The bridal party had returned from the Falls, and after spending a week or more at Capt. Thompson’s the doctor took down his sign, boxed up his books, pills, powders, and skeleton, which some called his ’natomy, while Dell packed up her six morning gowns with hosts of other finery, and then one day in August they started for Boston; where the doctor hoped for a wider field of labor, fully expecting to be aided by the powerful influence of Mr. Marshall, his wife’s uncle, whose high station in the city he never once doubted. For this opinion he had, as the world goes, some well founded reasons; for not only did Dell often quote “my Aunt Marshall of Boston,” but the lady herself also managed to impress the people of Pine District with her superiority over them, and her great importance at home. Notwithstanding that she frequently spent several weeks at Capt. Thompson’s, she still could not endure the country—“the people were so vulgar—’twas so dull there, and no concerts, no operas, no theatres, no star actors, no parties, and more than all, no dear, delightful old Common, with its shaded walks and velvet grass.”
Of course Dr. Clayton, in thinking of her city home, fancied to himself a princely mansion on Beacon street, overlooking the “dear, delightful old Common,” and it is scarcely more than natural that his heart expanded with some little degree of pride, as he saw in contemplation the dinner parties, evening parties, soirées, etc., which he confidently expected to attend at said princely mansion. At first he had entertained a faint hope that he might possibly board with his new uncle; but this idea was instantly repelled by his wife, who did not seem so much inclined to talk of her “city Aunt” as formerly. So it was decided that they should for a time take rooms at the Tremont.
It was a dark, rainy night when they arrived, and as it was cold for the season, their rooms seemed cheerless and dreary, while, to crown all, the bride of six weeks was undeniably and decidedly out of temper; finding fault with everything, even to her handsome husband, who fidgeted and fussed, brought her the bottle of hair oil instead of cologne, stepped on her linen travelling dress with his muddy boot, spit in the grate instead of the spit-box, breathed in her face when he knew how she disliked tobacco, thought of Rosa Lee, and wondered if she were ever cross (“nervous” Dell called it), thought not, and almost wished—no, didn’t wish anything, but as an offset thought of the $10,000, asked Dell how old her grandmother was, received for an answer, “I don’t know and I don’t care;” after which he went down stairs and regaled himself with a cigar until informed that supper was ready. Ate all alone, Dell refusing to go down—found her in tears on returning to his room, was told that she “was homesick, and wished she’d never come.” He began to wish so too, but said “she’d feel better by and by.” Sat for an hour or more cross-legged listening to the rain, and wondering if there was a cure for nervousness; finally went to bed and dreamed of Rosa Lee and the moonlight night, when they sat under the old oak tree, and of the thunder-storm when he gave her the little gold ring.
The next morning Mrs. Doctor Clayton was all smiles, and when, with her handsome eyes, shining hair, and tasteful wrapper, she descended to the breakfast-room, she attracted much attention, and more than one asked who she was, as they turned for a second glance. Nothing of this escaped the doctor, and with a glow of pride he forgot the vexations of the night previous, and gave vent to a mental pshaw! as he thought of his dream; for well he knew that the little plain-faced Rosa could not compare with the splendid woman at his side. Breakfast being over, he ventured to suggest the possibility of their soon receiving a call from her aunt; but Dell hastily replied, that such a thing was hardly probable, as her Aunt had her own affairs to attend to, and would not trouble herself about them. The doctor’s hands went into his pockets, and his eyes went over inquiringly to his wife, who continued speaking rapidly, as if it were a painful duty which she felt compelled to perform.
“I don’t know where you got the idea that Uncle Marshall is such a great man—not from me, certainly. But got it you have, and it’s time you knew the truth. He is a good, honest man, I dare say, and respectable, too; but he is not one of the ton, by any means. Why, he’s nothing more nor less than a tailor, and earns his bread from day to day.”
“But his wife”—interrupted the doctor—“how happens it that she supports so much style?”
“Oh, that’s easily accounted for,” returned Dell. “They have no children—she is fond of dress, and spends all she can get for that purpose. She was an apprentice girl and learned her trade in my uncle’s shop, and it is said, sometimes helps him now when he is pressed hard.”
“Why did you never tell me this before?” asked the doctor, his brow growing thoughtful.
“And why should I tell you?” answered Dell. “What did I suppose you cared whether he were a prince or a tailor. You married me, I hope, for myself, and not for my relations.”
The doctor thought of the ten thousand dollars just in time to force down the answer which sprang to his lips, and which was far better to be unuttered; so, in its place, he asked, “Where do they live?”