And with that he seized his hat and dashed down-stairs into the street. He went straight to a market, bought a peck of onions and ordered them sent home. An unpoetical peace offering, he reflected, but the most appropriate for him under the circumstances. But stop, those were red onions. This fact was brought to his consciousness by observing on the sidewalk a basket of unusually fine white ones; and she had especially wished white onions. Immediately he stepped in and bought a peck of those.
As he walked along, filled with the peaceful consciousness of having made some atonement, he spied a wagon filled to the top with clean shiny-skinned, white onions. "They really look attractive," he said to himself. Then there darted into his mind a new idea. What if he should prove to Annette what a magnanimous, self-denying being he really was, and take to eating the obnoxious things himself just to please her; be a philosopher, a stoic, and will to like what he detested?
There must be no half-way work about this act of self-abnegation; he would provide a generous supply. Now that he thought of it, autumn was just the time to lay in a supply of vegetables. What had he been thinking of, buying only a peck? Nov, how many was a good quantity—enough to last all winter? That was a conundrum. He had dim memories of ten bushels of this and that stored in his father's cellar. True his father had a large family. But then, they should have a great many visitors. The proprietor of the wagon stared when he heard the order, but his business was to sell onions. If Philip Lyman was complacent before, he was jubilant now in contemplation of his virtues. He bounded up the stairs, resolving to go home at noon, surprise Nettie, and "make up." He was a monster to have left her in such a cold way. He was obliged to abandon that plan, though, having already lost so much time.
Annette meantime had been aroused from her despondent mood by the first installment of onions. Onions have healing properties, everybody knows. They began to prove efficacious in this case. Philip wanted to show her that he was sorry, she reasoned, and had taken this way to do it. It was just as delicate and kind as if the onions had been flowers,—she ignored the fact that they were red. While her spirits were being thus soothed and comforted, the second peck of onions arrived. This was perplexing. Why had he done that? Ah! These were white, and he had recollected that she liked white ones. How thoughtful and good! How unselfish and candid and noble to own himself wrong, and she—had been foolish and wicked to get angry at nothing.
She was just beginning to feel that life was worth living, when another man presented himself announcing that he had brought some onions. Annette assured him there was some mistake, as they had sufficient for a long time. But he affirmed most strenuously this was the spot, producing the directions in her husband's handwriting. Then Annette told him that she must countermand the order; that she positively wished for no more onions.
"But ye see I got my pay for 'em," he answered, with a horrible grin, whereupon the discomfited young woman retired into the house and the triumphant onions went into the cellar.
Tramp, tramp, and roll, roll. Would he never have done? He seemed like an arch fiend, sent to torment her. If she could but have known the soliloquy he of the onions carried on as he went back and forth, and that he took a malicious delight in getting the better of her, it might have turned the tide of her rising wrath into a laugh. When a laugh comes in, wrath goes out.
"That's jest the way with wimmin folks—headstrong! They think they know a leetle the most about everything. The young feller likes onions, I s'pose, and she don't, and she's 'tarmined he sha'n't have 'em. I'm glad she's got a boss. She needs it."
By the time the tenth bushel was deposited all Annette's late estimates and decisions had been reversed. Of all despicable acts this was the climax—to send a whole load of those horrible things, as if to say, "Grovelling creature, can't live without onions! Take them!" It was just a simple exhibition of spite and sarcasm. She would never have believed he could do so cruel a thing. Since she was a child she had not been so angry. It was a lofty, scornful anger that did not vent itself in tears. Besides, the tears were all used up.
Snatching her hat and mantle, she went out into the air to try to calm herself. On and on she went out into the country, dreading to return. Finding herself within half a mile of her cousin's house, she decided to call in order to get away from her thoughts. It proved the right place for that purpose. Little Harry had become suddenly ill, and the distracted mother welcomed her gladly. The two worked over him all the afternoon. As night came on Annette felt that it would be cruel to leave until there was some ray of hope. So she wrote a note to her husband, briefly and coldly explaining her absence. A passing boy agreed to deliver it, but it never got beyond his own pocket.