One of Ours, Willa Cather [feel good fiction books txt] 📗

the desire to speak struggled there. But he had no words, no way to make himself understood. He had no argument to present. What he wanted to do was to hold up life as he had found it, like a picture, to his young friend; to warn him, without explanation, against certain heartbreaking disappointments. It could not be done, he saw. The dead might as well try to speak to the living as the old to the young. The only way that Claude could ever come to share his secret, was to live. His strong yellow teeth closed tighter and tighter on the cigar, which had gone out like the first. He did not look at Claude, but while he watched the wind plough soft, flowery roads in the field, the boy’s face was clearly before him, with its expression of reticent pride melting into the desire to please, and the slight stiffness of his shoulders, set in a kind of stubborn loyalty. Claude lay on the sod beside him, rather tired after his walk in the sun, a little melancholy, though he did not know why.

After a long while Mr. Royce unclasped his broad, thick-fingered miller’s hands, and for a moment took out the macerated cigar. “Well, Claude,” he said with determined cheerfulness, “we’ll always be better friends than is common between father and son-in-law. You’ll find out that pretty nearly everything you believe about life⁠—about marriage, especially⁠—is lies. I don’t know why people prefer to live in that sort of a world, but they do.”

VI

After his interview with Mr. Royce, Claude drove directly to the mill house. As he came up the shady road, he saw with disappointment the flash of two white dresses instead of one, moving about in the sunny flower garden. The visitor was Gladys Farmer. This was her vacation time. She had walked out to the mill in the cool of the morning to spend the day with Enid. Now they were starting off to gather water-cresses, and had stopped in the garden to smell the heliotrope. On this scorching afternoon the purple sprays gave out a fragrance that hung over the flowerbed and brushed their cheeks like a warm breath. The girls looked up at the same moment and recognized Claude. They waved to him and hurried down to the gate to congratulate him on his recovery. He took their little tin pails and followed them around the old dam-head and up a sandy gorge, along a clear thread of water that trickled into Lovely Creek just above the mill. They came to the gravelly hill where the stream took its source from a spring hollowed out under the exposed roots of two elm trees. All about the spring, and in the sandy bed of the shallow creek, the cresses grew cool and green.

Gladys had strong feelings about places. She looked around her with satisfaction. “Of all the places where we used to play, Enid, this was my favourite,” she declared.

“You girls sit up there on the elm roots,” Claude suggested. “Wherever you put your foot in this soft gravel, water gathers. You’ll spoil your white shoes. I’ll get the cress for you.”

“Stuff my pail as full as you can, then,” Gladys called as they sat down. “I wonder why the Spanish dagger grows so thick on this hill, Enid? These plants were old and tough when we were little. I love it here.”

She leaned back upon the hot, glistening hillside. The sun came down in red rays through the elm-tops, and all the pebbles and bits of quartz glittered dazzlingly. Down in the stream bed the water, where it caught the light, twinkled like tarnished gold. Claude’s sandy head and stooping shoulders were mottled with sunshine as they moved about over the green patches, and his duck trousers looked much whiter than they were. Gladys was too poor to travel, but she had the good fortune to be able to see a great deal within a few miles of Frankfort, and a warm imagination helped her to find life interesting. She did, as she confided to Enid, want to go to Colorado; she was ashamed of never having seen a mountain.

Presently Claude came up the bank with two shining, dripping pails. “Now may I sit down with you for a few minutes?”

Moving to make room for him beside her, Enid noticed that his thin face was heavily beaded with perspiration. His pocket handkerchief was wet and sandy, so she gave him her own, with a proprietary air. “Why, Claude, you look quite tired! Have you been overdoing? Where were you before you came here?”

“I was out in the country with your father, looking at his alfalfa.”

“And he walked you all over the field in the hot sun, I suppose?”

Claude laughed. “He did.”

“Well, I’ll scold him tonight. You stay here and rest. I am going to drive Gladys home.”

Gladys protested, but at last consented that they should both drive her home in Claude’s car. They lingered awhile, however, listening to the soft, amiable bubbling of the spring; a wise, unobtrusive voice, murmuring night and day, continually telling the truth to people who could not understand it.

When they went back to the house Enid stopped long enough to cut a bunch of heliotrope for Mrs. Farmer⁠—though with the sinking of the sun its rich perfume had already vanished. They left Gladys and her flowers and cresses at the gate of the white cottage, now half hidden by gaudy trumpet vines.

Claude turned his car and went back along the dim, twilight road with Enid. “I usually like to see Gladys, but when I found her with you this afternoon, I was terribly disappointed for a minute. I’d just been talking with your father, and I wanted to come straight to you. Do you think you could marry me, Enid?”

“I don’t believe it would be for the best, Claude.” She spoke sadly.

He took her passive hand. “Why not?”

“My mind is full of other plans. Marriage