On Tuesday morning Adelaide sent out invitations to a farewell
entertainment, as she called it, for Tuesday evening. Mrs. Somers,
affecting great interest in it, engaged my services in wiping the
dust from glass and china; "too valuable," she said, "for servants to
handle." We spent a part of the morning in the dining-room and pantry.
Ann was with us. If she went out, Mrs. Somers was silent; when present
she chatted. While we were busy Desmond came in, in riding trousers
and whip in hand.
"What nonsense!" he said, touching my hand with the whiplash. "Will
you ride with me after dinner?"
"I must have the horses at three o'clock," said his mother, "to go to
Mrs. Flint's funeral. She was a family friend, you know." The funeral
could not be postponed, even for Desmond; but he grew ill-humored at
once, swore at Murphy, who was packing a waiter at the sideboard, for
rattling the plates; called Ann a minx, because she laughed at him;
and bit a cigar to pieces because he could not light it. Rash had
followed him, his nose against his velveteens, in entreaty to go with
him; I was pleased at this sign of amity between them. At a harder
push than common he looked down and kicked him away.
"Noble creature," I said, "try your whip on him. Rash, go to your
master," and I opened the door. Two smaller dogs, Desmond's property,
made a rush to come in; but I shut them out, whereat they whined so
loudly that Mrs. Somers was provoked to attack him for bringing his
dogs in the house. An altercation took place, and was ended by Desmond
declaring that he was on his way after a bitch terrier, to bring it
home. He went out, giving me a look from the door, which I answered
with a smile that made him stamp all the way through the hall. Mrs.
Somers's feelings as she heard him peeped out at me. Groaning in
spirit, I finished my last saucer and betook myself to my room and
read, till summoned by Mrs. Somers to a consultation respecting the
furniture coverings. Desmond came home, but spoke to no one, hovering
in my vicinity as on the day before.
In the afternoon Adelaide and I went in the carriage to make calls
upon those we did not expect to see in the evening. She wrote P.P.C.
on my cards and laughed at the idea of paying farewell visits to
strangers. The last one was made to Mrs. Hepburn. A soft melancholy
crept over me when I entered the room where I had met Desmond last. We
should probably not see each other alone again. Mrs. Somers's policy
to that effect would be a success, for I should make no opposition to
it. Not a word of my feelings could I speak to Mrs. Hepburn--Adelaide
was there--provided I had the impulse; and Mrs. Hepburn would be the
last to forgive me should I make the conventional mistake of a scene
or an aside. This old lady had taught me something. I went to the
window, curious to know whether any nerve of association would vibrate
again. Nothing stirred me; the machinery which had agitated and
controlled me was effete.
Mrs. Hepburn said, as we were taking leave:
"If you come to Belem next year, and I am above the sod, I invite you
to pass a month with me. But let it be in the summer. I ride then, and
should like you for a companion."
She might have seen irresolution in me, for she added quickly, "You
need not promise--let time decide," and shook my hands kindly.
"Hep, is smitten with you, in her selfish way," Adelaide remarked, as
we rode from the door. She ordered the coachman to drive home by the
"Leslie House," which she wanted me to see. A great aunt had lived
and died there, leaving the house--one of the oldest in Belem--to her
brother Ned.
"Who is he like?"
"Desmond; but worse. There's only a year's difference in their ages.
They were educated together, kept in the nursery till they were great
boys and tyrants, and then sent abroad. They were in Amiens three
years."
"There are Desmond and Ben; they are walking in the street we are
passing."
She looked out.
"They are quarreling, I dare say. Ben is a prig, and preaches to Des."
While we were in the house, and Adelaide talked with the old servant
of her aunt, my thoughts were occupied with Desmond. What had they
quarreled on? Desmond was pale, and laughed; but Ben was red, and
looked angry.
"Why do you look at me so fixedly?" Adelaide asked, when we were in
the carriage again.
It was on my tongue to say, "Because I am beset." I did not, however;
instead I asked her if she never noticed what a rigid look people wore
in their best bonnets, and holding a card-case? She said, "Yes," and
shook out her handkerchief, as if to correct her own rigidity.
After an early tea she compelled me to sing, and we delayed dressing
till Mrs. Somers bloomed in, with purple satin and feather head-dress.
"Now we must go," she said, "and get ready."
"What shall you wear?" Mrs. Somers asked, advising a certain ugly,
claret-colored silk.
"Be sure not," said Adelaide on the stairs. "That dress makes your
hair too yellow."
I heard loud laughing in the third story, and heavy steps, while I
was in my room; and when I went down, I saw two gentlemen in evening
dress, standing by Desmond, at the piano, and singing, "_Fill, fill
the sparkling brimmer_." They were, as Ann informed me, college
friends of Des, who had arrived for a few days' visit, she supposed;
disagreeable persons, of course. They were often in Belem to ride,
fish, or play billiards. "Pa hates them," she said in conclusion. Mr.
Somers entering at this moment, in his _diplomatique_ style, his gouty
white hands shaded with wristbands, and his throat tied with a white
cravat, appeared to contradict her assertion, he was so affable in his
salutations to the young men. Desmond turned from the piano when he
heard his father's voice, and caught sight of me. He started toward
me; but his attention was claimed by one of the gentlemen, who had
been giving me a prolonged stare, and he dropped back on his seat,
with an indifferent air, answering some question relating to myself.
He looked as when I first saw him--flushed, haughty, and bored. His
hair and dress were disordered, his boots splashed with mud; and it
was evident that he did not intend to appear at the party.
Adelaide called me to remain by her; but I slipped away when I thought
no more would arrive, and sought a retired corner, to which Mr. Somers
brought Desmond's friends, introducing them as the sons of his college
chums, and leaving them, one lolling against the mantel, the other
over the back of a chair. They were muzzy with drink, and seemed to
grow warm, as I looked from one to the other, with an attentive air.
"You are visiting in Belem," said one.
"That is true," I replied.
"It is too confoundedly aristocratic for me; it knocks Beacon Street
into nothingness."
"Where is Beacon Street?"
"Don't you know _that_? Nor the Mall?"
"No."
Our conversation was interrupted by Ben, whom I had not seen since the
day before. He had been out of town, transacting some business for
his father. We looked at each other without speaking, but divined each
other's thoughts. "You _are_ as true and noble as I think you are,
Cassy. I must have it so. You _shall not_ thwart me." "Faithful
and good Ben,--do you pass a sufficiently strict examination upon
yourself? Are you not disposed to carry through your own ideas without
considering _me_?" Whatever our internal comments were, we smiled upon
each other with the sincerity of friendship, and I detected Mr. Digby
in the act of elevating his eyebrows at Mr. Devereaux, who signified
his opinion by telegraphing back: "It is all over with them."
"Hey, Somers," said the first; "what are you doing nowadays?"
"Pretty much the same work that I always have on hand."
"Do you mean to stick to Belem?"
"No."
"I thought so. But what has come over Des. lately? He is spoony."
"He is going backward, may be, to some course he omitted in his career
with you fellows. We must run the same round somehow, you know."
"He'll not find much reason for it, when he arrives," Mr. Devereaux
said.
Miss Munster joined us, with the intention of breaking up our
conclave, and soon moved away, with Mr. Digby and Devereaux in her
train.
"I have changed my mind," said Ben, "about going home with you."
"Are your plans growing complicated again?"
"Can you go to Surrey alone?"
"Why not, pray?"
"I have an idea of going to Switzerland to spend the summer. Will
Veronica be ready in the autumn?"
"How can I answer? Shall you not take leave of her?"
"Perhaps. Yes,--I must," he said excitedly; "but to-morrow we will
talk more about it. I shall go to Boston with you; pa is going too.
How well you look to-night, Cassy! What sort of dress is this?" taking
up a fold of it. "Is it cotton-silk, or silk-cotton? It is soft and
light. How delicate you are, with your gold hair and morning-glory
eyes!"
"How poetical! My dress is new, and was made by Adelaide's
dressmaker."
"Mother beckons me. What a headdress that is of hers!"
"What beckons you to go to Switzerland?" I mused.
I listened for Desmond's voice, which would have sounded like a silver
bell, in the loud, coarse buzz which pervaded the rooms. All the women
were talking shrill, and the men answering in falsetto. He was
not among them, and I moved to and fro unnoticed, for the tide of
entertainment had set in, and I could withdraw, if I chose. I took a
chair near an open door, commanded a view into a small room, on the
other side of the hall, opened only on occasions like these; there
was no one in it. Perceiving that my shoelace was untied, I stooped to
refasten it, and when I looked in the room again saw Desmond standing
under the chandelier, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the floor,
his hair disordered and falling over his forehead; its blackness was
intense against the relief of the crimson wall-paper. Was it that
which had unaccountably changed his appearance?
He raised his head, looked across the hall, and saw me.
"Come here," he signaled. I rose like an automaton, and cast an
involuntary glance about me; the guests were filing through the
drawing-room, into the room where refreshments were laid. When the
last had gone, I left the friendly protection of the niche by the
fire-place, and stood so near him that I saw his nostrils quiver! Then
there came into his face an expression of pain, which softened it. I
had wished him to please me; _now_ I wished to please him. It seemed
that he had no intention of speaking, and that he had called me to
him to witness a struggle which I must find a key to hereafter, in the
depths of my own heart. I watched him in silence, and it passed. As
he pushed the door to with his foot, the movement caused something
to swing and glitter against his breast--a ring on his watch-ribbon
smaller than I could wear, a woman's ruby ring. The small, feminine
imp, who abides with those who have beams in their eyes, and helps
them to extract motes from the eyes of others, inspired me. I pointed
to the ring. Dropping his eyes, he said: "I loved her shamefully, and
she loved me shamefully. When shall I take it off--cursed sign?" And
he snapped it with his thumb and finger.
I grew rigid with virtue.
"You may not conjure up any tragic ideas on the subject. She is no
outcast. She is here to-night; if there was ruin, it was mutual."
"And your other faults?"
"Ah!" he said, with a terrible accent, "we shall see."
There was a tap on the door; it was Ben's. I fell back a step, and
he came in. "Will you bring Cassandra to the supper-room?" he said,
turning pale.
"No."
"Come with me, then; you must." And he put my arm in his.
"Hail, and farewell, Cassandra!" said Desmond, standing before the
door. "Give me your hand."
I gave him both my hands. He kissed one, and then the other, and
moved to let us pass out. But Ben did not go; he fumbled for his
handkerchief to wipe his forehead, on which stood beads of sweat.
"_Allons,_ Ben," I said.
"Go on, go on," said Desmond, holding the door wide open.
A painful curiosity made me anxious to discover the owner of the ruby
ring! The friendly but narrow-minded imp I have spoken of composed
speeches, with which I might assail her, should she be found. I looked
in vain at every women present; there was not a sorrowful or guilty
face among them. Another feeling took the place of my curiosity. I
forgot the woman I was seeking, to remember the love I bore Desmond. I
was mad for the sight of him--mad to touch his hand once more. I could
have put the asp on my breast to suck me to sleep, as Cleopatra did;
but _Cæsar_ was in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were
turned down.
Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, and
Mrs. Somers was politely yawning, waiting their call for candles.
"If you are to accompany me, Ben," I said, "now is the time." And
he slipped out. He preserved a determined silence. I shook him, and
said--"_Veronica_." He put his hand over my mouth with an indignant
look, which was lost upon me, for I whispered in his ear; "Do you know
now that I _love_ Desmond?"
"Will you bring him into our Paradise?"
"Where?"
"Our home, in Surrey."
"Wont an angel with a flaming sword make it piquant?"
"If you marry Desmond Somers," he said austerely, "you will contradict
three lives,--yours, mine, and Veronica's. What beast was it that
suggested this horrible discord? Have you so much passion that you
cannot discern the future you offer yourself?"
"Imperator, you have an agreeable way of putting things. But they are
coming through the hall. Good-night."