How to Cook Husbands

X

I was badly upset for several days. For a time I resolutely put all thought of what had occurred from my mind, but as soon as I felt able, I sat down, with the whole matter before me, as it were, and deliberately looked it in the face. I think I never felt more inane in my life than when I remembered my folly, as I now regarded it. All that saved me from utter self-abasement was the fact that it had occurred at a time when I was at such a low ebb physically, by reason of illness. I determined to try to forget it, as speedily as possible. But, however keenly I felt the humiliation and folly of my emotion upon that strange night, it never occurred to me to waver, when recalling my decision to bring matters between Mr. Gregory and myself to an end. My refusal of him had been brought about by one cause, and only one—that I fully realized; and now that I had repudiated the cause, I might have been expected to reconsider the refusal. But I did not.

Soon after I was up and about once more, I learned that my little friend had not sent the flowers. I thought—no, I did not think! but I cherished secretly a—well, no! I cherished nothing in secret or in public!

I learned something else, soon after getting up, and this was that a story was going the rounds to the effect that Mr. Gregory had broken our engagement—and my disappointment had well-nigh occasioned me a relapse. But in a twinkling, almost before I had time to get indignant, Mrs. Catlin was running about, telling everybody that Mr. Gregory had confided in her, in strictest confidence, the truth of the matter, which was that I had ended the affair, and not he.

I was much moved by this manly act on Mr. Gregory’s part. He showed his shrewdness, too; he could not announce this in public, or go to people one by one, so he confided it to Mrs. Catlin, and told her not to tell.

One Sabbath evening about ten o’clock, I began to lock up the house. Early retirement is something all but unknown to me, but that night, having no particular reason for sitting up, I was about to indulge in it as a novelty.

I raised the shade of one of the study windows, with intent to draw the bolt, but my hand paused in the act, for my eyes were captured by a scene of surpassing beauty. Fall had lately swept her gorgeous leaves one side, and closed her doors for the season, and we were now standing on the threshold of winter. The early snows are apt to be soft and clinging; it is later on, usually, when the thermometer takes a plunge downward, that they become crisp and hard. It is seldom, however, at any time of year that the atmospheric conditions are favorable to such a creation as I beheld that night. I hardly know just what is necessary to make it all—a still, moderate cold, and a very humid air are among the most important conditions, I believe.

When I stepped outside my door early in the evening, the air all about me seemed to be snow, not separated into flakes, but diffused evenly. Altogether it had the effect of a heavy white fog, and I could see even then, that it was settling in visible, palpable, feathery forms, not only upon the ground, but upon every bush and tree as well. It was a most unusual scene, and I gazed at it long and admiringly; but having no fondness for walking through soft, clinging snow, I was not enticed to sally forth, as I always am when the snow is firm and sparkling.

But by ten o’clock the temperature had changed, and in the cooler air the almost imperceptible melting of the snow had been stayed.

The white carpet that had slowly been sinking, was now stationary, and was covered by a firm crust that gleamed in the moonlight. There was no sparkle on the trees, but the feathery tufts and pinions had ceased floating to the ground, and melting into air. The scene, in all its matchless beauty, was arrested—held upon nature’s canvas for a few hours, by the Master hand.

Stay in doors that night! Would I be so wicked as to turn my back, or close my eyes upon one of the most delectable scenes that ever a kind Providence spread before the soul of human creature! Would I deliberately slight such an exhibition of love and marvelous skill? Not I!

It didn’t take me long to catch up hat and jacket, and with a heart that beat high, slip from my house, as a greyhound slips the leash, and hie me away.

What mattered it that the neighborhood lights were raised—a story, at least—and that the owners of all the villas near at hand, were preparing for decorous, temporary retirement. I merely pitied them for their stupidity, and went my way. I had long been a law unto myself, and while I did not believe in flaunting my independence in their faces, I none the less continued to enjoy it.

There are nights when to sleep would be the sin of an ingrate; ’twould be like gathering up the good things of Providence, and hurling them from out the window, in reckless waste. And this night was such a one.

The keen air, and the entrancing beauty about me, seemed to run in a subtle, fascinating torrent through my veins, and lend me wings. I felt as though I were buoyed up by magic hands; I hardly think I set foot on ground the whole way, and yet I must, for I was conscious of a crisp crackle of the snow at every step.

Oh, is there any sound just like it! Could our poor invalids but pitch their nostrums over the wall, and take this tonic instead!

Some friends of mine moved a while ago and drove their family stake in a spot far off from here. They are continually writing me of a region of perpetual sunshine and summer. I thought of them on this glorious night, and pitied them from the depths of my heart, as I often have, indeed, since they went out there. Theirs is the place for the extremely indigent, no doubt, but for any one who can command a dollar or so for fuel, this—this is the land of delight.

I was at no loss as to direction; our suburb was beautiful throughout, especially all along by the lake, but there was one place in particular, where art and nature had joined hands, with a result indescribable. Toward these grounds I hastened, on this particular night.

Oh, the glory of that moon! the glory of the lake! an undulating sea of waves, each crested with a feather, as soft, as snowy in the moonlight, as the tinier ones that hung upon the trees.

I ran down the winding avenue—the white fog still lingered in the deep places, but above, all was clear and glorious. Erelong I entered the Dunham’s grounds. At a certain point, unmarked to the stranger’s eye, a rustic flight of stairs, now strewn with dead leaves—padded with snow as well, to-night, dips down from the broad driveway. Quickly I made my way by this path, and erelong, stood upon one of the little rustic bridges spanning the ravine, and connecting with a similar flight of ascending stairs upon the other side. There I paused, and well I might. It were a dull, plodding creature indeed, who would not be spellbound by such a scene! On either hand were the sloping wooded sides of the ravine whose depths were shrouded in the mysterious whiteness of the fog; above me, a short distance in front, was the arch of the broad, picturesque bridge with which the driveway spans the hollow. The little rustic bridge on which I stood was much lower than the larger one; hence, from my position, I looked through the archway, beyond, down, and far along the ravine. Can you call up fairyland to your mental eye? It would pale before this scene—those feathery trees! that enchanting vista! I stood there drinking it in, and pitying the sleeping world. I could not, even in thought, express my delight and gratitude for being permitted to behold such beauty, but finally a familiar line leaped from my lips:

I can never forget that night; it kindled and warmed my heart with a reverential fire. If, in the course of years, my way should be overcast; if, for a time, I should let the artificial—the ignoble, clog the path, and shut me out from the light of heaven, even then I shall be saved from doubt, which is always engendered by our stupidity—the things of our own manufacture—I shall be saved from doubt by the sweet, pure, radiant memory of that winter, moonlight scene. Only a beneficent God could create such beauty.

XI

The couple who live there, though Americans, once lived in Winnipeg, Manitoba, and it was in that place that the husband fell to drinking. The little bird above alluded to—the bird that acts as a kind of domestic ferret—told me that, in the early years of their married life, the wife was of an excitable, hysterical temperament, and given to making scenes. Just here let me digress a moment to erect a warning signboard. I have a friend who is busy mixing and administering a deadly draught to her domestic happiness, and yet does not know it. She has only been married a year, and she uses tears and scenes, in general, as instruments to pull from her husband the attention, affection, and devotion she craves. The tug waxes increasingly hard, but she has not, as yet, sense enough to see that, and desist. She cannot realize that the success attained by such methods is but the temporary and external beauty, which, in reality, covers a failure of the most hopeless type, just as the flush on the consumptive’s cheek is but a pitiable counterfeit, and covers a fatal disease.

Whether in this particular story, the report of the wife’s early blunders be true or false, there seems to be no doubt that presently the husband grew careless and indifferent; that scene followed scene between them, until at last he went to drinking. Then the little wife waxed sober, thoughtful, and studied much within herself. This awful sorrow, following so closely upon the heels of her wedding-day joy, matured her judgment—her womanhood, and she began to use every skillful device to call back her husband from the dark paths he had chosen, to the light. All in vain, however; and when she realized this, after several years of heroic effort, she made one last scene, and told him she was going to leave him. Then his old-time tenderness returned—if you can compare a tenderness which was blurred and cringing, with that which was clear and manly. He begged and promised in vain, however, for she had lost faith, and a lost faith is not found again for many a day.

So she went off, and she covered all traces and signs so carefully that no anxious, heartbroken effort of his could find her. Meanwhile she wrote him frequently and regularly, and although he knew not where to send reply, it is quite likely she had word of him from some one to whom she had given her confidence in this dreary time.

And so five years passed, and at their close she walked into her home one day, and her husband—a man once more, took her in his arms, and looked his love and joy with clear, honest eyes.

They came to our city, or rather this little suburb of our city, soon afterward, and although it is well-nigh ten years now that they have been among us, there has never been a hint of trouble. Hers was a unique method, but it brought about the desired end.

Verily it would seem that for some dinners, it is best for the cook to vanish, and leave the dishes to get themselves.

I was meditating on this as I walked home that night, and the next morning, stirred by the recollection of all I had seen and felt, was moved to write out a story given me by a young man—a friend of mine, who lives at a great distance from here, on an olive ranch out of Los Gatos, California.

I wish I could give you this little tale just as he told it. I can’t, I know, but I’ll do my best in trying.

Mrs. Purblind dropped in just as I was reading it over to myself, before my study fire.

“Do you remember my story about Duke?” I asked.

“Yes, I liked it,” she said, “though I’m not very partial to dogs.”

“I have one here about horses. I’ve written it out as nearly as possible as my friend told it to me, but so much flavor is lost when these things change hands. Here it is, and I think that the lamentation David sang over Saul, might head it.

“A while ago we owned a couple of horses—work horses, and yet, by reason of the strength of their affections, they were lifted from out the commonplace, and enveloped with an atmosphere of romance that gave them the flavor of a story book, plumb full of princes and heroes. And by the way, Prince was the name of one of them, and he was a genuine hero, as you will see. His mate was called Nelly, and albeit she was as awkward and as angular as the ideal old maid, vastly inferior to Prince, who was a fine-looking chap, yet his admiration for her was unbounded. She cared for him, I’m sure, but she was less demonstrative; more coquettish, I would say, if she hadn’t been too homely a beast to think of, in connection with such a word.

“They were brought up together; were taught by the same master; sat on the same bench, in a figurative sense; were lovers from the very first. Prince certainly had the most elegant manners; Nelly was his first thought, at all times, and his courtesy to her savored of the old school. He wouldn’t go into the shed of a cold, rainy day and leave Nelly outside; but if she went in, he was more than content to follow. When it was necessary to separate them—we couldn’t always work them together—we had to tie Prince with ropes and cables, as it were, to hold him fast. Nelly was less difficult to manage; at least, she would let him go out of sight without fretting, and yet, after all, she seemed easier if he were at hand. I remember, one day, he was tied in front of the house, and she was loose, grazing near by. As long as he could see her, all went well enough, but the moment she sauntered around the fence, he began first to fidget, then to paw and neigh, and finally to struggle, until in the end, he broke loose and rushed after his inamorata. And what a time he made over her! whinnying, and demonstrating his delight in a dozen different ways. She? oh, she took it coolly, but that was all feminine bosh, or coquetry on her part. She liked to have him near her well enough.

“There was an amusing thing happened one day, down in the field. Father and I were plowing with Nell. We had tied Prince to a tree, the other side of the knoll we were working on, and supposed he was fast, but to our surprise, just as we turned, after finishing a long furrow, we confronted the gentleman, tree and all, standing before us in a weak and fainting condition. He had struggled until he had uprooted the whole business, and was so used up in consequence, that he could hardly stagger, much less go into his usual hysterics over Nell. She looked as amazed as we did, and I’ve no doubt gave him a sound curtain lecture on his folly that night.

“One day father and Ned took Prince down into the field. Steve and I stayed up near the house, working around the vineyard. Nelly was in the stable.

“The morning was half gone, when all at once Steve happened to turn around, and look down the hill.

“‘Gosh, Jack!’ he exclaimed, ‘the barn’s afire.’

“I gave one startled look, and then ran for the hose.

“‘Get Nelly out!’ I cried to Steve; but after a second look, I called, ‘No, don’t you do it! Let her go! it’s too late!’

“‘I won’t let her go!’ he shouted; ‘do you think I’ll stand by and see Nelly burned to death!’

“‘You’d be a fool to go in now! Look at that stable! Here! Stand back! Have you lost your wits?’

“‘Let me go!’ he cried; ‘Jack, get out of the way!’

“But I threw him down and held him. I was bigger than he; older, and cooler-headed too.

“‘There, I give in,’ he said in a moment; ‘it’s wicked to lose time this way. Let me up, Jack, and we’ll get the hose. I promise you I won’t go in.’

“We ran for the hose, and turned on all the water we could command, and by this time mother and the servant girl had come from the house, and were helping us.

“We could hear Nelly struggling in her stall, and I tell you it made us sick! Unluckily we had chained her, in anticipation of her trying to get loose, and go after Prince. She’d never been left at home this way before, and we’d taken extra pains to secure her.

“The stable doors were fastened by a heavy bolt; again and again I tried to push it back, but it was so fiery hot I couldn’t touch it, and when I tried to hammer it, the flames drove me off.

“There was nothing for it but to leave poor Nelly to her fate. It seemed as if she divined our intent, for, as we turned away, she uttered a piercing scream. Mother burst into tears.

“‘I can’t stand it,’ she said, covering her ears.

“Again and again Nelly’s voice rang out. Steve stood there, his face drawn and white. All at once he took out his watch.

“‘It’s twelve o’clock!’ he cried; ‘father’ll be home in a moment, and if Prince hears Nelly he’ll go mad. Head ’em off, Jack!’

“I didn’t wait for another word, but ran with all my might down the road by which they always came.

“As fate would have it, they had chosen the other one that day, and were well along, before I caught sight of them. Father had taken Prince out of the plow, and harnessed him to a little single-seated gig we had. He was driving him, and Ned was walking behind. I saw Steve running toward them, but he was still at a distance.

“‘Father,’ I yelled at the top of my voice, ‘stop! father! the stable’s on fire. Turn Prince back. Nelly is burning!’

“Father didn’t seem to understand, for although he listened, he kept driving slowly on.

“I shouted again, running toward them, and gesticulating frantically. All at once Ned caught my meaning, and bounding like a deer in front of the gig, grabbed Prince by the head to turn him, but at that very moment a terrible scream from poor Nelly split our ears, and in less time than it takes to tell there was a maddened horse plunging in midair, with four strong men clinging to him, trying to hold him back.

“‘Let him go, boys! Let him go!’ shouted father; ‘it’s no use! Let him go, I tell you! He’ll kill us all!’

“‘Oh, God! I can’t let the old fellow burn up!’ sobbed Steve.

“But Prince had begun to lay about him with his teeth, and father knocked Steve down to get him out of the way.

“I believe we all sobbed, as we watched the old hero go up that hill and into the stable; Nelly was quiet now, and the doors were down.

“We heard him groan once or twice, and then mother came to meet us, and took us all into the house.

“It’s out yonder—the monument we put up. It’s over both of them.”

“Well, what has that horse story to do with men?” asked a sneering voice, when I had finished my little tale, and Mrs. Purblind and I were sitting silent.

I turned, and to my astonishment and disgust saw Mrs. Cynic, who had come in quietly, unobserved by me, as I was reading.

I should not have answered her a word, but Mrs. Purblind thought to avert an awkward situation, so she said:

“It illustrates the devotion of the masculine nature, I suppose.”

“In horses? Yes; it’s a pity that it hasn’t been evoluted into men.”

“It has,” I answered curtly, “for those who are capable of seeing and appreciating it.”

This probably made her angry, for she turned on me with her most evil expression:

“It’s a mystery to me why, with your overweening admiration for the other sex, you haven’t married, Miss Leigh. You must have had countless opportunities; child-like faith, such as yours, must be very attractive to them.”

I stared at her a moment in silence; her insolence stupefied me. Then I think I opened the nearest window, and pitched her out. Mrs. Purblind insists I did not do that, exactly, but that I got rid of her. As she hasn’t been in since, a desirable result was obtained, and I don’t much care what the method may have been.

I aired my house the rest of the day, having a wish to cleanse it, and protect my moral nature, much as one would rid a place of sewer gas, to protect the physical being.

I was not in a very good temper after all this, and it annoyed me to see Randolph Chance coming in before taking his train. He had been calling oftener than usual of late, but he didn’t seem to have much to say, and so his coming gave no especial pleasure.

To-day what talk we had ran on flowers for a time, when Mr. Chance, awkwardly and out-of-placedly, asked me how I liked the Reve d’or rose. This was the kind of rose I had received every morning, during my illness.

I looked at him inquiringly. I confess my heart was beating faster.

He flushed, and said abruptly:

“You must have known I sent you those.”

“I did not,” I answered rather coldly; “there was no card or note with them.”

“I thought you’d know,” he said with increasing embarrassment; and then he added, almost desperately, “you must know, Constance, that I love you.”

“I know nothing,” I replied, drawing myself up haughtily; “I take nothing of this kind for granted. If you want me to understand, you must come out openly.”

“I have done enough, surely,” he said, “enough to lead you to guess the truth.”

“I guess nothing of this sort!” I reiterated; “what right have you to place me in this position? What right have you, or any other man to deprive a woman of one of her dearest privileges—that of being wooed?”

“Constance!” he cried, and all his embarrassment was gone, “aren’t there a thousand ways of saying ‘I love you?’ and haven’t I said it in every way but one?”

“That one was the most important of all,” I answered; “I would have given more to hear those words than to receive every other token.”

His face lighted up with a sudden flash, and he started impulsively toward me.

“Then you do love me, my darling—I have hardly dared to hope.”

But I drew back, and answered passionately,

“No, I do not! I love no man who can trifle with a young girl, or any woman—no man who has the effrontery to expect some one to take for granted a courtship that has never existed!”

“For Heaven’s sake, what do you mean?”

“Go to Miss Sprig and inquire; she has more reason to take your love for granted than I.”

“I’ll not go to her, but I shall leave you,” he said, with a white face. “You certainly don’t care for me, or you would never deal me such an unjust thrust as this.”

And then I heard him close the front door. I think the neighborhood heard him.

I walked to the window. He was gone.

I told myself I was glad of it—that a good lesson had been taught.

Which of us was teacher remained somewhat obscure.

XII

But if I didn’t see him, I heard of him frequently enough, for Mrs. Purblind rarely ever met me without saying something about “Dolph,” as she called him. She was exceedingly fond of him, and with good cause, for he was a most affectionate, thoughtful, unselfish brother. He was very different from her, and they were not confidential friends, when serious matters were concerned, but they were companionable, nevertheless.

It is not likely Mrs. Purblind realized that she was shut out from something that deeply concerned her brother; but she worried about him. She was certain he was ill—he had little appetite, and was in no way like himself, she said. Miss Sprig wondered what had come over him.

I believe Mrs. Purblind must have been deaf as well as blind, otherwise the neighborhood gossip regarding Mr. Chance and myself, which was rife a year ago, would certainly have reached her. Evidently she had heard nothing, and she continued to keep my innermost breast in a secret ferment, by pouring her fears and speculations into my ear. She even confided in me that she had for a long time suspected the existence of an affair between Miss Sprig and her brother, but this young woman declared that he never paid her the slightest attention of a matrimonial character; that he’d been very kind to her, very jolly, and friendly, but that was all.

I think that if Mount Vesuvius had leaped out of me, and taken its departure, I could scarce have felt more relieved. I really had been harboring a volcano for some time, and it was a hot tenant.

Shortly after hearing this latter piece of Mrs. Purblind’s news, another bit was added.

“Dolph has gone away,” she said, one day; “left suddenly, this morning. He confessed to being played out, and I’m sure he looks it. He’s gone on to Buffalo, to brother Dave’s.”

That night I sat down and wrote a letter; when one has done wrong, his first conscious act should be to confess.

I was in a trying position; one is at such a time. Two months had elapsed, and Mr. Chance might have changed his mind and intent. Men do, occasionally; women, too. And indeed he never had asked me to marry him. True, that is the supposition when a man, with any real manhood about him, tells a woman he loves her—when he shows her marked attentions, in fact; but, as I said to Mr. Chance, I did not intend to take such things for granted. I had not changed in that respect. I had, however, become convinced that I was harsh and unjust to him. It is a blundering teacher who takes badness in a child for granted—does not wait for proof. It is an inspired teacher who ignores the bad sometimes, even after it has been proven. To think the worst, so some of the psychologists tell us, will often create the worst. Even a cook does well to make the most of her materials. Her dishes will be likely to turn out ill, if she treats the ingredients with disrespect. It would seem that I, who had in a manner made a specialty of matrimonial cookery, had something yet to learn. Randolph Chance had given me a lesson.

In my letter, I said that time and thought had shown me I had done him a wrong, and that I was very sorry; that, no doubt, he had changed in some feelings, and it was, perhaps, not likely we should meet very soon; but that I wished him to know I realized my mistake, and that I was still his friend.

The second day after I had written, I heard from him; our letters were penned the same night, and must have crossed each other. In his he said he had held off as long as he could, but was coming right back from Buffalo to see me. He was certain he could explain everything; he had nothing to hide, and he hoped I would let him tell me what was in his heart; that for months he had known but one real wish, one real aspiration—to win me for his wife. He begged me to let him begin anew, and make an effort to attain this great end.

That evening, in the gloaming, I was at my study window. I could look into the parlor of the Thrush home. A shadow had fallen upon that dear nest; one of the little birdies had flown away, but it was now forever sheltered from all storms in the dear Christ’s bosom, so all was well. The gentle little mother was nearly crushed at first, even more so than the father, though he felt the loss deeply; but erelong she lifted her sweet face, and smiled through her tears. And now, at the end of two weeks, she was to her husband, at least, as cheerful as ever, even more tender, and she made the home as bright as before. So many women are selfish in their grief, unwise too. They act as if their husbands were aliens, and did not share the sorrow. It is true the man usually recovers sooner than the woman from such a blow, but no one should blame him for that. His nature is different, necessarily different; not in kind, but in degree. It has to be; his is the outside battle; he must needs be rugged. But “a man’s a man for a’ that,” and the woman who shuts him out in the hour of bereavement, or who darkens the home continuously, and overcasts its good cheer, is both selfish and foolish. In such cases husband and wife are parted, instead of being brought nearer to one another, as they should be when they have a little ambassador in the court of Heaven.

My heart was very tender that evening, and as I sat beside the glowing fire, before the lamps were lighted, my thoughts ran to Mrs. Purblind. The poor little woman had seemed sad of late, and I guessed, without word from her, that it was because her husband was going out so much at night. I did wish she could see some things as they really were.

She sat there with me that evening—in spirit, at least, on the opposite side of the fireplace, and her mournful face touched me deeply.

“He doesn’t seem to care for his home,” she said sadly.

“Make him care for it. Man is a domestic animal. If he doesn’t stay at home, something is wrong.”

“I do all I can,” she answered in a dull tone.

“No doubt you do now,” I said; “but learn more, and then you will improve.”

“I was looking over some trunks in the attic to-day, and I came across my wedding gown. It called up so much! I can’t get over it—” and she sobbed aloud.

I couldn’t speak just then. The tears were too near.

“Oh, when first I wore that gown, how happy I was, and how I looked forward to the future! Everything was bright then, but now it’s so changed that I’d hardly know it was the same—it isn’t the same—I’m not the same, either——”

Here she broke down again.

I leaned over, and laid my hand on hers. You know she wasn’t really there; the real Mrs. Purblind seldom talked over her affairs with me, but I could feel what she was suffering, none the less.

“I want to tell you something, if I may,” I said.

She assented in a dumb sort of fashion, and I leaned a little nearer.

The firelight gleamed on the walls, and in its glow the pictures looked down kindly upon us. Soft shadows rested in the corners of the room, and an air of peace and comfort brooded throughout, as a bird upon her nest.

“Think a little while,” I said gently; “think of his side. Is he quite the same as he was when he married?”

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed; “he was so loving and attentive then.”

“Had he any hopes and plans? Enthusiasm? Did life look bright to him?”

A serious look traversed her face, as though she were entertaining a new thought.

“Look at him as he used to be,” I continued.

And as I spoke, she saw that a young man with a fresh, sunny face—a healthy, happy, care-free face—was sitting in the ruddy firelight.

She gave a start.

“That is Joe as he used to be!” she said. “Oh, how he’s changed!”

Even as she spoke, the young man faded away, and an older man—much older, apparently, careworn, and unhappy-looking—took his place.

The coals in the glowing grate sank, and the bright light suddenly died. A deep shadow rested upon the figure beside us; he was with us, and yet seemed so alone.

“Who would think a man could change that way in ten years!” exclaimed Mrs. Purblind; “would you believe it possible?”

“Not unless he had known many disappointments, and borne loads and cares beyond his years.”

“I have never thought of that,” she murmured, “I believe poor Joe has been disappointed too.”

“He certainly has.”

“It’s too bad, and there’s no help for it now,” she added with a sob.

“Don’t say that,” I urged, laying my hand on hers again; “you close the gate of heaven when you say ‘no hope.’ There is always hope as long as there is a spark of life—any physician will tell you that. If you can be patient—be strong to bear, and wait—if you can make home bright, and not care, or not seem to care if he slights it and you, for weeks—months, maybe years—it takes so much longer to undo, than to do—there is every hope. He couldn’t do this, but a woman—a real woman, is strong enough, with God on her side.”

The dullness left her face, and an unselfish light dawned in its place. As she rose to go, she leaned over the other figure, and he looked up at her, with something of the old-time love.

I replenished the fire after they had gone—they went out together—and as I sat there thinking of it all, I heard a sudden rushing sound in the street.

I ran to the door, just in time to see a farm wagon, drawn by two strong horses, go pell-mell past my house, and overturn, as the frightened animals dashed around the corner. The neighborhood was agog in a moment, and I joined the rest in trying to help the occupants of the broken vehicle. We brought them into the house—the man and woman and a little child.

As soon as they were in the light, I knew them; they were some of my people—a German family, by the name of Abraham, who lived on a little farm just outside our suburb. They had been to me typical representatives of a stupid class, who have all the hardships of life, and none of its soft lights and shades. They were the kind that plant their pig-sty on the lake side of their house—put the pig-sty betwixt them and every other beauty, it seemed to me. What can life hold for such people? They know nothing of love, or any other joy. Merely an animal existence is theirs.

We fetched a doctor as speedily as possible—the parents were merely bruised, but the little child was badly hurt. At first we feared she was dying, and it was a relief to be told that she would probably live.

I went out of the room to get some bandages, and the doctor followed me. Returning suddenly, I ran upon an unexpected scene; up to that time, before us all, the parents had seemed perfectly stolid; but just as I opened the door, the wife and mother rose from her knees by the bed, and I have seldom seen a look more expressive of tender love than that with which her husband took her in his arms.

We have many things to learn in the next world; one of these, I am sure, will be, not to judge by the life upon the surface. There is a deep fount of feeling beneath, and often it is those whom we least suspect, who dip down into it.

I was still busy with these people, when Randolph Chance walked in upon me. His kind heart needed no prompting to join in our little attentions, and he was of especial use in getting a vehicle to take the family home.

After they had gone, and we found ourselves alone, a great embarrassment seemed to seize him in a fatal grasp.

By and by I realized that I was really getting incensed, and I was afraid I should soon be in the position of the man who went to another, whom he had ill-treated, to apologize for his bad conduct, and, “By Jove, sir”—to use his own phrase, “I hit him again.”

I tried to keep my letter before my eyes. I didn’t want to be forced by that inexorable tyrant—conscience—to write another. And I should, if I didn’t hold on to myself, and this man didn’t behave differently.

To avoid a clash, I set to work to clear away some of the confusion consequent upon the accident, and he helped me in this.

One would suppose that might serve to cool him, and it did indeed, to such an extent that, upon our settling down again, he began the most commonplace conversation, giving me some incidents of his trip; discussing the scenery; weather; population, and general aspects of Buffalo; with much more of the dryest, most disagreeable stuff, that a man ever had the temerity to use, as a means of wasting a woman’s evening.

To employ a childish phrase—it best fits the occasion—I grew madder and madder, until at last matters within me rose to such a height, that when he began to tell of his brother’s house in Buffalo, and to dwell upon the peculiarities of its furniture, I felt peculiar enough to hurl all of mine at him.

The number of things I thought of that evening would form a library of energetic literature. Among other resolves, I determined from that day on, if I lived till my hair whitened—lived till I raised my third or fourth crop of teeth, never, never, to give Randolph Chance another thought. There was one comfort: he did not know, nor did any one else, what a complete goose I had made of myself; but, though I had been most foolish, thanks to a sober, Puritanic ancestry, I still had myself in hand; my hysterics had been occasional and secluded, and I was not wholly gone daft. I could recover; I would! and then, if ever he came to my feet, he would learn that some things don’t rise, after once they are cold.

I was calm enough when he at last decided to go, and instead of running on excitedly, as I had been vaguely conscious of doing part of the evening, I really conversed. Indeed, to speak modestly, I think I was rather interesting. I had forgotten what he had called for. So had he—apparently.

All I hoped was that he did not intend to bore me with frequent repetitions of this call. I had better use for my evenings than such waste of time as chatting with him. I cast about me for some suitable excuse to shut off future inflictions, and at last hit upon one that I thought might answer.

“I suppose I must sacrifice myself for a while,” I said cheerfully; “I have had a deal of business swoop down upon me, and in order to dispatch it, must shut myself up for a time, and forego the joys of society.”

Instantly his old embarrassment came back upon him, as a small boy’s enemy—supposed to be vanquished—darts around the corner, and renews the attack.

He started to go; came back; returned to the door; again came back; colored vividly—looked at me imploringly. And as I looked at him my anger, my coldness—all vanished, and I exclaimed:

“Randolph Chance, why don’t you say it!”

“Some things are awfully hard to say. I can write—— Oh Constance! you might have mercy on me!”

“Well,” I said, laughing—I could almost see the light upon my face—“I suppose you want me to marry you.”

“You can’t get away now!” he cried, a second later.

The walls heard a much-smothered voice—

“I don’t want to.”

Now this little scene, I suppose, is what makes Randolph always say I proposed to him. This remark, oft repeated, sometimes under very trying circumstances, is his one disagreeableness. But I let it pass without comment, for I realize it is the spout to the kettle, and I am thankful that the steam has so safe and harmless an outlet. If I were to boil him too hard, he would probably overflow, and dim the fire; but I am very cautious, and love still burns with a clear, bright flame.

THE END.