Every party was sure to procure for Mrs. Westbury the favor of a call from Mrs. Cunningham. On the following morning, at as early an hour as etiquette would allow, she made her appearance.
“I could not stay away this morning,” she said, the moment she entered. “I am so vexed, and so hurt, that I must have the sympathy of some friendly heart; and you are a friend to every one, especially when in trouble.”
“What troubles you, Mrs. Cunningham?” Mrs. Westbury inquired.
“You recollect,” said Mrs. Cunningham, “what I said to you last night about Mr. Cunningham's indisposition. Well, as soon as I got home, I ran up stairs, of course, you know, to see how he was, expecting to find him abed and asleep. Judge how I felt, when I found my bed as I left it, and no husband in the chamber. I flew down stairs, and searched every room for him, but in vain. I then rang for Peggy, and asked ‘if she knew where Mr. Cunningham was.’ ‘La, ma'am,’ said she, ‘I'm sure I don't know. He went out just after you did. He called me to give charge about the fires, and said he was going out. I thought he had altered his mind and was going to Mrs. T——'s.’ I dismissed the girl, and went to my chamber, in an agony, as you may suppose. I declare I hardly know what I did or thought for three long hours—for it was so long before Mr. Cunningham came home! I don't know what I said to him when he came, but he was not the kind, affectionate creature, that he ever has been, for he almost harshly told me ‘to cease my upbraidings’—upbraidings! think what a word—‘for if I sought pleasure where I liked, I must not quarrel with him for doing the same!’ My dear Mrs. Westbury, I could not make him tell me where he had been, do all I could—and I have horrible surmises. What shall I do? I am sick at heart, and almost distracted.”
“Will you follow my advice, my dear Mrs. Cunningham?” said Mrs. Westbury, who truly pitied her distress, much as she blamed her.
“O, yes—I will do any thing to feel happier than I now do. Really my heart is broken,” and she burst into a passion of tears.
Mrs. Westbury attempted to soothe her, and then said—
“Forgive me, if I wound, when I would only heal. You have been a little imprudent, and must retrace your steps by conforming to the taste of your husband. He does not like crowds, and you must in part relinquish them for his sake.”
“And is not that hard?” said Mrs. Cunningham. “Why should he not conform to my taste, as well as I to his? Why must men always have their own way?”
“That point it is not worth while to discuss,” said Mrs. Westbury. “Your happiness, my friend, is at stake. Can you hesitate an instant which to relinquish, those pleasures, which, after all, are so unsatisfying, or the approbation, the happiness, perhaps the heart, even, of your husband?”