A SCOLDING.
The Evening Star found herself a success--that is, much followed by the
men and much complimented by the women. Her triumph, however, did not
culminate until the next appearance of "The Firefly," containing a song
"To the Evening Star," which _everybody_ knew to stand for Mrs.
Redmain. The chaos of the uninitiated, indeed, exoteric and despicable,
remained in ignorance, nor dreamed that the verses meant anybody of
note; to them they seemed but the calf-sigh of some young writer so
deep in his first devotion that he jumbled up his lady-love, Hesper,
and Aphrodite, in the same poetic bundle--of which he left the
string-ends hanging a little loose, while, upon the whole, it remained
a not altogether unsightly bit of prentice-work. Tom had not been at
the party, but had gathered fire enough from what he heard of Hesper's
appearance there to write the verses. Here they are, as nearly as I can
recall them. They are in themselves not worth writing out for the
printers, but, in their surroundings, they serve to show Tom, and are
the last with which I shall trouble the readers of this narrative.
"TO THE EVENING STAR.
"From the buried sunlight springing,
Through flame-darkened, rosy loud,
Native sea-hues with thee bringing,
In the sky thou reignest proud!
"Who is like thee, lordly lady,
Star-choragus of the night!
Color worships, fainting fady,
Night grows darker with delight!
"Dusky-radiant, far, and somber,
In the coolness of thy state,
From my eyelids chasing slumber,
Thou dost smile upon my fate;
"Calmly shinest; not a whisper
Of my songs can reach thine ear;
What is it to thee, O Hesper,
That a heart should long or fear?"
Tom did not care to show Letty this poem--not that there was anything
more in his mind than an artistic admiration of Hesper, and a desire to
make himself agreeable in her eyes; but, when Letty, having read it,
betrayed no shadow of annoyance with its folly, he was a little
relieved. The fact was, the simple creature took it as a pardon to
herself.
"I am glad you have forgiven me, Tom," she said.
"What do you mean?" asked Tom.
"For working for Mrs. Redmain with _your_ hands," she said, and,
breaking into a little laugh, caught his cheeks between those same
hands, and reaching up gave him a kiss that made him ashamed of
himself--a little, that is, and for the moment, that is: Tom was used
to being this or that a little for the moment.
For this same dress, which Tom had thus glorified in song, had been the
cause of bitter tears to Letty. He came home _too late_ the day of
Mary's visit, but the next morning she told him all about both the
first and the second surprise she had had--not, however, with much
success in interesting the lordly youth.
"And then," she went on, "what do you think we were doing all the
afternoon, Tom?"
"How should I know?" said Tom, indifferently.
"We were working hard at a dress--a dress for a fancy-ball!"
"A fancy-ball, Letty? What do you mean? You going to a fancy-ball!"
"Me!" cried Letty, with merry laugh; "no, not quite me. Who do you
think it was for?"
"How should I know?" said Tom again, but not quite so indifferently; he
was prepared to be annoyed.
"For Mrs. Redmain!" said Letty, triumphantly, clapping her hands with
delight at what she thought the fun of the thing, for was not Mrs.
Redmain Tom's friend?--then stooping a little--it was an unconscious,
pretty trick she had--and holding them out, palm pressed to palm, with
the fingers toward his face.
"Letty," said Tom, frowning--and the frown deepened and deepened; for
had he not from the first, if in nothing else, taken trouble to
instruct her in what became the wife of Thomas Helmer, Esq.?--"Letty,
this won't do!"
Letty was frightened, but tried to think he was only pretending to be
displeased.
"Ah! don't frighten me, Tom," she said, with her merry hands now
changed to pleading ones, though their position and attitude remained
the same.
But he caught them by the wrists in both of his, and held them tight.
"Letty," he said once more, and with increased severity, "this won't
do. I tell you, it won't do."
"What won't do, Tom?" she returned, growing white. "There's no harm
done."
"Yes, there is," said Tom, with solemnity; "there _is_ harm done, when
_my_ wife goes and does like that. What would people say of _me,_ if
they were to come to know--God forbid they should!--that your husband
was talking all the evening to ladies at whose dresses his wife had
been working all the afternoon!--You don't know what you are doing,
Letty. What do you suppose the ladies would think if they were to hear
of it?"
Poor, foolish Tom, ignorant in his folly, did not know how little those
grand ladies would have cared if his wife had been a char-woman: the
eyes of such are not discerning of fine social distinctions in women
who are not of their set, neither are the family relations of the
bohemians they invite of the smallest consequence to them.
"But, Tom," pleaded his wife, "such a grand lady as that! one you go
and read your poetry to! What harm can there be in your poor little
wife helping to make a dress for a lady like that?"
"I tell you, Letty, I don't choose _my_ wife to do such a thing for the
greatest lady in the land! Good Heavens! if it _were_ to come to the
ears of the staff! It would be the ruin of me! I should never hold up
my head again!"
By this time Letty's head was hanging low, like a flower half broken
from its stem, and two big tears were slowly rolling down her cheeks.
But there was a gleam of satisfaction in her heart notwithstanding. Tom
thought so much of his little wife that he would not have her work for
the greatest lady in the land! She did not see that it was not pride in
her, but pride in himself, that made him indignant at the idea. It was
not "my _wife,"_ but "_my_ wife" with Tom. She looked again up timidly
in his face, and said, her voice trembling, and her cheeks wet, for she
could not wipe away the tears, because Tom still held her hands as one
might those of a naughty child:
"But, Tom! I don't exactly see how you can make so much of it, when you
don't think me--when you know I am not fit to go among such people."
To this Tom had no reply at hand: he was not yet far enough down the
devil's turnpike to be able to tell his wife that he had spoken the
truth--that he did not think her fit for such company; that he would be
ashamed of her in it; that she had no style; that, instead of carrying
herself as if she knew herself somebody--as good as anybody there,
indeed, being the wife of Tom Helmer--she had the meek look of one who
knew herself nobody, and did not know her husband to be anybody. He did
not think how little he had done to give the unassuming creature that
quiet confidence which a woman ought to gather from the assurance of
her husband's satisfaction in her, and the consciousness of being, in
dress and everything else, pleasing in his eyes, therefore of occupying
the only place in the world she desires to have. But he did think that
Letty's next question might naturally be, "Why do you not take me with
you?" No doubt he could have answered, no one had ever asked her; but
then she might rejoin, had he ever put it in any one's way to ask her?
It might even occur to her to in-quire whether he had told Mrs. Redmain
that he had a wife! and he had heart enough left to imagine it might
mortally hurt her to find he lived a life so utterly apart from
hers--that she had so little of the relations though all the rights of
wifehood. It was no wonder, therefore, if he was more than willing to
change the subject. He let the poor, imprisoned hands drop so abruptly
that, in their abandonment, they fell straight from her shoulders to
her sides.
"Well, well, child!" he said; "put on your bonnet, and we shall be in
time for the first piece at the Lyceum."
Letty flew, and was ready in five minutes. She could dress the more
quickly that she was delayed by little doubt as to what she had better
wear: she had scarcely a choice. Tom, looking after his own comforts,
left her to look after her necessities; and she, having a conscience,
and not much spirit, went even shabbier than she yet needed.