University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
FLIGHT OF LUCY FROM HER LOVERS—JOHN DOWLY'S VISIT TO THE
WIDOW-BLORE'S LETTER.

At the village Roland attempted in vain to obtain an interview
with Lucy. Repeatedly the effort was made; and when

he withdrew the last time, defeated and chagrined, and with
malignant impulses struggling in his breast, he was met by
Lowe—his despised rival—who was approaching the mansion.
Lowe, always pale, but never more self-possessed, diminished
his pace, and looking his enemy steadily in the eye, smiled
derisively. Roland, disconcerted, and trembling with fear,
cast down his eyes and strode past without uttering a word.

Lowe was admitted, and a few moments after Lucy appeared
before him, and occupied a seat at his side. And she
began the conversation.

“Mr. Lowe,” said she, “I chanced to see your meeting
with Roland in the street. You seemed prepared for a rencontre.
There was defiance on your lip, and vengeance in
your heart.”

“He is a coward—therefore I cannot attack him.”

“He is dangerous, though cowardly, as you say. I would
not, for the world, have any blood spilled on my account.
Will you, for my sake, forbear?”

“Certainly. I never could desire to do him injury, except
in my own defence, or yours.”

“I shall withdraw from a place where it is necessary to
have a defender. Will you promise, during my absence, not
to come in hostile collision with Roland?”

“Most willingly, especially if the desire is at all prompted
by a motive to save me from the effects of his evil machinations.”

“I would save you from his vengeance, which is not often
balked in the victimization of its object. I would save him,
too, from the consequences of your enmity. And I would save
myself from the heart-rending reflection, that I had been the
innocent cause of strife, and wounds, and perhaps death. Oh,
promise me that you will not have any conflict with him!”

“I do promise, Lucy, as I said, unless it be unavoidable.”

“It may be avoided, sir, if you will it—for you know the
truth of the old proverb, where ever there is a will there is a
way.”

“I fear the proverb is not true. I have the will, for instance,
to make you mine, now and for ever. I see you tremble.
Fear not—I will not importune you further, until it is
fairly ascertained if there be no other way to remove the impediment.
But I have a most vehement will to know the

place you have selected for your seclusion. Now, where is
the way?”

“You jest with me,” said Lucy, smiling; “and in truth
I am glad to see your spirits reviving; for I had learned you
were in a melancholy mood.”

“In your presence, dear Lucy, my gloom and despondency
vanish, like vapors before the sun.”

“If you deem such fine flattering speeches the way, you
are mistaken.”

“I did not—I did not. It was uttered involuntarily, and
for my own gratification. It is an enjoyment, Lucy, for me
to utter the truthful sentiments of my heart in your presence.
But the way—why may I not learn the way?”

“For the reason I alleged. The decree cannot be recalled,
until there may be no longer any reason for its enforcement.
Still there may be a way, if there be a will—that is, if the
will be true and faithful, and constant—”

“Until when?”

“I cannot tell. I know not. You know what we would
learn, but will not tell. Let that suffice.”

“It must, perforce. We are interrupted.”

Biddy Boggle, who had admitted some one into the hall,
stood at the door of the parlor.

“Who is it, Biddy?” asked Lucy.

“Dill Bizzle,” said she.

“What does he want?”

“He says—no—I beg pardon—I meant to say Bill—Bizzle—this
time. He says there's a female woman—he said it
mam—has a letter for you, from your aunt.”

“Show her into the other room, Biddy, and bring me the
letter,” said Lucy, in some trepidation, for she believed the
messenger came from her aunt in New York. And so it
proved; and a bright flush spread over her face, when she
glanced at the well-known peculiarity of her aunt's caligraphy.

“I will call again, if permitted, this evening,” said Lowe,
rising. “May I do so?”

“Certainly,” said Lucy, half unconsciously, and she proceeded
to tear open the envelope as Lowe retired.

While Lucy was perusing the letter, the bearer of it, Miss
Edith McCrabbed, a thin, pale, hoop-nosed old maid, was conducted
into the sitting-room, where she was recognized, by the

widow, as the only domestic, or rather companion, of her sister
Flora. She was greeted in a familiar and friendly manner,
but she declined taking the seat tendered her, or removing
her bonnet.

“Surely you do not intend to return to-day?” said Mrs.
Winkle.

“Surely I do!” said Miss McCrabbed; “and the conductor
said the train for New York would be here in fifteen
minutes.”

“Why, did you not say you came for Lucy?”

“Yes, mawdam, and I hope she'll be ready.”

“To-day?”

“Yes, mawdam. The letter explains it all.”

Just then Lucy came in with the letter. She hastened to
bestow some friendly salutations on Miss McCrabbed, and then
placing the letter in the hands of her mother, exclaimed: “I
will be ready! I am rejoiced it is so. Do not object, mother.
We will avoid the many unpleasant anticipations that would
otherwise afflict us before parting. Read it, dear mother,
while I prepare my trunk. Biddy, tell Bill Dizzle to stay a
few minutes. Say I shall want him to carry Miss McCrabbed's
trunk to the depot.”

Lucy disappeared before her mother could reply. The
letter ran thus:—

Bill Dizzle glided through the hall with a trunk on his
shoulder, as the first whistle of the approaching train was
heard; and the next moment Lucy ran in and threw her arms
around her mother's neck. “Farewell, dear mother!” cried
she. “It is best to go thus—to part now—but we will write
daily—and if I do not return soon, you can come to me. I
will induce my aunt to make every thing convenient for the
visit. Never fear! I never yet strove in vain to please. I
will convince her that she is not poor—for I believe she is
rich—and are you not her only sister? Farewell, dear, dear
mother!”

A moment after, being released from her mother's embrace,
Lucy was crossing the street with Edith McCrabbed, and when
the train paused, the two were just at the steps, and ascended
into the car without being recognized, or attracting the slightest
notice from the crowd that stood in the vicinity.

When comfortably seated, and just as the cars were starting
away, Lucy beheld Roland gazing at some ladies sitting a few
feet in front of her. She turned her head quickly away, and
trembled lest she might be discovered. But as the train
moved off, she became satisfied she had escaped his observation,
and once more breathed freely.

Mrs. Winkle laughed and wept alternately. The letter
from her sister, the Scotch messenger, the trunk hurried away
on Dizzle's shoulder, and Lucy's promptitude of action, were
irresistible sources of amusement. But then the reality, the
sad reality, that Lucy was gone, and that she was left alone
for an indefinite period, with perhaps an enemy awaiting a
favorable opportunity to aim a blow at the small remnant of
her fortune; and with many malicious persons around, ever
ready to rejoice at her calamity, produced, at every ebb of her
spirits, a flood of tears.

It was while her spirits were thus ebbing and flowing, that

Lowe again entered, anticipating the hour appointed for his
return; for he had learned from Bill Dizzle that Lucy had departed,
but in what direction Bill was unable to say, for he
had been called away from the depot after putting down the
trunk, and there were no less than three trains with passengers
to leave in the next few minutes for as many different places.

“Is it true,” cried Lowe, “that Lucy has left us?”

“True, indeed. You men would not let her rest, and so
she resolved to escape.”

“But she appointed an hour for me to come hither this
very evening.”

“Then come. Or rather stay. I hope she did not promise
to be here herself?”

“I understood her so.”

“You must have misunderstood her; she never deceives.
But she has a spice of humor, and knew the house would be
open to receive you. Laugh at it, Mr. Lowe, and confess that
the men do not possess all the spirit vouchsafed poor humanity.
I have laughed until tears came to my relief.”

“But is it prudent, Mrs. Winkle, to permit Lucy to depart
unattended, and perhaps to remain for days or weeks, where
no one interested in her welfare will watch over her, and be
ready to defend her from insult, if any should be offered? You
know she is irresistibly lovely.”

“I know the gentlemen are in the habit of saying so. But
be not uneasy. Her safety will be guarded by others, and I
have confidence in her own sense of duty and strength of purpose.
Why, did she not fly the danger here? I assure you
her departure was a suggestion of her own. I have no fears
for Lucy.”

“And you will not tell me where she has gone?”

“No. She did not authorize me to do so.”

“Very well. I am then at liberty to find out, if I can.
Permit me to take my leave. In half an hour I must be seated
in the down train.”

As Lowe said this, he looked to find some indication in
Mrs. Winkle's features of the truth of his conjecture. He had
heard Dizzle say the letter was from Lucy's aunt, and although
he was aware that Miss Wilsome had decreed the banishment
of the widow's family, yet he had never heard of the existence
of another aunt. Therefore he hastened to the cars when they

paused at the depot, and set off for Philadelphia in pursuit
of Lucy.

Roland saw him depart from his room at the inn, a chamber
which he often occupied expressly for the purpose of gazing at
the ladies. When the train was in motion, he started up, and
resolved to make another attempt to see Lucy, and even propose
to marry her in church, if no other mode remained to
make her his, and thus snatch her from his hated rival.

“Mrs. Winkle,” said he, when admitted, “I am come in a
fit of desperation.”

“Oh Lud!” said she, “I hope there is no danger of being
killed by you!”

“You misunderstand me. I am come once more to beg an
interview with Lucy. And I am prepared to say that I will
wed her in open day, and in the church. My heart, my hand,
my fortune are all laid at her feet.”

“Generous sir! You are too liberal! I will not inquire
what boon it was you have hitherto been willing to bestow
upon my poor child. Suffice it that your all is tendered at
last.”

“You seem to mock me. Will you procure me an interview?”

“How can I?”

“Command her to appear in your presence. She will obey.”

“She cannot.”

“Cannot?”

“She is not here. She is gone.”

“Gone? Where?”

“That I cannot tell.”

“Cannot tell!” exclaimed Roland furiously, and rising. “I
can! She has eloped, and I know with whom! Madam, you
could not have consented to it. If so, where was the necessity?
I saw her seducer depart in the cars for Philadelphia. Good
day, madam. I will pursue them! I have agents in the city,
madam, who will soon find them, and Lucy shall be restored.
Good day, madam! I will spend ten thousand dollars rather
than that vagabond shall have her. The vagabond is your
handsome pale-faced Lowe, madam—a villain, madam!”

Fortunately Roland did not look behind when rushing out,
else he would have beheld the merry widow dangerously agitated
with excessive laughter. The idea that Lucy's admirers

were pursuing in one direction, when she was flying in another
and an opposite one, was irresistibly diverting.

Roland stamped in front of the inn with his watch in his
hand, resolved if the next down train should be a minute behind
its time, to make those who were to blame suffer for it.
He was a large stockholder. But this time, as if all the
doomed victims of his ill-nature were to elude his grasp, the
train arrived a minute before the time, and there was yet no
opportunity to vent his accumulated wrath. He sprang in,
and was soon rattled into the city.

Meantime, as the shades of evening fell upon the peaceful
village, and the mocking-bird began his song with the rising
of the moon, unconscious that she who had never failed to acknowledge
the tuneful salutation was away, an old-fashioned
spring-shaft gig stopped in front of the inn, and an old-fashioned
gentleman, in an old-fashioned coat and hat, descended
to the ground. After giving the reins to the ostler,
and charging him particularly to take good care of his ancient
horse, the old gentleman turned away and proceeded deliberately
to the widow's mansion.

“I am very, very glad to see you, Mr. Dowly!” exclaimed
Mrs. Winkle, when the old gentleman was ushered into her
presence. “You could not have selected a better time to
accept my invitation to tea,” she continued, shaking his hand
heartily, “for I am quite alone and require the company of a
true friend.”

“My Maker knows I am your true friend. I will laugh
with you, or weep with you, and even die—”

“With me, or for me?” asked the widow.

“Upon my word I don't know which would be the most
proper. They are the words I should have spoken when young
—but I was stupid—yet honest and true—yes, true and honest,
Edith.”

“I am sure of it. And if you had spoken your sentiments
boldly, I do not know— but all that is past, buried
a quarter of a century ago. Sit opposite. Bring in the tea,
Biddy. Let me make it. How has it happened, Mr. Dowly,
that of all the evenings in the world, you should have selected
this, when I most desired a social companion, to pay me the
often-deferred visit?”

“I knew you were alone.”

“You did? How did you learn that?”

“Every body knows it. It is already the talk of the town
and the country. I heard them speaking of it in the bar-room.”

“Of what?”

“Of the poor child's elopement. But I first learned it of
Dizzle, who came to my house.”

“Lucy's elopement!”

“Yes. But be comforted. Roland is a bad man—”

“Do they say she ran away with him?”

“No, no. But he told every one he met, that she had run
away with Lowe, the vagabond, as he called him; and declared
he would bring her back, and have her lover locked up in prison.
Then I ventured to come hither, hoping I might be able
to afford you some little consolation; and to repeat the Christian
precepts, which alone can impart comfort in trouble.
But you are not cast down—”

“No! Ha, ha, ha! What a world! Oh, how happy
the Arums and Crudles, and Snobsons must be! How they
exult, and pity the disgraced, poverty-stricken Winkles! And
why should not I laugh too? Oh, that they could see me!
I've spilt my tea. More hot water, Biddy.”

“Do not be so much disturbed, my dear madam,” said
Dowly, looking in alarm upon the spasmodic symptoms of
the widow.

“Disturbed, Mr. Dowly? I beg, I earnestly entreat you
will believe me, when I say, that whilst the envious gossips are
exulting, or supposing they are exulting over my calamity, I
enjoy some of the happiest moments of my life, and would
fain have them witness my felicity.”

“Felicity, Mrs. Winkle?”

“That may be rather too strong a word; but I don't know
another that would answer better. Mr. Dowly, Lucy has not
eloped with any one!”

“I thank my Maker! Oh, I thank my blessed Maker for
it! Laugh on. I will laugh with you—for I do love that
dear child as much as her parent can, and I hope you will permit
me to say so.”

“And it was when you supposed me overwhelmed with
mortification and irremediable distress—abandoned and dishonored
by my own child, and reviled and scoffed at by my
neighbors—that you came to comfort me, to say that you were
still my friend—that you loved my dear departed daughter;

to offer consolation—to—Oh, Mr. Dowly, let my tears have
free vent. May God bless you!”

“Do not weep, dear lady! If it had been really as they
suppose, and as some of them might have had the wickedness
to desire, still, believe me, John Dowly would have never
forsaken the Edith that once and always so completely possessed
his heart.”

“They are not the tears of weeping, Mr. Dowly. They
proceed from joy—joy, that there exists one pure and noble
being in the world, and that being my friend If it were not
utterly too late in the afternoon of our lives, this hand of
mine should be yours, as the only recompense I could offer.”

“I am happy! To hear you say so, is worth more than
worlds to me! My dreams are realized. In them I have
heard you utter similar words, and they are like the memories
of blessed youth. All I ask is that I may not be considered
bold and intrusive in my eager friendship, and in the tender
of my services. Only permit me to think of the past, to
dream on, and talk of the sunny days when we were young
together, and I shall desire no more exquisite happiness in
this life. Permit this, and whatever I possess is yours and
your children's to command.”

“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Dowly. Any little, or great
incident of the past that you can remember, or feeling, or
word, or scene, that may be recalled, you may refer to without
hesitation. It will be a pleasure to me. Although I certainly
loved my husband dearly, yet John Dowly was always near
my heart, and its portals were never closed against him. I
always loved him to the full extent that duty permitted; and
my estimate of his character was not erroneous. I have no
doubt that what your good heart prompts, your hand would
execute to the utmost, if your means were only equal to your
will.”

“My means—you, too, suppose I am poor. Every body
thinks so but Abraham Laban, and he would not tell any
thing to the contrary, for fear it might interfere with some of
his contemplated operations.”

“I am sure I shall be rejoiced to learn it is not so,” said
Mrs. Winkle.

“I have my poor old house, and my few barren acres. I
raise no great crops, and contrive to pay my taxes. That's
all the people know,” continued the old man smiling, and his

lustrous dark eyes evincing the satisfaction he felt. “And I
wear an old-fashioned coat and hat, which attract the attention
of the people on the boat, for I often see them gazing at me.”

“I'm sure they look very genteel, Mr. Dowly,” said the
widow.

“They are without lint or stain. I take great care of
them. And why do you suppose I take such great care of
these old things? I'll tell you. They remind me of the
past, and they make the years roll by imperceptibly. They
keep fresh in my memory the associations I like to dwell upon.
My old brown coat once sported in its button-hole a beautiful
flower dropped from your fair hand—I have it still in my old
Bible!”

“I don't remember it,” said Mrs. Winkle, smiling.

“But I do. It was at a gay party at General C—'s.
You sat upon the balcony in the moonlight, and Winkle was
with you. You uttered a lament for the loss of the flower. I
was below, and seized it, and hid it in my bosom.”

“Why, Mr. Dowly, now I do remember it. It fell just
when Mr. Winkle was proposing—”

“I thought so at the time. But that made no difference.
I resolved to preserve the beautiful blossom, not for any superior
sweetness of its own, but for the sake of the hand which
had clasped, and in memory of the lips that had pressed it.
Thus old objects remind me of the happy past, when the world
to my youthful eyes was illuminated with a heavenly brightness.
And believe me, that no thought of censure crossed
my mind—nor any inclination to blame you for preferring another,
ever arose in my breast!”

“I am sure of it.”

“Yes, you may be sure of it. Although you were another's
in reality, in my dreams you were mine; and as I slept
one half my time, I am indebted to you for all the happiness
I have enjoyed.”

“Mercy on me, Mr. Dowly! I was not aware of all that!”

“And the old objects I have preserved remind me of those
blissful years with which they were associated. But the
people think I am poor, and unable to procure other clothing!
Edith, when we were young, I had sufficient fortune to aspire,
if my heart had not been faint, even to your hand. Upon
your marriage, I retired from business and lived in seclusion,

where I now dwell. And if I have not spent any thing since
that day, what do you think has become of my fortune?”

“I am sure I hope you have it still.”

“I have. But it has grown larger as I have grown older.
I have had nothing to do but to watch the securities I held,
collect the interest and compound it. And why have I done
so? I am without kindred. But there are those I love, and
they will need it. They shall have it!”

“You become enthusiastic, Mr. Dowly. Can it be possible
you mean me—my family?”

“Who else? Have I loved any others? Have others
treated the supposed poor old John Dowly with respect?
No! The ability to bestow it on you, and when, too, circumstances
have made it acceptable, is my chief delight in
this world. I would have aided your honorable husband, if
he had applied to me; but I had not the presumption to tender
him any assistance. He must have known I had fortune.
But no matter; I have waited for an opportunity, and have
not waited in vain. When Roland became possessed of the
mortgage on this property, I knew his object, and resolved to
defeat him. He thinks me poor—and he must not be undeceived.
He is a bad man, and I desire to have no strife with
him. He knows I rescued Lucy from his grasp, but he thinks
I have not been informed of his design. But Lucy! We
have forgotten her. Bless my life! I never was so beguiled
before! It has been my intention at every pause to ask where
the dear child has gone. I know why she sought another
asylum, and would fain learn the place of her abode, if it be
not improper to desire it.”

“Not at all. She is by this time with her aunt Flora.”

“Bless me! Is she living yet? and unmarried?”

“Living and unmarried. She never could find a mate
sufficiently heroical and romantic to captivate her heart. She
rejected many.”

“I know she did! She would have rejected me. After
you were wedded, I determined to seek her hand. She
seemed to suspect my intention, and took the first opportunity
to nip my hope in the bud. It was fortunate, for I could
never have loved her.”

“She has never loved any one but the heroes of her novels;
and those she will never cease to adore.”

“Does she read novels yet?”

“Incessantly. And although residing in the most public
place in a great city, she lives in utter seclusion. Lucy could
not have found a better abode.”

“I'm glad to hear it. I'm glad it's so.”

“And just to think that both Lowe and Roland are
searching for her in Philadelphia! It is laughable.”

“It is so; and I shall laugh heartily at it. But Roland.
I have a nice little stratagem for him. You must consent to
it. He will be beaten at the election. Walter is to make a
speech against his party, and Lucy has rejected his addresses
with scorn. His thirst for vengeance will be uncontrollable,
and he will endeavor to distress you by foreclosing the mortgage.”

“And you will not permit us to be thrust into the
street?”

“I would be thrust into the river first, with a millstone
tied to my neck. When the money is demanded, merely say
you have it not—”

“But Dibble says I have enough in bank to pay the interest.”

“The interest—but he will demand the principal. Let
him proceed. The trifling costs will be of no moment. Let
him sell—”

“Mercy on me! Sell my house?”

“Yes—but you shall be the purchaser, no matter who
may bid against you. I will be near to sign a check for the
amount. Then the property will be yours and unincumbered,
and Roland's rage will consume him. The Arums and Crudles
will be the victims of chagrin. None will know whence
the money comes—but they might, if you used my check! I
will bring the money, and you shall have it in your purse.
They will be astonished, you relieved, and John Dowly the
happiest man in the world.”

“I am not sure that Walter would sanction the arrangement.
He is a little fastidious on such delicate points. But
you will then hold the mortgage?”

“Oh, yes; it will be surrendered to you, and you can deposit
it in my keeping.”

“I see no objections—”

“No—do not conjure up any, unless you desire to make
me miserable.”

At this stage of the conversation, Biddy appeared, and

without being questioned by her mistress, announced “Dill
Bizzle.”

He was, as ever, promptly admitted, and said he bore a
letter from Sergeant Blore for Walter. The widow took possession
of it, and Bill retired immediately. The letter not
being sealed, Mrs. Winkle assumed the liberty of reading it.
It ran as follows:

This despatch afforded the old couple an ample topic for
the remainder of the evening; and when they rose from the
tea-table, it was striking eleven o'clock. The old gentleman,
after declaring the hours just spent were among the happiest
of his life, and receiving an assurance from the widow that her
lonely condition had been assuaged by his presence, departed
for the inn, and calling for his old horse, drove slowly homeward
by moonlight in a delightful revery.