OUR HONEYMOON.
FRIDAY, MAY 24, 18—.
I am not superstitious—certainly not: but when I woke this morning, I felt as if something would happen; though I said nothing to Fred. With the feeling that came upon me, I wouldn't have thought of going to France for worlds. I felt as if a war must break out, or something.
"I knew it; I was certain of it," said I, when I'd half read the letter from home.
"In that case," said Fred, in the most unconcerned way, which he will call philosophy, whereas I think it downright imprudence—but I fear dear Mamma's right; all men are imprudent—"In that case, we might have saved postage."
"Now Fred, don't be frivolous. But I see, there'll be nothing right at home till we get fairly back. Everything will be sacrificed."—
"Is that your serious belief, my love?" said Fred, finishing his tea; and I nodded very decidedly.—"Well, then, suppose we pack up our traps and return to-day. And talking of home, you can't think, Lotty, what a present you've made me without knowing it."
"Have I indeed? What present, love?"—
"It was in my sleep; but then, it was one of those dreams that always forerun the reality. Do you know I dreamt that we'd returned home, and somehow when I tried to sit down in my chair, up I jumped again; and so again and again. Whenever I tried to be quiet and stretch my legs out at my fireside, I seemed possessed with a legion of imps that would lift me from my seat and pull me towards the door."—
"Hm! That's a very ugly dream, Fred," said I; and I know I looked thoughtful.
"Very: but it's wonderful how, like a tranquillizing spirit, you appeared upon the scene. I thought, my dear, you looked more beautiful than is possible."—
"Frederick!"—
"Not but what I'm quite content as it is. You know, my love, it might have been worse."—
"Well," said I, "Mamma needn't have written to me that my honeymoon was nearly ended. It seems I'm not likely to forget that."
"And when it was impossible for me to remain in the chair—when I continued to get up and sit down, and run here and run there—- then, as I say, you appeared like a benevolent fairy—bearing across one arm what seemed to me a rainbow turned to silk; and in the other hand carrying a pair of slippers."
"Well; and then?"—
"And then, with a thought, I had put on the morning-gown;—for it was that you carried—and placed my feet in the slippers. There never were more beautiful presents; never richer gifts for a wife to make her husband. For would you think it, Lotty? No sooner had I wrapped the dressing-gown about me, than I became settled in the sweetest repose in my chair: and the very walls of the room seemed to make the softest music. And then the slippers! Most wonderful! Would you believe it, Lotty—wherever the slippers touched, a flower sprang up; flowers and aromatic herbs! The very hearth seemed glowing and odorous with roses and thyme. But then, you know, it was only a dream, Lotty. There's no such dressing-gown—and in this world no such slippers;" and then—I could see it—he looked in his odd way at me.
"I suppose not, Fred," said I; for I wouldn't seem to understand him. "And then, if such slippers could be found, where's the husband's feet to fit 'em? 'T would be another story of the glass slipper."
"Who knows when we get home? But what's happened?" and he pointed to the letter.
"Well, then, the pigeon-house has blown down; and Rajah's flown away; and a strange cat has killed the gold-fish; and, in fact, Fred—as dear Mamma writes to me; not, as she says, she'd have me worry myself about the matter—in fact the house wants a mistress."
"I have no doubt your excellent mother is right," said Fred; "and as you won't go to France, suppose we make way for The Flitch. Do you know, Lotty, I'm curious to know if—after all—those slippers mayn't be found there."
"I'll take care of that," said I; "but you know, Fred, we can't go back yet."
"Why not?"—
"Why, you know our honeymoon isn't quite out; and"—
"And what of that? We needn't burn all the moon from home. What if we put the last fragment on a save-all, and see it out at The Flitch?"
"It isn't to be done, Fred," said I; for I knew how people would talk. "Of course, 'twould be said we were tired of our own society, and so got home for company."
"Nevertheless," said Fred; "you take the flight of Rajah, that dear bird, with wondrous serenity."
And it then struck me that I did not feel so annoyed as I ought. "Ha, Fred," said I, "you don't know what my feelings may be; don't misjudge me because I don't talk. I can assure you, I am very much disturbed;" and I was vexed.
"Perhaps, then"—said Fred—"you'll take a little walk towards the Steyne; and recover yourself? I've some letters to write, my love: and—'twill do you good—I'll join you."
"Certainly"—said I—"of course; if you wish it," and then I wondered why he should wish to get rid of me. It never happened before. Yes—and the thought came again very forcibly upon me—it's plain the honeymoon's nearly out; and then I left the room; and as I left it, didn't I nearly bang the door?
"Why should he wish to get rid of me?" I seemed quite bewildered with this question. Everything seemed to ask it. He could have written his letters without my leaving the house. However, I felt glad that I contained myself; and especially glad that I didn't bang the door.
Well, I ran and put on my bonnet; and then just peeping in at the door to Fred, said, "I'm going;" and in another minute was taking my way towards the Steyne. It was such a beautiful day; the sky so light; and the air so fresh and sweet, that—yes, in a little minute, my bit of temper had all passed away—and I did well scold myself that, for a moment, I had entertained it. I walked down upon the beach. Scarcely a soul was there: and I fell into a sort of dreamy meditation—thinking about that morning-gown and those slippers. "I'll get 'em for Fred, that I will;" I resolved within myself. "Roses shall grow at the fireside; and repose shall be in his arm-chair. That I'm determined:" and as I resolved this with myself, everything about me seemed to grow brighter and more beautiful. And then I wished that we were well at home, and the slippers had, for once and all, been tried and fitted. The gulls flying about reminded me of Rajah: and I did wonder at myself that I could think of his loss—that would have nigh killed me at one time—so calmly. But then, as Mamma said, and as I've since discovered,—it's wonderful what other trifles marriage makes one forget.
There was nobody upon the beach: so I sat down, and began a day-dreaming. How happy we should be at home, and how softly and sweetly all things would go with us! And still, as the waves ran and burst in foam upon the beach, I thought of the slippers.
I hardly knew how long I'd been there, when a little gypsey girl stood at my side, offering a nosegay. I looked and—yes, it was one of the gypsies, at whose tent Fred and I took shelter in the thunderstorm. However, before I could say a word, the little creature dropt the nosegay in my lap; and laughing, ran away.
Such a beautiful bouquet! Had it been a thing of wild or even of common garden flowers—but it was a bouquet of exotics—and how were gypsies to come by such things? Then something whispered to me—"stole them."
I didn't like to throw the thing away; and as I remained meditating, Fred came up. "Pretty flowers, Lotty," said he.
"Yes: selected with taste—great taste, an't they?" said I; and I cannot think what whim it was possessed me to go off in such praise of the bouquet.
"Pretty well," said Fred.
"Pretty well! my dear Fred; if you'll only look and attend, you'll own that the person who composed this bouquet must have known all the true effect of colours."
"Indeed," said Fred; as I thought very oddly; so I went on.
"Every colour harmonizes; the light, you see, falling exactly in the right place; and yet everything arranged so naturally—so harmoniously. The white is precisely where it should be, and"—
"Is it truly?" and saying this, Fred twitched from among the flowers a note that like a mortal snake as I thought it lay there.
"Why, it's a letter!" I cried.
"It looks like it," said Fred.
"It was brought by a gypsey," said I; and I felt my face burning, and could have cried. "It's a mistake."
"Of course," said Fred: "what else, my love? Of course, a mistake."
And then he gave me his arm, and we returned towards the Inn. Fred laughed and talked; but somehow I felt so vexed: yes, I could have cried; and still Fred was so cool—so very cool.