Two men a novel |
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| 6. | CHAPTER VI. |
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 | CHAPTER VI. Two men |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
“The snow-flowers shake with the cold,” said Elsa,
“and the apple-blossoms are all of a didder this afternoon.
It's more like fall than spring, and here we are
on the edge of summer.”
“Have you been out?” inquired Sarah, looking at her
watch.
“I've taken the round of the fences for the first time
this year. I tell you that Cuth is failing; he don't attend
to the garden as he used to.”
“Don't you perceive that we are all growing old?”
Sarah asked maliciously, but Elsa turned the subject.
“Philippa will be in by six, won't she?” she inquired.
“I suppose so.”
“And walk down from the dépôt?”
“Why not?”
“Oh, nothing; only it seemed to me, as she has been
gone two years, somebody might have waited upon her
for once.”
“We might have had an oration, and banners, beer
and gingerbread, if you had spoken in time. At all
events, you could have asked Cuth to put the horse in
the chaise, and drive up for her. Gilbert must be sent
up with the wagon for her baggage.”
“I should have thought that Mr. Auster would have
staid at home to-day.”
“He forgot that she was coming, I dare say, though
I trust that the boarding-school business is over now.”
“She would go, you remember, as soon as Parke left
for college; of all the grit I ever saw, she was the grittiest.
When you told her that it was folly for her to
think of going, she surprised me even. Are Parke's
bills heavy, too?”
Sarah looked at Elsa with a dark face, for it seemed
as if she were trying to exasperate her; but the old woman's
countenance was imperturbable; her round cheeks,
rosy as winter apples, glistened provokingly. Sarah
could have snapped her fingers against them with pleasure,
or scratched the smooth, glassy enamel of her
shining eyes, that were made to penetrate, not to be
penetrated.
“A man's bills are different,” Sarah answered calmly,
for after all she loved Elsa.
“A man! what business has he to play the man? I
could trot him on my knee this minute.”
“You have done so often enough when he was a
troublesome child.”
“I have; I never begrudged my time, when I took
care of him. Well, he has grown up worth looking at.
Would you like some toast, Sarah? You are not very
well?”
“Oh yes, I am; but I do not object to toast.”
Elsa proposed attending to it immediately, but instead
of going to the kitchen, she went to the back
stairs where she had deposited a branch of apple-blossoms,
carried it to Philippa's chamber, and put it in a
mug of old transparent china decorated with a theatrical
shepherdess in a curled wig that had belonged to
effect, she mentally remarked, that it was nine years
ago this very month since Philippa came to Crest, and
that time had not changed Sarah for the better. Time,
she supposed, brought healing on his wings; it was not
so always, for something dropped from them like corrosive
sublimate in its effect, when he passed over certain
heads. Crossing the room on tiptoe, as if she saw and
avoided those venomous fallen drops, she opened the
blind of a western window, and looked out. No sunbeam
streamed past her; but the light of a purple sky
broke along the dark walls. The woods, which circled
half the west, were still piebald with the hues of a late
spring—pale green, brown, and dingy red, and vast
purple clouds, furrowed like the sea before the town,
hung over the house.
“If I should die the death of the righteous,” she
muttered, “I could not say that I thought this weather
was what the Lord ought to send. It gives me the
creeps.”
She turned from the window without observing Philippa,
who was walking towards the house, in a green
shawl which brought her in strong relief against the
slaty sky. Her own window was scanned first, and
then she looked at the front door, but it was closed; no
one was awaiting her. As she entered the hall, leisurely
untying her bonnet, Sarah, who heard her footsteps,
dropped her work and rose to meet her with an
extended hand. Philippa took it, and an automatic
movement passed between them, which was, in meaning,
a chapter in the biography of their relationship.
“Why, Philippa!” said Sarah, with a smile which did
Your dresses must be all too short.”
Philippa tossed her foot out from the edge of her skirt,
and said: “I crouch when it is necessary. Are you
well, Cousin Sarah Auster? Where is Jason? When
did you hear from Parke? How is Elsa?”
Elsa rushed in, crying: “Good for nothing girl, you
might have come home before. I wanted you. You
are a little better looking; hope you have got over being
yellow; guess you have at last. How are you? I
am not fit for much this spring. I'll take your things.
Gilbert has gone for your trunks. Gilbert's wife has got
a baby. She asked me if she might name it Philippa; I
told her she had better name it Gilippa—you could
make it a present any way—and she was mad with me.
You've got on your old black silk, haven't you? it is
tattered and torn. Did you know that we had a new
minister, all shaven and shorn? You are eighteen now.
Your father will be thirty-eight next month, won't he,
Sarah?”
“What is the matter with your tongue, Elsa?” she
asked; “I am too confused with it to answer your questions.”
“Elsa, you are the only handsome old woman I have
seen since I left you,” said Philippa. “I am glad to be
where you are.”
“Questions and all, hey? But here is Mr. Auster.”
“So you came, Philippa,” said Jason, “before I could
beat up the harbor. I expected to be at the dépôt for
you.”
She advanced to shake hands with him, but he looked
so awkward when she reached him, that she was sorry
was not unfriendly. He made an effort to converse
with her, but it was an evident relief to him when Elsa
summoned them to tea.
When Philippa's trunks arrived, she went to her
chamber and commenced unpacking. An hour after
she was interrupted by Sarah, who came to say that
there was company at Mrs. Rogers's that evening, and
to inquire whether she would go for a while.
“It is too late to dress, and I am shabby any way,”
she answered.
“Our new minister will be there. Everbody will be
asking about you, and Mrs. Rogers will feel hurt if you
refuse to go to her house.”
“Very well, I will go then to her.”
“Shake out those dresses, and let me see the condition
they are in.”
Philippa complied, and Sarah gave them a close examination,
and accused her of carelessness and extravagance,
and begged to know if it was impossible for her
to be a credit to the family.
“Credit!” echoed Philippa, “I don't like that word,
and do not mean that it shall be used, as far as relates
to me. As for carelessness, to please you, I'll amend;
as for extravagance, I have absolute faith in my own
money.”
“Did you learn that at school?”
“From one of the family preceptors—my father, Osmond
Luce. I only mention my faith in self-defence.”
Sarah threw down the dress she had in her hand, and
left the chamber. Meeting Jason in the hall, she said,
excitedly, “We have hatched a cockatrice.”
“We! Who?”
“Philippa.”
Jason changed his mind about going out, and returned
to the parlor, where he took a chair and ruminated.
When Philippa came in, ready for the party, he raised
his eyes and scrutinized her sharply, and found himself
wondering whether all cockatrices had pale yellow hair
that looked as if about to float into the air like the
down of flowers. There was something strange in those
speckled eyes, though!
She wondered what he was so abstractedly staring at.
“Are you a cockatrice?” he asked, suddenly.
Sarah opened the door, ready also, and Philippa turned
a grave look towards her, with an expression which conveyed
to him that she knew the source he had derived
his question from.
“What now?” asked Sarah, contemptuously. “What
makes you theatrical?”
“Are you a cockatrice?” Jason repeated.
“Yes,” said Philippa, “I am.”
The cold sea-wind blew round them as they walked
down the street, leaving Jason still in the parlor. The
monotonous fall of the waves on the rocky beach in the
distance sounded in Philippa's ears like the old march
to which she had stepped through life beside Sarah.
When they reached the row of weeping-willows before
Mrs. Rogers's door, she said:
“Why put ideas in Jason's head that belong to you,
Sarah?”
Sarah made no reply.
“Tell me, upon your honor,” and Philippa stopped
here, “whether my father was guilty of any fraud
rights?”
“Let go my shawl, Philippa Luce; your father must
answer for himself, and so shall you.”
“Once for all, Cousin Sarah, give me the information
I ask for, or I shall compel Jason to give it to me.”
“Have you got a pistol about you,” sneered Sarah,
“to enforce your demand?”
Philippa gently shook the shawl in her grasp, but
Sarah felt as if she was in a vice of steel. She thought
of a diversion—a piece of cunning—which was effectual.
“If Parke saw you, your hand would fall paralyzed.
Philippa, let go the shawl.”
“You are right,” she replied. “But I know what
you only could say because you refuse to speak. I am
satisfied concerning my father.”
Sarah gave a loud knock on the door, which brought
Mrs. Rogers immediately.
“Why didn't you come right in? I am no hand at
ceremony, you know. Is this Philippa? How do you
do, my dear? Welcome home. Take off your things,
and walk in the parlor. The company are all here.”
She untied Philippa's bonnet and smoothed her hair.
“Pretty enough,” she said, “but you don't favor your
father a bit.”
“How is Sam?” Philippa asked, smiling brightly, for
her heart was warmed by Mrs. Rogers's cordial welcome.
“Sam's to sea; I guess he'll be gladder than ever to
get home. You are his favorite, you know.”
“I shall visit you often till he comes.”
“So do; I am a lonesome old thing. Parke used to
come, especially when Sam was here, and I miss him too.”
She led the way, and at the parlor door introduced, in
a loud voice, “Mrs. Auster and Philippa Luce, just come
home.” There was a general movement, as if a new
and unexpected element was admitted, which subsiding,
the conversation began again, but with a forced tone, as
if the talkers felt a critic had arrived. But Mrs. Rogers,
to whom “kings and potentates,” to use her own expression,
“were no more than just so many worms,” broke
the chill, with her loud, cheerful voice and comfortable
manner, by saying, “We were just talking, Mrs. Auster,
about having the pulpit new covered—the old red velvet
is in rags, for it has not been changed since the meeting-house
was built—and what color we should have.
I am in favor of green, on account of its being a good
color for weak eyes, you know.”
Sarah looked towards a young man of composed mien,
who was twisting his watch-key, and smiled when she
met his eye. When an opportunity occurred, he took a
seat beside her, and asked if she believed that “a minister
had the rights of a man.” “Mr. Ritchings must remember,”
she answered, “that Mrs. Rogers was something
of a fool, though a good-natured one, and that she
had endeavored to adapt her conversation to the taste
of the company, which consisted of the members of the
church.” He sighed, and with an eye wandering in
Philippa's direction, said, “They make me tired of it
sometimes. Is that your ward, Miss Luce?”
“It is.”
“She has a remarkable face.”
“I never thought so,” and Sarah glanced towards her.
“But perhaps she has a peculiar expression. What did
you think of Deacon Blair's party?”
“It was just like this. Introduce me to Miss Luce,
will you—if I may ask the favor?”
She beckoned to Philippa, who was obliged to betray
the shortness of her dress, for there was a great space in
the middle of the room to cross, but betrayed no confusion.
She bowed coolly, and took the chair which he
offered her. He blushed as he asked her some trivial
question about coming home, and Sarah felt annoyed.
“Plum, pound, and sponge,” interrupted Mrs. Rogers,
presenting a piled-up plate of cake. “Philippa, you
know what my cake is. I'll warrant you did not get
better at boarding-school.”
“I did not, indeed,” she answered, taking a large
piece.
“Ministers,” Mrs. Rogers continued, “are fondest of
plum-cake.”
“How much should a young one eat?” Mr. Ritchings
asked.
“You can eat as much of my cake as you please, for it
is made wholesome.”
Sarah joined another group, while Mr. Ritchings and
Philippa were deciding on the merits of the cake, but
she could not help looking in that direction occasionally.
A thought that Philippa might be considered attractive,
presented itself to her unwilling mind, and she passed
an involuntary criticism on her. It was beyond her
power to analyze the character of Philippa's face, but
she made a disparaging inventory of its features. Her
wide forehead, eyebrows so arched and far apart, her
pale brown eyes, her curved solid chin, her thin lips,
could not be called beautiful, certainly; but Mr. Ritchings
at the same time came to a different conclusion. In
flaming leaves of some tropical flower, and her beautiful
yellow hair reminded him of the plumage of a tropical
bird; but her clear, cold eyes were like the tinted iceberg,
which rides towards its fall in the summer sea. He
was amazed that so slight a creature, half-grown, apparently,
could appear so dignified, so unimpressed; yet
there was a carelessness in her manner that amounted to
audacity. She was unconscious of his scrutiny, and not
only ate her own cake, but part of his, taking it from his
plate in pinches.
Somebody said that it rained, and everybody started
up to go. Jason arrived with umbrellas and overshoes,
and staid in the entry till Sarah came out of the parlor.
He had a moment's affable sparring with Mrs. Rogers,
however, on the matter of his never coming before folks,
his not doing the good his position required of him, and
his being poor company for his wife.
He waved her off with a laugh, and beckoned Philippa
to hurry, but still he was obliged to wait on the shell-paved
walk while Sarah exchanged a few words with
Mr. Ritchings.
“Are you going to be fond of ministers, Philippa?”
he asked. “They take up a great deal of time.”
“Not if they are over pious.
| CHAPTER VI. Two men | |