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By Root 5089 0

little toes. I’ll take her now.” “Let her suck for a little while,” says Clarissa. “Let her finish her dinner,” says I. “Well, you ain’t going to take the baby with you,” says she, “and since you ain’t going to take the baby with you and since she ain’t going to be your baby there’s no point in your suckling her.” “Let her suck for a little while longer,” says Clarissa. “I’m not one to judge others,” says she, “and I don’t put my nose in their business but if you hadn’t done wrong you wouldn’t be coming out here to have your baby in this Godforsaken place and when a baby drinks milk from a mother who’s done wrong all the wickedness and sinfulness and lustfulness goes right into the baby through its mother’s milk,” says she. “You’ve got a wicked tongue,” I said, “and we’d appreciate it if you’d leave us alone now.” “Let her suck for a little while longer,” Clarissa said. “I’m only doing what I’m paid to do,” she said, “and what’s more she’s God’s little creature and it ain’t fair to have her imbibing all the weaknesses of another the first thing in her life.” “Leave us alone,” I said. “She’s right, Leander,” Clarissa said and she took the child off her pretty breast and gave it to the intruder. Then she turned her face away and cried.

She cried all the day long; she cried all night. She cried the bed full of tears. In the morning I helped her dress. She was too weak to dress herself, too weak even to lift her dark hair, and I lifted it for her and held it while she put it up with pins. There was a nine-o’clock train to Boston and I sent a message for a livery to pick us up in time to get it. Then I packed the valises and carried them out to the side of the road. Then I heard the landlady screaming: “You, you, where is she?” Oh, she looked then like a harpy. “She’s run away. Go up to the Dexters’, go up the Dexter path. I’ll go down by the shell road. We’ve got to head her off.” Off she goes in her muddy boots. Off goes former livery-stable proprietor with his manure fork. Pursued quarry over horizon. Heard baby crying in garden. Whimper, really. She had flown; but she had not gone far.

Pear tree in garden pruned to look like fountain, sunshade perhaps. Graceful tent of leaves. Under this she sat. Bodice unbuttoned. Camisole unlaced. Child at breast. Fretful crying. Did not speak; she and me. Eyes only. No explanations, names even. Child sucking, but crying also. A little rain began to fall; but not on us. Pear tree served as adequate shelter. Baby fell asleep. How long we sat there I don’t know. Half hour perhaps. Watched oyster-shell road darken in rain. Still no drops touched us. “I have more tears than milk,” she said. “I have more tears than milk. I’ve cried my breasts dry.” Carried sleeping baby, sheltered by head, shoulders from rain, back to soapbox in kitchen near stove. Took livery to station.

Have no wish to dwell on sordid matters, sorrows, etc. Bestiality of grief. Times in life when we can count only on brute will to live. Forget. Forget. (By this Leander meant to say that Clarissa was drowned in the Charles River that night.) Took cars to St. Botolphs next morning with old mother and poor Clarissa.

Overcast day. Not cold. Variable winds. South, southwest. Hearse at station. Few rubbernecks watching. Father Frisbee said the words. Old man then; old friend. Purple face. Skirts blowing in wind. Showed old-fashioned congress boots. Thick stockings. Family lot on hill above river. Water, hills, fields restore first taste of sense. Never marry again. Roof of old house visible in distance. Abode of rats, squirrels, porcupines. Haunted house for children. Wind slacked off in middle of prayer. Distant, electrical smell of rain. Sound amongst leaves; stubble. Hath but a short span, says Father Frisbee. Full of misery is he. Rain more eloquent, heartening and merciful. Oldest sound to reach porches of man’s ear.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The fat man who had given Coverly pointers on how to shave had begun to come into Coverly’s room at night after supper and give him advice on how to get ahead in the world. He was a