The Youth of Jefferson | Page 5

bending a fatal languishing glance
upon her admirer, says:
"You called me--what was it?"
"Ah, pardon me."
"Oh certainly!--but please say what you called me."
"How can I?"
"By telling me," says the beauty philosophically.
"Must I?" says Jacques, reflecting that after all his offence was not so
dreadful.
"If you please."
"I said Belle-bouche."
"Ah! that is----?"
"Pretty-mouth," says Lovelace, with the air of a man who is caught
feloniously appropriating sheep; but unable to refrain from bending
wistful looks upon the topic of his discourse.
Belle-bouche laughs with a delicious good humor, and Jacques takes
heart again.
"Is that all?" she says; "but what a pretty name!"

"Do you like it, really?" asks the forlorn lover.
"Indeed I do."
"And may I call you Belle-bouche?"
"If you please."
Jacques feels his heart oppressed with its weight of love. He sighs. This
manoeuvre is greeted with a little laugh.
"Oh, that was a dreadful heigho!" she says; "you must be in love."
"I am," he says, "desperately."
A slight color comes to her bright cheek, for it is impossible to
misunderstand his eloquent glance.
"Are you?" she says; "but that is wrong. Fie on't! Was ever Corydon
really in love with his Chloe--or are his affections always confined to
the fluttering ribbons, and the crook, wreathed with flowers, which
make her a pleasant object only, like a picture?"
Jacques sighs.
"I am not a Corydon," he says, "much less have I a Chloe--at least, who
treats me as Chloes should treat their faithful shepherds. My Chloe runs
away when I approach, and her crook turns into a shadow which I grasp
in vain at. The shepherdess has escaped!"
"It is well she don't beat you," says the lovely girl, smiling.
"Beat me!"
"With her crook."
"Ah! I ask nothing better than to excite some emotion in her tender
heart more lively than indifference. Perhaps were she to hate me a little,
and consequently beat me, as you have said, she might end by drawing

me towards her with her flowery crook."
The young girl laughs.
"Would you follow?"
"Ah, yes--for who knows----?"
He pauses, smiling wistfully.
"Ah, finish--finish! I know 'tis something pretty by the manner in
which you smile," she says, laughing.
"Who knows, I would say, but in following her, fairest
Belle-bouche--may I call you Belle-bouche?"
"Oh yes, if you please--if you think it suits me."
And she pours the full light of her eyes and smiles upon him, until he
looks down, blinded.
"Pity, pity," he murmurs, "pity, dearest Miss Belle-bouche----"
She pretends not to hear, but, turning away with a blush at that word
"dearest," says, with an attempt at a laugh:
"You have not told me why you would wish your Chloe to draw you
after her with her crook."
"Because we should pass through the groves----"
"Well."
"And I should wrap her in my cloak, to protect her from the boughs and
thorns."
"Would you?"
"Ah, yes! And then we should cross the beautiful meadows and the

flowery knolls----"
"Very well, sir."
"And I should gather flowers for her, and kneeling to present them,
would approach near enough to kiss her hand----"
"Oh goodness!"
"And finally, fairest Belle-bouche, we should cross the bright streams
on the pretty sylvan bridges----"
"Yes, sir."
"And most probably she would grow giddy; and I should take her in my
arms, and holding her on my faithful bosom----"
Jacques opens his arms as though he would really clasp the fair
shepherdess, who, half risen, with her golden curls mingled with the
flowers, her cheeks the color of her red fluttering ribbons, seeks to
escape the declaration which her lover is about to make.
"Oh, no! no!" she says.
He draws back despairingly, and at the same moment hears a merry
voice come singing down the blossom-fretted walk, upon which
millions of the snowy leaves have fallen.
"One more chance gone!" the melancholy Jacques murmurs; and
turning, he bows to the new comer--the fair Philippa.
CHAPTER III.
AN HEIRESS WHO WISHES TO BECOME A MAN.
Philippa is a lady of nineteen or twenty, with the air of a duchess and
the walk of an antelope. Her brilliant eyes, as black as night, and as
clear as a sunny stream, are full of life, vivacity and mischief; she
seems to be laughing at life, and love, and gallantry, and all the

complimentary nothings of society, from the height of her superior
intellect, and with undazzled eyes. She is clad even more richly than
Belle-bouche, for Philippa is an heiress--the mistress of untold
farms--or plantations as they then said;--miles of James River "low
grounds" and uncounted Africans. Like the Duke of Burgundy's, her
sovereignty is acknowledged in three languages--the English, the
African or Moorish, and the Indian: for the Indian settlement on the
south side