The Milrays stayed through August, and Mrs. Milray was the ruling spirit
of the great holiday of the summer, at Middlemount. It was this year
that the landlords of the central mountain region had decided to compete
in a coaching parade, and to rival by their common glory the splendor
of the East Side and the West Side parades. The boarding-houses were
to take part, as well as the hotels; the farms where only three or four
summer folks were received, were to send their mountain-wagons, and all
were to be decorated with bunting. An arch draped with flags and covered
with flowers spanned the entrance to the main street at Middlemount
Centre, and every shop in the village was adorned for the event.
Mrs. Milray made the landlord tell her all about coaching parades, and
the champions of former years on the East Side and the West Side, and
then she said that the Middlemount House must take the prize from
them all this year, or she should never come near his house again. He
answered, with a dignity and spirit he rarely showed with Mrs. Milray's
class of custom, “I'm goin' to drive our hossis myself.”
She gave her whole time to imagining and organizing the personal display
on the coach. She consulted with the other ladies as to the kind of
dresses that were to be worn, but she decided everything herself; and
when the time came she had all the young men ravaging the lanes and
pastures for the goldenrod and asters which formed the keynote of her
decoration for the coach.
She made peace and kept it between factions that declared themselves
early in the affair, and of all who could have criticized her for taking
the lead perhaps none would have willingly relieved her of the trouble.
She freely declared that it was killing her, and she sounded her accents
of despair all over the place. When their dresses were finished she made
the persons of her drama rehearse it on the coach top in the secret
of the barn, where no one but the stable men were suffered to see the
effects she aimed at. But on the eve of realizing these in public she
was overwhelmed by disaster. The crowning glory of her composition was
to be a young girl standing on the highest seat of the coach, in the
character of the Spirit of Summer, wreathed and garlanded with flowers,
and invisibly sustained by the twelve months of the year, equally
divided as to sex, but with the more difficult and painful attitudes
assigned to the gentlemen who were to figure as the fall and winter
months. It had been all worked out and the actors drilled in their
parts, when the Spirit of Summer, who had been chosen for the
inoffensiveness of her extreme youth, was taken with mumps, and
withdrawn by the doctor's orders. Mrs. Milray had now not only to
improvise another Spirit of Summer, but had to choose her from a group
of young ladies, with the chance of alienating and embittering those who
were not chosen. In her calamity she asked her husband what she should
do, with but the least hope that he could tell her. But he answered
promptly, “Take Clementina; I'll let you have her for the day,” and then
waited for the storm of her renunciations and denunciations to spend
itself.
“To be sure,” she said, when this had happened, “it isn't as if she were
a servant in the house; and the position can be regarded as a kind of
public function, anyhow. I can't say that I've hired her to take the
part, but I can give her a present afterwards, and it will be the same
thing.”
The question of clothes for Clementina Mrs. Milray declared was almost
as sweeping in its implication as the question of the child's creation.
“She has got to be dressed new from head to foot,” she said, “every
stitch, and how am I to manage it in twenty-four hours?”
By a succession of miracles with cheese-cloth, and sashes and ribbons,
it was managed; and ended in a triumph so great that Mrs. Milray took
the girl in her arms and kissed her for looking the Spirit of Summer to
a perfection that the victim of the mumps could not have approached. The
victory was not lastingly marred by the failure of Clementina's shoes to
look the Spirit of Summer as well as the rest of her costume. No shoes
at all world have been the very thing, but shoes so shabby and worn down
at one side of the heel as Clementina's were very far from the thing.
Mrs. Milray decided that another fold of cheese-cloth would add to the
statuesque charm of her figure, and give her more height; and she was
richly satisfied with the effect when the Middlemount coach drove up to
the great veranda the next morning, with all the figures of her picture
in position on its roof, and Clementina supreme among them. She herself
mounted in simple, undramatized authority to her official seat beside
the landlord, who in coachman's dress, with a bouquet of autumnal
flowers in his lapel, sat holding his garlanded reins over the backs of
his six horses; and then the coach as she intended it to appear in the
parade set out as soon as the turnouts of the other houses joined it.
They were all to meet at the Middlemount, which was thickly draped and
festooned in flags, with knots of evergreen and the first red boughs of
the young swamp maples holding them in place over its irregular facade.
The coach itself was amass of foliage and flowers, from which it defined
itself as a wheeled vehicle in vague and partial outline; the other
wagons and coaches, as they drove tremulously up, with an effect of
having been mired in blossoms about their spokes and hubs, had
the unwieldiness which seems inseparable from spectacularity. They
represented motives in color and design sometimes tasteless enough, and
sometimes so nearly very good that Mrs. Milray's heart was a great
deal in her mouth, as they arrived, each with its hotel-cry roared and
shrilled from a score of masculine and feminine throats, and finally
spelled for distinctness sake, with an ultimate yell or growl. But she
had not finished giving the lady-representative of a Sunday newspaper
the points of her own tableau, before she regained the courage and the
faith in which she remained serenely steadfast throughout the parade.
It was when all the equipages of the neighborhood had arrived that she
climbed to her place; the ladder was taken away; the landlord spoke to
his horses, and the Middlemount coach led the parade, amid the renewed
slogans, and the cries and fluttered handkerchiefs of the guests
crowding the verandas.
The line of march was by one road to Middlemount Centre, where the prize
was to be awarded at the judges' stand, and then the coaches were to
escort the triumphant vehicle homeward by another route, so as to pass
as many houses on the way as possible. It was a curious expression of
the carnival spirit in a region immemorially starved of beauty in
the lives of its people; and whatever was the origin of the mountain
coaching parade, or from whatever impulse of sentimentality or
advertising it came, the effect was of undeniable splendor, and of
phantasmagoric strangeness.
Gregory watched its progress from a hill-side pasture as it trailed
slowly along the rising and falling road. The songs of the young girls,
interrupted by the explosion of hotel slogans and college cries from the
young men, floated off to him on the thin breeze of the cloudless
August morning, like the hymns and shouts of a saturnalian rout going in
holiday processional to sacrifice to their gods. Words of fierce Hebrew
poetry burned in his thought; the warnings and the accusals and the
condemnations of the angry prophets; and he stood rapt from his own time
and place in a dream of days when the Most High stooped to commune face
to face with His ministers, while the young voices of those forgetful
or ignorant of Him, called to his own youth, and the garlanded chariots,
with their banners and their streamers passed on the road beneath him
and out of sight in the shadow of the woods beyond.
When the prize was given to the Middlemount coach at the Center the
landlord took the flag, and gallantly transferred it to Mrs. Milray,
and Mrs. Milray passed it up to Clementina, and bade her, “Wave it, wave
it!”
The village street was thronged with people that cheered, and swung
their hats and handkerchiefs to the coach as it left the judges' stand
and drove under the triumphal arch, with the other coaches behind it.
Then Atwell turned his horses heads homewards, and at the brisker pace
with which people always return from festivals or from funerals, he left
the village and struck out upon the country road with his long escort
before him. The crowd was quick to catch the courteous intention of
the victors, and followed them with applause as far beyond the village
borders as wind and limb would allow; but the last noisy boy had dropped
off breathless before they reached a half-finished house in the edge
of some woods. A line of little children was drawn up by the road-side
before it, who watched the retinue with grave eagerness, till the
Middlemount coach came in full sight. Then they sprang into the air, and
beating their hands together, screamed, “Clem! Clem! Oh it's Clem!” and
jumped up and down, and a shabby looking work worn woman came round the
corner of the house and stared up at Clementina waving her banner wildly
to the children, and shouting unintelligible words to them. The young
people on the coach joined in response to the children, some simply,
some ironically, and one of the men caught up a great wreath of flowers
which lay at Clementina's feet, and flung it down to them; the shabby
woman quickly vanished round the corner of the house again. Mrs. Milray
leaned over to ask the landlord, “Who in the world are Clementina's
friends?”
“Why don't you know?” he retorted in abated voice. “Them's her brothas
and sistas.”
“And that woman?”
“The lady at the conna? That's her motha.”
When the event was over, and all the things had been said and said
again, and there was nothing more to keep the spring and summer months
from going up to their rooms to lie down, and the fall and winter months
from trying to get something to eat, Mrs. Milray found herself alone
with Clementina.
The child seemed anxious about something, and Mrs. Milray, who wanted
to go and lie down, too, asked a little impatiently, “What is it,
Clementina?”
“Oh, nothing. Only I was afraid maybe you didn't like my waving to
the children, when you saw how queea they looked.” Clementina's lips
quivered.
“Did any of the rest say anything?”
“I know what they thought. But I don't care! I should do it right over
again!”
Mrs. Milray's happiness in the day's triumph was so great that she could
indulge a generous emotion. She caught the girl in her arms. “I want to
kiss you; I want to hug you, Clementina!”