Hubert's Wife Part 8

"O, no, but I would remember her with you. I would stand here by her grave with you, and offer up my prayers with yours that she may look down upon us in love and blessing. I would not seek to drive her memory from your heart. I do not consider that I have usurped her place. I would have a place alongside of hers--if I am worthy, Philip." She added the last words in a whisper, and doubtingly.

For the first time Philip perceived what a treasure he had won, and how worthy a successor to his first love. He looked down in her tearful eyes lovingly.

"Della in heaven and Emily on earth--as one I love you," he said, fervently.

On the following day Philip took his bride out to view the wonders of the city. They invited Miss Toothaker to accompany them, but were by no means regretful that she declined. They little dreamed what was going on in their absence. Suffice to say, when, after a few days of rest, they began to make ready for departure, their "a.s.sistant" displayed not her accustomed zeal and alacrity. This was accounted for on the last morning of their stay.

Without warning or preliminaries, immediately after prayers, in fact, upon rising from his knees, Dr. Adams walked up to the blus.h.i.+ng Miss Toothaker, and taking her happy hand, led her to the far end of the room, placing himself and her in position.

"Before you leave, Mr. St. Leger, you will, if you please, do us the favor"--(bowing low and smiling mellifluously) "you see how it is, sir, and what we wish of you." The Doctor stammered, and was bashful, although such a veteran in the service.

The bride elect held her head very erect; the red spots in her cheeks glowed like double peonies; her two thin curls, done in oil for the occasion, hung straight and stiff like pendant icicles nigrescent; her sparkling black eyes looked apparently into vacuity, while they were really beholding the acme of all her hopes. She was thinking in that supreme moment of her life how very providential it was that she had thrown overboard Mr. Freeman Clarke. Whether he was picked up or whether the sharks devoured him, it occurred not to her to care. That she was about to become the fourth wife of the Rev. Dr. Adams, foreign missionary at the Capitol city of Turkey, was sufficient glory; she could have afforded to quench the hopes, and tread upon the hearts of a dozen such as that itinerant preacher. She had reserved herself for a grand calling, her life would be written in a book, and _her_ name too, along with the Judsons, the Newells, the Deans, would inspire Sunday school scholars with zeal for missionary life unto the end of time.

But we are keeping them waiting.

Philip, always master of the situation, choked down his indignation and spoke the words, "for better--for worse." His prayer was brief and dry, without one bit of heart or spirit, but maybe it answered the purpose.

The Doctor, after the tying of the knot, did condescend to thank Philip for his kindness in bringing him over a wife. Philip replied with truthfulness that he merited no thanks.

And after all, once started again upon their inland journey, both Philip and his wife regretted not the absence of Arethusa. They had endured her company for sake of the advantage she was to prove to them in the future; they now fully realized how much she had been in their way.

Philip's respect for the Doctor sensibly diminished. If he could endure Miss Arethusa for the the rest of his life, his taste was abominable.

_De gustibus non disputandum est_; with this familiar reflection, Philip turned to a subject more agreeable.

Thus had Arethusa's life-long dream of becoming a missionary's wife proved neither illusive nor vain; and she had dropped the Toothaker.

[Footnote A: A fact.]

CHAPTER XI.

ALTHEA'S GUARDIANS.

The little Althea then, who is our heroine, when we shall come to her, had been entrusted, somewhat unwillingly, to her aunt, Juliet St. Leger Temple; Juliet never wrote her name only in full, as above. She was proud of her maiden name. St. Leger was romantic, high-sounding, aristocratic. Temple--well, Temple had been well enough in the early days of her courts.h.i.+p. She thought she loved John Temple so very profoundly that she would have married him even if he went by Smith or Jones. She had read Charlotte Temple, and she knew people by that name of great respectability; but since her marriage, she had discovered, on the same street with her, a family of Temples who were sn.o.bbish and vulgar. This put her out of conceit with her husband's name. John Temple! so almost the same as James Temple, only a few squares below.

Who was to distinguish her, Mrs. Juliet St. Leger Temple, from the fat, dowdyish, over-dressed, gaudy Mrs. Temple, who wore a wig, and whose eyes squinted? Who, she questioned, when both went by the name of Mrs.

J. Temple, of M---- street? Her early married life was clouded by this one grievance. She had still another; her husband was a Roman Catholic, and would not go with her to St. Mark's Church. True, she had known him to be a Catholic when she married him; but she had _not_ known or dreamed that these Catholics were so set and obstinate in their religion. He had been so reticent upon the subject that she had supposed him quite indifferent. Once married, she could convert him; O, that would be a very easy matter. He need go to St. Mark's but once to be so delighted that he would wish to go there ever after. She had consented to be married first by the priest in order that John Temple might see the delightful difference between being married by Father Duffy at low Ma.s.s in the early morning, while fas.h.i.+onables were still folding their hands in slumber, and being married five hours after by the elegant Dr.

Browne, a.s.sisted by the Rev. Drs. Knickerbocker and Breck--with a brilliant group of bridesmaids and groomsmen, and only the very _elite_ of fas.h.i.+on, full-dressed and perfumed, in attendance.

"I hope he will be captivated now; and that here will ooze out the last gasp of his love for the religion of St. Patrick," the young bride had said mentally.

But neither Dr. Browne, nor his beaming a.s.sistants, nor all the splendor of St. Mark's made upon John Temple the least apparent impression.

The Sunday following the marriage witnessed quite a contention.

"And you say this positively, John, that you will not go with me to St.

Mark's, and on the very first Sunday, too?" cried Juliet, incredulous.

"I have told you all along that I would not go to your church," replied John.

"But what possible harm could there be in your going just this once? Any other man in the world would be proud to go with me in all my beautiful bridal array. I a.s.sure you there is not another wardrobe in the city so _recherche_ as mine. You yourself said you never saw such a love of a hat, and my point-lace might be the pride of a princess. But, John, if you would only go, I would be more proud of you than even anything and all of my elegant dress. Now, John, dear, please say yes," and she laid her hand on his arm, and looked up, as she vainly hoped, irresistibly in his face.

But John shook off her hand impatiently, not deigning even to respond to her look.

"Silence gives consent, and you will go," she said.

"Have I not told you once, twice, and thrice that I cannot go with you?"

"O, John, but I did not think you in such terrible earnest, and you are not, I am sure. I thought you loved me so well you would do anything to please me. Come now, just this once, this first Sunday after our marriage. Think how it will look, and what will people say to see me walk into church all alone--and our pew is far up in front?"

"Is it for the looks of the thing and for what people will say that you go to church?" asked the husband, gravely.

"No, of course not; but then we must have some regard for the speech of people, and how it will look for you to go off to one church and your wife to another."

"Would you care to go with me, Juliet?"

"With you? To St. Patrick's? With all the Bridgets and Pats and Mikes of the city? Do you think I could stoop so low? O, John Temple, you insult me!" and the young wife burst into indignant tears.

John hurried to her with his handkerchief to wipe her eyes. She thrust it away, declaring there was something about a gentleman's handkerchief that made it abominable.

"Well, don't cry, dear," urged John, soothingly.

"It's all the comfort left me," sobbed Juliet.

"I simply followed your example," continued the husband. "You invited me to your church, and I invited you to mine, that, as you said, we might go together. I had no idea of urging you to go if it would be disagreeable to you."

"There's a vast difference. If you go to St. Mark's you are among elegant people. Every one's dress is in the height of fas.h.i.+on. You see nothing low or vulgar. There is nothing to offend the senses. The very thought of my going to St. Patrick's!" and the lady cast up her eyes as if she were about to faint or to implore Heaven to save her from such a horror.

"But you a.s.sociate in society with the McCaffreys, the Dempseys, and the Blakes, and many others of the congregation of St. Patrick."

"O, well, they probably started up from nothing, and are used to it; they don't know any difference. But for me--a St. Leger! O, John, if you love me, don't ever mention such a thing again; and if you love me, John, a half or quarter as I love you, you will go with me to St.

Mark's. I will not go without you, and I shall cry myself into a dreadful headache, and you can refuse me and see me suffer so when we've been married but five days! O dear, dear, I thought I was going to marry a man who would love me so well he would do everything in the world to please me, and now here it is!" and Juliet fairly shook with sobs.

John Temple was a very matter-of-fact man; quite the reverse of his wife in every respect. The wonder is how such opposites became attracted. He understood very little of women's ways, and became fearful that his young bride was on the borders of distraction. He felt himself justified in remaining absent from Ma.s.s, and as he persevered in his resolution of not accompanying Juliet to St. Mark's, both remained at home, where more of clouds than suns.h.i.+ne reigned.

More than once during this scene John Temple was on the point of yielding. Where was the harm after all? and it would be a pleasure to gratify Juliet. But he remembered the promise he had made to himself and his G.o.d, that, in marrying a Protestant wife, he would still keep aloof from the Protestant Church. This promise kept him true. If once would have answered, he might have gone once; but after that the battle would have to be fought over again; the victory might be made complete in the beginning.

The next day, while Mr. Temple was at his place of business, Juliet, feeling herself very much injured, visited her rector, Dr. Browne. She told him the whole story in her tragic way, including the insulting proposal for her to go to St. Patrick's. She wished Dr. Browne would contrive some way by which her her husband might be brought to terms.

Dr. Browne smiled.

"You will remember, Mrs. Temple," he said, "that your friends all warned you in this matter of your marriage. It is so impossible for a Catholic to become anything else, that it has become an adage, 'Once a Catholic, always a Catholic.' Do not expect your husband to change; the leopard might as well be expected to change his spots. Ephraim is joined to his idols; let him alone. Let him go to his church, and you to yours. It is not pleasant, but must be accepted as one of the conditions of your marriage. Neither let it create trouble between you. Avoid religious subjects. But as he will undoubtedly cling to his Church, so must you to yours. Do not be prevailed upon to go with him; remain upon that point firm as himself."

Thereafter Juliet concluded she had better make the best of it, and by-and-bye it had ceased to become the "skeleton in the house," as at first.

Had Juliet been less exacting and less demonstrative in her affection, she would have made her husband a happier man. Coming home one day he found her crying, as if her heart would break. To his eager inquiries as to the cause, she replied, hysterically:

"You don't love me, John, and I am the most unhappy woman in the world."