University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

The anniversary of Tempe's marriage, with its
vision of a snow-storm and a bridal veil, and that of
her widowhood, passed. The Drakes, conventionally
mindful of both occasions, but disliking Tempe's
immobility, and indifferent towards Argus and Roxalana,
sent black-edged cards to the family, and presents
to Georgey, instead of paying visits. The events
were apparently forgotten by Tempe, who was no
more silent than usual, no paler, and betrayed no
emotion. No rememberance or hope drew her towards
the boy,—sole tie between herself and the
Dead,—to move her to say, “Sweet, my child, I live
for thee.” That enduring, sacred passion, the love
no desire can buy, which a mother alone knows;
that buds, blossoms, and bears at once like an orange
grove; is felt in the kisses which drop like rose
leaves in hands that bend and cling like tendrils;
in imperious feet that choose to trample upon her;
in the sobs like smiles, and laughter full of tears; in
the rapid beating of the child-heart which acknowledges
one necessity—existence with hers; this
Tempe never felt. Happily, perhaps; for would not
the time arrive when the single aim of her son's existence
might be a woman who had not attained the
state of motherhood? When all his episodes connected

with material life might fall as void in his
memory as a morning mist falls void in the rays of
the sun? When the years of maternal sacrifice, the
immolations of all other relations, the decay of all
individuality not bearing on the maternal interest,—
might be remembered as a dream, dead and done
with the actualities of the present?

Without dwelling on the speculations of reason,
or analyzing the instincts, Roxalana celebrated these
anniversaries; unconsciously she blended the wedding
and the funeral, and regarded them as one.
The aspect of the latter day she studied as an outlet
for certain questions which dimly rose in her mind,
and distracted for the moment her attention from
Georgey. Never leaving the house on any pretext,
the relief which one finds in the open air did not occur
to her; a look from the windows, and going
from room to room, were the limits of any unwonted
restlessness. A pale sun glimmered over the lawn
like a hollow shell; black, bitter dust whirled round
the house, and struck the panes; the grey air and
the grey ground held the roar of heavy wheels and
hoofs, the melancholy, reluctant creak of boughs,
and the wail of crowded, wandering winds. The
atmosphere within was dismal and vacant; human
business, and human interest seemed to have gone
forever; the incapable hands and feet of those whose
efforts so long ago consecrated the now unused
apartments, were waiting for the resurrection to make
them plain again. They could not now care for the
trifles which lent inspiration to the beings endowed

with the obligations of being. The events of
thought and feeling occupy little time and space;
they may be so invisible in the ordinary drama of
the day, that the decree which decides the future is
made, and the bystanders only observe that a man is
twisting his moustache, or a woman adjusting her
ribbons. These mental experiences, while happening,
do not appear remarkable till afterwards, when they
take the possessions of facts in the mind, and the
power which belongs to acts is attached to them.
Roxalana's spirit contracted a shadow at that time,
which hid itself till ready to spring out in full and
terrible growth. Wrapped in a dark shawl, moving
through the dismantled rooms, on that side of the house
no one ever had occasion to enter, slowly and heavily,
she looked like one of those quiet, expectant, colossal
statues, whose knees are buried in the drifting sand,
whose faces are forever darkening in the desert air.
When Georgey, a few months afterwards, was carried to
one of these rooms dead,—she remembered herself,—
moving slowly, heavily, and understood her sadness.
Long before sunset, it grew so dark in the green
room and the kitchen, that she thought a gale must
be rising, and climbed to the attic to get a view of
its progress over the bay. At the sight, she recalled
Sebastian, and her heart lifted like a wave at
the thought of his escape from the sea. The shores
bristled with layers of frozen brine, with jagged
edges; dull, soiled sheets of ice gaped over the tide
line. The bay bore no sail; no winter fowl skimmed
its surface; the dark waves rolled and burst without
glassy bubble or white foam; the coldly blue mass
travelled its bounds, within headland, cape, and bar,
and returned upon itself, baffled by the power of
frost. Though she shivered at the dreary prospect,
its wide extent and immensity of motion stirred her
sluggish mind.

“Sebastian should have returned before now,”
she said. “He must not tempt the winter sea a
second time. And yet, I wish he would come.”

“Missis Gates,” called Chloe on the passage,
“I'se looking for you, cause I can't find anything
else.”

“I came up to look at the weather.”

“Marsy on me, Missis, there's plenty weather below.”
And Chloe entered the room. “Is it likely
that I may find a cullender here?”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Chloe?”

“Why, Missis?”

“Those blasts, all over the room, that do not come
from anywhere, appear to me to be the breath of
ghosts.”

“I think they come from holes in the roof. What
may be in this closet?”

“I never noticed there was a closet till now.”

Chloe opened the door and examined the shelves.

“There's something queer,” she said presently.

“Anything useful?” asked Roxalana, the tide of
sombre feelings turning into that of curious ones.

“I wish it was a cullender,—and it ain't,” Chloe
answered, handing the something to Roxalana.

“It is a yak's tail,” said Roxalana. “My father

had one; a friend brought it to him from India. It
is used there to brush flies away. This is set in an
ivory handle; I am glad to have it for Georgey.”

“Who put it there, Missis Gates?”

“The former owners of this house, probably.
What else is there?”

“Only the ghost's breath, that's all.” And Chloe,
shutting the door, advised a retreat from the cold.

“The devil!” said Argus, when he saw the yak's
tail. “Where have you been?—where am I?”

“Have you not been oppressed to-day, Argus?
There seemed to me a storm brewing, and I went up
stairs to look down the bay, and while I was there
Chloe came up and discovered this in the closet.”

“Chloe had better keep out of my closet.”

Chloe, being present, threw up her head contemptuously.

“Light the candles, Chloe,” said Roxalana. “It
is a relief to have the day over. I do not observe
land-marks generally, but I could not help recalling
past circumstances connected with Tempe.”

“Did you recall them? There's no prospect of a
storm. You have felt lazy to-day. Why not hibernate
entirely, since you are squeamish about
weather and it happens to be the storm season? I
should not be surprised if Hell was bad weather
merely. Should you wish to slumber through the
winter, I judge it safe to entrust Chloe with the
lictorship. Get your axe, Chloe.”

Chloe looked offended, and said that she was no
cat; and believed herself as neat as the next person.

“If you still insist on remaining awake, Roxalana,”
he continued, “you will be obliged to endure
the fact that at last the future will be but the past.
The present sifts the future through the mind, grain
by grain, fine as dust; crag and bank, coast and
continent, crumble and slide into a shoal abyss,
which is yet wide enough to dissolve them. Chloe,
when were you at the Forge?”

He was remembering the wedding night, and saw
Virginia beside Roxalana in a cloud of tulle; her
beaming, gracious eyes spanned the distance between
them like a bridge, her brilliant black hair shone so
in the light of his candelabra under which she sat
that his eyes were dazzled. He would have turned
away had he not discovered that he was waiting
Chloe's reply, and cursed himself for asking a question
which did not concern him.

“A few days ago, sir, I was at the Forge. They
are hammering tremenjus now a-days; the fires are
so hot that the snow has melted in a ring round the
buildings, and the ground is as black as your hat.
The house is full of company. Missey is losing herself
like, and growing worldly; Martha says she has
to do up Mr. Brande's white vests oftener than ever.
There's a young man in the house—Martha thinks
he is a fixture. He plays cards, and Missey sits by
glum and attentive. He smokes, and drinks wine
for his dinner; and says she to me,—Sarah, the
girl that waits,—says that Mr. Brande sets down the
light decanter and the dark decanter as easy as if
they were vegetables. Missey, I know, winks hard at

these things. Haven't I seen her shut her eyes
before now?”

“Brande plays a good game. It is the right news
to hear, Roxalana,—that young man is his partner.
It is proper that Virginia should be worldly.”

“It is bad news, Argus.”

“You are as wise as a bell-wether. Does Tempe
mope more than usual? I scarcely see her, and do
not know whether she broods over something gone—
her playthings, or whether she is simply impish
according to her constitution. Little women are
mostly diabolic; I am grateful to you, Roxalana, for
being somewhat overgrown.”

“I am the better for that, so far as the labor
which I perform goes. You owe me nothing.”

“You are mistaken; to your life and character I
owe an ease which mother, sister, wife, could not
give me. How shall I reward you,—by fervently
remembering that you are a respectable granite
boulder?”

“Maintain any doctrine, Argus, you like; I am
entirely accustomed to you. With Tempe you must
exercise patience.”

“I'll continue to exercise indifference; patience implies
the hope, or expectation, of a change of opinion.
I shall have but one opinion. A glittering scale occupies
the place in her breast, where, by the courtesy
your sex demands, we locate the heart. Let the girl
alone; neither to you nor me is she accountable.”

“Mother, he is crying in his bed,” said Tempe,
coming in, and languidly walking to the window.

“He is crying!” echoed Roxalana: “I presume
you have listened to him for some time.”

There was no accent of reproach in her voice.
Tempe shook her head.

“I had rather,” continued Roxalana, with her
hand on the door-latch, “hear the most hateful
sound you can conceive of, than hear the least whimper
from that child. There should be a rigorous
law passed that children should never be suffered to
shed a tear.”

She closed the door, and Tempe looked down the
lawn as silent as before. Argus watched her with a
bitter smile.

“The Drake child is nearly six months old, isn't
he?” he asked presently.

She flashed round upon him, and twisted her
mouth for a reply.

“Hasn't the lawful time arrived for you to slip
out of this black state? Put yourself and the baby
into short clothes, and let us see if you cannot attain
a better air.”

“Give me some money, then.” And she held out
her little hand, with an exquisitely impertinent
expression.

“I haven't a dollar; Sebastian took every cent. I
borrowed some for him, besides; he is spending it
somewhere, I suppose, in a manner refreshing to
himself.”

Her face turned to flame.

“Chameleon,” chuckled Argus, “what's the matter
with you?”

“I think Sebastian is a man,” she cried, “who has
everything; he can beat you to death, at any point.
He has always taken to himself whatever is sweet
and good, I know he has; he is a bad man, and I
would like to see him killed. And if he is a Spaniard,
why hasn't the Inquisition crushed him before now,
the cool, abundant, gorged creature? And I should
think, Uncle Argus, you would hate him, for he is
not like you at all; he just stands alone, and no man
nor woman canpullhim down. He can browse on the
clouds, if he chooses; and be insolent on the top of
the walls of heaven, if it pleases him to walk out on
the ramparts.”

“Had he walked in at my door like an ordinary
comer,” said Argus gravely, “I might feel indifferent
to him; but I saved his life, at some strange cost to
myself. I have been strained ever since, there's no
denying it. Hoh, by God,—I feel cordial towards
him!”

Argus jumped from his chair, and lunged backwards
and forwards, his eyes alight, like coals,
touched by a sudden drought.

“Didn't I say so?” said Tempe; “I call you horrid
to praise him.”

“I don't praise him.”

“I call it praise.”

“Away with you, puss; better not quite forget that
it is possible for you to make life somewhat agreeable
to yourself.”