 | CHAPTER XI. The Morgesons |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
I was going home! When we rode over the brow of the
hill within a mile of Surrey, and I saw the crescent-shaped
village, and the tall chimneys of our house on its outer edge,
instead of my heart leaping for joy, as I had expected, a sudden
indifference filled it. I felt averse to the change from the
narrow ways of Barmouth, which, for the moment, I regretted.
When I entered the house, and saw mother in her old place,
her surroundings unaltered, I suffered a disappointment, because
I had not had the power of transferring, for her benefit,
the atmosphere of my year's misery to Surrey.
The family gathered round me. I heard the wonted sound
of the banging of doors. “The doors at grand'ther's,” I mused,
“had list nailed round their edges; but then he had the list,
being a tailor.”
“I vum,” said Temperance, with her hand on her hip, and
not offering to approach me, “your hair is as thick as a mop.”
Hepsey, rubbing her fingers against her thumb, remarked
that she hoped learning had not taken away my appetite. “I
have made an Indian bannock for you, and we are going to
have broiled sword-fish, besides. Is it best to cook more, Mrs.
Morgeson, now that Cassandra has come?”
The boy, by name Charles, came to see the new arrival, but
smitten with diffidence crept under the table, and examined
me from his retreat.
“Don't you wish to see Arthur?” inquired mother; “he is
getting his double teeth.”
“Oh yes, and where's Veronica?”
“She's up garret writing geography, and told me nothing in
the world must disturb her, till she had finished an account of
the city of Palmiry.”
“Call her when supper is ready,” replied mother, who
asked me to come into the bed-room where Arthur was sleeping.
He was a handsome child, large and fair, and as I lifted
me; I kissed him.
“I am afraid I make an idol of him, Cassy.”
“Are you unhappy because you love him so well, mother,
and feel that you must make an expiation?”
“Cassandra,” she spoke with haste, “did you experience
any shadow of a change during the revival at Barmouth?”
“No more than the baby here did.”
“I shall have faith, though, that it will be well with you,
because you have had the blessing of so good a man as your
grand'ther.”
“But I never heard a word of grand'ther's prayers. Do you
remember his voice?”
A smile crept into her blue eye, as she said: “My hearing
him, or not, would make no difference, since God could hear and
answer.”
“Grand'ther does not like me; I never pleased him.”
She looked astonished, then reflective. It occurred to her
that she, also, had been no favorite of his. She changed the
subject. We talked on what had happened in Surrey, and commenced
a discussion on my wardrobe, when we were summoned
to tea. Temperance brought Arthur to the table half asleep,
but he roused when she drummed on his plate with a spoon.
Hepsey was stationed by the bannock, knife in hand, to serve
it. As we began our meal, Veronica came in from the kitchen,
with a plate of toasted crackers. She set the plate down, and
gravely shook hands with me, saying she had concluded to live
entirely on toast, but supposed I would eat all sorts of food, as
usual. She had grown tall; her face was still long and narrow,
but prettier. Her large, dark eyes had a slight cast,
which gave her face an indescribable expression. Distant, indifferent,
and speculative as the eyes were, a ray of fire shot
into them occasionally, which made her gaze powerful and concentrated.
I was within a month of sixteen, and Veronica was
in her thirteenth year; but she looked as old as I did. She
carefully prepared her toast with milk and butter, and ate it in
silence. The plenty around me, the ease and independence
which each one felt, gave me a delightful sense of comfort.
The dishes were odd, some of china, some of delf, and were
continually moved out of their places, for we helped ourselves,
although Temperance stayed in the room, ostensibly as a waiter
She was too much engaged in conversation to fulfil her
duties that way. I looked round the room; nothing had been
added to it, except red damask curtains, which were out of
however; the blue sea glimmered between the curtains, and
turning my eyes towards it, my heart gave the leap which I
had looked for. I grew blithe as I saw it winking under the
rays of the afternoon sun, and clapping my hands, said I was
glad to get home. We left Veronica at the table, and mother
resumed her conversation with me in a corner of the room.
Presently Temperance came in with Charles, bringing fresh
plates. As soon as they began their supper, Veronica asked
Temperance how the fish tasted.
“Is it salt?”
“Middling.”
“How is the bannock?”
“Excellent. I will say it for Hepsey, that she hasn't her
beat as a cook; been at it long enough,” she added, in expiation
of her praise.
“Temperance, is that pound cake, or sponge?”
“Pound.”
“Charles can eat it,” Verry said with a sigh.
“A mighty small piece he'll have—the glutton. But he has
not been here long; they are all so when they first come.”
She then gave him a large slice of the cake.
Veronica, contrary to her wont, huddled herself in a heap
on the sofa. Arthur played round the chair of mother, who
looked happy and forgetful. After Temperance had rearranged
the table for father's supper we were quiet. I meditated
how I could best amuse myself, where I should go,
and what I should do, when Veronica, whom I had forgotten,
interrupted my thoughts.
“Mother,” she said, “eating toast does not make me better-tempered;
I feel evil still. You know,” turning to me, “that
my temper is worse than ever; it is like a tiger's.”
“Oh, Verry,” said mother, “not quite so bad; you are too
hard upon yourself.”
“Mother, you said so to Hepsey, when I tore her turban
from her head, it was so ugly. Can you forget you said such a
thing?”
“Verry, you drive me wild. Must I say that I was wrong?
Say so to my own child?”
Verry turned her face to the wall and said no more; but she
had started a less pleasant train of thought. It was changed
again by Temperance, coming with lights. Though the tall
brass lamps glittered like gold, their circle of light was small;
the corners of the room were obscure. Mr. Park entering, retreated
of undressing Arthur; so she sent him off with Temperance
and Charles, whose duty it was to rock the cradle as long as
his babyship required.
Soon after father came, and Hepsey brought in his hot supper;
while he was eating it, grandfather John Morgeson bustled
in. As he shook hands with me, I saw that his hair had
whitened, and that he was growing blind and clumsy; he held
a tasseled cane between his knees, and thumped the floor
whenever he asked a question. Mr. Park buzzed about the
last Sunday's discourse, and mother listened with a vague, respectful
attention. Her hand was pressed against her breast,
as if she were repressing an inward voice which had claimed
her attention. Leaning her head against her chair, she had
quite pushed out her comb, and her hair dropped on her shoulder,
and looked like a brown, coiled serpent. Veronica, who
had been silently observing her, rose from the sofa, picked up
the comb, and fastened her hair, without speaking. As she
passed she gave me a dark look.
“Eh, Verry,” said father, “are you there? Were you
glad to see Cassy home again?”
“Should I be glad? What can she do?”
Grandfather pursed up his mouth, and turned towards mother,
as if he would like to say: “You understand bringing up
children, don't you?”
She comprehended him, and giving her head a slight toss,
told Verry to go and play on the piano.
“I was going,” she answered pettishly, and darting out a
moment after we heard her.
Grandfather went away as if he had been called, and presently
Mr. Park got up in a lingering way, said that Verry
must learn to play for the Lord, and bade us “Good night.”
But he came back again, to ask me if I would join Dr. Snell's
Bible Class. It would meet the next evening; the boys and
girls of my own age went. I promised him to go, wondering
whether I should meet an ancient beau, Joe Bacon. Mother
retired; Verry still played.
“Her talent is wonderful,” said father, taking the cigar
from his mouth. “By the way, you must take lessons in Milford;
I wish you would learn to sing.” I acquiesced, but I
had no wish to learn to play. I could never perform mechanically
what I heard now from Verry. When she ceased, I
woke from a dream, chaotic, but not tumultuous, beautiful, but
inharmonious. Though the fire had gone out, the lamps winked
mouth, changed his regards from one lamp to the other, and
said he thought I was growing to be an attractive girl. He
asked me if I would take pains to make myself an accomplished
one also? I must, of course, be left to myself in many things;
but he hoped that I would confide in him, if I did not ask his
advice. A very strong relation of reserve generally existed
between parent and child, instead of a confidential one, and the
child was apt to discover that reserve on the part of the parent
was not superiority, but cowardice, or indifference. “Let
it not be so with us,” was his conclusion. He threw away the
stump of his cigar, and went to fasten the hall door. I took
one of the brass lamps, proposing to go to bed. As I passed
through the upper entry, Veronica opened her door. She was
undressed, and had a little book in her hand; she shook it at
me, saying, “there is the day of the month put down on which
you came home, and now mind,” shut the door. While I undressed
I pondered over what father had said. I felt that he
perceived something in me which I was not aware of. I concluded
to think seriously over it, after I was settled in bed;
but discovered the next morning that I had not thought at all.
| CHAPTER XI. The Morgesons | |