The set in which Clara and the clergyman were partners was the most exciting of the afternoon. The space on either side of the court was quite filled with spectators. Some of the older people who had come with the lengthening shadows sat on chairs brought from the kitchens of the adjoining houses. Among them was Mr. Leeds, his face animated. Whenever a ball went very high up or very far down the lot, he cried, "Hooray!" Clara was at the net facing the street, when the carriage she had observed in the morning stopped in view, and the two soberly dressed women leaned forward to watch the play. Clara felt her face burn, and when they cried "game," she could not remember whether the clergyman and she had won it or lost it. She was chiefly conscious of her father's loud "hoorays." With the end of the play the carriage was driven on.
Shortly before supper-time that evening Clara went to the drug-store to buy some stamps. One of the Misses Rockwood was standing by the show-case waiting for the clerk to wrap up a bottle. Clara noted the scantily trimmed hat and the scuffed gloves. She nodded in response to Miss Rockwood's bow. They had met but once.
"That was a glorious game of tennis you were having this afternoon," said Miss Rockwood, with a warm smile. "My sister and I should like to have seen more of it. You all seemed to be having such a good time."
"You all—"
Clara fumbled her change. "It's—it's good exercise," she said. That night she cried herself to sleep.
II
The rector married the younger Miss Rockwood. To Clara Leeds the match afforded painfully pleasurable feeling. It was so eminently fitting; and yet it was hard to believe that any man could see anything in Miss Rockwood. His courtship had been in keeping with the man, dignified and yet bold. Clara had met them several times together. She always hurried past. The rector bowed quietly. He seemed to say to all the world, "I have chosen me a woman." His manner defied gossip; there was none that Clara heard. This immunity of theirs distilled the more bitterness in her heart because gossip was now at the heels of her and Mr. Copple, following them as chickens do the feed-box. She knew it from such transmissions as, "But doubtless Mr. Copple has already told you," or, "You ought to know, if any one does."
It had been some time apparent to Clara that the minister held her in a different regard from the other members of his congregation. His talks with her were more personal; his manner was bashfully eager. He sought to present the congeniality of their minds. Mr. Copple had a nice taste in poetry, but somehow Clara, in after-reading, skipped those poems that he had read aloud to her. On several occasions she knew that a declaration was imminent. She extricated herself with a feeling of unspeakable relief. It would not be a simple matter to refuse him. Their relations had been peculiar, and to tell him that she did not love him would not suffice in bringing them to an end. Mr. Copple was odious to her. She could not have explained why clearly, yet she knew. And she would have blushed in the attempt to explain why; it would have revealed a detestation of her lot. Clara had lately discovered the meaning of the word "plebeian"; more, she believed she comprehended its applicableness. The word was a burr in her thoughts. Mr. Copple was the personification of the word. Clara had not repulsed him. You do not do that sort of thing in a small town. She knew intuitively that the clergyman would not be satisfied with the statement that he was not loved. She also knew that he would extract part, at least, of the real reason from her. It is more painful for a lover to learn that he is not liked than that he is not loved. Clara did not wish to cause him pain.
She was spared the necessity. The minister fell from a scaffolding on the new church and was picked up dead.
Clara's position was pitiful. Sudden death does not grow less shocking because of its frequency. Clara shared the common shock, but not the common grief. Fortunately, as hers was supposed to be a peculiar grief, she could manifest it in a peculiar way. She chose silence. The shock had bereft her of much thought. Death had laid a hand over the mouth of her mind. But deep down a feeling of relief swam in her heart. She gave it no welcome, but it would take no dismissal.