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The two weeks succeeding the departure of the Englishman
were passed by our hero in a continued round
of visiting and feasting, as every family in the village
considered themselves entitled to at least one visit from
the son of their much esteemed neighbor. Sidney could
not refuse invitations thus pressingly made, yet had he
consulted only his inclination, he would have confined
his attentions to the families of Dr. Perkins and Deacon
Jones; and now, notwithstanding his engagements, he
generally contrived to drop in at those houses, especially
the deacon's, almost daily. This ought to have excited
no wonder, as his brother Silas was there; yet it soon
became the theme of conversation among the ladies of
the neighborhood, and several wise ones, who had undoubtedly
given Annie Redington to George Cranfield,
now confessed they felt that the suit of the young divine
would be coldly received, should Mr. Sidney Romilly
appear as his rival.

Perhaps some such apprehension stole into the mind
of that young gentleman, for he became more particular
in his assiduities, to the extreme regret of Annie, who
sincerely esteemed him, and felt loth to wound his feelings
by a rejection.

Ephraim Skinner, too, ventured to quit his store on
those evenings he ascertained Sidney was at the

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Deacon's, and at the hazard of losing business, joined the
party at the “conference room,” where he was always
graciously welcomed by the deacon; and although he
never could succeed in obtaining a single smile from the
fair lady whose bright eyes were the magnet that attracted
him, he indemnified himself by indirectly displaying
his consequence in sundry heavy complaints of the hurry
of business, and some pretty significant hints on the
profits a country trader, who attended closely to his affairs,
might realize.

One evening while he was alternately dilating on this
subject and on his religious feelings, and pitying those
poor blinded creatures who seemed to take no thought
for this world or the next, Deacon Jones, whose ears
eagerly drank in such prudent and pious discourse, was
casting many a glance at the party occupying the other
end of the apartment. These were his daughter, niece,
son-in-law, Sidney Romilly, and young Cranfield, and to
judge by their lively conversation and frequent laughter,
they needed not the happiness that gold could purchase;
yet the deacon more than once reflected with chagrin,
how very foolish Annie was, thus to lavish her sweet
attractions on that fine southern gentleman, who had
never a thought of marrying her, and neglect so shamefully
the hopeful merchant who might easily be secured.

But his unpleasant cogitations, Skinner's wise remarks,
and Sidney's gallant speeches, were suddenly interrupted
by a loud rap at the door, and Annie, who
was nearest, started so suddenly to obey the sound, her
uncle had no time to utter his accustomed “walk in.”
As she opened the door, a man entered, whose appearance
bespoke poverty and misfortune, and awakened
Sidney's curiosity to learn by what accident he should
be reduced to misery in a place where it was seldom
seen or felt.

This person, whom Deacon Jones, coldly offering his
hand, addressed by the name of Merrill, had a countenance
clouded with anxiety and sorrow, yet the smile
that momentarily lit up his sunken, care-worn features,

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as Miss Redington kindly offered him a chair, spoke a
heart susceptible of gratitude and inclined to cheerfulness.
As his eye wandered over the well-dressed company,
he drew closer around him a rusty grey overcoat,
as if to conceal the tatters visible in his own attire, and
turning to Skinner, who had only remarked his entrance
by a slight movement of the head, said, “I called to
speak with you at your store, and they told me I could
find you here.”

“And what do you want with me?” inquired the merchant,
in an imperative tone.

“I wanted to see if you would'nt allow that are execution
to be stayed a spell. If my property is all attached
now, my family must suffer, or come upon the
town.”

“I have already waited much longer than I ought,”
returned Skinner, haughtily, “and have nothing more
to do with the affair. The business is all with the sheriff;
you may apply to him.”

“But, Mr. Skinner, you have often said you were
willing to assist me; and you offered me the money in
the first place, or I should never have thought of asking
you. Old Col. Griper, bad as he is, would never use
me so hardly.”

“Such are the thanks I always get for obliging people,”
said Skinner, endeavoring to speak plausibly, though his
face glowed with anger. “Your farm would have been
forfeited before now, if I had not advanced the money.
All I ask is to be repaid. You cannot surely call me
unjust for wanting my own.”

“I don't think hard of you, sir,” replied Merrill, “for
wanting your own, and I intend to pay you, but I cannot
at present, without undoing me. My wife has been sick
these four months, and three of my children are now
confined to their beds. Poor little Nancy died last week;
but I don't mourn for her;—she is better off than any
of us.”

The tears that gushed to the eyes of the father, however,
gave evidence he lamented his child,

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notwithstanding he was assured of her felicity. Annie, turning hastily
to the window, hid her face, and Sidney's as he glanced
alternately at her, Skinner, and the petitioner, was red
as scarlet.

Skinner, however, noticed not their emotion; he was
intent on gain, and had not sufficient sensibility to imagine
the abhorrence his display of selfishness excited in
generous and feeling minds.

“Mr. Merrill,” he retorted, elevating his voice, “I
have heard enough of your excuses, but they don't pay
a cent, and I want the money and must have it. If
your family are sick, you needn't blame me for it; and
really I don't see why you should always be telling
me such stuff.”

“Such stuff!” repeated Merrill, starting, and shaking
his fist, while the tone of submission which conscious
dependence had compelled him to assume, was forgotten
in the anger roused by these insults:—“Such stuff! I
tell you, Skinner, you are a mean, miserly, hard-hearted
villain; and you flattered me to give you a mortgage of
my farm on purpose to cheat me out of it. I know you
did, or you would be willing to wait a few months. You
shall have good security.”

“I mean to be secured,” replied Skinner, trembling,
as he rose to seek his hat; but whether his trepidation
was caused by fear of his tall, gaunt debtor, who stood
with his clenched hand extended over him, or from suppressed
rage, no one could determine.

He found his hat, and was hastening towards the
door, when Merrill inquired, in a more humble manner,
if there could not be some arrangement made.

“I have told you the affair was wholly with the
sheriff,” replied the inexorable creditor. “Good evening,
ladies and gentlemen;” and closing the door hastily, they
heard him walk off with a quick step over the frozen
ground, as if he feared being pursued by further entreaties.

After the sound of his tread had died away, there
reigned, for a few moments, in the apartment he had

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quitted so abruptly, the most profound silence. And
the different expression on the faces of the group, might
have furnished a good subject for the study of those who
would attain to the art of divining the difference of temperament
and character by the effect which the same
occurrence had on the countenances of the several witnesses.

The old deacon had lit his pipe at the beginning of
the dialogue, and through the whole scene continued to
puff away most furiously, apparently indifferent to all
that passed. He sat now with his eyes nearly closed,
and a huge volume of smoke curling over his head.
Ah! while his own mountain stands strong, he cares
little who bides the peltings of the tempest;—he is
selfish.

There was pity in the expression of young Cranfield's
countenance, blended with an “I don't know what to
do” air, that revealed the man of good intentions, but
rather wavering in purpose.

Silas looked up with a wondering stare, half angry
with Merrill for thus putting himself in the power of a
villain, and half hoping matters would yet be adjusted
without causing much trouble. He has lived secluded
from a knowledge of the deceitfulness of the world—he
is innocent, is happy, and imagines all men might easily
be the same.

But our hero's countenance displayed the workings of
the most powerful emotions. Nothing touched his noble
feelings like the exhibition of cruelty or meanness; and
perhaps the picture Dr. Perkins had drawn of Skinner
now arose to increase the detestation he felt for the
original. His dark eyes flashed with indignation and
contempt as the little man disappeared through the door;
then, as he turned their gaze on his victim, the expression
suddenly changed to deep concern, mingled with a
determination of manner, which, had the debtor noticed,
he might have augured favorably for his own cause.

But he, poor man, was meditating bitter things. He
must return to his home, and see it despoiled of all its

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furniture, and rifled of all its stores that the law permitted
a creditor to attach. His cattle, too, would be
driven away—and the cold winter was approaching—his
sick family!—he could think no longer. Something between
a sigh and groan burst from his full heart as he
stooped to pick up his hat, which was lying on the floor.
He placed it on his head, drew it closely over his eyes,
and took one step forward.

“Won't you stop and drink some cider?” said the
deacon, shaking the ashes from his pipe.

“I haven't much appetite for any thing just now,”
answered the other; “I can't eat nor drink now a-days;
and I must hurry home, for the sheriff is there, and he
would'nt promise to wait only two hours before moving
off my property.”

“And pray how have you got yourself so involved?”
inquired the deacon, who liked to learn the causes of
misfortunes, not, however, so much to relieve the sufferers
as to suggest the way in which they might have
avoided such a calamity. “Come, sit down and tell me
all about the affair.”

“I can't stop to sit,” replied Merrill, “but will tell
you something about it. You know I purchased my
farm of Col. Griper; well, he was a hard man, but I think
pretty honest; yet he drove me considerable hard for his
pay, and sometimes it was tough scrabbling to get the
money. But I got along till a year ago last January,
when there was a hundred dollar payment, I could'nt
make out unless I sold more stock than I knew how to
spare. Skinner heard me one day complaining about the
old colonel, and he offered to advance me cash enough to
pay him all off at once, if I would give him the same
security I did Griper, and I might pay him just when it
was convenient. He talked so fair and the colonel had
dunned me so sharp, I was glad to let him see I could have
credit, and so, like a fool, I took the money and gave a
mortgage and my notes to Skinner. The whole sum was
three hundred dollars, and Skinner insisted on having it
all in twelve dollar notes, on demand, because, he said, I

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could pay a small note every little while without feeling
it, and he always did his business in that manner. I have
found him out now; it is, when he intends to ruin a man,
to bring as many actions and make the cost as big as
possible—but I did'nt think of it then. Well, I was to
have three years to pay it in, and pay a hundred dollars
a year if I could. That was the bargain before evidence.
I have taken up eight notes, and intended to have paid as
many more this fall and winter, but last August my wife
was taken sick with the typus fever, and she ha'nt never
been able to do a chore since, and now can only walk
from the bed to the fire; and all six of my children have
had the same disorder. There's two of 'em are a little
better, but the other three are very bad now, and poor
little Nancy, our only daughter, the doctor could'nt save
her. I ha'nt had off my clothes to lie a-bed as I used to
for three months; and I have had to let every thing, out
doors and in the house, go to destruction, for the sake of
taking care of my family. I could'nt find help enough to
do it, and the little ones would'nt let any body but me
take care of 'em. Your niece and daughter knows how
sick they 've been, for they have been up to see us
several times and brought us nice things, and they'll be
blessed for such kindness.”

Here he paused a moment, and then added, “But I
ha'nt told you yet how Skinner served me. I sent to his
store to get my necessaries—and in sickness there's a
thousand things wanted—and his bill amounts to something
like fifty dollars; so he pretended he was afraid he
should lose his debts, and he had twelve writs made out
against me, the whole of which, cost and all, will be as
much as two hundred dollars, and he has got the sheriff
and ordered him to attach every thing he can find. I
told the sheriff he might take every thing out doors if he
would only leave my oxen and one cow and hay enough
to keep 'em, and my household furniture; but he said he
could'nt without Skinner consented, and so he told me to
take his horse and come down to see him—but 'tis all in
vain I see. My property will be sold at vendue and go

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for half price, and my family must suffer or I must apply
to the town, and I had rather die.”

“But why does Skinner drive you so hard, when he
has security and knows he can be paid?” inquired George
Cranfield.

“O, he calculates on distressing me so much by taking
my stock that I ca'nt manage my farm, and so he thinks
I shall be unable to make out the payment next year,
and then he will get my land, either by the mortgage or
at public sale, for half price.”

“I wish there could be some way contrived to assist
you,” said George Cranfield.

“And I wish there could,” said Silas Romilly.

“And so do I, with all my heart,” responded the old
deacon, solemnly.

Merrill walked slowly towards the door and turned
partly round as he reached it, probably to bid them
“good night,” but he could not articulate a syllable.

“I will accompany you, sir,” said Sidney, snatching
his hat and springing after him.

Merrill started at the sound of a strange voice, and
when he saw the gentlemanly figure that was following
him his features wore the surprise of astonishment.

“I have not the happiness of knowing you, sir,” he
remarked in a low tone, as they walked through the gate.

“No, I presume not,” replied Sidney; “but I have
heard your story, and if you will go with me to my
father's, to Squire Romilly's, I will try and assist you.”

“And you are the Squire's son, then, that I have
heard so much about?” said Merrill, stopping and gazing
earnestly in our hero's face, now plainly revealed by the
bright moon.

“Yes, I am,” answered the other, half laughing at the
critical survey he was undergoing.

“Well, you have a worthy father, and you look like
him, and they say you are like him, and that's praising
you very highly. I was just going to your father, for I
knew if any one advised or helped me it would be him.”

He then took his horse by the bridle, and leading him

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along, walked himself by Sidney's side, and won by the
kindness of his manner, he revealed so many particulars
of the sickness of his family and the sufferings they must
undergo if the property were removed and sold, that Sidney
determined to prevent it at all hazards.

Sidney's attendance on the Englishman had made him
peculiarly sensible of the horrors of a long and severe
fever, and nothing makes the heart so susceptible of pity
as a personal observation or experience of sufferings
similar to those we are requested to relieve.

There were obstacles, however, which made the performance
of his benevolent wishes difficult, and indeed
impossible at that time, without the aid of his father.
His journey had been longer and more expensive, owing
to his long detention in Montreal, than he had anticipated,
and his money was nearly gone.

He had twice written to his uncle, requesting a supply,
and was now in daily expectation of receiving a remittance;
yet this business could not well be delayed till its
arrival, or at least Sidney did not like to entreat the forbearance
of such a one as Skinner, nor could he think
of assisting Merrill with promises only. He marveled
much that his uncle should thus neglect to supply his
wants, and when recollecting he had received but one
letter from him since leaving Charleston, and that written
evidently under great depression of spirits, he could not
but fear some unpleasant or unfortunate circumstances
were the cause of this delay.

When they reached the house, Sidney took his father
aside, told him the situation of Merrill, stated his own
wishes to relieve him from his embarrassments, and then
asked his father if he could advance the money, “and I
will repay you soon,” continued he. “My uncle will
certainly send me three or four hundred dollars. I started
with six hundred, and have now but about fifty remaining;
this Merrill shall have, and if you can furnish the
remainder, I will take his note for the whole, and return
yours when my remittance shall arrive. I will then
leave the note against Merrill in your care, and let the

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poor man pay whenever he can without distressing himself.”

Squire Romilly listened to his son's harangue, delivered
with all the ardor and animation purposed benevolence
inspires in youthful and generous bosoms, and his heart
beat with proud delight to find him worthy the fortune
he was to inherit.

“How I rejoice that wealth has not made you selfish,
nor prosperity hardened your heart, my son,” said the
delighted father; “yet before assisting those who appeal
to our compassion, we should endeavor to ascertain in
what manner our charity will be the most beneficial.
Many people, with really good intentions, bestow their
favors so arbitrarily or inconsiderately, that they may
injure those who receive their bounty, and it is not,
therefore, to be wondered at if they miss the gratitude
and popularity they expected to obtain. Yet these remarks
do not apply to the present case; perhaps you may
have been precipitate and a little romantic in forming a
scheme for assisting thus largely a stranger, but your
good genius has directed you to a worthy object, and
saved you from the mortification of learning your generosity
would have been misplaced. Merrill is an industrious,
prudent, good man, and the cunning of Skinner
and unavoidable misfortunes are the cause of his present
distress. I think your assistance will enable him to surmount
it, and there will not, I apprehend, be any danger
in trusting him. I will let you have one hundred dollars,
which is all I have on hand, and that I intended
soon to pay Silas as a part of his portion; but you may
take it, and, with your fifty dollars, I should think Skinner
might be satisfied, or Merrill could turn out property
to make up the deficiency.”

This plan was adopted, the money produced, and Merrill
informed all that would be required of him was a
note, which he might consult his own convenience in
paying.

His surprise, as he looked alternately at the money and
then at Sidney, was extreme; but when he became

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convinced his difficulties were all to be removed, he betrayed
more agitation than he probably would have done had
he seen his property under the hammer of the auctioneer.
His hand shook so violently it was some time before he
could sign his name, and Sidney saw several tears fall on
the paper as he wrote.

Then he silently placed the money in an old pocket
book, which he deposited carefully in his pocket, buttoned
up his coat, and seemed exerting himself to overcome
his emotions so as to express properly the thanks
he conceived due to his benefactor. But his exertions
were of little avail. Nature and feeling could not be
conquered; and when he arose to depart, instead of a
long speech on unexpected obligations and everlasting
gratitude, he took our hero's hand, shaking and pressing
it with so strong a grasp the effect was really painful,
bowed to Squire Romilly, and hurried away without uttering
a single word.

Sidney rubbed his aching hand without speaking, while
his father, smiling, remarked, he had insured his remembrance
in one heart; “Merrill,” said he, “will never forget
you.”

p561-264

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