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, theLocke 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 loveTo 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?"
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, MissPrior."
"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. "Didyoulove 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."
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 AuntMerce.
"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 whichIstood 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. "Heresheis," 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 werebaffling. 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.' 'CassandraMorgeson,' 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 wayshehas," 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 heartwillflutter 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?