“Still think they are being tampered with?” Grubbock asked with a grin.
Koffing flushed. What was getting into Grubbock nowadays?
“What is tampered with?” Esther Park asked, with sudden interest.
“Oh, shove off.” Koffing began walking towards the house.
“Did you hear that, did you?” Esther Park asked the corral. But Grubbock was intent on making a loop in his rope, and Jackson was rubbing down the horses.
She looked round the corral and the silent barns and found them desolate. Dewey...why, she had almost forgotten about him! She wondered if he’d like a drink. She had been too cruel to Dewey, perhaps. She had seen quite a lot of him for the first evening. And then she had dropped him. Of course, she had Her Work to do. He must understand that. It was the only reason, really, why she hadn’t had time to see him. It was shameful the way everyone had been avoiding him. She’d find him wherever he was, and cheer him up. She set off determinedly towards the house.
* * *
Robert O’Farlan straightened his back, stretched his arms, and looked down with satisfaction at the completed paragraph. He reread it. Yes, it was all right. The second-last chapter finished. Only one to go.
He pushed aside the small table on which his typewriter stood, rubbed his shoulders to ease them, and walked across his bedroom to the window. Go on, he told himself, let out a war whoop, yell your head off, shout out the news. You’ve got it licked. The last chapter would be easy—it was almost written, even if there wasn’t a word on paper. You’ve got it licked.
But he only leaned against the window sill and smiled quietly. Funny, you never reacted the way you had imagined.
This second-last chapter had been the difficult one. Sally Bly had been right. If you are stuck leave it; don’t force it; go fishing and catch a few ideas. Perhaps not. It won’t matter, for they’ll come sometime. If they aren’t forced.
So he had gone fishing.
He thought with pleasure of the afternoon before him. High trees arched overhead, the sun filtering between leaves and branches, the cool clear water swirling over the rounded stones, a bird’s unfinished song and the flutter of bright wings. There time passed so easily that you lost count, and losing count, you felt that there was all the time in the world. No hurry. No worry. Just time. You lost the nagging ache of doubt at your heart, the tight stranglehold of worry round your brain. The chattering waters never raised, never lowered, their voice, and kept you company, buried in the peace of a green glade.
* * *
Down at the creek’s edge Dewey was sitting with a book on his knees. It had stayed open at page three for the last half hour. He was wearing grey flannels and a faded blue blazer—a relic of fifteen years ago—with the worn emblem of a minor Oxford college on its pocket. His hair was carefully brushed, his shirt and tie were exquisite, his elegant socks were tightly drawn over his neat ankles. His shoes—he frowned at them. They were the only blemish, beginning to crack where the dust had worn into the grain. It was really too much to have to drive to Sweetwater in order to get them polished. He inspected them with distaste. And yet, in a way, they were a badge of honour: he hadn’t let his standards be changed by this place. Not altogether. He glanced towards the living-room windows, carelessly, hardly noticeably. The man who didn’t give a damn, he thought. And he didn’t. He moved restlessly, the book fell, and as he bent to pick it up he could glance, without fear of being detected, towards the living-room. Yes, Drene was still there.
He was delighted to see she had been watching him. Delighted? Nonsense. But he felt suddenly happier than he had been all morning, or since yesterday morning when she had been looking out of the living-room window.
I’ll leave tomorrow, he decided.
What had come over him? How had all this come about, anyway? I’m stark staring mad, he thought. What had ever prompted him to notice her? Or, failing that, for she was scarcely the unnoticeable type, notice her any further? He stared at the creek as if he were mesmerised by the leaps of water flowing brokenly over the stones’ uneven surface: the same stones, never changing; the same strands of water, gleaming as they unfolded in the sunlight. Like silk. Like hair, silver-golden hair. He turned his eyes sharply away, and forced them to look down at the page of cold prosaic print.
He would leave tonight.
He should have left here after the third night.
But, oh, no, she had said, oh, no, not yet.
He should have left after the fourth night. But, oh, no, not yet... If she had paid any further attention to that cowboy from Arizona, if she had fallen for Grubbock’s passes, if she had flickered her eyes to Koffing’s come-hither look, he would have been cured long ago. But she hadn’t. She only had eyes for him. Here, she promised him silently, here is something for you alone, yours for the waiting, but, oh, no, not yet. And he had stayed.
He’d leave now, at this moment. Why not? His bag had been packed for days. And he had stayed. Like a fool.
A fool? He thought of her hair falling loose over her white shoulders, the firm curve of her breasts, the slender, the incredibly slender hips. Diana. Diana of Versailles... In the Louvre he had stood silently before her. “What, no criticisms?” his companion had asked. (Who was she that day, anyway? The English girl with the ghastly father, the red-faced marquis— what the hell was her name? Rosalie, Rosamund, Rosalyn?) And he hadn’t even had an answer for that, only the wish that Rose by whatever name would drop dead.
He must get her to stop calling herself Drene. Diana was the right name. A year in seclusion or in a well-chosen background, and he could produce her anywhere. Playing Pygmalion? Well, that might be an experience too. And with her he’d bring to life a satire on all women, on all the beauties who had bored or snubbed him, the duchesses, the actresses, the daughters of millionaires. Look at her...see what one year and my love can produce. More correct, more elegant, and more beautiful than you, who think you are ordained by divine right to be admired.
He closed the book angrily. I’m leaving now, he repeated, and strode towards the house. He almost halted at the living-room door. But it was silent. He passed it by. He might as well put the book on a shelf, and so he entered the library. But she wasn’t there either.
Instead Mrs. Peel was arranging flowers.
He slipped the book on to a shelf.
“Did you like it?” Mrs. Peel asked pleasantly.
“Amusing.” He almost smiled. Then he stood hesitating, looking at the flowers. “You do have a knack, don’t you?” he said of the arrangement in the vase.
“Thank you.” She looked at him with some surprise. “That’s the first real compliment you’ve ever paid me, you know.”
“First? Oh, Margaret, come!”
“In fourteen years, to be exact,” she said, with a smile.
He took out a cigarette and lit it thoughtfully. If he said it now there could be no retreat. “I think I’ll leave this afternoon, Margaret. I haven’t been feeling too well recently—altitude, perhaps. Or it may be Wyoming water. A stupid but rather painful reason for leaving, I admit.” Give them a reason over which they could laugh, and they would not look for any other.
“You haven’t been looking quite yourself, Dewey. Perhaps you didn’t get enough fresh air and exercise. I’m sorry you didn’t ride. Once you get up into the mountains you see the most superb scenery. In fact, it has quite silenced Sally about the Dolomites, as you’ve probably noticed.”
He smiled agreeably. If I see another mountain in my entire life, he thought, I’ll vomit. I’ve had enough scenery watching me make a prize ass of myself. “I’m sure it is superb,” he said.
Mrs. Peel finished arranging the roses against a background of delphiniums. “You are supposed to throw away half the flowers when you think the vase is perfect, and begin again,” she remarked. “But, really, I couldn’t throw any flowers away. I’m not the tortured-chrysanthemum-against-bending-bulrush kind of arranger, I’m afraid. So, in spite of your compliment
, I’ll never win a prize.”
Dewey Schmetterling had no answer. The girl has addled his brains, Mrs. Peel thought. She felt almost sorry for him. Then, remembering his long and happy career among women in Europe and America, she concentrated on feeling thankful for Drene’s escape. She’d make a nice gay wife for Ned, who probably knew how to fall in love honestly. There was, she reflected, as she looked at the dark, handsome face, a limit to what one could get without giving in return. Dewey would have to learn to give. She was suddenly aware that he was embarrassed. This amazed her so much that she stared quite frankly at him.
He replaced a paperweight, fumbled with a table-lighter, switched on the lamp, and then switched it off again. “Margaret,” he began, and then stopped. For a moment his face had looked vulnerable, and then it was once more in control.
“Are you going to California?” she asked, in the uncertain silence that followed.
“I don’t know. I think so. Anyway”—he took a deep breath—“I’ll slip away after lunch. Don’t mention it to anyone. I hate conscious conversations when everyone feels he has to be polite at the last minute. So I’ll say goodbye to you now. It has been a very—a very pleasant stay. So kind of you to ask me and all that. Give my love to Sally when you break the news to her. And do it gently. I’d hate to cause her any heart failure. Don’t let her be too upset about my departure.” He smiled, and left.
Outside in the hall Esther Park’s voice said, “Oh, Dewey! I’ve been looking everywhere!”
It was all so simple after all, Mrs. Peel thought. We’ve been worrying how to ask him to leave, and he simply came in here of his own free will and said (with an honest compliment included) that he was going to leave. She shook her head incredulously and then laughed. She crossed over to the bookcase to find the right place for the book Dewey had returned: he had just jammed it in anywhere. But before she reached it Carla Brightjoy came running into the room.
Carla’s eyes were gay and excited, and her smile was happy. Would Mrs. Peel think her rude if she were to miss lunch? She was invited to a picnic down in the hayfield where Ned and Robb were working today. Mrs. Gunn had put sandwiches so quickly together, and added a blueberry-pie to cheer Ned up, and really wouldn’t it be fun, she hadn’t ever seen haymaking except in movies, of course. Jackson had saddled her horse, and she was going to ride to the field. Alone? Why, of course; it wasn’t so far.
By the time Carla’s breath ran out Mrs. Peel had forgotten the misplaced book. She was too delighted with Carla’s shining eyes. No glasses now, either. And the shirt-tail was tucked into the blue jeans. Her hat, with its brim rolled in the very best bullrider’s crush, was set on her head exactly as Drene wore hers. And, as she turned to run out of the library, Mrs. Peel noticed that her straight loose hair was now neatly braided into two short pigtails, with bright blue bows to match the plaid in her tight shirt. The stores in Sweetwater must be pleased with all the shopping that was being done. Mrs. Peel wished that Sally too could watch the confident little figure, hurrying to take the blueberry-pie which Mrs. Gunn had baked for all the boys to see. It would make Sally’s trips down to Sweetwater seem well worth-while.
* * *
Robert O’Farlan came downstairs. He was whistling. Here’s another who likes Rest and be Thankful, Mrs. Peel thought happily.
“Any mail for me?” he asked someone in the hall.
“A postcard,” Koffing’s voice answered.
They said nothing more. Mrs. Peel moved, as a possible peacemaker, to the library door.
O’Farlan was reading the postcard with a frown. He could see it coming already: next winter it would be “Robert went off by himself to Wyoming and had the most wonderful time. Wives? Oh, they weren’t wanted. Were they, Robert?” Gay brave laughter. Everyone else looking at him, laughing as Jenny was, but still looking. He might protest that she had been invited, as soon as Mrs. Peel had found out he was married. But their friends would then be told, “How could I leave the children?” Yes, it was coming. Now that she wouldn’t be able to make remarks about his unfinished book there would have to be others to take their place. That was Jenny’s idea of marriage: a husband was the natural vent for all your frustrations. Once you unload your bad temper over the housework or the children on to him you can face the rest of the world with a kind word and a sweet smile. Jenny’s such a brave darling, her friends always said. When the children reached the age of eighteen and he packed his bag and left they all would shake their heads and talk of the best years of Jenny’s life and men, that’s men for you. That a man might resent the best years of his life being turned into a desert, like fertile soil soured and eroded through careless misuses would not be included among Jenny’s unhappy thoughts. She might even resent that he hadn’t left sooner, when the children were younger, so she could have had that to complain about too. He jammed the postcard into his pocket and walked into the garden.
“Had a good ride?” Mrs. Peel asked Karl Koffing.
“Fine.” He sorted through the pile of envelopes and magazines which lay on the hall table. “Came back from Flashing Smile in an hour flat.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Peel wondered what the cowboys were going to say about that. Of course, neither Karl nor Earl knew very much about horses. They weren’t trying to be cruel; they just didn’t know. They’d be worried if they had heard Bert’s comments on them. “What’s their idea? Gallop their horses off their feet right into the canning factory?” It made Mrs. Peel feel sick even to think of that word. Yet how could she tell the young men that horses could be ruined, could end up in that terrible place as dog food because they wouldn’t be able to get through a winter on the hills? They were both quite convinced they had mastered the job of knowing about horses, and they might even think that Bert, who had been handling horses since he was five, just resented the idea that it only took them a couple of weeks to learn his trade.
“Not bad,” Koffing was saying, “considering our horses.” “Oh?”
“They’re old, of course. Brent didn’t give us any of the five-year-olds, I notice. Do you know how old my horse is? Sixteen, if it’s a day.”
“That isn’t too old, Karl. Why, Mimi’s horse is nearly twenty, and he looks about ten. Horses last well out here. That is, if they aren’t run to death.”
“If Brent had given us decent horses they wouldn’t be run to death.”
“But they are good horses, Karl.” Even Prender Atherton Jones had nothing to say against them.
“You don’t catch the cowpunchers riding them. Their ponies are only four or five years old.”
“And their ponies are still being trained. Horses aren’t even broken until they are about three years old, Karl! And don’t blame Jim Brent: I asked him for reliable horses that were calmed down enough so that we wouldn’t have accidents.”
“They’re certainly calmed down.” Karl smiled. “Each time I ride into the corral I can see Chuck standing at his cookhouse door, counting back to 1886, when he first taught my horse to carry a saddle.”
There was a short silence. Karl looked down at the table. No mail, he thought. And no sense of humour, either: she wasn’t even smiling. She didn’t like him because of his politics, so whatever he said would be wrong.
“Karl,” she said suddenly, “would it prove anything to you if I asked Jim Brent to let you pick out your own horse for a day or so?”
“I’d like that,” he admitted. He had a very pleasant smile when things were going his way.
“Risks and all?” she asked.
“Sure. The more risks the better.”
“I’ll speak to Jim Brent,” she said.
“And he’ll refuse,” Karl said, moving towards the door.
“If he does it will be for a good reason, Karl.”
Yes, a political one, Karl thought grimly. You should learn to keep your mouth shut, he told himself, and just listen to all these hideous Republicans and moralising Democrats. Reactionary bastards.
Mrs. Peel watched him leav
e. The more risks the better... Was that how he felt about everything? He was so aggressive, always proving something. But to whom?
Mrs. Peel was still puzzling over that as she went into the dining-room to tell Norah that there would be no Carla for lunch.
* * *
“Then that will be two places less today,” Norah said. “Miss Bassinbrook went into Sweetwater with Jim.”
“Did she?” Mrs. Peel was a little amazed, for Mimi could have gone with Sally if she had wanted to. If...
Norah’s pleasant voice went on talking about the weather, about the storm that seemed to be gathering; but perhaps it would wait until everyone got safely home from Sweetwater.
“Where’s Drene?” Mrs. Peel asked suddenly, noticing that Norah was working by herself in the dining-room.
“She likes to change before she helps serve lunch,” Norah said, tossing one of her neat braids back over her shoulder. And she seemed different in other ways too. She was prettier, somehow; thinner perhaps.
“Norah, are you getting too much work to do? I mean, you are supposed to be having a summer holiday as well, you know.” Really, I must speak seriously to Drene after all, Mrs. Peel thought angrily.
“I’m having a fine time,” Norah said, with her quick smile. The pink cheeks deepened in colour, and the brown eyes widened. Then she hesitated, looking down now at the bowl of petunias on the table. “The only trouble is my aunt,” she said slowly. “Mrs. Peel, would you ask her to stop worrying about me?”
“Worrying about what?”
“About the way I do my hair, and the way I wear my hat, and”—Norah raised her eyes—“about going in to the dance in Sweetwater on Saturday.”
“Well, I suppose we all worry about people we feel responsible for,” Mrs. Peel answered. “And if we didn’t we wouldn’t care. That would be a heartless kind of world to live in, wouldn’t it?”
“And she worries about Earl Grubbock,” Norah went on, making her main point at last. “Why, he is only a friend! He teases me about the West and about college and the things I learn there. It makes me feel so—so ridiculous when Aunt Gunn worries about it. There’s no harm in it.” The pink cheeks were now bright carmine. She was, Mrs. Peel reflected, a very pretty girl, all the prettier for being natural.