Alice Morgeson sent for Aunt Merce, asking her to fulfill the promise
she had made when she was in Rosville.
With misgivings she went, stayed a month, and returned with Alice. I
felt a throe of pain when we met, which she must have seen, for she
turned pale, and the hand she had extended toward me fell by her side;
overcoming the impulse, she offered it again, but I did not take it. I
had no evidence to prove that she came to Surrey on my account; but I
was sure that such was the fact, as I was sure that there was a bond
between us, which she did not choose to break, nor to acknowledge. She
appeared as if expecting some explanation or revelation from me; but
I gave her none, though I liked her better than ever. She was
business-like and observant. Her tendencies, never romantic, were less
selfish; it was no longer society, dress, housekeeping, which absorbed
her, but a larger interest in the world which gave her a desire
to associate with men and women, independent of caste. None of her
children were with her; had it been three years earlier, she would not
have left home without them. Her hair was a little gray, and a wrinkle
or two had gathered about her mouth; but there was no other change.
I was not sorry to have her go, for she paid me a close and quiet
observation. At the moment of departure, she said in an undertone:
"What has become of that candor of which you were so proud?" "I am
more candid than ever," I answered, "for I am silent."
"I understand you better, now that I have seen you _en famille."_
"What do you think now?"
"I don't think I know; the Puritans have much to answer for in
your mother--" Turning to her she said, "My children, too, are so
different."
Mother gave her a sad smile, as Fanny announced the carriage, and they
drove away.
"No more visitors this year," said Veronica, yawning.
"No agreeable ones, I fancy," I answered.
"All the relations have had their turn for this year," remarked Aunt
Merce. But she was mistaken; an old lady came soon after this to spend
the winter. She lived but four miles from Surrey, but brought with her
all her clothes, and a large green parrot, which her son had brought
from foreign parts. Her name was Joy Morgeson; the fact of her being
cousin to father's grandmother entitled her to a raid upon us at any
season, and to call us "cousins." She felt, she said, that she must
come and attend the meetings regular, for her time upon earth was
short. But Joy was a hearty woman still, and, pious as she was,
delighted in rough and scandalous stories, the telling of which gave
her severe fits of repentance. She quilted elaborate petticoats for
us, knit stockings for Arthur, and was useful. Mr. and Mrs. Elisha
Peckham surprised us next. They arrived from "up country" and stayed
two weeks. I did not clearly understand why they came before they
went; but as they enjoyed their visit, it was of little consequence
whether I did or not.
Midwinter passed, and we still had company. There was much to do, but
it was done without system. Mother or Aunt Merce detailed from their
ordinary duties as keeper of the visitors, Fanny was for the first
time able to make herself of importance in the family tableaux,
and assumed cares no one had thought of giving her. She left the
town-school, telling mother that learning would be of no use to her.
The rights of a human being merely was what she wanted; she should
fight for them; that was what paupers must do. Mother allowed her
to do as she pleased. Her duties commenced with calling us up to
breakfast _en masse_, and for once the experiment was successful,
for we all met at the table. The dining-room was in complete order, a
thing that had never happened early before; the rest of us missed the
straggling breakfast which consumed so much time.
"Whose doing is this?" asked father, looking round the table.
"It is Fanny's," I answered, rattling the cups. "All the coffee to be
poured out at once, don't agitate me."
Fanny, bearing buckwheat cakes, looked proud and modest, as people do
who appreciate their own virtues.
"Why, Fanny," said the father, "you have done wonders; you are more
original than Cassy or Verry."
Her green eyes glowed; her aspect was so feline that I expected her
hair to rise.
"Father's praise pleases you more than ours," Verry said.
"You never gave me any," she answered, marching out.
Father looked up at Verry, annoyed, but said nothing. We paid no
attention to Fanny's call afterward; but she continued her labors,
which proved acceptable to him. Temperance told me, when she was with
us for a week, that his overcoats, hats, umbrellas, and whips never
had such care as Fanny gave them. He omitted from this time to ask us
if we knew where his belongings were, but went to Fanny; and I noticed
that he required much attendance.
Temperance, who had arrived in the thick of the company, as she termed
it, was sorry to go back to Abram. He _was_ a good man, she said; but
it was a dreadful thing for a woman to lose her liberty, especially
when liberty brought so much idle time. "Why, girls, I have quilted
and darned up every rag in the house. He _will_ do half the housework
himself; he is an everlasting Betty." She was cheerful, however, and
helped Hepsey, as well as the rest of us.
The guests did not encroach on my time, but it was a relief to have
them gone and the house our own once more.
I went to Milford again, almost daily, to feast my eyes on the bleak,
flat, gray landscape. The desolation of winter sustains our frail
hopes. Nature is kindest then; she does not taunt us with fruition.
It is the luxury of summer which tantalizes--her long, brilliant,
blossoming days, her dewy, radiant nights.
Entering the house one March evening, when it was unusually still,
I had reached the front hall, when masculine tones struck my ears. I
opened the parlor door softly, and saw Ben Somers in an easy-chair,
basking before a glowing fire, his luminous face set toward Veronica,
who was near him, holding a small screen between her and the fire.
"She is always ready," I thought, contemplating her as I would a
picture. Her ruby-colored merino dress absorbed the light; she was
a mass of deep red, except her face and hair, above which her silver
crescent comb shone. Her slender feet were tapping the rug. She wore
boots the color of her dress; Ben was looking at them. Mother was
there, and in the background Aunt Merce and Fanny figured. I pushed
the door wide; as the stream of cold air reached them, they looked
toward it, and cried--"Cassandra!" Ben started up with extended hands.
"I went as far as Cape Horn only, but I bought you the idol and lots
of things I promised from a passing ship. I have been home a week, and
I am _here_. Are you glad? Can I stay?"
"Yes, yes," chorused the company, and I was too busy trying to get
off my gloves to speak. Father came in, and welcomed him with warmth.
Fanny ran out for a lamp; when she brought it, Veronica changed the
position of her screen, and held it close to her face.
"Did you have a cold ride, Locke?" asked mother, gazing into the
fire with that expression of satisfaction we have when somebody beside
ourselves has been exposed to hardships. It is the same principle
entertained by those who depend upon and enjoy seeing criminals hung.
Meanwhile my bonnet-strings got in a knot, which Fanny saw, and
was about to apply scissors, when Aunt Merce, unable to bear the
sacrifice, interfered and untied them, all present so interested in
the operation that conversation was suspended. Presently Aunt Merce
was called out, and was shortly followed by mother and Fanny. Ben
stood before me; his eyes, darting sharp rays, pierced me through;
they rested on the thread-like scars which marked my cheek, and which
were more visible from the effect of cold.
"Tattooed still," I said in a low voice, pointing to them.
"I see"--a sorrowful look crossed his face; he took my hand and kissed
it. Veronica, who had dropped the screen, met my glance toward her
with one perfectly impassive. As they watched me, I saw myself as they
did. A tall girl in gray, whose deep, controlled voice vibrated in
their ears, like the far-off sounds we hear at night from woods or the
sea, whose face was ineffaceably marked, whose air impressed with a
sense of mystery. I think both would have annihilated my personality
if possible, for the sake of comprehending me, for both loved me in
their way.
"What are you reading, father?" asked Veronica suddenly.
"To-day's letters, and I must be off for Boston; would you like to
go?"
"My sister Adelaide has sent for you, Cassandra, to visit us," said
Ben, "and will you go too, Veronica?"
"Thanks, I must decline. If Cass should go--and she will--I may go to
Boston."
He looked at her curiously. "It would not be pleasant for you to
attempt Belem. I hate it, but I feel a fate-impelling power in regard
to Cassandra; I want her there."
"May I go then?" I asked.
"Certainly," father replied.
"Please come out to supper," called Fanny. "We have something
particular for you, Mr. Morgeson."
We saw mother at the table, a book in her hand. She was finishing a
chapter in "The Hour and the Man." Aunt Merce stood eyeing the dishes
with the aspect of a judge. As father took his seat, near Veronica,
Fanny, according to habit, stood behind it. With the most _degagé_
air, Ben suffered nothing to escape him, and I never forgot the
picture of that moment.
We talked of Helen's visit--a subject that could be commented
on freely. Veronica told Ben Helen's opinion of him; he reddened
slightly, and said that such a sage could not be contradicted. When
father remarked that the opinions of women were whimsical, Fanny gave
an audible sniff, which made Ben smile.
Soon after tea I met Veronica in the hall, with a note in her hand.
She stopped and hesitatingly said that she was going to send for
Temperance; she wanted her while Mr. Somers stayed.
"Your forethought astonishes me."
"She is a comfort always to me."
"Do you stand in especial need of a comforter?"
She looked puzzled, laughed, and left me.
Temperance arrived that evening, in time to administer a scolding to
Fanny.
"That girl needs looking after," she said. "She is as sharp as a
needle. She met me in the yard and told me that a man fit for a
nobleman had come on a visit. 'It may be for Cass,' says she, 'and it
may not be. I have my doubts.' Did you ever?" concluded Temperance,
counting the knives. "There's one missing. By jingo! it has been
thrown to the pigs, I'll bet."
When Ben made a show of going, we asked him to stay longer. He said
"Yes," so cordially, that we laughed. But it hurt me to see that he
had forgotten all about my going to Belem. "I like Surrey so much,"
he said, "and you all, I have a fancy that I am in the Hebrides,
in Magnus Troil's dwelling; it is so wild here, so _naïve_. The
unadulterated taste of sea-spray is most beautiful."
"We will have Cass for Norna," said Verry; "but, by the way, it is you
that must be of the fitful head; have you forgotten that she is going
to Belem soon?"
"I shall remember Belem in good time; no fear of my forgetting that
ace--ancient spot. At least I may wait till your father goes to
Boston, and we can make a party. You will be ready, Cassandra? I wrote
Adelaide yesterday that you were coming, and mother will expect you."
It often stormed during his visit. We had driving rains, and a gale
from the southeast, oceanward, which made our sea dark and miry, even
after the storm had ceased and patches of blue sky were visible.
Our rendezvous was in the parlor, which, from the way in which Ben
knocked about the furniture, cushions, and books, assumed an air which
somehow subdued Veronica's love for order; she played for him, or they
read together, and sometimes talked; he taught her chess, and then
they quarreled. One day--a long one to me,--they were so much absorbed
in each other, I did not seek them till dusk.
"Come and sing to me," called Ben.
"So you remember that I do sing?"
"Sing; there is a spell in this weird twilight; sing, or I go out on
the rocks to break it."
He dropped the window curtains and sat by me at the piano, and I sang:
"I feel the breath of the summer night,
Aromatic fire;
The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir
With tender desire.
"If I were alone, I could not sing,
Praises to thee;
O night! unveil the beautiful soul
That awaiteth me!"
"A foolish song," said Veronica, pulling her hair across her face.
No reply. She glided to the flower-basket, broke a rosebud from its
stalk, and mutely offered it to him. Whether he took it, I know not;
but he rose up from beside me, like a dark cloud, and my eyes followed
him.
"Come Veronica," he whispered, "give me yourself. I love you,
Veronica."
He sank down before her; she clasped her hands round his head, and
kissed his hair.
"I know it," she said, in a clear voice.
I shut the door softly, thinking of the Wandering Jew, went upstairs,
humming a little air between my teeth, and came down again into the
dining-room, which was in a blaze of light.
"What preserves are these, Temperance?" I asked, going to the table.
"Some of Abram's quinces?"
"Best you ever tasted, since you were born."
"Call Mr. Somers, Fanny," said mother. "Is Verry in the parlor, too?"
"I'll call them," I said; "I have left my handkerchief there."
"Is anything else of yours there?" said Fanny, close to my ear.
Ben had pushed back the curtain, and was staring into the darkness;
Veronica was walking to and fro on the rug.
"Haven't I a great musical talent?" I inquired.
"Am I happy?" she asked, coming toward me.
Ben turned to speak, but Veronica put her hand over his mouth, and
said:
"Why should I be 'hushed,' my darling?"
"Come to supper, and be sensible," I urged.
The light revealed a new expression in Verry's face--an unsettled,
dispossessed look; her brows were knitted, yet she smiled over and
over again, while she seemed hardly aware that she was eating like an
ordinary mortal. The imp Fanny tried experiments with her, by offering
the same dishes repeatedly, till her plate was piled high with food
she did not taste.
The next day was clear, and mild with spring. Ben and I started for a
walk on the shore. We were half-way to the lighthouse before he asked
why it was that Veronica would not come with us.
"She never walks by the shore; she detests the sea."
"Is it so? I did not know that."
"Do you mind that you know few of her tastes or habits? I speak of
this as a general truth."
"I am a spectacle to you, I suppose. But this sea charms me; I shall
live by it, and build a house with all the windows and doors toward
it."
"Not if you mean to have Verry in it."
"I do mean to have her in it. She shall like it. Are you willing to
have me for a brother? Will you go to Belem, and help break the ice?
_She_ could never go," and he began to skip pebbles in the water.
"I will take you for a brother gladly. You are a fool--not for loving
her, but all men are fools when in love, they are so besotted with
themselves. But I am afraid of one fault in you."
"Yes," he answered hurriedly, "don't I know? On my honor, I have
tried; why not leave me to God? Didn't you leave yourself that way
once?"
"Oh, you are cruel."
"Pardon me, dear Cass. I _must_ do well now, surely. Will you believe
in me? Oh, do you not know the strength, the power, that comes to us
in the stress of passion and duty?"
"This is from _you_, Ben."
"Never mind; I knew I wanted to marry her, when I saw her. I love her
passionately," and he threw a pebble in the water farther than he had
yet; "but she is so pure, so delicate, that when I approach her, in
spite of my besottedness, my love grows lambent. That's not like me,
you know," with great vehemence. "Will she never understand me?"
His face darkened, and he looked so strangely intent into my eyes that
I was obliged to turn away; he disturbed me.
"Veronica probably will not understand you, but you must manage for
yourself. As you have discerned, she and I are far apart. She is pure,
noble, beautiful, and peculiar. I will have no voice between you."
"You must, you do. We shall hear it if you do not speak. You have a
great power, tall enchantress."
"Certainly. What a powerful life is mine!"
"You come to these shores often. Are you not different beside them?
This colorless picture before us--these vague spaces of sea and
land--the motion of the one--the stillness of the other--have you no
sense that you have a powerful spirit?"
"Is it power? It is pain."
"Your gold has not been refined then."
"Yes, I confess I have a sense of power; but it is not a spiritual
sense."
"Let us go back," he said abruptly.
We mused by our footprints in the wet sand, as we passed them. We were
told when we reached home that Veronica had gone on some expedition
with Fanny. She did not return till time for supper, looking elfish,
and behaving whimsically, as if she had received instructions
accordingly. I fancied that the expression Ben regarded her with might
be the Bellevue Pickersgill expression, it was so different from any
I had seen. There was a haughty curiosity in his face; as she passed
near him, he looked into her eyes, and saw the strange cast which made
their sight so far off.
"Veronica, where are you?" he asked.
The tone of his voice attracted mother's regards; an intelligent
glance was exchanged, and then her eyes sought mine. "It is not as you
thought, mamma," I telegraphed. But Verry, not bringing her eyes back
into the world, merely said, "I am here, am I not?" and went to shut
herself up in her room. I found her there, looking through the wicket.
"The buds are beginning to swell," she said. "I should hear small
voices breaking out from the earth. I grow happy every day now."
"Because the earth will be green again?" I asked, in a coaxing voice.
She shut the wicket, and, looking in my face, said, "I will go down
immediately." For some reason the tears came into my eyes, which she,
taking up the candle, saw. "I am going to play," she said hurriedly,
"come." She ran down before me, but turning, by the foot of the
stairs, she pointed to the parlor door, and said, "Is he my husband?"
"Answer for yourself. Go in, in God's name."
Ben was chatting with father over the fire; he stretched out his hand
to her, with so firm and assured an air, and looked so noble, that I
felt a pang of admiration for him. She laid her hand in his a moment,
passed on to the piano, and began to play divinely, drawing him to
her side. Father peeled and twisted his cigar, as he contemplated them
with a thoughtful countenance.