University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
WALTER TAKES LEAVE OF HIS AUNT—THE WIDOW WINKLES HOUSE
SOLD OVER HER HEAD.

It was winter. The Arums and Crudles had extorted sufficient
money from their parents, to defray the expenses of a
two months' residence in New York. They stopped a whole
day at a fashionable hotel, that their names might be announced
in the newspapers; afterwards they moved to a fashionable
up-town boarding-house. They had no relations in
the city but some poor cousins—and the Arums and Crudles
likewise, were cousins—whom they had long since ceased to
associate with on familiar terms. The father of their New
York cousins, was a small tradesman; he kept a shop, and sold
ladies' shoes. Mr. Poke was poor; and of course he did not
even have the custom of his wealthy relations from Babbleton,
much less their social visits.

Congress having assembled, Walter resolved to try his
fortune at Washington, whither Mr. Plastic had written in his
behalf to the President; and there seemed some prospect of
success; at least such was the purport of one of the replies
signed by the President's private secretary.

Lowe accompanied Walter as far as Philadelphia, hoping
to learn something definite in relation to the abode of Lucy,
whose absence had become insupportable. Walter, however,
was pledged to secrecy, so long as Lowe's secret remained unexplained.
Such was Lucy's peremptory command.

The young men rung at the door of the Winkle mansion,
and were instantly admitted by Rose. Being conducted into
the parlor, they were immediately joined by Miss Wilsome,
dressed in her superb style, and in readiness for the enjoyment
of the gayest society.

“Mr. Lowe!” cried she. “My dear friend, I am glad to
see you. Why have you neglected me? Who is that?” she
asked, pointing to Walter, who sat at the other end of the sofa.

“It is Walter, your nephew,” said Lowe, wondering why
Walter did not answer the question himself.

“Walter? Oh, that disobedient boy! I don't know him.

You may take your leave, sir,” said she, addressing her
nephew, “and remain away until I send for you.”

“I called merely to pay my duty, aunt, and take my leave,”
said Walter, rising. “I am, perhaps, on the very eve of leaving
the United States, never to return.”

“Sit down, sir!” she cried, in a startling voice. “Explain
the meaning of your words. Why should you leave
your country?”

“My mother is poor—”

“Nonsense! It is not so—it cannot be so, with the fortune
my brother inherited, and the handsome dowry possessed
by herself. It is impossible. But what could you do
abroad?”

“If I go, it will be in the capacity of a diplomatic agent.
I hope to obtain an appointment of that character from the
President, and am now on my way to Washington with letters
of introduction and recommendation.”

“Burn them, and go home! That is my advice. A Winkle
to stoop to that! An office-seeker! Do you not know it
is derogatory to your character to hold office under the present
executive, or under any of them, elected as he was? No,
sir! Let the Irish and German grog-shop keepers have the
offices! If they can make Presidents, they can fill the subordinate
posts. Will you burn your papers?”

“I cannot, aunt; I am pledged—”

“Very well. Farewell, then. I have heard it said you
should have been bred to some useful pursuit—but I never
supposed you could take up such a low trade as the politician's.
You'll die a beggar. Mind that. Your uncle will have an
heir to cut you off from the reversion—provided Gusset finds
out her husband has but a life estate in the lands. She can
manage it—the Lord knows how—I don't. But she would
produce one. Your father squandered money and lost reputation
in office. But he was elected by the people, not appointed
by any of your Irish Presidents. If he died poor,
which I cannot believe, you may be sure he lost his fortune in
politics.”

“Aunt,” said Walter, “I have nothing to lose.”

“Nothing to lose? You are a Winkle! You have a
name, and I suppose a character to lose. Go along about your
foolish business! You may stay, however, till after dinner,

if you will take dummy and play against Mr. Lowe and myself.”

“I should be delighted,' said Lowe, rising, “to make one;
but I have an engagement an hour hence, which I am bound
in honor not to neglect. I came, Miss Wilsome, once more to
entreat you to tell me, if you can, where I may find your
niece—”

“My niece! Gone into politics, I suppose, or some other
disreputable—”

“Disreputable, madam!”

“I mean taken up some disgraceful employment or other.
Such as teaching music, or laboring in some way to make a
living, when I am absolutely certain her father possessed an
ample fortune. Oh, you needn't look so disconsolate, if you
really love the girl. She is handsome enough, and I will answer
with my life for her propriety of conduct.”

“You know not where she is?”

“I do not.”

“Then she is not in the city?”

“No, I think not. Nor in New York, either, although
she has an aunt there, too.”

“She has?”

“Yes, she has. But she could never live with her.”

“Her name?”

“Flora Blount—a fat creature, who lives on novels, while a
keen-eyed Scotch woman, her companion, a Miss McCrabbed,
steals her money.”

“Lucy is there—I am sure!” said Lowe.

“And I am sure she is not. Miss McCrabbed would not
permit it. She would make the house— and a fine old mansion
it is—too uncomfortable—unless, indeed, Lucy had the
art to quote some of Flora's favorite passages from the English
novels, and make them apply to her case. But then, I don't
think a Winkle would stoop to contend with a Scotch woman.”

“She is there,” continued Lowe.

“If she is, she's safe. Therefore you can play with perfect
composure.”

Lowe thought differently, although he did not say so. He
departed to keep his appointment, promising, however, to return
if he remained in the city.

“Aunt,” said Walter, rising, “I must go too. Farewell.”

“I won't take your hand, if you are going to dabble in

filthy politics. After the expulsion of foreigners from office,
gentlemen, and Americans may succeed to the government.”

“Can you tell me any thing about Pollen, aunt? I have
sought him in vain.”

“Yes; he left the city last week. He is in New York,
and I hope he will fall in with your Aunt Blount.”

“She would have to feed on something more substantial
than fashionable British novels to entertain him. But I am
sorry his magazine was a failure. The first number—and it
was the last—was really magnificent.”

“Of course it was. He has more genius than all the
tribe of his persecutors combined. But it was his own fault
he failed. He sent me the magazine, and I was pleased with
it, and sent for him. He came; and what do you suppose he
said to me?”

“I cannot guess. He is different from other men.”

“He's a fool! He told me that Gusset, the stitching
milliner, had loaned him the money to begin his publication!
And he said he had no doubt she would loan him as much
more as he wanted.”

“Then he was mistaken.”

“Certainly he was! What better could be expect from
her, a low-bred milliner! She patronizing a man of genius!”

“She showed me his letter, a grateful acknowledgment—”

“Grateful, indeed! I don't believe it. He is incapable
of gratitude. All geniuses are forgetful of favors.”

“However, his thanks expressed in that way did not
please her. She was disappointed with the magazine—”

“How could she appreciate its merits? She knows nothing
of literature.”

“But she could have read her own praises in poetry or
prose, and there was nothing of the sort in it.”

“Ha, ha, ha! Gusset wanting to be flattered in print!
Fool as he is, Pollen has too much sense to be guilty of any
such absurdity.”

“She therefore returned the magazine, and refused to
loan him more money. She went further, and sent him a
bill, and a dun for what she had already advanced.”

“The milliner! A bill! A dun! Just like her! She
knows how to receipt a bill for a bonnet. It is part of her
trade. The idea of sending a bill to a poet! Oh, Walter,

you see what it is to have to do with vulgar people! But I
wish Pollen had shown me her letter. He was a fool for not
doing so. I might have made his fortune. But I was incensed.
Printers, papermakers, and others, came to me to
know if he was responsible, and all that. I had them turned
out of doors without a word of reply. If I had known Gusset's
conduct, I should have paid their bills; and I might have
caused the magazine to be read and patronized in good circles.
But the fool was inflexible. The enterprise failed, inevitably.
Then a bill came to me for the price of the number I had
received.”

“Is it possible? I did not think Pollen—”

“Oh, necessity knows no law, they say, and the messenger
said Pollen was in distress, and wanted the means of going to
New York, where he had a prospect of obtaining employment
as a sub-editor, or something of that sort.”

“Then I am sure you paid the bill.”

“I threw the bill in the fire, and sent him a check for
fifty dollars, with a message to leave the city as quick as
possible.”

“That was noble in you, aunt.”

“It was different from Gusset's conduct. And now, since
you are taking your final leave of me, for I shall have nothing
more to do with you when lost in politics, here is a check,
that you may not starve in the streets. No thanks—not a
word, or I will throw it in the fire! There! Away with you,
now!” Walter thrust the check in his pocket without reading
it, and hastened away.

Lowe did not return to the Winkle mansion, and it is
doubtful whether Miss Wilsome was able to make up the
partners for her game that day. As for Lucy's lover, impressed
with the belief that the one he sought, and from
whom he could not endure a longer separation, was sojourning
with her novel-reading aunt, he lost no time in taking passage
for New York.

At Babbleton, there was an occurrence, a few days after
the departure of Walter, which must be noted in this true
and faithful history. Roland, as if it might console him for
his defeat and disappointment, had foreclosed the mortgage
on Mrs. Winkle's property, and advertised it for sale. At
every corner of the village, at the inns, on the fences, and on

the trees, were printed handbills, announcing the sale of the
widow's house and ground.

And the wretch still had the impudence to visit the widow,
and attempt to justify his conduct under the plea of necessity.
He said he owed many debts, and could collect nothing except
by process of law. Yet he never omitted to hint, that if
Lucy would favor his addresses, the claim should be cancelled,
and he would either sell a portion of his own property to
realize the sum he stood in need of, or else bring suit against
other persons indebted to him.

Mrs. Winkle, most unaccountably to Roland, far from
deprecating his proceedings against her, besought him to
spare the others. This incensed him very much, and it was
with great difficulty he could suppress the malignity which
consumed him, although it was his policy to avoid an irreconcilable
rupture, as he still hoped that circumstances might
yet throw Lucy within his grasp. Therefore at every interview
with the widow, he sighed and groaned, and uttered protestations
of his constant affection for her daughter, and
lamentations that stern necessity compelled him to foreclose
the mortgage.

Virginia amused herself at the expense of her suitor, and
would not deign to make a definite reply to his urgent entreaties
to be informed of his future fate. But he knew the
spirit of the girl, and could build no expectation of success
upon any of his own allurements, or stratagems, such as he
had employed for the destruction of Lucy and others. His
only hope rested upon the influence of her father; but upon
that, as we have seen, he was likely to rely in vain. In seeking
to consummate an advantageous alliance, Col. Oakdale
was incapable of meditating a sacrifice of his daughter's happiness;
of knowingly entertaining for a moment the pretensions
of a man wholly unworthy of being connected with his
family. Honorable himself, he was likely to be the last to
attribute disreputable motives to another.

On the day of sale there was a large crowd assembled in
front of the widow's premises.

Roland stood at the sheriff's elbow, with a recently-formed
intention to buy the property himself; and, as his tenants,
he doubted not Lucy and her mother would evince a more
tractable spirit than they had hitherto manifested.

Bawson, the Scotch lawyer, was there to bid in the name

of Napoleon Winkle. This had been arranged by Griselda,
who was, as she congratulated herself, to fall heir to all the
real estate of her husband, when his mortal career should be
ended. The lawyer was not authorized, however, to bid more
than two or three thousand dollars, which Griselda thought
would be quite as much as the property would bring at auction.
She felt confident that Bawson's bid would be the highest,
and that henceforth her old friend and protector, now fallen
into the disgrace of poverty, would be her tenant.

David Deal, the Quaker landlord, was there, prepared to
purchase the property at half its value, if no one bid higher.
Supposing the messuage would be sacrificed, and that he would
be the purchaser, he had taken the precaution to prevent any
odium that might be attached to such a purchase, by assuring
his friends, if he should buy the property at a low figure, it
would be because no one else would bid higher; and as a man
could not bid against himself, and as the purchaser must
always be the highest bidder, he ought never to be blamed for
receiving double the value of his money, at a public sale.

John Dowly stood with folded arms in the crowd assembled
in front of the premises. He was a silent spectator, looking
on with a sorrowful countenance. Many wondered what business
he could have at the sale; and some uttered jests at his
expense, and within his hearing.

The widow sat in her parlor with a placid countenance.
The window was hoisted, so that she could answer any inquiries
respecting the conveniences of the establishment.

The sheriff read aloud his authority to sell, and afterwards
a particular description of the property. Then the house was
put up for sale. Davy Deal bid $500.

“Five hundred dollars!” cried the auctioneer; “just one
eighth of the amount of the mortgage, and not one sixteenth
of the value of the property!”

“Thee knows I can't buy it if any one else bids more,”
said Davy.

“One thousand dollars,” said Mr. Arum.

“Two thousand,” said Mr. Crudle.

“I'm done,” said David; and he walked away.

“Twenty-two hundred,” said Bawson.

“Twenty-five hundred,” said Roland.

“Twenty-five hundred—twenty-five hundred—two thousand
five hundred—going—going—”

“Stop! stop! you — infernal scoundrel! If you sell
it before I get there, I'll blow your brains out!” This was
uttered by Sergeant Blore, who approached as fast as possible,
thumping the frozen ground at every step with his wooden
leg. “Here,” he continued, stumbling up to the sheriff, and
placing in his hand an old handkerchief, in which were wrapped
gold and silver coins, and rolls of city six per cent. bonds—
“Count them, I say; I bid that much.”

“You had better not interfere in this matter,” said
Roland.

“Not interfere? Isn't it a public sale? I bid that—I
don't know exactly how much—but if he takes another bid
before he cries mine, I'll pistol him, if I hang for it the next
hour. Not interfere! Mr. Roland!—”

“Well, sir—what do you want with me?”

“You are a rascal, sir! That's all!”

“What? What?”

“You heard me, and so did all the people. Ask them.
You know where I can be found. I shall expect to hear from
you. Sheriff, you can't count it on your arm. Put it down
on the ground. I'll see in a minute how much my bid is.”
The old sergeant sat down, and spread open the handkerchief
between his legs. Having placed a small pistol on one corner
of the handkerchief, he proceeded to count the money. Before
this was accomplished, and just when Roland had satisfied
himself the sum was less than the amount of his own bid, old
Dibble, Mrs. Winkle's gardener, came running from the bank
with a hatfull of money—silver and gold, and small bills
mingled—which he poured out beside the sergeant's treasure.

“There,” said he “count that, too. Bid it all, sergeant.
I'll stand by you. He is a rascal. Never fear.”

“Fear? I'm not afraid of the devil!”

“Hit's a scandal hand a himposition for one's usband to
squander hany thing hin that manner,” said Mrs. Edwards,
from an upper window of Lowe's house. “Let me get hat
im,” she continued, slamming down the window, and disappearing
from view.

“Take care of it, Dibble!” said the sergeant. “Don't
let her touch a penny. Swear it's all your own. I'm off!”
And the poor old sergeant scampered away with a sort of hop-step-and-a-jump
motion, and was soon out of view, followed by
Mrs. Edwards, whom he distanced, however.

“Twenty-six hundred dollars!” cried the sheriff, when
Dibble completed the count.

“Twenty-seven hundred,” said Roland, whose face was
still burning with the rage excited by the sergeant.

“Four thousand,” said the widow, from the window.

“That's the amount of the mortgage,” said the sheriff;
“and if you have the money, and enough besides to pay the
costs, &c., I shan't take another bid.”

“She has no money,” said Roland, in the sheriff's ear;
“if so, she could have paid the debt. Don't take her bid.”

“I must. She may have the money. I rather think she
has,” he continued, espying a roll of bank notes partially exposed
in the widow's hand.

“You are mistaken. Else why did she permit the property
to be advertised?”

“She may have had reasons for it. I've known such things
to take place. She may have wished to see who were her
friends, or whether you really had the cruelty to sell her house
over her head. It will tell against you at the next election,
if you're a candidate.”

“Proceed,” said Roland. “Discharge your duty. I
suppose you can sympathize with any one after your commissions
are secured.”

“It's a free country, sir, and I can do as I please about this
matter. It's the first time I ever cried off the home of the widow
of a member of Congress, and I hope it may be the last. But her
bid shall have it, and if she has not got the money, I'll join with
old Dibble and the sergeant and make it up. “Going—going—
Gone. Too late, sir,” he said, when Roland bid five hundred
more.

Mrs. Winkle was attracted by a stamping in the hall.

“Who is it, Biddy?” she asked, when the girl entered.

“Dill Bizzle.”

“Show him in. What's the matter, Bill?” she continued,
seeing the frog-catcher panting with excitement.

“I—I beg pardon, man—but I hearn they was going to
sell you out of house and home, and so I went to the city early,
and seed Miss Wilsome, mam.”

“Is it possible?”

“Yes, mam, and she'll be here in a minute. She told me
to run on before and stop the sale till she come. Yonder she
is,” continued Bill, looking out of the window.

“Stop the sale!” said Wilsome, in a harsher voice than
usual. “Where's the monster? Oh, there you are, you villain,”
she continued, approaching Roland, who, however, retreated
with all possible expedition.

“The sale is over, madam,” said the sheriff.

“Over? Monstrous! Why didn't you wait till I arrived?”

“I did not know you were coming.”

“Not know I was coming? Ridiculous! Who bought
it?”

“The widow herself, madam—and she has placed the money
in my hands. It is in large bills, and is perfectly correct.”

“Then that idiot, Bill Dizzle, has led me a wild-goose
chase. I broke up a whist party, and signed half a dozen
checks for nothing.”

“Come in, sister,” said the widow.

“No! I wont! I've been made a fool of. True, the idiot
said you didn't know he came to me. That's the reason I determined
to come. Now I find there is nothing for me to
do—and I had made up a party of four, and dummy was not
needed. It was a wild-goose chase! I'll go back in the down
train. I hear the whistle,” and turning away abruptly, she
strode towards the depot. And it was observed that when she
approached the crowd of passengers waiting on the platform,
Roland, who had been standing among them, pulled down his
hat and strode off in another direction.

Before the crowd dispersed, three hearty cheers were given
for the widow, and as many groans for Roland.

John Dowly was invited in, and constrained to stay to
dinner. The sergeant made his appearance in the kitchen,
having scaled the wall in the rear, being assisted by the Dibbles,
father and son.

The widow quite as merry as ever she was in the height
of prosperity, thanked her kind friends with tears in her
eyes, but with a brave heart and smiling lips. Even poor Bill
Dizzle, almost annihilated under the frown of Wilsome, was
reassured by the grateful widow, who appreciated his generous
motive.