Temple House :: :: University of Virginia Library

“What sign is the sun entering that makes you
so rampant?” asked Argus, as Tempe dashed in one
day, her cheeks dyed a hot crimson, her eyes flashing
and humid.

“I never will have my hair cut again, mother,” she
cried vehemently. “Never, don't ask it.”

“What shall I have then to wipe my hands on,”
Argus inquired, “if your hair isn't short? Come,”
and he approached her with extended hands, threaten
ing her.

Tempe bound her handkerchief over her head
quickly, and hid her hair.

“Tell me the difficulty,” Roxalana said.

“I was over to Caroline Drake's, and she told me
that John said he never heard of such a thing as
keeping a young woman's hair short to make her look
like a boy.”

Roxalana looked at Argus, and felt herself detected.
She had kept Tempe's hair short, because thereby
she looked so much the more like George. No way
of wearing it could have made her look prettier; the
jetty mass clasping her head, suited her face,—as yet
soulless, like a cameo Diana; rings of it dropped
round her forehead, the tips of her ears, round her
neck, short and fine, like the young tendrils of a
blossoming grape vine.

“If you wish to gain the approbation of John
Drake,” replied her mother, “I will give you permission
to tie up your hair at once. You will soon
make it ugly and straight enough to stick a comb in.”

“I don't care for John Drake, mother; but who
wishes to look like a boy, when one is not a boy?”

“Tempe,” said Argus, “you are the worst kind of
boy—tomboy.”

“Uncle Argus, why is my hair not like yours,
wiry, shiny, obstinate?”

“Because you are my dear little niece, and not
like me in any particular.”

“Gracious!” she exclaimed, reflectively, her mind
roving in search of a bit of ribbon to do up her hair
with, according to Caroline Drake's advice. “I
wish, for once, that I could have some money.”

“What would you do with it?” asked Argus.

“As other girls do. Look at Virginia Brande—
look at Caroline Drake—and now look at me. Those
girls carry pocket-books; they buy anything they
like—even give it away if they choose. Who ever
gave away any money in this house, I should be
pleased to know? Carry Drake has four silk dresses:
Virginia has a closet full, and I have this”—she
shook out a scanty, nondescript skirt with bitter contempt—“a
dress that was made for mother in the
year one; a blue, a green, a yellow piece of distress;
and I live in the biggest house in Kent, bigger than
the jail, and as pleasant; and my name is older than
the hills,—Temple Gates; for the Lord's sake tell
me who gave me such a name?”

“There, Tempe,” said Roxalana, quietly; “that
will do for this time.”

“Let her rail,” ordered Argus, as quietly.

Tempe tore the handkerchief from her head, and
threw it on the floor. Roxalana with ludicrous
solemnity settled herself into a serious listening attitude.
Tempe went on:

“I should like to know why I cannot have money,
and when I am going to have it! I am tired of my
shabby, mean life.”

Three lines darted down Argus's stony forehead,
between his eyebrows, and rested there. Roxalana
saw them, and made a movement to pick up the
handkerchief, for a warning to Tempe to stop, but
was prevented from taking it by the setting of
Tempe's foot upon it.

“Uncle Argus.”

He rose suddenly, and felt in his pockets.

“Roxalana,” he said, “I miss my desk key; have
you had it?”

“I thought I left it in a drawer, after I put some
flower seeds there. Do you wish for it now?”

He nodded, and she went out, with an eye on
Tempe; but Tempe was beyond heeding its dictation.

“Uncle Argus,”—she began again, but he interrupted
her.

“I will tell you why you cannot have money:
Your father robbed me of so much, that I shall never
be able to be generous to his daughter.”

“It is a lie!”

“And I will tell you a way to get money. Marry it.”

“My father did not rob you.”

“Not with his hand on my throat, or thrust into
my pocket, but genteelly—he asked for it. Your
mother knows it, and does not know it from me.
Now do not speak so before her again. Pick up your
handkerchief.”

It was in her hand, and she stood like a statue
when Roxalana returned with the key.

Argus had no idea of the chord he was striking
when he said, “marry money;” but John Drake, the
young man who objected to her boyish appearance,
was in love with Tempe, and she had concluded to
marry him. She felt elated and irritable at this sudden
admiration—curious, excited, and proud; but
her heart was not touched,—not an atom of it. This
stormy scene was owing to her uncertainty as to the
best way in which the affair should be conducted.

Roxalana resumed her seat, as if the discussion
was to have an everlasting continuance; but Tempe
raised her eyes to Argus, gave him a significant nod,
and walked softly away.

“She requires no money, Argus,” said Roxalana.

“What is the matter with the young one?” Do
you mean to keep her out of woman's estate? or is
she too empty-headed to inherit it?”

“She is but a child, surely?”

“Half of you are never anything more; but make
her an older child, I advise.”

“Why should I?”

“On account of these growing tantrums; not because
it is necessary she should have much sense.

She is very pretty; I was not aware till just now
how fast beauty had come upon her—the little
rascal.”

Roxalana gave one of her internal, joyful laughs.

“I never pretended that I could manage anybody,”
she said. “It is useless—the attempt to
govern children, just as useless as the attempt is—to
govern men and women. I never thought that the
Lord intended us for weather-cocks, to be veered by
the judgment of each other. Nothing changes my
opinion or wishes, after I once know them.”

“I believe you; yet whose acts were ever more
governed than yours?”

“By fatality.”

“Somehow Tempe's comb will be cut then?”

“Probably.”

Argus had heard that day a rumor, to the effect
that the Drake family were trying to persuade John
Drake to go to Europe, and break off the affair with
Temple Gates.