CHAPTER III.
THE QUEST OF KNOWLEDGE.
Our district schoolhouse was a shadeless, unpainted box. Within,whittled desks, staring windows and broken plastering made it a fitprison for the boys, whose rough ways were proof of the refininginfluence of their daily intercourse with the hired men. I wonder suchplaces are tolerated. What a contrast to Barnard's white and gold!
John Burke was our teacher the following winter. He was only seventeenthen, but already tall and well grown, in appearance quite a man. Hewas a student working his way to an education, and his example was ahelp to me. For I no longer hated lessons. Miss Coleman's talk hadfilled me with such zeal for knowledge that I became, before the termwas over, the phenomenon of the school. Mr. Burke boarded at our houseand he would bring home shining tales of my prowess, and often I wouldlisten open-mouthed as we sat about the table at night and he toldstories of the State University and the students and the merry lifethey led.
Every one was amazed at my industry. I played as heartily as I worked,but I studied with a will, too, and passed a score of mates. That waseasy enough, for home study was never dreamed of by most of them, andleisure hours in school were passed in marking "tit-tat-to" upon slatesor eating apples under the friendly shelter of the desks.
At the end of the term I received a prize--a highly coloured print of"Washington Crossing the Delaware," which Pa and Ma used long after tobring out and exhibit with pride. It is still somewhere in the oldhouse--hung up in Ma's bedroom, I think, along with theblue-and-tinseled crown, marked "Charity" in gilt letters across thefront, which I wore in the exciting dialogue of "Faith, Hope andCharity" at a Sunday school exhibition.
But more than any prize I valued the help and friendship of John Burkeand the consciousness that he considered me his most promising pupil.Upborne by new ideals, I resolved to study through the vacation thatfollowed, and to my surprise this was not an infliction but a pleasure,now that I was my own task-mistress.
Next term the "girl teacher"--for economy's sake we had them in summerwhen there were no big boys to thrash--was astonished at my industryand wisdom, and as I could see, a little afraid of them. At the end ofthe first week I went home bursting with an idea that in secret I hadlong cherished. Aunt Keren was at tea, I remember, and the talk fellupon my work in school, giving me my opportunity.
"Who'd a thought a mischeevious little tyke like her would ha' turnedout a first-rate learner, after all?" queried Auntie, beaming upon megood-naturedly from behind her gold-bowed spectacles. "I al'ays tol'ye, Ezry, ye'd be proud o' her some day."
"I guess Sue Arkwright's a famous good teacher; that's one thing," saidMa, amiably. "Sis never done near so well before; at least, not tilllast term."
"I never thought Sue was anythin' remarkable," Pa broke in. "How isthat, Sis? Is she a good teacher?"
"No, she ain't," I responded, with quickened beating of the heart.Criticism of teachers was admissible in my code of ethics, butjustification must follow; there must be proof--or reproof.
"What's that?" said Pa, looking at me curiously. "Ever ketch her in amistake?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Bring the book."
I ran and fetched a well-thumbed book from the sewing machine andturned to the definitions of familiar foreign words.
"There," said I, spreading the speller flat on the table and pointingwith my finger. "French word for 'Mister.' Teacher called it'Monshure,' just as they all do. But that's wrong. To-day I showed herhow it is. See, the book says it's pronounced 'm-o-s-s-e-r' and thatlittle mark means an accent on the last syllable and it's 'long e.''Mosseer' is right. But when I showed it to teacher, she looked at itawhile, and then she wrinkled up her eye-brows, and whispered it onceor twice and said: 'Oh, yes; "mosser."' And she made us call it'mosser' all the rest of the day, too," I ended triumphantly.
"Why, o' course that ain't right; 'mosser' ain't it!" volunteered oneof the hired men, who had lingered to hear the discussion. "I've heerdthat word a thousan' times; right way seems like 'M'shoo.' Shucks!Can't get my tongue 'round it, nohow."
"Yes, I know", said Pa "you go call Frenchy."
Joe Lavigne, summoned from the barn, came, followed by all the rest,curious to see what was wanted--a rough, kindly gang of men in blueoveralls and big, clumping boots.
"Joe," said Pa; "you say 'Mister' in French."
"Ya-a-as, M'sieu' Weensheep, so I call heem: M'sieu'; M'sieu'; M'sieu'."
Very carefully Frenchy pronounced the clipped word.
"That's all, Joe; I s'pose book French is a good deal diff'rent fromord'nary Kanuck. 'Mosseer' is right anyhow, for the book says so.Teacher had ought to know enough to go by the book, I sh' think."
"Tain't her fault, Pa," I said, relenting. "She never went to any goodschool. I want to go somewhere where the teachers know a real lot; notjust a little bit more than me. I want to go"--I paused to gaincourage--"I want to go to the University, like--like Mr. Burke."
"The State University!" Pa repeated, in a tone of awe; "Thunder! Don'tbelieve we could manage that, Sis."
"W'y, yes, y'can, too, Ezry," Aunt Keren argued, "seems to me you'reforehanded enough, to do for an only child. 'Tain't 's if you was likeme 'n' Ab., with our four chunies."
"She'd have to go to an academy first to get fitten for it," said Ma."She couldn't go to the Univers'ty for three or four years yet."
"Of course not," I answered; "but you might write to Mr. Burke to sendme a catalogue to find out how much I'd have to know to get taken in.Then I could study at home till I got pretty near ready, and then takea year at the Academy."
The words flowed easily, eagerly; I had so often gone over the plan.
"Good idee," said Pa, nodding his head, relieved to find that I wasn'tseeking to leave home at once; and so it was arranged.
Isn't it wonderful? Plain and bald and homely the house, unpretendingthe surroundings, simple and primitive the life, that sent forth theworld's first beautiful woman, the Woman of the Secret! I have tried toset it all down exactly as it happened--the quaint, old-fashioneddialect, the homely ways, the bearded, booted men. For this place, justas it was, was the birthplace of the new glory; out of this homelysimplicity dawned the new era of beauty that is to make the whole worldglad.
A catalogue was sent for, books were bought and I set to work unaided,though Mr. Stoddard took an interest in my studies and often helped meout of difficulties. I chose the classical course, undeterred byparental demonstrations of the "plum uselessness" of Latin and Greek; Ihad for the choice no better reason than that it was more difficult. Ino longer went to the little red schoolhouse.
All this time I had almost forgotten Billy, to whom I owed such a debtof gratitude for sending me upon the Quest. Once I met him on the road.
"Ain't ye never comin' to school no more?" he queried.
"No, I am never going again; I am preparing for the State University; Ishall take a classical course," I answered with hauteur, looking downupon him as I spoke. Only that morning Ma had let out another tuck inmy gown.
"I'm aw'fly sorry," Billy murmured with a foolish, embarrassed grin."Guess I'll walk along of ye, if ye don't care."
My triumph found me cold. The sting of Billy's words yet rankled, andperhaps I was not so grateful to the little wretch as he deserved. Itwas about a quarter of a mile to our house; we walked the distance inunbroken silence. Once there, Billy rallied.
"Good-by, Miss Winship," he said, holding open the gate for me. It wasthe first time that any one had addressed me by that grown-up title.
"Good-by, Billy."
And that was the end of the beginning of the Quest.
In blizzard time and through the fierce heat of summer I toiled atself-set tasks in our ugly, comfortable home. During the blessedintervals when we could induce "girl help" to stay with us I hadscarcely any housework to do. Fairly regular exercise came to be ahabit and I worried admiring relatives into thinking me a candidate foran early grave by taking a cold bath every morning. In the end Imanaged, wit
h a single year in a cheerless boarding house near avillage academy, where I studied greedily, devouring my books, to enterthe State University with a scholarship to my credit.
I took half the examination in Spring and read extra Virgil and Ovidall summer. Then in August, when the long vacation was nearly over,came the village dressmaker. Ma had promised me two new dresses, and Iwould sit hemming towels or poring over Greek and Roman history whilethey turned the leaves of fashion magazines and discussed materials andtrimmings.
I secretly hoped for a silk, but Mother, to whom I suppose I am evennow--now!--a little girl, vetoed that as too showy, and the dressmakeradded her plea for good, durable things. The choice fell upon a golfsuiting for school and a black cashmere for church.
I begged hard to have the cashmere touch the ground, but both womensmiled at the folly of the child who forgot the many re-bindings a longskirt would call for. There was a comic side to my disappointment, forI guessed that the widow Trask could not make the designs I coveted,nor anything of which she could not buy a paper pattern.
But when I went up to the University and became entitled to join in thecry:--
S!----U! We're----a----few! S!----T!----A--T--E! U!----ni----ver--si--tee! Wow!----Wow!----Wow!
--I found that I compared favourably enough with my mates. Dress playedlittle part in every day college life, and for such occasions associals or Friday night debating society I soon learned from upperclass girls to mitigate ugly gowns with pretty ribbons. And Icongratulated myself upon the fact that I was not by any means theplainest girl in my class. My face was hopeless, but my hard-won fightfor an erect posture had given me a bearing that seemed almostdistinguished. And--well, even my face wasn't so bad, I thought then!
We were a jolly set; most of us poor as church mice, and caring little.Making rather a boast of it, indeed. John Burke's roommate, Jim Reeder,cooked his own meals--mostly oatmeal--in his room and lived on lessthan a dollar a week until fairly starved. I suppose they'll call him"old Hoss" to his dying day. Until his mother moved to town, John wasalmost as ill-fed. He was just completing his law course when I was aFreshman, and used to make brave jests at poverty, even after hisadmission to the bar.
Of course I was glad to meet him again, and, though I was puzzled justat first, to see how little older than I my former teacher was, yetafterwards--why, I haven't answered his last--I don't know how manyletters; I simply must remember to write to him!
I think the best part of the teaching wasn't in the books. Some of thestudents were queer and uncouth when they came, the boys eating withtheir knives in the fashion of the farm; some of the brightest girls inill-fitting clothes--perfect guys they'd be thought in the city. Butthere were others of quite different manner, and from them and fromprofessors who had seen the world, we learned a little--a verylittle--of its ways. And perhaps we were not unfavourable specimens ofyoung republicanism, with our merry, hopeful outlook upon life, and ourfuture governors and senators all in the raw--yes, and our countessesand vice-reines!