A few days later when Talitha entered the schoolroom, two large blackboards nailed securely to the rough walls met her astonished eyes. Si Quinn had never been able to evoke the interest which had so suddenly been aroused in the Goose Creek school.
The secret which the young teacher had so patiently guarded for weeks was at last revealed in the shape of maps and several much needed books. A bundle of papers and magazines from the Bentville school was a welcome addition to Talitha’s slender stock of material. A lump rose in Dan Gooch’s throat as he helped her unpack the box from the city publishing house and hang the maps where the best light from the window would fall upon them. No words were needed to tell him that a large part of the money, hoarded so carefully for Talitha’s expenses at Bentville, had been spent in their purchase, and three of his children would be benefited by them. Mentally he resolved that it should all be returned to her some day in good measure.
Si Quinn was not ignorant of his former pupil’s successes. As often as his health permitted he hobbled up the winding path and sat contentedly, like a happy child, listening to the young teacher explaining things of which he had never heard. At times he would shake his head in bewilderment, but he never disputed her word, even when his most cherished theory—that the earth was square—was disproved. His dulled brain failed to grasp the explanation, but the bigoted faith in his own meagre stock of knowledge died pitifully away.
Jake Simcox also was not unmindful of his rival’s success as a teacher. With increasing anger he heard her praises sounded. Already his friends had yielded to their children’s entreaties and sent them to school. Jake kept aloof from the place until one day, wandering idly across the foothills, he came suddenly in full view of the schoolhouse perched on the side of Red Mountain. Its worn, weather-beaten logs looked ancient enough against the autumn-tinted foliage. As he looked, the scowl on his face deepened. He hesitated a moment, then took the trail toward it. The place would be deserted for it was long past school time; there was not a house in sight, still he approached it cautiously with sly, furtive glances around.
Before he reached the building he could see that the weeds and blackberry bushes had been exterminated, and in their places were broad-leaved ferns planted close to the rough sides, and a healthy ivy that in another year would give both grace and beauty to the walls. Jake eyed these changes with a sneer. He tried the door; it was locked, an unheard-of thing which he also resented. After much effort he unfastened the shutter, threw it back, and sprang into the room.
The light of the setting sun streamed in broad shafts over the crest of the mountain straight into the schoolhouse and illumined it to the farthest corner. The autumn flowers and vines on the desk glowed crimson. The blackboards, maps, and pictures had transformed the place; it was bare no longer. A pail of water on a box, with a basin, towel, and soap, was another innovation.
Secretly, Jake Simcox felt himself dwindle and grow small before such superior knowledge, yet it only served to rouse him to greater indignation that a “gal” should be better qualified to teach than he. Striding to the desk he turned the leaves of the text-books Talitha cherished so carefully, with a rough hand, shaking his head over the bewildering pages. Naturally impetuous, his fiery temper once thoroughly aroused swept him away in unreasoning wrath. At last he dropped upon a bench, moodily taking note of every object around him until they seemed seared into his memory.
The sun sank behind the mountain’s crest and the long shadows deepened down the slopes. They crept silently in at the open window and filled the room with gloom, and still he huddled there frowning until only a faint, grey light struggled at the square opening. Then Jake moved slightly. Two forces were wrestling within him—one very feebly, now worn out with the unequal conflict. He sprang up, and, listening at every step, closed the shutter cautiously and struck a match. There was a basket of pine cones and crisp leaves behind the stove. He lifted the lid and thrust them in. Another match and the mass was ablaze. Recklessly the wood from a generous box full was thrown upon it, and then in the midst of this furnace of flame hastily, as though his conscience would smite him in the act, he caught the books from the desk and threw them upon the pile. The pictures from the walls followed, the maps—what he could tear off in great clinging shreds—were also added to the holocaust.
The stove was red hot by this time and roaring like a young volcano. The miscreant burned his fingers putting on the cover, and then it glowered at him like a red monster as he watched it. Already his rage was somewhat cooled; the provocation which had led to such a deed began to look miserably small. He looked around at the bared walls and wished he could put everything back as he found it.
But instead of dying down the fire seemed to wax hotter; there was a snapping and crackling in the short length of pipe. A strange smell suddenly pervaded the place which the frightened Jake knew was the mud and stick chimney. It was afire, and while he stared in consternation, he heard it crumble and fall.