University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.

A few hours of complete solitude, or this trifling effort
of will, placed Jason on the road to recovery. But convalescence
has its pangs, and it was some days before he
left his chamber. In that period the anniversary of
Sarah's death occurred. It was passed by him in gloomy
silence. Elsa celebrated it by an old-fashioned bake in
the oven, such as she and Sarah were wont to enjoy in
cherry-time; and matter-of-fact as her day's work appeared,
Sarah was recalled every moment—her looks, her
ways, her speech—with an affectionate fidelity which
would have surprised her could she have been cognizant
of what she had no proof of in her lifetime. Philippa
acknowledged the day by a visit to the hill—her first
since summer opened—and reflections on the vast difference
between that time and the present. Though last
year's leaves were replaced, last year's grass renewed,
and the cedar boughs imprisoned the familiar sea-wind,
and the oaks glittered with the familiar sunshine, her
heart was not moved with the association which belonged
there—

Her eyes sought the gray roof below the orchard, beneath
which all that made her life a hopeful and a sorrowing
one had transpired. The stork returning from
the palms of Egypt to the roof in his patriarchal village,
with the wise, bitter pain and delight which all wanderers
feel, could not hover over it with more unreasoning
fancies than her thoughts hovered over that, which
was now her most desired shelter. It stood so near the
summit of the hill, so plainly in sight, that she thought
the winter storms must have destroyed some of the intervening
trees; but the truth was, she had not looked upon
it before with the same eyes. She examined the trees—
they were all there, in the full glory of summer, a glory
that saddened her; it was no longer a place for her to
linger in. As she descended the path she remembered a
poem which she heard Parke read to Theresa once, and
was tormented by it, as one is pursued and tormented by
the fragment of some old melody which half repeats
itself in the brain. When she saw Jason the words
flashed into her mind:

By degrees she withdrew from his room; but it was
still her habit, as he was in bed by sundown, to spend
the early part of the evening with him, which was enlivened
by the exit and entrance of Elsa, and an occasional
call from Mrs. Rogers.

A stormy day came, the evening of which was undisturbed.
Jason and Philippa were alone, and had not
spoken for an hour; he had asked her to open the window,
and was lying with his face towards it, listening to

the boom of the sea, which mingled with the moaning
wind.

“I am sorry,” he said, at last, “that you have never
loved the sea.”

“Why, Jason?

“That I might have had the shadow of an excuse for
fancying that we were kin.”

“Do you feel the need of an excuse?” she asked complacently.

“Yes, I would forgive myself for my infatuation,
which blood-letting has cured me of.”

“Infatuation!”

“What name will you give it, then? How could I
have made a greater fool of myself, than when, like a
mad Quixote, I rode a tilt at the armor you buckled
on years ago—believing that I could hack it off?”

She could not gainsay the good sense of his discourse,
but received it in the faith that he would return to his folly.

“You have something to pardon,” he continued, his
voice taking the tone of an order. “I beg your forgiveness—not
for the feeling which prompted my assaults
upon you, but for the assault; give it, and let us be at
peace.”

She left her seat, and went to the bedside, and kneeled
down by him.

“Jason, you may kiss me.”

He shook his head, with a smile.

“We are not mates, Philippa.”

“I know that; but I have found a flaw in that armor.”

“I don't believe it.”

She rose from her knees, and stood looking at him
with eyes that flashed a tumult of shame, anger, and

deprecation; but behind all this there shone a new light
which smote his senses, and made him thrill from head
to foot, in spite of all his resolutions.

“It is only me, Jason Auster—mutilated,” he exclaimed,
motioning her away, unable to bear her eyes
any longer. He pulled beside him the little table at the
head of the bed, with a shaded lamp upon it, for a barricade
between them. She retreated just beyond the
circle of lamp-light, which revealed his face completely:
it was luminous—full of shifting expression. She sought
among its changes a resemblance to Parke; it was a
satisfaction to find nothing that reminded her of his
winning, delicious beauty in the haggard, bearded man
before her—of whom she was beginning to feel a wholesome
dread.

“I have but little more to say,” he added presently,
with rather a husky voice. “I have made up my mind
to leave you—simply, because I have no reason for
staying. Your business affairs are so ticketed, that you
can manage them, and Parke's also. By the way, did
you never think what an advantage your money would
have been to me?”

She started up, crying:

“You will go a poor man!”

“Yes; but I shall go to the West, where I expect to
acquire fortune and fame as the `One-handed Backwoodsman,'
or `The Lone Bee-Hunter.' A poor man!
Have I been a rich one ever? Ungenerous girl, think a
moment of the nonentity, me—who, for twenty years,
have managed the Parke property—which, like a beast,
has welked and waved its horns before all the family,
including yourself—and held you in thrall.”

He was reading her to herself! She made a movement
towards him, and, with a gasp, said, “Curse it!”

“Oh no, Philippa; you live in Crest, and the family
graveyard is here.”

His manner was too painful for her to bear; she laid
her hand on the door-latch.

“You won't ask me to stay, then?” he said loudly.

“I will tell you no lies. If you leave me, you will
take with you every hope that remains in my heart.
But I do not ask you to stay; neither will I offer you
money.”

“I thought so.”

“I will go now—if you have finished.”

“The token of forgiveness, you offered just now,” he
said, in a faint voice, “I accept it.”

“I said that you might kiss me. Shall I come back,
that you may do so?”

“No; go—for I do not believe in your hopes. And
I will not comfort your methodical soul, by trussing up
the interview with proper feeling and fine words.”

She closed the chamber-door.