Puck — August 7, 1878 — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

12 PUCK. ing so warm and inviting even from the outside! He did not fumble for his latch-key, knowing quite well that his foot would scarcely have touched the top step when, as if by magic, the door would be opened inside, and a certain little woman would be hanging round his neck, lavishing upon him all the thousand and one little caresses of word and look and hand with which a loving little wife can make a man fancy himself in the seventh heaven. Oh, that the daughters of men would learn wisdom and sfudy the little weaknesses of the sterner sex—the need they have after the stern battling with the cold hard-fisted and hard- headed world of all those little foolish wiles and tendernesses which, alas, so often die out as the wedding-day recedes behind the gather- ing mists of time! How many wanderers might even now be safely pasturing with the matrimonial fold! Very soon the vacation had come to an end, and with the yellow fogs and raw chilly cheer- lessness wl so attests our national hardi- hood and indomitable spirits came a steady flow of clients, timid, stubborn, and irate, so that at length Edgar found it necessary to take his papershome with him. These metat first with a somewhat shy reception from little Florence, being rivals for her Edgar's attention. How- ever, after a studiously simple and totally unin- telligible explanation of their contents, and the absolute necessity of their being dealt and done with by a certain time, the little wife be- came reconciled, and, like the sweet-tempered, sensible, and unselfish little creature that she was, she did all in her power to further her husband’s designs. He always found his wri- ting-table and papers in perfect order, with a glass of not too strong whisky-toddy, and his Cigar-box ready to his hand, whilst Florence herself would sit quiet asa little mouse over her work or a beok somewhere within casy reach of his hand—for it would now and again enter into the forensic mind to stroke the soft brown hair on the pretty head bent down so meekly and gracefully. Indeed there were times when, upon meeting her blue eyes full of lovelight bent upon him, all the wearisome de- tails in the case of Snaggs versus Staggs would vanish like a bad dream before the morning sun, and he would find himself on his knees before his sweet young wife, with an arm about the slender waist, whilst Ais eyes sought in greater proximity to realize all the depth of love contained in hers. But why do I weary the reader with the description of scenes which, if he be a married man, he knows so well, or if a bachelor, he contemns as monoto- nous and eventually wearisome, even as the foxes depreciate the unapproachable grapes. With the best intentions I could not appro- priately describe all the tranquil happiness of the first year of Edgar and Florence's married life. ‘Autumn was again drawing nigh, and with the short evenings and increasing cold they must needs bid adieu to the delightful river trips which had proved such a source of delight during the past summer. They had their own boat and private landing-place at the bottom of the garden. Many a moonlight night had they stolen down to the river-edge, and pushed off into the track of molten silver, Florence would recline in the stern, well wrapt up in a soft plaid, whilst Edgar skillfully plied the sculls, softly singing some favorite air to the time of the long smooth strokes, ‘There is a something about a moonlight night, a mystery in the atmosphere, a certain eerie’ solemnity which precludes (to many minds at least) any boisterous overflow of spirits. Florence always felt this influence in a very powerful degree, and no sooner had she gained her usual recumbent position in the stern than the majestic calm of her surround- ings would overshadow her like some myste- rious presence. Why should that which was the very embodiment of tranquil happiness suggest anxious and distrustful thoughts? Yet so it was. As she gazed upon the handsome face of her young husband, and thought of his love for her, and the still greater love that she had for him, and their perfect happiness, an intangible whisper from the mysterious pre- sence came, “Can this be for ever?” She dared not answer boldly “Yes.” Yet what grief or misfortune shared with him who loved her so truly could raise such vague, sad pre- sentiments as crept and twined about her heart? What had the future, the deep, dark, impenetrable future, in store for them both? PART IL. “Mrs. Au is not very descriptive of the lady reclining on the pink-satin sofa in her boudoir, to whom I wish to introduce the reader. ‘ My pretty Carrie” is better. Thus is she addressed in the letter she now holds in her hand, dated from “something pore” in her Majesty’s Indian Empire, and subscribed “ Your loving husband.” What mischievous spite so led astray the strong common sense and keen intellect of Colonel Aldon that he should transform that plump, black-eyed little witch, Catherine Mor- gan, into Mrs. Colonel Aldon? Quite deter- mined not to do things by halves, he left his young wife six months after their marriage, fearful, fond-foolish, middle-aged man that he was, to expose his jewel to the distressing effects of the Indian heats. Did he not hope in a couple of years to return home with an ample pension, to spend the remainder of his life in blissful communion with his black-eyed yonng mate? Nothing could be more passionately lover- like than this letter she holds, in which the iron-gray “ moustache” exults with boyish ex- uberance over all the delights that await him when he shall return to England in six months’ time. Happy is the martinet with the one soft place in his heart, that he sees not the look of utter indifference bordering almost on scorn with which his heart’s idol drops his let- ter. Another lies open before her. It is very short and business-like: “Dear Mrs. Aldon,—In reference to the disposal of the houses in S——, about which you ask my advice, I shall require further par- ticulars before I can give any opinion. If you can find it convenient to visit me in town, I will hold myself at your service between eleven and’ twelve on Thursday next. I am yours very truly, Epcar RutHen.” That was all, and yet she read it word for word twice over again, With the petulant, vexed look of a spoilt child she lays it déwn and thinks, Gradually the red pursed-up lips be- come more elongated in their outline, and the dark contemplative eyes assume a triumphant and rather wicked expression which forbodes no good to some one. She lacks that solilo- quizing tendency which novel-writers find so useful in their herocs and heroines, or she would have muttered under her breath, “ De- mure little fool; she thinks she can keep him all to herself!"” On Thursday, punctually at eleven o'clock, Edgar's head clerk opened wide the door of his private room, and announced, in the most respectful of tones, Mrs. Aldon. The young clerks, and even their ancient supervisor, felt a flutter of unwonted excitement behind their dingy ink-bespattered desks, at the sight of this radiant apparition, How they envied their young employer! “O Mr. Ruthen,” exclaimed the gay young ‘ass-widow, ‘I hope you are not too dread- ully busy, for I have got such a lot to say. Women can never condense, you know.” Edgar answered, with a smile, “My next appointment is at twelve, so that we have an hour before us. We can get through a lot of talking in an hour.” ‘Of course we can. Do you recollect that little trip we made to Richmond—you and your friend, Mr. E——, and myself? How you two men did talk all the time, to be sure!” Edgar remembered it very well, and who it was lay back on the carriage cushions by the side of Mrs. Aldon, whilst the other took the reins. Edgar invariably got on well with women, and between him and Mrs. Aldon there had always been a sort of freemasonry, resembling more the chaffy intercourse of one light-hearted man with another than the con- versation of a lady and gentleman who had made acquaintance at a mutual friend’s house. Remembering this, and full of loyal love to Florence, Edgar put on his most legal aspect, and asked his client if she had brought the title-deeds. Yes, they were there, somehow crammed into that sweetly pretty, but ridicu- lously little, bag. After much fumbling and searching in various mysterious pockets, “Oh, dear me! if { haven't forgotten the key!” Ping! went Edgar's bell. “Get this bag unlocked. Be quick!” He was rather vexed at the delay, or thought it right to seem so; whereupon Mrs, Aldon observed, «Don’t look so dreadfully cross, Mr. Ruthen; I’m sure I am very sorry; besides, it’s so awfully exhausting to have to talk about law matters directly after the long journey I’ve had to get here. In fact, I think it’s quite a providential circumstance. You forget I haven't seen you since your marriage; I haven’t even had time to ask after that dear demure little wife of yours.”” What a tongue she had! And yet how pretty and vivacious she was! How thoroughly at home she made herself in the big leathern atm-chair! Her veil was thrown up, revealing a couple of sparkling eyes and a pair of flushed cheeks, which she fanned vigorously with a tiny lace-bordered handkerchief, whilst, with the most artistic abandon of pose, she revealed just enough of a tiny foot and ankle to make a man (fallen creatures that they are) wish for more. She was certainly a most fascinating little woman. (To be continued.) Mr. ANDERSON appears to have gone to meet his grandmother.— Derrick. Aways put off till to-morrow whatever you can’t do to-day.— Breakfast Table. Wuen beer comes down to three cents, the man with only four cents may yet be happy.— Kronikle-Herald. “Kiss, kiss” is the name of a new song.— Norr. Herald, 1s the author's name a rebus? — Com. Adv. Propie who are pious only during camp- meeting season are called “grasshopper Chris- tians.""— Boston Post,