Читать книгу Fern Leaves from Fanny's Port-folio. - Fern Fanny - Страница 8
SHADOWS AND SUNBEAMS
CHAPTER VII
ОглавлениеIt was very odd and strange to me, my new home in the great, busy city; with its huge rows of stores and houses, its myriad restless feet, and anxious, care-worn faces; its glittering wealth, its squalid poverty; the slow moving hearse, and the laughing harlequin crowd; its noisy Sabbaths, and its gorgeous churches, with its jeweled worshippers, and its sleepy priests; its little children, worldly-wise and old, and its never-ceasing, busy hum, late into the day’s pale light. I had no acquaintances: I needed none; for I moved about my pretty little home as in a glad dream. My husband was still “Master Grey,” but over a private school of his own, bounded by no “District,” subject to the despotic dictation of no “Committee.” In his necessary absence, I busied myself in arranging and re-arranging his books, papers and wardrobe, thinking the while such glad thoughts! And when the little mantel clock chimed the hour of return, my cheek flushed, my heart beat quick, and my eyes grew moist with happy tears, at the sound of the dear, loved footstep.
How very nice it seemed to sit at the head of that cheerful little table – to make, with my own hands, the fragrant cup of tea – to grow merry with my husband, over crest-fallen Zeb, and poor, stubborn little Bessie, and my uncle’s time-worn bug-bear of a memorandum book!
And how proud I was of him, as he sat there correcting some school-boy’s Greek exercise, while I leaned over his shoulder, looking attentively at his fine face, and at those unintelligible hieroglyphics, and blushing that he was so much wiser than his little Hetty.
This thought sometimes troubled me. I asked myself, will my husband never weary of me? I even grew jealous of his favorite authors, of whom he was so fond. Then I pondered the feasibility of pursuing a course of reading unknown to him, and astonishing him some day with my profound erudition. In pursuance of my plan, I would sit demurely down to some great, wise book; but I saw only my husband’s face looking out at me from every page, and my self-inflicted task was sure to end in some blissful dreamy reverie, with which Cupid had much more to do than Minerva.