University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
MATRIMONIAL SALLIES—WAR AND WOMEN.

Arrived at the cottage of Mrs. Winkle in Babbleton, the
company dispersed as follows. Gusset, who had not opened
her mouth, although her eyes looked volumes, since she had
been escorted down the broad stairway of the chateau by the
emperor, hastened away on foot to her own domicile, without
once casting a glance behind. Edmund Lowe, after assisting
the ladies to alight, strode deliberately across the street to
his own dwelling. Miss Wilsome Winkle, with a freshet of
tears, washing gullies through the paint on her cheeks, hastened
up to her chamber to enjoy in solitude the luxury of
mourning the loss of a beloved object.

Mrs. Winkle, drawing Lucy's arm through her own, led
her into the rear sitting room, laughing at the aspect of her
sister-in-law, and at the mishap of her brother, which had been
narrated to her by an eye-witness.

“Sit down, Lucy,” said the merry widow. “I am glad
we are alone. You must know, that while you have been
enjoying yourselves in the country, I have been entertained in
town. Mr. Ralph Roland has spent several hours with me—
child! why do you turn pale at the mention of his name?
No! my eyes deceived me—you have a beautiful color—but
surely I can hear the beating of your heart. I say Mr. Roland
was here, and—”

“Proposed to marry me. Was it not so, mother?”

“No—not precisely so. But he desired my permission to
woo you.”

“And did he obtain it?”

“Not positively. But I promised to confer with you. I
thought the fellow was addressing Virginia Oakdale.”

“He addresses all who will permit him. I cannot permit
him to address me, mother. There is something in his smile,
in his looks, in his attitudes and movements, which fills me
with dread and dislike.”

“He is somewhat advanced in years, too; I think he
must be forty. My dear child, never think I would desire
you to agree to any match repugnant to your inclinations.

Nevertheless, Roland is called a handsome man—is rich, and
if not popular, it is thought, notwithstanding, his party will
succeed in electing him to Congress. On the other hand, my
child, it is my duty to apprise you that you have no fortune.
Even this little property is mortgaged for four thousand dollars—and
the mortgage is held by Mr. Roland—”

“Oh, mother!” cried Lucy.

“Why do you tremble so? why this alarm, my dear Lucy?
Have we not been merry in our poverty? Wealth could not
have made us more happy. Besides, we are not so destitute
as to be altogether dependent. Old Dibble, our gardener,
has sold eight hundred dollars worth of vegetables since winter.
He has found out all about my condition, and this mortgage
too, and he says there is always a balance to our credit
in bank sufficient to pay the interest.”

“Thank heaven! Then he cannot distress us!” said
Lucy.

“Who, child?”

“Roland. Mother, he is a bad man, and I would not be in
his power for worlds. But we need not be alarmed. Uncle
Napoleon—”

“Mr. Roland informs me that it is the determination of
your uncle to marry. If this be so, we must not rely upon
receiving further aid from that quarter. Your uncle, I know,
has a very generous disposition; but his wife may be differently
constituted. Your aunt—”

“Oh, mother, she too is resolved to marry. She announced
her purpose to-day.”

“Married or single—she could never be relied on. She
has too many strange caprices of minor importance, to bestow
a thought upon the necessities of her relatives. Besides, she
never can be convinced that your father lost his fortune. She
cannot conceive how it could be possible for the most respected
and ablest member of her family to lose his patrimony.”

“Then, mother,” said Lucy. “I fear the worst!”

“Fear nothing. If Roland supposes that our destitution
may make you submissive to a matrimonial project not having
your hearty concurrence—”

“Mother—I despise the man!” said Lucy, proudly, and
decisively.

“Enough, Lucy. He shall be properly answered. But,
my child, we must be kind and respectful. Remember—”

“The mortgage! yes, I will remember it, mother—and
for your sake, I will endeavor not to offend him.”

“For my sake, Lucy!” cried Mrs. Winkle, laughing very
heartily. “Why I have no fears. Providence will not forsake
me. Old Dibble and his son never fail to raise enormous
crops of potatoes, cabbages, peas, etc., when such things are
scarce and high. I suppose if we pay the interest, there can
be no danger of being turned adrift. And yet, my child, Mr.
Roland named one thing which caused me a pang of fearful
apprehension.”

“What was it, mother?”

“His belief that our pale neighbor, Mr. Lowe, had a
design upon your heart.”

“I thought so! He said the same thing to me.”

“To you? He did not mention having conversed with
you in relation to such matters?”

“He had an interview with me, first; and if I had sanctioned
his pretensions, he would never have sought your approbation.
I repulsed him, mother. I told him, also, that
my decision so unhesitatingly pronounced, was irrevocable and
final; and then it was that he mentioned Mr. Lowe.”

“He says there are strange reports in circulation regarding
him, which, if true—”

“Ay, if true, mother! No doubt they have been fabricated
by Roland himself, or some of the vile creatures he
employs to subserve his base purposes!”

“Lucy, you speak with great zeal in behalf of this stranger.
Ha! ha!—what would be the effect on him, if he were a
listener!”

“He would hear a friend repelling the wicked aspersions
of his enemies.”

“But how do you know the reports are false?”

“I do not know it, mother—I merely believe him innocent,
until proofs are produced to prove the contrary.”

“That is right, Lucy. It seems to me that no stain of
guilt could be stamped upon a brow so fair—of one so ingenuous.
Yet I would not have my daughter's happiness depend
upon the guilt or innocence of a stranger.”

“Do not fear it, mother. Depend upon it your daughter

would be incapable of taking any irretrievable step without
your advice and concurrence.”

“Enough—enough!” cried Mrs. Winkle, embracing her
beautiful Lucy, and smiling through her tears.

“Ma, I hear aunt Wilsome descending the stairs. Let
her not find us discomposed.” Her mother responded by
hearty laughter.

“I shall go distracted!” said Miss Wilsome, the recent
inroads on her cheeks having been carefully repaired before
the mirror in her chamber. “What shall we do?”

“Play, of course,” said Mrs. Winkle. “I'll send for
Gusset, and we four will have a game.”

“Very good,” cried Wilsome, “we must not exact too
much of Mr. Lowe's time. He is a perfect gentleman,
sister.”

“I am very glad you think so, Wilsome,” was Mrs. Winkle's
reply, “because a great many people think differently.
They suspect him of being an impostor, and guilty of all manner
of crimes.”

“Sister,” said Wilsome, with great energy of voice, and
placing her hand on Mrs. Winkle's shoulder, “I am glad to
hear it.”

“Aunt Wilsome!” exclaimed Lucy.

“Nay, child—only glad to hear the silly gossips are circulating
such ridiculous lies. Do not, for the world, contradict
any of them. Let them talk—let them hate him. We
shall then have a monopoly of his society. We care not what
the vulgar herd of shopkeepers and milliners may say of us.
I will spend more of my time in your pleasant village than
formerly, since I am not to be comforted any more by Jocko.
My house will be desolate now, unless I can prevail on Mr.
Lowe to be a frequent visitor. But send for Gusset.”

Biddy was despatched on the errand, but soon returned
alone, and with looks of wonder.

“Why did she not come, Biddy?” asked Mrs. Winkle.

“She says why don't Miss Wilsome Winkle come to her
house?”

“What! What's that?” cried Miss Wilsome, her forehead
as red as her cheeks.

“She says why don't you visit her? and she has called on
you once, and it's now your turn to call on her.”

“The impudent hussy!” said Miss Wilsome, in great indignation

“Is the innocent, humble, obedient, grateful milliner
our family brought from the city, where she was destitute
of a second chemise for her back—”

“Pause there, sister,” said Mrs. Winkle, “and let us
ascertain if there be not some mistake in Biddy's version. If
it be true, madness is an epidemic—and she has caught it.
Lucy, it is not yet quite dark. Go and see Gusset. Tell her
what Biddy has said, and hear what she can allege in explanation.”

Lucy departed without delay, and returned while her aunt
yet shuffled the cards.

“You look wild, Lucy!” said her mother.

“Do I?” replied Lucy. “I hope I shall not be the next
victim. Gusset is truly in a strange way. She will not
come—”

“Then I'll go to her, and know the reason why she is
putting on these airs!” said Miss Wilsome, rising.

“No, aunt—she would only fret you. She does not desire
the company of any one to-night, if what she told me be
true.”

“What was that?” asked her aunt.

“That she is to be married to-morrow.”

“Married to-morrow!” said the old maid, lifting up her
hands.

“And she hopes we will attend her wedding at the church.
Mr. Amble, the minister, was present.”

“And did he hear what she said?” asked Mrs. Winkle.

“He did, and did not seem surprised.”

“Then it is true,” said Mrs. Winkle.

“True!” cried the old maid, her hands still aloft. “Who's
to be the bridegroom?”

“She did not say. I forgot to ask.”

“Attend the wedding! and in church! Mr. Amble will
get no fifty dollars from me to repair the parsonage—”

“But, aunt, you have already given him a check.”

“Have I? So I did. I shall tell the bank not to pay it.
Marry indeed! and to an ambling priest—”

“Bless your life, sister,” interposed Mrs. Winkle, “Mr.
Ambler is not to be the man. He is married already, and has
thirteen children.”

“I thought he was a widower. Thirteen! What a fool!
What is the world coming to? Who's that?”

This question was asked of Biddy, who peeped in timidly
from the hall.

“Dill Bizzle,” said she.

“Bill Dizzle!” said Lucy, smiling, “why won't you learn
to announce him correctly, Biddy?”

“Yes, man—and—and Sargent Blore.”

“I thought I heard his wooden leg,” said Mrs. Winkle.
“Tell them to come in, Biddy.”

Bill entered first, being pushed forward by the sergeant,
who seemed to approach with hesitation and embarrassment.
However, he ventured at length to stand forth, hat in hand,
and in his full military dress, some portions of which having
a slight resemblance to the uniform of the “old guard.” And
Bill, too, seemed to have been somewhat furbished for the
occasion. His shirt collar was tolerably white, and his face
seemed to have been washed since the adventure in the ditch.

“Dizzle, what is your will with us?” demanded Mrs.
Winkle.

“Nothing, mam,” said Bill. “I only came 'cause Sargent
Blore wanted me as one of his guards, as he never was
here by himself.”

“The brave sergeant surely is not afraid of the ladies?”
said Lucy.

“That's it!” replied Bill, with a quizzical smile, and casting
a side glance at Blore, whose solitary eye rolled and blinked
in evident trepidation.

“I am as bold as a lion to men, if you please, miss,” said
Blore; “but I own I am no match for the ladies. I can
fight, but I can't talk. I can lead a charge against an iron
battery, but I can't face a woman's tongue.”

“Were you ever married, sergeant?” asked Mrs. Winkle.

“Yes, madam. And that is the way I found out how
bitter a thing it is to be stormed by a woman's tongue.

“But all wives are not vixens. What became of yours?”

“I retreated—left her—and have never heard of her since.
The last time I saw her was when Blucher came up on our
right at Waterloo. But I am afraid she'll overtake me yet.
I'm sure she'll never die. She didn't mind the whistling of
bullets and bursting of bombs. She was as brave as Ney—
and could not be killed. I would just as soon meet the devil
—I beg pardon—may-be it's true that all women are not the
same.”

“What does Mr. Winkle think of them?” asked Mrs.
Winkle.

“That's why I'm here. He thinks pretty much as I do
—but he hopes there's one good one in the world, and that he
may have her for his share.”

“His old cook and housekeeper,” said Dizzle, “are
snappers.”

“Snappers? what are they?” asked Lucy.

“Big-headed mud turtles that snap at every thing that
comes in their way, and they won't let go till it thunders.”

“Why does not my brother-in-law discharge those disagreeable
women?” asked Mrs. Winkle.

“It would do no good,” said Blore. “The new ones that
filled their places, as soon as they found out that he was terrified
at the sound of a scolding tongue, would begin to ding
at him, and keep on until they got him under their thumbs.”

“I always supposed it was his indulgent nature, and not
dread or fear, that caused him to tolerate those impudent servants,”
said Mrs. Winkle.

“You were wrong, then,” said Miss Wilsome. “This man
is right. I was the only one of the family that could silence
the maids. If you had endeavored to rule your husband by
a few good tongue lashings, you would have succeeded. But
you—”

“I never desired it!” said Mrs. Winkle.

“Your husband was a fortunate man. He used to say so.
And Napoleon will never marry unless he can have some
guarantee that his wife will not attempt to control his actions.
And no woman in her senses would have him unless she knew
she could change his abominable habits.”

“Beg pardon, madam,” said Blore, making a military salute,”
but the emperor wishes to contract with a wife for the
purpose of subjugating the housekeeper and cook, who are
always tyrannizing over him. And I am come here without
his knowledge, to ask some confidential questions about the
woman he intends to marry. I hope she's not one of the Tartars,
and that you all can tell me so.”

“Who do you mean!” asked the ladies, altogether.

“Miss Grisly Guzzle, or something of that sort.”

`Gusset—ma—Gusset! It is true! That is the solution
of her extraordinary conduct!” said Lucy. Miss Wilsome's
eyes dilated until her face was all eyes and mouth, the latter

nearly as wide open as the former. Mrs. Winkle only leaned
back and shook her sides with excessive laughter.

“Yes, miss,” continued Blore, “and I do hope and pray
she won't turn out to be a savage like my wife, Mrs. Thomas,
did.” My name is Thomas Blore, but they called me at that
time only Mr. Thomas—the Thomases were Jews then, and
my lady thought she was getting a fortune. When we were
defeated at Waterloo, and Mrs. Thomas fell into the hands of
the victors, I dropt the Thomas with my leg and arm, and
took up my other name with my wooden limbs to keep from
being traced by my wife, if she escaped, which I felt pretty
certain she would do. There were a number of Thomases
killed, and I hoped she would count me as one of 'em. I've
never heard of her since, and pray heaven I may never meet
her hereafter.”

“The cars go at nine o'clock,” said Miss Wilsome, at
length finding utterance. “Sister—Lucy—let us pack up
and leave this abominable place! You shall live with me,
provided you pledge yourselves never to look at, speak to, or
have any sort of correspondence with my brother or any member
of his family. He is about to disgrace himself irretrievably.
And that wile wretch, Gusset—”

“Then we are all to be fried in purgatory!” said poor
Blore. “She's a wile wretch, is she? I'll live in my tent at
the new barracks we are to have at Boulogne, where the British
landed. But our chief will go mad, if his wife forms a
triple alliance with the cook and housekeeper.”

“There is no probability of that, sergeant,” said Mrs.
Winkle. “The mistress of the house, and particularly in
cases like this, when she is elevated to a position of more importance
than any to which she has been previously accustomed,
very naturally supposes it her duty to see that no
one shares her authority. Miss Gusset is a clear-headed
woman, and may, if I am not mistaken in her character, contribute
to my brother's happiness, and promote the economy
of his establishment. She has never been accustomed to the
luxuries of life, and therefore should not be extravagant.
Her walk has been an humble one, and hence she should be
meek and amiable.”

Blore began to dance, with delight, pointing out his wooden
leg, and whistling a martial tune, when he was cut short by
Miss Wilsome.

“It will be just the reverse of what you suppose, sister,”
said she. “Your own invariable good nature leads you into
error. The hussy would never break out in your presence.
Before you, there was always the same mild, smiling, deferential
aspect. I have seen more of the world than you have,
and I tell you she will be the reverse of what you suppose.
She will subdue the servants, and you, too, Blore—and then
she will grind my brother's nose to the brain, until he surrenders
unconditionally. She will squander his money, set up a
fashionable equipage, frown with haughty contempt on her old
associates, and seek the company of none but her superiors,
who will drink her wines, and laugh at her folly behind her
back. No! Republican or not republican, it is a monstrous
absurdity to lift either men or women out of their proper
sphere.”

“Aunt,” said Lucy, “you agree with Mr. Lowe. He says
the man of a truly tall stature, never gazes upward for congenial
faces; but that the one who fancies himself to be above
all others, gives evidence that he has been accustomed only to
low companions.”

“Mr. Lowe will never marry a milliner. But enough.
I renounce my brother for ever. Let us depart. Bring my
bonnet.”

“The cars are gone,” said Bill Dizzle.

“Is there not an early boat?”

“Yes.”

“In it will I go, before these disgraceful nuptials are celebrated.
You will go with me, sister and niece?”

“Oh no!” said Mrs. Winkle. “We cannot abandon our
home because your brother chooses to marry little Gusset.”

“And do you intend to witness the ceremony?”

“Why not? If I could prevent the wedding I would do
so, most assuredly, because I think it ill-assorted and unnecessary.
But as no intervention of mine would be of any
avail, I don't see why we should be offended. Lucy and I
will go to the church, and I hope you will send home Walter
in time to accompany us—that is, if you are determined to
leave us.”

“Determined! Talk of the Medes and Persians! I
shall turn my back on the whole breed of you. Blore, I wish
I could drop a part of my name, as you did, and escape in the

same manner. I am Miss Winkle, and Gusset is to be Mrs.
Winkle—the name of my high-bred mother!”

“Pardon, miss,” said Blore, “but you might remedy that.
You could marry, and I'm sure your new name wouldn't be a
low one—”

“What do you mean, sir? No puns! But I'm sure you
didn't mean it.”

“No, upon my honor—I meant nothing offensive. And
I'm truly sorry to hear you declare war against us all. If
you would only stay a month or so at the palace, and fight on
our side, no doubt we might humble this enemy—”

“No, sir. Before a week is over, the artful wretch will
lead my brother about by a ribbon as easily as I did my monkey
by his chain. She will make you all slaves! Go, and
prepare for the worst.”

Blore and Dizzle withdrew, the former in great despondency,
and both maintaining a strict silence, until they stood
at the gate which led into Lowe's kitchen.

It had been Blore's purpose, and the principal object of
his secret mission, in the event of hearing a favorable report
of the temper of his lord's spouse, to pay a visit to Lowe's
housekeeper, Mrs. Edwards, of whom he had conceived a good
opinion in consequence of their congeniality of tastes. He
had never seen her; but from the moment Dizzle divulged
her fondness for frogs, Blore had formed a favorable estimate
of her discernment.

“Come ahead,” said Dizzle, opening the gate.

“Perhaps I had better retreat,” said Blore, hesitating.
“Many a poor fellow under cover of the night, marches upon
a masked battery, and is blown to the devil. It is nobler and
braver, and safer too, to face the enemy in the broad daylight.
But do you think she'll be willing?”

“I don't know any thing about such things,” said Bill.
“When I told her you would be hunting after her, all I saw
was her face turn red as fire, and Mr. Lowe a laughing.” Bill
did not remember her words, or the broom handle she flourished—for
he thought only of the accommodating Patty.

“We'll scale the ramparts,” said Blore. “If she should
be a vixen, who knows but she may be a match for the chief's
mistress, and help to keep the garrison in order? Go in first,
Dizzle,” he continued, when they arrived in front of the kitchen
door, “and reconnoitre. You shall have that honor—an honor

I never yielded to any man before. But bayonets and women's
tongues are very different things.”

“And so is frog spears,” said Bill, lifting the latch and
opening the door very cautiously. Seeing the coast clear they
both entered, and were made comfortable by the kindly greeting
of Patty O'Pan, and who assured the sergeant that Mrs.
Edwards was in a very agreeable humor that evening, and had
not scolded her since dinner.

The sergeant, then, that his operations might be commenced
in due form, sent Patty to her master with his compliments,
and asking the favor to be permitted to have a short conversation
with his honor, on a matter of importance. The request
was immediately granted; and when Blore entered
Lowe's library he beheld, for the first time, the object of his
solicitation, Mrs. Edwards herself, who was dusting the books
and adjusting the window curtains with an unsteady hand.
At the name of Blore, she recollected the intimation that had
been thrown out by Dizzle; and although there was a recurrence
of her resentful emotions, they seemed now to be developed
in a less violent form, and so she resolved to face the
sergeant's assault, if it should be his purpose to commence any
serious matrimonial approaches.

“Sit down, sir; I am glad to see you at my house, sergeant,”
said Lowe, after witnessing one of Blore's most ceremonious
bows.

“Thank you sir—but—”

Here he was interrupted in his speech by Mrs. Edwards,
who no sooner heard his voice, than she turned round upon
him, opened her mouth, and uttered screams in such quick
succession, and with such startling energy, that even her master
rose up in utter astonishment, and applied his hand to his
ears.

Blore sprang from his chair and attempted to make a precipitate
retreat, but he was met at the door by Dizzle and
Patty, and was prostrated by the collision. He now lay upon
his back, his wooden leg pointed upward in an attitude of
defence, or as a cheval de frise to repulse an apprehended attack.

“What does this mean?” demanded Lowe, when Mrs.
Edwards' screams died away, and she sank fainting on a
chair

“The she-devil aint dead!” said Blore, rolling his eye
fearfully.

“She-devil! Who's a she-devil?” exclaimed Mrs. Edwards,
rising quickly, and approaching the prostrate soldier.

“Quarter!” cried he, “I surrender!”

“What does this mean?” again demanded Lowe.

“It means, sir, that that fragment of a 'uman being 'as
come to hour 'ouse a courting—and the widow Hedwards his
is wife!”

“It's true, your honor. When I was in the army I married
an English woman—”

“Henglish is as good as hother folks,” said Mrs. Edwards.

“At Waterloo,” continued Blore, “I thought all was lost,
and she among the rest—”

“You houtrageous—”

“To be certain of it,” continued Blore, “I had my own
name printed among the dead.”

“And that haccounts for your not being Thomas, now,”
said Mrs. Edwards.

“I see,” said Lowe; “and you have unexpectedly found
your wife. But, Edwards, why are you not the widow
Thomas?”

“Bless your soul, don't you know I married the drummer
Edwards in Lord Hilton's regiment, and that he was lost hover-board
on hour way to Hamerica?”

“True. Enough of that. Then as your last marriage
was illegal, you remain of course the lawful wife of the sergeant.”

“Pardon, sir,” said the sergeant. “My name is Thomas
Blore, but as they called me Mr. Thomas, and she married me
as Mr. Thomas, and was always Mrs. Thomas herself—”

“You think,” said Lowe, smiling, “she has no right to be
Mrs. Blore?”

“That is the point, sir,” said the sergeant.

“It may be decided against you,” said Lowe, “if she
chooses to claim her own.”

“Ave you made hany thing for yourself?” demanded the
housekeeper, approaching the sergeant, who had lowered his
leg.

“I am second in command of the garrison, and have laid
up a thousand dollars. One half shall be yours if you will
say nothing—”

“No—I'll 'ave it hall!” said she—“hall that a 'usband
howns belongs to the wife. But I won't live with you hif you
behave yourself, and hobey me. I don't want to leave my
young—”

“I will write the articles of settlement,” said Lowe,
quickly. “And, truly, sergeant, I think it would be unreasonable
in you, having yielded up two limbs and one eye to
glory, to claim your wife after so long a separation—”

“Claim the devil!” cried Blore, leaping up. “Pardon,
sir,—no offence to you. But I wouldn't be guilty of so unreasonable
a thing. I will sign, sir. Sign any thing to be rid
of her. Come, Dizzle. Confound these night sallies! Fix
it, Mr. Lowe. I'll sign. Only let me get once more under
cover of the fort!”

Thus terminated the sergeant's long meditated sortie upon
a matrimonial expedition.

“Hif you pleases, sir,” said Mrs. Edwards, when the
others had departed, “I ham disposed to be hagreeable. Put
down the five 'undred.”

“I doubt the justice of it, Edwards. Besides you do not
need his money. I will provide for you. You have served
me faithfully, and I shall have it in my power to reward you.
See Dizzle, and Patty, and cause them to be silent on the subject
of this discovery.”

“I will do hexactly has your honor hadvises,” said the
old housekeeper, as she hastened away to the kitchen.