II
SOON AFTER I GOT home that summer, I persuaded my grandparents to havetheir photographs taken, and one morning I went into the photographer'sshop to arrange for sittings. While I was waiting for him to come out ofhis developing-room, I walked about trying to recognize the likenesseson his walls: girls in Commencement dresses, country brides and groomsholding hands, family groups of three generations. I noticed, in aheavy frame, one of those depressing 'crayon enlargements' often seenin farm-house parlours, the subject being a round-eyed baby in shortdresses. The photographer came out and gave a constrained, apologeticlaugh.
'That's Tony Shimerda's baby. You remember her; she used to be theHarlings' Tony. Too bad! She seems proud of the baby, though; wouldn'thear to a cheap frame for the picture. I expect her brother will be infor it Saturday.'
I went away feeling that I must see Antonia again. Another girl wouldhave kept her baby out of sight, but Tony, of course, must have itspicture on exhibition at the town photographer's, in a great gilt frame.How like her! I could forgive her, I told myself, if she hadn't thrownherself away on such a cheap sort of fellow.
Larry Donovan was a passenger conductor, one of those train-crewaristocrats who are always afraid that someone may ask them to put upa car-window, and who, if requested to perform such a menial service,silently point to the button that calls the porter. Larry wore thisair of official aloofness even on the street, where there were nocar-windows to compromise his dignity. At the end of his run he steppedindifferently from the train along with the passengers, his streethat on his head and his conductor's cap in an alligator-skin bag, wentdirectly into the station and changed his clothes. It was a matter ofthe utmost importance to him never to be seen in his blue trousers awayfrom his train. He was usually cold and distant with men, but withall women he had a silent, grave familiarity, a special handshake,accompanied by a significant, deliberate look. He took women, married orsingle, into his confidence; walked them up and down in the moonlight,telling them what a mistake he had made by not entering the officebranch of the service, and how much better fitted he was to fill thepost of General Passenger Agent in Denver than the rough-shod man whothen bore that title. His unappreciated worth was the tender secretLarry shared with his sweethearts, and he was always able to make somefoolish heart ache over it.
As I drew near home that morning, I saw Mrs. Harling out in her yard,digging round her mountain-ash tree. It was a dry summer, and she hadnow no boy to help her. Charley was off in his battleship, cruisingsomewhere on the Caribbean sea. I turned in at the gate it was with afeeling of pleasure that I opened and shut that gate in those days;I liked the feel of it under my hand. I took the spade away from Mrs.Harling, and while I loosened the earth around the tree, she sat downon the steps and talked about the oriole family that had a nest in itsbranches.
'Mrs. Harling,' I said presently, 'I wish I could find out exactly howAntonia's marriage fell through.'
'Why don't you go out and see your grandfather's tenant, the WidowSteavens? She knows more about it than anybody else. She helped Antoniaget ready to be married, and she was there when Antonia came back. Shetook care of her when the baby was born. She could tell you everything.Besides, the Widow Steavens is a good talker, and she has a remarkablememory.'