Temple House :: :: University of Virginia Library

Mr. Drake was polite enough to send a note to
Argus, when Tempe had been gone two weeks,
which stated that John, for business reasons, would
extend his tour considerably; the young couple in
consequence would have an opportunity to see the
rapid growth of some of the Mighty Cities of the
West. A month, most likely, would elapse before
their return. Shortly after the note was received, a
letter came from Tempe,—her first to her mother.

“Dear Mother: You never saw such work; we lost the small
trunk, which was not marked. Have you seen Virginia? Her
society will make amends for my absence. I wish I was at home,
but I like travelling. I saw somebody yesterday that looked exactly
like Mary Sutcliffe. I had half a mind to ask her if the
cat's kittens had yellow patches, or if they were black and white:
Mary said the cat would have kittens by the time I got back.
You can't think how fish seems to be prized at these hotels, while
we care nothing for it. We stopped in Boston, and John bought
me an Indian scarf. In New York he bought me a dark blue
silk; he is very attentive, but he has a cold. I had it made, and
it is trimmed with black lace. Mother, the lace was three dollars
a yard. We are in Chicago now. The air has a flat taste to
me; it is different from Kent air. Of course, Uncle Argus has
worried about me; oh yes, I think he is pining away. There are
no good preserves at any hotel; the noise at these great houses,
would drive you wild, mother; you would never again wink your
eyes at my slamming doors, could you stay in one awhile. Have
those Drakes been to see you? I do not care for them; do you,

mother? I shall visit them but very little. John asked me if I
would go to housekeeping in warm weather. I said, “Er, em,
em,” which ment “yes” to him; to me, “nary housekeeping.”
Why should I wash dishes for him, and dust furniture, and learn
not to suit him in cooking—let me see, four times a day. He is
too particular about his food. Mother, I had rather eat your dry
bread; I hate to see people imagining they would like to have
this, and that, to eat. I shall be gone some weeks yet. I'll help
you knit when I return. John has snatched this from the table,
and I am mad, for he laughs loud at it, and says—“Give me a
kiss?” but I won't. It is eleven o'clock; there is no lamp burning
in Temple House; you are asleep.

Your affectionate child,

Temple Gates.”

“That's a great letter,” said Argus; “so full of
observation.”

“I like it vastly,” said Roxalana, with her infrequent
smile. “It is Tempe herself.”

“So it is, Roxalana, you are right; especially in
forgetting her name.”

The next news Mr. Drake presented in person. He
came hurriedly one evening, while Roxalana and
Argus were at tea, with a white, scared face, bringing
an open letter, at the top of which was an engraving
of a hotel.

“Well, sir,” said Argus, rising and pushing a chair
towards him.

“There is an accident, sir,” replied Mr. Drake,
“a dreadful one.”

Roxalana's eyes turned to stone, and she could
not speak.

“Temple is all right,” he said, addressing her; “it
is my son that is injured.”

A bright smile burst over Roxalana's face, and
even the iron countenance of Argus lightened.

“I say,” cried Mr. Drake, in a loud, angry, tearless
voice, for he noticed the effect of his words, “to
me it is dreadful! What shall I do? I cannot
leave my business, and John's case is hopeless.” He
looked down at the letter; and his voice failed him.
Argus took it, and read that a collision had occurred
on some Western Railroad; that John was one of
the victims; that he had been taken to a way town,
and was now in the hotel, which the letter pictured;
and that his friends must lose no time in reaching
him, for his injuries were fatal.

“You must go, Argus,” said Roxalana; “no
preparation is necessary. Will that suit you, Mr.
Drake?”

“Bring him home, sir, bring him home,” said Mr.
Drake, his tears falling. “My wife fell down in a
fit, for she opened the letter. You could not take
her; my girls would be simply an encumbrance. If
you go, it must be alone. I thank you for the favor,
sir. What can I do to forward the journey?”

“Nothing; I shall leave at once. Mat Sutcliffe
will drive me to Wing's Station, and I can catch the
down train.”

Roxalana felt it impossible to make any condoling
speech to Mr. Drake; she perceived his trouble, but
could not sympathize with it, her relief at Tempe's
escape was so great. Moreover, while hearing of
John's disaster, she discovered that she felt no real
interest in him, and was too sincere to express any

grief. Neither had she any thought of the influence
this event might have upon Tempe; the dear illusions
of sentiment, the hopes or desires which continually
ascend from the depths of the soul when
it must live in solitude, found no resting-place in
Roxalana. Neither did Argus make any moral or
philosophical remarks upon the disaster; with a
silent, natural respect he opened the doors for Mr.
Drake to pass out, and accompanied him to the gate,
holding his own hat in his hands. Had it been any
man besides Argus, Mr. Drake would have attempted
some utterance concerning the mysterious ways of
Providence; as it was, he concluded the interview
with a request concerning his son, and parted from
Argus with the same appearance of firmness and
composure.

Within an hour, Argus and Mat Sutcliffe were
riding along a road which crossed Apsley River just
below the Forge.

“Talk about the treachery of the sea!” exclaimed
Mat, in a triumphant tone, “what is't compared to the
continual accidents on shore? If the sea mauls and
maims us, 'tisn't above board; we are not strewed
along the ground to excite the pity and horror of
folks, but we are dragged under, out of sight, where
the affair is between ourselves.”

“The bones of the drowned do not always lie in
the caverns of the deep.”

“I know they get into coves, and sometimes drift
in along shore, but they don't make spectacles for a
multitude. So all that fol-de-rol I saw the other day

has come to nothing in less than two months. Well,
shall I be waiting for you and Tempe at Wing's?
I'll go along, and help you shoulder up the young
feller, if you say so.”

“He is dead, now, Mat.”

“The poor little gal!”

“Death must wake us up now and then.”

“They are fired up at the Forge, I see.”

“Brande is casting anchors.”

As they passed from the darkness into the wake
of light gleaming from a furnace door, Virginia
came into the mind of Argus, looking as she did on
the night of Tempe's wedding, in her cloud-like
dress,—tall, fair, self-collected with soft, radiant,
umber-colored eyes, tinted like a summer-brook,—
“the leopard rill,” when it flows from beneath the
alders and oaks, which bend over and conceal its
course. He looked at the house, which loomed up
beyond the Forge.

“I'll let her know, right off,” said Mat.

“Have you been to the house?”

“No; but they know me on the premises. I'll
speak to the foreman.”

“Stop at the house on your way back, and ask
Mrs. Brande, with my respects, to allow Miss Brande
to go to Mrs. Gates.”

“Just so.”

“And look in every day, will you?”

“Exactly so.”

Mat flourished his whip, proud to be commissioned
by Argus, and venting his feelings by putting the

horse at top speed. At the station he grew melancholy,
and followed the locomotive till it screamed
itself out of sight. On the way home he wished for
his dogs, his boys, his wife, he was so uncommonly
downhearted. Knocking at Mr. Brande's back door,
his thoughts were diverted, by a disagreeable expectation
that Mr. or Mrs. Brande might open the door,
but Chloe, a colored member of the family, came.

“Lord, save me, what kind of a time o'night is
this for bizness?” she asked.

“I have an errand to Mrs. Brande, your marm.”

“Nothing would make Missis Brande get up at
this time in the evening, I assure you. Better speak
to Miss Virginia; she's tuing round somewhere.
Come in, and say what you want to say.”

“Can I take a bite of fire meanwhile? It's coolish,
to-night.”

“I look for a frost. Address yourself to the
heat, though the fire is most down.”

When he had delivered his message, Virginia
for a moment was strongly tempted to go with him
at once; but it could not be.

“I shall have to stay with mother till she falls
asleep; and when will she fall asleep?”

“I could a-tole the man the same,” muttered
Chloe, “but he wouldn't a-gone if I had.”

“Mrs. Gates is alone,” said Mat, doggedly, “and I
expect choke full of trouble.”

He knew better, and could not help raising his
eyes to Virginia; they exchanged faint smiles.

“Mercy on us!” Chloe commented; “they larf
together,—and he is back-door folks.”

“Chloe,” said Virginia, in an under tone, and
handing her a key, “bring me some wine.”

“I can't a-bear wine,” said Mat, quickly.

“What then?”

“Brandy.”

“Bring that, Chloe.”

Mat had scarcely set his glass down when Mr.
Brande came suddenly into the kitchen, with a lamp
in his hand; he had heard Mat's gruff voice in the
room where he was reading.

“What is the matter, Virginia?”

She told him the tidings. Mr. Brande advanced
so near with his lamp to Mat's whiskers that
the latter exclaimed, “You'll know me next
time.”

“I do not know much good of you at any time,
my man,” Mr. Brande replied meekly.

“He was sent here, father, with the request that
I should go down to Mrs. Gates.”

“Who sent for you?”

“Captain Argus Gates,” answered Mat.

“To-morrow she may be permitted to go, if her
mother's health is good.”

Mat retreated, with a glance at Virginia, which
signified that whatever he thought of her father, it
was all right between them.

“Virginia,” said Mr. Brande, “you are at Temple
House often.”

“Not o'nights, certain,” interposed Chloe. “I'm a

sinner if she ain't a-waitin' too much on the missis
for many visits.”

“Sho, sho! Chloe, you astonish me,” answered Mr.
Brande, retreating.

,,Your father has not been astonished this twenty
years, missey. Can't ye get to bed, honey? Why
can't missis let my old bones crackle about for her,
instead of wearing the soft peth of yours?”

But Virginia, who was not heeding her, sighed,
and walked across the room with her head bent.

“Perhaps,” she said, “I should have offered to go
to Tempe; who else could? Had I power beyond
these little things I could define noble duties. As it
is.”—She was gone.

“I'se most tired of this world, especially when
I see men and women as I have this last five minutes
It's no use, though,” continued Chloe, “Missey Virginia
will have to help missis out of the grave when
Gabriel blows the trump, I'll bet, while Mr. Brande
is walking, 'spectable like, in long cloths, all by his
self, to judgment.”