Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge with other tales, representing life as it is and intended to show what it should be |
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| 4. | PART IV. |
 | Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge |  |
4. PART IV.
It chanced that just at that time Mr. Stapleford
the father of our heroine, had some commercial
business which made it necessary for him to visit
Philadelphia and Baltimore. He left New York
in the earliest morning line, and having reached
the Delaware and dined in the boat, his attention
as he sat reading on deck, was withdrawn from
the newspaper by the conversation of two ladies
who occupied seats just in front of him. One of
the dames proved to be Mrs. Squanderfield. She
had come on board at Bristol, and expressed great
delight at meeting her friend, Mrs. Pinchington,
who had been taken in at Burlington. Both ladies
talked in a very audible under-tone, and Mr. Stapleford
thought of changing his place 'till he was
startled by hearing the name of his daughter.
Curiosity then triumphed over every other consideration,
sat still and listened.
“A-propos, my dear Mrs. Pinchington” — proceeded
Mrs. Squanderfield — “you have not yet
told me the particulars of the great Woodbridge
dinner. I was out when you came home from it
— and yesterday morning, as we went up the
river, you know how I was beset by that persevering
man, Mr. Bulkworthy, who monopolized
me the whole time; as, to say the truth, he always
does whenever we meet.”
“You seemed very well pleased to be thus
monopolized” — replied Mrs. Pinchington, with
a Sardonic smile. “If you had chosen to change
your seat, he could not have made much progress
in following you, with his immense size and
his gouty foot. However, my dear Mrs. Squanderfield,
let me advise you, as a friend, to take
care what you are about. Old fat men are not
always rich: though silly girls and dashing widows
seem to think so. Neither is the gout always
caused by high living, and therefore a proof that
they have a great deal to live on. Besides, by
not paying their debts, they may get the gout at
other people's expense.”
“How you run on” — answered Mrs. Squanderfield
— evidently desirous of changing the
subject. “But do tell me how the Woodbridge
dinner-party went off. I suppose, as usual, Mrs.
thing new for the occasion, for I was with her
when she bought all her paraphernalia. That
pearl-colored figured satin could not have cost
less than fifty-dollars by the time it was made up
— and that laced pelerine was forty. What a
passion she has for laced pelerines. I know that
she has six others, all equally elegant and costly.
Then the blond cap and French flowers, that she
bought to wear on the back of her head, was fifteen.
When I am out shopping with Mrs. Woodbridge,
it almost makes my hair stand on end to
see how readily she agrees to buying the most
extravagant things, and things which she cannot
possibly want. I cannot imagine where she finds
room to stow away all her dead stock. Her husband
will find that the dressing alone of his pretty
doll will add to his annual expenses, not merely
hundreds of dollars, but actually thousands. I
was telling my friends at Bristol all about the
Woodbridges; and they agree with me that the
poor man little knows what is before him. I have
asked several New Yorkers about her family, and
they say that old Stapleford's wife is a bye word,
even there, for her extravagance in dress.”
Mr. Stapleford changed color, and looked off
from his paper, and could not suppress a deep
sigh — and then made an effort to appear more
intent on his reading than ever.
“I have heard, also” — continued Mrs. Squanderfield
— (“and from persons who have been at
her house,) that in her domestic concerns there
never was a meaner skin-flint than that same Mrs.
Stapleford. One of my New York friends told me
she had a cook that had once lived at Stapleford's.
On some grand occasion, when they were to have
an apple-pie, Mrs. S. gave out six apples to pare
and quarter; and then she came into the kitchen
and counted the bits of apple, and because there
were only twenty-two pieces instead of twenty-four,
she scolded the cook violently, and ended
by calling her a thief. So the woman went right
out of the house, leaving the dinner at a stand.
Of course she told the apple story every where,
and in a day or two it was all over New York.”
Mr. Stapleford's sigh was now audible — for he
remembered this cook, (the best they ever had,)
and he was well aware of the circumstances attending
her departure. The ladies, however,
were sitting with their backs that way, and did
not observe him. After pausing a minute to take
breath, Mrs. Squanderfield proceeded —
“But about this dinner — it must have gone to
Mrs. Woodbridge's heart to get it up. I long to
know all the particulars.”
“It would take me till to-morrow morning to
tell the whole” — replied Mrs. Pinchington —
“so at present, I can only give you a slight sketch.
that wretched hole that she calls the dining-room:
though it's their sole abiding-place, morning, noon,
and night. There was a little bit of a table set
cater-cornered to give more space; notwithstanding
which we were all squeezed flat by the time
we had got wedged into our seats. The only
waiter was their man Cæsar, for she could not
open her heart so far as to hire an assistant even
on that extraordinary occasion, the first dinner
company they have ever had. The dishes were
handed in by a horrid Irish girl, all filth and rags,
who stood staring, open mouthed, the whole time
— never having seen such great doings before.”
“But do tell me what they had by way of eatables”
— cried Mrs. Squanderfield.
“Why there was a soup which tasted exactly
like smoked dish-water. And a hard, tough, black
looking piece of beef — and a morsel of half-raw
fish. The chief dish seemed to be a pig, that
looked as if he had been killed just in time to
save him from dying, and which I know she got
at half-price, for I went to market with her myself.
Then, by way of game, were some pigeons,
with scarcely a mouthful of flesh on their bones,
split in half, and looking as flat as boards. The
butter was detestable, and would have spoiled
every thing, only that every thing was spoiled
before. The dessert was utter trash — milk —
tarts, made of nothing: and a little decayed fruit,
turned with the best side uppermost. And as
dusk came on, we had to poke about among the
things all in the dark, for she would not allow us
candles to eat by. But the wine — the wine
above all — I forgot to tell you of the wine. It
had actually been watered to make it go further.
Think of gentlemen at a dining-party filling their
glasses with wine and water!”
“Wretched, indeed! — But how did the sensitive
Mr. Harvey Woodbridge live through all
this?”
“Oh! poor miserable creature” — replied Mrs.
Pinchington — “he really moved my compassion
— I absolutely felt for him. I wish you could
have beheld his face when his eye first glanced
over the dinner table: I could scarcely keep from
laughing all the time, to see how ashamed he was
of every thing, and how he labored to conceal his
mortification; the natural man peeping out in spite
of himself. It was really too good to see how he
tried to smile, not knowing that his smile was only
a ghastly grin. And how he twinkled his eyes
and essayed to look pleasant, when he felt the
fire flashing from them; and how he twitched his
brows to smooth them, when he found they were
contracting into a frown; and how he endeavored
should break out into an open fury.”
“And how did his wife take all this?”
“His wife — it was best of all to see how she
sat in her finery, with a coolness that really
amounted to impudence and looking as sweet and
amiable as if she was presiding at the best spread
table in the world, and enjoying the satisfaction
of the company. That woman has not an atom
of either sense or feeling. For my part, I was
glad to get away as soon as I possibly could, that
I might indemnify myself at my own tea-table for
the miserable dinner I had pretended to eat.—
Young as she is, Mrs. Woodbridge is certainly
the meanest woman I ever yet met with — and I
have a good chance of knowing, for she consults
me about all her plans, as she calls them.”
“And she is also the most extravagant, rejoined
Mrs. Squanderfield. “I ought certainly to
know when I so often go shopping with her.”
“The fact is” — rejoined Mrs. Pinchington —
“she will drive that husband of hers to desperation
before long.”
Mr. Stapleford could listen no more. He threw
down his newspaper, started up, and walked the
deck in unconcealed pertubation: forgetting where
he was, and regardless of all observers. In the
mean time, Mesdames Squanderfield and Pinchington
and exagerated anecdotes of the meanness
and extravagance of their friend Mrs. Woodbridge,
till the boat arrived at Chestnut-street wharf from
whence the two cronies proceeded to their lodgings,
arm in arm.
The unhappy father of our heroine had been
too much absorbed in his own irritated feelings to
be conscious of the progress of the boat. He
looked not at either shore — he recognized none
of the landmarks; and he only started from his
painful reverie when the boat touched the pier
and the roaring of the steam announced that its
work was over for that day. On landing, he almost
unconsciously replied to the importunities
of a hack-driver, threw himself and his baggage
into a coach, and repaired to the dwelling of his
son-in-law.
On arriving at the house, the front door was
opened by Cæsar, (who yet lingered in the establishment)
and the old gentleman exclaimed —
“Where is that dining-room — I know she is
there.” He then before Cæsar could show him
into the parlor, ran straight up stairs, and found
the place intuitively.
The young couple had just concluded their
slender dinner at which Woodbridge (to whom
nothing was more intolerable than silent anger,
and who already longed to conciliate his wife, almost
force a conversation. But Charlotte held out,
and answered in sullen monosyllables — it being
her way when she knew she had done wrong to
behave always as if she was the person that had
most cause to be offended. They were both struck
with surprise at the unexpected appearance of
Mr. Stapleford. When they recovered, Harvey
shook hands with him, and Charlotte kissed her
pa', and asked him if he had dined.
“Yes” — he replied, struggling to keep down
his wrath — “I dined in the boat — I have had
my dinner — Are you not glad? But I am hot and
thirsty, and I want some drink.”
“What will you have, pa'?” — inquired Charlotte.
“Here is some nice water.”
“I want some brandy also” — Said Mr. Stapleford.
“Water is weak — it does not drive
away care. Give me some brandy, too — I must
have it.”
Woodbridge rang the bell, and Cæsar was desired
to bring some cool water; after which our
hero silently brought some brandy himself, and
placed it on the table, while Charlotte looked pale
and amazed.
Mr. Stapleford mixed a tumbler full of strong
brandy and water, and then said to his son-in-law
quite clever at the business.”
“I never drink brandy” — replied Woodbridge.
“Then I hope to Heaven you never may” —
said the old man, fervently, and raising his eyes,
in which the tears seemed to glisten. But he
passed the back of his hand across them, paused a
moment, then snatched up the glass, and hastily
swallowed the half of its contents.
“There” — said he, throwing himself into a
chair — “you see what I have come to, I, your father-in-law,
and her father. Have you not heard
it? Don't you know it? I am a drunkard now —
I am — I am. It is a shameful, dreadful vice. It
came upon me by slow degrees; but it has come,
and every body knows it: you see it in my face,
don't you? Look at me, look, I bear about me the
unfailing signs, you know I do.”
They looked at him: it was too true. There
was that redness in his face which never can be
mistaken for the honest glow of health.
“Do you know what has made me a drunkard?”
— resumed Mr. Stapleford — “A bad wife. A
wife may be bad, and yet she may neither play
cards nor tipple, nor betray the honor of her husband.
But she may destroy his peace, she may
undermine his happiness, she may wear out his
love by the everlasting rubbing of petty annoyances.
I have read — (for I once did read) — that
Inquisition, was a contrivance which caused water
to fall unceasingly, day after day, week after
week, month after month, in single drops, one at
a time, upon the head of the miserable captive. I
too, have had my drops, and I know what I have
suffered from them. And she that selfishly and
heartlessly inflicted that suffering was my wife,
your mother Charlotte, and I fear that you are
indeed her true daughter.”
“Dear pa”' — said Charlotte — “pray don't
talk so dreadfully, and, above all, before Harvey.”
“I will, I will” — exclaimed her father, “and
before Harvey, above all, will I do it. Let him
take warning, for I know that he needs the lesson.
Do not exchange glances at each other, I am not
intoxicated yet, I am quite sober still, and I know
exactly what I am saying. But while I can yet
do so, (for now I have begun with the poison I
must keep on) I will tell you what I heard in the
Delaware boat to-day. There were two women
taken on board, (ladies I suppose I must call them.)
I chanced to sit where I overheard their conversation,
and I could not help listening, when my
ear was struck with your name, and I found they
were talking about my daughter. Perhaps it was
dishonorable to sit and listen; but I am not an
honorable man now; I do things every day that
once I would have shuddered at. I found that
these women knew you well.”
“Mrs. Squanderfield and Mrs. Pinchington, I
suppose” — said Woodbridge, turning to his wife.
“Yes” — continued Mr. Stapleford — “those
were their names. One of them had been at a
dinner-party, here, in this little room; and she
detailed it all to her companion, broadly and
coarsely enough, but still I knew that, in the
main, her statement was true. She described
and ridiculed the paltry, contemptible dinner,
and its wretched arrangements; and Woodbridge's
ill-concealed effort to repress his shame and mortification.
Then as one of these women talked
about your meanness, the other discussed your
extravagance: and told of the money you were
continually throwing away in useless finery for
the decoration of your own person, while you
denied your husband the comforts which every
gentleman has a right in his own house to expect,
if he can furnish the means of procuring them.
I listened to their talk, and I understood it all, I
felt it all, for I knew by sad experience what it
was.”
“Is it possible,” said Charlotte, with quivering
lips, “that Mrs. Squanderfield and Mrs. Pinchington
could have talked of me in that manner —
and in a public steam-boat, too!”
“They were your friends, Charlotte” — said
her husband, “your dearest, best, your only
friends; your aiders and abettors in the practice
of your two besetting sins.”
“The vile, false, wicked creatures” — exclaimed
Mrs. Woodbridge — I will never speak
to them again.”
“I am delighted to hear it” — said Woodbridge
— “and earnestly do I hope you will keep that
resolution.”
“Listen to me, Charlotte” — said Mr. Stapleford,
trying to speak with more composure —
“Listen to me, also, Harvey Woodbridge, and
may both of you profit by the lesson. I married
Mary Holman when we were both very young.
I was then a clerk in a merchant's counting-house,
she was the daughter of a poor clergyman. Her
beauty first attracted me, and I thought she had
been well brought up. Necessity had obliged the
family to be notable and industrious, and to economize
in superfluities. Her mother often told me
of Mary's talent of housewifery, and of her ingenuity
with her needle, and how clever she was
in the art of making a genteel appearance at a
small expense. I thought I had drawn a prize in
the lottery of marriage, and I loved her with my
whole heart. We took possession of a small
plainly-furnished two story house in a remote
street, and I thought we might live respectably
and comfortably with my salary. I soon discovered
my wife's innate passion for dress, which in
her father's house, she had been unable to indulge.
But now that she was a married woman, and
seemed resolved to run her course as she chose.
In a very short time, I found a great falling off in
every thing connected with household comforts,
and a corresponding increase in the finery of my
wife's attire. I saw her in silks, and laces, and
feathers, and flowers; all being such as were
worn by ladies whose husbands had five times my
income. But our servant woman (we could keep
but one) was dismissed for a half grown girl, at
half wages. These girls (we had a succession of
them) were changed at least every month, as most
of them were found to be worthless, idle, dirty, or
dishonest; and all were incapable of doing work.
If by chance we obtained a good one, she would
not stay above a week in a house where she had to
work hard and fare badly, for low wages. Often,
when at our late dining hour I came home tired
and hungry, I found no dinner — and when, after
waiting an hour or two, the repast was at last produced,
it was scanty, poor, and unpalatable. My
wife had been out nearly all day, visiting, shopping,
and going after mantua-makers. When our
dinners was unusually late, she said it would save
the trouble and expense of tea, so she went early
to bed, and obliged her girl to do the same by
way of saving fire and light in the kitchen; and
I passed the evening alone in our cheerless parlor,
laboriously engaged in extra book-keeping, or
for the purpose of obtaining a little addition
to our income, and which frequently occupied me
till midnight. I had hoped by this means to gain
some improvement in our way of living. But I
found it only encouraged my wife to run up bills
for finery, which she knew I would be obliged
eventually to pay for. Vain, selfish woman, at
what sacrifices was her trumpery obtained? For
the price of one or two of her expensive dresses
we could have kept a grown servant a whole year.
One French bonnet less, and we could have had
good fires all winter, and the cost of one of her
embroidered muslin collars would have furnished
me every evening with a better light to toil by.
“After a while I obtained another situation at
a higher salary. I then proposed allowing a certain
sum weekly for the household expenses alone
— and I made this allowance as ample as I could.
It was in vain — she pinched off so much of this
money for additional finery, that we lived as badly
as ever. At length, the death of my uncle James
put me in possession of sufficient property to enable
me to emancipate myself from the drudgery
of clerkship, and to commence business on my
own account. I did so, and was soon considered
a prosperous man.
“From the time that I went into business there
were no bounds to my wife's extravagance — that
comfort and convenience, her penurious habits
remained unchanged — and so they always will.
In a few years we had a handsome house, and she
furnished the parlors elegantly — but she made
us take all our meals in a little, low, cheerless
room in the basement story; and in fact, it became
our chief abiding place. How I despised it, and
how long I held out against it!”
“I wonder you submitted at all” — said Woodbridge.
“I submitted to that, and to all the other proceedings
of my wife, because I found resistance
was in vain — as it always must be with a heartless,
selfish, obstinate woman. Often, after the
fatigues of the day, I was too tired to undertake
the trouble of altercation. Nothing then seemed
so desirable as peace and quiet, and, for the sake
of present peace, I let the evil grow till it darkened
my whole life with its baleful shadow.
Naturally my disposition is cheerful, and as I
could not be quarrelling for ever, I sometimes
tried to laugh at the inconvenience and mortifications
to which my wife continually subjected me.
But it would not do — the iron, notwithstanding,
had entered my soul and was fast corroding it.
My affection for my wife was at last worn out.
How could I love her, when I had daily proof
that she had no regard for me? It was still worse
was married and gone, and my son Frank went
to live in New Orleans. To James and myself
our home was more than ever uncomfortable, for
she allowed us no society; indeed, things were
so managed that we became ashamed to invite
any one to the house. Jem could endure it no
longer — so he took lodgings at a hotel, where he
is drinking wine every day, and going to destruction.
For myself, I became reckless — desperate.
I had long ceased to remonstrate with my wife
on the sums she expended in dress — but I had
grown very tired of the petty squabbling about
fires, and lights, and food, and servants, and all
other necessary expenses, which for five-and-twenty
years had embittered my married life. I
hated my home — and I was driven to seek elsewhere
for peace and comfort; such, at least, as I
could get in houses of public resort. I took my
meals at restaurants and hotels — I frequented
oyster-cellars — I joined a club. Gradually the
vice of intemperance came upon me — wine was
not enough, I took brandy also. I drank to raise
my spirits, and to drown the sense of degradation
that always oppressed me when I was sober. My
wife did not care — she dressed more than ever,
and went almost every night to a party — making
me come for her when I was not fit to be seen —
and thus exposing me to her `dear five hundred
friends,' when it was she, herself, that made me
reeling through the streets, with the boys hooting
after me — I shall be taken up out of the gutter,
and laid dead drunk on my own door step. I
know I shall — I see it all before me — yet, when
it comes to that, and my children hear of it, let
them remember it is the fault of their mother.
Look what she has made of me — and what my
wife's daughter is going to make of her husband
— She knows how wretchedly we lived — she
knows how all domestic happiness was worried
away from her father's house — and still she has
been walking fast in her mother's footsteps. —
Charlotte — Charlotte — do you not tremble?”
Charlotte did tremble — and pale and terrified
she threw herself into the arms of her husband,
hid her face on his shoulder, and burst into a flood
of tears. Woodbridge also was deeply affected.
But he saw at that moment a dawn of hope —
and he hailed this first indication of feeling on the
part of his wayward wife as an omen of reform
and happiness.
“I am glad to see you cry” — said the old man
after a pause. — “I have never seen my wife shed
a tear, except when a splendid dress has been
spoiled by the mantua-maker. I begin to hope
that the daughter may be better than the mother.”
“Dear sir,” said Woodbridge, “do not persist
in speaking so harsly of your wife.”
“I will — I will” — exclaimed the old man —
swallowing the remainder of the brandy and
water. “Has she not embittered my life, and
turned to gall the love I once felt for her. What
has Mary Stapleford ever done to make me happy?
Has she ever cared for me — why then should I
care for her? Has she ever regarded my tastes,
my wishes? Why then should I have any respect
for hers? And now I am a drunkard — disreputable,
despised — looked at askance by respectable
men, (I was once a respectable man myself,)
obliged to associate now with those that have degraded
themselves as I have done. And my wife
has caused it all. She has made me wretched,
and she has brought up her daughter to make you
so too.”
Mrs. Woodbridge now threw herself on the
sofa, buried her face in one of the cushions, and
sobbed aloud: and, on her husband approaching,
she motioned him to leave her to herself.
Woodbridge, after removing the brandy, prevailed
on his father-in-law, (who had sunk back in his
chair, and thrown his handkerchief over his face)
to go to the spare chamber, and lie down and
repose himself: and Charlotte in a faint voice
said, she would also retire to her room. As she
passed her husband she caught his hand and
pressed it fervently: but her eyes again overflowed,
and she was unable to speak.
“Dear sir” — said Woodbridge — “do not persist
in speaking so harshly of your wife.”
Woodbridge having ascertained that the sparechamber
was in order, conducted Mr. Stapleford
to its door, now thought it best to leave his wife
awhile to the retirement of her own apartment.
He then repaired to his store, where he recollected
his presence at this time was particularly essential;
and he endeavored, but in vain, to occupy
his mind with business during the short remainder
of the day.
When he came home in the evening, he found
that Mr. Stapleford, having requested that some
tea might be brought to him, had gone to bed for
the night, and was now asleep. Charlotte remained
also in her room, and at her desire the
tea-table had been set for her husband alone.
After he had somewhat refreshed himself with a
cup of tea, he went up to see her. He found her
lying on the bed, and looking very pale and dejected.
“Harvey” — said she — “don't talk to
me to-night — I shall feel better in the morning
— I know all you would say. I have indeed made
you a very bad wife — I acknowledge and regret
it: my eyes are opened at last, and I will try to
do better in future. But I am so shocked at my
father, to see him as he is now, and to hear all he
thinks and feels, and all that he fears. Oh! —
no — no — you shall never be brought to his condition
It is too dreadful. But leave me now, dear Harvey,
and when I deserve it, I will beg you to
forgive me all.”
In compassion to the distress of her feelings,
Woodbridge quitted the room in silence. He
passed the evening alone, in perturbed meditation;
hope for the future and regret for the past, alternately
casting their lights and shadows on his
mind. But, the sunbeam of hope rested there at
last.
Our heroine passed a restless night of bitter retrospection,
and silent tears. Towards morning,
she had wept herself into an uneasy slumber.
Woodbridge rose with the dawn, resolved to try
and compose himself by an early walk, his usual
remedy after an extraordinary excitement. On
descending the stairs, he overtook his father-in-law
who had risen for the same purpose. They
walked together as far as the Schuylkill, and had
much conversation on the subject that was upper-most
in both their minds.
When the two gentlemen returned, they were
met in the entry by Cæsar, who, while his face
shone with smiles, stopped them as they were
proceeding to the staircase, and with a flourish of
his hand as he threw open the door, said to Mr.
Woodbridge, “We breakfast in the back parlor
sir.”
They found the table nicely set out with a
better breakfast than either of the gentlemen had
ever seen in their own house: and Cæsar said,
with increasing smiles, “Mrs. Woodbridge was
up early, sir. She came down soon after you went
out. And we have been to market already. And
after we came home, I got the breakfast myself,
and would not let Irish Mary put her paws to any
thing. Mrs. Woodbridge has given Mary a short
warning, and I am to get Phillis to come back, for
our everlasting cook. Please to excuse my saying
paws: but that Paddy woman is enough to make
the genteelest colored gentleman forget himself.
People of the best polishment can't be decoromous
when they have to deal with Irish.”
At these excellent signs of the times, our hero's
smile became almost as bright as Cæsar's. And
Mr. Stapleford said, in a low voice to Woodbridge,
“I was just going to ask for my early dram, but
I believe I will not take any this morning.”
“I have made the coffee very good and strong”
said Cæsar, “Mrs. Woodbridge told me to do so.
And we bought the best butter that was to be had
in market; and we took cream this morning
instead of milk.”
At this moment the lady of the house appeared.
Her father and her husband kissed her as they
bade her good morning. Her heart and eyes filled
and she held her handkerchief to her face, while
to look out. There were a few minutes of
silence: after which our heroine took a seat at
the table, and Woodbridge and Mr. Stapleford did
the same. Cæsar entered with a damask napkin
and a silver salver, and waited on the table con
amore. Woodbridge introduced a cheerful conversation,
and though he had to sustain it himself,
he was repaid by an occasional smile from Charlotte,
and a laugh from her father.
When breakfast was over, and Mrs. Woodbridge
had left the room, Mr. Stapleford said to his son-in-law,
“She is touched at last. She is going to
set about a reform — I only hope she will stay
reformed. Ah! there is no touching her mother.
I have tried often to work on her feelings: but
she has none. Vanity, sordidness, and selfishness
have hardened her heart till it is like `the nether
millstone.' But Charlotte is not so bad; and I
trust she will do well yet. I must have a bottle
more than usual to-day at dinner, in celebration
of this joyful change.”
“Rather celebrate it,” said Woodbridge, “by
a day of entire temperance.”
“Ah!” replied Stapleford, “that is easier said
than done. I am ashamed to confess that a day
of temperance will be a day of suffering to me.
The habit of drinking once formed, the craving
drunkard is not easily cured.”
“Let me beg of you, dear sir,” said Woodbridge,
“not to give yourself that detestable appellation.”
“Do I not deserve it?” replied Stapleford.
“Am I not really what I call myself? But she
made me so. I know that many men who are
blest with excellent and affectionate wives have
become sots notwithstanding — to their eternal
shame be it spoken. But that was not my disposition.
No man was more capable of enjoying
domestic happiness if it had been allowed me.
However, I cannot trust myself on this theme.
So let it drop for the present.”
Mr. Stapleford and his son-in-law went out
together, but parted at the corner: each going his
own way to his respective business. That morning
Mrs. Woodbridge did no shopping or visiting,
but busied herself at home in improving her
menage. Irish Mary, being dismissed, was loud
in her vociferations at parting, asserting that she
had never seen a raal lady or gentleman since she
came to Philadelphia, and that she would never
more darken the doors of a Philadelphia house:
for she knew scores of places in New York where
they would jump out of their skins for joy to get
her back again, and where the silver would come
pouring into her lap. A week's wages extra,
however, somewhat quieted her wrath: but on
slammed the door, and exclaimed as soon as she
got into the entry, “Bad luck to ye any how,
and I wish to the holy Patrick ye may never have
nobody but black nagurs to cook your bit of victuals
for you.”
“That's a good wish instead of a bad one,”
said Cæsar, who had just come in at the front-door,
triumphantly conducting Phillis.
That day an excellent dinner was served up in
the back-parlor: and as all were now in good
spirits it would have gone off pleasantly, only that
Mr. Stapleford filled his wine-glass too often.
But he said, as he poured out the last, “I cannot
help it — indeed I cannot. It is a dreadful vice
— easily contracted and hard to cure. Shame on
the woman that brought me to it. Well, well,
enough of that, I wish I could forget her always.
Come, I'll not drink any thing more to-day. Only
I must have my glass of hot whiskey punch at
bed-time.”
As soon as the two gentlemen were alone,
Woodbridge told his father-in-law that having
now the most sanguine hopes of Charlotte's improvement,
he thought it best to make no further
reference to what had already passed; and that,
unless he saw unequivocal symptoms of a relapse,
he would gladly consign to oblivion every thing
that had hitherto embittered their married life.
“I fear,” said Mr. Stapleford, “her goodness
will not last. However, even a little of it is better
than none at all. Her mother never had a single
fit of goodness — not, even for one day. Well,
well, I will not trust myself to talk of her.”
Next day the old gentleman set out at an early
hour for Baltimore; and Woodbridge, (judging
from appearances) found that in future the table
was to be set always in the back parlor, and supplied
in a liberal manner.
That morning Mesdames Squanderfield and
Pinchington made together a visit to Mrs. Woodbridge.
Her intention had been to send them
each a concise indicative of her desire that their
acquaintance should cease; and she had purposed
consulting her husband that very afternoon on the
best manner of wording these notes. But they
had seen her as they came past the window, and
the moment Cæsar opened the front door they
pushed by him, and with their usual familiarity
made their entrance into the room. At the first
sight of her two perfidous friends, our heroine
determined to meet them with calm and dignified
resentment; but this wise determination soon
gave way to the passion which she felt burning
in her cheeks and sparkling in her eyes.
Mrs. Squanderfield began —“Dear Mrs. Woodbridge,
it seems an age since I have seen you.
But I was busy the whole day yesterday, shopping
the far west (who with their husbands are staying
at our house) and taking them to milliners and
mantua-makers. They have travelled more than
a thousand miles, each bringing a young baby
along; and their sole business is to get fitted out
with the Philadelphia fashions. They take this
journey twice every year, and carry wagon loads
home with them.”
“For my part,” said Mrs. Pinchington, “I
was all day yesterday going about in search of a
cheap washerwoman. Mine has raised her price
to six dollars a quarter, and rather than give more
than five I will wash and iron my own things in
my own room. But as Mrs. Squanderfield says,
it seems an age since I have seen you. I really
believe we have not met since the day of your
delightful dinner-party.”
“Delightful was it,” said Charlotte, unable
longer to restrain herself, “you did not think so
in the boat coming down the river, when you were
telling Mrs. Squanderfield about it: and I am very
sure you made it out worse even than it really
was.”
Mrs. Pinchington changed color, and looked
much embarrassed; but rallied in a few moments
and said, “My dear Mrs. Woodbridge you must
be misinformed. Some vile mischief-maker, some
friendship.”
“My informant,” replied Charlotte, “is neither
a mischief-maker nor a slanderer. It was my own
father, Mr. Stapleford. He happened to be seated
near you: and he heard every word. First, you
led me on by your own advice to do all sorts of
mean paltry things”—
“I found you willing enough to be led,” interrupted
Mrs. Pinchington.
“And now,” continued Charlotte, “you have
abused me for following your instructions. I
should not have been half so bad, had you left
me to myself. But my eyes are now opened, and
as I intend to act very differently for the future, I
shall have the better chance of keeping that resolution
by declining all further intercourse with
Mrs. Pinchington.”
“With all my heart,” said Mrs. Pinchington,
rising angrily, “I have no occasion to force my
acquaintance on any one. And from what I have
heard of her, I am very sure your notions of economy
came from your own mother far more than
from me. I wish you all possible success in your
new scheme of reform; which you will find a
tough job, take my word for it.”
So saying, Mrs. Pinchington flounced out of the
room, and scuttled out of the house.
“What a strange woman that is” — remarked
Mrs. Squanderfield. “I have thought several
times of telling you how little she is, in reality,
your friend, and how shamefully she talks about
you wherever she goes. It is a great pity you
asked her to that unlucky dinner-party; the account
she gives of it is awful. I own I was a
little hurt at your not inviting me. I should then
have had it in my power to contradict her ill-natured
reports.”
“Perhaps not” — said our heroine — “for with
shame I acknowledge that there was too much
foundation for her statements, however unfavorable
they might be. But the next time I prepare
for company, things will be found very different.
I have had a mortifying lesson.”
“I must say” — pursued Mrs. Squanderfield —
“that I greatly approve of liberality. People in
genteel life should not mind expense. By
the bye, have you heard of the splendid new
style shawls that Lev y has just opened. I saw
them yesterday, and they are the most divine
things I ever beheld. Get ready, and come with
me, and secure one before all the best are gone.”
“To be plain with you Mrs. Squanderfield”—
said Charlotte — “my intention is, in future, to
expend less money on dress, and more on things
of greater importance. And I know that both
my husband and myself will be happier for the
change.”
“Really” — observed Mrs. Squanderfield — “I
thought all men were happy to see their wives
handsomely drest.”
“I begin to think” — said Charlotte — “that a
woman may be drest handsomely without spending
enormous sums, and getting five times as
many new things as she can possibly want. My
husband has not yet made his fortune: and in the
mean time, that our housekeeping may be on a
more liberal scale, I shall lessen my own personal
expenses. But as I am going to reform both
ways, I think it best to relinquish my intimacy
with Mrs. Squanderfield as well as with Mrs.
Pinchington, for I wish not to be led farther into
temptation.”
“I declare you are very polite” — exclaimed
Mrs. Squanderfield, starting up — “I cannot think
what has got into you to-day. You don't seem
at all like yourself.”
“So much the better, perhaps” — replied Charlotte;
“but as my father could not have overheard
Mrs. Pinchington, without also overhearing
Mrs. Squanderfield, his report has convinced
me that neither of these ladies has any right to
call herself my friend.”
“Upon my word” — said Mrs. Squanderfield,
forcing a laugh, “it is really amusing to see how
new you are. I thought you were old enough to
know that in all circles, even in the highest,
scruple. It is the way of the world: and I do
not pretend to be better than my neighbors.
However, as Mrs. Pinchington says, I have no
occasion to force my society on any one. I have
more friends already than I can possibly visit,
even if I were to do nothing else from noon till
midnight. I see we don't suit: but you will lose
more than I shall. However, let us part decently,
and be civil whenever we chance to meet. So
I wish you good morning, and success to your
plan of reforming both ways.”
“Good morning” — said Charlotte, softening
her voice; for in truth, she felt rather better disposed
toward Mrs. Squanderfield than to Mrs.
Pinchington, whose report of the dinner-party
seemed unforgivable. She accompanied her visiter
to the door, and ere they parted, our heroine
found herself asking, “who did you say had just
opened these elegant shawls, Levy or Vanharlingen?”
“Aha” — replied Mrs. Squanderfield, with a
sneer; “still hankering after new shawls, I saw
them at Levy's: and I fear the naughty child is
not going to get quite good all at once.”
“I wish it were more easy to do so” — said
Charlotte, colorirg highly, and hastily returning
to the parlor, where she sat down awhile and
pondered. She then went up to her chamber,
knotted and her needle broke, and she found she
was not in the humor to sew. So she dressed
herself, and went out, and habit directed her steps
to Chestnut street. “At least,” thought she,
“I may as well stop in at Levy's and see the
shawls. Tis certainly pleasant to look at things
that are new and elegant. But I am determined
that nothing shall tempt me to buy one.”
She went into Levy's, saw the shawls, and
was tempted to buy one. But she thought she
would not mention it to her husband for some
days at least; and, as a salvo, she resolved on
paying extra attention to his comforts and wishes.
“My dear Harvey,” said she, after helping
him at dinner to a second piece of pie, “would
you not like to have a carpenter or a cabinet-maker
or some such person, to fit up the dining-room
with book-shelves or book-cases. You can
have it for a library if you wish, as in future we
shall use the parlors entirely.”
The delighted husband started from his seat,
and replied by a kiss: and the same afternoon he
bespoke both shelves and cases; and went to a
bookseller's to begin his selection of books.
Next morning, shortly after breakfast, Harvey
Wooodbridge came home from his store with a
look of consternation which much alarmed his
the appalling intelligence of her mother's sudden
death. A letter had just arrived from New York,
written by her brother James, who stated that on
the preceding day while a mantua-maker was fitting
her for a new dress, Mrs. Stapleford had
fallen down and instantly expired. Great was
the horror of our heroine at this unexpected termination
of her mother's mortal existence. And
she and her husband set out by the first conveyance
for New York, leaving a letter for Mr. Stapleford,
who arrived that afternoon from Baltimore,
and followed them in the mail.
The old gentleman was excessively shocked at
his wife being so suddenly hurried to her last account,
unprepared as she was for the awful change
into eternity. He grieved exceedingly, and never
made any farther allusion to her faults. The day
after the funeral he took the temperance pledge.
The fate of her vain, selfish, and heartless
mother made a deep impression on our heroine,
and soon completed the work of reformation which
her father's representations had begun. The old
gentleman was prevailed on to return with his
daughter and his son-in-law, and to pass a few
weeks with them in Philadelphia. Though her
father was completely sobered, Charlotte soon
perceived that, after the first shock had subsided,
the husband of such a woman as Mrs. Stapleford,
(though he said nothing) he soon began to feel it
a relief. “Ah!” — thought she — “I must make
Harvey happy while I live — or he too will regard
my death as a deliverance from misery.”
On Mr. Stapleford's return to New York, it
was arranged that his sister, an excellent woman
who had been left a widow with a small income,
should take charge of his house: and that his son
James should again reside beneath the roof of his
father. This change had a most salutary effect
on the habits of the young man, and he found it
easy to abandon the incipient vice which as yet
had not fixed itself upon him.
Mr. Stapleford found an affectionate and intelligent
companion in his amiable and considerate
sister, (though she had always been his wife's
aversion) and now that he had a well-ordered and
happy home, he had no inclination to seek for
pleasure elsewhere. The entire abandonment of
liquor soon restored his good looks and his self-respect:
and his visits to Philadelphia were always
anticipated with delight by his son-in-law
and daughter.
We will not say that our heroine had not for a
while occasional lapses from her good resolutions:
but these aberations gradually became slighter
and less frequent. Love for her husband once
awakened, she no longer took pleasure in wilfully
when she showed any indication of her former
waywardness, a gentle remonstrance from Harvey
always brought her to reason. Also, having so
unceremoniously dismissed her two evil counsellors,
she felt the advantage of being released from
their blighting influence.
She now formed an intimacy with some of the
most valuable of her husband's female friends.
These ladies set her in every respect an excellent
example, particularly in improving her mind, and
cultivating a taste for books. Her heart and hand
also expanded to the relief of the unfortunate and
the indigent. Her reform at length became complete,
both with regard to extravagance in dress
and parsimony in house-keeping; and there is
not, at this day, in Philadelphia, a more happy or
a more popular couple than Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge.
| Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge | |