University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.

“It is most time,” said Mary, as she was taking up
the ashes in the parlor fireplace, “to be thinking of pine
boughs for the jambs, instead of live coals.”

“Pine boughs,” echoed Jason, with a dreamy stare at
the ashes, “we won't have any.”

“It is a very warm day, for the time of year; the
sooner we go to house-cleaning, the better.”

“Don't upset things, Mary.”

“This room can remain as it is for a while longer;
Philippa takes good care of it. I often find her dusting
and setting things to rights at odd times, but she don't
seem to care for the rest of the house any longer; she
hasn't said a word for or against a thing that has happened
since Parke went away.”

“Ah! Where is she now?”

“She's up stairs; she said, just before you came in,
that she should soon remove her work-basket to her own
chamber.”

“Ah!”

“It will be cold this evening, for the wind has changed,
and a good fire will be wanted.”

“Yes, I think so. I am going to the Comet Rocks to-day;
put off supper till I come back.”

Surprised at the unusual request, she asked him if
there was more company to-day again; he replied that
he might possibly bring home some fish—that was reason
enough, was it not?

Afterwards she told Philippa that a word musn't be
said against a late supper that night, for there would be
a reason for it. With the change of wind a storm came
up before sunset, which Gilbert said was the sheep-storm;
the air was filled with a cold, rolling mist, rising
and falling over the town, as the wind compelled. Philippa,
in the restlessness which had lately come upon her,
watched its rifts, which disclosed glimpses of gray water
passing the shore in dismal haste, and masses of half-opened
leaves shedding showers of condensed fog, or
the dingy umbrellas which wavered along the street,
protecting the few loungers going between houses and
shops. But she was quiet by the shaded lamp in the
parlor, when she heard Jason's voice in the passage telling
Mary that it had taken him a long time to tack
across the bay. He entered, inquiring for his supper,
and, contrary to his wont, in his boating costume; he
threw his battered hat into a corner, and dropped his
pilot's jacket on the floor. Philippa could not help being
conscious of his proceedings. Would he take off his
boots, she wondered, and suspended her sewing to look
at them; they were wet and heavy, evidently, and his
trowsers were tucked into them, but he made no movement
to pull them off. Her eyes were irresistibly drawn
up to meet his—he was gazing at her

“Excuse my boots,” he said.

She nodded slightly.

“And allow me to disabuse myself of this neck-tie;
the ends blew out like a sail, and they are wet.”

He untwisted it as if it had been choking him, and
dropped it beside him. She had resumed her sewing,
but she knew when it fell, and she knew, too, that he

was very pale, and that his blue eyes were shining in
strange relief against the circle of his thick, black, curved
eyelashes. Mary had set on the supper, and was gone;
but he sat down by the fire, unmindful of it, till Philippa
called him to the table.

“I didn't expect the fish, Mr. Auster,” said Mary, reentering
with another dish; “so here is something in the
place.”

“Fish!” he said, facing round in his chair; “what
fish?”

Philippa looked at her so impatiently that she thought
it best not to answer him, but to disappear again, and
leave them to their supper. Philippa felt there was
something dangerous about Jason just then, and preferred
that he should display his eccentric mood to herself
alone.

“You need your tea, Jason,” she said, in a conciliatory
voice.

He laughed, stretched out his long arm (for he had not
left his chair), and demanded: “Give it to me, then.
Come and hold the cup to my lips—I haven't the
strength to do it.”

“Nor have I.”

His manner, in spite of her cool reply, confused her a
little. Instead of taking her own seat at the table, she
walked round it, with a plate in her hand, and filled it
with bread.

“I say I am thirsty, Philippa, and hungry,—bring me
something.”

“Take it, then.” And she gave him a cup of tea,
which he swallowed at once.

“More tea,” he begged, “and something to eat, or I
must famish.”

She reflected. It was his determination, she perceived,
not to go to the table. She, herself, had suddenly
lost her appetite. It would not do for Mary to
find the supper untouched, and Mary at that moment
represented the whole censorious world, which Philippa
felt, for the first time, afraid of. Seizing the last dish
which Mary had brought in, she threw its contents into
the fire, and then deliberately drank some tea and ate a
morsel of bread.

“Right,” he said, watching her till she had finished
and called Mary in to clear the table. While it was
being done, he thought he detected Philippa in the act
of retreat, which he cut off by promenading between
her and the doors.

“Philippa,” he said, suddenly wheeling towards her,
when alone, “I am tired of reigning in hell and serving
in heaven. I would be master of Paradise.”

“Move to another place, then,” she curtly answered,
thinking how much she could bear, that was painful and
disagreeable, from him.

“Here is my place—with you. Put down your foolish
work, for I am going to teach you something. I,
Jason—can you imagine it?”

“No. Is it a necessary knowledge you are about to
teach?”

“I make it so.”

He moved a chair opposite her and sat down. She
saw him, but with false eyes. Any other woman there
would have seen a man filled with the beauty which
passion gives to the plainest, the most simple—she

would have seen her lover, ardent, resolute, overpowering.
Philippa merely saw him in a position and mood
of perplexing inconvenience, which she could not dispose
of. Doubtless he felt her obtuseness, for he remained
silent some minutes, and then prefaced his subject
with the remark: “How the wind howls!”

“Are you listening to that, all this while?” she asked,
irritated at his deliberate propinquity.

“Philippa, how do you think I have lived?”

“I know how, without thinking.”

“What has been my value?”

“Value?”

“I have been a husband, a father, and your guardian;
was I any thing else?”

“No, not to me.”

“I was nothing to myself either,—for a long time, a
long time.”

“Why should you have been more, sir? Your relations
implied all the possibilities of life.”

“It implied little with me beyond duty. Reflect.”

The memory of Sarah's loveless ways, of Parke's indifferent
neglect, was too clear for her not to follow his
suggestion. But what was all this to her? The result
of his life was like that of hers—disappointment; and he
must tell of it, perhaps with the hope of convincing her
that it was the common lot.

“You found no satisfaction in duty! Who does?
Something that we esteem, however, pushes us on towards
its aim, as strenuously as if it were our most
beautiful ideal. You wish me to understand that you
are disappointed.”

“I was not disappointed, for I hoped nothing. I

never, at any time, in youth or manhood, was in a position
that might have accepted hope.”

A comprehension of his intention dawned in her mind,
which he perceived by a change in her countenance.

“Are you ready to admit,” he continued, “that I
have done well as a chrysalis? or do you intend to warn
me presently that if I break through the traditions built
round me by the masons who mortar the mass together
by plummet and line, I shall be deprived of every claim
of support from my fellows?”

She began to feel the recklessness which always came
over her when she was in collision with an antagonist.

“Have you a hope now, Jason?”

“Yes, one that a free man is entitled to.”

She started to her feet, but he compelled her back to
her chair.

“You are going to tell me that you love me. Well,
begin, so that it may end.”

“I love you, Philippa”—

Her eyes shot sparkles of anger, and her lips made a
mocking motion, but she did not speak.

“And I ask you to be my wife”—

A gesture of contempt did not deter him in his speech.

“The slow years having taught me what manner of
man I am, and, with a patience equal to my own, removed
all obstacles to my desires, do you believe that I
shall not conquer your will—it shall not stand in my
way. Accept me, Philippa.”

“Parke! Parke! Parke!” she said, between her teeth.

“Will you make father and son a watchword? Let
the world do that; but, Philippa, you know that I have
been faithful to him till there is no longer need of faith.

What! Would you like to say that I am like a whipped
hound, slinking back to the place of contention, to hold
the rights I could not maintain, except alone!”

He caught her hands, and drew her so near him that
she was obliged to meet his burning, pleading, indignant
eyes, and to dwell on his quivering lips, which
were as white as death. It was more than she could
bear; but she must still listen.

“If your love, which is now mere pride with you, had
remained where it had its birth, in the depths of your
self, instead of governing your actions, blazoning itself
on your existence, it would be easy to turn its current
into that vague, emotional sea which ebbs and flows in
every human soul, but which does not sway its destiny,
unless, as you have, one commits his emotion to the
public. Who may not have felt as you have felt? We
are much alike.”

“Now, have you finished?”

He passed his handkerchief over his face, to hide a
sickening agitation, for the struggle shattered him.
Philippa was so pitiless! Hard and bright as a diamond,
cold as a glacier, ignorant, obstinate, insensible—and
yet he loved her so, that he swore silently that he would
never go beyond the spot that contained her.

She drew her watch from her belt, and turned its face
towards him.

“Yes, it is late,” he said.

Then he folded his arms and walked up and down the
floor, stopping before her at each turn, to meet the eyes
of a combatant determined to end the subject at once
and forever.

The fire went out, the astral lamp waned, the storm

died away, the rain ceased to beat against the windows,
the wind to roar round the house, but the sea bayed the
shore with a monotonous roar, which echoed through
the room. He resumed his seat, and fell into deep
thought. The years that he had boasted of had cheated
him after all—they had not given him the key to Philippa's
nature. She herself did not possess it, he was
convinced. To open those sealed perceptions, that was
his task—how could it be done, where was the key?
She thought, at last, so absorbed he seemed, that he
must have forgotten her—she rose without attracting
his attention, and went to the door, paused, and looked
back. Something in his attitude and his profile gave
her an impulse to go and shake him by the shoulder,
and ask him what his thoughts were; resisting that, she
was weak enough to stand by the door, till he carelessly
raised his head, and turned to look at her. An expression
of pity, speculation, and doubt passed over his face,
which was now perfectly composed, and gave her a bitter
sense of humiliation; her brain, her heart, her eyelids
were burdened with a weight which bore her to the
floor. With a faint gasp, and throwing up her arms to
drive it away, she fell forward, and he caught her.