University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE GAME BEGUN. THE CAT OUT OF THE BAG.

The arrival of Miss Wilsome and Lucy produced a general
commotion throughout the establishment. They were accompanied
by Mr. Jonathan Dowly, an old bachelor, who had
been one among the numerous competitors for the hand of
Miss Edith Blount, some thirty-five years before the date of
the events recorded in this history. Submitting in silence to
the victory of his rival (the late Mr. Winkle), he had abandoned
the city, and lived ever afterwards in seclusion and
solitude near the village of Babbleton, contenting himself
with dreamy visions of his first and only love. He was never
known to smile except when in the company of Mrs. Winkle,
or some member of the family. Lucy was a perfect duplicate,
in mercantile parlance, of what her mother had been
when young; and Mr. Dowly, happening to be returning from
the city on the same boat, and seeing the aunt and niece unaccompanied
by a protector, had ventured timidly to make a
tender of his services, which had a ready acceptance on the
part of Lucy.

“Stop, Gusset—don't go yet, that's a good creature,” said
Miss Wilsome, forcing the retired milliner back into her chair.
“I made some shameful blunders to-day. Lucy has been
telling me. You must forgive it; I had forgotten that you
were no longer in business. It would have been so pleasant
to have had you at dinner with us—for we had no company—
and your conversation on the wearisome boat would have been
a great relief. I hope you are quite comfortable, now.”

“I thank you, Miss Wilsome, and your munificent family,
for the little independence I enjoy. My wants are few, and
expenses light. I ought to be satisfied with the moderate
means I possess. I am an humble body, and must never forget
what I once was. I am not worthy of having any apologies
bestowed on me—but since you have so condescended, I
am thankful.”

“Good Gusset—that's a kind creature! Now stay to tea,
and afterwards we'll have whist. I'm so glad you have no
girls to watch over at home. Sister, invite Gusset to stay
to tea.”

“Certainly, she will oblige us,” responded Mrs. Winkle,
who had been insisting upon Mr. Dowly's remaining likewise.
“But Wilsome, what have you done with Walter, and Virginia
Oakland, and Mr. Roland?”

“Oh, I made Walter stay to take care of my house. The
burglars are breaking in somewhere every night. The maids
get too ungovernable if left to themselves—”

“I hope you don't suppose Walter can keep them in order?”

“He can tell me if they misbehave.”

“He can if he will.”

“Will! my will governs in my house. But the principal
reason why I left him in charge of my establishment, is that
I want him to keep my coach in motion every day until the
horses are thoroughly tamed. My housemaid, my coachman,
and my horses are all spoilt by indulgence in idle habits. Do
you know I have not rode in my own coach for a month?
The last time I was out, I thought the horses were going to
mount up in the air, like the mythological teams we read of
at school. They pranced and reared so outrageously, that
I had to call a policeman. My man Snapper could not
control them. Walter seemed delighted with the proposition;
and the Oakland rosebud is to stay several days in the city

with her aunt. I don't know what became of the beast Roland
after I sent him to Coventry. Of course, Gusset has
told you how that was.”

“I hope, Wilsome, Walter will be wise enough to take
care of himself,” remarked Mrs. Winkle, gravely.

“I gave him particular instructions, and of course he will
regulate his habits accordingly. Has your old beau consented
to stay to tea? But no matter; he never could play. Yet,
he is as silent as a sarcophagus. He didn't speak a dozen
words on the boat—but just laughed with his eyes at Lucy.
There was, however, a very gentlemanly somebody smitten
with us. I have seen him at Madame R.'s, but don't know
him. He shifted his position continually, but never got a
front view of me. I wonder why the men are never contented
with the aspect presented them! But here's the tea.
Lucy must wait on her ancient beau. I have not heard his
voice to-night.”

And Lucy did so very assiduously. She spread the snowy
napkin on Mr. Dowly's lap, and held the sugar-dish for him,
while he helped himself in silence. Mr. Dowly was past sixty
and quite gray. His form was tall, slight, and quite erect for
one of his age. His face was very pale, and the texture of
the skin almost as delicate as a lady's. His eyes were large,
very dark and expressive, but beneath them were huge,
wrinkled cavities. His mouth generally protruded into a wo-begone,
melancholy expression. But his nose was large and
finely shaped, redeeming many of the traces of time and sorrow
on his manly countenance. His dress was remarkable: he
wore sometimes a blue coat, made thirty years before, and
sometimes a brown one, fabricated fifteen years after the blue
one, and both seemed to be as bright and free from the evidences
of dilapidation as when they issued from the hands of
the tailor. His hat, too, although shining in aspect, belonged
to a former generation; and, in accordance with the good old
fashion, his neckerchief was of a snowy whiteness. Poor old
Mr. Dowly had deeply loved Miss Blount, and never sought
the smiles of any other. He had been rejected for Mr.
Winkle; but it produced no other sensation in his breast than
that of melancholy regret. He had never ceased to gaze with
pleasure on Mrs. Winkle, and, as we have said, never smiled
except when in the presence of some member of her family.
In his dreams he was always young again, and Miss Blouns

unmarried. By day he lived in the past; scenes and sentiments
of former years filled his reveries. He had always
been in the habit of occasionally visiting the family, but was
ever a silent guest, unless compelled to respond to the friendly
words addressed him. He had not been a more frequent
visitor in the days of Mrs. Winkle's widowhood than during
the lifetime of her husband. It was too late in life to renew
his addresses, and he preferred his accustomed contemplations
of the past to any of the realities of life which might now be
presented to him. He lived on a small farm, a short distance
from town, employing a careful Welsh housekeeper and an
industrious gardener, her son. His circumstances had been
good; but no one now knew any thing of his fortune. Most
people believed him to be poor, simply because they never
knew him to incur any expense that might be avoided. Whatever
investments he had were in the city, and of course they
were past finding out, since he never spoke of his affairs to his
neighbors.

Lucy being called away by her aunt, who was arranging
the preliminaries for the rubber at whist, Mrs. Winkle occupied
the seat vacated by her daughter, and seemed inclined to
engage her old beau in a conversation. The old gentleman's
large dark eyes were immediately illuminated.

“Here, we sit together again, Mr. Dowly, just as we did
thirty years ago. It seems to me very wonderful that at the
completion of three decades, after the many storms of the
world, and all the vicissitudes of life, you and I, and a few
others should be left together upon the shore of time, while so
many we knew, younger than ourselves, and apparently with
stronger constitutions, have vanished from the scene for
ever.”

Mr. Dowly made no reply, but assented by the liquid eloquence
of his eyes, and a shrug of his shoulders.

“I strive to be cheerful, Mr. Dowly,” resumed the widow,
“and find it more pleasant to laugh than to repine. I see in
my daughter a counterpart of myself, when at her age —”

“She's beautiful—lovely—good,” said Mr. Dowly.

“Ha! ha! ha! Precisely what you said of me, some thirty
years ago! And believe me it is as gratifying to hear it now,
as it was then. You never reproached me for the preference
I gave Mr. Winkle.”

“He was a preferable man. Different from the rest of his
family. He was my friend, and I his.”

“And I should be sorry to think you have been unhappy.
I wonder you did not marry.”

“No; I have been very happy. I live in the past. My
thoughts by day—my dreams by night; and so it shall be to
the end. I am glad I never married. I never will marry.
But you will let me be your friend. That is all I ask.”

“Most certainly.”

“And Lucy; she may want a friend.”

“How? Oh; you mean my lamented husband died a
bankrupt. But have we not friends? There's sister Wilsome
and my brother-in-law—both unmarried like yourself, and the
last worth a million, and as generous as the prince he supposes
himself to be, in his fits of strange hallucination.”

“I hope they may be always mindful of their duty. I
have no relations. This property, I believe, is all your husband
left.”

“All. Ha! ha! ha! Small as it seems, the few acres
attached are made to yield me a large revenue, I assure you,
by the industry of good old Dibble and his son David, the
gardeners.”

“You are fortunate in the Dibbles. But is not the place
encumbered by a mortgage?”

“I believe so; but my brother Napoleon attends to the
interest. I really don't know who holds the mortgage.”

“I do; but no matter. Only this—if you should ever
have a serious necessity for the use of funds, which your family
may be slow in offering, don't forget John Dowly. Nobody
knows any thing in relation to that old man's pecuniary means,
and no one has any right to know—but you. Don't forget
him.”

“Forget you! How can that be possible? For the last
twenty years not a week has gone by, that some little present
has not come to our house to remind us of the existence and
uniform kindness of good John Dowly. The only difficulty
is, how to repay with gratitude the munificence of our generous
friend.”

“Forget that! forget that! I am benefited more than
any body else; only do not forbid me—do not reject them,
and I shall continue to be happy. Good night! good night!
My horse and carriage are at the inn. The moon shines

brightly, just as it did when I was young. I am merry.
Good night.” And the old man departed, his large brilliant
eyes glistening the more from the slight humidity that pervaded
them.

“How shall we contrive it?” asked Wilsome, seated in a
rocking chair near the table, and addressing Lucy in relation
to the proposed game.

“Let me see,” responded Lucy, archly. “Ma, you know,
has an aversion to the grave silence imposed on the players.
You have often said she was too merry for whist. Gusset
plays very well; but should there not be a man among us?”

“There should be. I forgot that when I made Walter
stay in town. But who would have supposed there was not a
single man to be had in all Babbleton?”

“There are an abundance of single men here,” said Mrs.
Winkle, smiling.

“Deuce take the bachelors! I mean a single gentleman,
married or unmarried, for one's partner at whist. I can't
play with a lady partner. Why, Lucy, have you no beaux?
Don't blush so, child! Really, you begin to look like a woman.
Behold her, sister; she is taller than you, and yours was a
good height. See her broad shoulders, her almost Juno neck,
her full rounded bust, her ivory forehead, her cloud of dark
chestnut hair, her beautifully flushing cheeks, the white and
red contending for the mastery! I never noticed her before.
She is a lovely creature!”

“Aunt Wilsome!” responded Lucy, laughing heartily.
“What should I do if I were to hear some gentleman utter
such a speech?”

“Do? Why, if he were one approved by your family—
which, never forget, is a good one—you might recline your
head on his shoulder, and surrender your heart. But never
be precipitate; ten years hence will be time enough. You
see I am in no hurry. Still, I think you are old enough, and
handsome enough to have beaux. At least some visitor
capable of playing whist as my partner. Is there no such
one?”

“There is a gentleman living in the white cottage opposite,
who sometimes visits Walter, and who remarked last
evening that the game was a sensible one.”

“He's a sensible man. Who is he, Gusset?”

“A mysterious person. He has been here only a few

months; no one yet visits him but Mr. Walter, and he goes
nowhere, except occasionally, to return Walter's visits. But
he is handsome, and only about twenty-five. He is tall, pale,
and sometimes very sad.”

“What is he doing here? Has he no profession, no
business?”

“It seems not. He has taken the cottage, and brought
some furniture and a great many books from New York.”

“Does he live alone?”

“He has an old housekeeper, he brought with him—and
she is English, for she says ouse instead of house, and hair
instead of air.”

“How does he dress? What sort of feet and hands?”

“His clothes are very genteel—but not foppish. His feet
and hands are small and handsome, the latter very white”

“So! He is either a gentleman, or a black-leg, or forger,
or fugitive, or something of the sort. What do you think,
Lucy?”

“I know him to be a gentleman, aunt—and an educated
gentleman, who has been accustomed to the best society. He
has read every great author, and is very agreeable in conversation.
He is a musician too, and sings delightfully.”

“Oh, I see you like him. I don't think he can be one of
the opera troupe. What's his name?”

“Lowe—Edmund Lowe,” said Gusset. “But surely he
won't play cards with us—”

“Why?” demanded Miss Wilsome, abruptly.

“Because, one Sunday, when the rector's wife was taken
suddenly ill, and her husband was sent for, Mr. Lowe, stranger
as he was, stepped forward and offered to read the service.
Surely he won't play cards!”

“That don't follow. But did he read?”

“He did indeed,” said Mrs. Winkle, “and I never heard
the prayers better read in my life.”

“That will do. Send for Mr. Lowe to be my partner.”

Lucy whispered to Biddy, the message she wished to be
delivered. A few minutes after, Mr. Lowe was ushered in,
and introduced with due formality to the old maid, whose
partner he became without the slightest hesitation.

“I'm afraid you will repent of your complaisance,” said
Lucy to Mr. Lowe, who sat at her elbow while her aunt
shuffled the cards. “My aunt plays very patiently—”

“Of course I do,” said Miss Wilsome; “the game loses
its interest when neglected.”

“I am very fond of the game, and have been called a good
player,” replied, Mr. Lowe.

“I'm glad to hear you say so,” said Miss Wilsome,
secretly planning to employ as much of his time as possible
during her stay at Babbleton.

“My aunt sometimes indulges in long sittings,” pursued
Lucy, with an arch glance at the composed features of the
gentleman.

“I frequently retire at three in the morning, and rise at
eleven,” was the imperturbable reply.

“You are the very partner I want!” cried Miss
Wilsome.

“Fortunate sister,” said Mrs. Winkle, laughing; “but
you must have pity on Lucy. If she remains awake too long
after the usual hour of going to rest, she will have shocking
eyes the next day.”

“There is too much brilliant fire sparkling in them now,”
said Miss Wilsome, “to be dimmed so easily.”

“I declare, Mr. Lowe,” said Lucy, “my aunt has done
nothing but compliment me ever since this game was
proposed.”

“Pay attention to your cards, Lucy, and assort them before
you begin. It is Mr. Lowe's lead,” said Miss Wilsome.

“How could she do otherwise?” was Mr. Lowe's calm
response, whilst leading a trump.

“That's the knave, I believe,” said Miss Wilsome, staring
at the card. Her vision was impaired by age, but it was observed
that she never used her glasses when unmarried
gentlemen played with her. “Sir, you do me honor,” she
continued, with her lips contracted into a simper.

“But it's my trick!” said Gusset, triumphantly, playing
the ace.

Before the first game was ended, a tremendous explosion
was heard in the distance, and was followed quickly by a succession
of startling reports.

“Bless my life! What's that?” cried Miss Wilsome,
springing up from her chair, and running to a window. “See
that flash! Just listen!” she continued.

“It is a salute,” said Mr. Lowe, joining Miss Wilsome.
“I did not know there was a ship of war in the river.”

“Nor I either,” said Mrs. Winkle, smiling. “Indeed I
know there is no such ship in this vicinity.”

“Is there a fort in the neighborhood?” asked Mr. Lowe.

“No!” responded Miss Wilsome, angrily, and returning
to the table. “Take up your cards. It is only my crazy
brother. He should be confined in a madhouse when those
fits are on him.”

“Your brother?” asked Mr. Lowe.

“Yes, sir. Is it possible he has been quiet since you have
been residing here, so that you have not heard all about him?
Yes, it is my brother Napoleon Winkle. He is a monomaniac
on the subject of Bonaparte's campaigns—in other
matters he is rational enough.”

“He is an amiable, generous, noble-minded man,” said
Gusset, with emphasis, though timidly.

“Why, Gusset, what do you know about him?” asked
Miss Wilsome, fixing her large searching eyes upon the retired
milliner, and then, seeing Mr. Lowe evinced some interest
in the subject, she continued: “My brother, although
really eighteen months younger than myself, and still a
bachelor, is proprietor of one of the largest estates in the
county, which was mostly inherited from our father, who divided
his fortune equally between his three children. Napoleon,
preferring land to money, holds the old homestead
plantation, which he has most singularly divided and subdivided
into tracts after the plan of the map of Europe. Every
state of Europe, whether empire, kingdom, principality or
duchy, may be found on his farm. Of course he resides in
France. He reads nothing that does not glorify his great
model; and so fascinated has he become with the bloody
career of that detestable butcher, that he sometimes fancies
that the spirit of the conquering demon has been transmitted
to him, and animates his corpulent body! He has been told
that he resembles Bonaparte—and he really does look like the
prints of him—and of course that fact exercises a powerful influence
over his imagination. He has likewise picked up
somewhere an old sergeant—one legged, one armed, and one
eyed—who served under the Emperor, believes he was a God,
and that his soul has taken up its abode in the breast of my
poor brother. They have a perfect identity of ideas and
feelings; and so they have erected little forts in the countries
they fancy they have subjugated, and ever and anon they celebrate

the anniversary of some one of their victories. That is
the solution of this startling rumpus to-night. I dare say my
sister Winkle there, who is turning over the leaves of Alison's
history, will soon be able to tell us what battle occurred on
this day of the month. The magistrates of the county ought
to put a stop to such a ridiculous nuisance, for the whole
country is often startled and shocked at an unexpected
moment by such Quixotic operations.”

“All the justices in the state would not venture to attack
the good man,” said Gusset.

“Gusset, you are the only one I ever saw who was willing
to defend my brother—and truly he does not need any one to
defend him. No doubt if the officers were to approach his
premises for the avowed purpose of suppressing his amusements,
he would conceive them to be invaders from some
hostile country, and would send bombs and grape-shot in their
midst. He has eight or ten old cannons, large and small, and
a mortar or two. In one of his engagements he had a horse
killed under him—”

“You mean an imaginary horse, Miss Winkle?” remarked
Mr. Lowe.

“No indeed! He was fighting over the battle of Lodi—
forgetting, I believe, that the first Napoleon was then on foot
—when one of the old pieces, which Sergeant Blore was firing
with a slow match—himself out of danger—burst into a
thousand pieces. The horse was torn to atoms, while the
rider remained unhurt. Then the sergeant embraced his
master, and called him the `Little Corporal!”'

“Never have I heard of the actual existence of so singular
a character,” said Mr. Lowe. “It reminds me of Sterne's
fictitious Uncle Toby and Corporal Trim.”

“Yes. And often have I told my brother that he was a
plagiarist; but he assured me upon his honor that he had
never read a word of Sterne, and it cannot be denied that he
is a man of strict veracity and honor. But he banished me
from his territories for even suggesting such a thing. He
called me a meddling Madame de Stael, and told me, most
imperiously, to go and perform my true mission as a woman,
letting politics alone!”

“Ha! ha! Just like Napoleon the first,” said Mrs. Winkle.
“But here it is! It is the anniversary of the battle of

Marengo, and it appears the victory over the Austrians was
not complete until after nightfall. Poor uncle Toby!”

“I do not think, Ma,” said Lucy, “that uncle Winkle
copies Sterne's hero. He does not fight with jack-boots, and
there is no widow in the case.”

“No, truly,” said Gusset. “And I've often heard Mr.
Winkle say no widow could ever carry his heart.”

“And you remember the saying?” interrogated Miss Wilsome,
darting a glance at the milliner. “My brother, I
suppose, has no notion of marrying at all, at least not immediately.”

“No, aunt,” said Lucy. “He has often said he would
wait until after the celebration of your nuptials.”

“And, my pretty niece, that may occur sooner than you
suppose. But if it should not, pray don't let it be a restraint
upon you.”

“Oh, mercy, aunt!”

“Then don't meddle with sharp instruments. What
amuses my partner? He is almost convulsed. Pay attention,
sir! Gusset would not have won that `trick,' as she calls it,
but for your inattention. Being third in play, you should
have secured it.”

“But I have the honors, and we win the game. I was
thinking of an incident I witnessed during the battle of Buena
Vista, which our resumption of the game brought to mind.”

“Were you in that battle?” asked Lucy.

“Oh yes. Merely as a spectator. I have been a wanderer
—a—”

“The incident—the incident,” said Miss Wilsome, dealing
the cards.

“The mounted regiment from Kentucky, as you must be
aware—” began Mr. Lowe.

“No, I did not read a word of the war, because I was
opposed to it.”

“The Kentuckians were ordered to maintain a certain
position. After every charge they returned to the ground
specified. That their horses might continue in wind, the
riders, after every attack, dismounted, and choosing partners,
sat down and played cards on the ground. And I noticed
that whenever the order came for them to mount and charge
the hostile lancers, each one put down his cards, the trumps
carefully concealed at the bottom. And when they returned

if the amusement had not been forestalled by the loss of a
partner—and I believe one in every five of the regiment fell
—the game was resumed with a nonchalance equal to our own
after the cannonading we heard just now.”

“Well, Biddy? well? What do you want?” asked Mrs.
Winkle, seeing her maid open the door leading into the hall,
and standing in a hesitating attitude.

“It's Dill Bizzle, mam.”

“Bill Dizzle, she means,” said Lucy, smiling at the habitual
blunder of Biddy.

“What does he bring, now? Mushrooms or terrapins?”

“It's in a bag, mam—and he sis it's for Miss Milsop.”

“Wilsome—you stupid dunce!” cried Miss Winkle, her
temples as red as her cheeks. “Remember that, Biddy. It
is the second time you have made that blunder. Let it be
the last.”

“Ye—s mam.”

“I don't like to be called mam, either. But what has the
boy brought me? Tell him to come here with it. With
your permission, Mr. Lowe.” Mr. Lowe bowed his assent.

Dizzle was ushered in with a bag on his arm. In vain it
was conjectured what its contents might be. Lucy retired to
the furthest corner of the room, and her mother did not approach
nearer to the messenger or his mysterious burden.

“What in the world is it?” demanded Miss Wilsome, in a
loud voice.

“I'll show him,” said Dizzle, with his invariable smile,
striving for some length of time ineffectually to dislodge the
object from the sack.

“Mercy on us! It moves! Is it alive?” cried Lucy.

“In course he's alive,” said Dizzle, violently jerking up
the closed end of the sack, and forcibly extricating the
animal.

It was a beautiful white cat. And it stood quite motionless
in their midst, and during the breathless silence that
ensued, gazed round in utter bewilderment at the strange
faces. It then uttered a piteous cry, and walked slowly towards
Miss Wilsome, who sprang upon it with spasmodic
delight and hugged it in her arms.

“It's my poor Tom, or his ghost!” cried she.

“He's one of the family, and jest as good as the old Tom,”
said Dizzle.

“Poor puss!” continued Miss Wilsome, delighted to see
the pet appreciating her caresses, “where in the world did
it come from? Excuse me, Mr. Lowe, but I had a cat I
loved so much—he died—or was cruelly murdered by a dog
named Roland—and this is a perfect picture of him. Who
sent it to me, Dizzle? Here's a dollar for you.”

“He told me, before I told you, you must tell me—”

“I must tell you?”

“If it was going to make you mad.”

“Mad? Why no! If—if—if it is only another—like the
one I had,” continued Miss Wilsome, gazing affectionately at
the humming and purring creature—“I mean if it should be
another—”

“Don't you see it's another?” responded Dizzle. “Jest
as much like your old Tom as two peas—not a black hair on
him—and not a bit wicious!”

“I mean, Dizzle, if it has the same name—and the same
disposition—and—”

“His name's Tom, and in course— Mr. Roland said
you'd as soon have a nanny goat about your house as a biddy
cat. He's a innocent fellow, too, I know.”

“You think he never murdered a mouse?” asked Mr.
Lowe, which was succeeded by half suppressed explosions of
laughter from Lucy and her mother.

“Dizzle!” continued Miss Wilsome, “if Mr. Roland sent
me this pet, tell him he has made amends for his unlucky act
—and that I forgive him. Go now, Dizzle. Mr. Lowe,
please excuse me for desiring to postpone the game until tomorrow.
You can have no conception of the deep interest I
take in the poor dumb domestic animals which are generally
so cruelly treated. I am aware of the censure I incur; but
I defy the scandal of idle tongues. Good-by, Gusset. But
whatever affords us any degree of happiness, however insignificant
the object which produces it may appear, should not be
despised.”

Mr. Lowe assented readily to the proposition, remarking
that one of his aunts had been so fond of a poodle as to
carry it always in her carriage, and she made it a rule to kiss
the dear little creature every night before retiring to rest. He
then took his leave; and Miss Wilsome, giving full vent
to her long pent up affection, almost distracted poor Tom with
her infinite fund of endearments.