A BITTER CONTEST.
Clara Anderson was aroused from the pleasant reverie into which she had
fallen by the slow clatter of her grandmother’s cane on the floor.
Hurriedly snatching up her work, she bent over it, reproaching herself
for so much lost time.
Old Mrs. Anderson entered with the feeble step of an octogenarian, and
seated herself in the one rocking-chair which the room afforded.
“I have had a good long sleep,” she said.
“Do you feel better after it?” Clara asked, feeling that it was
necessary to speak, yet uttering the simple words with an effort, for
they broke harshly into her first love-dream.
“Yes, I think so; I did not rest at all last night. Ain’t you almost
through with your work?”
“Very nearly now.”
“You look tired and pale; that is, you did look pale last night; now
your cheeks are red as fire.”
“My head ached, then.”
“Give me your sewing; it is time to get dinner—I think I can do that.”
“No, no; you must not try. I will go in a moment.”
“You had better take a walk afterwards,” the old lady said; “I don’t
like so much color in your face.”
“I don’t care to go anywhere.”
“Well, take a walk, any way; you’ll kill yourself with this constant
work and no exercise.”
Clara could not understand the extraordinary solicitude in her aged
relative. It seemed as if the gloom of her indoor life were drifting
away, and giving place to little gleams of sunshine.
She went into the kitchen, where Lydia was hard at work by the
cooking-stove. She had put the tea to drawing, and was now holding a
slice of bread to the fire. The girl turned her head over one shoulder,
revealing her thin fire-burnt features against the glow of the coals.
“I know all about it. The old woman has come down and wants her
breakfast, dinner or tea, just which she’s a mind to call it. Well,
ain’t I on hand, buttered toast, tea, and plum preserves? Just go back
to your work, Miss Clara, or take a sniff of fresh air in the yard.
You’re not wanted in these premises; and not being wanted, why the next
thing is ‘clear out.’”
“Is there nothing that I can do to help you, Lydia?”
“Well, yes, if you want to so much, just spread a cloth on the round
stand, and haul it up by the old woman; or she’ll be crutching herself
out here, if it’s only for the fun of finding fault.”
Clara went back into the sitting-room, removed the red and gold book
from the stand, and, while her back was turned, pressed it to her lips.
Then she spread a white cloth over the stand, placed a cup and saucer of
old, old china upon it, and stood smiling, while Lydia came in with a
plate of toast in one hand and a comical little black tea-pot in the
other.
“Why don’t you bring another cup?” said the old woman, surveying the
little table through her spectacles with sour criticism.
“Because Miss Clara and I eat our breakfasts so long ago that we can’t
remember the time,” answered Lydia; “so just put your old foot on this
cricket, and drink your tea quick before the milk curdles in it.”
The old woman had been so long accustomed to submission when her
crossest whims were concerned, that Lydia’s sharp retorts fairly
astonished her into silence. So she dropped sugar into her tea from a
pair of tiny silver tongs, nibbled at the toast, and grumbled under her
breath, while Clara took up her work again, and fell into dreamy
thoughts, in which the delinquencies of young Lane and the conversation
she had held with Waldon were mingled with bitter sweetness. Under the
work in her lap that book was hidden away open, and from time to time
she paused in her task and drew some bright thought into her mind from
its pages—all the more entrancing because of the secrecy with which it
was stolen.
It seemed as if the monotony of Clara Anderson’s life was to be entirely
broken up that week.
The next morning after Waldon’s visit, she was sitting at her work in
the usual place when a rather peremptory knock was heard at the front
door. Lydia was away in the kitchen, so Clara gathered up her work, and
with it in her arms went to admit the visitor.
A rather tall, stout man, pompous in look and movement stood on the
door-step.
Clara gave a start, her free grew white as the cloud of muslin she still
held in her hand. He did not seem ready to speak, so she drew herself up
and remained looking at him with as much pride and coldness as his own
glance betrayed.
“Miss Clara Anderson, I believe?” he said, in a tone which rendered the
simple words fairly insulting.
Clara bent her head.
“I wished to speak a few words with you. Can I walk in?” he added, as if
doing the humble roof immeasurable honor by his condescension.
“Certainly,” she said, opening the sitting-room door. “Walk in.”
The gentleman strode into the room, set his gold-headed cane into a
corner, took off his hat, which he held between his hands, and seated
himself with magisterial dignity.
“My name is Lane—Judge Lane, of the Supreme Court,” he said, after a
minute survey of the room.
“I am aware of it,” Clara replied. “I have several times been introduced
to you.”
“Possibly; I don’t remember anything of that kind, but I think you have
done sewing for my daughters?”
“I never did, sir.”
“Ah, I was mistaken—but your business is that of a seamstress or
something of that sort, isn’t it?”
“It is, but I am able to choose my employers.”
“Certainly, certainly, that is not my errand here.”
Clara stood before him, pale and haughty; he shrank a little from the
indignant fire in her eyes.
The Judge removed his position to a chair near the window. Clara
mechanically sat down near him, never once moving her gaze from his face
or in the least restraining the cold contempt which it expressed.
“I have called upon a somewhat unpleasant affair,” he said, after a
moment’s hesitation.
No answer—Clara would not aid him in this evident dilemma, he must
extricate himself.
“I felt it my duty to come here,” he began again, as if dissatisfied
with the other opening.
Still no response from the pale girl opposite, not a movement or a sign;
the eyes flashed out at him bright and rebellious as before. But for
this she might have been a statue sitting there in the shadow.
“You are probably surprised to see me,” he observed, trying another
method of entering upon the subject which had brought him to the house.
“I certainly am,” she replied, quietly.
“It is disagreeable; I would have preferred not coming. I would have
written, only letters are such unfortunate things, and my daughter
agreed with me in thinking that it was my duty—”
“Any advice that your daughter can have given you must be worthy of
regard,” said Clara, with cold irony, when he broke down in his speech.
“I might have expected impertinence,” he exclaimed, turning crimson with
anger. “I did expect it, but it only makes my task an easier one.”
“A distasteful errand is not easily rendered agreeable. Still there are
forms of politeness that gentlemen usually recognize in the society of
ladies,” said Clara.
The Judge sat uneasily in his chair. His hat dropped, and it hurt his
dignity to stoop and pick it up. This was done at last, and he prepared
to speak again.
“I was preoccupied,” he said. “You are right: a regard to forms is due
to all women, no matter what their station may be.”
“Fortunately that which I occupy is one you can regard with peculiar
respect, if it is only in honor of your own most excellent mother,”
answered Clara, very quietly.
The Judge lost his vehement crimson, and turned white with rage.
“My mother—my mother!”
“Was too honorable for dependence, when she had the power to work. Of
all your family, sir, I reverence her the most.”
Arrogant as the Judge was, this quiet allusion took him completely
aback. He had not expected to encounter pride so much more independent
than his own. Nor was he aware that any one in that neighborhood was so
well acquainted with his early history. His mother’s struggles in life
were facts that he never dwelt upon. Even his own children were ignorant
that her toil had given the first start in his prosperous life, and to
find that girl in possession of his secret was bitter indeed.
As the lofty man sat swelling with indignant shame, Clara spoke, drawing
his attention with her clear, cold voice.
“This interview is unpleasant, sir. If you have business with me, I am
ready to listen.”
“Certainly, certainly. You know my son—”
“I knew him once.”
“It amounts to the same thing,” the baffled potentate replied, catching
his breath, and trying to recall the dignity which had almost deserted
him.
“It may be so. I certainly have been acquainted with your son. Is it of
him you wish to speak?”
“I don’t wish to offend you,” said the Judge, dashing into the matter at
once. “I have no desire to hurt your feelings.”
“Pray let no such amiable considerations restrain you,” interrupted
Clara, with a grave bend of the head.
The Judge grew crimson again, pulled out his pocket handkerchief and
wiped his forehead. He had never encountered any one who met him in
precisely that manner. He had expected his very presence to overwhelm
the audacious girl, and to be treated in that lofty way, as if she were
not only his equal, but as much beyond him as a queen on her throne,
threw the judicial mind into a chaotic state.
He had no precedent upon which to act and his faculties were not of that
active order which could suggest a new course upon the instant. He had
arranged a programme before his arrival. Miss Anderson rendered it
useless from the first, but it was so firmly impressed upon his memory,
that he could only cling hopelessly to its remnants, growing more and
more confused.
The quiet self-poise so visible in her face irritated him beyond belief.
He was accustomed to respect from all men, and to have a mere girl meet
him after that imperial fashion was an affront unparalleled in his
remembrance of the bench or society.
But he must speak. Passion at last gave him words, and he said, almost
rudely,
“You are quite aware that the acquaintance, between yourself and my son
was from the first exceedingly unpleasant to myself and the rest of his
family.”
He paused as if expecting some response, but he might have remained
there until the sun set and rose again before Clara would have opened
her lips.
“It has been much talked of in the neighborhood—disagreeably so; we,
that is, I and his sisters, wish it stopped—put an end to.”
“I wonder that you have aided this unpleasant gossip regarding a person
who has never justly offended any of you.”
“I did not come here for advice,” said the Judge, choking down his
wrath. “I am not accustomed to receiving it, especially in that
objectionable tone.”
Clara smiled; this irony did not give the expression most becoming to
her face, but it was wonderfully irritating, as the Judge felt keenly.
“I have every reason to believe,” pursued the Judge, warming to his
work, “that the associations my son has formed here have been in many
ways detrimental to him. No doubt you have heard how wild he has been
during the past year—I ascribe it to the fact that he is displeased with
himself for keeping up an intimacy which he knows distasteful to me,
although he has not exactly the courage to break it off.”
That was a beautiful sentence and well delivered; the Judge felt that it
ought to have its due effect. He glanced toward Clara with solemn
self-complacency.
The girl had taken up her sewing; her fingers were moving rapidly along
the hem. Her head was slightly averted, so that he could not see the
expression of her face. She seemed to take the matter coolly, that was
one comfort. Possibly she was a more sensible girl than his daughters
believed, and once crushed into her proper position, made duly sensible
of the vast distinction between herself and his family, would retain her
place without further struggle.
Without looking up, or even making an instant’s pause in her task, Clara
spoke, in a voice so unlike her usual one that her own mother, had she
heard, would never have recognized the tones—
“What then? Why do you come to me with such language as this?”
“Because it is my right,” replied the Judge, haughtily; “because I will
not sit by and see my son inveigled into an affair of the heart so
deeply that he cannot extricate himself with honor.”
Clara dropped her work. The indomitable pride of her nature revolted at
the tone and words of her visitor. But even in the insanity of passion
and the whirl of outraged pride, she could in a measure control herself.
“You are safe in insulting the helplessness of a friendless girl,” she
said, retaining even then the bitter power of repartee which made one of
her greatest faults, “this language is noble and manly—go on, sir—repeat
it if you can find the heart.”