The Youth of Jefferson Part 45

"Oh!" cries Martha, with a merry glance and a pleasant affectation of reserve, "that is too public."

"The fact is," replies Jacques, smiling, "you are looking so lovely, that I could not help it."

"Oh, sir!" says the girl blus.h.i.+ng, but delighted. Which expression makes her companion--a youthful gentleman called Bathurst--frown with jealousy.

Lucy is admiring the child, when she finds herself saluted by Sir Asinus, who has made her acquaintance some time since.

"A delightful evening, Miss Mowbray," says that worthy; "and I find you admiring a very dear friend of mine."

"Who is that, sir?" says Lucy, smiling.

"Little Miss Martha."

"She is your friend?"

"Are you not?" says Sir Asinus, bowing with great devotion to Martha; "you caught me this morning, you know."

"Oh no, sir! you caught me!"

"Indeed!" cried Sir Asinus; "I thought 'twas the lady's part!"

And he relishes his joke so much and laughs so loud, that the girl discovers her mistake and blushes, which increases her fresh beauty a thousand-fold.

Sir Asinus heaves a sigh, and contemplates a declaration immediately.

He asks her hand for a quadrille instead.

"Oh, yes, sir!"

Whereupon Bathurst revolves gloomy thoughts of revenge in the depths of his soul.

Sir Asinus, seeing his rival's moodiness, smiles; but this smile disappears like a sunbeam. He sees Doctor Small approaching, and turns to flee.

In doing so, he runs up against and treads on the toes of Mr. Jack Denis, who laughs, and bowing to Lucy, presses toward her and takes his place at her side.

Sir Asinus makes his way through the crowd, paying his respects to every body.

He arrives, at length, at the door of the side room where the devotees of cards are busy at tictac. He is soon seated at one of the tables by the side of Governor Fauquier, and is playing away with the utmost delight.

In this way the ball commenced; and so it went on with loud music, and a hum of voices rising almost to a shout at times, until the supper hour. And then, the profuse supper having been discussed with that honorable devotion which ever characterizes Virginians, the dancing recommenced, more madly than ever.

But let not the reader imagine that the dances of the old time were like our own. Not at all. They had no waltzes, polkas, or the like, but dignified quadrilles, and stately minuets; and it was only when the company had become perfectly acquainted with each other, at the end of the a.s.sembly, that the reel was inaugurated, with its wild excessive mirth--its rapid, darting, circling, and exuberant delight.

Poor Sir Asinus! he had not been well treated by his lady-love--we mean the little Martha. That young lady liked the n.o.ble knight, but Brutus-like, loved Bathurst more. The worthy Sir Asinus found his graces of mind and person no match for the laughing freckled face of her youthful admirer, and with all the pa.s.sing hours he grew more sad.

He ended by offering his heart and hand, we verily believe, in the middle of a quadrille; but on this point we are not quite certain.

Sure are we that on this night the great politician found himself defeated by a boy--this we may a.s.sert from after events.

In the excess of his mortification he betook himself to cards, and was soon sent away penniless. He rose from the card-table feeling, like Catiline, ripe for conspiracy and treason. He re-entered the ball-room and strolled about disconsolate--a stalking ghost.

Just as he made his appearance a lady entered from the opposite door, and Sir Asinus felt the arm of a gentleman, against whom he was pressed by the crowd, tremble. He turned and looked at him. It was Mowbray; and he was looking at the lady who had just entered.

This lady was Philippa.

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 lat.i.tudes of love and warmth again, and his cold heart once more began to beat--his hardness to pa.s.s 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.