VI

It was during that winter, the first one Mrs. Forrester had ever spent

in the house on the hill, that Niel came to know her very well. For the

Forresters that winter was a sort of isthmus between two estates; soon

afterward came a change in their fortunes. And for Niel it was a natural

turning-point, since in the autumn he was nineteen, and in the spring he

was twenty,--a very great difference.

After the Christmas festivities were over, the whist parties settled

into a regular routine. Three evenings a week Judge Pommeroy and his

nephew sat down to cards with the Forresters. Sometimes they went over

early and dined there. Sometimes they stayed for a late supper after the

last rubber. Niel, who had been so content with a bachelor's life, and

who had made up his mind that he would never live in a place that was

under the control of women, found himself becoming attached to the

comforts of a well-conducted house; to the pleasures of the table, to

the soft chairs and soft lights and agreeable human voices at the

Forresters'. On bitter, windy nights, sitting in his favourite blue

chair before the grate, he used to wonder how he could manage to tear

himself away, to plunge into the outer darkness, and run down the long

frozen road and up the dead street of the town. Captain Forrester was

experimenting with bulbs that winter, and had built a little glass

conservatory on the south side of the house, off the back parlour.

Through January and February the house was full of narcissus and Roman

hyacinths, and their heavy, spring-like odour made a part of the

enticing comfort of the fireside there.

Where Mrs. Forrester was, dulness was impossible, Niel believed. The

charm of her conversation was not so much in what she said, though she

was often witty, but in the quick recognition of her eyes, in the living

quality of her voice itself. One could talk with her about the most

trivial things, and go away with a high sense of elation. The secret of

it, he supposed, was that she couldn't help being interested in people,

even very commonplace people. If Mr. Ogden or Mr. Dalzell were not there

to tell their best stories for her, then she could be amused by Ivy

Peters' ruffianly manners, or the soft compliments of old man Elliott

when he sold her a pair of winter shoes. She had a fascinating gift of

mimicry. When she mentioned the fat iceman, or Thad Grimes at his meat

block, or the Blum boys with their dead rabbits, by a subtle suggestion

of their manner she made them seem more individual and vivid than they

were in their own person. She often caricatured people to their faces,

and they were not offended, but greatly flattered. Nothing pleased one

more than to provoke her laughter. Then you felt you were getting on

with her. It was her form of commenting, of agreeing with you and

appreciating you when you said something interesting,--and it often told

you a great deal that was both too direct and too elusive for words.

Long, long afterward, when Niel did not know whether Mrs. Forrester were

living or dead, if her image flashed into his mind, it came with a

brightness of dark eyes, her pale triangular cheeks with long earrings,

and her many-coloured laugh. When he was dull, dull and tired of

everything, he used to think that if he could hear that long-lost lady

laugh again, he could be gay.

The big storm of the winter came late that year; swept down over Sweet

Water the first day of March and beat upon the town for three days and

nights. Thirty inches of snow fell, and the cutting wind blew it into

whirling drifts. The Forresters were snowed in. Ben Keezer, their man of

all work, did not attempt to break a road or even to come over to the

town himself. On the third day Niel went to the post-office, got the

Captain's leather mail sack with its accumulation of letters, and set

off across the creek, plunging into drifts up to his middle, sometimes

up to his arm-pits. The fences along the lane were covered, but he broke

his trail by keeping between the two lines of poplars. When at last he

reached the front porch, Captain Forrester came to the door and let him

in.

"Glad to see you, my boy, very glad. It's been a little lonesome for us.

You must have had hard work getting over. I certainly appreciate it.

Come to the sitting-room fire and dry yourself. We will talk quietly.

Mrs. Forrester has gone upstairs to lie down; she's been complaining of

a headache."

Niel stood before the fire in his rubber boots, drying his trousers. The

Captain did not sit down but opened the glass door into his little

conservatory.

"I've something pretty to show you, Niel. All my hyacinths are coming

along at once, every colour of the rainbow. The Roman hyacinths, I say,

are Mrs. Forrester's. They seem to suit her."

Niel went to the door and looked with keen pleasure at the fresh, watery

blossoms. "I was afraid you might lose them this bitter weather,

Captain."

"No, these things can stand a good deal of cold. They've been company

for us." He stood looking out through the glass at the drifted

shrubbery. Niel liked to see him look out over his place. A man's house

is his castle, his look seemed to say. "Ben tells me the rabbits have

come up to the barn to eat the hay, everything green is covered up. I

had him throw a few cabbages out for them, so they won't suffer. Mrs.

Forrester has been on the porch every day, feeding the snow birds," he

went on, as if talking to himself.

The stair door opened, and Mrs. Forrester came down in her Japanese

dressing-gown, looking very pale. The dark shadows under her eyes seemed

to mean that she had been losing sleep.

"Oh, it's Niel! How nice of you. And you've brought the mail. Are there

any letters for me?"

"Three. Two from Denver and one from California." Her husband gave them

to her. "Did you sleep, Maidy?"

"No, but I rested. It's delightful up in the west room, the wind sings

and whistles about the eaves. If you'll excuse me, I'll dress and glance

at my letters. Stand closer to the fire, Niel. Are you very wet?" When

she stopped beside him to feel his clothes, he smelled a sharp odour of

spirits. Was she ill, he wondered, or merely so bored that she had been

trying to dull herself?

When she came back she had dressed and re-arranged her hair.

"Mrs. Forrester," said the Captain in a solicitous tone, "I believe I

would like some tea and toast this afternoon, like your English friends,

and it would be good for your head. We won't offer Niel anything else."

"Very well. Mary has gone to bed with a toothache, but I will make the

tea. Niel can make the toast here by the fire while you read your

paper."

She was cheerful now,--tied one of Mary's aprons about Niel's neck and

set him down with the toasting fork. He noticed that the Captain, as he

read his paper, kept his eye on the sideboard with a certain

watchfulness, and when his wife brought the tray with tea, and no

sherry, he seemed very much pleased. He drank three cups, and took a

second piece of toast.

"You see, Mr. Forrester," she said lightly, "Niel has brought back my

appetite. I ate no lunch to-day," turning to the boy, "I've been shut up

too long. Is there anything in the papers?"

This meant was there any news concerning the people they knew. The

Captain put on his silver-rimmed glasses again and read aloud about the

doings of their friends in Denver and Omaha and Kansas City. Mrs.

Forrester sat on a stool by the fire, eating toast and making humorous

comments upon the subjects of those solemn paragraphs; the engagement of

Miss Erma Salton-Smith, etc.

"At last, thank God! You remember her, Niel. She's been here. I think

you danced with her."

"I don't think I do. What is she like?"

"She's exactly like her name. Don't you remember? Tall, very animated,

glittering eyes, like the Ancient Mariner's?"