 | CHAPTER XXII. The Morgesons |  |
22. CHAPTER XXII.
I was soon well enough to go home. Father came for me,
bringing aunt Merce. There was no alteration in her, except
that she had taken to wearing a false front, which had a claret
tinge when the light struck it, and a black lace cap. She
walked the room in speechless distress when she saw me, and
presence.
“Didn't you bring any flag-root, aunt Merce?”
“Oh Lord, Cassandra, won't anything upon earth change
you?”
And then we both laughed, and felt comfortable together.
Her knitting mania had given way to one she called transferring.
She brought a little basket filled with rags, worn out
embroideries, collars, cuffs, and edges of handkerchiefs, from
which she cut the needle-work, to sew again on new muslin.
She looked at embroidery with an eye merely to its capacity
for being transferred. Alice proved a treasure to her, by
giving her heaps of fine work. She and aunt Merce were
pleased with each other, and when we were ready to come
away, Alice begged her to visit her every year. I made no
farewell visits—my ill-health was sufficient excuse; but my
schoolmates came to bid me good bye, and brought me presents
of needle-books, and pin-cushions, which I returned by
giving away yards of ribbon, silver fruit-knives, and Mrs. Hemans'
poems, which poetess had lately given my imagination
an apostrophizing direction. Miss Prior came also, with a copy
of “Young's Night Thoughts,” bound in speckled leather.
This hilarious and refreshing poem remained at the bottom of
my trunk, till Temperance fished it out, to read on Sundays,
in her own room, where she usually passed her hours of solitude
in hemming dish towels, or marking articles called “Takers.”
Dr. Price came, too, and even the haughty four Ryders.
Alice was gratified with my popularity. But I felt
cold at heart, doubtful of myself, drifting to nothingness in
thought and purpose. None saw my doubts, or felt my coldness.
I shook hands with all, exchanged hopes and wishes, and
repeated the last words which people say on departure. Alice
and I neither kissed, nor shook hands. There was that between
us which kept us apart. A hard, stern face was still in
our recollection. We remembered a certain figure, whose
steps had ceased about the house, whose voice was hushed, but
who was potent yet.
“We shall not forget each other,” she said.
And so I took my way out of Rosville. Ben Somers went
with us to Boston, and staid at The Bromfield with us. In the
morning he disappeared, and when he returned had an emerald
ring, which he begged me to wear, and tried to put it on
the finger, where he had seen the diamond. I put it back in
farewell needle-books and pin-cushions.
“Shall we have a little talk?”
Aunt Merce slipped out, with an affectation of not having
heard him. We laughed, and Ben was glad that I could laugh.
“How do you feel?”
“Rather weak still.”
“I do not mean so, but in your mind; how are you?”
“I have no mind.”
“Must I give it up?”
“Yes, do. You'll visit Alice? You know her intentions.
She is a good woman.”
“She will be, when she knows how.”
“What o'clock is it?”
“Incorrigible! Near ten.”
“Here is father. We must start.”
The carriage was ready; where was aunt Merce?
“Locke.” she said, when she came, “I have got a bottle of
port for Cassandra, some essence of peppermint, and sandwiches;
do you think that will do?”
“We can purchase supplies along the road, if yours give
out. Come, we are ready. Mr. Somers, we shall see you at
Surrey? Take care, Cassy. Now we are off.”
“I shall leave Rosville,” were Ben's last words.
“What a fine, handsome young man he is! He is a gentleman,”
said aunt Merce
“Of course, aunt Merce.”
“Why of course? I should think from the way you speak,
that you had only seen young gentlemen of his stamp. Have
you forgotten Surrey?”
Father and she laughed. They could laugh very easy, for
they were overjoyed to have me going home with them. Mother
would be glad, they said. I felt it, though I did not say so.
How soundly I slept that night at the inn on the road! A
little after sunset, on the third day, for we travelled slowly, we
reached the woods which bordered Surrey, and soon came in
sight of the sea encircling it like the crescent moon. It was
as if I saw the sea for the first time. A vague sense of its
power surprised me; it seemed the expression of my melancholy.
As we approached the house, the orchard, and I saw
Veronica's window, other feelings moved me. Not because I
saw familiar objects, nor because I was going home—it was
the relation in which I stood to them, that I felt. We drove
through the gate, and a handsome little boy was astride a window
threw his pipes down, and dropped on the ground, to run after
us.
“Hasn't Arthur grown?” aunt Merce asked. “He is most
seven.”
“Most seven? Where are all the years gone?”
I looked about me. I had been away so long, the house
looked diminished. Mother was in the door, crying so when
she put her arms round me, that she could not speak. I know
there should have been no higher beatitude than to live in the
presence of an unselfish, unasking, vital love. I only said,
“Oh mother, how gray you are! Are you glad to see me? I
have grown old too!”
We went in by the kitchen, where the men were, and a
young girl with a bulging forehead. Hepsey looked out from
the buttery door, and put her apron to her eyes, without making
any demonstration of welcome Temperance was mixing
dough. She made an effort to giggle, but failed; and as she
could not cover her face with her doughy hands, was obliged
to let the tears run their natural course. Recovering herself
in a moment, she exclaimed:
“Heavenly Powers, how you're altered! I shouldn't have
known you. Your hair and skin are as dry as chips; they
didn't wash you with Castile soap, I'll bet.”
“How you do talk, Temperance,” Hepsey said.
The girl with the bulging forehead laughed a shrill laugh.
“Why, Fanny!” said mother.
The hall door opened. Here she is,” muttered Fanny.
“Veronica!”
“Cassandra!”
We grasped hands, and stared mutely at each other. I felt
a contraction in the region of my heart, as if a cord of steel
were binding it. And she, at least, was glad that I was alive!
“They look something alike now,” Hepsey remarked.
“Not at all,” said Veronica, dropping my hand, and retreating.
“Why, Arthur!”
He clambered into my lap.
“Were you killed, my dear sister?”
“Not quite, little boy.”
“Well; do you know that I am a veteran officer, and smoke
my pipe, lots?”
“You must rest, Cassy,” said mother. “Don't go up stairs,
though, till you have had your supper. Hurry it up, Temperance.”
“It will be on the table in less than no time, Mis Morge
son,” she answered, “provided Miss Fanny is agreeable about
taking in the tea-pot.”
I had a comfortable sense of property, when I took possession
of my own room. It was better, after all, to live with a
father and mother, who would adopt my ideas. Even the sea
might be mine. I asked father the next morning, when we
were at breakfast, how far out his property extended.
“I hope you will like home,” said mother. “I am going to
give up pouring tea and coffee; you must do it. I had rather
sit next Locke.”
“You and aunt Merce have settled down into a venerable
condition. You wear caps, too! What a stage forward!”
“The cap is not ugly, like aunt Merce's; I made it,” Veronica
said, sipping from a great glass.
“Gothic pattern, isn't it?” father asked; “with a tower,
and a bridge at the back of the neck?”
“The hash is Fanny's work, mother,” said Verry.
“So I perceive.”
“Hepsey is not at the table,” I said.
“It is her idea not to come, since I had taken Fanny. Did
you notice Fanny? She prefers to have her wait on her.”
“Who is Fanny?”
“Her father is old Ichabod Bowles, who lives on the Neck.
Last winter her mother sent for me, and begged me to take
her. I could not refuse, for she was dying of consumption;
so I promised. The poor woman died, in the bitterest weather,
and a few days after, Ichabod brought Fanny here, and told me
he had done with woman-kind forever. Fanny was sulky and
silent for a long time. I thought she never would get warm.
If obliged to leave the fire, she sat against the wall, with her
face hid in her arms. Veronica has made some impression on
her: but she is not a good girl.”
“She will be, mother. I am better than I was.”
“Never; her disposition is hateful. She is angry with those
who are better off than herself. I have not seen a spark of
gratitude in her.”
“I never thought of gratitude,” said Verry, “it is true;
but why must people be grateful?”
“We might expect little from Fanny, perhaps; she saw her
mother die in want, her father stern, almost cruel to them,
because he was soured by poverty. Fanny never had what
she liked to eat, or wear, till she came here, or ever saw anything
that pleased her; and the contrast makes her bitter.”
“She is proud, too,” said aunt Merce. “I hear her boasting
of what she would have had, if she had staid at home.”
“She is a child, you know,” said Verry.
“A year younger than you are.”
“Where is the boy?”
“Abolished,” father answered. “Arthur is growing into
that estate.”
“Papa, don't forget that I am a veteran officer.”
“Here, you rascal, come and get this nice egg.”
He slipped down, and went round to his father, who took
him on his knee.
“What shall I do? The garden, orchard, village, or what?”
I asked.
“Gardens?” said Verry. “Have they been a part of your
education?”
“I like flowers.”
“Have you seen my plants?” aunt Merce inquired.
“I will look at them. How different is this from Rosville.”
A pang cut me to the soul. The past whirled up, and disappeared,
leaving me stunned and helpless. Veronica's eye
was upon me. I forced myself to observe her. The difference
between us was plainer than ever. I was in my twentieth
year, and she was barely sixteen; handsome, but as peculiar
looking as when a child. Her straight hair was a vivid
chestnut color. Her eyes were near together, but large; and,
as Ben Somers said, they were the most singular eyes that
were ever upon earth They tormented me. There was nothing
wilful in them; on the contrary, when she was wilful,
she had no power over them; the strange cast was then perceptible.
Neither were they imperious, nor magnetic; they
were baffling. She pushed her chair from the table, and stood
quiet, opposite me. Tall and slender, she stooped slightly, as
if she were not strong enough to stand upright. Her dress
was a buff-colored cambric, trimmed with knots of ribbon of
the same color, dotted with green crosses. It harmonized
with her colorless, fixedly pale complexion. I counted the
bows of ribbon on her dress, and would have counted the
crosses, if she had not interrupted me with, “What do you
think of me?”
“Do you ever blush, Verry?”
“I grow paler, you know, when I blush.”
“What do you think of me?”
“As wide-eyed as ever, and your eyebrows as black. Who
too.”
“Where?”
“Round your eyes, like an opening umbrella.”
We dispersed, as our talk ended, in the old fashion. I followed
aunt Merce to the flower-stand, which stood in its old
place on the landing.
“I have a poor lot of roses,” she said, “but some splendid
cactuses.”
“I do not love roses.”
“Is it possible? But Verry does not care so much for
them, either. Lilies are her favorites; she has a variety.
Look at this Arab lily; it is like a tongue of fire.”
“Where does she keep her flowers?”
“In wire baskets, in her room. But I must go, and make
Arthur some gingerbread. He likes mine the best, and I like
to please him.”
“I dare say you spoil him.”
“Just as you were spoiled.”
“Not in Barmouth, aunt Merce.”
“No, not in Barmouth.”
I went from room to room, seeing little to interest me. My
zeal oozed away for exploration, and when I entered my chamder,
I could have said, “This spot is the summary of my wants,
for it contains me.” I must be my own society, and as my
society was not agreeable, the more circumscribed it was, the
better I could endure it. What a dreary prospect! The past
was vital, the present was dead. Life in Surrey must be dull.
How could I forget, or enjoy? I put the curtains down, and
told Temperance, who was wandering about, not to call me to
dinner. I determined, if possible, to surpass my dullness by
indulgence. But underneath it all, I could not deny that there
was a spectre, whose aimless movements kept me from stagnating.
I determined to drag it up, and face it.
“Come, then, and sit beside me, and we will reason together.”
It uncovered, and said, “Do you feel remorse, or repentance?”
“Neither.”
“Why do you suffer?”
“I do not know.”
“You know that you are ignorant. Do you know that you
are sensual, selfish, devilish?”
“Are you my devil?”
No answer.
“Am I cowardly, or a liar?”
It laughed, a faint, sarcastic laugh.
“At all events,” I continued, “are not my actions better
than my thoughts?”
“Which makes the sinner, and which the saint?”
“Can I decide?”
“Why not?”
“My teachers and myself are so far apart! I have found a
counterpart; but, spectre, you were born of the union.”
My head was buried in my arms; but I heard a voice at my
elbow—a shrill, scornful voice it was. “Are you coming down
to tea, then?”
Looking up, I saw Fanny. “Tea-time so soon?”
“Yes, it is. You think nothing of time; have nothing to
do, I suppose.”
And she clasped her hands over her apron—hands so small
and thin, that they looked like those of an old woman. Her
hair was light and scanty, her complexion sallow, and her
eyes a palish gray; but her features were delicate, and pretty.
She seemed to understand my thoughts.
“You think I am stunted, don't you?”
“You are not large to my eye.”
“Suppose you had been fed mostly on Indian meal, with a
herring, or a piece of salted pork for a relish, and clams or tautog
for a luxury, as I have been, would you be as tall, and
as grand-looking as you are now? And would you be covering
up your face, making believe worry?”
“May be not. You may tell mother that I am coming.”
“I shall not say `Miss Morgeson,' but `Cassandra.' `Cassandra
Morgeson,' if I like.”
“Call me what you please, only tone down that voice of
yours; it is sharper than the east wind.”
I heard her beating a tatoo on Veronica's door next. She
had been taught to be ceremonious with her, at least. No reply
was made, and she came to my door again. “I expect
Miss Veronica has gone to see poor folks; it is a way she has,”
and spitefully closed it.
After tea mother came up to inquire the reason of my seclusion.
My excuse of fatigue she readily accepted, for she
thought I still looked ill. I had changed so much, she said,
it made her heart ache to look at me. When I could speak of
the accident at Rosville, would I tell her all? And would I
describe my life there; what friends I had made; and would
made them so hurried a visit, would he come? She liked
him. While she talked, she kept a pitying, but resolute eye
upon me.
“Dear mother, I never can tell you all, as you wish. It is
hard enough for me to bear my thoughts, without the additional
one, that my feelings are understood, and speculated upon. If
I should tell you, the barrier between me and self-control
would give way. You will see Alice Morgeson, and if she
chooses, she can tell you what my life was in her house. She
knows it well.”
“Cassandra, what does your bitter face mean?”
She grew pale.
“I mean, mother, all that your woman's heart might guess,
if you were not so pure, so single-hearted.”
“No, no, no.”
“Yes.”
“Then I understand the riddle you have been. I'll curse
you—and who else?” she asked with violence.
“There is no one to curse, mother; these things are not as
they are written in books. We may be righteous by rule, but
we do not sin that way. There was no beginning, no end to
mine.”
“Then I'll curse myself, for giving birth to daughters”
“Wait, mother; what is bad this year, may be good the
next. You blame yourself, because you believe your ignorance
has brought me into danger. Wait, mother.”
“You are beyond me; everything is beyond me.”
“I will be a good girl. Kiss me, mother. I have been unworthy
of you. When have I ever done anything for you? If
you hadn't been my mother, I dare say we might have helped
each other. My friendship and sympathy might have sustained
you. As it is, I have behaved just as all young animals
behave to their mothers. One thing you may be sure of.
The doubt you feel is needless. You must neither pray, nor
weep over me. Have I agitated you?”
“My heart will flutter too much, anyway. Oh Cassy, Cassy
why are you such a girl? Why will you be so awfully head
strong?” But she hugged and kissed me. As I felt the
irregular beating of her heart, a pain smote me. What if she
should not live long? Was I not a wicked fool to lacerate
myself with an intangible trouble—the reflex of selfish emotions?
The thought of a wholesome grief restored me.
| CHAPTER XXII. The Morgesons | |