had been ill with rheumatic fever for a long while, and he had been
attending to the routine of business.
The door opened, and a figure stood there, strange and yet
familiar,--he had to think a moment before he realized that it was
Orville Ogden, who used to come to Sweet Water so often, but who
had not been seen there now for several years. He didn't look a
day older; one eye was still direct and clear, the other clouded
and oblique. He still wore a stiff imperial and twisted moustache,
the grey colour of old beeswax, and his thin hair was brushed
heroically up over the bald spot.
"This is Judge Pommeroy's nephew, isn't it? I can't think of your
name, my boy, but I remember you. Is the Judge out?"
"Please be seated, Mr. Ogden. My uncle is ill. He hasn't been at
the office for several months. He's had really a very bad time of
it. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that! I'm sorry." He spoke as if he were.
"I guess all we fellows are getting older, whether we like it or
not. It made a great difference when Daniel Forrester went." Mr.
Ogden took off his overcoat, put his hat and gloves neatly on the
desk, and then seemed somewhat at a loss. "What is your uncle's
trouble?" he asked suddenly.
Niel told him. "I was to have gone back to school this winter, but
uncle begged me to stay and look after things for him. There was
no one here he wanted to entrust his business to."
"I see, I see," said Mr. Ogden thoughtfully. "Then you do attend
to his business for the present?" He paused and reflected. "Yes,
there was something that I wanted to take up with him. I am
stopping off for a few hours only, between trains. I might speak
to you about it, and you could consult your uncle and write me in
Chicago. It's a confidential matter, and concerns another person."
Niel assured him of his discretion, but Mr. Ogden seemed to find
the subject difficult to approach. He looked very grave and slowly
lit a cigar.
"It is simply," he said at last, "a rather delicate suggestion I
wish to make to your uncle about one of his clients. I have
several friends in the Government at Washington just at present,
friends who would go out of their way to serve me. I have been
thinking that we might manage it to get a special increase of
pension for Mrs. Forrester. I am due in Chicago this week, and
after my business there is finished, I would be quite willing to go
on to Washington to see what can be done; provided, of course, that
no one, least of all your uncle's client, knows of my activity in
the matter."
Niel flushed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ogden," he brought out, "but Mrs.
Forrester is no longer a client of my uncle's. After the Captain's
death, she saw fit to take her business away from him."
Mr. Ogden's normal eye became as blank as the other.
"What's that? He isn't her lawyer? Why, for twenty years--"
"I know that, sir. She didn't treat him with much consideration.
She transferred her business very abruptly."
"To whom, may I ask?"
"To a lawyer here in town; Ivy Peters."
"Peters? I never heard of him."
"No, you wouldn't have. He wasn't one of the people who went to
the Forrester house in the old days. He's one of the younger
generation, a few years older than I. He rented part of the
Forresters' land for several years before the Captain's death,--was
their tenant. That was how Mrs. Forrester came to know him. She
thinks him a good business man."
Mr. Ogden frowned. "And is he?"
"Some people think so."
"Is he trustworthy?"
"Far from it. He takes the cases nobody else will take. He may
treat Mrs. Forrester honestly. But if he does, it will not be from
principle."
"This is very distressing news. Go on with your work, my boy. I
must think this over." Mr. Ogden rose and walked about the room,
his hands behind him. Niel turned to an unfinished letter on his
desk, in order to leave his visitor the more free.
Mr. Ogden's position, he understood, was a difficult one. He had
been devoted to Mrs. Forrester, and before Constance had made up
her mind to marry Frank Ellinger, before the mother and daughter
began to angle for him, Mr. Ogden had come to the Forresters' more
frequently than any of their Denver friends. He hadn't been back,
Niel believed, since that Christmas party when he and his family
were there with Ellinger. Very soon afterward he must have seen
what his women-folk were up to; and whether he approved or
disapproved, he must have decided that there was nothing for him to
do but to keep out. It hadn't been the Forresters' reversal of
fortune that had kept him away. One could see that he was deeply
troubled, that he had her heavily on his mind.
Niel had finished his letter and was beginning another, when Mr.
Ogden stopped beside his desk, where he stood twisting his imperial
tighter and tighter. "You say this young lawyer is unprincipled?
Sometimes rascals have a soft spot, a sentiment, where women are
concerned."
Niel stared. He immediately thought of Ivy's dimples.
"A soft spot? A sentiment? Mr. Ogden, why not go to his office?
A glance would convince you."
"Oh, that's not necessary! I understand." He looked out of the
window, from which he could just see the tree-tops of the Forrester
grove, and murmured, "Poor lady! So misguided. She ought to have
advice from some of Daniel's friends." He took out his watch and
consulted it, turning something over in his mind. His train was
due in an hour, he said. Nothing could be done at present. In a
few moments he left the office.
Afterward, Niel felt sure that when Mr. Ogden stood there
uncertainly, watch in hand, he was considering an interview with
Mrs. Forrester. He had wanted to go to her, and had given it up.
Was he afraid of his womenfolk? Or was it another kind of
cowardice, the fear of losing a pleasant memory, of finding her
changed and marred, a dread of something that would throw a
disenchanting light upon the past? Niel had heard his uncle say
that Mr. Ogden admired pretty women, though he had married a homely
one, and that in his deep, non-committal way he was very gallant.
Perhaps, with a little encouragement, he would have gone to see
Mrs. Forrester, and he might have helped her. The fact that he had
done nothing to bring this about, made Niel realize how much his
own feeling toward that lady had changed.
It was Mrs. Forrester herself who had changed. Since her husband's
death she seemed to have become another woman. For years Niel and
his uncle, the Dalzells and all her friends, had thought of the
Captain as a drag upon his wife; a care that drained her and dimmed
her and kept her from being all that she might be. But without
him, she was like a ship without ballast, driven hither and thither
by every wind. She was flighty and perverse. She seemed to have
&nb
sp; lost her faculty of discrimination; her power of easily and
graciously keeping everyone in his proper place.
Ivy Peters had been in Wyoming at the time of Captain Forrester's
illness and death,--called away by a telegram which announced that
oil had been discovered near his land-holdings. He returned soon
after the Captain's funeral, however, and was seen about the
Forrester place more than ever. As there was nothing to be done on
his fields in the winter, he had amused himself by pulling down the
old barn after office hours. One was likely to come upon him,
smoking his cigar on the front porch as if he owned the place. He
often spent the evening there, playing cards with Mrs. Forrester or
talking about his business projects. He had not made his fortune
yet, but he was on the way to it. Occasionally he took a friend or
two, some of the town boys, over to dine at Mrs. Forrester's. The
boys' mothers and sweethearts were greatly scandalized. "Now she's
after the young ones," said Ed Elliott's mother. "She's getting
childish."
At last Niel had a plain talk with Mrs. Forrester. He told her
that people were gossiping about Ivy's being there so much. He had
heard comments even on the street.
"But I can't bother about their talk. They have always talked
about me, always will. Mr. Peters is my lawyer and my tenant; I
have to see him, and I'm certainly not going to his office. I
can't sit in the house alone every evening and knit. If you came
to see me any oftener than you do, that would make talk. You are
still younger than Ivy,--and better-looking! Did that never occur
to you?"
"I wish you wouldn't talk to me like that," he said coldly. "Mrs.
Forrester, why don't you go away? to California, to people of your
own kind. You know this town is no place for you."
"I mean to, just as soon as I can sell this place. It's all I
have, and if I leave it to tenants it will run down, and I can't
sell it to advantage. That's why Ivy is here so much, he's trying
to make the place presentable; pulling down the old barn that had
become an eyesore, putting new boards in the porch floor where the
old ones had rotted. Next summer, I am going to paint the house.
Unless I keep the place up, I can never get my price for it." She
talked nervously, with exaggerated earnestness, as if she were
trying to persuade herself.
"And what are you asking for it now, Mrs. Forrester?"
"Twenty thousand dollars."
"You'll never get it. At least, not until times have greatly
changed."
"That's what your uncle said. He wouldn't attempt to sell it for
more than twelve. That's why I had to put it into other hands.
Times have changed, but he doesn't realize it. Mr. Forrester
himself told me it would be worth that. Ivy says he can get me
twenty thousand, or if not, he will take it off my hands as soon as
his investments begin to bring in returns."
"And in the meantime, you are simply wasting your life here."
"Not altogether." She looked at him with pleading plausibility.
"I am getting rested after a long strain. And while I wait, I'm
finding new friends among the young men,--those your age, and a
little younger. I've wanted for a long while to do something for
the boys in this town, but my hands were full. I hate to see them
growing up like savages, when all they need is a civilized house to
come to, and a woman to give them a few hints. They've never had a
chance. You wouldn't be the boy you are if you'd never gone to
Boston,--and you've always had older friends who'd seen better
days. Suppose you had grown up like Ed Elliott and Joe Simpson?"
"I flatter myself I wouldn't be exactly like them, if I had!
However, there is no use discussing it, if you've thought it over
and made up your mind. I spoke of it because I thought you
mightn't realize how it strikes the townspeople."
"I know!" She tossed her head. Her eyes glittered, but there was
no mirth in them,--it was more like hysterical defiance. "I know;
they call me the Merry Widow. I rather like it!"
Niel left the house without further argument, and though that was
three weeks ago, he had not been back since. Mrs. Forrester had
called to see his uncle in the meantime. The Judge was as courtly
as ever in his manner toward her, but he was deeply hurt by her
defection, and his cherishing care for her would never be revived.
He had attended to all Captain Forrester's business for twenty
years, and since the failure of the Denver bank had never deducted
a penny for fees from the money entrusted to him. Mrs. Forrester
had treated him very badly. She had given him no warning. One day
Ivy Peters had come into the office with a written order from her,
requesting that an accounting, and all funds and securities, be
turned over to him. Since then she had never spoken of the matter
to the Judge,--or to Niel, save in that conversation about the sale
of the property.
EIGHT
One morning when a warm May wind was whirling the dust up the
street, Mrs. Forrester came smiling into Judge Pommeroy's office,
wearing a new spring bonnet, and a short black velvet cape,
fastened at the neck with a bunch of violets. "Please be nice
enough to notice my new clothes, Niel," she said coaxingly. "They
are the first I've had in years and years."
He told her they were very pretty.
"And aren't you glad I have some at last?" she smiled enquiringly
through her veil. "I feel as if you weren't going to be cross with
me today, and would do what I ask you. It's nothing very
troublesome. I want you to come to dinner Friday night. If you
come, there will be eight of us, counting Annie Peters. They are
all boys you know, and if you don't like them, you ought to! Yes,
you ought to!" she nodded at him severely. "Since you mind what
people say, Niel, aren't you afraid they'll be saying you're a
snob, just because you've been to Boston and seen a little of the
world? You mustn't be so stiff, so--so superior! It isn't
becoming, at your age." She drew her brows down into a level frown
so like his own that he laughed. He had almost forgotten her old
talent for mimicry.
"What do you want me for? You used always to say it was no good
asking people who didn't mix."
"You can mix well enough, if you take the trouble. And this time
you will, for me. Won't you?"
When she was gone, Niel was angry with himself for having been
persuaded.
On Friday evening he was the last guest to arrive. It was a warm
night, after a hot day. The windows were open, and the perfume of
the lilacs came into the dusky parlour where the boys were sitting
about in chairs that seemed too big for them. A lamp was burning
in the dining-room, and there Ivy Peters stood at the sideboard,
mixing cocktails. His sister Annie was in the kitchen, helping the
hostess. Mrs. Forrester came in for a moment to greet Niel, then
/> excused herself and hurried back to Annie Peters. Through the open
door he saw that the silver dishes had reappeared on the dinner
table, and the candlesticks and flowers. The young men who sat
about in the twilight would not know the difference, he thought, if
she had furnished her table that morning, from the stock in Wernz's
queensware store. Their conception of a really fine dinner service
was one "hand painted" by a sister or sweetheart. Each boy sat
with his legs crossed, one tan shoe swinging in the air and
displaying a tan silk sock. They were talking about clothes; Joe
Simpson, who had just inherited his father's clothing business, was
eager to tell them what the summer styles would be.
Ivy Peters came in, shaking his drinks. "You fellows are like a
bunch of girls,--always talking about what you are going to wear
and how you can spend your money. Simpson wouldn't get rich very
fast if you all wore your clothes as long as I do. When did I get
this suit, Joe?"
"Oh, about the year I graduated from High School, I guess!"
They all laughed at Ivy. No matter what he did or said, they
laughed,--in recognition of his general success.
Mrs. Forrester came back, fanning herself with a little sandalwood
fan, and when she appeared the boys rose,--in alarm, one might have
thought, from the suddenness of it. That much, at any rate, she
had succeeded in teaching them.
"Are your cocktails ready, Ivy? You will have to wait for me a
moment, while I put some powder on my nose. If I'd known how hot
it would be tonight, I'm afraid I wouldn't have had a roast for
you. I'm browner than the ducks. You can pour them though.
I won't be long."
She disappeared into her own room, and the boys sat down with the
same surprising promptness. Ivy Peters carried the tray about, and
they held their glasses before them, waiting for Mrs. Forrester.
When she came, she took Niel's arm and led him into the dining-
room. "Did you notice," she whispered to him, "how they hold their
glasses? What is it they do to a little glass to make it look so
vulgar? Nobody could ever teach them to pick one up and drink out
of it, not if there were tea in it!"
Aloud she said, "Niel, will you light the candles for me? And then
take the head of the table, please. You can carve ducks?"
"Not so well as--as my uncle does," he murmured, carefully putting
back a candle-shade.
"Nor as Mr. Forrester did? I don't ask that. Nobody can carve now
as men used to. But you can get them apart, I suppose? The place
at your right is for Annie Peters. She is bringing in the dinner
for me. Be seated, gentlemen!" with a little mocking bow and a
swinging of earrings.
While Niel was carving the ducks, Annie slipped into the chair
beside him, her naturally red face glowing from the heat of the
stove. She was several years younger than her brother, whom she
obeyed unquestioningly in everything. She had an extremely bad
complexion and pale yellow hair with white lights in it, exactly
the colour of molasses taffy that has been pulled until it
glistens. During the dinner she did not once speak, except to say,
"Thank you," or "No, thank you." Nobody but Mrs. Forrester talked
much until the first helping of duck was consumed. The boys had
not yet learned to do two things at once. They paused only to ask
their hostess if she "would care for the jelly," or to answer her
questions.
Niel studied Mrs. Forrester between the candles, as she nodded
encouragingly to one and another, trying to "draw them out,"
laughing at Roy Jones' heavy jokes, or congratulating Joe Simpson
upon his new dignity as a business man with a business of his own.
The long earrings swung beside the thin cheeks that were none the
better, he thought, for the rouge she had put on them when she went