"Yes, yes," sighs Jacques; "I very much fear all this is folly."
"Who knows but——"
She pauses.
Jacques raises his eyes, and their glances meet. She stops abruptly, and looks away. It is not affectation in her. That deep blush is wholly irrepressible.
Jacques seizes her hand, and says:
"Give me the assurance that such things can be! Tell me that this dream could be realized!"
She turns away.
"Tell me!" he continues, bending toward her, "tell me, ifIwere to love any one thus—say it were yourself—tell me, beautifulBelle-bouche! could I hope——"
"Oh, sir! I cannot now——"
"Belle-bouche! dearestBelle-bouche!—my picture was a reality—I love as I have painted—and upon my knees——"
"——car chantez,Belle bouche rechignez,"
sang the voice of Sir Asinus, entering from the garden; and our unfortunate friend Jacques had just time to dropBelle-bouche's hand, when Sir Asinus entered.
"You're a pretty fellow!" said that worthy, "to frighten me, and make me believe you were the—Well; let us keep up appearances before the ladies. How goes it, my dear Jacques?"
Jacques does not answer; he feels an unchristian desire to exterminate his friend Sir Asinus from the face of the earth—to blot that gentleman forcibly from the sum of things.
Actuated by these friendly feelings, he gives the knight a look which nearly takes his breath away.
"Why, what is the matter?" says Sir Asinus.
Jacques sees the false position which he occupies, and groans.
"Why, dear Jacques, you distress me," says Sir Asinus with great warmth; "did I tread upon your toes?"
Jacques might very justly reply in the affirmative, but he only turns away muttering disconsolately, "One more chance!"
"I thought you were the proctor," says Sir Asinus pleasantly.
"Did you? I am going back soon, and will send him," replies Jacques with sad courtesy.
"No! don't trouble yourself!" cries Sir Asinus; "it is not necessary."
"It is no trouble," says Jacques; "but as you are probably about to return to town yourself, I will not send him."
"To town? Indeed, I am about to do no such thing. It is not every day that one gets a taste of the country."
"You stay?"
"Yes."
Jacques groans, and imprecates—sleep to descend upon his friend.
He sits down wofully. Sir Asinus scenting the joke, and determined to revenge himself, does the same joyfully. Jacques sighs, Sir Asinus laughs. Jacques directs an Olympian frown at his opponent, but Sir Asinus answers it with smiles.
Belle-boucheall this time has been endeavoring to produce the impression that she is looking over a book of engravings—being interested in Heidelberg, and fascinated with the Alhambra. From time to time her timid glance steals toward Jacques, who is sighing, or toward Sir Asinus, who is laughing.
Sir Asinus glories in his revenge. Jacques refused to tell him the news, and maligned his character to the Doctor, and forced him to listen in silence to that abuse. He takes his promised revenge—for he understands very well what he interrupted.
Jacques stays all the morning, hoping that Sir Asinus will depart; but that gentleman betrays no intention of vacating the premises. Finally, in a paroxysm of internal rage, and a perfect outward calmness, the graceful Jacques retires—with a last look forBelle-bouche.
One thought consoles him. He will escort her to the ball, and on his return in his two-seated curriculum defy the interruption of all the Asinuses that ever lived.
Poor Jacques! as he goes sadly back, the cloud rising upon the dream is more asleep than ever.(Back to Table of Content.)
One of the most beautiful walks in the neighborhood of Williamsburg was known to the fair dames and gallant cavaliers of that epoch as the "Indian Camp."
To this spot, on the morning of the day fixed for the ball at theRaleigh, did Mowbray and the young student Hoffland direct their steps, conversing pleasantly, and glad of the occasion to enjoy the fresh beauties of nature, which presented so agreeable a contrast to the domains of study at the good College of William and Mary. Let it not, however, be imagined that the boy Hoffland was in the habit, as Panurge said, of "breaking his head with study." Not at all. The remissness of that young gentleman in his attendance upon the lectures of the professors, had become by this time almost a proverb. Indeed, his attendance was the exception—his absence the rule. Buried in his quarters, in the neighborhood of Gloucester street, he seemed to exist in a pleasant disregard of all the rules and regulations of the college; and when the professors attempted to reason with him—which, was seldom, inasmuch as they scarcely ever saw him—he would acknowledge his sins very readily, and as readily promise amendment; and then, after the well-known fashion of sinners, return to his evil courses, and become more remiss than ever.
Mowbray would often remonstrate with him on this neglect of his studies; but Hoffland always turned aside his advice with some amusing speech, or humorous banter. When the elder student said, "Now, Charles, as your friend I counsel you not to throw away your time and dissipate your mind;" to this Hoffland would reply, "Yes, you are right, Ernest; the morning, as you say, is lovely." Or when Mowbray would say, "Charles, you are incorrigible;" "Yes," Hoffland would reply, with his winning smile, "I knew how much you liked me."
On the fine morning to which we have now arrived, the conversation of the friends took exactly this direction. Hoffland for two or three days had obstinately kept away from the college, and"non est inventus"was the substance of the proctor's return when he was sent to drum up the absent student.
"Indeed, Charles," said Mowbray, with his calm sadness, "you should not thus allow your time to be absorbed in indolent lounging. A man has his career in the world to run, and college is the threshold. If you enter the world ignorant and awkward—and the greatest genius is awkward if ignorant—you will find the mere fops of the day pass you in the course. They may be superficial, shallow, but they have cultivated their natural gifts, while you have not done so. They enter gracefully, and succeed; you will enter awkwardly, and fail."
"A fine Mentor you are!" replied Hoffland; "and I ought to be duly grateful for your excellent advice."
"It is that of a friend."
"I know it."
"A very true friend."
"Yes," Hoffland said, "I am convinced that your friendship for me is very true. Strange you should like me so!"
"I think not: you are by yourself here, and I am naturally attracted always by inexperience. I find great freshness of thought and feeling in you, Charles——"
"Do you?"
"And more still," said Mowbray, smiling sadly; "I think you love me."
"Indeed?" said Hoffland, turning away his face.
"Yes; you gravitated toward me; but I equally to yourself. And now I think you begin to have a sincere affection for me."
"Begin, indeed!"
Mowbray smiled.
"I am glad you liked me from the first then," he said. "I am sure I cannot explain my sudden liking for yourself."
"But I can," said Hoffland, laughing; "we were congenial, my dear fellow—chips of the same block—companions of similar tastes. You liked what was graceful and elegant, which, of course you found in me. I have always experienced a passionate longing for truth and nobility; and this, Ernest, I find in you!"
Hoffland's tone had lost all its banter as he uttered these words; and if Mowbray had seen the look which the boy timidly cast upon his pale countenance, he would have started.
But Hoffland regained his lightness almost immediately; his earnestness passed away, and he was the same light-hearted boy.
"Look!" he cried, "that oriole is going to die for joy as he swings among the cherry blossoms! How green the grass is—what a lovely landscape!"
And Hoffland gazed rapturously at the green fields, and blossom-covered trees, and the distant river flowing on in gladness to the sea, with the kindling eye of a true poet.
"And here is the 'Indian Camp!'" he cried; "grassy, antique, and romantic!"
"Let us sit down," said Mowbray.
And seating himself upon a moss-covered stone, he leaned his head upon his hand and pondered.
"Now, I'll lay a wager you are thinking about me!" cried Hoffland; "perhaps you still revolve in your mind my various delinquencies."
"No," said Mowbray.
"I know I am very bad—very remiss. I ought to have been at college this morning, but I was not able to come."
"Why, Charles?" said Mowbray, raising his head.
"I was busy."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, reading."
"Ah! not studying?"
"No; unless Shakspeare is study."
"It is a very hard study, but not the sort which I would have you apply yourself to. What were you reading?"
"'As You Like It,'" said Hoffland; "and I was really charmed with the fair Rosalind."
"Yes," said Mowbray indifferently; "a wonderful character, such as Shakspeare only could draw."
"And as good as she was wild—as maidenly as she was pure."
Mowbray shook his head.
"That foray she made into the woodsen cavalierwas a very doubtful thing," he said.
"Why, pray?" Hoffland asked, pouting. "I should like to know what there was wrong in it."
Mowbray smiled, but made no reply.
"Answer me," said Hoffland.
"That is easy. Do you think it wholly proper, perfectly maidenly, for a woman to assume the garb of our sex?"
"Certainly; why not, sir?"
Mowbray smiled again.
"I fear any argument would only fortify you in your convictions, as our rebel student says," he replied. "True, Rosalind was the victim of circumstances, but her example is one of an exceedingly doubtful nature, or rather it is not at all doubtful."
"Pray, how?"
"Really, Charles, you make me give a reason for every thing. Well then, I think that it is indelicate in women to leave their proper sphere and descend to the level of men, and this any woman must do in assuming the masculine garb. If I am not mistaken, the common law bears me out, and inflicts a penalty upon such deviations from established usage. None but an inexperienced youth like yourself would uphold Rosalind."
Hoffland colored, and said with bitter abruptness:
"I believe you despise me, sir!"
"Despise you! Why?" said the astonished Mowbray.
"Because—because—you call me an inexperiencedyouth; and—and—Ernest, it is not friendly in you!—no, it is not!—it is unjust—to treat me so!"
And Hoffland turned away like a child who is about to "have a cry."
Mowbray looked at the averted face for a moment, and saw two large tears clinging to the long dusky lashes. He experienced a strange sensation in the presence of this boy which he could not explain; it was half pity for his nervous weakness of temperament, half regret at having uttered he knew not what, to move him.
"Well, well, Charles," he said, "yours is a strange character, and I never know how to shape my discourse in your presence. You fly off at every thing, and I believe you are really shedding tears——"
"No, no," said Hoffland, hastily brushing away the pearly drops; "don't look at me."
"I was wrong."
Hoffland sobbed.
"Forgive me, Charles—I will endeavor in future to avoid these occasions of dispute; forgive my harshness."
"You are forgiven," murmured Hoffland; and his sad face became again cheerful.
"I am not a very pleasant companion, I know," said Mowbray, smiling; "my own thoughts oppress me; but if I cannot be merry with you, I may at least forbear to wound your feelings."
"My feelings are not wounded, Ernest," Hoffland said, with a bright glance which shone like the sun after an April shower; "I only—only—thought you were not right in abusing Rosalind; and—and calling me 'an inexperienced youth!' I am not an inexperienced youth,"he laughed; "but let us dismiss the subject. What oppresses you, Ernest? I can't bear to see you sad."
"My thoughts," said Mowbray.
"That is too general."
"It is useless to particularize."
And Mowbray's head drooped. As the pleasant May breeze raised the locks of his dark hair, his face looked very pale and sad.
"The subject of our discourse in the fields some days since?" asked Hoffland in a low tone.
"Yes," said Mowbray calmly.
A long silence followed this reply. Then Hoffland said:
"Why should that still annoy you? Men should be strong."
"Yes, yes."
"And yet you are weak."
"In my heart, very weak."
"You love her still?"
"Yes, yes; deeply, passionately, far more than ever!" said Mowbray, unable to repress this outburst.
Hoffland seemed to be frightened by the vehemence of his companion, for he turned away his head, and colored to the temples.
"Can you not conquer your feelings?" he said at length.
"No."
"Make the attempt."
"I have made it."
"Why not go and see her again then? You will lose nothing."
"Go and see her? What! after being repelled withso much insult and coldness!—after being charged with base and mercenary motives!—after having my heart struck by a cruel and unfeeling accusation—my pride humbled by a misconception as humiliating as it was unjust! Never, Charles! My heart may break—I may feel through life the bitterness of the fate which separates us for ever—I may groan and rebel and struggle with my heart—but never again will I address one syllable to that proud girl, who has trampled on me, as she would upon a worm, and told me how degraded a being I was in her eyes—no, never!"
And pale, his forehead bathed with perspiration, his frame agitated, his eyes full of fire and regret, Mowbray turned away his head and rose.
Hoffland was silent, and yet the deep color in his cheeks betrayed the impression which his companion's passionate words had made upon him.
In a few moments Mowbray had regained his calmness.
"Pardon me, Charles, for annoying you with these things," he said, with a last tremor in his voice; "but your question prompted me to speak. Let us not return to this subject; it afflicts me to speak of it, and there is no good reason why I should revive my sufferings. Let us go back, and endeavor in the pleasant sunshine to find some balm for all our grief. I do not despair of conquering my passion, for all things are possible to human energy—this far at least. Come, let us return."
Calmly buttoning his coat, Mowbray took Charles's arm, and they bent their way back to town.
As for Hoffland, he seemed overcome by the vehemenceof his companion, and for some time was completely silent. He seemed to be thinking.
As they approached the town, however, his spirits seemed to regain their customary cheerfulness, and he smiled.
"Well, well, Ernest," he said, "perhaps your grief may be cured in some other way than by strangulation. Let us not speak further of it, but admire the beautiful day. Is it not sweet?"
"Very," said Mowbray calmly.
"It is getting warm."
"Yes, Charles; summer is not far distant."
"Summer! I always liked the summer; but we have not then those beautiful blossoms—look how they cluster on the boughs, and what a sweet perfume!"
"Very sweet."
"Then another drawback of summer is its dust. I hate dust; and it is already beginning to invade my hands."
"Wear gloves then, Charles," said Mowbray, smiling at the boyishnaïvetéof his companion's tone.
"I'd like to know how I can, without the money to buy them," said Hoffland; "you are very unreasonable, Mr. Mowbray!"
Mowbray smiled.
"Have you none?" he said.
"Not a penny—at the moment. My supplies have not reached my new address."
And Hoffland laughed.
"Let me lend you some. How much will you have? We are friends, you know, Charles, and you can have no feelings of delicacy in borrowing from me. See," saidMowbray, taking out his purse, "I have a plenty of pistoles. Take a dozen."
"And how many will you have left?"
"Let me see—there are thirteen. I shall still have enough. There are twelve, Charles."
And he counted them out, leaving the single coin in his purse.
Hoffland, however, drew back, and obstinately closed his hands.
"You ought to be ashamed to tempt an inexperienced youth to go in debt," he said; "that is your fine guardianship, Mr. Mowbray."
"Come, Charles; this is folly. You do not become my debtor; I do not want the money. Take it, and repay it when your own comes."
"No, I will not. But still I want a pair of gloves. Do me a greater favor still, Ernest. Give me those pretty fringed gloves you wear, and which are plainly too small for your huge hands. I know Miss Lucy gave them to you, for she said as much the other day—I asked her!—and now I want them. Don't refuse me, Ernest; my hand is much smaller and handsomer than yours, and they will just fit me."
Mowbray took off the gloves, asking himself, with a sad smile, what charm this boy exercised over him.
"There they are then, Charles," he said; "I can refuse you nothing."
"Suppose I asked for the hand as well as the gloves?"
"The hand? Perfectly at your service," said Mowbray, holding out his hand; "I can only give it to you in a friendly spirit, however, and there it is."
"No," said Hoffland, drawing back; "I will not acceptit upon those terms—but I have the gloves. Thank you, Ernest. Perhaps some day I may ask you to accept a present from me; or at least I promise not to refuse you if you ask what I have this moment refused."
And laughing heartily, Hoffland cried:
"Just look at those flowers! and there is the great city of Williamsburg! We pass from Indian Camps to learned halls—from barbarism to civilization. Come! let us get into Gloucester street—that promenade of elegance and fashion! Come on, Ernest!"
And they entered the town.(Back to Table of Content.)
Gloucester Street was alive with a motley crowd of every description, from the elegant dame who drove by in her fine four-horse chariot with its outriders, to the most obscure denizen of the surrounding old field, come on this particular day to Williamsburg, in view of the great ball to be held at theRaleightavern.
Mowbray and Hoffland gazed philosophically upon the moving crowd, but threaded their way onward, without much comment. Hoffland was anxious to reach his lodging, it seemed; the culminating sun had already made his face rosy with its warm radiance, and he held a white handkerchief before his eyes to protect them.
"It is growing very warm," he said; "really, Ernest, I think your present will come into active use before the summer."
"My gloves?"
"No, mine."
"Ah, well, Charles," continued Ernest, "we ought to rejoice in the warmth, inasmuch as it is better for the poor than cold—the winter. Let us not complain."
"I do not; but I see precious few poor about now: they all seem to be rejoicing, without needing any assistance therein from us. Look at that fine chariot."
"At Madam Finette's door?"
"Yes."
"I think I recognise the driver—Tom, from Mrs. Wimple's," said Mowbray calmly.
"Mrs. Wimple—who is she?"
"A lady, at whose house I suffered one of my cruellest disappointments," said Mowbray with a shadowed brow; "let us not speak of that!"
"Of what?"
"You do not understand?"
"I? Of course not."
"It was there that I was told, by the woman I loved, how despicable I was," said Mowbray with a cruel tremor of his pale lip.
"Oh—yes—pardon me," Hoffland said; and turning aside his head, he murmured, "Men—men! how blind you are! yes, high-gravel blind!" and looking again at Mowbray, Hoffland perceived that his face had become calm again.
"I promised Lucy to bring home some little articles from this place," he said calmly; "go in with me a moment, Charles."
Hoffland drew back.
"No," he said; "I believe—I have—I think I'd rather not."
"I will detain you but a moment."
Hoffland's glance plunged itself into the interior of Madam Finette's emporium; and the consequence was that the young gentleman retreated three steps.
"I don't think I have time," he said laughing; "but I'll wait for you here: the sun is warm, but I can easily protect my face by holding my handkerchief to it."
And taking up his position in the vestibule, so to speak, of the shop, Hoffland placed himself as much out of view as possible, and waited. Spite of the fact that the sun's rays did not penetrate to the spot which he occupied, the white handkerchief was still used as a shade.
Mowbray entered and approached Madam Finette.
But that lady was busy; her counter was covered with magnificent silks, ribbons, velvets and laces, which she was unrolling, folding up, drawing out, and chattering about, as fast as her small hands and agile tongue would permit. Before her stood a lady, who, accompanied by her cavalier, was engaged in the momentous task of making up her mind what colors of velvet and satin ribbon she should select.
The lady was young and smiling—cheerful and graceful. When she laughed, the musical chime of the timepiece overhead was drowned, and died away; when she smiled, the sunlight seemed to have darted one of its brightest beams into the shop. The gentleman was elegant and melancholy: he looked like Endymion on Latmos trying to recall his dream, or like Narcissus fading into shadow. His costume resembled a variegated Dutch tulip; his hair was powdered to excess; he sighed and whispered sadly, and looked at the lady.
The lady was calledBelle-bouche, Belinda, or Rebecca.
The gentleman was familiarly known as Jacques.
"I think that would suit you," sighed Jacques.
"This ribbon?" askedBelle-bouche, with a gay smile.
"Yes; it is yours by right. It is the prettiest of all."
"I am glad you like it—I do."
"It would suit the mythologic Maia."
"Then it will not me."
"Yes, yes," sighed Jacques, in a whisper; "you are May incarnate—with its tender grace, and lovely freshness, and Arcadian beauty."
Belle-bouchesmiled, and yet did not laugh at the oft repeated Arcadian simile.
"Methinks," said Jacques, with a species of melancholy grace, "these ribbons would suit your costume at the Arcadian festival, which you have honored me with the management of——"
"At Shadynook? Oh, yes! would they now?"
"I think so, madam. Imagine the crooks wreathed with these ribbons and with flowers—the shepherds would go mad with delight."
"Then I will get a large roll of this."
"No, no—that is my affair; but you must wear something else."
"I? What, pray?"
"Pink: it is the color of youth, and joy, and love—worn by the Graces and the Naiads, Oreads and Dryads;—the color of the sea-shell, and the autumn leaves and flowers—something like it at least," Jacques added, finding himself mounting into the realms of imagination.
Belle-boucheblushed slightly, and turned away. Her eyes fell upon Mowbray, who bowed.
"Oh, sir, I am very glad to see you," said the cheerful young girl, holding out her hand; "you must come to our party at Shadynook."
"Madam, I am afraid—" commenced Mowbray, with a bow.
ButBelle-boucheinterrupted him:
"No! I really will take no refusal! It will be onThursday, and Aunt Wimple wishes you to come. I am manageress, and I have masculine assistance to compel all invited to be with us."
With which words she glanced at Jacques, who saluted Mowbray with a sad smile.
"And you must bring your sister Lucy, Mr. Mowbray. I am sorry we know each other so slightly; but I am sure we shall be intimate if she comes. Do not refuse to bring her now."
Belle-boucheenforced her requests with such a wealth of smiles, that Mowbray was compelled to yield.
He promised to come, and then suddenly remembered that Philippa would be there, and almost groaned.
Belle-bouchefinished her purchases, and went out.
As she passed Hoffland she dropped her handkerchief. That young gentleman, however, declined to pick it up and restore it, though the absent Jacques did not perceive it. Jacques assisted the young girl into her carriage, pressed her hand with melancholy affection, and went away sighing.
Mowbray, having procured what Lucy wished, came forth again and was joined by Hoffland. That gentleman held a magnificent lace handkerchief in his hand.
"See," he said, "what that languishing little beauty dropped in passing to her carriage. What a love of a handkerchief!"
"What an odd vocabulary you have collected," said Mowbray, smiling. "Well, you should have restored it to her, Charles."
"Restored it!"
"Yes."
"Ernest, you astonish me!" cried Hoffland, laughing;"address a young lady whom I have not the pleasure of knowing?"
"It would be to do her a simple service, and nothing could be more proper."
"You are a pretty guide for youth, are you not? No, sir! I never intrude!"
"Suppose this young lady were asleep in a house which was burning—would you not intrude to inform her of that fact?"
"Never, sir! Enter a lady's bower? Is it possible you counsel such a proceeding?"
Mowbray smiled sadly. "You have excellent spirits, Charles," he said; "I almost envy you."
"No, indeed, I have not," said Hoffland, with one of his strange transitions from gaiety to thoughtfulness; "I wear more than one mask, Ernest."
"Are you ever sad?"
"Yes, indeed," said Hoffland, with a little sigh.
"Well, well, I fancy 'tis not frequently. If you feel so to-day, the ball to-night will restore your spirits; and there you may restore your handkerchief with perfect propriety."
"How?"
"Get an introduction."
Hoffland's lip crimped; but nodding his head—
"Yes," said he, "I think I shall be introduced, for I wish very much to be present at that Arcadian festival."
"You heard, then?"
Hoffland colored.
"N—o," he said; "but I believe a number of invitations are out—for Denis, and others;—a good fellow, Denis."
"Excellent; and I suppose, therefore, you will be at the Raleigh this evening?"
"Yes, about twelve—I have my studies to attend to," said Hoffland, laughing; "you have no idea how much the character ofRosalindhas interested me lately. I think it never seized so strongly upon my attention. If ever we have any private acting, I shall certainly appear in that character!"
Mowbray smiled again.
"Your person would suit the forest page very well," he said; "for you are slender, and slight in figure. But how would you compass the scenes where Rosalind appears in her proper character—in female dress?"
"Oh!" laughed Hoffland, with some quickness, "I think I could easily act that part."
"I doubt it."
"You don't know my powers, Ernest."
"Well, perhaps not; but let us dismiss the ball, and Rosalind, and all. How motley a crowd! I almost agree with Jacques, that 'motley's the only wear.'"
"Jacques! that reminds me of the melancholy fellow we saw just now, sighing and languishing with that littleBelle-bouche——"
"Why, you know her familiar name—how, Charles?"
Hoffland laughed.
"Oh" he said, "did I not leave my MS. love songs to Jacques; and can you imagine that I was ignorant of—but we are throwing away words. Everybody's in love, I believe—Jacques is not singular. Look at this little pair of lovers—school-girl and school-boy, devoted to each other, and consuming with the tender passion. Poor unfortunate creatures!"
With which words Hoffland laughed, and pointed to a boy and girl who were passing along some steps in advance of them.
The girl was that young lady who received, as the reader may possibly recollect, so much excellent and paternal advice from Jacques. She was not burdened with her satchel on this occasion, but carried, in the same careless and playful fashion, a small reticule; while her cavalier took charge of her purchases, stored in two or three bundles, and kindly relinquished to the gentleman by the lady, as is still the custom in our own day.
The boy was a fine manly young fellow of sixteen, with a bright kind face, rosy and freckled. There seemed to be quite an excellent understanding between himself and his companion, and they went on conversing gaily.
But in this world we know not when the fates will interrupt our pleasures;—a profound remark which was verified on this occasion.
Just as the girl was passing the residence of Sir Asinus, her feet dancing for joy, her curls illuminated, her reticule describing the largest possible arc of a circle—just then, little Martha, or Puss, as she was called, found herself suddenly arrested, and the over-skirt of her silk dress raised with a sudden jerk. The reticule ceased to pendulate, the conversation stopped abruptly, the boy and girl stood profoundly astonished.
"Oh, me!" cried the child, clasping her hands; "what's that?"
"Witchcraft!" suggested her companion, laughing.
"No, my dear young friends," here interposed a voicefrom the clouds—figuratively speaking—really from an upper window; "it is not witchcraft, but a simple result of natural laws."
The child raised her head quickly at these words, and saw leaning out of a dormer window of Mrs. Bobbery's mansion, that identical red-haired gentleman whom she had seen upon a former occasion; in a word, Sir Asinus: Sir Asinus dressed magnificently in his old faded dressing-gown; his sandy hair standing erect upon his head; his features sharper than ever; and his eyes more eloquent with philosophical and cynical humor. As he leaned far out of the window, he resembled a large owl in a dressing-gown, with arms instead of legs, fingers instead of claws.
"I repeat, sir and miss," he said blandly—"or probably it would be more proper to say, miss and sir—I repeat that this is not witchcraft, and your dress is simply caught by a hook, which hook contained a grain of wheat, which wheat has been devoured. Wait! I will descend."
And disappearing from the window, Sir Asinus soon made his appearance at the door, and approached the boy and girl. The girl was laughing.
"Oh, sir! I think I understand now—you were fishing for swallows, and the hook——"
"Caught in your dress! Precisely, my beautiful little lady, whom I have the pleasure of seeing for the fiftieth time, since I see you passing every morning, noon and evening—precisely. Immured in my apartment for political reasons, I am reduced to this species of amusement; and this hook attached to this thread contained a grain of wheat. It floated far up, and some cormorantdevoured it; then the wind ceasing, it had the misfortune to strike into your dress."
With which words Sir Asinus made an elegant bow, wrapping his old dressing-gown about him with one hand, while he extricated the hook with the other.
"There! you are free!" he said; "I am very sorry, my dear little lady——"
"Oh, indeed, sir! it is very funny! I'm almost glad it caught me, Bathurst laughed so much."
"I have the pleasure of making Mr. Bathurst's acquaintance," said Sir Asinus politely; and in spite of little Martha's correction, that Mr. Bathurst was not his name, he added, "Your cavalier at the ball to-night, I presume?"
"Oh, sir, you are laughing," said the girl, with her bright face; "but we are going to the ball."
"And will you dance with me?"
"Ifyouwill, sir."
"Extraordinary innocence!" muttered the knight, "not common among young ladies;" then he added, "I assure you, Miss—you have not told me——"
"My name is Martha, sir."
"Well, Miss Martha, I shall dance with you most delightedly. Asinus is my name—I am descended from a great Assyrian family; and this is my lodging. Looking up any morning, my dear Miss Martha, you will receive the most elegant bow I have—such as is due to a Fairy Queen, and the empress of my soul.—Good morning, Mowbray."
And saluting the students who passed, laughing, Sir Asinus ascended again, muttering and wrapping his old dressing-gown more tightly around him.
"Yes," he said, "there's no doubt about the fact in myown mind;—I am just as much in love with that pretty young girl who has left me laughing and joyous, as that ridiculous Jacques is with his beauty at Shadynook. I thought at one time I was in love withBelle-bouchemyself, but I was mistaken. I certainly was convinced of it, however, or why did I name my sail-boat the 'Rebecca'—that being the actual name of MissBelle-bouche? Yet I was not in love with that young lady—andamin love with this little creature of fifteen and a half, who has passed me every morning and evening, going to school. Going to school! there it is! I, the great political thinker, the originator of ideas, the student, the philosopher, the cynic—I am in love with a school-girl! Well, I am not aware that the fact of acquiring a knowledge of geography and numbers, music, and other things, has the effect of making young ladies disagreeable. Therefore I uphold the doctrine that love for young ladies who attend school is not wholly ridiculous—else how could those who go on studying until they are as old as the surrounding hills, be ever loved with reason? I am therefore determined to fall deeper still in love, and write more verses, and abolish that old dull scoundrel Coke, and become a sighing, languishing, poetic Lovelace. I'll go and dance, and feel my pulse every hour, and look at the weather-glass of my affections, and at night, or rather in the morning, report to myself the result. What a lucky lover I am! I will write a sonnet to that thread, and an ode to the hook;—I will expand the affair into an epic!"
With which gigantic idea Sir Asinus kicked aside a volume of Coke which obstructed his way, seized a pen, and frowning dreadfully, began to compose.(Back to Table of Content.)
"What an oddity!" said Hoffland, as leaving the domain of Sir Asinus behind them, the two students passed on, still laughing at the grotesque appearance of the knight; "this gentleman seems to live in an atmosphere of jests and humor."
"I think it is somewhat forced."
"Somewhat forced?"
"At times."
"How?"
"I mean that he is as often sad as merry; and more frequently earnest and serious than careless."
"Is it possible, Ernest?"
"I think I am right."
"Sir Asinus—as I have heard him called—a serious man?"
"Yes, and a very profound one."
"You surprise me!"
"Well, I think that some day he will surprise the world: he is a most profound thinker, and has that dangerous trait for opponents, a clearness of perception which cuts through the rind of a subject, and eviscerates the real core of it with extraordinary ease. You know——"
"Now you are going to talk politics," said Hoffland, laughing.
"No," said Ernest.
"I do not like politics," Hoffland continued; "they weary me, and I would much rather talk of balls.—What a funny figure Sir Asinus will cut with that little creature—in reel or minuet!"
And Hoffland complimented his own conception with a laugh.
"I scarcely fancy he will go in his old dressing-gown," said Mowbray with his sad smile; "that would be a poor compliment to his Excellency, and the many beautiful dames who will meet him."
"Is it to be a large ball?"
"I believe so."
"And very gay?"
"No doubt."
"You escort Miss Lucy?"
"Yes."
"And do you anticipate much pleasure?"
"Can you ask me, Charles?"
"Why—I thought you might throw off—this feeling you have——"
"I cannot," Mowbray said, shaking his head; "time only can accomplish that—not music, and gay forms, and laughter! Ah, Charles!" he added with a deep and weary sigh, "you plainly know nothing of my feeling. I cannot prevent myself from speaking of it—it makes me the merest boy; and now I say that it is far too strong to be dispelled in any degree by merriment. Mirth and joy and festive scenes obliterate some annoyances—those vague disquietudes which oppress some persons; they are scarcely a balm for sorrow, real sorrow."
Hoffland held down his head and sighed.
"I shall see her there to-night, I doubt not," Mowbray went on, striving to preserve his calmness; "our glances will meet; her satirical smile will rise to her lips, and she will turn away as indifferently as if she had not cruelly and wantonly wounded a heart which loves her truly—deeply. This I shall suffer—this I anticipate: can you ask me then if I look forward to the ball with pleasure?"
Hoffland raised his head; his face was full of smiles.
"But suppose she does not look thus at you?" he said.
"I do not understand——"
"Suppose Philippa—was not that her name?—suppose she smiles when you bow to her: for you will bow, won't you, Ernest?"
"Assuredly; but to reply to your question. I should know perfectly well that her smile was the untrue manœuvre of a coquette. Ah! Charles! Charles! may you never know what it is to see a false smile in woman—cold and chilling—the glitter of sunlight upon snow. It is worse than frowns!"
"Ernest, you are a strange person," said Hoffland; "you seem determined to misjudge this young girl, who is not as bad as you think her, my life upon it! So, frown or smile, you are determined to hate her?"
"I do not hate her! Would to Heaven I could get as far from love for her, as the neutral ground of indifference."
"Unhappy man!" said Hoffland; "you pray to be delivered from love!"
"Devoutly."
"It is our greatest happiness."
"And deepest misery."
"Misanthrope!"
"No, Charles, I neither hate men nor women; I do not permit this disappointment to sour my heart. But I cannot become an advocate of the feeling which has caused me such cruel suffering. Let us say no more. We shall meet at the ball, and then you will be able to judge whether I am mistaken in the estimate I place upon this young girl's character. She is beautiful, haughty, suspicious, and unfeeling: it tears my heart to say it, but it is true. You will never after this evening doubt my unhappiness, or charge me with error."
"Probably not," said Hoffland, turning away his head; "I will make your error plain to you—but promise to speak of it no more."
"What do you mean by 'make my error plain to me'?"
"You will see."
"Charles!" said Mowbray suddenly, "you cannot have designed to approach this lady upon the subject which I have spoken to you of, as friend to friend? That is not possible!"
"I shall not say one single word to your lady-love."
"Explain then."
"Never—I am a Sphinx, an oracle: until the time comes I am dumb."
"You only strive to raise my spirits," said Mowbray with his sad smile; "that is very kind in you, but I fear it is even more than you could do."
"By which I suppose you mean that I could 'raise your spirits' if any body could."
"I may say yes—for you have a rare cheerfulness. It is almost contagious."
Hoffland looked sidewise at his companion for a moment with a curious smile, and said:
"Ernest."
"Well, Charles."
"How would you like to have—but it is too foolish."
"Go on: finish your sentence."
"No, you will laugh."
"Perhaps I shall: I hope so," Mowbray said, sadly smiling.
There was so much sadness in his tones, spite of the smile, that Hoffland's eyes filled with tears.
"What I was about to say was very ridiculous," the boy said, with a slight tremor in his voice; "but you know almost every thing I say is ridiculous."
"No, indeed, Charles; you are a singular mixture of excellent sense and fanciful humor."
"Well, then, attribute my question to humor."
"Willingly."
"I was about to ask you—as you were kind enough to say that I could make you laugh if any one could—I was about to ask, how would you like to have a wife like me?"
And Hoffland burst out laughing. Ernest sighed.
"I think I should like it very well—to reply simply to your question."
"Indeed!"
"Yes."
"What do you admire so much in me?"
"I love more than I admire, Charles."
"Do you?" And the boy's head drooped.
"Yes," said Mowbray; "you possess a childlike ingenuousness and simplicity which is exceedingly refreshingto me after intense study. I would call your conversation at times prattle, but for the fear of offending you."
"Oh, you will not."
"Prattle is very engaging, you know," said Mowbray, "and I often feel as if my weary head would be at rest upon your friendly shoulder."
"Why don't you rest it there then?"
Mowbray smiled.
"You may answer that question better than myself," he said: "for some strange reason, you always avoid me when I approach you."
"Avoid you!"
"Yes, Charles."
"Why, my dear follow," said Hoffland, with a free-and-easy air, "come as near as you choose; here, let us lock arms! Does that look like avoiding you?"
Mowbray smiled.
"It is very different here in the street," he said; "but let us dismiss this idle subject. It is an odd way of throwing away time to debate whether you would make a good wife."
"I don't think it is," said Hoffland, and he laughed. "If I would make a good wife, I would make a good husband; and as I have natural doubts upon the latter point, I wish to have them solved. But I weary you—let us part.Good-bye," added Hoffland, with a strange expression of face and tone of voice; "here is my lodging, and you go on to the college."
"No, I think I will go up and sit down a moment."
Hoffland stood still.
"It is strange, but true, that I have never paid youvisit," continued Mowbray, "and now I will go and see your quarters."
"Really, my dear Ernest—the fact is—I assure you on my honor—there is nothing to attract——"
Mowbray smiled.
"Never mind," he said, "I will go up, if from nothing else, from simple curiosity."
The singular young man looked exceedingly vexed at this, and did not move.
Mowbray was about to pass with a smile up the steps leading to the door, when an acquaintance came by and stopped a moment to speak to him. Mowbray seemed interested in what he said, and half turned from Hoffland.
No sooner had he done so than the boy placed one cautious foot upon the stone step, looked quickly around, saw that he was unobserved; and entering the house with a bound, ran lightly up the steps, opened the door of his apartment, entered it, closed the door, and disappeared. The sound of the bolt in moving proved that he had locked himself in.
In two minutes Mowbray turned round to speak to his companion: he was no where to be seen. The friend with whom he had been conversing had observed nothing, and suggested that Mr. Hoffland must have gone on.
No; he had, however, gone to his room probably. And ascending the stairs, Mowbray knocked at the door. No voice replied.
"Strange boy!" he murmured; "he cannot be here, however—and yet that singular objection he seemed to have to my visiting him—singular!"
And Mowbray, finding himself no nearer a conclusionthan at first, descended, and slowly passed on toward the college.
No sooner had he disappeared within its walls than a slight noise at Hoffland's window proved that he had been watching Mowbray. All then became silent. In an hour, however, the door was cautiously opened, and the boy issued forth. He carefully closed the door, re-locked it, put the key in his pocket, descended, and commenced walking rapidly toward the southern portion of the town, depositing as he went by a letter in the post.
He passed through the suburbs, continued his way over the open road leading toward Jamestown, and in half an hour arrived at a little roadside ordinary—one of those houses of private entertainment which are wholly different from the great public taverns.
Fifty paces beyond this ordinary a chariot with four horses was waiting in a glade of the forest, and on catching sight of it Hoffland hastened his steps, and almost ran.
He reached the chariot breathless from his long walk and the rapidity with which he had passed over the distance between the ordinary and the vehicle; threw open the door before the coachman knew he was near; entered, said in a low voice, "Home!" and sank back exhausted.
As though only waiting for this single word, the chariot began to move, and the horses, drawing the heavy vehicle, disappeared at a gallop.(Back to Table of Content.)
Upon the most moderate calculation, Sir Asinus must have tied his lace cravat a dozen times before he finally coaxed his smoothly shaven chin to rest in quiet grace upon its white folds. Having accomplished this important matter, and donned his coat of Mecklenburg silk, the knight took a last survey of himself in the mirror, carefully reconnoitred the street below for lurking proctors, and then brushing the nap of his cocked hat and humming his favorite Latin song, stepped daintily into the street and bent his way toward the Raleigh.
Sir Asinus thought he had never seen a finer ball; for, to say nothing of the chariots and coachmen and pawing horses and liveries at the door—of the splendid gentlemen dismounting from their cobs and entering gay and free the spacious ball-room—there was the great and overwhelming array of fatal beauty raining splendor on the noisy air, and turning every thing into delight.
The great room—theApollofamed in history for ever—blazed from end to end with lights; the noble minstrels of the festival sat high above and stunned the ears with fiddles, hautboys, flutes and fifes and bugles; the crowd swayed back and forth, and buzzed and hummed and rustled with a well-bred laughter;—and from all this fairy spectacle of brilliant lights and fair and gracefulforms arose a perfume which made the ascetic Sir Asinus once more happy, causing his lips to smile, his eyes to dance, his very pointed nose to grow more sharp as it inhaled the fragrance showering down in shivering clouds.
Make way for his Excellency!—here he comes, the gallant gay Fauquier, with a polite word for every lady, and a smile for the old planters who have won and lost with him their thousands of pounds. And the smiling Excellency has a word for the students too, and among the rest for Sir Asinus, his prime favorite.
"Ah, Tom!" he says, "give you good evening."
"Good evening, your Excellency," said Sir Asinus, bowing.
"From your exile?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah, well,carpe diem! be happy while you may—that has been my principle in life. A fine assembly; and if I am not mistaken, I hear the shuffle of cards yonder in the side room."
"Yes, sir."
"Ah, you Virginians! I find your thirst for play even greater than my own."
"I think your Excellency introduced the said thirst."
"What! introduced it? I? Not at all. You Virginians are true descendants of the cavaliers—those long-haired gentlemen who drank, and diced, and swore, and got into the saddle, and fought without knowing very accurately what they were fighting about. See, I have drawn you to the life!"
Sir Asinus smiled.
"We shall some day have to fight, sir," he said, "and we shall then falsify our ancestral character."
"How?"
"We shall know what we fight about!"
"Bah! my dear Tom! there you are beginning to talk politics, and soon you will be rattling the stamp act and navigation laws in my ears, like two pebbles shaken together in the hand. Enough! Be happy while you may, I say again, and forget your theories. Ah! there is my friend, Mrs. Wimple, and her charming niece. Good evening, madam."
And his Excellency made a courtly bow to Aunt Wimple, who was resplendent in a head-dress which towered aloft like a helmet.
And passing on, the Governor smiled upon MissBelle-bouche, and saluted Jacques.
On former occasions we have attempted to describe the costume of this latter gentleman; on the present occasion we shall not. It is enough to say that the large tulip bed at Shadynook seemed to have left that domain and entered the ball-room of the Raleigh, with the lady who attended to them.
This wasBelle-bouche, as we have said; and the tender languishing face of the little beauty was full of joy at the bright scene.
As for poor Jacques, he was oceans deep in love, and scarcely looked at any other lady in the room. This caused much amusement among his friends who were looking at him; but what does a lover care for laughter?
"Ah!" he says, "a truly Arcadian scene! Methinks the Muses and the Graces have become civilized, and assembled here to dance the minuet. You will have a delightful evening."
"Oh, I'm sure I shall!" saysBelle-bouche, smiling.
"And I shall, because I am with you."
With which words, Jacques smiles and sighs; and his watchful friends follow his eyes, and laugh more loudly than ever.
They say to him afterwards: "Well, old fellow, the way you were sweet upon your lady-love on that occasion, was a sin! You almost ate her up with your eyes, and at one time you looked as if you were going to dissolve into a sigh, or melt into a smile. At any rate, you are gone—go on!"
Belle-bouchereceives the tender compliments of Jacques with a flitting blush, and says, in order to divert him from the subject of herself:
"There is Mr. Mowbray, entering with his sister Lucy. She is very sweet——"
"But not——"
"And must be at our May-day," addsBelle-bouche, quickly. "Good evening, Mr. Mowbray and Miss Lucy; I wanted to see you." With which wordsBelle-bouchegives her hand to Lucy. "You must come to our May-day at Shadynook;—promise now. Mr. Mowbray delivered my message?"
"Yes; and I will certainly come—if Ernest will take me," says Lucy, smiling.
The pale face of Mowbray is lit up for a moment by a sad smile, and he replies:
"I will come, madam—if I have courage," he murmurs, turning away.
"You must; we shall have a merry day, I think. What a fine assembly!"
"Very gay."
"Oh, there's Jenny——"
"A friend?"
"Oh, yes!"
And while this conversation proceeds, Jacques is talking with Lucy. He interrupts himself in the middle of a sentence, to bow paternally to a young lady who has just entered.
"Good evening, my dear Miss Merryheart," he says.
"Oh, sir! that is not my name," says little Martha, laughing.
"What is?"
"Martha."
"And are you not desirous of changing it?"
The girl laughs.
"Say, for Mrs. Jacques?"
"Oh!" cries Martha, with a merry glance and a pleasant affectation of reserve, "that is too public."
"The fact is," replies Jacques, smiling, "you are looking so lovely, that I could not help it."
"Oh, sir!" says the girl blushing, but delighted. Which expression makes her companion—a youthful gentleman called Bathurst—frown with jealousy.
Lucy is admiring the child, when she finds herself saluted by Sir Asinus, who has made her acquaintance some time since.
"A delightful evening, Miss Mowbray," says that worthy; "and I find you admiring a very dear friend of mine."
"Who is that, sir?" says Lucy, smiling.
"Little Miss Martha."
"She is your friend?"
"Are you not?" says Sir Asinus, bowing with greatdevotion to Martha; "you caught me this morning, you know."
"Oh no, sir! you caught me!"
"Indeed!" cried Sir Asinus; "I thought 'twas the lady's part!"
And he relishes his joke so much and laughs so loud, that the girl discovers her mistake and blushes, which increases her fresh beauty a thousand-fold.
Sir Asinus heaves a sigh, and contemplates a declaration immediately. He asks her hand for a quadrille instead.
"Oh, yes, sir!"
Whereupon Bathurst revolves gloomy thoughts of revenge in the depths of his soul.
Sir Asinus, seeing his rival's moodiness, smiles; but this smile disappears like a sunbeam. He sees Doctor Small approaching, and turns to flee.
In doing so, he runs up against and treads on the toes of Mr. Jack Denis, who laughs, and bowing to Lucy, presses toward her and takes his place at her side.
Sir Asinus makes his way through the crowd, paying his respects to every body.
He arrives, at length, at the door of the side room where the devotees of cards are busy at tictac. He is soon seated at one of the tables by the side of Governor Fauquier, and is playing away with the utmost delight.
In this way the ball commenced; and so it went on with loud music, and a hum of voices rising almost to a shout at times, until the supper hour. And then, the profuse supper having been discussed with that honorable devotion which ever characterizes Virginians, the dancing recommenced, more madly than ever.
But let not the reader imagine that the dances of the old time were like our own. Not at all. They had no waltzes, polkas, or the like, but dignified quadrilles, and stately minuets; and it was only when the company had become perfectly acquainted with each other, at the end of the assembly, that the reel was inaugurated, with its wild excessive mirth—its rapid, darting, circling, and exuberant delight.
Poor Sir Asinus! he had not been well treated by his lady-love—we mean the little Martha. That young lady liked the noble knight, but Brutus-like, loved Bathurst more. The worthy Sir Asinus found his graces of mind and person no match for the laughing freckled face of her youthful admirer, and with all the passing hours he grew more sad.
He ended by offering his heart and hand, we verily believe, in the middle of a quadrille; but on this point we are not quite certain. Sure are we that on this night the great politician found himself defeated by a boy—this we may assert from after events.
In the excess of his mortification he betook himself to cards, and was soon sent away penniless. He rose from the card-table feeling, like Catiline, ripe for conspiracy and treason. He re-entered the ball-room and strolled about disconsolate—a stalking ghost.
Just as he made his appearance a lady entered from the opposite door, and Sir Asinus felt the arm of a gentleman, against whom he was pressed by the crowd, tremble. He turned and looked at him. It was Mowbray; and he was looking at the lady who had just entered.
This lady was Philippa.(Back to Table of Content.)