_In Which the Garden Begins to Bloom; and in Which Roger Dreams._
March, which brings to the North sharp winds and gray days, brings to
the sand-hill country its season of greatest beauty.
Straight up from the unpromising soil springs the green--the pines bud
and blossom, everywhere there is the delicate tracery of pale leafage,
there is the white of dogwood, the pink of peach trees and of apple
bloom, and again the white of cherry trees and of bridal bush. There
are amethystine vistas, and emerald vistas, and vistas of rose and
saffron--the cardinals burn with a red flame in the magnolias, the
mocking-birds sing in the moonlight.
It was through the awakened world that Roger drove one Sunday to preach
to his people.
He did not call it preaching. As yet his humility gave it no such
important name. He simply went into the sand-hills and talked to those
who were eager to hear. Beginning with the boy, he had found that
these thirsty souls drank at any spring. The boys listened breathless
to his tales of chivalry, the men to his tales of what other men had
achieved, the women were reached by stories of what their children
might be, and the children rose to his bait of fairy books and of
colored pictures.
Gradually he had gone beyond the tales of chivalry and the achievements
of men. Gradually he had brought them up and up. Other men had
preached to them, but their preaching had not been linked with lessons
of living. Others had cried, "Repent," but not one of them had laid
emphasis on the fact that repentance was evidenced by the life which
followed.
But Roger stood among them, his young face grave, his wonderful voice
persuasive, and told them what it meant to be--saved. Planting hope
first in their hearts, he led them toward the Christ-ideal. Manhood,
he said, at its best was godlike; one must have purity, energy,
education, growth.
And they, who listened, began to see that it was a spiritual as well as
practical thing to set their houses in order, to plant and to till and
to make the soil produce. They saw in the future a community which was
orderly and law-abiding, they saw their children brought out of the
bondage of ignorance and into the freedom of knowledge. And they saw
more than that--they saw the Vision, faintly at first, but with
ever-increasing clearness.
It was a wonderful task which Roger had set for himself, and he threw
himself into his work with flaming energy. He hired a buggy and a
little fat horse, and spent some of his nights _en route_ in the houses
of his friends along the way; other nights--and these were the ones he
liked best--he slept under the pines. With John Ballard's old Bible
under his arm, and his prayer-book in his pocket, he went forth each
week, and always he found a congregation ready and waiting.
Over the stretches of that barren country they came to hear him,
sailing in their schooner-wagons toward the harbor of the hope which he
brought to them.
When he had preached from his pulpit, he had talked to men and women of
culture and he had spent much of his time in polishing a phrase, or in
rounding out a sentence. But now he spent his time in search of the
clear words which would carry his--message.
For Mary had said that every man who preached must have a message.
Mary!
How far she had receded from him. When he thought of her now it was
with a sense of overwhelming loss. She had chosen to withdraw herself
from him. In every letter he had seen signs of it--and he could not
protest. No man in his position could say to a woman, "I will not let
you go." He had nothing to offer her but his life in the pines, a life
that could not mean much to such a woman.
But it meant much to himself. Gradually he had come to see that love
alone could never have brought to him what his work was bringing. He
had a sense of freedom such as one must have whose shackles have been
struck off. He began to know now what Mary had meant when she had
said, "I feel as if I were flying through the world on strong wings."
He, too, felt as if he were flying, and as it his wings were carrying
him up and up beyond any heights to which he had hitherto soared.
He slept that night in one of the rare groves of old pines. He made a
couch of the brown needles and threw a rug over them. The air was soft
and heavy with resinous perfume. As he lay there in the stillness, the
pines stretched above him like the arches of some great cathedral. His
text came to him, "Come thou south wind and blow upon my garden." It
was a simple people to whom he would talk on the morrow, but these
things they could understand--the winds of heaven, and the stars, and
the little foxes that could spoil the grapes.
When he woke there was a mocking-bird singing. He had gone to sleep
obsessed by his sermon, uplifted. He woke with a sense of
loneliness--a great longing for human help and understanding--a longing
to look once more into Mary Ballard's clear eyes and to draw strength
from the source which had once inspired him.
John Ballard's Bible lay on the rug beside him. He opened it, and the
leaves fell apart at a page where a rose had once been pressed. The
rose was dead now, and had been laid away carefully, lest it should be
lost. But the impress was still there, as the memory of Mary's frank
friendliness was still in his mind.
It was a long time before he closed the book. But at last he sighed
and rose from his couch. It was inevitable, this drifting apart. Fate
would hold for Mary some brilliant future. As for him, he must go on
with his work alone.
Yet he realized, even in that moment of renunciation, that it was a
wonderful thing that he could at last go on alone. A year ago he had
needed all of Mary's strength to spur him to the effort, all of her
belief in him. Now with his heart still crying out for her, needing
her, he could still go on alone!
He drew a long breath, and looked up through the singing tree-tops to
the bit of sky above. He stood there for a long time, silent, looking
up into the shining sky.
At ten o'clock when he entered the circle of young pines, his
congregation was ready for him, sitting on the rough seats which the
men had fashioned, their eager faces welcoming him, their eyes lighted.
The children whom he had taught led in the singing of the simple old
hymns, and Roger read a prayer.
Then he talked. He withheld nothing of the poetry of his subject; and
they rose to his eloquence. And when light began to fill a man's eyes
or tears to fill a woman's--Roger knew that the work of the soul was
well begun.
Afterward he went among them, becoming one of them in friendliness and
sympathy, but set apart and consecrated by the wisdom which made him
their leader.
Among a group of men he spoke of politics. "There's the new
President," he said; "it has been a great week in Washington. His
administration ought to mean great things for you people down here."
Thus he roused their interest; thus he led them to ask questions; thus
he drew them into eager controversy; thus he waked their minds into
activity; thus he roused their sluggish souls.
But he found his keenest delight in the children's gardens.
They were such lovely little gardens now--with violets blooming in
their borders, with daffodils and jonquils and hyacinths. Every bit of
bloom spoke to him of Mary. Not for one moment had she lost her
interest in the children's gardens, although she had ceased, it seemed,
to have interest in any other of his affairs.
Before he went, the children had to have their fairy tale. But
to-night he would not tell them Cinderella or Red Riding Hood. The day
seemed to demand something more than that, so he told them the story of
the ninety and nine, and of the sheep that was lost.
He made much of the story of the sheep, showing to these children, who
knew little of shepherds and little of mountains, a picture which held
them breathless. For far back, perhaps, the ancestors of these
sand-hill folk had herded sheep on the hills of Scotland.
Then he sang the song, and so well did he tell the story and so well
did he sing the song that they rejoiced with him over the sheep that
was found--for he had made it a little lamb--helpless and bleating, and
wanting very much its mother.
The song, borne on the wings of the wind, reached the ears of a man
with a worn face, who slouched in the shadow of the pines.
Later he spoke to Roger Poole. "I reckon I'm that lost sheep," he
said, soberly, "an' nobody ain't gone out to find me--yit."
"Find yourself," said Roger.
The man stared.
"Find yourself," Roger said; "look at those little gardens over there
that the children have made. Can you match them?"
"I reckon I've got somethin' else to do beside make gardens," drawled
the man.
"What have you got to do that's better?" Roger demanded.
The man hesitated and Roger pressed his point. "Flowers for the
children--crops for men--I'll wager you've a lot of land and don't know
what to do with it. Let's try to make things grow."
"Us? You mean you and me, parson?"
"Yes. And while we plant and sow, we'll talk about the state of your
soul." Roger reached out his hand to the lean and lank sinner.
And the lean and lank sinner took it, with something beginning to glow
in the back of his eyes.
"I reckon I ain't got on to your scheme of salvation," he remarked
shrewdly, "but somehow I have a feelin' that I ain't goin' to git
through those days of plantin' crops with you without your plantin'
somethin' in me that's bound to grow."
In such ways did Roger meet men, women and children, reaching out from
his loneliness to their need, giving much and receiving more.
It was on Tuesday morning that he came back finally to the house which
seemed empty because of Cousin Patty's absence. The little lady was
still in Washington, whence she had written hurried notes, promising
more when the rush was over.
At the gate he met the rural carrier, who gave him the letters. There
was one on top from Mary Ballard.
Roger tore it open and read it, as he walked toward the house. It
contained only a scribbled line--but it set his pulses bounding.
"DEAR ROGER POOLE:
"I want to be friends again. Such friends as we were in the Tower
Rooms. I know I don't deserve it--but--please.
"MARY BALLARD."
It seemed to him, as he finished it that all the world was singing, not
merely the mocking-birds in the magnolias, but the whole incomparable
chorus of the universe. It seemed an astounding thing that she should
have written thus to him. He had so adjusted himself to the fact of
repeated disappointment, repeated failure, that he found it hard to
believe that such happiness could be his. Yet she had written it; that
she wanted to be--his friend.
At first his thoughts did not fly beyond friendship. But as he sat
down on the porch steps to think it over he began, for the first time
since he had known her, to dream of a life in which she should be more
to him than friend.
And why not? Why shouldn't he dream? Mary was not like other women.
She looked above and beyond the little things. Might not a man offer
her that which was finer than gold, greater than material success?
Might not a man offer her a life which had to do with life and
love--might he not share with her this opportunity to make this garden
in the sand-hills bloom?
And now, while the mocking-birds sang madly, Roger Poole saw Mary--here
beside him on the porch on a morning like this, with the lilacs waving
perfumed plumes of mauve and white, with the birds flashing in blue and
scarlet and gold from pine to magnolia, and from magnolia back to
pine--with the sky unclouded, the air fresh and sweet.
He saw her as she might travel with him comfortably toward the
sand-hills, in a schooner-wagon made for her use, fitted with certain
luxuries of cushions and rugs. He saw her with him in deep still
groves, coming at last to that circle of young pines where he preached,
meeting his people, supplementing his labor with her loveliness. He
saw--oh, dream of dreams--he saw a little white church among the
sand-hills, a little church with a bell, such a bell as the boy had not
heard before Whittington rang them all for him. Later, perhaps, there
might be a rectory near the church, a rectory with a garden--and Mary
in the garden.
So, tired after his journey, he sat with unseeing eyes, needing rest,
needing food, yet feeling no fatigue as his soul leaped over time and
space toward the goal of happiness.
He was aroused by the appearance of Aunt Chloe, the cook.
"I'se jus' been lookin' fo' you, Mr. Roger," she said. "A telegraf
done come, yestiddy, and I ain't knowed what to do wid it."
She handed it to him, and watched him anxiously as he opened it.
It was from Cousin Patty.
"Mary has had sad news of Barry. We need you. Can you come?"