Veronica's room was like no other place. I was in a new atmosphere
there. A green carpet covered the floor, and the windows had light
blue silk curtains.
"Green and blue together, Veronica?"
"Why not? The sky is blue, and the carpet of the earth is green."
"If you intend to represent the heavens and the earth here, it is very
well."
The paper on the wall was ash-colored, with penciled lines. She had
cloudy days probably. A large-eyed Saint Cecilia, with white roses in
her hair, was pasted on the wall. This frameless picture had a curious
effect. Veronica, in some mysterious way, had contrived to dispose
of the white margin of the picture, and the saint looked out from the
soft ashy tint of the wallpaper. Opposite was an exquisite engraving,
which was framed with dark red velvet. At the end of an avenue of
old trees, gnarled and twisted into each other, a man stood. One hand
grasped the stalk of a ragged vine, which ran over the tree near him;
the other hung helpless by his side, as if the wrist was broken. His
eyes were fixed on some object behind the trees, where nothing was
visible but a portion of the wall of a house. His expression of
concentrated fury--his attitude of waiting--testified that he would
surely accomplish his intention.
"What a picture!"
"The foliage attracted me, and I bought it; but when I unpacked it,
the man seemed to come out for the first time. Will you take it?"
"No; I mean to give my room a somnolent aspect. The man is too
terribly sleepless."
A table stood near the window, methodically covered with labelled
blank-books, a morocco portfolio, and a Wedgewood inkstand and vase.
In an arch, which she had manufactured from the space under the garret
stairs, stood her bed. At its foot, against the wall, a bunch of
crimson autumn leaves was fastened, and a bough, black and bare, with
an empty nest on it.
"Where is the feminine portion of your furnishing?"
"Look in the closet."
I opened a door. What had formerly been appropriated by mother to
blankets and comfortables, she had turned into a magazine of toilet
articles. There were drawers and boxes for everything which pertained
to a wardrobe, arranged with beautiful skill and neatness. She
directed my attention to her books, on hanging shelves, within reach
of the bed. Beneath them was a small stand, with a wax candle in a
silver candlestick.
"You read o' nights?"
"Yes; and the wax candle is my pet weakness."
"Have you put away Gray, and Pope, and Thomson?"
"The Arabian Nights and the Bible are still there. Mother thought you
would like to refurnish your room. It is the same as when we moved,
you know."
"Did she? I will have it done. Good-by."
"Good-by."
She was at the window now, and had opened a pane.
"What's that you are doing?"
"Looking through my wicket."
I went back again to understand the wicket. It had been made, she
said, so that she might have fresh air in all weathers, without
raising the windows. In the night she could look out without danger of
taking cold. We looked over the autumn fields; the crows were flying
seaward over the stubble, or settling in the branches of an old fir,
standing alone, midway between the woods and the orchard. The ground
before us, rising so gradually, and shortening the horizon, reminded
me of my childish notion that we were near the North Pole, and that
if we could get behind the low rim of sky we should be in the Arctic
Zone.
"The Northern Lights have not deserted us, Veronica?"
"No; they beckon me over there, in winter."
"Do you never tire of this limited, monotonous view--of a few uneven
fields, squared by grim stone walls?"
"That is not all. See those eternal travelers, the clouds, that hurry
up from some mysterious region to go over your way, where I never
look. If the landscape were wider, I could never learn it. And the
orchard--have you noticed that? There are bird and butterfly lives
in it, every year. Why, morning and night are wonderful from these
windows. But I must say the charm vanishes if I go from them. Surrey
is not lovely." She closed the wicket, and sat down by the table. My
dullness vanished with her. There might be something to interest me
beneath the calm surface of our family life after all.
"Veronica, do you think mother is changed? I think so."
"She is always the same to me. But I have had fears respecting her
health."
Outside the door I met Temperance, with a clothes-basket.
"Oh ho!" she said, "you are going the rounds. Verry's room beats all
possessed, don't it? It is cleaned spick and span every three months.
She calls it inaugurating the seasons. She is as queer as Dick's
hatband. Have you any fine things to do up?"
Her question put me in mind of my trunks, and I hastened to them, with
the determination of putting my room to rights. The call to dinner
interrupted me before I had begun, and the call to supper came before
anything in the way of improvement had been accomplished. My mind
was chaotic by bed-time. The picture of Veronica, reading by her wax
candle, or looking through the wicket, collected and happy in her
orderly perfection, came into my mind, and with it an admiration which
never ceased, though I had no sympathy with her. We seemed as far
apart as when we were children.
I was eager for employment, promising to perform many tasks, but the
attempt killed my purpose and interest. My will was nerveless, when I
contemplated Time, which stretched before me--a vague, limitless sea;
and I only kept Endeavor in view, near enough to be tormented.
One day father asked me to go to Milford, and I then asked him for
money to spend for the adornment of my room.
"Be prudent," he replied. "I am not so rich as people think me.
Although the _Locke Morgeson_ was insured, she was a loss. But you
need not speak of this to your mother. I never worry her with my
business cares. As for Veronica, she has not the least idea of the
value of money, or care for what it represents."
When we went into the shops, I found him disposed to be more
extravagant than I was. I bought a blue and white carpet; a piece
of blue and white flowered chintz; two stuffed chairs, covered with
hair-cloth (father remonstrated against these), and a long mirror to
go between the windows, astonishing him with my vanity. What I wanted
besides I could construct myself, with the help of the cabinet maker
in Surrey.
In one of the shops I heard a familiar voice, which gave me a thrill
of anger. I turned and saw Charlotte Alden, of Barmouth, the girl who
had given me the fall on the tilt. She could not control an expression
of surprise at the sight of the well-dressed woman before her. It was
my dress that astonished her. Where could _I_ have obtained style?
"Miss Alden, how do you do? Pray tell me whether you have collected
any correct legends respecting my mother's early history. And do you
tilt off little girls nowadays?"
She made no reply, and I left her standing where she was when I began
speaking. When we got out of town, my anger cooled, and I grew ashamed
of my spitefulness, and by way of penance I related the affair to
father. He laughed at what I said to her, and told me that he had long
known her family. Charlotte's uncle had paid his addresses to mother.
There might have been an engagement; whether there was or not, the
influence of his family had broken the acquaintance. This explained
what Charlotte said to me in Miss Black's school about mother's being
in love.
"You might have been angry with the girl, but you should not have felt
hurt at the fact implied. Are you so young still as to believe that
only those who love marry? or that those who marry have never loved,
except each other?"
"I have thought of these things; but I am afraid that Love, like
Theology, if examined, makes one skeptical."
We jogged along in silence for a mile or two.
"Whether every man's children overpower him, I wonder? I am positively
afraid of you and Veronica."
"What do you mean?"
"I am always unprepared for the demonstrations of character you and
she make. My traditional estimate, which comes from thoughtfulness, or
the putting off of responsibility, or God knows what, I find will not
answer. I have been on my guard against that which everyday life might
present--a lie, a theft, or a meanness; but of the undercurrent, which
really bears you on, I have known nothing."
"If you happen to dive below the surface, and find the roots of our
actions which are fixed beneath its tide--what then? Must you lament
over us?"
"No, no; but this is vague talk."
Was he dissatisfied with me? What could he expect? We all went our
separate ways, it is true; was it that? Perhaps he felt alone. I
studied his face; it was not so cheerful as I remembered it once, but
still open, honest, and wholesome. I promised myself to observe his
tastes and consult them. It might be that his self-love had never been
encouraged. But I failed in that design, as in all others.
"Much of my time is consumed in passing between Milford and Surrey,
you perceive."
"I will go with you often."
According to habit, on arriving, I went into the kitchen. It was dusk
there, and still. Temperance was by the fire, attending to something
which was cooking.
"What is there for supper, Temperance? I am hungry."
"I spose you are," she answered crossly. "You'll see when it's on the
table."
She took a coal of fire with the tongs, and blew it fiercely, to
light a lamp by. When it was alight, she set it on the chimney-shelf,
revealing thereby a man at the back of the room, balancing his chair
on two legs against the wail; his feet were on its highest round, and
he twirled his thumbs.
"Hum," he said, when he saw me observing him; "this is the oldest
darter, is it?"
"Yes," Temperance bawled.
"She is a good solid gal; but I can't recollect her christened name."
"It is Cassandra."
"Why, 'taint Scriptur'."
"Why don't you go and take off your things?" Temperance asked,
abruptly.
"I'll leave them here; the fire is agreeable."
"There is a better fire in the keeping-room."
"How are you, Mr. Handy?" father inquired, coming in.
"I should be well, if my grinders didn't trouble me; they play the
mischief o'nights. Have you heard from the _Adamant_, Mr. Morgeson?
I should like to get my poor boy's chist. The Lord ha' mercy on him,
whose bones are in the caverns of the deep."
"Now, Abram, do shut up. Tea is ready, Mr. Morgeson. I'll bring in the
ham directly," said Temperance.
There was no news from the _Adamant_. I lingered in the hope of
discovering why Mr. Handy irritated Temperance. He was a man of sixty,
with a round head, and a large, tender wart on one cheek; the two
tusks under his upper lip suggested a walrus. Though he was no beauty,
he looked thoroughly respectable, in garments whose primal colors
had disappeared, and blue woolen stockings gartered to a miracle of
tightness.
"Temperance," he said, "my quinces have done fust rate this year. I
haint pulled 'em yet; but I've counted them over and over agin. But my
pig wont weigh nothin' like what I calkerlated on. Sarved me right. I
needn't have bought him out of a drove; if Charity had been alive, I
shouldn't ha' done it. A man can't--I say, Tempy--a man _can't_ git
along while here below, without a woman."
She gave my arm a severe pinch as she passed with the ham, and I
thought it best to follow her. Mother looked at her with a smile, and
said: "Deal gently with Brother Abram, Temperance."
"Brother be fiddlesticked!" she said tartly. "Miss Morgeson, _do_ you
want some quinces?"
"Certainly."
"We'll make hard marmalade this year, then. You shall have the quinces
to-morrow." And she retired with a softened face. I was told that
Abram Handy was a widower anxious to take Temperance for a second
helpmeet, and that she could not decide whether to accept or refuse
him. She had confessed to mother that she was on the fence, and didn't
know which way to jump. He was a poor, witless thing, she knew; but
he was as good a man as ever breathed, and stood as good a chance
of being saved as the wisest church-member that ever lived! Mother
thought her inclined to be mistress of an establishment over which she
might have sole control. Abram owned a house, a garden, and kept pigs,
hens, and a cow; these were his themes of conversation. Mother could
not help thinking he was influenced by Temperance's fortune. She was
worth two thousand dollars, at least. The care of her wood-lot,
the cutting, selling, or burning the wood on it, would be a supreme
happiness to Abram, who loved property next to the kingdom of heaven.
The tragedy of the old man's life was the loss of his only son, who
had been killed by a whale a year since. The _Adamant_, the ship he
sailed in, had not returned, and it was a consoling hope with Abram
that his boy's chist might come back.
"We heard of poor Charming Handy's death the tenth of September, about
three months after Abram began his visits to Temperance," Veronica
said.
"Was his name Charming?" I asked.
"His mother named him," Abram said, "with a name that she had picked
out of Novel's works, which she was forever and 'tarnally reading."
"What day of the month is it, Verry?"
"Third of October."
"What happened a year ago to-day?"
"Arthur fell off the roof of the wood-house."
"Verry," he cried, "you needn't tell my sister of that; now she knows
about my scar. You tell everything; she does not. You have scars," he
whispered to me; "they look red sometimes. May I put my finger on your
cheek?"
I took his hand, and rubbed his fingers over the cuts; they were not
deep, but they would never go away.
"I wish mine were as nice; it is only a little hole under my hair.
Soldiers ought to have long scars, made with great big swords, and I
am a soldier, ain't I, Cassy?"
"Have I heard you sing, Cassy?" asked father. "Come, let us have some
music."
"'And the cares which infest the day,'" added Verry.
I had scarcely been in the parlor since my return, though the fact had
not been noticed. Our tacit compact was that we should be ignorant of
each other's movements. I ran up to my room for some music, and, not
having a lamp, stumbled over my shawl and bonnet and various bundles
which somebody had deposited on the floor. I went down by the back
way, to the kitchen; Fanny was there alone, standing before the fire,
and whistling a sharp air.
"Did you carry my bonnet and shawl upstairs?"
"I did."
"Will you be good enough to take this music to the parlor for me?"
She turned and put her hands behind her. "Who was your waiter last
year?"
"I had one," putting the leaves under her arm; they fluttered to the
floor, one by one.
"You must pick them up, or we shall spend the night here, and father
is waiting for me."
"Is he?" and she began to take them up.
"I am quite sure, Fanny, that I could punish you awfully. I am sick to
try."
She moved toward the door slowly. "Don't tell him," she said, stopping
before it.
"I'll tell nobody, but I am angry. Let us arrive."
She marched to the piano, laid the music on it, and marched out.
"By the way, Fanny," I whispered, "the bonnet and shawl are yours, if
you need them."
"I guess I do," she whispered back.
When I returned to my room, I found it in order and the bundles
removed.
One day some Surrey friends called. They told me I had changed very
much, and I inferred from their tone they did not consider the change
one for the better.
"How much Veronica has improved," they continued, "do not you think
so?"
"You know," she interrupted, "that Cassandra has been dangerously ill,
and has barely recovered."
Yes, they had heard of the accident, everybody had; Mr. Morgeson must
be a loss to his family, a man in the prime of life, too.
"The prime of life," Veronica repeated.
She was asked to play, and immediately went to the piano. Strange
girl; her music was so filled with a wild lament that I again fathomed
my desires and my despair. Her eyes wandered toward me, burning with
the fires of her creative power, not with the feelings which stung
me to the quick. Her face was calm, white, and fixed. She stopped and
touched her eyelids, as if she were weeping, but there were no tears
in her eyes. They were in mine, welling painfully beneath the lids. I
turned over the music books to hide them.
"That is a singular piece," said one. "Now, Cassandra, will you favor
us? We expect to find you highly accomplished."
"I sang myself out before you came in."
In the bustle of their going, Veronica stooped over my hand and kissed
it, unseen. It was more like a sigh upon it than a kiss, but it swept
through me, tingling the scars on my face, as if the flesh had become
alive again.
"Take tea with us soon, do. We do not see you in the street or at
church. It must be dull for you after coming from a boarding-school.
Still, Surrey has its advantages." And the doors closed on them.
"Still, Surrey has its advantages," Veronica repeated.
"Yes, the air is sleepy; I am going to bed."
I made resolutions before I slept that night, which I kept, for I
said, "Let the dead bury its dead."