Part One - SEVEN

by Willa Cather

　　On the evenings when there was no whist at the Forresters', Nielusually sat in his room and read,--but not law, as he was supposedto do. The winter before, when the Forresters were away, and onedull day dragged after another, he had come upon a copiousdiversion, an almost inexhaustible resource. The high, narrowbookcase in the back office, between the double doors and the wall,was filled from top to bottom with rows of solemn looking volumesbound in dark cloth, which were kept apart from the law library; analmost complete set of the Bohn classics, which Judge Pommeroy hadbought long ago when he was a student at the University ofVirginia. He had brought them West with him, not because he readthem a great deal, but because, in his day, a gentleman had suchbooks in his library, just as he had claret in his cellar. Amongthem was a set of Byron in three volumes, and last winter, aproposof a quotation which Niel didn't recognize, his uncle advised himto 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 "WilhelmMeister" and raced on until he came to Montaigne and a completetranslation of Ovid. He hadn't finished yet with these last,--always went back to them after other experiments. These authorsseemed to him to know their business. Even in "Don Juan" there wasa little "fooling," but with these gentlemen none.

　　There were philosophical works in the collection, but he did nomore than open and glance at them. He had no curiosity about whatmen had thought; but about what they had felt and lived, he had agreat deal. If anyone had told him that these were classics andrepresented the wisdom of the ages, he would doubtless have letthem alone. But ever since he had first found them for himself, hehad been living a double life, with all its guilty enjoyments. Heread the Heroides over and over, and felt that they were the mostglowing love stories ever told. He did not think of these books assomething invented to beguile the idle hour, but as livingcreatures, caught in the very behaviour of living,--surprisedbehind their misleading severity of form and phrase. He waseavesdropping upon the past, being let into the great world thathad plunged and glittered and sumptuously sinned long before littleWestern towns were dreamed of. Those rapt evenings beside the lampgave him a long perspective, influenced his conception of thepeople about him, made him know just what he wished his ownrelations with these people to be. For some reason, his readingmade him wish to become an architect. If the Judge had left hisBohn library behind him in Kentucky, his nephew's life might haveturned out differently.

　　Spring came at last, and the Forrester place had never been solovely. The Captain spent long, happy days among his floweringshrubs, and his wife used to say to visitors, "Yes, you can see Mr.Forrester in a moment; I will send the English gardener to callhim."

　　Early in June, when the Captain's roses were just coming on, hispleasant labors were interrupted. One morning an alarming telegramreached him. He cut it open with his garden shears, came into thehouse, and asked his wife to telephone for Judge Pommeroy. Asavings bank, one in which he was largely interested, had failed inDenver. That evening the Captain and his lawyer went west on theexpress. The Judge, when he was giving Niel final instructionsabout the office business, told him he was afraid the Captain wasbound to lose a good deal of money.

　　Mrs. Forrester seemed unaware of any danger; she went to thestation to see her husband off, spoke of his errand merely as a"business trip." Niel, however, felt a foreboding gloom. Hedreaded poverty for her. She was one of the people who oughtalways to have money; any retrenchment of their generous way ofliving would be a hardship for her,--would be unfitting. She wouldnot be herself in straitened circumstances.

　　Niel took his meals at the town hotel; on the third day afterCaptain Forrester's departure, he was annoyed to find FrankEllinger's name on the hotel register. Ellinger did not appear atsupper, which meant, of course, that he was dining with Mrs.Forrester, and that the lady herself would get his dinner. She hadtaken the occasion of the Captain's absence to let Bohemian Mary goto visit her mother on the farm for a week. Niel thought it verybad taste in Ellinger to come to Sweet Water when Captain Forresterwas away. He must know that it would stir up the gossips.

　　Niel had meant to call on Mrs. Forrester that evening, but now hewent back to the office instead. He read late, and after he wentto bed, he slept lightly. He was awakened before dawn by thepuffing of the switch engine down at the round house. He tried tomuffle his ears in the sheet and go to sleep again, but the soundof escaping steam for some reason excited him. He could not shutout the feeling that it was summer, and that the dawn would soon beflaming gloriously over the Forresters' marsh. He had awakenedwith that intense, blissful realization of summer which sometimescomes to children in their beds. He rose and dressed quickly. Hewould get over to the hill before Frank Ellinger could intrude hisunwelcome presence, while he was still asleep in the best bedroomof the Wimbleton hotel.

　　An impulse of affection and guardianship drew Niel up the poplar-bordered road in the early light,--though he did not go near thehouse itself, but at the second bridge cut round through the meadowand on to the marsh. The sky was burning with the soft pink andsilver of a cloudless summer dawn. The heavy, bowed grassessplashed him to the knees. All over the marsh, snow-on-the-mountain, globed with dew, made cool sheets of silver, and theswamp milk-weed spread its flat, raspberry-coloured clusters.There was an almost religious purity about the fresh morning air,the tender sky, the grass and flowers with the sheen of early dewupon them. There was in all living things something limpid andjoyous--like the wet, morning call of the birds, flying up throughthe unstained atmosphere. Out of the saffron east a thin, yellow,wine-like sunshine began to gild the fragrant meadows and theglistening tops of the grove. Niel wondered why he did not oftencome over like this, to see the day before men and their activitieshad spoiled it, while the morning was still unsullied, like a gifthanded down from the heroic ages.

　　Under the bluffs that overhung the marsh he came upon thickets ofwild roses, with flaming buds, just beginning to open. Where theyhad opened, their petals were stained with that burning rose-colourwhich is always gone by noon,--a dye made of sunlight and morningand moisture, so intense that it cannot possibly last . . . mustfade, like ecstasy. Niel took out his knife and began to cut thestiff stems, crowded with red thorns.

　　He would make a bouquet for a lovely lady; a bouquet gathered offthe cheeks of morning . . . these roses, only half awake, in thedefencelessness of utter beauty. He would leave them just outsideone of the French windows of her bedroom. When she opened hershutters to let in the light, she would find them,--and they wouldperhaps give her a sudden distaste for coarse worldlings like FrankEllinger.

　　After tying his flowers with a twist of meadow grass, he went upthe hill through the grove and softly round the still house to thenorth side of Mrs. Forrester's own room, where the door-like greenshutters were closed. As he bent to place the flowers on the sill,he heard from within a woman's soft laughter; impatient, indulgent,teasing, eager. Then another laugh, very different, a man's. Andit was fat and lazy,--ended in something like a yawn.

　　Niel found himself at the foot of the hill on the wooden bridge,his face hot, his temples beating, his eyes blind with anger. Inhis hand he still carried the prickly bunch of wild roses. Hethrew them over the wire fence into a mud-hole the cattle hadtrampled under the bank of the creek. He did not know whether hehad left the house by the driveway or had come down through theshrubbery. In that instant between stooping to the window-sill andrising, he had lost one of the most beautiful things in his life.Before the dew dried, the morning had been wrecked for him; and allsubsequent mornings, he told himself bitterly. This day saw theend of that admiration and loyalty that had been like a bloom onhis existence. He could never recapture it. It was gone, like themorning freshness of the flowers.

　　"Lilies that fester," he muttered, "_lilies that fester smell farworse than weeds_."

　　Grace, variety, the lovely voice, the sparkle of fun and fancy inthose dark eyes; all this was nothing. It was not a moral scrupleshe had outraged, but an aesthetic ideal. Beautiful women, whosebeauty meant more than it said . . . was their brilliancy alwaysfed by something coarse and concealed? Was that their secret?