University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

The lines which Argus avowed were on Virginia's
forehead, really appeared between her dark eyebrows,—the
bar-sinister in her history. Her father
observed the shadow in her face and misinterpreted
it; to some beholders it would have seemed as sweet
and sombre as a summer landscape in the shadows
of a setting sun, when its rays slowly change the
appearance of wood and meadow without disturbing
their character. The vision of possession impossible
to be obtained had passed across Virginia's mind,
and left a trace in her face, more beautiful now than
before. Dreary days followed her visit to Temple
House. Outside was the arid flush of August; the
grass was dry and brown, the shrubs white with
dust, and overrun with insects; the sky was like
blue enamel, beneath which white boiling vapors
spread and vanished. Inside was the wretched
spectacle which Mrs. Brande continually presented.
It seemed to Virginia that she was a mechanical
force, merely set in motion by her mother's necessities,
or her father's demands. It is certain that he
was not touched by the ordinary punishments of life.
Other men at this time would have shown anger or
dejection, or would have absented themselves for

business or diversion; but he applied a nicer regularity
to his and Virginia's habits. Many troubles
fell on him. His business unexpectedly went wrong;
an outside connection failed him, and he lost money.
Even the Forge was threatened; should its fires go
down, two hundred men, a large share of whom
were improvident and intemperate, would be thrown
out of employment,—and a force be thrown into the
town the consequences of which he might have to
answer for. There were no other iron works within
a hundred miles, and none in the county besides
manufactured an engine for which he had imported
many of these English and Scotch workmen. A
mad wife sat at his board and slept in his bed. The
effect of the crimson and green, the yellow and blue
of the walls, decorations, and furniture of his house,
was imprisonment. Virginia was a caged bird. Financial
ruin perched over the ledgers in his office.
The church, with its clinging, personal government,
pressed upon him, and Kent, with a hundred sapless
social interests, curbed and fretted even the freedom
of his perplexity. Through it all, however, he carried
high his smooth-shaven, long chin; flourished
his fine cambric handkerchief,—a furled flag over his
knee, or a waving banner in his hand; and kept the
pupils of his eyes within their limits. In every situation
his mind strove for the inspiration which
must come to declare safety and success. It flashed
into his mind one evening at a conference meeting,
while he was giving a short exhortation from the
text, “A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit,
neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit,”
and he laid hold of the high mahogany railing in
front of him as if it were the lever by which he was
raising destiny to his level. When the brethren at
the close of the meeting exchanged customary salulations,
they remarked upon brother Brande's fervor;
rich as he was in worldly favor, it appeared to them
only a mirror which reflected his piety. That night,
the old tortoise-shell cat who lived in the premises
of his office purred beside him, dozed, and blinked
her green eyes in the pleasant silence of his motionless
figure, as he sat absorbed in thought. He trifled
and toyed with the plan; let it run from him; bit it,
cuffed it, and finally closed upon it, with a sharp,
smiling energy, and mastered it. He did not leave
his office till breakfast time,—six o'clock,—on a fair,
dewy, summer morning, when the St. John's wort
blossomed everywhere, even on the borders of the
blackened path across which he walked. Meeting
Virginia on her way from her mother's room, he followed
her into her own chamber, and adjusting a
picture which hung awry, asked her how she had
passed the night.

“As usual,” was the reply.

He took a chair, and Virginia sat down also.

“You have not remained with your mother any
whole night till now, if I rightly recollect. Do
you think her incurably insane?”

At this question her experience compelled an intuitive
preparation for some inevitable change which

she must agree to, and its necessity sharpened her
ever-rising opposition.

“She is incurably insane,” he continued, having
obtained no answer; “but she may live for years. I
propose taking her to Dr. Tell's asylum, for I dare
not leave her with you;—she may grow violent
again while I am on my journey. I am going to see
my old friend Carfield, on business.”

“Wherever she is, sir, the burden will be the
same to me. I must still be a dutiful daughter. I
rebel against my service, though; it hurts, and
stains, and tears me. I am only saying this, you
know; the family tie so binds my feet that I cannot
advance one step in the path where my soul should
take its pride and pleasure.”

“You venture to deduct your personality from
the relatives with which Providence surrounds you!
My daughter, we may not do this. Mankind is a
grovelling herd, beneath the pressure of a mighty
hand; let no one raise his forehead above the mass,
with the excuse of `me' written on it. You astonish
me”— He paused an instant, with the thought that
she did not astonish him, except in speaking so
recklessly of treasures never to be spent. “Let me
ask you,” he resumed, “since you are so fearless with
speculations you have no business with as a well
trained girl,—to suppose one,—a man powerful
enough to dictate himself any course in life,—what
limit would there be to his subtle crimes? I say,
they would be as incessant as his breath.”

“I do suppose such a man,” she cried, with kindling
eyes, “but one incapable of crime.”

“He does not exist, except in the fancy of brainless
women. Virginia, comprehend yourself, if you
have the ability, but let your knowledge in no wise
be tampered with by a specious will. We are in
this world for other reasons than to live, and move,
and have our being. Ta,—your shoe-lace is unfastened.”

He moved towards the door, but suddenly turned
towards her again, and said:

“Will you be ready to accompany Mrs. Brande
to Dr. Tell's by the close of the week? Attend
carefully to her dress. The letters which may arrive
for me while I am absent must be first looked at
by yourself; if they contain no claims upon me
return them to the head clerk for answer. Please
order a new set of lace curtains for the west chamber,
as you know your mother has amused herself
with embroidering the old ones with twine. It is
possible that young Carfield may return with me.”

“I shall attend to your request.”

“Get Chloe back?”

“No.”

“Ah; come down and give me my breakfast.
Did you ask me about my business embarrassments?
They will amount to nothing; you are not to read
my letters, except with your eyes. Certainly, my
daughter, my affairs have caused the change you
and I have decided upon. Is that a new color,—the
stripe in your dress? You are too tall to wear
stripes,—broad ones, especially. I remark that I

dislike that stripe exceedingly. Why do you wear
the dress?”

“Shall I change it, sir?”

“Yes; I will wait for my breakfast a short time,
of course; but it will be waiting.”

He descended the stairs leisurely, whisking the
balusters with his handkerchief, and sharply listening
for a sound from his wife's room. Before he
reached the foot of the stairs, she opened her door,
and hung over the railing from above; he looked up
and stopped. There was a light in her face which
had been there before, but so long ago that he remembered
he was only twenty years old when
he married her. There was something bright and,
pleading in her poor eyes, something sad and quivering
about her poor lips,—yet he could have cursed
her for blasting so many years since then, though he
had carried them bravely.

“Cyrus,” she said, in a low voice, “are you going
to bury me in Sodom or Gomorrah? My feet and
legs are already dead. Leave my head above the
ground, sweet Cyrus, for you know I am Rhoda-Cyrus.
To tell you the truth, now, and oh, how
many times I have lied to you, my godly boy! my
head wont die; it's full of ram shackle;—see how it
goes.”

Her head nodded from side to side, but he scarcely
noticed it, he was so full of the hope that she
might be dying, and it made his heart beat. He
stretched out his hand, and mildly said:

“Come down, Mrs. Brande, for breakfast is late.

Come; I would like to have you see Virginia's new
dress.”

“Yes, yes,” she answered, limping along. “You'll
forget what I said about the vine-clad Noah; I never
meant it.”

Offering her his arm, he looked into her face
earnestly.

“It was the sun shining through those green
shades,” he said aloud, “nothing better.”

Just before his departure, Argus surprised him by
calling at his office,—a place they had not met in
since their business transactions were closed when
George Gates was mysteriously discovered—dead.
Mr. Brande passed the palm of his hand softly along
the green cloth of his desk as Argus approached
him at an easy pace, and a fear touched him; was it
possible that the cold-headed Gates had learned he
was in danger of foundering?

“I suppose,” said Argus, slipping into a chair,
and twisting his long legs together, “that some
cursed association has sent me here. I am in want
of money,—damnably so; not so damned damnably
as before, however, for it is for a friend this time,—
Sebastian Ford, not George Gates, my brother.
How do you suppose his spirit contrives to exist,
Brande, unless he can sponge on the saints?”

“Ta. Do you expect to get back any cash that
you may advance to your friend?”

“You will. He has drawn on me for a thousand
dollars. I have not got much over a thousand
cents.”

Mr. Brande tore a check out of an attractive looking
folio, filled in the required sum, and handed it
to Argus, saying, “I am glad to be able to oblige
you.” Argus perceived the ring of truth in his
accent, and asked him if he really placed no value
on a thousand dollars.

“If I were a hypocrite, I should answer that I
only value money for the advantage it gives me in
aiding others; as I am not, I own I appreciate the
fact that every age has been governed by what money
it could produce,—iron, brass, or gold. Why
don't you improve Temple House, and sell it? The
brink of ruin would not suggest that idea, though.
The brink of ruin!”

“What the devil ails you, Brande? Has the
yearly drinking of your sanctimonious sherry split
the tendons? Change your tipple.”

“So you come to me for money to-day, Gates?”

“I feel sure that this is the evidence of my so
doing.” And Argus looked at the check.

Cyrus smiled faintly. Argus rose to go.

“I do not yet know,” he said, “when Sebastian
will return; when he does, the color of the thousand
will re-appear in this very spot.”

“Very well,” answered Cyrus absently.

“I hope Mrs. Brande is better,” Argus said, with
a courteous gesture.

“Hope her dead, Gates, for God's sake!” cried
Cyrus, astonishing himself with a burst of nature.

“For Virginia's sake,” Argus answered gravely.

“I am going to take my wife to a mad-house to-morrow,

and keep her there; she is a beast, and a
frantic idiot, and has made my soul sick.”

“Virginia!” said Argus again.

“Let Virginia alone, and pity me.” The tears
were streaming from his eyes like rain, and he had
rolled his handkerchief into a ball, which he held
tightly. Argus backed gently to the door. It
seemed to him that the fabric of Cyrus's life was
dropping to pieces, all at once; he wished to get
away before it fell to utter ruin. The coldness in
Argus's face stopped the flow of tears from Cyrus,
as ice stops the flow of blood from a wound.

“I am astonished,” he said presently; “astonished
that I should be left to such wandering. The sight
of you, Gates, has done this. Be off, my dear sir;
I must compose my mind.”

“It is necessary, Brande, dropping all cant, for
us to arrange our condition with a view to composure.
We are tricked, however, now and then—our
opponent gets the odds; I consider you an uncommon
victim. It will blow over, though.”

“Good day, Gates.”

The office door closed, and Cyrus felt that it enclosed
a smaller man than it did when Argus entered.
He ground his teeth with hatred of the tears
which had so suddenly fallen; “Gates,” he thought,
“is what I call an adversary.”

“Brande and I are growing old,” was the comment
of Argus. “Pshaw, why hasn't he killed that
wretch before there was a chance of his crying over
her.”