Alex Grenville steered the car skillfully down the steep mountain road. He was proud of the car, a 1936 Cord with a “coffin” nose and crank-up headlights. He liked speed, and this one could put most cars far behind. He ran his hand over the steering wheel in an affectionate caress, then turned and asked, “How much farther, Wendy?”
“Only about ten miles.”
Wendy Stuart was wearing a silver-gray dress that matched her gray eyes. She had on a green fingertip jacket, and the sunlight caught her auburn hair, bringing out the red gleams in it.
Alex glanced at her and smiled. “I don’t know how a city slicker like me is going to make out in the country. I’ve never been around country folks before.”
Reaching over, Wendy put her hand over Alex’s where it rested on the wheel. “You’ll do fine,” she smiled. “They’ll love you just like I do.”
“Well, maybe not quite that much.”
“Who wouldn’t love you?” she teased.
“I can give you a long list.” Alex laughed shortly. “Mostly graduate students that I just flunked in a music course.”
The two chatted as the car rolled along past open fields as they came down into the valley. Alex looked around and said, “This is beautiful country. It reminds me a little of upper New York State.” He suddenly pulled over with such an abrupt turn of the wheel that Wendy gasped. “What are you doing?” she cried.
“Just want to stop and talk a little bit.” They had come to the lip of another small ridge where they could look down on the valley. He pointed the nose of the Cord over that view, then reached out and pulled her to him. She turned and met his embrace openly.
Alex Grenville was a demanding young man in every way. He had added a drive to his profession that had brought him to the attention nationally of those interested in classical music, especially symphonies. Everything he did was given his complete and undivided attention. Now, as he kissed her, there was the same insistence in his manner.
Wendy enjoyed his kiss. She enjoyed the strong feeling of his arms around her, for truthfully she had begun to worry whether she would ever find a man that would please her. She had had several boyfriends through her high school years, but none had drawn her serious attention. When she met Alex Grenville she had been a student in his class. At first she had disliked him, for he had driven his students with almost a fury. Many had dropped out, but Wendy had grimly remained and proven to be tough enough and talented enough to survive his ruthless teaching methods.
Even as he was kissing her and she felt his hand run down her back, she thought about how he had invited her out and she had gone—not at all satisfied that she would ever like such a man. Their courtship had been swift, and she had been almost breathless with the haste with which he pressured her. Now, she felt him begin to caress her in a way that startled her. Pulling back, she murmured, “Don’t-don’t do that, Alex.”
Grenville shook his head. “You’re such a Puritan, Wendy! What’s a little caress between friends?”
“I just don’t like it, that’s all.”
“You like being kissed well enough.”
“Yes, I guess I do. That’s different though from what you were doing just then.”
Grenville moved his arm and then leaned back against the door of the car studying her thoughtfully. He was a trim young man, well built, of medium height. He had crisp brown hair and alert brown eyes and English features. He had known many women in his life; being attractive, he had naturally drawn them. He had found they played games with him, and he had joined in. Now, however, this young woman had captured him most of all by her dewy innocence. He smiled and pulled a cigarette out and lit it with a gold lighter. He puffed at the cigarette, letting the window down, and rested his arm on the side of the door. “I don’t know what we see in each other,” he finally said. “You’re an angel, and I’m a devil.”
“That’s not true!” Wendy said sharply. “You’re no devil, and I’m certainly not an angel!”
“Look,” Grenville said, “you and I love each other. Sooner or later we’re going to get married. Why shouldn’t we enjoy everything there is for young lovers?”
Wendy knew he did not like her to mention her religious convictions. Nevertheless, she said firmly, “We’ve talked about this before, Alex! After we’re married, we’ll have each other, but until we are I intend to stay just as I am!” She gave him a direct look and said pointedly, “I think that’s what you liked about me in the first place, isn’t it?”
Realizing that she had figured him out, Alex grinned ruefully. “You’re too sharp for me, Wendy!” He tossed the cigarette out, rolled the window up, and said, “Come on; let’s go down and let the family look me over. I feel like a prize hog going to the county fair.”
Relieved that the moment was over, Wendy moved closer to him and held on to his arm. “They’ll love you, I guarantee!”
They arrived at the farm ten minutes later and found that the yard was already swarming with relatives. “Good grief!” Alex said. “It looks like a town meeting! Are these all Stuarts?”
“Yes—now come on; let me show you off!” Wendy said eagerly. She was aware that some had wondered at her courtship, and she was pleased as she took Alex around and introduced him to Logan, Anne, and then to Clinton and to Carol Davidson.
“Come on,” she said. “I especially want you to meet my cousin Mona. I warn you, she’ll try to steal you.”
She led the way to where a middle-aged couple was standing with two young people. “This is Peter Stuart, my uncle, and his wife, Leslie. I want you to meet Alex Grenville.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Sir.” Grenville shook Stuart’s hand, and Peter Stuart, who was six-feet-four, looked down at him. “Don’t call me Sir; I’m going to be a grandfather soon enough, I suppose.” He winked at Leslie, who, at the age of forty-four, still had clear ash-blonde hair and not a wrinkle. “She’ll be the best-looking grandma in town!”
“And this is Stephen, and this is Mona.”
Stephen Stuart, not nearly as tall as his father but with the same good looks, grinned as he shook hands with Grenville. “He doesn’t even have a kid married yet, and he’s already counting his grandchildren.”
Mona Stuart, at seventeen, was so pretty that for one moment Alex blinked. She had pure-blonde hair, enormous green eyes, and the powder-blue blouse and skirt she wore covered by a dark royal-blue sweater revealed a stunning figure. “Hello, Alex!” she said, and gave him her hand. There was an aggressiveness in her that Alex recognized at once.
“I’m glad to know you, Stephen and Mona.” He stood chatting, and after he was taken away by the men, Mona turned to Wendy. “Where did you find a dreamboat like him?” she whispered. She stared contemplatively at her cousin and said, “I thought you’d arrive dragging some stiff lawyer in a black suit. He’s really something! Tell me all about him.”
For the next twenty minutes the two young women talked excitedly. Wendy knew that Mona thought of nothing but young men. By the age of seventeen she had already been studying them for several years. Now, however, as her abundant young womanhood was so obvious in her figure and also in the glint of her green eyes, Wendy was happy that she had not brought an old man in a black suit. “Isn’t he something, Mona?” she said.
Mona cocked her head to one side. “You better hang on to him, Honey—there’ll be plenty standing in line for a man like that!”
“You’ve got enough men, Mona!” Wendy smiled. She really liked her cousin a great deal, but there was a serious note in her voice as she said, “You’ve got enough boyfriends of your own. Let me have this one.”
Later that night Wendy and Mona shared a bed in the attic, and they stayed up talking until very late. Wendy mostly listened as Mona excitedly told her about her latest conquest. “He’s the quarterback at the University of Oklahoma, Denton Norman. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“You haven’t? Well, he’s leading the conferenc
e in passing. Oh, and he’s a dreamboat; he really is!”
Satisfied that Mona had no designs on Alex, Wendy lay back and listened as the young woman laid out her life. “I’m going to enter the Miss Oklahoma contest next year,” she said. “I bet I win it, too!”
“And after that you can be Miss America!”
“Why not?” Mona laughed. “You know how when they name Miss America, she always cries? You just wait; I won’t cry; I’ll laugh and say to those losers, ‘There, now we see who the real winner is!’”
“You wouldn’t do that, Mona; you’d cry just like the rest of ’em.”
Mona sighed and stretched like a cat, her supple young body arching outward. “I suppose so,” she admitted. She was getting sleepy now and said, “I like Alex. I bet he’s a handful, isn’t he?”
“What makes you think that?”
“He’s got that bedroom look in his eye. I’ve seen it often enough to recognize it, but I can tell he loves you, so you hold out for the wedding ring.”
Wendy was somewhat disturbed at Mona’s attitude toward what she considered a sacred thing. She heard the house stirring, for it was full of visitors and voices. Finally she drifted off to sleep, wondering what her family would make of her marrying someone who wasn’t a Christian.
THE STUART CLAN
Brother Harlan Crabtree came to stand behind the walnut pulpit and looked out over his congregation. A smile tugged at his lips as he said, “Some churches get run over with mice, but it looks like this morning Grace Church is run over with Stuarts!” He waited until the laughter died down, and then said, “Every year it is a joy to those of us who have known the Stuarts for years to welcome them back to our community. I grew up with the Stuart boys—Owen, Amos, Logan, Pete, Gavin. We’ve hunted the woods and fished the streams and lakes together. At one time or another I tried to court all the Stuart girls—Christie, Lenora, and Lylah—but all of them had better sense than to take up with the likes of me.” Again mild laughter ran around the auditorium.
The bright sunlight came down through the stained glass windows on each side of the simple wooden structure, fanning out and touching the faces of the worshipers. The seats were made of pine and designed more for utility than for comfort. The walls were also pine, painted white, and only recently had the two large wood-burning stoves been replaced by gas furnaces. Today, despite the cold outside, the church inside was at least bearable.
“As usual, I’ve asked Reverend Owen Stuart to bring our message. Brother Stuart, come and speak what’s on your heart.”
Owen rose from the seat on the platform and came at once, a worn black Bible in his hand. He laid it on the pulpit, opened it, and then looked out over the congregation. “I’ve preached in some pretty large churches and tents,” he said quietly, “but it always gives me a special thrill to come back to this place where, as a boy, I sat on that bench right over there with my brothers and sisters, my father and mother. I thank God for those days, and I thank God that all of us are now members in the household of God.”
As he went on speaking, Lylah was watching him carefully. She reached over and took Jesse’s hand, leaned over and whispered, “I remember the day I left town to go to Bible college. Owen and Amos caught me smoking tailor-made cigarettes out behind the barn. Wasn’t I a bird to go to Bible school?”
Owen was soon into his message, and no one listened more closely than Alex Grenville. He had been warmed and charmed by the welcome he had received into the family the day before but had been apprehensive about attending church. He himself was not a church member of any sort. He had come from a broken home and had been passed around to relatives who had little enough religion, and what little they had had not rubbed off on him. He had heard of Owen, of course, before he met Wendy, for Owen had some reputation nationally as an evangelist. This, however, was the first time he had ever heard him preach, and he could not help but think, Well, he may be a preacher, but he looks tough enough to be almost anything.
Owen began by reading a psalm. “What is man, that thou art mindful of him?” He read slowly, then he looked up after repeating this and said, “This morning we are thinking of the birth of Jesus, and ordinarily we speak of the manger, the miraculous birth, and we think of wise men coming with gifts. However, this morning I would like for us to think of three questions that every one of us in this church building and every man and woman and young person in the world ought to answer. They are very simple. One: Where did I come from? Two: Who am I? And three: Where am I going?”
He began to preach at once, and the words came from his lips easily. He was filled with an earnestness, and Alex understood at once why he was such a popular preacher. He had expected a ranting sort of preacher and was surprised when Stuart quoted not only from the Bible, but from poetry and history, drawing all the thoughts together. He was pleased to understand quickly that Owen Stuart was a methodical preacher, and Alex liked methodical things. Music, too, is methodical, and the sermon was built and founded on certain basic truths that Owen stressed over and over again.
“Where did I come from?” Owen asked. “The religions of the world have no answer to that, none whatsoever. The modern society in which we live has declared that evolution answers the question, and what does evolution say? That we’ve come from some sort of primordial soup.” Owen grinned then and waved his steel hook in the air. “But where did the soup come from? Nobody’s ever been able to answer that. All the scientists and all the laboratories of the world have not been able to create one grain of sand!” He went on stressing that the world and most religions had no answer, and finally he said, “The Bible says that in the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. And the New Testament says, speaking of Jesus, ‘All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made.’ In Colossians we read that ‘He is before all things, and by him all things consist.’ That means,” Owen said quietly, “the stars are in their places because he holds them there. The very universe itself is held together by the power of Jesus Christ.”
He moved on soon to the next part of his sermon, which asked the question, Who am I? and here, too, he shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “And once again, the religions of the world have no answer as to the nature of man. The world—the liberals and the humanists of this world—tell us that since man is not of God he is nothing but a bit of protoplasm, no different from any other animal. But Scripture says that God made man in his own image. In the image of God, every one of us is like God—not that God has arms and legs—he’s a spirit. But we’re like him in that we are spiritual beings.”
Alex Grenville had never heard preaching like this. The Scriptures seemed to flow easily, without effort, from Owen Stuart’s lips, tying together his thoughts and keeping the audience’s mind on the essential part of the message. Alex found himself being stirred by the sermon in a way that was unusual for him. Usually only music or art stirred him, or a beautiful woman, but this was different from anything he had expected.
Owen said, “And the last question is, Where am I going? The mystic religions of the East say that we’re all headed toward something like a big bowl of hash. Everything loses its identity. I won’t be Owen Stuart; you won’t be who you are. We just sort of melt together. The worldly people say that we’re just a bunch of cold carbohydrates headed for destruction, but Jesus said, ‘I go to prepare a place for you, and if I go . . . I will come again.’” Owen stopped and said, “The only hope is in the Scripture and in Jesus Christ. He made us, he keeps us alive spiritually and physically, and he will come to get us to spend eternity with him. Now, let me tell you about this Jesus. . . .”
Grenville listened as Owen spoke of Jesus coming to earth, God in the flesh. He spoke eloquently of Jesus’ perfect life, then how he moved among men and women showing love and compassion. And then Owen spoke of his death on the cross and said, “On Christmas we like to think of the manger, which is somehow glorious and wonderful, but that baby in that manger came for one reason:
to be crucified for the sins of the world. Prophets said: ‘With his stripes we are healed,’ and there is no other healing in this world.”
The church grew quiet as Owen concluded, and he said, “If there are those here who do not know Jesus as your Savior, I call upon you to do two things. One, repent of your sins. There’s nothing else you can do with them. They’re too strong for you. Repentance means turning. But you turn from one thing to something else, so it’s not enough to repent. The second thing is to look to Jesus Christ in faith. Come to him, and he will save you as he saved me, as he saved others in this church, as he has saved millions.”
The invitation was given, and two people walked to the front of the small church. Grenville felt the pressure of Wendy’s eyes. He did not move but stood staring down at the songbook as the invitation hymn was sung and when the pastor announced that the two had given their lives to Christ.
It was with relief that Alex Grenville endured the benediction. He turned, at once, and stepped out into the aisle, waited for Wendy, and the two joined those who filed by to shake hands with the minister.
Then they stepped outside, and the cold sky overhead was illuminated by a pale sun. There was a snap in the air, and strips of snow that had fallen the previous night lined the yard that was now filled with pickups and cars of every description, mostly older models.
Wendy said, “We’re going to the hotel now and have Sunday dinner. It’s what we always do when we come home.” She hesitated, then said, “Did you like the sermon, Alex?”
“Your father’s a fine speaker.” He shook his head and smiled. “He could have been a president, I think, or a governor at least.”
Winds of Change Page 4
