 | CHAPTER XXIV. The Morgesons |  |
24. CHAPTER XXIV.
Helen's letters followed me. She had heard from Rosville
all that had happened, but did not expatiate upon it. Her letters
were full of minute details respecting her affairs. It was
troubled me. “L. N.” was expected soon. Since his last
letter, she had caught herself more than once making inventories
of what she would like to have in the way of a wardrobe
for a particular occasion, which he had hinted at.
I heard nothing from Alice, and was content that it should
be so. Our acquaintance would be resumed in good time, I
had no doubt. Neither did I hear from Ben Somers. He was
probably investing in another plan; of its result I should
hear. It was what I desired—not to be taxed with remembrance
and duty; being afflicted with that mild form of ennui,
which, without being especially averse, is not disposed to the
performance of any task. My chief occupation now was to ride
with father, which made me a silent partner in his outside life.
The wharves of Milford, the doors of its banks and shipping
offices, became familiar. I witnessed bargains and contracts,
and listened to talk of shipwrecks, mutinies, insurance cases,
perjuries, failures, ruin, and rascalities. The private opinions
of those who sought father were never hinted at; there was
but one relation between them—Traffic. Their personality was
forgotten in the earnest and absorbed attention which they gave
to business. They appeared to pursue something beyond Gain,
which should narcotize or stimulate them to forget that man's
life was a vain going to and fro. Mother reproached father for
allowing me to adopt the habits of a man. But he said it was
wholesome for me; besides, it would not last. Why was she
not willing? He liked to step out of the Ledger into some
other book, as he did, when I was his companion.
“Only you do not, father.”
At least I reminded him that he was a gambler
“Locke, why do you forget me in your business life? Strange
that you should remember Cassy.”
“Mary, could I break your settled ways? Were you to be
interfered with in the life you arranged for yourself? Cassandra
is afloat yet; I can guide her hither and yon. I am with
her too; I can dream our youth.”
“Is youth so happy?” we both asked.
“We think so, when it is gone.”
“Not all of us,” she said. “And you think Cassandra has
no ways of her own! She can make us change ours; do you
know that?”
“May be.”
A habit grew upon me of consulting the sea as soon as I rose
in the morning. Its aspect decided how my day would be spent
to understand its effect upon me mentally, and ever attracted
by its awful materiality, for it always talked to me of the ease
with which it could drown me. I was drawn to its shores by
night; its vague sphere, swayed by some influence mightier
than itself, which made its voice articulate, drew my soul out
beside it, to utter speech for speech. I went there by day unobserved,
except by our people, for I never walked towards the
village. Mother descried me, as she would a distant sail; or
aunt Merce, who had a vacant habit of looking from all the windows,
a moment from each one, as if she were forever expecting
the arrival of somebody who never came. Arthur too saw
me, as he played among the rocks, waded, caught crabs and little
fish, like all boys whose hereditary associations are amphibious.
But Veronica never came to the windows on that side
of the house, unless a ship was arriving from a long voyage.
Then her interest was in the ship alone, to see whether her
colors were half-mast, or if she were battered and torn, recalling
to mind those who had died or married since the ship sailed
from port; for she knew the names of all who ever left Surrey,
and their family relations, if she had no personal acquaintance
with them.
Weeks passed before I had completed the furnishing of my
room; I had been to Helen's wedding, and had returned, and
it was still in progress. The ground was covered with snow.
The sea was dark and rough under the frequent north wind;
sometimes gray and silent in an icy atmosphere; sometimes
blue and shining beneath the pale, winter sun. The day when
the room was ready, Fanny made a wood fire, which burned
merrily, and encouraged the new chairs, tables, carpet, and
curtains, into a friendly assimilation; they met and danced on
the round tops of the brass dogs. It already seemed to me
that the room was like me. Unlike Veronica, I had nothing
odd, nothing suggestive. The curtains were blue chintz, and
the sofa and chairs were covered with the same; the ascetic
aspect of my two hair-cloth covered arm-chairs, was entirely
concealed. The walls were painted a pale amber color, and
varnished. There were no pictures, but the shining shadows.
A row of shelves covered with blue damask was on one side,
and my tall mirror was on the other. The doors were likewise
covered with blue damask, nailed round with brass nails.
When I had nothing else to do, I counted the nails. The
wooden mantel shelf, originally painted in imitation of black
marble, was covered with the damask, and fringed. I sent
once, they were stifled; too many things in the room; too
warm; too dark; the fringe on the mantel would catch fire and
burn me up; too much trouble to take care of it. What was
under the carpet, that made it so soft, and the steps so noiseless?
How nice it was! Temperance, who had been my aid,
arrived at this juncture.
“Did you ever see such a stived up hole, Mis Morgeson?”
“I like it now,” she answered, “it is so comfortable. How
lovely this blue is!”
“It's a pity she won't keep the blinds shut. The curtains
will fade to rags in no time; the sun pores on 'em.”
“How could I watch the sea then?” I asked.
“Good Lord! it's a mystery to me, how you can bother over
that salt water.”
“And the smell of the sea-weed,” said aunt Merce.
“And its thousand dreary cries,” said mother.
“Do you like my covered doors?”
“I vow,” Temperance exclaimed, “the nails are put in
crooked! And I stood over Dexter the whole time. He
said it was damned nonsense, and that you must be awfully
spoiled to want such a thing. `You get your pay, Dexter,'
says I, `for what you do, don't you?' `I guess I do,' says
he, and then he winked. `None of your gab,' says I. I do believe
that man is a cheat and a rascal, I vow I do. But they
are all so.”
“In my young days,” aunt Merce remarked, “young girls
were not allowed to have fires in their chambers.”
“In our young days, Mercy,” mother replied, “we were not
allowed to have much of anything.”
“Fires are not wholesome to sleep by,” Temperance added.
“Miss Veronica never has a fire,” piped Fanny, who had
remained, occasionally making a stir with the tongs.
“But she ought to have!” Temperance exclaimed vehemently.
“I do wonder, Mis Morgeson, that you do not insist
upon it, though it's none of my business.”
Father was conducted up stairs, after supper. The fire was
freshly made; the shaded lamp on the table before the sofa,
and the easy-chair pleased him. He came often afterwards,
and stayed so long sometimes, that I fell asleep, and found him
there, when I woke, still smoking and watching the fire.
Veronica looked in at bed time. “I recognize you here,”
she said as she passed. But she came back in a few moments,
in a wrapper, with a comb in her hand, and stood on the hearth
fire was grateful to her, and I believe that she was surprised
at the fact.
“Why not have a fire in your room, Verry?”
“A fire would put me out. One belongs in this room,
though. It is the only reality here.”
“What if I should say you provoke me?”
“What if you should?”
She gathered up her hair and shook it round her face, with
the same elfish look she wore when she combed it with her fingers,
and pulled it over her eyes when a child. It made me
feel how much older I was.
“I do not say so, and I will not.”
“I wish you would; I should like to hear something natural
from you.”
Fanny, coming in with an armful of wood, heard her. Instead
of putting it on the fire, she laid it on the hearth, and sitting
upon it with an expression of enjoyment, looked at both
of us with an expectant air.
“You love mischief, Fanny,” I said.
“Is it mischief for me to look at sisters that don't love each
other?” and laughing shrilly, she pulled a stick from under
her, and threw it on the fire.
Veronica's eyes shot more sparks than the disturbed coals,
for Fanny's speech enraged her. Giving her head a toss,
which swept her hair behind her shoulders, she darted at
Fanny, and picked her up from the wood, with as much ease as
if it had been her handkerchief, instead of a girl nearly
as heavy as herself. I started up.
“Sit still,” she said, in her low inflexible voice, holding
Fanny against the wall. “I must attend to this little demon.
Do you dare to think,” addressing Fanny with a gentle vehemence,
“that what you have just said, is true of me? Are
you, with your small, starved spirit equal to any judgment
against her? I admire her; you do, too. I love her, and
I love you, you pitiful, ignorant brat.”
Her strength gave way, and she let her go
“All declarations in my behalf are made to third persons,”
I thought.
“I do believe, Miss Veronica,” said Fanny, who did not express
any astonishment, or resentment, at the treatment she
had received, “that you are going to be sick; I feel so in my
bones.”
“Never mind your bones. Twist up my hair, and think
while you do it, how to get rid of your diabolical curiosity.”
“I have had nothing to do all my life,” she answered, carefully
knotting Verry's hair, “but to be curious. I never found
out much, though, till lately;” and she cast her eyes in my
direction.
“Put her out, Cassandra,” said Verry, “if you like to touch
her.”
“I'll sweep the hearth, if you please, first,” Fanny answered.
“I am a good drudge, you know. Good night, ladies.”
I followed Veronica, wishing to know if her room was
uncomfortable. She had made slight changes since my visit to
her. Her flowers had been moved, and the stand where the
candle stood was covered with a crimson cloth. The dead
bough and the autumn leaves were gone; but instead, there
was a branch of waving grasses, green and fresh, and on the
table was a white flower, in a vase.
“It is freezing here, but it looks like summer. Is it design?”
“Yes; I can't sit here much, I know; still I can read in
bed, and write, especially under my new quilt, which you have
not seen.”
It was composed of red, black, and blue bits of silk, and
beautifully quilted. Hepsey and Temperance had made it for
her.
“How about the wicket, these winter nights?”
“I drag the quilt off, and wrap it round me when I want to
look out.”
We heard a bump on the floor, and Temperance appeared
with warm bricks wrapped in flannel.
“You know, that I will not have those things,” Verry said.
“Dear me, how contrary you are! And you have not eaten
a thing to-day.”
“Carry them out.”
Her voice was so unyielding, but always so gentle! Temperance
was obliged to deposit the bricks outside the door,
which she did with a bang.
“I should think you might sleep in Cassandra's room; her
bed is big enough for three.”
No answer was made to this proposition, but Verry said,
“You may undress me, if you like, and stay till you are convinced
I shall not freeze.”
“I've staid till I am in an ager. I might as well finish the
night, I 'spose.”
She called me after midnight, for she had not left Verry,
who had been attacked with one of her mysterious disorders.
“You can do nothing for her; but I am scared out, when
she faints so dreadful, and don't like to be alone.”
Veronica could not speak, but she shook her head at me to
go away. Her will seemed to be concentrated against losing
consciousness; it slipped from her occasionally, and she made
a rotary motion with her arms, which I attempted to stop; but
her features contracted so terribly, I let her alone.
“Mustn't touch her,” said Temperance, whose efforts to
relieve her were confined to replacing the coverings of the
bed, and drawing her nightgown over her bosom, which she
often threw off again. Her breath scarcely stirred her breast.
I thought more than once that she did not breathe at all. Its
delicate, virgin beauty touched me with a holy pity. We sat
by her bed in silence a long time, and although it was freezing
cold, did not suffer. Suddenly she turned her head, and closed
her eyes. Temperance softly pulled up the clothes over her,
and whispered: “It is over for this time; but Lord, how awful
it is! I hoped she was cured of these spells.”
In a few minutes, she asked, “What time is it?”
“It must be about eleven,” Temperance replied; but it was
nearly four. She dozed again, but opening her eyes presently,
made a motion towards the window.
“There's no help for it,” muttered Temperance, “she
must go.”
I understood her, and put my arm under Verry's neck to
raise her. Temperance wrapped the quilt round her, and we
carried her to the window. Temperance pushed open the window—an
icy wind blew against us.
“It is the winter that kills little Verry,” she said, in a
child-like voice. “God's breath is cold over the world, and
my life goes. But the spring is coming; it will come back.”
I looked at Temperance, whose face was so corrugated with
the desire for crying, and the effort to keep from it, that for
the life of me, I could not help smiling. As soon as I smiled
I laughed, and then Temperance gave way to crying and
laughing together. Veronica stared, and realized the circumstances
in a second. She walked back to the bed, laughing
faintly too. “Go to bed, do. You have been here a long time,
have you?”
I left Temperance tucking the clothes about her, kissing
her, and calling her `her deary, and her best child.'
I could not go to bed at once, for Fanny was on my hearth,
of something.
“She has come to, hasn't she?” stirring the contents of the
kettle. “I knew it was going to be so with her, she was so
mad with me. She is like the Old Harry before she has
a turn, and like an angel after. I am fond of people who have
their ups and downs. I have seen her so before. She asked
me to keep the doors locked once; they are locked now. But
I couldn't keep you out. The doctor said she must have warm
drinks as soon as she was better. This is gruel.”
“If it is done, away with you. Calamity improves you,
don't it? You seem in excellent spirits.”
'First rate; I can be somebody then.”
| CHAPTER XXIV. The Morgesons | |