The Troll Garden and Selected Stories by Willa Cather (popular romance novels .TXT) 📖

“I hope it’s paid you, Sis. Roughing it’s dangerous business; it takes the taste out of things.”

She shut her fingers firmly over the brown hand that was so like her own.

“Paid? Why, Wyllis, I haven’t been so happy since we were children and were going to discover the ruins of Troy together some day. Do you know, I believe I could just stay on here forever and let the world go on its own gait. It seems as though the tension and strain we used to talk of last winter were gone for good, as though one could never give one’s strength out to such petty things any more.”

Wyllis brushed the ashes of his pipe away from the silk handkerchief that was knotted about his neck and stared moodily off at the skyline.

“No, you’re mistaken. This would bore you after a while. You can’t shake the fever of the other life. I’ve tried it. There was a time when the gay fellows of Rome could trot down into the Thebaid and burrow into the sandhills and get rid of it. But it’s all too complex now. You see we’ve made our dissipations so dainty and respectable that they’ve gone further in than the flesh, and taken hold of the ego proper. You couldn’t rest, even here. The war cry would follow you.”

“You don’t waste words, Wyllis, but you never miss fire. I talk more than you do, without saying half so much. You must have learned the art of silence from these taciturn Norwegians. I think I like silent men.”

“Naturally,” said Wyllis, “since you have decided to marry the most brilliant talker you know.”

Both were silent for a time, listening to the sighing of the hot wind through the parched morning-glory vines. Margaret spoke first.

“Tell me, Wyllis, were many of the Norwegians you used to know as interesting as Eric Hermannson?”

“Who, Siegfried? Well, no. He used to be the flower of the Norwegian youth in my day, and he’s rather an exception, even now. He has retrograded, though. The bonds of the soil have tightened on him, I fancy.”

“Siegfried? Come, that’s rather good, Wyllis. He looks like a dragon-slayer. What is it that makes him so different from the others? I can talk to him; he seems quite like a human being.”

“Well,” said Wyllis, meditatively, “I don’t read Bourget as much as my cultured sister, and I’m not so well up in analysis, but I fancy it’s because one keeps cherishing a perfectly unwarranted suspicion that under that big, hulking anatomy of his, he may conceal a soul somewhere. <i>Nicht wahr?</i>”

“Something like that,” said Margaret, thoughtfully, “except that it’s more than a suspicion, and it isn’t groundless. He has one, and he makes it known, somehow, without speaking.”

“I always have my doubts about loquacious souls,” Wyllis remarked, with the unbelieving smile that had grown habitual with him.

Margaret went on, not heeding the interruption. “I knew it from the first, when he told me about the suicide of his cousin, the Bernstein boy. That kind of blunt pathos can’t be summoned at will in anybody. The earlier novelists rose to it, sometimes, unconsciously. But last night when I sang for him I was doubly sure. Oh, I haven’t told you about that yet! Better light your pipe again. You see, he stumbled in on me in the dark when I was pumping away at that old parlour organ to please Mrs. Lockhart It’s her household fetish and I’ve forgotten how many pounds of butter she made and sold to buy it. Well, Eric stumbled in, and in some inarticulate manner made me understand that he wanted me to sing for him. I sang just the old things, of course. It’s queer to sing familiar things here at the world’s end. It makes one think how the hearts of men have carried them around the world, into the wastes of Iceland and the jungles of Africa and the islands of the Pacific. I think if one lived here long enough one would quite forget how to be trivial, and would read only the great books that we never get time to read in the world, and would remember only the great music, and the things that are really worth while would stand out clearly against that horizon over there. And of course I played the intermezzo from <i>Cavalleria Rusticana</i> for him; it goes rather better on an organ than most things do. He shuffled his feet and twisted his big hands up into knots and blurted out that he didn’t know there was any music like that in the world. Why, there were tears in his voice, Wyllis! Yes, like Rossetti, I <i>heard</i> his tears. Then it dawned upon me that it was probably the first good music be had ever heard in all his life. Think of it, to care for music as he does and never to hear it, never to know that it exists on earth! To long for it as we long for other perfect experiences that never come. I can’t tell you what music means to that man. I never saw any one so susceptible to it. It gave him speech, he became alive. When I had finished the intermezzo, he began telling me about a little crippled brother who died and whom he loved and used to carry everywhere in his arms. He did not wait for encouragement. He took up the story and told it slowly, as if to himself, just sort of rose up and told his own woe to answer Mascagni’s. It overcame me.”

“Poor devil,” said Wyllis, looking at her with mysterious eyes, “and so you’ve given him a new woe. Now he’ll go on wanting Grieg and Schubert the rest of his days and never getting them. That’s a girl’s philanthropy for you!”

Jerry Lockhart came out of the house screwing his chin over the unusual luxury of a stiff white collar, which his wife insisted upon as a necessary article of toilet while Miss Elliot was at the house. Jerry sat down on the step and smiled his broad, red smile at Margaret.

“Well, I’ve got the music for your dance, Miss Elliot. Olaf Oleson will bring his accordion and Mollie will play the organ, when she isn’t lookin’ after the grub, and a little chap from Frenchtown will bring his fiddle—though the French don’t mix with the Norwegians much.”

“Delightful! Mr. Lockhart, that dance will be the feature of our trip, and it’s so nice of you to get it up for us. We’ll see the Norwegians in character at last,” cried Margaret, cordially.

“See here, Lockhart, I’ll settle with you for backing her in this scheme,” said Wyllis, sitting up and knocking the ashes out of his pipe. “She’s done crazy things enough on this trip, but to talk of dancing all night with a gang of half-mad Norwegians and taking the carriage at four to catch the six o’clock train out of Riverton—well, it’s tommyrot, that’s what it is!”

“Wyllis, I leave it to your sovereign power of reason to decide whether it isn’t easier to stay up all night than to get up at three in the morning. To get up at three, think what that means! No, sir, I prefer to keep my vigil and then get into a sleeper.”

“But what do you want with the Norwegians? I thought you were tired of dancing.”

“So I am, with some people. But I want to see a Norwegian dance, and I intend to. Come, Wyllis, you know how seldom it is that one really wants to do anything nowadays. I wonder when I have really wanted to go to a party before. It will be something to remember next month at Newport, when we have to and don’t want to. Remember your own theory that contrast is about the only thing that makes life endurable. This is my party and Mr. Lockhart’s; your whole duty tomorrow night will consist in being nice to the Norwegian girls. I’ll warrant you were adept enough at it once. And you’d better be very nice indeed, for if there are many such young Valkyries as Eric’s sister among them, they would simply tie you up in a knot if they suspected you were guying them.”

Wyllis groaned and sank back into the hammock to consider his fate, while his sister went on.

“And the guests, Mr. Lockhart, did they accept?”

Lockhart took out his knife and began sharpening it on the sole of his plowshoe.

“Well, I guess we’ll have a couple dozen. You see it’s pretty hard to get a crowd together here any more. Most of ‘em have gone over to the Free Gospellers, and they’d rather put their feet in the fire than shake ‘em to a fiddle.”

Margaret made a gesture of impatience. “Those Free Gospellers have just cast an evil spell over this country, haven’t they?”

“Well,” said Lockhart, cautiously, “I don’t just like to pass judgment on any Christian sect, but if you’re to know the chosen by their works, the Gospellers can’t make a very proud showin’, an’ that’s a fact. They’re responsible for a few suicides, and they’ve sent a good-sized delegation to the state insane asylum, an’ I don’t see as they’ve made the rest of us much better than we were before. I had a little herdboy last spring, as square a little Dane as I want to work for me, but after the Gospellers got hold of him and sanctified him, the little beggar used to get down on his knees out on the prairie and pray by the hour and let the cattle get into the corn, an’ I had to fire him. That’s about the way it goes. Now there’s Eric; that chap used to be a hustler and the spryest dancer in all this section-called all the dances. Now he’s got no ambition and he’s glum as a preacher. I don’t suppose we can even get him to come in tomorrow night.”

“Eric? Why, he must dance, we can’t let him off,” said Margaret, quickly. “Why, I intend to dance with him myself.”

“I’m afraid he won’t dance. I asked him this morning if he’d help us out and he said, ‘I don’t dance now, any more,’ ” said Lockhart, imitating the laboured English of the Norwegian.

“‘The Miller of Hofbau, the Miller of Hofbau, O my Princess!’” chirped Wyllis, cheerfully, from his hammock.

The red on his sister’s cheek deepened a little, and she laughed mischievously. “We’ll see about that, sir. I’ll not admit that I am beaten until I have asked him myself.”

Every night Eric rode over to St. Anne, a little village in the heart of the French settlement, for the mail. As the road lay through the most attractive part of the Divide country, on several occasions Margaret Elliot and her brother had accompanied him. Tonight Wyllis had business with Lockhart, and Margaret rode with Eric, mounted on a frisky little mustang that Mrs. Lockhart had broken to the sidesaddle. Margaret regarded her escort very much as she did the servant who always accompanied her on long rides at home, and the ride to the village was a silent one. She was occupied with thoughts of another world, and Eric was wrestling with more thoughts than had ever been crowded into his head before.

He rode with his eyes riveted on that slight figure before him, as though he wished to absorb it through the optic nerves and hold it in his brain forever. He understood the situation perfectly. His brain worked slowly, but he had a keen sense of the values of things. This girl represented an entirely new species of humanity to him, but he knew where to place her. The prophets of old,