"Aye, even there. He lieth at the point of death. So are the wicked
brought into desolation. Yesterday, as he rode in the wood, his horse cast
him down so that it is thought he may not live till dark. I am sent for by
his pious sisters to wrestle with him in prayer. Oh, Deborah, now is the
time to strike the last blow for the salvation of our son. Let him see how
the devil carries off the transgressor into the fires of hell, or let him
see how, at the last, the proudest must make confession of his wicked
unbelief----"
He hurled himself through the door like a javelin, while his wife turned
to explain to Nathaniel the reason for the minister's putting on his
Sabbath voice of a week-day morning. He cried out miserably, "Oh, mother,
_don't_ make me go there!"
"Nay, Nathaniel, there is naught new. You have been with us before to many
a sickbed and seen many a righteous death. This is an ill man, whose
terrors at the reward of his unbelief will be like goodly medicine to your
sick soul, and teach you to lay hold on righteousness while there is yet
time."
"But, mother, my Uncle Elzaphan said--I asked him this morning about
Colonel Hall--that he had done naught but good to all men, that he had
fought bravely with French and Indians, that the poor had half of his
goods, that--"
She took him by the hand and dragged him relentlessly out upon the street.
"Your Uncle Elzaphan is a man of no understanding, and does not know that
the devil has no more subtile lure than a man who does good works but who
is not of the true faith. Aye, he maketh a worse confusion to the simple
than he who worketh iniquity by noonday."
She led him through the village street, through a long curving lane where
he had never been before, and down an avenue of maple-trees to a house at
which he had always been forbidden even to look. Various of the neighbor
women were hurrying along in the same direction. As they filed up the
stairs he trembled to hear his father's voice already raised in the
terrible tones of one of his inspired hours. At the entrance to the sick
chamber he clung for a moment to the door, gazing at the wild-eyed women
who knelt about the room, their frightened eyes fixed on his father. His
knees shook under him. He had a qualm of nausea at the slimy images of
corruption and decay which the minister was trumpeting forth as the end to
all earthly pride.
His mother pushed him inexorably forward into the room, and then, across
the nightmare of frenzy, he met the calm gaze of the dying man. It was the
turning-point of his life.
He ran to the bed, falling on his knees, clasping the great knotty hand
and searching the eyes which were turned upon him, gently smiling. The
minister, well pleased with this evidence of his son's emotion, caught his
breath for another flight of eloquence which should sear and blast the
pretensions of good works as opposed to the true faith. "See how low the
Lord layeth the man who thinks to bargain with the Almighty, and to ransom
his soul from hell by deeds which are like dust and ashes to Jehovah."
Nathaniel crept closer and whispered under cover of his father's
thunderings, "Oh, you are truly not afraid?"
The dying man looked at him, his eyes as steady as when they were in the
woods. "Nay, little comrade, it is all a part of life."
After that he seemed to sink into partial unconsciousness. Nathaniel felt
his hand grow colder, but he still held it, grasping it more tightly when
he felt the fumes of his father's reeking eloquence mount to his brain.
The women were all sobbing aloud. A young girl was writhing on the floor,
her groans stifled by her mother's hand. The air of the room was stifling
with hysteria. The old sister of the dying man called out, "Oh, quick,
Master Everett. He is going. Exhort him now to give us some token that at
the last he repents of his unbelief."
The minister whirled about, shaking with his own violence. The sweat was
running down his face. "Gideon Hall, I charge you to say if you repent of
your sins."
There was a pause. The silence was suffocating.
The old man gradually aroused himself from his torpor, although he did not
open his eyes. "Aye, truly I repent me of my sins," he whispered mildly,
"for any unkindness done to any man, or----"
The minister broke in, his voice mounting shrilly, "Nay, not so, thou
subtle mocker. Dost thou repent thee of thy unbelief in the true faith?"
Colonel Gideon Hall opened his eyes. He turned his head slowly on the
pillow until he faced the preacher, and at the sight of his terrible eyes
and ecstatic pallor he began to laugh whimsically, as he had laughed in
the wood with Nathaniel. "Why, man, I thought you did but frighten women
with it--not yourself too. Nay, do not trouble about me. _I_ don't believe
in your damned little hell."
The smile on his face gradually died away into a still serenity, which was
there later, when the minister lifted his son away from the dead man's
bed.
V
The four old men walked sturdily forward with their burden, although at
intervals they slipped their tall staves under the corners and rested,
wiping their foreheads and breathing hard. As they stood thus silent,
where the road passed through a thicket of sumac, a boy came rapidly
around the curve and was upon them before he saw that he was not alone.
He stopped short and made a guilty motion to hide a bundle that he
carried. The old men stared at him, and reassured by this absence of
recognition he advanced slowly, looking curiously at the great scarlet
flag which hung in heavy folds from their burden.
"Is this the road to Woodburn?" he asked them.
"Aye," they answered briefly.
He had almost passed them when he stopped again, drawing in his breath.
"Oh, are you--is this Colonel--"
"Aye, lad," said the oldest of the bearers, "this is the funeral
procession of the best commander and truest man who ever lived."
"But why--" began the boy, looking at the flag.
"He's wrapped in the flag of the king that he was a loyal servant to,
because the damned psalm-singing hypocrites in the town where he lived of
late would not make a coffin for him--no, nor allow ground to bury
him--no, nor men to bear him out to his grave! We be men who have served
under him in three wars, and we come from over the mountain to do the last
service for him. He saved our lives for us more than once--brave Colonel
Gid!"
They all uncovered at the name, and the boy shyly and awkwardly took his
cap off.
"May I--may I see him once again?" he asked, dropping his bundle. "He
saved my life too."
Two men put their gnarled old hands to the flag and drew it down from the
head of the bier. The boy did not speak, but he went nearer and nearer
with an expression on his face which one of the old men answered aloud.
"Aye, is he not at peace! God grant we may all look so when the time
comes."
They let the flag fall over the dead face again, set their shoulders to
the bier, and moved forward, bringing down their great staves rhythmically
as they walked. The boy stood still looking after them. When they passed
out into the sunshine of the open hillside he ran to the edge of the
thicket so that he could still follow them with his eyes. They plodded on,
growing smaller and smaller in the distance, until as they paused on the
crest of the hill only a spot of red could be seen, brilliant against the
brilliant sky.
The boy went back and picked up his bundle. When he returned to the edge
of the thicket the spot of red was disappearing over the hill. He took off
his cap and stood there until there was nothing before him but the sun
shining on the hillside.
Then he turned about, and walking steadily, Nathaniel Everett entered into
his own world.