A Lost Lady

by Willa Cather

looked like an old tree walking.

  Once up the steps and into the parlour, he sank into his big chair

  and panted heavily. The first whiff of a fresh cigar seemed to

  restore him. "Can I trouble you to mail some letters for me, Niel,

  as you go by the post-office?" He produced them from the breast

  pocket of his summer coat. "Let me see whether Mrs. Forrester has

  anything to go." Rising, the Captain went into the little hall.

  There, by the front door, on a table under the hat rack, was a

  scantily draped figure, an Arab or Egyptian slave girl, holding in

  her hands a large flat shell from the California coast. Niel

  remembered noticing that figure the first time he was ever in the

  house, when Dr. Dennison carried him out through this hallway with

  his arm in splints. In the days when the Forresters had servants

  and were sending over to the town several times a day, the letters

  for the post were always left in this shell. The Captain found one

  now, and handed it to Niel. It was addressed to Mr. Francis

  Bosworth Ellinger, Glenwood Springs, Colorado.

  For some reason Niel felt embarrassed and tried to slip the letter

  quickly into his pocket. The Captain, his two canes in one hand,

  prevented him. He took the pale blue envelope again, and held it

  out at arm's length, regarding it.

  "Mrs. Forrester is a fine penman; have you ever noticed? Always

  was. If she made me a list of articles to get at the store, I

  never had to hide it. It was like copper plate. That's

  exceptional in a woman, Niel."

  Niel remembered her hand well enough, he had never seen another in

  the least like it; long, thin, angular letters, curiously delicate

  and curiously bold, looped and laced with strokes fine as a hair

  and perfectly distinct. Her script looked as if it had been done

  at a high pitch of speed, the pen driven by a perfectly confident

  dexterity.

  "Oh, yes, Captain! I'm never able to take any letters for Mrs.

  Forrester without looking at them. No one could forget her

  writing."

  "Yes. It's very exceptional." The Captain gave him the envelope,

  and with his canes went slowly toward his big chair.

  Niel had often wondered just how much the Captain knew. Now, as he

  went down the hill, he felt sure that he knew everything; more than

  anyone else; all there was to know about Marian Forrester.

  THREE

  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 glasses. "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

&n
bsp; 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

  death. After a glass or two of champagne they went to sleep and

  had nothing to say! I always look better after the first glass,--

  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.

  FOUR

  The weather was dry and intensely hot for several weeks, and then,

  at the end of July, thunder-storms and torrential rains broke upon

  the Sweet Water valley. The river burst out of its banks, all the

  creeks were up, and the stubble of Ivy Peters' wheat fields lay

  under water. A wide lake and two rushing creeks now separated the

  Forresters from the town. Ben Keezer rode over to them every day

 
; to do the chores and to take them their mail. One evening Ben,

  with his slicker and leather mailbag, had just come out of the

  post-office and was preparing to mount his horse, when Niel Herbert

  stopped him to ask in a low voice whether he had got the Denver

  paper.

  "Oh, yes. I always wait for the papers. She likes to have them to

  read of an evening. Guess it's pretty lonesome over there." He

  swung into his saddle and splashed off. Niel walked slowly around

  to the hotel for dinner. He had found something very disconcerting

  in the Denver paper: Frank Ellinger's picture on the society page,

  along with Constance Ogden's. They had been married yesterday at

  Colorado Springs, and were stopping at the Antlers.

  After supper Niel put on his rubber coat and started for the

  Forresters'. When he reached the first creek, he found that the

  footbridge had been washed out from the far bank and lay obliquely

  in the stream, battered at by the yellow current which might at any

  moment carry it away. One could not cross the ford without a

  horse. He looked irresolutely across the submerged bottom lands.

  The house was dark, no lights in the parlour windows. The rain was

  beginning to fall again. Perhaps she had rather be alone tonight.

  He would go over tomorrow.

  He went back to the law office and tried to make himself

  comfortable, though the place was in distracting disorder. The

  continued rain had set one of the chimneys leaking, had brought

  down streams of soot and black water and flooded the stove and the

  Judge's once handsome Brussels carpet. The tinner had been there

  all afternoon, trying to find what was the matter with the flue,

  cutting a new sheet-iron drawer to fit under the stove-pipe. But

  at six o'clock he had gone away, leaving tools and sheets of metal

  lying about. The rooms were damp and cold. Niel put on a heavy

  sweater, since he could not have a fire, lit the big coal-oil lamp,

  and sat down with a book. When at last he looked at his watch, it

  was nearly midnight, and he had been reading three hours. He would

  have another pipe, and go to bed. He had scarcely lit it, when he

  heard quick, hurrying footsteps in the echoing corridor outside.

  He got to the door in an instant, was there to open it before Mrs.

  Forrester had time to knock. He caught her by the arm and pulled

  her in.

  Everything but her wet, white face was hidden by a black rubber hat

  and a coat that was much too big for her. Streams of water

  trickled from the coat, and when she opened it he saw that she was

  drenched to the waist,--her black dress clung in a muddy pulp about

  her.

  "Mrs. Forrester," he cried, "you can't have crossed the creek!

  It's up to a horse's belly in the ford."

  "I came over the bridge, what's left of it. It shook under me, but

  I'm not heavy." She threw off her hat and wiped the water from her

  face with her hands.

  "Why didn't you ask Ben to bring you over on his horse? Here,

  please swallow this."

  She pushed his hand aside. "Wait. Afterwards. Ben? I didn't

  think until after he was gone. It's the telephone I want, long

  distance. Get me Colorado Springs, the Antlers, quick!"

  Then Niel noticed that she smelled strong of spirits; it steamed

  above the smell of rubber and creek mud and wet cloth. She

  snatched up the desk telephone, but he gently took it from her.

  "I'll get them for you, but you're in no condition to talk now;

  you're out of breath. Do you really want to talk tonight? You

  know Mrs. Beasley will hear every word you say." Mrs. Beasley was

  the Sweet Water central, and an indefatigable reporter of

  everything that went over the wires.

  Mrs. Forrester, sitting in his uncle's desk chair, tapped the

  carpet with the toe of her rubber boot. "Do hurry, please," she

  said in that polite, warning tone of which even Ivy Peters was