University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
HOW HOFFLAND FOUND THAT HE HAD LEFT HIS KEY BEHIND.

THEY entered the town in silence, and both of the
young men seemed busy with their thoughts. Mowbray's
face wore its habitual expression of collected
calmness; as to Hoffland, he was smiling.

Mowbray at last raised his head, and chasing away his
thoughts by a strong effort, said to his companion:

“You have no dormitory yet, I believe—I mean, that
you are not domiciled at the college. Can I assist
you?”

“Oh, thank you; but I am lodged in town.”

“Ah?”

“Yes; Doctor Small procured permission for me.”

“Where is your room, Charles?—I shall come and
see you.”

“Just down there, somewhere,” said Hoffland dubiously.

“On Gloucester street?”

“No; just around there,” replied the student, pointing
in the direction of the college.

“Well,” said Mowbray, “we shall pass it on our way,
and I will go up and see if you are comfortably fixed.
I may be able to give you some advice—I am an old
member of the commissary department.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Hoffland quickly; “but I believe
every thing is very well arranged.”

“Can you judge?” smiled Mowbray.

“Yes, indeed,” Hoffland said, turning away his head
and laughing; “better than you can, perhaps.”

“I doubt it.”

“You grown lords of the creation fancy you know so
much!” said Hoffland.

Mowbray caught the merry contagion, and smiling,
said:

“Nevertheless, I insist upon going to see if my new
brother Charles is comfortably established.”

Hoffland bit his lip.

“This is the place, is it not?” asked Mowbray

Hoffland hesitated for a moment, and then replied
with an embarrassed tone:

“Yes—but—let us go on.”

“No,” Mowbray said, “I am very obstinate; and as
Lucy will not expect me now until tea-time, I am determined
to devote half an hour to spying out your land.
Come, lead the way!”

Hoffland wrung his hands with a nettled look, which
made him resemble a child deprived of its plaything.

“But—” he said.

“Come—you pique my curiosity; go on, Charles.”

A sudden smile illumined the boy's face.

“Well,” he said, “if you insist, so be it.”

And he led the way up a staircase which commenced
just within the open door of the house. The lodging of
Sir Asinus was in one of those buildings let out to students;
this seemed more private—Hoffland alone dwelt
here.

The student searched his pockets one after the other.

“Oh me!” he cried, “could I have left my key at the
college?”

“Careless!” said Mowbray, with a smile.

“I think I am very unfortunate.”

“Well, then, my domiciliary visit is rendered impossible.
Come, Charles, another time!”

And Mowbray descended, followed by the triumphant
Hoffland, who, whatever his motive might be, seemed
to rejoice in the accident, or the success of his ruse,
whichever the reader pleases.

“Come! I am just going to see Warner Lewis a
moment,” said Mowbray, “and then I shall return to
the `Raleigh Tavern,' get my horse, and go to Roseland——”

“Roseland? Is that your sister's home?”

“Yes, we live there—no one but Lucy and myself;
that is to say, except one single servant reserved from
the estate.”

“Roseville?” murmured Hoffland; “I think I have
passed it.”

“Very probably; it is just yonder, beyond the woods
—a cottage embosomed in trees, and with myriads of
roses around it, which Lucy takes great pleasure in cultivating.”

“I think I should like to know your sister,” said Hoffland.

“Why, nothing is easier: come with me this evening.”

“This evening?”

“Why not?”

“How could I?” laughed Hoffland; “your house is

so small, that without some warning I should probably
incommode you.”

“Oh, not at all—we have a very good room for you.
You know in Virginia we always keep the `guest's
chamber,' however poor we are.”

“Hum!” said Hoffland.

“Come!” said Mowbray.

Hoffland began to laugh.

“How could I go?” he asked.

“Why, ride.”

“Ride?”

“Certainly.”

“In what manner, pray?”

“On horseback,” said Mowbray; “I can easily procure
you a horse.”

Hoffland turned his head aside to conceal his laughter.

“No, I thank you,” he said.

“You refuse?”

“Point-blank.”

Mowbray looked at him.

“You are a strange person, Charles,” he said; “you
seem half man, half child—I might almost say half
girl.”

“Oh, Ernest, to hurt my feelings so!” said the boy,
turning away his face.

Mowbray found himself reflecting that he had uttered
a very unkind speech.

“I only meant that there was a singular mixture of
character and playfulness in you, Charles,” he said;
“you are as changeable as the wind—and quite as
pleasant to my weary brow,” he added, with a smile;
“you smooth its wrinkles.”

“I'm very glad I do,” said Hoffland; “but do not
again utter such unfeeling words—I like a girl!”

“No, I will not—pray pardon me,” replied Mowbray.

Hoffland's lip was puckered up, until it resembled a
rose-leaf rumpled by the finger of a school-girl.

“Then there is another objection to my going out this
evening, Ernest,” he said: “you see I return to the subject.”

“What objection?”

“You ought to tell your sister what a fascinating
young man I am, and put her upon her guard——”

“Charles!” cried Mowbray, with a strong disposition
to laugh; “you must pardon my saying that your vanity
is the most amusing I have ever encountered.”

“Is it?” asked Hoffland, smiling; “but come, do n't
you think me fascinating?”

“Upon my word,” said Mowbray, “were I to utter
the exact truth, I should say yes; for I have never yet
found myself so completely conciliated by a stranger.
Just consider that we have not known each other a week
yet——”

“But four days!” laughed Hoffland; “be accurate!”

“Well, that makes it all the stronger: we have known
each other but four days, and here we are jesting with
every word—`Charles' here, `Ernest' there—as though
we had been acquainted twenty years.”

“Such an acquaintance might be possible for you—it
is not for me,” Hoffland said, laughing; “but I find
you very generous. You have not added the strongest
evidence of my wayward familiarity—that I advised
you to put your sister on her guard against my fascinations.
Let her take care! Else shall she be a love-sick

girl—the most amusing spectacle, I think, in all the
world!”

With which words Hoffland laughed so merrily and
with such a musical, ringing, contagious joy, that Mowbray's
feeling of pique at this unceremonious allusion to
his sister passed away completely, and he could not utter
a word.

They passed on thus to the college, conversing about
a thousand things; and Mowbray saw with the greatest
surprise that his companion possessed a mind of remarkable
clearness and justness. His comments upon every
subject were characterized by a laughing satire which
played around men and things like summer lightning,
and by the time they had reached Lord Botetourt's
statue, Mowbray was completely silent. He listened.