THE GIRL.
————◆————
Mr. Campbelldid not live through the winter.
Esther was left to the care of his nephew, living in a remote part of the valley.
One morning, when she had rocked one of the children to sleep, she sat with it in her arms, gazing out on the gloomy day with sad, set eyes. For the time being she lost all memory of the scene about her. The laughter of the children, the woman leaning over the bed, cutting small garments out of coarse cloth. She began to remember all that her grandfather had meant toher. She recalled his tenderness, the strong fortress of his great love built between the world and her. It had crumbled so slowly that she didn’t comprehend that it could ever wear quite away, until it had crumbled to the ground. True he was dead, but he had made a defense for her even beyond the gulf. Though stinted in many things, he had always held to his life insurance. The farm was worn out—the house old—it would bring little, but the two together would help her to maintain her independence until she could master her art. He did not know the years or the money that it required—he only felt that through the medium of her art she might hold some of the dignity of position to which she was entitled by right of birth. Knowing this, Esther yearned with her heart and soul to go forward. His lofty, beautiful character shone out before her mind without a flaw. The thought of again taking up the task alone was sweetened and ennobled by that memory.
The woman glanced at Esther as she laid asideone pattern, put the pins in her mouth until she could place another. She was a saffron-faced, stoop-shouldered woman—one who prided herself on the drudgery she could do, who welcomed, rather than flinched from hardships.
“What are you studyin’ about now?”
Esther shuddered as she recalled the present.
“You ain’t thinking about startin’ up that fiddlin’ again, are you?” the other stopped short to ask. A shadow crossed the girl’s face.
“Jenny told me you had got it into your head to take lessons again from that old Dutchman at the college.”
“I have been thinking about it,” Esther answered calmly.
“Goodness knows I wouldn’t! I always thought the fiddle warn’t for anybody but men and niggers.” Her high-pitched voice was piercing. “Georgy got a juice harp somewhere, and I took it away from him and burnt the fetched thing up. I have always heard: ‘Let your children learn music if you want ’em to be no’count.’” She stopped to get her breath. “Your cousin John thinks it’s an outrage—the idea of your taking lessons again. He knows nothing t’all about the man—but foreigners are a bad lot.”
“Did cousin John tell you that he opposed the idea?” Esther interrupted her to ask.
“He didn’t seem to take to it, any more than your trapsin’ over the woods by your lone self.”
“Did he tell you he thought that was wrong?”
“Well, not in so many words, but I can tell when a thing goes against the grain with him. He don’t like to hurt you. I tell him he thinks more of your feelings than your character. I just took it upon myself to tell you for your own good.”
The woman’s speech was harsh and to the point. She continued abruptly:
“You might do your own washin’ and ironin’ too, instead of hirin’ it all the time. You couldn’t do up a pocket-handkerchief.”
Esther got up, and laid the baby in the crib; her arms ached so.
“If you knew how to do anything you might help me with all this sewin’.” She laid one knotty hand on a heap of it piled beside her.
“I don’t know how, but I will hire that part of it done, which you think I should do,” she said gently, looking straight at the woman.
“When cousin John wouldn’t take any money for my board, I asked him to let me work for the worth of it. I didn’t ask him to make it easy for me. He has a big family. I wanted to earn my way.”
“He does think you try to earn it,” she admitted generously, “but I think it’s mighty easy for you myself. You ought to be very thankful. Look at the time you have—the whole blessed evenin’. You have nothin’ but to help Jenny with the children, and the cookin’ and the milkin’—what’s three cows to milk? I have seen the day, before the family was so big, when I could do all the work on the place and not half try.”
Esther made a brave effort to control thestrong spirit within her. From the start the other had persisted in misinterpreting her emotions, misunderstanding her ambitions. She kept guard of herself, for this was her cousin’s wife.
“When do you get the mail out here?” Esther tried to change the subject.
“When do we get the mail?” she repeated with intense disgust.
“Every time we send to mill, that’s four or five times a year too often, to get those papers that John will take; readin’ those vile things is the ruination of the country. I keep ’em from the children the same as if they were scorpions. As for letters, we don’t get many. Most people we care about live closer to us than the post office. You lookin’ for any?”
“I’d like to get one.”
“From that college man? I reckon he’s forgot you are in existence.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Esther said, with an indifferent show of pride.
“He was curious looking to me; the way he wore his hair was abominable.”
“He’s my friend. I’d rather not talk of him.”
“That’s no reason he’s too good to be talked about.”
“As you please.” Reaching for her hat Esther started toward the door.
“You’d better let ’lone fightin’ for him and learn some common sense. You’d never get married if men knew how little account you was. When I was your age I’d been married three years,” she said, proudly. “If you don’t want to be an old maid you’d better settle down and marry.” Esther closed the door as she uttered the last word.
“Marry? What? A plowboy, a pedler, or a washing machine agent?” That would have been her cousin’s wife’s idea.
She wondered as she said this to herself what had become of all those people we hear of who “married and lived happily ever afterward.” A sob caught in her throat, and she almost ranuntil she was out of sight and sound of the woman’s voice.
Esther Powel at eighteen, and in her young, fresh beauty—this was the offering she would immolate on the altar of her limitations.