University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
MISS FLORA BLOUNT AND LUCY GO TO THE OPERA, AND RETURN IN
THE BLUE CARRIAGE—DR. McGAB PROPOSES.

At the hour appointed, quite a fine hired carriage was at the
door of the Blount mansion. This was Lucy's suggestion;
for she did not think her aunt quite rich enough to keep an
equipage of her own, and she did not suppose such an establishment
was necessary to maintain a good position in society.
They were born in a good circle, and hence they belonged to
the “privileged class,” as it was termed by the envious parvenues.
But they had a front seat at the opera; which, however,
was more for their own enjoyment, than for the purpose
of making a display.

Nevertheless, they did make an unrivalled display. Most
beautiful at all times, Lucy was perfectly enchanting in the
full glare of the chandeliers. A thousand eyes rested on her,
and inquiries in regard to the “perfect angel,” were whispered
in all parts of the house.

Mr. Pollen occupied a seat between Lucy and her aunt;
and, being in the vein, entertained them with judicious criticisms
on the comparative merits of the performers.

“That pale girl,” said he, “in the chorus, has a finer voice
than the prima donna. Listen! But she is an American,
and is paid but five dollars a week. If they had her in Paris
a couple of years, by changing her name so as to make it terminate
with an i, she might earn $500 a night; and that, too,
in her own country, provided the place of her nativity were
kept a profound secret.”

“Mr. Pollen, do you not hate your own country?” asked
Lucy.

“I hate its errors and blemishes.”

“But is it not the same, and has it not always been the
same, with other countries? You know a prophet is not without
honor, except in his own country.”

“True; but should we not profit by the errors of other
nations? The people of our great country should despise the
servile practices of European nations.”

“Nevertheless,” continued Lucy, “we sometimes have our
revenge.”

“Yes!” said Miss Blount, having recovered from a
paroxysm of ecstasy, into which she had been thrown by the
finale of the first act; “for the London Times, brought by
the steamer to-day, is filled with praises of an American
actress—a Miss Delia Glass.”

“I saw the eulogiums,” said Pollen. “Her fortune is
made. And if you had looked among the advertisements, you
would have seen a bookseller's announcement of an illustrated
edition of my works. What publisher here would have undertaken
such an enterprise? None, not one. I have tried
them all. But I shall not derive a particle of pecuniary advantage
from the publication—not one cent. It is a retaliatory
measure. Our members of Congress, better capable of
appreciating the value of dollars, and the votes of papermakers
and bookbinders, than the brains of authors, have refused
to foster a national literature; and in consequence the
country is inundated with republications of European books,
whose authors can derive no compensation from our publishers.”

“But, being indorsed by the British critics,” said Lucy,
“your countrymen will now recognize your pretensions, and
acknowledge your merit.”

“Oh, yes, in time. And they will ultimately purchase my
works. But then I will be in my grave. Too late! too late!
Excuse me.” The poet hastily withdrew, quivering with an
excessive agitation.

“He'll be back soon,” said Miss Blount. “But, my dear
Lucy, I hope you will in future avoid that subject. It always
produces an uncontrollable excitement. The poor poet has
been the victim of the critics.”

“I will remember, aunt. I wonder what can be the reason
Mr. Lowe has never looked in this direction?” continued
Lucy, observing that her aunt was regarding the young gentleman,
who stood near the orchestra.

“I cannot conjecture,” said Flora. “I have been striving
for some time to catch his eye, but in vain. And yet he is
constantly casting his glances above us. Who can he see
there?”

The aunt and niece turned involuntarily, and beheld the
face of Roland behind them. He was standing near the door,
in the next box to them. He bowed to Lucy, but she did not
return it. Lowe, who had seen only the motion of Roland,

turned his eyes away, and gazed at the Misses Arum and
Crudle, in an opposite box.

Lucy was pained at the occurrence, and turned her face
aside in sadness.

“Who is that man?” asked Miss Blount.

“Roland,” was the faint reply.

“So it is! I should have known him, as often as I have
seen him recently in the blue carriage. But he is more handsomely
dressed than usual, and is quite a fine-looking man for
one of his age. Well, well, he's gone. Cheer up, my child.
There is no danger here. Can you tell me who are those
impudently bejewelled girls over yonder, with their glasses
continually pointed at us?”

“Oh, yes,” said Lucy, recovering from her dejection.
“They are the belles of Babbleton. The representatives of
all the Arums and Crudles—rich and—”

“Fools! as your Aunt Wilsome would say. I do believe
they are talking scandal about us, and to all the eager young
gentlemen fluttering around them. Did you ever see such
airs—such affectation?”

“I suppose they have been saying, they disliked the idea
of attending Mrs. Laurel's parties, if we are to be there.”

“No doubt they will tell everybody—for everybody seems
to have access to them—that Mrs. Laurel has sent them notes
of invitation. But here comes my poet, radiant with smiles.”

This was true. Pollen resumed his seat in high spirits,
and announced that he had just met a bookseller in the lobby,
who made him a flattering proposition. Lucy intimated that
the British appreciation of his merit had probably incited the
bookseller to make the offer; and the poet did not doubt the
truth of her conjecture.

At the end of the next act, Pollen, in the exuberance of
his gay humor, poured an incessant volley of words into the
ear of Miss Blount, and of course he had an attentive listener.
And Lucy, apparently neglected, and looking in vain for the
one who had monopolized her thoughts, was conscious of a
slight movement behind, and the next moment was surprised
by the voice of Lowe, who calmly took possession of an unoccupied
seat on her left. In vain she strove to arrest the
scarlet flood which rushed into her cheeks, and spread over
her temples and forehead.

“I saw Roland bow to you to-night,” said Lowe, in a half
whisper.

“He did,” was the reply.

“You could not forbid it; you could not prevent him—”

“No, no, I could not. I turned away from his gaze as
quickly as I could. But why do you still mention his name?
After the occurrence on the night of my uncle's—you know
perfectly well what I allude to—it would be doing me great
injustice to suppose I could pardon his conduct, or admit him
again, voluntarily, into my presence.”

“He must be the most mendacious man that ever existed!
Do you know he has reported at one of the clubs he attends,
that you have obtained his permission to use his carriage as
your own?”

“No; I did not know he had slandered me thus. His
carriage! Oh, Mr. Lowe, I have desired to mention the subject
of his carriage to you, but could never have the resolution
to say what I so anxiously wished. And this is not the place.
Will you not accompany us home after the opera?”

“I cannot. I am sorry I am otherwise engaged. I came
with a lady, now in one of the private boxes—”

“I will not ask who she is,” said Lucy, “nor seek to know
if she gazes at you, or watches your steps, or—”

“Oh, Lucy, do not attempt a retaliation. My heart is
only for you. You may break it—”

“I break it!”

“You may crush it, and then it can never be offered to
another. Henceforth, it can be of no value to any one.”

“Why will you distress me thus? Oh, Edmund! if you
but knew the misery you inflict by such unjust suspicions; if
you would but hear me, and believe my words, which are
true—and would be equally as frank and confiding—”

“To-morrow I will see you. And—and soon—very soon,
there will be an end to my mystery, which has been only a
source of unhappiness—an inevitable—but the curtain rises,
and I must hasten back to my companion—who, by the way,
Lucy, is quite as old as your mother. Adieu.”

After Lowe left her, Lucy, instead of beholding Roland,
had the pleasure to see Henry Milnor approach, and occupy
the seat at her elbow. He remained until the bell rang for
the final act; and he sought by every means in his power to
dispel the slight cloud of gloom which he thought might be

discerned on the fair brow of Lucy. And it was measurably
dispersed by his fascinating powers of conversation. He
pointed out the lions and the most distinguished belles of the
city to her, and related many innocent anecdotes of them,
which interested his fair listener.

“But I have not the happiness to be acquainted with all
the belles of Babbleton,” said he, directing her attention towards
the opposite box, where Bell Arum and Susan Crudle
were apparently straining their eyes to catch every attitude and
motion of the occupants of the box in which he was sitting.

“I supposed,” said Lucy, “by this time the ladies opposite
would have been known by all the gentlemen—I mean the
fashionable gentlemen.”

“And why, pray?”

“Because they are reputed to be rich. But you are not
a fashionable gentleman. You told me so yourself. Their
names, then—”

“Oh, I know their names,” said Milnor.

“That was all I meant,” continued Lucy. “I could not
suppose all the gentlemen had cultivated their acquaintance.
Such an attempt would not allow the poor belles sufficient time
to take their food.”

“And they would incontinently perish.”

“That is malicious. But they have been telling tales, as
Mr. Lowe informs me. He says they have given the history
of my family to their eager auditors. Do you know any of
the delighted young gentlemen who seem to be their worshippers.”

“I know the names and occupations of several of them—
and I think it probable they have mentioned my name, if the
young ladies are at all inquisitive.”

“Inquisitive! Let your shafts fall exclusively on the
ruder sex.”

“Very well. One of their admirers is a hair dyer—”

“A what?”

“He certainly keeps a little shop, in which a liquid hair
dye is sold. The tall one, with the large diamond pin, and
the enormous seal. The fat one is a sample clerk in a British
commission house. He was in the store the day you came,
striving to sell us a package of lawns. The one with the
moustache, is a music teacher, I believe. I know he belongs
to a band hired by picnic parties, and by steamboats that go

on excursions of pleasure. But he is unobtrusive and gentlemanly
in his demeanor; and doubtless entitled to make a fortune
by marrying, if any heiress should see proper to have
him. The modest young man sitting behind the ladies, is a
very respectable scrivener. His father was an eminent lawyer,
but unfortunate in his speculations. He is likewise preparing
for the bar, and no doubt will deserve, and achieve success.
I don't think he will marry a fortune, from the fact that his
rivals have the knack of saying more smart things than himself.
I suppose the full-chested beau, with his thumbs in his
vest holes, and whose voice can sometimes be distinguished at
this distance, and whose laughter is heard all over the house,
will win a prize. He is the son of an auctioneer, of some
fortune. There are two members of the press just entering—
but the curtain rises. Adieu!”

At the end of the performance, a shower of bouquets alighted
upon the stage. Many of them were thrown from the box
of the heiresses—and as many were retained by the belles, for
their own gratification, being the tributes of one of their admirers,
whose father was a fashionable horticulturist.

When Lucy and her aunt were conducted by Pollen along
the densely thronged lobby towards the door opening on the
street, they were followed by Lowe, who was attending the
elderly lady which had been alluded to by him. She was
very fair, and quite as fat as Miss Blount; and Lucy could
not avoid hearing her expressions of admiration, when, upon
turning her head, the lady had obtained a view of her features.
No doubt, thought she, Lowe had been speaking of her to his
companion, and the supposition was not a painful one.

Arrived at the great steps in front of the theatre, there
was some difficulty in finding their carriage. At length they
were accosted by a small boy, who asked if their names were
not Blount. Miss Flora answered in the affirmative.

“Then here's your carriage,” said the boy. “The driver
can't leave the horses in this jam.” And it was a jam. Carriages
were interlocked, and the people were struggling in
every direction.

As Pollen pushed through the dense crowd, following the
boy, Lucy beheld Roland a few paces in advance, and a chill
ran through her veins. But now they had reached the carriage,
the door of which was held open by the accommodating
lad.

“Here, my lad,” said Flora, putting a shilling in his hand.

“Thank'ee, mum,” said he.

As Lucy stepped in, she cast a look behind, and was
startled to observe Lowe, standing on one of the steps in the
vicinity. The rays of the lamp fell upon his face, and she
saw he was deathly pale. And as she vanished, he clasped his
forehead with his hand, and turned away, just when the driver
cracked his whip. The horses moved off briskly, while Pollen
was with great glee informing Miss Flora that his portfolio
contained a sufficient quantity of manuscripts to make a volume
of the size demanded by the bookseller; and that he
anticipated decided sucćess, from the fact that he had written
much of it in great distress of mind, and when out of favor
with the world. He said that most of the great productions
had been written under similar circumstances, which seemed
to have caused an unusual concentration of mind on the subjects
treated, and a more perfect abstraction from other objects
and influences.

Lucy remained silent, and lost in unpleasant surmises,
until the carriage stopped at her aunt's door. Then, upon
descending to the pavement, it was discovered that they had
been taken home in Roland's blue carriage! The lamp near
which they alighted revealed the mistake they had made; and
Flora and Pollen laughed very heartily at the occurrence. It
was different with poor Lucy. She knew it was no inadvertence.
She felt an agony at her heart, and clung to Pollen for
support. Lowe had seen her enter the carriage, which he
knew to be Roland's. That was the explanation of his despairing
pallor and extraordinary gesture on the steps of the
theatre. How, then, could she explain, the next morning?
Would he call upon her, according to the appointment, after
what he had witnessed?

The carriage drove off, and the one that had taken them
to the theatre arrived in great haste.

“It was not my fault, madam,” said the coachman. “They
pushed me away from the front. I was hunting you, and saw
you just when you was stepping up. I hallooed, but you
couldn't hear me in the crowd. It wasn't my fault. But
there was some foul play. I'll see who did it!”

“Never mind, John,” said Miss Flora. “It was only an
amusing adventure. Don't get into a quarrel with any one
on account of it.”

“Aunt,” said Lucy, in an earnest tone, “pray let us go in.
I am ill.”

They entered the house immediately. Upon beholding
her niece, Flora exclaimed in alarm, that the dear girl was
fainting, and caught her in her arms.

“No, aunt,” said Lucy, feebly; “I am not fainting. But
I am not well. Pray conduct me to my room.”

“Mr. Pollen!” cried Flora, “please go for the doctor—
Dr. McGab!”

“No, aunt! I will be better, soon. But if not, do not
send for him, if you have no one else's recommendation but
Miss McCrabbed's.”

“Oh, he is a good physician.”

“I am better, aunt. I shall not require a doctor, I
hope.”

But she did seem to require one the next day. After a
restless night, she arose in the morning with a violent headache.
And when the hour appointed by Lowe to see her had
passed, and no communication from him had been received
explaining the cause of his failure to attend, she seemed so
much worse, that her aunt was alarmed, and again entreated
her to let Dr. McGab be sent for. Lucy, not deeming it
a case wherein the Esculapian might be usefully employed,
still resisted. Her aunt then became very miserable herself.
Lucy, she was quite sure, was very ill, or would be soon, and
she feared she would be disappointed in the exhibition of her
beautiful niece at the great party, where a living countess and
a real lord would be present. Such apprehensions shocked
her nerves to such a degree, that she was under the necessity
of calling in the doctor for her own benefit.

Dr. McGab was a tall gentleman, with red hair, and an
intellectual face, said by some to resemble Thomas Jefferson's.
His practice was pretty extensive, and as he possessed one of
the essential characteristics of his country—an almost miraculous
economy—he was growing wealthy. His income might
increase—his expenditures never.

The doctor entered the parlor where Lucy was sitting
alone.

“Good morning, Miss Winkle,” said he, sitting down beside
her on the sofa. “I am sorry to see you looking so
badly. A little nervous excitement, perhaps; your aunt is a

victim to it. I hope it is not hereditary. I hope not, truly,
truly, truly.”

Lucy smiled at his earnestness of manner, and his habitual
repetition of the final word of his sentences.

“No, doctor,” said she, “I think not.”

“But you don't look well, not well, not well.”

“A headache, merely. It was my aunt—”

“I know. My professional visit is to her. I will see her
when she is ready. She must put on a ribbon, or something
of the sort, before I can be admitted. The ladies are all
alike. The doctor must be delayed for some adjustment of
costume or furniture, even in cases of imminent danger. All
alike, alike, alike.”

“I am sure, doctor, you ought to be flattered by it,” replied
Lucy.

“I am—when the delay is not too long—and it cannot be
in this instance, instance. But the door opens for me, and I
may go up, now, now. I will leave my gloves with you, you,
you,” continued the doctor, striding away.

He found Miss Flora prostrated by the severest attack she
had ever experienced, and really requiring his aid. After
writing a prescription, and leaving particular directions for her
to remain as nearly as possible immovable, he returned to the
parlor.

“How is my aunt, doctor?” asked Lucy.

“The attack is severe, severe. She must not be startled
—not disturbed. I have sent for the medicine. She orders
me to see you. Your pulse, pulse,” he continued, taking the
wrist of Lucy in his hand.

“I hope my case will not require medicine, doctor,” said
she.

“No. But it is not right—not right. Your tongue,
tongue. Nothing, nothing. Good constitution—some little
excitement. No medicine—no medicine.”

“I am glad to hear it, doctor.”

“So am I—so am I. Be well to-morrow, or next day—
next day. McCrabbed gone, eh? Bad woman.”

“She was indeed, doctor.”

“Sorry for it, sorry for it. Countrywoman of mine,
mine. But better as it is. Miss Blount's own niece, heir,
heir, heir.”

“Pray release my wrist, doctor,” said Lucy, almost

alarmed at the violence of the grasp with which the doctor
held it.

“Certainly,” said the doctor, releasing her wrist, but retaining
her hand, and sliding down on his knee; “Miss
Winkle,” he continued, “I am a bachelor. Not old—not old.
I love you, have loved you, ever since I saw you first, first,
first—”

“Dr. McGab!”

“Seriously, seriously, seriously. Upon my honor, honor,
honor. Is there hope, hope, hope?”

“I fear not, doctor!” said Lucy, springing up, and with
difficulty preserving her gravity of countenance.

“Say hope, hope, hope!” continued the doctor, still resting
on one knee.

“I cannot. I must not deceive you. I fear it is a desperate
case,” she added, turning away, and holding her handkerchief
to her mouth.

“Think of it, think of it,” said the doctor, rising. “Pause
—reflect—no hasty prognosis—um—the profession! Dream
on it, dream on it. See you again, again, again,” continued
he, withdrawing.

“There are your gloves, doctor,” said Lucy.

“True—nervous myself, myself, myself,” he kept repeating,
until he passed out of the hall door and disappeared in
the street.

Then Lucy threw herself down on the sofa, and in spite of
all her endeavors to the contrary, gave vent to a prolonged
fit of laughter. And when this subsided, she was surprised
to find her head had ceased to pain her. The doctor had certainly
effected a cure.

It was, perhaps, fortunate that Lucy's spirits had made
such a rebound. The depression which had afflicted her, if
not dispelled, would have rendered her incapable of bearing
with fortitude that which was to follow. For, not many minutes
after the departure of Dr. McGab, and when she was
sitting beside her aunt, a letter was placed in her hand by a
servant, who said the bearer did not await a reply. Lucy
knew the writing—but steeled her heart to bear with equanimity
whatever might be traced by her suspicious lover—for
in that light she could not avoid regarding him—while at the
same time she could not deny that he had ample cause to be
filled with doubt and apprehension. Yet she felt that she

could not quite forgive him for entertaining a mistrust, which
would have instantly vanished if his decision had been delayed
until he had obtained an explanation.

“Read the letter, child,” said Miss Flora. “I am much
better, since your color has returned. What a strange thing
is sympathy! It seems to me the relief you have obtained has
likewise relieved me, in a great degree.”

“I wish, aunt,” said Lucy, “you were sufficiently recovered
to hear me with composure—before I break the seal of
this letter.”

“Who is it from? I am composed, now. What would
you say?”

“Oh, it is a long tale—a—”

“Love tale?”

“Yes.”

“Then I can hear it!” said Flora, rising on her elbow.
“Such tales never shock my nerves; on the contrary, they
tranquillize me. It will cure me, Lucy. I desire you will
proceed.”

Lucy related every thing which had occurred between herself
and Lowe, up to the moment when she saw him strike his
forehead, as she unconsciously entered the blue carriage.

“It is a romance!” said her aunt, rising. “You see it
has nearly cured me. I will rise and sit by the fire. But
who is Mr. Lowe?”

“I know not—but I suspect—” said Lucy, and she
would say no more.

“He seems to be a gentleman,” said her aunt.

“Oh, yes.”

Read his letter, Lucy. No doubt he reproaches you.
If he does, what will you do? Make up your mind for the
worst, and then—”

“I think I shall not faint, aunt—nor even turn pale. He
should have seen me—should have heard me. I will read it
aloud—and withhold nothing from you.”

“That is a dear child,” said Flora, kissing her.

The letter was as follows: “Our eyes met as you were
entering Roland's carriage, The wound which I experienced
then, I fear can never be healed. After beholding what I
did, of course you could not be prepared to see me to-day.
Oh, Lucy! you will never meet with a truer heart than mine!
No one will ever adore you as I have done—as I still do—

for I cannot forbear to love you, deeply wounded as I am. I
write incoherently, in unison with the confused ebullition of
my feelings. And is such to be the termination of my happy
dream? My mystery was upon the eve of a solution—I was
about to vindicate my pretensions in open day, challenging
the whole world to suggest any good reason why you should
not be mine—mine irrevocably. But—how bitterly have I
been disappointed!—I will not say deceived—for reproaches
were useless. Farewell! This is the last line you will ever
receive from Lowe.”

Lucy was not violently agitated, nor excessively pale; but
she uttered a low sigh, and felt an oppression at her heart.

“Do not believe him, Lucy. He loves you dearly,” said
her aunt, “and will never abandon the pursuit until you discard
him.”

“That he supposes I have already done,” said Lucy, sadly
smiling through the glittering tears which relieved her. “But
he should have seen me, and heard me. One word of explanation
would have been sufficient.”

“Pshaw! Lucy, have you not read novels enough to know
there can be no true and passionate affection, without these
ruptures, and farewells, and despairs? I would never marry,
unless my lover had first proved the strength of his affection
by just such extravagant paroxysms. Depend upon it, he will
again throw himself at your feet. But who is he? What
mystery does he allude to?”

“You know as much as I do, aunt.”

“Then we must both know more, before I shall consent to
a reconciliation.”

“I fear the rupture is past healing, aunt. But he has
done me injustice. He gave me no opportunity to explain
my apparent inconstancy. Ah—here is his number, beneath
his name—done in pencil mark—an after thought!”

“He believes you will write him.”

“Possibly. But I will not. No, aunt; he has been precipitate.
I know his conduct may be attributed to the ardor
of his affection—but still I cannot submit to act the humiliating
part of a petitioner, and plead my own justification.”

“Spoken like a Blount, and a Winkle! Will he be at the
great party?”

“I do not know. But I think it probable.”

“I hope so. We will meet him there. You must be firm
and independent.”

“I fear I shall be too dull to go, aunt. And I am sure,
from what the doctor said, it will not be prudent for you to be
there.”

“Dr. McGab is sometimes mistaken, though he does understand
my constitution better than I do myself. We must
go. At least you must. Ah! I am sinking again. Why,
why did the doctor have the cruelty to say such dreadful
things!”

Lucy led her aunt to her couch, and administered another
anodyne, according to the physician's directions.