THE Curtis home had an ample territory over which extended eight large
rooms and as many half stories with dormer windows. The big mock
oranges locked antlers across the path that led from the gate to the
little square porch where the wood bees droned in and out of the nests
they had bored in the wooden posts.
Mr. Curtis was a jovial man, round of face, short of stature, and given
to hospitality. He had been all his days faithful to that laborious
outdoor occupation--farming. In his old age the prosperous impression
that everything made proved that he had filled his place to some
account.
Glenn Andrews, who had been his son’s comrade in life, was an honored
guest. His vacation, usually spent in travel, had been claimed by the
lonely parents this time. He was promised all manner of recreations
and indulgences. They hoped to send him back as hardy as an Indian,
his white face and hands bronzed as the leaves in their turning. Broad
hours and solitude. How welcome they were to him! His place was sacred
in this house, and no one was allowed to disturb or criticise him. He
had set apart a few hours each day for work. He could not devote all
his vacation to rest and pleasure. It was not his nature. A memory of
his strange, lonely boyhood came to him with vivid distinctness, and
the absolute despair, he suffered at the possibility of never being
able to achieve greatness in the world. He wanted to see good results
in his life. The whole intensity of his spirit was bent on that one
purpose. The world he would know, and the men that live in it. His mind
was full of daring conceptions and ideals.
A wild grace permeated his personality, the strong and delightful
charm which was to make him a conqueror.
That morning Glenn ate breakfast with the family by lamplight. He went
back to his window afterwards and watched the sun rise. At this season
of the year the beauty of Virginia was at its height. He delighted from
the first in the splendid scenery and moody weather.
A haze of purple mist was lifting slowly from the mountains between
whose heart the valleys lay. The view was fresh with the lusty color
of midsummer. Exquisite perfumes, breath of young corn and cut clover,
came to him and grew sharper and sweeter as the dawn opened wide. In
nature he could see the warm heart of life, tender, strong and true.
In the distance stretched the wheat fields studded over with yellow
shocks, waiting for harvest-time. Later, as Glenn Andrews passed out on
his way to the woods, he saw the lengthening of the table, the unusual
hurry among the servants, which was a sign that he was to have dinner
that day in a harvest home. Wheat threshing time was on. This lover
of the sun, of long, wandering strolls, took the way he had not been.
It did not concern him much which way he took to solitude. Wherever
they met they made friends--he and solitude. They were so much alike.
Their sympathies were so much akin. Both were full of deep nature,
dignity and intense self-possession; they could not but find comforting
good-fellowship. With solitude he could almost hear the voice of God,
hear it speaking, between him and his hopes. Returning, he stopped at
“Indian Well.” A long time he sat there, face to face with his own
heart and brain. He made notes at times in a small book, which he kept
always with him. The class poet and editor of the college magazine
had a right to drop into rhyme whenever he felt like it, even though
the indulgence might never be known to the world. Glenn Andrews took
out his second cigar, drew a whiff of its scent and put it back in
his pocket. In his self-denial there was the compensation of looking
forward. He smoked it that afternoon over his work. The sun was
striking aslant and was not far from setting. Here was a broad hint to
hurry if he cared to see them harvesting. The engine sent its shrill
whistling call for “wheat” as he leaned over the fence. Dressed in a
hunting suit of brown tweed with tan boots laced from the ankle to the
knee, his broad hat pulled forward to shade his eyes, Glenn Andrews
attracted notice. The field was alive with toilers moving easily,
swiftly, leaning in a hundred graceful inclinations; some were loading
their wagons, lifting and loosening their shocks with a thrust of their
pitch-forks, others unloading them beside the thresher, clipping the
twine that bound the bundles and making a moving bridge of beaten gold
as they fed it. The heated engineer, with his oil-can, stood at the
head of the monstrous steam horse that had never lost its mysterious
power to charm the negro.
Tagger often stopped to stare and wonder. The machinery belt, smooth
and glittering like a broad satin ribbon, industriously turning on
great wheels, made him dance, barefooted over the stubble, to the music
of its motion. Little imps, such as he, counted this day of the year a
holiday high above all others they had ever known.
The mule that was driven with a long lasso under the straw as it fell
had a half-dozen or more children to pull every time it went to the
stack. In spite of the dust and the chaff that covered their heads and
half stifled them, they gave a wild dart and leaped upon the heap as
it was hauled away. Sometimes the wind took a whirl and scattered the
straw, niggers and all broadcast along the field. Glenn Andrews’ heart
beat lightly, the air thrilled with sounds, the music of the harvesters
and the hum of the thresher. There is nothing like life under the open
heaven, he knew. Glenn was a gypsy by nature.
“How is it turning out?” he asked, coming up to Mr. Curtis, who was
counting the loaded wagons that were filled with sacks of wheat,
starting off to be stored.
“Very good; the yield is something like sixteen bushels to the acre.
I’ll have about eighteen hundred altogether.” Glenn Andrews looked
up and saw a figure coming across the stubble--one that stood out in
delicate relief, slimmer, shapelier than the rest. She was all in
white; Mr. Curtis saw her, too.
“Here comes the fly-up-the-creek,” he said. “She looks like a hearse
horse with all those elder blooms on her head.” His speech had no touch
of spitefulness.
“I like her way; she is as wild and lawless as the wind, and as free.”
Glenn Andrews never thought or spoke of Esther without defense.
“Yes, and as sprightly as they make ’em,” Mr. Curtis began. “She never
went to school a day in her life. Her mother taught her, and her
grandpa reads to her. But play the fiddle--she can play it to beat the
band. She just took it up first. She could catch any tune. A teacher
came along about two years ago who knew a little about the fiddle.
Mr. Campbell is very poor now. He let the lady board with him to
give Esther lessons while she was teaching in the district. She would
not practice, they say, but you never saw anybody learn like she did
without it.”
“What a pity she hasn’t a chance to keep on.”
“Yes, but she never will. The old man is failing; I don’t know what’s
to become of her when he’s gone. He worries over not being able to give
her a musical education. You’d never think it, he is so quiet about it.”
“Has she no near relatives who would take her and help her to get a
start?”
“Only one, a nephew of the old man, but he married a plain, common
woman. His marriage was a shock to the family. If his was made in
heaven, as some folks believe in, I say the Lord had a grudge against
him. He started out with fine prospects, but he’s had a lot of trouble.
It looks like some folks can’t have anything but trouble and children.
He has a family of six. He ain’t more than thirty.”
Glenn took a deep breath.
“With such a weight as that it is no wonder he is sore. I wish the
child did have some way to escape such a future. With a talent like
hers she could rise above the minor cares. The world already has enough
ill-paid drudges.”
With this he left Mr. Curtis to meet Esther.
“Can you show us anything prettier than this in your cities?” she
asked. Looking about her she thought it made the hardiest, happiest
scene in the world.
“No, I could only show you something different--new; to the average mind
it is unaccustomedness that charms. I like this because it is new.” The
world he had known seemed immeasurably far off to them as they stood
together there. Everything about her touched him. Her true, simple
nature, her strong, pure devotion to her own ideals.
“You haven’t played for me yet.”
As he heard the engine blowing off the steam, he knew they were
rounding up; its work was done.
“No, and you didn’t want to hear me as much as you made out; you
forgot,” she said.
“I would like to hear you this minute.”
“Then come with me home.”
“But look at me: my face--my hands--these boots.”
Esther looked at him quickly. “You are vain.” Slipping her hand in his,
she gently pulled him a little way. “Oh, come on, what do you suppose I
care about dust. We have soap and water.”
He let her have her way, and allowed himself to be led.
The sun hung low in the sky as they started off, and was just dropping
behind the mountains when they reached the house. Faint zones of pink
and pearl flushed up, and everything was quickened--glorified by the
softening light.
“I’ve got a picture in my scrap book that looks like you.” Esther
stared Glenn Andrews full in the face as she spoke. “It is a picture of
Christ.”