CHAPTER I. HOW THREE PERSONS IN THIS HISTORY CAME BY THEIR NAMES.
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ON a fine May morning in the year 1764,—that is to
say, between the peace at Fontainebleau and the
stamp act agitation, which great events have fortunately
no connection with the present narrative,—a young man
mounted on an elegant horse, and covered from head to
foot with lace, velvet, and embroidery, stopped before a
small house in the town or city of Williamsburg, the
capital of Virginia.
Negligently delivering his bridle into the hands of a
diminutive negro, the young man entered the open door,
ascended a flight of stairs which led to two or three
small rooms above, and turning the knob, attempted to
enter the room opening upon the street.
The door opened a few inches, and then was suddenly
closed by a heavy body thrown against it.
“Back!” cried a careless and jovial voice, “back!
base proctor—this is my castle.”
“Open! open!” cried the visitor.
“Never!” replied the voice.
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The visitor kicked the door, to the great damage of his
Spanish shoes.
“Beware!” cried the hidden voice; “I am armed
to the teeth, and rather than be captured I will die in
defence of my rights—namely, liberty, property, and
the pursuit of happiness under difficulties.”
“Tom! you are mad.”
“What? that voice? not the proctor's!”
“No, no,” cried the visitor, kicking again; “Jacquelin's.”
“Ah, ah!”
And with these ejaculations the inmate of the chamber
was heard drawing back a table, then the butt of
a gun sounded upon the floor, and the door opened.
The young man who had asserted his inalienable natural
rights with so much fervor was scarcely twenty—at
least he had not reached his majority. He was richly
clad, with the exception of an old faded dressing gown,
which fell gracefully like a Roman toga around his legs;
and his face was full of intelligence and careless, somewhat
cynical humor. The features were hard and pointed,
the mouth large, the hair sandy with a tinge of red.
“Ah, my dear forlorn lover!” he cried, grasping his
visitor's hand, “I thought you were that rascally proctor,
and was really preparing for a hand-to-hand conflict,
to the death.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir! could I expect anything else, from the way
you turned my knob? You puzzled me.”
“So I see,” said his visitor; “you had your gun, and
were evidently afraid.”
“Afraid? Never!”
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“Afraid of your shadow!”
“At least I never would have betrayed fear had I seen
you!” retorted the occupant of the chamber. “You are
so much in love that a fly need not be afraid of you.
Poor Jacquelin! poor melancholy Jacques! a feather
would knock you down.”
The melancholy Jacques sat down sighing.
“The fact is, my dear fellow,” he said, “I am the
victim of misfortune: but who complains? I don't, especially
to you, you great lubber, shut up here in your
den, and with no hope or fear on earth, beyond pardon
of your sins of commission at the college, and dread
of the proctor's grasp! You are living a dead life, while
I—ah! don't speak of it. What were you reading?”
“That deplorable Latin song. Salve your ill-humor
with it!”
And he handed his visitor, by this time stretched
carelessly upon a lounge, the open volume. He read:
“Orientis partibus
Adventavit asinus,
Pulcher et fortissimus,
Sarcinis aptissimus.
“Hez, sire asne, car chantez
Belle bouche rechignez,
Vous aurez du foin assez,
Et de l'avoine a plantez.”
“Good,” said the visitor satirically; “that suits you—
except it should be `occidentis partibus:' our Sir
Asinus comes from the west. And by my faith, I think
I will in future dub you Sir Asinus, in revenge for calling
me—me, the most cheerful of light-hearted mortals—
the `melancholy Jacques.' ”
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“Come, come!” said the gentleman threatened with
this sobriquet, “that's too bad, Jacques.”
“Jacques! You persist in calling me Jacques, just as
you persist in calling Belinda, Campana in die—Bell in
day. What a deplorable witticism! I could find a
better in a moment. Stay,” he added, “I have discovered
it already.”
“What is it, pray, most sapient Jacques?”
“Listen, most long-eared Sir Asinus.”
And the young man read once again:
“Hez, sire asne, car chantez,
Belle bouche rechignez;
Vous aurez du foin assez,
Et de l'avoine a plantez.”
“Well,” said his friend, “now that you have mangled
that French with your wretched pronunciation, please
explain how my lovely Belinda—come, don't sigh and
scowl because I say `my,' for you know it's all settled—
tell me where in these lines you find her name.”
“In the second,” sighed Jacques.
“Oh yes!—bah!”
“There you are sneering. You make a miserable
Latin pun, by which you translate Belinda into Campana
in die—Bell in day—and when I improve your
idea, making it really good, you sneer.”
“Really, now!—well, I don't say!”
“Belle-bouche! Could any thing be finer? `Pretty-mouth!'
And then the play upon Bel, in Belinda, by
the word Belle. Positively, I will in future call her
nothing else. Belle-bouche—pretty-mouth! Ah!
And the unfortunate lover stretched languidly upon
the lounge, studied the ceiling, and sighed piteously.
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His friend burst into a roar of laughter. Jacques—for
let us adopt the sobriquets all round—turned negligently
and said:
“Pray what are you braying at, Sir Asinus?”
“At your sighs.”
“Did I sigh?”
“Yes, portentously!”
“I think you are mistaken.”
“No!”
“I never sigh.”
And the melancholy Jacques uttered a sigh which
was enough to shatter all his bulk.
The consequence was that Sir Asinus burst into a
second roar of laughter louder than before, and said:
“Come, my dear Jacques, unbosom! You have been
to see——”
“Belle-bouche—Belle-bouche: but I am not in love
with her.”
“Oh no—of course not,” said his friend, laughing
ironically.
Jacques sighed.
“She don't like me,” he said forlornly.
“She's very fond of me though,” said his friend.
“Only yesterday—but I am mad to be talking about
it.”
With which words Sir Asinus turned away his head to
hide his mischievous and triumphant smile.
Poor Jacques looked more forlorn than ever; which
circumstance seemed to afford his friend extreme delight.
“Why not pay your addresses to Philippa, Jacques my
boy?” he said satirically; “there's no chance for you
with Belle-bouche, as you call her.”
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“Philippa? No, no!” sighed Jacques; “she's too
brilliant.”
“For you?”
“Even for me—me, the prince of wits, and coryphæus
of coxcombs: yes, yes!”
And the melancholy Jacques sighed again, and looked
around him with the air of a man whose last hope on
earth has left him.
His friend chokes down a laugh; and stretching himself
in the bright spring sunshine pouring through the
window, says with a smile:
“Come, make a clean breast of it, old fellow. You
were there to-day?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Have a pleasant time?”
“Can't say I did.”
“Were there any visitors?”
“A dozen—you understand the description of visitors.”
“No; what sort?”
“Fops in embryo, and aspirants after wit-laurels.”
“It is well you went—they must have been thrown
in the shade. For you, my dear Jacques, are undeniably
the most perfect fop, and the greatest wit—in your own
opinion—of this pleasant village of Devilsburg.”
“No, no,” replied his companion with well-affected
modesty; “I a fop! I a pretender to wit? No, no, my
dear Sir Asinus, you do me injustice: I am the simplest
of mortals, and a very child of innocence. But I was
speaking of Shadynook and the fairies of that domain.
Never have I seen Belinda, or rather Belle-bouche, so
lovely, and I here disdainfully repel your ridiculous
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calumny that she's in love with you, you great lump of
presumption and overweening self-conceit! Philippa
too was a pastoral queen—in silk and jewels—and around
them they had gathered together a troop of shepherds
from the adjoining grammar-school, called William and
Mary College, of which I am an aspiring bachelor, and
you were an ornament before your religious opinions
caught from Fauquier drove you away like a truant
school-boy. The shepherds were as usual very ridiculous,
and I had no opportunity to whisper so much as a single
word into my dear Belle-bouche's ear. Ah! how lovely
she looked! By heaven, I'll go to-morrow and request
her to designate some form of death for me to die—all
for her sake!”
With which words the forlorn Jacques gazed languidly
through the window.
At the same moment a bell was heard ringing in the
direction of the College; and yawning first luxuriously,
the young man rose.
“Lecture, by Jove!” he said.
“And you, unfortunate victim, must attend,” said
his companion.
“Yes. You remain here?”
“To the end.”
“Still resisting?”
“To the death!”
“Very well,” said Jacques, putting on his cocked hat,
which was ornamented with a magnificent feather. “I
half envy you; but duty calls—I must go.”
“If you see Ned Carter, or Tom Randolph of Tuckahoe,
tell them to come round.”
“To comfort you? Poor unfortunate prisoner!”
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“No, most sapient Jacques: fortunately I do not need
comfort as you do.”
“I want comfort?”
“Yes; there you are sighing: that `heigho!' was
dreadful.”
“Scoffer!”
“No; I am your rival.”
“Very well; I warn you that I intend to push the
siege; take care of your interests.”
“I'm not afraid.”
“I am going to see Belle-bouche again to-morrow.
“Faith, I'll be there, then.”
“Good; war is opened then—the glove thrown?”
“War to the death! Good-by, publican!”
“Farewell, sinner!”
And with these words the melancholy Jacques departed.
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CHAPTER II. JACQUES SHOWS THE ADVANTAGE OF BEING LED CAPTIVE BY A CROOK.
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IT was a delicious day, such a day as the month of flowers
alone can bring into the world, and all nature
seemed to be rejoicing. The peach and cherry blossoms
shone like snow upon the budding trees, the oriole
shot from elm to elm, a ball of fire against a background
of blue and emerald, and from every side came the murmuring
flow of streamlets, dancing in the sun and filling
the whole landscape with their joyous music.
May reigned supreme—a tender blue-eyed maiden,
treading upon a carpet of young grass with flowers in
their natural colors; and nowhere were her smiles softer
or more bright than there at Shadynook, which looks still
on the noble river flowing to the sea, and on the distant
town of Williamsburg, from which light clouds of smoke
curl upward and are lost in the far-reaching azure.
Shadynook was one of those old hip-roofed houses
which the traveller of to-day meets with so frequently,
scattered throughout Virginia, crowning every knoll and
giving character to every landscape. Before the house
stretched a green lawn bounded by a low fence; and in
the rear a garden full of flowers and blossoming fruit
trees made the surrounding air faint with the odorous
breath of Spring.
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Over the old house, whose dormer windows were
wreathed with the mosses of age, stretched the wide
arms of two noble elms; and the whole homestead
had about it an air of home comfort, and a quiet, happy
repose, which made many a wayfarer from far countries
sigh, as he gazed on it, embowered in its verdurous grove.
In the garden is an arbor, over which flowering vines
of every description hover and bloom, full of the wine
of spring. Around the arbor extend flower plats carefully
tended and fragrant with violets, crocuses, and early
primroses. Foliage of the light tender tint of May clothes
the background, and looking from the arbor you clearly
discern the distant barn rising above the trees.
In this arbor sits or rather reclines a young girl—for she
has stretched herself upon the trellised seat, with a languid
and careless ease, which betrays total abandon—
an abandon engendered probably by the warm languid
air of May, and those million flowers burdening the air
with perfume.
This is Miss Belle-bouche, whom we have heard the
melancholy Jacques discourse of with such forlorn eloquence
to his friend Tom, or Sir Asinus, as the reader
pleases.
Belle-bouche, Pretty-mouth, Belinda, or Rebecca—
for this last was the name given her by her sponsors—
is a young girl of about seventeen, and of a beauty
so fresh and rare that the enthusiasm of Jacques was
scarcely strange. The girl has about her the freshness
and innocence of childhood, the grace and elegance of
the inhabitants of that realm of fairies which we read
of in the olden poets—all the warmth, and reality, and
beauty of those lovelier fairies of our earth. Around her
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delicate brow and rosy cheeks fall myriads of golden
“drop curls,” which veil the deep-blue eyes, half closed
and fixed upon the open volume in her hand. Belle-bouche
is very richly clad, in a velvet gown, a satin underskirt
from which the gown is looped back, wide cuffs
and profuse lace at wrists and neck; and on her diminutive
feet, which peep from the skirt, are red morocco
shoes tied with bows of ribbon, and adorned with heels
not more than three inches in height. Her hair is powdered
and woven with pearls—she wears a pearl necklace;
she looks like a child dressed by its mother for a
ball, and spoiled long ago by “petting.”
Belle-bouche reads the “Althea” of Lovelace, and
smiles approvingly at the gallant poet's assertion, that
the birds of the air know no such liberty as he does, fettered
by her eyes and hair. It is the fashion for Lovelaces
to make such declarations, and with a coquettish little
movement she puts back the drop curls, and raises her
blue eyes to the sky from which they have stolen their
hue.
She remains for some moments in this reverie, and
is not aware of the approach of a gallant Lovelace, who,
hat in hand, the feather of the said hat trailing on the
ground, draws near.
Who is this gallant but our friend of one day's standing,
the handsome, the smiling, the forlorn, the melancholy—
and, being melancholy, the interesting—Jacques.
He approaches smiling, modest, humble—a consummate
strategist; his ambrosial curls and powdered queue
tied with its orange ribbon, shining in the sun. He
wears a suit of cut velvet with gold buttons; a flowered
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satin waistcoat reaching to his knees; scarlet silk stock
ings, and high-heeled worsted shoes. His cuffs would
enter a barrel with difficulty, and his chin reposes upon
a frill of irreproachable Mechlin lace.
Jacques finds the eyes suddenly turned upon him, and
bows low. Then he approaches, falls upon one knee, and
presses his lips gallantly to the hand of the little beauty,
who smiling carelessly rises in a measure from her recumbent
position.
“Do I find the fair Belinda reading?” says the gallant;
“what blessed book is made happy by the light of
her eyes?”
Which remarkable words, we must beg the reader to
remember, were after the fashion of the time and scarcely
more than commonplace. The fairer portion of humanity
had even then perfected that sovereignty over the
males which in our own day is so very observable. So,
instead of replying in a tone indicating surprise, the little
beauty answers quite simply:
“My favorite—Lovelace.”
Jacques heaves a sigh; for the music of the voice has
touched his heart—nay, overwhelmed it with a new flood
of love.
He dangles his bonnet and plume, and carefully arranges
a drop curl. He, the prince of wits, the ornament
of ball rooms, the star of the minuet and reel, is
suddenly quite dumb, and seems to seek for a subject
to discourse upon in surrounding objects.
A happy idea strikes him; a thought occurs to him;
he grasps at it with the desperation of a drowning
man. He says:
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“'Tis a charming day, fairest Belle-bouche—Belinda,
I mean. Ah, pardon my awkwardness!”
And the unhappy Corydon betrays by his confusion
how much this slip of the tongue has embarrassed him—
at least, that he wishes her to think so.
The little beauty smiles faintly, and bending a fatal
languishing glance upon her admirer, says:
“You called me—what was it?”
“Ah, pardon me.”
“Oh certainly!—but please say what you called me.”
“How can I?”
“By telling me,” says the beauty philosophically.
“Must I?” says Jacques, reflecting that after all his
offence was not so dreadful.
“If you please.”
“I said Belle-bouche.”
“Ah! that is——?”
“Pretty-mouth,” says Lovelace, with the air of a man
who is caught feloniously appropriating sheep; but
unable to refrain from bending wistful looks upon the
topic of his discourse.
Belle-bouche laughs with a delicious good humor,
and Jacques takes heart again.
“Is that all?” she says; “but what a pretty name!”
“Do you like it, really?” asks the forlorn lover.
“Indeed I do.”
“And may I call you Belle-bouche?”
“If you please.”
Jacques feels his heart oppressed with its weight of
love. He sighs. This manœuvre is greeted with a
little laugh.
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“Oh, that was a dreadful heigho!” she says; “you
must be in love.”
“I am,” he says, “desperately.”
A slight color comes to her bright cheek, for it is
impossible to misunderstand his eloquent glance.
“Are you?” she says; “but that is wrong. Fie on't!
Was ever Corydon really in love with his Chloe—or are
his affections always confined to the fluttering ribbons,
and the crook, wreathed with flowers, which make her a
pleasant object only, like a picture?”
Jacques sighs.
“I am not a Corydon,” he says, “much less have I
a Chloe—at least, who treats me as Chloes should treat
their faithful shepherds. My Chloe runs away when I
approach, and her crook turns into a shadow which I
grasp in vain at. The shepherdess has escaped!”
“It is well she don't beat you,” says the lovely girl,
smiling.
“Beat me!”
“With her crook.”
“Ah! I ask nothing better than to excite some emotion
in her tender heart more lively than indifference.
Perhaps were she to hate me a little, and consequently
beat me, as you have said, she might end by drawing
me towards her with her flowery crook.”
The young girl laughs.
“Would you follow?”
“Ah, yes—for who knows——?”
He pauses, smiling wistfully.
“Ah, finish—finish! I know 'tis something pretty by
the manner in which you smile,” she says, laughing.
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“Who knows, I would say, but in following her,
fairest Belle-bouche—may I call you Belle-bouche?”
“Oh yes, if you please—if you think it suits me.”
And she pours the full light of her eyes and smiles
upon him, until he looks down, blinded.
“Pity, pity,” he murmurs, “pity, dearest Miss Belle-bouche——”
She pretends not to hear, but, turning away with a
blush at that word “dearest,” says, with an attempt
at a laugh:
“You have not told me why you would wish your
Chloe to draw you after her with her crook.”
“Because we should pass through the groves——”
“Well.”
“And I should wrap her in my cloak, to protect her
from the boughs and thorns.”
“Would you?”
“Ah, yes! And then we should cross the beautiful
meadows and the flowery knolls——”
“Very well, sir.”
“And I should gather flowers for her, and kneeling
to present them, would approach near enough to kiss
her hand——”
“Oh goodness!”
“And finally, fairest Belle-bouche, we should cross
the bright streams on the pretty sylvan bridges——”
“Yes, sir.”
“And most probably she would grow giddy; and I
should take her in my arms, and holding her on my
faithful bosom——”
Jacques opens his arms as though he would really
clasp the fair shepherdess, who, half risen, with her
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golden curls mingled with the flowers, her cheeks the
color of her red fluttering ribbons, seeks to escape the
declaration which her lover is about to make.
“Oh, no! no!” she says.
He draws back despairingly, and at the same moment
hears a merry voice come singing down the blossom-fretted
walk, upon which millions of the snowy leaves have
fallen.
“One more chance gone!” the melancholy Jacques
murmurs; and turning, he bows to the new comer—the
fair Philippa.
-- --
CHAPTER III. AN HEIRESS WHO WISHES TO BECOME A MAN.
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PHILIPPA is a lady of nineteen or twenty, with the
air of a duchess and the walk of an antelope. Her
brilliant eyes, as black as night, and as clear as a sunny
stream, are full of life, vivacity and mischief; she seems
to be laughing at life, and love, and gallantry, and all the
complimentary nothings of society, from the height of
her superior intellect, and with undazzled eyes. She
is clad even more richly than Belle-bouche, for Philippa
is an heiress—the mistress of untold farms—or plantations
as they then said;—miles of James River “low
grounds” and uncounted Africans. Like the Duke of
Burgundy's, her sovereignty is acknowledged in three
languages—the English, the African or Moorish, and
the Indian: for the Indian settlement on the south
side calls her mistress, and sends to her for blankets in
the winter. In the summer it is not necessary to ask for
the produce of her estate, such as they desire—they appropriate
it.
Philippa is a cousin of Belle-bouche; and Belle-bouche
is the niece of Aunt Wimple, who is mistress of
the Shadynook domain. Philippa has guardians, but it
cannot be said they direct her movements. They have
given up that task in despair, some years since, and
only hope that from the numerous cormorants always
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hovering around her, she may select one not wholly
insatiable—with some craw of mercy.
“There, you are talking about flowers, I lay a wager,”
she says, returning the bow of Jacques, and laughing.
“I was speaking neither of yourself nor the fair Belinda,”
replies Jacques, with melancholy gallantry.
“There! please have done with compliments—I detest
them.”
“You detest every thing insincere, I know, charming
Philippa—pardon me, but your beautiful name betrays
me constantly. Is it not—like your voice—stolen from
poetry or music?”
“Ah, sir, you are insufferable.”
“Pardon, pardon—but in this beautiful and fair season,
so full of flowers——”
“You think it necessary to employ flowers of speech:
that is what you were going to say, but for heaven's sake
have done.”
Jacques bows.
“I have just discarded the twentieth, Bel,” she adds, laughing; “he got on his knees.”
And Philippa laughs heartily.
Jacques is used to his companion's manner of talking,
and says:
“Who was it, pray, madam—Mowbray?”
A flush passes over Philippa's face, and she looks
away, murmuring “No!”
“I won't go over the list of your admirers,” continues Jacques, sadly, “they are too numerous; for who can
wonder at such a fairy face as yours attracting crowds
of lovers?”
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“My fairy face? Yes, and my unhappy wealth, sir.
I wish I was poor! I can never know when I am loved
truly. Oh, to know that!”
And a shadow passes over the face, obliterating the
satire, and veiling the brilliant eyes. Then with an
effort Philippa drives away her preoccupation, and says:
“I wish Heaven had made me a man!”
“A man?” says Jacques.
“Yes, sir.”
“Pray why? Is there any young lady you would
like to marry? Ah,” he murmurs, “you need not go
far if that is the case.”
And he glances tenderly at Belle-bouche, who smiles
and blushes.
“I wish to be a man, that my movements may not
be restricted. There is my guardian, who murmurs at
my travelling about from county to county with only
Jugurtha to drive me—as if Jugurtha couldn't protect
me if there were any highwaymen or robbers.”
Jacques laughs.
“But there are disadvantages connected with manhood,”
he says. “You are ignorant of them, and so
think them slight.”
“The prominent ones, if you please.”
“You would have to make love—the active instead
of passive, as at present.”
“I would enjoy it.”
“How would you commence, pray?”
“Oh, easily—see now. I would say, `My dear Bel!
I am at your service! If you love me, I'll love you!' And then with a low bow I would kiss her hand, and
her lips too, if she would permit me.”
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Jacques sighs.
“Do you think that would succeed, however?” he
says.
“I don't know, and I don't care—I'd try.”
Jacques sighs again, and looks wistfully at Belle-bouche,
who smiles.
“I'm afraid such a cavalier address—at the pistol's
mouth as it were—at forty paces—like those highwaymen
you spoke of but now—would only insure failure.”
“You are mistaken.”
“I doubt the propriety of such a `making love.' ”
“If I were a man, you would see my success. I'd
have any woman for the asking.”
“Well, fancy yourself a man.”
“And who will be my lady-love?”
“Fancy my sex changed also—make love to me, my
charming Madam Philippa.”
“Forsooth! But I could win your heart easily.”
“How, pray,” says Jacques, sighing, “granting first
that 'tis in my possession?”
“By two simple things.”
“To wit?”
“I would talk to you of flowers and shepherdesses,
and crooks and garlands——”
“Oh!”
“And I would adopt, if I had not naturally, that frank,
languid, graceful, fatal air which—which—shall I finish?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Which Bel has! What a beautiful blush!”
And Philippa claps her hands.
Jacques tries very hard not to color, thus forfeiting all
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his pretensions to the character of a self-possessed man
of the world and elegant coxcomb; but this is equally
forlorn with his attempt not to observe the mischievous
glance and satirical lip of the fair Philippa.
He seeks in vain for a word—a jest—a reply.
Fortune favors him. A maid from the house approaches
Philippa, and says:
“Mr. Mowbray, ma'am.”
A blush, deeper than that upon the face of Jacques,
mantles Philippa's cheeks as she replies:
“Say I am coming.”
“Before you go,” says Jacques with odious triumph,
“permit me to say, Madam Philippa, that I begin to see
some of the advantages you might enjoy were you a
man.”
“What are they, pray—more than I have mentioned?”
she says coolly.
“You might have more liberty.”
“I said as much.”
“You might go and see your friends.”
“You repeat my words, sir.”
“Yes—you might even go and see us at college; listen
to my philosophical discussions after lecture; and
take part in Mowbray's merry jests—an excellent friend
of yours, I think.”
Philippa looks at him for a moment, hesitatiug
whether she shall stay and take her revenge. She decides
to go in, however; and Jacques and Belle-bouche
follow. We are bound to say that the proposition did
not come from Jacques.
-- --
CHAPTER IV. A POOR YOUNG MAN, AND A RICH YOUNG GIRL.
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IN the drawing-room sat a gentleman turning over the
leaves of a book.
The apartment was decorated after the usual fashion
of the olden time. On the floor was a rich carpet from
Antwerp, in the corner a japanned cabinet; everywhere
crooked-legged tables and carved chairs obstructed the
floor, and on the threshold a lap-dog snapped at the flies
in his dreams. Besides, there were portraits of powdered
dames, and hideous china ornaments on the tall narrow
mantlepiece; and an embroidered screen in the recess
next the fireplace described with silent eloqueuce the
life of Arcady.
Mowbray was a young man of twenty-five or six, with
a high pale forehead, dark eyes full of thoughtful intelligence;
and his dress was rather that of a student than
a man of the world. It was plain and simple, and all
the colors were subdued. He was a man for a woman
to listen to, rather than laugh with. His manner was
calm, perfectly self-possessed, and his mind seemed to
be dwelling upon one dominant idea.
“Good morning, sir,” said Philippa, inclining her head
indifferently; “we have a very pleasant day.”
Mowbray rose and bowed calmly.
“Yes, madam,” he said; “my ride was quite agreeable.”
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“Any news, sir?”
“None, except a confirmation of those designs of the
ministry which are now causing so much discussion.”
“What designs?”
A faint smile passed over Mowbray's calm face.
“Are you quite sure that politics will amuse you?”
he said.
“Amuse? no, sir. But you seem to have fallen into the
fashionable error, that ladies only require amusement.”
He shook his head.
“You do me injustice,” he said; “no man has so high
an opinion of your sex, madam, as I have.”
“I doubt it—you deceive yourself.”
“Excuse me, but I do not.”
“You are one of the lords of creation,” said Philippa
satirically.
“A very poor lord,” he replied calmly.
“Are you poor?” asked Philippa as coolly.
“Yes, madam.”
“But you design being rich some day?”
“Yes, madam, if my brain serves me.”
“You aspire perhaps to his Majesty's council?”
“No, madam,” he replied, with perfect coolness;
“were I in public life, I should most probably be in the
opposition.”
“A better opening.”
“No; but better for one who holds my opinions—
better for the conscience.”
“And for the purse?”
“I know not. If you mean that public life holds out
pecuniary rewards, I think you are mistaken.”
“Then you will not become rich by politics?”
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“I think, madam, that there is little chance of that.”
“Still you would wish to be wealthy?”
“Yes, madam.”
“You are fond of luxury?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Horses, wines, carriages?”
“Excuse me—no.”
“What then?”
“The luxury of seeing my orphan sister surrounded
with every comfort.”
A flush passed over Philippa's face, and she turned
away; but she was not satisfied.
“There is a very plain and easy way to arrive at
wealth, sir,” she said; “law is so slow.”
“Please indicate it.”
“Marry an heiress.”
There was a silence after these words; and Philippa
could scarcely sustain the clear fixed look which he bent
upon her face.
“Is that your advice, madam?” he said coldly. “I
thank you for it.”
His tone piqued her.
“Then follow it,” she said.
“Excuse me again.”
“Is it not friendly?”
“Possibly, but not to my taste.”
“Why, sir?”
“First, because the course you suggest is not very
honorable; secondly, and in another aspect, it is very
disgraceful; again, it is too expensive, if I may be permitted
to utter what seems to be, but is not, a very rude
and cynical speech.”
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“Not honorable—disgraceful—too expensive! Indeed!
Why, sir, you at once exclude heiresses from
matrimony.”
“Not so, madam.”
“Not honorable!”
“I think it is not honorable to acquire wealth, for the
best purpose in the world, by giving the hand and not
the heart.”
“The hand and the heart!—who speaks of heart in
these days? But you say it is even disgraceful to marry
an heiress.”
“Not at all: but if a man does not love a woman, is
it not disgraceful in the full sense of that word, madam,
to unite himself to her, or rather to her money bags, only
that he may procure the means of living in luxury, and
gratifying his expensive tastes and vices?”
“If he does not love her, you say. Love! that is a
very pretty word, and rhymes, I believe, to dove!
Well, sir, you have endeavored to establish your point
by the aid of two delightful phrases, `the hand and not
the heart'—`the man who does not love a woman'—
beautiful words, only I do n't believe in them. Now be
good enough to explain your third point:—how is it too
`expensive' to marry a wealthy woman? I know you
gentlemen at the college are inveterate logicians, and
find little difficulty in proving that twice two's five, and
that black is irreproachable white—that fire is cold—ice,
hot—smoke, heavy—and lead light as thistle-down.
Still I imagine you will find it difficult to show that 't is
expensive to marry, let us say, fifty thousand pounds a
year!”
Mowbray looked at her face a moment, and sighed;
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a great hope seemed to be leaving him; when he spoke,
it was with manifest repugnance.
“Let us dismiss this singular subject, madam,” he
said calmly; “I spoke too thoughtlessly. See that
lovely humming-bird around the honeysuckle, searching
in vain for honey.”
“As I do for your reasons, sir,” said Philippa curtly.
“My reasons?”
“You refuse to explain——”
“Well, well—I see you will compel me to speak.
Well, madam, my meaning is very simple. When I
say that it is too `expensive' to unite oneself to a woman
solely because that woman has for her portion a
great fortune, a large income, every luxury and elegance
to endow her husband with—I mean simply that
if this woman be uncongenial, if her husband care
nothing for her, only her fortune, then that he will
necessarily be unhappy, and that unhappiness is cheaply
bought with millions. Money only goes a certain way—
tell me when it bought a heart! Mine, madam, it
will never buy at least—if you will permit me to utter a
sentence in such bad taste. And now let us abandon
this discussion, which leads us into such serious moods.”
She turned away, and looked through the window.
Two birds were playfully contending in the air, and
filling the groves with their joyous carolling.
“How free they are!” she murmured.
“The birds? Yes, madam, they live in delightful
liberty, as we of America will, I trust, some day.”
“I wonder if they're married,” said Philippa laughing,
and refusing to enter upon the wrongs of England toward
the colonies; “they are fighting, I believe, and thus I
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presume they are united in marriage—by some parson
Crow!”
Mowbray only smiled slightly, and looked at his watch.
“What! not going!” cried Philippa.
“Pardon,” he said; “I just rode out for an hour. We
have a lecture in half an hour.”
“And you prefer the excellent Dr. Small or some other
reverend gentleman to myself—the collegiate to the sylvan,
the male to the female lecturer?”
He smiled wearily.
“Our duties are becoming more exacting,” he said;
“the examination is approaching.”
“I should suppose so—you have not been to see me
for a whole week.”
A flush passed over Mowbray's brow; then it became
as pale as before.
“Our acquaintance has not been an extended one,”
he said; “I could not intrude upon your society.”
“Intrude!”
And abandoning completely her laughing cynical
manner, Philippa gave him a look which made him
tremble. Why was that excitement? Because he
thought he had fathomed her; because he had convinced
himself that she was a coquette, amusing herself
at his expense; because he saw all his dreams, his illusions,
his hopes pass away with the fleeting minutes.
He replied simply:
“Yes, madam—even now I fear I am trespassing
upon your time; you probably await my departure to
betake yourself to your morning's amusement. I was
foolish enough to imagine that I had not completely lost
my powers of conversation, buried as I have been in
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books. I was mistaken—I no longer jest—I am a poor
companion. Then,” he added, “we are so uncongenial—
at least this morning. I will come some day when I
am gay, and you sad—then we shall probably approximate
in mood, and until then farewell.”
She would have detained him; “Don't go!” was on
her lips; but at the moment when Mowbray bowed
low, a shout of laughter was heard in the passage, and
three persons entered—Jacques, Belle-bouche, and Sir
Asinus.
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CHAPTER V. IN WHICH SIR ASINUS MAKES AN IGNOMINIOUS RETREAT
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SIR ASINUS was apparently in high spirits, and
smoothed the nap of his cocked hat with his sleeve—
the said sleeve being of Mecklenburg silk—in a way
which indicated the summit of felicity.
He seemed to inhale the May morning joyously after
his late imprisonment; and he betook himself immediately
to paying assiduous court to Miss Belle-bouche,
who, the sooth to say, did not seem ill-disposed to get
rid of Jacques.
Poor Jacques, therefore, made an unsuccessful attempt
to engage Philippa in conversation. This failing—for
Philippa was watching Mowbray disappearing toward
Williamsburg—the melancholy Jacques made friends
with the lap-dog, who at first was propitious, but ended
by snapping at his fingers.
“A delightful day, my dear madam,” he said to
Philippa, once more endeavoring to open an account
current of conversation.
Philippa, with bent brows, made no reply.
“The birds are having a charming time, it seems.”
Poor Jacques! Philippa is buried in thought, and
with her eyes fixed on the receding horseman, does not
hear him.
“You seem preoccupied, madam,” he said.
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“Yes, a charming day, sir,” she said, rising; “did
you say it was pleasant? I agree with you. If I
dared!” she added to herself, “if I only dared! But
what do I not dare!”
And she abruptly left the room, to the profound astonishment
of Jacques, who sat gazing after her with
wide-extended eyes.
“I told you he was in love with her, my dear Miss
Belle-bouche, since you say that will in future be your
name—it is either with you or Madam Philippa.”
These words were uttered in a confidential whisper to
Belle-bouche by Sir Asinus, who was leaning forward
gracefully in a tall carven-backed chair toward his companion,
who reposed luxuriously upon an ottoman
covered with damask, and ornamented quoad the legs
with satyr heads.
Belle-bouche suffered her glance to follow that of her
companion. Jacques was indeed, as we have said, gazing
after the lady who had just departed, and for this
purpose had opened his eyes to their greatest possible
width. He resembled a china mandarin in the costume
of Louis Quatorze.
“Am I mistaken?” said Sir Asinus.
Belle-bouche sighed.
“A plain case: he is even now saying to himself, my
dear Miss Belle-bouche,
`Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Jam eari capitis——'
which means, `How can I make up my mind to see
you go up stairs?'
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Belle-bouche cast a tender glance at Jacques. Sir
Asinus continued:
“Yes, yes, I see you pity him. But you should pity
me.”
“Why?”
“Your watch-paper—you remember; the one which
you cut for me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, last night I placed my watch on my window—
before retiring, you know; and in the night,” continued
Sir Asinus, “it commenced raining——”
“That was last night?”
“Yes, Madam Belle-bouche. Well, the roof leaked,
and presto! when I rose I found my watch swimming
in water—your watch-paper all soaked and torn—that is
to say, my fingers tore it; and a dozen minutes I had
bought for you shared the same fate, not to mention my
jemmy-worked garters! My ill luck was complete—
me miserum!”
“Was it at college?”
“Oh no,” said Sir Asinus; “you know I am tempo-rarily
absent from the Alma Mater.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. I have taken up my residence in town—in
Gloucester street, where I am always happy to see my
friends. Just imagine a man persecuted by the professors
of the great University of William and Mary for
the reason I was.”
“What was it?”
“Because I uttered some heresies. I said the Established
Church was a farce, and that women, contrary to
the philosophy of antiquity, really had souls. The great
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Doctor could pardon my fling at the church; but being
an old woman himself, could not pardon my even seeming
to revive the discussion of the heresy in relation to
your sex. What was the consequence? I had to flee—
the enemy went about to destroy me: behold me now
the denizen of a second floor in old Mother Bobbery's
house, Gloucester street, city of Williamsburg.”
“Rusticating you call it, I think,” says Belle-bouche,
smiling languidly, and raising her brow to catch the
faint May breeze which moves her curls.
“Yes; rusticating is the very word—derived from
rus, a Latin word signifying main street, and tike, a
Greek word meaning to live in bachelor freedom. It
applies to me exactly, you see. I live in bachelor freedom
on Gloucester street, and I only want a wife to make
my happiness complete.”
Belle-bouche smiles.
“You are then dissatisfied?” she says.
“Yes,” sighs Sir Asinus; “yes, in spite of my pipes
and books and pictures, and all appliances and means to
boot for happiness, I am lonely. Now suppose I had
a charming little wife—a paragon of a wife, with blue
eyes and golden curls, and a sweet languishing air, to
chat with in the long days and gloomy evenings!”
Belle-bouche recognises her portrait, and smiles.
Sir Asinus continues:
“Not only would I be happier, but more at my ease.
To tell you the humiliating truth, my dear Miss Belle-bouche,
I am in hourly fear of being arrested.”
“Would a wife prevent that?”
“Certainly. What base proctor would dare lay hands
upon a married man? But this all disappears like a
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vision—it is a dream: fuit Ilium, ingens gloria Teucrorumque;
which means, `Mrs. Tom is still in a state of
single blessedness,' that being the literal translation of
the Hebrew.”
And Sir Asinus smiles; and seeing Jacques approach,
looks at him triumphantly.
Jacques has just been bitten by the lap dog; and this,
added to his melancholy and jealousy, causes him to feel
desolate.
“Pardon my interrupting your pleasant conversation,”
he says.
“Oh, no interruption!” says Sir Asinus triumphantly.
“But I thought I'd mention——”
“Speak out, speak out!” says Sir Asinus, shaking with
laughter, and assuming a generous and noble air.
“I observed through the window a visitor, fairest
Belinda.”
“Ah! I was so closely engaged,” says Sir Asinus, “like
a knight of the middle ages, I thought only of my `ladye
faire.' Nothing can move me from her side!”
“Indeed?” says Jacques.
“Nothing!”
“Well, well, at least I have not counselled such
desertion on your part. The visitor at the gate there
is Doctor Small from college. I only thought I'd mention
it!”
Like an electric shock dart the words of Jacques
through the frame of the chivalric Sir Asinus. He starts
to his feet—gazes around him despairingly, seeking a place
of refuge.
The step of worthy Doctor Small is heard upon the
portico; Sir Asinus quakes.
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“Are you unwell, my dear friend?” asks Jacques with
melancholy interest.
“I am—really—come, Jacques!” stammers Sir Asinus.
“Are you indisposed?”
“To meet the Doctor? I rather think I am. Mercy!
mercy! dear Campana in die,” cries the knight; “hide
me! hide me!—up stairs, down stairs—any where!”
The footstep sounded in the passage.
Belle-bouche laughed with that musical contagious
merriment which characterized her.
“But what shall we say?” she asks; “I can't tell the
Doctor you are not here.”
“Then I must go. Can I escape? Oh heavens! there
is his shadow on the floor! Jacques, my boy, protect
my memory—I must retire!”
And Sir Asinus rushed through the open door leading
into the adjoining room, just as Doctor Small entered
with his benevolent smile and courteous inclination.
He had been informed in town, he said, that his young
friend Thomas, withdrawn now some days from college,
was at Shadynook; and taking advantage of his acquaintance
with Mrs. Wimple, and he was happy to add with
Miss Rebecca, he had come to find and have some friendly
conversation with Thomas. Had he been at Shadynook,
or was he misinformed?
The reply was easy. Sir Asinus had disappeared
through a door leading into the garden some moments
before, and Belle-bouche could reply most truthfully—as
she did—that the truant had visited her that morning,
but was gone.
The worthy Doctor smiled, and said no more.
He exchanged a few words on the pleasant weather—
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smiled benevolently on the young girl—and with a sly
glance asked Jacques if he designed attending lecture
that morning.
The melancholy Jacques hesitated: a look from Belle-bouche
would have caused him to reply that he regretted
exceedingly his inability to honor his Alma Mater on
that particular occasion; but unfortunately the young
girl said nothing. Was she afraid of a second private interview,
wherein the subject should be crooks and shepherdesses,
and the hopes of Corydons? At all events,
Belle-bouche played with her lace cuff, and her countenance
wore nothing more than its habitual faint smile.
Jacques heaved a sigh, and said he believed he ought
to go.
The Doctor rose, and pressing Belle-bouche's hand,
kindly took his leave—followed by Jacques, who cast a
last longing, lingering look behind.
As for Sir Asinus, we regret to speak of him. Where
were now all his chivalric thoughts—his noble resolutions—
his courage and devotion to his lady fair? Alas!
humanity is weak: we are compelled to say that the
heroic knight, the ardent lover, the iron-hearted rebel,
suddenly changed his device, and took for his crest a lion
no longer, only a hare.
From the back room he emerged into the garden, quaking
at every sound; once in the garden, he stole ignominiously
along the hedge; then he sallied forth into the
road; then he mounted his horse, and fled like the wind.
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CHAPTER VI. HOW SIR ASINUS STAKED HIS GARTERS AGAINST A PISTOLE, AND LOST.
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SIR ASINUS fled like the wild huntsman, although
there was this slight difference between the feelings
of the two characters:—the German myth was himself
the pursuer, whereas Sir Asinus imagined himself pursued.
He looked around anxiously from time to time, under
the impression that his worthy friend and pedagogue
was on his heels; and whenever a traveller made his
appearance, he was complimented with a scrutiny from
the flying knight which seemed to indicate apprehension—
the apprehension of being made a prisoner.
Just as Sir Asinus reached the outskirts of the town,
he observed a chariot drawn by six milk-white horses
approaching from a county road which debouched, like
the highway, into Gloucester street; and when this
chariot arrived opposite, a head was thrust through the
window, and a good-humored voice uttered the words:
“Give you good day, my dear Tom!”
Sir Asinus bowed, with a laugh which seemed to indicate
familiarity with the occupant of the carriage, and
said:
“Good morning, your Excellency—a delightful day.”
“Yes,” returned the voice, “especially for a race!
What were you scampering from? Come into the
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chariot and tell me all about it. I am dying of weariness.”
The movement was soon accomplished. His Excellency's
footman mounted the horse, and Sir Asinus entered
the chariot and found himself opposite an elderly
gentleman, very richly clad, and with a smiling and
rubicund face which seemed to indicate a love of the
best living. This gentleman was Francis Fauquier,
Governor of his Majesty's loyal colony of Virginia; and
he seemed to be no stranger to the young man.
“Now, what was it all about?” asked the Governor,
laughing.
And when our friend related the mode of his escape
from the worthy Doctor, his Excellency shook the whole
carriage in the excess of his mirth.
They came thus to the “Raleigh Tavern,” before the
door of which the Governor stopped a moment to say a
word to the landlord, who, cap in hand, listened. The
Governor's conversation related to a great ball which
was to be held in the “Apollo room” at the Raleigh
very soon; and the chariot was delayed fully half an
hour.
At last it drove on, and at the same moment his
Excellency inclined his head courteously to a gentleman
mounted on horseback who was passing.
“Ah, worthy Doctor Small!” he said, “a delightful
day for a ride!”
Sir Asinus shrunk back into the extremest corner, and
cast an imploring look upon the Governor, who shook
with laughter.
“Yes, yes, your Excellency,” said the Doctor; “I
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have been inhaling this delightful May morning with
quite a youthful gusto.”
“Riding for exercise, Doctor? An excellent idea.”
“No, sir; I went a little way into the country to see
a pupil.”
“You saw him?”
“No, your Excellency.”
“Why, that was very hard—a great reprobate, I fear.”
“No; a wild young man who has lately deserted his
Alma Mater.”
“A heinous offence! I advise you to proceed against
him for holding out in contumaciam.”
“Ah!” said the Doctor, “we must follow the old receipt
for cooking a hare in the present instance. We
must first catch the offender.”
And the good Doctor smiled.
“Well, Doctor, much success to you. Will you not
permit me to convey you to the college?”
The hair upon Sir Asinus's head stood up; then at
the Doctor's reply he breathed freely again. That reply
was:
“No, I thank you; your Excellency is very good, but
it is only a step.”
And the Doctor rode on with a bow.
Behind him rode Jacques, who had recognised his
friend's horse, caught a glimpse of him through the window,
and now regarded him with languid interest.
The chariot drew up at the gate of the palace. A
liveried servant offered his arm to the Governor; and
passing along the walk beneath the Scotch lindens which
lined it, they entered the mansion.
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The Governor led the way to his study, passing
through two large apartmeuts ornamented with globe
lamps and portraits of the King and Queen.
Once in his favorite leather chair, his Excellency ordered
wine to be brought, emptied two or three glasses,
and then receiving a pipe from a servant, lit it by means
of a coal respectfully held in readiness, and commenced
smoking.
Sir Asinus declined the pipe proffered to him, but
applied himself to the old sherry with great gusto—
much to his Excellency's satisfaction.
“You were near being discovered,” said Fauquier,
smiling; “then you would have been made an example.”
“Ex gracia exempli,” said Sir Asinus, emptying his
glass, and translating into the original respectfully.
“Ah, you wild college boys! Now I wager ten to
one that you were not only playing truant at Shadynook,
but making love.”
“That is perfectly correct, your Excellency.”
“See, I was right. You are a wild scamp, Tom.
Who's your Dulcinea?”
“I decline answering that question, your Excellency.
But my rival—that is different.”
“Well, your rival?”
“The dandified Adonis with the Doctor.”
“Your friend, is he not?”
“Bosom friend; but what is the use of having friends,
if we can't take liberties with them?”
“As, courting their sweethearts!” said his Excellency,
who seemed to enjoy this sentiment very much.
“Yes, sir. I always put my friends under contribution.
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They are not fit for any thing else. My rule is always
to play off my wit on friends; it coruscates more brilliantly
when we know a man's foibles.”
“Good—very profound!” said the Governor, laughing;
“and I suppose the present difficulty arises from
the fact, that some of these coruscations, as you call
them, played around the person or character of the worthy
Doctor Small?”
“No, no, your Excellency. I left my country for my
country's good—I mean the college. My ideas were in
advance of the age.”
“How?”
“I suggested, in the Literary Society, the propriety
of throwing off the rule of Great Britain; I drew up a
constitutional argument against the Established Church
in favor of religious toleration; and I asserted in open
lecture that all men were and of right should be equally
free.”
The Governor shook with laughter.
“Did you?” he said.
“Yes,” said Sir Asinus, assuming a grand tone.
“Well, I see now why you left your college for its
good; this is treason, heresy, and barbarism,” said the
Governor, merrily. “Where has your Traitorship taken
up your residence?”
“In Gloucester street,” said Sir Asinus; “a salubrious
and pleasant lodging.
“Gloucester street! Why, your constitutional civil
and religious emancipation is not complete!”
“No, my dear sir—no.”
“Come and live here with me in the palace; I'll protect
you in your rights with my guards and cannon.”
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“No, your Excellency,” said Sir Asinus, laughing.
“You are the representative of that great system which
I oppose. I am afraid of the Greeks and their gifts.”
“Zounds! let me vindicate myself. I an opponent of
your ideas!” cried the Governor, laughing.
“You are the representative of royalty.”
“No, I am a good Virginian.”
“You are an admirer of the Established Church.”
The Governor whistled.
“That's it!” he said.
“You are the front of the aristocracy.”
“My dear friend,” said his Excellency, “ever since a
blackguard in Paris defeated me in a fair spadille combat—
breast to breast, card to card, by pure genius—I
have been a republican. That fellow was a canaille,
but he won fifteen thousand pounds from me: he was
my superior. But let us try a game of cards, my dear
boy. How are your pockets?”
“Low,” said Sir Asinus, ruefully.
“Never mind,” said his Excellency, whose whole
countenance had lighted up at the thought of play; “I
admire your garters—a pistole against them.”
“Done!” said Sir Asinus with great readiness; and
they sat down to play.
In two hours Sir Asinus was sitting at spadille in the
exceedingly undress costume of shirt, pantaloons, and
silk stockings.
His coat was thrown on a chair; his worsted shoes
were in one corner of the room; and his cocked hat lay
upon his waistcoat at the Governor's feet.
The Governor took extreme delight in these practical
jokes. He had won these articles of Sir Asinus's
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clothing one after another; and now he was about to commence
with the remainder.
“Look! spadille, the ace!” he cried; “I have your
neckcloth.”
And his Excellency burst into a roar of laughter.
Sir Asinus slowly and sadly drew off his neckcloth,
and deposited it on the pile.
“Good!” cried his Excellency; “now for your short
clothes!”
“No, no!” Sir Asinus remonstrated; “now, your Excellency!—
mercy, your Excellency! How would I look
going through the town of Williamsburg breechless?”
“You might go after night,” suggested his Excellency,
generously.
“No, no!”
“Well, well, I'll be liberal—my servant shall bring
you a suit of clothes from your apartment; of course
these are mine.”
A sudden thought struck Sir Asinus.
“I'll play your Excellency this ring against ten pistoles,”
he said; “I lost sight of it.”
“Done!” said his Excellency.
Sir Asinus won the game; and Fauquier, with the
exemplary honesty of the confirmed gambler, took ten
pistoles from his purse and handed them across the
table.
“Nine pieces for my coat and the rest,” said Sir
Asinus persuasively; “it is really impolite to be playing
with your Excellency in such deshabille as this.”
“Willingly,” said Fauquier, shaking with merriment.
And he pocketed the nine pistoles while Sir Asinus
was making his toilet at a Venetian mirror.
-- 047 --
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They then commenced playing again—Sir Asinus
staking his pistole. He won, and continued to win
until night; when candles were brought, and they commenced
again.
By ten o'clock Sir Asinus had won fifteen thousand
pistoles from the Governor.
By midnight Fauquier, playing with the nerve of a
great gambler, had won them all back—laughing, careless,
but not more careless than when he lost.
At fifteen minutes past twelve he had won a bond for
two hundred pistoles from Sir Asinus; at sixteen minutes
past twelve his Excellency rose, and taking the cards
up with both hands, threw them out of the window.
Then rolling up the bond which Sir Asinus had executed
a moment before, he gracefully lit with it a pipe
which he had just filled; and, first telling a servant “to
carry lights to the chamber next to his own,” said to Sir
Asinus:
“My dear boy, I have done wrong to-night; but this
is my master passion. Cards have ruined me three
distinct times; and if you play you will inevitably
follow my example and destroy your prospects. Take
my advice, and never touch them. If you have no genius
for chance, twelve months will suffice to ruin you.
If you turn out a great player, one half the genius you
expend upon it will conquer a kingdom or found an
empire. If you prefer oxygen to air—gamble! If you
think aquafortis healthier than water—gamble! If
you consider fever and fire the proper components of
your blood—gamble! Take my advice, and never touch
a card again—your bond is ashes. Comes, Tom, to
bed!”
-- 048 --
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And his Excellency, laughing as good-humoredly as
ever, led the way up the broad staircase, preceded by
a servant carrying a flambeau.
Sir Asinus found a magnificent apartment prepared
for him—a velvet fauteuil, silk-curtained bed, wax
candles in silver candelabra; and seeing that his guest
was comfortably fixed, Governor Fauquier bade him
good night.
As for Sir Asinus, he retired without delay, and
dreamed that he ruined his Excellency at cards; won
successively all his real and personal estate; and lastly,
having staked a thousand pistoles against his commission
as Governor, won that also. Then, in his dream, he
rose in his dignity, lit his pipe with the parchment,
and made his Excellency a low and generous bow.
As he did so, the day dawned.
-- --
CHAPTER VII. JACQUES BESTOWS HIS PATERNAL ADVICE UPON A SCHOOL-GIRL.
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JUST a week after the practical lesson given by his
Excellency Governer Fauquier to Sir Asinus, and on
a bright fine morning, the melancholy Jacques issued
from the walls of his Alma Mater, and took his way along
Gloucester street toward the residence of his friend and
rival.
Jacques was dressed with unusual splendor. His coat
was heavy with embroidery—his waistcoat a blooming
flower-plat, upon whose emerald background roses, marigolds,
and lilies flaunted in their satin bravery—and his
scarlet silk stockings were held up by gold-colored garters.
His narrow-edged cocked hat drooped with its
feather over his handsome features, and in his delicately
gloved hand he held a slight cane, which from time to
time he rested on the point of his high-heeled shoes,
bending the lithe twig with irreproachable elegance.
Not far from the residence of the rebel he encountered
and saluted with melancholy courtesy a very lovely
young girl of about fifteen, who was tripping along to
school, a satchel full of books upon her arm, and, covering
her bright locks, a sun-bonnet such as school-girls
wore at that time, and indeed in our own day.
“Good morning, my dear Miss Merryheart,” said
-- 050 --
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Jacques, removing his glove and holding out his jewelled
hand.
The girl laughed artlessly, and gave him her hand,
saying:
“Good morning, sir; but you have mistaken my
name.”
“Mistaken your name?”
“Yes, sir; it is Martha.”
“And not Merryheart; but you are not responsible.
Merryheart is your real name—not Martha, who was
`cumbered,' you know.”
“But I am `cumbered,' ” replied the girl with a laugh.
“How, my dear madam?” asked the courteous Jacques.
“By my satchel.”
“Ah! let me carry it for you.”
“No, no.”
“Why not?”
“I won't trouble you.”
“No trouble in the world—I shall leave you in a street
or two. Come!”
And he took the satchel, and passing his cane through
the handles, gracefully deposited it behind his shoulders,
as a beggar does his bundle.
The girl laughed heartily; and this seemed to afford
the melancholy lover much satisfaction.
“Do they teach laughing at the Reverend Mrs.
White's?” he asked.
“Laughing, sir?”
“Yes; I thought you had been taking lessons.”
“Oh, sir!”
“Come! no fine-lady airs. I never compliment—we
are too intimate.”
-- 051 --
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And Jacques shifted his packet to the other shoulder.
“Just go to the ball and laugh in that way,” he said,
“and you'll slay all the hearts in a circle of ten feet.”
The girl repeated the fatal ceremony with more energy
than ever. The street echoed with it.
“I'm going to the ball, sir,” she said; “Bathurst—you
know Bathurst—he says he will go with me.”
“Little innocent!”
“Sir?”
“I was reflecting, my dear little friend,” said the melancholy
Jacques, “upon the superiority of your sex before
they reach the age of womanhood.”
“How, sir?”
“Why, thus. Suppose I had addressed that question
to a fine lady—`Are you going to the ball, madam?'—
what would her reply have been?”
“I don't know,” laughed the girl, pushing back a stray
lock from her forehead.
“I'll tell you,” continued Jacques. “With a negligent
and careless air she would have said, `Really, sir—I do
not know—I have scarcely made up my mind—if I decide
to go—I shall not go, however, I think—if I go, it
will be with Mr. Blank—I have half promised him;'
and so forth. How wearisome! You, on the contrary,
my little friend, clap your hands and cry, `Oh! I am
going! Bathurst says he'll go with me!' Bathurst is a
good boy; is n't he your sweetheart?”
The girl blushed and laughed.
“No, indeed, sir!” she said.
“That is well; choose some elderly admirer, my dear
child—like myself.”
The laughter was louder than ever.
-- 052 --
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“It would n't do for you to have two,” she said with a
merry glance.
Jacques recoiled.
“Every body knows it!” he murmured ruefully.
“They do so,” replied the merry girl, who caught
these half-uttered words; “but she's a very sweet lady.”
Jacques sighed.
“Are you not tired, sir?” asked the girl.
“No, no! my dear child; but I believe I must return
your little bulrush receptacle, for younder is my journey's
end. Look, Sir Asinus beholds us—see! there at the
window!”
In fact, Sir Asinus was at his open window, inhaling
the bright May morning joyously.
“Sir Asinus? Who is he?” asked the girl, with a puzzled
look.
“The great rebel, who tried to assassinate Doctor Small
and the Governer. Have you not heard of it?”
“Oh no, indeed, sir! Did he?”
“Well, principles are men, they say; and that makes
what I said quite true. Look at him: do n't he resemble
a murderer?”
“I do n't know, sir; I hardly know what one looks
like.”
“Look at his red hair.”
“It is red.”
“And his sharp features.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He has a real assassin's look, my dear little friend;
but he is a great thinker. That is the sort of beau I
recommend you to get instead of Bathurst.”
The girl laughed.
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
“But Bathurst is a great deal handsomer,” she said;
“then he promised to take me to the ball——”
“While Sir Asinus has not promised.”
“Oh, he would n't think of me. I am very much
obliged to you for carrying my satchel, sir,” added the
young girl, swinging it again on her arm.
“Not at all. See how Sir Asinus is staring at you—
a very ill-bred fellow!”
The young girl raised her head, for they were now
under the window at which sat Sir Asinus; and she
found the eyes of that gentleman fixed upon her in truth
with great pleasure and admiration.
She laughed and blushed, looking down again.
“Good-by, my dear young lady,” said the melancholy
Jacques with a paternal air; “continue on your way, and
present my most respectful regards to Mrs. White and
every body. Learn your lessons, jump the rope, and
never conjugate the verb amo, amas; get a poodle dog,
and hideous china, and prepare yourself for the noble
state of elderly maidenhood: so shall you pass serenely
through this vale of tears, and be for ever great, glorious,
and happy.”
With which friendly counsel the melancholy Jacques
sighed again—possibly from the thought that had he
followed the last piece of advice, his mind had not been
troubled—and so bade his young friend farewell, and
mounted the staircase leading to the chamber of his friend.
As for the young girl, she followed him for a moment
with her eyes, and then laughing merrily continued her
way, swinging her satchel and humming an old ditty.
We shall meet with her again.
-- --
CHAPTER VIII. HOW SIR ASINUS INVENTED A NEW ORDER OF PHILOSOPHERS, THE APICIANS.
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
SIR ASINUS was clad as usual in a rich suit of silk,
over which fell in graceful folds his old faded dressing
gown. His red hair was unpowdered—his garters
were unbuckled, and one of them had fallen to the floor—
his feet were lazily thrust into ample slippers run
down deplorably at the heel.
He had been meditating strictly the unwilling muse;
for on the table lay a number of sheets of paper covered
with unfortunate verses, which obstinately refused to
rhyme. He seemed to have finally abandoned this occupation
in despair—flying for refuge to his window, from
which he had seen his friend coming down Gloucester
street.
When Jacques entered, he retained his seat with an
appearance of great carelessness, and extending two
fingers negligently, drawled out:
“Good day, my boy. You perceive I have banished
those ignoble fears of proctors. I no longer shiver when
I hear a footstep on the staircase.”
Jacques smiled languidly.
“Only when you hear it on the portico—at Shadynook
or elsewhere,” he said.
“No more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me,” said Sir
Asinus cheerfully. “The greatest men are subject to
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
these sudden panics, and I am no exception. Ah!
what news?”
Jacques sat down sighing.
“None,” he said, “except that we have a new student
at college—Hoffland is his name, I believe—a
friend of Mowbray's apparently. Let's see your bad
verses.”
“No, no!” cried Sir Asinus, rolling them up. “Minerva
was invited, as our friend Page used to say, but
did not attend.”
“That reminds me of the ball.”
“At the `Raleigh?' ”
“Yes,” sighed Jacques.
“This day week, eh?”
“Yes; and every body is discussing it. It will be
held in the Apollo——”
“A capital room.”
“For a ball—yes.”
“For any thing—a meeting of conspirators, or patriots,
which might amount to the same thing,” said Sir Asinus.
“Well, will your knightship attend the ball?”
“Of course.”
“Pray, with whom?”
“Belle-bouche.”
Jacques smiled with melancholy triumph.
“I think you are mistaken,” he said, sadly.
“How?”
“She has engaged to go with me.”
“Base stratagem—unfaithful friend! I challenge you
on the spot.”
“Good! I accept.”
“Take your foil!” cried Sir Asinus, starting up.
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
“Pardon me, most worthy knight—hand it to me.
I can easily prick you without rising.”
Sir Asinus relented.
“Well, let us defer the combat,” he said; “but when
were you at Shadynook—which, by the by, should be
called Sunnybower?”
“Yesterday!”
“And maligned me?”
“Yes.”
“Very well—war to the death in future. What news
there?”
“Philippa is gone.”
“Ah?”
“Yes; she suddenly announced her intention some
days ago, and with a nod to me, drove off in her chariot.”
“A fine girl.”
“Why don't you court her, if you admire her so
much?”
“My friend,” said Sir Asinus, “you seem not to
understand that I am `tangled by the hair and fettered
by the eye' of Belle-bouche the fairy.”
Jacques sighed.
“Then I flatter myself she likes me,” said Sir Asinus,
caressing his red whiskers in embryo. “I am in fact
pledged exclusively to her. I can't espouse both.”
“Vanity!” said Jacques languidly; “but you could
build a feudal castle—a very palace—in the mountains
with Philippa's money.”
“There you are, with your temptations—try to seduce
me, a republican, into courtly extravagance—me, a
martyr to religious toleration, republican ideas, and the
rights of woman!”
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
“Very well, Sir Asinus, I won't tempt you further;
but I think it would be cheap for you to marry on any
terms—if only to extricate yourself from your present
difficulties. Once married, you would of course leave
college.”
“Yes; but I wish to remain.”
“What! in this attic?”
“Even so.”
“A hermit?”
“Who said I was a hermit? I am surrounded with
friends! Ned Carter comes and smokes with me until
my room is one impervious fog, all the while protesting
undying friendship, and asking me to write love verses
for him. Tom Randolph is a faithful friend and companion.
Stay, look at that beautiful suit of Mecklenburg
silk which Bell-bouche admired so much—I saw she
did. Tom gave me that—in return for my new suit of
embroidered cloth. Who says human nature is not disinterested?”
“Cynic!”
“Yes, I would be, were I not a Stoic.”
“You are neither—you are an Epicurean.”
“Granted: I am even an Apician.”
“What's that? Who was Apicius?”
“There, now, you are shockingly ignorant; you really
don't know what apis means in Sanscrit—bah!”
“In Sanscrit? True; but in Latin it is——”
“Bee: I'll help you out.”
“Very well, you are an Apician, you say: expound”
“Why! do I not admire Belle-bouche?”
“I believe so.”
“Pretty mouth—that is the translation?”
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
“Yes.”
“A mouth like Suckling's lady-love's—stay, was it
Suckling? Yes: Sir John. `Some bee had stung it
newly,' you know. Well, Belle-bouche has honey lips—
a beautiful idea—and bees love honey, and I love
Belle-bouche: there's the syllogism, as you tiresome
logicians say. Q. E. D., I am an Apician!”
Jacques stands astounded at this gigantic philological
joke, to the great satisfaction of his friend, who caresses
his sandy whiskers with still greater self-appreciation.
“Now call me Sir Asinus any longer, if you dare!”
he says; and he begins chanting from the open book:
“Saltu vincit hinnulos,
Damas et capreolos,
Super dromedarios,
Velox Madianeos!
Dum trahit vehicula
Multa cum sarcinula,
Illius mandibula
Dura terit pabula!”
“Translate now!” cries Sir Asinus, “and bear testimony
to my worth.”
Jacques takes the book and reads over the Latin;
then he extemporizes:
“In running he excels
Doctor Smalls and antelopes;
Swift beyond the camels,
Or Midianitish proctors.
While he drags his dulness
In verse along his pages,
His asinarian jaw-bones
Make havoc with the rhymes!”
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
Having modestly made this translation, Jacques closes
the book and rises.
Sir Asinus tears his hair, and declares that his friend's
ignorance of Latin is shocking.
“The ordinary plea when the rendering of disputed
passages is not to our taste,” says Jacques. “But I
must go. By the by, the worthy Doctor came near
seeing you in the Governor's chariot.”
“It was more than he dared to recognise me,” said
Sir Asinus grandly.
“Dared, eh?”
“Certainly; if he had bowed to me, I should have
cut his acquaintance. I would have refused to return
his salute. I carefully avoided even looking at him, to
spare his feelings.”
“I appreciate your delicacy,” said his friend; “you
commenced your system even at Shadynook. Did you
win any thing from Fauquier?”
“How did you know we played?”
“Why, returning past midnight, I saw lights.”
“Very well—that proved nothing. We did play,
however, friend Jacques, and I lost; which gave his
Excellency an opportunity to perform a very graceful
act. But enough. Before you go, tell me whom you
were conversing with just now.”
“A maiden,” said Jacques.
“No! a perfect fairy.”
“See the effect of seclusion! You are getting into
such a state of disgust with your books, that you'll end
by espousing Mother Bobbery, you unfortunate victim
of political ideas.”
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
“I disgusted—I tired of my books—I tired, when I
have this glorious song to sing!”
And at the top of his voice Sir Asinus chanted:
“Aurum de Arabia,
Thus et myrrhum de Saba,
Tulit in ecclesia
Virtus asinaria!”
“Excellent dog Latin,” said Jacques; “and literally
translated it signifies:
`Gold from the Governor,
Tobacco from the South Side,
Asinarian strategy
Has brought into his chambers.'
That is to say, asinarian strategy has made the attempt.”
But Sir Asinus, disregarding these strictures, began
to sing the chorus:
“Hez, Sire Asne, car chantez,
Belle bouche rechignez;
Vous aurez du foin assez,
Et de l'avoine a plantez.”
“Good,” said Jacques; “that signifies:
Strike up, Sir Asinus,
With your braying mouth;
Never fear for hay,
The crop of oats is ample.'
But on reflection the translation is bad—`belle bouche
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
is not `braying mouth;' which reminds me that I must
take my departure.”
“Where are you going, unhappy profaner of ecclesiastical
psalmody?”
“To see Belle-bouche,” sighed Jacques.
Sir Asinus tore his hair.
“Then I'll go too,” he cried.
“I've the last horse at the Raleigh,” observed Jacques
with melancholy pleasure. “Good morning, my dear
friend. Take care of yourself.”
And leaving Sir Asinus with a polite bow, Jacques
went down the staircase. As for Sir Asinus, in the excess
of his rage he sat down and composed a whole canto
of an epic—which luckily has not descended to our day.
The rats preserved humanity.
-- --
CHAPTER IX. THE LUCK OF JACQUES.
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
BELLE-BOUCHE was busily at work upon a piece
of embroidery when Jacques entered; and this embroidery
was designed for a fire-screen. It represented
a parroquet intensely crimson, on a background uniformly
emerald; and the eyes of the melancholy lover
dwelt wistfully upon the snowy hands selecting the different
colors from a tortoise-shell work-box filled with
spools of silk.
Belle-bouche greeted the entrance of her admirer
with a frank smile, and held out her hand, which poor
Jacques pressed to his lips with melancholy pleasure.
“I find Miss Belle-bouche always engaged in some
graceful occupation,” he said mournfully; “she is either
reading the poets, or writing poetry herself in all the
colors of the rainbow.”
The beauty treated this well-timed compliment with a
smile.
“Oh, no,” she said; “I am only working a screen.”
“It is very pretty.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
And then Jacques paused; his conversation as usual
dried up like a fountain at midsummer. He made a
desperate effort.
“I thought I heard you singing as I entered,” he said.
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
“Yes, I believe I was,” smiled Belle-bouche.
“What music was so happy?” Jacques sighed.
Belle-bouche laughed.
“A child's song,” she said.
“Pray what?”
“ `Lady bird, lady bird, fly away home.' ”
“A most exquisite air,” sighed Jacques; “please
commence again.”
“But I have finished.”
“Then something else, my dearest Miss Belle-bouche;
see how unfortunate I am—pray pardon me.”
“Willingly,” said Belle-bouche, smiling with a roseate
blush.
“I always fancy myself in Arcady when I am near
you,” he said tenderly.
“Why? because you find me very idle?”
“Oh, no; but Arcady, you know, was the abode of
sylvan queens—dryads and oreads and naiads,” said the
classic Jacques; “and you are like them.”
“Like a dryad?”
“They were very beautiful.”
Belle-bouche blushed again; and to conceal her
blushes bent over the screen. Jacques sighed.
“Chloes are dead, however,” he murmured, “and
the reed of Pan is still. The fanes of Arcady are
desolate.”
And having uttered this beautiful sentiment, the melancholy
Jacques was silent.
“Do you like `My Arcady?' ” asked Belle-bouche;
“I think it very pretty.”
“It is the gem of music. Ah! to hear you sing it,”
sighed poor Corydon.
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
Belle-bouche quite simply rose, and going to the spin
net, sat down and played the prelude.
Jacques listened with closed eyes and heaving bosom.
“Please hand me the music,” said Belle-bouche;
“there in the scarlet binding.”
Jacques started and obeyed. As she received it, the
young girl's hand touched his own, and he uttered a
sigh which might have melted rocks. The reason was,
that Jacques was in love: we state the fact, though it
has probably appeared before.
Belle-bouche's voice was like liquid moonlight and
melodious flowers. Its melting involutions and expiring
cadences unwound themselves and floated from her lips
like satin ribbon gradually drawn out.
As for Jacques, he was in a dream; one might have
supposed that his nerves were steeped in the liquid
melody—or at times, when he started, that the music
came over him like a shower bath of perfume.
His sighs would have conciliated tigers; and when
she turned and smiled on him, he almost staggered.
“Now,” said Belle-bouche smiling softly, “suppose I
sing something a little merrier. You know the minuet
always gives place to the reel.”
Jacques uttered an expiring assent, and Belle-bouche
commenced singing with her laughing voice the then
popular ditty, “Pretty Betty Martin, tip-toe fine.”
If her voice sighed before, it laughed out loudly now.
The joyous and exhilarating music sparkled, glittered,
fell in rosy showers—rattled like liquid diamonds and
dry rain. It flashed, and glanced, and ran—and stumbling
over itself, fell upwards, showering back again in
shattered cadences and fiery foam.
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
When she ended, Jacques remained silent, and was
only waked, so to speak, by hearing his name pronounced.
“Yes,” he said at random.
Belle-Bouche laughed.
“You agree with me, then, that my voice is wretchedly
out of tune?” she said mischievously.
Poor Jacques only sighed and blushed.
“Betty Martin was a foolish girl,” said Belle-bouche,
laughing to hide her embarrassment.
“How?” murmured Jacques.
Belle-bouche found that she was involved in a delicate
explanation; but thinking boldness the best, she replied:
“Because she could not find just the husband she
wanted. You know the song says so—`some were too
coarse and some too fine.' ”
“Yes,” murmured Jacques; “and 't is often the case
with us poor fellows. We seldom find the Chloe we
want—she flies us ever spite of our attempts to clasp her
to our hearts.”
“That is not because Chloe is fickle, but because Corydon
is so difficult to please,” Belle-bouche replied, with
a sly little smile.
“Ah! I am not!” he sighed.
“Indeed, you are mistaken; I'm sure you are a very
fastidious shepherd.”
“No, no. True, I may never find my Chloe; but
when I do, then I shall no longer be my own master.”
Belle-bouche hesitated, blushed, and said quickly:
“Perhaps you long to meet with an angel.”
“Oh, no—only a woman,” said Jacques; “and if you
will listen, I will describe my ideal in a moment.”
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
“Yes,” said Belle-bouche, looking away; for his eyes
were fixed upon her with such meaning that she could
not return his gaze.
“First,” said Corydon, sighing, “she should be young—
that is to say, she should unite the grace and innocence
of childhood with the splendor and fascination of
the fully-developed woman. This is most often found
at seventeen—therefore she should be just seventeen.”
Belle-bouche was scarcely more than seventeen, as we
know. The cunning Jacques went on.
“She should be a blonde, with light golden hair, eyes
as azure as the heavens, and, as one great poet said of
another, `with a charming archness' in them.”
“Yes,” murmured Belle-bouche, whom this description
suited perfectly.
“Her voice should not be loud and bold, her manner
careless,” Jacques went on; “but a delicious gentleness,
and even at times a languor, should be diffused through
it—diffused through voice and manner, as a perfume is
diffused through an apartment, invisible, imperceptible
almost, filling us with quiet pleasure.”
“Quite a poetical description,” said Belle-bouche,
trying to laugh.
“She should be soft and tender—full of wondrous
thoughts, and ever standing like a gracious angel,”
sighed the rapturous Jacques, “to bless, console, and
comfort me.”
“Still prettier,” said Belle-bouche, blushing.
“Now let me sum up,” said Jacques. “Golden hair,
blue eyes, a rosy face full of childlike innocence, at times
steeped in dewy languor, and those melting smiles which
sway us poor men so powerfully; and lastly, with a
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
heart and soul attuned to all exalted feelings and
emotions. There is what I look for—ah, to find her!
Better still to dream she could love me.”
“Well, can you not find your Chloe?” Belle-bouche
murmured, almost inaudibly.
“Never, I fear,” said Jacques; “or else,” he continued
with a sigh, “when we do find her, we always find
that some other discoverer claims possession.”
Belle-bouche blushed.
“Suppose it is without the consent of the aborigines,”
she said, attempting to laugh.
Jacques looked at her; then shook his head.
“'T is the strong hand, not the true heart, which conquers.”
“Oh no, it is not!” said Belle-bouche.
“What then?”
“The good, kind heart, faithful and sincere.”
Jacques fixed his eyes upon her blushing face, which
leaned upon one of her fair hands—the other hand meanwhile
being an object of deep interest to her eyes, cast
down toward it.
“And should such a heart be wounded?” he said.
“Oh, no!” murmured Belle-bouche, blushing.
“Then do not wound mine!” cried Jacques; “dearest
Belle-bouche! light of my heart—that was your
portrait! Listen to your faithful——”
Poor, poor Jacques! Fate played with him. For at
the very moment when he was about to fall upon his
knees—just when his fate was to be decided—just when
he saw an Arcadian picture spread before him, in its
brilliant hues, all love and sunshine—that excellent old
lady Aunt Wimple entered, calmly smiling, and with
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rustling silk and rattling key basket, dispelled all his
fond romantic dreams.
Belle-bouche rose hastily and returned to her embroidery;
Aunt Wimple sat down comfortably, and commenced
a flood of talk about the weather; and Jacques
fell back on an ottoman overcome with despair.
In half an hour he was slowly on his way back to town—
his arms hanging down, his head bent to his breast, his
dreamy eyes fixed intently upon vacancy.
Jacques saw nothing around him; Belle-bouche alone
was in his vision—Belle-bouche, who by another chance
was snatched from him.
The odor of the peach blossoms seemed a weary sort
of odor, and the lark sang harshly.
As he passed through a meadow, he heard himself
saluted by name—by whom he knew not. He bowed
without looking at the speaker; he only murmured,
“One more chance gone.” As he passed the residence
of Sir Asinus, he heard that gentleman laughing at him;
he only sighed, “Belle-bouche!”
-- --
CHAPTER X. MOWBRAY OPENS HIS HEART TO HIS NEW FRIEND.
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INSTEAD of following the melancholy Jacques to his
chamber, let us return to the meadow in which he
had been saluted by the invisible voice. A brook ran
sparkling like a silver thread across the emerald expanse,
and along this brook were sauntering two students, one
of whom had spoken to the abstracted lover.
He who had addressed Jacques was Mowbray; the
other was Hoffland, the young student who had just
arrived at Williamsburg.
Hoffland is much younger than his companion—indeed,
seems scarcely to have passed beyond boyhood;
his stature is low, his figure is slender, his hair flaxen
and curling, his face ornamented only with a peach-down
mustache. He is clad in a suit of black richly embroidered;
wraps a slight cloak around him spite of the
warmth of the pleasant May afternoon; and his cocked
hat, apparently too large for him, droops over his face,
falling low down upon his brow.
They walk on for a moment in silence.
Then Hoffland says, in a musical voice like that of a
boy before his tone undergoes the disagreeable change
of manhood:
“You have not said how strange you thought this sudden
friendship I express, Mr. Mowbray, but I am afraid
you think me very strange.”
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“No, indeed,” replies Mowbray; “I know not why,
but you have already taken a strong hold upon me. Singular!
we are almost strangers, but I feel as though I had
known you all my life!”
“That can scarcely be, for I am but seventeen or eighteen,”
says Hoffland smiling.
“A frank, true age. I regret that I have passed it.”
“Why?”
“Ah, can you ask, Mr. Hoffland?”
“Please do not call me Mr. Hoffland. We are friends:
say Charles; and then I will call you Ernest. I cannot
unless you set me the example.”
“Ernest? How did you discover my name?”
“Oh!” said Hoffland, somewhat embarrassed, “does
not every body know Ernest Mowbray?”
“Very well—as you are determined to give me compliments
instead of reasons, I will not persist. Charles
be it then, but you must call me Ernest.”
“Yes, Ernest.”
The low musical words went to his heart, and broke
down every barrier. They were bosom friends from that
moment, and walked on in perfect confidence.
“Why did you regret your youth, Ernest?” said Hoffland.
“I thought young men looked forward impatiently
to their full manhood—twenty-five or thirty; though I
do not,” he added with a smile.
“They do; but it is only another proof of the blindness
of youth.”
“Is youth blind?”
“Very.”
“How?”
“Blind, because it cannot see that all the delights of
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ambition, the victories of mind, the triumphs and successes
of the brain, are mere dust and ashes compared
with what it costs to obtain them—the innocence of the
heart, the illusions of its youthful hope.”
“Ah! are illusions to be desired?”
“At least they are a sweet suffering, a bitter delight.”
“Even when one wakes from them to find every thing
untrue—despair alone left?”
“You paint the reverse truly; but still I hold that the
happiness of life is in what I have styled illusions. Listen,
Charles,” he continued, gazing kindly at the boy, who
turned away his head. “Life is divided into three portions—
three stages, which we must all travel before we can
lie down in that silent bed prepared for us at our journey's
end. In the first, Youth, every thing is rosy, brilliant,
hopeful; life is a dream of happiness which deadens the
senses with its delirious rapture—deadens them so perfectly
that the thorns Youth treads on are such no longer,
they are flowers! stones are as soft as the emerald grass,
and if a mountain or a river rise before it, all Youth
thinks is, What a beautiful summit, or, How fair a river!
and straightway it darts joyously up the ascent, or throws
itself laughing into the bright sparkling waters. The
mountain and the river are not obstacles—they are
delights. Then comes the second portion of life, Manhood,
when the obstacles are truly what they seem—hard
to ascend, trying to swim over. Then comes Age, when
the sobered heart hesitates long before commencing the
ascent or essaying the crossing—when duty only prompts.
Say that duty is greater than hope, and you are right;
but say that duty carries men as easily over obstacles
as joy, which loves those obstacles, and you are mistaken.
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Well, all this prosing is meant to show that the real
happiness of life is in illusions. Doubtless you are convinced
of it, however: already one learns much by the
time he has reached eighteen.”
Hoffland mused.
Mowbray drove away his thoughts, and said, smiling
sadly:
“Have you ever loved, Charles?”
“Never,” murmured the boy.
“That is the master illusion,” sighed Mowbray.
“And is it a happy one?”
“A painful happiness.”
These short words were uttered with so much sadness,
that the boy stole a look of deep interest at his companion's
face.
“Do not be angry with me, Ernest,” he said, “but
may I ask you if you have ever loved?”
His head drooped, and he murmured, “Yes.”
“Deeply?”
“Yes.”
“Were you disappointed?”
“Yes.”
And there was a long pause. They walked on in
silence.
“It is a beautiful afternoon,” said Mowbray at length.
“Lovely,” murmured the boy.
“This stream is so fresh and pure—no bitterness in
it.”
“Is there in love?”
Mowbray was silent for a moment. Then he raised
his head, and said to his companion:
“Charles, listen! What I am going to tell you, may
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serve to place you upon your guard against what may
cause you great suffering. I know not why, but I take a
strange interest in you—coming alone into the great world
a mere youth as you are, leaving in the mountains from
which you say you come all those friends whose counsel
might guide you. Listen to me, then, as to an elder
brother—a brother who has grown old early in thought
and feeling, who at twenty-five has already lived half
the life of man—at least in the brain and heart. Listen.
I was always impulsive and sanguine, always proud and
self-reliant. My father was wealthy. I was told from
my boyhood that I was a genius—that I had only to
extend my hand, and the slaves of the lamp, as the
Orientals say, would drop into it all the jewels of the
universe. Success in politics, poetry, law, or letters—
the choice lay with me, but the event was certain
whichever I should select. Well, my father died—his
property was absorbed by his debts—I was left with an
orphan sister to struggle with the world.
“I arranged our affairs—we had a small competence
after all debts were paid. We live yonder in a small
cottage, and in half an hour I shall be there. I seldom
take these strolls. Half my time is study—the rest,
work upon our small plot of ground. This was necessary
to prepare you for what I have to say.
“I had never been in love until I was twenty-four and
a half—that is to say, half a year ago. But one day I
saw upon a race-course a young girl who strongly attracted
my attention, and I went home thinking of her.
I did not know her name, but I recognised in her bright,
frank, bold face—it was almost bold—that clear, strong
nature which has ever had an inexpressible charm for
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me. I had studied that strange volume called Woman,
and had easily found out this fact: that the wildest and
most careless young girls are often far more delicate,
feminine, and innocent than those whose eyes are always
demurely cast down, and whose lips are drawn habitually
into a prudish and prim reserve. Do you understand
my awkward words?”
“Yes,” said the boy quietly.
“Well,” pursued Mowbray, “in forty-eight hours the
dream of my life was to find and woo that woman.
I instinctively felt that she would make me supremely
happy—that the void which every man feels in his
heart, no matter what his love for relatives may be, could
be filled by this young girl alone—that she would perfect
my life. Very well—now listen, Charles.”
“Yes,” said the boy, in a low tone.
“I became acquainted with her—for when did a lover
ever fail to discover the place which contained his mistress?—
and I found that this young girl whom I had
fallen so deeply in love with was a great heiress.”
“Unhappy chance!” exclaimed the boy; “I understand
easily that this threw an ignoble obstacle in the
way. Her friends——”
“No—there you are mistaken, Charles,” said Mowbray;
“the obstacle was from herself.”
“Did she not love you?”
Mowbray smiled sadly.
“You say that in a tone of great surprise,” he replied;
“there is scarcely ground for such astonishment.”
“I should think any woman might love you,” murmured
the boy.
Mowbray smiled again as sadly as before, and said:
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“Well, I see you are determined to make me your
devoted friend, by reaching my heart through my vanity.
But let me continue. I said that the obstacles in my way
were not objections on the part of Philippa's friends—
that was her name, Philippa: do not ask me more.”
“No,” said the boy.
“The barrier was her own nature. I had mistaken
it; in the height of my pride I had dreamed that my
vision had pierced to the bottom of her nature, to the
inmost recesses of her heart: I was mistaken. I had
gazed upon the woman, throwing the heiress out of
the question; you see I was hopelessly enslaved by the
woman before dreaming of the heiress,” he added, with
a melancholy smile.
Hoffland made no reply.
“Now I come to the end, and I shall not detain you
much longer from the moral. I visited her repeatedly.
I found more to admire than I expected even—more to
be repelled by, however, than my mind had prepared
me for. I found this young girl with many noble qualities—
but these qualities seemed to me obscured by her
eternal consciousness of riches: her suspicion, in itself
an unwomanly trait, was intense.”
“Oh, sir!” cried the boy, “but surely there is some
excuse! Of course,” he added, with an effort to control
his feelings, “I do not know Miss Philippa, but assuredly
a young girl who is cursed with great wealth must discriminate
between those who love her for herself and
those who come to woo her because she is wealthy. Oh,
believe me, it is, it must be very painful to be wealthy,
to have to suspect and doubt—to run the hazard of
wounding some noble nature, who may be by chance
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among the sordid crowd who come to kneel to her because
she is an heiress—who would turn their backs
upon her were she portionless. Indeed, we should excuse
much.”
“Yes,” said Mowbray, “and you defend the cause of
heiresses well. But let me come back to my narrative.
The suspicion of this young girl was immense—as her
fortune was. That fortune chilled me whenever I
thought of it. I did not want it. I could have married
her—I had quite enough for both. Heaven decreed
that she should be wealthy, however—that the glitter of
gold should blind her heart—that she should suspect my
motives. Do not understand me to say that she placed
any value upon that wealth herself. No; I believe she
despised, almost regretted it: but still, who can tell?
At least I love her too much still to hazard what may be
unjust—ah! the cinder is not cold.”
And Mowbray's head drooped. They walked on in
silence.
“Well, well,” he continued at length, “I saw her
often. I could not strangle my feelings. I loved her—
in spite of her wealth—not on account of it. But gradually
my sentiment moderated: like a whip of scorpions,
this suspicion she felt struck me, wounding my heart
and inflaming my pride. I tried to stay away; I dragged
through life for a week without seeing her; then, impelled
by a violent impulse, I went to her again, armed
with an impassible pride, and determined to converse
upon the most indifferent subjects—to test her nature
fully, and—to make the test complete—bend all the
energies of my mind to the task of weighing her words,
her looks, her tones, that I might make a final decision.
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Well, she almost distinctly intimated, fifteen minutes
after our interview commenced, that I was a fortune-hunter
whom she regarded with a mixture of amusement
and contempt.”
“Oh, sir! could it have been that you——”
The boy stopped.
“How unhappy she must be—to have to suspect such
noble natures as your own,” he added in a low voice.
Mowbray turned away his head; then by a powerful
effort went on.
“You shall judge, Charles,” he said in a voice which
he mastered only by a struggle; “you shall say whether
I am correct in my opinion of her thoughts. She asked
me plainly if I was poor; to which question I replied
with a single word—`Very.' Next, did I hope to become
rich? I did hope so. Her advice then was, she
said, that I should marry some heiress, since that was a
surer and more rapid means than law or politics. She
said it very satirically, and with a glance which killed
my love——”
“Oh, sir!” the boy murmured.
“Yes; and though I was calm, my face not paler, I
believe, than usual, I was led to say what I bitterly regret—
not because it was untrue, for it was not, rather
was it profoundly true—but because it might have been
misunderstood. It was disgraceful to marry for mere
wealth, I said; and I added, `too expensive'—since unhappiness
at any price was dear. I added that money
would never purchase my own heart—schoolboy fashion,
you perceive; and then I left her—never to return.”
A long silence followed these words. Mowbray then
added calmly:
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“You deduce from this narrative, Charles, one lesson.
Never give your affections to a woman suddenly; never
make a young girl whom you do not know the queen of
your heart—the fountain of your illusions and your
dreams. The waking will be unpleasant; pray Heaven
you may never wake as I have with a mind which is
becoming sour—a heart which is learning to distrust
whatever is most fair in human nature. Let us dismiss
the subject now. I am glad I felt this impulse to open
my heart to you, a stranger, though a friend. We often
whisper into a strange ear what our closest friends would
ask in vain. See, there is his Excellency's chariot with
its six white horses, and look what a graceful bow he
makes us!”
Mowbray walked on without betraying the least evidence
of emotion. He seemed perfectly calm.
-- --
CHAPTER XI. HOW HOFFLAND FOUND THAT HE HAD LEFT HIS KEY BEHIND.
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THEY entered the town in silence, and both of the
young men seemed busy with their thoughts. Mowbray's
face wore its habitual expression of collected
calmness; as to Hoffland, he was smiling.
Mowbray at last raised his head, and chasing away his
thoughts by a strong effort, said to his companion:
“You have no dormitory yet, I believe—I mean, that
you are not domiciled at the college. Can I assist
you?”
“Oh, thank you; but I am lodged in town.”
“Ah?”
“Yes; Doctor Small procured permission for me.”
“Where is your room, Charles?—I shall come and
see you.”
“Just down there, somewhere,” said Hoffland dubiously.
“On Gloucester street?”
“No; just around there,” replied the student, pointing
in the direction of the college.
“Well,” said Mowbray, “we shall pass it on our way,
and I will go up and see if you are comfortably fixed.
I may be able to give you some advice—I am an old
member of the commissary department.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Hoffland quickly; “but I believe
every thing is very well arranged.”
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“Can you judge?” smiled Mowbray.
“Yes, indeed,” Hoffland said, turning away his head
and laughing; “better than you can, perhaps.”
“I doubt it.”
“You grown lords of the creation fancy you know so
much!” said Hoffland.
Mowbray caught the merry contagion, and smiling,
said:
“Nevertheless, I insist upon going to see if my new
brother Charles is comfortably established.”
Hoffland bit his lip.
“This is the place, is it not?” asked Mowbray
Hoffland hesitated for a moment, and then replied
with an embarrassed tone:
“Yes—but—let us go on.”
“No,” Mowbray said, “I am very obstinate; and as
Lucy will not expect me now until tea-time, I am determined
to devote half an hour to spying out your land.
Come, lead the way!”
Hoffland wrung his hands with a nettled look, which
made him resemble a child deprived of its plaything.
“But—” he said.
“Come—you pique my curiosity; go on, Charles.”
A sudden smile illumined the boy's face.
“Well,” he said, “if you insist, so be it.”
And he led the way up a staircase which commenced
just within the open door of the house. The lodging of
Sir Asinus was in one of those buildings let out to students;
this seemed more private—Hoffland alone dwelt
here.
The student searched his pockets one after the other.
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“Oh me!” he cried, “could I have left my key at the
college?”
“Careless!” said Mowbray, with a smile.
“I think I am very unfortunate.”
“Well, then, my domiciliary visit is rendered impossible.
Come, Charles, another time!”
And Mowbray descended, followed by the triumphant
Hoffland, who, whatever his motive might be, seemed
to rejoice in the accident, or the success of his ruse,
whichever the reader pleases.
“Come! I am just going to see Warner Lewis a
moment,” said Mowbray, “and then I shall return to
the `Raleigh Tavern,' get my horse, and go to Roseland——”
“Roseland? Is that your sister's home?”
“Yes, we live there—no one but Lucy and myself;
that is to say, except one single servant reserved from
the estate.”
“Roseville?” murmured Hoffland; “I think I have
passed it.”
“Very probably; it is just yonder, beyond the woods—
a cottage embosomed in trees, and with myriads of
roses around it, which Lucy takes great pleasure in cultivating.”
“I think I should like to know your sister,” said Hoffland.
“Why, nothing is easier: come with me this evening.”
“This evening?”
“Why not?”
“How could I?” laughed Hoffland; “your house is
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so small, that without some warning I should probably
incommode you.”
“Oh, not at all—we have a very good room for you.
You know in Virginia we always keep the `guest's
chamber,' however poor we are.”
“Hum!” said Hoffland.
“Come!” said Mowbray.
Hoffland began to laugh.
“How could I go?” he asked.
“Why, ride.”
“Ride?”
“Certainly.”
“In what manner, pray?”
“On horseback,” said Mowbray; “I can easily procure
you a horse.”
Hoffland turned his head aside to conceal his laughter.
“No, I thank you,” he said.
“You refuse?”
“Point-blank.”
Mowbray looked at him.
“You are a strange person, Charles,” he said; “you
seem half man, half child—I might almost say half
girl.”
“Oh, Ernest, to hurt my feelings so!” said the boy,
turning away his face.
Mowbray found himself reflecting that he had uttered
a very unkind speech.
“I only meant that there was a singular mixture of
character and playfulness in you, Charles,” he said;
“you are as changeable as the wind—and quite as
pleasant to my weary brow,” he added, with a smile;
“you smooth its wrinkles.”
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“I'm very glad I do,” said Hoffland; “but do not
again utter such unfeeling words—I like a girl!”
“No, I will not—pray pardon me,” replied Mowbray.
Hoffland's lip was puckered up, until it resembled a
rose-leaf rumpled by the finger of a school-girl.
“Then there is another objection to my going out this
evening, Ernest,” he said: “you see I return to the subject.”
“What objection?”
“You ought to tell your sister what a fascinating
young man I am, and put her upon her guard——”
“Charles!” cried Mowbray, with a strong disposition
to laugh; “you must pardon my saying that your vanity
is the most amusing I have ever encountered.”
“Is it?” asked Hoffland, smiling; “but come, do n't
you think me fascinating?”
“Upon my word,” said Mowbray, “were I to utter
the exact truth, I should say yes; for I have never yet
found myself so completely conciliated by a stranger.
Just consider that we have not known each other a week
yet——”
“But four days!” laughed Hoffland; “be accurate!”
“Well, that makes it all the stronger: we have known
each other but four days, and here we are jesting with
every word—`Charles' here, `Ernest' there—as though
we had been acquainted twenty years.”
“Such an acquaintance might be possible for you—it
is not for me,” Hoffland said, laughing; “but I find
you very generous. You have not added the strongest
evidence of my wayward familiarity—that I advised
you to put your sister on her guard against my fascinations.
Let her take care! Else shall she be a love-sick
-- 084 --
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girl—the most amusing spectacle, I think, in all the
world!”
With which words Hoffland laughed so merrily and
with such a musical, ringing, contagious joy, that Mowbray's
feeling of pique at this unceremonious allusion to
his sister passed away completely, and he could not utter
a word.
They passed on thus to the college, conversing about
a thousand things; and Mowbray saw with the greatest
surprise that his companion possessed a mind of remarkable
clearness and justness. His comments upon every
subject were characterized by a laughing satire which
played around men and things like summer lightning,
and by the time they had reached Lord Botetourt's
statue, Mowbray was completely silent. He listened.
-- 085 --
CHAPTER XII. HOW HOFFLAND CAUGHT A TARTAR IN THE PERSON OF MISS LUCY'S LOVER.
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
THE day ws not to end as quietly as Mowbray
dreamed, and we shall now proceed to relate the
incidents which followed this conversation.
Upon the smooth-shaven lawn, at various distances
from each other, were stretched parties of students, who
either bent their brows over volumes of Greek or Latin—
or interchanged merry conversation, which passed
around like an elastic ball—or leaning their heads upon
overturned chairs, suffered to curl upward from their
lazy lips white wreaths of smoke which turned to floods
of gold in the red sunset, while the calm pipe-holders
dreamed of that last minuet and the blue eyes shrining
it in memory, then of the reel through which she darted
with such joyous sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks—and
so went on and dreamed and sighed, then sighed and
dreamed again. We are compelled to add that the
devotees of conversation and the dreamers outnumbered
the delvers into Greek and Latin, to a really deplorable
degree.
It is so difficult to study out upon the grass which
May has filled with flowers—so very easy to lie there
and idly talk or dream!
Through these groups Mowbray and his friend took
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[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
their way, noticed only with a careless glance by the
studious portion when their shadows fell upon the open
volumes—not at all by the talkers—and scarcely more
by the dreamers, who lazily moved their heads as
smokers only can—with a silent protest, that is to say,
at having their reveries disturbed, and being compelled
to take such enormous trouble and exertion.
As Mowbray was about to ascend the steps beyond
the statue, a young man came down and greeted him
familiarly.
Mowbray turned round and said:
“Mr. Denis, are you acquainted with Mr. Hoffland?”
And then the new-comer and the young student courteously
saluted each other, smiled politely, and shook
hands.
“Stay till I come back, Charles,” said Mowbray;
“you and Denis can chat under the tree yonder—and
he will tell you whether Roseland can accommodate a
guest. He has staid with me more than once.”
With which words Mowbray passed on.
Hoffland looked at his companion; and a single
glance told him all he wished to know. Jack Denis—
for he was scarcely known by any other name—was an
open-hearted, honest, straight-forward young fellow of
twenty, with light-brown hair, frank eyes, and a cordial
bearing which at once put every body at their ease.
Still there was a latent flash in the eye which denoted
an excitable temper—not seldom united, as the reader
must have observed, with such a character.
The young men strolled across to the tree which Mowbray
had indicated, and sat down on a wicker seat which
was placed at its foot.
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[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
“Mr. Mowbray said you could tell me about Roseland,”
Hoffland said, raising his dark eyes as was his
habit beneath his low-drooping hat; “I am sure it is a
pretty place from his description—is it not?”
“Oh, beautiful!” said Denis warmly; “you should
go and see it.”
“I think I will.”
“It is not far, and indeed is scarcely half an hour's
ride from town—there to the west.”
“Yes; and Miss Lucy is very pretty, is she not?”
Denis colored slightly, and replied:
“I think so.”
Hoffland with his quick eye discerned the slight color,
and said somewhat maliciously:
“You know her very well, do you not?”
“Why, tolerably,” said Denis.
“I must make her acquaintance,” continued Hoffland,
“for I am sure from Mowbray's description of her she is
a gem. He invited me to come this evening.”
“You refused?”
“Yes.”
“You should not have done so, sir: Mowbray is not
prodigal of such invitations.”
Hoffland laughed.
“But I had a reason,” he said mischievously.
“What, pray—if I may ask?”
“Oh, certainly, you may ask,” Hoffland replied, smiling;
“though it may appear very vain to you—my
reason.”
“Hum!” said Denis, not knowing what to think of
his new acquaintance, whose quizzing manner, to use the
technical word, did not please him.
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[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
“I told Mowbray very frankly, however, why I could
not come this evening,” pursued Hoffland, with the air
of one child teasing another; “and I think he appreciated
my reason. I was afraid on Miss Lucy's account.”
“Afraid!”
“Yes.”
“On Lucy's account!”
“On Miss Lucy's account,” said Hoffland, emphasizing
the “Miss.”
“Oh, well, sir,” said Denis, with a slight air of coldness;
“I don't deny that I was wrong in so speaking of
a lady, but I don't see that you had the right to correct
me.”
“Why, Mr. Denis,” said Hoffland smiling, “you take
my little speeches too seriously.”
“No, sir; and if I showed some hastiness of temper,
excuse me—I believe it is my failing.”
“Oh, really now! no apologies,” said Hoffland laughing;
“I am not aware that you were out of temper—
though that is not an unusual thing with men. And
now, having settled the question of the proper manner
to address or speak of Miss Lucy, I will go on and tell
you—as you seemed interested—why I did not feel myself
at liberty to accept Mr. Mowbray's invitation—or
Ernest's: I call him Ernest, and he calls me Charles.”
“You seem to be well acquainted with him,” said
Denis.
“Oh, we are sworn friends!—of four days' standing.”
Denis looked at his companion with great curiosity.
“Mowbray—the most reserved of men in friendship!”
he muttered.
“Ah,” replied Hoffland, whose quick ear caught these
-- 089 --
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words; “but I am not a common person, Mr. Denis.
Remember that.”
“Indeed?” said Denis, again betraying some coolness
at his companion's satirical manner: his manner alone
was satirical—the words, as we may perceive, were
scarcely so.
“Yes,” continued Hoffland, “and I am an exception
to all general rules—just as Crichton was.”
“Crichton?”
“Yes; the admirable Crichton.”
And having uttered this conceited sentence with a
delightful little toss of the head, Hoffland laughed.
Denis merely inclined his head coldly. He was becoming
more and more averse to his companion every
moment.
“But we were speaking of Roseland, and my reasons
for not accepting Mowbray's invitation,” pursued Hoffland,
smiling; “the reason may surprise you.”
“Possibly, if you will tell me what it is,” said Denis.
“Why, it is the simplest thing in the world. I come
from the mountains, you know.”
“No, I did not know it before, sir,” replied Denis.
“Well, such at least is the fact. Now, in the mountains,
you know, the girls are prettier, and the men
handsomer.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” replied Denis coldly.
“Very well,” Hoffland replied; “as I have just said,
such is nevertheless the fact.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Certainly. Now I am a fair specimen of the mountain
men.”
Denis looked at his companion with an expression of
-- 090 --
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contempt which he could not repress. Hoffland did not
appear to observe it, but went on in the same quizzing
tone—for we can find no other word—which he had preserved
from the commencement of the interview.
“Feeling that Miss Lucy had probably not seen any
one like myself,” he said, “I was naturally anxious that
her brother should prepare her.”
“Mr. Hoffland!”
“Sir?”
“Nothing, sir!”
And Denis choked down his rising anger. Hoffland
did not observe it, but continued as coolly as ever:
“You know how much curiosity the fair sex have,”
he said, “and my plan was for Mowbray to describe me
beforehand to his sister—as I know he will.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said Denis coldly; “but I do not
perceive your drift. Doubtless it arises from my stupidity,
but such is the fact, to use your favorite expression.”
“Why, it is much plainer than any pikestaff,” Hoffland
replied, laughing; “listen, and I will explain. Mowbray
will return home this evening, and after tea he will
say to his sister, `I have a new friend at college, Lucy—
the handsomest, brightest, most amiable and fascinating
youth I ever saw.' You see he will call me a `youth;'
possibly this may excite Miss Lucy's curiosity, and she
will ask more about me; and then Mowbray will of
course expatiate on my various and exalted merits, as
every warm-hearted man does when he speaks of his
friends. Then Miss Lucy will imagine for herself a beau
ideal of grace, elegance, beauty, intelligence and wit,
far more than human. She will fall in love with it—
-- 091 --
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and then, when she is hopelessly entangled in this passion
for the creation of her fancy, I will make my
appearance. Do you not understand now, sir?”
Denis frowned and muttered a reply which it had
been well for Hoffland to have heard.
“I think it very plain,” continued the young man;
“with all those graces of mind and person which a kind
Providence has bestowed upon me, I still feel that I
could expect nothing but defeat, contending with the
ideal of a young girl's heart. Oh, sir, you can't imagine
how fanciful they are—believe me, women very seldom
fall in love with real men: it is the image of their
dreams which they sigh over and long to meet. This is
all that they really love.”
“Ah?” said Denis, in a freezing tone.
“Yes,” Hoffland said; “and applying this reasoning
to the present subject, you cannot fail to understand my
motives for refusing Mowbray's kind invitation. Once
in love with my shadow, Lucy will not fall in love with
me. To tell you the truth, I could not afford to have
her——”
“Mr. Hoffland!”
“Why, Mr. Denis—did any thing hurt you? Perhaps——”
“It was nothing, sir!” said Denis, with a flushed
face.
“Well, to conclude,” said Hoffland; “I could not
accept Lucy's love were she to offer it to me, and for
this reason I have staid away. I am myself fettered by
another object; I could not marry her were she to fall
sick for love of me, and beg me on her knees to accept
her hand and heart—I really could not!”
-- 092 --
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Denis rose as if on springs.
“Mr. Hoffland!” he said, “you have basely insulted
a young girl whom I love—the sister of my friend—the
best and purest girl in the world. By Heaven, sir! you
shall answer this! But for your delicate appearance,
sir, I would personally chastise you on the spot! But
you do not escape me, sir! Hold yourself in readiness
to receive a challenge from me to-morrow morning,
sir!”
“Mr. Denis!” murmured Hoffland, suddenly turning
pale and trembling from head to foot.
“Refuse it, and I will publish you as a coward!” cried
Denis, in a towering rage; “a poltroon who has insulted
a lady and refused to hold himself responsible!”
With which words Denis tossed away; and passing
through the crowd of students, who, hearing angry voices,
had risen to their feet, he entered the college.
Hoffland stood trembling and totally unable to reply
to the questions addressed to him by the crowd. Suddenly
he felt a hand upon his shoulder; and raising his
eyes he saw Mowbray.
He uttered a long sigh of relief; and drawing his hat
over his eyes, apparently to conceal his paleness and
agitation, took his friend's arm and dragged him away.
“What in the world is all this about?” asked Mowbray.
“Oh!” said Hoffland, trying to smile, but failing
lamentably, “Mr. Denis is going to kill me!”
And Mowbray felt that the hand upon his arm was
trembling.
-- 093 --
CHAPTER XIII. HOFFLAND MAKES HIS WILL.
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
WHEN they had reached the open street, and the
crowd of curious students were no longer visible,
Hoffland, growing gradually calmer, and with faint
smiles, related to his companion what had just occurred;
that is to say, in general terms—rather in substance,
it must be confessed, than in detail. Mr. Denis and
himself, he said, had at first commenced conversing in a
very friendly manner; the conversation had then grown
animated, and Mr. Denis had become somewhat excited;
then, at the conclusion of one of his (Hoffland's)
observations, he had declared himself deeply offended,
and further, announced his intention of dispatching a
mortal defiance to him on the ensuing morning.
Mowbray in vain endeavored to arrive at the particulars
of the affair. Hoffland obstinately evaded detailing
the cause of the quarrel.
“Well, Charles,” said Mowbray, “you are certainly
unlucky—to quarrel so quickly at college; but——”
“Was it my fault?” replied the boy, in a reproachful
tone.
“I don't know; your relation is so general, you
descend so little to particulars, that I have not been able
to form an opinion of the amount of blame which attaches
to each.”
-- 094 --
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“Blame!” said Hoffland. “Oh, Ernest! you are not
a true friend.”
“Why, Charles?”
“You do not espouse my part.”
Mowbray uttered a sigh of dissatisfaction.
“Do you know,” he said, “that my place is rather
yonder, as the friend and adviser of Denis?”
“Well, sir,” said Hoffland, in a hurt tone, “as you
please.”
Mowbray said calmly:
“No, I will not embrace your advice; I will not
leave you, a mere youth, alone, to go and range myself
on the side of Denis, though we have been intimate
friends for years. He has numbers of acquaintances
and friends; you could count yours upon the fingers of
one hand.”
“On the little finger of one hand, say,” Hoffland
replied, regaining his good humor.
“Well,” Mowbray said calmly, “then there is all the
more reason for my espousing your cause—since you
hint that I am the little finger.”
“No, I will promote you,” Hoffland answered, smiling;
“you shall have this finger, one rank above the
little finger, you see.”
And he held up his left hand, touching the third
finger.
Then the boy turned away and laughed as merrily and
carelessly as before the disagreeable events of the
evening.
Mowbray looked at him with a faint smile.
“Youth, youth!” he murmured; “youth, so full of
joy and lightness—so careless and gay-hearted! Here
-- 095 --
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is a man—or a child—who in twenty-four hours may be
lying cold in death yonder, and he smiles and even
laughs. Hoffland,” he added, “let us cease our discussions
in relation to the origin of this unhappy affair, and
endeavor to decide upon the course to be pursued.
With myself the matter stands thus: I have known
Denis for years; he is one of my best friends; no one
loves me more, I think——”
“Except one,” said Hoffland, laughing.
“My dear Charles,” said Mowbray seriously, “let us
speak gravely. This affair is serious, since it involves
two lives—especially serious to me, since it involves the
life of a friend of many years' standing, and no less the
life of one I have promised to assist, advise, and guide—
yourself.”
“Oh,” said Hoffland, with a hurt expression, “you
call Mr. Denis your friend, while I—I am only `one
you have promised to advise.' Ernest, that is cruel;
you have not learned yet how sensitive I am!”
And Hoffland turned away.
“Really, I am dealing with a child,” murmured Mowbray;
“let me summon all my patience.”
And he said aloud:
“My dear Hoffland, I am not one of those men who
make violent protestations and feel sudden and excessive
friendships. Friendship, with me, is a tree of slow
growth; and I even now wonder at the position you
have been able to take in my regard, upon such a slight
acquaintance. There is a frank word—all words between
friends should be frank. There, I call you my
friend—you are such: does that please you?”
“Oh, very much,” said Hoffland, smiling and
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
banishing his sad expression instantly; “I know you are the
noblest and most sincere of men.”
And the boy held out to his companion a small hand,
which returned the pressure of Mowbray's slightly, and
was then quietly withdrawn.
“Well, now,” said Mowbray, “let us come back to
this affair. Denis will send you a challenge?”
“He says so.”
“Well; then he will keep his promise.”
“Of course he will act as a man of honor throughout,”
said Hoffland, laughing; “I am sure of that, because he
is your friend.”
“Pray drop these polite speeches, and let us talk
plainly.”
“Very well, Ernest; but Denis is a good fellow, eh?”
asked Hoffland, smiling.
“Yes.”
“Brave?”
“Wholly fearless.”
“A good swordsman?”
“Very.”
“And with the pistol?” asked Hoffland, laughing.
“The best shot in college,” returned Mowbray,
pleased in spite of himself at finding his companion so
calm and smiling.
Hoffland placed his thumb absently upon his chin—
leaned upon it, and after a moment's reflection said in a
business tone:
“I think I'll choose swords.”
“You fence?”
“I? Why, my dear Ernest, have you never seen me
with a foil in my hand?”
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
“Never.”
“Indeed? Well, I fence like the admirable Crichton
himself. It was some allusion to that celebrated gentleman,
in connection with myself, by the by, which excited
Mr. Denis's anger.”
“How, pray?”
“Well, well, it would embarrass me to explain. Let
us dismiss Mr. Crichton. My mind is made up—I
choose short-swords, for I was always afraid of pistols.”
Mowbray looked with curiosity at his companion.
“Afraid?” he said.
“Yes, indeed,” replied Hoffland; “you will not believe
me, but I never could fire a pistol or a gun without
shutting my eyes, and dropping it when it went off!”
With which words Hoffland burst into laughter.
Mowbray saw that it would be necessary to check the
mercurial humor of his companion. He therefore suppressed
the smile which rose unconsciously to his lips
when Hoffland laughed so merrily, and said gravely:
“Charles, are you prepared for a mortal duel?”
“Perfectly,” said Hoffland, with great simplicity.
“Have you made your will?”
“My will? Fie, Mr. Lawyer! Why, I am a minor.”
“Minors make wills,” said Mowbray; “and I advise
you, if you are determined to encounter Mr. Denis, to
make your will, and put in writing whatever you wish
done.”
“But what have I to leave to any one?” said Hoffland,
affecting annoyance. “Ah, yes!” he added, “I
am richer than I supposed. Well, now, this terrible
affair may take place before I can make my
-- 098 --
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arrangements; so I will, with your permission, make a nuncupative
will—I believe nuncupative is the word, but I am
not sure.”
Mowbray sighed; he found himself powerless before
this incorrigible light-heartedness, and had not the resolution
to check it. He began to reflect wistfully upon
the future: he already saw that boyish face pale and
bloody, but still smiling—that slender figure stretched
upon the earth—a mere boy, dead before his prime.
Hoffland went on, no longer laughing, but uttering
sighs, and affecting sudden and profound emotion.
“This is a serious thing, Ernest,” he said; “when a
man thinks of his will, he stops laughing. I beg therefore
that you will not laugh, nor interrupt me, while I
dispose of the trifling property of which I am possessed.”
Mowbray sighed.
Hoffland echoed this sigh, and went on:
“First: As I have no family, and may confine my
bequests wholly to my present dear companions, acquaintances,
and friends—first, I leave my various suits
of apparel, which may be found at my lodgings, to my
dear companions aforesaid; begging that they may be
distributed after the following fashion. To the student
who is observed to shed the most tears when he receives
the intelligence of my unhappy decease, I give my suit
of silver velvet, with chased gold buttons, and silk embroidery.
The cocked hat and feather, rosetted shoes
with diamond buckles, and the flowered satin waistcoat,
go with this. Also six laced pocket-handkerchiefs,
which I request my dear tender-hearted friend to use
on all occasions when he thinks of me, to dry his eyes
with.
-- 099 --
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“Item: My fine suit of Mecklenburg silk, with silver
buttons, I give to the friend who expresses in words
the most poignant regret. I hold that tears are more
genuine than words, for which reason the best weeper
has been preferred, and so has received the velvet suit.
Nevertheless, the loudest lamenter is not unworthy; and
so I repeat that he shall have the silk suit. If there be
none who weep or lament me, I direct that these two
suits shall be given to the janitor of the college, the old
negro Fairfax, whose duty ever thereafter shall be to
praise and lament me.
“Second: I give my twelve other suits of various
descriptions, more or less rich, to the members of the
`Anti-Stamp-Act League,' of which I am a member.
This with my love; and I request that, whenever they
speak of me, they may say, `Hoffland, our lamented,
deceased brother, was a man of expanded political ideas,
and a true friend of liberty.'
“Third: I give all my swords, pistols, guns, carbines,
short swords, broad swords, poniards, and spurs, to my
friend Mr. Denis, who has had the misfortune to kill
me. It is my request that he will not lament me, or
feel any pangs of conscience. So far from dying with
the thought that he has been unjust to me, I declare that
his conduct has been worthy of the Chevalier Bayard;
and I desire that the above implements of war may be
used to exterminate even the whole world, should they
give him like cause of quarrel.
“Fourth: I give my books to those I am most intimately
acquainted with:—my Elzevir Horace to T.
Randolph—he will find translations of the best odes
upon the fly leaves, much better than any he could make;
-- 100 --
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my Greek books, the Iliad, Graeca Minora, Herodotus,
etc., which are almost entirely free from dog-ears and
thumb-marks, as I have never opened them, I give to
L. Burwell, requesting that he will thenceforth apply
himself to Greek in earnest. My Hebrew books I
give to Fairfax, the janitor, as he is the only one
in the college who will not pretend to understand
them; thus, much deception will be warded off and
prevented.
“Fifth: I give and bequeath to the gentleman who
passed us this afternoon on horseback, and who is
plainly deep in love with some one—I believe he is
known as Mr. Jacques—I bequeath to him my large
volume of love-songs in manuscript, begging him to read
them for his interest and instruction, and never, under
any circumstances, to copy them upon embossed paper
and send them to his lady-love, pretending that they are
original, as I have known many forlorn lovers to do
before this.
“Sixth: I bequeath to Miss Lucy Mowbray, the sister
of my beloved friend, my manuscript `Essay upon the
Art of Squeezing a Lady's Hand;' begging that she will
read it attentively, and never suffer her hand to be
squeezed in any other manner than that which I have
therein pointed out.
“Seventh: I bequeath my `Essay upon the Hebrew
Letter Aleph' to the College of William and Mary,
requesting that it shall be disposed of to some scientific
body in Europe, for not less than twenty thousand
pounds—that sum to be dedicated to the founding of a
new professorship—to be called the Hoffland Professorship
for the instruction of young men going to woo their
-- 101 --
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sweethearts. And the professor shall in all cases be a
woman.
“Eighth: Having disposed of my personal, I now come
to add a disposition also of my invisible and more valuable
property remaining. I bequeath my memory to
the three young ladies to whom I am at present engaged—
begging them to deal charitably with what I leave
to them; and if harsh thoughts ever rise in their hearts,
to remember how beautiful they are, and how utterly
impossible it was for their poor friend to resist yielding
to that triple surpassing loveliness. If this message is
distinctly communicated to them, they will not be angry,
but ever after revere and love my memory, as that of
the truest and most rational of men.
“Ninth: I leave to my executor a lock of my hair,
which he shall carry ever after in his bosom—take
thence and kiss at least once every day—at the same
time murmuring, `Poor Charles! he loved me very
much!'
“Tenth, and last: I bequeath my heart to Mr. Ernest
Mowbray. I mean the spiritual portion—my love.
And if I should make him my executor, I hereby
declare that clause ninth shall apply to him, and be
carried out in full; declaring that he may utter the
words therein written with a good conscience; and
declaring further, that my poverty alone induces me
to make him so trifling a bequest as this, in the tenth
clause expressed. Moreover, he had full possession of
it formerly during my life-time; and, finally, I make
him my executor.
“That is all,” said Hoffland, laughing and turning
away his head; “a capital will, I think!”
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Mowbray shook his head.
“I have listened to your jesting in silence, Charles,”
he said, “because I thought it best to let your merry
mood expend itself——”
“I was never graver in my life!”
“Then you were never grave at all. Now let us
seriously consult about this unhappy affair. Ah, duelling,
duelling! how wicked, childish, illogical, despotic,
bloody, and at the same time ludicrous it is! Come, you
have lost your key, you say—we cannot go to your lodgings:
let us find a room in the `Raleigh,' and arrange
this most unhappy affair. Come.”
And, followed by Hoffland, Mowbray took his way
sadly toward the “Raleigh.”
-- --
CHAPTER XIV. HOSTILE CORRESPONDENCE.
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
WE regard it as a very fortunate circumstance that
the manuscript record of what followed, or did not
follow, the events just related, has been faithfully preserved.
A simple transcription of the papers will do
away with the necessity of relating the particulars in
detail; and so we hasten to present the reader with the
correspondence, prefacing it with the observation that the
affair kept the town or city of Williamsburg in a state
of great suspense for two whole days.
“Mr. Hoffland:
“You insulted a lady in my presence yesterday evening, and I demand
from you a retraction of all that you uttered. I am not skilled in
writing, but you will understand me. The friend who bears this will
bring your answer.
I am your obed't serv't,
“J. Denis.”
“Mr. Denis:
“For you know you begin `Mr. Hoffland!' as if you said, `Stand
and deliver!'—I have read your note, and I am sure I shan't be able to
write half as well. I am so young that, unfortunately, I have never had
an affair, which is a great pity, for I would then know how to write
beautiful long sentences that no one could possibly fail to understand.
“You demand a retraction, your note says. I do n't like `demand'—
-- 104 --
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it's such an ugly word, you know; and if you change the letters slightly,
it makes a very bad, shocking word, such as is used by profane young
men. Then `retraction' is so hard. For you know I said I was handsome:
must I take back that? Then I said that I could not marry
the lady we quarrelled about: must I say I can? I can't tell a story,
and I assure you on my honor—yes, Mr. Denis! on my sacred word of
honor as a gentleman!—that I cannot marry Lucy!
“You see I can't take it back, and if you were to eat me up I
could n't say I did n't say it.
“To think how angry you were!
“In haste,
“Charles Hoffland.”
“Mr. Hoffland:
“Your note is not satisfactory at all. I did not quarrel with your
opinion of yourself, and you know it. I was not foolish enough to be
angry at your declaring that you wer engaged to some lady already.
You spoke of a lady who is my friend, and what you said was insulting.
“I say again that I am not satisfied.
“Your obed't serv't,
“J. Denis.”
“Mr. Denis:
“Stop!—I didn't say I was engaged to any lady: no misunderstanding.
Yours always,
“Charles Hoffland.”
“Mr. Hoffland:
“I do not understand your note. You evade my request for an explanation.
I think, therefore, that the shortest way will be to end the
matter at once.
“The friend who brings you this will make all the arrangements.
“I have the honor to be,
“J. Denis.”
-- 105 --
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
“Oh, Mr. Denis, to shoot me in cold blood! Well, never mind! Of
course it's a challenge. But who in the world will be my `friend'?
Please advise me. You know Ernest ought not to—decidedly. He
likes you, and you seemed to like Miss Lucy, who must be a very sweet
girl as she is Ernest's sister. Therefore, as I have no other friend but
Ernest, I should think we might arrange the whole affair without
troubling him. I have been talking with some people, and they say I
have `the choice of weapons'—because you challenged me, you know.
I would rather fight with a sword, I think, than be shot, but I think we
had better have pistols. I therefore suggest pistols, and I have been
reading all about fighting, and can lay down the rules.
“1. The pistols shall be held by the principals with the muzzles
down, not more than six inches from the right toe—pointing that way,
I mean.
“2. The word shall be `Fire! One, Two, Three!' and if either fire
before `one' or after `three,' he shall be immediately killed. For you
know it would be murder, and ours is a gentlemanly affair of honor.
“3. The survivor, if he is a bachelor, shall marry the wife of the one
who falls. You are a bachelor, I believe, and so am I: thus this will
not be very hard, and for my part I'm very glad; I shouldn't like to
marry a disconsolate widow. I think we could fight on the college
green, and Dr. Small might have a chair placed for him under the big
tree to look on from—near his door, you know.
“I have the honor to be,
“Yours truly,
“Charles Hoffland.
“Mr. Hoffland:
“Your note is very strange. You ask me to advise you whom to
take as your second; and then you lay down rules which I never
heard of before. I suppose a gentleman can right his grievances without
having to fight first and marry afterwards. What you write is so
much like joking, that I do n't know what to make of it. You seem to
be very young and inexperienced, sir, and you say you have no friend
but Mowbray.
-- 106 --
[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
“I'm obliged to you for your delicacy about Mowbray, but I cannot
take it upon myself to advise any one else.—I hardly know how to write
to you, for the whole thing seems a joke to you. If you were jesting in
what you said, say so, sir, and we can shake hands. I do n't want to
take your blood for a joke, and especially as you are a stranger here.
“Your obed't serv't,
“J. Denis.”
“Joking, my dear fellow? Of course I was joking! Did you think
I really was in earnest when I said that I was so handsome, and was engaged
already, et cetera, and so forth, as one of my friends used to say?
I was jesting! For on my sacred word of honor, I am not engaged to
any one—and yet I could not marry Lucy. I am wedded already—to
my own ideas! I am not my own master—and yet I have no mistress!
“But I ought not to be tiring you in this way. Why did n't you
ask me if I was joking at first? Of course I was! I was laughing all
the time and teasing you. It's enough to make me die a-laughing to
think we were going to murder each other for joking. I was plaguing
you! for I saw at once from what you said that you were hopelessly
in——well, well! I won't tell your secrets.
“Yours truly,
“Charles Hoffland.”
“Mr. Hoffland:
“I am very glad you were joking, and I am glad you have said so
with manly courtesy—though I am at a loss to understand why you
wished to `tease' me. But I do n't take offence, and am sure the whole
matter was a jest. I hope you will not jest with me any more upon
such a subject—I am very hasty; and my experience has told me that
most men that fall in duels, are killed for this very jesting.
“As to what you say about my admiring Miss Mowbray, it is true in
some degree, and I am not offended. As far as my part goes, we are as
good friends as ever.
Yours truly,
“J. Denis.”
-- 107 --
“Dear Jack:
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
“Your apology is perfectly satisfactory.—But I forgot! I made
the apology myself! Well, it's all the same, and I am glad we have n't
killed each other—for then, you know, we would have been dead now.
“Come round this evening to my lodging—one corner from Gloucester
street, by the college, you know—and we'll empty a jolly bottle, get
up a game of ombre with Mowbray, and make a night of it. Oh! I
forgot!—my key has disappeared: I do n't see it any where, and so, to
my great regret, your visit must be deferred. What a pity!
“We shall meet this evening, when we shall embrace each other—
figuratively—and pledge everlasting friendship.
“Devotedly till death,
“Charles Hoffland.”
Thus was the great affair which agitated all Williamsburg
for more than forty-eight hours arranged to the
perfect satisfaction of all parties: though we must except
that large and influential body the quidnuncs, who, as
every body knows, are never satisfied with any thing
which comes to an end without a catastrophe. The correspondence,
as we have seen, had been confined to the
principals, and the only public announcement was to
the effect that “both gentlemen were satisfied”—which
we regard as a very gratifying circumstance.
-- --
CHAPTER XV. SENTIMENTS OF A DISAPPOINTED LOVER ON THE SUBJECT OF WOMEN.
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HOFFLAND had just met and made friends with
Jack Denis—“embraced him figuratively,” to use
his expression; and he and Mowbray were walking
down Gloucester street, inhaling the pleasant air of the
fine morning joyously.
Hoffland was smiling as usual. Mowbray's countenance
wore its habitual expression of collected calmness—
his clear eye as usual betrayed no emotion of any
description.
“I feel better than if I was dead,” said Hoffland,
laughing, “and I know you are glad, Ernest, that I
am still alive.”
“Sincerely,” said Mowbray, smiling.
“Was n't it a good idea of mine to carry on all the
correspondence?”
“Yes; the result proves it in this instance. I thought
that I could arrange the unhappy affair, but I believe
you were right in taking it out of my hands—or rather,
in never delivering it to me. Well, I am delighted
that it is over. I could ill spare you or Denis; and
God forbid that you should ever fall victims to this
barbarous child's play, duelling.”
“Ah! my dear fellow,” replied Hoffland, “we men
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must have some tribunal above the courts of law; and
then you know the women dote upon a duellist.
“Yes, Hoffland, as they dote upon an interesting
monstrosity—the worse portion. Women admire courage,
because it is the quality they lack—I mean animal
courage, the mere faculty of looking into a pistol-muzzle
calmly; and their admiration is so great that they are
carried away by it. They admire in the same way a
gay wild fellow; they do not dislike even a `poor
fellow—ah! very dissipated!' and this arises from the
fact that they admire decided `character' of any description,
more than the want of character—even when
the possesser of character is led into vice by it.”
“A great injustice!—a deep injustice!” said Hoffland;
“I wonder how you can say so!”
“I can say so because I believe it to be true—nay, I
know it.”
“Conceited!—you know women indeed!”
“Not even remotely; but listen. I was about to add
that women admire reckless courage and excessive animal
spirits. But let that courage lead a man to shed another's
blood for a jest, or let that animal spirit draw
a man into degrading and bestial advice—presto! they
leave him!”
“And they are right!”
“Certainly.”
“Well, sir?”
“But they are not the less wrong at first: the importance
they attach to courage leads many boys and
young men into murderous affrays—just as their satirical
comments upon `milky dispositions' lead thousands into
vice.”
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“Oh, Ernest!”
“Do you deny it?”
“Wholly.”
“Well, that only proves to me once more that you
know nothing of women.”
“Do you think so?” said Hoffland, smiling.
“Yes: what I have said is the tritest truth. That
women admire these qualities excessively, and that men,
especially young men, shape their conduct by this feminine
feeling, is as true as that sunlight.”
“I deny it.”
“Very well; that proves further, Charles, that you
have not observed and studied much.”
“Have you?”
“Extensively.”
“And you are a great master in the wiles of women
by this time, I suppose,” said Hoffland satirically.
“No, you misunderstand me,” replied Mowbray,
without observing the boy's smile. “I never shall pretend
to understand women; but I can use my eyes, and
I can read the open page before me.”
“The open page? What do you mean?”
“I mean that the history of the modern world, the
social history, has a great key-note—is a maze unless
you keep constantly in view the existence of this element—
woman.”
“I should say it was: we could not well get on without
them.”
“The middle age originated the present deification of
woman,” continued Mowbray philosophically, “and the
old knights left us the legacy. We have long ago discarded
for its opposite the scriptural doctrine that
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the man is not of the woman, but the woman of the
man; and we justify ourselves by the strange plea,
`they are so weak.' ”
“Well, are they not?”
“Woman weak? Poor Charles! Parliaments, inquisitions,
secret tribunals and executioners' axes are straws
compared to them. They smile, and man kneels; they
weep, and his moral judgment is effaced like a shadow:
he is soft clay in their hands. One caress from a girl
makes a fool of a giant. Have you read the history of
Samson?”
“Vile misogynist!” said Hoffland, “you are really too
bad!”
Mowbray smiled sadly.
“Do not understand me to say that we should return
to barbarous times, and make the women labor and
carry burdens, while we the men lounge in the sun and
dream,” he said; “not at all. All honor to the middle
age! The knight raised up woman, and she made him
a reproachless chevalier in return; but it did not end
there. He must needs do more—he loved, and love is
so strong! Divine love is strongest—he must deify her.”
“You are a great student, forsooth!”
“Deny it if you can; but you cannot, Charles. The
central idea of the middle age—the age of chivalry—is
woman. That word interprets all; it is the open sesame
which throws wide the portals. Without it, that whole
era is a mere jumble of bewildering anomalies—events
without causes—actions without motives. Well, see
how truly we are the descendants of those knights. To
this day our social god is woman.”
“Scoffer!”
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“No; what I say is more in sorrow than anger. It
will impede our national and spiritual growth, for I declare
to you that one hundred years hence, women in
my opinion will not be satisfied with this poetic and
chivalric homage: they will demand a voice in the
government. They will grow bolder, and learn to regard
these chivalric concessions to their purity and
weakness as their natural rights. Woman's rights!—
that will be their watchword.”
“And I suppose you would say they have no rights.”
“Oh, many. Among others, the right to shape the
characters and opinions of their infant children,” said
Mowbray with a grave smile.
“And no more, sir?”
“Far more; but this discussion is unprofitable. What
I mean is simply this, Charles: that the middle age has
left us a national idea which is dangerous—the idea that
woman should, from her very weakness, rule and direct;
especially among us gentlemen who hold by the traditions
of the past—who reject Sir Galahad, and cling
to Orlando and Amadis—who grow mad and fall down
worshipping and kissing the feet of woman—happy even
to be spurned by her.”
“Really, sir!—but your conversation is very instructive!
Who, pray, was Sir Galahad?—for I have read
Ariosto, and know about Orlando.”
“Sir Galahad is that myth of the middle age, Charles,
who went about searching for the holy Graal—the cup
which our Saviour drank from in his last supper; which
Joseph of Arimathea collected his precious blood in.
You will understand that I merely repeat the monkish
tradition.”
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“Well, what sort of a knight was this Sir Galahad;
and why do you hold him up as superior to Orlando and
Amadis?”
“Because he saw the true course, and loved woman
as an earthly consoler, did not adore her as a god. Read
how he fought and suffered many things for women;
see how profoundly he loved them, and smiled whenever
they crossed his path; how his whole strength and
every thing was woman's. Was she oppressed? Did
brute strength band itself against her? His chivalric
arm was thrown around her. Was she threatened with
shame, or hatred and wrong? His heart, his sword, all
were hers, and he would as willingly pour out his blood
for her as wander on a sunny morning over flowery
fields.”
“Well,” said Hoffland, “he was a true knight. Have
you not finished?”
“By no means. With love for and readiness to protect
the weak and oppressed woman—with satisfaction
in her smiles, and rejoicing in the thanks she gave him—
the good knight's feelings ended. He would not give
her his heart and adore her—he knelt only to his God.
He refused to place his arm at her disposal in all things,
and so become the tool of her caprice; he would not
sell himself for a caress, and hold his hands out to be
fettered, when she smiled and offered him an embrace.
A child before God, and led by a grand thought, he
would not become a child before woman, and be directed
by her idle fancies. He was the `knight of God,'
not of woman; and he grasped the prize.”
Hoffland listened to these earnest words more thoughtfully.
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“Well,” he said, “so Sir Galahad is your model—not
the mad worshipper of woman, Orlando?”
“A thousand times.”
“Ah! we have neither now.”
“We have no Galahads, for woman has grown stronger
even than in the old days. She would not tolerate a
lover who espoused her cause from duty: she wants
adoring worship.”
“No! no!—only love!” said Hoffland.
“A mistake,” said Mowbray; “she does not wish a
mere knightly respect and love—that of the real knight;
she demands an Amadis, to grow mad for her—to be
crazed by her beauty, and kneel down and sell himself
for a kiss. She wishes power, and scouts the mere
chivalric smile and homage. She claims and exacts the
fullest obedience, and her claim is pronounced just. She
says to-day—returning to what we commenced with—
she says, `Go and murder that man: he has uttered a
jest;' or, `On penalty of my pity and contempt, make
yourself the slave of my caprice, and kill your friend,
who has said laughing that I am not an angel.' The
unhappy part of all this is,” said Mowbray, “that the
men, especially young men, obey. And then, when the
blood is poured out, the tragedy consummated; when
the body which was a breathing man is taken from the
bloody grass where it lies like a wounded bird, its heartblood
welling out—when it is borne cold and pale before
her, and the mother, sister, daughter wail and moan—
then the beautiful goddess who has gotten up this little
drama for her amusement, finds her false philosophy
broken in her breast, her deity overthrown, her supreme
resolution crushed in presence of this terrible spectacle;
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and she wrings her hands, and sobs and cries out at the
evil she has done; but cries much louder, that the hearts
of men are horrible and bloody; that their instincts are
barbarous and terrible; that she alone is tender and softhearted
and forgiving; that she would never have
plunged the sword into the bosom, or sent the ball tearing
its way through the heart; that man alone is horrible
and cruel and depraved; that she is noble and purehearted,
true and innocent; that woman is above this
miserable humanity—great like Diana of the Ephesians,
pure and strong and immaculate—without reproach!
That is a tolerably accurate history of most duels,” added
Mowbray coldly; “you will not deny it.”
Hoffland made no reply.
“You will not deny it because it is true,” said Mowbray;
“it is what every man knows and feels and sees.
You think it strange, then, that they act as they do, in
this perfect subservience to woman, knowing what I have
said is true. It is not more strange than any other
ludicrous inconsequence which men are guilty of. Look
at me! I know that what I have said is as true as the
existence of this earth; and now, what would I do? I
will tell you. Were I in love with a woman, I would
make myself a child, and adore her, and sell my soul for
her caresses; and make my brain the tool of my infatuation
by yielding to her false, fatal sophistry, because that
sophistry would be uttered by red lips, and would become
truth in the dazzling light of her seductive smiles.
Do you expect me, because I know it is all a lie, to resist
sighs and murmurs, and those languid glances, which
women employ to gain their ends? If you wish me to
resist them, give me a lump of ice instead of a heart—a
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freezing stream instead of a warm current in my veins—
make me a thinking machine, all brain; but take care
how you leave one particle of the man! That particle
will fire all; for the age tells me that woman is all pure,
all-knowing, all true—how can I go astray? I am not
a machine—the atmosphere of that old woman-worshipping
world has nourished me, because I breathe it now;
and if the woman I loved madly wished a little murder
enacted for the benefit of her enemies, why, I cannot,
dare not say, I would not go and murder for her, thinking
I was serving nothing but the cause of purity and
justice.”
Hoffland listened to these coldly uttered words with
some agitation, but made no reply. They walked on for
some moments in silence, and Mowbray then said:
“The discussion is getting too grave, Charles; and I
am afraid I have spoken very harshly of women—led
away in the discussion of this subject. But remember
that most of these unhappy affairs indirectly arise from
this fatal philosophy; and I have reason to suppose that
the present one, which has so nearly taken from me one
or both of my dearest friends, orginated indirectly in
such a source. Do not understand me as undervaluing
the fine old chivalrous devotion to women: the hard
task is for me to believe that any devotion to a good
and pure woman is exaggerated. They are above us,
Charles, in all the finer and nobler traits, and we are responsible
for this weakness in them. What wonder if
they believed us when we told them that they were more
than human, something angelic? Their duty was to listen
to us, and act by our judgment; and when we have
told them now for ages that our place is at their feet, the
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of their garments for our lips, their smiles brighter
than the sunshine of heaven, should we feel surprise at
their acquiescing in our dicta, and assuming the enormous
social influence which we yield to them, beg them
upon our knees to take? For my part, I rejoice that
man has not a power as unlimited; and if one sex must
rule, spite of every thing, I am almost ready to give up
to the women. They go right oftener; and if this tyranny
must really exist, I know not that Providence has
not mercifully placed the sceptre in her hands. See where
all my great philosophy ends—I can't help loving while
I speak against them. The sneer upon my lips turns to
a smile—my indignation to good-humor. Oh, Charles!
Charles! right or wrong, they rule us; and if we must
have sexual tyranny, it is best in the hands of mothers.
But rather let us have no tyranny at all: let the man
take his place as lord without, the woman her sovereignty
over the inner world. Let her grace perfect his strength;
her bosom hold his rude head and dusty brow; let her
heart crown his intellect—each fill the void in each.
Vain thought, I am afraid; and this, I fear, is scarcely
more than dreaming. Let us leave the subject.”
And Mowbray sighed; nodding, as he passed on, to a
young gentleman on horseback. This was Jacques.
-- --
CHAPTER XVI. ADVANCE OF THE ENEMY UPON SIR ASINUS.
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INSTEAD of listening further to the conversation of
Mowbray and Hoffland, let us follow Jacques, who,
mounted as we have seen on a beautiful horse, is gaily
passing down the street.
Jacques is clad as usual like a lily of the field, with
something of the tulip; he hums a melancholy love song
of his own composition, not having yet come into possession
of Hoffland's legacy; he smiles and sighs, and
after some hesitation, draws rein before the domicile of
our friend Sir Asinus, and dismounting, ascends to the
apartment of that great political martyr.
Sir Asinus was sitting in an easy chair tuning a violin;
his pointed features wearing their usual expression
of cynical humor, and his dress wofully negligent.
He had been making a light repast upon crackers and
wine, and on the floor lay a tobacco pipe with an exceedingly
dirty reed stem, which Jacques, with his usual bad
fortune, trod upon and reduced to a bundle of splinters.
“There!” cried Sir Asinus, “there, you have broken
my pipe, you awkward cub!”
“Ah,” sighed Jacques, gazing upon the splinters
with melancholy curiosity; “what you say is very
just.”
And sitting down, he gazed round him, smiling sadly.
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“Nothing better could be expected from you, however,
you careless fop!”
And giving one of the violin pegs a wrench, Sir Asinus
snapped a string.
“There!” he cried, “you bring bad fortune! whenever
you come, I have the devil's own luck.”
Jacques laughed quietly, and stretching out his elegant
foot, yawned luxuriously.
“You are naturally unlucky, my dear knight,” he
said. “Hand me a glass of wine—or don't trouble yourself:
the exercise of rising will do me good.”
And leaning over, he poured out a glass of wine and
sipped it.
“I was coming along, and thought I would come in,”
he said. “How is your Excellency to-day?”
“Dying of weariness!”
“What! even your great Latin song——”
“Is growing dull, sir. How can a man live on solitude
and Latin? No girls, no frolics, no fun, no nothing,
if I may use that inelegant expression,” said Sir Asinus.
“Go back, then.”
“Never!”
“Why not?”
“Do you ask? I am a martyr, sir, to my great and
expanded political ideas; my religious opinions; my
theory of human rights.”
“Ah, indeed? Well, they ought to appreciate the
compliment you pay them, and console you in your
exile.”
“They do, sir,” said Sir Asinus.
“Delighted to hear it,” sighed Jacques, setting down
his glass. “Has Doctor Small called on you yet?”
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“No. I fervently desire that he will call. We could
sing my Latin song together—he would take the bass;
and in three hours I should make of him a convert to my
political ideas.”
“Indeed? Shall I mention that you wish to see
him?”
“No, I believe not,” said Sir Asinus; “I am busy at
present.”
“At what—yawning?”
“No, you fop! I am framing a national anthem for
the violin.”
“Tune—the `Exile's Return,' eh?”
“Base scoffer! But what news?”
“A great piece.”
“What?”
“I am too indolent to tell it.”
“Come, Jacques—I'm dying for news.”
“I really could n't. You have no idea how weakly I
am growing; and as it deals in battle and blood, I cannot
touch upon it.”
“Ah! that is the character of a man's friends. In the
sunshine all devotion; in adversity——”
“And exile——”
“All hatred.”
“Very well,” said Jacques, “I can afford to labor
under your injustice. You are systematically unjust.
But I just dropped in as I passed—and, my dear Sir
Asinus, there is a visitor coming. I shall intrude——”
“No; stay! stay!”
“Very well.”
Sir Asinus laid down his violin; and stretching himself,
said carelessly:
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“I should n't be surprised if you had brought some
dun in your train. Decidedly you possess the gettatura—
that faculty called the Evil Eye.”
The step ascended.
“Who is it—whose heavy step can that be?” said
Sir Asinus, rising; “it is not Randolph: it might be
yours coming from Belle-bouche's——”
Sir Asinus caught sight of a large cocked hat rising
from beneath, followed by a substantial person.
“O Heaven!” he cried, “it's Doctor Small! The
door—the door!”
“Too late!” said Jacques, laughing; “the Doctor will
find the stairs suddenly darkened if you close the door;
and then he will know you are not absent, only playing
him a trick!”
“True! true!” cried Sir Asinus in despair; “where
shall I go? I am lost!”
“The refuge of comedy-characters is left,” said Jacques—
“the closet!”
“You will betray me!”
“No, no,” sighed Jacques reproachfully; “bad as
you are, Sir Asinus——”
But the worthy knight had disappeared in the closet,
and Jacques was silent.
The cocked hat, as we have said, was succeeded by a
pair of shoulders; the shoulders now appeared joined to
a good portly body; and lastly, the well-clad legs of
worthy Doctor Small appeared; and passing along the
passage, he entered the room.
“Good morning, my young friend,” he said politely;
“a very beautiful day.”
And he sat down.
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“Exceedingly beautiful, Doctor,” said Jacques sadly;
“and I was just thinking how pleasant my ride would
be. Did you pass our friend going out?”
“No; I was anxious to see him.”
“He was in the room a few minutes since,” said
Jacques; “what a pity that you missed him.”
“I regret it; for this is, I think, the third time I have
attempted to find him. He is a wild young man—a very wild young man,” said the Doctor, shaking his
head.
“Yes, yes,” sighed Jacques, imitating the Doctor's
gesture; “I am sometimes anxious about him.”
And Jacques sighed and touched his forehead.
“Here, you know, Doctor.”
“Ah?” asked the Doctor, wiping his face with a silk
handkerchief, and leaning on his stick.
“Yes, sir; he has betrayed unmistakable evidences
of lunacy of late.”
The closet door creaked.
“It's astonishing how many rats there are in this
place,” said Jacques; “that closet seems to be their
head-quarters.”
“Indeed?” said the Doctor; “but you surprise me
by saying that Thomas has a tendency to insanity. I
thought his one of the justest and most brilliant minds
in college. Idle, yes, very idle, and procrastinating;
but still he is no common young man.”
The closet murmured: there was no ground for charging
the rats with this; so Jacques observed that “the
winds here were astonishing—they were stirring when
all else was still.”
“I did not remark it,” said the Doctor, “but this—”
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“Affair of Tom's lunacy, sir?”
The Doctor nodded with a benevolent smile, and restored
his handkerchief to the pocket of his long, heavy,
flapped coat.
“Why, sir,” said Jacques, “there is a very beautiful
young lady in the immediate vicinity of town, who has
smiled on Tom perhaps as many as three times; and
would you believe it, sir, the infatuated youth thinks she
is in love with him.”
“Ah! ah!” smiled the Doctor; “a mere youthful
folly.”
“She cares not one pinch of snuff for him,” said
Jacques, “and he believes that she is dying for him.”
The Doctor smiled again.
“Oh,” he said, shaking his head, “I fear your charge
of lunacy will not stand upon such ground as that.'
T is a trifle.”
“I do not charge him with it,” said Jacques generously;
“Heaven forbid! I always endeavor to conceal
it, and never allude to it in his presence. But I thought
it my duty. You know, sir, there are a number of
things which may be told to one's friends which should
not be alluded to in their presence.”
“Yes, yes—of this description: it would be cruel;
but you are certainly mistaken.”
“I hope so, sir; but I consider it my duty further to
inform you that I fear Tom is following evil courses.”
“Evil courses?”
“Yes, sir!”
The door creaked terribly.
“You pain me,” said the Doctor; “to what do you
Allude?”
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“Ah, sir, it is terrible!”
“How? But observe, I do not ask you to speak, sir.
If it be your pleasure, very well, and I trust what I shall
do will be for Thomas's good. But I do not invite your
information.”
“It is my duty to tell, sir; and I must speak.”
With which words Jacques paused a moment, enjoying
the dreadful suspense of the concealed gentleman,
who seemed about to verify the proverb that listeners
never hear any good of themselves. The closet groaned.
“I refer to political courses,” said Jacques, “and I
have heard Tom speak repeatedly lately of going to
Europe.”
“To Europe?”
“Yes, sir; in his yacht, armed and prepared.”
“Prepared for what?”
“That I do n't know, sir; but you may judge yourself.
It seems to me that the arms on board his yacht,
the `Rebecca,' might very well be used to murder his
most gracious Majesty George III., or the great Grenville
Townsend, or other friends of constitutional liberty.”
The Doctor absolutely laughed.
“Why, you are too suspicious,” he said, “and I cannot
believe Thomas is so bad. He has adopted many of
the new ideas, and may go great lengths; but assassination—
that is too absurd. Excuse my plain speaking,”
said the worthy Doctor, rising; “and pardon my leaving
you, my young friend. I have some calls to make, and
especially to go and see the young gentlemen who came
near fighting a duel yesterday. What a terribly wild
set of youths! Ah! they give me much trouble, and
cause me a great deal of anxiety! Well, sir, good day.
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I am sorry I did not see Thomas; please say that I
called to speak with him—he is wrong to hold out
against the authorities thus. Good day—good day!”
And the worthy Doctor, who had uttered these sentences
while he was putting on his hat and grasping his
stick, issued from the door and descended.
Jacques put on his hat and followed him—possibly
from a desire to escape the thanks and blessings of Sir
Asinus.
In vain did the noble knight charge him, sotto voce,
from the closet with perfidy and fear; Jacques was not
to be turned back. He issued forth and mounted his
horse.
Sir Asinus appeared at the window like an avenging
demon.
“Oh! you villain!” he cried, first assuring himself
that Dr. Small had disappeared; “I will revenge myself!”
“Ah?” said Jacques, settling himself in the saddle
and smiling languidly.
“Yes; you're afraid to remain.”
“No, no,” remonstrated Jacques.
“You are, sir! I challenge you to return; you have
basely maligned my character. And that duel! You
have not condescended to open your mouth upon that
great event of the day, knowing as you did, all the time,
that circumstances render it necessary that I should remain
in retirement!”
“Did n't I mention the duel?” sighed Jacques, gathering
up his reins and looking with languid interest at
the martingale.
“No.”
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“Ah, really—did I not?”
“No. Come now, Jacques! tell me how it was,”
said Sir Asinus in a coaxing tone, “and I'll forgive all;
for I'm dying of curiosity.”
“I would with pleasure,” said Jacques, “but unfortunately
I have n't time.”
“Time? You have lots!”
“No, no—she expects me, you know.”
“Who—not——?”
“Yes, Belle-bouche. Take care of yourself, my dear
knight,” said Jacques with friendly interest; “good-by.”
And touching his horse with the spurs, he went on,
pursued by the maledictions of Sir Asinus. He had
cause. Jacques had charged him with lunacy; said
he designed assassinating the King; kept from him the
very names of the combatants; and was going to see his
sweetheart!
-- --
CHAPTER XVII. CORYDON GOES A-COURTING.
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HAVE you never, friendly reader, on some bright
May morning, when the air is soft and warm, the
sky deep azure, and the whole universe filled to the
brim with that gay spirit of youth which spring infuses
into this the month of flowers, as wine is squeezed from
the ripe bunch of grapes into the goblet of Bohemian
glass, all red and blue and emerald—at such times
have you never suffered the imagination to go forth,
unfettered by reality, to find in the bright scenes which
it creates, a world more sunny, figures more attractive
than the actual universe, the real forms around you?
Have you never tried to fill your heart with dreams,
to close your vision to the present, and to bathe your
weary forehead in those golden waters flowing from the
dreamland of the past? The Spanish verses say the old
times were the best; and we may assert truly that they
are for us at least the best—for reverie.
This reverie may be languid, luxurious, and lapped in
down—enveloped in a perfume weighing down the very
senses, and obliterating by its drowsy influence every
sentiment but languid pleasure; or it may be fiery and
heroic, eloquent of war and shocks, sounding of beauteous
battle, and red banners bathed in slaughter. But
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there is something different from both of these moods—
the one languid and the other fiory.
There is the neutral ground of fancy properly so
called: a land which we enter with closed eyes and
smiling lips, a country full of fruits and flowers—fruits
of that delicious flavor of the Hesperides, sweet flowers
odorous as the breezy blossoms which adorn the mountains.
Advance into that brilliant country, and you draw
in life at every pore—a thousand merry figures come
to meet you: maidens clad in the gay costumes of the
elder time, all fluttering with ribbons, rosy cheeks and
lips!—maidens who smile, and with their taper fingers
point at those who follow them; gay shepherds, gallant in
silk stockings and embroidered doublets, carrying their
crooks wreathed round with floweres; while over all,
the sun laughs gladly, and the breezes bear away the
merry voices, sprinkling on the air the joyous music
born of lightness and gay-heartedness.
All the old manners, dead and gone with dear grandmother's
youth, are fresh again; and myriads of children
trip along on red-heeled shoes, and agitate the
large rosettes, and glittering ribbons, and bright
wreaths of flowers which deck them out like tender
heralds of the spring. And with them mingle all those
maidens holding picture-decorated fans with which they
flirt—this is the derivation of our modern word—and
the gay gallants with their never-ending compliments
and smiles. And so the pageant sweeps along with
music, joy, and laughter, to the undiscovered land,
hidden in mist, and entered by the gateway of oblivion.
You see all this in reverie, gentle reader—build your
pretty old chateau to dream in, that is; and it swarms
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with figures—graceful and grotesque as those old highbacked
carven chairs—slender and delicate as the chiselled
wave which breaks in foam against the cornice.
And then you wake, and find the flowers pressed in the
old volume called the Past, all dry—your castle only
a castle of your dreams. Poor castle made of cards,
which a child's finger fillips down, or, like the frost palace
on the window pane, faints and fails at a breath!
Your reverie is over: nothing bright can last, not
even dreams; and so your figures are all gone, your
fairy realm obliterated—nothing lives but the recollection
of a shadow!
The reader is requested to identify our melancholy
lover Jacques with the foregoing sentences; and forgive
him in consideration of his unfortunate condition.
Lovers, as every body knows, live dream-lives; and what
we have written is not an inaccurate hint of what passed
through the heart of Jacques as he went on beneath
peach and cherry blossoms to his love.
Poor Jacques was falling more deeply in love with
every passing day. That fate which seemed to deny
him incessantly an opportunity to hear Belle-bouche's
reply to his suit, had only inflamed his love. He uttered
mournful sighs, and looked with melancholy pleasure
at the thrushes who skipped nimbly through the boughs,
and did their musical wooing under the great azure canopy.
His arms hung down, his eyes were very dreamy,
his lips were wreathed into a faint wistful smile. Poor
Jacques!
As he drew near Shadynook, the sunshine seemed
growing every moment brighter, and the flowers exhaled
sweeter odors. The orchis, eglantine, and crocus
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burned in blue and shone along the braes, to use the
fine old Scottish word; and over him the blossoms
shook and showered, and made the whole air heavy
with perfume. As he approached the gate, set in the
low flowery fence, Jacques sighed and smiled. Daphnis
was near his Daphne—Strephon would soon meet
Chloe.
He tied his horse to a sublunary rack—not a thing of
fairy land and moonshine as he thought—and slowly
took his way, across the flower-enamelled lawn, towards
the old smiling mansion. Eager, longing, dreaming,
Jacques held out his arms and listened for her voice.
He heard instead an invisible voice, which he soon,
however, made out as belonging to an Ethiopian lady of
the bedchamber; and this voice said:
“Miss Becca's done gone out, sir!”
And Jacques felt suddenly as if the sunshine all
around had faded, and thick darkness followed. All the
light and joy of smiling Shadynook was gone—she was
not there!
“Where was she?”
“She and Mistiss went out for a walk, sir—down to
the quarters through the grove.”
Jacques brightened up like a fine dawn. The accident
might turn to his advantage: he might see Mrs.
Wimple safely home, then he and Belle-bouche would
prolong their walk; and then she would be compelled
to listen to him; and then—and then—Jacques had
arranged the whole in his mind by the time he had
reached the grove.
He was going along reflecting upon the hidden significance
of crooks, and flowers, and shepherdesses—for
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Jacques was a poet, and more still, a poet in love—
when a stifled laugh attracted his attention, and raising
his head, he directed his dreamy glances in the direction
of the sound.
He saw Belle-bouche!—Belle-bouche sitting under a
flowering cherry tree, upon the brink of a little stream
which, crossed by a wide single log, purled on through
sun and shadow.
Belle-bouche was clad, as usual, with elegant simplicity,
and her fair hair resembled gold in the vagrant
gleams of sunlight which stole through the boughs,
drooping their odorous blossoms over her, and scattering
the delicate rosy-snow leaves on the book she
held.
That book was a volume of Scotch songs, and against
the rough back the little hand of Belle-bouche resembled
a snow-flake.
Jacques caught his breath, and bowed and fell, so to
speak, beside her.
“You came near walking into the brook,” said Belle-bouche,
with her languishing smile; “what, pray, were
you thinking of?”
“Of you,” sighed Jacques.
The little beauty blushed.
“Oh, then your time was thrown away,” she said;
“you should not busy yourself with so idle a personage.”
“Ah!” sighed Jacques, “how can I help it?”
“What a lovely day!” said Belle-bouche, in order to
divert the conversation. “Aunt and myself thought
we'd come down to the quarters and see the sick. I
carried mammy Lucy some nice things, and aunt went
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on to see about some spinning, and I came here to
look over this book of songs, which I have just got
from London.”
“Songs?” said Jacques, with deep interest, and bending
down until his lips nearly touched the little hand;
“songs, eh?”
“Scottish songs,” laughed Belle-bouche; “and when
you came I was reading this one, which seems to be the
chronicle of a very unfortunate gentleman.”
With which words Belle-Bouche, laughing gaily,
read:
“Now Jockey was a bonny lad
As e'er was born in Scotland fair;
But now, poor man, he's e'en gone woad,
Since Jenny has gart him despair.
“Young Jockey was a piper's son,
And fell in love when he was young;
But a' the spring that he could play
Was o'er the hills and far away!”
And ending, Belle-bouche handed the book, with
a merry little glance, to Jacques, who signed profoundly
“Yes, yes!” he murmured, “I believe you are right—
true, it is about a very unfortunate shephered—all
lovers are unfortunate. These seem to be pretty songs—
very pretty.”
And he disconsolately turned over the leaves; then
stopped and began reading.
“Here is one more cheerful,” he said; “suppose I
read it, my dear Miss Belle-bouche.”
And he read:
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“'Twas when the sun had left the west,
And starnies twinkled clearie, O,
I hied to her I lo'e the best,
My blithesome, winsome dearie, O.
“Her cherry lip, her e'e sae blue,
Her dimplin' cheek sae bonnie, O,
An' 'boon them a' her heart sae true,
Hae won me mair than ony, O.”
“Pretty, is n't it?” sighed Jacques; “but here is another
verse:
“Yestreen we met beside the birk,
A-down ayont the burnie, O,
An' wan'er't till the auld gray kirk
A stap put to our journie, O.
“Ah, lassie, there it stans! quo'I——”
With which words Jacques shut the book, and threw
upon Belle-bouche a glance which made that young
lady color to the roots of her hair.
“I think we had better go,” murmured Belle-bouche,
rising; “I have to fix for the ball——”
“Not before——!”
“No, not before Tuesday, I believe,” said Belle-bouche;
“I am glad they changed it from Monday.”
Jacques drew back, sighing; but returning to the attack,
said in an expiring voice:
“What will my Flora wear—lace and flowers?”
“Who is she?” said Belle-bouche, putting on her
light chip hat and tying the ribbon beneath her dimpled
chin.
Poor Jacques was for a moment so completely absorbed
by this lovely picture, that he did not reply.
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“Who is Flora!—can you ask?” he stammered.
“Oh, yes!” said Belle-bouche, blushing; “you mean
Philippa, do you not? But I can't tell you what she
will wear. She has returned home. Let us go back
through the orchard.”
And Belle-bouche, with that exquisite grace which
characterized her, crossed the log and stood upon the
opposite bank of the brook, looking coquettishly over
her shoulder at the melancholy Jacques, who was so absorbed
in gazing after her that he had scarcely presence
of mind enough to follow.
“What a lovely day; a real lover's day!” he said,
with a sigh, when he had joined her, and they were
walking on.
“Delightful,” said Belle-bouche, smelling a violet.
“And the blossoms, you know,” observed Jacques
disconsolately.
“Delicious!”
“To say nothing of the birds,” continued Jacques,
sighing. “I believe the birds know the twentieth of
May is coming.”
“Why—what takes place upon the twentieth?” said
Belle-bouche, with a faint smile.
“That is the day for lovers, and I observed a number
of birds making love as I came along,” sighed Jacques.
“I only wish they'd teach me how.”
Belle-bouche turned away, blushing.
“On the twentieth of May,” continued Jacques, enveloping
the fascinating countenance of Belle-bouche
with his melancholy glance, “the old lovers in Arcadia—
the Strephons, Chloes, Corydons, Daphnes, and Narcissuses—
always made love and married on that day.”
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“Then,” said Belle-bouche, faintly smiling, “they did
every thing very quickly.”
“In a great hurry, eh?” said Jacques, sighing.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do not call me sir, my dearest Miss Belle-bouche—
it sounds so formal and unpoetical.”
“What then shall I call you?” laughed Belle-bouche,
with a slight tremor in her voice.
“Strephon, or Corydon, or Daphnis,” said Jacques;
“for you ar Phillis, you know.”
Belle-bouche turned the color of a peony, and said
faintly:
“I thought my name was Chloe the other day.”
“Yes,” said the ready Jacques, “but that was when
my own name was Corydon.”
“Corydon?”
“Yes, yes,” sighed Jacques, “the victim of the lovely
Chloe's beauty in the old days of Arcady.”
Belle-bouche made no reply.
“Ah!” sighed Jacques, “if you. would only make
that old tradition true—if——”
“Oh!” said Belle-bouche, looking another way, “just
listen to that mocking-bird!”
“If love far greater than the love of Corydon—devotion——”
“I could dance a reel to it,” said Belle-bouche, blushing;
“and we shall have some reels, I hope, at the ball.
Oh! I expect a great deal of pleasure.”
“And I,” said Jacques, sadly, “for I escort you.”
“Then you have not forgotten your promise?”
“Forgotten!”
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“And you really will take charge of me?” said Belle-bouche,
with a delightful expression of doubt.
“Take charge of you?” cried Jacques, overwhelmed
and drowned in love; “take charge of you! Oh Belle-bouche!
dearest Belle-bouche!—you are killing me!
Oh! let me take charge of your life—see Corydon here
at your feet, the fondest, most devoted——”
“Becca! will you never hear me?” cried the voice of
Aunt Wimple; “here I am toiling after you till I am
out of breath—for Heaven's sake, stop!”
And smiling, red in the face, panting Aunt Wimple
drew near and bowed pleasantly to Jacques, who only
groaned, and murmured:
“One more chance gone—ah!”
As for Belle-bouche, she was blushing like a rose.
She uttered not one word until they reached the house.
Then she said, turning round with a smile and a blush:
“Indeed, you must excuse me!”
Poor Jacques sighed. He saw her leave him, taking
away the light and joy of his existence. He slowly went
away; and all the way back to town he felt as if he was
not a real man on horseback, rather a dream mounted
upon a cloud, and both asleep. Poor Jacques!
-- --
CHAPTER XVIII. GOING TO ROSELAND.
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AS the unfortunate lover entered Williamsburg, his
hands hanging down, his eyes dreamy and fixed
with hostile intentness on vacancy, his shoulders drooping
and swaying from side to side like those of a drunken
man,—he saw pass before him, rattling and joyous, a
brilliant equipage, which, like a sleigh covered with
bells, seemed to leave in its wake a long jocund peal
of merriment and laughter.
In this vehicle, which mortals were then accustomed to
call, and indeed call still, a curricle, sat two young men
who were conversing; and as the melancholy Jacques
passed on his way, the younger student—for such he was—
said, laughing, to his companion:
“Look, Ernest, there is a man in love!”
Mowbray raised his head, and seeing Jacques, smiled
sadly and thoughttully; then his breast moved, and a
profound sigh issued from his lips: he made no reply.
“Why!” cried Hoffland, “you have just been guilty,
Ernest, of a ceremony which none but a woman should
perform. What a sigh!”
Mowbray turned away his head.
“I was only thinking,” he said calmly.
“Thinking of what?”
“Nothing.”
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“I see that you think one thing,” said Hoffland, with
a mischievous twinkle in his eye; “to wit, that I am
very prying.”
“No; but my thoughts would not interest you,
Charles,” said Mowbray.
And a sigh still more profound agitated his lips and
breast.
“Suppose you try me,” his companion said; “speaking
generally, your thoughts do interest me.”
“Well, I was thinking of a woman,” said Mowbray.
“A woman! Oh! then your time, in your own
opinion at least, was thrown away.”
“Worse,” said Mowbray gloomily; “worse by far.”
“How?”
“It is useless, Charles, to touch upon the subject; let
it rest.”
“No; I wish you to tell me, if I am not intrusive,
what woman you were at the moment honoring with a
sigh.”
Mowbray raised his head calmly, and yielding like all
lovers to the temptation to pour into the bosom of his
friend those troubled thoughts which oppressed his heart,
said to his companion:
“The woman we were speaking of the other day.”
“You have not told me her name,” said Hoffland.
“It is useless.”
“Why?”
“Because she is lost to me.”
“Lost?”
“For ever.”
And after this gloomy reply, Mowbray looked away.
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Hoffland placed a hand upon his arm, and said:
“Upon what grounds do you base your opinion that
she is lost to you?”
“It is not an opinion; I know it too well.”
“If you were mistaken?”
“Mistaken!” said Mowbray; “mistaken! You think
I am mistaken? Then you know nothing of what took
place at our last interview; or you did not listen rather—
for if my memory does not deceive me, I told you
all.”
“I did listen.”
“And you now doubt that she is lost to me?”
“Seriously.”
“Charles, you are either the most inexperienced or
the most desperately hopeful character that has ever
been created.”
“I am neither,” said Hoffland smiling. “I am rational,
and I know what I say.”
Mowbray suppressed an impatient gesture, and said:
“Did I not tell you that she made me the butt for her
wit and sarcasm——”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes; and more! She scoffed at me, as a mere fortune-hunter,
and gave me the most ironical advice——”
“You are convinced it was ironical?”
“Convinced? Have I eyes—have I ears? Truly, if
I had failed to be convinced, I should have verified the
scriptural saying of those who have eyes and see not—
who have ears and do not hear.”
“Are the eyes always true?” said Hoffland, smiling.
“No: you have not succeeded, nevertheless, in showing
me that I saw wrong.”
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“Are the ears invariably just?”
“For Heaven's sake, cease worrying me with general
propositions!” said Mowbray.
Then, seeing that his companion was hurt by his irritated
tone, he added:
“Forgive me, Charles! I lose my equanimity upon
this subject; let us dismiss it.”
“Very well,” said Hoffland, smiling mischievously;
“but remember what I now say, Ernest, and remember
well. The eyes are deceptive—the ears worse than deceptive.
You truly have eyes and see not, ears and hear
not! I think it highly probable that your lady-love,
who is an excellent-hearted girl, I am convinced, intended
merely to apply a last test; and if you have
bounded like an impulsive horse under the spur, and
tossed from her, the blame does not rest with her. And
remember this too, Ernest,” Hoffland went on sadly; for
one of the strange peculiarities of this young man was
his habit of abrupt transition from merriment to sadness,
from smiles to sighs; “remember, Ernest, that your determination
to see her no more has probably inflicted on
this young girl's heart a cruel pang: you cannot know
that she is not now shedding bitter tears at the result of
her trial of your feelings! Oh! remember that it is not
the poor and afflicted only who weep—it is the rich and
joyous also; and the hottest tears are often shed by the
eyes which seem made to dispense smiles alone!”
Mowbray listened to the earnest voice in silence. A
long pause followed, neither looking at the other; then
Mowbray said:
“You deceive yourself, Charles, if you imagine that
this beautiful and wealthy young girl spends a second
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thought upon myself. I was to her only a passing
shadow—another name to add to her long list of captives.
Well! I gave her the sincere love of an honest
heart, such a love as no woman has the right to spurn.
She did spurn it. Well! I am not a child to sob and
moan, and go and beg her on my knees to love me—no!
I love her more than ever, Charles; all my boasting was
mere boasting and untrue—I love her still—but that
love she shall never know! I will shut it up in my
heart, and it shall not issue forth but with my life. I
love her! but I will never place myself in the dust before
a woman who has scorned me. Silence and selfcontrol
I have, and these will sustain me.”
“Oh, Ernest! Ernest!”
“You seem strangely moved by my words,” said
Mowbray; “but you should not fancy my love so fatal.
It is a delirium at times, but Heaven be thanked, it cannot
drive me mad. Now let us stop speaking of these
things. When I think of that young girl, all my calmness
leaves me. Oh, she was so frank and true a soul, I
thought!—so sincere and bold!—so lovely, and with such
a strength of heart! I was deceived. Well, well—it
seems to be the fate of men, to find the ideal of their
hearts unworthy. Let us speak of it no further.”
And suppressing his emotion by a violent effort, Mowbray
added in a voice perfectly calm and collected:
“There is our cottage, Charles—Roseland; and I see
Lucy waiting for us under the roses on the porch—she
always looks for me, I believe.”
-- --
CHAPTER XIX. HOFFLAND EXERTS HIMSELF TO AMUSE THE COMPANY.
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LUCY was a young girl of nineteen or twenty, with
the brightest face, the most sparkling eyes, and the
merriest voice which ever adorned woman entering her
prime. Her laughter was contagious, and the listener
must perforce laugh in unison. Her face drove away
gloom, as the sun does; her smile was pure merriment,
routing all cares; and Mowbray's sad countenance became
again serene, his lips smiled.
Lucy bowed demurely to the boy, who held out his
hand laughing.
“Oh! Ernest and myself are sworn friends,” he said;
“and the fact is, Miss Lucy, I had serious doubts whether
I should not kiss you—I love you so much—for
Ernest's sake!”
And Hoffland pursed up his lips, prepared for all
things.
Lucy was so completely overcome by laughter at this
extraordinary speech, that for a moment she remained
perfectly silent, shaking with merriment.
Hoffland conceived the design to take advantage of
this astonishment, and modestly “held up his mouth,”
as children say. The consequence was that Miss Lucy
extricated her hand from his grasp, and drew back with
some hauteur; whereupon Hoffland assumed an expression
of such mortification and childlike dissatisfaction,
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that Mowbray, who had witnessed this strange scene,
could not suppress a smile.
“I might as well tell you frankly at once, Lucy,” he
said, “that Charles is the oddest person, and I think the
most perfect boy, at times, I have ever known.”
“I a boy!” cried Hoffland; “I am no such thing!—
am I, Lucy—Miss Lucy, I mean, of course? I am not so
young as all that, and I see nothing so strange in wanting
a kiss. But I won't misbehave any more; come
now, see!”
And drawing himself up with a delightful expression
of dignified courtesy, Hoffland said, solemnly offering
his arm to Lucy:
“Shall I have the honor, Miss Mowbray, of escorting
you into the garden for the purpose of gathering some
roses to deck your queenly brow?”
Lucy would have refused; but overcome with laughter,
and unable to resist the ludicrous solemnity of Hoffland's
voice and manner, she placed her finger on his
arm, and they walked into the garden.
Roseland was a delightful little cottage, full of flowers,
and redolent of spring. It fronted south, and seemed to
be the favorite of the sun, which shone through its vine-embowered
windows and lit up its drooping eaves, as it
nowhere else did.
A little passage led quite through the house, and by
this passage Hoffland and his fair companion entered
the garden.
Mowbray sat down and examined some papers which
he took from his pocket; then trained a flowering
vine from the window-sill to a nail in the wall without,
for he was very fond of flowers; then, bethinking
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himself that Hoffland was his guest, turned to go into the
garden.
As he did so, he caught sight of a horseman approaching
the cottage; and soon this horseman drew near
enough to be recognised. It was Mr. John Denis, whose
admiration for Miss Lucy Mowbray our readers have
possibly divined from former pages of this true history.
Mr. Denis dismounted and entered the grounds of the
cottage, sending before him a friendly smile. Denis was
one of those honest, worthy fellows, who are as singleminded
as children, and in whose eyes all men and
things are just what they seem: hypocrisy he could
never understand, and it was almost as difficult for the
worthy young man to comprehend irony. We have seen
an exemplification of this in his affair with Hoffland; and
if our narrative permitted it, we might, by following
him through his after life, find many more instances of
the same singleness of heart and understanding.
Denis was very tastefully dressed, and his face was, as
we have said, full of smiles. He held out his hand to
Mowbray with honest warmth, and they entered the
cottage.
The reader may imagine that Denis inquired as to the
whereabouts of Miss Lucy—his wandering glances not
having fallen upon that young lady. Not at all. For
did ever lover introduce the subject of his lady-love?
When we are young, and in love, do we go to visit Dulcinea
or her brother Tom? Is not that agreeable young
gentleman the sole attraction which draws us; do we
not ride a dozen miles for his sake, and has Dulcinea any
thing to do with the rapturous delight we experience in
dreaming of the month we shall spend with Tom in
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August? Of course not; and Denis did not allude in
the remotest manner to Lucy. On the contrary, he became
the actor which love makes of the truest men, and
said, with careless ease:
“A lovely evening for a ride.”
“Yes,” said Mowbray, driving away his sad thoughts;
“why did n't you come with us, Jack?”
“With you?”
“Myself and Hoffland.”
“Hoffland!”
“Yes; what surprises you?”
“Is Hoffland here?'
Mowbray nodded.
Denis looked round; and then his puzzled glance returned
to the face of his friend.
“I do not see him,” he said.
“He went into the garden just now,” explained Mowbray.
Denis would have given thousands to be able to say,
“Where is Lucy?” It was utterly impossible, however.
Instead of doing so, he asked:
“You came in a buggy?”
“Yes,” said Mowbray.
“Is Hoffland agreeable—I mean a pleasant fellow?”
“I think so: rather given to jesting—and I suppose
this was the origin of your unhappy difficulty. Most
quarrels spring from jests.”
“True. I believe he was jesting; in fact I know it,”
said poor Jack Denis, wiping his brow and trying to
plunge his glance into the depths of the garden, where
Lucy and Hoffland were no doubt walking. “Still,
Ernest, I could not have acted differently; and you
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would be the first person to agree with me, were I to tell
you the subject of his jests.”
And Denis frowned.
“What was it?” said Mowbray. “Hoffland refused
point-blank to tell me, and I am perfectly ignorant of
the whole affair.”
Denis hesitated. Was it fair and honest to prejudice
Mowbray against the boy? but on the contrary, was not
the whole affair now explained as a simple jest, and
would there be harm in telling what the young student
had said to provoke him? The young man hesitated,
and said:
“I do n't know—it was a mere jest; there is no use in
opening the subject again——”
“Ah, Jack!” said Mowbray, “I see that I am to live
and die in ignorance, for I repeat that Hoffland would
not tell me. With all the carelessness of a child, he
seems to possess the reserve of a politician or a woman.”
“A strange character, is he not?” said Denis.
“Yes; and yet he has won upon me powerfully.”
“Your acquaintance is very short,” said poor Denis,
his heart sinking at the thought of having so handsome
and graceful a rival as the boy.
“Very,” returned Mowbray; “but he positively took
me by storm.”
“And you like him?”
“To be sincere—exceedingly.”
“Why?” muttered Denis.
“Really, I can scarcely say,” replied his friend; “but
he is a mere boy; seems to be wholly without friends;
and he has virtually yielded to me the guidance of all
his affairs. This may seem an absurd reason for liking
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Hoffland; but that is just my weak side, Jack. When
any one comes to me and says, `I am weak and inexperienced,
you are in a position to aid and assist me; be
my friend;' how can I refuse?”
“And Hoffland——”
“Has done so? Yes.”
“Humph!”
“Besides this, he is a mere boy; and to speak frankly,
is so affectionate and winning in his demeanor toward
me, that I really have not the courage to repel his advances.
Strange young man! at times I know not what
to think of him. He is alternately a child, a woman,
and a matured man in character; but most often a
child.”
“Indeed?” said Denis, whose heart sunk at every
additional word uttered by Mowbray; “how then did
he display such willingness to fight—and I will add,
such careless bravado?”
“Because fighting was a mere word to him,” said
Mowbray; “I believe that he no more realized the fact
that you would direct the muzzle of a pistol toward his
breast, than that you would stab or poison him.”
Denis wiped his brow.
“I did n't want to fight,” he said; “but I was obliged
to do something.”
“Was the provocation gross?”
“Yes.”
“Pardon my question. I did not mean to return to
the subject, inasmuch as some reason for withholding the
particulars of the interview seems to exist in your
mind.”
Denis hesitated and muttered something to himself;
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then, raising his head suddenly, he added with some
bitterness:
“Perhaps you may have your curiosity satisfied from
another source, Ernest. I see Mr. Hoffland approaching
the house with Miss Lucy—from the garden, there. No
doubt he will tell you.”
In fact, Miss Lucy and Hoffland were sauntering in
from the garden in high glee. Lucy from time to time
burst into loud and merry laughter, clapping her hands,
and expressing great delight at something which Hoffland
was communicating; and Hoffland was bending
down familiarly and whispering in her ear.
No sooner, however, had the promenaders caught
sight of Mowbray and Denis looking at them, than their
manner suddenly changed. Hoffland drew back, and
raising his head with great dignity, solemnly offered his
arm to the young girl; and Lucy, choking down her
merriment and puckering up her lips to hide her laughter,
placed her little finger on the sleeve of her cavalier.
And so they approached the inmates of the cottage, with
quiet and graceful dignity, like noble lord and lady;
and entering, bowed ceremoniously, and sat down with
badly smothered laughter.
“Really,” said Mowbray smiling, “you will permit
me to say, Charles, that you have a rare genius for making
acquaintance suddenly: Lucy and yourself seem to
be excellent friends already.”
And he looked kindly at the boy, who smiled.
“Friends?” said Hoffland; “we are cousins!”
“Cousins? Indeed!”
“Certainly, my dear fellow,” said Hoffland, with a
delightful ease and bonhomie. “I have discovered
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that my great-grandmother married the cousin of an
uncle of cousin Lucy's great-grandfather's wife's aunt;
and moreover, that this aunt was the niece of my greatuncle's
first wife's husband. That makes it perfectly
plain—do n't it, Mr. Denis? Take care how you differ
with me: cousin Lucy understands it perfectly, and she
has a very clear head.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lucy, laughing; “a great
compliment.”
“Not at all,” said Hoffland; “some women have a
great deal of sense—or at least a good deal.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Yes; but it is not their failing generally. I have
taken up that impression of you, cousin Lucy, from our
general conversation; not from your ability to comprehend
so simple a genealogical table as that of our relationship.”
“Upon my word, I do n't understand it,” said Mowbray,
smiling.
“Is it possible, Ernest? Listen again, then. My great-grandfather—
recollect him, now—married the uncle of
a cousin—observe, the uncle of a cousin——”
“What! your great-grandfather married the uncle of
somebody's cousin? Is it possible?”
“Now you are laughing at me,” said Hoffland, pouting;
“what if I did get it a little wrong? I meant that
my great-grandmother married the uncle of a cousin of
cousin Lucy's wife's great-grandfather's aunt—who——”
“Lucy's wife is then involved, is she, Charles?” asked
Mowbray; “but go on.”
“No, I won't!” said Hoffland; “you are just trying
to confuse and embarrass me. I will not tell you any
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more: but cousin Lucy understands; do n't you, Miss
Lucy?”
“Quite enough to understand that we occupy a closer
relationship than we seem to,” said Lucy, threatening to
burst into laughter.
Hoffland gave her a warning glance; and then assuming
a polite and graceful smile, asked:
“Pray, what were you and Mr. Denis talking of, my
dear Ernest? Come, tell a fellow!”
Lucy turned away and covered her face, which was
crimson with laughter.
“We were speaking of the quarrel which we were unfortunate
enough to have, sir,” said poor Denis coldly;
“and I referred Mr. Mowbray to you for an account of
it.”
“To me?” said Hoffland smiling; “why not tell him
yourself?”
“I did not fancy it, sir.”
“Why, in the world?”
“Come! come!” said Mowbray smiling, and wishing
to nip the new altercation in the bud; “do n't let us
talk any more about it. It is all ended now, and I do n't
care to know——”
“Why, there's nothing to conceal,” said Hoffland,
laughing.
Denis colored.
“I'll tell you in an instant,” laughed the boy.
Lucy turned toward him; and Denis looked out of
the window.
“We were talking of women first,” continued Hoffland;
“a subject, cousin Lucy, which we men discuss
much oftener than you ladies imagine——”
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“Indeed!” said Lucy, nearly choking with laughter.
“Yes,” continued the boy; “and after agreeing
that Miss Theorem the mathematician was charming;
Miss Quartz the geologist lovely; that Miss Affectation
was very piquante, and Mrs. Youngwidow exceedingly
fine-looking in her mourning; after having amicably
interchanged our ideas on these topics, we came to discuss
the celebrated lunar theory.”
“What is that?” asked Lucy.
“Simply the question, what the moon is made of.”
“Indeed?”
“Certainly. Mr. Denis took the common and erroneous
view familiar to scientific men; I, on the contrary,
supported the green-cheese view of the question; and
this was the real cause of our quarrel. I am sure Mr.
Denis and myself are the most excellent friends now,”
said Hoffland, turning with a smile towards Denis;
“and we will never quarrel any more.”
A pause of some moments followed this ridiculous explanation;
and this pause was first broken by Miss Lucy,
who burst into the most unladylike laughter, and indeed
shook from head to foot in the excess of her mirth.
Mowbray looked with an amazed and puzzled air at
Hoffland, and Denis did not know what to say or how to
look.
Lucy, after laughing uninterruptedly for nearly five
minutes, suddenly remembered the indecorum of this
strange exhibition; so, drying her eyes, and assuming a
demure and business-like air, she took a small basket of
keys, and apologizing for her departure, went to attend
to supper. Before leaving the room, however, she gladdened
honest Jack Denis's heart with a sweet smile, and
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this smile was so perfect a balm to the wounded feelings
of the worthy fellow, that his discontent and ill-humor
disappeared completely, and he was almost ready to give
his hand to his rival, Hoffland. The same arrow had
mortally wounded Jacques and Denis.
-- --
CHAPTER XX. AT ROSELAND, IN THE EVENING.
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SEATED on the vine-embowered porch of the cottage,
with the pleasant airs of evening blowing from the
flowers their rich fragrant perfume, the inmates of Roseland
and their guests passed the time in very pleasant
eonverse.
From time to time Hoffland and Miss Lucy exchanged
confidential smiles, and on these occasions Mr. Jack
Denis, whose love-sharpened eyes lost nothing, felt very
unhappy. Indeed, throughout the whole evening this
gentleman displayed none of that alacrity of spirit which
usually characterized him; his whole manner, conversation,
and demeanor betraying unmistakable indications
of jealous dissatisfaction.
Lucy had always been very kind and gentle to him
before; and though her manner had not changed toward
him, still her evident preference for the society and conversation
of the student Hoffland caused him a bitter
pang. Denis sincerely loved the bright-faced young girl,
and no one who has not loved can comprehend the sinking
of the heart which preference for another occasions.
The last refinement of earthly torture is assuredly
jealousy—and Denis was beginning to suffer this torture.
More than once Lucy seemed to feel that she was
causing her lover pain; and then she would turn away
from Hoffland and gladden poor Denis with one of her
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brilliant smiles, and with some indifferent word, nothing
in itself, but full of meaning from its tone. Then Hoffland
would laugh quietly to himself, and touching the
young girl's arm, call her attention to some beauty in
the waning sunset, some quiet grace of the landscape;
and Denis would sink again into gloom, and look at
Hoffland's handsome face and sigh.
Mowbray was reading in the little sitting-room, and
from time to time interchanged words with the party
through the window. Perhaps studying would be the
proper word; for it was a profound work upon politics
which Ernest Mowbray, with his vigorous and acute intellect,
was running through—grasping its strong points,
and throwing aside its fallacies. He needed occupation
of mind; in study alone could he escape from the crowding
thoughts which steeped his brow in its habitual
shadow of melancholy. He had lost a great hope, as he
had told Hoffland; and a man does not see the woman
whom he loves devotedly pass from him for ever without
a pang. He may be able to conceal his suffering, but
thenceforth he cannot be gay; human nature can only
control the heart to a certain point; we may be calm,
but the sunshine is all gone.
Thus the hours passed, with merry laughter from Hoffland
and Lucy, and very forced smiles on the part of
Denis. Mowbray observed his silence, and closing the
volume he was reading, came out and joined the talkers.
“What now?” he said, with his calm courtesy. “Ah,
you are speaking of the ball, Lucy?”
“Yes, Ernest; and you know you promised to take me.”
“Did you?” asked Hoffland; “I am afraid this is only
a ruse on cousin Lucy's part to get rid of me.”
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“Are you not ashamed, sir, to charge me with untruth?”
said Lucy, nearly bursting into laughter.
“Untruth!” cried Hoffland; “did any body ever!
Why, 't is the commonest thing in the world with your
charming sex, Miss Lucy, to indulge in these little ruses.
There must be a real and a conventional code of morals;
and I hope you do n't pretend to say, that if a lady sends
word that she is gone out when a visitor calls, she is
guilty of deception?”
“I think she is,” said Lucy.
“Extraordinary doctrine!” cried Hoffland; “and so
Ernest has really engaged to go with you?”
“Yes, sir; it was my excuse to Mr. Denis, who very
kindly offered to be my escort.”
And Lucy gave Jack Denis a little smile which elevated
that gentleman into upper air.
“Well,” said Hoffland, “I suppose then I am to go
and find somebody else—a forlorn young man going to
find a lady to take care of him. Come, Miss Lucy, cannot
you recommend some one?”
“Let me see,” said Lucy, laughing gleefully; “what
acquaintances have you?”
“Very few; and I would not escort any of those simpering
little damsels usually seen at assemblies.”
“What description of damsel do you prefer?” asked
Lucy, smiling.
“A fine, spirited, amusing young lady like yourself,”
said Hoffland; “the merrier and more ridiculous the
better.”
“Ridiculous, indeed! Well, sir,” said Lucy mischievously,
“I think I have found the very one to suit
you.”
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“Who is it, pray?”
“Miss Philippa——”
“Stop!” cried Hoffland. “I never could bear that
name. I am determined never to court, marry, or
even escort a Philippa. Dreadful name! And I
hope you won't mention this Miss Philippa Somebody
again!”
With which words Hoffland laughed.
“Very well,” said Lucy; “suppose you come and
amuse me at the ball—going thither alone?”
“Oh! myself and Mr. Denis will certainly pay our
respects to you, Miss Lucy. But do not expect me until
about twelve.”
Lucy smiled, and said:
“Do you think the ball will be handsome, Ernest?”
“I think so.”
“Well, now, I am going to enslave all hearts. I shall
wear my pink satin.”
“Ah!” laughed Mowbray; “that is very interesting
to myself and these gentlemen.”
“Well, sir,” said Lucy, pretending to be angry, “just
as you please; but you are a very unfeeling brother.
Is n't he, Mr. Hoffland?”
“A most unreasonable person, and a disgrace to our
sex,” said Hoffland. “To tell a young lady that the
manner in which she proposes appearing at a ball is uninteresting,
sounds like Ernest.”
Mowbray smiled; the pleasant banter of the boy
pleased him, and diverted his thoughts.
“But Ernest is not such a perfect ogre, Mr. Hoffland,”
said Lucy; “are you, Ernest? He is very kind, and is
going to spend all day to-morrow with me.”
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Mowbray shook his head.
“Now, brother!” said Lucy; “you know you can.”
Mowbray hesitated.
“Won't you?”
“Well, yes, Lucy,” said Mowbray, smiling; “I can
refuse you nothing.”
“Good!” cried Hoffland, with the sonorous voice of a
man-at-arms: “when ladies once determine to have
their won way, it is nearly impossible to stope them; is it
not, Mr. Denis?”
“I will answer for Mr. Denis, and repel your assault,
sir,” said Lucy, smiling; “I think that there is nothing
very wrong in what I ask, and why then should I not
have my way?”
“Excellent!” cried Hoffland, with a well-satisfied expression,
and a glance of intelligence directed toward
Lucy. “I believe that we men may study all our
lives and break our heads with logic before we can
approach the acuteness of one of these ladies. Study
is nothing compared with natural instinct and genius!”
Denis rose with a sigh.
“You remind me, Mr. Hoffland,” he said, “that I
have a long chapter in Blackstone to study; and it is
already late.”
“And I also have my studies,” said Hoffland; “I
think I will return with you, Mr. Denis.”
“You came to stay, Charles! You shall both stay,”
said Mowbray, “and I will give you Blackstone's—”
“No, really, Ernest,” said Hoffland, with a business
air which made Lucy laugh.
“And indeed I must return,” said Denis, sighing.
“Ah, gentlemen, gentlemen!” said Mowbray, “you
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pay a fashionable call. Why, Charles, you absolutely
promised to stay.”
“Yes, but I have changed my mind,” said the boy,
looking toward Lucy; “and if Mr. Denis will ride with
me in your curricle, or whatever it is, you might ride
his horse in, in the morning.”
“Very well,” said Mowbray.
“Willingly,” said Denis.
“Then it is all arranged; and I return. Do n't press
me, Ernest, my good fellow. When duty calls, every
man must be at his post. I can't stay.”
And Hoffland laughed.
In fifteen minutes the vehicle was brought round, and
the two young men rose.
Denis bowed with some constraint to Lucy; but she
would not see this expression, and holding out her hand
bade him good-bye with a smile which lighted his path
all the way back to town.
Hoffland shook hands with Lucy too; and a laughing
glance of free masonry passed between them.
Then, entering the vehicle, the two young men set
forth toward Williamsburg, over which a beautiful moon
was rising like a crimson cart-wheel. Ernest Mowbray
stood for a moment on the porch of the cottage following
the receding vehicle with his eyes. At last it disappeared—
the sound of the wheels was no longer heard,
and Mowbray entered the cottage.
“Strange!” he murmured, “that memory still haunts
me. What folly!”
And pressing his lips to Lucy's forehead, he retired
to his study.
-- --
CHAPTER XXI. DISGRACEFUL CONDUCT OF SIR ASINUS.
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MOWBRAY was an early riser; and the morning
had not long looked upon the fresh fields, when he
was on his way to Williamsburg. With a hopeful
spirit, which banished peremptorily all those gloomy
thoughts which were accustomed to harass him, he
pressed on to commence his day of toil at the college.
As he entered Williamsburg, he came very near
being overturned by a gentleman who was leaving that
metropolitan city, at full gallop.
“Hey!” cried this gentleman, reining up; “why, good
day, Mowbray!”
And Sir Asinus made a bow of grotesque respect.
“Whither away, my dear fellow—to that den of iniquity,
the grammar school, eh?”
“Yes,” said Mowbray, smiling; “and you?”
“I go to other fields and pastures new—to those Hesperian
gardens famed of old, and so forth. Come with
me!”
“No, thank you. I suppose you are going to see a
lady?”
“Precisely; and now do you still refuse?”
“Yes.”
“You are an ungallant book-worm, a misogynist—
and that is the next thing to a conspirator. Leave your
books, and come and taste of sylvan joys.”
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“Where are you going?”
“To see Dulcinea.”
“Who is she?”
“Her other name is Amaryllis.”
“Well, sing to her,” said Mowbray; “for my part, I
am going to visit Plato, Justinian, Blackstone, whose
lectures are better than Virgil's heroics, and Coke, who
is more learned, if not more agreeable, than any Hesperians.
Farewell.”
And Mowbray saluted Sir Asinus with a smile, and
rode on. The knight returned his salute, and continued
his way in the opposite direction.
Now, as our history concerns itself rather with Amaryllis
than Plato or Coke, we shall permit Mowbray to
go on, and retracing our steps, follow Sir Asinus to his
destination.
Sir Asinus on this morning is magnificent, and finds
the air very pleasant after his long imprisonment. He
inhales it joyously, and in thought, nay, often in words,
invokes confusion on the heads of proctors. He is in
full enjoyment of those three great rights for which he
has sacrificed so much—namely, life, liberty, and the
pursuit of happiness.
He is joyous, for he has stolen a march upon the
watchful guardians of the college; he revels in the sentiment
of freedom; and believes himself in pursuit of
that will o' the wisp called happiness.
He sings, as he goes onward on his hard-trotting
courser, the words of that song which we have heard him
sing before:
“Hez! sire asne! car chantez
Belle bouche rechignez;”
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and is not mortified when a donkey in the neighboring
meadow brays responsively.
He bends his steps toward Shadynook, where he arrives
as the matutinal meal is smoking on the board;
and this Sir Asinus partakes of with noble simplicity.
One would have imagined himself in presence of Socrates
dining upon herbs, instead of Sir Asinus comforting
his inner man with ham and muffins.
After breakfast, Aunt Wimple, that excellent old lady
whose life was completely filled by a round of domestic
duties, banished her visitor to the sitting-room. To
make his exile more tolerable, however, she gave him
Belle-bouche for a companion.
Belle-bouche had never looked more beautiful, and
the tender simplicity of her languishing eyes almost
made the poetical Sir Asinus imagine himself in love.
He found himself endeavoring to recollect whether he
had not been induced to pay this visit by the expectation
of beholding her; but with that rigid truth which ever
characterized the operations of his great intellect, was
compelled to come to the conclusion that the motive
causes of his visit were the hope of a good breakfast,
and a morning lounge in country quarters, unalarmed
by the apprehension of invading deans and proctors.
In a word, our friend Sir Asinus had coveted a cool
morning at pleasant Shadynook, in company with Belle-bouche
or a novel; and this had spurred him to such
extraordinary haste, not to mention the early rising.
“Ah!” said Belle-bouche, as she sat down upon a sofa
in the cool pleasant apartment, whose open windows
permitted the odors of a thousand flowers to weigh the
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air down with their fragrance, “what a lovely morning!
It is almost wrong to remain in the house.”
“Let us go forth then, my dear Madam Belle-bouche,”
said Sir Asinus.
“I see you retain that funny name for me,” said the
young girl with a smile.
“Yes: it is beautiful, as all about Shadynook is—the
garden most of all—yourself excepted of course, madam.”
“It was very adroitly done, that turn of the sentence,”
Belle-bouche replied, smiling again pleasantly. “Let us
go into the garden, as you admire it so much.”
And she rose.
Sir Asinus hastened to offer his arm, and they entered
the beautiful garden, alive with flowers.
Sir Asinus uttered a number of beautiful sentiments
on the subject of flowers and foliage, which we regret
our inability to report. After spending an hour or more
among the trees, they returned to the house.
Just as they entered, a gentleman was visible at the
gate—evidently a visitor. This gentleman had dismounted,
and as he stood behind his horse arranging the martingale,
he was for the moment unrecognisable.
“Will you permit me to remain in the garden, my
dear Miss Belle-bouche, until your visitor has departed?”
said Sir Asinus. “I find myself suddenly smitten with a
love of nature—and I would trouble you not to mention
the fact of my presence. It will be useless.”
“Certainly I will not, sir,” said Belle-bouche.
And Sir Asinus, seeing the gentleman move, precipitately
entered the garden, where he ignominiously concealed
himself—having snatched up a volume of poems
to console him in his retirement.
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The visitor was Jacques.
He entered with his soft melancholy smile, and approaching
Belle-bouche, pressed her hand to his lips.
“I am glad to see you so bright,” he said; “but you
always look blooming.”
And he sat down and gazed around sadly.
Perhaps Jacques had never before so closely resembled
a tulip. His coat was red, his waistcoat scarlet,
his lace yellow, his stockings white; his shoes, lastly,
were adorned with huge rosettes, and his wig was a perfect
snow-storm of powder.
Belle-bouche casts down her eyes, and a roseate bloom
diffuses itself over her tender cheek. Jacques arrays his
forces, and gracefully smooths his Mechlin lace cravat.
Outwardly he is calm.
Belle-bouche raises her eyes, and gently flirts her fan,
covered with shepherds and shepherdesses in silks and
satins, who tend imaginary sheep by sky-blue waters,
against deeply emerald trees.
Jacques sighs, remembering his discourse on crooks,
and Belle-bouche smiles. He gathers courage then, and
says:
“I think I have never seen a more beautiful morning.”
“Yes,” says Belle-bouche in her soft tender voice, “I
have been out to take my customary walk before breakfast.”
“An excellent habit. The fields are the true abodes
of the Graces and Muses; all is so fresh.”
Belle-bouche smiles at this graceful and classic compliment;
but strange to say, does not feel disposed to
criticise it. Jacques has never seemed to her so
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intellectual a man, so true a gentleman as at this moment.
The reason is that Belle-bouche has caught a portion of
her visitor's disease—a paraphrase which we are compelled
to make use of, from the well-known fact that
damsels are never what is vulgarly called “in love,”
until the momentous question has been asked; after
which, as well all know, this sentiment floods their tender
hearts with a sudden rush, as of unloosed waters.
Jacques sees the impression he has made, and in his
secret heart is flushed with anticipated conquest. He
smooths his frill, and gently arranges a drop curl.
“Love, I think, should inhabit the green fields,” he
says with melanoholy grace; “for love, dearest Miss
Bell-bouche, is the essence of freshness and delight.”
“The—fields?” says Belle-bouche, thoughtfully gazing
upon her fan.
“Yes; and the shepherd's life is certainly the happiest.
Ah! to love and be loved under the skies—in Arcady!
But Arcady is everywhere when the true heart is near.
To love and be loved!” says Jacques with a sad sigh;
“to know there is one near you whose whole heart is
yours—whose bosom would willingly support the weary
head; to have a heart to bring all your sorrows to; to
feel that the sky was brighter, and all the stars more
friendly and serene, if she were by you; to love and
love, and never change, and live a life of happy dreams,
however active it might be, when the dear image swept
across the horizon! To give the heart and mind out in
a sigh, and seal the vow of faith and truth upon loving
lips! In a word—one word speaks it all—to love! Yes,
yes! to love! To feel the horizon expand around you
till it seems to embrace every thing; to love innocently,
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purely, under the holy heavens; to love till the dying
hour, and then, clasped in a pure embrace, to go away
together to another world!—Only to love!”
And Jacques raises his eyes to the blushing face of
Belle-bouche.
“Is it not fair to think of?” he says sadly.
She tries to smile, and can only murmur, “Yes.”
“I fear it is but a dream,” says Jacques.
She does not reply: she wishes a moment to collect
her thoughts and regain her ealmness.
“A dream,” he continues, “which many poor fellows
dream, and live in, and make a reality of—alas! never
to be realized.”
“Perhaps the world has changed since the old Arcadian
days,” murmurs Belle-bouche, gazing down with
rosy cheeks, and a bad attempt at ease. “You know the
earth has become different.”
“Yes, yes,” sighs Jacques; “I very much fear all this
is folly.”
“Who knows but—”
She pauses.
Jacques raises his eyes, and their glances meet. She
stops abruptly, and looks away. It is not affectation in
her. That deep blush is wholly irrepressible.
Jacques seizes her hand, and says:
“Give me the assurance that such things can be!
Tell me that this dream could be realized!”
She turns away.
“Tell me!” he continues, bending toward her, “tell
me, if I were to love any one thus—say it were yourself—
tell me, beautiful Belle-bouche! could I hope—”
“Oh, sir! I cannot now—”
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“Belle-bouche! dearest Belle-bouche!—my picture
was a reality—I love as I have painted—and upon my
knees—”
“—car chantez,
Belle bouche rechignez,”
sang the voice of Sir Asinus, entering from the garden;
and our unfortunate friend Jacques had just time to
drop Belle-bouche's hand, when sir Asinus entered.
“You're a pretty fellow!” said that worthy, “to
frighten me, and make me believe you were the—Well;
let us keep up appearances before the ladies. How goes
it, my dear Jacques?”
Jacques does not answer; he feels an unchristian
desire to exterminate his friend Sir Asinus from the
face of the earth—to blot that gentleman forcibly from
the sum of things.
Actuated by these friendly feelings, he gives the knight
a look which nearly takes his breath away.
“Why, what is the matter?” says Sir Asinus.
Jacques sees the false position which he occupies, and
groans.
“Why, dear Jacques, you distress me,” says Sir Asinus
with great warmth; “did I tread upon your toes?”
Jacques might very justly reply in the affirmative, but
he only turns away muttering disconsolately, “One more
chance!”
“I thought you were the proctor,” says Sir Asinus
pleasantly.
“Did you? I am going back soon, and will send him,”
replies Jacques with sad courtesy.
“No! do n't trouble yourself!” cries Sir Asinus; “it
is not necessary.”
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“It is no trouble,” says Jacques; “but as you are
probably about to return to town yourself, I will not
send him.”
“To town? Indeed, I am about to do no such thing.
It is not every day that one gets a taste of the country.”
“You stay?”
“Yes.”
Jacques groans, and imprecates—sleep to descend
upon his friend.
He sits down wofully. Sir Asinus scenting the joke,
and determined to revenge himself, does the same joyfully.
Jacques sighs, Sir Asinus laughs. Jacques directs
an Olympian frown at his opponent, but Sir Asinus
answers it with smiles.
Belle-bouche all this time has been endeavoring to
produce the impression that she is looking over a book
of engravings—being interested in Heidelberg, and fascinated
with the Alhambra. From time to time her
timid glance steals toward Jacques, who is sighing, or
toward Sir Asinus, who is laughing.
Sir Asinus glories in his revenge. Jacques refused to
tell him the news, and maligned his character to the
Doctor, and forced him to listen in silence to that abuse.
He takes his promised revenge—for he understands very
well what he interrupted.
Jacques stays all the morning, hoping that Sir Asinus
will depart; but that gentleman betrays no intention
of vacating the premises. Finally, in a paroxysm
of internal rage, and a perfect outward calmness, the
graceful Jacques retires—with a last look for Belle-bouche.
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One thought consoles him. He will escort her to the
ball, and on his return in his two-seated curriculum defy
the interruption of all the Asinuses that ever lived.
Poor Jacques! as he goes sadly back, the cloud riding
upon the dream is more asleep than ever.
-- --
CHAPTER XXII. HOW HOFFLAND PREFERRED A GLOVE TO A DOZEN PISTOLES.
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ONE of the most beautiful walks in the neighborhood
of Williamsburg was known to the fair dames and
gallant cavaliers of that epoch as the “Indian Camp.”
To this spot, on the morning of the day fixed for the
ball at the Raleigh, did Mowbray and the young student
Hoffland direct their steps, conversing pleasantly, and
glad of the occasion to enjoy the fresh beauties of nature,
which presented so agreeable a contrast to the domains
of study at the good College of William and Mary. Let
it not, however, be imagined that the boy Hoffland was
in the habit, as Panurge said, of “breaking his head
with study.” Not at all. The remissness of that young
gentleman in his attendance upon the lectures of the
professors, had become by this time almost a proverb.
Indeed, his attendance was the exception—his absence
the rule. Buried in his quarters, in the neighborhood of
Gloucester street, he seemed to exist in a pleasant disregard
of all the rules and regulations of the college;
and when the professors attempted to reason with him—
which was seldom, inasmuch as they scarcely ever saw
him—he would acknowledge his sins very readily, and
as readily promise amendment; and then, after the
well-known fashion of sinners, return to his evil courses,
and become more remiss than ever.
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Mowbray would often remonstrate with him on this
neglect of his studies; but Hoffland always turned aside
his advice with some amusing speech, or humorous banter.
When the elder student said, “Now, Charles, as
your friend I counsel you not to throw away your time
and dissipate your mind;” to this Hoffland would reply,
“Yes, you are right, Ernest; the morning, as you
say, is lovely.” Or when Mowbray would say, “Charles,
you are incorrigible;” “Yes,” Hoffland would reply,
with his winning smile, “I knew how much you liked
me.”
On the fine morning to which we have now arrived,
the conversation of the friends took exactly this direction.
Hoffland for two or three days had obstinately
kept away from the college, and “non est inventus” was
the substance of the proctor's return when he was sent
to drum up the absent student.
“Indeed, Charles,” said Mowbray, with his calm sadness,
“you should not thus allow your time to be absorbed
in indolent lounging. A man has his career in
the world to run, and college is the threshold. If you
enter the world ignorant and awkward—and the greatest
genius is awkward if ignorant—you will find the
mere fops of the day pass you in the course. They may
be superficial, shallow, but they have cultivated their
natural gifts, while you have not done so. They enter
gracefully, and succeed; you will enter awkwardly, and
fail.”
“A fine Mentor you are!” replied Hoffland; “and I
ought to be duly grateful for your excellent advice.”
“It is that of a friend.”
“I know it.”
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“A very true friend.”
“Yes,” Hoffland said, “I am convinced that your
friendship for me is very true. Strange you should like
me so!”
“I think not: you are by yourself here, and I am
naturally attracted always by inexperience. I find great
freshness of thought and feeling in you, Charles——”
“Do you?”
“And more still,” said Mowbray, smiling sadly; “I
think you love me.”
“Indeed?” said Hoffland, turning away his face.
“Yes; you gravitated toward me; but I equally to
yourself. And now I think you begin to have a sincere
affection for me.”
“Begin, indeed!”
Mowbray smiled.
“I am glad you liked me from the first then,” he
said. “I am sure I cannot explain my sudden liking for
yourself.”
“But I can,” said Hoffland, laughing; “we were congenial,
my dear fellow—chips of the same block—companions
of similar tastes. You liked what was graceful
and elegant, which of course you found in me. I have
always experienced a passionate longing for truth and
nobility; and this, Ernest, I find in you!”
Hoffland's tone had lost all its banter as he uttered
these words; and if Mowbray had seen the look which
the boy timidly cast upon his pale countenance, he would
have started.
But Hoffland regained his lightness almost immediately;
his earnestness passed away, and he was the same
light-hearted boy.
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“Look!” he cried, “that oriole is going to die for joy
as he swings among the cherry blossoms! How green
the grass is—what a lovely landscape!”
And Hoffland gazed rapturously at the green fields,
and blossom-covered trees, and the distant river flowing
on in gladness to the sea, with the kindling eye of a true
poet.
“And here is the `Indian Camp!' ” he cried; “grassy,
antique, and romantic!”
“Let us sit down,” said Mowbray.
And seating himself upon a moss-covered stone, he
leaned his head upon his hand and pondered.
“Now, I'll lay a wager you are thinking about me!”
cried Hoffland; “perhaps you still revolve in your mind
my various delinquencies.”
“No,” said Mowbray.
“I know I am very bad—very remiss. I ought to
have been at college this morning, but I was not able to
come.”
“Why, Charles?” said Mowbray, raising his head.
“I was busy.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, reading.”
“Ah! not studying?”
“No; unless Shakspeare is study.”
“It is a very hard study, but not the sort which I
would have you apply yourself to. What were you
reading?”
“ `As You Like It,' ” said Hoffland; “and I was really
charmed with the fair Rosalind.”
“Yes,” said Mowbray indifferently; “a wonderful
character, such as Shakspeare only could draw.”
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“And as good as she was wild—as maidenly as she
was pure.”
Mowbray shook his head.
“That foray she made into the woods en cavalier was
a very doubtful thing,” he said.
“Why, pray?” Hoffland asked, pouting. “I should
like to know what there was wrong in it.”
Mowbray smiled, but made no reply.
“Answer me,” said Hoffland.
“That is easy. Do you think it wholly proper, perfectly
maidenly, for a woman to assume the garb of our
sex?”
“Certainly; why not, sir?”
Mowbray smiled again.
“I fear any argument would only fortify you in your
convictions, as our rebel student says,” he replied.
“True, Rosalind was the victim of circumstances, but
her example is one of an exceedingly doubtful nature, or
rather it is not at all doubtful.”
“Pray, how?”
“Really, Charles, you make me give a reason for
every thing. Well then, I think that it is indelicate in
women to leave their proper sphere and descend to the
level of men, and this any woman must do in assuming
the masculine garb. If I am not mistaken, the common
law bears me out, and inflicts a penalty upon such
deviations from established usage. None but an inexperienced
youth like yourself would uphold Rosalind.”
Hoffland colored, and said with bitter abruptness:
“I believe you despise me, sir!”
“Despise you! Why?” said the astonished Mowbray.
“Because—because—you call me an inexperienced
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youth; and—and—Ernest, it is not friendly in you!—
no, it is not!—it is unjust—to treat me so!”
And Hoffland turned away like a child who is about
to “have a cry.”
Mowbray looked at the averted face for a moment,
and saw two large tears clinging to the long dusky
lashes. He experienced a strange sensation in the presence
of this boy which he could not explain; it was half
pity for his nervous weakness of temperament, half regret
at having uttered he knew not what, to move him.
“Well, well, Charles,” he said, “yours is a strange
character, and I never know how to shape my discourse
in your presence. You fly off at every thing, and I believe
you are really shedding tears——”
“No, no,” said Hoffland, hastily brushing away the
pearly drops; “do n't look at me.”
“I was wrong.”
Hoffland sobbed.
“Forgive me, Charles—I will endeavor in future to
avoid these occasions of dispute; forgive my harshness.”
“You are forgiven,” murmured Hoffland; and his
sad face became again cheerful.
“I am not a very pleasant companion, I know,” said
Mowbray, smiling; “my own thoughts oppress me; but
if I cannot be merry with you, I may at least forbear to
wound your feelings.”
“My feelings are not wounded, Ernest,” Hoffland
said, with a bright glance which shone like the sun after
an April shower; “I only—only—thought you were
not right in abusing Rosalind; and—and calling me `an
inexperienced youth!' I am not an inexperienced youth,”
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he laughed; “but let us dismiss the subject. What oppresses
you, Ernest? I can't bear to see you sad.”
“My thoughts,” said Mowbray.
“That is too general.”
“It is useless to particularize.”
And Mowbray's head drooped. As the pleasant May
breeze raised the locks of his dark hair, his face looked
very pale and sad.
“The subject of our discourse in the fields some days
since?” asked Hoffland in a low tone.
“Yes,” said Mowbray calmly.
A long silence followed this reply. Then Hoffland
said:
“Why should that still annoy you? Men should be
strong.”
“Yes, yes.”
“And yet you are weak.”
“In my heart, very weak.”
“You love her still?”
“Yes, yes; deeply, passionately, far more than ever!”
said Mowbray, unable to repress this outburst.
Hoffland seemed to be frightened by the vehemence
of his companion, for he turned away his head, and
colored to the temples.
“Can you not conquer your feelings?” he said at
length.
“No.”
“Make the attempt.”
“I have made it.”
“Why not go and see her again then? You will lose
nothing.”
“Go and see her? What! after being repelled with
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so much insult and coldness!—after being charged with
base and mercenary motives!—after having my heart
struck by a cruel and unfeeling accusation—my pride
humbled by a misconception as humiliating as it was
unjust! Never, Charles! My heart may break—I may
feel through life the bitterness of the fate which separates
us for ever—I may groan and rebel and struggle
with my heart—but never again will I address one syllable
to that proud girl, who has trampled on me, as
she would upon a worm, and told me how degraded a
being I was in her eyes—no, never!”
And pale, his forehead bathed with perspiration, his
frame agitated, his eyes full of fire and regret, Mowbray
turned away his head and rose.
Hoffland was silent, and yet the deep color in his
cheeks betrayed the impression which his companion's
passionate words had made upon him.
In a few moments Mowbray had regained his calmness.
“Pardon me, Charles, for annoying you with these
things,” he said, with a last tremor in his voice; “but
your question prompted me to speak. Let us not return
to this subject; it afflicts me to speak of it, and
there is no good reason why I should revive my sufferings.
Let us go back, and endeavor in the pleasant
sunshine to find some balm for all our grief. I do not
despair of conquering my passion, for all things are possible
to human energy—this far at least. Come, let us
return.”
Calmly buttoning his coat, Mowbray took Charles's
arm, and they bent their way back to town.
As for Hoffland, he seemed overcome by the
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vehemence of his companion, and for some time was completely
silent. He seemed to be thinking.
As they approached the town, however, his spirits
seemed to regain their customary cheerfulness, and he
smiled.
“Well, well, Ernest,” he said, “perhaps your grief
may be cured in some other way than by strangulation.
Let us not speak further of it, but admire the beautiful
day. Is it not sweet?”
“Very,” said Mowbray calmly.
“It is getting warm.”
“Yes, Charles; summer is not far distant.”
“Summer! I always liked the summer; but we
have not then those beautiful blossoms—look how they
cluster on the boughs, and what a sweet perfume!”
“Very sweet.”
“Then another drawback of summer is its dust. I
hate dust; and it is already beginning to invade my
hands.”
“Wear gloves then, Charles,” said Mowbray, smiling
at the boyish naïveté of his companion's tone.
“I'd like to know how I can, without the money to
buy them,” said Hoffland; “you are very unreasonable,
Mr. Mowbray!”
Mowbray smiled.
“Have you none?” he said.
“Not a penny—at the moment. My supplies have
not reached my new address.”
And Hoffland laughed.
“Let me lend you some. How much will you have?
We are friends, you know, Charles, and you can have no
feelings of delicacy in borrowing from me. See,” said
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Mowbray, taking out his purse, “I have a plenty of pistoles.
Take a dozen.”
“And how many will you have left?”
“Let me see—there are thirteen. I shall still have
enough. There are twelve, Charles.”
And he counted them out, leaving the single coin in
his purse.
Hoffland, however, drew back, and obstinately closed
his hands.
“You ought to be ashamed to tempt an inexperienced
youth to go in debt,” he said; “that is your fine guardianship,
Mr. Mowbray.”
“Come, Charles; this is folly. You do not become
my debtor; I do not want the money. Take it, and repay
it when your own comes.”
“No, I will not. But still I want a pair of gloves.
Do me a greater favor still, Ernest. Give me those
pretty fringed gloves you wear, and which are plainly
too small for your huge hands. I know Miss Lucy gave
them to you, for she said as much the other day—I
asked her!—and now I want them. Don't refuse me,
Ernest; my hand is much smaller and handsomer than
yours, and they will just fit me.”
Mowbray took off the gloves, asking himself, with a
sad smile, what charm this boy exercised over him.
“There they are then, Charles,” he said; “I can refuse
you nothing.”
“Suppose I asked for the hand as well as the gloves?”
“The hand? Perfectly at your service,” said Mowbray,
holding out his hand; “I can only give it to you
in a friendly spirit, however, and there it is.”
“No,” said Hoffland, drawing back; “I will not
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accept it upon those terms—but I have the gloves. Thank
you, Ernest. Perhaps some day I may ask you to accept
a present from me; or at least I promise not to refuse
you if you ask what I have this moment refused.”
And laughing heartily, Hoffland cried:
“Just look at those flowers! and there is the great
city of Williamsburg! We pass from Indian Camps to
learned halls—from barbarism to civilization. Come!
let us get into Gloucester street—that promenade of elegance
and fashion! Come on, Ernest!”
And they entered the town.
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CHAPTER XXIII. HOW SIR ASINUS FISHED FOR SWALLOWS, AND WHAT HE CAUGHT.
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GLOUCESTER STREET was alive with a motley
crowd of every description, from the elegant dame
who drove by in her fine four-horse chariot with its outriders,
to the most obscure denizen of the surrounding old
field, come on this particular day to Williamsburg, in
view of the great ball to be held at the Raleigh tavern.
Mowbray and Hoffland gazed philosophically upon
the moving crowd, but threaded their way onward, without
much comment. Hoffland was anxious to reach his
lodging, it seemed; the culminating sun had already
made his face rosy with its warm radiance, and he held
a white handkerchief before his eyes to protect them.
“It is growing very warm,” he said; “really, Ernest,
I think your present will come into active use before the
summer.”
“My gloves?”
“No, mine.”
“Ah, well, Charles,” continued Ernest, “we ought to
rejoice in the warmth, inasmuch as it is better for the
poor than cold—the winter. Let us not complain.”
“I do not; but I see precious few poor about now:
they all seem to be rejoicing, without needing any assistance
therein from us. Look at that fine chariot.”
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“At Madam Finette's door?”
“Yes.”
“I think I recognise the driver—Tom, from Mrs.
Wimple's,” said Mowbray calmly.
“Mrs. Wimple—who is she?”
“A lady, at whose house I suffered one of my cruellest
disappointments,” said Mowbray with a shadowed brow;
“let us not speak of that!”
“Of what?”
“You do not understand?”
“I? Of course not.”
“It was there that I was told, by the woman I loved,
how despicable I was,” said Mowbray with a cruel tremor
of his pale lip.
“Oh—yes—pardon me,” Hoffland said; and turning
aside his head, he murmured, “Men—men! how blind
you are! yes, high-gravel blind!” and looking again at
Mowbray, Hoffland perceived that his face had become
calm again.
“I promised Lucy to bring home some little articles
from this place,” he said calmly; “go in with me a
moment, Charles.”
Hoffland drew back.
“No,” he said; “I believe—I have—I think I'd rather
not.”
“I will detain you but a moment.”
Hoffland's glance plunged itself into the interior of
Madam Finette's emporium; and the consequence was
that the young gentleman retreated three steps.
“I don't think I have time,” he said laughing; “but
I'll wait for you here: the sun is warm, but I can easily
protect my face by holding my handkerchief to it.”
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And taking up his position in the vestibule, so to
speak, of the shop, Hoffland placed himself as much out
of view as possible, and waited. Spite of the fact that
the sun's rays did not penetrate to the spot which he occupied,
the white handkerchief was still used as a shade.
Mowbray entered and approached Madam Finette.
But that lady was busy; her counter was covered with
magnificent silks, ribbons, velvets and laces, which she
was unrolling, folding up, drawing out, and chattering
about, as fast as her small hands and agile tongue would
permit. Before her stood a lady, who, accompanied by
her cavalier, was engaged in the momentous task of
making up her mind what colors of velvet and satin
ribbon she should select.
The lady was young and smiling—cheerful and graceful.
When she laughed, the musical chime of the timepiece
overhead was drowned, and died away; when she
smiled, the sunlight seemed to have darted one of its
brightest beams into the shop. The gentleman was elegant
and melancholy: he looked like Endymion on Latmos
trying to recall his dream, or like Narcissus fading
into shadow. His costume resembled a variegated Dutch
tulip; his hair was powdered to excess; he sighed and
whispered sadly, and looked at the lady.
The lady was called Belle-bouche, Belinda, or Rebecca.
The gentleman was familiarly known as Jacques.
“I think that would suit you,” sighed Jacques.
“This ribbon?” asked Belle-bouche, with a gay smile.
“Yes; it is yours by right. It is the prettiest of all.”
“I am glad you like it—I do.”
“It would suit the mythologic Maia.”
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“Then it will not me.”
“Yes, yes,” sighed Jacques, in a whisper; “you are
May incarnate—with its tender grace, and lovely freshness,
and Arcadian beauty.”
Belle-bouche smiled, and yet did not laugh at the oft
repeated Arcadian simile.
“Methinks,” said Jacques, with a species of melancholy
grace, “these ribbons would suit your costume at
the Arcadian festival, which you have honored me with
the management of——”
“At Shadynook? Oh, yes! would they now?”
“I think so, madam. Imagine the crooks wreathed
with these ribbons and with flowers—the shepherds
would go mad with delight.”
“Then I will get a large roll of this.”
“No, no—that is my affair; but you must wear something
else.”
“I? What, pray?”
“Pink: it is the color of youth, and joy, and love—
worn by the Graces and the Naiads, Oreads and Dryads;—
the color of the sea-shell, and the autumn leaves and
flowers—something like it at least,” Jacques added, finding
himself mounting into the realms of imagination.
Belle-bouche blushed slightly, and turned away. Her
eyes fell upon Mowbray, who bowed.
“Oh, sir, I am very glad to see you,” said the cheerful
young girl, holding out her hand; “you must come
to our party at Shadynook.”
“Madam, I am afraid—” commenced Mowbray, with
a bow.
But Belle-bouche interrupted him:
“No! I really will take no refusal! It will be on
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Thursday, and Aunt Wimple wishes you to come. I am
manageress, and I have masculine assistance to compel
all invited to be with us.”
With which words she glanced at Jacques, who saluted
Mowbray with a sad smile.
“And you must bring your sister Lucy, Mr. Mowbray.
I am sorry we know each other so slightly; but
I am sure we shall be intimate if she comes. Do not
refuse to bring her now.”
Belle-bouche enforced her requests with such a wealth
of smiles, that Mowbray was compelled to yield.
He promised to come, and then suddenly remembered
that Philippa would be there, and almost groaned.
Belle-bouche finished her purchases, and went out.
As she passed Hoffland she dropped her handkerchief.
That young gentleman, however, declined to pick it up
and restore it, though the absent Jacques did not perceive
it. Jacques assisted the young girl into her carriage,
pressed her hand with melancholy affection, and
went away sighing.
Mowbray, having procured what Lucy wished, came
forth again and was joined by Hoffland. That gentleman
held a magnificent lace handkerchief in his hand.
“See,” he said, “what that languishing little beauty
dropped in passing to her carriage. What a love of a
handkerchief!”
“What an odd vocabulary you have collected,” said
Mowbray, smiling. “Well, you should have restored it
to her, Charles.”
“Restored it!”
“Yes.”
“Ernest, you astonish me!” cried Hoffland, laughing;
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“address a young lady whom I have not the pleasure of
knowing?”
“It would be to do her a simple service, and nothing
could be more proper.”
“You are a pretty guide for youth, are you not? No,
sir! I never intrude!”
“Suppose this young lady were asleep in a house
which was burning—would you not intrude to inform
her of that fact?”
“Never, sir! Enter a lady's bower? Is it possible
you counsel such a proceeding?”
Mowbray smiled sadly. “You have excellent spirits,
Charles,” he said; “I almost envy you.”
“No, indeed, I have not,” said Hoffland, with one of
his strange transitions from gaiety to thoughtfulness; “I
wear more than one mask, Ernest.”
“Are you ever sad?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Hoffland, with a little sigh.
“Well, well, I fancy 'tis not frequently. If you feel
so to-day, the ball to-night will restore your spirits; and
there you may restore your handkerchief with perfect
propriety.”
“How?”
“Get an introduction.”
Hoffland's lip crimped; but nodding his head—
“Yes,” said he, “I think I shall be introduced, for I
wish very much to be present at that Arcadian festival.”
“You heard, then?”
Hoffland colored.
“N—o,” he said; “but I believe a number of invitations
are out—for Denis, and others;—a good fellow,
Denis.”
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“Excellent; and I suppose, therefore, you will be at
the Raleigh this evening?”
“Yes, about twelve—I have my studies to attend to,”
said Hoffland, laughing; “you have no idea how much
the character of Rosalind has interested me lately. I
think it never seized so strongly upon my attention. If
ever we have any private acting, I shall certainly appear
in that character!”
Mowbray smiled again.
“Your person would suit the forest page very well,”
he said; “for you are slender, and slight in figure.
But how would you compass the scenes where Rosalind
appears in her proper character—in female dress?”
“Oh!” laughed Hoffland, with some quickness, “I
think I could easily act that part.”
“I doubt it.”
“You don't know my powers, Ernest.”
“Well, perhaps not; but let us dismiss the ball, and
Rosalind, and all. How motley a crowd! I almost agree
with Jacques, that `motley's the only wear.' ”
“Jacques! that reminds me of the melancholy fellow
we saw just now, sighing and languishing with that little
Belle-bouche——”
“Why, you know her familiar name—how, Charlest?”
Hoffland laughed.
“Oh,” he said, “did I not leave my MS. love songs
to Jacques; and can you imagine that I was ignorant
of—but we are throwing away words. Everybody's in
love, I believe—Jacques is not singular. Look at this
little pair of lovers—school-girl and school-boy, devoted
to each other, and consuming with the tender passion.
Poor unfortunate creatures!”
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With which words Hoffland laughed, and pointed to a
boy and girl who were passing along some steps in advance
of them.
The girl was that young lady who received, as the
reader may possibly recollect, so much excellent and
paternal advice from Jacques. She was not burdened
with her satchel on this occasion, but carried, in the
same careless and playful fashion, a small reticule;
while her cavalier took charge of her purchases, stored
in two or three bundles, and kindly relinquished to the
gentleman by the lady, as is still the custom in our own
day.
The boy was a fine manly young fellow of sixteen,
with a bright kind face, rosy and freckled. There
seemed to be quite an excellent understanding between
himself and his companion, and they went on conversing
gaily.
But in this world we know not when the fates will
interrupt our pleasures;—a profound remark which was
verified on this occasion.
Just as the girl was passing the residence of Sir Asinus,
her feet dancing for joy, her curls illuminated, her
reticule describing the largest possible are of a circle—
just then, little Martha, or Puss, as she was called, found
herself suddenly arrested, and the over-skirt of her silk
dress raised with a sudden jerk. The reticule ceased to
pendulate, the conversation stopped abruptly, the boy
and girl stood profoundly astonished.
“Oh, me!” cried the child, clasping her hands;
“what's that?”
“Witchcraft!” suggested her companion, laughing.
“No, my dear young friends,” here interposed a voice
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from the clouds—figuratively speaking—really from an
upper window; “it is not witcheraft, but a simple result
of natural laws.”
The child raised her head quickly at these words, and
saw leaning out of a dormer window of Mrs. Bobbery's
mansion, that identical red-haired gentleman whom she
had seen upon a former occasion; in a word, Sir Asinus:
Sir Asinus dressed magnificently in his old faded dressing-gown;
his sandy hair standing erect upon his head;
his features sharper than ever; and his eyes more eloquent
with philosophical and cynical humor. As he
leaned far out of the window, he resembled a large owl
in a dressing-gown, with arms instead of legs, fingers
instead of claws.
“I repeat, sir and miss,” he said blandly—“or probably
it would be more proper to say, miss and sir—I
repeat that this is not witchcraft, and your dress is simply
caught by a hook, which hook contained a grain of
wheat, which wheat has been devoured. Wait! I will
descend.”
And disappearing from the window, Sir Asinus soon
made his appearance at the door, and approached the
boy and girl. The girl was laughing.
“Oh, sir! I think I understand now—you were fishing
for swallows, and the hook——”
“Caught in your dress! Precisely, my beautiful little
lady, whom I have the pleasure of seeing for the fiftieth
time, since I see you passing every morning, noon and
evening—precisely. Immured in my apartment for
political reasons, I am reduced to this species of amusement;
and this hook attached to this thread contained a
grain of wheat. It floated far up, and some cormorant
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devoured it; then the wind ceasing, it had the misfortune
to strike into your dress.”
With which words Sir Asinus made an elegant bow,
wrapping his old dressing-gown about him with one
hand, while he extricated the hook with the other.
“There! you are free!” he said; “I am very sorry,
my dear little lady——”
“Oh, indeed, sir! it is very funny! I'm almost glad
it caught me, Bathurst laughed so much.”
“I have the pleasure of making Mr. Bathurst's acquaintance,”
said Sir Asinus politely; and in spite of little
Martha's correction, that Mr. Bathurst was not his name,
he added, “Your cavalier at the ball to-night, I presume?”
“Oh, sir, you are laughing,” said the girl, with her
bright face; “but we are going to the ball.”
“And will you dance with me?”
“If you will, sir.”
“Extraordinary innocence!” muttered the knight,
“not common among young ladies;” then he added, “I
assure you, Miss—you have not told me——”
“My name is Martha, sir.”
“Well, Miss Martha, I shall dance with you most delightedly.
Asinus is my name—I am descended from a
great Assyrian family; and this is my lodging. Looking
up any morning, my dear Miss Martha, you will
receive the most elegant bow I have—such as is due to
a Fairy Queen, and the empress of my soul.—Good
morning, Mowbray.”
And saluting the students who passed, laughing, Sir
Asinus ascended again, muttering and wrapping his old
dressing-gown more tightly around him.
“Yes,” he said, “there's no doubt about the fact in my
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own mind;—I am just as much in love with that pretty
young girl who has left me laughing and joyous, as that
ridiculous Jacques is with his beauty at Shadynook. I
thought at one time I was in love with Belle-bouche
myself, but I was mistaken. I certainly was convinced
of it, however, or why did I name my sail-boat the
`Rebecca'—that being the actual name of Miss Belle-bouche?
Yet I was not in love with that young lady—and
am in love with this little creature of fifteen and a half,
who has passed me every morning and evening, going
to school. Going to school! there it is! I, the great
political thinker, the originator of ideas, the student, the
philosopher, the cynic—I am in love with a school-girl!
Well, I am not aware that the fact of acquiring a knowledge
of geography and numbers, music, and other things,
has the effect of making young ladies disagreeable.
Therefore I uphold the doctrine that love for young
ladies who attend school is not wholly ridiculous—else
how could those who go on studying until they are as
old as the surrounding hills, be ever loved with reason?
I am therefore determined to fall deeper still in love,
and write more verses, and abolish that old dull scoundrel
Coke, and become a sighing, languishing, poetic Lovelace.
I'll go and dance, and feel my pulse every hour,
and look at the weather-glass of my affections, and at
night, or rather in the morning, report to myself the
result. What a lucky lover I am! I will write a sonnet
to that thread, and an ode to the hook;—I will expand
the affair into an epic!”
With which gigantic idea Sir Asinus kicked aside a
volume of Coke which obstructed his way, seized a pen,
and frowning dreadfully, began to compose.
-- --
CHAPTER XXIV. HOFFLAND IS WHISKED AWAY IN A CHARIOT.
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“WHAT an oddity!” said Hoffland, as leaving the domain
of Sir Asinus behind them, the two students
passed on, still laughing at the grotesque appearance of
the knight; “this gentleman seems to live in an atmosphere
of jests and humor.”
“I think it is somewhat forced.”
“Somewhat forced?”
“At times.”
“How?”
“I mean that he is as often sad as merry; and more
frequently earnest and serious than careless.”
“Is it possible, Ernest?”
“I think I am right.”
“Sir Asinus—as I have heard him called—a serious
man?”
“Yes, and a very profound one.”
“You surprise me!”
“Well, I think that some day he will surprise the
world: he is a most profound thinker, and has that dangerous
trait for opponents, a clearness of perception which
cuts through the rind of a subject, and eviscerates the
real core of it with extraordinary ease. You know——”
“Now you are going to talk politics,” said Hoffland,
laughing.
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“No,” said Ernest.
“I do not like politics,” Hoffland continued; “they
weary me, and I would much rather talk of balls.—
What a funny figure Sir Asinus will cut with that little
creature—in reel or minuet!”
And Hoffland complimented his own conception with
a laugh.
“I scarcely fancy he will go in his old dressing-gown,”
said Mowbray with his sad smile; “that would be a poor
compliment to his Excellency, and the many beautiful
dames who will meet him.”
“Is it to be a large ball?”
“I believe so.”
“And very gay?”
“No doubt.”
“You escort Miss Lucy?”
“Yes.”
“And do you anticipate much pleasure?”
“Can you ask me, Charles?”
“Why—I thought you might throw off—this feeling
you have——”
“I cannot,” Mowbray said, shaking his head; “time
only can accomplish that—not music, and gay forms, and
laughter! Ah, Charles!” he added with a deep and
weary sigh, “you plainly know nothing of my feeling.
I cannot prevent myself from speaking of it—it makes me
the merest boy; and now I say that it is far too strong
to be dispelled in any degree by merriment. Mirth and
joy and festive scenes obliterate some annoyances—those
vague disquietudes which oppress some persons; they are
scarcely a balm for sorrow, real sorrow.”
Hoffland held down his head and sighed.
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“I shall see her there to-night, I doubt not,” Mowbray
went on, striving to preserve his calmness; “our glances
will meet; her satirical smile will rise to her lips, and
she will turn away as indifferently as if she had not
cruelly and wantonly wounded a heart which loves her
truly—deeply. This I shall suffer—this I anticipate:
can you ask me then if I look forward to the ball with
pleasure?”
Hoffland raised his head; his face was full of smiles.
“But suppose she does not look thus at you?” he said.
“I do not understand——”
“Suppose Philippa—was not that her name?—suppose
she smiles when you bow to her: for you will bow, won't
you, Ernest?”
“Assuredly; but to reply to your question. I should
know perfectly well that her smile was the untrue manoeuvre
of a coquette. Ah! Charles! Charles! may you
never know what it is to see a false smile in woman—cold
and chilling—the glitter of sunlight upon snow. It is
worse than frowns!”
“Ernest, you are a strange person,” said Hoffland;
“you seem determined to misjudge this young girl, who
is not as bad as you think her, my life upon it! So,
frown or smile, you are determined to hate her?”
“I do not hate her! Would to Heaven I could get as
far from love for her, as the neutral ground of indifference.”
“Unhappy man!” said Hoffland; “you pray to be
delivered from love!”
“Devoutly.”
“It is our greatest happiness.”
“And deepest misery.”
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“Misanthrope!”
“No, Charles, I neither hate men nor women; I do
not permit this disappointment to sour my heart. But
I cannot become an advocate of the feeling which has
caused me such cruel suffering. Let us say no more.
We shall meet at the ball, and then you will be able to
judge whether I am mistaken in the estimate I place
upon this young girl's character. She is beautiful,
haughty, suspicious, and unfeeling: it tears my heart to
say it, but it is true. You will never after this evening
doubt my unhappiness, or charge me with error.”
“Probably not,” said Hoffland, turning away his head;
“I will make your error plain to you—but promise to
speak of it no more.”
“What do you mean by `make my error plain to
me'?”
“You will see.”
“Charles!” said Mowbray suddenly, “you cannot
have designed to approach this lady upon the subject
which I have spoken to you of, as friend to friend?
That is not possible!”
“I shall not say one single word to your lady-love.”
“Explain then.”
“Never—I am a Sphinx, an oracle: until the time
comes I am dumb.”
“You only strive to raise my spirits,” said Mowbray
with his sad smile; “that is very kind in you, but I fear
it is even more than you could do.”
“By which I suppose you mean that I could `raise
your spirits' if any body could.”
“I may say yes—for you have a rare cheerfulness.
It is almost contagious.”
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Hoffland looked sidewise at his companion for a moment
with a curious smile, and said:
“Ernest.”
“Well, Charles.”
“How would you like to have—but it is too foolish.”
“Go on: finish your sentence.”
“No, you will laugh.”
“Perhaps I shall: I hope so,” Mowbray said, sadly
smiling.
There was so much sadness in his tones, spite of the
smile, that Hoffland's eyes filled with tears.
“What I was about to say was very ridiculous,” the
boy said, with a slight tremor in his voice; “but you
know almost every thing I say is ridiculous.”
“No, indeed, Charles; you are a singular mixture of
excellent sense and fanciful humor.”
“Well, then, attribute my question to humor.”
“Willingly.”
“I was about to ask you—as you were kind enough
to say that I could make you laugh if any one could—I
was about to ask, how would you like to have a wife
like me?”
And Hoffland burst out laughing. Ernest sighed.
“I think I should like it very well—to reply simply
to your question.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes.”
“What do you admire so much in me?”
“I love more than I admire, Charles.”
“Do you?” And the boy's head drooped.
“Yes,” said Mowbray; “you possess a childlike ingennousness
and simplicity which is exceedingly refreshing
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to me after intense study. I would call your conversation
at times prattle, but for the fear of offending
you.”
“Oh, you will not.”
“Prattle is very engaging, you know,” said Mowbray,
“and I often feel as if my weary head would be at rest
upon your friendly shoulder.”
“Why do n't you rest it there then?”
Mowbray smiled.
“You may answer that question better than myself,”
he said: “for some strange reason, you always avoid me
when I approach you.”
“Avoid you!”
“Yes, Charles.”
“Why, my dear fellow,” said Hoffland, with a free-and-easy
air, “come as near as you choose; here, let us lock
arms! Does that look like avoiding you?”
Mowbray smiled.
“It is very different here in the street,” he said; “but
let us dismiss this idle subject. It is an odd way of
throwing away time to debate whether you would make
a good wife.”
“I do n't think it is,” said Hoffland, and he laughed.
“if I would make a good wife, I would make a good husband;
and as I have natural doubts upon the latter
point, I wish to have them solved. But I weary you—
let us part. Good-bye,” added Hoffland, with a strange
expression of face and tone of voice; “here is my lodging,
and you go on to the college.”
“No, I think I will go up and sit down a moment.”
Hoffland stood still.
“It is strange, but true, that I have never paid you a
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visit,” continued Mowbray, “and now I will go and see
your quarters.”
“Really, my dear Ernest—the fact is—I assure you on
my honor—there is nothing to attract——”
Mowbray smiled.
“Never mind,” he said, “I will go up, if from nothing
else, from simple curiosity.”
The singular young man looked exceedingly vexed at
this, and did not move.
Mowbray was about to pass with a smile up the steps
leading to the door, when an acquaintance came by and
stopped a moment to speak to him. Mowbray seemed
interested in what he said, and half turned from Hoffland.
No sooner had he done so than the boy placed one
cautious foot upon the stone step, looked quickly around,
saw that he was unobserved; and entering the house
with a bound, ran lightly up the steps, opened the door
of his apartment, entered it, closed the door, and disappeared.
The sound of the bolt in moving proved that
he had locked himself in.
In two minutes Mowbray turned round to speak to
his companion: he was no where to be seen. The
friend with whom he had been conversing had observed
nothing, and suggested that Mr. Hoffland must have
gone on.
No; he had, however, gone to his room probably. And
ascending the stairs, Mowbray knocked at the door. No
voice replied.
“Strange boy!” he murmured; “he cannot be here,
however—and yet that singular objection he seemed to
have to my visiting him—singular!”
And Mowbray, finding himself no nearer a conclusion
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than at first, descended, and slowly passed on toward
the college.
No sooner had he disappeared within its walls than a
slight noise at Hoffland's window proved that he had
been watching Mowbray. All then became silent. In
an hour, however, the door was cautiously opened, and
the boy issued forth. He carefully closed the door, relocked
it, put the key in his pocket, descended, and
commenced walking rapidly toward the southern portion
of the town, depositing as he went by a letter in the post.
He passed through the suburbs, continued his way
over the open road leading toward Jamestown, and in
half an hour arrived at a little roadside ordinary—one
of those houses of private entertainment which are
wholly different from the great public taverns.
Fifty paces beyond this ordinary a chariot with four
horses was waiting in a glade of the forest, and on catching
sight of it Hoffland hastened his steps, and almost
ran.
He reached the chariot breathless from his long walk
and the rapidity with which he had passed over the distance
between the ordinary and the vehicle; threw
open the door before the coachman knew he was near;
entered, said in a low voice, “Home!” and sank back
exhausted.
As though only waiting for this single word, the
chariot began to move, and the horses, drawing the
heavy vehicle, disappeared at a gallop.
-- --
CHAPTER XXV. SIR ASINUS GOES TO THE BALL.
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UPON the most moderate calculation, Sir Asinus must
have tied his lace cravat a dozen times before he
finally coaxed his smoothly shaven chin to rest in quiet
grace upon its white folds. Having accomplished this
important matter, and donned his coat of Mecklenburg
silk, the knight took a last survey of himself in the mirror,
carefully reconnoitred the street below for lurking
proctors, and then brushing the nap of his cocked hat
and humming his favorite Latin song, stepped daintily
into the street and bent his way toward the Raleigh.
Sir Asinus thought he had never seen a finer ball;
for, to say nothing of the chariots and coachmen and
pawing horses and liveries at the door—of the splendid
gentlemen dismounting from their cobs and entering gay
and free the spacious ball-room—there was the great
and overwhelming array of fatal beauty raining splendor
on the noisy air, and turning every thing into delight.
The great room—the Apollo famed in history for ever—
blazed from end to end with lights; the noble minstrels
of the festival sat high above and stunned the ears with
fiddles, hautboys, flutes and fifes and bugles; the crowd
swayed back and forth, and buzzed and hummed and
rustled with a well-bred laughter;—and from all this
fairy spectacle of brilliant lights and fair and graceful
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forms arose a perfume which made the ascetic Sir Asinus
once more happy, causing his lips to smile, his eyes to
dance, his very pointed nose to grow more sharp as it
inhaled the fragrance showering down in shivering clouds.
Make way for his Excellency!—here he comes, the gallant
gay Fauquier, with a polite word for every lady,
and a smile for the old planters who have won and lost
with him their thousands of pounds. And the smiling
Excellency has a word for the students too, and among
the rest for Sir Asinus, his prime favorite.
“Ah, Tom!” he says, “give you good evening.”
“Good evening, your Excellency,” said Sir Asinus,
bowing.
“From your exile?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah, well, carpe diem! be happy while you may—
that has been my principle in life. A fine assembly;
and if I am not mistaken, I hear the shuffle of cards yonder
in the side room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah, you Virginians! I find your thirst for play even
greater than my own.”
“I think your Excellency introduced the said thirst.”
“What! introduced it? I? Not at all. You Virginians
are true descendants of the cavaliers—those longhaired
gentlemen who drank, and diced, and swore, and
got into the saddle, and fought without knowing very
accurately what they were fighting about. See, I have
drawn you to the life!”
Sir Asinus smiled.
“We shall some day have to fight, sir,” he said, “and
we shall then falsify our ancestral character.”
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“How?”
“We shall know what we fight about!”
“Bah! my dear Tom! there you are beginning to
talk politics, and soon you will be rattling the stamp act
and navigation laws in my ears, like two pebbles shaken
together in the hand. Enough! Be happy while you
may, I say again, and forget your theories. Ah! there
is my friend, Mrs. Wimple, and her charming niece.
Good evening, madam.”
And his Excellency made a courtly bow to Aunt
Wimple, who was resplendent in a head-dress which
towered aloft like a helmet.
And passing on, the Governor smiled upon Miss
Belle-bouche, and saluted Jacques.
On former occasions we have attempted to describe
the costume of this latter gentleman; on the present
occasion we shall not. It is enough to say that the large
tulip bed at Shadynook seemed to have left that domain
and entered the ball-room of the Raleigh, with the lady
who attended to them.
This was Belle-bouche, as we have said; and the
tender languishing face of the little beauty was full of
joy at the bright scene.
As for poor Jacques, he was oceans deep in love, and
scarcely looked at any other lady in the room. This
caused much amusement among his friends who were
looking at him; but what does a lover care for laughter?
“Ah!” he says, “a truly Arcadian scene! Methinks
the Muses and the Graces have become civilized, and
assembled here to dance the minuet. You will have
a delightful evening.”
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“Oh, I'm sure I shall!” says Belle-bouche, smiling.
“And I shall, because I am with you.”
With which words, Jacques smiles and sighs; and his
watchful friends follow his eyes, and laugh more loudly
than ever.
They say to him afterwards: “Well, old fellow, the
way you were sweet upon your lady-love on that occasion,
was a sin! You almost ate her up with your
eyes, and at one time you looked as if you were going
to dissolve into a sigh, or melt into a smile. At any
rate, you are gone—go on!”
Belle-bouche receives the tender compliments of
Jacques with a flitting blush, and says, in order to divert
him from the subject of herself:
“There is Mr. Mowbray, entering with his sister
Lucy. She is very sweet——”
“But not——”
“And must be at our May-day,” adds Belle-bouche,
quickly. “Good evening, Mr. Mowbray and Miss Lucy;
I wanted to see you.” With which words Belle-bouche
gives her hand to Lucy. “You must come to our May-day
at Shadynook;—promise now. Mr. Mowbray delivered
my message?”
“Yes; and I will certainly come—if Ernest will take
me,” says Lucy, smiling.
The pale face of Mowbray is lit up for a moment by
a sad smile, and he replies:
“I will come, madam—if I have courage,” he murmurs,
turning away.
“You must; we shall have a merry day, I think.
What a fine assembly!”
“Very gay.”
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“Oh, there's Jenny——”
“A friend?”
“Oh, yes!”
And while this conversation proceeds, Jacques is talking
with Lucy. He interrupts himself in the middle
of a sentence, to bow paternally to a young lady who
has just entered.
“Good evening, my dear Miss Merryheart,” he says.
“Oh, sir! that is not my name,” says little Martha,
laughing.
“What is?”
“Martha.”
“And are you not desirous of changing it?”
The girl laughs.
“Say, for Mrs. Jacques?”
“Oh!” cries Martha, with a merry glance and a pleasant
affectation of reserve, “that is too public.”
“The fact is,” replies Jacques, smiling, “you are
looking so lovely, that I could not help it.”
“Oh, sir!” says the girl blushing, but delighted.
Which expression makes her companion—a youthful
gentleman called Bathurst—frown with jealousy.
Lucy is admiring the child, when she finds herself
saluted by Sir Asinus, who has made her acquaintance
some time since.
“A delightful evening, Miss Mowbray,” says that
worthy; “and I find you admiring a very dear friend of
mine.”
“Who is that, sir?” says Lucy, smiling.
“Little Miss Martha.”
“She is your friend?”
“Are you not?” says Sir Asinus, bowing with great
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devotion to Martha; “you caught me this morning, you
know.”
“Oh no, sir! you caught me!”
“Indeed!” cried Sir Asinus; “I thought 't was the
lady's part!”
And he relishes his joke so much and laughs so loud,
that the girl discovers her mistake and blushes, which
increases her fresh beauty a thousand-fold.
Sir Asinus heaves a sigh, and contemplates a declaration
immediately. He asks her hand for a quadrille
instead.
“Oh, yes, sir!”
Whereupon Bathurst revolves gloomy thoughts of
revenge in the depths of his soul.
Sir Asinus, seeing his rival's moodiness, smiles; but
this smile disappears like a sunbeam. He sees Doctor
Small approaching, and turns to flee.
In doing so, he runs up against and treads on the toes
of Mr. Jack Denis, who laughs, and bowing to Lucy,
presses toward her and takes his place at her side.
Sir Asinus makes his way through the crowd, paying
his respects to every body.
He arrives, at length, at the door of the side room
where the devotees of cards are busy at tictac. He is
soon seated at one of the tables by the side of Governor
Fanquier, and is playing away with the utmost delight.
In this way the ball commenced; and so it went on
with loud music, and a hum of voices rising almost to a
shout at times, until the supper hour. And then, the profuse
supper having been discussed with that honorable
devotion which ever characterizes Virginians, the dancing
recommenced, more madly than ever.
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But let not the reader imagine that the dances of the
old time were like our own. Not at all. They had no
waltzes, polkas, or the like, but dignified quadrilles, and
stately minuets; and it was only when the company had
become perfectly acquainted with each other, at the end
of the assembly, that the reel was inaugurated, with its
wild excessive mirth—its rapid, darting, circling, and
exuberant delight.
Poor Sir Asinus! he had not been well treated by his
lady-love—we mean the little Martha. That young lady
liked the noble knight, but Brutus-like, loved Bathurst
more. The worthy Sir Asinus found his graces of mind
and person no match for the laughing freckled face of
her youthful admirer, and with all the passing hours he
grew more sad.
He ended by offering his heart and hand, we verily
believe, in the middle of a quadrille; but on this point
we are not quite certain. Sure are we that on this night
the great politician found himself defeated by a boy—
this we may assert from after events.
In the excess of his mortification be betook himself to
cards, and was soon sent away penniless. He rose from
the card-table feeling, like Catiline, ripe for conspiracy
and treason. He re-entered the ball-room and strolled
about disconsolate—a stalking ghost.
Just as he made his appearance a lady entered from
the opposite door, and Sir Asinus felt the arm of a gentleman,
against whom he was pressed by the crowd,
tremble. He turned and looked at him. It was Mowbray;
and he was looking at the lady who had just
entered.
This lady was Philippa.
-- --
CHAPTER XXVI. ERNEST AND PHILIPPA.
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THE young girl had never looked more beautiful.
She was clad in a simple white satin, her dazzling
arms were bare, but she wore not a single bracelet; her
hair was carried back from her temples, and powdered
until it resembled a midnight strewed with star-dust—
but not a single jewel glittered above her imperial brow,
or on her neck. She looked like an uncrowned queen,
and took her place as one not needing ornaments.
Poor Mowbray, as we have seen, trembled slightly as
she entered. With all his strength he could not restrain
this exhibition of emotion.
When he had visited her so often at Shadynook she
had invariably worn a number of jewels, and seemed to
have taken an idle delight in decorating her person with
all the splendor which unlimited wealth places at the
command of those who possess it. Now she came like a
simple village maiden—like a May-day queen; queen
not in virtue of her jewels or her wealth, but for her
beauty and simplicity and kindness.
If he had loved her before, poor Mowbray now more
than loved her.
All his resolutions melted before her approach, as the
iceberg thaws and dissolves beneath the rays of a tropic
sky. He had floated into the old latitudes of love and
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warmth again, and his cold heart once more began to
beat—his hardness to pass away: leaving the old, true,
faithful love.
She came on carelessly through the crowd, dispensing
smiles and gay laughter. Surrounded by a host of admirers,
she talked with all of them at once—scattered
here a jest, there a smile; asked here a question, replied
gaily there to one addressed to her; and as she moved,
the crowd of gallant gentlemen moved with her, as the
stars hover around and follow in the wake of the bright
harvest moon.
Philippa was “easily foist.” She had that rare joyousness
which is contagious, making all who come within
its influence merry like itself; and with her wildest
laughter and her most careless jests, a maiden simpleness
and grace was mingled which made the “judicious”
who had “grieved” before as much her admirers as
the ruffled and powdered fine gentlemen who bowed and
smiled and whispered to her as she moved.
Poor Mowbray! He saw what he had lost, and
groaned.
This was the woman whom he loved—would have
given worlds to have love him again. This was the
bold true nature he had felt such admiration for—and
now he saw how maidenly she was, and only saw it fully
when she was lost to him.
Could she have ever uttered those cruel words which
still echoed in his heart?—and was this kind and happy
face, this open, frank, and lovely girl, the woman who
had struck his heart so rudely?
Could he not love her still, and go to her and say, “I
wronged you, pardon me, I love you more than ever”?
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No; all that was over, and he might love her madly,
with insane energy, and break his heart with the thought
of her beauty and simplicity and truth; but never would
he again approach a woman who despised him—looked
upon him as an adventurer and fortune-hunter.
Still Philippa came on slowly, bowing, smiling, and
jesting—she ever approached nearer.
Mowbray felt a shudder run through his body, and
turned to leave the spot.
As he did so, he heard a voice which made his ears
tingle, his heart sink, his cheek flush, utter in the most
quiet manner, and without any exhibition of coldness or
satire or affectation, the words:
“Good evening, Mr. Mowbray. Will you not speak
to me?”
Mowbray became calm suddenly, by one of those
efforts of resolution which characterized him.
“Good evening, madam,” he said, approaching the
young girl unconsciously; “I trust you are well.”
And wondering at himself, he stood beside her.
“I believe I am very well,” she said, smiling; “will
you give me your arm?”
Mowbray presented his arm, bowing calmly; and
with a smile which embraced the whole mortified
group of gentlemen, the young girl turned away with
him.
“I have not had the pleasure of seeing you—have I?—
lately,” she said; “where have you been, if I may
ask a very impertinent question?”
“At Williamsburg, madam.”
“And never at Shadynook?”
“I was informed that you had gone home.”
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“Yes, so I did. But then if you had much—friendship
for me, I think you might have followed me.”
Mowbray was so much moved by the fascinating
glance which accompanied these words, that he could
only murmur:
“Follow you, madam?”
“Yes; I believe when gentlemen have friends—particular
friends among the ladies, and those friends leave
them, they go to seek them.”
“I am unfortunately a poor law student, madam—I
have little time for visits.”
Philippa smiled.
“I am afraid that is an evasion, sir,” she said.
“How, madam?”
“The true reason I fear is, that the rule I have spoken
of does not apply to you and myself.”
“The rule——?”
“That we follow our particular friends—or rather that
the gentlemen do. I fear you do not regard me in that
light.”
Mowbray could only say:
“Why should I not, madam?”
Philippa paused for a moment; and then said, smiling:
“Shall I tell you?”
“Yes.”
“I fancy then that something which I said in our last
interview offended you.”
This was a home thrust, and Mowbray could not
reply.
“Answer,” she said; “did you not come away from
that interview thinking me very rude, very unladylike,
very affected and unlovely? did you not cordially deter
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mine never to think of me again—and have you not
kept that resolution?”
“No, madam,” said Mowbray, replying by evasion to
the last clause of the sentence.
Philippa pouted.
“Mr. Mowbray,” she said, “you are very cold. I believe
I have left at least a dozen gallant wits to give you
my whole attention, and you reply to me in monosyllables.”
Mowbray felt his heart wounded by these words,
which were uttered with as much feeling as annoyance,
and replied:
“I should not have accepted your proposal, madam;
it was selfish. I am not in very excellent spirits this
evening, and fear that I shall not be able to entertain
you. Pardon my dulness.”
“No, I will not. You can be just as agreeable as you
choose, and you will not.”
Mowbray found himself smiling at these words, and
said:
“Perhaps, then, if you will ask me some more questions,
madam, I may reply in something more than
monosyllables.”
“Well then, sir, are you going to the May-day party
at Shadynook?”
“I do not know—yes, I suppose, however. I have
promised.”
“Then Miss Lucy will wish to have you.”
“Yes—well, I shall go.”
“I am very glad!” said Philippa.
Mowbray could not explain the happiness he felt:
all his coldness and doubt seemed to be passing away in
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presence of this young girl, who gave him such winning
smiles, and so obstinately refused to observe his constraint.
He had spoken truly to Hoffland; he was in
love, and he had no longer any command over himself.
He banished the thought that she was playing with his
feelings, as soon as it occurred, and gave himself up to
the intoxicating happiness which he experienced in her
presence.
“You will also come to the party, will you not?” he
said, smiling.
“Oh, yes!” said Philippa; “they could not very well
get on without me. In the first place, Bel and myself
are to get every thing ready; I mean at Shadynook.
As to the invitations, and all the externals, they are intrusted
to that handsome gentleman yonder, who is
devouring Bel with his eyes! Can't you see him?”
added Philippa, with a merry laugh; “poor fellow he
is deeply in love——”
“And that you think very ridiculous?”
“Indeed, no. I can imagine no greater compliment,
and no larger happiness, than to be sincerely loved by a
true and honest gentleman.”
Mowbray looked at her sadly, but with a smile.
“There are very many honest gentlemen,” he said.
“Yes, but they do not love everybody,” said Philippa;
“and that for a very good reason.”
“What?”
The young girl laughed.
“Because they love themselves so much,” she said.
“Gallant Adonises! they think themselves handsome,
nay, more lovely than all the maidens in the world!”
Mowbray caught the infectious mirth of the young
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girl, and smiled. Poor Mowbray! where were all his
mighty resolutions—his fair promises—his determination
to remain an iceberg in presence of this haughty
young girl? He was falling more deeply in love with
her every moment.
“You are very severe upon the fine gentlemen,” he
said; “I think your picture is the exception.”
“No, no! the rule! the rule!” she went on laughing.
“Just look at them yonder. See how they smile and
simper, and press their hands to their hearts, and daintily
arrange their drop curls! I would as soon be loved by
a lay-figure!”
And Philippa burst into a fit of merry laughter.
“Look!” she said; “see that ridiculous young gentleman
near the door, with the velvet breast-knot—think of
a velvet breast-knot! See how he daintily helps himself
to snuff from a box with a picture of Madame Pompadour,
or some celebrated lady, upon the lid; and see his
jewelled hand, his simpering face, his languid air, his affected
drawl as he murmurs, `Ah—yes—madam—very—
warm—but a charming—spectacle.' On my word!
I would always provide myself with a bottle of sal
volatile when such gentlemen came to see me!”
Mowbray found himself growing positively happy.
Not only were his spirits raised by the young girl's
merry and good-humored conversation, but every word
which she uttered made his heart thrill more and more.
All her discourse, all her satire upon the butterflies of
the ball-room, had originated in the discussion of what
character was proper for a lover. She scouted the idea
of the love of one of these idlers attracting for a moment
the regard of an intelligent woman: then was it
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not a just conclusion, that she looked for character, and
dignity, and activity? She pointed to his own opposite,
in grotesque colors, and laughed at her picture: then
did she not find something to like in himself? Could
she ever love him?
And Mowbray's cheek flushed—his strong frame was
agitated.
“The amusing part of all this is,” said Philippa,
laughing, “that these gentlemen think their charms irresistible.
Now, there is my cousin Charles—you know
him, I believe.”
“Charles——?”
“Charles Hoffland.”
“Charles, your cousin!” cried Mowbray; “it is impossible!”
“Why, what is impossible in the fact? Possible?
Of course it is possible!”
And Philippa laughed again more merrily than before.
“Your cousin!” repeated Mowbray; “why, Charles
is one of my best friends.”
“That is very proper, sir; then you have two friends
in the family.”
And Philippa gave her cavalier an enchanting smile.
“Charles is a very excellent young man,” she laughed;
“and I am sure loves me deeply, but then any one can
see he loves himself extravagantly.”
“Is it possible! But excuse me,” said Mowbray, seeing
that his astonishment annoyed his companion; “he was
to be here to-night.”
“Has he arrived?” said Philippa, looking round with
her daring smile.
“I do not see him.”
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“Tell me when he comes,” she said, shaking with
laughter; “he's a sad fellow, and I must lecture him.”
Mowbray looked at her.
“Strange that I did not see that you were related,”
he said.
“Very strange.”
“He resembles you strongly.”
“Yes.”
“But has light hair.”
“Has he?”
“And is smaller, I verily believe.”
“No, I believe our height is just the same. Has he
attended to his studies?”
Mowbray smiled and shook his head.
“Not in a way to injure his health, I fear.”
“Lazy fellow! I will never marry him.”
“He is then a suitor of yours, madam? I was not aware
of the fact—and request you to pardon my criticism.”
“There you are assuming your grand air again,” said
Philippa, laughing; “please leave it at home when you
come to see me. Ah! you smile again—that pleases
me. What did you ask? `Was Charles my suitor—did
he love me?' Yes, I am convinced that he loves me
devotedly, as deeply as a man can love any thing—as
much, that is to say, as he loves himself!”
And the young girl burst into another fit of laughter,
and positively shook with merriment.
“Did you become well acquainted with him?” she
asked, after a pause; “Charles is not stiff—too free and
easy, I fear, and I am sure you—liked him.”
“Indeed, I did,” said Mowbray; “he was a great
consolation to me, and I always thought there was
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something strangely familiar in his face. Singular that I
never observed how closely he resembled you.”
“That was because you did not think of me very
frequently.”
Mowbray colored.
“I thought of you too often, I fear,” he said in a low
tone.
“And never came to see me—that is a probable tale,”
she said, coloring also, and glancing with a mixture of
mirth and timidity at him.
Their eyes met;—those eloquent pleaders said much
in that second.
“I have suffered much,” he said; “my heart is not
very strong—I was deceived—I could not——”
And Mowbray would have said something still more
significant of his feelings, but for his companion's presence
of mind. She observed, with womanly tact, that a
number of eyes were fixed upon them, and adroitly
diverted the conversation from the dangerous direction
it was taking.
“I do not see Charles,” she said, laughing and blushing;
“did you not say he promised to be here?”
“Yes,” murmured Mowbray.
“He's a great idler, but I love him very much,” she
said, laughing. “Tell me, Mr. Mowbray, as a friend—
you know him well—could I find a better husband?”
Mowbray colored.
“He has a noble heart,” he said; “do I understand
that——”
“I love him? Yes, I cannot deny it truly; and why
should I not make him happy?—for he loves me sincerely.”
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Mowbray felt his heart sink. Then that new-born
hope was doomed to disappointment—that fancy was
all folly! His miseries would be only deeper for the
brief taste of happiness. He could not reply; he only
muttered some inarticulate words, which Philippa did
not seem to hear.
“I will decide finally on the day of the party at
Shadynook,” she said, smiling; “and now let us leave
the subject. But do not forget to tell me when Charles
enters,” she added, laughing.
Poor Mowbray! he felt his heart oppressed with a
new and more bitter emotion. The company thought
him happy in exclusive possession of the lovely girl's
society—his side was pierced with a cruel, rankling
thorn.
-- --
CHAPTER XXVII. THE LAST CHANCE OF JACQUES.
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WHILE Mowbray and Philippa were holding their
singular colloquy in one portion of the laughing
and animated crowd, our friend Sir Asinus, with that
perseverance which characterized his great intellect, was
endeavoring to make an impression on the heart of the
maiden of his love. But it was all in vain.
In vain did Sir Asinus dance minuets without number,
execute bows beyond example—the little maiden obstinately
persisted in bestowing her smiles on her companion,
Bathurst.
That young gentleman finally bore her off triumphantly
on his arm.
Sir Asinus stood still for a moment, then sent these
remarkable words after the little damsel:
“You have crushed a faithful heart—you have spurned
a deep affection, beautiful and fascinating maiden. Inured
to female charms, and weary of philosophy, I found
in thee the ideal of my spirit—truth and simplicity:
the fates forbid, and henceforth I am nought! Never
again look up, O maiden, to my window, when the
morning sun shines on it, as you pass to school—expect to
see me in those fair domains no more! Henceforth I am
a wanderer, and am homeless. In my bark, named in
past days the Rebecca, I will seek some foreign clime,
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and nevermore return to these shores. I'll buy me a
fiddle in Italy, and hobnob with gondoliers, singing the
songs of Tasso on Venetian waters. Never again expect
to see my face at the window as you go on merrily—I
leave my native shore to-morrow, and am gone!”
With which words—words which terrified the little
damsel profoundly—Sir Asinus folded his arms, and in
this position, with a sad scowl upon his face, passed forth
into the night.
As he reached the door of the Raleigh, he perceived
Mrs. Wimple and one or two elderly ladies getting into a
chariot; and behind them Jacques leading Belle-bouche
triumphantly toward his small two-seated vehicle.
Jacques was radiant, and this the reader may possibly
understand, if he will recollect the scheme of this gentleman—
to address Belle-bouche where no fate could interrupt
him.
As Sir Asinus passed on, frowning, Jacques cast upon
that gentleman a look which expressed triumphant happiness.
“You won't interrupt me on my way back, will you?”
he said, smiling; “eh, my dear Sir Asinus?”
Sir Asinus ground his teeth.
Belle-bouche was safely stowed into the vehicle—
Jacques gathered up the reins, was about to get in—
when, disastrous fate! the voice of Mrs. Wimple was
heard, declaring that the night had grown too cool for
her beloved niece to ride in the open air.
Sir Asinus lingered and listened with sombre pleasure.
In vain did Jacques remonstrate, and Belle-bouche
declare the night delightful: Aunt Wimple, strong in
her fears of night air, was inexorable.
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So Belle-bouche with a little pout got down, and
Jacques cursing his evil stars, assisted her into the chariot.
Would he not come in, and spend the night at Shadynook?—
they could make room for him by squeezing,
said Aunt Wimple.
No, no, he could not inconvenience them—he would
not be able to stay at Shadynook—he hoped they would
have a pleasant journey; and as the chariot rolled off,
the melancholy Jacques gazed after it with an expression
of profound misery.
He felt a hand upon his shoulder; he turned and saw
Sir Asinus. But Sir Asinus was not deriding him—he
was groaning.
“Let us commit suicide,” said the knight, in gloomy
tones.
Jacques started.
“Suicide!”
“The night is favorable, and my hopes are dead, like
yours,” said Sir Asinus, gloomily.
“That is enough to kill at one time,” said the melancholy
Jacques; “mine are not—animation is only suspended.
On the whole, my dear friend, I am opposed
to your proposition. Good night!”
And Jacques, with a melancholy smile, departed.
Sir Asinus, with a gesture of despair, rushed forth into
the night. Whether that gentleman had been reading
romances or not, we cannot say; but as he disappeared,
he bore a strong resemblance to a desperate lover bent
on mischief.
Within, the reel had now begun—that noble divertisement,
before which all other dances disappear,
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vanquished, overwhelmed, driven from the field, and
weeping their departed glories. For the reel is a high
mystery—it is superior to all—it cannot be danced beyond
the borders of Virginia—as the Seville orange of
commerce loses its flavor, and is nothing. The reel ends
all the festivities of the old Virginian gatherings, and
crowns with its supreme merriment the pyramid of mirth.
When it is danced properly,—to proper music, by the
proper persons, and with proper ardor,—all the elements
break loose. Mirth and music and bright eyes respectively
shower, thunder and lighten. In the old days, it
snowed too—for the powder fell in alabaster dust and
foamy clouds, and crammed the air with fragrance.
As for the reel which they danced at the Raleigh
tavern, in the Apollo room, upon the occasion we allude
to, who shall speak of it with adequate justice? Jacques
lost it—tulip-like, the king of grace—Belle-bouche was
with him; and a thousand eyes were on the maze,—the
maze which flashed, and buzzed, and rustled, ever merrier—
and glittered with its diamonds and far brighter
eyes—and ever grew more tangled and more simple,
one and many, complicate and single, while the music
roared above in flashing cadences and grand ambrosial
grace.
And merrier feet were never seen. The little maidens
seemed to pour their hearts out in the enchanting divertisement,
and the whole apartment, with its dazzling
lights and flowers, was full of laughter, mirth, and holiday
from end to end. When the final roar of the violins
dropped into silence, and so crumbled into nothing,
all was ended. Cavaliers offered their arms—ladies
put on their hoods—chariots drove up and received their
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burdens; and in another hour, the joyous festival was
but a recollection. After the reel—nothingness.
The Apollo room was still again—waiting for other
men than youthful gallants, other words than flattering
compliments.
And Mowbray went home with a wounded heart,
which all the smiles of Philippa could not heal—for
Hoffland was his rival. Denis went home with a happy
heart, for Lucy had smiled on him. Sir Asinus was
miserable—boy Bathurst was happy. The ball at the
Raleigh was a true microcosm, where John smiled and
James sighed, and all played on, and went away miserable
or the reverse.
And so it ended.
-- --
CHAPTER XXVIII. SIR ASINUS INTENDS FOR EUROPE.
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THE morning of the May-day festival dawned bright
and joyous;—nature seemed to be smiling, and the
“rosy-bosomed hours” began their flight toward the
west, with that brilliant splendor which they always
deck themselves in, in the merry month of May.
Jacques rose early, and was at his mirror betimes.
He had selected a suit of extraordinary richness, made
with express reference to the rainbow; and when he
drew on his coat, and took a last survey of himself in the
mirror, he smiled—no longer sighed—and thought of
Belle-bouche with the triumphant feeling of a general
who has driven the enemy at last into a corner.
He issued forth and mounted his gay charger, which,
with original and brilliant taste, he had decked with
ribbons for the joyous festival; and as he got into the
saddle and gathered up the reins, a little crowd of diminutive
negro boys, with sadly dilapidated garments,
cringed before him, and threw up their caps and split the
air with “hoora's” in his honor.
Jaeques pranced forth from the Raleigh stable yard in
state, and took his way along Gloucester street, the admiration
of every beholder. He was going to glory and
conquest—probably: he was on his way to happiness—
perhaps. He felt a sentiment of benevolent regard for
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all the human family, and even, in passing, cast his
thoughts on Sir Asinus.
That gentleman's window was open, and something
strange seemed to be going on within.
And as Jacques drew nearer, he observed a placard
dangling from the window. This placard bore in huge
letters the mournful words:
“THE WITHIN INTENDS FOR EUROPE ON THE MORROW.”
Jacques felt his conscience smite him—he could not
let his friend depart without bidding him adieu. He
dismounted, tied his horse, and laughing to himself, ascended
to the chamber of the knight.
A sad sight awaited him.
Seated upon a travelling trunk, with a visage which
had become elongated to a really distressing degree, Sir
Asinus was sighing, and casting a last lingering look
behind.
His apartment was in great disorder—presenting
indeed that negligent appearance which rooms are accustomed
to present, when their occupants are about to
depart. The books were all stowed away in boxes—the
pictures taken down—the bed unmade—the sofa littered
with papers, and the violin, and flute—the general air of
the desolate room, that of a man who has parted with
his last hope and wishes to exist no longer.
But the appearance of Sir Asinus was worse than that
of his apartment.
“Good morning, my dear Jacques,” said the knight,
sighing; “you visit me at a sad moment.”
Jacques smiled.
“I am just on the wing.”
“As I see.”
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“From my placard, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, have you any commands?”
“For Europe?”
“Precisely.”
“Well—no,” said Jacques, with indecorous levity;
“except that you will present my respects to Pitt and
Barré.”
“Scoffer!”
“Hey! who scoffed?”
“You!”
“I did not.”
“You laugh, unworthy friend that you are,” said Sir
Asinus; “you deride me.”
“Not at all.”
“You rejoice at my departure.”
“No.”
“At any rate, you are not sorry,” said Sir Asinus,
sighing; “and I return the compliment. I myself am
not sorry to part with the unworthy men who have misunderstood
me, and persecuted me. A martyr to political
ideas—to love for my country—I go to foreign lands
to seek a home.”
And having uttered this melancholy sentence, the
woful knight twirled his thumbs, and sighed piteously.
As for Jacques, he smiled.
“When do you leave?” he said.
Sir Asinus pointed to the placard.
“On the morrow?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there is time yet to attend the May-festival at
Shadynook. Come along.”
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“No, no,” said Sir Asinus, sighing; “no, I thank
you. I have had all my noble aspirations chilled—my
grand ideas destroyed; my heart is no longer fit for
merriment. I depart.”
And rising, Sir Asinus seated himself upon the table
disconsolately.
Jacques looked at him and smiled.
“Do you know, my dear Asinus,” he said, “that you
present at this moment the grandest and most heroic
picture? When a great man suffers, the world should
weep.”
“Instead of which, you laugh.”
“I? I am not laughing.”
“You are smiling.”
“That is because, for the first time in my life, I am
nearly happy.”
“Happy? Would that I were! Happy? It is a
word which I seldom have use for,” said Sir Asinus,
dangling his legs and sighing piteously.
“Why not endeavor to use it?”
“I cannot.”
“Come and laugh with us at Shadynook.”
“I no longer laugh.”
“You weep?”
“No: my grief is too deep for tears—it is dried up—
I mean the tears.”
“Poor fellow!”
“There you are pitying my afflictions—spare me!”
“I do pity you. To see the noble and joyous Sir
Asinus grow melancholy—to see those legs, which ers
glided through the minuet and reel. now dangling wearily
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—to see that handsome visage so drawn down; is there
no occasion for pity?”
And Jacques sighed.
“Well, well,” said Sir Asinus, “I am glad you came,
spite of your unworthy banter, you unfeeling fellow. I
I wish to send some messages to my friends.”
“What are they?”
“First, to Belle-bouche—love and remembrance.”
“That is beautiful; and I never knew these words yet
fail to touch the heart.”
“To all the boys, the fond regards of him who goes
from them—a martyr to the attempt to uphold their
rights.”
“That is affecting too.”
“To the little dame who passed with you some days
ago—Miss Martha Wayles by name—but no; nothing
to her.”
And Sir Asinus groaned.
“Nothing?” said Jacques.
“No; the memory of my love for her shall never
grieve her; let us say no more, Jacques, my friend. I
have finished.”
“And what do you leave to me?” said Jacques.
“My affection.”
“I would prefer that violin.”
“No, no, my friend; it will comfort me on my voyage.
Now farewell!”
“Shall I see you no more?”
“No more.”
“Why?”
“Do I not depart to-day?”
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“True, true,” said Jacques; “and if you really must
go, farewell. Write to me.”
“Yes.”
“Let us embrace.”
“Willingly.”
And Sir Asinus caught his friend in his arms and
sniffled.
Jacques, with his head over his friend's shoulder,
chuckled.
“Now farewell,” said Sir Asinus; “perhaps some day
I may return—farewell.”
And covering his eyes, he turned away.
Jacques took out his pocket-handkerchief—pressed his
friend's hand for the last time, and departed.
He mounted his horse, gathered up the reins, and set
forward again toward Shadynook, leaving the disconsolate
Sir Asinus to finish his preparations for departure
in his beautiful sail-boat the Rebecca.
Poor Sir Asinus! He had not the courage to call it
the Martha: disappointed in love and politics, he no
longer clung to either, and thought the best name after
all would be the Martyr.
-- --
CHAPTER XXIX. THE MAY FESTIVAL.
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IF not as splendid as the great ball at the Raleigh, the
festival at Shadynook was declared by all to be far
more pleasant.
At an early hour in the forenoon bevies of lovely girls
and graceful cavaliers began to arrive, and the various
parties scattered themselves over the lawn, the garden,
through the grove and the forest, with true sylvan freedom
and unrestraint.
Shadynook, thanks to the active exertions of Belle-bouche
and Philippa, was one bower of roses and other
flowers. All the windows were festooned with them—
the tables were great pyramids of wreaths; and out
upon the lawn the blossoms from the trees showered
down upon the animated throng, and made the children
laugh—for many little girls were there—and snowing on
the cavaliers, made them like heralds of the spring; and
lying on the earth, a rosy velvet carpet, almost made the
old poetic fiction true, and gave the damsels of the
laughing crowd an opportunity to walk “ankle-deep in
flowers.”
The harpsichord was constantly in use; and those old
Scottish songs, which echo now like some lost memory
to our grandfathers and grandmothers—we are writing
of those personages—glided on the air from coral lips,
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and made the spring more bright; and many gallant
hearts were there enslaved, and sighed whenever they
heard sung again those joyous or sad ditties of the Scottish
muse.
Books lay about with lovely poems in them—written
by the fine old Sucklings and Tom Stanleys—breathing
high chivalric homage to the fair; and volumes of engravings,
full of castles or bright pictures of Arcadian
scenes—brought thither by the melancholy Jacques as
true-love offerings—or sunset views where evening died
away a purple margin on the blue Italian skies.
And here and there, on mantelpieces and side-tables,
were grotesque ornaments in china; and odd figures cut
in glass of far Bohemia; and painted screens and embroidery.
And through the crowd ran yelping more
than one small lap-dog, trodden on by children, who
cried out with merriment thereat.
Belle-bouche had rightly judged that many children
should be invited; for if bouquets are bright and pleasant,
so are merry childish faces; and so dozens of young
maidens, scarcely in their teens, and full of wild delight,
ran here and there, playing with each other, and seeking
Belle-bouche—kind, loving Belle-bouche—every now and
then, to say that something was so pretty, and she was
so good! Whereat Belle-bouche would smile, and play
with their curls, and they would run and play again.
There was this observable fact about the young lady
who has appeared so frequently in our little narrative,
illustrating its dull pages with her languishing and joyful
smiles, showering upon it the tender grace of her fair
countenance and innocent eyes—there was this to be
observed, we say, that Belle-bouche loved and was
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beloved by children. She always had them round her
when she went where they were, smiling and looking up
to her with innocent faces—from the little infantile prattlers
just from the nursery, to those who, passing into
their bright teens, began to study how they might best
fulfil their duty in society—enslave the gallants. All
loved Belle-bouche, and on this occasion she had scarcely
a moment's rest.
Her own companions loved her too devotedly, and if
any one had asked the crowd assembled, what was the
brightest picture, the fairest ornament of the whole
festival, they would have with one voice declared—the
little hostess. Philippa, with her queenly brow and
ready laughter, did not receive one-half the devoted
attention which was lavished on her companion; and
indeed Belle-bouche was the toast of the whole assembly.
The finest cavaliers gathered around her and paid her
their addresses—all smiled on her, and paid homage to
her. Her joy was full.
But see the finest gentleman of all approach—the no
longer melancholy, the joyful and superb knight of the
ribbon-decorated horse!
Jacques approached with the air of a captive prince—
submissive, yet proud. He smiled.
“Beautiful queen of May,” he said, trailing his plumed
hat upon the floor, “behold your slave. Never did
shepherd in the vales of Arcady pay truer homage to
his Daphne's charms than I do to those of our hostess!”
This was considered a pretty speech, and Belle-bouche
was about to reply with a smile, when little Martha
Wayles, who was present in a pink-gauze dress and lace,
cried:
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“Oh, my goodness! just look there!”
“What is it?” asked the company.
“There, through the window,” said little Martha,
blushing at the attention she excited.
“What?”
“That horse with ribbons!”
The company gazed through the window, and began
to laugh. There indeed was the horse of Jacques,
splendid in all the colors of the rainbow, pawing and
tossing his head as the groom led him away.
“A little romance of mine,” said Jacques, smiling;
“I trust 't is not considered in bad taste—I had a
crook——”
“A crook?”
“Yes, wreathed with flowers, as was the custom, I
believe, in Arcadia; but I feared it would attract attention
in the town, and I left it,” said Jacques, with lamblike
innocence.
This sally was greeted with tumultuous applause.
“A crook!” cried the damsels.
“An excellent idea!”
“So sylvan!”
“And so appropriate!”
“We may have as many as we fancy, I believe,” said
Jacques, smiling; “I have prepared a number as an introduction
to the festival: they are in the garden, ladies,
already wreathed with flowers!”
The company rose in a mass to go and get them, and
soon they were in the garden; then scattered over the
lawn; then every where, laughing, making merry, and
behaving like a crowd of children released from school.
The damsels acted shepherdesses to perfection, and
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closely resembled the pictures we are accustomed to see
upon the fans which ladies use even to the present day.
Their little airs of sylvan simplicity were very pretty;
and the gallant gentlemen were not backward in their
part. They bowed and simpered until they resembled
so many supple-jacks, pulled by the finger of a child.
“Look,” said Jacques to Belle-bouche, and sighing
slightly as he gazed upon the fresh beauty of her face;
“see those lovers yonder——”
“Lovers?” said Belle-bouche, smiling.
“I am not mistaken, I think,” said Jacques; “yes,
yes, my queen, they are lovers. Do you not think that
something like that which I spoke of formerly will come
to pass?”
Belle-bouche, with a delicious little rose-color brightening
her cheek, replied, patting her satin-sandalled foot
upon the flowery sward:
“Which you spoke of—pray, what did you speak of?”
“Of my wish to be a shepherd——”
“Ah—a shepherd,” said Belle-bouche, removing a
cherry blossom from her hair, and smiling.
“Yes, my lovely queen,” said Jacques, with great
readiness; “I wished to be a shepherd and have a
crook——”
“Oh, sir!”
“And that my Arcadian love should also have one
and draw me—so that passing through the fields——”
“Oh, yes——”
“I might kiss her hand——”
“Yes, yes——”
“And passing through the forests wrap her in my
cloak——”
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Belle-bouche laughed.
“And crossing the streams on narrow moss-clad logs,
support her with my arm—as the dearest and most
blessed treasure upon earth!” cried Jacques, seizing the
hand of Belle-bouche, which hung down, and enraptured
that she did not withdraw it.
Belle-bouche understood perfectly that Jacuqes referred
to their meeting on that day when she had been
reading in the forest, and had fled from him across the
stream. Her roseate blush betrayed her.
“If only that bright dream of love could be a reality
for me!” he whispered; “if one I love so——”
“Oh, Miss Bel! the girls sent for you—the pyramid
is ready!” cried the merry voice of little Martha.
And running toward Belle-bouche, the girl told her
that they really must have her in the garden “before
the procession commenced.”
Poor Jacques drew back groaning.
“There's another chance gone!” he sighed; “what
luck I have! I'm always interrupted, and the fates are
leagued against me.”
Belle-bouche left him with a blush and a smile, and
disappeared.
Ten minutes afterwards the company had reassembled
on the lawn, and seemed to be anxiously expecting something.
This something suddenly made its appearance, and
advanced into the open space with merriment and
laughter.
It was a party of young girls who, clad in all the
colors of the rainbow, bore in their midst a pyramid of
silver dishes wreathed with flowers, and overflowing
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with strawberries and early fruits. It was a revival of
the old May-day ceremonies in London, when the milkmaids
wreathed their buckets with flowers, and passed
from door to door, singing and asking presents. Jacques
had arranged it all—the philosophic and antiquarian
Jacques; and with equal taste he had selected the beautiful
verses of Marlow or Shakspeare, for the chorus of
maidens.
The maidens approached the company, therefore, merrily
singing, in their childlike voices, the song:
“Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, or hills, or fields,
Or woods and steepy mountains yields;
“Where we will sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed our flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
“And I will make thee beds of roses,
And then a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
“A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Slippers lined choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
“A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.”
As the song ended, little Martha came forth from the
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throng, and holding in her hand a small crook, went
round with a very laughing face asking charity from the
applauding company.
“Only a penny, sir!” she said, motioning back a pistole
which Mr. Jack Denis held out gaily.
And then—the collection ended—the young girls of
the masquerade hurried back to rid themselves of their
pyramid.
Mr. Jack Denis and Miss Lucy Mowbray, who had
just arrived with her brother, bent their steps toward
the grove, through which ran a purling stream; and
thither they were followed after a little by Miss Martha
Wayles and her admirer, Bathurst. We cannot follow
them and listen to their conversation—that would be indecorous.
But we may be permitted to say that two
young ladies—one very young—on that morning plighted
their troth to two young gentlemen—one very young.
And if they blushed somewhat upon returning, it was
an honest blush, which the present chronicler for one
will not laugh at.
In the garden all by this time was joyous and wild
merriment. The young ladies were running here and
there; servants were preparing in a flowery retreat a
long table full of fruits and every delicacy; and merriest
of all, Miss Philippa was scattering on every side her
joyous and contagious laughter.
Suddenly this laughter of the young lady ceased, and
she colored slightly.
She saw Mowbray looking at her with a glance of so
much love, that she could not support his gaze.
In a moment he was at her side. “Will you not walk
with me?” she said, without waiting for him to address
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her; and in a moment her arm was in his own, and they
were strolling away. They went toward a noble old
oak, in the branches of which was fixed a platform, and
this platform was approached by a movable sort of
ladder. The leaves around the platform were so dense
that it was impossible to see any one who might be
sitting within.
As Mowbray and Philippa approached, the ladder
was seen suddenly to move, a little exclamation was
heard, and the next moment the movable steps rose erect,
balanced themselves for an instant, and fell to the
ground, cutting off all connection between the platform
and the ground.
At the same moment a triumphant voice muttered:
“Now let me see them interrupt me!”
Mowbray and Philippa did not hear it; they passed
on, silent and embarrassed.
Philippa, it was evident, had something to say, and
scarcely knew how to begin; she hesitated, laughed,
blushed, and patted the ground petulantly with her little
foot. At last she said, with a smile and a blush:
“I asked you to offer me your arm for an especial
purpose. Can you guess what that purpose was?”
Mowbray smiled, and replied:
“I am afraid not.”
“I wished to tell you a tale.”
“A tale?”
“A history, if you please; and as you are a thinker,
and an impartial one, to ask your opinion.”
“I am sure you do me a great deal of honor,” said
Mowbray, smiling with happiness; “I listen.”
Philippa cast down her eyes, patted the ground more
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violently than before with her silken-sandalled foot, and
biting her lip, was silent.
Mowbray looked at her, and saw the blush upon her
cheek. She raised her head—their eyes met; and the
blush deepened.
“Do not look at me,” she said, turning away her head
and bursting into a constrained laugh; “I never could
bear to have any one look at me.”
“It is a very severe request, but I will obey you,” he
said, smiling; “now for your history.”
“It will surprise you, I suppose,” she said, with her
daring laugh again; “but listen. Do not interrupt me.
Well, sir, once upon a time—you see I begin in true tale
fashion—once upon a time, there was a young girl who
had the misfortune to be very rich. She had been left
an orphan at an early age, and never knew the love and
tenderness of parents. Well, sir, as was very natural,
this young woman, with all her wealth, experienced one
want—but that was a great one—the necessity of having
some one to love her. I will be brief, sir—let me go on
uninterruptedly. One day this young woman saw pass
before her a man whose eyes and words proved that he
had some affection for her—enough that it was afterwards
shown that she was not mistaken. At the time,
however, she doubted his affection. Her unhappy
wealth had made her suspicious, and she experienced a
sort of horror of giving her heart to some one who loved
her wealth and not herself. Let me go on, sir! I must
not be interrupted! Well, she doubted this gentleman;
and one day said to him what she afterwards bitterly
regretted. She determined to charge him with mercenary
intentions, and watch his looks and listen to his
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words, and test him. He listened, replied coldly, and
departed, leaving her nearly heart-broken, for his nature
was not one which any woman could despise.”
Mowbray looked at her strangely. She went on.
“She watched for him day after day—he did not
come. She was angry, and yet troubled; she doubted,
and yet tried to justify herself. But even when he left
her, she had conceived a mad scheme—it was to go and
become his companion, and so test him. This she did,
assuming the dress of a man: was it not very indelicate,
sir, and could she have been a lady? I see you start—
but do not interrupt me. Let me go on. The young
woman assumed, as I said, an impenetrable disguise—
ingratiated herself with him, and found out all his
secrets. The precious secret which she had thus braved
conventionality to discover, was her own. He loved
her—yes! he loved her!” said the young girl, with
a tremor of the voice and a beating heart; “she could
not be mistaken! In moments of unreserve, of confidence,
he told her all, as one friend tells another, and
she knew that she was loved. Then she threw off her
disguise—finding him noble and sincere—and came to
him and told him all. She saw that he was incredulous—
could not realize such indelicacies in the woman he
loved; and to make her humiliation complete, she
proved to him, by producing a trifle he had given her,
in her disguise—like this, sir.”
And Philippa with a trembling hand drew forth the
fringed gloves which she had procured from Mowbray
at the Indian Camp. They fell from her outstretched
hand—it shook.
Mowbray was pale, and his eyes were full of wonder.
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“Before leaving him, this audacious young girl was
more than once convinced that the wild and unworthy
freak she had undertaken to play, would lower her in
his estimation; but she did not draw back. Her training
had been bad; she enjoyed her liberty. Not until
she had resumed the dress of her sex, did she awake to
the consciousness of the great social transgression she
had been guilty of. She then went to him and told him
all, and stopped him when he tried to speak—do not
speak, sir!—and bade him read the words she had
written him, as she left him——”
Mowbray, with an unconscious movement, took from
his pocket the letter left by Hoffland in the post-office,
on the morning of the ball.
Philippa took it from his hand and opened it.
“Pardon, Ernest!”
These words were all it contained; and the young girl
pointing to them, dropped the letter and burst into a
flood of passionate tears. Her impulsive nature had
fairly spent itself, and but for the circling arm of Mowbray
she would have fallen.
In a moment her head was on his bosom—she was
weeping passionately; and Mowbray forgot all, and only
saw the woman whom he loved.
Need we say that he did not utter one word of comment
on her narrative? Poor Mowbray! he was no
statue, and the hand which she had promised him
laughingly on that morning, now lay in his own; the
proud and haughty girl was conquered by a power far
stronger than her pride; and over them the merry blossoms
showered, the orioles sang, and Nature laughed to
see her perfect triumph.
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When Philippa returned to the company she was very
silent, and blushed deeply, holding to her face the handkerchief
which Hoffland had picked up. But no one
noticed her: all was in confusion.
Where was Belle-bouche? That was the question,
and a hundred voices asked it. She had disappeared;
and Jacques too was nowhere to be seen. The banquet
was ready; where was the hostess?
It was in the middle of all this uproar that a voice was
heard from the great oak, and looking up, the laughing
throng perceived the radiant face of Jacques framed
among the leaves, and looking on them.
“My friends,” said Jacques, “the matter is very
simple—be good enough to raise those steps.”
And the cavalier pointed to the prostrate ladder.
With a burst of laughter, the steps were raised and
placed against the oak. And then Jacques was observed
to place his foot upon them, leading by the hand—Belle-bouche.
Belle-bouche was blushing much more deeply than
Philippa; and Jacques was the picture of happiness. Is
it too much to suppose that he had this time stolen a
march on the inimical fates, and forced Belle-bouche to
answer him? Is it extravagant to fancy that her reply
was not, No?
And so they descended, and the company, laughing at
the mishap, hastened toward the flower and fruit decorated
table, and the banquet inaugurated itself joyously.
And in the midst of all, who should make his appearance
but—the gallant Sir Asinus! Sir Asinus, no longer
intending for Europe, but satisfied with Virginia; no
longer woful, but in passable good spirits; no longer
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melancholy, but surveying those around him with affectionate
regard.
And see him, in the midst of laughter and applause,
mount on the end of a barrel which had held innumerable
cakes, holding a paper in his hand, and calling for
attention.
Listen!
“Whereas,” reads Sir Asinus, “the undersigned has
heretofore at different times expressed opinions of his
Majesty, and of the Established Church, and of the
noble aristocracy of England and Virginia, derogatory
to the character of the said Majesty, and so forth;—also,
whereas, he has unjustly slandered the noble and sublime
College of William and Mary, so called from their
gracious majesties, deceased;—and whereas, the said
opinions have caused great personal inconvenience to
the undersigned, and whereas he is tired of martyrdom
and exile: Therefore, be it hereby promulgated, that the
undersigned doth here and now publicly declare himself
ashamed of the said opinions, and doth abjure them:
And doth declare his Majesty George III. the greatest
of kings since Dionysius of Syracuse and Nero; and his
great measure, the Stamp Act, the noblest legislation
since the edict of Nantz. And further, the undersigned
doth uphold the great Established Church, and revere
its ministers, so justly celebrated for their piety and cardplaying,
their proficiency in theology, and their familiarity
with that great religious epic of the Reformation,
`Reynard the Fox'—the study of which they pursue
even on horseback. And lastly, the said undersigned
doth honor the great college of Virginia, and revere
the aristocracy, and respect entails, and spurn the
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common classes as becomes a gentleman and honest citizen;
and in all other things doth conform himself to established
rules, being convinced that whatever is, is
right: and to the same hath set his hand, this twentieth
day of May, in the year 1764.”
Having finished which, Sir Asinus casts a melancholy
glance upon little Martha, and adds:
“Now, my friends, let us proceed to enjoy the material
comforts. Let us begin to eat, my friends.”
And sitting down upon the barrel, the knight seizes a
goblet and raises it aloft, and drinks to all the crowd.
And all the crowd do likewise, laughing merrily; and
over them the blossoms shower with every odorous
breeze; and with the breeze mingles a voice which
whispers in a maiden's ear:
“Arcadia at last!”
-- --
CHAPTER XXX. ILLUSTRATIONS.
[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
PERHAPS a few veritable extracts from the published
correspondence of him whom, following a
habit of his own, we have called Sir Asinus, may show
the origin of some allusions in our chronicle. These
short selections are arranged of course to suit the purpose
of the narrative. Beginning with the “rats,” we
very appropriately end with a marriage—as in the
case of that gentleman who was “led such a life” by
the rats, that “he had to go to London to get himself a
wife.”
..... “This very day, to others the day of greatest
mirth and jollity, sees me overwhelmed with more and
greater misfortunes than have befallen a descendant of
Adam for these thousand years past, I am sure. I am
now in a house surrounded with enemies who take counsel
together against my soul, and when I lay me down
to rest, they say among themselves, Come, let us destroy
him. I am sure if there is such a thing as a devil in
this world, he must have been here last night, and have
had some hand in contriving what happened to me. Do
you think the cursed rats (at his instigation, I suppose)
did not eat up my pocket-book, which was in my pocket,
within a foot of my head? And not contented with
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plenty for the present, they carried away my jemmy-worked
silk garters, and half a dozen new minuets I had
just got, to serve, I suppose, as provision for the winter.
But of this I should not have accused the devil, (because
you know rats will be rats, and hunger, without the addition
of his instigations, might have urged them to do
this,) if something worse, and from a different quarter,
had not happened. You know it rained last night, or if
you do not know it, I am sure I do. When I went to
bed I laid my watch in the usual place, and going to
take her up after I arose this morning, I found her in the
same place, 't is true, but, quantum mutatus ab illo!
afloat in water, let in at a leak in the roof of the house,
and as silent and still as the rats that had eat my pocket-book.
Now you know if chance had had any thing to do
in this matter, there were a thousand other spots where it
might have chanced to leak as well as this one, which
was perpendicularly over my watch. But I'll tell you,
it's my opinion that the devil came and bored the hole
over it on purpose. Well, as I was saying, my poor
watch had lost her speech. I should not have cared
much for this, but something worse attended it; the subtle
particles of the water with which the case was filled,
had by their penetration so overcome the cohesion of
the particles of paper, of which my dear picture and
watch-paper were composed, that in attempting to take
them out to dry them, my cursed fingers gave them such
a rent as I fear I never shall get over! Multis fortunae
vulneribus percussus, huic uni me imparem sensi, et
penitus succubui. I would have cried bitterly, but I
thought it beneath the dignity of a man, and a man too
who had read των οντων, τα μεν ε&fgr;&aposgr; &rbeegr;μιν τα δουκ ε&fgr;&aposgr; &rbeegr;μιν. I do
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wish the devil had old Coke, for I am sure I never was
so tired of an old dull scoundrel in my life. The
old fellows say we must read to gain knowledge,
and gain knowledge to make us happy and be admired.
Mere jargon! Is there any such thing as happiness
in this world? No. And as for admiration, I
am sure the man who powders most, perfumes most,
embroiders most, and talks most nonsense, is most admired.”
..... “This letter will be conveyed to you by the
assistance of our friend Warner Lewis. Poor fellow!
never did I see one more sincerely captivated in my
life. He walked to the Indian Camp with her yesterday,
by which means he had an opportunity of giving
her two or three love-squeezes by the hand; and like a
true Arcadian swain, has been so enraptured ever since
that he is company for no one.”
..... “Last night, as merry as agreeable company
and dancing with Belinda in the Apollo could make me,
I never could have thought the succeeding sun would
have seen me so wretched as I now am! Affairs at
W. and M. are in the greatest confusion. Walker,
McClury, and Wat Jones are expelled pro tempore, or
as Horrox softens it, rusticated for a month. Lewis
Burwell, Warner Lewis, and one Thompson have fled to
escape flagellation.”
..... “I wish I had followed your example and
wrote in Latin, and that I had called my dear, Campana
in die, instead of αδνιλεβ.”—(“The lady here alluded to is
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manifestly the Miss Rebecca Burwell mentioned in his
first letter; but what suggested the quaint designation
of her is not so obvious. In the first of them,
Belinda, translated into dog Latin, which was there as
elsewhere one of the facetioe of young collegians, became
Campana in die, that is, bell in day. In the
second, the name is reversed, and becomes Adnileb,
which for further security is written in Greek characters,
and the lady spoken of in the masculine gender.”—
Note of Editor.)
..... “When you see Patsy Dandridge, tell her,
`God bless her.' I do not like the ups and downs of a
country life: to-day you are frolicking with a fine girl,
and to-morrow you are moping by yourself. Thank
God! I shall shortly be where my happiness will be less
interrupted. I shall salute all the girls below in your
name, particularly S——y P——r. Dear Will, I have
thought of the cleverest plan of life that can be imagined.
You exchange your land for Edgehill, or I
mine for Fairfields; you marry S——y P——r, I marry
R——a B——l, join and get a pole chair and a pair of
keen horses, practise the law in the same courts, and
drive about to all the dances in the country together.
How do you like it? Well, I am sorry you are at such
a distance I cannot hear your answer; however, you
must let me know it by the first opportunity, and all
the other news in the world which you imagine will
affect me.”
..... “With regard to the scheme which I proposed
to you some time since, I am sorry to tell you it is totally
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[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
frustrated by Miss R. B.'s marriage with Jacquelin
Ambler, which the people here tell me they daily expect.
Well, the Lord bless her! I say: but S——y
P——r is still left for you. I have given her a description
of the gentleman who, as I told her, intended to
make her an offer of his hand, and asked whether or not
he might expect it would be accepted. She would not
determine till she saw him or his picture. Now, Will,
as you are a piece of a limner, I desire that you will seat
yourself immediately before your looking-glass and draw
such a picture of yourself as you think proper; and if
it should be defective, blame yourself. (Mind that I
mentioned no name to her.) You say you are determined
to be married as soon as possible, and advise me
to do the same. No, thank ye; I will consider of it
first. Many and great are the comforts of a single state,
and neither of the reasons you urge can have any influence
with an inhabitant, and a young inhabitant too,
of Williamsburg. Who told you that I reported you
was courting Miss Dandridge and Miss Dangerfield? It
might be worth your while to ask whether they were in
earnest or not. So far was I from it, that I frequently
bantered Miss J——y T——o about you, and told her
how feelingly you spoke of her. There is scarcely any
thing now going on here. You have heard, I suppose,
that J. Page is courting Fanny Burwell. W. Bland and
Betsy Yates are to be married Thursday se'nnight. The
Secretary's son is expected in shortly. Willis has left
town entirely, so that your commands to him cannot be
executed immediately; but those to the ladies I shall do
myself the pleasure of delivering to-morrow night at the
ball. Tom Randolph of Tuckahoe has a suit of
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[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]
Mecklenburg silk which he offered me for a suit of broadcloth.”
..... “I have not a syllable to write to you about.
Would you that I should write nothing but truth? I
tell you I know nothing that is true. Or would you
rather that I should write you a pack of lies? Why,
unless they were more ingenious than I am able to invent,
they would furnish you with little amusement.
What can I do then? Nothing, but ask you the news
in your world. How have you done since I saw you?
How did Nancy look at you when you danced with her
at Southall's? Have you any glimmering of hope?
How does R. B. do? Had I better stay here and do
nothing, or go down and do less? or in other words, had
I better stay here while I am here, or go down that I
may have the pleasure of sailing up the river again in
a full-rigged flat? You must know that as soon as the
Rebecca (the name I intend to give the vessel above mentioned)
is completely finished, I intend to hoist sail and
away. I shall visit particularly, England, Holland,
France, Spain, Italy, (where I would buy me a good
fiddle,) and Egypt, and return through the British provinces
to the northward, home. This, to be sure, would
take us two or three years, and if we should not both be
cured of love in that time, I think the devil would be
in it.
T. Jefferson.”
Many of these letters are written from “Devilsburg,”
which was the college name for the metropolitan city in
the days of yore. The reader is referred to the first
volume of Mr. Tucker's Life of Jefferson.
-- 249 --
[figure description] Page 249.[end figure description]
We shall make but one addition to our chronicle of
those former personages and their boyish pranks, and
that shall be a quotation:
“On the 1st of January, 1772, I was married to
Martha Skelton, widow of Bathurst Skelton, and daughter
of John Wayles, then twenty-three years old.”
See his memoir of himself.
FINIS.
