 | CHAPTER XXVII. The Morgesons |  |
27. CHAPTER XXVII.
When we went to Boston we took a new hotel, as Ben had
advised, deserting the old Bromfield for the Tremont. It was
dusk when we arrived, and tea was served immediately, in a
large room full of sombre mahogany furniture. Its atmosphere
oppressed Veronica, who ate her supper in silence.
“Charles Dickens is here, sir,” said the waiter, who knew
Ben. “Two models of the Curiosity Shop have just gone up
stairs, sir. His room is right over here, sir.”
Veronica looked adoringly at the ceiling.
“Then,” said Ben, “our hunters are up from Belem. Anybody
in from Belem, John?”
“Oh yes, sir, every day.”
“I'll look them up,” he said to us; but he returned soon,
and begged us not to look at Dickens, if we had a chance.
Veronica, with a sigh gave him up, and lost a chance of
being immortalized with that perpetual and imperturbable
beef-steak, covered with “the blackest of all possible pepper,”
which was daily served to him.
Father being out in pursuit of a cigar, Ben asked Veronica
what she would do, while he was in Belem.
“Walk round this lion-clawed table.”
“I shall be gone too, you know.”
“Alas!”
“Are we to part this way?”
“Father,” she said, as he entered with a theatre bill, “can
I marry this friend of Cassy's?”
“Have you the courage? Do you know each other?”
“Having known Cassandra so long, sir,” began Ben, but
was interrupted by Veronica's exclaiming, “We do not know
each other at all. What is the use of making that futile attempt?
I am over eighteen; do you know me, father?”
“If I do not, it is because you have no shadow.”
“Shall I?” she said, giving Ben a delicious smile. “I promise.”
“I promise too, Veronica,” heaven dawning in his eyes.
“We will see about it,” said father. “Who will go to the
theatre?”
We declined, but Ben signified his willingness to accompany
him.
We took the first morning train, so that father could return
before evening, and ran through in the course of an hour the
wooden suburbs of Belem, bordered by an ancient marsh,
from which the sea had long retired. Taking a cab, we turned
into Norfolk street, at the head of which, Ben said, a mile distant,
was his father's house. It was not a cheerful street, and
when we stopped before an immense, square, three-storied
house, it looked still more gloomy. There was a gate on one
side, with white wooden urns on the posts, that shut off a paved
courtway. On each side of the street were houses of the same
pattern, with the same gates. Down the paved court of the
opposite house, a coach, pulled by two fat horses, clattered,
and as the coach turned, we saw two old ladies inside, highly
dressed, bowing and smiling at Ben.
“The Miss Hiticutts—hundred thousand apiece.”
“Hundred thousand a piece,” I echoed in an anguish of admiration,
which made father laugh, and Ben scowl. A servant
in a linen jacket opened the door. “Is it yoursel, Mr.
Ben?”
“Open the parlor door, Murph. Where's my mother and
my sister?”
“Miss Somers is taking her exercise, sir, and Mrs. Somers
is with the owld gentleman;” opening the door, with the performance
of taking father's hat.
“Sit down, Cassandra. I'll look up somebody.”
It was a bewildering matter where to go; the room, vast
and dark, was a complete litter of tables, and sofas. The tables
were loaded with lamps, books, and knick-knacks of every description;
the sofas were strewn with English and French magazines,
novels, and papers. I went to the window, while father
perched on the music stool.
My attention was diverted to a large dog in the court, chained
handsome bay horse, at the same time keeping his eye on an
individual who stood on a stone block, dressed in a loose velvet
coat, a white felt hat, and slippers down at the heel. He
had a coach whip in his hand—the handsomest hand I ever
saw, which he snapped at the dog, who growled with rage. I
heard Ben's voice in remonstrance; then a lazy laugh from
velvet coat, who gave the dog a cut, which made him bound.
Ben, untying him, was overwhelmed with caresses. “Down,
you fool! Off, Rash!” he said. “Look there,” pointing to the
window, where I stood. The gentleman with the coach whip
looked at me also. The likeness to Ben, turned my suspicion
into certainty, that they were brothers His disposition, I
thought, must be lovely, judging from the episode with “Rash.”
I turned away, almost running against a lady, who extended
her fingers towards me, with a quick, little laugh, and said:
“How de do? Where's Ben, to introduce us properly?”
“Here, mother,” he said, behind her, followed by the dog.
“You were expecting Cassandra, my old chum; and Mr. Morgeson
has come to leave her with us.”
“Certainly. Rash, go out, dear. Mr. Morgeson, I am sorry
to say,” she spoke with more politeness, “that Mr. Somers is
confined to his room with gout. May I take you up?”
“I have a short time to stay,” looking at his watch, and
rising. “Do you consider the old school friendship between
your son and Cassandra a sufficient reason for leaving her with
you? To say nothing of the faint relationship which, we suppose,
exists.”
“Of course, very happy; Adelaide expects her,” she said
vaguely. I saw at once that she had never heard a word of
our being relations. Ben had managed nicely in the affair of
my invitation to Belem. But I desired to remain, in spite of
Mrs. Somers's reception, which had produced the impression
that she did not want me.
Mr. Somers was bolstered up in bed, in a flowered dressing
gown, with a bottle of colchicum and a pile of Congressional
reports, on a stand beside him. His urbanity was extreme; it
was evident that the gout was not allowed to interfere with
his deportment, though the joints of his hands were twisted,
and knotty. He expatiated upon Ben's long, ungratified wish
for a visit from me, and thanked father for complying with it.
He mentioned the memento of the miniature, and gave every
particular of Locke Morgeson's early marriage, explaining the
exact shade of consanguinity—a faint one. I glanced at Mrs.
eye askance, which I afterwards found was her mode of looking
at those whom she doubted, or disliked; it changed its
expression as it met mine, into one of haughty wonder, that
said there could be no tie of blood between us. She irritated
and embarrassed me. I tried to think of something to say,
and uttered a few words, which were uncommonly trivial, and
awkward. Mr. Somers touched on politics. The door opened,
and Ben's brother entered, with downcast eyes. Advancing
to the foot-board of the bed, he leaned his chin on its edge,
looked at his father, and in a remarkably clear, ringing voice,
said:
“The check.”
Mr. Somers coughed behind his hand. “To-morrow will do
Desmond.”
“To-day will do.”
“Desmond,” said Ben in a low voice, “you do not see Mr.
Morgeson, and Miss Morgeson. My brother, Cassandra.”
“Beg pardon, good morning;” and he pulled off his hat,
with an air of grace which became him, though it was very indifferent.
Mrs. Somers, in a soft voice said, “Ring, Des,
dear, will you?” He warned her with a satirical smile, and
gave such a pull at the bell rope that it came down. Her florid
face flushed a deeper red, but he had gone. Father looked at
his watch, and got up with alacrity.
“You are to dine with us, at least, Mr. Morgeson.”
“I must return to Boston on account of my daughter, who
is there alone.”
“Have you been remiss, Ben,” said his father, affectionately,
“in not bringing her also?”
“She would not come of course, father.”
A tall black-haired girl of twenty-five rushed in.
“Why, Ben,” she said, “you were not expected. And this
is Miss Morgeson,” shaking hands with me. “You will spend
a month, won't you?” She put her chin in her hand, and
scanned me with a cool deliberateness. “Pa, do you think she
is like Caroline Bingham?”
“Yes, so she is; but fairer. She is a great belle,” nodding
to me.
“Do you really think she looks like her, Somers?” said Mrs.
Somers, in a tone of denial.
“Certainly, but handsomer,” Adelaide replied for him, without
looking at her mother.
“Would you like to go to your room?” she asked. “What
her hand still. “We will have some walks; Belem is nice
for walking. Pa, how do you feel now?”
She allowed me to go down stairs with father, without following,
and sent Murphy in with wine and biscuit. I put my arms
round his neck and kissed him, for I had a lonesome feeling,
which I could not define, at the last moment.
“You will not stay long,” he said; “there is something oppressive
in this atmosphere.”
“Something artificial, is it? It must be the blood of the
Bellevue Pickersgills that thickens the air.”
“Now,” said Ben, with father's hat in his hand, “the time
is up.”
Adelaide was at the door to take courteous leave of him, and
Mrs. Somers bowed from the top of the stairs, revealing a pair
of large ankles, whose base rested in a pair of shabby, pudgy
slippers. Adelaide took me to my room, telling me not to
change my dress, but to come down soon, for dinner was
ready. Hearing a bell I hurried down into the parlor which
we were in before, and waited for directions respecting the dinner.
Adelaide came presently. “We are dining; come and sit
next me,” offering her arm. Mrs. Somers, Desmond, and a
girl of fifteen were at the table. The latter had just come from
school, I concluded, as a satchel of books hung at her chair.
Murphy was removing the soup, and I derived the impression
that I had been forgotten. While taking mine, they vaguely
stared about, till Murphy brought in the roast mutton, except
Adelaide, who rubbed her teeth with a dry crust, making a
feint of eating it. Desmond kept the decanter, occasionally
swallowing a glass full.
“What wine is that, Murphy?” Mrs. Somers asked. He
hesitatingly answered, “I think it is the Juno, mum.”
“You stole the key from pa's room, Des,” said the girl.
He shook the carving knife at her, at which gesture she said,
“Pooh,” and applied herself to the roast mutton with avidity.
They all ate largely, especially the girl, whose wide mouth
was filled with splendid teeth. Mrs. Somers made a motion with
her glass for Murphy to bring her the wine, and pouring a teaspoonful,
held it to her mouth, as if she were practicing drinking
healths. Her hands were beautiful, too; they all had
handsome hands, whose movements were graceful and expressive.
When Ben arrived, Murphy set the dishes before him,
and Adelaide began to talk, in a lively, brilliant way. He did
not ask for wine, but I saw him look towards it, and Desmond.
arose, and we followed her; but she went up stairs, and we
went to the back parlor. The girl, taking a seat beside me,
said, “My name is Ann Somers. I am never introduced,
Adder, my sister, is in the way, you know. I dare say, Ben
never spoke of me to you. I am never spoken of, am never
noticed. I have never had new dresses; yet pa is my friend,
the dear soul.”
Adelaide looked upon her with the same superb indifference
with which she regarded her mother, and Desmond “Would
you like to go to your room?” she asked again. “You are too
tired to take a walk, I suppose?”
“Lord,” said Ann, “do let her do as she likes. Adder,
don't be too disagreeable.”
I picked up my bonnet, which she took from me, and put on
the top of her head. We all went up stairs.
“Murph must bring up your trunk,” said Ann, opening the
closet. “But there is no space to hang anything; the great
Moguless's wardrobe stops the way.”
My chamber was stately in size and appointments. The afternoon
sun shone in, where a shutter was open, behind the
dull red curtains, and illuminated the portrait of a nimble old
lady in a scarlet cloak, which hung near the gigantic curtained
bed, over a vast chair, covered with faded green damask.
“Grandmother Pickersgill,” said Ann, who saw me observing
the picture. Adelaide contemplated it also. “It was
painted by Copley,” she said, “when Lord Lyndhurst was in
this country. Grandfather entertained him, and he went with
grandmother to one of her sittings; he complimented her on
her beauty. But you see that she has not a handsome hand.
Ours is the Pickersgill hand,” and she spread her fingers like
a fan.
“She was a regular old screw,” said Ann, “and had
mother's underclothes tucked to last for ever; and she was a
beast to servants.”
My trunk was brought in, which I unlocked, and unpacked.
Adelaide opened a drawer in a great bureau.
“Oh, you know it is full of Marm's fineries,” said Ann, in a
confidential tone; “I'll ring for Hannah.” Adelaide busied herself
in throwing the contents of the drawers on the floor.
“There's her ball dresses,” commented Ann, as a pink satin,
trimmed with magnificent lace, tumbled out. “Old Carew
brought the lace over for her.”
“Bring a basket, Hannah, and take these away somewhere,
to some other closet of Mrs. Somers.”
“That gold fringe, do you remember, Adder? She looked
like an elephant with his howdah on, when she wore it.”
Her impertinence inspired Adelaide, who joined her in
a flow of vituperative wit, at the expense of their mother, and
other relatives, incidentally brought in. Instead of being
aghast, I enjoyed it, and was feverish with a desire to be as
brilliant; my vocabulary was deficient. My sense of inferiority
was active during the whole of my visit in Belem.
I blushed often, smiled foolishly, and was afflicted with a general
apprehension in regard to gaucherie.
I changed my travelling dress, as they were not inclined to
leave me, with anxiety, for I was weak enough to wish to make
an impression, with my elegant bearing and appointments.
Being so anatomized, I was oppressed with an indefinite discouragement.
Their stealthy, sharp, selfish scrutiny brought
out my failures. My dress seemed ill-made; my hair was unbecomingly
dressed; my best collar and ribbon, which I put
on, were nothing to the lace I had just seen falling on the floor.
When we descended it was twilight. Ann said she must
study, and left us by the parlor fire. Adelaide lighted a candle,
and took a novel, which she read, reclining on a sofa. Reclining
on sofas, I discovered, was a family trait, though they
were all in a state of the most robust health, with the exception
of Mr. Somers. I walked up and down the rooms.
“They were fine once,” said Ben, who appeared from a dark
corner, “but are faded now. Mother never changes anything,
if she can help it. She is a terrible aristocrat,” he continued
in a low voice, “fixed in the ideas embedded in the Belem
institutions, which only move backwards. We laugh, though,
at everybody's claims but our own. You despised me for mentioning
the Hiticutt's income; it was the atmosphere.”
“It amuses me to be here.”
“Of course; but stir up Adelaide, she is genuine; has fine
sense, and half despises her life; but she knows no other, and
is proud.”
“Let's go and find tea,” she said, yawning, and dropping her
book. “Why don't that lazy Murph light the lamp? I wish
pa was down, to regulate affairs.” No one was at the tea table
but Mrs. Somers.
“Ben is very polite, don't you think so?” she said, with
her peculiar laugh, which made my flesh creep, when he pulled
up a chair for me. Her voice made me dizzy, but I smiled.
wondered at its influence, or at the vacillating nature of his plans
and pursuits. Mrs. Somers gave me some tea from a spider-shaped
silver tea pot, which was related to a spider-shaped
cream jug, and a spider-shaped sugar dish. The polished surface
of the mahogany table reflected a pair of tall silver candle-sticks,
and the plates, being of warped blue and white Chinese
ware, joggled and clattered when we touched them. The tea
was delicious; I said so, but Mrs Somers deigned no answer.
We were regaled with spread bread and butter, and baked apples.
Adelaide ate six.
“We do not have your Surrey suppers,” Ben remarked.
“How should you know?” his mother asked. Ben's eyes
looked violent, and he bit his lips. Adelaide commenced
speaking, before her mother had finished her question, as if
she only needed the spur of her voice, to be lively and agreeable,
per contra.
“Hepburn must ask us to tea. Her jam, and her gossip are
wonderful. Aunt Tucker might ask us too, with housekeeper
Beck's permission. I like tea fights with the old Hindoos.
They like us, too, Ben; we are the children of Hindoos, also—
superior to the rest of the world. There will be a party or two
for this young person.”
“Parties be hanged!” he said. “Then we must have a rout
here, and I hate 'em.”
“But we owe an entertainment,” said Mrs. Somers. “I
have been thinking of giving one, as soon as Mr. Somers gets
out.”
“I have no such idea,” said Adelaide, with her back towards
her mother. “We shall have no party until some one
has been given to our young friend, Ben.”
Ben and I visited his father, who asked questions relative to
the temperature, the water, and the dietetic qualities of Surrey.
He was affable, but there was no nearness in his affability.
He skated on the ice of appearances, and that was his vocation
in his family. He fulfilled it well, but it was a strain sometimes.
His family broke the ice now and then, which must
have made him plunge into the depths of reality. I learned
to respect his courage, bad as his cause was. Marrying Bellevue
Pickersgill for her money, he married his master, and was endowed
only with the privilege of settling her taxes. Simon
Pickersgill, her father, tied up the main part of his money for
his grandchildren. It was to be divided among them when the
youngest son should arrive at the age of twenty-one—an event
Desmond, and an older son, who resided anywhere
except at home, made havoc with the income. As the principal
prospectively was theirs, or nearly the whole of it, why should
they not dispose of that?
At last Mr. Somers looked at his watch, a gentle reminder
that it was time for us to withdraw. Adelaide was still in the
parlor, lying on her favorite sofa, contemplating the ceiling. I
asked permission to retire, which she granted without removing
her regards. In spite of my sound sleep that night, I was
startled from it by the wail of a young child. The strangeness
of the chamber, and the continued crying, which I could not
locate, kept me awake, till dawn peeped through the curtains.
| CHAPTER XXVII. The Morgesons | |