 | CHAPTER XVIII. The Morgesons |  |
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
Alice was unusually gay the next morning. She praised
Mr. Somers, and could not imagine what had been the cause
of his being expelled from college.
“Don't you like him, Cassandra? His family are unexceptionable.”
“So is he, I believe, except in his fists. But how did you
learn that his family were unexceptionable?”
“Charles inquired in Boston, and heard that his mother was
one of the greatest heiresses in Belem.”
“Did you enjoy last night, Alice?”
“Yes; I am fond of whist parties. You noticed that
Charles has not a remarkable talent that way. Did he speak
to Mr. Somers at all, while you played? I was too busy to
come in. By the by, I must go now, and see if the room is in
order.”
I followed her with my bonnet in my hand, for it was school
time. She looked about, and then went up to the mantel, and
taking out the candle ends from the candelabra, looked in the
glass, and said, “I am a fright, this morning.”
“Am I?” I asked over her shoulder, for I was nearly
a head taller.
“No; you are too young to look jaded in the morning.
Your eyes are as clear as a child's; and how blue they are”
“Mild and babyish-like, are they not? almost green with innocence
But Charles has devilish eyes, don't you think so?”
She turned, with her mouth open in astonishment, and her
hand full of candle-ends. “Cassandra Morgeson, are you possessed?”
“He is.”
“You are cracked.”
“Good-bye.”
I only saw Mr. Somers at prayers during the following fortnight.
But in that short time he made many acquaintances.
Helen told me that he had decided to study law with Judge
Ryder, and that he had asked her how long I expected to stay
in Rosville. Nothing eccentric had been discovered in his
he had been among us long. The first Wednesday after
my party, I was absent from the Elocutionary exercise; but
the second came round, and I took my place as usual beside
Helen.
“This will be Mr. Somers's first and last appearance on our
stage,” she whispered; “some whim prompts him to come to-day.”
He delighted Dr. Price by translating from the Agamemnon
of Eschuylus.
“Re-enter Clytemnestra.
Men! Citizens! ye Elders of Argos present here.”
“Who was Agamemnon?” I whispered.
“He gave Cassandra her last ride.”
“Did he upset?”
“Study Greek,” she replied, frowning at him as he stepped
from the platform.
We went to walk in Silver Street after school, and he
joined us.
“Do you read Greek?” he asked her.
“My father is a Greek Professor, and he made me study it
when I was a little girl.”
“The name of Cassandra inspired me to rub up my knowledge
of the tragedies.”
Helen and he had a Homeric talk, while I silently walked
by them, thinking that Cassandra would have suited Veronica,
and that an insignificant name would have suited me. From
some reason I did not discover, Helen began to loiter, pretending
that she wanted to have a look at the clouds. But when I
looked back, her head was bent to the ground. Mr. Somers
offered to carry my books.
“Carry Helen's; she is smaller than I am.”
“Confound Helen!”
“And the books, too, if you like.”
“I wish you knew my sister; she bottles up her feelings so
splendidly, she would be an example for you.”
“Helen, why do you loiter? It is time for dinner. We
must go home.”
“I am quite ready for my dinner,” she replied. “Won't
you come to our house this afternoon, and take tea with me?”
“Oh, Miss Perkins, do invite me also,” he begged. “I
want to bring Tennyson to you.”
“Is he related to Agamemnon?” I asked.
“I'll ask Mrs. Bancroft if I may invite you, if you are sure
that you would like a stupid, family tea.”
“I am positive that I should Tennyson, though an eminent
Grecian, is not related to the person you spoke of.”
We parted at the foot of Silver Street, with the expectation
of meeting before night. Helen sent me word not to fail, as
she had sent to Mr. Somers, and that Mrs. Bancroft was
already preparing tea. Alice drove down there with me, to
call on Mrs. Bancroft. The two ladies compared children, and
by the time Alice was ready to go, Mr. Somers arrived. She
staid a few moments more to chat with him, and when
she went at last, told me Charles would come for me on his
way from the mills.
My eyes wandered in the direction of Mr. Somers. His
said, “No; go home with me.”
“Very well, Alice, whatever is convenient.”
Mrs. Bancroft was a motherly woman, and Mr. Bancroft was
a fatherly man. Five children sat round the tea table, distinguished
by the Bancroft nose. Helen and I were seated each
side of Mr. Somers. The table reminded me of our table
at Surrey, it was so covered with vast viands; but the dishes
were alike, and handsome. I wondered whether mother had
bought the new china in Boston, and, buttering my second hot biscuit,
I thought of Veronica; then, of the sea. How did it look?
Hark! Its voice was in my ear! Could I climb the housetop,
I believed I should see the mist which hung over our low-lying
sea by Surrey.
“Will you take quince or apple jelly, Miss Morgeson?”
asked Mrs. Bancroft.
“Apple, if you please.”
“Do you write that sister of yours often?” asked Mr. Somers,
as he gave me the apple jelly.
“I never write her.”
“Will you tell me something of Surrey?”
“Mr. Somers, shall I give you a cup custard?”
“No, thank you, mam.”
“Surrey is lonely, evangelical, primitive.”
“Belem is dreary too; most of it goes to Boston, or to
India.”
“Does it smell of sandal wood? And has everybody tea-caddies?
Vide Indian stories.”
“We have a crate full of queer ware.”
“Are you going to study law with Judge Ryder?” Mr. Bancroft
inquired.
“I think so.”
Helen pushed back her chair; Mrs. Bancroft stood in her
place long enough for us to reach the parlor door, and then resumed
her seat.
“And I must go to the office,” Mr. Bancroft said, from the
threshold, so we had the parlor to ourselves; but Mr. Somers
could not read from Tennyson—for he had forgotten to bring
the book.
“Compact,” he said. “I must be called Ben Somers by
you; and may I call you Cassandra, and Helen?”
“Yes,” we answered.
“Now we may be confidential.”
And we were. I was drawn into speaking of my life at home,
and my remarks, made without premeditation, taught me that I
possessed certain ideas and feelings pertaining to it, which I
had not thought of. I felt no shyness before him, and although
I saw his interest in me, no agitation. Helen was also moved to
tell us that she was engaged. She rolled up her sleeve and
showed us a bracelet, printed in ink on her arm, with the initials,
“L. N.” Those of her cousin, she said; he was a sailor,
and sometime, she supposed, they would marry.
“How could you consent to have your arm so defaced?” I
asked.
Her eyes flashed as she replied, that she had not looked upon
the mark in that light before.
“We shall all be tattooed,” he said.
“I am already,” I thought.
He told us in his turn, that he should be rich. “There are
five of us. My mother's fortune cuts up rather; but it won't
be divided till the youngest is twenty-one. I assure you we are
impatient.”
“Some one of your family happened to marry a Morgeson,”
I remarked.
“I wrote father about that; he must know the circumstance,
though he never has a chance to expatiate on his side of the
house. Poor man! he has the gout, and passes his time in experiments
with temperature and diet. Shall you ever visit
Belem? I shall go to Surrey.”
Mrs. Bancroft interrupted us, and soon after Mr. Bancroft
arrived, redolent of smoke. Ten o'clock came, and nobody for
me. At half past ten I put on my shawl to walk home, when
Charles drove up to the gate.
“Say,” said Ben Somers, in a low voice “that you will walk
with me.”
“I am not too late, Cassandra?” said Charles, coming up
the steps, bowing to all. “I am glad you are ready; Nell is
impatient.”
“My dear,” asked Mrs. Bancroft, “how dare you trust to
the mercy of such vicious beasts as Mr. Morgeson loves to
drive?”
“Come,” he said, touching my arm.
“Won't you walk?” said Mr. Somers aloud.
“Walk?” he echoed. “No.”
I followed him. Nell had already bitten off a paling; as he
untied her he boxed her ears. She did not jump, for she knew
the hand that struck her. We rushed swiftly away through
the long shadows of the moonlight.
“Charles, what did Ben Somers do at Harvard?”
“He was in a night-fight, and he sometimes got drunk; it is
a family habit.”
“Pray, why did you inquire about him?”
“From the interest I feel in him.”
“You like him then?”
“I detest him; do you?”
“I like him.”
He bent down and looked into my face.
“You are telling me a lie.”
I made no reply.
“I should beg your pardon, but I will not. I am going
away to-morrow. Give me your hand, and say farewell.”
“Farewell then. Is Alice up? I see a light moving in her
chamber.”
“If you do, she is not waiting for me.”
“I have been making coffee for you,” she said, as soon as
we entered, “in my French biggin. I have packed your valise,
too, Charles, and have ordered your breakfast. Cassy, we
will breakfast after he has gone.”
“Go to bed,” he said. “I have to sit up to write. See
that the horses are exercised. Ask Parker to drive them. The
men will be here to-morrow to enlarge the conservatory.”
“Yes?”
“I shall get a better stock, while I am away.”
I sipped my coffee; Alice yawned fearfully, with her hand
on the coffee pot, ready to pour again. “Why Charles,” she
exclaimed, “there is no cream in your coffee.”
“No, there isn't,” looking into his cup; “nor sugar.”
She threw a lump at him, which he caught, laughing one of
his abrupt laughs.
“They are extraordinarily affectionate,” I thought.
“Why do you tempt me, Alice?” I said. “Doctor White
says I must not drink coffee.”
“Tempted!” Charles exclaimed. “She is never tempted.
What she does, she does because she will, Don't worry yourself,
Alice, about her.”
“Because I will,” I repeated.
A nervous foreboding possessed me, the moment I entered
my room. Was it the coffee? Twice in the night I lighted
my candle, looked at the little French clock on the mantel, and
under the bed. At last I fell asleep, but starting violently
from its oblivious dark, became aware that the darkness of the
room was sentient. A breath passed over my face; but I
caught no sound, though I held my breath to listen for one. I
moved my hands before me then, but they came in contact with
nothing. My forebodings passed away, and I slept till Alice
rang a bell for me. I sat up in bed philosophizing, and examining
the position of the chairs, the tops of the tables, and the
door. No change had taken place. But my eyes happened to
fall on my handkerchief, which had dropped by the bedside.
I picked it up; there was a dusty footprint upon it. The bell
rang again, and throwing it under the bed, I dressed and ran
down. Alice was taking breakfast, tired of waiting. She said
the baby had cried till after midnight, and that Charles never
came to bed at all.
“Do eat this hot toast; it has just come in.”
“I shall stay at home to-day, Alice, I feel chilly; it is cold.”
“You must have a constant fire in your room.”
“Let me have one to-day; I should like to sit there.”
She gave orders for the fire, and went herself to see that it
burned. Soon I was sitting before it, with my feet on a stool,
and a poker in my hand, with which I smashed the smoky
lumps of coal which smouldered in the grate.
I staid there all day, looking out of the window when I
heard the horses tramp in the stable, or a step on the piazza.
It was a dull November day; the atmosphere was glutinous
with a pale mist, which made the leaves stick together in
bunches, helplessly cumbering the ground. The boughs
dropped silent tears over them, under the grey, pitiless sky.
I read Byron, which was the only book in the house, I believe;
for neither Charles nor Alice read anything except the newspapers.
I looked over my small stores also, and my papers,
which consisted of father's letters. As I was sorting them, the
thought struck me of writing to Veronica, and I arranged my
Veronica.” After writing this a few times I gave it up; cut
off the “Dear Veronicas,” and made lamplighters of the paper.
Ben Somers called at noon, to inquire the reason of my absence
from school, and left a book for me. It was the poems
he had spoken of. I lighted on “Fatima,” read it, and copied
it. In the afternoon Alice came up with the baby.
“Let me braid your hair,” she said, “in a different fashion.”
I assented; the baby was bestowed on the rug, and a chair
was put before the glass, that I might witness the operation.
“What magnificent hair!” she said, as she unrolled it. “It
is a yard long.”
“It is a regular mane, isn't it?”
She began combing it; the baby crawled under the bed, and
coming out with the handkerchief in its hand, crept up to her,
trying to make her take it. She had combed my hair over my
face, but I saw it.
“Do I hurt you, Cass?”
“No, do I ever hurt you, Alice?” And I divided the long
bands over my eyes, and looked up at her.
“Were any of your family ever cracked? I have long suspected
you of a disposition that way.”
“The child is choking itself with that handkerchief.”
She took it, and tossing it on the bed, gave Byron to the child
to play with, and went on with the hair-dressing.
“There now,” she said, “is not this a masterpiece of barber's
craft? Look at the back of your head, and then come
down.”
“Yes, I'll go, for I feel better.”
When I returned to my room again it was like meeting a
confidential friend.
A few days after, father came to Rosville. I invited Ben
Somers and Helen to spend with us the only evening he staid.
After they were gone we sat in my room, and talked over many
matters. His spirits were not as buoyant as usual, and I felt
in undefinable anxiety, which I did not mention. When he
said that mother was more abstracted than ever, he sighed. I
asked him how many years he thought I must waste; eighteen
had already gone for nothing.
“You must go on in the way ordained, waste or no waste.
I have tried to make your life differ from mine at the same age,
for you are like me, and I wanted to see the result.”
“We shall see.”
“Veronica has been let alone—is master of herself, except
kith and kin, and everything else. I assure you, Miss Cass,
she is very good.”
“Does she ever ask for me?”
“I never heard her mention your name but once. She asked
one day, what your teachers were. You do not love each other,
I suppose. What hatred there is between near relations! Bitter,
bitter,” he said, calmly, as if he thought of some object,
now incapable of exciting the hatred he spoke of.
“That's grandfather John Morgeson you think of. I do not
hate Veronica. I think I love her; at least, she interests me.”
“The same creeping in the blood of us all, Cassy. I detested
my father; but thank God I behaved decently towards him.
It must be late.”
As he kissed me, and we stood face to face, I recognized my
likeness to him. “He has had experiences that I shall never
know,” I thought. “Why should I tell him mine?” But an
overpowering impulse seized me to speak to him of Charles.
“Father,” and I put my hands on his shoulders. He set his
candle back on the table.
“You look hungry-eyed, eager. What is it? Are you well?”
“No.”
“You are faded a little. Your face has lost its firmness.”
My impulse died a sudden death. I buried it with a swallow.
“Do you think so?”
“You are all alike. Let me tell you something; don't get
sick. If you are, hide it as much as possible. Men do not
like sick women.”
“I'll end this fading business as soon as possible. It is late.
Good night, dad.”
I examined my face as soon as he closed the door. There
was a change. Not the change from health to disease, but an
expression lurking there—a reflection of some unmoved, secret
power, which attracted me so that I longed to prove it.
The next morning was passed with Alice and the children.
He was pleased with her prettiness and sprightliness, and his
gentle manner and disposition pleased her. She asked him to
let me spend another year in Rosville; but he said that I must
return to Surrey, and that he never should allow me to leave
home again.
“She will marry.”
“Not early.”
“Never, I believe,” I said.
“It will be as well.”
“Yes,” she replied; “if you leave her a fortune, or teach
her some trade, that will give her an importance among men.”
Her wisdom astonished me.
He was sorry, he said, that Morgeson was not at home.
When he mentioned him I looked out of the window, and saw
Ben Somers coming into the yard. As he entered, Alice gave
father a meaning look, which was not lost upon me, and which
induced him to observe Ben closely.
“The train is nearly due, Mr. Morgeson; shall I walk to
the station with you?”
“Certainly; come, Cassy.”
On the way, he touched me, making a sign towards Ben. I
shook my head, which appeared satisfactory. The rest of the
time was consumed in the discussion of the relationship, which
ended in an invitation, as I expected, to Surrey.
“The governor is not worried, is he?” asked Ben, on our
way back.
“No more than I am.”
“What a pity Morgeson was not at home!”
“Why a pity?”
“I should like to see them together, they are such antipodal
men. Does your father know him well?”
“Does any one know him well?”
“Yes, I know him. I do not like him. He is a savage,
living by his instincts, with one element of civilization—he
loves Beauty—beauty like yours.” He turned pale when he
said this, but went on. “He has never seen a woman like
you: who has? Forgive me, but I watch you both.”
“I have perceived it.”
“I supposed so, and it makes you more wilful.”
“You said you were a boy.”
“Yes, but I have had one or two manly wickednesses. I
have done with them, I hope.”
“So that you have leisure to pry into those of others.”
“You do not forgive me.”
“I like you; but what can I do?”
“Keep up your sophistry to the last.”
| CHAPTER XVIII. The Morgesons | |