Chapter II

Mrs. Washburn was a pretty, affectionate, gentle-hearted wife. Her whole existence was bound up in her husband, as well it might be; for never was husband more devoted to his wife than he was. To our mind she was a model wife; none of your stormy vixens, that set their hearts upon attaining a point, and will pull the house down upon your head but they will attain it.

In her eye, Mr. Washburn had only one fault; and that was the villainous habit of smoking, which all her eloquence had been powerless to overcome. She didn’t “put her foot down,” as her friend, Mrs. Volant, had done; for—poor, gentle-hearted creature—she couldn’t think of provoking a quarrel with him, and had about concluded to make the best of it, and let him smoke in peace.

But there was something so irresistibly funny about Mrs. Volant’s plan, that she determined to try it, and, accordingly, on the afternoon of the next day, she sent the Irish girl to the apothecary’s shop for a bunch of “Bagdad cigars.” Disposing a few of them in her work basket, ready for the momentous occasion, her mind pictured the scene that would ensue when she should light one of them. It was so funny that she laughed out loud at the idea. Wouldn’t he be surprised to see her, who had teased him so much to leave off smoking, commence the practice herself! Wouldn’t his eyes stick out, when he should see her puffing a cigar at her sewing, as he did when he read the evening paper!

She was so pleased with the plan, that she would have put it in execution, even if it had been only for the sport it promised her, independently of any good result which might flow from it. Wouldn’t he beg her to smoke no more! Wouldn’t he be mortified, and wouldn’t she win the day, and glory over his defeat! Wouldn’t he be glad to promise her that he wouldn’t smoke another cigar as long as he lived! She was so delighted that she could hardly contain herself.

Mr. Washburn came home to tea, and, as usual when he entered the house, he gave her a kiss, and a tender greeting. They were seated at the tea table; Mrs. Washburn was so full of mirth, that she came near scalding herself with the hot tea when she poured it out. Her merry, mischievous laugh rang pleasantly on her husband’s ear, who, poor fellow, could have had no idea of the terrible ordeal through which he was doomed to pass.

When tea was over, the astral lamp transferred to the lightstand, and Mr. Washburn had stretched himself into a comfortable position in the large easy rocking chair, with his legs lazily reposing in another chair, the everlasting cigar was produced, lighted, and began to diffuse its fragrance through the room.

Mrs. Washburn could hardly control her inclination to burst into a laugh at the mere thought of what she was about to do. Seating herself at the side of the table opposite her husband, she took from the work basket, with an air as brave and solemn as a judge, one of the “Bagdads.” Placing the filthy roll between her ruby lips, she glanced at her husband.

“Now, Mr. Smoker,” thought she,—it would have spoiled the joke to have said it,—“we will see whether you don’t abandon that nasty habit.”

Mr. Washburn happened to glance at her; but, contrary to her expectation, he manifested no surprise, and went on reading the Transcript.

“So, so, Mr. Smoker,” thought she again, “you think I am joking, do you? I will soon convince you;” and the lady took a taper, and applied a light to the cigar.

But Mrs. Washburn was rather inexperienced in the modus operandi of lighting a cigar, and she was unable to make it “go.” She lit another taper, and puffed away with all her might; but the Bagdad was as resolute as the great caliph himself. She persevered, till her extraordinary exertions again attracted the attention of Mr. Washburn.

“You are lighting the wrong end, my dear,” said he, with the utmost nonchalance.

“How provoking he is!” thought Mrs. Washburn. “Why don’t he remonstrate?”

“You should bite off the twisted end, and then put it in your mouth,” continued the husband, turning to the paper again.

Aided by these directions, the lady took another cigar, which she succeeded in lighting. The first taste of the tobacco smoke was horrible; but she had determined to be a martyr for her husband’s sake; and taking her sewing, she continued to puff away as she plied her needle, till a certain nausea compelled her to abandon the experiment for that time. Casting the Bagdad into the grate, she began to wish she had not listened to Mrs. Volant.

“What is the matter, my dear? Wasn’t it a good cigar? Try mine; they are Monte Christos of the first quality,” and the imperturbable Mr. Washburn offered her a choice from his case.

“No, I thank you, my dear; I will not smoke any more to-night.”

“But what’s the matter, Mary? You are as pale as a sheet!”

“I feel a little faint; I shall be better in a moment,” and Mrs. Washburn was obliged to leave the room.

Poor woman! she was sick all the evening! But the next day, Mrs. Volant, who had called to learn the success of the experiment, advised her to try again, assuring her it would not make her sick the second time.