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Aunt Deborah
by
About two hours afterwards, the whole of the miller’s family, Mrs. Thornly still pallid and trembling, Cicely smiling through her tears, and her father as blunt and freespoken as ever, were assembled round the homely couch of their maiden cousin.
“I tell you I must have the lawyer fetched directly. I can’t sleep till I have made my will;” said Mrs. Deborah.
“Better not,” responded John Stokes; “you’ll want it altered to-morrow.”
“What’s that you say, cousin John?” inquired the spinster.
“That if you make your will to night, you’ll change your mind to-morrow,” reiterated John Stokes. “Ned’s going to be married to my Cicely,” added he, “and that you mayn’t like, or if you did like it this week, you might not like it next So you’d better let matters rest as they are.”
“You’re a provoking man, John Stokes,” said his cousin–“a very provoking, obstinate man. But I’ll convince you for once. Take that key, Mrs. Thornly,” quoth she, raising herself in bed, and fumbling in an immense pair of pockets for a small old-fashioned key, “and open the ‘scrutoire, and give me the pen and ink, and the old narrow brown book, that you’ll find at the top. Not like his marrying Cicely! Why I always have loved that child–don’t cry, Cissy!–and have always had cause, for she has been a kind little creature to me. Those dahlias came from her, and the sweet posy,” pursued Mrs. Deborah, pointing to a nosegay of autumn flowers, the old fragrant monthly rose, mignionette, heliotrope, cloves, and jessamine, which stood by the bedside. “Ay, that’s the book, Mrs. Thornly; and there, Cissy,” continued Aunt Deborah, filling up the check, with a sum far larger than that required for the partnership– “there, Cissy, is your marriage portion. Don’t cry so, child!” said she, as the affectionate girl hung round her neck in a passion of grateful tears–“don’t cry, but find out Edward, and send for the lawyer, for I’m determined to settle my affairs to night And now, John Stokes, I know I’ve been a cross old woman, but….”
“Cousin Deborah,” interrupted John, seizing her withered hand with a gripe like a smith’s vice,–“Cousin Deborah, thou hast acted nobly, and I beg thy pardon once for all. God bless thee!–Dang it,” added the honest miller to himself, “I do verily believe that this squabbling has been mainly my fault, and that if I had not been so provoking she would not have been so contrary. Well, she has made us all happy, and we must try to make her happy in return. If we did not, we should deserve to be soused in the fish-pond along with that unhappy chap, Master ‘Dolphus. For my part,” continued the good yeoman, forming with great earnestness a solemn resolution–“for my part, I’ve fully made up my mind never to contradict her again, say what she will. No, not if she says black’s white! It’s contradiction that makes women contrary; it sets their backs up, like. I’ll never contradict her again so long as my name’s John Stokes.”