The Emancipation Of Thaddeus
by
They were very young, and possibly too amiable. Thaddeus was but twenty-four and Bessie twenty-two when they twain, made one, walked down the middle aisle of St. Peter’s together.
Everybody remarked how amiable she looked even then; not that a bride on her way out of church should look unamiable, of course, but we all know how brides do look, as a rule, on such occasions–looks difficult of analysis, but strangely suggestive of determined timidity, if there can be such a quality expressed in the human face. It is the natural expression of one who knows that she has taken the most important step of her life, and, on turning to face those who have been bidden to witness the ceremony, observes that the sacredness of the occasion is somewhat marred by the presence in church of the unbidden curiosity-seekers, who have come for much the same reason as that which prompts them to go to the theatre–to enjoy the spectacle. But Bessie’s face showed nothing but that intense amiability for which she had all her life long been noted; and as for Thaddeus, he never ceased to smile from the moment he turned and faced the congregation until the carriage door closed upon him and his bride, and then, of course, he had to, his lips being otherwise engaged. Indeed, Thaddeus’s amiability was his greatest vice. He had never been known to be ill-natured in his life but once, and that was during the week that Bessie had kept him in suspense while she was making up her mind not to say “No” to an important proposition he had made–a proposition, by-the-way, which resulted in this very ceremony, and was largely responsible for the trials and tribulations which followed.
Thaddeus was rich–that is, he had an income and a vocation; a charming little home was awaiting their coming, off in a convenient suburb; and, best of all, Bessie was an accomplished house-keeper, having studied under the best mistresses of that art to be found in the country. And even if she had not completely mastered the art of keeping house, Thaddeus was confident that all would go well with them, for their waitress was a jewel, inherited from Bessie’s mother, and the cook, though somewhat advanced in years, was beyond cavil, having been known to the family of Thaddeus for a longer period than Thaddeus himself had been. The only uncertain quantity in the household was Norah, the up-stairs girl, who was not only new, but auburn-haired and of Celtic extraction.
Under such circumstances did the young couple start in life, and many there were who looked upon them with envy. At first, of course, the household did not run as smoothly as it might have done–meals were late, and served with less ceremony than either liked; but, as Bessie said, as she and Thaddeus were finishing their breakfast one morning, “What could you expect?”
To which Thaddeus, with his customary smile, replied “What, indeed! We get along much better than I really thought we should with old Ellen.”
Old Ellen was the cook, and she had been known to Thaddeus as “Old Ellen” even before his lips were able to utter the words.
“Ellen has her ways, and Jane has hers,” said Bessie. “After Jane has got accustomed to Ellen’s way of getting breakfast ready, she will know better how to go about her own work. I think, perhaps, cook’s manner is a little harsh. She made Jane cry about the omelet this morning; but Jane is teary, anyhow.”
“It wouldn’t do to have Ellen oily and Jane watery,” Thaddeus answered. “They’d mix worse than ever then. We’re in pretty good luck as it is.”
“I think so, too, Teddy,” Bessie replied; “but Jane is so foolish. She might have known better than to send the square platter down to Ellen for an omelet, when the omelet was five times as long as it was broad.”