University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.

Mat Sutcliffe, while busy in the garden, digging
round the old rose-trees, and clearing out the
rubbish in the thicket, saw Argus, with his trousers
in his boots, and wearing the seal-skin cap, advancing
along the path which led to the summer-house;
he carried a cane, and stopped occasionally to turn
up the leafy moss, and tap the tree trunks, as if he
was seeking some hidden thing. Instead of going
into the summer-house, however, he walked several
times round it, and carefully beat off the few shaking
leaves on the grape-vine. Mat, without any
reason for so doing, slipped to the back of the thicket
to conceal himself. When Argus had finished his
exercise with the cane, he threw it into the summer-house,
folded his arms, and, as it appeared to Mat,
earnestly studied the weather-vane, which creaked
slightly. He stood so long there that Mat made up
his mind that he had better attend to his business,
and was about to confront Argus, but did not, for he
suddenly went through the poplars, climbed the wall
behind them, and disappeared. The day was damp
and chilly; a dull wind crept like a serpent over the
ground, as if crowded down by the low, heavy sky;

the grey grass shook under it, and the tall weeds, full
of dry seeds, rasped against the stone walls to a dismal
tune; the water along the shore tumbled and roared
beside it, without breaking into waves or surf. “A
beautiful morning,” Mat thought, “to be caning
about the country.” And he fell to work again, but
overcome by an inclination for reflection, he sat
down on his wheelbarrow and lighted his pipe.

“What can be in the wind with Gates?” he
queried. “He goes from post to pillar, as if he remembered
something he had forgot, and from pillar
to post, as if he couldn't find it. He passes all my
calerlations, the Capen does, now-a-days, blarsted if
he don't. That ere iron constitution of his can't be
breaking up, can it, and he won't own it? You see
in former times his life was different, it raly was;
and 'tis said, but I know it to be a lie,—that murder
will out. It is my opinion that Gates never had anything
he wanted,—nor ever did anything he wanted
to do,—except draw his breath, and keep cool; and
that even in those days he gambled, and drank, and
what not, because he was in Gambleland. I guess
I'll speak to my old woman about this ere matter. I
actilly don't know what to make out. Who's in it?
Not Mr. Ford. Is it Roxalana Gates's dreadful
dumps? Poor, feeble Tempe? 'Taint Miss Virginia
Brande! Damn me if I didn't see that Carfield in
the street yesterday! He has come back.”

He started up with the intention of going home,
but on reaching the alley door changed his mind,
and went back to work.

It was true, as Roxalana had said, that Argus
made no demands; but it was also true that she was
the prop of his obvious life, and that her lethargic,
obdurate grief had destroyed it. The glacier at last
rolls into the valley, and reveals the skeleton it has
held together so many years. This chosen life he
had conducted as intact and unalienable in the atmosphere
of Temple House, it was breaking up and
melting away; the change in Roxalana had revealed
the shifting possibilities of every circumstance about
him. Knowing in his consciousness what would
best suit him, had he a choice in the future—to be
alone in his own domain, and without intimate connection
with any human being—he yet deliberately
set to work upon those problems he had hitherto set
aside, in the faith that they must work out themselves.
He grew harder, colder, quieter during the
process; but men may come and men may go
through the mazes of perplexity a long time, and the
commonplace still flow round them. If Sebastian
perceived any difference in him, he ascribed it to the
general difference which had touched them all. It
was several weeks before the acute Mat decided that
there really was something doubtful about the
Capen.

Argus contemplated Sebastian's friendship, Virginia's
love, Tempe's difficult future, and Roxalana's
sad, dull old age. Should he sell the estate, and with
the money settle Roxalana in a new, and perhaps, so
far as Tempe was concerned, a wise position? Persuade
Sebastian to leave the country, go with him, and

never return? Should he defy Brande and Carfield,
and take Virginia? The former could trouble him
but little; but how about the latter? Her love
would be a glittering net over him, and let him
turn or twist in any direction, he should feel the
meshes. He set aside her beauty, sweetness, power,
and wishes; he set aside, for he was adamant, the
instincts which made him a man; shut his eyes upon
that selfishness which might calculate upon her as
the companion and friend of his lonely age, and pondered
over one characteristic,—that which made him
remarkable—his secretive, impassive individuality,—
whether he had better keep it and live on it, as his
substance? or whether he would share it with Virginia,
to her advantage?

But on the morning when he came under Mat
Sutcliffe's observation, he decided that he would
marry her—and immediately. The next day, while
somewhat possessed with his plans, and smoking on
the lawn, in the warmth and stillness of that beautiful
October afternoon, Roxalana went out to him,
having passed through the valley of the shadow of
death to resume her sway. He was not the man,
however, to change a purpose. That very evening
he looked up Mat Sutcliffe, and asked him to take
a note to the Forge.

“Is anybody sick at your house?” Mat inquired,
jamming down his tarpaulin.

“Yes, I am, deadly sick—love-sick.”

“Oh, indeed, to be sure you are now. What am I
going arter, nails?”

“You are going after my wife.”

“Now don't bust me! Bah, as I think on't, Martha,
the housekeeper, is just about your age.”

“Get out, you dog. I'll be on the path in an
hour for my answer.”

Mat put the note in his pocket, some tobacco in
his mouth, and started, saying that he was mortally
afeard of Brande's bull-dog.

“Kill him,” said Argus, “and any other beast that
interferes with you.”

“Just so, now I know you are in earnest; but
hadn't you better go below, Capen?”

Argus laughed, and bade him go on

The note contained these words:

Argus, your husband.”

Mat was clever enough to insist upon handing the
note himself to Virginia, and stupid enough to follow
Sarah into the parlor with it. It is certain he
blushed, and got very much entangled in his ideas,
when he saw not only Virginia, but her father, and
Mr. Carfield in the parlor. He sat down without
being asked to do so, put his hat under his chair,

and twisted his thumbs desperately, and said nothing.

“Well, Mat,” said Virginia, somewhat disappointed
in his bearing, for he was a favorite with her, “you
have brought me a message?”

“A billet, Miss Brande,” he answered, his coolness,
true Yankee that he was, instantly returning. “I accommodated
a friend by bringing it. An answer is
expected.”

“Is anything amiss your way?” asked Mr. Brande.

“Not that I know of.”

“Temple House not tumbled down yet?” asked
Mr. Carfield, with his eye on Virginia.

“I left the family all right, sir, with their best foot
foremost. That ere house is equal to some of the
palaces I saw up the Thames a number of years ago.
What is the name of that plant that has yaller flowers,
growing out of the cracks in the walls?”

Mr. Carfield did not deign to answer him, but Mat
was quite indifferent about a reply; he meant to distract
attention from Virginia, whose countenance was
changing to extreme paleness.

“Do your beams and timbers get the dry-rot,” he
went on, loudening his voice, “as ours do? I suppose
I could shake out a bushel of powder from the
stanchions in the garret at Temple House,—a bushel
to say the least, a bushel!”

He raised his voice so high with the last word, that
Mr. Brande, who was reading, turned in surprise, and
following the direction of his eyes, saw Virginia's agitation.

“What is the matter, daughter?” he said, rising
and going to her.

“Mat,” said Virginia hastily, “I will not trouble
you to wait, I will send an answer to-morrow.”

Mat remembered that Argus would be waiting for
him, and expecting something more positive. What
could he invent to bring it about? He had not been
in contact with the dog, but he was sure he was in
presence of the beast Argus hinted at.

“She aint expected to live Miss Tempe,” he said,
desperately, “and I am sure that Mrs. Gates won't
like to wait till to-morrow. I'll stay till you've made
up your mind to write.” Mr. Carfield laughed
unpleasantly.

“I saw your friend, Miss Tempe, this morning,”
he said, “and I thought there was quite a bloom on
her cheek.”

The blood rose to the roots of Mat's hair. Where
could that man have seen Tempe? Not many hours
should pass, he vowed, before he would see Roxalana
Gates, and tell her she was a criminal for keeping her
eyes shut to the going on of those in whom she
should have an anxious concern.

“She may be the worse for that,” he answered hotly.

“No, Mat,” said Virginia, “I prefer that you
should not wait. I shall send a note to Temple
House early in the morning.”

“Just as you say, Miss,” he replied, picking up his
hat.

She made a half attempt, in her kindness, to go
towards him, meaning, possibly, to exchange a word

or a significant look with him from behind the bars
of her cage; but she was prevented, for Mr. Carfield
walked across the floor, eyeing the door, and Mat in
a rage went out.

“She is afraid,” he said to himself outside. “I
wouldn't be in that woman's shoes for one hundred
dollars,—no, nor two.”

He met Argus half way up the path.

“You have been gone a devil of a time.”

“I might have staid longer, just as well one way
as another; there's no answer for you this night,
Capen.”

“No? Why not?”

“She has no will of her own. Mr. Brande and
piety was together, and that ere Carfield might be
considered as thrown in.”

“You gave my note to her before those gentlemen,
did you?”

“Exactly so, and put my foot in it handsome.”

“They have both read it before this.”

Argus stopped, and looked back towards the Forge.

“Take the advice of a booby, and keep right along
the path with me; the poor girl was flustered enough
for to-night a-reading your billet; didn't know
you could do such a thing. You'll never get her
away by fair means. Carfield is a trump—for having
his own way—they say this time he will fetch it, and
marry her.”

Argus's step grew irresolute again. “I'll go back
and take her to-night.”

“Come on, Capen, it is darker behind you than it

is before you. Brande is cunning, and the other
chap is bold; you aint a match for them.”

“I only wish to be a match for Miss Brande.”

“Well, now do you want me to tell you how it
can be done?”

“Go on.”

“Run away with her.”

“Pooh!”

“When I say run, I mean ask her to have you
unbeknown.”

Argus was struck with the idea. Much trouble
might be avoided by such a measure, and he meekly
asked how such a thing could be done.

“With ten dollars, and old Squire Perkins.”

“I will think of it,” said Argus, after a long pause.
“Curse me, if I do not already think I am growing
brainless. I begin to be afraid. I dread meeting
with familiar things, and am miserable in looking for
the unknown.”

“Capen, if it could only bring Mis Roxalana
round,—this ere event of yours, it will pay, and she
is fond of Miss Virginia. Go right in, Capen, and
smoke over it. Here's to ye.”

Argus went home without another word, and Mat,
in his excitement, sat up with the big rummer and
his pipe till Mary's snoring assured him he should
keep from telling her, that night, at least.

“What is the matter?” repeated Mr. Brande.
Virginia was at her wits' end for a reply. Would
nothing come to her aid, and save Argus from
shame?

“Have I returned to find more melo-drama?”
said Mr. Carfield harshly.

“Melo-drama in a Christian woman!” said Mr.
Brande. “Give me the note.”

Virginia crushed it in her hand, and retained it.

“I repeat,” he said, shaking his handkerchief as
if it were a net, “give me the note, or answer my
question, daughter.”

She looked at him beseechingly. A shade of
annoyance passed over his shining face; that she
should be embarrassed before Mr. Carfield stung his
pride.

“Girls will be girls,” he said, looking at Mr.
Carfield; “that preposterous Temple Drake has
sent some nonsensical message. The name of Gates
I despise, except, perhaps, in the case of Argus.”

“And why not him?” asked Mr. Carfield. “I
think him an out-of-the-way ass. He intends at last
to marry Virginia. Her face says so.”

“I,—I do not believe you,” she said, turning
paler. “How can my face express what I do not
know?”

“Impossible!” said Mr Brande.

“Before your father, then, once more, Virginia, I
ask you to accept me for a husband,” cried Mr. Carfield.

“Virginia,” said her father gravely, “you are compromised.
You are as well aware of the fact as I am
that all Kent knows that Mr. Carfield has lived in
my house with the intention of marrying you. I
have given our friends reason to believe that he is

agreeable to you. I desire you to accept Mr. Carfield.
The voice of nature demands it of you to do
so;—the ties of property, our business, my welfare.
Don't bring any disgrace on me, daughter.”

She thrust the note inside her bodice, with a
strange look at Mr. Carfield.

“Take it away from there, the cursed thing,” he
said fiercely, “I won't have it so.”

“Give me a little time, father,” she said, putting
her hand against her breast, with a gesture which
made Mr. Carfield bite his lips; “and if you will excuse
me now, I will consider your wishes.”

Mr. Brande waved his consent to her leaving the
room; he was reading his partner like a book, and
thought it time for her to go.

“Now,” he mused, “why am I not like this man?
I envy him, and I believe he is a frank scoundrel.”

He turned very suddenly and quietly, and looked
Mr. Carfield directly in the eyes; and then as
quietly rubbed his smooth jaws, and looked into the
fire.

Mr. Carfield smiled, and thought that he could account
for Virginia's timidity.

“Brande,” he said, “I do want her; but how far
do you think a fellow may descend in such a pursuit?”

“How far have you gone?”

“I am trying to compel her to marry me, when I
feel almost certain that Argus Gates stands in my
way. For more than a year I have been playing
this interesting game, and all I have gained is her

irresolution. Did you ever lose anything you were
terribly in earnest to get, Brande?”

“I think I have generally gained my objects, but
I have never been so very much in earnest. As for
my daughter, I know, of course, her strong attachment
for that Gates family; I can only believe that
Argus is but a part of it. I think she is an obedient
girl, and that her nature is a pliable one. I expect
her to marry you; she will be happy in so doing.
What more can she ask for than to continue her
placid, prosperous life?”

“She asks for all that her sensuous beauty demands,
and she should have it; and it is the purpose
of my life to make her own that I can give it to
her.”

“You must be infatuated,” stammered Mr. Brande,
“to speak to me so. I—I should like to reprove
you: it would not become me, perhaps, to do so, but
I think it would be right.”

“What was the price of your daughter? Did I
pay it for the Forge—for my friendship with you?
I bought her. She knows it.”

“She knows that I want her to marry you, and
that is enough. If it pleases your taste to call it a
matter of selfish business, do so, but let the affair be
conducted decently, for heaven's sake, Carfield.
Your youthful rashness is unpardonable.”

“Me a `rash youth,' Brande? I am sure that you
know the Devil must make a horrible grimace when
you are offered him to swallow. Surely, you are
man enough to admit that the Devil may have a

choice among his pious tit-bits, as it was the choice
of Christ to allow the publicans to enter heaven before
the Pharisees.”

“My dear boy, I admit everything; but isn't it
rather late? Recollect, we have to ride thirty miles
to-morrow.”

“True—about those shares; don't sit up then. I
have still a little reading to do. By the way, I'll
overlook your wish—to reprove me, you know.”

Mr. Brande smiled faintly, and said it was difficult
for him to forget his old-fashioned prejudices. But,
on his way to his bedroom, he asked himself how it
was that the circumstances of Virginia's life should
have brought so bold and passionate a man as Carfield
to her feet, while he, in all his years, had never
been tempted with one whose power might have shaken
the resolves which ruled him.

When Virginia sat down before her dressing-table
in her chamber, she read the note Argus had written;
then she was foolish enough to kiss it, and put it under
her pillow. Letting down her hair, she thought
that she would think, while undressing, of the course
best to pursue with Argus, her father, and Mr. Carfield;
but the operation was over and her hair carefully
braided in heavy bands, and she had not
thought of anything,—except the happiness she
should feel if Argus were with her at that moment,
watching her with that gentle coldness, which was a
mystery and fascination to her. She concluded that
her mind would better collect itself in bed and the
dark, for, of course, something must be planned, and

accordingly put out her light, and went to bed. But
the darkness proved oppressive; besides, she wanted
to read the note once more; therefore, she rose, relighted
her lamp, put on a dressing-gown, and sat
down in a severe manner to reflect. It was dreary
to begin her theme with duty, and the sacrifice
of inclination, but she did. The night grew
colder, as if divesting itself of the heat and perturbation
of all human error. Its deepening solitude
toned her mind to a lofty key; thought and feeling
hand in hand, like innocent and affectionate spirits
ascended to the throne, where, as she believed, the
Ruler of the Universe was waiting to hear the petitions
of reluctant souls against those inevitable fiats,
which the soul itself issues in favor of the subtle
martyrdoms which decorate life with its crown and
thorns. With the abnegation inherent in her character,
and its narrowness, which prevented her from
looking at final effects, she decided upon giving up
Argus, although she felt acutely that many acts had
laid bare to him her purpose of bringing him to the
point, which, at last, his note declared. To the end
would she live with her father; their house should
not be divided because of her conduct. With a
loud, wild, farewell sigh for Argus, she pulled aside
the curtain to look into the wide air, and feel the
mercy of darkness. A band of stars rode high and
clear above a company of moving clouds, spreading
in the reflection of the moon, thin and white, like
flakes of snow. Earth, a black tranquil monster,
now passive beneath the beautiful illusions of
night, bristled with the life which by day forever
enacted scenes of pain. Yet she must not call it
pain, nor evil—this passing drama, but necessary discipline,
and inscrutable wisdom. The sword that
stabbed was rubbed with healing balm: the disappointment
that seemed to blight contained the germ
of development. Filled with the calm which she
felt was that of another world, she drew the curtain,
and was about to advance into the room, when
a slight sound at the door arrested her; she saw the
handle turning slowly and noiselessly. The door
opened, and Mr. Carfield glided through, shut it,
and locked it.

As he did not expect, he saw the lamp burning,
and Virginia standing before him, rigid, white, silent,
her hair braided like a child's behind her ears, and
enveloped from head to foot in a dressing gown!

“Why are you still up?” he asked mechanically

A revulsion of feeling took place in her at the
sound of his voice, which undid all the process and
result she had just completed; the cause of her father
fell in ruins, so far as the implication of Mr.
Carfield stood. The blood roared in her heart, which
just now beat so evenly with victorious spiritual
peace; he saw it rise to cheek and brow, till her eyes,
the dark, perfect eyes he doted on, were filled with
fiery sparks. She did not speak, but calculated the
distance between herself and the door behind her,
beyond which was Sarah's room, and wondered if
she could fly there before he could intercept; but
her moral cowardice was great; the idea of the servants'
knowing his shameful behavior was one she

could not endure. She was sure that in twenty-four
hours, were they to know it, it would be known in
Kent. Mr. Carfield divined her first thought.

“There can be no communication between you and
Sarah just yet,” he said. “What do you think I am
in your chamber for?”

She shrugged her shoulders with an ineffable
scorn.

“How many times do you suppose I have waited
outside your door, believing that some fate would
send you to open it and find me,—lying across the
threshold?”

Oh, what a life was hers! Better the old days of
dread and watching, than a prison like this!

“Your father must have seen me there.”

“No, no,—you shall not lie.”

He sprang towards her, pinioned her in his arms,
and fell down at her feet in a terrible agitation.

“I have come,” he said, in a broken voice, “to
say that you must no longer resist me; the approach
of that man must be prevented. Have I no power
over you, at this moment, Virginia—this moment?”

She tried in vain to retreat from him, but could
not move, for he was kneeling on the border of her
dress.

“An impulse brings me to you,” he continued,
“which you do not know, yet which you shall understand.
Virginia, I must be yours; give me—”

He raised his face, and she looked down at him.
His mad, beseeching eyes, his open lips and violent
breath, carried to her sad soul the conviction that it

was her destiny to be the witness of, and a party in,
scenes, the knowledge of which must be a condemning
barrier between her and the women who
peopled the world, without beauty, talent, and passion,
and who governed it. She would have escaped
from him upon his entrance into the room, but it
had not occurred to her to be afraid of him; and
now it did not occur to her that at her feet was a
handsome, passionate lover, the man, too, chosen for
her husband by everybody, excepting herself and
Argus. Meeting her eyes, he could not help being
touched by the cold, silent misery in her face; then
he grew exasperated.

“I will injure you beyond all repair,” he said, rising
suddenly

“I am afraid so.”

“Since you spoke to me of Argus Gates, I
believed till now that you felt for him a caprice,
base in its aims; I know better from this. You
are simply like other women. So, you are not afraid
of me?”

“Afraid! No, of what should I be afraid?”

“The newspapers have names for it, invented
mostly by your sex.”

Virginia shuddered, and spoke passionately.

“Even acquaintance with you shall end; my
father must at once decide which of us shall leave
his house. Will you go, or need I tell him this
cruel interview?”

“He will not decide as you wish, even if you tell
him the story of to-night; that is not ended.”

“Are you ever going out of my room? You are
as tiresome as you are brutal. Go out, Mr. Carfield.”

He could have struck her and kissed her till she
bled, so blended were his hate and admiration.
Snatching a knot of ribbon from her, he turned and
left the room.

She felt that she should go mad if she did not
sleep, and threw herself on her bed, where Sarah
found her at breakfast time.

“Miss Virginia,” said Sarah, significantly, “you
look beat out, tired to death.”

“Do I?” she answered, starting up, and looking
at the girl intently.

The secret of last night was not confined to herself
and Mr. Carfield! The battle was opened.
“Oh, for my Chloe!” she thought. The note under
her pillow, which she had forgotten so long, came to
her,—a flash of joy.

“I shall be down presently, Sarah; you need not
wait.”

“The gentlemen rode away two hours ago. They
left their love for you.”

Sarah gone, she looked for the note; that was
gone also.