University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
HOFFLAND IS WHISKED AWAY IN A CHARIOT.

“WHAT an oddity!” said Hoffland, as leaving the domain
of Sir Asinus behind them, the two students
passed on, still laughing at the grotesque appearance of
the knight; “this gentleman seems to live in an atmosphere
of jests and humor.”

“I think it is somewhat forced.”

“Somewhat forced?”

“At times.”

“How?”

“I mean that he is as often sad as merry; and more
frequently earnest and serious than careless.”

“Is it possible, Ernest?”

“I think I am right.”

“Sir Asinus—as I have heard him called—a serious
man?”

“Yes, and a very profound one.”

“You surprise me!”

“Well, I think that some day he will surprise the
world: he is a most profound thinker, and has that dangerous
trait for opponents, a clearness of perception which
cuts through the rind of a subject, and eviscerates the
real core of it with extraordinary ease. You know——”

“Now you are going to talk politics,” said Hoffland,
laughing.

“No,” said Ernest.

“I do not like politics,” Hoffland continued; “they
weary me, and I would much rather talk of balls.—
What a funny figure Sir Asinus will cut with that little
creature—in reel or minuet!”

And Hoffland complimented his own conception with
a laugh.

“I scarcely fancy he will go in his old dressing-gown,”
said Mowbray with his sad smile; “that would be a poor
compliment to his Excellency, and the many beautiful
dames who will meet him.”

“Is it to be a large ball?”

“I believe so.”

“And very gay?”

“No doubt.”

“You escort Miss Lucy?”

“Yes.”

“And do you anticipate much pleasure?”

“Can you ask me, Charles?”

“Why—I thought you might throw off—this feeling
you have——”

“I cannot,” Mowbray said, shaking his head; “time
only can accomplish that—not music, and gay forms, and
laughter! Ah, Charles!” he added with a deep and
weary sigh, “you plainly know nothing of my feeling.
I cannot prevent myself from speaking of it—it makes me
the merest boy; and now I say that it is far too strong
to be dispelled in any degree by merriment. Mirth and
joy and festive scenes obliterate some annoyances—those
vague disquietudes which oppress some persons; they are
scarcely a balm for sorrow, real sorrow.”

Hoffland held down his head and sighed.

“I shall see her there to-night, I doubt not,” Mowbray
went on, striving to preserve his calmness; “our glances
will meet; her satirical smile will rise to her lips, and
she will turn away as indifferently as if she had not
cruelly and wantonly wounded a heart which loves her
truly—deeply. This I shall suffer—this I anticipate:
can you ask me then if I look forward to the ball with
pleasure?”

Hoffland raised his head; his face was full of smiles.

“But suppose she does not look thus at you?” he said.

“I do not understand——”

“Suppose Philippa—was not that her name?—suppose
she smiles when you bow to her: for you will bow, won't
you, Ernest?”

“Assuredly; but to reply to your question. I should
know perfectly well that her smile was the untrue manoeuvre
of a coquette. Ah! Charles! Charles! may you
never know what it is to see a false smile in woman—cold
and chilling—the glitter of sunlight upon snow. It is
worse than frowns!”

“Ernest, you are a strange person,” said Hoffland;
“you seem determined to misjudge this young girl, who
is not as bad as you think her, my life upon it! So,
frown or smile, you are determined to hate her?”

“I do not hate her! Would to Heaven I could get as
far from love for her, as the neutral ground of indifference.”

“Unhappy man!” said Hoffland; “you pray to be
delivered from love!”

“Devoutly.”

“It is our greatest happiness.”

“And deepest misery.”

“Misanthrope!”

“No, Charles, I neither hate men nor women; I do
not permit this disappointment to sour my heart. But
I cannot become an advocate of the feeling which has
caused me such cruel suffering. Let us say no more.
We shall meet at the ball, and then you will be able to
judge whether I am mistaken in the estimate I place
upon this young girl's character. She is beautiful,
haughty, suspicious, and unfeeling: it tears my heart to
say it, but it is true. You will never after this evening
doubt my unhappiness, or charge me with error.”

“Probably not,” said Hoffland, turning away his head;
“I will make your error plain to you—but promise to
speak of it no more.”

“What do you mean by `make my error plain to
me'?”

“You will see.”

“Charles!” said Mowbray suddenly, “you cannot
have designed to approach this lady upon the subject
which I have spoken to you of, as friend to friend?
That is not possible!”

“I shall not say one single word to your lady-love.”

“Explain then.”

“Never—I am a Sphinx, an oracle: until the time
comes I am dumb.”

“You only strive to raise my spirits,” said Mowbray
with his sad smile; “that is very kind in you, but I fear
it is even more than you could do.”

“By which I suppose you mean that I could `raise
your spirits' if any body could.”

“I may say yes—for you have a rare cheerfulness.
It is almost contagious.”

Hoffland looked sidewise at his companion for a moment
with a curious smile, and said:

“Ernest.”

“Well, Charles.”

“How would you like to have—but it is too foolish.”

“Go on: finish your sentence.”

“No, you will laugh.”

“Perhaps I shall: I hope so,” Mowbray said, sadly
smiling.

There was so much sadness in his tones, spite of the
smile, that Hoffland's eyes filled with tears.

“What I was about to say was very ridiculous,” the
boy said, with a slight tremor in his voice; “but you
know almost every thing I say is ridiculous.”

“No, indeed, Charles; you are a singular mixture of
excellent sense and fanciful humor.”

“Well, then, attribute my question to humor.”

“Willingly.”

“I was about to ask you—as you were kind enough
to say that I could make you laugh if any one could—I
was about to ask, how would you like to have a wife
like me?”

And Hoffland burst out laughing. Ernest sighed.

“I think I should like it very well—to reply simply
to your question.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes.”

“What do you admire so much in me?”

“I love more than I admire, Charles.”

“Do you?” And the boy's head drooped.

“Yes,” said Mowbray; “you possess a childlike ingennousness
and simplicity which is exceedingly refreshing

to me after intense study. I would call your conversation
at times prattle, but for the fear of offending
you.”

“Oh, you will not.”

“Prattle is very engaging, you know,” said Mowbray,
“and I often feel as if my weary head would be at rest
upon your friendly shoulder.”

“Why do n't you rest it there then?”

Mowbray smiled.

“You may answer that question better than myself,”
he said: “for some strange reason, you always avoid me
when I approach you.”

“Avoid you!”

“Yes, Charles.”

“Why, my dear fellow,” said Hoffland, with a free-and-easy
air, “come as near as you choose; here, let us lock
arms! Does that look like avoiding you?”

Mowbray smiled.

“It is very different here in the street,” he said; “but
let us dismiss this idle subject. It is an odd way of
throwing away time to debate whether you would make
a good wife.”

“I do n't think it is,” said Hoffland, and he laughed.
“if I would make a good wife, I would make a good husband;
and as I have natural doubts upon the latter
point, I wish to have them solved. But I weary you—
let us part. Good-bye,” added Hoffland, with a strange
expression of face and tone of voice; “here is my lodging,
and you go on to the college.”

“No, I think I will go up and sit down a moment.”

Hoffland stood still.

“It is strange, but true, that I have never paid you a

visit,” continued Mowbray, “and now I will go and see
your quarters.”

“Really, my dear Ernest—the fact is—I assure you on
my honor—there is nothing to attract——”

Mowbray smiled.

“Never mind,” he said, “I will go up, if from nothing
else, from simple curiosity.”

The singular young man looked exceedingly vexed at
this, and did not move.

Mowbray was about to pass with a smile up the steps
leading to the door, when an acquaintance came by and
stopped a moment to speak to him. Mowbray seemed
interested in what he said, and half turned from Hoffland.

No sooner had he done so than the boy placed one
cautious foot upon the stone step, looked quickly around,
saw that he was unobserved; and entering the house
with a bound, ran lightly up the steps, opened the door
of his apartment, entered it, closed the door, and disappeared.
The sound of the bolt in moving proved that
he had locked himself in.

In two minutes Mowbray turned round to speak to
his companion: he was no where to be seen. The
friend with whom he had been conversing had observed
nothing, and suggested that Mr. Hoffland must have
gone on.

No; he had, however, gone to his room probably. And
ascending the stairs, Mowbray knocked at the door. No
voice replied.

“Strange boy!” he murmured; “he cannot be here,
however—and yet that singular objection he seemed to
have to my visiting him—singular!”

And Mowbray, finding himself no nearer a conclusion

than at first, descended, and slowly passed on toward
the college.

No sooner had he disappeared within its walls than a
slight noise at Hoffland's window proved that he had
been watching Mowbray. All then became silent. In
an hour, however, the door was cautiously opened, and
the boy issued forth. He carefully closed the door, relocked
it, put the key in his pocket, descended, and
commenced walking rapidly toward the southern portion
of the town, depositing as he went by a letter in the post.

He passed through the suburbs, continued his way
over the open road leading toward Jamestown, and in
half an hour arrived at a little roadside ordinary—one
of those houses of private entertainment which are
wholly different from the great public taverns.

Fifty paces beyond this ordinary a chariot with four
horses was waiting in a glade of the forest, and on catching
sight of it Hoffland hastened his steps, and almost
ran.

He reached the chariot breathless from his long walk
and the rapidity with which he had passed over the distance
between the ordinary and the vehicle; threw
open the door before the coachman knew he was near;
entered, said in a low voice, “Home!” and sank back
exhausted.

As though only waiting for this single word, the
chariot began to move, and the horses, drawing the
heavy vehicle, disappeared at a gallop.