University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
HOFFLAND EXERTS HIMSELF TO AMUSE THE COMPANY.

LUCY was a young girl of nineteen or twenty, with
the brightest face, the most sparkling eyes, and the
merriest voice which ever adorned woman entering her
prime. Her laughter was contagious, and the listener
must perforce laugh in unison. Her face drove away
gloom, as the sun does; her smile was pure merriment,
routing all cares; and Mowbray's sad countenance became
again serene, his lips smiled.

Lucy bowed demurely to the boy, who held out his
hand laughing.

“Oh! Ernest and myself are sworn friends,” he said;
“and the fact is, Miss Lucy, I had serious doubts whether
I should not kiss you—I love you so much—for
Ernest's sake!”

And Hoffland pursed up his lips, prepared for all
things.

Lucy was so completely overcome by laughter at this
extraordinary speech, that for a moment she remained
perfectly silent, shaking with merriment.

Hoffland conceived the design to take advantage of
this astonishment, and modestly “held up his mouth,”
as children say. The consequence was that Miss Lucy
extricated her hand from his grasp, and drew back with
some hauteur; whereupon Hoffland assumed an expression
of such mortification and childlike dissatisfaction,

that Mowbray, who had witnessed this strange scene,
could not suppress a smile.

“I might as well tell you frankly at once, Lucy,” he
said, “that Charles is the oddest person, and I think the
most perfect boy, at times, I have ever known.”

“I a boy!” cried Hoffland; “I am no such thing!—
am I, Lucy—Miss Lucy, I mean, of course? I am not so
young as all that, and I see nothing so strange in wanting
a kiss. But I won't misbehave any more; come
now, see!”

And drawing himself up with a delightful expression
of dignified courtesy, Hoffland said, solemnly offering
his arm to Lucy:

“Shall I have the honor, Miss Mowbray, of escorting
you into the garden for the purpose of gathering some
roses to deck your queenly brow?”

Lucy would have refused; but overcome with laughter,
and unable to resist the ludicrous solemnity of Hoffland's
voice and manner, she placed her finger on his
arm, and they walked into the garden.

Roseland was a delightful little cottage, full of flowers,
and redolent of spring. It fronted south, and seemed to
be the favorite of the sun, which shone through its vine-embowered
windows and lit up its drooping eaves, as it
nowhere else did.

A little passage led quite through the house, and by
this passage Hoffland and his fair companion entered
the garden.

Mowbray sat down and examined some papers which
he took from his pocket; then trained a flowering
vine from the window-sill to a nail in the wall without,
for he was very fond of flowers; then, bethinking himself

that Hoffland was his guest, turned to go into the
garden.

As he did so, he caught sight of a horseman approaching
the cottage; and soon this horseman drew near
enough to be recognised. It was Mr. John Denis, whose
admiration for Miss Lucy Mowbray our readers have
possibly divined from former pages of this true history.

Mr. Denis dismounted and entered the grounds of the
cottage, sending before him a friendly smile. Denis was
one of those honest, worthy fellows, who are as single-minded
as children, and in whose eyes all men and
things are just what they seem: hypocrisy he could
never understand, and it was almost as difficult for the
worthy young man to comprehend irony. We have seen
an exemplification of this in his affair with Hoffland; and
if our narrative permitted it, we might, by following
him through his after life, find many more instances of
the same singleness of heart and understanding.

Denis was very tastefully dressed, and his face was, as
we have said, full of smiles. He held out his hand to
Mowbray with honest warmth, and they entered the
cottage.

The reader may imagine that Denis inquired as to the
whereabouts of Miss Lucy—his wandering glances not
having fallen upon that young lady. Not at all. For
did ever lover introduce the subject of his lady-love?
When we are young, and in love, do we go to visit Dulcinea
or her brother Tom? Is not that agreeable young
gentleman the sole attraction which draws us; do we
not ride a dozen miles for his sake, and has Dulcinea any
thing to do with the rapturous delight we experience in
dreaming of the month we shall spend with Tom in

August? Of course not; and Denis did not allude in
the remotest manner to Lucy. On the contrary, he became
the actor which love makes of the truest men, and
said, with careless ease:

“A lovely evening for a ride.”

“Yes,” said Mowbray, driving away his sad thoughts;
“why did n't you come with us, Jack?”

“With you?”

“Myself and Hoffland.”

“Hoffland!”

“Yes; what surprises you?”

“Is Hoffland here?'

Mowbray nodded.

Denis looked round; and then his puzzled glance returned
to the face of his friend.

“I do not see him,” he said.

“He went into the garden just now,” explained Mowbray.

Denis would have given thousands to be able to say,
“Where is Lucy?” It was utterly impossible, however.
Instead of doing so, he asked:

“You came in a buggy?”

“Yes,” said Mowbray.

“Is Hoffland agreeable—I mean a pleasant fellow?”

“I think so: rather given to jesting—and I suppose
this was the origin of your unhappy difficulty. Most
quarrels spring from jests.”

“True. I believe he was jesting; in fact I know it,”
said poor Jack Denis, wiping his brow and trying to
plunge his glance into the depths of the garden, where
Lucy and Hoffland were no doubt walking. “Still,
Ernest, I could not have acted differently; and you

would be the first person to agree with me, were I to tell
you the subject of his jests.”

And Denis frowned.

“What was it?” said Mowbray. “Hoffland refused
point-blank to tell me, and I am perfectly ignorant of
the whole affair.”

Denis hesitated. Was it fair and honest to prejudice
Mowbray against the boy? but on the contrary, was not
the whole affair now explained as a simple jest, and
would there be harm in telling what the young student
had said to provoke him? The young man hesitated,
and said:

“I do n't know—it was a mere jest; there is no use in
opening the subject again——”

“Ah, Jack!” said Mowbray, “I see that I am to live
and die in ignorance, for I repeat that Hoffland would
not tell me. With all the carelessness of a child, he
seems to possess the reserve of a politician or a woman.”

“A strange character, is he not?” said Denis.

“Yes; and yet he has won upon me powerfully.”

“Your acquaintance is very short,” said poor Denis,
his heart sinking at the thought of having so handsome
and graceful a rival as the boy.

“Very,” returned Mowbray; “but he positively took
me by storm.”

“And you like him?”

“To be sincere—exceedingly.”

“Why?” muttered Denis.

“Really, I can scarcely say,” replied his friend; “but
he is a mere boy; seems to be wholly without friends;
and he has virtually yielded to me the guidance of all
his affairs. This may seem an absurd reason for liking

Hoffland; but that is just my weak side, Jack. When
any one comes to me and says, `I am weak and inexperienced,
you are in a position to aid and assist me; be
my friend;' how can I refuse?”

“And Hoffland——”

“Has done so? Yes.”

“Humph!”

“Besides this, he is a mere boy; and to speak frankly,
is so affectionate and winning in his demeanor toward
me, that I really have not the courage to repel his advances.
Strange young man! at times I know not what
to think of him. He is alternately a child, a woman,
and a matured man in character; but most often a
child.”

“Indeed?” said Denis, whose heart sunk at every
additional word uttered by Mowbray; “how then did
he display such willingness to fight—and I will add,
such careless bravado?”

“Because fighting was a mere word to him,” said
Mowbray; “I believe that he no more realized the fact
that you would direct the muzzle of a pistol toward his
breast, than that you would stab or poison him.”

Denis wiped his brow.

“I did n't want to fight,” he said; “but I was obliged
to do something.”

“Was the provocation gross?”

“Yes.”

“Pardon my question. I did not mean to return to
the subject, inasmuch as some reason for withholding the
particulars of the interview seems to exist in your
mind.”

Denis hesitated and muttered something to himself;

then, raising his head suddenly, he added with some
bitterness:

“Perhaps you may have your curiosity satisfied from
another source, Ernest. I see Mr. Hoffland approaching
the house with Miss Lucy—from the garden, there. No
doubt he will tell you.”

In fact, Miss Lucy and Hoffland were sauntering in
from the garden in high glee. Lucy from time to time
burst into loud and merry laughter, clapping her hands,
and expressing great delight at something which Hoffland
was communicating; and Hoffland was bending
down familiarly and whispering in her ear.

No sooner, however, had the promenaders caught
sight of Mowbray and Denis looking at them, than their
manner suddenly changed. Hoffland drew back, and
raising his head with great dignity, solemnly offered his
arm to the young girl; and Lucy, choking down her
merriment and puckering up her lips to hide her laughter,
placed her little finger on the sleeve of her cavalier.
And so they approached the inmates of the cottage, with
quiet and graceful dignity, like noble lord and lady;
and entering, bowed ceremoniously, and sat down with
badly smothered laughter.

“Really,” said Mowbray smiling, “you will permit
me to say, Charles, that you have a rare genius for making
acquaintance suddenly: Lucy and yourself seem to
be excellent friends already.”

And he looked kindly at the boy, who smiled.

“Friends?” said Hoffland; “we are cousins!”

“Cousins? Indeed!”

“Certainly, my dear fellow,” said Hoffland, with a
delightful ease and bonhomie. “I have discovered

that my great-grandmother married the cousin of an
uncle of cousin Lucy's great-grandfather's wife's aunt;
and moreover, that this aunt was the niece of my greatuncle's
first wife's husband. That makes it perfectly
plain—do n't it, Mr. Denis? Take care how you differ
with me: cousin Lucy understands it perfectly, and she
has a very clear head.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Lucy, laughing; “a great
compliment.”

“Not at all,” said Hoffland; “some women have a
great deal of sense—or at least a good deal.”

“Indeed, sir!”

“Yes; but it is not their failing generally. I have
taken up that impression of you, cousin Lucy, from our
general conversation; not from your ability to comprehend
so simple a genealogical table as that of our relationship.”

“Upon my word, I do n't understand it,” said Mowbray,
smiling.

“Is it possible, Ernest? Listen again, then. My great-grandfather—recollect
him, now—married the uncle of
a cousin—observe, the uncle of a cousin——”

“What! your great-grandfather married the uncle of
somebody's cousin? Is it possible?”

“Now you are laughing at me,” said Hoffland, pouting;
“what if I did get it a little wrong? I meant that
my great-grandmother married the uncle of a cousin of
cousin Lucy's wife's great-grandfather's aunt—who——”

“Lucy's wife is then involved, is she, Charles?” asked
Mowbray; “but go on.”

“No, I won't!” said Hoffland; “you are just trying
to confuse and embarrass me. I will not tell you any

more: but cousin Lucy understands; do n't you, Miss
Lucy?”

“Quite enough to understand that we occupy a closer
relationship than we seem to,” said Lucy, threatening to
burst into laughter.

Hoffland gave her a warning glance; and then assuming
a polite and graceful smile, asked:

“Pray, what were you and Mr. Denis talking of, my
dear Ernest? Come, tell a fellow!”

Lucy turned away and covered her face, which was
crimson with laughter.

“We were speaking of the quarrel which we were unfortunate
enough to have, sir,” said poor Denis coldly;
“and I referred Mr. Mowbray to you for an account of
it.”

“To me?” said Hoffland smiling; “why not tell him
yourself?”

“I did not fancy it, sir.”

“Why, in the world?”

“Come! come!” said Mowbray smiling, and wishing
to nip the new altercation in the bud; “do n't let us
talk any more about it. It is all ended now, and I do n't
care to know——”

“Why, there's nothing to conceal,” said Hoffland,
laughing.

Denis colored.

“I'll tell you in an instant,” laughed the boy.

Lucy turned toward him; and Denis looked out of
the window.

“We were talking of women first,” continued Hoffland;
“a subject, cousin Lucy, which we men discuss
much oftener than you ladies imagine——”

“Indeed!” said Lucy, nearly choking with laughter.

“Yes,” continued the boy; “and after agreeing
that Miss Theorem the mathematician was charming;
Miss Quartz the geologist lovely; that Miss Affectation
was very piquante, and Mrs. Youngwidow exceedingly
fine-looking in her mourning; after having amicably
interchanged our ideas on these topics, we came to discuss
the celebrated lunar theory.”

“What is that?” asked Lucy.

“Simply the question, what the moon is made of.”

“Indeed?”

“Certainly. Mr. Denis took the common and erroneous
view familiar to scientific men; I, on the contrary,
supported the green-cheese view of the question; and
this was the real cause of our quarrel. I am sure Mr.
Denis and myself are the most excellent friends now,”
said Hoffland, turning with a smile towards Denis;
“and we will never quarrel any more.”

A pause of some moments followed this ridiculous explanation;
and this pause was first broken by Miss Lucy,
who burst into the most unladylike laughter, and indeed
shook from head to foot in the excess of her mirth.
Mowbray looked with an amazed and puzzled air at
Hoffland, and Denis did not know what to say or how to
look.

Lucy, after laughing uninterruptedly for nearly five
minutes, suddenly remembered the indecorum of this
strange exhibition; so, drying her eyes, and assuming a
demure and business-like air, she took a small basket of
keys, and apologizing for her departure, went to attend
to supper. Before leaving the room, however, she gladdened
honest Jack Denis's heart with a sweet smile, and

this smile was so perfect a balm to the wounded feelings
of the worthy fellow, that his discontent and ill-humor
disappeared completely, and he was almost ready to give
his hand to his rival, Hoffland. The same arrow had
mortally wounded Jacques and Denis.