University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

A little after daybreak Chloe knocked at the
door, and was let in by Mat, who had dozed, and
drank, and watched with Argus all night, waiting
for the even chance to be decided with the one they
had rescued. It was decided in his favor, if life
could be called a favor. He came to himself at last,
battered, sore, and amazed—not able to speak much,
nor quite up to analyzing his situation.

“How's the Lord your way, Mrs. Ebony Cuff,”
asked Mat, as Chloe passed in; “I don't mean him
exactly, but his right hand man, Mr. Brande.”

“I forgets the Lord whenever I comes across you,
pizen thing that you are. I want Missey, right off.
There's no need of stirring anybody. I know where
she is, and I am going up these stairs, rotten as they
are, like the folks that come here.”

“Better take a handful of ashes to scatter along
your way, if you are going to look for your Missey
in this ere venerable structure.”

“Put the ashes on your own head, 'cause you are
bad all over; but I guess there's not much ashes in
this house. Go, long with you; don't watch me.”

She crept into the chamber where Virginia was,
and softly roused her.

“Better come home, Missey,” she whispered, “your

father has not asked for you. Your mother is dead
asleep; didn't I let her take the laudleum drops after
you went last night! 'Tis almost sunrise; the day
will be as light as if the poor souls didn't all go
down. Mr. Brande never came home till two
o'clock, and he says, says he to me—`Chloe, they
are in eternity; such was God's will. Is there any
hot water?' Did he 'spect I had hot water for him?
I had some for you waiting; I thought you would
not dare to stay all night. For marsy's sake come
on now. It isn't in the book for you to be seen
tramping backwards and forwards between here and
the Forge of nights. Let little Tempe alone; don't
wake up the kitten. Marsy on me, where's Argus
Gates been? Out of the house all the time? Musn't
stay in Argus Gates's house.”

She assisted Virginia to dress as she whispered,
with nervous haste. There was no reason for it, but
a mist, faint and chilly, settled round Virginia's
brain; there could be nothing impending at home,—
nothing had happened to sadden her, beyond the
catastrophe of which she knew nothing; what then
was the matter, that obliged her to agree with Chloe
in thinking it best to return as soon as possible?
She silently made herself ready.

“The man is doing well,” said Mat, in reply to
her salutation, when she came down. “We had
several tussles with him in the course of the night,
when he seemed to be slipping out of our hands;
but he is a sure card now. We don't know his
name yet, nor what business he is in; but I guess
he is a likely sort of man.”

“What do you mean?” asked Chloe, eagerly.

“Picked a man out of the water,” he answered;
“he was most pickled.”

“Is one saved? Did you find him alone?”

“All living alone. there wasn't a cuss in sight
besides him anywheres. Beats me where they did
go to. Enough's good as a feast, though.”

Chloe was much inclined to hear further particulars,
but Virginia beckoned her along. The yearning,
dispirited glance which Virginia threw back at
the house as she left it, was not lost upon the sharpsighted
Mat. As she and Chloe entered the path
beyond the alley, the fan-like rays of the rising sun
struck into the sky, and coldly shone over the wild
bay; no lucid blue nor shifting green colored its
surface; it was a leaden-hued, turbulent, hurrying
mass. Virginia found no solace in the pale light as
it spread over the pastures and leafless shrubs; the
mystery in the atmosphere which sometimes tracks
one's feelings had vanished. With the turn in the
path near the Forge the scene changed. Here
Apsley River was bordered with a grove of pine
trees whose green pinnacles crowned the air, and
whose gray shafts columned the ground with melancholy
state. The sea was no longer visible and the
town sank behind a range of grassy, shapeless hills.
Some fancy concerning the grove arrested her; its
depths she had not visited for years. She recalled
the time when she played upon its red beds, under
its feathery canopy, and pulled up the spotted moss,
or broke the yellow plate-like tops of the fungus,

which pushed through the sand and thatched itself
with needles; the silence and the sighing of the
pines suited her present mood. When she came
within the precincts of the Forge, and saw the high
house glittering with windows, she left her sighs and
love for solitude in the shrine of the grove. The
men about the stable were the only evidence that
the house was astir. Virginia went up to her room,
and despised herself for thinking it comfortable after
her weary, absorbing night, and compared it with
the apartment she had slept in for an hour or two—
a vast, barn-like place, containing more draughts
than furniture; whose walls represented a hunting
scene, where the hunters and their game were
equally torn, where the boscage, arcades, and sylvan
fountains had faded to a pale brown; whose floor
was gray, and shiny, and cold as ice. Roxalana's
father bed was like a dromedary's back, and her
counterpane a calico biography; Tempe's first dress
was in it, and the last Indian pillow-case of Argus.
It all seemed preferable to Virginia, for freedom was
there. When the breakfast bell rang, she went
down, attired in the morning dress her father's taste
dictated at present, and with the manners he always
expected her to serve him with. Still there was an
air of self-command about her which must have convinced
him there was the capacity for opposition.
He was standing at the back of his chair, rubbing
his sleek, shaven chin, his sharp, impassive eyes,
seeming to observe nothing, observed everything
He noted Virginia's paleness,—that Mrs. Brande's
hand shook more than usual, and a cracked china
cup at the same moment,—but spoke of neither.
The large diamond pin in his shirt front, the large
white perfumed cambric handkerchief which he
flourished, looked no clearer, plainer, nor fairer than he
did, in manner and countenance, as he sat at the head
of his table, tasting of every dish, even drinking both
tea and coffee, but eating only morsels after all.
Chloe continually appeared with hot cakes, hot eggs,
or hot tea, and in the intervals stood at Mrs.
Brande's elbow. It was one of Mr. Brande's
requirements, also, that his wife, in whatever
condition of nervousness, lethargy, or feebleness,
should appear at breakfast; and this morning
she occupied her usual seat before the tray, whose
silver array she was almost incapable of managing.
Her puffy eyes, and lax mouth, her hoarse sighs, the
handsome lace cap awry on her head, the mixed finery
of her dress, presented a contrast to his and Virginia's
appearance, which irritated his inmost soul. Even
with his wife, however, he found his limits. He
could compel her to rise to sit at the table,—but he
could not force her to eat, nor prevent the occasional
fall of a cup, or the spilling of coffee by her trembling
hand. He was obliged to wink at Chloe's
officiousness in taking the duties of the meal from
her, adoritly and quietly, to be sure; but for so doing
he would have been pleased to reward her services
by dismissing her.

“Your kind heart, Virginia, and some curiosity,
induced you to stay all night with Mrs. Gates,” he

said, sliding his chair back, after breakfast. “I
heard that Argus Gates went out, while I was down
town; several bets were made, I am sorry to say,
against his getting back. Of course he did come
back.”

“Yes, father,” she replied; “very late, however.”

“Did you find anybody requiring more care than
your mother, at his house?”

Mrs. Brande commenced shaking her head with
intense sympathy at the remarks of her husband, and
having begun could not stop.

“I went to see Roxalana, who was much disturbed.
She was gratified to have me with her. I also went
from an interest in the occasion. When they,—
Captain Gates and Mat,—returned with the man
they rescued—”

“Did Gates really go to the trouble of saving a
soul from death?” he interrupted; “well, I am glad
to hear it.”

“Then I busied myself in various ways to restore
him, and succeeded. Mother knows that your question
is answered, I hope.”

“It is not likely that Gates would row a dead man
into his house; it was not necessary, perhaps, for
you to bestow your labors upon him. I remark that
I do not like it. Did you assist in undressing him?
Were you about his person much? Do you think
the matter was quite delicate?”

Virginia made no answer. Chloe, who remained
in the room, fixed her eyes on the mild-voiced man,
the paternal inquisitor, with an expression she derived

from some Indian ancestor, who was in the
habit of skulking behind trees with his tomahawk.
She understood Mr. Brande no better than others
did; but she disliked him, and thought him as
hateful as she believed he was sincere.

“From whom do you take this erratic disposition?”
he continued. “What morbid appetite have
you which leads you to seek a kind of society utterly
aside from the sphere you are destined for? Gates
is a man without God in the world. Do you not
think so? Answer me, Virginia. Is he not a heathen
to all intents?”

“I think he is.”

“Is Mrs. Gates any better,—his grotesque sister-in-law?”

“No better.”

“And the little one, that Drake was unfortunate
enough to marry,—what of her?”

“She seems as pagan also.”

“And such are your friends!”

Chloe, unable to contain herself any longer burst
into the conversation.

“I 'spect Missey will come down with newralagy
'fore the night comes, Mr. Brande. She has exposed
herself for her fellow creatures; don't you see that,
sar?” It is in my Bible that a human being is a
human being when he suffers, as well as a pagan
heathen.”

Mr. Brande smiled benevolently on the ignorant
Chloe, and asked her why she was not as quick in
clearing the breakfast things away as she was with

her tongue? He hoped no unusual feeling hindered
her in the performance of her duties. Mrs. Brande
transferred her indignation from Virginia to Chloe,
and ordered her in a cross tone to shake the sofa
pillow up, and arrange her footstool, as she had had
quite confusion enough at breakfast, and would be
glad of a little rest. But it was Virginia who complied
with her demands, assisted her to the sofa, adjusted
her cap, and placed a handkerchief in the
inert, useless hands. Mr. Brande sat quietly before the
table still, chewing a stick, and, forgetting all that he
had said, was speculating on the appearance and
condition of his wife. The day before he had received
advice from England respecting some railroad
iron, and it occurred to him then that an opportunity
was offered him for escape from the thraldom of
home; he could profitably go to England on business.
Being absent—what then! A hundred dreams
swarmed in his mind, like stinging bees, laden with
honey. The doubts of a coward, however, stole in
with them; away from the restraints of family, society,
and the church—something in himself would
hold him back from the indulgence, the desire for
which gnawed into his life like a worm! Virginia
mistook his silence for a meditation upon the subject
of Temple House.

“Do you wish me to discontinue my visits to the
Gates family?” she asked. “My friendship never
can be broken.”

“Indeed! I have known Gates for years. At
one time he promised to be a man of energy. His

brother George was a rascal, but he seemed to enjoy
life; he spent Argus's money—I believe Argus is
pennyless almost. Perhaps the example of cheerfulness
may be an advantage. I don't know that it
is needful to be cheerful always, though. No; do
not end your acquaintance there; as for friendship—
pshaw, Virginia!”

“Poverty is beautiful!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, to only daughters, whose fathers are rich
enough to allow them to contemplate it at a distance
as far as Temple House, say. Absurd thing, it is, to
stick a title on a poor man's house! Chloe, I'll
thank you for my hat. I must, by the way, inquire
about the man picked up last night; possibly he
needs help. Good morning.”

“Aint he the most sensible man ever made?”
asked Chloe. “He does know what to do,—fact,—
when other people are all up side down, as it were.”

“What am I to do under my correct guardianship?”
thought Virginia.

“Virginia,” called Mrs. Brande, brightening with
the departure of her husband, “as you were at
Temple House this morning, and I didn't dream you
were going to stay, why didn't you wait for me to
send a carriage for you? I wanted to try Huber's
Balsam to-day. You know well that Chloe cannot
walk so far, and your father is not willing for me to
send one of the men on such errands. Now, tell me
if you can, how I am to get a—Bot-tle of Hu-ber's
Bal-sam? It is very unpleasant, cold, damp and
unhealthy to-day, but I am going for it. Ask Moses

to put one of the horses in the chaise. No, I'll ask
myself.”

Even the daughter of a hundred earls sometimes
finds that grooms, horses, and carriages, are not entirely
at her disposal. It was so with Mrs. Brande
now. Moses declared that the “chay hoss,” must
have a shoe; and there was nary horse in the stable
for her, except Mr. Brande's sulky horse.
Would she try the crittur?

The result was that Virginia walked into town,
and procured a bottle of the desired drug. The
apothecaries of Kent were familiar with Mrs.
Brande's ailments, and the remedies she most preferred;
the knowledge of this was a portion of Virginia's
hateful trouble which had gone on for years.
With the apothecaries, also, Mr. Brande's habitual
self-denial came in play; he would have liked to
forbid their selling to, or trusting, his wife, under the
penalty of the law,—but instead, he paid her long
bills with an excellent grace.

That day Virginia walked six miles. In the evening,
while waiting for her father and mother's return
from a prayer-meeting, which had been appointed
on account of the late dreadful event, in
the hope of averting the further anger of the Almighty
in regard to other shipwrecks in the immediate
neighborhood of Kent, she quilted on the silk
lining of a pair of slippers which Mrs. Brande was
fretting for.