WHEN he had gone, Esther went back to the woods. The thought of his
coming with the Christmas time kept her nature alive and glowing. Her
interest in music became more absorbing than ever. She practiced for
hours at a stretch. This exceptional interest was a triumph that had
given the old grandfather a steadier balance of mind, when during these
years he had tried to fill her mother’s place, nurturing, encouraging
the possibilities that lay in this young soul, ennobling, inspiring a
deeper meaning to life. Glenn Andrews had helped him. He appreciated
that. They saw him occasionally when they went in to her lessons.
Esther seemed to realize that Mr. Campbell was making a sacrifice for
her sake and every week the professor could see the forward step she
had made.
The college monthly came to her regularly now. It always had poems or
stories by Glenn Andrews. All these she preserved. There was a sort of
reverence in her care of them. They were a part of him--his creations.
In the satisfaction derived from them, she became more impatient as to
her own imperfections. The ripe, rich beauty of autumn trailed by in
all its glory without the love it once had from her. Her walks became
less frequent. She felt a relief when the snow first fell. Snow always
suggested Christmas. She kept such close watch that the calendar was
not needed to tell her when it was near. In the innocence of her heart,
she pictured Glenn Andrews watching the hours go by with the same
impetuous eagerness--he who had gone back to his old solitary life, as
though nothing had dropped in for a moment to change it.
It was Christmas. A light snow lay over the valley.
Esther wrapped a hood close about her head and walked back and forth on
the verandah. A low wind among the white boughs made a lullaby for her
longing.
The nearer the realization, the more impatient she grew.
At last the sound of wheels, and the brisk stepping of horses charmed
her heart--he was coming. She heard the sound of his voice as there was
a halt at the gate.
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Mr. Glenn?”
“Who else did you expect?” asked Glenn Andrews, stretching out his hand
cordially to greet her, enjoying the dignity she tried to assume. He
had speculated as to how she would meet him.
The fire roaring up the wide chimney was sweeter than music to him. It
had been a cold ride. They were so glad to see him, Glenn thought it
was the next best thing to going home.
“Get up close and warm yourself.” Esther shivered at the thought of his
being cold.
“Let me have your coat, Mr. Glenn.”
“No, it’s too heavy; I’ll lay it over here.” Folding it he threw it
across a divan and drew his chair up to the fire.
Esther leaned on the edge of the mantle, looking at him. The wind had
blown in her hair, it lashed about her face, and with the old careless
gesture she tossed it back, impatiently.
“Have you been pulling that hair out again?” said Glenn, with a sort of
proprietary right.
“No, but I’ve been cutting it off.”
“You haven’t!” These words held the heat of indignation.
“If you don’t believe it, I’ll prove it.”
She stepped over to him as she drew something from her belt and pressed
it in his hand.
“You know Christmas never came to you from me before.” Just at that
minute Mr. Campbell came in. He settled himself in his own rocking
chair with a sigh of relief, as though he were hypnotized by the warmth
of the room. He talked on and on, selecting topics upon which neither
seemed to have an idea. Esther had made her a lot of pillows out of
some old silk dresses of quaint patterns, and as she sat amongst them,
she was almost afraid to breathe lest she split them. They smelled very
strongly of tobacco, having been so long packed away in its leaves.
Glenn Andrews felt something soft and slim between his fingers, but
it puzzled him to know what the texture was. He was restless with
curiosity.
Esther enjoyed his perplexity with quiet amusement, and was sorry when
after a great while her grandfather thought out for himself that young
folks enjoyed themselves better alone.
Glenn turned slyly to see him close the door after him.
It was very interesting, this expectancy; he felt something as he did
when a child he had lain awake all night waiting for Santa Claus to
come.
His heart would leap with impatience at every sound. The old chimney,
drawing its heated breath to keep his little body warm, had added to
his irritation. It seemed to him that the wind could cut more antics
then than a circus pony cavorting for his feed.
In its sound he constantly fancied he could hear the coming of that
old false ideal that had been the first to fall, but it had not fallen
until many a little prayer had been answered and many a young dream
been realized. Such ideals leave their imprint upon the mind. The
memory of the joy it gave softens and purifies the heart before it
awakens.
Glenn Andrews leaned over and opened his hand to the light; it was a
watch chain, made of Esther’s hair.
“That slide was on a chain my mother wore,” she said.
The sentiment of it made him feel that he stood at the white sanctity
of her soul with its opening and unfathomable depths.
He raised the chain to his lips and kissed it affectionately. He could
not have thanked her in words. He realized that:
“Sentiment that is real is not acquired--it flows into the veins like
the breath of the sea waves, completely freshening every sense with its
presence.”
Glenn took up his overcoat and brought out a music roll with her name
mounted in silver.
“It is full and you are to learn it all. That’s the agreement.” He laid
it open before her.
“The very hardest that you could find.”
“Just what you need.”
Esther hummed a bar here and there as she turned the pages. She was in
an ecstasy of content. A lilting joyousness of Glenn Andrews’ presence
was in everything she did and said.
They lingered over the Christmas dinner. Mr. Campbell told yarns of the
olden times when he was a boy on that holiday. He took his pleasure in
their company at the table, and afterwards left them alone again.
They made an exceptionably cozy picture, sitting together in front of
the wood fire. It was beautiful to see the snow outside, falling in
tiny siftings, displaced by the snow birds’ restless stirring.
Glenn and Esther were so comfortable. How could it be winter out there.
He smoked and she read him selections from his own poems--the ones she
liked best. He had no idea she could read so well--it must have been her
reading them that made them sound better than he had ever thought them
before. There was a slow unfolding of her woman nature as he watched
her. It was almost imperceptible, yet so much surer than a sudden burst.
“You’ll keep on with your lessons?” he asked.
“After this year grandpa won’t be able to afford it.”
“But it will never do for you to stop now. I was talking with the
professor the other day about your art. He is interested in it. He
wants to study English; maybe he would exchange--if you could teach him.
Do you think you could?”
“What! I a teacher?” She clasped her hands involuntarily. “But suppose
he’d let me try?”
“I’ll see if he will.”
“Oh, will you, sure enough?” She was now seated closer by Glenn,
listening with an absorbing interest.
“When will I know?”
“There is a lot of time between now and next September. You’ll finish
out this year, of course.”
“Oh, yes, except when the weather is too bad for grandpa. He’s getting
old, you know.”
Glenn could see how he was failing.
It was about dusk when the buggy drove away from the front steps. The
parting was cordial and yet it seemed to lack something for both.
Perhaps grandpa’s being there complicated the situation. Whatever it
was, in both their hearts there seemed something lacking.