11. CHAPTER XI.
Philippa's life, though apparently so pale and cold, in
contrast with the blooming richness of Theresa's, increased
its silent forces. Theresa's regnancy, instead of
subduing Philippa's expectations and intentions, developed
them. She waited for a favorable moment to reveal
them.
Theresa determined to make a collection of grasses,
and for a number of days went to the fields. After the
grass came a passion for sea-weeds, which also lasted a
number of days. Parke's enthusiasm lasted through
both phases, as did also Philippa's patience. By brook,
thicket, and hedge-row, in the shallows of the tide, among
the rocks, along the length of the rough beach of Crest,
she pondered many things.
At last the opportunity came, as she believed, when
the star of her empire should take its way. It was introduced
by Mrs. Rogers, who accosted her at the church
door, one Sunday.
“My Sam,” she said, “was spoken off the River Plate,
in April, with eight hundred barrels of sperm oil. He'll
be in this fall, sure, and he hasn't a white shirt to his
name. I must make a set, and want to borrow a pattern
of the collar Parke had on. My mind would wander
from the sermon to-day. I do wish Mr. Ritchings would
be rather more doctrinal; he would get a more lively
attention from me, then.”
“Of course you shall have a pattern. We shall all be
delighted to have Sam at home.”
“When is your Miss Bond going? Parke and she
are a handsome couple. Are they going to make a
match?”
“No,” said Philippa, sternly.
“Beauty goes a great ways, Philippa, if it is only skin
deep. Though it is none of my business, for all our
families have been connected, as it were, for many years,
my second husband being one of the Squire's best captains,
I have thought it would be worth your while,
and Parke's, to keep the property together. You are
not much akin. Sarah would die in peace then.”
The Yankees rush in where angels fear to tread; but
Philippa could not help giving her motherly friend a
tight grasp of the hand. She made a careless reply,
however, and referred to Sam again; but Mrs. Rogers
understood her whole heart.
That evening Philippa mentally arranged a conversation
with Theresa, and the next morning, while she was
puttering with gum-arabic and sea-weed, took some sewing
and went to her room.
“Theresa, you have quite educated Parke.”
“Will he be grateful, think?”
“I hope not.”
Theresa burst into a gay laugh.
“Theresa, I am going to speak to you about Parke.”
“Speak away, then,” said Theresa, with a haughty
motion.
“Mrs. Rogers asked me if he and you were going to
make a match. I said, `No.'”
“You did!” Theresa carefully affixed the filaments
of a delicate spray on a sheet of paper, and continued:
“And why?”
“You must not marry him. I speak my mind, because
I am willing for you to understand my devotion
to him; it will allow nothing to stand in its way.”
“Not even his way, I suppose.”
Philippa clinched her hands.
“What right, Philippa, have you to expect me to be
more generous than yourself? You are a fool.”
“I know that I must appear so to you; but neither
he nor you know that I can do more for him than any
person in the world. I do not mean in episodes of
grass, and sea-weed, parlor talks, and music, and the
fine appearance of life. I mean something which your
capacity does not include—the care and watchfulness of
slow years, without reward—the patience to endure all
weakness, indulgence, selfishness—the bond which begins
with a white veil, and ends in a shroud! There
are states and circumstances which justify us in the attempt
we make to take into keeping the lives of men
like Parke Auster. I would not,” and Philippa rose and
paced the room as if she was measuring every inch of
him, soul and body, “give in to his own resistance
against me. I will compel him finally to me.”
“And for this,” said Theresa, “you would deprive
him of the passion, which is the glory, the exaltation of
life. Dear me, you are fit for human nature's daily
food—that's all. You dream that it lies with us women
to govern the destinies of men. We may indulge them
with episodes, though, while they treat us to our destiny.
I told you a tragedy would come to you; you
are making it for yourself. It is possible that you may
succeed in your plans,—the tragedy will be no less; I
do not think that you will. No assimilation with
Parke's tendencies, no dovetailing with his habits, no
devotion, ever so absolute, will avail a moment when
the inclination seizes him for something different. Now,
Philippa, there is one thing I will do—not another
which may in any way refer to him—if you say so, I
will go home to-morrow.”
“No,” answered Philippa gently, and kissing her
cheek, “I wish you to stay.”
