HOFFLAND IS WHISKED AWAY IN A CHARIOT.
"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 manoeuvre 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 refreshing to 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 you visit," 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 conclusion than 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.