"Been trying to correct some of his faults, ha?"
No answer. But the sobbing became less violent.
"Ah, Kate! Kate! I warned you of this."
"Warned me of what?"
Mrs. Lee lifted her head, and tried to assume an air of dignity as
she spoke.
"I warned you that Frederick would not bear it, if you attempted to
lay your hand upon his faults."
Kate raised her head higher, and compressed her lips. Still she did
not answer.
"A young husband, naturally enough, thinks himself faultless--at
least in the eyes of his wife."
"Very far from faultless is Frederick in my eyes," said Kate. "My
love is not blind, and so I told him."
"You did!"
"Yes, I did, and in so many words," replied Kate, with spirit.
"Ah, silly child!" returned her friend. "Already you have the reward
of your folly. I forewarned you how it would be."
"Are my wishes, feelings, and taste to be of no account whatever?"
said Kate, warmly. "Frederick is to be and do just what he pleases,
and I must say nothing, do nothing, and bear every thing. Was this
the contract between us? No, Mrs. Morton!"
The bright eyes of Mrs. Lee flashed with indignant fire.
"Come, come, Katy, dear! Don't let that impulsive heart of thine
lead thee too far aside from the path of prudence and safety. I am
sure that Frederick Lee is no self-willed, exacting, domestic
tyrant. I could not have been so deceived in him. But tell me the
particular cause of your trouble. What has been said and done? You
have given offence, and he has become offended. Tell me the whole
story, Kate, and then I'll know what to say and do for the
restoration of your peace."
"You are aware," said Kate, after a brief pause, and with a
deepening flush on her cheeks, "how awkward and untidy Frederick is
at times,--how he lounges in his chair, and throws his body into all
manner of ungraceful attitudes."
"Well?"
"This, as you know, has always annoyed me sadly. Night before last,
I felt so worried with him, that I could not help speaking right
out."
"Ah! when you were worried?"
"Of course. If I hadn't felt worried, I wouldn't have said any
thing."
"Indeed! Well, what did you say? Was your tone of voice low and full
of love, and your words as gentle as the falling dew?"
"Mrs. Morton!"
There was a half-angry, indignant expression in the voice of Kate.
"Did you lay your hand lightly, like the touch of a feather, upon
the fault you designed to correct, or did you grasp it rudely and
angrily?"
Kate's eyes drooped beneath those of her friend.
"You were annoyed and excited," continued Mrs. Morton. "This by your
own acknowledgment, and, in such a frame of mind, you charged with
faults the one who had vainly thought himself, at least in your
eyes, perfect. And he, as a natural consequence, was hurt and
offended. But what did you say to him?"
"I hardly know what I said, now," returned Kate. "But I know I used
the words ungraceful, undignified, and country clod-hopper."
"Why, Kate! I am surprised at you! And this to so excellent a man as
Frederick, who, from all the fair and gentle ones around him, chose
you to be his bosom friend and life companion. Kate, Kate! That was
unworthy of you. That was unkind to him. I do not wonder that he was
hurt and offended."
"Perhaps I was wrong, Mrs. Morton," said Kate, as tears began to
flow again. "But Frederick's want of order, grace, and neatness, is
dreadful. I cannot tell you how much it annoys me."
"You saw all this before you were married."
"Not all of it."
"You saw enough to enable you to judge of the rest."
"True; but then I always meant to correct these things in him. They
were but blemishes on a jewel of surpassing value."
"Ah, Kate, you have proved the truth of what I told you before your
marriage. It is not so easy a thing to correct the faults of a
husband--faults confirmed by long habit. Whenever a wife attempts
this, she puts in jeopardy, for the time being at least, her
happiness, as you have done. A man is but little pleased to make the
discovery that his wife thinks him no better than a country
clod-hopper; and it is no wonder that he should be offended, if she,
with strange indiscreetness and want of tact, tells him in plain
terms what she thinks. Your husband is sensitive, Kate."
"I know he is."
"And keenly alive to ridicule."
"I am not aware of that."
"Then your reading of his character is less accurate than mine.
Moreover, he has a pretty good opinion of himself."
"We all have that."
"And a strong will, quiet as he is in exterior."
"Not stronger, perhaps, than I have."
"Take my advice, Kate," said Mrs. Morton, seriously, "and don't
bring your will in direct opposition to his."
"And why not? Am I not his equal? He is no master of mine. I did not
sell myself as his slave, that his will should be my law!"
"Silly child! How madly you talk!" said Mrs. Morton. "Not for the
world would I have Frederick hear such utterance from your lips.
Does he not love you tenderly? Has he not, in every way, sought your
happiness thus far in your brief married life? Is he not a man of
high moral virtue? Does not your alliance with him rather elevate
than depress you in the social rank? And yet, forsooth, because he
lounges in his chair, and permits his body, at times, to assume
ungraceful attitudes, you must throw the apple of discord into your
pleasant home to mar its beautiful harmonies."
"Surely, a wife may be permitted to speak to her husband, and even
seek to correct his faults," said Kate.
"Better shut her eyes to his faults, if seeing them is to make them
both unhappy. You are in a very strange mood, Kate."
"Am I?" returned Mrs. Lee, querulously.
"You are; and the quicker it passes away, the better for both
yourself and husband."
"I don't know how soon it will pass away," sighed Kate, moodily.
"Good-morning," said Mrs. Morton, rising and making a motion to
depart.
"You are not going?"
Kate glanced up with a look of surprise.
"Yes; I am afraid to stay here any longer," was the affected serious
reply. "I might catch something of your spirit, and then my husband
would find a change in his pleasant home. Good-morning. May I see
you in a better state of mind when we meet again."
And saying this, Mrs. Morton passed from the room so quickly that
Kate could not arrest the movement; so she remained seated, though a
little disturbed by her friend and monitor's sudden departure.
What Mrs. Morton had said, although it seemed not to impress the
mind of her young friend, yet lingered there, and now began
gradually to do its work.
As for Frederick Lee, he was unhappy enough. The words of Kate had
stung him severely.
"And so, in her eyes, I am no better than a country clod-hopper!"
Almost every hour was this repeated--sometimes mentally and
sometimes aloud; and at each repetition it disturbed his feelings
and awakened an unforgiving spirit.
"A clod-hopper, indeed! Wonder she never made this discovery
before!"
This was the thought of Lee as he left his place of business to
return home, on the evening of the day on which Mrs. Morton called
upon Kate. Why would he not look away from this? Why would he ponder
over and magnify the offence of Kate? Why would he keep this ever
before his eyes? His self-love had been wounded. His pride had been
touched. The weapon of ridicule had been used against him, and to
ridicule he was morbidly sensitive. Kate should have read his
character more closely, and should have understood it better. But
she was ignorant of his weaknesses, and bore heavily upon them ere
aware of their existence.
It was in this brooding, clouded, and unforgiving state of mind that
Frederick Lee took his way homeward. On entering his dwelling, which
he did almost noiselessly, he went into the parlour and seated
himself in the very place where he was sitting when Kate began, so
unexpectedly to him, her unsuccessful work of reformation. Every
thing around reminded him of that unfortunate evening--even the
lounging position he so naturally assumed, sliding down, as he did,
in the chair, and throwing one of his legs over the arm.
"It is comfortable for me," said he, moodily to himself; "and it's
my own house. If she don't like it, let her--"
He did not finish the sentence, for he felt that his state of mind
was not what it should be, and that to speak thus of his wife was
neither just nor kind.
Unhappy young man! Is it thus you visit the light offence--for it
was light, in reality--of the loving and gentle young creature who
has given her happiness, her very life into your keeping? Could you
not bear a word from her? Are you so perfect, that her eyes must see
no defect? Is she never to dare, on penalty of your stern
displeasure, to correct a fault--to seek to lift you, by her purer
and better taste, above the ungraceful and unmanly habits consequent
upon a neglected boyhood? What if her hand was laid rather heavily
upon you? What if her feelings did prompt her to use words that had
better been left unsaid? It was the young wife's pride in her
husband that warmed her into undue excitement, and this you should
have at once comprehended.
If Frederick Lee did not think precisely as we have written, his
thoughts gradually inclined in that direction. Still he felt moody,
and his feelings warmed but little toward Kate.
Thus he sat for some ten or fifteen minutes. At the end of this
time, he heard light footsteps coming down the stairs. He knew them
to be those of his wife. He did not move nor make a sound, but
rather crouched lower in his chair, the back of which was turned
toward the door. But his thought was on his wife. He saw her with
the eyes of his mind--saw her with her clouded countenance. His
heart throbbed heavily against his side, and he partially held his
breath.
Now her footsteps moved along the passage, and now he was conscious
that she had entered the room where he sat. Not the slightest
movement did he make--not a sign did he give of his presence. There
he sat, shrinking down in his chair, moody, gloomy, and angry with
Kate in his heart.
Was she aware of his presence? Had she heard him enter the house?
Such were the questioning thoughts that were in his mind.
Footsteps moved across the room. Now Kate was at the mantel-piece, a
few feet from the chair he occupied, for he heard her lay a book
thereon. Now she passed to the back window, and throwing it up,
pushed open the shutters, giving freer entrance to the waning light.
A deep silence followed. Now the stillness is broken by a gentle
sigh that floats faintly through the room. How rebukingly smote that
sigh upon the ears of Lee! How it softened his heart toward Kate,
the young and loving wife of his bosom! A slower movement in the
current of his angry feelings succeeds to this. Then it becomes
still. There is a pause.
But where is Kate? Has she left the room? He listens for some
movement, but not the slightest sound meets his ear.
"Kate!" No, he did not utter the word aloud, in tender accents,
though it was in his heart and on his tongue. Nor did he start up or
move. No, as if spell-bound, he remained crouching down in his
chair.
All at once he is conscious that some one is bending above him, and,
in the next moment, warm lips touch his forehead, gently,
hesitatingly, yet with a lingering pressure.
"Kate! Dear Kate!"
He has sprung to his feet, and his arms are flung around his wife.
"Forgive me, Frederick, if I seemed unkind to you," sobbed Kate, as
soon as she could command her voice. "There was no unkindness in my
heart--only love."
"It is I who most need to ask forgiveness," replied Lee. "I who
have--"
"Hush! Not a word of that now," quickly returned Kate, placing her
hand upon his mouth. "Let the past be forgotten."
"And forgiven, too," said Lee, as he pressed his lips eagerly to
those of his wife.
How happy they were at this moment of reconciliation! How light
seemed the causes which had risen up to mar the beautiful harmony of
their lives! Haw weak and foolish both had been, as their acts now
appeared in eyes from which had fallen the scales of passion!
Both were wiser than in the aforetime. Kate tried to look away, as
much as possible, from the little faults which at first so much
annoyed her; while her husband turned his thoughts more narrowly
upon himself, at the same time that he made observation of other
men, and was soon well convinced that sundry changes in his habits
and manners might be made with great advantage. The more his eyes
were opened to these little personal defects, the more fully did he
forgive Kate for having in the beginning laid her hand upon them,
though not in the gentlest manner.
"Six months have passed since you were married," said Mrs. Morton
one day to Kate.
"Yes, six months have flown on wings of perfume," replied the happy
wife.
"I saw Frederick yesterday."
"Did you?"
"Yes; and I knew him the moment my eyes rested upon him."
"Knew him! Why shouldn't you know him?"
Kate looked a little surprised.
"I thought he was to be so changed under your hands in six months,
that I would hardly recognise him."
There was an arch look in Mrs. Morton's eyes, and a merry flutter in
her voice.
"Mrs. Morton! Now that is too bad!"
"Your experiment failed, did it not, dear?"
The door of the room in which the ladies were sitting opened at the
moment, and Frederick Lee entered.
"Not entirely," whispered Kate, as she bent to the ear of her
friend. "He is vastly improved--at least, in my eyes."
"And in others' eyes, too," thought Mrs. Morton, as she arose and
returned the young man's smiling salutation.
"MY FORTUNE'S MADE."
My young friend, Cora Lee, was a gay, dashing girl, fond of dress,
and looking always as if, to use a common saying, just out of a
bandbox. Cora was a belle, of course, and had many admirers. Among
the number of these, was a young man named Edward Douglass, who was
the very "pink" of neatness in all matters pertaining to dress, and
exceedingly particular in his observance of the little proprieties
of life.
I saw, from the first, that if Douglass pressed his suit, Cora's
heart would be an easy conquest, and so it proved.
"How admirably they are fitted for each other!" I remarked to my
husband, on the night of their wedding. "Their tastes are similar,
and their habits so much alike, that no violence will be done to the
feelings of either in the more intimate associations that marriage
brings. Both are neat in person and orderly by instinct, and both
have good principles."
"From all present appearances, the match will be a good one,"
replied my husband. There was, I thought, something like reservation
in his tone.
"Do you really think so?" I said, a little ironically, for Mr.
Smith's approval of the marriage was hardly warm enough to suit my
fancy.
"Oh, certainly! Why not?" he replied.
I felt a little fretted at my husband's mode of speaking, but made
no further remark on the subject. He is never very enthusiastic nor
sanguine, and did not mean, in this instance, to doubt the fitness
of the parties for happiness in the marriage state--as I half
imagined. For myself, I warmly approved of my friend's choice, and
called her husband a lucky man to secure, for his companion through
life, a woman so admirably fitted to make one like him happy. But a
visit which I paid to Cora one day about six weeks after the
honeymoon had expired, lessened my enthusiasm on the subject, and
awoke some unpleasant doubts. It happened that I called soon after
breakfast. Cora met me in the parlour, looking like a very fright.
She wore a soiled and rumpled morning wrapper; her hair was in
papers; and she had on dirty stockings, and a pair of old slippers
down at the heels.
"Bless me, Cora!" said I. "What is the matter? Have you been sick?"
"No. Why do you ask? Is my dishabille rather on the extreme?"
"Candidly, I think it is, Cora," was my frank answer.
"Oh, well! No matter," she carelessly replied, "my fortune's made."
"I don't clearly understand you," said I.
"I'm married, you know."
"Yes; I am aware of that fact."
"No need of being so particular in dress now."
"Why not?"
"Didn't I just say?" replied Cora. "My fortune's made. I've got a
husband."
Beneath an air of jesting, was apparent the real earnestness of my
friend.
"You dressed with a careful regard to taste and neatness, in order
to win Edward's love?" said I.
"Certainly I did."
"And should you not do the same in order to retain it?"
"Why, Mrs. Smith! Do you think my husband's affection goes no deeper
than my dress? I should be very sorry indeed to think that. He loves
me for myself."
"No doubt of that in the world, Cora. But remember that he cannot
see what is in your mind except by what you do or say. If he admires
your taste, for instance, it is not from any abstract appreciation
thereof, but because the taste manifests itself in what you do. And,
depend upon it, he will find it a very hard matter to approve and
admire your correct taste in dress, for instance, when you appear
before him, day after day, in your present unattractive attire. If
you do not dress well for your husband's eyes, for whose eyes, pray,
do you dress? You are as neat when abroad as you were before your
marriage."
"As to that, Mrs. Smith, common decency requires me to dress well
when I go upon the street or into company, to say nothing of the
pride one naturally feels in looking well."
"And does not the same common decency and natural pride argue as
strongly in favour of your dressing well at home, and for the eye of
your husband, whose approval and whose admiration must be dearer to
you than the approval and admiration of the whole world?"
"But he doesn't want to see me rigged out in silks and satins all
the time. A pretty bill my dressmaker would have against him! Edward
has more sense than that, I flatter myself."
"Street or ball-room attire is one thing, Cora, and becoming home
apparel another. We look for both in their places."
Thus I argued with the thoughtless young wife, but my words made no
impression. When abroad, she dressed with exquisite taste, and was
lovely to look upon; but at home, she was careless and slovenly, and
made it almost impossible for those who saw her to realize that she
was the brilliant beauty they had met in company but a short time
before. But even this did not last long. I noticed, after a few
months, that the habits of home were confirming themselves, and
becoming apparent abroad. Her "fortune was made," and why should she
now waste time or employ her thoughts about matters of personal
appearance?
The habits of Mr. Douglass, on the contrary, did not change. He was
as orderly as before, and dressed with the same regard to neatness.
He never appeared at the breakfast-table in the morning without
being shaved; nor did he lounge about in the evening in his
shirt-sleeves. The slovenly habits into which Cora had fallen
annoyed him seriously; and still more so, when her carelessness
about her appearance began to manifest itself abroad as well as at
home. When he hinted any thing on the subject, she did not hesitate
to reply, in a jesting manner, that her fortune was made, and she
need not trouble herself any longer about how she looked.
Douglass did not feel very much complimented; but as he had his
share of good sense, he saw that to assume a cold and offended
manner would do no good.
"If your fortune is made, so is mine," he replied on one occasion,
quite coolly and indifferently. Next morning he made his appearance
at the breakfast table with a beard of twenty-four hours' growth.
"You haven't shaved this morning, dear," said Cora, to whose eyes
the dirty-looking face of her husband was particularly unpleasant.
"No," he replied, carelessly. "It's a serious trouble to shave every
day."
"But you look so much better with a cleanly-shaved face."
"Looks are nothing--ease and comfort every thing," said Douglass.
"But common decency, Edward."
"I see nothing indecent in a long beard," replied the husband.
Still Cora argued, but in vain. Her husband went off to his business
with his unshaven face.
"I don't know whether to shave or not," said Douglass next morning,
running his hand over his rough face, upon which was a beard of
forty-eight hours' growth. His wife had hastily thrown on a wrapper,
and, with slip-shod feet and head like a mop, was lounging in a
large rocking-chair, awaiting the breakfast-bell.
"For mercy's sake, Edward, don't go any longer with that shockingly
dirty face," spoke up Cora. "If you knew how dreadfully you look!"
"Looks are nothing," replied Edward, stroking his beard.
"Why, what's come over you all at once?"
"Nothing; only it's such a trouble to shave every day."
"But you didn't shave yesterday."
"I know; I am just as well off to-day as if I had. So much saved, at
any rate."
But Cora urged the matter, and her husband finally yielded, and
mowed down the luxuriant growth of beard.
"How much better you do look!" said the young wife. "Now don't go
another day without shaving."
"But why should I take so much trouble about mere looks? I'm just as
good with a long beard as with a short one. It's a great deal of
trouble to shave every day. You can love me just as well; and why
need I care about what others say or think?"
On the following morning, Douglass appeared not only with a long
beard, but with a bosom and collar that were both soiled and
rumpled.
"Why, Edward! How you do look!" said Cora. "You've neither shaved
nor put on a clean shirt."
Edward stroked his face and run his fingers along the edge of his
collar, remarking, indifferently, as he did so--
"It's no matter. I look well enough. This being so very particular
in dress is waste of time, and I'm getting tired of it."
And in this trim Douglass went off to his business, much to the
annoyance of his wife, who could not bear to see her husband looking
so slovenly.
Gradually the declension from neatness went on, until Edward was
quite a match for his wife; and yet, strange to say, Cora had not
taken the hint, broad as it was. In her own person she was as untidy
as ever.
About six months after their marriage, we invited a few friends to
spend a social evening with us, Cora and her husband among the
number. Cora came alone, quite early, and said that her husband was
very much engaged, and could not come until after tea. My young
friend had not taken much pains with her attire. Indeed, her
appearance mortified me, as it contrasted so decidedly with that of
the other ladies who were present; and I could not help suggesting
to her that she was wrong in being so indifferent about her dress.
But she laughingly replied to me--
"You know my fortune's made now, Mrs. Smith. I can afford to be
negligent in these matters. It's a great waste of time to dress so
much."
I tried to argue against this, but could make no impression upon
her.
About an hour after tea, and while we were all engaged in pleasant
conversation, the door of the parlour opened, and in walked Mr.
Douglass. At first glance I thought I must be mistaken. But no, it
was Edward himself. But what a figure he did cut! His uncombed hair
was standing up, in stiff spikes, in a hundred different directions;
his face could not have felt the touch of a razor for two or three
days; and he was guiltless of clean linen for at least the same
length of time. His vest was soiled; his boots unblacked; and there
was an unmistakable hole in one of his elbows.
"Why, Edward!" exclaimed his wife, with a look of mortification and
distress, as her husband came across the room, with a face in which
no consciousness of the figure he cut could be detected.
"Why, my dear fellow! What is the matter?" said my husband, frankly;
for he perceived that the ladies were beginning to titter, and that
the gentlemen were looking at each other, and trying to repress
their risible tendencies; and therefore deemed it best to throw off
all reserve on the subject.
"The matter? Nothing's the matter, I believe. Why do you ask?"
Douglass looked grave.
"Well may he ask, what's the matter?" broke in Cora, energetically.
"How could you come here in such a plight?"
"In such a plight?" And Edward looked down at himself, felt his
beard, and ran his fingers through his hair. "What's the matter? Is
any thing wrong?"
"You look as if you'd just waked up from a nap of a week with your
clothes on, and come off without washing your face or combing your
hair," said my husband.
"Oh!" And Edward's countenance brightened a little. Then he said
with much gravity of manner--
"I've been extremely hurried of late; and only left my store a few
minutes ago. I hardly thought it worth while to go home to dress up.
I knew we were all friends here. Besides, _as my fortune is
made_"--and he glanced with a look not to be mistaken toward his
wife--"I don't feel called upon to give as much attention to mere
dress as formerly. Before I was married, it was necessary to be
particular in these matters, but now it's of no consequence."
I turned toward Cora. Her face was like crimson. In a few moments
she arose and went quickly from the room. I followed her, and Edward
came after us pretty soon. He found his wife in tears, and sobbing
almost hysterically.
"I've got a carriage at the door," said he to me, aside, half
laughing, half serious. "So help her on with her things, and we'll
retire in disorder."
"But it's too bad in you, Mr. Douglass," replied I.
"Forgive me for making your house the scene of this lesson to Cora,"
he whispered. "It had to be given, and I thought I could venture to
trespass upon your forbearance."
"I'll think about that," said I, in return.
In a few minutes Cora and her husband retired, and in spite of good
breeding and every thing else, we all had a hearty laugh over the
matter, on my return to the parlour, where I explained the curious
little scene that had just occurred.
How Cora and her husband settled the affair between themselves, I
never inquired. But one thing is certain, I never saw her in a
slovenly dress afterward, at home or abroad. She was cured.