Willa Cather - A Lost Lady (Chap. 2.3) lyrics

Niel had planned to do a great deal of reading in the Forresters' grove that summer, but he did not go over so often as he had intended. The frequent appearance of Ivy Peters about the place irritated him. Ivy visited his new wheat fields on the bottom land very often; and he always took the old path, that led from what was once the marsh, up the steep bank and through the grove. He was likely to appear at any hour, his trousers stuffed into his top-boots, tramping along between the rows of trees with an air of proprietorship. He shut the gate behind the house with a slam and went whistling through the yard. Often he stopped at the kitchen door to call out some pleasantry to Mrs. Forrester. This annoyed Niel, for at that hour of the morning, when she was doing her housework, Mrs. Forrester was not dressed to receive her inferiors. It was one thing to greet the president of the Colorado & Utah en deshabille, but it was another to chatter with a coarse-grained fellow like Ivy Peters in her wrapper and slippers, her sleeves rolled up and her throat bare to his cool, impudent eyes. Sometimes Ivy strode through the rose plot where Captain Forrester was sitting in the sun, — went by without looking at him, as if there were no one there. If he spoke to the Captain at all, he did so as if he were addressing someone incapable of understanding anything. “Hullo, Captain, ain't afraid this sun will spoil your complexion?” or “Well, Captain, you'll have to get the prayer-meetings to take up this rain question. The drought's damned bad for my wheat.” One morning, as Niel was coming up through the grove, he heard laughter by the gate, and there he saw Ivy, with his gun, talking to Mrs. Forrester. She was bareheaded, her skirts blowing in the wind, her arm through the handle of a big tin bucket that rested on the fence beside her. Ivy stood with his hat on his head, but there was in his attitude that unmistakable something which shows that a man is trying to make himself agreeable to a woman. He was telling her a funny story, probably an improper one, for it brought out her naughtiest laugh, with something nervous and excited in it, as if he were going too far. At the end of his story Ivy himself broke into his farm-hand guffaw. Mrs. Forrester shook her ringer at him and, catching up her pail, ran back into the house. She bent a little with its weight, but Ivy made no offer to carry it for her. He let her trip away with it as if she were a kitchen maid, and that were her business. Niel emerged from the grove, and stopped where the Captain sat in the garden. “Good-morning, Captain Forrester. Was that Ivy Peters who just went through here? That fellow hasn't the manners of a pig!” he blurted out. The Captain pointed to Mrs. Forrester's empty chair. “Sit down, Niel, sit down.” He drew his handkerchief from his pocket and began polishing his gla**es. “No,” he said quietly, “he ain't overly polite.” More than if he had complained bitterly, that guarded admission made one feel how much he had been hurt and offended by Ivy's rudeness. There was something very sad in his voice, and helpless. From his equals, respect had always come to him as his due; from fellows like Ivy he had been able to command it, — to order them off his place, or dismiss them from his employ. Niel sat down and smoked a cigar with him. They had a long talk about the building of the Black Hills branch of the Burlington. In Boston last winter Niel had met an old mine-owner, who was living in Deadwood when the railroad first came in. When Niel asked him if he had known Daniel Forrester, the old gentleman said, “Forrester? Was he the one with the beautiful wife?” “You must tell her,” said the Captain, stroking the warm surface of his sun-dial. “Yes, indeed. You must tell Mrs. Forrester.” One night in the first week of July, a night of glorious moonlight, Niel found himself unable to read, or to stay indoors at all. He walked aimlessly down the wide, empty street, and crossed the first creek by the footbridge. The wide ripe fields, the whole country, seemed like a sleeping garden. One trod the dusty roads softly, not to disturb the deep slumber of the world. In the Forrester lane the scent of sweet clover hung heavy. It had always grown tall and green here ever since Niel could remember; the Captain would never let it be cut until the weeds were mowed in the fall. The black, plume-like shadows of the poplars fell across the lane and over Ivy Peters' wheat fields. As he walked on, Niel saw a white figure standing on the bridge over the second creek, motionless in the clear moonlight. He hurried forward. Mrs. Forrester was looking down at the water where it flowed bright over the pebbles. He came up beside her. “The Captain is asleep?” “Oh, yes, long ago! He sleeps well, thank heaven! After I tuck him in, I have nothing more to worry about.” While they were standing there, talking in low voices, they heard a heavy door slam on the hill. Mrs. Forrester started and looked back over her shoulder. A man emerged from the shadow of the house and came striding down the drive-way. Ivy Peters stepped upon the bridge. “Good evening,” he said to Mrs. Forrester, neither calling her by name nor removing his hat. “I see you have company. I've just been up looking at the old barn, to see if the stalls are fit to put horses in there tomorrow. I'm going to start cutting wheat in the morning, and we'll have to put the horses in your stable at noon. We'd lose time taking them back to town.” “Why, certainly. The horses can go in our barn. I'm sure Mr. Forrester would have no objection.” She spoke as if he had asked her permission. “Oh!” Ivy shrugged. “The men will begin down here at six o'clock. I won't get over till about ten, and I have to meet a client at my office at three. Maybe you could give me some lunch, to save time.” His impudence made her smile. “Very well, then; I invite you to lunch. We lunch at one.” “Thanks. It will help me out.” As if he had forgotten himself, he lifted his hat, and went down the lane swinging it in his hand. Niel stood looking after him. “Why do you allow him to speak to you like that, Mrs. Forrester? If you'll let me, I'll give him a beating and teach him how to speak to you.” “No, no, Niel! Remember, we have to get along with Ivy Peters, we simply have to!” There was a note of anxiety in her voice, and she caught his arm. “You don't have to take anything from him, or to stand his bad manners. Anybody else would pay you as much for the land as he does.” “But he has a lease for five years, and he could make it very disagreeable for us, don't you see? Besides,” she spoke hurriedly, “there's more than that. He's invested a little money for me in Wyoming, in land. He gets splendid land from the Indians some way, for next to nothing. Don't tell your uncle; I've no doubt it's crooked. But the Judge is like Mr. Forrester; his methods don't work nowadays. He will never get us out of debt, dear man! He can't get himself out. Ivy Peters is terribly smart, you know. He owns half the town already.” “Not quite,” said Niel grimly. “He's got hold of a good deal of property. He'll take advantage of anybody's necessity. You know he's utterly unscrupulous, don't you? Why didn't you let Mr. Dalzell, or some of your other old friends, invest your money for you?” “Oh, it was too little! Only a few hundred dollars I'd saved on the housekeeping. They would put it into something safe, at six per cent. I know you don't like Ivy, — and he knows it! He's always at his worst before you. He's not so bad as — as his face, for instance!” She laughed nervously. “He honestly wants to help us out of the hole we're in. Coming and going all the time, as he does, he sees everything, and I really think he hates to have me work so hard.” “Next time you have anything to invest, you let me take it to Mr. Dalzell and explain. I'll promise to do as well by you as Ivy Peters can.” Mrs. Forrester took his arm and drew him into the lane. “But, my dear boy, you know nothing about these business schemes. You're not clever that way, — it's one of the things I love you for. I don't admire people who cheat Indians. Indeed I don't!” She shook her head vehemently. “Mrs. Forrester, rascality isn't the only thing that succeeds in business.” “It succeeds faster than anything else, though,” she murmured absently. They walked as far as the end of the lane and turned back again. Mrs. Forrester's hand tightened on his arm. She began speaking abruptly. “You see, two years, three years, more of this, and I could still go back to California — and live again. But after that . . . Perhaps people think I've settled down to grow old gracefully, but I've not. I feel such a power to live in me, Niel.” Her slender fingers gripped his wrist. “It's grown by being held back. Last winter I was with the Dalzells at Glenwood Springs for three weeks (I owe THAT to Ivy Peters; he looked after things here, and his sister kept house for Mr. Forrester), and I was surprised at myself. I could dance all night and not feel tired. I could ride horseback all day and be ready for a dinner party in the evening. I had no clothes, of course; old evening dresses with yards and yards of satin and velvet in them, that Mrs. Dalzell's sewing woman made over. But I looked well enough! Yes, I did. I always know how I'm looking, and I looked well enough. The men thought so. I looked happier than any woman there. They were nearly all younger, much. But they seemed dull, bored to d**h. After a gla** or two of champagne they went to sleep and had nothing to say! I always look better after the first gla**, — it gives me a little colour, it's the only thing that does. I accepted the Dalzell's invitation with a purpose; I wanted to see whether I had anything left worth saving. And I have, I tell you! You would hardly believe it, I could hardly believe it, but I still have!” By this time they had reached the bridge, a bare white floor in the moonlight. Mrs. Forrester had been quickening her pace all the while. “So that's what I'm struggling for, to get out of this hole,” — she looked about as if she had fallen into a deep well, — “out of it! When I'm alone here for months together, I plan and plot. If it weren't for that — ” As Niel walked back to his room behind the law offices, he felt frightened for her. When women began to talk about still feeling young, didn't it mean that something had broken? Two or three years, she said. He shivered. Only yesterday old Dr. Dennison had proudly told him that Captain Forrester might live a dozen. “We are keeping his general health up remarkably, and he was originally a man of iron.” What hope was there for her? He could still feel her hand upon his arm, as she urged him faster and faster up the lane.