Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/138

 NOT SATISFIED

133

“Where were you last night, Ruel?” she asked, in a somewhat milder tone, for that fiery glance had had its effect on her.

“I was at the club—any objections?” For in one way or another the bitterness which Rosaline’s allusion had created roust have vent.

“I presume it will be of little consequence to you whether 1 have or not, though one might readily imagine a wife would feel somewhat lonely, to pass her evenings away here in the country, while her husband was off till midnight enjoying himself in the city.”

“I believe you usually accompany me, Mrs. Wylie, except when l go to the club; or when, as so frequently happens, I have been unfortunate enough to have incurred your displeasure, and you refuse my invitations.”

But there is no use in going into the details of this quarrel, petty as the folly and weakness of human nature could make it. Alas! its type may be found in so many fair homes, by so many breakfast-tables. It ended in this wise.

“Ruel, you will take me out to ride this morning, won’t you?” asked Mrs. Wylie, as she rose from the table. “It will be perfectly delightful in the woods.”

“I should be happy to accompany you, Rosaline, but I’m under an engagement in the city, and must be there by eleven.”

“That’s always your excuse if I want you to do anything for me. If it was any woman but your wife who asked. I’m sure you’d be ready enough to go with her.”

“I do wish, Mrs. Wylie, you wouldn’t make quite a fool of yourself, by such absurdities as these. I might retort on you, that if any other man had asked you to sew a button on his dressing-gown, you would, most likely, have done him the favor; but as I have the honor to be your husband, you have not thought it worth your trouble to oblige me,” glancing at his gown, from which a button was missing.

“Hugh never asked me to do these things. Hugh was never so unkind to me,” murmured the lady, as she sunk upon a lounge, and burst into tears—just those sort of angry tears which only serve to irritate men further.

So betwixt her new allusion to her first husband and the sight of her tears, the gentleman lost what slight control he had before maintained over his temper.

“I declare, Mrs. Wylie, you’re enough to drive a man mad. Positively I can’t stand this much longer, and if you go on in such fashion, I’ll set sail for California, and see if I can’t find a peace for my life. You needn’t expect me home tonight. I hope, I sincerely hope I may find you in a better humor tomorrow.” And without even bidding his wife good morning, the husband - left the room, slamming the door after him.

It stood apart, that solitary grave, in the woods, telling, amid all the awakening and rejoicing of the year into a new spring, its story of death.

A costly iron railing enclosed it, and a magnificent marble monument threw its shadows over the moss, with which careful hands had cushioned the grave; and the marble told the passer-by that Hugh Nichols, in the fortieth year of his age, was buried there, that he was a most indulgent husband, the truest of friends,  the best of citizens.

The violets, that made a dark-blue fluting around the grave, were tolling their bells of fragrance to the light wind, when, suddenly, the iron gate was opened, and, with a flushed cheek and hurried step, Rosaline Wylie entered the enclosure, and threw herself down by the grave of the man who had been her husband.

“Ah! Hugh, dear Hugh!” she said, while thick sobs shook her frame, “I wish you were back again to pet your little Rosie! You never spoke a cross word to me, you never did an unkind thing to me all the days we were together, and I didn’t prize you half enough until you went away and left me; and now I haven’t anybody to love me half so well as you did!” and here the sobs choked her voice, and she buried her cheek in the short grass, and wept bitter tears for the dead.

At last she grew calmer: and perhaps that fair spring morning, with that peaceful grave, quieted somewhat the uneasy heart of the woman.

“I’m sure it isn’t my fault that Ruel and I don’t get on well together,” she murmured to herself, “Hugh and I never had any trouble together, and all I want is to be understood, and petted, and caressed, as my nature demands, Then, I’m sure Ruel has no right to complain. Just think what a fortune I brought him, and how he has the whole management of it. Perhaps I ought not to remind him of this; but then, what woman could keep her temper through all. his aggravating speeches? But I guess I’ll go home and take a ride, and I’ll dress myself in just the prettiest way I can for Ruel tonight, He’s so fond of seeing me well dressed. I know that was only a threat of his not to return; and he’s in a good-humor I’ll kiss him.”

Then she plucked two or three violets from Hugh’s grave, and twined them among her curls, and went home, no wiser, no better; not dreaming that it lay with herself to disentangle all the