Fudge doings being Tony Fudge's record of the same : in forty chapters |
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 | 26. | XXVI.
A Triplet of Letters. |
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 | XXVI.
A Triplet of Letters. Fudge doings |  |
26. XXVI.
A Triplet of Letters.
“Cui cum paupertate bene convenit, dives est; non qui parum
habet, sed qui plus cupit, pauper est.”
Lucian.
Yet could not tell her love; but what she saide
Was certain true, and she a perfect maide.”
Lord Brookes.
Of subtle rules, distinctions, terms, and notions,
Confounds of real truth the harmony.”
Old Poet: apud Fid. Tony.
MY uncle Solomon, under the circumstances
which just now cast their shadow upon the
Fudge family, is depressed. I observe that his
white cravat is frequently tied awry. I observe
that his gold-bowed spectacles repose less frequently
upon his serene forehead; and far oftener with a
discerning look upon the bridge of his nose. Even
position here as if they interposed a shield between
his secret anxieties and the obtrusive eye of the
world. There are times when we all like to set a
screen between ourselves and the penetrating look
of others: and blessed is the man or the woman
who rarely feels this liking, or the want which creates
it.
As I regard my uncle Solomon now-a-days, I
reflect with philosophic pleasure upon that independence
and high-spiritedness which belong to—
nothing: and regale myself with the thought that
stocks may be high or low; rich men's sons stultifying
themselves in Paris, or elsewhere; intrusive
Quids starting arrogant claims; large women growing
larger and more red; yet I, the bachelor Tony,
lively, with good digestion, impulsive, easy-tempered,
am disturbed by none of these things; but
look all the world straight in the face—having no
need of spectacles, or of—Absinthe.
Phœbe and Solomon use monosyllables more than
ever. Solomon feels that Phœbe spends a great
deal of money; Phœbe feels that Solomon does not
make an effective use of money.
“What is the use of burying it in coal-mines?”
says Phœbe. And Solomon winces; for he thinks
of the Dauphin and the Parker vein.
“If you couldn't afford it, Mr. Fudge, why did
you ever come into the Avenue?” says Phœbe.
And Solomon thinks, in a desolate way, of the
Axministers, and frescoes, and Louis Quatorze
chairs. I do not know but he begins to regret the
sums which have been lavished upon the French
tutelage and harp-practice of Miss Wilhelmina.
They may perhaps have made her the envy of other
men's daughters; but he does not clearly perceive
how they have added greatly to the charms of his
fireside, or brought her nearer to him in the way of
comforting his old heart.
For it is even true that there are soft places in
the hearts of nearly all the world—even in those of
brokers—where quiet hopes grow up of a domestic
and tender sort, which, if they be not fed, canker,
and consume away painfully. Sentiment may be
staved off, and laughed at cleverly enough; and
stocks and percentages fill up a large measure of a
man's desire; but, ten to one, there will lie in him
somewhere, after all, a longing for pleasant fire-side
confidences, where what is left of the boy and of
the son at the bottom of all his oldness, may speak
out and rejoice itself.
I do not think that the brocaded Wilhelmina,
who had been paragraphed at Saratoga, and who
flirted incontinently, in rivalry of all the Spindles
Solomon's heart, or made it lighter when his thought
fell on his home in the Avenue. There was an out-sidedness
to the whole matter of his house, his wife,
his child, and (I may add) his Dauphin stock, which
made him sigh for something which had inside. It
was all compounded of a struggle to seem; and
there was no effort to be.
Howbeit, the outside must be kept good, so long
as strength lasts, by those who live in that direction;
and I may say that it is just now in the city
a very favorite direction. Houses are elegantly
crusted; education runs to piquancies; and to succeed,
is to seem to.
Therefore, my uncle Solomon looks about him to
see what pretences he can still hang up between his
state real, and his state fashionable. The Bodgers'
windfall is likely to prove no windfall at all. The
Quid papers are very strong indeed: so strong that
even Mr. Plainet, his lawyer, advises him to make
the best compromise he can. He enters, therefore,
manfully upon this scheme; discusses the affair with
dignity, in company with Mr. Quid and his lawyer;
maintains to the eye of both his character as a man
of great means, who thinks lightly of small sums;
presses the claims of the widow Fleming with what
seems disinterestedness, and which really would be
upon his listeners the belief of his own perfect
soundness and security.
The upshot of the affair may be seen in this letter
of my uncle Solomon, addressed to the widow
Fleming, in his capacity as administrator; being
the first of the triplet referred to in the title to my
chapter:
I.
“My Dear Madam:—Duty compels me to inform
you that the claims of Mr. Quid upon the estate of
your deceased kinsman, Truman Bodgers, Esq., of
which I have already given you brief advisement,
are very strong. He has shown to me, in connection
with my legal adviser, papers which appear to
establish, beyond doubt, the rights of his son, as
heir at law. Deeply distressing as this event must
be to both branches of the Bodgers family, I see
no resource. I would advise you, therefore, to
limit your expenses accordingly, as the usual annuity,
which I believe you have been in the habit of
receiving through the generosity of Mr. Bodgers,
will now be cut off. I trust you will bear the
reverse with resolution.
“I have further to state, that in view of the
strong nature of the claims of Mr. Quid, and in
in the end prove profitless, I have entertained some
propositions from Mr. Quid, with the view of effecting
a compromise. He proposes to assign to you a
life-lease of the old Bodgers homestead; in which
event you might judiciously dispose of your present
property; to Mrs. Fudge he proposes to make an
assignment of a certain amount of stocks, reckoned
equivalent to the above.
“I have written to Squire Bivins upon the same
subject; and as your consent will be necessary to
such a settlement, I must beg of you an early
reply.
“N. B.—As there has been, I understand, some
loose mention, in certain quarters, of the existence
of a will, it is best to inform you that whatever
engagements of the kind stated might be entered
into would be conditional, and would not debar the
prosecution of any claim, which might be based
upon writings, in the nature of a will, subsequently
brought to light.”
In contrast with this cool, man-of-business letter,
I now offer a second, being addressed by Miss Kitty,
our pleasant little cousin, who wears her heart wide
open, to Miss Jemima Fudge, our poetic friend, of
the Blimmer experience:
II.
“My Dear Jemima:—I should be very ungrateful
for all your kindness if I forgot to write you, as
I promised I would, and to tell you all about my
country home, which I am so glad to welcome
again.
“Well, what shall I say? You know how much
I love my mother, and how much the old village of
Newtown, about which I have talked so often, and
very tiresomely, I dare say. The town I find just
as it was, but there are people gone whom I used to
see, and loved to see. Poor uncle Truman! that
he should not march down to the old house to welcome
me with his kind kiss seems very, very strange.
And the house where he lived is closed and dismal.
I have been tempted to step in and train the sweet
briars, as I did before; but now I must not; and
they say, besides, that it is to pass into strange
hands.
“There are others besides who are gone away,
since I was last here; some to the city and some to
California—so far off! But why do you care to
know this, or anything, indeed, of our little, quiet
place, so unlike as it is to your noisy and splendid
streets?
“I do believe I was awake all of my first night
was the same thing, because the house and the
street were so quiet; and now, dear Jemima, it
is the thought of your kindness, and that of those
about you, which comes to my memory, and keeps
me very wakeful.
“But I have forgotten, after all, the greatest
piece of news, which is that we are not to be rich,
or to have any part of my uncle Bodgers' estate;
and my mother has just now told me, in greater
grief than I wish she felt, that our little annuity
which came to her from my kind old uncle is now to
be cut off.
“And who do you think is to inherit my uncle's
estate? Prepare for a grand surprise; it is Mr.
Adolphus Quid; who (is it not very queer?),
mamma says, is the heir at law; and stranger still,
he has offered to us a life-lease of the old Bodgers
house! So, I shall, perhaps, train the rose-briars
again.
“I know not what to make of it all. I know
only that my poor mother is very sad; says we
shall be very poor; I am sorry for that: but thanks
to what I have learned with you, I can do something.
I have planned it all. In a moment it
flashed into my head.
“I will have a little school in a corner of the old
can find; and I will dress the school-room with
flowers, and will be so independent; and if you will
come and see us then, I will show you such a rosycheeked
little company as will make your heart
ache; and we will have such nice walks together
in the maple-grove; and you and I will cheer
mamma, and she shall forget that there has been
any change!
“Yet, is it not all very queer? And Mr. Quid,
too, who showed me kind attentions (were they not
kind?) the last winter! I don't know how I ought
to feel in accepting such charity as this. But my
mother's wish must be law with me in such a
matter.
“I half accuse myself now for having given such
answer to our old friend, Mr. Blimmer, of the everlasting
Blimmersville houses (pray, is the Blimmersville
church built yet?”)
[Oh! Kitty, Kitty!]
“For he is rich, they say, and might have given
a helping hand to us all, had I been Mrs. —!
But, trifling apart, have I not done well, Jemima,
in listening to my own heart, when it said roundly,
no! instead of listening to any jingle of money? I
am sure I did.
“Our own old home, if the change is made of
which I have told you, must be sold. This I do not
like. It will be hard to see it in other hands; it
will be hard to give up the walks we have trimmed,
and the flowers we have planted so many, many
years! And to think, besides, that we must accept
the charity of a stranger, in gaining only the shelter
of that kind uncle's roof, who, I am sure, would
have done everything to cheer us and to sustain us
in our own old home!
“He never thought it would be so; I am certain
he never did. We women know nothing of law,
to be sure; but are not our hearts judges of what
is just, as well as man's? And are not ties of kindred,
and friendship, and love, stronger than —
but shame on me! I have forgotten all my brave
thought of the school, where the flowers shall hang
each morning, with the dew fresh upon them; and
where you, Jemima, shall come as my lady patroness:
Pensez-y!
“Mr. Blimmer (I tremble in naming him!) has
been to Newtown: what can it be for? Certainly
not for me. They say—you know what gossips
country people are—that his visit was to a certain
Miss Bivins, daughter of our “eminent” lawyer;
certain it is that he called twice on her father, the
Squire:” and, furthermore, he sat in his pew on
air. Who knows? I fear I must give him up.
Ah! lack-a-day!”
Just so the honest heart of girlhood makes sunbeams
for itself, which centre within, and radiate
all around. It seeks no morbid food to live upon,
whether of romance or of crazed hopes; but trusting
in Heaven's goodness, and seeing with chastened
eye the beauty of honest endeavor, it finds its own
joys in the glow of a willing spirit, and in the gush
of an open heart.
And now, to complete my triplet, I lay before
my courteous reader another letter, being of city
origin, from the hand of no less diverting a writer
than my cousin, Miss Wilhelmina. I do not say
that it is absolutely genuine; but I do say that the
facts therein set forth are many of them to be relied
upon, and that it offers an every way ingenuous
picture of my pleasant cousin's thought and chitchat
She addresses an acquaintance made last summer
at Saratoga:
III.
“Letitia, ma Chère Letitia:—After our sudden
parting last summer, so very provoking as it was, I
enough to be sure, and take a drive every day upon
Broadway with mamma; and the Count is civil and
attentive as usual, and the Spindles are as jealous
as ever (which is some comfort), yet somehow it
seems very dull. Papa has a terribly long face;
more than all, when I ask him for money. Mamma
says he is disturbed about his coal-stocks, and business,
and all that. What a horrid thing business
is! It made us come away from the Springs just
as a good set was forming about mamma; and
there's no hope, I fear, of getting it together again.
How is it, dear Letitia, that people will be very
kind, and chatty, and attentive at the Springs, and
then never come near you in town? I should love
to live at Saratoga, that is, provided the Count
and you, and the rest were there, and the set was
good.
“Those hateful Spindles are just as proud as
ever; although I am sure our house is better furnished
than theirs; and our box at the opera was
in twice as good a position. Never mind, as Brown
says, `our turn will come.'
“Really, my Letitia, I don't know what to tell
you about the Count. He is graceful and gentleman-like,
and says such agreeable things. And in
French, you've no idea, he is adorable! What a
doubt about the title, for my French teacher has
seen it often, he says, in the foreign papers. How
it would spite the Spindles!
“But then papa—there's that horrid business
again—says he don't know about his property, and
don't know yet what his profession is; just as if a
Count could have a profession: how absurd!
“I think mamma would like it; and then the
éclat of it all! Do you ask me if I love him? My
Letitia, my heart knows not what to respond—ah,
mon pauvre cœur! I ask myself—indeed I do—
`Wilhelmina, dear one, is it the title, the distinction,
the grandeur; or is it the man, the heart, the disposition?
Could you live with him in a cot by the
water's side, with only a vegetable garden, and a
pure rill of running water? or is it the thought of
a claret coach, like mamma's, with a coronet on the
panel that would make the Spindles die of envy?'
“I know not what to say; sometimes I think it
is one, sometimes I think it is the other. Tell me,
dear Letitia, what you think it is?
“Another nice piece of news I have got for you:
Adolphe Quid, who you remember at the Springs,
is to be rich! What do you think of that? There
is no doubt of it: papa says so, and he rarely says
so of anybody. I think the old gentleman would
Adolphe is very well: but only think of Mrs. Quid!
If he was only a Count!
“Yet one might do worse, I must confess: for
they say he is of good family: and he visits at the
Spindles. There's some foreign connection with his
name, and he speaks French adorably.
“He was very attentive a winter ago to a pretty
little country-cousin of ours, whom we introduced in
one or two quiet places; but she, sad thing, is
wretchedly poor, and I have just heard is to commence
country school-keeping. What reverses in
life, oh dear! Last winter visiting with mamma,
and now school-keeping!
Washington, in Paris (I so wish you could see him).
He is coming home, and says (although I haven't
seen the letter) that a Countess somebody is coming
home in the ship with him. Mamma is in transports:
but papa looks very gloomy indeed. Won't
the Spindles look sour?
“Adieu, cherie; porte toi bien.”
A pleasant enough triplet of letters, showing,
what I like to show, the inner thought of my pleasant
kinsfolk who make up the Fudge portraitures;
family, bearing a different name.
To wit: a proud old man, scheming hard to keep
full the coffers that sustain his pride, and who has
lived so long in the light of money that all else
seems dark.
Next is an innocent young creature—I will not
call her heroine—of country breeding, who looks
the world fairly in the face, saying her prayers in
humble fashion each night, and doing her duty, with
humble zeal, by day—withal, wearing a heart wide
open, and meeting storms with sunshine.
Last, is a gay daughter of our world-wise metropolis,
reared after the newest mode of the newest
brown-stone houses, with whom fashion is godliness,
and gaucherie, sin; and who counts weekly attendance
upon the service of Dr. Muddleton (who reads
his sermons in white) as all of religion that the
gospel requires, or humanity demands.
I, Tony, am cousin to them all; and therefore
know no reason why I should not speak plainly.
| XXVI.
A Triplet of Letters. Fudge doings | |