University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
A POOR YOUNG MAN, AND A RICH YOUNG GIRL.

IN the drawing-room sat a gentleman turning over the
leaves of a book.

The apartment was decorated after the usual fashion
of the olden time. On the floor was a rich carpet from
Antwerp, in the corner a japanned cabinet; everywhere
crooked-legged tables and carved chairs obstructed the
floor, and on the threshold a lap-dog snapped at the flies
in his dreams. Besides, there were portraits of powdered
dames, and hideous china ornaments on the tall narrow
mantlepiece; and an embroidered screen in the recess
next the fireplace described with silent eloqueuce the
life of Arcady.

Mowbray was a young man of twenty-five or six, with
a high pale forehead, dark eyes full of thoughtful intelligence;
and his dress was rather that of a student than
a man of the world. It was plain and simple, and all
the colors were subdued. He was a man for a woman
to listen to, rather than laugh with. His manner was
calm, perfectly self-possessed, and his mind seemed to
be dwelling upon one dominant idea.

“Good morning, sir,” said Philippa, inclining her head
indifferently; “we have a very pleasant day.”

Mowbray rose and bowed calmly.

“Yes, madam,” he said; “my ride was quite agreeable.”

“Any news, sir?”

“None, except a confirmation of those designs of the
ministry which are now causing so much discussion.”

“What designs?”

A faint smile passed over Mowbray's calm face.

“Are you quite sure that politics will amuse you?”
he said.

“Amuse? no, sir. But you seem to have fallen into the
fashionable error, that ladies only require amusement.”

He shook his head.

“You do me injustice,” he said; “no man has so high
an opinion of your sex, madam, as I have.”

“I doubt it—you deceive yourself.”

“Excuse me, but I do not.”

“You are one of the lords of creation,” said Philippa
satirically.

“A very poor lord,” he replied calmly.

“Are you poor?” asked Philippa as coolly.

“Yes, madam.”

“But you design being rich some day?”

“Yes, madam, if my brain serves me.”

“You aspire perhaps to his Majesty's council?”

“No, madam,” he replied, with perfect coolness;
“were I in public life, I should most probably be in the
opposition.”

“A better opening.”

“No; but better for one who holds my opinions—
better for the conscience.”

“And for the purse?”

“I know not. If you mean that public life holds out
pecuniary rewards, I think you are mistaken.”

“Then you will not become rich by politics?”

“I think, madam, that there is little chance of that.”

“Still you would wish to be wealthy?”

“Yes, madam.”

“You are fond of luxury?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Horses, wines, carriages?”

“Excuse me—no.”

“What then?”

“The luxury of seeing my orphan sister surrounded
with every comfort.”

A flush passed over Philippa's face, and she turned
away; but she was not satisfied.

“There is a very plain and easy way to arrive at
wealth, sir,” she said; “law is so slow.”

“Please indicate it.”

“Marry an heiress.”

There was a silence after these words; and Philippa
could scarcely sustain the clear fixed look which he bent
upon her face.

“Is that your advice, madam?” he said coldly. “I
thank you for it.”

His tone piqued her.

“Then follow it,” she said.

“Excuse me again.”

“Is it not friendly?”

“Possibly, but not to my taste.”

“Why, sir?”

“First, because the course you suggest is not very
honorable; secondly, and in another aspect, it is very
disgraceful; again, it is too expensive, if I may be permitted
to utter what seems to be, but is not, a very rude
and cynical speech.”

“Not honorable—disgraceful—too expensive! Indeed!
Why, sir, you at once exclude heiresses from
matrimony.”

“Not so, madam.”

“Not honorable!”

“I think it is not honorable to acquire wealth, for the
best purpose in the world, by giving the hand and not
the heart.”

“The hand and the heart!—who speaks of heart in
these days? But you say it is even disgraceful to marry
an heiress.”

“Not at all: but if a man does not love a woman, is
it not disgraceful in the full sense of that word, madam,
to unite himself to her, or rather to her money bags, only
that he may procure the means of living in luxury, and
gratifying his expensive tastes and vices?”

“If he does not love her, you say. Love! that is a
very pretty word, and rhymes, I believe, to dove!
Well, sir, you have endeavored to establish your point
by the aid of two delightful phrases, `the hand and not
the heart'—`the man who does not love a woman'—
beautiful words, only I do n't believe in them. Now be
good enough to explain your third point:—how is it too
`expensive' to marry a wealthy woman? I know you
gentlemen at the college are inveterate logicians, and
find little difficulty in proving that twice two's five, and
that black is irreproachable white—that fire is cold—ice,
hot—smoke, heavy—and lead light as thistle-down.
Still I imagine you will find it difficult to show that 't is
expensive to marry, let us say, fifty thousand pounds a
year!”

Mowbray looked at her face a moment, and sighed;

a great hope seemed to be leaving him; when he spoke,
it was with manifest repugnance.

“Let us dismiss this singular subject, madam,” he
said calmly; “I spoke too thoughtlessly. See that
lovely humming-bird around the honeysuckle, searching
in vain for honey.”

“As I do for your reasons, sir,” said Philippa curtly.

“My reasons?”

“You refuse to explain——”

“Well, well—I see you will compel me to speak.
Well, madam, my meaning is very simple. When I
say that it is too `expensive' to unite oneself to a woman
solely because that woman has for her portion a
great fortune, a large income, every luxury and elegance
to endow her husband with—I mean simply that
if this woman be uncongenial, if her husband care
nothing for her, only her fortune, then that he will
necessarily be unhappy, and that unhappiness is cheaply
bought with millions. Money only goes a certain way
—tell me when it bought a heart! Mine, madam, it
will never buy at least—if you will permit me to utter a
sentence in such bad taste. And now let us abandon
this discussion, which leads us into such serious moods.”

She turned away, and looked through the window.

Two birds were playfully contending in the air, and
filling the groves with their joyous carolling.

“How free they are!” she murmured.

“The birds? Yes, madam, they live in delightful
liberty, as we of America will, I trust, some day.”

“I wonder if they're married,” said Philippa laughing,
and refusing to enter upon the wrongs of England toward
the colonies; “they are fighting, I believe, and thus I

presume they are united in marriage—by some parson
Crow!”

Mowbray only smiled slightly, and looked at his watch.

“What! not going!” cried Philippa.

“Pardon,” he said; “I just rode out for an hour. We
have a lecture in half an hour.”

“And you prefer the excellent Dr. Small or some other
reverend gentleman to myself—the collegiate to the sylvan,
the male to the female lecturer?”

He smiled wearily.

“Our duties are becoming more exacting,” he said;
“the examination is approaching.”

“I should suppose so—you have not been to see me
for a whole week.”

A flush passed over Mowbray's brow; then it became
as pale as before.

“Our acquaintance has not been an extended one,”
he said; “I could not intrude upon your society.”

“Intrude!”

And abandoning completely her laughing cynical
manner, Philippa gave him a look which made him
tremble. Why was that excitement? Because he
thought he had fathomed her; because he had convinced
himself that she was a coquette, amusing herself
at his expense; because he saw all his dreams, his illusions,
his hopes pass away with the fleeting minutes.
He replied simply:

“Yes, madam—even now I fear I am trespassing
upon your time; you probably await my departure to
betake yourself to your morning's amusement. I was
foolish enough to imagine that I had not completely lost
my powers of conversation, buried as I have been in

books. I was mistaken—I no longer jest—I am a poor
companion. Then,” he added, “we are so uncongenial
—at least this morning. I will come some day when I
am gay, and you sad—then we shall probably approximate
in mood, and until then farewell.”

She would have detained him; “Don't go!” was on
her lips; but at the moment when Mowbray bowed
low, a shout of laughter was heard in the passage, and
three persons entered—Jacques, Belle-bouche, and Sir
Asinus.