University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

It was a merry, restless life which prevailed now.
Something new was taking place—a different development—and
all because Theresa Bond was paying a visit
of a few weeks to several people who interested her.
They were alive with life, and did not know it—that
was her opinion. A new brand is sometimes wanted to
kindle up the embers of a smouldering fire, and this was
the office she performed: and then “all the winds of the
world blew up the flames.”

The individual independence of the family first struck
her. Apparently no member of it involved another in
any pursuit, opinion, or interest, except Parke, who involved
Philippa. Elsa was the only one able to spin
the threads together on the family distaff. It could not
have been so always. There was an air of transmitted
habit grafted on the ways of the house, which proved
its age and pride. This accounted for various incongruities
in their style of living, which, at first, surprised
the city-bred, aristocratic Theresa. Sarah and Philippa
were engaged much of the time in house-work and sewing.
Philippa did what she had been accustomed to do
from a child, and Sarah assisted Elsa everywhere. There
was an utter absence of ceremony and display at the
table, and over the house. Parke smoked and read the
newspapers in the kitchen, and Elsa shelled beans in the
parlor. The errands came in at the front door, and
visitors at the back door, whenever it suited the convenience

of the respective parties, and were
wherever they were met. Yet the prestige which money
gives was not lacking.

In spite of their different idiosyncrasies, they were
much together, and all the rooms were occupied in common.
Jason was rarely at home, it is true, but if there,
he lounged about in his odd way, brooding in a corner
of the kitchen hearth, musing in the parlor windows,
sitting on the door-steps, or lying among the bushes on
the terrace.

Theresa had no key to the family history, except the
fact of Philippa's being a pupil at Madame Mara's. That
was a proof of means and respectability, for Madame
never admitted anybody without these antecedents.
Philippa was not communicative: she was a mystery,
and mystery piqued Theresa. She made advances towards
Philippa, who responded, but in a provoking, reticent
way. A theory started itself in Theresa's mind,
which she imparted to her—that from the negation of
her character, and the utter absence of the dramatic in her
nature, a tragedy would one day come, fall on her, and
devour her, as the wolf devoured Red Riding Hood.
Philippa not only returned Theresa's regard, but was
grateful to her for aid extended in various ways. Theresa
was a fine scholar—an adept in the art of dress,
full of finesse. Philippa was dull at her books, devoid
of taste, and devoid of tact. Theresa smoothed away
her difficulties, attempted to polish her, with a slight
degree of success, and learned to love her still more.

The friendly relations immediately established between
Theresa and her family so thawed Philippa's
silence, that when Theresa one day said, “Your Cousin

Jason is eccentric,” she did not parry the remark, but
replied, “Because he is quiet?”

“Did you never notice him?”

“I have not speculated on this point of eccentricity.
Why do you ask? You say I never study those about
me.”

“It seems to me that he has not found his vocation.”

“He changed it. When he married Cousin Sarah he
was a carpenter.”

“Dear me,” said Theresa, eying Philippa with a one-sided
glance, like that of a cunning bird, “you are refreshing.”

“He is my guardian.”

“Are you rich enough for that?”

“Parke and I, both. We inherit our great-grandfather's
property.”

“That is when Jason has done with his share.”

“Jason! he has nothing.”

“Why not? Your Cousin Sarah comes into the property
before Parke, and what is hers is her husband's.”

“Oh no,” said Philippa, seriously, “it was not fixed
so. Parke and I have it all—or will soon.”

“Jason's position, then, is inferior to his wife's, his
son's, and yours?”

“I never thought of it. What a way you have of
representing things!”

“I like him,” exclaimed Theresa, after a pause; “he
is dignified and single-minded; but whether he has
much heart I have not yet learned.”

It was evident to Philippa that Theresa was upon one
of her “clues.”

“He is honest,” she declared, after another pause.

“What will you do with money? When are you going
to begin to spend it?”

“What would you do with it?”

“I would not be stingy.”

“I dare say you will call me so; I rarely have generous
impulses. Parke is always giving. I think I shall
keep my money.”

“You will save it for some spendthrift; then hey for
my tragedy. Property is always dispersed in the course
of a generation or two.”

“My idea is consolidation.”

“Jason would help you in that—nobody else.”

“How do you know that?” Philippa cried, irritably.

“Would Parke? Would your relative Sarah?”

“I won't be dragged into one of your analytical
abysses, Theresa; so let me alone.”

“For the present, then; but I shall not give you up,
since I have seen oysters in an aquarium.”

Parke planned admirably for Theresa's amusement.
A saddle-horse arrived one day. She improvised a habit
and rode with him constantly; they scoured the country,
inspired with the hope of picturesque discovery,
leaving Philippa at home—with her idea of consolidation,
probably. They described their tours with animation,
and Jason, if present, never failed to say that he
and his dogs had been on the same rounds; but to Philippa
the descriptions were novel, for she knew nothing
of the country.

“Why don't you take walks?” asked Sarah, when she
heard her say so.

“Why not try boating?” Jason asked, before she
could reply.

“Boating,” exclaimed Theresa; “oh, yes, why hasn't
it been thought of before?”

“I cannot manage a boat,” said Parke.

“Jason will go with you,” said Sarah, graciously.

“Yes, once,” he answered, roughly.

“Let us have a party, then,” said Parke. “Mother,
will you go?”

“I am afraid of the water.”

“Well, then, Philippa, Miss Bond, myself, and father.”

Jason remarked that Philippa was afraid of the water,
too, and he thought it likely Parke was; but if he could
rely on Miss Bond, sufficient courage could be mustered
for a short sail.

Sarah thought of Mr. Ritchings, and, without consulting
any one, sent him an invitation to join the party.
The next morning he made his appearance without an
overcoat, and in a suit of summer clothes.

“The merciful man!” exclaimed Elsa, when she saw
him coming in at the gate. “Who asked him?”

“I did,” Sarah said, in a serene voice.

“Let him go, Elsa,” Jason laughed.

There was a land breeze, the waves ran from the
shore, and the bay looked almost smooth.

Philippa brought out cloaks and thick shawls, and
recommended a lashing down of hats and bonnets.

“How comes she to know that it is blowing outside?”
Jason asked Elsa. “She never went sailing.”

“Why, yes, you forget she made a voyage more than
eight years ago.”

“True; why she is a woman, isn't she?”

“If she isn't she never will be; the time will come,
before you know it, when she will be of age.”

“All hands, ahoy,” called Sarah, moving down the
walk beside Mr. Ritchings, and accompanied by Gilbert,
who carried a basket of provisions. She was so lively
that the rest of the party were silenced. Theresa heard
her bandying jokes with Mr. Ritchings with surprise,
and concluded she was a moral mine, and that it would
not do to walk over her. As the boat left the wharf
she turned and walked slowly home, drawing a full
breath when she entered the door, and experiencing an
unwonted sense of relief. Through the empty rooms
she passed as if she was seeking a spirit she had no hope
of finding—the “something beautiful” which had vanished
from her life. Perhaps its airy nothingness came
the nearest to a habitation in Parke's room. She lingered
there and inspected his belongings; they were
scattered everywhere, letters, boots, gloves, hats, daguerreotypes,
crumpled handkerchiefs. Ends of cigars
and opened books were lying on his bed, the table, and
window-seat; his watch was run down, and all the stoppers
were out of his perfume-bottles. From this confusion
there was a subtle, delicate emanation, which could
only belong to him. Idly opening several of the picture-cases,
which contained the likenesses of his college-chums,
she came upon that of Theresa, which he had
borrowed of Philippa. Suppose he should marry Theresa!
She wondered if it would be agreeable to Philippa!
There was a belief in Sarah's mind, like a fatality,
that she was so devoted to Parke she would not marry
herself, but that his marriage would be the most important
event of her life. All that she had done from a
child went to prove that she was to be a sort of human
providence in his career. Sarah was also fixed in a belief

that she was not a girl to be sought or loved, or desired
to be. The idea of his marriage was painful even
to herself; she questioned whether mothers were ever
glad of a son's marriage. A bitter lonely feeling came
over her, and hot tears welled into her eyes, which Elsa
interrupted:

“What time may we expect them?” she asked, pretending
not to see Sarah's tears.

“About nine, I think.”

“And we must have a hot supper. Of course the
parson will stay to it?”

“Certainly—why not?”

“Nothing; only he is after our Philippa. You
needn't contradict, Sarah. He looks at her when he is
preaching even. He hasn't had his eyes off her this
day, unless he has been sea-sick.”

“Why hasn't Mary put Parke's room to rights?”

“What is the use of putting his room in order? I
pity the woman he marries.”

“Matrimory runs in your head, Elsa?”

“Wouldn't it be wise in you to think of the possibility
of somebody's being married? Or do you expect to
cut and carve everybody into an eternal single blessedness?”

“Mr. Ritchings is friendly and polite—nothing
more.”

“Oh, that is all, is it? Mary says that Gilbert says
the whole town declares that Mr. Ritchings is in love
with Philippa. We'll shut the town up.”

“Never mind, Elsa, don't speak of it; gossip irritates
me; but I shall forget presently.”

“Ministers are such a mark, you know,” said Elsa,

her anger all gone; “but any how he shall have a good
supper.”

“If you please, Elsa.”

“What ails her now?” queried Elsa, on the way down
stairs. “Something or other discourages me. I wish I
could find out who is doing it. Ministers are a mark,
and I don't know that I blame her for getting mad, but
that man is in love with Philippa—and—her money.”

Sarah, still restless, went up garret, towards sunset,
to look over the bay. The wind had died away, and
the tide was out; the sea lay within its rim of yellow
rocks, that looked alive with stirring snaky weeds, like
a blue, wrinkled banner. Not a sail dotted its wide
surface. Jason and his companions were not within its
limits.