University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
SENSIBLE CALCULATIONS OF THE GIRLS—A DEAD RAT.

The sojourn of the young gentlemen at the Winkle mansion
in the country was continued for more than a week, and
Griselda did every thing in her power to make the time pass
agreeably. She had invited the eldest of the Arum and
Crudle sisters to her house, hoping by this means to increase
the pleasures of her guests. And the heiresses had accepted
the invitation, for it was not often they could meet with such
intellectual society as might be anticipated on such an occasion.
They could have no idea that Walter and Lowe had
ever heard of their detracting remarks; and they were not
averse to the re-establishment of friendly relations with them,
as the common guests of the now rich and fashionable Griselda.
It was true that the mystery of Lucy's absence had
never been satisfactorily solved; but it could be no source of
discontent to the young ladies, that one so universally admired
remained away. That Lowe had not eloped with her, was
certainly a demonstrable fact, and his presence was an obvious
refutation of the slander which had been circulated by Roland.
Besides, the apparent friendly terms which still subsisted between
Walter and his uncle, might be an indication that the

young man's prospects for the future were not entirely destroyed.

As for Griselda herself, her conduct since her marriage
had been marked and commended by the Arums and Crudles.
She had cut all her poor acquaintances except such as might
be of immediate use, and had sought the intimacy of the rich
or the fashionable.

But although the girls were quite delighted with the company
of the young gentlemen, and exerted their powers of
fascination to enthrall them, yet it might have been easily
perceptible that they had no design of forming a matrimonial
entanglement with the precipitancy which had characterized
the case of young Snobson, whose father was so exceedingly
wealthy. In their thoughts, and even in their conversation,
when alone, the merits and pecuniary prospects of the young
men were freely discussed. Walter might prove worth catching
some day, and their bearing towards him was to be governed in
view of such a contingency. Lowe was a mystery, and most
young ladies are fond of mysteries. If no one knew any thing
about him, how was it to be ascertained that he might not
really be the possessor of an ample fortune? He was certainly
handsome and accomplished, and seemed to be familiar with
the manners and habits of the most aristocratic circles. It
was prudent, therefore, to maintain friendly relations with him
in reference to any developments which might be exhibited in
the future. But as for the poor poet, his was a hopeless predicament.
No one of his unlucky avocation had ever been
known, so far as the information of the Arums and Crudles
extended, to win distinction and influence in society based
upon the only foundation of which they had any conception—
viz., fortune. But he had access to the wealthiest families,
and he might immortalize a young lady's name in a poem, and
hence they condescended to be amiable, and to amuse themselves
by their praises of his genius. But if he had possessed
the genius of a Shakspeare, and had been devoid of fortune,
not one of the Arums or the Crudles could have entertained
for a moment the idea of marrying him. But Griselda, on
the other hand, although irrevocably disposed of in matrimony,
made unceasing efforts to gratify his vanity. This, she learned
from British novels, and from American writers who imitated
the European authors, was the practice of the high bred and
aristocratic ladies of England. In truth, so affectionately did

she sympathize with him in his real or imaginary wrongs, and
in the often-expressed desire to possess the pecuniary ability
to conduct a magazine under his own control, that she insisted
upon his becoming her debtor for a sum sufficient to defray
the expenses of the first number of the periodical. Pollen,
as may be supposed, readily acceded to the request.

“Meantime the election had taken place, and Roland had
been defeated, as was predicted by John Dowly. Mr. Plastic
the opposing candidate was returned by a large majority, and
he had the candor to acknowledge his obligations to Walter,
whom he sought at his uncle's mansion. He not only owned
that he was indebted to the young man for his election, but
declared his purpose to serve him when he arrived at the federal
city. Colonel Oakdale was elected a member of the State legislature,
and his subsequent election to a seat in the United
States Senate was deemed highly probable.

Roland bore his disappointment and chagrin with an assumed
equanimity of temper, but with a secret determination
to be revenged on the author of his defeat. He had reason to
believe that Walter had been long enamored of Virginia,
Colonel Oakdale's daughter, and he could not avoid a supposition
that the partiality was reciprocal. But a desire to exempt
the lady from unhappiness, was not so powerful a motive
in his breast as the inclination to punish the young man;
therefore he resolved to put his scheme in immediate execution.

It was while Walter still remained at the Winkle mansion,
that Roland made one of his formal visits to the colonel's
residence. If the colonel at first regarded his visitor with
dread and apprehension—for it occurred to him that he might
demand the payment of the debt of ten thousand dollars under
the sting of his political disappointment—he was soon undeceived;
and upon observing that the attention of his guest was
bestowed almost entirely as usual upon his daughter, he manifested
his delight in every conceivable way, and assured Roland
that no one could be a more welcome suitor than himself.
To manifest his approbation, and his confidence in the unsuccessful
candidate, the colonel proposed to sally forth alone in
quest of woodcock, his favorite game. Roland made not the
slightest objection, and impatiently awaited his departure.

One of the colonel's most remarkable peculiarities was a
passion for the fresh air of heaven; and hence his desire to

be in the woods and fields as much as possible. And if he
was delighted to be out in the wholesome atmosphere where
he could enjoy the perfumes of blossoms, it followed very naturally
that he had a nose peculiarly sensitive to unpleasant
odors. On the very morning of the arrival of Roland at
Oakdale Hall, the colonel imagined that something offensive
and deleterious was concealed about the house, which sent a
disagreeable effluvium into most of the apartments. He had
on his velvet hunting coat, and held his gun in his hand, when
the stench became so great, that he paused, and ordered every
one in the house to seek the cause of the insufferable annoyance.
It had not been discovered, however, before the departure
of the colonel.

The colonel, by a natural conjuncture of ideas, while
striding over his grounds, and meditating on the importance
of securing an ample provision for his daughter, bethought
him of his young protege, Walter Winkle, and of the many
instances of his manifestations of approval of the intimacy
that subsisted between him and Virginia. Now, if Roland
had any serious idea of a matrimonial alliance with his family—
a political one was out of the question, and the colonel would
have perished at the stake before violating a principle—it was
plain that no such purpose ought to be entertained by Walter.
He despised Roland's politics; he approved Walter's principles.
But the one was rich and the other poor; and Walter,
as a rational creature, and as the friend of Virginia, would
see at once the benefit the young lady would derive by a rejection
of his hand and an acceptance of Roland's. The colonel,
accustomed to see his views instantly adopted by all within
the sphere of his influence, did not deem it necessary to conjecture
what might be the opinion of his daughter on the subject.
But he determined to confer frankly with Walter; and for
that purpose he directed his steps toward the Winkle mansion.

Walter was lounging in the portico when he saw the colonel
approach with his dog and gun. He started up with symptoms
of delight, for he was growing weary of his aunt's hospitalities.
Pollen had gone to the city to issue the first number of his
magazine; Lowe was spending most of the pleasant hours of the
day creeping alone, or with Bill Dizzle, through the bushes on
the margin of the brook, in pursuit of the trout; Napoleon was
planning new campaigns; and the Arums and Crudles were

detailing the enjoyments they anticipated the next winter in
the fashionable circles of New York, whither their parents
had agreed, for the first time, to permit them to sojourn for a
brief season, in imitation of certain belles whose fortunes had
been inherited.

“Get a gun and come along with me, Walter,” said the
colonel.

“Willingly,” replied Walter. “But come in and have a
glass of water, while I am selecting a gun.”

“Yes, Colonel Oakdale!” cried Griselda, “come in. Bring
ice water. Sit down, colonel. You know my guests.”

“To be sure I do. They are famous throughout the
country.”

“Oh, la, Colonel Oakdale,” said the young ladies, “what a
flatterer!”

“Not I. Curse the water—that is, the water alone—”
said the colonel, to the servant. “Bring the brandy. I
know the law don't allow me to drink it—but am I not a law
maker?”

“And a law breaker,” added Miss Arum, laughing heartily
at the joke.

“Yes,” replied the colonel, drinking, “and a law breaker.
It proves what I have always said, that nothing could be more
demoralizing than to enact laws which will not be observed.
It breeds a habit of violating the statutes, and the ultimate
consequences may be more calamitous than the reformers are
aware of.”

“No doubt you are perfectly right,” said Griselda. “But
colonel, why has not Virginia been to see me?”

“Oh, she is coming soon! She would have been here
several days ago, but hesitated, because several unmarried
gentlemen were among your guests; and she thought it might
be supposed by some she was husband hunting.”

“I should be sorry if any one supposed that was my object!”
said Miss Arum.

“And it would be a false supposition if applied to me!”
said Miss Crudle.

“I'm ready, colonel,” said Walter, coming in with a gun
slung on his back.

“Very well,” said the colonel, rising. “But,” he continued
in a low voice to Griselda, “are you not annoyed by
dead rats? At my house the stench is insufferable. It seems

to me I have smelt something of the kind since I have been
here. I can't imagine what could have killed them at so many
different places, and at the same time.”

“I do think I can perceive it now,” said Griselda.

“I do, very distinctly,” said Walter. “Has any poison
been thrown about?”

“No! certainly none that I know of,” said his aunt.

“It grows stronger and stronger,” said the colonel.
“Come, Walter; we will leave the ladies to smell it out.”

And when the gentlemen departed, the ladies loudly manifested
their horror of the disagreeable odor, which was really
painfully disagreeable. But they vainly sought the cause
of it.

“I believe,” said the colonel, leading the way through the
orchard, “your dead rat must be a larger one than mine. I
can smell it yet. We must get terriers, and not poison them.
Walter!” he continued, placing his hand on the young man's
shoulder, “what do you suppose I have been thinking about
all day?”

“The first speech you will deliver in the U. S. Senate.”

“No—though I think I shall make one there—a good,
honest, American speech.”

“Then I cannot conjecture what it is, unless it be how to
pay the $10,000 you owe Roland, the disappointed candidate.”

“That is pretty close shooting. You came near the mark
there. Guess again.”

“Perhaps you have been thinking that when you arrive in
Washington, you may prevail on the President to appoint me
secretary of legation at London.”

“Eh? No, I didn't think of that; but I should have
done it. I will do it, Walter! Your ideas have been caught
up and spread all over the State. The President must give
you the appointment, if he wishes to gratify me. You have
my word that the appointment shall be conferred on you, if
my influence will suffice. You know my word is never lightly
uttered, and my promises never forgotten. I may fall out
with you, and even hate you, if such a thing were possible—
or you might hate me, which would be a more reasonable thing
—still, I would urge the justice of your claims with none the
less zeal and pertinacity.”

“I am sure of it, sir. And truly such an office would be
extremely gratifying to me. You know I am poor, sir, and

young; and I might derive benefit from such an appointment,
before I marry and become permanently settled.”

“True.—Look out! I missed him!” said the colonel,
seeing the cock he fired at enter an impenetrable grove of
cedars. “Marriage, in your present condition, is out of the
question, unless you could make up your mind to take one of
the Arums or Crudles.”

“Ha, ha, ha! I shall desire something more than the
prospect of a share of an estate on the death of my wife's
father.”

“I didn't suppose they would suit you. You deserve a
better fate.”

“Be that as it may, I hope a better fate is in reserve for
me.”

“I hope so—I hope so—and I shall always hope so, even
if we should become enemies. And even in that event, as I
said before, I am resolved to get you the appointment.”

“Enemies! Why do you repeat that word, colonel? Such
a contingency is not at all supposable. We have never differed
about any thing in our lives.”

“I know it—and hence I fear, if we should differ hereafter
the rupture will be a violent and irremediable one.”

“Colonel, such a case is not probable. We can never fall
out, I am quite sure.”

“We'll see. I'll try you. But I tremble almost; for I
love you, Walter. I have a daughter, you know.”

“Yes, I know it.”

“You dog, you, I am sure you do! She is a dutiful girl,
a handsome girl, a spirited girl, a—”

“Colonel, you needn't repeat the catalogue of her good qualities
to me. I know them as well as you do—perhaps better.
If—”

“No ifs. It's no such thing. You are mistaken. Answer
me, briefly: Have I not always encouraged the intimate
friendship which subsisted between you and Virginia?”

“Yes, sir.”

“True. But did I ever say you should have my consent to
marry her? Turn your face away like I do, and answer me.”

“No, colonel, I must admit that.”

“True. But has there not been reason to suppose you looked
forward to such a consummation, and that you desired it?”

“I cannot deny it.”

“Now we come to the point! Then, if I should withhold
my consent, would you not fall out with me—despise me—become
my enemy?”

“No! No, sir, no! You would be only exercising a
right which every parent should possess. So far from being
offended, sir, I should attribute your conduct to a laudable
desire to secure the happiness of your child. I am without
fortune; your estate is, I know, encumbered with debt; and
your motive would be to avert the evils of an incompetency
—to—”

“You are a noble boy, Walter!” said the colonel, embracing
him. “Faugh! I still smell that infernal rat! Then we
won't fall out. You understand my condition thoroughly.
But—but—suppose I were to promote a match with one of
larger possessions?”

“I have already said I shall seek something besides fortune
when I—”

“Oh, I don't mean you—but Virginia.”

“Virginia?”

“Yes, Virginia.”

“Virginia marry a rich man?”

“Yes! Why the deuce are you so much astonished at it?”

“Oh, if she were so disposed—”

“Of course it could never take place without her consent.
But if she were to consent to such a thing, in obedience to my
request, would you have a rupture with me?”

“No, sir! If she consented to it, I should have no reproaches
to utter!” replied Walter, sadly.

“She would have to consent to it before it could take
place. You don't suppose me capable of compelling my
daughter to wed any one repugnant to her?”

“No, sir; I do not suppose any thing of the sort. And
I admit a father, and an only surviving parent, should have
the power of preventing a marriage, which is displeasing to
him.”

“Why, we understand one another perfectly! Remember
I have no right to force Virginia to marry against her will,—
and she has no right to wed without my consent. That is reasonable,
and I shall agree to it. If she opposes my will, I
shall have the advantage of her.”

“How so, sir?”

“Why, she may die an old maid—and I have no disposition
to marry again.”

“Very true. But in the mean time, I hope I shall not be
forbidden her company?”

“No. That would be mean and tyrannical. Hang me if
I haven't brought you to my house, without knowing where I
was going—and yonder is Dash setting a bird a mile off! No
matter, Walter; since we have agreed not to disagree. But
I haven't told you who it is I have my eye upon—”

“You are looking at the dog, sir!”

“You are a sly, sarcastic rogue! I suspect that had a
double meaning. But he is with Virginia now.”

“Who?”

“Roland.”

“Roland! Oh, very well, sir. He is rich. He is fond
of the society of ladies. I have not a word to say, sir, why
he should not be the man. I will not say a word to injure
him, sir. Let him propose. Let him do his best. You have
said you will not constrain her—”

“Yes, I have said it—and that's enough. You shall
not be turned out of doors; don't apprehend any thing of the
kind. But don't quarrel with him. Calm your excitement—”

“Am I excited?”

“Do flashes of lightning indicate a cloud? But you
can't see your own face. Come in. There's the cursed rat
again! I'll find it, or tear the house down. Oh, I'll lead
you into the parlor, since you are so pale.”

And when they entered, if the colonel had cast his eyes
toward his daughter's face, he might have seen more flashes.
Doubtless, Roland had been urging his suit; but from the
manner in which Virginia greeted Walter, that young gentleman
felt assured his rival was not likely to succeed immediately.

“Don't you smell a rat?” asked the colonel, sitting beside
Roland.

“I certainly do perceive a disagreeable odor, colonel,
since you mention it; but I have not observed it before.”

“That proves you have been agreeably entertained; for I
smelt it before I went forth with my gun, and before your arrival.
Here, Tom! Dick! Harry! Susan! Nell! Come and

remove the bushes from the fireplace. Look under the sofas
and the sideboard. Tear up the floor. The cursed rat is in
this room, or near it, I'm sure, and it must be found, or I'll
burn down the house!” The servants came in, and looked
every where in vain.

“Massa,” said Tom, an emancipated slave from the Old
Dominion, “it's nigh you. I can scent like a dog, and I track
it to you.”

“Track it to me, you infernal fool! What do you mean?”

“I'll 'splain, massa. You killed one woodcock last
week—”

“Yes, last week; and I have not killed any since.”

“That's de truf, massa! Did massa eat 'im?”

“No! Cook, why didn't you serve up the cock I killed
last week?”

“I nebber seed it.”

“Never—”

“Stop, stop, massa!” said Tom. “I'll 'splain. My nose
is right. Don't be 'fended, massa,” he continued, inserting
his hand into one of the pockets of the colonel's hunting-coat,
and pulling out the woodcock, in an advanced state of decomposition.
The truth was, the colonel had never taken the
bird from his pocket; and although he recollected the fine shot
which brought him down, he had forgotten every thing else.
He rushed out of the room and threw off his coat, while Virginia
and her rival suitors were convulsed with laughter.

When the colonel returned, in another dress, he perceived
his daughter at the piano, and a suitor on each side of her.
Virginia, like most of her sex, seemed amused at the assiduities
of the rivals; but could not restrain her merriment when,
ever and anon, the thought of the rat recurred to her.

“Sing something sad and pensive, Virginia,” said her
father.

“Yes, father,” said the laughing girl; “and I will thank
you for deciding what it shall be. These gentlemen have
been naming the songs they are partial to, and they are so
dissimilar, I know not which to oblige, fearing to offend the
other. But if I can please you, I care not who may be displeased.”

“That's a good daughter. Sing me, then, a Scotch song.”

She did so, and was assisted by Walter.

“Good! good! Walter,” said the colonel. “Where did
you learn to sing so well? It is a good song. You should
learn to sing, Roland. It is a fine accomplishment. Thank
you, Virginia; I do not regret the expense of your music,

although it does sometimes start a tear. Excuse me, my
friends; I have an irresistible desire for a lonely, contemplative
walk.”

“Walter,” said Virginia, when the colonel had departed,
“my father will never again refer to your adventure in the
city, for fear you will retaliate with the tale of the rat.”

“I will retaliate with that tale if he does. I will detail
it and retail it, as often as he refers to my adventure.”

“May I have the slightest hint of the nature of the adventure?”
asked Roland.

“Oh, yes,” said Virginia; “he can't retaliate on me. You
will not be offended?” she continued, addressing Walter,
archly.

“No, not at all—if you tell every thing; what was found
in the barrel, and all.”

“No, you must tell it.”

“Another time will answer,” said Roland, with an air of
indifference; and shortly after he took his leave—having first,
in a whisper, besought Virginia not to betray any of his
secrets.

He was met by the colonel on the lawn, and a long conversation
ensued between them, and in view of the parlor window,
in the recess of which stood Virginia and Walter.

“What was it he whispered, if I may be so bold?” said
Walter.

“You saw—”

“I did.”

“What, a whisper? What did it look like? But, really,
I have a great secret—one that will make you exceedingly
pale when you hear it. Your hair will stand up, and perhaps
turn gray. Do you think you can bear to hear it now? or
would it not be better to prepare you for the disclosure, by a
little tantalizing suspense?”

“I will forestall you. I know it already; and, perhaps,
more of it than you do. He is a suitor for your hand, and
your father has sanctioned his pretensions.”

“And so my father has made a speech to you, too? Well,
the agony of the first interview with my proposed husband
is over.”

“Virginia! tell me—won't you tell me what passed between
you before I came in? What did he propose? What
did you say?”

“He proposed to marry me.”

“And what did you say?”

“I was silent.”

“Silent? Heavens, Virginia! did you not know how he
would interpret your silence? He will consider you irrevocably
bound to him! Why did you not speak?”

“I could not trust myself. I did not like to give vent to
an outburst of anger, and it would have been highly improper
to laugh outright—both of which inclinations seized me alternately.”

“But what did you think of him?”

“I thought he was a fool! To suppose that a desire to
possess his wealth could induce, or the fear of his vengeance
constrain me to lend a favorable ear to his audacious—”

“I'll—” began Walter, starting forward.

“No you won't! He had a right to say what he did; and
unless you promise not to have a quarrel with him, I may accept
him.”

“I promise,” said Walter, resuming his position at her
side. “Now you will not accept him?”

“No, I will not.”

“But if your father desires it?”

“He will not desire it, if it be repugnant to my inclination—which
it is, and ever will be. I said I made no reply
to Roland. I did not; your arrival interrupted the interview.
But a reply was burning on my tongue! I intended to say—
but it would have displeased my father, and I am glad I did
not utter it.”

“What was it? Pray, let me hear what it was you intended
to say.”

“That I would rather wed Bill Dizzle, or the greenest
frog he ever caught, than you!”

“Me?”

“Ralph Roland!”

“Brave, noble, lovely Virginia!”

“Oh, I know that; you've told me so twenty times, and
—I almost believe you think and feel what you say.”

“I do; and I say the truth! But we—I mean I—am
poor—”

“We are both very young, and can wait—”

“And you will truly and faithfully—”

“What?”

“Wait for me? Yes—I see it in your eye! I will
achieve fortune! I will return rich!”

“Then you will leave me?”

“I must—for a time. But you will be beset by this man
—middle-aged as he is; importuned by your father; implored
by your friends, to yield—to forget—to abandon me!”

“My father will not attempt any constraint.”

“No; he promised me that, and he will not disregard his
word.”

“And so you extorted that promise from him? He declared
the same to me, before I could be prevailed upon to
permit Roland to approach me with his ridiculous pretensions.
I have agreed to see him whenever he comes, and to give him
an opportunity to win me, if he has the ability.”

“You have agreed to that?”

“Certainly; but you know he has not the ability. I shall
amuse myself at his expense.”

“Virginia, beware of the arts of that man!”

“Art has nothing to do with it; it is nature. One Winkle
to a thousand Rolands!”

“My glorious Virginia! I—”

“Stop! Be careful! You forget that your gestures may
be observed, and then you may be banished before the time
fixed upon by yourself for your departure. One, two, three,
four—will it be four?”

“Four what?”

“Years. Yes, I think so. But I will be true. Be you
the same!”

“If I should not be, may—”

“No solemn pledges—no oaths. If you meet with one
you like better than Virginia, take her. I will wait and see.
Here comes my father.”

Walter was loved almost as much by the colonel as by his
daughter; and hence, although Roland had just intimated a
wish that his youthful rival, destitute as he was, might not be
so freely entertained as formerly, yet was Walter, in accordance
with the colonel's custom, pressed to remain at the mansion
the remainder of the day. And the invitation was so
earnestly given, and so sweetly seconded by the glances of
Virginia, that the young man felt incapable of tearing himself
away.