THE CHURCHING
The dawning of Wednesday brought one of those drab days so frequent in
the lake-country. The daylight, dim even at high noon, hardly suggested
a possible sun shining anywhere. Misty sheets of stinging ice-particles
drove from the northern skyline to the hill south of Ithaca.
The snow crunched sharply under Tessibel's feet as she picked her way
from the shanty to the lane. Kennedy's brindle bull, leaping and
barking, invited her to a frolic. The girl called the dog to her, and
petted him.
"No, no, Pete, Tess ain't able to run an' play with ye any more," she
told him, sadly, "but ye can go with me to Hayt's."
Nuzzling her hand, the great dog walked soberly by her side, as though
he understood. Tess shivered a little as the frost-laden air bit
nippingly at her ears. The winter birds between her and the lake lifted
their wings and mounted against the wind, some driving in flocks, others
now and then by twos and threes. Tess followed their flight through the
storm.... How strong and happy they seemed!
For an instant she paused at the gate in front of Deforrest Young's
empty house. The snow had drifted until the path could no longer be
discerned. A little twinge of loneliness touched Tessibel's heart. Her
friend would not be at the church that day.
When she came within sight of the chapel, she bent and petted Pete. She
took his head between her gloved hands and looked into the lovely eyes
shining out of his ugly face.
"Go home, Petey dearie," she said. "Tessibel air goin' to church. They
don't let dogs in God's house, honey."
Obediently the dog turned and trotted off.
Tess opened the chapel door and stepped in. Buffeted, as she had been by
the storm, she met the warmth within with a grateful little sigh.
Half-way to the stove in the middle of the room, she stopped, arrested
by the unusual group beyond. Ebenezer Waldstricker stood there,
surrounded by the elders of the church. In all she counted five men: the
minister, Silander Griggs, and three elders. At one side sat Frederick
Graves.
Puzzled and embarrassed by Frederick's presence and appearance,
half-conscious of something menacing in the stern faces turned toward
her, she was tempted, weary as she was, to turn back into the blizzard
raging without. As she awkwardly scraped the snow from her shoes, Pastor
Griggs came to her and led her to a seat near the fire.
Waldstricker gazed at her critically, but didn't bow his head. Tessibel
didn't mind if people failed to speak to her, and she didn't like
Waldstricker anyway. She did not look at Frederick after that first
fleeting glance, but bowed her head on the pew-back in front from sheer
weariness. The memory of that scene in the cabin three weeks previous
recurred with renewed clearness. Madelene's insulting words, re-echoing
in her ears, made her grow faint from stinging humiliation. Oh, how
sorry she was she'd come to church! She could have asked Jake Brewer to
bring up a note explaining that she could not take part in the Christmas
doings.
The sound of moving feet told her the time had arrived for opening the
meeting. If she thought at all of the absence of the female members of
the church, she sought for no other reason than the steadily increasing
blizzard.
One by one she heard the men take their places. Then, the pastor cleared
his throat loudly and began to pray. Perfect silence save for his
droning voice filled the small chapel. Tess heard him praying for the
members of the congregation, for the mothers at home with their
children, and as usual for all earthly sinners.
"And particularly, dear Lord," continued the deep voice, "may thy tender
mercy and loving kindness visit the heart of our sinning sister here
present and soften it, making her obedient to these thy servants, to
whom Thou hast committed the government of thy church."
Why! What had he said? "Sinning sister ... here present." Why, they were
all men but her! The pastor finished his prayer with a resounding
"Amen," in which the elders joined reverently. Confused, Tessibel sat
back in the pew, puzzled and frightened.
"I have before me here on my desk," Griggs announced, "a letter from
Deforrest Young. In answer to a letter from the church, asking him to be
with us this afternoon, he has requested that Brother Ebenezer
Waldstricker be instructed to vote in his name.... I do so instruct you,
Brother Waldstricker."
Ebenezer moved in his seat as if in consent.
"It's a delicate matter which we have to consider," observed the
minister, looking from pale face to pale face.
Tessibel glanced at the speaker. He, too, was ashen in the dim afternoon
light.
"Come to the point, please," commanded Waldstricker, curtly.
The minister bowed his head in silent prayer.
"Tessibel Skinner," he said, "I ask you to stand up."
The girl got up obediently, but sank down again, her trembling legs
refused to support her. She did not, however, turn her startled brown
eyes from her pastor's face.
"It is charged against you, Tessibel Skinner," he read from a paper
before him, "that you have broken the laws of God and violated the
discipline of this church; that you, an unmarried woman, are now
pregnant. Are you guilty or not guilty?"
As the accusing voice ceased, the stern eyes of the dark-faced men, who
had watched her closely during the reading, seemed to pierce her through
and through, ... to lay bare her most intimate secrets.
What should she say? She wasn't unmarried, as the pastor had charged,
but the rest was true. Without Frederick's consent, she couldn't
explain; she couldn't deny the charge. Surely, Frederick would stand
forth and defend her now. She listened intently for a sound from him.
She dared not turn toward him, for fear she might break her promise by
some look or word. But nothing except the storm-sounds disturbed the
silence of the little church. Frederick had failed her again!
Unable alike to plead guilty or not guilty, she sat head bowed and eyes
downcast before her judges.
Waldstricker broke the appalling hush.
"Speak up, girl," he ordered harshly. "You're guilty, aren't you?"
The forlorn child struggled to her feet and raised her eyes to the
speaker's face.
"Oh, sirs, don't ask me 'bout it," she begged with outstretched hands.
"I can't tell ye nothing 'bout it 'cept ... I air goin' to have a baby
in the spring."
Waldstricker glanced significantly at the other elders who nodded in
acquiescence. Then he turned to the minister, still in the pulpit.
"It is enough," he decided sternly. "She has confessed her sin."
Dropping again into the pew, Tessibel cast a quick glance toward
Frederick, who stared set-faced out into the storm.
"We find, Tessibel Skinner," continued the minister, as though reciting
a carefully rehearsed speech, "you have sinned grievously. Your silence
convicts you. You are no longer worthy of membership in this church, of
communion with Christian people. But it is not right that you should
suffer alone. For your soul's welfare and in the interest of justice, I
ask you the name of the man--"
Tess got up again and faced them ... disgraced and outcast might be, but
she must be loyal to her promise.
"Don't ask me that, sir," she pleaded, bewildered, flinging a terrified
glance toward the door. "I air goin' now, an'll never come no more, but
don't ask me to say nothin', please."
She turned into the aisle as Griggs stepped from the platform. She
directed an appealing glance toward him that cut the man's heart through
like a knife.
"I want to go," she repeated. "Please!"
"Not yet," broke in Waldstricker, grim-jawed. "It's the duty of this
church to teach you a lesson if it can."
Tess looked helplessly at the row of stern men. What did they intend to
do to her? Oh, if they'd but let her go back to Daddy Skinner!
"Please let me go home to my daddy," she pleaded faintly. "I'll never
come no more, but I can't--I can't talk."
Waldstricker walked toward her menacingly.
"You've got to talk," he gritted, grasping her arm. "You've simply got
to answer what the pastor just asked you."
Tess flashed him a look of abhorrence. Oh, how she hated this man!... It
seemed to her that he killed for the sake of killing ... tortured for
the pure joy of it. She set her teeth hard on her under lip, shaking his
hand from her arm.
"I won't talk!" she cried. "You let go of me! See? You touch me again
an'--an'--I'll--I'll--"
She paused for some fitting threat. Would no one help her? No, not a
friendly face met her searching gaze. If she could get to the door--out
into the snow, under God's grey sky! But as if divining her intention,
the elders gathered in an accusing squad in front of her. Frederick
remained in his chair by the window, apparently oblivious to the tragedy
being enacted in his presence.
"I wish ye'd let me go home to my Daddy Skinner," she prayed again.
Her curls fell in a cluster over either shoulder as she sank to her
knees in the aisle.
Waldstricker whirled upon Griggs.
"_Make_ her tell us what we must know," he insisted, "or by the God that
rules this house, I'll have her sent to some place where incorrigible
girls go!"
Incorrigible girls! He had said incorrigible girls of her, Tessibel
Skinner, who obeyed even a glance from any one she loved. Desperately,
she made a direct appeal to him.
"My daddy's near dead, Mr. Waldstricker. Please don't send me away from
him, not yet--not just yet."
"Then answer what we ask of you, child," interjected the minister. "I
think Brother Waldstricker has some questions to ask you."
Waldstricker drew a paper from his pocket.
"How old are you, Tessibel Skinner?" he demanded.
"Over half past sixteen," whispered the girl's white lips.
She _was_ over half past sixteen. There was no harm in telling that. It
wouldn't hurt Frederick for the church people to know her age.
"Are you a member of this church?"
Tessibel lifted her head. "Ye all know I air."
"Then answer this," shouted Eb. "Who is the man that made you unfit for
decent people to speak to?"
The wobegone face hid its crimson tide in two quivering hands. The end
of the shining red curls swept the floor. Frederick made no sound.
"Who is he?" insisted Waldstricker once more.
"I can't tell," moaned the girl.
"I'll make you tell," he threatened, infuriated.
"I won't!" reiterated Tess, raising her head. "I can't."
Madelene's sad, tearful face flashed through Waldstricker's mind with
the suspicions she had aroused against Frederick. Like an angry horse,
his nostrils lifted and sniffed the air. Fury against this girl rode in
his heart.
"You needn't tell us the man's name," he taunted triumphantly. "We
already know it."
Up struggled Tess to her feet and thrust back the tawny curls
feverishly. If they knew, then Frederick had told them.
"And you've got to marry him," Waldstricker's hoarse voice came to her
ears.
Why, she was married to him!... that long ago night. If he had told them
anything, why had he not told them all? She dared not look around, but
waited breathlessly.
"We've decided," Ebenezer proceeded, "that if you consent to our plans,
you will suffer no further disgrace. You can go away with your husband
and have your home--"
Tess grew dizzy ... this time with joy. She had been given back her
husband, her Frederick! Waldstricker had used the word "home." A home
with--with--His voice broke in upon her dreams brusquely, creating
grotesque figures in her brain. What was he saying? She turned dilating
eyes toward him.
"Lysander Letts! Lysander Letts!" Waldstricker shouted again.
The door at the side of the pulpit swung open and Sandy slouched in and
came forward.
"Here's your woman," the elder continued, looking from Tess to the
squatter. "Take her, and may God forgive you both for the sin you've
committed."
Tess stood rigidly waiting. She didn't turn her head toward the oncoming
man; rather she centered a prolonged gaze upon her persecutor. When she
felt some one pause at her side, she moved away, still without speaking.
"Parson Griggs, marry the man and woman," roared Waldstricker.
Excitedly he tossed the damp hair from his forehead, his cheek muscles
working involuntarily. His scheme was near its fruition. Tessibel
Skinner was almost married. Already Ebenezer could see, in his mind's
eye, how happy Madelene would be when he brought her the news.
The big, dark-faced squatter was standing beside the red-headed girl,
and Silander Griggs was hurriedly hunting through a book for the
marriage ceremony.
"Make it short," gritted Waldstricker to the minister.
Tess stood as if she had died standing, her face devoid of blood even to
the lips. Misery, deep and unutterable, rested upon the white face. When
she raised her eyes and saw Letts at her side, and Griggs with an open
book in front of her, she wheeled away without a word.
"Marry him!" cried Waldstricker.
"No," said Tess.
"Letts, take hold of her hand," commanded the elder.
Sandy, rage working alive in his eyes, tried to obey the churchman. But
the girl took another step away.
"Gimme yer hand," growled Sandy.
All he wanted was to get the squatter girl into his possession. He had
not forgotten the threats he had made in other days, and in another
hour, he would wring from her the name he wanted.
"No," said Tess again.
"You mean you're not going to marry Mr. Letts?" asked Griggs.
Tessibel caught her breath, swayed, but shook her head.
"No, I ain't goin' to marry 'im," she answered.
Marry Sandy Letts, a man she hated! Of course she couldn't!... She was
already married. She couldn't commit such a sin as that, not even
if--if--She turned a little and glanced in the direction of Frederick,
but dropped her eyes before they found him.
Waldstricker grew intense with suspense, and a sudden determination to
test his and Madelene's suspicions came over him.
"Frederick," he cried, "come here and help us force this huzzy to marry
the man who betrayed her!"
Frederick rose from his chair as though to obey, and in turning, looked
squarely into the girl's eyes.
"My God, Eb, I can't!" he protested, his voice thick with horror. "Let
her go, Eb! For God's sake, man, you can't marry her against her will!
Let her go!"
He sank down, and rested his head on his arms upon the chair back, his
shoulders shaking violently.
The minister came to Tessibel's side. He placed a pitying hand on her
head, facing his elders.
"Let her go home, brethren," he entreated. "You can't make her do this
thing if she refuses, and the ... business can go on without her."
"She's a wicked girl," snorted Ebenezer, with a bitter twist of his
lips.
"I say to let her go," repeated Griggs.
"And I say she shall be punished," Waldstricker glared from the minister
to the elders and then rested his gaze on Frederick, who was by this
time sobbing in great gulps.
Pastor Griggs considered his parishioner's angry face. Griggs was young
and stood in awe of some members of his flock--Waldstricker most of all,
but the sight of the girl in such anguish overcame his timidity, and he
cried:
"Let him that is without sin among you first cast a stone at her."
Tessibel sank sobbing to the floor, and her pastor stood by her side,
hand uplifted, waiting.
Then over Ebenezer's countenance flashed a look of self-righteous
fanaticism, which made large the pupils of his dark eyes and inflamed
his swarthy skin deepest crimson. He strode to the stove, picked from
the scuttle a ragged chunk of coal, and when he turned again, he had
changed from red to white. Crazed, he took two steps toward the kneeling
girl.
"I can cast the first stone," he said swiftly.
He lifted his arm and before any man could stay his hand, something
whirled through the intervening space and struck the kneeling squatter
girl. High pandemonium broke loose. Voices, some censorious, some
approving, contended.
"I have first cast a stone at her," cried Waldstricker, above the din.
"Let others follow if they dare!"
Tessibel crouched lower to the floor, a bleeding wound in her neck. She
had made no outcry when the missile met and lacerated her flesh. Dully,
she wondered if they intended to kill her, and for a moment a sickening
dread took possession of her when she thought of Daddy and Andy. She was
growing faint and dizzy, but struggled to her feet as Griggs took her
arm. He led her through the Chapel aisle, pushing aside the other men.
At the door, Tess caught one glimpse of Sandy Letts' dark, passionate
face.
"Go home," the minister said hoarsely; "and may God forgive us all."
* * * * *
How Tessibel found her way home, she could never afterwards tell. Spent
by the struggle with the storm, she staggered into the shanty. It took
almost the last atom of her strength to close the door against the
howling blizzard. Leaning against the wall, she looked up and saw Andy
staring at her from the hole in ceiling, his fingers on his lips.
"It were awful cold under the bed," he told her. "Yer Daddy air asleep,
so I came up here to keep warm!"
When he noticed the girl's unusual appearance, he scurried down the
ladder, waddled across the kitchen, and stood in front of his friend.
"What air the matter, brat?" he quivered.
Solicitous, he helped her into a chair near the fire and took off her
hat and coat. The blood from the neck wound had made crimson blotches on
her white waist.
"Ye're hurt, honey," he cried, alarmed. "How'd it happen?"
"I air hurt a little," said she, faintly. "Fetch me some water, dear,
an' don't--don't tell Daddy!"
"Get on the cot, kid," said he, "an' I'll put up the bar."
In another moment he was leaning over her. He brushed back the tousled
hair from the girl's forehead, and pulled away the long curls seeped
with blood.
"I air yer friend, brat," he whispered. "Tell me 'bout it."
Tessibel had to confide in somebody.
"I'll get a rag first an' wipe ye off," said the dwarf. "My, but ye did
get a cut, didn't ye?... What did it?"
Gently he began to wash away the crimson stain from her face and neck.
"Somebody hit ye?" he demanded presently.
"Yep."
"Who?... Who dared do it?" The dwarf's face darkened with rage. "Where
were the brute that done it?"
"Andy," sobbed Tess, "I air goin' to tell ye somethin'; ye may think I
air awful wicked, but--but--Andy, don't tell Daddy, but in the spring I
air goin' to--"
"Yep, I know, Tess," he murmured. "I heard the woman yellin' at ye the
uther day way through my blankets. But 'tain't nothin' to cry over.
God'll bless ye, brat, and God'll bless--it!"
Her sobbing slowly subsided, and in halting words Tess told the dwarf
the story of the afternoon's dreadful experience.
"And, Andy, it were awful. Mr. Griggs wanted to let me go home, but the
uther men wouldn't, an' then the minister says like Jesus did to the men
who were goin' to stone the poor woman, 'Let him that ain't a sinner
throw the first stone,' an' Waldstricker picked up a great hunk o' coal
and hit me with it. Do ye suppose he air so awful good an' I air so
awful wicked he had a right to strike me?"
"Sure he didn't, Tess," Andy comforted. "Course not!"
The willows moaned their weird song to the night, the wind shrieked in
battling anger over the tin on the roof, while the snowflakes came
against the window like pale eyes looking in upon the squatter girl and
the dwarf on his knees beside the cot bed.