University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI

The house in the order she destined it to be, Parke
settled at home, looking forward to no change—what
remained for Sarah but repose? A thorn grew in her
spirit, which rendered nugatory her well-earned content.
She could no longer disguise the fact that Mr. Ritchings
loved Philippa. It angered her to see that his love was
not received as a favor, with gratitude and agitation;
and it angered her to know that a man whom she respected
and admired should think of selecting Philippa
for his wife. It irritated her also to understand that he
might place Philippa in a position where she could, by
her money and name, aid him in his career more than
she herself loved to aid him. She determined to caution
him. The caution was well conveyed; it influenced him,
but did not bring him to the point of ending his hopes.

Philippa was, so Sarah said, peculiarly unfitted for
the place a minister's wife should occupy. Under the
most favorable circumstances, it was disadvantageous
for him to select a wife in his own parish; it was sure
to create dissension in all its families, except the one he
married into. It was a familiarity on his part that bred
him contempt—falling in love, courtship, engagement,
marriage, should be performed afar off. Under unfavorable
circumstances, as in Philippa's case it would be,
the state of things would be far worse. She was not
admired; she was cold; had no friendships in Crest—no
interest.

“Her property is an interest, is it not?” he asked.

“What do you know about that?” she asked sharply.
“Has Jason—”

“Jason has said nothing,” he answered haughtily.
“I have asked him nothing. But if ever a girl understood
what the `sentiment of the soil' is, it is Philippa.”
It is incredible, but she continued, without actually
lying, to give him an impression that it was by no
means certain that Philippa would inherit much of the
“soil;” her father was still alive—a man of reckless character
and extravagant habits, who would prove a curse
to him, should any relation be established between
them.

“In all the years,” taking up the topic of her character
again, “I have never heard one expression of
gratitude or affection from her. I have watched over
her when ill, day and night.” A real tear shone in
Sarah's eyes, which he credited, for he knew that she
had most carefully watched over Philippa, of whose regard
and devotion to Parke he tried to speak.

“He makes devotion easy, you know; he has the
power and means of gratification far more than you
have. Besides, she has grown up with him, and affection
between them is a habit. She is a creature of habit.”

“Is she entirely devoid of passion?” he asked, with a
flushed face.

“There,” she replied, with a contemptuous sparkle in
her sharp eyes, “you step on ground I know nothing
about. I do not look into such questions.”

“Why don't you?” he said roughly; “society hinges
on questions like these. You, a wife and mother, ignore
them.”

She tossed her curls. “I presume we differ in our
ideas.”

“In describing Philippa,” he said, in an exasperating
voice, “I fancy you have described your model in spite
of yourself; she is one not to be moved by a man's love,
nor his hate.”

“Experiment for yourself, then; I have spoken for
your good alone, against one whose father is my nearest
relation. You must know that I am in earnest.”

From the time of this discourse, his conduct towards
Philippa was a curious mixture of neglect and watchfulness,
the satirical and the dignified, the perplexed
and the determined.

To watch him, and distrust his strength, to lay up a
store of irritation against Philippa's insouciant behavior
towards him, became the task which prevented any
folding of the hands, and drove Sarah at the old speed.

Mr. Ritchings haunted the house and the whole family.
If he met Jason in the street, he turned and walked
with him; if he saw Parke riding, he beckoned to be
taken up and conveyed to some place he had no previous
intention of going to. He appeared to have discovered
that Elsa was an “original,” and made frequent raids
into her territory; but he never talked of Philippa—not
even to Sarah did he again mention her.

Elsa met his advances with an air of simplicity which
made Jason laugh, and speak to her of the condition he
knew Mr. Ritchings to be in. He was working, he said,
against wind and tide.

“My opinion is,” she replied, “that beaux won't interfere
much with her; but if she should ever set her
heart on anybody, she will hold on like grim death to

him. She is like her father there; he had but few ideas
but they were strong ones. I hope she never will fancy
she loves some man.”

“Why not?”

“Because she will be disappointed, most likely.”

“No she won't; she shall not be.”

“We are all disappointed, for that matter—don't you
think so? If we reach up to a round above us in the
ladder, we have to let go the one we stand on; then we
look back on it, and are sorry we moved. If we don't
reach up, we are looking up. Mr. Ritchings is in just
such a fix.”

“We are all disappointed, are we?”

“I don't know that you are. Neither death, disgrace,
nor poverty, have knocked at your door yet.”

“Disgrace has.”

“Why, Mr. Auster, you scare me; you are joking.”

“Disgrace has knocked at my door with a lantern in
her hand.”

He was forgetting himself, but her disturbed face recalled
his thoughts.

“She comes to most people in the dark, I guess,” she
said, hastily. “I only knew you when you were first
married; if you had any by-gones before that, hadn't
they better be by-gones? How well I remember your
wedding-coat!”

“Blue, with brass buttons;—where is it?”

“Why, Sarah cut it up the other day; I guess it was
moth-eaten.”

“Did she?” A look of pain passed over his face.

“Do you expect Osmond Luce to come back ever?”
she asked, suddenly.

“I think he will come; why do you ask?”

“In case Philippa should change her mind about Mr.
Ritchings, what a nice father-in-law he would make a
minister!”

“He is not so bad, Elsa; he gave up his rights to
Philippa, you know.”

“That was because he didn't want them, you may
depend; if he had, heaven and earth would not have
kept him out of them. Dilly-dallying here won't make
my pie-crust, though.”

She vanished from the kitchen, where she had held
her confab, into the adjoining buttery.

Jason was moody; he seemed to himself to have been
but a dull clod. He had droned in Crest and had his
wedding-coat cut up, while Osmond Luce, breaking
every shackle, like the bold, generous spirit that he was,
had made himself free, and had followed out his true
impulses. He—Jason—too, had been troubled with
some ideas about improving Humanity! He should be
glad now to have it proved that he had made himself a
little wiser and better than he was when he started on
the tour of life; the sunshine, the fair tideless river, had
tempted him, and he had laid on its banks, like a hulking
beast, gaping for flies. His face grew dark, and the
muscles hardened round his mouth like iron cords; he
rose and stretched his hands above his head, striking
with his palms the ceiling. At that moment Philippa
entered by the porch door, with a branch of maple in
her hand crimsoned by the October frost. She had
been taunted by Sarah that day; to escape her, and her
own feelings, she had gone into the distant fields, and
skirted the borders of the woods, till she was utterly

fatigued. She paused when she saw Jason; the electrical
atmosphere of a perturbed spirit passed from one
to the other; it produced in her a vague wish to be understood
by him, and in him an emotion which made
him curious.

“Look at this, Jason. I brought it from the Bartlett
fields; there is a line of maples blazing up there.”

She approached him.

“Have you been so far?”

“Yes; Gilbert is up there, with the dogs.”

“The dogs have run away.”

He kept his eyes fixed upon her face, but with an expression
of self-assertion and self-mastery that made him
look kingly. The branch was extended to him; he took
it and twirled it to and fro;—a heavenly smile broke
over his sorrowful eyes.

“Thank you, Philippa.”

“Oh, I am not going to give it to you; I promised
Theresa to gather her some autumn leaves.”

He was thanking her—not for the crimson branch,
but for appearing before him then, to make him remember
that at least he could suffer nobly. He handed it
back to her.

“Theresa must have all she wants,” he said.

“No, not every thing.”

“Don't you think so?”

“Why, no; do you?”

Surprised at the tone of her voice, he was silent, while
she stripped every leaf from the branch so slowly that
he counted each one as it fell; with the last she looked
up. Her eyes made him wonder what the matter was
with her.

“Do you mean any thing concerning Parke?” he
asked.

“Yes.”

“There is nothing wrong, I hope; he still likes her,
does he not? They like each other;—a very happy
match, I should say.”

“I thought you might know, Jason,” she almost whispered.
The truth burst in upon him.

“What—what, what?”

“That I have believed—that I myself should marry”—

It was beyond his power not to put his hand over her
mouth; he stifled the name between her lips. She saw
he knew it, but could not understand the check. Elsa
made a providential clatter close by them, and she attributed
it to that. A wave of anguish dashed over
him, followed by a host of roaring, crawling, cruel emotions,
that rent him asunder; he felt as if soul and body
were parting.

“Come in the dining-room,” he said, calmly; “Elsa
is noisy.”

Half leading, half carrying her, he placed her on a
sofa and himself beside her, and then, as the room was
darkened by blinds and shades, he allowed his pain,
amazement, and perplexity to fight as best they might.
In her profound egotism she thought that he was considering
how her wishes could be brought about.

At last he said, “Can Parke make you happy?”

“I was happy with him.”

“Could Theresa be happy with him?”

“He would not be with her.”

“Ah!”

“I think there is no engagement between them.”

“None?” he asked, bitterly; “what were they doing
together here?”

“Trifling.”

“It was that, was it? Trifles do not disturb you?”

She was abashed at his accent, but said in a firm voice,
presently, “Jason, if our lot is cast with another's, we
must bear all the crosses, as well as our own hopes. My
judgment sanctions all that I would do. Do not believe
that I am mistaken.”

One of the parlor doors opened, and Sarah entered
with her hands full of some sort of sewing-work.

“You are posted here, are you?” she said, when she
perceived them; “but it is not necessary to keep in the
dark, is it?”

Jason rolled up the shade, and threw open the blind.

“Will you sit down?” he asked.

“Are you talking over business?”

“Oh no!”

Philippa felt towards her a repulsion which acted like
a charm; she wished—in a lethargic way, however—that
the charm would vanish, so that in some shape she could
hurt her.

“Philippa has talked a great deal to-day,” Sarah
said.

“We were speaking now,” Philippa replied, “of Theresa.”

“You don't approve of her, I suppose.”

“Nonsense, Sarah,” said Jason; “why should she approve
of her? because she flirted with Parke?”

Sarah looked very angrily at Jason; his manner was
unusual.

“Are you putting your finger in the pie?”

“If you mean a match between Theresa and Parke,
yes,—I oppose it.”

He left the room before she could reply to him.

“Are you influencing him?”

“What makes me dislike you so utterly?” asked Philippa;
“I cannot account for it.”

“Answer me—what does he mean?”

“I'll answer you nothing just now.”

“I advise you not to meddle in anybody's love affairs,
if that was the subject of your discourse.”

“Love!” cried Philippa; “yes, that was the word.
Do you know it?”

She rose from the sofa, with glittering eyes fixed upon
a distant something, and clasped her hands together
with an inspired gesture, which reminded Sarah of the
episode of the rosary.

“You are crazy,” she said.

“I have been mad for years; do you think that I
should have lived with you if I hadn't been?”

Light flashed in upon Sarah's mind also. “Had Philippa
been idiot enough to expect to gain Parke?” she
thought. If it was so, she would never allow Philippa
to dream that such a thing was possible. It was not
possible, as far as Parke was concerned, and yet—there
was the property, which might be all his again. But no,
the idea of that girl being his wife was not to be thought
of. She started up with an energetic movement, and
said, “Don't show that you are cracked to more people
than you can help. If Jason has nothing better to do,
he can listen to you. I wish you to attend to those pillow-cases
I spoke to you of.”

“Yes,” said Philippa, with the habit of obedience, “I
will.”

“Here, here,” called Elsa, from the passage, “whose
litter of leaves is this? Sarah, I want you in the buttery.”

Mr. Ritchings, the unconscious agent of this development,
came that very evening to the panelled parlor,
where Philippa sat stitching the pillow-cases, and Sarah
knitting. It would seem as if that day's turbulent life
included him in its outward circling waves. With Philippa's
scissors, and on her side of the table, he snipped
paper, and talked philosophy which was full of calm bitterness.
Sarah sympathized with him, and Philippa
coldly combated. Parke had gone to pay a visit somewhere;
Jason and Elsa were absent, but Sarah maintained
the field, which he wished was clear. She grew
jocose, and compelled him to listen to her.

“It is too cold to open the window, I suppose,” he
said, at last. “You should see the moon to-night.”

Philippa rose, threw up the sash, and stepped out on
the terrace.

Sarah looked up at him with a restraining eye.

“Why do you sit in this room so much?” he asked,
impatiently. “These dark panels oppress me; haven't
the walls the power of contracting?”

“You would breathe more freely outside.”

“To tell you the truth—yes.”

“Go, and have done with it,” she said, suddenly, and
somewhat sadly. “Philippa has been a whirlpool before
to-day.”

“Whirlpools have one advantage—they don't leave a
wreck behind.”

“I thought differently—that all sorts of things would
come tossing ashore with every storm, from their depths.

I feel it is so.” And she shivered. “The house seems full
to me of spoils that have been destroyed by their ungovernable
rage.”

He had followed Philippa. Sarah laid down her knitting,
crossed the room several times, and then stopped
before a portrait of the Squire, painted at the age of
forty.

“She is contemplating her ancestor,” he thought, casting
a look backward. “Why don't she give up her
vanity and vexation of spirit before that representation
of sublime selfishness?”

Philippa was pacing to and fro between a row of
shrubs and the windows. The moon, midway in the
sky, sailed up from a bank of clouds, and dispersed them
in a pearly shower of vapor which sped its way before
her. Under the horizon the sea, struck by its waves,
ran hither and thither—a world of billows without a
margin. Crest lay half in shadow, half in light, wrapped
in the mysterious silence which is inseparable from
moonlight. Never does the soul feel so far from human
life as when a man finds himself alone in the vistas of
the moon, either in the streets of a sleeping city, the
avenues of the woods, or by the border of the sea.
Earth, swayed perhaps by her powerful satellite, withdraws
her sympathy from him, and he wanders in a
white void, wondering if he was born to be thus annulled.

“Does this beauty make you feel that you

Mr. Ritchings asked, pacing beside her.

“No; I think of lunatics in moonlight nights. There
is no wind, but the atmosphere is full of chilly moisture.”

“Let me get you a shawl. Don't go in; walk down
the path with me.”

She declined the shawl, but assented to the walk.
They went down the terrace. He endeavored to take
her hand, but she quietly folded one over the other, and
prevented him.

“I read a horrid thing the other day,” she said,
“`Christable.' I am reminded of it to-night.”

They stopped before the gate. Surveying the road
below it a moment, he said, in a matter-of-fact way, “I
wish you would walk down the path of life with me.”

“You really wish it?” she asked, confronting him.

“If you were not the coldest, most insensible girl in
the world, you would have known my wish long ago.”

She shook her head slightly. Cold as she was, the
sight of her at that moment of soft, subdued light, standing
under the rolling sky, the dark trees round her, alone
with him, sent his blood warmly through his heart. She
wore a dark dress, which, with the shadows, concealed
her form, but her head and face looked angelic. Her
fair, flowing hair, her firm brow, her sweet mouth, her
little hands, which moved restlessly, made a picture that
hung in his memory long after.

“Believe me,” she said, in a broken voice, “I could
never satisfy you.”

“That I know. But I love you.”

“I beg you,” she said, in a gentle voice, “to give up
all hope.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I can only be your poor friend.”

“You are very young, Philippa. You may be more
yet to me.”

“My character is not formed,—you would say?” she
asked quickly.

“Precisely.”

He would have it a drawn game.

“Well, let us walk back,” she said, and to compel him
to do so, she placed her arm in his.

Sarah had resumed her knitting. She did not raise
her eyes, but began to chat as soon as they entered.
Philippa was silent. She judged that Mr. Ritchings
might be as persistent in his feelings as she was in hers,
and she did not know how to manage him. He soon
bade Sarah good-night, but instead of going home,
walked beyond the town, till he heard the baying of
Jason's dogs in the woods. He wished, for a moment,
to change places with that “free, indifferent, rough man,
the delicacy of whose feelings would never stand in the
way of his happiness.” At that moment Jason was
lying in the depths of the woods, half buried in the falling
autumn leaves, so still that the “wingless airs” crept
about him undisturbed, so sad that the leaves were
moistened with his tears.