Miss Bishop, page 22
Conversation broke on all sides with a humming noise of pleasure. All of the people closest were leaning toward her speaking to her. But she seemed without emotion, as though the years had wrung her out, hard and dry, like an old dishcloth. She spoke and smiled mechanically and made futile stabs at her fruit cocktail. What had she said once about a fruit cocktail—something sarcastic? It must have been years ago.
In that same numb and callous way, she finished the courses with the others, not quite understanding, never quite comprehending the thing that was happening.
The dining over, the toasts began. They were all for Miss Bishop “who has given a lifetime of service to the upbuilding of this school,” or “who perhaps more than any other faculty member of the half century has had a deep and lasting influence upon all students.”
Presently she seemed to come out of her stupor. In a great sweep of understanding, this thing that was happening suddenly did seem true. She was being honored. This was for her. All her old students appeared to have returned. Never had there been such a huge reunion,—not in the whole history of the college. They had come back to honor Old Central—and her.
They toasted her, told jokes on her, teased her, praised her. A United States senator admitted that if it hadn’t been for Miss Bishop he might still be saying “have saw.” A prominent minister said that next to his parents, Miss Bishop had influenced his life more than any other human. A millionaire merchant, who had arrived in his own plane, told the audience that when mothers were lauded, not to forget one of the very best of them all, Miss Bishop, mother of students. A mechanical engineer said he had done a little figuring and found that if Miss Bishop’s influence for good upon her hundreds of students could be computed and turned into—
There were cries of “Technocracy” and good-natured banter.
It was the new president who said that in the brief time he had been here he had come to realize that Miss Bishop was one of the chief representatives of the real spirit of the school, courageous, progressive, high-minded, human.
The last of the speakers was the chairman of the board who said it had been one of the happiest tasks of his life to journey two hundred miles in order to present his old instructor, Miss Bishop, with the highest degree that had ever been given by the college,—a D.M.H.S.,—Doctor of Mind, Heart and Soul.
Through it all Ella Bishop sat quietly, poised, head up, facing the great throng whose eyes were all upon her. And the wine of new life flowed through her veins.
Sitting there while the speeches went on, sweeping around her, like waves about some little island of her own, her mind was a swiftly changing kaleidoscope of thoughts. They darted hither and yon, those thoughts, like white-hot bits of steel flying from the anvil of her mind, struck by the hand of God. She seemed endowed suddenly with some great power hitherto unknown to her, a prophetic vision to see life as a whole. Little pieces of her life swept together, small incidents tumbled into shape, so that a completed pattern visioned itself before her in one compact unit. The whole mosaic of her life spread out in front of her. For a few moments it hung before her mind as a tapestry might have been displayed before her mortal eyes.
Once in her youth she had started to weave a tapestry at the loom of life with a spindle of hope and dreams,—and the center of the fabric was to have been a little house in a garden and red firelight and the man she loved and children. But the threads had been broken and the spindle lost, and she had woven another. And now for these brief minutes everything was understandable. Every decision she had made was thread of the loom, every incident in her life was a silver or scarlet or jet-black cord woven into the warp and woof of the fabric. And surprisingly the black threads were necessary to throw into relief the figures of the weaving.
For a few moments she had a complete vision of things as they are. An occult power was her own for that brief time. Some unknown force seemed saying: “Here is the work of your life. Take one swift look. It is not given to many to see the completed whole. This is what you have woven from the threads God gave you.”
Ella Bishop dropped the lids over her eyes for a moment in abject humility before the loveliness of the scarlet and blue and gold of the weaving.
Never before had such understanding been given her; vaguely she sensed that never would it be again. All rancor concerning the forced resignation was swept away in a flood of understanding. She was closing her work before her faculties dimmed, singing her swan song on a high clear note. To-morrow she would be an old woman. To-night she was ageless. Yesterday she had merely mumbled the words that life was eternal. To-night she knew it. She feared nothing now . . . poverty or old age or death. None of them existed. There was no end to the soul of her . . . to the real Ella Bishop . . . here or anywhere . . . not while all these people lived . . . or their children . . . or their children’s children. The remembrance of her in men’s hearts would not be for anything she possessed,—but for what she had done.
Something was tapping at her memory,—some long forgotten dream of her youth. Suddenly she remembered,—that early dedication of her life. Why, she must have . . . almost without realization . . . by doing her simple duty from day to day . . . she must have given some of the living flame that glows more brightly as the ages pass.
She had nothing to fear,—here or beyond. Out where Professor Fonda lay sleeping the stone said:
We have loved the stars too deeply
To be fearful of the night.
The stars had been Albert Fonda’s deepest love. Her own love was the students to whom she had given her life. This, then, could be her own confidence and faith at the end of the journey:
We have loved humanity too deeply
To be fearful of the dead.
The last speech was over. The great assembly was calling for her. She must say something. This was her last opportunity. She must stand and tell them what she had just discerned,—that every thread of life’s weaving must be strong, every fiber firm. True to the dedication of her life she must tell them of this knowledge she had just acquired.
Old Miss Bishop rose. The applause was deafening. Before she passed from their lives she must teach them one thing more . . . these men and women she loved. But how could she approach it? What could she say? She looked over the vast sea of faces. No, it was too late. You cannot teach a great truth like that in the space of a few moments. You may only accomplish it, little by little, day by day, over a long period of time. If she had not done so by example and precept in a half-century’s teaching, she could not do so now. And perhaps she had. God knew.
She stretched out her arms to them all, with superhuman effort stilled the trembling of her lips. “The book is closed,” said old Miss Bishop. “Hail and farewell.”
And the affair was over.
They crowded around her, congratulating her, pressing her hand, giving her merry messages. When they left, group by group, she had a dozen dinner dates and out-of-town week-end invitations. Not that old indefinite “Come to see me, sometime, Miss Bishop,” but “to-morrow night at seven” and “next Friday on our silver wedding anniversary.”
Every group which left put the same question: “Are you ready to go now? We’ll walk over to your car with you.” And as many times she answered: “Thank you. I’m not quite ready.”
Even when Ronald and Gretchen and the rest of the party came for her it was the same. It was Gretchen who intuitively sensed it. “Come on,” she whispered to them all. “I believe she wants to be the last one.”
Just inside the hallway with its cracks in the scarred walls, old Ella Bishop stood, erect and smiling, and bade the great throng of students good-night. Like a mother she watched the last child break the tie which bound it to home.
For a few moments then she stood alone watching the shadowy figures move across the campus under the giant trees,—north—south—east—west—down the four roads of the world.
Then she walked firmly over the worn threshold and closed the doors that had swung to a thousand youthful hands.
The bell tapped and the pigeons with a great rush of beating wings flew out of the tower.
Old Chris turned out the lights.
THE END
Bess Streeter Aldrich, Miss Bishop
