Helen's letters followed me. She had heard from Rosville all that had
happened, but did not expatiate on it. Her letters were full of minute
details respecting her affairs. It was her way of diverting me from
the thoughts which she believed troubled me. "L.N." was expected soon.
Since his last letter, she had caught herself more than once making
inventories of what she would like to have in the way of a wardrobe
for a particular occasion, which he had hinted at.
I heard nothing from Alice, and was content that it should be so. Our
acquaintance would be resumed in good time, I had no doubt. Neither
did I hear from Ben Somers. He very likely was investing in another
plan. Of its result I should also hear.
My chief occupation was to drive with father. The wharves of Milford,
the doors of its banks and shipping offices, became familiar. I
witnessed bargains and contracts, and listened to talk of shipwrecks,
mutinies, insurance cases, perjuries, failures, ruin, and rascalities.
His private opinions, and those who sought him, were kept in the
background; the sole relation between them was--Traffic. Personality
was forgotten in the absorbed attention which was given to business.
They appeared to me, though, as if pursuing something beyond Gain,
which should narcotize or stimulate them to forget that man's life was
a vain going to and fro.
Mother reproached father for allowing me to adopt the habits of a man.
He thought it a wholesome change; besides, it would not last. While
I was his companion there were moments when he left his ledger for
another book.
"You never call yourself a gambler, do you, Locke?" mother asked.
"Strange, too, that you think of Cassy in your business life instead
of me."
"Mary, could I break your settled habits. Cassy is afloat yet. I can
guide her hither and yon. Moreover, with her, I dream of youth."
"Is youth so happy?" we both asked.
"We think so, when we see it in others."
"Not all of us," she said. "You think Cassandra has no ways of her
own! She can make us change ours; do you know that?"
"May be."
A habit grew upon me of consulting the sea as soon as I rose in the
morning. Its aspect decided how my day would be spent. I watched it,
studying its changes, seeking to understand its effect, ever attracted
by an awful materiality and its easy power to drown me. By the shore
at night the vague tumultuous sphere, swayed by an influence mightier
than itself, gave voice, which drew my soul to utter speech for
speech. I went there by day unobserved, except by our people, for I
never walked toward the village. Mother descried me, as she would a
distant sail, or Aunt Merce, who had a vacant habit of looking from
all the windows a moment at a time, as if she were forever expecting
the arrival of somebody who never came. Arthur, too, saw me, as he
played among the rocks, waded, caught crabs and little fish, like all
boys whose hereditary associations are amphibious. But Veronica never
came to the windows on that side of the house, unless a ship was
arriving from a long voyage. Then her interest was in the ship alone,
to see whether her colors were half-mast, or if she were battered and
torn, recalling to mind those who had died or married since the ship
sailed from port; for she knew the names of all who ever left Surrey,
and their family relations.
Weeks passed before I had completed the furnishing of my room; I
had been to Helen's wedding, and had returned, and it was still in
progress. The ground was covered with snow. The sea was dark and rough
under the frequent north wind, sometimes gray and silent in an icy
atmosphere; sometimes blue and shining beneath the pale winter sun.
The day when the room was ready, Fanny made a wood fire, which burned
merrily, and encouraged the new chairs, tables, carpet, and curtains
into a friendly assimilation; they met and danced on the round tops
of the brass dogs. It already seemed to me that I was like the room.
Unlike Veronica, I had nothing odd, nothing suggestive. My curtains
were blue chintz, and the sofa and chairs were covered with the
same; the ascetic aspect of my two hair-cloth arm-chairs was entirely
concealed. The walls were painted amber color, and varnished. There
were no pictures but the shining shadows. A row of shelves covered
with blue damask was on one side, and my tall mirror on the other. The
doors were likewise covered with blue damask, nailed round with brass
nails. When I had nothing else to do I counted the nails. The wooden
mantel shelf, originally painted in imitation of black marble, I
covered with damask, and fringed it. I sent Fanny down for mother and
Aunt Merce. They declared, at once, they were stifled; too many things
in the room; too warm; too dark; the fringe on the mantel would catch
fire and burn me up; too much trouble to take care of it. What was
under the carpet that made it so soft and the steps so noiseless? How
nice it was! Temperance, who had been my aid, arrived at this juncture
and croaked.
"Did you ever see such a stived-up hole, Mis Morgeson?"
"I like it now," she answered, "it is so comfortable. How lovely this
blue is!"
"It's a pity she wont keep the blinds shut. The curtains will fade to
rags in no time; the sun pours on 'em."
"How could I watch the sea then?" I asked.
"Good Lord! it's a mystery to me how you can bother over that salt
water."
"And the smell of the sea-weed," added Aunt Merce.
"And its thousand dreary cries," said mother.
"Do you like my covered doors?" I inquired.
"I vow," Temperance exclaimed, "the nails are put in crooked! And I
stood over Dexter the whole time. He said it was damned nonsense, and
that you must be awfully spoiled to want such a thing. 'You get your
pay, Dexter,' says I, 'for what you do, don't you?' 'I guess I do,'
says he, and then he winked. 'None of your gab,' says I. I do believe
that man is a cheat and a rascal, I vow I do. But they are all so."
"In my young days," Aunt Merce remarked, "young girls were not allowed
to have fires in their chambers."
"In our young days, Mercy," mother replied, "_we_ were not allowed to
have much of anything."
"Fires are not wholesome to sleep by," Temperance added.
"Miss Veronica never has a fire," piped Fanny, who had remained,
occasionally making a stir with the tongs.
"But she ought to have!" Temperance exclaimed vehemently. "I do
wonder, Mis Morgeson, that you do not insist upon it, though it's none
of my business."
Father was conducted upstairs, after supper. The fire was freshly
made; the shaded lamp on the table before the sofa and the easy-chair
pleased him. He came often afterward, and stayed so long, sometimes,
that I fell asleep, and found him there, when I woke, still smoking
and watching the fire.
Veronica looked in at bed-time. "I recognize you here," she said as
she passed. But she came back in a few moments in a wrapper, with a
comb in her hand, and stood on the hearth combing her hair, which was
longer than a mermaid's. The fire was grateful to her, and I believe
that she was surprised at the fact.
"Why not have a fire in your room, Verry?"
"A fire would put me out. One belongs in this room, though. It is the
only reality here."
"What if I should say you provoke me, perverse girl?"
"What if you should?"
She gathered up her hair and shook it round her face, with the same
elfish look she wore when she pulled it over her eyes as a child. It
made me feel how much older I was.
"I do not say so, and I will not."
"I wish you would; I should like to hear something natural from you."
Fanny, coming in with an armful of wood, heard her. Instead of putting
it on the fire, she laid it on the hearth, and, sitting upon it with
an expression of enjoyment, looked at both of us with an expectant
air.
"You love mischief, Fanny," I said.
"Is it mischief for me to look at sisters that don't love each other?"
and, laughing shrilly, she pulled a stick from under her, and threw it
on the fire.
Veronica's eyes shot more sparks than the disturbed coals, for Fanny's
speech enraged her. Giving her head a toss, which swept her hair
behind her shoulders, she darted at Fanny, and picked her up from the
wood, with as much ease as if it had been her handkerchief, instead of
a girl nearly as heavy as herself. I started up.
"Sit still," she said to me, in her low, inflexible voice, holding
Fanny against the wall. "I must attend to this little demon. Do you
dare to think," addressing Fanny with a gentle vehemence, "that what
you have just said, is true of _me_? Are you, with your small, starved
spirit, equal to any judgment against _her?_ I admire her; you do,
too. I _love_ her, and I love you, you pitiful, ignorant brat."
Her strength gave way, and she let her go.
"All declarations in my behalf are made to third persons," I thought.
"I do believe, Miss Veronica," said Fanny, who did not express any
astonishment or resentment at the treatment she had received, "that
you are going to be sick; I feel so in my bones."
"Never mind your bones. Twist up my hair, and think, while you do it,
how to get rid of your diabolical curiosity."
"I have had nothing to do all my life," she answered, carefully
knotting Verry's hair, "but to be curious. I never found out much,
though, till lately"; and she cast her eyes in my direction.
"Put her out, Cassandra," said Verry, "if you like to touch her."
"I'll sweep the hearth, if you please, first," Fanny answered. "I am a
good drudge, you know. Good-night, ladies."
I followed Veronica, wishing to know if her room was uncomfortable.
She had made slight changes since my visit to her. The flowers had
been moved, the stand where the candle stood was covered with crimson
cloth. The dead bough and the autumn leaves were gone; but instead
there was a branch of waving grasses, green and fresh, and on the
table was a white flower, in a vase.
"It is freezing here, but it looks like summer. Is it design?"
"Yes; I can't sit here much; still, I can read in bed, and write,
especially under my new quilt, which you have not seen."
It was composed of red, black, and blue bits of silk, and beautifully
quilted. Hepsey and Temperance had made it for her.
"How about the wicket, these winter nights?"
"I drag the quilt off, and wrap it round me when I want to look out."
We heard a bump on the floor, and Temperance appeared with warm bricks
wrapped in flannel.
"You know that I will not have those things," Verry said.
"Dear me, how contrary you are! And you have not eaten a thing
to-day."
"Carry them out."
Her voice was so unyielding, but always so gentle! Temperance was
obliged to deposit the bricks outside the door, which she did with a
bang.
"I should think you might sleep in Cassandra's room; her bed is big
enough for three."
No answer was made to this proposition, but Verry said,
"You may undress me, if you like, and stay till you are convinced I
shall not freeze."
"I've staid till I am in an ager. I might as well finish the night
here, I spose."
She called me after midnight, for she had not left Verry, who had been
attacked with one of her mysterious disorders.
"You can do nothing for her; but I am scared out, when she faints so
dreadful; I don't like to be alone."
Veronica could not speak, but she shook her head at me to go away.
Her will seemed to be concentrated against losing consciousness; it
slipped from her occasionally, and she made a rotary motion with
her arms, which I attempted to stop, but her features contracted so
terribly, I let her alone.
"Mustn't touch her," said Temperance, whose efforts to relieve her
were confined to replacing the coverings of the bed, and drawing her
nightgown over her bosom, which she often threw off again. Her breath
scarcely stirred her breast. I thought more than once she did not
breathe at all. Its delicate, virgin beauty touched me with a holy
pity. We sat by her bed in silence a long time, and although it was
freezing cold, did not suffer. Suddenly she turned her head and
closed her eyes. Temperance softly pulled up the clothes over her and
whispered: "It is over for this time; but Lord, how awful it is! I
hoped she was cured of these spells."
In a few minutes she asked, "What time is it?"
"It must be about eleven," Temperance replied; but it was nearly four.
She dozed again, but, opening her eyes presently, made a motion toward
the window.
"There's no help for it," muttered Temperance, "she must go."
I understood her, and put my arm under Verry's neck to raise her.
Temperance wrapped the quilt round her, and we carried her to the
window. Temperance pushed open the pane; an icy wind blew against us.
"It is the winter that kills little Verry," she said, in a childlike
voice. "God's breath is cold over the world, and my life goes. But the
spring is coming; it will come back."
I looked at Temperance, whose face was so corrugated with the desire
for crying and the effort to keep from it, that for the life of me,
I could not help smiling. As soon as I smiled I laughed, and then
Temperance gave way to crying and laughing together. Veronica stared,
and realized the circumstances in a second. She walked back to the
bed, laughing faintly, too. "Go to bed, do. You have been here a long
time, have you?"
I left Temperance tucking the clothes about her, kissing her, and
calling her "deary and her best child."
I could not go to bed at once, for Fanny was on my hearth before the
fire, which she had rekindled, watching the boiling of something.
"She has come to, hasn't she?" stirring the contents of the kettle. "I
knew it was going to be so with her, she was so mad with me. She is
like the Old Harry before she has a turn, and like an angel after.
I am fond of people who have their ups and downs. I have seen her so
before. She asked me to keep the doors locked once; they are locked
now. But I couldn't keep _you_ out. The doctor said she must have warm
drinks as soon as she was better. This is gruel."
"If it is done, away with you. Calamity improves you, don't it? You
seem in excellent spirits."
"First-rate; I can be somebody then."