Hester's Counterpart: A Story of Boarding School Life

"I know," said Debby humbly. "I am able to do so little. I cannot save my little girl all the bruises and hard places. She must bear them herself."

"And you should not if you could. Do not worry about Hester's being able to bear them. She has a courageous spirit and indomitable will."

Silence came again. Miss Richards worked on the center-piece she was embroidering. Debby leaned back in her chair. Her eyes rested upon the dying coals of the grate. Hester's childlike chatter had started her thinking on matters she tried to keep back in her memory. She blushed at her foolishness. Her practical business-like mind looked with scorn upon day-dreams – such day-dreams as came to her then, as she sat with her eyes on the grate. She could not smile at Hester's talk of Rob Vail's wonderful attainments. It touched too deeply. She had thought the same of Jim Baker that winter he took her to the spelling-bees. He had been a rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed boy who had ambitions. She had listened to his stories of the work he meant to do and she looked upon him as the most wonderful person in the world. But that had happened over twenty years ago, and she was very foolish to think of it at all.

Miss Richards worked in silence. At last when Debby Alden brought herself back from her day-dreams, her companion addressed her.

"When Miss Loraine was here, Debby, did you observe the resemblance between her and Hester?"

"Did I? I most assuredly did. The likeness was so strong that I almost exclaimed aloud when Helen stepped from the car. She was my Hester, with just a little difference."

"You passed the subject over so lightly that I thought you had not observed what I had."

"I passed over it lightly because I did not wish to disturb Hester. She knows she does not belong to my people; I would not have her know more, nor would I have her disturbed by commenting on the likeness.

"The likeness between her and Helen did not startle me as much as a little mannerism which I noticed in her cousin. Did you observe Robert's way of looking at one while that one was talking? He had the appearance of being absorbed with interest, and so impatient to hear all that was to be said that he might be tempted to pull the words from one's mouth."

Debby laughed softly at her words. "That is rather a peculiar way of expressing myself, but that is the impression he gave me. I have seen Hester sit so, listening. Time and time again, I have smiled at her intenseness, and I have chided her for it. I have no doubt that Robert Vail is an excellent young man. He looks it. If I read him right, he's inclined to be 'set' in his way. I do not doubt that if he thought a course of action was right and decided to follow it, he would be flayed before he could be compelled to give up. I have noticed that same tendency in Hester. She is what I call 'set' and always has been."

"Debby, do you think for a moment that Hester had to go far from home to find her example? Your dearest enemies could never accuse you of vacillating. You are what your people were before you. You're 'set' Debby – quite set.

"It is not a lack of virtue in one. On the contrary, I admire it. I have little sympathy for the one who moves with every passing influence. In my friendships, I find myself leaning toward folk who are 'set.'"

The gentle kindliness in the speaker's voice and smile made every word she said seem like a caress.

"I should be very glad, Debby," continued Miss Richards, "that Hester has that virtue. Wax melts under any influence; but if iron is molded right you have something stable. You have given Hester high ideals, and I have no fear that she will be influenced from them."

"I had no thoughts of criticising," cried Debby quickly. "I am glad that my Hester is as she is. I would not have her different. I was remarking about the resemblance in manner and disposition between her and Robert Vail. She looks like Helen, but she is like Robert."

"Do you think there might be relationship, Debby? If there be one, Hester would not blush to claim such kin. The Vails and Loraines are fine folk – fine in the highest sense that I can use the word.

"You told me several years ago, that you knew more of Hester's family than you had given out. You told me no more than that, and I do not ask to know more now. But it came to me that they might be bound to Hester by ties of blood. Surely such a resemblance cannot come by mere chance."

"There are no blood ties there," cried Debby Alden. "I am sure of that. No, do not misunderstand me. I would not be jealous of them were they her kin. I should rejoice to know she was of such a family and the anxiety which I have borne in secret would leave me. No, Hester is not of the Loraine or Vail blood."

Arising from her place at the grate, she moved away to the end of the room and stood looking out on the white earth. After a few minutes' struggle with herself, she came back to where Miss Richards sat, "Eva, cannot your imagination fill out what I cannot tell? You know there are conditions of blood and family which bear a stain which generations cannot eradicate. Poor Hester, innocent and brilliant as she is, bears that mark. You know why I wish to make her independent and self-sustaining. Those from which she sprung are beneath her; and she dare not bring the affliction of her people upon those higher. You see why I must guard her. She must do as you and I have done – though not for the same reason. She must be alone all her life. I want you to help me in this."

"As I have always done, and always will," said her friend. "My heartstrings cling about Hester, too. I love her almost as much as you do, Debby Alden."

While the conversation was being carried on, Hester Alden lay in the room above not wholly unconscious that her aunt and friend were discussing her. Now and then a word came to her; but she closed her ears tight to shut out the slightest sound.

"Aunt Debby is talking about my people and I must not hear. She said once that what she told me was all she cared to have me know, so I must not hear this."

She shut the sound of voices from her ears. If Aunt Debby did not wish her to know, that ended it as far as Hester's desire to know was concerned.

Debby Alden was troubled in her thoughts about Hester all that winter term; for she knew that something lay heavy on Hester's heart. The girl continued her studies, took her part in the social life of the seminary, and played basket-ball with all her energy; yet her heart was sore because the breach between Helen and her had not been bridged. The seminary life was fine – but Helen had been the biggest part of it to Hester.

The river had been frozen over since the first of the year. The students who could skate, used the ice for an outside gymnasium under the chaperonage of the little German teacher. Helen did not skate and preferred the routine of the regular physical culture course. Hester, on the contrary, could have lived on skates, as far as her desire and lack of muscular weariness was concerned.

The difference in choice of exercise separated the girls yet further. The skating was like a tonic to Hester. She could not be dull, depressed, or anxious after an hour on the ice. She missed Helen's companionship less than before. While Helen was brought to realize that it was not a passing fancy she had held toward Hester, but genuine affection and she missed her companionship more and more.

The winter held on until late. The week preceding Easter Sunday, the spring thaw set in and the river came up and over the ice.

"We'll have an ice-jam and a good one," laughed Erma. "Last spring the cakes piled as high as the old apple tree. The ice broke just at tea-time and the river was floating with it until morning. Doctor Weldon allowed us to watch until bed-time. It was simply gorgeous. Great white blocks would rise high in the air and then crumble into powder. I think we'll have a bad jam this spring." Erma danced away, overjoyed at the prospect of something to break the routine.

The following Saturday, the rain fell all day. The building was gray and cheerless. It was the time of year when homesickness is prevalent at school. The girls were dull and sat about silent in the parlor or idly turning over magazines in the library.

In the chapel a chorus of girls were being drilled. "What are they preparing for?" asked Hester of Sara.

"You are new, so I cannot tell you. Wait and find out," was the reply.

At tea-time the same heaviness of spirits hung over the dining-hall. Suddenly, a creaking sound was heard and a crush as though of breaking timber.

"The ice!" cried Erma. Her voice was distinctly heard throughout the large dining-hall.

Fortunately, they were at the dessert and Doctor Weldon excused them immediately. They were warned to fortify themselves with wraps against the weather. In a few moments, they had hurried to their rooms and were back again in raincoats, overshoes, and Tam-o-Shanters.

The Fraulein loved the storm. She and Miss Laird were the only two of the faculty who could be induced to leave the building. The rain was falling softly. The Fraulein led the way across the campus to the edge of the river. The water had risen six feet since morning, and had encroached upon the campus, and gurgled about the trunk of the old orchard trees. The ice jammed back on the shore, forcing the girls to retreat. Great cakes arose as a perpendicular, balanced for an instant and fell to pieces, or crushed against the trees until they groaned and bent under the strain. All the while the growling and seething and gurgling of the water was heard above all. It was glorious. Little wonder that Erma had anticipated this with delight.

The lights about the building were the only ones on the campus. The shadows were heavy where the girls stood along shore. Hester, to whom this scene was never old, although she had seen it every year of her life, stood entranced. Her umbrella had been tilted back and the rain beat down on her face, but she knew it not. She was unconscious of the chatter about her. She could not have talked. The river and noise and jamming ice held her spellbound.

Helen observed her as she stood so and believed that she was sad. Going up to where Hester was, Helen stood beside her, but no attention whatever was paid to her. Then she laid her hand lightly on Hester's arm. The result was the same. Hester stood with her eyes fixed upon the river, and made no response to the overture of friendship. Then Helen turned away, feeling that she had been repulsed.

When the heaviest flow had passed, the Fraulein took the girls back to the building. Helen went directly to her room to look over the evening mail; but Hester lingered with the Fraulein who was vainly trying to describe the flood which she had witnessed in her own little German village.

When Hester at length entered Sixty-two, Helen had read her letters and was standing by the study-table in deep thought. She looked at Hester a little wistfully.

"I had a letter from our pastor at home," she said, turning to Hester. "You have heard me speak of Dr. James Baker?"

"Yes, I have," replied Hester and took up her work. One could not begin a conversation on so little encouragement. Helen took up the letter from her pastor and read it a second time. He wrote to her as he did to all the absent young people whose church home was his church. He brought to their attention, the coming Sabbath, and reminded them that it should mean much to them. He suggested that they too, lay aside the old life with its troubles and its shortcomings and arise with new ideals and a new spirit. He had expressed himself finely. Helen, who was sympathetic, was touched by his words. She would put aside the old life. She would begin that instant to forget all that had passed and begin anew even her friendship with Hester.

Hester, fortified by her pride and the resolution she had made some weeks before, sat at her table writing. For weeks she had given Helen no opportunity for more than a passing word.

"This letter from Doctor Baker is beautiful," began Helen. "He is as good as he writes. He has been our pastor for fifteen years – more perhaps. Will you read it, Hester? It may do you good. It has me."

"Perhaps I do not need it," was the curt reply. "And perhaps Doctor Baker might object to a third party reading his letters."

"Nonsense. He would be delighted. Will you read it?"

"No, I thank you," said Hester, proudly. Then she added. "I may be beyond being reached, you know."

Her tone was sharp. It caused Helen to cease from further importunity.

"Very well, Hester. If you do not wish to, I shall not insist." She laid the letter aside.

"It will be the very last time, I shall try to make up with Hester," she said to herself. "She never really cared for me, or she would see that I wish to be friends. But she does not care."

When the half-hour bell rang, the girls began their preparation for bed without a word to each other. Since the first days of their misunderstanding, their politeness toward each other was so marked as to be burdensome.

They excused and begged pardon each time their paths crossed. The same formality was continued now. There was no conversation, although both were talkers and their heads were buzzing with the things they would like to have said.

When the retiring bell sounded, there was a short "Good-night, Hester," and as short a response, "Good-night, Helen."

There were to be sunrise services in the chapel at which every student was required to be present. But before that time, Hester was awakened by voices far in the distance. She sat up in bed to listen. The gray of the Easter morning was stealing through the window. The voices came nearer and nearer. At last she could distinguish the words.

"Christ is Risen. Christ is Risen. He hath burst His bounds in twain.Christ is Risen! Christ is Risen! Alleluia, swell the strain."

It was the chorus of girls. This had long been the custom of the school, to wake the pupils by song on Easter morning.

The voices drew nearer. The singers paused at the landing of the stair. Hester could distinguish Erma's loud, clear notes which soared upward like a bird and floated over all.

"Alleluia, Alleluia, swell the strain."

The spirit of the Easter morn came to Hester.

There was peace and joy. She wished for that. She really had not had it for weeks. While the song rose and fell, her heart softened toward Helen. She would make up with her. She would ask to be forgiven and be friends again. She crept out of bed and went to Helen's bed, but Helen had gone to make one of the Easter Wakening Chorus.

CHAPTER XIV

Proserpina had returned to earth again. The evidence of her visit was everywhere. The campus had turned into green velvet; the pussy willows were soft as chinchillas; the apple trees were in leaf, and just about to blossom. These were the signs of spring everywhere. In addition to these, the seminary had a sign which appealed to it alone. The man with the ice-cream cart had appeared. For several days, his cart had been backed against the curb of the campus and the sound of his bell was like the music of the hand-organ to the girls. It was a bluebird and a robin – the harbingers of spring to them.

May came and was quickly passing. The girls were talking caps and gowns and diplomas. The seniors went about with a superior air; the juniors were little better for they had a classday at least. The freshmen and sophomores, in the plans for commencement week, were but the fifth wheel to a wagon. They were ignored. If they offered suggestions they were snubbed, and informed, not too gently, that they could not be expected to know anything about such matters – being new to the ways of commencement.

Though they had neither commencement, class day, nor play, the freshmen and sophomores did not lose spirit. What was not theirs by rights, they meant to make theirs by foul means and strategy.

It had long been the custom of the seniors to follow the commencement proper with a banquet. This included only members of the senior class. The Alumnæ banquet took place later and was in the hands of old students who had long since left the seminary. Among these were the wives of judges, physicians, bankers – people with whom the freshmen and sophomores dare not interfere, though it would have been an easy matter to have taken this Alumnæ Banquet, for there was no one on hand to guard it. The menu and serving were wholly in the hands of a caterer from the city.

Knowing that the affairs of the Alumnæ must not be tampered with, the freshmen turned all their energies toward the seniors and juniors.

The juniors were to give a play. The costumes were to be rented for the occasion. The play itself was zealously guarded lest it be stolen. Erma, whose talent lay in a histrionic direction, had charge of the copies of the drama. Erma had talent but no forethought. She put the pamphlets in the place most suited to them. Hester, who had been sent out by her class as a scout to find what she could of the plans of the juniors, discovered the books the first day; and not only the books but the names of the juniors and the parts which each was to take. Hester reported immediately the results of her investigation. The following day, while Erma was engaged elsewhere the play disappeared, was hurriedly copied by the freshmen and replaced. Not a member of the junior class, so the freshmen believed, was aware of what took place and was not the wiser that the freshmen had begun the preparation of the same play.

"We can outdo them," said Louise at the class-meeting. "The play is booked for Tuesday evening. Monday evening is the band concert and promenade from seven o'clock until eight-thirty. After that, the freshmen class will have the floor and we'll give the play before the juniors. Their efforts will fall flat on Tuesday evening."

"But the costumes!" exclaimed Hester. "What will we do for them?"

"Borrow them from the juniors when they are from their rooms. We will need them but one evening. We'll return them as fresh as ever the following morning."

"Will they lend them?" It was a little first term girl who asked the question.

"No, you dear little freshie, they will not lend them if they can help themselves. We will ask them Tuesday morning and use them Monday. It is the safest way," said Emma, who was exceedingly enthusiastic over this part of school life. While at home, she had read volumes on the subject of life at a boarding school. From the impression left by those books, life at school was one succession of receptions, public meetings, and practical jokes. Discipline and lessons were in the undercurrent of life. Life at Dickinson had been wholly different from what Emma had anticipated. This stealing of the junior play and presenting it before the juniors had the opportunity, appealed to Emma. This was more in the order of the books she had read.

Louise sat up on the rostrum, appointing the students to their parts. She looked at Emma quizzingly, "About your part, Emma," she began.

"I know what I want to be. Let me be queen. I'd dearly love to put my hair up and wear a train."

"You! The queen!" the girls laughed in scorn. "You never would have dignity enough for that. What you should be is a Dutch doll that moves with a spring."

"I could do the queen part – ," she began.

"Hush, hush. You are talking too loud. Some one is coming."

Footsteps were heard along the stair. The door opened and Renee put her head in.

"Are you there, Louise?" she asked. "Do you object to my taking your umbrella? My roommate has gone off leaving mine locked in the closet, and I've permission to go down town."

"Yes, yes, take it," cried Louise. Renee closed the door and disappeared.

"I'm suspicious of that umbrella," said Edna. "I think Renee was sent up here to see what we were about."

"No, I'd be suspicious of any one but Renee. She wished the umbrella. I am sure of that."

"But why should she need it this afternoon. There is not the slightest suggestion of rain and the sun is not bright."

"Because, she couldn't go without borrowing something," said Louise. "It wouldn't be Renee if she could. I suppose she looked about and an umbrella was the only thing she did not have at hand, so that was the only thing she could borrow."

Eventually the parts were given out and partly learned. The girls had planned for a rehearsal the first week in June. The fact that everything had to be done under cover from the juniors, made the practice drag. They could assemble only at such hours when the juniors were in class, and the chapel vacant.

The sophomores, confident that the freshmen alone would be able to manage the juniors, turned their attention to the seniors. Their plan was to divert the banquet from the dining-hall to one of the society halls, and feast upon it while the seniors went wailing in search of it.

Their plans were developing nicely when the weather saw fit to interfere. The last day of May, which fell on Tuesday, set in with a soft, fine rain. This was nothing alarming in itself, had it performed its work and gone its way. But it lingered all day, all night and when Wednesday morning broke dull and gray, the volume of water had increased, and was coming steadily down. Thursday was but a repetition of Wednesday. The rain did not cease for an instant. The sun never showed his face.

The river had crept up gradually until the water was licking the trunks of the apple trees; but this was not alarming. The ice flood had been higher; and further back on the campus were the marks of the flood of '48, the highest flood ever known along the river. Even then the water had not touched the building. There was nothing at all to be alarmed by the river's rising.

After the afternoon's recitations, the girls went down to the river's edge, although the rain poured down upon them. They were learning the tricks of the old river men. They stuck sticks in the edge of the water to mark the rise or fall.

"It's risen over a foot since lunch time," cried Erma. "See, there is my marker. You can just see it. Think of it – a foot. What will become of us?"

"It will rise twenty feet before we need give it a thought," said Hester. She had been reared along the river and had no fear of it. She loved it in any form it could assume – tranquil and quiet – frozen and white – rolling and bleak and sullen. In every form, she recognized only the beautiful and knew no reason to fear.

"But if it should rise twenty-five?" cried Erma. She was running about excitedly like a water-sprite. Her red sweater gleamed in the sullen gray light. The rain was trickling from her Tam-o-Shanter; but she was oblivious of all, save the far remote danger.

"Oh, what if it should come up twenty-five feet!" she continued asking as she ran along the shore.

"Oh, what if the world should come to an end!" retorted the girls in derision.

The gong in the main hall sounded.

"I knew it," cried Emma. "I knew Doctor Weldon would not allow us to be out long. She's dreadfully careful of us. Now, what harm can a little bit of water do to anyone?" Emma shook her bushy, curly locks.

"Nothing, when one's hair curls naturally. But it can do a lot when one's hair is straight. Look at mine." Mame sighed dismally. "Did you ever see such locks? Every one as straight as a poker. I wish, just for once, I could look like other girls."

Josephine was standing in the hall, waiting when the little group of girls entered.

"Have you been in all the time?" asked Hester. "How could you? The river is fine and getting higher and higher each moment. You shouldn't miss such a sight as this."

"I have not missed it," was the reply, given while the speaker's eyes took a soulful upward glance. "I cannot enjoy nature with people laughing and talking about me. I must be alone and commune with it. I have stood here watching from the window. What a beautiful and yet a terrible scene it is. I feel uplifted."

"I wish I felt the same way – uplifted to the extent of two flights of stairs," said Hester. She had not meant to be funny, but the girls laughed. Josephine turned upon her a hurt, aggrieved look. But just for a moment, then she smiled and said gently, "Hester, you little water-sprite! How can you jest when nature is at war?"

Edna Bucher was another student who would not brave the elements. She stood at the hall window where the stairway makes a turn. She was dressed in very somber clothes, guiltless of curves or graces. She did not look with favor upon girls' trudging out in the storm. It had in it the element of tom-boyism upon which Miss Bucher looked with alarm.