CHAPTER XXIII.
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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.
