University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

One pleasant afternoon Adelaide and I started on a walk.
We must go through the crooked length of Norfolk street, till
we reached the outskirts of Belem, and its low fields not yet
green; that was the fashionable promenade, she said. After
the two o'clock dinner, all Belem walked. All her acquaintances
seemed to be in the street, so many bows were given
and returned with ceremony. Nothing familiar was attempted;
nothing beyond the courtliness of an artificial smile.

Returning, we met Desmond with a lady, and a series of
bows took place. Desmond held his hat in his hand till we
had passed; his expression varied so much from what it was
when I saw him last, at the breakfast table, he being in a desperate
humor then, that it served me for mental comment for
some minutes.

“That is Miss Brewster,” said Adelaide. “She is an heiress,
and fancies Desmond's attentions; she will not marry
him, though.”

“Is every woman in Belem an heiress?”

“Those we talk about are, and every man is a fortune-hunter.
Money marries money; those who have none do not
marry. Those who wait, hope. But the great fortunes of Belem
are divided; the race of millionaires is decaying.”

“Is that Ann yonder?”

“I think so, from that bent bonnet.”

It proved to be her; but she went by us with the universal
bow and grimace, sacrificing to the public spirit with her fine
manners. She turned soon, however, and overtook us, proposing
to make a detour to Drummond Street, where an intimate
family friend, `Old Hepburn,' lived, so that the prospect
of our going to tea with her might be made probable, by her
catching a passing glimpse of us; at this time she must be at
the window with her Voltaire, or her Rousseau. The proposition
was accepted, and we soon came near the house, which

stood behind a row of large trees, and looked very dismal, with
three-fourths of its windows barred with board shutters.

“Walk slow,” Ann intreated. “I see her blinking at us
She has not shed her satin pelisse yet.”

Before we got beyond it a dirty little girl came out of the
gate, in a pair of huge shoes, and a canvas apron, which covered
her, to call us back. Mrs. Hepburn had seen us, and
wished us to come in, wanting to know who Miss Adelaide had
with her, and to talk with her. She ran back, re-appearing
again at the door, out of breath, and minus a shoe. As we entered
a small parlor, an old lady in a black dress, with a deep
cape, held out her withered hand, without rising from her
straight-backed arm-chair, smiling at us, but shaking her head
furiously at the small girl, who lingered in the door.

“Mari, Mari,” she called; but no Mari came, and the small
girl took our shawls, for Mrs. Hepburn said we must stay, now
that she had inveigled us inside her doors. Ann mimicked
her to her back, but to her face her manners were servile.
The name of Morgeson belonged to the early historical time of
New England, she informed me. I never knew it; but I
bowed, as if not ignorant. Old Mari must be consulted respecting
the sweetmeats, and she went after her.

“What an old mouser it is!” said Ann. “What unexpected
ways she has! She scours Belem in her velvet shoes, to find
out everybody's history. Don't you smell buttered toast?”

“Your father is getting the best of the gout,” said Mrs.
Hepburn, returning. “How is Desmond? He may be the
wickedest of you all, but I like him the best. I shall not
throw away praise of him on you, Adelaide.” And she looked
at me.

“He bows well,” I said.

“He resembles his mother, who was a great beauty. Mr.
Somers was handsome, too. I was at a ball at Governor Flam's,
thirty years ago. Your mother was barely fifteen, then, Adelaide;
she was just married, and opened the ball.”

She examined me, all the while, with a pair of small, round
eyes, from which the color had faded, but which were capable
of reading me.

Tea was served by candle-light, on a small table. Mrs. Hepburn
kept her eyes on everything, talking volubly, and pulled
the small girls' ears, or pushed her by the shoulder, with faith
that we were not observing her. The toast was well buttered,
the sweetmeats were delicious, and the cake was heavenly, as
Ann said. Mrs. Hepburn ate little, but told us a great deal

about marriages in prospect, and incomes which waxed or
waned in consequence. When tea was over, she said to the
small girl who removed the tea things, “On your life taste not
of the cake, or the sweetmeats; and bring me two sticks of
wood, you huzzy.” She arranged the sticks on a decaying fire,
inside a high brass fender, pulled up a stand near the hearth,
lighted two candles, and placed on it a pack of cards.

“Some one may come, so that we can play.”

Meantime she dozed upright, waking, talking, and dozing
again, like a crafty old parrot.

“She has a great deal of money saved,” Ann whispered behind
a book. “She is over seventy. Oh! she is opening her
puss eyes.”

Adelade mused, after her fashion, on the slippery hair-cloth
sofa, looking at the dim fire, and I surveyed the room. Its
aspect attracted me, though it was precise and stiff. An ugly
Turkey carpet covered the floor; a sideboard was against the
wall, with a pair of silver pitchers on it, and two tall vases,
filled with artificial flowers, under glass shades. Old portraits
hung over it. Upon one I fixed my attention.

“That is the portrait of Count Rumford,” Mrs. Hepburn
said.

“Can't we see the letters?” begged Ann. “And won't you
show us your trinkets? It is three or four years since we
looked them over.”

“Yes,” she answered, good-humoredly; “ring the bell.”

An old woman answered it, to whom Mrs. Hepburn said,
in a friendly voice, “The box in my desk.” Adelaide and
Ann said, “How do you do, Mari?” When she brought the
box, Mrs. Hepburn unlocked it, and produced some yellow
letters, which we looked over, picking out here and there bits
of Parisian gossip, many, many years old. They were directed
to Cavendish Hepburn, by his friend, the original of the portrait.
But the letters were soon laid aside, and we examined
the contents of the box. Old brooches, miniatures painted on
ivory, silhouettes, hair rings, necklaces, ear-rings, chains and
finger rings.

“Did you wear this?” asked Ann with a longing voice,
slipping an immense sapphire ring on her fore-finger.

“In Mr. Hepburn's day,” she answered, taking up a small
case, which she unfastened and gave me. It contained a peculiar
pair of ear-rings, and a brooch of aqua marina stones, in
a setting perforated like a net.

“They suit you. Will you accept such an old-fashioned
ornament? Put the rings in; here Ann, fasten them.”

Ann glared at her in astonishment, and then at me, for the
reason which had prompted so unexpected a gift.

“Is it possible that I am to have them? Why do you give
them to me? They are beautiful.”

“They came from Europe long ago,” she said. “And they
happen to suit you.”

“Those lines make me forgive Paradise Lost,” said Adelaide.

“They are very long, these ear-rings,” Ann remarked.

I put the brooch in the knot of ribbon I wore; Mrs. Hepburn
joggled the white satin bows of her cap in approbation.

The knocker resounded. “There is our partner,” she cried.

“It must be late, ma'am,” said Adelaide; “and I suspect
it is some one for us. You know we never venture on impromptu
visits, except to you, and our people know where to
send.”

“Late or not, you shall stay for a game,” she said, as Ben
came in, hat in hand, declaring he had been scouting for us
since dark. Mrs. Hepburn snuffed the candles, and rang the
bell. The small girl, with a perturbed air, like one hurried
out of a nap, brought in a waiter, which she placed on the sideboard.

“Get to bed,” Mrs. Hepburn loudly whispered, looking over
the waiter, and taking from it a silver porringer, she put it
inside the fender, and then shuffled the cards.

“Now, Ann, you may sit beside me and learn.”

“If it is whist, mum, I know it. I played every afternoon
at Hampton last summer, and we spoiled a nice polished table,
we scratched it so with our nails, picking up the cards.”

“Young people do too much, now-a-days.”

I was in the shadow of the sideboard; Ben stood against it.

“When have you played whist, Cassandra?” he asked in a
low voice.

“Is my name Cassandra?”

“Have you forgotten that, too?”

“Does it rain?”

“It is not October.”

“The yellow leaves do not stick to the panes. Would you
like to see Helen?”

“Play with me, Ben,” called Mrs. Hepburn.

“Ann, try your skill,” I entreated, “and let me off.”

“She can try,” Mrs. Hepburn said sharply. “Don't you
like games? I should have said you were by nature a bold
gamester.” And she dealt the cards rapidly, and was soon
absorbed in the game, though she quarreled with Ann occasionally,
and knocked over the candlestick once. Adelaide
played heroically, and was praised, though I knew that she
hated play.

Two hours passed before we were released. The fire went
out, the candles burnt low, and whatever the contents of the
silver porringer, they had long been cold. When Mrs. Hepburn
saw us determined to go, she sent us to the sideboard for
some refreshment. “My caudle is cold,” taking off the cover
of the porringer. “Why, Mari, what is this?” she said, as the
woman made a noiseless entrance with a bowl of hot caudle.

“I knew how it would be,” she answered, putting it into
the hands of her mistress.

“I am a desperate old rake, you mean, Mari. There, take
your virtue off, you appal me.”

She poured the caudle into small silver tumblers, and gave
them to us. “The Bequest of a Friend” was engraved on
them. Her fingers were like ice, and her head shook with
fatigue; but her voice was sprightly, and her smile bright.
Ann ate a good deal of sponge cake, and omitted the caudle,
but I drank mine to the memory of the donor of the cup.

“You know that sherry, Ben,” and Mrs. Hepburn nodded
him towards a decanter. He put his hand on it, and took it
away. “None to-night,” he said. Mari came with our shawls,
and we hastened away, hearing her shoot the bolt of the door
behind us. Ben drew my arm in his, and the girls walked
rapidly before us. It was a white, hazy night, and the moon
was wallowing in clouds.

“Let us walk off the flavor of Hep's cards,” said Adelaide,
“and go to Wolfe's Point.”

“Do you wish to go?” he asked me.

“Yes.”

Ann skipped. A nocturnal excursion suited her exactly.

“You are not to have the toothache to-morrow, or pretend
to be lame,” said Adelaide.

“Not another hiss, Adder. En avant!”

We passed down Norfolk street, now dark and silent, and
reached our house. A light was burning in a room in the
third story, and a window was open. Desmond sat by it, his

arms folded across his chest, smoking, and contemplating some
object beyond our view. Ann derisively apostrophized him,
under her breath, while Ben unlocked the court gate, and went
in after Rash, who came out quietly, and we proceeded. I
looked behind me and stumbled.

“What's the matter?” he asked. “Are you afraid?”

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

“The Prince of Darkness.”

“The devil lives.”

“In you?”

“In Rash. Look at him; he is bigger than Faust's dog,
jumps higher, and is blacker. You can't hear the least sound
from him; he gambols with some familiar.”

We left the last regular street on that side of the city, and
entered a road, bordered by trees and bushes, which hid the
country from us. We crept through a gap in it, crossed two
or three spongy fields, and ascended a hill, reaching an abrupt
edge of rock, over whose earthy crust we had walked. Below
it I saw a strip of sea, hemmed in on all sides, for the light
was too vague for me to see its narrow outlet. It looked milky,
misty, and uncertain; the predominant shores stifled its voice,
if it ever had one. Adelaide and Ann crouched over the edge
of the rock, reciting, in a chanting tone, from a poem beginning,

Their false intonation of voice, and the wordy spirit of the
poem, convinced me that poetry with them was an artificial
taste. I walked away. The dark earth and rolling sky were
better. Ben followed me.

“I hope Veronica's letter will come to-morrow,” he said
with a groan.

“Veronica! Who is Veronica?”

“Don't torment me.”

“Does she write letters?”

“I have written her.”

“She has never written me.”

“I may be the means of revealing you to each other.”

“Ben, your native air is deleterious.”

“You laugh. I feel what you say. I do not attempt to
play the missionary at home. My field is not here.”

“You were wise not to bring Veronica.”

“She would see what I hate myself for.”

“One may venture farther with a friend than a lover.”

“I thought that you might understand the results of my
associations. Curse them all! Come, girls, we must go back.”