The little party of escort arrived before school was closed on Friday
afternoon, and came down to the school-house in full force to take her
away with them. The young man Forsythe, with his sister, the hostess
herself, and a young army officer from the fort, comprised the party.
Margaret dismissed school ten minutes early and went back with them to
the Tanners' to make a hurried change in her dress and pick up her
suit-case, which was already packed. As they rode away from the
school-house Margaret looked back and saw Rosa Rogers posing in one of
her sprite dances in the school-yard, saw her kiss her hand laughingly
toward their party, and saw the flutter of a handkerchief in young
Forsythe's hand. It was all very general and elusive, a passing bit of
fun, but it left an uncomfortable impression on the teacher's mind. She
looked keenly at the young man as he rode up smiling beside her, and
once more experienced that strange, sudden change of feeling about him.
She took opportunity during that long ride to find out if the young man
had known Rosa Rogers before; but he frankly told her that he had just
come West to visit his sister, was bored to death because he didn't know
a soul in the whole State, and until he had seen her had not laid eyes
on one whom he cared to know. Yet while she could not help enjoying the
gay badinage, she carried a sense of uneasiness whenever she thought of
the young girl Rosa in her pretty fairy pose, with her fluttering pink
fingers and her saucy, smiling eyes. There was something untrustworthy,
too, in the handsome face of the man beside her.
There was just one shadow over this bit of a holiday. Margaret had a
little feeling that possibly some one from the camp might come down on
Saturday or Sunday, and she would miss him. Yet nothing had been said
about it, and she had no way of sending word that she would be away. She
had meant to send Mom Wallis a letter by the next messenger that came
that way. It was all written and lying on her bureau, but no one had
been down all the week. She was, therefore, greatly pleased when an
approaching rider in the distance proved to be Gardley, and with a
joyful little greeting she drew rein and hailed him, giving him a
message for Mom Wallis.
Only Gardley's eyes told what this meeting was to him. His demeanor was
grave and dignified. He acknowledged the introductions to the rest of
the party gracefully, touched his hat with the ease of one to the manner
born, and rode away, flashing her one gleam of a smile that told her he
was glad of the meeting; but throughout the brief interview there had
been an air of question and hostility between the two men, Forsythe and
Gardley. Forsythe surveyed Gardley rudely, almost insolently, as if his
position beside the lady gave him rights beyond the other, and he
resented the coming of the stranger. Gardley's gaze was cold, too, as he
met the look, and his eyes searched Forsythe's face keenly, as though
they would find out what manner of man was riding with his friend.
When he was gone Margaret had the feeling that he was somehow
disappointed, and once she turned in the saddle and looked wistfully
after him; but he was riding furiously into the distance, sitting his
horse as straight as an arrow and already far away upon the desert.
"Your friend is a reckless rider," said Forsythe, with a sneer in his
voice that Margaret did not like, as they watched the speck in the
distance clear a steep descent from the mesa at a bound and disappear
from sight in the mesquite beyond.
"Isn't he fine-looking? Where did you find him, Miss Earle?" asked Mrs.
Temple, eagerly. "I wish I'd asked him to join us. He left so suddenly I
didn't realize he was going."
Margaret felt a wondering and pleasant sense of possession and pride in
Gardley as she watched, but she quietly explained that the young
stranger was from the East, and that he was engaged in some kind of
cattle business at a distance from Ashland. Her manner was reserved, and
the matter dropped. She naturally felt a reluctance to tell how her
acquaintance with Gardley began. It seemed something between themselves.
She could fancy the gushing Mrs. Temple saying, "How romantic!" She was
that kind of a woman. It was evident that she was romantically inclined
herself, for she used her fine eyes with effect on the young officer who
rode with her, and Margaret found herself wondering what kind of a
husband she had and what her mother would think of a woman like this.
There was no denying that the luxury of the ranch was a happy relief
from the simplicity of life at the Tanners'. Iced drinks and cushions
and easy-chairs, feasting and music and laughter! There were books, too,
and magazines, and all the little things that go to make up a cultured
life; and yet they were not people of Margaret's world, and when
Saturday evening was over she sat alone in the room they had given her
and, facing herself in the glass, confessed to herself that she looked
back with more pleasure to the Sabbath spent with Mom Wallis than she
could look forward to a Sabbath here. The morning proved her forebodings
well founded.
Breakfast was a late, informal affair, filled with hilarious gaiety.
There was no mention of any church service, and Margaret found it was
quite too late to suggest such a thing when breakfast was over, even if
she had been sure there was any service.
After breakfast was over there were various forms of amusement proposed
for her pleasure, and she really felt very much embarrassed for a few
moments to know how to avoid what to her was pure Sabbath-breaking. Yet
she did not wish to be rude to these people who were really trying to be
kind to her. She managed at last to get them interested in music, and,
grouping them around the piano after a few preliminary performances by
herself at their earnest solicitation, coaxed them into singing hymns.
After all, they really seemed to enjoy it, though they had to get along
with one hymn-book for the whole company; but Margaret knew how to make
hymn-singing interesting, and her exquisite voice was never more at its
best than when she led off with "My Jesus, as Thou Wilt," or "Jesus,
Saviour, Pilot Me."
"You would be the delight of Mr. Brownleigh's heart," said the hostess,
gushingly, at last, after Margaret had finished singing "Abide With Me"
with wonderful feeling.
"And who is Mr. Brownleigh?" asked Margaret. "Why should I delight his
heart?"
"Why, he is our missionary--that is, the missionary for this region--and
you would delight his heart because you are so religious and sing so
well," said the superficial little woman. "Mr. Brownleigh is really a
very cultured man. Of course, he's narrow. All clergymen are narrow,
don't you think? They have to be to a certain extent. He's really
_quite_ narrow. Why, he believes in the Bible _literally_, the whale and
Jonah, and the Flood, and making bread out of stones, and all that sort
of thing, you know. Imagine it! But he does. He's sincere! Perfectly
sincere. I suppose he has to be. It's his business. But sometimes one
feels it a pity that he can't relax a little, just among us here, you
know. We'd never tell. Why, he won't even play a little game of poker!
And he doesn't smoke! _Imagine_ it--_not even when he's by himself_, and
_no one would know_! Isn't that odd? But he can preach. He's really very
interesting; only a little too Utopian in his ideas. He thinks everybody
ought to be good, you know, and all that sort of thing. He really
thinks it's possible, and he lives that way himself. He really does. But
he is a wonderful person; only I feel sorry for his wife sometimes.
She's quite a cultured person. Has been wealthy, you know. She was a New
York society girl. Just imagine it; out in these wilds taking gruel to
the dirty little Indians! How she ever came to do it! Of course she
adores him, but I can't really believe she is happy. No woman could be
quite blind enough to give up everything in the world for one man, no
matter how good he was. Do you think she could? It wasn't as if she
didn't have plenty of other chances. She gave them all up to come out
and marry him. She's a pretty good sport, too; she never lets you know
she isn't perfectly happy."
"She _is_ happy; mother, she's happier than _anybody_ I ever saw,"
declared the fourteen-year-old daughter of the house, who was home from
boarding-school for a brief visit during an epidemic of measles in the
school.
"Oh yes, she manages to make people think she's happy," said her mother,
indulgently; "but you can't make me believe she's satisfied to give up
her house on Fifth Avenue and live in a two-roomed log cabin in the
desert, with no society."
"Mother, you don't know! Why, _any_ woman would be satisfied if her
husband adored her the way Mr. Brownleigh does her."
"Well, Ada, you're a romantic girl, and Mr. Brownleigh is a handsome
man. You've got a few things to learn yet. Mark my words, I don't
believe you'll see Mrs. Brownleigh coming back next month with her
husband. This operation was all well enough to talk about, but I'll not
be surprised to hear that he has come back alone or else that he has
accepted a call to some big city church. And he's equal to the city
church, too; that's the wonder of it. He comes of a fine family himself,
I've heard. Oh, people can't keep up the pose of saints forever, even
though they do adore each other. But Mr. Brownleigh _certainly is_ a
good man!"
The vapid little woman sat looking reflectively out of the window for a
whole minute after this deliverance. Yes, certainly Mr. Brownleigh was a
good man. He was the one man of culture, education, refinement, who had
come her way in many a year who had patiently and persistently and
gloriously refused her advances at a mild flirtation, and refused to
understand them, yet remained her friend and reverenced hero. He was a
good man, and she knew it, for she was a very pretty woman and
understood her art well.
Before the day was over Margaret had reason to feel that a Sabbath in
Arizona was a very hard thing to find. The singing could not last all
day, and her friends seemed to find more amusements on Sunday that did
not come into Margaret's code of Sabbath-keeping than one knew how to
say no to. Neither could they understand her feeling, and she found it
hard not to be rude in gently declining one plan after another.
She drew the children into a wide, cozy corner after dinner and began a
Bible story in the guise of a fairy-tale, while the hostess slipped away
to take a nap. However, several other guests lingered about, and Mr.
Temple strayed in. They sat with newspapers before their faces and got
into the story, too, seeming to be deeply interested, so that, after
all, Margaret did not have an unprofitable Sabbath.
But altogether, though she had a gay and somewhat frivolous time, a good
deal of admiration and many invitations to return as often as possible,
Margaret was not sorry when she said good night to know that she was to
return in the early morning to her work.
Mr. Temple himself was going part way with them, accompanied by his
niece, Forsythe, and the young officer who came over with them. Margaret
rode beside Mr. Temple until his way parted from theirs, and had a
delightful talk about Arizona. He was a kindly old fellow who adored his
frivolous little wife and let her go her own gait, seeming not to mind
how much she flirted.
The morning was pink and silver, gold and azure, a wonderful specimen of
an Arizona sunrise for Margaret's benefit, and a glorious beginning for
her day's work in spite of the extremely early hour. The company was gay
and blithe, and the Eastern girl felt as if she were passing through a
wonderful experience.
They loitered a little on the way to show Margaret the wonders of a
fern-plumed cañon, and it was almost school-time when they came up the
street, so that Margaret rode straight to the school-house instead of
stopping at Tanners'. On the way to the school they passed a group of
girls, of whom Rosa Rogers was the center. A certain something in Rosa's
narrowed eyelids as she said good morning caused Margaret to look back
uneasily, and she distinctly saw the girl give a signal to young
Forsythe, who, for answer, only tipped his hat and gave her a peculiar
smile.
In a moment more they had said good-by, and Margaret was left at the
school-house door with a cluster of eager children about her, and
several shy boys in the background, ready to welcome her back as if she
had been gone a month.
In the flutter of opening school Margaret failed to notice that Rosa
Rogers did not appear. It was not until the roll was called that she
noticed her absence, and she looked uneasily toward the door many times
during the morning, but Rosa did not come until after recess, when she
stole smilingly in, as if it were quite the thing to come to school
late. When questioned about her tardiness she said she had torn her
dress and had to go home and change it. Margaret knew by the look in her
eyes that the girl was not telling the truth, but what was she to do? It
troubled her all the morning and went with her to a sleepless pillow
that night. She was beginning to see that life as a school-teacher in
the far West was not all she had imagined it to be. Her father had been
right. There would likely be more thorns than roses on her way.