THE coming of June brought an end to college life for Glenn Andrews. He
had had a letter a few days before, deciding an important question--in
fact, the question of the greatest importance to him just then. While
he was waiting for Esther he read it over again:
“New York City.
“My dear Andrews--Of course I hadn’t forgotten my promise nor my
interest in you. It seems a lifetime since I stood in those priestly
looking robes on that old stage waiting to receive my discharge and
hustle or go hungry. You were at the foot then. I remember you; a
solemn-faced chap, but mightily in earnest. I am glad that you are
at the head, and ready for the fight--the thick of it. I always knew
that was the kind of metal you were made of, so it does me good to
be able to give you a boost. You are to be associate editor of the
magazine--give up most of your freedom and take an editor’s chair.
“You may come right on. I wonder what you will be like after all these
years since we cavorted over that campus. Yours fraternally,
“Richmond Briarley.”
What did Glenn care for slavery? His love for his profession would
even up scores. Going among strangers had no depressing effect upon
him. He was singularly fitted for that kind of thing. He believed that
every soul should be alone a part of its existence, away from the
sight, the touch of affection, and seek deeper self acquaintance and
understanding. This was how he came to cultivate his passion to know
and be something.
Now he was going to try his hand--his life was to be full of interest
and effort, and all the training he had given to his faculties were to
be exercised and tested. Esther joined him presently to go for their
last ramble.
“You are to lead the way anywhere. I am with you to-day,” he said.
Glenn felt a subtle sadness at leaving her. This human study had been
most interesting to him, nor would it be the least of his regrets for
what must be given up. The others were finished, he had reached the
last page.
During the stroll, Glenn told her that the professor had agreed to make
the exchange he spoke of at Christmas.
“Now you are to promise me that you will keep up your art. Don’t let
circumstances overwhelm you.”
“I couldn’t keep from trying to go on, if I wanted to, but when you get
away you’ll forget about me.”
“I don’t think I shall.”
He was very calm. No matter what he thought or felt, he didn’t intend
to drop a word that might disquiet her mind or disturb their tranquil
sense of comradeship.
“I expect you to do something some day. You’ll not stay buried down
here all your life. You were not born for oblivion.”
“I am afraid you will be disappointed in me. But I’ll do my best.”
She looked down, pulling at the moss on the log.
His going so far away was her first great sorrow.
“I don’t believe I would though if I didn’t have next summer to look
forward to; you said you would try to come back then.”
With her simplicity and daring directness she added. “Take good care of
yourself, Mr. Glenn, for all the world couldn’t fill your place in my
heart.”
“You think that now, Esther. You seem to see something complete in our
friendship. It is all you want. A day will come when you’ll understand
that it is not satisfying. The mist of morning is on the hills, and
hides the outlines of the landscape; you can see but a little way.
After awhile it will gradually lift, and give you a clearer and broader
view.”
She shook her head.
“I know you can’t see it now. The ripening of your nature will show you
the good fruit, and of how little use it was to cry over the pretty
petals when it dropped its bloom.”
She looked at him, her lips parting as she slowly grasped the drift of
his words.
“Patience and faith are what you must have.”
“The patience I would have to borrow, or steal, for I never did have
any of my own.”
It was going to be the hardest lesson for her to learn.
She took the knife he was toying with, and asked suddenly:
“Put your foot up a minute.”
He was wondering what she would do.
“I’m going to leave something for you to remember me by.”
She began carefully to etch a sentence across the upper part of the
leather.
“Bear harder, cut it--that little scratching won’t last--as long as you
are putting it there.”
His eyes rested on her hair, that lay like a crown on her bowed head.
Slowly she cut each letter. “Don’t look until I get through.”
The fine, sharp blade was doing its work well; there was just one more
word. She made a slip and the keen point plunged through. “Oh, did that
touch you?” Suddenly withdrawing it she saw the blood leap out and run
down his boot leg. Her eyes opened wide; the despair in them was enough
to move him.
“Oh, Mr. Glenn, what have I done to you?”
“It’s only a pin scratch; don’t think of it.” He tried to console and
reassure her.
She began unwinding the soft mull tie she wore. “I know you’ll bleed to
death if we can’t stop it.”
He had taken his boot off. With tender, trembling fingers she was
binding the cloth to his leg, winding it around again and again, trying
to wrap out the sight of the blood.
It was no use, in a second the red stain would radiate over the white
surface.
“What shall I do! oh, forgive me, forgive me!”
She knelt down and pressed his knee in her arms and bent over it
with tears, the incense of her love mingling with self-reproach. Her
penitence was pathetic.
He regarded her grief with compassionate softness. This came near
disarming his resolve. He wanted to take her in his arms as he had
never done in his life. As she held the wound close, he resisted the
impulse to flinch.
“I’m all right, don’t you worry.”
He read the line on the boot.
“I wouldn’t take anything for that. It will sweeten the absence, and
I hope this scratch will make a scar that I may wear all my life to
remember you by.”
“I’ll never forgive myself for it--never!”
“Don’t say that. It’s a little thing after all. See, I walk all right.
Let’s go home.” Putting one hand on her shoulder they started off,
Esther watching every step he took with fear and alarm.
“Are you telling the truth. Don’t it hurt you to walk?”
Turning his face away, he bit his lips.
“Not much, you know there is always a little soreness, no matter how
slight the cut.”
He wouldn’t tell that the knee was a very dangerous place to receive a
wound.
All the way the joint was stiffening and getting more painful. His face
beamed in the effort to conceal his suffering. When they reached the
steps he leaned his head against a column; he was wearied and felt that
he could bear no more.
“Come, lie down; I’ll fix the bed for you and find grandpa,” she urged.
“No, come back; I’ll sit here on the step awhile. I must be going
soon.”
Dear little heart, he would never while he lived forget her.
“How can you go, hurt as you are?”
“Sit down here by me, I have but a few minutes with you. I ordered my
horse for five o’clock.”
Without further resistance she took the seat. She had not forgotten
that his will was the only one she ever met stronger than her own.
“Forgive me?” looking up to him, she asked.
“Don’t use that word between us.” He gathered her hands in his own,
partly for fear she might touch his knee. Soon his horse came around.
“Poor cripple,” Esther said with a caressing accent, stretching her
hand toward his knee, as he mounted. Then she pressed her hands hard
against her eyelids as he said good-bye. When she looked up again he
was gone. She stood sighing as if her soul would leave her body, as he
rode on at a gallop, outlined against the far blue of the hills.