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 thechariot 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; "Ihave 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 outin 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.
The Governor led the way to his study, passing through two large apartments 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.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 religions 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."
"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 acanaille, 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 clothingone 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.
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 thinkaquafortishealthier 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. Come, Tom, to bed!"
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.(Back to Table of Content.)
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," saidJacques, 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 Iam'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."
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; isn'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.
"It wouldn'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 yonder 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: don't he resemble a murderer?"
"I don't know, sir; I hardly know what one looks like."
"Look at his red hair."
"Itisred."
"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.
"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,hewouldn't think ofme. 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 verbamo,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.(Back to Table of Content.)
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 tothese 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 week, eh?"
"Yes; and every body is discussing it. It will be held in theApollo——"
"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.
"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?"
"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' ofBelle-bouchethe 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!"
"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 whichBelle-boucheadmired 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 whatapismeans in Sanscrit—bah!"
"In Sanscrit? True; but in Latin it is—"
"Bee: I'll help you out."
"Very well, you are anApician, you say: expound."
"Why! do I not admireBelle-bouche?"
"I believe so."
"Pretty mouth—that is the translation?"
"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-bouchehas honey lips—a beautiful idea—and bees love honey, and I loveBelle-bouche: there's the syllogism, as you tiresome logicians say. Q. E. D., I am anApician!"
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 vehiculaMulta cum sarcinula,Illius mandibulaDura 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 excelsDoctor Smalls and antelopes;Swift beyond the camels.Or Midianitish proctors.While he drags his dulnessIn verse along his pages,His asinarian jaw-bonesMake havoc with the rhymes!"
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."
"Idisgusted—Itired of my books—Itired, 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 ecclesiaVirtus asinaria!"
"Excellent dog Latin," said Jacques; "and literally translated it signifies:
'Gold from the Governor,Tobacco from the South Side,Asinarian strategyHas 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 boucheis not 'braying mouth;' which reminds me that I must take my departure."
"Where are you going, unhappy profaner of ecclesiastical psalmody?"
"To seeBelle-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.(Back to Table of Content.)
Belle-bouchewas 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-bouchegreeted 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 MissBelle-bouchealways 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.
"Yes, I believe I was," smiledBelle-bouche.
"What music was so happy?" Jacques sighed.
Belle-bouchelaughed.
"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 MissBelle-bouche; see how unfortunate I am—pray pardon me."
"Willingly," saidBelle-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-boucheblushed 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?'" askedBelle-bouche; "I think it very pretty."
"It is the gem of music. Ah! to hear you sing it," sighed poor Corydon.
Belle-bouchequite simply rose, and going to the spinet, sat down and played the prelude.
Jacques listened with closed eyes and heaving bosom.
"Please hand me the music," saidBelle-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," saidBelle-bouchesmiling softly, "suppose I sing something a little merrier. You know the minuet always gives place to the reel."
Jacques uttered an expiring assent, andBelle-bouchecommenced 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.
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," saidBelle-bouche, laughing to hide her embarrassment.
"How?" murmured Jacques.
Belle-bouchefound 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 'tis 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-bouchereplied, 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-bouchehesitated, 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."
"Yes," saidBelle-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-bouchewas 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," murmuredBelle-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," saidBelle-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," saidBelle-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 aheart 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-bouchemurmured, 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-boucheblushed.
"Suppose it is without the consent of the aborigines," she said, attempting to laugh.
Jacques looked at her; then shook his head.
"'Tis the strong hand, not the true heart, which conquers."
"Oh no, it is not!" saidBelle-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!" murmuredBelle-bouche, blushing.
"Then do not wound mine!" cried Jacques; "dearestBelle-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 withrustling silk and rattling key basket, dispelled all his fond romantic dreams.
Belle-boucherose 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-bouchealone 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!"(Back to Table of Content.)
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."
"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?"
"Blind, because it cannot see that all the delights ofambition, 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—whendutyonly 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.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, mayserve 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 forme. 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:
"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 chanceamong 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.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—school-boy fashion, you perceive; and then I left her—never to return."
A long silence followed these words. Mowbray then added calmly:
"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.(Back to Table of Content.)
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."
"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.
"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.