University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
ERNEST AND PHILIPPA.

THE young girl had never looked more beautiful.
She was clad in a simple white satin, her dazzling
arms were bare, but she wore not a single bracelet; her
hair was carried back from her temples, and powdered
until it resembled a midnight strewed with star-dust—
but not a single jewel glittered above her imperial brow,
or on her neck. She looked like an uncrowned queen,
and took her place as one not needing ornaments.

Poor Mowbray, as we have seen, trembled slightly as
she entered. With all his strength he could not restrain
this exhibition of emotion.

When he had visited her so often at Shadynook she
had invariably worn a number of jewels, and seemed to
have taken an idle delight in decorating her person with
all the splendor which unlimited wealth places at the
command of those who possess it. Now she came like a
simple village maiden—like a May-day queen; queen
not in virtue of her jewels or her wealth, but for her
beauty and simplicity and kindness.

If he had loved her before, poor Mowbray now more
than loved her.

All his resolutions melted before her approach, as the
iceberg thaws and dissolves beneath the rays of a tropic
sky. He had floated into the old latitudes of love and

warmth again, and his cold heart once more began to
beat—his hardness to pass away: leaving the old, true,
faithful love.

She came on carelessly through the crowd, dispensing
smiles and gay laughter. Surrounded by a host of admirers,
she talked with all of them at once—scattered
here a jest, there a smile; asked here a question, replied
gaily there to one addressed to her; and as she moved,
the crowd of gallant gentlemen moved with her, as the
stars hover around and follow in the wake of the bright
harvest moon.

Philippa was “easily foist.” She had that rare joyousness
which is contagious, making all who come within
its influence merry like itself; and with her wildest
laughter and her most careless jests, a maiden simpleness
and grace was mingled which made the “judicious”
who had “grieved” before as much her admirers as
the ruffled and powdered fine gentlemen who bowed and
smiled and whispered to her as she moved.

Poor Mowbray! He saw what he had lost, and
groaned.

This was the woman whom he loved—would have
given worlds to have love him again. This was the
bold true nature he had felt such admiration for—and
now he saw how maidenly she was, and only saw it fully
when she was lost to him.

Could she have ever uttered those cruel words which
still echoed in his heart?—and was this kind and happy
face, this open, frank, and lovely girl, the woman who
had struck his heart so rudely?

Could he not love her still, and go to her and say, “I
wronged you, pardon me, I love you more than ever”?

No; all that was over, and he might love her madly,
with insane energy, and break his heart with the thought
of her beauty and simplicity and truth; but never would
he again approach a woman who despised him—looked
upon him as an adventurer and fortune-hunter.

Still Philippa came on slowly, bowing, smiling, and
jesting—she ever approached nearer.

Mowbray felt a shudder run through his body, and
turned to leave the spot.

As he did so, he heard a voice which made his ears
tingle, his heart sink, his cheek flush, utter in the most
quiet manner, and without any exhibition of coldness or
satire or affectation, the words:

“Good evening, Mr. Mowbray. Will you not speak
to me?”

Mowbray became calm suddenly, by one of those
efforts of resolution which characterized him.

“Good evening, madam,” he said, approaching the
young girl unconsciously; “I trust you are well.”

And wondering at himself, he stood beside her.

“I believe I am very well,” she said, smiling; “will
you give me your arm?”

Mowbray presented his arm, bowing calmly; and
with a smile which embraced the whole mortified
group of gentlemen, the young girl turned away with
him.

“I have not had the pleasure of seeing you—have I?
—lately,” she said; “where have you been, if I may
ask a very impertinent question?”

“At Williamsburg, madam.”

“And never at Shadynook?”

“I was informed that you had gone home.”

“Yes, so I did. But then if you had much—friendship
for me, I think you might have followed me.”

Mowbray was so much moved by the fascinating
glance which accompanied these words, that he could
only murmur:

“Follow you, madam?”

“Yes; I believe when gentlemen have friends—particular
friends among the ladies, and those friends leave
them, they go to seek them.”

“I am unfortunately a poor law student, madam—I
have little time for visits.”

Philippa smiled.

“I am afraid that is an evasion, sir,” she said.

“How, madam?”

“The true reason I fear is, that the rule I have spoken
of does not apply to you and myself.”

“The rule——?”

“That we follow our particular friends—or rather that
the gentlemen do. I fear you do not regard me in that
light.”

Mowbray could only say:

“Why should I not, madam?”

Philippa paused for a moment; and then said, smiling:

“Shall I tell you?”

“Yes.”

“I fancy then that something which I said in our last
interview offended you.”

This was a home thrust, and Mowbray could not
reply.

“Answer,” she said; “did you not come away from
that interview thinking me very rude, very unladylike,
very affected and unlovely? did you not cordially deter

mine never to think of me again—and have you not
kept that resolution?”

“No, madam,” said Mowbray, replying by evasion to
the last clause of the sentence.

Philippa pouted.

“Mr. Mowbray,” she said, “you are very cold. I believe
I have left at least a dozen gallant wits to give you
my whole attention, and you reply to me in monosyllables.”

Mowbray felt his heart wounded by these words,
which were uttered with as much feeling as annoyance,
and replied:

“I should not have accepted your proposal, madam;
it was selfish. I am not in very excellent spirits this
evening, and fear that I shall not be able to entertain
you. Pardon my dulness.”

“No, I will not. You can be just as agreeable as you
choose, and you will not.”

Mowbray found himself smiling at these words, and
said:

“Perhaps, then, if you will ask me some more questions,
madam, I may reply in something more than
monosyllables.”

“Well then, sir, are you going to the May-day party
at Shadynook?”

“I do not know—yes, I suppose, however. I have
promised.”

“Then Miss Lucy will wish to have you.”

“Yes—well, I shall go.”

“I am very glad!” said Philippa.

Mowbray could not explain the happiness he felt:
all his coldness and doubt seemed to be passing away in

presence of this young girl, who gave him such winning
smiles, and so obstinately refused to observe his constraint.
He had spoken truly to Hoffland; he was in
love, and he had no longer any command over himself.
He banished the thought that she was playing with his
feelings, as soon as it occurred, and gave himself up to
the intoxicating happiness which he experienced in her
presence.

“You will also come to the party, will you not?” he
said, smiling.

“Oh, yes!” said Philippa; “they could not very well
get on without me. In the first place, Bel and myself
are to get every thing ready; I mean at Shadynook.
As to the invitations, and all the externals, they are intrusted
to that handsome gentleman yonder, who is
devouring Bel with his eyes! Can't you see him?”
added Philippa, with a merry laugh; “poor fellow he
is deeply in love——”

“And that you think very ridiculous?”

“Indeed, no. I can imagine no greater compliment,
and no larger happiness, than to be sincerely loved by a
true and honest gentleman.”

Mowbray looked at her sadly, but with a smile.

“There are very many honest gentlemen,” he said.

“Yes, but they do not love everybody,” said Philippa;
“and that for a very good reason.”

“What?”

The young girl laughed.

“Because they love themselves so much,” she said.

“Gallant Adonises! they think themselves handsome,
nay, more lovely than all the maidens in the world!”

Mowbray caught the infectious mirth of the young

girl, and smiled. Poor Mowbray! where were all his
mighty resolutions—his fair promises—his determination
to remain an iceberg in presence of this haughty
young girl? He was falling more deeply in love with
her every moment.

“You are very severe upon the fine gentlemen,” he
said; “I think your picture is the exception.”

“No, no! the rule! the rule!” she went on laughing.
“Just look at them yonder. See how they smile and
simper, and press their hands to their hearts, and daintily
arrange their drop curls! I would as soon be loved by
a lay-figure!”

And Philippa burst into a fit of merry laughter.

“Look!” she said; “see that ridiculous young gentleman
near the door, with the velvet breast-knot—think of
a velvet breast-knot! See how he daintily helps himself
to snuff from a box with a picture of Madame Pompadour,
or some celebrated lady, upon the lid; and see his
jewelled hand, his simpering face, his languid air, his affected
drawl as he murmurs, `Ah—yes—madam—very
—warm—but a charming—spectacle.' On my word!
I would always provide myself with a bottle of sal
volatile when such gentlemen came to see me!”

Mowbray found himself growing positively happy.
Not only were his spirits raised by the young girl's
merry and good-humored conversation, but every word
which she uttered made his heart thrill more and more.
All her discourse, all her satire upon the butterflies of
the ball-room, had originated in the discussion of what
character was proper for a lover. She scouted the idea
of the love of one of these idlers attracting for a moment
the regard of an intelligent woman: then was it

not a just conclusion, that she looked for character, and
dignity, and activity? She pointed to his own opposite,
in grotesque colors, and laughed at her picture: then
did she not find something to like in himself? Could
she ever love him?

And Mowbray's cheek flushed—his strong frame was
agitated.

“The amusing part of all this is,” said Philippa,
laughing, “that these gentlemen think their charms irresistible.
Now, there is my cousin Charles—you know
him, I believe.”

“Charles——?”

“Charles Hoffland.”

“Charles, your cousin!” cried Mowbray; “it is impossible!”

“Why, what is impossible in the fact? Possible?
Of course it is possible!”

And Philippa laughed again more merrily than before.

“Your cousin!” repeated Mowbray; “why, Charles
is one of my best friends.”

“That is very proper, sir; then you have two friends
in the family.”

And Philippa gave her cavalier an enchanting smile.

“Charles is a very excellent young man,” she laughed;
“and I am sure loves me deeply, but then any one can
see he loves himself extravagantly.”

“Is it possible! But excuse me,” said Mowbray, seeing
that his astonishment annoyed his companion; “he was
to be here to-night.”

“Has he arrived?” said Philippa, looking round with
her daring smile.

“I do not see him.”

“Tell me when he comes,” she said, shaking with
laughter; “he's a sad fellow, and I must lecture him.”

Mowbray looked at her.

“Strange that I did not see that you were related,”
he said.

“Very strange.”

“He resembles you strongly.”

“Yes.”

“But has light hair.”

“Has he?”

“And is smaller, I verily believe.”

“No, I believe our height is just the same. Has he
attended to his studies?”

Mowbray smiled and shook his head.

“Not in a way to injure his health, I fear.”

“Lazy fellow! I will never marry him.”

“He is then a suitor of yours, madam? I was not aware
of the fact—and request you to pardon my criticism.”

“There you are assuming your grand air again,” said
Philippa, laughing; “please leave it at home when you
come to see me. Ah! you smile again—that pleases
me. What did you ask? `Was Charles my suitor—did
he love me?' Yes, I am convinced that he loves me
devotedly, as deeply as a man can love any thing—as
much, that is to say, as he loves himself!”

And the young girl burst into another fit of laughter,
and positively shook with merriment.

“Did you become well acquainted with him?” she
asked, after a pause; “Charles is not stiff—too free and
easy, I fear, and I am sure you—liked him.”

“Indeed, I did,” said Mowbray; “he was a great
consolation to me, and I always thought there was

something strangely familiar in his face. Singular that I
never observed how closely he resembled you.”

“That was because you did not think of me very
frequently.”

Mowbray colored.

“I thought of you too often, I fear,” he said in a low
tone.

“And never came to see me—that is a probable tale,”
she said, coloring also, and glancing with a mixture of
mirth and timidity at him.

Their eyes met;—those eloquent pleaders said much
in that second.

“I have suffered much,” he said; “my heart is not
very strong—I was deceived—I could not——”

And Mowbray would have said something still more
significant of his feelings, but for his companion's presence
of mind. She observed, with womanly tact, that a
number of eyes were fixed upon them, and adroitly
diverted the conversation from the dangerous direction
it was taking.

“I do not see Charles,” she said, laughing and blushing;
“did you not say he promised to be here?”

“Yes,” murmured Mowbray.

“He's a great idler, but I love him very much,” she
said, laughing. “Tell me, Mr. Mowbray, as a friend—
you know him well—could I find a better husband?”

Mowbray colored.

“He has a noble heart,” he said; “do I understand
that——”

“I love him? Yes, I cannot deny it truly; and why
should I not make him happy?—for he loves me sincerely.”

Mowbray felt his heart sink. Then that new-born
hope was doomed to disappointment—that fancy was
all folly! His miseries would be only deeper for the
brief taste of happiness. He could not reply; he only
muttered some inarticulate words, which Philippa did
not seem to hear.

“I will decide finally on the day of the party at
Shadynook,” she said, smiling; “and now let us leave
the subject. But do not forget to tell me when Charles
enters,” she added, laughing.

Poor Mowbray! he felt his heart oppressed with a
new and more bitter emotion. The company thought
him happy in exclusive possession of the lovely girl's
society—his side was pierced with a cruel, rankling
thorn.