University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Argus found Tempe alone. Her pretty locks
looked dull and dry, and her great eyes were heavy
with watching and weeping. For the first time within
her recollection Argus kissed her; then she crept
into his arms, laid her head against his breast and fell
into a sound sleep. He sat like a statue, noting the
faint regularity of her breath, wondering how much
of a ripple so frail a being could raise on the sea of
life, when she woke and exclaimed:

“Will Mr. Drake come afterwards, to take the—
the—John, I mean, and bury him in the family burying
place?”

“He sent me for that purpose, Tempe; you must
finish the journey, as you began it—with a difference.”
Then she wept afresh, dreading to go, in
such an awful way, for—

He wiped her eyes with his handkerchief, beginning
to feel a little impatience, which she perceived,
and was restored to herself as if by electricity. She
told Argus all that had happened in a few words,

and repeated John's wishes. He would have made
a will had it been possible, for he felt more anxious
about making provision for her, than to prepare for
his last moments. He was nearer to God, he said,
than she was, and would soon be entirely cared for,
while she,—who could give her money? Continual
wandering of mind and fainting turns had prevented
him from making even the slightest arrangement;
and, concluded Tempe, “He was dead, after all my
watching, before I knew it.”

“I am to have you again entirely,” said Argus;
“there is no help for it. You are returned to me
with the addition of `Drake,' to your name.”

“Remarkably short experiment, my wedded life,
Uncle Argus.”

“What induced your little, bran-stuffed brains to
marry? Do you remember a picture in your school
book of a Serene Monster, behind whom rose a
dreary, flat, lifeless desert, whose horizon receded as
the eye sought it? Did you know that the desert
was matrimony? And the monster pretended the
riddle of it could be propounded?”

“I did not want any other girl to have him,
and it pleased me to take him from his mother and
sisters. I suppose they think I am punished.”

The old provocation came across Argus to throw
his cane at her.

“You stand next to your father in nature, who let
the jaws of chance crack him as if he had been a filbert.
Let me tell you once and for all, that you are

foolhardy enough only to commit and sacrifice those
you are connected with.”

“If you have come all the way from Kent to
scold at me, let us sit, Uncle Argus, and have it out;
other matters may take their course.”

She sat down composedly, and fixed her eyes on
him in a way that made him laugh.

“I am a poor deputy; your mother or Virginia
should have come for you, with salve and balsam.
Are you prepared to leave at once?”

“Yes, Uncle Argus, I am ready.”

A public funeral was in preparation at home;
Tempe went to Mr. Drake's, and soon felt the restrictions
of her position. The dramatic grief, bustle, and
solicitude of the family concerning the event swallowed
up Tempe's personal concern in it: her curiosity
and attention were so absorbed that the few
hours passed there afterwards seemed days to her.

Argus shut himself up at home with Roxalana,
and both declined a place in the Drake procession.
Virginia Brande alone went to see Tempe, and was
received with the impassiveness belonging to her as
Miss Brande.

“I haven't cried a bit since I came,” said Tempe.
to her, when they were left together for a moment.
“Mrs. Drake cries into her cups of tea, which are
being brought her all the time, and the girls sob and
groan, and stare into their handkerchiefs, and then
run up stairs to see how the three dressmakers are
getting on.”

Virginia's eyes were fixed on Tempe; she earnestly

desired to find some index to guide her into a
way of speech which should prove a solace and
help.

“Dear child,” she began, but Tempe interrupted
her.

“Uncle Argus fled from this scene,—do you wonder?
I don't. Did you ever see anything more
foolish than the Drakes? It all seems like a show
to me.”

“Oh, Tempe, can't you see anything behind this
effect? I am sure there is heart in it.”

“Where?”

“Don't you believe that the son and the brother
will survive all this poor pomp and worry? Hereafter,
some pleasant image will come and dwell with
the mother and sisters,—a shape that will sit in
sweet and solemn quiet with them, when apart from
their worldly selves. Be wise and patient, Tempe;
consider how different people are. The mental picture
every outward act presents differs in every
mind—unless—as seems to be the case with you, we
act without interior motive. You never have referred
these matters to the judgment of the one
Solitary Spectator, have you?”

Tempe slightly shrugged her shoulders, and Virginia
blushed painfully, as if she had inflicted a
blow upon herself, but continued:

“To one half the world your mother would be very
inarticulate; but you know that all her nature is
waiting for the moment of your return.”

Even Virginia, in her way, was driven to preach

to Tempe, as Argus had been in his, but one sermon
made as much impression as the other; Tempe was
musing as she ceased speaking, and then absently
exclaimed:

“In doing all in his power to please me, he was
pleased and happy; there's a fact. There they are
on the stairs,—those creatures. Do you know, Virginia,
they speak to me, and of me, as a pronoun?”