Of course Dr. Clayton, in thinking of her city home, fancied to himself
a princely mansion on Beacon street, overlooking the “dear, delightful
old Common,” and it is scarcely more than natural that his heart
expanded with some little degree of pride, as he saw in contemplation
the dinner parties, evening parties, soirées, etc., which he confidently
expected to attend at said princely mansion. At first he had entertained
a faint hope that he might possibly board with his new uncle; but this
idea was instantly repelled by his wife, who did not seem so much
inclined to talk of her “city Aunt” as formerly. So it was decided that
they should for a time take rooms at the Tremont.
It was a dark, rainy night when they arrived, and as it was cold for the
season, their rooms seemed cheerless and dreary, while, to crown all,
the bride of six weeks was undeniably and decidedly out of temper;
finding fault with everything, even to her handsome husband, who
fidgeted and fussed, brought her the bottle of hair oil instead of
cologne, stepped on her linen travelling dress with his muddy boot, spit
in the grate instead of the spit-box, breathed in her face when he knew
how she disliked tobacco, thought of Rosa Lee, and wondered if she were
ever cross (“_nervous_” Dell called it), thought not, and _almost
wished_—no, didn’t wish anything, but as an offset thought of the
$10,000, asked Dell how _old_ her grandmother was, received for an
answer, “I don’t know and I don’t care;” after which he went down stairs
and regaled himself with a cigar until informed that supper was ready.
Ate all alone, Dell refusing to go down—found her in tears on returning
to his room, was told that she “was homesick, and wished she’d never
come.” _He_ began to wish so too, but said “she’d feel better by and
by.” Sat for an hour or more cross-legged listening to the rain, and
wondering if there _was_ a cure for _nervousness_; finally went to bed
and dreamed of Rosa Lee and the moonlight night, when they sat under the
old oak tree, and of the thunder-storm when he gave her the little gold
ring.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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