University of Virginia Library

49. CHAPTER XLIX.
THE UNPROTECTED FEMALE.

“THE Squantum and Patuxet Manufacturing Company
have concluded not to make any dividends
for the current year.”

Such was the sum and substance that Miss Dorcas
gathered from a very curt letter which she had just received
from the Secretary of that concern, at the time of
the semi-annual dividend.

The causes of this arrangement were said to be that
the entire income of the concern (which it was cheerfully
stated had never been so prosperous) was to be
devoted to the erection of a new mill and the purchase
of new machinery, which would in the future double the
avails of the stock.

Now, as society is, and, for aught we see, as it must
be, the masculine half of mankind have it all their own
way; and the cleverest and shrewdest woman, in making
investments, has simply the choice between what this or
that man tells her. If she falls by chance into the hands
of an honest man, with good sense, she may make an
investment that will be secure to pay all the expenses of
her mortal pilgrimage, down to the banks of Jordan; but
if, as quite often happens, she falls into the hands of
careless or visionary advisers, she may suddenly find
herself in the character of “the unprotected female” at
some half-way station of life, with her ticket lost and
not a cent to purchase her further passage.

Now, this was precisely the predicament that this
letter announced to Miss Dorcas. For the fact was

that, although she and her sister owned the house they
lived in, yet every available cent of income that supplied
their establishment came from the dividends of these
same Squantum and Patuxet mills.

It is a fact, too, that women, however strong may be
their own sense and ability, do, as a general fact, rely on
the judgment of the men of the family, and consider their
rulings in business matters final.

Miss Dorcas had all this propensity intensified by
the old-world family feeling. Her elder brother, Dick
Vanderheyden, was one of those handsome, plausible,
visionary fellows who seem born to rule over womankind,
and was fully disposed to magnify his office. Miss
Dorcas worshiped him with a faith which none of his
numerous failures abated. The cupboards and closets
of the house were full of the remains of inventions
which, he had demonstrated by figures in the face of
facts, ought to have produced millions, and never did
produce anything but waste of money. She was sure
that he was the original inventor of the principle of the
sewing-machine; and how it happened that he never
perfected the thing, and that somebody else stole in before
him and got it all, Miss Dorcas regarded as one of
the inscrutable mysteries of Providence.

Poor Dick Vanderheyden was one of those permanent
waiters at the world's pool, like the impotent man
in the gospel. When the angel of success came down
and troubled the waters, there was always another who
stepped in before him and got the benefit.

Yet there was one thing that never left him to the last,
and that was a sweet-tempered, sunny hopefulness, in
which, through years when the family fortune had been
growing beautifully less in his hands, Dick was still
making arrangements which were to bring in wonderful
results, till one night a sudden hemorrhage from the

lungs settled all his earthly accounts in an hour, and left
Miss Dorcas and Mrs. Betsey without a male relative in
the world.

One of the last moves of brother Dick had been to
take all the sisters' United States stock and invest it for
them in the Squantum and Patuxet Manufacturing Company,
where, he confidently assured them, it would in
time bring them an income of fifty per cent.

For four years after his death, however, only a moderate
dividend was declared by the company, but always
with brilliant promises for the future; the fifty per cent.,
like the “good time coming” in the song, was a thing to
look forward to, as the end of many little retrenchments
and economies; and now suddenly comes this letter, announcing
to them an indefinite suspension of their income.

Mrs. Betsey could scarcely be made to believe it.

“Why, they've got all our money; are they going to
keep it, and not pay us anything?”

“That seems to be their intention,” said Miss Dorcas
grimly.

“But, Dorcas, I would n't have it so. I'd rather have
our money back again in United States stock.”

“So had I.”

“Well, if you write and ask them for it, and tell
them that you must have it, and can't get along without,
won't they send it back to you?”

“No, they won't think of such a thing. They never
do business that way.”

“Won't? Why, I never heard of such folks. Why,
there's no justice in it.”

“You do n't understand these things, Betsey; nor I,
very well. All I know is, that Dick took our money
and bought stock with it, and we are stockholders of
this company.”

“And what is being a stockholder?”

“As far as I can perceive, it is this: when old women
like you and me are stockholders, it means that a company
of men take our money and use it for their own
purposes, and pay us what they like, when it comes convenient;
and when it's not convenient, they don't pay us
at all. It is borrowing people's money, without paying
interest.”

“Why, that is horrid. Why, it's the most unjust
thing I ever heard of,” said Mrs. Betsey. “Do n't you
think so, Dorcas?”

“Well, it seems so to me; but women never understand
business. Dick used to say so. The fact is, old
women have no business anywhere,” said Miss Dorcas
bitterly. “It's time we were out of the world.”

“I'm sure I have n't wanted to live so very much,”
said Mrs. Betsey, tremulously. “I do n't want to die,
but I had quite as lieve be dead.”

“Come, Betsey, don't let us talk that way,” said Miss
Dorcas. “We sha'n't gain anything by flying in the face
of Providence.”

“But, Dorcas, I do n't think it can be quite as bad as
you think. People could n't be so bad, if they knew just
how much we wanted our money. Why, we haven't
anything to go on—only think! The company has been
making money, you say?”

“Oh, yes, never so large profits as this year; but, instead
of paying the stockholders, they have voted to put
up a new mill and enlarge the business.”

“Who voted so?”

“The stockholders themselves. As far as I can learn,
that means one or two men who have bought all the
stock, and now can do what they like.”

“But could n't you go to the stockholders' meeting
and vote?”

“What good would it do, if I have but ten votes,
where each of these men has five hundred? They have
money enough. They don't need this income to live on,
and so they use it, as they say, to make the property
more valuable; and perhaps, Betsey, when we are both
dead, it will pay fifty per cent. to somebody, just as Dick
always said it would.”

“But,” said Mrs. Betsey, “of what use will that be to us,
when what we want is something to live on now? Why,
we can't get along without income, Dorcas, do'nt you see?”

“I think I do,” said Miss Dorcas, grimly.

“Why, why, what shall we do?”

“Well, we can sell the house, I suppose.”

“Sell the house!” said poor little Mrs. Betsey, aghast
at the thought; “and where could we go? and what
should we do with all our things? I'd rather die, and
done with it; and if we got any money and put it into
anything, people would just take it and use it, and not
pay us income; or else it would all go just as my money
did that Dick put into that Aurora bank. That was
going to make our everlasting fortune. There was no
end to the talk about what it would do—and all of a
sudden the bank burst up, and my money was all gone
—never gave me back a cent! and I should like to know
where it went to. Somebody had that ten thousand dollars
of mine, but it was n't me. No, we wo n't sell the
house; it's all we've got left, and as long as it's here
we've got a right to be somewhere. We can stay here and
starve, I suppose!—you and I and Jack.”

Jack, perceiving by his mistress's tones that something
was the matter, here jumped into her lap and
kissed her.

“Yes, you poor doggie,” said Mrs. Betsey, crying;
“we'll all starve together. How much money have you
got left, Dorcas?”

Miss Dorcas drew out an old porte-monnaie and
opened it.

“Twenty dollars.”

“Oh, go 'way, Miss Dorcas; ye do n't know what a
lot I's got stowed away in my old tea-pot!” chuckled a
voice from behind the scenes, and Dinah's woolly head
and brilliant ivories appeared at the slide of the china-closet,
where she had been an unabashed and interested
listener to the conversation.

“Dinah, I'm surprised,” said Miss Dorcas, with dignity.

“Well, y' can be surprised and git over it,” said
Dinah, rolling her portly figure into the conversation.
“All I's got to say is, dere ain't no use for Mis' Betsey
here to be worritin' and gettin' into a bad spell 'bout
money, so long as I's got three hundred dollars laid up
in my tea-pot. 'Tain't none o' your rags neither,” said
Dinah, who was strong on the specie question—“good
bright silver dollars, and gold guineas, and eagles, I
tucked away years ago, when your Pa was alive, and
money was plenty. Look a-heah now!”—and Dinah emphasized
her statement by rolling a handful of old gold
guineas upon the table—“Dare now; see dar! Do n't
catch me foolin' away no money wid no banks and no
stockholders. I keeps pretty tight grip o'mine. Tell
you, 'fore I'd let dem gemmen hab my money I'd braid it
up in my har—and den I'd know where 'twas when I
wanted it.”

“Dinah, you dear old soul,” said Miss Dorcas, with
tears in her eyes, “you do n't think we'd live on your
money?”

“Dun no why you should n't, as well as me live on
yourn,” said Dinah. “It's all in de family, and turn
about's fair play. Why, good land! Miss Dorcas, I jest
lotted on savin't up for de family. You can use mine

and give it back agin when dat ar good time comes
Massa Dick was allers a-tellin' about.”

Mrs. Betsey fell into Dinah's arms, and cried on her
shoulder, declaring that she could n't take a cent of her
money, and that they were all ruined, and fell into what
Dinah used to call one of her “bad spells.” So she
swept her up in her arms forthwith and carried her up-stairs
and put her to bed, amid furious dissentient barkings
from Jack, who seemed to consider it his duty to
express an opinion in the matter.

“Dar now, ye aggrevatin' critter, lie down and shet
up,” she said to Jack, as she lifted him on to the bed and
saw him cuddle down in Mrs. Betsey's arms and lay his
rough cheek against hers.

Dinah remembered, years before, her young mistress
lying weak and faint on that same spot, and how there
had been the soft head of a baby lying where Jack's
rough head was now nestling, and her heart swelled
within her.

“Now, then,” she said, pouring out some drops and
giving them to her, “you jest hush up and go to sleep,
honey. Miss Dorcas and I, we'll fix up this 'ere. It 'll
all come straight—now you'll see it will. Why, de Lord
ain't gwine to let you starve. Never see de righteous
forsaken. Jest go to sleep, honey, and it 'll be all right
when you wake up.”

Meanwhile, Miss Dorcas had gone across the way to
consult with Eva. The opening of the friendship on the
opposite side of the way had been a relief to her from
the desolateness and loneliness of her life circle, and she
had come to that degree of friendly reliance that she felt
she could state her dilemma and ask advice.

“I don't see any way but I must come to selling the
house at last,” said Miss Dorcas; “but I don't know how
to set about it; and if we have to leave, at our age, life

won't seem worth having. I'm afraid it would kill
Betsey.”

“Dear Miss Dorcas, we can't afford to lose you,” said
Eva. “You don't know what a comfort it is to have you
over there, so nice and handy—why, it would be forlorn
to have you go; it would break us all up!”

“You are kind to say so,” said Miss Dorcas; “but I
can't help feeling that the gain of our being there is all
on one side.”

“But, dear Miss Dorcas, why need you move? See
here. A bright thought strikes me. Your house is so
large! Why could n't you rent half of it? You really
do n't need it all; and I'm sure it could easily be arranged
for two families. Do think of that, please.”

“If it could be done—if anybody would want it!”
said Miss Dorcas.

“Oh, just let us go over this minute and see,” said
Eva, as she threw a light cloud of worsted over her head,
and seizing Miss Dorcas by the arm, crossed back with
her, talking cheerfully.

“Here you have it, nice as possible. Your front parlor—you
never sit there; and it's only a care to have a
room you don't use. And then this great empty office
back here—a dining-room all ready! and there is a back
shed that could have a cooking-stove, and be fitted into
a kitchen. Why, the thing is perfect; and there's your
income, without moving a peg! See what it is to have
real estate!”

“You are very sanguine,” said Miss Dorcas, looking
a little brightened herself. “I have often thought myself
that the house is a great deal larger than we need;
but I am quite helpless about such matters. We are so
out of the world. I know nothing of business; real
estate agents are my horror; and I have no man to advise
me.”

“Oh, Miss Dorcas, wait now till I consult Harry.
I'm sure something nice could be arranged.”

“I dare say,” said Miss Dorcas, “if these rooms were
in a fashionable quarter we might let them; but the
world has long since left our house in the rear.”

“Never mind that,” said Eva. “You see we don't
mind fashion, and there may be neighbors as good as
we, of the same mind.”

Eva already had one of her visions in her head; but
of this she did not speak to Miss Dorcas till she had
matured it.

She knew Jim Fellows had been for weeks on the
keen chase after apartments, and that none yet had
presented themselves as altogether eligible. Alice had
insisted on an economical beginning, and the utmost
prudence as to price; and the result had been, what is
usual in such cases, that all the rooms that would do at
all were too dear.

Eva saw at once in this suite of rooms, right across
the way from them, the very thing they were in search
of. The rooms were large and sunny, with a quaint,
old-fashioned air of by-gone gentility that made them
attractive; and her artist imagination at once went into
the work of brightening up their tarnished and dusky
respectability with a nice little modern addition of pictures
and flowers, and new bits of furniture here and
there.

Just as she returned from her survey, she found Jim
in her own parlor, with a thriving pot of ivy.

“Well, here's one for our parlor window, when we
find one,” said he. “I'm a boy that gets things when
I see them. Now you don't often see an ivy so thrifty
as this, and I've brought it to you to take care of till
I find the room!”

“Jim,” said Eva, “I believe just what you want is to

be found right across the way from us, so that we can
talk across from your windows to ours.”

“What! the old Vanderheyden house? Thunder!”
said Jim.

Now, Jim was one of the class of boys who make
free use of “thunder” in conversation, without meaning
to express anything more by it than a state of slight
surprise.

“What's up now?” he added. “I should as soon
expect Queen Victoria to rent Buckingham Palace as
that the old ladies across the way would come to letting
rooms!”

“Necessity has no law, Jim.” And then Eva told
him Miss Dorcas's misfortune.

“Poor old girls!” said Jim. “I do declare it's too
thundering bad. I'll go right over and rent the rooms;
and I'll pay up square, too, and no mistake.”

“Shall I go with you?”

“Oh, you just leave that to me. Two are all that are
needed in a bargain.”

In a few minutes, Jim was at his ease in front of Miss
Dorcas, saying:

“Miss Dorcas, the fact is, I want to hire a suite of
rooms. You see, I'm going to have a wife before long,
and nothing will suit her so well as this neighborhood.
Now, if you will only rent us half of your house, we shall
behave so beautifully that you never will be sorry you
took us in.”

Miss Dorcas apologized for the rooms and furniture.
They were old, she knew—not in modern style—but
such as they were, would he just go through them? and
Jim made the course with her. And the short of the
matter was, that the bargain was soon struck.

Jim stated frankly the sum he felt able to pay for
apartments; to Miss Dorcas the sum seemed ample

enough to relieve all her embarrassments, and in an hour
he returned to the other side, having completed the
arrangement.

“There, now,—we're anchored, I think. The old
folks and Aunt Maria have been wanting me to marry
on and live with them in the old hive, but Jim does n't
put his foot into that trap, if he knows it. My wife
and I must have our own establishment, if it's only in
two rooms. Now it's all settled, if Allie likes it, and I
know she will. By George, it's a lucky hit! That parlor
will brighten up capitally.”

“You know, old furniture is all the rage now,” said
Eva, “and you can buy things here and there as you
want.”

“Yes,” said Jim; “you know I did buy a pair of
brass andirons when I was going to ask Allie to have
me, and they'll be just the things for the fireplace over
there. Miss Dorcas apologized for the want of those
that belonged there by saying that her brother had taken
them to pieces to try some experiments in brass polishing,
and never found time to put them together again,
and so parts of them got lost. I told her it was a special
providence that I happened to have the very pair that
were needed there; and there's a splendid sunny window
for the ivies on the south corner!”

“That old furniture is lovely,” said Eva. “It's like
a dark, rich background to a picture. All your little
bright modern things will show so well over it.”

“Well, I'm going to bring Allie down to go over it,
this minute,” said Jim, who was not of the class that
allow the grass to grow under their feet.

Meanwhile, when little Mrs. Betsey came down to
dinner, she found the storm over, and clear, shining after
rain.

“What, Mr. Fellows!” she exclaimed; “that dear,

good young man that was so kind to Jack! Why, Dorcas,
what a providence! I'm sure it'll be a mercy to
have a man in the house once more!”

“Why, I'm sure,” said Miss Dorcas, “your great fear
that you wake me up every night about, is that there is
a man in the house!”

“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Betsey, laughing cheerfully;
“you know what I mean. I mean the right kind of a
man. I've thought that those dreadful burglars and
creatures that break into houses where there's old silver
must find us out—because, Dorcas, really, that hat that
we keep on the entry table is so big and dusty, and so
different from what they wear now, they must know that
no man wears a hat like that. I've always told Dinah
that—she knows I have, more than twenty times.”

A snicker from the adjacent china-closet, where
Dinah was listening, confirmed this statement.

“Why, it's such a nice thing. Why, there's no end
to it,” said Mrs. Betsey, whose cheerfulness increased
with reflection. “A real live man in the house!—and a
young man, too!—and such a nice one; and dear Miss
Alice—why, only think, bringing all her wedding clothes
to the house, and I do n't doubt she'll show them all to
me—and it'll be so nice for Jack! won't it, Jack?”

Jack barked his assent vigorously, and a second explosive
chuckle from the china closet betrayed Dinah's
profound sympathy. The faithful creature was rolling
and boiling in waves of triumphant merriment behind
the scenes. The conversation of her mistresses in fact
appeared to be a daily source of amusement to her, and
Miss Dorcas was forced to wink at this espionage, in
consideration of Dinah's limited sources of entertainment,
and generally pretended not to know that she was
there.

On the present occasion, Dinah's contribution to the

interview was too evident to be ignored, but Miss Dorcas
listened to it with indulgence. A good prospect of
regular income does, after all, strengthen one's faith in
Providence, and dispose one to be easily satisfied with
one's fellows.