University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.

Next morning Wilson showed me a letter from his
parents, pressing his return, and we fixed on the first of
March for our journey to Tennessee. This was the
middle of February. After breakfast I took the key
from Clarissa, and went to superintend the furnishing
her house, having previously informed Mrs. Simpson
that her friends had made up a little sum for her, and if
she could suit herself in the purchase of a comfortable
house, (not exceeding the amount) she sould have the money
any time, stating the amount.

It was late in the day before the house was ready to
receive the Simpsons, and leaving the Hunters there, I
waited on Clarissa with a carriage, to convey her thither.
Her mother and sisters rode with her in the carriage,
while Jinkins and I attended them on foot. Here
something which I cannot describe took place between
the Hunters and Simpsons—it was neither joy nor sorrow,
nor love, nor hatred, confidence, or suspicion, but
it was a mixture of all these.

I introduced Hunter to Mrs. Simpson and her daughters,
telling him, at the same time, “I presumed they
were old acquaintances.”

He muttered something, and saluted very coolly.

“And you, sir, I suspect, need no introduction,” addressing
the son,—he bowed; we bid them good by, and
left them to come to an explanation in any way they
might think proper.

“They are well matched,” said Jinkins, “I don't
like that old Mrs. Simpon, she has too much pepper and
vinegar in her looks for me.”

Jinkins was not far wrong, although she had been
brought low, yet there was still to be seen the remains
of pride and haughtiness in her countenance. But her
daughters were modest, good-natured, and handsome.

On our way home, Jinkins informed me that he and
Betsey were actually engaged, though it was a profound
secret to the whole world.

Ferdinand and Wilson, he said, had resorted to various
stratagems to detect him, but without success. I approved
of his independence, and observed, “It would be
well to have both marriages take place at the same time,
that is if your mother consents, and I shall certainly
advise her to do so; not that I think matrimony necessary
to her happiness.—As a friend, in any other case, I
would advise her against it. But joined, as the family
is, by the ties of blood and friendship, I think it a very
advisable and a very desirable union.

In the course of the day, I had a private interview
with Mrs. Cary, the particulars of which is a sacred
trust, which I am not at liberty to divulge. The amount
however was, that the much wished for union between
her and my uncle, was to take place the following evening,
and that as the old gentleman and her, had never
conversed on the subject, she consented to receive him in
her chamber the present evening.

“These matters being settled, I imparted my success
to my uncle, telling him, “we would keep it secret from
the boys, as they will only be teasing you.”

“Thee did right, for thee's a saucy set make the best
o' 'um. He said “he was afeard o' none o' 'um, but
Dick, he was the worst o' 'um all—I wish 'twar over.”

“Do not be uneasy sir, about Dick, he will find enough
to do; he is to be spliced himself, as you call it, on the
same evening”

“D—I he is, what to Betsey?

“Well! never thought such a thing o' Dick! if he
bean't the cunnin'est dog, never seed 'um look at her,
hardly.

The first opportunity I had, I informed Jinkins of my
success, and that the marriage was to take place the ensuing
evening, and as I suspect you have no objection, it
is as well to have them both at the same time, particularly
as I would soon leave the country. I recommended
to him at the same time, to keep the matter still a secret,
and that I had promised my uncle to be silent.

Jinkins approved of the plan, and thanked me for my
advice. I was well pleased, being afraid that he would
object, I mean to his (so sudden) nuptials. He had always
appeared wary, and had we not proceeded with the
greatest delicacy, we had never brought the matter to
perfection.

I walked into Martha's chamber, and sending for Mary,
I told her, “that as she was fertile in inventions,
she and Martha must contrive between them, some means
by which they could detect the particulars of an interview,
which I informed them, was to take place between
the commodore, and Mrs. Cary, that afternoon. They
were highly pleased at the proposal, and after a pause
Mary proposed going instantly to Mrs. Cary's chamber,
and hold her in conversation, whilst Martha should cautiously
raise the sash, which communicated between her
own chamber and that of Mrs. Cary's, this she said
could easily be done, as a curtain which hung before it
in the chamber of the latter would prevent discovery.

I now returned to the parlour, where I found my uncle.
Ferdinand, and Wilson, were reading the newspapers,
and making a sign to the old man; he arose, and
followed me to Mrs. Cary's chamber. “My uncle, madam,
wishes to pay his respects to you.” She blushed,
and asked him to be seated. I left them together.

I had not been so cautious in this intrigue, as not to be
perceived by Wilson, who was communicating it to Ferdinand.
As I joined them, who should interrupt us but
old Mrs. Simpson. So old lady (I thought) you are for
the money, I can see it in your looks. She enquired for
the ladies. I told her “they were particularly engaged.
I would have rather seen the old —. I had like to
have called her an ugly name; but I was determined she
should not interrupt them.

Meantime, Wilson, and Ferdinand, (suspecting she
had some private business) through their extreme politeness,
must withdraw; and where should they go, but
(like Mrs. Simpson) to the very place where they were
least wanted, to the respective chambers of their wives.
And curse your old soul, (I thought) now I shall be broke
up.

Wilson soon returned in great confusion, for intruding
upon Betsey and Jinkins. Ferdinand, likewise returned
with a smile, that indicated very plain, what was
going on.

“I would speak with you,” said Mrs. Simpson to me.
I led her into the dining-room, where she informed me,
“she had purchased a small house, in the edge of the
town, for fifteen hundred dollars, and if I would be so
kind as to let her have the money?”

“Certainly madam, and I will walk with you and
see that the sale is properly executed.” Getting my hat,
I set out with old mother Simpson. Upon viewing the
house, I found it not a bad bargain, and proceeding with
her to the proprietor, concluded the sale, and gave her
the balance of her money. Thus having rid myself of
Mrs. Simpson, I returned to my friends. I found all
the gentlemen belonging to our party, nor shall I repeat
the drollery with which the old man warded off the
attack of the whole squadron, as he termed it; but proceeded
to hunt Martha and Mary.

Jinkins suspecting my business, came toward me, and
without speaking, led me to his bride's chamber; saying,
as we walked thither, that he had just attended the ladies
there. I said, “we will go and hear the fun, if they will
admit us. Accordingly we knocked at the door, and
and asked leave to come in.

Mary observed, “You came to hear the news; but
you will be greatly disappointed.”

“How so, did they not converse then?” I asked.

“Very little.”

“Let us hear it.” She complied as follows:

“Pretty snug birth.” And after a pause.—“Well madam,
Mrs. Cary, I ha' come to see.—Thae youngsters
will ha' it so, 'at we are to be spliced, an I han't been attacked
by the whole squadron nation a bit, peace can
get for 'um de ye see, and if so be, as thee and I ha' seen
boisterous times on't, and it 'ill give a comfort to thae
young folks, we'll be' to get married any how. Charles
was sayin' that thee had some mind to it, and suppose
we'll be to please 'um, and be done we' it.

He ceased speaking some time, when Mrs. Cary replied,

“I am proud of the honour you intend me, captain
Burlington, and as you say, the young people have
been soliciting me very earnestly to the match.—I had
intended to live and die a widow; but since it has turned
out as it has, that our children are so mingled together,
and seems to be their desire to please them, it appears
we will have to comply with their wishes.

“That's just what 'was thinkin' on myself d'ye see;
but tell'ee what thee'll ha' the worst o' the bargain. And
to tell'ee the truth, I was pretty much o' thy way o'
thinkin', never to marry, and ha' been a long time a widower.
But 'twill be a blubberin' on't we' thae youngsters
if don't.—They tells as how Jinkins be goin' to yoke in
we Betsey too, and she'll feather her nest when she gets
'um.—Yes, yes, if 'don't do a part by Dick, let whose
will go to leeward, never stir if 'don't like Dick almost
as well as Ferdinand, I called 'um Thomas, but 'has a
likin' for the man 'at, raised him, and said would keep
the name for 'is sake. But as I was sayin' Dick 'ill
fare as well as the best o' 'um; but suppose I be to go
back now, and tell thae youngsters it be all settled, and
we'll ha' no more about it. Wont'ee come to tea, I didn't
see thee at dinner, thee bean't sick art thee?”

“I am not sir,” said Mrs. Cary. “I shall be at
supper captain.”

“Well I'll go and see what thae young ones be about,”
said my uncle, and left her without ceremony.

As soon as he returned, Martha and I ran in upon
Mrs. Cary, and told her we heard the whole courtship.

She bid us begone—we were saucey girls, and that she
would turn over a new leaf with us, when she got an old
man of her own.—So now you have all, and clear out
you and Jinkins both, we don't want you here.

On the appointed evening, my uncle and Mrs. Cary,
Mr. Jinkins and Miss Watson were severally united. I
gave away Betsey, and Sullivan, the admired friend of
Mrs. Cary, performed this last office to her widowhood.
Nothing else distinguished this thrice happy event, but
a plain supper, no dancing, no music—only the two
Miss Simpsons and Sullivan were present—Mrs. Sullivan
we would have been proud to have had, but she was

confined, having but a few days previous given birth to
a son, which in honour of my uncle, was named Thomas.

Nothing worth the reader's attention occurred during
the remainder of the time we spent in Philadelphia.
Mrs. Simpson was happily situated, in her own little
dwelling, she and her daughters pursuing the millinary
business—Clarissa and her husband lived together and
appeared happy—the old man living with them and pursued
the mercantile business, for which he possessed no
ordinary talents.

At length the parting day arrived—the scene was, as
might be expected. Our carriage was at the door—we
were all equipped for stepping into it, when my uncle,
the tears running down his cheeks, walked silently to
Mary, and laid a heavy purse of gold in her lap: he
tried to speak, but was not able—Mary attempted to
thank him, but found it impossible to utter a word—Wilson
said “dear uncle, you are too gen—”: generous he
meant to say, but overcome by his feelings, he was unable
to finish the sentence. The rest—but our language is
too poor to do justice to scenes like this, and I pass it over.
I confess that my attachment for those worthy individuals
with whom I was compelled to part, was so great and
so equally divided, that my regret was only equalled by
it. This was the first day of March, eighteen hundred
and eleven, when Wilson, his wife, and myself set out
for Tennessee.