THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN;
OR, I'LL GIVE OR TAKE.
A SHREWD Yankee, with about five hundred dollars in his pocket, came along down South, a few years ago, seeking for some better investment of his money than offered in the land of steady habits, where he found people, as a general thing, quite as wide awake as himself.
In Philadelphia, our adventurer did not stay long; but something in the air of Baltimore pleased him, and he lingered about there for several weeks, prying into every thing and getting acquainted with everybody that was accessible. Among others for whom the Yankee seemed to take a liking, was a Dutchman, who was engaged in manufacturing an article for which there was a very good demand, and on which there was a tempting profit. He used to drop in almost every day and have a talk with the Dutchman, who seemed like a good, easy kind of a man, and just the game for the Yankee, if he should think it worth the candle.
"Why don't you enlarge your business?" asked Jonathan, one day. "You can sell five times what you make."
"I knows dat," returned the Dutchman, "but I wants de monish. Wait a while, den I enlarsh."
"Then you are laying by something?"
"Leetle mite."
In two or three days, Jonathan came round again. He had thought the matter all over, and was prepared to invest his five hundred dollars in the Dutchman's business, provided the latter had no objections.
"It's a pity to creep along in the way you are going," he said, "when so much money might be made in your business by the investment of more capital. Can't you borrow a few hundred dollars?"
"Me borrow? Oh, no; nobody lend me few hunnard dollar. I go on, save up; bimeby I enlarsh."
"But somebody else, with plenty of money, might go into the business and fill the market; then it would be no use to enlarge."
"Sorry, but can't help it. No monish, no enlarsh."
"I've got five hundred dollars."
The phlegmatic Dutchman brightened up.
"Fife hunnard dollar?"
"Yes."
"Much monish. Do great business on fife hunnard dollar."
"That you could."
"You lend me de monish?" asked the Dutchman.
Jonathan shook his head.
"Can't do that. I'm going into business myself."
"Ah! what business?"
"Don't know yet; haven't decided. Into your business, maybe."
"My business!" The Dutchman looked surprised.
"Yes; it appears to me like a very good business. Don't you think I could start very fair on five hundred dollars?"
The Dutchman hesitated to answer that question; he didn't want to say yes, and he was conscious that the Yankee knew too much of his affairs to believe him if he said no. He, therefore, merely shrugged his shoulders, looked stupid, and remained silent.
"You don't know of a large room that I could get anywhere, do you?"
The Dutchman shook his head, and gave a decided negative.
Jonathan said no more on that occasion. Two days afterwards, he dropped in again. "Have you fount a room yet?" asked the Dutchman.
"I've seen two or three," replied Jonathan. "One of them will suit me, I guess. But I'll tell you what I've been thinking about since I saw you. If I open another establishment, the business will be divided. Now, it has struck me, that, perhaps, it might be better, all round, for me to put my five hundred dollars into your business as a partner, and push the whole thing with might and main. How does it strike you?"
"Vell, I can't say shust now; I'll dink of him. You put in fife hunnard dollar, you say?"
"Yes; five hundred down, in hard cash—every dollar in gold."
"Fife hunnard. Let us see." And the Dutchman raised his chin and dropped his eyes, and stood for some minutes in a deep study.
"Fife hunnard," he repeated several times.
"Come to-morrow," he at length said. "Den I tell you."
"Very well. I'll drop in to-morrow," replied the Yankee. "I'm not very anxious about it, you see; but, as the thing occurred to me, I thought I would mention it. Five hundred dollars will make a great difference in your business."
On the next day, Jonathan appeared, looking quite indifferent about the matter. The Dutchman had turned over the proposition, and dreamed about it, both sleeping and waking. His final decision was to take in the Yankee as a partner.
Now, a cool, thoughtful Dutchman, and a quick-witted Yankee, are not a very bad match for each other, provided the former sees reason to have his wits about him, which was the case in the present instance. The Dutchman meant all fair; he had no thought of taking any advantage: but he had suspicion enough of Jonathan to put him on his guard, and look to see that no high-handed game was played off upon him.
"You put in fife hunnard dollar?" he said, when the Yankee appeared.
"Yes."
"Hard cash?"
"Yes, in gold."
"Gold!"
"All in half-eagles like these." And he drew a handful of gold coins from his pocket.
"Very well; I dake you. You put in fife hunnard dollar, I put in all I got here; den we joint owner."
"Equal partners?"
"Yes."
"That is, I own half and you half."
"Yes."
"And we divide, equally, the profits?"
"Yes."
"Very well; that'll do, I guess. We'll have writings drawn to this effect—articles of co-partnership, you know."
"Oh, yes."
This settled, nothing remained but to have the articles drawn, the money paid in, and the agreement signed and witnessed; all of which was done in the course of a few weeks. Then Jonathan went into the business, and infused some Yankee spirit: into every part of it; he made things move ahead fast. In less than a year, the business was much more than doubled, and the profits in proportion; thut Jonathan was not satisfied with his half of these—he wanted the whole; and, hedge-hog-like, he did all he could, by merely bristling up, to make things unpleasant for his partner. But the Dutchman was by no means thin-skinned; the sharp spikes of the Yankee's character annoyed him but little. As for himself, he felt very well satisfied with his share of the profits, and willing to go on as they were going.
At the end of the second year, when the establishment had grown into quite an important and profitable concern, the Yankee had a visit from an Eastern friend, a man of some capital.
"That's a stupid-looking fellow, that partner of yours," said this person.
"And he is as stupid as a mule. I have to carry him on my back, and the business, too."
"Why don't you get rid of him?"
"I've been wanting to do so for some time, but haven't seen my way clear yet."
"Does your partnership expire at any time, by limitation?"
"No. It can only be dissolved by mutual consent."
"Won't he sell out his interest?"
"I don't know; but I've always intended to make him an offer to give or take, as soon as I could see my way clear to do it."
"Don't you see your way clear now?"
"No. When such an offer is made, it must be of a sum that it is impossible for him to raise; otherwise, he might agree to give the amount proposed, and I don't want that. I wish to stick to the business, for it's going to be a fortune. At present, I am not able to raise what I think should be offered."
"How much is that?"
"About three thousand dollars. I only put in five hundred, two years ago. You can see how the business has increased. The half is worth five thousand in reality, and I would give, rather than take that sum."
"You think your partner can't raise three thousand dollars?"
"Oh, no; he's got no friends, and he hasn't three hundred out of the business."
"How long would you want the sum mentioned?"
"A year or eighteen months."
"I reckon I can supply it," said the friend. "It's a pity for you to be tied to this old Dutchman, when you can conduct the business just as well yourself."
"A great deal better; he is only in my way."
"Very well. You make him the offer to give or take three thousand dollars, and I will supply the money. But you ought, by all means, to add a stipulation, that whoever goes out shall sign a written agreement not to go into the same business for at least ten years to come. If you don't do this, he can take his three thousand dollars and start another establishment upon as large a scale as the one you have, and seriously affect your operations."
"Such a stipulation must be signed, of course," remarked Jonathan. "I've always had that in my mind; let me once get this business into my hands, and I'll make it pay better than it ever has yet. Before ten years roll over my head, if I a'n't worth forty or fifty thousand dollars, then I don't know any thing."
"You think it will pay like that?"
"Yes, I know it. I haven't put out half my strength yet, for I didn't want to let this Dutchman see what could be made of the business. He'll catch at three thousand dollars like a trout at a fly; it's more money than he ever saw in his life."
On the next day, Jonathan told his partner that he wanted to have some talk with him; so they retired into their little private office, to be alone.
"Vat you want?" said the Dutchman, when they were by themselves; for he saw that his partner had something on his mind of graver import than usual.
"I'm tired of a co-partnership business," said the Yankee, coming straight to the main point.
"Vell?" And the Dutchman looked at him without betraying the least surprise.
"Either of us could conduct this business as well as both together."
"Vell?"
"Now, I propose to buy you out or sell you my interest, as you please."
"Vell?"
"What will you give me for my half of the business, and let me go at something else?" The Dutchman shook his head.
"At a word, then, to make the matter as simple as possible, and as fair as possible, I'll tell you what I'll give or take."
"Vell?"
"Of course, it would not be fair for the one who goes out to commence the same business. I would not do it. There should be a written agreement to this effect."
"Yes. Vell, vat vill you give or dake?"
"I'll give or take three thousand dollars; I don't care which."
"Dree dousand dollar! You give dat?"
"Yes."
"Or take dat?"
"Either."
"You pay down de monish?"
"Cash down."
"Humph! Dree dousand dollar! Me tink about him."
"How long do you want to think?"
"Undil de mornin."
"Very well; we'll settle the matter to-morrow morning."
In the morning, Jonathan's friend came with three thousand dollars, in order to pay the Dutchman right down, and have the whole business concluded while the matter was warm.
Meantime, the Dutchman, who was not quite so friendless nor so stupid as the Yankee supposed, turned the matter over in his mind very coolly. He understood Jonathan's drift as clearly as he understood it himself, and was fully as well satisfied as he was in regard to the future value of the business which he had founded. Two of their largest customers were Germans, and to them he went and made a full statement of his position, and gave them evidence that entirely satisfied them as to the business. Without hesitation, they agreed to advance him the money he wanted, and to enable him to strike while the iron was hot, checked him out the money on the next morning. One of them accompanied him to his manufactory, to be a witness in the transaction.
Jonathan and his friend were first on the spot.
In about ten minutes, the Dutchman and his friend arrived.
"Well, have you made up your mind yet?" asked the Yankee.
"De one who goes out ish not to begin de same business?"
"No, certainly not; it wouldn't be fair."
"No, I 'spose not."
"Suppose we draw up a paper, and sign it to that effect, before we go any farther."
"Vell."
The paper was drawn, signed, and witnessed by the friends of both parties.
"You are prepared to give or take?" said Jonathan, with same eagerness in his manner.
"Yes."
"Well, which will you do?"
"I vill give," coolly replied the Dutchman.
"Give!" echoed the Yankee, taken entirely by surprise at so unexpected a reply. "Give! You mean, take."
"I no means dake, I means give. Here ish de monish;" and he drew forth a large roll of bank-bills. "You say give or dake—I say give."
With the best face it was possible to put upon the matter, Jonathan, who could not back out, took the three thousand dollars, and, for that sum, signed away, on the spot, all right, title, and claim to benefit in the business, from that day henceforth and for ever.
With his three thousand dollars in his pocket, the Yankee started off farther South, vowing that, if he lived to be as old as Methuselah, he'd never have any thing to do with a Dutchman again.
A TIPSY PARSON.
IN a village not a hundred miles from Philadelphia, resided the Rev. Mr. Manlius, who had the pastoral charge of a very respectable congregation, and was highly esteemed by them; but there was one thing in which he did not give general satisfaction, and in consequence of which many excellent members of his church felt seriously scandalized. He would neither join a temperance society, nor omit his glass of wine when he felt inclined to take it. It is only fair to say, however, that such spirituous indulgences were not of frequent occurrence. It was more the principle of the thing, as he said, that he stood upon, than any thing else, that prevented his signing a temperance pledge.
Sundry were the attacks, both open and secret, to which the Reverend Mr. Manlius was subjected, and many were the discussions into which he was drawn by the advocates of total abstinence. His mode of argument was very summary.
"I would no more sign a pledge not to drink brandy than I would sign a pledge not to steal," was the position he took. "I wish to be free to choose good or evil, and to act right because it is wrong to do otherwise. I do not find fault with others for signing a pledge, nor for abstaining from wine. If they think it right, it is right for them. But as for myself, I would cut off my right hand before I would bind myself by mere external restraint. My bonds are internal principles. I am temperate because intemperance is sin. For men who have abused their freedom, and so far lost all rational control over themselves that they cannot resist the insane spirit of intemperance, the pledge is all important. Sign it, I say, in the name of Heaven; but do not sign it because this, that, or the other temperate man has signed it, but because you feel it to be your only hope. Do it for yourself, and do it if you are the only man in the world who acts thus. To sign because another man, whom you think more respectable, has signed, will give you little or no strength. You must do it for yourself, and because it is right."
The parson was pretty ready with the tongue, and rarely came off second best when his opponents dragged him into a controversy, although his arguments were called by them, when he was not present, "mere fustian."
"His love for wine and brandy is at the bottom of all this hostility to the temperance cause," was boldly said of him by individuals in and out of his church. But especially were the members of other churches severe upon him.
"He'll turn out a drunkard," said one.
"I shouldn't be surprised to see him staggering in the streets before two years," said another.
"He does more harm to the temperance cause than ten drunkards," alleged a third.
While others said—"Isn't it scandalous!"
"He's a disgrace to his profession!"
"He pretend to have religion!"
"A minister indeed!"
And so the changes rang.
All this time, Mr. Manlius firmly maintained his ground, taking his glass of wine whenever it suited him. At last, after the occurrence of a dinner-party given by a family of some note in the place, and at which the minister was present, and at which wine was circulated freely, a rather scandalous report got abroad, and soon went buzzing all over the village. A young man, who made no secret of being fond of his glass, and who was at the dinner-party, met, on the day after, a very warm advocate of temperance, and a member of a different denomination from that in which Mr. Manlius was a minister, and said to him, with mock gravity—"We had a rara avis at our dinner-party yesterday, Perkins."
"Indeed. What wonderful thing was that?"
"A tipsy parson."
"A what?"
The man's eyes became instantly almost as big as saucers.
"A tipsy parson."
"Who? Mr. Manlius?" was eagerly inquired.
"I didn't say so. I call no names."
"He was present, I know; and drank wine, I am told, like a fish."
"I wasn't aware before that fishes drank wine," said the man gravely.
"It was Manlius, wasn't it?" urged the other.
"I call no names," was repeated. "All I said was, that we had a tipsy parson—and so we had. I'll prove it before a jury of a thousand, if necessary."
"It's no more than I expected," said the temperance man. "He's a mere winebibber at best. He pretend to preach the gospel! I wonder he isn't struck dead in the pulpit."
The moment his informant had left him, Perkins started forth to communicate the astounding intelligence that Mr. Manlius had been drunk on the day before, at Mr. Reeside's dinner-party. From lip to lip the scandal flew, with little less than electric quickness. It was all over the village by the next day. Some doubted, some denied, but the majority believed the story—it was so likely to be true.
This occurred near the close of the week, and Sunday arrived before the powers that be in the church were able to confer upon the subject, and cite the minister to appear and answer for himself on the scandalous charge of drunkenness. There was an unusual number of vacant pews during service, both morning and afternoon.
Monday came, and, early in the day, a committee of two deacons waited upon Mr. Manlius, and informed him of the report in circulation, and of their wish that he would appear before them on the next afternoon, to give an account of himself, as the church deemed the matter far too serious to be passed lightly over. The minister was evidently a good deal surprised and startled at this, but he neither denied the charge nor attempted any palliation, merely saying that he would attend, of course.
"It's plain that he's guilty," said Deacon Jones to Deacon Todd, as they walked with sober faces away from the minister's dwelling.
"Plain? Yes—it's written in his face," returned Deacon Todd. "So much for opposing temperance reforms and drinking wine. It's a judgment upon him."
"But what a scandal to our church!" said Deacon Jones.
"Yes—think of that. He must be suspended, and not restored until he signs the pledge."
"I don't believe he'll ever do that."
"Why not?"
"He says he would cut off his right hand first."
"People are very fond of cutting off their right hand, you know. My word for it, this will do the business for him. He will be glad enough to get the matter hushed up so easily. I shall go for suspending him until he signs the pledge."
"I don't know but that I will go with you. If he signs the pledge, he's safe."
And so the two deacons settled the matter.
On the next day, in grave council assembled were all the deacons of the church, besides sundry individuals who had come as the minister's friends or accusers. Perkins, who had put the report in circulation, was there, at the special request of one of the deacons, who had ascertained that he had as much, or a little more to say, in the matter, than any one.
Perkins was called upon, rather unexpectedly, to answer one or two questions, immediately on the opening of the meeting, but as he was a stanch temperance man, and cordially despised the minister, he was bold to reply.
"Mr. Perkins," said the presiding deacon, "as far as we can learn, this scandalous charge originated with you: I will, therefore, ask you—did you say that the Rev. Mr. Manlius was drunk at Mr. Reeside's dinner-party?"
"I did," was the unhesitating answer.
"Were you present at Mr. Reeside's?"
"No, sir."
"Did you see Mr. Manlius coming from the house intoxicated?"
"No."
"What evidence, then, have you of the truth of your charge? We have conversed this morning with several who were present, and all say that they observed nothing out of the way in Mr. Manlius, on the occasion of which you speak. This is a serious matter, and we should like to have your authority for a statement so injurious to the reputation of the minister and the cause of religion."
"My authority is Mr. Burton, who was present."
"Did he tell you that Mr. Manlius was intoxicated?"
"He said there was a drunken minister there, and Mr. Manlius, I have ascertained, was the only clergyman present."
"Was that so?" asked the deacon of an individual who was at Mr. Reeside's.
"Mr. Manlius was the only clergyman there," was replied.
"Then," said Perkins, "if there was a drunken minister there, it must have been Mr. Manlius. I can draw no other inference."
"Can Mr. Burton be found?" was now asked.
An individual immediately volunteered to go in search of him. In half an hour he was produced. As he entered the grave assembly, he looked around with great composure upon the array of solemn faces and eyes intently fixed upon him. He did not appear in the least abashed.
"You were at Mr. Reeside's last week, at a dinner-party, I believe?" said the presiding deacon.
"I was."
"Did you see Mr. Manlius intoxicated on that occasion?"
"Mr. Manlius! Good heavens! no! I can testify, upon oath, that he was as solemn as a judge. Who says that I made so scandalous an allegation?"
Burton appeared to grow strongly excited.
"I say so," cried Perkins in a loud voice.
"You say so? And, pray, upon what authority?"
"Upon the authority of your own words."
"Never!"
"But you did tell me so."
Perkins was much excited.
"When?"
"On the day after the dinner-party. Don't you remember what you said to me?"
"Oh, yes—perfectly."
"That you had a drunken minister at dinner?"
"No, I never said that."
"But you did, I can be qualified to it."
"I said we had a 'tipsy parson.'"
"And, pray, what is the difference?"
At the words "tipsy parson," the minister burst into a loud laugh, and so did two or three others who had been at Mr. Reeside's. The grave deacon in the chair looked around with frowning wonder at such indecorum, and felt that especially ill-timed was the levity of the minister.
"I do not understand this," he said, with great gravity.
"I can explain it," remarked an individual, rising, "as I happened to be at Mr. Reeside's, and know all about the 'tipsy parson.' The cook of our kind hostess, in her culinary ingenuity, furnished a dessert, which she called 'tipsy parson,'—made, I believe, by soaking sponge-cake in brandy and pouring a custard over it. It is therefore true, as our friend Burton has said, that there was a 'tipsy parson' at the table; but as to the drunken minister of Mr. Perkins, I know nothing."
Never before, in a grave and solemn assembly of deacons, was there such a sudden and universal burst of laughter, such a holding of sides and vibration of bodies, as followed this unexpected speech. In the midst of the confusion and noise, Perkins quietly retired. He has been known, ever since, in the village, much to his chagrin and scandalization, he being still a warm temperance man, as the "tipsy parson."
"There goes the 'tipsy parson'" he hears said, as he passes along the street, a dozen times in a week, and he is now seriously inclined to leave the village, in order to escape the ridicule his over-zealous effort to blast the minister's reputation has called into existence. As for the Rev. Mr. Manlius, he often tells the story, and laughs over it as heartily as any one.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING;
OR, THE REASON WHY MRS. TODD DIDN'T SPEAK TO MRS. JONES.
"DID you see that?" said Mrs. Jones to her friend Mrs. Lion, with whom she was walking.
"See what?"
"Why, that Mrs. Todd didn't speak to me."
"No. I thought she spoke to you as well as to me."
"Indeed, then, and she didn't."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure? Can't I believe my own eyes? She nodded and spoke to you, but she didn't as much as look at me."
"What in the world can be the reason, Mrs. Jones?"
"Dear knows!"
"You certainly must be mistaken. Mrs. Todd would not refuse to speak to one of her old friends in the street."
"Humph! I don't know; she's rather queer, sometimes. She's taken a miff at something, I suppose, and means to cut my acquaintance. But let her. I shall not distress myself about it; she isn't all the world."
"Have you done any thing likely to offend her?" asked Mrs. Lyon.
"Me?" returned her companion. "No, not that I am aware of; but certain people are always on the lookout for something or other wrong, and Mrs. Todd is just one of that kind."
"I never thought so, Mrs. Jones."
"She is, then. I know her very well."
"I'm sorry," said Mrs. Lyon, evincing a good deal of concern. "Hadn't you better go to her in a plain, straight-forward way, and ask the reason of her conduct? This would make all clear in a moment."
"Go to her, Mrs. Lyon," exclaimed Mrs. Jones, with ill-concealed indignation. "No, indeed, that I will not. Do you think I would demean myself so much?"
"I am not sure that by so doing you would demean yourself, as you say. There is, clearly, some mistake, and such a course would correct all false impressions. But it was only a suggestion, thrown out for your consideration."
"Oh, no, Mrs. Lyon," replied Mrs. Jones, with warmth. "You never find me cringing to people, and begging to know why they are pleased to cut my acquaintance. I feel quite as good as anybody, and consider myself of just as much consequence as the proudest and best. Mrs. Todd needn't think I care for her acquaintance; I never valued it a pin."
Notwithstanding Mrs. Jones's perfect indifference toward Mrs. Todd, she continued to talk about her, pretty much after this fashion, growing more excited all the while, during the next half hour, at the close of which time the ladies parted company.
When Mrs. Jones met her husband at the dinner-table, she related what had happened during the morning. Mr. Jones was disposed to treat the matter lightly, but his wife soon satisfied him that the thing was no joke.
"What can be Mrs. Todd's reason for such conduct?" he asked, with a serious air. "I can't tell, for my life."
"She must have heard some false report about you."
"It's as likely as not; but what can it be?"
"Something serious, to cause her to take so decided a stand as she seems to have done."
Mr. Jones looked grave, and spoke in a grave tone of voice. This made matters worse. Mrs. Jones's first idea was that Mrs. Todd had heard something that she might have said about her, and that wounded pride had caused her to do as she had done; but her husband's remark suggested other thoughts. It was possible that reports were in circulation calculated to injure her social standing, and that Mrs. Todd's conduct toward her was not the result of any private pique.
"It is certainly strange and unaccountable," she said, in reply to her husband's last remark, speaking in a thoughtful tone.
"Would it not be the fairest and best way for you to go and ask for an explanation?"
"No, I can't do that," replied Mrs. Jones, quickly. "I am willing to bear undeserved contempt and unjust censure, but I will never humble myself to any one."
For the rest of the day, Mrs. Jones's thoughts all flowed in one channel. A hundred reasons for Mrs. Todd's strange conduct were imagined, but none seemed long satisfactory. At last, she remembered having spoken pretty freely about the lady to a certain individual who was not remarkable for his discretion.
"That's it," she said, rising from her chair, and walking nervously across the floor of her chamber, backward and forward, for two or three times, while a burning glow suffused her cheek. "Isn't it too bad that words spoken in confidence should have been repeated! I don't wonder she is offended."
This idea was retained for a time, and then abandoned for some other that seemed more plausible. For the next two weeks, Mrs. Jones was very unhappy. She did not meet Mrs. Todd during that period, but she saw a number of her friends, to whom either she or Mrs. Lyon had communicated the fact already stated. All declared the conduct of Mrs. Todd to be unaccountable; but several, among themselves, had shrewd suspicions of the real cause. Conversations on the subject, like the following, were held:—
"I can tell you what I think about it, Mrs. S—. You know, Mrs. Jones is pretty free with her tongue?"
"Yes."
"You've heard her talk about Mrs. Todd?"
"I don't remember, now."
"I have, often; she doesn't spare her, sometimes. You know, yourself, that Mrs. Todd has queer ways of her own."
"She is not perfect, certainly."
"Not by a great deal; and Mrs. Jones has not hesitated to say so. There is not the least doubt in my mind, that Mrs. Todd has heard something."
"Perhaps so; but she is very foolish to take any notice of it."
"So I think; but you know she is touchy."
In some instances, the conversation assumed a grave form:—
"Do you know what has struck me, in this matter of Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Todd?" says one scandal-loving personage to another, whose taste ran parallel with her own.
"No. What is it?" eagerly asks the auditor.
"I will tell you; but you mustn't speak of it, for your life."
"Never fear me."
The communication was made in a deep whisper.
"Bless me!" exclaims the recipient of the secret. "It surely cannot be so!"
"There is not the least doubt of it. I had it from a source that cannot be doubted."
"How in the world did you hear it?"
"In a way not dreamed of by Mrs. Jones."
"No doubt, Mrs. Todd has heard the same."
"Not the least in the world. But don't you think her to blame in refusing to keep Mrs. Jones's company, or even to speak to her?"
"Certainly I do. It happened a long time ago, and no doubt poor Mrs. Jones has suffered enough on account of it. Indeed, I don't think she ought to be blamed in the matter at all; it was her misfortune, not her fault."
"So I think. In fact, I believe she is just as worthy of respect and kindness as Mrs. Todd."
"No doubt of it in the world; and from me she shall always receive it."
"And from me also."
In this way the circle spread, so that before two weeks had elapsed, there were no less than twenty different notions held about Mrs. Todd's behaviour to Mrs. Jones. Some talked very seriously about cutting the acquaintance of Mrs. Jones also, while others took her side and threatened to give up the acquaintance of Mrs. Todd.
Thus matters stood, when a mutual friend, who wished to do honour to some visitors from a neighbouring city, sent out invitations for a party. Before these invitations were despatched, it was seriously debated whether it would do to invite both Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Todd, considering how matters stood between them. The decision was in favour of letting them take care of their own difficulties.
"If I thought Mrs. Todd would be there, I am sure I wouldn't go," said Mrs. Jones, on receiving her card of invitation.
"I hardly think that would be acting wisely," replied her husband. "You are not conscious of having wronged Mrs. Todd. Why, then, should you shun her?"
"But it is so unpleasant to meet a person with whom you have been long intimate, who refuses to speak to you."
"No doubt it is. Still we ought not to go out of our way to shun that person. Let us, while we do not attempt to interfere with the liberties of others, be free ourselves. Were I in your place, I would not move an inch to keep out of her way."
"I have not your firmness. I wish I had. It was only yesterday that I crossed the street to keep from meeting her face to face."
"You were wrong."
"I can't help it; it is my weakness. Three times already have I put myself about to avoid her; and if I could frame any good excuse for staying away from this party, I certainly should do so. I would give any thing for a good sick-headache on Tuesday next."
"I am really ashamed of you, Ellen. I thought you more of a woman," said Mr. Jones.
The night of the party at length came round. During the whole day preceding it, Mrs. Jones could think of nothing but the unpleasant feelings she would have upon meeting with Mrs. Todd, and her "heart was in her mouth" all the time. She wished a dozen times that it would rain. But her wishes availed nothing; not a cloud was to be seen in the clear blue firmament from morning until evening.
"Oh, if I only had some good excuse for staying at home!" she said over and over again; but no good excuse offered.
Mr. Jones saw that his wife was in a very unhappy state of mind, and tried his best to cheer her, but with little good effect.
"It is no use to talk to me, I can't help it," she replied to his remonstrance, in a husky voice. "I am neither a stock nor a stone."
"There's Mrs. Jones," said one friend to another, on seeing the lady they named enter Mrs.—'s well-filled parlours.
"Where is Mrs. Todd?" asked the lady addressed.
"Sure enough! where is she?" replied the other. "Oh, there she is, in the other room. I wonder why it is that she does not speak to Mrs. Jones."
"No one knows."
"It's very strange."
"I'll tell you what I've heard."
"What?"
"That she's jealous of Mrs. Jones."
"Ridiculous!"
"Isn't it."
"I don't believe a word of it."
"Nor I. I only told you what I had heard."
"There must be some other reason."
"And doubtless is."
Meantime, Mrs. Jones found a seat in a corner, where she ensconced herself, with the determination of keeping her place during the evening, that she might avoid the unpleasantness of coming in contact with Mrs. Todd. All this was, of course, very weak in Mrs. Jones. But she had no independent strength of character, it must be owned.
"Poor Mrs. Jones! How cut down she looks," remarked a lady who knew all about the trouble that existed. "I really feel sorry for her."
"She takes it a great deal too much to heart," was the reply. "Mrs. Todd might refuse to speak to me a dozen times, if she liked. It wouldn't break my heart. But where is she?"
"In the other room, as gay and lively as ever I saw her. See, there she is."
"Yes, I see her. Hark! You can hear her laugh to here. I must confess I don't like it. I don't believe she has any heart. She must know that Mrs. Jones is hurt at what she has done."
"Of course she does, and her manner is meant to insult her."
Seeing the disturbed and depressed state of Mrs. Jones's mind, two or three of her friends held a consultation on the subject, and finally agreed that they would ask Mrs. Todd, who seemed purposely to avoid Mrs. Jones, why she acted towards her as she did. But before they could find an opportunity of so doing, a messenger came to say that one of Mrs. Todd's children had been taken suddenly ill. The lady withdrew immediately.
Mrs. Jones, breathed more freely on learning that Mrs. Todd had gone home. Soon after, she emerged from her place in the corner, and mingled with the company during the rest of the evening.
Mrs. Todd, on arriving at home, found one of her children quite sick; but it proved to be nothing serious. On the following morning, the little fellow was quite well again.
On that same morning, three ladies, personal friends of Mrs. Todd, met by appointment, and entered into grave consultation. They had undertaken to find out the cause of offence that had occurred, of so serious a character as to lead Mrs. Todd to adopt so rigid a course towards Mrs. Jones, and, if possible, to reconcile matters.
"The sickness of her child will be a good excuse for us to call upon her," said one. "If he is better, we can introduce the matter judiciously."
"I wonder how she will take it?" suggested another.
"Kindly, I hope," remarked the third.
"Suppose she does not?"
"We have done our duty."
"True. And that consciousness ought to be enough for us."
"She is a very proud woman, and my fear is that, having taken an open and decided stand, will yield to neither argument nor persuasion. Last night she overacted her part. While she carefully avoided coming in contact with Mrs. Jones, she was often near her, and on such occasions talked and laughed louder than at any other time. I thought, once or twice, that there was something of malice exhibited in her conduct."
To this, one of the three assented. But the other thought differently. After some further discussion, and an ineffectual attempt to decide which of them should open the matter to Mrs. Todd, the ladies sallied forth on their errand of peace. They found Mrs. Todd at home, who received them in her usual agreeable manner.
"How is your little boy?" was the first question, after the first salutations were over.
"Much better than he was last night, I thank you. Indeed, he is quite as well as usual."
"What was the matter with him, Mrs. Todd?"
"It is hard to tell. I found him with a high fever, when I got home. But it subsided in the course of an hour. Children often have such attacks. They will be quite sick one hour, and apparently well the next."
"I am very glad to hear that it is nothing serious," said one of the ladies. "I was afraid it might have been croup, or something as bad."
There was a pause.
"It seemed a little unfortunate," remarked one of the visitors, "for it deprived you of an evening's enjoyment."
"Yes, it does appear so, but no doubt it is all right. I suppose you had a very pleasant time?"
"Oh, yes. Delightful!"
"I hadn't seen half my friends when I was summoned away. Was Mrs. Williams there?"
"Oh, yes."
"And Mrs. Gray?"
"Yes."
"And Mrs. Elder?"
"Yes."
"I didn't see either of them."
"Not a word about Mrs. Jones," thought the ladies.
A light running conversation, something after this style, was kept up, with occasional pauses, for half an hour, when one of the visitors determined to come to the point.
"Mrs. Todd—a-hem!" she said in one of the pauses that always take place in uninteresting conversation.
The lady's tone of voice had so changed from what it was a few moments before, that Mrs. Todd looked up at her with surprise. No less changed was the lady's countenance. Mrs. Todd was mistified. But she was not long in doubt.
"A-hem! Mrs. Todd, we have come to—to—as friends—mutual friends—to ask you"—
The lady's voice broke down; but two or three "a-hems!" partially restored it, and she went on. "To ask why you refused to—to—speak to Mrs. Jones?"
"Why I refused to speak to Mrs. Jones?" said Mrs. Todd, her cheek flushing.
"Yes. Mrs. Jones is very much hurt about it, and says she cannot imagine the reason. It has made her very unhappy. As mutual friends, we have thought it our duty to try and reconcile matters. It is on this errand that we have called this morning. Mrs. Jones says she met you for the last time about two weeks ago, and that you refused to speak to her. May we ask the reason."
"You may, certainly," was calmly replied.
Expectation was now on tiptoe.
"What, then, was the reason?"
"I did not see her."
"What? Didn't you refuse to speak to her?"
"Never in my life. I esteem Mrs. Jones too highly. If I passed her, as you say, without speaking, it was because I did not see her."
In less than half an hour, Mrs. Todd was at the house of Mrs. Jones. What passed between the ladies need not be told.