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THE FIRST QUARREL.
It was the bridal morning of Effie St. Claire, and her mother
stole gently in, to breathe a blessing over her for the last time,
in the home of her childhood.
It seemed that her sleep had been restless, for the bare arms
were tossed like a snow-wreath above her head, and her sunny
curls had floated out over the velvet counterpane. There
were tears, too, on the long lashes which seemed to cast a
shadow over her rose-hued cheeks; and yet, round her lips
was beaming a happy smile, and anon those bright lips parted,
and on the morning air floated a whisper, “Ernest, dear
Ernest!”
Long and silently knelt the mother by her side, with the hot
tears streaming through her clasped fingers; for the memories
of the past were busy in her soul, as she thought of the untrodden
future of that beloved one, who erst had lain beneath her
breast.
“Seventeen years have I cherished thee, my darling,” she
murmured. “O, can another's love ever be so faithful?”
And yet there rose a haunting shadow of self-accusation.
Had she not guarded her loved one too tenderly from care?
Had she not suffered that proud will to grow strong, and subdue
others, when it should have learned to submit? And now no
other one could guard her Effie as she had done; and might
had helped to weave? Very tenderly she brushed back the
long, silken curls, and kissed the fair brow; and, at that
gentle caress, Effie St. Claire languidly unclosed her large
blue eyes.
“You here, dear mother, so early?” and she pressed the fond
hand to her lips.
“Yes, my child,” and the mother's voice was very low in its
earnest tenderness; — “yes, I came to look on you, as you slept;
and, darling, your mother would make one parting request:
“It is this, dear one, that you strive to yield to your husband,
and to control your own strong will.
“I have meant it for the best; but now, in this parting hour,
my heart is heavy with a fear lest I have made it harder for
you to enter on your new relations, by mistaken tenderness.
My child, my Effie, forgive your mother!”
“O mother, dearest mother!” pleaded the young girl, “not
that word from you to me! Forgive me, rather, for every
grief I have ever caused you, and, believe me, I will promise all
you wish.”
Two hours later, and Effie St. Claire was arrayed for her
bridal. Her slight but graceful figure was robed in a pearl-white
satin, embroidered with threads of silver, and over it fell
the rich folds of a heavily-wrought point-lace veil, fastened on
her graceful head with a wreath of orange-flowers, knotted with
a string of large seed-pearls.
Very proud was the look of Ernest Ethrington, as he came to
her side on his bridal morning.
“Fairer than ever, my beautiful!” he whispered, as he led her
blue eyes.
And there, in the sunny flush of the June morning, amid the
fragrance of sweet flowers and the hum of bright-winged birds,
Effie St. Claire became Effie Ethrington.
Let us look at her again, six months later.
In an elegantly-arranged breakfast-parlor was sitting a graceful
and charming woman. Her hair was put back with a pearl
comb, and round her lingered the cool beauty of a Grecian
statue, as she sat there in her dress of snowy muslin.
On the table was a magnificent breakfast-service of Dresden
china, with coffee-urn, salver and cream-jug, all of massive
silver. You could recognize our Effie in the lady, notwithstanding
that on her brow sat an expression of haughty pride, and
the full, red lip was curled almost with an air of defiance.
And yet, surely, one could not have wished a nobler-looking
companion than the gentleman sitting opposite, with his kind,
serious eyes fixed earnestly upon her. Surely no fault could
have been found with the fragrant Mocha, or the snow-white
roll; and yet she pushed both from her, as she spoke, seemingly
in answer to a remonstrance from her husband.
“I tell you, Ernest, I never was crossed at home, and now
you would tyrannize over me in this fashion; as if I did not
know enough to take care of myself! I must n't associate with
Frank Hudson, forsooth! — a vile fellow, you say. Why, there 's
not a woman in town but would triumph in a smile from him,
and you say I shan't associate with him. It 's easy to see why;
and, indeed, you may well be jealous of those glorious black eyes,
and that fascinating manner.”
“Effie,” — and the husband's mien grew stern and altered, —
“Effie, I am not jealous, and I had not even thought of my
wife stooping to give me cause; but I have opportunities for
knowing Frank Hudson that you cannot have, and, since you
do not heed my request, I must command that you shun his
society.”
So saying, Ernest Ethrington left his palace-home, and went
to his office on Chestnut-street.
Long Effie sat there, weeping bitterly. It was their first
quarrel, and she knew it was her fault. Her mother's words
came back to her, and she almost resolved to beg his forgiveness;
but her heart was very proud, and three days passed without
the exchange of one word of conciliation and repentant
tenderness.
On the evening of the third day, Mr. Ethrington returned
home, and, seating himself on a low stool, with his face buried
in his hands, seemed absorbed in a painful revery.
He was aroused by a stifled sob; and Effie, his Effie, his wife,
was kneeling at his feet.
“O, husband!” murmured she, “I have done wrong, — forgive
me, hold me to your heart once more, and I will do all
you ask!”
“Nay, Effie, my beautiful, forgive me. I have been cold and
stern, I fear, forgetting what a flower-wreathed cage had held
my birdie, ere she nestled in my bosom. We 'll learn a lesson,
both of us, darling. But, look here;” and, opening the evening
paper, he pointed to the name of Frank Hudson as arrested for
forgery.
Effie shuddered, as she clung closer to her husband, and wept
quarrel.
The proud will was subdued; the warm, loving heart of the
true woman was awakened, and the life-woof of Effie Ethrington
was braided up with golden threads.
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