Chapter III

Mr. Montague was greatly incensed at the conduct of his wife; but an experience of a dozen years had fully convinced her that her husband could not be easily reformed. During that long period, while he was living in plenty, was throwing away hundreds, and she did not know but thousands, on his club, his champagne suppers, and other selfish gratifications, she had found it exceedingly difficult to wring from his hard grasp the money to clothe herself and children. To ask for it was a loathsome task, and nothing but the most urgent necessity could induce her to do so.

Much as her husband had resented her conduct on the occasion mentioned, he did not offer the means of supplying her wants. The lady had become so disgusted with his niggardly conduct, that she had fully determined never to ask him for another dollar. Her father was rich, and very indulgent to her, his only child. To him she disclosed her grievances; and though it was repugnant to her sense of delicacy to speak ill of her husband, she gave her father a complete history of her financial experience. The old gentleman was exceedingly indignant, as a matter of course, and stormed like a madman at the sordid character of his son-in-law.

“But don’t you say a word to him, pa, nor to any one else,” pleaded the daughter.

“I will blow him sky high! He shall never darken my door again!”

“Nay, nay, pa, for my sake, do not mention it.”

The old man stopped to think.

“You are right, Nellie; not a word,” said he, rubbing his bald head.

“It would sound very bad abroad, pa.”

“So it would; but, Nellie, hand me that book, and the pen and ink.”

The daughter obeyed, and the old gentleman wrote a hasty note.

“Now ring the bell, Nellie.”

Mrs. Montague did as she was requested, and a servant appeared.

“Here, John, take that to No. 10 Court Street,” said the old gentleman, as he opened the book and wrote a check for five hundred dollars. “Now, Nellie, spend it as fast as you can, and when that is gone, come and get some more.”

Mrs. Montague kissed her fond father, and left him to ruminate upon the astonishing fact which had been revealed to him.

“Not give her any money!” muttered he. “The scoundrel!”

His lips were frequently compressed, and occasionally he rose and strode with hasty step across the room. The arrival of the lawyer for whom he had sent, seemed to relieve him.

Mrs. Montague appeared the next Sunday in an elegant brocade silk, a new bonnet, and a most magnificent mantilla. Her husband, who was an importer and jobber of dry goods, could readily perceive that she wore at least two hundred dollars upon her person. He was confounded. She had asked him for no money lately. He was uneasy. What could it mean? Mrs. Montague refused to answer any questions.

Six months passed by, and the lady still remained independent of her husband. She always had money in abundance, but she positively refused to converse upon the subject. Of course he could understand that her father furnished her with funds. He was perplexed to discover the circumstances under which he supplied her. Had his wife told him that she was refused by her husband? Had she been to her father with her grievances? He would not have had such a thing happen for all the world; his reputation, which he valued more highly than his integrity, would be sacrificed. He was sorely troubled.

One day, about this time, when he came home to dinner, he found that his father-in-law had been prostrated by an apoplectic fit, and that his wife had gone to attend him. Before he could finish his dinner, a messenger announced his death.

Mr. Montague was very much grieved, of course. He mourned in bitterness of spirit for more than a month after the funeral, his father-in-law was such a kind-hearted, noble old gentleman; he thought there were few men like him in the world.

Every thing went on as usual in the Montague family. Not a word was said about the large property of the deceased. Mr. Montague felt some delicacy in mentioning the subject to his wife, and no one else appeared to know any thing about the business. He wondered that nothing had been said to him about being executor or administrator. Of course he was the only proper person to execute this trust.

He hinted at the matter as broadly as he dared; but his wife refused to take the hint. One morning, however, as he was looking over the paper, he noticed an advertisement concerning the probate of the will; he pointed it out to his wife.

“Then your father made a will?” said he.

“He did.”

“I was not aware of it; but then I haven’t devoted even a thought to his property.”

Mrs. Montague looked at him.

“Your father was one of the best of men,” continued he, seriously.

“He was.”

“Did you learn who had been named as executor?”

“My uncle John.”

“Ah! a capital selection; your father was an excellent business man.”

“And three of his personal friends were appointed trustees.”

“Trustees!” exclaimed Mr. Montague, with a violent start.

“Yes; but you have not seen the will?”

“No.”

“I have a copy here,” said the wife, taking the document from a drawer.

With a beating heart, Mr. Montague opened the copy, and proceeded to read it.

His cheek blanched and his lip quivered as he read. The property was much greater than he had ever suspected, amounting to over a hundred thousand dollars. It was all secured to his wife, to the entire exclusion of her husband; and the instrument was so adroitly drawn up that he could not even touch the income of the estate without her permission.

He was thunderstruck; his matrimonial hopes were all blasted, and, what added to his chagrin, his own affairs, in the stringency of the time, had become hopelessly embarrassed.

“What does this mean, Ellen?” asked he, in a husky voice.

“You just remarked that my father was an excellent business man; don’t you understand it?”

“If I had been a drunkard or a gambler, it would have been plain to me. As it is, it looks like an entire want of confidence in me, on the part of your deceased father; not that I care about the property,” whined Mr. Montague.

“Of course you don’t care for that.”

“I was not aware before that your father was prejudiced against me. Did he ever mention this matter?”

Mrs. Montague was silent, and the husband pressed her for an answer.

“There was something said.”

“What, my dear?”

“When I went to him for money, of course that led to some explanations.”

“You went to him for money?” gasped Mr. Montague.

“I could not get it from you.”

Mr. Montague used an exceedingly hard word, which I dare not transfer to my page, and rushed out of the house.

In a month he failed,—made a bad failure,—and it took him a year to get out of the difficulty. The assignees had every thing; he could not put his hand upon a single dollar. His domestic affairs somehow got into the street, and nobody would trust him; every body despised him.

But Mrs. Montague was not so sordid as he had been, and when he had received a discharge from his debts, she furnished the means for him to commence business again. The club and champagne suppers are abandoned; matters are reversed. The lady is always “flush,” the gentleman generally short; and, poor fellow, he is sometimes so hard pressed as to ask her for a few hundred dollars “to help him out.”