University of Virginia Library

3. III.
ABSENCE.

It takes a woman to read a woman. A man, especially
a lover, is apt to confide too much in the title-page,
namely, the face; although, like other title-pages, this
is often so false that its smiling promise affords scarce a
hint, to the unsophisticated, of the actual contents of the
volume.

The book of beauty which Abel Dane had chosen,
which he took out of the modest covers of maidenhood,
and bound in bridal gilt and velvet, and placed in the
closet of his affections, to be his inseparable companion
and book of life, — was now to be tested. How soon
the gilt began to tarnish, the sumptuous velvet to fade,
the contents to belie the title, and Abel to learn how
much better Eliza had discerned their true character at
a glance, than he with all his admiring attention, let
us not too closely inquire.

There were at least two individuals that mourned
Eliza's departure, and could not be comforted by Faustina's
coming. One was old Mrs. Dane; she felt that
one of her roots of life had been severed, when her
adopted daughter went, and that she was too old a

tree to put forth vigorous young fibres to supply its
place.

“Wal, old friend, how do ye git along? to be sure!”
said Cooper John, looking in upon her one day.

“Narrowing at the heel,” smiled Mrs. Dane; then
laughed at herself, for she had meant to say, “Pretty
well, I thank you, John.” “That's true, though, I suppose.
My stocking of life is fast knitting up, and I shall
soon be at the toe.”

“To be sure, yes!” the cooper snuffled, and produced
his red silk handkerchief. “We shall all go soon or
late. Dreadful changes. Heard from 'Lizy?”

“I had a wood-box from her — dear me! you know
what I mean.”

“To be sure, a letter.”

“She writes she's gone to work in the mills, and appears
to be contented; but, oh, John!”

She wept; and John wept with her; and Turk, the
house-dog, laid his great, shaggy head between his
paws, and winked sympathetically; for Turk was the
other mourner aforesaid: a faithful, grim old dog, that
would sometimes lie down before Eliza's vacant chair,
and growl at any one who approached it; or, like the
old man in the story, go about

then suddenly take it into his head to bounce up stairs,
and bark furiously at her door, as if he had at last discovered
the chest in which his Ginevra was concealed.
What was singular, not all Faustina's attentions, — feeding
him and patting him with her fair hand, — could
flatter him into forgetting his old mistress and accepting
a new one.

Mrs. Dane did not fail to answer Eliza's letter; and
others also wrote to her; for she had left behind her
many friends in the village. And now, in her lonely
retreat, she heard again and again how handsome Faustina
was, and how much she was admired, and how
happy Abel seemed, and what new furniture he had
purchased, and what a gay winter they were having,
and how almost everybody except the joyous wedded
pair often inquired for her, and sent love. And do you
suppose that, as Eliza pondered these things all day, and
day after day, to the tune of the whirling spindles, her
sharp thoughts did not sometimes whirl too, and pierce
into her soul?

So the winter passed, and the summer followed; and
she learned that now Abel had especial reason to be
tender of his bride; that he had bought a new carriage
to drive her out in; that, in his devotion, he spared no
time or trouble or expense, if a whim of hers was to be
gratified. Then came the intelligence which she had
been long prepared to hear, but which, when at last she
heard it, smote her with faintness of heart. Abel, far
from her, forgetting her entirely, no doubt, in his separate
delight, was the father of a beautiful boy.

How the child thrived, and grew to look like his

mother; how Faustina once more flashed into society,
which she dazzled by her beauty and jewels and dresses;
how envious ones reported that she was running Abel
into debt by her extravagance; how careworn he was
really beginning to look; all this, with many dark hints
of things going wrong at home, Eliza heard during the
two years that followed. But never, directly or indirectly,
did she get one word from Abel. Others invited
her to return to the village; he never invited her. His
resentment seemed eternal. And though, often and long
after, when her life had grown less lonely, her thoughts
would fly back to her old home, and her heart, despite
of her, would yearn to follow, she saw ever the iron
gates, through which she had passed, closed and barred
behind her.

But at length, one September evening, as she went
home from her work, at the door of her boarding-house
a letter was given her.

The well-known hand-writing made her tremble so
that she could scarcely break the seal. It was Abel's
hand, — changed, agitated, hurried, — but still she knew
it well.

This was the letter: —

Terror and dread swept over her. She did not stop

to remember or to forgive. But love, like a strong
power, seized upon her, gave her strength, and guided
her hands, and sent her, the next day, whirling away
upon the train that bore her back to Abel and her home.