But we will begin this story with a summer morning long ago, when Mrs.
Forrester was still a young woman, and Sweet Water was a town of which
great things were expected. That morning she was standing in the deep
bay-window of her parlour, arranging old-fashioned blush roses in a
glass bowl. Glancing up, she saw a group of little boys coming along the
driveway, barefoot, with fishing-poles and lunch-baskets. She knew most
of them; there was Niel Herbert, Judge Pommeroy's nephew, a handsome boy
of twelve whom she liked; and polite George Adams, son of a gentleman
rancher from Lowell, Massachusetts. The others were just little boys
from the town; the butcher's red-headed son, the leading grocer's fat
brown twins, Ed Elliott (whose flirtatious old father kept a shoe store
and was the Don Juan of the lower world of Sweet Water), and the two
sons of the German tailor,--pale, freckled lads with ragged clothes and
ragged rust-coloured hair, from whom she sometimes bought game or
catfish when they appeared silent and spook-like at her kitchen door and
thinly asked if she would "care for any fish this morning."
As the boys came up the hill she saw them hesitate and consult together.
"You ask her, Niel."
"You'd better, George. She goes to your house all the time, and she
barely knows me to speak to."
As they paused before the three steps which led up to the front porch,
Mrs. Forrester came to the door and nodded graciously, one of the pink
roses in her hand.
"Good-morning, boys. Off for a picnic?"
George Adams stepped forward and solemnly took off his big straw hat.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Forrester. Please may we fish and wade down in the
marsh and have our lunch in the grove?"
"Certainly. You have a lovely day. How long has school been out? Don't
you miss it? I'm sure Niel does. Judge Pommeroy tells me he's very
studious."
The boys laughed, and Niel looked unhappy.
"Run along, and be sure you don't leave the gate into the pasture open.
Mr. Forrester hates to have the cattle get in on his blue grass."
The boys went quietly round the house to the gate into the grove, then
ran shouting down the grassy slopes under the tall trees. Mrs. Forrester
watched them from the kitchen window until they disappeared behind the
roll of the hill. She turned to her Bohemian cook.
"Mary, when you are baking this morning, put in a pan of cookies for
those boys. I'll take them down when they are having their lunch."
The round hill on which the Forrester house stood sloped gently down to
the bridge in front, and gently down through the grove behind. But east
of the house, where the grove ended, it broke steeply from high grassy
banks, like bluffs, to the marsh below. It was thither the boys were
bound.
When lunch time came they had done none of the things they meant to do.
They had behaved like wild creatures all morning; shouting from the
breezy bluffs, dashing down into the silvery marsh through the dewy
cobwebs that glistened on the tall weeds, swishing among the pale tan
cattails, wading in the sandy creek bed, chasing a striped water snake
from the old willow stump where he was sunning himself, cutting
sling-shot crotches, throwing themselves on their stomachs to drink at
the cool spring that flowed out from under a bank into a thatch of dark
watercress. Only the two German boys, Rheinhold and Adolph Blum,
withdrew to a still pool where the creek was dammed by a reclining tree
trunk, and, in spite of all the noise and splashing about them, managed
to catch a few suckers.
The wild roses were wide open and brilliant, the blue-eyed grass was in
purple flower, and the silvery milkweed was just coming on. Birds and
butterflies darted everywhere. All at once the breeze died, the air grew
very hot, the marsh steamed, and the birds disappeared. The boys found
they were tired; their shirts stuck to their bodies and their hair to
their foreheads. They left the sweltering marsh-meadows for the grove,
lay down on the clean grass under the grateful shade of the tall
cottonwoods, and spread out their lunch. The Blum boys never brought
anything but rye bread and hunks of dry cheese,--their companions
wouldn't have touched it on any account. But Thaddeus Grimes, the
butcher's red-headed son, was the only one impolite enough to show his
scorn. "You live on wienies to home, why don't you never bring none?" he
bawled.
"Hush," said Niel Herbert. He pointed to a white figure coming rapidly
down through the grove, under the flickering leaf shadows,--Mrs.
Forrester, bareheaded, a basket on her arm, her blue-black hair shining
in the sun. It was not until years afterward that she began to wear
veils and sun hats, though her complexion was never one of her beauties.
Her cheeks were pale and rather thin, slightly freckled in summer.
As she approached, George Adams, who had a particular mother, rose, and
Niel followed his example.
"Here are some hot cookies for your lunch, boys." She took the napkin
off the basket. "Did you catch anything?"
"We didn't fish much. Just ran about," said George.
"I know! You were wading and things." She had a nice way of talking to
boys, light and confidential. "I wade down there myself sometimes, when
I go down to get flowers. I can't resist it. I pull off my stockings and
pick up my skirts, and in I go!" She thrust out a white shoe and shook
it.
"But you can swim, can't you, Mrs. Forrester," said George. "Most women
can't."
"Oh yes, they can! In California everybody swims. But the Sweet Water
doesn't tempt me,--mud and water snakes and blood-suckers--Ugh!" she
shivered, laughing.
"We seen a water snake this morning and chased him. A whopper!" Thad
Grimes put in.
"Why didn't you kill him? Next time I go wading he'll bite my toes! Now,
go on with your lunch. George can leave the basket with Mary as you go
out." She left them, and they watched her white figure drifting along
the edge of the grove as she stopped here and there to examine the
raspberry vines by the fence.
"These are good cookies, all right," said one of the giggly brown Weaver
twins. The German boys munched in silence. They were all rather pleased
that Mrs. Forrester had come down to them herself, instead of sending
Mary. Even rough little Thad Grimes, with his red thatch and catfish
mouth--the characteristic feature of all the Grimes brood--knew that
Mrs. Forrester was a very special kind of person. George and Niel were
already old enough to see for themselves that she was different from the
other townswomen, and to reflect upon what it was that made her so. The
Blum brothers regarded her humbly from under their pale, chewed-off
hair, as one of the rich and great of the world. They realized, more
than their companions, that such a fortunate and privileged class was an
axiomatic fact in the social order.
The boys had finished their lunch and were lying on the grass talking
about how Judge Pommeroy's water spaniel, Fanny, had been poisoned, and
who had certainly done it, when they had a second visitor.
"Shut up, boys, there he comes now. That's Poison Ivy," said one of the
Weaver twins. "Shut up, we don't want old Roger poisoned."
A well-grown boy of eighteen or nineteen, dressed in a shabby corduroy
hunting suit, with a gun and gamebag, had climbed up from the marsh and
was coming down the grove between the rows of trees. He walked with a
rude, arrogant stride, kicking at the twigs, and carried himself with
unnatural erectness, as if he had a steel rod down his back. There was
something defiant and suspicious about the way he held his head. He came
up to the group and addressed them in a superior, patronizing tone.
"Hullo, kids. What are _you_ doing here?"
"Picnic," said Ed Elliott.
"I thought girls went on picnics. Did you bring teacher along? Ain't you
kids old enough to hunt yet?"
George Adams looked at him scornfully. "Of course we are. I got a 22
Remington for my last birthday. But we know better than to bring guns
over here. You better hide yours, Mr. Ivy, or Mrs. Forrester will come
down and tell you to get out."
"She can't see us from the house. And anyhow, she can't say anything to
me. I'm just as good as she is."
To this the boys made no reply. Such an assertion was absurd even to
fish-mouthed Thad; his father's business depended upon some people being
better than others, and ordering better cuts of meat in consequence. If
everybody ate round steak like Ivy Peters' family, there would be
nothing in the butcher's trade.
The visitor had put his gun and gamebag behind a tree, however, and
stood stiffly upright, surveying the group out of his narrow beady eyes
and making them all uncomfortable. George and Niel hated to look at
Ivy,--and yet his face had a kind of fascination for them. It was red,
and the flesh looked hard, as if it were swollen from bee-stings, or
from an encounter with poison ivy. This nickname, however, was given him
because it was well known that he had "made away" with several other
dogs before he had poisoned the Judge's friendly water spaniel. The boys
said he took a dislike to a dog and couldn't rest until he made an end
of him.
Ivy's red skin was flecked with tiny freckles, like rust spots, and in
each of his hard cheeks there was a curly indentation, like a knot in a
tree-bole,--two permanent dimples which did anything but soften his
countenance. His eyes were very small, and an absence of eyelashes gave
his pupils the fixed, unblinking hardness of a snake's or a lizard's.
His hands had the same swollen look as his face, were deeply creased
across the back and knuckles, as if the skin were stretched too tight.
He was an ugly fellow, Ivy Peters, and he liked being ugly.
He began telling the boys that it was too hot to hunt now, but later he
meant to steal down to the marsh, where the ducks came at sundown, and
bag a few. "I can make off across the corn fields before the old Cap
sees me. He's not much on the run."
"He'll complain to your father."
"A whoop my father cares!" The speaker's restless eyes were looking up
through the branches. "See that woodpecker tapping; don't mind us a bit.
That's nerve!"
"They are protected here, so they're not afraid," said precise George.
"Hump! They'll spoil the old man's grove for him. That tree's full of
holes already. Wouldn't he come down easy, now!"
Niel and George Adams sat up. "Don't you dare shoot here, you'll get us
all into trouble."
"She'd come right down from the house," cried Ed Elliott.
"Let her come, stuck-up piece! Who's talking about shooting, anyway?
There's more ways of killing dogs than choking them with butter."
At this effrontery the boys shot amazed glances at one another, and the
brown Weaver twins broke simultaneously into giggles and rolled over on
the turf. But Ivy seemed unaware that he was regarded as being
especially resourceful where dogs were concerned. He drew from his
pocket a metal sling-shot and some round bits of gravel. "I won't kill
it. I'll just surprise it, so we can have a look at it."
"Bet you won't hit it!"
"Bet I will!" He fitted the stone to the leather, squinted, and let fly.
Sure enough, the woodpecker dropped at his feet. He threw his heavy
black felt hat over it. Ivy never wore a straw hat, even in the hottest
weather. "Now wait. He'll come to. You'll hear him flutter in a minute."
"It ain't a he, anyhow. It's a female. Anybody would know that," said
Niel contemptuously, annoyed that this unpopular boy should come along
and spoil their afternoon. He held the fate of his uncle's spaniel
against Ivy Peters.
"All right, Miss Female," said Ivy carelessly, intent upon a project of
his own. He took from his pocket a little red leather box, and when he
opened it the boys saw that it contained curious little instruments:
tiny sharp knife blades, hooks, curved needles, a saw, a blow-pipe, and
scissors. "Some of these I got with a taxidermy outfit from the _Youth's
Companion_, and some I made myself." He got stiffly down on his
knees,--his joints seemed disinclined to bend at all,--and listened
beside his hat. "She's as lively as a cricket," he announced. Thrusting
his hand suddenly under the brim, he brought out the startled bird. It
was not bleeding, and did not seem to be crippled.
"Now, you watch, and I'll show you something," said Ivy. He held the
woodpecker's head in a vice made of his thumb and forefinger, enclosing
its panting body with his palm. Quick as a flash, as if it were a
practised trick, with one of those tiny blades he slit both the eyes
that glared in the bird's stupid little head, and instantly released it.
The woodpecker rose in the air with a whirling, corkscrew motion, darted
to the right, struck a tree-trunk,--to the left, and struck another. Up
and down, backward and forward among the tangle of branches it flew,
raking its feathers, falling and recovering itself. The boys stood
watching it, indignant and uncomfortable, not knowing what to do. They
were not especially sensitive; Thad was always on hand when there was
anything doing at the slaughter house, and the Blum boys lived by
killing things. They wouldn't have believed they could be so upset by a
hurt woodpecker. There was something wild and desperate about the way
the darkened creature beat its wings in the branches, whirling in the
sunlight and never seeing it, always thrusting its head up and shaking
it, as a bird does when it is drinking. Presently it managed to get its
feet on the same limb where it had been struck, and seemed to recognize
that perch. As if it had learned something by its bruises, it pecked and
crept its way along the branch and disappeared into its own hole.
"There," Niel Herbert exclaimed between his teeth, "if I can get it now,
I can kill it and put it out of its misery. Let me on your back, Rhein."
Rheinhold was the tallest, and he obediently bent his bony back. The
trunk of a cottonwood tree is hard to climb; the bark is rough, and the
branches begin a long way up. Niel tore his trousers and scratched his
bare legs smartly before he got to the first fork. After recovering
breath, he wound his way up toward the woodpecker's hole, which was
inconveniently high. He was almost there, his companions below thought
him quite safe, when he suddenly lost his balance, turned a somersault
in the air, and bumped down on the grass at their feet. There he lay
without moving.
"Run for water!"
"Run for Mrs. Forrester! Ask her for whiskey."
"No," said George Adams, "let's carry him up to the house. She will know
what to do."
"That's sense," said Ivy Peters. As he was much bigger and stronger than
any of the others, he lifted Niel's limp body and started up the hill.
It had occurred to him that this would be a fine chance to get inside
the Forresters' house and see what it was like, and this he had always
wanted to do.
Mary, the cook, saw them coming from the kitchen window, and ran for her
mistress. Captain Forrester was in Kansas City that day.
Mrs. Forrester came to the back door. "What's happened? It's Niel, too!
Bring him in this way, please."
Ivy Peters followed her, keeping his eyes open, and the rest trooped
after him,--all but the Blum boys, who knew that their place was outside
the kitchen door. Mrs. Forrester led the way through the butler's
pantry, the dining-room, the back parlour, to her own bedroom. She threw
down the white counterpane, and Ivy laid Niel upon the sheets. Mrs.
Forrester was concerned, but not frightened.
"Mary, will you bring the brandy from the sideboard. George, telephone
Dr. Dennison to come over at once. Now you other boys run out on the
front porch and wait quietly. There are too many of you in here." She
knelt by the bed, putting brandy between Niel's white lips with a
teaspoon. The little boys withdrew, only Ivy Peters remained standing in
the back parlour, just outside the bedroom door, his arms folded across
his chest, taking in his surroundings with bold, unblinking eyes.
Mrs. Forrester glanced at him over her shoulder. "Will you wait on the
porch, please? You are older than the others, and if anything is needed
I can call on you."
Ivy cursed himself, but he had to go. There was something final about
her imperious courtesy,--high-and-mighty, he called it. He had intended
to sit down in the biggest leather chair and cross his legs and make
himself at home; but he found himself on the front porch, put out by
that delicately modulated voice as effectually as if he had been kicked
out by the brawniest tough in town.
Niel opened his eyes and looked wonderingly about the big, half-darkened
room, full of heavy, old-fashioned walnut furniture. He was lying on a
white bed with ruffled pillow shams, and Mrs. Forrester was kneeling
beside him, bathing his forehead with cologne. Bohemian Mary stood
behind her, with a basin of water. "Ouch, my arm!" he muttered, and the
perspiration broke out on his face.
"Yes, dear, I'm afraid it's broken. Don't move. Dr. Dennison will be
here in a few minutes. It doesn't hurt very much, does it?"
"No'm," he said faintly. He was in pain, but he felt weak and contented.
The room was cool and dusky and quiet. At his house everything was
horrid when one was sick. . . . What soft fingers Mrs. Forrester had,
and what a lovely lady she was. Inside the lace ruffle of her dress he
saw her white throat rising and falling so quickly. Suddenly she got up
to take off her glittering rings,--she had not thought of them
before,--shed them off her fingers with a quick motion as if she were
washing her hands, and dropped them into Mary's broad palm. The little
boy was thinking that he would probably never be in so nice a place
again. The windows went almost down to the baseboard, like doors, and
the closed green shutters let in streaks of sunlight that quivered on
the polished floor and the silver things on the dresser. The heavy
curtains were looped back with thick cords, like ropes. The
marble-topped washstand was as big as a sideboard. The massive walnut
furniture was all inlaid with pale-coloured woods. Niel had a
scroll-saw, and this inlay interested him.
"There, he looks better now, doesn't he, Mary?" Mrs. Forrester ran her
fingers through his black hair and lightly kissed him on the forehead.
Oh, how sweet, how sweet she smelled!
"Wheels on the bridge; it's Doctor Dennison. Go and show him in, Mary."
Dr. Dennison set Niel's arm and took him home in his buggy. Home was not
a pleasant place to go to; a frail egg-shell house, set off on the edge
of the prairie where people of no consequence lived. Except for the fact
that he was Judge Pommeroy's nephew, Niel would have been one of the
boys to whom Mrs. Forrester merely nodded brightly as she passed. His
father was a widower. A poor relation, a spinster from Kentucky, kept
house for them, and Niel thought she was probably the worst housekeeper
in the world. Their house was usually full of washing in various stages
of incompletion,--tubs sitting about with linen soaking,--and the beds
were "aired" until any hour in the afternoon when Cousin Sadie happened
to think of making them up. She liked to sit down after breakfast and
read murder trials, or peruse a well-worn copy of "St. Elmo." Sadie was
a good-natured thing and was always running off to help a neighbour, but
Niel hated to have anyone come to see them. His father was at home very
little, spent all his time at his office. He kept the county abstract
books and made farm loans. Having lost his own property, he invested
other people's money for them. He was a gentle, agreeable man, young,
good-looking, with nice manners, but Niel felt there was an air of
failure and defeat about his family. He clung to his maternal uncle,
Judge Pommeroy, white-whiskered and portly, who was Captain Forrester's
lawyer and a friend of all the great men who visited the Forresters.
Niel was proud, like his mother; she died when he was five years old.
She had hated the West, and used haughtily to tell her neighbours that
she would never think of living anywhere but in Fayette county,
Kentucky; that they had only come to Sweet Water to make investments and
to "turn the crown into the pound." By that phrase she was still
remembered, poor lady.