University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
HOW HOFFLAND CAUGHT A TARTAR IN THE PERSON OF
MISS LUCY'S LOVER.

THE day ws not to end as quietly as Mowbray
dreamed, and we shall now proceed to relate the
incidents which followed this conversation.

Upon the smooth-shaven lawn, at various distances
from each other, were stretched parties of students, who
either bent their brows over volumes of Greek or Latin
—or interchanged merry conversation, which passed
around like an elastic ball—or leaning their heads upon
overturned chairs, suffered to curl upward from their
lazy lips white wreaths of smoke which turned to floods
of gold in the red sunset, while the calm pipe-holders
dreamed of that last minuet and the blue eyes shrining
it in memory, then of the reel through which she darted
with such joyous sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks—and
so went on and dreamed and sighed, then sighed and
dreamed again. We are compelled to add that the
devotees of conversation and the dreamers outnumbered
the delvers into Greek and Latin, to a really deplorable
degree.

It is so difficult to study out upon the grass which
May has filled with flowers—so very easy to lie there
and idly talk or dream!

Through these groups Mowbray and his friend took

their way, noticed only with a careless glance by the
studious portion when their shadows fell upon the open
volumes—not at all by the talkers—and scarcely more
by the dreamers, who lazily moved their heads as
smokers only can—with a silent protest, that is to say,
at having their reveries disturbed, and being compelled
to take such enormous trouble and exertion.

As Mowbray was about to ascend the steps beyond
the statue, a young man came down and greeted him
familiarly.

Mowbray turned round and said:

“Mr. Denis, are you acquainted with Mr. Hoffland?”

And then the new-comer and the young student courteously
saluted each other, smiled politely, and shook
hands.

“Stay till I come back, Charles,” said Mowbray;
“you and Denis can chat under the tree yonder—and
he will tell you whether Roseland can accommodate a
guest. He has staid with me more than once.”

With which words Mowbray passed on.

Hoffland looked at his companion; and a single
glance told him all he wished to know. Jack Denis—
for he was scarcely known by any other name—was an
open-hearted, honest, straight-forward young fellow of
twenty, with light-brown hair, frank eyes, and a cordial
bearing which at once put every body at their ease.
Still there was a latent flash in the eye which denoted
an excitable temper—not seldom united, as the reader
must have observed, with such a character.

The young men strolled across to the tree which Mowbray
had indicated, and sat down on a wicker seat which
was placed at its foot.

“Mr. Mowbray said you could tell me about Roseland,”
Hoffland said, raising his dark eyes as was his
habit beneath his low-drooping hat; “I am sure it is a
pretty place from his description—is it not?”

“Oh, beautiful!” said Denis warmly; “you should
go and see it.”

“I think I will.”

“It is not far, and indeed is scarcely half an hour's
ride from town—there to the west.”

“Yes; and Miss Lucy is very pretty, is she not?”

Denis colored slightly, and replied:

“I think so.”

Hoffland with his quick eye discerned the slight color,
and said somewhat maliciously:

“You know her very well, do you not?”

“Why, tolerably,” said Denis.

“I must make her acquaintance,” continued Hoffland,
“for I am sure from Mowbray's description of her she is
a gem. He invited me to come this evening.”

“You refused?”

“Yes.”

“You should not have done so, sir: Mowbray is not
prodigal of such invitations.”

Hoffland laughed.

“But I had a reason,” he said mischievously.

“What, pray—if I may ask?”

“Oh, certainly, you may ask,” Hoffland replied, smiling;
“though it may appear very vain to you—my
reason.”

“Hum!” said Denis, not knowing what to think of
his new acquaintance, whose quizzing manner, to use the
technical word, did not please him.

“I told Mowbray very frankly, however, why I could
not come this evening,” pursued Hoffland, with the air
of one child teasing another; “and I think he appreciated
my reason. I was afraid on Miss Lucy's account.”

“Afraid!”

“Yes.”

“On Lucy's account!”

“On Miss Lucy's account,” said Hoffland, emphasizing
the “Miss.”

“Oh, well, sir,” said Denis, with a slight air of coldness;
“I don't deny that I was wrong in so speaking of
a lady, but I don't see that you had the right to correct
me.”

“Why, Mr. Denis,” said Hoffland smiling, “you take
my little speeches too seriously.”

“No, sir; and if I showed some hastiness of temper,
excuse me—I believe it is my failing.”

“Oh, really now! no apologies,” said Hoffland laughing;
“I am not aware that you were out of temper—
though that is not an unusual thing with men. And
now, having settled the question of the proper manner
to address or speak of Miss Lucy, I will go on and tell
you—as you seemed interested—why I did not feel myself
at liberty to accept Mr. Mowbray's invitation—or
Ernest's: I call him Ernest, and he calls me Charles.”

“You seem to be well acquainted with him,” said
Denis.

“Oh, we are sworn friends!—of four days' standing.”

Denis looked at his companion with great curiosity.

“Mowbray—the most reserved of men in friendship!”
he muttered.

“Ah,” replied Hoffland, whose quick ear caught these

words; “but I am not a common person, Mr. Denis.
Remember that.”

“Indeed?” said Denis, again betraying some coolness
at his companion's satirical manner: his manner alone
was satirical—the words, as we may perceive, were
scarcely so.

“Yes,” continued Hoffland, “and I am an exception
to all general rules—just as Crichton was.”

“Crichton?”

“Yes; the admirable Crichton.”

And having uttered this conceited sentence with a
delightful little toss of the head, Hoffland laughed.

Denis merely inclined his head coldly. He was becoming
more and more averse to his companion every
moment.

“But we were speaking of Roseland, and my reasons
for not accepting Mowbray's invitation,” pursued Hoffland,
smiling; “the reason may surprise you.”

“Possibly, if you will tell me what it is,” said Denis.

“Why, it is the simplest thing in the world. I come
from the mountains, you know.”

“No, I did not know it before, sir,” replied Denis.

“Well, such at least is the fact. Now, in the mountains,
you know, the girls are prettier, and the men
handsomer.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” replied Denis coldly.

“Very well,” Hoffland replied; “as I have just said,
such is nevertheless the fact.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Certainly. Now I am a fair specimen of the mountain
men.”

Denis looked at his companion with an expression of

contempt which he could not repress. Hoffland did not
appear to observe it, but went on in the same quizzing
tone—for we can find no other word—which he had preserved
from the commencement of the interview.

“Feeling that Miss Lucy had probably not seen any
one like myself,” he said, “I was naturally anxious that
her brother should prepare her.”

“Mr. Hoffland!”

“Sir?”

“Nothing, sir!”

And Denis choked down his rising anger. Hoffland
did not observe it, but continued as coolly as ever:

“You know how much curiosity the fair sex have,”
he said, “and my plan was for Mowbray to describe me
beforehand to his sister—as I know he will.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said Denis coldly; “but I do not
perceive your drift. Doubtless it arises from my stupidity,
but such is the fact, to use your favorite expression.”

“Why, it is much plainer than any pikestaff,” Hoffland
replied, laughing; “listen, and I will explain. Mowbray
will return home this evening, and after tea he will
say to his sister, `I have a new friend at college, Lucy—
the handsomest, brightest, most amiable and fascinating
youth I ever saw.' You see he will call me a `youth;'
possibly this may excite Miss Lucy's curiosity, and she
will ask more about me; and then Mowbray will of
course expatiate on my various and exalted merits, as
every warm-hearted man does when he speaks of his
friends. Then Miss Lucy will imagine for herself a beau
ideal of grace, elegance, beauty, intelligence and wit,
far more than human. She will fall in love with it—

and then, when she is hopelessly entangled in this passion
for the creation of her fancy, I will make my
appearance. Do you not understand now, sir?”

Denis frowned and muttered a reply which it had
been well for Hoffland to have heard.

“I think it very plain,” continued the young man;
“with all those graces of mind and person which a kind
Providence has bestowed upon me, I still feel that I
could expect nothing but defeat, contending with the
ideal of a young girl's heart. Oh, sir, you can't imagine
how fanciful they are—believe me, women very seldom
fall in love with real men: it is the image of their
dreams which they sigh over and long to meet. This is
all that they really love.”

“Ah?” said Denis, in a freezing tone.

“Yes,” Hoffland said; “and applying this reasoning
to the present subject, you cannot fail to understand my
motives for refusing Mowbray's kind invitation. Once
in love with my shadow, Lucy will not fall in love with
me. To tell you the truth, I could not afford to have
her——”

“Mr. Hoffland!”

“Why, Mr. Denis—did any thing hurt you? Perhaps——”

“It was nothing, sir!” said Denis, with a flushed
face.

“Well, to conclude,” said Hoffland; “I could not
accept Lucy's love were she to offer it to me, and for
this reason I have staid away. I am myself fettered by
another object; I could not marry her were she to fall
sick for love of me, and beg me on her knees to accept
her hand and heart—I really could not!”

Denis rose as if on springs.

“Mr. Hoffland!” he said, “you have basely insulted
a young girl whom I love—the sister of my friend—the
best and purest girl in the world. By Heaven, sir! you
shall answer this! But for your delicate appearance,
sir, I would personally chastise you on the spot! But
you do not escape me, sir! Hold yourself in readiness
to receive a challenge from me to-morrow morning,
sir!”

“Mr. Denis!” murmured Hoffland, suddenly turning
pale and trembling from head to foot.

“Refuse it, and I will publish you as a coward!” cried
Denis, in a towering rage; “a poltroon who has insulted
a lady and refused to hold himself responsible!”

With which words Denis tossed away; and passing
through the crowd of students, who, hearing angry voices,
had risen to their feet, he entered the college.

Hoffland stood trembling and totally unable to reply
to the questions addressed to him by the crowd. Suddenly
he felt a hand upon his shoulder; and raising his
eyes he saw Mowbray.

He uttered a long sigh of relief; and drawing his hat
over his eyes, apparently to conceal his paleness and
agitation, took his friend's arm and dragged him away.

“What in the world is all this about?” asked Mowbray.

“Oh!” said Hoffland, trying to smile, but failing
lamentably, “Mr. Denis is going to kill me!”

And Mowbray felt that the hand upon his arm was
trembling.