth. That dashed the spirits of young Smith
more than all Mrs. Apjohn's hard names and shaking
had done.

“By George! 'd she say that? What else 'd she
say? by George!” — glaring maliciously.

Eliza perceived that the moment was ripe for her purpose.
Her eyes held him, as she spoke, by the power
of their earnestness and truth.

“She did not say all she might have said. She was
more ready to accuse others than to take any blame to
herself. It is your turn now, Tasso Smith, to speak the
truth concerning Faustina Dane.”

Tasso smirked and glared, hesitating between resentment
against Faustina and an unforgotten grudge
against Eliza.

“Shouldn't think you'd expect much truth from me,
after the ruther hard joke you tried onto me that day
in the court-house; callin' me a liar, right 'fore all the
people, by George!”

Sturdy little Eliza, unabashed by this retort, stood up
unflinchingly facing him, her brow beaming with courage
and sincerity.

“And did you not deserve that I should call you a
liar? Remember what you were saying of Abel at the
very time, — and of Faustina, — when you knew every
word you said was false. If I had known then, what
I know now, I'd have dragged you before the court, and
compelled you to testify!”

“Hey? By George! what did I know?” said Tasso.

“That's what you are to confess before ever you quit
this house! And don't imagine you can deceive me in
any particular. Mrs. Dane had more confidants than
one; and everything has been revealed. I was on my
way to see you; for it is time you should do something
to avert the suspicion of being her accomplice.”

“By George! I warn't no accomplice of nobody's:
I'll resk that suspicion!”

“Don't be too sure!” Eliza warned him. “Abel Dane
felt himself safe against a false charge, trusting in his
own innocence. You are in some danger, Tasso! You
sold Mrs. Dane the jewels; you are aware how she
paid for them, and how she replaced the money with
which she paid for them. You see the truth is
known.”

Tasso saw, and felt sick. It took him not long now to
make up his mind what to do. Since Faustina had set
the example of treachery by betraying him, — and since
her other confidants, of whom, he now thought, she
might have twenty, had also set the example, — he
resolved to waste no time in purging himself of the
aforesaid suspicion.

“Sit down,” Eliza directed, with a quick, quiet, dominant,
business-like manner. And Tasso sat down.

“Mrs. Apjohn, bring me a pen and ink.”

A pen, used in keeping the cooper's accounts, and in
making memoranda in the almanac, was produced, together
with some muddy ink.

“Now, sir, tell your story. You are not under oath
yet, but you will be before I am through with you.
Mr. and Mrs. Apjohn, listen.”

They listened; and Eliza wrote; while Tasso proceeded
to make his astounding revelations, by which
Melissa's statement was fully confirmed.

“O Prudy! Prudy!” cried the wonder-stricken
John. “Abel is a innocent man, arter all! And he is
in for five year'! and his mother has been killed by it!

and we — we've been — O Prudy! Prudy! To be sure,
to be sure!”

Eliza did not wait to hear the exclamations and
lamentations of the worthy pair; but, fastening herself
to Tasso, informed him that he was to go presently before
a magistrate and take oath to the statement she
had received from his lips. They were to stop on their
way for Melissa; and Mrs. Apjohn eagerly volunteered
to “run over and take care of the baby,” during the
girl's absence; for that solid and sterling woman was
now enlisted with her whole body and soul in Abel's
cause, showing herself even more anxious for his deliverance
than she had ever been for his condemnation.