"What did you intend doing with 'em?"
"Present 'em to Miss Cole."
"Well, why didn't y' do it?"
Milton showed his white teeth in a smile that was frankly derisive of
himself.
"Well, when I got over there I found young Conley's sorrel hitched to
one post and Walt Brown's gray hitched to the other. I went in, but I
didn't stay long; in fact, I didn't sit down. I was afraid those
infernal apples would roll out o' my pockets. I was afraid they'd find
out I brought 'em over there for Miss Cole, like the darn fool I was."
They both laughed heartily. Milton was always as severe upon himself as
upon any one else.
"That's tough," said Ben, "but climb in, and let's go to Sunday-school."
Milton got in, and they ate the apples as they rode along.
The Grove schoolhouse was the largest in the township, and was the only
one with a touch of redeeming grace. It was in a lovely spot; great oaks
stood all about, and back of it the woods grew thick, and a clear creek
gurgled over its limestone bed not far away.
To Ben and Milton there was a wondrous charm about the Grove
schoolhouse. It was the one place where the boys and girls met in
garments disassociated from toil. Sundays in summer, and on winter
nights at lyceums or protracted meetings, the boys came to see the
girls in their bright dresses, with their clear and (so it seemed)
scornful bright eyes.
All through the service Ben sat where he could see Grace by turning his
head, but he had not the courage to do so. Once or twice he caught a
glimpse of the curve of her cheek and the delicate lines of her ear, and
a suffocating throb came into his throat.
He wanted to ask her to go with him down to Cedarville to the Methodist
camp-meeting, but he knew it was impossible. He could not even say "good
day" when she took pains to pass near him after church. He nodded like a
great idiot, all ease and dignity lost, his throat too dry and hot to
utter a sound.
He cursed his shyness as he went out after his horse. He saw her picking
her dainty way up the road with Conrad Sieger walking by her side. What
made it worse for Ben was a dim feeling that she liked him, and would go
with him if he had the courage to ask her.
"Well, Ben," said Milton, "it's settled, we go to Rock River to-night to
the camp-meeting. Did you ask Grace?"
"No, she's going with Con. It's just my blasted luck."
"That's too bad. Well, come with us. Take Maud."
As he rode away Ben passed Grace on the road.
"Going to the camp-meeting, Con?" asked Milton, in merry voice.
"I guess so," said Conrad, a handsome, but slow-witted German.
As they went on Ben could have wept. His keener perception told him
there was a look of appeal in Grace's upturned eyes.
He made a poor companion at dinner, and poor plain Maud knew his mind
was elsewhere. She was used to that and accepted it with a pathetic
attempt to color it differently.
They got away about five o'clock.
Ben drove the team, driving took his mind off his weakness and failure;
while Milton in the seclusion of the back seat of the carryall was happy
with Amelia Turner.
It was growing dark as they entered upon the curving road along the
river which was a relief from the rectangular and sun-smitten roads of
the prairie. They lingered under the great oaks and elms which shaded
them. It would have been perfect Ben thought, if Grace had been beside
him in Maud's place.
He wondered how he should manage to speak to Grace. There was a time
when it seemed easier. Now the consciousness of his love made the
simplest question seem like the great question of all.
Other teams were on the road, some returning, some going. A camp-meeting
had come to be an annual amusement, like a circus, and young people from
all over the country drove down on Sundays, as if to some celebration
with fireworks.
"There's the lane," said Milton. "See that team goin' in?"
Ben pulled up and they looked at it doubtfully. It looked dangerously
miry. It was quite dark now and Ben said:--
"That's a scaly piece of road."
"Oh, that's all right. Hark!"
As they listened they could hear the voice of the exhorter nearly a mile
away. It pushed across the cool spaces with a wild and savage sound. The
young people thrilled with excitement.
Insects were singing in the grass. Frogs with deepening chorus seemed to
announce the coming of night, and above these peaceful sounds came the
wild shouts of the far-off preacher, echoing through the cool green
arches of the splendid grove.
The girls became silent, as the voice grew louder.
Lights appeared ahead, and the road led up a slight hill to a gate. Ben
drove on under a grove of oaks, past dimly lighted tents, whose open
flaps showed tumbled beds and tables laden with crockery. Heavy women
were moving about inside, their shadows showing against the tent walls
like figures in a pantomime.
The young people alighted in curious silence. As they stood a moment,
tying the team, the preacher lifted his voice in a brazen, clanging,
monotonous reiteration of worn phrases.
"Come to the _Lord_! Come _now_! Come to the _light_! Jesus will give
it! _Now_ is the appointed time,--come to the _light_!"
From a tent near by arose the groaning, gasping, gurgling scream of a
woman in mortal agony.
"O my God!"
It was charged with the most piercing distress. It cut to the heart's
palpitating centre like a poniard thrust. It had murder and outrage in
it.