 | XL.
MR. CRUMLETT'S SPECULATIONS. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
40. XL.
MR. CRUMLETT'S SPECULATIONS.
Miss Matilda Fosdick was not so indifferent to the chances of
obtaining a husband, but she entertained a degree of matrimonial
hope from the honorable intentions of Mr. Enos Crumlett. Enos
had a consumptive mother, whom he “did n't ca'c'late would be
with him much longer,” and whom he was anxious to replace with
a good wife. “I can't think o' lettin' my farm,” he reasoned,
“an' I s'pose 't 'll be enough on 't cheaper 'n the end to git married,
than to hire a housekeeper, or board.” He had these considerations
in mind when he asked Miss Fosdick for her company;
and perhaps Miss Fosdick also had something of the sort
in view when she accepted his advances. He wanted a housekeeper;
she wanted a house to keep.
It was through Mr. Crumlett's influence that Matilda had consented
to step out of her “sphere” into the domestic service of
Mrs. Bertha Rukely. Mr. Crumlett reasoned thus: “'Tildy I
guess 'll make a perty smart kind o' gal, keep her away from
'Livia and 'Patra. Besides, I don't care about marryin' more 'n
one o' Sam Fosdick's darters 't a time; an' the sooner she breaks
with the rest on 'em, the better. Then, agin, she may as well be
arnin' a little suthin for herself, agin spring, for 't an't prob'ble
ma 'll hold out much longer 'n that, if she does so long.” So
Matilda never visited her family now, and had as little intercourse
with Olivia and Cleopatra as possible; a circumstance which,
in Bertha's mind, very much favored the project of keeping Charlotte's
presence in the house a secret. But this advantage found
an offset, perhaps, in the fact of Mr. Crumlett's visits. He was
accustomed to prosecute his courting in Mr. Rukely's kitchen;
and Sunday evening was his regular night.
“Wal,” said Enos, pulling off his great-coat, and handing it to
Matilda, “how d'e deu these times? What 's the news?”
Matilda, hanging the coat upon a nail: “I don't hear much of
anything; do you?”
Enos sat down, and stretched out his legs by the stove.
“They ben havin' a tearin' time up the crick, — I s'pose you
heerd?”
“About Charlotte Woods?”
“Yis; queer, an't it?”
“I wan't much surprised,” said Matilda, carelessly.
“Wal, I was!” exclaimed Mr. Crumlett. “I knowed her
like a book! She wan't half so black as some white folks 't I
know; she was jest dark enough to be ra'al perty.”
“You fancy dark complexions, I see!” observed Matilda, with
a toss of her head. “I admire your taste!”
“Of course I do,” — Enos grinned, — “and that 's what makes
me like you.”
Matilda, scornfully: “You don't call me dark, I hope?”
“I don't call you nothin' else!”
“Well, if you han't got eyes! It 's the first time I was ever
called dark.”
“You 're darker 'n Charlotte Woods, — now, come!” cried Enos,
hitching towards Miss Fosdick's chair.
“I?” exclaimed Matilda. “Maybe I be,” — with sarcasm;
“you 're welcome to think so, any way! As if I cared!”
“I don't mean,” — Mr. Crumlett saw fit to qualify his assertion,
— “that is, I did n't say 't your skin is like hern —”
“Which you admired so much!” sneered Matilda.
“You an't exactly dark, but — wal, I can't express it; only
you are red, — no, not red, but kind o' red and brown,” said Mr.
Crumlett.
Matilda puckered her lips into a smirk, accompanied by peculiar
undulations of the head, indicative of contempt, and, taking
up a book, pretended to read. Mr. Crumlett hitched his chair
still nearer, and looked over the corner of the book, with a good-natured
grin. “I wish you 'd go away!” exclaimed Matilda.
“There!” said Mr. Crumlett; “that 's all I wanted! If
married, what 'u'd we do afterwards? We may as well break off
now as any time.” And Enos snatched his coat from the nail.
“You 're as much mistaken as you can be, if you think I was
mad!” remarked Matilda. “But, if you want to go, I 'm sure I
shan't hender you.” And she kindly offered, as usual, to help
Enos “on” with his great-coat.
“Thank ye,” said Enos; “much obleeged.” He began to button
himself up very fast, and put on his mittens. “I 'm glad
you 're so willin' to have me go. Where 's my cap?”
“Of course I 'm willing, if you 've got sick of me, and want to
break off the engagement!”
“Who said I was sick, and wanted to break off?”
“You would n't quit so, if you wan't!” said Matilda, beginning
to cry. “It 's you that 's got temper, I should think!”
“I? I han't got the least grain o' temper in the world! Look
here! I guess we 'll talk that over!”
And Mr. Crumlett pulled off a mitten. “Set down, won't ye,
while you stay?” asked the weeping Matilda.
“No, I won't set down.” Mr. Crumlett pulled off the other
mitten, and placed both in his cap. “What do ye mean about
my havin' temper?”
“I meant if you went off so, jest for what I said —”
Mr. Crumlett placed his hat on the table, and sat down, still
buttoned to the throat. “We may as well have it understood,
and part friends, for what I see. I 'm sure I han't thought o'
breakin' off; I was goin' 'cause you wanted me to.”
“Take off your coat, won't ye?”
“No, I guess not.” — Mr. Crumlett looked injured. “I 'll unbutton
it, though, while I stop.”
“You won't feel it when you go out,” said Matilda, with tearful
affection. “You 'd better take it off.”
“You beat all the gals I ever see!” exclaimed Enos. “You
can make a feller do jest what you 're a mind to! — Here it
goes!” The coat was returned to the nail in the wall, and Mr.
Crumlett seated himself, all smiles, by Matilda's side.
“I did n't know you was so well acquainted with her,” said
Matilda.
“O, I was n't much! Who said I was?”
“You; you said you knew her like a book.”
“Did I? O, wal, all I meant was, that I 'd seen her, and eat
dinner with her. You know all about that. 'T was the day her
and Hector broke down, and I carried 'em home in my wagon. I
made fifty cents by it, — that 's the most I remember. And that
reminds me 't I made fifty cents to-day, if 't is Sunday.”
“How?” asked Matilda.
“Mr. Jackwood found a couple o' his lambs on a knoll jest
above the turnpike bridge; and he told me, if I 'd git 'em up to
my house, and keep 'em till to-morrer, he 'd gi' me half a dollar.
I han't got my money yit; but I shall make sure on 't, when he
takes the lambs away. I 'd trust him sooner 'n 'most any man I
know, any other time.”
“Why not now?”
“Gracious!” said Mr. Crumlett, “han't you heard, then? All
the talk is, 't he 'll lose his farm, sartin 's the world. The slave-hunters
are stoppin' in Huntersford a pu'pose to prosecute him.”
“That 's too bad!” exclaimed Matilda.
“Does seem kind o' tough. But, then, if I owned a slave, and
should lose 'em in that kind o' way, I should think 't wan't no
more 'n right I should git my pay for 'em. But, arter all, I 'd go
agin finin' a man like Mr. Jackwood a cent more 'n the actual
damage. Hang it all!” exclaimed Mr. Crumlett, “I don't
know but I 'd done as much for Charlotte Woods, myself! What
do ye look so for?”
“So? How?” asked Matilda, innocently.
“Kind o' so,” replied Mr. Crumlett, with a grimace, “jest as
if you knowed suthin 't you would n't tell.”
“I? What do you mean?”
“You 'd make a feller think you 'd heard suthin about Mr.
Jackwood, or Charlotte; for as often as I 've spoke of 'em, you 've
done that,” — another grimace.
Matilda put her handkerchief to her face, and chuckled behind
it, much to Mr. Crumlett's annoyance. “Wal, I an't goin' to
tease,” said Enos. — “Folks to hum to-night?”
“I 'm to home,” answered Matilda.
“There 't is agin! — Is anybody else?”
“You know Mr. Rukely never is to home Sunday nights; he
lectures in the vestry.”
“Is Berthy to hum, then?” demanded Enos, impatiently.
“What difference does 't make to you whether she 's to home
or not?” retorted Matilda, with the same exasperating look.
Thereupon Mr. Crumlett, notwithstanding his total lack of temper,
took offence, and, after some more words, went so far as to
put on his great coat and mittens again, and button himself to the
chin. This time he pulled his cap over his ears, with a resolute
air, that frightened Matilda. He utterly refused to stay, except
on one condition; and seized hold of the door-latch, as if unwilling
to wait even for that. “Jest as you please,” he mumbled. “Tell
me or not, — I don't care!”
It is probable that Matilda intended to tell him, from the first;
for it would have cost her more forbearance than she ever exercised
in her life to keep so exciting a secret. His threat of leaving
her was enough to quiet her conscience; and, prevailing upon
Enos to sit down, she yielded, after a brief struggle, and with an
air of profound mystery imparted the story of Charlotte's safety.
“But she 's real sick!” continued Matilda. “She don't know
anything, but talks such unheard-of things! Berthy is with her
every minute o' the time; and they 've had the doctor to her twice
to-day. Don't you whisper it, for the world! I don't want even
Berthy should know I told ye, for I promised I would n't!”
“In this very house!” ejaculated Enos, crossing his legs, first
one way, then the other, then getting up, then sitting down again,
then embracing his knees with his arms, as if to hold himself
together. “Beats everything! What 'u'd them Southe'ners give?
Jingoes! 'Tilda! it 's the greatest thing I ever heard, in all my
born days!”
“Hark!” whispered Matilda. “Berthy 's coming!”
Dickson and his companions fortified themselves in the village
tavern, and appeared to take a brute pride in braving an outraged
public. With law, pistols, and the rum-drinking community, on
their side, they apprehended little personal danger, as long there
functions. Whether they were waiting to receive instructions
with regard to the prosecution of Mr. Jackwood, or whether they
still entertained hopes of hearing from Charlotte, could only be
surmised. Perhaps they had both objects in view. They were
also very active in procuring information with regard to colored
people, both in the States and in Canada, evidently with the design
of seizing some fugitive supposed to have taken refuge in
that region.
One day, as Dickson was riding over the turnpike, he was
accosted by a person passing in the same direction on foot. “Ye
look kind o' lonesome, ridin' alone; p'r'aps ye would n't mind
givin' me a lift as fur as the Corners.”
“Jump aboard,” replied Dickson.
“The turnpike don't look much as it did about a week ago,”
observed the chance passenger, as he pulled the blanket over his
knees. “Though p'r'aps you wan't in these parts at the time,”
— with a glance at Dickson's face. “The water was up to a
hoss's knees all along this road, and a good deal deeper in places.
But it fell 'bout as sudden as it riz. It had n't more 'n time to
freeze over, 'fore down it went, and there wan't nothin' but a scum
of ice left on the interval. Then the snow come; and now ye
would n't know there 'd been a freshet at all. Do you belong in
these parts?”
“I 've been stoppin' a few days down here,” replied Dickson.
“Bizness, I s'pose?”
“Wal, business and pleasure combined. I wanted to see what
kind o' stuff you Yankees was made of,” — with a grin of insolent
good-nature.
“You 're from the South, I take it?”
“Wal, I be! The people in these diggin's have pooty generally
found that out, I reck'n!”
Mr. Crumlett — for the passenger was no other than our friend
Enos — felt a good deal excited, and his teeth began to chatter. —
“I guess likely ye remember the freshet, then!”
“Wal, I reck'n! Some things 't an't so easy to rub out!” said
Dickson, whipping his horse.
“'T was dre'ful unfort'nit 'bout her gittin' drownded!” observed
Mr. Crumlett, in a friendly tone.
“I would n't have had it happen,” cried Dickson, “for twice
the wuth of her! that 's a fact! But 't an't all over with!”
“How do ye git along with Mr. Jackwood?”
“O, we 're gitt'n' along! Things is work'n'!”
“I s'pose there an't no doubt,” said Enos, “'bout her bein'
drownded — hey? You give it up as a gone case, I s'pose?”
“It 's mighty doubtful 'bout our ever hearin' of her agin, I
reck'n,” replied Dickson.
“Arter all,” remarked Mr. Crumlett, “'t would n't be nothin'
so very strange, if she was hid away some'eres right in the neighborhood.
'T an't 't all likely, I know; but s'posin' she was?”
“'T an't a supposable case, hardly; and if she was, the next
thing 'u'd be to git a clue of her. Gi' me a clue,” said Dickson,
with professional assurance, “and 't an't easy to trip me up!
The gal never 'd got away as she did, if I could have had my
way.”
Mr. Crumlett chuckled nervously. “Wal, there an't no use
talkin', if she 's drownded, — but if she only was hid away some'eres,
't would n't be a bad joke, hey? You 'd be tickled, I
guess!”
“Wal, I should, — particularly if I got suspicions of it in
time!”
“Can't help laffin'!” chuckled Mr. Crumlett; “but, arter all,
it 's no use; there an't a doubt but that she 's drownded; you
really think there an't, I s'pose?”
“I 'd give,” said Dickson, casting a shrewd glance at his companion,
— “I 'd give a hundred dollars, out o' my own pocket, jest
to have sech a clue as I spoke of.”
“A hundred dollars!” echoed Enos, quickly. “You would n't
give me a hundred dollars, now, — jest s'pose, for instance —”
“I tell you what I would do,” exclaimed Dickson, “jest for
the sake o' talk'n'. I 'd give fifty dollars, cash down, and fifty
more in case the gal was found. That 'u'd be fair enough,
would n't it?”
“Wal, yis, I s'pose so,” said Mr. Crumlett, taken with a general
talkin'. We 're havin' a fine spell o' weather now.”
“I can fancy your call'n' it fine,” returned Dickson. “But
I 've had enough of your Varmount winters.”
“It 's warmer where you be, hey? Do ye 'xpect to stop long
in these parts?”
“That depends altogether upon circumstances. If I could lay
hands on that gal —”
“Ha! ha! it makes me laf!” said Mr. Crumlett. “What if
I could find out suthin about her? — though 't an't possible, of
course!”
“Hold them 'ar lines a minute, if you please.” Enos took the
reins, and his companion, pulling off his driving-gloves, brought
up from the depths of his pocket a handful of gold. “Three —
six — nine, — there 's twelve half-eagles; that makes sixty dollars;
I 'll give that to any man for a sure clue to that gal's whereabouts,
if she 's livin', and in the States; and as much more if
she 's found, in consequence. Now, thar 's a chance for a speculation.”
“So there is, — or, ruther, would be,” — Mr. Crumlett's teeth
chattered harder than ever, — “but what 's the use?”
“That 's gold,” said Dickson, clinking the coin. “Sixty dollars,
— twice sixty is a hundred and forty —”
“A hundred and twenty!” interrupted Mr. Crumlett.
“Wal, we 'll call it a hundred and forty, for the sake of talk;
sixty down, and eighty on condish'n.”
“What do ye s'pose 'u'd be done with her, if she should be
found?” chattered Mr. Crumlett.
“Why,” said Dickson, “she 's got friends up here, I reck'n.
They 'd buy her, ruther 'n see her go South agin, would n't they?
All the owner wants is the wuth of his property.”
“That 's nat'ral!” said Mr. Crumlett.
“And, under the circumstances, he 'd put her 't a low figur'.
O,” cried Dickson cracking his whip, carelessly, “I 'd be responsible
there should n't be no trouble about that.”
“Do ye think so? are ye sure?” demanded Mr. Crumlett
“Hold on; I got to git out here.”
“I 'm sorry; I was in hopes o' havin' your company cl'ar to
the village. Won't ye go no further?”
“Can't very well, — should like to, but I got an arrant over
here. — Look here!” cried Mr. Crumlett — how his teeth did
chatter! — “but never mind! I could n't find out nothin', if I
should try. So, 't an't no use talkin'. Though, by gracious! I 'm
a good mind to inquire 'round! You won't be drivin' this way
to-morrer 'bout this time, will ye?”
“I don't know but I shall,” returned Dickson; “why?”
“Wal, nothin',” said Enos. “But, then, if you 're goin' by, —
wal, I don't know, if you should turn into that 'ere road you
passed jest t' other side o' the secont house over the crick, per'aps
you 'd find me choppin' on the edge o' the woods. I don't 'xpect
to find out anything; but, if I should,” — chatter, chatter! shiver,
shiver! — “wal, on the hull, I guess 't won't be wuth while to
think about it!”
“I 'll make it wuth yer while!” And Dickson, giving Mr.
Crumlett's hand a hearty shake, left a piece of money in it.
“That 's to pay ye for your trouble, any way. Come, ride over
to the tavern, and take suthin!”
“Can't possibly!” said Enos, getting out of the sleigh.
“Wal, see ye to-morrer!” exclaimed Dickson, confidentially.
“Make it all right, ye know! Take care o' yerself, old boy!”
He drove away. Poor Crumlett! how he did shiver, as he gazed
after him! He could n't tell why he shivered, — the day was not
extremely cold, — and now he discovered that the perspiration was
starting from every pore of his skin.
“A hundred and forty dollars!” — Chatter, chatter! shiver,
shiver! again; and Mr. Crumlett wiped the cold sweat-drops
from his face. He thought he was going to have a “shake of the
ager;” but it was worse than that: he had caught the worst
kind of yellow fever, from the sight of Dickson's gold.
| XL.
MR. CRUMLETT'S SPECULATIONS. Neighbor Jackwood | |