Chapter III

It was after such a scene as we have described that Mrs. Benson called upon the friend of her early years, and found her in tears. She believed that poor Mrs. Brown was cruelly treated by her hard-hearted husband.

Several months elapsed, and the difficulty between Brown and his wife increased. The lady was an habitual grumbler; she grumbled for the sake of grumbling, because it seemed to be a “fixed fact” with her that grumbling was one of the essentials of her existence—one of the luxuries of life.

Though Brown was a philosopher, there is a point beyond which even philosophy cannot go to defend its votaries. The lady’s unamiable peculiarity grew upon her, and Brown’s disgust threatened to produce a fatal rupture. Several times after the lady had given him a lesson on the duty of consulting a wife’s taste,—after she had cried her eyes out with vexation because she could not grumble any more,—her unfeeling spouse had deserted the house, remaining out till midnight. Some flying rumors were in circulation, too, that he had been seen “lingering long at the bowl,” and even that he frequented gambling houses.

Then people felt sorry for poor Brown, an honest, hardworking, economical man as he was; it was a great pity that he should go to destruction.

Mrs. Benson felt keenly for her friend. Brown was a monster; and the injured lady told her she should certainly die if a drunken husband were added to her other miseries. She even wished Mrs. Benson to request her husband to talk to Brown about his vicious propensities.

Mr. Benson had done so. Brown was a little “stuck up” at first, but quietly informed the obliging remonstrant that since home had become a hell to him, he had been obliged to seek comfort in a grog shop, and concluded his cold-blooded remark by suggesting that people had better mind their own business.

Benson thought so too, and fully resolved not to meddle with the matter again. But, although Brown had resisted his well-meaning neighbor’s interference, it was not without its effect, and the injured lady had the satisfaction of informing her sympathizing friend that he did much better, that his breath did not smell half so strong of rum, and that he was at home every evening by nine o’clock.

Mrs. Benson was encouraged, and a few days after accepted an invitation to tea at the Browns’.

That day, the reckless, obstinate husband had worn home to dinner a new plaid vest—a pattern in fashion at that time.

The lady did not like plaid—she never liked plaid; and poor Brown went to the store leaving his wife in tears at his perverse taste. She had exhausted all her rhetoric in grumbling at the offending garment, and her hard-hearted husband had maintained his usual indifference to sighs and tears. Brown was disgusted; and, though we heartily approve of husbands pleasing their wives in these matters, some how we cannot find it in our heart to blame him. She always grumbled at him, and, poor fellow, what could he do?

Mrs. Benson did not arrive in season to hear the lady’s story about the vest before Brown himself came. He was in high glee, apparently, notwithstanding the recent tempest. The visitor thought him a “very nice man,” and she sighed when she thought of his vicious propensities.

Brown was polite, very polite, and the pretty little Mrs. Benson felt no reserve in his presence.

“What a pretty vest you have got on, Mr. Brown!” said she, smiling sweetly upon the horrible husband.

“Do you think so?” exclaimed Brown, rubbing his hands with excitement.

“Certainly, I do; it’s a perfect love of a vest. I shall persuade Charles to have one just like it.”

“How strange you talk, Julia!” said Mrs. Brown.

“Strange! why?”

“To call that vest pretty.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“It’s a perfect fright. My husband has no taste in his dress.”

“Why, now, I think he dresses with admirable taste,” replied Mrs. Benson, surveying the apparel of Brown, who stood like a show image in the middle of the room. “I admire his taste.”

“It is not my taste,” sighed Mrs. Brown.

The pretty little sympathizing woman was seized with a doubt whether Brown was such a monster, after all.

Just then Bridget popped her head in at the door to say that the baker had not sent the tea cakes.

“The tea cakes, Jonas,” said Mrs. Brown.

“There! by all that is sweet and pleasant to the taste, I forgot all about them,” exclaimed Brown, seizing his hat.

“Just the way always,” groaned the suffering wife. “You never will do the little errands I ask you to.”

“Why, my dear, I intended to do the errand, but I forgot it,” pleaded Brown, with abundant good humor.

“You always forget what I want you to do.”

“But, my love, I did not forget it on purpose.”

“It’s always the way;” and Mrs. Brown threw herself into a chair with an exhibition of despondency which would have answered very well for the concentrated miseries of a whole lifetime.

“There’s no harm done; it is only half past five, and I will have the tea cakes here in ten minutes.”

“You might just as well have brought them before.”

Brown looked cross, threw down his hat in a pet, and settled himself upon the sofa.

Mrs. Benson was silent with astonishment. Brown rose fifty degrees in her estimation.

“Are you not going to get the tea cakes, Jonas?” asked Mrs. Brown, meekly, after the lapse of a few minutes.

Brown was silent.

“You will not get back in season if you don’t go soon.”

Brown picked up the evening paper but said nothing.

“I must go myself then,” said the suffering lady, rising from her chair.

Brown knew this was only a part of his wife’s tactics; but the pretty little Mrs. Benson, for whose good opinion he entertained some anxiety, was present, and he concluded to go himself.

When he had gone, Mrs. Brown fixed a melancholy gaze upon her visitor.

“Now you have seen just how he behaves,” said she, with a deep sigh.

“I have,” replied Mrs. Benson, who for the first time perceived that poor Brown was not the greatest sinner in the world.

“And so he wears my life out.”

“Perhaps your husband is not wholly to blame,” suggested Mrs. Benson.

“Why, Julia!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown, with languid emphasis. “I am sure I bear and suffer every thing. I had nearly cried my eyes out once before to-day.”

“Mr. Brown seems disposed to be very good natured.”

“Good natured, Julia! Didn’t you see how angry he got? He went out without speaking a word.”

“But you do not reflect how cruelly you provoked him by needlessly finding fault with him. If I should say half as much to my husband as you said to Mr. Brown, he would turn me out of the house,” answered Mrs. Benson, who, as she found herself implicated in the quarrel, was disposed to be very candid.

“I was not conscious of doing any thing to provoke him.”

“You found fault with his vest.”

“But such a horrid looking vest!”

“There you and he differ; you say he never complains of your dress.”

“No.”

“He respects your tastes, then. You know how bad you feel when any person says any thing disparaging of your clothes; everybody does.”

“But he always dresses so shamefully out of taste.”

“Other people do not think so; but even if he did, you should not find fault with him.”

“I don’t find fault,” sighed Mrs. Brown; “I only mention what I like best.”

“And the tea cakes,—you ought not to have said a word.”

“Why, he is so careless——”

“All men are of things about the house; but you must consider that their minds are full of business. My husband is just so; but then he has so many things to think of, I wonder that he does not forget every little commission I give him.”

“But your husband is different from mine. He tries to remember.”

“Ah, Mary, I see now what has caused the rupture between you and Mr. Brown.”

“Then you think I am altogether to blame?”

“Perhaps not entirely; but I am satisfied, from what I know of your husband, that, if you cease to find fault with him, he will be all that a husband should be.”

Mrs. Brown bit her lip, and was silent. The truth had forced itself home to her understanding. She was, as we have before remarked, an amiable, good-hearted body; but the fact that she had actually grumbled away the peace of her once happy fireside had never before occurred to her. Her eyes were opened, and she saw that even so little a thing as habitual fault finding can alienate the affections of man and wife, and transform home—the temple of love and peace—into a hell. Her resolution was formed, and fortified by all the strength of her nature.

Brown returned with the tea cakes. He was cold, sullen, and reserved; but a smile from his wife—albeit a boon seldom vouchsafed him—restored him to his former equanimity.

“Jonas, did you think to order some more coal to-day? Bridget says there is not enough to get breakfast with,” observed Mrs. Brown, as she handed her husband his second cup of tea.

Brown confessed that he had forgotten it, and braced up his nerves to meet the storm.

“Never mind, Jonas; we will contrive to get along with wood.”

Brown dropped his knife and fork in wonder, and looked aghast at his wife.

It was no illusion; his wife was as gentle in her thoughts as in her actions. She found no fault; and, for the first time in many months, Brown felt sorry that he had forgotten to execute her commission.

After tea, Mr. Benson came to spend the evening, and it was one of the happiest evenings ever known beneath the roof of the Browns. Nobody but the two ladies could tell why, but, some how, every thing went different from the ordinary course of events in the family circle. Brown was bewildered—didn’t know what to make of it, that his wife found no fault.

And she never found fault to any immoderate degree again. Peace was restored. Brown went no more to the drinking saloons, never staid out late at night, and never let his wife cry without wiping away her tears.

He never knew what had produced the wonderful change in his wife’s temperament, but he always laid it to the visit of the pretty little woman who admired his plaid vest.

We never see a married man enter a drinking shop to spend an evening without thinking that, perhaps he has been driven from his fireside by a snarling, petulant, discontented, fault-finding wife.