Chapter II

Mrs. Prescott did not appear to be half so lonesome as she had pretended she was; for, as her little white hand delicately and daintily grasped the needle, the same involuntary smile played on her pretty lips that had been there while her husband was present.

Her thoughts must have been very pleasant, or she could not have worn that bewitching smile. Her soft, gazelle-like eye, too, beamed forth the language of a pure and beautiful soul—a soul at rest among the flowers of its own tender rearing.

She was thinking, and her thoughts were full of joy. What a happy wife she was! But perhaps her view of matrimony was mingled with something of sentiment—a few grains of that amiable moonshine which strews flowers and perfumes in the pathway of the young wife.

Alas that the blight of coldness should ever come to wither those flowers which the young and loving wife scatters in her pathway! Alas that the cares and trials of life should ever come and cast a great, broad shadow over that moon of her dreams.

Mrs. Prescott was happy, and she was thinking how happy she was. Charles was all love and devotion. He was industrious, frugal, and temperate; and, though they lived in a humble house and in a humble street, she sighed not for the fine things her neighbors had.

They lived comfortably; and, while her husband loved her, she cared not for tapestry carpets and velvet-covered lounges.

Charles had only one failing; and that was, an earnest devotion to the Order of the Sons of Temperance, which drew him away from her side every Saturday night. He never left the house any other evening without her; and undoubtedly he would have insisted on her joining the order, only that it was a secret society; consequently no women could be tolerated within its pale.

Mrs. Prescott could not see why her husband should be a “Son;” he was strictly temperate in his habits. Poor wife! She neglected to inquire into the reason of his being so.

She plied her needle, and smiled forth the joy that was in her heart. She was so happy and contented that there was only one thing left her to wish for—that her husband was with her.

About half an hour after Charles had gone, her brother Frank, who had been married nearly a year, called with his wife.

“I have got to go down to the store and post up the books, Carrie, and I have brought Lucy to stay with you; she was afraid to stay alone,” said Frank Winslow, after the two wives had kissed each other, and said sundry pretty things about the weather and the walking.

“I am glad you did; I am all alone myself.”

“Where’s Charley?”

“Gone to the lodge.”

“What lodge?”

“I don’t mean the lodge—the meeting of the ‘Sons.’”

“Bah!”

“He goes every Saturday night.”

“What a pity! Charley is a good fellow, and it is a great shame that he should herd with those fanatics,” said Frank Winslow.

“Don’t you talk so about my husband, Frank,” interposed the loving wife. “He is not half so much of a fanatic on temperance, as you are on cognac and sherry.”

“Fie, sis! I believe in all sorts of good things; and being a Son is, in my opinion, the next thing to being a fool.”

“Why don’t you tell him so?”

“I would if he were here. You don’t think I am afraid of him, do you?”

“No; but the last time you argued the question with him——”

“Bah!” exclaimed Frank, impatiently.

Promising to call for his wife by ten o’clock, he left the house.

“I hope our husbands won’t quarrel over this temperance question,” said Mrs. Winslow.

“I hope not.”

“But this ‘Sons’ business does seem so silly to me that I cannot wonder Frank laughs at him.”

“Well, I don’t care any thing about it, only that Charles is out so late every night at the meetings.”

“And leaves you all alone?” asked Mrs. Winslow.

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t let him! It is a shame! Why, I should go into fits if my husband left me alone till eleven o’clock!” and Mrs. Winslow was horrified at the very thought.

“I have said a good deal about it.”

“Said! Why, I would tip the house over before I would submit to it.”

“He is so deeply interested in it.”

“He ought to be deeply interested in his wife, too.”

“Nay, nay, Lucy, you wrong him. He loves me with all his soul.”

“And leaves you alone till eleven o’clock?”

“I’m not afraid to stay alone.”

“Why, it’s almost as bad as having a drunken husband to sit up for.”

“O, no, I’m sure it is not.”

Charles Prescott was warmly condemned by the visitor, and warmly defended by the wife, who, poor thing, though she wished he would stay at home, could not bear to hear a word said against him.