University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
A MOONLIGHT ADVENTURE, AND SOME OF THE CONSEQUENCES.

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.

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, 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 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 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

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

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.

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.”

“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,

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.

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

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,

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?”

“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?”

“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

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.