Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/133

 called him husband, when one morning her old lover presented himself before her.

The mistress of that stately mansion turned from the window, and walked, with a clouded forehead, up and down her magnificent drawing-room.

"How handsome Ruel looked, even better than he did before he went to South America," murmured the lady. "I declare, it has brought up all the past before me so vividly, and I could not believe, as I sat by bis side, that three years had rolled by since last I was there, and that for two of these I have been a wife."

She did not pronounce the name with a tender and triumphant joy, which comes so beautifully from the lips of a young wife, but sadly, almost bitterly.

"How different our meeting was from our parting! That was at the old garden-gate, where he held me so fondly to his heart, and left me with his kisses and his blessings: and now he only took my hand and congratulated me on my marriage, but the words didn't come from his heart. I could tell they didn't, and I knew when his eyes rested on me that he had not forgotten. I wonder how I looked this morning?" and the lady paused before the long mirror, whose gilded top touched the ceiling; her brow cleared a little as she stood there, and gazed on her own sweet picture. Her morning-robe of sky-blue silk, with the pretty Honiton lace collar running round its neck, especially became her very fair complexion, and she threaded her white fingers through her curls, that were like the gold of that October morning, looking just the sweet, girlish thing she did on that night when Ruel had kissed her at the garden-gate.

"I couldn't help jesting him a little just for curiosity, about those beautiful South American women; and I understood what answer that sad smile meant. Ah, Ruel, Ruel!" and now there were tears in the lady's blue eyes, and she paused and drew a little circle of violets from a cushion of moss, that sat on the marble table in a basket of Sevres china, and tore the sweet flowers to pieces with her impatient fingers, as she kept on her walk up and down the room.

"I don't know how I came to marry Hugh. Yes, I do though, aunt Electa and all the rest of them would give me no peace, just because be was a rich man: and I am rich lady now." She glanced with a gloomy dissatisfaction over her gorgeous parlor. "Hugh is a good, kind husband, but after all, he isn't my ideal. I want something of grace and chivalry, and delicate appreciation that isn't in him. He doesn't enjoy music at all, though he's always ready to get it for me; and as for poetry, he'd much rather be poring over his ledgers than hear me read it. Then it's precious little he cares for beautiful scenery,

We are not in the least congenial. I feel it more to-day, after seeing Ruel, than I ever did before. Ah, if I'd only known—if I'd only waited: but I was so young and so easily influenced by others. Well, it's too late to mourn now; but with all your wealth, and with your husband that's so fond and proud of you; with many to envy you your circumstances and your station, are you, this day, Rosaline Nichols, a happy woman? Oh, dear, there comes Hugh!" and the lady started as she heard the sharp, quick sound of footfalls on the front steps: but her brow did not brighten.

"Well, how does my little puss feel to-day?" asked the loud, cheerful voice of Hugh Nichols, as he bustled into the drawing-room and caught his young wife in his arms, and lifting her up, kissed her on either cheek.

He was a loud, bustling sort of man, tall and corpulent, and, on the whole, good-looking, though there was a certain coarseness in the lines of his face, and a physiognomist would have read his character very readily.

He was a thorough business man, with ready, though not keen wit, with a good deal of social bon homme, and that off-hand good-humor which gives a man in clubs the reputation of "good fellow."

His complexion was florid; his eyes and hair dark; his features were large and agreeable.

"There, Hugh," pettishly exclaimed the young wife, as she smoothed her rumpled dress, "just see what you've done. I do wish you would be a little less rough in your movements. You really give my nerves a terrible jar when you bustle into the room, and catch hold of me after this fashion."

"Do I, my dear little dumpling? Well, it's too bad. Promise to make up this time, and I'll agree not to offend again," and the gentleman put down his face for a kiss of reconciliation.

It was given, but so cold and indifferently, that if Hugh Nichols had been a more sensitive or exacting husband, it would have struck like ice into his soul.

"Got the blues today, puss!" he asked, bending down, and searching the clouded face, for this was a mental epidemic to which Hugh Nichols considered his wife particularly liable.

"Yes, I don't much care what becomes of me."