 | II.
MISS BESWICK. Coupon bonds, and other stories |  |
2. II.
MISS BESWICK.
“Ah, Miss Beswick, walk in!” said Mr. Ducklow.
A tall, spare, somewhat prim-looking female of middle
age, with a shawl over her head, entered, nodding a curt
and precise good-evening, first to Mr. Ducklow, then to his
wife.
“What, that you?” said Mrs. Ducklow, with curiosity
and surprise. “Where on 'arth did you come from? Set
her a chair, why don't ye, father?”
Mr. Ducklow, who was busy slipping his feet into a pair
of old shoes, hastened to comply with the hospitable suggestion.
“I 've only jest got home,” said he, apologetically, as if
fearful lest the fact of his being caught in his stockings
should create suspicions: so absurdly careful of appearances
some people become, when they have anything to
conceal. “Jest had time to kick my boots off, you see.
Take a seat.”
“Thank ye. I s'pose you 'll think I 'm wild, makin'
calls at this hour!”
And Miss Beswick seated herself with an angular movement,
and held herself prim and erect in the chair.
“Why, no, I don't,” said Mrs. Ducklow, civilly; while
at the same time she did think it very extraordinary and
unwarrantable conduct on the part of her neighbor to be
walking the streets and entering the dwellings of honest
people, alone, after eight o'clock, on a dark night.
“You 're jest in time to set up and take a cup o' tea
with my husband”; an invitation she knew would not be
accepted, and which she pressed accordingly. “Ye better,
things, won't ye?”
“No, I don't go a-visitin', to take off my things and
drink tea, this time o' night!”
Miss Beswick condescended, however, to throw back the
shawl from her head, exposing to view a long, sinewy neck,
the strong lines of which ran up into her cheeks, and ramified
into wrinkles, giving severity to her features. At the
same time emerged from the fold of the garment, as it
were, a knob, a high, bare poll, so lofty and narrow,
and destitute of the usual ornament, natural or false, that
you involuntarily looked twice, to assure yourself that
it was really that lovely and adorable object, a female
head.
“I 've jest run over to tell you the news,” said Miss
Beswick.
“Nothing bad, I hope?” said Mrs. Ducklow. “No
robbers in town? for massy sake!” And Mrs. Ducklow
laid her hand on her bosom, to make sure that the bonds
were still there.
“No, good news, — good for Sophrony, at any rate!”
“Ah! she has heard from Reuben?”
“No!” The severity of the features was modified by a
grim smile. “No!” and the little, high knob of a head
was shaken expressively.
“What then?” Ducklow inquired.
“Reuben has come home!” The words were spoken
triumphantly, and the keen gray eyes of the elderly
maiden twinkled.
“ome home! home!” echoed both Ducklows at once,
in great astonishment.
Miss Beswick assured them of the fact.
“My! how you talk!” exclaimed Mrs. Ducklow. “I
never dreamed of such a — When did he come?”
“About an hour 'n' a half ago. I happened to be in to
Sophrony's. I had jest gone over to set a little while with
her and keep her company, — as I 've often done, she
seemed so lonely, livin' there with her two children alone
in the house, her husband away so. Her friends ha' n't
been none too attentive to her in his absence, she thinks,
— and so I think.”
“I — I hope you don't mean that as a hint to us, Miss
Beswick,” said Mrs. Ducklow.
“You can take it as such, or not, jest as you please! I
leave it to your own consciences. You know best whuther
you have done your duty to Sophrony and her family,
whilst her husband has been off to the war; and I sha' n't
set myself up for a judge. You never had any boys of your
own, and so you adopted Reuben, jest as you have lately
adopted Thaddeus; and I s'pose you think you 've done
well by him, jest as you think you will do by Thaddeus,
if he 's a good boy, and stays with you till he 's twenty-one.”
“I hope no one thinks or says the contrary, Miss Beswick!”
said Mr. Ducklow, gravely, with flushed face.
“There may be two opinions on that subject!” said
Miss Beswick, with a slight toss of the head, setting that
small and irregular spheroid at a still loftier and more
imposing altitude. “Reuben came to you when he was
jest old enough to be of use about the house and on the
farm; and if I recollect right, you did n't encourage idleness
in him long. You did n't give his hands much chance
to do `some mischief still!' No, indeed! nobody can
accuse you of that weakness!” And the skin of the
wrinkled features tightened with a terrible grin.
“Nobody can say we ever overworked the boy, or ill-used
him in any way!” exclaimed Mrs. Ducklow, excitedly.
“No! I don't say it! But this I 'll say, for I 've had
it in my mind ever since Sophrony was left alone, — I
could n't help seein' and feelin', and now you 've set me
a-talkin' I may as well speak out. Reuben was always a
good boy, and a willin' boy, as you yourselves must allow;
and he paid his way from the first.”
“I don't know about that!” interposed Mr. Ducklow,
taking up his knife and fork, and dropping them again, in
no little agitation. “He was a good and willin' boy, as
you say; but the expense of clothin' him and keepin' him
to school —”
“He paid his way from the first!” repeated Miss Beswick,
sternly. “You kept him to school winters, when he
did more work 'fore and after school than any other boy in
town. He worked all the time summers; and soon he
was as good as a hired man to you. He never went to
school a day after he was fifteen; and from that time he
was better 'n any hired man, for he was faithful, and took
an interest, and looked after and took care of things as no
hired man ever would or could do, as I 've heard you yourself
say, Mr. Ducklow!”
“Reuben was a good, faithful boy: I never denied that!
I never denied that!”
“Well, he stayed with you till he was twenty-one, — did
ye a man's service for the last five or six years; then you
giv' him what you called a settin' out, — a new suit o'
clothes, a yoke of oxen, some farmin'-tools, and a hundred
dollars in money! You, with yer thousands, Mr. Ducklow,
giv' him a hundred dollars in money!”
“That was only a beginnin', only a beginnin', I 've
always said!” declared the red-flushed farmer.
“I know it; and I s'pose you 'll continner to say so till
the day of yer death! Then maybe you 'll remember
Reuben in yer will. That 's the way! Keep puttin' him
yourself, — then, when you see you 've got to go and leave
it, give him what you ought to 've gi'n him years before.
There a'n't no merit in that kind o' justice, did ye know
it, Mr. Ducklow? I tell ye, what belongs to Reuben belongs
to him now, — not ten or twenty year hence, when
you 've done with 't, and he most likely won't need it. A
few hundred dollars now 'll be more useful to him than all
your thousands will be bime-by. After he left you, he
took the Moseley farm; everybody respected him, everybody
trusted him; he was doin' well, everybody said; then
he married Sophrony, and a good and faithful wife she 's
been to him; and finally he concluded to buy the farm,
which you yourself said was a good idee, and encouraged
him in 't.”
“So it was; Reuben used judgment in that, and he 'd
have got along well enough if 't had n't been for the war,”
said Mr. Ducklow; while his wife sat dumb, not daring to
measure tongues with their vigorous-minded and plain-speaking
neighbor.
“Jest so!” said Miss Beswick. “If it had n't been for
the war! He had made his first payments, and would have
met the rest as they came due, no doubt of it. But the
war broke out, and he left all to sarve his country. Says he,
`I 'm an able-bodied man, and I ought to go,' says he. His
business was as important, and his wife and children was
as dear to him, as anybody's; but he felt it his duty to
go, and he went. They did n't give no such big bounties
to volunteers then as they do now, and it was a sacrifice
to him every way when he enlisted. But says he, `I 'll
jest do my duty,' says he, `and trust to Providence for the
rest.' You did n't discourage his goin', — and you did n't
incourage him, neither, the way you 'd ought to.”
“My! what on 'arth, Miss Beswick! — Seems to me
for, to say the least! I can't understand what
should have sent you here, to tell me what 's my business,
and what a'n't, this fashion. As if I did n't know my own
duty and intentions!” And Mr. Ducklow poured his tea
into his plate, and buttered his bread with a teaspoon.
“I s'pose she 's been talking with Sophrony, and she has
sent her to interfere.”
“Mis' Ducklow, you don't s'pose no such thing! You
know Sophrony would n't send anybody on such an arrant;
and you know I a'n't a person to do such arrants, or be
made a cat's-paw of by anybody. I a'n't handsome, not
partic'larly; and I a'n't wuth my thousands, like some folks
I know; and I never got married, for the best reason in
the world, — them that offered themselves I would n't
have, and them I would have had did n't offer themselves;
and I a'n't so good a Christian as I might be, I 'm aware.
I know my lacks as well as anybody; but bein' a spy and
a cat's-paw a'n't one of 'em. I don't do things sly and
underhand. If I 've anything to say to anybody, I go
right to 'em, and say it to their face, — sometimes perty
blunt, I allow. But I don't wait to be sent by other folks.
I 've a mind o' my own, and my own way o' doin' things,
— that you know as well as anybody. So, when you say
you s'pose Sophrony or anybody else sent me here to interfere,
I say you s'pose what a'n't true, and what you
know a'n't true, Mis' Ducklow!”
Mrs. Ducklow was annihilated, and the visitor went on.
“As for you, Mr. Ducklow, I have n't said you don't
know your own duty and intentions. I 've no doubt you
think you do, at any rate.”
“Very well! then why can't you leave me to do what
I think 's my duty? Everybody ought to have that
privilege.”
“You think so?”
“Sartin, Miss Beswick; don't you?”
“Why, then, I ought to have the same.”
“Of course; nobody in this house 'll prevent your
doin' what you 're satisfied 's your duty.”
“Thank ye! much obleeged!” said Miss Beswick,
with gleaming, gristly features. “That 's all I ask. Now
I 'm satisfied it 's my duty to tell ye what I 've been
tellin' ye, and what I 'm goin' to tell ye: that 's my duty.
And then it 'll be your duty to do what you think 's right.
That 's plain, a'n't it?”
“Wal, wal!” said Mr. Ducklow, discomfited; “I can't
hinder yer talkin', I s'pose; though it seems a man ought
to have a right to peace and quiet in his own house.”
“Yes, and in his own conscience too!” said Miss Beswick.
“And if you 'll hearken to me now, I promise you
'll have peace and quiet in your conscience, and in your
house too, such as you never have had yit. I s'pose you
know your great fault, don't ye? Graspin', — that 's your
fault, that 's your besettin' sin, Mr. Ducklow. You used
to give it as an excuse for not helpin' Reuben more, that
you had your daughter to provide for. Well, your daughter
has got married; she married a rich man, — you looked
out for that, — and she 's provided for, fur as property can
provide for any one. Now, without a child in the world
to feel anxious about, you keep layin' up and layin' up,
and 'll continner to lay up, I s'pose, till ye die, and leave a
great fortin' to your daughter, that already has enough,
and jest a pittance to Reuben and Thaddeus.”
“No, no, Miss Beswick! you 're wrong, you 're wrong,
Miss Beswick! I mean to do the handsome thing by both
on 'em.”
“Mean to! ye mean to! That 's the way ye flatter yer
conscience, and cheat yer own soul. Why don't ye do
the way to git the good of your property. I tell ye, the
time 's comin' when the recollection of havin' done a good
action will be a greater comfort to ye than all the property
in the world. Then you 'll look back and say, `Why
did n't I do this and do that with my money, when 't was
in my power, 'stead of hoardin' up and hoardin' up for
others to spend after me?' Now, as I was goin' to say,
ye did n't discourage Reuben's enlistin', and ye did n't
incourage him the way ye might. You ought to 've said
to him, `Go, Reuben, if ye see it to be yer duty; and, as
fur as money goes, ye sha' n't suffer for 't. I 've got
enough for all on us; and I 'll pay yer debts, if need be,
and see 't yer fam'ly 's kep' comf'table while ye 're away.'
But that 's jest what ye did n't say, and it 's jest what ye
did n't do. All the time Reuben 's been sarvin' his country,
he 's had his debts and his family expenses to worry
him; and you know it 's been all Sophrony could do, by
puttin' forth all her energies, and strainin' every narve, to
keep herself and children from goin' hungry and ragged.
You 've helped 'em a little now and then, in driblets, it 's
true; but, dear me!” exclaimed Miss Beswick; and she
smote her hands, palms downwards, upon her lap, with a
look and gesture which signified that words utterly failed
to express her feelings on the subject.
Mrs. Ducklow, who, since her annihilation, had scarcely
ventured to look up, sat biting her lips, drawing quick
breaths of suppressed anger and impatience, and sewing
the patch to the trousers and to her own apron under them.
There was an awful silence, broken only by the clock ticking,
and Mr. Ducklow lifting his knife and fork and letting
them fall again. At last he forced himself to speak.
“Wal, you 've read us a pretty smart lectur', Miss Beswick,
I must say. I can't consaive what should make ye
ye, — very kind, to be sure!”
“Take an interest! Have n't I seen Sophrony's struggles
with them children? And have n't I seen Reuben
come home this very night, a sick man, with a broken
constitution, and no prospect before him but to give up
his farm, lose all he has paid, and be thrown upon the
charities of the world with his wife and children? And if
the charities of friends are so cold, what can he expect
of the charities of the world? Take an interest! I wish
you took half as much. Here I 've sot half an hour, and
you have n't thought to ask how Reuben appeared, or anything
about him.”
“Maybe there 's a good reason for that, Miss Beswick.
'T was on my lips to ask half a dozen times; but you
talked so fast, you would n't give me a chance.”
“Well, I 'm glad you 've got some excuse, though a poor
one,” said Miss Beswick.
“How is Reuben?” Mrs. Ducklow meekly inquired.
“All broken to pieces, — a mere shadder of what he
was. He 's had his old wound troublin' him ag'in; then
he 's had the fever, that come within one of takin' him out
o' the world. He was in the hospitals, ye know, for two
months or more; but finally the doctors see 't was his
only chance to be sent home, weak as he was. A sergeant
that was comin' on brought him all the way, and took
him straight home; and that 's the reason he got along
so sudden and unexpected, even to Sophrony. O, if you
could seen their meetin', as I did! then you would n't
sneer at my takin' an interest.” And Miss Beswick,
strong-minded as she was, found it necessary to make
use of her handkerchief. “I did n't stop only to help put
him to bed, and fix things a little; then I left 'em alone,
and run over to tell ye. It 's a pity you did n't know he
home with ye. But I s'pose you had your investments to
look after. Come, now, Mr. Ducklow, how many thousan'
dollars have you invested, since Reuben 's been off to war,
and his folks have been sufferin' to home? You may have
been layin' up hundreds, or even thousands, that way, this
very day, for aught I know. But let me tell ye, you won't
git no good of such property, — it 'll only be a cuss to ye,
— till you do the right thing by Reuben. Mark my
word!”
There was another long silence.
“Ye a'n't going, be ye, Miss Beswick?” said Mrs. Ducklow,
— for the visitor had arisen. “What 's yer hurry?”
“No hurry at all; but I 've done my arrant and said
my say, and may as well be goin'. Good night. Good
night, Mr. Ducklow.”
And Miss Beswick, pulling her shawl over her head,
stalked out of the house like some tall, gaunt spectre, leaving
the Ducklows to recover as best they could from the
consternation into which they had been thrown by her
coming.
| II.
MISS BESWICK. Coupon bonds, and other stories | |