by Zane Grey
“It’s the one beginning:
“Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith, ‘A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!’”
He looked down at her still with that wondering smile. “Grow old along with you!” he said, gravely, and then sighed. “You don’t look as if you ever would grow old.”
“That’s it,” she said, eagerly. “That’s the whole idea. We don’t ever grow old and get done with it all, we just go on to bigger things, wiser and better and more beautiful, till we come to understand and be a part of the whole great plan of God!”
He did not attempt an answer, nor did he smile now, but just looked at her with that deeply quizzical, grave look as if his soul were turning over the matter seriously. She held her peace and waited, unable to find the right word to speak. Then he turned and looked off, an infinite regret growing in his face.
“That makes living a different thing from the way most people take it,” he said, at last, and his tone showed that he was considering it deeply.
“Does it?” she said, softly, and looked with him toward the sunset, still half seeing his quiet profile against the light. At last it came to her that she must speak. Half fearfully she began: “I’ve been thinking about what you said on the ride. You said you didn’t make good. I—wish you would. I—I’m sure you could—”
She looked up wistfully and saw the gentleness come into his face as if the fountain of his soul, long sealed, had broken up, and as if he saw a possibility before him for the first time through the words she had spoken.
At last he turned to her with that wondering smile again. “Why should you care?” he asked. The words would have sounded harsh if his tone had not been so gentle.
Margaret hesitated for an answer. “I don’t know how to tell it,” she said, slowly. “There’s another verse, a few lines more in that poem, perhaps you know them?—
‘All I never could be, All, men ignored in me,
This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.’
I want it because—well, perhaps because I feel you are worth all that to God. I would like to see you be that.”
He looked down at her again, and was still so long that she felt she had failed miserably.
“I hope you will excuse my speaking,” she added. “I—It seems there are so many grand possibilities in life, and for you—I couldn’t bear to have you say you hadn’t made good, as if it were all over.”
“I’m glad you spoke,” he said, quickly. “I guess perhaps I have been all kinds of a fool. You have made me feel how many kinds I have been.”
“Oh no!” she protested.
“You don’t know what I have been,” he said, sadly, and then with sudden conviction, as if he read her thoughts: “You do know! That prig of a parson has told you! Well, it’s just as well you should know. It’s right!”
A wave of misery passed over his face and erased all its brightness and hope. Even the gentleness was gone. He looked haggard and drawn with hopelessness all in a moment.
“Do you think it would matter to me—anything that man would say?” she protested, all her woman’s heart going out in pity.
“But it was true, all he said, probably, and more—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, eagerly. “The other is true, too. Just as the poem says, ‘All that man ignores in you, just that you are worth to God!’ And you can be what He meant you to be. I have been praying all the afternoon that He would help you to be.”
“Have you?” he said, and his eyes lit up again as if the altar-fires of hope were burning once more. “Have you? I thank you.”
“You came to me when I was lost in the wilderness,” she said, shyly. “I wanted to help you back—if—I might.”
“You will help—you have!” he said, earnestly. “And I was far enough off the trail, too, but if there’s any way to get back I’ll get there.” He grasped her hand and held it for a second. “Keep up that praying,” he said. “I’ll see what can be done.”
Margaret looked up. “Oh, I’m so glad, so glad!”
He looked reverently into her eyes, all the manhood in him stirred to higher, better things. Then, suddenly, as they stood together, a sound smote their ears as from another world.
“Um! Ah!—”
The minister stood within the doorway, barred by Bud in scowling defiance, and guarded by Cap, who gave an answering growl.
Gardley and Margaret looked at each other and smiled, then turned and walked slowly down to where the pony stood. They did not wish to talk here in that alien presence. Indeed, it seemed that more words were not needed—they would be a desecration.
So he rode away into the sunset once more with just another look and a hand-clasp, and she turned, strangely happy at heart, to go back to her dull surroundings and her uncongenial company.
“Come, William, let’s have a praise service,” she said, brightly, pausing at the doorway, but ignoring the scowling minister.
“A praise service! What’s a praise service?” asked the wondering Bud, shoving over to let her sit down beside him.
She sat with her back to West, and Cap came and lay at her feet with the white of one eye on the minister and a growl ready to gleam between his teeth any minute. There was just no way for the minister to get out unless he jumped over them or went out the back door; but the people in the doorway had the advantage of not having to look at him, and he couldn’t very well dominate the conversation standing so behind them.
“Why, a praise service is a service of song and gladness, of course. You sing, don’t you? Of course. Well, what shall we sing? Do you know this?” And she broke softly into song:
“When peace like a river attendeth my way;
When sorrows like sea-billows roll;
Whatever my lot Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.”
Bud did not know the song, but he did not intend to be balked with the minister standing right behind him, ready, no doubt, to jump in and take the precedence; so he growled away at a note in the bass, turning it over and over and trying to make it fit, like a dog gnawing at a bare bone; but he managed to keep time and make it sound a little like singing.
The dusk was falling fast as they finished the last verse, Margaret singing the words clear and distinct, Bud growling unintelligibly and snatching at words he had never heard before. Once more Margaret sang:
“Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide!
When other refuge fails and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!”
Out on the lonely trail wending his way toward the purple mountain—the silent way to the bunk-house at the camp—in that clear air where sound travels a long distance the traveler heard the song, and something thrilled his soul. A chord that never had been touched in him before was vibrating, and its echoes would be heard through all his life.
On and on sang Margaret, just because she could not bear to stop and hear the commonplace talk which would be about her. Song after song thrilled through the night’s wideness. The stars came out in thick clusters. Father Tanner had long ago dropped his weekly paper and tilted his chair back against the wall, with his eyes half closed to listen, and his wife had settled down comfortably on the carpet sofa, with her hands nicely folded in her lap, as if she were at church. The minister, after silently surveying the situation for a song or two, attempted to join his voice to the chorus. He had a voice like a cross-cut saw, but he didn’t do much harm in the background that way, though Cap did growl now
and then, as if it put his nerves on edge. And by and by Mr. Tanner quavered in with a note or two.
Finally Margaret sang:
“Sun of my soul, Thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou art near,
Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise
To hide Thee from Thy servant’s eyes.”
During this hymn the minister had slipped out the back door and gone around to the front of the house. He could not stand being in the background any longer; but as the last note died away Margaret arose and, bidding Bud good night, slipped up to her room.
There, presently, beside her darkened window, with her face toward the mountain, she knelt to pray for the wanderer who was trying to find his way out of the wilderness.
CHAPTER XIII
Monday morning found Margaret at the school-house nerved for her new task.
One by one the scholars trooped in, shyly or half defiantly, hung their hats on the hooks, put their dinner-pails on the shelf, looked furtively at her, and sank into their accustomed seats; that is, the seats they had occupied during the last term of school. The big boys remained outside until Bud, acting under instructions from Margaret—after she had been carefully taught the ways of the school by Bud himself—rang the big bell. Even then they entered reluctantly and as if it were a great condescension that they came at all, Jed and “Delicate” coming in last, with scarcely a casual glance toward the teacher’s desk, as if she were a mere fraction in the scheme of the school. She did not need to be told which was Timothy and which was Jed. Bud’s description had been perfect. Her heart, by the way, instantly went out to Timothy. Jed was another proposition. He had thick, overhanging eyebrows, and a mouth that loved to make trouble and laugh over it. He was going to be hard to conquer. She wasn’t sure the conquering would be interesting, either.
Margaret stood by the desk, watching them all with a pleasant smile. She did not frown at the unnecessary shuffling of feet nor the loud remarks of the boys as they settled into their seats. She just stood and watched them interestedly, as though her time had not yet come.
Jed and Timothy were carrying on a rumbling conversation. Even after they took their seats they kept it up. It was no part of their plan to let the teacher suppose they saw her or minded her in the least. They were the dominating influences in that school, and they wanted her to know it, right at the start; then a lot of trouble would be saved. If they didn’t like her and couldn’t manage her they didn’t intend she should stay, and she might as well understand that at once.
Margaret understood it fully. Yet she stood quietly and watched them with a look of deep interest on her face and a light almost of mischief in her eyes, while Bud grew redder and redder over the way his two idols were treating the new teacher. One by one the school became aware of the twinkle in the teacher’s eyes, and grew silent to watch, and one by one they began to smile over the coming scene when Jed and Timothy should discover it, and, worst of all, find out that it was actually directed against them. They would expect severity, or fear, or a desire to placate; but a twinkle—it was more than the school could decide what would happen under such circumstances. No one in that room would ever dare to laugh at either of those two boys. But the teacher was almost laughing now, and the twinkle had taken the rest of the room into the secret, while she waited amusedly until the two should finish the conversation.
The room grew suddenly deathly still, except for the whispered growls of Jed and Timothy, and still the silence deepened, until the two young giants themselves perceived that it was time to look up and take account of stock.
The perspiration by this time was rolling down the back of Bud’s neck. He was about the only one in the room who was not on a broad grin, and he was wretched. What a fearful mistake the new teacher was making right at the start! She was antagonizing the two boys who held the whole school in their hands. There was no telling what they wouldn’t do to her now. And he would have to stand up for her. Yes, no matter what they did, he would stand up for her! Even though he lost his best friends, he must be loyal to her; but the strain was terrible! He did not dare to look at them, but fastened his eyes upon Margaret, as if keeping them glued there was his only hope. Then suddenly he saw her face break into one of the sweetest, merriest smiles he ever witnessed, with not one single hint of reproach or offended dignity in it, just a smile of comradeship, understanding, and pleasure in the meeting; and it was directed to the two seats where Jed and Timothy sat.
With wonder he turned toward the two big boys, and saw, to his amazement, an answering smile upon their faces; reluctant, ’tis true, half sheepish at first, but a smile with lifted eyebrows of astonishment and real enjoyment of the joke.
A little ripple of approval went round in half-breathed syllables, but Margaret gave no time for any restlessness to start. She spoke at once, in her pleasantest partnership tone, such as she had used to Bud when she asked him to help her build her bookcase. So she spoke now to that school, and each one felt she was speaking just to him especially, and felt a leaping response in his soul. Here, at least, was something new and interesting, a new kind of teacher. They kept silence to listen.
“Oh, I’m not going to make a speech now,” she said, and her voice sounded glad to them all. “I’ll wait till we know one another before I do that. I just want to say how do you do to you, and tell you how glad I am to be here. I hope we shall like one another immensely and have a great many good times together. But we’ve got to get acquainted first, of course, and perhaps we’d better give most of the time to that to-day. First, suppose we sing something. What shall it be? What do you sing?”
Little Susan Johnson, by virtue of having seen the teacher at Sunday-school, made bold to raise her hand and suggest, “Thar-thpangle Banner, pleath!” And so they tried it; but when Margaret found that only a few seemed to know the words, she said, “Wait!” Lifting her arm with a pretty, imperative gesture, and taking a piece of chalk from the box on her desk, she went to the new blackboard that stretched its shining black length around the room.
The school was breathlessly watching the graceful movement of the beautiful hand and arm over the smooth surface, leaving behind it the clear, perfect script. Such wonderful writing they had never seen; such perfect, easy curves and twirls. Every eye in the room was fastened on her, every breath was held as they watched and spelled out the words one by one. “Gee!” said Bud, softly, under his breath, nor knew that he had spoken, but no one else moved.
“Now,” she said, “let us sing,” and when they started off again Margaret’s strong, clear soprano leading, every voice in the room growled out the words and tried to get in step with the tune.
They had gone thus through two verses when Jed seemed to think it was about time to start something. Things were going altogether too smoothly for an untried teacher, if she was handsome and unabashed. If they went on like this the scholars would lose all respect for him. So, being quite able to sing a clear tenor, he nevertheless puckered his lips impertinently, drew his brows in an ominous frown, and began to whistle a somewhat erratic accompaniment to the song. He watched the teacher closely, expecting to see the color flame in her cheeks, the anger flash in her eyes; he had tried this trick on other teachers and it always worked. He gave the wink to Timothy, and he too left off his glorious bass and began to whistle.
But instead of the anger and annoyance they expected, Margaret turned appreciative eyes toward the two back seats, nodding her head a trifle and smiling with her eyes as she sang; and when the verse was done she held up her hand for silence and said:
“Why, boys, that’s beautiful! Let’s try that verse once more, and you two whistle the accompaniment a little stronger in the chorus; or how would it do if you just came in on the chorus? I believe that would be more effective. Let’s try the first verse that way; you boys sing during the verse and then whistle the chorus just as you d
id now. We really need your voices in the verse part, they are so strong and splendid. Let’s try it now.” And she started off again, the two big astonished fellows meekly doing as they were told, and really the effect was beautiful. What was their surprise when the whole song was finished to have her say, “Now everybody whistle the chorus softly,” and then pucker up her own soft lips to join in. That completely finished the whistling stunt. Jed realized that it would never work again, not while she was here, for she had turned the joke into beauty and made them all enjoy it. It hadn’t annoyed her in the least.
Somehow by that time they were all ready for anything she had to suggest, and they watched again breathlessly as she wrote another song on the blackboard, taking the other side of the room for it, and this time a hymn—“I Need Thee Every Hour.”
When they began to sing it, however, Margaret found the tune went slowly, uncertainly.
“Oh, how we need a piano!” she exclaimed. “I wonder if we can’t get up an entertainment and raise money to buy one. How many will help?”
Every hand in the place went up, Jed’s and Timothy’s last and only a little way, but she noted with triumph that they went up.
“All right; we’ll do it! Now let’s sing that verse correctly.” And she began to sing again, while they all joined anxiously in, really trying to do their best.
The instant the last verse died away, Margaret’s voice took their attention.
“Two years ago in Boston two young men, who belonged to a little group of Christian workers who were going around from place to place holding meetings, sat talking together in their room in the hotel one evening.”
There was instant quiet, a kind of a breathless quiet. This was not like the beginning of any lesson any other teacher had ever given them. Every eye was fixed on her.
