“It was indeed, Sister Stenhouse, and I soon made it awkward for them. I assure you, after I joined them, there was not a soul present who had a moment’s comfort till that girl went away. My husband, however, took her home, and from that very day he seemed resolved to have the upper hand. He never for a moment would listen to a word I said about the girl; he brought her in every evening and took her to the theatre constantly, and paid her ten times more attention than he ever paid me. I wasn’t jealous, Sister Stenhouse; no one—as I said before—could ever suspect me of jealousy, but I did hate that girl. If he had not loved her, I can’t say whether I myself might not have liked her. But the very fact of him loving her makes me detest her; but it’s only a little proper pride on my part—I’m not in the least jealous, oh dear no!”
“Of course not,” I said.
“I don’t know about that,” she said, “I’ve borne enough from those two to drive fifty women crazy with jealousy, and things went on from bad to worse, until the other day when, as I told you, we had that little unpleasantness. My husband, when he came back, was downright angry, and made use of shocking language, and told me that, if he could not have peace in the house, he would have me board out by myself in some other part of the city. He said that I had scratched Charlotte’s face and torn out her hair; but that was quite untrue, as I told him; and as for the hair which fell out, it was all an accident. He said that Charlotte did not like such accidents, and that he would not put up with it. He was very cross and disagreeable all the rest of the day, and made me quite miserable and broken-hearted; and the next day, to wind it all up, he told me that he and Charlotte had arranged the day of the wedding. I was forced to go over with him to the Endowment House, to give him that detestable little vixen. I tell you, Sister Stenhouse, I hate her; and oh, oh dear, what shall I do now my husband has fallen in love with her!”
Here, to my infinite astonishment, she rose from her seat and rushed about the room, wringing her hands and exclaiming, “Oh dear! oh dear!” She then threw herself right down on the couch and actually burst into tears, crying out, “Oh dear, what shall I do with my Henry and that girl!”
After that I did not see her for several weeks, and then I accidentally met her in the street, and asked her why she had not called upon me lately.
“Oh, Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “I’m delighted to see you! You’ve been constantly in my thoughts, but I’ve been so hard at work—oh, so busy, that I really had not time for anything—not even to apostatize. Then, too, you see I’ve had my hands full. If you want to make a man slight one woman and get tired of her, there’s nothing like putting a nicer woman than her in his way. So I reconsidered the matter and resolved, cost what it might, I’d get another wife for my husband right away. I don’t care now whether she’s old or young, ugly or pretty, so long as she cuts out that detestable red-headed girl. I’ve run all over the town and rushed about here and there, all for his sake, though he’ll never be grateful for it; and now at last, do you know, dear, I really do think I’ve got the girl I want. She’s all dark—dark hair, dark eyes, dark complexion. If he marries her, as I mean him to do, she’ll lead him a fine life, notwithstanding all her winning ways. I wouldn’t stand in his shoes when she’s his wife; but I know I shall be able to manage her, for I have a deeper insight into character than he has, and a better command of temper. She’ll teach Miss Charlotte to keep her place, and she’ll make Henry mind too. It’ll do him good; I’ve done it all out of love to him, not a spark of jealousy or ill-feeling, as you are well aware.”
The idea of setting one wife against another, in order to keep the peace, would appear in the case of my talkative friend to have been successful; for, sure enough, six months after the time of which I have just spoken, her Henry did marry the dark beauty, and she and her auburn predecessor presented an interesting contrast when they chanced to appear in the street together in the company of their husband. There did not seem to be much love lost between them.
Successful in her plans, and having, as she said, now brought her Henry to reason, my talkative friend gave up all idea of leaving the Church, and when I last saw her she said, “I’m busy now looking after a likely girl, for I do think a man in my Henry’s position ought to live his religion and have at least seven wives!—seven, you know, is such a very lucky number.”