He Fell In Love With His Wife - Edward Payson Roe (the speed reading book .txt) 📗

among whom they lived, they did not awaken

prejudices by the assertion of superiority. Indeed, it was seen that the two

women had all they could do to earn their livelihood, and they were left to do

this in peace.

 

When Alida Armstrong—for that was her maiden name—carried her own and her

mother’s work to and from the shops, she often encountered admiring glances.

She was not exactly pretty, but she had the good, refined face which is often

more attractive than the merely pretty one, and she possessed a trim, rounded

figure which she knew how to clothe with taste from the simplest and most

inexpensive materials. Nor did she seek to dress above her station. When

passing along the street, any discerning person would recognize that she was a

working girl; only the superficial would look upon her as a commonplace girl.

There was something in her modest air and graceful, elastic carriage which

suggested the thought to many observers, “She has seen better days.”

 

The memory of these days, which had promised immunity from wearing toil,

anxiety, and poverty, was a barrier between the two women and their present

world. Death had bereft them of husband, father, and such property as he had

left had been lost in a bad investment. Learning that they were almost

penniless, they had patiently set about earning honest bread. This they had

succeeded in doing as long as the mother kept her usual health. But the

infirmities of age were creeping upon her. One winter she took a heavy cold

and was very ill. She rallied only temporarily in the milder days of spring.

In the summer’s heat her strength failed, and she died.

 

During her mother’s long illness Alida was devotion itself. The strain upon

her was severe indeed, for she not only had to earn food for both, but there

were also doctor’s bills, medicines, and delicacies to pay for. The poor girl

grew thin from work by day, watching by night, and from fear and anxiety at

all times. Their scanty savings were exhausted; articles were sold from their

rooms; the few precious heirlooms of silver and china were disposed of; Alida

even denied herself the food she needed rather than ask for help or permit her

mother to want for anything which ministered to their vain hopes of renewed

health.

 

What she should have done she scarcely knew, had not an unexpected friend

interested himself in her behalf. In one of the men’s clothing stores was a

cutter from whom she obtained work. Soon after he appeared in this shop he

began to manifest signs of interest in her He was about her own age, he had a

good trade, and she often wondered why he appeared so reticent and moody, as

compared with others in similar positions. But he always spoke kindly to her,

and when her mother’s illness first developed, he showed all the leniency

permitted to him in regard to her work. His apparent sympathy, and the need

of explaining why she was not able to finish her tasks as promptly as usual,

led her gradually to reveal to him the sad struggle in which she was engaged.

He promised to intercede in her behalf with their mutual employers, and asked

if he might come to see her mother.

 

Recognizing how dependent she was upon this man’s good will, and seeing

nothing in his conduct but kindness and sympathy, she consented. His course

and his words confirmed all her good impressions and awakened on her side

corresponding sympathy united with a lively gratitude. He told her that he

also was a stranger in the town, that he had but few acquaintances and no

friends, that he had lost relatives and was in no need to go about like other

young men. His manner was marked apparently by nothing more than interest and

a wish to help her, and was untinged by gallantry; so they gradually became

good friends. When he called Sunday afternoons the mother looked at him

wistfully, in the hope that her daughter would not be left without a

protector. At last the poor woman died, and Alida was in sore distress, for

she had no means with which to bury her. Ostrom came and said in the kindest

tones:

 

“You must let me lend you what you need and you can pay me back with interest,

if you wish. You won’t be under any obligation, for I have money lying idle

in the bank. When you have only yourself to support it will not take you long

to earn the sum.”

 

There seemed nothing else for her to do and so it was arranged. With

tear-blinded eyes she made her simple mourning, and within a week after her

mother’s death was at work again, eager to repay her debt. He urged her not

to hasten—to take all the rest she could while the hot weather lasted, and

few evenings passed that he did not come to take her out for a walk through

the quieter streets.

 

By this time he had won her confidence completely, and her heart overflowed

with gratitude. Of course she was not so unsophisticated as not to know

whither all this attention was tending, but it was a great relief to her mind

that his courtship was so quiet and undemonstrative. Her heart was sore and

grief-stricken, and she was not conscious of any other feeling toward him than

the deepest gratitude and wish to make such return as was within her power.

He was apparently very frank in regard to his past life, and nothing was said

which excited her suspicions. Indeed, she felt that it would be disloyalty to

think of questioning or surmising evil of one who had proved himself so true a

friend in her sore need. She was therefore somewhat prepared for the words he

spoke one warm September day, as they sat together in a little shaded park.

 

“Alida,” he said, a little nervously, “we are both strangers and alone in this

world, but surely we are no longer strangers to each other. Let us go quietly

to some minister and be married. That is the best way for you to pay your

debt and keep me always in debt to you.”

 

She was silent a moment, then faltered, “I’d rather pay all my debt first.”

 

“What debts can there be between husband and wife? Come now, let us look at

the matter sensibly. I don’t want to frighten you. Things will go on much

the same. We can take quiet rooms, I will bring work to you instead of your

having to go after it. It’s nobody’s business but our own. We’ve not a

circle of relations to consult or invite. We can go to some parsonage, the

minister’s family will be the witnesses; then I’ll leave you at your room as

usual, and no one will be any the wiser till I’ve found a place where we can

go to housekeeping. That won’t be long, I can tell you.”

 

He placed the matter in such a simple, natural light that she did not know how

to refuse.

 

“Perhaps I do not love you as much as you ought to be loved, and deserve to be

in view of all your kindness,” she tried to explain. “I feel I ought to be

very truthful and not deceive you in the least, as I know you would not

deceive me.” So strong a shiver passed through his frame that she exclaimed,

“You are taking cold or you don’t feel well.”

 

“Oh, it’s nothing!” he said hastily, “only the night air, and then a fellow

always feels a little nervous, I suppose, when he’s asking for something on

which his happiness depends. I’m satisfied with such feeling and good will as

you have for me, and will be only too glad to get you just as you are. Come,

before it is too late in the evening.”

 

“Is your heart bent on this, after what I have said, Wilson?”

 

“Yes, yes, indeed!” clasping her hand and drawing her to her feet.

 

“It would seem very ungrateful in me to refuse, after all you have done for me

and mother, if you think it’s right and best. Will you go to the minister

whose church I attended, and who came to see mother?”

 

“Certainly, anyone you like,” and he put her hand on his arm and led her away.

 

The clergyman listened sympathetically to her brief history of Ostrom’s

kindness, then performed a simple ceremony which his wife and daughters

witnessed. As they were about to depart he said, “I will send you a

certificate.”

 

“Don’t trouble yourself to do that,” said the groom. “I’ll call for it some

evening soon.”

 

Never had she seen Ostrom in such gay spirits as on their return; and,

woman-like, she was happy chiefly because she had made him happy. She also

felt a glad sense of security. Her mother’s dying wish had been fulfilled;

she had now a protector, and would soon have a home instead of a boarding

place among strangers.

 

Her husband speedily found the rooms to which the reader has been introduced.

The street on which they were located was no thoroughfare. Its farther end

was closed by a fence and beyond were fields. With the exception of those who

dwelt upon it or had business with the residents, few people came thither. To

this locality, Ostrom brought his bride, and selected rooms whose windows were

above those of the surrounding houses. So far from regretting this isolation

and remoteness from the central life of the town, Alida’s feelings sanctioned

his choice. The sense of possessing security and a refuge was increased, and

it was as natural for her to set about making the rooms homelike as it was to

breathe. Her husband appeared to have exhausted his tendencies toward close

economy in the choice of apartments, and she was given more money than she

desired with which to furnish and decorate. He said, “fix everything up to

suit your mind, and I’ll be satisfied.”

 

This she did with such skill, taste, and good management that she returned a

large portion of the sum he had given her, whereupon he laughingly remarked

that she had already saved more than she owed him. He seemed disinclined to

accompany her in the selection of their simple outfit, but professed himself

so pleased with her choice of everything that she was gratified and happy in

the thought of relieving him from trouble.

 

Thus their married life began under what appeared to her the most promising

and congenial circumstances. She soon insisted on having work again, and her

busy fingers did much to increase his income.

 

Alida was not an exacting woman, and recognized from the beginning that her

husband would naturally have peculiar ways of his own. Unlike Mrs. Mumpson,

she never expatiated on “adaptation,” but Ostrom soon learned, with much

inward relief, that his wife would accept unquestioningly what appeared to be

his habits and preferences. He went early to his place of work, taking the

nice little lunch which she prepared, and returned in the dusk of the evening

when he always found a warm dinner in readiness. After this, he was ready

enough to walk with her, but, as before, chose the least frequented streets.

Places of amusement and resort seemed distasteful. On Sundays he enjoyed a

ramble in the country as long as the season permitted, and then showed a great

disinclination to leave the fireside. For a time he went with her in the

evening to church, but gradually persuaded her to remain at home and read or

talk to him.

 

His wife felt that she had little cause to complain of his quiet ways