A PREACHER'S LOVE STORY
I
The train drew out of the great Van Buren Street depot at 4.30 of a darkday in late October. A tall young man, with a timid look in his eyes,was almost the last passenger to get on, and his pale face wore aworried look as he dropped into an empty seat and peered out at thesqualid city reeling past in the mist.
The buildings grew smaller, and vacant lots appeared stretching away inflat spaces, broken here and there by ridges of ugly, squat, littletenement blocks. Over this landscape vast banners of smoke streamed,magnified by the misty rain which was driven in from the lake.
At last there came a swell of land clothed on with trees. It was stilllight enough for him to see that they were burr oaks, and the youngstudent's heart thrilled at sight of them. His forehead smoothed out,and his eyes grew tender with boyish memories.
He was seated thus, with head leaning against the pane, when anotheryoung man came down the aisle from the smoking-car and took a seatbeside him with a pleasant word.
He was a handsome young fellow of twenty three or four. His face waslarge and beardless, and he had a bold and keen look, in spite of thebang of yellow hair which hung over his forehead. Some commonplacespassed between them, and then silence fell on each. The conductor comingthrough the car, the smooth-faced young fellow put up a card to bepunched, and the student handed up a ticket, simply saying, "Kesota."
After a decent pause the younger man said, "Going to Kesota, are you?"
"Yes."
"So am I. I live there, in fact."
"Do you? Then perhaps you can tell me the name of your CountySuperintendent. I'm looking for a school." He smiled frankly. "I'm justout of Jackson University, and--"
"That so? I'm an Ann Arbor man myself." They took a moment for mutualwarming up. "Yes, I know the Superintendent. Why not come right up to myboarding-place, and to-morrow I'll introduce you? Looking for a school,eh? What kind of a school?"
"Oh, a village school, or even a country school. It's too late to get agood place; but I've been sick, and--"
"Yes, the good positions are all snapped up; still, you might byaccident hit on something. I know Mott; he'll do all he can for you.By-the-way, my name's Allen."
The young student understood this hint and spoke. "Mine is Stacey."
The younger man mused a few minutes, as if he had forgotten his newacquaintance. Suddenly he roused up.
"Say, would you take a country school several miles out?"
"I think I would, if nothing better offered."
"Well, in my old district they're without a teacher. It's six miles out,and it isn't a lovely neighborhood! However, they will pay fifty dollarsa month; that's ten dollars extra for the scrimmages. They wanted me toteach this winter--my sister tackles it in summer--but, great Peter! Ican't waste my time teaching school, when I can run up to Chicago andtake a shy at the pit and make a whole term's wages in thirty minutes!"
"I don't understand," said Stacey.
"Wheat Exchange. I've got a lot of friends in the pit, and I can come inany time on a little deal. I'm no Jim Keene, but I hope to get cashenough to handle five thousand. I wanted the old gent to start me up init, but he said, 'Nix come arouse.' Fact is, I dropped the money he gaveme to go through college with." He smiled at Stacey's disapproving look."Yes, indeedy; there's where the jar came into our tender relations. Oh,I call on the Governor--always when I've got a wad. I have fun withhim." He smiled brightly. "Ask him if he don't need a little cash to payfor hog-killin', or something like that." He laughed again. "No, Ididn't graduate at Ann Arbor. Funny how things go, ain't it? I was on myway back the third year, when I stopped in to see the pit--it's one o'the sights of Chicago, you know--and Billy Krans saw me looking over therail, I went in, won, and then took a flyer on December. Come a bigslump, and I failed to materialize at school."
"What did you do then?" asked Stacey, to whom this did not seemhumorous.
"I wrote a contrite letter to the Governor, stating case, requestingforgiveness--and money. No go! Couldn't raise neither. I then wrote,casting him off. 'You are no longer father of mine.'" He smiled againradiantly. "You should have seen me the next time I went home! Plug hat!Imported suit! Gold watch! Diamond shirt-stud! Cost me $200 to paralyzethe General, but I did it. My glory absolutely turned him white as asheet. I knew what he thought, so I said: 'Perfectly legitimate, Dad.The walls of Joliet are not gaping for me.' That about half-fetchedhim--calling him _Dad_, I mean; but he can't get reconciled to mybusiness. 'Too many ups and downs,' he says. Fact is, he thinks it'sgambling, and I don't argue the case with him. I'm on my way home now tostay over Sunday."
The train whistled, and Allen looked out into the darkness. "We'recoming to the crossing. Now, I can't go up to the boarding-place whenyou do, but I'll give you directions, and you tell the landlady I sentyou, and it'll be all right. Allen, you remember--Herman Allen."
Following directions, Stacey came at length to a two-story frame housesituated on the edge of the bank, with its back to the river. It stoodalone, with vacant lots all about. A pleasant-faced woman answered thering.
He explained briefly. "How do you do? I'm a teacher, and I'd like to getboard here a few days while passing my examinations. Mr. Herman Allensent me."
The woman's quick eye and ear were satisfied. "All right. Walk in, sir.I'm pretty full, but I expect I can accommodate you--if you don't mindMr. Allen for a room-mate."
"Oh, not at all," he said, while taking off his coat.
"Come right in this way. Supper will be ready soon."
He went into a comfortable sitting-room, where a huge open fire of softcoal was blazing magnificently. The walls were papered in floridpatterns, and several enlarged portraits were on the walls. The fire wasthe only adornment; all else was cheap, and some of it was tawdry.
Stacey spread his thin hands to the blaze, while the landlady sat down amoment, out of politeness, to chat, scanning him keenly. She was ahandsome woman, strong, well-rounded, about forty years of age, withquick, gray eyes, and a clean, firm-lipped mouth.
"Did you just get in?"
"Yes. I've been on the road all day," he said, on an impulse ofcommunication. "Indeed, I'm just out of college."
"Is that so!" exclaimed Mrs. Mills, stopping her rocking in an access ofinterest. "What college?"
"Jackson University. I've been sick, and only came West--"
There came a look into her face that transformed and transfigured her."_My_ boy was in Ann Arbor. He was killed on the train on his way homeone day." She stopped, for fear of breaking into a quaver, and smiledbrightly. "That's why I always like college boys. They all stop herewith me." She rose hastily. "Well, you'll excuse me, won't you, and I'llgo an' 'tend to supper."
There was a great deal that was feminine in Stacey, and he felt at oncethe pathos of the woman's life. He looked a refined, studious, ratherdelicate young man, as he sat low in his chair and observed the lightand heat of the fire. His large head was heavy with learning, and hisdark eyes deep with religious fervor.
Several young women entered, and the room was filled with the clatter oftongues. Herman came in a few moments later, his face in a girlish glowof color. Everybody rushed at him with loud outcry. He was evidently agreat favorite. He threw his arms about Mrs. Mills, giving her a heartyhug. The girls pretended to be shocked when he reached out for them, butthey were not afraid of him. They hung on his arms and besieged him withquestions till he cried out, in jolly perplexity:
"Girls, girls! This will never do!"
Mrs. Mills brushed out his damp yellow curls with her hands. "You're allwet."
"Girls, if you'll let me sit down, I'll take one on each knee," he said,pleadingly, and they released him.
Stacey grew red with sympathetic embarrassment, and shrank away into acorner.
"Go get supper ready," commanded Herman. And it was only after they hadleft him that he said to Stacey: "Oh, you found your way all right." Hetook a seat by the fire and surveyed his wet shoes. "I took a r
un up toMott's house--only a half block out o' the way. He said they'd betickled to have you at Cyene. By-the-way, you're a theolog, aren't you?"Wallace nodded, and Herman went on: "So I told Mott. He said you mightwork up a society out there at Cyene."
"Is there a church there?"
"Used to be, but--say, I tell you what you do: you go out with meto-morrow, and I'll give you a history of the township."
The ringing of the bell took them all out into the cheerful dining-roomin a good-natured scramble. Mrs. Mills put Stacey at one end of thetable, near a young woman who looked like a teacher, and he had fullsweep of the table, which was surrounded by bright and happy faces. Thestation-hand was there, and a couple of grocery clerks, and a brakemansat at Stacey's right hand. They all seemed very much at home, andcalled one another by their Christian names, and there was very obviouscourtship on the part of several young couples.
Stacey escaped from the table as soon as possible, and returned to hisseat beside the fire. He was young enough to enjoy the chatter of thegirls, but his timidity made him glad they paid so little attention tohim. The rain had changed to sleet outside and hammered at the windowviciously, but the blazing fire and the romping young people set it atdefiance. The landlady came to the door of the dining-room, dish andcloth in hand, to share in each outburst of laughter, and notinfrequently the hired girl peered over her shoulder with a broad smileon her face. A little later, having finished their work, they both camein and took active part in the light-hearted fun.
Herman and one of the girls were having a great struggle over sometrifle he had snatched from her hand, and the rest stood about laughingto see her desperate attempts to recover it. This was a familiar form ofcourtship in Kesota, and an evening filled with such romping wasconsidered a "cracking good time." After the girl, red and dishevelled,had given up, Herman sat down at the organ, and they all sang Moody andSankey hymns, negro melodies, and college songs till ten o'clock. ThenMrs. Mills called, "Come, now, boys and girls!" and they all saidgood-night, like obedient children.
Herman and Wallace went up to their bedroom together.
"Say, Stacey, have you got a policy?" Wallace shook his head. "And don'twant any, I suppose. Well, I just asked you as a matter of form. Yousee," he went on, winking at Wallace comically, "nominally I'm aninsurance agent, but practically I'm a 'lamb'--but I get a mouthful o'fur myself occasionally. What I'm working for is to get on that WheatExchange. That's where you get life! I'd rather be an established brokerin that howling mob than go to Congress."
He rose on his elbow in bed and looked at Wallace, who was rising from asilent prayer.
"Say, why didn't you shout? I forgot all about it--I mean yourprofession."
Wallace crept into bed beside his communicative bedfellow in silence.He didn't know how to deal with such spirits.
"Say," called Herman suddenly, as Wallace was about dropping off tosleep, "you ain't got no picnic, old man!"
"Why, what do you mean?"
"Wait till you see Cyene Church. Oh, it's a daisy snarl!"
"I wish you'd tell me about it."
"Oh, it's quiet now. The calmness of death," said Herman. "Well, yousee, it came this way. The church is made up of Baptists and Methodists,and the Methodists wanted an organ, because, you understand, father wasthe head centre, and Mattie is the only girl among the Methodists whocan play. The old man has got a head like a mule. He can't be switchedoff, once he makes up his mind. Deacon Marsden, he don't believe inanything above tuning-forks, and he's tighter'n the bark on a bulldog.He stood out like a sore thumb, and Dad wouldn't give an inch.
"You see, they held meetings every other Sunday. So Dad worked up theorgan business and got one, and then locked it up when the Baptists heldtheir services. Things went from bad to worse. They didn't speak as theypassed by--that is, the old folks; we young folks didn't care acontinental whether school kept or not. Well, upshot is, the church diedout. The wind blew the horse-sheds down, and there they lie--and thechurch is standing there empty as an--old boot--and--Say, Stacey--byJinks!--are you a Baptist?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Peter! ain't that lovely!" He chuckled shamelessly, and went off tosleep without another word.
II
Herman was still sleeping when Stacey rose and dressed and went down tobreakfast. Mrs. Mills defended Herman against the charge of laziness:"He's probably been out late all the week."
Stacey found Mott in the county court-house, and a perfunctoryexamination soon put him in possession of a certificate. There was noquestion of his attainments.
Herman met him at dinner-time.
"Well, elder, I'm going down to get a rig to go out home in. It'scolder'n a blue whetstone, so put on all the clothes you've got. Gimmeyour check, and I'll get your traps. Have you seen Mott?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, everything's all fixed."
He turned up about three o'clock, seated on the spring seat of a lumberwagon beside a woman, who drove the powerful team. Whether she was youngor old could not be told through her wraps. She wore a cap and a thick,faded cloak.
Mrs. Mills hurried to the door. "Why, Mattie Allen! What you doin' outsuch a day as this? Come in here instanter!"
"Can't stop!" called a clear, boyish voice. "Too late!"
"Well, land o' stars, you'll freeze!"
When Wallace reached the wagon side, Herman said, "My sister, Stacey."
The girl slipped her strong, brown hand out of her huge glove and gavehim a friendly grip. "Get right in," she said. "Herman, you're going tostand up behind."
Herman appealed to Mrs. Mills for sympathy. "This is what comes ofhaving plebeian connections."
"Oh, dry up," laughed the girl, "or I'll make you drive."
Stacey scrambled in awkwardly beside her. She was not at allembarrassed, apparently.
"Tuck yourself in tight. It's mighty cold on the prairie."
"Why didn't you come down with the baroosh?" grumbled Herman.
"Well, the corn was contracted for, and father wasn't able to come--hehad another attack of neuralgia last night, after he got the cornloaded, so I had to come."
"Sha'n't I drive for you?" asked Wallace.
"No, thank you. You'll have all you can do to keep from freezing." Shestudied his thin coat and worn gloves with keen glance. He could seeonly her pink cheeks, strong nose, and dark, smiling eyes.
It was one of those terrible Illinois days when the temperature dropssuddenly to zero, and the churned mud of the highways hardens intoscoriac rock, which cripples the horses and sends the heavy wagonsbooming and thundering along like mad things. The wind was keen as asaw-bladed sword, and smote incessantly. The desolate sky was one thick,impenetrable mass of swiftly flying clouds.
When they swung out upon the long pike leading due north, Wallace drewhis breath with a gasp, and bent his head to the wind.
"Pretty strong, isn't it?" shouted Mattie.
"Oh, the farmer's life is the life for me, tra-la!" sang Herman, fromhis shelter behind the seat.
Mattie turned. "What do you think of _Penelope_ this month?"
"She's a-gitten there," said Herman, pounding his shoe heels.
"She's too smart for young Corey. She ought to marry a man likeBromfield. My, wouldn't they talk!"
"Did y' get the second bundle of magazines last Saturday?"
"Yes; and Dad found something in the _Popular Science_ that made himmad, and he burned it."
"Did 'e? Tum-la-la! Oh, the farmer's life for me!"
"Are you cold?" she asked Wallace.
He turned a purple face upon her. "No--not much."
"I guess you better slip right down under the blankets," she advised.
The wind blew gray out of the north--a wild blast which stopped theyoung student's blood in his veins. He hated to give up, but he could nolonger hold the blankets over his knees, so he slipped down into thecorner of the box, with his back to the wind, while Mattie drew theblankets over his head, slapped the reins down on the backs of thesnorti
ng horses, and encouraged them with shouts like a man: "Get out o'this, Dan! Hup there, Nellie!"
The wagon boomed and rattled. The floor of the box seemed beaten with amaul. The glimpses Wallace had of the land appalled him, it was so flatand gray and bare.
Herman sang at the top of his voice, and danced, and pounded his feetagainst the wagon box. "This ends it! If I can't come home withoutfreezing to death, I don't come. I should have hired a rig, irrespectiveof you--"
The girl laughed. "Oh, you're getting thin-blooded, Herman. Life in thecity has taken the starch all out of you."
"Better grow limp in a great city than freeze stiff in the country," hereplied.
An hour's ride brought them into a yard before a large, gray-white framehouse.
Herman sprang out to meet a tall old man with head muffled up. "Hello,Dad! Take the team. We're just naturally froze solid--at least, I am.This is Mr. Stacey, the new teacher."
"How de do? Run in; I'll take the horses."
Herman and Wallace stumbled toward the house, stiff and bent.
Herman flung his arms about a tall woman in the kitchen door. "Hello,muz!" he said. "This is Mr. Stacey, the new teacher."
Mattie came in soon with a boyish rush, gleeful as a happy babe. Sheunwound the scarf from her head and neck, and hung up her cap and cloaklike a man, but she gave her hair a little touch of feminine care, andcame forward with both palms pressed to her burning cheeks.
"Did you suffer, child?" asked Mrs. Allen.
"No; I enjoyed it."
Herman looked at Stacey. "I believe on my life she did."
"Oh, it's fun. I don't get a chance to do anything so exciting veryoften."
Herman clicked his tongue. "Exciting? Well, well!"
"You must remember things are slower here," Mattie explained.
She came to light much younger than Stacey thought her. She was noteighteen, but her supple and splendid figure was fully matured. Her hairhung down her back in a braid, which gave a distinct touch ofchildishness to her.
"Sis, you're still a-growin'," Herman said, as he put his arm around herwaist and looked up at her.
She seemed to realize for the first time that Stacey was a young man,and her eyes fell.
"Well, now, set up the chairs, child," said Mrs. Allen.
When the young teacher returned from his cold spare room off the parlorthe family sat waiting for him. They all drew up noisily, and Allensaid:
"Ask the blessing, sir?"
Wallace said grace.
As Allen passed the potatoes he continued:
"My son tells me you are a minister of the gospel."
"I have studied for it."
"What denomination?"
"Tut, tut!" warned Herman. "Don't start any theological rabbitsto-night, Dad. With jaw swelled up you won't be able to hold your own."
"I'm a Baptist," Stacey answered.
The old man's face grew grim. It had been ludicrous before with itsswollen jaw. "Baptist!" He turned a stern look upon his son, whose smileangered him. "Didn't you know no more'n to bring a Baptist preacher intothis house?"
"There, there, father!" began the wife.
"Be quiet. I'm boss of this shanty, and I won't have you bringing--"
Herman struck in: "Don't make a show of yourself, old man. Never mindthe old gent, Stacey; he's mumpy to-day, anyhow."
Stacey rose. "I guess I--I'd better not stay--I--"
"Oh no, no! Sit down! It's all right. The old man's a little acid at me.He doesn't mean it."
Stacey got his coat and hat. His heart was swollen with indignation. Hefelt as if something fine were lost to him, and the land outside was sodesolate!
Mrs. Allen was in tears; but the old man, having taken his stand, wasgoing to keep it.
Herman lost his temper a little. "Well, Dad, you're a little thecussedest Christian I ever knew! Stacey, sit down. Don't you be a fooljust because he is--"
Stacey was buttoning his coat with trembling hands when Martha went upto him.
"Don't go," she said. "Father's sick and cross. He'll be sorry for thisto-morrow."
Wallace looked into her frank, kindly eyes, and hesitated.
Herman said: "Dad, you are a lovely follower of Christ! You'll apologizefor this, or I'll never set foot on your threshold again."
Stacey still hesitated. He was hurt and angry, but being naturally of asweet and gentle nature, he grew sad, and, yielding to the pressure ofthe girl's hand on his arm, he began to unbutton his overcoat.
She helped him with it, and hung it back on the nail, and her mother andHerman tried to restore something of the brightness which had been lost;but Allen sat grimly eating, his chin pushed down like a hog's snout.
After supper, as his father was about retiring to his bedroom, Hermanfixed his bright eyes on him, and something very hard and masterful cameinto his face.
"Old man, you and I haven't had a settlement on this thing yet. I'll seeyou later."
Allen shrank before his son's look, but shuffled sullenly off withoututtering a word.
Herman turned to Wallace. "Stacey, I want to beg your pardon for gettingyou into this scrape. I didn't suppose the old gentleman would act likethat. The older he gets, the more his New Hampshire granite shows. Ihope you won't lay it up against me."
Wallace was too conscientious to say he didn't mind it, but he tookHerman's hand in a quick clasp.
"Let's have a song," proposed Herman. "Music hath charms to soothe thesavage breast, to charm a rock, and split a cabbage."
They went into the best room, where a fire was blazing, and Mattie andHerman sang hymns and old-fashioned love-songs and college gleeswonderfully intermingled. They ended with _Lorena_, a wailing, extrasentimental love-song current in war times, and when they looked aroundthere was a lofty look on the face of the young preacher--a look ofexaltation, of consecration and resolve.
III
The next morning, at breakfast, Herman said, as he seized a hot biscuit,"We'll dispense with grace this morning, and till after the war isover." But Wallace blessed his bread in a silent prayer, and Mattiethought it very brave of him to do so.
Herman was full of mockery. "The sun rises just the same, whether it's'sprinkling' or 'immersion.' It's lucky Nature don't take a hand inthese theological contests. She doesn't even referee the scrap; shenever seems to care whether you are sparring for points or fighting to afinish. What you theologic middle-weights are really fighting for Ican't see--and I don't care, till you fall over the ropes on to mycorns."
Stacey listened in a daze to Herman's tirade. He knew it was addressedto Allen, and that it deprecated war, and that it was mocking. The freshface and smiling lips of the young girl seemed to put other affairs veryfar away. It was such a beautiful thing to sit at table with a lovelygirl.
After breakfast he put on his cap and coat, and went out into the clear,cold November air. All about him the prairie outspread, marked withfarm-houses and lined with leafless hedges. Artificial groves surroundedeach homestead, and these relieved, to some degree, the desolateness ofthe fields.
Down the road he saw the spire of a small white church, and as he walkedbriskly toward it, Herman's description of it came to his mind.
As he drew near, the ruined sheds, the rotting porch, and the windowsboarded up told a sorry story, and his face grew sad. He tried one ofthe doors, and found it open. Some tramp had broken the lock. The insidewas even more desolate than the outside. It was littered with rottingstraw and plum stones and melon seeds. Obscene words were scrawled onthe walls, and even on the pulpit itself.
Taken altogether, it was an appalling picture to the young servant ofthe Man of Galilee--a blunt reminder of the inherent ferocity anddepravity of man.
As he pondered the fire burned, and there rose again the flame of hisresolution. He lifted his face and prayed that he might be the one tobring these people into the living union of the Church of Christ.
His blood set toward his heart with tremulous action.
His e
yes glowed with zeal like that of the prophets of the Middle Ages.He saw the people united once more in this desecrated hall. He heard thebells ringing, the sound of song, the voices of love and fellowshipfilling the anterooms where hate had scrawled hideous blasphemy againstwoman and against God.
As he sat there Herman came in, his keen eyes seeking out every stainand evidence of vandalism.
"Cheerful prospect, isn't it?"
Wallace looked up with the blaze of his resolution still in his eyes.His pale face was sweet and solemn.
"Oh, how these people need Christ!"
Herman turned away. "They need killing--about two dozen of 'em. I'd liketo have the job of indicating which ones. I wouldn't miss the old man,you bet!" he added, with cordial resentment.
Wallace was helpless in the face of such reckless thought, and so satsilently watching the handsome young fellow as he walked about.
"Well, now, Stacey, I guess you'll need to move. I had another sessionwith the old man, but he won't give in, so I'm off for Chicago. Mother'sbrother, George Chapman, who lives about as near the schoolhouse on theother side, will take you in. I guess we'd better go right down now andsee about it. I've said good-by to the old man--for good this time; wedidn't shake hands, either," he said, as they started down the roadtogether. He was very stern and hard. Something of the father was hiddenunder his laughing exterior.
Stacey regretted deeply the necessity which drove him out of Allen'shouse. Mrs. Allen and Mattie had appealed to him very strongly. Foryears he had lived far from young women, and there was a magical powerin the intimate home actions of this young girl. Her bare head, withsimple arrangement of hair, someway seemed the most beautiful thing hehad ever seen.
He thought of her that night, as he sat at the table with Chapman andhis aged mother. They lived alone, and their lives were curiouslysilent. Once in a while a low-voiced question, and that was all. Georgeread the _Popular Science, Harper's Monthly Magazine_, and the _OpenCourt_, and brooded over them with slow intellectual movement. It waswonderful the amount of information he secreted from these periodicals.He was better informed than many college graduates. He had littlecuriosity about the young stranger. He understood that he was to teachthe school; beyond that he did not care to go.
He tried Wallace once or twice on the latest discoveries of John Fiskeand Edison, and then gave him up and retired to his seat beside thesitting-room stove.
On the following Monday morning school began, and as Wallace took hisway down the lane the wrecked church came again to his eyes. He walkedpast it with slow feet. His was a deeply religious nature, one thatsorrowed easily over sin. Suffering of the poor did not trouble him;hunger seemed a little thing beside losing one's everlasting soul.Therefore, to come from his studies upon such a monument of humandepravity as this rotting church was to receive a shock and to hear acall to action.
Approaching the schoolhouse, his thought took a turn toward thescholars and toward Mattie. He had forgotten to ask her if she intendedto be one of his pupils.
There were several children already gathered at the weather-beaten dooras he came up. It was all very American--the box-like house of white,the slender teacher approaching, the roughly clad urchins waiting.
He said, "Good morning, scholars!"
They chorused a queer croak in reply--hesitating, inarticulate, shy. Heunlocked the door and entered the cold, bare room--familiar, unlovely,with a certain power of primitive associations. In such a room he hadstudied his primer and his Ray's Arithmetic. In such a room he had madegradual recession from the smallest front seat to the back wall seat;and from one side of such a room to the other he had furtivelyworshipped a graceful, girlish head.
He allowed himself but a moment of such dreaming before assumingcommand, and with his ready helpers a fire was soon started. Otherchildren came in, timorous as rabbits, slipping by, each with an eyefixed on him like a scared chicken. They pre-empted their seats byputting down books and slates, and there arose sly wars for possession,which he watched with amusement--it was so like his own life at thatage.
He assumed control as nearly in the manner of the old-time teachers ashe could recall, and the work of his teaching was begun. The day passedquickly, and, as he walked homeward again, there stood that rottingchurch, and in his mind there rose a surging emotion larger than hecould himself comprehend--a desire to rebuild it by uniting the warringfactions, of whose lack of Christianity this deserted chapel was a fatalwitness.
IV
Now this mystical thing happened. As this son of a line of preachersbrooded on this unlovely strife among men, he lost the equipoise of thescholar and student of modern history. He grew narrower and moreintense. The burden of his responsibility as a preacher of Christ grewdaily more insupportable.
Toward the end of the week he announced preaching in the schoolhouse onSunday afternoon, and at the hour set he found the room crowded withpeople of all ages and sorts.
His heart grew heavy as he looked out over the room--on women nursingquerulous children, on the grizzled faces of grim-looking men, whostudied him with keen, unsympathetic eyes. He had hard, unfriendlymaterial to work with. There were but few of the opposite camp present,while the Baptist leaders were all there, with more curiosity thansympathy in their faces.
They exulted to think the next preacher to come among them as anevangelist should be a Baptist.
After the singing, which would have dribbled away into failure but forMattie, Wallace rose, looking very white and weak, and began hisprayer. Some of the boys laughed when his voice stuck in his throat, buthe went on to the end of an earnest supplication, feeling he had nottouched them at all.
While they sang again, he sat looking down at them with dry throat andstaring eyes. How hard, how unchristian-like, they all were. What couldhe say to them? He saw Mattie gazing up at him, and on the front seatsat three beautiful little girls huddled together with hands clasped;inexpressibly dainty by contrast. As he looked at them the thought cameto him, What is the goodness of a girl--of a child? It is notpartisan--it is not of creeds, of articles--it is goodness of thought,of deeds. His face lighted up with the inward feeling of this idea, andhe rose resolutely.
"Friends, with the help of Christ I am come among you to do you good. Ishall hold meetings each night here in the schoolhouse until we canunite and rebuild the church again. Let me say now, friends, that I waseducated a Baptist. My father was a faithful worker in the BaptistChurch, and so was his father before him. I was educated in a Baptistcollege, and I came here hoping to build up a Baptist Church." Hepaused.
"But I see my mistake. I am here to build up a Church of Christ, of gooddeeds and charity and peace, and so I here say I am no longer a Baptistor Methodist. I am only a preacher, and I will not rest until I rebuildthe church which stands rotting away there." His voice rang withdetermination as he uttered those words.
The people listened. There was no movement now. Even the babies seemedto feel the need of being silent. When he began again it was to describethat hideous wreck. He delineated the falling plaster, the litter aroundthe pulpit, the profanation of the walls. "It is a symbol of your sinfulhearts!" he cried.
Much more he said, carried out of himself by his passion. It was as ifthe repentant spirit of his denominational fathers were speaking throughhim; and yet he was not so impassioned that he did not see, or at leastfeel, the eyes of the strong young girl fixed upon him; his resolutionswere spoken to her, and a swift response seemed to leap from her eyes.
When it was over, some of the Methodists and one of the Baptists came upto shake hands with him, awkwardly wordless, and the pressure of theirhands helped him. Many of the Baptist brethren slipped outside todiscuss the matter. Some were indignant, others much moved.
Allen went by him with an audible grunt of derision, with a dark scowlon his face, but Mattie smiled at him, with tears still in her eyes. Shehad been touched by his vibrant voice; she had no sins to repent of.
The skeptics of the neighborhood were quite ge
nerally sympathetic."You've struck the right trail now, parson," said Chapman, as theywalked homeward together. "The days of the old-time denominationalismare about played out."
But the young preacher was not so sure of it, now that his inspirationwas gone. He remembered his debt to his college, to his father, to thedenomination, and it was not easy to set aside the grip of suchmemories.
He sat late revolving the whole situation in his mind. When he went tobed his problem was still with him, and involved itself with his dreams;but always the young girl smiled upon him with sympathetic eyes and toldhim to go on--or so it seemed to him.
He was silent at breakfast. He went to school with a feeling that areturn to teaching little tow-heads to count and spell was nowimpossible. He sat at his scarred and dingy desk while they took theirplaces, and his eyes had a passionate intensity of prayer in them whichawed his pupils. He had assumed new grandeur and terror in their eyes.When they were seated he bowed his head and uttered a short plea forgrace, and then he looked at them again.
On the low front seat, with dangling legs and red, round faces, sat thelittle ones. Some way he could not call them to his knees and teach themto spell; he felt as if he ought to call them to him, as Christ did, toteach them love and reverence. It was impossible that they should not betouched by this hideous neighborhood strife.
Behind them sat the older children, some of them with rough, hard, slyfaces. One or two grinned rudely and nudged each other. The older girlssat with bated breath; they perceived something strange in the air. Mostof them had heard his sermon of the night before.
At last he broke silence. "Children, there is something I must say toyou this morning. I'm going to have meeting here to-night, and it maybe I shall not be your teacher any more--I mean in school. I wish you'dgo home to-day and tell your people to come to church here to-night. Iwish you'd all come yourselves. I want you to be good. I want you tolove God and be good. I want you to go home and tell your people theteacher can't teach children how to read till he has taught the olderpeople to be kind and generous. You may put your books away, and schoolwill be dismissed."
The wondering children obeyed--some with glad promptness, others withsadness, for they had already come to like their teacher very much.
As he sat by the door and watched them file out, it was as if he were aking abdicating a throne, and these his faithful subjects.
Mrs. Allen came over with Mattie to see him that day. She was a goodwoman, gentle and prayerful, and she said, with much emotion:
"Oh, Mr. Stacey, I do hope you can patch things up here. If you couldonly touch his heart! He don't mean to do wrong, but he's so set in hisways--if he says a thing he sticks to it."
Stacey turned to Mattie for a word of encouragement, but she only lookedaway. It was impossible for her to put into words her feeling in thematter, which was more of admiration for his courage than for any partof his religious zeal. He was so different from other men.
It did him good to have these women come, and he repeated his vow:
"By the grace of our Lord, I am going to rebuild the Cyene Church!" andhis face paled and his eyes grew luminous.
The girl shivered with emotion. He seemed to recede from her as hespoke, and to grow larger, too. Such nobility of purpose was new andsplendid to her.
* * * * *
The revival was wondrously dramatic. The little schoolhouse was crowdedto the doors night by night. The reek of stable-stained coats and boots,the smell of strong tobacco, the effluvia of many breaths, the heat, thecloseness were forgotten in the fervor of the young evangelist'sutterances. His voice took on wild emotional cadences which sounded deepplaces in the heart. To these people, long unused to religious oratory,it was like the return of John and Isaiah. It was poetry and the drama,and processions and apocalyptic visions. This youth had the histrionicspell, too, and his slender body lifted and dilated, and his head tookon majesty and power, and the fling of his white hand was a challengeand an appeal.
A series of stirring events took place on the third night.
On Wednesday Jacob Turner rose and asked the prayers of his neighbors,and was followed by two Baptist spearmen of the front rank. On Thursdaythe women were weeping on one another's bosoms; only one or two of themen held out--old Deacon Allen and his antagonist, Stewart Marsden.Grim-visaged old figures they were, placed among repentant men andweeping women. They sat like rocks in the rush of the two factionsmoving toward each other for peaceful union. Granitic, narrow, keen ofthrust, they seemed unmoved, while all around them, one by one, skepticsacknowledged the pathos and dignity of the preacher's views of life anddeath.
Meanwhile the young evangelist lived at high pressure. He grew thinnerand whiter each night. He toiled in the daytime to formulate histhoughts for the evening. He could not sleep till far toward morning.The food he ate did him little good, while his heart went out constantlyto his people in strenuous supplication. It was testimony of his humanquality that he never for one moment lost that shining girl face out ofhis thought. He looked for it there night after night. It was hisinspiration in speaking, as at the first.
On the nights when Mattie was not there his speech was labored (as theelders noticed), but on the blessed nights when she came and sang, hervoice, amid all the rest, came to him, and uttered poetry and peace likea rill of cool, sweet water. And afterward, when he walked home underthe stars, his mind went with her, she was so strong and lithe and goodto see. He did not realize the worshipping attitude the girl took beforehis divine duties.
At last the great day came--the great night.
In some way, perhaps by the growing mass of rushing emotion set inaction by some deep-going phrase, or perhaps by some interior slowweakening of stubborn will, Deacon Allen gave way; and when the preachercalled for penitents, the old man struggled to his feet, his seamed,weather-beaten face full of grotesque movement. He broke out:
"Brethren, pray for me; I'm a miserable sinner. I want to confess mysins--here--before ye all." He broke into sobbing terrible to hear. "Myheart is made--flesh again--by the blessed power of Christ...."
He struggled to get his voice. One or two cried, "Praise God!" but mostof them sat silent, awed into immobility.
The old man walked up the aisle. "I've been rebellious--and now I wantto shake hands with you all--and I ask your prayers." He bent down andthrust his hand to Marsden, his enemy, while the tears streamed down hisface.
Marsden turned white with a sort of fear, but he rose awkwardly andgrasped the outstretched hand, and at the touch of palms every soul roseas if by electric shock. "Amens!" burst forth. The preacher began afervent prayer, and came down toward the grizzled, weeping old men, andthey all embraced, while some old lady with sweet, quavering voiceraised a triumphal hymn, in which all joined, and found grateful relieffrom their emotional tension.
Allen turned to Mattie and his wife. "My boy--send for him--Herman."
It seemed as if the people could not go away. The dingy littleschoolhouse was like unto the shining temple of God's grace, and theregenerated seemed to fear that to go home might permit a return to hateand strife. So they clung around the young preacher and would not lethim go.
At last he came out, with Allen holding to his arm. "You must come homewith us to-night," he pleaded, and the young minister with glad heartconsented, for he hoped he might walk beside Mattie; but this was notpossible. There were several others in the group, and they moved off twoand two up the deep hollows which formed the road in the snow.
The young minister walked with head uplifted to the stars, hearingnothing of the low murmur of talk, conscious only of his great plans,his happy heart, and the strong young girl who walked before him.
In the warm kitchen into which they came he lost something of hisspiritual tension, and became more humanly aware of the significance ofsitting again with these people. He gave the girl his coat and hat, andthen watched her slip off her knitted hood and her cloak. Her eyes shonewith returning laughter, an
d her cheeks were flushed with blood.
Looking upon her, the young evangelist lost his look of exaltation, hiseyes grew soft and his limbs relaxed. His silence was no longer rapt--itwas the silence of delicious, drowsy reverie.
V
The next morning he did not rise at all. The collapse had come. The badair, the nervous strain, the lack of sleep, had worn down his slenderstore of strength, and when the great victory came he fell like a treewhose trunk has been slowly gnawed across by teeth of silent saw. Hisdrowse deepened into torpor.
In the bright winter morning, seated in a gay cutter behind a bay coltstrung with slashing bells, Mattie drove to Kesota for the doctor. Shefelt the discord between the joyous jangle of the bells, the stream ofsunlight, and the sparkle of snow crystals, but it only added to thepoignancy of her anxiety.
She had not yet reached self-consciousness in her regard for the youngpreacher--she thought of him as a noble human being, liable to death,and she chirped again and again to the flying colt, whose broad hoofsflung the snow in stinging showers against her face.
A call at the doctor's house set him jogging out along the lanes, whileshe sent a telegram to Herman. As she whirled bay Tom into the road togo home her heart rose in relief that was almost exaltation. She lovedhorses. She always sang under her breath, chiming to the beat of theirbells, when alone, and now she loosened the rein and hummed an oldlove-song, while the powerful young horse squared away in a trot whichwas twelve miles an hour.
In such air, in such sun, who could die? Her good animal strength rosedominant over fear of death.
She came upon the doctor swinging along in his old blue cutter, dozingin country-doctor style, making up for lost sleep.
"Out o' the way, doctor!" she gleefully called.
The doctor roused up and looked around with a smile. He was not beyondadmiring such a girl as that. He snapped his whip-lash lightly on oldSofia's back, who looked up surprised, and, seeming to comprehendmatters, began to reach out broad, flat, thin legs in a pace which theproud colt respected. She came of illustrious line, did Sofia,scant-haired and ungracious as she now was.
"Don't run over me!" called the doctor, ironically, and, with Sofiastill leading, they swung into the yard.
Mattie went in with the doctor, while Allen looked after both horses.They found Chapman attending Wallace, who lay in a dazedquiet--conscious, but not definitely aware of material things.
The doctor looked his patient over carefully. Then he asked, "Who is theyoong mon?"
"He's been teaching here, or, rather, preaching."
"When did this coom on?"
"Last night. Wound up a big revival last night, I believe. Kind o' cavedin, I reckon."
"That's all. Needs rest. He'll be wearin' a wood jacket if he doosnaleave off preachin'."
"Regular jamboree. I couldn't stop him. One of these periodicalneighborhood 'awakenings,' they call it."
"They have need of it here, na doot."
"Well, they need something--love for God--or man."
"M--well! It's lettle I can do. The wumman can do more, if the mon'll beeatin' what they cuke for 'im," said the candid old Scotchman. "Mak' 'imeat! Mak' 'im eat!"
Once more Tom pounded along the shining road to Kesota to meet thesix-o'clock train from Chicago.
Herman, magnificently clothed in fur-lined ulster and cap, alighted withunusually grave face, and hurried toward Mattie.
"Well, what is it, Sis? Mother sick?"
"No; it's the teacher. He is unconscious. I've been for the doctor. Oh,we were scared!"
He looked relieved, but a little chagrined. "Oh, well, I don't see why Ishould be yanked out of my boots by a telegram because the teacher issick! He isn't kin--yet."
For the first time a feeling of confusion swept over Mattie, and herface flushed.
Herman's keen eyes half closed as he looked into her face.
"Mat--what--what! Now look here--how's this? Where's Ben Holly's claim?"
"He never had any." She shifted ground quickly. "Oh, Herman, we had awonderful time last night! Father and Uncle Marsden shook hands--"
"What!" shouted Herman, as he fell in a limp mass against the cutter."Bring a physician--I'm stricken."
"Don't act so! Everybody's looking."
"They'd better look. I'm drowning while they wait."
She untied the horse and came back.
"Climb in there and stop your fooling, and I'll tell you all about it."
He crawled in with tearing groans of mock agony, and then leaned hishead against her shoulder. "Well, go on, Sis; I can bear it now."
She nudged him to make him sit up.
"Well, you know we've had a revival."
"So you wrote. Must have been a screamer to fetch Dad and old Marsden. Aregular Pentecost of Shinar."
"It was--I mean it was beautiful. I saw father was getting stirred up.He prayed almost all day yesterday, and at night--Well, I can't tellyou, but Wallace talked, oh, so beautiful and tender!"
"She calls him Wallace?" mused Herman, like a comedian. "Hush! And thencame the hand-shaking, and then the minister came home with us becausefather asked him to, and stayed because he liked the chicken."
The girl was hurt, and she showed it. "If you make fun, I won't tell youanother word," she said.
"Away Chicago! enter Cyene! Well, come, I won't fool any more."
"Then after Wallace--I mean--"
"Let it stand. Come to the murder."
"Then father came and asked me to send for you, and mother cried, and sodid he. And, oh, Hermie, he's so sweet and kind! Don't make fun of him,will you? It's splendid to have him give in, and everybody feels gladthat the district will be all friendly again."
Herman did not gibe now. His voice was gentle. The pathos in the sceneappealed to him. "So the old man sent for me himself, did he?"
"Yes; he could hardly wait till morning. But this morning, when we cameto call the teacher, he didn't answer, and father went in and found himunconscious. Then I went for the doctor."
Bay Tom whirled along in the splendid dusk, his nostrils flaring ghostlybanners of steam on the cold, crisp air. The stars overhead were pointsof green and blue and crimson light, low-hung, changing each moment.Their influence entered the soul of the mocking young fellow. He feltvery solemn, almost melancholy, for a moment.
"Well, Sis, I've got something to tell you all. I'm going to tell it toyou by degrees. I'm going to be married."
"Oh!" she gasped, with quick, indrawn breath. "Who?"
"Don't be ungrammatical, whatever you do. She's a cashier in arestaurant, and she's a fine girl," he added, steadily, as if combatinga prejudice. He forgot for the moment that such prejudices did not existin Cyene.
Sis was instantly tender, and very, very serious.
"Of course she is, or you wouldn't care for her. Oh, I'd like to seeher!"
"I'll take you up some day and show her to you."
"Oh, will you? Oh, when can I go?" She was smitten into gravity again."Not till the teacher is well."
Herman pretended to be angry. "Dog take the teacher, the oldspindle-legs! If I'd known he was going to raise such a ruction in ourquiet and peaceful neighborhood, I never would have brought him here."
Mattie did not laugh; she pondered. She never quite understood herbrother when he went off on those queer tirades, which might be a jokeor an insult. He had grown away from her in his city life.
They rode on in silence the rest of the way, except now and then anadditional question from Mattie concerning his sweetheart.
As they neared the farm-house she lost interest in all else but thecondition of the young minister. They could see the light burning dimlyin his room, and in the parlor and kitchen as well, and this unusuallighting stirred the careless young man deeply. It was associated in hismind with death and birth, and also with great joy. The house waslighted so the night his elder brother died, and it looked so to himwhen he whirled into the yard with the doctor when Mattie was born.
"O
h, I hope he isn't worse!" said the girl, with deep feeling.
Herman put his arm about her, and she knew he knew.
"So do I, Sis."
Allen came to the door as they drove in, and the careless boy realizedsuddenly the emotional tension his father was in. As the old man came tothe sleigh-side he could not speak. His fingers trembled as he took theoutstretched hand of his boy.
Herman's voice shook a little:
"Well, Dad, Mattie says the war is over."
The old man tried to speak, but only coughed and then he blew his nose.At last he said, brokenly:
"Go right in; your mother's waitin'."
It was singularly dramatic to the youth. To come from the careless,superficial life of his city companions into contact with such primevalpassions as these made him feel like a spectator at some new andpowerful and tragic play.
His mother fell upon his neck and cried, while Mattie stood by pale andanxious. Inside the parlor could be heard the mumble of men's voices.
In such wise do death and the fear of death fall upon country homes. Allday the house had swarmed with people. All day this mother had lookedforward to the reconciliation of her husband with her son. All day hadthe pale and silent minister of God kept his corpse-like calm, while allabout the white snow gleamed, and radiant shadows filled every hollow,and the cattle bawled and frisked in the barn-yard, and the fowlscackled joyously, what time the mild, soft wind breathed warmly over theland.
Mattie cried out to her mother, in quick, low voice, "Oh mother, how ishe?"
"He ain't no worse. The doctor says there's no immediate danger."
The girl brought her hands together girlishly, and said: "Oh, I'm soglad. Is he awake?"
"No; he's asleep."
"Is the doctor still here?"
"Yes."
"I guess I'll step in," said Herman.
The doctor and George Chapman sat beside the hard-coal heater, talkingin low voices. The old doctor was permitting himself the luxury of astory of pioneer life. He arose with automatic courtesy, and shook handswith Herman.
"How's the sick man getting on?"
"Vera well--vera well--consederin' the mon is a completeworn-out--that's all--naethin' more. Thes floom-a-didale bezniss ofrantin' away on the fear o' the Laird for sax weeks wull have worn outthe frame of a bool-dawg."
Herman and Chapman smiled. "I hope you'll tell him that."
"Na fear, yoong mon," said the grim old warrior. "Weel, now, ai'll juistbe takin' anither look at him."
Herman went in with the doctor, and stood looking on while the old manpeered and felt about. He came out soon, and, leaving a few directionswith Herman and Chapman, took his departure. Everything seemedfavorable, he said.
There was no longer poignancy of anxiety in Mattie's mind, she was toomuch of a child to imagine the horror of loss, but she was grave and gayby turns. Her healthy and wholesome nature continually reasserted itselfover the power of her newly attained woman's interest in the youngpreacher. She went to bed and slept dreamlessly, while Herman yawned andinwardly raged at the fix in which circumstances had placed him.
Like many another lover, days away from his sweetheart were lost days.He wondered how she would take all this life in Cyene. It would be goodfun to bring her down, anyway, and hear her talk. He planned such atrip, and grew so interested in the thought he forgot his patient.
In the early dawn Wallace rallied and woke. Herman heard the rustle ofthe pillow, and turned to find the sick man's eyes looking at himfixedly, calm but puzzled. Herman's lips slowly changed into a beautifulboyish smile. "Hello, old man! How do you find yourself?" His hearty,humorous greeting seemed to do the sick man good. Herman approached thebed. "Know where you are?" Wallace slowly put out a hand, and Hermantook it. "You're coming on all right. Want some breakfast? Make itbucks?" he said, in Chicago restaurant slang. "White wings--sunny--oneup coff."
All this was good tonic for Wallace, and an hour later he sipped broth,while Mrs. Allen and the Deacon and Herman stood watching the processwith apparently consuming interest. Mattie was still soundly sleeping.
Now began delicious days of convalescence, during which Wallace lookedpeacefully out at the coming and going of the two women, each possessingpowerful appeal to him: one the motherly presence which had been deniedhim for many years, the other something he had never permitted himselfto hope for--a sweetheart's daily companionship.
He lay there planning his church, and also his home. Into the thought ofa new church came shyly but persistently the thought of a fireside ofhis own, with this young girl sitting in the glow of it waiting for him.His life possessed little romance. He had earned his own way throughschool and to college. His slender physical energies had been taxed totheir utmost at every stage of his climb, but now it seemed as thoughsome blessed rest and peace were at hand.
Meanwhile, the bitter partisans met each other coming and going out ofthe gate of the Allen estate, and the goodness of God shone in theirsoftened faces. Herman was skeptical of its lasting quality, but wasforced to acknowledge that it was a lovely light. He it was who made theelectrical suggestion to rebuild the church as an evidence of goodfaith. "You say you're regenerated. Well, prove it--go ahead andregenerate the church," he said.
The enthusiasm of the neighborhood took flame. It should be done. Ameeting was called. Everybody subscribed money or work. It was agenerous outpouring of love and faith.
It was Herman also who counselled secrecy. "It would be a nice thing tosurprise him," he said. "We'll agree to keep the scheme from him athome, if you don't give it away."
They set to work like bees. The women came down one day and tookpossession with brooms and mops and soap, and while the carpentersrepaired the windows they fell savagely upon the grime of the seats andfloors. The walls of the church echoed with woman's gossip and girlishlaughter. Everything was scoured, from the door-hinges to the altarrails. New doors were hung and a new stove secured, and then came thepainters to put a new coat of paint on the inside. The cold weatherforbade repainting the outside.
The sheds were rebuilt by men whose hearts glowed with old-time fire. Itwas like pioneer days, when "barn-raisings" and "bees" made life worthwhile in a wild, stern land. The old men were moved to tears, and theyounger rough men shouted cheery, boisterous cries to hide their owndeep emotion. Hand met hand in heartiness never shown before. Neighborsfrequented one another's homes, and the old times of visiting andbrotherly love came back upon them. Nothing marred the perfect beauty oftheir revival--save the fear of its evanescence. It seemed too good tolast.
Meanwhile love of another and merrier sort went on. The young men andmaidens turned prayer-meeting into trysts and scrubbing-bees intofestivals. They rode from house to house under glittering stars, oversparkling snows, singing:
"Hallelujah! 'tis done: I believe on the Son; I am saved by the blood Of the Crucified One."
And their rejoicing chorus was timed to the clash of bells on swiftyoung horses. Who shall say they did not right? Did the Galilean forbidlove and joy?
No matter. God's stars, the mysterious night, the bells, the watchfulbay of dogs, the sting of snow, the croon of loving voices, the clasp oftender arms, the touch of parting lips--these things, these joysoutweigh death and hell, and all that makes the criminal tremble. Beingsaved, they must of surety rejoice.
And through it all Wallace crawled slowly back to life and strength. Heate of Mother Allen's chicken-broth and of toast from Mattie'scare-taking hand, and gradually reassumed color and heart. His solemneyes watched the young girl with an intensity which seemed to take herstrength from her. She would gladly have given her blood for him, if ithad occurred to her, or if it had been suggested as a good thing;instead, she gave him potatoes baked to a nicety, and buttered toastthat would melt on the tongue, and, on the whole, they served thepurpose.
One day a smartly dressed man called to see Wallace. Mattie recognizedhim as the Baptist clergyman from Kesota. He came in, and, introducinghimself said he had he
ard of the excellent work of Mr. Stacey, and thathe would like to speak with him.
Wallace was sitting in a rocking-chair in the parlor. Herman was inChicago, and there was no one but Mrs. Allen and Mattie in the house.
The Kesota minister introduced himself to Wallace, and then entered upona long eulogium upon his work in Cyene. He asked after his credentials,his plans, his connections, and then he said:
"You've done a _fine_ work in softening the hearts of these people. Wehad almost _despaired_ of doing anything with them. Yes, you have done a_won-der-ful work_, and now we must reorganize a regular society here. Iwill be out again when you get stronger, and we'll see about it."
Wallace was too weak to take any stand in the talk, and so allowed himto get up and go away without protest or explanation of his own plans.
When Herman came down on Saturday, he told him of the Baptist minister'svisit and the proposition. Herman stretched his legs out toward the fireand put his hands in his pockets. Then he rose and took a strangeattitude, such as Wallace had seen in comic pictures--it was, in fact,the attitude of a Bowery tough.
"Say, look here! If you want 'o set dis community by de ears agin, youdo dat ting--see? You play dat confidence game and dey'll rat ye--sure!You invite us to come into a non-partisan deal--see?--and den yousprings your own platform on us in de joint corkus--and we won't standit! Dis goes troo de way it began, or we don't play--see?"
Out of all this Wallace deduced his own feeling--that continued peaceand good-will lay in keeping clear of all doctrinal debates anddisputes--the love of Christ, the desire to do good and to be clean.These emotions had been roused far more deeply than he realized, and helifted his face to God in the hope that no lesser thing should come into mar the beauty of His Church.
There came a day when he walked out in the sunshine, and heard the henscaw-cawing about the yard, and saw the young colts playing about thebarn. And the splendor of the winter day dazzled him as if he werelooking upon the broad-flung robe of the Lord Most High. Everywhere thesnow lay ridged with purple and brown hedges. Smoke rose peacefully fromchimneys, and the sound of boys skating on a near-by pond added thehuman element.
The trouble of concealing the work of the community upon the churchincreased daily, and Mattie feared that some hint of it had come to him.She had her plan. She wanted to drive him down herself, and let him seethe reburnished temple alone. But this was impossible. On the day whenhe seemed able to go, her father drove them all down. Marsden was therealso, and several of his women-folks, putting down a new carpet on theplatform. As they drew near the church, Wallace said:
"Why, they've fixed up the sheds!"
Mattie nodded. She was trembling with the delicious excitement ofit--she wanted him hurried into the church at once. He had hardly timeto think before he was whirled up to the new porch, and Marsden cameout, followed by several women. He was bewildered by it all. Marsdenhelped him out with hearty voice, sounding:
"Careful now! Don't hurry!"
Mattie took one arm, and so he entered the church. Everything repainted!Everything warm and bright and cozy!
The significance of it came to him like a wave of light, and he took hisseat in the pulpit chair and stared at them all with a look on his paleface which moved them more than words. He was like a man transfigured byan inward glow. His eyes for an instant flamed with this marvellousfire, then darkened, softened with tears, and his voice came back in asob of joy, and he could only say:
"Friends--brethren!"
Marsden, after much coughing, said:
"We all united on this. We wanted to have you come to the churchand--Well, we couldn't bear to have you see it again the way it was."
He understood it now. It was the sign of a united community. It set theseal of Christ's victory over evil passions, and the young preacher'shead bowed in prayer, and they all knelt, while his weak voice returnedthanks to the Lord for his gifts.
Then they all rose and shook off the oppressive solemnity, and he hadtime to look around at all the changes. At last he turned to Mattie andreached out his hand--he had the boldness of a man in the shadow of somemighty event which makes false modesty and conventions shadowy things oflittle importance. His sharpened interior sense read her clear soul, andhe knew she was his, therefore he reached her his hand, and she came tohim with a flush on her face, which died out as she stood proudly by hisside, while he said:
"And Martha shall help me."
Therefore, this good thing happened--that in the midst of his fervor andhis consecration to God's work, the love of woman found a place.
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AN AFTERWORD: OF WINDS, SNOWS, AND THE STARS
O witchery of the winter night (With broad moon shouldering to the west)
In the city streets the west wind sweeps Before my feet in rustling flight; The midnight snows in untracked heaps Lie cold and desolate and white. I stand and wait with upturned eyes, Awed with the splendor of the skies And star-trained progress of the moon.
The city walls dissolve like smoke Beneath the magic of the moon, And age falls from me like a cloak; I hear sweet girlish voices ring Clear as some softly stricken string-- (The moon is sailing to the west.) The sleigh-bells clash in homeward flight; With frost each horse's breast is white-- (The big moon sinking to the west.)
"Good night, Lettie!" "Good night, Ben!" (The moon is sinking at the west.) "Good night, my sweetheart." Once again The parting kiss while comrades wait Impatient at the roadside gate, And the red moon sinks beyond the west.
THE END
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