THE next few weeks for Esther were transitions between content and
longing. The trees of the woodland, that had been her playfellow, now
had a rival. Of Glenn Andrews she had made a hero, a king. She regarded
him as a being to inspire wonder and mystery.
His simplest word or gesture spoke directly to the heart.
They took sweet wood rambles together. He had already begun to realize
that all solitary pleasures were selfish.
He rather looked forward to their meetings, although he did not let her
think they meant much to him.
“When do you want to see me again?” was usually his parting question.
If she said “to-morrow,” he could not come until the next day, or
later. To her it seemed that he took a pride in finding out when she
most wanted to see him--only to stay away at that particular time. He
held himself aloof--gave her room to expand. Hers was a nature artistic
to a painful degree--a nature nobly expansive.
But within the limit of the country, amid entirely commonplace people,
her power of artistic perception had been of little value--rather a
burden than a delight.
One day, after she had urged Glenn Andrews to go with her to where they
would have a pretty view of a mountain waterfall, he had refused, and
she had gone alone. It was a long stroll, but she was thirsting to see
it. She resented his refusal, and so had gone alone. Glenn watched her
out of sight, then went back to his writing. He was doing some of his
strongest and most vigorous work.
Esther reached the mountain side, and stood a little way back to keep
the spray from wetting her dress. The breath of it was refreshing. She
took a pride in the mighty roar of the falls.
Its voice sounded so strong, so real. Its commanding majesty held
her. She repeated a name, its echo was drowned. Flowers, ferns, great
rocks, everything in its track was treated to the same reckless
inconsideration. Only the mist rose higher and higher as though it
would regain the height it lost when the waters made the mighty leap,
and dashed its very heart to pieces on the stones below.
How she gloried in the daring of the mist. It was so light, and thin,
and quiet, but in its very silence there seemed to be strength.
It was gaining slowly, but she cheered it as she saw it ascending, her
eyes gleaming with excitement as she watched it. “I know you’d like to
slide down the falls.” A hand was laid upon her shoulder.
“I’d rather go up with the mist,” she answered Glenn Andrews, as
though she was neither surprised nor pleased by his sudden arrival.
“I got through my work earlier than I expected,” he began. “When they
told me how far it was, I thought it would be too late for you to come
home alone.”
If he expected her to thank him for the consideration, he was
disappointed. The wind that the falls generated had blown some of the
waves of her hair across her face. She carelessly brushed it back with
her hands. A strand of rebellious hair, that seemed unmanageable, she
pulled out and threw away.
“Stop that.” Glenn tapped her fingers lightly. “Haven’t I told you not
to do that? It’s a crime to ill use such hair as yours.”
Esther obeyed him, but could not resist the impulse to say: “You may
look like Christ, but you can act like the devil.”
She saw him drop his head and walk a few steps away.
“You might as well have come on with me if you were coming anyhow.”
He did not look at her.
“I told you I would come, if you would wait until to-morrow. It was a
poem for you I wanted to finish.”
Esther went to his side, penitent; the act had lost its sharp outlines
to her.
“The words that you said someone would set to music for me?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see them, won’t you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Oh, do; I’m wild to read them.” Her eyes lost their unconcern as she
pleaded.
“You know I am in earnest when I say that you will not have that
pleasure. What’s the use teasing?”
He was drumming on a rock with his boot heel, as he leaned against a
shrub. The stream that caught the waterfall laughed and lathered over
its rocks as it flowed beside them. They were of the most delicate
tintings, pale lavenders, green, and pink and blue. Glenn Andrews was
gazing at them.
“Did you ever see such pretty shades as the rocks of mountain regions
take on? I’ve often wondered what caused their coloring.”
With an aggrieved air, Esther allowed the drift of interest to turn at
his bidding.
“I supposed rocks were alike the world over.”
“That’s because you only know your own beautiful ones; some day you’ll
see the ugly ones; then you needn’t bother to wonder what made them so.
Just kick them out of the way and forget them.”
“Is that what you do?”
“Yes, when they are not too big for me.”
“I don’t like the hurt, when I stump my toe on these pretty ones. It
teaches me to go around all I can. The jagged ones that I meet some day
needn’t think of being disturbed, if I can get around them.”
“But sometimes they block the road, what then?”
“I’d get somebody to help me over.”
“I hope you will have that good luck all your days, Esther.”
Glenn Andrews’ voice had a minor sweetness. The thought of contrasting
her vagrant childhood with the world she must one day know, was
singularly pathetic to him.
Stooping, he picked up a rock and cast it across the waters.
“Yes,” she said; “I was always lucky, that’s how grandpa came to call
me ‘God’s child.’”
“We’d better go now; it must be a good three mile walk.” Glenn Andrews
took particular care to note her mood as they went along, the wild
charm of her unstudied grace, the vibrating delight of life. How much
happier she was than if she had had her way.