University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
DISCLOSURES.

“It will cost a great deal more than I anticipated
for our party,” said Mr. Harley, as
he enumerated the expense of the articles which
the waiters said would be necessary.

“Pray let me see what is on the list,” said
Mrs. Harley; “I hope they have put down
something uncommon; I do not want just what
everybody else has. We will observe Mrs.
Howe's table to-night, and if we can think of
any addition which will be an improvement,
we will have it.”

“Your ambition seems reviving,” observed
Mr. Harley.

“No wonder,” replied Mrs. Harley; “we
have finally succeeded in getting the Bentons.
You know what an air of gentility they give
to a party: they waltz splendidly; and, sure
as you are alive,” continued she, as she opened
a note just handed her, “here are the acceptances
of the Coles, who have just returned

from Paris: well, I am quite encouraged.
Now let me see the list of things to be procured—oysters,
ham, tongue, chicken for salad,
ice cream, blanc mange, jellies, candies,
Champagne, Hock, old Sherry—dear me! I
don't wish to read all these items; I should not
wonder if they amounted to nearly five hundred
dollars,” said Mrs. Harley, quite unconcernedly,
“for you know you have not included
the music and the lights: pray don't forget
any of these things: it will be as much as
I can do to get myself ready, without being
troubled about the house.”

Mr. Harley sighed as he looked at the amount
he had roughly calculated, whistled a low tune,
took his hat, and went to the store.

About ten the bell rang violently, and Mrs.
Harley, exceedingly impatient to know who
had accepted or rejected her invitations, not
thinking for a moment it could be any one else,
bade Dorcas run to the door, as Jethro was
probably engaged. Dorcas soon returned, saying
she left the man waiting for an answer.
Mrs. Harley hastily opened the paper, and discovered
the bill for groceries, amounting to the
small sum of two hundred and forty-three dollars

and fifty-six cents. Accompanying the bili
was the little book specifying the sundries.
Mrs. Harley glanced at the amount, and bade
Dorcas tell the lad that her husband would settle
it the next morning: she then laid it upon
her secretary, and gave herself no farther concern
about it.

Dinah managed affairs tolerably well, but
she found the kitchen utensils “shocking dirty,
and everything used up,” as she expressed
it; but, as Jethro was insinuating himself in
her good graces, she made the best of it, because,
she said, “her mistress, dear good lady,
was so full of the party, she hated to trouble
her till it was over.”

Mrs. Harley went out to procure a few little
things to wear to Mrs. Howe's, and engage
the hair-dresser. In the interval Mr. Harley
came home, and espying the folded bill, examined
it silently for some minutes. “Dorcas,”
said he, at last, “did you ever go to Plumer's,
the grocer, for Mrs. Hopkins?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Dorcas, “every day,
and sometimes two or three times a day.”

“And why did you go,” inquired Mr. Harley,
“without my knowledge? You know
you never did before that woman came here.”

“Because, sir, she told me to, and I was obliged
to do as she bade me.”

Mr. Harley was obliged to check the warmth
of his temper, knowing the child was not so
much in fault, and taking up the book, began
to read over the articles specified. The source
from which their nice dinners came was discovered
now. He grew more furious still as
he found many things registered which he knew
never came to the table, but which must have
been consumed by the ravenous housekeeper
and her visiters. He regretted very much
that the book had not been sent before she was
dismissed. The truth was, it would not have
been sent at that time, but, since Mrs. Hopkins
had left, there had been a cessation of their demands,
and thinking this might be caused by
some pique of which he was ignorant, the grocer
thought it best to present the bill; as it
happened, it could not have been sent in a
worse time. Mr. Harley walked out of the
house, mortified, irritated, and self-condemned,
because he had not kept a more vigilant eye
over the manœuvring which had been carried
on with so high a hand for the last three months.

He returned late to dinner. The season had

arrived when their heaviest payments became
due, and he had been disappointed in not being
able to raise money from sources which
had hitherto proved unfailing. To be obliged,
then, to pay debts which he never suspected
he owed, was a most galling circumstance.
For the hundredth time, he wished that his wife
would give her attention more to household
affairs. Perhaps Aunt Ruth would produce a
favourable change when she arrived. Full of
these reflections, he entered his house with
rather a desponding air, and seated himself
upon the sofa with his hand upon his head.
His wife came to him.

“Now, husband,” said she, “do cheer up; I
feel just in the mood to go to a party to-night.
My dress has come home, and it fits beautifully:
I rather think that it will be the handsomest
one there to-night; but I want some money
to pay the hair-dresser who is coming to
the house this afternoon. What is the matter?
Have you a headache, or are you sick of the
party?”

“Neither,” said Mr. Harley; “but I am
heart-sick, Mary. Our expenses are so numer
ous, we must contrive to reduce them, or we

shall be ruined. I will try to get through with
this party, and then we must have some new
arrangements, or entirely abandon the idea of
keeping house at all.”

“And all this tirade, I suppose, is just because
I spoke of the hair-dresser,” said the unreflecting
wife. “As to the party, I am sure
you wanted it as much as I did; and unless
we can have things like other people, I don't
care whether we keep house or not. If you
had not looked so desponding, I meant to have
asked you to get a suit of damask curtains for
our parlours. Mrs. Gilbert says there will be
plenty of time to make them.”

“Don't, wife, ask for any more of these extravagances,
I entreat you: we must curtail
our expenses; we can do it, I know; we can
do with less help and less company, and I shall
expect you to oversee a little more.”

This was the most delicate hint he could
give to his wife, yet it greatly wounded her
feelings. She shed tears, said “she never expected
to drudge in kitchens nor look after servants;
she would like to break up house-keeping
that very day, if it were not for the party.”

Mr. Harley felt again disheartened. He began

to fear lest he never should make his wife
understand her appropriate sphere. She had
so long been indulged in the exercise of her
taste, and devoted herself so exclusively to her
person, that all required beyond this narrow
sphere seemed to proceed from a design to
abridge her freedom. With these notions,
what improvement could be expected?

She went to the glass, wiped her eyes, and
sat down to the hair-dresser; and as she surveyed
herself in her new dress by a mirror
which reflected all her person, she turned to
her husband and exclaimed, “Is not this becoming?”