University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

As the time for Theresa's departure drew near, she
felt impatient to be gone. Separation was the test she
thought best to apply to the relation between herself
and Parke. Had she been sure of his feelings, she could
have explained her own; but there was such a mixture
of impetuosity and coolness, so much abandon at one
moment, so much hard reserve at another, in his manner
towards her—such moods of clinging, appealing tenderness,
and of trying, imperious demands, that her self-possession
was completely overthrown. Away from the
magnetism of his presence, she expected to be able to
analyze the influence which each had over the other.
She deliberated whether she would renew the subject of
Philippa's former discourse regarding him, and so make
common cause with her; but an undefinable belief that,
after all, Philippa had not proved herself the fool which
Theresa had called her, in her estimation of the position
she would claim and assume with him, prevented. It
was possible that his temperament could be run down
by the slow, concealed, indefatigable pursuit of a temperament
like Philippa's.

“Well, Philippa, I shall soon be gone,” she said.
“What shall you do without me?”

“Subside.”

“You are a fatalist, Philippa.”

“Human life goes on with and without precept and

example, failure or success. We have some sustaining
principle which is independent of circumstances. Is
that fatality?”

“The industrious apprentice does not always come to
be Lord Mayor, nor does the idle apprentice always come
to the gallows.”

“I shall miss you, Theresa. The whole of Crest, outside
and in, is not so lively and brilliant as you are.”

“Thanks; I am pyrotechnical, I know. Look about
you, after I am gone, for rocket-sticks, exploded crackers,
and black wadding.”

“I owe you something.”

“Pay me.”

“You have taught me the value of patience, and you
have helped me to understand how useless it is for me
to attempt to imitate you, in having any positive
pursuits. I am not like other girls, and I shall not try
to be. If you had not been here, I should have been
for some time to come tormented with a feeling that I
ought to study, to read, to feel passions, have tastes.
By what you are, I have seen what I am not.”

“By patience—what do you mean?”

“That I have had an awful trial with you, and that I
have borne it.”

“Do write your biography: `Philippa, A Late Christian
Martyr.'”

“Not a martyr.”

“Your conceit surpasses any thing I ever saw.”

When Theresa's bonnet was tied, and she was on the
point of leaving the house, Sarah said: “You are coming
again?”

“Of course she is,” Parke interposed.

“Will you invite me, Mrs. Auster?” Theresa asked.

“If any thing depended on my invitation,” she answered,
“it would be worth while to ask me for one.”

“Oh, mother, you are too modest; ask her to come
and live with us.”

Theresa's color rose. Sarah tossed the row of curls
along her forehead as if they had been little bells, but
her face kept a neutral expression; but the invitation
was cordially given.

“Good-by, Miss Theresa,” said Jason, with the feeling
that he was shaking hands with an episode. He
walked beside her to the gate. She broke a spray of
flowers from a bush which bordered the walk.

“These betoken autumn,” she said; “are you superstitious,
Mr. Auster?”

“Not in the least.”

“There is not a flower here whose emblem is Remembrance.”

“Glad of it.”

“Why, how ungallant you are at the last moment!
Come, I am treasuring the last words of you all. Can
you give me no better?”

Philippa was depositing Theresa's shawl and basket
on the seat of the carriage; his eyes rested upon her.

“As if we needed emblems,” he said.

“They are foolish,” she answered, following the direction
of his glance; “but then there are fools. Keep
this flower, will you? not for remembrance.”

The tone of her voice startled him; he looked at her
so sharply that she turned crimson.

“Give it to me, then,” he said. “Is there any thing
else you could give me?”

“Nothing.”

When the carriage went on, he stuffed the flower in
his vest pocket, and passed out at the gate.

Elsa thought that the house was like a funeral the
whole day, and recommended a course of company year
in and year out. She reckoned the family improved by
being distracted from itself. As for Mr. Auster, she had
seen him something like folks for several times since
Miss Bond came.

Philippa rearranged Theresa's chamber, and made a
retrospect of her visit. Her looks and ways were so
vividly remembered, that Philippa felt able to assume
her identity; but these recollections did not cause any
change in a resolve to act without reference to her relation
with Parke.

When Parke returned from the station, he carried out
a purpose, long postponed, of breaking a filly in harness.
When he was tired of the effort, he sought Philippa,
and kept her with him the whole afternoon, looking
over his stock of music, and singing the familiar songs.
The old life had begun again.