Chapter II

Mr. Simeon Montague thought the money he bestowed upon his family was as good as wasted. He was not a domestic man. He had married his wife, with a reasonable show of affection, because her father was rich, and she was an only daughter. Of course, he would not even confess to his own heart that he was so selfish and cruel as to marry for sordid motives—that he had prostituted the holy altar of Hymen by sacrificing to Plutus upon it; but it was none the less true because he denied it to himself and every body else.

Mrs. Montague’s father at her marriage was only about forty-five years of age; yet his health was so feeble that there was not one chance in ten of his living another year. But the old gentleman had revived, and now, after twelve years had expired, seemed to be completely rejuvenated. He was hale and hearty, and gave the promise of living twenty years more. Of course the sordid son-in-law was disappointed. He had thrown himself into the sea of matrimony with an unworthy motive, and if he had been drowned there it would have served him just right.

Poor Mrs. Montague! Her bright hopes were all wrecked. Instead of the world of affection she had anticipated in the connubial relation, she found nothing but coldness and sordid selfishness. Her husband still frequented the Club House; and when at home, he seemed to have no sympathy with her. His business seemed to engross all his attention, and he had no time to think of his wife, none to devote to his children.

Yet Mr. Montague was not a morose or an ill-natured man. He loved the good opinion of the world, and would have made almost any sacrifice rather than have had an imputation cast upon his domestic character. He paid the most scrupulous attention to all the forms of life, walked to church every Sunday with his wife on his arm, always found the place in the hymn book for her, and never failed abroad to manifest the most lively interest in his family. He always called his wife “my dear,” and spoke affectionately to the children in the presence of company.

The eye of affection could penetrate all this mass of conventionalism, and the poor wife, in less than a year after her marriage, realized that she had thrown herself away upon a hollow-hearted man—one who, without loving her, would keep the peace at almost any sacrifice—one who would compel the world to believe that he was the most tender and devoted husband, even while his heart was petrified and cold. His devotion was mere mechanism; it was a kind of habit, acquired by an active desire to secure the good will of all his friends.

Perhaps, even if there had been none to see him, Mr. Montague would not have been harsh; it was not his nature. He was a smooth-tongued, plausible man under all circumstances. He could appear to love when his heart was perfectly indifferent. He could avoid the most palpable of his domestic duties even while he professed the most earnest devotion to the welfare of his family.

Twelve years had in a measure reconciled the disappointed wife to her lot. She was contented with it because her maiden visions of connubial bliss had evaporated, and she knew no other existence than that to which she had been so long accustomed. Her air castles, reared in the sunny years of her girlhood, had long since tumbled to the ground, and left her in a world of reality, cold and repulsive at first, but rendered tolerable by long endurance.

Her husband was sordid and selfish. He never felt a hundred dollars expended in champagne suppers at the Club House; but half that sum given to his wife wrung his soul. Though he was in a good business, lived in good style, and always had money at his command, his brow always darkened when his wife asked him for any sum to be expended upon herself or her children. He was absolutely unwilling to give it, though he could not possibly have endured the mortification of seeing them shabbily dressed.

Mr. Montague is not an anomaly among men. There are thousands as sordid and inconsistent as he was—thousands who wish to have their wives and children appear well in the world, and at the same time deny them the means of doing so.

Mrs. Montague was in tears. She was both grieved and provoked at the conduct of her husband. The promptness with which he had paid his Club House bill, while he denied her the trifling sum she had asked, was a sad commentary on his devotion. For more than an hour she thought the matter over, and became fully assured that she was a much injured wife. Her spirit was roused, and, putting on her bonnet, she left the house to do her shopping.

The calico dress her husband had professed to think was good enough for her to wear to church was purchased, and before Sunday was made up.

The second bells were ringing for church. Mr. Montague, elegantly dressed, was all ready, and stood before the glass, contemplating his prepossessing appearance.

“Are you ready, Ellen?” said he, calling to his wife, who was up stairs.

“I shall be in a moment. Walk along slowly with Franky, and I will overtake you,” replied she.

Mr. Montague took his son by the hand, and walked up the street. He looked like a model head of the family—so benignant and dignified on that Sabbath morning.

His wife did not overtake him till he had got half way to church.

“Why, my dear, what have you got on?” asked Mr. Montague, when, to his horror, he saw her clothed in a common calico dress.

“My new calico,” replied she, coolly, as she took his arm.

“Are you mad, Ellen?”

“It was the best I could buy with the money you gave me.”

“But you are not going to church in that shape?”

“Why, Simeon, didn’t you say you were willing to go to church with me with a calico dress on?”

“Pshaw! Hadn’t you sense enough to see that I was jesting?”

“Jesting! If you were, it was the first time I ever knew you to jest in your own house.”

“Don’t be foolish, Ellen.”

“Come; we shall be late, and all the folks in the street are staring at us.”

“Staring at you. What a ridiculous figure you make in that attire! Your Irish girl is better dressed than you are.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Pray, go home.”

“I am going to church.”

“Not with me, Ellen, in that plight.”

“Then I leave you,” said she, taking Franky by the hand, and continuing her walk.

Mr. Montague was bewildered. It was a very awkward position; but the natural duplicity of his character came to his aid, and, placing his hand upon his forehead, as though suffering a severe headache, he retraced his steps homeward.