The Youth of Jefferson Part 16

The odor of the peach blossoms seemed a weary sort of odor, and the lark sang harshly.

As he pa.s.sed through a meadow, he heard himself saluted by name--by whom he knew not. He bowed without looking at the speaker; he only murmured, "One more chance gone." As he pa.s.sed the residence of Sir Asinus, he heard that gentleman laughing at him; he only sighed, "Belle-bouche!"

CHAPTER X.

MOWBRAY OPENS HIS HEART TO HIS NEW FRIEND.

Instead of following the melancholy Jacques to his chamber, let us return to the meadow in which he had been saluted by the invisible voice. A brook ran sparkling like a silver thread across the emerald expanse, and along this brook were sauntering two students, one of whom had spoken to the abstracted lover.

He who had addressed Jacques was Mowbray; the other was Hoffland, the young student who had just arrived at Williamsburg.

Hoffland is much younger than his companion--indeed, seems scarcely to have pa.s.sed beyond boyhood; his stature is low, his figure is slender, his hair flaxen and curling, his face ornamented only with a peach-down mustache. He is clad in a suit of black richly embroidered; wraps a slight cloak around him spite of the warmth of the pleasant May afternoon; and his c.o.c.ked hat, apparently too large for him, droops over his face, falling low down upon his brow.

They walk on for a moment in silence.

Then Hoffland says, in a musical voice like that of a boy before his tone undergoes the disagreeable change of manhood:

"You have not said how strange you thought this sudden friends.h.i.+p I express, Mr. Mowbray, but I am afraid you think me very strange."

"No, indeed," replies Mowbray; "I know not why, but you have already taken a strong hold upon me. Singular! we are almost strangers, but I feel as though I had known you all my life!"

"That can scarcely be, for I am but seventeen or eighteen," says Hoffland smiling.

"A frank, true age. I regret that I have pa.s.sed it."

"Why?"

"Ah, can you ask, Mr. Hoffland?"

"Please do not call me Mr. Hoffland. We are friends: say Charles; and then I will call you Ernest. I cannot unless you set me the example."

"Ernest? How did you discover my name?"

"Oh!" said Hoffland, somewhat embarra.s.sed, "does not every body know Ernest Mowbray?"

"Very well--as you are determined to give me compliments instead of reasons, I will not persist. Charles be it then, but you must call me Ernest."

"Yes, Ernest."

The low musical words went to his heart, and broke down every barrier.

They were bosom friends from that moment, and walked on in perfect confidence.

"Why did you regret your youth, Ernest?" said Hoffland. "I thought young men looked forward impatiently to their full manhood--twenty-five or thirty; though I do not," he added with a smile.

"They do; but it is only another proof of the blindness of youth."

"Is youth blind?"

"Blind, because it cannot see that all the delights of ambition, the victories of mind, the triumphs and successes of the brain, are mere dust and ashes compared with what it costs to obtain them--the innocence of the heart, the illusions of its youthful hope."

"Ah! are illusions to be desired?"

"At least they are a sweet suffering, a bitter delight."

"Even when one wakes from them to find every thing untrue--despair alone left?"

"You paint the reverse truly; but still I hold that the happiness of life is in what I have styled illusions. Listen, Charles," he continued, gazing kindly at the boy, who turned away his head. "Life is divided into three portions--three stages, which we must all travel before we can lie down in that silent bed prepared for us at our journey's end. In the first, Youth, every thing is rosy, brilliant, hopeful; life is a dream of happiness which deadens the senses with its delirious rapture--deadens them so perfectly that the thorns Youth treads on are such no longer, they are flowers! stones are as soft as the emerald gra.s.s, and if a mountain or a river rise before it, all Youth thinks is, What a beautiful summit, or, How fair a river! and straightway it darts joyously up the ascent, or throws itself laughing into the bright sparkling waters. The mountain and the river are not obstacles--they are delights. Then comes the second portion of life, Manhood, when the obstacles are truly what they seem--hard to ascend, trying to swim over. Then comes Age, when the sobered heart hesitates long before commencing the ascent or essaying the crossing--when _duty_ only prompts. Say that duty is greater than hope, and you are right; but say that duty carries men as easily over obstacles as joy, which loves those obstacles, and you are mistaken. Well, all this prosing is meant to show that the real happiness of life is in illusions. Doubtless you are convinced of it, however: already one learns much by the time he has reached eighteen."

Hoffland mused.

Mowbray drove away his thoughts, and said, smiling sadly:

"Have you ever loved, Charles?"

"Never," murmured the boy.

"That is the master illusion," sighed Mowbray.

"And is it a happy one?"

"A painful happiness."

These short words were uttered with so much sadness, that the boy stole a look of deep interest at his companion's face.

"Do not be angry with me, Ernest," he said, "but may I ask you if you have ever loved?"

His head drooped, and he murmured, "Yes."

"Deeply?"

"Yes."

"Were you disappointed?"

"Yes."

And there was a long pause. They walked on in silence.

"It is a beautiful afternoon," said Mowbray at length.

"Lovely," murmured the boy.

"This stream is so fresh and pure--no bitterness in it."

"Is there in love?"