Risen from the Ranks: Harry Walton's Success

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.