University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

Wide vistas of sunshine opened from the doors
and windows,—spaces left bright and tranquil by
the absence of the Brandes. Neither at door nor
window, nor in any avenue, except that which leads
to the dark gate whose latch clicks in the ears of
mortality but once,—was Rhoda-Cyrus seen again.
The merciless combination, deserved in her case,
which is sometimes unaccountably made against individuals
to punish weakness, error and crime, no
more distinguished than those our experience continually
discovers, crushed her.

Mr. Brande staid away weeks instead of days, as
he had anticipated, and in consequence work was
suspended at the Forge,—to be resumed, he wrote,
upon his return. A loneliness which grew into a
revelation to Virginia prevailed in her domain. She
heard the ripples of Apsley river, as they gently
swept upon the little sand flats left bare by the
summer drouth, and inhaled the odors which silence
expresses in woods and flowery thickets. Her
wretched cares were gone; the influence of that propinquity
which governed and belittled her, shred itself
like a husk from the nature capable of being
great in solitude. Sitting in the doorways as she

loved to do, before the river, or facing the empty
Forge, the tract of seared ground about it, and beyond
the feathery tops of the pine grove, with eyes
watchful of all within and without, she felt that the
atmosphere was imbuing her with a new intelligence,
sad, subtle and sweet, which she might enjoy,
but not define. The halcyon day broods alone
on the placid ocean of time, and this day, covering
many mornings and evenings, ended naturally and
inevitably. Wandering to the grove one day, she
met Tempe, who sat at the foot of a tree, contemplating
a handful of cones.

“Our lady of the manor,” she said snappishly,
without raising her eyes.

Virginia held out her hand, with the feeling that
a forgotten existence was re-beginning, but Tempe
did not take it; she dropped the cones one by one,
speaking: “She loves me a little—not much—none
at all!”

“How long have you been playing in the grove,
Tempe?”

“Not as long as you have been playing solitude
at home. Mother has been looking for you at every
window in the house for a long time. We knew you
were at liberty. You couldn't even send for me;
however, I shall visit you every day from this out.
I am extravagantly fond of exercise. I intend to
ruin my constitution with walking. I will walk.
What are you looking at me for, with cucumber
eyes? I am tired to death with your coolness. Oh,

Virginia, can you help me? You must do something
for me. I feel as if I were about to die.”

“Come home with me, then,” said Virginia impatiently;
“but I will not have you so flighty.
Suppose Roxalana did watch for me,—she knew a
little solitude should be spared me. Well, I have had
it, it is over; I am quite ready to attend to you.”

“Attend! I conclude you are the administrator of
the estate!”

“How is Chloe?”

“She has imported her Brande customs. Mother
allows her to stand behind her chair at the table;
she keeps an Indian silence, though, before uncle
Argus.”

The picture of the past unrolled in Virginia's
mind like a dun cloud, in which the striving forms
of her mother, Chloe, and her father, were gigantically
visible. She looked about her for the spirits
of the air, but nature had withdrawn her new friends.

“Something should be done for me, Tempe.”

“The idea! As if you ever needed being done
for! I hear of your troubles, but can't see them.
You keep healthy, well-dressed, and your glacial
air. What would you have?”

“I would be turned into an old, benevolent,
crooked fairy, for the sake of conferring upon you
the power of dropping pearls and diamonds through
your speech.”

“Much obliged,” Tempe replied, with a blush;
“wouldn't it be more in your line to change rats,
mice, and pumpkins, into horses and coach, with

which I might go in search of the young prince?
In that case I should be happy to offer you a seat in
my carriage. Come, I am ready.”

They started arm in arm, Tempe either pushing
forward, or lagging backwards, and spasmodically
voluble in fault-finding.

“Tell me news,” begged Virginia. “How is
Argus? When does the friend, Mr. Ford, return?”

“Argus sits out of doors now, under the elms.
His chin has got an upward cant from investigating
the air for mysterious tidings of that Sebastian Ford;
but at present uncle Hunks is mild. He says `yea,'
and `nay,' without showing teeth or claws; isn't he a
miser, though? Yesterday Mat Sutcliffe caught
him. `Cuss me to dregs, marm,' he said to mother,
`if Capen Gates isn't in the summer-house trying to
sew a patch on his shoe. But he can't do it; God
has not given his otherwise able constitution the cobbling
gift.'”

“What did Roxalana answer, Tempe?”

“She answered `Sebastian;' and Mat sat down, put
his hat under the chair, and cursed him till mother
ordered him to leave.”

“Is Sebastian coming back?” Virginia asked
drearily.

“Probably.”

“Argus sacrifices himself to that man.”

“Say, rather,” cried Tempe vehemently, “that he
returns thanks, and makes offerings to himself, for
being occupied with an emotion worthy of and in
harmony with, his character. I feel a little strange

upon the strength of this theory; the air is full of
moving black specks.”

Her head dropped heavily on Virginia's shoulder,
and her arms fell limp and helpless.

“Keep up, Tempe, you are faint only. We are
nearly home; I see Moses now,—Moses!”

Moses hurried out of the yard at her call, and together
they carried Tempe into the house.

“Of course,” said Martha, the cook, from behind
her, where she was endeavoring to unfasten her dress,
while Virginia was wetting her face with cologne-water,
“you know the circumstances this young
woman is in.”

“I should think so,—a fainting-fit is evident
enough.”

“It won't be long,” continued Martha, in a tone of
contempt, “before this vale of tears will be burdened
with another crying soul in swaddling bands; though
I don't know that it will be allowed the bands, for
Miss Hopkins, the best nurse in Kent, says the faculties
don't approve of 'em.”

Virginia rose up in mute astonishment, and mechanically
applied the cologne-water to her own
forehead.

“'Tisn't so,” gasped Tempe, opening her eyes upon
Martha. “There isn't a word of truth in what you
have said. I'll die first.” And she struggled to her
feet, eyeing Virginia defiantly. “I never was better;
and I have come to take tea with you, Martha.”

Virginia immediately ordered Moses to harness
one of the horses, and be in readiness to drive Mrs.

Drake home; and Tempe, in spite of her protestations
to the contrary, soon found herself there.

“It has turned out,” said Roxalana, after reading
a note which Moses had delivered, “as I expected,—
that you would be sent home suddenly from somewhere;
and now I demand that you remain near
me.”

“Mother Roxalana Gates, you ought to be the
last person to insult me. I say, I shall go out of
doors daily.”

“It is the most absurd thing I ever heard,—going
out at present.”

Tempe stamped her foot violently, and Roxalana,
from a momentary terror, winked her usually impassive
eyelids; then, recovering herself, she lifted
Tempe, and carried her up stairs as if she had been
a feather.

“Cruel old Egyptian woman!” said Tempe, out of
breath. “I am happy to say that I do not love you,
nor any woman. I hated Virginia to-day, and I'll
tell her so to-morrow.”

Roxalana watched her in silence; and at last
Tempe kicked her shoes off, and tugged at the fastenings
of her clothes.

“You've had no supper,” said Roxalana abruptly.

“I'll taste nothing to-night, nor to-morrow, nor
the next day. Should you happen to leave the
room, I might go to sleep, however.”

Roxalana, seeing that she was in earnest, left her
with the excuse of attending to supper, but immediately
sent Chloe after Mary Sutcliffe.

Before morning a son was born to Tempe. At its
first cry on being compelled to breathe the air of an
alien world, Roxalana took it, and said in a voice
which sounded like the ringing bells of an under
world:

“I name this child George Gates.”

Two great tears rolled from her eyes, and baptized
the babe in sorrow, remembrance, and hope. Then
she held the treasure up to Tempe, and Tempe resolutely
shut her eyes against it.

When Mary Sutcliffe emerged from the outside
door at daybreak, Mat, who was lounging on the
steps, caught her and swept her along; then he
brought her to a stand still, stopped, and asked:
“Why the devil can't you tell me the news?”

“Poor thing!” answered Mary, with a groan,
determined to scare and punish him for his foolish
fondness for Tempe.

“Hold your jaw,” he said, planting his feet apart
to keep himself steady, being seized with a giddiness.

“She's all right, I tell you!” screamed Mary,
frightened at the effect of her trick. “Roxalana
named it George.”

Somehow Mat was not able to curse her as she
expected; he was still a moment, and then spoke,
as if to himself:

“Named it George, has she? I shall have to
give in, and own up to women's souls. 'Tis so, or
she'd never hand down that rascal's name. How is
little Tempe?”

“Tempe is a devil-cat,—same as ever. You'd

better go back, and wake up Argus; I don't think
he will be much pleased, either. Somehow or
rather I shall get word to the Drakes to-day.”

“It is old Drake's grandson, that's a fact; I had
forgotten all about that ere family.”

“I am in hopes they'll send something worth
while to it, though the Gates family have behaved
shamefully to the Drake family.”

“How's that, Moll?”

“They've let 'em alone so entirely.”

Mat laughed, and continued good natured all that
day, being secretly happy over the fact of what he
called the Gates Continuation; there was no other
chance for the family survivorship, and, for his part he
wanted to leave a Gates above ground, when he took
his final dip. Mary, also, was secretly proud of the
baby, and took pains, as she had promised, to have the
Drakes informed concerning it. Mrs. Drake hurried
out for appearances' sake, and bought a basket
arranged for the unhappiness of infants,—filled it
with cambric robes, and sent it with her love. Mr.
Drake sent a heavy silver cup, and congratulations.
Tempe measured the depth of the embroidery on the
robes with her languid fingers, and swung the cup
by its handle. When the baby was a week old,
Virginia called upon it with a box of toys, and
looked at the little creature with awe and amazement.

“Did you ever see so fine a child?” asked Roxalana.

“Did you know before,” asked Tempe, “that the

human young was uglier than anything on the
earth?”

“See its perfect hand,” continued Roxalana, “its
soft brown hair. And it knows a great deal already.”

“What does Argus say?” Virginia asked, somewhat
embarrassed at Roxalana's enthusiasm.

“He says that the world is overpeopled,” Tempe
replied.

Roxalana looked up at Virginia, with a sad, dumb
smile.

“He says what he should say,” continued Tempe.
“I had no idea till now, how much Uncle Argus
and myself are alike.”

“Oh, Tempe!” cried Virginia, indignantly, but
was prevented from going on by Roxalana's placing
the baby in a large arm chair, its present cradle, and
motioning her to go out.

“Have you had new dresses lately?” asked
Tempe, as Virginia rose hastily, and adjusted her
mantilla. “I believe you can wear every color.
A corn-colored barege is the last thing I should
have chosen, but it becomes you. Come here, and
let me examine the trimming.”

Virginia approached, and felt a degree of remorse
at the touch of Tempe's hot, fragile hand, as it
passed over the rosettes of her showy dress. “I
might as well,” Tempe continued, “expect to sit
upon a cloud with gauzy angels, as expect a dress so
rich, peculiar, and attractive as this. Do you, can
you, imagine the state I am in—a chronic shuffle
between shabby black and a night-gown? Stop!
Don't dare to offer me a present. I offer you my

thoughts and opinions freely, and do not wish for
the return I can guess you would like to make; but
I won't be shut up. I know you are generous.
There, go, I am tired. Give me the box of toys
first, I want to see what you have brought Old
Bunch.”

“My dear,” said Roxalana, accompanying Virginia
down stairs, “it is certain Tempe's behavior is outrageous.
She is the same under all circumstances.
She resembles Argus in nothing; I should be sorry
to have you influenced a moment by her rash
opinions.”

The expression of sincerity in Roxalana's face,
and the transparency of her diplomacy, were overpowering.
Virginia could only kiss her on each
cheek without uttering a word.

“I don't think it quite safe,” Roxalana went on
“to leave Tempe; I am not sure that in some freak
she will not hide the baby from me. I believe she
is deficient in what is called natural affection; how
can it be helped? To tell the truth, I have little
faith in it; it is a habit, a tradition,—irksome,
terrible, destroying sometimes, as I have seen; so
we will not condemn Tempe.”

Her hard, rude speech smote Virginia like a salt
breeze, wholesome because so utterly sincere; but it
toppled down not only her theory but her practice.

“Yes,” said Roxalana, a dark red rising in her
swarthy face, a steely illumination breaking through
her eyes, “I am convinced by my years that friend,
ship, love, the singular emotion which rises like a

wall of rock, or fire, or ice, and hides, protects, and
separates two souls, man and woman, from all other
men and women, have little to do with our circumstances,
acts, and duties; they come from the nameless
Spirit in our Consciousness, whose face we never
see, and whose will we never understand.”

She paused with her heavy lips apart, as if she
had been obedient merely to the Spirit she had
named, and as if she were ignorant whether its large
utterance would continue. Virginia felt a great
envy before this simple, unselfish woman, so incapable
of being swerved from her narrow bounds;
then she grew proud because she loved her.

“By the way,” said Roxalana, “I am indebted to
you for Chloe. I should hardly know how to manage
without her. I don't think there is much waste
about her. I hope you intend that she shall
remain?”

“Now, Roxalana, will you let me breathe? You
are welcome to her. I am glad I can do that much.
Go back to Tempe; I will see Chloe, and then walk
home by the path. The shrubs, Roxalana, are turning
already before the frost. But what a long year!
It seems ten years since I last picked the umberstreaked
smilax and the yellow sassafras, going home
from my happy visits.”

“Oh, yes, Sebastian has doubled the year! You
will find Chloe in the kitchen. Farewell, Virginia.”

“Farewell, Roxalana.”

“I knowed you were here, Missey,” called Chloe,
from the half-opened kitchen door, before Roxalana

had disappeared from the upper hall. “I'se longing
for the Forge since sunrise. There's no smell of coal
in this God-forsaken house. But I aint plagued
here, by no one. He's out in the garden now,
a-thinking these three hours. What people have to
think of when there is no religion in them, is past
my finding out. Missey, how be you, my dear child?
You have nothing good to say; keep your mouth
shut. My knees know more than my tongue can
speak. Sit down, if you will; do you think it looks
clean? Shu! Mrs. Roxalana's kitchen work pizened
me. She isn't more than half facultied, between
you and me; but the Captain is tidy, and
sharp,—nobody can say more than this in his favor;
'taint to be said. I suppose I was sent to labor in
this field; there is a reason besides why I should
stay. Can you gu ss it?”

“No.”

“They are Indians,—now they be, in spite of
white skins and learning. You needn't look so incalulous!”

“Nonsense,” Virginia answered absently, stepping
to the window and looking down the garden. “I
should like a spring of box, Chloe. How cool and
bright the dark borders look.”

“Help yourself, Missey.”

She had vanished, and was already hovering over
the mounds of antique box,—a fanciful reminder of
those slow-moving, brilliant autumnal butterflies,
whose silent, varying flight suggests that they search
for a mystery which the crooked vales of air, and

the uneven surface of verdure, hides. Her heart
went forward to the summer-house, dictating her
feet to follow. It was the bold, trembling, inspired
moment which occasionally seizes one, and leads on
to a crisis, which becomes astounding, when it
has passed. Argus was seated on a low settee of
boughs and wattles, his arm resting on a little
table of the same material; his hand hung over its
edge. He had given over thinking, to fall into a
quiet slumber which had removed his sarcastic frown,
his contemptuous smile. Pale, yellow bars, and
patches shaped like leaves, played on the wall behind
him, dropped on his grizzled chestnut hair,
across his breast and arms, like impalpable, swift
lizards. Virginia felt rather than saw that his eyes
were closed as she approached and stood before
him. The blood thundered so at her heart that
she must wait for her breath to come and go more
quietly! She watched the light playing over his
cold steadfast face; his bowed head and long drooping
hands, so fixed and motionless in their pale hue,
reminding her of the pictures in illuminated missals.
Stooping towards him, she softly put her
hands in his, and was caught in an iron grasp.
Argus stood up, wide awake, and drew her close
to him; their eyes met, and instantly he disengaged
his hands.

“Why, my girl, Virginia,” he whispered, turning
his face away; but she struck him slightly, and
said:

“Look again, Argus, and read me something.”

He was obliged to meet her eyes again, and as
he did so a faint streak of color passed over his
face. It seemed to him that he was recalling something
that had happened long ago,—events, or incidents,
which perplexed him when passing, although
he did not know it till now. He shook his head
involuntarily. Virginia started backwards as if
frightened, and her hat fell off, dropping between
them. Argus frowned at it, and said,—“Damnation!”
then picked it up. As she took it from his
hand she moved towards the door of the summer-house,
still facing him; she looked so sweet, and
sincere, and so indescribably dignified withal, that
he felt a pang of regret to have her go, and said,
“Damnation!” again.

“Only oaths, Argus?”

Her face looked set now, and there were hurt
smiles in her beautiful eyes. He sprang to her.

“You would have me confess, Virginia, that I
am a man, after all, and that I know I am touched
by the flame burning in you. Does it please you
to hear me? As for oaths,—come here,—put your
head over my heart,—it swears by what it must
reject.”

“It moves, Argus, does it?”

“Yes, physically.”

She shuddered violently.

“Don't take me back,” he cried.

It appeared as if she could not speak. She was
strangely pale, and languidly allowed her head to
rest against the door which she had reached by slow

degrees, retreating from him; but she opened her
hands as if she were shaking something from them.
He laughed slightly, and, as pale as herself, said:

“I wish that one of us could escape.”

“I shall go,” she answered, after a moment's
silence, during which Argus felt that he was about
to pull the summer-house down, and cover a caress
which could have no hereafter.

“But let me say,” she spoke now in a clear
voice, “as I go, how rare this interview seems to
me.”

“Rare!”

“The combination never came to me before,—
when emotion suited the circumstances, and the
time and place fitting, too; I have missed them
hitherto.”

She was gone, and Argus, in spite of an astonished
disappointment at her bearing at departure,
was glad of it; his first wish was to regain composure,
the second to forget that it had been disturbed.
He left the summer-house, whose atmosphere
was stifling, and went to the lawn, where he
staid till he saw the evening star burn in the
radiant twilight, and sink behind the elms into the
crystal sea, and a wan crescent moon appear in the
emerald-tinted sky. Roxalana was waiting at the
tea-table when he went in. Chloe had told her of
his meeting with Virginia, and she discreetly managed
to be alone.

“Take your tea, Argus.”

“Certainly, give me tea. This cup is cracked.”

“They are all cracked; we have nothing whole.”

“The devil! And do you like it so?”

“I am sure it suits us.”

“The whole concern is a ruin!”

“True.”

“How could anybody ever be possessed with an
idea which separates me, as part and parcel, from
this decay.”

“It is remarkably strange, I confess,—such an
idea.”

“Did you, Roxalana, accuse me of being a dolt,
an idiot, in your thoughts, when you knew that
Virginia. Brande was flitting about me this afternoon?”

“Virginia Brande is a saint.”

“That was the news my veins conveyed to me;
but I'll have nothing to do with saints. I do not
love them.”

“Argus, I desire you not to speak so.”

“I never will again. I am sorry, Roxalana, that
this cup is not perfect, because I am going to break
it. Don't go yet.”

She snuffed the candles, took one, and held it up
to his face, surveying him with an impenetrable
stare.

“I think,” she said, putting it down, “that you
are the most detestable man I ever met.”

“Have you forgotten George?”

“He, at least —”

“I am not anxious to hear of the `at least.' I said
I loved neither saints nor women; but I love and

respect life. After having made a pretty job of it
in mending sundry fissures, do you think I am going
to allow anybody to drop the frail article in pieces
before me? Don't you go out of your natural
straightforwardness to think otherwise. Mix me
a glass of brandy and water: keep out those lumps
of sugar; I shall be as drunk without.”

She sat beside him while he sipped from his glass.

“Had I better send for Mat?” she asked.

“Send?”

“Yes, by Chloe.”

“Oh, Chloe is here, is she? Virginia's Chloe! No,
I will not have her disturbed. Go you to bed, and
I'll send the bottle after you. Look you, Roxalana,
this is my last glass; I shall never empty another
bottle. The occasion has come and gone forever,—
as it came and went with Sebastian. The rulers
shall share no cups from the brim of their will with
me. The rack was stupid in comparison with the
fine assults made on a man, which bare his system,
Have you seen a rope-dancer walk from the roof of
a theatre to the footlights, on a single cord, when
the audience had but one breath? Or do I mean
that crowd of shining angels climbing up and down
Jacob's ladder, every round a nerve? Hold on,
Jacob, or wake up.”

“I always felt,” replied Roxalana, perfectly unmoved
by his remarks, “that the time would come
when you would cease to ask me for brandy.”

“Now you may go. I like you, but have seen
enough for the present of the woman for whom—”

he threw the bottle against the door just as she
closed it.

At sunrise the next morning he was under the
elms tranquilly smoking. Its golden light was shut
out of Virginia's chamber. She lay in her bed with
breath rising and falling in the mute, gray air, sleeping
as one sleeps after suffering pain,—in deathly oblivion;
strands of her splendid hair half covered her
face, and a braided mass of it half wrapped her
white throat. Her hands, nervously alive, were
twisted above her head, and the outlines of her tall
figure, from her compressed lips to her crossed feet,
betrayed the anguish which slumber is merciful to.
The sprig of box lay on her Bible near her bed, her
hat was on the floor; but the dress which she had
worn was carefully folded to be put away. No one
ever saw her wear again the becoming dress, with its
velvet rosettes, which Tempe had been so envious of.