The Autumn of that year was remarkable for the beauty and clemency of the weather. Knowing that there was little hope for the abatement of the pestilence, and none of its extinction, until after a severe frost, the exiled citizens were never before so anxious for the frosty foretaste of winter. But the heavens continued cloudless, and week after week of ethereal mildness succeeded, until past the middle of October.
It was during this protracted season of sunny weather, that for several days in succession, I observed my old friend Wheelwright passing the window of my temporary office, in company and close conversation with a lady clad in the deepest habiliments of mourning. The doctor was well dressed, and so was the lady; for the suit and trappings of her wo were new as though she was but recent from "the sad burial feast," probably, of her wedded lord. Whether her countenance was as indicative of a sorrowful and bleeding heart, as the deep sables in which she was veiled, I could not tell. But no matter: day after day were they seen strolling leisurely up the then unbuilt portion of Broadway, and among the wooded lanes leading therefrom in the outskirts of the city. Love lane—a retired and charming walk—exactly the place for meditation or making love,—crossing over from the Bloomingdale road to the North River, which has since been "improved" out of existence,—was a favorite place of resort with my old friend and his fair companion—fair, no doubt she was, albeit her beauty was hidden from the vulgar gaze in the manner already indicated.
But who was she? Perhaps a sister, or some other near relative of his, whose husband had been swept off by the pestilence, and into whose throbbing bosom he was kindly endeavoring to pour some of the balmy drops of consolation! But no—such could not be the fact, since no corresponding weed of sorrow appeared upon his own well-brushed beaver. Perhaps a stranger, just rendered an orphan, or bereft of a brother by the ruthless hand of the West India plague—an acquaintance of my friend, whose melancholy he was kindly endeavoring to assuage. But, on the other hand, such offices were quite out of his line, since he was not easily moved—unless from one purpose to another—and of all men he was the most unused "to the melting mood." It was truly a perplexing affair; and the mystery was increased by the pains taken by Wheelwright to avoid such an interview with me as might lead to an eclaircissement. Several times did I strive to throw myself in the way of the lady and her assiduous attendant—venturing even to cross their path, on one occasion, for the purpose of making some discovery. But the attempt was vain, for my old acquaintance had apparently become so near-sighted as not to discern a person, unless he came bolt-upright against him—or unless, perchance, on some occasions, when he was sufficiently far-sighted, to enable him to turn a corner in season to avoid an interview. Once, and once only, I received a nod of recognition; but although I had succeeded in gaining a closer proximity than usual, all that I could ascertain through the deep folds of the lady's crape, was an impression that she was pale, pensive, a little pock-marked, and five and thirty. Had the ladies not all been driven from the city by the pestilence, I should most assuredly have engaged some one or more of them to solve the question, whether the doctor was engaged in offices of sympathy, or an affair of the heart—or whether he was actually engaged in any way. But there was no pretty familiar at hand skilled in these delicate matters; and I was therefore compelled to forego, for a time at least, the gratification of my curiosity.
Obedient to the law of the disease, with the first sound frost, the fever disappeared; the citizens returned to their respective homes; resumed their wonted avocations; and as usual in New-York, the calamity which had interrupted its business, and driven its inhabitants out of town for half the season, was forgotten, with its consequences, in a fortnight. One of my earliest visiters, after business had resumed its accustomed channels, was none other than the subject of this memoir, whose recent avoidance of me had been marked with so much emphasis. He entered my little sanctum with a grin between a smile and a laugh, and was evidently on excellent good terms with all the world, himself not excepted. Without waiting to see what might be his reception, he began:
"Ah, Colonel, how are ye? Escaped the yellow fever, then, eh?"
"Yes: I have been thus fortunate—and am well."
"Is that all you've got to say? I hope you've hearn of my good luck, haint you? You know I've always said the world owed me a living."
"I hope you'll get it: Pray what new scheme are you driving at now, Mr. Wheelwright?"
"Do tell! don't you know that I am now a married man—good as the rest of you?"
"Married, my good doctor! To whom?"