University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

Several neighbors remained in the house after the
procession left, to restore the rooms to order, and prepare
supper against the return from the grave. One of
them, crossing from one parlor to the other, saw a stranger
standing on the steps before the open door. She set
down the chair she was carrying, and went towards
him.

“What is the matter here?” he asked.

“There is a death in the family.”

“Whose?”

“Mrs. Auster's. The procession left the house but a
few minutes ago.”

“Ah!”

“Will you walk in and take a seat, sir?”

“Thank you, no; but I'll lounge about till the family
return.”

Sauntering down the gravel-walk, as if it were a pleasant
thing to do at that moment, he repeated over and
over again, “That girl, Sarah,” then came back and sat
upon the lowest step.

“Whoever stayed away ten years, though,” he thought,
marking an S in the gravel with his cane, “without somebody's
dying? I wonder I did not hear the bell toll!
Have they given over the custom of letting the world
know the ages of those carried away feet foremost?
Three of us left—myself, the boy, and Philippa. I might

have asked for Philippa, but I should have been bothered
by the curiosity of these people. Will Sarah's ghost
object to my staying here? I could divide honors with
Jason, never with her. I wonder if her curls ever came
out? How many times have I tried to pull them straight!
She should not be buried there—it's not the right kind
of clay. She should be put where there is an eternal
tramp. Pah! I could hear the worms crawl under the
sod up there, it is so still.”

Those within were informed that a stranger was on
the door-steps, and it was concluded that he must be a
relative of Jason's, too late for the funeral. An examination
from the upper windows, however, proved the
conclusion incorrect. Some one discovered his likeness
to Parke, still strong, though Osmond Luce (for it was
he) had changed in the last nine years. His once bright
hair was gray over his forehead, though round his massive
neck a row of brown ringlets still crept. His eyes
were still reckless and gay, but deep wrinkles had gathered
round them, and the lids looked tight and drawn,
like those of birds of prey. There was something loose in
his figure, and weak, in spite of his size and vigor. The
women called him a handsome, grand-looking man. How
easy he was behaving, too, out there on the gravel-walk,
breaking the twigs and flowers as if they were his own!

A little girl came through the open gate, and hurried
up the walk, stopping when she saw him.

“Mrs. Lang wants to know if the folks have come
home from the funeral?” she said.

“They have not,” he replied.

“She sends word to Parke that he must come up there
right away. Charlotte is sick.”

She looked in at the open windows with curiosity, and
over the yard. She had heard what had happened, and
expected to meet something strange.

“What ails Charlotte?” he asked.

“Oh, I don't know.”

“I'll tell him as soon as I see him.”

“Right away,” she repeated, but made no motion to
go, scanning the yard.

“You wish for a flower, don't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pick that red one yonder.”

That's London Pride. Do you live here?”

“No; do you?”

“I guess I do.”

“How many inhabitants are here?”

“Inhabitants!”

“People—folks.”

“I can't tell; mother says that most all the old people
are dead, and that the place ain't what it was once.”

“What was your mother's name when the old people
were alive?”

“Eliza Ames; now it is Smith.”

That name carried him back twenty years. He was
walking the streets of Crest on a moonlight night beside
a handsome, gay girl, who had jilted him, and whom he
was beseeching again with love! “To this favor has
she come,” he thought, “an eleven-year old, sandy-haired
Smith.”

Leaving the step, he traversed the flower-paths till he
found the bitter aromatic southernwood; breaking off a
bit, he said, “Take this to your mother, and tell her
that Prince Osric sent it to her.”

“Its only southernwood,” she uttered with contempt;
“but I'll take it to her. Good-by, sir.”

In a few moments he heard the sound of slowly approaching
wheels, and, planting his hat firmly over his
brows, rose to meet the persons he expected to see. A
number of carriages halted at the gate; the first contained
Jason, Parke, and Philippa. Jason came forward
like one walking in his sleep, and did not see Osmond
till he touched his outstretched hand.

“Cousin Jason, we meet again.”

“Oh yes,” he answered, looking past him into the
house.

“You know me, Osmond Luce?”

“Yes. Sarah is dead, though; you could not come
before, I suppose.” And he half turned as if to recommend
him to the notice of Parke and Philippa, who were behind
him, and, pushing by him, he went up the steps.

Philippa knew her father, and put out her hand silently;
he took it, and, extending the other to Parke, said:
“My poor fellow, my mother was buried on such an
afternoon as this; the sunset seems the same. I remember
that I counted the red bars in the sky as the company
got out of the carriages.”

Tears moistened his eyes as they dwelt on Parke,
whose tearless gaze roved the sky, showing that he had
heard the sense of Osmond's words, but he did not
speak.

“Come in,” said Philippa; “the rest are coming up
the steps.”

“You are the same, Philippa,” said her father abruptly.

“No change,” she answered, as they entered the old

familiar, panelled room. “Parke, you had better go after
Jason.”

“Yes,” said Osmond, “it is the best time for friends
to keep together. We remember how attached the lost
one was to this one or that, and feel charitable; moreover,
we pity each other as victims of the same future,
and resolve a mutual protection. After a while, though,
we separate with a fresh eagerness for our different
ways.”

“You are the same, father,” said Philippa quietly.

“I am glad of it, Osmond,” said Parke, who had paid
no attention to her request. “I am glad you are here.
Open that shutter, Philippa; the people will stay in the
other room, will they? Get me some water, will you,
then?”

“Do you draw water, Philippa?” Osmond asked with
some sharpness.

“When I ask her, she does,” Parke said.

“Did you and Sarah love each other, Philippa?” her
father asked, under his breath.

“No.”

“I thought so. By the way,” turning to Parke, “a
little girl was here not long ago, with a message for you.
Mrs. Lang sent for you because Charlotte was sick.”

“Is she sick?” he muttered confusedly, looking from
one to the other. Philippa's expression underwent so
sudden a change that Osmond comprehended there was
a mystery. Parke took his hat, hesitated—“Osmond,”
he called. Before he could reply, Philippa made so negative
and imperious a gesture, that Parke abruptly left
the room.

Elsa had recognized Osmond at once, but she thought

it best not to bruit his arrival; she therefore marshalled
the guests into supper, and then bustled in to see him.
They fell into a deep talk, and Philippa escaped from
them without notice.

“These are wretched particulars, Elsa,” said Osmond;
“have I come to see the old ship go down?”

“Sarah was at the helm always, you know.”

“We must lash the helm down, and let the craft drift
into smooth water again; it will, you know, in time.”

“No lashing for me. I am going; if I can't die, I can
move!”

“Nonsense; because Parke has been foolish, or because
Jason is a widower?”

“Put it all together, or sort it out, just as you like.
As for Parke's being foolish, he has only been as much
as a man can be—that is, not much, you know. As for
Jason's being a widower—though he is soft, I don't
think he could help it.”

“In view of all the facts, I think that Parke had better
leave Crest.”