THE CLINGING VINE
When, two years earlier, Martin Talbot brought his wife to the old
family homestead of Talbot's Angles, Linda determined to make the best
of the situation. If it was for Martin's happiness to marry the pretty,
rather underbred, wholly self-centered Grace Johnson, his sister would
not be the one to offer disillusionment. Grace was from the city,
dressed well, had dependent little ways which appealed to just such a
manly person as Martin. She made much of him, demanded his presence
continually, cooed to him persuasively when he would be gone, pouted if
he stayed too long, wept if he chided her for being a baby, but under
her apparent softness there was obstinacy, and the set purpose of a
jealous nature.
Between Linda and her brother there had always been good comradeship,
but not much over-demonstration of affection. Each felt that the other
was to be depended upon, that in moments of stress, or in emergency
there would be no holding back, and consequently Martin expected
nothing less than that Linda should accept a new sister-in-law
serenely, should make no protests. In fact, he was so deeply in
love that, as is the way of mankind, he could not conceive that
anyone should not be charmed to become the housemate of such a
lovable creature as he assumed Grace to be, one so warm-hearted, so
enchantingly solicitous, so sweetly womanish, and, though he did not
exactly underrate Linda, he grew to smile at Grace's little whispers
of disparagement. Linda was so cold, so undemonstrative; Linda was so
thoughtless of dear Martin. Why, she had never remarked that he was
late for dinner. Wasn't it just like Linda to go off by herself to
church instead of walking with them? How unappreciative sisters could
be of a brother's sacrifices. Not every brother would have supported
his sister so uncomplainingly all these years, but dear Martin was such
an unselfish darling, he never once thought of its being a sacrifice,
and that a less unselfish man would expect his sister to take care of
herself. Martin was so chivalrous, and so on.
Therefore, Linda's days of devotion, her constant proofs of affection
told in acts rather than in reiterated words, her hours of poring over
accounts that she might economize as closely as possible in order
that the mortgage might the sooner be paid, her long consultations
with Mammy, and her continual mending, patching, turning, contriving,
all were forgotten or taken for granted as a just return for her
support. That she had driven to town and back again, seven miles each
way, during the last years of her school life, that she might still be
companion and housekeeper for her brother, seemed no great matter from
Grace's point of view, though in those days themselves there had been
many a protest against the necessitated late hours that were the result
of her many tasks, and "What should I do without my little sister?" was
the daily question.
There was no lack of employment for Linda's hands, even after Grace
came, for though very tenacious of her prerogative as mistress of the
house, Grace did nothing but assume a great air of being the busy
housekeeper, and such work as was not done by Phebe, fell to Linda's
share. Martin saw nothing of this, for Grace would bustle in with a
show of having been much occupied, would throw herself into a chair
with a pretence of fatigue, cast her eyes innocently at Martin, and
say, "Oh, I am so tired. Housekeeping in the country is so difficult,
but I love doing it for you, dear. Can't you stay home with your
little Gracie this afternoon?" And Martin would stay nine times out
of ten, with not the slightest perception of the fact that a surface
sentimentality which stands in the way of the advancement or profit
of another is worth nothing by the side of the year in, year out
thought and activity in those little things which, in the end, show a
far deeper affection than any clamor for a person's presence or any
foolish and unmeaning words of praise.
Linda's pride constrained her to keep all these things to herself, and
not even from her old Mammy would she allow criticism of her brother
and his wife. Mammy, be it said, was ready enough to grumble at the
new order of things to Linda herself, but it was not till the burden
was too heavy to bear longer in silence that Linda poured forth the
grievances to which no one could listen so sympathetically as Mammy.
Indeed, no one could have been a safer listener, for Mammy's pride in
the family was as great as Linda's own, and she would have died rather
than have noised its trouble abroad.
Before the next Sunday, Linda had made her arrangements to leave her
old home, and Grace's eldest sister, Lauretta, had arrived. Lauretta
was a colorless, well-meaning person, a little shaky in her English,
inclined to overdress, with no pretension to good looks, and admiring
her younger sister the more because of her own lack of beauty. Being
less of the spoiled darling, she was less vain and selfish, less
wilful and obstinate, but was ready to reflect Grace's opinions, as
born of a superior mind, so she quite approved of Linda's departure
and prepared to fit into her place as soon as might be, assuming the
responsibilities of housekeeping with perfect good will. Of Phebe's
departure nothing more had been said, and when Linda questioned the
old woman the only answer she received was: "Ain't a-sayin' nuffin."
However, when Linda went into the kitchen one morning and remarked,
"I'm going up to town to see Miss Ri Hill, Phebe," she was answered by,
"I was thes a-thinkin' I'd go up mahse'f, Miss Lindy."
"How were you going?"
"Well, honey, I kin walk, I reckon."
"You will do no such thing. I intended to go up in the buggy, but I
think I can get Jake to drive, and you can go along in the surrey. Have
you said anything to Miss Grace about going?"
"No, I ain't, an I ain't a-gwineter. I been hyar befo' she was bo'n,
an' she nuvver hire me nohow. I ain't got no call to say nuffin. When I
goes, I goes."
Linda was silent for a moment. "But, Mammy," she said presently, "I
don't feel that it is exactly right for you to do that way. If you go
to town with me to see about a place, I am responsible in a measure."
"No, yuh ain't. Who say I cain't go see Miss Ri? I ain't a-gwine bag
an' baggage. Ef I doesn't go with yuh, I goes on Shanks's mare."
"But who will get dinner to-day?"
"I reckon I kin git Popsy to come in an' git it."
"Well, go along and find out, for I want to get off pretty soon."
Mammy put a discarded felt hat of Martin Talbot's upon her head, and an
old table-cover over her shoulders, then sallied forth down the road in
search of the woman whose little cabin was one of a number belonging to
a negro settlement not far off. Trips to town were so infrequent upon
Phebe's part, and she demanded so few afternoons out, that what she
wanted was generally conceded her, and though Grace pouted and said she
didn't see why both Linda and Phebe should be away at the same time,
Lauretta smoothed her down by saying: "Oh, never mind, Gracie dear, I
have no doubt the other servant will do very well, and we'll have a
nice cosey day together. I can see to everything, and it will give me
a good chance to poke around. Old Phebe is such a martinet, she won't
allow me inside the kitchen when she is here."
"She certainly is a regular tyrant," admitted Grace, "but no one can
cook better, and I am glad to keep her, for down here it is hard to get
competent servants; they are all more or less independent."
"Her being away to-day won't make much difference to you and I,"
replied Lauretta, with careful attention to her pronoun. She was always
very particular never to say you and me. "I'm not a bad cook myself,
and we can try some of our own home recipes. For my part, I should
think you would get rather tired of oysters and Maryland biscuits."
"I do," returned Grace plaintively. "Linda doesn't always consider me
in ordering. Dear Martin didn't seem to notice that until I called his
attention to it."
"I don't see why you didn't take up all the housekeeping at the very
first," responded Lauretta.
"Oh, I was so unused to it, and these Eastern Shore ways were so
unfamiliar. Linda understood them much better than I. Besides, it would
have taken up so much of the time I might want to be with Martin."
She sighed deeply and wiped a furtive tear before going on: "Then,
too," she continued, "I didn't want to neglect my friends, and it does
take time to write letters. Everyone always said I was such a good
correspondent, and when anyone is in trouble, that my letters are so
sympathetic."
Lauretta changed the subject. Even in her sisterly eyes Grace was
almost too eager a correspondent. "Why has Linda gone to town?" she
asked. "To do some shopping? I suppose she will need some additions to
her wardrobe now she is in mourning and is going to town to live."
"Oh, dear no; she is not going to do any shopping for herself. She has
all she needs for the present. I gave her some things, and she will
soon be earning money for herself. No; she has gone to see about a
boarding place, she told me, and she has some errands for me. I think
it so much better to give her occupation just now. She is rather
a restless person, and she will be much happier than she could be
brooding by herself. You know, Lauretta dear, Linda is not so very
companionable. She hasn't the nice, confidential way with me that I
have with my sisters."
"But she isn't your sister," returned Lauretta bluntly.
"Alas, no. Dear Martin hoped we would be congenial, but you can see
it is impossible. I wouldn't acknowledge this to everyone, Lauretta;
but I always feel that she holds herself superior. I have seen a look
sometimes that made me want to box her ears."
Lauretta kept silence a moment before she said: "The Talbots are of
excellent family, Grace."
"And we are not, you mean. That is between ourselves. I am sure I try
to impress everyone with the belief that we are," which was too true,
"and though our grandparents may have been plain people, Lauretta,
in the beginning, they did have plenty of means at the last; we have
enough of their solid silver to prove that fact," and indeed Grace's
display of solid silver on the sideboard at Talbot's Angles was not
allowed to go unnoticed and was her most cherished possession, one of
which she made much capital.
"There they go," said Lauretta, looking from the small-paned windows to
see the carriage turn from the driveway into the road. "I may be wrong,
but it does seem to me rather like turning Linda out of house and home,
Grace, doesn't it?"
"Oh, dear, no; you are quite mistaken. I haven't a doubt but she would
much rather live in town. I don't credit her with any real sentiment.
She was as calm and self-possessed as possible when Martin died, while
I went from one fit of hysterics into another. She can do things which
would upset me completely. Oh, you needn't waste your sympathies upon
Linda; it is I who am the real sufferer."
"You poor dear," murmured Lauretta. "I am glad you have decided not to
spend your winters in this lonely place; it would be too much for one
of your sensitive nature."
This was balm to Grace, and she cast a pathetic look at the sister,
murmuring: "It is so sweet to be understood."
Meanwhile over the flat, shell road Mammy and Linda were travelling
toward the town. Once in a while a thread of blue creek appeared in the
distance beyond fields of farmlands, or a white house glimmered out
from its setting of tall trees, the masts of a sailing vessel behind
it giving one the feeling that he was looking at a floating farm, or
that in some mysterious way a vessel had been tossed up far inland, so
intersected was the land with little creeks and inlets.
Linda knew every step of the way; to Phebe it was less familiar, and
the excitement of going up to town was an unusual one. She hugged
herself in her ample shawl and directed, criticised and advised Jake
the entire distance. Up through the shaded streets of the town they
continued until they stopped before a gate leading to an old red house
which faced the sapphire river. Here lived Miss Maria Hill.
Her cheery self came out on the porch to meet them. "Of all things,
Verlinda Talbot!" she cried. "And Phebe, too. Well, this is a surprise.
Come right in. You are going to stay to dinner and we will have a good
old-fashioned talk." She never failed to call Linda by the quaint name
which had been given to various daughters of the Talbot family for many
generations. "Go right out into the kitchen, Phebe," continued Miss Ri,
"and if you can put any energy into that lazy Randy's heels, I'll be
thankful. When are you going to make up your mind to come and live with
me, Phebe?" she asked, laughing at the never-failing joke.
But this time Phebe's answer, instead of being: "When de dead ducks eat
up all de mud, Miss Ri," was: "Whenever yuh likes to have me, Miss Ri."
Miss Maria stopped short in surprise. She looked from one to another.
"You don't mean it!" she cried.
"Yas'm, I means it; dat is, ef acco'din' to de ques', yu teks Miss
Lindy, too."
Miss Ri turned her gaze on Linda. "What does all this mean?" she
asked. "Come on in, Phebe--no, you mustn't go into the kitchen just
yet; we must thrash this out first." She led the way into a cheerful
living-room, against whose ancient walls stood solid pieces of shining
mahogany. Time-stained pictures, one or two portraits, old engravings,
a couple of silhouettes looked down at the group. "Sit right down
here, Verlinda dear. There's a chair for you, Phebe. Now let us hear
all about it." Miss Ri drew up a chair and enfolded one of Linda's
black-gloved hands in hers. "What does it all mean?"
"It means just this, Miss Ri," said Linda; "Grace is preparing to leave
Talbot's Angles and is going to the city for the winter. I cannot stay
there alone, even if I had the means to keep up the house, and as it
is to be closed, I am thrown on my own resources. Mr. Willis has been
good enough to interest himself in getting me a position in one of the
schools, and I have come up to town to find a boarding place. I have
passed my examinations and am to have Miss Patterson's position, for
you know she is going to be married this fall. And now, Miss Ri, Phebe
thinks that maybe you would be so good as to take me in."
"Ef yuh teks her, yuh gits me," broke in Phebe with an air of finality.
"It's a bargain," cried Miss Maria. "Have I been speaking for Phebe all
these years to be deprived of her now on account of so slight a thing
as Verlinda Talbot? No, indeed. I shall be delighted to have you as my
guest, my dear. While as for you, Phebe, go right into the kitchen and
stir up that lazy Randy with a poker, or anything else you can find.
Thank goodness, I shall not have to keep her long. Go along, Phebe."
Thus adjured, Phebe departed, ducking her head and chuckling; she
dearly liked the errand.
"It must be as a paying guest, you understand," said Linda, when Phebe
had left them.
"Paying nonsense! Isn't my house big enough for plump me, skinny you,
and fat Phebe? You see how I discriminate between my size and Phebe's?"
"Then if I am not to be a real boarder, I can't come," said Linda
firmly.
"And I shall lose Phebe! Verlinda Talbot, you are right-down mean. All
right, then, come any way you like, and the sooner, the better. We'll
fix it somehow; just make yourself easy on that score. My! I never
looked for such luck; a young companion and a good cook at one and the
same time. I'll get your room ready right away. I don't suppose you
could stay now?"
Linda smiled. "Not to-day. I haven't a very extensive wardrobe, but
such as it is, I must get it together; but I shall come within the next
ten days. It is so very good of you to take me in, Miss Ri. Joking
aside, I am most grateful. It makes the giving up of my own home less
of a dread."
"Bless your heart, you dear child; I will try to make you comfortable.
I have always wanted someone to mother, but I never expected the Lord
would send me Verlinda Talbot. I am not going to ask any questions now,
but some day we'll get at the root of the matter. Meantime let it rest.
How is Grace bearing up?"
Linda hesitated. "Of course, she misses Martin terribly, but I think
she is well; she has a good appetite."
Miss Ri smiled. "I don't doubt it. Has her sister come?"
"Yes."
"A nice sort of somebody, is she?"
"Yes, quite harmless, really good-hearted, I think, but rather dull.
However, though she may bore one, she has no affectations. She is
devoted to Grace, and I think will be of great use to her."
Miss Ri nodded understandingly. "Take off your things, dear," she said
gently. "You are going to stay to dinner, you know, and then we will
choose a room for you." She missed the color from the girl's face and
noted the heavy shadows under the violet eyes, when Linda removed her
hat. "Poor darling," she said to herself, "only time can help her.
Grief sits heavily on her heart." She turned to a curious old cupboard
in one corner of the room. "You must have some of my home-made wine,"
she said, "and then we will pick out the room. Would you like one
looking out on the river or on the road?"
"Oh, a river room, if I may," replied Linda eagerly.
"Very well; so be it. I'll show you both and you can take your choice;
or no, better still, I will fix up the one I am sure you will prefer,
for it will look cosier than it does now, and you will have a better
impression of it." She poured out some amber-hued wine from an old
decanter. "Here, drink this," she said, "and I will join you in a
health. Here's to many happy days under my roof, Verlinda, and may you
never regret coming to your old friend, Maria Hill."
Just then Phebe's black face appeared at the door. "Miss Ri," she said,
"I cain't stan' pokin' 'roun' arfter that fool nigger. I is gwine to
set de table, ef yuh'll show me whar de things is, please, ma'am."
Miss Ri finished her glass with a "Here's to Phebe!" and Linda followed
her to the dining-room.