He was going off, either to struggle through poverty to a
fortune of his own making, or, giving himself up to his misfortune, to
remain all his life in want and misery; or, perhaps--Abbie did not
openly admit this alternative, but still, knowing what she thought she
did of his nature and the circumstances, the suspicion had
existence--perhaps, in conjunction with a certain evil-disposed person
in New York, he contemplated fraudulently absconding.
Now, Abbie imagined that the key whereby alone all these difficulties
could be unlocked, lay in her own hands. It was a key of which, so long
as her own interest alone had been concerned, she had refused to avail
herself; but, when the welfare of those she loved was called into
question, she made up her mind (in spite of pride--her strongest passion
next to love) to make use of it without hesitation.
When the last guests had taken their departure, Abbie went to her room,
and looked at herself in the glass, by the light of a kerosene-lamp. She
was dressed plainly, though becomingly enough, in black silk; a lace cap
rested on her gray hair; her face was worn and wrinkled, but had a fine
expression about it, that would have recalled former beauty to the
memory of any one who had known her in early life.
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