Chapter II (11)

“Take this parcel up to Mrs. Armstrong, Betty,” said Jenny Hart, one fine morning in May, “and say, that if it suits she can keep the whole dozen.” “Twelve for a shilling, sir; thank you.” “Knitting needles?” “Yes, the best of steel; Alfred Gray, some of the best steel knitting needles—A newspaper from Mr. Norton, my boy?—thank you; stop, here is a pair of gloves for you; now run home.—You have only measured off seven yards, Mrs. Martin Barton, and the lady asked for eight—Jasper Merry, make that dog go out—Your’s, madam, is it?”—“well, Jasper Merry, just put him outside of the door and shut it—Why did Mr. Norton send me the paper?—Oh, I see—The Camperdown property is for sale, Mrs. Martin Barton—Mr. Daly, your father wants you to buy it sadly. We rode out there yesterday afternoon; and, really, it is a place for a prince, let alone poor thread and needle people, like ourselves. It is very much improved since you were there, last fall, Mrs. Martin Barton; all the houses are finished; and now the gardens are all laid out, and the fences and the grounds; and it looks like a little settlement already. Four beautiful houses, all large and very roomy; and the river in front, too. I wonder what it will bring. It is to be sold separate or together; but I fear it is beyond our means. The property is to be sold on Monday next.”

“I wonder how it came to be called Camperdown,” said Martin Barton. “I had a scapegrace of a cousin, called Camperdown Barton; but for him my old uncle Davies would have left me something handsome. Some people did say, that this Camperdown Barton forged a will in his own favour; but I could not believe it.”

“Mr. Barton,” said a man, entering the shop—“Martin Barton, if you please, sir,” said Mr. Martin Barton.

“Mr. Martin Barton,” said the man, smiling, “have you any white galloon?” “Yes.” “Alfred Gray, hand down that box of white galloon,” said Jenny Hart.

“And where is this Camperdown Barton, now,” said Jenny Hart, when the man had bought the galloon, and was out of the shop.

“I can hardly tell; but he was in the West Indies when I last heard of him. He married, and had two children, and”—

“La, Mr. Martin Barton,” said his wife, “what became of my letter; I am sure there was some mention made in it of this Camperdown Barton—I stuck a pin in it, Jenny Hart, as you told me, at the very place; and I had no time to finish the letter; in fact I don’t know where I put it. Do you know, Jenny Hart?—it is many years ago.”

“Well, let me see—yes, I think I know; it is in the japan box, on the toilet table. And what became of your letter, Mr. Martin Barton?”

“Mine, Jenny Hart? that is more than I can tell. I laid it just here; and I stuck a pin in at where I left off, as you told me.”

“It must have been pushed aside; or perhaps it was folded up in one of the bundles of stockings. It is gone, certainly. I trust it had nothing of importance in it.” Jenny Hart always placed Martin Barton before the shelves of socks and stockings, as they were the least perplexing articles to sell.

“Here is a letter,” said Jasper Merry, “I picked it up the other day, by Mr. Martin Barton’s feet; I think it must have fallen from that bundle of stockings that you sent up to Mrs. Armstrong.”

“Let me see,” said Jenny Hart. She took it, and cast her eye over the contents, while Mr. Martin Barton and his wife were plunged in tapes, bobbins, buttons and pins. She quietly put it in her little French pocket, and as quietly walked out of the shop. In five minutes Mr. Norton was with her up in Mrs. Armstrong’s parlour.

“Look here,” said Jenny Hart, “just read this letter, Mr. Norton. Only think what luck to find it as we did. Two days later, and all would have been lost to us.” Mr. Norton was indeed surprised, for this letter announced the death of this very cousin, and his two children—this Camperdown Barton; and he had left all the property to his cousin, Martin Barton, on condition that he claimed it before a certain period. If not claimed then, it was to be sold and the money divided among some distant relations. As Martin Barton had not claimed it—how tired I am of always writing his name at full length; but I shall soon have done—the property was to be sold on the following Monday, the very day the term expired.

“There is no difficulty, then, Mr. Norton,” said Jenny Hart, “we can claim it yet, can we? Certainly my dear Jenny Hart—he could not have called her Jenny for the world, nor could I—so send Martin Barton to me. Can you tell why he chose to be called Martin Barton?—‘tis so tiresome.”

“Why, this very Camperdown Barton was the cause; he was a bad character even when very young, and our Martin Barton kept the two names together, that he might not be taken for his cousin. I only heard all this this morning, for we have been always too busy to talk of such matters. I think that Mrs. Martin Barton is even more particular on this point than he is. But, oh, Mr. Norton, don’t our dear little girls grow finely?”

“Little girls indeed! why they are young women, taller than yourself, Jenny Hart; but they don’t eclipse you yet; you are as pretty and good as ever, hard-hearted girl that you are; but I claim the promise of giving you away,” said the kind old bachelor, seeing Jenny Hart shy off. “Good morning, then, if you must go; but this shop business will kill you; you work too hard.”

“Never fear,” said she, and down she tripped, pitying Mr. Norton for his hopeless love, although he was now quite resigned to it; and congratulating Martin Barton on this handsome accession of property. Of course, every thing was properly done, and to the entire satisfaction of every one but the poor folks, who were on the point of getting the money. This Camperdown Barton had, in reality, secreted the will of their uncle; but on the death of his children he repented, and restored as much of the property as was left to the true owner.

But oh, what a plot Jenny Hart had in hand—her first plot and her last. She had acquainted Martin Barton and his wife, with the affection that was growing up between their daughters and the two excellent young clerks, Jasper Merry and Alfred Gray; and the good couple were very well content. The acme of bliss was to stand day in and day out, in the thread and needle shop, eat their three nice meals, count out their five long boxes of copper and silver and bank notes, rock themselves for a quarter of an hour in their high backed rocking chairs, and go lovingly to bed as innocent and happy as their “two” twins.

For one month did Jenny Hart toil as no woman ever did toil; for she had all sorts of work people to superintend, and all sorts of secrets to keep; and above all she had to repress Archy Campbell’s highly excited feelings, for he was as far as ever from coming to any understanding with her. Well, all was ready—the first of June came; Archy had been told in a quiet kind of way, that he was to be bride’s man to his two young companions; and that he must be ready at a minute’s warning, and to go on as if nothing was to happen, particularly on this their last day in the shop.

The last day came—the first of June, and the shop was unusually full; for quietly as Jenny Hart managed every thing, still something had leaked out, and as she was the most conspicuous person, the secret was attached to her. It was conjectured, that she was either to be married to Mr. Norton or to Archy Campbell, and in either case she would disappear from public eyes.

It will be a great loss to the shop when she goes, said one; a public loss said another; Jenny Hart ought never to marry said a young gentleman; for half the pleasure in life we young fellows have, is to get a look at her and hear her musical voice, so modest and so arch and gay as she is too. I have a great mind to choke old Norton, and shoot this Archy Campbell; and there he stands, looking as if no happiness awaited him. I think it must be old Norton after all; for no man could look so grave on the eve of marrying such a peerless creature as this Jenny Hart. Young and old caught a whisper of the news, but no one dared to banter her; in fact, there was no chance, she was so busy.

Tired and fagged they all were that day; and if you had looked down behind the counter, you would have seen Martin Barton, the much enduring creature, standing on one foot to rest the other. His wife had told him to do it years ago; and so, whenever he saw her standing on one foot, which was generally every Saturday, he thought it was high time to do the same. This day poor Jenny Hart did complain of fatigue, the first time Archy Campbell had ever heard her complain of any thing. “Are you tired, Jenny Hart?” said Martin Barton, “how sorry I am.” “Tired, are you?” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “stand on one foot as we do Jenny Hart, that will rest the other.” “Stand on one foot,” said Jenny Hart, laughing, “I have not a foot left to stand upon.”

“Oh, what a beautiful bunch of flowers,” said a lady, “where did they come from, and whom are they for?”

“They came from our new place Camperdown,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “and they are for our two twins to-morrow.”—Jenny Hart pushed her.

“Ah! true,” said the lady, “I recollect you have twins; how old are they?”

“How old? let me see,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, who really had known the night before; but Jenny’s push had bewildered her—she was afraid that to tell their age, would be to tell the secret. “How old are they Jenny Hart?”

“Just seventeen, Mrs. Martin Barton, and the sun is down, you see. We shut up shop now at sundown,” said Mr. Martin Barton. Seeing that many of the customers lingered—we are going to the—Jenny gave him a push. “What ails them both to tell things now,” thought she, “just at this present moment, and never before?”

Well, the shop was closed, the clerks had their tea, the boxes were brought in and the money counted; Archy Campbell put all in the strong box and disappeared. Jenny Hart,—a thing of late years, quite unusual, set herself down in a chair, and seemed as if she were going to spend the evening in the little back room.

“I have something to say to you my good kind friends,” said she at last, “something that I fear will give you pain; and I have also a favour to beg of you, and this I know you will have pleasure in granting.”

“Tell us all in the morning, dear Jenny Hart,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “for I am so sleepy and tired, that I cannot even listen.”

“Just stop one moment,” said she, as Mrs. Martin Barton was pulling her husband by the sleeve to go, she having the candlestick in her hand.

“You are going with us to Camperdown to-morrow,” said he, “and you can come in our carriage, and tell us all about it. Poor thing, see how tired she is;” and he looked down, and saw Mrs. Martin Barton on one foot.

“Going with you,” said Jenny Hart, her lip quivering, “yes, just for to-morrow; but you’ll see then—you’ll see. But go to bed, for I fear that what I have to say, will rob you of sleep.”

“Oh, no,” said Martin Barton, “nothing can keep two such tired souls awake, so say out and have done with it. You see that even poor tired Letty is broad awake, has let go my sleeve, and has put down the candlestick.”

“Well, to be sure,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “a change has come over you. I have not heard you call me Letty this many a day. Speak out Jenny Hart.”

“I won’t detain you long,” said Jenny, rising as she spoke, and going near her friends, “We have taken an account of stock you know—and my wages for the last fourteen years, untouched you know, is about equal to the amount of goods. I want you to let Archy Campbell have the goods and the shop, and your good will—and—poor Jenny Hart in the bargain. Archy Campbell has saved money too; will you give your consent?”

“No,” thundered out Martin Barton, wide awake, “that I won’t. The goods he may have for nothing, the shop he may have for nothing, and our best good will he may have; but as to your leaving us—no, never. Oh, Jenny Hart, Jenny Hart, can you bear to leave us? You may well cry and take on so, Letty; why it is impossible, Jenny Hart—we could not stand it.”

“Oh, Jenny Hart, dear Jenny Hart,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, wide awake now, falling on the afflicted little maiden’s neck, and trembling like a leaf—“don’t leave us, we shall both die if you think of leaving us. Martin Barton, don’t let us go to Camperdown—that is, to live there, I mean. If she will stay, let us remain and keep shop for her as she has done for us.”

“Good heaven,” thought Jenny Hart, almost fainting with emotion, “could I have believed that under this untiring money-making spirit there was so much of deep feeling?—and for me too! But I cannot give up Archy Campbell; he has wrought hard for me. If I go with them I must give him up, and that I find I cannot do.”

“There is no sleep for us to-night, Jenny”—seeing her hesitate—“how much did you say we were now worth?”

“Why, Archy Campbell was just whispering to me as he went out that you were now worth half a million of dollars, besides the large Camperdown property. He has been hard at work with Mr. Norton for the last week.”

“Half a million!” said Mrs. Martin Barton; “well, it is really time to leave off selling thread and needles.”

“Yes, a good half million,” said the little shopwoman exultingly. Martin Barton whispered to his wife, and she wiped her tearful eyes, and laughed out aloud. “Excellent,” said she,—“ah, Jenny, you have had your day, now we’ll have ours; it is all settled, Jenny Hart, we have settled it all, and now I am getting sleepy again—so, good night.”

What did Jenny do when the good couple left her? why she sent little Betty for Archy Campbell, and when he came in she pointed to a chair.

“Archy Campbell,” said she, “I have never told you that this was the last day that Mr. and Mrs. Martin Barton were to be in the shop. They have left it entirely, and—and—it is yours—all yours, goods, shop, and all.”

“And _you_, Jenny Hart,” said the young man, rising and standing before her, trembling with emotion.

“I,” said she, rising also, and stepping to the door of the entry which led to the next house,—“I, why I am going to Camperdown with the family.” (Oh, Jenny Hart, Jenny Hart, how could you torment the young man in this way?)

“Then the devil take the goods, the shop, and all,” said he, putting on his hat. “They may look out for another bridesman to-morrow, and so I will tell the young man. I had hoped that in time”—

“They _are_ going to look out for another bridesman in your place,” said the provoking girl, breaking her heart, too, to see him so unhappy. “They went to see one of their friends an hour ago, and I am to have the two sweet girls for my bridesmaids, and you are to have both Jasper Merry and Alfred Gray for your bridesmen; so get yourself ready and”—

“Jenny, dearest Jenny,” said he, approaching her, almost beside himself through hopes and fears, “are you in earnest? am I at last”—and he that had never wept since he left his mother, now covered his face and wept aloud.

“Archy Campbell, I did not think you would be so greatly affected. Oh, how I have underrated every body! what a world we live in, myself the poorest in it. Here is my hand, dear Archy Campbell; it is so long since I gave you my heart that I forget I ever had one.”

One embrace and the lovers parted; she tripped up, frightened to death at what she had done, and he threw his hat to the farthest end of the room in a transport of joy.

So the carriages came to the door, and then first stepped in Mr. and Mrs. Martin Barton, Mrs. Armstrong and Mr. Norton, (they were married that day six months, and I was at the wedding,) and little Betty, who sat down between Martin Barton’s feet. Then, in the second carriage, stepped Rona, Jasper Merry, Ida, and Alfred Gray; then went Archy Campbell—no, I ought rather to say, then went Jenny Hart and Archy Campbell; he felt too deeply to wish for any other person near him at that moment but his own darling, Jenny Hart—let me call her so a little longer;—and, lastly, went the bridesmaids and bridesmen, who rattled away, and were the first to get at the church door to help the party out.

There had been great altercation the morning before as to who should be married first, but Jenny Hart did not conquer this time. They all coaxed and threatened, and at last she had to consent, to save time, she said. “I would not give up now, my dear girls, but I feel as if the poor shop girl”—

“Hold your tongue, Jenny Hart,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, “you are not a poor”—

Martin Barton gave her a push. Then came the dispute as to which of the twins should stand up first, for Mrs. Martin Barton had forgotten which was the oldest; there was only half an hour’s difference, however. Jenny Hart settled that by saying, that, as Jasper Merry was older than Alfred Gray, his bride should take the precedence—and all was settled.

So Jenny Hart, and her manly, handsome lover, Archy Campbell, were married first—and there had like to have been no one else married, there was so much kissing and crying; but the ceremonies proceeded, and the clergyman said he had never married three such lovely couples before. He had five little notes in his hand as the carriages drove off; it was a surprise to the poor clergyman, for each paper contained a hundred dollar note—even Mr. Martin Barton and Mr. Norton made the clergyman a present. But—half a million!

Away the carriages flew—five miles to Camperdown—and there, looking quite young and handsome, stood good Mr. and Mrs. Daly, waiting to bless them all, and to tell them that dinner was ready.

The table—two tables, I should say, were set out, and people may believe it or not as they choose, but, though every delicacy was on them, there was neither decanter nor wine glass. Temperance was their motto; it was by temperance in all things that these thread and needle people made themselves rich and happy.

The dinner was all one happy confusion; and, if Hosea Bringle had not solaced himself with a good luncheon, beforehand, he would have risen from the table with but a poor account of delicacies eaten—he was impelled on by the tide of joyful faces, to follow, as they left the house to take possession of their future homes.

Archy Campbell, with Jenny hanging on his arm, (good reader, let me go back again, and call her Jenny Hart.) Archy Campbell, with dear Jenny Hart hanging on his arm; walked slowly forward; his heart was too full to be gay; his happiness was too new; his gratitude too deep, to know what was passing; and his bride, letting in a flood of new feelings, was pondering and wondering to see the quiet, yet alert, shopman, who, for fifteen years, had frittered away the minutes in selling pennyworths of tape and needles, transformed into a man of great elevation of soul, and deep, tender feeling. “And this man is my husband,” said she, casting her eyes up to his handsome countenance, which was all radiant with joy as her eye met his.

First they installed Rona in her house. Every thing that heart could wish was there, down to the minutest thing; and beautiful every thing was; for dear Jenny—see, reader, I have dropped the other name—had an exquisite taste. And then, Ida took possession of her home, exactly like her sister’s, in point of beauty and completeness; but different only in fancy. Then Mrs. Armstrong was taken to her house; every thing complete, like the other two, only the furniture a thought more grave. Then the whole flock proceeded to the fourth house—it was the one for the father and mother—good, honest Martin Barton and his wife; this also was a model of comfort and beauty. The whole party stood on the steps and under the portico.

“Step in Jenny Hart—dear Jenny Campbell, now”—said Martin Barton, “step in, Archy Campbell; I have made up my mind to one thing; and that is, that I cannot let you have the thread and needle store; I have made it all over to Peter Squire and Jacob Teller.”—Jacob Teller was the fifth clerk.

Jenny turned pale and Archy red—“Come this way, Hosea Bringle,” said old Mr. Daly, “don’t go to cry, man, you’ll hear all presently—come, son and daughter, make haste, it is getting late.”

“Jenny Hart, my own Jenny,” said Mrs. Martin Barton, drying her eyes, “this house, and all in it, is yours; and here comes Mr. Norton, to make over to you one-fifth of the money you helped us to make. What, did you think we could bear to see you toil, and toil again, as you have done; and Archy Campbell, too—so in with you.” And in they went, with hearts too full to thank their friends.

There was, indeed, plenty of room at Mr. Daly’s for Martin Barton and his wife, and little Betty and all; and, as to Hosea Bringle, he was a fixture there. Mrs. Armstrong, as I said, did not live alone long, in her handsome house.

And now, gentle reader, I must leave off. But would you not like to hear more of our dear Jenny—how she managed her house and her gardens, and the poor people in the neighbourhood—and how her husband idolized her; and how all the old customers, rich and poor, came to see her, and partake of her hospitalities. Only let me know, and I will tell you more of her, and how Hosea Bringle read to the four innocent people every evening, either some good book or other; or in the Arabian Nights; and how they blended the genii that wanted to kill the merchant, with the giant in Pilgrim’s Progress. And how the old man sat whittling with a penknife, making weathercocks for the stables; and, finally, little go-carts, and little wheelbarrows, and little rakes, for the young family that was fast rising up around him. They could not come too fast for old Hosea Bringle. And then, how easy it came to Martin Barton to take care of a garden; working as hard at it as he did in his thread and needle store. Only encourage me, and I will write on; or drop a line in the Evening Star, and the American, of New York, and my pen will soon be set going again.

THE END.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Added Table of Contents. 2. Moved ads from beginning two pages to last two pages. 3. Changed ‘It’s no a Parrot’ to ‘It’s not a Parrot’ on p. 94. 4. Silently corrected typographical errors. 5. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. 6. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.