"Your husband is your best and truest friend."
"You really make me laugh as if husbands and friends were not totally different things! Do you think I could ever talk to you, and consult you on all occasions, as I do these two ladies."
"Supposing then that that were impossible have you not become acquainted with other ladies far superior to these for all purposes of conversation and consultation."
PART III.
24
Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge
"How should you know men are no judges of women. I can assure you that of all the ladies I have met with in Philadelphia, Mrs. Pinchington and Mrs. Squanderfield are the most to my taste."
"I am sorry to hear it."
"I tell you again that I shall always regard them as my best and dearest and only friends. Both of them are so fond of me that they actually grieve if they do not see me every day. They have nothing so much at heart as me and my good."
"I wish they would let you and your good alone!"
"That is not your writ, Mr. Woodbridge I heard a man say something like it in a play. No the interest they feel in me is quite astonishing, and they always give me proper advice, just such as I like to take; and as they have nothing to do but to go about and see people, they always have a great deal to tell me of such things as I like to hear. As to this dinner that has so much affronted you, I have the most cause to be offended at your finding fault with it after all the trouble it gave me. So I assure you it is the last dinner party I will ever preside over."
"Would you wish me to invite my friends to dine with me at a hotel, as if I had no means of entertaining them at home."
"No, indeed when ma' was on here, she told me that pa' had tried that experiment, and that the expense was enormous; and besides, the leavings were all lost, as they could not be had to furnish family dinners afterwards. People can live, I suppose, without having dinner company, or indeed any company at all. And much as you despise yesterday's entertainment, the expense of it actually frightened me. However, I can tell you, for your comfort, that we dine to−day upon the cold things that were left."
"What cold things?"
"No matter what. When pa' would have dinner company, ma' never sent to market for a week afterwards."
"And was he contented to dine on scraps for a week?"
"Contented or not, he had to do it for years and years. To be sure at last he got into a very provoking way of dining at a hotel whenever he expected a scrap dinner (as you call it,) at his own table."
"I will follow your worthy father's example, and dine to−day at a hotel."
"Are you in earnest."
"Yes, I am. If you will not listen to talking, I will try what virtue there is in acting."
"Why it will cost you a dollar or more."
"I know it. But I shall at least obtain a dollars worth of comfort, and have a chance of composing my temper, and dining in peace."
"I have no more time to waste with you" said his wife, seeing that he was determined on accomplishing this new feat. "I must go to Madame Tourtelot's at eleven o'clock, to be fitted for my pearl−colored figured satin and my fawncolored lustre−silk. But to think of your throwing away a dollar upon a dinner for yourself. The extravagance of men is awful."
PART III.
25
Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge
She then repaired to her own apartment; and her husband too much ruffled to pursue his expostulation with the temper he desired, prepared to go out.
In the entry he was way−laid by Cæsar, who informed him that he wished Mr. Woodbridge to suit himself with another waiter by the end of the month, adding "Indeed, sir, I am sorry to leave you, but I seem as if I could not stand things no longer, 'specially Irish Mary. Her head is so muddled from yesterday, that I found her, when she was getting breakfast, haggling at the loaf with the side of a fork instead of a knife, and saying
"Oh! but it's hard this bread is to cut, then." And I catched her greasing the griddle with the end of a candle, and when I stopped her short in her wickedness, she said "Ah! and what would ye have then grase is grase all the world over." Indeed, sir, you don't know how hard it is to live day in and day out with a woman that's a born fool."
"Yes, I do" thought Woodbridge and he almost sighed to think that he had not, like Cæsar, the resource of changing his home. However, he merely replied "Very well, Cæsar you may refer to me for a character" and with a heavy heart he walked to his store.
That day, resolving to put his threat into practice, our hero did dine at a hotel. His wife, after finishing her dress−fitting, shopping, and cardleaving, went to take her dinner, as the guest of Mesdames Squanderfield and Pinchington, at their boarding−house. She found that both these ladies had gone together up the river; one on a visit to an acquaintance at Burlington, the other to see a relative living at Bristol. Nevertheless she accepted the slight invitation of her former hostess, the mistress of the establishment, to stay and dine with ker, as the dinner−bell was about to ring.
Towards evening, Mr. Woodbridge came home in much better temper; and was disposed to enter into a cheerful conversation with his wayward Charlotte. But she kept a sullen silence; and at the tea−table she steadily put aside every thing he offered her, helping herself to it immediately after. When their uncomfortable tea was over, her husband again tried to reason with her on the subject of that perverseness which was undermining his affection and destroying their peace. She made not a word of answer, but lay motionless and speechless, reclining on the sofa. After a while, she turned to the wall and threw a handkerchief over her head. "She is touched at last" thought Woodbridge. "To hide her face and weep in silence is a good symptom. I have hopes of her yet." He then softened his tone, and made a tender and powerful appeal to what he called her best feelings. In conclusion, he rose from his chair, went to her in much emotion, and taking her passive hand, addressed her as his beloved Charlotte. Still, she replied not. He gently withdrew the handkerchief from her face. She was fast asleep.
Her husband sighed replaced the handkerchief; resumed his seat before the dull and ashy fire; folded his arms: and gazed awhile on the ceiling. Then he took up a book, but held it unconsciously for half an hour, forgetting to open it. At last he started up, and went out to revive himself by a walk in the open air. Finally, on passing one of the theatres he strolled in and placed himself in the back of a box; but though his eyes were fixed on the stage, he had no perception of any thing that he saw, and no comprehension of any thing he heard. He only knew when the performance was over by finding that the lights were extinguishing and the benches vacated. He then went to his cheerless home, and found that his wife had retired for the night and was sleeping with her usual tranquility.
Next morning their breakfast passed exactly like the tea of the preceding evening, and Woodbridge went to his house in silent despair. When he again came home he found that though yesterday he had dined at a hotel to escape the threatened leavings of a vile dinner, his wife, with malice prepense, had kept these "shadows of a shade" to set before him to−day, and as long as they could be made to last.
PART III.
26
Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge
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, and, kee
ping his eyes on the paper, he 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. W. was superbly drest. I know she got every 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."
PART IV.
27
Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge
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. Well in the first place we were ushered into 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 and rice and froth and a few miserable cheap 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 to soften his voice and talk agreeably, lest he 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."
PART IV.
28
Mr. and Mrs. Woodbridge
"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 continued to regale each other with alternate 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 on any terms) had been trying in vain to 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 "Shall I mix one for you? I have become 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.