University of Virginia Library

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

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 well-formed
butcher is as good as the scrawny sallow-complexioned
milliner.”

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

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

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,

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

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

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

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,

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

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

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

Winkle, running across the chamber in his gown, “I'll court-martial
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.

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.”

“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

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

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.