_CHANGES._
SCENE.—_A chamber at the Seymour House. Lillie discovered weeping. John
rushing in with empressement._
“LILLIE, you _shall_ tell me what ails you.”
“Nothing ails me, John.”
“Yes, there does; you were crying when I came in.”
“Oh, well, that’s nothing!”
“Oh, but it _is_ a great deal! What is the matter? I can see that you
are not happy.”
“Oh, pshaw, John! I am as happy as I ought to be, I dare say; there
isn’t much the matter with me, only a little blue, and I don’t feel
quite strong.”
“You don’t feel strong! I’ve noticed it, Lillie.”
“Well, you see, John, the fact is, that I never have got through this
month without going to the sea-side. Mamma always took me. The doctors
told her that my constitution was such that I couldn’t get along
without it; but I dare say I shall do well enough in time, you know.”
“But, Lillie,” said John, “if you do need sea-air, you must go. I can’t
leave my business; that’s the trouble.”
“Oh, no, John! don’t think of it. I ought to make an effort to get
along. You see, it’s very foolish in me, but places affect my spirits
so. It’s perfectly absurd how I am affected.”
“Well, Lillie, I hope this place doesn’t affect you unpleasantly,” said
John.
“It’s a nice, darling place, John, and it’s very silly in me; but it is
a fact that this house somehow has a depressing effect on my spirits.
You know it’s not like the houses I’ve been used to. It has a sort of
old look; and I can’t help feeling that it puts me in mind of those who
are dead and gone; and then I think I shall be dead and gone too, some
day, and it makes me cry so. Isn’t it silly of me, John?”
“Poor little pussy!” said John.
“You see, John, our rooms are lovely; but they aren’t modern and
cheerful, like those I’ve been accustomed to. They make me feel pensive
and sad all the time; but I’m trying to get over it.”
“Why, Lillie!” said John, “would you like the rooms refurnished? It can
easily be done if you wish it.”
“Oh, no, no, dear! You are too good; and I’m sure the rooms are lovely,
and it would hurt Gracie’s feelings to change them. No: I must try and
get over it. I know just how silly it is, and I shall try to overcome
it. If I had only more strength, I believe I could.”
“Well, darling, you must go to the sea-side. I shall have you sent
right off to Newport. Gracie can go with you.”
“Oh, no, John! not for the world. Gracie must stay, and keep house for
you. She’s such a help to you, that it would be a shame to take her
away. But I think mamma would go with me,—if you could take me there,
and engage my rooms and all that, why, mamma could stay with me, you
know. To be sure, it would be a trial not to have you there; but then
if I could get up my strength, you know,”—
“Exactly, certainly; and, Lillie, how would you like the parlors
arranged if you had your own way?”
“Oh, John! don’t think of it.”
“But I just want to know for curiosity. Now, how would you have them if
you could?”
“Well, then, John, don’t you think it would be lovely to have them
frescoed? Did you ever see the Folingsbees’ rooms in New York? They
were so lovely!—one was all in blue, and the other in crimson, opening
into each other; with carved furniture, and those _marquetrie_ tables,
and all sorts of little French things. They had such a gay and cheerful
look.”
“Now, Lillie, if you want our rooms like that, you shall have them.”
“O John, you are too good! I couldn’t ask such a sacrifice.”
“Oh, pshaw! it isn’t a sacrifice. I don’t doubt I shall like them
better myself. Your taste is perfect, Lillie; and, now I think of it,
I wonder that I thought of bringing you here without consulting you
in every particular. A woman ought to be queen in her own house, I am
sure.”
“But, Gracie! Now, John, I know she has associations with all the
things in this house, and it would be cruel to her,” said Lillie, with
a sigh.
“Pshaw! Gracie is a good, sensible girl, and ready to make any rational
change. I suppose we have been living rather behind the times, and are
somewhat rusty, that’s a fact; but Gracie will enjoy new things as much
as anybody, I dare say.”
“Well, John, since you are set on it, there’s Charlie Ferrola, one of
my particular friends; he’s an architect, and does all about arranging
rooms and houses and furniture. He did the Folingsbees’, and the
Hortons’, and the Jeromes’, and no end of real nobby people’s houses;
and made them perfectly lovely. People say that one wouldn’t know that
they weren’t in Paris, in houses that he does.”
Now, our John was by nature a good solid chip of the old Anglo-Saxon
block; and, if there was any thing that he had no special affinity
for, it was for French things. He had small opinion of French morals,
and French ways in general; but then at this moment he saw his Lillie,
whom, but half an hour before, he found all pale and tear-drenched,
now radiant and joyous, sleek as a humming-bird, with the light in her
eyes, and the rattle on the tip of her tongue; and he felt so delighted
to see her bright and gay and joyous, that he would have turned his
house into the Jardin Mabille, if that were possible.
Lillie had the prettiest little caressing tricks and graces imaginable;
and she perched herself on his knee, and laughed and chatted so gayly,
and pulled his whiskers so saucily, and then, springing up, began
arraying herself in such an astonishing daintiness of device, and
fluttering before him with such a variety of well-assorted plumage,
that John was quite taken off his feet. He did not care so much whether
what she willed to do were, “Wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best,”
as feel that what she wished to do must be done at any rate.
[Illustration: “She perched herself on his knee.”]
“Why, darling!” he said in his rapture; “why didn’t you tell me all
this before? Here you have been growing sad and blue, and losing your
vivacity and spirits, and never told me why!”
“I thought it was my duty, John, to try to bear it,” said Lillie, with
the sweet look of a virgin saint. “I thought perhaps I should get used
to things in time; and I think it is a wife’s duty to accommodate
herself to her husband’s circumstances.”
“No, it’s a husband’s duty to accommodate himself to his wife’s
wishes,” said John. “What’s that fellow’s address? I’ll write to him
about doing our house, forthwith.”
“But, John, do pray tell Gracie that it’s _your_ wish. I don’t want her
to think that it’s I that am doing this. Now, pray do think whether you
really want it yourself. You see it must be so natural for you to like
the old things! They must have associations, and I wouldn’t for the
world, now, be the one to change them; and, after all, how silly it was
of me to feel blue!”
“Don’t say any more, Lillie. Let me see,—next week,” he said, taking
out his pocket-book, and looking over his memoranda,—“next week I’ll
take you down to Newport; and you write to-day to your mother to meet
you there, and be your guest. I’ll write and engage the rooms at once.”
“I don’t know what I shall do without you, John.”
“Oh, well, I couldn’t stay possibly! But I may run down now and then,
for a night, you know.”
“Well, we must make that do,” said Lillie, with a pensive sigh.
Thus two very important moves on Miss Lillie’s checker-board of life
were skilfully made. The house was to be refitted, and the Newport
precedent established.
Now, dear friends, don’t think Lillie a pirate, or a conspirator, or a
wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing, or any thing else but what she was,—a pretty
little, selfish woman; undeveloped in her conscience and affections,
and strong in her instincts and perceptions; in a blind way using what
means were most in her line to carry her purposes. Lillie had always
found her prettiness, her littleness, her helplessness, and her tears
so very useful in carrying her points in life that she resorted to them
as her lawful stock in trade. Neither were her blues entirely shamming.
There comes a time after marriage, when a husband, if he be any thing
of a man, has something else to do than make direct love to his wife.
He cannot be on duty at all hours to fan her, and shawl her, and admire
her. His love must express itself through other channels. He must be a
full man for her sake; and, as a man, must go forth to a whole world of
interests that takes him from her. Now what in this case shall a woman
do, whose only life lies in petting and adoration and display?
Springdale had no _beau monde_, no fashionable circle, no Bois de
Boulogne, and no beaux, to make amends for a husband’s engrossments.
Grace was sisterly and kind; but what on earth had they in common
to talk about? Lillie’s wardrobe was in all the freshness of bridal
exuberance, and there was nothing more to be got, and so, for the
moment, no stimulus in this line. But then where to wear all these fine
French dresses? Lillie had been called on, and invited once to little
social evening parties, through the whole round of old, respectable
families that lived under the elm-arches of Springdale; and she had
found it rather stupid. There was not a man to make an admirer of,
except the young minister, who, after the first afternoon of seeing
her, returned to his devotion to Rose Ferguson.
You know, ladies, Æsop has a pretty little fable as follows: A young
man fell desperately in love with a cat, and prayed to Jupiter to
change her to a woman for his sake. Jupiter was so obliging as to grant
his prayer; and, behold, a soft, satin-skinned, purring, graceful woman
was given into his arms.
But the legend goes on to say that, while he was delighting in her
charms, she heard the sound of _mice_ behind the wainscot, and left him
forthwith to rush after her congenial prey.
Lillie had heard afar the sound of _mice_ at Newport, and she longed
to be after them once more. Had she not a prestige now as a rich young
married lady? Had she not jewels and gems to show? Had she not any
number of mouse-traps, in the way of ravishing toilets? She thought it
all over, till she was sick with longing, and was sure that nothing
but the sea-air could do her any good; and so she fell to crying, and
kissing her faithful John, till she gained her end, like a veritable
little cat as she was.