Two men :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Think well of it;—a life of adventure once begun
never ends, except by the casualties incident to it,
which are many. You have something—a great deal—
to keep you here; you are your own master. I was not
when I left Crest; not until I put this ancient town far
behind me did I know what it was to belong to myself.
You have almost too much money to commence my
career picturesquely.”

“Can't we spend it?”

Osmond snapped his fingers. “Ossa on Pelions
of it.”

A glimmering of Osmond's disposition dawned in
Parke's mind; he mused.

“You gave up your share of your grandfather's property,
didn't you?” he asked.

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“If I hadn't I should have made ducks and drakes of
it. Owing to your mother, I think, my pride would not
allow me, so I made it over to Philippa. I had a trifle
then, besides.”

“Poor Philippa!”

“Don't be Quixotic; she is not too grateful to me,
you see.”

“I'll leave the best of mine here.”

“Make the offer to your father; give him what you
don't want—the income, I mean.”

“As much as he'll take, of course; but you must
know that he has been as generous with me as you have
been with Philippa.”

“That is, he absolutely refused to be indebted to his
wife.”

“It appears to me that we are a lot of proud fools together.
I'll go and confer with him now.”

“You don't mind leaving Philippa?” Osmond asked,
experimentally.

Parke stopped—looked into the recesses of his hat.

“Yes, by Jove, she will miss me. I hate to tell her.
What can she do in this cursed spot alone?”

“She can weave a web, like Penelope.”

“But no suitors will drop in.”

“Mr. Ritchings.”

“That's over, some time ago.”

“Sam Rogers—her paragon.”

“Old Sam is a hero. To him she is an idol, to be
worshipped from afar; to her he is something better
than her dog, only she hasn't one—a little dearer than
my horse.”

“You put him on a high pedestal.”

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“He is a noble man, but a blockhead, you know.”

Osmond doubted whether he was so much a blockhead,
for Elsa had given him a pretty correct impression
of the strength of Sam's character; but he did not
mention his doubt.

“Philippa is cut out for an old maid,” continued
Parke. “She is self-absorbed, not selfish—as I have
every reason to know, and nobody ever seems to attract
her; she is the most impassive creature I ever knew,
and the coolest.”

“That being the case, I propose to send her a King
Charles, from New York.”

It was a pleasant thought, Parke said, as he went to
look for Jason.

After he had gone, Osmond concluded to look up
Philippa, and study her a little. He discovered her in
the kitchen with a heated face, in the act of compounding
cake.

“Those little tins, those little tins,” he said, “remind
me of my boyhood's sins.”

“I expect,” remarked Mary, “you scraped the inside
of 'em.”

“I did.”

“Were you punished?” Philippa asked.

“I was.”

“Laws,” said Mary, “I heard you were never punished
for any thing.”

“I was punished regularly with indulgence; every
soul in the family was devoted to me—devoted; do you
understand devotion, Philippa?”

“I was born a Catholic, you know,” she answered,
quietly proceeding into the parlor; but he followed her.

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“Good heavens! do you remember the day of your
birth, and your christening?”

“I remember my black rosary; the one who gave me
that was devoted to me, I am sure.”

“Who was it?”

“Philip.”

“The dence—your cousin. The life here, though—
you like it?”

“Well enough never to leave it.”

“To follow no one's fortunes?”

“The Ignis Fatuus only chases his brother.”

“When I go from Crest what will you give me?”

She hesitated so long, thinking that he meant and
wanted money, feeling no willingness to be generous towards
him, yet anxious to oblige him, if she could do so
without conferring a sense of obligation, that he burst
into a laugh.

“Whose child are you? What hour were you begotten?
When the sordid New England wind blew?”

The cool insolence of his manner enraged her; she
shook her hair back, and knit her brows.

“Not so impassive, after all,” he thought, as she
flashed upon him.

“You make me feel,” she said, with her words coming
from tightened lips, “the torment and torture of life.
Let me alone. I'll tell you, though, what I shall do
with your money, which belongs here—return it to
Parke. You see that I am `devoted' to an idea.”

“You are not devoted to him, I trust. If so, you are,
indeed, devoted to an idea—a hopeless one.”

Cooler than himself—cool, indeed, for an icy chill
crept over her—she said, in a sharp, appealing tone,

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“Fathers should be the confidants of their daughters'
feelings, where there is no mother; I confess mine to you:
I am devoted to him.”

A sad groan came to his lips, but he exclaimed harshly:
“What stuff have you in your head about woman's
constancy and sacrifice? But, no! I know you better;
in fact, I understand you all at once. If we are not the
besotted instruments of a logical Fate, what are we? I'll
test it.” A burning blush rose in his face, a wild light
rushed into his eyes. “Philippa, will you join my fortunes?
Will you go to South America with me?”

A spark of nature was elicited in both at last; their
faces wore the same eager, passionate, overcoming expression.
For an instant she was seized with his nomadic
spirit, and set her foot forward as if to enter upon
his free, salient, purposeless life. With outstretched
hands, he urged her in a voice so altered by tenderness
and entreaty that she wondered at the feeling of resistance
which compelled her to struggle with the phantoms
of Liberty and Pleasure which his words had evoked.
He saw a cold shade drop over her face, and divined
that he could not shake her resolution. He was bitterly
tempted for a moment to tell her that Parke was going
with him, and let her feel how narrow had been the
chance between her and the happiness she was trying to
buy, but he forbore.

“I must remain,” she said. “How can I tell,” she
added, so unaffectedly he could hardly help smiling,
“whether I could bear the license of your life? I succumb
to tradition and custom because I love them. But if these
barriers should be removed, I feel I have that within

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which could rise, and overtop all excess. When are you
going?”

“At an early day; none is yet named. You are fixed,
then?” resuming his careless manner; “granite is nothing
to you.”

“Stay longer.”

“Entreat me.”

“What will Parke do when you go?”

“Hang Parke, or drown him—a puppy's proper fate.
I am sick of the beauty—he is sweet, though, magnetic,
and has a wonderfully delicate but strong power of self-assertion.
He is dull beyond a certain limit, however,
and is profound nowhere. Do you agree with me?”

“Yes.”

“And you say you are devoted to him?”

“You left me here a child—a child loves the beautiful.
Was there any thing lovely in Sarah or Jason?
Parke was lovely, and I turned to him. He is still the
same to me. Though I do not have any proof of his
goodness, I am faithless as to his faults. Tell me, if you
can, how do certain men make a universal impression,
which they do not account for in words or works?”

“I see. Parke, Dante, and Shakspeare must be great,
because they have made us believe so.”

She nodded.

“You are a kind of witch, I believe; curious looking,
too.”

“I know I am ugly,” she answered, coloring painfully.

“By no means. You have good eyes; witches always
have.”

“And diabolical, cruel, revengeful yellow hair.”

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“Why, girl, what ails you? you are no conjurer, at
any rate. The truth is, you are half foreign; in your
native town I have seen dozens of girls like you—with a
difference.”

He left her in a melancholy mood, wishing that he had
not disturbed her or himself. It was a foolish and hazardous
experiment he had been trying; she might have
accepted his life, which was not fit for so frail and unique
a creature. But his heart had been set in motion; it
ploughed through and through him, upturning memories,
old desires, and instigating new ones; he was perturbed
with the pain and longing of a boy. But somehow
his melancholy softened him to thankfulness that
one remained with power to convince him that his soul
was still alive.

Parke found Jason at the dock, preparing to tar the
seams of his boat, which had been hauled on a raft; he
seated himself on the cap-log, near the tar-pot.

“You are just in time to keep up the blaze for me,”
said Jason, jumping down on the raft, and proceeding
with the work. Parke collected the sticks within his
reach and poked them into the fire, feeling unaccountably
nervous; his heart fluttered and his hands felt
weak. Suddenly he sprang down on the raft, which
tilted into the water, so that he nearly lost his balance.
Jason calmly laid down the tar-swab, and motioning
Parke towards a box, took a seat beside him; he felt
what was coming, but looked phlegmatic. Parke's eyes
roved over the bay, whose waters were almost level
with his sight, with a consciousness that he had been in
the same scene before, and about to say the same thing.
The faded woods opposite the rocky points shelving

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into the sea, the islands lifted over the horizon, the hulls
and masts looming above him, the stagnant basin they
were floating in, were the marshals of that reality and
this dream.

“The tar will cool,” said Jason, crossing his legs.

“I'll begin, then, what I have to say.”

His voice was so agitated that Jason turned, looked,
and pitied. “I can guess what you have to say,
Parke.”

“Do you object to my leaving home?”

“No.

“I propose to live elsewhere.”

“Why?”

“Why should I live in Crest?”

“Because you are a son of the soil.”

“So you were, but you left home.”

“I owned nothing, not even a father's love.”

“Do I own the latter?”

“Yes; but I cannot interfere with your plans.”

“Then I can go?”

Jason walked up and down the raft, returned to his
seat, and said: “Those Generals of Independence will
use up your money.”

“How do you know any thing about them?”

“Do you suppose that I have known nothing of Osmond's
career in Venezuela?”

“Will you manage as you always have for me?”

“If you go, I desire you to take every dollar out of
my hands; the old uncertainties connected with the
wanderings of the family shall not be renewed in my
case. I must be as free of you as you are of me. Perhaps
for your own sake it is best that you should go;

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your prestige is gone. I must tell you, however, that
Osmond's hands are by no means clean; the men of
your race have single vices, and run them hard. I
warn you against him. Moreover, I ask you not to go.
I ask you to live at home on Philippa's account.”

“She is willing, of course,” cried Parke, with heat.

“Has she said so?”

“I have not told her.”

“Go and tell her, then.”

“At all events, I shall go.”

“Very well. We will talk business in that case.”