 | CHAPTER XXIII. The Morgesons |  |
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
Veronica's room was like no other place. I was in a new
atmosphere there. A green carpet covered the floor, and the
windows had light blue silk curtains.
“Green and blue together, Veronica?”
“Why not? The sky is blue, and the carpet of the earth is
green.”
“If you intend to represent the heavens and the earth here,
it is very well.”
The paper on the wall was ash-colored, smooth and shining.
She had cloudy days, probably. A large-eyed Saint Cecilia,
with white roses in her hair, was pasted on the wall. This
frameless picture had a curious effect. Veronica, in some mysterious
way, had contrived to dispose of the white margin of
the picture, and the Saint looked out from the soft ashy tint of
the wall paper. Opposite was an exquisite engraving, which
was framed round with strips of dark red velvet. At the end
of an avenue of old trees, gnarled and twisted into each other,
a man stood. One hand grasped the stalk of a ragged vine,
which ran over the tree near him; the other hung helpless by
his side, as if the wrist were broken. His eyes were fixed on
some object behind the trees, where nothing was visible but a
portion of the wall of a house. His expression of concentrated
fury—his attitude of waiting—testified that he would surely
accomplish his intention.
“What a picture!”
“The foliage attracted me, and I bought it; but when I unpacked
it, the man seemed to come out for the first time. Will
you take it?”
“No; I mean to give my room a somnolent aspect. The
man is too terribly sleepless.”
A table stood near a window, methodically covered with labelled
blank books, a morocco portfolio, and a wedgewook inkstand
and vase. In an arch, which she had manufactured from
the space under the garret stairs, stood her bed. At its foot,
against the wall, a bunch of crimson, autumnal leaves was fastened,
and a bough, black and bare, with an empty nest on it.
“Where is the feminine portion of your furnishings?”
“Look in the closet.”
I opened a door. What had formerly been appropriated by
mother to blankets and comfortables, she had turned into
a magazine of toilet articles. There were drawers and boxes
for everything which pertained to a wardrobe, arranged with
beautiful skill and neatness. She directed my attention to her
books, on hanging shelves, within reach of the bed. Beneath
them was a small stand, with a wax candle in a silver candlestick.
“You read o'nights?”
“Yes; and the wax candle is my pet weakness.”
“Have you put away Gray, and Pope, and Thompson?”
“The Arabian Nights and the Bible are still there.”
“I must go back to the common-place.”
“Mother said she thought you would like to re-furnish your
room. It is the same as when we moved, you know.”
“Did she? I will have it done. Good bye.”
“Good bye.”
She was at the window now, and had opened a pane.
“What's that you are doing?”
“Looking through my wicket.”
I went back again to understand the wicket. It had been
made, she said, so that she might have fresh air in all weathers,
without raising the windows. In the night she could look
out without danger of taking cold. We looked over the autumnal
fields; the crows were flying seaward over the stubble, or
settling in the branches of an old fir, standing alone, midway
between the woods and the orchard. The ground before us,
rising so gradually, and shortening the horizon, reminded me
of my childish notion, that we were near the North Pole, and
that if we could get behind the low rim of sky, we should be
in the Arctic Zone.
“The Northern Lights have not deserted us, Veronica?”
“No; they beckon me over there, in winter.”
“Do you never tire of this limited, monotonous view—of a
few, uneven fields, squared by grim stone walls?”
“That is not all. See those eternal travellers, the clouds,
that hurry up from some mysterious region to go over your way,
where I never look. If the landscape were wider, I could
never learn it. And the orchard—have you noticed that?
There are bird and butterfly lives in it, every year. Why,
morning and night are wonderful from these windows. But I
must say the charm vanishes, if I go away. Surrey is not
My dullness vanished with her. There might be something
to interest me, beneath the calm surface of our family life.
“Veronica, do you think mother is changed? I think so.”
“She is always the same to me. I have had fears respecting
her health.”
Outside the door I met Temperance, with a clothes' basket.
“Oh ho,” she said, “you are going the rounds. Verry's
room beats all possessed, don't it? It is cleaned spick and
span every three months. She calls it inaugurating the seasons.
She is as queer as Dick's hatband. Have you any fine
things to do up?”
Her question put me in mind of my trunks, and I hastened
to them, with the determination of putting my room to rights.
The call to dinner interrupted me before I had begun, and the
call to supper came before anything in the way of improvement
had been accomplished. My mind was chaotic by bed time.
The picture of Veronica, reading by her wax candle, or looking
through the wicket, collected and happy in her orderly perfection,
came into my mind, and with it an admiration which never
ceased, though I had no sympathy with her. We were as far
apart as when we were children.
I was eager to employ myself, promising to perform many
tasks, but the attempt killed my purpose and interest. My
will was nerveless, when I contemplated Time, which stretched
before me—a vague, limitless sea; and I only kept Endeavor
in view, near enough to be tormented.
One day father asked me to go to Milford with him, and I
then asked him for money to spend for the adornment of my
room.
“Be prudent,” he replied. “I am not so rich as people think
me. Although the `Locke Morgeson' was insured, she was a
loss. But you need not speak of this to your mother. I never
worry her with my business cares. As for Veronica, she has
not the least idea of the value of money, or care for what it
represents.”
When we went into the shops, I found him disposed to be
more extravagant than I was. I bought a blue and white carpet;
a piece of blue and white flowered chintz; two stuffed
chairs, covered with hair-cloth, (father remonstrated against
these,) and a long mirror to go between the windows, astonishing
him with my vanity. What I wanted besides, I could construct
myself, with the help of the cabinet maker in Surrey.
In one of the shops I heard a familiar voice, which gave me
the girl who had given me the fall on the tilt. She
could not control an expression of surprise, at the sight of the
well-dressed woman before her. It was my dress that astonished
her. Where could I have obtained style?
“Miss Alden, how do you do? Pray tell me, whether you
have collected any correct legends respecting my mother's
early history. And do you tilt off little girls, now-a-days?”
She made no reply, and I left her standing where she was
when I began speaking. When we got out of town, my anger
cooled, and I grew ashamed of my spitefulness, and by way of
penance, I related the affair to father. He laughed at what I
said to her, and told me that he had long known her family.
Charlotte's uncle had paid his addresses to mother. There
might have been an engagement; whether there was or not, the
influence of his family had broken the acquaintance. This explained
what Charlotte said to me in Miss Black's school,
about mother being in love.
“You might have been angry with the girl, but you should
not have felt hurt at the fact implied. Are you so young still,
as to believe that only those who love marry? Or that those
who marry have never loved, except each other?”
“I have thought of these things; but I am afraid that Love,
like Theology, if examined, makes one skeptical.”
We jogged along in silence for a mile or two.
“Whether every man's children overpower him, I wonder?
I am positively afraid of you and Veronica.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am always unprepared for the demonstrations of character
you and she make. My traditional estimate, which comes
from thoughtlessness, or the putting off of responsibility, or
God knows what, I find will not answer. I have been on my
guard against that which every-day life might present—a lie,
a theft, or a meanness; but of the under current, which really
bears you on, I have known nothing.”
“If you happen to dive below the surface, and find the roots
of our actions which are fixed beneath its tide—what then?
Must you lament over us?”
“No, no; but this is vague talk.”
Was he dissatisfied with me? What could he expect? We
all went our separate ways, it is true; was it that? Perhaps
he felt alone. I studied his face; it was not so cheerful as I
remembered it once, but still open, honest, and wholesome. I
promised myself to observe his tastes, and consult them. It
failed in that design, as in all others.
“Much of my time must be consumed in passing between
Milford and Surrey, you perceive.”
“I will go with you often.”
According to our habit, on arriving, I went into the kitchen.
It was dusk there, and still. Temperance was by the fire, attending
to something which was cooking.
“What is there for supper, Temperance? I am hungry.”
“I s'pose you are,” she answered crossly. “You'll see
when it's on the table.”
She took a coal of fire with the tongs, and blew it fiercely, to
light a lamp by. When it was alight, she set it on the chimney
shelf, revealing thereby a man at the back of the room,
balancing his chair on two legs against the wall; his feet were
on its highest round, and he twirled his thumbs.
“Hum,” he said, when he saw me observing him; “this is
the oldest darter, is it?”
“Yes,” Temperance bawled.
“She is a good solid gal; but I can't recollect her christened
name.”
“It is Cassandra.”
“Why, 'taint Scriptur'.”
“Why don't you go and take off your things?” Temperance
asked me.
“I'll leave them here; the fire is agreeable.”
“There is a better fire in the keeping room.”
“How are you, Mr. Handy?” father inquired, as he
came in.
“I should be well, if my grinders didn't trouble me: they
play the mischief o'nights. Have you heard from the `Adamant,'
Mr. Morgeson? I should like to get my poor boy's
chist. The Lord ha' mercy on him, whose bones are whitening
in the caverns of the deep.”
“Now, Abram, do shut up. Tea is ready, Mr. Morgeson.
I'll bring in the ham directly,” said Temperance.
There was no news from the Adamant. I lingered in the
hope of discovering why Mr. Handy irritated Temperance.
He was a man of sixty, with a round head, and a large, tender
wart on one cheek; the two tusks under his upper lip, suggested
a walrus. Though he was no beauty, he looked thoroughly
respectable, in garments whose primal colors had
disappeared, and blue woollen stockings gartered to a miracle
of tightness.
“My quinces have done fust rate this year. I haint pulled
'em yet; but I've counted them over and over agin. But my
pig won't weigh nothin' like what I calkerlated on. Sarved me
right. I needn't have bought him out of a drove; if Charity
had been alive, I shouldn't ha' done it. A man can't—I say,
Tempy—a man can't git along while here below, without
a woman.”
She gave my arm a severe pinch as she passed with the
ham, and I thought it best to follow her. Mother looked at her
with a smile, and said: “Deal gently with brother Abram,
Temperance.”
“Brother be fiddlesticked!” she said tartly. “Mis Morgeson,
do you want some quinces?”
“Certainly.”
“We'll make hard marmalade this year, then. You shall
have the quinces to-morrow.” And she retired with a softened
face. I was told that Abram Handy was a widower anxious to
take Temperance for a second helpmeet, and that she could
not decide whether to accept or refuse him. She had confessed
to mother that she was on the fence, and didn't know which
way to jump. He was a poor witless thing, she knew; but he
was as good a man as ever breathed, and stood as good
a chance of being saved, as the wisest church member that ever
lived! Mother thought her inclined to be mistress of an
establishment over which she might have sole control. Abram
owned a house, a garden, and kept pigs, hens, and a cow—these
were his themes of conversation. Mother could not help thinking
he was influenced by Temperance's fortune. She was
worth two thousand dollars, at least. The care of her wood lot,
the cutting, selling, or burning the wood on it, would be
a supreme happiness to Abram, who loved property next to
the kingdom of heaven. The tragedy of the old man's life was
the loss of his only son, who had been killed by a whale a year
since. The Adamant, the ship he sailed in, had not returned,
and it was a consoling hope with Abram, that his boy's chist
might come back.
“We heard of poor Charming Handy's death the tenth of
September, about three months after Abram began his visits
to Temperance,” Veronica said.
“Was his name Charming?” I asked.
“His mother named him, Abram said, with a name that she
had picked out of Novel's works, which she was forever and
'tarnally reading.”
“What day of the month is it, Verry?”
“Third of October.”
“What happened a year ago to-day?”
“Arthur fell off the roof of the wood house.”
“Verry,” he cried, “you needn't tell my sister of that;
now she knows about my scar. You tell everything; she does
not. You have scars,” he whispered to me; “they look red
sometimes. May I put my finger on your cheek?”
I took his hand, and rubbed his fingers over the cuts; they
were not deep, but they would never go away.
“I wish mine were as nice; it is only a little hole under
my hair. Soldiers ought to have long scars, made with great
big swords, and I am a soldier, ain't I, Cassy?”
“Have I heard you sing, Cassy?” asked father. “Come,
let us have some music.”
“`And the cares which infest the day,'” said Verry.
I had scarcely been in the parlor since my return, though
the fact had not been noticed. Our tacit compact was, that we
should be ignorant of each other's movements. I ran up to
my room for some music, and not having a lamp, stumbled over
my shawl and bonnet, and various bundles which somebody had
deposited on the floor. I went down by the back way, to the
kitchen; Fanny was there alone, standing before the fire, and
whistling a sharp air.
“Did you carry my bonnet and shawl up stairs?”
“I did.”
“Will you be good enough to take this music to the parlor
for me?”
She turned and put her hands behind her. “Who was your
waiter last year?”
“I had one,” putting the leaves under her arm; they fluttered
to the floor, one by one.
“You must pick them up, or we shall spend the night here,
and father is waiting for me.”
“Is he?” and she began to take them up.
“I am quite sure, Fanny, that I could punish you awfully.
I am sick to try.”
She moved towards the door slowly. “Don't tell him,” she
said, stopping before it.
“I'll tell nobody, but I am angry. Let us arrive.”
She marched to the piano, laid the music on it, and marched
out.
“By the way, Fanny,” I whispered, `the bonnet and shawl
are yours, if you need them.”
“I guess I do,” she whispered back.
When I went to my room again my bundles were removed
from the floor.
Some of my Surrey acquaintances called soon. They told
me I had changed very much. I inferred, by their tone, that
they did not consider the change one for the better.
“Veronica has improved very much, don't you think so?”
they asked.
“You know,” she hastily replied, “that Cassandra has been
dangerously ill; she has barely recovered.”
Yes, they had heard of the accident; everybody had, in Surrey.
Mr. Morgeson, my cousin, must have been a great loss
to his family—a man in the prime of life.
“The prime of life,” answered Veronica, “you mourn for,
do you?”
She went to the piano, and played music so full of wild lamentation,
that I again fathomed my desires, and my despair. Her
eyes wandered towards me, burning with the fires of her creative
power, not with the feelings which stung me to the quick.
Her face was calm, white, and fixed. She stopped, and touched
her eyelids, as if she were weeping, but there were no tears in
her eyes. They were in mine, welling painfully beneath the
lids. I turned over the music books to hide them.
“That is a singular pieee,” said one. “Now, Cassandra,
will you favor us? We expect to find you highly accomplished.”
“I sang myself out, before you came in.”
In the bustle of their going, Veronica stooped over my hand
and kissed it, unseen. It was more like a sigh upon it than a
kiss, but it swept through me, tingling the scars on my face, as
if the flesh had become alive again.
“Take tea with us?” I was asked. “We do not see you in
the street, or at church. It must be dull for you, after coming
from a boarding-school. Still Surrey has its advantages.”
And the doors closed on them.
“Still Surrey has its advantages,” Veronica repeated.
“Yes, the air is sleepy; I am going to bed.”
I made resolutions before I slept that night, which I kept.
“Let the dead bury its dead,”
| CHAPTER XXIII. The Morgesons | |