The Blue Flower [21]
secret and
in itself apparently of slight importance, he was placidly
unconscious. Classes he knew. Individuals escaped him. Yet
he was a most companionable man, a social solitary, a friendly
hermit.
His daughter Dorothy seemed to me even more fair and
appealing by daylight than when I first saw her in the dusk.
There was a pure brightness in her brown eyes, a gentle
dignity in her look and bearing, a soft cadence of expectant joy
in her voice. She was womanly in every tone and motion, yet by
no means weak or uncertain. Mistress of herself and of the
house, she ruled her kingdom without an effort. Busied with many
little cares, she bore them lightly. Her spirit overflowed into
the lives around her with delicate sympathy and merry cheer. But
it was in music that her nature found its widest outlet. In the
lengthening evenings of late August she would play from Schumann,
or Chopin, or Grieg, interpreting the vague feelings of
gladness or grief which lie too deep for words. Ballads she
loved, quaint old English and Scotch airs, folk-songs of
Germany, "Come-all-ye's" of Ireland, Canadian chansons. She
sang--not like an angel, but like a woman.
Of the two under-masters in the school, Edward Keene was
the elder. The younger, John Graham, was his opposite in
every respect. Sturdy, fair-haired, plain in the face, he was
essentially an every-day man, devoted to out-of-door sports,
a hard worker, a good player, and a sound sleeper. He came
back to the school, from a fishing-excursion, a few days after my
arrival. I liked the way in which he told of his adventures,
with a little frank boasting, enough to season but not to spoil
the story. I liked the way in which he took hold of his work,
helping to get the school in readiness for the return of the boys
in the middle of September. I liked, more than all, his attitude
to Dorothy Ward. He loved her, clearly enough. When she was in
the room the other people were only accidents to him. Yet there
was nothing of the disappointed suitor in his bearing. He was
cheerful, natural, accepting the situation, giving her the
best he had to give, and gladly taking from her the frank
reliance, the ready comradeship which she bestowed upon him.
If he envied Keene--and how could he help it--at least he
never showed a touch of jealousy or rivalry. The engagement
was a fact which he took into account as something not to be
changed or questioned. Keene was so much more brilliant,
interesting, attractive. He answered so much more fully to
the poetic side of Dorothy's nature. How could she help
preferring him?
Thus the three actors in the drama stood, when
I became an inmate of Hilltop, and accepted the master's
invitation to undertake some of the minor classes in English,
and stay on at the school indefinitely. It was my wish to see
the little play--a pleasant comedy, I hoped--move forward to
a happy ending. And yet--what was it that disturbed me now
and then with forebodings? Something, doubtless, in the
character of Keene, for he was the dominant personality. The
key of the situation lay with him. He was the centre of
interest. Yet he was the one who seemed not perfectly in
harmony, not quite at home, as if something beckoned and urged
him away.
"I am glad you are to stay," said he, "yet I wonder at it.
You will find the life narrow, after all your travels.
Ulysses at Ithaca--you will surely be restless to see the
world again."
"If you find the life broad enough, I ought not to be
cramped in it."
"Ah, but I have compensations."
"One you certainly have," said I, thinking of Dorothy,
"and that one is enough to make a man happy anywhere."
"Yes, yes," he answered, quickly, "but that is not what I
mean. It is not there that I look for a wider life. Love--do
you think that love broadens a man's outlook? To me it seems
to make him narrower--happier, perhaps, within his own little
circle--but distinctly narrower. Knowledge is the only thing
that broadens life, sets it free from the tyranny of
in itself apparently of slight importance, he was placidly
unconscious. Classes he knew. Individuals escaped him. Yet
he was a most companionable man, a social solitary, a friendly
hermit.
His daughter Dorothy seemed to me even more fair and
appealing by daylight than when I first saw her in the dusk.
There was a pure brightness in her brown eyes, a gentle
dignity in her look and bearing, a soft cadence of expectant joy
in her voice. She was womanly in every tone and motion, yet by
no means weak or uncertain. Mistress of herself and of the
house, she ruled her kingdom without an effort. Busied with many
little cares, she bore them lightly. Her spirit overflowed into
the lives around her with delicate sympathy and merry cheer. But
it was in music that her nature found its widest outlet. In the
lengthening evenings of late August she would play from Schumann,
or Chopin, or Grieg, interpreting the vague feelings of
gladness or grief which lie too deep for words. Ballads she
loved, quaint old English and Scotch airs, folk-songs of
Germany, "Come-all-ye's" of Ireland, Canadian chansons. She
sang--not like an angel, but like a woman.
Of the two under-masters in the school, Edward Keene was
the elder. The younger, John Graham, was his opposite in
every respect. Sturdy, fair-haired, plain in the face, he was
essentially an every-day man, devoted to out-of-door sports,
a hard worker, a good player, and a sound sleeper. He came
back to the school, from a fishing-excursion, a few days after my
arrival. I liked the way in which he told of his adventures,
with a little frank boasting, enough to season but not to spoil
the story. I liked the way in which he took hold of his work,
helping to get the school in readiness for the return of the boys
in the middle of September. I liked, more than all, his attitude
to Dorothy Ward. He loved her, clearly enough. When she was in
the room the other people were only accidents to him. Yet there
was nothing of the disappointed suitor in his bearing. He was
cheerful, natural, accepting the situation, giving her the
best he had to give, and gladly taking from her the frank
reliance, the ready comradeship which she bestowed upon him.
If he envied Keene--and how could he help it--at least he
never showed a touch of jealousy or rivalry. The engagement
was a fact which he took into account as something not to be
changed or questioned. Keene was so much more brilliant,
interesting, attractive. He answered so much more fully to
the poetic side of Dorothy's nature. How could she help
preferring him?
Thus the three actors in the drama stood, when
I became an inmate of Hilltop, and accepted the master's
invitation to undertake some of the minor classes in English,
and stay on at the school indefinitely. It was my wish to see
the little play--a pleasant comedy, I hoped--move forward to
a happy ending. And yet--what was it that disturbed me now
and then with forebodings? Something, doubtless, in the
character of Keene, for he was the dominant personality. The
key of the situation lay with him. He was the centre of
interest. Yet he was the one who seemed not perfectly in
harmony, not quite at home, as if something beckoned and urged
him away.
"I am glad you are to stay," said he, "yet I wonder at it.
You will find the life narrow, after all your travels.
Ulysses at Ithaca--you will surely be restless to see the
world again."
"If you find the life broad enough, I ought not to be
cramped in it."
"Ah, but I have compensations."
"One you certainly have," said I, thinking of Dorothy,
"and that one is enough to make a man happy anywhere."
"Yes, yes," he answered, quickly, "but that is not what I
mean. It is not there that I look for a wider life. Love--do
you think that love broadens a man's outlook? To me it seems
to make him narrower--happier, perhaps, within his own little
circle--but distinctly narrower. Knowledge is the only thing
that broadens life, sets it free from the tyranny of