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

the effect that Paris seemed suddenly to have become the capital, not of France, but of the world! He knew he was not the only farmer boy who wished himself tonight beside the Marne. The fact that the river had a pronounceable name, with a hard Western r standing like a keystone in the middle of it, somehow gave one’s imagination a firmer hold on the situation. Lying still and thinking fast, Claude felt that even he could clear the bar of French “politeness”⁠—so much more terrifying than German bullets⁠—and slip unnoticed into that outnumbered army. One’s manners wouldn’t matter on the Marne tonight, the night of the eighth of September, 1914. There was nothing on earth he would so gladly be as an atom in that wall of flesh and blood that rose and melted and rose again before the city which had meant so much through all the centuries⁠—but had never meant so much before. Its name had come to have the purity of an abstract idea. In great sleepy continents, in landlocked harvest towns, in the little islands of the sea, for four days men watched that name as they might stand out at night to watch a comet, or to see a star fall. X

It was Sunday afternoon and Claude had gone down to the mill house, as Enid and her mother had returned from Michigan the day before. Mrs. Wheeler, propped back in a rocking chair, was reading, and Mr. Wheeler, in his shirt sleeves, his Sunday collar unbuttoned, was sitting at his walnut secretary, amusing himself with columns of figures. Presently he rose and yawned, stretching his arms above his head.

“Claude thinks he wants to begin building right away, up on the quarter next the timber claim. I’ve been figuring on the lumber. Building materials are cheap just now, so I suppose I’d better let him go ahead.”

Mrs. Wheeler looked up absently from the page. “Why, I suppose so.”

Her husband sat down astride a chair, and leaning his arms on the back of it, looked at her. “What do you think of this match, anyway? I don’t know as I’ve heard you say.”

“Enid is a good, Christian girl⁠ ⁠…” Mrs. Wheeler began resolutely, but her sentence hung in the air like a question.

He moved impatiently. “Yes, I know. But what does a husky boy like Claude want to pick out a girl like that for? Why, Evangeline, she’ll be the old woman over again!”

Apparently these misgivings were not new to Mrs. Wheeler, for she put out her hand to stop him and whispered in solemn agitation, “Don’t say anything! Don’t breathe!”

“Oh, I won’t interfere! I never do. I’d rather have her for a daughter-in-law than a wife, by a long shot. Claude’s more of a fool than I thought him.” He picked up his hat and strolled down to the barn, but his wife did not recover her composure so easily. She left the chair where she had hopefully settled herself for comfort, took up a feather duster and began moving distractedly about the room, brushing the surface of the furniture. When the war news was bad, or when she felt troubled about Claude, she set to cleaning house or overhauling the closets, thankful to be able to put some little thing to rights in such a disordered world.

As soon as the fall planting was done, Claude got the well borers out from town to drill his new well, and while they were at work he began digging his cellar. He was building his house on the level stretch beside his father’s timber claim because, when he was a little boy, he had thought that grove of trees the most beautiful spot in the world. It was a square of about thirty acres, set out in ash and box-elder and cottonwoods, with a thick mulberry hedge on the south side. The trees had been neglected of late years, but if he lived up there he could manage to trim them and care for them at odd moments.

Every morning now he ran up in the Ford and worked at his cellar. He had heard that the deeper a cellar was, the better it was; and he meant that this one should be deep enough. One day Leonard Dawson stopped to see what progress he was making. Standing on the edge of the hole, he shouted to the lad who was sweating below.

“My God, Claude, what do you want of a cellar as deep as that? When your wife takes a notion to go to China, you can open a trap-door and drop her through!”

Claude flung down his pick and ran up the ladder. “Enid’s not going to have notions of that sort,” he said wrathfully.

“Well, you needn’t get mad. I’m glad to hear it. I was sorry when the other girl went. It always looked to me like Enid had her face set for China, but I haven’t seen her for a good while⁠—not since before she went off to Michigan with the old lady.”

After Leonard was gone, Claude returned to his work, still out of humour. He was not altogether happy in his mind about Enid. When he went down to the mill it was usually Mr. Royce, not Enid, who sought to detain him, followed him down the path to the gate and seemed sorry to see him go. He could not blame Enid with any lack of interest in what he was doing. She talked and thought of nothing but the new house, and most of her suggestions were good. He often wished she would ask for something unreasonable and extravagant. But she had no selfish whims, and even insisted that the comfortable upstairs sleeping room he had planned with such care should be reserved for a guest chamber.

As the house began to take shape, Enid came up often in her car, to watch its growth, to show Claude samples of wallpapers and draperies, or a design for a window-seat she had cut from some