University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
WALTER'S CURIOUS QUARREL WITH VIRGINIA—A STROLL WITH THE
POET—THE JEW—LOVE AND LAUGHTER—THE DENTIST.

Upon reaching the city Walter and his young friend proceeded
first to the residence of Dr. Nitre, as the most attractive
point, and not doubting that Miss Wilsome would remain in
tact until the former should find it convenient to wait upon
her. The latter had determined to depart in the evening train
for the college, where he learned there were letters awaiting
him, and he desired to pay his respects to the young ladies
before setting out. And Walter wished his attendance so
that Julia might be entertained while he conferred with Virginia,
whose failure to write him as usual, and as had been
agreed upon between them, rendered him apprehensive that
something injurious to his interests had occurred during his
absence.

When they were ushered into the parlor, they found only
the doctor and his good lady, who had just been engaged in
one of those little episodes in married life, called family quarrels,
which will still happen occasionally in the best regulated
establishments.

“Oh, I'm glad to see you!” cried Mrs. Nitre. Your arrival
is most opportune.”

“Hush, madam!” said the doctor, aside, after heartily
shaking the hands of the young men.

“No—no, doctor,” continued she, “I want the young
gentlemen to know what a singular, selfish, abstracted man
you are.”

“Deuce take her!” whispered Walter, “she's abusing her
husband again before her guests!”

“Just think of it!” said she—“Here we have had Virginia,
I don't know how long, and no party—no visitors! And
Dr. Nitre's practice worth five thousand dollars per annum!
No one visits us. No respect is paid to our niece, and simply
because the doctor won't encourage people to come.”

“My dear, I forget every thing else when treating my
patients.”

“That's it! he confesses his culpable neglect. Don't you
think it a great shame, Walter?”

“No, upon my word! I am not at all sorry to hear Virginia
has been secluded from society.”

“I'll tell her! But you agree with me, don't you Mr.
Parke?”

“Most certainly, madam.”

“I thought so! Now, Dr. Nitre—well! he's gone!” The
doctor had slipped away, winking at Walter.

“May we not have the pleasure of seeing the ladies?”
asked Walter. “I hope they are at home.”

“Oh yes. Of course they are at home. They would
never be guilty of paying the first visit! Did you come in
your aunt's carriage. If so we'll have a nice moonlight drive,
and make the doctor take his tea alone. No? I'm sorry for
it. But we shall have a promenade. I'll send down the girls
immediately.”

Shortly after Mrs. Nitre's departure Virginia and Julia
appeared—the latter in gay spirits—the other rather grave.
But as had been agreed upon between the young men, Julia's
attention was at this time engrossed by the southern student,
and Walter succeeded in detaching Virginia from her cousin.

“I have not received a letter since we parted,” said Walter,
in a low voice.

“For the reason that it was not written,” was replied
promptly, if not pettishly.

“But was there any good reason for not writting? I am
sure I wrote twice. I hope they were received.”

“They were received, sir. Here they are, unopened.”
And she placed them in his hand.

“Virginia! What have I done to deserve this?”

“Enough.”

“And will you not tell me?”

“Have you not been in the habit of exhibiting my letters,
and even giving them away?”

“No! Upon my soul, I have never been guilty of any
such baseness.”

“I suppose it would be denied. But what is a mere denial—”

“I'll swear to it—”

“No—don't! Pause. I say what is a denial, or even an
oath, against the evidence of one's own eyes?”

“Your own eyes! Virginia—”

“Call me Miss Oakdale, Mr. Winkle.”

“If any other person's eyes were to bear such testimony,
I would pronounce them false, perfidious, perjured—”

“Stop, sir! We'll see. Another person's eyes shall bear
witness with mine. I suppose you will believe your own eyes.
Here,” she continued, drawing another letter from her pocket
—“here is one of my letters, which I received from the hands
of a certain young lady, with whom I am informed you have
but a slight acquaintance. Do you recognize it?”

Walter gazed in utter astonishment at the familiar superscription.

“I would forswear my own eyes,” said he, “if they alone
beheld it. But, Virginia—”

“Miss Oakdale, Mr. Winkle,” she interposed.

“But there is some mystery here, which must be explained.
I never, so help me Heaven, gave that letter to any young lady,
or to any one else. I thought it was locked up at home—”

“Oh yes! And you asserted that they were kept next to
your heart!”

“It must have been so! It must have dropped from my
breast.”

“Then it was time to cease writing to so careless a correspondent.
But there is no proof that you lost it; and you
must pardon me for demanding a satisfactory explanation. I
had it from the hands of a young lady who came for the purpose
of returning it to me. I did not know her. She did
not stay to be interrogated. That is all I know. You should
know the rest.”

“I know no more of that young lady, or how she obtained
the letter, unless she picked it up in the street—or robbed my
escritoire—than—than—”

“Whom? you are at a loss for a figure of speech. But
no matter. You will have an abundance of leisure to investigate

the subject. In the mean time write me no more letters,
but return those received from me.”

“Are you serious, Virginia?”

“Miss Oakdale, Mr. Winkle; I am, and if you do not obey
me, I will never speak to you again.”

“You will let me have them again, if the unlucky appearance
of this one be satisfactorily accounted for?”

“I promise nothing. Then I shall not be obnoxious to
the charge of falsehood. Expect nothing, and you cannot be
unpleasantly disappointed. Be satisfied that I permit you to
attempt a vindication.”

“But in the mean time—”

“All is suspended.”

“But your father directed me to conduct you home.”

“He shall be obeyed. When do we set out?”

“I can't say, until I see my aunt who sent for me.”

“If she sent for you, why did you come here first?”

“I loved you more than my duty—”

“I believed you once.”

“And I wanted an explanation of the cause why you had
not written.”

“You have it. Now go. I will explain to my aunt. She
takes it for granted you will remain, and will insist upon it if
she sees you again. When you are ready to return to Babbleton
call for me—not before.”

“Walter,” said Parke, rising, and looking at his watch,
“I must go, or the cars will leave me. I will, if possible, run
down to the village next week to hear your speech.”

“And I should like to hear it,” said Julia, exchanging
glances with Parke.

“You are to return with me, you know,” said Virginia,
“and aunt is to spend a week at Cape May.”

The young gentlemen departed, one for the depot, the other
for the Winkle mansion.

Walter was admitted just as his aunt and her affianced,
Mr. Pollen, were siting down to tea. His aunt, dressed in her
usual fantastical style, applauded his promptitude of obedience,
and said she had not expected his arrival before the
next morning. But she was glad to see so ready a response
to her summons. Pollen greeted his young friend very cordially,
and thanked him for the loan of his shirt, adding that he was
now provided with an abundance of his own. He then repeated

to Miss Wilsome, the particulars of their nocturnal adventure
at the Jew's den, at which she laughed very heartily.

“Such incidents in the lives of men of genius,” said Wilsome,
“are the most interesting portions of their history. And
I shall insist upon having your biography, dictated by yourself.
I will hire an amanuensis for that purpose.”

Pollen bowed in grateful acknowledgment, and really considered
the words she had spoken, when he thought of the position
and the wealth of the person uttering them, as one of the
most felicitous speeches which had ever been addressed to him,
and if such a thing had been possible, he would doubtless have
fallen in love with her.

“Employ me, aunt,” said Walter. “I am idle, and want
something to do. Indeed I must do something to make a
living.”

“To make a living! Your father's fortune was ample.
He couldn't take it with him. Pooh—nonsense—the Winkles
are rich. Nevertheless, if you should be competent, and
would undertake the task—”

“I will answer for my ability to do him justice,” said
Walter—“and my lively and discriminating aunt shall figure
advantageously in the work. Oh, you shall be handed down
to posterity!”

“And she shall be!” said Pollen, his fine pale face beaming
with animation. “Authors are generally poor. They
live in poverty, and die in destitution. Then the literary
scavengers pick their rags from the gutter, and thousands
with more dollars than brains are startled at the tale of
their indigence and suffering, and lament they had not met with
and relieved them, and thus linked their names with immortality.
They too, die—they must die—and I fear they are
d—d. But they are not remembered by the next generation,
while the works of the starved, the contemned, the insulted
poet, are decked in gilt morocco, and placed upon the gorgeous
centre-tables of the rich and the fashionable! Yes,
Miss Winkle, your name, as one of the discerning few, will
not be swallowed up in the dark jaws of unrelenting oblivion.
They may call you eccentric, imprudent, mad, if they
please, but you possessed the noble generosity, the divine
impulse of charity, to relieve the distress of one whose works
have been pronounced the emanations of genius. No, madam!
In future years, whenever the name of Harold Pollen is

mentioned, yours will be referred to as the angel in human
form who rescued him from destruction. Recollect what
was said of Homer:—

Walter watched his aunt closely. There was a twinkle of
the eye which portended a tear, and he had often heard it said
that she was incapable of shedding one. She lifted her handkerchief
with the utmost care, and applied it slightly to the
lower lash, and above the paint. But the spasmodic quiver
satisfied him that she was not devoid of noble emotions.

“That speech,” said Walter, “shall be interpolated in the
book.”

“I see you are laughing at me, Walter!” said his aunt.
“So, for fear that some of your own nonsense may be added,
I shall look over the proof-sheets myself.”

“Why, aunt, I understand they are to be his posthumous
memoirs; and you can have no reasonable expectation of surviving
him.”

“She may,” said Pollen; “it would be no unreasonable
expectation. I have seen my end. It is not in the distant
future.”

“Pooh! Nonsense! Change the subject,” said Miss
Wilsome. “How dare you start such a dismal topic, Walter?
Sip your tea sir, and then if nothing else occurs, we will have
a rubber.”

“Not to-night, aunt. Mr. Pollen and I have an appointment—”

“So we have,” said the poet, quickly. “But we will endeavor
to be back in time for a game.”

“If you have an appointment, it must be kept,” said Miss
Wilsome, “and I presume it is not my privilege to demand
the nature of it, or to suggest that it might be postponed.”

“It might be postponed,” said Walter, “if I were not
compelled to return to Babbleton before another night.”

“Why are you compelled to return?” asked his aunt.

“Because I promised Col. Oakdale to conduct Virginia
home to-morrow, if you did not see proper to detain me
longer.”

“Perhaps I will see proper to do so. So you may be here

another night, if I desire it. But you will not take Virginia
back with you.”

“Why, aunt?”

“I won't tell you—just now. I may, if you return in
time. Oh it was a fine adventure. I found it out, sir! Take
care of your hair, when you meet Virginia. I warn you
against her talons. I could dispel the mystery, however, and
enable you to explain satisfactorily. But if she laughed as
heartily as I have done, there might be danger of a rupture
of a blood-vessel.”

“Aunt!” said Walter, “I will remain, if—”

“Go about your business! I don't believe you have any
other engagement than a desire to smoke a cigar. Go—and
make haste back.”

Pollen and Walter departed immediately, the latter wondering
what adventure and mystery his aunt had referred to,
and if it had any connection with the origin of Virginia's displeasure.

“Do not be cast down,” said Pollen, supposing Walter's
abstraction to proceed from the change in his prospects since
the marriage of his uncle. “Your aunt has informed me of
the ridiculous choice of your uncle, and of her displeasure, and
determination to cast off every member of her family who
failed to take umbrage at it. She has even expressed an
intention to marry; and if such a thing should ever happen—”

“Should ever happen!” exclaimed Walter, in amazement.
“Do you not know it will happen?”

“I? Certainly not. All I know about it is, that she has
expressed such a purpose several times. I was silent. I did
not choose to manifest any dissent from such an idea, though
I thought it strange, since she has taken me into her favor,
that she never intimated who was to be the happy man.”

“Is it possible?”

“It is as I tell you. Do you know him?”

“Thou art the man!” said Walter, placing his hand on
the poet's shoulder.

“Me? No. It is a mistake.”

“It is no mistake. She has informed me of it herself. It
is strange, however, that she should have withheld the information
from you—you, who must certainly be as deeply interested
in the matter as any one. But you know the manner

of my imperious aunt. You have been complacent in every
thing else, and to oppose her will in this, is what she has not
conceived to be possible.”

“She shall soon be undeceived, then! Had I not been
blind and stupid, I might have suspected something of the sort
was meant! But who could have supposed that one old
enough to be my mother—one, no matter! Return with me,
until I open her eyes. Marry your aunt, and defraud the
proper heir! I would rather starve in the street! No, no.
I have observed the injustice and misery of such alliances, and
will never be guilty of that which I have condemned in others.
Let us return!”

“No!” said Walter—“do not yet undeceive her. It
might kill her; or it might make her your enemy.”

“Is it true there is no such thing as disinterested friendship
on earth? I thought she had selected me as the object
of her bounty, because she believed I had merit, and because
the rest of mankind had combined to sink me with their neglect.
I deemed her brave in opposing the world, and nobly
generous in assuming an object of odium, one with whom no
human being sympathized, from despair and destruction.
After all, her motive was merely to obtain a husband!”

“Men and women were made to marry,” said Walter.
“There was no harm in that.”

“But women were not designed to marry their grandsons!
However, it was never my design to be a permanent pensioner.
I hoped to repay her favors, and hope so still. I am
in her debt. She has satisfied my creditors; clothed and fed
me. I owe her so many dollars, and perhaps some gratitude.
Thank Heaven, hope is not extinct in my bosom, or else an impenetrable
darkness would prevail. I have two volumes ready
for the press, and a single one ere this has repaired a man's
fortune and made him an undying name. My name has been
won. No earthly power can annihilate it. And if only one
or two of the daily papers would say what they honestly think
of the merits of my works, there would be purchasers enough
to lift me above the reach of the talons of want. If such a
thing should happen, I will reimburse your aunt—”

“No—you will do no such thing,” said Walter. “She
would not receive your money. She would deny that she ever
expended any for your benefit. No doubt she has forgotten
all about it. She is not mercenary—but she is Wilsome. If

you break with her, she will abuse you—but she will never allude
to any advances of money. On the contrary, if the rupture
be not so violent as to make her forget she has a purse, it
is quite likely that after denouncing you, she will share it with
you, and then dismiss you with her curse.”

“I would rather have one's curses, for dissatisfaction with
my person, my manners, my mere caprices—and if it be a luxury
I have long enjoyed it—than bear the scorpion stings of
just reproaches—reproaches for having perpetrated a deception;
or for having failed to recognize the claims of a son of
genius, who perished from neglect, for—”

“Pardon me for interrupting you, But whither do we
go?”

“Fate has led us towards the den of Abraham Laban, the
Jew.”

“And we will enter and try our fortunes. We may know
whether there be any good thing in store for us, from his anxiety
to rob us of the greater portion of it. If he be not
disposed to treat with us—then, indeed, the prospect is gloomy.
But Pollen, in regard to this curious aunt of mine, will you
listen to reason?”

“Yes—a little.”

“Then do not break with her abruptly. Do not absolutely
decline her offers. Postpone the time of separation, if you
cannot wed her, and must separate. She is enormously rich,
and does not spend one tenth of her income. It could not
be better bestowed than on you. Both gold and genius are
given by our Maker, and the one should be subservient to the
other. She may abuse you when you part, revile you when
severed, but will never cease to luxuriate in the remembrance
that she once entertained a poet under her roof. And the
more she expends on you the happier will she be. It will be
the most sensible expenditure she could make, and afford her
the most satisfaction when she reflects upon it afterwards.
She will never reckon the amount expended, and therefore my
advice is that you do not neglect the present opportunity of
partaking of her liberality. Undoubtedly she will resent
your abandonment of her; but rely upon it, she will never
permit any one else to censure you. I know her well. On
the contrary she will denounce all her rich friends for not
dividing their fortunes with you.”

“Walter! you almost persuade me to marry her. For

my own part, I might be contented to do so; but the world,
posterity, would attribute unworthy motives—and—I will
not do it! That is my irreversible decision. But I will not
break with her abruptly.”

“Enough. Now let us enter the Hebrew's infernal regions.”

They were admitted by the ministering young girl the Jew
employed in the capacity of door-keeper, that she might seem
to have an honest occupation.

Abraham now bestowed the most of his cordiality on the
poet, to his infinite surprise.

“We come to have our fortunes told,” said Walter, occupying,
unbidden, a chair.

“Told down, I suppose,” said the Jew. “It is the way
with all. It is astonishing that so many hundreds rely upon
me for fortunes, and at the same time condemn me for my
gains. Yet, how could I furnish so many with money, if I
did not derive it from others? If I did not reap profits, my
purse would soon be exhausted, and then the Jew could assist
no one. Blind, ungrateful fools!”

“And that's as true as any speech Shylock ever made.
But Abraham, you were disposed a short time since to advance
me money on my bond.”

“A short time since. Well, I was. But a short time
after makes a great difference. At two o'clock a man is rich
—at three a bankrupt. Your uncle marries. His wife will
become his heir in the will she will cause him to sign. Your
bond would be worthless.”

“Nevertheless, Abraham, you will acknowledge your prescience
was at fault. You might have been a loser by the
operation.”

“I acknowledge no such thing.”

“You do not?”

“No. I would have forbidden the bans.”

“And what good would that have done?”

“I mean that the wedding would not have taken place,
unless it was a match decreed by the Jesuits. I rarely fail in
my calculations. There would have been abundant means of
preventing the marriage.”

“I wish you had done so.”

“It is too late, now. It might have been better for us
both, if you had borrowed money on your bond. I would

have been a gainer, and would have been abused—by the
Christians. But why should not you and I enjoy your uncle's
treasure as well as Gusset? Ha, ha, ha! The Jew has as
much right to pick up gold as another person. And in this
instance he would have served the rightful heir. But no more.
That account is closed.”

“And mine was never opened,” said Pollen.

“The time had not yet arrived,” said the Jew, with a most
conciliating smile.

“It had, though!” said the poet. “You declined to
treat for my poem. Since then, it has realized me some—
some—”

“Four hundred and twenty-five dollars,” said the Jew.

“How the d—l did you know?” asked Pollen, quickly,
for the computation was just.

“No matter. It is my business to know. I will not explain
the means. To me the manuscript would have been
worthless. Hence you see the importance of placing your
productions in the proper hands. Every thing depends upon
the disposition and influence of the party you deal with.
Now, we may negotiate if you are so disposed.”

“Since you know every thing, my merits, my possessions
and expectations, please name the utmost sum I may command,
the terms to be dictated by yourself.”

“I have calculated it. Ten thousand dollars.”

“You take my breath!”

“Do you take the money,” said Walter.

“Out of your pocket?” asked the Jew.

“My pocket?” said Walter, involuntarily thrusting his
hand in it. Oh, yes. He is quite welcome to all he can find
there.”

“Your terms?” demanded Pollen.

“Two bonds. One for fifteen thousand dollars, due at the
expiration of twelve months—”

“Without interest?”

“With interest from date—the legal interest, six per
cent.”

“Merciful Jew!”

“No. Mercy, friendship, gratitude, are idle terms in matters
of business. The merchants denounce us for charging
four per cent. a month for our money, when they design to
realize eight per cent on it, and sometimes succeed.”

“How is that?” asked Walter.

“Why, with fifty thousand dollars, they sell to the amount
of half-a-million. If they get ten per cent. profit on their
sales, they receive eight per cent. per month on the capital invested.
And yet they curse us, call us usurers, and pass
laws to prevent us, if possible, but which is not possible, from
reaping more than six per cent. on our investments!”

“With the ten thousand, then, I might make twenty, and
could afford to pay the bonus of five. I think I shall embrace
the offer,” said the poet.

“But the other bond,” said the Jew.

“I forgot that. What is it like? Not a pound of flesh, I
hope, Jew?”

“No—but the whole heart. You must bind yourself to
marry your young friend's aunt within five days, and you shall
have my check payable the day after.”

“I'd see you — first! I would rather marry the pretty
girl you keep to admit customers taken in by you.”

“I have no more to say,” replied the Jew, flushed with
anger. “But I warn you not to attempt to hold any conversation
with that girl! You can have no business with her.
Good night, gentlemen.”

The young men, thus summarily dismissed, revenged
themselves by exchanging significant glances with the girl who
unbarred the door for them, and who did not seem to be offended
at the liberty they had taken.

Walter, who was impatient for the solution of the mystery
in which he was so unconsciously involved, prevailed on the
poet to return to the Winkle mansion.

“I thought you would soon return,” said the pleased old
lady, when they entered the brilliantly illuminated parlor.
“One felt an irresistible curiosity to know my secret; and the
other always finds my poor house sufficiently attractive.”

“Oh, yes,” said Pollen, “a home fit for a prince; but I
am merely a poet.”

“But nevertheless as welcome as a prince,” said Wilsome,
with a most gracious smile.

“Now, aunt!” said Walter.

“Wait till one of the Points comes in. I have sent for
Clara—the mischievous one.”

“The Points!” exclaimed Walter, recollecting the adventure
of the night when he entered the Professor's house by

mistake. “Pray don't send for her, aunt,” said Walter. “I
have special reasons for it.”

“And I have stronger ones for doing what I wish. She will
make a fourth at whist. Pooh! you don't know her. She
won't recognize you—she did not know Mr. Pollen. You will
find her a pretty, piquant, delightful little creature; and if
Virginia should discard you, she will serve for your next love.
On such conditions you may have access here, and seats at my
table. Here she is!” And sure enough the lively and handsome
Clara glided into the room, and Walter was introduced
to her. When bowing, and lifting her eyes, she affected to
start, as if surprised.

“Don't be alarmed,” said Miss Wilsome, “he is no burglar.”

“Burglar, aunt!”

“Yes, burglar. Oh, you don't know how heartily we have
laughed at that odd mistake of yours!”

“All's known, then!” said Walter. “I begged your father
not to divulge it,” he continued, addressing Clara, who
had taken possession of a seat at his elbow.

“He did not intend to divulge it. But he talks in his
sleep, and my mother, woman-like, you know, could not rest
until she had possession of his secret.”

“And you, may I not venture to say, could not rest until
you obtained it from her?”

“You may venture to say so! And had I no right to
know who it was that had invaded my chamber?”

“True. But I hope you have forgiven me.”

“I suppose so. But you must be careful how you commit
such mistakes. I should like to know who squeezed my
hand.”

“It was not me? Probably George—”

“Who? I would like to know.”

“I must not tell.”

“It was George Parke, since both Walter and Harold
have denied it,” said Wilsome.

“You ought not to expose George, my good aunt,” said
Walter.

“After exposing himself in a lady's bed-chamber, he need
not fear any exposure of mine. It is all explained, now; and
so we will have our game. Rose, bring the cards.”

“Iss, mem,” said Rose, obeying promptly.

“There is something else, aunt, you were to elucidate,”
said Walter, reverting to the displeasure of Virginia.

“The letter—I forgot the letter. It was found in the
flour barrel.”

“Found in the flour barrel!” exclaimed Walter.

“Found in the flour barrel!” repeated Clara, in a mock
solemnity of tone.

“A floury epistle,” said Pollen.

“No one read it, however,” said Clara. “We agreed
among ourselves that its contents should be sacred. We
merely looked at the signature, so that we could return it to
the writer.”

“That was wrong,” said Walter; “it should have been returned
to me, the owner.”

“I know it, and I said so, but—”

“I determined it should be delivered to Virginia. Blame
me, Walter,” said his aunt. “I did it for my amusement,
but under a promise that all should be satisfactorily explained.
I knew Virginia could be easily appeased. Sit still, sir; never
mind your hat.”

“Your letter did not fare so well,” continued Clara, addressing
Pollen.

“Mine? I am not aware of having lost any.”

“It was no great loss, I fancy. But it is certain that
when you threw your hat on my bed, a letter fell out of it.”

“Indeed! Let me remember. I believe I did receive a
note that day from my—tailor! I hope you sent it back to
the writer. I shall not be offended.”

“Here it is,” said Clara, who had slyly received it from
Miss Wilsome.

“Paid! Receipted! My dear Miss, you may have all my
letters!” said Pollen, who knew perfectly well who had paid
the bill.

“Agreed,” said Clara. “But I cannot consent to receive
them in the same manner, and at the same time and place.”

“My dear aunt,” said Walter, rising, “do permit me to
run down to Dr. Nitre's—”

“Are you unwell?” asked Clara.

“Pooh, child, she won't die before morning,” replied his
aunt, shuffling the cards. “And I'm sure she's in bed by this
time, and perhaps asleep, and dreaming of you. The habit is
fixed upon her—the abominable habit of retiring early, and

early rising, which she got from her father. He is out every
morning before the sun is up, cruelly destroying the woodcock,
or killing the trout, which he finds in a small brook—a fish,
Mr. Pollen, not much longer than your finger.”

“And what is your hour, aunt, for retiring?”

“None in particular—but always after midnight. And I
rise in the same way, any time after nine. Bring your mate.
I am paired.”

They played until the game palled on their hands, for the
victory, if it could be termed a victory when there was no contest,
was invariably on the side of Wilsome and the poet.

“You must be deeply in love, Walter,” said his aunt. “I
never knew you to play so badly. It must be an affection of
the heart which has obtused your head.”

“It would follow, then,” said Pollen, “that where the intellect
is clear, there is no affection of the heart.”

Wilsome threw a glance of surprise at the poet, and felt
that her shaft had rebounded.

“Let him defend himself,” said she.

“No. I yield,” said Walter.

“Then take the captive with you,” said his aunt, to Clara,
who was departing.

“I will,” was the response, “but I will not admit him
within the door.”

“Oh, he finds access without your permission,” said Pollen,
bowing, and withdrawing.

The next morning Walter hastened to the mansion of
Doctor Nitre, and met the doctor himself on the marble steps.

“I am glad to meet you here, my young friend,” said the
doctor, “and was, indeed, just going to your aunt's to see you.
I have learned the cause of Virginia's umbrage—indeed I
knew it yesterday, for it was confided to me by Professor Point
—and I should have informed you of it, but I knew there was
no danger of a serious estrangement, and—”

“I knew all about it, doctor,” said Walter, impatient to
enter. “If your conscience acquits you, for prolonging Virginia's
pain, I am sure I do ”

“But you have had your revenge, sir! I have been punished.
Your abrupt departure last evening was attributed by
Mrs. Nitre, to some misconduct of mine; I believe it was for
leaving you to visit some poor languishing patient; and I assure
you, in the strictest confidence, that I endured the

severest curtain lecture last night I ever listened to in all
my life.”

“I am sorry to hear it, doctor.”

“And I am glad to find a sympathizer. Mrs. Nitre has
been in an ill humor ever since. But the clouds will blow
away, and the sun shine forth again, when she sees you. Good-bye—and
good luck to you.”

Walter rang and was admitted. But before the servant
had an opportunity to announce his name to Mrs. Nitre, he
espied Virginia gliding into the parlor, and immediately joined
her. She still wore a serious aspect, and there were visible
traces of recent discomposure.

But when the lover made a full confession of his night's
frolic; of the encounter with the poet; the Jew's interview
with the fortune hunters; the death of the monkey, and the
adventure in the professor's house, the gloom vanished from
the young lady's brow, and was succeeded by hearty and
hilarious laughter.

“In the name of wonder what is the matter with the
girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Nitre, running in. Virginia was
speechless from her cachinatory convulsions.

“Only diverted at a little confession I have been making,”
said Walter.

“Oh, you are here, my dear friend! The stupid servant!
I will discharge her! Not to inform me you had called.
And—bless me! I am in dishabille!” she added, glancing at
her morning wrapper and quickly vanishing. Before she
returned, Walter had made his peace with Virginia, and departed.

When he appeared again before his aunt, she could not
avoid observing the change in his spirits and appearance; and
she listened with satisfaction to his narration of the proceedings
at his uncle's mansion after the dispersion of the wedding
guests. Being greatly diverted at the annoyance of Gusset,
on whom, when her name was mentioned, she never failed to
bestow a broadside of opprobrious epithets, she approved the
conduct of Walter, and desired him to say to Sergeant Blore,
that whenever he visited the city, her house would be open for
his reception, and might be freely considered as his headquarters.
But she condemned Walter for riding in the coach
with the “impudent hussy,” and intimated that if he had
quarrelled with her outright she might have become reconciled

to him, and indeed might have deferred her own wedding to
some distant period.

“When is it to take place, aunt?” he asked.

“I have not fixed the day—but soon.”

“Is he impatient?”

“He? He don't know any thing about it yet!” was the
prompt reply.

“That is most extraordinary,” said Walter. “I always
thought it required two to make a match, unless, indeed, one
may substitute a dummy.”

“None of your nonsense. A dummy husband might be
very convenient, though, under certain circumstances! But
mine shall be a man of genius; one looked up to by the world
with admiration; one who can reply to the impertinences of
frivolous tongues, in Greek; one who, when lifted above the
fangs of poverty, and the sneers of tradespeople, will be universally
respected; and who will have justice done him by
the press of the country, when it is known he is independent
of their aid in the procurement of a subsistence. Surely I,
who can accomplish all these things for him, have the right to
name the day and condition, and he must have too much discernment
to throw any obstacles in the way.”

“I suppose so, aunt; but I don't know. I have heard it
said that Pollen once lost a fortune by refusing to yield to the
caprices of a woman.”

“He did—he told me so himself. But has he not suffered
for his folly? Would he be likely to repeat such an
indiscretion, with all his experience of the evils of abject
destitution; I don't fear it. But come—let us go to the dentist.”

They drove to the gorgeously upholstered shop of the
tooth-filer, and were ushered into a saloon hung round with
second-hand mirrors bought at Moses's haberdashery, and
were invited to recline on the red cushions of the sofas.

“I shall do no such thing,” said Wilsome to the maid.
“I am never kept waiting any where. Tell Mr. Enamel that
Miss Wilsome Winkle desires to have his attention immediately.”

“Mr. Enamel, miss,” said the fine servant maid, “is in
New York, and will not return before evening. But Mr. Foil,
his friend from New York, and the fashionable dentist of that
city, is here to-day to operate for him.”

“He don't operate on me! Mr. Foil, indeed! No. My
mouth is not open to every body! Tell Mr. Enamel, when
he returns, to bring his instruments to my house, and perform
the operation there. If he fails, I shall look for a more grateful
dentist. I first saw this Enamel,” she continued to Walter,
as they returned home, “several years ago, in church, when
all the wealth he possessed was a fine suit of clothes, and a
handsome face. The congregation was large and rich, which
of course was the reason he joined them, and I aided him in
extending his acquaintance. The minister recommended him
to me, and I believe his large family to this day pay nothing
for the dentist's services; and so Enamel's business increased
most wonderfully. He has made a fortune, however, and is
less accommodating than he used to be. But he shall accommodate
me.”

“Aunt,” said Walter, “do you suppose there was any
agreement between the minister and the dentist?”

“Perhaps none specified. But like another class, so much
abused, there are some clergymen the merest deadheads, who
make merchandise of religion. While denouncing the mercenary
spirit of the age, their own edifices, which they call
churches, are the marts for the sale of all sorts of wares,
and you never fail to hear the rattle of money in them. It
would almost seem as if they bartered salvation for silver,
and begged in the name of the Lord.”

“And that might be construed as taking the name of the
Lord in vain—”

“True, Walter. For sometimes, I doubt not, they beg
in vain. If Enamel disappoints me, to-morrow we will go to
New York.”

“To New York, aunt?”

“Certainly. Do not people go there every day? There
is nothing wonderful in it. Yes, I will go there, and be operated
on by some one who shall not learn my name, and where
I dwell. I have my reasons for it.”

“Then I should not be able to return to Babbleton today.”

“Of course not.”

“And if Enamel comes, I shall not be permitted to spend
the evening at Dr. Nitre's.”

“No. You are subject to my orders. But if you desire
it, Virginia and Julia shall both come to my house.”

“I do desire it, aunt.”

Virginia and Julia were sent for immediately, and they
dined at the Winkle mansion. In the evening a splendid
equipage drove up to the door, and Dr. Enamel descended,
and was conducted to the chamber which had been prepared
for him, and where he was soon after joined by Miss Wilsome
and Walter.

Here Walter learned, for the first time, that his aunt's
beautiful teeth he had been accustomed to admire, were all
false, and that the roots of the one to be extracted, were the
last remains of nature's handiwork. When her teeth were removed,
Miss Wilsome's lips fell in, and her voice was sepulchral.

“If it gives you too much pain,” said Enamel, when preparing
to incise the gum, “you had better take a little ether.
I have brought a bottle for that purpose.”

“Throw it out of the window!” said the old lady, now
looking very old indeed. “I will have none of it. I shall
never place myself in a condition to have my throat cut, and
be a mere silent spectator, without the ability to resist. True,
Walter is here, and would revenge me. Still, I won't relinquish
my own powers of resistance. Do your work as quickly
as possible—I will bear the pain.”

She bore it like a heroine. She did not even wince under
the infliction. But the root adhered so tenaciously to its
socket, that all the strength of Enamel was exerted to extract
it. And in the struggle, he placed one of his hands on the
head of his patient, and by an unlucky movement, the whole
mass of dark glistening hair, which had often elicited the admiration
of Walter, slipped aside and fell to the floor, leaving
his aunt's head as bald, and almost as smooth and white as an
egg.

“Give me my hair!” she cried, starting up, and ejecting
the blood which followed the extraction of the root of the
tooth.

“How is this?” demanded Walter, rising, and assuming a
menacing attitude, for at first he supposed the dentist had by
some process or other deprived his aunt of her natural adornment.

“It is only her wig,” whispered Enamel. “She has been
bald fifteen years.”

“Wilsome replaced the hair, adjusting it before a mirror

speechless with indignation, for Pollen had passed by the door,
which had been neglectfully left open. Then she replaced
her teeth, without uttering a word.

“I am sorry the accident happened,” said Enamel.

“You should have remembered that it happened once
before,” replied Wilsome, after a long silence. “It is not
pleasant to be exposed thus, in the presence of witnesses.
True, one is my nephew—but he knew nothing about it. And
Pollen must be passing, just at that moment!”

“He was in a revery, aunt,” said Walter, “and incapable
of observing external objects.”

“I hope so,” said she. “That is all, sir,” she continued
to Enamel. “To-morrow send me your bill, and I will sign
a check. You know I will not permit my name to go on a
dentist's books.”

Enamel bowed and withdrew, and the next minute his
coach was heard rolling away.

As Walter and his aunt proceeded towards the parlor,
where the young ladies were engaged in some boisterous entertainment,
many solemn injunctions of inviolable secrecy were
imposed. The old lady declared, in the event of his betraying
her, the estrangement which she had already decreed, would
be changed to bitter enmity, without the benefit of truce, or
an interlude of special friendly meeting, during the remainder
of their lives.

When they appeared in the parlor, it was ascertained that
the poet had truly fallen into one of his fits of abstraction, and
wandered away in the street, muttering incoherently, something
upon the subject of impartial criticism. Wilsome seemed
annoyed. But Walter and Virginia realized a happy unconsciousness
of the vexations to which mortality is liable.