University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Parke was, and always had been, intimate with Sam
Rogers, and until the house was in order Sam stayed at
home and received visits from him, and saw but little
of Philippa.

The Squire's mahogany sideboard, his spider-legged
tables, looking-glasses in carved frames, chests of drawers,
and high-post bedsteads, were removed to the garret,
and left to cobwebs. The dingy carpets, and straw-bottomed
chairs, and sofas invented by Torquemada, or
some other inquisitor, were removed, and gay French
furniture took their places. Crimson and green—drab
and blue prevailed. The sombre, quaint character of
the old régime vanished; its irregular air of comfort
faded in the new splendor. Some fine old curtains of
damask and Indian chintz were pulled down, and a
wretched combination of brocatelle and embroidered
lace was put in their place. The house, in short, was
more changed in Sarah's hands than it had been in
Jason's. Philippa successfully combated the assault
upon her apartment—one of the largest in the house.
There was but one alteration: the old-fashioned white
dimity coverings and curtains were taken away, and
pale-green chintz dotted with rose-buds substituted.
She regretted the ancient white fringes—the dancing
dolls of her childish imagination. The chintz, however,
gave the room a cheerful look, which it had never worn

before. She covered the elephantine sofa and the immense
tester over her bed with it, and the oak chairs
with high backs. There were no pictures on the walls,
and no books, except a little pile of volumes bound in
leather, and marked “Osmond Luce.” Nothing, in her
estimation, could be more pleasant than this room; its
plainness and freedom from small rubbish were excellences.
She pictured Theresa in her own room at home
—as she had described it—a museum of grasses, “immortelles,”
weeds, plants, engravings, coins, and china,
and wondered how she should enjoy herself in the Bond
family, for Theresa had urged her to spend the winter
with her.

One day, when she was perched on the large sofa, she
heard Jason calling her; he opened the door as she answered,
with the shell cabinet in his hand. Seeing her
on the chintz sofa, he thought of a humming-bird.

“Here, missy, is the thing for your shells.”

She sprang up with thanks, the warmer for having
forgotten all about it, and asked him where she should
put it. He made a tour of the walls, setting the cabinet
in different places to try its effect, and finally concluded
to fasten it over the mantel. Before he had finished
nailing it, Sarah put her head in at the door, and looked
round with a critical eye.

“I heard a pounding,” she said. “What! have you
only finished that thing just now?”

“Yes; is this the place for it?”

“I think so. How you have puckered the top of the
sofa-cover, Philippa!”

“It suits me very well,” Philippa answered; “as well
as any thing can in the place of the fringed dimity.”

“I can remember when grandmother sewed the fringe
on. She worked hard always, but I believe she was
never as tired as I am.”

“Are you tired?” asked Jason.

“Yes; should you not suppose so?”

“I wish you to do nothing.”

“Things would come to a pretty pass, wouldn't they
—especially with Philippa perched on her great-grandfather's
sofa?”

“It is mine now, and I am glad my great-grandfather
is dead.”

“Speaking of your grandfather, Sarah,” broke in Jason,
“when do you expect to be done with your furnishing?”

“Soon; and when it is once done, it is done forever
with me.”

“Well, I wish we could have some apple-fritters for
supper.”

She laughed, and vanished.

“Forever,” repeated Philippa, running her finger
along a line of calico rose-buds. “Forever is a long
word.”

“But,” said Jason, raising his hammer as if about to
strike the word, “there are such words, even in this
world—the same as in Eternity.”

She looked at him with surprise, for there was something
pathetic in his voice.

“Yet,” he continued, with a laugh, “there was an
end to grandmother's fringe.”

“How well that cabinet looks, Jason,” she said, with
a desire to give him some sort of encouragement.

He snapped his white teeth together, and stifled a

sigh of self-pity, threw up his hammer in the air, caught
it, turned on his heel, and left the room.

When they met at supper, Sarah beamed behind a
heaped-up dish of apple-fritters, for which Jason expressed
becoming gratitude.

“Is the struggle about over, mother, with carpets and
things?” Parke asked.

“About.”

“We are forehanded with the fall, this year,” said
Elsa.

“Let's have a party for benighted natives, and show
them our furniture,” suggested Parke.

“Don't be foolish,” said Sarah; “but we must have
company on Mr. Ritchings's account, and Sam Rogers's.”

“It is almost a month,” said Jason, “since any thing
was done for Ritchings by the female parishioners.”

“Anyhow,” cried Parke, “we'll give Sam Rogers an
entertainment.”

Philippa laughed at the idea of Sam's enjoying company,
but Parke was in earnest. He had a chivalrous
feeling for Sam, which did him honor, especially as he
was aware that his friendship was gratuitous; indeed, it
was the only friendship he had ever sought. There was
no similarity between them; they never liked the same
people, nor held the same opinions. Sam never took any
trouble to please Parke, but he was not insensible to his
attachment. At first Sam flatly refused to attend Mrs.
Auster's party, but he was the earliest guest who appeared.
He came early, he said, that he might stow
himself away somewhere. He laughed more shyly, and
spoke with more vehemence, than was his wont; but he
did not change color, or lose his tongue. Parke took a

survey of him, and admired his manliness. Philippa directed
him to sit beside her, if he did not wish to receive
any attention. She could not help contrasting him with
Parke, and taking him for just what he was worth, as she
in her thoughts expressed; how much higher in the scale
Parke stood! Sam was all over brown, face, hands, and
hair, which last was so thick, short, and curly, it would
not part. His nose was large, and his mouth wide; his
eyebrows were close together, and his eyes were small,
but they were keen and penetrating. Parke's serene,
marble-like brow, the faint bloom coming and going in
his cheeks, his large, sensitive eyes, his firm, beautifully-cut
mouth, the indescribable, unconscious grace of his
attitudes, the movement of his head, and his air of repose
and self-possession, proved him worthy of Philippa's
ideal.

“What did you let mother have the pattern of this
choking collar for, Philippa?” Sam growled. “I am
strangled and miserable.”

“Ha, old fellow,” said Parke, “you have come to
wearing something like what I wear. Thanks, Philippa.”

“I could not thwart your mother's ambitious views
for you,” Philippa replied.

“Mother is losing her wits.”

“You are an only child, remember.”

“Say, Philippa” (Parke had turned away), “is Mrs.
Auster as soft on Parke as she used to be? He has
grown up to be just what I thought he would be.”

“What is that?”

“He has never checked one of his tendencies, nor had
them checked.”

“We differ about him,” she said, gently.

“You are soft yourself about him, as you always
were, hey?”

He was embarrassed, looked down on his hands, and
opened and shut them as if they were his safety-valves.
She looked at them, too, and for the hundredth time
noticed the blue stars and crescent moon pricked in India-ink
on his right hand.

“He is enthusiastic about you,” she said.

“He is a fine fellow, and ought to go whaling,” he answered,
with an expression which denoted that he should
say no more to her about Parke.

She was called away, and he amused himself by shuffling
a pack of cards, which he took from a table near
him, and studying Philippa. He feared that she, too,
had grown up to be what he suspected four years ago;
he knew her too well to hope that her feelings would be
changed by any ordinary grief or disappointment. All
that could be done for her, in case Parke should break
her heart, would amount to very little, for she would
accept no consolation. He had dubbed himself her
knight when she was a small girl, however, and he
would, in his own fashion, stand between her and harm.
She would never perceive it, so he might as well make the
effort. Who would, if not he? She never had a real
friend in her life. “Damned shame,” he almost said
aloud, and struck his knee so that the cards fell in a
shower at his feet. Looking up, he saw Parke contemplating
him.

“Avast,” said Parke, when he met his eye.

“Avast it is. Look here.”

“I am.”

“What about that gal mother told me of, who has
been visiting here?”

“I'll show you her picture, if you will step out.”

“How many have you collected since I went off?”

“My collection is small, but choice.”

“And important, if true.”

Parke led the way into his room, and was obliged to
look in several places before he could find Theresa's picture,
which fact Sam noted.

“There,” said he, producing it; “isn't that stunning
to your harpooning mind? Did you ever see a handsomer
face?”

“I have seen a better one.”

“Of course, you must detract. Have you a suspicion
that I am in love with the owner of that face?”

“You may have more than a suspicion that you are;
but you are not.”

He tossed the picture on a pile of books, and stared
at Parke.

“It is no go,” he said.

Parke returned the stare, and answered: “It all depends
on your decision, my brave tar, of course. I have
only waited for you to come from your ancient and fish-like
calling, to be settled in life.”

They reappeared in the parlor, arm in arm, and Sarah
remarked complacently to Mrs. Rogers, that it was
pleasant to see Sam's delight in the society of Parke.

“I don't know,” Mrs. Rogers replied, “which he
makes the most of, Philippa or Parke; but I reckon he'd
do any thing to please Philippa.”

Sarah sneered; but the sneer was lost on the good-natured
Mrs. Rogers.

“Jason sticks to his rule still,” she added, “of not
making his appearance when there is any company
round.”

“He is a poor hand at entertaining people.”

“Now I don't agree with you; I find him an excellent
companion.”

“He does seem to be at home with you,” Philippa
remarked. “I wonder why?”

“Trot right off, Philippa, and attend to Mr. Ritchings;
he don't take his eyes off of you.”

Sarah bit her lips, and looked round at him angrily.