Miss bishop, p.1
Miss Bishop, page 1
Miss Bishop
by Bess Streeter Aldrich
First published in 1933
This edition published by Reading Essentials
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
For.ullstein@gmail.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Miss Bishop
by
Bess Streeter Aldrich
CHAPTER I
In 1846 the prairie town of Oak River existed only in a settler’s dream. In 1856 the dream became an incorporated reality. Ten years later a rambling village with a long muddy Main Street and a thousand souls welcomed back its Civil War boys. And by 1876 it was sprawling over a large area with the cocksure air of a new midwestern town fully expecting to become a huge metropolis. If all the high hopes of those pioneer town councilors had been fulfilled, the midwest to-day would be one grand interlocking of city streets. As it is, hundreds of little towns grew to their full size of two or five or ten thousand, paused in their growth, and admitted that none of them by taking Chamber-of-Commerce thought could add one cubit to its stature.
So Oak River, attaining the full strength of its corporeal self some years ago, has now settled down into a town of ten thousand, quite like a big boy who realizes that the days of his physical growth are over, and proceeds to look a bit to the development of his mind and his manners.
The chief source of the big boy’s pride is the school,—Midwestern College. It stands at the edge of town in a lovely rolling campus, sweet-smelling in the springtime from its newly cropped blue-grass and white clover, colorful in the autumn from the scarlet and russet and gold of its massive trees,—a dozen or more pompous buildings arranged in stately formation, a campanile lifting its clock faces high to the four winds, a huge stadium proudly gloating over its place in the athletic sun. Concrete driveways and sidewalks curve through the green of elms and maples, and young people walk or drive over them continually,—a part of that great concourse of Youth forever crossing the campuses of the world.
Until last summer, an ancient brick building known as Old Central Hall stood in the very middle of the group of fine modern structures, like a frowzy old woman, wrinkled and gray, surrounded by well-groomed matrons. A few mild-spoken people referred to the building as quaint, the frank ones called it ugly—but whenever there was talk of removing it, a host of sentimental alumni arose en masse and exclaimed: “What! Tear down Old Central?” And as the college board consisted one hundred per cent of alumni, Old Central continued to sit complacently on, year after year, in the center of the quadrangle, almost humanly impudent in attitude toward the rest of the buildings.
To several thousand people it was so familiar, so much a vital part of their lives, that when, last spring, a regretful board guiltily sounded the death knell, many more alumni than usual arrived on the campus at Commencement time, quite like children called home to see a mother on her deathbed.
Those who had not seen her for several years found her worn and cracked and disgracefully shabby, with her belfry half removed and extra pillars placed in the dismantled auditorium for safety’s sake. But, even so, there were two or three present who recalled that like any other aged soul who has outlived her usefulness, she had once been as strong and bright and gay as a bride. That had been in 1876, when Oak River itself was still young.
On the sixth of September of that year, so important to the thirty-two young people entering the new hall for the first time, the building rose like a squatty lighthouse on a freshwater lake, for it stood in the center of forty acres of coarse prairie grass bent to the earth with the moisture of a three-day drenching rain.
It was still raining dismally at eight o’clock on that Wednesday morning—a slow monotonous drizzle that turned the new campus into a sea—a Red Sea, for that matter, as the brick dust around the newly erected building made of the soggy ground a rust-colored mud. Wheelbarrows leaned tipsily against the new walls. Mortar boxes held miniature chalky pools. The approach to the big doors, unpainted as yet, was up an incline with wooden cleats nailed on it, upon which the girls in their flowing ruffled skirts tottered so perilously that their long thin hoops quivered up and down in rhythmic sympathy.
Inside, a few potential students stood about in the hall, which was almost too dark for any one of them to get an enlightening look at his neighbor. The newly plastered walls were scarcely dry, so that the atmosphere here was seemingly as moist as that without.
Chris Jensen, a young Dane, just starting out on his janitor duties, stood solemnly at the doorway with a broom, and after the entrance of each young neophyte, brushed out puddles of muddy water with the air of having swept a part of the River of Sorrows out of the infernal regions.
The first comers all watched him soberly. No one said anything. Everyone was cold, the huge coils of pipes around the rooms having as yet no intimate relation to any heating plant. All was as merry as a burial service.
Then a young girl opened the door and blew in on a gust of rain-filled wind. An expansive smile from a wide cheerful mouth greeted the assembled mourners as she gave one sweeping glance toward them all.
Chris Jensen, with broom poised for her entrance, grinned cheerfully back, his pale eyes lighting with responsive mirth.
“Velcome to school,” he said in Danish accent and lowered the threatening weapon. It was the first word he had uttered during the whole moist morning.
With the girl’s coming some new element entered the room, as though a bright pigment had suddenly been used on a sepia picture.
She was not pretty. One could scarcely say what it was that set her apart from the others,—humor, vitality, capability, or some unknown characteristic which combined them all. It was as though she said: “Well, here I am. Let’s begin.”
Removing shining rubbers and a dripping brown cape with a plaid hood at the back, she placed them in the hallway that gave forth a strong rubbery odor, and came up to the other students.
She had on a long plaid dress, brown and red, over narrow hoops, with ruffles curving from the bottom of her skirt up to the back of her waist, and a tight-fitting basque brave with rows of brass buttons marching, soldier-like, four abreast, across the front. Her hair was piled high in the intricate coiffure of the day and drawn back into curls.
She gave one look at the funereal expressions of the assembled embryonic collegians. One girl, highly overdressed in a green velveteen suit, was shedding copious tears into the expensive lace of a large handkerchief.
“What are we waiting for?” the newcomer said with some asperity. “Let’s go on in.”
Like sheep, the whole group, under the new bell-wether’s leadership, tagged meekly after her into the assembly room—a room so huge that the wildest optimism of the most progressive of Oak River’s citizenry could scarcely conceive a day when it would be filled with youth.
A young instructor sat at a desk just inside the door, two others were consulting by a window. Everything about the young man at the desk was thin. He had a thin body, a high thin forehead, a long thin nose, a thin mustache of recent raising straggling over a thin-lipped mouth. A blank book, very large and very white, was open in front of him over which he held a pen poised for action.
He appeared so timid in the face of the situation that when he managed to emit, “Will some one please start the enrollment?” the girl looked about her inquiringly and then marched sturdily up to the sacrificial altar as it were.
“Your name?”
He looked so embarrassed that the merry eyes of the girl half closed in crinkling humor and she stifled silent laughter.
“Ella Bishop,” she said demurely.
He wrote it with great flourishes, his hand making many dizzy elliptical journeys before it settled down to an elaborate “E” with a curving tail as long as some prehistoric baboon’s.
When he had finished the lengthy and intricate procedure, he paused and asked shyly:
“Your age?”
“Sixteen.”
As this was executed in the less spectacular figures, it did not consume quite so much time.
“Residence?”
“Oak River, now . . .” And in further explanation, “We just moved in from the farm—my mother and I—and settled here.”
“I see. On what street, please?”
“Adams Street—half way between Tenth and Eleventh.”
He looked up as though at a startling piece of news. “Why . . . why . . . that’s right across the street from me.” And flushed to his thin forehead.
The green velveteen girl, who had been weeping continuously, suddenly tittered, a bit hysterically.
By this time the timid one had been joined by another instructor, evidently for monetary reasons, so that immediately there was a flutter of pockets and bags,—one big-boned German boy extracting gold coin with difficulty from the lining of his homemade coat, while a freckled girl of apparent Scotch lineage turned abruptly to the wall and deftly removed a roll of bills from some unknown source in the region of her left lung.
When the last name had been entered by Professor Samuel Peters’ agile pen with much shading of downward strokes and many extra corkscrew appendages, the president called the students to order in the church-pew seats of the huge assembly room, in which immensity t
The faculty consisted of four instructors besides President Corcoran. They were Professor Loren Wick, mathematics, brown-whiskered and paunchy, with a vague suggestion of his last lunch somewhere on his vest,—Professor Byron Carter, grammar and literature, small and nervous, with gray goatee, eyeglasses and a black cord,—Miss Emmaline Patton, geography and history, a solid appearing woman, both as to physique and mentality,—as though an opinion once formed became a necessary amendment to the laws of the Medes and the Persians,—and the thin, embarrassed Samuel Peters, he of the coquettish pen, who was to teach spelling and the intricacies of the Spencerian method of writing.
These now with President Corcoran, who was to teach a mysterious subject called Mental and Moral Philosophy, filed up on the rostrum and sat down in a solemn row. Evidently the transmission of knowledge was to be a melancholy procedure. The girl, Ella Bishop, felt her heart pounding tumultuously with the formality of the occasion. The green velveteen girl mopped seeping moisture diligently.
A new reed organ with many carved cupids and gingerbread brackets stood at one side of the rostrum. President Corcoran, a short plump man whose kindly face was two-thirds hidden behind a duck-blind of beard, indicating the musical instrument, asked if any one could play, whereupon the green velveteen girl, having foreseen the possibility of this very prominence (and hence the velveteen) dried her eyes and volunteered with some alacrity.
Shortly, the assembled students were singing “Shall We Gather at the River?” and any one glancing out of the high Gothic windows with prairie adaptations, where the rain splashed and ran dismally down, could have answered honestly, “No doubt we shall.”
There was prayer, in which the president informed the Lord of the current events of the morning, including the exact number of matriculations, and then, suddenly, abandoning statistics, asked fervently for divine love and light and guidance in the lives of these young people, which latter part of the petition seemed somehow to reach immediately the place for which it was intended.
When he had finished, there was an announcement or two, a reading of many and stringent rules with penalties attached thereto for nonconformity, and another song of such dry characteristics as might counteract the moisture of the first one:
“. . . In deserts wild
Thou spreadest a table for thy child.”
Then classes,—and Midwestern College was fairly launched.
CHAPTER II
The girl, Ella Bishop, entered whole-heartedly into this first convocation of the new college,—as indeed she would have entered into anything, an auction sale or an Irish wake.
Morning classes for her followed one another in rather sketchy fashion. With a surreptitious flourish of many cold chicken legs, lunch at noon was consummated in a room politely termed the physical science laboratory, but whose apparatus consisted largely of a wobbly tellurian, a lung-tester, and a homemade air-pump which gave forth human-like sounds of torture. One group sat in the recitation seats, one on the edge of a long table, and a few girls under Ella’s efficient management gathered in a friendly arrangement of chairs in a far corner. The instinct to run to cliques settles itself in the breast of every female child at birth.
Afternoon saw Ella in Miss Patton’s class reciting a little vaguely concerning the inhabitants of South America, and in Professor Peters’ class watching with fascinated wonder as he executed a marvelous blackboard sketch of a fish never known to any sea, with the modest assurance that they too could be in time as proficient as he—although once it did briefly occur to Ella to question what specific importance could be attached to the resultant accomplishment.
The close of day saw her at home in the modest wing-and-ell house “on Adams between Tenth and Eleventh,” where her widowed mother was attempting to settle the furnishings.
She removed her wet things and slipped into another dress which strangely enough was made of the same plaid goods as the one she had worn to school. A mystified onlooker could not have known that Ella’s father, before his death, had taken over two bolts of cloth from a merchant at Maynard in payment for a horse—and that for several years now Ella’s wardrobe had consisted entirely of red-and-brown plaid trimmed with blue serge, or blue serge trimmed with red-and-brown plaid.
“Shall I wear the pork and beans to-day, Mother, or the beans and pork?” she sometimes asked facetiously.
At which joking her mother’s expression would become hurt and she would answer: “Oh, Ella . . . you shouldn’t make fun . . . Father . . . the cloth . . . like that. . . .”
Mrs. Bishop seldom finished her sentences. She was so uncertain about everything, so possessed by a sense of helplessness since her husband’s death, that at sixteen Ella had assumed management of the household and become the dictator of all plans.
Just now she accomplished more in the first half-hour of her brisk labor in the unsettled home than the mother had done in the whole day. She whisked things into place with marvelous dexterity, chattering all the time of the greatest event of her life,—her first day at the new college.
She could give the names of practically all the other thirty-one students. The big-boned German boy was George Schroeder. He had been a farmhand and could scarcely speak English. The small weazened-face boy who was so sharp at mathematics that Professor Wick had spoken about it was Albert Fonda, a Bohemian boy. He had told Professor Wick he wanted to study astronomy, and that nice Professor Wick had said he and Albert would have a class if there was no one in it but they two. The Scotch girl was Janet McLaughlin and she had made them all laugh by saying that she thought the day would come when cooking and sewing would be taught in schools. Imagine that,—things you could learn at home. The girl in the velveteen dress was Irene Van Ness, the banker’s daughter, and she had cried because she didn’t want to go to this school, but her father was one of the founders of it and had made her go. Irene was half-way engaged to Chester Peters, brother of the penmanship teacher, who went east to school,—the brother, she meant, not The Fish,—though how any one could be half-way engaged was more than she could understand.
Indeed, half-way measures were so unknown to Ella Bishop, that carried away by her own entertainment she was now imitating the instructors, describing her fellow students, impersonating Irene playing the organ so vividly that her mother laughed quite heartily before suddenly remembering there had been a bereavement in the family the past year.
The wing-and-ell house into which the two were moving sat behind a brown picket-fence not far back from the street. Two doors at right angles on the small porch opened into a dining-room and a parlor; the porch itself was covered with a rank growth of trumpet-vine. Inside, there were sale carpets tacked firmly over fresh oat straw, the one in the parlor of dark brown liberally sprinkled with the octagon-shaped figures to be found in any complete geometry, the one in the dining-room of red with specks of yellow on it looking like so many little pieces of egg yolk dropped from the table. The parlor contained an organ, a set of horsehair furniture of a perilous slipperiness, a whatnot, and in the exact center of the room a walnut table upon which Ella had arranged a red plush album, a stereoscope with its basket of views, and a plaster cast of the boy who is never quite able to locate the thorn in his foot. A plain house but striving to be in the mode of the day.
As Ella went now to the parlor door to shake out the crocheted tidies that belonged on the backs of the horsehair pieces, she glimpsed a young man walking slowly past the house in the rain and gazing intently at it. At the noise of the opening door he turned his head away suddenly and started walking faster down the street. “There he goes,” she told her mother, “the young man whose pen is mightier than his swordfish.” And laughed cheerfully at her own wit.
She watched from the shadow of the doorway and saw him cross the street, turn into the large yard with the two cast-iron deer, and go up the steps of the big red-brick house with the cupola on one corner.
“That’s Judge Peters’ house,” Mrs. Bishop said, “the woman next door . . . was telling . . . The other son . . . She said . . . medicine or law . . . or something. . . .” Poor Mrs. Bishop, slipping through life, always half-informed, never sure of any statement.
