Outside, on the leeward side of the house, the young men who couldn't
get in stood restlessly, now dancing a jig, now kicking their huge boots
against the underpinning to warm their toes. They talked spasmodically
as they swung their arms about their chests, speaking from behind their
huge buffalo-coat collars.
The wind roared through the creaking oaks; the horses stirred
complainingly, the bells on their backs crying out querulously; the
heads of the fortunates inside were shadowed outside on the snow, and
the restless young men amused themselves betting on which head was
Bensen and which Councill.
At last some one pounded on the desk inside. The suffocating but lively
crowd turned with painful adjustment toward the desk, from whence Deacon
Bensen's high, smooth voice sounded:--
"Brethren an' sisters, Elder Pill hain't come--and, as it's about eight
o'clock, he probably won't come to-night. After the disturbances last
night, it's--a--a--we're all the more determined to--the--a--need of
reforming grace is more felt than ever. Let us hope nothing has happened
to the Elder. I'll go see to-morrow, and if he is unable to come--I'll
see Brother Wheat, of Cresco. After prayer by Brother Jennings, we will
adjourn till to-morrow night. Brother Jennings, will you lead us in
prayer?" (Some one snickered.) "I hope the disgraceful--a--scenes of
last night will not be repeated."
"Where's Pill?" demanded a voice in the back part of the room. "That's
what I want to know."
"He's a bad pill," said another, repeating a pun already old.
"I guess so! He borrowed twenty dollars o' me last week," said the first
voice.
"He owes me for a pig," shouted a short man, excitedly. "I believe he's
skipped to get rid o' his debts."
"So do I. I allus said he was a mighty queer preacher."
"He'd bear watchin' was my idee fust time I ever see him."
"Careful, brethren--_careful_. He may come at any minute."
"I don't care if he does. I'd bone him f'r pay f'r that shote, preacher
'r no preacher," said Bartlett, a little nervously.
High words followed this, and there was prospect of a fight. The
pressure of the crowd, however, was so great it was well-nigh impossible
for two belligerents to get at each other. The meeting broke up at last,
and the people, chilly, soured, and disappointed at the lack of
developments, went home saying Pill was _scaly_; no preacher who chawed
terbacker was to be trusted, and when it was learned that the horse and
buggy he drove he owed Jennings and Bensen for, everybody said, "He's a
fraud."
V
In the meantime, Andrew Pill was undergoing the most singular and awful
mental revolution.
When he leaped blindly into his cutter and gave his horse the rein, he
was wild with rage and shame, and a sort of fear. As he sat with bent
head, he did not hear the tread of the horse, and did not see the trees
glide past. The rabbit leaped away under the shadow of the thick groves
of young oaks; the owl, scared from its perch, went fluttering off into
the cold, crisp air; but he saw only the contemptuous, quizzical face of
old William Bacon--one shaggy eyebrow lifted, a smile showing through
his shapeless beard.
He saw the colorless, handsome face of Radbourn, and his look of
reproach and note of suggestion--Radbourn, one of the best thinkers in
Rock River, and the most generally admired young man in Rock County.
When he saw and heard Bacon, his hurt pride flamed up in wrath, but the
calm voice of Radbourn, and the look in his stern, accusing eyes, made
his head fall in thought. As he rode, things grew clearer. As a matter
of fact, his whole system of religious thought was like the side of a
shelving sand-bank--in unstable equilibrium--needing only a touch to
send it slipping into a shapeless pile at the river's edge. That touch
had been given, and he was now in the midst of the motion of his falling
faith. He didn't know how much would stand when the sloughing ended.
Andrew Pill had been a variety of things, a farmer, a dry-goods
merchant, and a travelling salesman, but in a revival quite like this of
his own, he had been converted and his life changed. He now desired to
help his fellow-men to a better life, and willingly went out among the
farmers, where pay was small. It was not true, therefore, that he had
gone into it because there was little work and good pay. He was really
an able man, and would have been a success in almost anything he
undertook; but his reading and thought, his easy intercourse with men
like Bacon and Radbourn, had long since undermined any real faith in the
current doctrine of retribution, and to-night, as he rode into the
night, he was feeling it all and suffering it all, forced to acknowledge
at last what had been long moving.
The horse took the wrong road, and plodded along steadily, carrying him
away from his home, but he did not know it for a long time. When at last
he looked up and saw the road leading out upon the wide plain between
the belts of timber, leading away to Rock River, he gave a sigh of
relief. He could not meet his wife then; he must have a chance to think.
Over him, the glittering, infinite sky of winter midnight soared,
passionless, yet accusing in its calmness, sweetness, and majesty. What
was he that he could dogmatize on eternal life and the will of the Being
who stood behind that veil? And then would come rushing back that scene
in the schoolhouse, the smell of the steaming garments, the gases from
the lamps, the roar of the stove, the sound of his own voice, strident,
dominating, so alien to his present mood, he could only shudder at it.
He was worn out with thinking when he drove into the stable at the
Merchants' House and roused up the sleeping hostler, who looked at him
suspiciously and demanded pay in advance. This seemed right in his
present mood. He was not to be trusted.
When he flung himself face downward on his bed, the turmoil in his brain
was still going on. He couldn't hold one thought or feeling long; all
seemed slipping like water from his hands.
He had in him great capacity for change, for growth. Circumstances had
been against his development thus far, but the time had come when growth
seemed to be defeat and failure.