BACK TO HER WORK.
Clara Anderson, with Fletcher by her side, rode up to the old house
which was her home with a clouded face. It was like the return of a
bird, that had broken loose for a time, to its cage again. For the first
time since she had taken up the burden of her grandmother’s support,
three entire days had been spent in the company of her school-mates, who
had come dashing through the village with Fletcher for an escort, in
order to make her a visit. Once in the old house they were detained
under its roof by one of the heaviest storms that had drenched that part
of the country for years.
To Clara this visit was a pleasure which amounted to pain, a humiliation
and a triumph. It was something that these dear friends refused to give
her up, though fortune had separated them so widely; but, with that
thought, came a sense of poverty exposed and of time lost. Still there
remained some evidences of former prosperity in the house, and where
they fell short, Clara’s fine taste gave an air of elegance to poverty
that took away its bleakness.
Thus, with an underlying sense of pain, she had thrown everything aside,
and given herself up to the entertainment of her guests.
On the afternoon of the second day a promising break in the clouds
inspired her guests to mount their horses and start for home; but this
impulse was accompanied with pathetic entreaties that Clara would go
with them, if it were only for a night.
All this seemed like a hospitable caprice of the moment, but it had been
planned between the two girls from the beginning that Clara should be
forced to take a little recreation, and, to this end, a maiden who made
her home with the old Friend and his wife had been sent over in advance
to advise Clara of their advent, and to take care of the old
grandmother, should their intention be carried into effect.
When the isolated young creature found that it was possible to enjoy a
few hours in the open air, without a great sacrifice of duty, she gave
into the plan with all the vivid enjoyment of a nature held in perpetual
suppression. Upon the seven acres of land that lay around the old house
in which her grandmother was born and now lived she kept a horse which
had once belonged to her father. A riding-habit and hat, long out of
use, was in a closet up-stairs, and in the garret above, her side-saddle
hung against the rafters.
All these advantages flashed across her mind in a moment. She had the
means of joining her friends like a lady; why should she fling aside so
much happiness? It was only to work deep into the night for a week or
two, and this sunny break in the monotony of her life would be atoned
for.
Clara felt and thought vividly at all times. Now she signalized a boy
from the street, who always seemed to be within hail when she wanted
him, gave directions about her horse, and, after holding a conference
with Lydia, who was left in full charge of the house, and her
grandmother, who never gave consent to anything without a feeling of
martyrdom, astonished the whole village as she galloped through its
muddy streets with her guests.
There was equal curiosity when this girl came back with Fletcher, riding
slowly down the street, and setting her horse with a dejected air.
“Who was this man? Where did that girl get her stylish habit and hat?
What did it all mean?”
Clara saw eager faces that she knew crowding to the windows, and smiled
bitterly to herself. She felt that her brief opportunity of enjoyment
was over; that she was returning to isolation and toil which this one
gleam of pleasure would make more irksome. Just then she was in sharp
rebellion with her fate.
Clara drew a deep breath when she came in sight of her home, and thought
of the querulous greeting that she might perhaps expect from its inmate,
who, like the house, was falling into decay, so gradual that she alone
failed to observe it. Both were old and full of discomfort; but the aged
woman would admit of no change or deficiency either in herself or the
house she was born in.
Fletcher looked at the old building with great curiosity, for the storm
had prevented him observing it before. Never, he thought, with the
feeling of an artist, was there such a blending of the commonplace and
the picturesque in one building. It had once, years on years before,
been a dwelling of some consequence among the primitive farm-houses of
the district. Even then the front gave promise of light and roominess,
but this was cut off behind the chimney by a roof that sloped downward
so gradually that a courageous boy might have coasted down it with his
sled, and landed among the plaintain leaves growing in the back-yard,
without much more shock than a first-class jumper would have given.
Still, from the small front-windows to the rugged stone chimney in
front, there certainly was an air of antique pretension about the old
building. The lombardy poplars that stood, four deep, down the front
yard had been stately trees in their time; but now, each one was
gray-headed and bristling with dry branches like veteran sentinels that
had grown ashen, in crown and beard, while standing at their post.
Dead twigs also gave an ashen hue to the cinnamon rose-bushes that
spread along the clapboards between the windows, and the white
lilac-trees that towered to the second story were rough in the bark, and
twisted in the branches and sparse of blossoms, but still in harmony
with the weather-beaten front, from which the paint had almost entirely
disappeared. The stone chimney had a rugged look of age that would have
been dreary enough but for a great sycamore that towered up at one end
of the house, and spread its gaunt limbs over the roof.
Bleak, neglected, absolutely poverty-stricken the old house looked, yet
nature had refused to give it up. Clustering house-leeks and soft,
velvety moss lay in cushions and ridges among the black decay of the
shingles. Low running red roses twined in the long grass under the
windows, and white clover started up in patches along the walk, while
the turf that clothed the roots of the poplars was blue with wild
violets.
As Fletcher took in this picture, it was beautiful; for the rain had
given trees, moss and grass a splendid vividness of green. The martins
and wrens were holding a carnival in the sycamore, and bright
lush-grasses were growing out everywhere through the broken picket
fence, when the young people rode up to it.
Before Clara could dismount, the door opened, and the small quaint
figure of a very young girl came running down between the poplars.
“I knew you would be coming. _She_ grumbled, and said you wouldn’t; but
I was certain sure of it. That’s the time o’ day, Mr. Gentleman, help
her off, and I’ll turn out the horse.”
The girl was tearing away at the gate as these last words escaped her;
but it dragged deep into the earth, and left a half moon under her feet,
when forced by main strength out of position.
“Ah, is it you, Lydia?” said Fletcher, looking kindly on the girl—who
seemed to address both himself and Clara at once; for her vision crossed
under the sparse fall of hair that had seemed sunburned in the cradle,
giving her sharp features a glint of comical shrewdness that made even
strangers smile when they looked upon her.
“Me? I should think it was. No two horses that I ever heard of can come
up to this gate when I’m a listening, without bringing me out of doors.
Just step your foot on this stone, Miss Clara, and skip over to that
board. I laid it down a purpose. That’s the time o’ day; couldn’t have
given a longer hop myself! How is grandma, did you say? Been grumbling
like a coffee-mill ever since you went away; but never mind. You needn’t
tie her horse, Mr. what’s-your-name? I’ll take care of him. No, you
don’t!”
This curt prohibition was given as Fletcher was about to go through the
gate. He could not be angry with the strange creature who attempted to
shut him out, but turned upon her with a smile.
“And why not, Lydia?”
“Because there can’t be no mixing up of beaux when I’m about. Just you
get on to that horse, and ride back to Miss Bertha, where you naturally
belong. I happen to know what’s what; so get on and go!”
Fletcher pushed the gate open in spite of this protest, and passed on,
laughing.
“You will let me go in for ten minutes,” he said.
Lydia quitted the gate, and dashed after him.
“Honor bright, you don’t mean anything particular?”
“No, no!”
“And you’ll tell Miss Bertha all about it your own-self? Any how, did
she know that you was coming all alone with that other one?”
“Yes, Lydia. It was to oblige your young mistress that I came out of the
way.”
Lydia put a finger to her lip, reflected an instant, and then stepped
out of the path.
“Well, ten minutes. You’ll be sure to find me about by that time.”
Having given this significant admonition, the girl allowed Fletcher to
pass, and started through the gate after Clara’s horse, which was
trailing his bridle in the mud.
Directly her head was under the flap of the saddle, and she was tugging
away at the girth-buckles with both hands, which soon brought the saddle
down upon her. She dragged it to the fence, and flung it across the
pickets. Then hooking her arm into the bridle, she swung herself to its
level, chirped the horse up close, seated herself on his back, and
dashed off toward the wet pasture, scattering a shower of mud after her.