Her tiny white hand was pressed against her throbbing forehead, as I finished the sentence with a glance at her of undissembled sternness, and the mild look of patient suffering and imploring submission with which she returned my angry frown—it cut me to the heart! I could read my own death warrant at this very hour with less of pain than I felt at that moment, as she raised her blue eyes glistening with suppressed tears, and with all the innocence and affection of an expiring saint, begged me in the silent eloquence of nature to spare her whom I had promised to "cherish and to love."
"I have never seen you troubled," said she, (uncomplaining spirit! there was no emphasis—no! not the least, on the word troubled!) "I have never seen you troubled at any thing except that door—and gladly would I remedy it, but you know that I cannot. Were a very little filed from the inside of the catch it would shut without difficulty—I should never think of it," added she after a pause, "on my own account, but it causes you so much vexation."
It was true as she had said, that I had felt more anger in consequence of that unfortunate door than all the other untoward events which I had experienced from the time of my marriage. A heavy loss—a sore disappointment—a great calamity, I could endure with composure. The trial required philosophy for its support, and the exercise of philosophy was a gratification to pride. But a door-latch! What occasion could that give for philosophy? None, and therefore I let it gall me to the quick!!! It was, as I observed, so easy to shut it, with a little care—such a little thing, if only attended to. "True!" whispered Philosophy in my ear, "but such a 'little thing' to get angry about! such a 'little thing' to make you miserable for an hour every day! for shame, Mr. Plowman!" To tell the truth I did begin to feel a little ashamed when I recollected how much unhappiness it had caused not only myself—but through me my dearer wife.
"I declare, my dear!" said I, "that if that door-latch had only been filed ten years ago, it would have saved each of us one year of pain before this time!"
Thomas had brought in a file before my speech was finished, and in a few moments the door shut as easily and firmly as ever door did. I swung it a few times on the hinges with an air of triumph, and I verily believe that the work of that single moment conferred more happiness on Julia as well as myself, than all his blood-bought triumphs ever yielded to the conqueror.
"The root of bitterness," said I, "is removed at last, and I can only wonder at my own stupidity in not thinking of the simple remedy before—but Heaven forgive me! I had entirely forgotten your headache: the sound of that file must have been torture to you!"
She smiled sweetly as she leaned her head on my shoulder, declaring—although her forehead burnt my hand, and the blood was raging through her veins, that it was "quite cured, since the door shut so easily!!" Uncomplaining, devoted, self-sacrificing treasure of my heart! How could I do less than clasp her to my bosom and swear to cherish her with tenfold care, and pray—while I kissed away the tear from her eye—that my own cruel thoughtlessness might never fill its place with another.
Such pleasure was too rare and valuable to be interrupted at the moment of its birth—so I look my arm chair from the corner, and sitting down at the side of Julia, who, while she held my hand, looked me in the face with very much of that expression of innocent delight, which so rarely survives childhood. I pursued my cogitations somewhat in the following order. "Life is made up of moments. Our happiness or unhappiness during any one of these moments depends almost invariably upon the merest trifles. If these momentary trifles are in the scale of happiness, life is happy. Take care then of trifles, and great events will take care of themselves. (Somewhere about here I began to think aloud!) I lost a grandfather—an amiable, excellent, and most affectionate grandfather—and my grief was great. Nevertheless, I do believe that if the hard bottomed chair, [N. B. It was of white oak.] in which I have sat for the last eight—yes! nine years—if this chair had but been well covered with a good, soft sheepskin—that sheepskin—purchased at the cost of ninepence,—would have saved me from a greater grief than the death of my grandfather!"
"It is a mortifying reflection," said Julia, interrupting my soliloquy, "and one which at first thought would seem to speak little for your heart—yet a true one perhaps; and not more true with you than with many others."
"And still," said I, "I am without the sheepskin. Why? Because the pain endured in a single moment is so trifling that if we do not take the trouble to add all the moments together and look at the pain in the aggregate, one would hardly turn his hand upside down to be freed from it."