One of Ours
Book II: Enid
Chapter I
0ne afternoon that spring Claude was sitting on the long flight of granite
steps that leads up to the State House in Denver. He had been looking at the
collection of Cliff Dweller remains in the Capitol, and when he came out into
the sunlight the faint smell of fresh-cut grass struck his nostrils and
persuaded him to linger. The gardeners were giving the grounds their first light
mowing. All the lawns on the hill were bright with daffodils and hyacinths. A
sweet, warm wind blew over the grass, drying the waterdrops. There had been
showers in the afternoon, and the sky was still a tender, rainy blue, where it
showed through the masses of swiftly moving clouds.
Claude had been away from home for nearly a month. His father had sent him
out to see Ralph and the new ranch, and from there he went on to Colorado
Springs and Trinidad. He had enjoyed travelling, but now that he was back in
Denver he had that feeling of loneliness which often overtakes country boys in a
city; the feeling of being unrelated to anything, of not mattering to anybody.
He had wandered about Colorado Springs wishing he knew some of the people who
were going in and out of the houses; wishing that he could talk to some of those
pretty girls he saw driving their own cars about the streets, if only to say a
few words. One morning when he was walking out in the hills a girl passed him,
then slowed her car to ask if she could give him a lift. Claude would have said
that she was just the sort who would never stop to pick him up, yet she did, and
she talked to him pleasantly all the way back to town. It was only twenty
minutes or so, but it was worth everything else that happened on his trip. When
she asked him where she should put him down, he said at the Antlers, and blushed
so furiously that she must have known at once he wasn't staying there.
He wondered this afternoon how many discouraged young men had sat here on the
State House steps and watched the sun go down behind the mountains. Every one
was always saying it was a fine thing to be young; but it was a painful thing,
too. He didn't believe older people were ever so wretched. Over there, in the
golden light, the mass of mountains was splitting up into four distinct ranges,
and as the sun dropped lower the peaks emerged in perspective, one behind the
other. It was a lonely splendour that only made the ache in his breast the
stronger. What was the matter with him, he asked himself entreatingly. He must
answer that question before he went home again.
The statue of Kit Carson on horseback, down in the Square, pointed Westward;
but there was no West, in that sense, any more. There was still South America;
perhaps he could find something below the Isthmus. Here the sky was like a lid
shut down over the world; his mother could see saints and martyrs behind it.
Well, in time he would get over all this, he supposed. Even his father had
been restless as a young man, and had run away into a new country. It was a
storm that died down at last,—but what a pity not to do anything with it! A
waste of power—for it was a kind of power; he sprang to his feet and stood
frowning against the ruddy light, so deep in his struggling thoughts that he did
not notice a man, mounting from the lower terraces, who stopped to look at him.
The stranger scrutinized Claude with interest. He saw a young man standing
bareheaded on the long flight of steps, his fists clenched in an attitude of
arrested action,—his sandy hair, his tanned face, his tense figure
copper-coloured in the oblique rays. Claude would have been astonished if he
could have known how he seemed to this stranger.