University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
LUCY DETERMINES TO FLY—AND WILL NOT TELL HER LOVER
WHITHER.

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

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

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

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

“I will not mention it.”

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

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

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

“Dill Bizzle, mam.”

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

“Yes, miss.”

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

“Mercy on us!” exclaimed Lucy.

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

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

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

“I fear the worst,” said Lucy.

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

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

“Killed?” asked Lucy, quickly.

Bill related the whole affair and then departed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then why should they fly?”

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

“You speak that almost savagely.”

“Sometimes I have the feelings of a savage!”

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

“Is it so? And you go voluntarily?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certainly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was not mounted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Biz—Diz—Dill Bizzle, mam.”

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

“Yes, mam.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, certainly.”

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

“Oh, yes!”

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

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

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

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

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