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

boys went to the rear platform of the observation car to talk until the last moment. Ralph checked off on his fingers the list of things he had promised Claude to attend to. Claude thanked him feelingly. He felt that without Ralph he could never have got married at all. They had never been such good friends as during the last fortnight.

The wheels began to turn. Ralph gripped Claude’s hand, ran to the front of the car and stepped off. As Claude passed him, he stood waving his handkerchief⁠—a rather funny figure under the station lights, in his black clothes and his stiff straw hat, his short legs well apart, wearing his incurably jaunty air.

The train glided quietly out through the summer darkness, along the timbered river valley. Claude was alone on the back platform, smoking a nervous cigar. As they passed the deep cut where Lovely Creek flowed into the river, he saw the lights of the mill house flash for a moment in the distance. The night air was still; heavy with the smell of sweet clover that grew high along the tracks, and of wild grapevines wet with dew. The conductor came to ask for the tickets, saying with a wise smile that he had been hunting for him, as he didn’t like to trouble the lady.

After he was gone, Claude looked at his watch, threw away the end of his cigar, and went back through the Pullman cars. The passengers had gone to bed; the overhead lights were always turned low when the train left Frankfort. He made his way through the aisles of swaying green curtains, and tapped at the door of his state room. It opened a little way, and Enid stood there in a white silk dressing-gown with many ruffles, her hair in two smooth braids over her shoulders.

“Claude,” she said in a low voice, “would you mind getting a berth somewhere out in the car tonight? The porter says they are not all taken. I’m not feeling very well. I think the dressing on the chicken salad must have been too rich.”

He answered mechanically. “Yes, certainly. Can’t I get you something?”

“No, thank you. Sleep will do me more good than anything else. Good night.”

She closed the door, and he heard the lock slip. He stood looking at the highly polished wood of the panel for a moment, then turned irresolutely and went back along the slightly swaying aisle of green curtains. In the observation car he stretched himself out upon two wicker chairs and lit another cigar. At twelve o’clock the porter came in.

“This car is closed for the night, sah. Is you the gen’leman from the stateroom in fourteen? Do you want a lower?”

“No, thank you. Is there a smoking car?”

“They is the day-coach smokah, but it ain’t likely very clean at this time o’ night.”

“That’s all right. It’s forward?” Claude absently handed him a coin, and the porter conducted him to a very dirty car where the floor was littered with newspapers and cigar stumps, and the leather cushions were grey with dust. A few desperate looking men lay about with their shoes off and their suspenders hanging down their backs. The sight of them reminded Claude that his left foot was very sore, and that his shoes must have been hurting him for some time. He pulled them off, and thrust his feet, in their silk socks, on the opposite seat.

On that long, dirty, uncomfortable ride Claude felt many things, but the paramount feeling was homesickness. His hurt was of a kind that made him turn with a sort of aching cowardice to the old, familiar things that were as sure as the sunrise. If only the sagebrush plain, over which the stars were shining, could suddenly break up and resolve itself into the windings of Lovely Creek, with his father’s house on the hill, dark and silent in the summer night! When he closed his eyes he could see the light in his mother’s window; and, lower down, the glow of Mahailey’s lamp, where she sat nodding and mending his old shirts. Human love was a wonderful thing, he told himself, and it was most wonderful where it had least to gain.

By morning the storm of anger, disappointment, and humiliation that was boiling in him when he first sat down in the observation car, had died out. One thing lingered; the peculiarly casual, indifferent, uninterested tone of his wife’s voice when she sent him away. It was the flat tone in which people make commonplace remarks about common things.

Day broke with silvery brightness on the summer sage. The sky grew pink, the sand grew gold. The dawn-wind brought through the windows the acrid smell of the sagebrush: an odour that is peculiarly stimulating in the early morning, when it always seems to promise freedom⁠ ⁠… large spaces, new beginnings, better days.

The train was due in Denver at eight o’clock. Exactly at seven thirty Claude knocked at Enid’s door⁠—this time firmly. She was dressed, and greeted him with a fresh, smiling face, holding her hat in her hand.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

“Oh, yes! I am perfectly all right this morning. I’ve put out all your things for you, there on the seat.”

He glanced at them. “Thank you. But I won’t have time to change, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, won’t you? I’m so sorry I forgot to give you your bag last night. But you must put on another necktie, at least. You look too much like a groom.”

“Do I?” he asked, with a scarcely perceptible curl of his lip.

Everything he needed was neatly arranged on the plush seat; shirt, collar, tie, brushes, even a handkerchief. Those in his pockets were black from dusting off the cinders that blew in all night, and he threw them down and took up the clean one. There was a damp spot on it, and as he unfolded it he recognized the scent of a cologne Enid often used. For some reason this attention unmanned him.