University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Notwithstanding his isolation, Argus soon became
a somewhat noted man in Kent; his character,
habits, and manners were observed constantly,
and considered exceptional. The mere mention of
him among his acquaintances created a fresh and
original impression in their minds. There was
something irresistible in these self-creating impressions
which impelled them to reflect upon the nature
of a man who appeared entirely unsympathetic with
all their relations. They confided to him the weakness
and vileness of their motives and acts; they
invented a history of his past life, which tallied with
the ideal of what they would themselves have been,
provided the opportunity and the courage had been
given them. The tranquil tolerance, or the terrible
coarseness, which he offered them in turn, presented no
solution to the enigma of his character. But Argus
knew himself; having gone through with certain
experiences, he had arrived at an understanding of
the traits which induced them, and stifled them.
The life that he now chose to live was at variance
with the opinions which his organism continually
caused others to form of him. The conditions of
feeling which he shunned, the agitations which make
one hour crowded, the next vacant, he had the

power of exciting still. For himself, he was capable
of enjoying his own atmosphere—that of a well-constituted
man, whose perceptions, never attaining
the beautiful, perhaps, dwell with content upon positive,
narrow, sensuous facts. Argus, in the world,
was very discerning, cautious, and, in spite of his
coarseness and indifference, had a vein of courtesy
which gained him at least an outward respect. He
hated cant, and had a way of taking hold of the
roots of a matter which made people afraid of their
hypocrisy. For the most part, no one ever questioned
him about his affairs; but one day, a man
whom he had long known asked him if he was
aware how near he was to his brother George Gates,
a younger brother, from whom he had been separated
for years. Argus for an instant felt his cane oscillate
in his hand with the temptation to strike his
informant; but turning with a sharp laugh, he said,

“He is so near me, is he? The handsome
dog!”

“To tell you the truth, Captain, I saw him. Our
brig ran into harbor not two hundred miles from this,
and a party of us skippers went ashore. We hired
a team and drove up the country for a lark, till we
came to a place called Eastdale; the first man I
clapped eyes on was George Gates. By the Lord,
sir, he was in full feather; sleek as a porpus. I felt
riled, for he owes me five hundred dollars. Ten years
ago we met in the West Indies, you know, and I followed
him up. His father-in law”—

Argus started, and broke the sentence in two—“has

not been dead long; he sold tobacco, snuff and spice.
You've seen those speckled lizards in India? There
was a row of them in bottles of spirit in his window.”

“I know them; but what of his she-lizard, the
one out of the bottle?”

“I did not introduce myself to George; you recollect
he had a way, at times, that a man would not
like to venture on. I reckon, however, that the old
man's death has unsettled him; he'll be off again to
parts unknown before long, or I am much at fault.”

A bitter smile ran over the face of Argus at the
thought that George, vagabond as he was, could
still keep his friend and creditor, Smith, at bay.

“I thought I would tell you,” Smith continued.
“I bore in mind the goings on of my brother, Bill,
and tried to do as I would be done by.”

“Hasn't the devil seized Bill for good, yet?”

“You see, I have not talked it over with anybody.”

“Did your wife tell you her dream this morning?
Did you throw the pillow at her for guessing your
thoughts? Off a voyage, a man is transparent
for a week or so, to his wife, excepting one or two
items. But I am indebted to you, Smith.”

Smith laughed a horse-laugh, and turned away.

Argus absently noted the way of the wind, as he
leisurely walked towards home, stopping once to toss
over a paper that fluttered in his path which looked
like a handbill. He found Mrs. Bayley, a woman
from the alley, who came every day to prepare his
meals, and put the room he used in order, busy in
the kitchen.

“I shall not need you for several days, Mrs. Bayley,”
he said. “I am off on a journey. Take the
keys, and open the house again on Friday.”

“Yes sir. Would you wish any preparation made;
any other beds made up, or rooms put to rights?”

“You alley-strollers have hold of it then. Do
your best to spread it, and add something worth
your tongues.”

“I've got hold of mighty little, I do beg leave to
inform you, Captain Gates. I fetch and carry
nothing.”

“The invisible air is clogged with the droppings
of women's fancies. Balls of gossip stick together
like burrs, and catch on Truth's stuffy gown as she
passes by.”

“Mary Stucliffe said”—

He interrupted her with a few icy, cutting words,
spoken in the smoothest of voices, which drove her
from the room. He started immediately without
any plan, expecting with every mile that the feeling
which possessed him would explain itself; but it
evaded him. Had he really a desire to meet the
only member of his family alive, except himself?
Was the voice of the Temple blood, thin as it
might be, crying out in behalf of this reprobate
brother, as handsome as Romeo, as dissolute as Antony,
for whom in former times he had made many
sacrifices? Suppose George should propose the
same again: suppose that he might choose to avail
himself of the habitation which Temple House
would offer, with the family that Smith hinted at?

Could such a thing be endured? And Argus fell
into a dream about the occupation of the house by
some child growing up, and watching him, while
going out of it for good, to the place where there
were different mansions.

At the Eastdale tavern he met George. He was
smoking a cigar, (which Argus instinctively felt was a
first-rate one,) in a black velvet cut-away coat and a
white felt hat; from his crown to the toe of his well-fitting
boot an atmosphere of resolved laziness emanated,
which armed Argus against him, especially as he
could not withhold a sentiment of admiration with
it. In the face of George was fierceness, weakness,
and an expectant hungry look, in spite of his air of
ease.

“Why, Arg, is that you below there? Come up,”
and he smiled, but at the same time bit through his
cigar, with the surprise the sight of Argus occasioned.
“What sent you?”

“The love of you,” Argus answered, “and an invitation
from Marm Temple's bones to come to her
house. Have you done with your pranks? Could
you amuse yourself in Kent?”

“Pranks!” George exclaimed; “my time has been
passed in a serious manner. Do you share the vulgar
judgment, that absence is the cloak for a man's
iniquity? Cannot the vagrant member of the family
have a purpose? I'll come to Kent to be wicked
openly.”

Argus laughed.

“The hells and brothels never touch on the prodigal

son, and the husk business, do they? Have they
changed since my green and salad days?”

George touched his smooth, handsome forehead,
extended his fair hand, opened and shut the fingers.

“The husk business is entirely extinct,” he answered.

Argus took a chair inside the veranda railing,
and politely asked George for a light. It was politely
given, and the two smoked in silence, looking
towards the horizon.

“Say, Arg,” exclaimed George, turning suddenly,
“what's come to your hair?”

“Pooh! something went; what could come to me?
Your plays and novels allot nothing to middle aged
people. A life accessory to the illusions of others
at most—the gray background to their reds and
greens. I don't urge, with Shylock, that if we are
pricked, we bleed, if we are poisoned, we die.”

“I am past thirty, and would be as drunk with
life as ever, if I could but reach the draught.”

He let his hand fall lightly on Argus's shoulder,
and Argus made a slight movement by which it slid
off.

“How is that abode of the Temple ghosts,” George
continued, “the tabernacle on a hill?” By the way,
I am married; there's a little girl, too. I named her
Temple, ridiculous name—but I honored the gods.
Did you know this?”

“All Kent knows it; from your friend Moll Sutcliffe,
to your ancient chum, Smith. This must be
the reason I came; I know no other.”

“All Kent,” repeated George, rising, and indicating
to Argus to follow. “I never loved that good old
town. I ate dirt there, and shook what was left
from my flesh. I have rolled round the world since,
and gathered a certain mossiness, and, as one must
bring up somewhere, brought up at Eastdale. Why
not, Argus? I found my wife here; she grew into
that estate from a typhoid fever, which caught and
held me in the port below. And this is where we
live. Enter the long lost brother.”

Argus's first thought, when he saw Roxalana
was, that she was the last woman George would have
chosen; but when he heard her clear voice, and correct
accent, he forgave himself for having met her.
She received him with perfect self-possession, and
pushing little Temple towards him, said,

“Kiss your uncle Argus, Temple; he has come a
long way to visit you.”

The child was beautiful, like George, with black
eyes, close curls of splendid black hair, a mass of
ebony rings, and the same attenuated subtle features,
but with a different head and carriage.

“She may run away, also,” Argus commented;
“but she won't run so far, and she will marry without
the typhoid fever trap.” He asked her to sit on
his knee, and took her hand, which was so exactly
shaped like his own, that he could not help smiling
over it.

“What is going on, Rox?” George asked, with a
suppressed yawn, and roving eyes. Argus was induced
to believe that they had not met before that day.

“We are engaged as usual,” she replied.

“I think I'll dine Argus at the tavern; I noticed
Jones had some fine ducks.”

She made no reply.

“Have we had ducks, Rox?” he asked, his voice
loudening with a shade of irritation.

“Not this season, certainly, George; it is early.
I am sure you will find the ducks at Jones's good
eating.”

“I have dined,” said Argus, “on brandy and
water, and biscuit—my old sea fare—and a cigar.”

“I'll shortly furnish you with hospitality,” replied
George, leaving the room.

“Roxalana,” said Argus, abruptly, “has the time
come for George to leave Eastdale?”

“I have not a doubt of it; I have always expected
that time sooner or later.”

“What do you think of changing your quarters?
Will the old house answer for the little girl?”

“I shall be pleased to go. Having no ties here, I
can leave without regret. When I met your brother
I was almost alone. You are aware, of course, that
he has not made a worldly-wise match?”

“I am aware that you have not made a remarkably
advantageous one.”

She fixed her dense, cold eyes upon him, and continued:

“I am a fatalist. Having done badly for himself,
not me, I choose that he should select his own happiness
first, so far as he can. My happiness, at any

rate, is not like the happiness of others. I have long
been convinced so.”

Argus was astonished; he believed that he had
found the woman whose personalities would not
prove a nuisance in family life. He began to weigh
her merits and the exactions he knew George would
make, and the merits prevailed. When George
came in again, Argus was scrupulously considerate
with him, and it was finally settled, that at least, the
experiment of a three months' visit should be tried.
The night that Argus returned to Temple House, he
went on an enigmatical excursion over the house and
grounds, knocking on the doors with his cane, scaling
the walls with his eyes, and stepping off the measure
of paths and walls, like an auctioneer.

“Once here,” he said, “she will never go away.
As for George,”—and he whistled.