The Song of the Lark by Willa Cather (best reads .TXT) 📕

intimidated by her worldly clothes, but that her greater positiveness, her whole augmented self, made him feel that his accustomed manner toward her was inadequate.

Fred, on his part, was reflecting that the awkward position in which he had placed her would not confine or chafe her long. She looked about at other people, at other women, curiously. She was not quite sure of herself, but she was not in the least afraid or apologetic. She seemed to sit there on the edge, emerging from one world into another, taking her bearings, getting an idea of the concerted movement about her, but with absolute self-confidence. So far from shrinking, she expanded. The mere kindly effort to please Dr. Archie was enough to bring her out.

There was much talk of aurae at that time, and Fred mused that every beautiful, every compellingly beautiful woman, had an aura, whether other people did or no. There was, certainly, about the woman he had brought up from Mexico, such an emanation. She existed in more space than she occupied by measurement. The enveloping air about her head and shoulders was subsidized⁠—was more moving than she herself, for in it lived the awakenings, all the first sweetness that life kills in people. One felt in her such a wealth of Jugendzeit, all those flowers of the mind and the blood that bloom and perish by the myriad in the few exhaustless years when the imagination first kindles. It was in watching her as she emerged like this, in being near and not too near, that one got, for a moment, so much that one had lost; among other legendary things the legendary theme of the absolutely magical power of a beautiful woman.

After they had left Thea at her hotel, Dr. Archie admitted to Fred, as they walked up Broadway through the rapidly chilling air, that once before he had seen their young friend flash up into a more potent self, but in a darker mood. It was in his office one night, when she was at home the summer before last. “And then I got the idea,” he added simply, “that she would not live like other people: that, for better or worse, she had uncommon gifts.”

“Oh, we’ll see that it’s for better, you and I,” Fred reassured him. “Won’t you come up to my hotel with me? I think we ought to have a long talk.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Dr. Archie gratefully; “I think we ought.”

V

Thea was to sail on Tuesday, at noon, and on Saturday Fred Ottenburg arranged for her passage, while she and Dr. Archie went shopping. With rugs and sea-clothes she was already provided; Fred had got everything of that sort she needed for the voyage up from Vera Cruz. On Sunday afternoon Thea went to see the Harsanyis. When she returned to her hotel, she found a note from Ottenburg, saying that he had called and would come again tomorrow.

On Monday morning, while she was at breakfast, Fred came in. She knew by his hurried, distracted air as he entered the dining-room that something had gone wrong. He had just got a telegram from home. His mother had been thrown from her carriage and hurt; a concussion of some sort, and she was unconscious. He was leaving for St. Louis that night on the eleven o’clock train. He had a great deal to attend to during the day. He would come that evening, if he might, and stay with her until train time, while she was doing her packing. Scarcely waiting for her consent, he hurried away.

All day Thea was somewhat cast down. She was sorry for Fred, and she missed the feeling that she was the one person in his mind. He had scarcely looked at her when they exchanged words at the breakfast-table. She felt as if she were set aside, and she did not seem so important even to herself as she had yesterday. Certainly, she reflected, it was high time that she began to take care of herself again. Dr. Archie came for dinner, but she sent him away early, telling him that she would be ready to go to the boat with him at half-past ten the next morning. When she went upstairs, she looked gloomily at the open trunk in her sitting-room, and at the trays piled on the sofa. She stood at the window and watched a quiet snowstorm spending itself over the city. More than anything else, falling snow always made her think of Moonstone; of the Kohlers’ garden, of Thor’s sled, of dressing by lamplight and starting off to school before the paths were broken.

When Fred came, he looked tired, and he took her hand almost without seeing her.

“I’m so sorry, Fred. Have you had any more word?”

“She was still unconscious at four this afternoon. It doesn’t look very encouraging.” He approached the fire and warmed his hands. He seemed to have contracted, and he had not at all his habitual ease of manner. “Poor mother!” he exclaimed; “nothing like this should have happened to her. She has so much pride of person. She’s not at all an old woman, you know. She’s never got beyond vigorous and rather dashing middle age.” He turned abruptly to Thea and for the first time really looked at her. “How badly things come out! She’d have liked you for a daughter-in-law. Oh, you’d have fought like the devil, but you’d have respected each other.” He sank into a chair and thrust his feet out to the fire. “Still,” he went on thoughtfully, seeming to address the ceiling, “it might have been bad for you. Our big German houses, our good German cooking⁠—you might have got lost in the upholstery. That substantial comfort might take the temper out of you, dull your edge. Yes,” he sighed, “I guess you were meant for the jolt of the breakers.”

“I guess I’ll get plenty of jolt,” Thea murmured, turning to her trunk.

“I’m rather glad I’m not staying over until tomorrow,”