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Morgesons

<h1 id="id00578" style="margin-top: 6em">CHAPTER XVI.</h1> I heard from home regularly; father, however, was my only correspondent. He stipulated that I should write him every other Saturday, if not more than a line; but I did more than that at first, writing up the events of the fortnight, interspersing my opinions of the actors engaged therein, and dwindling by degrees down to the mere acknowledgment of his letter. He read without comment, but now and then he asked me questions which puzzled me to answer. "Do you like Mr. Morgeson?" he asked once. "He is very attentive," I wrote back. "But so is Cousin Alice,—she is fond of me." "You do not like Morgeson?" again. "Are there no agreeable young men," he asked another time, "with Dr. Price?" "Only boys," I wrote—"cubs of my own age." Among the first letters I received was one with the news of the death of my grandfather, John Morgeson. He had left ten thousand dollars for Arthur, the sum to be withdrawn from the house of Locke Morgeson & Co., and invested elsewhere, for the interest to accumulate, and be added to the principal, till he should be of age. The rest of his property he gave to the Foreign Missionary Society. "Now," wrote father, "it will come your turn next, to stand in the gap, when your mother and I fall back from the forlorn hope—life." This merry and unaccustomed view of things did not suggest to my mind the change he intimated; I could not dwell on such an idea, so steadfast a home-principle were father and mother. It was different with grandfathers and grandmothers, of course; they died, since it was not particularly necessary for them to live after their children were married. It was early June when I went to Rosville; it was now October. There was nothing more for me to discover there. My relations at home and at school were established, and it was probable that the next year's plans were all settled. "It is the twentieth," said my friend, Helen Perkins, as we lingered in the Academy yard, after school hours. "The trees have thinned so we can see up and down the streets. Isn't that Mr. Morgeson who is tearing round the corner of Gold Street? Do you think he is strange-looking? I do. His hair, and eyes, and complexion are exactly the same hue; what color is it? A pale brown, or a greenish gray?" "Is he driving this way?" "Yes; the fore-legs of his horse have nearly arrived." I moved on in advance of Helen, toward the gate; he beckoned when he saw me, and presently reined Nell close to us. "You can decide now what color he is," I whispered to her. "Will you ride home?" he asked. "And shall I take you down to Bancroft's, Miss Helen?" She would have declined, but I took her arm, pushed her into the chaise, and then sprang in after her; she seized the hand-loop, in view of an upset. "You are afraid of my horse, Miss Helen," he said, without having looked at her. "I am afraid of your driving," she answered, leaning back and looking behind him at me. She shook her head and put her finger on her eyelid to make me understand that she did not like the color of his eyes. "Cassandra is afraid of neither," he said. "Why should I be?" I replied coldly. We were soon at the Bancrofts', where Helen lived, which was a mile from the Academy, and half a mile from our house. When we were going home, he asked: "Is she your intimate friend?" "The most in school." "Is there the usual nonsense about her?" "What do you mean by nonsense?" "When a girl talks about her lover or proposes one to her friend." "I think she is not gifted that way." "Then I like her." "Why should she not talk about lovers, though? The next time I see her I will bring up the subject." "You shall think and talk of your lessons, and nothing more, I charge you. Go on, Nell," he said, in a loud voice, turning into the yard and grazing one of the gate-posts, so that we struck together. I was vexed, thinking it was done purposely, and brushed my shoulder where he came in contact, as if dust had fallen on me, and jumped out without looking at him, and ran into the house. "Are you losing your skill in driving, Charles?" Alice asked, when we were at tea, "or is Nell too much for you? I saw you crash against the gate-post." "Did you? My hand was not steady, and we made a lurch." "Was there a fight at the mills last night? Jesse said so." "Jesse must mind his business." "He told Phoebe about it." "I knocked one of the clerks over and sprained my wrist." I met his eye then. "It was your right hand?" I asked. "It was my right hand," in a deferential tone, and with a slight bow in my direction. "Was it Parker?" she asked. "Yes, he is a puppy; but don't talk about it." Nothing more was said, even by Edward, who observed his father with childish gravity, I meditated on the injustice I had done him about the gate-post. After tea he busied himself in the garden among the flowers which were still remaining. I lingered in the parlor or walked the piazza with an undefined desire of speaking to him before I should go to my room. After he had finished his garden work he went to the stable; I heard the horses stepping about the floor as they were taken out for his inspection. The lamps were lighted before he came in again; Alice was upstairs as usual. When I heard him coming, I opened my book, and seated myself in a corner of a sofa; he walked to the window without noticing me, and drummed on the piano. "Does your wrist pain you, Charles?" still reading. "A trifle," adjusting his wristband. "Do you often knock men down in your employ?" "When they deserve it." "It is a generous and manly sort of pastime." "I am a generous man and very strong; do you know that, you little fool? Here, will you take this flower? There will be no more this year." I took it from his hand; it was a pink, faintly odorous blossom. "I love these fragile flowers best," he continued—"where I have to protect them from my own touch, even." He relapsed into forgetfulness for a moment, and then began to study his memorandum book. "A note from the mills, sir," said Jesse, "by one of the hands." "Tell him to wait." He read it, and threw it over to me. It was from Parker, who informed Mr. Morgeson that he was going by the morning's train to Boston, thinking it was time for him to leave his employ; that, though the fault was his own in the difficulty of the day before, a Yankee could not stand a knock-down. It was too damned aristocratic for an employer to have that privilege; our institutions did not permit it. He thanked Mr. Morgeson for his liberality; he couldn't thank him for being a good fellow. "And would he oblige him by sending per bearer the arrears of salary?" "Parker is in love with a factory girl. He quarreled with one of the hands because he was jealous of him, and would have been whipped by the man and his friends; to spare him that, I knocked him down. Do you feel better now, Cassy?" "Better? How does it concern me?" He laughed. "Put Black Jake in the wagon," he called to Jesse. Alice heard him and came downstairs; we went out on the piazza, to see him off. "Why do you go?" she asked, in an uneasy tone. "I must. Wont you go too?" She refused; but whispered to me, asking if I were afraid? "Of what?" "Men quarreling." "Cassandra, will you go?" he asked. "If not, I am off. Jump in behind, Sam, will you?" "Go," said Alice; and she ran in for a shawl, which she wrapped round me. "Alice," said Charles, "you are a silly woman." "As you have always said," she answered, laughing. "Ward the blows from him, Cassandra." "It's a pretty dark night for a ride," remarked Sam. "I have rode in darker ones." "I dessay," replied Sam. "Cover your hand with my handkerchief," I said; "the wind is cutting." "Do you wish it?" "No, I do not wish it; it was a humanitary idea merely." He refused to have it covered. The air had a moldy taint, and the wind blew the dead leaves around us. As we rode through the darkness I counted the glimmering lights which flashed across our way till we got out on the high-road where they grew scarce, and the wind whistled loud about our faces. He laid his hand on my shawl. "It is too light; you will take cold." "No." We reached the mills, and pulled up by the corner of a building, where a light shone through a window. "This is my office. You must go in—it is too chilly for you to wait in the wagon. Hold Jake, Sam, till I come back." I followed him. In the farthest corner of the room where we had seen the light, behind the desk, sat Mr. Parker, with his light hair rumpled, and a pen behind his ear. I stopped by the door, while Charles went to the desk and stood before him to intercept my view, but he could not help my hearing what was said, though he spoke low. "Did you give something to Sam, Parker, for bringing me your note at such a late hour?" "Certainly," in a loud voice. "He must be fifty, at least." "I should say so," rather lower. "Well, here is your money; you had better stay. I shall be devilish sorry for your father, who is my friend; you know he will be disappointed if you leave; depend upon it he will guess at the girl. Of course you would like to have me say I was in fault about giving you a blow—as I was. Stay. You will get over the affair. We all do. Is she handsome?" "Beautiful," in a meek but enthusiastic tone. "That goes, like the flowers; but they come every year again." "Yes?" "Yes, I say." "No; I'll stay and see." Charles turned away. "Good-evening, Mr. Parker," I said, stepping forward. I had met him at several parties at Rosville, but never at our house. "Excuse me, Miss Morgeson; I did not know you. I hope you are well." "Come," said Charles, with his hand on the latch. "Are you going to Mrs. Bancroft's whist party on Wednesday night, Mr. Parker?" "Yes; Miss Perkins was kind enough to invite me." "Cassandra, come." And Charles opened the door. I fumbled for the flower at my belt. "It's nice to have flowers so late; don't you think so?" inhaling the fragrance of my crushed specimens; "if they would but last. Will you have it?" stretching it toward him. He was about to take it, with a blush, when Charles struck it out of my hand and stepped on it. "Are you ready now?" he said, in a quick voice. I declared it was nothing, when I found I was too ill to rise the next morning. At the end of three days, as I still felt a disinclination to get up, Alice sent for her physician. I told him I was sleepy and felt dull pains. He requested me to sit up in bed, and rapped my shoulders and chest with his knuckles, in a forgetful way. "Nothing serious," he said; "but, like many women, you will continue to do something to keep in continual pain. If Nature does not endow your constitution with suffering, you will make up the loss by some fatal trifling, which will bring it. I dare say, now, that after this, you never will be quite well." "I will take care of my health." He looked into my face attentively. "You wont—you can't. Did you ever notice your temperament?" "No, never; what is it?" "How old are you?" "Eighteen, and four months." "Is it possible? How backward you are! You are quite interesting." "When may I get up?" "Next week; don't drink coffee. Remember to live in the day. Avoid stirring about in the night, as you would avoid Satan. Sleep, sleep then, and you'll make that beauty of yours last longer." "Am I a beauty? No living creature ever said so before." "Adipose beauty." "Fat?" "No; not that exactly. Good-day." He came again, and asked me questions concerning my father and mother; what my grandparents died of; and whether any of my family were strumous. He struck me as being very odd. My school friends were attentive, but I only admitted Helen Perkins to see me. Her liking for me opened my heart still more toward her. She was my first intimate friend—and my last. Though younger than I, she was more experienced, and had already passed through scenes I knew nothing of, which had sobered her judgment, and given her feelings a practical tinge. She was noted for having the highest spirits of any girl in school—another result of her experiences. She never allowed them to appear fluctuating; she was, therefore, an aid to me, whose moods varied. After my illness came a sense of change. I had lost that careless security in my strength which I had always possessed, and was troubled with vague doubts, that made me feel I needed help from without. I did not see Charles while I was ill, for he was absent most of the time. I knew when he was at home by the silence which pervaded the premises. When he was not there, Alice spread the children in all directions, and the servants gave tongue. He was not at home the day I went downstairs, and I missed him, continually asking myself, "Why do I?" As I sat with Alice in the garden-room, I said, "Alice." She looked up from her sewing. "I am thinking of Charles." "Yes. He will be glad to see you again." "Is he really related to me?" "He told you so, did he not? And his name certainly is Morgeson." "But we are wholly unlike, are we not?" "Wholly; but why do you ask?" "He influences me so strongly." "Influences you?" she echoed. "Yes"; and, with an effort, "I believe I influence him." "You are very handsome," she said, with a little sharpness. "So are flowers," I said to myself. "It is not that, Alice," I answered peevishly; "you know better." "You are peculiar, then; it may be he likes you for being so. He is odd, you know; but his oddity never troubles me." And she resumed her sewing with a placid face. "Veronica is odd, also," was my thought; "but oddity there runs in a different direction." Her image appeared to me, pale, delicate, unyielding. I seemed to wash like a weed at her base. "You should see my sister, Alice." "Charles spoke of her; he says she plays beautifully. If you feel strong next week, we will go to Boston, and make our winter purchases. By the way, I hope you are not nervous. To go back to Charles, I have noticed how little you say to him. You know he never talks. The influence you speak of—it does not make you dislike him?" "No; I meant to say—my choice of words must be poor—that it was possible I might be thinking too much of him; he is your husband, you know, though I do not think he is particularly interesting, or pleasing." She laughed, as if highly amused, and said: "Well, about our dresses. You need a ball dress, so do I; for we shall have balls this winter, and if the children are well, we will go. I think, too, that you had better get a gray cloth pelisse, with a fur trimming. We dress so much at church." "Perhaps," I said. "And how will a gray hat with feathers look? I must first write father, and ask for more money." "Of course; but he allows you all you want." "He is not so very rich; we do not live as handsomely as you do." It was tea-time when we had finished our confab, and Alice sent me to bed soon after. I was comfortably drowsy when I heard Charles driving into the stable. "There he is," I thought, with a light heart, for I felt better since I had spoken to Alice of him. Her matter-of-fact air had blown away the cobwebs that had gathered across my fancy. I saw him at the breakfast-table the next morning. He was noting something in his memorandum book, which excused him from offering me his hand; but he spoke kindly, said he was glad to see me, hoped I was well, and could find a breakfast that I liked. "For some reason or other, I do not eat so much as I did in Surrey." Alice laughed, and I blushed. "What do you think, Charles?" she said, "Cassandra seems worried by the influence, as she calls it, you have upon each other." "Does she?" He raised his strange, intense eyes to mine; a blinding, intelligent light flowed from them which I could not defy, nor resist, a light which filled my veins with a torrent of fire. "You think Cassandra is not like you," he continued with a curious intonation. "I told her that your oddities never troubled me." "That is right." "To-day," I muttered, "Alice, I shall go back to school." "You must ride," she answered. "Jesse will drive you up," said Charles, rising. Alice called him back, to tell him her plan of the Boston visit. "Certainly; go by all means," he said, and went on his way. I made my application to father, telling him I had nothing to wear. He answered with haste, begging me to clothe myself at once. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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