Chapter 30

DISGRACEFUL CONDUCT OF SIR ASINUS.

Mowbray was an early riser; and the morning had not long looked upon the fresh fields, when he was on his way to Williamsburg. With a hopeful spirit, which banished peremptorily all those gloomy thoughts which were accustomed to harass him, he pressed on to commence his day of toil at the college.

As he entered Williamsburg, he came very near being overturned by a gentleman who was leaving that metropolitan city, at full gallop.

"Hey!" cried this gentleman, reining up; "why, good day, Mowbray!"

And Sir Asinus made a bow of grotesque respect.

"Whither away, my dear fellow--to that den of iniquity, the grammar school, eh?"

"Yes," said Mowbray, smiling; "and you?"

"I go to other fields and pastures new--to those Hesperian gardens famed of old, and so forth. Come with me!"

"No, thank you. I suppose you are going to see a lady?"

"Precisely; and now do you still refuse?"

"Yes."

"You are an ungallant book-worm, a misogynist--and that is the next thing to a conspirator. Leave your books, and come and taste of sylvan joys."

"Where are you going?"

"To see Dulcinea."

"Who is she?"

"Her other name is Amaryllis."

"Well, sing to her," said Mowbray; "for my part, I am going to visit Plato, Justinian, Blackstone, whose lectures are better than Virgil's heroics, and Coke, who is more learned, if not more agreeable, than any Hesperians. Farewell."

And Mowbray saluted Sir Asinus with a smile, and rode on. The knight returned his salute, and continued his way in the opposite direction.

Now, as our history concerns itself rather with Amaryllis than Plato or Coke, we shall permit Mowbray to go on, and retracing our steps, follow Sir Asinus to his destination.

Sir Asinus on this morning is magnificent, and finds the air very pleasant after his long imprisonment. He inhales it joyously, and in thought, nay, often in words, invokes confusion on the heads of proctors. He is in full enjoyment of those three great rights for which he has sacrificed so much--namely, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

He is joyous, for he has stolen a march upon the watchful guardians of the college; he revels in the sentiment of freedom; and believes himself in pursuit of that will o' the wisp called happiness.

He sings, as he goes onward on his hard-trotting courser, the words of that song which we have heard him sing before:

"Hez! sire asne! car chantez Belle bouche rechignez;"

and is not mortified when a donkey in the neighboring meadow brays responsively.

He bends his steps toward Shadynook, where he arrives as the matutinal meal is smoking on the board; and this Sir Asinus partakes of with noble simplicity. One would have imagined himself in presence of Socrates dining upon herbs, instead of Sir Asinus comforting his inner man with ham and muffins.

After breakfast, Aunt Wimple, that excellent old lady whose life was completely filled by a round of domestic duties, banished her visitor to the sitting-room. To make his exile more tolerable, however, she gave him Belle-bouche for a companion.

Belle-bouche had never looked more beautiful, and the tender simplicity of her languishing eyes almost made the poetical Sir Asinus imagine himself in love. He found himself endeavoring to recollect whether he had not been induced to pay this visit by the expectation of beholding her; but with that rigid truth which ever characterized the operations of his great intellect, was compelled to come to the conclusion that the motive causes of his visit were the hope of a good breakfast, and a morning lounge in country quarters, unalarmed by the apprehension of invading deans and proctors.

In a word, our friend Sir Asinus had coveted a cool morning at pleasant Shadynook, in company with Belle-bouche or a novel; and this had spurred him to such extraordinary haste, not to mention the early rising.

"Ah!" said Belle-bouche, as she sat down upon a sofa in the cool pleasant apartment, whose open windows permitted the odors of a thousand flowers to weigh the air down with their fragrance, "what a lovely morning! It is almost wrong to remain in the house."

"Let us go forth then, my dear Madam Belle-bouche," said Sir Asinus.

"I see you retain that funny name for me," said the young girl with a smile.

"Yes: it is beautiful, as all about Shadynook is--the garden most of all--yourself excepted of course, madam."

"It was very adroitly done, that turn of the sentence," Belle-bouche replied, smiling again pleasantly. "Let us go into the garden, as you admire it so much."

And she rose.

Sir Asinus hastened to offer his arm, and they entered the beautiful garden, alive with flowers.

Sir Asinus uttered a number of beautiful sentiments on the subject of flowers and foliage, which we regret our inability to report. After spending an hour or more among the trees, they returned to the house.

Just as they entered, a gentleman was visible at the gate--evidently a visitor. This gentleman had dismounted, and as he stood behind his horse arranging the martingale, he was for the moment unrecognisable.

"Will you permit me to remain in the garden, my dear Miss Belle-bouche, until your visitor has departed?" said Sir Asinus. "I find myself suddenly smitten with a love of nature--and I would trouble you not to mention the fact of my presence. It will be useless."

"Certainly I will not, sir," said Belle-bouche.

And Sir Asinus, seeing the gentleman move, precipitately entered the garden, where he ignominiously concealed himself--having snatched up a volume of poems to console him in his retirement.

The visitor was Jacques.

He entered with his soft melancholy smile, and approaching Belle-bouche, pressed her hand to his lips.

"I am glad to see you so bright," he said; "but you always look blooming."

And he sat down and gazed around sadly.

Perhaps Jacques had never before so closely resembled a tulip. His coat was red, his waistcoat scarlet, his lace yellow, his stockings white; his shoes, lastly, were adorned with huge rosettes, and his wig was a perfect snow-storm of powder.

Belle-bouche casts down her eyes, and a roseate bloom diffuses itself over her tender cheek. Jacques arrays his forces, and gracefully smooths his Mechlin lace cravat. Outwardly he is calm.

Belle-bouche raises her eyes, and gently flirts her fan, covered with shepherds and shepherdesses in silks and satins, who tend imaginary sheep by sky-blue waters, against deeply emerald trees.

Jacques sighs, remembering his discourse on crooks, and Belle-bouche smiles. He gathers courage then, and says:

"I think I have never seen a more beautiful morning."

"Yes," says Belle-bouche in her soft tender voice, "I have been out to take my customary walk before breakfast."

"An excellent habit. The fields are the true abodes of the Graces and Muses; all is so fresh."

Belle-bouche smiles at this graceful and classic compliment; but strange to say, does not feel disposed to criticise it. Jacques has never seemed to her so intellectual a man, so true a gentleman as at this moment. The reason is that Belle-bouche has caught a portion of her visitor's disease--a paraphrase which we are compelled to make use of, from the well-known fact that damsels are never what is vulgarly called "in love," until the momentous question has been asked; after which, as we all know, this sentiment floods their tender hearts with a sudden rush, as of unloosed waters.

Jacques sees the impression he has made, and in his secret heart is flushed with anticipated conquest. He smooths his frill, and gently arranges a drop curl.

"Love, I think, should inhabit the green fields," he says with melancholy grace; "for love, dearest Miss Belle-bouche, is the essence of freshness and delight."

"The--fields?" says Belle-bouche, thoughtfully gazing upon her fan.

"Yes; and the shepherd's life is certainly the happiest. Ah! to love and be loved under the skies--in Arcady! But Arcady is everywhere when the true heart is near. To love and be loved!" says Jacques with a sad sigh; "to know there is one near you whose whole heart is yours--whose bosom would willingly support the weary head; to have a heart to bring all your sorrows to; to feel that the sky was brighter, and all the stars more friendly and serene, if she were by you; to love and love, and never change, and live a life of happy dreams, however active it might be, when the dear image swept across the horizon! To give the heart and mind out in a sigh, and seal the vow of faith and truth upon loving lips! In a word--one word speaks it all--to love! Yes, yes! to love! To feel the horizon expand around you till it seems to embrace every thing; to love innocently, purely, under the holy heavens; to love till the dying hour, and then, clasped in a pure embrace, to go away together to another world!--Only to love!"

And Jacques raises his eyes to the blushing face of Belle-bouche.

"Is it not fair to think of?" he says sadly.

She tries to smile, and can only murmur, "Yes."

"I fear it is but a dream," says Jacques.

She does not reply: she wishes a moment to collect her thoughts and regain her calmness.

"A dream," he continues, "which many poor fellows dream, and live in, and make a reality of--alas! never to be realized."

"Perhaps the world has changed since the old Arcadian days," murmurs Belle-bouche, gazing down with rosy cheeks, and a bad attempt at ease. "You know the earth has become different."

"Yes, yes," sighs Jacques; "I very much fear all this is folly."

"Who knows but----"

She pauses.

Jacques raises his eyes, and their glances meet. She stops abruptly, and looks away. It is not affectation in her. That deep blush is wholly irrepressible.

Jacques seizes her hand, and says:

"Give me the assurance that such things can be! Tell me that this dream could be realized!"

She turns away.

"Tell me!" he continues, bending toward her, "tell me, if _I_ were to love any one thus--say it were yourself--tell me, beautiful Belle-bouche! could I hope----"

"Oh, sir! I cannot now----"

"Belle-bouche! dearest Belle-bouche!--my picture was a reality--I love as I have painted--and upon my knees----"

"----car chantez, Belle bouche rechignez,"

sang the voice of Sir Asinus, entering from the garden; and our unfortunate friend Jacques had just time to drop Belle-bouche's hand, when Sir Asinus entered.

"You're a pretty fellow!" said that worthy, "to frighten me, and make me believe you were the--Well; let us keep up appearances before the ladies. How goes it, my dear Jacques?"

Jacques does not answer; he feels an unchristian desire to exterminate his friend Sir Asinus from the face of the earth--to blot that gentleman forcibly from the sum of things.

Actuated by these friendly feelings, he gives the knight a look which nearly takes his breath away.

"Why, what is the matter?" says Sir Asinus.

Jacques sees the false position which he occupies, and groans.

"Why, dear Jacques, you distress me," says Sir Asinus with great warmth; "did I tread upon your toes?"

Jacques might very justly reply in the affirmative, but he only turns away muttering disconsolately, "One more chance!"

"I thought you were the proctor," says Sir Asinus pleasantly.

"Did you? I am going back soon, and will send him," replies Jacques with sad courtesy.

"No! don't trouble yourself!" cries Sir Asinus; "it is not necessary."

"It is no trouble," says Jacques; "but as you are probably about to return to town yourself, I will not send him."

"To town? Indeed, I am about to do no such thing. It is not every day that one gets a taste of the country."

"You stay?"

"Yes."

Jacques groans, and imprecates--sleep to descend upon his friend.

He sits down wofully. Sir Asinus scenting the joke, and determined to revenge himself, does the same joyfully. Jacques sighs, Sir Asinus laughs. Jacques directs an Olympian frown at his opponent, but Sir Asinus answers it with smiles.

Belle-bouche all this time has been endeavoring to produce the impression that she is looking over a book of engravings--being interested in Heidelberg, and fascinated with the Alhambra. From time to time her timid glance steals toward Jacques, who is sighing, or toward Sir Asinus, who is laughing.

Sir Asinus glories in his revenge. Jacques refused to tell him the news, and maligned his character to the Doctor, and forced him to listen in silence to that abuse. He takes his promised revenge--for he understands very well what he interrupted.

Jacques stays all the morning, hoping that Sir Asinus will depart; but that gentleman betrays no intention of vacating the premises. Finally, in a paroxysm of internal rage, and a perfect outward calmness, the graceful Jacques retires--with a last look for Belle-bouche.

One thought consoles him. He will escort her to the ball, and on his return in his two-seated curriculum defy the interruption of all the Asinuses that ever lived.

Poor Jacques! as he goes sadly back, the cloud rising upon the dream is more asleep than ever.