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Morgesons

<h1 id="id01358" style="margin-top: 6em">CHAPTER XXII.</h1> I was soon well enough to go home. Father came for me, bringing Aunt Merce. There was no alteration in her, except that she had taken to wearing a false front, which had a claret tinge when the light struck it, and a black lace cap. She walked the room in speechless distress when she saw me, and could not refrain from taking an immense pinch of snuff in my presence. "Didn't you bring any flag-root, Aunt Merce?" "Oh Lord, Cassandra, won't anything upon earth change you?" And then we both laughed, and felt comfortable together. Her knitting mania had given way to one she called transferring. She brought a little basket filled with rags, worn-out embroideries, collars, cuffs, and edges of handkerchiefs, from which she cut the needle-work, to sew again on new muslin. She looked at embroidery with an eye merely to its capacity for being transferred. Alice proved a treasure to her, by giving her heaps of fine work. She and Aunt Merce were pleased with each other, and when we were ready to come away, Alice begged her to visit her every year. I made no farewell visits—my ill health was sufficient excuse; but my schoolmates came to bid me good-bye, and brought presents of needlebooks, and pincushions, which I returned by giving away yards of ribbon, silver fruit-knives, and Mrs. Hemans's poems, which poetess had lately given my imagination an apostrophizing direction. Miss Prior came also, with a copy of "Young's Night Thoughts," bound in speckled leather This hilarious and refreshing poem remained at the bottom of my trunk, till Temperance fished it out, to read on Sundays, in her own room, where she usually passed her hours of solitude in hemming dish-towels, or making articles called "Takers." Dr. Price came, too, and even the haughty four Ryders. Alice was gratified with my popularity. But I felt cold at heart, doubtful of myself, drifting to nothingness in thought and purpose. None saw my doubts or felt my coldness. I shook hands with all, exchanged hopes and wishes, and repeated the last words which people say on departure. Alice and I neither kissed nor shook hands. There was that between us which kept us apart. A hard, stern face was still in our recollection. We remembered a certain figure, whose steps had ceased about the house, whose voice was hushed, but who was potent yet. "We shall not forget each other," she said. And so I took my way out of Rosville. Ben Somers went with us to Boston, and stayed at the Bromfield. In the morning he disappeared, and when he returned had an emerald ring, which he begged me to wear, and tried to put it on my finger, where he had seen the diamond. I put it back in its box, thanking him, and saying it must be stored with the farewell needlebooks and pincushions. "Shall we have some last words now?" Aunt Merce slipped out, with an affectation of not having heard him. We laughed, and Ben was glad that I could laugh. "How do you feel?" "Rather weak still." "I do not mean so, but in your mind; how are you?" "I have no mind." "Must I give up trying to understand you, Cassandra?" "Yes, do. You'll visit Alice? You can divine her intentions. She is a good woman." "She will be, when she knows how." "What o'clock is it?" "Incorrigible! Near ten." "Here is father, and we must start." The carriage was ready; where was Aunt Merce? "Locke," she said, when she came in, "I have got a bottle of port for Cassandra, some essence of peppermint, and sandwiches; do you think that will do?" "We can purchase supplies along the road, if yours give out. Come, we are ready. Mr. Somers, we shall see you at Surrey? Take care, Cassy. Now we are off." "I shall leave Rosville," were Ben's last words. "What a fine, handsome young man he is! He is a gentleman," said Aunt Merce. "Of course, Aunt Merce." "Why of course? I should think from the way you speak that you had only seen young gentlemen of his stamp. Have you forgotten Surrey?" Father and she laughed. They could laugh very easily, for they were overjoyed to have me going home with them. Mother would be glad, they said. I felt it, though I did not say so. How soundly I slept that night at the inn on the road! A little after sunset, on the third day, for we traveled slowly, we reached the woods which bordered Surrey, and soon came in sight of the sea encircling it like a crescent moon. It was as if I saw the sea for the first time. A vague sense of its power surprised me; it seemed to express my melancholy. As we approached the house, the orchard, and I saw Veronica's window, other feelings moved me. Not because I saw familiar objects, nor because I was going home—it was the relation in which I stood to them, that I felt. We drove through the gate, and saw a handsome little boy astride a window-sill, with two pipes in his mouth, "Papa!" he shrieked, threw his pipes down, and dropped on the ground, to run after us. "Hasn't Arthur grown?" Aunt Merce asked. "He is almost seven." "Almost seven? Where have the years gone?" I looked about. I had been away so long, the house looked diminished. Mother was in the door, crying when she put her arms round me; she could not speak. I know now there should have been no higher beatitude than to live in the presence of an unselfish, unasking, vital love. I only said, "Oh, mother, how gray your hair is! Are you glad to see me? I have grown old too!" We went in by the kitchen, where the men were, and a young girl with a bulging forehead. Hepsey looked out from the buttery door, and put her apron to her eyes, without making any further demonstration of welcome. Temperance was mixing dough. She made an effort to giggle, but failed; and as she could not cover her face with her doughy hands, was obliged to let the tears run their natural course. Recovering herself in a moment, she exclaimed: "Heavenly Powers, how you're altered! I shouldn't have known you. Your hair and skin are as dry as chips; they didn't wash you with Castile soap, I'll bet." "How you do talk, Temperance," Hepsey quavered. The girl with the bulging forehead laughed a shrill laugh. "Why, Fanny!" said mother. The hall door opened. "Here she is," muttered this Fanny. "Veronica!" "Cassandra!" We grasped hands, and stared mutely at each other. I felt a contraction in the region of my heart, as if a cord of steel were binding it. She, at least, was glad that I was alive! "They look something alike now," Hepsey remarked. "Not at all," said Veronica, dropping my hand, and retreating. "Why, Arthur dear, come here!" He clambered into my lap. "Were you killed, my dear sister?" "Not quite, little boy." "Well; do you know that I am a veteran officer, and smoke my pipe, lots?" "You must rest, Cassy," said mother. "Don't go upstairs, though, till you have had your supper. Hurry it up, Temperance." "It will be on the table in less than no time, Miss Morgeson," she answered, "provided Miss Fanny is agreeable about taking in the teapot." I had a comfortable sense of property, when I took possession of my own room. It was better, after all, to live with a father and mother, who would adopt my ideas. Even the sea might be mine. I asked father the next morning, at breakfast, how far out at sea his property extended. "I trust, Cassandra, you will now stay at home," said mother; "I am tired of table duty; you must pour the coffee and tea, for I wish to sit beside your father." "You and Aunt Merce have settled down into a venerable condition. You wear caps, too! What a stage forward!" "The cap is not ugly, like Aunt Merce's; I made it," Veronica called, sipping from a great glass. "Gothic pattern, isn't it?" father asked, "with a tower, and a bridge at the back of the neck?" "This hash is Fanny's work, mother," said Verry. "So I perceive." "Hepsey is not at the table," I said. "It is her idea not to come, since I have taken Fanny. Did you notice her? She prefers to have her wait." "Who is Fanny?" "Her father is old Ichabod Bowles, who lives on the Neck. Last winter her mother sent for me, and begged me to take her. I could not refuse, for she was dying of consumption; so I promised. The poor woman died, in the bitterest weather, and a few days after Ichabod brought Fanny here, and told me he had done with womankind forever. Fanny was sulky and silent for a long time. I thought she never would get warm. If obliged to leave the fire, she sat against the wall, with her face hid in her arms. Veronica has made some impression on her; but she is not a good girl." "She will be, mother. I am better than I was." "Never; her disposition is hateful. She is angry with those who are better off than herself. I have not seen a spark of gratitude in her." "I never thought of gratitude," said Verry, "it is true; but why must people be grateful?" "We might expect little from Fanny, perhaps; she saw her mother die in want, her father stern, almost cruel to them, and soured by poverty. Fanny never had what she liked to eat or wear, till she came here, or even saw anything that pleased her; and the contrast makes her bitter." "She is proud, too," said Aunt Merce. "I hear her boasting of what she would have had if she had stayed at home." "She is a child, you know," said Verry. "A year younger than you are." "Where is the universal boy?" "Abolished," father answered. "Arthur is growing into that estate." "Papa, don't forget that I am a veteran officer." "Here, you rascal, come and get this nice egg." He slipped down, went to his father, who took him on his knee. "What shall I do first? the garden, orchard, village, or what?" I asked. "Gardens?" said Verry. "Have they been a part of your education?" "I like flowers." "Have you seen my plants?" Aunt Merce inquired. "I will look at them. How different this is from Rosville?" Then a pang cut me to the soul. The past whirled up, to disappear, leaving me stunned and helpless. Veronica's eye was upon me. I forced myself to observe her. The difference between us was plainer than ever. I was in my twentieth year, she was barely sixteen; handsome, and as peculiar-looking as when a child. Her straight hair was a vivid chestnut color. Her large eyes were near together; and, as Ben Somers said, the most singular eyes that were ever upon earth. They tormented me. There was nothing willful in them; on the contrary, when she was willful, she had no power over them; the strange cast was then perceptible. Neither were they imperious nor magnetic; they were baffling. She pushed her chair from the table, and stood by me quiet. Tall and slender, she stooped slightly, as if she were not strong enough to stand upright. Her dress was a buff-colored cambric, trimmed with knots of ribbon of the same color, dotted with green crosses. It harmonized with her colorless, fixedly pale complexion. I counted the bows of ribbon on her dress, and would have counted the crosses, if she had not interrupted me with, "What do you think of me?" "Do you ever blush, Verry?" "I grow paler, you know, when I blush." "What do you think of me?" "As wide-eyed as ever, and your eyebrows as black. Who ever saw light, ripply hair with such eyebrows? I see wrinkles, too." "Where?" "Round your eyes, like an opening umbrella." We dispersed as our talk ended, in the old fashion. I followed Aunt Merce to the flower-stand, which stood in its old place on the landing. "I have a poor lot of roses," she said, "but some splendid cactuses." "I do not love roses." "Is it possible? But Verry does not care so much for them, either. Lilies are her favorites; she has a variety. Look at this Arab lily; it is like a tongue of fire." "Where does she keep her flowers?" "In wire baskets, in her room. But I must go to make Arthur some gingerbread. He likes mine the best, and I like to please him." "I dare say you spoil him." "Just as you were spoiled." "Not in Barmouth, Aunt Merce." "No, not in Barmouth, Cassy." I went from room to room, seeing little to interest me. My zeal oozed away for exploration, and when I entered my chamber I could have said, "This spot is the summary of my wants, for it contains me." I must be my own society, and as my society was not agreeable, the more circumscribed it was, the better I could endure it. What a dreary prospect! The past was vital, the present dead! Life in Surrey must be dull. How could I forget or enjoy? I put the curtains down, and told Temperance, who was wandering about, not to call me to dinner. I determined, if possible, to surpass my dullness by indulgence. But underneath it all I could not deny that there was a specter, whose aimless movements kept me from stagnating. I determined to drag it up and face it. "Come," I called, "and stand before me; we will reason together." It uncovered, and asked: "Do you feel remorse and repentance?" "Neither!" "Why suffer then?" "I do not know why." "You confess ignorance. Can you confess that you are selfish, self-seeking—devilish?" "Are you my devil?" No answer. "Am I cowardly, or a liar?" It laughed, a faint, sarcastic laugh. "At all events," I continued, "are not my actions better than my thoughts?" "Which makes the sinner, and which the saint?" "Can I decide?" "Why not?" "My teachers and myself are so far apart! I have found a counterpart; but, specter, you were born of the union." My head was buried in my arms; but I heard a voice at my elbow—a shrill, scornful voice it was. "Are you coming down to tea, then?" Looking up, I saw Fanny. "Tea-time so soon?" "Yes, it is. You think nothing of time; have nothing to do, I suppose." And she clasped her hands over her apron—hands so small and thin that they looked like those of an old woman. Her hair was light and scanty, her complexion sallow, and her eyes a palish gray; but her features were delicate and pretty. She seemed to understand my thoughts. "You think I am stunted, don't you?" "You are not large to my eye." "Suppose you had been fed mostly on Indian meal, with a herring or a piece of salted pork for a relish, and clams or tautog for a luxury, as I have been, would you be as tall and as grand-looking as you are now? And would you be covering up your face, making believe worry?" "May be not. You may tell mother that I am coming." "I shall not say 'Miss Morgeson,' but 'Cassandra.' 'Cassandra Morgeson,' if I like." "Call me what you please, only tone down that voice of yours; it is sharper than the east wind." I heard her beating a tattoo on Veronica's door next. She had been taught to be ceremonious with her, at least. No reply was made, and she came to my door again. "I expect Miss Veronica has gone to see poor folks; it is a way she has," and spitefully closed it. After tea mother came up to inquire the reason of my seclusion. My excuse of fatigue she readily accepted, for she thought I still looked ill. I had changed so much, she said, it made her heart ache to look at me. When I could speak of the accident at Rosville, would I tell her all? And would I describe my life there; what friends I had made; would they visit me? She hoped so. And Mr. Somers, who made them so hurried a visit, would he come? She liked him. While she talked, she kept a pitying but resolute eye upon me. "Dear mother, I never can tell you all, as you wish. It is hard enough for me to bear my thoughts, without the additional one that my feelings are understood and speculated upon. If I should tell you, the barrier between me and self-control would give way. You will see Alice Morgeson, and if she chooses she can tell you what my life was in her house. She knows it well." "Cassandra, what does your bitter face and voice mean?" "I mean, mother, all your woman's heart might guess, if you were not so pure, so single-hearted." "No, no, no." "Yes." "Then I understand the riddle you have been, one to bring a curse." "There is nothing to curse, mother; our experiences are not foretold by law. We may be righteous by rule, we do not sin that way. There was no beginning, no end, to mine." "Should women curse themselves, then, for giving birth to daughters?" "Wait, mother; what is bad this year may be good the next. You blame yourself, because you believe your ignorance has brought me into danger. Wait, mother." "You are beyond me; everything is beyond." "I will be a good girl. Kiss me, mother. I have been unworthy of you. When have I ever done anything for you? If you hadn't been my mother, I dare say we might have helped each other, my friendship and sympathy have sustained you. As it is, I have behaved as all young animals behave to their mothers. One thing you may be sure of. The doubt you feel is needless. You must neither pray nor weep over me. Have I agitated you?" "My heart will flutter too much, anyway. Oh, Cassy, Cassy, why are you such a girl? Why will you be so awfully headstrong?" But she hugged and kissed me. As I felt the irregular beating of her heart, a pain smote me. What if she should not live long? Was I not a wicked fool to lacerate myself with an intangible trouble—the reflex of selfish emotions? <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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