ERNEST AND PHILIPPA.
The young girl had never looked more beautiful. She was clad in a
simple white satin, her dazzling arms were bare, but she wore not a
single bracelet; her hair was carried back from her temples, and
powdered until it resembled a midnight strewed with star-dust--but not
a single jewel glittered above her imperial brow, or on her neck. She
looked like an uncrowned queen, and took her place as one not needing
ornaments.
Poor Mowbray, as we have seen, trembled slightly as she entered. With
all his strength he could not restrain this exhibition of emotion.
When he had visited her so often at Shadynook she had invariably worn
a number of jewels, and seemed to have taken an idle delight in
decorating her person with all the splendor which unlimited wealth
places at the command of those who possess it. Now she came like a
simple village maiden--like a May-day queen; queen not in virtue of
her jewels or her wealth, but for her beauty and simplicity and
kindness.
If he had loved her before, poor Mowbray now more than loved her.
All his resolutions melted before her approach, as the iceberg thaws
and dissolves beneath the rays of a tropic sky. He had floated into
the old latitudes of love and warmth again, and his cold heart once
more began to beat--his hardness to pass away; leaving the old, true,
faithful love.
She came on carelessly through the crowd, dispensing smiles and gay
laughter. Surrounded by a host of admirers, she talked with all of
them at once--scattered here a jest, there a smile; asked here a
question, replied gaily there to one addressed to her; and as she
moved, the crowd of gallant gentlemen moved with her, as the stars
hover around and follow in the wake of the bright harvest moon.
Philippa was "easily foist." She had that rare joyousness which is
contagious, making all who come within its influence merry like
itself; and with her wildest laughter and her most careless jests, a
maiden simpleness and grace was mingled which made the "judicious" who
had "grieved" before as much her admirers as the ruffled and powdered
fine gentlemen who bowed and smiled and whispered to her as she moved.
Poor Mowbray! He saw what he had lost, and groaned.
This was the woman whom he loved--would have given worlds to have love
him again. This was the bold true nature he had felt such admiration
for--and now he saw how maidenly she was, and only saw it fully when
she was lost to him.
Could she have ever uttered those cruel words which still echoed in
his heart?--and was this kind and happy face, this open, frank, and
lovely girl, the woman who had struck his heart so rudely?
Could he not love her still, and go to her and say, "I wronged you,
pardon me, I love you more than ever"?
No; all that was over, and he might love her madly, with insane
energy, and break his heart with the thought of her beauty and
simplicity and truth; but never would he again approach a woman who
despised him--looked upon him as an adventurer and fortune-hunter.
Still Philippa came on slowly, bowing, smiling, and jesting--she ever
approached nearer.
Mowbray felt a shudder run through his body, and turned to leave the
spot.
As he did so, he heard a voice which made his ears tingle, his heart
sink, his cheek flush, utter in the most quiet manner, and without any
exhibition of coldness or satire or affectation, the words:
"Good evening, Mr. Mowbray. Will you not speak to me?"
Mowbray became calm suddenly, by one of those efforts of resolution
which characterized him.
"Good evening, madam," he said, approaching the young girl
unconsciously; "I trust you are well."
And wondering at himself, he stood beside her.
"I believe I am very well," she said, smiling; "will you give me your
arm?"
Mowbray presented his arm, bowing calmly; and with a smile which
embraced the whole mortified group of gentlemen, the young girl turned
away with him.
"I have not had the pleasure of seeing you--have I?--lately," she
said; "where have you been, if I may ask a very impertinent question?"
"At Williamsburg, madam."
"And never at Shadynook?"
"I was informed that you had gone home."
"Yes, so I did. But then if you had much--friendship for me, I think
you might have followed me."
Mowbray was so much moved by the fascinating glance which accompanied
these words, that he could only murmur:
"Follow you, madam?"
"Yes; I believe when gentlemen have friends--particular friends among
the ladies, and those friends leave them, they go to seek them."
"I am unfortunately a poor law student, madam--I have little time for
visits."
Philippa smiled.
"I am afraid that is an evasion, sir," she said.
"How, madam?"
"The true reason I fear is, that the rule I have spoken of does not
apply to you and myself."
"The rule----?"
"That we follow our particular friends--or rather that the gentlemen
do. I fear you do not regard me in that light."
Mowbray could only say:
"Why should I not, madam?"
Philippa paused for a moment; and then said, smiling:
"Shall I tell you?"
"Yes."
"I fancy then that something which I said in our last interview
offended you."
This was a home thrust, and Mowbray could not reply.
"Answer," she said; "did you not come away from that interview
thinking me very rude, very unladylike, very affected and unlovely?
did you not cordially determine never to think of me again--and have
you not kept that resolution?"
"No, madam," said Mowbray, replying by evasion to the last clause of
the sentence.
Philippa pouted.
"Mr. Mowbray," she said, "you are very cold. I believe I have left at
least a dozen gallant wits to give you my whole attention, and you
reply to me in monosyllables."
Mowbray felt his heart wounded by these words, which were uttered
with as much feeling as annoyance, and replied:
"I should not have accepted your proposal, madam; it was selfish. I am
not in very excellent spirits this evening, and fear that I shall not
be able to entertain you. Pardon my dulness."
"No, I will not. You can be just as agreeable as you choose, and you
will not."
Mowbray found himself smiling at these words, and said:
"Perhaps, then, if you will ask me some more questions, madam, I may
reply in something more than monosyllables."
"Well then, sir, are you going to the May-day party at Shadynook?"
"I do not know--yes, I suppose, however. I have promised."
"Then Miss Lucy will wish to have you."
"Yes--well, I shall go."
"I am very glad!" said Philippa.
Mowbray could not explain the happiness he felt: all his coldness and
doubt seemed to be passing away in presence of this young girl, who
gave him such winning smiles, and so obstinately refused to observe
his constraint. He had spoken truly to Hoffland; he was in love, and
he had no longer any command over himself. He banished the thought
that she was playing with his feelings, as soon as it occurred, and
gave himself up to the intoxicating happiness which he experienced in
her presence.
"You will also come to the party, will you not?" he said, smiling.
"Oh, yes!" said Philippa; "they could not very well get on without
me. In the first place, Bel and myself are to get every thing ready; I
mean at Shadynook. As to the invitations, and all the externals, they
are intrusted to that handsome gentleman yonder, who is devouring Bel
with his eyes! Can't you see him?" added Philippa, with a merry laugh;
"poor fellow he is deeply in love----"
"And that you think very ridiculous?"
"Indeed, no. I can imagine no greater compliment, and no larger
happiness, than to be sincerely loved by a true and honest gentleman."
Mowbray looked at her sadly, but with a smile.
"There are very many honest gentlemen," he said.
"Yes, but they do not love everybody," said Philippa; "and that for a
very good reason."
"What?"
The young girl laughed.
"Because they love themselves so much," she said. "Gallant Adonises!
they think themselves handsome, nay, more lovely than all the maidens
in the world!"
Mowbray caught the infectious mirth of the young girl, and smiled.
Poor Mowbray! where were all his mighty resolutions--his fair
promises--his determination to remain an iceberg in presence of this
haughty young girl? He was falling more deeply in love with her every
moment.
"You are very severe upon the fine gentlemen," he said; "I think your
picture is the exception."
"No, no! the rule! the rule!" she went on laughing. "Just look at them
yonder. See how they smile and simper, and press their hands to their
hearts, and daintily arrange their drop curls! I would as soon be
loved by a lay-figure!"
And Philippa burst into a fit of merry laughter.
"Look!" she said; "see that ridiculous young gentleman near the door,
with the velvet breast-knot--think of a velvet breast-knot! See how he
daintily helps himself to snuff from a box with a picture of Madame
Pompadour, or some celebrated lady, upon the lid; and see his jewelled
hand, his simpering face, his languid air, his affected drawl as he
murmurs, 'Ah--yes--madam--very--warm--but a charming--spectacle.' On
my word! I would always provide myself with a bottle of _sal volatile_
when such gentlemen came to see me!"
Mowbray found himself growing positively happy. Not only were his
spirits raised by the young girl's merry and good-humored
conversation, but every word which she uttered made his heart thrill
more and more. All her discourse, all her satire upon the butterflies
of the ball-room, had originated in the discussion of what character
was proper for a lover. She scouted the idea of the love of one of
these idlers attracting for a moment the regard of an intelligent
woman: then was it not a just conclusion, that she looked for
character, and dignity, and activity? She pointed to his own opposite,
in grotesque colors, and laughed at her picture: then did she not find
something to like in himself? Could she ever love him?
And Mowbray's cheek flushed--his strong frame was agitated.
"The amusing part of all this is," said Philippa, laughing, "that
these gentlemen think their charms irresistible. Now, there is my
cousin Charles--you know him, I believe."
"Charles----?"
"Charles Hoffland."
"Charles, your cousin!" cried Mowbray; "it is impossible!"
"Why, what is impossible in the fact? Possible? Of course it is
possible!"
And Philippa laughed again more merrily than before.
"Your cousin!" repeated Mowbray; "why, Charles is one of my best
friends."
"That is very proper, sir; then, you have two friends in the family."
And Philippa gave her cavalier an enchanting smile.
"Charles is a very excellent young man," she laughed; "and I am sure
loves me deeply, but then any one can see he loves himself
extravagantly."
"Is it possible! But excuse me," said Mowbray, seeing that his
astonishment annoyed his companion; "he was to be here to-night."
"Has he arrived?" said Philippa, looking round with her daring smile.
"I do not see him."
"Tell me when he comes," she said, shaking with laughter; "he's a sad
fellow, and I must lecture him."
Mowbray looked at her.
"Strange that I did not see that you were related," he said.
"Very strange."
"He resembles you strongly."
"Yes."
"But has light hair."
"Has he?"
"And is smaller, I verily believe."
"No, I believe our height is just the same. Has he attended to his
studies?"
Mowbray smiled and shook his head.
"Not in a way to injure his health, I fear."
"Lazy fellow! I will never marry him."
"He is then a suitor of yours, madam? I was not aware of the fact--and
request you to pardon my criticism."
"There you are assuming your grand air again," said Philippa,
laughing; "please leave it at home when you come to see me. Ah! you
smile again--that pleases me. What did you ask? 'Was Charles my
suitor--did he love me?' Yes, I am convinced that he loves me
devotedly, as deeply as a man can love any thing--as much, that is to
say, as he loves himself!"
And the young girl burst into another fit of laughter, and positively
shook with merriment.
"Did you become well acquainted with him?" she asked, after a pause;
"Charles is not stiff--too free and easy, I fear, and I am sure
you--liked him."
"Indeed, I did," said Mowbray; "he was a great consolation to me, and
I always thought there was something strangely familiar in his face.
Singular that I never observed how closely he resembled you."
"That was because you did not think of me very frequently."
Mowbray colored.
"I thought of you too often, I fear," he said in a low tone.
"And never came to see me--that is a probable tale," she said,
coloring also, and glancing with a mixture of mirth and timidity at
him.
Their eyes met;--those eloquent pleaders said much in that second.
"I have suffered much," he said; "my heart is not very strong--I was
deceived--I could not----"
And Mowbray would have said something still more significant of his
feelings, but for his companion's presence of mind. She observed, with
womanly tact, that a number of eyes were fixed upon them, and adroitly
diverted the conversation from the dangerous direction it was taking.
"I do not see Charles," she said, laughing and blushing; "did you not
say he promised to be here?"
"Yes," murmured Mowbray.
"He's a great idler, but I love him very much," she said, laughing.
"Tell me, Mr. Mowbray, as a friend--you know him well--could I find a
better husband?"
Mowbray colored.
"He has a noble heart," he said; "do I understand that----"
"I love him! Yes, I cannot deny it truly; and why should I not make
him happy?--for he loves me sincerely."
Mowbray felt his heart sink. Then that new-born hope was doomed to
disappointment--that fancy was all folly! His miseries would be only
deeper for the brief taste of happiness. He could not reply; he only
muttered some inarticulate words, which Philippa did not seem to hear.
"I will decide finally on the day of the party at Shadynook," she
said, smiling; "and now let us leave the subject. But do not forget to
tell me when Charles enters," she added, laughing.
Poor Mowbray! he felt his heart oppressed with a new and more bitter
emotion. The company thought him happy in exclusive possession of the
lovely girl's society--his side was pierced with a cruel, rankling
thorn.