CHAPTER IX.
A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER.
"You are rich, Philip!"
"Yes, Virginia, or soon shall be."
"How like a fairy-story it all sounds."
"Or a modern novel."
"_We can be happy now, Philip!_"
The two young people were leaning over the balustrade of a balcony ofthe summer residence of Mortimer Moore. The rich moonlight was stillpermeated with the rosy tinges of sunset; the early dew called out thefragrance of a near meadow in which the grass had been cut that day,and its odors were mingled with the perfumes of roses and lilies inthe garden beneath the balcony. It was an hour to intoxicate the soulsof the young and loving. If Virginia had been dressing herself for aball she would not have used more care than she had shown in the simpleafternoon toilet she now wore--simple, and yet the result of consummatetact. A single string of pearls looped up the heavy braids of blackhair, an Indian muslin robe, in whose folds lurked precious perfumes,floated about her form, the wide, full sleeves falling away from theivory arms, gave softness to their rounded outlines. A bunch of violetsnestled in the semi-transparent fabric where it was gathered over herbosom. The creamy tint of her low, smooth forehead just deepened in hercheek to that faint flush which you see in the heart of a tea-rose;her straight brows, long lashes, and the deep, dark eyes smiling underthem, all showed to wonderful advantage in the delicious light.
As she uttered the last words, she laid her hand lightly upon Philip'sarm, and looked up into his face. He was fully aware, at that moment,of her attractions; a smile, the meaning of which she could not fullyfathom, answered her own, as he said:
"I _hope_ we can be happy, my fair cousin. I expect to be very muchblessed as soon as a slight suspense which I endure is done away with."
"Why should you feel suspense, Philip? every thing smiles upon you."
"I see _you_ are smiling upon me, my beautiful cousin; and that is agreat deal, if not every thing. You always promised to smile upon me,you know, if I ever got gold enough to make it prudent."
"It seems to me as if there was sarcasm in your voice, Philip. Youknow that I have always thought more of you than any one else; and ifI would not marry you when poor, it was because I dared not. Now weare equal--in fortune, youth, health. My father is so much better. Hewas out walking this afternoon; the country air has benefited him. Thedoctor thinks it may be years before he has another attack. You've beenvery kind to him, Philip. When our fortunes are joined, we can livealmost as we please--as well as I care to live. Won't it be charming?"
The tapering white hand slid down upon his own.
"Very. You remember that trite passage in the Lady of Lyons, whichthe mob, the vulgar crowd, are still disposed to encore. Supposingwe change the scene from the Lake of Como to the banks of theHudson--listen, Virginia! how prettily sentiment sounds in thismoonshine:
"'A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why earth should be unhappy, while the heavens Still left us youth and love. We'd have no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love--that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours. And when night came, amidst the breadthless heavens, We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange-groves and music of sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth In the midst of roses! Dost thou like the picture?'
Go on, Virginia, can't you act your part?"
"Let me see, can I recall it?--
"'Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue; Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly-- Who would not love thee like Virginia?'"
"A very passable actress you are, cousin. I'd have thought you reallymeant that, once, you put such fervor in your voice. But--
"'O false one! It is the _prince_ thou lovest, not the _man_.'"
"Nay, Philip, like Pauline, I must plead that you wrong me. Already,before my father summoned you, before we heard the whisper of yourcoming fortune, I had resolved to search you out and take back mycruel resolution--more cruel to myself than to you. I found that I hadoverrated my powers of endurance--that I did not know my own heart.Dear Philip, will you not forgive me? Remember how I was brought up."
Two tears glimmered in the moonlight and plashed upon his hand. Theyought to have melted a stonier susceptibility than his.
"Willingly, Virginia. I forgive you from my heart--and more, I thankyou for that very refusal which you now regret. If that refusal hadnot driven me into the wilds of the West, I should never have metmy perfect ideal of womanhood. But I have found her there. A woman,a child rather, as beautiful as yourself--as much _more_ beautiful,as love is lovelier than pride; an Eve in innocence, with a soul ascrystal as a silver lake; graceful as the breezes and the wild fawns;as loving as love itself; and so ignorant that she does not know theworth of money, and didn't inquire about the settlements when I askedher to marry me. Think of that, Virginia!"
"Are you in earnest, Philip?"
"I am. I am sorry for your disappointment, my sweet cousin, and hopeyou have not thrown away any eligible chances while waiting for me.I'm going to-morrow, as fast as steam can carry me, to put an endto that suspense of which I spoke. My little bird is deep in thewestern forests, looking out for me with those blue eyes of hers, sowistfully, for I promised to be back long ago. Your father's affairsare in a tangled condition, I warn you, Virginia; and you'd better makea good match while you've still the reputation of being an heiress.I've been trying to get my uncle's matters into shape for him; but I'mquite discouraged with the result."
"Perhaps that's the reason you have forgotten me so easily, Philip."
"I should expect you, my disinterested and very charming cousin,to entertain such a suspicion; but my pretty forester lives in alog-cabin, and has neither jewels nor silk dresses. So, you see, Iam not mercenary. _Her_ 'loveliness needs not the foreign aid ofornament.' She looks better with a wild-rose in her hair than any otherlady I ever saw with a wreath of diamonds."
"You are in a very generous mood, this evening, Philip Moore. You mightat least spare comparisons to the woman you have refused."
"I couldn't inflict any wounds upon your _heart_, cousin; for that'snothing but concentrated carbon--it's yet beyond the fusible state,and it's nothing now but a great diamond--very valuable, no doubt, butaltogether too icy cold in its sparkle for me."
"Go on, sir. My punishment is just, I know. I remember when _you_ werethe pleader--yet I was certainly more merciful than you. I tempered myrefusal with tears of regret, while you spice yours with pungent littlepeppery sarcasms."
"Don't pull those violets to pieces so, Virginia, I love thoseflowers; and that's the reason you wore them to-night. If you'd havefollowed your own taste, you'd have worn japonicas. But, seriously, Imust go to-morrow. I have remained away from my business much longerthan I should; but I could not desert my uncle in his sickness anddifficulties until I saw him better. He was kind to me in my boyhood,he made me much of what I am, and if he did not think me fitted tocarry the honors of his family to the next generation, I can still begrateful for what he did do."
"You do not give me credit for the change which has come over me--ifyou did, you could not leave me so coolly. I'm not so bound up inappearances as I was once. Ah, Philip! this old country-house will beintolerably lonely when you are gone."
He looked down into the beautiful face trembling with emotion; hehad never seen her when she looked so fair as then, because he hadnever seen her when her feelings were really so deeply touched. Thememory of the deep passion he had once felt for her swept back overhim, tumultuous as
the waves of a sea. Her cheek, wet with tears, andflushed with feeling, pressed against his arm. It was a dangerous hourfor the peace of that other young maiden in the far West. Old dreams,old habits, old hopes, old associates, the glittering of the waves ofthe Hudson, familiar to him from infancy, the scent of the sea-breeze,and the odors of the lilies in the homestead garden, the beautiful faceupon his arm which he had watched since it was a babe's rosy face inits cradle,--all these things had power, and were weaving about him arapid spell.
"What does that childish, ignorant young thing know of love, Philip?If some rustic fellow with rosy cheeks, who could not write his ownname, had been the first to ask her, she would have said 'Yes' justas prettily as she did to you. But I have been tried--I know others,myself, and you. My judgment and my pride approve my affection. Thenthe West is no place for a man like you. You used to be ambitious--toplan out high things for your future. I adore ambition in a man. Iwould not have him sit at my feet day and night, and make no effortto conquer renown. I would have him great, that I might honor hisgreatness. I would aspire with and for him. You might be a shininglight here, Philip, where it is a glory to shine. Why will you throwyourself away upon a rude and uncultivated community? Stay here a weekor two longer, and think better of the mode of life you have chosen."
The moon hung in the heavens, high and pure, drawing the tides of theocean, whose sighs they could almost hear; and like the moon, fair andserene, the memory of Alice Wilde hung in the heaven of Philip's heart,calming the earthly tide of passion which beat and murmured in hisbreast. He remembered that touching assurance of hers that she wouldsacrifice _herself_ for him, at any time, and he could not think herlove was a chance thing, which would have been given to a commoner manjust as readily.
"I have tarried too long already, Virginia; I must go to-morrow."
He did not go on the morrow; for while they stood there upon thebalcony in the summer moonshine, a servant came hastily with word, thatthe master of the house was again stricken down, in his library, as hesat reading the evening paper.
He was carried to his room, and laid upon his bed in an unconsciousstate. Everybody seemed to feel, from the moment of his attack, thatthis time there was no hope of his recovery. The family physician hadonly left him and returned to the city a day or two previously. Theevening boat would be at the landing just below in fifteen minutes;Philip ordered a trusty servant to proceed on board of her to New York,and bring back the medical attendant by the return boat in the morning.Meanwhile he did what little he could for the relief of the unconsciousman, while Virginia, pale as her dress, the flowers in her bosomwithering beneath the tears which fell upon them, sat by the bedside,holding the paralyzed hand which made no response to her clasp. Hourspassed in this manner; toward morning, while both sat watching for somesign of returning sensibility to the deathly features, the sufferer'seyes unclosed and he looked about him with a wandering air--
"Where is Alice? Alice! Alice! why don't you come? I've forgiven you,quite, and I want you to come home."
"He is thinking of my sister," whispered Virginia, looking with aweinto the eyes which did not recognize her, and drawing her cousinnearer to her side.
"Don't tell me she is dead--Alice, the pride of my house--not dead!"
"Oh, it is terrible to see him in such a state. Philip, can't you dosomething to relieve him?"
"Virginia, poor child! I'm afraid he is beyond mortal aid. Be brave, mydear girl, I will help you to bear it."
Philip could not refuse, in that sad hour, his sympathy and tendernessto the frightened, sorrowful woman who had only him to cling to.Presently the wild look faded out of the sick man's eyes.
"Virginia, is that you? My poor child, I am dying. Nothing can saveme now. I leave you alone, no father, no mother, sister, or brother,or husband to care for you when I am gone. Philip, are you here?will you be all these to Virginia? Do not hesitate, do not let pridecontrol you in this hour. I know that I rejected you once, when youasked to be my son; but I see my mistake now. You have been very kindand unselfish to me since I sent for you. You are a man of prudenceand honor. I should die content, if I knew Virginia was your wife, ifyou had not a thousand dollars to call your own. Poor girl! she willhave very little, after all my vain seeking of wealth for her. Goldis nothing--_happiness_ is all. Virginia, take warning by me. I am awitness of the hollowness of pride. I have been a sad and discontentedman for years. The memory of my cruelty to my Alice has stood like aspecter between me and joy. Choose love--marry for love. Philip is morethan worthy of you; try to make him happy. My boy, you do not speak.Take her hand, here, and promise me that you will take good care of mylast and only child."
He had uttered all this in a low voice, rapidly, as if afraid hisstrength would not last him to say what he wished. Virginia turned toher cousin and seized his hand.
"Philip! Philip! can you refuse--can you desert me, too? O father! Ishall be alone in this world."
"Why do you not promise me, and let me die in peace?" exclaimed the oldman with some of that stern command in his voice which had become apart of him; "do you not love my child?"
"Not as I did once. At least--but that's no matter. Do not distressyourself, uncle, about Virginia. I will be to her a true and faithfulbrother. I promise to care for her and share with her as if she were mysister."
"If I could see her your wife, my boy, I should feel repaid for all Ihave done for you, since you were thrown upon my hands, an orphan andfriendless, as my child will soon be. Send for the priest, children,and make it sure."
Philip was silent; his cousin, too, was silent and trembling.
"Don't you see I'm going?--do you want to let me die unsatisfied?"--thequerulous voice was weak and sinking.
"I promise to be a brother to Virginia--to care for her as if she weremy own, uncle. Is not that enough?"
"No--no--no!" fretted the dying man, who, having been unreasonable andexacting all his life, could not change his nature at the hour of death.
Distressed and uncertain what to do, tempted by the force ofcircumstances, Philip wavered; but the moment when his promise wouldhave given his uncle any satisfaction had passed--the awful change wasupon his face, the sweat upon his brow, the rattle in his throat.
"O, my father!" sobbed Virginia, sinking upon her knees and flingingher arms over the heart which had ceased to beat.
The gray morning broke over her as she wept wildly beside the bed.Philip was obliged to draw her away from the room by force, whileothers came to attend upon the dead. To see her so given up to grief,so desolate, with no one but himself to whom she could turn, touchedhim with pity and tenderness.
"Weep, if you will, poor girl, it will be better than choking back allthose tears. Weep in my arms, for I am your brother now," he said, verygently, as he seated her upon a sofa and drew her head to his shoulder,soothing her and quieting her excess of emotion, until, from fatigueand exhaustion, she dropped asleep on his bosom.
"How lovely she is, with her arrogance and vanity all melted awayby some real sorrow," he thought, as he laid her carefully upon thepillow, and went out to give directions to the disturbed household.
During the next week Philip made himself of use to all, overseeing,quietly directing and controlling every thing; and when the funeralwas over, the outer excitement subsided, and nothing left but thatemptiness and shadow of the house from which the dead has recently beenborne, then he had to consult with the orphan girl what should be donefor the future.
"Will you stay where you are for the summer, while I go back and attendto my affairs at the West? If you will, I can come back again in theautumn, and we can then decide upon some settled plan for the future."
"I can stay here, if you think best. But it seems to me as if I shallgo wild with fear and loneliness in this great house, with no one butthe servants, after you are gone. I don't know _what_ to do, Philip."
"Is there no friend of your own sex who would be comfort and company,whom you could invite to stay with you till I come ba
ck? You will notwish to go into town this weather. Besides, my dear girl, I must tellyou that the town-house will not be long in your hands. When the estateis settled up, this property here, and a small annuity possibly, willbe all that I can save for you. Will it not be best for you to breakup, dismiss the expensive array of servants, rent your house, and boardin some agreeable family?"
"Oh, Philip, I don't know. I can't think and I can't decide. I knownothing of business. I wish you to do every thing for me;" herhelplessness appealed to him strongly.
She could only think of one way with which she should be happy andcontent; but he did not propose that way.
"I can only suggest this, then, for the present: stay where you are nowuntil I go home and arrange matters there. I _must_ go home for a fewweeks. In the mean time the affairs of the estate will be closing up.When I return, I will see to them; and when all is settled, if you wishto go to the West with me, you shall go. If I have a home by that time,you shall share it."
"How share it, Philip?"
He did not reply. He was resolved to see Alice Wilde again, to satisfyhimself her character was all he had dreamed it--her love what hehoped; if so, nothing should tempt him from the fulfillment of thesweet promise he had made himself and her--neither gratitude to thedead nor sympathy with the living.
Alice Wilde: The Raftsman's Daughter. A Forest Romance Page 9