So far from embarking at once for Europe, Mrs. Lander went to that
hotel in a suburb of Boston, where she had the habit of passing the late
autumn months, in order to fortify herself for the climate of the early
winter months in the city. She was a little puzzled how to provide for
Clementina, with respect to herself, but she decided that the best thing
would be to have her sleep in a room opening out of her own, with a
folding bed in it, so that it could be used as a sort of parlor for both
of them during the day, and be within easy reach, for conversation, at
all times.
On her part, Clementina began by looking after Mrs. Lander's comforts,
large and little, like a daughter, to her own conception and to that of
Mrs. Lander, but to other eyes, like a servant. Mrs. Lander shyly shrank
from acquaintance among the other ladies, and in the absence of this,
she could not introduce Clementina, who went down to an early breakfast
alone, and sat apart with her at lunch and dinner, ministering to her in
public as she did in private. She ran back to their rooms to fetch her
shawl, or her handkerchief, or whichever drops or powders she happened
to be taking with her meals, and adjusted with closer care the hassock
which the head waiter had officially placed at her feet. They seldom sat
in the parlor where the ladies met, after dinner; they talked only to
each other; and there, as elsewhere, the girl kept her filial care of
the old woman. The question of her relation to Mrs. Lander became so
pressing among several of the guests that, after Clementina had watched
over the banisters, with throbbing heart and feet, a little dance one
night which the other girls had got up among themselves, and had fled
back to her room at the approach of one of the kindlier and bolder of
them, the landlord felt forced to learn from Mrs. Lander how Miss Claxon
was to be regarded. He managed delicately, by saying he would give the
Sunday paper she had ordered to her nurse, “Or, I beg your pardon,”
he added, as if he had made a mistake. “Why, she a'n't my nuhse,” Mrs.
Lander explained, simply, neither annoyed nor amused; “she's just a
young lady that's visiting me, as you may say,” and this put an end
to the misgiving among the ladies. But it suggested something to Mrs.
Lander, and a few days afterwards, when they came out from Boston where
they had been shopping, and she had been lavishing a bewildering waste
of gloves, hats, shoes, capes and gowns upon Clementina, she said, “I'll
tell you what. We've got to have a maid.”
“A maid?” cried the girl.
“It isn't me, or my things I want her for,” said Mrs. Lander. “It's you
and these dresses of youas. I presume you could look afta them, come to
give youa mind to it; but I don't want to have you tied up to a lot of
clothes; and I presume we should find her a comfo't in moa ways than
one, both of us. I don't know what we shall want her to do, exactly; but
I guess she will, if she undastands her business, and I want you should
go in with me, to-morror, and find one. I'll speak to some of the
ladies, and find out whe's the best place to go, and we'll get the best
there is.”
A lady whom Mrs. Lander spoke to entered into the affair with zeal born
of a lurking sense of the wrong she had helped do Clementina in the
common doubt whether she was not herself Mrs. Lander's maid. She offered
to go into Boston with them to an intelligence office, where you could
get nice girls of all kinds; but she ended by giving Mrs. Lander the
address, and instructions as to what she was to require in a maid.
She was chiefly to get an English maid, if at all possible, for the
qualifications would more or less naturally follow from her nationality.
There proved to be no English maid, but there was a Swedish one who had
received a rigid training in an English family living on the Continent,
and had come immediately from that service to seek her first place in
America. The manager of the office pronounced her character, as set down
in writing, faultless, and Mrs. Lander engaged her. “You want to look
afta this young lady,” she said, indicating Clementina. “I can look
afta myself,” but Ellida took charge of them both on the train out from
Boston with prompt intelligence.
“We got to get used to it, I guess,” Mrs. Lander confided at the first
chance of whispering to Clementina.
Within a month after washing the faces and combing the hair of all her
brothers and sisters who would suffer it at her hands, Clementina's
own head was under the brush of a lady's maid, who was of as great a
discreetness in her own way as Clementina herself. She supplied the
defects of Mrs. Lander's elementary habits by simply asking if she
should get this thing and that thing for the toilet, without criticising
its absence,--and then asking whether she should get the same things for
her young lady. She appeared to let Mrs. Lander decide between having
her brushes in ivory or silver, but there was really no choice for her,
and they came in silver. She knew not only her own place, but the places
of her two ladies, and she presently had them in such training that they
were as proficient in what they might and might not do for themselves
and for each other, as if making these distinctions were the custom of
their lives.
Their hearts would both have gone out to Ellida, but Ellida kept them at
a distance with the smooth respectfulness of the iron hand in the
glove of velvet; and Clementina first learned from her to imagine the
impassable gulf between mistress and maid.
At the end of her month she gave them, out of a clear sky, a week's
warning. She professed no grievance, and was not moved by Mrs. Lander's
appeal to say what wages she wanted. She would only say that she was
going to take a place an Commonwealth Avenue, where a friend of hers was
living, and when the week was up, she went, and left her late mistresses
feeling rather blank. “I presume we shall have to get anotha,” said Mrs.
Lander.
“Oh, not right away!” Clementina pleaded.
“Well, not right away,” Mrs. Lander assented; and provisionally they
each took the other into her keeping, and were much freer and happier
together.
Soon after Clementina was startled one morning, as she was going in to
breakfast, by seeing Mr. Fane at the clerk's desk. He did not see her;
he was looking down at the hotel register, to compute the bill of a
departing guest; but when she passed out she found him watching for her,
with some letters.
“I didn't know you were with us,” he said, with his pensive smile, “till
I found your letters here, addressed to Mrs. Lander's care; and then I
put two and two together. It only shows how small the world is, don't
you think so? I've just got back from my vacation; I prefer to take
it in the fall of the year, because it's so much pleasanter to travel,
then. I suppose you didn't know I was here?”
“No, I didn't,” said Clementina. “I never dreamed of such a thing.”
“To be sure; why should you?” Fane reflected. “I've been here ever since
last spring. But I'll say this, Miss Claxon, that if it's the least
unpleasant to you, or the least disagreeable, or awakens any kind of
associations--”
“Oh, no!” Clementina protested, and Fane was spared the pain of saying
what he would do if it were.
He bowed, and she said sweetly, “It's pleasant to meet any one I've seen
before. I suppose you don't know how much it's changed at Middlemount
since you we' e thea.” Fane answered blankly, while he felt in his
breast pocket, Oh, he presumed so; and she added: “Ha'dly any of the
same guests came back this summer, and they had more in July than they
had in August, Mrs. Atwell said. Mr. Mahtin, the chef, is gone, and
newly all the help is different.”
Fane kept feeling in one pocket and then slapped himself over the other
pockets. “No,” he said, “I haven't got it with me. I must have left it
in my room. I just received a letter from Frank--Mr. Gregory, you know,
I always call him Frank--and I thought I had it with me. He was asking
about Middlemount; and I wanted to read you what he said. But I'll find
it upstairs. He's out of college, now, and he's begun his studies in the
divinity school. He's at Andover. I don't know what to make of Frank,
oftentimes,” the clerk continued, confidentially. “I tell him he's a
kind of a survival, in religion; he's so aesthetic.” It seemed to
Fane that he had not meant aesthetic, exactly, but he could not ask
Clementina what the word was. He went on to say, “He's a grand good
fellow, Frank is, but he don't make enough allowance for human nature.
He's more like one of those old fashioned orthodox. I go in for having a
good time, so long as you don't do anybody else any hurt.”
He left her, and went to receive the commands of a lady who was leaning
over the desk, and saying severely, “My mail, if you please,” and
Clementina could not wait for him to come back; she had to go to Mrs.
Lander, and get her ready for breakfast; Ellida had taught Mrs. Lander a
luxury of helplessness in which she persisted after the maid's help was
withdrawn.
Clementina went about the whole day with the wonder what Gregory had
said about Middlemount filling her mind. It must have had something to
do with her; he could not have forgotten the words he had asked her to
forget. She remembered them now with a curiosity, which had no rancor in
it, to know why he really took them back. She had never blamed him, and
she had outlived the hurt she had felt at not hearing from him. But she
had never lost the hope of hearing from him, or rather the expectation,
and now she found that she was eager for his message; she decided that
it must be something like a message, although it could not be anything
direct. No one else had come to his place in her fancy, and she was
willing to try what they would think of each other now, to measure her
own obligation to the past by a knowledge of his. There was scarcely
more than this in her heart when she allowed herself to drift near
Fane's place that night, that he might speak to her, and tell her what
Gregory had said. But he had apparently forgotten about his letter, and
only wished to talk about himself. He wished to analyze himself, to tell
her what sort of person he was. He dealt impartially with the subject;
he did not spare some faults of his; and after a week, he proposed a
correspondence with her, in a letter of carefully studied spelling, as a
means of mutual improvement as well as further acquaintance.
It cost Clementina a good deal of trouble to answer him as she wished
and not hurt his feelings. She declined in terms she thought so cold
that they must offend him beyond the point of speaking to her again; but
he sought her out, as soon after as he could, and thanked her for her
kindness, and begged her pardon. He said he knew that she was a very
busy person, with all the lessons she was taking, and that she had no
time for carrying on a correspondence. He regretted that he could not
write French, because then the correspondence would have been good
practice for her. Clementina had begun taking French lessons, of a
teacher who came out from Boston. She lunched three times a week with
her and Mrs. Lander, and spoke the language with Clementina, whose
accent she praised for its purity; purity of accent was characteristic
of all this lady's pupils; but what was really extraordinary in
Mademoiselle Claxon was her sense of grammatical structure; she wrote
the language even more perfectly than she spoke it; but beautifully, but
wonderfully; her exercises were something marvellous.
Mrs. Lander would have liked Clementina to take all the lessons that
she heard any of the other young ladies in the hotel were taking. One of
them went in town every day, and studied drawing at an art-school, and
she wanted Clementina to do that, too. But Clementina would not do that;
she had tried often enough at home, when her brother Jim was drawing,
and her father was designing the patterns of his woodwork; she knew that
she never could do it, and the time would be wasted. She decided against
piano lessons and singing lessons, too; she did not care for either, and
she pleaded that it would be a waste to study them; but she suggested
dancing lessons, and her gift for dancing won greater praise, and
perhaps sincerer, than her accent won from Mademoiselle Blanc, though
Mrs. Lander said that she would not have believed any one could be
more complimentary. She learned the new steps and figures in all the
fashionable dances; she mastered some fancy dances, which society was
then beginning to borrow from the stage; and she gave these before Mrs.
Lander with a success which she felt herself.
“I believe I could teach dancing,” she said.
“Well, you won't eve' haf to, child,” returned Mrs. Lander, with an eye
on the side of the case that seldom escaped her.
In spite of his wish to respect these preoccupations, Fane could
not keep from offering Clementina attentions, which took the form of
persecution when they changed from flowers for Mrs. Lander's table to
letters for herself. He apologized for his letters whenever he met her;
but at last one of them came to her before breakfast with a special
delivery stamp from Boston. He had withdrawn to the city to write it,
and he said that if she could not make him a favorable answer, he should
not come back to Woodlake.
She had to show this letter to Mrs. Lander, who asked: “You want he
should come back?”
“No, indeed! I don't want eva to see him again.”
“Well, then, I guess you'll know how to tell him so.”
The girl went into her own room to write, and when she brought her
answer to show it to Mrs. Lander she found her in frowning thought.
“I don't know but you'll have to go back and write it all over again,
Clementina,” she said, “if you've told him not to come. I've been
thinkin', if you don't want to have anything to do with him, we betta go
ouaselves.”
“Yes,” answered Clementina, “that's what I've said.”
“You have? Well, the witch is in it! How came you to--”
“I just wanted to talk with you about it. But I thought maybe you'd like
to go. Or at least I should. I should like to go home, Mrs. Landa.”
“Home!” retorted Mrs. Lander. “The'e's plenty of places where you can be
safe from the fella besides home, though I'll take you back the'a this
minute if you say so. But you needn't to feel wo'ked up about it.”
“Oh, I'm not,” said Clementina, but with a gulp which betrayed her
nervousness.
“I did think,” Mrs. Lander went on, “that I should go into the Vonndome,
for December and January, but just as likely as not he'd come pesterin'
the'a, too, and I wouldn't go, now, if you was to give me the whole city
of Boston. Why shouldn't we go to Florida?”
When Mrs. Lander had once imagined the move, the nomadic impulse mounted
irresistably in her. She spoke of hotels in the South, where they could
renew the summer, and she mapped out a campaign which she put into
instant action so far as to advance upon New York.
Part 2.