Rensselaer Republican, Volume 16, Number 28, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 March 1884 — ST. JOHN'S WIFE. [ARTICLE]

ST. JOHN'S WIFE.

It was in olden times, before croquet or lawn parties were in vogue. , When the good wife wanted a few friends to meet at her ample board, for a social chat, a quilt—there was always one on hand—was stretched upon the frames, the larder stored with good things, and invitations were sent far and near .for the ladies to meet in the afternoon, with gentlemen and tea in the evening. Behold, then, a goodly number gathered in the front room of Farmer Goodwin’s house, matrons and maids ; but the latter were expected to do little work, and they gathered in groups on the piazza or strolled through the yard. Neighbors’ affairs were talked over, weather and housekeeping fully discussed, and occasionally a choice bit of news of a more interesting character made known. On this particular occasion it consisted in the fact that St. John was going to marry. Some glanced up in surprise, but matter-of-fact, Mrs. B. exclaimed, “How do you (know?” I’ve heard that story so often as to lose all faith in the report.” “Oh, it’s a fact this time, for Miss Jay told me herself that Abigail “St. John had engaged her to come and sew for her three weeks. She is to have her black silk made over, and has one or two new ones. She expects to go South with an invalid friend; but you all know she would never leave her brother unless there was some one coming to take her place.” All concurred that it was a good thing. They did not consider Miss Abigail just the person to make her brether happy. True, she was a good housekeeper, but then she was a considerable of a scold, and St. John was such a mild, pleasant, kind-hearted man, how had he ever borne with it? Such a contrast, too, to the first Mrs. St. John. St. John was a goneral favorite — always had a pleasant greeting for every one. So the elderly ladies remarked ; and as for the younger ones, certainly his handsome face and agreeable manners were attractive. The lady elect was next in order. “Folks say," continued Mrs. S., “its the widow Granger’s daughter over at Plumville. At any rate St. John has been seen to stop there quite often of late.” “Well, perhaps she'll make a good wife.” the lady’s glance rested for half a minute on her own daughter, who was standing by the window, “but I’ve he%yd she’s a proud, high-spirited body.” So they chattered ou while Miss Abigaildn her pleasant sewing-room Btitched, all unconscious of their disparaging remarks, her thoughts going out to the new home in the far South, and her heart rejoicing that her days at the farm were over. Miss Abigail dearly loved her brother, and at his request, five years before, gave up her own home, came and tended the sick

-wife, and had since kept house for him. She had carefully concealed the skeleton—lor this house was not exempt from one. St. John was unconscious of it, Miss Abigail knew. In her endeavor to make the best of it, she felt she was losing her own peace of mind and serenity of temper. She had found it, and so bad the young wife who now slept so quietly in the churchyard. For an instant the sister’s heart went out in pity to the young girl who was to take her place. But it was not for her to give her warning; and Rose Granger, in her cozy village home, dreamed bright dreams of a future strewn with flowert. People might harp on the ills of life; for her part she did not more than halt believe them. It was their own fault, they brought them on themselves; but she, oh, it would be so different 1 And the bright air castles rose. Yet she was not without the range of the gossips’ tongues. They were busy at Plumville, too, and Bose Granger, calm, self possessed young lady though she was, had not failed to note certain looks and mysterious nods, although apparently” oblivious to them, and vainly she wished, as so many others have done, that people would not interest themselves in her affairs. One

old lady, presuming on her age and long acquaintance to offer a little advice, remarked to her some day: “I wish you much happiness, and you have apparently made a wise choice. Mr. St. John is intelligent, and owns a good property, bo you can have every comfort you wish, Then, too, he’s agreeable and kind-hearted. But trouble comes in all lives; all men Pave their faults,” then misinterpreting the expression on Rose’s face, she continued, “but I don’t wish to frighten you, my dear; I’ve no doubt you can manage him.” “Manage him!” exclaimed Rose scornfully. "I loathe the idea. No woman who has any respect for herself would stoop to such maneuvring.” ?Very fine talk, my dear; but to let you into a matrimonial secret, most wives have to; they would have a sorry lot if they didn’t.” Rose’s lip curled, and she deigned no reply. The words came to mind the next time she met St John; but a glimpse of his* handsome face and sparkling eyes dispelled all unpleasant thoughts. That face spoke to her of a perfect manhood; yet a close observer of human nature would have read in {that easy nonchalant manner, and beneath that glance, a certain lack of energy. Not that St John was indolent, {quite the reverse. He was always busy and full of plans, but he looked the

perseverance necessary to fulfill them. Some other time would do; meanwhile something else was in hand. Time glided by, and one summer evening Mrs. St.‘John arrived at her now home. Miss Abigail remained with them a few weeks; then, early one Monday morning, her btother carried her to the depot, and after their departure Mrs. St John gathered up the clothes preparatory to washing. The cistern pump was broken, and in peering in slie discovered that the cistern was empty. She met her husband on his return with: “What am Ito do? I’ve everything ready for washing, and there is not a drop of water in the cistern !"~ —■ * St. Bohn smiled at her look of distress, and replied: “And hasn’t been for vears; the cistern leaks.” “ Why! what did Abigail do ?” “Used well water, I suppose.” His wife made no reply, but, gathering up {he clothes, said r “I will wait till we have rain,” and carried them back to the closet. St. John was a little abashed at her manner, and exclaimed, “I’ll have it repaired right away. I meant to have done so before." So Rose washed dishes and cleaned the floor in well water, and the pile of soiled clothes accumulated in the closet, but no rain came. One day St. John came into the sit-ting-room, where his wife sat reading, “Where have you pnt my shirts, wife? There is not one in the drawer.” Rose laughed. “You’ll find them all in the clothes-basket, I guess, waiting for rain” “But—but I’ve agreed to go to Benton on business, and this will hardly do to wearand he glanced disconsolately at his soiled linen. “Couldn’t you cleanse some water?” he asked, hesitatingly. “Abigail used to, I believe.” “I never did such a thing in my life,” replied his wife. “The lye makes ones hands so sore. Besides, it hurts the clothes; they never look nice and white. I’ve heard mother say one or two washings in cleansed water would ruin clothes. Then, it’s such hard work to wash in it; I don’t believe I’m strong enough to do it,” and she returned to her book.

St. John was in dismay. Go he must; and he was fastidiouly neat in liis personal appearance. Rose finally glanoed up at his troubled face. “Go over to our neighbor’s, and ask her for a pail of'rain water. She will not think it strange that w© are out, there has been such a dronghth, and I’ll do you up a shirt in a short time.” “Bless you, wife! Where’s the pail ?” and St. John started of “I’ll stop at the village ou my way to Benton.” “How about the mason?” inquired Mrs. St. John, tho next morning. “Bless met I forgot,” replied her husband, “I’ll he sure to remember it next time.” But next day there came a rain, and all the tubs, pounding barrels and pails were put under the eaves, and there was water enough for the present; and the trouble having passed, St. John was not the one to remember it. He never looked so far ahead as to ask, “What shall we do next time?” A new difficulty presented itself to the wife. She went into the pantry, and in lifting down a pan, splash! dash! she was drenched witli water. “What’s the matter?” “Tho roof leaks a trifle,” replied her husband.

“I think it is a trifle,” murmured Rose, as she examined the ceiling more closely, and saw the drops oozing through. “I wondered,” she said aloud, “what made this plaster so loose. It will rot the timbers, won’t it?” “Of course, but I intend to have the house reshingled.” “Does any other room leak?” she asked. “Yes, the spare cham”—hut his wife was already half May up the stairs, for the day before she had spread her light silk upon the bed. “Just it time!” she exclaimed as she snatched it up. But oh! the white spread with the ugly stain across the foot!

“What shall I do?” she asked in dismay. “I’ll get a couple of pans,” replied her husband, who had followed her up. “That’s the way Abigail managed.” “I declare,” laughed Kose, as the pans were deposited under the leaks, “I shall catch water enough to last the rest of the summer.” St John felt more ashamed than he had ever been in his life. "Kose, you are not a bit put out, and how Abigail used to scold! I dreaded rainy weather.” “Why don’t you get it repaired?" “I did intend to, I will, now.” “I don’t wonder Abigail scolded," thought the wife. “Five years in a leaky house! I w'on’t scold, I don’t believe in it; but"“Let us go down to the parlor now, and I will finish that book,” remarked St. John. So rains and leaks were forgotten, and husband aud wife spent the afternoon cosily while the storm raged outside. St. John had to leave home on business, to be gone sever il days. Rose carried him to the depot, and hastened back. She thought she would hurry with her baking, and then drive over to her mother’s and spend the afternoon. The bread was quickly moulded, but on going to the wood box to replenish the fire, she found it empty. Out she went to the wood pile, but not a stick was to be found. St. John had gone off in such a hurry he had forgotten it. “What shall I do?” she exclaimed, “The bread carmot be wasted. ” Searching around she found a rail that looked easy to cut, and procuring a saw, she set Ijo work; but it was not until half an hour’s hard-work, that she had enough to finish the baking. "Believe I am too tired to think of going to mothers;” and while she hesi’tated there came a tap at the door. “I saw your husband go off this morning,” remarked the neighbor who entered. “I suppose you would be lonely, and so thought I'd drop in and spend the afternoon." An easy chair was offered, the old lady drew forth her knitting, and the more rapidly she knit, the more talkative she became. She inquired in regard to Abigail, and then spoke at the years she had spent there. “It was so sad about his first wife, von know. She WM cna of the prettiest

little bodies you .ever saw, not grand and stately like yourself, hut a wee mite, with a baby'h f%oe, white and pink. She was very frail. ’Ske*used to say she wasn’t sick, but she grew thinner and weaker, and so sad-looking. If she had not had such a generous, kind-hearted husband, I’d a-thought it more a trouble and worry on her mind than any physical ill. But the ways of Providence are often mysterious, aud she died, though I don’t believe any doctor could tell what ailed her, and Mr. St. John had the best he could get. They called it general debility. Then Miss Abigail came. She kept a neat, tidy home for her brother, but then her disposition was so different from Mrs. St. John’s. We were all heartily glad when you came.” The young wife kept a pale face bent over her work, and was glad when her visitor rose to go. After her departure, Rose put aside all thoughts of her mother’s, and getting her sun bonnet, strolled across the fields till she reached the cemetery; then she searched for the St. SohnsMot. A tall marble bore the names of his parents, and beside them was another nameless grave; high grass grown over all, and a half-drooping rosebush with a few fading’blossoms.” “Poor little Amy!” Rose dropped bethe grave, but not to weep. The dead was at rest, and for herself, tears would not avail. Six weeks a bride, and her future already overcast. “Mysteries of Providence!” she murmured, and for a moment hard thoughts toward her husband filled her mind. “I see it all—a weak, quiet person, she worked, with her inconveniences and annoyances, bore all, and said nothing, and at last her strength gave out. Abigail scolded and failed to mend the matter, and I—l must do. I always said all people have their failings, and of course my husband would have his; but I really don’t believe it. I felt St. John was perfect; but unless he does differently, my life will be wretched. Mine is not the nature to die, or scold and fret; but to live on and hqve things move in this slip shod manner is impossible.” “Who is that?” inquired St. John, as they sat at the tea-table the evening of his return. “Oh,” replied his wife, “it’s only Mr. Reese. I have hired him to stay for a week and cut wood.” St. John looked up in surprise. * - “ You “You lest me without any the other morning, and I had to cut for my baking. lam not used to that kind of work.” “I know I did, but I never once thought of it until after the cars had started. I did feel troubled to know what you would do.” “And,” continued his wife, “I went to the village yesterday, saw the mason, told him the cistern needed repairing, and that you would expect him over as soon as you came hack.” St. John gave a low whistle. It was something new, this taking liberties with his arrangements. His wife saw his face clouded. “And no doubt you have engaged shingles for the roof.” The tone was worse than a blow. For an instant her heart sank, but rallying quickly, she lightly replied. “No, I expect you to do that to-morrow; and mind,” she added playfully, yet in a voice of determination, “if you don’t I will. I mnst have a convenient house to work in. You don’t want me to scold, or die.” — “Die!” he exclaimed, “who talks of dying?”

“Or what is worse,” she continued, unheeding his interruption, “lose my love and esteem for you. You think these things are trifles, maybe, Amt consider they must go a good way toward making my life comfortable and happy.” Later, when the evening shadows were gathering. Rose joined her husband on the piazza. “I was over to the churchyard the other day, and it looked so neglected.” “Yes, I know, that’s another of the things I’ve meant to do. Really, Rose, I believe you will think my life has been all ‘meant to.’ ” “We must get some one to re-sod the lot," she replied, “and I will plant some flowers.” There were tears in St. John’s eyes, and he murmured, “Poor little Amy!” Rose came close to her husband. “I wish you would tell me about her.” He glanced at her an instant, then went on talking of the dead, finishing ms others had done—“ Such a mystery!" But Rose saw the wife with disappointed hopes, and' only a long life of worry and unnecessary toil before her, and she wondered not that the frail life died out. But it was xiot for hor to tell him. “Never too late to mend,” St. John said when he came back from town. I’ve engaged the carpenters, Rose, and the shingles will be here to morrow. The old habit was not broken np at once, yet St. John soon found that whenever he failed to have a necessary thing donp, Rose hired it. After some years Abigail came backs on a visit. “How well yon look, Rose,’ she remarked to her sister, “as young as when you"first came.” “Happiness does not tend, to make people grow old," replied Mrs. St. John, “and my life has been very happy, with fewer cares than fall to the lot of most women.” “Do you know,” continued Abigail, “that I* dreaded to have you come, in fact, I pitied you ? But you seem to have found no skeleton such as troubled „ _ n me, “Or rather,” responded Rose, “I found and buried it.”— Woman’s World.