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Morgesons

<h1 id="id00421" style="margin-top: 6em">CHAPTER XIII.</h1> 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, à 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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