University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
GOING TO ROSELAND.

AS the unfortunate lover entered Williamsburg, his
hands hanging down, his eyes dreamy and fixed
with hostile intentness on vacancy, his shoulders drooping
and swaying from side to side like those of a drunken
man,—he saw pass before him, rattling and joyous, a
brilliant equipage, which, like a sleigh covered with
bells, seemed to leave in its wake a long jocund peal
of merriment and laughter.

In this vehicle, which mortals were then accustomed to
call, and indeed call still, a curricle, sat two young men
who were conversing; and as the melancholy Jacques
passed on his way, the younger student—for such he was
—said, laughing, to his companion:

“Look, Ernest, there is a man in love!”

Mowbray raised his head, and seeing Jacques, smiled
sadly and thoughttully; then his breast moved, and a
profound sigh issued from his lips: he made no reply.

“Why!” cried Hoffland, “you have just been guilty,
Ernest, of a ceremony which none but a woman should
perform. What a sigh!”

Mowbray turned away his head.

“I was only thinking,” he said calmly.

“Thinking of what?”

“Nothing.”

“I see that you think one thing,” said Hoffland, with
a mischievous twinkle in his eye; “to wit, that I am
very prying.”

“No; but my thoughts would not interest you,
Charles,” said Mowbray.

And a sigh still more profound agitated his lips and
breast.

“Suppose you try me,” his companion said; “speaking
generally, your thoughts do interest me.”

“Well, I was thinking of a woman,” said Mowbray.

“A woman! Oh! then your time, in your own
opinion at least, was thrown away.”

“Worse,” said Mowbray gloomily; “worse by far.”

“How?”

“It is useless, Charles, to touch upon the subject; let
it rest.”

“No; I wish you to tell me, if I am not intrusive,
what woman you were at the moment honoring with a
sigh.”

Mowbray raised his head calmly, and yielding like all
lovers to the temptation to pour into the bosom of his
friend those troubled thoughts which oppressed his heart,
said to his companion:

“The woman we were speaking of the other day.”

“You have not told me her name,” said Hoffland.

“It is useless.”

“Why?”

“Because she is lost to me.”

“Lost?”

“For ever.”

And after this gloomy reply, Mowbray looked away.

Hoffland placed a hand upon his arm, and said:

“Upon what grounds do you base your opinion that
she is lost to you?”

“It is not an opinion; I know it too well.”

“If you were mistaken?”

“Mistaken!” said Mowbray; “mistaken! You think
I am mistaken? Then you know nothing of what took
place at our last interview; or you did not listen rather
—for if my memory does not deceive me, I told you
all.”

“I did listen.”

“And you now doubt that she is lost to me?”

“Seriously.”

“Charles, you are either the most inexperienced or
the most desperately hopeful character that has ever
been created.”

“I am neither,” said Hoffland smiling. “I am rational,
and I know what I say.”

Mowbray suppressed an impatient gesture, and said:

“Did I not tell you that she made me the butt for her
wit and sarcasm——”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes; and more! She scoffed at me, as a mere fortune-hunter,
and gave me the most ironical advice——”

“You are convinced it was ironical?”

“Convinced? Have I eyes—have I ears? Truly, if
I had failed to be convinced, I should have verified the
scriptural saying of those who have eyes and see not—
who have ears and do not hear.”

“Are the eyes always true?” said Hoffland, smiling.

“No: you have not succeeded, nevertheless, in showing
me that I saw wrong.”

“Are the ears invariably just?”

“For Heaven's sake, cease worrying me with general
propositions!” said Mowbray.

Then, seeing that his companion was hurt by his irritated
tone, he added:

“Forgive me, Charles! I lose my equanimity upon
this subject; let us dismiss it.”

“Very well,” said Hoffland, smiling mischievously;
“but remember what I now say, Ernest, and remember
well. The eyes are deceptive—the ears worse than deceptive.
You truly have eyes and see not, ears and hear
not! I think it highly probable that your lady-love,
who is an excellent-hearted girl, I am convinced, intended
merely to apply a last test; and if you have
bounded like an impulsive horse under the spur, and
tossed from her, the blame does not rest with her. And
remember this too, Ernest,” Hoffland went on sadly; for
one of the strange peculiarities of this young man was
his habit of abrupt transition from merriment to sadness,
from smiles to sighs; “remember, Ernest, that your determination
to see her no more has probably inflicted on
this young girl's heart a cruel pang: you cannot know
that she is not now shedding bitter tears at the result of
her trial of your feelings! Oh! remember that it is not
the poor and afflicted only who weep—it is the rich and
joyous also; and the hottest tears are often shed by the
eyes which seem made to dispense smiles alone!”

Mowbray listened to the earnest voice in silence. A
long pause followed, neither looking at the other; then
Mowbray said:

“You deceive yourself, Charles, if you imagine that
this beautiful and wealthy young girl spends a second

thought upon myself. I was to her only a passing
shadow—another name to add to her long list of captives.
Well! I gave her the sincere love of an honest
heart, such a love as no woman has the right to spurn.
She did spurn it. Well! I am not a child to sob and
moan, and go and beg her on my knees to love me—no!
I love her more than ever, Charles; all my boasting was
mere boasting and untrue—I love her still—but that
love she shall never know! I will shut it up in my
heart, and it shall not issue forth but with my life. I
love her! but I will never place myself in the dust before
a woman who has scorned me. Silence and self-control
I have, and these will sustain me.”

“Oh, Ernest! Ernest!”

“You seem strangely moved by my words,” said
Mowbray; “but you should not fancy my love so fatal.
It is a delirium at times, but Heaven be thanked, it cannot
drive me mad. Now let us stop speaking of these
things. When I think of that young girl, all my calmness
leaves me. Oh, she was so frank and true a soul, I
thought!—so sincere and bold!—so lovely, and with such
a strength of heart! I was deceived. Well, well—it
seems to be the fate of men, to find the ideal of their
hearts unworthy. Let us speak of it no further.”

And suppressing his emotion by a violent effort, Mowbray
added in a voice perfectly calm and collected:

“There is our cottage, Charles—Roseland; and I see
Lucy waiting for us under the roses on the porch—she
always looks for me, I believe.”