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 hisdiplomatiquestyle, 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 knowthat? 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. "Youareas true and noble as I think you are, Cassy. I must have it so. Youshall notthwart 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 consideringme?" 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. WillVeronica 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;nowI 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; butCæsarwas in the way. He stayed by me till the lights were turned down.
Digby and Devereaux were commenting on Desmond's disappearance, andMrs. 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 IloveDesmond?"
"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."
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 uponotherslamentable 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 inBen'scharacter, 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 mayoppose, notresistBen. 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 forVerry, 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.Dutysounded through her sighs. "Verry, shallItake 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 doeverythingfor 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.
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.Isit 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 thatImust 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 othernow," 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 flaçon 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 flaçon 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.