University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

It was the summer of a Presidential campaign, and
stump orators were going over the country. The celebrated
Pisgah Spring, Member of Congress from the
Fourth District, was invited to make a speech at Millville,
the central village in the country, but so much
scattered itself that it consisted merely of four corners,
on one of which stood a large, dilapidated meeting-house,
and in which Pisgah Spring was to hold forth.
Jason was chosen as delegate from Crest, and Sarah proposed,
as it was moonlight, that they should all go to
the meeting.

“Ritchings is going,” said Jason, “with the Hall
family.”

“Suppose you and I go on horseback, Theresa?” asked
Parke.

“I'll suppose so, with pleasure.”

“Philippa will go in the carriage with us, Sarah,
then,” said Jason. “We must start at half-past six.
Who will make me a blue rosette? I am one of the
fools to sit on the platform.”

“All of us,” cried Theresa. “Come, Philippa, to a
shop; I want a piece of ribbon.”

It was bought, and Theresa decorated the whole
party, including the horses, with the rosettes. Philippa
wore that night a white muslin dress and a white shawl.
Theresa called Parke's attention to the effect of the resettes

in her hair. He remarked, that she always looked
well, except when arranged as the American Sphinx.

“She is a sphinx, however. Why don't you try to
guess the riddle she propounds?”

“Is she more mysterious than any other woman?”

“Don't be a goose, Parke,” said his mother.

“Nothing erratic in Philippa—is there, mother?”

“I have n't discovered it.”

“Prophets in their own country, Mrs. Auster,” Theresa
observed carelessly.

“Philippa does not happen to be in her own country,”
Sarah replied, with a laugh.

For once Parke caught and understood an expression
of pain in Philippa's face.

“Philippa,” he said, affectionately, “my country is
your country, isn't it? You are as much of a Parke as
I am. Mother, why did you marry a foreigner?”

Jason entered and prevented her reply. He had been
putting in the horses himself, he said, as Gilbert was
obliged to take one of the saddle-horses to the blacksmith's
to have a shoe fastened.

“That was my business,” said Parke.

“Why didn't you attend to it, then?” his father asked.

“Because it is so much easier for me to trouble others
than it is to trouble myself. I suppose I am very
selfish.”

He looked so remorseful that two-thirds of the party
felt eager to deny this supposition.

“How blue you all are,” said Jason, cheerfully. “Theresa,
where is my badge?”

She pinned it to his coat, smiling so pleasantly upon
him, that he could not help patting her pretty hand.

“You do not need a badge,” she said. “Your eyes
would answer for one; they are bluer than this ribbon,
and are so much handsomer.”

Jason comically poked his fingers into his eyes, and
said he never knew till then that he had eyes.

“You are a deuced coquette, Theresa,” said Parke,
when he adjusted her foot in the stirrup.

The atmosphere had been a strange one all day. The
sky was dun-color, and the sun rolled through it—a ball
of orange fire. A beautiful blue haze ringed the horizon
and hovered over the bay, which had faded and fainted
in the heat, and lay white and motionless, not stirring
under the pencilled shadows which rayed its edge. For
a short distance the road stretched round the shore.
The deep silence of the sea made Theresa feel silent
also. When Jason struck into a road which turned abruptly
from it, she drew a long breath. They entered
dense woods, already gray with dusk, and alive with
the mysterious stir of invisible creatures who do not
love the day, which called out some instinct of enjoyment
in her. The cool odors of the ferny swamps, and
of flowers yielding to the night, penetrated her with a
wild sense of luxury. But Parke was silent and absorbed;
he pushed along at a rapid pace, keeping near
the carriage which preceded him. At a bend in the
road Theresa stopped her horse, while the carriage, and
Parke with it, wound out of sight.

“Oh night and heat, sound and odor, why can't I
burst into apostrophe! There is something exquisite
between you and me: and why not teach me what it is,
and why it is—senseless Powers, that overpower me!”

Parke turned back as soon as he missed her.

“What is the matter, Theresa?”

“Nothing; I stopped to get the effect of those splendid
white moths on Poll's mane.”

“They hover round you, after the fashion of moths
out of the woods.”

“Ah!”

“I have been thinking of Philippa.”

“Philippa! ah, yes.”

She whipped the leaves from the bushes near, with
her riding-whip.

“What do you think of her sometimes?”

“I think of her always, as a peculiar girl, of noble
traits.”

“She frets me. What does she really enjoy? Any
thing?”

“Living for you.”

“I do not deserve so much from her. Why should
she be so wonderfully single-minded?”

“There is where she is peculiar.”

“What will make her attend to her own happiness, I
wonder, instead of mine?”

“I am sure I cannot tell.”

“Look this way, Theresa.”

“One way is as good as another, for it is dark.”

“Give me your hand, won't you?”

“How thick the glow-worms are.”

“And the moths are thicker, too. Give me your
hand.”

She surrendered it, and he pulled off her glove.

“Tell me that I am not quite worthless, Theresa.”

“I do not know,” she answered, dreamily, “whether
you can be worth much to me. You tempt me, as I

tempt you. Suppose I tell you—this is just the moment
to confess it—that my senses are all on your side. Confessing
this, compare me with Philippa, whose soul
shines in a lambent light, which you could go through
life by—clear, pure, calm life. Would you like it?”

“The comparison does not interest me much,” he said,
quietly, holding up her hand, and trying to slip on her
glove.

“Don't put on my glove,” she said, petulantly.

He offered it to her, and she snatched it from him.

“Shall we go on, Theresa?”

“Are you angry?”

“Confess more.”

“Can you—on your soul?”

“Let us go on.” And he laughed strangely.

“Just so,” she answered, giving her horse a sharp cut.

They overtook the carriage as it entered the town, or
rather as it reached the meeting-house, about which a
crowd was gathered. It was decorated with pine
boughs, mottoes in ground-pine and tissue-paper, and
dimly lighted with candles, lamps, and torches. An
active committee had knocked out the windows and a
part of the end wall, where a platform was raised for
the accommodation of Pisgah Spring and the delegates.
The body of the house was nearly filled with ladies. A
polite usher, however, found a front seat for Sarah.
Theresa and Philippa went to a pew under the gallery,
near one end of the platform, and Parke stood among
the men by the doors.

When Pisgah Spring came forward he was immensely
cheered, especially by the galleries. Theresa happened
to be looking at Jason, who was on the platform near

them, and remarked that he was scrutinizing the supports
of the gallery in their vicinity. She forgot him in
a moment, however, and was attracted by the change in
the evening sky and the rising of the moon, which she
saw through the opening in the wall.

At a burst of applause for a display of eloquence an
ominous creak was heard. A pillar gave way. The
beams above Philippa and Theresa snapped, and a rush
was made to get out of the gallery; the house was filled
with cries—the audience struggled with each other to
get out. The girls clasped hands; they could not move,
the pressure was so strong against them, by those who
were endeavoring to get out through the opening in the
wall behind the platform.

Jason leaped from it with an oath, and fought his
way to the corner where they were. With a blow he
demolished a sash, and thrust them through it. They
had scarcely touched the ground before Parke and his
mother were there. Theresa trembled and wept, and
Philippa, who had dropped on the ground, quietly
fainted. Jason took her up in his arms and pushed out
of the crowd, telling Parke to be quick with some water.
Theresa saw him put his hand on her forehead, and then
clasp her close to him, throwing back his head, as if he
were making a mad appeal for help.

“She won't die with the fright, will she?” she asked
Sarah.

“She will come to presently,” Sarah answered, taking
from Parke the cup of water he had found and dashing
it in her face. “Put her on her feet, Jason.”

“What did you say, Sarah? Who is hurt?” she asked,
struggling to stand.

“There is more dust than wounds,” Parke replied;
“two or three are hurt, however. The meeting is over,
of course. I'll bring up the horses.”

“How are you?” called Mr. Ritchings, passing in his
carriage. “My coat is torn. Are you frightened? Did
Miss Philippa faint? Did she, indeed? But she has recovered,
I see. I shall come over in the morning to your
house.”

“All right, Mr. Ritchings,” Parke bawled. “Come,
Theresa, are you recovered enough to ride home on
horseback, or shall I put you in the carriage?”

“We will go as we came, if you please.”

They started in advance, for Jason was detained a
few moments. Meantime the crowd dispersed; the
lights were put out in the church, and the four corners
deserted. Night reigned with her ancient silence; the
dew fell afresh, the crickets came afield, the silver spears
of moonlight gleamed everywhere, and the stars marched
against the dawn.

“Sit on the front seat, Philippa,” said Sarah, when
Jason came up. “I want all the back seat to take a
nap on.”

He rolled up his coat for a pillow and put it against
her head; yawning a few times, and complaining of being
chilly, she soon appeared to be sound asleep. The
silence was only broken by Jason speaking to his horses,
which were restive. Philippa could not shake from
her mind the picture of Theresa's crying on Parke's
shoulder; she was very weary, however, and when the
horses subsided into a monotonous trot, her head drooped
as if she was falling asleep also. Jason loosened his
hold on the reins and turned to look at her; the shawl

had fallen from her shoulders; he drew it up, and, to
his surprise, she laid her head against his breast, remaining
there so motionless that he thought her sleeping.
Better for him to think so then, if one may dare
say that there are moments when a man's soul is rightfully
his own, in its supreme and sublime selfishness.
In truth, Philippa's feelings in regard to Parke were so
plain to herself, that she believed Jason—her fellow-alien,
the only unobtrusive, kindly being she had ever
known—sympathized with her, and understood them.
As for him, his heart stopped beating, then bounded forward,
and dragged every nerve into the terrible development
which made him a man. One by one his savage
instincts were revealed to him; he knew that he was a
natural, free, powerful creature. What then compelled
this monarch to still drive his horses carefully, which
were conveying his wife and ward home? Will any one
man or woman, who has noticed his or her own autobiography,
answer? May the saints forgive Jason for
ever afterwards retaining the sweet ability which this
night brought him! Ever afterwards the summer sky
and summer earth, “moving eastward,” shared with
him the secret—a right between them, which no power
could annihilate, for it was not a guilty fact, but an undying
truth.

At last he gave utterance to some peculiar note which
the horses understood, and they flew home at a thundering
speed.

Jason hung about the stables till Gilbert locked the
doors and went away. He then made the circuit of the
house, and saw only a light in his own room. He pictured
Sarah winding her watch, putting her numerous

ornaments in their boxes, and pinning her curls. A sudden
desire seized him to go to her, and give her a chance
to understand him. In a moment he was in the chamber,
and seated near her—to surprise her by seeming
interested in her toilet. She felt so constrained by his
observation that she turned from the glass, and asked
him what ailed him. His eyes wore so eager, thirsting,
searching an expression, that had she been any thing but
the plain, honest woman she was, she would have felt
disturbed.

“You have taken cold, Jason; you look feverish.”

“Let us talk,” he said.

“Do you know that it is past one?”

“Let the clock go. Did you notice Theresa in the
alarm to-night?”—removing from the subject he intended
to introduce.

“No. What do you mean?” She tied her cap with
more resignation to the “talk,” and sat down on the side
of the bed.

“She flew to Parke, and cried, with her head on his
shoulder”—Jason shivered—“as if it was the place for
her.”

“No doubt she thinks so. Most girls would.”

“Being his mother, you flatter him.”

“Fiddle-stick! He is rich and handsome, and Theresa
is a sharp, worldly-minded girl.”

“Why did we marry, Sarah? I was neither handsome
nor rich—only a stupid, green boy, just as I have
been—a stupid, ignorant man.”

“It proves, don't it, that I was not sharp, nor worldly-minded?”
And she gave one of her abrupt, shrill laughs.

“Did you notice me with Philippa to-night?”

“Philippa! I have had enough of Philippa! She
didn't fall on anybody's breast, did she? She fell on
the ground—a better place for her—and you picked her
up. Why didn't you let her lie there? But you pride
yourself on your justice.”

Jason was astonished. He saw that Sarah hated Philippa.
If he should confess to his wife that through Philippa
he had become a different man, what would be the
result? A more cruel hatred. He was dismayed at the
danger he had been ready to thrust her into, for it would
be impossible for Sarah to make fine distinctions; so
if there was any thing now existing in him which was
damaging to his conjugal honor, he could not make expiation
by its revelation to Sarah.

“She must needs faint,” added Sarah, passing her
hand over her face, as if to smooth out the evil expression
there. “She has a Southern constitution. Those
Southern women are incapable, helpless babies.”

“Sarah,” and Jason stood up resolutely, “have I ever
loved you?”

“I really do not know, Jason,” she answered, as resolutely;
“and, if you will force me to say it, I do not
suffer to know.”

“Thank you.” And the conversation was ended.

As thankful as Jason was, he could not sleep. He
was busy cutting down the Tree of Knowledge which
had suddenly grown up before him. Practically he demolished
its leaves, blossoms, and fruit. This was his
expiation.