MISS DEBORAH'S EYES ARE OPENED.
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 Miss
Deborah 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 reached
Brandon.
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.