Yet there was the letter in Mr. Peaseley’s hands from Barstow, introducing Mr. Charles Twing as the first assistant teacher in the Pine Clearing Free Academy!
The three men looked hopelessly at each other. An air of fatigued righteousness and a desire to be spiritually at rest from other trials pervaded Mr. Peaseley. Whether or not the young man felt the evident objection he had raised, he assumed a careless position, with his back and elbows against the bar; but even the attitude was clearly not his own.
“Are you personally known to Mr. Barstow?” asked Sperry, with a slight business asperity.
“Yes.”
“That is—you are quite well acquainted with him?”
“If you’d heard me gag his style a minute ago, so that everybody here knew who it was, you’d say so.”
Mr. Peaseley’s eyes sought the ceiling, and rested on the hanging lamp, as if nothing short of direct providential interference could meet the occasion. Yet, as the eyes of his brother trustees were bent on him expectantly, he nerved himself to say something.
“I suppose, Mr.—Mr. Twing, you have properly understood the great—I may say, very grave, intellectual, and moral responsibilities of the work you seek to undertake—and the necessity of supporting it by example, by practice, by personal influence both in the school and out of it. Sir, I presume, sir, you feel that you are fully competent to undertake this?”
“I reckon he does!”
“Who does?”
“Sam Barstow, or he wouldn’t have selected me. I presume” (with the slightest possible and almost instinctive imitation of the reverend gentleman’s manner) “his head is considered level.”
Mr. Peaseley withdrew his eyes from the ceiling. “I have,” he said to his companions, with a pained smile, “an important choir meeting to attend this afternoon. I fear I must be excused.” As he moved towards the door, the others formally following him, until out of the stranger’s hearing, he added: “I wash my hands of this. After so wanton and unseemly an exhibition of utter incompetency, and even of understanding of the trust imposed upon him—upon us—my conscience forbids me to interfere further. But the real arbiter in this matter will be—thank Heaven!—the mistress herself. You have only to confront her at once with this man. Her decision will be speedy and final. For even Mr. Barstow will not dare to force so outrageous a character upon a delicate, refined woman, in a familiar and confidential capacity.”
“That’s so,” said Sperry eagerly; “she’ll settle it. And, of course,” added the mill-owner, “that will leave us out of any difficulty with Sam.”
The two men returned to the hapless stranger, relieved, yet constrained by the sacrifice to which they felt they were leading him. It would be necessary, they said, to introduce him to his principal, Mrs. Martin, at once. They might still find her at the schoolhouse, distant but a few steps. They said little else, the stranger keeping up an ostentatious whistling, and becoming more and more incongruous, they thought, as they neared the pretty schoolhouse. Here they did find Mrs. Martin, who had, naturally, lingered after the interview with Sperry.
She came forward to meet them, with the nervous shyness and slightly fastidious hesitation that was her nature. They saw, or fancied they saw, the same surprise and disappointment they had themselves experienced pass over her sensitive face, as she looked at him; they felt that their vulgar charge appeared still more outrageous by contrast with this delicate woman and her pretty, refined surroundings; but they saw that he enjoyed it, and was even—if such a word could be applied to so self-conscious a man—more at ease in her presence!
“I reckon you and me will pull together very well, ma’am,” he said confidently.
They looked to see her turn her back upon him; faint, or burst out crying; but she did neither, and only gazed at him quietly.
“It’s a mighty pretty place you’ve got here—and I like it, and if we can’t run it, I don’t know who can. Only just let me know what you want, ma’am, and you can count on me every time.”
To their profound consternation Mrs. Martin smiled faintly.
“It rests with you only, Mrs. Martin,” said Sperry quickly and significantly. “It’s your say, you know; you’re the only one to be considered or consulted here.”
“Only just say what you want me to do,” continued Twing, apparently ignoring the trustees; “pick out the style of job; give me a hint or two how to work it, or what you’d think would be the proper gag to fetch ’em, and I’m there, ma’am. It may be new at first, but I’ll get at the business of it quick enough.”
Mrs. Martin smiled—this time quite perceptibly—with the least little color in her cheeks and eyes. “Then you’ve had no experience in teaching?” she said.
“Well no.”
“You are not a graduate of any college?”
“Not much.”
The two trustees looked at each other. Even Mr. Peaseley had not conceived such a damning revelation.
“Well,” said Mrs. Martin slowly, “perhaps Mr. Twing had better come early tomorrow morning and begin.”
“Begin?” gasped Mr. Sperry in breathless astonishment.
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Martin in timid explanation. “If he is new to the work the sooner the better.”
Mr. Sperry could only gaze blankly at his brother official. Had they heard aright? Was this the recklessness of nervous excitement in a woman of delicate health, or had the impostor cast some glamour upon her? Or was she frightened of Sam Barstow and afraid to reject his candidate? The last thought was an inspiration. He drew her quickly aside. “One moment, Mrs. Martin! You said to me an hour ago that you didn’t intend to have asked Mr. Barstow to send you an assistant. I hope that, merely because he has done so, you don’t feel obliged to accept this man against your better judgment?”
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Martin quietly.
The case seemed hopeless. And Sperry had the miserable conviction that by having insisted upon Mrs. Martin’s judgment being final they had estopped their own right to object. But how could they have foreseen her extraordinary taste? He, however, roused himself for a last appeal.
“Mrs. Martin,” he said in a lower voice, “I ought to tell you that the Reverend Mr. Peaseley strongly doubts the competency of that young man.”
“Didn’t Mr. Barstow make a selection at your request?” asked Mrs. Martin, with a faint little nervous cough.
“Yes—but”—
“Then his competency only concerns me—and I don’t see what Mr. Peaseley has to say about it.”
Could he believe his senses? There was a decided flush in the woman’s pale face, and the first note of independence and asperity in her voice.
That night, in the privacy of his conjugal chamber, Mr. Sperry relieved his mind to another of the enigmatical sex,—the stout Southwestern partner of his joys and troubles. But the result was equally unsatisfactory. “Well, Abner,” said the lady, “I never could see, for all your men’s praises of Mrs. Martin, what that feller can see in her to like!”