University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

The natal day was of so little importance to Argus,
that it would have passed unobserved, had not
Roxalana's tenacious memory proclaimed the fact
he was now forty-two. The autumn, as in other
years, bestowed its tranquil, penetrating influence
upon him; its spirit, dwelling in purple and silver
vapor, the golden shafts of sunrise and sunset, the
scented, moderate wind, and the subtle, transforming
leaf, imparted the old sense of material perfection.
But the feathered arrows of change hurtled in his
atmosphere, and the passions which invest life, as
closely as lichen spreads over the incapable rock
and impassive tree trunk, began to assert their existence
in his. Between all the relations which surrounded
him,—from the absent Sebastian to baby
George; Roxalana, whose affections were mastered
by the child, and through whom vivid rays of happiness
passed to her heart; Tempe, whose manifestations
were new; Virginia, banished, and again overwhelmed
by fresh demands at home; and Mat
Sutcliffe, who had retired from the Captain, in his
devotion, apparently, and fallen into a strange
idolatry for “G. Gates,” as he had called the baby
from the beginning;—it was certain that Argus was
for the present left solitary. His dominion was
shaken, and the habits which his inflexible taste had

ordained for the household were breaking under a
facile hand, whose pressure he could not control. If
in these changes different moods possessed his habitual
silence; if, a vague chaos threatening his horizon,
those deep, wingless desires which sometimes
lodge themselves in the depths of one who is deserted
at the flood tide of his abilities, came,—and
and expressed their presence in his face or mien; if
restless, or quiet, if he ate, slept less; whatever he
did, it was unnoticed. Obviously he was the same
man; sensitive to insensible objects; indifferent to
vital ones; cheerful, composed, hard, disdainful, and
regardful as a miser of the outgoing of every cent
from his pocket,—a strange fact, since he never cared
to save, or earn, a dollar. The child he never spoke
of; when Roxalana approached him with it, and
made an attempt to attract his notice, he threatened
to drop cigar ashes on the little hand, or snapped his
fingers at it, with, “Here, you sir, stew boy.” He
made no remark to Mat about it, not even when,
with a clumsy tenderness touching to behold, Mat
was taking his “G. Gates” round the garden, and
allowing him to put out his eyesight, and pull his
whiskers up by the roots. Argus was pleased, however,
to worry Mary, who was jealous of Mat's devotion;
she was warned concerning the birthright of
her own boys, and was so moved thereat, that she tormented
Mat till he flew into a rage, which induced
him to pack his oldest boys off to sea, and apprentice
his oldest girl to a tailor.

“Put that in your pipe and smoke it,” he said to

her; “my next move will be wuss. I'll set you to
picking oakum. Where's your pride, and where's
your memory, and where's your calculation? The
time comes to such folks as the Gates's, when they all
tumble into some gaping hole, and nothing ever
rises up but a little cloud of dust dry as yellow
snuff. Who can take G. Gates by the hand then?
Who will be left to do it, but me? An old, drunken,
ignorant vagabones can do it; and blarst me if ever
he grows up, old, ignorant, and a drunkard.”

“Them Drakes can do it; and it is their right to
do it; and they ought to do it; and you've no business
to poke your nose into what isn't your own
concern; and my gal's pricking her fingers in Philip
Dyer's stinking shop,—all because of your tantrums,
Mat Sutcliffe.”

“The Drakes! Never while Roxalana Gates and
I are above ground will they get that boy. So shut
up, and clear up. Ain't it a dull time of year, I'd
like to know? I have got too much time on my
hands, just as you've got too much tongue.”

“I'll let people know how things stand, see if I
don't,” said Mary finally. But Mat knew she would
venture no further than rating him to the best of her
ability. Meantime the child grew bright and winning.
Mat went to Temple House every day before
he went to his work in the morning, or on returning
from it at night, and sat in conclave with Roxalana,
exchanging notes of admiration, and predictions concerning
him. When the teething period arrived, the
times he was passed from one to the other, and experiments

made upon his gums, could not be
counted.

“Let's see if he'll eat,” was Mat's prevailing request.
And “Do you think he gains in weight?”
was Roxalana's incessant question.

For the most of the time Tempe hovered in their
neighborhood silent, and with haggard looks; her
eyes were larger, and more shining. She was
tame now, but still unloving; if her child cried, she
moved farther from it, if it laughed, she turned her
head away. No one ever saw her kiss it.

“Argus,” said Roxalana, one day, “I believe that
Temple absolutely hates that child.”

“Damnation!—what did you expect of her?—
that she would sit in a blue mantle, like the Virgin
Mary, and smilingly offer it to an adoring world.”

For a moment the obdurate heartlessness of
Tempe, and the heartless coarseness of Argus, gave
her the thought that she was not quite a happy woman;
but it only brought the dark flush to her
cheek, and faded with it. Argus observed it.

“Pooh,—Roxalana, I am too old a fellow to make
a woman blush. Didn't you tell me the other day
that I was forty-two?”

“If you can tell me what age has to do with the
regular beating of the heart, perhaps I can explain
why the blood shows in my face against my will.”

“Against your will! The perpetual faculty of a
flush is given your sex; it is your rose of expectancy.
There is something cunning in you all. Is
your mind ever off the idea of assault, insult, result?

I notice the red flag unfurls at the slightest
contrary breath from a man's mouth.”

Roxalana laughed, and pressed her plump hands
together, as if they were a pin cushion, from which
she was trying to extract concealed pins.

“I am not to be driven away just now, Argus, by
any language; Georgey is asleep, and I am entirely at
leisure. I don't object to being badgered, as you
know.”

“Chloe will answer better for badgering; she
stands it well.”

Roxalana laughed again, and said that she thought
Chloe was invaluable; she blessed the chance which
sent her to them.

“So you do. The madness of Brande's wife, and
the loss of Virginia's nurse from babyhood, were
your gain.”

“Having made up my mind that it is impossible
for me to see God's justice in this world, I have also
made up my mind not to be affected by that which
I have no power over.”

“God's justice,” he repeated reflectively,—“how
could you make up a mind about that? I have the
fancy that you do not believe in a Divine Being.”

“I choose to have no belief. One way or the
other, Belief is a frightful thing; it assassinates
everything except itself. If I know, or feel, I am
content; when these facts become impossible with
me, of what use can Belief be?”

“You are curious—for a woman. What do you

think about Death—that Jack-in-a-box? A grim,
fantastic toy, but we must spring its lid.”

“I abhor Death and the Dead,—cruel, treacherous
falsifiers to all we pretend to be. How dare you
name a subject so terrible? I never dwell upon it.”

“It is a very indifferent subject to me, Roxalana;
when I die, my love for life will be gone, of course.
Underground will suit my six feet prone, as well as
the air suits my upright six feet now. Where is
your snuff box? I think I will adopt your habit.”

Roxalana gravely offered him her tortoise shell
box, remarking as she did so that snuff was her only
vice, and wondering whether all people of a certain
age did not drop into some comfortable weakness.
So the conversation started by her remark concerning
Tempe ended, and was not renewed. The
inspiration of words comes oddly and unexpectedly,
especially with those who do not study their feelings;
it has little to do with chance, and the environment
of circumstance is nothing to it. Words so spoken
may reveal, decide, and make important that which
has hitherto been unknown; sentiment may be
originated, and relations established, by the speakers
who remain ignorant till utterance has passed their
lips. Little George asleep, the accidental appearance
of Roxalana in the spot where Argus happened
to be, the few words that passed between them,
brought about the opinion with Argus that no
temptation should ever separate him from Roxalana,
and fixed one with her, that life without Argus
would be worse to endure than the pangs of hated

death; and that she would rather die first, and be
supported by his strength and courage, which she
knew equal to face all mortal terrors.

These ideas, extending the bond between them to
the confines of existence, had in no wise any outward
effect; they were put away for future use, and
were not even to be mentally referred to, without
occasion. Could Chloe's acuteness have discerned
all this, she might not have felt the necessity of
approaching Argus as a missionary. She perceived
that Roxalana's attention was drawn from him, and
that Mat only had eyes for “G. Gates,” and argued
that though he was no Christian, and would be
eternally damned, he ought to be considered an
authority in his family, because he provided for it,
and because there was something about him that
made the natural supply of well-ironed shirts and
carefully cooked food imperative. Who could do
this but herself? She gradually assumed the power
of ministering to his wants, and they grew accustomed
to each other in a characteristic way that
would have astonished Virginia, but which was
scarcely observed by Roxalana and Tempe. Her
first advance was made and accepted upon the slight
occasion of Mat Sutcliffe's putting his head in one
day at the green room door, while she happened to
be there putting some dishes away in the glass cabinet
beside the chimney. Argus was there, also,
drumming on the table she had cleared a slow march
with his fingers. Mat stared round the room without
speaking.

“Taint here,” she said sharply; “its a-waiting up
stairs with its grandma, to be cuddled and palavered
with. I hope you don't smell of tar more than
usual,—it lasts so long arter you are gone! 'Tis
most as good as having your company the whole
time. I'm feared if folks come in, they'll spect the
whole family have got the itch.”

Mat withdrew his head, and slammed the door
so hard that Argus stopped drumming, and said:

“What are you so savage with Mat for, you
chussey? Don't he like your color?”

“As the times is as they is, and I conclude they
be, I don't expect to insist your treating me in a
sarseful manner, sir. Any time that suits you, will
suit me, I think I can stand it. A man who dangles
his legs easy over the steep where the swine
rushed can be no trouble to me, as long as I do my
duty, and keep him clean and comfortable. I wash
my hands of everything else. Can't say, though, but
that I like being here; can't help myself, it's the
Indian in me that loves the God-forsaken independence
in this house.”

“If you do wash your hands, I submit to having
your fingers in my pie, though they do resemble
adders. How is it that Brande's wife never felt
your fangs? You are a fine woman, Chloe, and
belong to a past generation of females possessing
hips. How is your ankle? I don't know that I
object to the turning of the world which brings me
Africa, and the lost tribes.”

“Sarse,” said Chloe, triumphantly.

“You must have been the salt, up there at the
Forge. How did you lose your flavor?”

“Missey had to part with me, she sent me,—no,
he sent me from one fool to—Mrs. Gates.”

“I was sorry.” And then Argus appeared to
forget Chloe's presence; he turned his hand over
and over, scanning it as if it were an object foreign
to himself. She watched him, and wondered if ever
so impudent, self-contained a man ever lost his
balance.

“Yon are fond of ashes, are you?” she asked
sharply. “You are always on the hearth, either
here, or in the kitchen; or do you think you will
scare me from burning out the wood? I thought
every gentleman in Kent owned woodland, and that
they never begrudged waste. What may be the
worth of a few sticks of oak, hickory, or yellow
pine?”

“That was an excellent dish you served us with
at dinner,” he said, rising, looking into the cabinet,
and changing the position of the china she had
placed there; “it reminded me of one I tasted years
ago,—flavored with the Barbadoes cherry. It was
before she was born.”

“Mrs. Brande is about your age, Captain Gates.”

“Confound you, what are you talking about? I
own nothing. What is the ownership of a shell,—
named when men and women built it together, and
made themselves its kernel—Temple House? The
ties of property,—mutual interests,—those relations
which slip into each other like the scales in a coat

of mail, and which compose the armor worn to keep
us erect before God, and crooked with the Devil,—
are not for me.”

Chloe began to twirl her thumbs, and look vacant,
as she did at conference meeting when the speaker
was dull, though she was mindful that his language
was at variance with his quiet utterance.

“Mind you, though,” he continued, “every stick
you burn, every loaf you bake for me, I can be as
cold and as hungry as any of my neighbor-atoms,
and I love food and warmth, as well as the rapt
disciples did.”

“It was no new dish I made,” she answered. “I
never did see such folks in all my days; don't know
what's what. Miss Tempe shook her head at it, and
said she hated hash; and why did I put myself out
to make our poverty unendurable, says she?”

Argus made a motion to her, to attend to the business
she was engaged in, and not to disturb him.
She obeyed, quite contented with the feeling she
had that number two was gained over, and that she
could devote herself to Argus as she had devoted
herself to Virginia, without the hope of any reward,
and, in his case, without the hope of appreciation.