During the passage to Babbleton, Mr. Tom Snobson entertained
Winkle and Parke with narrations of his innumerable
adventures with the belles at the different watering-places, all
of which he had visited within the last six weeks. His career
had been an unbroken triumph. He had been cordially welcomed
by the keepers of the hotels, and had received only
smiles from the ladies. His father was excessively rich, and
every body knew it. But of all the young ladies it had ever
been his good fortune to admire, the unknown beauty whom
he had traced to Babbleton seemed to have made the deepest
impression on his susceptible heart. He declared upon his
honor, that he dreamt of her incessantly, and really felt that
he might be capable of loving her dearly, and only her—provided
she came of a good family. He did not deem it necessary
to reflect that his own father had served an apprenticeship
in a counting-room, since he was now a universally acknowledged
aristocrat.

George Parke's curiosity became excited to behold the paragon
of Babbleton, whose charms Snobson delighted so much
to portray; and Walter, assuming a dubious gravity, as if
not quite sure he had ever seen the unparalleled creature, and
knowing perfectly well that Parke had never met with Lucy,
meditated only the means of realizing the greatest possible
amount of sport from the discovery. He assured them, therefore,
that if it had not been his good fortune hitherto, to know
so lovely an inhabitant of the village, there would be no

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

difficulty in procuring an introduction, and then his friends, and
especially the enamored Snobson, should enjoy the delight of
an immediate presentation.

Arrived at the village inn, Walter contrived under some
pretence or other to separate himself for a short time from
his companions, and hastened to his mother's house to learn
the exact condition of affairs. From the manner in which his
aunt had spoken in condemnation of the alliance, it might be
a matter of doubt whether his mother and sister, or either of
them, had accompanied the bride to his uncle's mansion after
the celebration of the nuptials at the altar. Lucy's letter
had informed him of her intention to witness the ceremony;
but nothing further in regard to her subsequent purposes.

Walter's mother, however, related every thing that had
transpired. The church had been thronged by spectators,
whom Gusset had invited thither to witness her triumph.
And it appeared that such a consummation of her ambitious
projects had not been unforeseen; for she was decked in the
usual habiliments of matrimony, and seemed to attract the admiration
of many of her neighbors, who had not been accustomed
to regard the retired milliner as worthy of any special
attention. But Mrs. Winkle declared that the bride appreciated
the importance of her position. She was not embarrassed.
There were no symptoms of delicate timidity in her
carriage or speech. On the contrary, the expressions of her
countenance were rather indicative of imperious feeling, and
a proud consciousness of the elevated station she was henceforth
to assume, as the spouse of the wealthiest man in the
country. On the other hand, her lord manifested indications
of awe and terror in the novelty of his situation. As if he
had utterly surrendered his independence in becoming a wedded
man, he yielded an unhesitating obedience to whatever
was signified as her will. He seemed, indeed, to have no will
of his own, but to obey. And she, that her sway might not
be diminished for the want of exercise, taxed her ingenuity
to devise demands, that her power might be exhibited to the
public.

Although the groom, attended by his neighbors, had
arrived on horseback, the bride was not satisfied to accompany
her lord to his home in the same unostentatious manner.
The old heavy coach had to be sent for. It was drawn
by four horses, and driven by a servant in livery. She

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

mounted the steps with the air of a princess, amidst the gazes of
admiring friends, and the envy of many ancient maidens who
witnessed with dismay her sudden exaltation. The equipage
halted at the widow's door, and Lucy was required to occupy
a seat beside her “new-made aunt,” as the lady herself
expressed it within the hearing of the widow. That was the
substance of the information Walter obtained from his mother.
But he learned a very large party would be assembled at
the chateau that evening, and thither he lost no time in
conducting his companions.

They proceeded on foot, as the distance was not great, and
arrived in front of the mansion just after the hall had been
illuminated.

“Now, boys,” said Walter, “from what I could learn in
the village, the beauty we are in quest of must be among
my uncle's—no, my aunt's—guests. But since it seems
probable that I would have known the lady, and doubtless
have been captivated by her irresistible charms, if there
were not some impediment in the way, I think we should
proceed with circumspection, until certain suspicions which
have arisen in my mind are dispelled. She may be, possibly,
the daughter of an honest shoemaker—”

“No!” cried Snobson, “that would be a d—l of a
joke! and I almost in love with her!”

“Or,” continued Walter, “some milliner's apprentice;
and, as my `new-made aunt,' was once a milliner herself—”

“That is the reason she was invited,” said Parke. “But
if she is as beautiful as Tom says, I want a chat with her, no
matter who she is.”

“Of course,” responded Walter. “But then, let me urge
you not to cast too many curious looks at her if she chances
to appear before us unexpectedly, and should equal or surpass
Tom's description. And above all, do not for the world ask
any one who she is, or what is her name. It might cause you
to be sneered at by some of the ton. Leave every thing to
me. I will find a proper time and opportunity to introduce
you.”

They entered the hall just when the last word was uttered;
and Walter, under the pretext of seeking information where
his uncle and aunt were to be found, left his companions for
a few moments to themselves, promising to return immediately

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

and conduct them into the presence of the lord and lady of
the palace.

When Walter passed out of the great hall, the first person
he met was Lucy, who, in high spirits threw her arms round
his neck before he had recognized her.

“O ho,” cried he, “suppose it had been Snobson or
Parke.”

“Who are they?” demanded Lucy.

Walter told her, and she instantly promised to co-operate
with him in his innocent project for their mutual diversion.
It was arranged that they should all sit on the same side of
the table at dinner, so that Lucy's identification by Snobson
might be delayed. She might, in the meantime, however,
for the especial gratification of her own curiosity, and for the
purpose of knowing the gentleman, once flit across their vision
as they stood in the hall, and while Walter sought his uncle
and aunt in the next room, and obtained permission to present
his friends.

This was speedily accomplished; and when Walter re-entered
the hall to conduct the young gentlemen into the
presence of the married couple, he found them transported
with the lingering effects of the bright vision which had been
vouchsafed them. “Was she the beauty you saw on the boat
and followed into — street?” asked Walter.

“Yes,” cried Snobson, “only more angelic than ever. I
hope she is no mechanic's daughter, no milliner's apprentice.
I care not how poor she may be—my father is rich enough—
I will marry her. George, recollect, I am in love, honorably
in love! And you, Winkle, I warn you to keep your eyes off—
she was discovered by me, and should be mine.”

“Warning me against gazing at one whom I don't know!
You need not fear. All I apprehend is that she will turn out
one of the nobodies you despise so much. But, come; it is
the hour for dinner, and you must be presented.”

Walter led them into the presence of the host and hostess,
where they were very cordially received.

“Taken at last, uncle? I hope you will be happy in your
captivity,” said Walter.

“Not taken, sir—no capitulation, sir—but a convention—
an alliance—with secret stipulations. In the domestic department
my ally will rule, whilst I direct the military and
diplomatic affairs.”

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

“I forget, Mr. Winkle,” said his imperious spouse—for
she seemed to become more haughty at every new development
of her newly acquired power and importance—“whether or
not the secret stipulations were to be divulged by either of us.”

“Oh, I beg pardon, my dear Gusset.”

“Recollect!” cried she, in his ear, “you were never to mention
that name again.”

“True—true. You must not hesitate to remind me of
any neglect of duties, Mrs. Winkle, or infraction of the treaty.
But as for secret stipulations—”

Here dinner was announced, and the emperor's speech
was cut short. He conducted his spouse in advance of the
company, and a chair was reserved near them at the table for
Lucy, who, in pursuance of the plan agreed upon, remained
in concealment until all the guests were seated.

But that his companions might not be idle, Walter introduced
them to a great many of his acquaintances, and among
the rest, to the sisters Bell and Blanche Arum, rich and
fashionable daughters of a retired patent pill manufacturer,
which was quite a different personage from the manufacturer
of shoes; to the sisters Susan and Sally Crudle, whose father
was still more wealthy than the haughty Arum; but then he
made his fortune by the manufacture of beer. Arum had long
since sunk the shop, while Crudle could not be prevailed on
to relinquish his business. Therefore his name was still over
the door of the shop in the city; and while it remained there,
Mrs. C. opposed every attempt of her daughters to prevail on
their coachman to wear a broad band on his hat and extra
bright buttons on his coat. Crudle listened very patiently to
every argument advanced, both by his wife and daughters, in
favor of an entire relinquishment of business: the demonstrations
of a sufficiency of wealth to produce an ample income
at simple interest; the delights of leisure: the advantages of
dignified retirement, and the better opportunity of effecting
advantageous alliances, etc. To all such protestations and
pleadings, Mr. Crudle would reply, by casting a check for
$1000 into the midst of his family, for the purchase of new
articles of furniture, jewels, etc, and alleging that quadruple
that amount had been realized from his business since the last
discussion of the subject, and that if he had taken their advice,
he would have been a poorer man by so many thousands.

Lucy had glided into the saloon, and quietly taken

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

possession of the chair which had been reserved for her; the clatter
of knives and forks having overwhelmed all other sounds.
The young gentlemen had sipped their wine with the bride,
with their eyes glancing from the Arums to the Crudles, who
sent back flashes of equal intensity; and all the time Lucy
sat demurely at the side of her protuberant uncle, slyly exchanging
signals with her brother, who was nearly opposite his
companions, and occasionally obtaining a stealthy view of Snobson
and Parke who were incessantly addressed by the Crudles
and Arums across the table.

Nor was it long before the enterprising daughters of the
rich men learned that Tom Snobson was the son of the great
banker Snobson, whose position in society was fixed, and whose
name had been in the newspapers. Nor was it less interesting
to ascertain—which they did—that young Parke was a student
at Princeton College, destined to the legal profession,
and a scion of one of the great southern families, who possessed
their hundreds of slaves. True, slavery in the abstract
was condemned—but in the hymenial concrete, it might not be
an irreconcilable evil. Hence, a battery was unmasked against
both young gentlemen, from the flashing eyes of the daughters
of the pill and beer nabobs.

Far away at the opposite end of the table sat Ralph Roland,
never gazing towards Lucy but between his fingers, and
unperceived by her. Edmund Lowe, pale, thoughtful and
abstemious, was not so far removed, nor so careful in concealing
the direction of his eyes, which wandered over the whole
assembly, and dwelt the longest upon the fair brow and perfect
form of Lucy. He sat beside old John Dowly—the
melancholy discarded lover of Lucy's mother.

After the last course had disappeared, Roland arose with
a foaming goblet and proposed the health of the bride, which
was loudly cheered and heartily responded to by all but Lucy,
who was glancing slyly at Walter's excited friends, whose heads
were dodging under the artillery of Blanche and Bell, and
Susan and Sally.

“Be attentive, Lucy!” said her aunt. “Did you not hear
what Mr. Roland said?”

“I beg pardon, Gusset,” replied Lucy, quickly, resuming
her former attitude, but not before Snobson had perceived
her.

“Miss Winkle!” said Griselda, “I beg that you will

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

hereafter forget that I was ever called Gusset. That name
has been extinguished, and I shall expect none but my enemies
to make use of it hereafter.”

“She is now my spouse, and your aunt, Lucy,” said Mr.
Winkle.

“I forgot, uncle.”

“I know it. Of course you could never be the enemy of
my wife—although she says some of my family will never treat
her with respect.”

Lucy was silent, while her aunt looked steadily at her.

Then Colonel Oakdale proposed three cheers for Napoleon
Winkle; and amidst the rapturous applause—for the colonel,
being a widower himself, and the junior of the bridegroom,
had intimated his purpose of following Napoleon's example—
there was heard a startling crash about midway down the table,
which was followed by slight shrieks from the Arums and
Crudles. It had been occasioned by the fall of Snobson, who,
in leaning back to obtain another view of the glorious eyes
of Lucy that had been momentarily fixed upon him, lost his
equilibrium, and fell over on his back.

This incident was followed by uncontrollable laughter, on
the part of Walter, who understood the cause of it, and which
was signalled by him to Lucy, whose ill suppressed convulsions
gave her aunt serious vexation, and subjected herself to
several terse lectures upon the subject of propriety.

The scene had not escaped the notice of Roland, whose
brows were contracted fiercely, as he endeavored in vain to
catch the eye of the offending young gentleman. The glance
he launched at Lucy, was repulsed with something like disdain,
certainly with indifference.

Without form or ceremony,—for Napoleon had most unaccountably
abandoned the helm of command, and his spouse
had never before mingled with, much less been a principal
actor in so large an assembly of gay people, the company arose
and proceeded to the parlors in promiscuous groups, with no
regard to precedence, and much to the chagrin of the Arums,
who vented their spleen openly. But it afforded delight to
the Crudles, who appreciated the utmost freedom of social
enjoyment.

Walter lingered in the hall to intercept his companions,
where, upon meeting him, they contrived to escape from their
belles.

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

“It was her eyes!” said Snobson, trembling with real
perturbation. “They drew me over. The chair-back was
broken off, and that made the crash. It was magnetism. She
attracted me. You could see her, Winkle, from where you
sat. Who is she?”

“There were several of the milliner's old acquaintances
in that neighborhood. Don't be a fool, and fall in love with
a girl beneath you. You shall be introduced to the one you
admire so much. But be calm. Cool yourself in the air.
She'll turn out a nobody I'm afraid.”

“If she is the one I saw flit across the hall,” said Parke,
“you may rely upon it Tom has reason for his madness. Milliner's
apprentice or not, she has the most fascinating features
and carriage of any girl in the company, if not in the universe.”

“You, too! I'm sorry I brought you here. Your parents
will never forgive me. In love with some poor obscure village
girl, whose fingers may be pricked into nutmeg graters by the
point of her needle! You had the aristocracy by you. The
Arums and the Crudles.”

“We learned they were rich in a few minutes,” said Parke;
“for they spoke unconsciously of their fathers' houses and lots,
horses and carriages, and their fine dresses and jewelry—and
the sums that had been paid for them. We learned every
thing but the manner in which their fortunes had been made.”

“And they were au fait as to the standing and means
of my family—and of yours, Winkle,” he added, rather
gravely.

“But not of mine,” said Parke. “They could not find
out how many acres and woolly heads I had. Yet they seemed
disposed to take me on trust. And perhaps one of them, the
younger Crudle—Sally, I believe—may have a chance for me.
My income they tell me is to be small, whenever the cotton
crop fails. A mile square in Georgia, don't produce as much
revenue as a lot in the city of twenty-five feet front. I shall
not lose sight of the Crudles, for they are capable of refinement,
and our people in the South won't be too inquisitive if
I bring home an heiress.”

When the young gentlemen entered the parlors, the first
object that attracted the attention of Snobson, was Lucy.
She sat in an alcove of a window, conversing with Lowe. Old
Mr. Dowly was seated apart, with his large lustrous eyes

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

fixed upon the interesting pair. Roland was talking to Miss
Bell Arum, while Blanche was looking over the music at the
piano. The Crudles, contriving to be disengaged, seemed to
be awaiting the approach of our party of young gallants. At
the extreme end of the long apartment, on a luxuriously cushioned
sofa, were seated Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, receiving the
felicitations of their acquaintance.

“There she is!” whispered Snobson. “Is she not an
angel?”

“She surpasses all the beauties I ever beheld,” said Parke.

“Oh, that lady in the recess, conversing with Mr. Lowe?”
responded Walter.

“Yes!” said Parke, with animation. “But if the fellow's
name be Lowe, he does not seem to be a low fellow. I
noticed him at the table, and I think I never beheld a gentleman
of better polish or more refined manners. He has a fine
countenance, and the young lady must be of high breeding.
Walter, none of your humbug! I suspect she is one of your
favorites. You seem to have them every where. I shall know
what to say to Miss Virginia, when I return to the city.”

“You are mistaken, George; upon my honor you are, if
you suppose I have matrimonial designs upon that creature.
I know her well. You shall be introduced. Come along.”

“But who is she? her name?” demanded the young men.

“Oh, Miss what-do-you-call-her! Come!” he continued,
leading them towards the alcove, seeing Lowe withdraw with
a smile on his beautiful pale lip, and convinced that Lucy had
revealed to him the mischievous plot.

“But if she should not be a proper acquaintance for me to
make in such a public place?” said Snobson, hesitatingly.

“Oh, come along. She is quite genteel enough. Sister
Lucy,” he continued, with gravity, “let me introduce my
friends, Mr. Snobson, of Philadelphia, and Mr. Parke, of
Georgia.”

Lucy bowed very kindly, while the young gentlemen
blundered in their salutations, and knew not what to say.
They looked at each other, at Walter, at Miss Winkle,
blushed and trembled. They might have felt and acted
differently, if it had occurred to them that Walter had deliberately
meditated so embarrassing a surprise for them.

“I think I have enjoyed the pleasure of seeing Mr. Snobson
before,” said Lucy; “and I do not remember where

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

And yet I am sure it has not been very long since. Oh! did
I not see you on the boat the other day?”

Snobson was under the necessity of confessing that he
was on the boat the day alluded to, for had he not told Walter
that he followed the charming creature through several
streets? But the poor fellow was so nearly stricken dumb
that he could only utter monosyllables.

“And I have often heard my brother speak with enthusiasm
of his friend from Georgia. Perhaps Mr. Parke may
have detected Walter in some insidious praise of his poor
sister?”

“No—hang me if ever he did!” said Walter.

“True,” said Parke, recovering his accustomed composure,
“but I wonder he did not. I am sure I would have
lauded one of mine to him if he had dwelt so near her, provided
she had been so—I mean fair, and accomplished.”

“That would have been a different matter altogether,”
said Walter. “And no doubt I should have mentioned
Lucy, if—don't frown, sister!”

“Go, sir. I dismiss you,” said Lucy, affecting a look of
displeasure.

“I will, good sister,” said Walter; “for I see Sergeant
Blore beckoning me through the window. But, Lucy, where
are the guards? I see no bayonets.”

“Our aunt has ordered them not to appear to-night.”

“She is to be general, then? We'll see. Don't be alarmed
at any thing you hear to-night, Lucy.” Saying this, Walter
withdrew. He was followed by Snobson, and overtaken on
the terrace.

“Mr. Winkle,” said Snobson, “I want to make you an
humble apology; and I hope you won't be offended afterwards.
I do beg your pardon. I didn't know it was your
sister I was talking about, and was following in the street.
I am willing to make any reparation in my power—”

“Reparation?”

“Upon my honor I will! I am sure, if father could once
see her—”

“You would marry her, if he gave his consent?”

“Upon my word and honor I would! And you may say
so to her, if you choose—”

“Oh, my dear fellow, you must say such things to her
yourself. And as for apologizing for what you did the other

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

day, I beg you won't think of it. It is gratifying to any girl
to be admired and followed. You have no idea what fine
spirits my sister enjoyed when she observed it.”

“Did she see me?”

“Yes—and she boasted of it. The girls are as fond of
making conquests as ever Alexander was.”

“And she knew it! I feel like a detected sheep-killing
dog! What shall I do?”

“Why, tell her she carried your heart by storm; that
the attraction was too powerful to be resisted; and hence you
could not avoid following her. She will be flattered, I assure
you.”

“I shall never have the boldness to speak to her in that
way. But you will not be offended, I hope?”

“Nonsense, Tom. I would do the same if I were like
you, no doubt. But excuse me, now; I have an appointment
out here under the chestnut tree.”

Snobson returned to the gay company within, while Walter
joined the sergeant, with whom he found Bill Dizzle, and both
were anxiously awaiting him.

The new mistress of the establishment had truly exerted
her power over her lord, and obtained an order that there
should be no military display in the vicinity of the mansion.
But the retainers of the house had permission to get drunk
at the barracks, called the camp of Bologne, near the scene
of the late invasion of John Bull, and to send up a few noiseless
rockets in honor of the merry occasion. The subject of
the conference under the chestnut tree on the lawn, may be
developed in the progress of this history. Suffice it to say,
that the sergeant was much chagrined at the conduct of his
general's spouse; and was conscious of well founded apprehensions,
that she was not only capable of subduing all the
other females about the house, but would not be likely to
pause in the career of ambition, until she had obtained the
supreme command of the entire establishment. At all events
he was quite as impatient as Walter could be, to ascertain by
some well-conceived experiments the extent of her influence
over her lord.

p459-119 CHAPTER XI THE BRIDAL NIGHT CONTINUED, AND WHAT TOOK PLACE ON THE TOP OF THE HOUSE.

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

As there are more vicissitudes in American society than in
any other under the sun, it follows that our people are the
most observant and calculating of the dwellers upon this mundane
sphere. Therefore, as soon as the revellers were re-assembled
in the commodious parlors of the Winkle mansion,
and those who fancied that sort of exercise, were tripping on
the “light fantastic toe,” the other portion of the assembly,
that preferred the exercise of the tongue, were every where
discussing the consequences of the wedding.

“I am sorry for the widow, and it's a pity for Walter and
Lucy,” said Mrs. Arum, as she admired a heavy jewel, resembling
a fantastic breastplate, on the bosom of her daughter
Bell.

“It's tremendous lamentable,” responded Mrs. Crudle,
smiling at her daughter Susan, then whirling in the dance with
Mr. Roland, “to think that they held their heads so high!
Now, Mr. Roland says, they are beggars!”

“Beggars, Mrs. Crudle! surely they'll not be so bad off
as that?”

“That's what he said—but I wouldn't have it mentioned
for the world as coming through me. He says Miss Wilsome
went off in a huff to the city, swearing vengeance against all
the family that countenanced the hypocritical Gusset, and declaring
she would have nothing further to do with any of 'em
who went to the wedding, or attended the revels out here to-night.”

“And Wilsome is wilful enough to keep her word. Lucy
and Walter were looked upon as her heirs.”

“She'll marry now, if it's to a butcher; that is, if he can
learn to play whist. It's in the breed. You see what her
hallucinated brother has done. I'm sure a fair-faced wellformed
butcher is as good as the scrawny sallow-complexioned
milliner.”

“You are right, Mrs. Crudle. And as we were just

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

saying, our haughty neighbors, the Winkles of Babbleton, must
lower their feathers at least, for the humble demure Gusset
that was, and that used to knuckle to and almost worship
them, as sure as she lives, will be revenged. She will tower
above them now. I know the nature of these soft-spoken
meek old maids when they get the upper hand! They'll
quarrel the first week. I know it. And the proud widow
would die rather than demean herself before her old dependant.”

“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Arum! And she will be willing to
associate oftener with other people who are worth a thousand
times as much as herself—and in place of smiling risively
when pertinent people must be telling how our husbands made
their fortunes, she'll be sending the silly Biddy to us for the
loan of a gill of cream, or a basket of coals. Oh, we'll mortify'
em! Let's make our coachmen drive by her house six
times every fine day; and tell the girls to promenade before
her doors in their richest and newest dresses. It's a duty
to humble any one's pride, who hasn't got money to support it.”

“Bell! come dance with me!” cried Walter, abruptly
appearing before the daughter, who was listening in silence.
The matrons stared; but before they could recover their presence
of mind to deprecate what would have been deemed by
either of them two days before a great honor, Bell had eagerly
and precipitately accepted the invitation.

“Did you ever see such cool impudence!” said Mrs. Crudle.
“But Bell bounced up like a hare from under a cabbage leaf.
She's been used to thinking it a great honor to be noticed by
a Winkle.”

“I'll learn her better. But, then, Walter isn't to blame.
Nor Lucy, either. If they behave themselves, and never put
on airs, we needn't shut our doors in their faces. Poor Lucy!
yonder she sits alone, no doubt thinking on her destitute situation.
I wonder Roland, who has been whirling with Susan,
don't ask her to dance. And the mysterious stranger, who
will not even speak to any other girl, is stalking backwards
and forwards in the hall.”

“Yes, I saw him there. His arms were folded, and he
was in a deep distraction.”

“Abstraction, Mrs. Crudle.”

“It's all one. Both of my girls have got fine partners.
Snobson's family, you know, are invited to Madame R—'s”

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

reception; and as for the southern student, they all belong to
the very first families. They don't need certifications of
character.”

Poor Lucy! She seemed truly to be deserted by her accustomed
worshippers. She sat alone in the recess, gazing
mournfully at the merry scene. She had overheard more than
one of her own sex speculating upon the results of her uncle's
marriage, and the indignant abandonment of her aunt; and
she could easily perceive, by the glances of triumph among
those who had often envied her, that her reverse of fortune
was to be for them a matter of exultation, rather than one
of sympathy. She was neglected by her new aunt, and forgotten
by her uncle. Her brother's young friends were flirting
with the Arums and the Crudles. Lowe, with folded
arms, was immersed in one of his reveries, finding a solitude
in a crowd. And as if to confirm her melancholy, she had
been again annoyed by the importunity of Roland, who, after
keeping aloof for several hours, had seized an opportunity to
repeat his declaration, and to urge his suit by all the inducements
which the desire of possessing fortune might naturally
suggest. He did not venture to depict directly the destitute
condition of Lucy, but he knew it would be sufficiently apparent
to one of her vivid imagination, when contrasted with
the vast possessions which he offered to share with her. And
to add to her vexation, she beheld the eyes of Lowe at last
riveted upon her when Roland was urgently pressing his suit!
She was immovable, and her persecutor, without extorting a
peremptory refusal, departed sullenly, and was soon laughing
very heartily with Blanche Arum.

An intermission occurred, during which the band of musicians
withdrew to partake of their accustomed and indispensable
stimulants. It was then proposed by the artful mothers
of the Arum and Crudle belles, that there should be music
at the piano; and above the noise and confusion of conversation
and laughter, the ringing voices of the heiresses penetrated
the ears of all. And at the end of every performance
there was a loud clapping of hands, followed by a simultaneous
volley of compliments.

It was during one of the pauses which succeeded these
storms of plaudits, that the loud and hearty voice of Col.
Oakdale was heard calling for Lucy.

“Where is she? where is she?” he asked, making his way

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

through the company. “I must hear her voice, or I shall
never be able to sleep again. Come forth, I say, Lucy
Winkle! Oh, there you are! My dear, sweet girl,” he continued,
advancing to the alcove which Lucy had never quitted,
and where Lowe was now sitting beside her, “do have mercy
on my poor old widowed ears, and regale them with one of
the songs of other days, such as you and my Virginia know
so well how to sing. Come Lowe, bring her along.” The
colonel opened a passage, and Lucy suffered Lowe to conduct
her to the piano. She sat down before the instrument,
without seeming to be conscious of the multitude of glances
directed towards her. She was calm and pensive. Turning
over the leaves, she selected a song congenial to her feelings.
The words had been written by one of the great poets of a
preceding generation, and expressed the tumultuous emotions
and affection of an innocent heart wounded by one who had
been the victim of a wicked deception. So electric is deep
human feeling, that every one coming in contact with it partakes
of its nature and influence. The first notes of the instrument
under the gentle touch of her rosy fingers, imparted
a thrill of softened sadness to every person that heard them.
And when the sound of her exquisitely modulated voice succeeded,
conveying the full inspiration of the poet, by the proper
emphasis, the expression, the gestures—the spell of
enchantment was complete, and not the slightest whisper could
be heard in that vast assembly. And when the last word was
uttered by the fair songstress, and her ivory arm reclined
motionless on the keys, and her bosom rose and fell like the
billows of the ocean after the cessation of a storm, a protracted
silence ensued.

The colonel stood on one side with folded arms, his chin
sunk upon his breast. Lowe, pale, listless, and immobile as a
statue, was on the other. The first movement was made by
Walter, who stepped forward, and encircling the neck of his
sister, bestowed a kiss upon her snowy forehead.

“I will do that too!” exclaimed the bridegroom, rising
spasmodically from the sofa where his spouse had hitherto
confined him. “She is of my own flesh and blood, and I am
proud of her.” But before he could execute his purpose, he
was overtaken by his wife, who whispered a few magical words
in his ear which induced him to resume his seat.

Lowe conducted Lucy back to the dim recess she coveted,

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

and then strode out upon the lawn in the moonlight, while the
sad girl, reclining her chin upon her hand, gazed after him
through the glass door that opened upon the terrace. But
she had not long maintained that pensive attitude, before she
was startled by the presence of one, who had never hitherto
ventured to address her except in answer to some interrogatory
relating to his duties behind the counter. This was Mr. Blotter,
the clerk of Fibber, a shopkeeper in the village.

“Don't be down-hearted, miss,” said he, “for every body
who has a heart, can't help feeling for you.”

“Feeling for me, sir?” exclaimed Lucy, in utter astonishment.

“Yes, miss. Every body is saying that your mother will
be poor, now; and Mr. Fibber, my employer, who trusted Miss
Gusset on your mother's recommendation, has ordered me not
to run up a long account this year with the widow—”

“I don't understand this, sir. Pray excuse me,” said
Lucy.

“It means that Mr. Fibber is no gentleman, and next year,
when my time is up with him, and I get my little money from
my guardian, I mean to tell him so, if you will give me
liberty.”

“What do you desire of me?” asked Lucy turning her
eyes full upon the young man.

“All I want to say is your singing made the tears come
into my eyes, and I feel as if I could die to do you any good.
And if all the world deserts you, Miss Lucy, remember that
I, Dick Blotter, am your friend till death. I would marry
you in a minute!”

Before Lucy could utter a word in response to such an
unlooked-for declaration, the shopkeeper's clerk had vanished.
She buried her face in her handkerchief, and her whole frame
was seized with convulsive agitations. Lowe, who witnessed
the scene from his position without, had returned, and was
now standing beside her.

“Lucy,” said he, “who has offended you?”

“Offended me?” she asked, raising her face, bedewed with
tears, and exhibiting the traces—not of displeasure—but of
excessive laughter!

“I see I was mistaken,” said Lowe, turning away, as if to
retire.

“Hear what it was,” said Lucy. She then recapitulated

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

what had been communicated by poor Blotter, and Lowe could
not repress the smile which struggled to relax his features.

“But, Lucy,” said he, sighing, and occupying a seat at her
side, which served to shield her from the prying glances of the
flitting company, “the things which poor Blotter has revealed
to you are freely discussed by the guests of your new aunt.
One cannot avoid hearing them, let him turn whithersoever
he will.”

“I am aware of it,” said Lucy.

“Then why not escape such annoyances?”

“How can I escape them? But they shall not annoy
me.”

“How? I have told you. Promise—”

“Edmund—I can promise no more! I have, perhaps,
already pledged too much. You have every information that
can be desired in regard to my family—to my condition and
prospects. Then why do you withhold from my mother the
communication which you say must prove satisfactory? I
will make no further confession. I am pledged never to be
involved in any irrevocable entanglement of the heart without
her concurrence. My word to her shall be held inviolably
sacred. Proceed no farther—cease to refer to the subject—
unless you are prepared to satisfy my mother.”

“Do you doubt, Lucy?”

“I do not! Let that suffice. Urge me no further. My
duty must be performed—shall be performed—even if I survive
it not.”

“Lucy! I love you beyond all human power of expression!
and I never loved another! But why repeat what I have so
often declared already. Would to heaven I were richer. But
I have a sufficient income for happiness in a village—”

“Pray do not speak thus, Mr. Lowe. Your thoughts seem
to be uttered unconsciously, and you may be heard by
others.”

“True. Forgive me. My life of solitude has engendered
the habit. But, believe me, Lucy, whatever others may suppose,
I have no thoughts which might not be uttered within
the hearing of any one as gentle and pure in heart as yourself.”

At this juncture Bill Dizzle, decked in his Sunday
clothes, glided through one of the long folding glass doors that
opened on the terrace, and made his way expeditiously to the

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

sofa on which the lord of the establishment was sitting. He
placed a short despatch in his hand, and then stood apart as if
awaiting his orders.

“To arms! To arms!” shouted the aroused Napoleon.
“We are invaded! The enemy are upon us! Let the drums
beat—mount horses—sound the bugle, and away!”

“Stop! Bill Dizzle!” cried the now imperious Mrs. Napoleon
Winkle, seizing the messenger with one hand, and
snatching the despatch away from her lord with the other.
“Don't be frightened, my friends,” continued she; “it is a
false alarm, and intended as a joke. I'll read the intelligence.
`The red boar has thrown down the palings and led the whole
drove into the garden.' Bill,” said she, amidst the shouts of
laughter that ensued, “whistle up the dogs and drive the pigs
out of the garden.”

Napoleon sank back subdued on the sofa.

“You know, Mr. Winkle,” said his spouse, perceiving his
humiliation, “it was stipulated that I should direct the little
domestic matters which occur about the house. If you had
been in the field, this affair would have fallen under your jurisdiction.”

“Oh, madam, if it be really a false alarm, every one will
be indebted to you for so prompt and complete a suppression
of it; and I shall have cause to congratulate myself on finding
in my spouse so valuable an auxiliary. No doubt when I am
called to the distant north, you will make an efficient regent.”

“Yes. I'll undertake to govern in your absence. But,
you know, it is all a joke. The silly people pretend to say
that you really believe the bulls are the British, the hogs the
Russians, and yourself the great Corsican chieftain. It is not
so—is it? Tell me it was all for your amusement! Tell me
so on this, your wedding night!”

“Of course, my dear, I never supposed such things to be
really as I called them, or as they may have been represented
by others. But every one has some hobby or other, and I
have mine. I sometimes become excited to such a degree
that, no doubt, I am capable of imagining any thing. And
that is my felicity, which I should be sorry to have destroyed.
In childhood our toy horses, and men and beasts, are real
flesh and blood in our estimation. In age, we are only children
of a larger growth, and as long as our infatuations do
not injure others, I think they might be regarded as allowable

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

and justifiable. One of the good effects, my dear, of the hallucination
attributed to me, was the accidental discovery of
one I deemed capable of sympathy and disposed to defend my
innocent motives whenever they might be assailed. I need
not name her.”

“I will defend you—you may rely upon it,” said his
spouse, with some misgivings as to the extent she might proceed
with safety in taking possession of the reins. It flashed
upon her understanding, that in the event of a rupture, she
might possibly be expelled from her magnificent home, and
therefore it might be prudent to infuse a particle more of conciliation
in her preliminary measures. There were many
methods of reducing husbands to subjection: but if all of
them should fail, there could be no foe sufficiently potential to
take from her the respectable name of Winkle, and of conferring
the odious one of Gusset upon her again.

The meditations of the aspiring bride were put to flight
by a sudden flash, more vivid than the light of the wax candles,
and which was succeeded by a tremendous explosion of artillery.
A great many slight screams were heard—the dancers
paused in mid career, and the musicians let fall their instruments.
The bride sprang up, pale, and quivering with vexation.

“Oh, Mr. Winkle!” said she, “you promised there should
be none of this.”

“I did, indeed, my dear—and I am one who keeps his
word. I must know the meaning of it. Blore shall be called
to an account. Unless he can show that it is one of the anniversaries
we have been in the habit of—”

“Oh, if you can excuse him on such a pretext as that, he
will not be punished; for I have heard it said that Bonaparte
fought bloody battles on every day of the summer
months.”

“And if he fought, of course he won,” replied Napoleon
Winkle.

Bill Dizzle glided in and placed another despatch in the
hand of Napoleon.

“Dizzle,” said Mrs. Winkle reproachfully, “I told you to
bring no more papers here to-night.”

“How can I help it, mam? They'd shoot me if I didn't
obey orders.”

“It was a mistake,” said Mr. Winkle. “Sergeant Blore,

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

you know, has only one eye, and he says the calendar was
blotted. He begs pardon. It is granted. The great battle
was not fought on this day—neither did it result in such a
manner as to call for commemoration. Yet I forgive him.”

“What great battle?” asked several.

“Waterloo! And the sergeant must have been indulging
excessively in strong potations, to forget how that struggle
terminated, since he lost two of his limbs and an eye on the
occasion. But he writes me the cause of the apparent loudness
of the report was the pointing of the guns in this direction.”

“Are they aiming the cannons at us?” asked Mrs. Crudle,
in great alarm.

“There were no balls in them, madam. They fire blank
cartridges on such occasions.”

“Walter,” said Mrs. Winkle, “won't you oblige me by requesting
the sergeant to commit no more such mistakes to-night?”

“With pleasure,” responded the young gentleman, who
was happy to have an excuse for being absent. And in truth
the discharge of the guns had been in pursuance of his instructions.

Towards midnight the guests dispersed to their respective
homes, the Arums and Crudles inviting Parke and Snobson
into their coaches.

Lucy was despatched in Mr. Roland's carriage, which her
new aunt had procured for that purpose, as her own was too
heavy to be driven quickly, and she had promised her sister
to send Lucy home that night.

Old John Dowly and Edmund Lowe were the last to depart;
the one in his old-fashioned gig, and the other on foot,
he being a famous walker.

Then the house was carefully closed under the directions
of Mrs. Griselda Winkle, who now assumed the reins in earnest,
and informed the domestics, male and female, and particularly
the latter, and in the presence of her assenting lord,
that every command she issued was to be implicitly obeyed.
The housekeeper and the cook looked rebellion, but made no
opposition. They knew that Griselda was not an inexperienced
timid miss, for she had long kept a house of her own,
and was familiar with the use of bolts and bars. And when
the doors were made fast, she undertook to allot apartments

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

for the various lodgers, having a most extraordinarily accurate
comprehension of the plan and capacity of the fine old mansion.
The females were sent to the most distant chambers,
while Walter's apartment on the second floor was only separated
from her own by the corridor that ran between. The
doors were opposite. Sergeant Blore occupied a small room
at the head of the stairs, communicating with Walter's by a
door in the thin partition. He had long occupied this room,
as it was convenient to his chief, and Mr. Winkle had intimated
a desire that he should continue to sleep there.

Finally the key was turned in the door opposite to Walter's,
and all was still. Not even a retiring step was heard.
The only sound that arose on the ear was the ticking of the
great high clock in the hall below, which seemed to be more
distinctly heard at every successive swing of the pendulum.

Walter, after lying awake some fifteen minutes, arose softly,
opened his door, and descended the stairway in his stocking
feet. He proceeded to the rear door of the hall, which he
opened noiselessly. He then beckoned his confederates under
the spreading chestnut tree. Bill Dizzle came first, and was
followed by a dozen others, bearing muskets, whose burnished
barrels glittered in the moonlight. But not a footfall was heard.
All had divested themselves of their shoes. The door was
carefully fastened after them, and they proceeded in single
file up the great stairway, stepping softly after their leader.
When turning at the head of the first flight, the rays of the
moon streaming through the broad crescent-shaped window
fell upon them, giving them the appearance of a spectral platoon
traversing some haunted castle. Something resembling
a superstitious awe was felt by Walter as he paused and looked
down upon the silent party. He was not, however, to be deterred
by any such consideration; and continued to ascend until
he reached the narrow door leading out upon the roof. This
was raised without difficulty, and the whole party emerged
again into the open air.

The roof was nearly flat, and the eaves were surmounted by
a balustrade, which gave the building a castellated aspect
when viewed from a distance.

Walter posted his men in a line directly over the chamber
occupied by his uncle and aunt, and made them all sit down.
He then suspended a cord from the roof over the window of his
own room, the upper end being attached to Dizzle's wrist. By

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

this means signals were to be given. Walter then hastened
back to his room and secured the lower end of the cord. After
the completion of these preparations, he opened the door
in the partition, and reported every thing to the old sergeant,
who had impatiently awaited him, with his great eye blinking
in the moonlight. It had been with difficulty that Walter
prevented the old mutilated warrior from leading the party in
person. It was obvious that his wooden leg not only rendered
him incapable of scaling walls, but made it impossible for him
to advance or retire without producing sounds incompatible
with any plan of secrecy.

“Have they wooden rammers?” asked Blore.

“Yes.”

“And their breeches padded?”

“Yes.”

“And instructions not to let any burning wads fall before
the windows in front?”

“Every thing has been done as you directed.”

“Then creep out and listen if your uncle is asleep. If he
sleeps, he snores. He always does.”

“I heard him snoring before I came to you.”

“Very well, give the signal, and then jump into your bed.
But don't you snore. They might suspect something.”

Walter pulled the string. The next moment the twelve
muskets were fired in admirable order, making but a single report,
and that a terrific one, the echoes and reverberations of
which could be heard for many moments afterwards among the
distant hills.

“Ha-ah! wa-ah!” screamed Griselda, whose lids had not
yet been visited by slumber, in consequence of the distressing
nasal sounds so impolitely vented by her lord. But when the
appalling report overhead rent her tympanums, she sprang
up and screamed with a desperate violence, sufficient almost to
awaken the dead.

“Bless me! what's all this?” asked Mr. Winkle, starting up.

“Oh! they're shooting all round the house! Faugh! I'm
suffocated with the smoke!” It being warm, the upper sashes
of the windows had been lowered to admit the fresh air.

“Sergeant Blore! what does this mean?” cried Mr. Winkle,
fully aroused by the smell of gunpowder, whch he knew
could not be the effects of a dream, or the creation of a lively
imagination. “Blore, I say! D— your eye!” continued

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

Winkle, running across the chamber in his gown, “I'll courtmartial
you! Get in bed again, madam. I'll return as soon
as I find out the leader of this party. If Blore is not in his
bed, he is guilty. Honor or no honor—I'll give them a lesson!
I can't find my slippers. Insubordination and disobedience!
The legs of my drawers are twisted. I'll have them all
drummed out of my service! Here's your night-cap, madam.
Blore! Blore, I say!” continued the exasperated commander,
striding across the corridor, and bursting open the door
of the sergeant's chamber.

“Who comes there? Halt, or I fire!” cried the sergeant,
and at the same time cocking a pistol, which could be distinctly
heard by the intruder.

“It's your general, Blore. Don't kill him on his wedding
night. I thought you were the leader of a storming party
that won't permit Mrs. Winkle to enjoy any repose. Have you
been up, Blore?”

“No, sir, upon the word of a soldier.”

“Did you not just now hear the report of musketry under
the very walls of the house?”

“No, sir; you must have been dreaming of battles.”

“No, Blore. Besides, our chamber is filled with the smoke.”

“Imagination.”

“I tell you no! Griselda heard it, and is now almost
smothered with the smell of burnt powder.”

“It may be the devil's breath. I think he is an admirer
of hers.”

“Irreverent monster! How dare you speak in that manner
of my spouse!” Uttering these indignant words, the commander
closed the door violently, and returned to his own
chamber. After reconnoitering the ground from the windows,
and finding no symptoms of animation, he rejoined his spouse,
assuring her that the enemy had fled, and would not be likely
to disturb them again.

Griselda, in tears, vented a great many reproaches, and
succeeded in obtaining a promise that certain reforms should
be instituted in the household.

Then profound silence again ensued, which was, however,
soon interrupted by the snoring of Napoleon, a sound for which
Walter was impatiently listening.

Again the signal was given, and another volley ensued,
more startling than the first. Walter leaped into his bed.

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

Blore began to snore. The bride renewed her screams, and
the heavy body of the groom was distinctly heard in its descent
to the floor. Seizing a brace of pistols, Mr. Winkle rushed to
the window, and discharged them through the clouds of smoke
at whatever objects might be standing below, for the earth itself
was invisible.

“I am firing balls!” said he. “It will not be child's play if
any one comes in range. Where is my sword?” he continued,
rushing to the corner where the weapon invariably hung.
“Now, I'll see who it is!” He ran out of the chamber, and
once more entered the sergeant's room.

“Who goes there?” cried the sergeant.

“I! it is Napoleon! The house is beset! My sword is
drawn, and shall not be returned to its scabbard until my enemies
are subdued. Follow me!” He turned about and descended
the broad stairway, while Griselda called upon him in
vain to return. He rushed out into the yard as soon as he could
open the door, by which time the sergeant had joined him, and
they searched in every direction for the invaders. The sword
was thrust into every bush, and Blore was ordered to fire
his pistols at every tree. But no enemy could be found, although
the smoke of the recent discharges descended from the
roof and rolled in volumes over the lawn.

Meantime a suspicion crossed the mind of Griselda, that
Walter might be the contriver of the mischief, and she made
no scruple of satisfying herself on that point in a very direct
manner. She ran into his chamber, and never paused until she
stood beside his bed.

“Are you here, Walter?” she asked, although, at the time,
she held him firmly by the wrist.

“Of course I am,” was the reply. “But what are you doing
here?”

“Oh! had I known I was to suffer thus,” she exclaimed
hysterically, “I would not have married your uncle! To think
I should be so insulted and frightened the first night of my
married life! What shall I do, dear Walter!”

“Go to bed!”

“Your uncle has gone out to hunt the villains, and I am
frightened half to death.”

“What is the matter? What frightens you?”

“Did you not hear it? They have been firing a hundred
guns under our windows.”

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

“They have? I must have been asleep. Who did it?”

“No one knows. There! didn't you hear that? It is Sergeant
Blore's pistols. Somebody will be shot!”

“I'll get up and see what it's all about. Go out, Gusset,
till I dress.”

“Don't call me Gusset, Walter.”

“Very well. But I must get up.”

“Do, Walter,” said Griselda, retiring, “and rouse all the
people about the house. Find out the names of the ringleaders,
and I'll answer for it, they will not frighten us another
time.”

Walter manifested great zeal in his endeavors to discover
the guilty party. Every one was roused; and by the
time his uncle and the sergeant returned from their fruitless
search without, every apartment within had been explored,
but to no purpose.

But before attempting again to seek the repose so imperatively
demanded after such unreasonable interruptions, a new
idea occurred to Mrs. Winkle, and the proposition she made
obtained the hearty approbation of her lord. This was to
bring the bull-dog from the garrison, and to turn the whole
pack of hounds loose on the lawn. The order was issued, and
immediately executed; and as the bull-dog was really a very
dangerous animal, the chief solaced himself with the belief
that the house could not be again approached with impunity
by his tormentors.

Quiet being again restored under such favorable auspices,
and one or two blunderbusses having been ordered into Napoleon's
room from the armory, the bride again retired to her
canopied couch—and was just falling into an oblivious slumber,
when Walter gave the signal, and another volley was fired!

The bridegroom tumbled out of bed, and running to the
nearest window, fired the blunderbuss at random, which took
effect among the pack of hounds below, and such a squalling
and howling ensued as never before assailed Griselda's ears.
She screamed, and tore her dishevelled hair, while her lord
gave vent to volley after volley of fierce maledictions. Again
he rushed into the sergeant's room, into which, as into all the
rest, the smoke had by this time penetrated, and again his ears
were saluted with the interrogation,

“Who goes there?”

They descended to the lawn, the chief with his drawn

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

sword, and the sergeant with his pistols. No less than four
of the hounds lay wounded and howling on the green sward.
They were despatched for the sake of peace. But they made
no discovery of the offenders.

And Griselda ran into Walter's room a second time, and
implored him, if he were concerned in the annoyance, to cease
for her sake, and for his own sake in the future.

“Do you not see I have been lying quietly in my bed?”
said he. “I am almost determined to get up and go home!”

“I wish you would, and take me with you!” said the
weeping bride. “They have made no discovery,” said she.
“I hear them fastening the hall door again. I will sit up
the rest of the night and watch. What string is this, Walter?”
she continued, having espied the cord that hung down
from the balustrade and entered the window.

“What string? Oh, that's nothing! Let it alone. Don't
touch it! It is a part of a bird's nest above.”

“I won't have birds' nests on the house. Let them build
in the trees!” Saying this she pulled the cord violently, and
the next moment a volley, more stunning than any that had
preceded it, rent the air. Poor Griselda fell fainting in the
arms of Walter, who bore her into her own room, and laid her
on her bed, where he left her. As he returned to the corridor
he perceived his uncle, followed by the sergeant, re-descending
the stairway with all the expedition in their power, evidently
impressed with the belief that the intruders would now stand
revealed before them. But the commander was certainly disappointed,
and he retraced his steps, expressing his belief that
his house was infested by the ghosts of soldiers slain in
battle.

“That may satisfy you,” said his recovered spouse, incensed
at being left alone in her swoon, “but not me. I don't
believe in such things at all. It is a contrivance to mortify
and vex me, and I'll find it out. Let them fire away. They
don't hurt us. I'm not alarmed now. There will be an end
of it in the morning. But I want you to promise that when I
have detected and exposed the villains, they shall never come
about the house again.”

This was readily granted, and soon after the overwrought
Napoleon's snore began once more to be heard. Walter was
listening in the corridor; but now Griselda, who had risen,
was on the alert, and nerved to brave any thing that phantoms

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

or flesh and blood might do. She glided to the door, and with
her ear to the key-hole distinguished the breathing of the young
man. She heard him retire to his own room, and she followed
him softly. It was just when he extended his hand to seize
the cord, that his arm was grasped by his aunt. He turned
in dismay, and gazed at her.

“I've caught you, Walter! I understand it now. I
thought the sound came from above. It was a wicked contrivance.
What have I done to deserve this?”

“Oh, it was only a little sport. Don't tell uncle Winkle,
and you shall not be disturbed any more.”

“I shall make no promises, unless you promise—swear—
no—no matter. I have you in my power, now. Beware!
You may escape until the next offence. But the villains shall
be banished from my sight. See! the day has broken, and
the sun about to rise. I will awaken your uncle, and show
him who dared to disturb his peace.”

“No! aunt—dear aunt—”

“It is too late. You may escape, but not the rascals on
the roof. I only wish the foolish sergeant had been among
them.”

She hastened to put her threat in execution, and assisted
her lord in a hasty adjustment of his toilet.

The offending party—or rather the instruments of the contrivers
of the plot—were discovered, and made the victims of
Griselda's vengeance. They were ordered down, and forbidden
to approach the house again under penalty of dismissal
from the service.

Bill Dizzle, however, escaped identification by an accidental
discharge of his musket, which completely blackened
his face.

It was, after all, a great triumph for the mistress of the
establishment, as it afforded her an opportunity of making
many demands of her lord, to accomplish which might, otherwise,
have required much ingenuity and long suffering.

p459-135 CHAPTER XII. A MOONLIGHT ADVENTURE, AND SOME OF THE CONSEQUENCES.

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

Although Lucy had listened to so many proposals of a
nature calculated to produce an exaltation of spirits, yet, as we
have seen, she was the unresisting victim of a sad depression
during the progress of the festivities. When the time was announced
for her departure, a scene of contention between the
coachmen of the Arums and the Crudles, for precedence, occurred
in front of the portico, and within her view, while the carriage
which was to convey her to the village was kept in waiting.
She felt no resentment, however, and could not endure any
additional mortification. The tumult of her sensations, and
the whirl of her recently startled thoughts, had not sufficiently
subsided, for her attention to be arrested by the scene of
strife she witnessed; and the imperturbable submission of her
own coachman, prevented him from taking advantage of the
opportunity afforded of departing with his charge, while the
point in dispute between the rival whips was undergoing the
process of adjustment.

Her aunt stood upon one side, and Walter on the other.
Lowe appeared when the Arums and the Crudles drove off,
and assisted her up the carriage steps. He whispered, that
although he would return on foot, he thought he might be able
to keep in view of her, and act in the capacity of a guard.
This was after Walter had intimated that if he were in Lowe's
place he would be Lucy's companion inside; but the intimation
had not been approved by Griselda. The distance was
short, and the moon shone with great splendor.

Mr. Dowly turned his slow pacing horse to the right and
pursued his way directly towards his own isolated mansion.
Lowe bounded forward in pursuit of Lucy's carriage. But
he was not able to overtake it. The driver, hitherto so stupidly
immobile, upon seeing the pedestrian cracked his whip,
dashed several hundred yards ahead, and suddenly halted.
Had Lowe been something nearer the object of his interest,
undoubtedly his heart had been thrilled to its centre. As it
was, he imagined that cries had been uttered.

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

No sooner did the carriage pause than a man stepped from
behind a huge sycamore tree, and pulled open the door. He
sprang in, and the horses were again driven at a rapid pace.

“Mr. Roland! What is meant by this conduct?” cried
Lucy, striving to be calm, or rather to repress her rising fears,
as if she could not be convinced that all her presence of mind
and physical strength would soon be called in requisition.

“That I adore you, Lucy! Do not be alarmed, my beautiful
bird. My apparent rudeness has for its excuse the distraction
produced by your maddening charms! We use stratagems
to entrap the sweet birds we treat so tenderly. Be
assured that no harm is intended. I listened to the jeers
of the Arums, the exultations of the Crudles, the depreciating
remarks of every body, upon your destitute condition,
and I resolved to rescue you from such a humiliating predicament—”

“Mr. Roland!” said Lucy, freeing the hand he had seized,
“you confess, then, that this rude and ungentlemanly conduct
was deliberately planned.”

“For your good—for your benefit, as well as mine. I
love you to madness—that is my excuse. Let your beauty
plead for me, as Ann's did for Richard—”

“He was a villain! Heaven forbid that you should be
one, too! Sir! if you hope to be forgiven—if you desire to
be admitted again into my presence—go—I beseech you, leave
me instantly!”

“Will you promise to receive me as a lover—an humble
adoring lover?”

“I promise nothing. I never have encouraged your addresses.”

“I cannot leave you without some pledge upon which to
rest my hopes. I cannot live without you. And why not be
mistress of all I possess—and now? All I am—all I have,
shall be yours. The Arums and Crudles shall triumph
over you no more. Your mother shall be independent. Be
mine to night, and to-morrow your own hands shall consign to
the flames the mortgage which encumbers your mother's
homestead.”

“Leave me, sir, before it be too late to retract or to repair
the insult you have offered me. Yours I never can be. I
would rather subsist on the crumbs that fall from the tables
of the Arums and Crudles, than to share your wealth,

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

encumbered with your hateful presence! Leave me before we
reach my mother's door, or I will call assistance—”

“Do not believe, my charming girl, that I am capable of
permitting any such folly. Your unequalled beauty, and my
wild and passionate love, must be my justification.”

“What do you mean? Do you intend to prevent me from
going to my mother?”

“I will take you to a better home. You shall be the
mistress of my house, command my servants, hold my
purse—”

“Let me go!” cried the trembling girl, springing towards
the carriage door.

“No. It is useless for the lovely bird to struggle,” said
he, forcibly withholding her. “Hear me—listen to reason. I
do not desire to take advantage of your helpless condition.
I will prove my sincerity. I have a preacher in readiness, who
shall unite us in holy wedlock. It will not detain you five
minutes. Then, if you will pledge me that our secret shall
be kept until the proper time for divulging it, you may depart
immediately, and no one will be the wiser, until we choose to
inform them. You shall take the mortgage with you, and my
check for any sum you may name.”

“Villain! Unhand me! You will have to answer for
this! It is base—it is cowardly!”

“Lucy, do not spurn my love! The highest born, the
most accomplished, the most wealthy ladies in the country,
have striven to secure my heart and hand. I love you—you
alone, and cannot exist without you. Do not speak of vengeance,
for, distracted by love of you, I have become dangerous.
If you have any affection for your brother, do not betray
him into perilous undertakings. If he assails me, he may
fall—without you, I do not care to live. I am desperate!”

“Let me depart! I ask no more! You shall not be exposed.
But if you detain me longer you will be overtaken by
one who will quickly avenge me!”

“Who? Ah, Lowe! I cannot see your blushes—but I
feel your throbbing arteries! You love him! That is the
secret. A poor, pitiful, insignificant rival! Let him beware!
If you would save your brother and friend from my vengeance—
if you would save your own character from stain — for who
will believe you did not go to my house of your own accord?—
let the parson I have provided perform the marriage

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

ceremony. You shall then fly to your mother's roof before your
absence creates alarm—and our secret will be in our own
keeping. No scandal will be uttered, no blood will be spilt.”

“Merciful heaven!” cried Lucy. “And am I thus delivered
into the snare of an implacable demon! Oh, my aunt,
surely you were not capable of participating in this diabolical
scheme!”

“Your new aunt is as much a fool in her way as your uncle
is in his. She was not trusted with my secret. It is in the
keeping only of you and I, and the preacher, who is discreet
and may be depended upon. Consent, Lucy, without more
ado, and all will be well. No mortal ever loved with such
vehemence as I do. I would sacrifice fortune, honor, life itself,
rather than forego—”

“Villain!” cried Lucy, spurning his hand, “I will listen no
more! Leave me, or suffer me to depart! I would rather
be in my grave, than dwell in your presence an hour!”

“The carriage stops. We are at home, Lucy,” said Roland,
throwing open the door. They were in front of his
house.

“I will not go into your house—hateful, dishonorable man!
Coachman!” she continued, in a loud voice, “I command you
to drive me home, to my mother's house!”

“Oh, my love,” said Roland, with a smile of derision half
betrayed by the rays of the moon resting on his profile, “the
coachman has had his orders. He knows his duty. He will
obey you when yonder preacher, awaiting our arrival, has uttered
a few words over our joined hands.”

“Never!” cried Lucy.

“Be reasonable, my charming bride. Every ear will be
deaf to your cries. It will be but breath expended in vain.
Let me assist you. I will carry you in my arms, so that your
feet shall not touch the dew.”

“Mercy! Help!” cried the poor girl, and fainted in the
arms of the villain, who forced her from the carriage. But
at that moment he felt the sharp teeth of Dew grasping his
leg.

“Begone!” he said, endeavoring to shake the animal off.
“The infernal dog is tearing my flesh!” he continued, placing
the inanimate burden on the grass, and turning ferociously
upon his tormentor. Dew relinquished his hold, and barked
fiercely, but avoided the hands extended to grasp him, by

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

retreating into a thicket of briers near the road side. Roland
hurled a stone at him, without effect, and turned towards
Lucy, who was recovering. She leaned on her elbow, and
gazed round in bewilderment.

“Drive off!” cried Roland, to the coachman, who obeyed
with alacrity.

“Off! off! Do not approach me!” cried Lucy, seeing the
monster approach, followed by the faithful Dew, who again
seized him.

With a fearful malediction, Roland once more turned upon
his pertinacious foe, and with a determination to take his life.
He was smarting under the infliction of his teeth, and furious
at the thought of being balked by so unlooked-for and apparently
so insignificant an impediment. Therefore he rushed
upon the animal with desperate energy, regardless of the
briery covert in which he took shelter. Dew uttered several
cries as he was torn by the thorns, but still eluded his enemy.
Roland, intent upon the destruction of the animal, continued
the assault, unmindful for the moment of his reviving captive.

Lucy did not suffer the precious moments to pass unimproved.
She started up and ran into a neighboring grove,
which concealed her white dress. Under shelter of the descending
boughs of a spreading cedar-tree, she paused for
breath, and with her trembling hands sought to still the throbbings
of her panting breast. Unseen herself, she could yet
behold Roland striving to kill her faithful dog with a stake
he had snatched from the fence in front of the lawn. Dew
nevertheless effected his escape, and returned to the spot
where his mistress had been lying. Roland, upon seeing the
bird had flown, uttered the most furious oaths and threats.
But in his impatience to extricate himself from the briery
thicket, he was tripped up by a vine that grew among the
bushes, and fell headlong to the ground.

Dew joined his mistress, and they plunged deeper into the
woods. Lucy knew not whither they were going, but was
happy in the thought of escaping an enemy whose presence
was a greater calamity than any other that could possibly befall
her.

Erelong the flying girl discovered a narrow path, partially
illuminated by the rays of the moon straggling through the
branches of the trees. She redoubled her speed, for she could

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

hear Roland calling aloud to his confederate (the pretended
preacher), to assist him in the search for the fugitive. Soon
the voice ceased to be heard, and Lucy's spirits began to revive.
Dew ran along before her, evincing by his large intelligent
eyes, and the shaking of his tail, his congratulations
and happiness upon the escape of his mistress from the immediate
clutches of her cruel persecutor. But he had sufficient
sagacity to confine his manifestations of joy to the mute exhibitions
described. The slightest bark might have destroyed
her.

After traversing the path several hundred yards, Lucy
was induced to pause upon coming in view of a fence which
bounded the woods. Beyond were fields and meadows, and
here and there could be distinguished a farm house, its inmates
seemingly steeped in profound repose, while she, who gazed
upon the silent scene, might conjecture in vain why she should
be doomed to be a midnight wanderer in unfrequented paths,
and wholly unconscious of the direction she should pursue to
avoid the impending danger. Wearied, and wounded by the
bushes which had often opposed her progress, she sat down on
the trunk of a fallen tree, and wept in silence. As she turned
her pale face in every direction, and saw no animate object
but her spaniel which crouched at her feet, and heard no
sounds but those of the whippoorwill and the katydid, it more
than once occurred to her that she might be in a dream. She
rubbed her eyes with her lily hands, and looked up at the
stars—“No! no!” said she, in low silvery tones, “it is not a
dream. Would it were!” She covered her face, and falling
down on her knees, uttered an humble petition to heaven
that she might be speedily rescued from her unpleasant condition.

A sound in the path she had traversed attracted her, and
the next moment a rabbit bounded out and sped past. Dew
rose up, but did not pursue it. He snuffed the air in the
direction whence it came, and uttered a low growl, while the
hair rose on his back. Lucy thought she heard a movement
among the bushes; but was not certain. Her heart palpitated
audibly, and painfully. Then she felt certain she could detect
the low sounds of whispers in the dark path behind. She
arose—but knew not where to fly. In the fields were no hiding
places; in the woods she would encounter her persecutor.
Again! It was the low murmur of a human voice! She could

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

not be mistaken; and Dew growled more fiercely than ever,
and was in the act of springing towards the foe.

At that moment approaching wheels were heard, and Lucy
perceived that a road ran along the outer side of the fence.
Hope lent her strength, and she bounded over the high fence
as the gig of good old John Dowly drove up. The gentle
horse paused of his own accord, snorted aloud, and thrust forward
his ears, but did not attempt to run away.

“Who are you?” asked John Dowly, staring at Lucy as
if beholding an apparition.

“Save me! Save me! Oh, Mr. Dowly!” cried she.

“I will! Poor thing! Who is it?” responded he, as he
assisted her into the gig. She fainted upon his breast, after
feebly saying, “Take me home.”

The dog barked fiercely, and words of disappointment and
rage could be heard in the woods.

“Merciful powers!” exclaimed the old man, upon driving
into the unobstructed moonlight, and recognizing the face of
Lucy, who began to recover. “My poor, lovely child! how
does it happen that I find you thus, and alone? But do not
attempt to speak, before you have regained your strength. I
will take you home. The next road we cross leads to town.
You are safe, now. Don't be distressed. Old John Dowly
would lose his head before a hair of yours should be injured.”

“Bless you, sir!”—said Lucy. “May heaven bless you!
You have saved me. Another moment, and I should have
been in his power!”

“In whose power, my child? But I need not ask, since
I know too well the diabolical proprietor of these lands.”
Saying this, the old gentleman whipped his horse into a brisk
trot, and turning down the next road, seemed to be intent on
reaching the village as quickly as possible.

But before they reached the village, Lucy had summoned
sufficient strength and resolution to relate every thing that had
transpired. The old gentleman sympathized with her, wept
with her, but counselled her to tell no one else but her mother,
who would doubtless be governed by prudential considerations,
Roland was an artful and dangerous character; and it would
be better to avoid him than to contend against him. He was
surrounded by creatures of desperate character, whose greatest
delight was in the consummation of evil deeds.

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

Lucy listened with attention; and shivered with terror at
the thought of involving Walter, or any one dear to her, in a
quarrel with the bold bad man.

Mr. Dowly, when they arrived in front of the widow's
mansion, leapt down from the gig almost with the elasticity
of youth, and conducted his fair charge to the door. Mrs.
Winkle had been long expecting the return of Lucy, and on
hearing the wheels, hastened to the door herself, for Biddy had
been sent to bed at the usual hour.

“How pale you are, Lucy!” said she, when the lamp revealed
the features of her child. “What has happened?
Who came with you?”

“I, madam,” said the old gentleman, whose person was
disclosed when the door turned wider.

“Oh, Mr. Dowly! The one, of all others, I would have
chosen to conduct her home. I am very thankful, sir, for
your kind attention. I am fearful though it has put you to
inconvenience. It is very late. But you need not return—
Walter is away. Pray come in and occupy his chamber.”

“No—no—I thank you, my dear madam. I will drive to
the inn. But with your permission I will call in the morning
and take breakfast with you. Good night. Good night,”
continued the old man, retiring.

When the door was made fast, Lucy fell into her mother's
arms and wept bitterly, and yet with feelings of thankfulness
that she was once more in safety under the roof of her parent.

The tale was soon told, and was listened to without the
widow's usual merriment. She embraced her child repeatedly,
long incapable of utterance, and caressed the faithful
spaniel, who evinced unbounded joy.

“Mr. Dowly is right, Lucy,” at length said the widow,
with seriousness. “He has ever shown a sincere interest in the
welfare of my family. He is experienced in the affairs of the
world, and can foresee evils which those of a less deliberate
circumspection might only feel. If Walter knew what has
occurred, who could restrain him? And there are others
beside who might seek to punish the villain, and might fall in
the attempt. All we can do with safety is to avoid any species
of contact with him in future.”

“But, dear mother,” said Lucy, “we are, as he said, very
poor; and he holds the mortgage on our house.”

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

“True. I will write to my brother to pay it. Yet I dislike
making such an application. I am fearful we have not
understood Gusset's true character. I will mention the business
when Napoleon visits us the next time. If Roland
should call for the interest, I will pay him with the money the
Dibbles have deposited in bank. You must not be seen by
him—I shall not fear to meet him. He is rich and influential,
and might have been respected as a rejected suitor; but to
say that one of his age is capable of conceiving so violent a
passion as to be driven involuntarily into such an excess of
outrage—no—no! I can have no patience with him! He
must be a villain. But it may not be prudent to tell him so.
He might declare, and even prove, by some of his profligate
creatures, that you accompanied him to his house voluntarily!”

After Lucy had retired to her chamber, she was impelled
by some mysterious impulse to cast her eyes in the direction
of Lowe's cottage on the opposite side of the street. The
young man's chamber was still lighted, and his shadow on the
wall could be discerned. He moved backwards and forwards
with folded arms and drooping head. Why did he keep such
late vigils? was the query the distressed girl propounded to
herself.

Lowe continued his solitary promenade until startled at a
late hour by the report of musketry, which came booming on
the still air from the country mansion of Mr. Winkle. He
had likewise observed the pause of the carriage which conveyed
Lucy from the mansion, and beheld Roland get into it.
He had no doubt it was Roland. But whether or not the
proceeding had the connivance and sanction of Lucy, he was
unable to determine. If so, then he had been grievously deceived
in her character, and he felt that his fate would be an
unhappy one. But had he ever seen any thing in her conduct,
or heard any thing in relation to her character, which might
warrant a supposition that she entertained a partiality for that
bad man? No. All had been just the reverse. And yet
there could be no doubt of what he had seen. There could
be no denying the fact which he had beheld that night with
his own eyes. Such were his thoughts. “Oh!” cried he,
clasping his forehead, “if she be not pure, where, where is
purity to be found on earth! But may not she still be so?
Might not he have entered the carriage without her consent,

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

and in spite of her objections and opposition? Ay, but then
to accompany him—or suffer herself to be driven elsewhere
than to her parents' mansion—and at that late hour of the
night! I am not certain I heard her screams. And would
she not have uttered them loudly if he had forced her to accompany
him in another direction? True, she is not one of
those falsely delicate, mincingly-sensitive creatures, who cry
out at the buzzing of a fly, and she might not have immediately
known they diverged from the proper direction. But
would he, bold and wicked as he is, have resorted to such a
measure in the vicinity of so many returning guests? Oh,
Lucy! if you have been too weak to resist his blandishments,
farewell—farewell for ever! We must never meet again. But
I will know, yes, know—not merely suspect—your complicity
in this act, before I regard you as fallen. But how shall I
know it? From whom obtain the information? Ay, himself!
Yes, Roland—whatever your lips may utter, your face, your
conduct under my gaze, shall reveal enough for my comprehension.
And if you alone are guilty, beware of her
avenger!”

The young man turned aside and threw himself on his
couch. A train of cars at that moment paused before the
inn, and once the lover conceived the idea of rushing into
them and abandoning the place for ever. He was withheld
by the hope that, after all, Lucy's conduct might not prove
to be culpable. Should that hope be fallacious, the next night
he would take his final departure.

He arose the next morning unrefreshed, after a sleepless
night. While tasting the coffee which had been brought in
by Mrs. Edwards, his attention was attracted by one of Roland's
servants who galloped up to the door of Mrs. Winkle's
house. He saw him deliver a letter, which he did not doubt
related to the occurrence of the preceding night. Soon after,
he ascertained from his cook, who had been in his neighbor's
kitchen, that Lucy had arrived at home late in the night, and
was now quite ill.

Supposing Roland would be in the village as usual that
morning, and would come by the road he was accustomed to
traverse, Lowe determined to meet him. Placing a brace of
pistols in a small green bag, he descended to the street and
walked briskly away from the village. He had not gone more
than a mile before he saw the one he was in quest of.

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

Roland approached alone, leisurely riding his blooded
steed. Lowe paused beside a large willow tree that overhung
the brook on the road side, and putting down the bag, folded
his arms calmly on his breast, and awaited the arrival of the
author of his unhappiness.

As Roland drew near a supercilious frown gathered on his
brow, and his ruddy complexion assumed a deeper color. He
did not design to utter any salutation, and was riding past
after an equivocal nod, when Lowe advanced a step, and signified
his desire to confer with him.

“Do you wish me to stop?” asked Roland, slightly drawing
the rein.

“I do, sir,” was the reply.

“Well—what do you want?”

“I desire to know if you did not enter Miss Winkle's carriage
last night, when she was returning home.”

“The deuce you do! No, sir—I entered my own carriage.”

“True, it was your carriage. But that is a subterfuge.”

“A subterfuge! Sir, do you know who you are speaking
to?” demanded Roland, in choler.

“Perhaps not distinctly. But I am desirous of knowing.
Be calm, sir; at least until I obtain the information I seek.
Then your fury may have vent.”

“What information do you seek? By what right do you
seek any of me? Have you heard any thing in relation to the
matter you mentioned just now?”

“No, sir; not a word. But I saw it.”

“Saw it? Then what further would you be pleased to
know?”

“Precisely in what capacity you entered the carriage.
Whether as an acceptable companion, or in opposition to the
lady's will. You will much oblige me by answering frankly
and truly.”

“I shall do no such thing, sir.”

“Then I shall be happy to suppose it was not in accordance
with the lady's wishes.”

“Suppose what you please. I care not. But as the lady
herself has not, as I infer, made the matter known, and as you
were the only witness of what transpired, if the occurrence
should be made public, I shall not be at a loss to know who

[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]

divulged the secret. I desire that it be kept a secret, for
several reasons, and I warn you not to mention it, or—”

“What?”

“You will incur my vengeance.”

“I will not refer to it—unless it be to the lady herself.
But, sir, I beseech you tell me whether or not the meeting
was in pursuance of an appointment.”

“You have already supposed it was not—let that suffice.
I will not be interrogated. Who are you? What are you
doing in the village? By what right do you aspire to be the
champion of Miss Winkle?”

“I am a man, sir—a free man in a free country. It is not
necessary to dwell upon my means of living, so long as I owe
no one, and ask no alms of any body. In regard to your last
question, as we are alone, and as I seek information from you
upon which my happiness or misery may depend—know that
I have conceived a deep and pure affection for that young
lady—”

“Ha! ha! The secret's out!”

“Sir! you cannot be a lover, and laugh at such an announcement.
Therefore she must be innocent, and you a villain!”

“What! Do you dare—” cried Roland, raising his
whip.

“Dismount, sir, and you shall have satisfaction,” said
Lowe, stepping back.

“I will dismount and punish you!” said Roland, leaping
from his horse, and supposing the threat might be easily executed,
as he was a larger and stronger man than Lowe.

“Throw your whip away, and meet me as a gentleman
should,” said Lowe, stooping down and drawing forth his pistols.
Taking one in each hand he presented the breeches.

“You are armed. I did not know that,” said Roland, pale,
and pausing.

“Take your choice, sir.”

“No, sir. I am not to be waylaid in this manner. I will
have you arrested as a highwayman.”

“Are you a coward, too?”

“Coward! because I will not exchange shots with a vagabond?”

“Sir, I am a gentleman, better born, and better bred than
yourself,” continued Lowe, advancing. “Take your choice,

[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]

and fire as soon as you please. I will give you that advantage.
I am no duellist—but desperate. I would rather die
than know Lucy to be false, and—”

“I will not,” said Roland, trembling. “I will not take
either. You may murder me—but yonder is a witness.” He
pointed to a solitary pedestrian at some distance who was approaching.

“I am no murderer—but you are a craven and a villain.
Cease your designs upon that young lady, or dread my vengeance.
We will meet again. Go.”

But before the last words were uttered, Roland was mounted
and spurring towards the village. When he was dashing across
one of the slight bridges which span the sloughs through which
the water from the river flowed at high tide, he was thrown by
a sudden side-spring of his horse, and fell sprawling in the
centre of the hard road.

Bill Dizzle, aroused by the clatter of hoofs had suddenly
risen up among the spatter docks, with a huge frog transfixed
and kicking in expiring agonies on his spear. His presence
in the slough was no unusual apparition to man or beast; but
as he had not yet washed the black stains of burnt powder
from his face, the horse had failed to recognize him, and perhaps
supposed him to be the devil himself rising to the surface
of the earth. Hence his affright.

“Blazes!” cried Bill, wading out of the scum-covered
water. “Who is it? There he lays as dead as a frog!” He
approached the stunned and inanimate form, and stood over it
in silent amazement, not knowing exactly what he ought to
do, but strongly impressed with the desire to accomplish something
or other. So, happening to glance towards the horse,
which now stood in the vicinity snorting and trembling, he
ran to him, and taking the reins, tied him to the fence on the
road side. That done, he scarcely knew what to do next. He
returned to the fallen rider, and again stood over him in silent
contemplation, until startled by the sound of approaching
wheels. Fortunately it was the carriage of Dr. Prangle. The
doctor, upon seeing that some one lay in the dust, and doubtless
required his services, did not wait for a special summons,
but descended immediately and opened a vein.

“How is this?” exclaimed the doctor, after seeing that
the blood began to flow. “How did it happen that Mr. Roland,
the best horseman in the county, was thrown?”

[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]

“His critter shied when I riz up in the water lilies,” said
Bill Dizzle.

“And no wonder!” exclaimed the doctor, gazing at Bill.
“It was enough to frighten the d—l himself! So—” he
continued, examining his patient, “limbs all sound—no fracture—
animation returning—a groan—good sign—stunning
concussion though—few bruises—that's all—soon recover—
short case.”

“Dr. Prangle, what is the matter?” asked Roland, recovering
his speech, and seeing the blood flow from his arm.

“You have been thrown from your horse, and may be
seriously injured internally. You must be kept quiet—take
anodynes, and lie still, in bed. Here, you frightful frog-catcher,
help me to lift him into my carriage. I will take you
to my house—”

“No,” said Roland—“take me to the inn.”

“Very good. But you cannot lie there so composedly as
at my house.”

He was conveyed to the inn without delay, while Bill
mounted the still snorting horse and followed the carriage.

Roland, upon being put to bed, smiled at the anxious solicitude
of the doctor, and whispered the innkeeper — one of his
tenants—that he was not much injured, and would be able to
sit up as soon as Prangle left him. And no sooner had the
doctor taken his leave, with injunctions for his patient to remain
in a state of perfect composure, and promising to return
within an hour, than Roland sat up in bed, and vented a
volley of curses on the head of the astonished Dizzle. Bill
retreated in consternation from his presence.

“Send for David Deal,” said Roland, when Dizzle had
disappeared. Deal was an enterprising Quaker, and considered
favorable to the election of Roland to Congress, on account
of sundry moral reform which the Babbleton candidate was
pledged to advocate.

“Friend Ralph, I am sorry to see thee confined to thy
bed,” said David Deal, who happened to be near, and was
ushered into the presence of the invalid.

“It is nothing,” said Roland. “Merely stunned by a fall
from my horse. If it were not for fear of offending the doctor,
and losing his vote, I would not remain here an hour.
David,” he continued, when they were alone, “do you know
the character and pursuit of your tenant in — street?”

[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]

“Thee means neighbor Lowe?”

“Yes. What is his trade, or profession, or pursuit, by
which he earns a subsistence?”

“Thee knows quite as much as I do, or as any body
does.”

“Does he pay his rent?”

“He pays in advance. Thee my be sure he pays me, or I
would not let him stay.”

“The deuce!”

“Friend Ralph, I do no wrong in securing what is justly
due to me. And I hope you will not urge the payment of
the note of mine thee holds, if I pay thee the interest punctually.”

“But does not this fellow owe some one in the village?”

“I think not. I have taken the liberty, as I thought it
not improper, to inquire a little into his transactions. The
shopkeeper, the butcher, the baker, and even the milkman, all
say he pays them down, and seems to have cash enough to
answer his purposes. Thee knows he don't live extravagantly,
and his expenses cannot be very great. But friend Ralph,
what does thee say concerning my note?”

“Confound your note—I don't want money!”

“I am much obliged to thee—for it is very difficult to obtain
funds at a reasonable interest; and it is generous and
liberal in thee to indulge thy friend in such times as these. I
am sorry I cannot give thee any information concerning friend
Edmund. All I know is that he has many books, and is seen
to do nothing but read and write, and sometimes indulge in
the abominable amusement of whist, and in the idle sport of
fishing and gunning. He is also very intimate with Edith,
and seems to have an attachment for her daughter Lucy—”

“The impudent puppy!” said Roland.

“If thee thinks so, the women don't. Edith owes thee a
large sum of money, and it is said she is very poor. I am
sorry to hear it—for she has always been a good neighbor. I
hope she may be able to pay thee thy interest—”

“The mortgage shall be foreclosed, and the property
sold.”

“If it must be so, will thee be a bidder for the lot?”

“No. I have enough real estate.”

“Then if thee would be satisfied with my bond, I would
like to be the purchaser, for a dozen good houses might be

[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]

erected on the front part of the ground and rented for three
hundred dollars each. If it must be sold, and no one will
bid more than myself, I could not be justly blamed for becoming
the owner, although I should be sorry for Edith. I
see such things are unpleasant to thee, and will change the
subject. Thy friends will have a large meeting next week,
and are determined to make a strong rally in thy favor. I
hope thee will be able to address them.”

“I will be able.”

“Thee will be supported by the reformers. It is high time
the evil practices of the people were amended. But, as the
meeting is open for all, they say thy enemies will have their
speakers also.”

“Who will they have to reply to me?”

“Walter Winkle—the college bred son of Edith.”

“He!”

“They say so. But thee knows he is a wild rattling youth,
without experience.”

“He is over twenty-one years of age. Of course he will
vote for Plastic, my competitor. Well, I'll see if he cannot
be humbled. Who proposed this matter of getting up a
speaker to answer me?”

“I learn it was Colonel Oakdale, who thee knows is a candidate
for the State Senate, and is, they say, to be a candidate
for a seat in the Senate of the United Sates.”

“The mischief!”

“That is milder than—”

“The d—l!”

“Yea, verily. I bid you good day, friend Ralph, and I
hope thee will soon be well.”

David Deal, not without some misgivings of the morality
of the candidate of the reformers, withdrew about his business,
which was, it must not be denied, the art and mystery of
money-making.

p459-151 CHAPTER XIII. LUCY DETERMINES TO FLY—AND WILL NOT TELL HER LOVER WHITHER.

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Lucy, who had complained of being unwell at the usual hour
for breakfast, upon learning that a letter had been received
from Roland, arose and descended to the sitting-room, where
her mother was perusing the long and passionate communication.

“Lucy,” said Mrs. Winkle, as her daughter sat down at
her side, “Roland writes like a lover. He declares upon his
honor—”

“Which amounts to nothing, for he has none,” interrupted
Lucy.

“That may be. But he says his love grew so uncontrollable
that he was not aware of the gross impropriety of his
conduct, until after your escape, when his own condemnation
of himself, was as bitter as any reproaches it would be possible,
for any one else to utter. He says he is penitent, and
will cheerfully undergo any suffering and pay any penalty we
may impose. He implores our forgiveness, and entreats that
the occurrence may never be referred to again.”

“I will not mention it.”

“I think it should not be known. The Arums and Crudles
would hint that you had not been abducted against your
will.”

“That would be terrible,” replied Lucy, smiling. “I
learned from Walter last night that they abducted his two
friends, almost forcibly. I hope that is Walter ringing.”

“Who is it, Biddy?” asked Mrs. Winkle, when the girl
appeared.

“Dill Bizzle, mam.”

“Biddy,” said Lucy, “I wish you would learn to call his
name correctly. It is Bill Dizzle.”

“Yes, miss.”

“Let him come in, if he desires it,” said the widow; and
a moment after Bill made his appearance, his face still unwashed.

“Mercy on us!” exclaimed Lucy.

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

“Don't be frightened, like the horse,” said the frog-catcher.
“It's only the powder. Didn't you hear us last
night? She's in a mighty stew about it, and she's vanished
all the soldiers from the house a'ready.”

“What do you mean?” asked the widow. Bill explained.
But he had the tact to suppress the part Walter enacted.

“I fear your uncle,” said the widow, turning to her daughter,
“has got a mistress at last. Who would have thought the
humble Gusset capable of seizing the reins so boldly, and
holding them so firmly? If we desire a continuance of my
brother's favors, I fear we will have to pay court to his wife.”

“I fear the worst,” said Lucy.

“But what have you to tell us, Bill?” demanded the
widow.

“Only that Mr. Roland has been thrown by his horse,
and—”

“Killed?” asked Lucy, quickly.

Bill related the whole affair and then departed.

“Did you desire to hear of his death?” asked Mrs. Winkle,
laughing heartily.

“No, mother. But it would afford me a feeling of security
to learn that he was disabled from perpetrating any species
of mischief. If he recovers soon, I hope you will permit me
to spend a portion of my time with my aunt.”

“You know, child, that your aunt would not have you,
after disobeying her injunction, and attending the wedding.”

“I do not mean Aunt Wilsome; but Aunt Flora, in New
York.”

“My sister Flora! Why she lives alone. She keeps but
one servant—and I am told her front door is not opened once
a month. She would never visit me, nor invite any of the
family to her house, for fear of the expense. She is in perpetual
dread of going to the poor-house! And I don't know
why, for she had not less than thirty or forty thousand dollars
from my father's estate. I think such a project impracticable.”

“You know, mother, the last time we called on her, when
passing through the city, she seemed to take a fancy to me.”

“Yes, she said she would like to enjoy your company, if
it would not render you miserable to be cooped up in her poor
establishment.”

“And that is just what I desire—the utter seclusion, I

[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]

mean. I will read novels for her from morning till night, and
will be the more contented from a knowledge that visitors
cannot intrude upon my privacy. Indeed, mother, I am
wretched in the vicinity of that bad man.”

“Bad, I fear he is. Among all his explanations and
promises, I do not remember a word about honorable marriage.”

“True, mother—but even the thought of that would be
misery to me. He mentioned it to me. And I am sure I
heard his pretended clergyman utter some foul oaths. Pray
do permit me to write to Aunt Flora!”

“Oh, you may write; and you may go to her, if she desires
it, and will make you comfortable.”

Lucy lost not a moment in commencing a long letter to
her aunt. Fortunately she had acquired an insight into her
character, during the brief visit referred to. Her aunt's sole
pleasure in life was novel-reading, and the work she most admired,
and which indeed proved she was not deficient in critical
acumen, was “The Children of the Abbey.” Hence it
was not difficult for Lucy to excite her relative's interest by
depicting her own wrongs and woes in the light of those of
poor Amanda. And Roland's character and his persecutions
were not dissimilar to Colonel Belgrave's. Lowe was another
Mortimer. Without the necessity of revealing any real
names, Lucy had ample materials to affect the sensibilities of
her aunt; and she was not incompetent to the task of grouping
her characters in the most imposing attitude.

Having finished her letter and sent it to the post-office,
Lucy felt relieved of the burden of painful apprehension
which had oppressed her. Her spirits were recovered, her
headache gone, and she sallied forth in the garden, singing
one of the pathetic songs she loved. Old Dibble and his son
Davy plucked for her the most beautiful and fragrant roses,
and took delight in exhibiting their growing crops, the nests
of the orioles, etc.

After lingering some minutes with the Dibbles, who were
always cheered by her smiles, as their vegetables were by the
rays of the sun, Lucy strolled to the extreme boundary of the
ground, where a row of willows overhung the cool bright waters
of the running brook. There she sat on a rustic seat in
the shade, where she had passed so many happy hours of her
childhood, and where she had often consumed the fleeting

[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

moments with Lowe, from whom she felt she was now about to be
separated, perhaps for ever.

She continued her low song, uttering in the pauses many
a deep sigh, while the heaving of her bosom attested the sincerity
and depth of the feelings she expressed. It was during
one of those pauses, when endeavoring to recollect some
of the words which had escaped her memory, that she was
startled by the disturbed flight of several birds whose wings
fanned her cheeks, so close had been their confiding proximity.
Upon turning, the object of her thoughts stood before
her, pale, sad and desponding.

“Mr. Lowe! You frightened me, as well as the birds.”

“The birds have taken wing and flown away. I trust you
will not be so cruel as to follow their example. And yet I
never deceived or injured them.”

“Then why should they fly?”

“They know the power of man—the most insidious, wicked,
fearful animal that was ever created.”

“You speak that almost savagely.”

“Sometimes I have the feelings of a savage!”

“Mercy! you frighten me! But I, too, expect to fly. In
a few days it is probable these old familiar haunts will be deserted
by their mistress. I came hither even now to take my
leave of them.”

“Is it so? And you go voluntarily?”

“Eagerly! It will be at my own earnest solicitation.”

“Lucy, there is a seriousness in your manner. Will you
not be candid with the unhappy being who adores you, and say
why you desire to go?”

“Spare me—I would not breathe the reason. My mother
only knows it.”

“But you will be accompanied by some one? And you
will not travel far?”

“By Walter. It will not be known where I shall be sojourning.”

“Mystery! I would it were not so. But Walter accompanies
you?”

“Certainly.”

“And it will be desirable to have your friends ignorant of
the place of your abode? I am sorry for it.”

“There may be reasons why they should not know it.
Oh, Mr. Lowe, do not question me further. Do not seek to

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

know why I would withdraw from my friends for a season.
I go to avoid a great misery which threatens me here. Let
that suffice.”

“Lucy, we are now similarly situated. I have my mystery,
and you have yours.”

“And if yours were removed—how often have I said—but
no—not now! yet mine might vanish, if yours were dispelled.
Mr. Lowe, I have already avowed too much. I should have
kept locked in my own breast the—the partiality I felt. But
I have retained sufficient resolution never to take the irrevocable
step you proposed, without my mother's hearty concurrence.
And yet it would seem that my secret should not be
withheld from you. I have the impulse to disclose it, and
would do so were it not for the fear it might imperil your
safety. No such motion can withhold you from disclosing
yours. Between friends—between those who—there should
be no secrets unrevealed, mysteries unexplained. But let us
part in peace, and await the time when there shall be no
necessity for any more reserve. I doubt not you are justified
in concealing what you are so reluctant to impart. Then,
Oh, doubt not me!”

“Ah, Lucy! I understand it all. Your secret is known
to me. The danger you apprehend is past. We met this
morning. He is both a villain and a coward!”

“What do you mean? What am I to understand by your
words?”

“That I know every thing, up to the time the carriage
diverged from the road it had been traversing. I saw him
enter it. Then I saw no more, until I met him this morning
and he refused to fight me. Look not so ghastly. It is not
the subject of conversation, nor will it be. I was following
your carriage, and beheld him enter it.”

“Cruel—cruel Edmund! You would not attempt a rescue,
supposing it possible I might be a willing captive!”

“I was not mounted.”

“No matter! I was the victim of your ungenerous suspicions!
If it had been a sister—a wife—there had been wings to
your feet! No horses could have escaped your pursuit. Be it
so! But learn that you did me great injustice. It was Roland—
the monster above all others whom I most dread and despise.
I can only say I escaped from him by means of the interposition
of my faithful dog. I go to avoid his persecutions. That

[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]

is my secret. Let it suffice. You say you witnessed his intrusion—
and although you did not interpose in my behalf, yet
you sought an explanation of him, and offered him combat.
You have an acknowledgment of my gratitude, although I
could not have wished to see you imperil your life on my account.
Farewell. He will not be likely to divulge his own
baseness, and there can be no reason why you should disclose
the unhappy predicament in which I was involved for a brief
interval.”

“Stay, Lucy! One moment more!” cried Edmund, seeking
to detain her.

“No, sir! I will say no more. And I must labor under
the painful apprehension that what I have already uttered,
may not be credited by you, since my truth was doubted
once.”

Just at that moment a tremendous plunge in the bushes
on the margin of the brook, followed by a great splash, arrested
the attention of Lowe, and accelerated the retreating
steps of Lucy.

“Blazes! But it's a whopper!” said Bill Dizzle, rising up,
with a great frog struggling in the agonies of death on the
point of his spear. “Mr. Lowe, Mr. Lowe!” he continued,
“I followed him more nor a quarter o' a mile. See what
lovely eyes he's got!”

Lowe, frowning, strode away, laboring under the painful conviction
that he had both wronged and offended Lucy. She had
left him almost in anger, certainly in affliction from the thought
that he could be capable of doubting the propriety of her
conduct. And she had not, and perhaps would not, inform
him of the place of her future abode.

“Mr. Lowe,” persisted Dizzle, following him, “I came to
hunt you, when I found the frog. I come to tell you all
about Mr. Roland's being flung by his horse—”

“Hah!” exclaimed Lowe, his ear attracted by the name of
Roland. He listened attentively to Dizzle's narration, and
was then moving forward again without uttering any remark
on the occurrence, when Dizzle proceeded to add the substance
of what he overheard in the conversation between Roland and
the Quaker, for he had lingered near the door.

“No matter. I fear him not,” said Lowe; “but I thank
you, Bill. Do not let that base creature lead you into evil
practices.”

[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]

“I'll try not, sir; but I'm bound to vote for him.”

“Why are you bound to vote for him? I supposed it was
only in monarchical governments where landlords exercised
such control over their tenants. This is a land of liberty, and
he is a democrat.”

“All I know is, if I don't vote for him, my sister will be
turned out of her cabin. She told me so herself. But I don't
like the way he talked to-day.”

“It matters not—to me,” said Lowe, turning aside, and
leaping across the brook, leaving Dizzle to stare after him, and
at his frog, alternately.

The unhappy man shut himself up in his chamber, a prey
to many painful meditations. But, resolved to rend asunder
the cloud which enveloped him, he started up after sitting for
more than an hour in deep reflection, and crossed over to Mrs.
Winkle's mansion to seek another interview with Lucy. Having
obtained admittance into the hall, he learned from Biddy
Boggle that her “missus” was engaged with a Mr. Parke, a
friend of Walter's. And in confirmation of the statement,
he heard Lucy's voice, repeating the song which had produced
such a sensation at her uncle's party. Passing by the parlor
door, he sought Mrs. Winkle, whom he found in her usual sitting-room.
She received him with her accustomed smile.

“Sit down, Mr. Lowe. Lucy has informed me of your
interview at the brook, and that you are acquainted with the
fact of her having been captured by the enemy last night.”

“It is really so, madam. And I came here to entreat her
pardon for the obtuseness—I will not call it doubt—which
restrained me from making an attempt to rescue her. Most
humbly do I beg her pardon; and you will please inform her
of my contrition, and humble petition to be forgiven, if she
should persist in prolonging my banishment from her presence.”

“Certainly, sir—and I can, besides, assure her that there
was a serious earnestness in your aspect and manner. But
Lucy intends to banish herself.”

“And she has declined imparting to me the place chosen
for her seclusion. Perhaps you will be kind enough to inform
me?”

“No. I must not interfere. She may have good and
sufficient reasons for declining. You have had your mystery—
now she has hers. There should be none on either side—

[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]

but one will counterpoise the other. Love's comedy of stratagems!
I must not interpose to disarrange your plots—only
I can warn you that woman's wit is the keenest. Lucy and I
have a perfect understanding with each other. She is never
to marry without my concurrence, and I am never to attempt
to impose on her any choice of mine, contrary to her wishes.
But I may say, so far as we can see and know, that is, if there
be nothing hidden to create obstacles—it is my opinion that
Mr. Lowe, if he should resolutely continue the pursuit, may
win the race. But Mr. Lowe must choose his own time to
make the requisite explanations, and Miss Lucy must enjoy
the same privilege. That is fair, in love. Well? Who's
there?” she continued, addressing Biddy, who appeared at
the door.

“Biz—Diz—Dill Bizzle, mam.”

“Here, Biddy, give him this note. It is for Walter. Tell
him to be sure and see him.”

“Yes, mam.”

“Walter has forgotten the friends who accompanied him
from the city.”

“And Lucy, I presume, is entertaining one of them during
her brother's absence.”

“True. It is a sister's duty. And if he should fall in
love, it will be no fault of hers.”

“You mean if he should not,” said Lowe, smiling faintly.

“Poets and novelists would persuade the world that such
is the character of the sex. It has been a wonder to me, if
they possessed such an accurate knowledge of our dispositions,
why they are not generally more fortunate in the selections
they make themselves. But is not Lucy free?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Then, until the irrevocable words are spoken, take a
woman's advice and eschew jealousy. And, really, if Lucy
should fortunately meet any one preferable to yourself in her
estimation, she must be at liberty to embrace him—I mean to
listen to his offer, to hear his account of himself, etc.”

“Oh, yes!”

“Well, why sigh about it? But for the purpose of mitigating
your despair, I suppose I may be permitted to say that
the place which has been selected for Lucy's abode, is not one
where it is at all probable she will meet many strangers.”

“It is a relief to know that,” said Lowe. “I suppose, Mrs.

p459-159 [figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

Winkle,” he added, when rising to depart, “Lucy informed
you that I had sought a meeting with Roland, and that the
result merely exposed his pusillanimity. He threatened to
denounce me as a highwayman. I do not fear it. Nor do
I fear he will seek to injure Lucy's character. Hence the occurrence
of last night may be easily suppressed.”

“Roland has written me an apologizing letter. He admits
his madness—but says it is the result of love.”

“Preserve his letter. He is a villain. His conduct made
me forget myself and offer him combat. I do not think I
could again be provoked to repeat such an indiscretion, and I
fear my conduct on that occasion is not approved by Lucy.
Nothing short of defending her honor, could induce me to engage
in mortal strife with an enemy, in a country where there
are laws to vindicate the injured.” Lowe departed.