Temple House a novel |
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| 29. | CHAPTER XXIX. |
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 | CHAPTER XXIX. Temple House |  |
29. CHAPTER XXIX.
Virginia decided upon going into town immediately,
and conferring with Mat Sutcliffe about
meeting Argus privately, but was prevented from
doing so by the arrival of Temple Drake, who said
that the imperative wish of her Uncle Argus had
sent her; but that having reached the house she
should probably never be able to leave it. Producing
a second note, she asked Virginia if she would
not have it framed, as it must be the first he had
ever written to a lady. Virginia blushed, and
looked so conscious when she took it, that Tempe
exclaimed:
“You don't mean to say that Uncle Socrates is in
the habit of inditing notes to you?”
“I mean to say nothing about it,” answered
Virginia, with vexation, and reading with an
assumption of carelessness the note. “I only wait
to know,” wrote Argus, “your wishes; but, if I were
you, I should send by Tempe the following message,
`Everything shall be according to your wishes.”
This was all. She said at once to Tempe: “You
may tell Captain Gates, Tempe, that everything
shall be as he wishes.”
“That will be nothing new for him; but as I
told you, I am going to spend the day here. I feel
stronger for coming. Virginia, I am really glad to
see you.”
“Are you, my dear? Do stay then. How is Roxalana?”
“She is like her old self; this morning she spoke
to us all; but I am not like my old self.”
“You are prettier,” said Virginia, smiling.
“And I am more gentle.”
“I hope so.”
“Don't dream, Virginia; talk to me.”
“Yes—what did you say?”
“Why, here's Sarah with another note; it looks
bed-ridden, though.”
“I found this, Miss Virginia,” said Sarah, “on
the floor, at the head of your bed.”
“Thank you,” said Virginia, with another conscious
look at Tempe. “I am glad we shall be
alone to day, Tempe,” she exclaimed, when Sarah
was gone. “Father and Mr. Carfield are away on
business.”
“Do you know that I have not been to the Forge
since you wrote me about your mother's death?”
“I know it, Tempe.”
“What made you shut yourself up for so many
weeks? And why didn't you put on mourning?
Chloe said no one out of the house saw you for the
whole summer, and that she heard at meeting that it
was Mr. Brande's wish, having made it a matter of
prayer, that you should not wear black. Is this
I should not venture to speak so plainly.”
“It is all true, Tempe. Many months flew away
in sad nothingness with me. I cannot account for
the time now. I am sure I shall never have such
days again; they began, do you remember, from the
very night I took tea at your house, when Mr. Carfield
came for me. he went away immediately
afterwards; now that I think of it, his coming and
going were the dates of that period, especially with
father; and so we glided along.”
“His coming and going—Mr. Carfield, I mean—
delayed your marriage, I suppose.”
“I—I don't know,” said Virginia, taken by surprise,
“I shall not marry him.”
“Not when he has lived here nearly two years,
and travelled about everywhere with the behavior
of an engaged man? I am afraid you are a
coquette, or that you don't know your own mind.
Perhaps it will suffice, though, if he knows his
mind.”
“Oh, Tempe, don't be bitter with me.”
“Me! There is not bitterness enough in me to
make a quinine pill. But you have a right to coquette,
and to dally. You are rich, and your own
mistress.”
“Stupid, blind friend, I am neither.”
“Don't cry, Virginia, I am growing bright every
day. You mustn't be surprised at bursts of knowledge
in me at any time; I feel them coming, I do, I
assure you. I am being taught at last what life is,—
tell me what this torrent of tears means. I never
saw you cry; have you so much soul then?—placid,
fair, beautiful Virginia, need I no longer envy you?”
“Bad girl, I have the influenza, you may depend;
let us look in `Watson's Practice' for a remedy.”
“Bosh; but if you do not wish to talk with me,
don't drown me. Do you think it will be too cold for
us to walk down to the pines this afternoon?”
“On your way home?”
“But I like to come back. Can you not send me
home by Moses and a vehicle? If Mr. Carfield were
only here to drive me home with that remarkable
steed.”
“Would you go with him? It might flatter him
deeply.”
“Do you think so?” Tempe flushed at the question.
“Would I not like to move so handsome a
man, and so indifferent, too? He looks to me as if
made of porphyry, with a crystal here and there.”
“It is a pleasant idea,—our going to the woods,—
the air is dry and clear,—just the day, one of the last
of the season, probably. Are you strong enough to
ramble, Tempe?”
“What did I tell you? I got well at three
o'clock in the afternoon of a Thursday, ten days ago.
Can you and I dine early? By the way, how do
you like Sarah in Chloe's place?”
“Not as well. Will you give me back Chloe again?”
“When you are married.”
Virginia looked conscious again, but Tempe did
not seem to notice it.
Dinner over, at which they got good humored and
commonplace, and at which Sarah, with considerable
toss in her manners, waited, they were ready for the
pines. Sarah asked Virginia's permission to go into
town to do some shopping, which was granted, and
she left the house with them.
Virginia began:
No school of long experience, that the world
Is full of grief and misery, and hast seen
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes and cares,
To tire thee of it, enter this wild-wood—”
“Yes,” replied Tempe, her eyes intently fixed upon
the shafts of a deep, straight vista of trees:
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men,
And made thee loathe thy life—”
“I see Sebastian, Virginia.
“Oh, Mr. Ford, what shall we do now?”
“Sit down within this little circle of stumps, or
upon the moss; he sees nothing. Let him come, and
stumble over us; he will not recognize us as differing
from the stumps or moss.”
He was coming directly towards them, and he
pulled off his hat, making bows, till he reached the
spot where they were.
“How is it that you are here, Tempe?” he said,
“I am beating up the country for you, alarmed.”
“I walked here.”
“But what sent you? tell me your caprice.”
“I wished to be with a friend.”
“Well, you have two beside you.”
“More than I need, then.”
He looked at Virginia and smiled, and then threw
himself down beside Tempe.
“Curious old ballad in these trees! Miss Brande,
lend me your handkerchief, the moss scratches my
face. Hark, now, to that enchanting cadence, rising
from,—heaven knows where, to die an airy death
against our faces.”
Virginia was about passing her handkerchief, when
Tempe caught it, and said an affair of lace would
not serve, and that moss was a suitable cushion,
especially the red-eyed moss, such as Sebastian was
crushing with his elbows. Catholics, she believed,
ought to be fond of discomforts.
“What if I should grow to be fond of one of the
discomforts of my daily life?” he answered.
“And that would be?” Virginia asked.
“This little girl.”
“Sebastian has caught the trick of sarcasm from
Uncle Argus,” said Tempe, “but he is not so clever
at it.”
“No,” he answered; “my everlasting melancholy
steps in, and softens the blows; Argus, being pitiless,
cuts and comes again.”
“Is it not strange that he should not be infected
with the gaiety at our house?” asked Tempe,—“that
palace of mirth, wit, and pleasure. You know something
about it, Virginia.”
“I have had happy moments there, at all events.”
“I, too,” said Sebastian, “free, blessed moments;
they are gone. But, Tempe, you did not tell me the
reason you left home so early this morning.”
“I left on a subject connected, possibly, with the happy
moments Virginia speaks of. Did you miss me?”
“I lost you,” he said vehemently, “and then I
discovered that I was capable of being alarmed about
you. Neither Roxalana nor Chloe knew where you
were, and Argus is in town. Strange, that I should
feel some weight clinging to me, dragging me on
again! What dream is it? Will my powers be
given away once more?”
Virginia thought him an enigma. Tempe scarcely
heard his last words. An indescribable expression
of pleased pride changed her pale, listless face; she
pushed her hair from it, as if she felt the change, and
bent towards him.
“Little one,” he said, rising quickly, “your errand
done, will you come home with me?”
“On the contrary, Mr. Ford,” interposed Virginia,
“go with us; for Tempe has declared an intention of
finishing the day with me.”
“I will visit you here, Miss Brande, if you will
permit. Do you not like to receive in these beautiful,
still woods?”
“I shall not go back with you, Sebastian, “said
Tempe, “unless you choose to accept Virginia's invitation.”
“Let us walk towards the river,” he said, “and
then I will take my leave of you.”
“I am too tired to move about,” said Tempe, provoked
at his refusal to go back with them; but, curious
to get an opinion of him from Virginia, she
urged them to walk on, while she gathered cones
from the trees around her. A moment, and they were
out of sight; which vexed her so much that she bit a
cone to pieces, and decided that they should not find
her when they returned to the spot. Accordingly
she went back to the house, and met Mr. Carfield,
who had just arrived from his journey, he said, and
left Mr. Brande at the Forge.
For a time Sebastian and Virginia were silent.
The paths through which they wound were narrow
and dusky; no sound followed their steps in the
soft, deep bed of needles, shed by the trees whose
green tops kept the secret from the air, which now
hung over them like a silvery web. The strange
occasion brought the impulse which seized her to
confide her fears and hopes to the one beside her.
“I should like to speak to you,” she exclaimed.
“Should you, to me, as an individual? Recollect
that you never have so spoken.”
“Have I not?” she answered, surprised at his
accent.
“But—I am all attention; please go on.”
Feeling somewhat confused, and not quite so ready
as she supposed with her subject, she said; “Do you
not find Tempe changed? Is she not interesting?”
“I do find her changed, and interesting; is it of
her you would speak?”
“No, no, of myself; perhaps I shall bore you,
though, Mr. Ford.”
“Once more, I am listening.”
“We must soon go back to Tempe, I suppose; another
time may answer.”
He took his watch from his pocket and showed it
to her.
“Whenever you say so, of course we will return.”
She stopped, glowing, trembling with excitement.
A tree jutted into the path behind Sebastian; he
stopped also, resting his shoulders against it; the
grey and green shade over and around them brought
out their faces in exquisite relief. For all her preoccupation,
she was struck by the strange, winning
beauty of the eyes fastened upon her,—the sensibility
and power of the lips which seemed shut with the
seal of an inpenetrable sadness. He felt her breath
coming and going, she stood so near him; that
everlasting melody, wilder and sweeter than the cadence
in the pines, rising, falling, dying in their evergreen
tops at the will of the embracing wind, swept
over him. So near Virginia, in this ancient, sombre
solitude, apart in its character from any association,
or touch of human will and interest, he was divided
from his experiences and knowledge, and penetrated
with a new truth. In her existed what he had found
in no woman before. She ended the tumults, speculations,
and vague beliefs, which had sent him hither
and thither.
For an instant his powers of endurance were tested.
He would have taken her in his arms, to mingle the
all would be understood, and this interview be but
the beginning of a fair life, promising happiness from
the text of youth, beauty, and equal powers.
He assumed, however, a still more careless attitude,
looked into the sky and said: “Time shall not
pass till you have chosen to honor me with what
you intended to say.”
His black eyelashes fell together, and his face expressed
a concentrated repose. “Heaven!” he muttered,
“the puppet system seems still to be neatly
carried on. Tricked by an opportunity again! I
mean, Miss Brande, that a man appears like driftweed
merely. And here I am standing meekly
against a tree, waiting for your confidence.”
“I heard you say puppets; if I could settle my
affairs puppet-wise, as so many men do, fearing
neither God nor man, I should have no confidences
to tax you with.”
“Let us walk on,” he said abruptly. “Do not reproach
me with idle phrases.”
They came in sight presently of a bend in the
river, and passed an opening through which they
caught a glimpse of Mr. Brande's house. At that
moment, as they slowly disappeared in the depths of
the woods again, Mr. Carfield, sitting beside Tempe
in the gay, comfortable parlor, was in the act of raising
her little hand to his lips, and exchanging a
glance whose rays darted from that extensive dominion
the devil always shines upon. Virginia's agitation
rose again, and she began to speak of Mr. Carfield,
Sebastian's nostrils dilated occasionally, otherwise he
made no demonstration, but he observed that she
passed over the affair which Argus had spoken of,
concerning Mr. Carfield. Whether she intended to
tell Sebastian of the last night's scene, she hardly
knew, but his silence and impassiveness led her on.
She omitted no particular of it.
When she said, “He fell at my feet,” Sebastian
caught her by the arm and pushed her backwards,
clicked his fingers, and cried,—“Christ, where is my
pistol?”
“Your eyes are too terrible; I am sorry I have
told you, but I want your advice,” she said.
“Is there any more?”
“And then this morning,” she continued, “when I
could not find the note, I felt assailed by some unknown
misfortune.”
“What note?”
She paused, turned red, and pale again.
“The one from Argus. Do you know nothing of
it? Why Tempe, to whom he intrusts nothing,
brought me a second to-day.”
“And of the second one I know as little.”
“Tell me, Mr. Ford, how I can compel Mr. Carfield
to forego the insane pursuit of myself?”
He saw that she had not approached the matter
she most wished to speak of.
“Ask Argus, Miss Brande.”
“Don't you think it is quite late?”
“Nearly sunset.”
“Shall you always live in Kent?”
“It is my wish.”
“Have you no mother, or sister, or, or—love?”
“I have no family, but I do love a very beautiful
sincere woman. I shall never marry her, though,
and we may consider that subject disposed of.”
“Sebastian, if you mean to live at Temple House,
be my brother. And now may I own that I love a
beautiful and sincere man.”
“Argus?”
“Yes.”
“I will be no woman's brother, not even Roxalana's.
Shall I promise that, and live with you, Virginia?
Do you know that I am that man, who, if you
were the wife of Argus, and I eating his bread,
under his roof, also,—the terrible moment, and the
terrible need, might come to both of us—to love.”
“Then,” said Virginia sadly, “I must be the
means of Argus losing his dear friend.”
“Does Argus love you?” he asked sharply. How
could she answer the question, when she dared not
ask herself?
“I do not know—yes. Should he not?” she replied.
“You contemplate marriage with Argus. I believe
you will find a pure and tranquil happiness
with him.”
“If he loves me. Does he love me?”
“Take him at his word, I entreat you. Now I am
sure that you have come to the point. I am entirely
at your service—with one warning. If you ask me
to leave Temple House, I will not promise to.”
“Mr. Ford, will you return home with me.”
“If you insist.”
“Tempe will remain all night, possibly, I cannot
count on her taking a message to Argus. How shall
I arrange to meet him? How shall I keep him and
Mr. Carfield apart? How shall I escape my father's
will? I am afraid, terribly afraid. Who is that in
the Forge path?”
“The figure of a woman, hurrying on.”
“It is not Tempe?”
“No.”
They hastened across the path, into the wood is on
the other side, and finding no Tempe, returned in time
to overtake Sarah, the one they saw in the path.
She was belated, she said, in her shopping, but tea
should be ready, as usual.
“So you changed your mind, Sebastian,” said
Tempe, as Virginia entered the parlorwith him. “Or
were you afraid of the woods, Virginia? What possessed
you to keep out so late?”
“It is too late, I acknowledge,” Sebastian answered,
“but we yielded to an influence, which you resisted
it seems. Why did you not wait?”
“I got tired of the crickets, and having uprooted a
whole tribe of toadstools, I thought I had better
come back. I found Mr. Carfield.”
“Where is he?” asked Virginia.
“Gone to the office.”
Sebastian looked at Tempe sternly; it displeased
him to hear her speak so familiarly of the man he
had reason to detest.
“Come,” he said, “let me take you home at once.”
“You are absurd. I feel merry here. We shall
have a banquet presently from dishes that are not
cracked, and on a table-cloth that is not darned.
Can't you endure a momentary pang of luxury, Sebastian?
I am another being outside the walls of
our common jail. Can you not indulge me a little,
and graciously smile at the change? You think me
morbid, irritable, feeble, beside our stately mothe
and friend, Roxalana. Notice me, I say, here.”
“Poor wretch! what would you have?'
“Everything that you have had,—the first and
final pleasure and pain of every awakened feeling. I
woud even like to be drowned, Sebastian.”
His olive-tinted face burned with an angry flush.
“You are mischeivous out of your cage, Tempe
it is not safe to let you escape for a moment.”
Without heeding him, she went on:
“To begin with, I must have one, two, three worshippers.”
“Fire-worshippers don't come into this part of the
world; nor incense-burners. I shall take care of the
one, two, three worshippers you may select. Tempe,
I had better marry you, and keep you in charge. I
shall do so.”
She sprang up as if struck a violent blow.
“Not unless I love you,—unless you love me,” she
cried.
“It should happen—our marriage, without love on
either side; I have loved, and you are incapable of
loving,—see, what a match it will be! How interesting
idea. Do you?”
He took her hands and made her stand up, close to
him.
“Do you?” he repeated.
“If we can go in the traces—tandem, sir. I
would as lief marry you and break your heart, as not.
But how much heart did you bring to Kent?”
“Enough, my child, to match yours. Am I accepted,
Tempe?”
“Hush, you strange man,” said Virginia, “they
are coming. And at this moment, Mr. Brande and
Mr. Carfield entered.
“Ah, Mrs. Drake,” said Mr. Brande, advancing
with outstretched hands, “how long it is since you
have been seen in my poor house.”
Sebastian stared at Tempe, he had never heard her
called by her married name before. Virginia hastened
to introduce him to her father.
“I am happy to welcome you here, sir,” he said.
“If I am correct, sir, I believe few people in Kent
are honored with your visits, I understand that you
are a recluse, sir.”
“I indulge myself with much out-of-doors life,
and I enter no hours,” Sebastian replied, in so strong
a foreign, accent that both Tempe and Virginia looked
at him in surprise. Mr. Carfield having make him a
slight bow, which was returned by one quite as
foreign as the accent, remarked that it had taken
quite a quantity of out-of-doors life that afternoon to
enable him to reach the house at all.”
“I take great pleasure in the fine environs of this
spot, Mr. Carfield. I have penetrated their concealed
depths this day,” he replied. “Do you find no attraction
outside, or do you depend upon life within
walls, for your pleasure? I know little of the do
mestic drama; but I conclude that the most isolated
equable, and lust-demeaned in-door-life contains
much worth one's study—at all hours.”
In spite of his self-control, there was a menace in
his eyes which Mr. Carfield saw, and set down to the
influence of Argus; for it could never come into his
thoughts that Virginia would betray him. She felt
uncomfortable at Sebastian's behavior—perplexed and
haunted by a new fear.
“Why this delay, daughter,” asked Mr. Brande,
“about tea?”
“Sarah has been in town all the afternoon,”
answered Virginia.
“Gadding and gossiping.”
“I dare say,” she answered, rising to leave the
room.
“Let me go with you, Virginia,” begged Tempe
“I would like to look into the closets with you.”
“Come, then.”
As soon as they were in the dining room, Tempe
seized hold of Virginia.
“Did you ever meet so strange a creature as Sebastian
Ford. He so coolly thinks he can drive
Providence.”
“I like him very much.”
“I hate him; I wish to torment his life out.”
“If you try, I shall have no doubt of your success.
Now please be quiet; I am both busy and
weary. I never knew Sarah so behind time.”
“One minute more, Virginia,” begged Tempe,
hugging her tightly. “You never had the least faith
in me, but have been patient, and I love you. I do,
dear, I am sorry I haven't been a better friend, but I
will be better—with you, though I cannot be good,
goodness isn't agreeable to me. Kiss me, and look
straight into my face.”
Virginia laughed and struggled; Tempe's gaze
was direct, hard and questioning.
“There is something senseless about you, Tempe,
but I have always taken it for granted that we were
to keep together through life. Let me go.”
“Do—you—want—Sebastian to love you?”
“No.”
“Are—you—going—to marry Mr. Carfield, or be
compelled to marry him?”
“Never.”
“Then attend to your supper. I have looked into
the closet!”
As supper was announced, Mr. Brande, in a slight
fit of absent-mindedness, was observing to Mr. Carfield
that he perceived a great change in that young
woman, the niece of Gates; she had grown five years
older since he had last seen her. Mr. Carfield said
she was doosed handsome, though rather slight in
build, and rather skittish in manners. It was a relief
to Sebastian to be called out. How was it possible
for Virginia to exist in the atmosphere of her father's
drawn to Temple House, and on to loving Argus
did not seem so strange to him now. He could not
resist the double dream of to-day, while quietly
courteous to Mr. Brande. The melody begun among
the trees floated through his thoughts. Had there
been no Argus, to-day would not have lost him Virginia,
and gained him Tempe. Then an unwonted
picture rose before him;—a different air, the mass
and blaze of tropical foliage spreading along alluvial
shores, filling deep, sinuous valleys, creeping up volcanic
slopes; a basin-like sea; a range of iron-edged
mountains; a dull, dark town, with low towers and
balconies; and everywhere himself, the moving
figure in the landscape—kneeling before a woman,
reclining beside her, holding her in his arms, giving
her flowers and fruits and jewels, and the ardent
heart of a boy.
Mr. Brande, somewhat to his self-concern, continued
to observe Tempe. She attracted him, and why
she did at this moment, and had never before, was
beyond his understanding. His eyes followed her
movements; when Sebastian, hat in hand, declared
that he must go, and again asked her if she were
ready, they went up and down the black and white
stripes of her dress, in and out the deep waves of her
hair, down her ivory cheek, dropped on her little ears,
her pearls of teeth, her slender hands, and it seemed
to him that he was looking upon a kind of creaturs
perfectly new to him.
“You may have me, Sebastian,” she said, as she
Virginia had given her for Argus.
He stood before Virginia, not only to bid her good
night, but to decide if he were able to give an eternal
farewell to the emotions she had created. What
was this idea of the future he had so suddenly and
ingeniously devised? Whatever it might be—his
act should now, for he was capable of it, be—sacrifice!
If Virginia had been gifted with that power of insight
which some women have, she might have been
agitated at the spectacle of a heroic soul in the act
of self-abnegation, and a heart denying it by its passionate
struggle; but she was not gifted with it, and,
felt merely, when she looked into his handsome eyes,
a regret at losing a tie between herself and Argus.
Sebastian bent over her hand, and adroitly pressed
his lips upon it. Virginia never received so much in
a caress, and never would again—unless he should
repeat it.
The evening was wearing away rapidly to Mr.
Brande, but Virginia fell into an impatience she
could hardly control. When and how should she hear
from Argus? She could not live through another
day of suspense; if she did, something might come
and thwart her purpose of leaving her father. She
held some knitting in her hand, as an excuse for
silence and inattention; suddenly, and to her annoyance,
Tempe affirmed that after all she must go home
that evening, and claimed Virginia's promise that
Moses should drive her home.
“Oh, no, not by any means,” said Mr. Brande. “If
you must go—”
“I will drive you down in my light wagon,” interrupted
Mr. Carfield.
Tempe, developed into a coquette by the espionage
of these men, as rapidly as a weed developes in the
sun and showers of April, looked from one tothe other.
“I shall be most happy to accompany you home,”
continued Mr. Brande; “either to walk, or take you
in my chaise.”
Virginia was lost in astonishment at her father's
proffer; but was recalled from it by the low voice of
Mr. Carfield, who had come near her, and taken
away her knitting. He laughed wickedly as he said:
“You see perfectly, Virginia, how potent and all-surprising
is the effect of beauty. Your father is quite
dazed, isn't he? Quite natural, I am sure; he is in
the prime of life, and is violating nature's intention
as he is. Nature will revenge herself, and force at
last the merest worm of a man to assert his rights.
You agree with me?”
“How long, how long, my God,” she whispered,
“is this man to be my humiliation and disgrace?”
“Which shall it be?” he said, turning to Tempe.
“Your humble servant, or our polite host?”
He looked so gay and unconcerned, so handsomely
bold, so different from the sarcastic Argus, the immovable
Sebastian, that Tempe admired him, but
could not feel a shadow of respect for him. Mr.
Brande she was afraid of, and consequently felt gratified
at the attention he paid her.
“Tempe,” Virginia called, “I insist upon your
staying; it is childish to think of returning, when
Mr. Ford has just gone with your message.”
“Daughter, Mrs. Drake must not be urged to stay
against her will; she knows best, certainly.”
“I will stay, Virginia, if you wish it so much,”
Tempe said, after a little reflection. “I am quite
happy here, of course.”
She took a seat on a low stool at Virginia's feet,
and looked affectionately at her. Mr. Brande thought
the picture enticing; his mouth relaxed in contemplating
it. There was something richly soothing in
the idea,—the two handsome girls together; he would
like to keep them so, as his,—one his faithful, sensible,
correct daughter, the other, his playful
piquant, pliant, toy-wife. All the while he looked
at them he wondered at himself; what he had
dreamed of so many years, was after all approaching
him in a legitimate way. But—why should he be
so blest? Providence was playing into his hands
so freely, and unmistakably, that he was almost inclined
to think that a belief in that power was not
so much a moral necessity for the sake of training the
soul for a hereafter life, as it was an agreeable dependence
on its aid to bring things about according to one's
desires in this world. Virginia being neither moralist,
just now, nor heroine, would gladly have shaken Tempe
and reproached her for affectation and silliness. As
she could not do this, she coldly took up her knitting,
and maintained an obstinate silence. Mr. Carfield,
an acute observer, laughed again jovially from the
signifies to the statue, that its pasteboard arm must
descend on the intruder who attempts to pass the
portals, where the true lovers have entered.”
| CHAPTER XXIX. Temple House | |