Clementina did not sleep till well toward morning, and she was still
sleeping when Mrs. Atwell knocked and called in to her that her brother
Jim wanted to see her. She hurried down, and in the confusion of mind
left over from the night before she cooed sweetly at Jim as if he had
been Mr. Gregory, “What is it, Jim? What do you want me for?”
The boy answered with the disgust a sister's company manners always
rouse in a brother. “Motha wants you. Says she's wo'ked down, and she
wants you to come and help.” Then he went his way.
Mrs. Atwell was used to having help snatched from her by their families
at a moment's notice. “I presume you've got to go, Clem,” she said.
“Oh, yes, I've got to go,” Clementina assented, with a note of relief
which mystified Mrs. Atwell.
“You tied readin' to Mr. Milray?”
“Oh, no'm--no, I mean. But I guess I betta go home. I guess I've been
away long enough.”
“Well, you're a good gul, Clem. I presume your motha's got a right to
have you home if she wants you.” Clementina said nothing to this, but
turned briskly, and started upstairs toward her room again. The landlady
called after her, “Shall you speak to Mis' Milray, or do you want I
should?”
Clementina looked back at her over her shoulder to warble, “Why, if you
would, Mrs. Atwell,” and kept on to her room.
Mrs. Milray was not wholly sorry to have her go; she was going herself
very soon, and Clementina's earlier departure simplified the question
of getting rid of her; but she overwhelmed her with reproaches which
Clementina received with such sweet sincerity that another than Mrs.
Milray might have blamed herself for having abused her ingenuousness.
The Atwells could very well have let the girl walk home, but they sent
her in a buckboard, with one of the stablemen to drive her. The landlord
put her neat bundle under the seat of the buckboard with his own
hand. There was something in the child's bearing, her dignity and
her amiability, which made people offer her, half in fun, and half in
earnest, the deference paid to age and state.
She did not know whether Gregory would try to see her before she went.
She thought he must have known she was going, but since he neither came
to take leave of her, nor sent her any message, she decided that she had
not expected him to do so. About the third week of September she heard
that he had left Middlemount and gone back to college.
She kept at her work in the house and helped her mother, and looked
after the little ones; she followed her father in the woods, in his
quest of stuff for walking sticks, and advised with both concerning the
taste of summer folks in dress and in canes. The winter came, and she
read many books in its long leisure, mostly novels, out of the rector's
library. He had a whole set of Miss Edgeworth, and nearly all of Miss
Austen and Miss Gurney, and he gave of them to Clementina, as the best
thing for her mind as well as her morals; he believed nothing could be
better for any one than these old English novels, which he had nearly
forgotten in their details. She colored the faded English life of the
stories afresh from her Yankee circumstance; and it seemed the consensus
of their testimony that she had really been made love to, and not so
very much too soon, at her age of sixteen, for most of their heroines
were not much older. The terms of Gregory's declaration and of its
withdrawal were mystifying, but not more mystifying than many such
things, and from what happened in the novels she read, the affair might
be trusted to come out all right of itself in time. She was rather
thoughtfuller for it, and once her mother asked her what was the matter
with her. “Oh, I guess I'm getting old, motha,” she said, and turned
the question off. She would not have minded telling her mother about
Gregory, but it would not have been the custom; and her mother would
have worried, and would have blamed him. Clementina could have more
easily trusted her father with the case, but so far as she knew fathers
never were trusted with anything of the kind. She would have been
willing that accident should bring it to the knowledge of Mrs. Richling;
but the moment never came when she could voluntarily confide in
her, though she was a great deal with her that winter. She was Mrs.
Richling's lieutenant in the social affairs of the parish, which the
rector's wife took under her care. She helped her get up entertainments
of the kind that could be given in the church parlor, and they managed
together some dances which had to be exiled to the town hall. They
contrived to make the young people of the village feel that they were
having a gay time, and Clementina did not herself feel that it was a
dull one. She taught them some of the new steps and figures which the
help used to pick up from the summer folks at the Middlemount, and
practise together; she liked doing that; her mother said the child would
rather dance than eat, any time. She was never sad, but so much dignity
got into her sweetness that the rector now and then complained of
feeling put down by her.
She did not know whether she expected Gregory to write to her or not;
but when no letters came she decided that she had not expected them. She
wondered if he would come back to the Middlemount the next summer; but
when the summer came, she heard that they had another student in his
place. She heard that they had a new clerk, and that the boarders were
not so pleasant. Another year passed, and towards the end of the season
Mrs. Atwell wished her to come and help her again, and Clementina went
over to the hotel to soften her refusal. She explained that her mother
had so much sewing now that she could not spare her; and Mrs. Atwell
said: Well, that was right, and that she must be the greatest kind of
dependence for her mother. “You ah' going on seventeen this year, ain't
you?”
“I was nineteen the last day of August,” said Clementina, and Mrs.
Atwell sighed, and said, How the time did fly.
It was the second week of September, but Mrs. Atwell said they were
going to keep the house open till the middle of October, if they could,
for the autumnal foliage, which there was getting to be quite a class of
custom for.
“I presume you knew Mr. Landa was dead,” she added, and at Clementina's
look of astonishment, she said with a natural satisfaction, “Mm! died
the thutteenth day of August. I presumed somehow you'd know it, though
you didn't see a great deal of 'em, come to think of it. I guess he
was a good man; too good for her, I guess,” she concluded, in the New
England necessity of blaming some one. “She sent us the papah.”
There was an early frost; and people said there was going to be a hard
winter, but it was not this that made Clementina's father set to work
finishing his house. His turning business was well started, now, and
he had got together money enough to pay for the work. He had lately
enlarged the scope of his industry by turning gate-posts and urns for
the tops of them, which had become very popular, for the front yards of
the farm and village houses in a wide stretch of country. They sold more
steadily than the smaller wares, the cups, and tops, and little vases
and platters which had once been the output of his lathe; after the
first season the interest of the summer folks in these fell off; but the
gate posts and the urns appealed to a lasting taste in the natives.
Claxon wished to put the finishing touches on the house himself, and
he was willing to suspend more profitable labors to do so. After some
attempts at plastering he was forced to leave that to the plasterers,
but he managed the clap-boarding, with Clementina to hand him boards and
nails, and to keep him supplied with the hammer he was apt to drop at
critical moments. They talked pretty constantly at their labors, and in
their leisure, which they spent on the brown needles under the pines at
the side of the house. Sometimes the hammering or the talking would be
interrupted by a voice calling, from a passing vehicle in the hidden
roadway, something about urns. Claxon would answer, without troubling
himself to verify the inquirer; or moving from his place, that he would
get round to them, and then would hammer on, or talk on with Clementina.
One day in October a carriage drove up to the door, after the work on
the house had been carried as far as Claxon's mood and money allowed,
and he and Clementina were picking up the litter of his carpentering.
He had replaced the block of wood which once served at the front door
by some steps under an arbor of rustic work; but this was still so novel
that the younger children had not outgrown their pride in it and were
playing at house-keeping there. Clementina ran around to the back door
and out through the front entry in time to save the visitor and the
children from the misunderstanding they began to fall into, and met
her with a smile of hospitable brilliancy, and a recognition full of
compassionate welcome.
Mrs. Lander gave way to her tears as she broke out, “Oh, it ain't
the way it was the last time I was he'a! You hea'd that he--that Mr.
Landa--”
“Mrs. Atwell told me,” said Clementina. “Won't you come in, and sit
down?”
“Why, yes.” Mrs. Lander pushed in through the narrow door of what was to
be the parlor. Her crapes swept about her and exhaled a strong scent
of their dyes. Her veil softened her heavy face; but she had not grown
thinner in her bereavement.
“I just got to the Middlemount last night,” she said, “and I wanted to
see you and your payrents, both, Miss Claxon. It doos bring him back so!
You won't neva know how much he thought of you, and you'll all think I'm
crazy. I wouldn't come as long as he was with me, and now I have to come
without him; I held out ag'inst him as long as I had him to hold out
ag'inst. Not that he was eva one to push, and I don't know as he so much
as spoke of it, afta we left the hotel two yea's ago; but I presume it
wa'n't out of his mind a single minute. Time and time again I'd say to
him, 'Now, Albe't, do you feel about it just the way you done?' and he'd
say, 'I ha'r't had any call to charge my mind about it,' and then I'd
begin tryin' to ahgue him out of it, and keep a hectorin', till he'd
say, 'Well, I'm not askin' you to do it,' and that's all I could get
out of him. But I see all the while 't he wanted me to do it, whateva he
asked, and now I've got to do it when it can't give him any pleasure.”
Mrs. Lander put up her black-bordered handkerchief and sobbed into it,
and Clementina waited till her grief had spent itself; then she gave her
a fan, and Mrs. Lander gratefully cooled her hot wet face. The children
had found the noises of her affliction and the turbid tones of her
monologue annoying, and had gone off to play in the woods; Claxon kept
incuriously about the work that Clementina had left him to; his wife
maintained the confidence which she always felt in Clementina's ability
to treat with the world when it presented itself, and though she was
curious enough, she did not offer to interrupt the girl's interview with
Mrs. Lander; Clementina would know how to behave.
Mrs. Lander, when she had refreshed herself with the fan, seemed to
get a fresh grip of her theme, and she told Clementina all abort Mr.
Lander's last sickness. It had been so short that it gave her no time to
try the climate of Colorado upon him, which she now felt sure would have
brought him right up; and she had remembered, when too late, to give him
a liver-medicine of her own, though it did not appear that it was his
liver which was affected; that was the strange part of it. But, brief
as his sickness was, he had felt that it was to be his last, and had
solemnly talked over her future with her, which he seemed to think would
be lonely. He had not named Clementina, but Mrs. Lander had known well
enough what he meant; and now she wished to ask her, and her father and
mother, how they would all like Clementina to come and spend the winter
with her at Boston first, and then further South, and wherever she
should happen to go. She apologized for not having come sooner upon this
errand; she had resolved upon it as soon as Mr. Lander was gone, but she
had been sick herself, and had only just now got out of bed.
Clementina was too young to feel the pathos of the case fully, or
perhaps even to follow the tortuous course of Mrs. Lander's motives, but
she was moved by her grief; and she could not help a thrill of pleasure
in the vague splendor of the future outlined by Mrs. Lander's proposal.
For a time she had thought that Mrs. Milray was going to ask her to
visit her in New York; Mrs. Milray had thrown out a hint of something
of the kind at parting, but that was the last of it; and now she at
once made up her mind that she would like to go with Mrs. Lander, while
discreetly saying that she would ask her father and mother to come and
talk with her.