 | CHAPTER XXXI. The Morgesons |  |
31. CHAPTER XXXI.
Another week passed. Ben had received a letter from
Veronica, informing him that letter-writing was a kind of
composition she was not fond of. He must come to her, and
then there would be no writing. Her letter exasperated his
love. His tenacious mind, lying in wait to close upon hers,
was irritated by her simple, and candid behavior. I could
give him no consolation; nor did I care to. I was glad that his
feelings for her weakened his penetration in regard to me.
When he roused at the expression which he saw Desmond
fix upon me the night that Major Millard was there, I expected
a rehearsal from him of watchfulness and suspicion; but
no symptom appeared. I was glad, for I was in love with Desmond.
I had known it from the night of Miss Munster's
built itself a lordly pleasure-house; its dome and towers were
firm and finished, glowing in the light that `never was on land
or sea.' How elate I grew in this atmosphere! The face of
Nemesis was veiled even. No eye saw the pure pale nimbus
ringed about me. I did not see him, except as an apparition.
Suddenly he had become the most unobtrusive member of the
family, silent and absent. Immunity from espionage was the
immutable family rule. Mrs. Somers, under the direction of
that spirit who isolated me from all exterior influences, for a
little time, had shut down the lid of her evil feelings, and was
quiet; watching me, perhaps but not annoying. Mr. Somers
was engaged with the subject of ventilation. Ann, to convince
herself that she had a musical talent, practised of afternoons,
till she was turned out by Adelaide, who had a fit of reading
abtruse works, sometimes seeking me, with fingers thrust between
their leaves, to hold abstract conversations, which,
though I took small part in them, were of service to me.
That portion of the world of emotions which I was mapping
out, she was profoundly indifferent to. My experiences, to
her would have been debasing. As she would not come to me,
I went to her, and gained something.
Ben, always a favorite with his father, pursued him, rode
with him, and made visits of pleasure or business, with a latent
object, which kept kept him on the alert.
I had been in Belem three weeks; in a week more I decided
to return home. My indignation against Mrs. Somers,
from our midnight interview, had not suggested that I should
shorten my visit. On the contrary it had freed me from any
regard or fear of her opinion. I had discovered her limits.
It was Saturday afternoon. Reflecting that I had but a few
days more for Belem, and summing up the events of my visit,
and the people I had met—their fashions, and differences, I
unrolled a tolerable panorama, with patches in it of vivid color,
and laid it away in my memory, to be unrolled again at some
future time. Then a faint shadow dropped across my mind,
like a curtain—the first that clouded my royal palace, my mental
paradise!
I sighed. Joyless, vacant, barren years prefigured themselves
to me, drifting through my brain, till their vacant shapes
crowded it into darkness. I must do something! I would go
out; a walk would be good for me. Moreover, wishing to purchase
a parting gift for Adelaide and Ann, I would go alone.
Wandering from shop to shop in Norfolk Street, without finding
it, and found the right shop. I saw Drummond Street, on an
old gable-end house. A desire to exchange with some one a
language which differed from my thoughts, prompted me to
look up Mrs. Hepburn. I soon came to her house, and knocked
at the door, which Mari opened. The current was already
changed, as I followed her into a room, different from the one
where I had seen Mrs. Hepburn. It was dull of aspect, long,
and narrow, with one large window, opening on the old-fashioned
garden, and from which I saw a discolored marble Flora.
Mrs. Hepburn was by the window, in her high chair. She
held out her hand, and thanked me for coming to see an old
woman. Motioning her head towards a dark corner, she said,
“There is a young man who likes occasionally to visit an old
woman also.”
The young man, twenty-nine years old, was Desmond. He
crossed the room, and offered me his hand. We had not spoken
since we parted at the stairs, that memorable night. Our eyes
met; he hastily brought chairs, and placed them near Mrs.
Hepburn, who seized her spectacles, which were on a silk
work-bag beside her, scanned us through them, and exclaimed,
“Ah ha! what is this?”
“Is it something in me, ma'am?” said Desmond, putting
his head before my face, so that it was hid from her.
“Something in both of you; thief! thief!”
She rubbed her frail hand against my sleeve, muttering,
“See now, so!—the same characteristics.”
I spoke of the difference of the rooms, and said that the one
we were in reminded me of a lizard! The walls were faint
gray, and every piece of furniture was covered with plain yellow
chintz, while the carpet was a pale green. She replied that
she always moved from her winter parlor to this summer room
on the twenty-second day of April, which had fallen the day
before; for she liked to watch the coming out of the shrubs in
the garden, which were as old as herself. The chestnut had
leaved seventy times, and more; and the crippled plum, whose
fruit was too wormy to eat, was dying with age. As for the
elms at the bottom of the garden, for all she knew they were
a thousand years old.
“The elms are a thousand years old,” I repeated and repeated
to myself, while she glided from topic to topic with
Desmond, whose conversation indicated that he was as cultivated
as any ordinary gentleman, when the Pickersgill element
was not apparent. The form of the garden-goddess
grew dusk, and the elms began to nod their tops at me. I became
silent, listening to the fall of the plummet, which dropped
again and again from the topmost height of that lordly domain,
over which shadows had come. Were they sounding its foundations?
My eyes prowled round the garden, seeking with hatred the
nucleus of a sensation, which beset me more violently every
moment. They found it, in a garden miles away, where nodded
another row of elms, under which Charles Morgeson stood.
“I am glad you are here, my darling,” he said. “Do you
smell the roses?”
“Are you going?” I heard Mrs. Hepburn say, in a far-off
voice. I was standing by the door.
“Yes, madam; the summer parlor does not delay the sunset.”
“Come again. When do you leave Belem?”
“In a few days.”
Desmond made a grimace, and went to the window.
“Who returns with you—Ben? He likes piloting.”
“I hope he will; I came here for him.”
“Pooh! You came here because Mr. Somers had a crochet.”
“Well; I was permitted somehow to come.”
“It was perfectly right. A woman like you need not question
whether a thing is convenable.”
Desmond turned from the window, and bestowed upon her a
benign smile, which she returned with a satisfied nod.
This implied flattery tinkled pleasantly on my ears, allaying
a doubt which I suffered from. Did I realize how much the
prestige of those Belem saints influenced me? Or how proud
I was with the conviction of affiliation with one who was so
plainly marked with Caste?
“Walk with me,” he demanded, as we were going down the
steps.
“But not far.”
We passed out of Drummond Street into a wide open common.
Rosy clouds floated across the zenith, and a warm,
balmy wind was blowing. I thought of Veronica, calm and
happy, as the spring always made her, and the thought was a
finishing blow to the variety of moods I had passed through.
The helm of my will was broken.
“There is a good view from Moss Hill yonder,” he said
“Shall we go up?”
I bowed, declining his arm, and trudged beside him. From
its summit Belem was only half in sight. Its old, crooked
Point to the right of us, and its thread of sea. I began talking
of our walk, and was giving an extended description of it,
when he abruptly asked why I came to Belem.
“I know,” he said, “that you would not have come, had
there been any sentiment between you and Ben.”
“Thanks for your implication. But I must have made the
visit, you know, or how could I learn that I should not have
made it?”
“You regret coming?”
“Veronica will give me no thanks.”
“Who is she?”
“My sister, whom Ben loves.”
“Ben love a sister of yours? My God—how? when first?
where? And how came you to meet him?”
“That chapter of accidents need not be recounted. Can
you help him?”
“What can I do?” he said roughly. “There is little love
between us. You know what a devil's household ours is; but
he is one of us—he is afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of mother—of our antecedents—of himself.”
“I could not expect you to speak well of him,”
“Of course not. Your sister has no fortune?”
“She has not. Men whose merchandise is ships, are apt to
die bankrupt.”
“Your father is a merchant?”
“Even at that, the greatest of the name.”
“We are all tied up, you know. Ben's allowance is smaller
than mine. He is easy about money; therefore he is pa's favorite.”
`Why do you not help yourselves?”
“Would you? You have not known us long. Have you
influenced Ben to help himself?”
I marched down the hill. Repassing Mrs. Hepburn's, he
said, “My grandfather was an Earl's son.”
“Mrs. Hepburn likes you for that. My grandfather was a
tailor; I should have told her so, when she gave me the aqua
marina jewels, because they became me.”
“Had you the courage?”
“I forgot it.”
I hurried along, for it was dark, and saw Ben on the steps,
before us.
“Have you been walking?” he asked
“Yes, with me,” answered Desmond. “Won't you give me
thanks for attention to your friend?”
“It must have been a whim of Cassandra's.”
“Break her of her whims.”
“I will.”
We went into the parlor together, unthinkingly.
“Where do you think I have been?” Ben asked.
“Where?”
“For the doctor. The baby is sick;” and he looked hard at
Desmond.
“I hope it will live for years and years,” I said.
“I know what you are at, Ben,” said Desmond. “I have
wished the brat dead; but upon my soul, I have a stronger
wish than that—I have forgotten it.”
There was no falseness in his voice; he spoke the truth.
“Forgive me, Des.”
“No matter about that,” he answered, sauntering off.
I felt happier; that spark of humanity warmed me. I might
not have another. “I would,” I said, “that the last day, the
last moment, of my visit had come. You will only see me
henceforth in Surrey I will live and die there.”
“To-night,” Ben said, “I am going to tell pa.”
“Courage.”
“Horrible atmosphere!”
“It would kill Verry.”
“You thrive in it,” he said, with a spice of irritation in his
voice.
“Thrive!”
Adelaide and Ann proved gracious over my little gifts. They
were talking of the doctor's visit. Ann said that the child was
teething, for she had felt its gums; nothing else was the matter.
There need be no apprehension. She should say so to
Desmond and Ben; and would post a letter to her brother in
unknown parts.
“Miss Hiticutt has sent for us to come over to tea,” Adelaide
informed me. The black silk I wore would do, for we
must go at once.
The quiet, formal evening was a pleasant relief, although I
was troubled with a desire to inform Mrs. Somers of Ben's
engagement, for the sake of exasperating her. We came home
too early for bed, Adelaide said; besides, she had a musichunger.
I must sing. Mrs. Somers was by the fire, darning
fine napkins, winking over her task, but maintaining in her
aspect the determination to avert any danger of a midnight interview
on a sofa. I seated myself before the piano, wondering
whether he slept from wine, ennui, or to while away the time
till I should come. I touched the keys softly, waiting for an
interpreting voice, and half unconsciously sang the lines of
Schiller:
Are full of light. Who are the revellers?”
Desmond made an inarticulate noise, and sprang up, as if to
answer a call. A moment after he stepped quietly over the
back of the sofa, and stood bending over me. I looked up.
His eyes were clear, his breath pure, his face alive with intuition.
Though Adelaide was close by, she was oblivious; her
eyes were cast upwards, and her fingers lay languid in her lap.
Ann, more lively, introduced a note here and there into my
song, to her own satisfaction. Mrs. Somers I could not see;
but I stopped, and giving the music stool a turn, faced her.
She met me with her pale, opaque stare, and began to swing
her foot over her knee; her slipper, already down at her heel,
fell off. I picked it up in spite of her negative movement, and
hung it on the foot again.
“I shall speak with you presently,” she whispered, glancing
at Desmond.
He heard her, for he had followed me as far as the hearth,
and his face flashed with the instinct of sport, which made me
ashamed of my desire for a struggle with her.
I said “Good night,” abruptly, looking at the girls.
“We are all sleepy, except this exemplary housewife, with
her napkins,” said Ann. “We will all go.”
“How well you look!” said Adelaide.
Ann elevated her candle to examine me.
“Your eyes are almost as dark as your eyebrows, and shine
like a cat's.”
“Hiticutts' tea was too strong,” said Adelaide; “your pupils
are dilated with nervousness. I am sorry you are going
home,” and she kissed me. At any other time such a favor
would have astonished me; but now I rejoiced to see her depart.
I sat down by the toilet table, and was arranging some
bottles, when Mrs. Somers rustled in. Out of breath, she began
haughtily:
“What do you mean?”
A lethargic feeling crept over me; my thoughts wandered
into a shapeless void.
She pulled my sleeve violently.
“If you touch me, I think it will rouse me. Did a child of
yours ever inflict a blow upon you?”
She turned purple with rage, looming up before my far off
vision like a peony.
“When are you going home?”
I counted aloud, “Sunday—Monday,” and stopped at Wednesday.
“Ben is going back with me.”
“He may go.”
“And not Desmond?”
“Do you know Desmond?”
“Not entirely.”
“He has always played with such toys as you are, and has
broken them.”
“Alas, he is hereditarily cruel! Could I expect not to be
broken?”
She caught up a glass goblet, to throw it, but she only
grasped it so tight that it shivered. “There goes one of the
Pickersgill treasures, I am sure,” I thought.
“I am already scarred, you see. I have been `nurtured in
convulsions.'”
The action seemed to loosen her speech; but she had to
nerve herself to say what she had intended; for some reason
or other, she could not remain as angry as she wished. What
she said, I will not repeat.
“Madam, I have no plans. If I have a Purpose, it is formless
yet. If God saves us, what can you do?”
She made a gesture of contempt.
“You have no soul to thank me, for what may be my work.”
And I opened the door.
Ben stood on the threshold.
“In God's name, what is this?”
I pointed to his mother. She looked uneasy, and stepping
forward, put her hand on his arm; but he shook her off.
“You may well call me a fool, Cassandra, for bringing you
here,” he said in a bitter voice; “besides calling me cruel
for subjecting you to these ordeals. I knew how it would be
with mother. What is it, madam?” he asked imperiously,
looking so much like her, that I shuddered.
“It is not you she is after,” she hotly exclaimed.
“No, I should think not.” And he led her out swiftly.
I heard Mrs. Somers say, at breakfast, as I went in, “We
are to lose Miss Cassandra on Wednesday.” I looked at Desmond,
who was munching toast abstractedly. He made a motion
for me to take the chair beside him, which I obeyed. Ben
face. At that instant I remembered that Desmond's being
seen in the evening and in the morning, was a rare occurrence.
Mr. Somers took up the remark of Mrs. Somers, where she had
left it, and expatiated on it till breakfast was over, so courteously
and so ramblingly, that I was convinced the affair Ben
had at heart had been revealed. He invited me to go to church,
and he spent the whole of the evening in the parlor; and although
Desmond hovered near me all day, and all the evening,
we had no opportunity of speaking to each other.
| CHAPTER XXXI. The Morgesons | |