Chapter 27

Alice Morgeson sent for Aunt Merce, asking her to fulfill the promise she had made when she was in Rosville.

With misgivings she went, stayed a month, and returned with Alice. I felt a throe of pain when we met, which she must have seen, for she turned pale, and the hand she had extended toward me fell by her side; overcoming the impulse, she offered it again, but I did not take it. I had no evidence to prove that she came to Surrey on my account; but I was sure that such was the fact, as I was sure that there was a bond between us, which she did not choose to break, nor to acknowledge. She appeared as if expecting some explanation or revelation from me; but I gave her none, though I liked her better than ever. She was business-like and observant. Her tendencies, never romantic, were less selfish; it was no longer society, dress, housekeeping, which absorbed her, but a larger interest in the world which gave her a desire to associate with men and women, independent of caste. None of her children were with her; had it been three years earlier, she would not have left home without them. Her hair was a little gray, and a wrinkle or two had gathered about her mouth; but there was no other change. I was not sorry to have her go, for she paid me a close and quiet observation. At the moment of departure, she said in an undertone: "What has become of that candor of which you were so proud?" "I am more candid than ever," I answered, "for I am silent."

"I understand you better, now that I have seen you _en famille."_

"What do you think now?"

"I don't think I know; the Puritans have much to answer for in your mother--" Turning to her she said, "My children, too, are so different."

Mother gave her a sad smile, as Fanny announced the carriage, and they drove away.

"No more visitors this year," said Veronica, yawning.

"No agreeable ones, I fancy," I answered.

"All the relations have had their turn for this year," remarked Aunt Merce. But she was mistaken; an old lady came soon after this to spend the winter. She lived but four miles from Surrey, but brought with her all her clothes, and a large green parrot, which her son had brought from foreign parts. Her name was Joy Morgeson; the fact of her being cousin to father's grandmother entitled her to a raid upon us at any season, and to call us "cousins." She felt, she said, that she must come and attend the meetings regular, for her time upon earth was short. But Joy was a hearty woman still, and, pious as she was, delighted in rough and scandalous stories, the telling of which gave her severe fits of repentance. She quilted elaborate petticoats for us, knit stockings for Arthur, and was useful. Mr. and Mrs. Elisha Peckham surprised us next. They arrived from "up country" and stayed two weeks. I did not clearly understand why they came before they went; but as they enjoyed their visit, it was of little consequence whether I did or not.

Midwinter passed, and we still had company. There was much to do, but it was done without system. Mother or Aunt Merce detailed from their ordinary duties as keeper of the visitors, Fanny was for the first time able to make herself of importance in the family tableaux, and assumed cares no one had thought of giving her. She left the town-school, telling mother that learning would be of no use to her. The rights of a human being merely was what she wanted; she should fight for them; that was what paupers must do. Mother allowed her to do as she pleased. Her duties commenced with calling us up to breakfast _en masse_, and for once the experiment was successful, for we all met at the table. The dining-room was in complete order, a thing that had never happened early before; the rest of us missed the straggling breakfast which consumed so much time.

"Whose doing is this?" asked father, looking round the table.

"It is Fanny's," I answered, rattling the cups. "All the coffee to be poured out at once, don't agitate me."

Fanny, bearing buckwheat cakes, looked proud and modest, as people do who appreciate their own virtues.

"Why, Fanny," said the father, "you have done wonders; you are more original than Cassy or Verry."

Her green eyes glowed; her aspect was so feline that I expected her hair to rise.

"Father's praise pleases you more than ours," Verry said.

"You never gave me any," she answered, marching out.

Father looked up at Verry, annoyed, but said nothing. We paid no attention to Fanny's call afterward; but she continued her labors, which proved acceptable to him. Temperance told me, when she was with us for a week, that his overcoats, hats, umbrellas, and whips never had such care as Fanny gave them. He omitted from this time to ask us if we knew where his belongings were, but went to Fanny; and I noticed that he required much attendance.

Temperance, who had arrived in the thick of the company, as she termed it, was sorry to go back to Abram. He _was_ a good man, she said; but it was a dreadful thing for a woman to lose her liberty, especially when liberty brought so much idle time. "Why, girls, I have quilted and darned up every rag in the house. He _will_ do half the housework himself; he is an everlasting Betty." She was cheerful, however, and helped Hepsey, as well as the rest of us.

The guests did not encroach on my time, but it was a relief to have them gone and the house our own once more.

I went to Milford again, almost daily, to feast my eyes on the bleak, flat, gray landscape. The desolation of winter sustains our frail hopes. Nature is kindest then; she does not taunt us with fruition. It is the luxury of summer which tantalizes--her long, brilliant, blossoming days, her dewy, radiant nights.

Entering the house one March evening, when it was unusually still, I had reached the front hall, when masculine tones struck my ears. I opened the parlor door softly, and saw Ben Somers in an easy-chair, basking before a glowing fire, his luminous face set toward Veronica, who was near him, holding a small screen between her and the fire. "She is always ready," I thought, contemplating her as I would a picture. Her ruby-colored merino dress absorbed the light; she was a mass of deep red, except her face and hair, above which her silver crescent comb shone. Her slender feet were tapping the rug. She wore boots the color of her dress; Ben was looking at them. Mother was there, and in the background Aunt Merce and Fanny figured. I pushed the door wide; as the stream of cold air reached them, they looked toward it, and cried--"Cassandra!" Ben started up with extended hands.

"I went as far as Cape Horn only, but I bought you the idol and lots of things I promised from a passing ship. I have been home a week, and I am _here_. Are you glad? Can I stay?"

"Yes, yes," chorused the company, and I was too busy trying to get off my gloves to speak. Father came in, and welcomed him with warmth. Fanny ran out for a lamp; when she brought it, Veronica changed the position of her screen, and held it close to her face.

"Did you have a cold ride, Locke?" asked mother, gazing into the fire with that expression of satisfaction we have when somebody beside ourselves has been exposed to hardships. It is the same principle entertained by those who depend upon and enjoy seeing criminals hung.

Meanwhile my bonnet-strings got in a knot, which Fanny saw, and was about to apply scissors, when Aunt Merce, unable to bear the sacrifice, interfered and untied them, all present so interested in the operation that conversation was suspended. Presently Aunt Merce was called out, and was shortly followed by mother and Fanny. Ben stood before me; his eyes, darting sharp rays, pierced me through; they rested on the thread-like scars which marked my cheek, and which were more visible from the effect of cold.

"Tattooed still," I said in a low voice, pointing to them.

"I see"--a sorrowful look crossed his face; he took my hand and kissed it. Veronica, who had dropped the screen, met my glance toward her with one perfectly impassive. As they watched me, I saw myself as they