The Life and Beauties of Fanny Fern Part 17

"'_What a sacrifice_,' the latter muttered, between their set teeth!

'What a sacrifice,' my heart echoed back!

"Mr. Jefferson Jones was an ossified old bachelor. He had but one idea in his head, and that was, how to make money. There was only one thing he understood equally well, and that was, how to keep it. He was angular, prim, cold and precise; mean, grovelling, contemptible and cunning.

"And Edith! Our peerless Edith, whose lovers were 'legion;' Edith, with her pa.s.sionate heart, her beauty, grace, taste and refinement; Edith to vow 'love and honor' to such a soulless block! It made me shudder to think of it! I felt as though his very gaze was profanation.

"Well, the wedding was over; and she was duly installed mistress of Jefferson House. She had fine dresses, fine furniture, a fine equipage, and the stupidest possible enc.u.mbrance, in the shape of a husband.

"Mr. Jefferson Jones was very proud of his bride; firstly, because she added to his importance, secondly, because he plumed himself not a little in bearing off so a dainty a prize. It gave him a malicious pleasure to meet her old admirers, with the graceful Edith upon his arm. Of course she preferred _him_ to them all; else, why did she marry him?

"Then how deferential she was in her manner since their marriage; how very polite, and how careful to perform her duty to the letter. Mr.

Jones decided, with his usual ac.u.men, that there was no room for a doubt, on _that_ point! He noticed, indeed, that her girlish gaiety was gone; but that was a decided improvement, according to his views.

She was _Mrs. Jones_, now, and meant to keep all the whiskered popinjays at a respectful distance. _He liked it!_

"And so, through those interminable evenings, Edith sat, playing long, stupid games of chess with him, or listening (?) to his gains or losses in the way of trade; or reading political articles of which the words conveyed no ideas to her absent mind.

"She walked through the busy streets, leaning on his arm, with an _unseen form_ ever at her side; and slept--(G.o.d forgive her!) next his heart, when _hers_ was _far away_! But when she was _alone!_ no human eye to read her sad secret! her small hands clasped in agony, and her fair head bent to the very dust,--_was he not avenged?_

"It was a driving storm; Mr. Jones concluded to dine at a restaurant instead of returning home. He had just seated himself, and given his orders to the obsequious waiter, when his attention was attracted by the conversation of two gentleman near him.

"'Have you seen la belle Edith, since her marriage, Harry?'

"'No; I feel too much vexed with her. Such a splendid specimen of flesh and blood to marry such an idiot! all for a foolish quarrel with Ainslie. You never saw such a wreck as it has made of him. However, she is well punished; for, with all her consummate tact and effort to keep up appearances, it is very plain that she is the most miserable woman in existence, as Mr. Jefferson Jones, whom I have never seen, might perceive, if he wasn't, as all the world says, the very prince of donkeys.'

"Jones seized his hat, and rushed into the open air, tugging at his neck-tie as if he was choking. Six times he went, like a comet, round the square; then, setting his beaver down over his eyes, in a very prophetic manner, he turned his footsteps deliberately homeward. It was but the deceitful calm before the whirlwind!

"He found Edith, calm, pale, and self-possessed, as usual. He was quite as much so, himself; even went so far as to compliment her on a coquettish little jacket that fitted her rounded figure very charmingly.

"'I'm thinking of taking a short journey, Edith,' said he, seating himself by her side, and playing with the silken cord and ta.s.sels about her waist. 'As it is wholly a business trip, it would hamper me to take you with me--but _you'll hear from me_. Meanwhile, you know how to amuse yourself; hey, Edith?'

"He looked searchingly in her face. There was no conscious blush, no change of expression, no tremor of the frame. He might as well have addressed a marble statue.

"Mr. Jefferson Jones was _posed_! Well, he bade her one of his characteristic adieus; and when the door closed, Edith felt as if a mountain weight had been lifted off her heart. There was but one course for her to pursue. She knew it; she had already marked it out.

She would deny herself to all visitors; she would not go abroad till her husband's return. She was strong in her purpose; there should be no door left open for busy scandal to enter. Of Ainslie, she knew nothing, save that a letter reached her from him after her marriage, which she had returned unopened.

"And so she wandered restlessly through those splendid rooms, and tried, by this self-inflicted penance, to atone for the defection of her heart. Did she take her guitar, old songs they had sang together came unbidden to her lip; that book, too, they had read. Oh, it was _all misery_! _turn where she would_!

"Day after day pa.s.sed by--no letter from Mr. Jones! The time had already pa.s.sed that was fixed upon for his return, and Edith, nervous from close confinement and the weary inward struggle, started like a frightened bird, at every footfall.

"It came at last, the letter, sealed with black! 'He had been accidentally drowned--his hat was found--all search for the body had been unavailing.'

"Edith was no hypocrite. She could not mourn for him, save in the outward garb of woe; but now that he was _dead_, conscience did its office. She had not, in the eye of the world, been untrue; but _there is an eye that searches deeper_! that scans _thoughts_ as well as actions.

"Ainslie was just starting for the continent by order of a physician, when the news reached him. A brief time he gave to decorum, and then they met! It is needless to say what that meeting was. Days and months of wretchedness were forgotten like some dreadful dream. She was again his own Edith, sorrowing, repentant, and happy!

"They were sitting together, one evening; Edith's hand was upon his shoulder, and her face radiant as a seraph's. They were speaking of their future home.

"'Any spot on the wide earth but this, dear Ainslie. Take me away from these painful a.s.sociations.'

"'Say you so, pretty Edith?' said a well-known voice. 'I but tried that faithful heart of yours to _prove it_! Pity to turn such a pretty comedy into a tragedy, but I happen to be _manager_ here, young man,'

said Mr. Jones, turning fiercely towards the horror-struck Ainslie!

"The revulsion was too dreadful. Edith survived but a week; Ainslie became hopelessly insane."

LVI.

A WIFE'S DEVOTION.

f.a.n.n.y has very nice ideas on this subject She says:--

"'Every wife needs a good stock of love to start with.'

"_Don't_ she! You are upon a sick bed! a little feeble thing lies upon your arm, that you might crush with one hand. You take those little velvet fingers in yours, close your eyes, and turn your head languidly to the pillow. Little brothers and sisters, Carry, and Harry, and f.a.n.n.y, and Frank, and w.i.l.l.y, and Mary, and Kitty, (half a score) come tiptoeing into the room, 'to see the new baby.' It is quite an old story to 'nurse,' who sits there like an automaton, while they give vent to their enthusiastic admiration of its wee toes and fingers, and make _profound inquiries_, which n.o.body thinks best to hear! You look on with a languid smile, and they pa.s.s out, asking 'why they can't stay with dear mamma, and why they mustn't play puss in the corner,' as usual?

"You wonder if your little croupy boy tied his tippet on when he went to school, and whether Betty will see that your husband's flannel is aired, and if Peggy has cleaned the silver and washed off the front door-steps, and what your blessed husband is about, that he don't come home to dinner. There sits old nurse, keeping up that dreadful treadmill trotting, 'to quiet the baby,' till you could fly through the key-hole in desperation.

"The odor of dinner begins to creep up stairs--you wonder if your husband's pudding will be made right, and if Betty will remember to put wine in the sauce, as he likes it; and then the perspiration starts out on your forehead, as you hear a thumping on the stairs, and a child's suppressed scream; and nurse swathes the baby up in flannel to the tip of its nose, dumps it down in the easy-chair, and tells you to 'leave the family to her, and go to sleep.' Bye-and-bye she comes in, after staying down long enough to get a refres.h.i.+ng cup of coffee--and walks up to the bed with a bowl of gruel, tasting it, and then _putting the spoon back into the bowl_. In the first place you hate gruel--in the next, you couldn't eat it if she held a pistol to your head, after THAT SPOON has been in her mouth; so you meekly suggest that it be set on the table to cool, (hoping by some providential interposition, it _may get tipped over_.) Well, she creeps round your room with a pair of creaking shoes, and a bran new gingham gown, that rattles like a paper window-curtain, at every step; and smooths her hair with your nice little head-brush, and opens a drawer _by mistake_ (?) 'thinking it was the baby's drawer.' Then you hear little nails scratching on the door; and Charley whispers through the key-hole--'Mamma, Charley's tired; _please_ let Charley come in?'

Nurse scowls, and says no; but you intercede (poor Charley, he's only a baby himself.) Well, he leans his little head wearily against the pillow, and looks suspiciously at that little bundle of flannel in nurse's lap. It's clear he's had a hard time of it, _what with tears and mola.s.ses_! The little s.h.i.+ning curls that you have so often rolled over your fingers, are a tangled ma.s.s; and you long to take him, and make him comfortable, and _cosset_ him a little; and then the baby cries again, and you turn your head to the pillow with a smothered sigh. Nurse hears it, and Charley is taken struggling from the room.

"You take your watch from under the pillow, to see if husband won't be home soon, and then look at nurse, who takes a pinch of snuff _over your bowl of gruel_, and sits down nodding drowsily, with the baby in alarming proximity to the fire. Now you hear a _dear_ step on the stairs. It's _your Charley_! How bright he looks! and what nice fresh air he brings with him from out doors! He parts the bed-curtains, looks in, and pats you on the cheek. You just want to lay your head on his shoulder, and have such a _splendid cry_! but there sits that old Gorgon of a nurse--she don't believe in husbands, _she_ don't! You make Charley a free mason sign to send her down stairs for something.

He says, (_right out loud_--men are so stupid!) '_What did you say, dear?_' Of course you protest you didn't say a word--_never thought of such a thing_! and cuddle your head down to your ruffled pillows, and cry because you don't know what else to do, and because you are weak and weary, and full of care for your family, and don't want to see anybody but 'Charley.'

"Nurse says 'she shall have you sick,' and tells your husband 'he'd better go down, and let you go to sleep.' Off he goes, wondering what on earth ails you, _to cry_!--wis.h.i.+ng _he_ had _nothing to do_ but lie still, and be waited upon! After dinner he comes in to bid you good-bye before he goes to his office--whistles 'Nelly Bly' loud enough to wake up the baby, (whom he calls '_a comical little concern_)!' and puts his dear thoughtless head down to your pillow, (at a signal from you,) to hear what you have to say. Well, there's no help for it, you cry again, and only say '_dear_ Charley,' and he laughs, and settles his d.i.c.key, and says you are 'a nervous little puss,' gives you a kiss, lights his cigar at the fire, half strangles the new baby with the first whiff, and _takes your heart off with him down street_!

"And you lie there and eat _that_ gruel! and pick the _fuzz_ all off the blanket, and make faces at the nurse, under the sheet, and wish Eve had never ate that apple (Genesis 3: 16;) or that you were '_Abel_'

to '_Cain_' her for doing it!"--

LVII.

MRS. ZEBEDEE SMITH'S PHILOSOPHY.

Dear me! how _expensive it is to be poor_. Every time I go out, my best bib and tucker has to go on. If Zebedee was worth a cool million, I might wear a coal-hod on my head, if I chose, with perfect impunity.

There was that old nabob's wife at lecture, the other night, in a dress that might have been made for Noah's great-grandmother. _She can afford it!_ Now if it rains knives and forks, I must sport a ten dollar hat, a forty dollar dress, and a hundred dollar shawl. If I go to a concert, I must take the highest priced seat, and ride there and back, just to let 'Tom, d.i.c.k and Harry' see that I can afford it. Then we must hire the most expensive pew in the broad-aisle of a tip-top church, and give orders to the s.e.xton not to admit any strangers into it who look sn.o.bbish. Then my little children, Napoleon Bonaparte and Dona Maria Smith, can't go to a public school, because, you know, _we shouldn't have to pay anything_.

"Then if I go shopping, to buy a paper of needles, I have to get a little chap to bring them home, because it wouldn't answer for me to be seen carrying a bundle through the streets. We have to keep three servants where one might do; and Zebedee's coats have to be sent to the tailor when they need a b.u.t.ton sewed on, _for the look of the thing_.

"Then if I go to the sea-sh.o.r.e, in summer, I can't take my comfort, as rich people do, in gingham dresses, loose shoes, and cambric sun-bonnets. My senses! no! I have to be screwed up by ten o'clock in a Swiss muslin dress, a French cap, and the contents of an entire jeweller's shop showered over my person; and my Napoleon Bonaparte and Dona Maria can't go off the piazza, because the big rocks and little pebbles cut their toes so badly through their patent kid slippers.