HOW HOFFLAND PREFERRED A GLOVE TO A DOZEN PISTOLES.
One of the most beautiful walks in the neighborhood of Williamsburg
was known to the fair dames and gallant cavaliers of that epoch as the
"Indian Camp."
To this spot, on the morning of the day fixed for the ball at the
_Raleigh_, did Mowbray and the young student Hoffland direct their
steps, conversing pleasantly, and glad of the occasion to enjoy the
fresh beauties of nature, which presented so agreeable a contrast to
the domains of study at the good College of William and Mary. Let it
not, however, be imagined that the boy Hoffland was in the habit, as
Panurge said, of "breaking his head with study." Not at all. The
remissness of that young gentleman in his attendance upon the lectures
of the professors, had become by this time almost a proverb. Indeed,
his attendance was the exception--his absence the rule. Buried in his
quarters, in the neighborhood of Gloucester street, he seemed to exist
in a pleasant disregard of all the rules and regulations of the
college; and when the professors attempted to reason with him--which,
was seldom, inasmuch as they scarcely ever saw him--he would
acknowledge his sins very readily, and as readily promise amendment;
and then, after the well-known fashion of sinners, return to his evil
courses, and become more remiss than ever.
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 woods _en cavalier_ was a very doubtful
thing," he said.
"Why, pray?" Hoffland asked, pouting. "I should like to know what
there was wrong in it."
Mowbray smiled, but made no reply.
"Answer me," said Hoffland.
"That is easy. Do you think it wholly proper, perfectly maidenly, for
a woman to assume the garb of our sex?"
"Certainly; why not, sir?"
Mowbray smiled again.
"I fear any argument would only fortify you in your convictions, as
our rebel student says," he replied. "True, Rosalind was the victim of
circumstances, but her example is one of an exceedingly doubtful
nature, or rather it is not at all doubtful."
"Pray, how?"
"Really, Charles, you make me give a reason for every thing. Well
then, I think that it is indelicate in women to leave their proper
sphere and descend to the level of men, and this any woman must do in
assuming the masculine garb. If I am not mistaken, the common law
bears me out, and inflicts a penalty upon such deviations from
established usage. None but an inexperienced youth like yourself would
uphold Rosalind."
Hoffland colored, and said with bitter abruptness:
"I believe you despise me, sir!"
"Despise you! Why?" said the astonished Mowbray.
"Because--because--you call me an inexperienced youth;
and--and--Ernest, it is not friendly in you!--no, it is not!--it is
unjust--to treat me so!"
And Hoffland turned away like a child who is about to "have a cry."
Mowbray looked at the averted face for a moment, and saw two large
tears clinging to the long dusky lashes. He experienced a strange
sensation in the presence of this boy which he could not explain; it
was half pity for his nervous weakness of temperament, half regret at
having uttered he knew not what, to move him.
"Well, well, Charles," he said, "yours is a strange character, and I
never know how to shape my discourse in your presence. You fly off at
every thing, and I believe you are really shedding tears----"
"No, no," said Hoffland, hastily brushing away the pearly drops;
"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 with so much insult and
coldness!--after being charged with base and mercenary motives!--after
having my heart struck by a cruel and unfeeling accusation--my pride
humbled by a misconception as humiliating as it was unjust! Never,
Charles! My heart may break--I may feel through life the bitterness of
the fate which separates us for ever--I may groan and rebel and
struggle with my heart--but never again will I address one syllable to
that proud girl, who has trampled on me, as she would upon a worm, and
told me how degraded a being I was in her eyes--no, never!"
And pale, his forehead bathed with perspiration, his frame agitated,
his eyes full of fire and regret, Mowbray turned away his head and
rose.
Hoffland was silent, and yet the deep color in his cheeks betrayed the
impression which his companion's passionate words had made upon him.
In a few moments Mowbray had regained his calmness.
"Pardon me, Charles, for annoying you with these things," he said,
with a last tremor in his voice; "but your question prompted me to
speak. Let us not return to this subject; it afflicts me to speak of
it, and there is no good reason why I should revive my sufferings. Let
us go back, and endeavor in the pleasant sunshine to find some balm
for all our grief. I do not despair of conquering my passion, for all
things are possible to human energy--this far at least. Come, let us
return."
Calmly buttoning his coat, Mowbray took Charles's arm, and they bent
their way back to town.
As for Hoffland, he seemed overcome by the vehemence of his companion,
and for some time was completely silent. He seemed to be thinking.
As they approached the town, however, his spirits seemed to regain
their customary cheerfulness, and he smiled.
"Well, well, Ernest," he said, "perhaps your grief may be cured in
some other way than by strangulation. Let us not speak further of it,
but admire the beautiful day. Is it not sweet?"
"Very," said Mowbray calmly.
"It is getting warm."
"Yes, Charles; summer is not far distant."
"Summer! I always liked the summer; but we have not then those
beautiful blossoms--look how they cluster on the boughs, and what a
sweet perfume!"
"Very sweet."
"Then another drawback of summer is its dust. I hate dust; and it is
already beginning to invade my hands."
"Wear gloves then, Charles," said Mowbray, smiling at the boyish
_naivete_ of his companion's tone.
"I'd like to know how I can, without the money to buy them," said
Hoffland; "you are very unreasonable, Mr. Mowbray!"
Mowbray smiled.
"Have you none?" he said.
"Not a penny--at the moment. My supplies have not reached my new
address."
And Hoffland laughed.
"Let me lend you some. How much will you have? We are friends, you
know, Charles, and you can have no feelings of delicacy in borrowing
from me. See," said Mowbray, taking out his purse, "I have a plenty of
pistoles. Take a dozen."
"And how many will you have left?"
"Let me see--there are thirteen. I shall still have enough. There are
twelve, Charles."
And he counted them out, leaving the single coin in his purse.
Hoffland, however, drew back, and obstinately closed his hands.
"You ought to be ashamed to tempt an inexperienced youth to go in
debt," he said; "that is your fine guardianship, Mr. Mowbray."
"Come, Charles; this is folly. You do not become my debtor; I do not
want the money. Take it, and repay it when your own comes."
"No, I will not. But still I want a pair of gloves. Do me a greater
favor still, Ernest. Give me those pretty fringed gloves you wear, and
which are plainly too small for your huge hands. I know Miss Lucy gave
them to you, for she said as much the other day--I asked her!--and now
I want them. Don't refuse me, Ernest; my hand is much smaller and
handsomer than yours, and they will just fit me."
Mowbray took off the gloves, asking himself, with a sad smile, what
charm this boy exercised over him.
"There they are then, Charles," he said; "I can refuse you nothing."
"Suppose I asked for the hand as well as the gloves?"
"The hand? Perfectly at your service," said Mowbray, holding out his
hand; "I can only give it to you in a friendly spirit, however, and
there it is."
"No," said Hoffland, drawing back; "I will not accept it upon those
terms--but I have the gloves. Thank you, Ernest. Perhaps some day I
may ask you to accept a present from me; or at least I promise not to
refuse you if you ask what I have this moment refused."
And laughing heartily, Hoffland cried:
"Just look at those flowers! and there is the great city of
Williamsburg! We pass from Indian Camps to learned halls--from
barbarism to civilization. Come! let us get into Gloucester
street--that promenade of elegance and fashion! Come on, Ernest!"
And they entered the town.