University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

Henry Beckworth, the eldest son of a Massachusetts
farmer, of small means and many mouths,
was glad to accept a situation as clerk in the comprehensive
“variety store” of his cousin Ellis Irving, who
was called a great merchant in the neighbouring town
of Langton. This cousin Ellis had fallen into the dangerous
and not very usual predicament of having every
body's good word; and it was not until he had failed in
business, that any one discovered that he had a fault
in the world.

While he was yet in his hey-day, and before the
world knew that he had been so good-natured as to endorse
for his wife's harum-scarum brother, his clerk,
Henry Beckworth, had never dared to acknowledge,
even in his dreams, that he loved to very dizziness his
sweet cousin Agnes Irving. But when mortification
and apoplexy had done their work upon Mr. Irving,
and his delicate wife had ascertained that the remnant
of her days must pass in absolute poverty, dependant

for food and raiment upon her daughter's needle, Henry
found his wits and his tongue, and made so good use of
both, that, ere long, his cousin Agnes did not deny that
she liked him very well.

Now young ladies who have been at boarding-school
and learned to paint water-melons in water colours,
and work Rebecca at the well in chenille and gold
thread, find real, thrifty, housewifely sewing, very slow
and hard work, to earn even bread and salt by; but the
dove-eyed Agnes had been the sole care and pride of
a genuine New England housewife, who could make
hard gingerbread as well as soft, and who had plumed
herself on being able to put every stitch into six fine
shirts between Sunday evening and Saturday night.
And so the fair child, though delicately bred, earned
her mother's living and her own, with cheerful and
ungrudging industry; and Henry sent all the surplus
of his clerkly gains to his father, who sometimes found
the cry of “crowdie, crowdie, a' the day,” rather difficult
to pacify.

But by-and-bye, Mrs. Irving became so feeble that
Agnes was obliged to nurse her instead of plying her
skilful needle; and then matters went far astray, so
that after a while the kind neighbours brought in almost
all that was consumed in that sad little household;
Henry Beckworth being then out of employ, and unable
for the time to find any way of aiding his cousin, save
by his personal services in the sick-room.

He grew almost mad under his distress, and the
anxious, careful love which is the nursling of poverty,
and at length seeing Mrs. Irving's health a little
amended, he gave a long, sad, farewell kiss to his Agnes,

and left her with an assurance that she should hear
from him soon. He dared not tell her that he was
quitting her to go to sea, in order that he might have
immediate command of a trifling sum which he could
devote to her service.

He made his way to the nearest sea-port, secured a
berth before the mast in a vessel about to sail for the
East Indies; and then put into a letter all the love, and
hope, and fear, and caution, and encouragement, and
resolution, and devotedness, that one poor sheet could
carry, giving the precious document into the care of a
Langton man, who was returning “direct,” as he said,
to the spot where poor Henry had left his senses.

This said letter told Agnes, among other things, how
and when to draw on Messrs.—, for Henry's wages,
which were left subject to her order—and the lover
went to sea, with a heavy heart indeed, but with a comforting
security that he had done all that poverty would
let him, for the idol of his heart.

An East India voyage is very long, and most people
experience many a changing mood and many a wayward
moment during its course; but Henry Beckworth's
heart beat as if it would burst his blue jacket,
when he found himself on shore again, and thought of
what awaited him at Langton.

He called on Messrs.—, to ascertain whether
any thing remained of his pay, and found that every
dollar was untouched. At first this angered him a
little; “for,” as he justly argued, “if Agnes loved me
as I love her—but, never mind!” This I give as a fair
specimen of his thoughts on his homeward journey.
All his contemplations, however incoherent or wide of

the mark, came invariably to one conclusion—that
Agnes would surely be willing to marry him, poor as he
was, rather than he should go to sea again.

It was evening, and a very dull, lead-coloured evening,
when the stage that contained our lover stopped at
the only public-house in Langton. The True Blue
Hotel, kept, as the oval sign which creaked by its side
informed the grateful public, by Job Jephson, (at this
moment J. Jephson, Esquire, of Tinkerville, in
Michigan,) the very Job Jephson to whose kindly care
Henry had committed his parting letter. The stage
passed on, and Mr. Beckworth paced the tesselated
floor of Mr. Jephson's bar-room, until the worthy proprietor
and himself were left its sole occupants.

“Why, Henry, my boy, is that you? Do tell!
Why your hat was slouched over your eyes so, that I
did not know you! Why, man! where on airth have
you sprung from!”

Henry asked after every body, and then after Agnes
Irving and her mother.

“Agnes Irving!”

“Dead!” said Henry, wildly enough.

“Dead! no, married to be sure! three months ago;
and this very day a week ago, her mother was buried.”

It is really surprising how instantaneously pride
comes to one's aid on some occasions. The flashing
thought of the loved one's death, had been anguish intolerable
and inconcealable; the certainty of what was
far worse only blanched Henry's cheek, and set his
teeth firmly together while his lips questioned on, and
the loquacious host of the True Blue proceeded.

“Poor Agnes saw hard times after you went away.

She had to give up the house you left her in, and take a
room at Mr. Truesdell's. And then Mrs. Irving did
nothing but pine after the comforts she had lost, for
her mind was kind o' broke up by trouble. And
Agnes tried to find some other place to board, because
her mother took such an awful dislike to Mrs. Truesdell;
but there wasn't nobody willing to take them in,
because the old lady was so particular. And so, John
Harrington—you know John?—made up to her again,
though she 'd refused him two or three times before;
and said he loved her better than ever, and that he
would take her mother home and do for her as if she
was his own. Now, you see, the neighbours had got
pretty much tired of sending in things, because they
thought Aggy oughtn't to refuse such a good offer, and
so after a while John got her. After all the poor old
lady did not seem to enjoy her new home, but pined
away faster than ever, and said she knew Aggy had
sold herself for her sake, but that was only a notion
you know, for John was an excellent match for a
poor—”

“Did you give my cousin the letter I handed you?”
interrupted Henry.

“I'll just tell you all about that,” responded Mr.
Jephson, complacently drawing a chair for Henry, and
inviting him to sit, as if for a long story. “I'll just tell
you how that was. When you and I parted that time, I
thought I was all ready for a start home; but there was a
chance turned up to spekilate a little, and arter that I
went down South to trade away some notions, so that
when I got back to Langton it was quite cold weather,
and I took off my best coat and laid it away, for where's

the use of wearing good clothes under a great coat, you
know? and there, to be sure was your letter in the
pocket of it. Well, before I found it again Agnes was
getting ready to be married; and, thinks I to myself,
like enough it's a love-letter, and might break off the
match if she go it, gals are so foolish! so I just locked
up the letter and said nothing to nobody and”—
there lay Mr. Jephson on his bar-room floor.

Henry turned from the place with some glimmering
of an intention to seek his lost love and tell her all, but
one moment's lapse cured this madness; so he only
sat down and looked at Job, who was picking himself
up and talking all the while.

“Man alive! what do you put yourself into such a
plaquy passion for? I done it all for the best; and as
to forgetting, who does not forget sometimes? Plague
take you! you've given my back such a wrench I
sha' n't be able to go to trainin' to-morrow, and tore my
pantaloons besides; and, arter all, you may likely thank
me for it as long as you live. There's as good fish in
the sea as ever was caught—but I swan! you're as
white as the wall, and no mistake,” and he caught the
poor soul as he was falling from his chair.

“Well, now, if this does n't beat cock-fighting!”
muttered he, as he laid his insensible guest at full length
on the floor and ran to the bar for some “camphire,”
which he administered in all haste, “to take on so about
a gal without a cent, but he wont come to after all,
and I shall have to bleed him:” saying which he pulled
off one sleeve of Henry's jacket and proceeded in due
form to the operation.

“He wont bleed, I vow! Hang the fellow! if he

dies, I shall be took up for manslaughter. Why, Harry,
I say!” shaking him soundly, and dragging at his
arm with no gentle force. At last blood came slowly,
and Beckworth became once more conscious of misery,
and Mr. Jephson's tongue set out as if fresh oiled by
the relief of his fears for his own safety.

“Now, Henry, do n't make such a fool of yourself!
You always used to be a fellow of some sconce. What
can't be cured must be endured.” But as Henry's lips
resumed their colour, and he raised himself from the
floor, Mr. Jephson's habitual prudence urged him farther
and farther from the reach of the well arm. His
fears were groundless, however, for all that Henry now
wanted was to be alone, that he might weep like a
woman.

“Promise me that you will never tell any one that
I have been here this night,” said he at length; “this
is all I ask. Since Agnes is another man's wife, God
forbid I should wish my name mentioned in her presence.”

“Why, law! I'll promise that, to be sure; but you
should n't make so much out o' nothing: Aggy has
got the best house in town, and every thing comfortable;
and it a' n't no ways likely she would fret after
you.” And with this comforting assurance Henry
prepared for departure.

“I say, Beckworth!” said Mr. Jephson as his guest
left the room with his valise; “I sha' n't charge you
anything for the bleeding.”