THE MAY FESTIVAL.
If not as splendid as the great ball at the Raleigh, the festival at
Shadynook was declared by all to be far more pleasant.
At an early hour in the forenoon bevies of lovely girls and graceful
cavaliers began to arrive, and the various parties scattered
themselves over the lawn, the garden, through the grove and the
forest, with true sylvan freedom and unrestraint.
Shadynook, thanks to the active exertions of Belle-bouche and
Philippa, was one bower of roses and other flowers. All the windows
were festooned with them--the tables were great pyramids of wreaths;
and out upon the lawn the blossoms from the trees showered down upon
the animated throng, and made the children laugh--for many little
girls were there--and snowing on the cavaliers, made them like heralds
of the spring; and lying on the earth, a rosy velvet carpet, almost
made the old poetic fiction true, and gave the damsels of the laughing
crowd an opportunity to walk "ankle-deep in flowers."
The harpsichord was constantly in use; and those old Scottish songs,
which echo now like some lost memory to our grandfathers and
grandmothers--we are writing of those personages--glided on the air
from coral lips, and made the spring more bright; and many gallant
hearts were there enslaved, and sighed whenever they heard sung again
those joyous or sad ditties of the Scottish muse.
Books lay about with lovely poems in them--written by the fine old
Sucklings and Tom Stanleys--breathing high chivalric homage to the
fair; and volumes of engravings, full of castles or bright pictures of
Arcadian scenes--brought thither by the melancholy Jacques as
true-love offerings--or sunset views where evening died away a purple
margin on the blue Italian skies.
And here and there, on mantelpieces and side-tables, were grotesque
ornaments in china; and odd figures cut in glass of far Bohemia; and
painted screens and embroidery. And through the crowd ran yelping more
than one small lap-dog, trodden on by children, who cried out with
merriment thereat.
Belle-bouche had rightly judged that many children should be invited;
for if bouquets are bright and pleasant, so are merry childish faces;
and so dozens of young maidens, scarcely in their teens, and full of
wild delight, ran here and there, playing with each other, and seeking
Belle-bouche--kind, loving Belle-bouche--every now and then, to say
that something was _so_ pretty, and she was so good! Whereat
Belle-bouche would smile, and play with their curls, and they would
run and play again.
There was this observable fact about the young lady who has appeared
so frequently in our little narrative, illustrating its dull pages
with her languishing and joyful smiles, showering upon it the tender
grace of her fair countenance and innocent eyes--there was this to be
observed, we say, that Belle-bouche loved and was beloved by children.
She always had them round her when she went where they were, smiling
and looking up to her with innocent faces--from the little infantile
prattlers just from the nursery, to those who, passing into their
bright teens, began to study how they might best fulfil their duty in
society--enslave the gallants. All loved Belle-bouche, and on this
occasion she had scarcely a moment's rest.
Her own companions loved her too, devotedly, and if any one had asked
the crowd assembled, what was the brightest picture, the fairest
ornament of the whole festival, they would have with one voice
declared--the little hostess. Philippa, with her queenly brow and
ready laughter, did not receive one-half the devoted attention which
was lavished on her companion; and indeed Belle-bouche was the toast
of the whole assembly.
The finest cavaliers gathered around her and paid her their
addresses--all smiled on her, and paid homage to her. Her joy was
full.
But see the finest gentleman of all approach--the no longer
melancholy, the joyful and superb knight of the ribbon-decorated
horse!
Jacques approached with the air of a captive prince--submissive, yet
proud. He smiled.
"Beautiful queen of May," he said, trailing his plumed hat upon the
floor, "behold your slave. Never did shepherd in the vales of Arcady
pay truer homage to his Daphne's charms than I do to those of our
hostess!"
This was considered a pretty speech, and Belle-bouche was about to
reply with a smile, when little Martha Wayles, who was present in a
pink-gauze dress and lace, cried:
"Oh, my goodness! just look there!"
"What is it?" asked the company.
"There, through the window," said little Martha, blushing at the
attention she excited.
"What?"
"That horse with ribbons!"
The company gazed through the window, and began to laugh. There
indeed was the horse of Jacques, splendid in all the colors of the
rainbow, pawing and tossing his head as the groom led him away.
"A little romance of mine," said Jacques, smiling; "I trust 'tis not
considered in bad taste--I had a crook----"
"A crook?"
"Yes, wreathed with flowers, as was the custom, I believe, in Arcadia;
but I feared it would attract attention in the town, and I left it,"
said Jacques, with lamblike innocence.
This sally was greeted with tumultuous applause.
"A crook!" cried the damsels.
"An excellent idea!"
"So sylvan!"
"And so appropriate!"
"We may have as many as we fancy, I believe," said Jacques, smiling;
"I have prepared a number as an introduction to the festival: they are
in the garden, ladies, already wreathed with flowers!"
The company rose in a mass to go and get them, and soon they were in
the garden; then scattered over the lawn; then every where, laughing,
making merry, and behaving like a crowd of children released from
school. The damsels acted shepherdesses to perfection, and closely
resembled the pictures we are accustomed to see upon the fans which
ladies use even to the present day. Their little airs of sylvan
simplicity were very pretty; and the gallant gentlemen were not
backward in their part. They bowed and simpered until they resembled
so many supple-jacks, pulled by the finger of a child.
"Look," said Jacques to Belle-bouche, and sighing slightly as he gazed
upon the fresh beauty of her face; "see those lovers yonder----"
"Lovers?" said Belle-bouche, smiling.
"I am not mistaken, I think," said Jacques; "yes, yes, my queen, they
are lovers. Do you not think that something like that which I spoke of
formerly will come to pass?"
Belle-bouche, with a delicious little rose-color brightening her
cheek, replied, patting her satin-sandalled foot upon the flowery
sward:
"Which you spoke of--pray, what did you speak of?"
"Of my wish to be a shepherd----"
"Ah--a shepherd," said Belle-bouche, removing a cherry blossom from
her hair, and smiling.
"Yes, my lovely queen," said Jacques, with great readiness; "I wished
to be a shepherd and have a crook----"
"Oh, sir!"
"And that my Arcadian love should also have one and draw me--so that
passing through the fields----"
"Oh, yes----"
"I might kiss her hand----"
"Yes, yes----"
"And passing through the forests wrap her in my cloak----"
Belle-bouche laughed.
"And crossing the streams on narrow moss-clad logs, support her with
my arm--as the dearest and most blessed treasure upon earth!" cried
Jacques, seizing the hand of Belle-bouche, which hung down, and
enraptured that she did not withdraw it.
Belle-bouche understood perfectly that Jacques referred to their
meeting on that day when she had been reading in the forest, and had
fled from him across the stream. Her roseate blush betrayed her.
"If only that bright dream of love could be a reality for me!" he
whispered; "if one I love so----"
"Oh, Miss Bel! the girls sent for you--the pyramid is ready!" cried
the merry voice of little Martha.
And running toward Belle-bouche, the girl told her that they really
must have her in the garden "before the procession commenced."
Poor Jacques drew back groaning.
"There's another chance gone!" he sighed; "what luck I have! I'm
always interrupted, and the fates are leagued against me."
Belle-bouche left him with a blush and a smile, and disappeared.
Ten minutes afterwards the company had reassembled on the lawn, and
seemed to be anxiously expecting something.
This something suddenly made its appearance, and advanced into the
open space with merriment and laughter.
It was a party of young girls who, clad in all the colors of the
rainbow, bore in their midst a pyramid of silver dishes wreathed with
flowers, and overflowing with strawberries and early fruits. It was a
revival of the old May-day ceremonies in London, when the milkmaids
wreathed their buckets with flowers, and passed from door to door,
singing and asking presents. Jacques had arranged it all--the
philosophic and antiquarian Jacques; and with equal taste he had
selected the beautiful verses of Marlow or Shakspeare, for the chorus
of maidens.
The maidens approached the company, therefore, merrily singing, in
their childlike voices, the song:
"Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, or hills, or fields,
Or woods and steepy mountains yields;
"Where we will sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed our flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
"And I will make thee beds of roses,
And then a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
"A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Slippers lined choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
"A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love."
As the song ended, little Martha came forth from the throng, and
holding in her hand a small crook, went round with a very laughing
face asking charity from the applauding company.
"Only a penny, sir!" she said, motioning back a pistole which Mr. Jack
Denis held out gaily.
And then--the collection ended--the young girls of the masquerade
hurried back to rid themselves of their pyramid.
Mr. Jack Denis and Miss Lucy Mowbray, who had just arrived with her
brother, bent their steps toward the grove, through which ran a
purling stream; and thither they were followed after a little by Miss
Martha Wayles and her admirer, Bathurst. We cannot follow them and
listen to their conversation--that would be indecorous. But we may be
permitted to say that two young ladies--one very young--on that
morning plighted their troth to two young gentlemen--one very young.
And if they blushed somewhat upon returning, it was an honest blush,
which the present chronicler for one will not laugh at.
In the garden all by this time was joyous and wild merriment. The
young ladies were running here and there; servants were preparing in a
flowery retreat a long table full of fruits and every delicacy; and
merriest of all, Miss Philippa was scattering on every side her joyous
and contagious laughter.
Suddenly this laughter of the young lady ceased, and she colored
slightly.
She saw Mowbray looking at her with a glance of so much love, that she
could not support his gaze.
In a moment he was at her side. "Will you not walk with me?" she said,
without waiting for him to address her; and in a moment her arm was in
his own, and they were strolling away. They went toward a noble old
oak, in the branches of which was fixed a platform, and this platform
was approached by a movable sort of ladder. The leaves around the
platform were so dense that it was impossible to see any one who might
be sitting within.
As Mowbray and Philippa approached, the ladder was seen suddenly to
move, a little exclamation was heard, and the next moment the movable
steps rose erect, balanced themselves for an instant, and fell to the
ground, cutting off all connection between the platform and the
ground.
At the same moment a triumphant voice muttered:
"Now let me see them interrupt me!"
Mowbray and Philippa did not hear it; they passed on, silent and
embarrassed.
Philippa, it was evident, had something to say, and scarcely knew how
to begin; she hesitated, laughed, blushed, and patted the ground
petulantly with her little foot. At last she said, with a smile and a
blush:
"I asked you to offer me your arm for an especial purpose. Can you
guess what that purpose was?"
Mowbray smiled, and replied:
"I am afraid not."
"I wished to tell you a tale."
"A tale?"
"A history, if you please; and as you are a thinker, and an impartial
one, to ask your opinion."
"I am sure you do me a great deal of honor," said Mowbray, smiling
with happiness; "I listen."
Philippa cast down her eyes, patted the ground more violently than
before with her silken-sandalled foot, and biting her lip, was silent.
Mowbray looked at her, and saw the blush upon her cheek. She raised
her head--their eyes met; and the blush deepened.
"Do not look at me," she said, turning away her head and bursting into
a constrained laugh; "I never could bear to have any one look at me."
"It is a very severe request, but I will obey you," he said, smiling;
"now for your history."
"It will surprise you, I suppose," she said, with her daring laugh
again; "but listen. Do not interrupt me. Well, sir, once upon a
time--you see I begin in true tale fashion--once upon a time, there
was a young girl who had the misfortune to be very rich. She had been
left an orphan at an early age, and never knew the love and tenderness
of parents. Well, sir, as was very natural, this young woman, with all
her wealth, experienced one want--but that was a great one--the
necessity of having some one to love her. I will be brief, sir--let me
go on uninterruptedly. One day this young woman saw pass before her a
man whose eyes and words proved that he had some affection for
her--enough that it was afterwards shown that she was not mistaken. At
the time, however, she doubted his affection. Her unhappy wealth had
made her suspicious, and she experienced a sort of horror of giving
her heart to some one who loved her wealth and not herself. Let me go
on, sir! I must not be interrupted! Well, she doubted this gentleman;
and one day said to him what she afterwards bitterly regretted. She
determined to charge him with mercenary intentions, and watch his
looks and listen to his words, and test him. He listened, replied
coldly, and departed, leaving her nearly heart-broken, for his nature
was not one which any woman could despise."
Mowbray looked at her strangely. She went on.
"She watched for him day after day--he did not come. She was angry,
and yet troubled; she doubted, and yet tried to justify herself. But
even when he left her, she had conceived a mad scheme--it was to go
and become his companion, and so test him. This she did, assuming
the dress of a man: was it not very indelicate, sir, and could she
have been a lady? I see you start--but do not interrupt me. Let me
go on. The young woman assumed, as I said, an impenetrable
disguise--ingratiated herself with him, and found out all his
secrets. The precious secret which she had thus braved conventionality
to discover, was her own. He loved her--yes! he loved her!" said the
young girl, with a tremor of the voice and a beating heart; "she
could not be mistaken! In moments of unreserve, of confidence, he
told her all, as one friend tells another, and she knew that she was
loved. Then she threw off her disguise--finding him noble and
sincere--and came to him and told him all. She saw that he was
incredulous--could not realize such indelicacies in the woman he
loved; and to make her humiliation complete, she proved to him, by
producing a trifle he had given her, in her disguise--like this,
sir."
And Philippa with a trembling hand drew forth the fringed gloves which
she had procured from Mowbray at the Indian Camp. They fell from her
outstretched hand--it shook.
Mowbray was pale, and his eyes were full of wonder.
"Before leaving him, this audacious young girl was more than once
convinced that the wild and unworthy freak she had undertaken to play,
would lower her in his estimation; but she did not draw back. Her
training had been bad; she enjoyed her liberty. Not until she had
resumed the dress of her sex, did she awake to the consciousness of
the great social transgression she had been guilty of. She then went
to him and told him all, and stopped him when he tried to speak--do
not speak, sir!--and bade him read the words she had written him, as
she left him----"
Mowbray, with an unconscious movement, took from his pocket the letter
left by Hoffland in the post-office, on the morning of the ball.
Philippa took it from his hand and opened it.
"Pardon, Ernest!"
These words were all it contained; and the young girl pointing to
them, dropped the letter and burst into a flood of passionate tears.
Her impulsive nature had fairly spent itself, and but for the circling
arm of Mowbray she would have fallen.
In a moment her head was on his bosom--she was weeping passionately;
and Mowbray forgot all, and only saw the woman whom he loved.
Need we say that he did not utter one word of comment on her
narrative? Poor Mowbray! he was no statue, and the hand which she had
promised him laughingly on that morning, now lay in his own; the proud
and haughty girl was conquered by a power far stronger than her pride;
and over them the merry blossoms showered, the orioles sang, and
Nature laughed to see her perfect triumph.
When Philippa returned to the company she was very silent, and blushed
deeply, holding to her face the handkerchief which Hoffland had picked
up. But no one noticed her; all was in confusion.
Where was Belle-bouche? That was the question, and a hundred voices
asked it. She had disappeared; and Jacques too was nowhere to be seen.
The banquet was ready; where was the hostess?
It was in the middle of all this uproar that a voice was heard from
the great oak, and looking up, the laughing throng perceived the
radiant face of Jacques framed among the leaves, and looking on them.
"My friends," said Jacques, "the matter is very simple--be good enough
to raise those steps."
And the cavalier pointed to the prostrate ladder.
With a burst of laughter, the steps were raised and placed against the
oak. And then Jacques was observed to place his foot upon them,
leading by the hand--Belle-bouche.
Belle-bouche was blushing much more deeply than Philippa; and Jacques
was the picture of happiness. Is it too much to suppose that he had
this time stolen a march on the inimical fates, and forced
Belle-bouche to answer him? Is it extravagant to fancy that her reply
was _not_, No?
And so they descended, and the company, laughing at the mishap,
hastened toward the flower and fruit decorated table, and the banquet
inaugurated itself joyously.
And in the midst of all, who should make his appearance but--the
gallant Sir Asinus! Sir Asinus, no longer intending for Europe, but
satisfied with Virginia; no _longer_ woful, but in passable good
spirits; no longer melancholy, but surveying those around him with
affectionate regard.
And see him, in the midst of laughter and applause, mount on the end
of a barrel which had held innumerable cakes, holding a paper in his
hand, and calling for attention.
Listen!
"Whereas," reads Sir Asinus, "the undersigned has heretofore at
different times expressed opinions of his Majesty, and of the
Established Church, and of the noble aristocracy of England and
Virginia, derogatory to the character of the said Majesty, and so
forth;--also, whereas, he has unjustly slandered the noble and sublime
College of William and Mary, so called from their gracious majesties,
deceased;--and whereas, the said opinions have caused great personal
inconvenience to the undersigned, and whereas he is tired of martyrdom
and exile: Therefore, be it hereby promulgated, that the undersigned
doth here and now publicly declare himself ashamed of the said
opinions, and doth abjure them: And doth declare his Majesty George
III. the greatest of kings since Dionysius of Syracuse and Nero; and
his great measure, the Stamp Act, the noblest legislation since the
edict of Nantz. And further, the undersigned doth uphold the great
Established Church, and revere its ministers, so justly celebrated for
their piety and card-playing, their proficiency in theology, and their
familiarity with that great religious epic of the Reformation,
'Reynard the Fox'--the study of which they pursue even on horseback.
And lastly, the said undersigned doth honor the great college of
Virginia, and revere the aristocracy, and respect entails, and spurn
the common classes as becomes a gentleman and honest citizen; and in
all other things doth conform himself to established rules, being
convinced that whatever is, is right: and to the same hath set his
hand, this twentieth day of May, in the year 1764."
Having finished which, Sir Asinus casts a melancholy glance upon
little Martha, and adds:
"Now, my friends, let us proceed to enjoy the material comforts. Let
us begin to eat, my friends."
And sitting down upon the barrel, the knight seizes a goblet and
raises it aloft, and drinks to all the crowd.
And all the crowd do likewise, laughing merrily; and over them the
blossoms shower with every odorous breeze; and with the breeze mingles
a voice which whispers in a maiden's ear:
"Arcadia at last!"