Chapter VI: 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.