The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Morgesons, by Elizabeth Stoddard


This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org





Title: The Morgesons

Author: Elizabeth Stoddard

Release Date: May 14, 2004  [eBook #12347]

Language: English

Character set encoding: US-ASCII


***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MORGESONS***


E-text prepared by Leah Moser and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed
Proofreading Team



THE MORGESONS

A Novel

BY ELIZABETH STODDARD

1901







  "Time is a clever devil,"--BALZAC





[Illustration: Portrait of Elizabeth Stoddard from a Daguerreotype.]





PREFACE.


I suppose it was environment that caused me to write these novels;
but the mystery of it is, that when I left my native village I did
not dream that imagination would lead me there again, for the simple
annals of our village and domestic ways did not interest me; neither
was I in the least studious. My years were passed in an attempt to
have a good time, according to the desires and fancies of youth. Of
literature and the literary life, I and my tribe knew nothing; we had
not discovered "sermons in stones." Where then was the panorama of
my stories and novels stored, that was unrolled in my new sphere? Of
course, being moderately intelligent I read everything that came in
my way, but merely for amusement. It had been laid up against me as a
persistent fault, which was not profitable; I should peruse moral,
and pious works, or take up sewing,--that interminable thing, "white
seam," which filled the leisure moments of the right-minded. To
the _personnel_ of writers I gave little heed; it was the hero they
created that charmed me, like Miss Porter's gallant Pole, Sobieski, or
the ardent Ernest Maltravers, of Bulwer.

I had now come to live among those who made books, and were interested
in all their material, for all was for the glory of the whole.
Prefaces, notes, indexes, were unnoticed by me,--even Walter Scott's
and Lord Byron's. I began to get glimpses of a profound ignorance, and
did not like the position as an outside consideration. These mental
productive adversities abased me. I was well enough in my way, but
nothing was expected from me in their way, and when I beheld their
ardor in composition, and its fine emulation, like "a sheep before her
shearers," I was dumb. The environment pressed upon me, my pride was
touched; my situation, though "tolerable, was not to be endured."

Fortunate or not, we were poor. It was not strange that I should
marry, said those who knew the step I had taken; but that I should
follow that old idyl; and accept the destiny of a garret and a
crust with a poet, was incredible! Therefore, being apart from the
diversions of society, I had many idle hours. One day when my husband
was sitting at the receipt of customs, for he had obtained a modest
appointment, I sat by a little desk, where my portfolio lay open.
A pen was near, which I took up, and it began to write, wildly like
"Planchette" upon her board, or like a kitten clutching a ball of yarn
fearfully. But doing it again--I could not say why--my mind began upon
a festival in my childhood, which my mother arranged for several poor
old people at Thanksgiving. I finished the sketch in private, and gave
it the title of "A Christmas Dinner," as one more modern. I put in
occasional "fiblets" about the respectable guests, Mrs. Carver
and Mrs. Chandler, and one dreadful little girl foisted upon me to
entertain. It pleased the editor of _Harper's Magazine_, who accepted
it, and sent me a check which would look wondrous small now. I wrote
similar sketches, which were published in that magazine. Then I
announced my intention of writing a "long story," and was told by him
of the customs that he thought I "lacked the constructive faculty."
I hope that I am writing an object lesson, either of learning how, or
not learning how, to write.

I labored daily, when alone, for weeks; how many sheets of foolscap I
covered, and dashed to earth, was never told. Since, by my "infinite
pains and groans," I have been reminded of Barkis, in "David
Copperfield," when he crawled out of his bed to get a guinea from
his strong box for David's dinner. Naturally, I sent the story to
_Harper's Magazine_, and it was curtly refused. My husband, moved by
pity by my discouragement, sent it to Mr. Lowell, then editor of the
_Atlantic Monthly_. In a few days I received a letter from him, which
made me very happy. He accepted the story, and wrote me then, and
afterwards, letters of advice and suggestion. I think he saw through
my mind, its struggles, its ignorance, and its ambition. Also I got my
guinea for my pains. The _Atlantic Monthly_ sent me a hundred dollars.
I doubt but for Mr. Lowell's interest and kindness I should ever have
tried prose again. I owe a debt of gratitude to him which I shall
always give to his noble memory.

My story did not set the river on fire, as stories are apt to do
nowadays. It attracted so little notice from those I knew, and
knew of, that naturally my ambition would have been crushed.
Notwithstanding, and saying nothing to anybody, I began "The
Morgesons," and everywhere I went, like Mary's lamb, my MS. was sure
to go. Meandering along the path of that family, I took them much to
heart, and finished their record within a year. I may say here, that
the clans I marshaled for my pages had vanished from the sphere
of reality--in my early day the village Squire, peerless in blue
broadcloth, who scolded, advised, and helped his poorer neighbors; the
widows, or maidens, who accepting service "as a favor," often remained
a lifetime as friend as well as "help;" the race of coast-wise
captains and traders, from Maine to Florida, as acute as they were
ignorant; the rovers of the Atlantic and the Pacific, were gone not
to return. If with these characters I have deserved the name of
"realist," I have also clothed my skeletons with the robe of romance.
"The Morgesons" completed, and no objections made to its publication,
it was published. As an author friend happened to be with us, almost
on the day it was out, I gave it to him to read, and he returned it to
me with the remark that there were "a good many _whiches_ in it." That
there were, I must own, and that it was difficult to extirpate them. I
was annoyed at their fertility. The inhabitants of my ancient dwelling
place pounced upon "The Morgesons," because they were convinced it
would prove to be a version of my relations, and my own life. I think
one copy passed from hand to hand, but the interest in it soon blew
over, and I have not been noticed there since.

"Two Men" I began as I did the others, with a single motive; the
shadow of a man passed before me, and I built a visionary fabric round
him. I have never tried to girdle the earth; my limits are narrow; the
modern novel, as Andrew Lang lately calls it,--with its love-making,
disquisition, description, history, theology, ethics,--I have
no sprinkling of. My last novel, "Temple House," was personally
conducted, so far that I went to Plymouth to find a suitable abode for
my hero, Angus Gates, and to measure with my eye the distance between
the bar in the bay and the shore, the scene of a famous wreck before
the Revolution. As my stories and novels were never in touch with my
actual life, they seem now as if they were written by a ghost of
their time. It is to strangers from strange places that I owe the most
sympathetic recognition. Some have come to me, and from many I have
had letters that warmed my heart, and cheered my mind. Beside the name
of Mr. Lowell, I mention two New England names, to spare me the
fate of the prophet of the Gospel, the late Maria Louise Pool, whose
lamentable death came far too early, and Nathaniel Hawthorne, who
lived to read "The Morgesons" only, and to write me a characteristic
letter. With some slight criticism, he wrote, "Pray pardon my
frankness, for what is the use of saying anything, unless we say what
we think?... Otherwise it seemed to me as genuine and lifelike as
anything that pen and ink can do. There are very few books of which
I take the trouble to have any opinion at all, or of which I
could retain any memory so long after reading them as I do of 'The
Morgesons.'"

Could better words be written for the send-off of these novels?

ELIZABETH STODDARD. New York, May 2nd, 1901.




TO MRS. KATHARINE HOOKER

OF LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

THESE NOVELS ARE DEDICATED IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF A KIND DEED

ELIZABETH STODDARD






CHAPTER I.


"That child," said my aunt Mercy, looking at me with indigo-colored
eyes, "is possessed."

When my aunt said this I was climbing a chest of drawers, by its
knobs, in order to reach the book-shelves above it, where my favorite
work, "The Northern Regions," was kept, together with "Baxter's
Saints' Rest," and other volumes of that sort, belonging to my mother;
and those my father bought for his own reading, and which I liked,
though I only caught a glimpse of their meaning by strenuous study.
To this day Sheridan's Comedies, Sterne's Sentimental Journey, and
Captain Cook's Voyages are so mixed up in my remembrance that I am
still uncertain whether it was Sterne who ate baked dog with Maria, or
Sheridan who wept over a dead ass in the Sandwich Islands.

After I had made a dash at and captured my book, I seated myself with
difficulty on the edge of the chest of drawers, and was soon lost in
an Esquimaux hut. Presently, in crossing my feet, my shoes, which were
large, dropped on the painted floor with a loud noise. I looked at my
aunt; her regards were still fixed upon me, but they did not interfere
with her occupation of knitting; neither did they interrupt her habit
of chewing cloves, flagroot, or grains of rice. If these articles were
not at hand, she chewed a small chip.

"Aunt Merce, poor Hepburn chewed his shoes, when he was in Davis's
Straits."

"Mary, look at that child's stockings."

Mother raised her eyes from the _Boston Recorder_, and the article
she had been absorbed in the proceedings of an Ecclesiastical Council,
which had discussed (she read aloud to Aunt Merce) the conduct of
Brother Thaddeus Turner, pastor of the Congregational Church of
Hyena. Brother Thaddeus had spoken lightly of the difference between
Sprinkling and Immersion, and had even called Hyena's Baptist minister
"_Brother_." He was contumacious at first, was Brother Thaddeus, but
Brother Boanerges from Andover finally floored him.

"Cassandra," said mother, presently, "come here."

I obeyed with reluctance, making a show of turning down a leaf.

"Child," she continued, and her eyes wandered over me dreamily, till
they dropped on my stockings; "why will you waste so much time on
unprofitable stories?"

"Mother, I hate good stories, all but the Shepherd of Salisbury Plain;
I like that, because it makes me hungry to read about the roasted
potatoes the shepherd had for breakfast and supper. Would it make me
thankful if you only gave me potatoes without salt?"

"Not unless your heart is right before God."

"'_The Lord my Shepherd is_,'" sang Aunt Merce.

I put my hands over my ears, and looked defiantly round the room.
Its walls are no longer standing, and the hands of its builders have
crumbled to dust. Some mental accident impressed this picture on the
purblind memory of childhood.

We were in mother's winter room. She was in a low, chintz-covered
chair; Aunt Merce sat by the window, in a straight-backed chair, that
rocked querulously, and likewise covered with chintz, of a red and
yellow pattern. Before the lower half of the windows were curtains of
red serge, which she rattled apart on their brass rods, whenever she
heard a footstep, or the creak of a wheel in the road below. The walls
were hung with white paper, through which ran thread-like stripes of
green. A square of green and chocolate-colored English carpet covered
the middle of the floor, and a row of straw chairs stood around it,
on the bare, lead-colored boards. A huge bed, with a chintz top shaped
like an elephant's back, was in one corner, and a six-legged mahogany
table in another. One side of the room where the fireplace was set
was paneled in wood; its fire had burned down in the shining Franklin
stove, and broken brands were standing upright. The charred backlog
still smoldered, its sap hissed and bubbled at each end.

Aunt Merce rummaged her pocket for flagroot; mother resumed her paper.

"May I put on, for a little while, my new slippers?" I asked, longing
to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the room.

"Yes," answered mother, "but come in soon, it will be supper-time."

I bounded away, found my slippers, and was walking down stairs on
tiptoe, holding up my linsey-woolsey frock, when I saw the door of my
great-grandfather's room ajar. I pushed it open, went in, and saw a
very old man, his head bound with a red-silk handkerchief, bolstered
in bed. His wife, grandmother-in-law, sat by the fire reading a great
Bible.

"Marm Tamor, will you please show me Ruth and Boaz?" I asked.

She complied by turning over the leaves till she came to the picture.

"Did Ruth love Boaz dreadfully much?"

"Oh, oh," groaned the old man, "what is the imp doing here? Drive her
away. Scat."

I skipped out by a side door, down an alley paved with blue pebbles,
swung the high gate open, and walked up and down the gravel walk which
bordered the roadside, admiring my slippers, and wishing that some
acquaintance with poor shoes could see me. I thought then I would
climb the high gateposts, which had a flat top, and take there the
position of the little girl in "The Shawl Dance." I had no sooner
taken it than Aunt Merce appeared at the door, and gave a shriek at
the sight, which tempted me to jump toward her with extended arms. I
was seized and carried into the house, where supper was administered,
and I was put to bed.






CHAPTER II.


At this time I was ten years old. We lived in a New England village,
Surrey, which was situated on an inlet of a large bay that opened into
the Atlantic. From the observatory of our house we could see how the
inlet was pinched by the long claws of the land, which nearly enclosed
it. Opposite the village, some ten miles across, a range of islands
shut out the main waters of the bay. For miles on the outer side
of the curving prongs of land stretched a rugged, desolate coast,
indented with coves and creeks, lined with bowlders of granite half
sunken in the sea, and edged by beaches overgrown with pale sedge, or
covered with beds of seaweed. Nothing alive, except the gulls, abode
on these solitary shores. No lighthouse stood on any point, to shake
its long, warning light across the mariners' wake. Now and then a
drowned man floated in among the sedge, or a small craft went to
pieces on the rocks. When an easterly wind prevailed, the coast
resounded with the bellowing sea, which brought us tidings from those
inaccessible spots. We heard its roar as it leaped over the rocks
on Gloster Point, and its long, unbroken wail when it rolled in on
Whitefoot Beach. In mild weather, too, when our harbor was quiet, we
still heard its whimper. Behind the village, the ground rose toward
the north, where the horizon was bounded by woods of oak and pine,
intersected by crooked roads, which led to towns and villages near
us. The inland scenery was tame; no hill or dale broke its dull
uniformity. Cornfields and meadows of red grass walled with gray
stone, lay between the village and the border of the woods. Seaward
it was enchanting--beautiful under the sun and moon and clouds. Our
family had lived in Surrey for years. Probably some Puritan of
the name of Morgeson had moved from an earlier settlement, and,
appropriating a few acres in what was now its center, lived long
enough upon them to see his sons and daughters married to the sons and
daughters of similar settlers. So our name was in perpetuation, though
none of our race ever made a mark in his circle, or attained a place
among the great ones of his day. The family recipes for curing herbs
and hams, and making cordials, were in better preservation than the
memory of their makers. It is certain that they were not a progressive
or changeable family. No tradition of any individuality remains
concerning them. There was a confusion in the minds of the survivors
of the various generations about the degree of their relationship to
those who were buried, and whose names and ages simply were cut in the
stones which headed their graves. The _meum_ and _tuum_ of blood were
inextricably mixed; so they contented themselves with giving their
children the old Christian names which were carved on the headstones,
and which, in time, added a still more profound darkness to the
anti-heraldic memory of the Morgesons. They had no knowledge of
that treasure which so many of our New England families are boastful
of--the Ancestor who came over in the Mayflower, or by himself, with
a grant of land from Parliament. It was not known whether two or three
brothers sailed together from the Old World and settled in the New.
They had no portrait, nor curious chair, nor rusty weapon--no old
Bible, nor drinking cup, nor remnant of brocade.

_Morgeson_--_Born_--_Lived_--_Died_--were all their archives. But
there is a dignity in mere perpetuity, a strength in the narrowest
affinities. This dignity and strength were theirs. They are still
vital in our rural population. Occasionally something fine is their
result; an aboriginal reappears to prove the plastic powers of nature.

My great-grandfather, Locke Morgeson, the old man whose head I saw
bound in a red handkerchief, was the first noticeable man of the name.
He was a scale of enthusiasms, ranging from the melancholy to the
sarcastic. When I heard him talked of, it seemed to me that he was
born under the influence of the sea, while the rest of the tribe
inherited the character of the landscape. Comprehension of life, and
comprehension of self, came too late for him to make either of value.
The spirit of progress, however, which prompted his schemes benefited
others. The most that could be said of him was that he had the
rudiments of a Founder.

My father, whose name was Locke Morgeson also, married early. My
mother was five years his elder; her maiden name was Mary Warren. She
was the daughter of Philip Warren, of Barmouth, near Surrey. He was
the best of the Barmouth tailors, though he never changed the cut of
his garments; he was a rigidly pious man, of great influence in the
church, and was descended from Sir Edward Warren, a gentleman of
Devon, who was knighted by Queen Elizabeth. The name of his more
immediate ancestor, Richard Warren, was in "New England's Memorial."
How father first met mother I know not. She was singularly
beautiful--beautiful even to the day of her death; but she was poor,
and without connection, for Philip Warren was the last of his name.
What the Warrens might have been was nothing to the Morgesons; they
themselves had no past, and only realized the present. They never
thought of inquiring into that matter, so they opposed, with great
promptness, father's wish to marry Mary Warren. All, except old Locke
Morgeson, his grandfather, who rode over to Barmouth to see her one
day, and when he came back told father to take her, offered him half
his house to live in, and promised to push him in the world. His offer
quelled the rioters, silencing in particular the opposition of John
Morgeson, father's father.

In a month from this time, Locke Morgeson, Jr., took Mary Warren from
her father's house as his wife. Grandfather Warren prayed a long,
unintelligible prayer over them, helped them into the large,
yellow-bottomed chaise which belonged to Grandfather Locke, and the
young couple drove to their new home, the old mansion. Grandfather
Locke went away in the same yellow-bottomed chaise a week after, and
returned in a few days with a tall lady of fifty by his side--"Marm
Tamor," a twig of the Morgeson tree, being his third cousin, whom he
had married. This marriage was Grandfather Locke's last mistake. He
was then near eighty, but lived long enough to fulfill his promises
to father. The next year I was born, and four years after, my sister
Veronica. Grandfather Locke named us, and charged father not to
consult the Morgeson tombstones for names.






CHAPTER III.


"Mrs. Saunders," said mother, "don't let that soap boil over. Cassy,
keep away from it."

"Lord," replied Mrs. Saunders, "there's no fat in the bones to bile.
Cassy's grown dreadful fast, ain't she? How long has the old man been
dead, Mis Morgeson?"

"Three years, Mrs. Saunders."

"How time do fly," remarked Mrs. Saunders, mopping her wrinkled face
with a dark-blue handkerchief. "The winter's sass is hardly put in
the cellar 'fore we have to cut off the sprouts, and up the taters
for planting agin. We shall all foller him soon." And she stirred the
bones in the great kettle with the vigor of an ogress.

When I heard her ask the question about Grandfather Locke, the
interval that had elapsed since his death swept through my mind. What
a little girl I was at the time! How much had since happened! But no
thought remained with me long. I was about to settle whether I would
go to the beach and wade, or into the woods for snake-flowers, till
school-time, when my attention was again arrested by Mrs. Saunders
saying, "I spose Marm Tamor went off with a large slice, and Mr. John
Morgeson is mad to this day?"

Mother was prevented from answering by the appearance of the said Mr.
John Morgeson, who darkened the threshold of the kitchen door, but
advanced no further. I looked at him with curiosity; if he were mad,
he might be interesting. He was a large, portly man, over sixty, with
splendid black hair slightly grizzled, a prominent nose, and fair
complexion. I did not like him, and determined not to speak to him.

"Say good-morning, Cassandra," said mother, in a low voice.

"No," I answered loudly, "I am not fond of my grandfather."

Mrs. Saunders mopped her face again, grinning with delight behind her
handkerchief.

"Debby, my wife, wants you, Mis Saunders, after you have made Mary's
soap," he said.

"Surely," she answered.

"Where is the black horse to-day?" he asked mother.

"Locke has gone to Milford with him."

"I wanted the black horse to-day," he said, turning away.

"He's a mighty grand man, he is," commented Mrs. Saunders. "I am
pesky glad, Mis Morgeson, that you have never put foot in his house. I
'plaud your sperit!"

"School-time, Cassy," said mother. "Will you have some gingerbread
to carry? Tell me when you come home what you have read in the New
Testament."

"My boy does read beautiful," said Mrs. Saunders. "Where's the potash,
Mis Morgeson?"

I heard the bell toll as I loitered along the roadside, pulling a
dandelion here and there, for it was in the month of May, and
throwing it in the rut for the next wheel to crush. When I reached
the schoolhouse I saw through the open door that the New Testament
exercise was over. The teacher, Mrs. Desire Cushman, a tall, slender
woman, in a flounced calico dress, was walking up and down the room; a
class of boys and girls stood in a zigzag line before her, swaying to
and fro, and drawling the multiplication table. She was yawning as
I entered, which exercise forbade her speaking, and I took my seat
without a reprimand. The flies were just coming; I watched their
sticky legs as they feebly crawled over my old unpainted notched
desk, and crumbled my gingerbread for them; but they seemed to have no
appetite. Some of the younger children were drowsy already, lulled by
the hum of the whisperers. Feeling very dull, I asked permission to go
to the water-pail for a drink; let the tin cup fall into the water so
that the floor might be splashed; made faces at the good scholars, and
did what I could to make the time pass agreeably. At noon mother sent
my dinner, with the request that I should stay till night, on account
of my being in the way while the household was in the crisis of
soap-making and whitewashing. I was exasperated, but I stayed. In the
afternoon the minister came with two strangers to visit the school. I
went through my lessons with dignified inaccuracy, and was commended.
Going back, I happened to step on a loose board under my seat. I
determined to punish Mrs. Desire for the undeserved praise I had just
received, and pushed the board till it clattered and made a dust.
When Mrs. Desire detected me she turned white with anger. I pushed it
again, making so much noise that the visitors turned to see the cause.
She shook her head in my direction, and I knew what was in store, as
we had been at enmity a long time, and she only waited for a decisive
piece of mischief on my part. As soon as the visitors had gone, she
said in a loud voice: "Cassandra Morgeson, take your books and go
home. You shall not come here another day."

I was glad to go, and marched home with the air of a conqueror, going
to the keeping-room where mother sat with a basket of sewing. I saw
Temperance Tinkham, the help, a maiden of thirty, laying the table for
supper.

"Don't wrinkle the tablecloth," she said crossly; "and hang up your
bonnet in the entry, where it belongs," taking it from me as she gave
the order, and going out to hang it up herself.

"I am turned out of school, mother, for pushing a board with my foot."

"Hi," said father, who was waiting for his supper; "come here," and he
whistled to me. He took me on his knee, while mother looked at me with
doubt and sorrow.

"She is almost a woman, Mary."

"Locke, do you know that I am thirty-eight?"

"And you are thirty-three, father," I exclaimed. He looked younger.
I thought him handsome; he had a frank, firm face, an abundance of
light, curly hair, and was very robust. I took off his white
beaver hat, and pushed the curls away from his forehead. He had his
riding-whip in his hand. I took that, too, and snapped it at our
little dog, Kip. Father's clothes also pleased me--a lavender-colored
coat, with brass buttons, and trousers of the same color. I mentally
composed for myself a suit to match his, and thought how well we
should look calling at Lady Teazle's house in London, only I was
worried because my bonnet seemed to be too large for me. A loud crash
in the kitchen disturbed my dream, and Temperance rushed in, dragging
my sister Veronica, whose hair was streaming with milk; she had pulled
a panful over her from the buttery shelf, while Temperance was taking
up the supper. Father laughed, but mother said:

"What have I done, to be so tormented by these terrible children?"

Her mild blue eyes blazed, as she stamped her foot and clenched her
hands. Father took his hat and left the room. Veronica sat down on the
floor, with her eyes fixed upon her, and I leaned against the wall. It
was a gust that I knew would soon blow over. Veronica knew it also. At
the right moment she cried out: "Help Verry, she is sorry."

"Do eat your supper," Temperance called out in a loud voice. "The hash
is burnt to flinders."

She remained in the room to comment on our appetites, and encourage
Veronica, who was never hungry, to eat.

Veronica was an elfish creature, nine years old, diminutive and pale.
Her long, silky brown hair, which was as straight as an Indian's, like
mother's, and which she tore out when angry, usually covered her face,
and her wild eyes looked wilder still peeping through it. She was too
strange-looking for ordinary people to call her pretty, and so odd in
her behavior, so full of tricks, that I did not love her. She was a
silent child, and liked to be alone. But whoever had the charge of her
must be watchful. She tasted everything, and burnt everything, within
her reach. A blazing fire was too strong a temptation to be resisted.
The disappearance of all loose articles was ascribed to her; but
nothing was said about it, for punishment made her more impish and
daring in her pursuits. She had a habit of frightening us by hiding,
and appearing from places where no one had thought of looking for her.
People shook their heads when they observed her. The Morgesons smiled
significantly when she was spoken of, and asked:

"Do you think she is like her mother?"

There was a conflict in mother's mind respecting Veronica. She did not
love her as she loved me; but strove the harder to fulfill her duty.
When Verry suffered long and mysterious illnesses, which made her
helpless for weeks, she watched her day and night, but rarely caressed
her. At other times Verry was left pretty much to herself and her
ways, which were so separate from mine that I scarcely saw her. We
grew up ignorant of each other's character, though Verry knew me
better than I knew her; in time I discovered that she had closely
observed me, when I was most unaware.

We began to prosper about this time.

"Old Locke Morgeson had a long head," people said, when they talked
of our affairs. Father profited by his grandfather's plans, and
his means, too; less visionary, he had modified and brought out
practically many of his projections. Old Locke had left little to his
son John Morgeson, in the belief that father was the man to carry out
his ideas. Besides money, he left him a tract of ground running north
and south, a few rods beyond the old house, and desired him to build
upon it. This he was now doing, and we expected to move into our new
house before autumn.

All the Morgesons wished to put money in a company, as soon as father
could prove that it would be profitable. They were ready to own shares
in the ships which he expected to build, when it was certain that
they would make lucky voyages. He declined their offers, but they all
"knuckled" to the man who had been bold enough to break the life-long
stagnation of Surrey, and approved his plans as they matured. His mind
was filled with the hope of creating a great business which should
improve Surrey. New streets had been cut through his property and that
of grandfather, who, narrow as he was, could not resist the popular
spirit; lots had been laid out, and cottages had gone up upon them. To
matters of minor importance father gave little heed; his domestic life
was fast becoming a habit. The constant enlargement of his schemes was
already a necessary stimulant.

I did not go back to Mrs. Desire's school. Mother said that I must be
useful at home. She sent me to Temperance, and Temperance sent me to
play, or told me to go "a visitin'." I did not care to visit, for in
consequence of being turned out of school, which was considered an
indelible disgrace and long remembered, my schoolmates regarded me in
the light of a Pariah, and put on insufferably superior airs when they
saw me. So, like Veronica, I amused myself, and passed days on the
sea-shore, or in the fields and woods, mother keeping me in long
enough to make a square of patchwork each day and to hear her read
a Psalm--a duty which I bore with patience, by guessing when the
"Selahs" would come in, and counting them. But wherever I was, or
whatever I did, no feeling of beauty ever stole into my mind. I never
turned my face up to the sky to watch the passing of a cloud, or mused
before the undulating space of sea, or looked down upon the earth with
the curiosity of thought, or spiritual aspiration. I was moved and
governed by my sensations, which continually changed, and passed
away--to come again, and deposit vague ideas which ignorantly haunted
me. The literal images of all things which I saw were impressed on my
shapeless mind, to be reproduced afterward by faculties then latent.
But what satisfaction was that? Doubtless the ideal faculty was
active in Veronica from the beginning; in me it was developed by the
experience of years. No remembrance of any ideal condition comes with
the remembrance of my childish days, and I conclude that my mind, if I
had any, existed in so rudimental a state that it had little influence
upon my character.






CHAPTER IV.


One afternoon in the following July, tired of walking in the mown
fields, and of carrying a nest of mice, which I had discovered under
a hay-rick, I concluded I would begin a system of education with them;
so arranging them on a grape-leaf, I started homeward. Going in by the
kitchen, I saw Temperance wiping the dust from the best china, which
elated me, for it was a sign that we were going to have company to
tea.

"You evil child," she said, "where have you been? Your mother has
wanted you these hours, to dress you in your red French calico with
wings to it. Some of the members are coming to tea; Miss Seneth
Jellatt, and she that was Clarissa Tripp, Snow now, and Miss Sophrony
G. Dexter, and more besides."

I put my mice in a basket, and begged Temperance to allow me to finish
wiping the china; she consented, adjuring me not to let it fall. "Mis
Morgeson would die if any of it should be broken." I adored it, too.
Each piece had a peach, or pear, or a bunch of cherries painted on it,
in lustrous brown. The handles were like gold cords, and the covers
had knobs of gilt grapes.

"What preserves are you going to put on the table?" I asked.

"Them West Ingy things Capen Curtis's son brought home, and quartered
quince, though I expect Mis Dexter will remark that the surup is
ropy."

"I wish you wouldn't have cheese."

"We _must_ have cheese," she said solemnly. "I expect they'll drink
our green tea till they make bladders of themselves, it is so good.
Your father is a first-rate man; he is an excellent provider, and
any woman ought to be proud of him, for he does buy number one in
provisions."

I looked at her with admiration and respect.

"Capen Curtis," she continued, pursuing a train of thought which the
preserves had started, "will never come home, I guess. He has been in
furen parts forever and a day; his wife has looked for him, a-twirling
her thumb and fingers, every day for ten years. I heard your mother
had engaged her to go in the new house; she'll take the upper hand of
us all. Your grandfather, Mr. John Morgeson, is willing to part with
her; tired of her, I spose. She has been housekeeping there, off
and on, these thirty years. She's fifty, if she is a day, is Hepsy
Curtis."

"Is she as stingy as you are?" I asked.

"You'll find out for yourself, Miss. I rather think you won't be
allowed to crumble over the buttery shelves."

I finished the cup, and was watching her while she grated loaf-sugar
over a pile of doughnuts, when mother entered, and begged me to come
upstairs with her to be dressed.

"Where is Verry, mother?"

"In the parlor, with a lemon in one hand and Robinson Crusoe in the
other. She will be good, she says. Cassy, you won't teaze me to-day,
will you?"

"No, indeed, mother," and clapping my hands, "I like you too well."

She laughed.

"These Morgesons beat the dogs," I heard Temperance say, as we shut
the door and went upstairs.

I skipped over the shiny, lead-colored floor of the chamber in my
stockings, while mother was taking from the bureau a clean suit for
me, and singing "Bonny Doon," with the sweetest voice in the world.
She soon arrayed me in my red calico dress, spotted with yellow stars.
I was proud of its buckram undersleeves, though they scratched my
arms, and admired its wings, which extended over the protecting
buckram.

"It is three o'clock; the company will come soon. Be careful of your
dress. You must stand by me at the table to hand the cups of tea."

She left me standing in a chair, so that I might see my pantalettes in
the high-hung glass, and the effect of my balloon-like sleeves. Then
I went back to the kitchen to show myself to Temperance, and to enjoy
the progress of tea.

The table was laid in the long keeping-room adjoining the kitchen,
covered with a striped cloth of crimson and blue, smooth as satin to
the touch. Temperance had turned the plates upside-down around the
table, and placed in a straight line through the middle a row of
edibles. She was going to have waffles, she said, and shortcake; they
were all ready to bake, and she wished to the Lord they would come and
have it over with. With the silver sugar-tongs I slyly nipped lumps
of sugar for my private eating, and surveyed my features in the
distorting mirror of the pot-bellied silver teapot, ordinarily laid up
in flannel. When the company had arrived, Temperance advised me to go
in the parlor.

"Sit down, when you get there, and show less," she said. I went in
softly, and stood behind mother's chair, slightly abashed for a moment
in the presence of the party--some eight or ten ladies, dressed
in black levantine, or cinnamon-colored silks, who were seated in
rocking-chairs, all the rocking-chairs in the house having been
carried to the parlor for the occasion. They were knitting, and every
one had a square velvet workbag. Most of them wore lace caps, trimmed
with white satin ribbon. They were larger, more rotund, and older than
mother, whose appearance struck me by contrast. Perhaps it was the
first time I observed her dress; her face I must have studied before,
for I knew all her moods by it. Her long, lusterless, brown hair was
twisted around a high-topped tortoise-shell comb; it was so heavy and
so carelessly twisted that the comb started backward, threatening
to fall out. She had minute rings of filigreed gold in her ears.
Her dress was a gray pongee, simply made and short; I could see her
round-toed morocco shoes, tied with black ribbon. She usually took
out her shoestrings, not liking the trouble of tying them. A ruffle of
fine lace fell around her throat, and the sleeves of her short-waisted
dress were puffed at the shoulders. Her small white hands were folded
in her lap, for she was idle; on the little finger of her left hand
twinkled a brilliant garnet ring, set with diamonds. Her face was
colorless, the forehead extremely low, the nose and mouth finely cut,
the eyes of heavenly blue. Although youth had gone, she was beautiful,
with an indescribable air of individuality. She influenced all who
were near her; her atmosphere enveloped them. She was not aware of it,
being too indifferent to the world to observe what effect she had
in it, and only realized that she was to herself a self-tormentor.
Whether she attracted or repelled, the power was the same. I make no
attempt to analyze her character. I describe her as she appeared,
and as my memory now holds her. I never understood her, and for that
reason she attracted my attention. I felt puzzled now, she seemed
so different from anybody else. My observation was next drawn to
Veronica, who, entirely at home, walked up and down the room in a
blue cambric dress. She was twisting in her fingers a fine gold
chain, which hung from her neck. I caught her cunning glance as she
flourished some tansy leaves before her face, imitating Mrs. Dexter to
the life. I laughed, and she came to me.

"See," she said softly, "I have something from heaven." She lifted her
white apron, and I saw under it, pinned to her dress, a splendid black
butterfly, spotted with red and gold.

"It is mine," she said, "you shall not touch it. God blew it in
through the window; but it has not breathed yet."

"Pooh; I have three mice in the kitchen."

"Where is the mother?"

"In the hayrick, I suppose, I left it there."

"I hate you," she said, in an enraged voice. "I would strike you, if
it wasn't for this holy butterfly."

"Cassandra," said Mrs. Dexter, "does look like her pa; the likeness is
ex-tri-ordinary. They say my William resembles me; but parients are no
judges."

A faint murmur rose from the knitters, which signified agreement with
her remark.

"I do think," she continued, "that it is high time Dr. Snell had a
colleague; he has outlived his usefulness. I never could say that
I thought he was the right kind of man for our congregation; his
principals as a man I have nothing to say against; but _why_ don't we
have revivals?"

When Mrs. Dexter wished to be elegant she stepped out of the
vernacular. She was about to speak again when the whole party broke
into a loud talk on the subject she had started, not observing
Temperance, who appeared at the door, and beckoned to mother. I
followed her out.

"The members are goin' it, ain't they?" she said. "Do see if things
are about right, Mis Morgeson." Mother made a few deviations from the
straight lines in which Temperance had ranged the viands, and told her
to put the tea on the tray, and the chairs round the table.

"There's no place for Mr. Morgeson," observed Temperance.

"He is in Milford," mother replied.

"The brethren wont come, I spose, till after dark?"

"I suppose not."

"Glad to get rid of their wives' clack, I guess."

From the silence which followed mother's return to the parlor, I
concluded they were performing the ancient ceremony of waiting for
some one to go through the doorway first. They came at last with an
air of indifference, as if the idea of eating had not yet occurred,
and delayed taking seats till mother urged it; then they drew up to
the table, hastily, turned the plates right-side up, spread large silk
handkerchiefs over their laps, and, with their eyes fixed on space,
preserved a dead silence, which was only broken by mother's inquiries
about their taste in milk or sugar. Temperance came in with plates
of waffles and buttered shortcake, which she offered with a cut and
thrust air, saying, as she did so, "I expect you can't eat them; I
know they are tough."

Everybody, however, accepted both. She then handed round the
preserves, and went out to bake more waffles.

By this time the cups had circled the table, but no one had tasted a
morsel.

"Do help yourselves," mother entreated, whereat they fell upon the
waffles.

"Temperance is as good a cook as ever," said one; "she is a prize,
isn't she, Mis Morgeson?"

"She is faithful and industrious," mother replied.

All began at once on the subject of help, and were as suddenly
quenched by the reappearance of Temperance, with fresh waffles, and a
dish of apple-fritters.

"Do eat these if you can, ladies; the apples are only russets, and
they are kinder dead for flavoring. I see you don't eat a mite; I
expected you could not; it's poor trash." And she passed the cake
along, everybody taking a piece of each kind.

After drinking a good many cups of tea, and praising it, their
asceticism gave way to its social effect, and they began to gossip,
ridiculing their neighbors, and occasionally launching innuendoes
against their absent lords. It is well known that when women meet
together they do not discuss their rights, but take them, in revealing
the little weaknesses and peculiarities of their husbands. The worst
wife-driver would be confounded at the air of easy superiority assumed
on these occasions by the meekest and most unsuspicious of her sex.
Insinuations of So and So's not being any better than she should
be passed from mouth to mouth, with a glance at me; and I heard the
proverb of "Little pitchers," when mother rose suddenly from the
table, and led the way to the parlor.

"Where is Veronica?" asked Temperance, who was piling the debris
of the feast. "She has been in mischief, I'll warrant; find her,
Cassandra."

She was upstairs putting away her butterfly, in the leaves of her
little Bible. She came down with me, and Temperance coaxed her to eat
her supper, by vowing that she should be sick abed, unless she
liked her fritters and waffles. I thought of my mice, while making
a desultory meal standing, and went to look at them; they were gone.
Wondering if Temperance had thrown the creatures away, I remembered
that I had been foolish enough to tell Veronica, and rushed back to
her. When she saw me, she raised a saucer to her face, pretending to
drink from it.

"Verry, where are the mice?"

"Are they gone?"

"Tell me."

"What will you do if I don't?"

"I know," and I flew upstairs, tore the poor butterfly from between
the leaves of the Bible, crushed it in my hand, and brought it down to
her. She did not cry when she saw it, but choked a little, and turned
away her head.

It was now dark, and hearing a bustle in the entry I looked out, and
saw several staid men slowly rubbing their feet on the door-mat; the
husbands had come to escort their wives home, and by nine o'clock they
all went. Veronica and I stayed by the door after they had gone.

"Look at Mrs. Dexter," she said; "I put the mice in her workbag."

I burst into a laugh, which she joined in presently.

"I am sorry about the butterfly, Verry." And I attempted to take her
hand, but she pushed me away, and marched off whistling.

A few days after this, sitting near the window at twilight, intent
upon a picture in a book of travels, of a Hindoo swinging from a high
pole with hooks in his flesh, and trying to imagine how much it
hurt him, my attention was arrested by a mention of my name in a
conversation held between mother and Mr. Park, one of the neighbors.
He occasionally spent an evening at our house, passing it in polemical
discussion, revising the prayers and exhortations which he made at
conference meetings. The good man was a little vain of having the
formulas of his creed at his tongue's end. She sometimes lost the
thread of his discourse, but argued also as if to convince herself
that she could rightly distinguish between Truth and Illusion, but
never discussed religious topics with father. Like all the Morgesons,
he was Orthodox, accepting what had been provided by others for his
spiritual accommodation. He thought it well that existing Institutions
should not be disturbed. "Something worse might be established
instead." His turn of mind, in short, was not Evangelical.

"Are the Hindoos in earnest, mother?" and I thrust the picture before
her. She warned me off.

"Do you think, Mr. Park, that Cassandra can understand the law of
transgression?"

An acute perception that it was in my power to escape a moral penalty,
by willful ignorance, was revealed to me, that I could continue the
privilege of sinning with impunity. His answer was complicated, and
he quoted several passages from the Scriptures. Presently he began to
sing, and I grew lonesome; the life within me seemed a black cave.

    "_Our nature's totally depraved--
      The heart a sink of sin;
    Without a change we can't be saved,
      Ye must be born again_."

Temperance opened the door. "Is Veronica going to bed to-night?" she
asked.






CHAPTER V.


The next September we moved. Our new house was large and handsome. On
the south side there was nothing between it and the sea, except a few
feet of sand. No tree or shrub intercepted the view. To the eastward a
promontory of rocks jutted into the sea, serving as a pier against
the wash of the tide, and adding a picturesqueness to the curve of the
beach. On the north side flourished an orchard, which was planted by
Grandfather Locke. Looking over the tree-tops from the upper north
windows, one would have had no suspicion of being in the neighborhood
of the sea. From these windows, in winter, we saw the nimbus of the
Northern Light. The darkness of our sky, the stillness of the night,
mysteriously reflected the perpetual condition of its own solitary
world. In summer ragged white clouds rose above the horizon, as if
they had been torn from the sky of an underworld, to sail up the
blue heaven, languish away, or turn livid with thunder, and roll off
seaward. Between the orchard and the house a lawn sloped easterly to
the border of a brook, which straggled behind the outhouses into a
meadow, and finally lost itself among the rocks on the shore. Up by
the lawn a willow hung over it, and its outer bank was fringed by
the tangled wild-grape, sweet-briar, and alder bushes. The premises,
except on the seaside, were enclosed by a high wall of rough granite.
No houses were near us, on either side of the shore; up the north road
they were scattered at intervals.

Mother said I must be considered a young lady, and should have my own
room. Veronica was to have one opposite, divided from it by a wide
passage. This passage extended beyond the angle of the stairway, and
was cut off by a glass door. A wall ran across the lower end of the
passage; half the house was beyond its other side, so that when the
door was fastened, Veronica and myself were in a cul-de-sac.

The establishment was put on a larger footing. Mrs. Hepsey Curtis was
installed mistress of the kitchen. Temperance declared that she could
not stand it; that she wasn't a nigger; that she must go, but she had
no home, and no friends--nothing but a wood lot, which was left her
by her father the miller. As the trees thereon grew, promising to make
timber, its value increased; at present her income was limited to the
profit from the annual sale of a cord or two of wood. So she staid on,
in spite of Hepsey. There were also two men for the garden and stable.
A boy was always attached to the house; not the same boy, but a Boy
dynasty, for as soon as one went another came, who ate a great deal--a
crime in Hepsey's eyes--and whose general duty was to carry armfuls of
wood, pails of milk, or swill, and to shut doors.

We had many visitors. Though father had no time to devote to guests,
he was continually inviting people for us to entertain, and his
invitations were taken as a matter of course, and finally for granted.
A rich Morgeson was a new feature in the family annals, and distant
relations improved the advantage offered them by coming to spend the
summer with us, because their own houses were too hot, or the winter,
because they were too cold! Infirm old ladies, who were not related to
us, but who had nowhere else to visit, came. As his business extended,
our visiting list extended. The captains of his ships whose homes were
elsewhere brought their wives to be inconsolable with us after their
departure on their voyages. We had ministers often, who always quarter
at the best houses, and chance visitors to dinner and supper, who made
our house a way-station. There was but small opportunity to cultivate
family affinities; they were forever disturbed. Somebody was always
sitting in the laps of our Lares and Penates. Another class of
visitors deserving notice were those who preferred to occupy the
kitchen and back chambers, humbly proud and bashfully arrogant people,
who kept their hats and bonnets by them, and small bundles, to delude
themselves and us with the idea that they "had not come to stay, and
had no occasion for any attention." These people criticised us
with insinuating severity, and proposed amendments with unrelenting
affability. To this class Veronica was most attracted--it repelled me;
consequently she was petted, and I was amiably sneered at.

This period of our family life has left small impression of dramatic
interest. There was no development of the sentiments, no betrayal of
the fluctuations of the passions which must have existed. There was
no accident to reveal, no coincidence to surprise us. Hidden among
the Powers That Be, which rule New England, lurks the Deity of the
Illicit. This Deity never obtained sovereignty in the atmosphere
where the Morgesons lived. Instead of the impression which my
after-experience suggests to me to seek, I recall arrivals and
departures, an eternal smell of cookery, a perpetual changing of beds,
and the small talk of vacant minds.

Despite the rigors of Hepsey in the kitchen, and the careful
supervision of Temperance, there was little systematic housekeeping.
Mother had severe turns of planning, and making rules, falling upon
us in whirlwinds of reform, shortly allowing the band of habit to snap
back, and we resumed our former condition. She had no assistance from
father in her ideas of change. It was enough for him to know that he
had built a good house to shelter us, and to order the best that could
be bought for us to eat and to wear. He liked, when he went where
there were fine shops, to buy and bring home handsome shawls, bonnets,
and dresses, wholly unsuited in general to the style and taste of each
of us, but much handsomer than were needful for Surrey. They answered,
however, as patterns for the plainer materials of our neighbors. He
also bought books for us, recommended by their covers, or the opinion
of the bookseller. His failing was to buy an immense quantity of
everything he fancied.

"I shall never have to buy this thing again," he would say; "let us
have enough."

Veronica and I grew up ignorant of practical or economical ways. We
never saw money, never went shopping. Mother was indifferent in regard
to much of the business of ordinary life which children are taught to
understand. Father and mother both stopped at the same point with us,
but for a different reason; father, because he saw nothing beyond the
material, and mother, because her spiritual insight was confused and
perplexing. But whatever a household may be, the Destinies spin the
web to their will, put of the threads which drop hither and thither,
floating in its atmosphere, white, black, or gray.

From the time we moved, however, we were a stirring, cheerful family,
independent of each other, but spite of our desultory tastes, mutual
habits were formed. When the want of society was felt, we sought the
dining-room, sure of meeting others with the same want. This room was
large and central, connecting with the halls, kitchen, and mother's
room. It was a caravansary where people dropped in and out on
their way to some other place. Our most public moments were during
meal-time. It was known that father was at home at breakfast and
supper, and could be consulted. As he was away at our noonday dinner,
generally we were the least disturbed then, and it was a lawless,
irregular, and unceremonious affair. Mother establisher her arm-chair
here, and a stand for her workbasket. Hepsey and Temperance were at
hand, the men came for orders, and it was convenient for the boy to
transmit the local intelligence it was his vocation to collect. The
windows commanded a view of the sea, the best in the house. This
prospect served mother for exercise. Her eyes roved over it when she
wanted a little out-of-doors life. If she desired more variety, which
was seldom, she went to the kitchen. After we moved she grew averse
to leaving the house, except to go to church. She never quitted the
dining-room after our supper till bedtime, because father rarely came
from Milford, where he went on bank days, and indeed almost every
other day, till late, and she liked to be by him while he ate his
supper and smoked a cigar. All except Veronica frequented this room;
but she was not missed or inquired for. She liked the parlor, because
the piano was there. As soon as father had bought it she astonished us
by a persistent fingering of the keys, which produced a feeble melody.
She soon played all the airs she had heard. When I saw what she could
do, I refused to take music lessons, for while I was trying to
learn "The White Cockade," she pushed me away, played it, and made
variations upon it. I pounded the keys with my fist, by way of a
farewell, and told her she should have the piano for her own.






CHAPTER VI.


One winter morning before daylight, Veronica came to my room, and
asked me if I had heard any walking about the house during the night.
She had, and was going to inquire about it. She soon returned with,
"You have a brother. Temperance says my nose is broken. He will be
like you, I suppose, and have everything he asks for. I don't care
for him; but," crying out with passion, "get up. Mother wants to see
_you_, I know."

I dressed quickly, and went downstairs with a feeling of indignation
that such an event should have happened without my knowledge.

There was an unwonted hush. A bright fire was burning on the
dining-room hearth, the lamps were still lighted, and father was by
the fire, smoking in a meditative manner. He put out his hand, which I
did not take, and said, "Do you like his name--Arthur?"

"Yes," I mumbled, as I passed him, and went to the kitchen, where
Hepsey and Temperance were superintending the steeping of certain
aromatic herbs, which stood round the fire in silver porringers and
earthen pitchers.

"Another Morgeson's come," said Temperance. "There's enough of them,
such as they are--not but what they are good enough," correcting
herself hastily.

"Go into your mother's room, softly," said Hepsey, rubbing her fingers
against her thumb--her habit when she was in a tranquil frame of mind.

"_You_ are mighty glad, Hepsey," said Temperance.

"Locke Morgeson ought to have a son," she replied, "to leave his money
to."

"I vow," answered Temperance, "girls are thought nothing of in this
'ligous section; they may go to the poor house, as long as the sons
have plenty."

An uncommon fit or shyness seized me, mixed with a feeling of dread,
as I crept into the room where mother was. My eyes first fell upon
an elderly woman, who wore a long, wide, black apron, whose strings
girded the middle of her cushion-like form. She was taking snuff. It
was the widow Mehitable Allen, a lady whom I had often seen in other
houses on similar occasions.

"Shoo," she whispered nasally.

I was arrested, but turned my eyes toward mother; hers were closed.
Presently she murmured, "Thank God," opened them, and saw me. A smile
lighted her pale countenance. "Cassy, my darling, kiss me. I am glad
it is not a woman." As I returned her kiss her glance dropped on a
small bunch by her side, which Mehitable took and deftly unrolled,
informing me as she did so that it was a "Rouser."

Aunt Mercy came the next day. She had not paid us a visit in a long
time, being confined at home with the care of her father, Grandfather
Warren. She took charge of Veronica and me, if taking charge means
a series of guerilla skirmishes on both sides. I soon discovered,
however, that she was prone to laughter, and that I could provoke
it; we got on better after that discovery; but Veronica, disdaining
artifice, was very cross with her. Aunt Mercy had a spark of fun in
her composition, which was not quite crushed out by her religious
education. She frequented the church oftener than mother, sang more
hymns, attended all the anniversary celebrations, but she had no
dreams, no enthusiasm. Her religion had leveled all needs and all
aspirations. What the day brought forth answered her. She inspired me
with a secret pity; for I knew she carried in her bosom the knowledge
that she was an old maid.

Before mother left her room Veronica was taken ill, and was not
convalescent till spring. Delicacy of constitution the doctor called
her disorder. She had no strength, no appetite, and looked more elfish
than ever. She would not stay in bed, and could not sit up, so father
had a chair made for her, in which she could recline comfortably. Aunt
Merce put her in it every morning, and took her out every evening. My
presence irritated her, so I visited her but seldom. She said I looked
so well, it hurt her, and wished me to keep out of her sight, begged
me never to talk loud in the vicinity of her room, my voice was
so breezy. She amused herself in her own strange way. One of her
amusements was to cut off her hair, lock by lock, and cut it short
before she was well enough to walk about. She played on a jewsharp,
and on a little fife when her breath permitted, and invented grotesque
costumes out of bits of silk and lace. Temperance was much engaged,
at her dictation, in the composition of elaborate dishes, which she
rarely ate, but forced Temperance to. She was more patient with her
than any other person; with us she was excessively high-tempered,
especially with father. She could not bear to catch a glimpse of the
sea, nor to hear it; if she heard it echoing in the house, she played
on her fife, or jewsharp, or asked Aunt Merce to sing some old song.
But she liked the view from the north windows, even when the boughs
were bare and the fields barren. When the grass came, she ordered
handfuls to be brought her and put in saucers of water. With the
coming of the blossoms she began to mend. As for me, I was as much an
animal as ever--robust in health--inattentive, and seeking excitement
and exhilaration. I went everywhere, to Bible class, to Sunday school,
and to every funeral which took place within our precincts. But I
never looked upon the dead; perhaps that sight would have marred the
slumbrous security which possessed me--the instinctive faith in the
durability of my own powers of life.

But a change was approaching. Aunt Merce considered my present state a
hopeless one. She was outside the orbit of the family planet, and saw
the tendency of its revolutions, perceiving that father and mother
were absorbed in their individual affairs. She called mother's
attention to my non-improvement, and proposed that I should return
to Barmouth with her for a year, and become a pupil in a young lady's
school, which had been recently established there, by a graduate of
the Nipswich Female Seminary, a school distinguished for its ethics.
Mother looked astonished, when she heard this proposal. "What!" she
began with vehemence, "shall I subject"--but checked herself when she
caught my eye, and continued more calmly: "We will decide soon."

It was decided that I should go, without my being consulted in the
matter. I felt resentful against mother, and could not understand
till afterward, why she had consented to the plan. It was because she
wished me to comprehend the influences of her early life, and learn
some of the lessons she had been taught. At first, father "poohed"
at the plan, but finally said it was a good place to tame me. When
Veronica heard that I was going, she told me that I would be stifled,
if I lived at Grandfather Warren's; but added that the plums in his
garden were good, and advised me to sit on the yellow stone doorstep,
under which the toads lived. She also informed me that she was glad of
it, and hoped I would stay forever.

To Barmouth I went, and in May entered Miss Black's genteel school.
Miss Black had a conviction that her vocation was teaching. Necessity
did not compel it, for she was connected with one of the richest
families in Barmouth. At the end of the week my curiosity regarding my
new position was quenched, and I dropped into the depths of my first
wretchedness. I frantically demanded of father, who had stopped to
see me on his way to Milford, to be taken home. He firmly resisted me.
Once a month, I should go home and spend a Sunday, if I chose, and he
would come to Barmouth every week.

My agitation and despair clouded his face for a moment, then it
cleared, and pinching my chin, he said, "Why don't you look like your
mother?"

"But she _is_ like her mother," said Aunt Merce.

"Well, Cassy, good-by"; and he gave me a kiss with cruel nonchalance.
I knew my year must be stayed out.






CHAPTER VII.


My life at Grandfather Warren's was one kind of penance and my life
in Miss Black's school another. Both differed from our home-life.
My filaments found no nourishment, creeping between the two; but
the fibers of youth are strong, and they do not perish. Grandfather
Warren's house reminded me of the casket which imprisoned the Genii.
I had let loose a Presence I had no power over--the embodiment of its
gloom, its sternness, and its silence.

With feeling comes observation; after that, one reasons. I began to
observe. Aunt Mercy was not the Aunt Merce I had known at home. She
wore a mask before her father. There was constraint between them;
each repressed the other. The result of this relation was a formal,
petrifying, unyielding system,--a system which, from the fact of its
satisfying neither, was kept up the more rigidly; on the one side
from a morbid conscience, which reiterated its monitions against
the dictates of the natural heart; on the other, out of respect and
timidity.

Grandfather Warren was a little, lean, leather-colored man. His head
was habitually bent, his eyes cast down; but when he raised them to
peer about, their sharpness and clear intelligence gave his face
a wonderful vitality. He chafed his small, well-shaped hands
continually; his long polished nails clicked together with a shelly
noise, like that which beetles make flying against the ceiling. His
features were delicate and handsome; gentle blood ran in his veins,
as I have said. All classes in Barmouth treated him with invariable
courtesy. He was aboriginal in character, not to be moved by
antecedent or changed by innovation--a Puritan, without gentleness or
tenderness. He scarcely concealed his contempt for the emollients
of life, or for those who needed them. He whined over no misfortune,
pined for no pleasure. His two sons, who broke loose from him, went
into the world, lived a wild, merry life, and died there, he never
named. He found his wife dead by his side one morning. He did not go
frantic, but selected a text for the funeral sermon; and when he stood
by the uncovered grave, took off his hat and thanked his friends for
their kindness with a loud, steady voice. Aunt Mercy told me that
after her mother's death his habit of chafing his hands commenced;
it was all the difference she saw in him, for he never spoke of his
trouble or acknowledged his grief by sign or word.

Though he had been frugal and industrious all his life, he had no more
property than the old, rambling house we lived in, and a long, narrow
garden attached to it, where there were a few plum and quince trees, a
row of currant bushes, Aunt Mercy's beds of chamomile and sage, and a
few flowers. At the end of the garden was a peaked-roof pigsty; it
was cleanly kept, and its inhabitant had his meals served with the
regularity which characterized all that Grandfather Warren did.
Beautiful pigeons lived in the roof, and were on friendly terms with
the occupant on the lower floor. The house was not unpicturesque. It
was built on a corner, facing two streets. One front was a story high,
with a slanting roof; the other, which was two-storied, sloped like
a giraffe's back, down to a wood-shed. Clean cobwebs hung from its
rafters, and neat heaps of fragrant chips were piled on the floor.

The house had many rooms, all more or less dark and irregularly
shaped. The construction of the chambers was so involved, I could
not get out of one without going into another. Some of the ceilings
slanted suddenly, and some so gradually that where I could stand
erect, and where I must stoop, I never remembered, until my head
was unpleasantly grazed, or my eyes filled with flakes of ancient
lime-dust. A long chamber in the middle of the house was the shop,
always smelling of woolen shreds. At sunset, summer or winter, Aunt
Mercy sprinkled water on the unpainted floor, and swept it. While she
swept I made my thumb sore, by snipping the bits of cloth that were
scattered on the long counter by the window with Grand'ther's shears,
or I scrawled figures with gray chalk, where I thought they might
catch his eye. When she had finished sweeping she carefully sorted
the scraps, and put them into boxes under the counter; then she neatly
rolled up the brown-paper curtains, which had been let down to
exclude the afternoon sun; shook the old patchwork cushions in the
osier-bottomed chairs; watered the rose-geranium and the monthly rose,
which flourished wonderfully in that fluffy atmosphere; set every pin
and needle in its place, and shut the door, which was opened again at
sunrise. Of late years, Grand'ther's occupation had declined. No new
customers came. A few, who did not change the fashion of their garb,
still patronized him. His income was barely three hundred dollars a
year--eked out to this amount by some small pay for offices connected
with the church, of which he was a prominent member. From this income
he paid his pulpit tithe, gave to the poor, and lived independent and
respectable. Mother endeavored in an unobtrusive way to add to his
comfort; but he would only accept a few herrings from the Surrey
Weir every spring, and a basket of apples every fall. He invariably
returned her presents by giving her a share of his plums and quinces.

I had only seen Grand'ther Warren at odd intervals. He rarely came
to our house; when he did, he rode down on the top of the Barmouth
stagecoach, returning in a few hours. As mother never liked to go to
Barmouth, she seldom came to see me.






CHAPTER VIII.


It was five o'clock on Saturday afternoon when father left me. Aunt
Mercy continued her preparations for tea, and when it was ready, went
to the foot of the stairs, and called, "Supper." Grand'ther came down
immediately followed by two tall, cadaverous women, Ruth and Sally
Aikin, tailoresses, who sewed for him spring and fall. Living several
miles from Barmouth, they stayed through the week, going home on
Saturday night, to return on Monday morning. We stood behind the heavy
oak chairs round the table, one of which Grand'ther tipped backward,
and said a long grace, not a word of which was heard; for his teeth
were gone, and he prayed in his throat. Aunt Mercy's "Moltee" rubbed
against me, with her back and tail erect. I pinched the latter, and
she gave a wail. Aunt Mercy passed her hand across her mouth, but the
eyes of the two women were stony in their sockets. Grand'ther ended
his grace with an upward jerk of his head as we seated ourselves.
He looked sharply at me, his gray eyebrows rising hair by hair,
and shaking a spoon at me said, "You are playing over your mother's
capers."

"The caper-bush grows on the shores of the Mediterranean sea,
Grand'ther. Miss Black had it for a theme, out of the _Penny
Magazine_; it is full of themes."

"She had better give you a gospel theme."

He was as inarticulate when he quoted Scripture as when he prayed, but
I heard something about "thorns"; then he helped us to baked Indian
pudding--our invariable Saturday night's repast. Aunt Mercy passed
cups of tea; I heard the gulping swallow of it in every throat, the
silence was so profound. After the pudding we had dried apple-pie,
which we ate from our hands, like bread. Grand'ther ate fast, not
troubling himself to ask us if we would have more, but making the
necessary motions to that effect by touching the spoon in the pudding
or knife on the pie. Ruth and Sally still kept their eyes fixed on
some invisible object at a distance. What a disagreeable interest I
felt in them! What had they in common with me? What could they enjoy?
How unpleasant their dingy, crumbled, needle-pricked fingers were!
Sally hiccoughed, and Ruth suffered from internal rumblings. Without
waiting for each other when we had finished, we put our chairs against
the wall and left the room. I rushed into the garden and trampled the
chamomile bed. I had heard that it grew faster for being subjected
to that process, and thought of the two women I had just seen while I
crushed the spongy plants. Had _they_ been trampled upon? A feeling
of pity stung me; I ran into the house, and found them on the point of
departure, with little bundles in their hands.

"Aunt Mercy will let me carry your bundles a part of the way for you;
shall I?"

"No, indeed," said Ruth, in a mild voice; "there's no heft in them;
they are mites to carry."

"Besides," chimed Sally, "you couldn't be trusted with them."

"Are they worth anything?" I inquired, noticing then that both wore
better dresses, and that the bundles contained their shop-gowns.

"What made you pinch the moltee's tail?" asked Sally. "If you pinched
my cat's tail, I would give you a sound whipping."

"How could she, Sally," said Ruth, "when our cat's tail is cut short
off?"

"For all the world," remarked Sally, "that's the only way she can
be managed. If things are cut off, and kept out of sight, or never
mentioned before her, she may behave very well; not otherwise."

"Good-by, Miss Ruth, and Sally, good-by," modulating my voice to
accents of grief, and making a "cheese."

They retreated with a less staid pace than usual, and I sought Aunt
Mercy, who was preparing the Sunday's dinner. Twilight drew near, and
the Sunday's clouds began to fall on my spirits. Between sundown and
nine o'clock was a tedious interval. I was not allowed to go to bed,
nor to read a secular book, or to amuse myself with anything. A dim
oil-lamp burned on the high shelf of the middle room, our ordinary
gathering-place. Aunt Mercy sat there, rocking in a low chair; the
doors were open, and I wandered softly about. The smell of the
garden herbs came in faintly, and now and then I heard a noise in
the water-butt under the spout, the snapping of an old rafter, or
something falling behind the wall. The toads crawled from under the
plantain leaves, and hopped across the broad stone before the kitchen
door, and the irreverent cat, with whom I sympathized, raced like mad
in the grass. Growing duller, I went to the cellar door, which was in
the front entry, opened it, and stared down in the black gulf, till
I saw a gray rock rise at the foot of the stairs which affected my
imagination. The foundation of the house was on the spurs of a great
granite bed, which rose from the Surrey shores, dipped and cropped
out in the center of Barmouth. It came through the ground again in the
woodhouse, smooth and round, like the bald head of some old Titan, and
in the border of the garden it burst through in narrow ridges full
of seams. As I contemplated the rock, and inhaled a moldy atmosphere
whose component parts were charcoal and potatoes, I heard the first
stroke of the nine o'clock bell, which hung in the belfry of the
church across the street. Although it was so near us that we could
hear the bellrope whistle in its grooves, and its last hoarse breath
in the belfry, there was no reverberation of its clang in the house;
the rock under us struck back its voice. It was an old Spanish bell,
Aunt Mercy told me. How it reached Barmouth she did not know. I
recognized its complaining voice afterward. It told me it could never
forget it had been baptized a Catholic; and it pined for the beggar
who rang it in the land of fan-leaved chestnuts! It would growl and
strangle as much as possible in the hands of Benjamin Beals, the
bell-ringer and coffin-maker of Barmouth. Except in the morning when
it called me up, I was glad to hear it. It was the signal of time
past; the oftener I heard it, the nearer I was to the end of my year.
Before it ceased to ring now Aunt Mercy called me in a low voice. I
returned to the middle room, and took a seat in one of the oak chairs,
whose back of upright rods was my nightly penance. Aunt Mercy took the
lamp from the shelf, and placed it upon a small oak stand, where
the Bible lay. Grand'ther entered, and sitting by the stand read a
chapter. His voice was like opium. Presently my head rolled across the
rods, and I felt conscious of slipping down the glassy seat. After
he had read the chapter he prayed. If the chapter had been long, the
prayer was short; if the chapter had been short, the prayer was long.
When he had ceased praying, he left the room without speaking, and
betook himself to bed. Aunt Mercy dragged me up the steep stairs,
undressed me, and I crept into bed, drugged with a monotony which
served but to deepen the sleep of youth and health. When the bell rang
the next morning, Aunt Mercy gave me a preparatory shake before she
began to dress, and while she walked up and down the room lacing her
stays entreated me to get up.

If the word lively could ever be used in reference to our life, it
might be in regard to Sunday. The well was so near the church that the
house was used as an inn for the accommodation of the church-goers who
lived at any distance, and who did not return home between the morning
and afternoon services. A regular set took dinner with us, and
there were parties who brought lunch, which they ate off their
handkerchiefs, on their knees. It was also a watering-place for the
Sunday-school scholars, who filed in troops before the pail in the
well-room, and drank from the cocoanut dipper. When the weather was
warm our parlor was open, as it was to-day. Aunt Mercy had dusted it
and ornamented the hearth with bunches of lilacs in a broken pitcher.
Twelve yellow chairs, a mahogany stand, a dark rag-carpet, some
speckled Pacific sea-shells on the shelf, among which stood a whale's
tooth with a drawing of a cranky ship thereon, and an ostrich's egg
that hung by a string from the ceiling, were the adornments of the
room. When we were dressed for church, we looked out of the window
till the bell tolled, and the chaise of the Baxters and Sawyers had
driven to the gate; then we went ourselves. Grand'ther had preceded
us, and was already in his seat. Aunt Mercy went up to the head of the
pew, a little out of breath, from the tightness of her dress, and the
ordeal of the Baxter and Sawyer eyes, for the pew, though off a side
aisle, was in the neighborhood of the elite of the church; a clove,
however, tranquilized her. I fixed my feet on a cricket, and examined
the bonnets. The house filled rapidly, and last of all the minister
entered. The singers began an anthem, singing in an advanced style of
the art, I observed, for they shouted "_Armen_," while our singers in
Surrey bellowed "_Amen_." When the sermon began I settled myself
into a vague speculation concerning my future days of freedom; but my
dreams were disturbed by the conduct of the Hickspold boys, who were
in a pew in front of us. As in the morning, so in the afternoon and
all the Sundays in the year. The variations of the season served but
to deepen the uniformity of my heartsickness.






CHAPTER IX.


Aunt Mercy had not introduced me to Miss Black as the daughter of
Locke Morgeson, the richest man in Surrey, but simply as her niece.
Her pride prevented her from making any exhibition of my antecedents,
which was wise, considering that I had none. My grandfather,
John Morgeson, was a nobody,--merely a "Co."; and though my
great-grandfather, Locke Morgeson, was worthy to be called a Somebody,
it was not his destiny to make a stir in the world. Many of the
families of my Barmouth schoolmates had the fulcrum of a moneyed
grandfather. The knowledge of the girls did not extend to that period
in the family history when its patriarchs started in the pursuit of
Gain. Elmira Sawyer, one of Miss Black's pupils, never heard that her
grandfather "Black Peter," as he was called, had made excursions,
in an earlier part of his life, on the River Congo, or that he was
familiar with the soundings of Loango Bay. As he returned from his
voyages, bringing more and more money, he enlarged his estate, and
grew more and more respectable, retiring at last from the sea, to
become a worthy landsman; he paid taxes to church and state, and
even had a silver communion cup, among the pewter service used on
the occasion of the Lord's Supper; but he never was brought to
the approval of that project of the Congregational Churches,--the
colonization of the Blacks to Liberia. Neither was Hersila Allen aware
that the pink calico in which I first saw her was remotely owing to
West India Rum. Nor did Charlotte Alden, the proudest girl in school,
know that her grandfather's, Squire Alden's, stepping-stone to
fortune was the loss of the brig _Capricorn_, which was wrecked in
the vicinity of a comfortable port, on her passage out to the
whaling-ground. An auger had been added to the meager outfit, and long
after the sea had leaked through the hole bored through her bottom,
and swallowed her, and the insurance had been paid, the truth leaked
out that the captain had received instructions, which had been
fulfilled. Whereupon two Insurance Companies went to law with him, and
a suit ensued, which ended in their paying costs, in addition to what
they had before paid Squire Alden, who winked in a derisive manner at
the Board of Directors when he received its check.

There were others who belonged in the category of Decayed Families,
as exclusive as they were shabby. There were parvenus, which included
myself. When I entered the school it was divided into clans, each
with its spites, jealousies, and emulations. Its _esprit de corps_,
however, was developed by my arrival; the girls united against me, and
though I perceived, when I compared myself with them, that they were
partly right in their opinions, their ridicule stupefied and crushed
me. They were trained, intelligent, and adroit; I uncouth, ignorant,
and without tact. It was impossible for Miss Black not to be affected
by the general feeling in regard to me. Her pupils knew sooner than I
that she sympathized with them. She embarrassed me, when I should have
despised her. At first her regimen surprised, then filled me with a
dumb, clouded anger, which made me appear apathetic.

Miss Emily Black was a young woman, and, I thought, a handsome one.
She had crenelated black hair, large black eyes, a Roman nose,
and long white teeth. She bit her nails when annoyed, and when her
superiority made her perceive the mental darkness of others she often
laughed. Being pious, she conducted her school after the theologic
pattern of the Nipswich Seminary, at which she had been educated.
She opened the school each day with a religious exercise, reading
something from the Bible, and commenting upon it, or questioning us
regarding our ideas of what she read. She often selected the character
of David, and was persistent in her efforts to explain and reconcile
the discrepancies in the history of the royal Son of Israel.

"Miss _C._ Morgeson, we will call you," she said, in our first
interview; "the name of Cassandra is too peculiar."

"My Grandfather Locke liked the name; my sister's is Veronica; do you
like that better?"

"It is of no consequence in the premises what your sister may be
named," she replied, running her eyes over me. "What will she study,
Miss Warren?"

Aunt Mercy's recollections of my studies were dim, and her knowledge
of my school days was not calculated to prepossess a teacher in my
favor; but after a moment's delay, she said: "What you think best."

"Very well," she answered; "I will endeavor to fulfill my Christian
duty toward her. We will return to the school-room."

We had held the conversation in the porch, and now Aunt Mercy gave me
a nod of encouragement, and bidding Miss Black "Good day," departed,
looking behind her as long as possible. I followed my teacher. As she
opened the door forty eyes were leveled at me; my hands were in my way
suddenly; my feet impeded my progress; how could I pass that wall of
eyes? A wisp of my dry, rough hair fell on my neck and tickled it; as
I tried to poke it under my comb, I glanced at the faces before me.
How spirited and delicate they were! The creatures had their heads
dressed as if they were at a party--in curls, or braids and ribbons.
An open, blank, _noli me tangere_ expression met my perturbed glance.
I stood still, but my head went round. Miss Black mounted her desk,
and surveyed the school-room. "Miss Charlotte Alden, the desk next you
is vacant; Miss C. Morgeson, the new pupil, may take it."

Miss Charlotte answered, "Yes mim," and ostentatiously swept away an
accumulation of pencils, sponges, papers, and books, to make room for
me. I took the seat, previously stumbling against her, whereat all
the girls, whose regards were fixed upon me, smiled. That was my
initiation.

The first day I was left to myself, to make studies. The school-room
was in the vestry of the church, a building near grand'ther's house.
Each girl had a desk before her. Miss Black occupied a high stool in
a square box, where she heard single recitations, or lectured a pupil.
The vestry yard, where the girls romped, and exercised with skipping
ropes, a swing, and a set of tilting-boards, commanded a view of
grand'ther's premises; his street windows were exposed to the fire of
their eyes and tongues.

After I went home I examined myself in the glass, and drew an
unfavorable conclusion from the inspection. My hair was parted zigzag;
one shoulder was higher than the other; my dress came up to my chin,
and slipped down to my shoulder-blades. I was all waist; no hips were
developed my hands were red, and my nails chipped. I opened the trunk
where my wardrobe was packed; what belonged to me was comfortable,
in reference to weather and the wash, but not pretty. I found a
molasses-colored silk, called Turk satin--one of mother's old dresses,
made over for me, or an invidious selection of hers from the purchases
of father, who sometimes made a mistake in taste, owing to the
misrepresentations of shopkeepers and milliners. While thus engaged
Aunt Mercy came for me, and began to scold when she saw that I had
tumbled my clothes out of the trunk.

"Aunt Mercy, these things are horrid, all of them. Look at this
shawl," and I unrolled a square silk fabric, the color of a sick
orange. "Where did this come from?"

"Saints upon earth!" she exclaimed, "your father bought it at the best
store in New York. It was costly."

"Now tell me, why do the pantalettes of those girls look so graceful?
They do not twirl round the ankle like a rope, as mine do."

"I can't say," she answered, with a sigh. "But you ought to wear long
dresses; now yours are tucked, and could be let down."

"And these red prunella boots--they look like boiled crabs." I put
them on, and walked round the room crab-fashion, till she laughed
hysterically. "Miss Charlotte Alden wears French kid slippers every
day, and I must wear mine."

"No," she said, "you must only wear them to church."

"I shall talk to father about that, when he comes here next."

"Cassy, did Charlotte Alden speak to you to-day?"

"No; but she made an acquaintance by stares."

"Well, never mind her if she says anything unpleasant to you; the
Aldens are a high set."

"Are they higher than we are in Surrey? Have they heard of my father,
who is equal to the President?"

"We are all equal in the sight of God."

"You do not look as if you thought so, Aunt Mercy. Why do you say
things in Barmouth you never said in Surrey?"

"Come downstairs, Cassandra, and help me finish the dishes."

Our conversation was ended; but I still had my thoughts on the clothes
question, and revolved my plans.

After the morning exercises the next day, Miss Black called me in to
her desk. "I think," she said, "you had better study Geology. It is
important, for it will lead your mind up from nature to nature's
God. My young ladies have finished their studies in that direction;
therefore you will recite alone, once a day."

"Yes 'em," I replied; but it was the first time that I had heard of
Geology. The compendium she gave me must have been dull and dry. I
could not get its lessons perfectly. It never inspired me with any
interest for land or sea. I could not associate any of its terms, or
descriptions, with the great rock under grand'ther's house. It was
not for Miss Black to open the nodules of my understanding, with her
hammer of instruction. She proposed Botany also. The young ladies made
botanical excursions to the fields and woods outside Barmouth; I
might as well join the class at once. It was now in the family of the
Legumes. I accompanied the class on one excursion. Not a soul appeared
to know that I was present, and I declined going again. Composition
I must write once a month. A few more details closed the interview. I
mentioned in it that father desired me to study arithmetic. Miss Black
placed me in a class; but her interests were in the higher and more
elegant branches of education. I made no more advance in the humble
walks of learning than in those adorned by the dissection of flowers,
the disruption of rocks, or the graces of composition. Though I
entered upon my duties under protest, I soon became accustomed to
their routine, and the rest of my life seemed more like a dream of the
future than a realization of the present. I refused to go home at the
end of the month. I preferred waiting, I said, to the end of the year.
I was not urged to change my mind; neither was I applauded for my
resolution. The day that I could have gone home, I asked father to
drive me to Milford, on the opposite side of the river which ran by
Barmouth. I shut my eyes tight, when the horse struck the boards of
the long wooden bridge between the towns, and opened them when we
stopped at an inn by the water side of Milford. Father took me into a
parlor, where sat a handsome, fat woman, hemming towels.

"Is that you, Morgeson?" she said. "Is this your daughter?"

"Yes; can I leave her with you, while I go to the bank? She has not
been here before."

"Lord ha' mercy on us; you clip her wings, don't you? Come here,
child, and let me pull off your pelisse."

I went to her with a haughty air; it did not please me to hear my
father called "Morgeson," by a person unknown to me. She understood my
expression, and looked up at father; they both smiled, and I was vexed
with him for his unwarrantable familiarity. Pinching my cheek with her
fat fingers, which were covered with red and green rings, she said,
"We shall do very well together. What a pretty silk pelisse, and
silver buckles, too."

After father went out, and my bonnet was disposed of, Mrs. Tabor gave
me a huge piece of delicious sponge-cake, which softened me somewhat.

"What is your name, dear?"

"Morgeson."

"It is easy to see that."

"Well, Cassandra."

"Oh, what a lovely name," and she drew from her workbasket a
paper-covered book; "there is no name in this novel half so pretty; I
wish the heroine's name had been Cassandra instead of Aldebrante."

"Let me see it," I begged.

"There is a horrid monk in it"; but she gave it to me, and was
presently called out. I devoured its pages, and for the only time in
that year of Barmouth life, I forgot my own wants and woes. She saw
my interest in the book when she came back, and coaxed it from me,
offering me more cake, which I accepted. She told me that she had
known father for years, and that he kept his horse at the inn stables,
and dined with her. "But I never knew that he had a daughter," she
continued. "Are you the only child?"

"I have a sister," and after a moment remembered that I had a brother,
too; but did not think it a fact necessary to mention.

"I have no children."

"But you have novels to read."

She laughed, and by the time father returned we were quite chatty.
After dinner I asked him to go to some shops with me. He took me to a
jeweler's, and without consulting me bought an immense mosaic brooch,
with a ruined castle on it, and a pretty ring with a gold stone.

"Is there anything more?" he asked, "you would like?"

"Yes, I want a pink calico dress."

"Why?"

"Because the girls at Miss Black's wear pink calico."

"Why not get a pink silk?"

"I must have a pink French calico, with a three-cornered white cloud
on it; it is the fashion."

"The fashion!" he echoed with contempt. But the dress was bought, and
we went back to Barmouth.

When I appeared in school with my new brooch and ring the girls
crowded round me.

"What does that pin represent, whose estate?" inquired one, with envy
in her voice.

"Don't the ring make the blood rush into your hand?" asked another;
"it looks so."

"Does it?" I answered; "I'll hold up my hand in the air, as you do, to
make it white."

"What is your father's business?" asked Elmira Sawyer, "is he a
tailor?"

Her insolence made my head swim; but I did not reply. When recess was
over a few minutes afterward, I cried under the lid of my desk. These
girls overpowered me, for I could not conciliate them, and had no idea
of revenge, believing that their ridicule was deserved. But I thought
I should like to prove myself respectable. How could I? Grand'ther
_was_ a tailor, and I could not demean myself by assuring them that my
father was a gentleman.

In the course of a month Aunt Mercy had my pink calico made up by
the best dressmaker in Barmouth. When I put it on I thought I looked
better than I ever had before, and went into school triumphantly
with it. The girls surveyed me in silence; but criticised me. At last
Charlotte Alden asked me in a whisper if old Mr. Warren made my dress.
She wrote on a piece of paper, in large letters--"Girls, don't let's
wear our pink calicoes again," and pushing it over to Elmira Sawyer,
made signs that the paper should be passed to all the girls. They read
it, and turning to Charlotte Alden nodded. I watched the paper as
it made its round, and saw Mary Bennett drop it on the floor with a
giggle.

It was a rainy day, and we passed the recess indoors. I remained
quiet, looking over my lesson. "The first period ends with the
carboniferous system; the second includes the saliferous and magnesian
systems; the third comprises the oolitic and chalk systems; the
fourth--" "How attentive some people are to their lessons," I heard
Charlotte Alden say. Looking up, I saw her near me with Elmira Sawyer.

"What is that you say?" I asked sharply.

"I am not speaking to you."

"I am angry," I said in a low tone, and rising, "and have borne
enough."

"Who are _you_ that you should be angry? We have heard about your
mother, when she was in love, poor thing."

I struck her so violent a blow in the face that she staggered
backward. "You are a liar," I said, "and you must let me alone."
Elmira Sawyer turned white, and moved away. I threw my book at her; it
hit her head, and her comb was broken by my geological systems. There
was a stir; Miss Black hurried from her desk, saying, "Young ladies,
what does this mean? Miss C. Morgeson, your temper equals your
vulgarity, I find. Take your seat in my desk."

I obeyed her, and as we passed Mary Bennett's desk, where I saw the
paper fall, I picked it up. "See the good manners of your favorite,
Miss Black; read it." She bit her lips as she glanced over it, turned
back as if to speak to Charlotte Alden, looked at me again, and went
on: "Sit down, Miss C. Morgeson, and reflect on the blow you have
given. Will you ask pardon?"

"I will not; you know that."

"I have never resorted to severe punishment yet; but I fear I shall be
obliged to in your case."

"Let me go from here." I clenched my hands, and tried to get up. She
held me down on the seat, and we looked close in each other's eyes.
"You are a bad girl." "And you are a bad woman," I replied; "mean and
cruel." She made a motion to strike me, but her hand dropped; I felt
my nostrils quiver strangely. "For shame," she said, in a tremulous
voice, and turned away. I sat on the bench at the back of the desk,
heartily tired, till school was dismissed; as Charlotte Alden passed
out, courtesying, Miss Black said she hoped she would extend a
Christian forgiveness to Miss C. Morgeson, for her unladylike
behavior. "Miss C. Morgeson is a peculiar case."

She gave her a meaning look, which was not lost upon me. Charlotte
answered, "Certainly," and bowed to me gracefully, whereat I felt a
fresh sense of my demerits, and concluded that I was worsted in the
fray.

Miss Black asked no explanation of the affair; it was dropped, and
none of the girls alluded to it by hint or look afterward. When I told
Aunt Mercy of it, she turned pale, and said she knew what Charlotte
Alden meant, and that perhaps mother would tell me in good time.

"We had a good many troubles in our young days, Cassy."






CHAPTER X.


The atmosphere of my two lives was so different, that when I passed
into one, the other ceased to affect me. I forgot all that I suffered
and hated at Miss Black's, as soon as I crossed the threshold, and
entered grand'ther's house. The difference kept up a healthy mean;
either alone would perhaps have been more than I could then have
sustained. All that year my life was narrowed to that house, my
school, and the church. Father offered to take me to ride, when
he came to Barmouth, or carry me to Milford; but the motion of the
carriage, and the conveying power of the horse, created such a fearful
and realizing sense of escape, that I gave up riding with him. Aunt
Mercy seldom left home; my schoolmates did not invite me to visit
them; the seashore was too distant for me to ramble there; the
storehouses and wharves by the river-side offered no agreeable
saunterings; and the street, in Aunt Mercy's estimation, was not the
place for an idle promenade. My exercise, therefore, was confined
to the garden--a pleasant spot, now that midsummer had come, and
inhabited with winged and crawling creatures, with whom I claimed
companionship, especially with the red, furry caterpillars, that have,
alas, nearly passed away, and given place to a variegated, fantastic
tribe, which gentleman farmers are fond of writing about.

Mother rode over to Barmouth occasionally, but seemed more glad when
she went away than when she came. Veronica came with her once, but
said she would come no more while I was there. She too would wait till
the end of the year, for I spoiled the place. She said this so calmly
that I never thought of being offended by it. I told her the episode
of the pink calico. "It is a lovely color," she said, when I showed it
to her. "If you like, I will take it home and burn it."

As I developed the dramatic part of my story--the blow given Charlotte
Alden, Verry rubbed her face shrinkingly, as if she had felt the blow.
"Let me see your hand," she asked; "did I ever strike anybody?"

"You threw a pail of salt downstairs, once, upon my head, and put out
my sight."

"I wish, when you are home, you would pound Mr. Park; he talks too
much about the Resurrection. And," she added mysteriously, "he likes
mother."

"Likes mother!" I said aghast.

"He watches her so when she holds Arthur! Why do you stare at me? Why
do I talk to you? I am going. Now mind, I shall never leave home to go
to any school; I shall know enough without."

While Veronica was holding this placable talk with me, I discovered in
her the high-bred air, the absence of which I deplored in myself.

How cool and unimpressionable she looked! She did not attract me then.
My mind wandered to what I had heard Mary Bennett say, in recess one
day, that her brother had seen me in church, and came home with the
opinion that I was the handsomest girl in Miss Black's school.

"Is it possible!" replied the girl to whom she had made the remark. "I
never should think of calling her pretty."

"Stop, Veronica," I called; "am I pretty?" She turned back. "Everybody
in Surrey says so; and everybody says I am not." And she banged the
door against me.

She did not come to Barmouth again. She was ill in the winter, and,
father told me, queerer than ever, and more trouble. The summer
passed, and I had no particular torment, except Miss Black's reference
to composition. I could not do justice to the themes she gave us, not
having the books from which she took them at command, and betrayed
an ignorance which excited her utmost contempt, on "The Scenery of
Singapore," "The Habits of the Hottentots," and "The Relative Merits
of Homer and Virgil."

In October Sally and Ruth Aiken came for the fall sewing. They had
farmed it all summer, they said, and were tanned so deep a hue that
their faces bore no small resemblance to ham. Ruth brought me some
apples in an ochre-colored bag, and Sally eyed me with her old
severity. As they took their accustomed seats at the table, I thought
they had swallowed the interval of time which had gone by since they
left, so precisely the same was the moment of their leaving and that
of their coming back. I knew grand'ther no better than when I saw him
first. He was sociable to those who visited the house, but never with
those abiding in his family. Me he never noticed, except when I ate
less than usual; then he peered into my face, and said, "What ails
you?" We had the benefit of his taciturn presence continually, for he
rarely went out; and although he did not interfere with Aunt Mercy's
work, he supervised it, weighed and measured every article that was
used, and kept the cellar and garden in perfect order.

It was approaching the season of killing the pig, and he conferred
often with Aunt Mercy on the subject. The weather was watched, and the
pig poked daily, in the hope that the fat was thickening on his ribs.
When the day of his destiny arrived, there was almost confusion in the
house, and for a week after, of evenings, grand'ther went about with a
lantern, and was not himself till a new occupant was obtained for the
vacant pen, and all his idiosyncracies revealed and understood.

"Grand'ther," I asked, "will the beautiful pigeons that live in the
pig's roof like the horrid new pig?"

"Yes," he answered, briskly rubbing his hands, "but they eat the pig's
corn; and I can't afford that; I shall have to shoot them, I guess."

"Oh, don't, grand'ther."

"I will this very day. Where's the gun, Mercy?"

In an hour the pigeons were shot, except two which had flown away.

"Why did you ask him not to shoot the pigeons?" said Aunt Mercy. "If
you had said nothing, he would not have done, it."

"He is a disagreeable relation," I answered, "and I am glad he is a
tailor."

Aunt Mercy reproved me; but the loss of the pigeons vexed her. Perhaps
grand'ther thought so, for that night he asked after her geraniums,
and told her that a gardener had promised him some fine slips for
her. She looked pleased, but did not thank him. There was already a
beautiful stand of flowers in the middle room, which was odorous the
year round with their perfume.

The weather was now cold, and we congregated about the fire; for there
was no other comfortable room in the house. One afternoon, when I
was digging in Aunt Mercy's geranium pots, and picking off the dead
leaves, two deacons came to visit grand'ther, and, hovering over the
fire with him, complained of the lukewarmness of the church brethren
in regard to the spiritual condition of the Society. A shower of grace
was needed; there were reviving symptoms in some of the neighboring
churches, but none in Barmouth. Something must be done--a fast day
appointed, or especial prayer-meetings held. This was on Saturday;
the next day the ceremony of the Lord's Supper would take place, and
grand'ther recommended that the minister should be asked to suggest
something to the church which might remove it from its hardness.

"Are the vessels scoured, Mercy?" he asked, after the deacons had
gone.

"I have no sand."

He presently brought her a biggin of fine white sand, which brought
the shore of Surrey to my mind's eye. I followed her as she carried
it to the well-room, where I saw, on the meal-chest, two large pewter
plates, two flagons of the same metal, and a dozen or more cups, some
of silver, and marked with the owner's name. They were soon cleaned.
Then she made a fire in the oven, and mixed loaves in a peculiar
shape, and launched them into the oven. She watched the bread
carefully, and took it out before it had time to brown.

"This work belongs to the deacons' wives," she said; "but it has
been done in this house for years. The bread is not like ours--it is
unleavened."

Grand'ther carried it into the church after she had cut it with a
sharp knife so that at the touch it would fall apart into square bits.
When the remains were brought back, I went to the closet, where they
were deposited, and took a piece of the bread, eating it reflectively,
to test its solemnizing powers. I felt none, and when Aunt Mercy
boiled the remnants with milk for a pudding, the sacred ideality of
the ceremony I had seen at church was destroyed for me.

Was it a pity that my life was not conducted on Nature's plan, who
shows us the beautiful, while she conceals the interior? We do not see
the roots of her roses, and she hides from us her skeletons.

November passed, with its Thanksgiving--the sole day of all the year
which grand'ther celebrated, by buying a goose for dinner, which goose
was stewed with rye dumplings, that slid over my plate like glass
balls. Sally and Ruth betook themselves to their farm, and hybernated.
December came, and with it a young woman named Caroline, to learn the
tailor's trade. Lively and pretty, she changed our atmosphere.
She broke the silence of the morning by singing the "Star-spangled
Banner," or the "Braes of Balquhither," and disturbed the monotony of
the evenings by making molasses candy, which grand'ther ate, and which
seemed to have a mollifying influence. Grand'ther kept his eye on
Caroline; but his eye had no disturbing effect. She had no perception
of his character; was fearless with him, and went contrary to all his
ideas, and he liked her for it. She even reproved him for keeping such
a long face. Her sewing, which was very bad, tried his patience so,
that if it had not been for her mother, who was a poor widow, he would
have given up the task of teaching her the trade. She said she knew
she couldn't learn it; what was the use of trying? She meant to go
West, and thought she might make a good home-missionary, as she did,
for she married a poor young man, who had forsaken the trade of a
cooper, to study for the ministry, and was helped off to Ohio by
the Society of Home Missions. She came to see me in Surrey ten years
afterward, a gaunt, hollow-eyed woman, of forbidding manners, and an
implacable faith in no rewards or punishments this side of the grave.

I suffered so from the cold that December that I informed mother of
the fact by letter. She wrote back:

"My child, have courage. One of these days you will feel a tender
pity, when you think of your mother's girlhood. You are learning how
she lived at your age. I trembled at the prosperity of your opening
life, and believed it best for you to have a period of contrast. I
thought you would, by and by, understand me better than I do myself;
for you are not like me, Cassy, you are like your father. You shall
never go back to Barmouth, unless you wish it. Dear Cassy, do you pray
any? I send you some new petticoats, and a shawl. Does Mercy warm the
bed for you? Your affectionate Mother."

I dressed and undressed in Aunt Mercy's room, which was under the
roof, with benumbed fingers. My hair was like the coat of a cow in
frosty weather; it was so frowzy, and so divided against itself, that
when I tried to comb it, it streamed out like the tail of a comet.
Aunt Mercy discovered that I was afflicted with chilblains, and had
a good cry over them, telling me, at the same moment, that my French
slippers were the cause. We had but one fire in the house, except the
fire in the shop, which was allowed to go down at sunset. Sometimes
I found a remaining warmth in the goose, which had been left in
the ashes, and borrowed it for my stiffened fingers. I did not get
thoroughly warm all day, for the fire in the middle room, made of
green wood, was continually in the process of being stifled with a
greener stick, as the others kindled. The school-room was warm; but I
had a back seat by a window, where my feet were iced by a current, and
my head exposed to a draught. In January I had so bad an ague that
I was confined at home a week. But I grew fast in spite of all my
discomforts. Aunt Mercy took the tucks out of my skirts, and I burst
out where there were no tucks. I assumed a womanly shape. Stiff as
my hands were, and purple as were my arms, I could see that they were
plump and well shaped. I had lost the meagerness of childhood and
began to feel a new and delightful affluence. What an appetite I had,
too!

"The creature will eat us out of house and home," said grand'ther one
day, looking at me, for him good-humoredly.

"Well, don't shoot me, as you shot the pigeons."

"Pah, have pigeons a soul?"

In February the weather softened, and a great revival broke out. It
was the dullest time of the year in Barmouth. The ships were at
sea still, and the farmers had only to fodder their cattle, so that
everybody could attend the protracted meeting. It was the same as
Sunday at our house for nine days. Miss Black, in consequence of the
awakening, dismissed the school for two weeks, that the pupils might
profit in what she told us was The Scheme of Salvation.

Caroline was among the first converts. I observed her from the moment
I was told she was under Conviction, till she experienced Religion.
She sang no more of mornings, and the making of molasses candy was
suspended in the evenings. I thought her less pleasing, and felt shy
of holding ordinary conversations with her, for had she not been set
apart for a mysterious work? I perceived that when she sewed between
meetings her work was worse done than ever; but grand'ther made no
mention of it. I went with Aunt Mercy to meetings three times a day,
and employed myself in scanning the countenances around me, curious to
discover the first symptoms of Conviction.

One night when grand'ther came in to prayers, he told Aunt Mercy that
Pardon Hitch was awfully distressed in mind, in view of his sins. She
replied that he was always a good man.

"As good as any unregenerate man can be."

"I might as well be a thorough reprobate then," I thought, "like Sal
Thompson, who seems remarkably happy, as to try to behave as well as
Pardon Hitch, who is a model in Barmouth."

When we went to church the next morning, I saw him in one of the back
pews, leaning against the rail, as if he had no strength. His face was
full of anguish. He sat there motionless all day. He was prayed for,
but did not seem to hear the prayers. At night his wife led him home.
By the end of the third day, he interrupted an exhorting brother by
rising, and uttering an inarticulate cry. We all looked. The tears
were streaming down his pale face, which was lighted up by a smile
of joy. He seemed like a man escaped from some great danger, torn,
bruised, breathless, but alive. The minister left the pulpit to shake
hands with him; the brethren crowded round to congratulate him, and
the meeting broke up at once.

Neither grand'ther nor Aunt Mercy had spoken to me concerning
my interest in Religion; but on that very evening Mr. Boold, the
minister, came in to tea and asked me, while he was taking off his
overcoat, if I knew that Christ had died for me? I answered that I was
not sure of it.

"Do you read your Bible, child?"

"Every day."

"And what does it teach you?"

"I do not know."

"Miss Mercy, I will thank you for another cup. 'Now is the day, and
now is the hour; come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, I
will give you rest.'"

"But I do not want rest; I have no burden," I said.

"Cassandra," thundered grand'ther, "have you no respect for God nor
man?"

"Have you read," went on the minister, "the memoir of Nathan
Dickerman? A mere child, he realized his burden of sin in time, and
died sanctified."

I thought it best to say no more. Aunt Mercy looked disturbed, and
left the table as soon as she could with decency.

"Cassandra," she said, when we were alone, "what will become of you?"

"What will, indeed? You have always said that I was possessed. Why did
you not explain this fact to Mr. Boold?"

She kissed me,--her usual treatment when she was perplexed.

The revival culminated and declined. Sixty new members were admitted
into the church, and things settled into the old state. School was
resumed; I found that not one of my schoolmates had met with a change,
but Miss Black did not touch on the topic. My year was nearly out;
March had come and gone, and it was now April. One mild day, in
the latter part of the month, the girls went to the yard at recess.
Charlotte Alden said pleasantly that the weather was fair enough for
out-of-doors play, and asked if I would try the tilt. I gave a cordial
assent. We balanced the board so that each could seat herself, and
began to tilt slowly. As she was heavy, I was obliged to exert my
strength to keep my place, and move her. She asked if I dared to go
higher. "Oh yes, if you wish it." Happening to look round, I caught
her winking at the girls near us, and felt that she was brewing
mischief, but I had no time to dwell on it. She bore the end she was
on to the ground with a sudden jerk, and I fell from the other, some
eight feet, struck a stone, and fainted.

The next thing that I recollect was Aunt Mercy's carrying me across
the street in her arms. She had seen my fall from the window. Reaching
the house, she let me slide on the floor in a heap, and began to wring
her hands and stamp her feet.

"I am not hurt, Aunt Mercy."

"You are nearly killed, you know you are. This is your last day at
that miserable school. I am going for the doctor, as soon as you say
you wont faint again."

Thus my education at Miss Black's was finished with a blow.

When Aunt Mercy represented to Miss Black that I was not to return to
school, and that she feared I had not made the improvement that was
expected, Miss Black asked, with hauteur, what had been expected--what
my friends _could_ expect. Aunt Mercy was intimidated, and retired as
soon as she had paid her the last quarter's bills.

A week after my tournament with Charlotte Alden I went back to Surrey.
There was little preparation to make--few friends to bid farewell.
Ruth and Sally had emerged from their farm, and were sewing again at
grand'ther's. Sally bade me remember that riches took to themselves
wings and flew away; she _hoped_ they had not been a snare to my
mother; but she wasn't what she was, it was a fact.

"No, she isn't," Ruth affirmed. "Do you remember, Sally, when she came
out to the farm once, and rode the white colt bare-back round the big
meadow, with her hair flying?"

"Hold your tongue, Ruth."

Ruth looked penitent as she gave me a paper of hollyhock seeds, and
said the flowers were a beautiful blood-red, and that I must plant
them near the sink drain. Caroline had already gone home, so Aunt
Mercy had nothing cheery but her plants and her snuff; for she had
lately contracted the habit of snuff-taking but very privately.

"Train her well, Locke; she is skittish," said grand'ther as we got
into the chaise to go home.

"Grand'ther, if I am ever rich enough to own a peaked-roof pig-sty,
will you come and see me?"

"Away with you." And he went nimbly back to the house, chafing his
little hands.






CHAPTER XI.


I was going home! When we rode over the brow of the hill within a
mile of Surrey, and I saw the crescent-shaped village, and the tall
chimneys of our house on its outer edge, instead of my heart leaping
for joy, as I had expected, a sudden indifference filled it. I felt
averse to the change from the narrow ways of Barmouth, which, for the
moment, I regretted. When I entered the house, and saw mother in her
old place, her surroundings unaltered, I suffered a disappointment.
I had not had the power of transferring the atmosphere of my year's
misery to Surrey.

The family gathered round me. I heard the wonted sound of the banging
of doors. "The doors at grand'ther's," I mused, "had list nailed
round their edges; but then he _had_ the list, being a tailor."

"I vum," said Temperance, with her hand on her hip, and not offering to
approach me, "your hair is as thick as a mop."

Hepsey, rubbing her fingers against her thumb, remarked that she
hoped learning had not taken away my appetite. "I have made an Indian
bannock for you, and we are going to have broiled sword-fish, besides,
for supper. Is it best to cook more, Mrs. Morgeson, now that Cassandra
has come?"

The boy, by name Charles, came to see the new arrival, but smitten
with diffidence crept under the table, and examined me from his
retreat.

"Don't you wish to see Arthur?" inquired mother; "he is getting his
double teeth."

"Oh yes, and where's Veronica?"

"She's up garret writing geography, and told me nothing in the world
must disturb her, till she had finished an account of the city of
Palmiry," said Temperance.

"Call her when supper is ready," replied mother, who asked me to come
into the bedroom where Arthur was sleeping. He was a handsome child,
large and fair, and as I lifted his white, lax fingers, a torrent of
love swept through me, and I kissed him.

"I am afraid I make an idol of him, Cassy."

"Are you unhappy because you love him so well, mother, and feel that
you must make expiation?"

"Cassandra," she spoke with haste, "did you experience any shadow of a
change during the revival at Barmouth?"

"No more than the baby here did."

"I shall have faith, though, that it will be well with you, because
you have had the blessing of so good a man as your grand'ther."

"But I never heard a word of grand'ther's prayers. Do you remember his
voice?"

A smile crept into her blue eye, as she said: "My hearing him, or not,
would make no difference, since God could hear and answer."

"Grand'ther does not like me; I never pleased him."

She looked astonished, then reflective. It occurred to her that she,
also, had been no favorite of his. She changed the subject. We talked
on what had happened in Surrey, and commenced a discussion on my
wardrobe, when we were summoned to tea. Temperance brought Arthur to
the table half asleep, but he roused when she drummed on his plate
with a spoon. Hepsey was stationed by the bannock, knife in hand, to
serve it. As we began our meal, Veronica came in from the kitchen,
with a plate of toasted crackers. She set the plate down, and gravely
shook hands with me, saying she had concluded to live entirely on
toast, but supposed I would eat all sorts of food, as usual. She had
grown tall; her face was still long and narrow, but prettier, and
her large, dark eyes had a slight cast, which gave her face an
indescribable expression. Distant, indifferent, and speculative as the
eyes were, a ray of fire shot into them occasionally, which made her
gaze powerful and concentrated. I was within a month of sixteen, and
Veronica was in her thirteenth year; but she looked as old as I did.
She carefully prepared her toast with milk and butter, and ate it in
silence. The plenty around me, the ease and independence, gave me a
delightful sense of comfort. The dishes were odd, some of china, some
of delf, and were continually moved out of their places, for we helped
ourselves, although Temperance stayed in the room, ostensibly as a
waiter. She was too much engaged in conversation to fulfill her duties
that way. I looked round the room; nothing had been added to it,
except red damask curtains, which were out of keeping with the
old chintz covers. It was a delightful room, however; the blue sea
glimmered between the curtains, and, turning my eyes toward it, my
heart gave the leap which I had looked for. I grew blithe as I saw it
winking under the rays of the afternoon sun, and, clapping my hands,
said I was glad to get home. We left Veronica at the table, and mother
resumed her conversation with me in a corner of the room. Presently
Temperance came in with Charles, bringing fresh plates. As soon
as they began their supper, Veronica asked Temperance how the fish
tasted.

"Is it salt?"

"Middling."

"How is the bannock?"

"Excellent. I will say it for Hepsey that she hasn't her beat as a
cook; been at it long enough," she added, in expiation of her praise.

"Temperance, is that pound cake, or sponge?"

"Pound."

"Charles can eat it," Verry said with a sigh.

"A mighty small piece he'll have--the glutton. But he has not been
here long; they are all so when they first come."

She then gave him a large slice of the cake.

Veronica, contrary to her wont, huddled herself on the sofa. Arthur
played round the chair of mother, who looked happy and forgetful.
After Temperance had rearranged the table for father's supper we were
quiet. I meditated how I could best amuse myself, where I should go,
and what I should do, when Veronica, whom I had forgotten, interrupted
my thoughts.

"Mother," she said, "eating toast does not make me better-tempered;
I feel evil still. You know," turning to me, "that my temper is worse
than ever; it is like a tiger's."

"Oh, Verry," said mother, "not quite so bad; you are too hard upon
yourself."

"Mother, you said so to Hepsey, when I tore her turban from her head,
it was _so_ ugly. Can you forget you said such a thing?"

"Verry, you drive me wild. Must I say that I was wrong? Say so to my
own child?"

Verry turned her face to the wall and said no more; but she had
started a less pleasant train of thought. It was changed again by
Temperance coming with lights. Though the tall brass lamps glittered
like gold, their circle of light was small; the corners of the room
were obscure. Mr. Park, entering, retreated into one, and mother was
obliged to forego the pleasure of undressing Arthur; so she sent him
off with Temperance and Charles, whose duty it was to rock the cradle
as long as his babyship required.

Soon after father came, and Hepsey brought in his hot supper; while he
was eating it, Grandfather John Morgeson bustled in. As he shook hands
with me, I saw that his hair had whitened; he held a tasseled cane
between his knees, and thumped the floor whenever he asked a question.
Mr. Park buzzed about the last Sunday's discourse, and mother listened
with a vague, respectful attention. Her hand was pressed against her
breast, as if she were repressing an inward voice which claimed her
attention. Leaning her head against her chair, she had quite pushed
out her comb, her hair dropped on her shoulder, and looked like a
brown, coiled serpent. Veronica, who had been silently observing her,
rose from the sofa, picked up the comb, and fastened her hair, without
speaking. As she passed she gave me a dark look.

"Eh, Verry," said father, "are you there? Were you glad to see Cassy
home again?"

"Should I be glad? What can _she_ do?"

Grandfather pursed up his mouth, and turned toward mother, as if he
would like to say: "You understand bringing up children, don't you?"

She comprehended him, and, giving her head a slight toss, told Verry
to go and play on the piano.

"I was going," she answered pettishly, and darting out a moment after
we heard her.

Grandfather went, and presently Mr. Park got up in a lingering way,
said that Verry must learn to play for the Lord, and bade us "Good
night." But he came back again, to ask me if I would join Dr. Snell's
Bible Class. It would meet the next evening; the boys and girls of my
own age went. I promised him to go, wondering whether I should meet an
ancient beau, Joe Bacon. Mother retired; Verry still played.

"Her talent is wonderful," said father, taking the cigar from his
mouth. "By the way, you must take lessons in Milford; I wish you would
learn to sing." I acquiesced, but I had no wish to learn to play. I
could never perform mechanically what I heard now from Verry. When she
ceased, I woke from a dream, chaotic, but not tumultuous, beautiful,
but inharmonious. Though the fire had gone out, the lamps winked
brightly, and father, moving his cigar to the other side of his mouth,
changed his regards from one lamp to the other, and said he thought
I was growing to be an attractive girl. He asked me if I would take
pains to make myself an accomplished one also? I must, of course, be
left to myself in many things; but he hoped that I would confide in
him, if I did not ask his advice. A very strong relation of reserve
generally existed between parent and child, instead of a confidential
one, and the child was apt to discover that reserve on the part of the
parent was not superiority, but cowardice, or indifference. "Let it
not be so with us," was his conclusion. He threw away the stump of
his cigar, and went to fasten the hall-door. I took one of the brass
lamps, proposing to go to bed. As I passed through the upper entry,
Veronica opened her door. She was undressed, and had a little book
in her hand, which she shook at me, saying, "There is the day of the
month put down on which you came home; and now mind," then shut the
door. I pondered over what father had said; he had perceived something
in me which I was not aware of. I resolved to think seriously over it;
in the morning I found I had not thought of it at all.






CHAPTER XII.


The next evening I dressed my hair after the fashion of the Barmouth
girls, with the small pride of wishing to make myself look different
from the Surrey girls. I expected they would stare at me in the Bible
Class. It would be my debut as a grown girl, and I must offer myself
to their criticism. I went late, so that I might be observed by the
assembled class. It met in the upper story of Temperance Hall--a new
edifice. As I climbed the steep stairs, Joe Bacon's head came in view;
he had stationed himself on a bench at the landing to watch for my
arrival, of which he had been apprized by our satellite, Charles. Joe
was the first boy who had ever offered his arm as my escort home from
a party. After that event I had felt that there was something between
us which the world did not understand. I was flattered, therefore,
at the first glimpse of him on this occasion. When Dr. Snell made his
opening prayer, Joe thrust a Bible before me, open at the lesson of
the evening, and then, rubbing his nose with embarrassment, fixed his
eyes with timid assurance on the opposite wall. Several of my Morgeson
cousins were present, greeting me with sniffs. But I was disappointed
in Joe Bacon; how young and shabby he looked! He wore a monkey jacket,
probably a remnant of his sea-going father's wardrobe. He had done
his best, however, for his hair was greased, and combed to a marble
smoothness; its sleekness vexed me, not remembering at that moment the
pains I had taken to dress my own hair, for a more ignoble end.

The girls gathered round me, after the class was dismissed; and when
Dr. Snell came down from his desk, he said he was glad to see me,
and that I must come to his rooms to look over the new books he had
received. Dr. Snell was no exception to the rule that a minister must
not be a native among his own people. His long residence in Surrey had
failed to make him appear like one. A bachelor, with a small
private fortune, his style of living differed from the average
of Congregational parsons. His library was the only lion in our
neighborhood. His taste as a collector made him known abroad, and he
had a reputation which was not dreamed of by his parishioners,
who thought him queer and simple. He loved old fashions; wore
knee-breeches, and silver buckles in his shoes; brewed metheglin in
his closet, and drank it from silver-pegged flagons; and kept diet
bread on a salver to offer his visitors. He lived near us on the north
road, and was very much afraid of his landlady, Mrs. Grossman, who
sat in terrible state in her parlor, the year through, wearing a black
satin cloak and an awful structure of a cap, which had a potent nod.

I was pleased with Dr. Snell's notice; his smile was courtly and his
bow Grandisonian.

Joe Bacon was waiting at the foot of the stairs. He obtruded his arm,
and hoarsely muttered, "See you home." I took it, and we marched along
silently, till we were beyond the sound of voices. He began, rather
inarticulately, to say how glad he was to see me, and that he hoped
he was going to have better times now; but I could make no response
to his wishes; the suspicion that he had a serious liking for me was
disgusting. As he talked on I grew irritable, and replied shortly.
When we reached our house, I slipped my hand from his arm, and ran
up the steps, turning back with my hand on the door-knob to say,
"Good-night." The lamp in the hall shone through the fanlight upon
his face; it looked intelligent with pain. I skipped down the steps.
"Please open the door, Joe." He brightened, but before he could comply
with my request Temperance flung it wide, for the purpose of making a
survey of the clouds and guessing at to-morrow's weather. His retreat
was precipitate.

"Oh ho," said Temperance, "a feller came home with you. We shall have
somebody sitting up a-Thursday nights, I reckon, before long."

"Nonsense with your Thursday nights."

"Everybody is just alike. We shall have rain, see if we don't; rain or
no rain, I'll whitewash to-morrow."

Poor Joe! That night ended my first sentiment. He died with the
measles in less than a month.

"I wish," said Temperance, who was spelling over a newspaper, "that
Dr. Snell would come in before the plum-cake is gone, that Hepsey made
last. The old dear loves it; he is always hungry. I candidly believe
Mis Grossman keeps him short."

I expected that Temperance would break out then about Joe; but she
never mentioned him, except to tell me that she had heard of his
death. She did not whitewash the next day, for Charles came down with
the measles, and was tended by her with a fretful tenderness. Veronica
was seized soon after, and then Arthur, and then I had them. Veronica
was the worst patient. When her room was darkened she got out of bed,
tore down the quilt that was fastened to the window, and broke three
panes of glass before she could be captured and taken back. The quilt
was not put up again, however. She cried with anger, unless her hands
were continually washed with lavender water, and made little pellets
of cotton which she stuffed in her ears and nose, so that she might
not hear or smell.

I went to Dr. Snell's as soon as I was able. He was in his bedchamber,
writing a sermon on fine note-paper, and had disarranged the wide
ruffles of his shirt so that he looked like a mildly angry turkey.
Thrusting his spectacles up into the roots of his hair, he rose,
and led me into a large room adjoining his bedroom, which contained
nothing but tall bookcases, threw open the doors of one, pushed up a
little ladder before it, for me to mount to a row of volumes bound in
calf, whose backs were labeled "British Classics." "There," he said,
"you will find 'The Spectator,'" and trotted back to his sermon, with
his pen in his mouth. I examined the books, and selected Tom Jones and
Goldsmith's Plays to take home. From that time I grazed at pleasure in
his oddly assorted library, ranging from "The Gentleman's Magazine"
to a file of the "Boston Recorder"; but never a volume of poetry
anywhere. I became a devourer of books which I could not digest, and
their influence located in my mind curious and inconsistent relations
between facts and ideas.

My music lessons in Milford were my only task. I remained inapt, while
Veronica played better and better; when I saw her fingers interpreting
her feelings, touching the keys of the piano as if they were the
chords of her thoughts, practice by note seemed a soulless, mechanical
effort, which I would not make. One day mother and I were reading the
separate volumes of charming Miss Austen's "Mansfield Park," when a
message arrived from Aunt Mercy, with the news of Grand'ther Warren's
dangerous illness. Mother dropped her book on the floor, but I turned
down the leaf where I was reading. She went to Barmouth immediately,
and the next day grand'ther died. He gave all he had to Aunt Mercy,
except six silver spoons, which he directed the Barmouth silversmith
to make for Caroline, who was now married to her missionary. Mother
came home to prepare for the funeral. When the bonnets, veils, and
black gloves came home, Veronica declared she would not go. As she had
been allowed to stay away from Grand'ther Warren living, why should
she be forced to go to him when dead? She was so violent in her
opposition that mother ordered Temperance to keep her in her room.
Father tried to persuade her, but she grew white, and trembled so that
he told her she should stay at home. While we were gone she sent her
bonnet to the Widow Smith's daughter, who appeared in the Poor Seats
wearing it, on the very Sunday after the funeral, when we all went
to church in our mourning to make the discovery, which discomposed us
exceedingly.

All the church were present at grand'ther's funeral,--obsequies, as
Mr. Boold called it, who exalted his character and behavior so greatly
in his discourse that his nearest friends would not have recognized
him, although everybody knew that he was a good man. Mr. Boold
expatiated on his tenderness and delicate appreciation, and his
study of the feelings and wants of others, till he was moved to tears
himself by the picture he drew. I thought of the pigeons he had shot,
and of the summary treatment he gave me--of his coldness and silence
toward Aunt Mercy, and my eyes remained dry; but mother and Aunt Mercy
wept bitterly. After it was over, and they had gone back to the empty
house, they removed their heavy bonnets, kissed each other, said they
knew that he was in heaven, and held a comforting conversation about
the future; but my mind was chained to the edge of the yawning grave
into which I had seen his coffin lowered.

"Shut up the old shell, Mercy," said father. "Come, and live with us."

She was rejoiced at the prospect, for the life at our house was
congenial, and she readily and gratefully consented. She came in a few
days, with a multitude of boxes, and her plants. Mother established
her in the room next the stairs--good place for her, Veronica said,
for she could be easily locked out of our premises. The plants were
placed on a new revolving stand, which stood on the landing-place
beneath the stair window. Veronica was so delighted with them that she
made amicable overtures to Aunt Mercy, and never quarreled with her
afterward, except when she was ill. She entreated her to leave off her
bombazine dresses; the touch of them interfered with her feelings for
her, she said; in fact, their contact made her crawl all over.

Aunt Mercy took upon herself many of mother's irksome cares; such
as remembering where the patches and old linen were--the hammer and
nails; watching the sweetmeat pots; keeping the run of the napkins and
blankets; packing the winter clothing, and having an eye on mice and
ants, moth and mold. Occasionally she read a novel; but was faithful
to all the week-day meetings, making the acquaintance thereby of
mother's tea-drinking friends, who considered her an accomplished
person, because she worked lace so beautifully, and had _such_ a
faculty for raising plants! Mother left the house in her charge, and
made several journeys with father this year. This period was perhaps
her happiest. The only annoyance, visible to me, that I can remember,
was one between her and father on the subject of charity. He was for
giving to all needy persons, while she only desired to bestow it on
the deserving, but they had renounced the wish of manufacturing
each other's habits and opinions. Whether mother ever desired the
expression of that exaltation of feeling which only lasts in a man
while he is in love, I cannot say. It was not for me to know her
heart. It is not ordained that these beautiful secrets of feeling
should be revealed, where they might prove to be the sweetest
knowledge we could have.

Though the days flew by, days filled with the busy nothings of
prosperity, they bore no meaning. I shifted the hours, as one shifts
the kaleidoscope, with an eye only to their movement. Neither the
remembrance of yesterday nor the hope of to-morrow stimulated me. The
mere fact of breathing had ceased to be a happiness, since the day I
entered Miss Black's school. But I was not yet thoughtful. As for my
position, I was loved and I was hated, and it pleased me as much to be
hated as to be loved. My acquaintances were kind enough to let me know
that I was generally thought proud, exacting, ill-natured, and apt
to expect the best of everything. But one thing I know of myself
then--that I concealed nothing; the desires and emotions which are
usually kept as a private fund I displayed and exhausted. My audacity
shocked those who possessed this fund. My candor was called anything
but truthfulness; they named it sarcasm, cunning, coarseness, or tact,
as those were constituted who came in contact with me. Insight into
character, frankness, generosity, disinterestedness, were sometimes
given me. Veronica alone was uncompromising; she put aside by instinct
what baffled or attracted others, and, setting my real value upon me,
acted accordingly. I do not accuse her of injustice, but of a fierce
harshness which kept us apart for long years. As for her, she was
the most reticent girl I ever knew, and but for her explosive temper,
which betrayed her, she would have been a mystery. The difference in
our physical constitutions would have separated us, if there had been
no other cause. The weeks that she was confined to her room, preyed
upon by some inscrutable disease, were weeks of darkness and solitude.
Temperance and Aunt Merce took as much care of her as she would allow;
but she preferred being alone most of the time. Thus she acquired
the fortitude of an Indian; pain could extort no groan from her.
It reacted on her temper, though, for after an attack she was
exasperating. Her invention was put to the rack to tease and offend.
I kept out of her way; if by chance she caught sight of me, she forced
me to hear the bitter truth of myself. Sometimes she examined me to
learn if I had improved by the means which father so _generously_
provided for me. "Is he not yet tired of his task?" she asked once.
And, "Do you carry everything before you, with your wide eyebrows and
sharp teeth? Temperance, where's the Buffon Dr. Snell sent me? I want
to classify Cass."

"I'll warrant you'll find her a sheep," Temperance replied.

"Sheep are innocent," said Veronica. "You may go," nodding to me, over
the book, and Temperance also made energetic signs to me to go, and
not bother the poor girl.

Always regarding her from the point of view she presented, I felt
little love for her; her peculiarities offended me as they did mother.
We did not perceive the process, but Verry was educated by sickness;
her mind fed and grew on pain, and at last mastered it. The darkness
in her nature broke; by slow degrees she gained health, though never
much strength. Upon each recovery a change was visible; a spiritual
dawn had risen in her soul; moral activity blending with her ideality
made her life beautiful, even in the humblest sense. Veronica! you
were endowed with genius; but while its rays penetrated you, we did
not see them. How could we profit by what you saw and heard, when we
were blind and deaf? To us, the voices of the deep sang no epic of
grief; the speech of the woods was not articulate; the sea-gull's
flashing flight, and the dark swallow's circling sweep, were facts
only. Sunrise and sunset were not a paean to day and night, but five
o'clock A.M. or P.M. The seasons that came and went were changes
from hot to cold; to you, they were the moods of nature, which found
response in those of your own life and soul; her storms and calms were
pulses which bore a similitude to the emotions of your heart!

Veronica's habits of isolation clung to her; she would never leave
home. The teaching she had was obtained in Surrey. But her knowledge
was greater than mine. When I went to Rosville she was reading
"Paradise Lost," and writing her opinions upon it in a large blank
book. She was also devising a plan for raising trees and flowers
in the garret, so that she might realize a picture of a tropical
wilderness. Her tastes were so contradictory that time never hung
heavy with her; though she had as little practical talent as any
person I ever knew, she was a help to both sick and well. She
remembered people's ill turns, and what was done for them; and for the
well she remembered dates and suggested agreeable occupations--gave
them happy ideas. Besides being a calendar of domestic traditions, she
was weather-wise, and prognosticated gales, meteors, high tides, and
rains.

Home, father said, was her sphere. All that she required, he thought
he could do; but of me he was doubtful. Where did I belong? he asked.

I was still "possessed," Aunt Merce said, and mother called me
"lawless." "What upon earth are you coming to?" asked Temperance. "You
are sowing your wild oats with a vengeance."

"Locke Morgeson's daughter can do anything," commented the villagers.
In consequence of the unlimited power accorded me I was unpopular.
"Do you think she is handsome?" inquired my friends of each other. "In
what respect _can_ she be called a beauty?" "Though she reads, she
has no great wit," said one. "She dresses oddly for effect," another
avowed, "and her manners are ridiculous." But they borrowed my dresses
for patterns, imitated my bonnets, and adopted my colors. When I
learned to manage a sailboat, they had an aquatic mania. When I
learned to ride a horse, the ancient and moth-eaten sidesaddles of the
town were resuscitated, and old family nags were made back-sore
with the wearing of them, and their youthful spirits revived by new
beginners sliding about on their rounded sides. My whims were sneered
at, and then followed. Of course I was driven from whim to whim, to
keep them busy, and to preserve my originality, and at last I became
eccentric for eccentricity's sake. All this prepared the way for my
Nemesis. But as yet my wild oats were green and flourishing in the
field of youth.






CHAPTER XIII.


I was preaching one day to mother and Aunt Merce a sermon after the
manner of Mr. Boold, of Barmouth, taking the sofa for a desk, and
for my text "Like David's Harp of solemn sound," and had attracted
Temperance and Charles into the room by my declamation, when my
audience was unexpectedly increased by the entrance of father, with a
strange gentleman. Aunt Merce laughed hysterically; I waved my hand to
her, _a la_ Boold, and descended from my position.

"Take a chair," said Temperance, who was never abashed, thumping one
down before the stranger.

"What is all this?" inquired father.

"Only a _Ranz des Vaches_, father, to please Aunt Merce."

The stranger's eyes were fastened upon me, while father introduced us
to "Mr. Charles Morgeson, of Rosville."

"Please receive me as a relative," he said, turning to shake hands
with mother. "We have an ancestor in common that makes a sufficient
cousinship for a claim, Mrs. Morgeson."

"Why not have looked us up before?" I asked.

"Why," said Veronica, who had just come in, "there are six Charles
Morgesons buried in our graveyard."

"I supposed," he said, "that the name was extinct. I lately saw your
father's in a State Committee List, and feeling curious regarding it,
I came here."

He bowed distantly to Veronica when she entered, but she did not
return his bow, though she looked at him fixedly. Temperance and
Hepsey hurried up a fine supper immediately. A visitor was a creature
to be fed. Feeding together removes embarrassment, and before supper
was over we were all acquainted with Mr. Morgeson. There were three
cheerful old ladies spending the week with us--the widow Desire
Carver, and her two maiden sisters, Polly and Serepta Chandler.
They filled the part of chorus in the domestic drama, saying, "Aha,"
whenever there was a pause. Veronica affected these old ladies
greatly, and when they were in the house gave them her society. But
for their being there at this time, I doubt whether she would have
seen Mr. Morgeson again. That evening she played for them. Her wild,
pathetic melodies made our visitor's gray eyes flash with pleasure,
and light up his cold face with gleams of feeling; but she was not
gratified by his interest. "I think it strange that you should like my
music," she said crossly.

"Do you" he answered, amused at her tone, "perhaps it is; but why
should I not as well as your friends here?" indicating the old ladies.

"Ah, we like it very much," said the three, clicking their
snuff-boxes.

"You, too, play?" he asked me.

"Miss Cassy don't play," answered the three, looking at me over their
spectacles. "Miss Verry's sun puts out her fire."

"Cassandra does other things better than playing," Veronica said to
Mr. Morgeson.

"Why, Veronica," I said, surprised, going toward her.

"Go off, go off," she replied, in an undertone, and struck up a loud
march. He had heard her, and while she played looked at her earnestly.
Then, seeming to forget the presence of the three, he turned and put
out his hand to me, with an authority I did not resist. I laid my hand
in his; it was not grasped, but upheld. Veronica immediately stopped
playing.

He stayed several days at our house. After the first evening we found
him taciturn. He played with Arthur, spoke of his children to him,
and promised him a pony if he would go to Rosville. With father he
discussed business matters, and went out with him to the shipyards and
offices. I scarcely remember that he spoke to me, except in a casual
way, more than once. He asked me if I knew whether the sea had any
influence upon me; I replied that I had not thought of it. "There are
so many things you have not thought of," he answered, "that this is
not strange."

Veronica observed him closely; he was aware of it, but was not
embarrassed; he met her dark gaze with one keener than her own, and
neither talked with the other. The morning he went away, while the
chaise was waiting, which was to go to Milford to meet the stagecoach,
and he was inviting us to visit him, a thought seemed to strike
him. "By the way, Morgeson, why not give Miss Cassandra a finish at
Rosville? I have told you of our Academy, and of the advantages
which Rosville affords in the way of society. What do you say, Mrs.
Morgeson, will you let her come to my house for a year?"

"Locke decides for Cassy," she answered; "I never do now," looking at
me reproachfully.

Cousin Charles's hawk eyes caught the look, and he heard me too, when
I tapped her shoulder till she turned round and smiled. I whispered,
"Mother, your eyes are as blue as the sea yonder, and I love you." She
glanced toward it; it was murmuring softly, creeping along the shore,
licking the rocks and sand as if recognizing a master. And I saw and
felt its steady, resistless heaving, insidious and terrible.

"Well," said father, "we will talk of it on the way to Milford."

"I have a kinder of a-creeping about your Cousin Charles, as you call
him," said Temperance, after she had closed the porch door. "He is too
much shut up for me. How's Mis Cousin Charles, I wonder?"

"He is fond of flowers," remarked Aunt Merce; "he examined all my
plants, and knew all their botanical names."

"That's a balm for every wound with you, isn't it?" Temperance said.
"I spose I can clean the parlor, unless Mis Carver and Chandler are
sitting in a row there?"

Veronica, who had hovered between the parlor and the hall while Cousin
Charles was taking his leave, so that she might avoid the necessity
of any direct notice of him, had heard his proposition about Rosville,
said, "Cassandra will go there."

"Do you feel it in your bones, Verry?" Temperance asked.

"Cassandra does."

"Do I? I believe I do."

"You are eighteen; you are too old to go to school."

"But I am not too old to have an agreeable time; besides, I am not
eighteen, and shall not be till four days from now."

"You think too much of having a good time, Cassandra," said mother. "I
foresee the day when the pitcher will come back from the well broken.
You are idle and frivolous; eternally chasing after amusement."

"God knows I don't find it."

"I know you are not happy."

"Tell me," I cried, striking the table with my hand, making Veronica
wink, "tell me how to feel and act."

"I have no influence with you, nor with Veronica."

"Because," said Verry, "we are all so different; but I like you,
mother, and all that you do."

"Different!" she exclaimed, "children talk to parents about a
difference between them."

"I never thought about it before." I said, "but _where_ is the family
likeness?"

Aunt Merce laughed.

"There's the Morgesons," I continued, "I hate 'em all."

"All?" she echoed; "you are like this new one."

"And Grand'ther Warren"--I continued.

"Your talk," interrupted Aunt Merce, jumping up and walking about, "is
enough to make him rise out of his grave."

"I believe," said Veronica, "that Grand'ther Warren nearly crushed
you and mother, when girls of our age. Did you know that you had any
wants then? or dare to dream anything beside that he laid down for
you?"

Aunt Merce and mother exchanged glances.

"Say, mother, what shall I do?" I asked again.

"Do," she answered in a mechanical voice; "read the Bible, and sew
more."

"Veronica's life is not misspent," she continued, and seeming to
forget that Verry was still there. "Why should she find work for her
hands when neither you nor I do?"

Veronica slipped out of the room; and I sat on the floor beside
mother. I loved her in an unsatisfactory way. What could we be to
each other? We kissed tenderly; I saw she was saddened by something
regarding me, which she could not explain, because she refused to
explain me naturally. I thought she wished me to believe she could
have no infirmity in common with me--no temptations, no errors--that
she must repress all the doubts and longings of her heart for
example's sake.

There was a weight upon me all that day, a dreary sense of
imperfection.

When father came home he asked me if I would like to go to Rosville.
I answered, "Yes." Mother must travel with me, for he could not leave
home. The sooner I went the better. He also thought Veronica should
go. She was called and consulted, and, provided Temperance would
accompany us to take care of her, she consented. It was all arranged
that evening. Temperance said we must wait a week at least, for her
corns to be cured, and the plum-colored silk made, which had been shut
up in a band-box for three years.

We started on our journey one bright morning in June, to go to Boston
in a stagecoach, a hundred miles from Surrey, and thence to Rosville,
forty miles further, by railroad. We stopped a night on the way
to Boston at a country inn, which stood before an egg-shaped
pond. Temperance remade our beds, declaiming the while against the
unwholesome situation of the house; the idea of anybody's living in
the vicinity of fresh water astonished her; to impose upon travelers'
health that way was too much. She went to the kitchen to learn whether
the landlady cooked, or hired a cook. She sat up all night with our
luggage in sight, to keep off what she called "prowlers"--she did
not like to say robbers, for fear of exciting our imaginations--and
frightened us by falling out of her chair toward morning. Veronica
insisted upon her going to bed, but she refused, till Veronica
threatened to sit up herself, when she carried her own carpet-bag to
bed with her.

We arrived in Boston the next day and went to the Bromfield House in
Bromfield Street, whither father had directed us. We were ushered to
the parlor by a waiter, who seemed struck by Temperance, and who was
treated by her with respect. "Mr. Shepherd, the landlord, himself, I
guess," she whispered.

Three cadaverous children were there eating bread and butter from a
black tray on the center-table.

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Temperance, "what bread those children are
eating! It is made of sawdust."

"It's good, you old cat," screamed the little girl.

Veronica sat down by her, and offered her some sugar-plums, which the
child snatched from her hand.

"We are missionaries," said the oldest boy, "and we are going to
Bombay next week in the _Cabot_. I'll make the natives gee, I tell
ye."

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed Temperance, "did you ever?"

Presently a sickly, gentle-looking man entered, in a suit of black
camlet, and carrying an umbrella; he took a seat by the children, and
ran his fingers through his hair, which already stood upright.

"That girl gave Sis some sugar-plums," remarked the boy.

"I hope you thanked her, Clarissa," said the father.

"No; she didn't give me enough," the child answered.

"They have no mother," the poor man said apologetically to Veronica,
looking up at her, and, as he caught her eye, blushing deeply. She
bowed, and moved away. Mother rang the bell, and when the waiter came
gave him a note for Mr. Shepherd, which father had written, bespeaking
his attention. Mr. Shepherd soon appeared, and conveyed us to two
pleasant rooms with an unmitigated view of the wall of the next house
from the windows.

"This," remarked Temperance, "is worse than the pond."

Mr. Shepherd complimented mother on her fine daughters; hoped Mr.
Morgeson would run for Congress soon told her she should have the best
the house afforded, and retired.

I wanted to shop, and mother gave me money. I found Washington Street,
and bought six wide, embroidered belts, a gilt buckle, a variety of
ribbons, and a dozen yards of lace. I repented the whole before I got
back; for I saw other articles I wanted more. I found mother alone;
Temperance had gone out with Veronica, she said, and she had given
Veronica the same amount of money, curious to know how she would
spend it, as she had never been shopping. It was nearly dark when they
returned.

"I like Boston," said Verry.

"But what have you bought?"

She displayed a beautiful gold chain, and a little cross for the
throat; a bundle of picture-books for the missionary children; a
sewing-silk shawl for Hepsey, and some toys for Arthur.

"To-morrow, _I_ shall go shopping," said mother. "What did you buy,
Temperance?"

"A mean shawl. In my opinion, Boston is a den of thieves."

She untied a box, from which she took a sky-blue silk shawl, with
brown flowers woven in it.

"I gave eighteen dollars for it, if I gave a cent, Mis Morgeson; I
know I am cheated. It's sleazy, isn't it?"

The bell for tea rang, and Mr. Shepherd came up to escort us to the
table. Temperance delayed us, to tie on a silk apron, to protect
the plum-colored silk, for, as she observed to Mr. Shepherd, she was
afraid it would show grease badly. I could not help exchanging smiles
with Mr. Shepherd, which made Veronica frown. The whole table stared
as we seated ourselves, for we derived an importance from the fact
that we were under the personal charge of the landlord.

"How they gawk at you," whispered Temperance. I felt my color rise.

"The gentlemen do not guess that we are sisters," said Veronica
quietly.

"How do I look?" I asked.

"You know how, and that I do not agree with your opinion. You look
cruel."

"I am cruel hungry."

Her eyes sparkled with disdain.

"What do you mean to do for a year?" I continued.

"Forget you, for one thing."

"I hope you wont be ill again, Verry."

"I shall be," she answered with a shudder; "I need all the illnesses
that come."

"As for me," I said, biting my bread and butter, "I feel well to my
fingers' ends; they tingle with strength. I am elated with health."

I had not spoken the last word before I became conscious of a streak
of pain which cut me like a knife and vanished; my surprise at it was
so evident that she asked me what ailed me."

"Nothing."

"I never had the feeling you speak of in my finger ends," she said
sadly, looking at her slender hand.

"Poor girl!"

"What has come over you, Cass? An attack of compassion? Are you
meaning to leave an amiable impression with me?"

After supper Mr. Shepherd asked mother if she would go to the theater.
The celebrated tragedian, Forrest, was playing; would the young ladies
like to see Hamlet? We all went, and my attention was divided between
Hamlet and two young men who lounged in the box door till Mr. Shepherd
looked them away. Veronica laughed at Hamlet, and Temperance said it
was stuff and nonsense. Veronica laughed at Ophelia, also, who was a
superb, black-haired woman, toying with an elegant Spanish fan, which
Hamlet in his energy broke. "It is not Shakespeare," she said.

"Has she read Shakespeare?" I asked mother.

"I am sure I do not know."

That night, after mother and Veronica were asleep, I persuaded
Temperance to get up, and bore my ears with a coarse needle, which I
had bought for the purpose. It hurt me so, when she pierced one, that
I could not summon resolution to have the other operated on; so I went
to bed with a bit of sewing silk in the hole she had made. But in the
morning I roused her, to tell her I thought I could bear to have the
other ear bored. When mother appeared I showed her my ears red and
sore, insisting that I must have a certain pair of white cornelian
ear-rings, set in chased gold, and three inches long, which I had seen
in a shop window. She scolded Temperance, and then gave me the money.

The next day mother and I started for Rosville. Veronica decided to
remain in Boston with Temperance till mother returned. She said
that if she went she might find Mrs. Morgeson as disagreeable as Mr.
Morgeson was; that she liked the Bromfield; besides, she wanted to see
the missionary children off for Bombay, and intended to go down to
the ship on the day they were to sail. She was also going to ask Mr.
Shepherd to look up a celebrated author for her. She must see one if
possible.






CHAPTER XIV.


It was sunset when we arrived in Rosville, and found Mr. Morgeson
waiting for us with his carriage at the station. From its open sides
I looked out on a tranquil, agreeable landscape; there was nothing
saline in the atmosphere. The western breeze, which blew in our faces,
had an earthy scent, with fluctuating streams of odors from trees and
flowers. As we passed through the town, Cousin Charles pointed to the
Academy, which stood at the head of a green. Pretty houses stood round
it, and streets branched from it in all directions. Flower gardens,
shrubbery, and trees were scattered everywhere. Rosville was larger
and handsomer than Surrey.

"That is my house, on the right," he said.

We looked down the shady street through which we were going, and saw a
modern cottage, with a piazza, and peaked roof, and on the side toward
us a large yard, and stables.

We drove into the yard, and a woman came out on the piazza to receive
us. It was Mrs. Morgeson, or "My wife, Cousin Alice," as Mr. Morgeson
introduced her. Giving us a cordial welcome, she led us into a parlor
where tea was waiting. A servant came in for our bonnets and baskets.
Cousin Alice begged us to take tea at once. We were hardly seated when
we heard the cry of a young child; she left the table hastily, to come
back in a moment with an apology, which she made to Cousin Charles
rather than to us. I had never seen a table so well arranged, so
fastidiously neat; it glittered with glass and French china. Cousin
Charles sent away a glass and a plate, frowning at the girl who
waited; there must have been a speck or a flaw in them. The viands
were as pretty as the dishes, the lamb chops were fragile; the bread
was delicious, but cut in transparent slices, and the butter pat was
nearly stamped through with its bouquet of flowers. This was all the
feast except sponge cake, which felt like muslin in the fingers; I
could have squeezed the whole of it into my mouth. Still hungry, I
observed that Cousin Charles and Alice had finished; and though she
shook her spoon in the cup, feigning to continue, and he snipped
crumbs in his plate, I felt constrained to end my repast. He rose
then, and pushing back folding-doors, we entered a large room, leaving
Alice at the table. Windows extending to the floor opening on the
piazza, but notwithstanding the stream of light over the carpet, I
thought it somber, and out of keeping with the cottage exterior. The
walls were covered with dark red velvet paper, the furniture was
dark, the mantel and table tops were black marble, and the vases
and candelabra were bronze. He directed mother's attention to the
portraits of his children, explaining them, while I went to a table
between the windows to examine the green and white sprays of
some delicate flower I had never before seen. Its fragrance was
intoxicating. I lifted the heavy vase which contained it; it was taken
from me gently by Charles, and replaced.

"It will hardly bear touching," he said. "By to-morrow these little
white bells will be dead."

I looked up at him. "What a contrast!" I said.

"Where?"

"Here, in this room, and in you."

"And between you and me?"

His face was serene, dark, and delicate, but to look at it made me
shiver. Mother came toward us, pleading fatigue as an excuse for
retiring, and Cousin Charles called Cousin Alice, who went with us to
our room. In the morning, she said, we should see her three children.
She never left them, she was so afraid of their being ill, also
telling mother that she would do all in her power to make my stay in
Rosville pleasant and profitable. As a mother, she could appreciate
her anxiety and sadness in leaving me. Mother thanked her warmly, and
was sure that I should be happy; but I had an inward misgiving that I
should not have enough to eat.

"I hear Edward," said Alice. "Good-night."

Presently a girl, the same who had taken our bonnets, came in with
a pitcher of warm water and a plate of soda biscuit. She directed us
where to find the apparel she had nicely smoothed and folded; took off
the handsome counterpane, and the pillows trimmed with lace, putting
others of a plainer make in their places; shook down the window
curtains; asked us if we would have anything more, and quietly
disappeared. I offered mother the warm water, and appropriated the
biscuits. There were six. I ate every one, undressing meanwhile, and
surveying the apartment.

"Cassy, Mrs. Morgeson is an excellent housekeeper."

"Yes," I said huskily, for the dry biscuit choked me.

"What would Temperance and Hepsey say to this?"

"I think they would grumble, and admire. Look at this," showing her
the tassels of the inner window curtains done up in little bags. "And
the glass is pinned up with nice yellow paper; and here is a damask
napkin fastened to the wall behind the washstand. And everything
stands on a mat. I wonder if this is to be my room?"

"It is probably the chamber for visitors. Why, these are beautiful
pillow-cases, too," she exclaimed, as she put her head on the pillow.
"Come to bed; don't read."

I had taken up a red morocco-bound book, which was lying alone on the
bureau. It was Byron, and turning over the leaves till I came to
Don Juan, I read it through, and began Childe Harold, but the candle
expired. I struck out my hands through the palpable darkness, to find
the bed without disturbing mother, whose soul was calmly threading
the labyrinth of sleep. I finished Childe Harold early in the morning,
though, and went down to breakfast, longing to be a wreck!

The three children were in the breakfast-room, which was not the one
we had taken tea in, but a small apartment, with a door opening
into the garden. They were beautifully dressed, and their mother was
tending and watching them. The oldest was eight years, the youngest
three months. Cousin Alice gave us descriptions of their tastes and
habits, dwelling with emphasis on those of the baby. I drew from her
conversation the opinion that she had a tendency to the rearing of
children. I was glad when Cousin Charles came in, looking at his
watch. "Send off the babies, Alice, and ring the bell for breakfast."

She sent out the two youngest, put little Edward in his chair, and
breakfast began.

"Mrs. Morgeson," said Charles, "the horses will be ready to take you
round Rosville. We will call on Dr. Price, for you to see the kind
of master Cassandra will have. I have already spoken to him about
receiving a new pupil."

"Oh, I am homesick at the idea of school and a master," I said.

Mother tried in vain to look hard-hearted, and to persuade that it was
good for me, but she lost her appetite, with the thought of losing me,
which the mention of Dr. Price brought home. The breakfast was as well
adapted to a delicate taste as the preceding supper. The ham was most
savory, but cut in such thin slices that it curled; and the biscuits
were as white and feathery as snowflakes. I think also that the boiled
eggs were smaller than any I had seen. Cousin Alice gave unremitting
attention to Edward, who ate as little as the rest.

"Mother," I said afterward, "I am afraid I am an animal. Did you
notice how little the Morgesons ate?"

"I noticed how elegant their table appointments were, and I shall buy
new china in Boston to-morrow. I wish Hepsey would not load our table
as she does."

"Hepsey is a good woman, mother; do give my love to her. Now that
I think of it, she was always making up some nice dish; tell her I
remember it, will you?"

When Cousin Charles put us into the carriage, and hoisted little
Edward on the front seat, mother noticed that two men held the horses,
and that they were not the same he had driven the night before. She
said she was afraid to go, they looked ungovernable; but he reassured
her, and one of the men averring that Mr. Morgeson could drive
anything, she repressed her fears, and we drove out of the yard
behind a pair of horses that stood on their hind legs as often as that
position was compatible with the necessity they were under of getting
on, for they evidently understood that they were guided by a firm
hand. Edward was delighted with their behavior, and for the first time
I saw his father smile on him.

"These are fine brutes," he said, not taking his eyes from them; "but
they are not equal to my mare, Nell. Alice is afraid of her; but I
hope that you, Cassandra, will ride with me sometimes when I drive
her."

"Oh!" exclaimed mother, grasping my arm.

"You would, would you?" he said, taking out the whip, as the horses
recoiled from a man who lay by the roadside, leaping so high that the
harness seemed rattling from their backs. He struck them, and
said, "Go on now, go on, devils." There was no further trouble. He
encouraged mother not to be afraid, looking keenly at me. I looked
back at him.

"How much worse is the mare, cousin Charles?"

"You shall see."

After driving round the town we stopped at the Academy. Morning
prayers were over, and the scholars, some sixty boys and girls, were
coming downstairs from the hall, to go into the rooms, each side of a
great door. Dr. Price was behind them. He stopped when he saw us,
an introduction took place, and he inquired for Dr. Snell, as an old
college friend. Locke Morgeson sounded familiarly, he said; a member
of his mother's family named Somers had married a gentleman of that
name. He remembered it from an old ivory miniature which his mother
had shown him, telling him it was the likeness of her cousin Rachel's
husband. I replied we knew that grandfather had married a Rachel
Somers. Cousin Charles was surprised and a little vexed that the
doctor had never told him, when he must have known that he had been
anxiously looking up the Morgeson pedigree; but the doctor declared
he had not thought of it before, and that only the name of Locke had
recalled it to his mind. He then proposed our going to Miss Prior, the
lady who had charge of the girls' department, and we followed him to
her school-room.

I was at once interested and impressed by the appearance of my teacher
that was to be. She was a dignified, kind-looking woman, who asked me
a few questions in such a pleasant, direct manner that I frankly told
her I was eighteen years old, very ignorant, and averse from learning;
but I did not speak loud enough for anybody beside herself to hear.

"Now," said mother, when we came away, "think how much greater your
advantages are than mine have ever been. How miserable was my youth!
It is too late for me to make any attempt at cultivation. I have
no wish that way. Yet now I feel sometimes as if I were leaving the
confines of my old life to go I know not whither, to do I know not
what."

But her countenance fell when she heard that Dr. Price had been a
Unitarian minister, and that there was no Congregational church in
Rosville.

She went to Boston that Friday afternoon, anxious to get safely home
with Veronica. We parted with many a kiss and shake of the hand and
last words. I cried when I went up to my room, for I found a present
there--a beautiful workbox, and in it was a small Bible with my name
and hers written on the fly-leaf in large print-like, but tremulous
letters. I composed my feelings by putting it away carefully and
unpacking my trunk.






CHAPTER XV.


Rosville was a county town. The courts were held there, and its
society was adorned with several lawyers of note who had law students,
which fact was to the lawyers' daughters the most agreeable feature
of their fathers' profession. It had a weekly market day and an
annual cattle show. I saw a turnout of whips and wagons about the
hitching-posts round the green of a Tuesday the year through, and
going to and from school met men with a bovine smell. Caucuses were
prevalent, and occasionally a State Convention was held, when Rosville
paid honor to some political hero of the day with banners and brass
bands. It was a favorite spot for the rustication of naughty boys from
Harvard or Yale. Dr. Price had one or two at present who boarded in
his house so as to be immediately under his purblind eyes, and who
took Greek and Latin at the Academy.

Social feuds raged in the Academy coteries between the collegians
and the natives on account of the superior success of the former in
flirtation. The latter were not consoled by their experience that no
flirtation lasted beyond the period of rustication. Dr. Price usually
had several young men fitting for college also, which fact added more
piquancy to the provincial society. In the summer riding parties were
fashionable, and in the winter county balls and cotillion parties;
a professor came down from Boston at this season to set up a dancing
school, which was always well attended.

The secular concerns of life engaged the greatest share of the
interests of its inhabitants; and although there existed social and
professional dissensions, there was little sectarian spirit among them
and no religious zeal. The rich and fashionable were Unitarians.
The society owned a tumble-down church; a mild preacher stood in its
pulpit and prayed and preached, sideways and slouchy. This degree of
religious vitality accorded with the habits of its generations. Surrey
and Barmouth would have howled over the Total Depravity of Rosville.
There was no probationary air about it. Human Nature was the
infallible theme there. At first I missed the vibration of the moral
sword which poised in our atmosphere. When I felt an emotion without
seeing the shadow of its edge turning toward me, I discovered my
conscience, which hitherto had only been described to me.

There were churches in the town beside the Unitarian. The
Universalists had a bran-new one, and there was still another
frequented by the sedimentary part of the population--Methodists.

I toned down perfectly within three months. Soon after my arrival at
his house I became afraid of Cousin Charles. Not that he ever said
anything to justify fear of him--he was more silent at home than
elsewhere; but he was imperious, fastidious, and sarcastic with me by
a look, a gesture, an inflection of his voice. My perception of any
defect in myself was instantaneous with his discovery of it. I fell
into the habit of guessing each day whether I was to offend or please
him, and then into that of intending to please. An intangible, silent,
magnetic feeling existed between us, changing and developing according
to its own mysterious law, remaining intact in spite of the contests
between us of resistance and defiance. But my feeling died or
slumbered when I was beyond the limits of his personal influence. When
in his presence I was so pervaded by it that whether I went contrary
to the dictates of his will or not I moved as if under a pivot; when
away my natural elasticity prevailed, and I held the same relation to
others that I should have held if I had not known him. This continued
till the secret was divined, and then his influence was better
remembered.

I discovered that there was little love between him and Alice. I never
heard from either an expression denoting that each felt an interest
in the other's individual life; neither was there any of that conjugal
freemasonry which bores one so to witness. But Alice was not unhappy.
Her ideas of love ended with marriage; what came afterward--children,
housekeeping, and the claims of society--sufficed her needs. If she
had any surplus of feeling it was expended upon her children, who had
much from her already, for she was devoted and indulgent to them.
In their management she allowed no interference, on this point only
thwarting her husband. In one respect she and Charles harmonized; both
were worldly, and in all the material of living there was sympathy.
Their relation was no unhappiness to him; he thought, I dare say,
if he thought at all, that it was a natural one. The men of his
acquaintance called him a lucky man, for Alice was handsome,
kind-hearted, intelligent, and popular.

Whether Cousin Alice would have found it difficult to fulfill
the promise she made mother regarding me, if I had been a plain,
unnoticeable girl, I cannot say, or whether her anxiety that I should
make an agreeable impression would have continued beyond a few days.
She looked after my dress and my acquaintances. When she found that
I was sought by the young people of her set and the Academy, she was
gratified, and opened her house for them, giving little parties and
large ones, which were pleasant to everybody except Cousin Charles,
who detested company--"it made him lie so." But he was very well
satisfied that people should like to visit and praise his house and
its belongings, if Alice would take the trouble of it upon herself. I
made calls with her Wednesday afternoons, and went to church with
her Sunday mornings. At home I saw little of her. She was almost
exclusively occupied with the children--their ailments or their
pleasures--and staid in her own room, or the nursery.

When in the house I never occupied one spot long, but wandered in the
garden, which had a row of elms, or haunted the kitchen and stables,
to watch black Phoebe, the cook, or the men as they cleaned the horses
or carriages. My own room was in a wing of the cottage, with a window
overlooking the entrance into the yard and the carriage drive; this
was its sole view, except the wall of a house on the other side of a
high fence. I heard Charles when he drove home at night, or away in
the morning; knew when Nell was in a bad humor by the tone of his
voice, which I heard whether my window was open or shut. It was
a pretty room, with a set of maple furniture, and amber and white
wallpaper, and amber and white chintz curtains and coverings. It
suited the color of my hair, Alice declared, and was becoming to my
complexion.

"Yes," said Charles, looking at my hair with an expression that
made me put my hand up to my head as if to hide it; I knew it was
carelessly dressed.

I made a study that day of the girls' heads at school, and from that
time improved in my style of wearing it, and I brushed it with zeal
every day afterward. Alice had my room kept so neatly for me that it
soon came to be a reproach, and I was finally taught by her example
how to adjust chairs, books, and mats in straight lines, to fold
articles without making odd corners and wrinkles; at last I improved
so much that I could find what I was seeking in a drawer, without
harrowing it with my fingers, and began to see beauty in order. Alice
had a talent for housekeeping, and her talent was fostered by the
exacting, systematic taste of her husband. He examined many matters
which are usually left to women, and he applied his business talent to
the art of living, succeeding in it as he did in everything else.

Alice told me that Charles had been poor; that his father was never on
good terms with him. She fancied they were too much alike; so he had
turned him off to shift for himself, when quite young. When she met
him, he was the agent of a manufacturing company, in the town where
her parents lived, and even then, in his style of living, he surpassed
the young men of her acquaintance. The year before they were married
his father died, and as Charles was his only child, he left his farm
to him, and ten thousand dollars--all he had. The executors of the
will were obliged to advertise for him, not having any clue to his
place of residence. He sold the farm as soon as it was put in his
hands, took the ten thousand dollars, and came back to be married.
A year after, he went to Rosville, and built a cotton factory, three
miles from town, and the cottage, and then brought her and Edward, who
was a few months old, to live in it. He had since enlarged the works,
employed more operatives, and was making a great deal of money.
Morgeson's Mills, she believed, were known all over the country.
Charles was his own agent, as well as sole owner. There were no mills
beside his in the neighborhood; to that fact she ascribed the reason
of his having no difficulties in Rosville, and no enmities; for she
knew he had no wish to make friends. The Rosville people, having no
business in common with him, had no right to meddle, and could find
but small excuse for comment. They spent, she said, five or six
thousand a year; most of it went in horses, she was convinced, and
she believed his flowers cost him a great deal too. "You must know,
Cassandra, that his heart is with his horses and his flowers. He is
more interested in them than he is in his children."

She looked vexed when she said this; but I took hold of the edge
of her finely embroidered cape, and asked her how much it cost. She
laughed, and said, "Fifty dollars; but you see how many lapels it has.
I have still a handsomer one that was seventy-five."

"Are they a part of the six thousand a year, Alice?"

"Of course; but Charles wishes me to dress, and never stints me in
money; and, after all, I like for him to spend his money in his own
way. It vexes me sometimes, he buys such wild brutes, and endangers
his life with them. He rides miles and miles every year; and it
relieves the tedium of his journeys to have horses he must watch, I
suppose."

Nobody in Rosville lived at so fast a rate as the Morgesons. The
oldest families there were not the richest--the Ryders, in particular.
Judge Ryder had four unmarried daughters; they were the only girls
in our set who never invited us to visit them. They could not help
saying, with a fork of the neck, "Who are the Morgesons?" But all the
others welcomed Cousin Alice, and were friendly with me. She was too
pretty and kind-hearted not to be liked, if she was rich; and Cousin
Charles was respected, because he made no acquaintance beyond bows,
and "How-de-do's." It was rather a stirring thing to have such a
citizen, especially when he met with an accident, and he broke many
carriages in the course of time; and now and then there was a row at
the mills, which made talk. His being considered a hard man did not
detract from the interest he inspired.

My advent in Rosville might be considered a fortunate one; appearances
indicated it; I am sure I thought so, and was very well satisfied with
my position. I conformed to the ways of the family with ease, even in
the matter of small breakfasts and light suppers. I found that I was
more elastic than before, and more susceptible to sudden impressions;
I was conscious of the ebb and flow of blood through my heart, felt
it when it eddied up into my face, and touched my brain with its
flame-colored wave. I loved life again. The stuff of which each day
was woven was covered with an arabesque which suited my fancy. I
missed nothing that the present unrolled for me, but looked neither
to the past nor to the future. In truth there was little that was
elevated in me. Could I have perceived it if there had been? Whichever
way the circumstances of my life vacillated, I was not yet reached to
the quick; whether spiritual or material influences made sinuous the
current of being, it still flowed toward an undiscovered ocean.

Half the girls at the Academy, like myself, came from distant towns.
Some had been there three years. They were all younger than myself.
There never had been a boarding-house attached to the school, and it
was not considered a derogatory thing for the best families to receive
these girls as boarders. We were therefore on the same footing, in a
social sense. I was also on good terms with Miss Prior. She was a cold
and kindly woman, faithful as a teacher, gifted with an insight into
the capacity of a pupil. She gave me a course of History first, and
after that Physical Philosophy; but never recommended me to Moral
Science. When I had been with her a few months, she proposed that I
should study the common branches; my standing in the school was such
that I went down into the primary classes without shame, and I must
say that I was the dullest scholar in them. We also had a drawing
master and a music-teacher. The latter was an amiable woman, with
theatrical manners. She was a Mrs. Lane; but no Mr. Lane had ever been
seen in Rosville. We girls supposed he had deserted her, which was
the fact, as she told me afterward. She cried whenever she sang a
sentimental song, but never gave up to her tears, singing on with
blinded eyes and quavering voice. I laughed at her dresses which had
been handsome, with much frayed trimming about them, the hooks and
eyes loosened and the seams strained, but liked her, and although
I did not take lessons, saw her every day when she came up to the
Academy. She asked me once if I had any voice. I answered her by
singing one of our Surrey hymns, "_Once on the raging seas he rode_."
She grew pale, and said, "Don't for heaven's sake sing that! I can
see my old mother, as she looked when she sang that hymn of a stormy
night, when father was out to sea. Both are dead now, and where am I?"

She turned round on the music stool, and banged out the accompaniment
of "_O pilot, 'tis a fearful night_," and sang it with great energy.
After her feelings were composed, she begged me to allow her to
teach me to sing. "You can at least learn the simple chords of
song accompaniments, and I think you have a voice that can be made
effective."

I promised to try, and as I had taken lessons before, in three months
I could play and sing "_Should those fond hopes e'er forsake thee_,"
tolerably well. But Mrs. Lane persisted in affirming that I had
a dramatic talent, and as she supposed that I never should be an
actress, I must bring it out in singing; so I persevered, and, thanks
to her, improved so much that people said, when I was mentioned, "She
sings."

The Moral Sciences went to Dr. Price, and he had a class of girls
in Latin; but my only opportunity of going before him was at morning
prayers and Wednesday afternoons, when we assembled in the hall to
hear orations in Latin, or translations, and "pieces" spoken by the
boys; and at the quarterly reviews, when he marched us backward and
forward through the books we had conned, like the sharp old gentleman
he was, notwithstanding his purblind eyes.






CHAPTER XVI.


I heard from home regularly; father, however, was my only
correspondent. He stipulated that I should write him every other
Saturday, if not more than a line; but I did more than that at first,
writing up the events of the fortnight, interspersing my opinions of
the actors engaged therein, and dwindling by degrees down to the mere
acknowledgment of his letter. He read without comment, but now and
then he asked me questions which puzzled me to answer.

"Do you like Mr. Morgeson?" he asked once.

"He is very attentive," I wrote back. "But so is Cousin Alice,--she is
fond of me."

"You do not like Morgeson?" again.

"Are there no agreeable young men," he asked another time, "with Dr.
Price?"

"Only boys," I wrote--"cubs of my own age."

Among the first letters I received was one with the news of the death
of my grandfather, John Morgeson. He had left ten thousand dollars
for Arthur, the sum to be withdrawn from the house of Locke Morgeson
& Co., and invested elsewhere, for the interest to accumulate, and
be added to the principal, till he should be of age. The rest of
his property he gave to the Foreign Missionary Society. "Now," wrote
father, "it will come your turn next, to stand in the gap, when your
mother and I fall back from the forlorn hope--life." This merry and
unaccustomed view of things did not suggest to my mind the change
he intimated; I could not dwell on such an idea, so steadfast
a home-principle were father and mother. It was different with
grandfathers and grandmothers, of course; they died, since it was
not particularly necessary for them to live after their children were
married.

It was early June when I went to Rosville; it was now October. There
was nothing more for me to discover there. My relations at home and
at school were established, and it was probable that the next year's
plans were all settled.

"It is the twentieth," said my friend, Helen Perkins, as we lingered
in the Academy yard, after school hours. "The trees have thinned so
we can see up and down the streets. Isn't that Mr. Morgeson who
is tearing round the corner of Gold Street? Do you think he is
strange-looking? I do. His hair, and eyes, and complexion are exactly
the same hue; what color is it? A pale brown, or a greenish gray?"

"Is he driving this way?"

"Yes; the fore-legs of his horse have nearly arrived."

I moved on in advance of Helen, toward the gate; he beckoned when he
saw me, and presently reined Nell close to us. "You can decide now
what color he is," I whispered to her.

"Will you ride home?" he asked. "And shall I take you down to
Bancroft's, Miss Helen?"

She would have declined, but I took her arm, pushed her into the
chaise, and then sprang in after her; she seized the hand-loop, in
view of an upset.

"You are afraid of my horse, Miss Helen," he said, without having
looked at her.

"I am afraid of your driving," she answered, leaning back and looking
behind him at me. She shook her head and put her finger on her eyelid
to make me understand that she did not like the color of his eyes.

"Cassandra is afraid of neither," he said.

"Why should I be?" I replied coldly.

We were soon at the Bancrofts', where Helen lived, which was a mile
from the Academy, and half a mile from our house. When we were going
home, he asked:

"Is she your intimate friend?"

"The most in school."

"Is there the usual nonsense about her?"

"What do you mean by nonsense?"

"When a girl talks about her lover or proposes one to her friend."

"I think she is not gifted that way."

"Then I like her."

"Why should she not talk about lovers, though? The next time I see her
I will bring up the subject."

"You shall think and talk of your lessons, and nothing more, I charge
you. Go on, Nell," he said, in a loud voice, turning into the yard
and grazing one of the gate-posts, so that we struck together. I was
vexed, thinking it was done purposely, and brushed my shoulder where
he came in contact, as if dust had fallen on me, and jumped out
without looking at him, and ran into the house.

"Are you losing your skill in driving, Charles?" Alice asked, when we
were at tea, "or is Nell too much for you? I saw you crash against the
gate-post."

"Did you? My hand was not steady, and we made a lurch."

"Was there a fight at the mills last night? Jesse said so."

"Jesse must mind his business."

"He told Phoebe about it."

"I knocked one of the clerks over and sprained my wrist."

I met his eye then. "It was your right hand?" I asked.

"It was my right hand," in a deferential tone, and with a slight bow
in my direction.

"Was it Parker?" she asked.

"Yes, he is a puppy; but don't talk about it."

Nothing more was said, even by Edward, who observed his father with
childish gravity, I meditated on the injustice I had done him about
the gate-post. After tea he busied himself in the garden among the
flowers which were still remaining. I lingered in the parlor or walked
the piazza with an undefined desire of speaking to him before I should
go to my room. After he had finished his garden work he went to the
stable; I heard the horses stepping about the floor as they were
taken out for his inspection. The lamps were lighted before he came in
again; Alice was upstairs as usual. When I heard him coming, I opened
my book, and seated myself in a corner of a sofa; he walked to the
window without noticing me, and drummed on the piano.

"Does your wrist pain you, Charles?" still reading.

"A trifle," adjusting his wristband.

"Do you often knock men down in your employ?"

"When they deserve it."

"It is a generous and manly sort of pastime."

"I am a generous man and very strong; do you know that, you little
fool? Here, will you take this flower? There will be no more this
year." I took it from his hand; it was a pink, faintly odorous
blossom.

"I love these fragile flowers best," he continued--"where I have to
protect them from my own touch, even." He relapsed into forgetfulness
for a moment, and then began to study his memorandum book.

"A note from the mills, sir," said Jesse, "by one of the hands."

"Tell him to wait."

He read it, and threw it over to me. It was from Parker, who informed
Mr. Morgeson that he was going by the morning's train to Boston,
thinking it was time for him to leave his employ; that, though the
fault was his own in the difficulty of the day before, a Yankee could
not stand a knock-down. It was too damned aristocratic for an employer
to have that privilege; our institutions did not permit it. He thanked
Mr. Morgeson for his liberality; he couldn't thank him for being
a good fellow. "And would he oblige him by sending per bearer the
arrears of salary?"

"Parker is in love with a factory girl. He quarreled with one of the
hands because he was jealous of him, and would have been whipped by
the man and his friends; to spare him that, I knocked him down. Do you
feel better now, Cassy?"

"Better? How does it concern me?"

He laughed.

"Put Black Jake in the wagon," he called to Jesse.

Alice heard him and came downstairs; we went out on the _piazza_, to
see him off. "Why do you go?" she asked, in an uneasy tone.

"I must. Wont you go too?"

She refused; but whispered to me, asking if I were afraid?

"Of what?"

"Men quarreling."

"Cassandra, will you go?" he asked. "If not, I am off. Jump in behind,
Sam, will you?"

"Go," said Alice; and she ran in for a shawl, which she wrapped round
me.

"Alice," said Charles, "you are a silly woman."

"As you have always said," she answered, laughing. "Ward the blows
from him, Cassandra."

"It's a pretty dark night for a ride," remarked Sam.

"I have rode in darker ones."

"I dessay," replied Sam.

"Cover your hand with my handkerchief," I said; "the wind is cutting."

"Do you wish it?"

"No, I do not wish it; it was a humanitary idea merely."

He refused to have it covered.

The air had a moldy taint, and the wind blew the dead leaves around
us. As we rode through the darkness I counted the glimmering lights
which flashed across our way till we got out on the high-road where
they grew scarce, and the wind whistled loud about our faces. He laid
his hand on my shawl. "It is too light; you will take cold."

"No."

We reached the mills, and pulled up by the corner of a building, where
a light shone through a window.

"This is my office. You must go in--it is too chilly for you to wait
in the wagon. Hold Jake, Sam, till I come back."

I followed him. In the farthest corner of the room where we had
seen the light, behind the desk, sat Mr. Parker, with his light hair
rumpled, and a pen behind his ear.

I stopped by the door, while Charles went to the desk and stood before
him to intercept my view, but he could not help my hearing what was
said, though he spoke low.

"Did you give something to Sam, Parker, for bringing me your note at
such a late hour?"

"Certainly," in a loud voice.

"He must be fifty, at least."

"I should say so," rather lower.

"Well, here is your money; you had better stay. I shall be devilish
sorry for your father, who is my friend; you know he will be
disappointed if you leave; depend upon it he will guess at the girl.
Of course you would like to have me say I was in fault about giving
you a blow--as I was. Stay. You will get over the affair. We all do.
Is she handsome?"

"Beautiful," in a meek but enthusiastic tone.

"That goes, like the flowers; but they come every year again."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I say."

"No; I'll stay and see."

Charles turned away.

"Good-evening, Mr. Parker," I said, stepping forward. I had met him at
several parties at Rosville, but never at our house.

"Excuse me, Miss Morgeson; I did not know you. I hope you are well."

"Come," said Charles, with his hand on the latch.

"Are you going to Mrs. Bancroft's whist party on Wednesday night, Mr.
Parker?"

"Yes; Miss Perkins was kind enough to invite me."

"Cassandra, come." And Charles opened the door. I fumbled for the
flower at my belt. "It's nice to have flowers so late; don't you think
so?" inhaling the fragrance of my crushed specimens; "if they would
but last. Will you have it?" stretching it toward him. He was about
to take it, with a blush, when Charles struck it out of my hand and
stepped on it.

"Are you ready now?" he said, in a quick voice.

I declared it was nothing, when I found I was too ill to rise the next
morning. At the end of three days, as I still felt a disinclination to
get up, Alice sent for her physician. I told him I was sleepy and felt
dull pains. He requested me to sit up in bed, and rapped my shoulders
and chest with his knuckles, in a forgetful way.

"Nothing serious," he said; "but, like many women, you will continue
to do something to keep in continual pain. If Nature does not endow
your constitution with suffering, you will make up the loss by some
fatal trifling, which will bring it. I dare say, now, that after this,
you never will be quite well."

"I will take care of my health."

He looked into my face attentively.

"You wont--you can't. Did you ever notice your temperament?"

"No, never; what is it?"

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen, and four months."

"Is it possible? How backward you are! You are quite interesting."

"When may I get up?"

"Next week; don't drink coffee. Remember to live in the day. Avoid
stirring about in the night, as you would avoid Satan. Sleep, sleep
then, and you'll make that beauty of yours last longer."

"Am I a beauty? No living creature ever said so before."

"Adipose beauty."

"Fat?"

"No; not that exactly. Good-day."

He came again, and asked me questions concerning my father and mother;
what my grandparents died of; and whether any of my family were
strumous. He struck me as being very odd.

My school friends were attentive, but I only admitted Helen Perkins to
see me. Her liking for me opened my heart still more toward her. She
was my first intimate friend--and my last. Though younger than I, she
was more experienced, and had already passed through scenes I knew
nothing of, which had sobered her judgment, and given her feelings a
practical tinge. She was noted for having the highest spirits of any
girl in school--another result of her experiences. She never allowed
them to appear fluctuating; she was, therefore, an aid to me, whose
moods varied.

After my illness came a sense of change. I had lost that careless
security in my strength which I had always possessed, and was troubled
with vague doubts, that made me feel I needed help from without.

I did not see Charles while I was ill, for he was absent most of the
time. I knew when he was at home by the silence which pervaded the
premises. When he was not there, Alice spread the children in all
directions, and the servants gave tongue.

He was not at home the day I went downstairs, and I missed him,
continually asking myself, "Why do I?" As I sat with Alice in the
garden-room, I said, "Alice." She looked up from her sewing. "I am
thinking of Charles."

"Yes. He will be glad to see you again."

"Is he really related to me?"

"He told you so, did he not? And his name certainly is Morgeson."

"But we are wholly unlike, are we not?"

"Wholly; but why do you ask?"

"He influences me so strongly."

"Influences you?" she echoed.

"Yes"; and, with an effort, "I believe I influence him."

"You are very handsome," she said, with a little sharpness. "So are
flowers," I said to myself.

"It is not that, Alice," I answered peevishly; "you know better."

"You are peculiar, then; it may be he likes you for being so. He is
odd, you know; but his oddity never troubles me." And she resumed her
sewing with a placid face.

"Veronica is odd, also," was my thought; "but oddity there runs in
a different direction." Her image appeared to me, pale, delicate,
unyielding. I seemed to wash like a weed at her base.

"You should see my sister, Alice."

"Charles spoke of her; he says she plays beautifully. If you feel
strong next week, we will go to Boston, and make our winter purchases.
By the way, I hope you are not nervous. To go back to Charles, I
have noticed how little you say to him. You know he never talks. The
influence you speak of--it does not make you dislike him?"

"No; I meant to say--my choice of words must be poor--that it was
possible I might be thinking too much of him; he is your husband,
you know, though I do not think he is particularly interesting, or
pleasing."

She laughed, as if highly amused, and said: "Well, about our dresses.
You need a ball dress, so do I; for we shall have balls this winter,
and if the children are well, we will go. I think, too, that you had
better get a gray cloth pelisse, with a fur trimming. We dress so much
at church."

"Perhaps," I said. "And how will a gray hat with feathers look? I must
first write father, and ask for more money."

"Of course; but he allows you all you want."

"He is not so very rich; we do not live as handsomely as you do."

It was tea-time when we had finished our confab, and Alice sent me to
bed soon after. I was comfortably drowsy when I heard Charles driving
into the stable. "There he is," I thought, with a light heart, for I
felt better since I had spoken to Alice of him. Her matter-of-fact air
had blown away the cobwebs that had gathered across my fancy.

I saw him at the breakfast-table the next morning. He was noting
something in his memorandum book, which excused him from offering me
his hand; but he spoke kindly, said he was glad to see me, hoped I was
well, and could find a breakfast that I liked.

"For some reason or other, I do not eat so much as I did in Surrey."

Alice laughed, and I blushed.

"What do you think, Charles?" she said, "Cassandra seems worried by
the influence, as she calls it, you have upon each other."

"Does she?"

He raised his strange, intense eyes to mine; a blinding, intelligent
light flowed from them which I could not defy, nor resist, a light
which filled my veins with a torrent of fire.

"You think Cassandra is not like you," he continued with a curious
intonation.

"I told her that your oddities never troubled me."

"That is right."

"To-day," I muttered, "Alice, I shall go back to school."

"You must ride," she answered.

"Jesse will drive you up," said Charles, rising. Alice called him
back, to tell him her plan of the Boston visit.

"Certainly; go by all means," he said, and went on his way.

I made my application to father, telling him I had nothing to wear. He
answered with haste, begging me to clothe myself at once.






CHAPTER XVII.


It was November when we returned from Boston. One morning when the
frost sparkled on the dead leaves, which still dropped on the walks,
Helen Perkins and I were taking a stroll down Silver Street, behind
the Academy, when we saw Dr. White coming down the street in his
sulky, rocking from side to side like a cradle. He stopped when he
came up to us.

"Do ye sit up late of evenings, Miss Morgeson?"

"No, Doctor; only once a week or so."

"You are a case." And he meditatively pulled his shaggy whiskers
with a loose buckskin glove. "There's a ripple coming under your eyes
already; what did I tell you? Let me see, did you say you were like
father or mother?"

"I look like my father. By the way, Doctor, I am studying my
temperament. You will make an infidel of me by your inquiries."

Helen laughed, and staring at him, called him a bear, and told him he
ought to live in a hospital, where he would have plenty of sick women
to tease.

"I should find few like you there."

He chirruped to his horse, but checked it again, put out his head and
called, "Keep your feet warm, wont you? And read Shakespeare."

Helen said that Dr. White had been crossed in love, and long after had
married a deformed woman--for science's sake, perhaps. His talent was
well known out of Rosville; but he was unambitious and eccentric.

"He is interested in you, Cass, that I see. Are you quite well? What
about the change you spoke of?"

"Dr. White has theories; he has attached one to me. Nature has
adjusted us nicely, he thinks, with fine strings; if we laugh too
much, or cry too long, a knot slips somewhere, which 'all the king's
men' can't take up again. Perhaps he judges women by his deformed
wife. Men do judge that way, I suppose, and then pride themselves
on their experience, commencing their speeches about us, with 'you
women.' I'll answer your question, though,--there's a blight creeping
over me, or a mildew."

"Is there a worm i' the bud?"

"There may be one at the root; my top is green and flourishing, isn't
it?"

"You expect to be in a state of beatitude always. What is a mote of
dust in another's eye, in yours is a cataract. You are mad at your
blindness, and fight the air because you can't see."

"I feel that I see very little, especially when I understand the
clearness of your vision. Your good sense is monstrous."

"It will come right somehow, with you; when twenty years are wasted,
maybe," she answered sadly. "There's the first bell! I haven't a word
yet of my rhetoric lesson," opening her book and chanting, "'Man,
thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.' Are you going to Professor
Simpson's class?" shutting it again. "I know the new dance"; and
she began to execute it on the walk. The door of a house opposite
us opened, and a tall youth came out, hat in hand. Without evincing
surprise, he advanced toward Helen, gravely dancing the same step;
they finished the figure with unmoved countenances. "Come now," I
said, taking her arm. He then made a series of bows to us, retreating
to the house, with his face toward us, till he reached the door and
closed it. He was tall and stout, with red hair, and piercing black
eyes, and looked about twenty-three. "Who can that be, Helen?"

"A stranger; probably some young man come to Dr. Price, or a law
student. He is new here, at all events. His is not an obscure face; if
it had been seen, we should have known it."

"We shall meet him, then."

And we did, the very next day, which was Wednesday, in the hall, where
we went to hear the boys declaim. I saw him, sitting by himself in
a chair, instead of being with the classes. He was in a brown study,
unaware that he was observed; both hands were in his pockets, and his
legs were stretched out till his pantaloons had receded up his boots,
whose soles he knocked together, oblivious of the noise they made. In
spite of his red hair, I thought him handsome, with his Roman nose and
firm, clefted chin. Helen and I were opposite him at the lower part
of the hall, but he did not see us, till the first boy mounted the
platform, and began to spout one of Cicero's orations; then he looked
up, and a smile spread over his face. He withdrew his hands from his
pockets, updrew his legs, and surveyed the long row of girls opposite,
beginning at the head of the hall. As his eyes reached us, a flash of
recognition shot across; he raised his hand as if to salute us, and
I noticed that it was remarkably handsome, small and white, and
ornamented with an old-fashioned ring. It was our habit, after the
exercises were over, to gather round Dr. Price, to exchange a few
words with him. And this occasion was no exception, for Dr. Price,
with his double spectacles, and his silk handkerchief in his hand,
was answering our questions, when feeling a touch, he stopped, turned
hastily, and saw the stranger.

"Will you be so good as to introduce me to the two young ladies near
you? We have met before, but I do not know their names."

"Ah," said the Doctor, taking off his spectacles and wiping them
leisurely; then raising his voice, said, "Miss Cassandra Morgeson and
Miss Helen Perkins, Mr. Ben Somers, of Belem, requests me to present
him to you. I add the information that he is, although a senior,
suspended from Harvard College, for participating in a disgraceful
fight. It is at your option to notice him."

"If he would be kind enough," said Mr. Somers, moving toward us, "to
say that I won it."

"With such hands?" I asked.

"Oh, Somers," interposed the Doctor, "have you much knowledge of the
Bellevue Pickersgills' pedigree?"

"Certainly; my grandpa, Desmond Pickersgill, although he came to this
country as a cabin boy, was brother to an English earl. This is our
coat of arms," showing the ring he wore.

"That is a great fact," answered the Doctor.

"This lad," addressing me, "belongs to the family I spoke of to you, a
member of which married one of your name."

"Is it possible? I never heard much of my father's family."

"No," said the Doctor dryly; "Somers has no coat of arms. I expected,
when I asked you, to hear that the Pickergills' history was at your
fingers' ends."

"Only above the second joint of the third finger of my left hand."

I thought Dr. Price was embarrassing.

"Is your family from Troy?" Mr. Somers asked me, in a low tone.

"Do you dislike my name? Is that of Veronica a better one? It is my
sister's, and we were named by our great-grandfather, who married a
Somers, a hundred years ago."

Miss Black, my Barmouth teacher, came into my mind, for I had said the
same thing to her in my first interview; but I was recalled from my
wandering by Mr. Somers asking, "Are you looking for your sister? Far
be it from me to disparage any act of your great-grandfather's, but
I prefer the name of Veronica, and fancy that the person to whom
the name belongs has a narrow face, with eyes near together, and a
quantity of light hair, which falls straight; that she has long hands;
is fond of Gothic architecture, and has a will of her own."

"But never dances," said Helen.

There was a whist party at somebody's house every Wednesday evening.
Alice had selected the present for one, and had invited more than the
usual number. I asked Mr. Somers to come.

"Dress coat?" he inquired.

"Oh, no."

"Is Rosville highly starched?"

"Oh, no."

"I'll be sure to go into society, then, as long as I can go limp."

He bowed, and, retiring with Dr. Price, walked through the green with
him, perusing the ground.

I wore a dark blue silk for the party, with a cinnamon-colored satin
stripe through it; a dress that Alice supervised. She fastened a pair
of pearl ear-rings in my ears, and told me that I never looked better.
It was the first time since grandfather's death that I had worn any
dress except a black one. My short sleeves were purled velvet, and
a lace tucker was drawn with a blue ribbon across the corsage. As
I adjusted my dress, a triumphant sense of beauty possessed me;
Cleopatra could not have been more convinced of her charms than I was
of mine. "It is a pleasant thing," I thought, "that a woman's mind may
come and go by the gate Beautiful."

I went down before Alice, who stayed with the children till she heard
the first ring at the door.

"Where is Charles?" I asked, after we had greeted the Bancrofts.

"He will come in time to play, for he likes whist; do you?"

"No."

We did not speak again, but I noticed how gay and agreeable she was
through the evening.

Ben Somers came early, suffering from a fit of nonchalance, to the
disgust of several young men, standard beaux, who regarded him with an
impertinence which delighted him.

"Here comes," he said, "'a daughter of the gods, divinely tall, and
most divinely fair.'" Meaning me, which deepened their disgust.

"Come to the piano," I begged. Helen was there, but his eyes did not
rest upon her, but upon Charles, whom I saw for the first time that
evening. I introduced them.

"Cassandra," said Charles, "let us make up a game in the East Room.
Miss Helen, will you join? Mr. Somers, will you take a hand?"

"Certainly. Miss Morgeson, will you be my partner?"

"Will you play with me then, Miss Helen?" asked Charles.

"If you desire it," she answered, rather ungraciously.

We took our seats in the East Room, which opened from the parlor, at a
little table by the chimney. The astral lamp from the center table in
the parlor shone into our room, intercepting any view toward us. I sat
by the window, the curtain of which was drawn apart, and the shutters
unclosed. A few yellow leaves stuck against the panes, unstirred by
the melancholy wind, which sighed through the crevices. Charles was at
my right hand, by the mantel; the light from a candelabra illuminated
him and Mr. Somers, while Helen and I were in shadow. Mr. Somers dealt
the cards, and we began the game.

"We shall beat you," he said to Charles.

"Not unless Cassandra has improved," he replied.

I promised to do my best, but soon grew weary, and we were beaten. To
my surprise Mr. Somers was vexed. His imperturbable manner vanished;
he sat erect, his eyes sparkled, and he told me I must play better. We
began another game, which he was confident of winning. I kept my eyes
on the cards, and there was silence till Mr. Somers exclaimed, "Don't
trump now, Mr. Morgeson."

I watched the table for his card to fall, but as it did not, looked
at him for the reason. He had forgotten us, and was lost in
contemplation, with his eyes fixed upon me. The recognition of
some impulse had mastered him. I must prevent Helen and Mr. Somers
perceiving this! I shuffled the cards noisily, rustled my dress,
looked right and left for my handkerchief to break the spell.

"How the wind moans!" said Helen. I understood her tone; she
understood him, as I did.

"I _like_ Rosville, Miss Perkins," cried Mr. Somers.

"Do you?" said Charles, clicking down his card, as though his turn had
just come. "I must trump this in spite of you."

"I am tired of playing," I said.

"We are beaten, Miss Perkins," said Mr. Somers, rising. "Bring it
here," to a servant going by with a tray and glasses. He drank
a goblet of wine, before he offered us any. "Now give us music!"
offering his arm to Helen, and taking her away. Charles and I remained
at the table. "By the way," he said abruptly, "I have forgotten to
give you a letter from your father--here it is." I stretched my hand
across the table, he retained it. I rose from my chair and stood
beside him.

"Cassandra," he said at last, growing ashy pale, "is there any other
world than this we are in now?"

I raised my eyes, and saw my own pale face in the glass over the
mantel above his head.

"What do you see?" he asked, starting up.

I pointed to the glass.

"I begin to think," I said, "there is another world, one peopled
with creatures like those we see there. What are they--base, false,
cowardly?"

"Cowardly," he muttered, "will you make me crush you? Can we lie to
each other? Look!"

He turned me from the glass.

At that moment Helen struck a crashing blow on the piano keys.

"Charles, give me--give me the letter."

He looked vaguely round the floor, it was crumpled in his hand. A side
door shut, and I stood alone. Pinching my cheeks and wiping my lips to
force the color back, I returned to the parlor. Mr. Somers came to me
with a glass of wine. It was full, and some spilled on my dress; he
made no offer to wipe it off. After that, he devoted himself to Alice;
talked lightly with her, observing her closely. I made the tour of the
party, overlooked the whist players, chatted with the talkers, finally
taking a seat, where Helen joined me.

"Now I am going," she said.

"Why don't they all go?"

"Look at Mr. Somers playing the agreeable to Mrs. Morgeson. What kind
of a woman is she, Cass?"

"Go and learn for yourself."

"I fear I have not the gift for divining people that you have."

"Do you hear the wind moan now, Helen?"

She turned crimson, and said: "Let us go to the window; I think it
rains."

We stood within the curtains, and listened to its pattering on the
floor of the piazza, and trickling down the glass like tears.

"Helen, if one could weep as quietly as this rain falls, and keep the
face as unwrinkled as the glass, it would be pretty to weep."

"Is it hard for you to cry?"

"I can't remember; it is so long since."

My ear caught the sound of a step on the piazza.

"Who is that?" she asked.

"It is a man."

"Morgeson?"

"Morgeson."

"Cassandra?"

"Cassandra."

"I can cry," and Helen covered her face.

"Cry away, then. Give me a fierce shower of tears, with thunder and
lightning between, if you like. Don't sop, and soak, and drizzle."

The step came close to the window; it was not in harmony with the rain
and darkness, but with the hot beating of my heart.

"We are breaking up," called Mr. Somers. "Mr. Bancroft's carriage is
ready, I am bid to say. It is inky outside."

"Yes," said Helen, "I am quite ready."

"There are a dozen chaises in the yard; Mr. Morgeson is there, and
lanterns. He is at home among horses, I believe."

"Do you like horses?" I asked.

"Not in the least."

Somebody called Helen.

"Good-night, Cass."

"Good-night; keep out of the rain."

"Good-night, Miss Morgeson," said Mr. Somers, when she had gone.
"Good-night and good-morning. My acquaintance with you has begun; it
will never end. You thought me a boy; I am just your age."

"'Never,' is a long word, Boy Somers."

"It is."

It rained all night; I wearied of its monotonous fall; if I slept it
turned into a voice which was pent up in a letter which I could not
open.






CHAPTER XVIII.


Alice was unusually gay the next morning. She praised Mr. Somers, and
could not imagine what had been the cause of his being expelled from
the college.

"Don't you like him, Cassandra? His family are unexceptionable."

"So is he, I believe, except in his fists. But how did you learn that
his family were unexceptionable?"

"Charles inquired in Boston, and heard that his mother was one of the
greatest heiresses in Belem."

"Did you enjoy last night, Alice?"

"Yes, I am fond of whist parties. You noticed that Charles has not a
remarkable talent that way. Did he speak to Mr. Somers at all, while
you played? I was too busy to come in. By the by, I must go now, and
see if the parlor is in order."

I followed her with my bonnet in hand, for it was school time.
She looked about, then went up to the mantel, and taking out the
candle-ends from the candelabra, looked in the glass, and said, "I am
a fright this morning."

"Am I?" I asked over her shoulder, for I was nearly a head taller.

"No; you are too young to look jaded in the morning. Your eyes are as
clear as a child's; and how blue they are."

"Mild and babyish-like, are they not? almost green with innocence. But
Charles has devilish eyes, don't you think so?"

She turned with her mouth open in astonishment, and her hand full of
candle-ends. "Cassandra Morgeson, are you mad?"

"Good-by," Alice.

I only saw Mr. Somers at prayers during the following fortnight. But
in that short time he made many acquaintances. Helen told me that he
had decided to study law with Judge Ryder, and that he had asked her
how long I expected to stay in Rosville. Nothing eccentric had been
discovered in his behavior; but she was convinced that he would
astonish us before long. The first Wednesday after our party, I was
absent from the elocutionary exercise; but the second came round, and
I took my place as usual beside Helen.

"This will be Mr. Somers's first and last appearance on our stage,"
she whispered; "some whim prompts him to come to-day."

He delighted Dr. Price by translating from the Agamemnon of AEschylus.

"Re-enter Clytemnestra."

"_Men! Citizens! ye Elders of Argos present here._"

"Who was Agamemnon?" I whispered.

"He gave Cassandra her last ride."

"Did he upset her?"

"Study Greek and you will know," she replied, frowning at him as he
stepped from the platform.

We went to walk in Silver Street after school, and he joined us.

"Do you read Greek?" he asked her.

"My father is a Greek Professor, and he made me study it when I was a
little girl."

"The name of Cassandra inspired me to rub up my knowledge of the
tragedies."

Helen and he had a Homeric talk, while I silently walked by them,
thinking that Cassandra would have suited Veronica, and that no name
suited me. From some reason I did not discover, Helen began to loiter,
pretending that she wanted to have a look at the clouds. But when I
looked back her head was bent to the ground. Mr. Somers offered to
carry my books.

"Carry Helen's; she is smaller than I am."

"Confound Helen!"

"And the books, too, if you like. Helen," I called, "why do you
loiter? It is time for dinner. We must go home."

"I am quite ready for my dinner," she replied. "Wont you come to our
house this afternoon and take tea with me?"

"Oh, Miss Perkins, do invite me also," he begged. "I want to bring
Tennyson to you."

"Is he related to Agamemnon?" I asked.

"I'll ask Mrs. Bancroft if I may invite you," said Helen, "if you are
sure that you would like a stupid, family tea."

"I am positive that I should. Tennyson, though an eminent Grecian, is
not related to the person you spoke of."

We parted at the foot of Silver Street, with the expectation of
meeting before night. Helen sent me word not to fail, as she had sent
for Mr. Somers, and that Mrs. Bancroft was already preparing tea.
Alice drove down there with me, to call on Mrs. Bancroft. The two
ladies compared children, and by the time Alice was ready to go, Mr.
Somers arrived. She staid a few moments more to chat with him, and
when she went at last, told me Charles would come for me on his way
from the mills.

My eyes wandered in the direction of Mr. Somers. His said: "No; go
home with _me_."

"Very well, Alice, whatever is convenient," I answered quietly.

Mrs. Bancroft was a motherly woman, and Mr. Bancroft was a fatherly
man. Five children sat round the tea-table, distinguished by the
Bancroft nose. Helen and I were seated each side of Mr. Somers. The
table reminded me of our table at Surrey, it was so covered with vast
viands; but the dishes were alike, and handsome. I wondered whether
mother had bought the new china in Boston, and, buttering my second
hot biscuit, I thought of Veronica; then, of the sea. How did it look?
Hark! Its voice was in my ear! Could I climb the housetop? Might I not
see the mist which hung over our low-lying sea by Surrey?

"Will you take quince or apple jelly, Miss Morgeson?" asked Mrs.
Bancroft.

"Apple, if you please."

"Do you write that sister of yours often?" asked Mr. Somers, as he
passed me the apple jelly.

"I never write her."

"Will you tell me something of Surrey?"

"Mr. Somers, shall I give you a cup-custard?"

"No, thank you, mam."

"Surrey is lonely, evangelical, primitive."

"Belem is dreary too; most of it goes to Boston, or to India."

"Does it smell of sandal wood? And has everybody tea-caddies? _Vide_
Indian stories."

"We have a crate of queer things from Calcutta."

"Are you going to study law with Judge Ryder?" Mr. Bancroft inquired.

"I think so."

Then Helen pushed back her chair; and Mrs. Bancroft stood in her place
long enough for us to reach the parlor door.

"And I must go to the office," Mr. Bancroft said, so we had the parlor
to ourselves; but Mr. Somers did not read from Tennyson--for he had
forgotten to bring the book.

"Now for a compact," he said. "I must be called Ben Somers by you; and
may I call you Cassandra, and Helen?"

"Yes," we answered.

"Let us be confidential."

And we were. I was drawn into speaking of my life at home; my remarks,
made without premeditation, proved that I possessed ideas and feelings
hitherto unknown. I felt no shyness before him, and, although I saw
his interest in me, no agitation. Helen was also moved to tell us
that she was engaged. She rolled up her sleeve to show us a bracelet,
printed in ink on her arm, with the initials, "L.N." Those of her
cousin, she said; he was a sailor, and some time, she supposed, they
would marry.

"How could you consent to have your arm so defaced?" I asked.

Her eyes flashed as she replied that she had not looked upon the mark
in that light before.

"We may all be tattooed," said Mr. Somers.

"I am," I thought.

He told us in his turn that he should be rich. "There are five of us.
My mother's fortune cuts up rather; but it wont be divided till the
youngest is twenty-one. I assure you we are impatient."

"Some one of your family happened to marry a Morgeson," I here
remarked.

"I wrote father about that; he must know the circumstance, though he
never has a chance to expatiate on _his_ side of the house. Poor man!
he has the gout, and passes his time in experiments with temperature
and diet. Will you ever visit Belem? I shall certainly go to Surrey."

Mrs. Bancroft interrupted us, and soon after Mr. Bancroft arrived,
redolent of smoke. Ten o'clock came, and nobody for me. At half-past
ten I put on my shawl to walk home, when Charles drove up to the gate.

"Say," said Ben Somers, in a low voice, "that you will walk with me."

"I am not too late, Cassandra?" called Charles, coming up the steps,
bowing to all. "I am glad you are ready; Nell is impatient."

"My dear," asked Mrs. Bancroft, "how dare you trust to the mercy of
such vicious beasts as Mr. Morgeson loves to drive?"

"Come," he said, touching my arm.

"Wont you walk?" said Mr. Somers aloud.

"Walk?" echoed Charles. "No."

"I followed him. Nell had already bitten off a paling; and as he
untied her he boxed her ears. She did not jump, for she knew the hand
that struck her. We rushed swiftly away through the long shadows of
the moonlight.

"Charles, what did Ben Somers do at Harvard?"

"He was in a night-fight, and he sometimes got drunk; it is a family
habit."

"Pray, why did you inquire about him?"

"From the interest I feel in him."

"You like him, then?"

"I detest him; do you too?"

"I like him."

He bent down and looked into my face.

"You are telling me a lie."

I made no reply.

"I should beg your pardon, but I will not. I am going away to-morrow.
Give me your hand, and say farewell."

"Farewell then. Is Alice up? I see a light moving in her chamber."

"If you do, she is not waiting for me."

"I have been making coffee for you," she said, as soon as we entered,
"in my French biggin. I have packed your valise too, Charles, and have
ordered your breakfast. Cassy, we will breakfast after he has gone."

"I have to sit up to write, Alice. See that the horses are exercised.
Ask Parker to drive them. The men will be here to-morrow to enlarge
the conservatory."

"Yes."

"I shall get a better stock while I am away."

I sipped my coffee; Alice yawned fearfully, with her hand on the
coffee-pot, ready to pour again. "Why, Charles," she exclaimed, "there
is no cream in your coffee."

"No, there isn't," looking into his cup; "nor sugar."

She threw a lump at him, which he caught, laughing one of his abrupt
laughs.

"How extraordinarily affectionate," I thought, but somehow it pleased
me.

"Why do you tempt me, Alice?" I said. "Doctor White says I must not
drink coffee."

"Tempted!" Charles exclaimed. "Cassandra is never tempted. What she
does, she does because she will. Don't worry yourself, Alice, about
her."

"Because I will," I repeated.

A nervous foreboding possessed me, the moment I entered my room. Was
it the coffee? Twice in the night I lighted my candle, looked at the
little French clock on the mantel, and under the bed. At last I fell
asleep, but starting violently from its oblivious dark, to become
aware that the darkness of the room was sentient. A breath passed over
my face; but I caught no sound, though I held my breath to listen for
one. I moved my hands before me then, but they came in contact with
nothing. My forebodings passed away, and I slept till Alice sent for
me. I sat up in bed philosophizing, and examining the position of
the chairs, the tops of the tables and the door. No change had taken
place. But my eyes happened to fall on my handkerchief, which had
dropped by the bedside. I picked it up; there was a dusty footprint
upon it. The bell rang, and, throwing it under the bed, I dressed and
ran down. Alice was taking breakfast, tired of waiting. She said the
baby had cried till after midnight, and that Charles never came to bed
at all.

"Do eat this hot toast; it has just come in."

"I shall stay at home to-day, Alice, I feel chilly; is it cold?"

"You must have a fire in your room."

"Let me have one to day; I should like to sit there."

She gave orders for the fire, and went herself to see that it burned.
Soon I was sitting before it, my feet on a stool, and a poker in my
hand with which I smashed the smoky lumps of coal which smoldered in
the grate.

I stayed there all day, looking out of the window when I heard the
horses tramp in the stable or a step on the piazza. It was a dull
November day; the atmosphere was glutinous with a pale mist, which
made the leaves stick together in bunches, helplessly cumbering the
ground. The boughs dropped silent tears over them, under the gray,
pitiless sky. I read Byron, which was the only book in the house,
I believe; for neither Charles nor Alice read anything except the
newspapers. I looked over my small stores also, and my papers, which
consisted of father's letters. As I was sorting them the thought
struck me of writing to Veronica, and I arranged my portfolio, pulled
the table nearer the fire, and began, "Dear Veronica." After writing
this a few times I gave it up, cut off the "Dear Veronicas," and made
lamplighters of the paper.

Ben Somers called at noon, to inquire the reason of my absence from
school, and left a book for me. It was the poems he had spoken of.
I lighted on "Fatima," read it and copied it. In the afternoon Alice
came up with the baby.

"Let me braid your hair," she said, "in a different fashion."

I assented; the baby was bestowed on a rug, and a chair was put before
the glass, that I might witness the operation.

"What magnificent hair!" she said, as she unrolled it. "It is a yard
long."

"It is a regular mane, isn't it?"

She began combing it; the baby crawled under the bed, and coming out
with the handkerchief in its hand, crept up to her, trying to make her
take it. She had combed my hair over my face, but I saw it.

"Do I hurt you, Cass?"

"No, do I ever hurt you, Alice?" And I divided the long bands over my
eyes, and looked up at her.

"Were any of your family ever cracked? I have long suspected you of a
disposition that way."

"The child is choking itself with that handkerchief."

She took it, and, tossing it on the bed, gave Byron to the child to
play with, and went on with the hair-dressing.

"There, now," she said, "is not this a masterpiece of barber's craft?
Look at the back of your head, and then come down."

"Yes, I will, for I feel better."

When I returned to my room again it was like meeting a confidential
friend.

A few days after, father came to Rosville. I invited Ben Somers and
Helen to spend with us the only evening he stayed. After they were
gone, we sat in my room and talked over many matters. His spirits were
not as buoyant as usual, and I felt an undefinable anxiety which I did
not mention. When he said that mother was more abstracted than
ever, he sighed. I asked him how many years he thought I must waste;
eighteen had already gone for nothing.

"You must go in the way ordained, waste or no waste. I have tried to
make your life differ from mine at the same age, for you are like me,
and I wanted to see the result."

"We shall see."

"Veronica has been let alone--is master of herself, except when in a
rage. She is an extraordinary girl; independent of kith and kin, and
everything else. I assure you, Miss Cassy, she is very good."

"Does she ever ask for me?"

"I never heard her mention your name but once. She asked one day what
your teachers were. You do not love each other, I suppose. What hatred
there is between near relations! Bitter, bitter," he said calmly, as
if he thought of some object incapable of the hatred he spoke of.

"That's Grandfather John Morgeson you think of. I do not hate
Veronica. I think I love her; at least she interests me."

"The same creeping in the blood of us all, Cassy. I did not like my
father; but thank God I behaved decently toward him. It must be late."

As he kissed me, and we stood face to face, I recognized my likeness
to him. "He has had experiences that I shall never know," I thought.
"Why should I tell him mine?" But an overpowering impulse seized me
to speak to him of Charles. "Father," and I put my hands on his
shoulders. He set his candle back on the table.

"You look hungry-eyed, eager. What is it? Are you well?"

"No."

"You are faded a little. Your face has lost its firmness."

My impulse died a sudden death. I buried it with a swallow.

"Do you think so?"

"You are all alike. Let me tell you something; don't get sick. If you
are, hide it as much as possible. Men do not like sick women."

"I'll end this fading business as soon as possible. It _is_ late.
Good-night, dad."

I examined my face as soon as he closed the door. There _was_ a
change. Not the change from health to disease, but an expression
lurking there--a reflection of some unrevealed secret.

The next morning was passed with Alice and the children. He was
pleased with her prettiness and sprightliness, and his gentle manner
and disposition pleased her. She asked him to let me spend another
year in Rosville; but he said that I must return to Surrey, and that
he never would allow me to leave home again.

"She will marry."

"Not early."

"Never, I believe," I said.

"It will be as well."

"Yes," she replied; "if you leave her a fortune, or teach her some
trade, that will give her some importance in the world."

Her wisdom astonished me.

He was sorry, he said, that Morgeson was not at home. When he
mentioned him I looked out of the window, and saw Ben Somers coming
into the yard. As he entered, Alice gave him a meaning look, which was
not lost upon me, and which induced him to observe Ben closely.

"The train is nearly due, Mr. Morgeson; shall I walk to the station
with you?"

"Certainly; come, Cassy."

On the way he touched me, making a sign toward Ben. I shook my head,
which appeared satisfactory. The rest of the time was consumed in the
discussion of the relationship, which ended in an invitation, as I
expected, to Surrey.

"The governor is not worried, is he?" asked Ben, on our way back.

"No more than I am."

"What a pity Morgeson was not at home!"

"Why a pity?"

"I should like to see them together, they are such antipodal men. Does
your father know him well?"

"Does any one know him well?"

"Yes, I know him. I do not like him. He is a savage, living by his
instincts, with one element of civilization--he loves Beauty--beauty
like yours." He turned pale when he said this, but went on. "He has
never seen a woman like you; who has? Forgive me, but I watch you
both."

"I have perceived it."

"I suppose so, and it makes you more willful."

"You said you were but a boy."

"Yes, but I have had one or two manly wickednesses. I have done with
them, I hope."

"So that you have leisure to pry into those of others."

"You do not forgive me."

"I like you; but what can I do?"

"Keep up your sophistry to the last."






CHAPTER XIX.


Alice and I were preparing for the first ball, when Charles came home,
having been absent several weeks. The conservatory was finished, and
looked well, jutting from the garden-room, which we used often, since
the weather had been cold. The flowers and plants it was filled with
were more fragrant and beautiful than rare. I never saw him look so
genial as when he inspected it with us. Alice was in good-humor, also,
for he had brought her a set of jewels.

"Is it not her birthday," he said, when he gave her the jewel case,
"or something, that I can give Cassandra this?" taking a little box
from his pocket.

"Oh yes," said Alice; "show it to us."

"Will you have it?" he asked me.

I held out my hand, and he put on my third finger a diamond ring,
which was like a star.

"How well it looks on your long hand!" said Alice.

"What unsuspected tastes I find I have!" I answered. "I am
passionately fond of rings; this delights me."

His swarthy face flushed with pleasure at my words; but, according to
his wont, he said nothing.

A few days after his return, a man came into the yard, leading a
powerful horse chafing in his halter, which he took to the
stable. Charles asked me to look at a new purchase he had made in
Pennsylvania. The strange man was lounging about the stalls when we
went in, inspecting the horses with a knowing air.

"I declare, sir," said Jesse, "I am afeared to tackle this ere animal;
he's a reglar brute, and no mistake."

"He'll be tame enough; he is but four years old."

"He's never been in a carriage," said the man.

"Lead him out, will you?"

The man obeyed. The horse was a fine creature, black, and thick-maned;
but the whites of his eyes were not clear; they were streaked with
red, and he attempted continually to turn his nostrils inside out.
Altogether, I thought him diabolical.

"What's the matter with his eyes?" Charles asked.

"I think, sir," the man replied, "as how they got inflamed like, in
the boat coming from New York. It's nothing perticalar, I believe."

Alice declared it was too bad, when she heard there was another horse
in the stable. She would not look at him, and said she would never
ride with Charles when he drove him.

I had been taking lessons of Professor Simpson, and was ready for
the ball. All the girls from the Academy were going in white, except
Helen, who was to wear pink silk. It was to be a military ball, and
strangers were expected. Ben Somers, and our Rosville beaux, were
of course to be there, all in uniform, except Ben, who preferred the
dress of a gentleman, he said,--silk stockings, pumps, and a white
cravat.

We were dressed by nine o'clock, Alice in black velvet, with a wreath
of flowers in her black hair--I in a light blue velvet bodice, and
white silk skirt. We were waiting for the ball hack to come for us, as
that was the custom, for no one owned a close coach in Rosville, when
Charles brought in some splendid scarlet flowers which he gave to
Alice.

"Where are Cassandra's?"

"She does not care for flowers; besides, she would throw them away on
her first partner."

He put us in the coach, and went back. I was glad he did not come with
us, and gave myself up to the excitement of my first ball. Alice was
surrounded by her acquaintances at once, and I was asked to dance a
quadrille by Mr. Parker, whose gloves were much too large, and whose
white trowsers were much too long.

"I kept the flowers you gave me," he said in a breathless way.

"Oh yes, I remember; mustn't we forward now?"

"Mr. Morgeson's very fond of flowers."

"So he is. How de do, Miss Ryder."

Miss Ryder, my vis-a-vis, bowed, looking scornfully at my partner, who
was only a clerk, while hers was a law student. I immediately turned
to Mr. Parker with affable smiles, and went into a kind of dumb-show
of conversation, which made him warm and uncomfortable. Mrs. Judge
Ryder sailed by on Ben Somers's arm.

"Put your shoulders down," she whispered to her daughter, who had
poked one very much out of her dress. "My love," she spoke aloud, "you
mustn't dance _every_ set."

"No, ma," and she passed on, Ben giving a faint cough, for my benefit.
We could not find Alice after the dance was over. A brass band
alternated with the quadrille band, and it played so loudly that we
had to talk at the top of our voices to be heard. Mine soon gave out,
and I begged Mr. Parker to bring Helen, for I had not yet seen her.
She was with Dr. White, who had dropped in to see the miserable
spectacle. The air, he said, shaking his finger at me, was already
miasmal; it would be infernal by midnight Christians ought not to be
there. "Go home early, Miss. Your mother never went to a ball, I'll
warrant."

"We are wiser than our mothers."

"And wickeder; you will send for me to-morrow."

"Your Valenciennes lace excruciates the Ryders," said Helen. "I was
standing near Mrs. Judge Ryder and the girls just now. 'Did you ever
see such an upstart?' And, 'What an extravagant dress she has on--it
is ridiculous,' Josephine Ryder said. When Ben Somers heard this
attack on you, he told them that your lace was an heirloom. Here he
is." Mr. Parker took her away, and Ben Somers went in pursuit of a
seat. The quadrille was over, I was engaged for the next, and he had
not come back. I saw nothing of him till the country dance before
supper. He was at the foot of the long line, opposite a pretty girl
in blue, looking very solemn and stately. I took off the glove from my
hand which wore the new diamond, and held it up, expecting him to look
my way soon. Its flash caught his eyes, as they roamed up and down,
and, as I expected, he left his place and came up behind me.

"Where did you get that ring?" wiping his face with his handkerchief.

"Ask Alice."

"You are politic."

"Handsome, isn't it?"

"And valuable; it cost as much as the new horse."

"Have you made a memorandum of it?"

"Destiny has brilliant spokes in her wheel, hasn't she?"

"Is that from the Greek tragedies?"

"To your places, gentlemen," the floor-manager called, and the band
struck up the Fisher's Hornpipe. At supper, I saw Ben Somers, still
with the pretty girl in blue; but he came to my chair and asked me if
I did not think she was a pretty toy for a man to play with.

"How much wine have you drunk? Enough to do justice to the family
annals?"

"Really, you have been well informed. No, I have _not_ drunk enough
for that; but Mrs. Ryder has sent her virgins home with me. I am
afraid their lamps are upset again. I drink nothing after to-night.
You shall not ask again, 'How much?'"

My fire was out when I reached home. My head was burning and aching.
I was too tired to untwist my hair, and I pulled and dragged at my
dress, which seemed to have a hundred fastenings. Creeping into bed,
I perceived the odor of flowers, and looking at my table discovered a
bunch of white roses.

"Roses are nonsense, and life is nonsense," I thought.

When I opened my eyes, Alice was standing by the bed, with a glass of
roses in her hand.

"Charles put these roses here, hey?"

"I suppose so; throw them out of the window, and me too; my head is
splitting."

"To make amends for not giving you any last night," she went on; "he
is quite childish."

"Can't you unbraid my hair, it hurts my head so?"

She felt my hands. I was in a fever, she said, and ran down for
Charles. "Cass is sick, in spite of your white roses."

"The devil take the roses. Can't you get up, Cassandra?"

"Not now. Go away, will you?"

He left the room abruptly. Alice loosened my hair, bound my head, and
poured cologne-water over me, lamenting all the while that she had not
brought me home; and then went down for some tea, presently returning
to say that Charles had been for Dr. White, who said he would not
come. But he was there shortly afterward. By night I was well again.

Dr. Price gave us a lecture on late hours that week, requesting us, if
we had any interest in our education, or expected him to have any, to
abstain from balls.

Ben Somers disappeared; no one knew where he had gone. The Ryders were
in consternation, for he was an intimate of the family, since he
had gone into Judge Ryder's office, six weeks before. He returned,
however, with a new overcoat trimmed with fur, the same as that with
which my new cloak was trimmed. A great snowstorm began the day of his
return, and blocked us indoors for several days, and we had permanent
sleighing afterward.

In January it was proposed that we should go to the Swan Tavern, ten
miles out of Rosville.

I had made good resolutions since the ball, and declined going to the
second, which came off three weeks afterward. The truth was, I did not
enjoy the first; but I preferred to give my decision a virtuous tinge.
I also determined to leave the Academy when the spring came, for I
felt no longer a schoolgirl. But for Helen, I could not have remained
as I did. She stayed for pastime now, she confessed, it was so dull at
home; her father was wrapped in his studies, and she had a stepmother.
I resolved again that I would study more, and was translating, in view
of this resolve, "Corinne," with Miss Prior, and singing sedulously
with Mrs. Lane, and had begun a course of reading with Dr. Price.

I refused two invitations to join the sleighing party, and on the
night it was to be had prepared to pass the evening in my own room
with Oswald and Corinne. Before the fire, with lighted candles, I
heard a ringing of bells in the yard and a stamping of feet on the
piazza. Alice sent up for me. I found Ben Somers with her, who begged
me to take a seat in his sleigh. Helen was there, and Amelia Bancroft.
Alice applauded me for refusing him; but when he whispered in my ear
that he had been to Surrey I changed my mind. She assisted me with
cheerful alacrity to put on a merino dress, its color was purple;--a
color I hate now, and never wear--and wrapped me warmly. Charles
appeared before we started. "Are you really going?" he asked, in a
tone of displeasure.

"She is really going," Ben answered for me. "Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft are
going," Helen said. "Why not drive out with Mrs. Morgeson?"

"The night is splendid," Ben remarked.

"Wont you come?" I asked.

"If Alice wishes it. Will you go?" he asked her.

"Would you?" she inquired of all, and all replied, "Yes."

We started in advance. Helen and Amelia were packed on the back seat,
in a buffalo robe, while Ben and I sat in the shelter of the driver's
box, wrapped in another. It was moonlight, and as we passed the
sleighs of the rest of the party, exchanging greetings, we grew very
merry. Ben, voluble and airy, enlivened us by his high spirits.

We were drinking mulled wine round the long pine dinner-table of the
Swan, when Charles and Alice arrived. There were about thirty in the
room, which was lighted by tallow candles. When he entered, it seemed
as if the candles suddenly required snuffing, and we ceased to laugh.
All spoke to him with respect, but with an inflection of the voice
which denoted that he was not one of us. As he carelessly passed round
the table all made a movement as he approached, scraping their chairs
on the bare floor, moving their glass of mulled wine, or altering the
position of their arms or legs. An indescribable appreciation of the
impression which he made upon others filled my heart. His isolation
from the sympathy of every person there gave me a pain and a pity, and
for the first time I felt a pang of tenderness, and a throe of pride
for him. But Alice, upon whom he never made any impression, saw
nothing of this; her gayety soon removed the stiffness and silence he
created. The party grew noisy again, except Ben, who had not broken
the silence into which he fell as soon as he saw Charles. The mulled
wine stood before him untouched. I moved to the corner of the table
to allow room for the chair which Charles was turning toward me. Ben
ordered more wine, and sent a glass full to him. Taking it from
the boy who brought it, I gave it to him. "Drink," I said. My voice
sounded strangely. Barely tasting it, he set the glass down, and
leaning his arm on the table, turned his face to me, shielding it with
his hand from the gaze of those about us. I pushed away a candle that
flared in our faces.

"You never drink wine?"

"No, Cassandra."

"How was the ride down?"

"Delightful."

"What about the new horse?"

"He is an awful brute."

"When shall we have a ride with him?"

"When you please."

The boy came in to say would we please go to the parlor; our room was
wanted for supper. An immediate rush, with loud laughing, took place,
for the parlor fire; but Charles and I did not move. I was busy
remaking the bow of my purple silk cravat.

"'I drink the cup of a costly death,'" Ben hummed, as he sauntered
along by us, hands in his pockets--the last in the room, except us
two.

"Indeed, Somers; perhaps you would like this too." And Charles offered
him his glass of wine.

Ben took it, and with his thumb and finger snapped it off at the stem,
tipping the wine over Charles's hand.

I saw it staining his wristband, like blood. He did not stir, but a
slight smile traveled swiftly over his face.

"I know Veronica," said Ben, looking at me. "Has this man seen _her_?"

His voice crushed me. What a barrier his expression of contempt made
between her and me!

Withal, I felt a humiliating sense of defeat.

Charles read me.

As he folded his wristband under his sleeve, carefully and slowly, his
slender fingers did not tremble with the desire that possessed him,
which I saw in his terrible eyes as plainly as if he had spoken, "I
would kill him."

They looked at my hands, for I was wringing them, and a groan burst
from me.

"Somers," said Charles, rising and touching his shoulder, "behave like
a man, and let us alone; I love this girl."

His pale face changed, his eyes softened, and mine filled with tears.

"Cassandra," urged Ben, in a gentle voice, "come with me; come away."

"Fool," I answered; "leave _me_ alone, and go."

He hesitated, moved toward the door, and again urged me to come.

"Go! go!" stamping my foot, and the door closed without a sound.

For a moment we stood, transfixed in an isolation which separated us
from all the world beside.

"Now Charles, we"--a convulsive sob choked me, a strange taste filled
my mouth, I put my handkerchief to my lips and wiped away streaks of
blood. I showed it to him.

"It is nothing, by God!" snatching the handkerchief. "Take mine--oh,
my dear--"

I tried to laugh, and muttered the imperative fact of joining the
rest.

"Be quiet, Cassandra."

He opened the window, took a handful of snow from the sill and put it
to my mouth. It revived me.

"Do you hear, Charles? Never say those frightful words again. Never,
never."

"Never, if it must be so."

He touched my hand; I opened it; his closed over mine.

"Go, now," he said, and springing to the window, threw it up, and
jumped out. The boy came in with a tablecloth on his arm, and behind
him Ben.

"Glass broken, sir."

"Put it in the bill."

He offered me his arm, which I was glad to take.

"Where is Charles?" Alice asked, when we went in.

"He has just left us," Ben answered; "looking after his horses,
probably."

"Of course," she replied. "You look blue, Cass. Here, take my chair by
the fire; we are going to dance a Virginia reel."

I accepted her offer, and was thankful that the dance would take them
away. I wanted to be alone forever. Helen glided behind my chair, and
laid her hand on my shoulder; I shook it off.

"What is the matter, Cass?"

"I am going away from Char--school."

"We are all going; but not to-night."

"I am going to-night."

"So you shall, dear; but wait till after supper."

"Do you think, Helen, that I shall ever have consumption?" fumbling
for my handkerchief, forgetting in whose possession it was. Charles
came in at that instant, and I remembered that he had it.

"What on earth has happened to you? Oh!" she exclaimed, as I looked at
her. "You were out there with Morgeson and Ben Somers," she whispered;
"something has occurred; what is it?"

"You shall never know; never--never--never."

"Cassandra, that man is a devil."

"I like devils."

"The same blood rages in both of you."

"It's mulled wine,--thick and stupid."

"Nonsense."

"Will there be tea, at supper?"

"You shall have some."

"Ask Ben to order it."

"Heaven forgive us all, Cassandra!"

"Remember the tea."

Charles stood near his wife; wherever she moved afterwards he moved.
I saw it, and felt that it was the shadow of something which would
follow.

At last the time came for us to return. Helen had plied me with tea,
and was otherwise watchful, but scarcely spoke.

"It is an age," I said, "since I left Rosville."

She raised her eyebrows merely, and asked me if I would have more tea.

"In my room," I thought, "I shall find myself again." And as I opened
my door, it welcomed me with so friendly and silent an aspect, that I
betrayed my grief, and it covered my misery as with a cloak.






CHAPTER XX.


Helen was called home by the illness of her father and did not return
to Rosville. She would write me, she said; but it was many weeks
before I received a letter. Ben Somers about this time took a fit of
industry, and made a plan for what he called a well-regulated life,
averring that he should always abide by it. Every hour had its duty,
which must be fulfilled. He weighed his bread and meat, ate so many
ounces a day, and slept watch and watch, as he nautically termed it.
I guessed that the meaning of his plan was to withdraw from the
self-chosen post of censor. His only alienation was an occasional
disappearance for a few days. I never asked him where he went, and had
never spoken to him concerning his mysterious remark about having
been in Surrey. Neither had I heard anything of his being there from
father. Once he told me that his father had explained the marriage of
old Locke Morgeson; but that it was not clear to him that we were at
all related.

In consequence of his rigorous life, I saw little of him. Though
urged by Alice, he did not come to our house, and we rarely met him
elsewhere. People called him eccentric, but as he was of a rich family
he could afford to be, and they felt no slight by his neglect.

There was a change everywhere. The greatest change of all was in
Charles. From the night of the sleigh-ride his manner toward me was
totally altered. As far as I could discern, the change was a confirmed
one. The days grew monotonous, but my mind avenged itself by night in
dreams, which renewed our old relation in all its mysterious vitality.
So strong were their impressions that each morning I expected to
receive some token from him which would prove that they were not
lies. As my expectation grew cold and faint, the sense of a double
hallucination tormented me--the past and the present.

The winter was over. I passed it like the rest of Rosville, going out
when Alice went, staying at home when she stayed. It was all one what
I did, for my aspect was one of content.

Alice alone was unchanged; her spirits and pursuits were always the
same. Judging by herself, if she judged at all, she perceived no
change in us. Her theory regarding Charles was too firm to be shaken,
and all his oddity was a matter of course. As long as I ate, and
drank, and slept as usual, I too must be the same. He was not at home
much. Business, kept him at the mills, where he often slept, or out of
town. But the home machinery was still under his controlling hand. Not
a leaf dropped in the conservatory that he did not see; not a meal
was served whose slightest detail was not according to his desire. The
horses were exercised, the servants managed, the children kept within
bounds; nothing in the formula of our daily life was ever dropped, and
yet I scarcely ever saw him! When we met, I shared his attentions. He
gave me flowers; noticed my dress; spoke of the affairs of the day;
but all in so public and matter-of-fact a way that I thought I must be
the victim of a vicious sentimentality, or that he had amused himself
with me. Either way, the sooner I cured myself of my vice the better.
But my dreams continued.

"I miss something in your letters," father complained. "What is it?
Would you like to come home? Your mother is failing in health--she may
need you, though she says not."

I wrote him that I should come home.

"Are you prepared," he asked in return, "to remain at home for the
future? Have you laid the foundation of anything by which you can
abide contented, and employed? Veronica has been spending two months
in New York, with the family of one of my business friends. All that
she brings back serves to embellish her quiet life, not to change it.
Will it be so with you?"

I wrote back, "No; but I am coming."

He wrote again of changes in Surrey. Dr. Snell had gone, library and
all, and a new minister, red hot from Andover, had taken his place. An
ugly new church was building. His best ship, the _Locke Morgeson_,
was at the bottom of the Indian Ocean, he had just heard. Her loss
bothered him, but his letters were kinder than ever.

I consulted with Alice about leaving the Academy. She approved
my plan, but begged me not to leave her. I said nothing of my
determination to that effect, feeling a strange disinclination toward
owning it, though I persisted in repeating it to myself. I applied
diligently to my reading, emulating Ben Somers in the regularity of
my habits, and took long walks daily--a mode of exercise I had adopted
since I had ceased my rides with Charles. The pale blue sky of spring
over me, and the pale green grass under me, were charming perhaps;
but there was the same monotony in them, as in other things. I did not
frequent our old promenade, Silver Street, but pushed my walks
into the outskirts of Rosville, by farms bordered with woods. My
schoolmates, who were familiar with all the pleasant spots of the
neighborhood, met me in groups. "Are you really taking walks like the
rest of us?" they asked. "Only alone," I answered.

I bade farewell at last to Miss Prior. We parted with all friendliness
and respect; from the fact, possibly, that we parted ignorant of each
other. It was the most rational relation that I had ever held with any
one. We parted without emotion or regret, and I started on my usual
walk.

As I was returning I met Ben Somers. When he saw me he threw his cap
into the air, with the information that he had done with his plans,
and had ordered an indigestible supper, in honor of his resolve. As
people had truly remarked, he could afford to be eccentric. He was
tired of it; he had money enough to do without law. "Not as much as
your cousin Morgeson, who can do without the Gospel, too."

This was the first time that he had referred to Charles since that
memorable night. Trifling as his words were, they broke into the
foundations of my stagnant will, and set the tide flowing once more.

"You went to Surrey."

"I was there a few hours. Your father was not at home. He asked me
there, you remember. I introduced myself, therefore, and was politely
received by your mother, who sent for Veronica. She came in with an
occupied air, her hands full of what I thought were herbs; but they
were grasses, which she had been re-arranging, she said.

"'You know my sister?' she asked, coming close, and looking at me with
the most singular eyes that were ever on earth." He stopped a moment.
"Not like yours, in the least," he continued. "'Cassandra is very
handsome now, is she?'

"'Why, Veronica,' said your mother, 'you astonish Mr. Somers.'

"'You are not astonished,' she said with vehemence, 'you are
embarrassed.'

"'Upon my soul I am,' I replied, feeling at ease as soon as I had said
so.

"'Tell me, what has Cassandra been taught? Is Rosville suited to her?
We are not.'

"'Veronica!' said your mother again.

"'Mother," and she shook the grasses, and made a little snow fall
round her; 'what shall I say then? I am sure he knows Cassandra. What
did you come here for?' turning to me again.

"'To see you,' I answered foolishly.

"'And has Cassandra spoken of me?' Her pale face grew paler, and an
indescribable expression passed over it. 'I do not often speak of
her.'

"'She does not of you,' I was obliged to answer. And then I said I
must go. But your mother made me dine with them. When I came away
Veronica offered me her hand, but she sent no message to you. She has
never been out of my mind a moment since."

"You remember the particulars of the interview very well."

"Why not?"

"Would she bear your supervision?"

"Forgive me, Cassandra. Have I not been making a hermit of myself,
eating bread and meat by the ounce, for an expiation?"

"How did it look there? Oh, tell me!"

"You strange girl, have you a soul then? It is a grand place, where
it has not been meddled with. I hired a man to drive me as far as any
paths went, into those curving horns of land, on each side of Surrey
to the south. The country is crazy with barrenness, and the sea mocks
it with its terrible beauty."

"You will visit us, won't you?"

"Certainly; I intend to go there."

"Do you know that I left school to-day?"

"It is time."

I hurried into the house, for I did not wish to hear any questions
from him concerning my future. Charlotte, who was rolling up an
umbrella in the hall, said it was tea-time, adding that Mr. Morgeson
had come, and that he was in the dining-room. I went upstairs to leave
my bonnet. As I pulled off my glove the ring on my finger twisted
round. I took it off, for the first time since Charles had given it
to me. A sense of haste came upon me; my hands trembled. I brushed
my hair with the back of the brush, shook it out, and wound it into
a loose mass, thrust in my comb and went down. Charlotte was putting
candles on the tea table. Edward was on his father's knee; Alice was
waiting by the tray.

"Here--is--Cassandra," said Charles, mentioning the fact as if he
merely wished to attract the child's attention.

"Here--is--Cassandra," I repeated, imitating his tone. He started.
Some devil broke loose in him, and looking through his eyes an
instant, disappeared, like a maniac who looks through the bars of his
cell, and dodges from the eye of his keeper. Jesse brought me a letter
while we were at the table. It was from Helen. I broke its seal to see
how long it was, and put it aside.

"I am free, Alice. I have left the Academy, and am going to set up for
an independent woman."

"What?" said Charles; "you did not tell me. Did you know it, Alice?"

"Yes; we can't expect her to be at school all her days."

"Cassandra," he said suddenly, "will you give me the salt?"

He looked for the ring on the hand which I stretched toward him.

He not only missed that, but he observed the disregard of his wishes
in the way I had arranged my hair. I shook it looser from the comb and
pushed it from my face. An expression of unspeakable passion, pride,
and anguish came into his eyes; his mouth trembled; he caught up a
glass of water to hide his face, and drank slowly from it.

"Are you going away again soon?" Alice asked him presently.

"No."

"To keep Cassandra, I intend to ask Mrs. Morgeson to come again. Will
you write Mr. Morgeson to urge it?"

"Yes."

"I shall ask them to give up Cass altogether to us."

"You like her so much, do you, Alice?"

His voice sounded far off and faint.

Again I refrained from speaking my resolution of going home. I would
give up thinking of it even! I felt again the tension of the chain
between us. That night I ceased to dream of him.

"My letter is from Helen, Alice," I said.

"When did you see Somers?" Charles asked.

"To-day. I have an idea he will not remain here long."

"He is an amusing young man," Alice remarked.

"Very," said Charles.

Helen's letter was long and full of questions. What had I done? How
had I been? She gave an account of her life at home. She was her
father's nurse, and seldom left him. It was a dreary sort of business,
but she was not melancholy. In truth, she felt better pleased with
herself than she had been in Rosville. She could not help thinking
that a chronic invalid would be a good thing for me. How was Ben
Somers? How much longer should I stay in Rosville? It would know us no
more forever when we left, and both of us would leave it at the same
time. Would I visit her ever? They lived in a big house with a red
front door. On the left was a lane with tall poplars dying on each
side of it, up which the cows passed every night. At the back of it
was a huge barn round which martins and pigeons flew the year through.
It was dull but respectable and refined, and no one knew that she was
tattooed on the arm.

I treasured this letter and all she wrote me. It was my first
school-girl correspondence and my last.

Relations of Alice came from a distance to pay her a visit. There was
a father, a mother, a son about twenty-one, and two girls who were
younger. Alice wished that they had stayed at home; but she was polite
and endeavored to make their visit agreeable. The son, called by his
family "Bill," informed Charles that he was a judge of horseflesh, and
would like to give his nags a try, having a high-flyer himself at
home that the old gentleman would not hear of his bringing along. His
actions denoted an admiration of me. He looked over the book I was
reading or rummaged my workbox, trying on my thimble with an air of
tenderness, and peeping into my needlebook. He told Alice that he
thought I was a whole team and a horse to let, but he felt rather
balky when he came near me, I had such a smartish eye.

"What am I to do, marm?" asked Jesse one morning when Charles was
away. "That ere young man wants to ride the new horse, and it is jist
the one he mus'n't ride."

"I will speak to Cousin Bill myself," she said.

"He seems a sperrited young feller, and if he wants to break his neck
it's most a pity he shouldn't."

"I think," she said when Jesse had retired, "that Charles must be
saving up that beast to kill himself with. He will not pull a chaise
yet."

"Has Charles tried him?"

"In the lane in an open wagon. He has a whim of having him broken to
drive without blinders, bare of harness; he has been away so of late
that he has not accomplished it."

Bill entered while we were talking, and Alice told him he must not
attempt to use the horse, but proposed he should take her pair and
drive out with me. I shook my head in vain; she was bent on mischief.
He was mollified by the proposal, and I was obliged to get ready. On
starting he placed his cap on one side, held his whip upright, telling
me that it was not up to the mark in length, and doubled his knuckles
over the reins. He was a good Jehu, but I could not induce him to
observe anything along the road.

"Where's Mr. Morgeson's mills?"

We turned in their direction.

"He is a man of property, ain't he?"

"I think so."

"He has prime horses anyhow. That stallion of his would bring a
first-rate price if he wanted to sell. Do you play the piano?"

"A little."

"And sing?"

"Yes."

"I have not heard you. Will you sing '_A place in thy memory,
dearest,'_ some time for me?"

"Certainly."

"Are you fond of flowers and the like?"

"Very fond of them."

"So am I; our tastes agree. Here we are, hey?"

Charles came out when he saw us coming over the bridge, and Bill
pulled up the horses scientifically, giving him a coachman's salute.
"You see I am quite a whip."

"You are," said Charles.

"What a cub!" he whispered me. "I think I'll give up my horses and
take to walking as you have."

On the way home Bill held the reins in one hand and attempted to take
mine with the other, a proceeding which I checked, whereupon he was
exceedingly confused. The whip fell from his clutch over the dasher,
and in recovering it his hat fell off; shame kept him silent for the
rest of the ride.

I begged Alice to propose no more rides with Cousin Bill. That night
he composed a letter which he sent me by Charlotte early the next
morning.

"Why, Charlotte, what nonsense is this?"

"I expect," she answered sympathizingly, "that it is an offer of his
hand and heart."

"Don't mention it, Charlotte."

"Never while I have breath."

In an hour she told Phoebe, who told Alice, who told Charles, and
there it ended. It was an offer, as Charlotte predicted. My first! I
was crestfallen! I wrote a reply, waited till everybody had gone to
breakfast, and slipping into his room, pinned it to the pincushion.
In the evening he asked if I ever sang "_Should these fond hopes e'er
forsake thee."_ I gave him the "_Pirate's Serenade_" instead, which
his mother declared beautiful. I saw Alice and Charles laughing,
and could hardly help joining them, when I looked at Bill, in whose
countenance relief and grief were mingled.

It was a satisfaction to us when they went away. Their visit was
shortened, I suspected, by the representations Bill made to his
mother. She said, "Good-by," with coldness; but he shook hands with
me, and said it was all right he supposed.

The day they went I had a letter from father which informed me that
mother would not come to Rosville. He reminded me that I had been
in Rosville over a year. "I am going home soon," I said to myself,
putting away the letter. It was a summer day, bright and hot. Alice,
busy all day, complained of fatigue and went to bed soon after tea.
The windows were open and the house was perfumed with odors from
the garden. At twilight I went out and walked under the elms, whose
pendant boughs were motionless. I watched the stars as they came out
one by one above the pale green ring of the horizon and glittered in
the evening sky, which darkened slowly. I was coming up the gravel
walk when I heard a step at the upper end of it which arrested me. I
recognized it, and slipped behind a tree to wait till it should pass
by me; but it ceased, and I saw Charles pulling off a twig of the
tree, which brushed against his face. Presently he sprang round the
tree, caught me, and held me fast.

"I am glad you are here, my darling. Do you smell the roses?"

"Yes; let me go."

"Not till you tell me one thing. Why do you stay in Rosville?"

The baby gave a loud cry in Alice's chamber which resounded through
the garden.

"Go and take care of your baby," I said roughly, "and not busy
yourself with me."

"Cassandra," he said, with a menacing voice, "how dare you defy me?
How dare you tempt me?"

I put my hand on his arm. "Charles, is love a matter of temperament?"

"Are you mad? It is life--it is heaven--it is hell."

"There is something in this soft, beautiful, odorous night that makes
one mad. Still I shall not say to you what you once said to me."

"Ah! you do not forget those words--'_I love you_.'"

Some one came down the lane which ran behind the garden whistling an
opera air.

"There is your Providence," he said quietly, resting his hand against
the tree.

I ran round to the front piazza, just as Ben Somers turned out of the
lane, and called him.

"I have wandered all over Rosville since sunset," he said "and at last
struck upon that lane. To whom does it belong?"

"It is ours, and the horses are exercised there."

       "'In such a night,
  Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls,
  And sighed his soul towards the Grecian tents,
  Where Cressid lay that night.'"

       '"In such a night,
  Stood Dido with a willow in her hand,
  Upon the wild sea banks, and waved her love
  To come again to Carthage.'"

"Talk to me about Surrey, Cassandra."

"Not a word."

"Why did you call me?"

"To see what mood you were in."

"How disagreeable you are! What is the use of venturing one's mood
with you?"






CHAPTER XXI.


Alice called me to her chamber window one morning. "Look into the
lane. Charles and Jesse are there with that brute. He goes very well,
now that they have thrown the top of the chaise back; he quivered like
a jelly at first."

"I must have a ride, Alice."

"Charles," she called. "Breakfast is waiting."

"What shall be his name, girls?" he asked.

"Aspen," I suggested.

"That will do," said Alice.


"Shall we ride soon?" I asked.

"Will you?" he spoke quickly. "In a day or two, then."

"Know what you undertake, Cass," said Alice.

"She always does," he answered.

"Let me go, papa," begged Edward.

"By and by, my boy."

"What a compliment, Cass! He does not object to venture you."

He proposed Fairtown, six miles from Rosville, as he had business
there. The morning we were to go proved cloudy, and we waited till
afternoon, when Charles, declaring that it would not rain, ordered
Aspen to be harnessed. I went into Alice's room tying my bonnet; he
was there, leaning over the baby's crib, who lay in it crowing and
laughing at the snapping of his fingers. Alice was hemming white
muslin.

"Take a shawl with you, Cass; I think it will rain, the air is so
heavy."

"I guess not," said Charles, going to the window. "What a nuisance
that lane is, so near the garden! I'll have it plowed soon, and
enclosed."

"For all those wild primroses you value so?" she asked.

"I'll spare those."

Charlotte came to tell us that the chaise was ready.

"Good-bye, Alice," he said, passing her, and giving her work a toss up
to the ceiling.

"Be careful."

"Take care, sir," said Penn, after we were in the chaise, "and don't
give way to him; if you do, he'll punish you. May be he feels the
thunder in the air."

We reached Fairtown without any indication of mischief from Aspen,
although he trotted along as if under protest. Charles was delighted,
and thought he would be very fast, by the time he was trained. It grew
murky and hot every moment, and when we reached Fairtown the air was
black and sultry with the coming storm. Charles left me at the little
hotel, and returned so late in the afternoon that we decided not to
wait for the shower. Two men led Aspen to the door. He pulled at his
bridle, and attempted to run backward, playing his old trick of trying
to turn his nostrils inside out, and drawing back his upper lip.

"Something irritates him, Charles."

"If you are afraid, you must not come with me. I can have you sent
home in a carriage from the tavern."

"I shall go back with you."

But I felt a vague alarm, and begged him to watch Aspen, and not talk.
Aspen went faster and faster, seeming to have lost his shyness, and my
fears subsided. We were within a couple of miles of Rosville, when a
splashing rain fell.

"You must not be wet," said Charles. "I will put up the top. Aspen is
so steady now, it may not scare him."

"No, no," I said; but he had it up already, and asked me to snap the
spring on my side. I had scarcely taken my arm inside the chaise when
Aspen stopped, turned his head, and looked at us with glazed eyes;
flakes of foam flew from his mouth over his mane. The flesh on his
back contracted and quivered. I thought he was frightened by the
chaise-top, and looked at Charles in terror.

"He has some disorder," he cried. "Oh, Cassandra! My God!"

He tried to spring at his head, but was too late, for the horse was
leaping madly. He fell back on his seat.

"If he will keep the road," he muttered.

I could not move my eyes from him. How pale he was! But he did
not speak again. The horse ran a few rods, leaped across a ditch,
clambered up a stone wall with his fore-feet, and fell backward!

Dr. White was in my room, washing my face. There was a smell of
camphor about the bed. "You crawled out of a small hole, my child," he
said, as I opened my eyes. It was quite dark, but I saw people at
the door, and two or three at the foot of my bed, and I heard low,
constrained talking everywhere.

"His iron feet made a dreadful noise on the stones, Doctor!"

I shut my eyes again and dozed. Suddenly a great tumult came to my
heart.

"Was he killed?" I cried, and tried to rise from the bed. "Let me go,
will you?"

"He is dead," whispered Dr. White.

I laughed loudly.

"Be a good girl--be a good girl. Get out, all of you. Here, Miss
Prior."

"You are crying, Doctor; my eyes feel dry."

"Pooh, pooh, little one. Now I am going to set your arm; simple
fracture, that's all. The blow was tempered, but you are paralyzed by
the shock."

"Miss Prior, is my face cut?"

"Not badly, my dear."

My arm was set, my face bandaged, some opium administered, and then
I was left alone with Miss Prior. I grew drowsy, but suffered so from
the illusion that I was falling out of bed that I could not sleep.

It was near morning when I shook off my drowsiness and looked about;
Miss Prior was nodding in an arm-chair. I asked for drink, and when
she gave it to me, begged her to lie down on the sofa; she did not
need urging, and was soon asleep.

"What room is he in?" I thought. "I must know where he is."

I sat up in the bed, and pushed myself out by degrees, keeping my eyes
on Miss Prior; but she did not stir. I staggered when I got into the
passage, but the cool air from some open window revived me, and I
crept on, stopping at Alice's door to listen. I heard a child murmur
in its sleep. He could not be there. The doors of all the
chambers were locked, and I must go downstairs. I went into the
garden-room--the door was open, the scent of roses came in and made me
deadly sick; into the dining-room, and into the parlor--he was there,
lying on a table covered with a sheet. Alice sat on the floor, her
face hid in her hands, crying softly. I touched her. She started on
seeing me. "Go away, Cassy, for God's sake! How came you out of bed?"

"Hush! Tell me!" And I went down on the floor beside her. "Was he dead
when they found us?"

She nodded.

"What was said? Did you hear?"

"They said he must have made a violent effort to save you. The side
of the chaise was torn. The horse kicked him after you were thrust out
over the wheel. Or did you creep out?"

I groaned. "Why did he thrust me out?"

"What?"

"Where is Aspen?"

She pointed to the stable. "He had a fit. Penn says he has had one
before; but he thought him cured. He stood quiet in the ditch after he
had broken from the chaise."

"Alice, did you love him?"

"My husband!"

A door near us opened, and Ben Somers and young Parker looked in. They
were the watchers. Parker went back when he saw me; but Ben came in.
He knelt down by me, put his arm around me, and said, "Poor girl!"
Alice raised her tear-stained face, looking at me curiously, when
he said this. She took hold of my streaming hair and pulled my head
round. "Did _you_ love him?" Ben rose quickly and went to the window.

"Alice!" I whispered, "you may or you may not forgive me, but I was
strangely bound to him. And I must tell you that I hunger now for the
kiss he never gave me."

"I see. Enough. Go back to your room. I must stay by him till all is
over."

"I can't go back. Ben!"

"What is it?"

"Take me upstairs."

Raising me in his arms, he whispered: "Leave him forever, body and
soul. I am not sorry he is dead." He called Charlotte on the way, and
with her he put me to back to bed. I asked him to let me see the dress
they had taken off.

"That is enough," I said, "Charles broke my arm."

It was torn through the shoulder, and the skirt had been twisted like
a rope. Ben made no reply, but bent over me and kissed me tenderly.
All this time Miss Prior had slept the sleep of the just; but he had
barely gone when she started up and said, "Did you call, my dear?"

"No, it is day."

"So it is; but you must sleep more."

I could not obey, and kept awake so long that Dr. White said he
himself should go crazy unless I slept.

"Presently, presently," I reiterated; "and am I going home?"

At last my mind went astray; it journeyed into a dismal world, and
came back without an account of its adventures. While it was gone,
my friends were summoned to witness a contest, where the odds were
in favor of death. But I recovered. Whether it was youth, a good
constitution, or the skill of Dr. White, no one could decide. It was a
faint, feeble, fluttering return at first. The faces round me, mobile
with life, wearied me. I was indifferent to existence, and was more
than once in danger of lapsing into the void I had escaped.

When I first tottered downstairs, he had been buried more than three
weeks. It was a bright morning; the windows of the parlor, where
Charlotte led me, were open. Little Edward was playing round the table
upon which I had seen his father stretched, dead. I measured it with
my eye, remembering how tall he looked. I would have retreated, when
I saw that Alice had visitors, but it was too late. They rose, and
offered congratulations. I was angry that there was no change in the
house. The rooms should have been dismantled, reflecting disorder and
death, by their perpetual darkness and disorder. It was not so. No
dust had been allowed to gather on the furniture, no wrinkles or
stains. No mist on the mirrors, no dimness anywhere. Alice was
elegantly dressed, in the deepest mourning. I examined her with a
cynical eye; her bombazine was trimmed with crape, and the edge of her
collar was beautifully crimped. A mourning brooch fastened it, and
she wore jet ear-rings. She looked handsome, composed, and contented,
holding a black-edged handkerchief. Charlotte had placed my chair
opposite a glass; I caught sight of my elongated visage in it. How
dull I looked! My hair was faded and rough; my eyes were a pale,
lusterless blue. The visitors departed, while I still contemplated my
rueful aspect, and Alice and I were alone.

"I want some broth, Alice. I am hungry."

"How many bowls have you had this morning?"

"Only two."

"You must wait an hour for the third; it is not twelve o'clock."

We were silent. The flies buzzed in and out of the windows; a great
bee flew in, tumbled against the panes, loudly hummed, and after a
while got out again. Alice yawned, and I pulled the threads out of the
border of my handkerchief.

"The hour is up; I will get your broth."

"Bring me a great deal."

She came back with a thin, impoverished liquid.

"There is no chicken in it," I said tearfully.

"I took it out."

"How could you?" And I wept.

She smiled. "You are very weak, but shall have a bit." She went for
it, returning with an infinitesimal portion of chicken.

"What a young creature it must have been, Alice!"

She laughed, promising me more, by and by.

"Now you must lie down. Take my arm and come to the sofa.

"Not here; let us go into another room."

"Come, then."

"Don't leave me," I begged, after she had arranged me comfortably. She
sat down by me with a fan.

"What happened while I was ill?"

She fanned rapidly for an instant, taking thought what to say.

"I shot Aspen, a few days after."

"With your own hand?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Penn protested, said I interfered with Providence. Jesse added, also,
that what had happened was ordained, and no mistake, and then I sent
them both away."

"And I am going at last, Alice; father will be here again in a few
days."

"You did not recognize Veronica, when they came."

"Was she here?"

"Yes, and went the same day. What great tears rolled down her
unmovable face, when she stood by your bed! She would not stay; the
atmosphere distressed her so, she went back to Boston to wait for your
father. I could neither prevail on her to eat, drink, or rest."

"What will you do, Alice?"

"Take care of the children, and manage the mills."

"Manage the mills?"

"I can. No wonder you look astonished," she said, with a sigh. "I am
changed. When perhaps I should feel that I have done with life, I am
eager to begin it. I have lamented over myself lately."

"How is Ben?"

"He has been here often. How strange it was that to him alone Veronica
gave her hand when they met! Indeed, she gave him both her hands."

"And he?"

"Took them, bowing over them, till I thought he wasn't coming up
again. I do not call people eccentric any more," she said, faintly
blushing. "I look for a reason in every action. Tell me fairly, have
you had a contempt for me--for my want of perception? I understand you
now, to the bone and marrow, I assure you."

"Then you understand more than I do. But you will remember that once
or twice I attempted to express my doubts to you?"

"Yes, yes, with a candor which misled me. But you are talking too
much."

"Give me more broth, then."






CHAPTER XXII.


I was soon well enough to go home. Father came for me, bringing Aunt
Merce. There was no alteration in her, except that she had taken to
wearing a false front, which had a claret tinge when the light struck
it, and a black lace cap. She walked the room in speechless distress
when she saw me, and could not refrain from taking an immense pinch of
snuff in my presence.

"Didn't you bring any flag-root, Aunt Merce?"

"Oh Lord, Cassandra, won't anything upon earth change you?"

And then we both laughed, and felt comfortable together. Her knitting
mania had given way to one she called transferring. She brought a
little basket filled with rags, worn-out embroideries, collars, cuffs,
and edges of handkerchiefs, from which she cut the needle-work, to sew
again on new muslin. She looked at embroidery with an eye merely to
its capacity for being transferred. Alice proved a treasure to her,
by giving her heaps of fine work. She and Aunt Merce were pleased with
each other, and when we were ready to come away, Alice begged her to
visit her every year. I made no farewell visits--my ill health was
sufficient excuse; but my schoolmates came to bid me good-bye, and
brought presents of needlebooks, and pincushions, which I returned by
giving away yards of ribbon, silver fruit-knives, and Mrs. Hemans's
poems, which poetess had lately given my imagination an apostrophizing
direction. Miss Prior came also, with a copy of "Young's Night
Thoughts," bound in speckled leather This hilarious and refreshing
poem remained at the bottom of my trunk, till Temperance fished it
out, to read on Sundays, in her own room, where she usually passed her
hours of solitude in hemming dish-towels, or making articles called
"Takers." Dr. Price came, too, and even the haughty four Ryders. Alice
was gratified with my popularity. But I felt cold at heart, doubtful
of myself, drifting to nothingness in thought and purpose. None saw my
doubts or felt my coldness.

I shook hands with all, exchanged hopes and wishes, and repeated the
last words which people say on departure. Alice and I neither kissed
nor shook hands. There was that between us which kept us apart.
A hard, stern face was still in our recollection. We remembered a
certain figure, whose steps had ceased about the house, whose voice
was hushed, but who was potent yet.

"We shall not forget each other," she said.

And so I took my way out of Rosville. Ben Somers went with us to
Boston, and stayed at the Bromfield. In the morning he disappeared,
and when he returned had an emerald ring, which he begged me to wear,
and tried to put it on my finger, where he had seen the diamond. I put
it back in its box, thanking him, and saying it must be stored with
the farewell needlebooks and pincushions.

"Shall we have some last words now?"

Aunt Merce slipped out, with an affectation of not having heard him.
We laughed, and Ben was glad that I could laugh.

"How do you feel?"

"Rather weak still."

"I do not mean so, but in your mind; how are you?"

"I have no mind."

"Must I give up trying to understand you, Cassandra?"

"Yes, do. You'll visit Alice? You can divine her intentions. She is a
good woman."

"She will be, when she knows how."

"What o'clock is it?"

"Incorrigible! Near ten."

"Here is father, and we must start."

The carriage was ready; where was Aunt Merce?

"Locke," she said, when she came in, "I have got a bottle of port for
Cassandra, some essence of peppermint, and sandwiches; do you think
that will do?"

"We can purchase supplies along the road, if yours give out. Come, we
are ready. Mr. Somers, we shall see you at Surrey? Take care, Cassy.
Now we are off."

"I shall leave Rosville," were Ben's last words.

"What a fine, handsome young man he is! He is a gentleman," said Aunt
Merce.

"Of course, Aunt Merce."

"Why of course? I should think from the way you speak that you had
only seen young gentlemen of his stamp. Have you forgotten Surrey?"

Father and she laughed. They could laugh very easily, for they were
overjoyed to have me going home with them. Mother would be glad, they
said. I felt it, though I did not say so.

How soundly I slept that night at the inn on the road! A little after
sunset, on the third day, for we traveled slowly, we reached the woods
which bordered Surrey, and soon came in sight of the sea encircling it
like a crescent moon. It was as if I saw the sea for the first time.
A vague sense of its power surprised me; it seemed to express my
melancholy. As we approached the house, the orchard, and I saw
Veronica's window, other feelings moved me. Not because I saw familiar
objects, nor because I was going home--it was the relation in which
_I_ stood to them, that I felt. We drove through the gate, and saw
a handsome little boy astride a window-sill, with two pipes in his
mouth, "Papa!" he shrieked, threw his pipes down, and dropped on the
ground, to run after us.

"Hasn't Arthur grown?" Aunt Merce asked. "He is almost seven."

"Almost seven? Where have the years gone?"

I looked about. I had been away so long, the house looked diminished.
Mother was in the door, crying when she put her arms round me; she
could not speak. I know now there should have been no higher beatitude
than to live in the presence of an unselfish, unasking, vital love. I
only said, "Oh, mother, how gray your hair is! Are you glad to see me?
I have grown old too!"

We went in by the kitchen, where the men were, and a young girl with a
bulging forehead. Hepsey looked out from the buttery door, and put
her apron to her eyes, without making any further demonstration of
welcome. Temperance was mixing dough. She made an effort to giggle,
but failed; and as she could not cover her face with her doughy hands,
was obliged to let the tears run their natural course. Recovering
herself in a moment, she exclaimed:

"Heavenly Powers, how you're altered! I shouldn't have known you. Your
hair and skin are as dry as chips; they didn't wash you with Castile
soap, I'll bet."

"How you do talk, Temperance," Hepsey quavered.

The girl with the bulging forehead laughed a shrill laugh.

"Why, Fanny!" said mother.

The hall door opened. "Here _she_ is," muttered this Fanny.

"Veronica!"

"Cassandra!"

We grasped hands, and stared mutely at each other. I felt a
contraction in the region of my heart, as if a cord of steel were
binding it. She, at least, was glad that I was alive!

"They look something alike now," Hepsey remarked.

"Not at all," said Veronica, dropping my hand, and retreating.

"Why, Arthur dear, come here!"

He clambered into my lap.

"Were you killed, my dear sister?"

"Not quite, little boy."

"Well; do you know that I am a veteran officer, and smoke my pipe,
lots?"

"You must rest, Cassy," said mother. "Don't go upstairs, though, till
you have had your supper. Hurry it up, Temperance."

"It will be on the table in less than no time, Miss Morgeson," she
answered, "provided Miss Fanny is agreeable about taking in the
teapot."

I had a comfortable sense of property, when I took possession of my
own room. It was better, after all, to live with a father and mother,
who would adopt my ideas. Even the sea might be mine. I asked father
the next morning, at breakfast, how far out at sea his property
extended.

"I trust, Cassandra, you will now stay at home," said mother; "I am
tired of table duty; you must pour the coffee and tea, for I wish to
sit beside your father."

"You and Aunt Merce have settled down into a venerable condition. You
wear caps, too! What a stage forward!"

"The cap is not ugly, like Aunt Merce's; I made it," Veronica called,
sipping from a great glass.

"Gothic pattern, isn't it?" father asked, "with a tower, and a bridge
at the back of the neck?"

"This hash is Fanny's work, mother," said Verry.

"So I perceive."

"Hepsey is not at the table," I said.

"It is her idea not to come, since I have taken Fanny. Did you notice
her? She prefers to have her wait."

"Who is Fanny?"

"Her father is old Ichabod Bowles, who lives on the Neck. Last winter
her mother sent for me, and begged me to take her. I could not refuse,
for she was dying of consumption; so I promised. The poor woman died,
in the bitterest weather, and a few days after Ichabod brought Fanny
here, and told me he had done with womankind forever. Fanny was sulky
and silent for a long time. I thought she never would get warm. If
obliged to leave the fire, she sat against the wall, with her face hid
in her arms. Veronica has made some impression on her; but she is not
a good girl."

"She will be, mother. I am better than I was."

"Never; her disposition is hateful. She is angry with those who are
better off than herself. I have not seen a spark of gratitude in her."

"I never thought of gratitude," said Verry, "it is true; but why must
people be grateful?"

"We might expect little from Fanny, perhaps; she saw her mother die in
want, her father stern, almost cruel to them, and soured by poverty.
Fanny never had what she liked to eat or wear, till she came here,
or even saw anything that pleased her; and the contrast makes her
bitter."

"She is proud, too," said Aunt Merce. "I hear her boasting of what she
would have had if she had stayed at home."

"She is a child, you know," said Verry.

"A year younger than you are."

"Where is the universal boy?"

"Abolished," father answered. "Arthur is growing into that estate."

"Papa, don't forget that I am a veteran officer."

"Here, you rascal, come and get this nice egg."

He slipped down, went to his father, who took him on his knee.

"What shall I do first? the garden, orchard, village, or what?" I
asked.

"Gardens?" said Verry. "Have they been a part of your education?"

"I like flowers."

"Have you seen my plants?" Aunt Merce inquired.

"I will look at them. How different this is from Rosville?"

Then a pang cut me to the soul. The past whirled up, to disappear,
leaving me stunned and helpless. Veronica's eye was upon me. I forced
myself to observe her. The difference between us was plainer than
ever. I was in my twentieth year, she was barely sixteen; handsome,
and as peculiar-looking as when a child. Her straight hair was a vivid
chestnut color. Her large eyes were near together; and, as Ben Somers
said, the most singular eyes that were ever upon earth. They tormented
me. There was nothing willful in them; on the contrary, when she
was willful, she had no power over them; the strange cast was then
perceptible. Neither were they imperious nor magnetic; they were
_baffling_. She pushed her chair from the table, and stood by me
quiet. Tall and slender, she stooped slightly, as if she were not
strong enough to stand upright. Her dress was a buff-colored cambric,
trimmed with knots of ribbon of the same color, dotted with green
crosses. It harmonized with her colorless, fixedly pale complexion.
I counted the bows of ribbon on her dress, and would have counted the
crosses, if she had not interrupted me with, "What do you think of
me?"

"Do you ever blush, Verry?"

"I grow paler, you know, when I blush."

"What do you think of me?"

"As wide-eyed as ever, and your eyebrows as black. Who ever saw light,
ripply hair with such eyebrows? I see wrinkles, too."

"Where?"

"Round your eyes, like an opening umbrella."

We dispersed as our talk ended, in the old fashion. I followed
Aunt Merce to the flower-stand, which stood in its old place on the
landing.

"I have a poor lot of roses," she said, "but some splendid cactuses."

"I do not love roses."

"Is it possible? But Verry does not care so much for them, either.
Lilies are her favorites; she has a variety. Look at this Arab lily;
it is like a tongue of fire."

"Where does she keep her flowers?"

"In wire baskets, in her room. But I must go to make Arthur some
gingerbread. He likes mine the best, and I like to please him."

"I dare say you spoil him."

"Just as you were spoiled."

"Not in Barmouth, Aunt Merce."

"No, not in Barmouth, Cassy."

I went from room to room, seeing little to interest me. My zeal oozed
away for exploration, and when I entered my chamber I could have said,
"This spot is the summary of my wants, for it contains me." I must
be my own society, and as my society was not agreeable, the more
circumscribed it was, the better I could endure it. What a dreary
prospect! The past was vital, the present dead! Life in Surrey must be
dull. How could I forget or enjoy? I put the curtains down, and told
Temperance, who was wandering about, not to call me to dinner. I
determined, if possible, to surpass my dullness by indulgence. But
underneath it all I could not deny that there was a specter, whose
aimless movements kept me from stagnating. I determined to drag it up
and face it.

"Come," I called, "and stand before me; we will reason together."

It uncovered, and asked:

"Do you feel remorse and repentance?"

"Neither!"

"Why suffer then?"

"I do not know why."

"You confess ignorance. Can you confess that you are selfish,
self-seeking--devilish?"

"Are you my devil?"

No answer.

"Am I cowardly, or a liar?"

It laughed, a faint, sarcastic laugh.

"At all events," I continued, "are not my actions better than my
thoughts?"

"Which makes the sinner, and which the saint?"

"Can I decide?"

"Why not?"

"My teachers and myself are so far apart! I have found a counterpart;
but, specter, you were born of the union."

My head was buried in my arms; but I heard a voice at my elbow--a
shrill, scornful voice it was. "Are you coming down to tea, then?"

Looking up, I saw Fanny. "Tea-time so soon?"

"Yes, it is. You think nothing of time; have nothing to do, I
suppose."

And she clasped her hands over her apron--hands so small and thin that
they looked like those of an old woman. Her hair was light and scanty,
her complexion sallow, and her eyes a palish gray; but her features
were delicate and pretty. She seemed to understand my thoughts.

"You think I am stunted, don't you?"

"You are not large to my eye."

"Suppose you had been fed mostly on Indian meal, with a herring or a
piece of salted pork for a relish, and clams or tautog for a luxury,
as I have been, would you be as tall and as grand-looking as you are
now? And would you be covering up your face, making believe worry?"

"May be not. You may tell mother that I am coming."

"I shall not say 'Miss Morgeson,' but 'Cassandra.' 'Cassandra
Morgeson,' if I like."

"Call me what you please, only tone down that voice of yours; it is
sharper than the east wind."

I heard her beating a tattoo on Veronica's door next. She had been
taught to be ceremonious with her, at least. No reply was made, and
she came to my door again. "I expect Miss Veronica has gone to see
poor folks; it is a way _she_ has," and spitefully closed it.

After tea mother came up to inquire the reason of my seclusion. My
excuse of fatigue she readily accepted, for she thought I still looked
ill. I had changed so much, she said, it made her heart ache to look
at me. When I could speak of the accident at Rosville, would I tell
her all? And would I describe my life there; what friends I had made;
would they visit me? She hoped so. And Mr. Somers, who made them so
hurried a visit, would he come? She liked him. While she talked, she
kept a pitying but resolute eye upon me.

"Dear mother, I never can tell you all, as you wish. It is hard
enough for me to bear my thoughts, without the additional one that my
feelings are understood and speculated upon. If I should tell you, the
barrier between me and self-control would give way. You will see Alice
Morgeson, and if she chooses she can tell you what my life was in her
house. She knows it well."

"Cassandra, what does your bitter face and voice mean?"

"I mean, mother, all your woman's heart might guess, if you were not
so pure, so single-hearted."

"No, no, no."

"Yes."

"Then I understand the riddle you have been, one to bring a curse."

"There is nothing to curse, mother; our experiences are not foretold
by law. We may be righteous by rule, we do not sin that way. There was
no beginning, no end, to mine."

"Should women curse themselves, then, for giving birth to daughters?"

"Wait, mother; what is bad this year may be good the next. You blame
yourself, because you believe your ignorance has brought me into
danger. Wait, mother."

"You are beyond me; everything is beyond."

"I will be a good girl. Kiss me, mother. I have been unworthy of you.
When have I ever done anything for you? If you hadn't been my mother,
I dare say we might have helped each other, my friendship and sympathy
have sustained you. As it is, I have behaved as all young animals
behave to their mothers. One thing you may be sure of. The doubt
you feel is needless. You must neither pray nor weep over me. Have I
agitated you?"

"My heart _will_ flutter too much, anyway. Oh, Cassy, Cassy, why
are you such a girl? Why will you be so awfully headstrong?" But she
hugged and kissed me. As I felt the irregular beating of her heart,
a pain smote me. What if she should not live long? Was I not a wicked
fool to lacerate myself with an intangible trouble--the reflex of
selfish emotions?






CHAPTER XXIII.


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."






CHAPTER XXIV.


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."






CHAPTER XXV.


Before spring there were three public events in Surrey. A lighthouse
was built on Gloster Point, below our house. At night there was a
bridge of red, tremulous light between my window and its tower, which
seemed to shorten the distance. A town-clock had been placed in the
belfry of the new church in the western part of the village. Veronica
could see the tips of its gilded hands from the top of her window, and
hear it strike through the night, whether the wind was fair to bring
the sound or not. She liked to hear the hours cry that they had gone.
Soon after the clock was up, she recollected that Mrs. Crossman's
dog had ceased to bark at night, as was his wont, and sent her a note
inquiring about it, for she thought there was something poetical in
connection with nocturnal noises, which she hoped Mrs. Crossman felt
also. Fanny conveyed the note, and read it likewise, as Mrs. Crossman
declared her inability to read writing with her new spectacles, which
a peddler had cheated her with lately. She laughed at it, and sent
word to Veronica that she was the curiousest young woman for her age
that she had ever heard of; that the dog slept in the house of nights,
for he was blind and deaf now; but that Crossman should get a new dog
with a loud bark, if the dear child wanted it.

A new dog soon came, so fierce that Abram told Temperance that people
were afraid to pass Crossman's. She guessed it wasn't the dog the
people were afraid of, but of their evil consciences, which pricked
them when they remembered Dr. Snell.

The third event was Mr. Thrasher's revival. It began in February, and
before it was over, I heard the April frogs croaking in the marshy
field behind the church. We went to all the meetings, except Veronica,
who continued her custom of going only on Sunday afternoons. Mr.
Thrasher endeavored to proselyte me, but he never conversed with her.
His manner changed when he was at our house; if she appeared, the man
tore away the mask of the minister. She called him a Bible-banger,
that he made the dust fly from the pulpit cushions too much to suit
her; besides, he denounced sinners with vituperation, larding his
piety with a grim wit which was distasteful. He was resentful toward
me, especially after he had seen her. It was needful, he said, from my
influence in Surrey, that I should become an example, and asked me
if I did not think my escape from sudden death in Rosville was an
indication from Providence that I was reserved for some especial work?

Surrey was never so evangelical as under his ministration, and it
remained so until he was called to a larger field of usefulness, and
offered a higher salary to till it. We settled into a milder theocracy
after he left us. Mr. Park renewed his zeal, about this time, resuming
his discussions; but mother paid little attention to what he said.
There were days now when she was confined to her room. Sometimes I
found her softly praying. Once when I went there she was crying aloud,
in a bitter voice, with her hands over her head. She was her old
self when she recovered, except that she was indifferent to practical
details. She sought amusement, indeed, liked to have me with her to
make her laugh, and Aunt Merce was always near to pet her as of old,
and so we forgot those attacks.

Abram Handy, inspired with religious fervor during the revival, was
also inspired with the twin passion--love--to visit Temperance, and
begged her, with so much eloquence, to marry him before his cow should
calve, that she consented, and he was happy. He spent the Sunday
evenings with her, coming after conference meeting, hymn-book in hand.
She was angry and ashamed, if I happened to see them sitting in
the same chair, and singing, in a quavering voice, "Greenland's Icy
Mountains," and continued morose for a week, in consequence.

"What will Veronica do without me?" she said. "I vow I wish Abram
Handy would keep himself out of my way; who wants him?"

"She will visit you, and so shall I."

"Certain true, will you, really?"

"If you will promise to return our visits, and leave Abram at home,
for a week now and then."

"Done. I can mend your things and look after Mis Morgeson. Your mother
is not the woman she was, and you and Veronica haven't a mite of
faculty. What you are all coming to is more than I can fathom."

"Who will fill your place?"

"I don't want to brag, but you wont find a soul in Surrey to come here
and live as I have lived. You will have to take a Paddy; the Paddies
are spreading, the old housekeeping race is going. Hepsey and I are
the last of the Mohicans, and Hepsey is failing."

She was right, we never found her equal, and when she went, in May,
a Celtic dynasty came in. We missed her sadly. Verry refused to be
comforted. Symptoms of disorganization appeared everywhere.

In the summer Helen visited Surrey. Her enlivening gayety was the
means of our uniting about her. She was never tired of Veronica's
playing, nor of our society; so we must stay where she and the
piano were. We trimmed the parlor with flowers every day. Veronica
transferred some of her favorite books to the round table, and
privately sent for a set of flower vases. When they came, she said we
must have a new carpet to match them, and although mother protested
against it, she was loud in her admiration when she saw the
handsome white Brussels, thickly covered with crimson roses. Helen's
introduction proved an astonishing incentive; we set a new value on
ourselves. I never saw so much of Veronica as at that time; her health
improved with her temper. She threw us into fits of laughter with her
whimsical talk, never laughing herself, but enjoying the effect she
produced. To please her, Helen changed her style of dress, and bought
a dress at Milford, which Veronica selected and made. The trying on
of this dress was the means of her discovering the letters on Helen's
arm, which never ceased to be a source of interest. She asked to see
them every day afterward, and touched them with her fingers, as if
they had some occult power.

"You think her strange, do you not?" I asked Helen.

"She has genius, but will be a child always."

"You are mistaken; she was always mature."

"She stopped in the process of maturity long ago. It is her genius
which takes her on. You advance by experience."

"I shall learn nothing more."

"Of course you have suffered immensely, and endured that which
isolates you from the rest of us."

"You are as wise as ever."

"Well, I am married, you know, and shall grow no wiser. Marriage puts
an end to the wisdom of women; they need it no longer."

"You are nineteen years old?"

"What is the use of talking to you? Besides, if we keep on we may tell
secrets that had better not be revealed. We might not like each
other so well; friendship is apt to dull if there is no ground for
speculation left. Let us keep the bloom on the fruit, even if we know
there is a worm at the core."

I owed it to her that I never had any confidante. My proclivities were
for speaking what I felt; but her strong common-sense influenced me
greatly against it; her teaching was the more easy to me, as she never
invaded my sentiments.

Her visit was the occasion of our exchanging civilities with our
acquaintances, which we neglected when alone. Tea parties were always
fashionable in Surrey. Veronica went with us to one, given by our
cousin, Susan Morgeson. She had taken tea out but twice, since she
was grown, she told us, then it was with her friend Lois Randall, a
seamstress. To this girl she read the contents of her blank-books,
and Lois in her turn confided to Veronica her own compositions. Essays
were her forte. We met her at Susan Morgeson's, and, as I never saw
her without her having on some article given her by Veronica, this
occasion was no exception. She wore an exquisitely embroidered purple
silk apron, over a dull blue dress. I saw Verry's grimace when her
eyes fell on it, and could not help saying, "I hope Lois's essays are
better than her taste in dress."

"She is an idiot in colors; but she admires what I wear so much that
she fancies the same must become her."

"As they become you?"

"I make a study of dress--an anomaly must. It may be wicked, but what
can I do? I love to look well."

The dress she wore then was an India stuff, of linen, with a
cream-colored ground, and a vivid yellow silk thread woven in stripes
through it; each stripe had a cinnamon-colored edge. There were no
ornaments about her, except a band of violet-colored ribbon round her
head. When tea was brought in, she asked me in a whisper whether it
was tea or coffee in the cup which was given her.

"Why, Cass," said Helen, "are you making a wonderment because she
does not know? It is strange that you have not known that she drinks
neither."

"What does she drink?"

"Is it eccentric to drink milk?" Verry asked, swallowing the tea with
an accustomed air. "I think this must be coffee, it stings my mouth
so."

"It is green tea," said Helen; "don't drink it, Verry."

"Green tea," she said, in a dreamy voice. "We drank green tea ten
years ago, in our old house; and I did not know it! Cassandra, do
you remember that I drank four cups once, when mother had company? I
laughed all night, and Temperance cried."

She contributed her share toward entertaining, and invariably received
the most attention. My indifference was called pride, and her reserve
was called dignity, and dignity was more popular than pride.

Before Helen went, Ben wrote me that he was going to India. It was a
favorite journey with the Belemites. By the time the letter reached
me he should be gone. Would I bear him in remembrance? He would not
forget me, and promised me an Indian idol. In eighteen months he
expected to be at home again; sooner, perhaps. P.S. Would I give
his true regards to my sister? N.B. The property might be divided
according to his grandfather's will, before his return, and he wanted
to be out of the way for sundry reasons, which he hoped to tell me
some day. I read the letter to Helen and Veronica. Helen laughed, and
said "Unstable as water"; but Veronica looked displeased; she closed
her eyes as if to recall him to mind, and asked Helen abruptly if she
did not like him.

"Yes; but I doubt him. With all his strength of character he has a
capacity for failure."

"I consider him a relation," I said.

"_I_ do not own him," said Veronica.

"At all events, he is not an affectionate one," Helen remarked. "You
have not heard from him in a year."

"But I knew that I should hear," I said.

"We shall _see_ him," said Veronica, "again."

I was dull after I received his letter. My youth grew dim; somehow
I felt a self-pity. I found no chance to embalm those phases of
sensation which belonged to my period, and I grew careless; Helen's
influence went with her. The observances so vital to Veronica, so
charming in her, I became utterly neglectful of. For all this a mad
longing sometimes seized me to depart into a new world, which should
contain no element of the old, least of all a reminiscence of what my
experience had made me.






CHAPTER XXVI.


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 _degage_
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 _naive_. 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.






CHAPTER XXVII.


When we went to Boston we went to a new hotel, as Ben had advised,
deserting the old Bromfield for the Tremont. It was dusk when we
arrived, and tea was served immediately, in a large room full of
somber mahogany furniture. Its atmosphere oppressed Veronica, who ate
her supper in silence.

"Charles Dickens is here, sir," said the waiter, who knew Ben. "Two
models of the Curiosity Shop have just gone upstairs, sir. His room is
right over here, sir."

Veronica looked adoringly at the ceiling.

"Then," said Ben, "our hunters are up from Belem. Anybody in from
Belem, John?"

"Oh yes, sir, every day."

"I'll look them up," he said to us; but he returned soon, and begged
us not to look at Dickens, if we had a chance.

Veronica, with a sigh, gave him up, and lost a chance of being
immortalized with that perpetual and imperturbable beefsteak, covered
with "the blackest of all possible pepper," which was daily served to
him.

Father being out in pursuit of a cigar, Ben asked Veronica what she
would do while he was in Belem.

"Walk round this lion-clawed table."

"I shall be gone from you."

"Alas!"

"Are we to part this way?"

"Father," she cried, as he entered with a theater bill, "had I better
marry this friend of Cassy's?"

"Have you the courage? Do you know each other?"

"Having known Cassandra so long, sir," began Ben, but was interrupted
by Veronica's exclaiming, "We do not know each other at all. What is
the use of making _that_ futile attempt? I am over eighteen, and do
you know me, father?"

"If I do not, it is because you have no shadow."

"Shall I, then?" giving Ben a delicious smile. "I promise."

"I promise, too, Veronica," heaven dawning in his eyes.

"We will see about it," said father. "Now who will go to the theater?"

We declined, but Ben signified his willingness to accompany him.

We took the first morning train, so that father could return before
evening, and ran through in the course of an hour the wooden suburbs
of Belem, bordered by an ancient marsh, from which the sea had long
retired. Taking a cab, we turned into Norfolk Street, at the head of
which, Ben said, a mile distant, was his father's house. It was not
a cheerful street, and when we stopped before an immense square,
three-storied house, it looked still more gloomy! There was a gate on
one side, with white wooden urns on the posts, that shut off a paved
courtway. On each side of the street were houses of the same pattern,
with the same gates. Down the paved court of the opposite house a
coach pulled by two fat horses clattered, and as the coach turned we
saw two old ladies inside, highly dressed, bowing and smiling at Ben.

"The Miss Hiticutts--hundred thousand apiece."

"Hundred thousand apiece," I echoed in an anguish of admiration, which
made my father laugh and Ben scowl. A servant in a linen jacket opened
the door. "Is it yourself, Mr. Ben?"

"Open the parlor door, Murph. Where's my mother and my sister?"

"Miss Somers is taking her exercise, sir, and Mrs. Somers is with
the owld gentleman"; opening the door, with the performance of taking
father's hat.

"Sit down, Cassandra. I'll look up somebody."

It was a bewildering matter where to go; the room, vast and dark, was
a complete litter of tables and sofas. The tables were loaded with
lamps, books, and knick-knacks of every description; the sofas were
strewn with English and French magazines, novels, and papers. I went
to the window, while father perched on the music stool.

My attention was diverted to a large dog in the court, chained to
a post near a pump, where a man was giving water to a handsome bay
horse, at the same time keeping his eye on an individual who stood on
a stone block, dressed in a loose velvet coat, a white felt hat,
and slippers down at the heel. He had a coach whip in his hand--the
handsomest hand I ever saw, which he snapped at the dog, who growled
with rage. I heard Ben's voice in remonstrance; then a lazy laugh from
velvet coat, who gave the dog a cut which made him bound. Ben, untying
him, was overwhelmed with caresses. "Down, you fool! Off, Rash!"
he said. "Look there," pointing to the window where I stood. The
gentleman with the coach whip looked at me also. The likeness to
Ben turned my suspicion into certainty that they were brothers. His
disposition, I thought, must be lovely, judging from the episode with
"Rash." I turned away, almost running against a lady, who extended her
fingers toward me with a quick little laugh, and said:

"How de do? Where's Ben, to introduce us properly?"

"Here, mother," he said behind her, followed by the dog. "You were
expecting Cassandra, my old chum; and Mr. Morgeson has come to leave
her with us."

"Certainly. Rash, go out, dear. Mr. Morgeson, I am sorry to say," she
spoke with more politeness, "that Mr. Somers is confined to his room
with gout. May I take you up?"

"I have a short time to stay," looking at his watch and rising. "Do
you consider the old school friendship between your son and Cassandra
a sufficient reason for leaving her with you? To say nothing of the
faint relationship which, we suppose, exists."

"Of course, very happy; Adelaide expects her," she said vaguely. I saw
at once that she had never heard a word of our being relations. Ben
had managed nicely in the affair of my invitation to Belem. But I
desired to remain, in spite of Mrs. Somers's reception.

Mr. Somers was bolstered up in bed, in a flowered dressing gown, with
a bottle of colchicum and a pile of Congressional reports on a stand
beside him. His urbanity was extreme; it was evident that the gout was
not allowed to interfere with his deportment, though the joints of
his hands were twisted and knotty. He expatiated upon Ben's long
ungratified wish for a visit from me, and thanked father for complying
with it. He mentioned the memento of the miniature, and gave every
particular of Locke Morgeson's early marriage, explaining the exact
shade of consanguinity--a faint one. I glanced at Mrs. Somers, who
sat remote, in the act of inspecting me, with an eye askance, which I
afterward found was her mode of looking at those whom she doubted
or disliked; it changed its expression, as it met mine, into one of
haughty wonder, that said there could be no tie of blood between us.
She irritated and embarrassed me. I tried to think of something
to say, and uttered a few words, which were uncommonly trivial and
awkward. Mr. Somers touched on politics. The door opened, and Ben's
brother entered, with downcast eyes. Advancing to the footboard of the
bed, he leaned his chin on its edge, looked at his father, and in a
remarkably clear, ringing voice, said:

"The check."

Mr. Somers coughed behind his hand. "To-morrow will do, Desmond."

"To-day will do."

"Desmond," said Ben in a low voice, "you do not see Mr. Morgeson and
Miss Morgeson. My brother, Cassandra."

"Beg pardon, good-morning"; and he pulled off his hat with an air of
grace which became him, though it was very indifferent. Mrs. Somers in
a soft voice said: "Ring, Des, dear, will you?" He warned her with
a satirical smile, and gave such a pull at the bell-rope that it came
down. Her florid face flushed a deeper red, but he had gone. Father
looked at his watch, and got up with alacrity.

"You are to dine with us, at least, Mr. Morgeson."

"I must return to Boston on account of my daughter, who is there
alone."

"Have you been remiss, Ben," said his father affectionately, "in not
bringing her also?"

"She would not come, of course, father."

A tall, black-haired girl of twenty-five rushed in.

"Why, Ben," she said, "you were not expected. And this is Miss
Morgeson," shaking hands with me. "You will spend a month, won't
you?" She put her chin in her hand, and scanned me with a cool
deliberateness. "Pa, do you think she is like Caroline Bingham?"

"Yes, so she is; but fairer. She is a great belle," nodding to me.

"Do you _really_ think she looks like her, Somers?" said Mrs. Somers,
in a tone of denial.

"Certainly, but handsomer," Adelaide replied for him, without looking
at her mother.

"Would you like to go to your room?" she asked. "What a pretty dress
this is!" taking hold of the sleeve, her chin in her hand still. "We
will have some walks; Belem is nice for walking. Pa, how do you feel
now?"

She allowed me to go downstairs with father, without following, and
sent Murphy in with wine and biscuit. I put my arms round his neck and
kissed him, for I had a lonesome feeling, which I could not define at
the last moment.

"You will not stay long," he said; "there is something oppressive in
this atmosphere."

"Something artificial, is it? It must be the blood of the Bellevue
Pickersgills that thickens the air."

"Now," said Ben, with father's hat in his hand, "the time is up."

Adelaide was at the door to take courteous leave of him, and Mrs.
Somers bowed from the top of the stairs, revealing a pair of large
ankles, whose base rested in a pair of shabby, pudgy slippers.
Adelaide then took me to my room, telling me not to change my dress,
but to come down soon, for dinner was ready. Hearing a bell, I hurried
down to the parlor which we were in before, and waited for directions
respecting the dinner. Adelaide came presently. "We are dining; come
and sit next me," offering her arm. Mrs. Somers, Desmond, and a girl
of fifteen were at the table. The latter had just come from school,
I concluded, as a satchel of books hung at her chair. Murphy was
removing the soup, and I derived the impression that I had been
forgotten. While taking mine, they vaguely stared about till Murphy
brought in the roast mutton, except Adelaide, who rubbed her teeth
with a dry crust, making a feint of eating it. Desmond kept the
decanter, occasionally swallowing a glassful.

"What wine is that, Murphy?" Mrs. Somers asked. He hesitatingly
answered, "I think it is the Juno, mum."

"You stole the key from pa's room, Des," said the girl. He shook the
carving-knife at her, at which gesture she said "Pooh!" and applied
herself to the roast mutton with avidity. They all ate largely,
especially the girl, whose wide mouth was filled with splendid teeth.
Mrs. Somers made a motion with her glass for Murphy to bring her the
wine, and pouring a teaspoonful, held it to her mouth, as if she were
practicing drinking healths. Her hands were beautiful, too; they all
had handsome hands, whose movements were graceful and expressive. When
Ben arrived, Murphy set the dishes before him, and Adelaide began to
talk in a lively, brilliant way. He did not ask for wine, but I saw
him look toward it and Desmond. The decanter was empty. After the
dessert, Mrs. Somers arose and we followed; but she soon left us, and
we went to the parlor. The girl, taking a seat beside me, said: "My
name is Ann Somers. I am never introduced; Adder, my sister, is in
the way, you know. I dare say Ben never spoke of me to you. I am never
spoken of, am never noticed. I have never had new dresses; yet pa is
my friend, the dear soul."

Adelaide looked upon her with the same superb indifference with which
she regarded her mother and Desmond.

"Would you like to go to your room?" she asked again. "You are too
tired to take a walk, perhaps?"

"Lord!" said Ann, "do let her do as she likes. Adder, don't be too
disagreeable."

I picked up my bonnet, which she took from me, and put on the top of
her head as we went upstairs.

"Murph must bring up your trunk," said Ann, opening the closet. "But
there is no space to hang anything; the great Mogul's wardrobe stops
the way."

My chamber was stately in size and appointments. The afternoon sun
shone in, where a shutter was open, behind the dull red curtains,
and illuminated the portrait of a nimble old lady in a scarlet cloak,
which hung near the gigantic curtained bed, over a vast chair, covered
with faded green damask.

"Grandmother Pickersgill," said Ann, who saw me observing the picture.
Adelaide contemplated it also. "It was painted by Copley," she said,
"Lord Lyndhurst afterwards. Grandfather entertained him, and he went
to one of grandmother's parties; he complimented her on her beauty.
But you see that she has not a handsome hand. Ours is the Pickersgill
hand," and she spread her fingers like a fan. "She was a regular old
screw," continued Ann, "and used to have mother's underclothes tucked
to last for ever; she was a beast to servants, too."

My trunk was brought in, which I unlocked and unpacked, while Adelaide
opened a drawer in a great bureau.

"Oh, you know it is full of Marm's fineries," said Ann, in a
confidential tone; "I'll ring for Hannah." Adelaide busied herself in
throwing the contents of the drawers on the floor. "There's her ball
dresses," commented Ann, as a pink satin, trimmed with magnificent
lace, tumbled out. "Old Carew brought the lace over for her."

"Bring a basket, Hannah, and take these away somewhere, to some other
closet of Mrs. Somers's."

"That gold fringe, do you remember, Adder? She looked like an elephant
with his howdah on when she wore it."

Her impertinence inspired Adelaide, who joined her in a flow of
vituperative wit at the expense of their mother and other relatives,
incidentally brought in. Instead of being aghast, I enjoyed it, and
was feverish with a desire to be as brilliant, for my vocabulary was
deficient and my sense of inferiority was active during the whole
of my visit in Belem. I blushed often, smiled foolishly, and was
afflicted with a general apprehension in regard to _gaucherie_.

I changed my traveling dress, as they were not inclined to leave me,
with anxiety, for I was weak enough to wish to make an impression
with my elegant bearing and appointments. Being so anatomized, I was
oppressed with an indefinite discouragement. Their stealthy, sharp,
selfish scrutiny brought out my failures. My dress seemed ill-made; my
hair unbecomingly dressed; my best collar and ribbon, which I put on,
were nothing to the lace I had just seen falling on the floor. When we
descended it was twilight. Ann said she must study, and left us by the
parlor fire. Adelaide lighted a candle, and took a novel, which she
read reclining on a sofa. Reclining on sofas, I discovered, was a
family trait, though they were all in a state of the most robust
health, with the exception of Mr. Somers. I walked up and down the
rooms. "They were fine once," said Ben, who appeared from a dark
corner, "but faded now. Mother never changes anything if she can
help it. She is a terrible aristocrat," he continued, in a low voice,
"fixed in the ideas imbedded in the Belem institutions, which only
move backward. We laugh, though, at everybody's claims but our own.
You despised me for mentioning the Hiticutts' income; it was the
atmosphere."

"It amuses me to be here."

"Of course; but stir up Adelaide, she is genuine; has fine sense, and
half despises her life; but she knows no other, and is proud."

"Let's go and find tea," she said, yawning, dropping her book. "Why
don't that lazy Murph light the lamp? I wish pa was down to regulate
affairs." No one was at the tea-table but Mrs. Somers.

"Ben is very polite, don't you think so?" she said with her peculiar
laugh, which made my flesh creep, as he pulled up a chair for me. Her
voice made me dizzy, but I smiled. Ben was not the same in Belem,
I saw at once, and no longer wondered at its influence, or at the
vacillating nature of his plans and pursuits. Mrs. Somers gave me
some tea from a spider-shaped silver tea-pot, which was related to a
spider-shaped cream-jug and a spider-shaped sugar-dish. The polished
surface of the mahogany table reflected a pair of tall silver
candlesticks, and the plates, being of warped blue and white Chinese
ware, joggled and clattered when we touched them. The tea was
delicious; I said so, but Mrs. Somers deigned no answer. We were
regaled with spread bread and butter and baked apples. Adelaide ate
six.

"We do not have your Surrey suppers," Ben remarked.

"How should you know?" his mother asked. Ben's eyes looked violent
and he bit his lips. Adelaide commenced speaking before her mother had
finished her question, as if she only needed the spur of her voice to
be lively and agreeable, _per contra_.

"Hepburn must ask us to tea. Her jam and her gossip are wonderful.
Aunt Tucker might ask us too, with housekeeper Beck's permission. I
like tea fights with the old Hindoos. They like us too, Ben; we are
the children of Hindoos also--superior to the rest of the world. There
will be a party or two for this young person."

"Parties be hanged!" he said. "Then we must have a rout here, and I
hate 'em."

"But we owe an entertainment," said Mrs. Somers. "I have been thinking
of giving one as soon as Mr. Somers gets out."

"I have no such idea," said Adelaide, with her back toward her mother.
"We shall have no party until some one has been given to our young
friend, Ben."

Ben and I visited his father, who asked questions relative to the
temperature, the water, and the dietetic qualities of Surrey. He was
affable, but there was no nearness in his affability. He skated on
the ice of appearances, and that was his vocation in his family. He
fulfilled it well, but it was a strain sometimes. His family broke the
ice now and then, which must have made him plunge into the depths
of reality. I learned to respect his courage, bad as his cause was.
Marrying Bellevue Pickersgill for her money, he married his master,
and was endowed only with the privilege of settling her taxes. Simon
Pickersgill, her father, tied up the main part of his money for his
grandchildren. It was to be divided among them when the youngest son
should arrive at the age of twenty-one--an event which took place, I
supposed, while Ben was on his way to India. Desmond and an older son,
who resided anywhere except at home, made havoc with the income. As
the principal prospectively was theirs, or nearly the whole of it, why
should they not dispose of that?

At last Mr. Somers looked at his watch, a gentle reminder that it was
time for us to withdraw. Adelaide was still in the parlor, lying on
her favorite sofa contemplating the ceiling. I asked permission to
retire, which she granted without removing her regards. In spite of my
sound sleep that night, I was started from it by the wail of a young
child. The strangeness of the chamber, and the continued crying,
which I could not locate, kept me awake at intervals till dawn peeped
through the curtains.






CHAPTER XXVIII.


A few days after my arrival, some friends dined with Mrs. Somers. The
daughters of a senator, as Ann informed me, and an ex-governor, or I
should not have known this fact, for I was not introduced. The dinner
was elaborate, and Desmond did the honors. With the walnuts one of the
ladies asked for the baby.

Mrs. Somers made a sign to Desmond, who pulled the bell-rope--mildly
this time. An elderly woman instantly appeared with a child a few
months old, puny and anxious-looking. Mrs. Somers took it from her,
and placed it on the table; it tottered and nodded to the chirrups of
the guests. Ben, from the opposite side of the table, addressed me by
a look, which enlightened me. His voyage to India was useless, as the
property would stand for twenty-one years more, lacking some months,
unless Providence interposed. Adelaide was oblivious of the child,
but Desmond thumped his glass on the mahogany to attract it, for its
energies were absorbed in swallowing its fists and fretfully crying.
When Murphy announced coffee in the parlor, the nurse took it away;
and after coffee and sponge cake were served the visitors drove off.
That afternoon some friends of Adelaide called, to whom she introduced
me as "cousin." She gave graphic descriptions of them, after their
departure. One had achieved greatness by spending her winters in
Washington, and contracting a friendship with John C. Calhoun. Another
was an artist who had painted an ideal head of her ancestor, Sir
Roger de Roger, not he who had arrived some years ago as a weaver from
Glasgow, but the one who had remained on the family estate. A third
reviewed books and collected autographs.

The next afternoon one of the Miss Hiticutts from across the way came,
in a splendid camel's-hair shawl and a shabby dress. "How _is_ Mr.
Somers?" she asked. "He is such a martyr."

Here Mrs. Somers entered. "My dear Bellevue, you are worn out with
your devotion to him; when have you taken the air?" She did not wait
for a reply, but addressed Adelaide with, "This is your young friend,
and where is my favorite, Mr. Ben, and little Miss Ann? Have you
anything new? I went down to Harris yesterday to tell her she must
sweep away her old trash of a circulating library, and begin with the
New Regime of Novels, which threatens to overwhelm us."

Adelaide talked slowly at first, and then soared into a region where
I had never seen a woman--an intellectual one. Miss Hiticutt followed
her, and I experienced a new pleasure. Mrs. Somers was silent, but
listened with respect to Miss Hiticutt, for she was of the real Belem
azure in blood as well as in brain; besides, she was rich, and would
never marry. It was a Pickersgill hallucination to be attentive to
people who had legacies in their power. Mrs. Somers had a bequested
fortune already in hair rings and silver ware. While appearing to
listen to Adelaide, her eyes wandered over me with speculation askant
in them. Adelaide was so full of _esprit_ that I was again smitten
with my inferiority, and from this time I felt a respect for her,
which never declined, although she married an Englishman, who, too
choleric to live in America, took her to Florence, where they settled
with their own towels and silver, and are likely to remain, for her
heart is too narrow to comprise any further interest in Belem.

Miss Hiticutt chatted herself out, giving us an invitation to tea, for
any day, including Ben and Miss Ann, who had not been visible since
breakfast.

April rains kept us indoors for several days. Ann refused to go to
school. She must have a holiday; besides, pa needed her; she alone
could take care of him, after all. Her mother said that she must go.

"Who can make me, mum?"

Desmond ordered the coach for her. When it was ready he put her in it,
seated himself beside her, with provoking nonchalance, and carried her
to school. Murphy, with his velvet-banded hat, left her satchel at the
door, with a ceremonious air, which made Ann slap his cheek and call
him an old grimalkin. But she was obliged to walk home in the rain,
after waiting an hour for him to come back.

Mr. Somers hobbled about his room, with the help of his cane, and said
that he should be out soon, and requested Adelaide to put in order
some book-shelves that were in the third story, for he wanted to
read without confusion. We went there together, and sorted some odd
volumes; piles of Unitarian sermons, bound magazines, political works,
and a heap of histories. Ben found a seat on a bunch of books, pleased
to see us together.

"This is a horrid hole," he said. "I have not been up in this floor
for ages. How do the shelves look?"

A hiccough near us caused us to look toward the door.

"It is only Des, in his usual afternoon trim," said Ben.

She nodded, as he pushed open the door, thrusting in his head. "What
the hell are you doing here? This region is sacred to Chaos and old
Night," striking the panels, first one and then the other, with the
tassels of his dressing-gown. No one answered him. Adelaide counted a
row of books, and Ben whistled.

"Damn you, Ben," he said, in a languid voice: "you never seem bored.
Curse you all. I hate ye, especially that she-Calmuck yonder--that
Siberian-steppe-natured, malachite-hearted girl, our sister."

"Oh come away, Mr. Desmond. What are the poor things doing that you
should harry them?" and the woman who had brought in the baby the day
of the dinner laid her hands on him and pulled him away.

"Sarah will never give him up," said Ben.

"She swears there is good in him. I think he is a wretch," turning
over the leaves of a book with her beautiful hand, such a hand as I
had just seen beating the door--such a hand as clasped its fellow in
Ben's hair. Adelaide was not embarrassed at my presence. She neither
sought nor avoided my look. But Ben said, "You are thinking."

"Is she?" And Adelaide raised her eyes.

"You are all so much alike," I said.

"You are right," she answered seriously. "Our grandfather--"

"Confound him!" broke in Ben. "I wish he had never been born. Are
you proud, Addie, of being like the Pickersgills? But I know you are.
Remember that the part of us which is Pickersgill hates its like. I am
off; I am going to walk."

Adelaide coolly said, after he had gone, that he was very visionary,
predicting changes that could not be, and determined to bring them
about.

"Why did he bring me here?" I asked, as if I were asking in a dream.

"Ben's hospitality is genuine. He is like pa. Besides, you are related
to us--on the Somers side, and are the first visitor we ever saw,
outside of mother's connection. Do you not know, too, that Ben's
friendship is very sincere--very strong?"

"I begin to comprehend the Pickersgills," I remarked as if in a dream.
"How words with any meaning glance off, when addressed to them. How
impossible it is to return the impression they give. How incapable
they are of appreciating what they cannot appropriate to the use of
their idiosyncrasies."

She gazed at me, as if she heard an abstract subject discussed, with a
slight interest in her black eyes.

"Are they vicious to the death?" I went on with this dream. "It is
not fair--their overpowering personality--it is not fair to others. It
overpowers me, though I know it is _all_ fallacious."

"I am ignorant of Ethical Philosophy."

"Miss Somers," said Murphy, knocking, "if Major Millard is below?"

"I am coming."

She smiled when she looked at me again. I stared at her with a
singular feeling. Had I touched her, or had I made a fool of myself?

"There is some nice gingerbread in the closet. Sha'n't I get you a
piece?"

I fell out of my dream.

"Major Millard is an old beau. Come down and captivate him. He likes
fair women."

Declining the gingerbread, I accepted the Major. He was an old
gentleman, in a good deal of highly starched linen, amusing himself
by teazing Ann, who liked it, and paid him in impertinence. Adelaide
played chess with him. Desmond sauntered in about nine, threw himself
into a chair behind the sofa where I sat, and swung his arm over the
back. The chessboard was put aside, and a gossipy conversation was
started, which included Mrs. Somers, who was on a sofa across the
room, but he did not join in it. I watched Mrs. Somers, as her fingers
moved with her Berlin knitting, feeling more composed and settled as
to my identity, in spite of my late outburst, than I had felt at
any moment since my arrival in Belem. They were laughing at a funny
description, which Ann was giving of a meeting she had witnessed
between Miss Hiticutt and Mr. Pearsall, a gentleman lately arrived
from China, after a twenty years' residence, with several lacs of
rupees. Her delineation of Miss Hiticutt, who attempted to appear as
she had twenty years before, was excellent. Ben, who was rolling and
unrolling his mother's yarn, laughed till the tears ran, but Major
Millard looked uneasy, as if he expected to be served _a-la_-Hiticutt
by the satirical Ann after his departure. Before the laughter
subsided, I heard a low voice at my ear, and felt a slight touch from
the tip of a finger on my cheek.

"How came those scars?"

I brushed my cheek with my handkerchief, and answered, "I got them in
battle."

He left his chair, and walked slowly through the room into the dark
front parlor. Major Millard took leave, and was followed by Mrs.
Somers and Ann, neither of whom returned. As Ben stretched himself
on his sofa with an air of relief, Desmond emerged from the dark and
stood behind him, leaning against a column, with his hands in his coat
pockets and his eyes searchingly fixed upon me. Ben, turning his head
in my direction, sprang up so suddenly that I started; but Desmond's
eyes did not move till Ben confronted him; then he gave him a haughty
smile, and begged him to take his repose again.

I went to the piano and ran my fingers over the keys.

"Do you play? Can you sing?" asked Adelaide, rousing herself.

"Yes."

"Do sing. I never talk music; but I like it."

"Some old song," said Ben.

Singing

  "Drink to me only with thine eyes,
    And I will pledge with mine,"

I became conscious that Desmond was near me. With a perfectly pure
voice he joined in the song:

  "The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
    Doth ask a drink divine."

As the tones of his voice floated through the room, I was where I saw
the white sea-birds flashing between the blue deeps of our summer
sea and sky, and the dark rocks that rose and dipped in the murmuring
waves.






CHAPTER XXIX.


One pleasant afternoon Adelaide and I started on a walk. We must go
through the crooked length of Norfolk Street, till we reached the
outskirts of Belem, and its low fields not yet green; that was the
fashionable promenade, she said. After the two o'clock dinner, Belem
walked. All her acquaintances seemed to be in the street, so many bows
were given and returned with ceremony. Nothing familiar was attempted,
nothing beyond the courtliness of an artificial smile.

Returning, we met Desmond with a lady, and a series of bows took
place. Desmond held his hat in his hand till we had passed; his
expression varied so much from what it was when I saw him last, at the
breakfast table, he being in a desperate humor then, that it served me
for mental comment for some minutes.

"That is Miss Brewster," said Adelaide. "She is an heiress, and
fancies Desmond's attentions: she will not marry him, though."

"Is every woman in Belem an heiress?"

"Those we talk about are, and every man is a fortune-hunter. Money
marries money; those who have none do not marry. Those who wait hope.
But the great fortunes of Belem are divided; the race of millionaires
is decaying."

"Is that Ann yonder?"

"I think so, from that bent bonnet."

It proved to be Ann, who went by us with the universal bow and
grimace, sacrificing to the public spirit with her fine manners. She
turned soon, however, and overtook us, proposing to make a detour
to Drummond Street, where an intimate family friend, "Old Hepburn,"
lived, so that the prospect of our going to tea with her might be made
probable by her catching a passing glimpse of us; at this time
she must be at the window with her Voltaire, or her Rousseau. The
proposition was accepted, and we soon came near the house, which
stood behind a row of large trees, and looked very dismal, with
three-fourths of its windows barred with board shutters.

"Walk slow," Ann entreated. "I see her blinking at us. She has not
shed her satin pelisse yet."

Before we got beyond it a dirty little girl came out of the gate, in
a pair of huge shoes and a canvas apron, which covered her, to call us
back. Mrs. Hepburn had seen us, and wished us to come in, wanting to
know who Miss Adelaide had with her, and to talk with her. She ran
back, reappearing again at the door, out of breath, and minus a shoe.
As we entered a small parlor, an old lady in a black dress, with
a deep cape, held out her withered hand, without rising from her
straight-backed arm-chair, smiling at us, but shaking her head
furiously at the small girl, who lingered in the door.

"Mari, Mari," she called, but no Mari came, and the small girl took
our shawls, for Mrs. Hepburn said we must stay, now that she had
inveigled us inside her doors. Ann mimicked her at her back, but to
her face behaved servilely. The name of Morgeson belonged to the early
historical time of New England, Mrs. Hepburn informed me. I never
knew it; but bowed, as if not ignorant. Old Mari must be consulted
respecting the sweetmeats, and she went after her.

"What an old mouser it is!" said Ann. "What unexpected ways she has!
She scours Belem in her velvet shoes, to find out everybody's history.
Don't you smell buttered toast?"

"Your father is getting the best of the gout," said Mrs. Hepburn,
returning. "How is Desmond? He may be the wickedest of you all, but
I like him the best. I shall not throw away praise of him on you,
Adelaide." And she looked at me.

"He bows well," I said.

"He resembles his mother, who was a great beauty. Mr. Somers was
handsome, too. I was at a ball at Governor Flam's thirty years ago.
Your mother was barely fifteen, then, Adelaide; she was just married,
and opened the ball."

She examined me all the while, with a pair of small, round eyes, from
which the color had faded, but which were capable of reading me.

Tea was served by candlelight, on a small table. Mrs. Hepburn kept
her eyes on everything, talking volubly, and pulled the small, girl's
ears, or pushed her by the shoulder, with faith that we were not
observing her. The toast was well buttered, the sweetmeats were
delicious, and the cake was heavenly, as Ann said. Mrs. Hepburn ate
little, but told us a great deal about marriages in prospect and
incomes which waxed or waned in consequence. When tea was over, she
said to the small girl who removed the tea things, "On your life taste
not of the cake or the sweetmeats; and bring me two sticks of wood,
you huzzy." She arranged the sticks on a decaying fire, inside a high
brass fender, pulled up a stand near the hearth, lighted two candles,
and placed on it a pack of cards.

"Some one may come, so that we can play."

Meantime she dozed upright, walking, talking, and dozing again, like a
crafty old parrot.

"She has a great deal of money saved," Ann whispered behind a book.
"She is over seventy. Oh, she is opening her puss eyes!"

Adelaide mused, after her fashion, on the slippery hair-cloth sofa,
looking at the dim fire, and I surveyed the room. Its aspect attracted
me, though it was precise and stiff. An ugly Turkey carpet covered
the floor; a sideboard was against the wall, with a pair of silver
pitchers on it, and two tall vases, filled with artificial flowers,
under glass shades. Old portraits hung over it. Upon one I fixed my
attention.

"That is the portrait of Count Rumford," Mrs. Hepburn said.

"Can't we see the letters?" begged Ann. "And wont you show us your
trinkets? It is three or four years since we looked them over."

"Yes," she answered, good-humoredly; "ring the bell."

An old woman answered it, to whom Mrs. Hepburn said, in a friendly
voice, "The box in my desk." Adelaide and Ann said, "How do you
do, Mari?" When she brought the box, Mrs. Hepburn unlocked it, and
produced some yellow letters, which we looked over, picking out here
and there bits of Parisian gossip, many, many years old. They were
directed to Cavendish Hepburn, by his friend, the original of the
portrait. But the letters were soon laid aside, and we examined
the contents of the box. Old brooches, miniatures painted on
ivory, silhouettes, hair rings, necklaces, ear-rings, chains, and
finger-rings.

"Did you wear this?" asked Ann with a longing voice, slipping an
immense sapphire ring on her forefinger.

"In Mr. Hepburn's day," she answered, taking up a small case, which
she unfastened and gave me. It contained a peculiar pair of ear-rings,
and a brooch of aqua-marina stones, in a setting perforated like a
net.

"They suit you. Will you accept such an old-fashioned ornament? Put
the rings in; here Ann, fasten them."

Ann glared at her in astonishment, and then at me, for the reason
which had prompted so unexpected a gift.

"Is it possible that I am to have them? Why do you give them to me?
They are beautiful," I replied.

"They came from Europe long ago," she said. "And they happen to suit
you."

                'Sabrina fair,
  Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
  In twisted braids of lilies knitting
  The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair.'"

"Those lines make me forgive Paradise Lost," said Adelaide.

"They are very long, these ear-rings," Ann remarked.

I put the brooch in the knot of ribbon I wore; Mrs. Hepburn joggled
the white satin bows of her cap in approbation.

The knocker resounded. "There is our partner," she cried.

"It must be late, ma'am," said Adelaide; "and I suspect it is some one
for us. You know we never venture on impromptu visits, except to you,
and our people know where to send."

"Late or not, you shall stay for a game," she said, as Ben came in,
hat in hand, declaring he had been scouting for us since dark. Mrs.
Hepburn snuffed the candles, and rang the bell. The small girl, with
a perturbed air, like one hurried out of a nap, brought in a waiter,
which she placed on the sideboard.

"Get to bed," Mrs. Hepburn loudly whispered, looking over the waiter,
and taking from it a silver porringer, she put it inside the fender,
and then shuffled the cards.

"Now, Ann, you may sit beside me and learn."

"If it is whist, mum, I know it. I played every afternoon at Hampton
last summer, and we spoiled a nice polished table, we scratched it so
with our nails, picking up the cards."

"Young people do too much, nowadays."

I was in the shadow of the sideboard; Ben stood against it.

"When have you played whist, Cassandra?" he asked in a low voice. "Do
you remember?"

"Is my name Cassandra?"

"Have you forgotten that, too?"

"I remember the rain."

"It is not October, yet."

"And the yellow leaves do not stick to the panes. Would you like to
see Helen?"

"Come, play with me, Ben," called Mrs. Hepburn.

"Ann, try your skill," I entreated, "and let me off."

"She can try," Mrs. Hepburn said sharply. "Don't you like games? I
should have said you were by nature a bold gamester." She dealt the
cards rapidly, and was soon absorbed in the game, though she quarreled
with Ann occasionally, and knocked over the candlestick once. Adelaide
played heroically, and was praised, though I knew she hated play.

Two hours passed before we were released. The fire went out, the
candles burnt low, and whatever the contents of the silver porringer,
they had long been cold. When Mrs. Hepburn saw us determined to go,
she sent us to the sideboard for some refreshment. "My caudle is
cold," taking off the cover of the porringer. "Why, Mari, what is
this?" she said, as the woman made a noiseless entrance with a bowl of
hot caudle.

"I knew how it would be," she answered, putting it into the hands of
her mistress.

"I am a desperate old rake, you mean, Mari. There, take your virtue
off, you appall me."

She poured the caudle into small silver tumblers, and gave them to us.
"The Bequest of a Friend" was engraved on them. Her fingers were like
ice, and her head shook with fatigue; but her voice was sprightly and
her smile bright. Ann ate a good deal of sponge cake, and omitted the
caudle, but I drank mine to the memory of the donor of the cup.

"You know that sherry, Ben," and Mrs. Hepburn nodded him toward a
decanter. He put his hand on it, and took it away. "None to-night,"
he said. Mari came with our shawls, and we hastened away, hearing her
shoot the bolt of the door behind us. Ben drew my arm in his, and the
girls walked rapidly before us. It was a white, hazy night, and the
moon was wallowing in clouds.

"Let us walk off the flavor of Hep's cards," said Adelaide, "and go to
Wolf's Point."

"Do you wish to go?" he asked me.

"Yes."

Ann skipped. A nocturnal excursion suited her exactly.

"You are not to have the toothache to-morrow, or pretend to be lame,"
said Adelaide.

"Not another hiss, Adder. _En avant!_"

We passed down Norfolk Street, now dark and silent, and reached our
house. A light was burning in a room in the third story, and a
window was open. Desmond sat by it, his arms folded across his chest,
smoking, and contemplating some object beyond our view. Ann derisively
apostrophized him, under her breath, while Ben unlocked the court gate
and went in after Rash, who came out quietly, and we proceeded. In
looking behind me, I stumbled.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Are you afraid?"

"Yes."

"Of what?"

"The Prince of Darkness."

"The devil lives a little behind us."

"In you, too, then?"

"In Rash. Look at him; he is bigger than Faust's dog, jumps higher,
and is blacker. You can't hear the least sound from him as he gambols
with his familiar."

We left the last regular street on that side of the city, and entered
a road, bordered by trees and bushes, which hid the country from us.
We crept through a gap in it, crossed two or three spongy fields,
and ascended a hill, reaching an abrupt edge of the rocks, over whose
earthy crest we walked. Below it I saw a strip of the sea, hemmed in
on all sides, for the light was too vague for me to see its narrow
outlet. It looked milky, misty, and uncertain; the predominant shores
stifled its voice, if it ever had one. Adelaide and Ann crouched
over the edge of the rock, reciting, in a chanting tone, from a poem
beginning:

  "The river of thy thoughts must keep
  its solemn course too still and deep
  For idle eyes to see."

Their false intonation of voice and the wordy spirit of the poem
convinced me that poetry with them was an artificial taste. I turned
away. The dark earth and the rolling sky were better. Ben followed.

"I hope Veronica's letter will come to-morrow," he said with a groan.

"Veronica! Why Veronica?"

"Don't torment me."

"She writes letters seldom."

"I have written her."

"She has never written me."

"It might be the means of revealing you to each other to do so."

"Ben, your native air is deleterious."

"You laugh. I feel what you say. I do not attempt to play the
missionary at home, for my field is not here."

"You were wise not to bring Veronica, I see already."

"She would see what I hate myself for."

"One may venture farther with a friend than a lover."

"I thought that _you_ might understand the results of my associations.
Curse them all! Come, girls, we must go back."






CHAPTER XXX.


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 berthe 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.






CHAPTER XXXI.


Another week passed. Ben had received a letter from Veronica,
informing him that letter-writing was a kind of composition she was
not fond of. He must come to her, and then there would be no need for
writing. Her letter exasperated him. His tenacious mind, lying in wait
to close upon hers, was irritated by her simple, candid behavior. I
could give him no consolation, nor did I care to. It suited me that
his feelings for her weakened his penetration in regard to me.

When he roused at the expression which he saw Desmond fix upon me the
night that Major Millard was there, I expected a rehearsal from him of
watchfulness and suspicion; but no symptom appeared. I was glad, for
I was in love with Desmond. I had known it from the night of Miss
Munster's party. The morning after I woke to know my soul had built
itself a lordly pleasure-house; its dome and towers were firm and
finished, glowing in the light that "never was on land or sea." How
elate I grew in this atmosphere! The face of Nemesis was veiled even.
No eye saw the pure, pale nimbus ringed above it. I did not see
_him_, except as an apparition, for suddenly he had become the most
unobtrusive member of the family, silent and absent. Immunity from
espionage was the immutable family rule. Mrs. Somers, under the
direction of that spirit which isolated me from all exterior
influences, for a little time had shut down the lid of her evil
feelings, and was quiet; watching me, perhaps, but not annoying. Mr.
Somers was engaged with the subject of ventilation. Ann, to convince
herself that she had a musical talent, practiced of afternoons till
she was turned out by Adelaide, who had a fit of reading abstruse
works, sometimes seeking me with fingers thrust between their leaves
to hold abstract conversations, which, though I took small part in
them, were of service.

That portion of the world of emotions which I was mapping out she
was profoundly indifferent to. My experiences to her would have been
debasing. As she would not come to me, I went to her, and gained
something.

Ben, always a favorite with his father, pursued him, rode with him,
and made visits of pleasure or business, with a latent object which
kept him on the alert.

I had been in Belem three weeks; in a week more I decided to return
home. My indignation against Mrs. Somers, from our midnight interview,
had not suggested that I should shorten my visit. On the contrary, it
had freed me from any regard or fear of her opinion. I had discovered
her limits.

It was Saturday afternoon. Reflecting that I had but a few days more
for Belem, and summing up the events of my visit and the people I had
met, their fashions and differences, I unrolled a tolerable panorama,
with patches in it of vivid color, and laid it away in my memory, to
be unrolled again at some future time. Then a faint shadow dropped
across my mind like a curtain, the first that clouded my royal palace,
my mental paradise!

I sighed. Joyless, vacant, barren hours prefigured themselves to me,
drifting through my brain, till their vacant shapes crowded it into
darkness. I must do something! I would go out; a walk would be good
for me. Moreover, wishing to purchase a parting gift for Adelaide and
Ann, I would go alone. Wandering from shop to shop in Norfolk Street,
without finding the articles I desired, I turned into a street which
crossed it, and found the right shop. Seeing Drummond Street on an old
gable-end house, a desire to exchange with some one a language which
differed from my thoughts prompted me to look up Mrs. Hepburn. I soon
came to her house, and knocked at the door, which Mari opened. The
current was already changed, as I followed her into a room different
from the one where I had seen Mrs. Hepburn. It was dull of aspect,
long and narrow, with one large window opening on the old-fashioned
garden, and from which I saw a discolored marble Flora. Mrs. Hepburn
was by the window, in her high chair. She held out her hand and
thanked me for coming to see an old woman. Motioning her head toward a
dark corner, she said, "There is a young man who likes occasionally to
visit an old woman also."

The young man, twenty-nine years old, was Desmond. He crossed the
room and offered me his hand. We had not spoken since we parted at
the stairs that memorable night. He hastily brought chairs, and placed
them near Mrs. Hepburn, who seized her spectacles, which were on a
silk workbag beside her, scanned us through them, and exclaimed, "Ah
ha! what is this?"

"Is it something in me, ma'am?" said Desmond, putting his head before
my face so that it was hid from her.

"Something in both of you; thief! thief!"

She rubbed her frail hand against my sleeve, muttering, "See now,
so!--the same characteristics."

"I spoke of the difference of the rooms; the one we were in reminded
me of a lizard! The walls were faint gray, and every piece of
furniture was covered with plain yellow chintz, while the carpet was
a pale green. She replied that she always moved from her winter parlor
to this summer room on the twenty-second day of April, which had
fallen the day before, for she liked to watch the coming out of the
shrubs in the garden, which were as old as herself. The chestnut had
leaved seventy times and more; and the crippled plum, whose fruit was
so wormy to eat, was dying with age. As for the elms at the bottom of
the garden, for all she knew they were a thousand years old.

"The elms are a thousand years old," I repeated and repeated to
myself, while she glided from topic to topic with Desmond, whose
conversation indicated that he was as cultivated as any ordinary
gentleman, when the Pickersgill element was not apparent. The form of
the garden-goddess faded, the sun had gone below the garden wall. The
garden grew dusk, and the elms began to nod their tops at me. I became
silent, listening to the fall of the plummet, which dropped again
and again from the topmost height of that lordly domain, over which
shadows had come. Were they sounding its foundations?

My eyes roved the garden, seeking the nucleus of an emotion which
beset me now--not they, but my senses, formed it--in a garden miles
away, where nodded a row of elms, under which _Charles Morgeson_
stood.

"_I am glad you're here, my darling, do you smell the roses?_"

"Are you going?" I heard Mrs. Hepburn say in a far-off voice. I was
standing by the door.

"Yes, madam; the summer parlor does not delay the sunset."

"Come again. When do you leave Belem?"

"In few days."

Desmond made a grimace, and went to the window.

"Who returns with you," she continued, "Ben? He likes piloting."

"I hope he will; I came here to please him."

"Pooh! You came here because Mr. Somers had a crotchet."

"Well; I was permitted somehow to come."

"It was perfectly right. A woman like you need not question whether a
thing is convenable."

Desmond turned from the window, and bestowed upon her a benign smile,
which she returned with a satisfied nod.

This implied flattery tinkled pleasantly on my ears, allaying a doubt
which I suffered from. Did I realize how much the prestige of those
Belem saints influenced me, or how proud I was with the conviction of
affiliation with those who were plainly marked with Caste?

"Walk with me," he demanded, as we were going down the steps.

We passed out of Drummond Street into a wide open common. Rosy clouds
floated across the zenith, and a warm, balmy wind was blowing. I
thought of Veronica, calm and happy, as the spring always made her,
and the thought was a finishing blow to the variety of moods I had
passed through. The helm of my will was broken.

"There is a good view from Moss Hill yonder," he said. "Shall we go
up?"

I bowed, declining his arm, and trudged beside him. From its summit
Belem was only half in sight. Its old, crooked streets sloped and
disappeared from view; Wolf's Point was at the right of us, and its
thread of sea. I began talking of our walk, and was giving an extended
description of it, when he abruptly asked why I came to Belem.

"I know," he said, "that you would not have come, had there been any
sentiment between you and Ben."

"Thanks for your implication. But I must have made the visit, you
know, or how could I learn that I should not have made it?"

"You regret coming?"

"Veronica will give me no thanks."

"Who is she?"

"My sister, whom Ben loves."

"Ben love a sister of yours? My God--how? when first? where? And how
came you to meet him?"

"That chapter of accidents need not be recounted. Can you help him?"

"What can I do?" he said roughly. "There is little love between us.
You know what a devil's household ours is; but he is one of us--he is
afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of mother--of our antecedents--of himself."

"I could not expect you to speak well of him."

"Of course not. Your sister has no fortune?"

"She has not. Men whose merchandise is ships are apt to die bankrupt."

"Your father is a merchant?"

"Even at that, the greatest of the name.

"We are all tied up, you know. Ben's allowance is smaller than mine.
He is easy about money; therefore he is pa's favorite."

"Why do you not help yourselves?"

"Do you think so? You have not known us long. Have you influenced Ben
to help himself?"

I marched down the hill without reply. Repassing Mrs. Hepburn's, he
said, "My grandfather was an earl's son."

"Mrs. Hepburn likes you for that. My grandfather was a tailor; I
should have told her so, when she gave me the aqua marina jewels."

"Had you the courage?"

"I forgot both the fact and the courage."

I hurried along, for it grew dark, and presently saw Ben on the steps
of the house.

"Have you been walking?" he asked.

"It looks so. Yes, with me," answered Desmond. "Wont you give me
thanks for attention to your friend?"

"It must have been a whim of Cassandra's."

"Break her of whims, if you can--"

"I _will_."

We went into the parlor together.

"Where do you think I have been?" Ben asked.

"Where?"

"For the doctor. The _baby_ is sick"; and he looked hard at Desmond.

"I hope it will live for years and years," I said.

"I know what you are at, Ben," said Desmond. "I have wished the brat
dead; but upon my soul, I have a stronger wish than that--I have
_forgotten_ it."

There was no falseness in his voice; he spoke the truth.

"Forgive me, Des."

"No matter about that," he answered, sauntering off.

I felt happier; that spark of humanity warmed me. I might not have
another. "I would," I said, "that the last day, the last moments of my
visit had come. You will see me henceforth in Surrey. I will live and
die there."

"To-night," Ben said, "I am going to tell pa."

"That is best."

"Horrible atmosphere!"

"It would kill Verry."

"You thrive in it," he said, with a spice of irritation in his voice.

"Thrive!"

Adelaide and Ann proved gracious over my gift. They were talking of
the doctor's visit. Ann said the child was teething, for she had
felt its gums; nothing else was the matter. There need be no
_apprehension_. She should say so to Desmond and Ben, and would post a
letter to her brother in unknown parts.

"Miss Hiticutt has sent for us to come over to tea," Adelaide informed
me. The black silk I wore would do, for we must go at once.

The quiet, formal evening was a pleasant relief, although I was
troubled with a desire to inform Mrs. Somers of Ben's engagement, for
the sake of exasperating her. We came home too early for bed, Adelaide
said; beside, she had music-hunger. I must sing. Mrs. Somers was by
the fire, darning fine napkins, winking over her task, maintaining
in her aspect the determination to avert any danger of a midnight
interview with Desmond. That gentleman was at present sleeping on a
sofa. I seated myself before the piano, wondering whether he slept
from wine, ennui, or to while away the time till I should come. I
touched the keys softly, waiting for an interpreting voice, and half
unconsciously sang the lines of Schiller:

  "I hear the sound of music, and the halls
  Are full of light. Who are the revelers?"

Desmond made an inarticulate noise and sprang up, as if in answer to a
call. A moment after he stepped quietly over the back of the sofa
and stood bending over me. I looked up. His eyes were clear, his face
alive with intuition. Though Adelaide was close by, she was oblivious;
her eyes were cast upward and her fingers lay languid in her lap. Ann,
more lively, introduced a note here and there into my song to her own
satisfaction. Mrs. Somers I could not see; but I stopped and, giving
the music stool a turn, faced her. She met me with her pale, opaque
stare, and began to swing her foot over her knee; her slipper, already
down at her heel, fell off. I picked it up in spite of her negative
movement and hung it on the foot again.

"I shall speak with you presently," she whispered, glancing at
Desmond.

He heard her and his face flashed with the instinct of sport, which
made me ashamed of any desire for a struggle with her.

"Good-night," I said abruptly, turning away.

"We are all sleepy except this exemplary housewife with her napkins,"
cried Ann. "We will leave her."

"Cassandra," said Adelaide, when we were on the stairs, "how well you
look!"

Ann, elevating her candle, remarked my eyes shone like a cat's.

"Hiticutt's tea was too strong," added Adelaide; "it dilates the
pupils. I am sorry you are going away," and she kissed me; this favor
would have moved me at any other time, but now I rejoiced to see her
depart and leave me alone. I sat down by the toilet table and was
arranging some bottles, when Mrs. Somers rustled in. Out of breath,
she began haughtily:

"What do you mean?"

A lethargic feeling crept over me; my thoughts wandered; I never spoke
nor stirred till she pulled my sleeve violently.

"If you touch me it will rouse me. Did a child of yours ever inflict a
blow upon you?"

She turned purple with rage, looming up before my vision like a peony.

"When are you going home?"

I counted aloud, "Sunday--Monday," and stopped at Wednesday. "Ben is
going back with me."

"_He_ may go."

"And not Desmond?"

"Do you know Desmond?"

"Not entirely."

"He has played with such toys as you are, and broken them."

"Alas, he is hereditarily cruel! Could _I_ expect not to be broken?"

She caught up a glass goblet as if to throw it, but only grasped it so
tight that it shivered. "There goes one of the Pickersgill treasures,
I am sure," I thought.

"I am already scarred, you see. I have been 'nurtured in
convulsions.'"

The action seemed to loosen her speech; but she had to nerve herself
to say what she intended; for some reason or other, she could not
remain as angry as she wished. What she said I will not repeat.

"Madam, I have no plans. If I have a Purpose, it is formless yet. If
God saves us what can you do?"

She made a gesture of contempt.

"You have no soul to thank me for what may be my work," and I opened
the door.

Ben stood on the threshhold.

"In God's name, what is this?"

I pointed to his mother. She looked uneasy, and stepping forward put
her hand on his arm; but he shook her off.

"You may call me a fool, Cassandra, for bringing you here," he said in
a bitter voice, "besides calling me cruel for subjecting you to these
ordeals. I knew how it would be with mother. What is it, madam?" he
asked imperiously, looking so much like her that I shuddered.

"It is not you she is after," she hotly exclaimed.

"No, I should think not." And he led her out swiftly.

I heard Mrs. Somers say at breakfast, as I went in, "We are to lose
Miss Cassandra on Wednesday." I looked at Desmond, who was munching
toast abstractedly. He made a motion for me to take the chair beside
him, which I obeyed. Ben saw this movement, and an expression of pain
passed over his face. At that instant I remembered that Desmond's
being seen in the evening and in the morning was a rare occurrence.
Mr. Somers took up the remark of Mrs. Somers where she had left it,
and expatiated on it till breakfast was over, so courteously and so
ramblingly that I was convinced the affair Ben had at heart had been
revealed. He invited me to go to church, and he spent the whole of the
evening in the parlor; and although Desmond hovered near me all day
and all the evening, we had no opportunity of speaking to each other.






CHAPTER XXXII.


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 _Caesar_ 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."






CHAPTER XXXIII.


At eleven o'clock the next day I was ready for departure. All stood by
the open hall door, criticising Murphy's strapping of my trunks on a
hack. Messrs. Digby and Devereaux, in black satin scarfs, hung over
the step railings; Mrs. Somers, Adelaide, and Ann were within the
door. Mr. Somers and Ben were already on the walk, waiting for me; so
I went through the ceremony of bidding good-by--a ceremony performed
with so much cheerfulness on all sides that it was an occasion for
well-bred merriment, and I made my exit as I should have made it in a
genteel comedy, but with a bitter feeling of mortification, because of
their artificial, willful imperturbability I was forced to oppose them
with manners copied after their own.

I looked from the carriage window for a last view of my room. The
chambermaid was already there, and had thrown open the shutters, to
let in daylight upon the scene of the most royal dreams I had ever
had. The ghost of my individuality would lurk there no longer than
the chairs I had placed, the books I had left, the shreds of paper or
flowers I had scattered, could be moved or swept away.

All the way to Boston the transition to my old condition oppressed me.
I felt a dreary disgust at the necessity of resuming relations which
had no connection with the sentiment that bound me to Belem. After we
were settled at the Tremont, while watching a sad waiter engaged
in the ceremonial of folding napkins like fans, I discovered an
intermediate tone of mind, which gave my thoughts a picturesque tinge.
My romance, its regrets, and its pleasures, should be set in the frame
of the wild sea and shores of Surrey. I invested our isolated house
with the dignity of a stage, where the drama, which my thoughts must
continually represent, could go on without interruption, and remain a
secret I should have no temptation to reveal. Until after the tedious
dinner, a complete rainbow of dreams spanned the arc of my brain. Mr.
Somers dispersed it by asking Ben to go out on some errand. That it
was a pretext, I knew by Ben's expression; therefore, when he had gone
I turned to Mr. Somers an attentive face. First, he circumlocuted;
second, he skirmished. I still waited for what he wished to say,
without giving him any aid. He was sure, he said at last, that my
visit in his family had convinced me that his children could not vary
the destiny imposed upon them by their antecedents, without bringing
upon _others_ lamentable consequences. "Cunning pa," I commented
internally. Had I not seen the misery of unequal marriages?

"As in a glass, darkly."

Doubtless, he went on, I had comprehended the erratic tendency in
_Ben's_ character, good and honorable as he was, but impressive and
visionary. Did I think so?

"Quite the contrary. Have you never perceived the method of his
visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?"

"Well, _well_, well?"

"Money, Family, Influence,--are a ding-dong bell which you must weary
of, Mr. Somers--sometimes."

"Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that."

"My sister is eccentric. Provided she marries him, the family
programme will be changed. You must lop him from the family tree."

He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column
or so.

"It may be absurd," and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if
he had found the remark in his paper, "for parents to oppose the
marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand
that I may _oppose_, not _resist_ Ben. You know very well," and he
dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, "that the devil
will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the
affair. She does not suspect it. I must say that Ben is mistaking
himself again. I mean, I think so."

I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance. The one rude word
he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was
over. Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded
his voice. I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his
perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned. As it was,
a friendly feeling had been established between us. He said in a
confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty
secret, "You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must."

"You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister,"
he answered indifferently. Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a
mutual confidence.

"Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?" asked Ben. "Enough for
both of us?"

"Desmond? he will never marry."

"It is certainly possible."

"You know how I am clogged."

I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that
it was time to retire.

"Now," said Mr. Somers, "I shall give you just such a breakfast as
will enable you to travel well--a beefsteak, and old bread made into
toast. Don't drink that ice-water; take some wine."

I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine. Ben elevated
his eyebrows, and asked:

"What time shall I get up, sir?"

"I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled."

He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night.

"The coach is ready," a waiter announced, as we finished our
breakfast. "We are ready," said Mr. Somers. "I have ordered a packet
of sandwiches for you--_beef_, not ham sandwiches--and here is a flask
of wine mixed with water."

I thanked him, and tied my bonnet.

"Here is a note, also," opening his pocketbook and extracting it, "for
your father. It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and
one or two allusions," making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed,
his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor.

He excused himself from going to the station on account of the morning
air, and Ben and I proceeded. In the passage, the waiter met us with a
paper box. "For you, Miss. A florist's boy just left it." I opened it
in the coach, and seeing flowers, was about to take them out to show
Ben, when I caught sight of the ribbon which tied them--a piece of one
of my collar knots I had not missed. Of course the flowers came from
Desmond, and half the ribbon was in his possession; the ends were
jagged, as if it had been divided with a knife. Instead of taking out
the flowers, I showed him the box.

"What a curious bouquet," he said.

In the cars he put into my hand a jewel box, and a thick letter for
Verry, kissed me, and was out of sight.

"No vestige but these flowers," uncovering them again. "In my room at
Surrey I will take you out," and I shut the box. The clanking of the
car wheels revolved through my head in rhythm, excluding thought for
miles. Then I looked out at the flying sky--it was almost May. The
day was mild and fair; in the hollows, the young grass spread over the
earth like a smooth cloth; over the hills and unsheltered fields, the
old grass lay like coarse mats. A few birds roved the air in anxiety,
for the time of love was at hand, and their nests were not finished.
By twelve I arrived at the town where the railroad branched in a
direction opposite the road to Surrey, and where a stage was waiting
for its complement of passengers from the cars. I was the only lady
"aboard," as one of the passengers intelligently remarked, when we
started. They were desirable companions, for they were gruff to
each other and silent to me. We rode several miles in a state
of unadjustment, and then yielded to the sedative qualities of a
stagecoach. I lunched on my sandwiches, thanking Mr. Somers for his
forethought, though I should have preferred them of ham, instead of
beef. When I took a sip from my flask, two men looked surprised, and
spat vehemently out of the windows. I offered it to them. They
refused it, saying they had had what was needful at the Depot Saloon,
conducted on the strictest temperance principles.

"Those principles are cruel, provided travelers ever have colic, or an
aversion to Depot tea and coffee," I said.

There was silence for the space of fifteen minutes, then one of them
turned and said: "You have a good head, marm."

"Too good?"

"Forgetful, may be."

I bowed, not wishing to prolong the conversation.

"Your circulation is too rapid," he continued.

The man on the seat with him now turned round, and, examining me,
informed me that electricity would be first-rate for me.

"Shoo!" he replied, "it's a humbug."

I was forgotten in the discussion which followed, and which lasted
till our arrival at a village, where one of them resided. He left,
telling us he was a "natral bone-setter." One by one the passengers
left the stage, and for the last five miles I was alone. I beguiled
the time by elaborating a multitude of trivial opinions, suggested by
objects I saw along the roadside, till the old and new church spires
of Surrey came in sight, and the curving lines at either end of the
ascending shores. We reached the point in the north road, where the
ground began its descent to the sea, and I hung from the window, to
see all the village roofs humble before it. The streets and dwellings
looked as insignificant as those of a toy village. I perceived no
movement in it, heard no hum of life. At a cross-road, which would
take the stage into the village without its passing our house, a whim
possessed me. I would surprise them at home, and go in at the back
door, while they were expecting to hear the stage. The driver let me
out, and I stood in the road till he was out of sight.

A breeze blew round me, penetrating, but silent; the fields, and the
distant houses which dotted them, were asleep in the pale sunshine,
undisturbed by it. The crows cawed, and flew over the eastern woods.
I walked slowly. The road was deserted. Mrs. Grossman's house was
the only one I must pass; its shutters were closed, and the yard was
empty. As I drew near home a violent haste grew upon me, yet my feet
seemed to impede my progress. They were like lead; I impelled myself
along, as in a dream. Under the protection of our orchard wall I
turned my merino mantle, which was lined with an indefinite color,
spread my veil over my bonnet, and bent my shoulders, and passed down
the carriage-drive, by the dining-room windows, into the stable-yard.
The rays of sunset struck the lantern-panes in the light-house, and
gave the atmosphere a yellow stain. The pigeons were skimming up and
down the roof of the wood-house, and cooing round the horses that were
in the yard. A boy was driving cows into the shed, whistling a lively
air; he suspended it when he saw me, but I shook my finger at him, and
ran in. Slipping into the side hall, I dropped my bonnet and shawl,
and listened at the door for the familiar voices. Mother must be
there, as was her wont, and Aunt Merce. All of them, perhaps, for
I had seen nobody on my way. There was no talking within. The last
sunset ray struck on my hand its yellow shade, through the fan-light,
and faded before I opened the door. I was arrested on the threshold by
a silence which rushed upon me, clutching me in a suffocating embrace.
Mother was in her chair by the fire, which was out, for the brands
were black, and one had fallen close to her feet. A white flannel
shawl covered her shoulders; her chin rested on her breast. "She
is ill, and has dropped asleep," I thought, thrusting my hands out,
through this terrible silence, to break her slumber, and looked at the
clock; it was near seven. A door slammed, somewhere upstairs, so loud
it made me jump; but she did not wake. I went toward her, confused,
and stumbling against the table, which was between us, but reached her
at last. Oh, I knew it! She was dead! People must die, even in their
chairs, alone! What difference did it make, how? An empty cup was in
her lap, bottom up; I set it carefully on the mantel shelf above her
head. Her handkerchief was crumpled in her nerveless hand; I drew it
away and thrust it into my bosom. My gloves tightened my hands as I
tried to pull them off, and was tugging at them, when a door opened,
and Veronica came in.

"She is dead," I said. "I can't get them off."

"It is false"; and she staggered backward, with her hand on her heart,
till she fell against the wall. I do not know how long we remained
so, but I became aware of a great confusion--cries, and exclamations;
people were running in and out. Fanny rolled on the floor in
hysterics.

"Get up," I said. "I can't move; help me. Where did Verry go?"

She got up, and pulled me along. I saw father raise mother in his
arms. The dreadful sight of her swaying arms and drooping head made me
lose my breath; but Veronica forced me to endurance by clinging to me,
and dragging me out of the room and upstairs. She turned the key of
the glass-door at the head of the passage, not letting go of me. I
took her by the arms, placed her in a chair, and closing my window
curtains, sat down beside her in the dark.

"Where will they carry her?" she asked, shuddering, and putting her
fingers in her ears. "How the water splashes on the beach! Is the tide
coming in?"

She was appalled by the physical horror of death, and asked me
incessant questions.

"Let us keep her away from the grave," she said.

I could not answer, or hear her at last, for sleep overpowered me. I
struggled against it in vain. It seemed the greatest good; let death
and judgment come, I must sleep. I threw myself on my bed, and the
touch of the pillow sealed my eyes. I started from a dream about
something that happened when I was a little child. "Veronica, are you
here?"

"Mother is dead," she answered.

A mighty anguish filled my breast. Mother!--her goodness and beauty,
her pure heart, her simplicity--I felt them all. I pitied her dead,
because she would never know how I valued her. Veronica shed no tears,
but sighed heavily. _Duty_ sounded through her sighs. "Verry,
shall _I_ take care of you? I think I can." She shook her head; but
presently she stretched her hands in search of my face, kissed it, and
answered, "Perhaps."

"You must go to your own room and rest."

"Can you keep everybody from me?"

"I will try."

Opening her window, she looked out over the earth wistfully, and at
the sky, thickly strewn with stars, which revealed her face. We heard
somebody coming up the back stairs.

"Temperance," said Verry.

"Are you in the dark, girls?" she asked, wringing her hands, when she
had put down her lamp. "What an awful Providence!" She looked with a
painful anxiety at Veronica.

"It is all Providence, Temperance, whether we are alive or dead," I
said. "Let us let Providence alone."

"What did I ever leave her for? She wasn't fit to take care of
herself. Why, Cassandra Morgeson, you haven't got off all your things
yet. And what's this sticking out of your bosom?"

"It is her handkerchief." I kissed it, and now Verry began to weep
over it, begging me for it. I gave it up to her.

"It will kill your father."

I had not thought of him.

"It's most nine o'clock. Sofrony Beals is here; she lays out
beautifully."

"No, no; don't let anybody touch her!" shrieked Verry.

"No, they shan't. Come into the kitchen; you must have something to
eat."

I was faint from the want of food, and when Temperance prepared us
something I ate heartily. Veronica drank a little milk, but would
taste nothing. Aunt Merce, who had been out to tea, Temperance said,
came into the kitchen.

"My poor girl, I have not seen you," embracing me, half blind with
crying, "How pale you are! How sunken! Keep up as well as you can.
I little thought that the worthless one of us two would be left to
suffer. Go to your father, as soon as possible."

"Drink this tea right down, Mercy," said Temperance, holding a cup
before her. "There isn't much to eat in the house. Of all times in the
world to be without good victuals! What could Hepsey have meant?"

"Poor old soul," Aunt Merce replied, "she is quite broken. Fanny had
to help her upstairs."

The kitchen door opened, and Temperance's husband, Abram, came in.

"Good Lord!" she said in an irate voice, "have you come, too? Did you
think I couldn't get home to get your breakfast?"

She hung the kettle on the fire again, muttering too low for him to
hear: "Some folks could be spared better than other folks."

Abram shoved back his hat. "'The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,'
but she is a dreadful loss to the poor. There's my poor boy, whose
clothes--"

"Ain't he the beatum of all the men that ever you see?" broke in
Temperance, taking to him a large piece of pie, which he took with a
short laugh, and sat down to eat. I could not help exchanging a look
with Aunt Merce; we both laughed. Veronica, lost in revery, paid no
attention to anything about her. I saw that Temperance suffered; she
was perplexed and irritated.

"Let Abram stay, if he likes," I whispered to her; "and be sure to
stay yourself, for you are needed."

She brightened with an expression of gratitude. "He is a nuisance,"
she whispered back; "but as I made a fool of myself, I must be
punished according to my folly. I'll stay, you may depend. I'll do
_everything_ for you. I vow I am mad, that I ever went away."

"Have the neighbors gone?" I asked.

"There's a couple or so round, and will be, you know. I'll take Verry
to bed, and sleep on the floor by her. You go to your father."

He was in their bedroom, on the bed. She was lying on a frame of wood,
covered with canvas, a kind of bed which went from house to house in
Surrey, on occasions of sickness or death.

"Our last night together has passed," he said in a tremulous voice,
while scanty tears fell from his seared eyes. "The space between then
and now--when her arm was round me, when she slept beside me, when I
woke from a bad dream, and she talked gently close to my face, till
I slept again--is so narrow that I recall it with a sense of
reality which agonizes me; it is so immeasurable when I see her
there--_there_, that I am crushed."

If I had had any thought of speaking to him, it was gone. And I must
go too. Were the hands folded across her breast, where I, also, had
slept? Were the blue eyes closed that had watched me there? I should
never see. A shroud covered her from all eyes but his now. Till I
closed the door upon him, I looked my last farewell. An elderly woman
met me as I was going upstairs, and offered me a small packet; it was
her hair. "It was very long," she said. I tried in vain to thank her.
"I will place it in a drawer for you," she said kindly.






CHAPTER XXXIV.


The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be
condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites
was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small
encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only
one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands,
assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related
to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put
under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They
supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not
make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their
departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at
the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing
of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me.
I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well
meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over
again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion.
I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to
compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be
watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be
told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the
character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost,
who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I
was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter
is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon
also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the
future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would
go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible
says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and
that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of
an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought
to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen
was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours
for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent
mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were
lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there
and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for
doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was
concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his
feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so
grief-struck."

Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for
bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the
Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a
simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear
the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her
flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had
never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren.

"She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have
her way."

"Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce,
coming into my room dressed for the funeral.

"No."

"The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I
could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready
soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages
already."

Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given
to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from
Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted.

"Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing.

"How could you have done this?"

"Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?"

"Yes, the idea."

But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face
serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those
which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely
pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures
below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape.

"Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was
wan and languid, but collected.

"I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house
be empty?"

"Yes."

"Good; I can walk through it once more."

"The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be
certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?"

"You think I can go through with it, then?"

"I have set your behavior down to your will."

"You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she
was against me."

She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart
bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said.

I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she
drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a
flacon of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain,
and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will
never lose temper with you again."

The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out
the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent
respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair,
beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible
which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of
man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on
the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted
them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the
feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some
considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that
she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the flacon of salts,
which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to
escape the unprofitable trial.

As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and
palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not
leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would
not let me go; her he had let loose.

We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present
had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down
the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own
chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands,
and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was given,
and the long procession began to move through the street, which was
deserted. A cat ran out of a house, and scampered across the way;
Arthur laughed, and father jumped nervously at the sound of his laugh.

The graveyard was a mile outside the village--a sandy plain where a
few stunted pines transplanted from the woods near it struggled to
keep alive. As we turned from the street into the lane which led
to it, and rode up a little hill where the sand was so deep that it
muffled the wheels and feet of the horses, the whole round of the gray
sky was visible. It hung low over us. I wished it to drop and blot out
the vague nothings under it. We left the carriage at the palings and
walked up the narrow path, among the mounds, where every stone was
marked "Morgeson." Some so old that they were stained with blotches
of yellow moss, slanting backward and forward, in protest against the
folly of indicating what was no longer beneath them. The mounds were
covered with mats of scanty, tangled grass, with here and there a rank
spot of green. I was tracing the shape of one of those green patches
when I felt father's arm tremble. I shut my eyes, but could not close
my ears to the sound of the spadeful of sand which fell on the coffin.

It was over. We must leave her to the creatures Veronica had seen. I
looked upward, to discern the shadowy reflection behind the gray haze
of cloud, where she might have paused a moment on her eternal journey
to the eternal world of souls.

It was the custom, and father took his hat off to thank his friends
for their sympathy and attention. His lips moved, but no words were
audible.

The procession moved down the path again. Arthur's hand was in mine;
he stamped his feet firmly on the sand, as if to break the oppressive
silence which no one seemed disposed to disturb. The same ceremonies
were performed in starting us homeward, by the same person, who let
go the reins, and lifted his hat as we passed, as the final token of
attention and respect.

The windows were open; a wind was blowing through the house, the
furniture was set in order, the doors were thrown back, but not a soul
was there when we went in. The duties of friendship and tradition had
been fulfilled; the neighbors had gone home to their avocations. For
the public, the tragedy was over; all speculation on the degree of
our grief, or our indifference, was settled. We could take off our
mourning garments and our mourning countenance, now that we were
alone; or we could give way to that anguish we are afraid and ashamed
to show, except before the One above human emotion.






CHAPTER XXXV.


Temperance stayed to the house-cleaning. It was lucky, she could not
help saying, as house-cleaning must always be after a funeral, that
it should have happened at the regular cleaning-time. She went back
to her own house as soon as it was over. Father drove to Milford as
usual; Arthur resumed his school, and Aunt Merce, who had at first
busied herself in looking over her wardrobe, and selecting from it
what she thought could be dyed, folded it away. She passed hours in
mother's room, from which father had fled, crying over her Bible,
looking in her boxes and drawers to feed her sorrow with the sight of
the familiar things, alternating those periods with her old occupation
of looking out of the windows. In regard to myself, and Veronica, she
evinced a distress at the responsibility which, she feared, must
rest upon her. Veronica, dark and silent, played such heart-piercing
strains that father could not bear to hear her; so when she played,
for he dared not ask her to desist, he went away. To me she had
scarcely spoken since the funeral. She wore the same dress each
day--one of black silk--and a small black mantle, pinned across her
bosom. Soon the doors began to open and shut after their old fashion,
and people came and went as of old on errands of begging or borrowing.

At the table we felt a sense of haste; instead of lingering, as was
our wont, we separated soon, with an indifferent air, as if we were
called by business, not sent away by sorrow. But if our eyes fell on a
certain chair, empty against the wall, a cutting pang was felt,
which was not at all concealed; for there were sudden breaks in our
commonplace talk, which diverged into wandering channels, betraying
the tension of feeling.

Many weeks passed, through which I endured an aching, aimless
melancholy. My thoughts continually drifted through the vacuum in
our atmosphere, and returned to impress me with a disbelief in the
enjoyment, or necessity of keeping myself employed with the keys of an
instrument, which, let me strike ever so cunningly, it was certain I
could never obtain mastery over.

One day I went to walk by the shore, for the first time since my
return. When I set my foot on the ground, the intolerable light of the
brilliant day blazed through me; I was luminously dark, for it blinded
me. Picking my way over the beach, left bare by the tide, with my eyes
fixed downward till I could see, I reached the point between our
house and the lighthouse and turned toward the sea, inhaling its cool
freshness. I climbed out to a flat, low rock, on the point; it was dry
in the sun, and the weeds hanging from its sides were black and crisp;
I put my woolen shawl on it, and stretched myself along its edge.
Little pools meshed from the sea by the numberless rocks round me
engrossed my attention. How white and pellucid was the shallow near
me--no shadow but the shadow of my face bending over it--nothing to
ripple its surface, but my imperceptible breath! By and by a bunch of
knotted wrack floated in from the outside and lodged in a crevice; a
minute creature with fringed feet darted from it and swam across
it. After the knotted wrack came the fragment of a green and silky
substance, delicate enough to have been the remnant of a web, woven
in the palace of Circe. "There must be a current," I thought, "which
sends them here." And I watched the inlet for other waifs; but nothing
more came. Eye-like bubbles rose from among the fronds of the knotted
wrack, and, sailing on uncertain voyages, broke one by one and were
wrecked to nothingness. The last vanished; the pool showed me the
motionless shadow of my face again, on which I pondered, till I
suddenly became aware of a slow, internal oscillation, which increased
till I felt in a strange tumult. I put my hand in the pool and
troubled its surface.

"Hail, Cassandra! Hail!"

I sprang up the highest rock on the point, and looked seaward, to
catch a glimpse of the flying Spirit who had touched me. My soul was
brought in poise and quickened with the beauty before me! The wide,
shimmering plain of sea--its aerial blue, stretching beyond the
limits of my vision in one direction, upbearing transverse, cloud-like
islands in another, varied and shadowed by shore and sky--mingled its
essence with mine.

The wind was coming; under the far horizon the mass of waters begun to
undulate. Dark, spear-like clouds rose above it and menaced the east.
The speedy wind tossed and teased the sea nearer and nearer, till I
was surrounded by a gulf of milky green foam. As the tide rolled in
I retreated, stepping back from rock to rock, round which the waves
curled and hissed, baffled in their attempt to climb over me. I
stopped on the verge of the tide-mark; the sea was seeking me and I
must wait. It gave tongue as its lips touched my feet, roaring in the
caves, falling on the level beaches with a mad, boundless joy!

"Have then at life!" my senses cried. "We will possess its longing
silence, rifle its waiting beauty. We will rise up in its light
and warmth, and cry, 'Come, for we wait.' Its roar, its beauty, its
madness--we will have--_all_." I turned and walked swiftly homeward,
treading the ridges of white sand, the black drifts of sea-weed, as if
they had been a smooth floor.

Aunt Merce was at the door.

"Now," she said, "we are going to have the long May storm. The gulls
are flying round the lighthouse. How high the tide is! You must want
your dinner. I wish you _would_ see to Fanny; she is lording it over
us all."

"Yes, yes, I will do it; you may depend on me. I will reign, and serve
also."

"Oh, Cassandra, _can_ you give up _yourself?_"

"I must, I suppose. Confound the spray; it is flying against the
windows."

"Come in; your hair is wet, and your shawl is wringing. Now for a
cold."

"I never shall have any more colds, Aunt Merce; never mean to have
anything to myself--entirely, you know."

"You do me good, you dear girl; I love you"; and she began to cry.
"There's nothing but cold ham and boiled rice for your dinner."

"What time is it?"

"Near three."

I opened the door of the dining-room; the table was laid, and I walked
round it, on a tour of inspection.

"I thought you might as well have your dinner, all at once," said
Fanny, by the window, with her feet tucked up on the rounds of her
chair. "Here it is."

"I perceive. Who arranged it?"

"Me and Paddy Margaret."

"How many tablecloths have we?"

"Plenty. I thought as you didn't seem to care about any regular hour
for dinner, and made us all wait, _I_ needn't be particular; besides,
I am not the waiter, you know."

She had set on the dishes used in the kitchen. I pulled off cloth and
all--the dishes crashed, of course--and sat down on the floor, picking
out the remains for my repast.

"What will Mr. Morgeson say?" she asked, turning very red.

"Shall you clear away this rubbish by the time he comes home?"

"Why, I must, mustn't I?"

"I hope so. Where's Veronica?"

"She has been gone since twelve; Sam carried her to Temperance's
house."

I continued my meal. Fanny brought a chair for me, which I did not
take. I scarcely tasted what I ate. A wall had risen up suddenly
before me, which divided me from my dreams; I was inside it, on a
prosaic domain I must henceforth be confined to. The unthought-of
result of mother's death--disorganization, began to show itself. The
individuality which had kept the weakness and faults of our family
life in abeyance must have been powerful; and I had never recognized
it! I attempted to analyze this influence, so strong, yet so
invisibly produced. I thought of her mildness, her dreamy habits, her
indifference, and her incapacity of comprehending natures unlike her
own. Would endowment of character explain it--that faculty which
we could not change, give, or take? Character was a mysterious and
indestructible fact, and a fact that I had had little respect for.
Upon what a false basis I had gone--a basis of extremes. I had seen
men as trees walking; that was my experience.

"You'll choke yourself with that dry bread," exclaimed Fanny, really
concerned at my abstraction.

"Where is my trunk? Did you unlock it?"

"I took from it what you needed at the time: but it is not unpacked,
and it is in the upper hall closet."

She was picking up the broken delf meekly.

"Did you see a small bag I brought? And where's my satchel? Good
heavens! What has made me put off that letter so? For I have thought
of it, and yet I have kept it back."

"It is safe, in your closet, Miss Cassandra; and the box is there."

"Aunt Merce," I called, "will you have nothing to eat?"

She laughed hysterically, when she saw what I had done.

"Where is Hepsey, Aunt Merce?"

"She goes to bed after dinner, you know, for an hour or two."

"She must go from here."

"Oh!" they both chorused, "what for?"

"She is too old."

"She _has_ money, and a good house," said Aunt Merce, "if she must go.
I wonder how Mary stood it so long."

"Turn 'em off," said Fanny, "when they grow useless."

Aunt Merce reddened, and looked hurt.

"I shall keep _you_; look sharp now after your own disinterestedness."

I wanted to go to my room, as I thought it time to arrange my trunks
and boxes; besides, I needed rest--the sad luxury of reaction. But
word was brought to the house that Arthur had disappeared, in company
with two boys notorious for mischief. His teacher was afraid they
might have put out to sea in a crazy sailboat. We were in a state of
alarm till dark, when father came home, bringing him, having found
him on the way to Milford. Veronica had not returned. It stormed
violently, and father was vexed because a horse must be sent through
the storm for her. At last I obtained the asylum of my room, in an
irritable frame of mind, convinced that such would be my condition
each day. Composure came with putting my drawers and shelves in order.
The box with Desmond's flowers I threw into the fire, without opening
it, ribbon and all, for I could not endure the sight of them. I
unfolded the dresses I had worn on the occasions of my meeting him;
even the collars and ribbons I had adorned myself with were conned
with jealous, greedy eyes; in looking at them all other remembrances
connected with my visit vanished. The handkerchief scented with
violets, which I found in the pocket of the dress I had worn when I
met him at Mrs. Hepburn's, made me childish. I was holding it when
Veronica entered, bringing with her an atmosphere of dampness.

"Violet! I like it. There is not one blooming yet, Temperance says.
Why are they so late? There's only this pitiful snake-grass," holding
up a bunch of drooping, pale blossoms.

"Oh, Verry, can you forgive me? I did not forget these, but I felt the
strangest disinclination to look them up." And I gave her the jewel
box and letter.

She seized them, and opened the box first.

"Child-Verry."

"I never was a child, you know; but I am always trying to find my
childhood."

She took a necklace from the box, composed of a single string of
small, beautiful pearls, from which hung an egg-shaped amethyst of
pure violet. She fastened the necklace round her throat.

"It is as lucent as the moon," she said, looking down at the amethyst,
which shed a watery light; "I wish you had given it to me before."

Breaking the seal of the letter, with a twist of her mouth at the
coat-of-arms impressed upon it, she shook out the closely written
pages, and saying, "There is a volume," began reading. "It is
very good," she observed at the end of the first page, "a regular
composition," and went on with an air of increasing interest. "How
does he look?" she asked, stopping again.

"As if he longed to see you."

Her eyes went in quest of him so far that I thought they must be
startled by a sudden vision.

"How did you find his family?"

"Not like him much."

"I knew that; he would not have loved me so suddenly had I not been
wholly unlike any woman he had known."

"His character is individual."

"I should know that from his influence upon you."

She looked at me wistfully, smoothed my hair with her cool hand, and
resumed the letter.

"He thinks he will not come to Surrey with you; asks me to tell him my
wishes," she repeated rapidly, translating from the original. "What do
I think of our future? How shall we propose any change? Will Cassandra
describe her visit? Will she tell me that he thinks of going abroad?"

She dropped the letter. "What pivot is he swinging on? What is he
uncertain about?"

"There must be more to read."

She turned another page.

"If I go to Switzerland (I think of going on account of family
affairs), when shall I return? My family, of course, expected me to
marry in their pale; that is, my mother rather prefers to select a
wife for me than that I should do it. But, as you shall never come to
Belem, her plans or wishes need make no difference to us. If Cassandra
would be to us what she might, how things would clear! Don't you
think, my love, that there should be the greatest sympathy between
sisters?"

I laughed.

Verry said she did not like his letter much after all. He evidently
thought her incapable of understanding ordinary matters. It was well,
though; it made their love idyllic.

"Let us speak of matters nearer home."

"Let us go to my room; the storm is so loud this side of the house."

"No; you must stay till the walls tremble. Have you seen, Verry, any
work for me to do here?"

"Everything is changed. I have tried to be as steady as when mother
was here, but I cannot; I whirl with a vague idea of liberty. Did she
keep the family conscience? Now that she has gone I feel responsible
no more."

"An idea of responsibility has come to me--what plain people call
Duty."

"I do not feel it," she cried mournfully. "I must yield to you then.
You can be good.'

"I must act so; but help me, Verry; I have contrary desires."

"What do they find to feed on? What are they? Have you your evil
spirit?"

"Yes; a devil named Temperament."

"Now teach me, Cassandra."

"Not I. Go, and write Ben. Make excuses for my negligence toward you
about his letter. Tell him to come. I shall write Alice and Helen this
evening. We have been shut off from the world by the gate of Death;
but we must come back."

"One thing you may be sure of--though I shall be no help, I shall
never annoy you. I know that my instincts are fine only in a
self-centering direction; yours are different. I shall trust them.
Since you have spoken, I perceive the shadows you have raised and
must encounter. I retreat before them, admiring your discernment, and
placing confidence in your powers. You convince if you do not win
me. Who can guess how your every plan and hope of well-doing may be
thwarted? I need say no more?"

"Nothing more."

She left the room. There would be no antagonism between us; but there
would be pain--on one side. The distance which had kept us apart was
shortened, but not annihilated. What could I expect? The silent and
serene currents which flow from souls like Veronica's and Ben's, whose
genius is not of the heart, refuse to enter a nature so turbulent as
mine. But my destiny must be changed by such! It was taken for granted
that my own spirit should not rule me. And with what reward? Any, but
that of sympathy. But I muttered:

                  "'I dimly see
  My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother
  Conjectures of the features of her child
  Ere it is born.'"

The house trembled in the fury of the storm. The waves were hoarse
with their vain bawling, and the wind shrieked at every crevice of
chimney, door, and window. No answering excitement in me now! I had
grown older.






CHAPTER XXXVI.


A few days after, I went to Milford with father, to make some
purchases. I sought a way to speak to him about the future, intending
also to go on with various remarks; but it seemed difficult to begin.
Observing him, as he contemplated the road before us, grave and
abstracted, I recollected the difference between his age and mother's,
and wondered at my blindness, while I compared the old man of my
childhood, who existed for the express purpose of making money for the
support and pleasure of his family, and to accommodate all its whims,
with the man before me,--barely forty-eight, without a wrinkle in
his firm, ruddy face, and only an occasional white hair, in ambuscade
among his fair, curly locks. My exclusive right over him I felt
doubtful about. I gave my attention to the road also, and remarked
that I thought the season was late.

"Yes. Why didn't Somers come home with you?"

"I hardly know. The matter of the marriage was not settled, nor a plan
of spending a summer abroad."

"Will it suit him to vegetate in Surrey? Veronica will not leave
home."

"He has no ambition."

"It is a curse to inherit money in this country. Mr. Somers writes
that Ben will have three thousand a year; but that the disposal, at
present, is not in his power."

I explained as well as I could the Pickersgill property.

"I see how it is. The children are waiting for the principal, and have
exacted the income; and their lives have been warped for this reason.
Ben has not begun life yet. But I like Somers exceedingly."

"He is the best of them, his mother the worst."

"Did you have a passage?"

"She attempted."

"I can give Veronica nothing beyond new clothes or furniture; whatever
she likes that way. To draw money from my business is impossible. My
business fluctuates like quicksilver, and it is enormously extended.
If they should have two thousand a year, it would be a princely
income; I should feel so now, if they had it clear of incumbrance."

"Do you mean to say that your income does not amount to so much?"

"My outgoes and incomes have for a long time been involved with each
other. I do not separate them. I have never lived extravagantly. My
luxury has been in doing too much."

A cold feeling came over me.

"By the way, Mr. Somers pays you compliments in his note. How old are
you? I forget." He surveyed me with a doubtful look. Are you thin, or
what is it?"

"East wind, I guess. I am twenty-five."

"And Veronica?"

"Over twenty."

"She must be married. I hope she will cut her practical eye-teeth
then, for Somers's sake."

"He does not require a practically minded woman."

"What do men require!"

"They require the souls and bodies of women, without having the
trouble of knowing the difference between the one and other."

"So bad as that? Whoa!"

He stopped to pay toll, and the conversation stopped.

On the way home, however, I found a place to begin my proposed talk,
and burst out with, "I think Hepsey should leave us."

"What ails Hepsey?"

"She is so old, and is such a poke."

"You must tell her yourself to go. She has money enough to be
comfortable; I have some of it, as well as that of half the widows,
old maids, and sailors' wives in Surrey,' being better than the
Milford banks, they think."

I felt another cold twinge.

"What! are our servants your creditors?"

"Servants--don't say that," he said harshly; "we do not have these
distinctions here."

"It costs you more than two thousand a year."

"How do you know?"

"Think of the hired people--the horses, the cows, pigs, hens, garden,
fields--all costing more than they yield."

"What has come over you? Did you ever think of money before? Tell me,
have you ever been in our cellar?"

"Yes, to look at the kittens."

"In the store-room?"

"For apples and sweetmeats."

"Look into these matters, if you like; they never troubled your
mother, at least I never knew that they did; but don't make your
reforms tiresome."

What encouragement!

In the yard we saw Fanny contemplating a brood of hens, which were
picking up corn before her. "Take Fanny for a coadjutor; she is
eighteen, and a bright girl." She sprang to the chaise, and caught the
reins, which he threw into her hands, unbuckled the girth, and, before
I was out of sight, was leading the horse to water.

"We might economize in the way of a stable-boy," I said.

"Pooh! you are not indulgent. Here," whistling to Fanny, "let Sam do
that." She pouted her lips at him, and he laughed.

Aunt Merce gave me a letter the moment I entered. "It is in Alice's
hand; sit down and read it."

She took her handkerchief and a bit of flagroot from her pocket, to be
ready for the sympathetic flow which she expected. But the letter was
short. She had seen, it said, the announcement of mother's death in a
newspaper at the time. She knew what a change it had made. We might
be sure that we should never find our old level, however happy and
forgetful we might grow. She bore us all in mind but sent no message,
except to Aunt Merce; she must come to Rosville before summer was
over. And could she assist me by taking Arthur for a while? Edward was
a quiet, companionable lad, and Arthur would be safe with him at home
and at school.

"I wish you would go, Aunt Merce."

"Yes, why not, Mercy?" asked father. "Would it be a good thing for
Arthur, Cassandra? You know what Surrey is for a boy."

"I know what Rosville was for a girl," I thought. It was an excellent
plan for Arthur; but a feeling of repulsion at the idea of his going
kept me silent.

"Is it a good idea?" he repeated.

"Yes, yes, father; send him by all means."

Aunt Merce sighed. "If he goes, I must go; I can be the receptacle
for his griefs and trials for a while at least, and be a little useful
that way. You know, Locke, I am but a poor creature."

"I was not aware of that fact, and am astonished to hear you say so,
Mercy, when you know how far back I can remember. Mary shines all
along those years, and you with her."

"Locke, you are the kindest man in the world."

"He feels fifty years younger than she appears to him," I thought; but
I thanked him for his consideration for her.

"Veronica has had a letter to-day from Mr. Somers. What did you buy in
Milford?"

"Mr. Morgeson," Fanny called, "Bumpus, the horse-jockey, is in the
yard. He says Bill is spavined. I think he lies; he wants to trade."

He went out with her.

"Aunt Merce, let us be more together. What do you think of spending
our evenings in the parlor?"

"Do you expect to break up our habits?"

"I would if I could."

"Try Veronica."

"I have."

"Will she give up solitude?"

"Bring your knitting to the parlor and see."

Veronica came in to tell me that Ben was coming in a week.

"Glad of it."

"Sends love to you."

"Obliged."

"Calls me 'poor girl'; speaks beautifully of his remembrance of
mother, and--"

"What?"

"Tells me to rely on your faithful soul; to trust in the reasonable
hope of our remaining together; to try to establish an equality of
tastes and habits between us. He tells me what I never knew,--that I
need you--that we need each other."

"Is that all?"

"There is more for _me_."

I left her. Closing the door of my room gently, I thought: "Ben is a
good man; but for all that, I feel like blind Sampson just now. Could
I lay my hands on the pillars which supported the temple he has built,
I would wrench them from their foundation and surprise him by toppling
the roof on his head."

His arrival was delayed for a few days. When he came Surrey looked its
best, for it was June; and though the winds were chilly, the grass was
grown and the orchard leaves were crowding off the blossoms. The woods
were vividly green. The fauns were playing there, and the sirens sang
under the sea. But I had other thoughts; the fauns and sirens were
not for me, perplexed as I was with household cares. Hepsey proposed
staying another year, but I was firm; and she went, begging Fanny to
go with her and be as a daughter. She declined; but the proposition
influenced her to be troublesome to me. She told me she was of age
now, and that no person had a right to control her. At present she was
useful where she was, and might remain.

"Will you have wages?" I asked her.

"That is Mr. Morgeson's business."

My anger would have pleased her, so I concealed it.

"Your ability, Fanny, is better than your disposition. Me,--you do
not suit at all; but it is certain that father depends on you for his
small comforts, and Veronica likes you. I wish you would stay."

She placed her arms akimbo.

"I should like to find you out, exactly. I can't. I never could find
out your mother; all the rest of you are as clear as daylight." And
she snapped her fingers as if 'the rest' were between them.

"You lack faith."

"You believe that this is a beautiful world, don't you? I hate it. I
should think _you_ had reason, too, for hating it. Pray what have you
got?"

"An ungrateful imp that was bequeathed to me."

She saw father in the garden beckoning me. "He wants you. I do _not_
hate the world always," she added, with her eyes fixed on him.

I was disposed to trouble the still waters of our domestic life with
theories. Our ways were too mechanical. The old-fashioned asceticism
which considered air, sleep, food, as mere necessities was stupid. But
I had no assistance; Veronica thought that her share of my plans must
consist of a diligent notice of all that I did, which she gave, and
then went to her own life, kept sacredly apart. Fanny laughed in her
sleeve and took another side--the practical, and shone in it, becoming
in fact the true manager and worker, while I played. Aunt Merce was
helpless. She neglected her former cares; and father was, what he
always had been at home,--heedless and indifferent.

One morning we stood on the landing stair--Ben, Veronica, and
myself--looking from the window. A silver mist so thinly wrapped the
orchard that the wet, shining leaves thrust themselves through in
patches. Birds were singing beneath, feeling the warmth of the sun,
scarcely hid. The young leaves and blossoms steeping in the mist sent
up a delicious odor.

"I like Surrey better and better," he said; "the atmosphere suits me."

"Oh, I am glad," answered Verry. "I could never go away. It is not
beautiful, I know; in fact, it is meager when it comes to be talked
of; but there are suggestions here which occasionally stimulate me."

"Verry, can you keep people away from me when I live here?"

"I do not like that feeling in you."

"I like fishermen."

"And a boat?"

"Yes, I'll have a boat."

"I shall never go out with you."

"Cass will. I shall cruise with her, and you, in your house, need not
see us depart. Eric the Red made excursions in this region. We will
skirt the shores, which are the same, nearly, as when he sailed from
them, with his Northmen; and the ancient barnacles will think, when
they see her fair hair, which she will let ripple around her stately
shoulders, that he has come back with his bride."

Verry looked with delight at him and then at me. "Her long, yellow
hair and her stately shoulders," she repeated.

"Will you go?" he asked.

"Of course," I answered, going downstairs. I happened to look back
on the way. His arm was round Verry, but he was looking after me. He
withdrew it as our eyes met, and came down; but she remained, looking
from the window. We went into the parlor, and I shut the door.

"Now then," I said.

He took a note from his pocket and gave it to me.

I broke its seal, and read: "Tell Ben, before you can reflect upon it,
that _I_ will go abroad, and then repent of it,--as I shall. Desmond."

"'Tell Ben,'" I repeated aloud, "'that _I_ will go abroad. Desmond.'"

"Do you guess, as he does, that my reason for going was that I might
be kept aloof from all sight and sound of you and him? In the result
toward which I saw _you_ drive I could have no part."

"Stay; I know that he will go."

"You do not know. Nor do you know what such a man is when--" checking
himself.

"He is in love?"

"If you choose to call it that."

"I do."

All there was to say should be said now; but I felt more agitated
than was my wont. These feelings, not according with my housewifely
condition, upset me. I looked at him; he began to walk about, taking
up a book, which he leaned his head over, and whose covers he bent
back till they cracked.

"You would read me that way," I said.

"It is rather your way of reading."

"Can you remember that Desmond and I influence each other to act
alike? And that we comprehend each other without collision? I
love him, as a mature woman may love,--once, Ben, only once; the
fire-tipped arrows rarely pierce soul and sense, blood and brain."

He made a gesture, expressive of contempt.

"Men are different; he is different."

"You have already spoken for me, and, I suppose, you will for him."

"I venture to. Desmond is a violent, tyrannical, sensual man; his
perceptions are his pulses. That he is handsome, clever, resolute, and
sings well, I can admit; but no more."

"We will not bandy his merits or his demerits between us. Let us
observe him. And now, tell me,--what am I?"

"You have been my delight and misery ever since I knew you. I saw you
first, so impetuous, yet self-contained! Incapable of insincerity,
devoid of affection and courageously naturally beautiful. Then, to
my amazement, I saw that, unlike most women, you understood your
instincts; that you dared to define them, and were impious enough to
follow them. You debased my ideal, you confused me, also, for I could
never affirm that you were wrong; forcing me to consult abstractions,
they gave a verdict in your favor, which almost unsexed you in my
estimation. I must own that the man who is willing to marry you
has more courage than I have. Is it strange that when I found your
counterpart, Veronica, that I yielded? Her delicate, pure, ignorant
soul suggests to me eternal repose."

"It is not necessary that you should fatigue your mind with
abstractions concerning her. It will be the literal you will hunger
for, dear Ben."

"Damn it! the world has got a twist in it, and we all go round with
it, devilishly awry."

I said no more. He had defined my limits, he would, as far as
possible, control me without pity or compassion, thinking, probably,
that I needed none; the powers he had always given me credit for must
be sufficing. I could not comprehend him. How was it that he and Verry
gave me such horrible pain? Was it exceptional? Could I claim nothing
from women? Had they thought me an anomaly?--while I thought it was
Veronica who was called peculiar and original? The end of it all must
be for me to assimilate with their happiness!

"Well?" he said.

"Thank you."

Then Veronica came, swinging her bonnet. "The _Sagamore_ has arrived,
and I am going to stand on the wharf to count the sailors, and learn
if they have all come home. Will you go, Ben?"

He complied, and I was left alone.






CHAPTER XXXVII.


When Ben left Surrey, I sent no message or letter by him, and he asked
for none. But at once I wrote to Desmond, and did not finish my letter
till after midnight. Intoxicated with the liberty my pen offered me,
I roamed over a wide field of paper. The next morning I burnt it. But
there was something to be said to him before his departure, and again
I wrote. I might have condensed still more. In this way--

  VESTIGIA RETRORSUM.

  CHARLES MORGESON.

When the answer came I reflected before I read it, that it might be
the last link of the chain between us. Not a bright one at the best,
nor garlanded with flowers, nor was it metal, silver, or gold. There
was rust on it, it was corroded, for it was forged out of his and my
substance.

I read it: "I am yours, as I have been, since the night I asked you
'How came those scars?' Did you guess that I read your story? I go
from you with one idea; I love you, and I _must_ go. Brave woman! you
have shamed me to death almost."

He sent me a watch. I was to wear it from the second of July. It was
small and plain, but there were a few words scratched inside the case
with the point of a knife, which I read every day. Veronica's eye fell
on it the first time I put it on.

"What time is it?"

"Near one."

"I thought, from the look of it, that it might be near two."

"Don't mar my ideal of you, Verry, by growing witty."

She shrugged her shoulders. "I guess you found it washed ashore, among
the rocks; was it bruised?"

"A man gave it to me."

"A merman, who fills the sea-halls with a voice of power?"

"May be."

"Tut, Ben gave it to you. It is a kind of housekeepish present; did he
add scissors and needle-case?"

"What if the merman should take me some day to the 'pale sea-groves
straight and high?'"

"You must never, never go. You cannot leave me, Cass!" She grasped my
sleeve, and pulled me round. "How much was there for you to do in the
life before us, which you talked about?"

"I remember. There is much, to be sure."

Fanny's quick eye caught the glitter of the watch. The mystery teased
her, but she said nothing.

Aunt Merce had gone to Rosville with Arthur. There was no visitor with
us; there had been none beside Ben since mother died. All seemed kept
at bay. I wrote to Helen to come and pass the summer, but her child
was too young for such a journey, she concluded. Ben had sailed for
Switzerland. The summer, whose biography like an insignificant life
must be written in a few words, was a long one to live through. It
happened to be a dry season, which was unfrequent on our coast. Days
rolled by without the variation of wind, rain, or hazy weather. The
sky was an opaque blue till noon, when solid white clouds rose in the
north, and sailed seaward, or barred the sunset, which turned them
crimson and black. The mown fields grew yellow under the stare of
the brassy sun, and the leaves cracked and curled for the want of
moisture. It was dull in the village, no ships were building, none
sailed, none arrived. But father was more absorbed than ever, more
away from home. He wrote often in the evening, and pored over ledgers
with his bookkeeper. Late at night I found him sorting and reading
papers. He forgot us. But Fanny, as he grew forgetful, improved as
housekeeper. Her energy was untiring; she waited so much on him that
I grew forgetful of him. Veronica was the same as before; her room
was pleasant with color and perfume, the same delicate pains with her
dress each day was taken. She looked as fair as a lily, as serene as
the lake on which it floats, except when Fanny tried her. With me she
never lost temper. But I saw little of her; she was as fixed in her
individual pursuits as ever.

There were intervals now when all my grief for mother returned, and
I sat in my darkened chamber, recalling with a sad persistence her
gestures, her motions, the tones of her voice, through all the past
back to my first remembrance. The places she inhabited, her opinions
and her actions I commented on with a minuteness that allowed no
detail to escape. When my thoughts turned from her, it seemed as if
she were newly lost in the vast and wandering Universe of the Dead,
whence I had brought her.

In September a letter came from Ben, which promised a return by the
last of October. With the ruffling autumnal breezes my stagnation
vanished, and I began my shore life again in a mood which made memory
like hope; but staying out too late one evening, I came home in a
chill. From the chill I went to a fever, which lasted some days.
Veronica came every day to see me, and groaned over my hair, which
fell off, but she could not stay long, the smell of medicine made her
ill, the dark room gave her an uneasiness; besides, she did not know
what she should say. I sent her away always. Fanny took care of me
till I was able to move about the room, then she absented herself most
of the time. One afternoon Veronica came to tell me that Margaret, the
Irish girl, was going; she supposed that Fanny was insufferable, and
that she could not stay.

"I must be well by to-morrow," I said.

The next day I went down stairs, and was greeted with the epithet of
"Scarecrow."

"Do you feel pretty strong?" asked Fanny, with a peculiar accent, when
we happened to be alone.

"What is the matter? Out with it!"

"Something's going to turn up here; something ails Mr. Morgeson."

I guess his ailment.

"He is going to fail, he is smashed all to nothing. He knows what will
be said about him, yet he goes about with perfect calmness. But he
feels it. I tried him this morning, I gave him tea instead of coffee,
and he didn't know it!"

"Margaret's gone?"

"There must be rumors; for she asked him for her wages a day or two
ago. He paid her, and said she had better go."

I examined my hands involuntarily. She tittered.

"How easily you will wash the long-necked glasses and pitchers, with
your slim hand!"

I dropped into a mental calculation, respecting the cost of an
entire change of wardrobe suitable to our reduced circumstances, and
speculated on a neat cottage-style of cookery.

"I think I must go, too," she said with cunning eyes.

"How can you bear to, when there will be so much trouble for you to
enjoy?"

"How tired you look, Cass," said Veronica, slipping in quietly. "What
are you talking about? Has Fanny been tormenting you?"

"Of course," she answered. "But if am not mistaken, you will be
tormented by others besides me."

"Go out!" said Veronica. "Leave us, pale pest."

"You may want me here yet."

"What does she mean, Cass?"

I hesitated.

"Tell me," she said, in her imperative, gentle voice. "What is there
that I cannot know?"

"Now she is what you call high-toned, isn't it?" inquired Fanny.

Veronica threw her book at her.

"The truth is, ladies, that your father, the principal man in Surrey,
is not worth a dollar. What do you think of it? And how will you come
off the high horse?" And Fanny drummed on the table energetically.

"Did you really think of going, Fanny?" asked Veronica. "You will
stay, and do better than ever, for if you attempt to go, I shall bring
you back."

This was the invitation she wanted, and was satisfied with.

"I must give up flowers," said Veronica, "of course."

"I wonder if we shall keep pigs this fall?" said Fanny. "Must we sit
in the free seats in the meeting-house? It will be fine for the boys
to drop paper balls on our heads from the gallery. I'd like to see
them do it, though," she concluded, as if she felt that such an insult
would infringe upon her rights.






CHAPTER XXXVIII.


It was true. Locke Morgeson had been insolvent for five years. All
this time he had thrown ballast out from every side in the shape
of various ventures, which he trusted would lighten the ship, that,
nevertheless, drove steadily on to ruin. Then he steered blindly,
straining his credit to the utmost; and then--the crash. His losses
were so extended and gradual that the public were not aware of his
condition till he announced it. There was a general exasperation
against him. The Morgeson family rose up with one accord to represent
the public mind, which drove Veronica wild.

"Have you acted wrongly, father?" she asked.

"I have confessed, Verry, will that suit you!"

Our house was thronged for several days. "Pay us," cried the female
portion of his creditors. In vain father represented that he was still
young--that his business days were not over--that they must wait, for
paid they should be. "Pay us now, for we are women," they still cried.
Fanny opened the doors for these persons as wide as possible when they
came, and shut them with a bang when they went, astonishing them
with a satirical politeness, or confounding them with an impertinent
silence. The important creditors held meetings to agree what should
be done, and effected an arrangement by which his property was left
in his hands for three years, to arrange for the benefit of his
creditors. The arrangement proved that his integrity was not
suspected; but it was an ingenious punishment, that he should keep in
sight, improve, or change, for others, what had been his own. I was
glad when he decided to sell his real estate and personal property,
and trust to the ships alone, but would build no more. I begged him to
keep our house till Ben should return. He consented to wait; but I
did not tell Verry what I had done. All the houses he owned, lots,
carriages, horses, domestic stock, the fields lying round our
house--were sold. When he began to sell, the fury of retrenchment
seized him, and he laid out a life of self-denial for us three.
Arthur's ten thousand dollars were safe, who was therefore provided
for. He would bring wood and water for us; the rest we must do, with
Fanny's help. We could dine in the kitchen, and put our beds in one
room; by shutting up the house in part, we should have less labor
to perform. We attempted to carry out his ideas, but Veronica was so
dreadfully in Fanny's way and mine, that we were obliged to entreat
her to resume her old role. As for Fanny, she was happy--working
like a beaver day and night. Father was much at home, and took an
extraordinary interest in the small details that Fanny carried out.

When Temperance heard of these arrangements, she came down with Abram
in their green and yellow wagon. Temperance drove the shaggy old white
horse, for Abram was intrusted with the care of a meal bag, in which
were fastened a cock and four hens. We should see, she said when she
let them out, whether we were to keep hens or not. Was Veronica to go
without new-laid eggs? Had he sold the cat, she sarcastically inquired
of father.

"Who is going to do your washing, girls?" she asked, taking off her
bonnet.

"We all do it."

"Now I shall die a-laughing!" But she contradicted herself by crying
heartily. "One day in every week, I tell _you_, I am coming; and Fanny
and I can do the washing in a jiffy."

"Sure," said Abram, "you can; the sass is in."

"Sass or no sass, I'm coming."

She made me laugh for the first time in a month. I was too tired
generally to be merry, with my endeavors to carry out father's wishes,
and keep up the old aspect of the house. When she left us we all felt
more cheerful. Aunt Merce wanted to come home, but Verry and I thought
she had better stay at Rosville. We could not deny it to ourselves,
that home was sadly altered, or that we were melancholy; and though
we never needed her more, we begged her not to come. Happily father's
zeal soon died away. A boy was hired, and as there was no out-of-doors
work for him to do, he relieved Fanny, who in her turn relieved
me. Finding time to look into myself, I perceived a change in my
estimation of father; a vague impression of weakness in him troubled
me. I also discovered that I had lost my atmosphere. My life was
coarse, hard, colorless! I lived in an insignificant country
village; I was poor. My theories had failed; my practice was like my
moods--variable. But I concluded that if _to-day_ would go on without
bestowing upon me sharp pains, depriving me of sleep, mutilating me
with an accident, or sending a disaster to those belonging to me, I
would be content. Arthur held out a hope, by writing me, that he meant
to support me handsomely. He wished me to send him some shirt studs;
and told me to keep the red horse. He had heard that I was very
handsome when I was in Rosville. A girl had asked him how I looked
now. When he told her I was handsomer than any woman Rosville could
boast of, she laughed.

October had gone, and we had not heard from Ben. Veronica came to my
room of nights, and listened to wind and sea, as she never had before.
Sometimes she was there long after I had gone to bed, to look out of
the windows. If it was calm, she went away quietly; if the sea was
rough, she was sorrowful, but said nothing. The lethargic summer had
given way to a boisterous autumn of cold, gray weather, driving rains,
and hollow gales. At last he came--to Veronica first. He gave a deep
breath of delight when he stood again on the hearth-rug, before our
now unwonted parlor fire. The sight of his ruddy face, vigorous form,
and gay voice made me as merry as the attendants of a feast are when
they inhale the odor of the viands they carry, hear the gurgle of the
wine they pour, and echo the laughter of the guests.

There was much to tell that astonished him, but he could not be
depressed; everything must be arranged to suit us. He would buy the
house, provided he could pay for it in instalments. Did I know that
his mother had docked his allowance as soon as she knew that he would
marry Verry?

"How should I know it?"

I had not heard then that Desmond's was doubled, when she heard his
intention of going to Spain.

"How should I know that?"

One thing I should learn, however--and that was, that Desmond had
begged his mother to make no change in the disposition of her income.
He had declined the extra allowance, and then accepted it, to offer
him--Ben. Was not that astonishing?

"Did you take it?"

"No; but pa did."

All he could call his was fifteen hundred a year. Was that enough for
them to live on, and pay a little every year for the house? Could we
all live there together, just the same? Would we, he asked father, and
allow him to be an inmate?

Father shook hands with him so violently that he winced; and Verry
crumpled up a handful of his tawny locks and kissed them, whereat he
said: "Are you grown a human woman?"

About the wedding? He could only stay to appoint a time, for he must
post to Belem. It must be very soon.

"In a year or two," said Verry.

"Verry!"

"In three weeks, then."

"From to-day?"

"No, that will be the date of the wreck of the _Locke Morgeson_; but
three weeks from to-morrow. Must we have anybody here, Ben?"

"Helen, and Alice, Cassandra?"

"Certainly."

"I have no friends," said Verry.

"What will you wear, Verry?" I asked.

"Why, this dress," designating her old black silk. Her eyes filled
with tears, and went on a pilgrimage toward the unknown heaven where
our mother was. _She_ could only come to the wedding as a ghost. I
imagined her flitting through the empty spaces, from room to room,
scared and troubled by the pressure of mortal life around her.

"I shall not wear white," Verry said hastily.

The very day Ben went to Belem one of father's outstanding ships
arrived. She came into the harbor presenting the unusual sight of
trying oil on deck. Black and greasy from hull to spar, she was a
pleasant sight, for she was full of sperm oil. Little boys ran down to
the house to inform us of that fact before she was moored. "Wouldn't
Mr. Morgeson be all right now that his luck had changed?" they asked.

At supper father said "By George!" several times, by that oath
resuming something of his old self. "Those women can now be paid," he
said. "If I could have held out till now, I could have gone on without
failing. This is the first good voyage the _Oswego_ ever made me; if
another ship, the _Adamant_, will come full while oil is high, I shall
arrange matters with my creditors before the three years are up. To
hold my own again--ah! I never will venture all upon the uncertain
field of the sea."

The _Oswego's_ captain sent us a box of shells next day, and a small
Portuguese boy, named Manuel--a handsome, black-eyed, husky-voiced
fellow, in a red shirt, which was bound round his waist with a leather
belt, from which hung a sailor's sheath-knife.

"He is volcanic," said Verry.

"The Portuguese are all handsome," said Fanny, poking him, to see if
he would notice it. But he did not remove his eyes from Veronica.

"He shall be your page, Verry."

The next night a message came to us that Abram was dying. If we ever
meant to come, Temperance sent word, some of us might come now; but
she would rather have Mr. Morgeson. Fanny insisted upon going with him
to carry a lantern. Manuel offered her his knife, when he comprehended
that she was going through a dark road.

"You are a perfect heathen. There's nothing to be afraid of, except
that Mr. Morgeson may walk into a ditch; will a knife keep us out of
that?"

"Knife is good--it kills," he said, showing his white, vegetable-ivory
teeth.

Verry and I sat up till they returned, at two in the morning. Abram
had died about midnight, distressed to the last with worldly cares.
"He asked," said father, "if I remembered his poor boy, whose chest
never came home, and wished to hear some one read a hymn; Temperance
broke down when I read it, while Fanny cried hysterically."

"I was freezing cold," she answered haughtily.

In the morning Verry and I started for Temperance's house; but she
waited on the doorstep till I had inquired whether we were wanted. I
called her in, for Temperance asked for her as soon as she saw me.

"He was a good man, girls," she said with emphasis.

"Indeed he was."

"A little mean, I spose."

I put in a demurrer; her face cleared instantly.

"He thought a great deal of your folks."

"And a great deal of you."

"Oh, what a loss I have met with! He had just bought a first-rate
overcoat."

"But Temperance," said Verry, with a lamentable candor, "you can come
back now."

"Can't you wait for him to be put into the ground?" And she tried to
look shocked, but failed.

A friend entered with a doleful face, and Temperance groaned slightly.

"It is all done complete now, Mis Handy. He looks as easy as if he
slept, he was _so_ limber."

"Yes, yes," answered Temperance, starting up, and hurrying us out
of the room, pinching me, with a significant look at Verry. She was
afraid that her feelings might be distressed. "The funeral will be day
after to-morrow. Don't come; your father will be all that must be here
of the family. I shall shut up the house and come straight to you. I
know that I am needed; but you mustn't say a word about pay--I can't
stand it, I have had too much affliction to be pestered about wages."

Verry hugged her, and Temperance shed the honestest tears of the day
then, she was so gratified at Verry's fondness. Before Abram had been
buried a week, she was back again--a fixture, although she declared
that she had only come for a spell, as we might know by the size
of the bundle she had, showing us one, tied in a blue cotton
handkerchief. What should she stay from her own house for, when as
good a man as ever lived left it to her? We knew that she merely
comforted a tender conscience by praising the departed, for whom she
had small respect when living. We felt her brightening influence, but
Fanny sulked, feeling dethroned.

Ben Pickersgill Somers and Veronica Morgeson were "published."
Contrary to the usual custom, Verry went to hear her own banns read
at the church. She must do all she could, she told me, to realize that
she was to be married; had I any thoughts about it, with which I might
aid her? She thought it strange that people should marry, and could
not decide whether it was the sublimest or the most inglorious act of
one's life. I begged her to think about what she should wear--the time
was passing. Father gave me so small a sum for the occasion, I had
little opportunity for the splendid; but I purchased what Veronica
wanted for a dress, and superintended the making of it--black lace
over lavender-colored silk. She said no more about it; but I observed
that she put in order all her possessions, as if she were going to
undertake a long and uncertain journey. Every box and drawer was
arranged. All her clothes were repaired, refolded, and laid away;
every article was refreshed by a turn or shake-up. She made her room a
miracle of cleanliness. What she called rubbish she destroyed--her old
papers, things with chipped edges, or those that were defaced by wear.
She went once to Milford in the time, and bought a purple Angola rug,
which she put before her arm-chair, and two small silver cups, with
covers; in one was a perfume which Ben liked, the other was empty.
Her favorite blank-books were laid on a shelf, and the table, with its
inkstand and portfolio, was pushed against the wall. The last ornament
which she added to her room was a beautifully woven mat of evergreens,
with which she concealed the picture of the avenue and the nameless
man. After it was done, she inhabited my room, appearing to feel at
home, and glad to have me with her. As the time drew near, she grew
silent, and did not play at all. Temperance watched her with anxiety.
"If ever she can have one of those nervous spells again she will have
one now," she said. "Don't let her dream. I am turning myself inside
out to keep up her appetite."

"Do you ever feel worried about _me_, Tempy?"

"Lord 'a marcy! you great, strong thing, why should I? May be you do
want a little praise. I never saw anybody get along as well as you do,
nowadays; you have altered very much; I never would have believed it."

"What _was_ the trouble with me?"

"_I_ always stuck up for you, gracious knows. Do you know what has
been said of you in Surrey?"

"No."

"Then I shan't tell you; if I were you, though, I shouldn't trouble
myself to be overpolite to the folks who have come and gone here, nigh
on to twenty years,--hang 'em!"

A few days before the wedding Aunt Merce and Arthur came home. Arthur
was shy at first regarding the great change, but being agreeably
disappointed, grew lively. I perceived that Aunt Merce had aged since
mother's death; her manner was changed; the same objects no longer
possessed an interest. She looked at me penitentially. "I wish I
could say," she said, "what I used to say to you,--that you were
'possessed.' Now that there is no occasion for me to comprehend
people, I begin to. My education began wrong end foremost. I think
Mary's death has taught me something. Do you think of her? She was the
love of my life."

"Women do keep stupid a long time; but I think they are capable of
growth, beyond the period when men cease to grow or change."

"Oh, I don't know anything about men, you know."

Temperance and I cleaned the house, opened every room, and made every
fire-place ready for a fire--a fire being the chief luxury which I
could command. Baking went on up to within a day of the wedding, under
Hepsey's supervision, who had been summoned as a helper; Fanny was
busy everywhere.

"Mr. Morgeson," said Temperance, "the furniture is too darned shabby
for a wedding."

"It is not mine, you must remember."

"Plague take the creditors! they know as well as I that you turned
Surrey from a herring-weir into a whaling-port, and that the houses
they live in were built out of the wages you gave them. I am thankful
that most of them have water in their cellars."






CHAPTER XXXIX.


The day came. Alice Morgeson, and Helen with her baby, arrived the
night before; and Ben and Mr. Somers drove from Milford early in the
afternoon. Mr. Somers was affable and patronizing. When introduced to
Veronica, he betrayed astonishment. "She is not like you, Cassandra.
Are you in delicate health, my dear!" addressing her.

"I have a peculiar constitution, I believe." He made excuses to her
for Mrs. Somers and his daughters to which she answered not a word.
He was in danger of being embarrassed, and I enticed him away from
her--not before she whispered gravely, "Why did _he_ come?" I went
over the house with him, he remarking on its situation, for sun and
shade, and protection from, or exposure to, the winds; and tasting
the water, pronounced it excellent. He thought I had a true idea of
hospitality; the fires everywhere proclaimed that. Temperance had the
air of a retainer; there was an atmosphere about our premises which
placed them at a distance from the present. Then Alice came to my
assistance and entertained him so well that I could leave him.

We had invited a few friends and relations to witness the ceremony, at
eight o'clock. I had been consulted so often on various matters that
it was dark before I finished my tasks. The last was to arrange some
flowers I had ordered in Milford. I kept a bunch of them in reserve
for Verry's plate; for we were to have a supper, at father's request,
who thought it would be less tiresome to feed the guests than to talk
to them. Verry did not know this, though she had asked several times
why we were all so busy.

It was near seven when I went upstairs to find her. Temperance had
sent Manuel and Fanny to the different rooms with tea, bread and
butter, and the message that it was all we were to have at present.
Ben had been extremely silent since his arrival, and disposed to
reading. I looked over his shoulder once, and saw that it was "Scott's
Life of Napoleon" he perused; and an hour after, being obliged to ask
him a question, saw him still at the same page. He was now dressing
probably. Helen and Alice were in their rooms. Mr. Somers was napping
on the parlor sofa; father was meditating at his old post in the
dining-room and smoking. It was a familiar picture; but there was
a rent in the canvas and a figure was missing--she who had been its
light!

I found Verry sound asleep on the sofa in my room.

A glass full of milk was on the floor beside her, and a plate with a
slice of bread. The lamp had been lighted by some one, and carefully
shaded from her face. She had been restless, I thought, for her hair
had fallen out of the comb and half covered her face, which was like
marble in its whiteness and repose. Her right arm was extended; I took
her hand, and her warm, humid fingers closed over mine.

"Wake up, Verry; it is time to be married."

She opened her eyes without stirring and fixed them upon me. "Do you
know any man who is like Ben? Or was it he whom I have just left in
the dark world of sleep?"

"I know his brother, who is like him, but dark in complexion--and his
hair is black."

"His hair is not black."

I rushed out of the room, muttering some excuse, came back and
arranged her toilette; but she remained with her arm still extended,
and continued:

"It was a strange place where we met; curious, dusty old trees grew
about it. He was cutting the back of one with a dagger, and the pieces
he carved out fell to the ground, as if they were elastic. He made me
pick them up, though I wished to listen to a man who was lying under
one of the trees, wrapped in a cloak, keeping time with _his_ dagger,
and singing a wild air.

"'What do you see?' said the first.

"'A letter on every piece,' I answered, and spelt Cassandra. 'Are you
Ben transformed?' I asked, for he had his features, his air, though
he was a swarthy, spare man, with black, curly hair, dashed with gray;
but he pricked my arm with his dagger, and said, 'Go on.' I picked up
the rest, and spelt 'Somers.'

"'Cassandra Somers! now tell her,' he whispered, turning me gently
from him, with a hand precisely like Ben's."

"No, it is handsomer," I muttered.

"Before me was a space of sea. Before I crossed I wanted to hear that
wild music; but your voice broke my dream."

She sat up and unbuttoned her sleeve. _As I live_, there was a red
mark on her arm above her elbow!

I crushed my hands together and set my teeth, for I would have kissed
the mark and washed it with my tears. But Verry must not be agitated
now. She divined my feelings for the first time in her life. "I have
indeed been in a long sleep, as far _you_ are concerned; this means
something. My blindness is removed by a dream. Do you despise me?" Two
large, limpid tears dropped down her smooth cheeks without ruffling
the expression of her face.

"I have prided myself upon my delicacy of feeling. You may have
remarked that I considered myself your superior?"

"You are all wrong. I have no delicate feelings at all; they are as
coarse and fibrous as the husk of a cocoanut. Do for heaven's sake get
up and let me dress you."

She burst into laughter. "Bring me some water, then."

I brought her a bowl full, and stood near her with a towel; but
she splashed it over me, and dribbled her hands in it till I was in
despair. I took it away and wiped her face, which looked at me so
childly, so elfish, so willful, and so tenderly, that I took it
between my hands and kissed it. I pulled her up to a chair, for she
was growing willful every moment; but she must be humored. I combed
her hair, put on her shoes and stockings, and in short dressed her.
Father came up and begged me to hurry, as everybody had come. I sent
him for Ben, who came with a pale, happy face and shining eyes. She
looked at him seriously. "I like you best," she said.

"It _is_ time you said that. Oh, Verry! how lovely you are!"

"I feel so."

"Come, come," urged father.

"I do not want these gloves," she said, dropping them.

Ben slipped on the third finger of her left hand a plain ring. She
kissed it, and he looked as if about to be translated.

"Forever, Verry?"

"Forever."

"Wait a moment," I said, "I want a collar," giving a glance into the
glass. What a starved, thin, haggard face I saw, with its border of
pale hair! Whose were those wide, pitiful, robbed eyes?

I hurried into the room in advance to show them their place in front
of a screen of plants. When they entered the company rose, and the
ceremony was performed. Veronica's dress was commented upon and not
approved of; being black, it was considered ominous. She looked like
a 'cloud with a silver lining.' I also made my comments. Temperance,
whose tearful eyes were fixed on her darling, was unconscious that she
had taken from her pocket, and was flourishing, a large red and yellow
silk handkerchief, while the cambric one she intended to use was
neatly folded in her left hand. She wore the famous plum-colored silk,
old style, which had come into a fortune in the way of wrinkles. A
large bow of black ribbon testified that she was in mourning. Hepsey
rubbed her thumb across her fingers with the vacant air of habit. I
glanced at Alice; she was looking intently at Fanny, whose eyes were
fixed upon father. A strange feeling of annoyance troubled me, but
the ceremony was over. Arthur congratulated himself on having a big
brother. Ben was so pale, and wore so exalted an expression, that he
agitated me almost beyond control.

After the general shaking of hands, there came retorts for me. "When
shall we have occasion to congratulate you?" And, "You are almost at
the corner." And, "Your traveling from home seems only to have been an
advantage to Veronica."

"I tell you, Cousin Sue," said Arthur, who overheard the last remark,
"that you don't know what they say of Cassandra in Rosville. She's the
biggest beauty they ever had, and had lots of beaus."

A significant expression passed over Cousin Sue's face, which was
noticed by Alice Morgeson, who colored deeply.

"Have you not forgotten?" I asked her.

"It was of you I thought, not myself. I cannot tell you how utterly
the past has gone, or how insignificant the result has proved."

"Alice," said father, "can you carve?"

"Splendidly."

"Come and sit at the foot of my table; Mr. Somers will take charge of
the smaller one."

"With pleasure."

"Slip out," whispered Fanny, "and look at the table; Temperance wants
you."

"For the Lord's sake!" cried Temperance, "say whether things are
ship-shape."

I was surprised at the taste she had displayed, and told her so.

"For once I have tried to do my best," she said; "all for Verry. Call
'em in; the turkeys will be on in a whiffle."

Tables were set in the hall, as well as in the dining-room. "They
must sit down," she continued, "so that they may eat their victuals
in peace." The supper was a relief to Veronica, and I blessed
father's forethought. Nobody was exactly merry, but there was a proper
cheerfulness. Temperance, Fanny, and Manuel were in attendance; the
latter spilled a good deal of coffee on the carpet in his enjoyment of
the scene; and when he saw Veronica take the flowers in her hand, he
exclaimed, "Santa Maria!"

Everybody turned to look at him.

"What are you doing here, Manuel?" asked Ben.

"I wait on the senoritas," he answered. "Take plum-duff?"

Everybody laughed.

"Do you like widows?" whispered Fanny at the back of my chair. I made
a sign to her to attend to her business, but, as she suggested, looked
at Alice. At that moment she and father were drinking wine together. I
thought her handsomer than ever; she had expanded into a fair, smooth
middle age.

The talking and clattering melted vaguely into my ears; I was a
lay-figure in the scene, and my soul wandered elsewhere. Mr. Somers
began to fidget gently, which father perceiving, rose from the table.
Soon after the guests departed. The remains of the feast vanished; the
fires burnt down, "winding sheets" wrapped the flame of the candles,
and suppressed gaping set in.

The flowers, left to themselves, began to give out odors which
perfumed the rooms. I went about extinguishing the waning candles and
stifling the dying fires, finished my work, and was going upstairs
when I heard Veronica playing, and stopped to listen. It was not a
paean nor a lament that she played, but a fluctuating, vibratory air,
expressive of mutation. I hung over the stair-railing after she had
ceased, convinced that she had been playing for herself a farewell,
which freed me from my bond to her. Mr. Somers came along the hall
with a candle, and I waited to ask him if I could do anything for his
comfort.

"My dear," he said with apprehension, "your sister is a genius, I
think."

"In music--yes."

"What a deplorable thing for a woman!"

"A woman of genius is but a heavenly lunatic, or an anomaly sphered
between the sexes; do you agree?"

He laughed, and pushed his spectacles up on his forehead.

"My dear, I am astonished that Ben's choice fell as it did--"

"Good-night, sir," I said so loudly that he almost dropped his candle,
and I retired to my room, taking a chair by the fire, with a sigh of
relief. After a while Ben and Veronica came up.

"It is a cold night," I remarked.

"I am in an enchanted palace," said Ben, "where there is no weather."

"Cassy, will you take these pins out of my hair?" asked Verry, seating
herself in an easy-chair. "Ben, we will excuse you."

"How good of you." He strode across the passage, went into her room,
and shut the door.

"There, Verry, I have unbound your hair."

"But I want to talk."

I took her hand, and led her out. She stood before her door for a
moment silently, and then gave a little knock. No answer came. She
knocked again; the same silence as before. At last she was obliged to
open it herself, and enter without any bidding.

"Which will rule?" I thought, as I slipped down the back stairs, and
listened at the kitchen door. I heard nothing. Finding an old cloak
in the entry, I wrapped myself in it and left the house. The moon was
out-riding black, scudding clouds, and the wind moaned round the sea,
which looked like a vast, wrinkled serpent in the moonlight.

I walked to Gloster Point, and rested under the lee of the lighthouse,
but could not, when I made the attempt, see to read the inscription
inside my watch, by the light of the lantern. I must have fallen
asleep from fatigue, still holding it in my hand; for when I started
homeward, there was a pale reflection of light in the east, and the
sea was creeping quietly toward it with a murmuring morning song.






CHAPTER XL.


I looked across the bay from my window. "The snow is making 'Pawshee's
Land' white again, and I remain this year the same. No change, no
growth or development! The fulfillment of duty avails me nothing; and
self-discipline has passed the necessary point."

I struck the sash with my closed hand, for I would now give my life a
new direction, and it was fettered. But I would be resolute, and break
the fetters; had I not endured a "mute case" long enough? Manuel, who
had been throwing snowballs against the house, stopped, and looked
toward the gate, and then ran toward it. A pair of tired, splashed
horses dashed down the drive. Manuel had the reins, and Ben was beside
him, reeling slightly on the seat of the wagon. I ran down to meet
him; he had been on a trip to Belem, where he never went except when
he wanted money.

"I have some news for you," he said, putting his arm in mine, as he
jumped from the wagon. "Come in, and pull off my boots, Manuel." I
brought a chair for him, and waited till his boots were off. "Bring me
a glass of brandy."

I stamped my foot. Verry entered with a book. "Ah, Verry, darling,
come here."

"Why do you drink brandy? Have you over-driven the horses?"

He drank the brandy. She nodded kindly to him, shut her book, and
slipped out, without approaching him.

"That's _her_ way," he said, staring hard at me. "She always says in
the same unmoved voice, 'Why do you drink brandy?'"

"And then--she will not come to kiss you."

"The child is dead, for the first thing. (Cigar, Manuel.) Second,
I was possessed to come home by the way of Rosville. When did your
father go away, Cass?"

I felt faint, and sat down.

"Ah, we _all_ have a weakness; does yours overcome you?"

"He went three days ago."

"I saw him at Alice Morgeson's."

"Arthur?"

"He didn't go to see Arthur. He will marry Alice, and I must build my
house now."

A devil ripped open my heart; its fragments flew all over me, blinding
and deafening me.

"He will be home to-night."

"Very well."

"What shall you say, Cassy?"

"Expose that little weakness to him."

"When will you learn real life?"

"Please ask him, when he comes, if he will see me in my room."

I waited there. My cup was filled at last. My sin swam on the top.

Father came in smoking, and taking a chair between his legs, sat
opposite me, and tapped softly the back of it with his fingers. "You
sent for me?"

"I wanted to tell you that Charles Morgeson loved me from the first,
and you remember that I stayed by him to the last."

"What more is there?" knocking over the chair, and seizing me; "tell
me."

His eyes, that were bloodshot with anger, fastened on my mouth. "I
know, though, damn him! I know his cunning. Was Alice aware of this?"
And he pushed me backward.

"All."

An expression of pain and disappointment crossed his face; he ground
his teeth fiercely.

"Don't marry her, father; you will kill me if you do!"

"Must you alone have license?"

He resumed his cigar, which he picked up from the floor.

"It would seem that we have not known each other. What evasiveness
there is in our natures! Your mother was the soul of candor, yet I am
convinced I never knew her."

"If you bring Alice here, I must go. We cannot live together."

"I understand why she would not come here. She said that she must see
you first. She is in Milford."

He knocked the ashes from his cigar, looked round the room, and then
at me, who wept bitterly. His face contracted with a spasm.

"We were married two days ago." And turning from me quickly, he left
the room.

I was never so near groveling on the face of the earth as then; let me
but fall, and I was sure that I never should rise.

Ben knew it, but left it to me to tell Veronica.

My grief broke all bounds, and we changed places; she tried to comfort
me, forgetting herself.

"Let us go away to the world's end with Ben." But suddenly
recollecting that she liked Alice, she cried, "What shall I do?"

What could she do, but offer an unreasoning opposition? Aunt Merce
cried herself sick, fond as she was of Alice, and Temperance declared
that if she hadn't married a widower herself, she would put in an oar.
Anyhow, she hadn't married a man with grown-up daughters.

"What ails Fanny?" she asked me the next day. "She looks like a froze
pullet."

"Where is she now?"

"Making the beds."

Temperance knew well what was the matter, but was too wise to
interfere. I found her, not bed-making, but in a spare room, staring
at the wall. She looked at me with dry eyes, bit her lips, and folded
her hands across her chest, after her old, defiant fashion. I did not
speak.

"It is so," she said; "you need not tear me to pieces with your eyes,
I can confess it to _you_, for you are as I am. I love him!" And she
got up to shake her fist in my face. "My heart and brain and soul are
as good as hers, and _he_ knows it."

I could not utter a word.

"I know him as you never knew him, and have for years, since I was
that starved, poor-house brat your mother took. Don't trouble yourself
to make a speech about ingratitude. I know that your mother was good
and merciful, and that I should have worshiped her; but I never did.
Do you suppose I ever thought he was perfect, as the rest of you
thought? He is full of faults. I thought he was dependant on me. He
knows how I feel. Oh, what shall I do?" She threw up her arms, and
dropped on the floor in a hysteric fit. I locked the door, and picked
her up. "Come out of it, Fanny; I shall stay here till you do."

By dint of shaking her, and opening the window, she began to come to.
After two or three fearful laughs and shudders, she opened her eyes.
She saw my compassion, and tears fell in torrents; I cried too. The
poor girl kissed my hands; a new soul came into her face.

"Oh, Fanny, bear it as well as you can! You and I will be friends."

"Forgive me! I was always bad; I am now. If that woman comes here,
I'll stab her with Manuel's knife."

"Pooh! The knife is too rusty; it would give her the lockjaw. Besides,
she will never come. I know her. She is already more than half-way to
meet me; but I shall not perform my part of the journey, and she will
return."

"You don't say so!" her ancient curiosity reviving.

"Manuel keeps it sharp," she said presently, relapsing into jealousy.

"You are a fool. Have you eaten anything to-day?"

"I can't eat."

"That's the matter with you--an empty stomach is the cause of most
distressing pangs."

Ben urged me to go to Milford to meet Alice, and to ask her to come to
our house. But father said no more to me on the subject. Neither did
Veronica. In the afternoon they drove over to Milford, returning
at dusk. She refused to come with them, Ben said, and never would
probably. "You have thrown out your father terribly."

"You notice it, do you?"

"It is pretty evident."

"What is your opinion?"

He was about to condemn, when he recollected his own interference in
my life. "Ah! you have me. I think you are right, as far as the past
which relates to Alice is concerned. But if she chooses to forget,
why don't you? We do much that is contrary to our moral ideas, to make
people comfortable. Besides, if we do not lay our ghosts, our closets
will be overcrowded."

"We may determine some things for ourselves, irrespective of
consequences."

"Well, there is a mess of it."

Fanny had watched for their return, counting on an access of misery,
for she believed that Alice would come also. It was what _she_ would
have done. Rage took possession of her when she saw father alone.
She planted herself before him, in my presence, in a contemptuous
attitude. He changed color, and then her mood changed.

"What shall I do?" she asked piteously.

I tried to get away before she made any further progress; but
he checked me, dreading the scene which he foreboded, without
comprehending.

"Fanny," he said harshly, but with a confused face, "you mistake me."

"Not I; it was your wife and children who mistook you."

"What is it you would say?"

"You have let me be your slave."

"It is not true, I hope--what your behavior indicates?"

I forgave him everything then. Fanny had made a mistake. He had only
behaved very selfishly toward her, without having any perception of
her--that was all! She was confounded, stared at him a moment, and
rushed out. That interview settled her; she was a different girl from
that day.

"Father, you will go to Rosville, and be rich again. Can you buy this
house from Ben, for me? A very small income will suffice me and Fanny,
for you may be sure that I shall keep her. Temperance will live with
Verry; Ben will build, now that his share of his grandfather's estate
will come to him."

"Very well," he said with a sigh, "I will bring it about."

"It is useless for us to disguise the fact--I have lost you. You are
more dead to me than mother is."

"You say so."

It was the truth. I was the only one of the family who never went
to Rosville. Aunt Merce took up her abode with Alice, on account of
Arthur, whom she idolized. When father was married again, the Morgeson
family denounced him for it, and for leaving Surrey; but they accepted
his invitations to Rosville, and returned with glowing accounts of his
new house and his hospitality.

By the next June, Ben's house was completed and they moved. Its site
was a knoll to the east of our house, which Veronica had chosen. Her
rooms were toward the orchard, and Ben's commanded a view of the sea.
He had not ventured to intrude, he told her, upon the Northern Lights,
and she must not bother him about his boat-house or his pier. They
were both delighted with the change, and kept house like children.
Temperance indulged their whims to the utmost, though she thought
Ben's new-fangled notions were silly; but they might keep him from
_something worse_. This something was a shadow which frightened me,
though I fought it off. I was weary of trouble, and shut my eyes as
long as possible. Whenever Ben went from home, and he often drove to
Milford, or to some of the towns near, he came back disordered with
drink. At the sight my hopes would sink. But they rose again, he was
so genial, so loving, so calmly contented afterward. As Verry never
spoke of it either to Temperance or me, I imagined she was not
troubled much. She could not feel as I felt, for she knew nothing of
the Bellevue Pickersgill family history.

The day they moved was a happy one for me. I was at last left alone in
my own house, and I regained an absolute self-possession, and a sense
of occupation I had long been a stranger to. My ownership oppressed
me, almost, there was so much liberty to realize.

I had an annoyance, soon after I came into sole possession. Father's
business was not yet settled, and he came to Surrey. He was paying his
debts in full, he told me, eking out what he lacked himself with the
property of Alice. He could not have used much of it, however, for the
vessels that were out at the time of the failure came home with good
cargoes. I fancied that he had more than one regret while settling his
affairs; that he missed the excitement and vicissitudes of a maritime
business. Nothing disagreeable arose between us, till I happened to
ask him what were the contents of a box which had arrived the day
before.

"Something Alice sent you; shall we open it?"

"I made no answer; but it was opened, and he took out a sea-green
and white velvet carpet, with a scarlet leaf on it, and a piece of
sea-green and white brocade for curtains. Had she sought the world
over, she could have found nothing to suit me so well.

"She thought that Verry might have a fancy for some of the old
furniture, and that you would accept these in its place."

"There's nothing here to match this splendor, and I cannot bear to
make a change. Verry must have them, for she took nothing from me."

"Just as you please."






CHAPTER XLI.


"What a hot day!" said Fanny. "Every door and window is open. There is
not a breath of air."

"It will be calm all day," I said. "We have two or three days like
this in a year. Give me another cup of coffee. Is it nine yet?"

"Nearly. I ought to go to Hepsey's to-day. She wont be able to leave
her bed, the heat weakens her so."

"Do go. How still it is! The shadows of the trees on the Neck reach
almost from shore to shore, and there's a fish-boat motionless."

"The boat was there when I got up."

"Everything is blue and yellow, or blue and white."

"How your hair waves this morning! It is handsomer than ever."

I went to the glass with my cup of coffee. "I look younger in the
summer."

"What's the use of looking younger here?" she asked gruffly. "You
never see a man."

"I see Ben coming with Verry, and Manuel behind."

"Hillo!" cried Ben, pulling up his horses in front of the window. "We
are going on a picnic. Wont you go?"

"How far?"

"Fifteen or twenty miles."

"Go on; I had rather imprison the splendid day here."

"There's nothing for dinner," said Fanny.

"The fish-boat may come in, in time."

"Will three o'clock do for you? If so, I'll stay with Hepsey till
then."

"Four will answer?"

She cleared away my breakfast things and left me. I sat by the window
an hour, looking over the water, my thoughts drifting through a golden
haze, and then went up to my room and looked out again. If I turned my
eyes inside the walls, I was aware of the yearning, yawning empty void
within me, which I did not like. I sauntered into Verry's room, to see
if any clouds were coming up from the north. There were none. The sun
had transfixed the sky, and walked through its serene blue, "burning
without beams." Neither bird nor insect chirped; they were hid from
the radiant heat in tree and sod. I went back again to my own window.
The subtle beauty of these inorganic powers stirred me to mad regret
and frantic longing. I stretched out my arms to embrace the presence
which my senses evoked.

It would be better to get a book, I concluded, and hunted up Barry
Cornwall's songs. With it I would go to the parlor, which was shaded.
I turned the leaves going down, and went in humming:

"Mount on the dolphin Pleasure," and threw myself on the sofa
beside--_Desmond_!

I dropped Barry Cornwall.

"I have come," he said, in a voice deathly faint.

"How old you have grown, Desmond!"

"But I have taken such pains with my hands for you! You said they were
handsome; are they?"

I kissed them.

He was so spare, and brown, and his hair was quite gray! Even his
mustache looked silvery.

"Two years to-day since I have worn the watch, Desmond."

He took one exactly like it from his pocket, and showed me the
inscription inside.

"And the ruby ring, on the guard?"

"It is gone, you see; you must put one there now."

"Forgive me."

"Ah, Cassy! I couldn't come till now. You see what battles _I_ must
have had since I saw you. It took me so long to break my cursed
habits. I was afraid of myself, afraid to come; but I have tried
myself to the utmost, and hope I am worthy of you. Will you trust me?"

"I am yours, as I always have been."

"I have eaten an immense quantity of oil and garlic," he said with a
sigh. "But Spain is a good place to reform in. How is Ben?"

I shook my head.

"Don't tell me anything sad now. Poor fellow! God help him."

Fanny was talking to some one on the walk; the fisherman probably, who
was bringing fish.

"Do you want some dinner?"

"I have had no breakfast."

"I must see about something for you."

"Not to leave me, Cassy."

"Just for a few minutes."

"No."

"But I want to cry by myself, besides looking after the dinner."

"Cry here then, with me. Come, Cassandra, my wife! My God, I shall die
with happiness."

A mortal paleness overspread his face.

"Desmond, Desmond, do you know how I love you? Feel my heart,--it has
throbbed with the weight of you since that night in Belem, when you
struck your head under the mantel."

He was speechless. I murmured loving words to him, till he drew a deep
breath of life and strength.

"These fish are small," said Fanny at the door. "Shall I take them!"

"Certainly," said Desmond, "I'll pay for them."

"It is Ben in black lead," said Fanny.

We laughed.

At dusk Ben and Veronica drove up. Desmond was seated in the window.
Ben fixed his eyes upon him, without stopping.

We ran out, and called to him.

"Old fellow," said Desmond, "willing or not, I have come."

Ben's face was a study; so many emotions assailed him that my heart
was wrung with pity.

"Give her to me," Desmond continued in a touching voice. "You are her
oldest friend, and have a right."

"She was always yours," he answered. "To contend with her was folly."

Veronica took hold of Ben's chin and raised his head to look into his
face. "What dreams have you had?"

But he made no reply to her. We were all silent for a moment, then he
said, "Was I wrong, Des.?"

"No, no."

While, I was saying to myself, in behalf of Veronica, whose calm face
baffled me, "Enigma, Sphinx"; she turned to Desmond, holding out her
right arm, and said, "You are the man I saw in my dream."

"And you are like the Virgin I made an offering to, only not quite so
bedizened." He took her extended hand and kissed it.

Ben threw the reins with a sudden dash toward Manuel, who was standing
by, and jumped down.

"Have tea with me," I asked, "and music, too. Verry, will you play for
Desmond?"

She took his arm, and entered the house.

"Friend," I said to Ben, who lingered by the door, "to contend with me
was not folly, unless it has kept you from contending with yourself.
Tell me--how is it with you?"

"Cassandra, the jaws of hell are open. If you are satisfied with the
end, I must be."

       *       *       *       *       *

After I was married, I went to Belem. But Mrs. Somers never forgave
me; and Mr. Somers liked Desmond no better than he had in former
times. Neither did Adelaide and Ann ever consider the marriage in any
light but that of a misalliance. Nor did they recognize any change
in him. It might be permanent, but it was no less an aberration which
they mistrusted. The ground plan of the Bellevue Pickersgill character
could not be altered.

In a short time after we were married we went to Europe and stayed two
years.

These last words I write in the summer time at our house in Surrey,
for Desmond likes to be here at this season, and I write in my old
chamber. Before its windows rolls the blue summer sea. Its beauty
wears a relentless aspect to me now; its eternal monotone expresses no
pity, no compassion.

Veronica is lying on the floor watching her year-old baby. It smiles
continually, but never cries, never moves, except when it is moved.
Her face, thin and melancholy, is still calm and lovely. But her
eyes go no more in quest of something beyond. A wall of darkness lies
before her, which she will not penetrate. Aunt Merce sits near me with
her knitting. When I look at her I think how long it is since mother
went, and wonder whether death is not a welcome idea to those who
have died. Aunt Merce looks at Verry and the child with a sorrowful
countenance, exchanges a glance with me, shakes her head. If Verry
speaks to her, she answers cheerfully, and tries to conceal the grief
which she feels when she sees the mother and child together.

Ben has been dead six months. Only Desmond and I were with him in his
last moments. When he sprang from his bed, staggered backwards, and
fell dead, we clung together with faint hearts, and mutely questioned
each other.

"God is the Ruler," he said at last. "Otherwise let this mad world
crush us now."



***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MORGESONS***


******* This file should be named 12347.txt or 12347.zip *******


This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/3/4/12347


Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
https://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS,' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
https://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at https://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org

Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit https://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including including checks, online payments and credit card
donations.  To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Each eBook is in a subdirectory of the same number as the eBook's
eBook number, often in several formats including plain vanilla ASCII,
compressed (zipped), HTML and others.

Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks replace the old file and take over
the old filename and etext number.  The replaced older file is renamed.
VERSIONS based on separate sources are treated as new eBooks receiving
new filenames and etext numbers.

Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

https://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

EBooks posted prior to November 2003, with eBook numbers BELOW #10000,
are filed in directories based on their release date.  If you want to
download any of these eBooks directly, rather than using the regular
search system you may utilize the following addresses and just
download by the etext year.

https://gutenberg.org/etext06

    (Or /etext 05, 04, 03, 02, 01, 00, 99,
     98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90)

EBooks posted since November 2003, with etext numbers OVER #10000, are
filed in a different way.  The year of a release date is no longer part
of the directory path.  The path is based on the etext number (which is
identical to the filename).  The path to the file is made up of single
digits corresponding to all but the last digit in the filename.  For
example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at:

https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/3/10234

or filename 24689 would be found at:
https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/6/8/24689

An alternative method of locating eBooks:
https://www.gutenberg.org/GUTINDEX.ALL

*** END: FULL LICENSE ***