 | CHAPTER XVI. The Morgesons |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
I heard from home regularly; father, however, was my only
correspondent. He stipulated that I should write him every
other Saturday, if not more than a line; but I did more than
that at first, writing up the events of the fortnight, interspersing
my opinions of the actors engaged therein, and
dwindling by degrees down to the mere acknowledgement of
his letter. He read without comment, but now and then asked
me questions which puzzled me to answer.
“Do you like Mr. Morgeson?” he asked once.
“He is very attentive,” I wrote back. “But, so is Cousin
Alice,—she is fond of me.”
“You do not like Morgeson?” again.
“Are there no agreeable young men,” he asked another
time, “with Doctor Price?”
“Only boys,” I wrote—“cubs of my age.”
Among the first letters I received, was one with the news
of the death of my grandfather, John Morgeson. He had left
ten thousand dollars for Arthur, the sum to be withdrawn from
the house of Locke Morgeson and Co., and invested elsewhere,
for the interest to accumulate, and be added to the principal,
till he should be of age. The rest of his property he gave to
the Foreign Missionary Society. “Now,” wrote father, “it
will come your turn next, to stand in the gap, when your
mother and I fall back from the forlorn hope,—life.” This
merry and unaccustomed view of things, did not suggest to my
mind the charge he intimated; I could not dwell on such an
idea, so steadfast a home-principle were father and mother.
It was different with grandfathers and grandmothers, of course;
they died, since it was not particularly necessary for them to
live after their children were married.
It was early June when I went to Rosville; it was now October.
There was nothing more for me to discover there. My
relations at home and at school were established, and it was
probable that the next year's plans were all settled.
“It is the twentieth,” said my friend, Helen Perkins, as we
lingered in the Academy yard, after school hours. “The trees
that Mr. Morgeson, who is tearing round the corner of Gold
Street? Do you think he is strange-looking? I do. His
hair, and eyes, and complexion are exactly the same hue: what
color is it? A pale brown, or a greenish grey?”
“Is he driving this way?”
“Yes; the fore legs of his horse have nearly arrived.”
I moved on in advance of Helen, towards the gate; he
beckoned when he saw me, and presently reined Nell close to
us. “You can decide now, what color he is,” I whispered to
her.
“Will you ride home?” he asked. “And shall I take you
down to Bancroft's, Miss Helen?”
She would have declined riding, but I took her arm, and
pushed her into the chaise, and then sprang in after her; she
seized the hand-loop, in view of an upset.
“You are afraid of my horse, Miss Helen,” he said, without
having looked at her.
“I am afraid of your driving,” she answered, leaning back,
and looking behind him at me. She shook her head, and put
her finger on her eyelid to make me understand that she did
not like the color of his eyes.
“Cassandra is afraid of neither,” he said.
“Why should I be?” I replied coldly.
We were soon at the Bancrofts', where Helen lived, which
was a mile from the Academy, and half a mile from our house.
When we were going home, he asked:
“Is she your intimate friend?
“The most in school.”
“Is there the usual nonsense about her?”
“What do you mean by nonsense?”
“When a girl talks about her lover, or proposes one to her
friend.”
“I think she is not gifted that way.”
“Then I like her.”
“Why should she not talk about lovers, though? The next
time I see her, I will bring up the subject.”
“You shall think and talk of your lessons, and nothing more,
I charge you. Go on Nell,” he said in a loud voice, turning
into the yard, and grazing one of the gate posts, so that we
struck together. I was vexed, thinking it was done purposely,
and brushed my shoulder where we had come in contact,
as if dust had fallen on me. I jumped out without looking
at him, and ran into the house.
“Are you losing your skill in driving, Charles?” Alice
asked, when we were at tea, “or is Nell too much for you?
I saw you crash against the gate post.”
“Did you? My hand was not steady, and we made a lurch.”
“Was there a fight at the mills last night? Jesse said so.”
“Jesse must mind his business.”
“He told Phœbe about it.”
“I knocked one of the clerks over, and sprained my wrist.”
I met his eye then “It was your right hand?” I asked.
“It was my right hand,” in a deferential tone, and with a
slight bow in my direction.
“Was it Parker?” she asked.
“Yes, he is a puppy; but don't talk about it.”
Nothing more was said, even by Edward, who observed his
father with childish gravity. I meditated on the injustice I
had done him about the gate post. After tea he busied himself
in the garden, among the flowers which were still remaining.
I lingered in the parlor, or walked the piazza, with an
undefined desire of speaking to him before I should go to my
room. After he had finished his garden work he went to the
stable; I heard the horses stepping about the floor, as they
were taken out for his inspection. The lamps were lighted
before he came in again; Alice was up stairs as usual. When
I heard him coming, I opened my book, and seated myself in
a corner of a sofa; he walked to the window without noticing
me, and drummed on the piano.
“Does your wrist pain you, Charles?” still reading.
“A trifle,” adjusting his wristband.
“Do you often knock men down in your employ?”
“When they deserve it.”
“It is a generous and manly sort of pastime.”
“I am a generous man, and very strong; do you know that,
you little fool? Here, will you take this flower? There will
be no more this year.” I took it from his hand; it was a pink
faintly odorous blossom.
“I love these fragile flowers best,” he continued—“where
I have to protect them from my own touch, even.” He relapsed
into forgetfulness for a moment, and then began to study
his memorandum-book.
“A note from the mills, Sir,” said Jesse, “by one of the
hands.”
“Tell him to wait.”
He read it, and threw it over to me. It was from Parker,
who informed Mr. Morgeson that he was going by the morning's
that, though the fault was his own in the difficulty of the
day before, a Yankee could not stand a knock down. It was
too damned aristocratic for an employer to have that privilege;
our institutions did not permit it. He thanked Mr. Morgeson
for his liberality; he couldn't thank him for being a good
fellow. And would he oblige him by sending per bearer the
arrears of salary?”
“Parker is in love with a factory girl. He quarrelled with
one of the hands, because he was jealous of him, and would
have been whipped by the man and his friends; to spare him
that, I knocked him down. Do you feel better now, Cassy?”
“Better? How does it concern me?”
He laughed.
“Put Black Jake in the wagon,” he called to Jesse.
Alice heard him and came down stairs; we went out on the
piazza to see him off. “Why do you go?” she asked in an
uneasy tone.
“I must. Won't you go too?”
She refused; but whispered to me, asking if I were afraid?
“Of what?”
“Men quarrelling.”
“Cassandra, will you go?” he asked. “If not, I am off.
Jump in behind, Sam, will you?”
“Go,” said Alice; and she ran in for a shawl, which she
wrapped round me.
“Alice,” said Charles, “you are a silly woman.”
“As you have always said,” she answered, laughing. “Ward
the blows from him, Cassandra.”
“It's a pretty dark night for a ride,” remarked Sam.
“I have rode in darker ones.”
“I dessay,” replied Sam.
“Cover your hand with my handkerchief,” I said; “the
wind is cutting.”
“Do you wish it?”
“No, I do not wish it; it was a humanitary idea merely.”
He refused to have it covered, to annoy me.
The air had a mouldy taint, and the wind blew the dead
leaves round us. As we rode through the darkness, I counted
the glimmering lights which flashed across our way till we got
out on the high road, where they grew scarce, and the wind
whistled loud about our faces. He laid his hand on my shawl.
“It is too light; you will take cold.”
“No.”
We reached the mills, and pulled up by the corner of a
building, where a light shone through a window.
“This is my office. You must go in—it is too chilly for
you to wait in the wagon. Hold Jake, Sam, till I come back.”
I followed him. In the farthest corner of the room where
we had seen the light, behind a desk, sat Mr. Parker, with his
light hair rumpled, and a pen behind his ear.
I stopped by the door; but Charles went to the desk and
stood before him to intercept my view. He could not help
my hearing what was said, though he spoke low.
“Did you give something to Sam, Parker, for bringing me
your note at such a late hour?”
“Certainly,” in a loud voice.
“He must be fifty, at least.”
“I should say so,” rather lower.
“Well, here is your money; you had better stay. I shall
be devilish sorry for your father, who is my friend; you know
he will be disappointed if you leave. You may depend that
he will guess at the girl. Of course you would like to have
me say I was in fault about giving you a blow—as I was.
Stay. You will get over the affair. We all do. Is she handsome?”
“Beautiful,” in a meek, but enthusiastic tone.
“That goes, like the flowers; but they come every year
again.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I say.”
“No; I'll stay and see.”
Charles turned away.
“Good evening, Mr. Parker,” I said, stepping forward. I
had met him at several parties at Rosville, but never at our
house.
“Excuse me, Miss Morgeson; I did not know you. I hope
you are well.”
“Come,” said Charles, with his hand on the latch.
“Are you going to Mrs. Bancroft's whist party on Wednesday
night, Mr. Parker?”
“Yes; Miss Perkins was kind enough to invite me.”
“Cassandra, come.” And Charles opened the door. I fumbled
for the flower at my belt. “It's nice to have flowers so
late; don't you think so?” inhaling the fragrance of my crushed
specimens; “if they would but last. Will you have it?”
stretching it towards him. He was about to take it, with a
blush, when Charles struck it out of my hand and stepped on it.
“Are you ready now?” he said in a quick voice.
I declared it was nothing, when I found I was too ill to rise
the next morning. At the end of three days, as I still felt a
disinclination to get up, Alice sent for her physician. I told
him I was sleepy, and felt dull pains. He requested me to sit
up in bed, and rapped my shoulders and chest with his
knuckles, in a forgetful way.
“Nothing serious,” he said; “but like many women, you
will continue to do something to keep in continual pain. If
Nature does not endow your constitution with suffering, you
will make up the loss by some fatal trifling, which will bring
it. I dare say, now, that after this, you never will be quite
well.”
“I will take care of my health.”
He looked into my face attentively.
“You won't—you can't. Did you ever notice your temperament?”
“No, never; what is it?”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen, and four months.”
“Is it possible? How backward you are! You are quite
interesting.”
“When may I get up?”
“Next week; don't drink coffee. Remember to live in the
day. Avoid stirring about in the night, as you would avoid
Satan. Sleep, sleep then, and you'll make that beauty of yours
last longer.”
“Am I a beauty? No living creature ever said so before.”
“Adipose beauty.”
“Fat?”
“No; not that exactly. Good day.'
He came again, and asked me questions concerning my father
and mother; what my grandparents died of; and whether
any of my family were strumous. He struck me as being very
odd.
My school friends were attentive, but I only admitted Helen
Perkins to see me. Her liking for me opened my heart still
more towards her. She was my first intimate friend—and my
last. Though younger than I, she was more experienced, and
had already passed through scenes I knew nothing of, which
had sobered her judgment, and given her feelings a practical
tinge. She was noted for having the highest spirits of any
girl in school—another result of her experiences. She never
to me, whose moods varied.
After my illness came a sense of change. I had lost that
careless security in my strength which I had always possessed,
and was troubled with vague doubts, that made me feel I
needed help from without.
I did not see Charles while I was ill, for he was absent most
of the time. I knew when he was at home, by the silence
which pervaded the premises. When he was not there, Alice
spread the children in all directions, and the servants gave
tongue.
He was not at home the day I went down stairs, and I missed
him, continually asking myself, “Why do I?” As I sat with
Alice in the garden room, I said, “Alice.” She looked up
from her sewing. “I am thinking of Charles.”
“Yes. He will be glad to see you again.”
“Is he really related to me?”
“He told you so, did he not? And his name certainly is
Morgeson.”
“But we are wholly unlike, are we not?”
“Wholly; but why do you ask?”
“He influences me so strongly.”
“Influences you?” she echoed.
“Yes;” and, with an effort, “I believe, I influence him.”
“You are very handsome,” she said, with a little sharpness.
“So are flowers,” I said to myself.
“It is not that Alice,” I answered peevishly; “you know
better.”
“You are peculiar then; it may be he likes you for being
so. He is odd, you know; but his oddity never troubles me.”
And she resumed her sewing, with a placid face.
“Veronica is odd, also,” was my thought; “but oddity there
runs in a wrong direction.” Her image appeared to me, pale,
delicate, unyielding. I washed like a weed at the base of her
character.
“You should see my sister, Alice.”
“Charles spoke of her; he says she plays beautifully. If
you feel strong next week, we will go to Boston, and make our
winter purchases. By the way, I hope you are not nervous.
To go back to Charles, I have noticed how little you say to
him. You know he never talks. The influence you speak of
—it does not make you dislike him?”
“No; I meant to say,—my choice of words must be poor—
that it was possible I might be thinking too much of him; he
interesting, or pleasing.”
She laughed, as if highly amused, and said; “Well, about
our dresses. You need a ball dress, so do I; for we shall have
balls this winter, and if the children are well, we will go. I
think, too, that you had better get a grey cloth pelisse, with a
fur trimming. We dress so much at church.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “And how will a grey hat with feathers
look? I must first write father, and ask for more money.”
“Of course; but he allows you all you want.”
“He is not so very rich; we do not live as handsomely as
you do.”
It was tea time when we had finished our confab, and Alice
sent me to bed soon after. I was comfortably drowzy when I
heard Charles driving into the stable. “There he is,” I
thought, with a light heart, for I felt better since I had spoken
to Alice of him. Her matter-of-fact air had blown away the
cobwebs that had gathered across my fancy.
I saw him at the breakfast table the next morning. He was
noting something in his memorandum book, which excused him
from offering me his hand; but he spoke kindly, said he was
glad to see me, and hoped that I was well, and could find a
breakfast that I liked.
“For some reason or other, I do not eat so much as I did in
Surrey.”
Alice laughed, and I blushed; the blood went into my head
in a volume.
“What do you think, Charles?” she said, “Cassandra seems
worried by the influence, as she calls it, you have upon each
other.”
“Does she?”
He raised his eyes to mine. A blinding, intelligent light
flowed from them, which I could not defy. The blood thundered
back to my heart.
“You think Cassandra is not like you,” he continued, with
a curious intonation.
“I told her that your oddities never troubled me.”
“That is right.”
“To-day, Alice, I shall go back to school.”
“You must ride,” she answered.
“Jesse will drive you up,” said Charles, rising. Alice
called him back, to tell him her plan of the Boston visit.
“Certainly; go by all means,” he said, and went on his
way.
I made my application to father, telling him I had nothing
to wear. He answered with haste, begging me to clothe myself
at once.
| CHAPTER XVI. The Morgesons | |