 | CHAPTER VI. The Morgesons |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
One winter morning before daylight, Veronica came to my
room, and asked me if I had heard any walking about the
house during the night? She had, and was going to inquire
about it. She soon returned with, “You have a brother.
Temperance says my nose is broken. He will be like you, I
suppose, and have everything he asks for. I don 't care for
to see you, I know.”
I dressed quickly, and went down stairs with a feeling of indignation
that such an event should have happened without my
knowledge.
There was an unwonted hush. A bright fire was burning
on the dining room hearth, and the lamps were still lighted.
Father was by the fire, smoking in a meditative manner. He
put out his hand, which I did not take, and said, “Do you like
his name—Arthur?”
“Yes,” I mumbled, as I passed him, and went to the
kitchen. Hepsey and Temperance were superintending the
steeping of certain aromatic herbs, which stood round the fire
in silver porringers and earthern pitchers.
“Another Morgeson's come,” said Temperance. “There's
enough of them, such as they are—not but what they are good
enough,” correcting herself hastily.
“Go into your mother's room, softly,” said Hepsey, rubbing
her fingers against her thumb—her habit when she was in a
tranquil frame of mind.
“You are mighty glad, Hepsey,” said Temperance.
“Locke Morgeson ought to have a son,” she replied,
“to leave his money to.”
“I vow,” answered Temperance, “girls are thought nothing
of in this 'ligious section; they may go to the poor house, as
long as the sons have plenty.”
An uncommon fit of shyness seized me, mixed with a feeling
of dread, as I crept into the room where mother was. My
eyes first fell upon an elderly woman, who wore a long, wide
black apron, whose strings girded the middle of her cushion-like
form. She was taking snuff. It was the widow Mehitable
Allen, a lady whom I had often seen in other houses on similar
occasions.
“Shoo,” she whispered nasally.
I was arrested, but turned my eyes towards mother; hers
were closed. Presently she murmured, “Thank God,” opened
them and saw me. A smile lighted her pale countenance.
`Cassy, my darling, kiss me. I am glad it is not a woman.”
As I returned her kiss her glance dropped on a small bunch by
her side, which Mehitable took and deftly unrolled, informing
me as she did so that it was a “Rouser.”
Aunt Mercy came the next day. She had not paid us a visit
in a long time, being confined at home with the care of
her father, Grandfather Warren. She took charge of Veronica
on both sides. I soon discovered, however, that she was
prone to laughter, and that I could provoke it; we got on better
after that discovery; but Veronica, disdaining artifice, was
very cross with her. Aunt Mercy had a spark of fun in her
composition, which was not quite crushed out by her religious
education. She frequented the church oftener than mother,
sang more hymns, attended all the anniversary celebrations,
but she had no dreams, no enthusiasm. Her religion had levelled
all needs, and all aspirations. What the day brought
forth answered for her. Older than mother, she inspired me
with a secret pity on one point; I knew she carried in her bosom
the knowledge that she was an old maid.
Before mother left her room Veronica was taken ill, and was
not convalescent till spring. Delicacy of constitution the
doctor called her disorder. She had no strength, no appetite,
and looked more elfish than ever. She would not stay in bed,
and could not sit up, so father had a chair made for her,
in which she could recline comfortably. Aunt Merce put her
in it every morning, and took her out of it every evening. My
presence irritated her so I visited her but seldom. She said
I looked so well, it hurt her; and she wished me to keep out
of her sight, and begged me never to talk loud in the vicinity
of her room, my voice was so breezy. She amused herself in
her own strange way. One of her amusements, was to cut off
her hair, lock by lock. It was cut short before she was
well enough to walk about. She played on a jew's-harp, and
on a little fife when her breath permitted, and invented
grotesque costumes out of bits of silk and lace. Temperance
was much engaged, at her dictation, in the composition of elaborate
dishes, which she never ate, but forced Temperance to.
She was more patient with her than with any other person;
with us she was excessively high-tempered, especially with
father, who seldom ventured near her. She could not bear to
catch a glimpse of the sea, nor to hear it; when we heard it
echoing in the house, she played on her fife, or jew's-harp, or
asked Aunt Merce to sing some old song. But she liked the
view from the north windows, even when the boughs were
bare, and the fields barren. When the grass came, she ordered
handfuls to be brought her and put in saucers of water. With
the coming of the blossoms she began to mend. As for me, I
was as much an animal as ever—robust in health—inattentive,
and seeking excitement and exhilaration. I went everywhere,
to Bible Class, to Sunday School, and to every funeral which
dead; perhaps that sight would have marred the slumbrous
security which possessed me—an instinctive faith in the durability
of my own powers of life. This feeling was a correlative
of that which makes us antipathetic to sick people.
But a change was approaching. Aunt Merce considered my
present state a hopeless one. She was outside the orbit of the
family planet, and might have felt the tendency of its revolutions,
perceiving that father and mother were absorbed in their
individual affairs. She called mother's attention to my nonimprovement,
and proposed that I should return to Barmouth
with her, to stay a year and become a pupil in a young lady's
school, which had been recently established there, by a graduate
of the Nipswich Female Seminary, a school distinguished
for its ethics. Mother looked astonished, when she heard this
proposal. “What!” she began with vehemence, “shall I
subject”—but checked herself when she caught my eye, and
continued more calmly: “We will decide soon.”
It was decided that I should go, and without my being consulted
in the matter. I felt resentful against mother afterwards,
and could not understand why she had consented to my
going. It was because she wished me to comprehend the
influences of her early life, and to learn some of the lessons she
had been taught. At first father “poohed” at the plan, but
finally he said it was a good place to tame me, and I should try
it. When Veronica heard that I was going, she told me that
I would be stifled, if I lived at grandfather Warren's; but added,
that the plums in his garden were good, and advised me
to sit on the yellow stone door step, under which the toads
lived. She also informed me that she was glad I was going, and
hoped I would stay for ever. Mother looked over my clothes,
repeating many precepts which she had doubtless heard in
youth, and which my future prospect recalled to her mind, the
whole forming, as it were, a mild introductory letter for me to
present to grandfather Warren, provided I would profit by it.
To Barmouth I went, and in May entered Miss Black's genteel
school. Miss Black had a conviction that her vocation was
teaching. Necessity did not compel it, for she was connected
with one of the richest families in Barmouth. At the end of
the week my curiosity regarding my new position was quenched,
and I dropped into the depths of my first wretchedness.
I frantically demanded of father, who had stopped to see me
on his way to Milford, to be taken home. He firmly resisted
chose, and he would come to Barmouth every week.
My agitation and despair clouded his face for a moment, but
it cleared, and pinching my chin, he said, “Why don't you
look like your mother?'
“But she is like her mother,” said aunt Merce.
“As she might have been ages ago.”
“Hush, Locke.”
“Well, Cassy, good bye;” and he gave me a kiss with cruel
nonchalence. I knew my year must be staid out.
| CHAPTER VI. The Morgesons | |