by Willa Cather
II
SOON after I got home that summer I persuaded my grandparents to havetheir photographs taken, and one morning I went into the photographer'sshop to arrange for sittings. While I was waiting for him to come out ofhis developing-room, I walked about trying to recognize the likenesses onhis walls: girls in Commencement dresses, country brides and groomsholding hands, family groups of three generations. I noticed, in a heavyframe, one of those depressing "crayon enlargements" often seen infarmhouse parlors, the subject being a round-eyed baby in short dresses.The photographer came out and gave a constrained, apologetic laugh.
"That's Tony Shimerda's baby. You remember her; she used to be theHarling's Tony. Too bad! She seems proud of the baby, though; would n'thear to a cheap frame for the picture. I expect her brother will be in forit Saturday."
I went away feeling that I must see Antonia again. Another girl would havekept her baby out of sight, but Tony, of course, must have its picture onexhibition at the town photographer's, in a great gilt frame. How likeher! I could forgive her, I told myself, if she had n't thrown herselfaway on such a cheap sort of fellow.
Larry Donovan was a passenger conductor, one of those train-crewaristocrats who are always afraid that some one may ask them to put up acar-window, and who, if requested to perform such a menial service,silently point to the button that calls the porter. Larry wore this air ofofficial aloofness even on the street, where there were no car-windows tocompromise his dignity. At the end of his run he stepped indifferentlyfrom the train along with the passengers, his street hat on his head andhis conductor's cap in an alligator-skin bag, went directly into thestation and changed his clothes. It was a matter of the utmost importanceto him never to be seen in his blue trousers away from his train. He wasusually cold and distant with men, but with all women he had a silent,grave familiarity, a special handshake, accompanied by a significant,deliberate look. He took women, married or single, into his confidence;walked them up and down in the moonlight, telling them what a mistake hehad made by not entering the office branch of the service, and how muchbetter fitted he was to fill the post of General Passenger Agent in Denverthan the roughshod man who then bore that title. His unappreciated worthwas the tender secret Larry shared with his sweethearts, and he was alwaysable to make some foolish heart ache over it.
As I drew near home that morning, I saw Mrs. Harling out in her yard,digging round her mountain-ash tree. It was a dry summer, and she had nowno boy to help her. Charley was off in his battleship, cruising somewhereon the Caribbean sea. I turned in at the gate--it was with a feeling ofpleasure that I opened and shut that gate in those days; I liked the feelof it under my hand. I took the spade away from Mrs. Harling, and while Iloosened the earth around the tree, she sat down on the steps and talkedabout the oriole family that had a nest in its branches.
"Mrs. Harling," I said presently, "I wish I could find out exactly howAntonia's marriage fell through."
"Why don't you go out and see your grandfather's tenant, the WidowSteavens? She knows more about it than anybody else. She helped Antoniaget ready to be married, and she was there when Antonia came back. Shetook care of her when the baby was born. She could tell you everything.Besides, the Widow Steavens is a good talker, and she has a remarkablememory."
