Orleans independent standard. [volume] (Irasburgh, Vt.) 1856-1871, 1870-02-22
What a Woman Did.
BY MRS. MARY A. DENNISON.

I
So old John Dent was gone, and
left nothing. He had lived the life
of a millionaire; he died the death
of a beggar. Left nothing, did | say ?
He had left helpless Junior-John,
a creature of twenty, who, since his
boyhood, had been busily employed
in trying to ruin himself, his intellect,
his moral impulses, his naturally noble
manhood. Junior John had just per-
fected his genius in the use of a gold
headed walking stick, when his fa-
ther died. He carried it between
the thumb and finger of his faultless
kids, in way that struck the fools of
both sexes with speechless admiration.
The genteel tap of his taper point on
the right hand knee of his pantaloons
was exquisite. The way he dangled
it under his moustache smote other
dandies with envy, and his use of it
as walking stick was simply high
art.
Poor John Junior! What would he
do now? The fabulous wealth Of
poor old papa all vanished +? the splen-
did house to be sold, the splendid
furniture to be desecrated by the
touch of the curious mob, the fat horses
to be sacrificed, and all to satisfy an
CRY and impOrtunate creditors, so
that not single penny would be like
ly to fall into John Juniors pockets.
What would he do?
He walked the desolate rooms, his
heart more desolate than any of them.
To be sure, he had not cared very
much for the old man. To him he
had been very like plethoric pocket
book, from which he could draw bank
notes at will. As to loving him
he had never seen him fifteen min
utes at time in all his life; he could
not in fact, get near enough to love
him. He could never climb that hor-
rid mountain of business, behind
which he entrenched himself. So the
Junior took to loving horses, and fast
young men, and billiard saloons, and
brainles8 women, champagne, cigars,
DC. What would they do for him
now? He walked the empty rooms
alone, he read the mocking labels on
empty bottles, he felt in his pockets.
Not one Of the splendid fellows of
our set intruded upon his privacy,
His father was dead-they felt for
him; he probably wished for solitude.
If he did, he had 1.-THE solitude of
the moneyless.
The auction was over, and John
Dent, Jr., had no home. One or two
relatives gave him a cold Invitation
to call and see them One great
uncle, and rich, by-the-by, sent word
that he could accommodate him for a
week or two until he could get some
thing to do. Johns handsome eyes
/ flashed, as he tore the scented billet
into infnitesimal fragments, and
ground them into the floor with his
boot heel.
The old scoundrelr he cried with
flashing eyes; and my father helped
him to make his fortune.
Not long after this there came a
letter-a homelier than the others,
directed in neat, business hand. 1t
found the poor young man in mean
lodgings meager little room, in
the upper story of a second-rate,
genteel house. On the strength OF
his gold-headed cane and handsome
trunk, the iandIady trusted him for a
few days.
The letter lay on his table when
he came in from a miserable recrea-
ton. He had been down to the river
speculating upon its GOODNESS and
probable depth. AT any rate he
had soliloquized, 4 should not make a
bad looking-corpse-unless the fishes
bit me. They would only say Poor
Jack ! he was uncommonly good look
ing and they, 1T was deucedly mean
of him to kill himself.
1t is probable that the two 'they's
meant, not the fishes, but the respect
i've sexes.
Johns eyes frightened little al
sight Of the large, round superscript
ion on the envelope. He seized it
tore it open, and read eagerly, as il
he had found a treasure. 1t was 6
strange thing for reduced gentleman
to do; but when he had persued it, he
let it drop softly from his hand, hi;
lip quivered-he felt blindly for {
handkerchief in his coat pocket, ant
deliberately wiping his eyes with it
rested his elbows on the table, anC
covered his face with his hands. Fol
some moments he sat in that position
then, rising, he walked the floor, ex
claiming
Tom Dent is a glorious fellow
his father is a glorious fellow. Hi
whole family must be glorious fellows
though half of them are girls, | be
lieve. I'll go. That's no half-wa,
invitation; that's no coldly forma
apology; that's right down welcome
by Jove! Heaven be thanked | can
curse him.
The letter read thus.
DEAR COUSIN JOHN We hav
heard of your great bereavement, ant
cannot tell how much we sympathiz
with you. Father tells me to sa
that your room stands just where
; did. The girls are all longing to Sc
you. Mother declares she shall tax
it hard of her sisters child, if in you
affliction, you do not come to her
l and you may imagine us all holdin,
out our hands, longing for a goo,
; grasp Of yours. 1t is my vacatio
now, and | want you. How soon ma
2 we expect you? Shall l drive to th
$ depot at six on Thursday, or come t
5 the city to keep you company? Writ
) me directly. l shall harness Blac
? Bess on Thursday at FIVE p. m. Don!
! disappoint US. Your loving cousin,
Tom
: 'And how | snubbed him when b
was here, groaned John, with a tel
rible twinge of conscience. Goo
heavens | wonder he did not knoc
: me down. Well at all events, tha
invitation is real; l knew it by b