“I LIKE you in those high boots.” Esther put her foot on the tip of one
of them as she spoke.
“It was not so much vanity, as respect for your grandfather, that made
me want to appear at my best when I met him.”
“You see, he didn’t notice them. Why should you care, anyhow, if I
liked them.”
There was a certain charm in her contempt for risks and consequences. A
waiter was brought out clinking with glasses.
“This will not only prove your welcome, Mr. Andrews, but aid your
digestion as well,” Mr. Campbell said, as he came out of the hall to
join them.
Andrews filled his glass that yielded fragrance and soft fire. He
touched it to his lips. “This is excellent. Is it some of your own
make?”
“The grapes came from my vineyard.”
“I helped to make it--I strained it,” Esther interrupted, “but I never
tasted any in my life.” Mr. Campbell laid his hand on her head.
“This is to you--to your art.” Glenn Andrews motioned to her, lifted
his glass and sipped the wine, slowly realizing it was beautiful to
every sense. Esther stole into the parlor, and was playing her violin
before they knew it. They followed her in. It was an old-time parlor
with black, carved furniture, a slender legged center table, polished
as smooth as a mirror, holding a china vase of curious design, in which
leaned one long stemmed rose, as red as the wine that had made their
hearts large and soft. The walls were almost hidden by family portraits
that reached from the ceiling to the floor, set in deep tarnished gilt
frames. The carpet had a shred of tracery suggesting a design--it might
have been only a shadow of gorgeous wreaths that had been worn away by
dear feet that had long gone--the whole faint impression still hallowed
by their tread.
Esther loved her violin irregularly. This was a time when she really
needed it. They went in very quietly, hoping not to interrupt her. The
soft, tremulous tones that she had not meant to give, showed that she
was excited, unnerved. Just as Glenn was about to utter an apology for
the confusion, his face became serious and silent. He was peculiarly
sensitive to the influence of the violin. He was conscious of a dreamy
exaltation, and the awakening of a new enthusiasm. The music had
burst into a wild, passionate tenderness, as though she was daringly
investing all her dreams with life-throbbing human life--the tone fairly
voicing the longing of her soul.
It was infinitely touching, infinitely tender. A quick flush went up to
his forehead and died out again, as the music trembled into stillness,
and she lowered the violin, exhausted.
“You must be very proud of her,” Glenn turned to the old man, “I think
she has a future.”
“She ought to have a chance for it,” said Mr. Campbell. A glance
from Esther’s flushed face to the suddenly compressed lips of her
grandfather made Glenn understand that that was as near to complaint
as he ever came. He might have been impatient in his days of strength,
but on the coming of adversity this proud man had learned to wait in
silence. He seldom breathed a syllable of the sorrow he bore on account
of his hands being tied.
“Practice is half the battle; you ought to spend hours at it every
day,” Glenn said to Esther as she tossed her head.
“I don’t ever expect to study under anyone again. What’s the use going
half way when I know I can never go the other half?”
“But you will if you only have belief in yourself.”
Mr. Campbell was delighted as he listened. Here was someone interested
in his little girl. He trusted a kindliness so genuine, an interest so
evidently sincere.
A child’s soul is easily impressed, responsive to the first panorama
that passes before it. Mr. Campbell hoped Glenn Andrews would come
again.