The Log-Cabin Lady | Page 5

and had had time to teach their children grace and refinement and subtleties. Mine fought for their existence in a new country. And when men and women fight for existence life becomes very simple.
I felt only my own misery that day. Now I realize that the meeting between Tom's mother and his wife was a mutual misery. I was crude. No doubt, to her, I seemed even common. With every one except Tom I seemed awkward and stupid. Poor mother-in-law!
When she rose to go, I saw her to her carriage. She was extremely insistent that I should not. But this was Tom's mother, and I was determined to leave no friendly act undone. At home it would have been an offense not to see the company to their wagon. Even in Madison we would have escorted a caller to his carriage.
Again it was the coachman who with one chill look warned me that I had sinned.
Before Tom came home that afternoon he called on his mother, so no explanations from me were necessary. He knew it all, and doubtless much more than had escaped me. Like the princely gentleman he always was, the poor boy tried to soften that after-noon's blows by saying social customs were stupid and artificial and I knew all the important things in life. The other few little things and habits of his world he could easily tell me.
Few--and little! There were thousands, and they loomed bigger each day. Moreover, Tom did not tell me. Either, manlike, he forgot, or he was afraid of hurting my feelings.
One of the few things Tom did tell me I was forever forgetting. Napkins belonged to Sundays at home, and they were not washed often. It was a long-standing habit, to save back-breaking work for mother, to fold my napkin neatly after meals. Unlearning that and acquiring the custom of mussing up one's napkin and leaving it carelessly on the table was the meanest work of my life.
Interesting guests came to Tom's house, and I would grow absorbed in their talk. Not until we were leaving the table would I realize that my napkin lay neatly folded and squared in the midst of casually rumpled heaps.
One night, years later, I sat between Jim Hill and Senator Bailey of Texas at a dinner. Both men folded their napkins. I loved them for it.
During that first year Tom made up a little theater party for a classmate who had just married a Philadelphia girl. With memories of Ben Franklin, William Penn, Liberty Bell, and all the grand old characters of the City of brotherly Love, I looked forward eagerly to making a new friend.
The Philadelphian was even more languid than Tom's mother. She chopped her words and there were no r's in her English. I tried to break the ice by talking of the traditions of her city. She was bored. She knew only Philadelphia's social register. Just to play tit for tat, twice during the evening I quoted from "Julius Caesar"--and scored!
We had just settled down in old Martin's Restaurant for after-theater supper when two tall gentlemen entered the room.
"There's Tom Platt and Chauncey Depew," remarked Tom's friend casually.
United States senators are important people in Wisconsin--at least, they were when I was young. If a senator visited our community, everybody turned out. I knew much of both these men, and Tom had often spoken warmly of Depew. As they approached our table, Tom and his friend both stood up. Thrilled, I rose hastily. My eyes were too busy to see Tom's face, and I did not realize until afterward that the only other woman had remained coolly seated.
On our way home, Tom told me, in his gentle way, never to rise from a dining table to acknowledge an introduction even to a woman--or a senator. That night a tormenting devil with the face of the other woman kept me awake. For the first time since my marriage I felt homesick for the prairies.
And then we were invited to visit Tom's Aunt Elizabeth in Boston and meet the whole family. I was sick with dread. I begged Tom to tell me some of the things I should and should not do.
"Be your own sweet self and they 'll love you," he promised, kissing me. He meant it, dear soul; but I knew better.
From the very first minute, Tom's Aunt Elizabeth made me conscious of her disapproval. In after years I won the old lady's affection and real respect, but I never spent a completely happy hour in her presence.
The night we arrived she gave me a formal dinner. Some dozen additional guests dropped in later, and I was bewildered by new faces and strange names. Later in the evening I noticed a distinguished-looking middle-aged gentleman standing alone just outside the drawing-room door.