Ferdinand B. Kensington, as he called himself, removed the next morning to the house of Aunt Deborah. The latter received him very cordially, partly because it was a pleasant relief to her solitude to have a lively and active young man in the house, partly because she was not forced to look upon him as a poor relation in need of pecuniary assistance. She even felt considerable respect for the prospective recipient of an income of two thousand dollars, which in her eyes was a magnificent salary.
Ferdinand, on his part, spared no pains to make himself agreeable to the old lady, whom he had a mercenary object in pleasing. Finding that she was curious to hear about the great city, which to her was as unknown as London or Paris, be gratified her by long accounts, chiefly of as imaginative character, to which she listened greedily. These included some personal adventures, in all of which he figured very creditably.
Here is a specimen.
"By the way, Aunt Deborah," he said, casually, "have you noticed this ring on my middle finger?"
"No, I didn't notice it before, Ferdinand. It's very handsome."
"I should think it ought to be, Aunt Deborah," said the young man.
"Why?"
"It cost enough to be handsome."
"How much did it cost?" asked the old lady, not without curiosity.
"Guess."
"I aint no judge of such things; I've only got this plain gold ring.Yours has got some sort of a stone in it."
"That stone is a diamond, Aunt Deborah!"
"You don't say so! Let me look at it. It aint got no color. Looks like glass."
"It's very expensive, though. How much do you think it cost?"
"Well, maybe five dollars."
"Five dollars!" ejaculated the young man. "Why, what can you be thinking of, Aunt Deborah?"
"I shouldn't have guessed so much," said the old lady, misunderstanding him, "only you said it was expensive."
"So it is. Five dollars would be nothing at all."
"You don't say it cost more?"
"A great deal more."
"Did it cost ten dollars?"
"More."
"Fifteen?"
"I see, aunt, you have no idea of the cost of diamond rings! You may believe me or not, but that ring cost six hundred and fifty dollars."
"What!" almost screamed Aunt Deborah, letting fall her knitting in her surprise.
"It's true."
"Six hundred and fifty dollars for a little piece of gold and glass!" ejaculated the old lady.
"Diamond, aunt, not glass."
"Well, it don't look a bit better'n glass, and I do say," proceededDeborah, with energy, "that it's a sin and a shame to pay so muchmoney for a ring. Why, it was more than half your year's salary,Ferdinand."
"I agree with you, aunt; it would have been very foolish and wrong for a young man on a small salary like mine to buy so expensive a ring as this. I hope, Aunt Deborah, I have inherited too much of your good sense to do that."
"Then where did you get it?" asked the old lady, moderating her tone.
"It was given to me."
"Given to you! Who would give you such a costly present?"
"A rich man whose life I once saved, Aunt Deborah."
"You don't say so, Ferdinand!" said Aunt Deborah, interested. "Tell me all about it."
"So I will, aunt, though I don't often speak of it," said Ferdinand, modestly. "It seems like boasting, you know, and I never like to do that. But this is the way it happened.
"Now for a good tough lie!" said Ferdinand to himself, as the old lady suspended her work, and bent forward with eager attention.
"You know, of course, that New York and Brooklyn are on opposite sides of the river, and that people have to go across in ferry-boats."
"Yes, I've heard that, Ferdinand."
"I'm glad of that, because now you'll know that my story is correct. Well, one summer I boarded over in Brooklyn—on the Heights—and used to cross the ferry morning and night. It was the Wall street ferry, and a great many bankers and rich merchants used to cross daily also. One of these was a Mr. Clayton, a wholesale dry-goods merchant, immensely rich, whom I knew by sight, though I had never spoken to him. It was one Thursday morning—I remember even the day of the week—when the boat was unusually full. Mr. Clayton was leaning against the side-railing talking to a friend, when all at once the railing gave way, and he fell backward into the water, which immediately swallowed him up."
"Merciful man!" ejaculated Aunt Deborah, intensely interested. "Go on, Ferdinand."
"Of course there was a scene of confusion and excitement," continued Ferdinand, dramatically. 'Man overboard! Who will save him?' said more than one. 'I will,' I exclaimed, and in an instant I had sprang over the railing into the boiling current."
"Weren't you frightened to death?" asked the old lady. "Could you swim?"
"Of course I could. More than once I have swum all the way from New York to Brooklyn. I caught Mr. Clayton by the collar, as he was sinking for the third time, and shouted to a boatman near by to come to my help. Well, there isn't much more to tell. We were taken on board the boat, and rowed to shore. Mr. Clayton recovered his senses so far as to realize that I had saved his life.
"'What is your name, young man?' he asked, grasping my hand.
"'Ferdinand B. Kensington,' I answered modestly.
"'You have saved my life,' he said warmly.
"'I am very glad of it,' said I.
"'You have shown wonderful bravery."
"'Oh no,' I answered. 'I know how to swim, and I wasn't going to see you drown before my eyes.'
"'I shall never cease to be grateful to you.'
"'Oh, don't think of it,' said I.
"'But I must think of it,' he answered. 'But for you I should now be a senseless corpse lying in the bottom of the river,' and he shuddered.
"'Mr. Clayton,' said I, 'let me advise you to get home as soon as possible, or you will catch your death of cold.'
"'So will you,' he said. 'You must come with me.'
"He insisted, so I went, and was handsomely treated, you may depend. Mr. Clayton gave me a new suit of clothes, and the next morning he took me to Tiffany's—that's the best jeweller in New York—and bought me this diamond ring. He first offered me money, but I felt delicate about taking money for such a service, and told him so. So he bought me this ring."
"Well, I declare!" ejaculated Aunt Deborah.
"That was an adventure. But it seems to me, Ferdinand, I would have taken the money."
"As to that, aunt, I can sell this ring, if ever I get hard up, but I hope I sha'n't be obliged to."
"You certainly behaved very well, Ferdinand. Do you ever see Mr.Clayton now?"
"Sometimes, but I don't seek his society, for fear he would think I wanted to get something more out of him."
"How much money do you think he'd have given you?" asked AuntDeborah, who was of a practical nature.
"A thousand dollars, perhaps more."
"Seems to me I would have taken it."
"If I had, people would have said that's why I jumped into the water, whereas I wasn't thinking anything about getting a reward. So now, aunt, you won't think it very strange that I wear such an expensive ring."
"Of course it makes a difference, as you didn't buy it yourself. I don't see how folks can be such fools as to throw away hundreds of dollars for such a trifle."
"Well, aunt, everybody isn't as sensible and practical as you. Now I agree with you; I think it's very foolish. Still I'm glad I've got the ring, because I can turn it into money when I need to. Only, you see, I don't like to part with a gift, although I don't think Mr. Clayton would blame me."
"Of course he wouldn't, Ferdinand. But I don't see why you should need money when you're goin' to get such a handsome salary in San Francisco."
"To be sure, aunt, but there's something else. However, I won't speak of it to-day. To-morrow I may want to ask your advice on a matter of business."
"I'll advise you the best I can, Ferdinand," said the flattered spinster.
"You see, aunt, you're so clear-headed, I shall place great dependence on your advice. But I think I'll take a little walk now, just to stretch my limbs."
"I've made good progress," said the young man to himself, as he lounged over the farm. "The old lady swallows it all. To-morrow must come my grand stroke. I thought I wouldn't propose it to-day, for fear she'd suspect the ring story."
Ferdinand found life at the farm-house rather slow, nor did he particularly enjoy the society of the spinster whom he called aunt. But he was playing for a valuable stake, and meant to play out his game.
"Strike while the iron is hot!" said he to himself; "That's a good rule; but how shall I know when it is hot? However, I must risk something, and take my chances with the old lady."
Aunt Deborah herself hastened his action. Her curiosity had been aroused by Ferdinand's intimation that he wished her advice on a matter of business, and the next morning, after breakfast, she said, "Ferdinand, what was that you wanted to consult me about? You may as well tell me now as any time."
"Here goes, then!" thought the young man.
"I'll tell you, aunt. You know I am offered a large salary in SanFrancisco?"
"Yes, you told me so."
"And, as you said the other day, I can lay up half my salary, and in time become a rich man."
"To be sure you can."
"But there is one difficulty in the way."
"What is that?"
"I must go out there."
"Of course you must," said the old lady, who did not yet see the point.
"And unfortunately it costs considerable money."
"Haven't you got enough money to pay your fare out there?"
"No, aunt; it is very expensive living in New York, and I was unable to save anything from my salary."
"How much does it cost to go out there?"
"About two hundred and fifty dollars."
"That's a good deal of money."
"So it is; but it will be a great deal better to pay it than to lose so good a place."
"I hope," said the old lady, sharply, "you don't expect me to pay your expenses out there."
"My dear aunt," said Ferdinand, hastily, "how can you suspect such a thing?"
"Then what do you propose to do?" asked the spinster, somewhat relieved.
"I wanted to ask your advice."
"Sell your ring. It's worth over six hundred dollars."
"Very true; but I should hardly like to part with it. I'll tell you what I have thought of. It cost six hundred and fifty dollars. I will give it as security to any one who will lend me five hundred dollars, with permission to sell it if I fail to pay up the note in six months. By the way, aunt, why can't you accommodate me in this matter? You will lose nothing, and I will pay handsome interest."
"How do you know I have the money?"
"I don't know; but I think you must have. But, although I am your nephew, I wouldn't think of asking you to lend me money without security. Business is business, so I say."
"Very true, Ferdinand."
"I ask nothing on the score of relationship, but I will make a business proposal."
"I don't believe the ring would fetch over six hundred dollars."
"It would bring just about that. The other fifty dollars represent the profit. Now, aunt, I'll make you a regular business proposal. If you'll lend me five hundred dollars, I'll give you my note for five hundred and fifty, bearing interest at six per cent., payable in six months, or, to make all sure, say in a year. I place the ring in your hands, with leave to sell it at the end of that time if I fail to carry out my agreement. But I sha'n't if I keep my health."
The old lady was attracted by the idea of making a bonus of fifty dollars, but she was cautious, and averse to parting with her money.
"I don't know what to say, Ferdinand," she replied. "Five hundred dollars is a good deal of money."
"So it is, aunt. Well, I don't know but I can offer you a little better terms. Give me four hundred and seventy-five, and I'll give you a note for five hundred and fifty. You can't make as much interest anywhere else."
"I'd like to accommodate you," said the old lady, hesitating, for, like most avaricious persons, she was captivated by the prospect of making extra-legal interest.
"I know you would. Aunt Deborah, but I don't want to ask the money as a favor. It is a strictly business transaction."
"I am afraid I couldn't spare more than four hundred and fifty."
"Very well, I won't dispute about the extra twenty-five dollars. Considering how much income I'm going to get, it isn't of any great importance."
"And you'll give me a note for five hundred and fifty?"
"Yes, certainly."
"I don't know as I ought to take so much interest."
"It's worth that to me, for though, of course, I could raise it by selling the ring, I don't like to do that."
"Well, I don't know but I'll do it. I'll get some ink, and you can write me the due bill."
"Why, Aunt Deborah, you haven't got the money here, have you?"
"Yes, I've got it in the house. A man paid up a mortgage last week, and I haven't yet invested the money. I meant to put it in the savings bank."
"You wouldn't get but six per cent there. Now the bonus I offer you will be equal to about twenty per cent."
"And you really feel able to pay so much?"
"Yes, aunt; as I told you, it will be worth more than that to me."
"Well, Ferdinand, we'll settle the matter now. I'll go and get the money, and you shall give me the note and the ring."
"Triumph!" said the young man to himself, when the old lady had left the room. "You're badly sold, Aunt Deborah, but it's a good job for me. I didn't think I would have so little trouble."
Within fifteen minutes the money was handed over, and Aunt Deborah took charge of the note and the valuable diamond ring.
"Be careful of the ring, Aunt Deborah," said Ferdinand. "Remember, I expect to redeem it again."
"I'll take good care of it, nephew, never fear!"
"If it were a little smaller, you could wear it, yourself."
"How would Deborah Kensington look with a diamond ring? The neighbors would think I was crazy. No: I'll keep it in a safe place, but I won't wear it."
"Now, Aunt Deborah, I must speak about other arrangements. Don't you think it would be well to start for San Francisco as soon as possible? You know I enter upon my duties as soon as I get there."
"Yes, Ferdinand, I think you ought to."
"I wish I could spare the time to spend a week with you, aunt; but business is business, and my motto is, business before pleasure."
"And very proper, too, Ferdinand," said the old lady, approvingly.
"So I think I had better leave Centreville tomorrow."
"May be you had. You must write and let me know when you get there, and how you like your place."
"So I will, and I shall be glad to know that you take an interest in me. Now, aunt, as I have some errands to do, I will walk to the village and come back about the middle of the afternoon."
"Won't you be back to dinner?"
"No, I think not, aunt."
"Very well, Ferdinand. Come as soon as you can."
Half an hour later, Ferdinand entered the office of the "CentrevilleGazette."
"How do you do, Mr. Kensington?" said Clapp, eagerly. "Anything new?"
"I should like to speak with you a moment in private, Mr. Clapp."
"All right!"
Clapp put on his coat, and went outside, shutting the door behind him.
"Well," said Ferdinand, "I've succeeded."
"Have you got the money?"
"Yes, but not quite as much as I anticipated."
"Can't you carry out your plan?" asked Clapp, soberly, fearing he was to be left out in the cold.
"I've formed a new one. Instead of going to California, which is very expensive, we'll go out West, say to St. Louis, and try our fortune there. What do you say?"
"I'm agreed. Can Luke go too?"
"Yes. I'll take you both out there, and lend you fifty dollars each besides, and you shall pay me back as soon as you are able. Will you let your friend know?"
"Yes, I'll undertake that; but when do you propose to start?"
"To-morrow morning."
"Whew! That's short notice."
"I want to get away as soon as possible, for fear the old lady should change her mind, and want her money back."
"That's where you're right."
"Of course you must give up your situation at once, as there is short time to get ready."
"No trouble about that," said Clapp. "I've hated the business for a long time, and shall be only too glad to leave. It's the same with Luke. He won't shed many tears at leaving Centreville."
"Well, we'll all meet this evening at the hotel. I depend upon your both being ready to start in the morning."
"All right, I'll let Luke know."
It may be thought singular that Ferdinand should have made so liberal an offer to two comparative strangers; but, to do the young man justice, though he had plenty of faults, he was disposed to be generous when he had money, though he was not particular how he obtained it. Clapp and Luke Harrison he recognized as congenial spirits, and he was willing to sacrifice something to obtain their companionship. How long his fancy was likely to last was perhaps doubtful; but for the present he was eager to associate them with his own plans.
Clapp re-entered the printing office highly elated.
"Mr. Anderson," said he to the editor, "I am going to leave you."
Ferguson and Harry Walton looked up in surprise, and Mr. Anderson asked,—
"Have you got another place?"
"No; I am going West."
"Indeed! How long have you had that in view?"
"Not long. I am going with Mr. Kensington."
"The one who just called on you?"
"Yes."
"How soon do you want to leave?"
"Now."
"That is rather short notice."
"I know it, but I leave town to-morrow morning."
"Well, I wish you success. Here is the money I owe you."
"Sha'n't we see you again, Clapp?" asked Ferguson.
"Yes; I'll just look in and say good-by. Now I must go home and get ready."
"Well, Ferguson," said Mr. Andersen, after Clapp's departure, "that is rather sudden."
"So I think."
"How can we get along with only two hands?"
"Very well, sir. I'm willing to work a little longer, and Harry here is a pretty quick compositor now. The fact is, there isn't enough work for three."
"Then you think I needn't hire another journeyman?"
"No."
"If you both work harder I must increase your wages, and then I shall save money."
"I sha'n't object to that," said Ferguson, smiling.
"Nor I," said Harry.
"I was intending at any rate to raise Harry's wages, as I find he does nearly as much as a journeyman. Hereafter I will give you five dollars a week besides your board."
"Oh, thank you, sir!" said Harry, overjoyed at his good fortune.
"As for you, Ferguson, if you will give me an hour more daily, I will add three dollars a week to your pay."
"Thank you, sir. I think I can afford now to give Mrs. Ferguson the new bonnet she was asking for this morning."
"I don't want to overwork you two, but if that arrangement proves satisfactory, we will continue it."
"I suppose you will be buying your wife a new bonnet too; eh, Harry?" said Ferguson.
"I may buy myself a new hat. Luke Harrison turned up his nose at my old one the other day."
"What will Luke do without Clapp? They were always together."
"Perhaps he is going too."
"I don't know where he will raise the money, nor Clapp either, for that matter."
"Perhaps their new friend furnishes the money."
"If he does, he is indeed a friend."
"Well, it has turned out to our advantage, at any rate, Harry.Suppose you celebrate it by coming round and taking supper with me?"
"With the greatest pleasure."
Harry was indeed made happy by his promotion. Having been employed for some months on board-wages, he had been compelled to trench upon the small stock of money which he had saved up when in the employ of Prof. Henderson, and he had been unable to send any money to his father, whose circumstances were straitened, and who found it very hard to make both ends meet. That evening he wrote a letter to his father, in which he inclosed ten dollars remaining to him from his fund of savings, at the same time informing him of his promotion. A few days later, he received the following reply:—
"Your letter has given me great satisfaction, for I conclude from your promotion that you have done your duty faithfully, and won the approbation of your employer. The wages you now earn will amply pay your expenses, while you may reasonably hope that they will be still further increased, as you become more skilful and experienced. I am glad to hear that you are using your leisure hours to such good purpose, and are trying daily to improve your education. In this way you may hope in time to qualify yourself for the position of an editor, which is an honorable and influential profession, to which I should be proud to have you belong.
"The money which you so considerately inclose comes at the right time. Your brother needs some new clothes, and this will enable me to provide them. We all send love, and hope to hear from you often.
"Your affectionate father,"HIRAM WALTON."
Harry's promotion took place just before the beginning of September. During the next week the fall term of the Prescott Academy commenced, and the village streets again became lively with returning students. Harry was busy at the case, when Oscar Vincent entered the printing office, and greeted him warmly.
"How are you, Oscar?" said Harry, his face lighting up with pleasure. "I am glad to see you back. I would shake hands, but I am afraid you wouldn't like it," and Harry displayed his hands soiled with printer's ink.
"Well, we'll shake hands in spirit, then, Harry. How have you passed the time?"
"I have been very busy, Oscar."
"And I have been very lazy. I have scarcely opened a book, that is, a study-book, during the vacation. How much have you done in French?"
"I have nearly finished Telemachus."
"You have! Then you have done splendidly. By the way, Harry, I received the paper you sent, containing your essay. It does you credit, my boy."
Mr. Anderson, who was sitting at his desk, caught the last words.
"What is that, Harry?" he asked. "Have you been writing for the papers?"
Harry blushed.
"Yes, sir," he replied. "I have written two or three articles for the 'Boston Weekly Standard.'"
"Indeed! I should like to see them."
"You republished one of them in the 'Gazette,' Mr. Anderson," saidFerguson.
"What do you refer to?"
"Don't you remember an article on 'Ambition,' which you inserted some weeks ago?"
"Yes, it was a good article. Did you write it, Walton?"
"Yes, air."
"Why didn't you tell me of it?"
"He was too bashful," said Ferguson.
"I am glad to know that you can write," said the editor. "I shall call upon you for assistance, in getting up paragraphs occasionally."
"I shall be very glad to do what I can," said Harry, gratified.
"Harry is learning to be an editor," said Ferguson.
"I will give him a chance for practice, then," and Mr. Anderson returned to his exchanges.
"By the way, Oscar," said Harry, "I am not a printer's devil any longer. I am promoted to be a journeyman."
"I congratulate you, Harry, but what will Fitz do now? He used to take so much pleasure in speaking of you as a printer's devil."
"I am sorry to deprive him of that pleasure. Did you see much of him in vacation, Oscar?"
"I used to meet him almost every day walking down Washington Street, swinging a light cane, and wearing a stunning necktie, as usual."
"Is he coming back this term?"
"Yes, he came on the same train with me. Hasn't he called to pay his respects to you?"
"No," answered Harry, with a smile. "He hasn't done me that honor.He probably expects me to make the first call."
"Well, Harry, I suppose you will be on hand next week, when theClionian holds its first meeting?"
"Yes, I will be there."
"And don't forget to call at my room before that time. I want to examine you in French, and see how much progress you have made."
"Thank you, Oscar."
"Now I must be going. I have got a tough Greek lesson to prepare for to-morrow. I suppose it will take me twice as long as usual. It is always hard to get to work again after a long vacation. So good-morning, and don't forget to call at my room soon—say to-morrow evening."
"I will come."
"What a gentlemanly fellow your friend is!" said Ferguson.
"What is his name, Harry?" asked Mr. Anderson.
"Oscar Vincent. His father is an editor in Boston."
"What! the son of John Vincent?" said Mr. Anderson, surprised.
"Yes, sir; do you know his father?"
"Only by reputation. He is a man of great ability."
"Oscar is a smart fellow, too, but not a hard student."
"I shall be glad to have you bring him round to the house some evening, Harry. I shall be glad to become better acquainted with him."
"Thank you, sir. I will give him the invitation."
It is very possible that Harry rose in the estimation of his employer, from his intimacy with the son of a man who stood so high in his own profession. At all events, Harry found himself from this time treated with greater respect and consideration than before, and Mr. Anderson often called upon him to write paragraphs upon local matters, so that his position might be regarded except as to pay, as that of an assistant editor.
Aunt Deborah felt that she had done a good stroke of business. She had lent Ferdinand four hundred and fifty dollars, and received in return a note for five hundred and fifty, secured by a diamond ring worth even more. She plumed herself on her shrewdness, though at times she felt a little twinge at the idea of the exorbitant interest which she had exacted from so near a relative.
"But he said the money was worth that to him," she said to herself in extenuation, "and he's goin' to get two thousand dollars a year. I didn't want to lend the money, I'd rather have had it in the savings bank, but I did it to obleege him."
By such casuistry Aunt Deborah quieted her conscience, and carefully put the ring away among her bonds and mortgages.
"Who'd think a little ring like that should be worth so much?" she said to herself. "It's clear waste of money. But then Ferdinand didn't buy it. It was give to him, and a very foolish gift it was too. Railly, it makes me nervous to have it to take care of. It's so little it might get lost easy."
Aunt Deborah plumed herself upon her shrewdness. It was not easy to get the advantage of her in a bargain, and yet she had accepted the ring as security for a considerable loan without once questioning its genuineness. She relied implicitly upon her nephew's assurance of its genuineness, just as she had relied upon his assertion of relationship. But the time was soon coming when she was to be undeceived.
One day, a neighbor stopped his horse in front of her house, and jumping out of his wagon, walked up to the door and knocked.
"Good-morning, Mr. Simpson," said the old lady, answering the knock herself; "won't you come in?"
"Thank you, Miss Deborah, I can't stop this morning. I was at the post-office just now, when I saw there was a letter for you, and thought I'd bring it along."
"A letter for me!" said Aunt Deborah in some surprise, for her correspondence was very limited. "Who's it from?"
"It is post-marked New York," said Mr. Simpson.
"I don't know no one in New York," said the old lady, fumbling in her pockets for her spectacles.
"Maybe it's one of your old beaux," said Mr. Simpson, humorously, a joke which brought a grim smile to the face of the old spinster. "But I must be goin'. If it's an offer of marriage, don't forget to invite me to the wedding."
Aunt Deborah went into the house, and seating herself in her accustomed place, carefully opened the letter. She turned over the page, and glanced at the signature. To her astonishment it was signed,
"Your affectionate nephew,"FERDINAND B. KENSINGTON."
"Ferdinand!" she exclaimed in surprise. "Why, I thought he was in Californy by this time. How could he write from New York? I s'pose he'll explain. I hope he didn't lose the money I lent him."
The first sentence in the letter was destined to surprise MissDeborah yet more.
"Dear aunt," it commenced, "it is so many years since we have met, that I am afraid you have forgotten me."
"So many years!" repeated Miss Deborah in bewilderment. "What on earth can Ferdinand mean? Why, it's only five weeks yesterday since he was here. He must be crazy."
She resumed reading.
"I have often had it in mind to make you a little visit, but I have been so engrossed by business that I have been unable to get away. I am a salesman for A. T. Stewart, whom you must have heard of, as he is the largest retail dealer in the city. I have been three years in his employ, and have been promoted by degrees, till I now receive quite a good salary, until—and that is the news I have to write you—I have felt justifed in getting married. My wedding is fixed for next week, Thursday. I should be very glad if you could attend, though I suppose you would consider it a long journey. But at any rate I can assure you that I should be delighted to see you present on the occasion, and so would Maria. If you can't come, write to me, at any rate, in memory of old times. It is just possible that during our bridal tour—we are to go to the White Mountains for a week—we shall call on you. Let me know if it will be convenient for you to receive us for a day.
"Your affectionate nephew,"FERDINAND B. KENSINGTON."
Miss Deborah read this letter like one dazed. She had to read it a second time before she could comprehend its purport.
"Ferdinand going to be married! He never said a word about it when he was here. And he don't say a word about Californy. Then again he says he hasn't seen me for years. Merciful man! I see it now—the other fellow was an impostor!" exclaimed Miss Deborah, jumping, to her feet in excitement. "What did he want to deceive an old woman for?"
It flashed upon her at once. He came after money, and he had succeeded only too well. He had carried away four hundred and fifty dollars with him. True, he had left a note, and security. But another terrible suspicion had entered the old lady's mind; the ring might not be genuine.
"I must know at once," exclaimed the disturbed spinster. "I'll go over to Brandon, to the jeweller's, and inquire. If it's paste, then, Deborah Kensington, you're the biggest fool in Centreville."
Miss Deborah summoned Abner, her farm servant from the field, and ordered him instantly to harness the horse, as she wanted to go to Brandon.
"Do you want me to go with you?" asked Abner.
"To be sure, I can't drive so fur, and take care of the horse."
"It'll interrupt the work," objected Abner.
"Never mind about the work," said Deborah, impatiently. "I must go right off. It's on very important business."
"Wouldn't it be best to go after dinner?"
"No, we'll get some dinner over there, at the tavern."
"What's got into the old woman?" thought Abner. "It isn't like her to spend money at a tavern for dinner, when she might as well dine at home. Interruptin' the work, too! However, it's her business!"
Deborah was ready and waiting when the horse drove up the door. She got in, and they set out. Abner tried to open a conversation, but he found Miss Deborah strangely unsocial. She appeared to take no interest in the details of farm work of which he spoke.
"Something's on her mind, I guess," thought Abner; and, as we know, he was right.
In her hand Deborah clutched the ring, of whose genuineness she had come to entertain such painful doubts. It might be genuine, she tried to hope, even if it came from an impostor; but her hope was small. She felt a presentiment that it would prove as false as the man from whom she received it. As for the story of the manner in which he became possessed of it, doubtless that was as false as the rest.
"How blind I was!" groaned Deborah in secret. "I saw he didn't look like the family. What a goose I was to believe that story about his changin' the color of his hair! I was an old fool, and that's all about it."
"Drive to the jeweller's," said Miss Deborah, when they reachedBrandon.
In some surprise, Abner complied.
Deborah got out of the wagon hastily and entered the store.
"What can I do for you, Miss Kensington?" asked the jeweller, who recognized the old lady.
"I want to show you a ring," said Aunt Deborah, abruptly. "Tell me what it's worth."
She produced the ring which the false Ferdinand had intrusted to her.
The jeweller scanned it closely.
"It's a good imitation of a diamond ring," he said.
"Imitation!" gasped Deborah.
"Yes; you didn't think it was genuine?"
"What's it worth?"
"The value of the gold. That appears to be genuine. It may be worth three dollars."
"Three dollars!" ejaculated Deborah. "He told me it cost six hundred and fifty."
"Whoever told you that was trying to deceive you."
"You're sure about its being imitation, are you?"
"There can be no doubt about it."
"That's what I thought," muttered the old lady, her face pale and rigid. "Is there anything to pay?"
"Oh, no; I am glad to be of service to you."
"Good-afternoon, then," said Deborah, abruptly, and she left the store.
"Drive home, Abner, as quick as you can," she said.
"I haven't had any dinner," Abner remarked, "You said you'd get some at the tavern."
"Did I? Well, drive over there. I'm not hungry myself, but I'll pay for some dinner for you."
Poor Aunt Deborah! it was not the loss alone that troubled her, though she was fond of money; but it was humiliating to think that she had fallen such an easy prey to a designing adventurer. In her present bitter mood, she would gladly have ridden fifty miles to see the false Ferdinand hanged.
The intimacy between Harry and Oscar Vincent continued, and, as during the former term, the latter volunteered to continue giving French lessons to our hero. These were now partly of a conversational character, and, as Harry was thoroughly in earnest, it was not long before he was able to speak quite creditably.
About the first of November, Fitzgerald Fletcher left the Prescott Academy, and returned to his home in Boston. It was not because he had finished his education, but because he felt that he was not appreciated by his fellow-students. He had been ambitious to be elected to an official position in the Clionian Society, but his aspirations were not gratified. He might have accepted this disappointment, and borne it as well as he could, had it not been aggravated by the elevation of Harry Walton to the presidency. To be only a common member, while a boy so far his social inferior was President, was more than Fitzgerald could stand. He was so incensed that upon the announcement of the vote he immediately rose to a point of order.
"Mr. President," he said warmly, "I must protest against this election. Walton is not a member of the Prescott Academy, and it is unconstitutional to elect him President."
"Will the gentleman point out the constitutional clause which has been violated by Walton's election?" said Oscar Vincent.
"Mr. President," said Fletcher, "this Society was founded by students of the Prescott Academy; and the offices should be confined to the members of the school."
Harry Walton rose and said: "Mr. President, my election has been a great surprise to myself. I had no idea that any one had thought of me for the position. I feel highly complimented by your kindness, and deeply grateful for it; but there is something in what Mr. Fletcher says. You have kindly allowed me to share in the benefits of the Society, and that satisfies me. I think it will be well for you to make another choice as President."
"I will put it to vote," said the presiding officer. "Those who are ready to accept Mr. Walton's resignation will signify it in the usual way."
Fletcher raised his hand, but he was alone.
"Those who are opposed," said the President.
Every other hand except Harry's was now raised.
"Mr. Walton, your resignation is not accepted," said the presiding officer. "I call upon you to assume the duties of your new position."
Harry rose, and, modestly advanced to the chair. "I have already thanked you, gentlemen," he said, "for the honor you have conferred upon me in selecting me as your presiding officer. I have only to add that I will discharge its duties to the best of my ability."
All applauded except Fletcher. He sat with an unpleasant scowl upon his face, and waited for the result of the balloting for Vice-President and Secretary. Had he been elected to either position, the Clionian would probably have retained his illustrious name upon its roll. But as these honors were conferred upon other members, he formed the heroic resolution no longer to remain a member.
"Mr. President," he said, when the last vote was announced, "I desire to terminate my connection with this Society."
"I hope Mr. Fletcher will reconsider his determination," said Harry from the chair.
"I would like to inquire the gentleman's reasons," said Tom Carver.
"I don't like the way in which the Society is managed," saidFletcher. "I predict that it will soon disband."
"I don't see any signs of it," said Oscar. "If the gentleman is really sincere, he should not desert the Clionian in the hour of danger."
"I insist upon my resignation," said Fletcher.
"I move that it be accepted," said Tom Carver.
"Second the motion," said the boy who sat next him.
The resignation was unanimously accepted. Fletcher ought to have felt gratified at the prompt granting of his request, but he was not. He had intended to strike dismay into the Society by his proposal to withdraw, but there was no consternation visible. Apparently they were willing to let him go.
He rose from his seat mortified and wrathful.
"Gentlemen," he said, "you have complied with my request, and I am deeply grateful. I no longer consider it an honor to belong to the Clionian. I trust your new President may succeed as well in his new office as he has in the capacity of a printer's devil."
Fletcher was unable to proceed, being interrupted by a storm of hisses, in the midst of which he hurriedly made his exit.
"He wanted to be President himself—that's what's the matter," said Tom Carver in a whisper to his neighbor. "But he couldn't blame us for not wanting to have him."
Other members of the Society came to the same conclusion, and it was generally said that Fletcher had done himself no good by his undignified resentment. His parting taunt levelled at Harry was regarded as mean and ungenerous, and only strengthened the sentiment in favor of our hero who bore his honors modestly. In fact Tom Carver, who was fond of fun, conceived a project for mortifying Fletcher, and readily obtained the co-operation of his classmates.
It must be premised that Fitz was vain of his reading and declamation. He had a secret suspicion that, if he should choose to devote his talents to the stage, he would make a second Booth. This self-conceit of his made it the more easy to play off the following joke upon him.
A fortnight later, the young ladies of the village proposed to hold aFair to raise funds for some public object. At the head of thecommittee of arrangements was a sister of the doctor's wife, namedPauline Clinton. This will explain the following letter which,Fletcher received the succeeding day:—
"FITZGERALD FLETCHER, ESQ.—Dear Sir: Understanding that you are a superior reader, we should be glad of your assistance in lendingeclatto the Fair which we propose to hold on the evening of the 29th. Will you be kind enough to occupy twenty minutes by reading such selections as in your opinion will be of popular interest? It is desirable that you should let me know as soon as possible what pieces you have selected, that they may be printed on the programme.
"Yours respectfully,"PAULINE CLINTON,"(for the Committee)."
This note reached Fletcher at a time when he was still smarting from his disappointment in obtaining promotion from the Clionian Society. He read it with a flushed and triumphant face. He never thought of questioning its genuineness. Was it not true that he was a superior reader? What more natural than that he should be invited to giveeclatto the Fair by the exercise of his talents! He felt it to be a deserved compliment. It was a greater honor to be solicited to give a public reading than to be elected President of the Clionian Society.
"They won't laugh at me now," thought Fletcher.
He immediately started for Oscar's room to make known his new honors.
"How are you, Fitz?" said Oscar, who was in the secret, and guessed the errand on which he came.
"Very well, thank you, Oscar," answered Fletcher, in a stately manner.
"Anything new with you?" asked Oscar, carelessly.
"Not much," said Fletcher. "There's a note I just received.
"Whew!" exclaimed Oscar, in affected astonishment. "Are you going to accept?"
"I suppose I ought to oblige them," said Fletcher. "It won't be much trouble to me, you know."
"To be sure; it's in a good cause. But how did they hear of your reading?"
"Oh, there are no secrets in a small village like this," saidFletcher.
"It's certainly a great compliment. Has anybody else been invited to read?"
"I think not," said Fletcher, proudly. "They rely upon me."
"Couldn't you get a chance for me? It would be quite an honor, and I should like it for the sake of the family."
"I shouldn't feel at liberty to interfere with their arrangements," said Fletcher, who didn't wish to share the glory with any one. "Besides, you don't read well enough."
"Well, I suppose I must give it up," said Oscar, in a tone of resignation. "By the way, what have you decided to read?"
"I haven't quite made up my mind," said Fletcher, in a tone of importance. "I have only just received the invitation, you know."
"Haven't you answered it yet?"
"No; but I shall as soon as I go home. Good-night, Oscar."
"Good-night, Fitz."
"How mad Fitz will be when he finds he has been sold!" said Oscar to himself. "But he deserves it for treating Harry so meanly."
On reaching home, Fletcher looked over his "Speaker," and selected three poems which he thought he could read with best effect. The selection made, he sat down to his desk, and wrote a reply to the invitation, as follows:—
"MISS PAULINE CLINTON: I hasten to acknowledge your polite invitation to occupy twenty minutes in reading choice selections at your approaching Fair. I have paid much attention to reading, and hope to be able to give pleasure to the large numbers who will doubtless honor the occasion with their presence. I have selected three poems,—Poe's Raven, the Battle of Ivry, by Macaulay, and Marco Bozarris, by Halleck. I shall be much pleased if my humble efforts addeclatto the occasion.
"Yours, very respectfully,"FITZGERALD FLETCHER."
"There," said Fletcher, reading his letter through with satisfaction. "I think that will do. It is high-toned and dignified, and shows that I am highly cultured and refined. I will copy it off, and mail it."
Fletcher saw his letter deposited in the post-office, and returned to his room.
"I ought to practise reading these poems, so as to do it up handsomely," he said. "I suppose I shall get a good notice in the 'Gazette.' If I do, I will buy a dozen papers, and send to my friends. They will see that I am a person of consequence in Centreville, even if I didn't get elected to any office in the high and mighty Clionian Society."
I am sorry that I cannot reproduce the withering sarcasm whichFletcher put into his tone in the last sentence.
When Demosthenes was practising oratory, he sought the sea-shore; but Fitzgerald repaired instead to a piece of woods about half a mile distant. It was rather an unfortunate selection, as will appear.
It so happened that Tom Carver and Hiram Huntley were strolling about the woods, when they espied Fletcher approaching with an open book in his hand.
"Hiram," said Tom, "there's fun coming. There's Fitz Fletcher with his 'Speaker' in his hand. He's going to practise reading in the woods. Let us hide, and hear the fun."
"I'm in for it," said Hiram, "but where will be the best place to hide?"
"Here in this hollow tree. He'll be very apt to halt here."
"All right! Go ahead, I'll follow."
They quickly concealed themselves in the tree, unobserved byFletcher, whose eyes were on his book.
About ten feet from the tree he paused.
"I guess this'll be a good place," he said aloud. "There's no one to disturb me here. Now, which shall I begin with? I think I'll try The Raven. But first it may be well to practise an appropriate little speech. Something like this:"—
Fletcher made a low bow to the assembled trees, cleared his throat, and commenced,—
"Ladies and Gentlemen: It gives me great pleasure to appear before you this evening, in compliance with the request of the committee, who have thought that my humble efforts would giveeclatto the fair. I am not a professional reader, but I have ever found pleasure in reciting the noble productions of our best authors, and I hope to give you pleasure."
"That'll do, I think," said Fletcher, complacently. "Now I'll tryThe Raven."
In a deep, sepulchral tone, Fletcher read the first verse, which is quoted below:—
"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door—Only this and nothing more.'"
Was it fancy, or did Fletcher really hear a slow, measured tapping near him—upon one of the trees, as it seemed? He started, and looked nervously; but the noise stopped, and he decided that he had been deceived, since no one was visible.
The boys within the tree made no other demonstration till Fletcher had read the following verse:—
"Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice;Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore—Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;'Tis the wind, and nothing more.'"
Here an indescribable, unearthly noise was heard from the interior of the tree, like the wailing of some discontented ghost.
"Good heavens! what's that?" ejaculated Fletcher, turning pale, and looking nervously around him.
It was growing late, and the branches above him, partially stripped of their leaves, rustled in the wind. Fletcher was somewhat nervous, and the weird character of the poem probably increased this feeling, and made him very uncomfortable. He summoned up courage enough, however, to go on, though his voice shook a little. He was permitted to go on without interruption to the end. Those who are familiar with the poem, know that it becomes more and more wild and weird as it draws to the conclusion. This, with his gloomy surroundings, had its effect upon the mind of Fletcher. Scarcely had he uttered the last words, when a burst of wild and sepulchral laughter was heard within a few feet of him. A cry of fear proceeded from Fletcher, and, clutching his book, he ran at wild speed from the enchanted spot, not daring to look behind him. Indeed, he never stopped running till he passed out of the shadow of the woods, and was well on his way homeward.
Tom Carver and Hiram crept out from their place of concealment. They threw themselves on the ground, and roared with laughter.
"I never had such fun in my life," said Tom.
"Nor I."
"I wonder what Fitz thought."
"That the wood was enchanted, probably; he left in a hurry."
"Yes; he stood not on the order of his going, but went at once."
"I wish I could have seen him. We must have made a fearful noise."
"I was almost frightened myself. He must be almost home by this time."
"When do you think he'll find out about the trick?"
"About the invitation? Not till he gets a letter from Miss Clinton, telling him it is all a mistake. He will be terribly mortified."
Meanwhile Fletcher reached home, tired and out of breath. His temporary fear was over, but he was quite at sea as to the cause of the noises he had heard. He could not suspect any of his school-fellows, for no one was visible, nor had he any idea that any were in the wood at the time.
"I wonder if it was an animal," he reflected. "It was a fearful noise. I must find some other place to practise reading in. I wouldn't go to that wood again for fifty dollars."
But Fletcher's readings were not destined to be long continued. When he got home from school the next day, he found the following note, which had been left for him during the forenoon:—
"MR. FITZGERALD FLETCHER,—Dear Sir: I beg to thank you for your kind proposal to read at our Fair; but I think there must be some mistake in the matter, as we have never contemplated having any readings, nor have I written to you on the subject, as you intimate. I fear that we shall not have time to spare for such a feature, though, under other circumstances, it might be attractive. In behalf of the committee, I beg to tender thanks for your kind proposal.
"Yours respectfully,"PAULINE CLINTON."
Fletcher read this letter with feelings which can better be imagined than described. He had already written home in the most boastful manner about the invitation he had received, and he knew that before he could contradict it, it would have been generally reported by his gratified parents to his city friends. And now he would be compelled to explain that he had been duped, besides enduring the jeers of those who had planned the trick.
This was more than he could endure. He formed a sudden resolution. He would feign illness, and go home the next day. He could let it be inferred that it was sickness alone which had compelled him to give up the idea of appearing as a public reader.
Fitz immediately acted upon his decision, and the next day found him on the way to Boston. He never returned to the Prescott Academy as a student.