"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.
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