University of Virginia Library

18. XVIII.
MR. TIPLILLY'S CONNECTIONS.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 253. In-line Illustration. Image of a man in a top hat with pointy features and a pointy beard.]

WITH twenty-five dollars in his
possession, Martin Merrivale
was a rich man. That little
sum consoled him for past
trials; it cast a golden light
upon his future. He paid all
his debts; made Miss Tomes
a handsome present; purchased
several little delicacies
and comforts for Alice,
and — that was the last of his
twenty-five dollars.

One other present Martin made, which should not be forgotten.
In sending to Mrs. Dabney for his trunk and clothes, his
heart was too full of benevolence and love to all God's creatures
to admit a single vindictive thought against that excellent woman.
A veil of charity covered her image, softening its asperities, as
nets of haze make rugged mountains smile; so his jubilant soul
decreed a gift to cast a cheering sunbeam upon her darkened
state. It was a new shawl, the best he could afford to buy, and
one indeed of which the plain Mrs. Dabney might be proud.

With it he sent a letter, brim-full of the kindest feeling, with not
an allusion from which the widow could infer that a shadow of
resentment rested on his heart. Before it was sealed, he read it
to Alice, to learn if her susceptible mind could discover any
acerbity in it; and the tender-hearted child, affected to tears,
threw her arms about his neck, and asked him where he got the
love that had enabled him to write such a letter.

“I do not know,” replied Martin; “but of one thing I am
sure, — I could not have written it before I knew you.”

There was one mischievous thing in the letter, which made
Alice laugh, — Martin sent his love to Cheesy.

Brighter prospects dawned upon our author. He did not, it is
true, make much out of Mr. Drove, and all the fine promises of
the magnanimous Killings proved false and hollow. But one day
he called on the publisher of the True Standard, and offered him
a roll of manuscripts for sale. It was a last resort; for he had
heard Mr. Dillistone spoken of with contumely by Ned Redwort.
He discovered a tone of deep and kindly feeling, however, beneath
the publisher's plain and unaffected exterior; he fell into conversation
with him; and, on going away, he had good reason to
believe that he had made a friend. So it proved to be; a valuable
friend, too, was the blunt Dillistone; for his treatment of
Martin was not only manly and generous, but, with much good
advice on the subject of writing for newspapers in general, he
gave him particular encouragement — and remuneration no less—
to write for the True Standard. Through Mr. Dillistone, our
author made the acquaintance of Mr. Bangy, of the Weekly
Budget, a genuine humorist, world-renowned; a man of a large
body, and a soul larger still, full of that magnetism of the heart
which draws loving and admiring friends. As for Martin, the

simple, unpretending manners of this new acquaintance, his warm
sympathy and genial humor, proved a sort of fascination to him;
and before he had seen him three times he had opened his heart,
showing him all its weakness and all its strength. Mr. Bangy
took a deep interest in him, and, although poor himself, grasped
his hand with a true brotherly grasp, and helped him to place his
foot upon another round of the ladder he was striving to climb.

Our author had now made such engagements to write as enabled
him barely to support himself and Alice in Mr. Wormlett's
house. The literary field he cultivated was below his tastes and
ambition; the task of writing and selling short articles was
attended with circumstances exceedingly painful and perplexing
to a mind so sensitive as his; yet his heart rejoiced in the thought
that, with prudence and industry, he was sure of a livelihood in the
pursuit he had chosen. The foot-hold he had gained gave him a
sense of power and independence. He had a foundation on which
to build. Thus, instead of leaping at once to the topmost round
of fame and fortune, as, in the warm blood of inexperienced
youth, he had hoped to do, he found that, in real life, even genius
must be practical, and, commencing at the foot of the ladder,
undergo that discipline of climbing which, though often rude and
cruel, seems indispensable to the development of the young soul's
latent powers.

In this school of experience, Martin learned economy. Not
much to the expansion of his soul, perhaps, yet considerably to
the advancement of his bodily comforts. He used to tell Alice,
with pleasant humor, how he progressed in meanness. One day,
by shrewd management, he succeeded in obtaining of Mr. Drove
a dollar more for an article than he expected; an instance of financial
ability of which he boasted facetiously for a week.

Our hero was guilty of one act of extravagance, however,
which candor obliges us to mention. At the instigation of his
friend Mr. Leviston, who became his security in the case, he
rashly ran into debt for a suit of clothes. It was not without
many misgivings that he consented to incur the expense of this
outfit. But one powerful consideration decided him. His soul,
hungering and thirsting after the love of the sweet Sophronia
Dabney, suffered so much chagrin by reason of the seedy apparel
in which it was forced to appear before her, that he resolved,
at all hazards, to become smart, for her sake. So he said to Leviston,
“I 'll do it;” and the thing was done.

And, lo! Martin Merrivale transformed! Witness the anomaly
of a poor author in broadcloth and satin, — in shining beaver
and polished boots. Yet, with what a careless grace he appears
in this new magnificence, for the first time! as if born to laugh at
fortune. Poor Alice! she wishes she had eyes to see him now,
— she knows he looks so beautiful and grand! The boarders
have grown suddenly respectful to the young scribbler. Mr.
Wormlett treats him with deference, and omits to collect his
weekly board-bill in advance. Miss Dodge, who has always been
inclined to regard him with contempt, smiles upon him graciously,
and endeavors to draw him into conversation. Miss Tomes, who
has long been suspected of partiality for the blind girl's protector,
looks upon him now with an eye more fond than ever, and openly
betrays her admiration. The Rev. Mr. Mowle and lady, who profess
to have no respect for persons, certainly manifest respect for
Martin's clothes. They observe his presence, and listen when he
speaks, as they were not wont to do when the genius they now
recognize was disguised in a shabby coat. Mr. Longstalk congratulates
him on his success at authorcraft, and offers him his hand.

As for Mr. Toplink, he is sly and cynical, until it is perceived
how the popular current moves; when he moves with it, of course.
He openly approves of Merrivale. He is in raptures with his
friend Martin. His chum Merry is a great fellow, a prodigious
genius, a brick; and he always told you so. Say what you will
about Mart Merrivale, he is on intimate terms with him, and is
proud of his acquaintance.

And now the shy author, who has long avoided the fair Sophronia,
once more worships humbly at her shrine. He makes
short calls at the house, and chats with her and her mother in the
evening. Often, during the day, you may see him lingering about
street-corners, or standing in shop-doors, patiently watching. He
walks for hours up and down certain thoroughfares, with perseverance
worthy of a better cause. His glances are rapid and
eager; his bosom is full of gentlest sighs; and at every gay bonnet,
seen in the distance, his heart beateth fast and loud. He
neglects his profession, and takes extra pains with his cravat and
hair. In short, the susceptible Martin is in love.

Or thinks he is, at least. He experiences violent symptoms of the
tender malady. He has beheld the dawn of a light which beautifies
the earth; it streams forth from the glowing orient of youthful
passion; and his soul leaps up to meet it, like water in a fountain.
Amid rainbows and golden mist he moves exultant. The universe
is an instrument of music; Love is the master-player; creation
throbs and undulates with sweet symphonies, and every breath of
air the poet breathes is vibrant with strange, spiritual melody.

For his love is not in vain. Sophronia cherishes a tender secret
for his heart alone. With charming coquetry, indeed, she avoids
confession; she laughs when his hot passion incarnates itself in
speech; she is sceptical to vows; her honeyed lips blaspheme

Love's sacred name. Yet the maiden grace which adorns these
affectations betrays Love's radiant face behind the veil, as the
presence of the hidden moon is shown in the silver glory on the
cloud by which it is concealed. There is tenderness in the gay
toss of the young lady's curls. In her merriest mocking glances
there is flame. Her raillery is negatived by sighs. There is
endearment in the snap of her fingers, and fondness in the frown
her dainty brow puts on.

Martin is not always free to visit at the house. Sophronia
tells him when to come, and he goeth; when to forbear, and he
stayeth away. She has converted her lamp into a signal, and her
curtain into a sign. He studies them much by night, pacing to and
fro, to and fro, lonely, in the street, with passionate eyes glancing
upward ever and anon. Light in the chamber signifieth, variously,
certainly, hope, and doubt. With the curtain raised, it is a loadstone
inviting him to enter boldly by the hall-door; with the curtain
partly raised, it encourages him to wait until the way is clear;
with it closed, the sallow radiance shimmering through is telegraphic
of suspense. If there is no light, there is no hope; utter
darkness is utter despair. Sophronia has company, or is absent,
or her father is at home, or — this fear torments her lover — she
has grown indifferent and has no wish to see him.

Mr. Dabney is not a domestic man. He maintains an establishment
as a convenience, or in obedience to custom. His wife is
a useful supplement to himself; his daughter, a necessary evil,
incidental to the married state. He eats at home, sleeps at home,
and dresses at home; and that is about all. When he meets his
family at the table, or sits with them in the evening, his manner
is morose and taciturn, and they seem to fear him. Generally, on
such occasions, he studies his newspaper, and they converse — if

they converse at all — in whispers. Even the wild Sophronia
dreads her father's frown; while her amiable mother looks always
sad and anxious in his presence. The Dabneys do not entertain
much company. Sophronia feels impatient longings for the whirl
and glitter of gay social life; she has tasted Folly's intoxicating
cup; she has triumphed in the ball-room, and shone in fashionable
parlors; and she is conscious of her power to charm. But Mr.
Dabney balks her ambition. He is opposed to parties, and none
are ever given in his house. He is suspicious of young men, and
inimical to beaux. The expense of dresses subjects the indulgent
mother and extravagant daughter to many a frown, and many an
angry oath. Not that he is totally deficient in social qualities.
He hath his cronies, and his nights are spent in hilarious company.
Of such nocturnal joys his wife knows nothing; but oft he
fills her chamber with offensive fumes; and “the day after” his
spirit is gloomy and fierce, his eyes threaten, and his brows portend
thunder; and she can guess into what pit of selfish pleasure he
has descended. Once in a while — once in a great while — he
brings a friend home with him to dine. At such times he introduces
his wife and daughter with cold reluctance, discourages conversation,
and keeps a jealous watch over his guest. His companions
are not such as he would trust very far out of his sight;
they are, indeed, about the last he would choose as associates for
Sophronia and her mother; and he speaks of them slightingly
behind their back. By them, and by himself, he probably judges
all men. He suspects impurity and dishonorable motives in every
one; so that Sophronia can never receive her visitors in peace,
except when he is gone from home.

Mr. Dabney has met Martin twice, and set him down as a rascal,
with the rest of mankind. Hence the secrecy and mystery of

the young man's visits. The restraint to which Sophronia is subjected
tends naturally to make her forward, unscrupulous and
eager for adventure; and her mother is easily overruled. Mrs.
Dabney is not sharp-sighted; she has no suspicion; and, should
you tell her that there is a flirtation between Martin and her
daughter, it would prove a startling piece of news.

Our hero is troubled with many of those pangs of jealousy and
suspense peculiar to lovers. Day and night he is required to exercise
patience and self-denial. Sophronia attends places of
amusement — not with him. “O dear!” she says, “I suppose
I have got to go to the ball to-morrow night. How I wish I
could stay at home, and have somebody come and see me, — I
don't say who,” she adds, archly, as Martin squeezes her little
finger; “you need n't think I mean you. Ah!” — what a sigh,
what a smile, and what a look she gives him! — “you don't
want me to go; do you?”

“Yes,” cries Martin, magnanimously; “I would have you go
by all means, if it will make you happy.”

Thereupon Sophronia flirts her curls and pouts. His indifference
pains her. She would have had him declare, with pride and
passion, that she should not go — that he would put his shaving
implements to an extraordinary and tragical use, if she thought
of such a thing. He need not tell her again that he loves her;
she will not believe him any more. Then ensues coaxing and a
kiss; the young lady is pacified; and now Martin's spirit is
troubled. He says he feels convinced that they should part. He
is a poor fool, — a lonely, loveless and unhappy mortal, — and
how she could ever think she cared for him he cannot conceive.
He is without means, without friends, without position; his
shadow darkens her bright path; she would be happier without

him, and it is presumptuous in him to walk by her side. No; let
her go where pleasure leads her, and he will pursue his gloomy
road alone. He is in earnest — or thinks he is, and appears so.
at least; and Sophronia bursts into tears. He is cruel, but she
does not blame him. She is the most wretched creature living, she
is sure. On one thing she is resolved. She will never go to
another ball or party as long as she lives — unless she goes with
him.

“Come, and let us reason together,” then says Martin, very
softly. “I cannot go with you — that is certain; and I would not
have you deprive yourself of any happiness on my account.” And
so he makes her promise that she will go without him — yea, with
another! — and, solely to please him, she consents, reluctant, to the
sacrifice. To the ball she therefore goes; and the disconsolate
Martin on the evening thereof adds fuel to the consuming flame
within him, by walking past the house, and watching to see her as
she comes out and gets into the carriage. A pang shoots through
him when, in the flood of light that streams from the hall-door,
she appears, radiant with happiness, and, O, so lovely in her white
attire, with her fair head uncovered, but not unadorned, and trips
gayly down the steps, her sacred finger-tips surrendered to the profane
pressure of her gallant's hand. Her light laugh smites his
ear with anguish, and he goes away despairing, with rage and
grief in his heart.

He is jealous of that favored gallant. Sophronia pretends that
she detests him; but he is very amiable, and her parents like him:
therefore she endures him. This story is not satisfactory. To
Martin the unknown rival is formidable. Fear and uncertainty
exaggerate his proportions. Imagination pictures him heroic and
aspiring. Thus it always is with persons whom we have never met,

but of whom we have heard our friends speak, as of souls of fortune
and consequence. The unseen stranger is an ideal man, invested
with such high attributes, that when we go to meet him, it is with
feelings of awe and half-dislike. But the touch of hands, or the
exchange of compliments, shivers the illusory lens of fancy; we
see with our natural eyes; and straightway the half-god sinks
to the mere mortal, full of foibles and prejudice, like ourselves.

A phenomenon of this sort occurs when Martin stands for the
first time in the presence of his rival. Accident throws them
together; the noble youth having called unexpectedly, whilst
Sophronia is entertaining Mr. Merrivale in the parlor. She is a
little flustered, at first; but, being a girl of tact, she rallies instantly,
and gayly introduces Mr. Tiplilly.

Martin's bosom swells with a vague apprehension, and he arises,
palpitating, to confront his foe. Resolute, unbending, coldly
courteous, he greets him, as conqueror greets conqueror. But
what is this? Martin's high blood ebbs and cools. He looks
amazed. Where is the royal resistance of soul he expected to
meet? Ye gods! how Tiplilly dwindles! The formidable rival
shrinks; the ideal man lapses, wanes, and vanishes away!

The actual Tiplilly appears. He is a friendly little fellow,
about five feet tall. He is distinguished by a huge cravat-tie,
very small legs, encased in very tight pants, and a coat which
looks dreadfully new, and seems to pinch him under the arms. He
is a good deal inclined to strut; and his motions are mostly of the
dancing-school style and finish. Yet his countenance is open and
genial, and a sort of puerile amiability overruns his mouth, showing
his good-natured teeth.

Mr. Tiplilly is enchanted. He has heard Merrivale spoken of
as a young man of great genius, and is delighted to make his

acquaintance. The majestic Martin unbends. A softening smile
dawns upon the severity of his features. He is no longer jealous
of Tiplilly. On the contrary, he regards him with indulgence
and friendship; meets his advances half way; and, in the inspiring
sense of freedom occasioned by the resolution of his doubts, —
in the fulness of benevolence and joy attendant thereupon, —
dazzles and fascinates him with his wit and humor. Sophronia
never saw him so brilliant, was never so proud of him, and never
loved him so ardently before. Having boasted to Tiplilly of her
intimacy with the young author, she is gratified with the result of
an interview which she had so long taken pains to avoid.

The little gallant desires to cultivate the acquaintance, and
makes a formal presentation of his card. Also, when Martin takes
his leave, he retires with him, reverently kissing Sophronia's hand
at the door. He goes out first, and Martin kisses her lips behind
his back, — a liberty which, she declares, Tiplilly never thought
of taking in his life. After that, they walk arm-and-arm together
up the street, — Tiplilly looking ludicrously little and insignificant
by the side of his companion.

Martin wishes to go directly home, for he knows that Alice is
sitting up, in hopes of seeing him before going to bed. But he is
delicate about showing his new acquaintance where he boards, and
to separate himself from him is impossible. Tiplilly has “hooked
on,” as he terms it, and will not be unhooked. So Martin
resolves to “walk him off,” — a feat difficult of execution, as he
finds. The little fellow struts by his side, and swings his cane, —
a slender whalebone, adorned with an exquisitely-carved feminine
leg for a handle, — and talks largely about himself, with good-natured
egotism.

In connection with this favorite theme, he introduces the subject

of “Mith Dabney,” — Tiplilly, with his other accomplishments,
has a pretty and graceful lisp, — and startles Martin with
a piece of intelligence altogether new and unexpected.

“I suppose,” he says, with an air of importance, “that, being
a friend of the family, you are in the secret.”

“What secret do you allude to?” Martin wishes to know.

“O! don't you guess?” lisps Tiplilly, with a chuckle. “Our
engagement, of course.”

“Your engagement! — ah — yes — certainly,” says Martin,
aghast. “Then it is an engagement, eh? I was n't sure.”

“Was n't ye? That 's a good joke! O, yes; it 's all settled.
We should have been married this Christmas, but Sophronia's
friends think she is too young.”

Tiplilly — the innocent, friendly, pompous little Tiplilly — has
smitten the strong Martin as with a thunderbolt. But, all unconscious
of what he has done, he goes on to relate, in the most ingenuous
manner, the whole romantic story of his love: how his
“cousin Theodore from Philadelphia,” a friend of Mr. Dabney,
introduced him; how the very name of Sophronia — Tiplilly says
“Thofrony” — charmed him; how her eyes, and hair, and melodious
speech, charmed him infinitely more; and how she looked
encouragingly upon his passion.

“The way she used to glance out of the corner of her eyes!”
he exclaims, with enthusiasm; “you can't conceive of it!”

Martin can, though; for she has looked at him in the same
manner, with unmistakable meaning, hundreds of times.

“Then she had a way of shaking her curls over her face and
giving a sigh, — that 's what killed me.”

Martin recognizes the appalling picture. It is what killed him,
too; and it kills him again now in a different way.

“Then she would squeeze my hand — somehow so, just as if
she did n't mean to, but could n't help it.”

Tiplilly demonstrates the manner of the squeeze on his companion's
fingers, reproducing the copy with such fidelity to the
original, that it is impossible for the stricken Martin to doubt a
single item of his experience.

“Still, I was n't certain; but Cousin Theodore from Philadelphia
said I need n't be at all anxious,” — ankthiouth is Tiplilly's
word, — “he knew the family, and would guarantee success,” —
pronounced thucktheth. “Now, what made me doubt, in the first
place, was the discovery that Miss Dabney was waited upon
before she saw me. In fact, I believe she was engaged, — clandestinely,
of course; for her beau was a fellow of no position,
— a dry-goods clerk, I think. Well, Cousin Theodore from
Philadelphia had talked it over with Mr. Dabney, and I had him
on my side; for he thought, if Sophronia was going to be married
at all, she might as well have a man of respectability and
means — like mythelf!” says Tiplilly, with pleasing pomposity.
“Come,” he adds, as they are passing a hotel, “let 's go in and
have a smoke, and I 'll tell you the whole story.”

But Martin has heard enough. He says, with a ghastly smile,
that he does not smoke; Mr. Tiplilly must excuse him; he is in
haste, and will bid him good-night. He no longer thinks of going
home to Alice. His infuriate passion, smothered in his breast,
and ready to burst forth, impels him to rush at once into Sophronia's
presence, overwhelm her with the terrible charge of her
perfidy, and bid her farewell forever.

But Tiplilly has hooked on, as said before, and will not
be unhooked. He is in no hurry; he will go Martin's way, for
the sake of his company; and he adds that he would enjoy walking

with him all night. “I 'm bound to see you home, anyway,” he
declares, with chivalric devotion; and see him home he does,
accordingly. At the door Martin shakes him off; waits for him
to get out of sight; then sets out on his mad errand, and arrives,
in a heat and tremor of excitement, at Mr. Dabney's house.
There he finds all so dark and still that he dares not ring, thinking
Sophronia has retired. Long time he walks up and down in
wretched state, contemplating revenge. As he passes the street-lamp,
you can see that his features are dark, contracted and
fierce, in their expression. But at length he pauses. He looks
up. It is a clear December night, and the heavens are all aglow
with lustrous stars. How calm and cool, how peaceful, how
serene! His heart aches with gazing, and he wrings his hands.
“O, what am I!” he articulates through his closed teeth. “An
insect pierced with pain; a worm convulsed and writhing! nothing
more. O, time! O, life! O, God! Why am I here?”
But the stars keep the secret. His struggling soul falls back,
self-tortured, on itself. The far-off pharos of heavenly peace, of
which his soul, tempest-tossed, beholds an instantaneous misty
gleam, goes out in the night and storm; and waves of death and
darkness surge around him.

Martin sees Sophronia once more — for the last time, as he
has sworn. He meets her smilingly — for he has torn his passion
from his heart, and trampled it and crushed it like a weed beneath
his feet. He meets her smilingly, — but there is terror and vengeance
in his smile, — and leads her unconscious feet upon the hidden
mine. He laughs a satanic laugh, as he lights the match and
slowly, grimly touches the fusee. She is watching and wondering
when the explosion takes place; there is a sudden rocking of the
earth; and up she goes ten thousand feet, in the dizzy atmosphere

of amazement and alarm, — blown sky-high with the powder of
Tiplilly's confidential disclosures.

But Sophronia alights, like a cat, on her feet, and right side up
with care. How it comes about poor Martin cannot tell; but, five
minutes after smiting her with the buffet of his wrath, and bidding
her farewell forever, he is holding her in his arms, and trying to
kiss her through her curls. When they part, the quarrel is all
“made up,” and there has been a league entered into, offensive
and defensive, against Tiplilly.

Yet Martin commiserates that unfortunate youth, and treats
him very kindly when he comes to see him afterwards, with a
view, as he — Tiplilly — says, of cultivating the “acquaintanth.”
Sophronia seems also to commiserate him, and to treat him kindly
too; for he declares to Martin that his love affair “progretheth
thwimmingly.”

This news is not so sweet. It fires Martin's indignation, and
he reproaches Sophronia. He vows it is a shame that Tiplilly
should be so deceived.

“How can I tell him?” she asks, in her distress. “It will break
his heart. Besides, I shall have all his friends, and father and
mother, and everybody down on me. It is the hardest thing I
ever had to do.”

“Good!” cries Martin, exultant. “I am glad of it. If you
will not come to my arms through fire and water, you are not
worthy of my love.”

“And you would have me do this — give myself such pain —
for you?”

“No, never, Sophronia! — and hear me now: if you leave him
for me, I will not accept you. My love will not be bought by
any such small sacrifice. I scorn to be compared and chosen. If

you compare and choose, I shall scorn you. No!” cries Martin,
glowing, vehement, impassioned, — “do a right thing for the sake
of the right. Be true for truth's sake. Make the sacrifice to
duty, and the act will be lovely. Then my arms will fly open
to receive you!”

Alas! Sophronia cannot comprehend such sentiments. But the
grace, and power, and nobility of aspect, with which her lover
enunciates them, — so much she understands and admires. Also
his determination to see her no more as long as she keeps up the
petty sham of attachment with Tiplilly — she understands that.
Hence the melancholy demeanor of that young gentleman, when,
three days after, he calls on his new friend. He enters the chamber,
sits down dejectedly, heaves a sigh, lays his little hand upon
his little heart, and motions with his cane, with mournful significance,
to blind Alice. Alice is already going; and now the rivals
are left alone.

“I have a fearful secret to communicate,” says Tiplilly.
“Would you object to having the door locked?”

Martin turns the key. Thereupon Tiplilly unbosoms himself;
he weeps; he cries out for sympathy and counsel in his hour of
tribulation; and Martin is the only friend he knows who has
influence with “Mith Dabney.”

“Tell her — tell her,” says Tiplilly, smothering with emotion,
“that she will never find another to love her so well; and that, if
she persists,” — lisping, — “she may be answerable for a suicide.
Tell her that.”

And Tiplilly presses the carved lady's foot of his cane-handle
to his quivering lips, while his eyes fill with tears. Martin replies
with argument and philosophy. Love has wings; he is a god; he
cannot be chained and driven, and taught petty tricks, like a

monkey, or a learned pig. His attractions are mysterious; his
movements are free as the winds. When he comes, welcome him
with jubilee and thanksgiving; for he is a gift of heaven. But
when he turns to go, throw open wide the gate, — yea, saddle a
horse for his journey, and bid him good speed. To do less — to
attempt to detain him, to wail and beat your breast — is selfish
and base. Noble souls do not so.

But fine philosophy could never convince or console a despairing
lover. Only one thing will satisfy the wretched Tiplilly.
Martin must go to Sophronia and plead his cause; and, to do a
friendly act, — not at all to enjoy a pleasant evening himself, we
may suppose, — Martin consents to be his ambassador.

And now, when evening comes, the anxious Tiplilly awaits in
the street while his generous friend performs the arduous mission
he has undertaken. Ah, Tiplilly! couldst thou but see the terrible
humor of this joke! Whilst thou, this wintry night, hast
only thy thin kids — excepting always the cold mitten Sophronia
has bestowed upon thee — to keep thy fingers warm, thy faithful
and devoted friend, ensconced in the comfortable parlor by the side
of the false-hearted, entwines his fingers — his fond and playful
fingers — with her beautiful curls. And, whilst thy lips grow
numb and blue with cold, canst thou not guess by what simple and
natural process fire is kindled in his?

Tiplilly guesses too much. The hours, the ages, he waits and
watches there, are crowded thick with horrible suspicions. His
thoughts are of treachery and revenge — of duels and death.
Cousin Theodore from Philadelphia, who is expected in town to-morrow,
shall be his second. Ah! if Tiplilly had but courage
and skill in shooting men! He is conscious of possessing neither;
and the exciting spectacle of Merrivale shot down at ten paces,

and Sophronia frantic, remains a vision of his heated and belligerent
brain — nothing more.

When, after the lapse of those ages of suspense, he sees Martin
come forth, he joins him and walks by his side, silent and sullen.

“I have done my best for you,” says Martin, with an effort,
cheeringly.

“Was you doing your best for me,” lisps the aggrieved Tiplilly,
choked with passion, “when you — when you — when you kithed
her?”

“Kissed her? what do you mean?”

“You did, I saw you! when you first went in — the curtain
was up, and I stood on the steps of the house opposite. You
kissed her, and hugged her too!”

It is a difficult task for Martin to convince the injured Tiplilly
that even in the kissing business he was acting the part of a
single-hearted ambassador, but somehow he does it with soft and
genial humor, mingled with true pathos; and, notwithstanding his
ill success with Sophronia, Tiplilly believes in him, and trusts that
he may yet, through his powerful instrumentality, reach her
heart. He cultivates his friendship more than ever now; introduces
him to his cousin Theodore, from Philadelphia; and would
— but that Martin declines to accept the obligation — procure him
invitations to some of the choicest parties of the season.

This cousin Theodore, from Philadelphia, is a remarkable man
Most women would call him handsome, with his glossy moustache,
fine complexion, pleasant black eye and Roman nose. He is a
person of keen perceptions, self-possession and polish. The secret
of his connection with Tiplilly may lie in the relationship, — possibly
in the fact that Tiplilly lends him money. As for the
young gentleman himself, his admiration for this spirited cousin

knows no bounds. Martin also is drawn to him, but with different
feelings.

“Merrivale — the name is familiar to me,” says the gay Milburn;
and he shakes Martin's hand cordially, while Martin's
heart beats quick with interest. “The Merrivales of Summer
Hill,” adds the gentlemanly Milburn, — “are you a relative of
theirs?”

“I have heard of them,” says Martin, “and I believe I am
distantly connected with the family.”

“You certainly are,” cries Theodore, heartily. “I discover a
striking family resemblance between you and Colonel Merrivale.
Did you never meet him? He must know something of you.”

“I have seen him,” replies Martin, with a flushed face; “but
he has probably forgotten me. And,” he continues, with an
attempt to conceal his excited feelings under a careless exterior,
“you need not, if you please, take pains to remind him that so
insignificant a branch of his family still exists.”

Yet so deep is Martin's interest in all that appertains to his
uncle, that he is irresistibly attracted to the man whose feet have
ascended and descended Summer Hill. He would know something
of his cousins, of his aunt; he would know the history of those
high and fortunate souls; and Theodore drops now and then a
word or two on the subject, which he treasures up like gems of
priceless value.

Another circumstance causes him to remember Mr. Milburn,
and regard him with no ordinary interest. Passing down the
street, one day, in company with Leviston, he sees his friend Tiplilly
coming out of a music-store, sucking the ivory foot of his
cane-handle, with a dejected air.

“Ha!” cries that young gentleman, with a sudden start, as if

he had not seen his friend until that moment, nor thought of putting
on a melancholy look to be reported to Miss Dabney, — “How
are you, Merrivale? I am better, you see. I am getting quite
lively, you see. I am, you see, decidedly in good case,” — smiling
solemnly, and heaving a deep sigh.

Martin turns to introduce his companion. But what dark overshadowing
is this the face of Leviston betrays? There is fire in
his eyes; and his eyes are fixed on Theodore Milburn, who is
coming out of the music-shop after his cousin; and his hands are
closed, as with passion.

“Mr. Milburn,” says Martin, “this is my friend Mr. Leviston.”

Milburn nods with an air of haughty unconcern, and moves
away, drawing Tiplilly after him. But Leviston neither speaks
nor moves. He stands with his fiery eyes fixed as before, and his
angry hands closed.

“What is the matter?” asks Martin, taking his arm, in a
kindly manner, as Milburn and his companion mingle with the
crowd that throngs the street.

“It is the first time I have seen him,” says Leviston, huskily,
— “though I have heard of his being in Boston a good deal, of
late. I had thought that if I ever met him I should kill him!”