"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?"
"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 don'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.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!"
"Didn't I mention the duel?" sighed Jacques, gathering up his reins and looking with languid interest at the martingale.
"No."
"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 haven'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!(Back to Table of Content.)
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. Butthere is something different from both of these moods—the one languid and the other fiery.
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 flowers; 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 swarmswith figures—graceful and grotesque as those old high-backed 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 hearBelle-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, sad crocusburned 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—shewas 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 andBelle-bouchewould 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—forJacques 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 sawBelle-bouche!—Belle-bouchesitting 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-bouchewas 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 ofBelle-boucheresembled a snow-flake.
Jacques caught his breath, and bowed and fell, so to speak, beside her.
"You came near walking into the brook," saidBelle-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!" saidBelle-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 wenton 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," laughedBelle-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 ladAs 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 playWas o'er the hills and far away!"
"Now Jockey was a bonny ladAs 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 playWas o'er the hills and far away!"
And ending,Belle-bouchehanded the book, with a merry little glance, to Jacques, who sighed profoundly.
"Yes, yes!" he murmured, "I believe you are right—true, itisabout a very unfortunate shepherd—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 MissBelle-bouche."
And he read:
"'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."
"'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, isn'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 kirkA stap put to our journie, O."Ah, lassie, there it stans! quo' I——"
"Yestreen we met beside the birk,A-down ayont the burnie, O,An' wan'er't till the auld gray kirkA stap put to our journie, O.
"Ah, lassie, there it stans! quo' I——"
With which words Jacques shut the book, and threw uponBelle-bouchea glance which made that young lady color to the roots of her hair.
"I think we had better go," murmuredBelle-bouche, rising; "I have to fix for the ball——"
"Not before——!"
"No, not before Tuesday, I believe," saidBelle-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?" saidBelle-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.
"Who is Flora!—can you ask?" he stammered.
"Oh, yes!" saidBelle-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."
AndBelle-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," saidBelle-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?" saidBelle-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-boucheturned away, blushing.
"On the twentieth of May," continued Jacques, enveloping the fascinating countenance ofBelle-bouchewith his melancholy glance, "the old lovers in Arcadia—the Strephons, Chloes, Corydons, Daphnes, and Narcissuses—always made love and married on that day."
"Then," saidBelle-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 MissBelle-bouche—it sounds so formal and unpoetical."
"What then shall I call you?" laughedBelle-bouche, with a slight tremor in her voice.
"Strephon, or Corydon, or Daphnis," said Jacques; "for you are Phillis, you know."
Belle-boucheturned 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-bouchemade no reply.
"Ah!" sighed Jacques, "if you would only make that old tradition true—if——"
"Oh!" saidBelle-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," saidBelle-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!"
"And you really will take charge of me?" saidBelle-bouche, with a delightful expression of doubt.
"Take charge of you?" cried Jacques, overwhelmed and drowned in love; "take charge of you! OhBelle-bouche! dearestBelle-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 forBelle-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!(Back to Table of Content.)
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 thoughtfully; 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."
"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.
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."
"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 secondthought 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 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 self-control 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."(Back to Table of Content.)
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,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—MissLucy, 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 himselfthat 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 single-minded 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 inAugust? 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 didn'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 youwould 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 don'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 likingHoffland; 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 didn't want to fight," he said; "but I was obliged to do something."
"Was the provocation gross?"
"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;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 andbonhomie. "I have discoveredthat 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 great-uncle's first wife's husband. That makes it perfectly plain—don'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,Idon'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 theuncleof 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 anymore: but cousin Lucy understands; don'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; "don't let us talk any more about it. It is all ended now, and I don'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——"
"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 verypiquante, 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, andthis 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.(Back to Table of Content.)
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 converse.
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 herbrilliant 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. Perhapsstudyingwould 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."
"Are you not ashamed, sir, to charge me with untruth?" said Lucy, nearly bursting into laughter.
"Untruth!" cried Hoffland; "did any body ever! Why, 'tis 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 don'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."
"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 aPhilippa. 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. Isn'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."
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 own way, it is nearly impossible to stop 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, "youpay 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. Don'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.(Back to Table of Content.)
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."
"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 chantezBelle bouche rechignez;"
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 himBelle-bouchefor a companion.
Belle-bouchehad 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 withBelle-boucheor a novel; and this had spurred him to such extraordinary haste, not to mention the early rising.
"Ah!" saidBelle-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 theair down with their fragrance, "what a lovely morning! It is almost wrong to remain in the house."
"Let us go forth then, my dear MadamBelle-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-bouchereplied, 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 MissBelle-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," saidBelle-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.
The visitor was Jacques.
He entered with his soft melancholy smile, and approachingBelle-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-bouchecasts 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-boucheraises 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, andBelle-bouchesmiles. He gathers courage then, and says:
"I think I have never seen a more beautiful morning."
"Yes," saysBelle-bouchein 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-bouchesmiles at this graceful and classic compliment; but strange to say, does not feel disposed to criticise it. Jacques has never seemed to her so intellectuala man, so true a gentleman as at this moment. The reason is thatBelle-bouchehas 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 we 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 melancholy grace; "for love, dearest MissBelle-bouche, is the essence of freshness and delight."
"The—fields?" saysBelle-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,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 ofBelle-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 calmness.
"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," murmursBelle-bouche, gazing down with rosy cheeks, and a bad attempt at ease. "You know the earth has become different."