 | CHAPTER XX. The Morgesons |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
Helen was called home, by the illness of her father, and did
not return to Rosville. She would write me, she said; but it
was many weeks before I received a letter. Ben Somers about
called a well regulated life, averring that he should always
abide by it. Every hour had its duty, which must be fulfilled.
He weighed his bread and meat, ate so many ounces a day,
and slept watch and watch, as he nautically termed it. I
guessed that the meaning of his plan, was to withdraw from
the self-chosen post of censor. His only alienation was an occasional
disappearance for a few days. I never asked him
where he went, and had never spoken to him concerning his
mysterious remark about having been in Surrey. Neither
had I heard anything of his being there from father. Once he
told me that his father had explained the marriage of old Locke
Morgeson; but that it was not clear to him that we were at all
related.
In consequence of his rigorous life, I saw little of him.
Though urged by Alice, he did not come to our house, and we
rarely met him elsewhere. People called him eccentric; but
then he was of a rich family, and could afford to be, and they
were not slighted by his neglect.
There was a change everywhere. The greatest change of all
was in Charles. From the night of the sleigh ride his manner
towards me was totally altered. As far as I could discern, the
change was a confirmed one. The days grew montonous, but
my mind avenged itself by night in dreams, which renewed
our old relation in all its mysterious vitality. So strong were
their impressions that each morning I expected to receive some
token from him which would prove that they were not lies.
As my expectation grew cold and faint, the sense of a double
hallucination tormented me—the past and the present.
The winter was over. I passed it like the rest of Rosville,
going out when Alice went, staying at home when she staid.
It was all one what I did, for I appeared contented whether at
home or abroad.
Alice alone was unchanged; her spirits and pursuits were
the same. Judging by herself, if she judged at all, she perceived
no change in us. Her theory regarding Charles was
too firm to be shaken, and all his oddity was a matter of course.
As long as I ate, and drank, and slept as usual, I must be the
same. He was not at home much. Business, he said, kept
him at the mills, where he often slept, or out of town. But the
home machinery was still under his controling hand. Not a
leaf dropped in the conservatory that he did not see; not a
meal was served whose slightest detail was not according to his
desire. The horses were exercised, the servants managed, the
daily life was ever dropped, and yet I scarcely ever saw him!
When we met, I shared his attentions. He gave me flowers;
noticed my dress; spoke of the affairs of the day; but all in so
public and matter-of-fact a way, that I thought I must be the
victim of a vicious sentimentality, or that he had amused himself
with me. Either way, the sooner I cured myself of my
vice the better. But my dreams continued.
“I miss something in your letters,” father complained.
“What is it? Would you like to come home? Your mother
is failing in health—she may need you, though she says not.”
I wrote him that I should come home.
“Are you prepared,” he asked in return, “to remain at
home for the future? Have you laid the foundation of anything
by which you can abide contented, and employed? Veronica
has been spending two months in New York, with the
family of one of my business friends. All that she brings
back serves to embellish her quiet life, not to change it. Will
it be so with you?”
I wrote back, “No; but I am coming.”
He wrote me of changes in Surrey. Dr. Snell had gone,
library and all, and a new minister, red hot from Andover, had
taken his place. An ugly new church was building for him.
His best ship, the “Locke Morgeson,” was at the bottom of the
Indian Ocean, he had just heard. Her loss bothered him.
His letters were kinder than ever.
I consulted with Alice about leaving the Academy. She
approved my plan, but begged me not to leave her. I said
nothing of my determination to that effect, feeling a strange
disinclination towards owning it, though I persisted in repeating
it to myself. I applied diligently to my reading, emulating
Ben Somers in the regularity of my habits, and took long
walks daily—a mode of exercise I had adopted since I had
ceased my rides with Charles. The pale blue sky of Spring
over me, and the pale green grass under me, were charming
perhaps; but there was the same monotony in them, as in other
things. I did not frequent our old promenade, Silver Street,
but pushed my walks into the outskirts of Rosville, by farms
bordered with woods. My schoolmates, who were familiar
with all the pleasant spots of the neighborhood, met me in
groups. “Are you really taking walks like the rest of us?”
they asked. “Only alone,” I answered.
I bade farewell at last to Miss Prior. We parted with all
friendliness and respect; from the fact, possibly, that we
that I had ever held with any one. We parted without
emotion or regret, and I started on my usual walk.
As I was returning I met Ben Somers. When he saw me
he threw his cap into the air, with the information that he had
done with his plans, and had ordered an indigestible supper,
in honor of his resolve. As people had truly remarked, he
could afford to be eccentric. He was tired of it; he had money
enough to do without Law. “Not as much as your cousin Morgeson,
who can do without the Gospel, too.”
This was the first time that he had referred to Charles since
that memorable night. Trifling as his words were, they broke
into the foundations of my stagnant will, and set the tide flowing
once more.
“You went to Surrey.”
“I was there a few hours. Your father was not at home.
He asked me there, you remember. I introduced myself, therefore,
and was politely received by your mother, who sent for
Veronica, who came in with an occupied air, her hands full of
what I thought were herbs; but they were grasses, which she
had been re-arranging, she said.
“`You know my sister?' she asked, coming close, and looking
at me, with the most singular eyes that were ever on earth.”
He stopped a moment. “Not like yours, in the least,” he continued.
“`Cassandra is very handsome now, is she?'
“`Why, Veronica!' said your mother, `you astonish Mr.
Somers.'
“`You are not astonished,' she said with vehemence, `you
are embarrassed.'
“`Upon my soul I am,' I replied; but I felt at ease when I
had said so.
“`Tell me, what has Cassandra been taught? Is Rosville
suited to her? We are not.'
“`Veronica!' said your mother again.
“`Mother,' and she shook the grasses, and made a little
snow fall round her; `what shall I say then? I am sure he
knows Cassandra. What did you come here for?' turning to
me again.
“`To see you,' I answered foolishly.
“`And has Cassandra spoken of me?' Her pale face grew
paler, and an indescribable expression passed over it. `I do
not often speak of her.'
“`She does not of you,' I was obliged to answer. And then
I said I must go. But your mother made me dine with them.
sent no message to you. She has never been out of my mind
a moment since.”
“You remember the particulars of the interview very well.”
“Why not?”
“Would she bear your supervision?”
“Forgive me, Cassandra. Have I not been making a hermit
of myself, eating bread and meat by the ounce, for an expiation?”
“How did it look there?”
“You strange girl, have you a soul then? It is a grand
place, where it has not been meddled with. I hired a man to
drive me as far as any paths went, into those curving horns of
land, on each side of Surrey to the South. The country is
crazy with barrenness, and the sea mocks it with its terrible
beauty.”
“You will visit us, won't you?”
“Certainly; I intend to go there.”
“Do you know that I left school to-day?”
“It is time.”
I hurried into the house, for I did not wish to hear any
questions from him, concerning my future. Charlotte, who
was rolling up an umbrella in the hall, said it was tea-time,
adding that Mr. Morgeson had come, and that he was in the
dining-room. I went up stairs to leave my bonnet. As I
pulled off my glove the ring on my finger twisted round. I
took it off, for the first time since Charles had given it to me.
The sense of haste came upon me; my hands trembled. I
brushed my hair with the back of the brush; shook it out, and
wound it into a loose mass, thrust in my comb, and went down.
Charlotte was putting candles on the tea-table. Edward was
on his father's knee; Alice was waiting by the tray.
“Here—is—Cassandra,” said Charles, mentioning the fact,
as if he merely wished to attract the child's attention.
“Here—is—Cassandra,” I repeated, imitating his tone.
He started. The devil broke loose in him, and looking through
his eyes an instant, disappeared, like a maniac who looks
through the bars of his cell, and dodges from the eye of his
keeper. Jesse brought me a letter while we were at the table.
It was from Helen. I broke its seal to see how long it was,
and put it aside.
“I am free, Alice. I have left the Academy, and am going
to set up for an independent woman.”
“What?” said Charles; “you did not tell me. Did you
know it, Alice?”
“Yes; we can't expect her to be at school all her days.”
“Cassandra,” he said suddenly, “will you give me the salt?”
He looked for the ring, on the hand which I stretched towards
him.
He not only missed that, but he observed the disregard of
his wishes, in the way I had arranged my hair. I shook it
looser from the comb, and pushed it from my face. An expression
of unspeakable passion, pride, and anguish, came into his
eyes; his mouth trembled; he caught up a glass of water to
hide his face, and drank slowly from it
“Are you going away again soon?” Alice asked.
“No.”
“To keep Cassandra here, I want to ask Mrs. Morgeson to
come. Will you write Mr. Morgeson to urge it?”
“Yes.”
“I shall ask them to give up Cass altogether to us.”
“You like her so much, do you, Alice?”
His voice sounded far off, and faint.
Again I refrained from speaking my resolution of going
home. I would give up thinking of it, even! I felt again
the tension of the chain between us. That night I ceased to
dream of him.
“My letter is from Helen, Alice.”
“When did you see Somers?” Charles asked.
“To-day. I have an idea he will not remain here long.”
“He is an amusing young man,” Alice remarked.
“Very,” said Charles.
Helen's letter was long, and full of questions. What had I
done? How had I been? She gave an account of her life at
home. She was her father's nurse, and seldom left him. It
was a dreary sort of business; but she was not melancholy.
In truth, she felt better pleased with herself than she had been
in Rosville. She could not help thinking that a chronic invalid
would be a good thing for me. How was Ben Somers?
How much longer should I stay in Rosville? It would know
us no more forever, when we left, and both of us would leave
it at the same time. Would I visit her ever? They lived in
a big house, with a red front door. On the left was a lane,
with tall poplars dying on each side of it, up which the cows
passed, every night. At the back of it was a huge barn, round
which martins and pigeons flew the year through. It was dull,
but respectable, and refined; and no one knew that she was
tatooed on the arm.
I treasured this letter, and all she wrote me. It was my
first school-girl correspondence, and my last.
Relations of Alice came from a distance, to pay her a visit.
There was a father, a mother, a son about twenty-one, and two
girls, who were younger. Alice told me that she wished they
had staid at home; but she was polite, and endeavored to make
their visit agreeable. The son, called by his family, “Bill,”
informed Charles that he was a judge of horse flesh, and would
like to give his nags a try, having a high-flyer himself, at home,
that the old gentleman would not hear of his bringing along.
His actions denoted an admiration of me. He looked over the
book I was reading, or rummaged my work box, trying on my
thimble with an air of tenderness, and peeping into my needle-book.
He told Alice that he thought I was a whole team and
a horse to let; but he felt rather balky when he came near me,
I had such a smartish eye.
“What am I to do, marm?” asked Jesse, one morning, when
Charles was away. “That 'ere young man wants to ride the
new horse, and it is jist the one he mus'n't ride.”
“I will speak to cousin Bill myself,” she said.
“He seems a sperrited young feller, and if he wants to
break his neck, it's most a pity he shouldn't.”
“I think,” she said, when Jesse had retired, “that Charles
must be saving up that beast to kill himself with. He will not
pull a chaise yet.”
“Has Charles tried him?”
“In the lane, in an open wagon. He has a whim of having
him broken to drive without blinders, bare of harness; he has
been away so of late that he has not accomplished it.”
Bill entered while we were talking, and Alice told him he
must not attempt to use the horse; but proposed he should
take her pair, and drive out with me. I shook my head in
vain; she was bent on mischief. He was mollified by the proposal,
and I was obliged to get ready. On starting, he placed
his cap on one side; held his whip upright, telling me that it
was not up to the mark in length, and doubled his knuckles
over the reins. He was a good Jehu, but I could not induce
him to observe anything along the road.
“Where's Mr. Morgeson's mills?”
We turned in their direction.
“He is a man of property, ain't he?”
“I think so.”
“He has prime horses, anyhow. That stallion of his would
piano?”
“A little.”
“And sing?”
“Yes.”
“I have not heard you. Will you sing, `A place in thy
Memory, Dearest,' sometime for me?”
“Certainly.”
“Are you fond of flowers, and the like?”
“Very fond of them.”
“So am I; our tastes agree. Here we are, hey?”
Charles came out when he saw us coming over the bridge,
and Bill pulled up the horses scientifically, giving him a coachman's
salute “You see, I am quite a whip.”
“You are,” said Charles. “Get out, will you?”
“What a cub!” he whispered. “I think I'll give up my
horses, and take to walking, as you have.”
On the way home Bill held the reins in one hand, and attempted
to take mine with the other, a proceeding which I
checked; whercupon he was exceedingly confused. The whip
fell from his clutch over the dasher, and in recovering it his
hat fell off; his shame kept him silent for the rest of the ride.
I begged Alice to propose no more rides with cousin Bill.
That night he composed a letter, which he sent me by Charlotte,
early the next morning.
“Why Charlotte, what nonsense is this?”
“I expect,” she answered sympathizingly, “that it is an
an offer of his hand and heart.”
“Don't mention it, Charlotte.”
“Never, while I have breath.”
In an hour she told Phœbe, who told Alice, who told Charles,
and there it ended. It was an offer, as Charlotte predicted.
My first! I was crest-fallen! I wrote a reply, waited till
everybody had gone down to breakfast, and slipping into his
room, pinned it to the pin-cushion. In the evening, he asked
if I ever sang, `Should these fond Hopes c'er forsake thee.'
I gave him the `Pirate's Serenade' instead, which his mother
declared beautiful. I saw Alice and Charles laughing, and
could hardly help joining them, when I looked at Bill, in whose
countenance relief and grief were mingled.
It was a satisfaction to us when they went away. Their visit
was shortened, I suspected, by the representations Bill made
to his mother. She said, “Good by,” with coldness; but he
shook hands with me, and said it was all right, he supposed.
The day they went I had a letter from father, which informed
me that mother would not come to Rosville. He reminded
me that I had been in Rosville over a year. “I am
going home soon,” I said to myself, putting away the letter.
It was a summer-day, bright and hot. Alice, busy all day,
complained of fatigue, and went to bed soon after tea. The
windows were open, and the house was perfumed with odors
from the garden. At twilight I went out, and walked under
the elms, whose pendant boughs were motionless. I watched
the stars as they came out, one by one, above the pale green
ring of the horizon, and glittered in the evening sky, which
darkened slowly. I was coming up the gravel walk, when I
heard a step at the upper end of it, which arrested me. I recognized
it, and slipped behind a tree to wait till it should
pass by me; but it ceased, and I saw Charles pulling off a
twig of the tree, which brushed against his face. Presently
he sprang round the tree, caught me, and held me fast.
“I am glad you are here, my darling. Do you smell the
roses?”
“Yes; let me go.”
“Not till you tell me one thing. Why do you stay in Rosville?”
The baby gave a loud cry in Alice's chamber, which resounded
through the garden.
“Go, and take care of your baby,” I said roughly, “and
not busy yourself with me.”
He retreated.
“Cassandra,” he said, with a menacing voice, “how dare
you defy me? How dare you tempt me?”
I put my hand on his arm. “Charles, is love a matter of
temperament?'
“Are you mad? It is life—it is heaven—it is hell.”
“There is something in this soft, beautiful, odorous night
that makes me mad. But I shall not say to you, what you
once said to me.”
“Ah! you do not forget those words—`I love you.'”
Some one came down the lane, which ran behind the garden,
whistling an opera air.
“There is your Providence,” he said quietly, resting his
hand against the tree.
I ran round to the front piazza, just as Ben Somers turned
out of the lane, and called him.
“I have wandered all over Rosville since sunset,” he said,
“It is ours, and the horses are exercised there.”
Trolius, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls,
And sighed his soul towards the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid lay that night.'”
“`In such a night,
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand,
Upon the wild sea banks, and waved her love
To come again to Carthage.'”
“Talk to me about Surrey.”
“Not a word.”
“Why did you call me?”
“To see what mood you were in.'
“How disagreeable you are! What is the use of venturing
one's mood with you?”
| CHAPTER XX. The Morgesons | |