University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V

Just before Osmond's visit, Jason, at Sarah's request,
drew a plan for the alteration and improvement of the
old house; she approved it, and he made a contract with
John Davis to do the work. But after Osmond's departure
she informed Jason that she had changed her mind,
and thought the house was well enough as it was. He
insisted that the contract must be fulfilled, and for the
first time there was a positive disagreement between
them; but he carried the point, and the workmen commenced
operations.

The old ceilings, the old partitions, and the old windows
were removed, and the foundation raised, in order
to make a terrace in front for shrubs and flowers, and a
flight of granite steps. The house was so changed that
nothing reminded the family of its previous shape, except
the wainscoting in the west parlor, and the broad
brick hearth in the kitchen.

“Thankful to the Lord for these remnants,” Elsa exclaimed,
who partook of Sarah's ill-humor without knowing
why. Jason tried to console her by promising that
the yard below the terrace should not be touched.

“As if any thing could be done there with hammer
and chisel,” she said, scornfully. “I'd like to see John
Parke's row of balsam-firs cut down.”

“Why did he plant one row to the east, and none elsewhere?”

“To make it lonesome, and shut out the houses down
the street, I imagine. I have heard he was half crazy;
but he was the only one of the family who ever planted
trees. When I used to say to the Squire that he'd better
plant some, he'd answer that he should not live to enjoy
their shade, and would not do it.”

While the confusion and disorder of rebuilding lasted
Jason and the children were companions. He resumed
chisel and plane with an avidity which attracted Parke,
and sent him to his mother to ask if his father were a
real carpenter. Philippa learned the fact through John
Davis; she overheard him say that he thought it a pity
so good a workman as Jason should be spoiled, all for
the sake of the very institutions he had once gone
against; he could see, though, that a man in the downs
had better try the ups of life, before he decided that
high and low were only empty names. Philippa silently
wondered at what she had heard, and was so watchful
of Jason at his work, that he could not help, at last,
being watchful of her in return. One day, when Parke,
tired of the shavings, the blocks, and the racket, had
gone to ride with Sarah, Jason broke the silence which
had been maintained between Philippa and himself.
He was planing a long board, and she was walking behind
him, picking up the best curled shavings. He
looked back and said, “You are my ward; if you want
any thing you must ask me for it.”

She dropped her apronful of shavings and answered,
“My father told me that I was your ward; but he said
I was not to ask for any thing till I grew up. Do you
think I am growing?”

He turned entirely round, looked at her, took a

measuring-rule, and kneeling before her, measured her
length.

“Not a mite,” he answered, seriously; “but we will
keep account hereafter of your inches. At present you
are a very small girl indeed.”

“And ugly, too.”

“Who said so?”

“Parke. Can you make him ashamed for saying so?”

The question made him reflect on the influence his
non-interference with Parke might have, and how much
it might affect his guardianship, and he instantly determined
to exercise no authority with her beyond the
management of her money; there should be no difference
shown by him in his treatment of the children.
The price of existence with the Parkes must be an eternal
silence.

He threw down the rule with a slight laugh, took up
his plane, and while feeling its edge said, “Little boys
of nine forget politeness now and then; he won't say it
again.”

“But it was true.”

“Why should he be ashamed of speaking the truth,
then?”

“I thought you might know he said so, and not let
him hurt me.”

“I only know how to drive the plane, the hammer,
and the saw,—my brothers.”

“Then you are not spoiled,” she said, remembering
John Davis's remarks.

“I don't know about that,” he answered, wondering
what she meant, but not choosing to ask, for he thought
he had said enough.

The summer was ended before the house was done.
Jason made over the premises to Sarah, but from some
unaccountable whim she refused to buy any thing new.
The old furniture was put in the new rooms, and the old
aspect was renewed as much as possible. Then she
took Philippa in hand to train: all the indulgences that
she lacked at Philippa's age, Philippa was to lack; she
should be taught to be useful, not to enjoy herself after
any fashion of her own. What had been right for herself,
Sarah said, must be right for Philippa, whether it
suited or not.

“The times,” remonstrated Elsa, with whom she discussed
the subject, “are different from what they were
when you were a child; besides, you must call to mind
that she has got an independent fortune; you hadn't,
you know.”

She was not to be spoiled on that account, Sarah
replied, and money or no money, she must be taught a
sense of duty, and the practice of it. So Philippa went
through a course of dish-towel hemming, patchwork,
fine stitching, knitting, muslin work, counting spoons
and linen, setting the table, and clearing it, keeping
chairs at the right angles, airing rooms, closets, clothes,
and furniture, and taking care of her own room, all of
which was intensely disagreeable to her. She was sent
to school regularly, and made to give Saturday afternoon
entertainments to her schoolmates, and return
their visits, which was never a source of enjoyment. In
short, she was confined to a system as rigid as that of
the penitentiary, with one exception—liberty to associate
with Parke, and share his pleasures as he saw fit.
To give Sarah her due, she was just towards Philippa in

all that pertained to her material welfare; her health
was guarded, she was not subjected to fatigue and exposure—her
associations were limited to the orthodox
standard, and she was as one of the family. But Philippa
never exposed to her the tumults of childhood, its
fears, its doubts, hopes and wishes. Except for a demeanor
which indicated a persistent will, and the display
of a peculiar frankness when pushed too hard, she
appeared to be a docile child; not particularly pleasing
or interesting, but quiet and self-contained. The most
noticeable fact in her biography for several years was a
fever, which attacked her every summer, and left her
gaunt and sallow for months after. And although
Sarah watched and tended her in these illnesses, and
fretted over them, she never remembered being kissed
or smiled upon, or having her hand pressed with an
affectionate grasp. Sarah hated her. Was it because
of her hate that she allowed herself no escape from the
performance of every external duty? Or did she believe
that it was the spirit, not the letter, which killed?
Could she have washed her hands of Philippa's life and
rights, would she have done so? Or would she, from
some strange necessity in her nature, still prefer to keep
her as her familiar demon?

The reflection of Parke's serene, joyous life spread
over Philippa's, and prevented her from being miserable.
At once he had engaged her affection, and her devotion
to him was as unqualified as his mother's. He was beautiful;
his temper was perfect, and his manners were winning.
As he grew older, the mould of his childish character
enlarged, but did not change. His good-humor,
his facility to discover means of enjoyment, his perpetual,

pleasant, gentle activity, were delightful. His atmosphere
kindled all who entered it into brightness, and
created a desire to shine as he would shine. He loved
truth, was devoid of suspicion, and took it for granted
that men and women were what they appeared to
be. Fact held the place in his nature which depth
occupied in Jason's, and a becoming way of self-gratification
contrasted with Sarah's abnegation of pleasure.
He had a cool head, a cooler heart, but a tender disposition,
and with all these traits lay hidden in his
soul the capacity for a terrible abandonment to the
passions.

In the course of time it began to be observed by Jason's
business acquaintances that he entered into no
speculations, and made no contracts. They said among
themselves that he must be intending to retire, and live
upon his income, which was rated as very large. They
could not guess, of course, the truth. He decided that
for himself the little he had made since his marriage was
enough, and that he would not risk again either Parke's
or Philippa's money. He was determined that when
they came of age their incomes should be equal. There
never should be an issue regarding the Squire's property,
as far as he was concerned; if it depreciated naturally,
the heirs must bear the loss equally. Whether he
had a troubled, mist-like vision in his mind respecting
Sarah, if any question of loss should come up between
them; or whether he had as dim a remembrance of his
socialistic principles; whatever the cause, he carried out
his plan with the tenacity of a man who has but one
idea at a time, and so tied up the property beyond his
control, that, morally speaking, he was able to consider

himself as outside of the family. From this time of
mental independence the habits of his life changed. In
order to continue his out-of-door life he took up gunning
and fishing, and spent days in the woods, and days on
the sea, but he rarely brought home any game or fish.
With his dogs he beat the dense oak and pine woods
which bordered Crest, and acquired an occult love for
every tree he passed under. In his two-masted, sharp-hulled
boat, he coasted the shores of the bay, or pushed
out beyond the islands across its mouth, and followed
the trackless paths of ships that went down the great
deep, and the sea became one of his deities.

The onus of bringing up the children, of sustaining
their position, and the claims of society, he left to Sarah,
who bore the burden becomingly. She was a friend to
the poor and the aged, because it was the custom of the
family, and she continued the time-honored gifts of
salves, cordials, and food for the sick. She was a good
member of the upper class, for she dressed handsomely,
entertained handsomely, and was never inconveniently
intimate with it. Without a profound comprehension
of the spiritual, devoid of pious aspirations, she was a
believer in the tenets of the Congregational Church, and
had joined it a year before her marriage. She was full
of the business of religion, and ministers were under her
especial patronage. With all her prestige, all her influence,
she was not loved abroad, nor envied; her want
of softness, her shrill laugh, her cold words, the restless
expression in her black eyes and thin lips, and her repellant
manner, made people afraid of her.

The years advanced through Parke and Philippa's
childhood, and brought Sarah and Jason to the borders

of middle age with a monotony which concealed the
swiftness of their flight, and kept in check that prescience
of change and loss which generally hovers over
the mind.