University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

Virginia, so it appeared, forgot that she was
playing with the new partner, Mr. Carfield, the innocent
and ancient game of backgammon. She held
the dice box suspended over the board, and did not
shake it. Mr. Carfield's eyes were indifferently fixed
on the blazing rings which adorned her motionless
hands. He was a brave, savage looking
man, and any energetic reminder from him that the
game was at a stand still, would not have surprised
the spectator, had there been one; but they were
alone. The folding doors of the best parlors were
apart; the chandeliers were lighted, the chairs stood
in groups, the open piano was littered with sheets of
music, and gilded books of engravings lay open on
the tables, but the guests were gone. Mr. Brande,
formerly ubiquitous in his house, so long as there
was anything to be transacted, or anybody moving,
had surreptitiously gone to bed, and there was no
person up except themselves, and Sarah, the waiter,
who sat yawning in the dining room, impatiently
waiting to hear Mr. Carfield's boots going up stairs,
on their way to be placed outside his bedroom door

when stripped from his impudent legs. Late as it
was, she was destined to remain in her place some
little time yet, which gave her the opportunity, and
she improved it, of inventing new opprobrious
names for him. The house was pleasant still with
light and warmth, and filled with that silence so attractive
at night, when all the paraphernalia of living
is perfectly adjusted without the accessories of life.
The fires were burning, the lamplight was steady,
the walls, doors, and furniture shone darkly, and the
colors, glaring red and blue by day, were now soft and
sombre. With every hour of quiet, the plants in
Virginia's conservatory leading from the upper hall
lived in deeper dalliance, and sent their perfume
through the air in shocks of delicious sweetness. A
rain-storm had suddenly begun, and though the
shutters were closed it trickled through the slats, and
modestly streamed down the panes, as befitted its
entrance into Mr. Brande's house; a murmur came
from the roof, also, and the well-built doors were
obliged to thud in their frames occasionally. It
might have been that Virginia was listening to these
faint sounds, which prevented her from throwing the
dice. Abruptly and passionately he burst out with,

“What day of the month is this?”

Mr. Carfield, not to be surprised, bowed slightly,
and answered:

“The twenty-first of March.”

“So I have just thought, and the time is nearly
past! Oh, my blind, stupid, animal memory, that
needs the blow of the wind and rain to wake it.”

She pushed away the table that stood between
them; the faint frown, now habitual with her, concentrated
into dark lines, and altered her sweet face
to that of a woman's acquainted with trouble. Dropping
her face in her hands, she appeared to have forgotten
Mr. Carfield, as well as the game. He threw
himself back in his chair, his short, amber-colored
hair showing well against the red velvet cover,
and his wide head looking still wider in its relief;
his lids narrowed as he contemplated her, till his
eyes were mere lines, but the lines expressed a
meaning seldom allowed there.

“Association? Reminiscence?” he asked.

She rose as if she saw a vision, pointed her finger
at him, and replied:

“Terrible ones.”

“How tall you are!” he involuntarily exclaimed.

“Argus saved Sebastian—”

“There are two then?” he inquired, with a smile.

“Two strong, beautiful men.”

“And I,” said Mr. Carfield, leaving his chair to
stand beside her, “am I not strong and beautiful?”
He caught her hand, and interlaced his fingers with
hers. “Have I not waited long enough, Virginia?”

“For what?”

“For you. Say now that you will be my wife.”

“Me—who stand here as your hostess? well, perhaps
something nearer,—your friend, since she allows
you to bruise her fingers. Release my hand.”

He stepped backwards, and faced her; their eyes

were exactly level, whether the lids were up or
down, pupil matched pupil.

“It may be absurd, but do you know that I expect
to marry you? When your father came to see my
father, his old friend, worth—let me see how much,—
say three hundred thousand dollars,—I heard him
describe his daughter and his Forge, one as handsome,
talented, free, the other as an ugly fixture,
restricted, encumbered. I believed him; so did my
father, a clever sharp old man. He said, “Go to
Kent.” I came, and am not sorry for coming.
There is a hundred thousand dollars of my money
here; every day of my stay has cost me hundreds.
I gamble with the Forge for your speech, your gestures,
your attentions, your presence,—for you. I
love you. Do you know what that means? Do you
understand men, my Princess? We are procreators,
providers, protectors, but we are lustful, acute, selfish
for you women; the best, wisest, most tender hero is
also what I say. What would be the form of society
if were not so? When our functions cease, let
us be children again, and gentle, fulfilling the charities,
and bridge our way to heaven. Be my wife,
give me children; divide with me the goods of this
world; change the look which is in your eyes sometimes,—an
expectation of the thin, airy goods of the
next world, and meet mine with that hope which allures
weak men to madness and death, and incites
strong men to pluck the jewels from the crown of
life, and wear them as kings.”

“You are quite right and just,” replied Virginia,
“in your views; so much so that I almost wonder
that my heart does not leap forward, and fall upon
you in gratitude and humility, and accept you. Yet
it does not. I refuse to take my lot with you; my
ambition does not lie in the direction of the king's
lair.”

She spoke with coolness, but her heart throbbed,
and a faintness swept across her; she did not dare
venture crossing the room, and resumed her seat.
It was Mr. Brande, asleep in his bed, that caused her
faintness, not the young man near her, who also
resumed his seat. The portrait of her father, and his
intention regarding her, which she contemplated in
the light of this interview, was not flattering; it
terrified her. A regiment of Carfields, enclosing
her in a hollow square, could not strike her a coward;
but that placidly slumbering man upstairs
made her wild with apprehension. Her respect and
submission prevented her from blaming him; it was
reasonable and natural in him to suppose and expect
such a marriage possible and probable. Why not?
She raised her eyes to Mr. Carfield, and he understood
instantly that she stood at bay with him. To
her, in spite of his sincere vehemence, in spite of his
beauty, sense, and fitness, he was merely the representative
of a hundred thousand dollars. Had
Temple Drake been present, with the same aggravation,
and wearing a stiletto, he would have been
stabbed, rolled into a corner, and defiantly stood
over, till some one should come to threaten her with

a punishment that would only make her laugh.
But Virginia, pious and timid in character, although
like her father indomitable in her passions, was not
moved to desperation; her thoughts weakly wandered
hither and thither. How she despised the
signs of wealth about her,—and none of it hers! If
she could but invent some plan that would make
everything smooth and pleasant, and keep from the
sacrifice her father expected! She tried to
recollect where her purse was, and whether there
were fifteen or twenty dollars in it, and how she had
spent the last sum received from him, when she
was arrested by a sudden knocking, like that at the
gate in Macbeth, on the hall door. Mr. Carfield
looked at his watch, and remarked that it was nearly
midnight. Sarah opened the parlor door, and, to
his surprise, ushered in a man who wore an old camlet
cloak, and a seal-skin cap, the better for the
weather, for the rain made it sleek and shiny.

“Argus!” cried Virginia, strength coming in the
tumult which the sight of him gave her.

“And where is Sebastian?” asked Mr. Carfield, in
a voice intended for her only, but the quick ear of
Argus caught the name. “Sebastian,” she said,
bowing, “arrived several hours since. His arrival
is the occasion of my being here. Where is Brande,
Virginia? I wish to see him.”

“Who is this sprightly Diogenes, so desirous of
throwing his lantern upon your father?” whispered
Mr. Carfield, rising, and passing Virginia, to address
Argus. “Sir,” he said, “Mr. Brande has been in bed

an hour or more. The rain, though it falls on the
just and the unjust, can only reach him through
you; possibly you had better not take up your
dampness at present. Any message you may choose
to leave I will faithfully deliver in the morning.”

“Mr. Carfield, you do not understand,” said Virginia.
“Argus, give me your cloak. You know
where to find father.”

“The qualities of my cloak are not understood,”
said Argus; “it resembles the phenomenon naturalists
love to mention—a duck's back; my cap is more
friendly to the elements.” And he shook the water
from it.

“Your dress, Miss Brande, is in danger,” said Mr.
Carfield.

She made a dash and rustle with her crimson silk,
which signified no distaste of the danger.

“There was more water where you were a year
ago to-night, Argus,” she said.

“Exactly, and much colder,” he replied. “Come,
show me how to go. How should I know where
your father piously slumbers?”

She rose instantly, and led the way. On the
stairs, Argus asked if that was the new partner he
had just met. It was, she answered.

“He is a Jackanapes.”

Virginia touched his arm, and motioned him into
the conservatory.

“Oh, Argus,” she cried, “I am expected to marry
him.”

The unhappy girl was inspired with the wild belief

that Argus had been sent to her by Providence. How
could so strange an event as his appearance at that
hour be otherwise accounted for? She must give
herself to him—now, now! He should stand between
her and her father; the time had come—by the
convulsion of her heart, the powerful determination
of her will—she knew it! Argus grew a shade
paler standing before her. He raised his hand, and
broke a sprig from a plant that trailed from a hanging
basket above them; lightly drawing it across her
lips he said, with a strange smile:

“He is a fine fellow, I know,—after your father's
heart. What other arrangement could be made?
Its propriety is most evident. It is the best thing
you can do, my girl; you know it as well as I do.
My opinion of your sense is not a false one, I am assured.
If you do not agree with me now, it is because
I am such an old fellow, and you are still
capable of the youthful follies we shall both laugh at
ten years from now.”

He turned aside, as if he would have the subject
ended.

“What are you here for?” she asked, wringing
her hands. He crushed and rolled the leaves in his
hand before he answered.

“To pay back money which I borrowed months
ago of your father. I was an idiot, of course, to
come up at this time of night; but I could not think
of sleep. You know I no longer drink brandy, having
broken my bottle. Roxalana engaged Sebastian
just now, and, thinking the air would be good for me,

and freedom from debt better, I left for these parts.
Sebastian knew me well enough to give me the
means for making my visit here at once.”

She pointed to her father's door, and he turned
away, wishing himself on the way to the White
Flat, rather than traversing Brande house, like the
blockhead he was. Looking up at the hanging basket
with a wild smile, Virginia seized its tendrils,
and tore it down: she never forgot the bitter scent
of the earthy roots and stalks as the plant fell over
her hands. Confused and uncertain, she went slowly
down stairs, where Mr. Carfield, with his elbows on
the baluster, was watching for her.

“How primitive your ways are in this town! He
called you Virginia—that rusty person! What is
your opinion,—is he the style of man I can knock
down for not knowing his place? Or is he hedged
about with your Methodistical divinity?”

She brushed past him into the parlor, and walked
up and down before the open door, keeping her eyes
on the door. He followed her, and braced himself
against the wall.

“It may be worth your doing,” she said presently
without removing her eyes; “though, if you should
kill him, even, it would make no difference, so far as
his existence is concerned with mine.”

“Ah! that being a fact, I'll watch with you, and
observe him more closely.”

They looked at each other now. His eyes were
full of insolence and defiance, and she felt nerved to
desperation. She looked so beautiful suddenly, as

she returned his glance, so bright and strong, that he
swore inwardly he would obtain her at all hazards;
her hatred could not mar the pleasure possession
would give him. It was with a start, almost, that
they heard the voice of Argus again.

“Apologize for me, Virginia,” he said, “in case
your father complains of my disturbing him.”

She nodded, and stepped toward him, with an air
of determination.

“And you, sir,” addressing Mr. Carfield, “I trust
you will rally from the annoyance my unseasonable
entrance gave you; it was unpleasant, no doubt.”

Mr. Carfield shrugged his shoulders, and Argus
bowed politely, waved his hand to Virginia, and disappeared.
Mr. Carfield went half way through the
hall, as if to assure himself that an obnoxious object
was really removed.

“Damn you!” he thought, “for the face you are
taking with you,—too icy and unfeeling to combat
with; too knowing to insult with any hope of advantage.
I have seen your like.”

With a bitter jest on his tongue, he returned to find
Virginia gone. She had taken the opportunity, he
concluded, to escape, and had, of course, gone to her
own room. He did not feel composed enough to go
to bed, and, thrusting his hands in his pockets, he
began to pace the floor. At each end of the rooms
were tall mirrors which reflected his figure as he
passed back and forth; he stopped an instant at
every turn, and examined himself critically. The
Carfields were all alike, he commented; they were

all famous, as he knew, and had heard, for compassing
their ends in business, and in pleasure. He resembled
them, and was master of his brain and fibres;
the men and women necessary to his purposes should
bend to him, as they had bent before to the Carfields!
He was satisfied with his aspect, and, perhaps,
weary of the monotony of his view front and
his view back, turned down the lights,—except one
on the mantel-piece, poked the coal in the grate to a
blaze, and stretched himself on the rug before it.
Virginia, leaving the parlor by a door which led into
the dining room, passed the sleeping Sarah, who
dreamed a crimson cloud flashed by her, and rushed
from the house, coming upon Argus as he was opening
the front gate. It slipped from his hand and
closed again when he saw her flying figure.

“Take me to Temple House, Argus,” she gasped,
her white arms gleaming before his eyes; “take me
from my dreadful position, else I shall die. My soul
is dying, oh, so fast, Argus, perishing, perishing,
cold, starved.”

The shock of the rain on her bare head and shoulders,
which were only covered with lace, her rapid
movement, or something besides, caused her to drop
on the ground senseless, and the gate was between
them. He tried to open it, but the iron latch had
sprung in the catch, and it would not yield; his impassive
heart began to beat with terror, and his
strength was shaken. He was as defenceless, and as
much at the mercy of Virginia in a dead faint, as an
old tree is in a tempest when the lightning is sure to

strike it. Had he followed the guide of his self possessed
moments he would have stepped over her, or at
least alarmed some one at the house, and then pursued
his way home. But the moment was not self-possessed;
one had come to be ruled by a mysterious
sentiment which men deny, deride, and obey; Argus,
in spite of himself, was about to appear like an honorable,
loyal man, worthy a woman's possession. He
stood motionless an instant.

“The Furies are at me,” he said; “they have
tracked me to the river, but why have they shut the
gate? My strength against theirs then, and Brande's
iron.”

He wrenched off the fastenings of the gate, which
fell back with a clang that Mr. Carfield heard, and
started to his feet to listen with a magnetic perception
of an approaching person or event; then he rolled
his cloak round Virginia, took her up, and carried
her to the door, at which he knocked with his foot,
supposing from the light he saw in the parlor still,
that Mr. Carfield would open it. With her dead oppressive
weight in his arms, there came a smooth and
delicate vision to his mind of his untrammelled life
at Temple House. Even its rains and gales were full
of repose! And there could never a storm arise
among them there, to incur a single distressing obligation!

Mr. Carfield opened the door; the sight of Virginia
muffled in the arms of Argus, enraged him.

“Stand back with your bundle.” he said; “keep
her out there. Who wants her now?”

He held the door, but Argus thrust him away and
went past him.

“Don't touch me just now,” said Argus. “Get
some water, you yellow hound, and make no noise.
Brande has said his evening prayers, and won't bear
disturbing; he might get wet too.”

He placed Virginia on a sofa, faint and trembling
with the exertion he had made. Mr. Carfield trod
closely behind, his hands in his pockets again, and
with the determination to afford no assistance, and say
nothing that was not insulting. But he fell into a
deeper rage, and could not contain himself, when Argus
confronted him, collected and masterful.

“She loves you,” said Mr. Carfield, “you! God—
you.”

“I deny it,” answered Argus; “it is the contrary.”

And he dropped on his knees beside her, bending
over her hand with a feigned kiss, and a feigned devotion:
“Are you coming round, Virginia, my dear?”

“She said as much not half an hour since.”

“If you repeat that I will kill you.” And he rose
looked over the tables, and found a bottle of cologne-water.
“With this bottle,—it is big enough, unless
you prefer a neater way.” Then pouring its contents
on his handkerchief, he bathed her face and
hands. The cloak fell from her, and the lace over
her bosom was displaced, and its marble outlines
were revealed to them; it did not rise and fall with
her breath. The face had fallen back, and her beautiful
scarlet lips were slightly apart; no breath issued
from them, apparently. All the scant pity in the soul

of Argus was moved at the sight, so sweet, so helpless!
But the lust which men tutor themselves to
feel before revealed beauty, at the sight of this supine
beauty burst through Mr. Carfield's veins, and
flashed into his eyes, tinging their blue enamel with
red sparks; his nostrils sharpened, and indescribable
sound came from his lips which drove Argus mad.
He let fall the handkerchief, and sprang towards Mr.
Carfield, who said with a sneer, and a loud voice,—
“I am inclined to think that as her lover, you would
like to brag. Can you?”

A few seconds intervened, and Argus discovered
that he was turning the key of the door, Mr. Carfield
having been put outside of it—for the present Argus
was conqueror.

“I heard the river,” said Virginia, suddenly sitting
up.

“Nonsense,” replied Argus. “You didn't; it was
the rain you heard.”

“How I have troubled you. Forgive me; and I
shall not obtain your forgiveness,” she said, hiding
her face in his cloak.

“My love, you are making my cloak too valuable
for an heirloom, even: you will compel me to wear
it perpetually.” He kneeled beside her again, and
took her hand. “My God, Virginia what a beautiful
woman you are! Where were you all these
years? Spare me. I must rest; do you understand
that I am exhausted?” He was bewildered—deadly
pale,—and his lips quivered with each word. “I
confess myself lost; if you have found me, take care

of me. Get me some wine, my love, I cannot stir.
Sit by me awhile, and then rouse some of your people.
to drive me home. By my soul, I never can walk.”

Virginia, completely humbled, and now anxious
to annihilate herself, if he desired it, brought him
wine. As he put the glass to his mouth, he shuddered;
tears actually came into his iron eyes. She
looked at them with the feeling a child has when an
unexpected, longed for treasure comes into its possession,
and timidly kissed his eyelids. He returned
the kiss —the first meeting of their lips put a strange
seal upon them; it was the boundary between the
undefinable genius of his character, and the narrow,
direct, common forces of her own. This was not
the moment to learn the fact; afterwards the understanding
between them was tacit, clear and full.

Argus kissed her again. Her face crimsoned.

“Where is Mr. Carfield?” she asked hastily.

“There was Paradise, and the Devil, and the
flaming swords. I rather think the flaming swords
may be out on the door-mat,” answered Argus,
making a significant motion towards the hall.

“What happened?”

“He went out. Let the dog wait; you will dine
with him to-morrow.”

“Yes, and the next day,” she answered bitterly.

“Hush! To-night is only to-night; let me come
nearer to you. So; some better man should have
the right to keep his lips here—not me, Argus, the
—no matter. And you always liked Temple
House?”

“Yes, Argus, and all of you. So Sebastian has
returned.”

“What o'clock can it be, my girl? Will that
gimcrack on the mantel yonder tell? What folly to
call those French articles time-pieces.”

“It runs to-night fast enough, for it points to three.
Don't go.”

“I am not going. Unless I go, however, how can
I come again?”

“Will you come?”

“It is so fine here that to make merely an ordinary
visit would not please me. No, I shall not come.
I'll not meet Brande, and know that your heart palpitates
between us. You will find me at Temple
House, as in years past, in the green room, under the
elms, out in the summer-house, maybe.”

“Not in the summer-house again.”

“Yes; again, I say. It was fairer than this, on a
night I recall,—an orange-colored dusk, as I remember
it. The darkness was illuminated. I sent you
away in it, being dazed, and I see now that I have
never recovered from the surprise you gave me.
You were very sweet; did I tell you so?”

“Argus, there's cruelty in you.”

“And you love it. Presently it will be impossible
for you to speak of your hopes and desires. And
Hereafter yawns so devilishly we cannot say what
it may enclose of us; and as women will practice
sutteeism, I ask you to show me the pile you have
ready. Out with your speech, and don't stutter.”

He rose from his place beside her, and walked up

and down before the sofa, making sudden and discomposing
turns opposite its arms, and keeping his
eyes away from her.

“All that might have been said, was acted,
Argus. I have thwarted my education at every
point, and have kept out of sight the moral and
social principles instilled into my mind from childhood,
for the sake of preserving the only genuine,
happy emotion I ever felt. You have resisted my
childish inclination, ignored my girlish affection,
crushed, baffled, and repelled my womanly passion.
Argus! you are not great. You are a narrow, limited
man; you are not handsome. You have no
youth—that dream which lingers with us, the
`song that is never sung,'—through bitter years,
lasting beyond the fretwork and frostwork of
wrinkles and grey hair,—perhaps you never had it.
You are a poor man;—so poverty-stricken by habit
and taste that no fortune could change it. Those
choosing to share your lot, cannot venture the offer
of changing it. You are like granite, which,
accidentally thrust up the soil, or washed bare by
the inroads of the sea, or even hammered and transported,
still remains a plain, hard rock. Yet I,
believing that there was a core in your nature of
molten fire which I might strike into, gave you all
my hopes, with patience and desire. I am not
capable of owning that I have failed. You will not
come to me, nor allow me to go to you; but I shall
never give up my love. My soul shall take up the
thread of the unfinished web which it has so faithfully

woven here, and continue it wherever my soul
goes.”

The description of her feelings gave rise to a self-pity
which made her appearance very touching.
Something abstract came into her face also, which
divested her of excitement, and made her statue-like.
The sweat ran down Argus's forehead; he wiped
his face, and notched in his memory all the turns in
the path between the Forge and Temple House, and
wondered how he should feel if he were half way
home.

“It is very late,” Virginia resumed. “Shall I see
now about your returning? I must rouse Moses.”

“Thank you, if you please. I—I am but a man,
as I said once before. I yield. If I dared,—I
would ask you to marry me. I don't dare.”

“Let us say no more now; I will leave you. As
soon as Moses is ready, he will call you. Good-by,
Argus.” She extended her hand at arm's length
from him.

“Are you going to leave me this way?” he muttered.

“Good-by; farewell.”

He tried in vain to detain her, but could as easily
have grasped a rolling cloud as her suddenly
retreating, gliding figure.

Moses left him at the gate of Temple House, and
before he was half way up the walk Sebastian met
him.

“I slept in my chair for you, Argus. How you
have prowled this night! Roxalana said much, and

then went to her little charge. I believe it to be
your breakfast hour, nearly.”

“Come in, quick, the air is raw,” answered Argus,
springing up the steps, “I hope it is as late as you
say; we are so much the nearer to dinner, that
being the case. What do you say to a cigar?
On the whole, though, I'll not smoke, I'll go to
bed. Where is my bed, I wonder? Give me your
hand, Sebastian.”

They shook hands a long time.

“I hope the male saints know how glad I am to
see you,” said Sebastian; “the female saints could
never understand it.”