University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Early one autumn morning, on his forty-first birthday,
Argus Gates walked down the old turfy lawn, and
felt immortal in his human powers. The elms above
him dropped warning leaves, the silver cobwebs in the
grass vanished beneath his tread, and the sere grass
rose not again; but Aurora was in the sky. The
stalwart, willing earth dipped beneath her chariot
wheels, to lave in the rays flooding from those eyes
fixed in

and Argus was one with the earth.

The balm of the fading leaves distilled in the globed
dew, the soft, moveless shadows of every object round
him, the verdure tinged with the hues of autumn,
the red light spreading over him, played upon his
sensibilities, which were those of a fine and well-endowed
animal; but his imagination was not touched,
nor his heart elevated. He was supposed to be devoid
of both. He went down the steps planted in

the front of the bank, and looked over the gate into
the road some feet below. At that moment a man
was passing, who, happening to raise his eyes, met
those of Argus; he halted, and pushing back his
tarpaulin, said, in a cheerful voice,

“Mornin' air agrees with you, Capen.”

Argus made no reply, and continued to swing his
cane over the railing.

“Harbor's smooth as a pike pond, but you don't
venture on't, no right to—shut off from a sight on't,
walled in, and fenced in, and treed in. Did the town
gully down the end of the street to please you? Why
don't it pull down old Freeman's warehouse between
you and the quay, and you pull down that mess of
mortar against it? Your folks might like a sight of the
salt water, and they'd get it by—going up stairs.”

“Keep the salt water for yourself, Mat,” answered
the Captain at last, “and go down the gully as the town
directs, unless you had rather climb King's Hill, and
roll over the plantain beds, to get to your stevedoring.”

“I've got a chance on the Lucindy. What do you
think of that ere craft? Arter she's caulked, I think
I'll retire too.” But Argus had disappeared, and Mat's
eyes could not follow him an inch beyond the gate,
even from the masts of the Lucinda, which lay alongside
the quay, a few rods from the house; the roof
and the tree tops were all he could see.

Argus paused beneath one of the elms, and peered
into its branches; the birds whose departure he was
watching had gone; no twitter escaped from the rough
nests adorned with ribbons of seaweed. Slightly

musing on the probability of the return of the same
family in spring, he slowly mounted the porch steps.
As he went into the house the goddess of the morning
disappeared, amidst the clatter of the small demons
which preside over domestic affairs, and like the
chameleon take the hue of those who compel their
service. Simultaneously with opening the door of
the kitchen,—a barn-like apartment—Roxalana, his
sister-in-law, drawled in a clear, singularly unimpassioned
voice:

“I am about out of the suds, Argus. Your coffee
waits by the fire, clear as crystal, but my Johnny-cake
is burnt. It is impossible for me to say where
Tempe is. She pretended that our clock was wrong,
and said she would find the right time. With this
excuse, she managed to get out by six o'clock. Wash
day has no particular charm for her.”

“Nor for you, I judge,” he replied, seating himself
at a small table between the windows. She swung
round slowly, and lifted her head,—a strange one,
ringed with a mass of dense black hair,—passed her
hands up and down her bare, well shaped arms, shook
the skirt of her ragged gown, and said:

“Naturally, I am lazy; but necessity drives me to
industry.”

Taking the coffee from the fire, she poured a cup
which she handed to Argues, who took it with his left
hand, for he still held his cane with the right.

“Tempe is romping, you remarked, Roxalana.
She is a proper jade. But it is better out of doors,
consequently she is where it is better.”

Roxalana laughed a noiseless laugh, which in no
wise lighted up her heavy face.

“She will have several races before sundown,” she
said, taking a chair at the table; “but her romping
days will soon be over. Do you realize that her
birthdays are counting up as well as ours?”

“Why don't you marry her, and tie her runaway
feet? Matrimony puts an end to the antics of your
sex, and begins ours with us.”

“Hush, Argus, she is on the stairs; keep your doctrines
for me, not for her.”

Tempe fluttered in with the air of a blackbird.
Her hair was black, like her mother's, as ruffled, but
less abundant, and more beautiful; her face was pale,
and delicate; her eyes were large, black, and constantly
darting sharp inquisitive glances.

“What am I now?” she asked; “a child, a jade, a
witch, or a hussy?”

Argus threw his cane at her, which she caught
adroitly, and put in a corner.

“If you have not quite run yourself out of breath,
Tempe,” her mother interposed, “I advise you to take
your breakfast.”

“Yes, mother, give me my coffee; they have better
breakfasts at Mat Sutcliffe's every day than this.
Uncle, is your fare pleasant?”

“Silence!” he answered; “don't call me uncle,”
mimicking her voice, “because I am this woman's
brother-in-law.”

As this was merely his way, the sally passed unnoticed,
and breakfast was dispatched. Argus spent

the forenoon in the house, looking from the windows,
smoking, kicking the wood on the fire, and watching
Roxalana, who finished the week's wash with composure
and ease, regardless of his presence. Tempe
flitted in and out, slammed doors in all parts of the
house, moved a piece of furniture now and then, and
finally settled herself to stringing beads on horse-hair.
At midday a plain dinner was served at the same
table, at which Roxalana presided with parboiled
hands and the dignity of a Zenobia. In the afternoon
Argus went up the street into town, and Tempe
went also. Roxalana rested from her labors. She
sat so motionless in a straight-backed chair that a
mouse stole out and ran across her foot. At dark
she combed her thick hair, and changed her ragged
dress for one of some dark material, made in a fashion
she had worn for years. Lighting a pair of candles,
she carried them across the wide hall into a large
room with four windows, two facing the town, and
two the garden and the warehouse towering beyond
it. The walls were hung with green velvet paper,
somewhat frayed and discolored; heavy, dark sofas
with claws and scrolls stood between the windows;
and a heavy dark mahogany table stood in the centre
of the room. Upon this table Roxalana set the candles.
She then unlocked a glass cabinet in the wall,
took out some fragile china, a spindle-legged silver
tea set, and arranged them carefully for supper. An
array of sweetmeats, sweetcakes, and delicate biscuit
was added, which she viewed with a solemn satisfaction.

When Argus and Tempe came home, she made tea
at the table with a ceremony which contrasted strongly
with the work and behavior of the day. They sat
at the table a long time, and this was an invariable
custom,—the sweetmeats, the sweet cakes, the ceremony
being an absolute law and bond between these
three persons who lived in Temple House.