XXI
THE SKY LINE WIDENS
The time so long and eagerly waited for had come, and Rebecca was astudent at Wareham. Persons who had enjoyed the social bewildermentsand advantages of foreign courts, or had mingled freely in theintellectual circles of great universities, might not have looked uponWareham as an extraordinary experience; but it was as much of anadvance upon Riverboro as that village had been upon Sunnybrook Farm.Rebecca's intention was to complete the four years' course in three, asit was felt by all the parties concerned that when she had attained theripe age of seventeen she must be ready to earn her own living and helpin the education of the younger children. While she was wondering howthis could be successfully accomplished, some of the other girls werecogitating as to how they could meander through the four years and comeout at the end knowing no more than at the beginning. This would seem adifficult, well-nigh an impossible task, but it can be achieved, andhas been, at other seats of learning than modest little Wareham.
Rebecca was to go to and fro on the cars daily from September toChristmas, and then board in Wareham during the three coldest months.Emma Jane's parents had always thought that a year or two in theEdgewood high school (three miles from Riverboro) would serve everypurpose for their daughter and send her into the world with as fine anintellectual polish as she could well sustain. Emma Jane had hithertoheartily concurred in this opinion, for if there was any one thing thatshe detested it was the learning of lessons. One book was as bad asanother in her eyes, and she could have seen the libraries of the worldsinking into ocean depths and have eaten her dinner cheerfully thewhile; but matters assumed a different complexion when she was sent toEdgewood and Rebecca to Wareham. She bore it for a week--seven endlessdays of absence from the beloved object, whom she could see only in theevenings when both were busy with their lessons. Sunday offered anopportunity to put the matter before her father, who proved obdurate.He didn't believe in education and thought she had full enough already.He never intended to keep up "blacksmithing" for good when he leasedhis farm and came into Riverboro, but proposed to go back to itpresently, and by that time Emma Jane would have finished school andwould be ready to help her mother with the dairy work.
Another week passed. Emma Jane pined visibly and audibly. Her colorfaded, and her appetite (at table) dwindled almost to nothing.
Her mother alluded plaintively to the fact that the Perkinses had ahabit of going into declines; that she'd always feared that Emma Jane'scomplexion was too beautiful to be healthy; that some men would beproud of having an ambitious daughter, and be glad to give her the bestadvantages; that she feared the daily journeys to Edgewood were goingto be too much for her own health, and Mr. Perkins would have to hire aboy to drive Emma Jane; and finally that when a girl had such a passionfor learning as Emma Jane, it seemed almost like wickedness to crossher will.
Mr. Perkins bore this for several days until his temper, digestion, andappetite were all sensibly affected; then he bowed his head to theinevitable, and Emma Jane flew, like a captive set free, to the lovedone's bower. Neither did her courage flag, although it was put toterrific tests when she entered the academic groves of Wareham. Shepassed in only two subjects, but went cheerfully into the preparatorydepartment with her five "conditions," intending to let the stream ofeducation play gently over her mental surfaces and not get any wetterthan she could help. It is not possible to blink the truth that EmmaJane was dull; but a dogged, unswerving loyalty, and the gift ofdevoted, unselfish loving, these, after all, are talents of a sort, andmay possibly be of as much value in the world as a sense of numbers ora faculty for languages.
Wareham was a pretty village with a broad main street shaded by greatmaples and elms. It had an apothecary, a blacksmith, a plumber, severalshops of one sort and another, two churches, and many boarding-houses;but all its interests gathered about its seminary and its academy.These seats of learning were neither better nor worse than others oftheir kind, but differed much in efficiency, according as the principalwho chanced to be at the head was a man of power and inspiration or thereverse. There were boys and girls gathered from all parts of thecounty and state, and they were of every kind and degree as to birth,position in the world, wealth or poverty. There was an opportunity fora deal of foolish and imprudent behavior, but on the whole surprisinglylittle advantage was taken of it. Among the third and fourth yearstudents there was a certain amount of going to and from the trains incouples; some carrying of heavy books up the hill by the sterner sexfor their feminine schoolmates, and occasional bursts of silliness onthe part of heedless and precocious girls, among whom was HuldahMeserve. She was friendly enough with Emma Jane and Rebecca, but grewless and less intimate as time went on. She was extremely pretty, witha profusion of auburn hair, and a few very tiny freckles, to which sheconstantly alluded, as no one could possibly detect them without notingher porcelain skin and her curling lashes. She had merry eyes, asomewhat too plump figure for her years, and was popularly supposed tohave a fascinating way with her. Riverboro being poorly furnished withbeaux, she intended to have as good a time during her four years atWareham as circumstances would permit. Her idea of pleasure was anever-changing circle of admirers to fetch and carry for her, the morepublicly the better; incessant chaff and laughter and vivaciousconversation, made eloquent and effective by arch looks and tellingglances. She had a habit of confiding her conquests to less fortunategirls and bewailing the incessant havoc and damage she was doing; adamage she avowed herself as innocent of, in intention, as any new-bornlamb. It does not take much of this sort of thing to wreck an ordinaryfriendship, so before long Rebecca and Emma Jane sat in one end of therailway train in going to and from Riverboro, and Huldah occupied theother with her court. Sometimes this was brilliant beyond words,including a certain youthful Monte Cristo, who on Fridays expendedthirty cents on a round trip ticket and traveled from Wareham toRiverboro merely to be near Huldah; sometimes, too, the circle wasreduced to the popcorn-and-peanut boy of the train, who seemed to serveevery purpose in default of better game.
Rebecca was in the normally unconscious state that belonged to heryears; boys were good comrades, but no more; she liked reciting in thesame class with them, everything seemed to move better; but from vulgarand precocious flirtations she was protected by her ideals. There waslittle in the lads she had met thus far to awaken her fancy, for ithabitually fed on better meat. Huldah's school-girl romances, withtheir wealth of commonplace detail, were not the stuff her dreams weremade of, when dreams did flutter across the sensitive plate of her mind.
Among the teachers at Wareham was one who influenced Rebeccaprofoundly, Miss Emily Maxwell, with whom she studied Englishliterature and composition. Miss Maxwell, as the niece of one ofMaine's ex-governors and the daughter of one of Bowdoin's professors,was the most remarkable personality in Wareham, and that her few yearsof teaching happened to be in Rebecca's time was the happiest of allchances. There was no indecision or delay in the establishment of theirrelations; Rebecca's heart flew like an arrow to its mark, and hermind, meeting its superior, settled at once into an abiding attitude ofrespectful homage.
It was rumored that Miss Maxwell "wrote," which word, when uttered in acertain tone, was understood to mean not that a person had command ofpenmanship, Spencerian or otherwise, but that she had appeared in print.
"You'll like her; she writes," whispered Huldah to Rebecca the firstmorning at prayers, where the faculty sat in an imposing row on thefront seats. "She writes; and I call her stuck up."
Nobody seemed possessed of exact information with which to satisfy thehungry mind, but there was believed to be at least one person inexistence who had seen, with his own eyes, an essay by Miss Maxwell ina magazine. This height of achievement made Rebecca somewhat shy ofher, but she looked her admiration; something that most of the classcould never do with the unsatisfactory organs of vision given them byMother Nature. Miss Maxwell's glance was always meeting a pair of eagerdark eyes; when she said anything particularly good, she looked f
orapproval to the corner of the second bench, where every shade offeeling she wished to evoke was reflected on a certain sensitive youngface.
One day, when the first essay of the class was under discussion, sheasked each new pupil to bring her some composition written during theyear before, that she might judge the work, and know precisely withwhat material she had to deal. Rebecca lingered after the others, andapproached the desk shyly.
"I haven't any compositions here, Miss Maxwell, but I can find one whenI go home on Friday. They are packed away in a box in the attic."
"Carefully tied with pink and blue ribbons?" asked Miss Maxwell, with awhimsical smile.
"No," answered Rebecca, shaking her head decidedly; "I wanted to useribbons, because all the other girls did, and they looked so pretty,but I used to tie my essays with twine strings on purpose; and the oneon solitude I fastened with an old shoelacing just to show it what Ithought of it!"
"Solitude!" laughed Miss Maxwell, raising her eyebrows. "Did you chooseyour own subject?"
"No; Miss Dearborn thought we were not old enough to find good ones."
"What were some of the others?"
"Fireside Reveries, Grant as a Soldier, Reflections on the Life of P.T. Barnum, Buried Cities; I can't remember any more now. They were allbad, and I can't bear to show them; I can write poetry easier andbetter, Miss Maxwell."
"Poetry!" she exclaimed. "Did Miss Dearborn require you to do it?"
"Oh, no; I always did it even at the farm. Shall I bring all I have? Itisn't much."
Rebecca took the blank-book in which she kept copies of her effusionsand left it at Miss Maxwell's door, hoping that she might be asked inand thus obtain a private interview; but a servant answered her ring,and she could only walk away, disappointed.
A few days afterward she saw the black-covered book on Miss Maxwell'sdesk and knew that the dreaded moment of criticism had come, so she wasnot surprised to be asked to remain after class.
The room was quiet; the red leaves rustled in the breeze and flew in atthe open window, bearing the first compliments of the season. MissMaxwell came and sat by Rebecca's side on the bench.
"Did you think these were good?" she asked, giving her the verses.
"Not so very," confessed Rebecca; "but it's hard to tell all byyourself. The Perkinses and the Cobbs always said they were wonderful,but when Mrs. Cobb told me she thought they were better than Mr.Longfellow's I was worried, because I knew that couldn't be true."
This ingenuous remark confirmed Miss Maxwell's opinion of Rebecca as agirl who could hear the truth and profit by it.
"Well, my child," she said smilingly, "your friends were wrong and youwere right; judged by the proper tests, they are pretty bad."
"Then I must give up all hope of ever being a writer!" sighed Rebecca,who was tasting the bitterness of hemlock and wondering if she couldkeep the tears back until the interview was over.
"Don't go so fast," interrupted Miss Maxwell. "Though they don't amountto anything as poetry, they show a good deal of promise in certaindirections. You almost never make a mistake in rhyme or metre, and thisshows you have a natural sense of what is right; a 'sense of form,'poets would call it. When you grow older, have a little moreexperience,--in fact, when you have something to say, I think you maywrite very good verses. Poetry needs knowledge and vision, experienceand imagination, Rebecca. You have not the first three yet, but Irather think you have a touch of the last."
"Must I never try any more poetry, not even to amuse myself?"
"Certainly you may; it will only help you to write better prose. Nowfor the first composition. I am going to ask all the new students towrite a letter giving some description of the town and a hint of theschool life."
"Shall I have to be myself?" asked Rebecca.
"What do you mean?"
"A letter from Rebecca Randall to her sister Hannah at Sunnybrook Farm,or to her aunt Jane at the brick house, Riverboro, is so dull andstupid, if it is a real letter; but if I could make believe I was adifferent girl altogether, and write to somebody who would be sure tounderstand everything I said, I could make it nicer."
"Very well; I think that's a delightful plan," said Miss Maxwell; "andwhom will you suppose yourself to be?"
"I like heiresses very much," replied Rebecca contemplatively. "Ofcourse I never saw one, but interesting things are always happening toheiresses, especially to the golden-haired kind. My heiress wouldn't bevain and haughty like the wicked sisters in Cinderella; she would benoble and generous. She would give up a grand school in Boston becauseshe wanted to come here where her father lived when he was a boy, longbefore he made his fortune. The father is dead now, and she has aguardian, the best and kindest man in the world; he is rather old ofcourse, and sometimes very quiet and grave, but sometimes when he ishappy, he is full of fun, and then Evelyn is not afraid of him. Yes,the girl shall be called Evelyn Abercrombie, and her guardian's nameshall be Mr. Adam Ladd."
"Do you know Mr. Ladd?" asked Miss Maxwell in surprise.
"Yes, he's my very best friend," cried Rebecca delightedly. "Do youknow him too?"
"Oh, yes; he is a trustee of these schools, you know, and often comeshere. But if I let you 'suppose' any more, you will tell me your wholeletter and then I shall lose a pleasant surprise."
What Rebecca thought of Miss Maxwell we already know; how the teacherregarded the pupil may be gathered from the following letter writtentwo or three months later.
Wareham, December 1st
My Dear Father,--As you well know, I have not always been an enthusiast on the subject of teaching. The task of cramming knowledge into these self-sufficient, inefficient youngsters of both sexes discourages me at times. The more stupid they are, the less they are aware of it. If my department were geography or mathematics, I believe I should feel that I was accomplishing something, for in those branches application and industry work wonders; but in English literature and composition one yearns for brains, for appreciation, for imagination! Month after month I toil on, opening oyster after oyster, but seldom finding a pearl. Fancy my joy this term when, without any violent effort at shell-splitting, I came upon a rare pearl; a black one, but of satin skin and beautiful lustre! Her name is Rebecca, and she looks not unlike Rebekah at the Well in our family Bible; her hair and eyes being so dark as to suggest a strain of Italian or Spanish blood. She is nobody in particular. Man has done nothing for her; she has no family to speak of, no money, no education worthy the name, has had no advantages of any sort; but Dame Nature flung herself into the breach and said:--
"This child I to myself will take; She shall be mine and I will make A Lady of my own."
Blessed Wordsworth! How he makes us understand! And the pearl never heard of him until now! Think of reading Lucy to a class, and when you finish, seeing a fourteen-year-old pair of lips quivering with delight, and a pair of eyes brimming with comprehending tears!
You poor darling! You, too, know the discouragement of sowing lovely seed in rocky earth, in sand, in water, and (it almost seems sometimes) in mud; knowing that if anything comes up at all it will be some poor starveling plant. Fancy the joy of finding a real mind; of dropping seed in a soil so warm, so fertile, that one knows there are sure to be foliage, blossoms, and fruit all in good time! I wish I were not so impatient and so greedy of results! I am not fit to be a teacher; no one is who is so scornful of stupidity as I am. . . . The pearl writes quaint countrified little verses, doggerel they are; but somehow or other she always contrives to put in one line, one thought, one image, that shows you she is, quite unconsciously to herself, in possession of the secret. . . . Good-by; I'll bring Rebecca home with me some Friday, and let you and mother see her for yourselves.
Your affectionate daughter,
Emily.
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