"What shall we do?" she groaned at last, in a voice so full of despair, that with a feeling akin to pity, Stephen, who had been pacing up and down the room, came to her side, saying, "Why can't we stay as we are? I can average a pettyfogging suit a month, and that'll be better than nothing."
"I wouldn't remain here on any account after what has happened," said
Eugenia; "and besides that, we couldn't stay, if we would, for now that
Uncle Nat's remittance is withdrawn, mother has nothing in the world to
live on."
"Couldn't you take in sewing," suggested Stephen, "or washing, or mopping?"
To the sewing and the washing Eugenia was too indignant to reply, but when it came to the mopping, she lifted up her hands in astonishment, calling him "a fool and a simpleton."
"Hang me, if I know anything about woman's work," said Stephen, resuming his walk, and wondering why the taking in of mopping should be more difficult than anything else. "I have it," he said at length, running his fingers over the keys of the piano. "Can't you teach music? The piano got you into a fix, and if I were you, I'd make it help me out."
"I'll use it for kindling-wood first," was her answer, and Stephen resumed his cogitations, which resulted finally in his telling her, that on the prairies of Illinois there were a few acres of land, of which he was the rightful owner. There was a house on it, too, he said, though in what condition he did not know, and if they only had a little money with which to start, it would be best for them to go out there at once. This plan struck Eugenia more favorably than any which he had proposed.
Humbled as she was, she felt that the further she were from Dunwood, the happier she would be, and after a consultation with Mrs. Deane, it was decided that the beautiful rosewood piano should be sold, and that with the proceeds, Stephen and Eugenia should bury themselves for a time at the West. Two weeks more found them on their way to their distant home, and when that winter, Dora Hastings, at Rose Hill, pushed aside the heavy damask which shaded her pleasant window, and looked out upon the snow-covered lawn and spacious garden beyond, Eugenia Grey, in her humble cabin, looked through her paper-curtained window upon the snow-clad prairie, which stretched away as far as eye could reach, and shed many bitter tears, as she heard the wind go wailing past her door, and thought of her home far to the east, towards the rising sun.
CHAPTER XXII
CONCLUSION
Three years have passed away, and twice the wintry storms have swept over the two graves, which, on the prairies of Illinois, were made when the glorious Indian summer sun was shining o'er the earth, and the withered leaves of autumn were strewn upon the ground. Stephen and Eugenia are dead—he, dying as a drunkard dies—she, as a drunkard's wife. Uncle Nat had been to visit the western world, and on his return to Rose Hill, there was a softened light in his eye, and a sadness in the tones of his voice, as, drawing Dora to his side, he whispered, "I have forgiven her—forgiven Eugenia Deane."