University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
THE MAY FESTIVAL.

IF not as splendid as the great ball at the Raleigh, the
festival at Shadynook was declared by all to be far
more pleasant.

At an early hour in the forenoon bevies of lovely girls
and graceful cavaliers began to arrive, and the various
parties scattered themselves over the lawn, the garden,
through the grove and the forest, with true sylvan freedom
and unrestraint.

Shadynook, thanks to the active exertions of Belle-bouche
and Philippa, was one bower of roses and other
flowers. All the windows were festooned with them—
the tables were great pyramids of wreaths; and out
upon the lawn the blossoms from the trees showered
down upon the animated throng, and made the children
laugh—for many little girls were there—and snowing on
the cavaliers, made them like heralds of the spring; and
lying on the earth, a rosy velvet carpet, almost made the
old poetic fiction true, and gave the damsels of the
laughing crowd an opportunity to walk “ankle-deep in
flowers.”

The harpsichord was constantly in use; and those old
Scottish songs, which echo now like some lost memory
to our grandfathers and grandmothers—we are writing
of those personages—glided on the air from coral lips,

and made the spring more bright; and many gallant
hearts were there enslaved, and sighed whenever they
heard sung again those joyous or sad ditties of the Scottish
muse.

Books lay about with lovely poems in them—written
by the fine old Sucklings and Tom Stanleys—breathing
high chivalric homage to the fair; and volumes of engravings,
full of castles or bright pictures of Arcadian
scenes—brought thither by the melancholy Jacques as
true-love offerings—or sunset views where evening died
away a purple margin on the blue Italian skies.

And here and there, on mantelpieces and side-tables,
were grotesque ornaments in china; and odd figures cut
in glass of far Bohemia; and painted screens and embroidery.
And through the crowd ran yelping more
than one small lap-dog, trodden on by children, who
cried out with merriment thereat.

Belle-bouche had rightly judged that many children
should be invited; for if bouquets are bright and pleasant,
so are merry childish faces; and so dozens of young
maidens, scarcely in their teens, and full of wild delight,
ran here and there, playing with each other, and seeking
Belle-bouche—kind, loving Belle-bouche—every now and
then, to say that something was so pretty, and she was
so good! Whereat Belle-bouche would smile, and play
with their curls, and they would run and play again.

There was this observable fact about the young lady
who has appeared so frequently in our little narrative,
illustrating its dull pages with her languishing and joyful
smiles, showering upon it the tender grace of her fair
countenance and innocent eyes—there was this to be
observed, we say, that Belle-bouche loved and was beloved

by children. She always had them round her
when she went where they were, smiling and looking up
to her with innocent faces—from the little infantile prattlers
just from the nursery, to those who, passing into
their bright teens, began to study how they might best
fulfil their duty in society—enslave the gallants. All
loved Belle-bouche, and on this occasion she had scarcely
a moment's rest.

Her own companions loved her too devotedly, and if
any one had asked the crowd assembled, what was the
brightest picture, the fairest ornament of the whole
festival, they would have with one voice declared—the
little hostess. Philippa, with her queenly brow and
ready laughter, did not receive one-half the devoted
attention which was lavished on her companion; and
indeed Belle-bouche was the toast of the whole assembly.

The finest cavaliers gathered around her and paid her
their addresses—all smiled on her, and paid homage to
her. Her joy was full.

But see the finest gentleman of all approach—the no
longer melancholy, the joyful and superb knight of the
ribbon-decorated horse!

Jacques approached with the air of a captive prince—
submissive, yet proud. He smiled.

“Beautiful queen of May,” he said, trailing his plumed
hat upon the floor, “behold your slave. Never did
shepherd in the vales of Arcady pay truer homage to
his Daphne's charms than I do to those of our hostess!”

This was considered a pretty speech, and Belle-bouche
was about to reply with a smile, when little Martha
Wayles, who was present in a pink-gauze dress and lace,
cried:

“Oh, my goodness! just look there!”

“What is it?” asked the company.

“There, through the window,” said little Martha,
blushing at the attention she excited.

“What?”

“That horse with ribbons!”

The company gazed through the window, and began
to laugh. There indeed was the horse of Jacques,
splendid in all the colors of the rainbow, pawing and
tossing his head as the groom led him away.

“A little romance of mine,” said Jacques, smiling;
“I trust 't is not considered in bad taste—I had a
crook——”

“A crook?”

“Yes, wreathed with flowers, as was the custom, I
believe, in Arcadia; but I feared it would attract attention
in the town, and I left it,” said Jacques, with lamb-like
innocence.

This sally was greeted with tumultuous applause.

“A crook!” cried the damsels.

“An excellent idea!”

“So sylvan!”

“And so appropriate!”

“We may have as many as we fancy, I believe,” said
Jacques, smiling; “I have prepared a number as an introduction
to the festival: they are in the garden, ladies,
already wreathed with flowers!”

The company rose in a mass to go and get them, and
soon they were in the garden; then scattered over the
lawn; then every where, laughing, making merry, and
behaving like a crowd of children released from school.
The damsels acted shepherdesses to perfection, and

closely resembled the pictures we are accustomed to see
upon the fans which ladies use even to the present day.
Their little airs of sylvan simplicity were very pretty;
and the gallant gentlemen were not backward in their
part. They bowed and simpered until they resembled
so many supple-jacks, pulled by the finger of a child.

“Look,” said Jacques to Belle-bouche, and sighing
slightly as he gazed upon the fresh beauty of her face;
“see those lovers yonder——”

“Lovers?” said Belle-bouche, smiling.

“I am not mistaken, I think,” said Jacques; “yes,
yes, my queen, they are lovers. Do you not think that
something like that which I spoke of formerly will come
to pass?”

Belle-bouche, with a delicious little rose-color brightening
her cheek, replied, patting her satin-sandalled foot
upon the flowery sward:

“Which you spoke of—pray, what did you speak of?”

“Of my wish to be a shepherd——”

“Ah—a shepherd,” said Belle-bouche, removing a
cherry blossom from her hair, and smiling.

“Yes, my lovely queen,” said Jacques, with great
readiness; “I wished to be a shepherd and have a
crook——”

“Oh, sir!”

“And that my Arcadian love should also have one
and draw me—so that passing through the fields——”

“Oh, yes——”

“I might kiss her hand——”

“Yes, yes——”

“And passing through the forests wrap her in my
cloak——”

Belle-bouche laughed.

“And crossing the streams on narrow moss-clad logs,
support her with my arm—as the dearest and most
blessed treasure upon earth!” cried Jacques, seizing the
hand of Belle-bouche, which hung down, and enraptured
that she did not withdraw it.

Belle-bouche understood perfectly that Jacuqes referred
to their meeting on that day when she had been
reading in the forest, and had fled from him across the
stream. Her roseate blush betrayed her.

“If only that bright dream of love could be a reality
for me!” he whispered; “if one I love so——”

“Oh, Miss Bel! the girls sent for you—the pyramid
is ready!” cried the merry voice of little Martha.

And running toward Belle-bouche, the girl told her
that they really must have her in the garden “before
the procession commenced.”

Poor Jacques drew back groaning.

“There's another chance gone!” he sighed; “what
luck I have! I'm always interrupted, and the fates are
leagued against me.”

Belle-bouche left him with a blush and a smile, and
disappeared.

Ten minutes afterwards the company had reassembled
on the lawn, and seemed to be anxiously expecting something.

This something suddenly made its appearance, and
advanced into the open space with merriment and
laughter.

It was a party of young girls who, clad in all the
colors of the rainbow, bore in their midst a pyramid of
silver dishes wreathed with flowers, and overflowing

with strawberries and early fruits. It was a revival of
the old May-day ceremonies in London, when the milkmaids
wreathed their buckets with flowers, and passed
from door to door, singing and asking presents. Jacques
had arranged it all—the philosophic and antiquarian
Jacques; and with equal taste he had selected the beautiful
verses of Marlow or Shakspeare, for the chorus of
maidens.

The maidens approached the company, therefore, merrily
singing, in their childlike voices, the song:

As the song ended, little Martha came forth from the

throng, and holding in her hand a small crook, went
round with a very laughing face asking charity from the
applauding company.

“Only a penny, sir!” she said, motioning back a pistole
which Mr. Jack Denis held out gaily.

And then—the collection ended—the young girls of
the masquerade hurried back to rid themselves of their
pyramid.

Mr. Jack Denis and Miss Lucy Mowbray, who had
just arrived with her brother, bent their steps toward
the grove, through which ran a purling stream; and
thither they were followed after a little by Miss Martha
Wayles and her admirer, Bathurst. We cannot follow
them and listen to their conversation—that would be indecorous.
But we may be permitted to say that two
young ladies—one very young—on that morning plighted
their troth to two young gentlemen—one very young.
And if they blushed somewhat upon returning, it was
an honest blush, which the present chronicler for one
will not laugh at.

In the garden all by this time was joyous and wild
merriment. The young ladies were running here and
there; servants were preparing in a flowery retreat a
long table full of fruits and every delicacy; and merriest
of all, Miss Philippa was scattering on every side her
joyous and contagious laughter.

Suddenly this laughter of the young lady ceased, and
she colored slightly.

She saw Mowbray looking at her with a glance of so
much love, that she could not support his gaze.

In a moment he was at her side. “Will you not walk
with me?” she said, without waiting for him to address

her; and in a moment her arm was in his own, and they
were strolling away. They went toward a noble old
oak, in the branches of which was fixed a platform, and
this platform was approached by a movable sort of
ladder. The leaves around the platform were so dense
that it was impossible to see any one who might be
sitting within.

As Mowbray and Philippa approached, the ladder
was seen suddenly to move, a little exclamation was
heard, and the next moment the movable steps rose erect,
balanced themselves for an instant, and fell to the
ground, cutting off all connection between the platform
and the ground.

At the same moment a triumphant voice muttered:

“Now let me see them interrupt me!”

Mowbray and Philippa did not hear it; they passed
on, silent and embarrassed.

Philippa, it was evident, had something to say, and
scarcely knew how to begin; she hesitated, laughed,
blushed, and patted the ground petulantly with her little
foot. At last she said, with a smile and a blush:

“I asked you to offer me your arm for an especial
purpose. Can you guess what that purpose was?”

Mowbray smiled, and replied:

“I am afraid not.”

“I wished to tell you a tale.”

“A tale?”

“A history, if you please; and as you are a thinker,
and an impartial one, to ask your opinion.”

“I am sure you do me a great deal of honor,” said
Mowbray, smiling with happiness; “I listen.”

Philippa cast down her eyes, patted the ground more

violently than before with her silken-sandalled foot, and
biting her lip, was silent.

Mowbray looked at her, and saw the blush upon her
cheek. She raised her head—their eyes met; and the
blush deepened.

“Do not look at me,” she said, turning away her head
and bursting into a constrained laugh; “I never could
bear to have any one look at me.”

“It is a very severe request, but I will obey you,” he
said, smiling; “now for your history.”

“It will surprise you, I suppose,” she said, with her
daring laugh again; “but listen. Do not interrupt me.
Well, sir, once upon a time—you see I begin in true tale
fashion—once upon a time, there was a young girl who
had the misfortune to be very rich. She had been left
an orphan at an early age, and never knew the love and
tenderness of parents. Well, sir, as was very natural,
this young woman, with all her wealth, experienced one
want—but that was a great one—the necessity of having
some one to love her. I will be brief, sir—let me go on
uninterruptedly. One day this young woman saw pass
before her a man whose eyes and words proved that he
had some affection for her—enough that it was afterwards
shown that she was not mistaken. At the time,
however, she doubted his affection. Her unhappy
wealth had made her suspicious, and she experienced a
sort of horror of giving her heart to some one who loved
her wealth and not herself. Let me go on, sir! I must
not be interrupted! Well, she doubted this gentleman;
and one day said to him what she afterwards bitterly
regretted. She determined to charge him with mercenary
intentions, and watch his looks and listen to his

words, and test him. He listened, replied coldly, and
departed, leaving her nearly heart-broken, for his nature
was not one which any woman could despise.”

Mowbray looked at her strangely. She went on.

“She watched for him day after day—he did not
come. She was angry, and yet troubled; she doubted,
and yet tried to justify herself. But even when he left
her, she had conceived a mad scheme—it was to go and
become his companion, and so test him. This she did,
assuming the dress of a man: was it not very indelicate,
sir, and could she have been a lady? I see you start—
but do not interrupt me. Let me go on. The young
woman assumed, as I said, an impenetrable disguise
—ingratiated herself with him, and found out all his
secrets. The precious secret which she had thus braved
conventionality to discover, was her own. He loved
her—yes! he loved her!” said the young girl, with
a tremor of the voice and a beating heart; “she could
not be mistaken! In moments of unreserve, of confidence,
he told her all, as one friend tells another, and
she knew that she was loved. Then she threw off her
disguise—finding him noble and sincere—and came to
him and told him all. She saw that he was incredulous
—could not realize such indelicacies in the woman he
loved; and to make her humiliation complete, she
proved to him, by producing a trifle he had given her,
in her disguise—like this, sir.”

And Philippa with a trembling hand drew forth the
fringed gloves which she had procured from Mowbray
at the Indian Camp. They fell from her outstretched
hand—it shook.

Mowbray was pale, and his eyes were full of wonder.

“Before leaving him, this audacious young girl was
more than once convinced that the wild and unworthy
freak she had undertaken to play, would lower her in
his estimation; but she did not draw back. Her training
had been bad; she enjoyed her liberty. Not until
she had resumed the dress of her sex, did she awake to
the consciousness of the great social transgression she
had been guilty of. She then went to him and told him
all, and stopped him when he tried to speak—do not
speak, sir!—and bade him read the words she had
written him, as she left him——”

Mowbray, with an unconscious movement, took from
his pocket the letter left by Hoffland in the post-office,
on the morning of the ball.

Philippa took it from his hand and opened it.

“Pardon, Ernest!”

These words were all it contained; and the young girl
pointing to them, dropped the letter and burst into a
flood of passionate tears. Her impulsive nature had
fairly spent itself, and but for the circling arm of Mowbray
she would have fallen.

In a moment her head was on his bosom—she was
weeping passionately; and Mowbray forgot all, and only
saw the woman whom he loved.

Need we say that he did not utter one word of comment
on her narrative? Poor Mowbray! he was no
statue, and the hand which she had promised him
laughingly on that morning, now lay in his own; the
proud and haughty girl was conquered by a power far
stronger than her pride; and over them the merry blossoms
showered, the orioles sang, and Nature laughed to
see her perfect triumph.

When Philippa returned to the company she was very
silent, and blushed deeply, holding to her face the handkerchief
which Hoffland had picked up. But no one
noticed her: all was in confusion.

Where was Belle-bouche? That was the question,
and a hundred voices asked it. She had disappeared;
and Jacques too was nowhere to be seen. The banquet
was ready; where was the hostess?

It was in the middle of all this uproar that a voice was
heard from the great oak, and looking up, the laughing
throng perceived the radiant face of Jacques framed
among the leaves, and looking on them.

“My friends,” said Jacques, “the matter is very
simple—be good enough to raise those steps.”

And the cavalier pointed to the prostrate ladder.

With a burst of laughter, the steps were raised and
placed against the oak. And then Jacques was observed
to place his foot upon them, leading by the hand—Belle-bouche.

Belle-bouche was blushing much more deeply than
Philippa; and Jacques was the picture of happiness. Is
it too much to suppose that he had this time stolen a
march on the inimical fates, and forced Belle-bouche to
answer him? Is it extravagant to fancy that her reply
was not, No?

And so they descended, and the company, laughing at
the mishap, hastened toward the flower and fruit decorated
table, and the banquet inaugurated itself joyously.

And in the midst of all, who should make his appearance
but—the gallant Sir Asinus! Sir Asinus, no longer
intending for Europe, but satisfied with Virginia; no
longer woful, but in passable good spirits; no longer

melancholy, but surveying those around him with affectionate
regard.

And see him, in the midst of laughter and applause,
mount on the end of a barrel which had held innumerable
cakes, holding a paper in his hand, and calling for
attention.

Listen!

“Whereas,” reads Sir Asinus, “the undersigned has
heretofore at different times expressed opinions of his
Majesty, and of the Established Church, and of the
noble aristocracy of England and Virginia, derogatory
to the character of the said Majesty, and so forth;—also,
whereas, he has unjustly slandered the noble and sublime
College of William and Mary, so called from their
gracious majesties, deceased;—and whereas, the said
opinions have caused great personal inconvenience to
the undersigned, and whereas he is tired of martyrdom
and exile: Therefore, be it hereby promulgated, that the
undersigned doth here and now publicly declare himself
ashamed of the said opinions, and doth abjure them:
And doth declare his Majesty George III. the greatest
of kings since Dionysius of Syracuse and Nero; and his
great measure, the Stamp Act, the noblest legislation
since the edict of Nantz. And further, the undersigned
doth uphold the great Established Church, and revere
its ministers, so justly celebrated for their piety and card-playing,
their proficiency in theology, and their familiarity
with that great religious epic of the Reformation,
`Reynard the Fox'—the study of which they pursue
even on horseback. And lastly, the said undersigned
doth honor the great college of Virginia, and revere
the aristocracy, and respect entails, and spurn the common

classes as becomes a gentleman and honest citizen;
and in all other things doth conform himself to established
rules, being convinced that whatever is, is
right: and to the same hath set his hand, this twentieth
day of May, in the year 1764.”

Having finished which, Sir Asinus casts a melancholy
glance upon little Martha, and adds:

“Now, my friends, let us proceed to enjoy the material
comforts. Let us begin to eat, my friends.”

And sitting down upon the barrel, the knight seizes a
goblet and raises it aloft, and drinks to all the crowd.

And all the crowd do likewise, laughing merrily; and
over them the blossoms shower with every odorous
breeze; and with the breeze mingles a voice which
whispers in a maiden's ear:

“Arcadia at last!”