University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
AN HEIRESS WHO WISHES TO BECOME A MAN.

PHILIPPA is a lady of nineteen or twenty, with the
air of a duchess and the walk of an antelope. Her
brilliant eyes, as black as night, and as clear as a sunny
stream, are full of life, vivacity and mischief; she seems
to be laughing at life, and love, and gallantry, and all the
complimentary nothings of society, from the height of
her superior intellect, and with undazzled eyes. She
is clad even more richly than Belle-bouche, for Philippa
is an heiress—the mistress of untold farms—or plantations
as they then said;—miles of James River “low
grounds” and uncounted Africans. Like the Duke of
Burgundy's, her sovereignty is acknowledged in three
languages—the English, the African or Moorish, and
the Indian: for the Indian settlement on the south
side calls her mistress, and sends to her for blankets in
the winter. In the summer it is not necessary to ask for
the produce of her estate, such as they desire—they appropriate
it.

Philippa is a cousin of Belle-bouche; and Belle-bouche
is the niece of Aunt Wimple, who is mistress of
the Shadynook domain. Philippa has guardians, but it
cannot be said they direct her movements. They have
given up that task in despair, some years since, and
only hope that from the numerous cormorants always

hovering around her, she may select one not wholly
insatiable—with some craw of mercy.

“There, you are talking about flowers, I lay a wager,”
she says, returning the bow of Jacques, and laughing.

“I was speaking neither of yourself nor the fair Belinda,”
replies Jacques, with melancholy gallantry.

“There! please have done with compliments—I detest
them.”

“You detest every thing insincere, I know, charming
Philippa—pardon me, but your beautiful name betrays
me constantly. Is it not—like your voice—stolen from
poetry or music?”

“Ah, sir, you are insufferable.”

“Pardon, pardon—but in this beautiful and fair season,
so full of flowers——”

“You think it necessary to employ flowers of speech:
that is what you were going to say, but for heaven's sake
have done.”

Jacques bows.

“I have just discarded the twentieth, Bel,” she adds,
laughing; “he got on his knees.”

And Philippa laughs heartily.

Jacques is used to his companion's manner of talking,
and says:

“Who was it, pray, madam—Mowbray?”

A flush passes over Philippa's face, and she looks
away, murmuring “No!”

“I won't go over the list of your admirers,” continues
Jacques, sadly, “they are too numerous; for who can
wonder at such a fairy face as yours attracting crowds
of lovers?”

“My fairy face? Yes, and my unhappy wealth, sir.
I wish I was poor! I can never know when I am loved
truly. Oh, to know that!”

And a shadow passes over the face, obliterating the
satire, and veiling the brilliant eyes. Then with an
effort Philippa drives away her preoccupation, and says:

“I wish Heaven had made me a man!”

“A man?” says Jacques.

“Yes, sir.”

“Pray why? Is there any young lady you would
like to marry? Ah,” he murmurs, “you need not go
far if that is the case.”

And he glances tenderly at Belle-bouche, who smiles
and blushes.

“I wish to be a man, that my movements may not
be restricted. There is my guardian, who murmurs at
my travelling about from county to county with only
Jugurtha to drive me—as if Jugurtha couldn't protect
me if there were any highwaymen or robbers.”

Jacques laughs.

“But there are disadvantages connected with manhood,”
he says. “You are ignorant of them, and so
think them slight.”

“The prominent ones, if you please.”

“You would have to make love—the active instead
of passive, as at present.”

“I would enjoy it.”

“How would you commence, pray?”

“Oh, easily—see now. I would say, `My dear Bel!
I am at your service! If you love me, I'll love you!'
And then with a low bow I would kiss her hand, and
her lips too, if she would permit me.”

Jacques sighs.

“Do you think that would succeed, however?” he
says.

“I don't know, and I don't care—I'd try.”

Jacques sighs again, and looks wistfully at Belle-bouche,
who smiles.

“I'm afraid such a cavalier address—at the pistol's
mouth as it were—at forty paces—like those highwaymen
you spoke of but now—would only insure failure.”

“You are mistaken.”

“I doubt the propriety of such a `making love.' ”

“If I were a man, you would see my success. I'd
have any woman for the asking.”

“Well, fancy yourself a man.”

“And who will be my lady-love?”

“Fancy my sex changed also—make love to me, my
charming Madam Philippa.”

“Forsooth! But I could win your heart easily.”

“How, pray,” says Jacques, sighing, “granting first
that 'tis in my possession?”

“By two simple things.”

“To wit?”

“I would talk to you of flowers and shepherdesses,
and crooks and garlands——”

“Oh!”

“And I would adopt, if I had not naturally, that frank,
languid, graceful, fatal air which—which—shall I finish?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Which Bel has! What a beautiful blush!”

And Philippa claps her hands.

Jacques tries very hard not to color, thus forfeiting all

his pretensions to the character of a self-possessed man
of the world and elegant coxcomb; but this is equally
forlorn with his attempt not to observe the mischievous
glance and satirical lip of the fair Philippa.

He seeks in vain for a word—a jest—a reply.

Fortune favors him. A maid from the house approaches
Philippa, and says:

“Mr. Mowbray, ma'am.”

A blush, deeper than that upon the face of Jacques,
mantles Philippa's cheeks as she replies:

“Say I am coming.”

“Before you go,” says Jacques with odious triumph,
“permit me to say, Madam Philippa, that I begin to see
some of the advantages you might enjoy were you a
man.”

“What are they, pray—more than I have mentioned?”
she says coolly.

“You might have more liberty.”

“I said as much.”

“You might go and see your friends.”

“You repeat my words, sir.”

“Yes—you might even go and see us at college; listen
to my philosophical discussions after lecture; and
take part in Mowbray's merry jests—an excellent friend
of yours, I think.”

Philippa looks at him for a moment, hesitatiug
whether she shall stay and take her revenge. She decides
to go in, however; and Jacques and Belle-bouche
follow. We are bound to say that the proposition did
not come from Jacques.