impatiently where they were tied. Adolph slid back into the
thicket and lay down behind a fallen log to see what would happen.
Not much ever happened to him but weather. Presently he heard low
voices, coming nearer from the ravine. The big stranger who was
visiting at the Forresters' emerged, carrying the buffalo robes on
one arm; Mrs. Forrester herself was clinging to the other. They
walked slowly, wholly absorbed by what they were saying to each
other. When they came up to the sleigh, the man spread the robes
on the seat and put his hands under Mrs. Forrester's arms to lift
her in. But he did not lift her; he stood for a long while holding
her crushed up against his breast, her face hidden in his black
overcoat.
"What about those damned cedar boughs?" he asked, after he had put
her in and covered her up. "Shall I go back and cut some?"
"It doesn't matter," she murmured.
He reached under the seat for a hatchet and went back to the
ravine. Mrs. Forrester sat with her eyes closed, her cheek
pillowed on her muff, a faint, soft smile on her lips. The air was
still and blue; the Blum boy could almost hear her breathe. When
the strokes of the hatchet rang out from the ravine, he could see
her eyelids flutter . . . soft shivers went through her body.
The man came back and threw the evergreens into the sleigh. When
he got in beside her, she slipped her hand through his arm and
settled softly against him. "Drive slowly," she murmured, as if
she were talking in her sleep. "It doesn't matter if we are late
for dinner. Nothing matters." The ponies trotted off.
The pale Blum boy rose from behind his log and followed the tracks
up the ravine. When the orange moon rose over the bluffs, he was
still sitting under the cedars, his gun on his knee. While Mrs.
Forrester had been waiting there in the sleigh, with her eyes
closed, feeling so safe, he could almost have touched her with his
hand. He had never seen her before when her mocking eyes and
lively manner were not between her and all the world. If it had
been Thad Grimes who lay behind that log, now, or Ivy Peters?
But with Adolph Blum her secrets were safe. His mind was feudal;
the rich and fortunate were also the privileged. These warm-
blooded, quick-breathing people took chances,--followed impulses
only dimly understandable to a boy who was wet and weather-chapped
all the year; who waded in the mud fishing for cat, or lay in the
marsh waiting for wild duck. Mrs. Forrester had never been too
haughty to smile at him when he came to the back door with his
fish. She never haggled about the price. She treated him like a
human being. His little chats with her, her nod and smile when she
passed him on the street, were among the pleasantest things he had
to remember. She bought game of him in the closed season, and
didn't give him away.
SIX
It was during that winter, the first one Mrs. Forrester had ever
spent in the house on the hill, that Niel came to know her very
well. For the Forresters that winter was a sort of isthmus between
two estates; soon afterward came a change in their fortunes. And
for Niel it was a natural turning-point, since in the autumn he was
nineteen, and in the spring he was twenty,--a very great difference.
After the Christmas festivities were over, the whist parties
settled into a regular routine. Three evenings a week Judge
Pommeroy and his nephew sat down to cards with the Forresters.
Sometimes they went over early and dined there. Sometimes they
stayed for a late supper after the last rubber. Niel, who had been
so content with a bachelor's life, and who had made up his mind
that he would never live in a place that was under the control of
women, found himself becoming attached to the comforts of a well-
conducted house; to the pleasures of the table, to the soft chairs
and soft lights and agreeable human voices at the Forresters'. On
bitter, windy nights, sitting in his favourite blue chair before
the grate, he used to wonder how he could manage to tear himself
away, to plunge into the outer darkness, and run down the long
frozen road and up the dead street of the town. Captain Forrester
was experimenting with bulbs that winter, and had built a little
glass conservatory on the south side of the house, off the back
parlour. Through January and February the house was full of
narcissus and Roman hyacinths, and their heavy, spring-like odour
made a part of the enticing comfort of the fireside there.
Where Mrs. Forrester was, dulness was impossible, Niel believed.
The charm of her conversation was not so much in what she said,
though she was often witty, but in the quick recognition of her
eyes, in the living quality of her voice itself. One could talk
with her about the most trivial things, and go away with a high
sense of elation. The secret of it, he supposed, was that she
couldn't help being interested in people, even very commonplace
people. If Mr. Ogden or Mr. Dalzell were not there to tell their
best stories for her, then she could be amused by Ivy Peters'
ruffianly manners, or the soft compliments of old man Elliott when
he sold her a pair of winter shoes. She had a fascinating gift of
mimicry. When she mentioned the fat iceman, or Thad Grimes at his
meat block, or the Blum boys with their dead rabbits, by a subtle
suggestion of their manner she made them seem more individual and
vivid than they were in their own person. She often caricatured
people to their faces, and they were not offended, but greatly
flattered. Nothing pleased one more than to provoke her laughter.
Then you felt you were getting on with her. It was her form of
commenting, of agreeing with you and appreciating you when you said
something interesting,--and it often told you a great deal that was
both too direct and too elusive for words.
Long, long afterward, when Niel did not know whether Mrs. Forrester
were living or dead, if her image flashed into his mind, it came
with a brightness of dark eyes, her pale triangular cheeks with
long earrings, and her many-coloured laugh. When he was dull, dull
and tired of everything, he used to think that if he could hear
that long-lost lady laugh again, he could be gay.
The big storm of the winter came late that year; swept down over
Sweet Water the first day of March and beat upon the town for three
days and nights. Thirty inches of snow fell, and the cutting wind
blew it into whirling drifts. The Forresters were snowed in. Ben
Keezer, their man of all work, did not attempt to break a road or
even to come over to the town himself. On the third day Niel went
to the post-office, got the Captain's leather mail sack with its
accumulation of letters, and set off across the creek, plunging
into drifts up to his middle, sometimes up to his arm-pits. The
fences along the lane were covered, but he broke his trail by
keeping between the two lines of poplars. When at last he reached
the front porch, Captain Forrester came to the door and let him in.
"Glad to see you, my boy, very glad. It's been a little lonesome
for us. You must have had hard work getting over. I certainly
appreciate it. Come to the sitting-room fire and dry yourself. We
will talk quietly. Mrs. Forrester has gone upstairs to lie down;
she's been complaining of a headache."
Niel stood before the fire in his rubber boots, drying his
trousers. The Captain did not sit down but opened the glass door
into his little conservatory.
"I've something pretty to show you, Niel. All my hyacinths are
coming along at once, every colour of the rainbow. The Roman
hyacinths, I say, are Mrs. Forrester's. They seem to suit her."
Niel went to the door and looked with keen pleasure at the fresh,
watery blossoms. "I was afraid you might lose them in this bitter
weather, Captain."
"No, these things can stand a good deal of cold. They've been
company for us." He stood looking out through the glass at the
drifted shrubbery. Niel liked to see him look out over his place.
A man's house is his castle, his look seemed to say. "Ben tells me
the rabbits have come up to the barn to eat the hay, everything
green is covered up. I had him throw a few cabbages out for them,
so they won't suffer. Mrs. Forrester has been on the porch every
day, feeding the snow birds," he went on, as if talking to himself.
The stair door opened, and Mrs. Forrester came down in her Japanese
dressing-gown, looking very pale.
The dark shadows under her eyes seemed to mean that she had been
losing sleep.
"Oh, it's Niel! How nice of you. And you've brought the mail.
Are there any letters for me?"
"Three. Two from Denver and one from California." Her husband
gave them to her. "Did you sleep, Maidy?"
"No, but I rested. It's delightful up in the west room, the wind
sings and whistles about the eaves. If you'll excuse me, I'll
dress and glance at my letters. Stand closer to the fire, Niel.
Are you very wet?" When she stopped beside him to feel his
clothes, he smelled a sharp odour of spirits. Was she ill, he
herself?
When she came back she had dressed and rearranged her hair.
"Mrs. Forrester," said the Captain in a solicitous tone, "I believe
I would like some tea and toast this afternoon, like your English
friends, and it would be good for your head. We won't offer Niel
anything else."
"Very well. Mary has gone to bed with a toothache, but I will make
the tea. Niel can make the toast here by the fire while you read
your paper."
She was cheerful now,--tied one of Mary's aprons about Niel's neck
and set him down with the toasting fork. He noticed that the
Captain, as he read his paper, kept his eye on the sideboard with a
certain watchfulness, and when his wife brought the tray with tea,
and no sherry, he seemed very much pleased. He drank three cups,
and took a second piece of toast.
"You see, Mr. Forrester," she said lightly, "Niel has brought back
my appetite. I ate no lunch to-day," turning to the boy, "I've
been shut up too long. Is there anything in the papers?"
This meant was there any news concerning the people they knew. The
Captain put on his silver-rimmed glasses again and read aloud about
the doings of their friends in Denver and Omaha and Kansas City.
Mrs. Forrester sat on a stool by the fire, eating toast and making
humorous comments upon the subjects of those solemn paragraphs; the
engagement of Miss Erma Salton-Smith, etc.
"At last, thank God! You remember her, Niel. She's been here.
I think you danced with her."
"I don't think I do. What is she like?"
"She's exactly like her name. Don't you remember? Tall, very
animated, glittering eyes, like the Ancient Mariner's?"
Niel laughed. "Don't you like bright eyes, Mrs. Forrester?"
"Not any others, I don't!" She joined in his laugh so gaily that
the Captain looked out over his paper with an expression of
satisfaction. He let the journal slowly crumple on his knees, and
sat watching the two beside the grate. To him they seemed about
the same age. It was a habit with him to think of Mrs. Forrester
as very, very young.
She noticed that he was not reading. "Would you like me to light
the lamp, Mr. Forrester?"
"No, thank you. The twilight is very pleasant."
It was twilight by now. They heard Mary come downstairs and begin
stirring about the kitchen. The Captain, his slippers in the zone
of firelight and his heavy shoulders in shadow, snored from time to
time. As the room grew dusky, the windows were squares of clear,
pale violet, and the shutters ceased to rattle. The wind was dying
with the day. Everything was still, except when Bohemian Mary
roughly clattered a pan. Mrs. Forrester whispered that she was out
of sorts because her sweetheart, Joe Pucelik, hadn't been over to
see her. Sunday night was his regular night, and Sunday was the
first day of the blizzard. "When she's neglected, her tooth always
begins to ache!"
"Well, now that I've got over, he'll have to come, or she will be
in a temper."
"Oh, he'll come!" Mrs. Forrester shrugged. "I am blind and deaf,
but I'm quite sure she makes it worth his while!" After a few
moments she rose. "Come," she whispered, "Mr. Forrester is asleep.
Let's run down the hill, there's no one to stop us. I'll slip on
my rubber boots. No objections!" She put her fingers on his lips.
"Not a word! I can't stand this house a moment longer."
They slipped quietly out of the front door into the cold air which
tasted of new-fallen snow. A clear arc of blue and rose colour
painted the west, over the buried town. When they reached the
rounded breast of the hill, blown almost bare, Mrs. Forrester stood
still and drew in deep breaths, looking down over the drifted
meadows and the stiff, blue poplars.
"Oh, but it is bleak!" she murmured. "Suppose we should have to
stay here all next winter, too, . . . and the next! What will
become of me, Niel?" There was fear, unmistakable fright in her
voice. "You see there is nothing for me to do. I get no exercise.
I don't skate; we didn't in California, and my ankles are weak.
I've always danced in the winter, there's plenty of dancing at
Colorado Springs. You wouldn't believe how I miss it. I shall
dance till I'm eighty. . . . I'll be the waltzing grandmother!
They plunged down into the drifts and did not stop again until they
reached the wooden bridge.
"See, even the creek is frozen! I thought running water never
froze. How long will it be like this?"
"Not long now. In a month you'll see the green begin in the marsh
and run over the meadows. It's lovely over here in the spring.
And you'll be able to get out tomorrow, Mrs. Forrester. The clouds
are thinning. Look, there's the new moon!"
She turned. "Oh, I saw it over the wrong shoulder!"
"No you didn't. You saw it over mine."
She sighed and took his arm. "My dear boy, your shoulders aren't
broad enough."
Instantly before his eyes rose the image of a pair of shoulders
that were very broad, objectionably broad, clad in a frogged
overcoat with an astrachan collar. The intrusion of this third
person annoyed him as they went slowly back up the hill.
Curiously enough, it was as Captain Forrester's wife that she most
interested Niel, and it was in her relation to her husband that he
most admired her. Given her other charming attributes, her
comprehension of a man like the railroad-builder, her loyalty to
him, stamped her more than anything else. That, he felt, was
quality; something that could never become worn or shabby; steel of
Damascus. His admiration of Mrs. Forrester went back to that, just
as, he felt, she herself went back to it. He rather liked the
stories, even the spiteful ones, about the gay life she led in
Colorado, and the young men she kept dangling about her every
winter. He sometimes thought of the life she might have been
living ever since he had known her,--and the one she had chosen to
live. From that disparity, he believed, came the subtlest thrill
of her fascination. She mocked outrageously at the proprieties she
observed, and inherited the magic of contradictions.
SEVEN
On the evenings when there was no whist at the Forresters', Niel
usually sat in his room and read,--but not law, as he was supposed
to do. The winter before, when the Forresters were away, and one
dull day dragged after another, he had come upon a copious
diversion, an almost inexhaustible resource. The high, narrow
bookcase in the back office, between the double doors and the wall,
was filled from top to bottom with rows of solemn looking volumes
bound in dark cloth, which were kept apart from the law library; an
almost complete set of the Bohn classics, which Judge Pommeroy had
bought long ago when he was a student at the University of
Virginia. He had brought them West with him, not because he read
them a great deal, but because, in his day, a gentleman had such
books in his library, just as he had claret in his cellar. Among
them was a set of Byron in three volumes, and last winter, apropos
of a quotation which Niel didn't recognize, his uncle advised him
to read Byron,--all except "Don Juan." That, the Judge remarked,
with a deep smile, he "could save until later." Niel, of course,
began with "Don Juan." Then he read "Tom Jones" and "Wilhelm
Meister" and raced on until he came to Montaigne and a complete
translation of Ovid. He hadn't finished yet with these last,--
always went back to them after other experiments. These authors
seemed to him to know their business. Even in "Don Juan" there was
a little "fooling," but with these gentlemen none.
There were philosophical works in the collection, but he did no
more than open and glance at them. He had no curiosity about what
men had thought; but about what they had felt and lived, he had a
great deal. If anyone had told him that these were classics and
represented the wisdom of the ages, he would doubtless have let
them alone. But ever since he had first found them for himself, he
had been living a double life, with all its guilty enjoyments. He
read the Heroides over and over, and felt that they were the most
glowing love stories ever told. He did not think of these books as
something invented to beguile the idle hour, but as living
creatures, caught in the very behaviour of living,--surprised
behind their misleading severity of form and phrase. He was
eavesdropping upon the past, being let into the great world that
had plunged and glittered and sumptuously sinned long before little