The Troll Garden and Selected Stories - Willa Cather (ebook reader for surface pro .TXT) 📗

well satisfied with your own doings, now, as you’d have been with a farm,” said Mrs. Ericson reassuringly.

“Land’s a good thing to have,” Nils commented, as he lit another match and sheltered it with his hand.

His mother looked sharply at his face until the match burned out. “Only when you stay on it!” she hastened to say.

Eric came round the house by the path just then, and Nils rose, with a yawn. “Mother, if you don’t mind, Eric and I will take a little tramp before bedtime. It will make me sleep.”

“Very well; only don’t stay long. I’ll sit up and wait for you. I like to lock up myself.”

Nils put his hand on Eric’s shoulder, and the two tramped down the hill and across the sand creek into the dusty highroad beyond. Neither spoke. They swung along at an even gait, Nils puffing at his pipe. There was no moon, and the white road and the wide fields lay faint in the starlight. Over everything was darkness and thick silence, and the smell of dust and sunflowers. The brothers followed the road for a mile or more without finding a place to sit down. Finally, Nils perched on a stile over the wire fence, and Eric sat on the lower step.

“I began to think you never would come back, Nils,” said the boy softly.

“Didn’t I promise you I would?”

“Yes; but people don’t bother about promises they make to babies. Did you really know you were going away for good when you went to Chicago with the cattle that time?”

“I thought it very likely, if I could make my way.”

“I don’t see how you did it, Nils. Not many fellows could.” Eric rubbed his shoulder against his brother’s knee.

“The hard thing was leaving home you and father. It was easy enough, once I got beyond Chicago. Of course I got awful homesick; used to cry myself to sleep. But I’d burned my bridges.”

“You had always wanted to go, hadn’t you?”

“Always. Do you still sleep in our little room? Is that cottonwood still by the window?”

Eric nodded eagerly and smiled up at his brother in the grey darkness.

“You remember how we always said the leaves were whispering when they rustled at night? Well, they always whispered to me about the sea. Sometimes they said names out of the geography books. In a high wind they had a desperate sound, like someone trying to tear loose.”

“How funny, Nils,” said Eric dreamily, resting his chin on his hand. “That tree still talks like that, and ‘most always it talks to me about you.”

They sat a while longer, watching the stars. At last Eric whispered anxiously: “Hadn’t we better go back now? Mother will get tired waiting for us.” They rose and took a short cut home, through the pasture.

 

II

The next morning Nils woke with the first flood of light that came with dawn. The white-plastered walls of his room reflected the glare that shone through the thin window shades, and he found it impossible to sleep. He dressed hurriedly and slipped down the hall and up the back stairs to the half-story room which be used to share with his little brother. Eric, in a skimpy nightshirt, was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes, his pale yellow hair standing up in tufts all over his head. When he saw Nils, he murmured something confusedly and hustled his long legs into his trousers. “I didn’t expect you’d be up so early, Nils,” he said, as his head emerged from his blue shirt.

“Oh, you thought I was a dude, did you?” Nils gave him a playful tap which bent the tall boy up like a clasp knife. “See here: I must teach you to box.” Nils thrust his hands into his pockets and walked about. “You haven’t changed things much up here. Got most of my old traps, haven’t you?”

He took down a bent, withered piece of sapling that hung over the dresser. “If this isn’t the stick Lou Sandberg killed himself with!”

The boy looked up from his shoe-lacing.

“Yes; you never used to let me play with that. Just how did he do it, Nils? You were with father when he found Lou, weren’t you?”

“Yes. Father was going off to preach somewhere, and, as we drove along, Lou’s place looked sort of forlorn, and we thought we’d stop and cheer him up. When we found him father said he’d been dead a couple days. He’d tied a piece of binding twine round his neck, made a noose in each end, fixed the nooses over the ends of a bent stick, and let the stick spring straight; strangled himself.”

“What made him kill himself such a silly way?”

The simplicity of the boy’s question set Nils laughing. He clapped little Eric on the shoulder. “What made him such a silly as to kill himself at all, I should say!”

“Oh, well! But his hogs had the cholera, and all up and died on him, didn’t they?”

“Sure they did; but he didn’t have cholera; and there were plenty of bogs left in the world, weren’t there?”

“Well, but, if they weren’t his, how could they do him any good?” Eric asked, in astonishment.

“Oh, scat! He could have had lots of fun with other people’s hogs. He was a chump, Lou Sandberg. To kill yourself for a pig— think of that, now!” Nils laughed all the way downstairs, and quite embarrassed little Eric, who fell to scrubbing his face and hands at the tin basin. While he was parting his wet hair at the kitchen looking glass, a heavy tread sounded on the stairs. The boy dropped his comb. “Gracious, there’s Mother. We must have talked too long.” He hurried out to the shed, slipped on his overalls, and disappeared with the milking pails.

Mrs. Ericson came in, wearing a clean white apron, her black hair shining from the application of a wet brush.

“Good morning, Mother. Can’t I make the fire for you?”

“No, thank you, Nils. It’s no trouble to make a cob fire, and I like to manage the kitchen stove myself” Mrs. Ericson paused with a shovel full of ashes in her hand. “I expect you will be wanting to see your brothers as soon as possible. I’ll take you up to Anders’ place this morning. He’s threshing, and most of our boys are over there.”

“Will Olaf be there?”

Mrs. Ericson went on taking out the ashes, and spoke between shovels. “No; Olaf’s wheat is all in, put away in his new barn. He got six thousand bushel this year. He’s going to town today to get men to finish roofing his barn.”

“So Olaf is building a new barn?” Nils asked absently.

“Biggest one in the county, and almost done. You’ll likely be here for the barn-raising. He’s going to have a supper and a dance as soon as everybody’s done threshing. Says it keeps the voters in good humour. I tell him that’s all nonsense; but Olaf has a head for politics.”

“Does Olaf farm all Cousin Henrik’s land?”

Mrs. Ericson frowned as she blew into the faint smoke curling up about the cobs. “Yes; he holds it in trust for the children, Hilda and her brothers. He keeps strict account of everything he raises on it, and puts the proceeds out at compound interest for them.”

Nils smiled as he watched the little flames shoot up. The door of the back stairs opened, and Hilda emerged, her arms behind her, buttoning up her long gingham apron as she came. He nodded to her gaily, and she twinkled at him out of her little blue eyes, set far apart over her wide cheekbones.

“There, Hilda, you grind the coffee—and just put in an extra handful; I expect your Cousin Nils likes his strong,” said Mrs. Ericson, as she went out to the shed.

Nils turned to look at the little girl, who gripped the coffee grinder between her knees and ground so hard that her two braids bobbed and her face flushed under its broad spattering of freckles. He noticed on her middle finger something that had not been there last night, and that had evidently been put on for company: a tiny gold ring with a clumsily set garnet stone. As her hand went round and round he touched the ring with the tip of his finger, smiling.

Hilda glanced toward the shed door through which Mrs. Ericson had disappeared. “My Cousin Clara gave me that,” she whispered bashfully. “She’s Cousin Olaf’s wife.”

 

III

Mrs. Olaf Ericson—Clara Vavrika, as many people still called her—was moving restlessly about her big bare house that morning. Her husband had left for the county town before his wife was out of bed—her lateness in rising was one of the many things the Ericson family had against her. Clara seldom came downstairs before eight o’clock, and this morning she was even later, for she had dressed with unusual care. She put on, however, only a tightfitting black dress, which people thereabouts thought very plain. She was a tall, dark woman of thirty, with a rather sallow complexion and a touch of dull salmon red in her cheeks, where the blood seemed to burn under her brown skin. Her hair, parted evenly above her low forehead, was so black that there were distinctly blue lights in it. Her black eyebrows were delicate half-moons and her lashes were long and heavy. Her eyes slanted a little, as if she had a strain of Tartar or gypsy blood, and were sometimes full of fiery determination and sometimes dull and opaque. Her expression was never altogether amiable; was often, indeed, distinctly sullen, or, when she was animated, sarcastic. She was most attractive in profile, for then one saw to advantage her small, well-shaped head and delicate ears, and felt at once that here was a very positive, if not an altogether pleasing, personality.

The entire management of Mrs. Olaf’s household devolved upon her aunt, Johanna Vavrika, a superstitious, doting woman of fifty. When Clara was a little girl her mother died, and Johanna’s life had been spent in ungrudging service to her niece. Clara, like many self-willed and discontented persons, was really very apt, without knowing it, to do as other people told her, and to let her destiny be decided for her by intelligences much below her own. It was her Aunt Johanna who had humoured and spoiled her in her girlhood, who had got her off to Chicago to study piano, and who had finally persuaded her to marry Olaf Ericson as the best match she would be likely to make in that part of the country. Johanna Vavrika had been deeply scarred by smallpox in the old country. She was short and fat, homely and jolly and sentimental. She was so broad, and took such short steps when she walked, that her brother, Joe Vavrika, always called her his duck. She adored her niece because of her talent, because of her good looks and masterful ways, but most of all because of her selfishness.

Clara’s marriage with Olaf Ericson was Johanna’s particular triumph. She was inordinately proud of Olaf’s position, and she found a sufficiently exciting career in managing Clara’s house, in keeping it above the criticism of the Ericsons, in pampering Olaf to keep him from finding fault with his wife, and in concealing from every one Clara’s domestic infelicities. While Clara slept of a morning, Johanna Vavrika was bustling about, seeing that Olaf and the men had their breakfast, and that the cleaning or the butter-making or the washing was properly begun by the two girls in the kitchen. Then, at about eight o’clock, she would take Clara’s coffee up to her, and chat with her while she drank it, telling her