Now, as society is, and, for aught we see, as it must be, the masculine half of mankind have it all their own way; and the cleverest and shrewdest woman, in making investments, has simply the choice between what this or that man tells her. If she falls by chance into the hands of an honest man, with good sense, she may make an investment that will be secure to pay all the expenses of her mortal pilgrimage, down to the banks of Jordan; but if, as quite often happens, she falls into the hands of careless or visionary advisers, she may suddenly find herself in the character of “the unprotected female” at some half-way station of life, with her ticket lost and not a cent to purchase her further passage.
Now, this was precisely the predicament that this letter announced to Miss Dorcas. For the fact was that, although she and her sister owned the house they lived in, yet every available cent of income that supplied their establishment came from the dividends of these same Squantum and Patuxet mills.
It is a fact, too, that women, however strong may be their own sense and ability, do, as a general fact, rely on the judgment of the men of the family, and consider their rulings in business matters final. Miss Dorcas had all this propensity intensified by the Old World family feeling. Her elder brother, Dick Vanderheyden, was one of those handsome, plausible, visionary fellows who seem born to rule over womankind, and was fully disposed to magnify his office. Miss Dorcas worshiped him with a faith which none of his numerous failures abated. The cupboards and closets of the house were full of the remains of inventions which, he had demonstrated by figures in the face of facts, ought to have produced millions, and never did produce anything but waste of money. She was sure that he was the original inventor of the principle of the sewing-machine; and how it happened that he never perfected the thing, and that somebody else stole in before him and got it all, Miss Dorcas regarded as one of the inscrutable mysteries of Providence.
Poor Dick Vanderheyden was one of those permanent waiters at the world’s pool, like the impotent man in the gospel. When the angel of success came down and troubled the waters, there was always another who stepped in before him and got the benefit. Yet there was one thing that never left him to the last, and that was a sweet-tempered, sunny hopefulness, in which, through years when the family fortune had been growing beautifully less in his hands, Dick was still making arrangements which were to bring in wonderful results, till one night a sudden hemorrhage from the lungs settled all his earthly accounts in an hour, and left Miss Dorcas and Mrs. Betsey without a male relative in the world.
One of the last moves of brother Dick had been to take all the sisters’ United States stock and invest it for them in the Squantum and Patuxet Manufacturing Company, where, he confidently assured them, it would in time bring them an income of fifty per cent. For four years after his death, however, only a moderate dividend was declared by the company, but always with brilliant promises for the future; the fifty per cent., like the “good time coming” in the song, was a thing to look forward to, as the end of many little retrenchments and economies; and now suddenly comes this letter, announcing to them an indefinite suspension of their income.
Mrs. Betsey could scarcely be made to believe it.
“Why, they’ve got all our money; are they going to keep it, and not pay us anything?”
“That seems to be their intention,” said Miss Dorcas grimly. —
“But, Dorcas, I wouldn’t have it so. I’d rather have our money back again in United States stock.”
“So had I.”
“Well, if you write and ask them for it, and tell them that you must have it, and can’t get along without, won’t they send it back to you?”
“No, they won’t think of such a thing. They never do business that way.”
“Won’t? Why, I never heard of such folks. Why, there’s no justice in it.” —
“You don’t understand these things, Betsey; nor I, very well. All I know is, that Dick took our money and bought stock with it, and we are stockholders of this company.”
“And what is being a stockholder?”
“As far as I can perceive, it is this: when old women like you and me are stockholders, it means that a company of men take our money and use it for their own purposes, and pay us what they like, when it comes convenient; and when it’s not convenient, they don’t pay us at all. It is borrowing people’s money, without paying interest.”
“Why, that is horrid. Why, it’s the most unjust thing I ever heard of,” said Mrs. Betsey. “Don’t you think so, Dorcas?”
“Well, it seems so to me; but women never understand business. Dick used to say so. The fact is, old women have no business anywhere,” said Miss Dorcas bitterly. “It’s time we were out of the world.”
“I’m sure I haven’t wanted to live so very much,” said Mrs. Betsey tremulously. “I don’t want to die, but I had quite as lief be dead.”
“Come, Betsey, don’t let us talk that way,” said Miss Dorcas. “We sha’n’t gain anything by flying in the face of Providence.”
“But, Dorcas, I don’t think it can be quite as bad as you think. People couldn’t be so bad, if they knew just how much we wanted our money. Why, we haven’t anything to go on — only think! The company has been making money, you say?”
“Oh yes, never so large profits as this year; but, instead of paying the stockholders, they have voted to put up a new mill and enlarge the business.”
“Who voted so?”
“The stockholders themselves. As far as I can learn, that means one or two men who have bought all the stock, and now can do what they like.”
“But couldn’t you go to the stockholders’ meeting and vote?”
“What good would it do, if I have but ten votes where each of these men has five hundred? They have money enough. They don’t need this income to live on, and so they use it, as they say, to make the property more valuable; and perhaps, Betsey, when we are both dead, it will pay fifty per, cent, to somebody, just as Dick always said it would.”
“But,” said Mrs. Betsey, “of what use will that be to us, when what we want is something to live on now? Why, we can’t get along without income, Dorcas, don’t you see?”
“I think I do,” said Miss Dorcas grimly.
“Why, why, what shall we do?”
“Well, we can sell the house, I suppose.”
“Sell the house!” said poor little Mrs. Betsey, aghast at the thought; “and where could we go? and what should we do with all our things? I’d rather die, and done with it; and if we got any money and put it into anything, people would just take it and use it, and not pay us income; or else it would all go just as my money did that Dick put into that Aurora bank. That was going to make our everlasting fortune. There was no end to the talk about what it would do — and all of a sudden the bank burst up, and my money was all gone — never gave me back a cent! and I should like to know where it went to. Somebody, had that ten thousand dollars of mine, but it wasn’t me. No, we won’t sell the house; it’s all we’ve got left, and as long as it’s here we’ve got a right to be somewhere. We can stay here and starve, I suppose! — you and I and Jack.”
Jack, perceiving by his mistress’s tones that something was the matter, here jumped into her lap and kissed her.
““Yes, you poor doggie,” said Mrs. Betsey, crying; “we’ll all starve together. How much money have you got left, Dorcas?”
Miss Dorcas drew out an old portemonnaie and opened it. “Twenty dollars.”
“Oh, go ‘way, Miss Dorcas; ye don’t know what a lot I’s got stowed away in my old teapot!” chuckled a voice from behind the scenes, and Dinah’s woolly head and brilliant ivories appeared at the slide of the china-closet, where she had been an unabashed and interested listener to the conversation.
“Dinah, I’m surprised,” said Miss Dorcas, with dignity.
“Well, y’ can be surprised and git over it,” said Dinah, rolling her portly figure into the conversation. “All’s got to say is, dere ain’t no use for Mis’ Betse
y here to be worritin’ and gettin’ into a bad spell ‘bout money, so long as I’s got three hundred dollars laid up in my teapot. ‘T ain’t none o’ your rags neither,” said Dinah, who was strong on the specie question—”good bright silver dollars, and gold guineas, and eagles, I tucked away years ago, when your pa was alive, and money was plenty. Look a-heah now,!” — and Dinah emphasized her statement by rolling a handful of old gold guineas upon the table—”Dare now; see dar! Don’t catch me foolin’ away no money wid no banks and no stockholders. I keeps pretty tight grip o’ mine. Tell you, ‘fore I’d let dem gemmen hab my money I’d braid it up in my har — and den I’d know where ’twas when I wanted it.”
“Dinah, you dear old soul,” said Miss Dorcas, with tears in her eyes, “you don’t think we’d live on your money?”
“Dun no why you shouldn’t, as well as me live on yourn,” said Dinah. “It’s all in de family, and turn about’s fair play. Why, good land! Miss Dorcas, I jest lotted on savin”t up for de family. You can use mine and give it back ag’in when dat ar good time comes Massa Dick was allers a-tellin’ about.”
Mrs. Betsey fell into Dinah’s arms, and cried on her shoulder, declaring that she couldn’t take a cent of her money, and that they were all ruined, and fell into what Dinah used to call one of her “bad spells.” So she swept her up in her arms forthwith and carried her upstairs and put her to bed, amid furious dissentient barkings from Jack, who seemed to consider it his duty to express an opinion in the matter.
“Dar now, ye aggrevatin’ critter, lie down and shet up,” she said to Jack, as she lifted him on to the bed and saw him cuddle down in Mrs. Betsey’s arms and lay his rough cheek against hers.
Dinah remembered, years before, her young mistress lying weak and faint on that same spot, and how there had been the soft head of a baby lying where Jack’s rough head was now nestling, and her heart swelled within her.
“Now, then,” she said, pouring out some drops and giving them to her, “you jest hush up and go to sleep, honey. Miss Dorcas and I, we’ll fix up this ‘ere. It’ll all come straight — now you’ll see it will. Why, de Lord ain’t gwine to let you tarve. Never see de righteous forsaken. Jest go to sleep, honey, and it’ll be all right when you wake up.”
Meanwhile, Miss Dorcas had gone across the way to consult with Eva. The opening of the friendship on the opposite side of the way had been a relief to her from the desolateness and loneliness of her life circle, and she had come to that degree of friendly reliance that she felt she could state her dilemma and ask advice.
“I don’t see any way but I must come, to selling the house at last,” said Miss Dorcas; “but I don’t know how to set about it; and if we have to leave, at our age, life won’t seem worth having. I’m afraid it would kill Betsey.”
“Dear Miss Dorcas, we can’t afford to lose you,” said Eva. “You don’t know what a comfort it is to have you over there, so nice and handy — why, it would be forlorn to have you go; it would break us all up!”
“You are kind to say so,” said Miss Dorcas; “but I can’t help feeling that the gain of our being there is all on one side.”
“But, dear Miss Dorcas, why need you move? See here. A bright thought strikes me. Your house is so large! Why couldn’t you rent half of it? You really don’t need it all; and I’m sure it could easily be arranged for two families. Do think of that, please.”
“If it could be done — if anybody would want it!” said Miss Dorcas.
“Oh, just let us go over this minute and see,” said Eva, as she threw a light cloud of worsted over her head, and seizing Miss Dorcas by the arm, crossed back with her, talking cheerfully.
“Here you have it, nice as possible. Your front parlor — you never sit there; and it’s only a care “to have a room you don’t use. And then this great empty office back here — a dining-room all ready! and there is a back shed that could have a cooking-stove, and be fitted into a kitchen. Why, the thing is perfect; and there’s your income, without moving a peg! See what it is to have real estate!”
“You are very sanguine,” said Miss Dorcas, looking a little brightened herself. “I have often thought myself that the house is a great deal larger than we need; but I am quite helpless about such matters. We are so out of the world. I know nothing of business; real estate agents are my horror; and I have no man to advise me.”
“Oh, Miss Dorcas, wait now till I consult Harry. I’m sure something nice could be arranged.”
“I dare say,” said Miss Dorcas, “if these rooms were in a fashionable quarter we might let them; but the world has long since left our house in the rear.”
“Never mind that,” said Eva. “You see we don’t mind fashion, and there may be neighbors as good as we, of the same mind.”
Eva already had one of her visions in her head; but of this she did not speak to Miss Dorcas till she had matured it. She knew Jim Fellows had been for weeks on the keen chase after apartments, and that none yet had presented themselves as altogether eligible. Alice had insisted on an economical beginning, and the utmost prudence as to price; and the result had been, what is usual in such cases, that all the rooms that would do at all were too dear.
Eva saw at once in this suite of rooms, right across the way from them, the very thing they were in search of. The rooms were large and sunny, with a quaint, old-fashioned air of bygone gentility that made them attractive; and her artist imagination at once went into the work of brightening up their tarnished and dusky respectability with a nice little modern addition of pictures and flowers, and new bits of furniture here and there.
Just as she returned from her survey, she found Jim in her own parlor, with a thriving pot of ivy. “Well, here’s one for our parlor window, when we find one,” said he. “I’m a boy that gets things when I see them. Now you don’t often see an ivy so thrifty as this, and I’ve brought it to you to take care of till I find the room!”
“Jim,” said Eva, “I believe just what you want is to be found right across the way from us, so that we can talk across from your windows to ours.”
“What! the old Vanderheyden house? Thunder!” said Jim.
Now, Jim was one of the class of boys who make free use of “thunder” in conversation, without meaning to express anything more by it than a state of slight surprise.
“What’s up now?” he added. “I should as soon expect Queen Victoria to rent Buckingham Palace as that the old ladies across the way would come to letting rooms!”
“Necessity has no law, Jim.” And then Eva told him Miss Dorcas’s misfortune.
“Poor old girls!” said Jim. “I do declare it’s too thundering bad. I’ll go right over and rent the rooms; and I’ll pay up square, too, and no mistake.”
“Shall I go with you?”
“Oh, you just leave that to me. Two are all that are needed in a bargain.”
In a few minutes, Jim was at his ease in front of Miss Dorcas, saying: —
“Miss Dorcas, the fact is, I want to hire a suite of rooms. You see, I’m going to have a wife before long, and nothing will suit her so well as this neighborhood. Now, if you will only rent us half of your house, we shall behave so beautifully that you never will be sorry you took us in.”
Miss Dorcas apologized for the rooms and furniture. They were old, she knew — not in modern style — but such as they were, would he just go through them? and Jim made the course with her. And the short of the matter was, that the bargain was soon struck. Jim stated frankly the sum he felt able to pay for apartments; to Miss Dorcas the sum seemed ample enough to relieve all her embarrassments, and in an hour he returned to the other side, having completed the arrangement.
“There, now, — we ‘re anchored, I think. The old folks and Aunt Maria have been wanting me to marry and live on with them in the old hive, but Jim doesn’t put his foot into that trap, if he knows it. My wife and I must have our own establishment, if it’s only in two rooms. Now it’s all settled, if Allie likes it, and I know she will. By George,
it’s a lucky hit! That parlor will brighten up capitally.”
“You know, old furniture is all the rage now,” said Eva, “and you can buy things here and there as you want.”
“Yes,” said Jim; “you know I did buy a pair of brass andirons when I was going to ask Allie to have me, and they’ll he just the things for the fireplace over there. Miss Dorcas apologized for the want of those that belonged there by saying that her brother had taken them to pieces to try some experiments in brass polishing, and never found time to put them together again, and so parts of them got lost. I told her it was a special providence that I happened to have the very pair that were needed there; and there’s a splendid sunny window for the ivies on the south corner!”
“That old furniture is lovely,” said Eva. “It’s like a dark, rich background to a picture. All your little bright modern things will show so well over it.”
“Well, I’m going to bring Allie down to go over it, this minute,” said Jim, who was not of the class that allow the grass to grow under their feet.
Meanwhile, when little Mrs. Betsey came down to dinner, she found the storm over, and clear, shining after rain.
“What, Mr. Fellows!” she exclaimed; “that dear, good young man that was so kind to Jack! Why, Dorcas, what a providence! I’m sure it’ll be a mercy to have a man in the house once more!”
“Why, I’m sure,” said Miss Dorcas, “your great fear that you wake me up every night, about, is that there is a man in the house!”
“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Betsey, laughing cheerfully, “you know what I mean. I mean the right kind of a man. I’ve thought that those dreadful burglars and creatures that break into houses where there’s old silver must find us out — because, Dorcas, really, that hat that we keep on the entry table is so big and dusty, and so different from what they wear now, they must know that no man wears a hat like that. I’ve always told Dinah that — she knows I have, more than twenty times.” A snicker from the adjacent china-closet, where Dinah was listening, confirmed this statement.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 412