A GROWING MIND
That Matthew had returned, that he was to live henceforth with
Grandfather, that he was not even to come to the house, were facts
which Ellen found difficult to comprehend, yet which she accepted with
a child's willingness to accept what her father told her. The family
separation caused comment, but no great astonishment in a neighborhood
where differences of opinion and the separation of dissenters were
frequent.
Life went on quietly, yet not without interesting events. Study under
the driving spur of her father's encouragement was an absorbing
occupation for Ellen. Presently catalogues were sent for and schools
considered and compared. When a sample examination paper arrived, it
seemed possible that she might enter college, thoroughly prepared, in
two years.
Once, before Christmas, her father took her away. When they drove to
the station the pale winter sun had not yet dispelled the pearly mist
which lay over the landscape, nor thawed the ice on farmhouse windows.
The fields were covered with snow and it was difficult to imagine
them dressed in summer's richness of corn and wheat and tobacco. The
farmhouses with their huge barns looked like rich manorial properties,
as well they might in this deep-soiled country. Until they reached
the outskirts of the larger towns nothing was to be seen that was not
beautiful, the white stretches of snow, the frozen streams which showed
here and there dark pools, the fine clumps of forest trees, white
trunks of sycamores, dark masses of evergreens, and willows tipped
with yellow beside old spring houses. Nor was there anything that was
not indicative of prosperity and peace. The houses were built of brick
and stone, the fences were straight and in good repair, there were
no weeds; ignorance might laugh at Mennonite and Dunker, Amish and
Seventh-Day Baptist, who had tilled the fields and built the houses,
but their thrift and labor had founded a great commonwealth.
The ride across the country did not compare in Ellen's mind with the
ride between the Susquehanna River and the miles of furnaces and mills.
The sight of the towering Capitol, viewed at first from the train above
a low stretch of sordid buildings, filled her with delight. When they
had climbed the steps to the esplanade, her father turned her away from
the Capitol so that she might look down the broad street to the river.
"Oh, Father!" said Ellen holding his hand tight.
"It isn't very long since this was only a frontier fort and the Indians
came floating in canoes from far away to barter furs for flintlocks and
powder, and for mirrors and baubles for their squaws. Sometime we'll go
across the river and get a view of the city and the mountains."
"Shall we really come again?" asked Ellen.
When they went indoors, she had nothing whatever to say. The rotunda
was at first simply bewildering, its pictured dome was so far above
her, its walls were so white, the angels who held glittering lamps on
high were so majestic. Led from place to place she saw interpreted
for her the history of her State. William Penn stood, an austere
young figure, before an angry father, waited in audience before stern
magistrates, or faced westward high on the prow of a boat against a
stormy sky. Her eyes dwelt with delight upon each detail; here a blue
sky mirrored in a tiny pool, here bright grass, here velvets and laces,
here a lean greyhound's body, here leaping flames and young scholars
casting their books upon the fire.
There were other pictures; the cold, miserable, intrepid troopers of
Valley Forge; William Penn and a magnificent Indian under a yellow
tree; the reading of the Declaration of Independence; and last of all,
a glorious tableau in which a hundred heroes figured. There was no
doubt in Ellen's mind that she had seen the most magnificent edifice in
the wide world.
But there were new joys to follow. At sunset the two walked hand in
hand upon the long street by the river, keeping on a path close to
the brink. When Ellen's eyes left the golden surface of the water,
they saw old houses firmly built, stately and well kept. After a while
the houses were newer and farther apart. Far across the river trains
thundered.
When they retraced their steps the glow had faded and lights sparkled
in interminable lines and were reflected in the dark, velvety water.
Ellen was young and eager, a warm hand held hers, she could not help
dancing by her father's side.
"I'm choosing a house," she said. "There was one gray stone house on a
corner--I'm watching for it. It is where I should like to live. I see
it now, people are going in!"
Halted by the tightening of her hand, Levis looked across at the gray
house. An automobile drove away, another was drawing up to the curb.
Wrapped in furs, a lady waited on the pavement for her friends from
the second car. The door of the house was open and a maid stood on the
upper step.
"Is that a party, Father?"
Levis did not answer. When the door closed he crossed the street. The
house fronted both on the river and on the side street, and in the
wing there was apparently a suite of offices. He went closer and read
the gilt name on a small black sign--"Stephen Lanfair, M.D." Then he
took Ellen's hand and walked on. So this was where Stephen lived when
he was not traveling about the world! He smiled without bitterness,
remembering Stephen's vows of friendship.
Ellen looked up at him, a vague impression growing stronger. She
believed that he would like to be here; that he belonged here, rather
than with people like Grandfather and Amos.
"Would you like to live here, Father?"
"Would you, Ellen?"
"Oh, yes!"
She answered still more ardently that night. After their supper they
went to a huge lighted building, where it seemed all the ladies had
gathered from the fine houses. There were also many gentlemen with such
an expanse of shirt-bosom as she had never seen. Here was something to
tell Mrs. Sassaman--what would she say to such ironing as that?
"What is going to happen?" she asked in a whisper when they had been
taken to seats in the first row of the balcony. Merely to sit there
would have been entertainment enough, but it was clear that some
additional joy was at hand.
"Wait!" said her father.
She watched the rising curtain; she saw standing on a platform
a slender young man with a violin in his hand. Now violins were
wicked--Millie's brother, who had long since vanished, was said to
have brought one from the city and his father was said to have broken
it over the corner of the stove.
Then she took her father's hand. The violinist moved his arm lightly
and her blood raced through her veins. Her mind filled with pleasing
images, detached from one another, leading nowhere, dreamlike,
heavenly. She had never seen dancing, but she felt an impulse to rise
and discover whether she was really light as air, whether she could
really fly.
"Oh, Father!" she cried, when the dancing tune was over.
Then she said no more, had no vocabulary with which to say more. She
felt both sorrow and gladness, but most of all she felt the pains of
growth. There were tears in her eyes, then on her cheeks.
When on the way to the hotel her father asked whether she had liked it,
she answered his question in a curious way.
"I wish Matthew would come back to us!"
The identical desire filled Levis's heart.
"I wish so, too. Perhaps you can persuade him."
"May I take him a Christmas present and speak to him then?"
"Certainly. To-morrow we'll find one for him."
The carefully chosen present was a picture which reminded Ellen of the
view from Matthew's window. It was clear to Levis why she liked it, but
he had small hopes that either persuasion or art would move Matthew.
"May I get a pair of gloves for Grandfather and something for Amos?"
"Yes, if you wish."
He took Ellen and her packages to the outer gate of the little cemetery
on the afternoon before Christmas. The location of the cemetery
suggested to him always a _memento mori_--the brevity of life was
not to be forgotten by the residents of the Kloster! The whole place
under the covering of snow seemed horribly dreary and forlorn. Ellen
clambered out of the buggy and he held her packages out to her.
"In an hour and a half at most, I'll be here."
"May I invite them for Christmas dinner?"
"Yes."
"And Amos?" asked Ellen hesitatingly.
"Yes, and Amos."
She held her packages with care. She had tied them with red cord--such
festive packages were not often carried through the cemetery. So
accustomed was she to the path that she gave no thought to the white
stones. When she came to the second gate she laid her bundle down and
fastened the latch, as Grandfather liked to have it fastened, and went
up the little walk to the cottage, already shadowed by the Saal and
Saron. It had never been her habit to knock at the door, and she did
not knock now, but balancing her picture carefully on one arm, she
lifted the latch and entered.
It could not have been that the three men had not seen her
coming--Grandfather sitting by the stove meditating, and Amos sitting
by the table studying, and Matthew sitting idly by the window, all
commanded a view of the gate and the graveyard. Each now had in secret
a throbbing heart, each longed to let his eyes rest upon her, to devour
her. But none had gone to open the door, and now none rose to welcome
her.
But her smile was not to be resisted. It brought a faint motion to
Grandfather's lips and a red flush to Matthew's cheek, and caused both
heart and cheek of Amos to burn. All saw a change in Ellen, added
height, a brighter color, a longer dress. Her dress was, moreover,
gayer. Hitherto Mrs. Sassaman in selecting her clothes had remembered
that she was destined to be a Seventh-Day Baptist and that therefore
plainness was her portion; now her father had selected a new coat and
hat, with a very decided intention that she was not to be plain in any
sense of the word. Her coloring and his own masculine taste inclined
him to red, but the clerk had persuaded him to take brown, and Ellen in
a brown coat and a fur cap gratified him beyond all his hopes.
Her appearance, her gayety, and above all her greeting moved, alas,
every heart against her. If she had come humbly, plainly dressed,
remembering the circumstances under which she had departed, her
grandfather would have taken her to his arms. If she had been a little
less lovely, Amos would not have been afraid of her. If she had been
quieter, as suited her sex and station, Matthew would not have turned
away from her.
But she cried out with singularly poor judgment, "Merry Christmas,"
forgetting that Grandfather believed in searching of heart rather than
gayety upon such occasions. Upon her grandfather's cheek she bestowed
a granddaughterly kiss, and to Amos she gave her hand. Then going to
Matthew, she put her arms round him. He longed to respond, to put both
his arms round her and to hide his tearful eyes against her curls, but
the expression which he gave to this desire was a sharp,
"You're getting too old for such foolishness, Ellen."
Ellen backed toward the table.
"I brought you Christmas presents--gloves for you, Grandfather, and
handkerchiefs for Amos, and a picture for Matthew." She handed them
round, one by one, then stood, a bewildered fairy-godmother, in the
midst of unresponsive beneficiaries.
"I go out very little in cold weather"--this from Grandfather.
Amos did not lift the handkerchiefs from the table.
"I don't approve of pictures, Ellen," said Matthew. "We would much
better be reading our Bibles than looking at pictures."
She knew suddenly that Matthew would not come home, that they would
not come to dinner, but she hurried to give her invitation before she
should lose her voice.
"Father and Mrs. Sassaman and I would like you all to come to dinner
to-morrow. Every one. We're going to have turkey."
"We have no heart for gayety, Ellen," said Grandfather.
The two young men, with the healthy appetites of their age, had a
second of inward rebellion against this decision, then they acquiesced.
Perhaps it was his recollection of the Christmas dinner table with its
handsomest white cloth with a red border, its smoking fowl, its hot
mince pies, that made Matthew's voice still sharper, his words more
cruel.
"You can wrap your picture up."
"You won't come, any of you?" whispered Ellen, her eyes seeking first
one, then the other.
Leaving the picture in Matthew's hand she moved toward the door. To
all she was a most precious creature about to slip away forever. Her
grandfather leaned forward in his chair, pleading like an ancient
prophet.
"Oh, Ellen, if you could only see the true light! There is only one
thing worth while and that is peace with God. Not education, but your
salvation should be your concern."
Matthew's attack was savage. A strange, fierce jealousy filled his
narrow heart. Ellen had always obeyed him, she should obey him now!
"You aren't dressed properly. You should know better if Father doesn't."
Amos did not speak, but his eyes burned. If he might only talk to this
poor lamb!
"You shan't speak against Father!" cried Ellen. "I don't see why we
can't live at peace and love one another. It's wicked for Matthew to
make Father feel badly. I would rather"--she knew that she was saying
a monstrous thing, but it was true--"I would rather lose my soul than
hurt any one like that. I wouldn't believe a religion that made me act
like that. I wouldn't believe"--she was now too excited to know exactly
what she was saying--"I wouldn't obey a God that wanted me to act like
that. I--"
Her sentence unfinished, she got outside and shut the door between her
and them. It was beginning to snow and it might be more than an hour
before her father came, but she could not stay in the little house.
The snow thickened and twilight fell and she waited, pacing up and
down, and feeling the chill of the raw night air through her whole
body. She did not go beyond the turn of the road, nor would she start
home, for then her father would go into the cottage to inquire for her
and he might be met by reproaches and impertinence. Lights shone out
from comfortable warm rooms in Ephrata; men returning from their work
in the village to homes in the country and women laden with packages
looked at her curiously; but she did not forsake her post, though she
might have walked home easily.
When at last her father arrived she was shivering. He held his restless
horse with one hand and put out the other to help her. He was late--the
fastening of a box to the back of the buggy had taken time.
"What in the world are you doing out here?" he asked.
"I'm waiting for you."
"But why here?"
"They wouldn't take my presents," wailed Ellen. "They didn't want them;
they think I'm wicked. They won't come to dinner. They were all there.
Matthew has a--a--beard, Father! I--" But she could say no more.
When she had changed her clothes, she and Mrs. Sassaman taking counsel
together over the proper method of pressing the beautiful coat, and had
had supper, Levis asked for an account of the afternoon.
"We'll think no more of it," said he when she had finished. "Matthew
has chosen for himself. We've done everything we can and it's useless
to cry or worry."
But she refused to give up hope. She thought of Matthew in the night;
she thought of him the next morning, when, wakened by the strains which
she had heard Kreisler play, she ran down the stairs to find the source
of the miracle in a victrola at which Mrs. Sassaman and her father
stood beaming; she thought of him at intervals through the snow-bound,
pleasant day; she thought of him when, with Mrs. Sassaman, she went to
the Lutheran celebration and listened to the children singing their
carols and saw--oh, beautiful sight!--a tree all set with gleaming
candles.
Mrs. Sassaman felt the Christmas spirit, and her heart warmed to those
whom she served. She was a loyal soul and she often defended Dr. Levis
when her friends blamed him for Matthew's departure. Her marital
aspirations had grown less keen; she asked only to stay and serve. With
this thought in mind she visited Levis in his office.
"I would rather be Manda," said she, as though the day of her request
to be called Mrs. Sassaman were but yesterday.
"Very well," said Levis. "I like it better, it is friendlier."
She sat down uninvited. She gathered now and then from her friends
descriptions of extraordinary diseases, and these she reported to
Levis, believing them to be professionally useful. She told now of the
fearful pain which "took" the friend of her friend, of the treatment
by the medical doctor and by the pow-wow doctor and of the "awful
witality" of the sufferer's constitution. When she had finished she
rose quickly and went happily away.
Ellen thought of Matthew every day through the winter--in the short
mornings when there seemed to be so much to learn; in the afternoons
when the world moved more slowly; in the evenings when she recited her
lessons. If he had stayed in school, he would be very wise indeed. But
instead of studying he preferred to work in the stocking factory at
Ephrata--that was what Levis's son was doing now!
One spring evening Ellen went for a walk. The frost was out of the
ground; the April air was full of the odor of wet earth, and when one
stood still one could hear little, pleasant sounds of running water.
She had passed the time when her æsthetic sense was limited to pleasure
in a glass filled with wild roses, or a gratifying arrangement of
autumn leaves; she had begun to observe the delicate colors near the
horizon, the soft purple of the old fences, the shapes of trees and of
groups of trees. On this spring evening it was heavenly to be alive;
one forgot one's haste to be older, one's regret that learning was a
slow process, one's desire to see a thousand places, the cathedral of
Rheims, for one, and the Doge's palace and the church of St. Sophia for
others, which one would, which one must, see some day. She forgot even
Matthew.
Then Matthew recalled himself. Ellen was walking slowly, but not so
slowly as two persons who came toward her. At the beginning of the
descent into the little hollow where the stream ran, she stopped and
stood still to listen to the bubbling water and from there discerned,
silhouetted against the yellow sky, two dark figures that might well
have been ghosts of the early settlers of the land. The man's figure
was tall, the woman's short; she wondered what couple was courting
on this pleasant evening. Imagination made her flush suddenly, but
before she had time to translate the incident into her own experience,
the familiarity of the man's outline startled her. There was only one
person who had shoulders like that and that was Matthew, who was now a
Seventh-Day Baptist, having been plunged one morning in the cold waters
of the creek.
The girl with Matthew was Millie König, could be no other, and the
young people of the Seventh-Day Baptists did not walk with each other
unless they were betrothed!
She hurried home with her miserable news.
"Father, I saw him walking in the road, and Millie was with him."
Levis knew the significance of this companionship. Under his breath,
he said scornfully, "Good Lord!" and aloud, "We'll try not to think of
it, Ellen."
He had thought often since his visit to Harrisburg of Stephen. He felt
with increasing frequency the uneasy sensation in his heart and he knew
that he ought to have a word with some one about it. Stephen was an eye
specialist, but he was also acquainted with general medical practice.
There was a certain disease of the heart which warned gently for a long
time and then leaped with tigerish swiftness--but it could not be that!
There was another problem which he should like to lay before his
friend. Life on the farm would be intolerable without Ellen and he
believed himself still young enough to find another place. Stephen
might be able to tell him of a practice and to help him to it. Neither
favor was too large to ask if the old friendliness continued. He
planned to go to Harrisburg at some convenient season, but he postponed
his journey week after week, believing that there was still time
enough.