University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.

On Tuesday morning Adelaide sent out invitations to a farewell
entertainment, as she called it, for Tuesday evening. Mrs.
Somers, affecting great interest in it, engaged my services in
wiping the dust from glass and china; “too valuable,” she said,
“for servants to handle.” We spent a part of the morning in
the dining-room and pantry. Ann was with us. If she went
out, Mrs. Somers was silent; when present she chatted. While
we were busy Desmond came in, in riding trousers, and whip
in hand.

“What nonsense!” he said, touching my hand with the whip
lash. “Will you ride with me after dinner?”

“I must have the horses at three o'clock,” said his mother,
“to go to Mrs. Flint's funeral. She was a family friend, you
know.” The funeral could not be postponed, even for Desmond;
but he grew ill-humored at once, swore at Murphy, who
was packing a waiter at the sideboard, for rattling the plates;
called Ann a minx, because she laughed at him; and bit a
cigar to pieces, because he could not light it. Rash had followed
him, his nose against his velveteens, in intreaty to go
with him; I was pleased at this sign of amity between them.
At a harder push than common he looked down, and kicked
him away.

“Noble creature,” I said, “try your whip on him. Rash,
go to your master,” and I opened the door. Two smaller
dogs, Desmond's property, made a rush to come in; but I shut
them out, whereat they whined so loudly, that Mrs. Somers
was provoked to attack him for bringing his dogs in the house.
An altercation took place, and was ended by Desmond's declaring
that he was on his way after a bitch terrier, to bring

it home. He went out, giving me a look from the door, which
I answered with a smile, that made him stamp all the way
through the hall. Mrs. Somers's feelings, as she heard him,
peeped out at me. Groaning in spirit, I finished my last saucer,
and betook myself to my room and read, till summoned
by Mrs. Somers to a consultation respecting the furniture coverings.
Desmond came home, but spoke to no one, hovering
in my vicinity as on the day before.

In the afternoon Adelaide and I went in the carriage to make
calls upon those we did not expect to see in the evening. She
wrote P.P.C. on my cards, and laughed at the idea of paying
farewell visits to strangers. The last one was made to Mrs
Hepburn. A soft melancholy crept over me when I entered
the room where I had met Desmond last. We should probably
not see each other alone again. Mrs. Somers's policy to that
effect would be a success, for I should make no opposition to
it. Not a word of my feelings could I speak to Mrs. Hepburn
—Adelaide was there—provided I had the impulse; and Mrs.
Hepburn would be the last to forgive me, should I make the
conventional mistake of a scene, or an aside. This old lady
had taught me something. I went to the window, curious to
know whether any nerve of association would vibrate again.
Nothing stirred me; the machinery which had agitated and controlled
me, was effete.

Mrs. Hepburn said as we were taking leave:

“If you come to Belem next year, and I am above the sod,
I invite you to pass a month with me. But let it be in the
summer. I ride then, and should like you for a companion.”

She might have seen irresolution in me, for she added
quickly, “You need not promise—let time decide,” and shook
my hands kindly.

“Hep is smitten with you, in her selfish way,” Adelaide
remarked, as we rode from the door. She ordered the coachman
to drive home by the `Leslie House,' which she wanted
me to see. A great aunt had lived and died there, leaving
the house—one of the oldest in Belem—to her brother Ned.

“Who is he like?”

“Desmond; but worse. There's only a year's difference in
their ages. They were educated together; kept in the nursery
till they were great boys and tyrants, and then sent abroad.
They were in Amiens three years”

“There are Desmond and Ben; they are walking in the
street we are passing.”

She looked out.

“They are quarrelling, I dare say. Ben is a prig, and
preaches to Des.”

While we were in the house, and Adelaide talked with the
old servant of her aunt, my thoughts were occupied with Desmond.
What had they quarrelled on? Desmond was pale,
and laughed;—but Ben was red, and looked angry.

“Why do you look at me so fixedly?” Adelaide asked,
when we were in the carriage again.

It was on my tongue to say, “Because I am beset.” I did
not, however, but instead I asked her if she never noticed
what a rigid look people wore in their best bonnets, and holding
a card-case? She said, “Yes,” and shook out her handkerchief,
as if to correct her own rigidity.

After an early tea she compelled me to sing, and we delayed
dressing till Mrs. Somers bloomed in, with purple satin,
and feather head-dress.

“Now we must go,” she said.

“What shall you wear?” Mrs. Somers asked, advising
a certain ugly, claret-colored silk.

“Be sure not,” said Adelaide on the stairs. “That dress
makes your hair too yellow.”

I heard loud laughing in the third story, and heavy steps, while
I was in my room; and when I went down, I saw two gentlemen
in evening dress, standing by Desmond, at the piano, and singing,
“Fill, fill the sparkling brimmer.” They were, as Ann
informed me, college friends of Des, who had arrived for a few
days' visit, she supposed; disagreeable persons, of course.
They were often in Belem to ride, fish, or play billiards. “Pa
hates them,” she said in conclusion. Mr. Somers entering at
this moment, in his diplomatique style, his gouty white hands
shaded with wristbands, and his throat tied with a white cravat,
appeared to contradict her assertion, he was so affable in his
salutations to the young men. Desmond turned from the
piano when he heard his father's voice, and caught sight of me.
He started towards me; but his attention was claimed by one
of the gentlemen, who had been giving me a prolonged stare,
and he dropped back on his seat, with an indifferent air,
answering some question relating to myself. He looked as
when I first saw him—flushed, haughty, and bored. His hair
and dress were disordered, his boots splashed with mud; and
it was evident that he did not intend to appear at the party.

I was called by Adelaide to remain by her; but I slipped
away when I thought no more would arrive, and sought
a retired corner, to which Mr. Somers brought Desmond's

friends, introducing them as the sons of his college chums,
and leaving them, one lolling against the mantel, the other over
the back of a chair. They were muzzy with drink, and seemed
to grow warm, as I looked from one to the other, with an attentive
air.

“You are visiting in Belem,” said one.

“That is true,” I replied.

“It is too confoundedly aristocratic for me; it knocks Beacon
Street into nothingness.”

“Where is Beacon Street?”

“Don't you know that? Nor the Mall?”

“No.”

Our conversation was interrupted by Ben, whom I had not
seen since the day before. He had been out of town, transacting
some business for his father. We looked at each other
without speaking, but divined each other's thoughts. “You
are as true and noble, as I think you are lovely. I must have
it so. You shall not thwart me.” “Faithful and good Ben,—
do you pass a sufficiently strict examination upon yourself? Are
you not disposed to carry through your own ideas without considering
me?” Whatever our internal comments were, we
smiled upon each other with the sincerity of friendship, and
I detected Mr. Digby in the act of elevating his eyebrows at
Mr. Devereaux, who signified his opinion by telegraphing
back: “It is all over with them.”

“Hey, Somers,” said the first; “what are you doing now-a-days?”

“Pretty much the same work that I always have on hand.”

“Do you mean to stick to Belem?”

“No.”

“I thought so. But what has come over Des, lately? He is
spoony.”

“He is going backward, may be, to some course he omitted
in his career with you fellows. We must run the same round
somehow, you know.”

“He'll not find much reason for it, when he arrives,” Mr.
Devereaux said.

Miss Munster joined us, with the intention of breaking up
our conclave, and soon moved away, with Mr. Digby and Devereaux
in her train.

“I have changed my mind,” said Ben, “about going home
with you.”

“Are your plans growing complicated again?”

“Can you go to Surrey alone?”

“Why not, pray?”

“I have an idea of going to Switzerland to spend the summer.
Will Veronica be ready in the autumn?”

“How can I answer? Shall you not take leave of her?”

“Perhaps. Yes,—I must,” he said excitedly; “but to-morrow
we will talk more about it. I shall go to Boston with
you; pa is going, too How well you look to-night, Cassy!
What sort of dress is this?” taking up a fold of it. “Is it
cotton-silk, or silk-cotton? It is soft and light. How delicate
you are, with your gold hair, and morning-glory eyes!”

“How poetical! My dress is new, and was made by Adelaide's
dress-maker.”

“Mother beckons me. What a head-dress that is, of hers!”

“What beckons you to go to Switzerland?” I mused.

I listened for Desmond's voice, which would have sounded
like a silver bell, in the loud, coarse buzz which pervaded the
rooms. All the women were talking shrill, and the men
answering in falsetto. He was not among them, and I moved
to and fro unnoticed, for the tide of entertainment had set in,
and I could withdraw, if I chose. I took a chair near an open
door, and commanded a view into a small room, on the other
side of the hall, opened only on occasions like these; there
was no one in it. Perceiving that my shoe-lace was untied, I
stooped to re-fasten it, and when I looked in the room again,
saw Desmond standing under the chandelier, his hands in his
pockets, his eyes on the floor, and his hair disordered, and falling
over his forehead—its blackness was intense against the
relief of the crimson wall-paper. Was it that which had unaccountably
changed his appearance?

He raised his head, looked across the hall, and saw me.

“Come here,” he signalled. I rose like an automaton, and
cast an involuntary glance about me; the guests were filing
through the drawing room, into the room where refreshments
were laid. When the last had gone, I left the friendly protection
of the niche by the fire place. I stood so near him, that I
saw his nostrils quiver,—splendid animal that he was! Then
there came into his face an expression of pain, which made it
intellectual. I had wished him to please me; now I wished
to please him. It seemed that he had no intention of speaking,
and that he had called me to him, to witness a struggle, which
I must find a key to hereafter, in the depths of my own heart.
I watched him in silence, and it passed. He pushed the door
to with his foot, and the movement caused something to swing
and glitter against his breast—a ring on his watch ribbon,

smaller than I could wear, a woman's ruby ring. The small,
feminine imp, who abides with those who have beams in their
eyes, and helps them to extract motes from the eyes of others,
inspired me. I pointed to the ring. Dropping his eyes, he
said: “I loved her shamefully, and she loved me shamefully.
When shall I take it off—cursed sign?” And he snapped it
with his thumb and finger.

I grew rigid with virtue.

“You may not conjure up any tragic ideas on the subject.
She is no outcast. She is here to-night; if there was ruin, it
was mutual.”

“And your other faults?”

“Ah!” he said with a terrible accent, “we shall see.”

There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a
step, and he came in. “Will you bring Cassandra to the
supper room?” he said, turning pale.

“No.”

“Come with me, then; you must.” And he put my arm in
his.

“Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!” said Desmond, standing
before the door. “Give me your hand.”

I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the
other, and moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he
fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which
stood beads of sweat.

“Allons, Ben,” I said.

“Go on, go on,” said Desmond, holding the door wide open.

A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner
of the ruby ring! The friendly, but narrow-minded imp I
have spoken of, composed speeches, with which I might assail
her, should she be found. I looked in vain at every woman
present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty face among them.
Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I forgot the
woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond.
I was mad for the sight of him; mad to touch his hand once
more. I could have put the asp on my breast to suck me to
sleep, as Cleopatra did; but Cæsar was there. He staid by me
till the lights were turned down.

Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance,
and Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting
their call for candles.

“If you are to accompany me, Ben,” I said, “now is the
time.” And we slipped out. He preserved a determined
silence. I shook him, and said—“Veronica.” He put his

hand over my mouth with an indignant look, which was lost
upon me, for I whispered in his ear: “Do you know now that
I love Desmond?”

“Will you bring him into our Paradise?”

“Where?”

“Our home, in Surrey.”

“Won't an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?”

“If you marry Desmond Somers,” he said austerely, “you
will contradict three lives,—yours, mine, and Veronica's.
What beast was it, that suggested this horrible discord? Have
you so much passion, that you cannot discern the future you
offer yourself?”

“Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things.
But they are coming through the hall. Good night.”