Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/237

 224 LYDIA’s HUSBAND.

with fragrant honeysuckles and sweet-briar, that it looked more like a bower than a sub¬ stantial dwelling-place. But within everything was comfort itself, for Lydia’s own taste had selected the decorations, and the house was a perfect poem.

“Well, Lydia,” exclaimed Guy, as they sat at breakfast in the little library, the morning after their arrival, “I never will dispute you again— I declare the cottage is a miniature paradise.”

“I should answer much better for Eve than you should for Adam,” she replied, gayly, “for I am a good housewife, and if this garden was left to your care I am afraid you would prove a sorry husbandman.”

“Oh! I hate weeding and mussing round, but I dote on flowers—always wear them in your hair! I don’t know that you care as much for them as I, but do learn to please me.”

“Certainly,” she said, with a pleasant mock humility. “But why do you think I don’t care for them?”

“Oh! I don’t know. You never seem-”

“Master Impudence! Come out here on the porch. Look down there—with all your love for flowers, can you tell the name of a single one you see?”

“Of course! These are tiger-lilies—those are clematis vines-”

“Don’t go any farther, Guyl Your tiger-lily happens to be an iris; and I never before saw a red clematis. Oh! Guy, Guy!”

“I confess my error,” he said, somewhat dis¬ comfited, though laughing at his failure. “How pretty this porch is! Lydia, we must take tea -here: it is so delightful under these vines.”

“I think you will find the library more agreeable.”

“Now, don’t be prosaic—do order tea here— it will be like drinking dew. Come and walk, Lydia—for heaven’s sake don’t wear a bonnet, a woman never ought to wear anything on her head but a veil.”

They went for a walk, and Lydia wore the lace drapery, which the artist arranged about her head in classic folds. The consequence was, she burned her nose, and returned with a headache, which forced her to spend the afternoon in bed. When evening came, the tea-table was set in the porch, as Guy desired; and Lydia came down stairs feeling better, though her nose looked a reproach at Guy for days afterward.

“Now, isn’t this charming, Lydia? so much more poetical than being shut up in-doors. Ugh! what the deuce is that?”

He sprang from his seat in disgust, for a green caterpillar had just dropped from the vines into his tea-cup. “What on earth is in my hair?” he continued, giving it a nervous twist, “Only a bug, Guy,” returned Lydia, laughing, “Perhaps you would rather finish your tea in- doors.”

“Horrid place!” muttered Guy, as he rang for the servant to wheel the table into the library. “I hate vines; pah! they smell like caterpillars; and as for tea, pray don’t ever have another cup in the house. I abhor it.”

Every day showed Guy the fallacy of some of his poetical illusions, and proved to him also, that in spite of his enthusiasm, Lydia possessed a much deeper love for nature than he with &U his artistic genius.

So the summer wore on—the long, golden days, each one of which brought added happiness to those young hearts. Yet Guy worked more than he had done for months. How he accomplished it he could not tell, but some way the hours flew so swiftly while he sat painting and listening to Lydia’s voice, as she read some pleasant romance, or favorite poem, that his task was ended before he was aware.

He ceased even to think that she was matter- of-fact, quite forgot his fears of not being appreciated: and, from the most incorrigible sloven, grew so particular in regard to the set of his shirts, that Lydia might have had good reason to regret his amendment in that particular.

It was late in autumn before they returned to the city, and they left that quiet haunt with deep regret.

“How happy we have been!” sighed Lydia, as they stood on the deck of the steamboat and saw their home disappear; “how happy we have been!”

“Darling,” whispered Guy, “you would make any spot happy, angel that you are!”

Lydia smiled, though a little sadly; she would not tell why, but Guy’s transports always filled her with a vague fear, which was almost like a foreboding of evil.

Once established in their city home, Lydia found many opportunities to pursue her literary labors without exciting her husband’s suspicions: and those wise people who do not believe in the practical usefulness of a woman who writes, should have seen the young wife’s house and retracted their heretical opinion.

As winter came on, Guy drew her more into the society which he had frequented before their marriage, for he was fond of exoitement: and though Lydia sometimes sighed for the quiet of her home and the seclusion of the past summer, she offered no opposition to that which seemed to afford her husband so much pleasure.