Chapter II

Mrs. Brown sat by the fire in the parlor, turning over the pages of the last new novel. Occasionally she sighed, as though the world had used her badly, and she had not the means of paying off the world for its ill treatment.

Mr. Brown kept a dry goods store, and, being a prudent, industrious man, he substituted his own services for those of an extra clerk, which kept him busily occupied from an early hour in the morning till late in the evening.

He had been married five years, and, for some reason unknown beyond the pale of his own home, his matrimonial experience, without being decidedly stormy, was very far from being pleasant and profitable to either party. Brown was a good-hearted fellow, and always looked on the bright side of things. If the world would only move along smoothly, he was perfectly satisfied, and never felt disposed to quarrel with any body.

Mrs. Brown’s disposition was not particularly objectionable; she was kind-hearted, clever, and amiable, as the world goes; but somehow nothing ever went right with her. It seemed as though every body took a malicious pride in tormenting her—Brown in particular. If Brown bought sausages for dinner, she was sure to want mutton, and if mutton, she was sure to want sausages.

Brown could not understand it. Whatever he did was sure to be exactly wrong. But Brown was a philosopher; and, though he sometimes got so disgusted that he held his tongue for several days, he maintained a very tolerable degree of good nature.

Brown treated himself to a new overcoat. Being reasonably independent in such matters, he had assumed the responsibility of purchasing the garment without consulting his wife.

Imprudent Brown, thus to expend the sum of eighteen dollars without consulting Mrs. B! Reckless Brown, thus to buy that brown coat, when all the experience of the past pointed to the appalling consequences! Did you not remember the last time you purchased a pair of pants, that neither the hue nor the texture suited your amiable partner? Did you not call to mind the last curtain lecture on this very topic, when you audaciously ordered the tailor to make you a coat off that piece? Knew you not that Mrs. B. likes not black, drab, green, brown, olive, blue, nor any thing of the fancy order?

But Brown recklessly ordered the coat, and when it was done, he recklessly put it on. What made the offence a hundred fold more horrible, he coolly marched, with the coat on, into the parlor where Mrs. B. sat by the fire, turning over the pages of the last new novel.

The lady was thunderstruck; but she was not one of your spitfires, who make a tremendous tempest in your presence when anything does not suit them. She was meek, patient, suffering, under any indignity, even one so pointed and wicked as in the present case.

The lady looked up from her book, and bestowed a languid smile upon the partner of her joys, and, alas! of her sorrows too.

Brown smiled in return; he could not do less than smile. He even looked innocent, as though he had done nothing wrong—as though he had not aimed a blow at the peace of his amiable lady.

“What have you got on, Jonas?” asked she, mildly.

“An overcoat,” replied Brown, sententiously.

“A new one?” sighed the lady.

“Just from the tailor’s shop,” answered Brown, screwing up his courage to meet the onslaught.

“You know I don’t like brown, Jonas.”

“I do,” replied Brown, valorously.

“You know I never like brown.”

Brown had half a mind to construe the remark into a pun; but he was forbearing, thought no evil, and so kept silence.

“It’s a sack too; you know I never liked a sack.”

“I always did.”

“A surtout would become you much better.”

“I like a sack.”

“It is a horrid-looking coat,” sighed Mrs. Brown.

“Muddle says it is the best looking coat I ever had on.”

“Muddle! Of course he would say so.”

“Temple said so too.”

“Temple has no taste.”

“I agree with Temple.”

“You never will wear a coat that suits me.”

Brown thought this was strictly true, but, being a prudent man, he held his peace.

“You still persist in letting Muddle make your clothes, though he charges you more than any one else would.”

“His prices are reasonable.”

“I wish you would let some other tailor make your coat; Muddle’s clothes never set well.”

“Fit me to a T.”

“If it had only been black!”

“But, my dear, you forget that my last coat was black, and you did not like that.”

“It suits your figure better than brown.”

Just at that moment the door bell rang, and the servant brought in a pair of pants.

“What is that?” asked the lady.

“Pants.”

Mrs. B eagerly opened the bundle. The garment was black.

“Black pants!” exclaimed the lady, holding them up before her; “you know I don’t like black pants.”

“Indeed, my dear, you just now said you did like black.”

“Not black pants; you know I never did like them; besides, they won’t wear well.”

“But, Mrs. B., I do not wish you to wear them.”

The lady thought this was exceedingly cruel of Mr. Brown; for she, poor woman, had no more idea of “wearing the breeches” than she had of going to Congress.

“They suit me, my dear. I never interfere with your taste in regard to bonnets and dresses.”

“I wish you would tell me what you like best; I am sure I desire to conform to your taste.”

“Don’t wish to. I cannot tell what is good taste in furbelows and flounces, any more than a woman can in coats and pants.”

“But you might be a little more attentive to my wishes. You used to once.”

This was a hard hit, and Mr. Brown was silent.

“You don’t seem to care whether I am suited or not, now.”

Brown still was silent; the story had been repeated so often that he knew precisely what to expect.

Mrs. Brown continued to rehearse her grievances, believing herself the most miserable woman in the world. Finally, the tears gathered in her eyes, and she sobbed bitterly. Brown was a monster; he never tried to please her, even in the slightest things; and the thought that her husband’s affections were alienated was perfectly overwhelming.

Brown had picked up the last new novel, which had fallen from Mrs. B.’s lap, and sat turning over the leaves with the most stoical indifference. How could Brown sit and see his beloved wife, the partner of his joys and sorrows, weeping as though her heart would break, and not offer her a word of consolation? Brown was a philosopher.