One of Ours - Willa Cather (great book club books .TXT) 📗

“Hello, are you farming?” he called as he came up to the fence.

Enid, who was bending over at that moment, rose quickly, but without a start. “Why, Claude! I thought you were out West somewhere. This is a surprise!” She brushed the earth from her hands and gave him her limp white fingers. Her arms, bare below the elbow, were thin, and looked cold, as if she had put on a summer dress too early.

“I just got back this morning. I’m walking out home. What are you planting?”

“Sweet peas.”

“You always have the finest ones in the country. When I see a bunch of yours at church or anywhere, I always know them.”

“Yes, I’m quite successful with my sweet peas,” she admitted. “The ground is rich down here, and they get plenty of sun.”

“It isn’t only your sweet peas. Nobody else has such lilacs or rambler roses, and I expect you have the only wistaria vine in Frankfort county.”

“Mother planted that a long while ago, when she first moved here. She is very partial to wistaria. I’m afraid we’ll lose it, one of these hard winters.”

“Oh, that would be a shame! Take good care of it. You must put in a lot of time looking after these things, anyway.” He spoke admiringly.

Enid leaned against the fence and pushed back her little bonnet. “Perhaps I take more interest in flowers than I do in people. I often envy you, Claude; you have so many interests.”

He coloured. “I? Good gracious, I don’t have many! I’m an awfully discontented sort of fellow. I didn’t care about going to school until I had to stop, and then I was sore because I couldn’t go back. I guess I’ve been sulking about it all winter.”

She looked at him with quiet astonishment. “I don’t see why you should be discontented; you’re so free.”

“Well, aren’t you free, too?”

“Not to do what I want to. The only thing I really want to do is to go out to China and help Carrie in her work. Mother thinks I’m not strong enough. But Carrie was never very strong here. She is better in China, and I think I might be.”

Claude felt concern. He had not seen Enid since the sleigh-ride, when she had been gayer than usual. Now she seemed sunk in lassitude. “You must get over such notions, Enid. You don’t want to go wandering off alone like that. It makes people queer. Isn’t there plenty of missionary work to be done right here?”

She sighed. “That’s what everybody says. But we all of us have a chance, if we’ll take it. Out there they haven’t. It’s terrible to think of all those millions that live and die in darkness.”

Claude glanced up at the sombre mill house, hidden in cedars⁠—then off at the bright, dusty fields. He felt as if he were a little to blame for Enid’s melancholy. He hadn’t been very neighbourly this last year. “People can live in darkness here, too, unless they fight it. Look at me. I told you I’ve been moping all winter. We all feel friendly enough, but we go plodding on and never get together. You and I are old friends, and yet we hardly ever see each other. Mother says you’ve been promising for two years to run up and have a visit with her. Why don’t you come? It would please her.”

“Then I will. I’ve always been fond of your mother.” She paused a moment, absently twisting the strings of her bonnet, then twitched it from her head with a quick movement and looked at him squarely in the bright light. “Claude, you haven’t really become a freethinker, have you?”

He laughed outright. “Why, what made you think I had?”

“Everybody knows Ernest Havel is, and people say you and he read that kind of books together.”

“Has that got anything to do with our being friends?”

“Yes, it has. I couldn’t feel the same confidence in you. I’ve worried about it a good deal.”

“Well, you just cut it out. For one thing, I’m not worth it,” he said quickly.

“Oh, yes, you are! If worrying would do any good⁠—” she shook her head at him reproachfully.

Claude took hold of the fence pickets between them with both hands. “It will do good! Didn’t I tell you there was missionary work to be done right here? Is that why you’ve been so standoffish with me the last few years, because you thought I was an atheist?”

“I never, you know, liked Ernest Havel,” she murmured.

When Claude left the mill and started homeward he felt that he had found something which would help him through the summer. How fortunate he had been to come upon Enid alone and talk to her without interruption⁠—without once seeing Mrs. Royce’s face, always masked in powder, peering at him from behind a drawn blind. Mrs. Royce had always looked old, even long ago when she used to come into church with her little girls⁠—a tiny woman in tiny high-heeled shoes and a big hat with nodding plumes, her black dress covered with bugles and jet that glittered and rattled and made her seem hard on the outside, like an insect.

Yes, he must see to it that Enid went about and saw more of other people. She was too much with her mother, and with her own thoughts. Flowers and foreign missions⁠—her garden and the great kingdom of China; there was something unusual and touching about her preoccupations. Something quite charming, too. Women ought to be religious; faith was the natural fragrance of their minds. The more incredible the things they believed, the more lovely was the act of belief. To him the story of Paradise Lost was as mythical as the Odyssey; yet when his mother read it aloud to him, it was not only beautiful but true. A woman who didn’t have holy thoughts about mysterious things far away would be prosaic and commonplace, like a man.

During the next few weeks Claude often