Slower the horses walked, and slower. The voices of the Boy and girl
were low when they spoke about the common things by the wayside. Once
their eyes met, and they smiled with something both sad and glad in
them.
Margaret was watching the young man by her side and wondering at
herself. He was different from any man whose life had come near to hers
before. He was wild and worldly, she could see that, and unrestrained by
many of the things that were vital principles with her, and yet she felt
strangely drawn to him and wonderfully at home in his company. She could
not understand herself nor him. It was as if his real soul had looked
out of his eyes and spoken, untrammeled by the circumstances of birth or
breeding or habit, and she knew him for a kindred spirit. And yet he was
far from being one in whom she would have expected even to find a
friend. Where was her confidence of yesterday? Why was it that she
dreaded to have this strong young protector leave her to meet alone a
world of strangers, whom yesterday at this time she would have gladly
welcomed?
Now, when his face grew thoughtful and sad, she saw the hard, bitter
lines that were beginning to be graven about his lips, and her heart
ached over what he had said about not making good. She wondered if there
was anything else she could say to help him, but no words came to her,
and the sad, set look about his lips warned her that perhaps she had
said enough. He was not one who needed a long dissertation to bring a
thought home to his consciousness.
Gravely they rode to the station to see about Margaret's trunks and make
inquiries for the school and the house where she had arranged to board.
Then Margaret sent a telegram to her mother to say that she had arrived
safely, and so, when all was done and there was no longer an excuse for
lingering, the Boy realized that he must leave her.
They stood alone for just a moment while the voluble landlady went to
attend to something that was boiling over on the stove. It was an ugly
little parlor that was to be her reception-room for the next year at
least, with red-and-green ingrain carpet of ancient pattern, hideous
chromos on the walls, and frantically common furniture setting up in its
shining varnish to be pretentious; but the girl had not seen it yet. She
was filled with a great homesickness that had not possessed her even
when she said good-by to her dear ones at home. She suddenly realized
that the people with whom she was to be thrown were of another world
from hers, and this one friend whom she had found in the desert was
leaving her.
She tried to shake hands formally and tell him how grateful she was to
him for rescuing her from the perils of the night, but somehow words
seemed so inadequate, and tears kept crowding their way into her throat
and eyes. Absurd it was, and he a stranger twenty hours before, and a
man of other ways than hers, besides. Yet he was her friend and rescuer.
She spoke her thanks as well as she could, and then looked up, a swift,
timid glance, and found his eyes upon her earnestly and troubled.
"Don't thank me," he said, huskily. "I guess it was the best thing I
ever did, finding you. I sha'n't forget, even if you never let me see
you again--and--I hope you will." His eyes searched hers wistfully.
"Of course," she said. "Why not?"
"I thank you," he said in quaint, courtly fashion, bending low over her
hand. "I shall try to be worthy of the honor."
And so saying, he left her and, mounting his horse, rode away into the
lengthening shadows of the afternoon.
She stood in the forlorn little room staring out of the window after her
late companion, a sense of utter desolation upon her. For the moment all
her brave hopes of the future had fled, and if she could have slipped
unobserved out of the front door, down to the station, and boarded some
waiting express to her home, she would gladly have done it then and
there.
Try as she would to summon her former reasons for coming to this wild,
she could not think of one of them, and her eyes were very near to
tears.
But Margaret Earle was not given to tears, and as she felt them smart
beneath her lids she turned in a panic to prevent them. She could not
afford to cry now. Mrs. Tanner would be returning, and she must not find
the "new schoolma'am" weeping.
With a glance she swept the meager, pretentious room, and then,
suddenly, became aware of other presences. In the doorway stood a man
and a dog, both regarding her intently with open surprise, not unmixed
with open appraisement and a marked degree of admiration.
The man was of medium height, slight, with a putty complexion; cold,
pale-blue eyes; pale, straw-colored hair, and a look of self-indulgence
around his rather weak mouth. He was dressed in a city business suit of
the latest cut, however, and looked as much out of place in that crude
little house as did Margaret Earle herself in her simple gown of
dark-blue crêpe and her undeniable air of style and good taste.
His eyes, as they regarded her, had in them a smile that the girl
instinctively resented. Was it a shade too possessive and complacently
sure for a stranger?
The dog, a large collie, had great, liquid, brown eyes, menacing or
loyal, as circumstances dictated, and regarded her with an air of brief
indecision. She felt she was being weighed in the balance by both pairs
of eyes. Of the two the girl preferred the dog.
Perhaps the dog understood, for he came a pace nearer and waved his
plumy tail tentatively. For the dog she felt a glow of friendliness at
once, but for the man she suddenly, and most unreasonably, of course,
conceived one of her violent and unexpected dislikes.
Into this tableau bustled Mrs. Tanner. "Well, now, I didn't go to leave
you by your lonesome all this time," she apologized, wiping her hands on
her apron, "but them beans boiled clean over, and I hed to put 'em in a
bigger kettle. You see, I put in more beans 'count o' you bein' here,
an' I ain't uset to calca'latin' on two extry." She looked happily from
the man to the girl and back again.
"Mr. West, I 'spose, o' course, you interjuced yerself? Bein' a
preacher, you don't hev to stan' on ceremony like the rest of mankind.
You 'ain't? Well, let me hev the pleasure of interjucin' our new
school-teacher, Miss Margaret Earle. I 'spect you two 'll be awful
chummy right at the start, both bein' from the East that way, an' both
hevin' ben to college."
Margaret Earle acknowledged the bow with a cool little inclination of
her head. She wondered why she didn't hate the garrulous woman who
rattled on in this happy, take-it-for-granted way; but there was
something so innocently pleased in her manner that she couldn't help
putting all her wrath on the smiling man who came forward instantly with
a low bow and a voice of fulsome flattery.
"Indeed, Miss Earle, I assure you I am happily surprised. I am sure Mrs.
Tanner's prophecy will come true and we shall be the best of friends.
When they told me the new teacher was to board here I really hesitated.
I have seen something of these Western teachers in my time, and scarcely
thought I should find you congenial; but I can see at a glance that you
are the exception to the rule."
He presented a soft, unmanly white hand, and there was nothing to do but
take it or seem rude to her hostess; but her manner was like icicles,
and she was thankful she had not yet removed her gloves.
If the reverend gentleman thought he was to enjoy a lingering hand-clasp
he was mistaken, for the gloved finger-tips merely touched his hand and
were withdrawn, and the girl turned to her hostess with a smile of
finality as if he were dismissed. He did not seem disposed to take the
hint and withdraw, however, until on a sudden the great dog came and
stood between them with open-mouthed welcome and joyous greeting in the
plumy, wagging tail. He pushed close to her and looked up into her face
insistently, his hanging pink tongue and wide, smiling countenance
proclaiming that he was satisfied with his investigation.
Margaret looked down at him, and then stooped and put her arms about his
neck. Something in his kindly dog expression made her feel suddenly as
if she had a real friend.
It seemed the man, however, did not like the situation. He kicked
gingerly at the dog's hind legs, and said in a harsh voice:
"Get out of the way, sir. You're annoying the lady. Get out, I say!"
The dog, however, uttered a low growl and merely showed the whites of
his menacing eyes at the man, turning his body slightly so that he stood
across the lady's way protectingly, as if to keep the man from her.
Margaret smiled at the dog and laid her hand on his head, as if to
signify her acceptance of the friendship he had offered her, and he
waved his plume once more and attended her from the room, neither of
them giving further attention to the man.
"Confound that dog!" said Rev. Frederick West, in a most unpreacher-like
tone, as he walked to the window and looked out. Then to himself he
mused: "A pretty girl. A _very pretty_ girl. I really think it'll be
worth my while to stay a month at least."
Up in her room the "very pretty girl" was unpacking her suit-case and
struggling with the tears. Not since she was a wee little girl and went
to school all alone for the first time had she felt so very forlorn, and
it was the little bare bedroom that had done it. At least that had been
the final straw that had made too great the burden of keeping down those
threatening tears.
It was only a bare, plain room with unfinished walls, rough woodwork, a
cheap wooden bed, a bureau with a warped looking-glass, and on the floor
was a braided rug of rags. A little wooden rocker, another small,
straight wooden chair, a hanging wall-pocket decorated with purple
roses, a hanging bookshelf composed of three thin boards strung together
with maroon picture cord, a violently colored picture-card of "Moses in
the Bulrushes" framed in straws and red worsted, and bright-blue paper
shades at the windows. That was the room!
How different from her room at home, simply and sweetly finished anew
for her home-coming from college! It rose before her homesick vision
now. Soft gray walls, rose-colored ceiling, blended by a wreath of
exquisite wild roses, whose pattern was repeated in the border of the
simple curtains and chair cushions, white-enamel furniture, pretty brass
bed soft as down in its luxurious mattress, spotless and inviting
always. She glanced at the humpy bed with its fringed gray spread and
lumpy-looking pillows in dismay. She had not thought of little
discomforts like that, yet how they loomed upon her weary vision now!
The tiny wooden stand with its thick, white crockery seemed ill
substitute for the dainty white bath-room at home. She had known she
would not have her home luxuries, of course, but she had not realized
until set down amid these barren surroundings what a difference they
would make.
Going to the window and looking out, she saw for the first time the one
luxury the little room possessed--a view! And such a view! Wide and
wonderful and far it stretched, in colors unmatched by painter's brush,
a purple mountain topped by rosy clouds in the distance. For the second
time in Arizona her soul was lifted suddenly out of itself and its
dismay by a vision of the things that God has made and the largeness of
it all.