“And so punctual,” as young Meredith said most approvingly. Her shawl was never missing, and her carpet-bag was always ready, (two great points, young ladies, if you would win a gentleman’s heart in traveling,) but graceful, charming Mrs. Castleton was forever forgetting something, and they never stopped any where that they did not hear Mr. Castleton’s voice saying, in a tone of mixed vexation and despair,
“Now, Julia, have you got your bag? and where is your shawl?” To which she generally answered
“Yes—no—is not this mine? No, dear, I believe I left it in the car—or perhaps its only in the carriage. Just call the driver back, wont you?”
“The stage starts at six in the morning for Trenton, ladies,” said Meredith at night as they parted. “So you must be bright and early. There’s no danger of your not being ready,” he said, turning to Mary Randall with a smile. “You are a capital traveler, I see.”
Mrs. Castleton did not look pleased. She thought the compliment to Mary was an implied reproof to herself—and she was not used to any thing but admiration, except, indeed, from her husband; but she seemed used to his scolding, for somehow she did not appear to mind, if indeed she heard it, which seemed doubtful. Meredith often thought him downright cross.
“How he does scold that pretty wife of his,” he said to Ruth. “And how sweetly she bears it. I declare I can hardly keep from answering for her sometimes.”
“She does not seem to care for it though,” replied Ruth, who was beginning to be a little disenchanted of her beau ideal; “and she is provoking.”
“If she were not such a beauty, I suppose she would be,” he replied.
“Are you ready, Mrs. Castleton?” said Ruth, in her animated voice, at her door the next morning.
“Ready!” exclaimed Mrs. Castleton, who was standing before the glass, as she stroked her glossy hair. “Ready!”