 | CHAPTER XXXVII. The Morgesons |  |
37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
When he left Surrey, I sent no message, or letter, by him,
and he asked for none. I shut myself in my room to write to
Desmond, and did not finish my letter till after midnight. Intoxicated
with the liberty my pen offered me, I roamed over a
wide field of paper. The next morning I burnt it. But there
wrote it. I might have condensed still more. In this way:
Vestigia Retrorsum.
Charles Morgeson.
When the answer came, I reflected before I read it, that it
was the last link of the chain between us. Not a bright one,
at the best, nor garlanded with flowers; nor was its metal silver,
or gold. There was rust on it; it was corroded, for it was
forged out of his and my substance.
I read: “I am yours, as I have been, since the night I asked
you `How came those scars?' Did you guess that I read your
story? I go from you with one idea,—I love you, and I must
go. Brave woman! you have shamed me to death almost.”
He sent me a watch I was to wear it from the second of
July. It was small and plain, but there were a few words
scratched inside the case, with the point of a knife, which I
read every day. Veronica's eye fell on it, the first time I put
it on.
“What time is it?”
“Near one.”
“I thought from the look of it, that it might be near two.”
“Don't mar my ideal of you, Verry, by growing witty.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “You found it, washed
ashore, among the rocks; was it bruised?”
“A man gave it to me.”
“A merman, who fills the sea-halls with a voice of power.”
“May be.”
“Tut, Ben gave it to you. It is a kind of housekeepish present;
did he add scissors and needle-case?”
“What if the merman should take me some day, to the `pale
sea-groves straight and high?'”
“You must never, never go. You cannot leave me, Cass!”
She grasped my sleeve, and pulled me round. “How much
was there for you to do in the life before us, which you talked
about?”
“I remember. There is much, to be sure.”
Fanny's quick eye caught the glitter of the watch. The
mystery teazed her; but she said nothing.
Aunt Merce had gone to Rosville with Arthur. There was
no visitor with us; there had been none besides Ben, since
mother died. That had kept them all at bay. I wrote to
Helen to come, and pass the summer; but her child was too
Switzerland. The summer, whose biography like an insignificant
life must be written in a few words, was a long one to
live through. It happened to be a dry season, which was infrequent
on our coast. Days rolled by without the variation of
wind, rain, or hazy weather. The sky was an opaque blue till
noon, when solid white clouds rose in the north, and sailed
seawards, or barred the sunset which turned them crimson
and black. The mown fields grew yellow under the stare of
the brassy sun, and the leaves cracked and curled for the want
of moisture. It was dull in the village; no ships were
building, none sailed, none arrived. But father was more absorbed
than ever,—more away from home. He wrote often in
in the evening, and pored over ledgers with his book-keeper.
Late at night I found him sorting and reading papers. He
forgot us. But Fanny, as he grew forgetful, improved as
housekeeper. Her energy was untiring; she waited so much
on him that I grew forgetful of him. Veronica was the same
as before: her room was pleasant with color and perfume.
She took the same delicate pains with her dress each day, and
looked as fair as a lily, as serene as the lake on which it floats,
except when Fanny tried her. With me, she never lost temper.
But I saw little of her; she was as fixed in her individual
pursuits as ever.
There were intervals now when all my grief for mother returned,
and I sat in my darkened chamber, recalling, with a
sad persistence, her gestures, her motions, the tones of her
voice, through all the past back to my first remembrance.
The places she inhabited—her opinions and her actions, I commented
on, with a minuteness that allowed no detail to escape.
When my thoughts turned from her, it seemed as if she were
newly lost in the vast and wandering Universe of the Dead,
whence I had brought her.
In September a letter came from Ben, which promised a return
by the last of October. With the ruffling autumnal
breezes my stagnation vanished, and I began my shore-life
again, in a mood which made memory like hope; but staying
out too late one evening, I came home in a chill. From the
chill I went to a fever, which lasted some days. Veronica
came every day to see me, and groaned over my hair which
fell off; but she could not stay long; the smell of medicine
made her ill,—the dark room gave her an uneasiness; besides,
she did not know what she should say. I sent her away always.
Fanny took care of me, till I was able to move about
afternoon Veronica came to tell me that Margaret, the Irish
girl, was going; she supposed that Fanny was insufferable, and
that she could not stay.
“I must be well by to-morrow,” I said.
The next day I went down stairs, and was greeted with the
epithet of “Scarecrow.”
“Do you feel pretty strong?” asked Fanny, with a peculiar
accent, when we happened to be alone.
`What is the matter? Out with it!”
`Something's going to turn up here; something ails Mr.
Morgeson.”
I guessed his ailment.
“He is going to fail—he is smashed all to nothing. He
knows what will be said about him, yet he goes about with
perfect calmness. But he feels it. I tried him this morning;
I gave him tea instead of coffee, and he didn't know it!”
“Margaret's gone?”
“There must be rumors; for she asked him for her wages a
day or two ago. He paid her, and told her she had better go.”
I examined my hands involuntarily. She tittered.
“How easy you will wash the long-necked glasses and pitchers,
with your slim hand!
I dropped into a mental calculation, respecting the cost of an
entire change of wardrobe suitable to our reduced circumstances,
and speculated on a neat, cottage-style of cookery, which
involved cream and eggs merely.
“I think I must be going, too,” she said with cunning eyes.
“How can you bear to go, when there will be so much
trouble for you to enjoy?”
“How tired you look, Cass,” said Veronica, slipping in quietly.
“What are you talking about? Has Fanny been tormenting
you?”
“Of course,” she answered. “But if am not mistaken, you
will be tormented by others soon.”
“Go out!” said Veronica. “Leave us, pale pest.”
“You will ask me to stay yet.”
“What does she mean?”
I hesitated.
“Tell me,” she said, in her imperative, gentle voice.
“What is there that I cannot know?”
“That's what you call high toned, isn't it?” inquired Fanny.
Veronica threw her book at her.
“The truth is ladies, that your father, the principal man in
And how will you come off the high horse?” And she
drummed on the table energetically.
“Did you think of going, Fanny?” said Veronica. “You
will stay, and do better than ever. If you attempt to go, I
shall bring you back.”
This was the invitation she wanted, and was satisfied with.
“I must give up flowers,” said Veronica.
“I wonder if we shall keep the pigs this fall?” said Fanny.
`You are an animal.”
“That's why I inquire into congenial subjects. Shall we
sit in the free seats in the meeting-house? It will be fine for
the boys to drop paper balls on our heads, from the gallery.
I'd like to see them do it, though,” she concluded, as if she
felt that such an insult would infringe upon her rights.
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