# The Amorous Intrigues and Adventures of Aaron Burr/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII.
Angelina again.—A newspaper article.—Agitation of Burr.—The Widow Keating.
On the day after the events recorded in the last chapter, Aaron Burr returned home to the dwelling of his sister, Mrs. Reeve.
From Angelina he had heard twice during his absence. Her letters were filled with fervent love, and his replies were equally warm, if not equally sincere.
He met Angelina soon after his return, and found her the same ardent, warm-hearted creature, full of raptures and tender feelings.
On one occasion, when seated with Angelina in an embowered shade, Burr drew a New York paper from his pocket, and pointed out an amusing article for her to read. It related to a tory who had been tarred and feathered in an Eastern state.
After reading the piece, Angelina continued to look over the sheet, and presently asked her lover if he believed that the suicides generally attributed to religious fanaticism were bona fide cases of the kind supposed.
"Why not?" said Burr; "you know my opinion of religious sectarians. But why do you ask?"
"Because, here is a case." And Angelina read aloud as follows:
"Yesterday evening, a young lady laboring under religious melancholy—as it is supposed—threw herself from the end of Rosevelt wharf into the river, for the purpose of committing suicide. She was fortunately discovered by watchman Brown, who happened to be near the spot at the time, who gave the alarm, and she was rescued from drowning, and conveyed to her home at No. — First street."
Burr remained silent so long that Angelina looked at him. His face was pale as death. The house mentioned was that of Mrs. Keating.
"You are ill!" cried the young girl.
"I do not feel very well," replied Burr. "I will go home. I shall be better in the morning."
During his few moments of silence, Burr had arranged his plan. He set off for New York on the following day.
​There was near the corner of Pump (now Canal) and Second (now Forsyth) streets, a druggist store, kept by a physician named Waterman, with whom Burr had formed an acquaintance while at college.
Waterman was a young man of twenty-seven years, six feet high, and well proportioned; a noble-hearted, generous fellow, and a great admirer of the fair sex.
Burr went directly to the shop of Waterman, and found him alone.
After shaking hands, and some wise remarks about the weather, Burr said suddenly:
"Waterman, you ought to take a wife."
"I will reply to you in the words of another," said the other, laughing. "Whose wife shall I take?"
"The wife of a fine fellow named Keating," answered Burr.
"Indeed! and suppose that Mr. Keating objects to the arrangement?"
"That he will not be likely to do," returned Burr, "as he lies some six or eight feet below the surface of the ground."
"Dead! then his wife is a widow, you know. Well, Burr, you must acknowledge that it is not pleasant to have your wife's former husband thrown in your teeth upon every trivial occasion."
"Fear not. She won't do it. I'll guarantee that you'll be the gainer, both in practice and in the enjoyment of life."
"Hum!"
"Fact!"
"Then marry her yourself."
"Our ages do not suit. Nay, I am in earnest. You can have no objection to see her."
"Not the least."
"Then put on your hat."
"And leave my boy to eat up the liquorice?"
"What's the use of keeping a boy if you cannot leave your shop?"
"I set him to work with the pestle and mortar."
"Where is the drawer in which your liquorice is kept?"
"Here."
Burr wrote on a strip of paper the word POISON, in large letters, and stuck it on the front of the box.
"Can your boy read?"
"Yes."
"Then call him. Your liquorice is safe. Put on your hat, and come and see a woman who is sweeter and far more tempting than your liquorice."
"Bah! no one shall choose a wife for me."
But Burr could perceive that Waterman's curiosity was aroused, and that he placed more faith in his judgment than he was willing to confess.
​Waterman went with Burr to the widow's house in First street, and the young doctor and Mrs. Keating were pleased with each other's appearance at first sight.
Mrs. Keating was very sad, it is true, but Waterman was a merry wight, and we are pleased with our opposites. The mournful tones of the fair penitent struck an answering chord in the heart of Waterman, and he was in love with her before he left the house.
Burr, with his deep penetration into human nature, had forseen this. He knew that the widow had been in love with him. She had been affected by his supposed condition, and he had carried her by a coup de main; but Waterman she really loved.
Burr went home, and left the fire which he had kindled to burn brighter and brighter until the question should be popped.
Waterman became a frequent visitor at the house of the lovely widow, and forgot to renew the scare-crow poster on his liquorice; so that the box rapidly approached a state of emptiness.
The widow was gradually beguiled of her sorrows by the tender assiduities of Waterman, whom she loved with all the fervor of her ardent nature; but a shade of deep despondency would occasionally cross her features; especially when her lover extolled her moral qualities. Finally she grew so melancholly, or, rather these moments of despondency occurred so often, that Waterman gently entreated her to make known to him what afflicted her so deeply.
She then confessed to him her fault—told him all that had occurred between herself and Burr—and, with sobs and tears, protested her utter unworthiness to be the wife of so honorable a man as Waterman.
Waterman fixed his eyes intently upon the lady all the time that she was speaking, and when she told all, he arose slowly to his feet, turned on his heel, and left the house without uttering a word.
That was a dreadful moment for the poor widow. To have lost for ever the one whom she loved to distraction was quite enough—but to have incurred his contempt also—that he should leave her without even a word of commisseration—that he should have cast her off like some abominable thing, that he would not touch for fear of pollution!
But while she is wringing her hands in agony, and almost cursing the watchman who saved her from the overwhelming waters, a step is heard in the entry—the door opens, and Waterman enters; but he is not alone. A grave personage, in a large hat, black coat and breeches, black stockings, and neat white neckcloth, with black silk gloves on his hands, follows her lover into the room.
It is a minister of the Gospel. What can be his errand there?
The lady looked wildly, first at the stranger, then at Waterman.
"This, I presume, is the bride," said the black-coated man.
​"Yes," cried Waterman, in a full, sonorous voice, hearty as his own true soul.
Quicker than lightning, the enraptured young woman darted into the embrace of her lover, threw her arms convulsively around his neck, kissed him a dozen times on brow, lips, and cheek, and called him her angel, her preserver, and every thing else that could express the most heart felt gratitude and adoration.
The ceremony was performed. The amiable widow embraced a noble and devoted husband, and Waterman took to his heart the sweetest angel that ever wore that blessed garment called a petticoat!
Burr was invited to the wedding supper, but with excellent taste he did not respond to the invitation. He never intruded upon the domicile of his friend. Some five years afterwards, Burr encountered, in the northern part of New York, a manly, robust figure, with large whiskers and bushy hair, who regarded the former a few moments attentively, and then rushed forward, seized his hand, and shook it most cordially.
Burr looked at him with his penetrating gaze, and cried:
"Waterman!"
"The same," was the answer. "Burr, I am bound to you for ever! I owe you a debt of everlasting gratitude."
"How?"
"You have given me for a wife the most blessed woman—"
"What!" cried Burr. "Five years after marriage!"
"Yes, fifty, if you like. She is the most noble-hearted, angelic creature—the most devoted, affectionate, constant woman—the best wife that man was ever blessed with."
"Bravo!" exclaimed Burr; "but how do you get on, my dear fellow?"
"First-rate. My business went right up after my marriage, and I am now the owner of a whole block of houses in New York, and the father of four bouncing, beautiful babies, of whom I can speak in the highest terms, for they resemble their mother in their features and disposition."
"Rascal that I am," said Burr to himself, "this one good deed of mine will be a noble off-set to a thousand wicked ones!"