_Bending the Twig_
Firmstone had done a very unusual thing for him in working himself up to
the point where anything that threatened delay in his proposed rescue of
Elise made him impatient. The necessity for immediate action had
impressed itself so strongly upon him that he lost sight of the fact
that others, even more deeply concerned than himself, might justly claim
consideration. He knew that in some way Zephyr was more or less in touch
with Pierre and Madame. Just how or why, he was in no mood to inquire.
Only a self-reliant mind is capable of distinguishing between that which
is an essential part and that which seems to be. So it happened that
Firmstone, when for the second time he met Zephyr at the Devil's Elbow,
listened impatiently to the latter's comments on the loss of the safe.
When at last he abruptly closed that subject and with equal abruptness
introduced the one uppermost in his mind the cold reticence of Zephyr
surprised and shocked him.
The two men had met by chance, almost the first day that Firmstone had
assumed charge of the Rainbow properties, and each had impressed the
other with a feeling of profound respect. This respect had ripened into
a genuine friendship. Zephyr saw in Firmstone a man who knew his
business, a man capable of applying his knowledge, whose duty to his
employers never blinded his eyes to the rights of his workmen, a man who
saw clearly, acted decisively, and yielded to the humblest the respect
which he exacted from the highest. These characteristics grew on Zephyr
until they filled his entire mental horizon, and he never questioned
what might be beyond. Yet now he had fear for Elise. Firmstone was so
far above her. Zephyr shook his head. Marriage was not to be thought of,
only a hopeless love on the part of Elise that would bring misery in the
end. This was Zephyr's limit, and this made him coldly silent in the
presence of Firmstone's advances. Firmstone was not thus limited.
Zephyr's silent reticence was quickly fathomed. His liking for the man
grew. He spoke calmly and with no trace of resentment.
"Of course, Elise is nothing to me in a way. But to think of a girl with
her possibilities being dwarfed and ruined by her surroundings!" He
paused, then added, "I wish my sister had come out with me. She wanted
to come."
Zephyr caught at the last words for an instant, then dropped them. His
answer was abrupt and non-committal. "There are some things that are
best helped by letting them alone."
Firmstone rose. "Good night," he said, briefly, and started for the
mill.
Firmstone was disappointed at Zephyr's reception; but he had reasoned
himself out of surprise. He had not given up the idea of freeing Elise
from her associates. That was not Firmstone.
The next morning, as usual, he met Miss Hartwell at breakfast.
"I am going up to the mine, this morning. Wouldn't you like to go as far
as the Falls? It is well worth your effort," he added.
"I would like to go very much." She spoke meditatively.
"If that means yes, I'll have a pony saddled for you. I'll be ready by
nine o'clock."
Miss Hartwell looked undecided. Firmstone divined the reason.
"The trail is perfectly safe every way, and the pony is sure-footed, so
you have nothing to fear."
"I believe I will go. My brother will never find time to take me
around."
"I'll get ready at once."
A seeming accident more often accomplishes desirable results than a
genuine one. Firmstone was fairly well satisfied that one excursion to
the Falls would incline Miss Hartwell to others. If she failed to meet
Elise on one day she was almost certain to meet her on another.
Promptly at nine the horses were at the door, and as promptly Miss
Hartwell appeared in her riding habit. In her hand she carried a
sketch-book. She held it up, smiling.
"This is one weakness that I cannot conceal."
"Even that needn't trouble you. I'll carry it."
"You seem to have a weakness as well." She was looking at a small box
which Firmstone was fastening to his saddle.
"This one is common to us all. We may not be back till late, so Benny
put up a lunch. The Falls are near Paradise; but yet far enough this
side of the line to make eating a necessity."
They mounted and rode away. Firmstone did not take the usual trail by
the Blue Goose, though it was the shorter. The trail he chose was longer
and easier. At first he was a little anxious about his guest; but Miss
Hartwell's manner plainly showed that his anxiety was groundless.
Evidently she was accustomed to riding, and the pony was perfectly safe.
The trail was narrow and, as he was riding in advance, conversation was
difficult, and no attempt was made to carry it on. At the Falls
Firmstone dismounted and took Miss Hartwell's pony to an open place,
where a long tether allowed it to graze in peace.
Miss Hartwell stood with her eyes resting on reach after reach of the
changing vista. She turned to Firmstone with a subdued smile.
"I am afraid that I troubled you with a useless burden," she said.
"I do not know to what you refer in particular; but I can truthfully
deny trouble on general principles."
"Really, haven't you been laughing at me, all this time? You must have
known how utterly hopeless a sketch-book and water-colours would be in
such a place. I think I'll try botany instead. That appeals to me as
more attainable."
Firmstone looked at his watch.
"I must go on. You are quite sure you won't get tired waiting? I have
put your lunch with your sketch-book. I'll be back by two o'clock,
anyway."
Miss Hartwell assured him that she would not mind the waiting, and
Firmstone went on his way.
Miss Hartwell gathered a few flowers, then opened her botany, and began
picking them to pieces that she might attach to each the hard name which
others had saddled upon it. At first absorbed and intent upon her work,
at length she grew restless and, raising her eyes, she saw Elise. On the
girl's face curiosity and disapprobation amounting almost to resentment
were strangely blended. Curiosity, for the moment, gained the
ascendency, as Miss Hartwell raised her eyes.
"What are you doing to those flowers?" Elise pointed to the fragments.
"I am trying to analyse them."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Analysis?" Miss Hartwell looked up inquiringly; but Elise made no
reply, so she went on. "That is separating them into their component
parts, to learn their structure."
"What for?" Elise looked rather puzzled, but yet willing to hear the
whole defence for spoliation.
"So that I can learn their names."
"How do you find their names?"
It occurred to Miss Hartwell to close the circle by simply answering
"analysis"; but she forebore.
"The flowers are described in this botany and their names are given. By
separating the flowers into their parts I can find the names."
"Where did the book get the names?"
If Miss Hartwell was growing impatient she concealed it admirably. If
she was perplexed in mind, and she certainly was, perplexity did not
show in the repose of her face. Her voice flowed with the modulated
rhythm of a college professor reciting an oft-repeated lecture to
ever-changing individuals with an unchanging stage of mental
development. If her choice of answer was made in desperation nothing
showed it.
"Botanists have studied plants very carefully. They find certain
resemblances which are persistent. These persistent resemblances they
classify into families. There are other less comprehensive resemblances
in the families. These are grouped into genera and the genera are
divided into species and these again into varieties, and a name is given
to each."
Elise in her way was a genius. She recognised the impossible. Miss
Hartwell's answers were impossible to her.
"Oh, is that all?" she asked, sarcastically. "Have you found the names
of these?" Again she pointed to the torn flowers.
Miss Hartwell divided her prey into groups.
"These are the Ranunculaceae family. This is the Aquilegia Caerulea. This
is the Delphinium Occidentale. This belongs to the Polemoniaceae family,
and is the Phlox Caespitosa. These are Compositae. They are a difficult
group to name." Miss Hartwell was indulging in mixed emotions. Mingled
with a satisfaction in reviewing her erudition was a quiet revenge
heightened by the unconsciousness of her object.
"You don't love flowers." There was no indecision in the statement.
"Why, yes, I certainly do."
"No; you don't, or you wouldn't tear them to pieces."
"Don't you ever pick flowers?"
"Yes; but I love them. I take them to my room, and they talk to me. They
do, too!" Elise flashed an answer to a questioning look of Miss
Hartwell, and then went on, "I don't tear them to pieces and throw them
away. Not even to find out those hideous names you called them. They
don't belong to them. You don't love them, and you needn't pretend you
do." Elise's cheeks were flushed. Miss Hartwell was bewildered in mind.
She acknowledged it to herself. Elise was teaching her a lesson that she
had never heard of before, much less learned. Then came elusive
suggestions, vaguely defined, of the two-fold aspect of nature. She
looked regretfully at the evidences of her curiosity. She had not yet
gone far enough along the new path to take accurate notes of her
emotions; but she had an undefined sense of her inferiority, a sense of
wrong-doing.
"I am very sorry I hurt you. I did not mean to."
Elise gave a quick look of interrogation. The look showed sincerity. Her
voice softened.
"You didn't hurt me; you made me mad. I can help myself. They can't."
Miss Hartwell had left her sketch-book unclosed. An errant breath of
wind was fluttering the pages.
"What is that?" Elise asked. "Another kind of book to make you tear up
flowers?" Her voice was hard again.
Miss Hartwell took up the open book.
"Perhaps you would like to see these. They may atone for my other
wrong-doing."
Elise seated herself and received the sketches one by one as they were
handed to her. Miss Hartwell had intended to make comments as necessity
or opportunity seemed to demand; but Elise forestalled her.
"This is beautiful; only----" She paused.
Miss Hartwell looked up.
"Only what?"
Elise shook her head impatiently.
"You've put those horrid names on each one of them. They make me think
of the ones you tore to pieces."
Miss Hartwell stretched out her hand.
"Let me take them for a moment, please."
Elise half drew them away, looking sharply at Miss Hartwell. Then her
face softened, and she placed the sketches in her hand. One by one the
offending names were removed.
"I think that is better."
Elise watched curiously, and her expression did not change with the
reception of the sketches.
"Don't you ever get mad?" she asked.
"Sometimes."
"That would have made me awfully mad."
"But I think you were quite right. The names are not beautiful. The
flowers are."
"That wouldn't make any difference with me. I'd get mad before I
thought, and then I'd stick to it anyway."
"That is not right."
Elise looked somewhat rebuked, but more puzzled.
"How old are you?" she asked.
This was too much. Miss Hartwell could not conceal her astonishment. She
recovered quickly and answered, with a smile:
"I was twenty-five, last February."
Elise resumed her examination of the water-colours. There was a look of
satisfaction on her face.
"Oh, well, perhaps when I get to be as old as that I won't get mad,
either. How did you learn to make flowers?" Her attention was fixed all
the time on the colours.
"I took lessons."
"Is it very hard to learn?"
"Not very, for some people. Would you like to have me teach you?"
Elise's face was flushed and eager.
"Will you teach me?" she asked.
"Certainly. It will give me great pleasure."
"When can you begin?"
"Now, if you like."
Miss Hartwell had taste, and she had been under excellent instruction.
Her efforts had been praised and herself highly commended; but no
sweeter incense had ever been burned under her nostrils than the intense
absorption of her first pupil. It was not genius; it was love, pure and
simple. There was no element of self-consciousness, only a wild love of
beauty and a longing to give it expression. Nominally, at least, Miss
Hartwell was the instructor and Elise the pupil; but that did not
prevent her learning some lessons which her other instructors had failed
to suggest. The comments of Elise on the habits and peculiarities of
every plant and flower that they attempted demonstrated to Miss Hartwell
that the real science of botany was not wholly dependent upon forceps
and scalpel. Another demonstration was to the effect that the first and
hardest step in drawing, if not in painting, was a clear-cut conception
of the object to be delineated. Elise knew her object. From the first
downy ball that pushed its way into the opening spring, to the unfolding
of the perfect flower, every shade and variety of colour Elise knew to
perfection.
Miss Hartwell's lessons had been purely mechanical. She had brought to
them determination and faithful application; but unconsciously the
object had been herself, not her subject, and her work showed it. Elise
was no genius; but she was possessed of some of its most imperative
essentials, an utter oblivion of self and an abounding love of her
subjects. Miss Hartwell was astonished at her easy grasp of details
which had come to her after much laborious effort.
They were aroused by the click of iron shoes on the stony trail as
Firmstone rode toward them.
He was delighted that his first attempt at bringing Elise in contact
with Miss Hartwell had been so successful. There was a flush of pleasure
on Miss Hartwell's face.
"I believe you knew I would not be alone. Why didn't you tell me about
Elise?"
"Oh, it's better to let each make his own discoveries, especially if
they are pleasant."
Firmstone looked at the paint-smudged fingers of Elise. "You refused my
help in square root, and are taking lessons in painting from Miss
Hartwell."
"Miss who?"
Firmstone was astonished at the change in the girl's face.
"Miss Hartwell," he answered.
Elise rose quickly to her feet. Brush and pencil fell unheeded from her
lap.
"Are you related to that Hartwell at the mill?" she demanded.
"He is my brother."
Fierce anger burned in the eyes of Elise. Without a word, she turned and
started down the trail. Miss Hartwell and Firmstone watched the
retreating figure for a moment. She was first to recover from her
surprise. She began to gather the scattered papers which Elise had
dropped. She was utterly unable to suggest an explanation of the sudden
change that had come over Elise on hearing her name. Firmstone was at
first astonished beyond measure. A second thought cleared his mind. He
knew that Hartwell had been going of late to the Blue Goose. Elise, no
doubt, had good grounds for resentment against him. That it should be
abruptly extended to his sister was no matter of surprise to Firmstone.
Of course, to Miss Hartwell he could not even suggest an explanation.
They each were wholly unprepared for the finale which came as an
unexpected sequel.
A delicate little hand, somewhat smudged with paint, was held out to
Miss Hartwell, who, as she took the hand, looked up into a resolute
face, with drooping eyes.
"I got mad before I thought, and I've come back to tell you that it
wasn't right."
Miss Hartwell drew the girl down beside her.
"Things always look worse than they really are when one is hungry. Won't
you share our lunch?"
With ready tact she directed her words to Firmstone, and she was not
disappointed in finding in him an intelligent second. Before many
minutes, Elise had forgotten disagreeable subjects in things which to
her never lacked interest.
At parting Elise followed the direct trail to the Blue Goose. As
Firmstone had hoped, another series of lessons was arranged for.