University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
WILSOME WINKLE DISMISSES THE POET—ROLAND MEETS LOWE AND
THE ACTOR, BUT NOT LUCY.

Walter's visit to his aunt was capriciously prolonged, under
the belief that his presence was the means of procuring her a
larger share of the poet's company, and additional rubbers at
whist. But the moment the attraction of her nephew seemed
to cease in its effect on Pollen, she dismissed him. It occurred
on the very day that Lucy departed from Babbleton,
and the young man and Virginia were espied passing through
the village in an open carriage, having landed from the boat
just when Roland had taken his seat in the cars. He cast a
fierce glance at the happy pair, and secretly resolved to balk
their purposes; for it seemed to be his ruling passion to mar
the happiness of others, as if by that means he could realize
a greater share himself. Walter, not observing him, urged
forward the horses, and never paused until he reached the
hospitable mansion of the colonel, where he remained all

night for the purpose of shooting woodcock early the next
morning.

At the Winkle mansion in the city, a succession of novel
events followed the departure of Walter.

When her nephew rose from the dinner table, Pollen was
requested by Miss Wilsome to remain, and was invited to
drink wine with her. For some time the poet had abstained
from the use of such stimulants, under the persuasion that
they were uniformly pernicious to one of his excitable temperament;
and Wilsome had once applauded his resolution,
for she was not ignorant of his infirmity. But now the time
had arrived for him to propose; and as he had evinced no disposition
to bring matters to a crisis, she determined to stimulate
him a little. But in vain. He only spouted Greek, and
lamented over his lost one in heaven. He abused the critics,
and denounced the publishers. The Jews were likewise the
objects of his anathemas. Then he lived in the future, and
anticipated the time when all who had neglected him, or
wronged him, would be the victims of remorse. The popular
authors of the day, who monopolized the favors of the public
press, would sink in oblivion, and the works of men of genius
rise to set no more. He was deaf to the suggestions of his
entertainer, and finally arose from the table, and with folded
arms and muttering lips, strode through the hall and out into
the street.

The old lady did not faint, or turn pale, or become violently
agitated. Her heart was proof against all such effects
of disappointment. If she had ever loved truly and dearly,
it must have been at so remote a period, she had forgotten it
herself; and her heart was now quite impervious to tender
emotions, when meditating the details of a matrimonial arrangement.
But all her feelings were not callous. Time
cannot wholly conquer the impulses of resentment in the
breasts of old women. There are some passions as indestructible
as the immortal mind—the evil as well as the good. But
Miss Wilsome was not naturally malignant; and she possessed
a certain hereditary magnanimity, which mingled with, and
sometimes overcame her resentments.

“Rose,” said she, when the maid answered the silver bell.

“Iss, mem.”

“When Mr. Pollen comes again, say I am not at home.”

“Iss, mem.”

“When he calls the second time, say I am engaged.”

“Iss, mem.”

“The third time he comes, say I desire he will leave his
address, so that I can send him a note. The fellow may not
have money enough to buy a dinner; but he dines here no
more. I will not be scandalized for nothing.”

“Iss, mem.”

“Hold your tongue, and go about your business! Go to
the door. Some one is ringing now. If it be Pollen, do as I
ordered you.”

“Iss, mem.”

“Well, who is it? A card! Did I not say he must call
three times before you took his card? Stay! It is Mr.
Lowe! and at this hour! Admit him—perhaps he has not
dined. Bring him here. He shall take the poet's wine, and
perhaps—”

She was interrupted by the entrance of Lowe, whom she
greeted with much cordiality, and then compelled him to occupy
a seat at the table.

“Now, what's the news? Mind, you are to say nothing
in relation to the disgraceful affairs of my brother.”

“But I must be permitted to refer to your niece. I suppose
she is here?”

“Here? Not she!”

“Not here?”

“No, sir. I have said it, and it used to be a saying, that
a Winkle always spoke the truth. But the poor poet, Pollen
—ha, ha, ha!—asserted that a good reason might be alleged
for the utterance of a certain quantity of falsehoods, and what
do you suppose it is?”

“I am sure I cannot conjecture.”

“Why, it is that truth is too precious a commodity to be
lavishly expended!”

“And so is money. Therefore, like other poets, he may
not always be prepared to pay his debts.”

“Excellent. I shall prefer you to the poet. Be my
guest, and we will have a whist party.”

“Excuse me—until I can hear something of Lucy.”

“Lucy! Is she really not at home?”

“She left home suddenly to-day, and would not permit it
to be known whither she was going.”

“Not even her mother?”

“I believe her mother does know; but she refuses to tell
me.”

“Why should she tell you? Are you in love with her?”

“I confess I am!”

“Then, I presume she reciprocates the affection.”

“And runs away?”

“Certainly. The women are enigmas, and understand
each other. If the men knew us as well as we do ourselves,
there would be no hope for us. But, fortunately, we can keep
our own secrets. She had a sufficient reason for going, depend
upon it. You have your mystery, and she has hers.
She is safe—with some schoolmate, perhaps. No Winkle
ever committed an impropriety, and none ever will. I except
my brother; but he is a man, and men, you know, can commit
them with impunity.”

“I am glad you feel no uneasiness on account of the absence
of your niece.”

“Uneasiness! Why should I, while her mother is calm?
But take my advice, and cease to pursue that silly girl. She
is pretty, I admit; virtuous, I know; accomplished, as all
may see; but she will be an expensive wife, and her lord
should have an ample treasury, which I presume you have not.
Besides, I had intended her for another,” continued Wilsome,
fondling the great white cat, which she had taught to occupy
a seat at the table.

“Another?”

“Yes—a rich man. I mean Roland.”

“Madam,” said Lowe, sternly, “Roland is a villain!”

“Is this jealousy?”

“No, Miss Wilsome, it is the truth. I will, confidentially,
relate to you the circumstance which proves it.” He did so.

“If I thought, sir, you possessed the wicked nature of
your master,” said Wilsome, pulling the cat's ear, “I would
have you drowned this night! Oh, the monster! To make
such an attempt upon a Winkle! Walter shall cut his
ears off!”

“No; Lucy forbade any one molesting him. I met him,
and branded him with the name of coward. Lucy learned
this shortly afterwards, and exacted a promise that I would
have no deadly conflict with him. And she does not wish her
brother to know any thing of the occurrence.”

“It is an affair, then, in which I shall not meddle. But

I shall revoke my invitation to Roland to visit the mansion.
You shall be welcome, always; but still, I would have you
abandon the pursuit of my niece. She is in safety—you may
rely upon it; and if she has resolved not to be found, you
will not succeed in your endeavors. Remain with me.”

“I will do so cheerfully, for the present, and have taken
lodgings for several days at my hotel. I have a little mischief
in contemplation against some of the rich enemies of
Lucy in Babbleton, which, with your assistance, may be consummated
without difficulty. We shall have to employ the
milliners and mantuamakers.”

“Willingly. I can command them all! There's the bell!
Who is it, Rose?”

“Mr. Roland, mem.”

“Roland!”

“I pray you see him,” said Lowe.

“Take him into the front parlor.”

“Iss, mem.”

“Mr. Lowe, do you go into the rear one; but remain out
of sight.”

It was done as she desired.

“Miss Wilsome,” said Roland, not seeming to observe the
old maid's stiff, frigid nod, “I come in great concern, to ask
if your niece is at your house.”

“She is not; and I do not know where she is.”

“Then she is lost—ruined!”

“How is she ruined?”

“Her character is gone for ever!”

“That is impossible, sir; therefore, it is false!”

“You are mistaken. She has eloped!”

“Eloped! Do you know who you are speaking about?
Who you are speaking to?

“You may rely upon what I say. You think it impossible
for one of her character to take such a desperate step.
But it is true. She has eloped with an idle, good-for-nothing
vagabond—what's that?”

“Achee! Achee!” sneezed Lowe.

“A friend of mine, who is as deaf as a post. He cannot
hear you. But if he could, I should not fear any damage to
Lucy's character from your calumnies.”

“Calumnies!”

“Achee!”

“Who is it? I've heard that sneeze at Babbleton.”

“Never mind the sneeze. I say calumnies. Lucy is incapable
of doing any thing to compromise her character, and
I will not believe a word of it. But why are you so deeply
interested?”

“Me? You know I love her!”

“Ay, as the wolf does the lamb!” Lowe had also informed
her of Roland's beguilement of the player's daughter.
He had it from Walter.

“I would marry her.”

“You would?” said Wilsome, half abstracted by an
amusing thought which flashed upon her mind. “Perhaps
the girl may be in the city, and may be found. My coachman
can ascertain. Sit down, and look over the paper. Excuse
me for a few minutes. But if I produce her within the
next half hour, you will pledge yourself to wed her?”

“Yes—that is—certainly, if—if she is—”

“If she will have you—say that,” and Wilsome hastened
away, through the hall, leaving Lowe, who had been suffering
from the effects of a recent cold, and was remarked to sneeze
very peculiarly, still occupying his position in the rear parlor,
the folding-doors being nearly closed.

At the expiration of a brief space of time the mischievous
old maid reappeared, and soon after a loud ring was heard at
the street door.

“Is it Lucy?” asked Roland, his features relaxing.

“You shall see.”

“Mr. Glass!” cried Snapper, throwing open the door, and
ushering in the actor.

“Mr. Roland,” said the actor, “where is my daughter?
Tell me where my poor child is, and I will forgive the rest.”

“I have not the custody of your daughter. Go, sir; you
are mistaken. I pity your distresses, and am willing to relieve
them. Here is a bank note. You are in error. Your
daughter is not in my possession.”

“Poor Delia!” said Glass, taking the money, however;
“I fear she is lost for ever. You know Mr. Roland—”

“I do not; I tell you no! Leave me, now, and I will
call and see if we cannot find her.”

“I thought you were seeking for Lucy,” observed Wilsome.

“Is she another one whom he has enticed away from the
parental roof?” asked Glass.

“I entice no one. Leave us, Glass. I know an idle fellow
who has probably—”

“Achee!” sneezed Lowe.

“Permit me,” said Roland to Wilsome, “to throw open
that door.”

“You have my permission, sir; and I hope my friend in
the next room will not be annoyed.”

“He!” exclaimed Roland, upon beholding Lowe, who
arose and came forward with a deliberate step.

“Is this your deaf friend?” asked Roland, casting a reproachful
look at Wilsome.

“My hearing is not very acute,” said Lowe, “since my
exposure in the night air, at the country residence of Mr.
Napoleon Winkle.”

“I trust you will soon recover,” said Roland, deeming
there was no danger of a personal assault on such an occasion.

“My nerves are not at all affected,” replied Lowe, with a
steady gaze.

“But who is the idle fellow you alluded to?” asked Glass.

“Yes, let us know who you mean,” added Wilsome.

“There are many such persons as the one I alluded to,”
said Roland, evasively. “But, Miss Wilsome, it does appear
that you were not ignorant of the elopement of your niece.
I presume she is here, and that she is protected by you. It
is enough!”

“It is enough, sir, that you should be content,” remarked
Lowe, in distinct tones. “Miss Lucy has not eloped with
any one. It is an unfounded imputation. And if such a report
has been put in circulation, it is a base calumny; and I
would willingly undertake to maintain what I say in the presence
of its slanderous author.”

“I have no particular concern in the matter. I—”

“Stop, Mr. Roland,” said Wilsome; “did you not say
you would marry Lucy?”

“No matter what I said! I see a plot has been concerted
here for your amusement, and I trust it will be enjoyed
while it may. Come, Glass, I'll go home with you.”

“No, sir!” replied the indignant actor. “You have
already made my hearth desolate.”

“Fool! If that is your gratitude, give me back the
money.”

“You owe me a thousand times more than your purse can

pay. You have stolen my daughter, and my good name. My
purse is mere trash—”

“Very true, Glass, very true. Very good! Good day,
Glass.”

And Roland rushed away.

“He's gone,” said Glass, unfolding the bank note and
reading the denomination. “He made a mistake, I am sure.
He had two notes, and gave me the wrong one. I don't know
whether I ought to keep this?”

“Why not?” asked Wilsome.

“This is more than he intended to give. This is a hundred
dollar note—the other was a ten. He intended to give
me the other.”

“No matter,” said Lowe, “he can afford it. And no
doubt you will find use for it.”

“True, sir; we are all poor—I mean the actors.”

“I have often heard that said,” remarked Wilsome, “but
could never understand why it should be so.”

“It is quite easy to account for it,” said Glass. “Our
salaries are small, and our expenditures are large. And such
as myself, who am an American, the poorest of all.”

“And does it follow because you are an American?”
asked Lowe, with interest.

“It does. The managers and treasurers are Englishmen,
and favor their own countrymen.”

“But the audiences are Americans.”

“True. But what of that? They don't know the English
actors from the native born; and they don't often see the
managers on the boards. They are generally the most unconscionable
tyrants in the world; and if the people only knew
them, they would not patronize them. But just now we are
on half salaries. The great singers at the other house have
carried the city, and our establishment has ceased to be the
fashionable resort. The gratification about the matter is,
that the British who oppress the Americans are themselves
sometimes overcharged by the Germans, the Italians, and
French artists. Just now the good people would rather pay
five dollars to hear a German sing, than to witness a British
play. American plays cannot be brought on the stage. My
friend Pollen has been attempting it for two years.”

“That is very extraordinary,” said Lowe.

“But it is true,” said the actor. “The only hope for an

American poet, is to study the indecencies of British society,
and introduce lords and ladies in his play.”

“You are very severe on my country—”

“What! are you an Englishman, Mr. Lowe?” asked Miss
Wilsome.

“I must confess it was my fortune to be born in merry Old
England. Nevertheless, I must acknowledge there is much
justice in my friend's remarks. But the way to be redressed,
Mr. Glass, is to carry the war into Africa. I have seen you
on the stage, and like your simple, natural style of acting;
and I have also seen your daughter, whom I believe to be capable
of eminent success. Take her to London—”

“To London, sir?”

“Yes, to London. Be kind enough to furnish me with
your address, and I will inclose you a letter for a friend of
mine in England, who will be found able, and I doubt not
entirely willing, to put you in the way of making a fortune.”

“Sir, you speak like one in earnest, and one who may have
the ability of performing what he promises. Here is my
card, sir; and I shall be happy to see you at my humble
abode.”

“I will take an occasion to call, sir,” said Lowe. Glass
then departed, with a lighter spirit, and a heavier purse, than
when he entered.