 | CHAPTER XXXIII. The Morgesons |  |
33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure.
All stood by the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping
of my trunk on a hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in
black satin scarfs, hung over the step railings; Mrs. Somers,
Adelaide, and Ann were within the door. Mr. Somers and
Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so I went
through the ceremony of bidding good bye—a ceremony performed
with so much cheerfulness on all sides, that it was an
occasion for well-bred merriment, and I made my exit, as I
should have made it in a genteel comedy, but with a bitter
feeling of mortification, because, finding it impossible to
break down their artificial, wilful imperturbability, with any
genuineness, I was forced to oppose them with manners copied
after their own.
I looked from the carriage window for a last view of
my room. The chambermaid was already there, and had
thrown open the shutters, to let in daylight upon the scene of
the most royal dreams I had ever had. The ghost of my individuality
would lurk there no longer than the chairs I had
placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper, or flowers I
had scattered, could be moved, or swept away.
All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed
me. I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming
relations which had no connection with the sentiment
while watching a sad waiter engaged in the ceremonial
of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an intermediate tone
of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge. My
romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in
the frame of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our
isolated house with the dignity of a stage, where the drama
which my thoughts must continually represent, could go on
without interruption, and remain a secret I should have no
temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious dinner, a complete
rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr.
Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand.
That it was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore,
when he had gone, I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face.
First, he circumlocuted; second, he skirmished. I still
waited for what he wished to say, without giving him any aid.
He was sure, he said, at last, that my visit in his family had
convinced me, that his children could not vary the destiny imposed
upon them by their antecedents, without bringing upon
others lamentable consequences. “Cunning pa,” I commented
internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal
marriages?
“As in a glass, darkly.”
Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency
in Ben's character, good and honorable as he was, but
impressive and visionary. Did I think so?
“Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method
of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents
you boast of?”
“Well, well, well?”
“Money, Family, Influence,—are a ding-dong bell which
you must weary of, Mr. Somers—sometimes.”
“Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that.”
“My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him the
family programme will be changed. You must lop him from
the family tree.”
He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and
read a column or so.
“It may be absurd,” and he looked over his spectacle tops,
as if he had found the remark in his paper, “for parents to oppose
the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg
you to understand that I may oppose, not resist Ben. You
know very well,” and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation
and candor, “that the devil will be to pay with Mrs
not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking himself
again. I mean, I think so.”
I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The
one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the
surprise of it was over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a
truthful accent pervaded his voice. I think he was beginning
to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other
subjects, when Ben returned. As it was, a more friendly feeling
had been established between us. He said in a confidential
tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret,
“You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must.”
“You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to
her sister,” he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled
in his attempt at a mutual confidence.
“Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry? Enough
for both of us?”
“Desmond? he will never marry.”
“It is certainly possible.”
“You know how I am clogged.”
I rang for some ice water, and when the waiter brought it,
said that it was time for me to retire.
“I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you
to travel well—a beef-steak, and old bread made into toast.
Don't drink that ice water; take some wine.”
I set the glass of ice water down, and declined the wine.
Ben elevated his eyebrows.
“What time shall I get up, sir?”
“I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled.”
He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good
night.
“The coach is ready,” a waiter announced, before we had
finished our breakfast. “We are ready,” said Mr. Somers.
“I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you—beef, not ham
sandwiches—and here is a flask of wine mixed with water.”
I thanked him, and tied my bonnet.
“Here is a note, also,” opening his pocket book, and extracting
it, “for your father. It contains our apologies for
not accompanying you, and one or two allusions,” making an
attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to
such an undignified style of humor.
He excused himself from going to the station on account of
the morning air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage,
the waiter met us with a paper box. “For you, Miss. A
flowers, was about to take them out to show Ben, when I caught
sight of the ribbon which tied them—a piece of one of my collar
knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from
Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends
were jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead
of taking out the flowers, I showed him the box.
“What a curious boquet,” he said.
In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter
for Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight.
“No vestige but these flowers,” uncovering them again.
“In my room at Surrey, I will take you out,” and I shut the
box. The clanking of the car wheels revolved through my
head in rhythm, excluding thought for miles. Then I looked
out at the flying sky—it was almost May. The day was mild
and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the earth
like a smooth cloth; over the hills, and unsheltered fields, the
old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in
anxiety, for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were
not finished. By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad
branched in a direction opposite the road to Surrey, and
where a stage was waiting for its complement of passengers
from the cars. I was the only lady `aboard,' as one of the passengers
intelligently remarked, when we started. They were
desirable companions, for they were gruff to each other, and
silent to me. We rode several miles in a state of unadjustment,
and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a stagecoach.
I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for
his forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham,
instead of beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men
looked surprised, and spit vehemently out of the windows. I
offered it to them. They refused it, saying they had had what
was needful at the Dépot Saloon, conducted on the strictest
Temperance principles.
“Those principles are cruel, provided travellers ever have
colics, or an aversion to Dépot tea and coffee,” I said.
There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one
of them turned and said, “You have a good head, marm.”
“Too good?”
“Forgetful, may be.”
I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation.
“Your circulation is too rapid,” he continued.
The man on the seat with him now turned round, and examining
for me.
“Shoo!” he replied, “it's a humbug.”
I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which
lasted till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided.
He left, telling us he was a “natral bone setter.” One by
one the passengers left the stage, and for the last five miles
I was alone. I beguiled the time by elaborating a multitude
of trivial opinions, suggested by objects I saw along the road-side,
till the old and new church spires of Surrey came in sight,
and the curving lines at either ends of the ascending shores.
We reached the point in the north road, where the ground began
its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to see
all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings
looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived
no movement in it; heard no hum of life. At a cross
road, which would take the stage into the village without its
passing our house, a whim possessed me. I would surprise
them at home, and go in at the back door, while they were expecting
to hear the stage. The driver let me out, and I stood
in the road till he was out of sight.
A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields,
and the distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the
pale sunshine, undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew
over the eastern woods. I walked slowly. The road was deserted.
Mrs. Crossman's house was the only one I must pass;
its shutters were closed, and the yard was empty. As I drew
near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet seemed
to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled
myself along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our
orchard wall I turned my merino mantle, which was lined with
an indefinite color, spread my vail over my bonnet, and bent
my shoulders, and passed down the carriage-drive, by the dining-room
windows, into the stable yard. The rays of sunset
struck the lantern-panes in the light house, and gave the atmosphere
a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and
down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses
that were in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed,
whistling a lively air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I
shook my finger at him, and ran in. Slipping into the side
hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl, and listened at the door
for the familiar voices. Mother must be there, as was her wont,
and aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for I had seen nobody
on my way. There was no talking within. The last sunset-ray
and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the
threshold, by a silence, which rushed upon me, and clutched
me in a suffocating embrace. Mother was in her chair by the
fire, which was out, for the brands were black, and one had
fallen close to her feet. A white flannel shawl covered her
shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. “She is ill, and has
dropped asleep.” And I thrust my hands out, through this
terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the clock;
it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere up stairs, so
loud it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went towards
her, confused, and stumbling against the table which was between
us, but I reached her at last. Oh, I knew it! She was
dead! People must die, even in their chairs, alone! What
difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in her lap,
bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her
head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand;
I drew it away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened
my hands so, I tried to pull them off, and was tugging at
them, when a door opened, and Veronica came in.
“She is dead,” I said. “I can't get them off.”
“It is false;” and she staggered backwards, with her hand
on her heart, till she fell against the wall. I do not know how
long we remained so, but I became aware of a great confusion
—cries, and exclamations; people were running in and out.
Fanny rolled on the floor in hysterics.
“Get up,” I said. “I can't move; help me. Where did
Verry go?”
She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother
in his arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and
drooping head made me lose my breath; but Veronica forced
me to endurance, by clinging to me, and dragging me out of
the room and up stairs. She turned the key of the glass-door
at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I took her by
the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window curtains,
sat down beside her in the dark.
“Where will they carry her?” she asked, shuddering, and
putting her fingers in her ears. “How the water splashes on
the beach! Is the tide coming in?”
She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked
me incessant questions.
“Let us keep her away from the grave,” she said.
I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered
me. I struggled against it, in vain. It seemed the great
myself on my bed, and the touch of the pillow sealed my eyes.
I started from a dream about something that happened when
I was a little child. “Veronica, are you here?”
“Mother is dead,” she answered.
A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!—her goodness
and beauty, her pure heart, her simplicity—I felt them all. I
pitied her dead, because she would never know that I valued
her. Veronica shed no tear, but she sighed heavily. Duty
sounded through her sighs. “Verry, shall I take care of you?
I think I can.” She shook her head; but presently she stretched
her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and answered, “Perhaps.”
“You must go to your own room, and rest.”
“Can you keep everybody from me?”
“I will try.”
Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully,
and at the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her
face. We heard somebody coming up the back stairs.
“Temperance,” said Verry.
“Are you in the dark, girls?” she asked, wringing her
hands, when she had put down her lamp. “What an awful
Providence!” She looked with a painful anxiety at Veronica.
“It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive, or
dead,” I said. “Let us let Providence alone.”
“What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take
care of herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got
off all your things yet. And what's this, sticking out of your
bosom?”
“It is her handkerchief.” I kissed it, and now Verry began
to weep over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her.
“It will kill your father.”
I had not thought of him.
“It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays
out beautifully.”
“No, no; don't let anybody touch her!” shrieked Verry.
“No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have
something to eat.”
I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared
us something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little
milk, but would taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been
out to tea, Temperance said, came into the kitchen.
“My poor girl, I have not seen you,” embracing me, half
blind with crying, “How pale you are! How sunken! Keep
of us two would be left to suffer. Go to your father, as soon
as possible.”
“Drink this tea right down, Mercy,” said Temperance, holding
a cup before her. “There isn't much to eat in the house.
Of all times in the world to be without good victuals! What
could Hepsey have meant?”
“Poor old soul,” aunt Merce replied, “she is quite broken.
Fanny had to help her up stairs.”
The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram,
came in.
“Good Lord!” she said in an irate voice, “have you come,
too? Did you think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?”
She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for
him to hear: “Some folks could be spared better than other
folks.”
Abram shoved back his hat. “`The Lord gives, and the
Lord takes away,' but she is a dreadful loss to the poor.
There's my poor boy, whose clothes”—
“Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?”
broke in Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which
he took with a short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not
help exchanging a look with aunt Merce; we both laughed.
Veronica, lost in revery, paid no attention to anything about
her. I saw that Temperance suffered for her; she was perplexed
and irritated.
“Let Abram stay, if he likes,” I whispered to her; “and
be sure to stay yourself, for you are needed.”
She brightened with an expression of gratitude. “He is a
nuisance,” she whispered back; “but as I made a fool of myself,
I must be punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you
may depend. I'll do everything for you. I vow I am mad,
that I ever went away.”
“Have the neighbors gone?” I asked.
“There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll
take Verry to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to
your father.”
He was in their bed-room, lying on their bed, which had
been stripped bare. She was lying on a frame of wood, covered
with canvas—a kind of bed which went from house to
house in Surrey, on occasions of sickness, or death.
“Our last night together has passed,” he said in a tremulous
voice, while scanty tears fell from his scared eyes. “The
when she slept beside me, when I woke from a bad dream,
and she talked gently, close to my face, till I slept again—is
so narrow, that I recall it with a sense of reality which agonizes
me: it is so immeasurable when I see her there—there, that
I am crushed.”
If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone.
And I must go too. Were the hands folded across her breast,
where I, also, had slept? Were the blue eyes closed, that had
watched me there? I should never see. A shroud covered
her from all eyes but his now. Till I closed the door upon
him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman met me as
I was going up stairs, and offered me a small packet; it was
her hair. “It was very long,” she said. I tried to thank her,
but was deadly sick. “I will place it in a drawer for you,”
she said, kindly.
| CHAPTER XXXIII. The Morgesons | |