A Distant Music
Page 24
He inclined his head to one side a little, regarding her closely.
It gave Maggie an inordinate amount of pleasure to watch his expression gradually change from curiosity to recognition, and then to what was obviously delight. “Maggie? Why, it is, isn’t it? Maggie MacAuley!”
He came quickly around the desk to greet her, clasping her hand between both of his—which were warm and strong, stronger than she might have expected. All at once, she was laughing. It was just so good, so incredibly good, to see him again, to hear him call her “Maggie” again. Over the years she had become “Meg” to her friends. But she had never quite left “Maggie” behind.
“I’m so glad to see you, Mr. Stuart!” she said.
“Well…Maggie.” He studied her, openly shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Goodness, you make me feel old!”
Only then did he release her hand.
Again, Maggie laughed. “And you make me feel very young again. But how did you recognize me so quickly?”
His glance flicked to her still untamed red hair. Maggie rolled her eyes and nodded.
He motioned for her to take the chair near his desk. “I want to hear everything about you,” he said, waiting for her to sit down before returning to his own chair across from her. “I see your parents often, you know.”
She feigned a stern frown. “But you haven’t written to me for ages.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I really am. I wasn’t sure—”
He seemed to change his mind about whatever he’d meant to say. “I have kept up with you, though, through your family. And Ray’s one of my students, of course.”
“Then you know I’m a teacher.”
He positively beamed. “And I’m quite sure a very good one.”
Maggie smiled at him. “As a matter of fact, I am. But only because I had such a fine example to follow.” She paused. “Not to mention the scholarships you made possible for me.”
He shook his head. “The scholarships were entirely your doing, Maggie. You were bright and you worked hard. All I did was submit your name and your records.”
“You wrote letters—and you made two trips to Cincinnati on my behalf,” she said quietly. “I know all about it, Mr. Stuart.”
They talked for a long time, but as always, he spoke little about himself, instead plying her with one question after another about her life, the entire time leaning forward with evident interest in her answers.
At one point Maggie found herself wondering—and not for the first time—why Jonathan Stuart had never married. According to her mother, there had never been anyone in his life, at least not since he’d come to live in Skingle Creek.
The common assumption seemed to be that his singlehood was due to his poor health, but Maggie wasn’t so sure. The man across the desk from her looked anything but unhealthy these days.
She thought it more likely that he had simply given his life to the school, to the children. His children, he’d always called them. And in a very special way, they were his children.
“Mother wrote me that you’re the principal now,” Maggie said. “That’s wonderful, but I confess it’s difficult for me to think of you not teaching.”
“Oh, I still teach,” he assured her. “We can’t afford a full-time principal. To tell you the truth, I don’t really like the job all that much. I prefer the classroom. But they couldn’t seem to find anyone else for the position, and I was here, so—”
He shrugged, smiling. “But I want to know more about you, Maggie. You’re still living in Chicago?”
Maggie nodded.
“And you work with one of the immigrant societies, your father told me. In addition to your teaching?”
“Actually, it’s a part of it. I work at a settlement house,” Maggie explained. “Hull House, it’s called. I trained under Miss Jane Addams, the founder. Mostly, I teach immigrant children. And I teach classes on citizenship for their parents as well.”
He regarded her with a look of approval. “I always knew you would do something special with your life. And I wasn’t in the least surprised when I learned you were working with children. You were always so good with the younger students in the classroom.”
He hesitated, and then he said, “I often think of Summer. I imagine you do too.”
Again Maggie nodded. She had a secret she’d intended to keep but suddenly couldn’t. She wanted him to know. “I…wrote a story about Summer last year. It’s to be published as a children’s book in a few months.”
“Maggie, that’s wonderful! I hope you’ll send me one of the first copies off the press.”
She promised him that she would. What she didn’t mention, however, was that the book carried a dedication to him. Or that it was titled The Penny Whistle. She thought she would keep that much to herself for the time being.
She decided then to ask him the question she had wanted to ask for years. “Mr. Stuart? I’ve often wondered…did you ever find your silver flute?”
He smiled a little and then shook his head. “No,” he said quietly, looking away. “I never did.”
Maggie murmured a sound of sympathy.
When he turned back to her, his expression was anything but regretful. “It doesn’t matter. In fact, I think it’s best that I never learned what happened to the flute.”
“But why?”
He pointed then to something behind her, and she turned to look. Only now did she notice the small, glass-enclosed cabinet mounted on the wall. There, behind the glass door, resting on the small green pillow and draped with the scarlet ribbon, was the penny whistle she and Summer had given him so many years ago.
Tears scalded Maggie’s eyes as the memory of that winter night came to her again. She could almost see the schoolroom aglow with the light from the lanterns and the faces of the children and their families as they stared in wonder, watching a miracle. After all these years of holding it in her heart, that night still seemed like a dream that couldn’t possibly have happened.
But it had happened, and her life had never been the same.
Neither had Jonathan Stuart’s. She dragged her gaze away from the penny whistle and turned to face him. The very fact that he was still here in Skingle Creek, teaching “his children,” was evidence enough that that night had changed his life too.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he rose and walked over to the window, where he stood, hands clasped behind him, looking out. “That night, the penny whistle changed my life.” After a moment, he added, “I think perhaps it may have saved my life.”
He turned back, offering a reply to Maggie’s unspoken question. “I still play it, you know. I play it for the children, for each new class at the beginning of term—and on special occasions during the year. And when I play, I tell them a story. A story about two very special young friends who gave their teacher a precious gift from God.”
Maggie swallowed hard against the knot in her throat. “Mr. Stuart, what really happened that night, with the penny whistle? I’ve never understood.”
He removed his glasses and stood studying her for a moment. “I don’t suppose I understand what happened either, Maggie. But I choose to believe that what happened was hope.”
The look she gave him must have been questioning because he went on to explain. “That was your gift to me, Maggie—yours and Summer’s. In your innocence, your unselfish desire to help me, you actually enabled me to find my hope again.”
He stopped, and when he finally went on, Maggie had the sense that he was speaking more to himself than to her. “It’s strange, but I can still remember that in my early years here the need I sensed most in the children was the need for hope. I resolved that somehow I would give them that hope. Yet, as it turned out, it was the children…two in particular…who ultimately restored the gift of hope to me.”
He passed a hand over his eyes and then replaced his glasses. “That winter was a terrible time for me—for many of us. I was all but dead, at least in my spi
rit. For the most part, I was simply waiting…to die. At first I attributed the deadness of my spirit to illness. Later, I somehow deluded myself that it was a result of having the flute stolen.”
He looked at her. “Music had always been such a…necessary thing to me. It was almost as if the absence of music—or perhaps my inability to make music—was responsible for my decline.”
He shook his head, his smile faint and rueful. “I was so terribly, terribly wrong. It was the absence of hope that had stolen my music, not the loss of the flute. I was living a hopeless life, because I hadn’t…taken God into account. I had simply given up.”
His expression was thoughtful as he went on. “But God apparently hadn’t given up on me. He had another plan. Through you and Summer and the other children—and the penny whistle—He reminded me of something I already knew but had temporarily lost sight of. He reminded me that hope is the real music of the soul. Without it, the human spirit cannot soar, cannot rise above the things of this earth and…sing.”
As Maggie watched, his gaze again traveled to the penny whistle in the cabinet on the wall. “I can’t begin to explain why or how it all happened. But I’m convinced that none of it was altogether for me, but that it was somehow meant for the entire town.”
He looked at Maggie. “There were changes after that,” he said, his voice low. “Subtle, gradual, most of them—but changes all the same. In the town, in the people—and in me.”
Again he shook his head. “All I really know for certain is that on that night, God showed me that hope is, above all else, a gift—His gift. A gift that in reality has nothing at all to do with one’s circumstances, but everything to do with His love. His love…and our willingness to trust that love. That’s what hope is: the music of the heart. The music of life.”
The long, searching look he now turned on Maggie held a depth of fondness and affirmation that warmed her heart. “Do you know, Maggie,” Jonathan Stuart said quietly, “it would seem to me that in your life, He may well be composing an entire symphony. A symphony of hope.”
What God Says About Hope
“Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him” ( Job 13:15).
“The eyes of the LORD are on those who fear him, on those whose hope is in his unfailing love” (Psalm 33:18).
“Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God” (Psalm 42:5).
“Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him” (Psalm 62:5).
“For you have been my hope, O Sovereign LORD, my confidence since my youth” (Psalm 71:5).
“There is surely a future hope for you, and your hope will not be cut off” (Proverbs 23:18).
“Those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint” (Isaiah 40:31).
“Those who hope in me will not be disappointed” (Isaiah 49:23).
“‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’” (Jeremiah 29:11).
“Hope does not disappoint us” (Romans 5:5).
“Command those who are rich in this present world not to be arrogant nor to put their hope in wealth, which is so uncertain, but to put their hope in God” (1 Timothy 6:17).
About the Author
Widely recognized for her award-winning historical fiction, BJ Hoff is the author of the American Anthem trilogy and the Emerald Ballad series. Her bestselling historical novels have crossed the boundaries of religion, language, and culture to capture a worldwide reading audience. Although she writes of early America and the people who helped to build the country, her stories of faith and love and grace are timeless.
The author of twenty novels and a number of inspirational gift books, when asked about her own story, BJ points to her family: “They’re my story. My favorite, most important story.”
A former church music director and music teacher, BJ and her husband, James, make their home in Ohio, where they share a love of music, books, and time spent with family.
If you would like to contact the author, you may write to BJ care of:
Harvest House Publishers
990 Owen Loop North
Eugene, OR 94702
Or visit www.bjhoff.com
Harvest House Publishers
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