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Page 51
`Was he dead? Well, I guess so! There, now, Nina's all upset. We won't
talk about it. Don't you cry, Nina. No old tramp won't get you while
Tony's here.'
Mrs. Harling spoke up sternly. `Stop crying, Nina, or I'll always send you
upstairs when Antonia tells us about the country. Did they never find out
where he came from, Antonia?'
`Never, ma'm. He hadn't been seen nowhere except in a little town they call
Conway. He tried to get beer there, but there wasn't any saloon. Maybe he
came in on a freight, but the brakeman hadn't seen him. They couldn't find
no letters nor nothing on him; nothing but an old penknife in his pocket
and the wishbone of a chicken wrapped up in a piece of paper, and some
poetry.'
`Some poetry?' we exclaimed.
`I remember,' said Frances. `It was "The Old Oaken Bucket," cut out of a
newspaper and nearly worn out. Ole Iverson brought it into the office and
showed it to me.'
`Now, wasn't that strange, Miss Frances?' Tony asked thoughtfully. `What
would anybody want to kill themselves in summer for? In threshing time,
too! It's nice everywhere then.'
`So it is, Antonia,' said Mrs. Harling heartily. `Maybe I'll go home and
help you thresh next summer. Isn't that taffy nearly ready to eat? I've
been smelling it a long while.'
There was a basic harmony between Antonia and her mistress. They had
strong, independent natures, both of them. They knew what they liked, and
were not always trying to imitate other people. They loved children and
animals and music, and rough play and digging in the earth. They liked to
prepare rich, hearty food and to see people eat it; to make up soft white
beds and to see youngsters asleep in them. They ridiculed conceited people
and were quick to help unfortunate ones. Deep down in each of them there
was a kind of hearty joviality, a relish of life, not over-delicate, but
very invigorating. I never tried to define it, but I was distinctly
conscious of it. I could not imagine Antonia's living for a week in any
other house in Black Hawk than the Harlings'.
VII
WINTER LIES TOO LONG in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and
shabby, old and sullen. On the farm the weather was the great fact, and
men's affairs went on underneath it, as the streams creep under the ice.
But in Black Hawk the scene of human life was spread out shrunken and
pinched, frozen down to the bare stalk.
Through January and February I went to the river with the Harlings on clear
nights, and we skated up to the big island and made bonfires on the frozen
sand. But by March the ice was rough and choppy, and the snow on the river
bluffs was grey and mournful-looking. I was tired of school, tired of
winter clothes, of the rutted streets, of the dirty drifts and the piles of
cinders that had lain in the yards so long. There was only one break in
the dreary monotony of that month: when Blind d'Arnault, the Negro
pianist, came to town. He gave a concert at the Opera House on Monday
night, and he and his manager spent Saturday and Sunday at our comfortable
hotel. Mrs. Harling had known d'Arnault for years. She told Antonia she
had better go to see Tiny that Saturday evening, as there would certainly
be music at the Boys' Home.
Saturday night after supper I ran downtown to the hotel and slipped quietly
into the parlour. The chairs and sofas were already occupied, and the air
smelled pleasantly of cigar smoke. The parlour had once been two rooms,
and the floor was swaybacked where the partition had been cut away. The
wind from without made waves in the long carpet. A coal stove glowed at
either end of the room, and the grand piano in the middle stood open.
There was an atmosphere of unusual freedom about the house that night, for
Mrs. Gardener had gone to Omaha for a week. Johnnie had been having drinks
with the guests until he was rather absent-minded. It was Mrs. Gardener who
ran the business and looked after everything. Her husband stood at the
desk and welcomed incoming travellers. He was a popular fellow, but no
manager.
Mrs. Gardener was admittedly the best-dressed woman in Black Hawk, drove
the best horse, and had a smart trap and a little white-and-gold sleigh.
She seemed indifferent to her possessions, was not half so solicitous about
them as her friends were. She was tall, dark, severe, with something
Indian-like in the rigid immobility of her face. Her manner was cold, and
she talked little. Guests felt that they were receiving, not conferring, a
favour when they stayed at her house. Even the smartest travelling men
were flattered when Mrs. Gardener stopped to chat with them for a moment.
The patrons of the hotel were divided into two classes: those who had seen
Mrs. Gardener's diamonds, and those who had not.
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