University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

“Brother,” said Miss Bennington to her brother
the next morning, entering the parlour with much
embarrassment, and taking a seat by his side, “what
do you think of Mr. Beckford?”

“Sister, what do you think of him?” replied her
brother, reiterating her question.

“Why I was disposed to like him very much, he
has been very attentive to me, you know; and construing
his manner and language, as a country girl
like myself would construe it, I should say that he
had made love to me—addressed me. But what do
you think of him, brother? Is he the circulator of
these slanders against Ruth Lorman? I don't believe
one word of them. If I thought he would slander a
woman in such a way, and such a woman, I would
cast him off, though he were bound to me by my
heart-strings.”

“Sister, I told him, on our first acquaintance, how
much I liked Miss Ruth, and of course he would be
cautious in speaking against her to me. But I have
heard him darkly hint against her in, I thought, an
ungentlemanly manner—you observe these few days
we have not been so intimate, and he has plainly

told me that Miss Ruth was engaged to a cousin of
his, and that his cousin would rue the bargain.”

“Do you think, brother, there ever was an attachment
existing between Ruth and Mr. Beckford? her
father once hinted to me that he thought Mr. Beckford
had come out here to court her. If he had,
there has been a misunderstanding between them, for
Mr. Beckford scarcely ever now goes to see Ruth,
and—”

“It may be,” interrupted her brother, “that his
cousin has cut him out—and hence the unfrequency
of his visits and his dislike of Ruth. I can hardly
believe he is the author of these slanders, and yet
I know not who could have originated them but
himself. You overheard what Billy said was the
cause of his fight with Judson's boy, and also what
that man said, who saved the child?”

“I did; but, brother, I cannot believe it.”

“Well, sister, one brought up a gentleman, as Mr.
Beckford has been, with so respectable and distinguished
a father, would hardly do so villanous a
thing. I have it! Miss Ruth, it appears, from what
that man said, has received letters from her friend of
whom she talks so much, giving an account of some
discreditable transactions in which Mr. Beckford has
been engaged; it even appears it has got into the
public prints, and that the papers containing the account
have been sent to Miss Ruth. Go see her,
and if it is necessary, tell her why you are interested,
and as your friend—though she might not feel

disposed to gratify a mere curiosity, if you asked
on that score—yet upon the other, I have no doubt
she will follow the golden rule with you.”

Miss Bennington took her brother's advice, called
on Ruth, and told her frankly why she wished to
know Henry's character. Ruth hesitated at first
from saying anything against Henry Beckford; but
when she reflected, that Miss Bennington's affections
would probably be jeopardized by her silence, she
unreservedly told her all she herself knew of Henry;
showed her Helen Murray's letters which related to
him, and the newspapers which contained an account
of the events in the theatre, with comments upon
Henry's conduct and character.

That afternoon, Henry called on Miss Bennington,
and she begged leave to decline the further
honour of his visits: thus, in trying to blast the good
character of another—a woman, too, who never injured
him, his own bad character was brought to
light.

On the evening of this very day, Miss Elizabeth
Judson, arrayed in her most bewitching habiliments,
and with her best cup of tea, in her brother's best
china, in her best room, was entertaining Doctor
Cake; who exhibited his Sunday's depth of collar,
and breadth of frill. Washington stood behind Miss
Elizabeth's chair, with his livery jacket on and his
“knotted and combined locks,” combed out as much
as their woolly nature would allow.

Mr. Judson had just left the table for his store; for

in the fall he kept open at night. He gave a dry
cough as he shut the door, and looked at his sister
and the Doctor, with a penetrating eye.

Left together, Miss Judson gently dallied with her
spoon; while the doctor caught a glance of himself
in a glass opposite, and sagaciously said:

“I say, indeed, Miss Judson, as you truly said
before supper, this is a very uncertain world.”

Miss Judson simpered as she replied: “Indeed,
Doctor Cake, I never was thought censorious, nor
would I be for the world—it is unbecoming a lady;
but there are some things, particularly where our
own sex are concerned, which the gentlest heart
must frown on—Wash-ing-ton, hand me Doctor
Cake's cup—do, Doctor, take another cup—you
will think nothing of my brother's leaving the table,
in his French-leave way—he is so submersed in business—custom
presses so upon him, tha—”

“Oh! I beg—I say, Miss Judson—I beg you will
make no apologies—I understand it perfectly—I have
often, I say, reflected, that I myself might be
thought not the best bred man in the world, because
sometimes, even when with my friends, I am compelled
to leave; some case, I say—some patient occurring
to me, who requires my immediate attention.
A heart open to the claims of humanity, Miss
Judson, I say, can never be closed to such considerations.
Yes, another cup, if you please, Miss;
indeed, you make such excellent tea, that you tempt
me excessively; I say, it is not every body, Miss

Judson, that can make good tea—one must be naturally
a chemist, that makes good tea.”

“I forgot, Doctor,” said the lady; “do you like
much sweetening—much sugar and milk—much
cream?”

“If you please, Miss Judson, I believe I have a
sweet tooth in my head. I declare to you—I say,
tea is very reviving; it is a gentle, and the genteelest
stimulant; and, in my judgment, I say, much
better than the feverish excitement of alcohol. But,
alas! such tea as this, Miss Judson, suffer me to say,
I say, is a rarity, indeed. Have you any particular
way of making your tea? If you have, I should
like to learn it, and give it to my landlady.”

“Why, perhaps I have rather a particular way,
Doctor, that is, I may say, I am particular. I make
the water first boiling hot; I then scald the tea-kettle
with it well; but not to let it stay in any very
long time. Then I throw the water all out, and instantly
put in the quantity of tea I mean to use; on
that I pour the water, boiling hot, but not much of
it—not so much as most folks. And after it has
drawn awhile, I pour in a quantity more of boiling
water—and the tea is made.”

“An excellent mode, I say, Miss Judson; my
knowledge of chemistry instantly suggests to me an
excellent mode. You are aware of the fact, that
the used tea leaves are, I say, a capital article to
throw over your carpet previous to sweeping it; they
are a great cleanser.”

“Oh! yes, I have tried it often, and on this very
carpet, Doctor.”

“I suspected as much, I say, I assure you, Miss
Judson; and I rejoice, I say, that you are setting a
good example, in our town, as to taste in furniture.”

“Yes, Doctor,” said Miss Judson, with dignity,
“and I hope you will attribute to me a taste in other
things; that, I mean, of setting a good example as to
who we shall, and who we shan't admit into good
society in Perryville.”

“I say, Miss Judson, do me the honour to believe
that I gave you full credit; I knew, I say, that this
Miss Perfection would be cut dead by the good society
in Perryville. Yesterday, when we were
speaking of this report before we went to church—
and I got it as direct as you did, I suspect—you
may remember, I say, that I told you the Bennington's
had given her up. I say, you know I said, that
when I asked him about them on Saturday last in a
knowing way, he took the hint, I say, and there being
several bystanders by, and as he did not like to
speak out, knowing I could take a hint too, he just
said that the rain had prevented him for several days
from visiting Miss Lorman. I guess, I say, Miss
Judson, she will find that these rains will last for
some time, and that it never rains, but, I say, it
pours—ha, ha, ha!”

“He, he, he!” gently echoed Miss Judson, “I declare,
Doctor Cake, you are too severe. Yes, the
Bennington's could stand it no longer—I told Miss

Bennington of it on Saturday. Her brother had told
me they had not been there, on account of the rain;
and I didn't see her speak to my lady in church yesterday,
did you?”

“Oh no, Miss Judson, I say, oh no; she came out
of the church on Sunday, and nobody spoke to her;
you passed her right by, I say, without speaking,
and I followed immediately after you, and followed
suit, and joined you. You tripped along so lightly and
so quickly that, I say, I declare, Miss Judson, I had
hard work to overtake you.”

“Yes, I always was accounted a good walker,”
replied Miss Elizabeth, complacently bowing to the
doctor, “but isn't it wonderful, that after she kept
herself locked up at home for two weeks after this
exposure, that she should have had the impudence
to brazen it out, and to look so modest doing it.
Only to think of it, she had to leave home on account
of her bad conduct, and she comes out here,
and sets up for a pattern of goodness; gracious,
what an abominable abandoned world. She, truly,
Doctor Cake, shrunk with shame, when I gave her a
look as I passed her yesterday. Have you heard
anything about her to-day, Doctor Cake?”

“No, I say, I have not, Miss Judson; I have been
all day from town, in the country, I say, Miss Judson,
on professional business. Farmer Cobb's wife,
I say, Mr. Cobb's lady was in a delicate way”—
here Miss Judson inclined her head over the teapot,
and blushed a blush—“and I had,” continued the

Doctor, “to give her every moment of my attention.
I say, Miss Judson, it was a very difficult case, a
dangerous one.”

“I hope she is better,” said Miss Judson.

“She is as well as can be expected. I say, Miss
Judson, she has presented the farmer—Mrs. Cobb, I
say, has presented her husband with three bouncing
boys, I say, and, I say, she is as well as can be expected.”

“Gracious,” ejaculated Miss Judson. “Washington
remove the tea things. Doctor Cake, do take a
seat on the sofa.”