A Lost Lady

by Willa Cather

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