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