 | CHAPTER XVII. The Morgesons |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
It was November when we returned from Boston. One
morning when the frost sparkled on the dead leaves, which
still dropped on the walks, Helen Perkins and I were taking a
stroll down Silver street, behind the Academy, when we saw
Dr. White coming down the street in his sulky, rocking from
side to side like a cradle. He stopped when he came up to us.
“Do ye sit up late of evenings, Miss Morgeson?”
“No, Doctor; only once a week or so.”
“You are a case.” And he meditatively pulled his shaggy
whiskers with a loose buckskin glove. “There's a ripple coming
under your eyes already; what did I tell you? Let me
see, did you say you were like father or mother?”
“I look like my father. By the way, Doctor, I am studying
my temperament. You will make an infidel of me by your inquiries.”
Helen laughed, and staring at him, called him a bear, and
told him he ought to live in a hospital, where he would have
plenty of sick women to teaze.
“I should find few like you there.”
He chirruped to his horse, but checked it again, put out his
head and called, “Keep your feet warm, won't you? And
read Shakespeare.”
Helen said that Dr. White had been crossed in love, and
long after had married a deformed woman—for science's sake,
perhaps. His talent was well known out of Rosville; but he
was unambitious and eccentric.
“He is interested in you, Cass, that I see. Are you quite
well? What about the change you spoke of?”
“Dr. White has theories; he has attached one to me. Nature
has adjusted us so nicely, he thinks, with fine strings; if
we laugh too much, or cry too long, a knot slips somewhere,
which `all the king's men,' can't take up again. Perhaps
he judges women by his deformed wife. Men do judge that
way, I suppose, and then pride themselves on their experience,
commencing their speeches about us, with `you women.' I'll
me, or a mildew.”
“Is there a worm i' the bud?”
“There may be one at the root; my top is green and flourishing,
isn't it?”
“You expect to be in a state of beatitude always. What is
a mote of dust in another's eye, in yours is a cataract. You
are mad at your blindness, and fight the air because you can't
see.”
“I feel that I see very little, especially when I understand
the clearness of your vision. Your good sense is monstrous.”
`It will come right somehow, with you; when twenty years
are wasted, maybe,” she answered sadly. “There's the first
bell! I haven't a word yet of my rhetoric lesson,” opening
her book and chanting, `man, thou pendulum betwixt a smile
and tear.' “Are you going to Professor Simpson's class?”
shutting it again. “I know the new dance;” and she began
to execute it on the walk. The door of a house opposite
us opened, and a tall youth came out, hat in hand. Without
evincing surprise he advanced towards Helen, gravely dancing
the same step; they finished the figure with unmoved countenances.
“Come now,” I said, taking her arm. He then made
a series of bows to us, retreating to the house, with his face
towards us, till he reached the door and closed it. He was
tall and stout, with red hair, and piercing black eyes, and
looked about twenty-three. “Who can that be, Helen?”
“A stranger; probably some young man come to Dr. Price,
or a law student. He is new here, at all events. His is not
an obscure face; if it had been seen, we should have known it.”
“We shall meet him, then.”
And we did, the very next day, which was Wednesday, in
the hall, where we went to hear the boys declaim. I saw him,
sitting by himself in a chair, instead of being with the classes.
He was in a brown study, unaware that he was observed; both
hands were in his pockets, and his legs were stretched out till
his pantaloons had receded up his boots, whose soles he
knocked together, oblivious of the noise they made. In spite
of his red hair, I thought him handsome, with his Roman nose
and firm, clefted chin. Helen and I were opposite him at the
lower part of the hall, but he did not see us, till the first boy
mounted the platform, and began to spout one of Cicero's orations;
then he looked up, and a smile spread over his face.
He withdrew his hands from his pockets, updrew his legs, and
surveyed the long row of girls opposite, beginning at the head
across; he raised his hand as if to salute us, and I noticed
that it was remarkably handsome, small and white, and ornamented
with an old-fashioned ring. It was our habit, after
the exercises were over, to gather round Dr. Price, to exchange
a few words with him. And this occasion was no exception,
for Dr. Price, with his double spectacles, and his silk handkerchief
in his hand, was answering our questions, when feeling a
touch, he stopped, turned hastily, and saw the stranger.
“Will you be so good as to introduce me to the two young
ladies near you? We have met before, but I do not know
their names.”
“Ah,” said the Doctor, taking off his spectacles and wiping
them leisurely; then raising his voice, said, “Miss Cassandra
Morgeson, and Miss Helen Perkins, Mr. Ben Somers, of Belem,
requests me to present him to you. I add the information that
he is, although a senior, suspended from Harvard College, for
participating in a disgraceful fight. It is at your option, to notice
him.”
“If he would be kind enough,” said Mr. Somers, moving
towards us, “to say that I won it.”
“With such hands?” I asked.
“Oh, Somers,” interposed the Doctor, “have you much
knowledge of the Bellevue Pickersgill's pedigree?”
“Certainly; my grandpa, Desmond Pickersgill, although he
came to this country as a cabin boy, was brother to an English
earl. This is our coat of arms,” showing the ring he wore.
“That is a great fact,” answered the Doctor.
“This lad,” addressing me, “belongs to the family I spoke
of to you, a member of which married one of your name.”
“Is it possible? I never heard much of my father's family.”
“No,” said the Doctor drily; “Somers has no coat of arms.
I expected, when I asked you, to hear that the Pickersgills'
history was at your fingers' ends.”
“Only above the second joint of the third finger of my left
hand.”
I thought Dr. Price was embarrassing.
“Are your family from Troy?” Mr. Somers asked me, in a
low tone.
“Do you dislike my name? Is that of Veronica a better
one? It is my sister's, and we were named by our great
grandfather, who married a Somers, a hundred years ago.”
Miss Black, my Barmouth teacher, came into my mind, for
I had said the same thing to her in my first interview; but I
you looking for your sister? Far be it from me to disparage
any act of your great grandfather's, but I prefer the name of
Veronica, and fancy that the person to whom the name belongs
has a narrow face, with eyes near together, and a quantity
of light hair, which falls straight; that she has long hands;
is fond of Gothic architecture, and has a will of her own.”
“But she never dances,” said Helen.
There was a whist party at somebody's house, every Wednesday
evening. Alice had selected the present for one, and
had invited more than the usual number. I asked Mr. Somers
to come.
“Dress coat?” he inquired.
“Oh, no.”
“Is Rosville highly starched?”
“Oh, no.”
“I'll be sure to go into society then, as long as I can go
limp.”
He bowed, and retiring with Dr. Price, walked through the
green with him, perusing the ground.
I wore a dark blue silk for the party, with a cinnamon-colored
satin stripe through it; a dress that Alice had supervised.
She fastened a pair of pearl ear-rings in my ears, and told me
that I never looked better. It was the first time since grandfather's
death that I had worn any dress except a black one.
My short sleeves were puffed velvet, and a lace tucker was
drawn with a blue ribbon across the corsage. As I adjusted
my dress, a triumphant sense of beautypossessed me; Cleopatra
could not have been more convinced of her charms, than
I was of mine. “It is a pleasant thing,” I thought, “that a
woman's mind may come and go by the gate Beautiful.”
I went down before Alice, who stayed with the children till
she heard the first ring at the door.
“Where is Charles?” I asked, after we had greeted the
Bancrofts.
“He will come in time to play, for he likes whist; do you?”
“No.”
We did not speak again, but I noticed how gay and agreeable
she was through the evening.
Ben Somers came early, suffering from a fit of nonchalance,
to the disgust of several young men, standard beaux, who regarded
him with an impertinence which delighted him.
“Here comes,” he said, “`a daughter of the gods, divinely
their disgust.
“Come to the piano,” I said. Helen was there, but his eyes
did not rest upon her, but upon Charles, whom I saw for the
first time that evening. I introduced them.
“Cassandra,” said Charles, “let us make up a game in the
East room. Miss Helen, will you join? Mr. Somers, will you
take a hand?”
“Certainly. Miss Morgeson, will you be my partner?”
“Will you play with me then, Miss Helen?” asked Charles.
“If you desire it,” she answered, rather ungraciously.
We took our seats in the East room, which opened from the
parlor, at a little table by the chimney. The astral lamp from
the centre table in the parlor, shone into our room, intercepting
any view towards us. I sat by the window, the curtain of
which was drawn apart, and the shutters unclosed. A few
yellow leaves stuck against the panes, unstirred by the melancholy
wind, which sighed through the crevices. Charles was
at my right hand, by the mantel; the light from a candelabra
illuminated him and Mr. Somers, while Helen and I were in
shadow. Mr. Somers dealt the cards, and we began the game.
“We shall beat you,” he said to Charles.
“Not unless Cassandra has improved,” he replied.
I promised to do my best, but soon grew weary, and we were
beaten. To my surprise Mr. Somers was vexed. His imperturbable
manner vanished; he sat erect, and his eyes sparkled,
as he told me that I must play better. We began another
game, which he was confident of winning. I kept my eyes on
the cards, and there was silence till Mr. Somers exclaimed,
“Don't trump now, Mr. Morgeson.”
I watched the table for his card to fall, but as it did not,
looked at him for the reason. He had forgotten us, and was
lost in contemplation, with his eyes fixed upon my throat. The
recognition of some impulse had mastered him. I must prevent
Helen and Mr. Somers perceiving this! I shuffled the
cards noisily, rustled my dress, and looked right and left for
my handkerchief; but the spell was not broken.
“How the wind moans!” said Helen. I understood her
tone; she understood him, as I did.
“I like Rosville, Miss Perkins,” said Mr. Somers.
“Do you?” said Charles, clicking down his card, as though
his turn had just come. “I must trump this in spite of you.”
“I am tired of playing,” I said.
“We are beaten, Miss Perkins,” said Mr. Somers, rising
He drank a goblet of wine, before he offered us any. “Give
us music?” he asked, offering his arm to Helen, and taking
her away. Charles and I remained at the table. “By the
way,” he said abruptly, “I have forgotten to give you a letter
from your father—here it is.” I stretched my hand across the
table, but he retained it. I left my chair and stood beside
him, and he held the letter between us.
“Cassandra,” he said at last, growing ashy pale, “is there
any other world than this we are now in?”
I raised my eyes, and saw my face in the glass over the
mantel, above his head. I was pale also, and my eyes glittered.
“What do you see?” he asked, starting up.
I pointed to the glass. Our eyes, as they exchanged glances,
wore the same inscrutable expression.
“I begin to think,” I said, “there is another world—one
peopled with creatures like those we see there. What are
they—cowardly, base and false?”
“Cowardly!” he said furiously; “you will make me crush
you! And false? Do we lie to each other?”
He turned me from the glass. “See!”
Helen struck a blow on the piano keys.
“Where is that letter, Charles?”
He looked for it on the floor, and found it crumpled with his
grasp. I heard a side door shut, and stood alone. Pinching
my cheeks, and wiping my lips to force the color back to them,
I went into the parlor. Mr. Somers came to me with a glass
of wine. It was full, and I spilled half of it; it trickled down
my dress, but he made no offer to wipe it off. After that, he
devoted himself to Alice; talked lightly with her, observing
her closely. I made the tour of the party, overlooked the
whist players, and chatted with the talkers finally taking a
seat by myself, where Helen joined me.
“I am going,” she said.
“Why don't they all go?”
“Look at Mr. Somers playing the agreeable to Mrs. Morgeson.
What kind of a woman is she, Cass?”
“Go and learn for yourself.”
“I fear I have not the gift for divining people that you
have.”
“Do you hear the wind moan now, Helen?”
She turned crimson as she answered: “It must have died
away.”
“Let us go to the window; I think it rains.”
We stood within the curtains, to listen to its pattering on the
floor of the piazza, and trickling down the glass like tears.
“If one could weep as quietly as this rain falls, and keep
the face as unwrinkled as the glass, it would be pretty to weep,”
I said.
“Is it hard for you to cry?”
“I can't remember; it is some time since.”
My ear caught the sound of a step on the piazza.
“Who is that?” she asked.
“It is a man.”
“Morgeson?”
“Morgeson.”
“Cassandra?”
“Helen!”
“I can cry.”
“Cry away, then. Give me a fierce shower of tears, with
thunder and lightning between, if you like. Don't sop, and
soak, and drizzle.”
The step came close to the window; it was not in harmony
with the rain and darkness, but with the hot beating of my
heart.
“We are breaking up,” said Mr. Somers. “Mr. Bancroft's
carriage is ready, I am bid to say. It is inky outside.”
“Yes,” said Helen, “I am quite ready.”
“There are a dozen chaises in the yard; Mr. Morgeson is
there, and lanterns. He is at home among horses, I believe.”
“Do you like horses?” I asked.
“Not in the least.”
Somebody called Helen.
“Good night, Cass.”
“Good night; keep out of the rain.”
“Good night, Miss Morgeson,” said Mr. Somers, when she
had gone. “Good night and good morning. My acquaintance
with you has begun; it will never end. You thought me a
boy; I am just your age.”
“`Never' is a long word, Boy Somers.”
“It is.”
It rained all night; I wearied of its monotonous fall; if I
slept it turned into a voice which was pent up in the letter we
found on the floor, and which I could not open.
| CHAPTER XVII. The Morgesons | |