University of Virginia Library

2. II.

“Where is Tildy to-night? Just shove the lamp this way,
my dear,” said Mr. Moore, the lumber-merchant, unbuttoning
his vest, and extending his rough boots over the elaborately
carved foot of the tea-table. Mrs. Moore did as directed, and,
as she passed the tea, asked her husband if he thought there
were really so much danger in the camphine. Mr. Moore
opened the evening paper, and, glancing over the advertisements,
said, after a minute, and in a tone which indicated a
ruffled temper, “How much do you mean?”

“Why, you know,” replied the wife, blandly, and affecting
not to see his ill-humor, “a good many people are afraid to
burn it, and almost every day we read of accidents from it.”

“Then,” said Mr. Moore, in no milder tone, “I should think
there was danger.”

“Well, I suppose there is danger; but one must talk, or
one 'll not say anything,” said Mrs. Moore, half deprecatingly
and half in justification.

“So it seems.” And Mr. Moore was apparently absorbed
in the paper, sipping carelessly now and then of his tea.

“You don't seem to eat,” suggested Mrs. Moore, putting
more than usual tenderness in her voice.

“If I do n't seem to, I suppose I do n't.”

“Won't you try a little of the honey? Just see how white
and clear it is!” And Mrs. Moore held up the ladle, that her
husband might behold and admire; but he neither looked up,
nor made any reply.

For a moment she continued to nibble her bread in offended
silence. She knew right well she had vexed him, by not
replying directly as to the whereabouts of Matilda; and, like
the faithful, loving wife she was, she resolved to make amends,
and by way of bringing the subject naturally about, asked the

hour. Mr. Moore took the repeater from his pocket, and
turned the face toward her, without speaking. Had he spoken
one word, or even looked up, she would have said it was time
for Tildy to come; but under such painfully repelling circumstances,
she could not go on; she ceased even to nibble the
crust, sat a moment in silence, and then, hastily removing her
chair, left the table, and in the solitude of her own chamber,
wept: not “a few tears, brief and soon dried”—no, not so
were these many wrongs and slights and silent sufferings to be
appeased—she had a regular, sobbing, choking cry—such as
have relieved all similar feelings since husbands became petulant,
and wives first had “their feelings hurt.”

Mr. Moore saw, though he affected not to see, how he had
changed the lady's mood, and he felt some misgivings, though
he affected not to feel any. He was irritated to a most unhappy
degree, vexed with his wife, and vexed with himself—
first, for having been in ill-humor with her; and next, for
having refused to meet her repeated overtures, as he should
have done. He was half resolved to follow her, and say,
“Jemima, my dear wife, I was wrong; come down, and let us
eat our supper, which you have been at such pains to prepare,
as though this little recounter had not chanced.” But he was
proud, as well as passionate, and though he wished it were done,
he would not do it.

Mrs. Moore was accustomed to obey his slightest wishes,
though unexpressed; and the little stratagem she used in talking
about camphine, when he asked about Tildy, was harmless,
and originated, in fact, in love; for she well knew he would be
angry if she said “She is out in the country, with Mr. Robinson;”
and therefore she meant to divert his attention from the
subject, though she should have known she was thereby treasuring
wrath against the day of wrath. In her evasion he was
sufficiently answered, and, as his indignation must be poured
out somewhere, he resolved that Mr. Robinson, whose character
he thoroughly disliked, should receive it. So, to wile away the
time, he seated himself in the parlor, and, taking up an old
English Annual, read poems and love-stories, accounts of shipwrecks,
and treatises on the mind, with the same avidity. It

grew late, and later—midnight, one o'clock, two o'clock—but
he was neither to be wearied nor softened at all; and at length
three o'clock came, and Mr. Robinson with it. I need not describe
the scene: Mr. Robinson did not come again.

Of course, Mr. Moore became at once the most unnatural
and tyrannical of fathers; but Miss Moore had spirit as well
as her father, and was not to be so thwarted. Violent opposition
tends always to the growth of whatever is opposed; and
the young lady's predilection for Mr. Robinson was speedily
strengthened into what she at least believed to be love. Secret
meetings were contrived and effected, during which the despair
of the young man, his unalterable devotion, and her own softened,
it may be slightly perverse heart, worked together for
the establishment of a decree of fate, and on a tempestuous
night, as before intimated, Miss Matilda Moore became Mrs.
John Robinson, and, with her husband, took up her abode at
one of the most fashionable and expensive hotels of the city—
after the usual bridal tours, receptions, parties, &c.

The disobedience of the lady not only cut her off from any
marriage portion, but from any prospects in that way, and the
country property of the young man was not available. “Why
do n't you make it so by exchange or sale?” urged the wife;
and the truth was forced at last—the country property was his
only by a possible and remote contingency.

Judge Robinson and his good wife were pleased with the
marriage of their son with the heiress, for they both loved
money, though, as is often the case with persons with such
affections, they never had much about them. They had begun
the world with nothing but their hands and hearts, and, with
patient industry and perseverance, had accumulated enough to
make them rich, in their own estimation and in that of their
neighbors.

On the occasion of their son's nuptials, they had bestowed
on him five hundred dollars—a sum that seemed to them sufficient
for an entrance into business, and for making all housekeeping
arrangements. They also believed that the wife's
father would soon become reconciled to the union, and settle on
the refractory daughter the handsome portion which she had a

right to look for. In this particular they were mistaken, as well
as in the prudent foresight and frugal management they had
calculated upon in their children.

Taking from five hundred dollars continually with one hand,
and adding nothing thereto with the other, will in the course
of time diminish the sum; and of this fact Mr. and Mrs. Robinson
became gradually aware, as indeed they well might, when,
before the close of the first year, a new claimant for protection
lifted its arms toward them from the cradle, and the last penny
was gone, and they had incurred obligations by value received
to an extent which they had no means of meeting.