University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

A COOL note from Parke announced to Mr. Ritchings
his wedding-day, and engaged him to perform the ceremony
in his study, on a certain evening. When he received
the application, which from his position he could
not refuse, he fell into a revery, which was ended by his
taking his hat, walking over to Jason's, and asking for
Philippa. He half expected to feel some shock, to see
some change, when she entered the room, but her impassive
countenance was the same. She met his conscious
manner with one so imperturbable, that he would
have felt disconcerted if he had not come with a purpose
nothing could shake. He carefully reviewed the
period of their past acquaintance, and then made her an
offer of his future, promising to consecrate it to her happiness.
She declined it. He made a resolute attempt
at reasoning with her, but she remained obstinately
silent. He set before her his ideas of the basis of a true
marriage, and she merely smiled in an absent way, as if
her thoughts were elsewhere. He left with a burning
heart, and an undesired sense of freedom. It was certainly
all over between them now, and the world was
all before him to teach him how to love anew. When
he woke the next morning he felt the loss of his forlorn
hope, and started upon his duties, cold and spiritless.
Even Philippa felt the end of an episode which connected
her with love, in one heart, at least. For a moment

she was mindful of the generosity which prompted Mr.
Ritchings to come to her when under the cloud of disgrace;
but she forgot it, to count the days to Parke's
wedding, for Mr. Ritchings had told her of the appointment.
She wondered why he waited a day;—there
could be no bridal array for Charlotte! How would
they look side by side, he holding her hand and she
his, in the what-God-hath-joined-together-let-no-man-put-asunder
bond? The bond of perpetuation! What
would her father, Osmond Luce, have said had he been
present in the family conclave when Parke declared his
resolve! She blushed at the thought that he might
have laughed at their feeble resistance—their patient
yielding to his will. Perhaps had her father been there
he might have influenced him; she recalled the incident
of their mutual fondness when she first came to Crest,
of Parke's clinging to him and begging him to return—
while she sat aloof, silent, and neglected. That they
were something alike, she reflected for the first time;
she had never dreamed of thwarting or disputing her
father's will;—how should she have been so infatuated
as to imagine she could bend and subdue Parke?

After the day was appointed for the marriage, Jason
and Parke were closeted for several days. During that
time Parke made his will, but asked Jason not to read it,
who was so troubled at the fact that he informed Philippa,
not daring to tell Sarah.

“If he has made his will he is going away,” she
said.

“That is it; why did I not think of it?”

She rejoiced in the idea: “He would never think of
living with Charlotte Lang!”

“He will be a wanderer,” continued Jason, sadly, “all
his life.”

“It is far better so, Jason.”

“I cannot believe it; why do you think so?”

She hesitated, and he saw into her feelings.

“Shame on your want of generosity, Philippa! Are
not your own feelings deep enough for him for you to
have some mercy on hers?”

“I have no mercy on her miserable weakness.”

“I believe,” he said simply, “that I shall end in hating
your sex.”

“Oh no; for I shall stay here always with you. And
you cannot shake me off.”

His expression changed.

“I have no hope of your happiness here—but you are
so young yet. Could you really have been my daughter,
the idea of a lifetime in this atmosphere would be a
different one to you.”

“There's nothing of the Bedouin in my composition.
I could not be happy, I think, to go from home under
any circumstances. I am like lichen—a thin crust, but
a permanent one.”

“But you will accompany Parke. Your soul and the
soul of his mother will grow round him wherever he is;
and if you do not know where he is, you will have an
imaginary tabernacle for him, where your brightest,
best self will centre.”

How strangely he was speaking of their following
Parke! Had he no interest in him? she thought. But
had it not been so always? She could look back now
to years of indifference on Jason's part.

“I don't know,” she answered thoughtfully, “how

much my soul could gather round any thing foreign to
Crest. When I say Crest, I mean our own surroundings,
you know; lately my vision narrows to these
walls, our acres, each rock and tree, the sea before the
house, the sky over it. Nothing else can contain me.”

Her words seemed a promise to Jason; his thoughts
sped down the vista of future years, and he saw her beside
him ever, and all the powers she had spoken of harmoniously
arranged in his life. An hour afterwards, he
found Sarah in her room, holding her head in her hands.
He observed her strange, opaque, yellow paleness, and
asked her if she was ill.

“Not well,” she replied.

“Would she have any assistance?”

“Nothing.”

It was so evident to him, however, that she was ill,
that he grew anxious and impatient. He moved about
softly, in the hope of attracting her attention; then he
pushed the chairs, folded up her work on the table,
piled the books together, rustled the papers—all to no
purpose. She was motionless, and her eyes were fixed
on vacancy. At last he went out and returned with
Elsa. In his absence Sarah had put her hands over her
eyes. Elsa shook her finger at him as she said,

“Sarah, you feel poorly to-day.”

“I have no heart to set those things to rights that we
spoke of last night.”

“Never mind that; what shall I get you?”

No answer came from her.

“Do go to bed.”

“To-morrow.”

Elsa beckoned Jason out of the room.

“Now, Jason,” she said in a lively voice, “you needn't
worry because I say so—but Sarah is coming down with
a fit of sickness.”

A feeling of every thing's falling in upon itself to utter
ruin oppressed him. Chaos and night would come,
should Sarah go.

“Better get things in order,” she continued; “Gilbert
has been wanting you this hour.”

Hurrying back to Sarah, as he mechanically obeyed
her suggestion, she felt her head, hands, and feet,
without discomposing her.

“Sarah, you ought to go to bed; Jason is worried.”

She refused to move. All day she sat in her chair,
but at night she called to Jason in a hurried voice to
bring her night-clothes. With a wild haste she undressed,
dropped her comb on the floor, and thrust her
black curls under her cap, swaying to and fro. Jason
was afraid to offer any help, but followed her to the bed.
With a sigh she dropped down upon it suddenly, and as
suddenly sprang up with a terrible cry which brought
every soul in the house to the chamber. Jason threw
his arms round her: “Sarah, Sarah, what is it?” he
cried.

“I shall die,” she screamed; “I shall die.”

“Where is the pain, mother?” Parke asked, pale with
dread.

“Philippa,” she said; “oh, my head.”

Philippa made a movement towards her, and stood
looking upon her with a cold helplessness.

“Philippa,” she reiterated. “What do you there?”

Parke crowded the pillows together, and Jason inclined

her gently upon them; she let her head fall back,
still keeping her eyes fixed, with an expression of terror,
upon Philippa, who now came forward and endeavored
to smooth the covers.

“In the name of all that's good and great, Mary, why
are you so mum?” said Elsa. “Send for the doctor.”

“I'll go,” said Parke.

“Stay here,” whispered Elsa.

“I can't stand it,” he replied. “I must get out.”

But the paroxysm subsided; Sarah wiped the sweat
from her forehead and closed her eyes, and all stole from
the chamber except Jason. Philippa went into one of
the dark parlors, for she wanted to be alone, and lament
over her cold dislike for Sarah which nothing could
overcome. A thick gloom shut her in upon herself, in
the face of the apprehension which beset her—of the
senseless, fatuous pride of life, which any hour might
reduce to the most pitiful straits—and betrayed in black
relief how unlovely a thing she was. Sarah's perpetual
coldness, irritation, and anger proved that one at least
understood her unhappy idiocrasy. She exonerated Sarah
from that moment, and made no merit of the perception
which led her to consider how impossible it was for
her to be considered any thing except an intruder and
an encumbrance; but her heart was not softened an
atom. The door opened softly.

“Philippa,” called Parke, “are you here? I have
been looking high and low for you.”

“I am on the sofa.”

He groped along till he found a place beside her.

“The doctor thinks mother is going to have a nervous
fever; she is easy now. Father is going to sit up to-night.

What do you think Elsa is doing?” And his
head went down on Philippa's shoulders.

“I don't know,” she murmured, exquisitely alive to
the fact that his hair brushed her cheek.

“She is making cake that will `keep,” she says.

“She does so, because she has been much disturbed.”

“Did you ever think of the strangeness of mother's
character, Philippa?”

“I have just been thinking of it.”

“Such revelations come so unexpectedly from those
who are the nearest to us! There is something appalling
behind the screen of every-day life, countenance,
custom, clothes. What is it?” he added so abruptly,
that she started.

“It is us,” she answered, scarcely knowing what she
said.

“I see now that mother does not love you. What
has happened between you?”

“My name, my coming, and myself.”

There was no gainsaying her answer; it comprehended
her whole history with his mother.

“Poor girl!”

“No, not that;—not because of her; I have had a
life apart.”

“You have a strength of your own.”

He took her hand and held it silently. “Revelations,”
she thought, “go only just so far.” A bar of
moonlight slanted in through the shutter, fell across
their clasped hands, and made a lattice of light at their
feet. As the moonbeam entered the room, but did not
encompass it, so did Parke's presence enter the gloom
which oppressed her, but did not envelop it. They

had never been together as in that moment; it seemed
as if he had yielded to her something of himself he was
afraid to keep that night. What protection could he
feel with her—he had fallen asleep on her shoulder!
His fair forehead pressed against her mouth, his soft hair
fell on her neck; she wished that he would sleep forever.
The moonlight traversed the floor, and died
against the opposite wall before he stirred.

“Oh, Philippa, are we here?” he said, drowsily, and
stretched out his arms to infold her; “kiss me.”

She bent her head, and they kissed each other. For
an instant the life-long hunger of her soul was stayed.

“You won't strike me again, Philippa?”

It was all over. How she had been mocked! She
started to her feet.

“Why did you let me sleep so long?” He still held
her hand, though she was going over the floor, nor would
he release her till they reached the door of Sarah's chamber;
then he asked her to go in and inquire how his
mother was. Her eyes were wide open, but they wore
a tranquil look. Jason's head was bent over the bedside,
as if he had fallen asleep.

“Is Parke out there?” Sarah asked.

Philippa nodded. “He wishes to know how you
are.”

“I am here,” she answered, in so clear and natural a
voice, that he put his head in at the door, and gave her
a smile.

“Go to bed, boy,” she said.

Jason looked up, and remarked that he believed he
could be trusted as a watcher, and Philippa glided
out.