University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Tempe was married on an October day. The
green room was not comfortably warm that morning;
Argus looked icy, also, and Roxalana was more
dense than usual. A vermilion spot glowed on
Tempe's cheek, and her eyes shone with a lustre
borrowed from the occasion. The Drakes were
present, and Virginia Brande. Mat Sutcliffe sat in
the hall during the ceremony, in a new pair of duck
trowsers, cut and stitched by himself, and Mary
waited upon the company in a blue and yellow dress,
bought for the purpose. A pale Episcopal priest
made John and Tempe man and wife; he rounded
off the periods of the service beautifully, but when
he said, “Whom God hath joined, let man not put
asunder,” Mat laughed, and said to himself, “curious
stuff, that, for a couple of children.”

“What do you think of that chap?” meaning the
minister, he asked of Argus a few moments afterwards.

“He seems to be a mild, cheerful prisoner and
victim.”

“What a beautiful ceremony!” said Caroline
Drake to Roxalana.

“It is sad to me,” Roxalana answered; “something

pronounced over dust,—just like your funeral service.”

“My dear children,” said Mrs. Drake, her face in
her lace bordered handkerchief, “it is for better and
for worse,—remember. Can't we get away soon?”
she whispered, turning from her embrace of Tempe,
and dropping a weak kiss on her chin.

“The ring pinches my finger, John,” Tempe said
under her breath.

“I know better,” he answered softly. “Will you
drink some wine with me?”

She assented, and he brought her a glass.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

Her eyes met his; the pang he deserved, lawful as
his seizure of her had been, cut his heart; nothing
in her face answered the expression of his own. The
glory and hope of the hour she did not share. In
that misty pleasure garden, which one can enter but
once and search for the enchanted fruit, he was
alone. Bright, restless, void, Tempe stood beside
him in another sphere,—unmindful of the paradise
whose portals opened within her reach. Near, yet
far from him, rose its terraces of flowers, one above
the other, in masses of sweet beauty, whose forms
and colors could bewilder the senses. Its crystal
fountains played against the pure zenith, and filled
the air with a murmur whose mystery famishes and
then feeds the soul. On the verge of two worlds
for a moment, he saw both no longer; the selfishness
of a man came to his aid then, and shut out all that
was not real.

“Hem!” exclaimed Mr. Drake. “This is most
excellent wine, Captain Gates; I am quite astonished
at it.”

“Are you?” Argus replied, “I brought it over
myself.”

“Now, really, did you, indeed?”

The flavor of the wine so much increased his
respect for Argus, that he conversed with him till a
move was made for departure.

“There is no set dinner anywhere to-day I believe,”
he remarked, in his pragmatic way; “won't
you all adjourn to my house, and be on hand for the
entertainment?”

John looked at his watch.

“Temple and myself,” he said, “are to dine at the
Grove House. The horses should be here. I
ordered them, as I ordered the dinner,—two weeks
ago.”

Mr. Drake looked admiringly at his son for this
proof of forethought and method in his madness.

Presently they were gone. Roxalana was not in
her usual seat, but sat near the window, staring at
the murky sky, and holding her handkerchief over
her mouth. Argus was gratefully smoking, and
drumming an original air on the back of his chair
with his fingers.

“As this business has nothing to do with our purpose
in living, I am glad it is over,” he remarked.

“We might as well have philosophy now as at
any other time, Argus.”

“Roxalana,—you see how we hurry over the accidents,

like birth, marriage, and death, and dwell in
the slow mornings and long evenings which bring us
nothing.”

“I don't like this dark sky,” she said abruptly.

“The sunrise was no better.”

“Did you observe Mat Sutcliffe's extraordinary
appearance?” and Roxalana heaved a strong sigh, in
token that she was about to throw off her melancholy.
“I am thinking that he went home petrified.”

“I gave him a bottle of wine to put under his
jacket. The old fellow never has been able to separate
himself from an honest interest in my affairs.”

“It should be so; there is something about him
that I esteem.”

“The Drakes would appreciate that sentiment,—
don't you think?”

“I despise those Drakes.”

Argus laughed, and in an instant Roxalana joined
with him. So they chatted,—a most unusual circumstance—till
the dusk ended the autumn day,
which had been a long one.

“I invite you to give me an extra candle at supper,
Roxalana, and some of that fine tea.”

“The last box has not been opened,” said Roxalana,
feeling an agreeable solicitude concerning it.

“And the Don's sweetmeats, also.”

“Which Tempe likes so well!”

Several hours later they were in Mr. Drake's
crowded house as guests, as much apart from the
spirit of the scene as Banquo's ghost at Macbeth's

supper. Roxalana was immediately and adroitly
shelved by Caroline Drake, in an easy-chair in a
shaded corner, which partially obscured the effect of
a black silk dress with straight, tight sleeves, and a
large muslin collar, yellow with age. Her hair was
twisted as usual, in one heavy mass, and two scarlet
spots burnt in her dark cheeks. She watched Tempe
with calm, unwinking eyes, and kept her hands
folded.

“I am coming to sit beside you soon,” said Virginia
Brande to her, turning her head aside from a
young man who carried her fan and some beautiful
flowers. “You and I are to make an agreement.”

“Is that the witch of Endor?” the young man
asked. “I shall be fond of seeing you sit next her,
the contrast will be so fine.”

“Shall you? look at me now then.” He was despoiled
of fan and flowers so suddenly that his hands
remained suspended in the air, while his eyes followed
her as she sank like a fleecy cloud upon a low
seat close to Roxalana.

“She is beautiful to-night,—don't you think so?”
asked Roxalana, turning benign regards upon Virginia.
“And you,—you must enjoy yourself, you
are so well fitted to shine in such a place.”

“Oh, Roxalana, how much I like you; you are dear
enough to me. I am so happy to have faith in you
at all times. I am seldom satisfied with the feelings
I have towards people, duty and obligation being so
mixed with them. There's no duty between you
and me, no obligation,—is there, Roxalana?”

“Let me smell your flowers?” Roxalana begged,
stretching out her hand. Her clear, slow voice had
a caressing tone which was new to Virginia.

“You shall have them. Let me fasten a rose on
your dress,—your hideous dress, Roxalana, is it
not?”

Roxalana asked her if she was aware of its durable
quality. It promised to last a life-time, and what
more could be expected of a dress?

“Roxalana, are you watching Tempe with the
hope that somebody will step on that stupid veil?
It is out of place over those close curls and slender,
childlike arms.”

“The Drakes brought it to her; I did not approve
of it.”

“I am sure you said nothing to that effect.”

“Why should I object? I think Tempe wished
to do all that was customary. I observe that John
is anxious to indulge her. Don't you think he is an
agreeable young man?”

Virginia did not think so, but avoided the question,
and looked about her.

“Here comes my mother,” she exclaimed, “whom
you scarcely know. I will give her my seat, and hope
you will speak with her.”

Roxalana put out her hand with an air of respect to
Mrs. Brande, and said, “I hope your health is good.”

Mrs. Brande shook her head and her white feather
fan, and groaned. Then she chided Virginia for being
so long out of sight; complained of the crowded
rooms, the negligence of the waiters, and the absence

of Mr. Brande; and sat down, eying Roxalana's
dress and hair with a stiff surprise which brought
the color to the pale face of Virginia, who turned
her back, not wishing to see Roxalana's confusion;
but the latter was not to be dismayed by criticism.
How could Mrs. Gates have allowed Tempe to marry
while but a child, was Mrs. Brande's first question;
and Virginia, not waiting for its reply, moved away
and joined Tempe, who happened to be standing
alone at that moment. John's particular friends, she
said, had gone into the supper-room, to drink his
health with him. Did Virginia know that she was
to start on a journey the next day? They were going
to the best hotels, and she supposed she should
see more dress than Kent had dreamed of. John had
promised to take her to the theatre. He was going
to buy at the first jeweller's shop a set of garnet and
gold; but she must first have her ears bored. What
age was Virginia when she put in earrings? And how
becoming the turquoise she wore to night!—a mass
of fine blue pebbles round her neck, arms, and in
her comb!

Virginia replied quietly, but somehow felt out of
patience with her all at once; it seemed as if she had
fallen apart from Temple House,—dropping what she
had probably borrowed in its atmosphere—something
of its vigorous simplicity, and assumed the character
of a parasite upon the Drakes. Virginia was not
able to judge her fairly then, nor afterwards; for unless
women are strongly bound in love and sympathy
their different experiences only serve to blind their

comprehension of each other. Virginia made up her
mind at that moment that Tempe must be added to
that list of the weak and erratic to whom she owed
duty and endurance.

“How do I look?” exclaimed Tempe at last, having
received no comment on her appearance; “like
a fright, I suppose. I wish the people would go;
my feet ache with standing to receive their foolish
compliments. I have had rivers of them to night.”

“You are very pretty; but I do not like the veil.”

“I do.” And Tempe tossed her little head, and
wreathed her slender arms. “Don't I look like the
Bride of Abydos? What is your mother covering
up my mother with her dove-colored silk skirt for.
Tsch!—here comes the old fuss, my papa Drake, to
introduce another booby. Do find John for me,
Virginia.”

Virginia, tall and stately as a lily, swaying like one
as she yielded to the pressure of the crowd, drifted
into the centre of a noisy, familiar group, and found
herself brushing against some person taller than herself,
who was also surrounded by talkers. Half turning,
her eyes followed the outlines of a dark figure,
whose handsome, well-gloved hand was thrust behind
him, and whose handsome, well-booted foot was
crushing her flounces. An extraordinary push
caused by the waiters and their trays made them face
each other with an apology. It was Argus, and Virginia
blushed at her own surprise to see him a gentleman,
in ordinary evening costume. His cool smile
flashed round his mouth, although he, too, felt a vague

surprise at her aspect, she looked so perfectly a woman
of the world.

“Help me away from this beautiful lady I have
been talking with,” he solicited. “Take my arm,
and drag me on, so that I can regain composure.”

They passed into a smaller room where there were
seats.

“You are used to these matters,” he continued;
“I was not remembering till now that it was some time
since you left school.” His eyes rested on the bands
of her beautiful, blue-black hair, and the perfect
outline of her face.

“You confound me with Tempe,” she answered,
her shyness melting away with the atmosphere to
which he professed to be a stranger.

“By no means. I saw Brande, your father, a day
after you were born; he cashed a note for me. Is he
here?”

“Certainly.”

“With the elders, who are drinking the heavy
port, which is the least like wine, and the most like
medicine, or matching pins with Drake, his brother
millionnaire.”

“Shall we look for him?”

“I am quite comfortable with his daughter, who
will entertain me better.”

“Tempe is going on a journey, she says. You
will miss her.”

“I have just been speaking with that blonde puppy,
her husband, about it. I have no idea that I
shall suffer in her absence. How do you think he

will enjoy himself in my society? They are to be
with us, you know.”

“I am almost sorry to hear that.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I like the house as it is; the intrusion of a
stranger may change its aspect.”

“This is one of your whims. You remind me of
those French women who retire to a convent for a
week or two of prayer and bread and water. When
they return to the world their lovers' oaths have a
new charm, and their wine a fresh sparkle.”

“Don't hurt me.”

Argus looked at her, and his eyes blazed with a
quick mischievous fire. It was impossible for her,
with all her sense of conventionality, not to show
that she felt his glances.

“I like to hurt you,” he said.

John Drake appealed to them, and smilingly nodded
to Virginia. His bright silken hair spread wildly
round his head; his delicate face was deeply flushed,
his mouth was half open, and as he approached, his
gait was uncertain.

“Damn you,” said Argus, “you are drunk.”

Virginia rose, and drew John's arm towards her.

“Come,” she said, “I want to see your mother's
celebrated cactus plants. I know where they are;
will you show them to me?”

“To death's door. They are out on the piazza,
will you go there, delicate creature?”

“Yes, yes, I need fresh air.”

She placed her hand in his arm and steered him
into the portico, with a regret for the loss of Argus.