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.