 | CHAPTER XXX. The Morgesons |  |
30. CHAPTER XXX.
I took a cold that night. Belem was damp always, but its
midnight damp was worse than any other. Mrs. Somers sent
me medicine. Adelaide asked me with an air of contemplation,
what made me sick, and felt her own pulse. Ann criticized
my night-gown ruffles, and accused me of wearing imitation
lace; but nursing was her forte, and she staid by me, annoying
me by a frequent beating up of my pillow, and the
bringing in of bowls of strange mixtures for me to swallow,
which she persuaded the cook to make, and her father to taste.
Before I left my room, Mrs. Somers came to see me.
“You are well, I hear,” she said, in a cold voice.
I felt as if I had been shamming sickness.
“I thought that you were in remarkable health, your frame
is so large.”
Adelaide was there, and answered for me. “You are delicate.
It must be because you do not take care of yourself.”
“Wolf's Point?” I asked.
“I have walked to Wolf's Point for fifteen years, night and
day.”
“Mr. Munster's man left this note for you,” her mother said,
handing it to her.
She read an invitation from Miss Munster, a cousin, to a
small party.
“You will not be able to go,” Mrs. Somers remarked to me.
“You will go,” Adelaide said; “it is an attention to you
altogether.”
“Do you think so?”
But Adelaide made her no reply; she never replied to her
mother, and never asked her any questions, so that talking between
them was a one-sided affair.
“Let us go out shopping, Adelaide; I want some lace to
wear.”
Mrs. Somers looked into her drawers, out of which Adelaide
had thrust her finery, and found mine, but said nothing.
“We are going to a party, Ann. Thanks to your messes,
and your nursing.”
“Where is your evening dress?”
“Pinned in a napkin—like my talent.”
“Old cousin Munster, the pirate, who made his money in
the opium trade, has good things in his house. I suppose.”
with a coquettish air, “that you will see Ned Munster; he
would walk to the door with me to-day. He wishes me out, I
know.”
We consumed that evening in talking of dress. Adelaide
showed me her camel's-hair scarfs which Desmond had brought,
and her dresses. Ann tried them all on, walking up and down,
and standing tip toe before the glass, while I trimmed a handkerchief
with the lace I had purchased. I unfolded my dress
after they were gone, with a dubious mind. It was a heavy,
white silk, with a blue satin stripe. It might be too old-fashioned,
for it had belonged to mother, who would never wear
it. The sleeves were puffed with bands of blue velvet, and the
waist was covered with a berthé of the same. It must do, however,
for I had no other.
We were to go at nine. Adelaide came to my room dressed,
and with her hair arranged exactly like mine. She looked
well, in spite of her Mangolic face.
“Pa wants to see us in his room; he has gone to bed.”
“Wait a moment,” I begged. I took my hair down, unbraided
it, brushed it out of curl as much as I could; twisted
it into a loose mass, through which I stuck pins enough to hold
it; bound a narrow fillet of red velvet round my head, and ran
after her.
“That is much better,” she said; “you are entirely changed.”
Desmond was there, in his usual careless dress, hanging
over the foot board of the bed, and Ann was huddled on
the outside. Mrs. Somers was reading.
“Pa,” said Ann, “just think of Old Hepburn's giving her a
pair of lovely ear-rings.”
“Did she? Where are they?” asked Mrs Somers.
“I am not surprised,” said Mr. Somers. “Mrs. Hepburn
knows where to bestow. Why not wear them?”
“I'll get them,” said Ann.
Mr. Somers continued his compliments. He thought there
was a pleasing contrast between Adelaide and myself; referred
to Diana; mentioned that my hair was remarkably thick;
and proceeded with a dissertation on the growth and decay of
the hair, when she returned with the ear-rings.
“It is too dark,” she said.
Desmond, who had remained silent, took the candle, which
face. The operation was over, but the candle was not taken
back till Mrs. Somers asked for it sharply.
“I dare say,” murmured Mr. Somers, who was growing
drowsy, “that Mrs. Hepburn wore them some night, when she
went to John Munster's, forty years ago, and now you wear
them to the son's. How things come round!”
The Munster's man opened the door for us.
The rooms were full. “Very glad,” said Mr., Mrs., and Miss
Munster, and amid a loud buzz we fell back into obscurity.
Adelaide joined a group, who were talking at the top of their
voices, with most impassionate countenances.
“They pretend to have a Murillo here; let us go and find
it,” said Ben.
It was in a small room. While we looked at a dark-haired,
handsome woman, standing on brown clouds, with hand so fat
that every finger stood apart, Miss Munster brought up a young
gentleman, with the Munster cast of countenance.
“My brother begs an introduction, Miss Morgeson.”
Ben retired, and Mr. Munster began to talk volubly, with
wandering eyes, repeating words he was in danger of forgetting.
No remarks were required from me. At the proper
moment he asked me to make the tour of the rooms, and
offered his arm. As we were crossing the hall I saw Desmond,
hat in hand, and in faultless evening dress, bowing to Miss
Munster.
“Your cousin Desmond, and mine, is a fine-looking man, is
he not? Let us speak to him.”
I drew back. “I'll not interrupt his devoir.”
He bowed submissively.
“My cousin Desmond,” I thought; “let me examine this
beauty.” He was handsomer than Ben, his complexion
darker, and his hair black. There was a flush across his
cheek bones, as if he had once blushed, and the blush had settled.
The color of his eyes I could not determine. As if to
resolve my doubt, he came towards us; they were a deep violet,
and the lids were fringed with long black lashes. I speculated
on something animal in those eyes. He stood beside
me, and twisted his heavy mustache.
“What a pretty boudoir this is,” I said, backing into a little
room behind us.
“Ned,” he said abruptly, “you must resign Miss Morgeson.
I am here to see her.”
“Of course,” Ned answered; “I relinquish.”
Before a word was spoken between us, Mrs. Munster touched
Desmond on the shoulder, and told him that he must come
with her, to be introduced to Count Montholon.
`Bring him here, please.”
“Tyrant,” she answered playfully, “the Count shall
come.”
He brought a chair. “Take this: you are pale. You have
been ill.” Bringing another he seated himself before me, and
fanned himself with his hat.
Mrs. Munster came back with the Count, an elderly man,
and Desmond rose to meet him, keeping his hand on the back
of his chair. They spoke French. The freedom of their conversation
precluded the idea of my understanding it. The
Count made a remark about me. Desmond replied, glancing
at me, and both pulled their mustaches. The Count was called
away soon, and Desmond resumed his chair.
“I understood you,” I said.
“The deuce you did.”
He put his hat over a vase of flowers on a table near us.
The vase fell over, of course; he leisurely righted it, and leaning
towards me, said: “In battle?”
“Yes.”
“So, women like you, pure, with no vice of blood, sometimes
struggle, suffer, and are tempted.”
His words made me wince horribly.
“It was a drawn battle.”
“If you prove, beyond all doubt, that a woman can reason
with her impulses, or even fathom them, I shall be in your
debt.”
“You are my debtor, but—Ben is coming.”
He looked at me in astonishment.
“You must find all this very dull, Cassandra,” Ben said, as
he joined us.
“Cassandra,” said Desmond, “are you bored?”
The accent with which he spoke my name set my pulses
striking like a clock. I got up mechanically, as Ben directed.
“They are going to supper. There's game, Des. Munster
told me to take the north-east corner of the table.”
“I shall take the south-west, then,” he replied, nodding to
a tall gentleman who passed with Adelaide. When we left
him, he was observing a carved oak chair, in occult sympathy
with the grain of the wood. Nature strikes us with her phenomena,
at times, in spite of our self-occupation.
We were compelled to wait at the door of the supper-room,
the jam was so great.
“What fairy story do you like best?” asked Ben.
“I know which you like.”
“Well?”
“Bluebeard. You have an affinity with sister Ann in the
tower.”
“Do you think I see nothing `but the sun which makes
a dust, and the grass which looks green?' I believe you like
Bluebeard, too.”
That was a great joke, at which we both laughed.
When I saw Desmond again, he was surrounded by men,
the French Count among them, all drinking champagne. He
held a bottle, the neck of which he had broken, and was talking
fast. The others were laughing. His listless, morose expression
had disappeared; in the place of a brutal-tempered, selfish,
bored man, I saw a brilliant, jovial gentleman. Which
was the real man?
“Finish your jelly,” said Ben.
“I prefer looking at your brother.”
“Leave my brother alone.”
“You see nothing but `the sun which makes a dust, and the
grass which looks green.'”
Miss Munster hoped that I was cared for. How gay Desmond
was. He wore a new look; but she thought him strongly
marked with the family traits.
“Have I those traits, Mary?” inquired Ben.
“Oh, you are eccentric.”
“And the rest of us are not?”
“Now we must go.” Adelaide said.
We were among the last; the carriage was waiting. We
made our bows to Mrs. Munster, who complained of not having
seen us. “You are a favorite of Mrs. Hepburn's, Miss Morgeson,
I am told. She is a remarkable woman; has great
powers.” I mentioned my one interview with her. Guests
were going up stairs with smiles, and coming down without,
released from their company manners. We rode home in silence,
except that Adelaide yawned fearfully, and toiled the
long stairs, separating with a tired `good night.'
I extinguished my candle, by dropping my shawl upon it, and
groped in vain for matches over the tops of table and shelf.
“To bed in the dark, then,” I said, pulling off my gloves,
and the band from my head for I felt a tightness from it, and
pulled out the hair pins. But a desire to see myself in the
must see what my aspect indicated.
I crept down stairs, to the dining room, passed my hands
over the sideboard, the mantle-shelf, and took the round of the
dinner table, but found nothing to light my candle with.
“The fire may not be out in the parlor,” I thought; “it can
be lighted there.” I ran against the hat stand in the hall,
knocking a cane down, which fell with a loud noise. The parlor
door was ajar;—the fire was not out, and Desmond was before
it, studying its decay.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The candle,” I stammered, confused with the necessity of
staying to have it lighted, and the propriety of retreating in
the dark.
“Shall I light it?”
I stepped a little farther inside the door and gave it to him.
He grew warm with thrusting it between the bars of the grate,
and I grew chilly. Shivering, and with chattering teeth, I
made out to say, “A piece of paper would do it.” Raising his
head hastily, it came crash against the edge of the marble shelf.
Involuntarily I shut the door, and leaned against it, to wait for
the effect of the blow; but feeling a pressure against the outside,
I yielded to it, and moved aside. Mrs. Somers entered,
with a candle flaring in one hand, and holding with the other
her dressing gown across her bosom.
“What are you doing here?” she asked harshly, but in a
whisper, her eyes blazing like a panther's.
“Doing?” I replied. “Stay and see.”
She swept along, and I followed, bringing up close to Desmond,
who had his hand round his head, and was very pale,
either from the effect of the blow, or some other cause. Even
the flush across his cheeks had faded. She looked at him
sharply; he moved his hands from his head, and met her eyes.
“I am not drunk for once, you see,” he said in a low voice.
She made an insulting gesture towards me, which meant, “Is
this an adventure of yours?”
The blaze in her eyes kindled a more furious one in his; he
stepped forward with a threatening motion.
Anger raged through me; but it was like a fierce rain that
strikes flat a violent sea. I laid my hand on her arm, which
she snapped at, like a wolf.
“You tender, true-hearted creature, full of womanly inspiration,
allow me to light my candle by yours!”
I picked it from the hearth, lighted it, and held it close to
restrained him.
He took the candle from me. “Leave the room,” he said to
her.
She beckoned to me to go.
“No,” he said, “you shall go.”
They made a simultaneous movement with their hands,—he
to insist, she to deprecate,—and I again remarked how exactly
alike they were.
“Desmond,” I said; “pray, let me go.”
A deep blush suffused his face. He bowed, and followed
me to the foot of the stairs. I reached my hand out for the
candle, but he kept both.
“Your pardon.”
“For what?”
“For much.”
“You are a bad man.”
He dropped my hand and turned away.
At the top of the stairs I looked down. He was there, with
upturned face, watching me. Whether he went back to confer
with his mother, I never knew; if he did, the expression
which he wore then must have troubled her. I went to bed,
wondering over the mischief that a candle could do. After I
had extinguished it, its wick glowed in the dark like a one-eyed
demon.
| CHAPTER XXX. The Morgesons | |