University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.

Phillippa wrote Theresa Bond, and begged her to
come to Crest. Though the letter merely outlined the
events of the past year, omitting all mention of Jason,
Theresa read it with an impression that it had been dictated
by stronger feelings than she had given Philippa
credit for possessing. She replied that curiosity, and
redivivus also, tempted her to accept the invitation, but
she could not, because she was about to be married to a
youth who would not permit her to leave him. She
pretended to ascribe his refusal to a base jealousy of the
past, which she had made him acquainted with. Philippa
could imagine how she wanted to come—what a
monumental time they might have! Had Philippa
found a confessor yet? Was she prepared to own that
the beautiful Parke hadn't proved a joy forever? Justice
must be done him, however; she, herself, was
obliged to admit that there had never been the shadow
of deceit in his conduct towards her. How was Cousin
Jason? Was he an exception to the sex, in the character
of a bereaved husband? Or, was he already on the
point of falling in love? She didn't believe, by the
way, that he ever had been in love; she thought him
like the aloe—that he wouldn't bloom till towards a hundred.
Think of the woman who could gather the blossom!
“Stuff,” thought Philippa, “I wish she would
come and take it; I dare say she would try.” The letter

concluded with an invitation to her wedding, not
yet appointed.

Jason brought Theresa's letter to her, and asked what
its contents were.

“I sent for Theresa to visit me,” she replied.

An angry cloud spread over his face, and his eyes
flashed; it gratified her to see the calmness which had
possessed him, since their last interview, broken up.

“You sent for her as a protection against me,” he
said.

“Yes; I did not know what else to do,” she replied,
ingenuously.

“She has not accepted the invitation!”

“She cannot come.”

“She will not come. Theresa understands me.”

Philippa looked at the letter in her hand with astonishment.
Could he read it from the outside?

“How do you know she understands you?”

“Because she is a woman who has been taught by
her passion.”

“It is a pity she is not here.”

“It is not a pity; it is enough for me to witness your
heart of ice and steel.”

“What do you make me out to be? I never was romantic—less
so now than ever. I see myself, as a
young woman, refusing to marry a man much older
than herself, with whom she has lived as a relative.”

For the life of her she could not name the character
of the relation; he never had appeared like a father,
and she had never thought of him as a brother.

“That is the arithmetic of the subject,” he answered.

“There are other reasons, too.”

“Reasons?”

“Why I should not listen to you, even.”

“No—no, Philippa, there are none. Give me your
conscience, your will; I can keep them from tormenting
you. Shelter yourself in the abyss of my love,
which is as wide and deep as the air.”

He was beside her chair—on the floor at her feet: she
could not resist his folding her in his arms, nor move
her head from his breast; but she could shut her eyes
against him, and she did.

“Little flower,” he said, “live with me and be happy,
as I shall be happy.”

She was like a statue.

“Give me,” and he shook her in his embrace, “this
Philippa—this solitary, friendless girl, to be the life of
this solitary, friendless man.”

No answer came from her; but when he sighed like
one in pain she opened her eyes, and they looked upon
each other from the prison of the soul. They saw that
their personality was a sacred essence that could not be
tampered with, and then each spirit retreated to its confines.
His eyes rested on the beautiful lips, so near his
own.

“May I kiss you?” he asked.

“You hold me here by force; why ask for such a
trifle, that depends on your will?”

Although her sweet, warm breath made the current
of his blood thunder in heart and brain, he released her
as if she were a log.

“Does it? Then I shall never kiss you—never.”

“One point, at last, is settled between us.”

A long period of silence followed this interview, in

which neither looked at or spoke to the other. They
met at the table, passed each other in the passages, or
on the stairs, but made no stay together anywhere.
The silence was terminated by Jason's being obliged
to consult her respecting the division of some land,
through which a street had been cut, into building lots.
The land on one side of the new street belonged to
Parke, and that on the other side was hers. She refused
to look at the diagram of the street.

“You are acting,” she said, angrily, “as if Parke
were dead; and I won't sell.”

“An agent must follow his instructions. Mine are to
raise money—to make new streets in the Republic of
Venezuela, probably. The land can be sold to advantage,
if all parties consent; a company wants both
sides of the street. Will you sell?”

She proposed going to the spot; he assented, internally
cursing the infatuation, which, strong as it was,
had no power to break his own. They had to cross a
field on the outskirts of the town, and climb a stone
wall before reaching the ground. Jason stepped over
the wall with a stride, but Philippa slipped on a mossy
stone, and fell over, with her dress hanging to it; he
was obliged to extricate her, and laughed as he did so,
for which irreverence she gave his cheek a blow with
her glove. At the next wall he took her in his arms
and carried her past the hedge-row, over a brook bordered
with alder bushes and wild roses, and deposited
her on the disputed territory. She saw the advantage
at once of breaking up the ground into building lots;
it would increase the value of the whole tract, especially
on that side nearest the town, which belonged to Parke.

“Sell it, if you choose,” she said.

“What shall I do with your share of the money?”

“Take care of it, as you always have.”

“You choose, then, to continue me as your guardian.”

Biting her lips, she turned away without being generous
enough to tell him that she would rather trust him
than any man in the world. The anomaly of her position
was most trying—unheard of, and yet she had no
thought of ever separating from him. He did not walk
beside her, as she expected, but remained by the brook,
gazing into its little brown pools, and peeling a willow
wand. When she reached the wall she stopped and
looked back, as she had done once before when he
seemed to forget her! How tall he looked against the
background of the sky! She wondered if that was the
way he passed so much of his time when in the woods.
Perhaps he was poetical; that might be his musing secret,
and he had never found anybody to share it with.
He was a strange man. Liking to live apart from human
sympathy so many years, why had he at last loved and
sought her? Tears surprised her—an involuntary tribute
paid to the honor and generosity of his nature,
which she could not suppress. He looked up suddenly,
and, observing her standing by the wall, hurried up to
her, with a gentle apology for keeping her waiting.
They returned through the main street, and she was
perplexed in trying to recall the time when they walked
together last. The street looked pleasant, with its willows,
deep yards full of lilacs and rose bushes on one
side, and its quaint, miscellaneous shops on the other,
and she said so. He pointed to the sea, which appeared
to be wedging up between the storehouses on the upper

part of the street, and told her how it looked the night
before in moonlight. He sauntered along the street,
and she was compelled to regulate her gait by his.
They met many people, but she noticed that none accosted
him; his slight nods were returned by marked
respect, and he was closely observed by all who passed
him with a certain air of curiosity, which puzzled her.

The walk induced a restlessness which would not permit
her to resume her in-door employments; she had
suddenly acquired a longing for change, and bethought
her of a promise made to Elsa, of a two or three days'
visit. She packed a valise on the spur of the recollection,
and started for Elsa's with Gilbert. On her arrival,
she found that Elsa had been expecting her, and
her reception was a warm one. Gilbert was directed to
tell Jason not to send for her; she would take her own
time in returning.

“If you hadn't come, miss,” said Elsa, when they
were alone, in two rocking-chairs, “I should have made
my way up to your house; there's something in this
pleasant weather that drives me wild when I am alone.
I look out at the ring of trees round me, and feel as if
they were waiting to catch me; the fields of green,
shining grass are awful lonesome—it seems as if all human
life had passed away forever. The seed is all in
the ground, 'tisn't haying yet, and I am put to it to
pass away the time. I wish the Old Harry had the
place.”

“You don't mean to own that you are tired of it?”

“That's it, exactly.”

“And that you would like to go back?”

“You've said it.”

“What did you ever leave for, you contrary old
woman?” And Philippa felt more provoked with her
than ever, for having left her.

“Never you mind—I haven't gone back yet. I don't
know whether it is safe.”

She looked at Philippa, with such cunning, crafty
eyes, that she was disposed to turn away from them.

“Dear me, Elsa, what an old gipsey you are.”

“A dark-complected man is going the same road that
you are. You will meet, if a light-complected man, who
is not thinking of you, does not cross the seas in three
days, three months, or three years. A piece of bad luck
is coming from the Jack of Spades to you all.”

“Patience, and shuffle the cards.”

“They are talking about Jason. How is it, Philippa?
I didn't know why I went away hardly, but you see I
found a reason after all. Clouds no bigger than a man's
hand sometimes blow over, but this hasn't. I do mistrust
that Jason means to marry you. I don't care
much, whether you make up your minds, you two, to be
yoked together; but I intend to keep out of the way
till it is settled one way or the other. Sarah Auster
shall not accuse me at the Judgment of making, or marring;
nor shall the tell-tales of Crest accuse me of matchmaking.”

“It is all settled.”

“Are you sure? I can see by your face which way.”

Without any previous intention of doing so, Philippa
unburdened her mind to Elsa, who heard the recital of
Jason's conduct without a single comment. The representation
that Philippa made placed her conduct in a
new light before her own mental vision, and changed

him also; he was a different man in her description from
what he had appeared in reality, and she could not account
for it.

“I guess,” said Elsa, “that I won't come up till green
corn comes.”

She would not say another word on the subject, but
she was astonished at the insight she had obtained into
Jason's character; making an excuse to Philippa, she
went into the garden, with the feint of picking green
gooseberries to stew.

“Did you ever,” she said, under her breath, as if addressing
the gooseberry-bush confidentially, “hear the
like before? It is certain to my mind, that Sarah had
no more comprehension what kind of man she had for a
husband, than I have had; live and learn, though. It is
well she died. Come to think of it, there was never any
love lost between them. Poor Sarah! I wonder I
didn't see him better—he is a remarkable man; but his
fire was put out by the Parke sun—that's the truth.
Who hasn't been put out by them, if in their way?
And Philippa's trying to put him out too, but he has
got the best of her, I'll bet. But I must stay a while
longer in my jail.”

She carried in her gooseberries, and told Philippa to
pick them over. Then she brought out some ends of
muslin and lace, and set her to cap-making. Various
other matters were entered upon, which seemed unimportant
to Philippa, but they served Elsa's purpose, to
keep up a desultory conversation and restore composure.