MOWBRAY OPENS HIS HEART TO HIS NEW FRIEND.
Instead of following the melancholy Jacques to his chamber, let us
return to the meadow in which he had been saluted by the invisible
voice. A brook ran sparkling like a silver thread across the emerald
expanse, and along this brook were sauntering two students, one of
whom had spoken to the abstracted lover.
He who had addressed Jacques was Mowbray; the other was Hoffland, the
young student who had just arrived at Williamsburg.
Hoffland is much younger than his companion--indeed, seems scarcely to
have passed beyond boyhood; his stature is low, his figure is slender,
his hair flaxen and curling, his face ornamented only with a
peach-down mustache. He is clad in a suit of black richly embroidered;
wraps a slight cloak around him spite of the warmth of the pleasant
May afternoon; and his cocked hat, apparently too large for him,
droops over his face, falling low down upon his brow.
They walk on for a moment in silence.
Then Hoffland says, in a musical voice like that of a boy before his
tone undergoes the disagreeable change of manhood:
"You have not said how strange you thought this sudden friendship I
express, Mr. Mowbray, but I am afraid you think me very strange."
"No, indeed," replies Mowbray; "I know not why, but you have already
taken a strong hold upon me. Singular! we are almost strangers, but I
feel as though I had known you all my life!"
"That can scarcely be, for I am but seventeen or eighteen," says
Hoffland smiling.
"A frank, true age. I regret that I have passed it."
"Why?"
"Ah, can you ask, Mr. Hoffland?"
"Please do not call me Mr. Hoffland. We are friends: say Charles; and
then I will call you Ernest. I cannot unless you set me the example."
"Ernest? How did you discover my name?"
"Oh!" said Hoffland, somewhat embarrassed, "does not every body know
Ernest Mowbray?"
"Very well--as you are determined to give me compliments instead of
reasons, I will not persist. Charles be it then, but you must call me
Ernest."
"Yes, Ernest."
The low musical words went to his heart, and broke down every barrier.
They were bosom friends from that moment, and walked on in perfect
confidence.
"Why did you regret your youth, Ernest?" said Hoffland. "I
thought young men looked forward impatiently to their full
manhood--twenty-five or thirty; though I do not," he added with a
smile.
"They do; but it is only another proof of the blindness of youth."
"Is youth blind?"
"Blind, because it cannot see that all the delights of ambition, the
victories of mind, the triumphs and successes of the brain, are mere
dust and ashes compared with what it costs to obtain them--the
innocence of the heart, the illusions of its youthful hope."
"Ah! are illusions to be desired?"
"At least they are a sweet suffering, a bitter delight."
"Even when one wakes from them to find every thing untrue--despair
alone left?"
"You paint the reverse truly; but still I hold that the happiness of
life is in what I have styled illusions. Listen, Charles," he
continued, gazing kindly at the boy, who turned away his head. "Life
is divided into three portions--three stages, which we must all travel
before we can lie down in that silent bed prepared for us at our
journey's end. In the first, Youth, every thing is rosy, brilliant,
hopeful; life is a dream of happiness which deadens the senses with
its delirious rapture--deadens them so perfectly that the thorns Youth
treads on are such no longer, they are flowers! stones are as soft as
the emerald grass, and if a mountain or a river rise before it, all
Youth thinks is, What a beautiful summit, or, How fair a river! and
straightway it darts joyously up the ascent, or throws itself laughing
into the bright sparkling waters. The mountain and the river are not
obstacles--they are delights. Then comes the second portion of life,
Manhood, when the obstacles are truly what they seem--hard to ascend,
trying to swim over. Then comes Age, when the sobered heart hesitates
long before commencing the ascent or essaying the crossing--when
_duty_ only prompts. Say that duty is greater than hope, and you are
right; but say that duty carries men as easily over obstacles as joy,
which loves those obstacles, and you are mistaken. Well, all this
prosing is meant to show that the real happiness of life is in
illusions. Doubtless you are convinced of it, however: already one
learns much by the time he has reached eighteen."
Hoffland mused.
Mowbray drove away his thoughts, and said, smiling sadly:
"Have you ever loved, Charles?"
"Never," murmured the boy.
"That is the master illusion," sighed Mowbray.
"And is it a happy one?"
"A painful happiness."
These short words were uttered with so much sadness, that the boy
stole a look of deep interest at his companion's face.
"Do not be angry with me, Ernest," he said, "but may I ask you if you
have ever loved?"
His head drooped, and he murmured, "Yes."
"Deeply?"
"Yes."
"Were you disappointed?"
"Yes."
And there was a long pause. They walked on in silence.
"It is a beautiful afternoon," said Mowbray at length.
"Lovely," murmured the boy.
"This stream is so fresh and pure--no bitterness in it."
"Is there in love?"
Mowbray was silent for a moment. Then he raised his head, and said to
his companion:
"Charles, listen! What I am going to tell you, may serve to place you
upon your guard against what may cause you great suffering. I know not
why, but I take a strange interest in you--coming alone into the great
world a mere youth as you are, leaving in the mountains from which you
say you come all those friends whose counsel might guide you. Listen
to me, then, as to an elder brother--a brother who has grown old early
in thought and feeling, who at twenty-five has already lived half the
life of man--at least in the brain and heart. Listen. I was always
impulsive and sanguine, always proud and self-reliant. My father was
wealthy. I was told from my boyhood that I was a genius--that I had
only to extend my hand, and the slaves of the lamp, as the Orientals
say, would drop into it all the jewels of the universe. Success in
politics, poetry, law, or letters--the choice lay with me, but the
event was certain whichever I should select. Well, my father died--his
property was absorbed by his debts--I was left with an orphan sister
to struggle with the world.
"I arranged our affairs--we had a small competence after all debts
were paid. We live yonder in a small cottage, and in half an hour I
shall be there. I seldom take these strolls. Half my time is
study--the rest, work upon our small plot of ground. This was
necessary to prepare you for what I have to say.
"I had never been in love until I was twenty-four and a half--that is
to say, half a year ago. But one day I saw upon a race-course a young
girl who strongly attracted my attention, and I went home thinking of
her. I did not know her name, but I recognised in her bright, frank,
bold face--it was almost bold--that clear, strong nature which has
ever had an inexpressible charm for me. I had studied that strange
volume called Woman, and had easily found out this fact: that the
wildest and most careless young girls are often far more delicate,
feminine, and innocent than those whose eyes are always demurely cast
down, and whose lips are drawn habitually into a prudish and prim
reserve. Do you understand my awkward words?"
"Yes," said the boy quietly.
"Well," pursued Mowbray, "in forty-eight hours the dream of my life
was to find and woo that woman. I instinctively felt that she would
make me supremely happy--that the void which every man feels in his
heart, no matter what his love for relatives may be, could be filled
by this young girl alone--that she would perfect my life. Very
well--now listen, Charles."
"Yes," said the boy, in a low tone.
"I became acquainted with her--for when did a lover ever fail to
discover the place which contained his mistress?--and I found that
this young girl whom I had fallen so deeply in love with was a great
heiress."
"Unhappy chance!" exclaimed the boy; "I understand easily that this
threw an ignoble obstacle in the way. Her friends----"
"No--there you are mistaken, Charles," said Mowbray "the obstacle was
from herself."
"Did she not love you?"
Mowbray smiled sadly.
"You say that in a tone of great surprise," he replied; "there is
scarcely ground for such astonishment."
"I should think any woman might love you," murmured the boy.
Mowbray smiled again as sadly as before, and said:
"Well, I see you are determined to make me your devoted friend, by
reaching my heart through my vanity. But let me continue. I said that
the obstacles in my way were not objections on the part of Philippa's
friends--that was her name, Philippa: do not ask me more."
"No," said the boy.
"The barrier was her own nature. I had mistaken it; in the height of
my pride I had dreamed that my vision had pierced to the bottom of her
nature, to the inmost recesses of her heart: I was mistaken. I had
gazed upon the woman, throwing the heiress out of the question; you
see I was hopelessly enslaved by the woman before dreaming of the
heiress," he added, with a melancholy smile.
Hoffland made no reply.
"Now I come to the end, and I shall not detain you much longer from
the moral. I visited her repeatedly. I found more to admire than I
expected even--more to be repelled by, however, than my mind had
prepared me for. I found this young girl with many noble
qualities--but these qualities seemed to me obscured by her eternal
consciousness of riches: her suspicion, in itself an unwomanly trait,
was intense."
"Oh, sir!" cried the boy, "but surely there is some excuse! Of
course," he added, with an effort to control his feelings, "I do not
know Miss Philippa, but assuredly a young girl who is cursed with
great wealth must discriminate between those who love her for herself
and those who come to woo her because she is wealthy. Oh, believe me,
it is, it must be very painful to be wealthy, to have to suspect and
doubt--to run the hazard of wounding some noble nature, who may be by
chance among the sordid crowd who come to kneel to her because she is
an heiress--who would turn their backs upon her were she portionless.
Indeed, we should excuse much."
"Yes," said Mowbray, "and you defend the cause of heiresses well. But
let me come back to my narrative. The suspicion of this young girl was
immense--as her fortune was. That fortune chilled me whenever I
thought of it. I did not want it. I could have married her--I had
quite enough for both. Heaven decreed that she should be wealthy,
however--that the glitter of gold should blind her heart--that she
should suspect my motives. Do not understand me to say that she placed
any value upon that wealth herself. No; I believe she despised, almost
regretted it: but still, who can tell? At least I love her too much
still to hazard what may be unjust--ah! the cinder is not cold."
And Mowbray's head drooped. They walked on in silence.
"Well, well," he continued at length, "I saw her often. I could not
strangle my feelings. I loved her--in spite of her wealth--not on
account of it. But gradually my sentiment moderated: like a whip of
scorpions, this suspicion she felt struck me, wounding my heart and
inflaming my pride. I tried to stay away; I dragged through life for a
week without seeing her; then, impelled by a violent impulse, I went
to her again, armed with an impassible pride, and determined to
converse upon the most indifferent subjects--to test her nature fully,
and--to make the test complete--bend all the energies of my mind to
the task of weighing her words, her looks, her tones, that I might
make a final decision. Well, she almost distinctly intimated, fifteen
minutes after our interview commenced, that I was a fortune-hunter
whom she regarded with a mixture of amusement and contempt."
"Oh, sir! could it have been that you----"
The boy stopped.
"How unhappy she must be--to have to suspect such noble natures as
your own," he added in a low voice.
Mowbray turned away his head; then by a powerful effort went on.
"You shall judge, Charles," he said in a voice which he mastered only
by a struggle; "you shall say whether I am correct in my opinion of
her thoughts. She asked me plainly if I was poor; to which question I
replied with a single word--'Very.' Next, did I hope to become rich! I
did hope so. Her advice then was, she said, that I should marry some
heiress, since that was a surer and more rapid means than law or
politics. She said it very satirically, and with a glance which killed
my love----"
"Oh, sir!" the boy murmured.
"Yes; and though I was calm, my face not paler, I believe, than usual,
I was led to say what I bitterly regret--not because it was untrue,
for it was not, rather was it profoundly true--but because it might
have been misunderstood. It was disgraceful to marry for mere wealth,
I said; and I added, 'too expensive'--since unhappiness at any price
was dear. I added that money would never purchase my own
heart--school-boy fashion, you perceive; and then I left her--never to
return."
A long silence followed these words. Mowbray then added calmly:
"You deduce from this narrative, Charles, one lesson. Never give your
affections to a woman suddenly; never make a young girl whom you do
not know the queen of your heart--the fountain of your illusions and
your dreams. The waking will be unpleasant; pray Heaven you may never
wake as I have with a mind which is becoming sour--a heart which is
learning to distrust whatever is most fair in human nature. Let us
dismiss the subject now. I am glad I felt this impulse to open my
heart to you, a stranger, though a friend. We often whisper into a
strange ear what our closest friends would ask in vain. See, there is
his Excellency's chariot with its six white horses, and look what a
graceful bow he makes us!"
Mowbray walked on without betraying the least evidence of emotion. He
seemed perfectly calm.