CHAPTER I.
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“Jerry! Jeremiah, I say!” exclaimed an old man,
standing at the head of his cellar door, and stooping
down so as to command the view of as much of his
subterranean premises as his situation would permit,
and his spectacles would allow him to take by peering
over them, for they qualified him to read better,
but not to see farther. “Jeremiah!” he continued at
the top of his voice, and then in a lower tone he
added to himself, impatiently, “The black dolt is as
deaf as—” when he was interrupted by Jerry, who
stuttered whenever he attempted to speak quickly.
“C-c-c-coming, sir—This l-'lasses won't run well
in the cellar these cool days!”
“It stutters, does it?”
“No, sir, it don't s-stutter, it runs t-thick.”
“What's that but stuttering?”
“If it is s-stuttering, Master Beckford, the 'lasses
can't h-h-help it more 'an I.”
“It was put in the cellar too soon; those cool
days were deceiving; but we shall, we must, in fact,
soon have warm weather now.”
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“Yes, sir,” said Jerry, and he handed a large jug
of molasses to a little boy who stood in the store
door waiting for it.
“Jerry, where can Ralph be; by dad, he's away,
I suppose, at Lorman's; I have not seen him these
two days.”
“Y-y-yes, sir, s-s-'spose he is; or m-maybe he is
up to t-t-talk with Mr. Henry, who w-w-wants him
to go to c-c-college with him.”
“To college with him! by dad, the expense, the
expense, Jeremiah, is awful; it's enough to beggar a
man. Here's Ralph now: where have you been
so long, Ralph? I want you to go and inquire who
has the pews for sale in the new Unitarian church.”
“Father, do you mean to join them?—I thought
you were a good—”
“It's no matter what I am—these Unitarians are
no better than heathens in my notion, and it's fair
and proper, and against nothing in the decalogue
that I know of, to speculate—no, not speculate; I
hate the word; old Lorman's always using it when
he talks about his fool's bargains—to make money
out of them. Listen to me, Ralph; I want to learn
you to make money—yes, to make money. What
are we without money?—no better than the butcher's
offals that everybody avoids—that nobody cares for,
that's worth nothing. Those Unitarians, who are
no better than heathens, Ralph, have built themselves
a large church, and obtained a glib-tongued fellow
to talk to them, who will make their faith
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fashionable—draw full houses like one of your ranting actors,
your stars, as you and your cousin Henry call
them. He will make the pews sell—do you understand?
They are cheap now, selling, I am informed,
for a hundred dollars; and before long, no doubt,
Ralph, no doubt they'll be worth twice the money.”
“Where shall I inquire?”
“At Walker's book-store—he's a convert—and
I am told that your uncle, yes, a man of his years,
strength of mind, and—but what's your strength of
mind, your mere worldly strength of mind, though
capacitated to fill the high places, like your uncle's,
and be talked of among men—go, Ralph, go take
six pews nearest the pulpit—unless they will strike
off something—make a deduction for cash—get the
longest possible time.”
With a reluctant step Ralph Beckford departed to
do his father's bidding.
Solomon Beckford, the father of Ralph, was the
youngest of three sons. Their father, by the retention
of a small patrimony in one of our large commercial
cities, whose rapid growth would have been
a wonder in any country but ours, had been enabled,
without adding to it at all, with the help of a salary
which he received as a public officer, to give his
sons a liberal education, and to leave them at his
death a handsome fortune a-piece, by the increased
value of what, at their births, would little more than
have paid the medical attendant of their mother.
The eldest of the brothers was the favourite of both
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parents; they indulged him in everything, and he
requited them by a life of dissipation—a brief one
happily—that inflicted on them many griefs. The
father was comparatively a niggard to his other
sons, to give the eldest, whom they esteemed the genius
of the family, not only the best possible education,
but the means of fashionable expenditure; and
though possessed of considerable talents, he spent the
time which should have been devoted to his studies,
in scenes of dissipation, gradually progressing, at
first, and rapidly at last, from the highest company
of the kind to the lowest, until in a drunken brawl at
an obscure ball, frequented by the depraved of both
sexes, he was miserably murdered. The perpetrators
of the deed were never detected; and not until
after he had been buried in Pottersfield, his body
having been so mangled that no one recognised it,
did his parents discover by his clothing, which was
kept at the Mayor's office, and which, on missing
him for some time, they were induced to examine,
(his habits being such that any casual absence was
scarcely noted,) that their eldest and favourite child
had met with such a wretched end. Though of
very dissimilar character, the two surviving brothers
were not only violently affected, but lastingly impressed
by the event.
The younger, Gladsdown Beckford, was named
after a maternal uncle, who took charge of him;
gave him every advantage of education, and brought
him up to his own profession—that of the law.
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Gladsdown was now the most prominent member of
the bar in the city, and perhaps in the whole state,
in which the opening scenes of this narrative are
located. Cool, sagacious, worldly, and ambitious,
he was so much occupied in increasing his reputation
and advancing his political interests, that he
gave little heed to his only child, a son named Henry,
and left him entirely to the superintendence and care
of his wife, a foolish, fashionable woman, but a
doting mother. The event of his brother's death had
led Gladsdown Beckford to believe that too much
care on the part of a parent would spoil a child, and
therefore he determined, while seemingly leaving his
son to his own impulses, to watch him closely and
to control him by a thorough understanding of his
character, which he resolved to spare no pains to
acquire. He said he would make himself the companion
of his son, while he would still exercise over
him parental influence; but these resolves faded imperceptibly
from his mind, as his legal business increased,
and his ambition, which grew with his reputation
and consciousness of power, goaded him on,
and his son was left, as we have said, entirely to the
charge of his mother.
Mr. Solomon Beckford furnished in all respects a
striking contrast to his brother. The lawyer was
profuse and heedless in his expenditures. His wife
was a lady of no fortune, but a large one was settled
upon her child; and the whole of Gladsdown's income
from his profession, which was very large, was spent
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in luxurious entertainments, equipage, furniture, &c.
&c. No one surpassed Mrs. Gladsdown Beckford
in fashionable display.
Solomon Beckford was a widower, and Ralph
was his only child. The only disinterested act of
the parent's life was his marriage, which was a love
match; and he deeply regretted it afterwards when
he came to understand from an old nurse of a lady
of fortune, whose good opinion he had cultivated
with some assiduity, and whom he quit visiting in a
pique, that the lady intended to have accepted him.
His love match was not a happy one; and therefore
the first and foremost rule in his code in the whole
duty of man was, that every man who pretended to
common sense, should marry for money. Ralph's
mother had died when he was very young—he remembered
very little of her, and the first admonitions
that struck his ear were the avaricious counsels
of his father. At the death of his father, Solomon
Beckford, who had been a shop-boy in a grocery,
raised funds by mortgaging his patrimony, and therewith
opened, near the market-house, what is called a
country store, where the country people could obtain,
often by bartering their produce, almost any
article which in the ordinary events of life, they
might require. This sharpened and increased the
hustering spirit of Solomon, and his old defaced sign,
on which Justice had once appeared over the name
of Solomon Beckford, in guilt letters, emblematic of
the just dealings within, was still hanging where it
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was first hung when he commenced business, and
its disfigurement and worn out image of Justice were
perhaps more typical than the owner was aware of
the present condition of the moral man. He was a
great foe to the opening of streets and the improvement
of roads; at least he never could be persuaded
to contribute to them; and whenever he was assessed
according to the increased value which the
aforesaid improvements were said to give to his property,
he was certain to make a great outcry and to
hurry to his brother's house to get professional advice
on the subject. But he never was known to
institute suit for damages; for he had an awful horror
of the expenses of litigation; and whenever he
had visited his brother, he would inveigh to Jerry,
who was his factotum, and to his son, in profound
lamentations on the wasteful habits of the lawyer,
averring that all of the tribe were just so; that they
gained their money by the instigation of the devil,
who set men to loggerheads for their benefit; and
that they spent it in the same worldly and wicked
manner in which they got it; and then he would nail
it with scripture: “Wo unto you, ye lawyers,” &c.
Mr. Solomon Beckford had read the moral of his
eldest brother's life and death with such a mental
bias as to lead himself to the conclusion, which coincided
admirably with his economical notions, that a
boy should not be indulged in anything. He was
almost inclined to think, that paying money for
schooling, except, maybe, so far as the rule of three,
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was throwing it away. And he maintained, quoting
the case of his deceased brother as one decidedly in
point, that sending a boy to college, was sending
him to the devil.
Mr. Solomon Beckford's personal appearance
typed forth the inward man. He was very tall and
spare; he stooped considerably, not in the shoulders,
but at the hips, like a clasp knife one-third shut. His
arms were very long and slender; his fingers bony
and skeleton-like, and generally closely, shut, as
though he held tight hold of a sixpence. He wore
a large over-coat without any other beneath it; and
he had a way of thrusting his hands into his pocket,
as if he were chasing a fip into the corner of it. A
large slouched hat partly covered features that had
a sharp prying expression, which was not at all modified
by the twinkle of a little gray eye, over the
top of an antiquated pair of silver-mounted spectacles,
which had nearly all the plating worn off, and
were mended at the hinge of the right side with a
bit of dirty thread. He almost always went with
spectacles on nose, although, as they only enabled
him to read, he had to look over them whenever he
wished to see at a distance; and to do this with facility,
he wore them stuck on the peak of his nose,
that had a pugnacious turn up at the end, as if forced
unwillingly to do the office.
Jeremiah Tubs, or as he was universally known
and designated, taking the surname of his master,
Jeremiah Beckford, was as striking a personage in
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his way as that individual. He was a short, duck-legged,
stuttering negro, with great goggle eyes,
thick lips, and a forehead that slanted off like the
roof of a house. He held himself to be at least as
smart as his master, and was so held by many of the
neighbours, and by all the negroes of his acquaintance.
Jerry in the main was honest, though we are
not going to say that he has not more than once
abducted a turkey, or chicken, or quail, which some
of the country folks had bartered for tea or sugar,
from its proper place, and converted it to his own
use, charging the crime indifferently to the cats,
rats, mice, or neighbours' or countrymen's stray
dog, as best suited circumstances and seemed most
favourable to the establishment of the fact in the
mind of his master, should he raise any inquiries in
the premises. To this wrong doing he was often
instigated, aided and abetted by Aunt Minty, an aged
old negro crone who acted as cook for Mr. Beckford,
and who, together with the parties above mentioned,
made up his household. The sons of the
brothers were as different in dispositions, so far as
their characters were developed, as their fathers.
Henry, the son of the lawyer, was lively, witty and
wild, with an assumption of reckless independence of
manner, that was careless of the feelings of others,
where his own selfish gratifications were concerned.
He was eminently handsome, with an erect and
agile form, and features that were faultless, except
perhaps they were too feminine for one of the
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sterner sex. Ralph's form was not so tall nor so
finely moulded as Henry's, though it was still a fine
one, and his features, though not so beautiful, were
manlier and more intellectual. His eye was of a
very dark blue, so dark as in some lights to seem
black, and lustrous rather than keen; his hair was
jet black, combinations which do not often occur.
He was sensitive and shy, qualities which he inherited
from his mother and which his father's character
and conduct did not lessen. He had few associates,
took a long time to be acquainted, but he was
capable of a devoted friendship. His manners were
gentle and unassuming, he was not quick to act upon
his own responsibility, but when once he had determined
to do so, he was immoveable. Much of
Ralph's time had been spent at his uncle's, for the
lawyer, despising the character of his brother, and
remembering how much his own uncle had done for
himself, felt an interest in Ralph, which if not so deep,
was more active than that which he took in his own
son. Even there Ralph could be seldom drawn to
the drawing-room, when any young company of
which Mrs. Beckford was fond, visited her. He
was generally in the lawyer's library, poring over
the literary works it contained, of which there was
a fine collection; while his father not being at any
expense for his boarding, and at very little for his
clothing, was content to leave him to himself, every
now and then reminding him when they met, “that
he had no objection to his reading in a lawyer's
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library, so as he didn't read law, and it did just as
well as schooling, and better, for he would be a selfmade
man like Franklin, whose schooling cost next
to nothing, and schooling and colleges were no
better than pickpocket concerns.”
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CHAPTER II.
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As the cousins were one afternoon strolling together,
as was their wont, in a fashionable part of the
city, Ralph endeavoured to persuade his cousin to
turn to a more lonely walk. Henry who was the
elder by a year or two, and disposed on that account
to have his own way, as well as from his self-willed
spirit, and more particularly on this occasion, as
many fashionable persons were on the promenade,
resisted, with a satirical laugh, Ralph's wish, and at
last exclaimed, as the other averred that he would
leave him if he did not take a more private way,—
“Why are you always for being private, Ralph?
For my part, I like to look upon these bright creatures—
I like to be public, and see the public, more
especially this of the sex before us, and behind us,
and about us. I am addicted to this atmosphere; it is
better, sweeter, finer far than the loveliness of Paradise
if Eve were not there. I shall hate to leave this
for college; and I've half made up my mind that a
college course has nothing to do with the education
of a gentleman; but I suppose I must go—I'm told
one sees fine times there. What say you, cousin of
mine, do you go?”
“I want to go, Henry, as you know; but my father—”
“Ay! is that it. Well, may the first girl that I attempt
to kiss murder me with her bodkin—brain me
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with her fan, if I wouldn't cut the acquaintance of my
father, if he treated me as yours does you. Ralph,
you are certainly not intending to commit the suicide
of tending in dad's grocery, are you? I'll cut your
acquaintance if you do. What? weigh out sugar by
the half pound, and tea by the ounce, and barter old
barrels and candle boxes with market women, for
eggs and butter, dried apples and peach kernels! excuse
me.”
“Excuse me too, say I, Henry, but necessity has
no—”
“Law, say you?” interrupted Henry, “there's no
law about it, Ralph. You are the only son; all your
father's property is yours; he accumulates but for
you—and you—the truth is, you ought to hold a
higher head with the old man. You know, you feel
how close he is, and he will keep you in this way
until the best of your life is wasted. I would speak
to him plainly, and know what he meant to do for me.
I thank God that what I have, I have—that neither
father nor mother can deprive me of that much of it,”
snapping his fingers. “And I assure you I shall take
the responsibility of spending it. I shall neither practise
law, nor medicine, nor any thing else but the
gentleman of elegant leisure.” And Henry waved
his hand gracefully as he spoke. “What do you
intend, law or medicine, or a grocery?”
“Not the grocery—medicine I cannot bear—for
law I have no taste nor talent. I have lived such a
miscellaneous life, without end or aim—so much the
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creature of untoward circumstances, that I have acquired
habits unfitting me for either of the professions.
I should wish to be a farmer, to have a pursuit which,
while it occupied me sufficiently to prevent ennui,
would leave me leisure for literary indulgences. Certainly
I wish to go to college, but if my father will
not consent to that which I shall press upon him, I
hope to persuade him at least to let me occupy Stockbridge
Farm. It will be no expense to him. I can
certainly support myself there. I am now nearly
eighteen, and I have determined that I must know
definitely from him what I am to do. I love the retirement
of a country life.”
“Turning clodhopper, Ralph, would be Hobson's
choice with me. You must certainly inherit a large
fortune, and I would make my mind up to enjoy it
were I you, dad to the contrary notwithstanding.
You have been so long in the traces that you think
you could not disobey your father for the world.
Try him now—get restive—try him. But maybe
that pretty innocent—scarcely in her girlhood yet—
the fair Ruth—a scriptural name—with whom you
would till the earth and fulfil Scripture—”
“Enough of that, Henry,” interrupted Ralph, his
brow darkening—“enough of that—my father, by
the by, talks of leasing Stockbridge Farm to Mr.
Lorman; honest, industrious and intelligent, he is
nevertheless so wrong-headed in his notions of business
as to have speculated himself out of house
and home. I believe he has some little pittance
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left, and I blush to say, what I fear is the truth, that
my father, your uncle, Henry, is nursing the intention
of gaining that in the way of trade. I am
resolved I will lead this dilly-dally, shilly-shally life
no longer. Good-bye to you.”
“Stop, Ralph, stop,” exclaimed Henry, endeavouring
to seize him by the arm and retain him,
“here comes Helen Murray—the fair and fascinating—
the golden fish—have you no bait for her—
it may save trouble with mine uncle; she is above
your years, and fitter for your admiration than any
baby-love in the land. How sly you are of her;
that woman is not born that could make such a
sheep-face of me. I tell you what, Ralph, how soon
these girls that we went to school with shoot ahead
of us into ripened womanhood and leave us a hobby
de hoy—all within a year or two. They're graduates
while we are preparing for college. Hey,
Ralph, what say you, let's join her!”
And Henry made an effort to draw his cousin
with him towards the lady; but Ralph broke away
from him, exclaiming, “No! oh no! excuse me!”
and hurried in a contrary direction.
With now a dilatory, and now a hastening step,
emblematic of the state of his resolutions, Ralph
proceeded to his father's store. On the way he
reflected bitterly on his situation and the character
of his miserly parent, and said to himself, “I'll end
it—yes, I will end it. This pew buying, this trafficking
in religion is the last thing of the kind I do.
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Could I but leave home and push my fortunes in
the west, I should not like to become —, but I've
no profession—have, I fear, no business talent, at
least no experience. Well, I'll speak with my father,
and if he and I cannot agree, I will advise with my
uncle—I am resolved.” And with a bolder and
firmer tread Ralph entered his father's store, and
found Jeremiah, our former acquaintance, behind
the counter, busily engaged in removing sugar from
a hogshead. With a spade he placed it in a large
tray, and broke the lumps before he threw it into
the bin from which it was retailed.
“Jerry,” inquired Ralph, “why did you not remove
the hogshead to the pavement, and break the
sugar there; you have hardly room where you are.”
Jerry shook his head gravely, as he stuttered
forth—
“B-b-boys steal th-the su-sugar there, Master
R-Ral-Ralph—big l-l-lumps; m-master don't l-like it,
n-nor Jerry n-neither.”
“Where is father, Jerry?”
“G-g-gone out, sir. M-master Ralph, l-l-let me
a-axe you a q-question,” said Jerry, leaning on his
spade.
“Not now, Jerry, not now,” said Ralph, shaking
his head, and moodily leaving the store.
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CHAPTER III.
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The evening of the day of the conversation between
the cousins, recorded in the last chapter, in
the back room of a one-story domicile, annexed to
the store of Solomon Beckford, and called by himself
his parlour, sat that worthy, before a consumptive-looking
tallow candle, as thin as Calvin Edson,
with a newspaper—which he had that day obtained
at his brother's office—in his hand; for he held,
when he debated the matter with himself, that to
subscribe to a newspaper was beyond his means,
while his public remark was, that he could not conscientiously
do such a thing, as, from the state of
the press nowadays, it would be a downright assistance
in the propagation of falsehood. An inventory
of the furniture of Mr. Beckford's parlour could
easily have been taken. It consisted of an old-fashioned
stuffed arm-chair, that his father had occupied
in his office, and which Solomon, after its wear
and tear of many years from his own proper person,
in which period nearly all the padding had disappeared
for want of a cover, was induced to have
covered with some damaged buckskin, as he found
out he could drive a good bargain with the leatherdealer
for that article, and with the saddler, who,
for the matter of a few old bridle-bits, agreed to
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dispose the buckskin in ship-shape. The next important
article was a cherry stained table, which had
once been emulous of looking like mahogany, but
which evidently, of late years, had no aspirations of
the kind, as in many places the staining had worn
entirely off. Two rush-bottom chairs were beside
it, which the dull candle scarcely rendered perceptible,
as the old miser refused to have it snuffed—
asserting that to snuff a candle was to waste it,
as it caused it to burn out. A patched rag carpet
covered the floor, whose various dingy hues seemed
a reflection of the walls, for here and there in spots
they exhibited paper where it had been left, and
plaster where the paper had been torn off. Over
all—paper and plaster—a thin coat of whitewash
had been spread. Two windows, with many broken
panes, patched with as many coloured bits of paper,
looked out into a narrow yard filled with old sugar
barrels, candle boxes, and every kind of trumpery
that the rain could not injure—the accumulation of
years.
Though it was very early in the spring, and chilly
within doors when one was not exercising, no fire
had been allowed about the house save that with
which old Minty cooked the scanty meal; and now
a tea-kettle, from which the beverage for the evening
was to be prepared, simmered over a few half
burnt barrel-staves in the hearth, every now and
then, when the flame chanced to burn brighter than
its wont, making an ineffectual effort to boil.
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Old Beckford himself was a study for an artist,
as with meagre hands he grasped the paper, and
pored over it with intense yet apparently incredulous
curiosity. While he was yet reading Ralph entered,
and drawing one of the chairs from the table, seated
himself before the slender fire. Some minutes passed
without recognition on either part, when, just as the
old gentleman had got through with the paper, and
was folding it carefully up, Ralph said,
“Father, cousin Henry will start soon for college.”
The old man shot a quick glance over his spectacles
at his son, and exclaimed—
“I know it, by dad, I know it, Ralph—the most
idle expenditure in the world—it is worse than throwing
money away, much worse—it is a more criminal
act. It's true, if you throw your money away
it would harm yourself and perhaps help to ruin
some of these beggarly rascals”—Mr. Beckford held
a great hatred to beggars, because the bestowal of
charity would cost something—“who roam about
the streets picking pockets and gaping around for
what they can find that don't belong to them—it is
the way, no doubt, my black coat went. I had had
it for fifteen years—wore it at your mother's funeral—
and it was as good as new when I lost it—
when it was stolen. Yes, as I was saying, it will
be worse than throwing money away to send your
cousin to college—more criminal—it will ruin him,—
as sure as you live it will ruin him, Ralph. Your
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uncle—my eldest brother—Preston, who is dead,
was ruined by colleges and high company. The
money he squandered, Ralph, would ruin a nabob—
and his miserable end,—I have told you of it often—
it has been a lesson to me.”
“Well, I want to be ruined too, father.”
“What!” exclaimed the old man, starting in evident
surprise, though he seemed half to suspect what
was coming from the first, “you are for being
ruined too, are you?—well, you may be assured,
Mr. Ralph, that you shall not be ruined with my
consent and connivance—no, sir, not with my consent
and connivance—that sin I shall not have registered
against me. Has all my instruction and
advice come to this? Bless my soul! by dad, when,
from your childhood, I have been impressing upon
you the folly—the criminality—the inevitable criminality—
of colleges. But, suppose it was all right—
colleges were even proper—the expense—the expense,
Ralph, would beggar me in my old age. I
make little in the store—it just keeps soul and body
together; and if you were staying at home now—
at meals, I mean—instead of living with your uncle,
Minty, and Jeremiah, and the rest, would eat me
out of house and home.”
“`The rest,' I suppose you mean that for me father,”
interrupted the son indignantly—“but father
that cannot be; there is Stockbridge Farm of three
hundred acres, that brings in much from marketing—
there are your four houses in Fifth street—the
house and two lots in Seventh, and—”
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“By dad, sir, have you been taking an inventory
of my property to cast up into my teeth, you ungrateful
boy; the two lots, pray sir, have you ascertained
what they bring me in—answer me that, sir,
have you ascertained what they bring me in?”
“No sir, I have not exactly!”
“Well sir, they exactly bring me into expense—
the ground rents of these and other lots, unimproved
property, swallow up everything.”
“Why, father, I understood that Day, the stonecutter,
gave you a very handsome rent for the lots
on Seventh.”
“Who told you?”
“Day himself, sir!”
“Do not believe him, he lies—he would cheat the
Apostle Paul, he would rob a church, a grave yard;
he charged me an enormous sum for a useless vault
for your mother; God only knows how many years
rent it took.”
“Father,” said Ralph, whom the turn the conversation
had taken, and the way his mother's name was
introduced, had emboldened,—“I know all that you
would tell me; and more, I know that your income
must be upwards of nine thousand dollars a year;
and I have no doubt that there is more than enough
in this room at this moment, to pay my college expenses
over and over.”
The old miser looked aghast, uttered a loud exclamation,
and then recovering himself, and darting
a suspicious eye round the room, at the windows and
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towards the store, he sunk his voice to an hysteric
whisper, saying hurriedly:—
“Do you want me murdered—do you want the
prying knaves who haunt our city to overhear you,
and slip in, in the dead of night and butcher me in
cold blood, for the money that I have not got,” continued
the old man, raising his voice at the end of
the sentence with the determination that if any person
or persons, had overheard their conversation, he
or they should certainly hear that he had no money.
“But, son Ralph,” proceeded the father, edging his
chair close to his son's, glancing round and speaking
in a whisper,—“who told you, God bless me, who
told you all this?”
“My uncle, sir, not half an hour ago; and he told
me also, that if you would not send me to college he
would.”
“Let him,” interrupted the father; “if he has no
conscientious scruples concerning colleges, I have;
and if any ill comes of vicious habits caught there,
be the sin upon his head.”
“I replied, sir, that I could not, would not be beholden
to him for everything, and that as some remuneration
for his more than fatherly conduct towards
me, I would bind myself by every obligation,
moral and legal, to deed, when I am of age, that
house and lot to him, which you conveyed to my
mother, in consideration that she would sign away
her right of dower in other property, and which is
-- 035 --
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mine own at twenty-one; it will not remunerate my
uncle, I fear it is but a pittance.”
“Pittance,” ejaculated the old man, “bless my
soul! the property is worth at least seven thousand
dollars. It was temper and wilfulness in your mother
that defrauded me of that very property; and
you are just as she was, and so is your uncle. I shall
be cheated and bamboozled in my very grave.”
“I'll bid you good night, father,” said Ralph,
rising and preparing to depart.
“Stay, boy, stay awhile, you must not be so hasty
in your doings and conclusions. Your uncle will
certainly che—; contrive to get from you double
the value of what he advances; your prodigal,
squandering men are ever of that character—avaricious
in gaining to spend like water. You do not
know the world yet; I tell you, Ralph, I am your
father, and I will do for you. If you will give me
your word, and bind yourself in writing, to fulfil the
contract the moment you come of age, to deed me
that property, if I advance you the money, my dear
son, the money shall be advanced, that is, understand
me, a reasonable sum.”
Ralph who could not but internally smile, while
he pitied his father and felt mortified with him, said:
“Oh! certainly, a reasonable sum, father; at least
seven thousand, if I should want it.”
“Seven thousand devils, if you should want them,”
exclaimed the old man, snatching his spectacles from
his nose, rising hastily, and pacing to and fro on the
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floor; “you'll be ruined, I see it; the wasteful notions
you have acquired, are prodigal to a degree—
sinful; there will be the visitation of some awful calamity
upon you; you, at this rate with your notions,
will be reduced to poverty, to hunger, to wretchedness,
to want of food and raiment, to a dunghill. I
shall be in my grave before then, but I leave you no
heir of mine. It would be a spitting in the face of
providence, that after the toil of a long life has
blessed me with some gains, to leave it to your
squandering; I shall educate the heathen with it, or
build churches; I have been a sinner and I know it,
and who has lived a long life that is not a sinner;
such bequest may be something of an atonement;
to give it to a prodigal heir, who in viciousness
would spend it, would be an enormity in the eye of
heaven.”
“As you choose, father. I have lived without it
so far, and I can continue to live without it. Good
night, sir.”
“Stay, boy, stay. I suppose you think you can live
upon your house and lot for ever? I'll be reasonable
with you; it may be worth half the sum named—
that is now—but if in the progress of years, property
should fall, what then? and it may fall; there
is no knowing what may turn up. I might have
turned many a pretty penny with that house and lot,
by barter, exchange, mortgage, and what not, had
it not been for the wilfulness of your mother.”
“My mother is in her grave, father, and let her
rest.”
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“Well, not so short, young gentleman, not so short.
I am your father.”
“And the dead you spoke of was my mother;” and
Ralph, with a quickening step was leaving the room,
when his father again stopped him.
“Ralph,” he said, “you shall have the money—
understand, a reasonable sum to go to college. You
need not speak to your uncle about it. We will arrange
it; it is proper we arrange it between ourselves.”
And Ralph departed, while the old miser went out
into his yard, and carefully looked among the lumber
therein, to see if he could discover the presence
of any intruder on his premises, whose intention to
do him wrong, should there be such a person hid
away, he felt would not be lessened by his having
been a hearer of the conversation between himself
and son, concerning the moneys in the house, the existence
of which the old man had been so careful
loudly to contradict.
-- 038 --
CHAPTER IV.
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
As Henry Beckford had decided he would not enter
college until the fall, Ralph, whose sensitive nature
shrunk from the companionless situation of entering
alone, determined to wait for the company of
his cousin. Meanwhile the spring wore away, and
Ralph beguiled his solitary hours in his uncle's office,
to whom his company had almost become a want.
The lawyer always asked for him, if he came not
in the morning, and frequently, for he had no students,
as he said they took up time which could be
more profitably spent, he got Ralph to search for
authorities for him, or to copy an opinion, or to read
to him some miscellaneous work in the afternoon or
evening, when he threw by for awhile his professional
cares. Gladsdown Beckford stood at the head
of his profession, and held himself above doing any
of its drudgery, which every American lawyer, unless
he is very distinguished, is compelled to do, as
in this country counsellor, advocate and attorney,
which in England are separate vocations, are combined.
Gladsdown Beckford did very little writing,
except in giving opinions, that were not often very
long; and in making notes of his addresses to juries,
or of arguments before the court. He was anxious
at first Ralph should read law, but he soon discovered
that his mind was so imbued with literary
-- 039 --
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partialities, it would be next to impossible to give
it a taste for the crabbed technicalities of Coke.
In watching the developements of Ralph's mind and
character,—and Ralph at first seemed desirous of
being a lawyer, and had the wish to force his will in
that direction, from which, the older he grew, the
more his excursive and imaginative mind rebelled,—
the uncle became almost satisfied, as great a doubter
as his profession had made him on most points, that
there were certain biases which some minds receive
from nature, which unfit them for his profession.
He therefore, knowing that his nephew would
inherit an ample fortune at the death of his father,
felt it was not necessary to press any profession upon
him; or to say the truth, finding so much pleasure
and relief from Ralph's society, who sat so quietly in
his office while he was engaged, and who so soon,
when he was not, became his trust-worthy companion
in riding, walking, reading or conversation, the lawyer
scarcely thought about it, and having little of the
society of his son, whom he deemed entirely given up
to fashion and frivolity, he was content to enjoy his
nephew's, without thinking of his future prospects.
Ralph being of a grateful disposition, exerted himself
to please his uncle, and thus the affection existing between
them, grew daily stronger.
Towards midsummer, Gladsdown Beckford was
taken violently and dangerously ill, with a bilious
fever, brought on by assiduous application to his duties.
For some time his life was despaired of; he
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
convalesced very slowly, and for a long time remained
feeble.
Ralph had hoped to repair to Stockbridge Farm,
near which there was a celebrated academy, and
fit himself for college; but his uncle was lonely without
him, and seemed to expect his attention, which
the grateful disposition of Ralph was anxious to bestow.
His aunt was a close watcher by the side of
her husband; but as there was little community of
sentiment between them, she always felt relieved if
some of her acquaintances were with her, and as
she was very fond of young company, she invited
Helen Murray to be her guest, the young lady of
whom Henry spoke to Ralph in their conversation
recorded in our second chapter. Leading a life of
bustle and excitement, the lawyer, in his long convalescence,
could not bear to be left alone for a moment.
He was of a gay disposition, and not at all
over fond of the gravities of life; he, therefore, like
his lady, under his present indisposition, preferred
young company to old. His physician thought their
gaiety would afford him amusement and excitement
sufficient; and he discouraged the visits of his professional
brethren, who, he felt, would act upon his
patient like the blast of the trumpet on the war-horse—
make him pant again for the scene of strife.
Miss Murray, who was a lively, fashionable, and
lovely girl, and, for her years, much experienced in
the world, and fond of its fascinations, willingly accepted
Mrs. Beckford's invitation, the more so, as
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she was well acquainted with Henry, and had made
some progress in a flirtation, or in tender emotions,
maybe, with him. As Helen was rich, beautiful,
and accomplished, the parents of Henry had no
objections if such things were. Helen's parents,
who were descendants from a Quaker family, and
disposed to be plainer in their ways than suited their
daughter, being, nevertheless, easy people, gave her
entirely her own way, and she grew up petted by
parents and by brothers. She was the only daughter,
with two brothers her elders, and was not at all
disposed to yield her own whims or will to any dictation.
She was of proud spirit and fond of spreading
her conquests in the realms of the heart, yet she
was good-hearted; but being a decided belle, and in
the full bloom of her bellehood, some grains of allowance
must be made when we come to consider
the last broad assertion. To bright eye, fair forehead,
with remarkably well-defined eyebrows and
temples, a chiselled nose and lip, she joined an exquisitely
turned neck and bust, and a figure full,
floating, and voluptuous. Combined to these attractions,
and imparting to them their chief charm, were
her manners,—practised and polished to the artist's
consummate touch, she had acquired his greatest art—
the art to conceal her art. It was only the very
minute observer that discovered her proficiency in
address; to all others it seemed the impulses of nature,—
and it could not be said that she studied it
much, after all, for in her childhood she had been
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
remarkable for a coquettish wilfulness of disposition
which displayed tact in its very temper.
“Ah!” said Helen, entering the parlour, the first
day the distinguished invalid had been conveyed to
it, where he reclined upon a sofa, with his nephew
reading to him, and his lady near by feeding a canary
bird. “Ah! Mr. Beckford, welcome down,
sir. Mr. Ralph Beckford, you shall not always
have that pleasure and that honour—I shall deprive
you of it, sir, and compel you to be a listener. O!
my dear Mrs. Beckford, what a beautiful bird—this
is the first time I have seen it.”
After pouting her pretty lips, and endeavouring
to chirp like the bird, she continued—
“O, you merry little creature, you!—you are
happy—you will never make the complaint of
Sterne's starling.”
“I am making the complaint though, Helen,”
said Mr. Beckford.
“O yes, sir; but you have more than green fields
and idle runaway waters to call you out; you have
the encounters that stir the blood. You have nothing
to do with the green woods or fields, except to wear
the fresh laurel that is gathered there for you. Mr.
Ralph Beckford, I am informed, pants for the paradise
of young romance, sir.”
“What paradise?” inquired Mr. Beckford.
“A country life, sir,” replied the lady, throwing
an arch glance at Ralph, “is it not so, sir?” addressing
him.
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
Ralph blushed before he could rally and simply
confess the fact.
“And where do you think I heard it, Mr. Ralph
Beckford? Do you think one of those little birds
told me, or do you believe that a rural one from the
neighbourhood of your contemplated retirement did
me the honour, like the lady-bug, to fly away and
give me the intelligence?”
Ere Ralph could answer, his cousin Henry, who,
in ascending the steps had overheard the remark,
and who had merely come on a kind of visit of
ceremony to inquire after the health of his father,
stay a few moments and depart, entered the room,
and replied for him by saying, with a graceful salute,
“My cousin Ralph is to be envied, Miss Helen,
first, that a bird should take such an interest in him
as to tell of his intentions, and last, though not least,
that you, who turn a deaf ear to all others, should
listen to the bird that talked of him. Was it for the
sake of the bird that you listened, or for the burden
of its song?”
Henry himself had told Miss Murray of Ralph's
rural inclinations, and ridiculed them without mercy;
the lady liked not, therefore, the vanity which a part
of his remark implied, and she playfully but keenly
said:
“It must have been for the burden of the song, for
the bird that told it was a peacock, a parrot, or a
popinjay, I forget which.”
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
Henry coloured, and his brow darkened; but he
instantly recovered and replied:
“And you listened, did you, and the bird rested on
your shoulder; happy peacock, parrot or popinjay,
though lord Chesterfield forbids us to quote proverbs
I cannot but reflect upon the old one about birds of a
feather.”
The lady laughed playfully, and in perfect good
humour replied:
“You do a great many things, Master Henry, that
my lord Chesterfield forbids; but your politeness is
like your wit and your whiskers, (Henry had made
an unsuccessful attempt to raise a pair)—pardon me,
sir, for the personality—not yet able to show itself.
As to what you say about the proverb, sir, you must
remember what your father will tell you, that circumstances
alter cases. That even as dignified a
people as the Romans listened to as foolish a bird as
the goose, when it cackled ominously.”
Mr. Gladsdown Beckford laughed heartily.
“Helen,” he exclaimed, “you should have been a
lawyer. I rejoice indeed that I am getting well; if
ever I should be a widower, I bespeak you for my
second wife.”
“If Helen would have such an old gentleman, my
dear,” said Mrs. Beckford peevishly; for she was one
of your ladies who are rather jealous of their lords.
“I should be proud, my dear Mrs. Beckford,” said
Helen, with a woman's tact, “in being even the second
choice of a gentleman who had made you his first.”
-- 045 --
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Mrs. Beckford smiled, and unconsciously adjusted
her cap in the large mirror that hung adjacent to the
canary cage.
Henry laughed satirically, and Ralph gazed with
an eye of admiration on the lady, which he averted
to the book that he held in his hand, the moment he
caught hers. Helen understood Ralph's glance, but
coloured not, though he did. She thought him unsophisticated,
and she felt that kind of interest in him
which a man of the world feels in a guileless girl of
fifteen—she had almost made up her mind to have
a flirtation with him, and make him her adorer,—
'twould be something new.
-- 046 --
CHAPTER V.
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
Ralph, while the conversation was going merrily
on round the couch of his uncle, silently withdrew,
and, closing the front door noiselessly after him, went
forth into the street. With a thoughtful eye he pursued
his way for many squares, until he had left the
fashionable part of the city behind him and trod in a
respectable but by no means a wealthy section. Plain
two-story brick houses, interrupted here and there
by a frame one or a vacant lot, characterized the
streets, which were narrower than those he had left,
but neat, with rows of trees on either side.
As he approached one of the most comfortable of
the brick buildings, a little boy of seven years of age
sprang to his side, and seizing him by the hand exclaimed:
“Oh, Ralph, you havn't been to see us for so long;
we have all been wondering where you were.”
“Why, Billy, I was here not very long since; how
are all at home,” asked Ralph, as he took the boy's
hand and walked with him towards the house.
“Pretty well, sir, all but mother,” said Billy, as they
entered the house, which was neatly but very plainly
furnished, an air of comfort, nevertheless, pervading
it.
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
“Ralph, you are almost a stranger,” said a gentle
voice reproachfully to the visiter, as he entered the
room, and a fair and quite youthful girl advanced,
gave him her hand with an open frankness and a
beaming countenance that was radiant with pleasure.
“Oh how long it has been since we have seen you,
Ralph;” and she still held his hand as she continued:
“Billy had given you up for lost, he heard the bellman
at the corner the other evening, ringing and giving
notice of a lost child, and as he heard you say that
when we moved here you nearly lost yourself in
finding us, he thought it had really happened, and he
teased me to let him go after the bellman and have
you found. Only think, if Billy had had his way,
what a noise your name would have made in the
street.”
While Billy's sister (she was his sister) was speaking,
the boy got behind her to hide his confusion, and
said:
“If I did, sister Ruth, you needn't to tell it.”
“Yes, but I want sister Ruth to tell it, Billy,”
said Ralph, handing a chair to Ruth, taking one
himself, and drawing the boy to his knee, “You
are the truest friend I have in the world, I expect,
Billy. You would have given your last cent to the
bellman to find me, and my father would have
shrunk at abstracting a few from his thousands.”
“Ralph, Ralph, you should not speak so,” said
Ruth.
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
“I know it, Ruth. Why where is your piano?”
asked Ralph, looking round the room.
A slight flush passed over Ruth's face, and her
voice faltered as she replied, “father had to sell it;”
but in a moment she cheerfully added, “but you
know you say I sing better without an accompaniment;
and hereafter when you come to see us—if
you have not forsaken us, Ralph—you will not be
troubled with its tones.” This was said without the
least bitterness, but her voice sunk imperceptibly to
to the speaker, though she had resolved to speak
cheerfully.
“Is your mother not well?”
“No, not well, Ralph;” and Ruth's voice for a
moment choked, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Father's misfortunes worry her—she cannot rally
against them well—she will by and by—she will by
and by.”
“Mother was sick, and cried because the piano
and so many things was sold,” said Billy; “and she
got sick just so before when we moved.”
“Little people must be listeners, Billy,” said Ruth,
trying to smile; “they must not talk so much. Ralph,
if Billy had had the bellman ringing after you, and
your age and size had not been mentioned, it would
have been a long time before they suspected you for
the lost one.”
“And took me to the house of refuge!—sometime,
indeed! unless Billy had pointed me out to the bellman.
I reproach myself for not having been here
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
oftener, but my uncle has been dangerously ill, and
I had to attend him. He has been more than a
father to me. I'm told you have some idea of going
out to Stockbridge Farm.”
At this moment the father of Ruth entered the
room and greeted Ralph warmly. He was a fine
formed man, but somewhat stooped in the shoulders—
more from care than age—for he could not
have been above fifty. His hair, which was entirely
gray, and his features, that wore apparently
the impress of age, like his temples, would have
forced the conviction that he was ten years older,
did not the reflection arise that there are other
wasters of the face and frame than time. He is the
individual who, on account of his “fool bargains,”
gave Mr. Solomon Beckford such a detestation
for the word “speculate,” though legitimately that
worthy's hatred should not have been for the word
but for the bargains—as he himself had no objection
to a speculation, provided he made by it; and
he was so keen in such operations that he seldom
failed in that result. Mr. Harvey Lorman inherited
from his father a considerable fortune, with which
he embarked in trade, and augmented by marriage
with the mother of Ruth, who bore him two children,
a son and this daughter, and left him a widower.
She was a prudent, economical and intelligent woman,
and by her advice and counsel aided her husband
very much in his business, and restrained in
him a propensity for speculations in property and
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
stocks, with which he was possessed to a degree
almost to justify the assertion that in this respect he
was a monomaniac. For notwithstanding repeated,
and, after his first speculation, perpetual losses, he
still would have persisted to his utter ruin, even
during the lifetime of his first wife, in these wild
schemes of aggrandizement, but for her continual
watchfulness and her control over him. By his first
speculation, which chance altogether directed, he
made a large sum; and it appeared he never could
discover afterwards why similar large sums could
not be made by him if he only summoned hardihood
to venture. His second marriage was unfortunate:
it gave him a sickly, hysterical and extravagant
woman, full of the fever for fashionable display,
without the least prudence, who made him the father
of a large and helpless family.
For awhile the second Mrs. Lorman dashed out
into all the extravagances of fashionable life, lived
magnificently, gave routs to which hundreds were
invited, drove a gorgeous equipage, and held a host
of liveried lackeys at her beck. But reverses soon
came, and instead of having the wife to counsel him,
whom Harvey Lorman once had, who would have
prevented these reverses, not hastened them, and have
soothed him under them; he had himself to become
comforter to a peevish, fractious woman, whose reproaches
for misfortunes which she herself had assisted
materially to bring on him, were continually
ringing in his ears, and from whom, to maintain the
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
quiet of his household, instead of receiving counsel,
he had sedulously to hide every pecuniary ill, until
they could be hidden no longer; and then he had to
endure the cold neglect of friends, and the harsh
greetings of creditors abroad; and the querulous,
ceaseless complainings of a disappointed, weak woman
at home.
The angel of his household was his daughter Ruth.
Though too young at the time of her mother's death
to have received much instruction from her, she inherited
her amiability, her patience, her forbearance,
her unforced cheerfulness, and her mental as well as
moral excellences. As we have said, Ruth's father
had a large family by his second wife, and on his
daughter, particularly since his overwhelming misfortunes,
devolved their exclusive care; his wife the
while keeping her chamber, never going out, and
even denying herself to those of her former acquaintance,
who, displaying the show of disregard to what
had befallen her, were still apparently desirous of
keeping up their former intimacy, at least so far as
a formal call went, or an invitation to a party to
which all the world were invited; not sorry were
they, that her excuse for not seeing them, and their
unanswered call saved them the trouble of another
visit. Possessed of virtues that even won the envious
and the selfish, and having the youthful and the
unsophisticated for her intimates, Ruth held their
friendship, notwithstanding the changes in her fortunes;
but when they visited Ruth, her stepmother
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
was sure if she were by, and she often left her room
that she might be, to make some harsh observation
to her, or to impose upon her some humiliating duty,
all which she bore so meekly, that her sweetness of
temper became a common remark among her
friends. In fact, as some apology for her stepmother,
if such forms an apology, it is proper to say,
that she was addicted to the excessive use of laudanum.
Ruth was not beautiful, if regularity of features
constitutes beauty; an artist would have found fault
perhaps with every feature, had he analyzed it separately,
except her eye; and yet hers was the very
countenance he would have delighted in portraying,
for it was full of that expression which we dwell
upon, we know not why, with a melancholy interest,
though there seems not much of melancholy in
it. It was the expression of one, who had felt and
thought much more than one of her years generally
feels and thinks; and who, withal, had retained all
the early freshness of her spirit, if not all its early
gladness. Her eye was dark, and when there was
a tear in it, seemed formed to express the sorrow that
in its extremity is full of an upward hope. Her
form was finely moulded, but so fragile in appearance
as to induce the impression, but for her graceful
and agile movements, that her health was delicate.
Such forms, we believe, have appertained to many of
the sex—most remarkable for their womanly qualities.
Her voice was so soft and persuasive, that her
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
stepmother, even while sick, in a moment of remorse
for her harsh treatment of Ruth, and while suffering
that sensation of sinking, which all who are addicted
to the use of opium experience, when the effect of
the drug is dying within them; called her to her bedside
and said: “Ruth, you must forgive me if I have
treated you unkindly; and when I come to die, you
must pray for me: your voice sounds so like an angel's,
that I know it will be heard in heaven.”
“What news have you, Mr. Lorman?” inquired
Ralph.
“Nothing, Ralph, but hard times for the poor;
with means a man can accumulate, because he has
something to go upon—and nothing venture nothing
win; but without means, and without credit, his
condition is a forlorn one indeed. I am of the
opinion, that facilities in business are becoming less
and less every day. The integrity of a long life, if a
man has been somewhat unfortunate, avails him nothing;
a new man in business obtains credit before
him. I believe there are now as many chances for
successful speculation, as when I made a large sum
by it; but what can a man cramped and pinched to
death do, Ralph? though I am not a very old man,
not yet fifty, I have not a dark hair in my head, I
must leave my family young and helpless as they
are, some of these days, and perhaps very soon, entirely
destitute. It grieves me.” Mr. Lorman
walked up and down the room with his hands behind
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
him for several minutes, without speaking; when he
turned to Ruth and asked:
“Ruth, my daughter, how is your mother? where
is she?”
“She is lying down, father; she is quite sick, sir,”
replied Ruth.
“Ralph,” said Mr. Lorman, “I have a brother in the
western country, who is, what they call there, `a
river trader,' a plain, frank, good-hearted man, who
is well acquainted with various parts of that country.
I wrote to him some months since, of my embarrassments,
and of my utter inability to do any
thing here—there is a tide against me here—a tide
of misfortunes that I cannot stem. I wrote to my
brother, as I say, and he advised me to take my
family west. I will show you the letter some day;
you will agree with me, that I ought to follow his
advice; but Mrs. Lorman, my wife, when I mentioned
it to her, said she would sooner go to her
grave—took to her bed, and has hardly left it since.
It is my only prospect, Ralph, unless I could get
means to go into business on a proper scale here—
and I cannot, I cannot—I have been subjected to
humiliation from those who once called themselves
my friends—whom I assisted in business—of whom
I merely asked a similar favour—I have been subjected
to humiliations, but no matter. I tried to convince
Mrs. Lorman that we should do better, and be
happier there—for there continued neglects from her
friends, and the thousand worriments that beset her
-- 055 --
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on such accounts, would not occur. And, Ralph,
it is trying to live in poverty, where you have lived
in affluence, and to have to keep up a perpetual struggle
for something like gentility of appearance, when
you are daily and hourly getting poorer. Ralph,”
continued Mr. Lorman after a short pause, with bitterness,
“the drayman, the common street scavenger
is happier than such; for he is contented with his
condition, and has known no other; but I have—I
have. And here are not only my own feelings to
contend with, but my wife's; and do you not wonder,
Ralph, I am not a drunkard?”
Here one of his little children entered, and interrupted,
by saying:
“Father, mother wants you.”
“Yes, yes,” he ejaculated, turning two or three
times up and down the floor, in the effort to compose
himself, “tell your mother I'm coming, my dear,”
and in a moment he followed the child out of the
room.
-- 056 --
CHAPTER VI.
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
Henry Beckford spent much more time at home,
after Miss Murray became his mother's guest, than
had been his custom for some time previously. The
while, with the skill of a most accomplished tactician,
the lady played off her powers upon the cousins.
Henry, she piqued by her witticisms—by her indifference—
by calling him tauntingly, Master Henry, and
affecting to consider him as one hardly old enough
to have his attentions received in any other light than
that of badinage. She held him on by playing off,
wounded his vanity, by occasionally showing a marked
preference for Ralph, and this kept him perpetually
on the spur to gain some interest in her feelings.
Sometimes, particularly when alone with him, she
would glide from badinage to sentiment, while Henry,
whose passions became daily more and more interested,
would forget, in the belief of reciprocity, all
of what to him were bickerings of the past. He felt,
if she did not, and under her fascinations, practised,
as he believed, to win him, by one not unwon, he
would deem himself in the land of fairy, until Ralph
would enter, and the lady would carelessly turn from
him, and chat with his cousin, apparently unconscious
of his presence, until on some question put to
her by himself, she would recognise his existence, by
turning towards him for a moment, and giving a
-- 057 --
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hurried answer. Such conduct to a man of Henry's
character, who had much of earthliness in all his
feelings, with an overweening vanity, was well calculated
to win him—that is, to make him determine
to win, if only to be revenged upon the torturer, and
heal his wounded pride. Sometimes Henry would,
by a violent effort, avoid the lady, saluting her, but
with passing courtesy at the table, and coming into
her presence when she sat with his father, merely to
inquire—as he would have it thought—after his father's
health. He would appear to be violently taken
with some one of the many young ladies who called
to see his mother, or Miss Murray, and he would get
enthusiastic in expatiating upon her loveliness, before
Helen; but she would become more enthusiastic
even than himself, and where he would hint a fault,
she would proclaim a virtue, advising him by all
means to court the lady.
“She will just suit you, Master Henry,” she would
say laughingly, “and as courtship is said to be the
happiest period of our lives, you can make your
courtship a very long one, sir, and marry when you
arrive at the proper age.”
With Ralph, Miss Murray's manners were entirely
different; she never called him Master Ralph—
never did anything to wound his sensitiveness—did
all she could to draw him from the shell of shiness
in which he was ensconced; listened to him when
he read to his uncle, and elicited his remarks; half
agreed and half differed with him to draw him out;
-- 058 --
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would fix her eye in thoughtfulness away from him
when he had uttered a striking thought; then turn
for a moment a full gaze on him from her lustrous
eye, and pass to the piano, perhaps, and touchingly,
for she was a most accomplished musician, would
strike a note or two of some gentle air, which as
much as said, if I were asked I could sing for you—
a young gentleman much shier than even Ralph,
would walk across the room to her side and beg
that she would play—would he not? And it was
astonishing how fast Ralph's reserve wore away.
Though he had not the gay grace that his cousin,
formerly at least, had in her company, or his sprightly
wit and fashionable frivolity, he acquired a quiet deferential
ease that evidently sprung from admiration
of the lady who could so wile him from his morbidness,
and make him forget, happy forgetfulness to a
sensitive man!—himself. There is this difference,
perhaps, between a conceited vain man, and a morbidly
diffident one, that the first is happy in proportion
as you make him think of himself, and the other
in proportion as you make him forget himself.
It could not be discovered yet whether Ralph's
admiration had taken the tint of tenderer emotions,
though Henry believed Ralph's feelings, judging
from his own, involved. Certain it is that Ralph
showed no jealousy of his cousin, and if he felt it he
curbed it and gave way to what he considered superior
claims; for whenever they were together in
-- 059 --
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the lady's company, Ralph, instead of pressing himself
upon her attention, yielded always to Henry.
When the three were together in the garden, (and
Mr. Beckford had a magnificent flower garden attached
to his house,) Ralph often lingered behind his
cousin and Miss Murray; and not until she attracted
him to her side, by addressing him, or asking for
some flower near him, did he interrupt Henry; but
when she did, with a tone that showed an evident
pleasure that she had addressed him, and as evident
a desire to please, he answered with knightly and
sincere homage, or plucked the flower and presented
it when she wished it.
Ralph's manner, so full of respectful regard, was
so different from that of the worldlings by whom
Miss Murray had been surrounded—who appeared
to speak the compliment they did not feel, while Ralph
appeared to feel what he could not speak—that it
touched her more than she was aware; and the
thought would often cross her that Ralph was nursing
a passion for her that he believed to be hopeless and
dared not reveal. And as Ralph sometimes left her
with Henry, when alone in the withdrawing-room,
she would doubt if it could be so; and to test it tried
to awaken his jealousy by her smiles on Henry, or
to draw him out by flirtation at a party, for she had
succeeded in making him her beau to several; or
in tenderness alone with him in their moonlight
walks home; so that by the very means in which
-- 060 --
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Henry became interested in her, she became interested
in Ralph.
Henry was acquainted with the Lormans, and
had been a boyish beau of Ruth's, in their better
days; but he had not called to see them for some
time before they moved to the residence in which
we introduced them to our readers, until about the
period when the suspicion entered his mind that
Ralph was pleased with Miss Murray, and that she
was not indifferent to him—then Henry made them
repeated visits, and the cousins often met there. With
Mrs. Lorman, Henry was a decided favourite: his
air of ton had always struck her; and he was very
much addicted to making flattering speeches of
which she was very fond; besides he would be the
possessor of a large fortune. After the renewal of
Henry's visits, which weekly became more frequent,
Mrs. Lorman insisted to her husband that he had
serious intentions of addressing Ruth; and as Ralph
might be in the way, and as Henry was much
the more preferable match for her, that the former's
visit's should be discouraged, particularly as it was
evident that Ralph only called as an acquaintance.
Ruth she lectured at length upon the subject, to
which Ruth replied with firmness that she did not
believe Henry had any more serious intentions than
Ralph; but her step-mother would hear no such
thing, and overwhelmed her with a Xantippean
lecture, to which Ruth made no reply.
-- 061 --
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Mr. Lorman soon began to be of his wife's opinion,
for Henry held long conversations with him
upon his affairs, which was not his habit, and expressed
the regret that he was not of age, so that
having his fortune he might assist him. He felt that
he liked Ralph the best, but then he had no particular
reason for believing that Ralph was attached to
Ruth; and he reflected, if he should be, that Ralph
had little or nothing independent of his father: and
that should the son make a match with a poor girl
he would be certain to displease the miser, from
whom at any rate he could expect nothing during
his lifetime.
While matters remained in this posture, the cousins
one day went a gunning together. They rode
on horseback, taking their guns with them, intending
to spend the day in sport at Stockbridge Farm.
Lately the cousins had not been thrown much alone,
and, by a tacit consent, when they were, each
seemed desirous to avoid speaking either of Helen
Murray or of Ruth Lorman, for neither alluded to
them in conversation. Talking on general subjects—
though both, particularly Henry, were more silent
than usual—they arrived at the farm. In their pursuit
of game they became unconsciously separated,
and they did not meet again till each returned to the
farm house; when, on exhibiting the spoils of the
field, it appeared that Henry had been the more
successful shot.
“I take it, Ralph,” said Henry, exultingly, “that
I am the best shot.”
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
“So it would seem,” replied Ralph, “but you
have been shooting doves. I could have shot them
too, but I have a superstition against it.”
“Ha! have you! hang doves! I shoot all kinds
of them—I am for roaming free on nature's great
common—for granting no immunities to bird or
beast,” said Henry, in a reckless tone; “but come,”
he continued, “let us test our skill at a mark.”
“Agreed!” said Ralph. “Go on to the oak tree
by the mill-race, and I'll in and get a piece of chalk
to mark the tree, and be with you in a moment.”
“I'll test him,” said Henry to himself, glancing
towards his cousin, as the latter entered the
house. “How Helen Murray laughed at me the
other day when I hinted love to her! And does the
modest son of the miser—my cousin too—dare to
attempt to cross me—that I should be laughed at!
And when I said to her, after my anger at her treatment
had subsided, `Let there be peace between
us!' for her to tell me that `She never warred with
gentlemen, and that no gentleman ever warred with
her!' And then she gave me the tip of her jewelled
finger when I offered her my hand. I will not believe
she means aught with my modest cousin but
flirtation. She has involved his gentle heart, and
when his despair drives him to an acknowledgment,
she'll blow him sky high, as I suppose she would
blow me if I came out plumply. And he has
Miss Ruth in reservation! Well, as he has dared
to enter the lists with me with our superb virago
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
though he has not the courage to speak of it—
or scarcely to show the intent when I am by—
I will enter upon his reservation. And when
Miss Helen has let him down the wind, we'll see
if a prosperous gale comes from Lorman's. I would
almost marry Miss Modesty to thwart him, if I
could not do so without.”
The further reflections of Henry were interrupted
by the approach of Ralph, who, as he joined him,
said—
“I have been out of practice for some time,
Henry; I expect the day is yours, unless I make a
chance hit.”
“Ah! do you think so? You don't seem disposed
to compliment yourself, Mr. Beckford. You do not
hold, I hope, that you are one of those who, according
to the proverb, are fortune's care. Will all your
hits be of that kind?” Henry spoke in a cold, constrained
tone.
“I hope not, Henry,” replied Ralph, good humouredly;
“but what's the matter with you: there
seems premeditation in your hits.”
“Not at all, not at all,” replied Henry, quickly.
“What are your conclusions about college—or,
rather, what are your father's?”
“I told you, you know, some time since, I expect to
go. I have not spoken to my father, though, on the
subject, lately.”
While conversing, they reached the oak by the
mill-race, and Ralph made the mark on the tree, and
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
they stepped off to the proper distance and loaded
their guns.
“Fire first,” said Henry.
Ralph lifted his gun to fire, and while in the act of
taking aim, Henry said:
“Ralph, between you and I and your gun, I don't
think much of our little friend Ruth—I think she has
inclinations to be no better than she should be.”
At the instant Ralph started and fired, but his ball
went so wide of the mark that he did not even hit the
tree, which was a very large one. He turned to
Henry, and in an astonished and indignant tone, with
lowering brow, asked—
“What do you mean?”
“Mean! what I say, Mr. Ralph Beckford,” replied
Henry, with a dark smile curling on his lip at the
manner of Ralph.
Ralph struck the butt of his gun on the ground with
violence, and gazed at Henry with such a scrutinizing
and scornful glance, that, proud-spirited as Henry
was, and notwithstanding his belief in his own superiority
to his cousin in every respect, he quailed
beneath it, when Ralph inquired, after a moment, in
a tone of great apparent coolness—
“Why do you think so?”
“Oh, impressions,” said Henry, with a toss of the
head; “we get impressions, you know, we can
scarcely tell why.”
“And utter them for the same good reason, without a
wherefore,” exclaimed Ralph, with deep indignation.
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
“Henry, I thought better of you. You know that is
as false and as foul a suspicion as was ever uttered.
Yes, sir, frown your blackest, you cannot look blacker
than that falsehood. It is well that you have uttered
it only to myself; you are my cousin; more, you
are the son of my benefactor and my uncle. The
bare insinuation dies where it was uttered,—it makes
no more impression against the purity of Ruth Lorman,
sir, than would the smoke from your fowlingpiece
make on heaven. Think, Henry, think it is
against a poor defenceless girl, who has no brother
to protect her, who has had more than her share of
misfortunes, who has had few comforters, from whom
the world fell off, as the leaves will fall from these
trees when the wintry winds come, that you have
uttered that calumny. I leave you, sir, to your reflections;
as I have no part or lot in them, I leave you,
sir; but I warn you to keep that calumny to yourself,
or I shall forget that your father is my uncle,
and that you are my cousin.” And Ralph turned
away from him, and stepped towards the house.
“I have a great mind to blow you through,” exclaimed
Henry in a rage, pointing his gun at Ralph.
“And if you did,” said Ralph, facing him, “the
deed would not be half so foul as that falsehood.”
Henry presented his gun, as if to take a certain
aim; but he reflected a moment, and upon a sudden
impulse threw it from him, and burst into a forced fit
of laughter. Ralph turned and walked away. Henry
picked up his gun, advanced toward him, and said:
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
“Don't be foolish, Ralph. I did but jest. I wished
to discover what influence our little friend had on
you—ha! ha! ha! For aught I know or believe,
she is as chaste as what Shakespeare says of the
snow on Dian's temple—ha! ha! If aught were
surmised against the fair Helen, would you likewise
be her champion?”
“Yes, sir, if it were necessary. But Miss Murray,
sir, is not as friendless as Miss Lorman. She has
brothers, wealth, and many admirers. I hope, sir, you
hold that you yourself have reasons, more than the
mere motives of friendship to the unprotected, to move
you in her behalf against any inquisitive, malicious
jester, whatsoever; I certainly have.”
So speaking Ralph quickened his step and left his
cousin, who, surprised at the spirit Ralph had displayed,
and burning with ill-suppressed indignation and
shame, for he felt that he had acted meanly, did not
pretend to keep pace with him, but lagged behind,
ruminating darkly upon what had passed, and particularly
upon the last words of Ralph in relation to
Miss Murray.
-- 067 --
CHAPTER VII.
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
The day on which the cousins went a gunning,
Mr. Gladsdown Beckford had, early in the morning,
ridden out with his physician to a medicinal well near
the city, of which that worthy had advised him to
try the water, and had expressed the wish to attend
him when he did so. These two gentlemen were at
the head of their respective professions. A close intimacy
existed between them, and they went together
in the physician's gig. Left alone, the ladies
decided to devote the day to making calls, and while
discussing whom they should visit, and whether they
should have the carriage, Helen Murray asked,
“O! my dear Mrs. Beckford, have you lately
been to see the Lormans—that meek, pious-looking
little girl, with the expression that used to be praised,
and that foolish stepmother of hers, who lived a
while so gaily, and ruined her husband? I'm told
they are wretchedly reduced, and that they have
moved to the world's end.”
“True, my dear, and it is shameful I have not
called on them. She used to give splendid parties—
the daughter was quite a child then—I remember
her; she is not at all a showy girl—not calculated to
make a figure: I expect she bears it better than her
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
mother. Where do they live?—O, the young gentlemen
can tell us.”
“They have gone a gunning, you remember. I
can find it—your nephew pointed the place to me
the other day when we were riding. Miss Ruth
was at the door—she looks delicate. It's a shocking
walk.”
“O! then, indeed, we must ride.”
And Mrs. Beckford rang the bell, and ordered that
the coachman should get the coach forthwith.
After a short delay the coach came, and a long
drive bore them to the residence of the Lormans.
“Is this the house?” said Mrs. Beckford, as the
carriage drew near, and Helen pointed it out.
“Well, my dear, they are indebted for our visit to
you. I never should have thought of riding through
this part of the city. My husband may have what
opinion he pleases on the entailment of property
being anti-republican. Only think, Helen, my dear,
if the property of Mr. Lorman had been entailed on
his wife and children, it would have saved all this
failure, or all its consequences, at least. I declare
to you, I hate to go in now—to see this change in
people's fortunes quite shocks one. Indeed,” to the
coachman, “is there no stepping-stone, Cato? It is
lucky for you, my dear,” to Miss Murray, “that
there are no beaux passing by, unless you are anxious
to display your ancle.”
“These short dresses which we wear nowadays,
Mrs. Beckford, more than gratify all one's
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
ambition in that respect,” replied Miss Murray, while her
pretty little foot peeped out, unconscious to the owner
no doubt, as she spoke.
“O! no, no, Waverley.” Great names, whether
of war, or song, or of romance, have, by many who
have presided at the baptismal font of the negroes
of our country, been deemed peculiarly appropriate
to that race, in fulfilment of the remark, perhaps,
that there is but one step from the sublime to
the ridiculous; and therefore had Mrs. Beckford
called her footboy Waverley; or, as the boy was a
great pet of hers, it may have been to display her
admiration of the greatest genius of the age. “O,
no, no, Waverley,” she exclaimed to her woollyheaded
official, who, with the dexterity of a lamplighter,
had descended from his elevation, the instant
the driver checked his horses, “do not let down the
steps yet; we will not alight until we know if they
are at home and visible. What! no bell, nor no
knocker! Do not strike with your knuckles, you
little wretch,—you'll knock the skin off and make
them bloody, and how could I bear to have you
wait on me with such hands. Take Cato's whip,
and rap with the but-end.”
Waverley complied, and after waiting the fashionable
time without any one coming, he rapped again.
“They'll keep us here all day, my dear,” said
Mrs. Beckford, impatiently; “suppose we go.”
But while she spoke, the door was observed to
move, as if some one, not of sufficient strength was
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
attempting to open it. At last, after several ineffectual
jerks, it flew open, and little Billy, who had
performed the duty, by the suddenness with which
it gave way—for Waverley had shoved from without,—
in his last effort, was thrown sprawling into
the middle of the passage. Billy's head went to the
floor with a most belligerent bounce, and he set up
his pipes in full blast. Here Ruth sprung to the
door, in a neat but not very fashionable dishabille,
and lifted up the prostrate Billy, while Mr. Waverley,
who had not thought of assisting the child,
stood in the doorway in a broad grin.
“If you laugh at me, you nigger, you,” said Billy,
suppressing his tears, and doubling his fist the moment
he marked the grin of Waverley; “if you laugh at
me, I'll take that whip from you and give it to you.”
“Billy! Billy!” exclaimed Ruth, while a crimson
flush passed over her brow and bosom, but it went
as quickly as it came, and passing by the child, in
violation of fashionable formality, to the side of Waverley,
who had turned away the instant Billy spoke
and let down the steps of the carriage, she assisted
Mrs. Beckford and Miss Murray to alight.
“I am sorry we have no stepping-stone, ladies,”
she said sweetly. “Billy run in and get the stool,
that's a good boy.”
“I won't,” said Billy, “do another thing; my head
hurts me now: if you want it send this black fellow.”
“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Beckford to Ruth,
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
“do not, I beg of you, trouble yourself. It is quite
easy to descend;” and Mrs. Beckford descended.
Ruth gave her hand to Miss Murray. “I am
truly glad to see you, Miss Murray; I am sorry you
should have been kept so long waiting, ladies.”
“O, 'twas not long!” exclaimed Helen and Mrs.
Beckford at the same instant; and Helen continued,
“I did not know exactly where you lived, or I should
have been to see you before. Mr. Ralph Beckford
pointed out your house to me the other day as we
passed it. You know I saw you in the door.” And
she tripped after Mrs. Beckford gaily in.
Billy had no sooner ceased his cry, than his little
sister, younger than himself, whom Ruth had with
her in the room, and which she suddenly left to
haste to the assistance of Billy, took up the note
faintly at first, but which, from the protracted stay
of Ruth, had increased into a regular bawl by the
time the ladies entered the room.
“Don't be frightened,” said Ruth, taking the child
to her lap, as she asked the ladies to be seated
on the sofa, “brother Billy's not hurt.”
“Yes, I am though, sister Ruth,” said Billy; “I've
got a lump here”—putting his hand on the afflicted
part—the back of his head—“most as big as a hen's
egg. If you had it I reckon you'd ha' thought you
was hurt.”
“No doubt of it, Billy,” said Miss Murray, laughing—
and offering him her hand—“won't you come
to me:” and Helen wore her most bewitching smile.
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
“Ah!” said Billy, retreating to the side of Ruth,
“I saw you laugh too!”
“Not laugh, smile,” said Miss Murray, rising and
taking his hand; “I was pleased to see you were
such a brave boy as to threaten to whip Waverley—
`that nigger,”' and Billy, subdued like his edlers—
`Men are but children of a larger growth'—no
longer refused the proffered hand of Helen. She
led him to the sofa and seated him by her.
“How is your mother, Miss Lorman?” asked
Mrs. Beckford.
“Not very well, ma'am, but I'll send and tell her
that you are here.”
“O! not for the world! don't disturb her!”
“O yes, I must tell her! She would be displeased
if you were to leave, and she were not to know it.
Excuse me one moment, ladies;” and Ruth left the
room to seek her mother.
“Wretchedly, wretchedly reduced!” whispered
Mrs. Beckford to Helen, as Ruth's footsteps died
away upon the stairs.
Helen nodded her head slowly several times, as
she assented. “But,” said she, “Miss Ruth is a
sweet girl. She has from amiability what a woman
of the world has from art—self-possession. A beautiful
expression of countenance, but what a delicate
form! I suppose her stepmother—defend me from
these stepmothers—stays in her room, and that Ruth
has to do everything. I presume they don't even
keep a servant
-- 073 --
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“We did,” interrupted Billy, for they had forgotten
the presence of the child, “but Barbary said she
wouldn't cook and wash too, and so she went away
yesterday.”
The ladies stared at each other in some confusion
at this interruption. Mrs. Beckford shrugged her
shoulders, and Helen patted Billy on the head, and
asked—
“Don't your sister Ruth play on the piano, Billy?”
“Yes, when we had one,” said Billy, whose
shamefacedness had vanished before Helen's attentions,
“but it's sold now; and I don't believe that
mother will be down to see you, for she don't come
down much since the piano and so many things was
sold.”
Meanwhile Ruth went up stairs and met her mother
on the landing, where she had been peeping over
and intensely listening. Mrs. Lorman drew Ruth
aside and said—
“How unfortunate that hussey Barbary went yesterday.
You had to go to the door—gracious! and
that brawling brat—I'll give it to him! Its Mrs.
Beckford, hey! What did I tell you about, Ralph?”
“Can you not come down, mother?” interrupted
Ruth.
“No, Ruth, no,” said Mrs. Lorman, tartly. “What
dress have I? I told your father last week that I
must have a dress. He did not get it. You see the
consequence.”
“Surely, mother, your black silk, or your brown
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
one, are as good as new—and good enough for anything.
Mrs. Beckford has on one just like your
black silk; or there's your muslin wrapper.”
“Dont dictate to me, Ruth,” interrupted her step-mother
harshly—“no, tell the ladies I am unwell, as
in fact I am. But for your sake I would make an
effort, if I had a proper dress; let your father see
the consequences; tell them that I am quite unwell,
Ruth.” And Ruth descended the steps, while her
stepmother again placed herself on the stair way, to
listen to what was said, and peer over at the ladies
as they left.
The ladies kept their seats but a minute or two
after Ruth descended, expressed their regrets that
they had not seen Mrs. Lorman, hoped she would
soon be better, and rose to leave.
“Tell your mother, my dear,” said Mrs. Beckford
to Ruth, “that she must call very soon and see me;
not to be formal, to make a sociable call—to come
and spend the day with me; and you must come
with her. Between my son, and nephew, and myself,”
and she turned and bowed to Helen—“and last,
though more than all, with Miss Murray, who is
spending some time with me; we will, I hope, entertain
you.”
Miss Murray expressed the hope, that she should
have the pleasure of seeing Miss Lorman at Mrs.
Beckford's, and at her father's when she returned
home. They had just reached the door, when Helen
was interrupted in returning her
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
acknowledgments, by a man who, with a furniture car, had
stopped before the door, and who inquired “If this
was Mr. Lorman's?”
“Yes,” said Ruth, “but I do not think there is any
furniture coming here, there must be some mistake.”
“This is Mr. Harvey Lorman's, isn't it?” asked
the man.
Lucy said, “it was.”
“Then there is no mistake,” replied he, “here is
a piano that Mr. Beckford sent.”
Both of the ladies lingered, and each felt tempted
to ask which Mr. Beckford; but Lucy said no more,
and they entered the carriage and drove away.
-- 076 --
CHAPTER VIII.
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
Ralph, when he left Henry by the mill-race, repaired
to the stable, obtained his horse, and rode to
town. At Mr. Lorman's, which lay in the route to
his uncle's, Ralph stopped; and if Mr. Lorman's
house had not been in his route, there is very little
doubt that he still would have stopped; though he
reflected, as he fastened his horse in a vacant lot
opposite, that he had visited them every day that
week; and it occurred to him, there was no want of
frequency in his visits. “But,” thought he, “I'll see
little Billy, and tell him when I will take him a fishing,
as I promised him; I wonder what Henry means
by visiting here so often;” and Ralph with compressed
lips crossed the street, rapped at the door,
and was admitted by Mrs. Lorman.
Ralph observed that Mrs. Lorman's manner was
constrained, and that she seemed disposed to answer
only in monosyllables; but knowing what a wayward,
and at times at least, unamiable lady she was,
he did not feel disposed to regard much her inclination
to silence. She was too, he thought, from the
way she spoke to the children, in no ill humour
with any but himself; and he wondered how
to interpret her manner, and why she had received
him on this occasion, for he did not reflect that Ruth
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
might be out, as he hardly remembered when, in
calling, he had not found her at home, engaged in
some domestic duty; to relieve his embarrassment
he asked:
“Where is Billy, Mrs. Lorman?”
“Mr. Lorman had some business in the country,
he took Billy with him.”
“And Miss Ruth?” asked Ralph.
“She went with her father. The poor child has
had no exercise whatever lately, and I insisted that
she should ride out with him.”
As our readers have observed, Mrs. Lorman was
kinder to her stepdaughter, after the frequent visits
of Henry Beckford, than we had represented her
previously. Her unkindness to Ruth, arose in a
great measure from Ruth's indifference to fashion
and expense; and from her general appearance,
which Mrs. Lorman was in the habit of pronouncing
“excessively plain and old maidish;” qualities which
the unprejudiced would have been the last to discover
in Ruth Lorman. But when Ruth drew so
strongly the attentions of Henry Beckford, Mrs.
Lorman changed her opinion materially of Ruth's
person and address, and her conduct to her step-daughter
changed with it for the better. Mrs. Lorman
hoped by marrying Ruth to Henry, “to lift her
own head up in the world again”—we use the language
in which she thought—“and through Ruth, to
get her own children well settled in fashionable
life.”
-- 078 --
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“When does she return?” inquired Ralph, whose
questions our comments have prevented us from recording
sooner.
“I do not expect her till late this evening, Mr.
Beckford,” replied Mrs. Lorman, making a solemn
inclination of the head.
Here there was a silence of some moments, which
Mrs. Lorman, after sundry uneasy movements, playing
with her handkerchief, adjusting her head dress,
removing and replacing the foot-stool; and after
much hesitancy, interrupted by asking in a way, to
make the impression on the hearer, that there was a
doubt in her own mind of the fact:
“I believe you are a friend to our family, Mr. Beckford—
Mr. Ralph Beckford?”
Ralph started and said, “I have always felt that
I was, and I had always hoped that I should be so
considered.”
“Well, Mr. Beckford,” replied the lady, priming
herself up, and plunging in medios res, “then I will
speak plainly to you—I consider it my duty to my
family—to my children—to Mr. Lorman, whom,
God knows, I do all I can to comfort and support
and advise in his misfortunes; to my stepdaughter,
to Ruth, to speak plainly to you. And as you say
you are a friend of my family—I know you will be
guided in your conduct towards that family by what
they feel to be their interests—interests which cannot
interfere with yours.” With an air of acute sagacity,
Mrs. Lorman continued—“you cannot have
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
failed to observe Ralph, that your cousin Henry,
Mr. Henry Beckford, is seriously pleased with our
Ruth.” Here Ralph sought to interrupt Mrs. Lorman;
but that lady in her most dignified manner
continued—“I beg that I shall not be interrupted,
Mr. Ralph Beckford. As I was saying you cannot
have failed to observe, sir, that your cousin Henry—
the very finest young gentleman I ever knew—handsome,
accomplished, a decided favourite of mine—is
seriously pleased with our Ruth, my daughter Ruth.”
With a nod of the head to one side as if she were
conscious of making a side-bar remark, Mrs. Lorman
continued—“His mother, Henry's mother—Mrs.
Beckford, was here to-day—she called with that
beautiful creature, Miss Helen Murray—they have
a decided liking for Ruth—I regretted very much
that I was so unwell I could not come down, but I
shall certainly call on Mrs. Beckford very soon. But
as I was saying—you certainly, sir, have not failed
to discover that Mr. Henry Beckford is very much
attached to my Ruth—it has been observed, the
neighbours have hinted it to me, and in fact, I have the
best reasons for knowing it. With such a match Ruth
would, of course, be pleased, and you know as we—
myself could have no objection to it, I have do doubt
ere this—excuse me, Mr. Beckford, my daughter's
happiness is involved—her advantageous settlement
in the world—there would have been a complete understanding
between them, but for the great sensibility
of your cousin Henry, who shrinks from the
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
many—excuse me, sir—the many interruptions he
receives from your visits.”
“But suppose, Mrs. Lorman,” said Ralph, with a
lowering brow, “that I should be satisfied that my
cousin's intentions are not half so serious as my own.”
“Your own?” interrupted Mrs. Lorman haughtily,
“you are jesting, sir; you have no means of supporting
my daughter as she should be supported—as
she has always lived, alas! until lately. What profession
have you, Mr. Beckford?—what means of supporting
a wife?—you have nothing independent of
your father—your parental affection—excuse me,
sir—will rejoice to believe, that your father will
live for ever—I believe it—will live for ever—
such people as he never die. And, Mr. Beckford,
if you were to marry a poor girl, like my daughter—
Ruth has not one cent—and she has delicate
health and will require attentive servants. If, I say,
you were to marry a poor girl like my daughter,
your father when he did die, would cut you off
with a shilling. I have often heard him speak of
marrying poor girls; he married one himself; he is
not as romantic as your cousin Henry, who takes
after his father (sons are very apt to take after their
fathers), and he said that if a son of his ever made
such a match, he would cut him off with a shilling;
but you are aware of your father's sentiments; therefore,
it is impossible for Ruth or me, or my family,
to have any idea of you in any other light than a
friend. Ruth's feelings I know are interested by
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
your cousin, as indeed, what girl's feelings would
not be. He is every way a most advantageous
match for her; his fortune is in his own right; in a
few months now he will be master of it. He will
make Ruth a good husband; and I feel convinced,
that as a friend to her and her family, you will not
let your visits be so frequent, as at all to interfere
with his.”
Ralph was about making some reply, when his
cousin entered, and he left—they bowed to each
other coldly in passing. Ralph repaired to his
uncle's.
Ruth did not return with her father until long
after nightfall, when she found her mother sitting at
the front window, in high spirits; and the children
playing around her.
“Ruth,” exclaimed her stepmother to her as Ruth
entered the room, “I have been doing my best to
entertain company. If I had been an unmarried
woman, I should certainly have pulled caps with
you—have done my best to cut you out.”
“With whom, mother?” asked Ruth.
“With whom would you think, but Henry Beckford?
we had a delightful tête-à-tête—indeed he is a
most superior young man. Did you ever see such
a difference in your life between two relations as
there is between the cousins? I can hardly believe
they are blood relatives. Ralph has the very look
of his father.”
“O! mother,” interrupted Ruth, “how can you
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
say so? I think Ralph has the finest face I ever
saw, and his heart is as good.”
“Ruth! Ruth!” exclaimed her stepmother, in a
shrill tone, “do not throw me into hysterics by your
perversity—do not destroy all my exertions for you,
and ruin your father and his helpless family. You
had better poison us at once.”
“Mother, do not speak so,” said Ruth, imploringly;
“some one will hear you in the street.”
“Then, child, let me hear no such remarks from
you. Do not embitter every moment of my life. I
have no doubt of Henry Beckford's intentions. Did
not his mother call in the kindest manner her to-day—
when did she call before? Did she not press
us—I overheard her—to call and see her, in a
friendly way, to spend the evening with her? And
did she not bring Miss Murray with her, decidedly
one of the most fashionable ladies in the city—an
acquaintance that you ought to cultivate by all
means. Mrs. Beckford's object in bringing her was
plainly to keep you in society, as she suspects her
son's intentions. Let me hear no more of it, Ruth;
my mind and your father's mind are made up to it,
Ruth. Who do you suppose went to the expense of
buying the piano—after your father had to sell it, in
his necessities—but Henry Beckford! You know
how he likes to hear you play, and how often he
has regretted the absence of the piano.”
“Did he say, mother,” inquired Ruth, “that he
had sent it here?”
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
“Say!” interrupted Mrs. Beckford, “no, he did
not say so, but I saw him glance towards the piano
repeatedly—and he never alluded to it. He is a
gentleman of the greatest sensibility and delicacy.
I would have spoken to him on the subject, but
when I came to reflect how things stood, I thought
it best to impose that pleasing task on you. You
must do it in your prettiest manner, Ruth. It was
a thing of great delicacy in him. The miser's son,—
you surely did not for a moment dream that the
miser's son sent it, did you? Answer me, Ruth.”
“Indeed, mother, I could not tell who sent it,” replied
Ruth.
“Ralph Beckford has not had that much money,
my dear, in the whole course of his life. Money
enough to buy that piano!—his father would have
starved him. That is the reason he quit him, and
and has to live on his uncle's charity. You have
no idea what a wretch his father is—they do say
that he stinted his poor wife of everything to such a
degree—and she was in poor health—that it hastened
her death. I have always heard so, and always
believed it. Ralph has been living upon his
uncle's charity for years. If I were a man I would
scorn such a thing—why don't he do for himself?
God knows his health's strong enough, and he's
stout enough—but he's just content to live on in this
way. I'd see a daughter of mine in her grave before
I would suffer her to throw herself away on
such a creature.”
-- 084 --
CHAPTER IX.
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
The morning after the conversation between Ruth
and her stepmother, recorded in our last chapter,
the cousins, Henry and Ralph, met at the breakfast-table
of Gladsdown Beckford as usual. They greeted
each other, but not with their accustomed warmth
on either side, though the want of it was not observed.
Ralph's feelings were wounded, which gave
constraint to his manner; and though his cousin had
fallen much in his good opinion, he nursed no anger
towards him, but he could not affect any great cordiality—
while Henry cherished suspicions against
Ralph, and felt resentment which he wished to conceal,
the better to further his purposes; but he had
not yet acquired sufficient control over his reckless
and self-willed disposition, which long indulgence
had rendered almost indomitable.
“This wily cousin of mine,” thought Henry, “surpasses
me by controlling himself, and particularly
before the women; while I, my impulses and intentions—
those held foul, at least—are always rising
to my lips, and to my brow, and betraying me.
Helen Murray makes a fool—a baby—of me; and
I cannot keep from this miser's son, this cousin of
mine, my jealousies—even of him!” And Henry
ground his teeth in anger and mortification.
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
When they were all seated at the breakfast-table,
Miss Murray said, addressing herself at once to
Henry and Ralph—
“Mrs. Beckford and myself called upon the Lormans
yesterday.”
“So Mrs. Lorman told me,” said Ralph.
“Ah! when were you there?”
“Yesterday, as I returned from the country.”
“They appear to be very much reduced,” said
Mrs. Beckford.
“And I fear, aunt,” replied Ralph, “that appearances
are too true.”
“It is said,” remarked Miss Murray feelingly, “that
they even had to sell their piano, as their little boy,
Billy—he is quite an original—blunted out to us, you
remember, Mrs. Beckford. Pray, by the by, which
of you gentlemen was it, (pardon me that I put your
modesty to the blush,) that had the piano sent back.”
Ralph blushed with a woman's diffidence, and betrayed
the greatest confusion.
“It was not I,” exclaimed Henry, glancing from
Miss Murray to Ralph, with an expression which
Miss Murray thought was meant to imply that Ralph
was not very complimentary to her attractions.
“It was you, then, Mr. Ralph,” said Miss Murray,
with a slight faltering of the voice. “Bless us,
how you blush. It was unnecessary for you Master
Henry to have made the disclaimer.”
Mrs. Beckford glanced towards Helen with a
good humoured smile, for she had taken up the idea
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
that the sparring between Helen and her son contained
nothing deeper than amiable raillery, or if it
did, that it was, perchance, such as is often witnessed
in lover's quarrels.
“And quite as unnecessary for you to make such
a remark, allow me to say,” replied Henry, with ill-suppressed
anger.
“If you utter your war of words, Master Henry,
with such an ominous frown,” exclaimed Miss Murray,
laughing, “I shall begin to fear that you mean
to take to other weapons, and I am a lady.”
“A fact that saves you,” said Henry.
“Upon my word, sir, I believe it,” exclaimed Miss
Murray, and she laughed with a deal of meaning.
When Ralph and his uncle were left alone, the latter
said to him:
“Nephew, you need not have shown any delicacy
in asking for that sum, or any hesitancy in
stating to what you meant to appropriate it; I
honour and respect your motives. Any sum, my
nephew,” continued his uncle, taking him by the
hand, “that you may need, I have entirely at
your service. Let me be your steward. You
must not consider it any great obligation; your
services here have been of great use to me. Just
consider, if there should be any thing owing to me,
that when you arrive at age, you will have of your
own ample means of repaying me. You exhibited
so much of shrinking and diffidence in asking me for
that little amount, that I began to wonder to what ill
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
purpose you meant to devote it; so you must be bolder
next time. My uncle (and I was somewhat situated
with him as you are with me) had many more requirements
made upon his purse, than you make upon
mine, and he had no prospect of repayment, except
in the deep gratitude,” and the tear started in the
lawyer's eye, and his voice trembled, “except in the
deep gratitude I felt and feel for the noblest and best
of men. Men say,” continued Gladsdown Beckford,
walking across his office and contemplating a picture
of his uncle, which had always hung there since
he had practised his profession—“men say that I
have won something of a name among my countrymen;
I owe all that I am or expect to be to the original
of that picture, Ralph, and I wish it recorded
in my epitaph. What a fine head there is, and what
a beaming and intelligent eye. Painting is a holy
art; not a day has passed over my head since I followed
that noble being to the tomb, except when I
have been worn down by sickness, and then I forget
him not, that I have not sat before those mute features,
and thought of the departed, till the canvass
almost spoke.”
“My dear uncle,” said Ralph, “in your health you
should not suffer yourself to be so moved. I fear the
excitement of riding out yesterday, with that of the
company at the wells, has not improved your health.
Let me draw up the sofa for you up stairs. You had
better leave the office, and I will read you to sleep.”
Mr. Beckford took to his couch, as Ralph advised.
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
Meanwhile, Helen Murray repaired to her chamber,
in not as self-satisfied a mood as had been lately
usual with her; Ruth and Ralph were before her
mind, and Ralph's motives in having Ruth's piano
returned to her. Was it the mere wish that Ruth
should not be deprived of an instrument of which she
was fond, on which she played well, and which now
more than ever would be missed, and now more than
ever would beguile her lonely hours; hours that
oftener came and longer lasted than formerly? Such
considerations, she thought, would easily move one of
Ralph's romantic character; or lay the solution of
the why and wherefore of the action in emotions of
still gentler influence, on the heart? From these
questions Helen was startled by an inquiry which she
suddenly and unconsciously put to herself:
“But why should I be interested in him or in his
feelings?”
She was drawn from a self-examination, which
might have been of service to her, by the thought:
“It is impossible that he can feel any interest in
that poor and scarcely passible girl, if he thought I
would hold out any hope for him. I am dissatisfied
and provoked with myself to think I should have
shown any emotion at the table to-day, when it was
apparent that he returned the piano; no one saw it,
but, nevertheless, I felt it. How Master Henry curled
his lip; I like not that youth, his malice is too palpable.
I must become closely acquainted with the
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
meek lady of the piano, and find out the fact. I must
and will!”
Not long after this, Helen returned to her own
home; she had made several visits to Ruth, which
had been returned; they had spent several evenings
with each other, and Helen was surprised to find
that Ralph, (who had been prevented, by what Mrs.
Lorman had said to him, from calling on Ruth as often
as he had formerly,) was a much less frequent
visiter than she expected. Henry, she was almost
sure to meet there, whenever she called, and notwithstanding
the war of words between them, he was
as often, or oftener at her shrine, and until he was
checked by Helen, whose growing intimacy with
Ruth made her respect Ruth's family, he seemed
delighted to make the Lormans the topic of ridicule.
Ralph, meanwhile, visited Helen often, and always
either accompanied her to Lorman's, or called for her
when she spent the evenings there, and escorted her
home. Generally he found Henry there, and latterly
he left him there; for one evening, as Helen was
about leaving with Ralph, Henry lifted his hat, and
said, he would also attend her, but she said—
“I thank you, sir, I shall feel fully protected by
Mr. Ralph Beckford; and, as you once, in spite of
Lord Chesterfield's admonition, quoted a proverb to
me, I will only follow your example, and inform you
that there is one that says something—surely you
remember it—you are profound in proverbs—about
the disagreeableness of the company of three—”
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
Helen closely scrutinized Ralph and Ruth, when
she met them together, and, as we have said, by making
Ralph her beau, she was often the cause of their
meeting, but she could discover no understanding between
them, or anything that as yet struck her as
attachment on the part of either; they conversed together
on common topics, and never conversed apart
from the company; and when she spoke of one to the
other, the answers of each, were in the highest degree
respectful, but she thought both were restrained
and cold. Ruth, she thought, had something on her
mind, for she was evidently unhappy, and was not
so cheerful, either in look or manner—though she
made an effort to appear so—as when Helen visited
her with Mrs. Beckford. Helen attributed it to the
increased difficulties of Mr. Lorman, preying upon
her mind, and her interest in Ruth, which at first
was that of selfish curiosity, now took a purer cast,
and all the gentle sympathies of Helen's vain, but not
ungenerous, or, when rightly touched, unsacrificing
spirit, were aroused in her behalf.
-- 091 --
CHAPTER X.
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
One day, while Ralph was seated in his uncle's office
alone, Jeremiah, his father's stuttering factotum
entered, and informed him that his father wished to
see him.
“What does he want with me, Jeremiah, do you
know?”
“N-n-not exactly, m-ma-master Ralph,” replied
Jeremiah, “but he's p-pretty p-particularly p-p-p-plepleased.”
“Then I'll mark the event with a white stone, Jerry,
and wait on my father directly.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jerry, as he departed.
Wondering what could “pretty particularly please”
his father in his regard, Ralph took his hat, and proceeded
to the store, which was in the other end of
the city, and more than a mile off. Jeremiah had
got there before him, and when Ralph entered the
store, he found that personage, who was as saving
almost as his master, stooping, not without some difficulty
from the rotundity of his person, and stepping
about the floor, in a pilgrimage after sundry grains
of coffee, which some prodigal purchaser had dropped.
Passing into the back room, Ralph found his father
seated in the old stuffed arm-chair, and dressed in his
very best—that is, he had doffed the old frock coat
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
which he usually wore, and had on instead a closebodied
one, made of the cloth commonly called pepper
and salt, with pantaloons of the same. Ralph
was somewhat surprised to see his father in his most
expensive garb. He had gotten it many years previous
to this date, and as Jeremiah slily averred to his
young master at the time, his father had involved
himself in that enormous expenditure, for the purpose
of making himself agreeable to a wealthy widow,
whom he designed for Ralph's stepmother. We
know not precisely how this was, but it is certain,
that a short time after becoming acquainted with the
widow, Mr. Solomon Beckford mounted this suit, and
wore it whenever he went to see her, which was
very frequently, until one night, much to the surprise
of even some of her neighbours, and greatly to that
of Mr. Beckford, she married a young doctor, whom
every body thought had attended her in his professional
capacity only. The property being in her own
right, and she being a sickly-looking woman, and the
doctor very constant in his attendance, it was thought,
at least by her elder wooer, that her life did not promise
to last long, but she still lived, though Mr. Solomon
Beckford had not called to see her but once,
and then he did not wear his pepper and salt suit—
and that was to demand payment for certain pineapples,
turkeys, and several other little things, which
the lady asserted he had presented to her, and which
the gentleman insisted he had not dreamed of doing.
After a long altercation, and many hard words, with
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
some talk on the part of the gentleman, concerning
the law of debt, the lady paid the amount, and Mr.
Solomon Beckford and she parted, “like cliffs that
have been rent asunder.” Not often—not even on
high days and holidays, had Mr. Solomon Beckford
decked himself in this suit since; he generally, on
extraordinary occasions, after the theft of the coat
which he wore at his wife's funeral, of whose loss,
(the coat's we mean) our readers may remember he
complained to his son, wore a second-hand black
one which he bought, even of a Jew, an old clothesman,
at a bargain. Ralph was wondering, as he eyed
his father, what had become of the black coat, and
he felt very much inclined to inquire of him if it had
been stolen too, when the old miser turned to him,
rubbing his hand with self-complacency, and said:
“Ralph, my son, why have you not been here
lately; you are never at home nowadays.”
“Why, father, to tell you the truth,” replied Ralph,
“I did not like the last message you sent me on that
speculation.”
“What message?” asked the old man, peering
over his spectacles; “drop that word speculation—
what speculation?”
“That speculation in pews, father!”
“Well, sir, by dad, was not that a good speculation,
better than any old Lorman ever made, but
his first one; the six pews stood me in six hundred
dollars—a hundred dollars a-piece at six months,
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
and long before that time expired, I sold out my
whole lot, and made three hundred dollars.”
“Father, you once threatened me, that you would
give your whole fortune to the heathens—I should
have no objection to your giving that three hundred.”
“Ralph, my son, never take what a man says in
a passion, as his serious determination. If you are
a dutiful boy, its probable you will have all I have to
leave.”
Ralph looked on his father almost in wonderment,
at the expression of the last sentiment, for he was
always holding the threat of disinheritance over his
son; apparently, intending to govern him by fears,
and not by hopes. Ralph having a touch of sly humour
in his character, as men of his temperament
frequently have, and seeing his father in such a
mirthful, benevolent mood, felt a considerable inclination
to indulge it, the more, as his vision took in
the parental person. The old miser sat bolt upright,
as though his spinal column had been formed of a
ramrod: an attitude which he preserved at some sacrifice
of ease, but with a tender regard to the back
of his coat, the nap of which, he seemed determined,
no self-indulgence of his should endanger. Every now
and then—and he held his head as erect as his person—
Mr. Solomon Beckford would glance down along
his dress at his hands, which he was in the habit of
clasping together, twisting the while his thumbs, one
over the other, and then he would throw his visual
organs up over his spectacles, and eye his son with
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
a knowing and pleased side-glance, somewhat like
that of a pigeon, when a crumb falls near it. All this
was so unusual with his father, who generally wore
a close, prying, fault-finding, cent-seeking look, that
Ralph, as we have said, could scarcely resist the inclination
to put to his parent some quizzical questions.
“Yes, I say, Ralph,” continued his father, “it is
probable you will have all I have to leave, and I
may considerably augment it before I die, if the Lord
spares me.”
The idea, that his father entertained the intention
of making another matrimonial foray against some
widow or other, flashed through Ralph's mind, and
he asked:
“Have you been out to-day, father?”
“Out,” exclaimed the old man, “yes, Ralph, I
have been out seeing some old friends, fine people,
one of the largest fortunes in the city, the lady an old
sweetheart of mine; one of the finest women I ever
knew, pains-taking, prudent, and economical; she
will never ruin her husband, as our Mrs. Lorman
has hers. By the by, Ralph, that speculation of my
friend, Harvey Lorman—that speculation in matrimony
of his, was about one of his worst bargains.
His first wife had a large fortune, and knew how to
take care of it; how to advise her husband in the
management of it; and while she lived, he prospered.
His second wife was not worth that,” snapping
his fingers, “and does nothing but spend money,
and bear children. What with her spending, and
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
her brats' eating, drinking, and clothing—they have
fairly ruined Harvey—eat him out of house and
home. The wastefulness of his house, in the heyday
of their expenditure, exceeded even that of your uncle's;
what has befallen him, is a providential visitation.
Ralph,” pursued the father; and his brow gathered
together its wrinkles, and his eye assumed its most
suspicious cast—“do you consort much with your
cousin Henry—I mean, are you his close companion?”
“No, sir,” said Ralph, “I meet him only occasionally:
he is seldom at home, even to his meals;
and I never, of late, accompany him any where.”
“I rejoice, Ralph, to hear you say so; it confirms
what I have heard.”
“What you have heard! What have you heard,
father?”
“Why, that you are not the companion of your
cousin Henry in his iniquities.”
“In his iniquities! What iniquities, father?”
“Have you not heard of it?” inquired his father,
in a doubting tone.
“No, sir.”
“It is precisely like his father. He might have
mentioned the fact to you, if merely for a warning;
but, no: he wished, I suppose, to save Mr. Henry's
feelings—to spare him such an exposition. You look
astonished, Ralph; but I can astonish you more.
Your cousin Henry lost five thousand dollars the
other night a gambling!!”
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“Is it possible!” exclaimed Ralph, for he had not
heard of it.
“Just so: that don't astonish me when I consider
the way that boy has been brought up; but what
does astonish me is—(and the old man spoke slowly,
as if the conviction had hardly yet forced itself
in his mind, and he was brooding in doubt over
it)—what does astonish me is, that his father, a lawyer,
as he is, and a man, as the world believes, of
great sense—for my part I think him demented—
should pay the money—when there was no law to
make him! Henry is not yet of age, and, moreover,
should try to hush up the affair. Ralph, if you were
to be guilty of such an enormity,” exclaimed the old
man, shaking his bony finger at his son, in horror at
the very thought, “by dad, I would publish you as
no son of mine! I would hire all the bell-men in
the city—all the criers—if it cost me twenty dollars,
to make proclamation every where that I would pay
no debts of your contracting; and I would do this
just to expose you, sir—just to expose you: for I
know very well that I am not bound by any of your
contracts; and those who trust you will soon know
it, if they poke any of your bills at me.”
“Has any one, father, been poking any of my
bills at you?” inquired Ralph.
“No, no,” replied the old man, in a softened
tone; “I speak it as a warning, while reflecting on
your cousin's conduct. Five thousand dollars! by
dad! God bless my soul!” The old miser's eyes
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goggled with horror as he thought of it. “The
iniquity of this generation—the rising generation,
I mean—surpasses all understanding. Your uncle
Preston, who came to such a miserable end, never
at one time made such an expenditure—such a loss—
threw so much money away. Henry, your cousin,
is treading precisely in the footsteps of Preston, and
he will, I fear, bring his father's gray hairs in sorrow
to the grave.”
Ralph folded his arms, and, lost in astonishment
at his cousin's conduct, heard not the last remark
of his father. He was aroused from his reverie by
his father's adding—
“I am afraid Ruth Lorman, who, I believe, is a
good girl, will have a hard time of it with him.”
“How! what do you mean, father?”
“O! it's a love match, I suppose!” exclaimed the
old man, with a bitter sneer—“a love match!”
“Father, it's impossible! you're mistaken.”
“Impossible!” interrupted the old man, “why is
this the first you have heard of it? Lorman and his
wife both hinted it to me pretty plainly some time
since. I wonder if your uncle knows it! No, I
suppose not; he is so much immersed in business
and politics that he does not pretend to think about
these minor concerns—except just to put his hand
in his pocket and pay five thousand dollars for a
profligate son!—more than he will ever make by
politics as long as he lives! And I suppose your
Mr. Henry, who has so little regard to money as
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to throw away five thousand dollars a gambling, is
nevertheless so romantic as to marry for love! No,
sir, he is a rapscallion. No man that squanders money
in that way—set it down as a maxim, Ralph—
that no man who squanders money in that way is
is any thing but a rapscallion. I must see old
Lorman and advise with him. Ruth is one of the
best young women I ever knew. I must advise old
Lorman to make arrangements, before any marriage
takes place, to have a handsome settlement made on
her; for, if it is not done, this love match—this rich
love match—will end as love matches generally begin—
in beggary. But you—you sly fellow you”—
exclaimed the old man, in the cheerful, chirping
tone, with which he first saluted his son, “you mean
to feather your nest, hey?”
“I, father! why I don't understand you.”
“Ah, you sly dog!” said the old man, with a
chuckle, “ignorant again, hey! Ralph, I do not
know who you take after. I used to think decidedly
after your mother; but latterly, I think you are such
a youth as I was. I—”
Here Jeremiah entered and stuttered forth, “M-mr.
C-co-coil's here, M-mas-master Beckford.”
“Ask him to take a seat, Jerry—I will be there
in a moment. Ralph,” continued the father, addressing
the son, “I wish you to go out with Coil to
Stockbridge Farm, and receive the rent from a
tenant who is about moving on it. Lorman has
concluded not to take it—two weeks and no tenant
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and no advertisement for one, expecting him to take
it! He, I believe, is a man who not only loses himself,
but who causes all to lose who deal with him.
Get the money, Ralph, from the tenant. You will
stay out there all night. He moves on to-morrow,
but he must pay in advance one hundred dollars—
and Ralph, you may take it for your expenses”—
and neither the old miser's generosity nor parental
affection could sustain him to that amount unchecked,
and he added, “and I'll charge it to you,
Ralph—put it into the bill of your college expenses—
if you determine to go to college. I expect, like
your cousin Henry, you may have other engagements,
hey?”
“Father, explain all this to me, for upon my word
I do not understand it.”
“Very well, Ralph—I will explain it to you the
day after to-morrow, Ralph—he, he!” said the
miser, with a knowing nod, “go, get the money,
Ralph,—and understand, I will put it down with
those other charges for which you are to give me
that deed.”
“How shall I go out?” said Ralph; “I must go
and get a horse.”
“No, I have saved that expense, Ralph—I have
borrowed neighbour Slater's carryall,—if your uncle's
fine equipage has not made you too proud to
ride in it, and if it has I suppose you will not want
the money,—and Mr. Coil—Hearty Coil—you know
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him—has put his horse in—you will go out together;
and when you get the money, put my old
gray mare in the carryall—she's at Stockbridge—
and drive her in; I shall put her up for sale at the
horse-market.”
Instigated more by the one hundred dollars than
the honour of Hearty Coil's company, or the conveyance
of the carryall, Ralph, after shaking hands
with that worthy, who hastily shifted a bundle—
which Mr. Solomon Beckford had given him—from
his right to his left hand, that he might do the honour
becomingly, took a seat by his side in the
vehicle.
The old miser stood beside an empty sugar-hogshead
near the curb-stone, giving Ralph parting instructions
concerning the collection of the money
and the safe conduct of the mare, when Jeremiah,
who had been washing the store-lamp in a tin basin,
came to the door just as the vehicle was driving off,
with the basin in his hand full of greasy water and
the snuffings of the lamp, and not noticing his master,
who was just advancing from the shelter of the
hogshead to re-enter the store, he threw the filthy
liquid all over him.
“Merciful Providence!” ejaculated the old miser,
starting to the shelter of the hogshead, as the liquid
spattered over his suit of pepper-and-salt, “what
have I done to deserve this?”
Jeremiah's eyes dilated at his misdeed till they
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looked like saucers; and he stood with the basin extended
in his hand in the posture in which the greasy
water had escaped from it, trying hard to stutter
forth an excuse.
“You infernal, stuttering, splattering personification
of darkness, you will ruin me yet!” exclaimed
the old man stamping with rage, and shaking his
fist at Jerry, who retreated in double quick time
from the door as his master entered it.
“M-m-as-Master Be-Beck-Beckford,” stuttered Jeremiah.
“M-m-m-as B-B-B-eck,” interrupted his master,
mocking him, and then reviewing his condition, he
lifted up his hands, threw them down along his person,
as if struck with despair, and exclaimed—“bless
my soul, its all over me—yes,” to Jeremiah, “I shall
be killed by you some day yet—it's a wonder you
did not throw the basin too—you'll ruin me—whoever
heard of any but an idiot standing in a front
door and pitching filth over a pavement—a foot pavement,
over which passengers are continually passing.
Why, you black rascal, don't you know that you
might have thrown your filth on some gentleman,
and involved me in a lawsuit, which would have
cost more than your head is worth. Here, get me
some water and call Minty, and get my other clothes
and let's see if anything can be done to get this
grease out. Bless my soul,” and the old miser retreated
into his back room, muttering to himself—
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“some cursed luck always attends me in this suit—
the black knave is not worth his salt—I shall be
ruined by him yet—his infernal carelessness will set
my house a fire some of these nights, and he'll run
away by the light!”
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CHAPTER XI.
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
Hearty Coil, with whom Ralph Beckford found
himself seated in the carryall, was a personage likely
to beguile the tedium of the way, if much talking
could do it. Hearty was a nickname given him
from the fact, that he always addressed every acquaintance
he met with: “are you hearty, Mr. —!”
and he had a peculiar style of pronouncing the word
hearty—with an elongation—that gave it an effect
upon the ear like a loud and long-draw-out note in
music. He was an Irishman by birth; but having
left his country early in life and gone to London,
where he became the servant of an Englishman,
and with whom, subsequently, he emigrated to the
United States, he retained little of the peculiar phraseology
of his fatherland, though when he was excited
or much in earnest, it dashed out in the ornamental
part of his conversation—his oaths. He was a small,
slim man; and, like most small men, he stood as
erect as possible, as if determined to make the most
of his inches; and he had a way of tossing his head
back, and placing his left arm a kimbo, as if he felt
desirous of encouraging any propensity that his
frame might have towards growing taller, while he
at the same time evidently resolved, that whether it
grew taller or not, he would maintain his own
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proper dignity. Coil's dress consisted of what once was
a green bob-tail coat; but which had been so frequently
patched with pieces of cloth, that only approximated
to that colour, that it had not a great
many claims to its legitimate hue; but it was kept
scrupulously clean, and looked quite imposing from
its enormous buttons, that bore the hunter's emblem,
the head of a stag. This coat did very little towards
covering a pair of buckskin small-clothes, much
patched, too, that fit Coil's nether limbs very tight.
Country knit cotton stockings, made an effort to meet
Coil's buckskins at the knee, while the upper garment,
with aristocratic hauteur, shrunk way from
them; nevertheless, a broad band of leather, dressed
like buckskin, served, like the middle classes, to link
the two extremes. Coarsely cobbled shoes, with
dull brass buckles in them, enclosed his feet. Crowning
all, a cap made of a fox's skin, with the bush or
tail so arranged as to pass over the top, with a coquettish
inclination to one side, and with end streaming
out, was set knowingly on his head. The cap left
exposed to view, a long slim nose, high cheek bones,
a compressed pompous upper lip, and broad chin,
that whenever its owner spoke, sagaciously disappeared,
like a diving duck, for a moment or two, in
the folds of a huge neck-cloth; while a little gray
eye twinkled on you under a round forehead, with
unmitigating self-complacency.
Hearty had put his horse “Thunder” into the
carryall—as peculiar an animal as himself. The
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spirit of Thunder was not spread away into fatness;
he was gaunt, vicious, fiery, and as thin as beseemed
a poet even, in the opinion of Byron. The
gnawing in his vitals kept him restless, like a disturbed
conscience. Hearty was opposed to the overfeeding
of any “cretur,” but himself. Notwithstanding
the vicious propensities of Thunder—his lightning
like-qualities in some respects—Hearty was accustomed
to pronounce him with cockney enunciation—
“A hanimal of fine spirits—a blooded fellow;
but who was as gentle as a lamb when a gentleman
skilled in horse-flesh held his reins—not the least
disposed to cut up extra shines, until a green one
drives him—and then, who wouldn't cut up shines,
man or beast?”
“Thunder, mind sir,” said Hearty, to his Bucephalus,
as the steed, with his tail cocked up, for he was
not used to a carryall, was exhibiting signs of discontent,
by shying from one side of the street to the
other, and causing the vehicle to slide right and left,
according to his movements; “Thunder, be easy,
will ye? Mr. Ralph, they would say that Thunder
was a devil of a horse, but I tell ye he is gentle as a
clear sky.”
“But then there is no thunder in a clear sky,
Hearty,” said Ralph.
“Upon my soul you say true, sir—you have me
there. I meant to get myself a bit of a carryall, to
take my family to church, but Mrs. Coil is narvious,
and she won't, therefore, put any faith in Thunder.
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By the powers, I hope Thunder will behave decently
at the funeral to-morrow;” here Hearty sighed—
“you see, Mr. Ralph, Parlot is a beast of a drinking
man; I have no objection myself to a little, to take
the chill off of your water; for to an old countryman,
who is not used to the water of this country—
and there is no getting used to it—it is absolutely
necessary, for his body's sake, that he should take the
chill off, or he'll run away in a looseness. Father
Abraham, you see how thin I am—well, there would
be nothing at all at all of me, if it was not for a
small drop occasionally, by way of medicine—
merely by way of medicine. But, as I was saying,
Parlot is so giving up to strong drink, that—be easy
now, Thunder, won't ye? by the powers, if you spill
Mr. Ralph in the road here, you may break some of
his bones, and the carryall into the bargain, and
there'll be a bubery kicked up, and you'll catch
lightning, Thunder, from this whip; now be easy
then.—Parlot is given up to strong drink, Mr.
Ralph, and there is nobody but myself to support the
dignity of the family; his wife died yesterday, and I
came to town to look after matters, and see to a decent
burying; you know I married Parlot's wife's
sister.”
Hearty, had a few years after his arrival in the
United States, married a woman, who, almost in the
opinion of Methuselah, one not disposed soon to throw
a lady of a certain age from the marriage list, would
have passed for an old maid; he married for money,
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or rather for about twenty acres of poor land, which
made him a freeholder, and entitled him, after he became
naturalized, to a vote—he being a property
holder of sufficient qualifications. Miss Silvester,
Hearty's wife's maiden name, proclaimed herself of
an ancient, but reduced family; and she was always
impressing upon Hearty, the necessity of keeping up
in her person and his, the dignity thereof. He sometimes
at home, when smarting under a curtain lecture—
and Mrs. Coil was as skilful as the wife of
Rip Van Winkle in that respect, or Mr. Socrates—
had been heard most irreverently to damn the dignity
of the family, and his rib into the bargain; but
abroad, he always most pertinaciously maintained it;
and never at home even, ventured such denunciations;
for it always when he did, involved the peace and
dignity of his household, unless he was driven into a
desperate disregard of all consequences, by the demeanour
of Mrs. Coil. This lady having married,
as we have said, when she was somewhat advanced,
no doubt to make up her lost time, had brought her
husband twins three times! at which Hearty was
wont to assume congratulations to himself abroad,
but these public rejoicings never intruded into the domestic
privacy. Hearty could have made a comfortable
subsistance for his family, though he could
not have kept up its pecuniary or personal dignity,
at least in the opinion of the world, if they believed
his wife's account of its claims—by his occupation,
or rather occupations—of doctoring horses, and all
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kinds of cattle, pruning and grafting trees, seeking
for runaway negroes, &c. &c. For Hearty could
turn his hand to any kind of idle employment, but
he was addicted, alas, not only to idleness, but to the
vice which he laid so heavily to the door of his
brother-in-law. He was in the habit of denying
stoutly, any propensity on his part, to such excesses—
and the deeper his draughts, the stronger his denials.
Just before he left Mr. Beckford's, Jeremiah had slily
slipped a stout horn to him, the effects of which were
momentarily displaying themselves more and more.
Hearty was well known through the county, for by
way of a joke, the roystering blades about, had got
him to set up once for Sheriff, on which occasion
they had him repeatedly on the stump, where he afforded
much amusement, for he talked with great
fluency; he obtained a large number of votes, and
was very proud of his poll. The carryall had no
top to it, and consisted of a box body, with two
seats in it, which were set on hickory springs.
Ralph and Hearty were together on the front seat,
and the back one kept up a perpetual bouncing, as
if provoked that it was untenanted. The vehicle
had not been used for some time, and it rattled like
an old hearse; as if, as Hearty said, it were going to
its own funeral; while the old-fashioned, dingy
looking gears, that hung loose upon the lank sides of
Thunder, creaked in harmony with it. The animal,
as if his blood was up at such an incumbrance,
seemed disposed to leave it behind, for the traces
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were so long, that he was farther from the vehicle
than is the custom; and it flirted and spun along some
distance in his rear, over the rough pavement, like
the play cart of a boy, which he draws by a rope,
and over which of consequence he can have little
control; for in descending an eminence, the cart
will be on his heels, and wriggle to either side of the
road, while in ascending, it will be far behind him.
They had left the city behind them. The day
was a fine one, though rather dusty; Thunder was
in a full trot, occasionally breaking into a gallop,
and Hearty's tongue was going something like his
horse, rapidly but unequally, and he did not appear
to have a perfect control over it. Ralph was not
entirely satisfied with the figure he cut, and he felt
a decided shrinking, as if he would like to disappear
whenever a fashionable vehicle, in which he thought
might be some of his acquaintances, passed them—
and there were several.
He would have requested Hearty several times to
check the career of Thunder; but he reflected the
dust he raised by his heels and his rapidity, would
prevent himself from being recognised by his fashionable
acquaintances, and a few moments of excited
thought upon his situation had served to arouse
his morbidness.
“By the powers of mud, Mr. Ralph,” exclaimed
Hearty, flourishing his whip, “now don't old Thunder
make the dust fly! Horses, sir, are like men—
it's hard to form a judgmatical opinion upon 'em
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till you know them. You see many a lean lank
man who has a surprising head work, and, sir,
many a lean lank horse that has a surprising heel
work. And what head work is to a man, heel work
is to a horse—it is understanding,” continued Hearty,
unconsciously making a pun. “I do wish I could
persuade my wife to let me get a carryall, and to
trust herself with Thunder—but it would be a risk;
what should the family—our connexions—as well
as my own little—by the powers! big I should say—
domestic circle do if she should leave us too? I
should go to the western wilderness with Mr. Lorman,
where they are building them big cities—and
who knows what a man might arrive at in a few
years? There's Jim Bunce, who could not pay his
tippenny grog bill here, by the living jingo! I am
told for certain has, out in those parts, a huge distillery,
all his own. I'm thinking that is a pretty profitable
business. I have an idea that I could do
something at it too; for though I am a temperate
man, and seldom take it but as a medicine, yet I
have a taste, Mr. Ralph, that was caught among
gentlemen, and I hold myself a judge of good liquor.
Intemperance is a beastly vice, Mr. Ralph,” continued
Hearty, giving his face a twist so as to compose
it into a sober expression; “a beastly vice, and
I have talked my tongue tired to Parlot, concerning
of it. But, sir, he is one of your drunkards, who,
when he gets corned himself, by the powers, sir,
thinks every body else is corned—besotted. If it
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had not been for the dignity of the family,” continued
Hearty, flourishing his whip at Thunder, “if
it had not been for the dignity of the family, I would,
to speak in country fashion, have cut his hide at
such a rate, the other day, that when it was tanned
it would not have held corn chucks.”
Here Hearty suited the action, upon the hide of
Thunder, to the word, and away sprung the steed
in a gallop.
“Wo-ho, Thunder, my darling—not so fast;—
there's time for all things, and this is no time to be
cutting your didoes: be decent, discreet, and cautious.
These fashionable drivers that pass us, Mr.
Ralph, think they belong to the quality; but, by
the powers, I have driv a better carriage many a
day than the best of them. I have did the thing,
sir, four in hand, and I could strike any spot on the
hanimal from the top of his ears to the tip of his
tail.”
“Take care, Hearty, you will upset us!” exclaimed
Ralph, as Thunder started again for a gallop;
“you will hurt your horse. Come, my good
fellow, be gentle.”
“Gentle! if you are for the gentle, Mr. Ralph, I
can do it for you to a fraction. But, you see, I put
Thunder a little to his trumps, for if I don't get the
mettle out of him, he will disgrace the dignity of the
family at the funeral to-morrow, and take the lead,
by the powers, and make Mrs. Coil, and myself, and
family, in this carryall, which your father was so
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kind as to get for me at a small price, appear like
the hearse.”
As Hearty spoke, he faced Ralph with the look
of one who feels he has uttered a convincing argument.
Here an open and fashionable carriage was approaching
them, with two young ladies in it, and a
young gentleman driving, who had disregarded the
maxim so broadly displayed on the tops of the turnpike
gates— “Keep to the right as the law directs”—
and was dashing along on the side, and on that
part called the Summer road, which Hearty was
entitled to keep had he been driving on it. That
worthy was passing along on the pavement, but he
turned on to the Summer road, remarking—
“That fellow may crack his whip now and hold
his head high, but, by Thunder!—see to the hanimal
now, Mr. Ralph—he starts as if I was speaking to
him, and not to no one in particular—he must give
way to a gentleman!”
This the young guider of the two mettled steeds,
in the way of Thunder, did not seem disposed to do,
for he waved his whip and came directly on. He
was Henry Beckford, and had been taking Helen
Murray and Ruth Lorman an airing in a splendid
establishment, which he had lately set up, in anticipation
of the fortune—that in a few months would
be at his disposal.
As the vehicles approached each other closely,
Henry burst into a laugh, and said to the ladies—
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“Its Ralph Beckford, pish! my cousin, taking a
drive: by Jove, he must give the way to beauty!”
“Ralph,” called out Henry, “give way, cousin of
mine, to my fair charges, or take the consequences
of recreant courtesy!”
“Mr. Beckford,” exclaimed Ruth Lorman, imploringly,
“do not! oh, do not, Mr. Beckford! Ralph
is not driving.”
“Henry Beckford, would you do such a thing,
and endanger all our lives?” exclaimed Helen Murray,
indignantly. And she started up, impatiently,
and attempted, in her fright, for the horses were
within a few feet of each other, to seize the reins.
As soon as Ralph caught his cousin's remark, he
said, “Hearty, my good fellow, turn out, let's give
them the road.”
“Give him the road!” exclaimed Hearty, indignantly;
“no, by the Powers, this side's mine!”
As Hearty replied, Ralph caught the reins from
his hand, but too late to clear the other vehicle
entirely, at the speed in which they both were, and
they came together with great violence. Hearty was
thrown out into the ditch, and Thunder followed,
leaving behind all but the shafts of the carryall, which
had struck slantingly the side of one of Henry's
horses, and terribly mangled it. The body of Henry's
vehicle was much broken; and Miss Murray
screamed wildly, while Ruth bowed her head and
hid her face from the sight. It was not known
whether either of them were hurt, but they were
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evidently in the greatest danger, for Henry's horses
rose and plunged violently, and he seemed incapable
of managing them.
Ralph, who was unhurt, instantly sprang to the
head of the horses, and, by a powerful effort, checked
them for a moment.
“Are you hurt, ladies?” he inquired.
“No, no, we are not hurt!” they both exclaimed.
“But, for God's sake,” said Miss Murray, “Mr.
Beckford, let us get out!”
“There is not the least danger!” exclaimed Henry,
nettled, instead of being gratified, at the assistance
of his cousin.
“I insist upon getting out, Mr. Henry Beckford!”
exclaimed Miss Murray. “If you are a gentleman,
sir, you will let me out!”
But Henry, in his wilfulness, disregarded everything,
and cracked his whip. The horses sprang
forward with such force as to hurl Ralph to the
ground, who fell on his side within a few inches of
the wheels. Ruth and Helen screamed fearfully,
and the horses, with added fright, dashed ahead.
Ralph sprang to his feet much bruised, but in the
intensity of his fear for the safety of Ruth and Helen,
overcoming the sensation. The horses leaped and
plunged forward some twenty or thirty yards in an
uncontrollable manner—Henry, all the time, with his
utmost strength exerted, trying to check them. At
last they commenced backing, and were hurrying the
vehicle to the left hand side of the road, where there
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was a deep gully, at which Helen Murray's screams
were renewed, while Ruth sat in speechless fear,
with clasped hands. Ralph hastened to their assistance;
but, before he reached them, Henry had, by
the application of the whip and the management of
the reins, succeeded in urging the horses forward
again, and they sprang across the road, and were
brought up by a fence on the other side.
Ralph got up time enough to assist the ladies to
alight; and, at his heels, came Hearty, who had
been stunned by his fall, but who had now recovered.
He grasped his whip firmly, and advanced
on Henry exclaiming—
“By the Powers, I'll teach ye to tumble gentlemen
into the gutters—you imp of the devil, you!”—
and Hearty aimed a blow at Henry, which missed
him; when Miss Murray, who knew Hearty, exclaimed
merrily, seeing that all were apparently
safe, “Mr. Coil, in the presence of ladies, you would
not surely right your wrongs in this way?”
Hearty turned immediately to Miss Murray, while
Henry left his horses, which Ralph had secured, and
snatching up a stone, was in the act of hurling it at
Hearty, when Helen exclaimed, in a most indignant
tone:
“Mr. Beckford, for shame, sir, have you no respect
for the presence of ladies?” Henry drew down
his hand to his side, muttering, “I must defend myself
from a ruffian,” while Hearty said, after touching
his hand in his best fashion to the ladies: “No, Miss
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Murray—no madam, he has no respect to ladies nor
to law. Ay, I see now who it is; it's Mr. Beckford,
the great lawyer's son. And I can tell him, by the
Powers, his father can't get him out of this scrape—
for the law's clear, and I'll make him pay for it. And
if you had not been by, saving your presence, ladies,
I would have taken part payment out of his hide, in
spite of that fine tailoring that's on him. You are a
pretty blood relation, a'n't you, to try to run over,
and murder your own cousin, when he was on the
right side of the road, and was not driving.” Here
Hearty, discovering that his fall had made certain
rents in his buckskin, sidled off in a hurry, under
pretence of catching Thunder.
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CHAPTER XII.
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Miss Murray positively refused to enter the vehicle
again; in fact, its broken state, and the condition
of the wounded horse, rendered it impracticable for
the ladies to return to the city in it. Stockbridge
Farm was about a mile and a half off, but it was
yet untenanted, and if it were not, they could get no
suitable conveyance there, and they were now six
miles from town. On looking round to consult Hearty,
he was seen at some distance, entering a wood that
skirted the road above. He held a bundle in his hand,
and it was observed that he had removed the body
of the carryall from the road, out of the way, and
placed one of its shafts in it; the other had disappeared
with Thunder, who, it was probable, from
Hearty's movements, had entered the wood, and
taken a short cut home.
Ralph proposed to the ladies that they should go
to one of the neighbouring farm-houses, and there
obtain a vehicle of some kind or other.
“Bless me, but how shall we look, jogging into
town in one of your old Noah's arks of a country
carriage, or perhaps a market wagon; my finery
will cut a pretty figure in it,” said Miss Murray.
Ralph said, it would give him the greatest pleasure
to attend the ladies, and drive them in, “and,”
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continued he, laughing, “you know we can wait until
dark, if we can only obtain a market wagon.”
“Miss Murray, you should express yourself complimented,”
said Henry, “for Ralph is much more careful
of your appearance—of the figure you may cut—
than he is of his own. Hang me if I ever could have
supposed, Ralph, that you would choose such an
equipage, and then such a companion! They frightened
my horses. That rascal was drunk, wasn't
he?”
“No, not drunk,” replied Ralph; “but he was somewhat
excited.”
“Ay, he was, hey; I thought as much; his elevation
has had a corresponding depression; his life was
saved by his falling on his head.”
“And your coat, at least, thereby endangered, Master
Jehu,” exclaimed Miss Murray, “and saved by
myself. You may now practically expatiate on the
fact, that if gentlemen sometimes protect the ladies,
the ladies occasionally return the compliment. If I
do not remember with gratitude your disregard of
our safety, you will at least, I hope, do me the justice
to say, that I have proved a total absence of all
malice towards you, by using my influence, and
saving you from a deserved castigation on the spot.
Come, Ruth, come, Mr. Ralph Beckford, let us seek
this rural abode, and leave Master Henry to reflections
upon his horsemanship, and his chivalry with
his horses. I begin to believe that the Houyhnhnms
deserve the superiority that Gulliver allots to them.”
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While Miss Murray spoke, and she knew how
well with voice and eye to barb the arrow of her
sarcasm, Henry, as if he did not heed her, or hear
her, busied himself about his horses, who now stood
panting where they had stopped. Miss Murray and
Ruth, each took an arm of Ralph, and the latter
asked him:
“Were you hurt, Mr. Beckford?”
“You are not hurt?” exclaimed Miss Murray, turning
to him.
“Not much,” said Ralph; and as they walked
away, Helen, glancing over her shoulder at Henry,
said to him:
“We leave you, Mr. Beckford, like Marius in the
ruins, like Phaeton in the suds, and, if you have a
pocket edition of Chesterfield about you, I recommend
it to your attention.”
The farmer, whose hospitality Ralph intended to
claim, lived about a half a mile further up the road
from town, and thither they proceeded in lively chat,
the current of which Miss Murray would interrupt
every few minutes to express her indignation against
Henry.
They soon reached a part of the road that was
skirted on either side by the woods, and where, in
grading the turnpike, as there was here a considerable
eminence, high banks had been made, between
which lay the road. It being dusty, Ralph proposed
to the ladies that they should turn off into the woods,
and take a very pleasant path that wound on the
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bank above, and near the road. They accordingly
did so. And when they had advanced a quarter of
a mile or more, a foot passenger in the road, who
walked at the same rate with them, overtook another
who was leading a horse.
“That is certainly Hearty's horse, Thunder,” said
Ralph to the ladies. They had been conversing upon
Hearty and his peculiarities, of which Helen was
aware, for she had a beautiful riding horse, which
her brother had given her, that had got lame, and
been entrusted to the charge of Hearty, and Miss
Murray, in her anxiety for her favourite, had repeatedly
inquired of Hearty, in person, as to his condition.
“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Miss Murray, “that is surely
Thunder, but who can that be leading him? My!
how his clothes fit him; a full suit of black, too. Can
he be a preacher, or is it the `gentleman in black,'
making off with Thunder? And that bundle in his
hand! why, is it not Hearty's?”
At this moment they came abreast of the man in
black, just as the foot passenger passed him, who as
he did so, eyed the horse and his leader.
“Why, a'n't this Hearty Coil?” inquired the man,
of the leader of the horse.
“Why, to be sure it's me,” said Hearty, for it was
that individual. “Are you hearty, Mr. Furgus?”
and they stopped and shook hands.
“Do not let them see us,” said Miss Murray; “let
us stop by this bush, and hear Hearty's account of
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the mishap. What a figure he makes.” And she
could scarcely refrain from laughing aloud, as she
looked at him. They accordingly stopped, where
they could easily overhear every word that was said.
Those who knew Hearty, in the dress which we
have described, might well be amused at his present
habiliments. He was arrayed in a full suit of black,
of decidedly an antique fashion, which must from appearances
have been made for some one twice the
height of their present wearer. This was evident,
for the waist of the coat reached down almost as far
as the whereabout of the extreme end of his bob-tailed
green one, while its skirts spread apart, and descended
either leg, nearly to his shoes; and the legs
of his pantaloons hung in several folds around his ancles,
where they had been rolled up. He still wore
his cap, but the fox-tail no longer waived as he stepped,
but was entirely covered by a piece of rusty
black crape, that hung down behind in a most lugubrious
manner, quite a contrast with the way in
which the tail used to frisk about, as if it was merry
with the cunning of its legitimate owner.
“Why, Hearty, I did not know you from Tom the
devil, you are so transmografied!” exclaimed the individual,
whom Hearty had addressed as Mr. Furgus.
“Mr. Furgus,” replied Hearty, with a face as funereal
as his garments, “I suppose you know that my
wife's sister, Parlot's wife, Mrs. Parlot, has departed
this transitory life.”
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“Yes,” replied Furgus, “I understood so, she died
very suddenly.”
“Very, Mr. Furgus, very; and has left a disconsolate
(no, that's a lie, if I have got the newspaper to
say it, it's a lie,) husband, and large family, to mourn
her loss. By the powers, Mr. Furgus, I have had a
deal of trouble, responsibility, and worriment on my
shoulders, and some charges into the bargain. But
you know what Parlot is, and the family expect these
things at my hands.”
Mr. Furgus nodded his head by way of assent, and
Hearty, after stooping down and adjusting the right
leg of his pants, which had become unrolled, continued:
“To-day, this morning early, I saddled Thunder,
and went into town, for the purpose of getting the
obituary of Mrs. Parlot put in the public papers, in a
becoming manner, and also to get my saddle mended.
I rode round, first, to a printing office, and went
bolt up where they (a set of lubberly rascals, were
wriggling to and fro, before a thing that's made just
like a school-boy's desk) were wriggling as if it was
any great shakes to pick up one of the bits of lead, with
reading on it, and put it by another bit. I handed
my obituary notice, sir, to one of those fellows, who I
took for 'sponsible persons, and told him I wanted him
to go right to work, leave other things, and as this
was a matter of life and death, to print the notice
right off. He took my account, Mr. Furgus, I assure
you—my account of the life and last moments of my
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near relation, held it between his thumb and finger,
at a good distance from his nose, as if there was
something defensive in it, read it; and, Mr. Furgus,”
said Hearty, with an emphatic movement of the
hand, “notwithstanding my feelings, and the family's,
the blasted printing poltroon laughed in my face.
By the living jingo! (be easy, Thunder, will ye,) I
could not stand it, Mr. Furgus. I asked him if he
was grinning at me, and he laughed out loud. Think
of that, sir; at my misfortunes, and the misfortunes
of my family. My blood, sir, and my fist, rose at
once, and I took him just between the peepers, a real
Irishman's trick, and I laid him out; and then I just,
by the powers, tumbled his whole desk full of lead
over him. They say they always have a devil in their
printing offices, and if I didn't raise him, this horse
is not named Thunder. The fellows jumped at me
like fiery imps, but by the powers I knew all about
it. Do you see, these lead stickers were away up
on the top of the house, or the next to it—into the
story that only had the shingles to keep it from the
sky. I could of got out to my farm and back again,
the while I was taken to find them. It was a winding
stairs, that went all through the house, that I
went on; and the walls were all fixed over with bits
of paper—steamboat with reading to it, telling when
they'd start; pictures of bottles of medicine, to cure
every thing; and a power of fine looking horses,
that kept me a devil of a time a reading about 'em.
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And what do you think by the powers, I saw stuck
up against that wall, on a piece of paper as big as
the seat of my saddle, with a printed horse as big as
my head;—a thing all in print, from that blackguard
Hugh Tompkins, the thief of creation, telling of the
horses he had doctored and cured!—”
“Well, but Hearty,” interrupted Furgus, “you
were telling me how you managed after you raised
the fuss.”
“Ay, so I was. Well, by the powers, I climbed up
them winding stairs, where the walls were full of
these things, blacked all over beside, like a boot black's
cellar, and dirty paper scattered all over the steps.
I got up, I say, and there I read on a darned little
door, away next to the sky light—“no admittance
except on business,” with a hand pointing right to it,
as I would point you the road; as if, by the powers,
any body would take the trouble to lumber all the
way up there, by the powers, except on business; I
thought they must be a little soft as soon as I read
what that hand pointed to. However, as I went to
get in the door, I took hold of a key that was sticking
in the key hole, for I was bewildered a getting
up there, and by accident I locked the door, instead
of opening it. Here the fellows came to the door,
and cursed and swore through at me, in fine style;
but I bethought me, they didn't know who I was,
and they couldn't see me, and maybe they mistook
me for some big blackguard, who had come up and
played them a trick; I soon turned the key, opened
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the door, and stood before them. They looked a
little taken aback, so I just gave my cap a proper
set on my head, and handed the obituary notice of
Mrs. Parlot, which I had written myself, to the
fellow, and kept my eye on him. Well, now you
understand—so when I knocked that fellow down,
and emptied his writing desk of bits of lead over
him; by the powers, as I tell you, I raised the devil
sure enough, for all the fellows came right at me;
so I stood by the door, and let fly at them, a great
big box of their bits of lead, that went among them
like grape shot; I gave them two or three discharges
before they knew what to think of it; but
then they come at me like devils, throwing great big
lumps of lead, that they printed them steamboats and
horses with, and I just chucked a bucket of black
looking water over 'em, the whole lot, and just
slipped out of the door, by the living jingo, and
locked them in, put the key in my pocket, and left
them to their—” and Hearty pointed with his hand
like the hand upon their door—“no admittance except
on business.”
“Why Hearty,” said Furgus, after a loud laugh,
in which Ralph and the ladies could scarcely refrain
from joining—“it's a wonder they didn't play the
devil with you—did you get clear off?”
“Play the devil with me! get clear off! I played
the devil with them, how could they get on? When
I got into the street, and was going to mount Thunder,
there was the devils way up in their fifth story,
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with their heads stuck out of the window, looking
like babies, they were so far off—and hollowing stop
him. I all at once thought that they had my notice,
that I had writ with great care of Parlot's wife, in
which I had told of her family, death, and every
thing; she was my wife's sister you know; so I just
hollowed to them, that if they would throw me down
Mrs. Parlot's obituary, I would throw them up their
key; but the rascals kept hollowing louder and
louder, stop him, till they raised a crowd. You
know, Mr. Furgus, I am not to be frightened by a
crowd—I am familiar with them in my electioneering
campaigns—I delight to address them, sir—so I
took my seat on Thunder—I have often addressed
my fellow citizens from Thunder's back—I gave
those town folks a touch of my quality—I told them
of Mrs. Parlot's, my wife's sister's, death, of our family,
of the obituary, and how those rascally printers
served me, and how I served them. Sir, I never
was more applauded in my life—and in the midst of
it, I took off my cap, made my best bow, struck
spurs to Thunder, and departed.”
Mr. Furgus was one of your independent farmers,
who has a competency and enjoys it; and, after a
fashion, he was quite a humorist—that is, though
not very bright himself, he would chuckle by the
hour over such a conversational exhibition as
Hearty's,—listening all the while with the most becoming
gravity, and never saying a word except to
draw him out or lead him on. He was one of
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Hearty's cronies, and he could not recover his bewilderment
at seeing him in such habiliments, they
broke up in his mind the associations of years; and
he stood eyeing Hearty with a kind of puzzling sensation,
while that worthy's tongue run on the faster
as he felt himself to be an object of increased interest
to his neighbour. Furgus was a great coward,
and the reckless exploits of Hearty,—which lost
none of their grandeur from the adventurer's own
lips, and his life was a chapter of accidents, according
to his own account,—often interested him.
“Hearty,” said Furgus, taking a hunting-flask
from his pocket,—for he always went provided
against the dust, and heat, and snow, and cold,—
“take a little with me, and let us rest a bit on this
log here,” pointing to one immediately below the
bank on which our party stood, “if we go on, a few
rods will part our company. Let us rest a bit.”
Hearty assented with a nod of the head; for his
engagement with the flask at that moment would
not permit him to speak.
“Had we not better go on?” whispered Ruth
Lorman.
“Not for the world,” said Helen, “this is better
than a play; besides, I must hear what he'll say of
Master Henry—and he will surely touch upon the
topic of his tumble presently. Here—here is a log
for us to be seated.” And they yielded to the whim
of Miss Murray accordingly, and took a seat on
a log which was twenty or thirty feet above that
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on which the cronies sat, and entirely embowered
in the overhanging trees.
“Wo-ho, Thunder. I tell you, Mr. Furgus,” said
Hearty, who, unless in a passion, and vituperative,
or when far gone over the bottle, never dropped the
mister; “I tell you, Mr. Furgus, no man loses by
being polite, and he often does by incivility. Now,
if those fellows in the printing-office had behaved
with common decency, and paid the least regard to
my feelings, and the feelings and dignity of our family,
they would have got a neat little job, and all
to themselves. For as soon as I saw Hugh Tompkin's
huge horse stuck up there, and the publication
of his doctoring—his horse looks as much like an
ass as two peas, as much as Hugh himself—as soon
as I saw it, I made up my mind to have just such a
paper too, and I would have got the fellows, if they
had been civil, to do it for me, if they had had a
better picture of a horse—for I couldn't go that
one.”
“What's the reason you did not ride Thunder
out?” inquired Furgus.
“Ride him out! what, with a mourning suit on
me, without a saddle!”
Here Hearty arose from the log, and placing his
bundle under him so as to protect his inexpressibles
from the bark of the log, he reached out his hand,
twisted the end of Thunder's reins in a sapling near
by, and continued, after looking at Furgus a moment
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with a steady eye, to assure him there was no joke
in it—
“That bubbery in the printing office was a mere
circumstance not worth mentioning to what has
happened, sir. I like to have been murdered. Yes,
sir,” continued Hearty, letting his chin drop in his
cravat, and compressing his lip, though still keeping
his eye upon Furgus, who had taken a seat on the
log by him, “I say murdered; but by the living
jingo, if it hadn't been that the reins were jerked
out of my hands, I would have given him as good
as he sent—worse, worse, for I would have driv
Thunder right over the whole of them, and have
given cause for three obituaries, two to be lamented,
sweet creatures, and one a mere robbing of the
gallows. You understand, after the bubbery at the
printing office, I went round to old Beckford's grocery,
and told him of what had happened, and with
his advisement, I writ another obituary of Mrs.
Parlot, my wife's sister, but not near as good a one
as the first—a mere mention of the death. I have
been mad ever since that I was overpersuaded. I
was determined, though, to have it stated that she
was the cousin of the governor. The old fellow
did not want me to put that down; but I stuck to it—
I'll let certain persons see that if they neglect the
dignity of their families, I don't mine.”
“Did you take it to the printing office?”
“No, old Beckford took it. He told me, he would
see to its being put in. They generally put such
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things in for nothing—free gratis, as they call it;
but the old fellow told me, that he would have it put
into a paper that everybody took, and that then it
would cost a dollar.”
Here Ralph wished himself anywhere, but where
he stood; for it was well known, that the editors in
this city were not in the habit of charging for such
notices; and it was therefore evident, that his father's
avarice had been at play.
“I ponied up,” continued Hearty, “and it will be
out to-morrow to the world. We are often mistaken
in men; and I myself, who have knocked a
good deal about the world, I am, nevertheless, liable.
Now, they say that old Beckford is a torn down
miser; that he would skin a flee or sell his own
teeth—what's left of 'em.”
Helen wished, for the sake of Ralph's feelings, that
she had not insisted on staying, but she did not know
how well to propose leaving at that moment; while
Ruth said nothing, but glanced anxiously at Ralph,
and pulled, apparently idly, the leaves from the bushes
around her.
“But,” continued Hearty, “though I used to think
so once, I now tell you the man's belied. Parlot's
wife's death was very sudden, you know. The day
before yesterday she was as well as you or me; to-day
she is laid out, and to-morrow she is to be
buried—it is a severe loss to the family. Well I had
no time, you discover, to get any tailoring done—in
fact I never thought of it—I am so used to my other
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suits on extra occasions: but old Beckford in a
friendly manner, asked me how I was off for mourning;
I was taken all a-back by it; he seen it, and
in consideration of our long acquaintance and friendship,
he presented me with this suit in which you
see me. To be sure, it don't now exactly fit, and I
hadn't meant to wear it till I got my wife to rig it
into something more of a fit—but circumstances alter
cases. I was telling you of another thing that happened
to-day. I left Thunder's saddle to be fixed, and went
somewhere or other to get a carriage, a decent one,
to take Mrs. Coil to the funeral to-morrow. As soon
as I said it to old Beckford, he, at a very small price,
got me a carryall, and requested me to drive his son
out with me; saying that he would himself attend
the funeral, but business prevented. His son's a fine
young man, who knows how to value the advice and
conversation of older people; so I agreed to take
him along—and true enough, did so. Thunder took
us along, sir, in an easy trot; I don't think I had to
crack my whip at him once; I felt, you know, naturally
sadly; my thoughts were on the uncertainty
of things generally—it was strange when we come
to think what happened—and of life particularly. I
was on my own side of the road, sir, by the Powers,
Mr. Furgus, on my own side of the road—when just
after you pass the big culbert, where there is a field
fenced in on one side of the road and a gully on the
other—what should we see coming on my side of
the road, but a dashy open carriage, a gentleman
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a-driving? Thunder, you know, naturally spunked
up when he seed what was coming—and will ye
believe it, the rascally fool, who is, by the Powers,
said to be the son of the great lawyer Beckford? and
the chap's own cousin—his blood-kin—in with me
on my own side; would you believe it, he cracked
his whip, kept straight on and ordered me to keep
out of the way? By the living jingo, I would have
rid right over him, being as I didn't see he had ladies
in with him—when his cousin, his blood relation,
sitting by me, but not to save his carcass, but one
of the ladies with him who he is in love with, caught
the reins, and we just struck side-ways—the very
way, you know, to give you a toss. And I, in spite
of myself, was pitched with great violence into the
gully, and completely stunned. As I was going, I
thought, by the Powers, all was gone with me.
When I came to myself and stood—I must have laid
there in a swoon some time—I saw the young gentleman,
who came out with me, Mr. Ralph, the son
of Mr. Solomon Beckford, my friend,” continued
Hearty, adjusting his coat, “holding the horses of my
gentleman, that cousin of his, and by the Powers his
blood relation was cracking the whip, as if he meant
to ride over him again. Sure enough, the horses
broke away from Mr. Ralph and threw him on the
ground; but he jumped up as quick as thought—
being that he is in love with one of the ladies—and
made up to them again; and by this time, after all
sorts of capering, the horses had got banged up
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against a fence. My blood was up—a man can't
stand everything—Mr. Ralph's cousin—his blood relation,
one of his own flesh and blood, of the same
family; not only like to have kilt me, but by the
Powers, he tried to do for his cousin twice; my
blood was up—I looked round till I found my horsewhip,
and then I made right up to the great lawyer's
son. I didn't think about the ladies in my passion;
I caught him by the throat, whip in hand, and if his
coat is fit to wear, I'm mistaken. By the Powers, I
would have poured it on to him till he ran away
from his skin through one of the holes; but one of
the young ladies with him—Miss Murray, the daughter
of old Quaker Murray, who is so rich—I doctored
a mare of hers, the prettiest hanimal you ever
set eye on; she is a great favourite of mine; and
the wonder is to me, that she can love that puppy,
but she does; and she begged, implored and prayed
with me to save him; what could I do? Just then
I happened to cast my eyes down to my buckskins,
and I discovered that my gentleman had not only
like to have brought death to my door, sir, but that
he did bring actual shame, so I made the company a
hasty salute, and expecting they would want my
services—that the ladies would to get into town again—
I stepped into the woods and changed my dress,
which is more befitting, in fact, the melancholy situation
of my family. Have you seen the ladies?
By the Powers, I have missed the whole of 'em; I
have not seen hide or hair of 'em since.”
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Furgus said, that “just before he overtook him,
he had seen two ladies with a gentleman on the top
of the bank, and that by this time, they must have
got a considerably way before them.”
“Then, by the Powers,” exclaimed Hearty, rising,
“they're after getting a conveyance to town, and I
must look to it.” So speaking, they rose and proceeded
together.
“Upon my word,” said Miss Murray, as the cronies
departed, “I feel myself complimented upon the
bestowal of my heart. Come, Mr. Ralph, as we are
searching a conveyance under your guidance, let us
find one. Suppose we walk fast, that I may overtake
Hearty. I'll be bound I will speak of my gentleman,
as he calls Master Henry, in a manner which will
convince him my love is not very strong, and prevent
him from spreading any calumny against my
taste and affections through the country.”
The next morning, Ralph made his appearance at
his father's store, when the old man said, “Ralph,
you are in soon. Did you get the money? where's
the mare?”
Ralph told him of the accident that had occurred,
and that on the previous evening, without going to
the farm, he had attended the ladies in.
“By dad,” said his father, “you care less for a
hundred dollars, than I would have cared at your
age; but you're a sly dog, Ralph, hey? you go in for
a deeper purse. By dad, though,” and a shade passed
over the old miser's face, “there's neighbour
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Salter's carryall! your cousin must pay every cent for
the repair.”
Our readers may imagine the astonishment of
Hearty Coil, when a few days after the event recorded
in this chapter, on handing to Mr. Solomon Beckford
a little bill for pruning trees and doctoring mare,
the whole not amounting to three dollars, that individual
told him he would credit him with so much
on account of the mourning suit!
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CHAPTER XIII.
[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]
Henry Beckford became daily more and more a
man of the world, and in the worst sense of the
term. Totally giving himself up to pleasure, and entirely
neglecting the cultivation of his mind, unless
the occasional hasty persual of a fashionable novel
or a new play may be called mental cultivation, his
associations grew more general, and his company,
whenever it could contribute to his selfish gratifications,
less choice. On the eve of arriving at the possession
of a large fortune, he held himself entirely his
own master, and would have considered a parental
admonition, unless couched in the gentlest terms, an
insult to his manhood. He still talked of going to college,
though from his mind the idea of doing so was
exploded. Conspicuous among the young men of
fashion and fortune about town, he aspired to be a
leader in all at which such characters generally aim;
and with a recklessness that outstripped most of them,
he professed to follow the bent of his pleasures and
humours, with an entire disregard of the opinions of
the soberer part of the community. Being a remarkable
fine looking young man, with a good address, a
large fortune, great fluency, and considerable powers
of ridicule, he was very much courted by the ton;
though he was known in several excesses or “sprees,”
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as they are vulgarly called, to have abandoned himself
to the company of common blacklegs, and vulgar
sportsmen, to use a cant term, in a manner which
would have deeply injured other young men of less fortune
and pretensions. In his case it was called spirit,
which, like the effervescence of champagne, proved
the fine quality of the wine. In fact, in consideration
of the father's standing, much greater delinquencies
than he had yet been guilty of, might have
been known, even to the reflecting and influential,
without any harsh censure on the son.
Ralph, not being the associate of his cousin, in
such courses alluded to, was one of the last to hear
of them—particularly as he had no disposition to
pry into Henry's habits, and latterly had very little
communication with him. Though they occasionally
met at the table, which was much less frequent
since Miss Murray had returned home—Henry
being away sometimes for weeks on pleasure excursions,
to the races, &c.; and sometimes at Miss
Murray's, or Mr. Lorman's—they scarcely ever exchanged
more than a salutation, or a few words of
common-place observation.
During a carousal after the races, Henry had lost
at the gambling table a large sum for which he had
given his check, and which was the subject of so
much admonitory comment from the old miser to his
son. Ralph, as our readers discovered, had not
heard it before. Henry's father had hushed up the
matter, and paid the check on the very day that he
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spoke to Ralph of the kindness of his uncle to himself,
as they contemplated his picture in the office.
In fact it was rumoured among those likely to be
interested in such things, that notwithstanding Henry
had given his check for the money, and was in honour
bound when the blackleg, to whom he had lost,
presented it, Henry, after some hesitancy, refused to
pay it, saying it could not be recovered, even if it
was a common debt, as he was a minor, and that if
he heard any thing more of it he would have the
gaming act put in operation against him. And it
was also said that his father, on hearing of his threat,
paid the amount, and denied that Henry had ever
made it. Henry and his father had afterwards a
long private conversation, since which Henry had
left the paternal roof, and taken rooms in a fashionable
hotel.
Ralph meanwhile had made all his arrangements
to go to college, and the time when it was proper
that he should enter had nearly arrived. As his
father had treated him with unwonted kindness when
he last spoke to him on the subject, promising to
advance a “reasonable sum,” Ralph deemed it best
not to mention it again to his parent until on the eve
of his departure, when he resolved to wait upon him,
and tell him that he had got himself entirely ready—
everything packed up—and ask for the advance promised.
Accordingly, the day before that set for his
departure, he went over to his father's store, intending
to say to him that it was his intention of starting
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on the morrow. Ralph had not sought the parental
presence for this week past, fearing that a cloud
would follow the burst of sunny feeling, and his
father would make occasion to retract. He entered
the store, and found Jeremiah busy about it,
as usual, and wearing more than his usual look of
consequence.
“S-s-ser-servant, M-Master Ralph,” said Jerry,
making his bow, “ha-han't see you f-for some
t-time.”
“Not so very long a time, Jerry. Where is my
father?”
“Le-left t-town, s-sir,” said Jerry, glancing round
the store, like one who felt himself in charge, and
therefore a man of importance.
“Left town! When? This is the first I heard
of it.”
“W-w-well, M-Master Ralph, I c-co-couldn't
l-leave bu-business to t-t-tell you. Old m-master
w-went y-yesterday, in a g-g-great b-big hurry,
after a m-man what o-owed h-him money, ass-sconded
to New York. H-he o-owed o-old master
a c-cite of interest m-money, be-besides p-principal.”
“When will father be back, Jerry?” asked Ralph.
C-can't say, s-sir—s-some t-time, maybe. M-Master
Ralph, Jerry t-took as much to-d-day as a-any
d-day when o-old master's to home—and a-all
c-c-cash.”
As Ralph had obtained the hundred dollars for
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the rent of the farm, and as his father had promised
him means, he thought as good a way as any to obtain
the fulfilment of the promise, would be to create
the necessity of it. He therefore concluded, without
waiting the return of his father, to leave; to which
manœuvre, he was determined by the fact, that several
of his acquaintances left on the morrow, and he
wanted company. As for Henry, Ralph and he had
not exchanged a word on the subject for weeks; and
each felt the less they saw of the other the better it
would be for them.
At night Ralph called on Miss Murray to bid her
adieu—intending to leave there soon enough to call
the same evening on Ruth. He found Helen in high
spirits, surrounded by a bevy of beaux, and dispensing
smiles like the sun, that “shines on all alike.”
She received him like the rest; and when, after
some hesitancy, for his shiness shrank from a leave-taking
before so many, he told her that he had called
to bid her adieu, as he departed on the morrow,
she faltered in tone for a moment, as she ejaculated
“Ay!” and then continued gaily, “your uncle told
me so to-day. And so Master Henry is grown to
be a man, and means to rely upon the intuitions of
his genius! I hope its promptings will be better
than some other of his impulses!” Here the young
gentlemen around her laughed; and she continued,
“I have just been giving an account of our adventures
with Mr. Hearty Coil, and you are my witness
that I saved the back of Master Henry's coat from
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most contemptuous treatment. How long will you
be absent, Mr. Ralph Beckford?”
“I shall return, I hope, Miss Murray, and see my
friends in three months,” replied Ralph.
“Three months!” she exclaimed, “a life time!
Why, sir, you will grow out of the recollection of
your friends, by that time. But I suppose,” she continued,
in a gay tone, and throwing her glance
round the circle that encompassed her, “you will,
before that, have formed new acquaintances, and
have forgotten your old ones—forgetting and forgotten.
Do, Mr. Stansbury, not treat that fan of
mine so roughly. Have you seen Ruth Lorman
lately, Mr. Beckford?”
“Not since I accompanied you there, Miss
Helen.”
The lady fixed her eye silently for a moment,
and then turning quick, said again gaily,
“Well, sir, as you are not aware of the interest
I take in you, and will not therefore offer to be my
correspondent, I will be yours—write the first letter,
if your gallantry will suffer me to do such a thing;
but recollect, I enjoin it on you, unless you intend to
be a recreant from all chivalry, to tell me, like a
true knight, of all the moving adventures of your
college life. And here I will give you this watchchain,
which I myself have wrought, sir, which you
must wear in remembrance of your allegiance.”
So saying, Miss Murray arose, and, with a
queenly grace, placed the guard-chain round him.
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“You are to be envied, Mr. Beckford,” said
Stansbury.
“Yes, sir, I am,” replied Ralph. “I shall feel
hereafter, with Goldsmith, that at `each remove I
drag a lengthening chain,' and Ralph, in some confusion
at his own compliment, took his leave, and
proceeded to Mr. Lorman's, to bid Ruth farewell.
He found her with her stepmother, and instructing
little Billy, who, seated on a stool, at her feet, and
with his book in her lap, was, with an earnest face,
which a hard word would momentarily contort,
spelling his way through his first lessons in reading.
Mrs. Lorman received him very coldly, and Ruth
confusedly. Billy, glad of an opportunity of getting
rid of his task, slily shut the book, and drawing near
Ralph, overwhelmed him with questions about gunning
and fishing. After a number of commonplace
remarks, Ralph said that he had come to bid them
good by, as on the morrow he started for college.
Mrs. Lorman said nothing, while Ruth asked many
questions concerning the professors, students, and so
forth. At last Ralph rose to depart, and Ruth lifted
a light to show him to the door. Arrived there, she
asked, in a faltering tone,
“How long will you be absent, Ralph?”
“Three months, I presume, Ruth; it will seem an
age to me: and yet I should rejoice at it, not only
on account of my education, but my feelings; for
here, where I delighted to visit the most, I am received
the coldest—I—”
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Ralph stretched out his hand to Ruth as he spoke,
and she gave him hers, placing the light on the passage
table, so as to prevent it shining in her face
and showing her emotions. “I had hoped,” Ralph
was about to continue, when Billy looked up into
his face, and said:
“Ralph, if mother don't love you, never mind, I
love you, and sister Ruth loves you—don't you,
sister Ruth?”
Ralph gazed on Ruth for a moment, pressed the
hand, that made but slight if any attempt at withdrawal,
to his lips, and then catching her wildly
and passionately to his heart, he hurriedly left the
house.
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CHAPTER XIV.
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After Ralph went to college, Henry, who had
gained his ends, as he thought, in supplanting his
cousin, almost entirely discontinued his visits to
Lorman's. This gave Mrs. Lorman the greatest
uneasiness—for as our readers are aware, she had
built high matrimonial schemes on Henry's attentions.
She became more and more addicted to the
use of laudanum, and grew again harsh and unkind
to Ruth, and censorious and complaining to her husband.
One evening, after an absence of three weeks,
and only the second time that he had visited them,
since Ralph had left for college—Henry called at
Lorman's—Billy opened the door for him, and Mrs.
Lorman said to Ruth, on hearing Henry's voice:
“Do you stay here, Ruth”—they were up stairs
together—“and I will step down and see Mr. Beckford.
Is Mr. Beckford alone, Billy?”
“Yes, ma'am, he's alone, and I asked him about
Ralph, and he snubbed me,” said Billy, poutingly.
“Do you stay here, Ruth,” repeated Mrs. Lorman,
“I will step down—I have a word to say to
Mr. Beckford—I will call you in a few minutes.”
Ruth answered cheerfully, that she would, though
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she felt a foreboding of ill, for which she herself
could scarcely have accounted.
Her stepmother descended into the room, and
closed the door after her. In the lapse of a few minutes,
Ruth heard Mrs. Lorman's voice, in an agitated
and reproachful tone, but she did not distinguish
the words. At last, she heard her own name
spoken, and constrained by feelings, which in her
case, formed a sufficient apology for evesdropping—
if it ever has a sufficient apology; she with light but
hurried step, hastened to the head of the stairs to
listen—when her mother's voice struck on her ear
in an hysteric exclamation, that almost amounted to
a scream, as she said: “Only as a friend to my family:—
My God! have you visited my house, and
won my daughter's affections, only as a friend to the
family?” Here, Ruth heard Henry Beckford walking
across the room, as if towards the door, and
something was said by him, which his footfalls prevented
her from distinguishing. Fearful of being
detected as a listener, she hastened to her room, and
a moment after, the door below opened, and Henry
Beckford left the house. It was just after dinner
when Henry Beckford called; Mrs. Lorman did not
go up stairs after he left, but called little Billy to
her, and told him to bring her reticule. He did so,
and Mrs. Lorman remained below. Not wishing to
hold any conversation with her stepmother, on a
topic which she feared would be introduced, should
they now meet, Ruth remained up stairs with the
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children—and when it was time for tea, she told a
youthful servant girl they had lately hired, to go
down and ask Mrs. Lorman if she would have it.
The girl obeyed, and returned and said that Mrs.
Lorman was asleep on the sofa. Ruth desirous not
to disturb her mother, gave the children their tea in
the kitchen, and putting by her father's for him, for
he was very irregular at his meals, and did not take
his tea sometimes until nine o'clock in the evening,
when he returned from his business, she again
went up stairs, and when the hour arrived, put the
children to bed. Her father staid longer out than
usual; nobody called that evening, and with gloomy
reflections, which not even Ruth's deep sense of religion
and firm reliance on the great Controller
could entirely dispel, she awaited his coming.
When Mr. Lorman returned, he found his wife
asleep on the sofa, and he sat down by the side of
his daughter in the passage, and entered into a long
melancholy conversation about his business and his
prospects with her. Not until the watchman cried
twelve o'clock by the door, was he aware of the
length of time they had been conversing; he then
rose and asked his daughter:—
“Did your mother, Ruth, go up stairs?”
“No, sir! she's still asleep on the sofa—she sleeps
very long.”
“She has got more laudanum, I fear,” said Mr.
Lorman; for he, as well as his daughter, knew his
wife's unfortunate habit of using it, which they had
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often tried in vain to prevent. “Shall I awake her,
she should not certainly sleep there—and if I do, she
will be out of humour with me, and probably keep
me awake half of the night with her complaining;—
Ruth, I have a hard life of it.”
Ruth assented with a sigh, and said: “Mother
does not often sleep so long—I fear she has taken
too much laudanum; I never knew her more than
twice to sleep so long, and then she was very, very
sick after it.”
“Yes, I know—when I told her of my failure—
and afterwards, when I had to sell the mansion.
Has any thing disagreeable occurred?”
Before Ruth answered, for she hesitated, a fall was
heard in the room, and a heavy groan. Mr. Lormon
and his daughter hastened in, and found Mrs.
Lorman on the carpet, for she had fallen from the
sofa. She opened her eyes wildly and looked round,
raised herself on her arm, and said:
“No, we shall never be up in the world again.
I have been wretchedly deceived;” and then fell back
again, on the floor, muttering—“who took my reticule?
Ruth, it was you,” in an angry tone, “who
emptied that laudanum? Here she uttered an exclamation
of great pain, and was seized with a fit. It
was but too evident, that Mrs. Lorman had taken a
large quantity of laudanum.
With great difficulty, Mr. Lorman, assisted by his
daughter, bore his wife to her room; she muttering
incoherently, all the time, of being deceived, poverty,
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and falling in the world; or violently attempting to
retch,—while one moment a shivering sensation
would run through her frame, and she would seem to
have no control over her limbs, and the next they
would be braced as with nerves of iron.
Mr. Lorman and his daughter were terribly alarmed.
Ruth supported her mother's head, and begged
her father to hurry for a physician. Little Billy,
who slept in a trundle bed, in the room, had, in the
mean time, noiselessly arisen and dressed himself.
He stood at his mother's bed-head and was weeping
wildly.
“Will my mother, oh, will my mother die, sister
Ruth?” he sobbed out in choked accents.
“Oh, no, Billy, I hope not, father has gone for the
doctor. You should not cry, Billy. Did mother
send you out to-day, Billy, for any thing, after Mr.
Henry Beckford went away?” asked Ruth of Billy,
in a whisper, as her mother sunk back on the bed.
“Yes,” said Billy, looking at his mother, to see if
her features betrayed intelligence at his answer, and
speaking low—“she told me not to tell, but I will
though. She sent me to two doctor shops, and I got
that nasty stuff that always makes her so sick. Oh,
she did drink so much of it, before she went to sleep
on the sofa. When I grow to be a man, I will whip
that Mr. Henry Beckford,” said Billy, bursting into
tears, “for he made mother do so; he a'n't half as
good as Ralph. I will break all to pieces the wagon
he gave me.”
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Here Mrs. Lorman was seized with great agony,
and she broke from the support of Ruth, and raved
against Henry Beckford and his family. Poor Ruth
knew not what to do, and she thought her father never
would return with the physician. Presently Mrs.
Lorman sunk back exhausted, after another vain effort
at retching; which in a few moments was renewed
more violently than ever. Ruth bid Billy hold
the light, while she held her mother's head; and at
that very moment Mrs. Lorman seemed to be relieved
of some of the laudanum, for a large discharge
broke from her mouth and nostrils.
Ruth started at the sight of blood,—her stepmother
had broken a blood-vessel! Little Billy burst
into tears, clasped his hands in horror, and dropped
the light on the floor, where it was instantly extinguished.
“Merciful Father!” said Ruth, “it is the only light
in the house; what shall I do! what shall I do?”
Little Billy, frightened beyond utterance, crouched
to his sister's side, while Ruth, who felt her mother
fall back on the bed, like a dead weight, exclaimed,
as she placed her hands hurriedly to her mother's
brow and pulse:
“Mother! oh, mother! speak to me—won't you
speak to Ruth. Father will be here presently with
the doctor.”
At this moment rapid footsteps were heard on the
stairs, and Mr. Lorman entered accompanied by the
doctor, who bore a dark lantern in his hand.
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“Is the light gone out, daughter?” inquired Mr.
Lorman, as he approached the bed.
“Gone out, father,” said Ruth, with fearful calmness;
at the same moment the light from the opened
door of the lantern, discovered to Mr. Lorman, the
form of his daughter, who stood by the bed, one hand
supporting little Billy, who, with his arms about her,
was hiding his face in her lap, and the other pressed
upon the brow of his wife; and all of them were covered
with blood.
“You must prepare for the worst, Mr. Lorman,”
said the doctor. “Laudanum, you told me you suspected
the patient had taken—I presume in a great
quantity. Nature, sir, made an effort to relieve itself,
but the patient could not sustain it, and has broken a
blood-vessel. No doubt, sir, the patient was suffocated
with the discharge of the blood.”
“Is she dead?” asked Mr. Lorman and Ruth, in
the same breath.
“Yes, sir, yes, Miss; suffocation—death;” replied
the physician.
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CHAPTER XV.
[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]
Helen Murray, throwing off the frivolity and
fashion of her character, hastened to the residence
of Mr. Lorman, and did all she could to cheer and
comfort Ruth and the little family—now left to her
sole care—under their loss, which, though it might
have been much greater, had Mrs. Lorman been a
loftier, a more matronly and motherly character,
was, nevertheless, severely felt. In the overflowing
of Ruth's grief, she told Helen all that she suspected,—
and her suspicions were just—of Henry's conduct,
and she spoke of Ralph in such a way unconsciously,
as to let Helen, much to her surprise, into
the secret of Ruth's feelings for Ralph. Helen wondered
if the attachment was mutual, and felt a pang
at the surmise that it might be—a pang, though, in
which vanity suffered as much as any other passion.
But she busied herself in assisting Ruth, with the
preparations for the funeral, and afterwards was
surprised at herself that the feeling was not more
acute at the time; but she did not reflect, that then
the impulses of her better nature were awakened,
in the wish to soothe the afflicted, and that in a great
measure they merged the other.
A touching incident occurred at the funeral. After
the service, which was performed in the house, was
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over, when the undertaker was about screwing down
the lid of the coffin, little Billy, who had stood holding
his father's hand in speechless grief, sprang forward,
and throwing himself on the coffin, begged
them not to shut his mother up in that box, and take
her away from him.
“O! let her stay,” said he, in choked accents;
“mother sleeps very long sometimes—maybe she is
only sleeping. O! if she was to wake shut up there
she would die.”
“My little man,” said the clergyman, “your mother
is dead now—she is gone, we trust, to a better
place.”
“Open it, then,” said Billy, imploringly, “and let
me speak to her—my mother may speak to me.”
They undid the lid of the coffin, when Billy threw
himself on the body of his mother, and exclaimed,
“Mother! mother!” and then burying his head in
the folds of the shroud, he continued, “she will wake
by-and-by, won't you, mother? No, you shall not
take me away,” he exclaimed, as they attempted to
bear him from the coffin, which at last had to be
done by main force; and he was carried out of the
room wild with grief.
Three days after the funeral, Mr. Lorman, with a
more cheerful countenance than he had worn since
that event, entered the house, and told his daughter
that he had received another letter from his brother
in the west, and that he had very serious notions of
emigrating there. Ruth, though she wished to
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[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]
remain in the place of her birth, felt it not proper to
oppose any obstacle to her father's opinions, particularly
as the letter held forth inducements which were
peculiarly tempting and available to one of her father's
large and helpless family. The letter stated
that if Mr. Lorman had any capital, he might find
it to his advantage to settle either in Cincinnati or
Louisville, and if he had not, his brother said, that
though his own means were small, he had an unimproved
property, which some day would be very
valuable, on the banks of the Mississippi, near the
town of —, where Mr. Lorman might locate himself,
and with the help of a few “niggers,” as he expressed
it, clear the land, and make a considerable
sum by the sale of the wood to steamboats, and after
the land was cleared, he could raise cotton on it—
to all of which profits he was welcome.
“What say you, daughter?” asked Mr. Lorman.
“If my family were not so large and utterly helpless
I would not hesitate.”
“It's a stern undertaking, father—the infant is but
a few month's old.”
“I know it, my daughter. I could buy a girl
here old enough to nurse it, for a few hundred dollars,
and if I was to accept my brother's offer and
settle upon his property, she would be a great help
there. The journey is not half so arduous as you
suppose, Ruth. We take the accommodation stage,
travel only by day, rest at night, and reach Pittsburgh
in three or four days, and then by steamboats
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we can descend the Ohio—in a large roomy steamboat,
and have everything to our hand as here. By
raking and scraping together all I have left, I may
have two or three thousand dollars. We may, perhaps
find it to our interest to settle in Cincinnati or
Louisville, and at any rate, as a last resort, if the
worst comes to the worst, I can accept my brother's
offer. The helplessness of my family is the only
thing that makes me waver for a moment. But
they will not be always helpless. In a few years
they may assist me there, while here their expense
is accumulating, and my means lessening; and at
any rate there the cost of the support of the family
would be much less. Your uncle, as you know, has
no children. He was married once; his wife died
a short time afterwards. I have heard lately that
he is a little dissipated, but that, though a rough
man, he has great influence in his way. He promised
once to be a man of talents. He is good-hearted,
and I have no doubt would assist me materially.
Much of the money which he now squanders
would be given, and with more pleasure to himself,
to the aid of my family. Yes, I think I shall go
west, Ruth—thence, perhaps, south-west. I shall
write my brother of my wife's death, tell him everything,
and it will depend upon his answer.
Here a carriage drove up to the door, which a
moment afterwards was opened, and the servant
maid of Helen Murray entered. She presented Miss
Helen's compliments to Miss Ruth, and said her
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mistress sent her to ask Ruth if she would not spend
the afternoon and evening with her.
“Miss Helen, Miss,” said the girl, “sent the carriage
for you, and says that she will send you home
whenever you wish, or that you must stay with her.
She told me that I must stay here with the baby's
nurse. (Mr. Lorman had been obliged to get a
nurse for his infant on the death of his wife.) She's
my mother, Miss,” continued the girl, courtesying,
“and Miss Helen said I could stay with her and
play with the children. She wants to see you very
particular, she says.”
“Go, my daughter,” said Mr. Lorman, “I am
glad Miss Murray has sent for you. She has really
been very kind. Do not give yourself any uneasiness
about the children; the nurse and her daughter
can take as good care of them as yourself.”
“I am very used to being with children,” said the
girl, and Ruth accordingly departed.
“My dear Ruth I am glad to see you,” exclaimed
Helen Murray, springing to the door of her father's
mansion, as the carriage drove up to it, “I am
all alone; I have refused myself to a score of triflers,
determined to hold a tête-à-tête with you.”
Ruth alighted; they entered the house together,
and were soon seated on the sofa in unreserved
conversation.
“Do you know, Ruth,” exclaimed Helen, with a
scornfully curling lip and disdainful brow, “that I
myself have a crow to pick with Master Henry?—the
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villain and coward I would say, but that it does not
become my lips—however much such epithets become
his character—has dared to speak of me in
such a manner that—mark my words, Ruth, mark
my words—I will have my gentleman at my feet yet:
yes, I will make him my humble lover—my humble
servant—my sycophantic admirer—my slave; and
when the whole town see and feel his subserviency
and my power, I'll let him off, as easily as I cast off
my cape or glove. Would you believe it!—I can
scarcely bring my lips to utter it—it is like telling
my own shame—and yet there is no shame in such a
creature's tongue! He has dared to speak of me to
his low-lived companions in the loosest language!
You look incredulous, Ruth, but I heard him myself.
Last night I chanced to visit Jane Wraxall: her
brother had a card party there of gentlemen, and
among them Master Henry. Jane and I sat up
stairs conversing; and when the hot wine inflamed
these cavaliers they got uproarious, and talked aloud
beyond discretion. Jane proposed that we should
open our door and listen. I made no objection.
I have no great love for Jane; and I should have
reflected that, though she was certain, in her own
house, and in her brother's presence, to overhear
nothing against herself, that I was not in such a fortunate
situation. I should have thought of this, and
and not given one, who assumes to be my rival, such
advantages. Well, she had them—and she holds
them. She opened the door and we sat listening
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within her room, where every word that was uttered
could be overheard. They—these young gentlemen—
held some bold, boasting chat about their
success with our sex—in which they uttered falsehood
by the bushel and truth by the grain. Then
Stanley Wraxall and Edward Stansbury began to
tease Henry Beckford—Master Henry—about me—
and, to use their elegant phraseology, they twitted
him with being `flung' by me. Master Henry instantly
assumed the airs of a gay Lothario—said
that he confessed that if I had hid the bait better he
might have been caught—but that he had found me
out—that I was a heartless coquette, whose general
kindness to the gentlemen was—think of the word
he used, Ruth—was general—faugh! that I should
utter it—was general wantonness! Other words he
uttered, more villanous than this—which, you may
be sure, gave Miss Jane Wraxall no uneasiness—
nor much displeasure. I had a great mind—it was
my first impulse—to dash down stairs—and make
him—woman as I am—and make him retract every
word he had uttered. But I reflected a moment,
rallied, and, laughing, told Jane we had better shut the
door—that, though in her own house, the gentlemen,
her brother's friends, had advanced so far in their
orgies that not even herself would be saved. Upon
my word she, believe me, took the hint and shut it
in virgin haste. But that she, of all the world, should
have heard it! I cried with downright anger. At
first I resolved to tell my brothers, and have Master
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Henry brought to a strict settlement; but I reflected
upon what the consequences might be to them if the
cornered coward should catch courage, and blind
chance aid him in any duel that might ensue—and I
determined to take my revenge in my own hands—
and I will. I'll have Master Henry at my feet,
Ruth, as humble a sycophant as ever sued for a
woman's smile. Miss Jane Wraxall thinks she has
him. I could see the consciousness in her eye—as
well as her malicious gratification; but we shall
see—as the vulgar phrase says—we shall see. When
I have him in leading strings—and the whole town
have seen it, and witnessed his folly—I'll cast him
off like a worn out glove, to carry his bleeding
heart to the gentler Jane for consolation. And, as
some one says, the heart is easiest caught in the
rebound, why then she may, perchance, catch it.”
“But Helen! Helen! will you be doing right?”
asked Ruth.
“Right!” exclaimed Helen, “has he done right?
Right to me or you, Ruth. You, though the deepest
injured, may forgive him; but I—one whom I have
scorned and made a jest of! shall he dare to speak
in such a fashion of me?”
“But maybe, Helen, he has heard that you have
scorned and made a jest of him, and he is retaliating.”
“Retaliating! then shall he have another opportunity
of retaliation; for I will make a scorn and jest
of him again, and the whole town shall ring with it.
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Ruth, I tell you—I know—I feel I can make him as
humble a suitor as ever a woman listened to and rejected.
But come, we will not talk of it any more;
it has vexed me much more already than aught that
such as Master Henry could utter should.”
“But, my dear Helen,” expatiated Ruth, “you are
so intimate with Mr. Beckford's mother.”
“And would you believe it,” exclaimed Helen, “that
when Edward Stansbury, who behaved like a gentleman,
lauhed at him, and said that he never could
discern that Master Henry held any interest in me,
except in my sarcasm, and that wine was speaking
in the place of fact—would you believe it, Master
Henry, whose fondness for the quoting of proverbs
is proverbial, exclaimed that in wine there was truth,
and that his mother had often said to him, that I
wanted him to court me! He shall court me. I want
him to court me; but he will find, when he does, a
change come over the spirit of his dream, that will
crush his vanity unto the death of it, if such a camomile-like
vanity as his, which `the more it is trodden
on, the better it grows,' can be crushed. I would
have told my brothers, and had them to right this
wrong of mine, but you know my parents were
brought up quakers, and, it would wound them
sorely, should either of my brothers be involved in
a duel, though the result were harmless; and how
could I forgive myself were it otherwise? No, no,
Ruth, after all, we women can manage our affairs
our own way the best. No, the contest shall be
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between Master Henry and me, and as I am the
weaker party, the woman, stratagem is fair—all is
fair in war. I'll make him my slave—that I will—
I want you to remember I have said so, Ruth. I
know not how to express my indignation of a man,
having the presumption to pretend to be a gentleman,
who gives such foul licence to his false tongue. I
believe I shall learn to despise these men as wretches
all. What a difference between Ralph and Henry
Beckford, our cousins, who are not akin in one impulse
of their hearts. O! Ruth, I am going to write
to Ralph. What shall I say for you, wont you add a
postscript?”
“Thank you,” said Ruth, falteringly, “remember
me to him, Helen; tell him that little Billy talks a
great deal about him.”
“Have you no softer word than remember, Ruth?
Come, Ruth, I suspect you shrewdly.”
“That word is soft enough,” said Ruth, blushingly,
“is it not?”
“Would you not send a softer were you writing
to him?”
“But I am not writing to him,” replied Ruth.
“Tell me, Ruth, tell me. I have some claims myself
on Ralph's tender emotions.”
“Have you,” said Ruth, with a faltering voice?
“Yes, I have right down serious claims—and we
two are friends you know—we should not be rival
queens; therefore tell me, and I will resign all pretensions
in your behalf, and as I correspond with
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him I can say, you know, so many pretty things
of you. But be serious, tell me, Ruth.”
Helen Murray observed Ruth closely as she spoke,
and seeing that she was touching a tender point, her
generous feelings arose as she added:
“No, forgive me, I would not force your secret—
I am jesting.”
After Ruth left Helen that evening, the latter sat
some time, cogitating upon Ruth's feelings towards
Ralph, which she saw were interested in him, and
upon the probability of the extent of his interest in
her. She would not confess to herself that the desire
to know was any deeper than an idle curiosity, though
the conviction that it was, repeatedly arose.
“I shall have my hands full,” thought she, “if I intend
to catch Ralph, annihilate Henry, and manage
my other little flirtations. Ralph is a worthy fellow—
yes, I do like him—but he is too shy and reserved;
in fact he is sometimes often gawky. He certainly
made demonstrations to me—No, he always gave
place to his cousin. Why should I feel angry towards
him and Ruth? I never thought of having
him—why should I shrink from another's having him
then? Ruth can never be a rival of mine—I must
not—I cannot do aught that would wound her.
She would have told me if I had pressed her; and
had not her feelings been deeply touched, and her
womanly delicacy so shrinking, she would have told
me at once—I should not blame her, for such is no
want of confidence—No, no, I must not entertain a
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harsh feeling towards her. Poor girl, she has trials
enough, and ought to have at least one friend. That
base Henry! how he deceived her foolish stepmother.
I saw Ruth never liked him. I will revenge
her injuries in that case, and my own. And if Ralph
loved her, he has been a sufferer too, by the attentions
of Master Henry.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Helen to herself, clapping her
hands together as the sudden thought flashed through
her mind—“this accounts for Ralph's shiness to
her and the infrequency of his visits to Ruth, while
Henry was so attentive there. Why had I not
sense enough to see that such conduct proves anything
but disregard? But he acted just so towards
Henry and myself. I could have caught him—but,
but Master Henry shall receive my attentions at
present, and I will make a scoff of him. I'll curb in
my `general wantonness' for his especial benefit; I
would be proud enough to scorn him, did I not feel
that I had such an exquisite revenge. What letters
he shall write me, I'll show them every one—but
can it be that Ralph loves Ruth?”
These thoughts passed through Helen's mind a
hundred times in the course of the night, which was
almost to her a sleepless one. Her vanity would have
felt more wounded at the idea that Ralph might be
attached to Ruth had not Henry's remarks at Miss
Wraxall's perpetually intruded upon her reflections,
no matter upon what subject they were engaged—
in fact, almost occupied them.
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The next morning Ruth sent Billy to return a
book to Helen, which she had sent to her some days
before, and which she had just finished reading.
“Who brought the book?” inquired Helen of the
servant.
“Miss Ruth's little brother, Miss Helen,” was the
reply.
“Bring him in,” said Helen. “Why, Billy, how
do you do?” said she as he entered—“come and
kiss me, my little sweetheart; don't you know I am
going to wait for you until you grow to be a man?
How is sister Ruth?”
“She is well,” said Billy, wiping his lips after
Helen's kiss, (he was not old enough to appreciate
the dewy moisture)—she says, are you well to-day
Miss Helen?”
“Very well, Billy. Tell sister Ruth, I am going
to write to Ralph to-day.”
“I wish I could write,” said Billy, “I would write
to Ralph too. I think sister Ruth ought to write to
him—don't you think so?”
“Why so, Billy?” asked Helen, pushing back his
hair and kissing him.
“'Cause she ought,” replied Billy.
“No; but, Billy, maybe I am Ralph's sweetheart.”
“Sister Ruth is too then,” said Billy with a knowing
nod.
“But you can't have two sweethearts. Billy, what
makes you think that sister Ruth is Ralph's sweetheart?
Come, you know you are my sweetheart,
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that I love you dearly,” patting his head, “and you
must tell me everything.”
“Why,” said Billy, after some hesitation and
sheepishly, “'cause, when Ralph went away he kissed
sister Ruth and she let him; and I don't believe anybody
ever kissed her before; and he said something
that I know meant he wanted to be her sweetheart—
and when he went away, Oh! sister Ruth did cry
like anything. But you must not tell I told you.”
“Oh! no, certainly not. Come with me to the
side-board in the next room, and I will give you
some cakes.”
Billy played about the room, eating his cakes and
looking at the pictures on the walls; and those in the
Souvenirs and Tokens, and books of beauty; while
Helen reclined moodily on the sofa, and scarcely answered—
and then incoherently—the questions which
Billy continually put to her concerning the pictures,
&c. She discovered that Ralph had a deeper
hold in her feelings than she suspected. She had
always deemed her intercourse with him but a flirtation,
that it would give her no pain to break, though
she had often feared, that to break it, would cause
no little unto Ralph. The mistake was a blow, such
as her vanity and her heart were not in the habit
of receiving; but she resolved to overcome all unpleasing
reflections on the subject, and act as Ruth
and Ralph's friend in their loves; and she transferred
all the bile it originated to Henry Beckford,
on whom she determined to be revenged, by making
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him her suitor and rejecting him. She was aware
it was the general opinion, that Ralph only wanted
encouragement to court her; and the knowledge
that such an impression was abroad, gave great relief
to her pride, when she reflected that the case was,
in all human probability, otherwise. Ralph had
always treated her with the profoundest respect, and
in contrasting his conduct towards her, and what
she had always heard were his opinions of her enthusiastically
expressed, with Henry's, she became
the more angered with the latter.
A few days after this conversation with Billy,
Miss Murray gave a small party, to which she did
not invite Miss Wraxall, as she did not wish her
operations upon Henry to be observed by her rival,
until she had him in leading strings, and which Ruth
did not attend, of course. She contrived, without
being observed, to reinstate “Master Henry” in his
former good opinion of his standing with her, while
she showed him by the attention and adulation which
she extracted from the other beaux, how much her
smile was sought. This was the very way to win
such a man as Henry.
As the evening advanced and as Henry handed
her a glass of wine, she said in a low tone, and in
her gentlest one: “Do fill for yourself also, Mr.
Beckford,” and, touching his glass with hers, she
continued, “let us be friends. And to show me that
you agree to the proposition, you must take me out
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on an early ride, and the proof of your friendship
shall be the care with which you drive me.”
Henry bowed with a radiant brow, and in a week
was a more devoted worshipper at Helen's shrine
than he had ever been.
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CHAPTER XVII.
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One day, some time after Mr. Solomon Beckford's
return from New York, whither he had gone, as
Jeremiah informed Ralph, in pursuit of an absconded
debtor, and some weeks after the conversation
and incidents recorded in our last chapter, Ralph
Beckford entered his father's store, much to the surprise
of that worthy who deemed him at college,
quietly pursuing his studies, and some months to pass
yet ere he would involve himself, in consequence of
the vacation, in the expense of a visit home.
“Bless my soul! by dad, is that you, Ralph?”
exclaimed the father, snatching his spectacles from
his nose, as the son entered the little parlour behind
the store, “why I thought you were safe at college—
you were anxious enough to get there, I am sure—
pursuing your studies. What, in the name of common
sense, has induced you to make this move?”
Ralph hesitated for a moment, and then said:
“I got a letter.”
“Got a letter!” ejaculated his father, interrupting
him. “I wrote you no letter except one of advice
with regard to your expenses, I—”
“No, sir, I know you did not,” interrupted Ralph,
in turn, “and if my uncle had not sent me money, I
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don't know how I should have got the expenses you
advised me about paid.”
“You took a hundred dollars with you—went
away, in fact, without my full concurrence, while I
was in New York, or on my way there, in pursuit
of a runaway rascal who would have ruined me—
and after awhile, after you had felt and knew what
it was to want money, knew the value of it, I would
have sent you a reasonable sum; but what letter
brought you—who wrote it?”
“I received a letter, sir,” replied Ralph, “from
Miss Murray.”
“Ay, you dog you,” exclaimed the old man, the
wrinkles disappearing from his brow, as they would
pass from a cambric pocket-handkerchief under the
flat-iron. “So that's it, hey? There's many a slip
between the cup and the lip. I should like to have
had that business consummated before you went to
college. Then why go to college? I wondered,
then, how you could leave a young, a beautiful, a
rich, rich lady for hard studies—but, you sly fellow,
you, you've come to, hey! The very day you
rode out for the hundred dollars I gave you, with
that rapscallion Coil who broke the carryall, and it's
not paid for yet; that very day I was over at
neighbour Murray's—he and I are old friends, (his
wife's an old sweetheart of mine,) grew up boys together—
I had money matters to transact with him.
After we got through, he spoke of you; said that he
liked you very much; that you came often to his
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house, and that he thought the young people—meaning
you and his daughter, you sly dog—liked each
other. I told him I was pleased to hear it, of course,—
it delighted me—and we talked it over. I there
learned, too, what has since proved a mistake, that
your cousin, who is going the broad road to ruin,
was to marry little Ruth Lorman.”
“I believe, sir,” said Ralph, “that one will turn
out to be as false as the other.”
“What! bless my soul! and so you have been
neglecting such an enchanting, beautiful and rich
girl, very rich girl, as Miss Murray—my old friend's
daughter—at such a rate that she has written to
you on the subject, and threatens to discard you.
Why, Ralph, bless my soul! by dad, you are a
damned blockhead—the Lord forgive me that I
should swear, it would make a saint swear—yes,
you are a stultified, damned blockhead, and no son
of mine. Bless my soul! I suppose you have come
here now to cry after your spilt milk—to catch the
filly after she has gone out of the door that you left
open yourself, you nincompoop!”
Ralph could not help but laugh at his father's violent
manner and language.
“Oh! yes!” exclaimed the old miser, when he
observed it—“beautiful conduct, young gentleman,
to laugh at the admonitions, and advice of your father.
You reverence scripture, sir—you reverence
scripture; you mean that your days shall be long in
the land; yes, they may be, and may be you'll have
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to get the bread that keeps ye by downright beggary;
and die at last for the want of it. It's what you are
coming to by such frivolity and stupidity. This I
suppose, you have learnt at college!”
“Father, you are entirely wrong—you are, I
assure you; you are labouring under a great mistake.”
“Listen to me now, Ralph,” said his father, “hear
what I have to say to you, and don't interrupt me—
now don't. When I was of your age, full of high
notions of myself, and honourable feeling—as the
world calls it—and scorning to make advances, and
all the etceteras of that kind of thing—bless my soul—
I became pleased, attached, as you call it, to a
young lady of large fortune. She was not handsome,
but, Ralph, she had what I wanted, and what
you want—money. She was not to compare to
Helen Murray in appearance, nor in fact in means;
but she had, what was called in those days, a large
fortune. Well, I attended her with great assiduity—
and while waiting on her, I became acquainted at
her house with your mother, who was pretty, and
sprightly—I didn't know that sprightliness was temper
then—and as poor as poverty itself. The rich
lady did not act, on several occasions, exactly to
please me; I have learned since, she was just trying
to draw me out; I hadn't the sense to see it then;
I grew huffish, was off, fancied myself in love with
your mother, because she had a pretty face—she
had nothing else—made a love match—that is, I
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must have married her to spite the other—the rich
girl; and, by dad, she must have married me to
spite somebody, for it was nothing but spite between
us, while she lived.”
“Let's drop this subject, if you please, father,”
said Ralph—“It must be disagreeable to both of us.”
“Certainly, it is!” exclaimed his father, “and therefore
I wish you to know it and be warned. Your
love matches are worse than folly, they are misery;
love—pugh—let reason, let reason, I say, son Ralph,
control every reasonable man. But tell me, concerning
this letter. How do you and Miss Murray—
isn't she a beautiful girl—stand—nothing that you
can't remove easily—hey, boy! Remember my case,
and what I might I might have done, had I been discreet
and less wilful.”
“Father, you are entirely under a mistake,” replied
Ralph—“I never courted Miss Murray, and
she never expected me to court her that I know of.”
“Ralph, you are beside yourself; what does this
letter mean then, that you have received from her—
why should she write to you—why, I ask you,
should a letter from her bring you home from college?”
“Why, father, she (laughing) told me when I left,
that we must be correspondents—and I received a
letter from her, telling me, that my old friends, the
Lorman's, were on the eve of starting west—and,
and—”
“And what?” ejaculated the old man—“and what
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[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]
are the Lormans to you—because the Lorman's are
going west, must you quit college? Ralph you are, I
fear to say, acting, I believe, with duplicity.”
This last remark of his father stung Ralph, and
he said:
“I expect father, it will be my destiny, to do the
very thing which you have been advising me not to
do—to make a love match.”
The old man sprung to his feet with such violence,
as to overturn the arm chair in which he was
seated—exclaiming, as he arose: “with whom,
with whom?”
“Maybe, father, with Ruth Lorman!” replied
Ralph, firmly.
“With Ruth Lorman”—exclaimed the old man
furiously—“with Ruth Lorman! You are demented,
by the Lord, you are demented; I shall have you
thrust into a hospital, and your head shaved for a
lunatic, and your carcass in a straight jacket, before
you commit that folly be assured. Yes, I can and
will do it—I'll keep you there for life—I'll not leave
you that much”—snapping his fingers—“not that
much, not enough to buy a rope to hang yourself.
Yes, I see it—you intend to run the career of your
cousin—he will ruin his father, and you mean to do
your best to ruin me; but I am not made of such
ruinable stuff. If you dare to dream of marrying
that little minx, I'll cut you off without a shilling—
and denounce you in my last will, testament, and
codicil, to the whole world. Chew that cud, sir,”
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said his father, darting out of the room furiously, and
snatching up his hat and cane as he went. “It is
my solemn determination—chew that cud, sir.”
“The die is cast,” said Ralph to himself, as his father's
footsteps died away through the store—“truly,
like old Priuli, he has made his exit in a rage—and
worse than bid me `get brats and starve.' Whither
can he have gone?—I will not sacrifice my feelings
to a father, who never sacrificed one feeling to me—
whose conduct towards me, has been a perpetual
and abiding cause of mortification all my life—who
takes every opportunity to revile a mother's memory
to her son—who has scarcely ever given me a cent,
and who thrusts me, without the least regard to my
feelings, upon the charity of my uncle. God bless
my uncle, I have a friend in him. My father would
wed me to the Witch of Endor for money. Can it be
possible, that Mr. Murray spoke of—”
Here Ralph was interrupted in his reflections by
the entrance of Jerry, who exclaimed,
“M-m-master Ralph, wh-what's the m-mat-matter
with old m-mas-master? he went out into the
street like mad.”
“I don't know, Jeremiah,” replied Ralph, bitterly.
“Maybe another of his debtors has absconded, and
he has gone in pursuit.”
Ralph had scarcely made the remark, when his
father re-entered the room, as Jeremiah left it, and
facing Ralph, exclaimed—
“Tell me—am I bewildered? am I in a dream?
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are you not mad?” and he gazed at Ralph intensely,
as if he suspected the fact; then making an effort to
be cool, he continued, “Ralph, tell me one thing—did
you never court Miss Murray?”
“Never, father; I am surprised at what you tell
me her father said.”
“Well he did say it, I tell you; and that proves to
you your chance with her, hey—don't you see it
does? Why don't you court her?”
“Because, father,” replied Ralph, “I am not in
love with her. I could—”
“In love with her!” interrupted the old man,
throwing his hands up above his head, as if struck
with horror.
“No, father; I admire her greatly, but I am not
in love with her: and I believe, from what I have
seen of her character, that she is the very last lady
that would ever fall in love with me. To speak
frankly, father, I am in love with another.”
“You are, hey?” said the old man, with intense
bitterness; “may I inquire, sir, who is the happy
lady.”
“I have already told you, father—Ruth Lorman.”
“Ruth Lorman!” repeated the old man, striking
his cane on the floor, compressing his lips, and nodding
his head to and fro. “Ruth Lorman! Well,
Mr. Ralph Beckford, you deem yourself your full
master, I observe, sir. This determination, this love,
has been made without even honouring me with a
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consultation, leaving me under other impressions,
and thereby swindling money out of me. I understand
it, sir, and I wish you to be informed that I
have done with you, sir; I shall advertise in every
paper in the city that I shall pay no debts of your
contracting. I shall let, thereby, the world know
what I think of you, and then you will see what you
are thought of. I leave you to think about it. I'll
leave every cent I have in the world to Jeremiah—
I'll burn it up and myself with it before—but its no
use talking, sir, it's no use talking—just chew that
cud.” And jerking his hat over his brows, and
planting his cane with decision on the floor, Mr. Solomon
Beckford went forth again.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]
With a quick step, muttering to himself, and with
a twisted brow, Mr. Solomon Beckford proceeded
directly to the house of Mr. Lorman. Little Billy
was playing on the pavement, and Mr. Beckford
asked him if his father was in; and without waiting
for a reply, or rapping at the door, he opened it and
entered.
Mr. Lorman was seated in the front room, looking
over a number of accounts, with bills paid and unpaid,
large legers and day-books, scattered promiscuously
around him. He received Mr. Beckford
very coolly, and, without intermitting his avocation,
waved him to a seat.
“Friend Lorman,” said Mr. Beckford, after a
premonitory clearing of the throat, “you were much
too hasty with me the other day in the matter of
that loan. You snapped me up so short that I hardly
had time to think.”
Here Mr. Lorman laid down the account he was
inspecting, and looked at Mr. Beckford.
“Hardly time, I say, my friend, to think. You
say you want a thousand dollars to aid you in
going west, and that you will give good security for
the advance. I have no doubt upon reflection—I
did not think so the other day,—but upon mature
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thought I have changed my mind. I have no doubt
that, with your family, taking your daughter Ruth
with you to take care of them—I have no doubt, I
say, that it will be ultimately to your advantage.
Ruth is an engaging girl, and will marry well there,
and her husband being with you, it will be a great
assistance to you and your family. Upon a second
thought over these things, I concluded it would be
to your interest, and when you say you cannot start
without that sum—a thousand dollars—a very large
sum—hard to raise—but upon good security, by borrowing
I think I might compass it. You say the security
is good, and that you will make over debts
due you to the amount of fifteen hundred dollars, to
secure the payment of the thousand with an interest
of ten per cent?”
“I will,” said Mr. Lorman, “and will esteem it as
a favour—a great favour—if you will let me have the
money on these terms. I am all ready to start, but I
must have that sum. My brother, as I told you,
though he has little command of ready money,
will assist me when I arrive west. I want to be
off; I have made up my mind to go, and Ruth had
got partly reconciled to it; but, as the time approaches,
she somehow, particularly lately, seems
to shrink from it.”
“Ahem! ahem!” ejaculated Mr. Beckford. “Friend
Lorman, upon reflection, as I have told you, I believe
it will be greatly to your advantage, and to the
advantage of your daughter and family, for you to
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emigrate west, and therefore, ahem! I will try and
advance you the money—I will.”
“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Beckford!” exclaimed
Mr. Lorman, jumping up and seizing the
old miser by the hand, “I shall be deeply indebted to
you! I thought, from what was owing to me, I
should be able to raise two thousand dollars of my
own, clear of the world; but I find my good debts—
what is owing to me I mean with good security for
payment—only amount to fifteen hundred dollars—
and I am willing to give them as security for the
payment of the thousand dollars, with ten per cent.
interest on the loan.”
“You shall have it, friend Lorman,” said Mr.
Beckford, returning the shake of his hand, “ahem!
you shall have it! You have what may be called a
large family, and the fact is, between you and I, this
is no place—your old city is no place to raise up a
family in. You know what a trouble my brother—
distinguished man as he is—has had with his son,
my hopeless nephew! Well, I declare to you I do
not know that my boy, Ralph, will be any better!
I could not advise any father, son though he is of
mine, to suffer seriously his visits to his daughter.
Ralph has been so indulged by his uncle that his
habits always have been idle, and I fear me, friend
Lorman—recollect what I say to you now is of my
own son, and therefore in strictest confidence—that
latterly they are becoming vicious!”
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorman, in great
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surprise. “I had no idea of such a thing; indeed,
I felt convinced that quite the contrary was the fact.”
“No, my dear friend, no; he squanders money
abominably, and is getting into evil habits. He,
in the midst of his college courses, leaves, a few
months after his entrance, and comes home—for what
purpose no one on earth can tell—for a profligate
excess I have no doubt. He is sly—I fear he is sly—
but of course this is between ourselves—entirely confidential:
he is my own son, and what I say to my
friend I would not say to the world. I expect I
shall have to cut him off in my will without a six-pence.
I cannot and will not have my hard earnings
squandered by a prodigal son, who has no respect
for me, living or dead—no, I would rather educate
the heathen with it. My will is made, and pray
God Ralph may amend before I die. Good morning!
good morning! the west is the place for you!
yes, upon second thought, I am satisfied it is the
place to marry a daughter well, and to bring up a
rising family! This evening I will call with the
amount. Get all your accounts ready, and with
the vouchers, that I may see them; and I will bring
the amount with me. If you get it this afternoon,
when will you start?”
“In three or four days at farthest. Won't you
stop and see Ruth?—do; she's up stairs—I will call
her—and then step round to Hawbuckle's store,
where I left some of my vouchers with him.”
“Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Beckford; “Ruth is a great
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favourite of mine: do call her, and I will keep her
company till you return—if you are not gone long—
and then I can look over these vouchers, notes, &c.
hey!”
“Ah! Ruth, my good girl,” exclaimed Mr. Beckford,
as she entered the room, “come and shake
hands with me! So you are going to leave us?”
“So father says, sir,” replied Ruth, giving him
her hand and sighing.
The old man twitched as he observed it, and then
said gaily, “It's a delightful country; I at first opposed
your father, but, upon reflection, I am convinced
it is for his benefit. You will catch some of
the nabobs of the land there, Ruth—some of the
nabobs—who will bring you to the east to the springs
in your coach and four—particularly if you go down
to the south-west, where they have negroes a plenty
and half of a state for a plantation. I see how it
will be: you will be visiting us some of these days
in fine style—and hardly know us, hey! Much better
matches made there, Ruth, than here. The young
men here have degenerated from their sires. I don't
know one—no, not one—a sense of justice will not
let my parental affection except even my own son—
who would make a young girl the proper kind of
match. The young men do no work nowaday—
they depend upon their fathers for support; and when
a man is actuated by a public spirit—as I hope I
am—and thinks of leaving what little property he
may possess to some great public charity or school
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—what, in such an event, I ask you, can their thriftless
sons do but starve, with their wives and families—
if, indeed, any woman would be such a fool as
to have such graceless, prodigal, spending rascals!”
“But, Mr. Beckford,” said Ruth, timidly, “why
should you include your son Ralph in such a list?
I am quite sure he deserves to be placed in better
company.”
“My dear Miss Ruth,” replied Mr. Beckford, attempting
a look of amiable confidence, while that of
scrutiny and mistrust prevailed, “I make no exception.
Unless Ralph marries a rich girl, he will be as
destitute a wretch as lives in the broad world. Between
you and I, Ruth,” continued Mr. Beckford,
drawing close to her side, “though the world imputes
considerable wealth to me, it hardly more than doubles
the sum which I am to loan to your father to
take him to the west, scarcely more than doubles
that sum. But I do not choose, you know, to correct
the impression; for now when I am pushed, as
I often am, to pay for a hogshead of sugar, this impression
is the means of my obtaining a little credit;
it is the only thing that keeps me up. Ralph's college
expenses came very heavy—he has no idea of
any profession that I know of—he might, if he were
another sort of a lad, assist me, but he is a mere
drone. Ruth, you are going west, you know, where
you will be happily, splendidly married; you will not,
of course, repeat one word of what I have said to
you; but it relieves an old man to unburden his mind
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sometimes. Good-bye, Ruth, tell your father I could
not wait any longer for him. I have nobody in my
store—Ralph might have assisted me in my old age
there—but my negro, Jeremiah, and God above only
knows how much he filches from me. Good-bye,
my dear.” So saying, the old miser departed.
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CHAPTER XIX.
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Ralph had arrived in the mail-stage, little more
than an hour previous to his seeing his father. He
made his toilet hastily, and hurried to Lorman's. On
arriving there, he learned that Ruth had ridden out
with Helen Murray. He then called to see his uncle—
was informed he was very busily engaged in a
trial at the court-house, and not wishing to interrupt
him, he proceeded to his father's. He expected a
scene with his father, and as the latter had not sent
him the remittances he promised, and thereby had
subjected his son to a great deal of mortification, he
felt the more indifferent to the result, convinced in
fact that it was in vain for him to hope for any pecuniary
aid whatever, from that quarter. His determination,
therefore, was to trust wholly to his uncle,
whom he hoped to remunerate on coming of age, out
of the property which he would then possess in right
of his mother. His uncle had sent him liberal supplies
of pocket money, but he was not aware that it
was all the means his nephew had to meet every expense.
Ralph sat ruminating upon what had passed, may
be an hour, when he departed with the intention of
going to Lorman's. On his way there, he saw his
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father at some distance, but that worthy, on beholding
his son, darted round a corner to avoid meeting
him. Though Ralph had called at Lorman's in Ruth's
absence, she was not aware of it, as by some neglect
she was not informed of the fact. He found
Ruth alone. Those few moments at their last parting
had established a mutual understanding between
them—an understanding stamped with the silent seal
of their hearts, and which sought no pledge of words.
Each in their separation had thought of the other, as
each would have wished. The affection of years,
though only confessed at parting, and that silently,
and after apparently a long estrangement, seemed
now as they met, to have been the acknowledged
theme of all that time, and as Ruth sprang towards
Ralph, he advanced and caught her in his arms. She
leaned her head upon his bosom and wept. Ralph
could scarcely restrain himself from tears, but he
kissed away her's, and said faintly:
“Ruth, dear Ruth! speak to me.”
“Oh! Ralph, Ralph! we have met again, but to
part again—I am overcome—I did not expect to see
you. This is unbecoming;” she released herself from
his embrace, and dried hastily her tears. “I did not
think to see you, Ralph.”
“Miss Murray wrote me, Ruth, that your father
was on the eve of departure. I feared that you would
be gone, before I could get here. Is it not strange
that we should not have written to each other? Dear
Ruth, I knew that we should thus meet. When I
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pressed you to my heart as we parted; I felt that we
should thereafter understand each other. Ruth, you
must not go west.”
“Must not, Ralph?” and she shook her head sorrowfully,
“alas, I must!”
“Must, why must you?” exclaimed Ralph, “Listen
to me, Ruth. I will leave college, if you say so,
and read law with my uncle—in a year I shall be of
age—in one more year I should be qualified to practise,
perhaps before then—my uncle will assist me.
I shall have, when I arrive at age, some nine or ten
thousand dollars of my own—that will support us
until I get a practice—or Ruth, I have another plan.
In a year, as I tell you, I shall be of age—my money
will be my own—your father and I can go into business
together. At my father's death, I shall inherit
a handsome fortune.”
“But, Ralph,” said Ruth, “you must not calculate
too sanguinely on your father's fortune.”
“Must not. Why not?”
Ruth hesitated. Ralph insisted that she should
tell him unreservedly why she made the remark,
and, after some hesitancy, she told him what his
father had said to her.
Ralph could not prevent a smile, though very
much provoked. “My father,” said he, “has been
diplomatizing, playing Talleyrand. I told him this
morning of my love for you—you know how he
hates love-matches—he supposes that if you think I
shall be pennyless you will reject me.”
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“O! Ralph, you do your father injustice.”
“Indeed I do not. But, Ruth, away with that;
why should you go west—what should take you
there?”
“Duty, Ralph, duty,” said Ruth, firmly. “My
father's brother, my uncle, has offered him advantages
there, which he is thoroughly convinced he
ought to avail himself of. The idea of emigration
has put new life into his energies. He has been so
long struggling with so many ills here, misfortunes
upon misfortunes, that he has persuaded himself that
scarcely under any auspices could he raise his fortunes
in this place again. Then his rising family
will be a great expense to him in a few years—
therefore he ought to go, Ralph—he ought to go,
Ralph, for his own sake, as well as for the sake of
his family, and Ralph, I must go with him—that
family have no mother now, and I must be mother
and sister both to them. It is my duty, Ralph, my
religious, my Christian duty.”
Ruth spoke in so gentle yet decided a tone that
Ralph made no attempt at reply, but handed her a
chair, and sat musing by her side. The farther conference
of the lovers was interrupted by the entrance
of Mr. Lorman, who asked hastily for old Mr. Beckford,
and saluted Ralph, but not with his wonted
warmth; the latter after a few moments took his
leave.
In the course of the day Ralph called on Helen
Murray, and found her, as usual, with several
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beaux beside her, and, among the rest, his cousin
Henry.
“Mr. Ralph Beckford!” exclaimed Helen, rising,
and offering her hand to Ralph as he entered, though
with more coldness of tone, and more formality of
manner than Ralph had expected, for she spoke like
one who has been piqued, but who endeavours to
hide it, perhaps from the fact that her reason told
her she had no right to indulge it. “You are welcome
back, sir; I thought my letter would bring
you.” Ralph felt himself blush beneath the gaze of
the gentlemen. “You still wear the guard I gave
you—let me see it.” Ralph advanced close to her,
and she took the guard in her fair hand. “It is, I
observe, sir, in a state of high preservation, I feel
complimented, sir, honoured—be seated, Mr. Beckford.”
“Thank you,” said Ralph; but ere he took a seat,
he advanced towards Henry and offered him his
hand. Henry, after a moment's hesitancy, in which
Miss Murray said, “Mr. Henry Beckford, your
cousin, sir,” took his hand with apparent cordiality,
and said, making an attempt at a pun:
“Ralph, you were well guarded at college.”
“And well regarded here, Mr. Ralph Beckford,”
exclaimed Miss Murray, though in a tone that showed
she was more anxious to be witty than to compliment.
Henry glanced a suspicious eye at his cousin, who,
unobservant of it, replied:
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“I feared, Miss Helen, I was in the predicament
of the Reverend Mr. Byles, of revolutionary memory,
who, being suspected by the colonists of not
being on their side, was treated accordingly. To
express the varieties of his treatment, he said he had
been `guarded, regarded and disregarded.”'
“Yes, but, Mr. Beckford,” exclaimed Helen, quickly
and with some sharpness, “your quotation is an unfortunate
one; remember it was made by a tory, as
a jest for the punishment and neglect which he received
for his want of patriotism—allegiance to the
true power.”
The instant Helen uttered this remark, she reflected
it might occur to Henry that it arose from pique on
her part at Ralph's indifference to her, an impression
which few women would willingly make, and least
of all Miss Murray, in the premises, she therefore
added, with a conscious smile, bowing, as she spoke,
to Ralph—“Of which I do not accuse you, sir; you
are my knight, you wear my colours, and I will
consider your college adventures as the war from
which you have just returned; therefore, my gallant
troubadour, you are welcome home.”
Ralph bowed and blushed, and the conversation
became general, which gave him leisure to observe.
He could not but perceive that Miss Murray received
Henry's attentions as if she expected them,
and was pleased with them, while they were evidently
given with the air of one who flattered himself
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—from what cause, judging from what he had seen
previous to his departure for college, Ralph could
not divine—that he stood above his compeers in the
lady's good graces. In the two or three letters
which Ralph had received from Miss Murray, she
had written of his cousin in the way she always
spoke of him, as “Master Henry,” and Ralph concluded
that her feelings were the same towards him:
he, therefore, wondered why the “Master” was now
entirely dropped, with the tone of sarcasm in which
it was generally uttered. He remembered that in
one of her letters she had told him that Henry was a
more constant visiter at her shrine than ever, but she
made no comment whatever on it, though the lines
were underlined. As Ralph had always suspected
the lady of being somewhat capricious, he concluded
that Henry had been taken into favour, yet he
thought he as plainly perceived that other young
gentlemen did not imagine their cases hopeless.
His cousin he thought altered, and not for the better;
he wore even a more roue air than formerly,
and a tone of ridicule at most things held above it,
seemed to pervade his feelings. This did not strike
Ralph till he had seen him often, and met him sometimes
alone, as something like their former intimacy
was renewed; for Henry could, when the motive
was strong enough, play the accomplished gentleman,
and seem to be what some one has defined a
gentleman—“humanity refined.”
Ralph's uncle received him with great kindness;
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but in a tone of friendly reproof he asked him, why
he had left college before the vacation? Ralph
instantly confessed to his uncle his attachment to
Ruth Lorman, and said the wish to see her, before
she started west, was his motive for leaving college,
as he did; he added, with some hesitancy, that not
having received any remittances from his father, he
was subject to many mortifications, and that he had
been compelled to leave behind him debts, some of
which were for borrowed money.
“Ralph, you have not acted as you should have
done,” said his uncle in a tone of reproof. “Why
did you not let me know it? I expected that you
would—have you no confidence in me? But no, I
must not blame you; I had such feelings once myself.
It shall be refunded when you return to college.
Ruth Lorman, hey! Well, she is certainly a
sweet girl, worthy of a man's love. These mercenary
money matches are not as pleasure fraught
as is generally supposed—but Ralph, what says your
father to this `love match' in perspective?”
Ralph told his uncle of the scene he had had with
his father.
“You have not played the diplomatist, Ralph, with
your father. When you leave college, nephew, what
do you mean to do?”
“What shall I do uncle? I have thought of going
to the west when I am of age, as I, it seems, must
expect nothing from my father; and with the little
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means I may have, pushing my fortunes there, either
studying one of the professions—or—or—”
“Speak out,” said his uncle, smiling.
“Or if my `love match' prospers, going into business
with my father-in-law, that I hope will be, if
my father has not irrevocably prejudiced him against
me. Do advise me, uncle, what shall I do?”
“Ralph,” said his uncle, after some reflection—“I
never thought the law would suit you; you are too
shy and too sensitive for the practice. It is your
temperament, and I do not believe you could become
indurated; besides, your exclusive literary partialities
would make you consider the law a perpetual
drudgery; and those who so consider it, never advance
far in the profession. The practice of medicine
would suit you better; and, perhaps, best of all
business with Mr. Lorman, if you could grow fond
of it. There's the rub, my dear nephew; but I will
believe, that you have the energy and the unconquerable
will to do it if you determine to try. You
must court fortune as you have courted your mistress,
in spite of lowering clouds, looking through
them to the sunlight beyond.”
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CHAPTER XX.
[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]
Ralph exhausted all his powers of persuasion to
induce Ruth to remain and marry him at once.
Tearfully but resolutely she refused; yet she wept
to think, that now, when they had confessed their
loves, and the currents of their lives, like mingling
streams, might flow tranquilly and happily, they
must part.
“But, Ralph,” she would say, “part we must;
and you will love me more, I know you will, to
think I have fulfilled my duty. We will hear from
each other often, Ralph; and you will come west
soon, will you not, Ralph?”
“I will, dearest Ruth, I will. You must not be
surprised to see me there at any time. What an interest
I shall take in the west now; where you settle
will be a charmed place to me; its very name will be
a spell to call up the holiest emotions of my heart.
Dearest Ruth, I cannot but dwell upon it,—is it not
strange that, loving you as I have loved for years,
the confession should not have passed my lips
sooner? I thought at one time that you loved my
cousin Henry, and you thought that I loved Helen
Murray.”
Ruth blushed, but she spoke not. And, after such
a remark, they would set for hours together without
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scarcely exchanging a word. The idea of their
love and their parting occupying their hearts with
thought too deep for words.
Mr. Lorman sometimes thought he observed an
attachment existing between them, but mindful of,
and impressed by, what Mr. Solomon Beckford had
told him, and not at all aware of the strength of
their affections for each other, he deemed it best to
act as if he did not at all notice it. He thought that
absence would wean them both, and that in the new
scene to which his family was bound, Ruth would
not only soon forget Ralph, but soon make a much
more eligible match, for he had built many airy
castles in the western skies.
Too soon the day of their parting, which would
not be procrastinated, arrived. They were to start
early in the morning in a stage which Mr. Lorman
had chartered for the purpose. Helen Murray and
Ralph, with some other of their friends, were there
by-times, to bid them good-bye. There is one
blessed thing in these partings, viz., that the hurry
and bustle, the anxiety, to know that all is right,
that nothing is left, that every arrangement is properly
made, distract the mind somewhat from the
idea of the separation, and thus rob it of some of
its agony.
Ruth threw her arms around Helen's neck as the
stage drove up to the door, and, unable to control
herself any longer, she wept wildly as she said:
“Farewell, Helen, farewell! God bless you. I
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feel the world is all before me, but that I have left
my only friend behind. Ralph!” she said, addressing
her lover, while she attempted in vain to dry her
tears, “Ralph!” She could say no more.
In silence he pressed her hand to his heart, and
she entered the stage.
“Good-bye, Miss Helen, good-bye, Ralph,” said
little Billy, calling out of the stage window. “Don't
forget, Ralph, to come and see sister Ruth and me
as you promised. I shall be a bigger boy then than
I am now.”
Ralph waved his hand, and away the coach
drove. As it turned rapidly round a corner not far
off, he caught a glance of Ruth, in a flood of tears,
and of Billy offering her his pocket handkerchief.
Helen Murray's carriage was in waiting. “Come,”
said she, as she hastily replaced her handkerchief in
her reticule, and impulsively drew the strings, “come,
Ralph—I beg pardon, Mr. Beckford—ride home
with me. I suppose I shall have some triflers calling
to whom I shall not be at home—I wish company
that has some heart.”
Ralph handed Helen to her carriage, and without
answering, took a seat by her side. How desolate
Lorman's late residence looked to him untenanted.
How saddening the associations it called up. As
they passed the corner round which the stage had
just turned, Ralph beheld his father beckoning to
the driver, and heard him calling on him to stop.
The driver would have continued on regardless,
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but Mr. Lorman ordered him to stop, when the old
miser hurried up to the coach-window, and as soon
as he could catch his breath he ejaculated,
“Bless, my soul! off a'ready—I thought I should
be time enough—ahem! ahem! Friend Lorman, I
shall have some heavy payments to make in the
coming year—don't fail to be punctual in the remittance
of the interest.”
Mr. Lorman assured him that he would not, and
ordered the driver to proceed. As he did so, Ralph
caught another and a last look from Ruth Lorman.
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CHAPTER XXI.
[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]
Were we to trace particularly the journey of the
emigrants, passing as it did, without any incident of
importance, we feel satisfied, our readers would skip
the pages which contained the account. At Pittsburgh,
where they arrived in safety, Mr. Lorman
received a letter from his brother, whose Christian
name was James—and whom some weeks before
his departure, he had apprised of the time when he
should leave—informing him, that when James had
heard that he was fully determined to come, he had
“swapped” his unimproved land on the Mississippi,
for a handsome farm near the village of—, which
he particularly designated. James advised his brother,
to take passage on some boat, bound down
the Ohio, at least as far as that point—and not to
make any more stay at Cincinnati, Louisville, or any
intermediate place, than the boat made, for he was
anxious to see his brother and family, and his business
would require him soon to leave for the Southern
country. James described the farm as a very pleasant
one, and said he had made a great bargain. Harvey,
upon the receipt of the letter, determined to do as
his brother advised him, particularly as he was anxious
to see him. James Lorman was the younger of the two
brothers, and they were the only children of very
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respectable parents, who had been inhabitants of the
city, from which Harvey had emigrated. James, in
early life, went to sea, much against the will of his
parents, who possessed a handsome fortune, and
who were desirous of bringing him up to a more reputable
calling, as they thought. When he arrived at
manhood, he obtained the command of a vessel trading
from New York to Liverpool, and became attached
to an English lady, who was one of his passengers
from the latter to the former place—to
whom, on his arrival in New York, he was married.
His father dying about this time, James, with his
share of the property, went into business in New
York, and sent for his mother to come and live with
him; she was scarcely settled in his house, with his
bride, when they were all three taken with sudden
illness, from which his mother and wife never recovered.
It was suspected afterwards that they were
poisoned, from the fact, that a servant whom James
Lorman then had, and who, for his bad conduct, he
was compelled to punish, was afterwards hung for
poisoning an old French refugee, with whom he
lived. The death of his wife and mother produced
such an effect on James Lorman, that he immediately
sold out his store, turned all his property into
ready money, and emigrated to the western country;
then as sparse and spare of inhabitants and improvements,
compared to its present condition, as it now
is, to what in the progress of a few years it must
be. Preferring the roving life of excitement, to
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which he had been accustomed, James Lorman engaged
in “steam-boating,” to use a western phrase,
shortly after steamboats were first introduced on our
western waters, at which he might have made a fortune,
had prudence been one of his virtues. But to
make his expenditures meet his receipts, seemed to
be one of his maxims. Hearing of his brother's reverses,
he had repeatedly written to him, advising
him to emigrate, and offering him all the assistance
in his power. As our readers are aware, his advice
at last prevailed with his brother.
From a paucity of imagination, or, if our readers
please, from propensity, being compelled to mingle
much of fact in our fiction, we may not particularly
name or designate the locality in which our emigrants
were to fix their abode. They must be content
to know, that it was on the banks of the Ohio,
in the state of Kentucky, and some considerable distance
below the falls, near a village—which we will,
for the sake of a name, call Perryville. It was a
beautiful spot—La Belle Revere made a bold, broad
sweep round the farm, just below the village, and
then stretched away directly on its course. On an
eminence, that gradually sloped to the river, and
which commanded a full view of it, their house, a
small one, which had been originally of frame, and
to which a brick addition in front had been added,
stood. It was considerably out of repair when Mr.
James Lorman took possession of it—but it had been
fitted as well as the time would permit, for the
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reception of his brother and family. The banks of the
river, except on the side immediately before the
house, were shaded by immense sycamores, which
stretched their snowy trunks far into the air, and
spread their luxuriant branches abroad. Three log
cabins—where the slaves of the former proprietor
had lived—and behind them a barn, stood below the
dwelling-house, and nearer to the river. Beside the
barn was a field, that had been but a few years
cleared, in which the gnarled, blackened trees tossed
their bare branches, and appeared like spectres of
famine let loose upon the vegetation. Behind the
field, stretched afar the primeval forest, now just
beginning to be touched with the hues of autumn.
At the distance of half a mile or more above, in a
bend of the river, the village could be seen. The
stillness of this scene was interrupted but by the occasional
sound of the woodman's axe, the bark of a
dog, the song of a passing flat-boat man, and the puff,
or “bark” of the stately steamer, whose winding
way might, of a clear day, be traced for miles, by
the curling cloud that was continually ascending
above her.
Mr. Lorman was lucky enough, on the day of his
arrival at Pittsburgh, to obtain passage on a steamer,
whose destination was below the falls and beyond
Perryville. Fatigued with their jolting journey over
the mountains, during which they saw little of the
scenery, for a misty rain had prevailed for the last two
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days, they were glad to find themselves in the cabin
of a steamboat, surrounded with its conveniences.
At Cincinnati, the boat stopped only half an hour
to discharge some freight, and Ruth could not leave
it to see the city, which she the more regretted, as
she was struck with the beauty and cleanliness of
the landing. At Louisville, the river was sufficiently
high to permit the boat to pass over the falls; and
it immediately proceeded onward. It was near ten
o'clock at night, while Ruth was sitting in the cabin,
before her opened trunk, looking over the many
little presents that Ralph, during their acquaintance,
had made her; when her father entered and told her,
they were within a few miles of Perryville. With
a flutter of the spirits, and a sensation of sorrow,
Ruth passed out of the cabin and took a lonely seat
on the guards. She strained her vision to see if she
could discover aught of the village, but she could
not; and she looked around on the night. It was
a beautiful one: away above her, in the blue vault,
the innumerable stars shone forth, and were reflected
in a thousand glancing lights, in the waves made by
the boat. The tall trees that skirted the banks of the
river, caused a shadow on either side. This made
the river appear much narrower than it was, for the
shadow rested broad and deep in the water, that reflected
in dark mass, the forms of the forest, whose
undulating outline appeared in the wave in strong
contrast with the track of light in which the boat
glided. In the distance, a steamer, advancing
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towards them, cast a track of light on the waters,
which, meeting that thrown out by the boat on which
Ruth was, produced the impression at first upon her
mind that she was passing from the shadow into the
light. “Alas!” thought Ruth, “it is ever thus, while
we journey in this life in darkness and shadow, hope
beckons us on with the light of promises, which we
never realise. It is before us, and we never reach
it; while the dark forms of misfortune and sorrow,
like these lowering forests, frown around us. But
no,” thought she, more cheerfully looking up—“there
is a light above us, which, like these holy stars, cheers
our path, nevertheless, and the very frowning forms
around us, assist us to trace it.” Prayerfully, for a
few moments, Ruth gazed above, and then covering
her face with her hand, she wept in spite of herself.
“Forgive me, merciful Father,” she said, “these are
not tears of repining; they are tears of relief,”—and
she shed a flood of them.
Here several lights from the windows on shore
attracted her attention; and in a few minutes more,
the boat rounded to at Perryville. Mr. Lorman entered
the cabin to say to Ruth, that he would go
ashore and inquire at the tavern for his brother, who
was well known; and that he, therefore, should soon
learn if he was in the place, and find him.
“The boat will stop here at least an hour,” said
he, “for the captain tells me, they must both discharge
freight here and wood.”
Mr. Lorman accordingly went; and returned in a
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half hour with his brother—a fine looking man, with
a bold, open countenance; who was deeply affected
in meeting with his brother and family. Ruth had re-entered
the cabin when her father left, and when he
returned with her uncle, she sat reading by a centretable,
the light from which shone full upon her lovely
features. The door between the ladies and gentlemen's
cabins was open, and as the brothers advanced,
unperceived by Ruth, Harvey said to James:
“Here sits my daughter, brother.”
James stood for a moment, observing her in
silence, till the thoughts of other years arose upon
his memory, and awakened bygone emotions in all
their tenderness; for he thought she resembled his
deceased wife. He advanced and was presented to
his niece by her father, when taking her in his arms,
with deep emotion, he said:
“My dear niece, I feel now, that I have something
to live for; you are welcome, thrice welcome!
My God, brother, she is so like my poor Rachel;”
and unable to control emotions, which he shrunk
from exhibiting, he walked hastily out on the guards.
The captain of the steamer here entered the ladies'
cabin, and said, they had better remain on board all
night, as he should be compelled to stop until daylight,
a fog having arisen, which would prevent
his proceeding. James Lorman being a friend of
his, he pressed them to stay, saying, that if they
would do so, he would land them at the farm in the
morning. They cheerfully accepted his invitation.
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When Ruth arose in the morning, the steamer
was under way. The fog was fast dissipating under
the rays of a brilliant sun. The gloom on her spirits
passed away like the mist from the face of nature,
as she called up the kind reception of her uncle, and
beheld before her the neat farm we have described,
now in full view, which her uncle, who stood beside
her, holding Billy by the hand, was pointing out to
her. Again a shade passed over her countenance,
as the image of Ralph Beckford arose in her mind,
and she turned away to check the starting tear, as
in her heart the intense wish arose—“Oh! that he
were with us.”
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CHAPTER XXII.
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The inhabitants of the village of Perryville, or, to
give it the title which the good people of the place
always gave it, the Town of Perryville, for there
were some of them who would assert that though it
numbered now but a few hundred, at the next census
there would be rising of a thousand; which assertion
was not so apocryphal, when we consider the
rapid increase of western population, as at first blush
would appear: the inhabitants of this good town,
received the Lormans with all the frankness and
cordiality of proverbial Kentucky hospitality. They
had been on the farm but a few days, when many
called to welcome them, and invite them to their
houses. Ruth could not but be struck with the independent
bearing of the people, and the absence of all
servility to wealth or power. True, envy, jealousy
and uncharitableness prevailed, more or less, here, as
they do everywhere where the foot of man treads,
but with some exceptions the good folks of Perryville
could not be said to be addicted to these vices. This
might be owing to the seclusion of the village, which,
though on the banks of the Ohio, was not much
visited, to which there was little emigration, and
where, except in two or three instances, there was
no great disparity in worldly goods. This town, from
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its retirement, if we may use such an expression,
preserved more vividly than many other towns on
the river the character of its early settlers, yet Ruth
was not half so much struck with the difference between
the manners and customs of this and her former
home, as she expected to be. In fact, in most
respects she was impressed with the resemblance,
and if she could have spent a week or two in
Cincinnati or Louisville, it would somewhat have
puzzled her to mark any very distinct and decided
difference between them and the Atlantic city she
had left.
On the Sunday after their arrival, Ruth, accompanied
by her uncle, went to a Presbyterian
church in the town. As she passed along, she was
enabled to take a closer view of Perryville than she
had before done. It stood at the foot of a hill that
rose to a considerable height above it, and was
covered with tall forest trees, except here and there
where could be seen a clearing—consisting of a few
acres of tilled ground, with a log cabin upon it, or
a dwelling, sometimes, of more pretension, made
of boards, or bricks, or stone. Several of these
dwellings, though rudely built, made some attempt
at architectural display, having a porch perhaps,
with disproportionate pillars to it, formed of trees,
so large as almost to throw the house in the shade;
and sometimes ornamented after a fashion with carving,
to the effect of which many cracks in the wood,
often of an inch or two in width, did not add. Some
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of the houses in the town, were in the same style,
and looked straggling as you walked among them.
Others were remarkably well built and neat. It was
evident that every man had consulted his own taste
and habitudes in building. At a distance the village
produced a favourable effect, owing to its situation on
the banks of the river, and the relief given to it by
the surrounding forests, above which the smoke from
the dwellings of a still twilight went quietly up, and
struck the observer with the idea that peace and
happiness there dwelt.
The church was a neat brick one, and the sermon
was preached by a celebrated Divine, formerly of
New England, and now of Cincinnati, who was
travelling in his ministerial vocation, and who is remarkable
for his sterling common sense, and the
strength, vigour, and directness of his language. He
dwelt upon the necessity of spreading the Gospel
truths in the great valley, in connexion with what
would be that valley's influence (from its great extent,
its abundant fertility, and the population which it must
soon number,) for good or evil, according as these
truths rose or fell. He said, the seat of empire must
be in its bosom, and that if that empire was not upheld
by Christian principles in their purity, our republican
institutions could not last long.
Mr. Bennington, the member of Congress from
that district—a wealthy farmer—who had built himself
an elegant mansion, above the town, on his
estate, and whose family had been very attentive to
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the Lormans, invited them to dine with him—saying
that the clergyman who had officiated was also to
be his guest. Mr. Lorman having remained at home,
and the children being under his guardianship, Ruth
and her uncle willingly accepted the invitation, taking
care to send word to her father by the servant who
had attended church of the fact.
Mr. Bennington had a daughter—a very interesting
and agreeable young lady—named Catharine,
about Ruth's own age, and a son, some years older,
who was reading law in the town. He was a superior
young man—had received a college education—
spent a winter in Washington with his father—had
visited the principal eastern cities, as well as those
of the west—was familiar with their fashionable
society, and with that which congregates from all
parts of the United States at the principal watering
places. He was in bearing and in character a gentleman—
though a little wild, and fond of practical
jokes—and he was, withal, very handsome, and possessed
of fine talents. The Benningtons knew how
to appreciate the Lormans, and an intimacy soon
grew up between them.
At the table of Mr. Bennington, also a guest, was
a Miss Elizabeth Judson—a prinky lady, of a certain
age, whose brother kept a hardware store in
Perryville. He was an uncouth and vulgar, but a
worthy man—who had emigrated some five or six
years previous to the date of our narrative to Perryville—
and, on establishing himself in business, had
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sent on for his sister—who had arrived a few days
only before the Lormans. Miss Elizabeth assumed
to be the pink of propriety and glass of fashion,
though she possessed more of the characteristics of
her brother than she was aware of. She had come
to Perryville with very high notions of herself, and
as lowly ones of the good people among whom she
expected to tarry. She had looked upon the west
as quite a wilderness, where bears roamed in such
close proximity to man that the latter had imperceptibly,
from association, caught much of the ways
of the former. The vividness of these impressions
were somewhat giving way before the facts—which
were so startling as to strike even the self-shrouded
vision of Miss Elizabeth. But while she was compelled
to place the good people of Perryville much
higher in her opinion than she expected, she was not
disposed to abate one jot or tittle of her self-estimation—
particularly upon the score of her personal attractions.
These attractions consisted of a thin form—
very much padded to give it the proportions deemed
proper—and arrayed in the most glaring colours—
features, that never were handsome, and which were
now sharp and somewhat shrivelled—and there was
a pugnacious upturning of the nose, wearing often
the expression of one whose olfactories had encountered
a disagreeable odour, and were indignant there-at;
yet the lady prided herself upon her courtesy,
and the bland, honied way in which she said things.
As Ruth, with the Benningtons, was leaving
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church, she could not but inquire of the younger
Bennington, whose name was William, who that
person was—indicating a strange looking personage
who sat directly before her in church, and annoyed
her excessively by turning round and facing her
with a steady stare nearly all the time of service.
“That,” replied William Bennington, with a merry
laugh, “is Doctor Julius Cake, of `our town.' I
observed him staring at you in church. You have
made the doctor's heart ere this a perfect bee-hive—
perforated it in innumerable places—and, as soon as
he gets acquainted with you—an honour I have
already refused to bestow upon him, out of sheer
envy—he will have many honied words for you.
If you are desirous to hear them I will invite him to
dine with us.”
“No, brother, no, you shall not,” said Miss Bennington—
“he will bore us to death. Miss Lorman,
you will have the honour of his acquaintance soon
enough, I assure you. You will have him a fixture
at your house unless you get rid of him as I did.
Though I have a great mind to ask him, and see if
we can't get up a flirtation between him and Miss
Judson—hey, brother?”
“Would you not rather hear our preacher—such
a distinguished man—converse,” said Ruth to Miss
Bennington, “than witness the flirtation.”
“Indeed, you are right, Miss Lorman!” exclaimed
William Bennington. “So, sister, do not let us have
the doctor, unless you mean to appropriate him
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entirely to yourself—or so arrange it that you introduce
him to Miss Judson, and get her to make the
appropriation.”
Meanwhile Dr. Julius Cake, the subject of this
conversation, wended his way on the opposite side
of the street, some twelve or fifteen feet before our
party; and, as he turned to cross the street to go to
his office, which lay in that direction, Ruth had, or
could have had, a full view of him.
Dr. Julius Cake was a tall and very slim man, with
a saffron complexion, like that of a patient far gone
in an ague and fever. He wore a rusty black coat
that hung very loose upon him, the skirt of which,
nevertheless, spread out below like the tail of a
turkey-gobbler in full strut. The doctor held himself
very erect, and he seemed perpetually striving
to curb the natural bustle of his temperament into
professional solemnity. On Sundays, therefore, on
this occasion, the doctor's innermost garment displayed
a depth of collar that came close up under
his ears, and evidently threatened to lift him by
those members from the ground, or compel his
head to dispense with them, while the frill stuck out
like the sign of the great saw at Mr. Judson's hardware
store. This was the more remarkable, as,
often on the succeeding days, until the sabbath came
again, the innermost garment gave no signs of existence
whatever, as no collar appeared above his
stock, and his moleskin vest, garnished with glaring
buttons, was buttoned tight up to the neck. He
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wore his inexpressibles very wide, so as to hide, not
only the smallness of his supporters, but their propensity
to form a bow. His inexpressibles were
strapped down, so as somewhat to diminish in appearance,
the size of feet, which the boys of Perryville
were in the habit of remarking were the largest
ant-killers they had ever seen.
His face was long and narrow, with a very solemn
expression. He always looked as if he were
going to the funeral of a patient. His nose was a
pug one, and protruded over a very large mouth,
like a promontory over a chasm.
The doctor was a great believer in phrenology;
and in reference to his eye—he had a pop eye—it
was his custom to remark that the organ of language
was powerfully developed in his cranium.
For phrenological reasons—to prove at once his capacity
and the science—he wore his hair very short,
but cultivated the growth of an enormous pair of
whiskers, which made it appear, particularly when
you saw his profile, as if the hair had all left his
head for his cheek. He carried an ivory-headed
cane, which, in conversation, he grasped by the middle,
in his right hand, and he gesticulated with it by
placing it with great formality in the palm of his
left one. To see him when conversing in this way,
it was hard to remove the impression that he was
not enacting the caricature of his profession in some
popular farce. Yet the doctor was as serious as a
death's head.
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Ruth spent a very pleasant afternoon at Mr. Bennington's;
and as it grew towards evening, William
and his sister escorted her home, with the intention
of taking tea with her. Just as the sun was descending
behind the huge trees that skirted the river,
while they were all sitting in front of the door enjoying
the prospect which we have described, Billy
went up to his sister, and presenting a letter to her,
said:
“Here, sister Ruth; I was playing by the bars,
and a black man gave me this to give to you.”
“To give to me,” said Ruth, looking at the superscription,
where her name, “Miss Lorman,” appeared
in a full round hand, and smiling as she observed
the seal, which was nearly of the size of a quarter
of a dollar, with an arrow-pierced heart most deeply
impressed upon it. “Who can it be from? There
must be a mistake.”
“No,” said Billy, “he said it was for Miss Lorman;
and I told him that was my sister; and he
told me I must give it right into your hands.”
“There then can be no doubt for whom it was
intended, Miss Lorman,” said William Bennington.
“Billy is a good Mercury, if the blacky was not.”
“Do open it,” said Miss Bennington, whose eye
had caught the seal; “it looks as if a host of little
loves would fly out.”
Ruth opened what proved to be an envelope, and
beheld an epistle apparently in a schoolboy's hand,
written with a great attempt at display, there being
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tremendous gyrations, to the g's and l's, and flourishes
to the capital letters, that appeared to take
everything ad captandum. We give it verbatim, as
it was written; what the writer underscored, we
give in Italics. We suspect the letter is an effusion
of original genius, assisted in its outpourings by the
“Complete Letter-Writer.”
“Adorable and dear Miss,
“I sincerely hope that the justness of my intentions
will plead my excuse for the freedom of this
letter, when I assure you that the irresistible impulse
of love alone induces me thus to address you.
Madam, I say, from the first time I had the pleasure
of beholding your adorable countenance I have
never ceased to love you with the most ardent affection.
It has created a flame in my bosom that I am
confident will never be extinct unless estrayed by
your disdain. From the amiability of your countenance
and the sensibility it indicates, I have no
doubt, I say, but your mind is susceptible of impression,
and will not deny encouragement where honour
alone is found to prompt the action. Happiness
alone is the object of my suit, and I trust that
that happiness, which is in your power alone to bestow,
will not be denied. I doubt not from external
appearances, that you would be a treasure to any
man, and believing you such, I beg to offer you my
hand, my heart, my all, which, if you think worthy
of acceptance, my constant study and the height of
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my ambition will be to make you happy. If, I say,
you think I have violated gentility in thus addressing
you, I ask your forgiveness, as you are a stranger
to me, and a gentleman—one who calls himself a
gentleman, I should say—who I wanted to introduce
me to you said he wouldn't. I suspect he had
some intention himself, and therefore a good reason
why he wouldn't; and as I had no other way of introduction
to you by any other means, I wrote this
letter. I say, in order to give you an idea of the person
who addresses you, I must inform you that I
am the person who walked on the other side of
the street from you on this very morning; and I
am the person who sat before you in church and
looked round at you, and could not take my admiring
gaze off of you; also, I am the person, who,
when the church let out, and I had walked on the
other side of the street above you, crossed over, as
you walked to Miss Bennington's. I was then going
to my office; for, adorable creature, I am a practitioner
of physic. By answering this letter you will
greatly oblige, and at all times command,
“Madam,
“Yours, affectionately,
“Julius Cake, M. D.
“P. S. Adorable Madam,—
“I want to know you soon, for how
do I know but what you may be taken sick in this
land of strangers. O! how I would watch over you,
I say, free of all charge, and feel myself a thousand
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times compensated in being beside you. My office
is just round the corner, where I past you, where your
answer would be thankfully received, or should it
meet your approbation to address me through the
post office within four days, it will also meet with
immediate attention—Adieu.
“To conclude, I beg to refer you to the 1st chapter
of the 2d Epistle of John, 12th verse. J. C.”
“Some one is making a jest of Dr. Cake, the gentleman
you pointed out to me this morning,” said Ruth,
handing the letter to Miss Bennington. “They must
have observed him staring at us,” and she could not
refrain from laughing.
Miss Bennington glanced at the letter, caught an
idea of its contents, and burst into a merry laugh.
“It's true—true, and in right down earnest,” she
exclaimed. “I had the honour of receiving just such
an epistle from the doctor. I was very much provoked
at first, and had made up my mind to request
the pleasure of his absence the first time he came
to our house afterwards; but you know, Miss Lorman,
my father is a `public character,' and the doctor
is one of his constituents, so I laughed at it; and I
am very glad I did; it was the best thing I could
have done. He's cracked, surely cracked.”
Here William Bennington took the letter from his
sister, and, as Ruth expressed no disapprobation, he
read it with an irresistibly ludicrous manner. It was
amusing to see Billy, who, with a broad grin on his
countenance, stood looking up in the face of the
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reader, twisting his own features in unconscious imitation.
“Ha, ha, ha! excellent well,” exclaimed William
Bennington, bursting into an uncontrollable fit of
laughter.
“Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee.”
“Miss Lorman, have you a Bible? Do let us see
what the first chapter of the second Epistle of John,
twelfth verse says! by that text there hangs a tale,
no doubt.”
Ruth rose to get it.
“Tell me, Miss Lorman, where it is—I should go.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Ruth, “I will get it,”
and in a moment she brought it. Mr. Bennington
took it and found the passage, when, with nasal
twang, he read as follows:
“Having many things to write unto you, I would
not write with pen and ink; but I trust to come unto
you, and speak face to face, that our joy may be
full.”
“Hurrah for the Doctor!” exclaimed Mr. Bennington,
in unrestrained jocularity. “Doctor Julius Cake,
he should have been christened after the Doctor in
the Merry Wives of Windsor, and then his title
would be so euphonious—Dr. Caius Cake. A rose,
Miss Lorman, a rose, as the sweet Juliet said, by any
other name; and why not a doctor? `I do remember
an apothecary,' ha, ha! I am the mortal he that
`wouldn't introduce the Doctor.' Miss Lorman, be
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merciful in your displeasure, as you love mercy.
Well, I will say this much for the doctor, that this
is as appropriate a text as was ever quoted.”
“What shall I say to him?” asked Ruth, “Mr.
Bennington, Miss Bennington, tell me.”
“The Doctor is quite an inoffensive fellow, I assure
you, Miss Lorman,” replied William Bennington,
“he has the best intentions, had he not, as I am
the gentleman who `wouldn't,' there would be cause
of fear. If you will give me the letter, I will return
it to the Doctor, and say to him, `that you cannot but
feel complimented at the offer he has made you, but
that your heart is already lost—that you are engaged.”
'
“Do so,” said Ruth, “if you please,” and Mr. Bennington
retained the letter.
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CHAPTER XXIII.
[figure description] Page 219.[end figure description]
Dr. Cake's epistle afforded amusement to the little
party at Mr. Lorman's for the rest of the evening.
William Bennington was determined the sport should
not stop there; accordingly on his return home, he
enclosed the letter—which bore Ruth's name only on
the cover—in another envelope, and directed it to
Miss Judson—for, after a careful perusal, he saw that
without any alteration, Miss Judson might take
it to herself. Being aware that she was unacquainted
with the Doctor, and was of a character
easily to imagine, that “admiring gazes” were fixed
on her at church, and gentlemen would cross the
street, the nearer to behold her; he knew whether
she had observed any one admiring her or not,
or passing her with smitten heart, that on the reception
of the letter, she would easily fancy, and
naturally, it had occurred. There was a lazy loafer
of a free negro in Perryville, called Sam, who
played the fiddle at parties, and did odd-and-end
jobs about, by which he lived. William instantly
concluded to enjoin secrecy on him, enforce it with
a consideration, and make him the bearer of the letter
to Miss Judson. Luckily, as he entered the town
in the morning, he met Sam, who was shuffling along
at a lazy pace, with odd slipshod shoes on his feet,
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and carrying a little basket containing blacking and
shoe brushes—for among Sam's other vocations, he
had taken to that of an itinerant boot-black.
“Sam, which way this morning?” said William
Bennington, addressing him; “take care, or you'll
leave your shoes behind you.”
“I'm gwine, Master William,” replied Sam, touching
his hat, and thrusting his feet further into his
shoes, “to clean Dr. Cake's boots.”
“The Doctor is getting to be quite a dandy lately,
Sam!”
“Yes, sir!” said Sam with a knowing leer, “good
reason for it may be, Master William.”
“Sam, you black rascal, tell me—did you take—
here”—putting a bit of silver in Sam's hand—“did
you take a letter for Doctor Cake on Sunday, to Mr.
Lorman's—the family who have lately come here?”
“Master William—but you mus'n't tell the Doctor
though—he'll be for flaking me, and stop his shoeblacking.”
“No, I won't tell the Doctor, don't you fear—and
if you lose any thing by it, I'll make it up; when did
he write the letter?”
“After church time, in the afternoon, sir—he was
a mighty time at it, and he tared a good many of
'em up afore he could get it right—he kept me there
all the while, and I ha'n't seed the colour of his money
for my trouble yet neither! that's sep'rate thing
from boot blacking, and sweeping he office—a'n't it
now, Master William?”
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“I should think so! Sam, you have seen the colour
of my money already, and you shall see more
of it. I want you to carry a letter for me, and—”
“What, Master William, he, he, he! to the same
place, sir?”
“Hide your ivory and hear me, you black rascal,”
exclaimed William, unable to suppress a smile at the
cunning laugh of Sam; “no, not to the same place—
you must take it to Mr. Judson's—do you know
Mr. Judson and his sister?”
“Yes, sir!” exclaimed Sam, evidently surprised
at what he supposed to be the purpose of his errand
there.
“Now, pay attention to what I say, Sam. You
must take this letter there—don't take it into the
store, but take it to the door beside the store, that
lets into the part of the house where the family live—
rap at that door, and give it to whoever comes.
Don't you stay about there after you give it—come
away—and mark now, do not on any account tell
who sent you.”
“But s'pose they say I must tell,” said Sam,
wiping his thumb and finger, preparatory to taking
the letter.
“Say a gentleman, whose name you don't know,
but that you believe he is a doctor.”
“A doctor—this here letter does look like the Doctor's
any how,” said Sam, turning it over and casting
a curious glance on it.
“It does, hey? mind Sam—don't mention my
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name—be off with it now—and if you want to see
the colour of my money, let me see you at Mr. Bowers'
book store, as soon as you have delivered it.”
Sam proceeded with a quickening step towards
Miss Judson's, whose residence lay in the direction he
was walking when William stopped him, and at no
great distance beyond Dr. Cake's office. The Doctor
happened to be standing in his door, and seeing
Sam advancing towards him with a letter in his
hand, he took it for granted that it was for himself,
in answer to his of Sunday.
“Ha! Sam, Samuel, I say, step quick; the prescription
is taken, hey? I say, Sam—and the medicine
has operated? The sweet creature is certainly
quick on the trigger!”
But Sam drew back, and told him the letter was
not for him.
“Hey! I say, Samuel, did you not deliver my
letter?”
The Doctor generally, had a very precise manner
of conversation.
“Yes, Doctor, I give it, and a mighty long scramble
I had on't—to my hidear it's rising a mile.”
“I say, Samuel, did you give it to the lady herself?
Samuel, I hope—speak out, did you—I hope
you did not boot black it as you have that—I say,
did you?” said the Doctor with anxiety, looking at
the letter which Sam held, and which plainly bore
his post mark.
“No, sir,” ejaculated Sam, looking at the soiled
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letter, and making matters worse by wiping it on
his cuff, “consarn it! I washed my hands then, and
carried t'other in a piece of paper, till I seed the
little boy.”
“I say, Samuel, did you not give it to the lady
herself?”
“N-no, sir, but I give it to the little boy, and I
stood at the bars and seed him give it to the lady.
And you may ask Master Bennington and Miss Bennington,
they were a-sitting with her—and they all
read it and liked it, I tell ye, Doctor, for they did
laugh—he, he, he!—mightily!”
As Sam spoke he hurried on. The Doctor, after
a moment of speechless wonderment and chagrin,
recovered himself, and, burning to know more about
it, called after Sam lustily, but that worthy pretending
to be out of hearing, hastened on. The Doctor
seized his hat and cane, and making after, soon overtook
him.
“Why, I say—why did you not stop when I called
you, Samuel?” exclaimed the Doctor, as he drew
near Sam, and in so angry a tone, that fearing something
might happen between the Doctor's cane and
his head, Sam stopped, for he had never heard the
Doctor's voice sound so belligerant before. “Why
did you not stop—I say, Sam—when I called you?”
“Did you call me, sir?” said Sam, with a look of
inquiry; “I'm hard of hearing, you knows, Doctor,
and I'm in a torn down hurry; if you be's a-gwine
this way I'll tell you—'cause I must be gwine.”
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The Doctor, putting animated interrogations, walked
a step or two before Sam, until they arrived immediately
opposite to Mr. Judson's, but without extracting
from him anything more than he had already
heard, saving that they not only laughed mightily,
but that they “kept a-laughing.”
“Damnation!” muttered the Doctor, “you are a-going
to make another damned Tom-fool of yourself
with that letter.”
“No, sir, the gentleman what sent this, paid me
before I started.”
“That was right—I say, Samuel, that was right—
the pills I gave you last week for your griping,
Samuel, will pay for all errands of that kind in my
behalf. Who's that letter for?”
“It's to go to Mr. Judson's, Doctor,” replied Sam,
evasively.
“Well, there's Mr. Judson's, I say, Samuel,”
quoth the Doctor, pointing emphatically at Mr. Judson's
house with his cane. “Why do you stand
gaping here, Samuel—why not go about your
business?”
“It would ha' been done if you hadn't a-kept me,”
muttered Sam, as he stumbled across the street.
The doctor stood in a brown study, gazing unconsciously
at Mr. Judson's house, and not until he was
aroused from his reverie by Sam's rap at the front
door, did he retrace his steps to his office.
Miss Elizabeth Judson happened to be seated at
her front window over her brother's store—for the
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lower room of his dwelling-house was thus occupied—
and from the sewing, which she would have alleged
claimed her whole attention, she not unfrequently
cast her eyes into the street. On beholding the
Doctor, for she knew him by sight, though she had
never been introduced to him, and Sam in earnest
confabulation, she very naturally remarked them.
And when Sam with a letter in his hand, stopped opposite,
with the Doctor, and the latter pointed to her
house, and she heard the rap of Sam, she called to
a little black boy who she said was her foot-boy,
and who was master of all work, and named Washington.
Washington's name she never abbreviated,
and when she heard it done by the boys or her brother,
it gave her almost as much pain as when her
brother, from an olden habit of which she was endeavouring
to break him, called her “Lizzy.” On
this occasion she particularly elongated the name.
“Wash-ing-ton, run down stairs and go to the
front door; did you not hear the rap.”
“In a minute, Missus.”
“Never mind slipping on your livery-jacket,
Washington, run.” To herself she said—“It's a
letter for me from Dr. Cake—what can it be about?—
I do not know him to speak, but I have often
caught his eye.”
Here Washington, a knotty-headed “foot-boy,”
in an under-garment the condition of which, for
the honour of foot-boys, required the aid of the
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livery-jacket, entered the room and presented the
Doctor's letter to his mistress.
Miss Elizabeth Judson read and re-read the letter—
examined the superscription again and again, arose
and looked in the glass, and then called Wash-ing-ton,
and interrogated him over and over again as to
what the bearer had said.
“Nothing,” Washington reiterated, “but he telled
me to give it to you, ma'am.”
“The dirty fellow, he might have washed his
hand doing such an errand, I think.”
At this remark of his mistress, Washington cast
suspicious glances at his own hands and slid them
down his sides.
Miss Judson was certainly delighted—she wished
the letter had come from a handsomer man—but
she was delighted nevertheless, for she had arrived at
that age when, if such epistles come at all to a portionless
lady, they come like “angel's visits.” She
being a new comer in the town, knew nothing of Dr.
Cake, but that he was a doctor, and that title, she felt,
must belong to a respectable man—quite a respectable
man—and that any peculiarities in his dress
might arise from the hurry of professional business,
or the eccentricity of genius—thus thought Miss
Judson, at least after the receipt of the letter. Previous
to this, when the Doctor had been pointed out
to her—it was on Sunday, and, strange to say, the
Doctor was at that moment with his head turned
from Miss Judson, gazing at Ruth—she looked as if
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he had administered to her one of his vilest drugs.
Now, in reflecting upon the Doctor, she said unto
herself—“Ay, yes, when I saw him on last Sabbath,
with his head turned, it was his modesty—yes, as
soon as he saw my head turned towards him, his
modesty arose. That is always the way, they say,
with a true passion. I declare he is very respectful—
very indeed. He saw me at the window, and
how intently he looked, but the moment he caught
my eye he turned away. Only think, only here a
few days, and this to happen! I shall write home to-morrow.
I wish the people wouldn't keep coming
in the store, so I shan't have a chance to talk to
brother about Doctor Cake till dinner-time. I wonder
if i had better send for him?—Wash—no, I
shall get nothing out of him if I do. He wants me
to stay and keep house for him. I'll let him see that
I have chances, anyhow, so that he may set a right
value on my kindness.” Here Miss Judson arose
and descended the stairs to see if her brother was
unengaged; he was busy with a customer. She
ascended again, took a pen and ink, and thought she
would indite a note requesting to see the Doctor on
the tender subject—then she thought she had better
send a verbal message by Washington, but at last
she concluded to wait and consult her brother, but
she got completely into the fidgets before dinner-time.
Dinner was on the table, her brother had been
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twice sent for before he came. He entered in a
hurry, saying:
“Lizzy, fine day's business this—I have had the
store full of customers all day.”
“Brother,” said Miss Elizabeth, bridling, “I rejoice
to know you are doing so well, it gives me great
pleasure—but, brother, you convey your good news
in a way to give me pain”—
“Pain! why what's the matter, Lizzy,” ejaculated
Mr. Judson, scarcely able to articulate, his mouth was
so full.
“There it is again, brother, I have repeatedly requested
that you would not call me out of my name—
my given name is Elizabeth.”
“Pooh, pooh, nonsense!” exclaimed Mr. Judson,
as he transferred a goodly portion of roast beef from
the dish to his plate—“I remember the time when
you hated to be called Elizabeth, you thought it was
too formal.”
“That was when I was a child, brother—I now
request you would call me by my given name—Lizzy
sounds vulgar.”
“Well, well, Liz—Elizabeth I will call you—why
don't you eat?”
Miss Elizabeth Judson heaved a sentimental sigh—
“Brother, do you know Doctor Cake?”
“Know Doctor Cake—why don't you eat your
dinner—to be sure I know Doctor Cake—why what
the devil have you got to do with Doctor Cake, Liz—
Elizabeth?”
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“What kind of a gentleman is he, brother?” pursued
Miss Elizabeth.
“Gentleman! he's a doctor here, and was afore I
came to Perryville. He don't seem to have made
much money—Doctor Wickelmous tends on me—I
never was sick but once, and that was the summer
after I came here—I was down, as I wrote you,
with the bilious fever—Doctor Wickelmous boarded
in the same house with me. I called him in—he got
me through nicely, but he worked me with his medicine
powerfully—my ribs were as plain to see, as a
gridiron's—What's the matter, are you ailing that
you don't eat—do you want a doctor?”
“May be a Doctor wants me, brother,” said Miss
Elizabeth, with a simper and an effort after the girlish
manner of other days. Mr. Emanuel Judson
laid down his knife and fork, and laughed heartily.
“Wants you! what, Lizzy, for a subject, a skeleton?”
“Brother,” exclaimed Miss Elizabeth, rising from
her chair in all the might of her dignity, “such language
is unbecoming any man to a woman, any
gentleman to a lady—let alone these ties of blood
between us—let alone our blood relationship, I say.”
“I mean no harm, Elizabeth—why what the deuce
has got into you—what has happened? Damn Doctor
Cake and his skeleton for a pair of jackanapes
if you choose—What's the matter? sit down, sit
down.”
Miss Elizabeth, after some hesitancy, took her seat,
and then putting on her most maidenly and modest
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look, she narrated to her brother the whole affair of
the letter, and ended by placing it in his hand, ordering
Washington at the same time to hand her the
Bible, in which, with an immense dog-ear, she had
marked the text referred to by the Doctor.
Mr. Judson read the letter with great attention,
every now and then making an exclamation at the
complimentary passages. When he had concluded,
he held it between his finger and thumb for a moment,
as if he wished to comprehend the whole of it
at once, without any obstruction, then handing it to
his sister, he asked:—
“What are you a-going to do with this?”
“Why, brother, this is a matter of importance,
what do you advise me, brother?”
“A matter of importance! pooh—Lizzy just give
the letter to Wash and let him take it to the Doctor,
and so end this foolery!”
“Foolery! how you talk, brother—because you
have never felt the power of our sex, you think no
one else can feel. Doctor Cake's feelings are evidently
interested, and I do not want to wound
them.”
“Interested! wound them! ha, ha, ha! Lizzy,
don't be upish now—ha, ha! I can't help it.”
“Brother, I have feelings at least, I hope you will
admit”—saying which, Miss Elizabeth Judson, between
anger and mortification, began to sob.
Her brother, though a rough, was not an unfeeling
man. He subdued therefore with a strong effort,
his almost unresistible propensity to laugh, and
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in the most coaxing tone he could assume, soothed
his sister. She had only been with him for a short
time—he was a bachelor, and having no one else to
be interested in, he was attached to her; he therefore
shrunk from giving her pain.
“Come, don't be upish, Lizzy—hang it—Elizabeth
I mean—do just as you think best—have the
Doctor if you choose.”
“I have not said I would have him,” replied Miss
Elizabeth, drying her eyes, and a little nettled with
her brother for his indifference to her marriage;
“but I wish to do, in all events, what's genteel, lady-like,
and proper.”
“Well, you know, Elizabeth, I have no pretensions
to know what is lady-like and proper—I am
not in that line.”
“Well, brother, my mind is made up; I don't wish
to write to Doctor Cake—I wouldn't know how to
say it. You know him—suppose you just ask him
to step round here this afternoon, you can then introduce
him to me, and leave us together. I can then,
at least, thank him for the honour he has done me—
while I let him know, that I should be happy to see
him as—a friend. And, you know, brother, as things
may turn up, I can afterwards make up my mind.”
“Well, sister, as you choose, as you choose—I
will ask him round here, this afternoon.”
Mr. Judson here arose from the table and entered
the store, while Miss Elizabeth repaired to her toilet,
to put on all her charms, saying to Washington as
she went:
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“Wash-ing-ton, take the tin basin into the back
yard, and get the towel, which you will find among
the dirty clothes, and give yourself a good washing;
then brush your livery jacket nicely, and come to
me—do it instantly. Wash-ing-ton, I shall want
you.”
While Miss Judson was at the toilet, she called
Washington several times, and ordered him to go
and see if her brother was in the store. He returned
with: “yes, ma'am, master's there.” Miss Judson
thought, he never would go to give the invitation.
After she had arranged her toilet-with all possible
care—displaying old-fashioned gold—or apparent
gold beads—“all is not gold,” &c.—close round her
neck—and an enormous pair of modern earrings, with
a cameo breast-pin, she with a stately step, in which
she tried to coax a little timidity, entered her parlour,
and called on Washington again to see if his
master was in the store. Washington obeyed the
order, returned, and said:
“Master's just this minute gone out, ma'am—I
seed his coat-tail as he was gwine.”
“Going, why don't you say, Washington? I declare,
you associate so much with these bad boys in
the street, that it not only spoils your clothes, but
your pronunciation. I wonder (to herself) if I should
remain in my room and not enter the parlour until
Doctor Cake has been brought in by my brother;
or had I best be here to receive him? he is, I have
no doubt, very diffident. I think I will remain.
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Cake certainly is not a pretty name, but Julius certainly
is.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Judson, anxious to get back to
his store, with his mind intent on business, for his
fall customers were now coming in, it being that
season, hurried round to Dr. Cake's, and entering
that worthy's office, found him sitting there.
The Doctor arose with professional courtesy and
gravity, and offered Mr. Judson a seat.
“Thank you, Doctor, I am much obliged to
you; I must not tarry, Doctor,”—here Mr. Judson
cleared his throat—“Doctor, I wish you would call
round and see my sister—she is—”—here Mr. Judson,
in glancing into the street, beheld one of his largest
country dealers, who, he had heard, had been in
town several days, and he had wondered, why he
had not called at his store—the fear arising in his
mind that he might be accommodated elsewhere, as
a rival in trade had lately opened a hardware establishment.
As soon, therefore, as Mr. Judson espied
him, he called out—“Ah! my old friend, Mr. Blowglass,
how do you do? how is your family?” and he
hastened out to meet Mr. Blowglass, shake him by
the hand, and abduct him to his store. As he went;
he said hastily to Doctor Cake—
“Doctor, don't forget to call round as soon as
you can. My sister wants to see you.”
“Certainly, sir—I say, certainly, Mr. Judson, I
shall wait on Miss Judson immediately. Are the
symptoms—I say, are the symptoms dangerous, Mr.
Judson?” But Mr. Judson was out of hearing
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across the street, shaking hands with his friend,
Mr. Blowglass.
“Ah!” exclaimed Doctor Cake in self-congratulation—
“A patient—I say—a patient—I get along
with the women, wonderfully.” Looking at himself
in a bit of broken glass, that he had fixed against the
wall, the Doctor continued—“I say, Doctor Julius
Cake, you are not handsome; but you are certainly
genteel, Doctor—Judson, Mister Judson, employs
Wickelmous, the quacking fellow—but Miss
Judson employs Doctor Cake! I opine from this
day and date, I'll have the two of them. Something
bilious, I expect; though that old maid Judson looks
knotty—she'll last, I say—but she must be acclimated.”
With such thoughts, the Doctor proceeded
forthwith to Mr. Judson's. Washington answered to
the rap, and ushered him into Miss Judson's parlour,
where he found the lady on the sofa, with her head
in pensive attitude on her hand, that was supported
by the arm of the sofa. The lady half rose, as the
doctor entered, and said, in a soft low voice, with
glance somewhat downcast:
“Doctor Cake, I believe?”
“My name, ma'am. I believe, I have the honour
of addressing Miss Elizabeth Judson?” Miss Judson
bowed, and played with the tassel of her cape;
while the doctor, placing his hat and cane on the
chair, with tiptoe step advanced. She requested
him to be seated. He placed himself on the sofa
beside her, and gently took her hand. The lady
bowed her head, and said:
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“Doctor, I have,” she was about to add, “received
your letter,” but the Doctor interrupted her with—
“A fever, I perceive, Miss Judson!—please to put
out your tongue.”
“Sir!” exclaimed the lady, starting.
“Yes, Miss Judson—I say a fever! Your system
is in a state of excitement; purgatives and blood-letting
may be necessary: but, I say, madam—Miss
Judson, don't be alarmed.” So speaking, the doctor
pressed his finger upon her pulse, and drew his watch
from his fob.
“Alarmed! Dr. Cake—I do not understand! Did
you see my brother?”
“I say surely, ma'am—Miss Judson. I had not
time particularly—I say—to inquire of him into your
symptoms, but I know, from your delicate frame—
I say—Miss Judson, and your habits, that your disease
would be of the bilious character.”
The lady looked bewildered for a moment, and
then exclaimed, “This is a mistake, sir; I am not
sick! I!—my habits!”
The doctor instantly concluded that Miss Judson
was flighty, and that her brother, without informing
her—as, like many patients, she might refuse to have
a doctor—had sent him: he therefore said—
“I say, Miss Judson, your brother did not deem
you at all ill—merely—I say—a little indisposed;
but, Miss, a lancet in time is like a stitch in time.
This sofa is not a good place for the operation: had
you not better—I say—Miss—had you not better let
me attend you to your chamber?”
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“To my chamber!” exclaimed Miss Judson, starting
up in amazement and indignation—“you vile,
abandoned man, you!”
“She's as crazy as a bed-bug—mad as a March
hare”—thought the Doctor. “I sha'n't be able to manage
her. Boy (aside to Washington, who stood
looking on with his eyes like saucers) go down
and ask your master to step here.”
“What! dare you send my boy away, you vile
villain!” exclaimed Miss Judson, who had not overheard
exactly what he said, but who concluded,
from Washington's attempting to obey the order, that
the doctor had told him to leave the room. “Wash,
stay where you are, sir. If you dare to budge I'll
skin you—that I will. There, sir”—and suiting the
action to the word—she snatched the Doctor's letter
from her bosom—“there, sir, take your vile letter,
you most infamous person!” So saying, with the
eye of a fury, Miss Judson flung past the amazed
doctor, and slammed the door after her with a bang
like a musket.
The doctor snatched up the letter—looked at the
superscription—“Miss Elizabeth Judson”—hesitated
a moment—“She is certainly cracked,” thought he—
opened it—and beheld his epistle to Miss Lorman!
He stood a moment in perplexed and awful cogitation;
then, grasping his cane firmly, he darted out
of the room, with fell purposes on Sam; but, as
he reached the turn of the step, he stopped—thinking
it best to see Miss Judson and make an explanation,
before she should circulate her present impressions
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through the town, which he feared would be greatly
to his injury. He heard a door open, and, on looking
up, he beheld the lady.
“Miss Judson—madam—I say—I implore you
to listen to me for one moment. This letter was
not intended for you”—and he stepped towards her.
“Not intended for me! you vile, beastly falsifier!”
exclaimed the lady, shutting the door to within a
few inches, and screaming through the aperture—
“didn't I see you direct your black book-black to
my very door—yes, didn't I see you myself!” With
this Miss Judson shut the door, and the doctor heard
her lock and bolt it. He hurried out into the street
in search of Sam.
William Bennington, who had been duly informed
by Sam of the delivery of the letter, had been prying
about the doctor's office thereafter—expecting a
denouement—and had seen Mr. Judson enter, and
the Doctor leave in a hurry, in the direction of Mr.
Judson's. He therefore followed him—and, from a
store opposite, watched his smiling ingress and his
wrathful egress. Stepping out, he joined him with
the salutation—
“Doctor, good evening!—how does the world
treat you, Doctor?”
The Doctor started, as a nervous patient would
under his lancet.
“Sir—I say—Mr. Bennington—you were, I am
informed by that infernal black rascal, Sam—I'll
Sam him”—clenching his cane closely—“you were
the last Sabbath at Mr.—”
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“Ah! Doctor,” interrupted William, “I have been
in search of you. Yes, as you say, I was the last
Sabbath at Mr. Lorman's, when your letter to Miss
Lorman was received by that lady. She felt very
much complimented.”
“Complimented!—yes—I say—I understand!—
she returns compliments with—I say—laughter.
sir!”
“Who told you so, Doctor?”
“Sam, sir, Sam.”
Here William contrived to extract from the Doctor,
though he could with the greatest difficulty suppress
his laughter sufficiently to question him with
gravity, an account of all of which our readers are
aware,—which the Doctor concluded by saying—
“That's your sweet girl—I say—Mr. Bennington,
that you have been puffing up to me, sir—not only
to laugh at my letter, sir—I say—which was meant
honourably—but, sir, she must send it to this vixen,
and ruin my character—ruin my character—I say,
sir; for she will report all over town that I—”
“Doctor,” interrupted William Bennington, “let
me explain to you, give me your attention a moment.
Sam misinformed you, the letter was received
by Miss Lorman—you should never send
such messages by Sam—while my sister and myself
were present. We therefore insisted, as in politeness
bound, that she should read the letter, and not
stand upon ceremony; she accordingly did so, she
was evidently agitated when she read it, and not
knowing you, and being a stranger in the place, it
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was quite natural that she should make inquiries.
In this way my sister and myself saw the letter;
what we laughed at—myself and sister, I mean—
was at Sam, who stood peeping over the bars. I
assure you, Doctor, you should never make Sam a
messenger in these affairs. Miss Lorman felt very
much complimented—she is indeed a sweet girl—
she fully appreciates the honour you intended her;
she sighed, and requested me to say to you, that she
was engaged. You know, if a lady's hand is already
given away, there cannot be the slightest
grounds—”
“Yes, I say,” interrupted the Doctor, “that is very
true, Mr. Bennington; but, sir, I say, how came she
sir—how came Miss Lorman to send my letter, sir—
to alter the superscription, sir—which I believe is an
indictable offence, and send it by Sam to that vixen,
sir?”
“My dear Doctor, I am about explaining the matter
to you.”
“If you please, sir—I say, if you please, Mr. Bennington.”
“Miss Lorman knowing,” resumed William,
“that I was acquainted with you, requested me to
tell you what I have related, and at the same time,
she handed me your letter to return to you; I took
the letter home with me on Sunday evening for that
purpose—and enclosed it in an envelope, with the
intention of putting your direction on it; but after I
had sealed it, I found that some one had taken away
my inkstand. I went to my sister's room for it—she
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had just folded a piece of lace in a note for Miss
Judson, when I entered her room, and asked for my
inkstand; she handed it to me, and at the same time,
gave me the note, requesting me to direct it to Miss
Judson, and leave it at her brother's store, when I
went down town, or send one of the servants with
it. I am very sorry, Doctor, very sorry indeed—
but the fact is, that a misdirection of these letters has
made your cake all dough, at Judson's.”
“All dough at Judson's”—ejaculated the doctor in
his earnestness, not at all taking William's play upon
his name—“sir, I say, the cake 'll be all dough all
through the city; I say, sir, I shall have my character
and professional prospects entirely ruined by
Miss Judson's representation of this affair; I say,
sir—Mr. Bennington, you have no comprehension of
what a fury she was in. If she holds on in this way,
by God! sir, I say, I believe she'll go before the
grand jury, and try to put me in the penitentiary!”
“Doctor, if you think the business is so serious as
this, I will go instantly and explain it to the lady. I
believe, Doctor, she would like to be made a cake of.”
“Damn me, if ever I make a cake of her, sir; no
sir, not to save the race from utter extinction. She
may stay dough to the end of the chapter. But
you will see her at once, will you, Mr. Bennington?”
“Instantly,” replied William, “and he accordingly
repaired to Miss Judson's, and made the explanation.
END OF VOLUME I.
Back matter
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CAREY, LEA & BLANCHARD, PHILADELPHIA,
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EXTRACTS FROM THE ENGLISH PREFACE.
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Thomas, Frederick W. (Frederick William), 1806-1866 [1836], East and west, volume 1 (Carey, Lea, & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf385v1].
