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

“I know. I was cold and hungry, and I didn’t believe there was going to be any morning, anyway. Didn’t you feel queer, at all?”

Fred squinted above his smoking cup. “Well, I am never strong for getting up before the sun. The world looks unfurnished. When I first lit the fire and had a square look at you, I thought I’d got the wrong girl. Pale, grim⁠—you were a sight!”

Thea leaned back into the shadow of the rock room and warmed her hands over the coals. “It was dismal enough. How warm these walls are, all the way round; and your breakfast is so good. I’m all right now, Fred.”

“Yes, you’re all right now.” Fred lit a cigarette and looked at her critically as her head emerged into the sun again. “You get up every morning just a little bit handsomer than you were the day before. I’d love you just as much if you were not turning into one of the loveliest women I’ve ever seen; but you are, and that’s a fact to be reckoned with.” He watched her across the thin line of smoke he blew from his lips. “What are you going to do with all that beauty and all that talent, Miss Kronborg?”

She turned away to the fire again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she muttered with an awkwardness which did not conceal her pleasure.

Ottenburg laughed softly. “Oh, yes, you do! Nobody better! You’re a close one, but you give yourself away sometimes, like everybody else. Do you know, I’ve decided that you never do a single thing without an ulterior motive.” He threw away his cigarette, took out his tobacco-pouch and began to fill his pipe. “You ride and fence and walk and climb, but I know that all the while you’re getting somewhere in your mind. All these things are instruments; and I, too, am an instrument.” He looked up in time to intercept a quick, startled glance from Thea. “Oh, I don’t mind,” he chuckled; “not a bit. Every woman, every interesting woman, has ulterior motives, many of ’em less creditable than yours. It’s your constancy that amuses me. You must have been doing it ever since you were two feet high.”

Thea looked slowly up at her companion’s good-humored face. His eyes, sometimes too restless and sympathetic in town, had grown steadier and clearer in the open air. His short curly beard and yellow hair had reddened in the sun and wind. The pleasant vigor of his person was always delightful to her, something to signal to and laugh with in a world of negative people. With Fred she was never becalmed. There was always life in the air, always something coming and going, a rhythm of feeling and action⁠—stronger than the natural accord of youth. As she looked at him, leaning against the sunny wall, she felt a desire to be frank with him. She was not willfully holding anything back. But, on the other hand, she could not force things that held themselves back. “Yes, it was like that when I was little,” she said at last. “I had to be close, as you call it, or go under. But I didn’t know I had been like that since you came. I’ve had nothing to be close about. I haven’t thought about anything but having a good time with you. I’ve just drifted.”

Fred blew a trail of smoke out into the breeze and looked knowing. “Yes, you drift like a rifle ball, my dear. It’s your⁠—your direction that I like best of all. Most fellows wouldn’t, you know. I’m unusual.”

They both laughed, but Thea frowned questioningly. “Why wouldn’t most fellows? Other fellows have liked me.”

“Yes, serious fellows. You told me yourself they were all old, or solemn. But jolly fellows want to be the whole target. They would say you were all brain and muscle; that you have no feeling.”

She glanced at him sidewise. “Oh, they would, would they?”

“Of course they would,” Fred continued blandly. “Jolly fellows have no imagination. They want to be the animating force. When they are not around, they want a girl to be⁠—extinct,” he waved his hand. “Old fellows like Mr. Nathanmeyer understand your kind; but among the young ones, you are rather lucky to have found me. Even I wasn’t always so wise. I’ve had my time of thinking it would not bore me to be the Apollo of a homey flat, and I’ve paid out a trifle to learn better. All those things get very tedious unless they are hooked up with an idea of some sort. It’s because we don’t come out here only to look at each other and drink coffee that it’s so pleasant to⁠—look at each other.” Fred drew on his pipe for a while, studying Thea’s abstraction. She was staring up at the far wall of the canyon with a troubled expression that drew her eyes narrow and her mouth hard. Her hands lay in her lap, one over the other, the fingers interlacing. “Suppose,” Fred came out at length⁠—“suppose I were to offer you what most of the young men I know would offer a girl they’d been sitting up nights about: a comfortable flat in Chicago, a summer camp up in the woods, musical evenings, and a family to bring up. Would it look attractive to you?”

Thea sat up straight and stared at him in alarm, glared into his eyes. “Perfectly hideous!” she exclaimed.

Fred dropped back against the old stonework and laughed deep in his chest. “Well, don’t be frightened. I won’t offer them. You’re not a nest-building bird. You know I always liked your song, ‘Me for the jolt of the breakers!’ I understand.”

She rose impatiently and walked to the edge of the cliff. “It’s not that so much. It’s waking up every morning with the feeling that your life is your own, and your strength is your own,