University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
THE LAST CHANCE OF JACQUES.

WHILE Mowbray and Philippa were holding their
singular colloquy in one portion of the laughing
and animated crowd, our friend Sir Asinus, with that
perseverance which characterized his great intellect, was
endeavoring to make an impression on the heart of the
maiden of his love. But it was all in vain.

In vain did Sir Asinus dance minuets without number,
execute bows beyond example—the little maiden obstinately
persisted in bestowing her smiles on her companion,
Bathurst.

That young gentleman finally bore her off triumphantly
on his arm.

Sir Asinus stood still for a moment, then sent these
remarkable words after the little damsel:

“You have crushed a faithful heart—you have spurned
a deep affection, beautiful and fascinating maiden. Inured
to female charms, and weary of philosophy, I found
in thee the ideal of my spirit—truth and simplicity:
the fates forbid, and henceforth I am nought! Never
again look up, O maiden, to my window, when the
morning sun shines on it, as you pass to school—expect to
see me in those fair domains no more! Henceforth I am
a wanderer, and am homeless. In my bark, named in
past days the Rebecca, I will seek some foreign clime,

and nevermore return to these shores. I'll buy me a
fiddle in Italy, and hobnob with gondoliers, singing the
songs of Tasso on Venetian waters. Never again expect
to see my face at the window as you go on merrily—I
leave my native shore to-morrow, and am gone!”

With which words—words which terrified the little
damsel profoundly—Sir Asinus folded his arms, and in
this position, with a sad scowl upon his face, passed forth
into the night.

As he reached the door of the Raleigh, he perceived
Mrs. Wimple and one or two elderly ladies getting into a
chariot; and behind them Jacques leading Belle-bouche
triumphantly toward his small two-seated vehicle.

Jacques was radiant, and this the reader may possibly
understand, if he will recollect the scheme of this gentleman—to
address Belle-bouche where no fate could interrupt
him.

As Sir Asinus passed on, frowning, Jacques cast upon
that gentleman a look which expressed triumphant happiness.

“You won't interrupt me on my way back, will you?”
he said, smiling; “eh, my dear Sir Asinus?”

Sir Asinus ground his teeth.

Belle-bouche was safely stowed into the vehicle—
Jacques gathered up the reins, was about to get in—
when, disastrous fate! the voice of Mrs. Wimple was
heard, declaring that the night had grown too cool for
her beloved niece to ride in the open air.

Sir Asinus lingered and listened with sombre pleasure.

In vain did Jacques remonstrate, and Belle-bouche
declare the night delightful: Aunt Wimple, strong in
her fears of night air, was inexorable.

So Belle-bouche with a little pout got down, and
Jacques cursing his evil stars, assisted her into the chariot.

Would he not come in, and spend the night at Shadynook?—they
could make room for him by squeezing,
said Aunt Wimple.

No, no, he could not inconvenience them—he would
not be able to stay at Shadynook—he hoped they would
have a pleasant journey; and as the chariot rolled off,
the melancholy Jacques gazed after it with an expression
of profound misery.

He felt a hand upon his shoulder; he turned and saw
Sir Asinus. But Sir Asinus was not deriding him—he
was groaning.

“Let us commit suicide,” said the knight, in gloomy
tones.

Jacques started.

“Suicide!”

“The night is favorable, and my hopes are dead, like
yours,” said Sir Asinus, gloomily.

“That is enough to kill at one time,” said the melancholy
Jacques; “mine are not—animation is only suspended.
On the whole, my dear friend, I am opposed
to your proposition. Good night!”

And Jacques, with a melancholy smile, departed.

Sir Asinus, with a gesture of despair, rushed forth into
the night. Whether that gentleman had been reading
romances or not, we cannot say; but as he disappeared,
he bore a strong resemblance to a desperate lover bent
on mischief.

Within, the reel had now begun—that noble divertisement,
before which all other dances disappear,

vanquished, overwhelmed, driven from the field, and
weeping their departed glories. For the reel is a high
mystery—it is superior to all—it cannot be danced beyond
the borders of Virginia—as the Seville orange of
commerce loses its flavor, and is nothing. The reel ends
all the festivities of the old Virginian gatherings, and
crowns with its supreme merriment the pyramid of mirth.
When it is danced properly,—to proper music, by the
proper persons, and with proper ardor,—all the elements
break loose. Mirth and music and bright eyes respectively
shower, thunder and lighten. In the old days, it
snowed too—for the powder fell in alabaster dust and
foamy clouds, and crammed the air with fragrance.

As for the reel which they danced at the Raleigh
tavern, in the Apollo room, upon the occasion we allude
to, who shall speak of it with adequate justice? Jacques
lost it—tulip-like, the king of grace—Belle-bouche was
with him; and a thousand eyes were on the maze,—the
maze which flashed, and buzzed, and rustled, ever merrier—and
glittered with its diamonds and far brighter
eyes—and ever grew more tangled and more simple,
one and many, complicate and single, while the music
roared above in flashing cadences and grand ambrosial
grace.

And merrier feet were never seen. The little maidens
seemed to pour their hearts out in the enchanting divertisement,
and the whole apartment, with its dazzling
lights and flowers, was full of laughter, mirth, and holiday
from end to end. When the final roar of the violins
dropped into silence, and so crumbled into nothing,
all was ended. Cavaliers offered their arms—ladies
put on their hoods—chariots drove up and received their

burdens; and in another hour, the joyous festival was
but a recollection. After the reel—nothingness.

The Apollo room was still again—waiting for other
men than youthful gallants, other words than flattering
compliments.

And Mowbray went home with a wounded heart,
which all the smiles of Philippa could not heal—for
Hoffland was his rival. Denis went home with a happy
heart, for Lucy had smiled on him. Sir Asinus was
miserable—boy Bathurst was happy. The ball at the
Raleigh was a true microcosm, where John smiled and
James sighed, and all played on, and went away miserable
or the reverse.

And so it ended.