The rector married the younger Miss Rockwood. To Clara Leeds the match
afforded painfully pleasurable feeling. It was so eminently fitting; and
yet it was hard to believe that any man could see anything in Miss
Rockwood. His courtship had been in keeping with the man, dignified and
yet bold. Clara had met them several times together. She always hurried
past. The rector bowed quietly. He seemed to say to all the world, "I
have chosen me a woman." His manner defied gossip; there was none that
Clara heard. This immunity of theirs distilled the more bitterness in
her heart because gossip was now at the heels of her and Mr. Copple,
following them as chickens do the feed-box. She knew it from such
transmissions as, "But doubtless Mr. Copple has already told you," or,
"You ought to know, if any one does."
It had been some time apparent to Clara that the minister held her in a
different regard from the other members of his congregation. His talks
with her were more personal; his manner was bashfully eager. He sought
to present the congeniality of their minds. Mr. Copple had a nice taste
in poetry, but somehow Clara, in after-reading, skipped those poems that
he had read aloud to her. On several occasions she knew that a
declaration was imminent. She extricated herself with a feeling of
unspeakable relief. It would not be a simple matter to refuse him. Their
relations had been peculiar, and to tell him that she did not love him
would not suffice in bringing them to an end. Mr. Copple was odious to
her. She could not have explained why clearly, yet she knew. And she
would have blushed in the attempt to explain why; it would have revealed
a detestation of her lot. Clara had lately discovered the meaning of the
word "plebeian"; more, she believed she comprehended its applicableness.
The word was a burr in her thoughts. Mr. Copple was the personification
of the word. Clara had not repulsed him. You do not do that sort of
thing in a small town. She knew intuitively that the clergyman would
not be satisfied with the statement that he was not loved. She also knew
that he would extract part, at least, of the real reason from her. It is
more painful for a lover to learn that he is not liked than that he is
not loved. Clara did not wish to cause him pain.
She was spared the necessity. The minister fell from a scaffolding on
the new church and was picked up dead.
Clara's position was pitiful. Sudden death does not grow less shocking
because of its frequency. Clara shared the common shock, but not the
common grief. Fortunately, as hers was supposed to be a peculiar grief,
she could manifest it in a peculiar way. She chose silence. The shock
had bereft her of much thought. Death had laid a hand over the mouth of
her mind. But deep down a feeling of relief swam in her heart. She gave
it no welcome, but it would take no dismissal.
About a week after the funeral, Clara, who walked out much alone, was
returning home near the outskirts of town. The houses were far apart,
and between them stretched deep lots fringed with flowered weeds
man-high. A level sun shot long golden needles through the blanched
maple-trees, and the street beneath them was filled with lemon-colored
light. The roll of a light vehicle approaching from behind grew distinct
enough to attract Clara's attention. "It is Mrs. Custer coming back from
the Poor Farm," she thought. It was Mrs. Everett Custer, who was
formerly the younger Miss Rockwood, and she was coming from the Poor
Farm. The phaeton came into Clara's sight beside her at the curb. As she
remarked it, Mrs. Custer said, in her thin, sympathetic voice, "Miss
Leeds, won't you drive with me back to town? I wish you would."
An excuse rose instinctively to Clara's lips. She was walking for
exercise. But suddenly a thought came to her, and after a moment's
hesitation, she said: "You are very kind. I am a little tired." She got
into the phaeton, and the sober horse resumed his trot down the yellow
street.
Clara's thought was: "Why shouldn't I accept? She is too well bred to
sympathize with me, and perhaps, now that I am free, I can get to know
her and show her that I am not just the same as all the rest, and
perhaps I'll get to going with her sort of people."
She listened to the rhythm of the horse's hoof-beats, and was not a
little uneasy. Mrs. Custer remarked the beauty of the late afternoon,
the glorious symphonies of color in sky and tree, in response to which
Clara said, "Yes, indeed," and, "Isn't it?" between long breaths. She
was about to essay a question concerning the Poor Farm, when Mrs. Custer
began to speak, at first faltering, in a tone that sent the blood out of
Clara's face and drew a sudden catching pain down her breast.
"I--really, Miss Leeds, I want to say something to you and I don't quite
know how to say it, and yet it is something I want very much for you to
know." Mrs. Custer's eyes looked the embarrassment of unencouraged
frankness. "I know it is presumptuous for me, almost a stranger, to
speak to you, but I feel so deeply on the matter--Everett--Mr. Custer
feels so deeply--My dear Miss Leeds, I want you to know what a grief his
loss was to us. Oh, believe me, I am not trying to sympathize with you.
I have no right to do that. But if you could know how Mr. Custer always
regarded Mr. Copple! It might mean something to you to know that. I
don't think there was a man for whom he expressed greater
admiration--than what, I mean, he expressed to me. He saw in him all
that he lacked himself. I am telling you a great deal. It is difficult
for my husband to go among men in that way--in the way _he_ did. And
yet he firmly believes that the Kingdom of God can only be brought to
men by the ministers of God going among them and being of them. He
envied Mr. Copple his ability to do that, to know his people as one of
them, to take part in their--their sports and all that. You don't know
how he envied him and admired him. And his admiration was my admiration.
He brought me to see it. I envied you, too--your opportunity to help
your people in an intimate, real way which seemed so much better than
mine. I don't know why it is my way, but I mean going about as I do, as
I did to-day to the Poor Farm. It seems so perfunctory.
"Don't misunderstand me, Miss Leeds," and Mrs. Custer laid a hand on
Clara's arm. "There is no reason why you should care what Mr. Custer and
I think about your--about our--all our very great loss. But I felt that
it must be some comfort for you to know that we, my husband and I, who
might seem indifferent--not that--say unaffected by what has
happened,--feel it very, very deeply; and to know that his life, which I
can't conceive of as finished, has left a deep, deep print on ours."
The phaeton was rolling through frequented streets. It turned a corner
as Mrs. Custer ceased speaking.
"I--I must get out here," said Clara Leeds. "You needn't drive me. It is
only a block to walk."
"Miss Leeds, forgive me--" Mrs. Custer's lips trembled with compassion.
"Oh, there isn't anything--it isn't that--good night." Clara backed down
to the street and hurried off through the dusk. And as she went tears
dropped slowly to her cheeks--cold, wretched tears.