It seemed as if the people could not go away. The dingy little
schoolhouse was like unto the shining temple of God's grace, and the
regenerated seemed to fear that to go home might permit a return to hate
and strife. So they clung around the young preacher and would not let
him go.
At last he came out, with Allen holding to his arm. "You must come home
with us to-night," he pleaded, and the young minister with glad heart
consented, for he hoped he might walk beside Mattie; but this was not
possible. There were several others in the group, and they moved off two
and two up the deep hollows which formed the road in the snow.
The young minister walked with head uplifted to the stars, hearing
nothing 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 his
spiritual tension, and became more humanly aware of the significance of
sitting again with these people. He gave the girl his coat and hat, and
then watched her slip off her knitted hood and her cloak. Her eyes shone
with returning laughter, and her cheeks were flushed with blood.
Looking upon her, the young evangelist lost his look of exaltation, his
eyes grew soft and his limbs relaxed. His silence was no longer rapt--it
was the silence of delicious, drowsy reverie.
V
The next morning he did not rise at all. The collapse had come. The bad
air, the nervous strain, the lack of sleep, had worn down his slender
store of strength, and when the great victory came he fell like a tree
whose trunk has been slowly gnawed across by teeth of silent saw. His
drowse deepened into torpor.
In the bright winter morning, seated in a gay cutter behind a bay colt
strung with slashing bells, Mattie drove to Kesota for the doctor. She
felt the discord between the joyous jangle of the bells, the stream of
sunlight, and the sparkle of snow crystals, but it only added to the
poignancy of her anxiety.
She had not yet reached self-consciousness in her regard for the young
preacher--she thought of him as a noble human being, liable to death,
and she chirped again and again to the flying colt, whose broad hoofs
flung the snow in stinging showers against her face.
A call at the doctor's house set him jogging out along the lanes, while
she sent a telegram to Herman. As she whirled bay Tom into the road to
go home her heart rose in relief that was almost exaltation. She loved
horses. She always sang under her breath, chiming to the beat of their
bells, when alone, and now she loosened the rein and hummed an old
love-song, while the powerful young horse squared away in a trot which
was twelve miles an hour.
In such air, in such sun, who could die? Her good animal strength rose
dominant over fear of death.
She came upon the doctor swinging along in his old blue cutter, dozing
in 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 beyond
admiring such a girl as that. He snapped his whip-lash lightly on old
Sofia's back, who looked up surprised, and, seeming to comprehend
matters, began to reach out broad, flat, thin legs in a pace which the
proud 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 Sofia
still 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 dazed
quiet--conscious, but not definitely aware of material things.
The doctor looked his patient over carefully. Then he asked, "Who is the
yoong 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' caved
in, I reckon."
"That's all. Needs rest. He'll be wearin' a wood jacket if he doosna
leave off preachin'."
"Regular jamboree. I couldn't stop him. One of these periodical
neighborhood '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 be
eatin' what they cuke for 'im," said the candid old Scotchman. "Mak' 'im
eat! Mak' 'im eat!"
Once more Tom pounded along the shining road to Kesota to meet the
six-o'clock train from Chicago.
Herman, magnificently clothed in fur-lined ulster and cap, alighted with
unusually 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 I
should be yanked out of my boots by a telegram because the teacher is
sick! He isn't kin--yet."
For the first time a feeling of confusion swept over Mattie, and her
face 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 a
wonderful 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 his
head 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. A
regular 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 tell
you, but Wallace talked, oh, so beautiful and tender!"
"She calls him Wallace?" mused Herman, like a comedian. "Hush! And then
came the hand-shaking, and then the minister came home with us because
father 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 you
another 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 so
did 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 glad
that the district will be all friendly again."
Herman did not gibe now. His voice was gentle. The pathos in the scene
appealed to him. "So the old man sent for me himself, did he?"
"Yes; he could hardly wait till morning. But this morning, when we came
to call the teacher, he didn't answer, and father went in and found him
unconscious. Then I went for the doctor."
Bay Tom whirled along in the splendid dusk, his nostrils flaring ghostly
banners of steam on the cold, crisp air. The stars overhead were points
of green and blue and crimson light, low-hung, changing each moment.
Their influence entered the soul of the mocking young fellow. He felt
very solemn, almost melancholy, for a moment.
"Well, Sis, I've got something to tell you all. I'm going to tell it to
you 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 a
restaurant, and she's a fine girl," he added, steadily, as if combating
a prejudice. He forgot for the moment that such prejudices did not exist
in 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 see
her!"
"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 old
spindle-legs! If I'd known he was going to raise such a ruction in our
quiet and peaceful neighborhood, I never would have brought him here."
Mattie did not laugh; she pondered. She never quite understood her
brother when he went off on those queer tirades, which might be a joke
or 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 an
additional question from Mattie concerning his sweetheart.
As they neared the farm-house she lost interest in all else but the
condition of the young minister. They could see the light burning dimly
in his room, and in the parlor and kitchen as well, and this unusual
lighting stirred the careless young man deeply. It was associated in his
mind with death and birth, and also with great joy. The house was
lighted so the night his elder brother died, and it looked so to him
when he whirled into the yard with the doctor when Mattie was born.
"Oh, 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 realized
suddenly the emotional tension his father was in. As the old man came to
the sleigh-side he could not speak. His fingers trembled as he took the
outstretched 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 primeval
passions as these made him feel like a spectator at some new and
powerful and tragic play.
His mother fell upon his neck and cried, while Mattie stood by pale and
anxious. 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. All
day the house had swarmed with people. All day this mother had looked
forward to the reconciliation of her husband with her son. All day had
the pale and silent minister of God kept his corpse-like calm, while all
about the white snow gleamed, and radiant shadows filled every hollow,
and the cattle bawled and frisked in the barn-yard, and the fowls
cackled joyously, what time the mild, soft wind breathed warmly over the
land.
Mattie cried out to her mother, in quick, low voice, "Oh mother, how is
he?"
"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 so
glad. 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, talking
in low voices. The old doctor was permitting himself the luxury of a
story of pioneer life. He arose with automatic courtesy, and shook hands
with Herman.
"How's the sick man getting on?"
"Vera well--vera well--consederin' the mon is a complete
worn-out--that's all--naethin' more. Thes floom-a-didale bezniss of
rantin' away on the fear o' the Laird for sax weeks wull have worn out
the frame of a bool-dawg."