Two men :: :: University of Virginia Library

The name of Theresa Bond appeared often in the
reminiscences of Philippa's school life with which she
sometimes entertained Parke. When she showed him
the daguerreotype of her friend—a splendidly handsome
girl—he suggested that she should be invited to Crest.
Philippa wrote her accordingly, and the invitation was
accepted. She arrived at the appointed day, and when
Parke saw her he was satisfied with the prospect her
coming offered; so was she. That day a summer rain
fell from morning till evening; it sheeted the windows
with mist, hummed against the doors, and smote the
roof with steady blows. Jason found sufficient excuse
in it for once to remain at home, for even he felt a curiosity
regarding the visitor; his way of gratifying it entirely
concealed his object. He lounged in the distance,
or, if he followed Parke, Philippa, and Theresa, from
room to room, he appeared to do so from an interest he
took in the books, engravings, and knick-knacks, which
were strewed everywhere.

It was a day to discuss character, Parke said, and to
make confessions; the afternoon was before them where
to choose. It was a wonderful spectacle to Jason, when
he beheld the ease and adaptability of Parke's manner,
while seated between the girls on a sofa. Theresa chattered
like a magpie of her passionate likings, her venomous
dislikings, while Philippa's office was that of

listener to both. Occasionally Parke took her hand,
carelessly patting it, and dropping it forgetfully, as he
appealed to her to ratify his opinions. The effect he
produced reacted upon himself, and increased his amiable
vivacity. They were happy. That summer day
might have extended over a week, a month, a year, perhaps,
and his sense of enjoyment in this happiness have
lasted. But when the prince hovering over the lips of
the Sleeping Beauty touched them, the palace was disenchanted.

Theresa played a brilliant fantasia on the piano, which
made Jason's ears ring; he went to a window remote
from the piano, and through the streaming pane saw a
pair of robins, ruffled with the rain, flying into the
branches of a fir below the terrace, and piping a song in
its shelter which soothed him. He looked towards Philippa,
who had quietly gone to the centre-table, intent
upon restoring it to order. Parke stood beside Theresa,
following her music with the delight of an artist.

“You play and sing by ear, Philippa says; do try
something,” she begged.

He complied, and sang a Polish melody, so vivacious,
yet so passionate and melancholy, that she was electrified;
even Philippa felt that he sang with a new spirit.
Sarah looked in at the door, a linen apron in her hand,
and passed on, with a pleasant picture in her mind.
When Parke began to sing, Jason moved from his
place, near Philippa, and asked her, in a low voice, if
she understood that outlandish music.

“No,” she answered; “but I like it.”

“There's a couple of robins outside doing quite as
well, in my way of thinking.”

He then betook himself with his book to the panelled
parlor on the opposite side of the hall, but it was not
long before his solitude was invaded. Theresa having
revealed that one of her passions was old annuals, they
came in to look over the contents of an ancient mahogany
bookcase, whose doors, covered with green silk,
had not been opened for a long time. “Gems” were
disinterred from the top shelves—“Friendship's Offerings”
and “Keepsakes,” the New Year's gifts of Parke
and Philippa's childish days.

“These make me feel a boy again,” said Parke, “when
life wasn't `full of sunny years.'”

Why not? thought Philippa. But she, too, had
chronicles for those times.

“Some of the pictures are deliciously funny,” said
Theresa. “`Contemplation,' for instance. How came
you by such a lot?”

“New Year's presents,” Parke replied. “How many
belong to you, Philippa?”

“Seven.”

“Do you remember that Saturday night, when mother
came home from some journey, and brought `Tales of
the Revolution,' which we both began to read Sunday
morning, and that she took it from you, and made you
go to church? I stayed at home, and finished it.”

“Why did she do that?” Theresa asked. “Why did
she not make you go?”

“Why didn't she make me go, Philippa?” Parke
echoed.

Jason smiled faintly, and raised his eyes to Theresa's
face; he listened for Philippa's reply, but she made none.

“Why didn't she?” Parke repeated, nipping her ear.

As Philippa continued dumb, Theresa concluded to
change the subject, and make Parke forget his question.
She plunged into the annuals again, but Jason pondered
over Philippa's silence. As he thought of it he became
conscious of feeling worried, mystified, unsettled. What
could it be? He would not be housed up another day;
he believed one such day was as a thousand years.
What did that young lady remind him of? The tiger-lily
in the back garden, which Ike had barked at the day
before! Books, music, fine talk, did not suit him; they
were for Parke, who became them so well. Then his
thoughts wandered to the day when he thought Philippa
was dying, and to the words which he supposed her
last. He rose involuntarily, and stretched himself to his
full height; he was towering. Theresa's glance fell
upon him and rested there. Their eyes met, and Jason,
returning her glance with an honest, unabashed gaze,
stalked out of the room. She suddenly found a style of
coiffure in the portraits of “Beauty,” and dragged Philippa
away to experiment upon it.

At tea-time they reappeared. Parke snapped his
fingers at Theresa, and whistled the Bolero. Her glossy
black hair, dressed in Spanish fashion, fastened by a
high-topped shell-comb, one of Sarah's treasures—with
a red rose on one side of her head, and a black lace
scarf on the other, brought out the warmest tints of her
dusky beauty. Philippa looked strangely unlike herself;
her short hair clung round her head in a mass of
ringlets—vivid golden rings. A wide scarlet ribbon
hung down each side of her face, on the ends of which
Theresa had pinned bunches of delicate green leaves.
A large, loose cape of spotted white lace was adjusted

on her shoulders, like a robe, and her bare, slender arms
were decorated with bands of black velvet. The impassive
character of her chin and forehead was brought out
by this dress, and its violent contrast of colors revealed
the imperfection of her complexion, and the curious
specks in the brown irises of her eyes.

“She is hideous,” said Parke.

“She is not,” affirmed Theresa; “she is the American
Sphinx.”

Sarah gave a shrill laugh; not that she comprehended
the allusion, but there seemed a fitness in it which gratified
her. Jason, in his place at the tea-table, removed
his eyes from the cold joint he was carving, and said:
“She is the Genius of the Republic.”

Philippa was profoundly indifferent to her appearance.
Never was creature more free from vanity. She composedly
ate her cold meat and drank her tea, forgetting
that she was en costume, except when the ends of her
wide head-dress flapped across her mouth.

With the tea night came—a harder rain and thicker
mist. Theresa threw up a window, and from habit, Sarah
and Philippa, and even Parke, drew back from the
wind and mist which rushed in, but she delighted in the
atmosphere, and expressed a desire for a walk. Jason
instantly felt a sentiment of respect for her, and in its
blush suggested “India-rubber boots.”

The suggestion was exclaimed against, and Sarah observed
to him, that he need not suppose, because he
passed so much of his life in India rubbers, that anybody
besides would fancy doing so.

“What do you do in them, Mr. Auster?” asked Theresa.

Sarah hastened to reply for him: “He lives in the
woods—going through the ceremony of carrying a gun—
or, on the water, manœuvring with a boat.”

“Pleasing and harmless pursuits,” added Jason, with
a peculiar smile.

“He has stayed at home one day, though,” Parke remarked,
“because something new has happened.”

“I am sure we have company enough for him to remain
with us, but he never does,” said Sarah.

“None half so delightful as the present,” said Parke.

Theresa blushed beautifully.

The voice of the sea grew loud. Its short yelp came
up to the house, to fall back baffled, and wail despairingly
along the shore.

“The people don't appear to mind that mad music
outside,” thought Theresa.

“Do shut that window, Miss Bond,” entreated Sarah.

The water is terrible to-night.

“You will take cold,” said Philippa.

Theresa closed it, but remained with her face close to
the pane. A moment afterwards Parke stood beside her.

“You think us insensible to the influences of the
spot,” he said; “but you do not understand what a perpetual
struggle is going on between us and the climate.
The wind, fog, damp, and rain, frost and ice, are the
causes which compel us to combat for a time for business,
pleasure, and repose—to say nothing of health. For
my part, I like to forget `Nature,' as I have to-day.”