 | CHAPTER XXI. The Morgesons |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
Alice called me to her chamber window one morning.
“Look into the lane. Charles and Jesse are there with that
brute. He goes very well, now that they have thrown the top
of the chaise back; he quivered like a jelly at first.”
“I must have a ride.”
“Charles,” she called. “Breakfast is waiting.”
“What shall be his name, girls?” he asked.
“Aspen,” I replied.
“That will do,” said Alice.
“Shall we ride soon?” I asked.
“Will you?” he spoke quickly. “In a day or two then.”
“Know what you undertake, Cass,” said Alice.
“She always does,” he answered.
“Let me go, papa,” begged Edward.
“By and by, my boy.”
“What a compliment, Cass! He does not object to venture
you.”
He proposed to go to Fairtown, six miles from Rosville; he
had business there. The morning we were to go proved cloudy,
and we waited till afternoon, when Charles declaring that it
would not rain, ordered Aspen to be harnessed. I went into
Alice's room tying my bonnet; he was there, leaning over the
of his fingers. Alice was hemming white muslin.
“Take a shawl with you, Cass; I think it will rain, the air
is so heavy.”
“I guess not,” said Charles, going to the window. “What
a nuisance that lane is, so near the garden! I'll have it
ploughed soon, and enclosed.”
“For all those wild primroses, you value so?” she asked.
“I'll spare those.”
Charlotte came to tell us that the chaise was ready.
“Good-bye, Alice,” he said, passing her, and giving her
work a toss up to the ceiling.
“Be careful.”
“Take care, Sir,” said Penn, after we were in the chaise,
“and don't give way to him; if you do, he'll punish you. May
be he feels the thunder in the air.”
We reached Fairtown without any indication of mischief
from Aspen, although he trotted along as if under protest.
Charles was delighted, and thought he would be very fast, by
the time he was trained. It grew murky and hot every moment,
and when we reached Fairtown, black and sultry with
the coming storm. Charles left me at the little hotel, and did
not return till late in the afternoon. We decided not to wait
till the rain was over. Two men led Aspen to the door. He
pulled at his bridle, and attempted to run backwards, playing
his old trick of trying to turn his nostrils inside out, and drawing
back his upper lip.
“Something irritates him, Charles.”
“If you are afraid, you must not come with me. I'll have
you sent home in a carriage from the tavern.”
“I shall go back with you.”
But I felt a vague alarm, and begged him to watch Aspen,
and not talk. Aspen went faster and faster, seeming to have
lost his shyness, and my fears subsided. We were within a
couple of miles of Rosville, when a splashing rain fell.
“You must not be wet,” said Charles. “I will put up the
top. Aspen is so steady now, it may not scare him.”
“No, no,” I said; but he had it up already, and asked me
to snap the spring on my side. I had scarcely taken my arm
inside the chaise when Aspen stopped, turned his head, and
looked at us with glazed eyes; flakes of foam flew from
his mouth over his mane. The flesh on his back contracted,
and quivered. I thought he was frightened by the chaise-top,
and looked at Charles in terror.
“He has some disorder,” he cried. “Oh, Cassandra! My
God!”
He tried to spring at his head, but was too late, for the
horse was leaping madly. He fell back on the seat.
“If he will keep the road,” he muttered.
I could not move my eyes from him. How pale he was!
But he did not speak again. The horse ran a few rods, leaped
across a ditch, clambered up a stone wall with his fore-feet, and
fell backwards!
Dr. White was in my room, washing my face. There was a
smell of camphor about the bed. “You crawled out of a small
hole, my child,” he said, as I opened my eyes. It was quite
dark, but I saw people at the door, and two or three at
the foot of my bed, and I heard low constrained talking everywhere.
“His iron feet made a dreadful noise on the stones, Doctor!”
I shut my eyes again, and dozed. Suddenly a great tumult
came to my heart.
“Was he killed?” I cried, and tried to rise from the bed.
“Let me go, will you?”
“He is dead, and damned,” whispered Dr. White; “as he
should have been before.”
I laughed loudly. “Damned, is he? What am I?”
“Be a good girl—be a good girl. Get out, all of you.
Here, Miss Prior.”
“You are crying, Doctor: my eyes feel dry.”
“Pooh, pooh, little one. Now I am going to set your arm;
simple fracture, that's all. The blow was tempered, but you
are paralyzed by the shock.”
“Miss Prior, is my face cut?”
“Not badly, my dear.”
My arm was set, my face bandaged, some opium administered,
and then I was left alone with Miss Prior. I grew
drowsy, but suffered so from the illusion that I was falling out
of bed, that I could not sleep.
It was near morning when I shook off my drowsiness, and
looked about; Miss Prior was nodding in an arm-chair.
I asked for drink, and when she gave it to me, begged her to
lie down on the sofa; she did not need urging, and was soon
asleep.
“What room is he in?” I thought. “I must know where
he is.”
I sat up in the bed, and pushed myself out by degrees, keeping
my eyes on Miss Prior; but she did not stir. I staggered
when I got into the passage, but the cool air from some open
window revived me, and I crept on, stopping at Alice's door to
listen. I heard a child murmur in its sleep. He could not
be there. The doors of all the chambers were locked, and I
must go down stairs. I went into the garden-room—the door
was open, the scent of the roses came in and made me deadly
sick; into the dining room, and into the parlor—he was there,
lying on a table covered with a sheet. Alice sat on the floor,
her face hid in her hands, crying softly. I touched her. She
started on seeing me. “Go away, Cassy, for God's sake. How
came you out of bed?”
“Hush! Tell me!” And I went down on the floor beside
her. “Was he dead when they found us?”
She nodded.
“What was said? Did you hear?”
“They said he must have made a violent effort to save you.
The side of the chaise was torn. The horse kicked him after
you were thrust out, over the wheel. Or did you creep out?”
I groaned. “Why did he thrust me out?”
“What?”
“Where is Aspen?”
She pointed to the stable. “He had a fit. Penn says he
has had one before; but he thought him cured. He stood quiet
in the ditch, after he had broken from the chaise.”
“Alice, did you love him?”
“My husband!”
A door near us opened, and Ben Somers and young Parker
looked in. They were the watchers. Parker went back when
he saw me; but Ben came in. He knelt down by me; put his
arm round me, and said, “Poor girl!” Alice raised her tear-stained
face, looking at me curiously, when he said this. She
took hold of my streaming hair, and pulled my head round.
“Did you love him?” Ben rose quickly, and went to the window.
“Alice,” I whispered, “you may, or you may not forgive
me, but I was strangely bound to him. And I must tell you,
that I hunger now for the kiss he never gave me.”
“I see. Enough. Go back to your room. I must stay by
by him, till all is over.”
“I can't go back. Ben!”
What is it?”
Take me up stairs.”
Taking me in his arms, he whispered “Leave him forever
body and soul. He was a bad man; I am glad he is dead.”
“Chut; drop the commonplace, for once, Ben.”
He put me back in bed, without hurting my arm, arranged
my hair, and the pillow, and gave me drink, without the least
noise. My shoes and stockings had been pulled off, and the
skirt of my dress cut off. I asked him to find them. The
skirt had been torn zig-zag by some delaying obstacle. “That
will do. It was Charles who broke my arm.” He made no
reply, but stooped down and kissed me tenderly, and went out
All this time Miss Prior had slept the sleep of the just; but
he had barely gone when she started up, and said, “Did you
call, my dear?”
“No, it is day.”
“So it is; but you must sleep more.”
I could not obey, and kept awake so long, that Dr. White
said he himself should go crazy unless I slept.
“I am going to sleep presently,” I reiterated; “and I am
going home.”
At last my mind went astray; it journeyed into a dismal
world, and came back without an account of its adventures.
While it was gone, my friends were summoned to witness a
contest, where the odds were in favor of Death. But I recovered.
Whether it was youth, a good constitution, or the skill
of Dr. White, no one could decide. It was a faint, feeble,
fluttering return at first. The faces round me, mobile with
life, wearied me. I was indifferent to existence, and was more
than once in danger of lapsing into the void I had escaped.
When I first tottered down stairs, he had been buried more
than three weeks. It was a bright morning; the windows of
the parlor, where Charlotte led me, were open. Little Edward
was playing round the table upon which I had seen his father
stretched, dead. I measured it with my eye, remembering
how tall he looked. I would have retreated, when I saw that
Alice had visitors, but it was too late. They rose, and offered
congratulations. I was angry that there was no change in the
house. The rooms should have been dismantled, reflecting
disorder and death, by their perpetual darkness and disorder.
It was not so. No dust had been allowed to gather on the furniture;
no wrinkles or stains. No mist on the mirrors; no
dimness anywhere. Alice was elegantly dressed, in the deepest
mourning. I examined her with a cynical eye; her bombazine
was trimmed with crape, and the edge of her collar was
beautifully crimped. A mourning brooch fastened it, and she
holding a black-edged handkerchief. Charlotte had
placed my chair opposite a glass; I caught sight of my elongated
visage in it. How dull I looked! My hair was faded
and rough; my eyes were a pale, lustreless blue. The visitors
departed while I still contemplated my rueful aspect, and
Alice and I were alone.
“I want some broth, Alice. I am hungry.”
“How many bowls have you had this morning?”
“Only two.”
“You must wait an hour for the third; it is not twelve
o'clock.”
We were silent. The flies buzzed in and out of the windows;
a great bee flew in, tumbled against the panes, loudly
hummed, and after a while got out again. Alice yawned, and
I pulled the threads out of the border of my handkerchief.
“The hour is up; I will get your broth.”
“Bring me a great deal.”
She came back with a thin, impoverished liquid.
“There is no chicken in it,” I said tearfully.
“I took it out.”
“How could you?” And I wept.
She smiled. “You are very weak. You shall have a bit.”
And she went out, returning with an infinitesimal portion of
chicken.
“What a young creature it must have been!”
She laughed now, and promised me more.
“Now you must lie down. Take my arm, and come to the
sofa.”
“Let us go into another room.”
“Come, then.”
“Don't leave me,” I begged, after she had arranged me
comfortably. She sat down by me with a fan.
“What happened while I was sick?”
She fanned rapidly for an instant, taking thought what to
say.
“I shot Aspen, a few days after.”
“With your own hand?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Penn protested, and said I interfered with Providence.
Jesse added, also, that what had happened was ordained, and
no mistake. I sent them both away.”
“And I am going at last, Alice; father will be here again in
a few days.”
“You did not recognize Veronica.”
“Was she here?”
“She came, and went the same day. What great tears
rolled down her unmovable face, when she stood by your bed!
She could not stay; the atmosphere distressed her, and she
went back to Boston, to wait for your father. I could neither
prevail on her to eat, drink, or rest.”
“What will you do, Alice?”
“Take care of the children, and manage the mills.”
“Manage the mills?”
“I can. No wonder you look astonished,” she said with a
sigh. “I am changed. When perhaps I should feel that I
have done with life, I am eager to begin it. I have lamented
over myself lately.”
“How is Ben?”
“He has been here often. How strange it was, that to him
alone Veronica gave her hand, when they met! Indeed, she
gave him both her hands.”
“And he?”
“Took them, bowing over them, 'till I thought he wasn't
coming up again. I do not call people eccentric any more,”
she said, faintly blushing. “I look for a reason in every
action. Tell me fairly, have you had a contempt for me—for
my want of perception? I understand you now, to the bone
and marrow, I assure you.”
“Then you understand more than I do. But will you remember,
that once or twice I attempted to express my doubts
to you?”
“Yes, yes, with a candor which misled me. But you are
talking too much.”
“Give me more broth, then.”
| CHAPTER XXI. The Morgesons | |