University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Sam Rogers was aware of the state of Mr. Ritchings.
They met often at Jason's, and he was the only one of
the coterie whom Mr. Ritchings neglected—the one who
alone could have given him an insight into the real life
of the family. He called him “the whaler,” and “your
awkward friend,” and “the nautical man,” and asked
Sarah what the attraction was about Sam, and why
Parke and Philippa were never bored with his society.
Sarah replied with some asperity, that his courage, honesty,
and perseverance had won him everybody's respect,
and that he was a protégé of her grandfather's. Mr.
Ritchings said no more. Sam had a fondness for chess.
He induced Philippa to learn the game, and evening
after evening they pored over it. He also professed to
have more ear for music than formerly, and often engaged
Parke at the piano. Some kind of a nucleus was
needed, he argued with himself, in that house, for Philippa's
sake—something to knit them together and bring out
their good qualities. He wished that he could play the
family as he played chess. The winter must be passed
pleasantly; therefore when Parke suggested that there
should be a series of cotillon parties, he cheerfully consented
to be manager with him, although he was only in
the jig line himself. The visit to Theresa Bond was put
off till the latter part of winter, and Philippa, since
Parke's heart was in the cotillons, made up some evening

dresses, and practised waltzing with him in the parlors.
Elsa called waltzing the devil's ring-round, but
she must say that she thought Philippa was an adept in
it. Sarah made no opposition to the scheme, because it
was Parke's, and said nothing in its favor, because she
was a member of the church, which disapproved of frivolities.
Her tacit consent was borne out by the fact
that most of the dancers were children of church-members,
like herself, who said “the young will be young,”
and “nature will out,” in spite of the tenet that dancing
was one way of going to perdition.

After the first cotillon party, however, Mr. Ritchings
preached a Calvinist sermon, which made his hearers
nod and wink at each other, with a grim sense of humor
at their deserved punishment. This was the only way
he noticed Philippa's evident pleasure in the cotillons.
It made him heart-sick as well as polemical; it was a
matter in which the line of separation was an iron chain.
Why should a man's profession compel him to take part
against himself? Why should a man's calling be so
much better than himself, that to keep up with its demands
he must play the hypocrite? Not that he wished
to dance—far from it—but he did not wish to be excluded
from Philippa, who was all that could make him
good.

A universal excitement prevailed, when the cotillons
opened at the Crest Hall, among those who went, and
those who stayed at home; a new sensation was felt, because
they were under Parke Auster's auspices, who had
never been prominent in any public enterprise before.
Even the staid Gilbert went to the hall entrance to see
the guests enter; when he returned, he asked Mary who

she supposed was there? Elsa, startled from her doze by
the fire, said, irritably, “Your master, the devil.”

“I shouldn't wonder, Elsa; but, besides him, Mrs.
Lang's girls are there.”

“Oh, gracious!” exclaimed Mary, “well, I never; did
you, Elsa?”

“Who invited them?” asked Elsa.

“The managers, I suppose,” he answered, lighting his
barn-lantern; “Parke Auster, Esq., and Sam Rogers,
Esq.”

“You'd better confine your observations to the barn,”
suggested Elsa.

“Think so? Well, I will.” And he disappeared.

“It's that Sam Rogers's work,” says Mary; “he don't
know who to invite, and who not to. How should he?
been whaling all his life.”

“No, it isn't,” Elsa replied, rubbing her glasses
thoughtfully.

“Those girls haven't been about any to my knowledge.
I never saw either of them.”

“I have.”

“I wonder what they have got on to-night.”

“Pshaw, Mary; do you know who you are talking
about?”

“I believe I do—fugitive slaves.”

“Niggers: let them alone.”

Mary was silenced, and Elsa took a lamp and went to
bed.

The Lang girls were the latest at the dance. Parke
was dancing with Philippa when they entered; as soon
as it was over, Sam Rogers went to him to inquire how
they got in.

“They came with Tim Jones.”

“Did he bring them here without consulting you as
to the propriety of so doing?”

“He spoke of bringing them when he took his
ticket.”

“You consented?”

Parke gave him a rigid stare.

“I did more.”

“Have you seen them before?'

“Since you are getting up a catechism—yes. I saw
Charlotte Lang once with her mother; they came to the
office. I think her extraordinarily beautiful, and that is
why I did it.”

Sam looked at his calm face with a keenness which
was mixed with admiration. He knew he could not
make him lie, yet there was something inscrutable in his
countenance which he could not read. It wore a mask
of marble.

“They won't get any partners.”

“Tim Jones must look out for that. There are different
sets of people here, you observe; the sang azure
would not cover the floor.”

“Damn your French,” said Sam, turning on his
heel.

Clarice Lang, in a short time, defined her position.

“If the managers ask us to dance,” she said to Charlotte,
“we shall not have made a mistake in coming;
otherwise, I shall understand Mr. Parke Auster's invitation.”

“How, Clarice?”

“He is pleased to make an experiment, perhaps.”

Charlotte sighed.

“You always say such things.”

“You are a fool. Don't you see that we are a card
for once? I have no doubt but that Mr. Auster is daring
enough; he shows people that what he chooses to
do, he will do.”

“Then Mr. Jones is daring, too,” said Charlotte, logically.

Clarice shrugged her shoulders.

Several young men were introduced, and begged the
pleasure of dancing with them. Clarice refused coldly,
and Charlotte declined with a gentle grace.

Philippa was amazed at Charlotte's beauty. She
thought of a time, in the twilight region of early childhood,
when she had heard the sound of the lash on
shoulders as lovely as Charlotte's, perhaps; at any rate,
it cut the flesh of her race. Suppose she were tied up
to a whipping-post at this instant, what would be the
tide of feeling? would it change from the contemptuous
coldness now shown to pity and protection? She asked
Parke what he thought of her.

“I think she is too beautiful to be lost in this Sahara;
I pity her from my heart. It is of no use to fight with
imbecility, though; you can see how those girls are received
among the coarse boobies here. I only asked to
have them treated like human beings.”

“Shall I speak to them?”

“No, it is not best,” he said quickly; “I would rather
not have you. Ask Sam what he thinks of them,” he
added, with a laugh.

He danced with no one that evening except Philippa.
Several times he addressed a few words to the Langs.
While he spoke, Charlotte continually looked at him,

and continually averted her eyes from him, and he
scarcely appeared to see her, but he felt that a sure,
irresistible, slow current was setting towards her.
There was one fatal dower between them! Each time
that he left them, Clarice instinctively turned to Charlotte
and eyed her sternly. All the world might have
heard what he said; but Sam Rogers watched his
mouth as the words fell from it, as if they had been reptiles
he would have strangled. When he next came
across Parke, he said, in a voice whose accent of ire and
derision it would be impossible to describe, “I wish the
yellow cook of the Unicorn was here; I'd introduce him
to those wenches.”

“Would you?” Parke answered, flipping his glove;
“how good of you!”

Sam went to Philippa.

“I am almost sorry,” he said, “that we have undertaken
these parties; there is such a mess here—cabin
and forecastle mixed.”

“I am sure it is a success; I never saw such universal
smiling before. What is the matter with you, Sam?
You look worried.”

“I feel like a fish out of water. How I hate these
gloves. If you are pleased, it is all right; I was afraid
you would not like it. Parke is as headstrong as the
devil; look at him.”

He was speaking again with the Langs, who had
never moved from the seats they had first taken.

“Oh, what do you mean, Sam?” and she looked
vexed; “don't you approve of his noticing those poor
girls?”

“Noticing—bah! you speak of him as if he were a

lord, going round among his vassals. I tell you candidly,
Philippa, if he does go to hell it won't be all his
fault.”

She bit her lips with furious anger.

“You are a pretty friend,” she said. “Why not let
him alone, and give up the pretence of being his Mentor?”

“Philippa, I am nobody's friend but yours; I do not
consider all Crest as being worth the snap of my finger
in comparison with you.”

“Then you are Parke's friend, if you are mine.”

“Bother Parke!”

He looked deeply hurt.

“Forgive me, Sam, but you are so foolish.”

“Never mind about my forgiveness, give me yours; I
think I am rather foolish.” And he looked at her fondly
and pitifully, cursing himself inwardly for expecting her
to understand him, or anybody else, and promising himself
to immolate his opinions and acts, in just the way
she would have him. Her hand crept under his, and if
they had been alone she would probably have pulled his
hair, or pinched him. And so the quarrel ended.

When Sarah heard that the Langs were at the party
she gave her shrillest laugh, and begged Jason to learn
to dance. Such things were in accordance with his
ideas. She never dreamed that Parke was the means
of their being invited. Not the slightest uneasiness
crossed her mind as to the place they might attain; she
knew the pride and prejudice of the most humbly born
of Crest too well for that. Had she known, even, that
Parke had been good-natured enough to invite them,
she would have felt no concern beyond ridicule; the

spirit of society was too strong even for his wilfulness
to go beyond a certain point.

The next evening Parke took a walk in the direction
of Mrs. Lang's house. His splendid dog “Bruno” went
with him, and when they came opposite her windows,
Parke said to him, “Speak, Bruno!” A deep yelp
brought Charlotte to the window of an unlighted room.
Man and dog passed slowly along and repassed, Bruno
slouching with his black head close to the ground, and
Parke firmly, with his fair face upturned to the window.
He saw a curtain move, that was all; but it made his
heart knock against his breast, and he felt his will rising
imperiously.