Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells

by William Dean Howells

  “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 Lander a luxury of helplessness in which she persisted after the maid’s help was withdrawn.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.

  XV.

  Mrs. Lander went to a hotel in New York where she had been in the habit of staying with her husband, on their way South or North. The clerk knew her, and shook hands with her across the re
gister, and said she could have her old rooms if she wanted them; the bell-boy who took up their hand-baggage recalled himself to her; the elevator-boy welcomed her with a smile of remembrance.

  Since she was already up, from coming off the sleeping-car, she had no excuse for not going to breakfast like other people; and she went with Clementina to the dining-room, where the head-waiter, who found them places, spoke with an outlandish accent, and the waiter who served them had a parlance that seemed superficially English, but was inwardly something else; there was even a touch in the cooking of the familiar dishes, that needed translation for the girl’s inexperienced palate. She was finding a refuge in the strangeness of everything, when she was startled by the sound of a familiar voice calling, “Clementina Claxon! Well, I was sure all along it was you, and I determined I wouldn’t stand it another minute. Why, child, how you have changed! Why, I declare you are quite a woman! When did you come? How pretty you are!” Mrs. Milray took Clementina in her arms and kissed her in proof of her admiration before the whole breakfast room. She was very nice to Mrs. Lander, too, who, when Clementina introduced them, made haste to say that Clementina was there on a visit with her. Mrs. Milray answered that she envied her such a visitor as Miss Claxon, and protested that she should steal her away for a visit to herself, if Mr. Milray was not so much in love with her that it made her jealous. “Mr. Milray has to have his breakfast in his room,” she explained to Clementina. “He’s not been so well, since he lost his mother. Yes,” she said, with decorous solemnity, “I’m still in mourning for her,” and Clementina saw that she was in a tempered black. “She died last year, and now I’m taking Mr. Milray abroad to see if it won’t cheer him up a little. Are you going South for the winter?” she inquired, politely, of Mrs. Lander. “I wish I was going,” she said, when Mrs. Lander guessed they should go, later on. “Well, you must come in and see me all you can, Clementina; and I shall have the pleasure of calling upon you,” she added to Mrs. Lander with state that was lost in the soubrette-like volatility of her flight from them the next moment. “Goodness, I forgot all about Mr. Milray’s breakfast!” She ran back to the table she had left on the other side of the room.

  “Who is that, Clementina?” asked Mrs. Lander, on their way to their rooms. Clementina explained as well as she could, and Mrs. Lander summed up her feeling in the verdict, “Well, she’s a lady, if ever I saw a lady; and you don’t see many of ‘em, nowadays.”

  The girl remembered how Mrs. Milray had once before seemed very fond of her, and had afterwards forgotten the pretty promises and professions she had made her. But she went with Mrs. Lander to see her, and she saw Mr. Milray, too, for a little while. He seemed glad of their meeting, but still depressed by the bereavement which Mrs. Milray supported almost with gayety. When he left them she explained that he was a good deal away from her, with his family, as she approved of his being, though she had apparently no wish to join him in all the steps of the reconciliation which the mother’s death had brought about among them. Sometimes his sisters came to the hotel to see her, but she amused herself perfectly without them, and she gave much more of her leisure to Clementina and Mrs. Lander.

  She soon knew the whole history of the relation between them, and the first time that Clementina found her alone with Mrs. Lander she could have divined that Mrs. Lander had been telling her of the Fane affair, even if Mrs. Milray had not at once called out to her, “I know all about it; and I’ll tell you what, Clementina, I’m going to take you over with me and marry you to an English Duke. Mrs. Lander and I have been planning it all out, and I’m going to send down to the steamer office, and engage your passage. It’s all settled!”

  When she was gone, Mrs. Lander asked, “What do you s’pose your folks would say to your goin’ to Europe, anyway, Clementina?” as if the matter had been already debated between them.

  Clementina hesitated. “I should want to be su’a, Mrs. Milray really wanted me to go ova with her.”

  “Why, didn’t you hear her say so?” demanded Mrs. Lander.

  “Yes,” sighed Clementina. “Mrs. Lander, I think Mrs. Milray means what she says, at the time, but she is one that seems to forget.”

  “She thinks the wo’ld of you,” Mrs. Lander urged.

  “She was very nice to me that summer at Middlemount. I guess maybe she would like to have us go with her,” the girl relented.

  “I guess we’ll wait and see,” said Mrs. Lander. “I shouldn’t want she should change her mind when it was too late, as you say.” They were both silent for a time, and then Mrs. Lander resumed, “But I presume she ha’n’t got the only steams that’s crossin’. What should you say about goin’ over on some otha steams? I been South a good many wintas, and I should feel kind of lonesome goin’ round to the places where I been with Mr. Landa. I felt it since I been here in this hotel, some, and I can’t seem to want to go ova the same ground again, well, not right away.”

  Clementina said, “Why, of cou’se, Mrs. Landa.”

  “Should you be willin’,” asked Mrs. Lander, after another little pause, “if your folks was willin’, to go ova the’a, to some of them European countries, to spend the winta?”

  “Oh yes, indeed!” said Clementina.

  They discussed the matter in one of the full talks they both liked. At the end Mrs. Lander said, “Well, I guess you betta write home, and ask your motha whetha you can go, so’t if we take the notion we can go any time. Tell her to telegraph, if she’ll let you, and do write all the ifs and ands, so’t she’ll know just how to answa, without havin’ to have you write again.”

  That evening Mrs. Milray came to their table from where she had been dining alone, and asked in banter: “Well, have you made up your minds to go over with me?”

  Mrs. Lander said bluntly, “We can’t ha’dly believe you really want us to, Mrs. Milray.”

  “I don’t want you? Who put such an idea into your head! Oh, I know!” She threatened Clementina with the door-key, which she was carrying in her hand. “It was you, was it? What an artful, suspicious thing! What’s got into you, child? Do you hate me?” She did not give Clementina time to protest. “Well, now, I can just tell you I do want you, and I’ll be quite heart-broken if you don’t come.”

  “Well, she wrote to her friends this mohning,” Mrs. Lander said, “but I guess she won’t git an answa in time for youa steamer, even if they do let her go.”

  “Oh, yes she will,” Mrs. Milray protested. “It’s all right, now; you’ve got to go, and there’s no use trying to get out of it.”

  She came to them whenever she could find them in the dining-room, and she knocked daily at their door till she knew that Clementina had heard from home. The girl’s mother wrote, without a punctuation mark in her letter, but with a great deal of sense, that such a thing as her going to Europe could not be settled by telegraph. She did not think it worth while to report all the facts of a consultation with the rector which they had held upon getting Clementina’s request, and which had renewed all the original question of her relations with Mrs. Lander in an intensified form. He had disposed of this upon much the same terms as before; and they had yielded more readily because the experiment had so far succeeded. Clementina had apparently no complaint to make of Mrs. Lander; she was eager to go, and the rector and his wife, who had been invited to be of the council, were both of the opinion that a course of European travel would be of the greatest advantage to the girl, if she wished to fit herself for teaching. It was an opportunity that they must not think of throwing away. If Mrs. Lander went to Florence, as it seemed from Clementina’s letter she thought of doing, the girl would pass a delightful winter in study of one of the most interesting cities in the world, and she would learn things which would enable her to do better for herself when she came home than she could ever hope to do otherwise. She might never marry, Mr. Richling suggested, and it was only right and fair that she should be equipped with as much culture as possible for the struggle of life; Mrs. Richling agreed with this rather va
gue theory, but she was sure that Clementina would get married to greater advantage in Florence than anywhere else. They neither of them really knew anything at first hand about Florence; the rector’s opinion was grounded on the thought of the joy that a sojourn in Italy would have been to him; his wife derived her hope of a Florentine marriage for Clementina from several romances in which love and travel had gone hand in hand, to the lasting credit of triumphant American girlhood.

  The Claxons were not able to enter into their view of the case, but if Mrs. Lander wanted to go to Florence instead of Florida they did not see why Clementina should not go with her to one place as well as the other. They were not without a sense of flattery from the fact that their daughter was going to Europe; but they put that as far from them as they could, the mother severely and the father ironically, as something too silly, and they tried not to let it weigh with them in making up their mind, but to consider only Clementina’s best good, and not even to regard her pleasure. Her mother put before her the most crucial questions she could think of, in her letter, and then gave her full leave from her father as well as herself to go if she wished.

  Clementina had rather it had been too late to go with the Milrays, but she felt bound to own her decision when she reached it; and Mrs. Milray, whatever her real wish was, made it a point of honor to help get Mrs. Lander berths on her steamer. It did not require much effort; there are plenty of berths for the latest-comers on a winter passage, and Clementina found herself the fellow passenger of Mrs. Milray.

  XVI.

  As soon as Mrs. Lander could make her way to her state-room, she got into her berth, and began to take the different remedies for sea-sickness which she had brought with her. Mrs. Milray said that was nice, and that now she and Clementina could have a good time. But before it came to that she had taken pity on a number of lonely young men whom she found on board. She cheered them up by walking round the ship with them; but if any of them continued dull in spite of this, she dropped him, and took another; and before she had been two days out she had gone through with nearly all the lonely young men on the list of cabin passengers. She introduced some of them to Clementina, but at such times as she had them in charge; and for the most part she left her to Milray. Once, as the girl sat beside him in her steamer-chair, Mrs. Milray shed a wrap on his knees in whirring by on the arm of one of her young men, with some laughed and shouted charge about it.