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"TO THE EVENING STAR.
"From the buried sunlight springing,
Through flame-darkened, rosy loud,
Native sea-hues with thee bringing,
In the sky thou reignest proud!
"Who is like thee, lordly lady,
Star-choragus of the night!
Color worships, fainting fady,
Night grows darker with delight!
"Dusky-radiant, far, and somber,
In the coolness of thy state,
From my eyelids chasing slumber,
Thou dost smile upon my fate;
"Calmly shinest; not a whisper
Of my songs can reach thine ear;
What is it to thee, O Hesper,
That a heart should long or fear?"
Tom did not care to show Letty this poem--not that there was
anything more in his mind than an artistic admiration of Hesper,
and a desire to make himself agreeable in her eyes; but, when
Letty, having read it, betrayed no shadow of annoyance with its
folly, he was a little relieved. The fact was, the simple
creature took it as a pardon to herself.
"I am glad you have forgiven me, Tom," she said.
"What do you mean?" asked Tom.
"For working for Mrs. Redmain with your hands," she said,
and, breaking into a little laugh, caught his cheeks between
those same hands, and reaching up gave him a kiss that made him
ashamed of himself--a little, that is, and for the moment, that
is: Tom was used to being this or that a little for the moment.
For this same dress, which Tom had thus glorified in song, had
been the cause of bitter tears to Letty. He came home too
late the day of Mary's visit, but the next morning she told
him all about both the first and the second surprise she had had
--not, however, with much success in interesting the lordly youth.
"And then," she went on, "what do you think we were doing all the
afternoon, Tom?"
"How should I know?" said Tom, indifferently.
"We were working hard at a dress--a dress for a fancy-ball!"
"A fancy-ball, Letty? What do you mean? You going to a fancy-
ball!"
"Me!" cried Letty, with merry laugh; "no, not quite me. Who do
you think it was for?"
"How should I know?" said Tom again, but not quite so
indifferently; he was prepared to be annoyed.
"For Mrs. Redmain!" said Letty, triumphantly, clapping her hands
with delight at what she thought the fun of the thing, for was
not Mrs. Redmain Tom's friend?--then stooping a little--it was an
unconscious, pretty trick she had--and holding them out, palm
pressed to palm, with the fingers toward his face.
"Letty," said Tom, frowning--and the frown deepened and deepened;
for had he not from the first, if in nothing else, taken trouble
to instruct her in what became the wife of Thomas Helmer, Esq.?--
"Letty, this won't do!"
Letty was frightened, but tried to think he was only pretending
to be displeased.
"Ah! don't frighten me, Tom," she said, with her merry hands now
changed to pleading ones, though their position and attitude
remained the same.
But he caught them by the wrists in both of his, and held them
tight.
"Letty," he said once more, and with increased severity, "this
won't do. I tell you, it won't do."
"What won't do, Tom?" she returned, growing white. "There's no
harm done."
"Yes, there is," said Tom, with solemnity; "there is harm
done, when my wife goes and does like that. What would
people say of me, if they were to come to know--God forbid
they should!--that your husband was talking all the evening to
ladies at whose dresses his wife had been working all the
afternoon!--You don't know what you are doing, Letty. What do you
suppose the ladies would think if they were to hear of it?"
Poor, foolish Tom, ignorant in his folly, did not know how little
those grand ladies would have cared if his wife had been a char-
woman: the eyes of such are not discerning of fine social
distinctions in women who are not of their set, neither are the
family relations of the bohemians they invite of the smallest
consequence to them.
"But, Tom," pleaded his wife, "such a grand lady as that! one you
go and read your poetry to! What harm can there be in your poor
little wife helping to make a dress for a lady like that?"
"I tell you, Letty, I don't choose my wife to do such a
thing for the greatest lady in the land! Good Heavens! if it
were to come to the ears of the staff! It would be the
ruin of me! I should never hold up my head again!"
By this time Letty's head was hanging low, like a flower half
broken from its stem, and two big tears were slowly rolling down
her cheeks. But there was a gleam of satisfaction in her heart
notwithstanding. Tom thought so much of his little wife that he
would not have her work for the greatest lady in the land! She
did not see that it was not pride in her, but pride in himself,
that made him indignant at the idea. It was not "my wife,"
but "_my_ wife" with Tom. She looked again up timidly in his
face, and said, her voice trembling, and her cheeks wet, for she
could not wipe away the tears, because Tom still held her hands
as one might those of a naughty child:
"But, Tom! I don't exactly see how you can make so much of it,
when you don't think me--when you know I am not fit to go among
such people."
To this Tom had no reply at hand: he was not yet far enough down
the devil's turnpike to be able to tell his wife that he had
spoken the truth--that he did not think her fit for such company;
that he would be ashamed of her in it; that she had no style;
that, instead of carrying herself as if she knew herself
somebody--as good as anybody there, indeed, being the wife of Tom
Helmer--she had the meek look of one who knew herself nobody, and
did not know her husband to be anybody. He did not think how
little he had done to give the unassuming creature that quiet
confidence which a woman ought to gather from the assurance of
her husband's satisfaction in her, and the consciousness of
being, in dress and everything else, pleasing in his eyes,
therefore of occupying the only place in the world she desires to
have. But he did think that Letty's next question might naturally
be, "Why do you not take me with you?" No doubt he could have
answered, no one had ever asked her; but then she might rejoin,
had he ever put it in any one's way to ask her? It might even
occur to her to in-quire whether he had told Mrs. Redmain that he
had a wife! and he had heart enough left to imagine it might
mortally hurt her to find he lived a life so utterly apart from
hers--that she had so little of the relations though all the
rights of wifehood. It was no wonder, therefore, if he was more
than willing to change the subject. He let the poor, imprisoned
hands drop so abruptly that, in their abandonment, they fell
straight from her shoulders to her sides.
"Well, well, child!" he said; "put on your bonnet, and we shall
be in time for the first piece at the Lyceum."
Letty flew, and was ready in five minutes. She could dress the
more quickly that she was delayed by little doubt as to what she
had better wear: she had scarcely a choice. Tom, looking after
his own comforts, left her to look after her necessities; and
she, having a conscience, and not much spirit, went even shabbier
than she yet needed.
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