I took a cold that night. Belem was damp always, but its midnight damp
was worse than any other. Mrs. Somers sent me medicine. Adelaide asked
me, with an air of contemplation, what made me sick, and felt her own
pulse. Ann criticised my nightgown ruffles, and accused me of wearing
imitation lace; but nursing was her forte, and she stayed by me,
annoying me by a frequent beating up of my pillow, and the bringing
in of bowls of strange mixtures for me to swallow, which she persuaded
the cook to make and her father to taste.
Before I left my room, Mrs. Somers came to see me.
"You are about well, I hear," she said, in a cold voice.
I felt as if I had been shamming sickness.
"I thought you were in remarkable health, your frame is so large."
Adelaide was there, and answered for me. "You _are_ delicate. It must
be because you do not take care of yourself."
"Wolf's Point to be avoided, perhaps!"
"I have walked to Wolf's Point for fifteen years, night and day, many
times."
"Mr. Munster's man left this note for you," her mother said, handing
it to her.
She read an invitation from Miss Munster, a cousin, to a small party.
"You will not be able to go," Mrs. Somers remarked to me.
"You will go," Adelaide said; "it is an attention to you altogether."
She never replied to her mother, never asked her any questions, so
that talking between them was a one-sided affair.
"Let us go out shopping, Adelaide; I want some lace to wear," I
begged.
Mrs. Somers looked into her drawers, out of which Adelaide had thrust
her finery, and found mine, but said nothing.
"We are going to a party, Ann. Thanks to your messes and your
nursing," as I passed her in the hall.
"Where is your evening dress?"
"Pinned in a napkin--like my talent."
"Old Cousin Munster, the pirate, who made his money in the opium
trade, has good things in his house. I suppose," with a coquettish
air, "that you will see Ned Munster; he _would_ walk to the door with
me to-day. He wishes me out, I know."
We consumed that evening in talking of dress. Adelaide showed me her
camel's-hair scarfs which Desmond had brought, and her dresses. Ann
tried them all on, walking up and down, and standing tiptoe before the
glass, while I trimmed a handkerchief with the lace I had purchased. I
unfolded my dress after they were gone, with a dubious mind. It was
a heavy white silk, with a blue satin stripe. It might be too
old-fashioned, for it belonged to mother, who would never wear it.
The sleeves were puffed with bands of blue velvet, and the waist was
covered with a berthé of the same. It must do, however, for I had no
other.
We were to go at nine. Adelaide came to my room dressed, and with
her hair arranged exactly like mine. She looked well, in spite of her
Mongolic face.
"Pa wants to see us in his room; he has gone to bed."
"Wait a moment," I begged. I took my hair down, unbraided it, brushed
it out of curl as much as I could, twisted it into a loose mass,
through which I stuck pins enough to hold it, bound a narrow fillet of
red velvet round my head, and ran after her.
"That is much better," she said; "you are entirely changed." Desmond
was there, in his usual careless dress, hanging over the footboard of
the bed, and Ann was huddled on the outside. Mrs. Somers was reading.
"Pa," said Ann, "just think of Old Hepburn's giving her a pair of
lovely ear-rings."
"Did she? Where are they?" asked Mrs. Somers.
"I am not surprised," said Mr. Somers. "Mrs. Hepburn knows where to
bestow. Why not wear them?"
"I'll get them," said Ann.
Mr. Somers continued his compliments. He thought there was a pleasing
contrast between Adelaide and myself, referred to Diana, mentioned
that my hair was remarkably thick, and proceeded with a dissertation
on the growth and decay of the hair, when she returned with the
ear-rings.
"It is too dark here," she said.
Desmond, who had remained silent, took the candle, which Mrs. Somers
was reading by, and held it for Ann, close to my face. The operation
was over, but the candle was not taken away till Mrs. Somers asked for
it sharply.
"I dare say," murmured Mr. Somers, who was growing drowsy, "that Mrs.
Hepburn wore them some night, when she went to John Munster's, forty
years ago, and now you wear them to the son's. How things come round!"
The Munsters' man opened the door for us.
The rooms were full. "Very glad," said Mr., Mrs., and Miss Munster,
and amid a loud buzz we fell back into obscurity. Adelaide joined
a group, who were talking at the top of their voices, with most
hilarious countenances.
"They pretend to have a Murillo here, let us go and find it," said
Ben.
It was in a small room. While we looked at a dark-haired, handsome
woman, standing on brown clouds, with hands so fat that every finger
stood apart, Miss Munster brought up a young gentleman with the
Munster cast of countenance.
"My brother begs an introduction, Miss Morgeson."
Ben retired, and Mr. Munster began to talk volubly, with wandering
eyes, repeating words he was in danger of forgetting. No remarks were
required from me. At the proper moment he asked me to make the tour
of the rooms, and offered his arm. As we were crossing the hall, I saw
Desmond, hat in hand, and in faultless evening dress, bowing to Miss
Munster.
"Your Cousin Desmond, and mine, is a fine-looking man, is he not? Let
us speak to him."
I drew back. "I'll not interrupt his _devoir_."
He bowed submissively.
"My cousin Desmond," I thought; "let me examine this beauty." He was
handsomer than Ben, his complexion darker, and his hair black. There
was a flush across his cheek-bones, as if he had once blushed, and the
blush had settled. The color of his eyes I could not determine. As if
to resolve my doubt, he came toward us; they were a deep violet,
and the lids were fringed with long black lashes. I speculated on
something animal in those eyes. He stood beside me, and twisted his
heavy mustache.
"What a pretty boudoir this is," I said, backing into a little room
behind us.
"Ned," he said abruptly, "you must resign Miss Morgeson; I am here to
see her."
"Of course," Ned answered; "I relinquish."
Before a word was spoken between us, Mrs. Munster touched Desmond
on the shoulder, and told him that he must come with her, to be
introduced to Count Montholon.
"Bring him here, please."
"Tyrant," she answered playfully, "the Count shall come."
He brought a chair. "Take this; you are pale. You have been ill."
Bringing another, he seated himself before me and fanned himself with
his hat.
Mrs. Munster came back with the Count, an elderly man, and Desmond
rose to meet him, keeping his hand on the back of his chair. They
spoke French. The freedom of their conversation precluded the idea
of my understanding it. The Count made a remark about me. Desmond
replied, glancing at me, and both pulled their mustaches. The Count
was called away soon, and Desmond resumed his chair.
"I understood you," I said.
"The deuce you did."
He placed his hat over a vase of flowers, which tipping over, he
leisurely righted, and bending toward me, said:
"It was in battle."
"Yes."
"And women like you, pure, with no vice of blood, sometimes are
tempted, struggle, and suffer."
His words, still more his voice, made we wince.
"Even drawn battles bring their scars," I replied.
"Convince me beyond all doubt that a woman can reason with her
impulses, or even fathom them, and I will be in your debt."
"Maybe--but Ben is coming."
He looked at me strangely.
"You must find this very dull, Cassandra," said Ben, joining us.
"_Cassandra_," said Desmond, "are you bored?"
The accent with which he spoke my name set my pulses striking like a
clock. I got up mechanically, as Ben directed.
"They are going to supper. There's game. Des. Munster told me to take
the northeast corner of the table."
"I shall take the southwest, then," he replied, nodding to a tall
gentleman who passed with Adelaide. When we left him, he was observing
a carved oak chair, in occult sympathy probably with the grain of
the wood. Nature strikes us with _her_ phenomena at times when other
resources are not at hand.
We were compelled to wait at the door of the supper-room, the jam was
so great.
"What fairy story do you like best?" asked Ben
"I know which you like."
"Well?"
"Bluebeard. You have an affinity with Sister Ann in the tower."
"Do you think I see nothing 'but the sun which makes a dust and the
grass which looks green?' I believe you like Bluebeard, too."
That was a great joke, at which we both laughed.
When I saw Desmond again, he was surrounded by men, the French Count
among them, drinking champagne. He held a bottle, and was talking
fast. The others were laughing. His listless, morose expression had
disappeared; in the place of a brutal-tempered, selfish, bored man, I
saw a brilliant, jovial gentleman. Which was the real man?
"Finish your jelly," said Ben.
"I prefer looking at your brother."
"Leave my brother alone."
"You see nothing but 'the sun which makes a dust, and the grass which
looks green.'"
Miss Munster hoped I was cared for. How gay Desmond was! she had not
seen such a look in his face in a long time. And how strongly he was
marked with the family traits.
"How am I marked, May?" asked Ben.
"Oh, we know worse eccentrics than you are. What are you up to now?
You are not as frank as Desmond."
He laughed as he looked at me, and then Adelaide called to us that it
was time to leave.
We were among the last; the carriage was waiting. We made our bows to
Mrs. Munster, who complained of not having seen more of us. "You are
a favorite of Mrs. Hepburn's, Miss Morgeson, I am told. She is a
remarkable woman, has great powers." I mentioned my one interview with
her. Guests were going upstairs with smiles, and coming down without,
released from their company manners. We rode home in silence, except
that Adelaide yawned fearfully, and then we toiled up the long stairs,
separating with a tired, "good-night."
I extinguished my candle by dropping my shawl upon it, and groped in
vain for matches over the tops of table and shelf.
"To bed in the dark, then," I said, pulling off my gloves and the
band, from my head, for I felt a tightness in it, and pulled out
the hairpins. But a desire to look in the glass overcame me. I felt
unacquainted with myself, and must see what my aspect indicated just
then.
I crept downstairs, to the dining-room, passed my hands over the
sideboard, the mantel shelf, and took the round of the dinner-table,
but found nothing to light my candle with.
"The fire may not be out in the parlor," I thought; "it can be lighted
there." I ran against the hatstand in the hall, knocking a cane down,
which fell with a loud noise. The parlor door was ajar; the fire was
not out, and Desmond was before it, watching its decay.
"What is it?" he asked.
"The candle," I stammered, confused with the necessity of staying to
have it lighted, and the propriety of retreating in the dark.
"Shall I light it?"
I stepped a little further inside the door and gave it to him. He
grew warm with thrusting it between the bars of the grate, and I grew
chilly. Shivering, and with chattering teeth, I made out to say, "A
piece of paper would do it." Raising his head hastily, it came crash
against the edge of the marble shelf. Involuntarily I shut the door,
and leaned against it, to wait for the effect of the blow; but feeling
a pressure against the outside, I yielded to it, and moved aside. Mrs.
Somers entered, with a candle flaring in one hand, and holding with
the other her dressing-gown across her bosom.
"What are you doing here?" she asked harshly, but in a whisper, her
eyes blazing like a panther's.
"Doing?" I replied; "stay and see."
She swept along, and I followed, bringing up close to Desmond, who had
his hand round his head, and was very pale, either from the effect
of the blow or some other cause. Even the flush across his cheeks had
faded. She looked at him sharply; he moved his hands from his head,
and met her eyes. "I am not drunk, you see," he said in a low voice.
She made an insulting gesture toward me, which meant, "Is this an
adventure of yours?"
The blaze in her eyes kindled a more furious one in his; he stepped
forward with a threatening motion.
Anger raged through me--like a fierce rain that strikes flat a violent
sea. I laid my hand on her arm, which she snapped at like a wolf, but
I spoke calmly:
"You tender, true-hearted creature, full of womanly impulses, allow me
to light my candle by yours!"
I picked it from the hearth, lighted it, and held it close to her
face, laughing, though I never felt less merry. But I had restrained
him.
He took the candle away gently.
"Leave the room," he said to her.
She beckoned me to go.
"No, you shall go."
They made a simultaneous movement with their hands, he to insist, she
to deprecate, and I again observed how exactly alike they were.
"_Desmond_," I implored, "pray allow me to go."
A deep flush suffused his face. He bowed, threw wide the door, and
followed me to the foot of the stairs. I reached my hand for the
candle, for he retained both.
"You, pardon first."
"For what?"
"For much? oh--for much."
What story my face told, I could not have told him. He kissed my hand
and turned away.
At the top of the stairs I looked down. He was there with upturned
face, watching me. Whether he went back to confer with his mother,
I never knew; if he did, the expression which he wore then must have
troubled her. I went to bed, wondering over the mischief that a candle
could do. After I had extinguished it, its wick glowed in the dark
like a one-eyed demon.