University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

Elsa was looking for clothes-pins that had strayed in
the greensward at the upper end of the orchard, the
next morning, when she saw Mrs. Rogers nodding to her
to come up to the fence, the boundary between the road
where she was walking and the orchard.

“I am just passing along,” said Mrs. Rogers. “How
be you these days, Elsa Bowen?”

“I am so as to be able to look after the odds and ends;
how have you been, Betsy? I haven't set eyes on you
this winter.”

“As tough as a pine knot, or I couldn't stand what I
am obleeged to. Why don't you go out once in a while,
and keep up with what's a-going? You might be astonished
sometimes at what you'd see and hear.”

“See fools, and hear clack.”

“It isn't always clack, though I am not sure about the
fools.”

“What's in the wind now?”

“I do suppose your folks have heard nothing about
themselves, have they? I do wish Mr. Ritchings had
spoken to Jason before now.”

“What is it, for mercy's sake?”

“Charlotte Lang, you know—”

Elsa stooped suddenly, and clutched a clothes-pin,
bringing up with it a handful of grass.

“And Parke—they say there's something wrong between
them.”

“It is a vile lie. Who says so? Where are they who
say it?”

“Now, Elsa, it is no use; the whole town knows it.
Sam knows it—he told me last night—and he said,
`God help Philippa.'”

“God help his mother. What is it to Philippa? It
can't be so, Betsy.”

But Mrs. Rogers convinced her that it was so, by relating
all the particulars, and concluded with, “That
girl ought to be drummed out of town.”

“The hussy!”

“You have got to tell the family; nobody can do it
better. There, don't take on so. I knew you would,
you faithful, attached creetur; perhaps all of it isn't
true, after all. I knew I must tell you. Providence
sent you out this morning for clothes-pins, and me to buy
blue yarn, so that we might meet. I didn't see my way
clear at first; I thought of going to Sarah. I'd rather
face the cannon's mouth than her. She'll die, or she'll
carry it off with the high Parke hand. Didn't my old
man know what that was—steel springs covered with
satin; though I must say Sarah ain't so smooth. You
ain't offended with me, Elsa, for throwing such a burden
on you? 'Tis time something happened—you ought to
be expecting it; think how long the family have prospered
every way. I must be getting along. Do take
something when you go in. Think of my Sam's going
into icebergs for four year.”

“Sam is a credit to you, Betsy,” said Elsa, with a
strong effort to resume her natural manner.

“But he is a man. You can't trust one, you know.
You never can guess the moment he will fail you, and
never the one he won't.”

Elsa's search in the grass continued a few minutes after
Mrs. Rogers had passed on, but she saw nothing there;
her thoughts were fixed on the task before her. There
was no avoiding it. Parke's death she could communicate,
but to be the bearer of such tidings put her to her
trumps. She vowed never to be in such a scrape again;
she would keep her eyes open for the future. She must
be getting forgetful and stupid, or she would have been
on the look-out for his sowing his wild oats. Yes; if
ever the shadow of what must be called living trouble
fell on the family again, she should cut and run. She
was willing, if need be, to bury every one of them; but
she could not stand the wear and tear of disgrace and
misery.

“Though the day of judgment is at hand,” she concluded,
“dinner must be seen to, cooked, and eaten.”
And she went back to the house. Every thing through
the morning was finished in her thorough, methodical
manner, but she was inwardly debating how she should
begin her story, and with whom. Once her heart failed
her. It was when Sarah came into the kitchen to show
her the new-fashioned plaits in the bosom of some shirts
she was making for Parke.

“What if I should not say a word about it?” Elsa
asked herself, with her eyes raised above her spectacles,
examining the work. “It might blow over in time, and
finally come to her ears like a spent storm. But no;
some blundering booby would give them all a shock, and
they would expose themselves to the public.”

“Very handsome, indeed, Sarah,” she said, aloud, “but
a great deal of trouble.”

“I don't mind that for him, you know.”

Here was a chance! Elsa wet her lips, caught her
breath, and—allowed Sarah to go out without speaking
a word.

“That villain, Parke,” she exclaimed, “he ought to be
sent to State's prison—sentenced to hard labor for his
lifetime. It all comes from his having nothing to do.
How could he help having riches left to him, though?
How could he help taking after one or two of his relations?
Poor boy!” And she cried to herself softly,
wiping the tears away under her glasses as fast as they
came, till Jason's entrance interrupted their flow. He
took a seat in the corner of the hearth, and lighted a
cigar, which Elsa thought was just the thing to forward
her purpose. Taking a basket from the window-shelf,
she sat down near him, and began to sort its contents
and study his aspect, and the probable effect upon him
of what she was about to say. It never struck her till
now how stern and upright a look he wore. There was
a certain hard, cool air about him, which convinced her
that he would go and knock Parke down, as soon as he
had heard her story. She instinctively penetrated his
view of the case, which would be to side with Charlotte
Lang. He would take her wrongs into full consideration.
That would be awful. Still, she must trust to his sense,
which was the best she knew of.

“Have you been round to the stores this morning?”
she asked.

“What upon earth should I go to the stores for, unless
sent by you on some small errand?”

“You might hear something, you know.”

Her trepidation was painful. She thought he would
comprehend instantly something of the truth, and it was
a great relief to hear him answer: “Elsa, what do I want
to hear the gab of the stores for?”

“I know you don't.” And she laughed almost hysterically.
It was impossible for her to tell him.

“I have been on board the Hesper, though. She hauled
down the bay early this morning. I can't imagine why
I didn't take to the sea.”

“It is too late now. Are you tired of comfort, Jason?”

“Comfort is tedious when it lasts too long.”

At that instant Gilbert called Jason away, and Elsa
was glad of it. At dinner she lingered with Sarah over
a cup of tea, when the rest had left the table and gone.

“Sarah Auster,” she exclaimed suddenly, “you are
nothing but skin and bone! You must take medicine.
The least wind would blow you away.”

“It's my business whether I am skin and bone or not,”
she replied crossly. “I am well enough, and shan't take
medicine.”

“Oh, very well. I don't recommend any thing at all;
but you are sick, you know you are.”

The clatter of dishes which Elsa rather resentfully
made, drove Sarah from the table, and Elsa remarked to
herself that perhaps their sorrows had only just begun.
Something certainly ailed Sarah, and none of them had
perceived it. She took a desperate resolve, and went to
Philippa's room, and found her embroidering a cushion.

“Philippa Luce, you might as well know it as anybody.”

“Tell me, then,” replied Philippa, calmly sticking her
needle in the canvas.

“Mrs. Rogers told me this morning that Sam told her
last night that it was all true. It is all over town—everybody
knows it.”

“I don't know it yet.”

Elsa turned her back to Philippa, and began to dust
the shelf with her apron.

“Charlotte Lang has made mischief.”

“Well,” said Philippa, rising like an automaton.

Still dusting the articles on the shelf, Elsa told the tale.
Philippa was so still that she turned to look at her. She
was chewing a bit of silk floss, and her eyes were fixed
on the floor.

“And,” continued Elsa, “you have got to tell Jason
and Sarah.”

“Never.”

“Oh Lord, Philippa!”

“I never will speak of it to one human being—unless
it be to Parke, or,” she added, with a frightful hauteur,
“to that slave.”

“Yes,” cried Elsa, “she is Parke's slave, and you
know it. But whose slave will be Parke's child, with
your blood in its veins?”

“That will do,” said Philippa, shuddering with disgust.

“No, it won't do, Philly; don't feel so. Don't you
know human nature?”

“No.” And she looked away from Elsa, out of the
window. The world seemed stretching round her a
wide, flat, lonely plain, over which she must plod by herself,
for she had no “human nature” like this. An acute
vision of Parke's abandonment to a wild, isolated happiness,

such as she knew he could enjoy, passed before her
mind, and for an instant she felt his utter separation from
her. But not even this glimpse into the abyss of passion
suggested the idea of renouncing him. It created a barrier
against her which filled her soul with hatred, but not
with despair.

“We are punished for human nature, though,” said
Elsa; “and what will his punishment be?”

“In what he makes me suffer.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Elsa, ironically, “it will be no injury
to his mother, of course. And the pride of the Parkes
won't be taken down in Crest! The last of them has
exceeded all the evil-doers of the name.”

Philippa had not thought of Sarah. She had thought
of no one besides herself. But now she asked what Jason
would do.

“He won't have a breach of promise case, I assure
you.”

With an inward trembling Philippa resumed her embroidery,
and, like Imogen,

“What do you mean?”

“Enough said, at present,” she answered, in a loud,
cheery voice. “I've got plenty to do, and I'll go and
do it. I'll wash my hands, just now, of everybody's
business but my own.”

Philippa threw down her work, and with locked
hands and a rigid face turned the matter over in her
mind. She determined to show no emotion before Jason
and Sarah, let come what would. Neither for any one,

nor in any cause which pertained to that unhappy affair,
would she change one habit, intention, or plan. She
was somewhat shaken when she went down stairs and
met Parke in the hall, and exclaimed involuntarily, “I
know it all—you—”

His hand was on her mouth.

“Not a word shall pass between us,” he said. “Never,
Philippa. Cross the gulf in silence, or let it be impassable.”

The nervous pressure of his hand against her mouth
subdued her; she stood still and dumb, with her eyes
averted. His hand fell, and he bent forward to look at
her; the sight gave him a curious sensation of pain and
surprise. She was evidently in an inward fury; he noticed
her strange eyes—the spots in them seemed alive
—her scarlet, burning lips, and her waving, vivid hair;
he thought of the “Sphinx” again, and wondered if
Theresa would not give her the name of Pythoness,
now.

“I am going to Theresa, to-morrow,” he said, gently.

A faintness came over her, which she struggled
against. She grew so pale that he extended his arm to
catch her, but she caught hold of the balusters for a
support, and then raised her eyes to his face, so full of
mad resolution and defiance that he forgot it was Philippa.

“Say adieu,” he said haughtily, “and kiss me.”

She struck him so violently in the face that he was
blinded, and could not see her as she ran up stairs
again.

While he was gone on his visit to Theresa, Sam
Rogers sailed on his voyage to the Arctic seas. It was

between daylight and dark that he went to Jason's to
say farewell, the day before his departure. He hoped
no lamps would be lit; he would rather not see their
conscious faces, for he supposed that Jason had heard
the truth. After a hurried chat, he rose to shake
hands.

“I have got to row off in a hurry, after all. Shall I
bring you an Esquimaux waiting-maid, Philippa, or a
reindeer?”

Their hands were grasped tightly, there was no need
of words.

“You'll never see me again,” said Elsa, half jocosely,
half sorrowfully; “I am going to step out.”

“Who will step in your shoes, Elsa?”

“Oh, plenty.”

“Elsa wants to be coaxed to live,” said Sarah.

“Live, I entreat you,” he begged, and bending over
her, whispered a few words in her ear.

“I promise,” she answered.

Sarah took his hands in hers, and looked at him sadly.

“Four years is a long time, Sam; but I do not know
that we should doubt them, any more than we doubt to-day.
I am truly sorry to lose you.”

“God bless you, Mrs. Auster. All hands, good-by.
I shall meet Jason outside.” And waving his hat, he
dashed out. Philippa had already disappeared. As the
gate swung to after him, he saw her standing under the
firs, in the corner he must pass. There was too much
light still for him to escape, or he would have rushed
by, feigning not to see her.

“You sent no message to Parke,” she said, quietly,
when he reached her.

“Oh,” he answered, carelessly, “I said my last words
to him.”

“Will you send your love to him?”

“My love isn't worth sending to man nor woman.”

“You lie, Sam; it is worth sending to both.”

“Ha! you begin to appreciate my immense goodness.”

“May I tell Parke, I ask, that you sent him your
love?”

“Tell him what you please. Give me one kiss, Philippa?”

She stood on tiptoe and met his lips; then tapped him
on the shoulder, with a nod, which sent him on his way
smiling and sighing.