University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
THE LORD AND LADY AT THE GRAND PARTY—A CHALLENGE—THE
BLUE CARRIAGE—THE DUEL.

It was the grand night of the season, and Mrs. Laurel was in
her glory. Her fine mansion was overflowing with the fashion,
and aristocracy, and wealth, and talents of the city. Dancing,
singing, laughing, scandal, and all the train of enjoyments
possible on such an occasion, characterized the entertainment.

Miss Flora Blount was confined to her couch, with just
sufficient strength to turn over the leaves of the last American
novel, which had been recommended by Pollen. The poet
had the honor of conducting Lucy to Mrs. Laurel's, in obedience
to the peremptory command of Flora, who would not listen
to Lucy's reasons for desiring to stay at home. Miss
Wilsome Winkle had signified her intention of being present.
But in a subsequent note she stated that a whist party had
been formed in Philadelphia, to meet at her own house on the
night of Mrs. Laurel's reception, and hence she could not
come.

The Arum and Crudle belles were there, but not accompanied
by the fluttering dandies that had surrounded them at
the theatre. Not one of them had been deemed of sufficient
elevation in society to be invited thither. But the girls enlisted,
or rather impressed into their service, a dilapidated old

colonel, boarding at the same house. He made every objection
in his power, even exhibiting the stump of the arm which
had been carried away by a cannon ball, alleging the impossibility
of leading two regiments into action—but to no purpose.
Miss Crudle said she would be contented with the stump, and
endeavor to conceal his deficiency of limb. Of course he put
on his regimentals, and the girls were exceedingly proud of
their military conductor, who was, however, an ill-natured and
snappish specimen of his profession, and would not allow them
to make any disparaging remarks on the poet and Lucy,
whom he said were the finest looking persons in the saloons.
But when the Babbleton misses had made the rounds of the
mansion, and exhibited their jewels and the colonel's buttons
to every body, they contrived to engage the attention of Roland,
who, most singularly, did not now seem to desire to approach
Lucy, or to annoy her with his attentions. On the
contrary, he listened with pleasure to the detracting observations
of Miss Arum, on Lucy's dress, her carriage, her complexion,
and her very equivocal intimacy with Lowe, who was
again supposed to be a forger, or something of the sort. And
he not only participated in the laughter at the expense of
their village neighbor, as he called Lucy, but added many
items of deteriorating scandal himself, which, being comprehended
by the quick ear of Col. Ball, that gentleman immediately
abandoned his gossiping companions. He then sought
for Pollen. He found him just when Lucy was taken possession
of by Mrs. Laurel, who was to introduce her to her particular
female friends, and first among them was the countess,
whose appearance was every moment expected.

“I have not the pleasure of being acquainted with you,”
said the colonel to the poet, “but hope I shall enjoy the happiness
of being your friend.”

“My name is Pollen—”

“The poet! Oh, I know you very well.”

“You were once my commander, Colonel Ball. I was a
cadet—”

“True, true! I am happy to meet with you on this
occasion, and I am glad you have won distinction. Perhaps,
after all, the pen is as well as the sword—but yet the sword
is indispensable. We are both poorly paid—but no matter.
We can have the satisfaction of chastising our enemies. Eh,
Pollen?”

“They do say my criticisms are written with a stiletto. I
do not wonder at it. They have enraged me by their injustice,
and when I have an opportunity, I cannot restrain my
arm. If they will goad the porcupine, let them beware of his
quills!”

“Well said, Pollen. And now, do you know that you
have an enemy in this house?”

“An enemy? Say twenty. There are a score of critics
and publishers present who sneer at my pretensions as an author—merely
because I am an American.”

“Pooh—nonsense—what difference does it make, in the
republic of letters, where a writer was born? Or a general?
Bonaparte was a native of Corsica, a contemptible
island. No, sir; I can tell you the reason why your name is
not in every paper, and your books in every library.”

“Then you will much oblige me.”

“I will, sir. You have true merit, and relying upon that,
you have not conciliated the censors of American literature
by cringing to them, or by purchasing their praises.
It was so with Shakespeare, and Milton, and Pope, sir; with Defoe,
Fielding and Smollett. None of them were sufficiently
reverenced while they lived. Their thrifty neighbors, the
tradesmen, who made fortunes by their cunning industry,
or by dishonest practices, looked upon those great immortals
with indifference or contempt, and some of them suffered
for bread and raiment, sir. But they were fools, sir, for neglecting
their own interests, while providing instruction and
entertainment for future generations, who have not the
power of throwing them a crust. And I am a fool, sir, for following
their example and yours. If I had spent my furloughs
in Washington, and danced attendance on the secretary,
and loved all the dogs who wore the President's collar, I
might have been a general, sir. But I would see them —
first, sir!—but I am getting warm, and these rooms are too
much crowded. Step aside with me,” he continued, in a
lower voice. And, when they gained a recess between two columns
that had been imported from Greece, he said; “Pollen,
you have been insulted to-night, and you must shoot the rascal.”

“I? oh, that is nothing. Some one condemning my writings.
I would rather be abused than entirely neglected.”

“No, sir: I don't mean that. Do you know yonder redfaced
man entertaining the Babbleton girls?”

“Roland? Yes, I know him.”

“Roland—yes, they said that was his name, but I did not
recognize the introduction. He has slandered the beautiful
creature who was hanging on your arm.”

“Miss Winkle?”

“It must have been Miss Winkle. I never saw her before,
but I knew her mother. She was a belle, and this lady reminded
me of her. Well, sir, those Babbleton dunces and Mr.
Roland are making very disparaging comments on her appearance
and conduct. The females can say what they like with
impunity, but the male must be called to an account. I will
see him in your behalf. I will be your friend, and we will
settle the matter early in the morning over in Jersey.”

“Colonel, I do not wish to engage in any such—”

“Pooh! Nonsense! But here is Mrs. Laurel calling
for you. Go with her, and leave the rest to me.”

“But, Colonel Ball—be sure and let me see you first.”

“You shall—you shall,” cried the colonel, vanishing in the
crowd.

“Come, sir” said Mrs. Laurel, “you are my prisoner, until
I resign you to the countess, who is at the other end of
the saloon. Mr. Laurei is limping about with Lucy on his
arm, and will introduce the earl when he shows himself. Did
you smell the gas in the hall? I know you did. My new
man turned the gas into the house, and the heat up the
chimney! Mr. Pollen, no one ever had such trials and troubles
as myself with servants. And it does no good to discharge
them and employ others. They are all alike, and get
spoiled directly. But here we are. There's her ladyship.
How fat and and fair she is. As soon as that party retires I
will introduce you. Afterwards you must keep near enough
to converse with her when she turns her face towards you.
And you need not be particularly nice in your words. She is
merely a well-bred woman, like millions of your countrywomen.
She is perfectly enchanted with Lucy Winkle, and
says she is the most beautiful creature she ever beheld.”

Upon being introduced to the countess, Pollen was charmed
to learn that she had read some of his productions in her
own country, and that they were attracting attention—quite

as much, and quite as deservedly, she intimated, as the writings
of contemporary British poets.

It was a great triumph for Pollen to be so complimented
by the lioness of the evening, and to be detained at her side,
while so many parties of ladies and gentlemen were advancing
to be presented, and retiring to make room for others.
Among the rest who merely received a bow, a smile and a
monosyllable from her ladyship, were the Babbleton belles,
who were led forward by Roland. They were amazed at the
undisguised partiality exhibited by her ladyship for the conversation
of Pollen.

Passing on, Miss Arum drew the attention of Miss
Crudle and of Roland to the fact, that Mr. Laurel had taken
Lucy Winkle under his protection, and seemed to be introducing
all the young gentlemen who fell in his way.

“He is deceived,” said Miss Arum.

“And he'll soon find out his mistake,” said Miss Crudle.

“That he shall!” rejoined the other. “I will tell Mrs.
Laurel, myself, of the suspicious transactions between her
and Mr. Lowe. I wonder he ain't here too.”

“I see him!” said Roland, who was tall as well as large,
and could overlook the company. “He is coming this way,
and seems to be surrounded by many acquaintances. Suppose
we withdraw to the other end of the room.”

“Oh, no!” said Miss Arum, “I want to see how Lucy
Winkle can have the audacity to hold up her head before
him in such a place as this.”

“And I want to see how he will look when he meets her,”
said Miss Crudle. “And I am sure Mrs. Laurel must have
been imposed on, or she never would have invited him.”

“Oh, as for that, he might do well enough for genteel
company, if he did not devote all his time and attention to
that proud piece of poverty.”

“If you will remain, ladies,” said Roland, “you must excuse
me, I must seek the cold air on the balcony to cure a
slight headache—but we will meet again. And yonder comes
the colonel. I do not like his looks, and will avoid him. He
will stand by you, if you seize his arm, until I return.”

Roland disappeared on the left, and the colonel emerged
from the crowd on the right, and was instantly seized by the
young ladies.

“Pinioned, eh?” said he. “Well, I must submit.”

“Fie, colonel,” said Miss Arum, “of course you must
submit, and you ought to do so with a better grace.”

“I do believe he was frowning,” said Miss Crudle. “But
I will make him smile. Yonder comes the gentleman, colonel,”
she continued, “who carried Miss Winkle's heart by storm.
It does not appear, however, that there was a very desperate
resistance.”

“Few could resist his approaches. I wish he would approach
us, and test the experiment. You know him?”

“Know him! certainly. Mr. Lowe has been a resident of
Babbleton for many months; and with the exception of his
conduct to Lucy Winkle—”

“What the deuce is all this about? I cannot understand
a word of it. Mr. Lowe—and residing at Babbleton—and
conduct so. Do you mean that gentleman accosting Mr.
Laurel? Come nearer that you may see more distinctly.”

“Certainly,” said the girls. “That is Mr Lowe—”

“No such thing!” cried the colonel.

“My lord,” said Mr. Laurel, “this is Miss Winkle.
Lucy, this is the Earl of Hilton.”

Lucy, pale, but collected—for she had recently suspected
such would be the denouement, and had resolved to manifest
no extraordinary emotion—bowed, without averting her eyes,
and yet without seeking a recognition. His lordship, quite as
pale as herself, and with traces of recent grief upon his face,
lingered a moment at her side, and whispered something in her
ear, while the unconscious crowd gazed in admiration. He
then joined his mother, who beckoned him away for the purpose
of introducing the poet.

“I'm trembling all over, Susan!” said Miss Arum.

“I'm petrified, Bell!” said Miss Crudle.

“The deuce you are!” said the colonel. “I thought you
were both better soldiers. What! not stand the fire of a
lord's eyes, when you have been browbeating a colonel, who,
perhaps, killed a dozen noblemen in the last war?”

“Who even dreamt such a thing possible!” said Bell.

“What's that you call him?” asked the colonel. “He is
as fine a looking fellow as your husband will be.”

“I am amazed!” said Susan.

“It is a wonder you are not stricken dumb,” said the
colonel. “But yonder is my man,” he continued, seeing
Roland enter from the balcony. “Sit on this sofa, ladies,

and excuse me; I have a matter of the first importance to
communicate to a certain person on the other side of the room.”
And he hurried across.

“And he's a lord!” exclaimed Miss Arum.

“The Earl of Hilton!” said Miss Crudle.

“And has been living all this time in Babbleton, and we
not to know, or to suspect who he was!”

“And to be suspected of being a pickpocket, a counterfeiter,
a forger!”

“An adventurer, that we thought had deceived Lucy
Winkle!”

“Deceitful wretch! She has deceived us all! No doubt
she knew all about him!”

“Mr. Roland didn't know he was a lord any more than
the rest of us,” said Miss Arum.

“No, he did not—and he thought Lucy's conduct very
disgraceful. Yonder he is. Let us go to him, and tell him
what a ridiculous mistake we have made.”

As they moved away, they turned their eyes aside and discovered
the earl, who had escaped from his mother, standing
beside Lucy in a dark recess; and they had doubtless been
involuntary listeners.

“I have been bewildered, Lucy—perhaps deluded by the
creations of my own imagination,” said Lord Hilton. “Oh,
assure me it has been so! Lift me from my miserable abyss,
and I shall be truly happy!”

“My lord, I know not what to say. I have not sought
to plunge you into an abyss of misery. I have not censured
your conduct; and mine, I am sure, has not merited your
condemnation. If it has, however, appeared to be inexplicable,
it is because you did not seek to comprehend it; and it
did not become me to solicit your attention for the purpose of
imposing upon your patience any tedious and unnecessary explanations.”

“Tedious and unnecessary explanations! Oh, Lucy, do,
not term them so! You would not, I am sure, if you knew
what a cloud of woe a few words of thine would dispel from my
tortured existence.”

“No! I cannot submit to assume the abasing attitude of
a humble petitioner to be heard in my own justification.
Words could be of no avail, if my truth were doubted. Strong
in the consciousness of my own innocence, however much the

wicked devices of another may have caused my conduct to appear
capricious, or inconsistent, I am content to abide the result,
with a firm reliance upon the protecting hand of my Maker.
I—”

“The countess, my mother, approaches. It was the wicked
device of Roland! It must have been so. I will believe it.
Oh, to-morrow, Lucy, let me—”

“Edmund! Ah, Miss Winkle! Mr. Pollen informs me
you have long known each other. Perhaps Lord Hilton, if his
abode in this country were prolonged, might be in danger of
becoming Americanized.”

“I would not unwittingly imperil his safety, madam,” said
Lucy. “And if I may judge from the sentiments I have
heard him repeatedly express, I doubt whether a longer sojourn
among us would induce him to relinquish the franchises of his
native land.”

“She speaks truly, madam. The force of education,
and old associations, may not easily be overcome by the temptations
of a new country, however attractive they may be.”

“Still, it does appear to me that there are dangerous attractions
here. Yet your old associations must be peculiarly
strong. Miss Winkle cannot be aware of the precise nature
of the inducement which tempts you to return to your own
country at this juncture; and which alone could have induced
me to cross the stormy ocean to hasten your departure, and accompany
you back.”

“I cannot be aware of the particular object of a sudden
departure, madam,” said Lucy; “but I may readily perceive
why one of his possessions and prospects, would naturally be
impatient to realize the advantages of the position which awaits
him.”

“Oh, that no doubt is very correct in meaning; but the
`possessions and prospects,' in his particular case, I may say,
since I understand an honorable friendship has subsisted between
you, depend, perhaps, to a very considerable extent, upon
the celerity of his movements, and upon the condition of his
immediate appearance in England.”

“I hope, my dear mother,” said his lordship, with something
resembling vexation, “that my immediate return cannot
be so urgently demanded as your words would seem to
imply.”

“I am very sure,” said Lucy, with decided emphasis, “that

neither my countrymen, nor countrywomen would desire to interpose
any obstacles which might delay his lordship's return
to his native land; and particularly, if a longer absence from
his country might produce loss of fortune, or involve sacrifices
of any other nature.”

At that moment Pollen appeared at Lucy's side, and taking
his arm, she was hidden from the view of Lord Hilton by
the parties continually surrounding the noble guest. As the
poet strode along muttering his thoughts as usual, for the flatteries
of the countess had lifted him into the world of revery,
he came in contact with Roland, who paused suddenly before
him, but with his face the other way. Roland was confronted
by Colonel Ball, and Lucy could not avoid listening to what
passed between them.

“Mr. Roland,” said the colonel, “will you furnish me with
your address?”

“With great pleasure,” replied Roland, presenting his
card.

“I presume,” continued the colonel, “you can have no difficulty
in conjecturing my object in soliciting your address?”

“To be frank with you,” said Roland, “I am at a loss to
know the nature of your business, unless you want to borrow
money. I have a sum in this city just now unemployed, and
may be able to accommodate you.”

The colonel was silent for several moments. If they had been
in the street, no doubt, in the first fermentation of his wrath,
he would have aimed a blow at the rich civilian. But, while
he paused he reflected. The random shot had not missed the
mark. The colonel was a borrower. His salary did not suffice
for his expenses, and he was always in debt. So, suppressing
any remnant of his first indignation, he resolved, after the
duel, if Roland behaved well in the field, to cultivate his acquaintance.

“No—that is not it,” he replied. “It is quite a different
matter. I am the friend of Mr. Pollen.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” said Roland. “I am likewise
the poet's friend.”

“But you have insulted him—and he demands satisfaction,
to-morrow morning, at Hoboken.”

“Insulted him! No, colonel—there is some mistake in
the matter.”

“Mistake? Pooh! Suppose there should be? Why, it

can be explained on the field. Mistake or no mistake, there
can be no explanation after the challenge, but with pistol in
hand. You will be there, of course, accompanied by your
friend.”

Roland did not assent. But the colonel did not observe
the negative shake of his head, or stay to hear his objections.
Roland, being just then met by the Babbleton belles, diverged
from the direction he had been pursuing, when Pollen and
Lucy were confronted by the colonel.

“Well met, well met!” said the colonel to the poet, whose
eye was in a `frenzy rolling,' and who had not comprehended
the matter at all. “All is arranged. A deal of trouble will
be saved. Remember, at Hoboken, before sunrise. I will
take my case of pistols. Adieu till then.”

“Mr. Pollen!” said Lucy, when the colonel had disappeared.

“Ay—I shall go to London. The countess has promised
to defray the expense.”

“But this duel, Mr. Pollen. Surely you will not
fight?”

“The English are generous in their patronage of authors.
The countess enumerated—but I have forgotten how many—
those who have pensions—”

“But why did you challenge Mr. Roland? Oh, beware
of him!”

“They may let loose the reins of fancy—and dwell in an
empyreal atmosphere, without racking their brains in devising
the ways and means of discharging a bootmaker's bill.”

“But, Mr. Pollen!” continued Lucy, shaking his arm.

“Who patronizes authors here? Who pays them pensions?
Not even the rich publishers! One of mine refused
to speak to me one day because my coat was rent, and he had
consumed the profits of my book. But I will abandon the
country! I will go! I will!” And releasing himself, he
abandoned his fair charge, and rushed out of the house.

Poor Lucy retreated to the friendly recess which had before
sheltered her from the many oppressive glances of the
guests, who, however, only gazed in admiration. Here she
sat alone, a prey to many painful emotions. The poet had
been attacked by one of his fits, and Lowe—or rather the earl
—had disappeared. Roland was near, and she was now quite
unattended! Nor was this all—for upon looking round, she

discovered the Arum and Crudle belles seated within a few
paces of her, and Roland conversing with them. They were
moreover looking at her, and their whispers could sometimes
be heard. “Patience on a monument,” and the “willow tree,”
were jeeringly uttered, while Roland, with his face averted,
seemed to enjoy the scene.

Mr. Henry Milnor, who had watched every movement and
expression of Lucy during the evening, but had forborne to
approach, now joined her, seeing she was entirely alone. And
this caused a sensation in the breasts of the Misses Arum and
Crudle. Henry had been introduced to them at an early hour
by the colonel, whose real object was to be relieved of the duty
of conducting them home; and they, upon seeing him approach,
supposed of course themselves to be the object of attraction.
But their disappointment was apparent in the vexed expression
of their lips, when he bowed slightly, and passed on to where
Lucy was sitting.

“Miss Winkle,” said he, manifesting his lively joy on taking
possession of a seat at her side, “I am happy to have an
opportunity of inquiring if it be true that Lord Hilton has
been residing for months in your village?”

“It is true. But he was known only as Mr. Edmund
Lowe.”

“Mr. Laurel says his name his Edward Lowe Dale. You
were acquainted with him?”

“Oh yes.”

“His manners are fine. He must have been an agreeable
acquaintance.”

“He was, indeed,” said Lucy, in a slightly agitated voice,
which Milnor perceived, but did not suspect the cause of it.

“The countess, I learn from the British Secretary of Legation—the
Mr. Ponsonby, with the light hair and youthful
face, who was introduced to you by Mr. Laurel—has arranged
a great match for him in England.”

“Indeed!” said Lucy, throwing off the listlessness which
had seemed to oppress her. “And do the mothers in England
arrange such matters for their sons?”

“Just as our mothers do here, by skill, intrigue and stratagem.
But I am told the young lady she has chosen is one of
the most beautiful heiresses in the kingdom.”

“Did you hear her name? But why need I ask? I could

never have heard it—I, a commoner, as they call those who
inherit no title.”

“But you have heard it, or at least read it in the list of
the queen's noble ladies of honor. It is Lady Stuart. And
they say she has royal blood in her veins. I learn that the
late Earl of Hilton, the present earl's brother, left the estates
somewhat encumbered, and this marriage is to repair the
damaged fortunes of the house. You seem to be ill, Miss
Winkle. Can I be of any service? Shall I seek Mr. Pollen
for you?”

“I thank you. But it would be useless to seek him. He
is in one of his reveries, and is in all probability standing in
the midst of the square in front of the house, gazing at the
stars, and uttering poetical incantations. I will thank you,
however, Mr. Milnor, to accompany me home. I am not well,
and would return to my aunt.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” said Henry; “but as I
might not be able to find your carriage, with your permission
I will use my mother's. She will remain at least an hour
yet.”

Lucy, without hesitation, accompanied Milnor into the room,
where the voluble hostess was expatiating on the trials and
troubles of American housekeepers, and dwelling particularly
on the item of domestics. Roland, seeing the colonel again approaching
from another direction, and not desiring to lose sight
of Lucy, endeavored to keep in view of her, but found it impracticable
to do so, when she had taken her leave of the countess
and Mrs. Laurel, and passed into the cloaking room. But,
having heard her express a desire to depart immediately, and
not doubting she would fall into the trap he had prepared, he
hastened into the street, and walked briskly in the direction
of Miss Flora's mansion.

Lord Hilton had likewise kept Lucy in view, himself unseen.
And he had also comprehended the intentions of
Roland, and prepared a counter-plot for him. Two of the
countess's most intelligent servants, the coachman and footman,
were his confederates. One of them was dressed as
much like Milnor as possible, and the other put on female
apparel, of the color and in imitation of Lucy's dress. This
couple, when Lucy entered the cloaking room, and after
Roland had stepped into the street, and signalled his man of
the approach of the party, were directed to descend the marble

steps. When Miss Blount's carriage was called for, Roland's
blue one drove up to the curb with open door, and the disguised
couple stepped into it. Immediately the sound of the
whip was heard, and the wheels were in rapid motion.

The sleepy driver of Flora's carriage had just been made
acquainted with the fact that he had been called, when Milnor
and Lucy appeared. But cursing his unlucky stars, he drove
off furiously, and was overturned by coming in collision with
an omnibus before proceeding a hundred paces.

Mr. Milnor had no difficulty in finding his mother's carriage,
in which he placed his charge, and they were driven
away slowly and carefully.

Meantime the blue carriage progressed most gloriously;
and when it overtook and passed Roland, who was pursuing
the same direction, the driver signified that all was well.

Arrived in front of the Blount mansion, Roland's driver
descended and threw open the door. But instead of stepping
out, the couple inside, in pursuance of their preconcerted
agreement, only snored aloud, and remained perfectly still.

“Wake up, in there, if you please,” said the driver.

A double snore was the answer.

“Hallo! I say! Somebody must 'ave put opium in their
wine!” said the driver. “Come,” he continued, thrusting in
his hand and shaking one of his passengers—“this ain't the
blue chamber in the Red Anchor! Wake up and go to bed,
I say!”

“Go about your business,” said the inside coachman, “or
I'll tickle your hears.”

“Tickle my hears—and in that strange voice! Come,
captain, you'll have to interpret that for me. I can't understand
it, no how.”

“I'll hindeavor to do hit,” said the countess's coachman
descending—the footman in female apparel still remaining
inside.

“Hindeavor to do hit! What's that? Does it mean to
hit me?”

“Hit does!” said the other, and at the same time dealing
a blow upon the nose of Roland's man, which laid him on his
back. The victor then, in obedience to his instructions, immediately
detached the horses from the carriage, and fastened
them to a tree that stood opposite the house.

“Now I'll have my fare,” said Roland's man, recovering,

and regaining his feet, “if you are a poet.” He aimed a blow
at his antagonist, as he approached him, which was easily
parried, for the countess's men were both regular bruisers,
having learned the “noble art of self-defence,” under the
most approved instructors at home. Again Roland's man
was knocked down; and the punishment was repeated as often
as he gained his feet, until Roland himself appeared on the
field of action.

“What does this mean?” demanded he. “Paddy, where
is the lady?”

“In the carriage, sir. But I'll never drive her home
again if she has a poet with her—no, not for twenty dollars.
I'm whipped, sir. I acknowledge the corn. And I hope you
are satisfied, Mr. Poet.”

“Is she in the carriage?” asked Roland, approaching
the door, where he could see the outline of the supposed lady.
Then ordering his man to get the horses again and drive to
the Red Anchor, he bounded in, but was prevented from
closing the door by the victor outside, who forcibly held it
open.

“My adorable Lucy,” said he, “you see that fate has
decreed you mine.”

At one bound the pretended woman sprang out. Roland
followed quickly. He seized his prize—but with a well-aimed
blow the disguised footman laid him in the gutter
under the carriage.

“Fury! Who did that?” exclaimed Roland, scrambling
up, and again approaching the supposed Lucy, who stood
with his face averted—but turned when the pursuer placed
his hand on him, and again prostrated the iniquitous plotter.

“Fury! They are men!” cried Roland, rising once more
while the blood gushed from his nose. “Drive away as soon
as possible, Paddy,” he continued, removing away himself with
all the expedition in his power, and followed by the British
bruisers, who laughed heartily at his expense.

By the time Paddy had replaced the horses and cracked
his whip, Mr. Milnor and Lucy arrived. They descended at
the door without uttering a word, and when Lucy entered the
mansion, Milnor bowed in silence to her low “good night,”
and despondingly re-entered the coach. During the passage
from the Laurel mansion, the young man had made a formal
tender of his heart and hand; and although they had been

respectfully, but firmly declined, yet he felt that the first had
been surrendered for ever, and could never be reclaimed.
Hence he was truly disheartened.

It seemed that wherever Lucy appeared, she was destined
to lead captive the hearts of others, without designing it, or
without being conscious of the mischief her beauty wrought;
and this was another source of unhappiness, for she would not
have willingly inflicted pain upon others, however much they
might distress her by a hopeless pursuit of the love which
could be possessed only by the one who had long since won
her young and confiding heart.

The next morning at early dawn, Colonel Ball was standing
on the margin of the river, at Hoboken, with a pistol-case
in his hand, and impatiently awaiting the arrival of his principal,
as well that of the opposing party. An invisible reporter
of the Herald, who had mysteriously obtained an intimation
of the nature of the enterprise in contemplation, watched the
motions of the colonel, and, like him, awaited the arrival upon
the ground of the remainder of the dramatis personæ.

The colonel whistled, and stamped to keep himself warm,
for it was a bright frosty morning. He then measured the
ground with a most scrupulous impartiality, and tried both
positions himself, his fancy supplying the supposed antagonist.

“Why the deuce don't they come?” he exclaimed, petulantly,
after making a careful reconnoissance of the approaches,
which resulted unsatisfactorily. He then placed the case on
the ground, and beat his hand against his side to keep it
warm.

“Will there be a duel this morning?” asked the shivering
reporter, unable any longer to stand his ground behind the
tree.

“Where the deuce did you come from?” asked the colonel,
staring in utter astonishment at the thickly-enveloped reporter,
who was a corpulent Englishman, and professed to be familiar
with the duello.

“From behind that tree, where I have been freezing this
half-hour, and could endure it no longer.”

“And why were you standing there?”

“To witness the duel.”

“You like the sport?”

“Very much. I have witnessed twenty in England, and
reported them all.”

“Reported them? Are you a reporter?”

“Yes, colonel, and I will do you justice. You may read
my account before it goes to press.”

“And you know who I am?”

“Colonel Ball. You shot Mr. M—”

“A mistake, sir. He shot me; and a d— bad shot it
was, to aim at my body and strike my leg. But it seems we
are not to be entertained this morning. I fear the parties are
not men of honor.”

“Cowards, perhaps.”

“Ay, the same thing. A man of honor cannot be a coward
—a coward cannot be a man of honor—eh?”

“I agree with you, colonel.”

“You are, no doubt, a man of honor?”

“I hope so, colonel.”

“We'll see. Both my man and the other principal are
poltroons; they will not be present. But I must smell gunpowder,
and you must fight me,” added the colonel, taking up
the brace of pistols.

“I fight you, colonel?”

“Yes, certainly. You will not require me to insult you.
I never do that without very strong provocation. We'll dispense
with it, and just have a delightful exchange of shots,
and then return together to the city, on the most friendly
terms imaginable. I take it for granted you will not report
the occurrence.”

“Ha, ha, ha! you are facetious, colonel.”

“No, upon my honor! We shall have an exchange of
shots, if I am a man of veracity. There, take your choice,”
continued the colonel, advancing with the pistols, the muzzles
towards himself.

“You must excuse me, colonel,” said the reporter, retreating
to the tree. “I will not exchange shots with you.”

“You shall, by Jupiter! Here, I place this pistol on the
ground at the root of the tree, and will step off ten paces. At
the word `fire,' either party is at liberty to pull trigger.”

“I will not take it, Colonel Ball. I will not exchange
shots with you. We have no quarrel.”

“Oh, are you waiting for that? I thought an insult
might be dispensed with between gentlemen. Well, you are
a coward. Now, if you will not fire, according to your own
admission, you cannot be a man of honor.”

“I will not exchange shots with you.”

“Nonsense! You must have something to report. Take
up the pistol, and be ready. At the word I shall fire. One
—two—three—Fire!” But the colonel did not fire. The
reporter vanished behind the tree, and there was no mark to
shoot at.

The colonel walked round at a quick step. The reporter
peeped from behind, without exposing his head, and merely
far enough to see the colonel's heel, as it was lifted up in the
pursuit. Round and round they continued to go, the distance
never diminishing between them; but as the colonel's round
was much the greatest in circumference, it might be supposed
he was the most violently exercised. It was not so, however.
For the roots of the great tree ran out in all directions, and it
required a considerable degree of activity to pass them without
stumbling, and such an accident might have been attended
with unpleasant consequences. Besides, as it has been intimated,
the reporter was quite fat and large, and it was requisite
to use every precaution to keep his body covered by the
trunk of the tree, for the colonel was a famous shot. The reporter
therefore was compelled to maintain nearly a horizontal
position, with his eye upon the colonel's heel, and his face out
of the pistol's range; and his motion was required to be regular
and incessant, so as not to leave his rear uncovered.

They continued to wind round the tree in this manner
until the sun had risen. Neither of them now were conscious
of the frosty atmosphere. The reporter panted, and his
smoking breath was expelled in great clouds. The colonel
turned red in the temples and behind the ears. Evidently the
contest was approaching a termination, although no blood had
yet been spilled. At length a small part of the reporter's
coat tail, which the colonel had hitherto seen but once or
twice, became steadily visible, and seemed to grow larger.
The colonel fired, and a button fell. He then paused, and
placing the pistol under the stump of his amputated arm, very
deliberately began to re-charge it.

“Now I have you!” cried the reporter, seizing the other
pistol, which still lay near the root of the tree, and advancing
a pace or two towards his antagonist. “It is my turn, now!”
he continued, levelling the weapon, and aiming at the colonel's
breast.

“Fire away!” said the colonel. “The next shot is yours,

by all the rules. But if you hit the mark, be sure and report
it correctly. Remember that. And be quick about it, or I
shall soon be ready for another chance.”

The reporter, seeing that the colonel was ramming down
another bullet, and believing the matter, if carried any further,
might not result without injury, fired his pistol in the air, and
advanced with his hand extended, which the colonel could not
avoid receiving.

“Very well!” said the colonel; “I cannot decline your
hand after sparing my life. We will return and drink a bottle
together. But be sure and show me your notes before you
go to press.”

The reporter repeated the assurance that he would do so,
and also pledged himself never again to volunteer his services
on a similar occasion.

After a hearty breakfast with the reporter, at one of the
restaurants, the colonel sought his principal at the office of
the —, where he was known to have been employed in the
capacity of an assistant editor. He was not at the office; but
the chief editor was there, and with whom the colonel was
very well acquainted.

“I am here to see Mr. Pollen,” said the colonel.

“I am sorry he is not in, colonel,” said the editor.

“So am I. But perhaps you will indorse him.”

“I suppose so. I see whatever he writes before it is
printed, and I must be responsible for it.”

“I don't mean that!” said the colonel.

“Oh, I think I know what you mean. His debts! I pay
him a salary, which he disburses as he pleases, and I cannot
assume his liabilities.”

“I don't mean that, either,” said the colonel. “I was his
friend, and arranged a hostile meeting for him. He was
not present at the time and place appointed, and he must
answer it!”

“Is it possible? Why Pollen, surely, never challenged
any one to mortal combat! I am astonished to hear you say
so, colonel. But if he did—that is, if there has been no misunderstanding
on your part—rely upon it, he is innocent of
any intention to practise the deception you complain of. You
may be assured the whole matter escaped his memory; and
ten to one, if he were to-day to meet the person who insulted
him, he would not recollect it; unless, indeed, the offence was

a stricture on his literary merits, and then he would neither
forget nor forgive him.”

“No; it was some disparagement of a young lady he attended
at Mrs. Laurel's party.”

“Ha, ha, ha! Pollen fighting about a young lady! The
whole thing is a misconstruction, colonel. Pollen never takes
any interest in the ladies. I suppose he would not permit any
one under his charge to be insulted, but he would not seriously
challenge a man to mortal combat for words lightly spoken.
Come with me. We will find him, and hear what he has to
say in relation to the matter. Ten to one he has forgotten all
about it,” and such truly, was the case.