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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/7311-0.txt b/7311-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a43cc36 --- /dev/null +++ b/7311-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6228 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Leatherwood God, by William Dean Howells + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Leatherwood God + +Author: William Dean Howells + + +Release Date: January, 2005 [EBook #7311] +This file was first posted on April 11, 2003 +Last Updated: February 25, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEATHERWOOD GOD *** + + + + +Produced by Nathan Harris, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks, +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + +THE LEATHERWOOD GOD + +By William Dean Howells + + +Illustrations by Henry Raleigh + + + + +[Illustration: He was now towering over those near him, with his head +thrown back, and his hair tossed like a mane on his shoulders] + + + + +PUBLISHER'S NOTE + +The author thinks it well to apprise the reader that the historical +outline of this story is largely taken from the admirable narrative of +Judge Taneyhill in the _Ohio Valley Series_, Robert Clarke Co., +Cincinnati. The details are often invented, and the characters are all +invented as to their psychological evolution, though some are based upon +those of real persons easily identifiable in that narrative. The drama is +that of the actual events in its main development; but the vital +incidents, or the vital uses of them, are the author's. At times he has +enlarged them; at times he has paraphrased the accounts of the witnesses; +in one instance he has frankly reproduced the words of the imposter as +reported by one who heard Dylks's last address in the Temple at +Leatherwood and as given in the Taneyhill narrative. Otherwise the story +is effectively fiction. + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + +He was now towering over those near him, with his head thrown back, and +his hair tossed like a mane on his shoulders. + +Nancy stood staring at her, with words beyond saying in her heart--words +that rose in her throat and choked her. + +“You believe, maybe, that you would be struck dead if you said the things +that I do; but why ain't I struck dead?” + +“It's _my_ cloth! I spun it, I wove it, every thread! It's all we've +got for our clothes this winter!” + +“_Now_ you can see how it feels to have your own husband slap you.” + +She had begun to wash his wound, very gently, though she spoke so +roughly, while he murmured with the pain and with the comfort of the pain. + +They swarmed forward to the altar-place and flung themselves on the +ground, and heaped the pulpit-steps with their bodies. + +“And he went down ag'in, and when he come up ag'in, his face was all +soakin' wet, like he'd been crying under the water.” + + + + +THE LEATHERWOOD GOD + + +Already, in the third decade of the nineteenth century, the settlers in +the valley of Leatherwood Creek had opened the primeval forest to their +fields of corn and tobacco on the fertile slopes and rich bottom-lands. +The stream had its name from the bush growing on its banks, which with its +tough and pliable bark served many uses of leather among the pioneers; +they made parts of their harness with it, and the thongs which lifted +their door-latches, or tied their shoes, or held their working clothes +together. The name passed to the settlement, and then it passed to the +man, who came and went there in mystery and obloquy, and remained +lastingly famed in the annals of the region as the Leatherwood God. + +At the time he appeared the community had become a center of influence, +spiritual as well as material, after a manner unknown to later conditions. +It was still housed, for the most part, in the log cabins which the +farmers built when they ceased to be pioneers, but in the older clearings, +and along the creek a good many frame dwellings stood, and even some of +brick. The population, woven of the varied strains from the North, East +and South which have mixed to form the Mid-Western people, enjoyed an ease +of circumstance not so great as to tempt their thoughts from the other +world and fix them on this. In their remoteness from the political centers +of the young republic, they seldom spoke of the civic questions stirring +the towns of the East; the commercial and industrial problems which vex +modern society were unknown to them. Religion was their chief interest and +the seriousness which they had inherited from their Presbyterian, +Methodist, Lutheran, and Moravian ancestry was expressed in their orderly +and diligent lives; but the general prosperity had so far relaxed the +stringency of their several creeds that their distinctive public rite had +come to express a mutual toleration. The different sects had their +different services; their ceremonies of public baptism, their revivals, +their camp-meetings; but they gathered as one Christian people under the +roof of the log-built edifice, thrice the size of their largest dwelling, +which they called the Temple. + + + + +I + + +A storm of the afternoon before had cleared the mid-August air. The early +sun was hot, but the wind had carried away the sultry mists, and infused +fresh life into the day. Where Matthew Braile sat smoking his corncob pipe +in the covered porchway between the rooms of his double-log cabin he +insensibly shared the common exhilaration, and waited comfortably for the +breakfast of bacon and coffee which his wife was getting within. As he +smoked on he inhaled with the odors from her cooking the dense rich smell +of the ripening corn that stirred in the morning breeze on three sides of +the cabin, and the fumes of the yellow tobacco which he had grown, and +cured, and was now burning. His serenity was a somewhat hawklike repose, +but the light that came into his narrowed eyes was of rather amused +liking, as a man on a claybank horse rode up before the cabin in the space +where alone it was not hidden by the ranks of the tall corn. The man sat +astride a sack with a grist of corn in one end balanced by a large stone +in the other, and he made as if he were going on to the mill without +stopping; but he yielded apparently to a temptation from within, since +none had come from without. “Whoa!” he shouted at the claybank, which the +slightest whisper would have stayed; and then he called to the old man on +the porch, “Fine mornun', Squire!” + +Braile took out his pipe, and spat over the edge of the porch, before he +called back, “Won't you light and have some breakfast?” + +“Well, no, thank you, Squire,” the man said, and at the same time he +roused the claybank from an instant repose, and pushed her to the cabin +steps. “I'm just on my way down to Brother Hingston's mill, and I reckon +Sally don't want me to have any breakfast till I bring back the meal for +her to git it with; anyway that's what she said when I left.” Braile +answered nothing, and the rider of the claybank added, with a certain +uneasiness as if for the effect of what he was going to say, “I was up +putty late last night, and I reckon I overslep',” he parleyed. Then, as +Braile remained silent, he went on briskly, “I was wonderin' if you hearn +about the curious doun's last night at the camp-meetun'.” + +Braile, said, without ceasing to smoke, “You're the first one I've seen +this morning, except my wife. She wasn't at the camp-meeting.” His +aquiline profile, which met close at the lips from the loss of his teeth, +compressed itself further in leaving the whole burden of the affair to the +man on the claybank, and his narrowed eyes were a line of mocking under +the thick gray brows that stuck out like feathers above them. + +“Well, sir, it was great doun's,” the other said, wincing a little under +the old man's indifference. Braile relented so far as to ask, “Who was at +the bellows?” + +The other answered with a certain inward deprecation of the grin that +spread over his face, and the responsive levity of his phrase, “There was +a change of hands, but the one that kep' the fire goun' the hardes' and +the hottes' was Elder Grove.” + +Braile made “Hoonck!” in the scornful guttural which no English spelling +can represent. + +“Yes, sir,” the man on the claybank went on, carried forward by his own +interest, but helpless to deny himself the guilty pleasure of falling in +with Braile's humor, “he had 'em goun' lively, about midnight, now I tell +you: whoopun' and yellun', and rippun' and stavun', and fallun' down with +the jerks, and pullun' and haulun' at the sinners, to git 'em up to the +mourners' bench, and hurrahun' over 'em, as fast as they was knocked down +and drug out. I never seen the beat of it in all _my_ born days.” + +“You don't make out anything very strange, Abel Reverdy,” Braile said, +putting his pipe back into his mouth and beginning to smoke it again into +a lost activity. + +“Well, I hain't come to it yit,” Reverdy apologized. “I reckon there +never was a bigger meetun' in Leatherwood Bottom, anywhere. Folks there +from twenty mile round, just slathers; I reckon there was a thousand if +there was one.” + +“Hoonch!” Braile would not trouble to take out his pipe in making the +sound now; the smoke got into his lungs, and he coughed. + +Reverdy gained courage to go on, but he went on in the same strain, +whether in spite of himself or not. “There was as many as four exhorters +keepun' her up at once to diff'rent tunes, and prayun' and singun' +everywhere, so you couldn't hear yourself think. Every exhorter had a +mourners' bench in front of him, and I counted as many as eighty mourners +on 'em at one time. The most of 'em was settun' under Elder Grove, and he +was poundun' the kingdom into 'em good and strong. When the Spirit took +him he roared so that he had the Hounds just flaxed out; you couldn't +ketch a yelp from 'em.” + +“Many Hounds?” Braile asked, in a sort of cold sympathy with the riotous +outlaws known to the religious by that name. + +“Mought been 'fore I got there. But by that time I reckon they was most +of 'em on the mourners' benches. They ought to tar and feather some of +them fellers, or ride 'em on a rail anyway, comun' round, and makun' +trouble on the edge of camp-meetun's. I didn't hear but one toot from +their horns, last night, and either because the elder had shamed 'em back +into the shadder of the woods, or brought 'em forwards into the light, +there wasn't a Hound, not to _call_ a Hound, anywheres. I tell you it +was a sight, Squire; you ought to 'a' been there yourself.” Reverdy +grinned at his notion. “They had eight camp-fires goun' instead o' four, +on top of the highest stageun's yit, so the whole place was lit up as +bright as day; and when the elder stopped short and sudden, and the other +exhorters held back their tommyhawks, and all the saints and sinners left +off their groanun' and jerkun' to see what was comun', now it was a great +sight, I tell you, Squire. The elder he put up his hand and says he, 'Let +us pray!' and the blaze from all them stageun's seemed to turn itself +right onto him, and the smoke and the leaves hung like a big red cloud +over him, and everybody had their eyes fastened tight on his face, like +they couldn't turn 'em anywhere else if they tried. But he didn't begin +prayun' straight off. He seemed to stop, and then says he, 'What shall we +pray for?' and just then there came a kind of a snort, and a big voice +shouted out, 'Salvation!' and then there come another snort,--'_Hooff_!'--like +there was a scared horse got loose right in there among the people; and +some of 'em jumped up from their seats, and tumbled over the benches, +and some of 'em bounced off, and fell into fits, and the women screeched +and fainted, thick as flies. It give me about the worst feelun' I ever +had in my life: went through me like a ax, and others said the same; +some of 'em said it was like beun' scared in the dark, or more like when +you think you're just goun' to die.” + +Abel Reverdy stopped for the effect on Braile, who had been smoking +tranquilly throughout, and who now asked quietly, “And what was it?” + +“What was it? A man! A stranger that nobody seen before, and nobody +suspicioned was there till they hearn him give that kind of snort, and +they seen him standun' right in front of the mourners' bench under Elder +Grove's pulpit. He was in his bare head, and he had a suit of long, +glossy, jet-black hair hengun down back of his ears clean to his +shoulders. He was kind of pale like, and sad-lookun', and he had a Roman +nose some like yourn, and eyes like two coals, just black fire, kind of. +He was putty thickset, round the shoulders, but he slimmed down towards +his legs, and he stood about six feet high. But the thing of it,” Reverdy +urged, seeing that Braile remained outwardly unmoved, “was the way he was +dressed. I s'pose the rest beun' all in brown jeans, and linsey woolsey, +made us notice it more. He was dressed in the slickest kind of black +broadcloth, with a long frock-coat, and a white cravat. He had on a +ruffled shirt, and a tall beaver hat, the color of the fur, and a pair of +these here high boots, with his breeches strapped down under 'em.” + +Braile limbered himself from his splint-bottom chair, and came forward to +the edge of the porch, as if to be sure of spitting quite under the +claybank's body. Not until he had folded himself down into his seat again +and tilted it back did he ask, “Goin' to order a suit?” + +“Oh, well!” said Reverdy, with a mingling of disappointed hope, hurt +vanity, and involuntary pleasure. + +If he had been deeply moved by the incident which he had tried to make +Braile see with his own sense of its impressiveness, it could not have +been wholly with the hope of impressing Braile that he had stopped to tell +it. His notion might have been that Braile would ridicule it, and so help +him throw off the lingering hold which it had upon him. His pain and his +pleasure both came from Braile's leaving the incident alone and turning +the ridicule upon him. That was cruel, and yet funny, Reverdy had inwardly +to own, as it touched the remoteness from a full suit of black broadcloth +represented by his hickory shirt and his butternut trousers held up by a +single suspender passing over his shoulder and fastened before and behind +with wooden pegs. His straw hat, which he had braided himself, and his +wife had sewed into shape the summer before, was ragged round the brim, +and a tuft of his yellow hair escaped through a break in the crown. It was +as far from a tall hat of fur-colored beaver as his bare feet were from a +pair of high boots such as the stranger at the camp-meeting had worn, +though his ankles were richly shaded in three colors from the road, the +field, and the barnyard. He liked the joke so well that the hurt of it +could hardly keep him from laughing as he thumped his mare's ribs with his +naked heels and bade her get up. + +She fetched a deep sigh, but she did not move. + +“Better light,” Braile said; “you wouldn't get that corn ground in time +for breakfast, now.” + +“I reckon,” Reverdy said aloud, but to himself, rather than Braile, and +with his mind on his wife in the log cabin where he had left her in high +rebellion which she promised him nothing but a bag of cornmeal could +reduce, “she don't need to wait for me, exactly. She could grate herself +some o' the new corn, and she's got some bacon, anyway.” + +“Better light,” Braile said again. + +The sound of frying which had risen above their voices within had ceased, +and after a few quick movements of feet over the puncheon floor, with some +clicking of knives and dishes, the feet came to the door opening on the +porch and a handsome elderly woman looked out. + +She was neatly dressed in a home-woven linsey-woolsey gown, with a blue +check apron reaching to its hem in front, and a white cloth passed round +her neck and crossed over her breast; she had a cap on her iron gray hair. + +Braile did not visibly note her presence in saying, “The woman will want +to hear about it.” + +“Hear about what?” his wife asked, and then she said to Reverdy, “Good +morning, Abel. Won't you light and have breakfast with us? It's just +ready. I reckon Sally will excuse you.” + +“Well, she will if _you_ say so, Mrs. Braile.” Reverdy made one +action of throwing his leg over the claybank's back to the ground, and +slipping the bridle over the smooth peg left from the limb of the young +tree-trunk which formed one of the posts of the porch. “My!” he said, as +he followed his hostess indoors, “you do have things nice. I never come +here without wantun' to have my old shanty whitewashed inside like yourn +is, and the logs plastered outside; the mud and moss of that chinkun' and +daubun' keeps fallun' out, and lettun' all the kinds of weather there is +in on us, and Sally she's at me about it, too; she's wuss'n I am, if +anything. I reckon if she had her say we'd have a two-room cabin, too, and +a loft over both parts, like you have, Mis' Braile, or a frame house, +even. But I don't believe anybody but you could keep this floor so clean. +Them knots in the puncheons just shine! And that chimbly-piece with that +plaster of Paris Samuel prayin' in it; well, if Sally's as't me for a +Samuel once I reckon she has a hundred times; and that clock! It's a +pictur'.” He looked about the interior as he took the seat offered him at +the table, and praised the details of the furnishing with a reference to +the effect of each at home. In this he satisfied that obscure fealty of +the husband who feels that such a connection of the absent wife with some +actual experience of his is equivalent to their joint presence. It was not +so much to praise Mrs. Braile's belongings to her as to propitiate the +idea of Mrs. Reverdy that he continued his flatteries. In the meantime +Braile, who came in behind him, stood easing himself from one foot to the +other, with an ironical eye slanted at Reverdy from under his shaggy +brows; he dropped his head now, and began walking up and down the room +while he listened in a sort of sarcastic patience. + +“Ain't you goin' to have anything to eat, Mr. Braile?” his wife demanded, +with plaintive severity. + +Braile pulled at his cob-pipe which muttered responsively, “Not so long +as I've got anything to smoke. Gets up,” he explained to Reverdy, “and +jerks it out of my mouth, when we haven't got company.” + +“I reckon Abel knows how much to believe of that,” Mrs. Braile commented, +and Reverdy gave the pleased chuckle of a social inferior raised above his +level by amiable condescension. But as if he thought it safest to refuse +any share in this intimacy, he ended his adulations with the opinion, “I +should say that if these here two rooms was th'owed together they'd make +half as much as the Temple.” + +Braile stopped in his walk and bent his frown on Reverdy, but not in +anger. “This _is_ the Temple: Temple of Justice--Justice of the +Peace. Do you people think there's only one kind of temple in Leatherwood?” + +Reverdy gave his chuckle again. “Well, Squire, I ought to know, anyway, +all the log-rollin' I done for you last 'lection time. I didn't hardly +believe you'd git in, because they said you was a infidel.” + +“Well, you couldn't deny it, could you?” Braile asked, with increasing +friendliness in his frown. + +“No, I couldn't deny it, Squire. But the way I told 'em to look at it +was, Mis' Braile was Christian enough for the whole family. Said +_you_ knowed more law and _she_ knowed more gospel than all the +rest of Leatherwood put together.” + +“And that was what elected the family, was it?” Braile asked. “Well, I +hope Mrs. Braile won't refuse to serve,” he said, and he began his walk +again. “Tell her about that horse that broke into the meetin' last night, +and tried to play man.” + +Reverdy laughed, shaking his head over his plate of bacon and reaching +for the corn-pone which Mrs. Braile passed him. “You do beat all, Squire, +the way you take the shine off of religious experience. Why,” he addressed +himself to Mrs. Braile, “it wasn't much, as fur as anybody could make out. +It was just the queerness of the whole thing.” Reverdy went over the facts +again, beginning with deprecation for the Squire but gathering respect for +them in the interest they seemed to have for Mrs. Braile. + +She listened silently, and then she asked, “And what became of him?” + +“Well, that's where you got me, Mrs. Braile. Don't anybody know what +become of him. Just kind of went out like a fire, when the Power was +workun' the hardest, and wasn't there next time you looked where he been. +Kind o' th'owed cold water on the meetun' and folks begun goun' home, and +breakun' up and turnun' in; well it was pretty nigh sun-up, anyway, by +that time. I don't know! Made me feel all-overish. Seemed like I'd been +dreamun' and that man was a Vision.” Reverdy had lifted an enraptured +face, but at sight of Braile pausing in sarcastic pleasure, he dropped his +head with a snicker. “I know the Squire'll laugh. But that's the way it +was.” + +“He'll laugh the other side of his mouth, some day, if he keeps on,” Mrs. +Braile said with apparent reproof and latent pride. “Was Sally at the +meetin' with you?” + +“Well, no, she wasn't,” Reverdy began, and Braile asked: + +“And did you wake her up and tell her about it?” + +“Well, no, I didn't, Squire, that's a fact. She woke me up. I just crep' +in quiet and felt out the soft side of a puncheon for a nap, and the firs' +thing I know was Sally havin' me by the shoulder, and wantun' to know +about gittun' that corn groun' for breakfas'. My! I don't know what she'll +say, when I do git back.” Reverdy laughed a fearful pleasure, but his +gaiety was clouded by a shadow projected from the cabin door. + +“Well, I mought 'a' knowed it!” a voice at once fond and threatening +called to Reverdy's quailing figure. The owner of the voice was a young +woman unkempt as to the pale hair which escaped from the knot at her neck, +and stuck out there and dangled about her face in spite of the attempts +made to gather it under the control of the high horn comb holding its main +strands together. The lankness of her long figure showed in the calico +wrapper which seemed her sole garment; and her large features were +respectively lank in their way, nose and chin and high cheek bones; her +eyes wabbled in their sockets with the sort of inquiring laughter that +spread her wide, loose mouth. She was barefooted, like Reverdy, on whom +her eyes rested with a sort of burlesque menace, so that she could not +turn them to Mrs. Braile in the attention which manners required of her, +even when she added, “I just 'spicioned that he'd 'a' turned in here, +soon's I smelt your breakfas', Mrs. Braile; and the dear knows whether I +blame him so much, nuther.” + +“Then you'd better draw up too, Sally,” Mrs. Braile said, without +troubling herself to rise from her own chair in glancing toward another +for Mrs. Reverdy. + +“Oh, no, I couldn't, Mrs. Braile. I on'y just meant how nice it smelt. I +got me somepin at home before I left, and I ain't a bit hungry.” + +“Well, then, you eat breakfast for _me_; _I'm_ hungry,” the +Squire said. “Sit down! You couldn't get Abel away now, not if you went on +an hour. Don't separate families!” + +“Well, just as you say, Squire,” Mrs. Reverdy snickered, and she +submitted to pull up the chair which Mrs. Braile's glance had suggested. +“It beats all what a excitement there is in this town about the goun's on +at the camp-meetun', last night. If I've heard it from one I've heard it +from a dozen. I s'pose Abel's tol' you?”--she addressed herself +impartially to Mrs. Braile across the table and to the Squire tilted +against the wall in his chair, smoking behind his wife. + +“Not a word,” the Squire said, and his wife did not trouble herself to +protest; Reverdy opened his mouth in a soundless laugh at the Squire's +humor, and then filled it with bacon and corn-pone, and ducked his head in +silence over his plate. “What goings on?” + +“Why, that man that came in while Elder Grove was snatchun' the brands +from the burnun', and snorted like a horse--But I _know_ Abel's tol' +you! It's just like one of your jokes, Squire Braile; ain't it, Mrs. +Braile?” Sally referred herself to one and the other. + +“You won't get either of us to say, Sally,” Mrs. Braile let the Squire +answer for both. “You'd better go on. I couldn't hear too often about a +man that snorted like a horse, if Abel _did_ tell. What did the +horses hitched back of the tents think about it? Any of 'em try to shout +like a man?” + +“Well, you may laugh, Squire Braile,” Sally said with a toss of her head +for the dignity she failed of. She slumped forward with a laugh, and when +she lifted her head she said through the victual that filled her mouth, “I +dunno what the horses thought, but the folks believe it was a apostle, or +somepin.” + +“Who said so? Abel?” “Oh, pshaw! D'you suppose I b'lieve anythin' Abel +Reverdy says?” and this gave Reverdy a joy which she shared with him; he +tried to impart it to Mrs. Braile, impassively pouring him a third cup of +coffee. “I jes' met Mis' Leonard comun' up the crossroad, and she tol' me +she saw our claybank hitched here, and I s'picioned Abel was'nt fur off, +and that's why I stopped.” + +The husband and wife looked across the table in feigned fear and threat +that gave them pleasure beyond speech. + +“She didn't say it was your claybank that snorted?” the Squire gravely +inquired. + +“Squire Braile, you surely will kill me,” and the husband joined the wife +in a shout of laughter. “Now I can't hardly git back to what she +_did_ say. But, I can tell you, it wasn't nawthun' to laugh at. +Plenty of 'em keeled over where they sot, and a lot bounced up and down +like it was a earthquake and pretty near all the women screamed. But he +stood there, straight as a ramrod, and never moved a eye-winker. She said +his face was somepin awful: just as solemn and still! He never spoke after +that one word 'Salvation,' but every once in a while he snorted. Nobody +seen him come in, or ever seen him before till he first snorted, and then +they didn't see anybody else. The preacher, he preached along, and tried +to act like as if nowthun' had happened, but it was no use; nobody didn't +hardly pay no attention to him 'ceptun' the stranger himself; he never +took his eyes off Elder Grove; some thought he was tryun' to charm him, +like a snake does a bird; but it didn't faze the elder.” + +“Elder too old a bird?” the Squire suggested. + +“Yes, I reckon he mought been,” Sally innocently assented. + +“And when he gave the benediction, the snorter disappeared in a flash, +with a strong smell of brimstone, I suppose?” + +“Why, that was the thing of it, Squire. He just stayed, and shuck hands +with everybody, pleasant as a basket of chips; and he went home with David +Gillespie. He was just as polite to the poorest person there, but it was +the big bugs that tuck the most to him.” + +“Well,” the Squire summed up, “I don't see but what your reports agree, +and I reckon there must be some truth in 'em. Who's that up there at the +pike-crossing?” He did not trouble himself to do more than frown heavily +in the attempt to make out the passer. Mrs. Reverdy jumped from her chair +and ran out to look. + +“Well, as sure as I'm alive, if it ain't that Gillespie girl! I bet +she'll know all about it. I'll just ketch up with her and git the news out +of her, if there is any. Say, say, Jane!” she called to the girl, as she +ran up the road with the cow-like gait which her swirling skirt gave her. +The girl stopped for her; then in apparent haste she moved on again, and +Sally moved with her out of sight; her voice still made itself heard in +uncouth cries and laughter. + +Braile called into the kitchen where Reverdy had remained in the +enjoyment of Mrs. Braile's patient hospitality, “Here's your chance, Abel!” + +“Chance?” Reverdy questioned back with a full mouth. + +“To get that corn of yours ground, and beat Sally home.” + +“Well, Squire,” Reverdy said, “I reckon you're right.” He came out into +the open space where Braile sat. “Well, I won't fergit _this_ +breakfast very soon,” he offered his gratitude to Mrs. Braile over his +shoulder, as he passed through the door. + +“You're welcome, Abel,” she answered kindly, and when he had made his +manners to the impassive Squire and mounted his claybank and thumped the +horse into motion with his naked heels, she came out into the porch and +said to her husband, “I don't know as I liked your hinting him out of the +house that way.” + +Braile did not take the point up, but remained thoughtfully smiling in +the direction his guest had taken. “The idea is that most people marry +their opposites,” he remarked, “and that gives the children the advantage +of inheriting their folly from two kinds of fools. But Abel and Sally are +a perfect pair, mental and moral twins; the only thing they don't agree in +is their account of what became of that snorting exhorter. But the +difference there isn't important. If an all-wise Providence has kept them +from transmitting a double dose of the same brand of folly to posterity, +that's one thing in favor of Providence.” He took up his wife's point now. +“If I hadn't hinted him away, he'd have stayed to dinner; _you_ +wouldn't have hinted him away if he'd stayed to supper.” + +“Well, are you going to have some breakfast?” his wife asked. “I'll get +you some fresh coffee.” + +“Well, I _would_ like a little--with the head on--Martha, that's a +fact. Have I got time for another pipe?” + +“No, I don't reckon you have,” his wife said, and she passed into the +kitchen again, where she continued to make such short replies as Braile's +discourse required of her. + +He knocked his pipe out on the edge of his still uptilted chair, as he +talked. “One fool like Abel I can stand, and I was just going to come in +when Sally came in sight; and then I knew that two fools like Abel would +make me sick. So I waited till the Creator of heaven and earth could get a +minute off and help me out. But He seemed pretty busy with the solar +system this morning, and I had about given up when He sent that Gillespie +girl in sight. I knew that would fetch Sally; but it was an inspiration of +my own to suggest Abel's chance to him; I don't want to put that on your +Maker, Martha.” + +“It was your inspiration to get him to stay in the first place,” Mrs. +Braile said within. + +“No, Martha; that was my unfailing obedience to the sacred laws of +hospitality; I _didn't_ expect to fall under their condemnation a +second time, though.” Mrs. Braile did not answer, and by the familiar +scent from within, Braile knew that his coffee must be nearly ready. As he +dropped his chair forward, he heard a sound of frying, and “Pshaw, +Martha!” he called. “You're not getting me some fresh bacon?” + +“Did you suppose there'd be some left?” she demanded, while she stepped +to and fro at her labors. Her steps ceased and she called, “Well, come in +now, Matthew, if you don't want _every_thing to get cold, like the +pone is.” + +Braile obeyed, saying, “Oh, I can stand cold _pone_,” and at sight +of the table with the coffee and bacon renewed upon it, he mocked +tenderly, “Now just to reward you, Martha, I've got half a mind to go with +you to the next meeting in the Temple.” + +“I don't know as I'm goin' myself,” she said, pouring the coffee. + +“I wish you would, just to please me,” he teased. + + + + +II + + +No one could say quite how it happened that the stranger went home from +the camp-meeting with old David Gillespie and his girl. Many had come +forward with hospitable offers, and the stranger had been affable with +all; but he had slipped through the hands he shook and had parried the +invitations made him. Gillespie had not seemed to invite him, and his shy +daughter had shrunk aside when the chief citizens urged their claims; yet +the stranger went with them to their outlying farm, and spent all the next +day there alone in the tall woods that shut its corn fields in. + +Sally Reverdy had failed to get any light from the Gillespie girl when +she ran out from Squire Braile's cabin. The girl seemed still under the +spell that had fallen upon many at the meeting, and it appeared to Sally +that she did not want to talk; at any rate she did not talk to any +satisfactory end. A squirrel hunter believed he had caught a glimpse of +the stranger in the chestnut woods behind the Gillespie spring-house, but +he was not a man whose oath was acceptable in the community and his belief +was not generally shared. It was thought that the stranger would reappear +at the last night of the camp-meeting, but the Gillespies came without +him, and reported that they had expected he would come by himself. + +The camp-meeting broke up after the Sunday morning service and most of +the worshipers, sated with their devotional experience, went home, +praising the Power in song as they rode away in the wagons laden with +their camp furniture, and their children strewn over the bedding. But for +others, the fire of the revival burned through the hot, long, August +Sabbath day, and a devout congregation crowded the Temple. + +The impulse of the week past held over to the night unabated. The +spacious log-built house was packed from wall to wall; the men stood +dense; the seats were filled with women; only a narrow path was left below +the pulpit for those who might wish to rise and confess Christ before the +congregation. The people waited in a silence broken by their deep +breathing, their devout whispering, the scraping of their feet; now and +then a babe, whose mother could not leave it at home, wailed pitifully or +spitefully till it was coaxed or scolded still; now and then some one +coughed. The air was thick; a bat scandalized the assemblage by flying in +at the open door, and wavering round the tallow candles on the pulpit; one +of the men beat it down with his hat, and then picked it up and crowded +his way down the aisle, out into the night with it. When he came back it +was as if he had found the stranger whom they were all consciously +expecting, and had brought him in with David Gillespie and his girl. She +was tall and straight, like her father, and her hair was red, like his; +her eyes were gray blue, and the look in them was both wilful and dreamy. + +The stranger smiled and took the hands stretched out to him in passing by +several of the different sectarians who used the Temple. Gillespie seemed +not to notice or to care for the greetings to his guest, and his girl wore +her wonted look of vague aloofness. + +Matthew Braile had been given a seat at the front, perhaps in deference +to his age and dignity; perhaps in confusion at his presence. He glanced +up at the stranger with a keen glint through his branching eyebrows, and +made a guttural sound; his wife pushed him; and he said; “What?” and “Oh!” + quite audibly; and she pushed him again for answer. + +The Gillespies sat down with the stranger in the foremost bench. He wore +the black broadcloth coat of the Friday night before; his long hair, +combed back from his forehead, fell down his shoulders almost to his +middle; the glances of his black eyes roved round the room, but were +devoutly lowered at the prayer which opened the service. It was a +Methodist who preached, but somehow to-night he had not the fervor of his +sect; his sermon was cold, and addressed itself to the faith rather than +the hope of his hearers. He spoke as from the hold of an oppressive spell; +at times he was perplexed, and lost his place in his exhortation. In the +close heat some drowsed, and the preacher was distracted by snoring from a +corner near the door. He lifted his voice as if to rouse the sleeper, or +to drown the noise; but he could not. He came to the blessing at last, and +the disappointed congregation rose to go out. Suddenly the loud snort that +had dismayed the camp-meeting sounded through the heavy air, and then +there came the thrilling shout of “Salvation.” + +The people did not need to look where the stranger had been sitting; he +had done what they hoped, what they expected, and he was now towering over +those near him, with his head thrown back, and his hair tossed like a mane +on his shoulders. The people stopped; some who had gone out crowded in +again; no one knew quite what to do. The minister halted on the pulpit +stairs; he had done his part for the night, and he did not apparently +resent the action of the man who now took it on him to speak. + +A tall, stout man among those who had lingered, spoke from the aisle. He +was the owner of the largest farm in the neighborhood and he had one of +the mills on the creek. In his quality of miller everybody knew him, and +he had the authority of a public character. Now he said: + +“We want to hear something more than a snort and a shout from our brother +here. We heard _them_ Friday night, and we've been talkin' about it +ever since.” + +The appeal was half joking, half entreating. The minister was still +hesitating on the pulpit stairs, and he looked at the stranger. “Will you +come up, Brother--” + +“Call me Dylks--for the present,” the stranger answered with a full voice. + +“Brother Dylks,” the minister repeated, and he came down, and gave him +the right hand of fellowship. + +The Gillespies looked on with their different indifference. Dylks turned +to them: “Shall I speak?” + +“Speak!” the girl said, but her father said nothing. + +Dylks ran quickly up the pulpit steps: “We will join in prayer!” he +called out, and he held the congregation, now returned to their places, in +the spell of a quick, short supplication. He ended it with the Lord's +Prayer; then he said, “Let us sing,” and line after line he gave out the +hymn, + + “Plunged in a gulf of dark despair + We wretched sinners lay.” + +He expounded each stanza, as to the religious sense and the poetic +meaning, before he led the singing. He gave out a passage of Scripture, as +a sort of text, but he did not keep to it; he followed with other +passages, and his discourse was a rehearsal of these rather than a sermon. +His memory in them was unerring; women who knew their Bibles by heart +sighed their satisfaction in his perfectness; they did not care for the +relevance or irrelevance of the passages; all was Scripture, all was the +one inseparable Word of God, dreadful, blissful, divine, promising heaven, +threatening hell. Groans began to go up from the people held in the strong +witchery of the man's voice. They did not know whether he spoke long or +not. Before they knew, he was as if sweeping them to their feet with a +repetition of his opening hymn, and they were singing with him: + + “Plunged in a gulf of dark despair + We wretched sinners lay.” + +It ended, and he gave his wild brutish snort, and then his heart-shaking +cry of “Salvation!” + +Some of the chief men remained to speak with him, to contend for him as +their guest; but old David Gillespie did not contend with them. “You can +have him,” he said to the miller, Peter Hingston, “if he wants to go with +you.” He was almost rude, and his daughter was not opener with the women +who crowded about her trying to make her say something that would feed +their hunger to know more. She remained hard and cold, almost dumb; it +seemed to them that she was not worthy to have had him under her father's +roof. As for her father, they had no patience with him for not putting in +a word to claim the stranger while the others were pressing him to come +home with them. In spite of the indifference of Gillespie and his girl, +Dylks elected to remain with them, and when he could pull himself from the +crowd he went away into the night between them. + +When Matthew Braile made his escape with his wife from the crowd and +began to walk home through the dim, hot night, he said, “Is Jane Gillespie +any particular hand at fried chicken?” + +“Now you stop, Matthew!” his wife said. + +“Because that would account for it. I reckon it was fried chicken the +ravens brought to Elijah. All men of God are fond of fried chicken.” + +His wife would not dispute directly with his perversity; she knew that in +this mood of his it would be useless trying to make him partake the wonder +she shared with her neighbors that the stranger had chosen David Gillespie +again for his host out of the many leading men who had pressed their +hospitality upon him, and that he should have preferred his apathy to +their eagerness. + +“I wish he had worn his yellow beaver hat in the pulpit,” Braile went on. +“It must have been a disappointment to Abe Reverdy, but perhaps he +consoled himself with a full sight of the fellow's long hair. He ought to +part it in the middle, like Thomas Jefferson, and do it up in a knot like +a woman. Well, we can't have everything, even in a man of God; but maybe +he isn't really a man of God. That would account for a good many things. +But I think he shows taste in preferring old Gillespie to Peter Hingston; +next to Abe Reverdy he's the biggest fool in Leatherwood. Maybe the +prophet knew by instinct that there would be better fried chicken at +Gillespie's.” + +His wife disdained to make a direct answer. “You may be sure they give +him of their best, whatever it is. And the Gillespies may be poor, but +when it comes to respectability and good works they've got a right to hold +their heads up with the best in this settlement. That girl has done all +the work of the house since her mother died, when she wasn't a little +thing half grown; and old David has slaved off his mortgage till his +farm's free and clear; and he don't owe anybody a cent.” + +“Oh, I don't say anything against Gillespie; all I say is that Brother +Dylks knows which side his bread is buttered on; inspired, probably.” + +“What makes you so bitter, to-night, Matthew?” his wife halted him a +little, with her question. + +“Well, the Temple always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I hate to see +brethren agreeing together in unity. You oughtn't to have taken me, +Martha.” + +“I'll never take you again!” she said. + +“And that man's a rascal, if ever there was one. Real men of God don't +wear their hair down to their waists and come snorting and shouting in +black broadcloth to a settlement like this for the good of folks' souls.” + +“You've got no right to say that, Matthew. And if you go round talking +that way you'll make yourself more unpopular than you are already.” + +“Oh, I'll be careful, Martha. I'll just think it, and perhaps put two or +three of the leading intellects like Abe and Sally on their guard. But +come, come, Martha! You know as well as I do, he's a rascal. Don't you +believe it?” + +“I believe in giving everybody a chance. Don't your own law books say a +man's innocent till he's proved guilty?” + +“Something like that. And I'm not trying Brother Dylks in open court at +present. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt if he's ever brought +before my judgment seat. But you've got to allow that his long hair and +black broadcloth and his snort and shout are against him.” + +“I don't believe in them any more than you do,” she owned. “But don't you +persecute him because he's religious, Matthew.” + +“Oh, I don't object to him because he's religious, though I think there's +more religion in Leatherwood already than any ten towns would know what to +do with. He's got to do more than preach his brand of religion before I'd +want to trouble him.” + +They were at the hewn log which formed the step to the porch between the +rooms of their cabin. A lank hound rose from the floor, and pulled himself +back from his forward-planted paws, and whimpered a welcome to them; a +captive coon rattled his chain from his corner under the porch roof. + +“Why don't you let that poor thing go, Matthew?” Mrs. Braile asked. + +“Well, I will, some day. But the little chap that brought it to me was +like our--” + +He stopped; both were thinking the same thing and knew they were. “I saw +the likeness from the first, too,” the wife said. + + + + +III + + +The Gillespies arrived at their simpler log cabin half an hour later than +the Brailes at theirs. It was on the border of the settlement, and beyond +it for a mile there was nothing but woods, walnut and chestnut and +hickory, not growing thickly as the primeval forest grew to the northward +along the lake, but standing openly about in the pleasant park-like +freedom of the woods-pastures of that gentler latitude. Beyond the wide +stretch of trees and meadow lands, the cornfields and tobacco patches +opened to the sky again. On their farther border stood a new log cabin, +defined by its fresh barked logs in the hovering dark. + +Gillespie pulled the leatherwood latch-string which lifted the catch of +his door, and pushed it open. “Go in, Jane,” he said to his daughter, and +the girl vanished slimly through, with a glance over her shoulder at Dylks +where he stood aloof a few steps from her father. + +Gillespie turned to his guest. “Did you see her?” he asked. + +“Yes, I walked over to her house this morning.” + +“Did any one see _you_?” + +“No. Her man was away.” + +Gillespie turned with an effect of helplessness, and looked down at the +wood-pile where he stood. “I don't know,” he said, “what keeps me from +spliting your head open with that ax.” + +“I do,” Dylks said. + +“Man!” the old man threatened, “Don't go too far.” + +“It wasn't the fear of God which you pretend is in your heart, but the +fear of man.” Dylks added with a vulgar drop from the solemn words, “You +would hang for it. I haven't put myself in your power without counting all +the costs to both of us.” + +Gillespie waved his answer off with an impatient hand. + +“Did she know you?” + +“Why not? It hasn't been so long. I haven't changed so much. I wear my +hair differently, and I dress better since I've been in Philadelphia. She +knew me in a minute as well as I knew her. I didn't ask for her present +husband; I thought one at a time was enough.” + +“What are you going to do?” + +“Nothing--first. I might have told her she had been in a hurry. But if +she don't bother me, I won't her. We got as far as that. And I reckon she +won't, but I thought we'd better have a clear understanding, and she knows +now it's bigamy in her case, and bigamy's a penitentiary offense. I made +that clear. And now see here, David: I'm going to stay here in this +settlement, and I don't want any trouble from you, no matter what you +think of my doings, past, present, or future. I don't want you to say +anything, or _look_ anything. Don't you let on, even to that girl of +yours, that you ever saw me before in your life. If you do, you'll wish +you _had_ split my head open with that ax. But I'm not afraid; I've +got you safe, and I've got your sister safe.” + +Gillespie groaned. Then he said desperately, “Listen here, Joseph Dylks! +I know what you're after, here, because you always was: other people's +money. I've got three hundred dollars saved up since I paid off the +mortgage. If you'll take it and go--” + +“Three hundred dollars! No, no! Keep your money, old man. I don't rob the +poor.” Dylks lifted himself, and said with that air of mysterious mastery +which afterwards won so many to his obedience, “I work my work. Let no man +gainsay me or hinder me.” He walked to and fro in the starlight, swelling, +with his head up and his mane of black hair cloudily flying over his +shoulders as he turned. “I come from God.” + +Gillespie looked at him as he paced back and forth. “If I didn't know you +for a common scoundrel that married my sister against my will, and lived +on her money till it was gone, and then left her and let her believe he +was dead, I might believe you _did_ come from God--or the Devil, +you--you turkey cock, you stallion! But you can't prance _me_ down, or +snort me down. I don't agree to anything. I don't say I won't tell who you +are when it suits me. I won't promise to keep it from this one or that one +or any one. I'll let you go just so far, and then--” + +“All right, David, I'll trust you, as I trust your sister. Between you +I'm safe. And now, you lay low! That's my advice.” He dropped from his +mystery and his mastery to a level of colloquial teasing. “I'm going to +rest under your humble roof to-night, and to-morrow I'm going to the +mansion of Peter Hingston. His gates will be set wide for me, and all the +double log-cabin palaces and frame houses of this royal city of +Leatherwood will hunger for my presence. You could always hold your +tongue, David, and you can easily leave all the whys and wherefores to me. +I won't go from your hospitality with an ungrateful tongue; I will +proclaim before the assembled multitudes in your temple that I left you +secure in the faith, and that I turned to others because they needed me +more. I am not come to call the righteous but sinners to repentance; they +will understand that. So good night, David, and good morning. I shall be +gone before even you are up.” + +Gillespie made no answer as he followed his guest indoors. Long before he +slept he heard the man's powerful breathing like that of some strong +animal in its sleep; an ox lying in the field, or a horse standing in its +stall. At times it broke chokingly and then he snorted it smooth and +regular again. At daybreak Gillespie thought of rising, but he drowsed, +and he was asleep when his daughter came to the foot of the ladder which +climbed to his chamber in the cabin loft, and called to him that his +breakfast was ready. + + + + +IV + + +The figure of a woman who held her hooded shawl under her chin, stole +with steps often checked through the limp, dew-laden grass of the +woods-pasture and slipped on the rotting logs. But she caught herself from +tumbling, and safely gained the border of Gillespie's corn field. There +she sat down trembling on the stone doorstep of the spring-house, and +waited rather than rested in the shelter of the chestnut boughs that +overhung the roof. She was aware of the spring gurgling under the stone on +its way into the sunshine, from the crocks of cream-covered milk and of +butter in the cool dark of the hut; she sensed the thick August heat of +the sun already smiting its honeyed odors from the corn; she heard the +scamper of the squirrels preying upon the ripening ears, and whisking in +and out of the woods or dropping into the field from the tips of the +boughs overhanging the nearer rows; but it all came blurred to her +consciousness. + +She was recognizably Gillespie's sister, but her eyes and hair were +black. She was wondering how she could get to speak with him when Jane was +not by. He would send the girl away at a sign from her, but she could not +have that; the thing must be kept from the girl but not seem to be kept. + +She let her arms rest on her knees; her helpless hands hung heavy from +them; her head was bowed, and her whole body drooped under the burden of +her heart, as if it physically dragged her down. Jane would be coming soon +with the morning's milk to pour into the crocks; she heard a step; the +girl was coming; but she must rest a moment. + +“What are you doing here, Nancy?” her brother's voice asked. + +“Oh, is it you, David? Oh, blessed be the name of the Lord! Maybe He's +going to be good to me, after all. David, is he gone?” + +“He's gone, Nancy.” + +“In anger?” + +“He's gone; I don't care whether he's gone in anger or not.” + +“Did he tell you he saw me?” + +“Yes.” + +“And did you promise him not to tell on him? To Jane? To any one?” + +“No.” Gillespie stood holding a bucket of milk in his hand; she sat +gathering her shawl under her chin as if she were still coming through the +suncleft shadows of the woods pasture. + +“Oh, David!” + +“What do you want me to do, Nancy?” + +“I don't know, I don't know. I haven't slept all night.” + +“You mustn't give way like this. Don't you see any duty for you in this +matter?” + +“Duty? Oh, David!” Her heart forboded the impossible demand upon it. + +Gillespie set his bucket of milk down beside the spring. “Nancy,” he +said, “a woman cannot have two husbands. It's a crime against the State. +It's a sin against God.” + +“But I haven't _got_ two husbands! What do you mean, David? Didn't I +believe he was dead? Didn't you? Oh, David, what--Do you think I've done +wrong? You let me do it!” + +“I don't think you've done wrong; but look out you don't do it. You +_are_ doing it, now. I can't let you do it. I can't let you live in +sin!” + +“In sin? Me?” + +“You. Every minute you live now with Laban you live in sin. Your first +husband, that was dead, is alive. He can't claim you unless you allow it; +but neither can your second husband, now. If you live on with Laban a day +longer--an hour--a minute--you live in deadly sin. I thought of it all +night but I had not thought it out till this minute when I first saw you +sitting there and I knew how miserable you were, and my heart seemed to +bleed at the sight of you.” + +“You may well say that, David,” the woman answered with a certain pride +in the vastness of her calamity. “If it was another woman I couldn't bear +to think of it. _Why_ does He do it? _Why_ does He set such +traps for us?” + +“Nancy!” her brother called sternly. + +“Oh, yes, it's easy enough for you! But if Rachel was here, she'd see it +different.” + +“Woman!” her brother said, “don't try to hide behind the dead in your sin.” + +“It's _no_ sin! I was as innocent as the babe unborn when I married +Laban--as innocent as he was, poor boy, when he would _have_ me; and +we all thought _he_ was dead. Oh, _why_ couldn't he have been +dead?” + +“This is murder you have in your heart now, Nancy,” the old man said, +with who knows what awful pleasure in his casuistry, so pitilessly +unerring. “If the life of that wicked man could buy you safety in your sin +you could wish it taken.” + +“Oh, oh, oh! What shall I do, what shall I do.” She wailed out the words +with her head fallen forward on her knees, and her loose hair dripping +over them. + +“Do? Go home, and bring your little one, and come to me. I will deal with +Laban when he gets back tonight.” + +She started erect. “And let him think I've left him? And the neighbors, +let them think we've quarreled, and I couldn't live with him?” + +“It won't matter what the world thinks,” Gillespie said, and he spoke of +the small backwoods settlement as if it were some great center of opinion +such as in great communities dispenses fame and infamy, and makes its +judgments supremely dreaded. “Besides,” he faltered, “no one is knowing +but ourselves to his coming back. It can seem as if _he_ left +_you_.” + +“And I live such a lie as that? Is this _you_, David?” + +It was she who rose highest now, as literally she did, in standing on the +stone where she had crouched, above the level of his footing. + +“I--I say it to spare you, Nancy. I don't wish it. But I wish to make it +easy--or a little bit easier--something you can bear better.” + +“Oh, I know, David, I know! You would save me if you could. But maybe--maybe +it ain't what we think it is. Maybe he was outlawed by staying away so long?” + +Neither of them named Dylks, but each knew whom the other meant, +throughout their talk. + +“A lawyer might let you think so till he got all your money.” + +“Matthew Braile wouldn't.” + +“That infidel?” + +She drooped again. “Oh, well, I must do it. I must do it. I'll go and get +ready and I'll come to you. What will Jane think?” + +“I'll take care of what Jane thinks. When do you expect Laban back?” + +“Not before sundown. I'll not come till I see him.” + +“We'll be ready for you.” He moved now to open the spring-house door; she +turned and was lost to him in the lights and shadows of the woods-pasture. +On its further border her cabin stood, and from it came the sound of a +pitiful wail; at the back door a little child stood, staying itself by the +slats let into grooves in the jambs. She had left it in its low cradle +asleep, and it must have waked and clambered out and crept to the barrier +and been crying for her there; its small face was soaked with tears. + +She ran forward with long leaps out of the cornfield and caught it to her +neck and mumbled its wet cheeks with hungry kisses. “Oh, my honey, my +honey! Did it think its mother had left--” + +She stopped at the word with a pang, and began to go about the rude place +that was the simple home where after years of hell she had found an +earthly heaven. Often she stopped, and wondered at herself. It seemed +impossible she could be thinking it, be doing it, but she was thinking and +doing it, and at sundown, when she knew by the eager shadow of a man in +the doorway, pausing to listen if the baby were awake, all had been +thought and done. + + + + +V + + +The emotional frenzies, recurring through the day, were past, and she +could speak steadily to the man, in the absence of greeting which often +emphasizes the self-forgetfulness of love as well as marks the +formlessness of common life: “Your supper's waitin' for you, Laban; I've +had mine; you must be hungry. It's out in the shed; it's cooler there. Go +round; baby's asleep.” + +The man obeyed, and she heard him drop the bucket into the well, and lift +it by the groaning sweep, and pour the water into the basin, and then +splash himself, with murmurs of comfort, presently muffled in the towel. +Her hearing followed him through his supper, and she knew he was +obediently eating it, and patiently waiting for her to account for +whatever was unwonted in her greeting. She loved him most of all for his +boylike submission to her will and every caprice of it, but now she hardly +knew how to deny his tacit question as he ventured in from the shed. + +“Don't come near me, Laban,” she said with a stony quiet. “Don't touch +me. I ain't your wife, any more.” + +He could not speak at first; then it was like him to ask, “Why--why--What +have I done, Nancy?” + +“_You_, you poor soul?” she answered. “Nothing but good, all your +days! He's come back.” + +He knew whom she meant, but he had to ask, “Joseph Dylks? Why I thought +he was--” + +“Don't say it! It's murder! I don't want you to have his blood on you +_too_. Oh, if he was _only_ dead! Yes, yes! I have a right to +wish it! Oh, God be merciful to me, a sinner!” + +“When--when--how did you know it, Nancy?” + +“Yesterday morning or day before--just after you left. I reckon he was +waitin' for you to go. I'm glad you went first.” The man looked up at the +rifle resting on the pegs above the fireplace. “Laban, don't!” she cried. +“_I_ looked at it when he was walkin' away, and I know what you're +thinkin'.” + +“What is he goin' to do?” the man asked from his daze. + +“Nothing. He said he wouldn't do nothing if I didn't. If he hadn't said +it I might believe it!” + +Laban shifted his weight where he stood from one foot to the other. + +“He passed the night at David's. He's passed two nights there.” + +“Was it the snorting man?” + +“I reckon.” + +“I heard about him at the Cross Roads. Why didn't David tell us yesterday?” + +“Maybe he hadn't thought it out. David thinks slow. He likes to be sure +before he speaks. He was sure enough this morning!” the woman ended +bitterly. + +“What did he say?” + +“He said it was living in sin for us to keep together if he was alive.” + +Laban pondered it. “I reckon if we come together without knowing he was +alive, it ain't no sin.” + +“Yes, it is!” she shrieked. + +“We was married just like anybody; we didn't make no secret of it; we've +lived together four years. Are you goin' to unlive them years by stoppin' +now?” + +“Don't you s'pose I been over all that a million times? My mind's sore +workin' with it; there ain't a thought in me that don't ache from it. But +David's right. We've got to part. I put your things in this poke here,” + she said, and she gave him a bag made from an old pillow tick, with a few +clothes lumping it half full. “I'll carry the baby, Laban.” She pulled +back from him with the child in her arms. “Or no, you can carry her; +you'll have to leave her, too, and you've got a right to all the good you +can get of her now. Don't touch anything. I'll stay at David's, tonight, +but I'll come back in the morning, and then I'll see what I'll do--stay, +or go and live with David. Come!” + +“And what about Joey?” Laban asked, half turning with the child when they +were outside. + +“I declare I forgot about Joey! I'll see, to-morrow. It seems as if my +very soul was tired now. + +“Joey will just think we've gone over to David's for a minute; he'll go to +bed when he comes; he'll have had his supper at Peter Hingston's, anyway.” + +As they walked away, she said, “You're a good man, Laban Billings, to feel +the way you always do about Joey. You've been a true father to him; I +wonder what his _own_ father'd have been.” + +“No truer father to him than I've been a husband to you, Nancy,” the man +said, and as they walked along together, so far apart, his speech came to +him, and he began to plead their case with her as before an adverse judge. +Worn as she was with the arguments for and against them after the long day +of iteration, she could not refuse to let him plead. She scarcely answered +him, but he knew when they reached Gillespie's cabin that she had seen +them in the fierce light of her conscience, where there was no shadow of +turning. + +David was alone; Jane, he said, had gone to the Reverdys, and was going +with the woman to the Temple. + +Nancy did not seem to hear him. She took the sleeping baby from its +father's arms. “Laban has come with me to say good-by before you, David. I +hope you'll be satisfied.” + +“I hope your conscience will be satisfied, Nancy. It doesn't matter about +me. Laban, do you see this thing like I do?” + +“I see it like Nancy does.” + +“God will bless your effort for righteousness. Your path is dark before +you now, but His light will shine upon it.” + +The old man paused helplessly, and Nancy asked “Does Jane know?” + +“Not yet. And I will confess I'm not certain what to do, about her, and +about the neighbors. This is a cross to me, too, Nancy. I have lived a +proud life here; there has never been talk about me or mine. Now when you +and Laban are parted, there will be talk.” + +“There's no need to be,” Laban said; “not at once. They want me back at +the Cross Roads, the Wilkinses do. I can go now as well as in the morning. +I forgot to tell you,” he added to his wife. “It was drove out of my mind.” + +“Oh, I don't blame you,” she answered. + +“I can have work there all the fall.” + +David Gillespie rubbed his forehead, and said tremulously: “I don't know +what to say. I suppose I am weak. It'll be _one_ kind of a lie. But, +Laban--I thank you--” + +“I can come back here Sundays and see Nancy and the baby,” Laban suggested. + +The old man's voice shook. “You'll be making it harder for yourself,” was +all he could say. + +“But perhaps--perhaps there'll be light--that light you said--by and by--” + +“Let us pray that there'll be no light from the Pit. I am a sinful man, +Laban, to let you do this thing. I ought to have strength for all of us. +But I am older now, I'm not what I was--the day has tried me, Nancy.” + +“Good-by, then, Laban,” the woman said. “And don't you think hard of +David. I don't. And I'm not sure I'll ever let you come. Say good-by as if +it was for life.” She turned to her brother. “We can kiss, I reckon?” + +“Oh, I reckon,” he lamented, and went indoors. + +Laban opened his arms as if to take her in them; but she interposed the +baby. + +“Kiss her first. Me last. Just once. Now, go! I won't be weak with you +like David is. And don't you be afraid for _me_. I can get along. +_I'm not a man_!” She went into the cabin, with her baby over her +shoulder; but in a little while she came back without it, and stared after +the figure of Laban losing itself in the night. Then she sat down on the +doorstep and cried; it seemed as if she never could stop; but the tears +helped her. + +When she lifted her head she caught the sounds of singing from the +village below the upland where the cabin stood. It was the tune that +carried, not the words, but she knew them from the tune; as well as if she +were in the Temple with them she knew what the people were singing. While +she followed the lines helplessly, almost singing them herself, she was +startled by the presence of a boy, who had come silently round the cabin +in his bare feet and stood beside her. + +“Oh!” she cried out. + +“Why, did I scare you, mom?” he asked tenderly. “I didn't mean to.” + +“No, Joey. I didn't know any one was there; that's all. I didn't expect +you. Why ain't you at home in bed? You must be tired enough, poor boy.” + +“Oh, no, I ain't tired. Mr. Hingston is real good to me; he lets me rest +plenty; and he says I'll make a first rate miller. I helped to dress the +burrs this morning--the millstones, you know,” the boy explained, proud of +the technicality. “Oh, I tell you I just like it there,” he said, and he +laughed out his joy in it. + +“You always was a glad boy, Joey,” his mother said ruefully. + +“Well, you wouldn't thought so if you seen me over at our house. It +seemed like there was somebody dead; I dasn't hardly go in, it was so dark +and still. Whyn't you there? Didn't pop come home?” + +“Yes, but he had to go back to the Cross Roads; he's got work there all +the fall.” + +“Well! We do seem to be gittin' along!” He laughed again. “I reckon you +come over here because it seemed kind o' lonesome. Goin' to stay all night +with Uncle?” + +“Yes. You won't mind being there alone?” + +“Oh, no! Not much, I reckon.” + +“You can stay here too, if you want to--” + +“Oh, no! Mom,” he confessed shyly, “I brung Benny Hingston with me. I +thought you'd let him stay all night with me.” + +“Why, certainly, Joey--” + +“He's just behind the house; I wanted to ask first--” + +“You know you can always bring Benny. There's plenty of room for both of +you in your bed. But now when you go back with him be careful of the lamp. +I put a fresh piece of rag in and there's plenty of grease. You can blow +up a coal on the hearth. I covered the fire; only be careful.” + +“Oh, we'll be careful. Benny's about the carefullest boy the' is in +Leatherwood. Oh, I do like being in the mill with Mr. Hingston.” He +laughed out his joy again, and then he asked doubtfully, “Mom?” + +“Yes, Joey.” + +“Benny and me was wonderin'--we'd go straight back home, and not light +any lamp at all--if you'd let us go to the Temple. There's a big meetin' +there to-night.” The mother hesitated, and the boy urged, “They say that +strange man--well, some calls him the Snorter and some the Exhorter--is +goin' to preach.” The mother was still silent, and the boy faltered on: +“He dresses like the people do Over-the-Mountains, and he wears his hair +down his back--” + +The mother gasped. “I don't like your being out late, Joey. I'd feel +better if you and Benny was safe in bed.” + +“Oh, well.” The boy's voice sank to the level of his disappointment; but +after a silent interval he caught it up again cheerily. “Oh, well, I +reckon Benny won't care much. We'll go right back home. We can have a +piece before we go to bed?” + +“Yes--” + +“Benny thinks our apple-butter is the best they is. Can we have some on +bread, with sugar on top?” + +His mother did not answer at once, and he said again, as if relinquishing +another ideal, “Oh, well.” + +Nancy rose up and kissed him. “Yes, go to the Temple. You might as well.” + +“Truly, mom? Oh, Benny, hurrah! She's let me! Come along!” + +He ran round the cabin to his comrade, and she heard them shouting and +laughing together, and then the muted scamper of their bare feet on the +soft road toward the settlement. + +The mother said to herself, “He'd get to see him sooner or later.” She +drew her breath in a long sigh, and went into the cabin. “What a day, what +a day! It seems a thousand years,” she said aloud. + +“Are you talking to me, Nancy?” her brother asked from somewhere in the +dark. + +“No, no. Only to myself, David. Where did I put the baby? Oh! I know. +I've let Joey go to the Temple to hear his father preach. Lord have mercy!” + + + + +VI + + +The discourse of Dylks the second night was a chain of biblical passages, +as it had been the first night. But an apparent intention, which had been +wanting before, ran through the incoherent texts, leaping as it were from +one to another, and there binding them in an intimation of a divine +mission. He did not say that he had been sent of God, but he made the +texts which he gave, swiftly and unerringly, say something like that for +him to such as were prepared to believe it. Not all were prepared; many +denied; the most doubted; but those who accepted that meaning of the +inspired words were of the principal people, respected for their higher +intelligence and their greater wealth. + +He had come to the Temple with Peter Hingston and he went with him from +it. Hingston's quarter section of the richest farmland in the bottom +bordered his mill privilege, with barns and corncribs and tobacco sheds, +and his brick house behind the mill was the largest and finest dwelling in +the place. His flocks and herds abounded; his state was patriarchal; and +in the neighborhood which loved and honored him, for some favor and +kindness done nearly every man there: for money when the crops failed; for +the storage of their wheat and corn in the deep bins of his mill when the +yield was too great for their barns; for the use of his sheds in drying +their tobacco before their own were ready. His growing sons and daughters, +until they were grown men and women, obeyed his counsel as they had obeyed +his will while children. But he was severe with no one; since his wife had +died his natural gentleness was his manner as it had always been his make, +and it tempered the piety, which in many was forbidding and compelling, to +a wistful kindness. His faith admitted no misgiving, for himself, but his +toleration of doubts and differences in others extended to the worst of +skeptics. He believed that revelation had never ceased; he was of those +who looked for a sign, because if God had ever given Himself in communion +with His creatures it was not reasonable that he should afterwards always +withhold Himself. A friendly humor looked from his dull eyes, and, in +never quite coming to a formulated joke, stayed his utterance as if he +were hopeful of some such event in time. He stood large in bulk as well as +height, and drew his breath in slow, audible respirations. + +The first people of the community tacitly recognized him as the first man +in it, though none would have compared him in education with his nearest +friend, Richard Enraghty, who had been the schoolmaster and was now the +foremost of the United Brethren. He led their services in the Temple, and +sometimes preached for them when it came their turn to occupy the house +which they shared with the other sects. Hingston was a Methodist, but +perhaps because their sects were so akin in doctrine and polity their +difference made no division between the friends: Enraghty little and +fierce and restless, Hingston large and kind and calm. What they joined in +saying prevailed in questions of public interest; those who yielded to +their wisdom liked to believe that Enraghty's opinion ruled with Hingston. +Matthew Braile alone had the courage to disable their judgment which he +liked to say was no more infallible than so much Scripture, but the hardy +infidel, who knew so much law and was inexpugnable in his office, owned +that he could not make head against their gospel. He could darken their +counsel with citations from “Common Sense” and “The Age of Reason,” but +the piety of the community remained safe from his mockery. + +The large charity of Hingston covered the multitude of the Squire's sins; +he would have argued that he had not been understood perhaps in the worst +things he said; but the fiercer godliness of Enraghty was proof against +the talk of a man whose conversation was an exhalation from the Pit. He +had bitterly opposed Matthew Braile's successive elections; he had made +the pulpit of the Temple an engine of political warfare and had launched +its terrors against the invulnerable heathen. He was like Hingston in +looking for a sign; in that day of remoteness from any greater world the +people of the backwoods longed to feel themselves near the greatest world +of all, and well within the radius of its mysteries. They talked mostly of +these when they met together, and in the solitude of their fields they +dwelt upon them; on their week days and work days they turned over the +threats and promises of the Sabbath and expected a light or a voice from +on high which should burst their darkness and silence. + +To most of them there was nothing sacrilegious in the pretensions which +could be read into the closely scriptured discourse of Dylks when he +preached the second time in the Temple. The affability which he used in +descending from the pulpit among them, and shaking hands and hailing them +Brother and Sister, and personally bidding each come to the mercy seat, +convinced them of his authority; no common man would so fearlessly trust +his dignity among those who had little of their own. They thronged upon +him gladly, and the women, old and young alike, trembled before him with a +strange joy. + +“Where is your father, Sister Gillespie?” he demanded of the girl, who +wavered in his strong voice like a plant in the wind. + +“I don't know--he's at home,” she said. + +“See that he comes, another time. I send him my peace, and tell him that +it will not return to me. Say that I said he needs me.” + +He went out between Enraghty and Hingston, and as they walked away, he +sank his voice back in words of Scripture; farther away he began his hymn: + + “Plunged in a gulf of dark despair, + We wretched sinners lay”-- + +and ended with his shout of “Salvation!” + + + + +VII + + +The cabin of the Reverdys stood on a byway beyond the Gillespies. Sally +had joined the girl on her way out of the Temple, and was prancing beside +her as they went homeward together. “Oh, ain't it just great? I feel like +as if I could fly. I never seen the Power in Leatherwood like it was +to-night. He's _sent_; you can tell that as plain as the nose on your +face. How happy I do feel! I believe in my heart I got salvation this +minute. Don't you feel the Spirit any? But you was always such a still +girl! I did like the way the women folks was floppun' all round. _I_ +say, if you feel the Power workun' in you, show it, and help the others to +git it. What do you s'pose he meant by your paw's needun' him?” + +“I don't know. Perhaps _he_ will,” the girl answered briefly. + +“Goun' to tell him? Well, that's right, Janey. I kep' wonderun' why he +didn't come to-night. If Abel hadn't be'n so beat out with his work at the +Cross Roads to-day, you bet I'd 'a' made _him_ come; but he said I'd +git enough glory for both. I believe his talkun' with Squire Braile don't +do him no good. You b'lieve Washington and Jefferson was friends with Tom +Paine? The Squire says they was, but I misdoubt it, myself; I always hearn +them two was good perfessun' Christians. Kind o' lonesome along here where +the woods comes so close't, ain't it? Say, Janey: I wisht you'd come a +little piece with me, though I don't suppose the bad spirits would dast to +come around a body right on the way home from the Temple this way--” + +They had reached the point where Sally must part with the girl, who +stopped to lift the top rail of the bars to the lane leading from the road +to her father's cabin. She let it drop again. “Why, I'll go the whole way +with you, Sally.” + +“Will you? Well, I declare to gracious, you're the best girl I ever seen. +I believe in my heart, I'll rout Abel out and make him go back home with +you.” + +“You needn't,” the girl said. “I'm not afraid to go alone in the dark.” + +“Well, just as you say, Janey. What do you do to keep from beun' afraid?” + +“Oh, I don't know. I just think, I suppose.” + +“Well, _I_ just want to _squeal_.” Sally had been talking in +her loud, loose voice to keep her courage up. “Well, I declare if we ain't +there a'ready. If you just say the word I'll have Abel out in half a +minute, and--” + +“No,” the girl said. “Good night.” + +“Well, good night. I've got half a mind to go back with you myself,” + Sally called, as she lifted her hand to pull the latchstring of her door. + +Jane Gillespie found her father standing at the bars when she went back. +He mechanically let them down for her. + +“I thought you would be in bed, Father,” she said gently, but coldly. + +“I've had things to keep me awake; and it's hot indoors,” he answered, +and then he demanded, “Well?” + +If it was his way of bidding her tell him of her evening's experience, +she did not obey him, and he had to make another attempt on her silence. +“Was Hughey there?” + +“Hughey? I don't know.” + +“Didn't he ask to come home with you?” + +“I didn't see him. Sally Reverdy came with me.” + +“Yes, I knew that.” + +She was silent for another moment and then she said, “Father, I have a +message for you. He said, 'I send my peace to him; and it will not return +unto me.' He said you needed him.” + +Gillespie knew that she meant Dylks and he knew that she kept out of her +voice whatever feeling she had in delivering his message. + +In the dark, she could not see her father's frown, but she was aware of +it in his answer. “You went there against my will. Well?” + +“I believe.” + +“You believe? What do you believe?” + +“Him. That he is sent.” + +“Why?” + +“I can't tell you. He made me; he made all the people there.” + +Her father was standing between her and the door. He stood aside. “Go to +bed now. But be quiet. Your Aunt Nancy is there.” + +“Aunt Nancy?” + +“Laban came, but he went back to the Cross Roads, and she's over for the +night with the baby.” + +“The baby? Oh, I'll be careful!” A joy came into her voice, and the +strain left it in something like a laugh. + +Early in the morning she crept down the ladder from the loft; her father +had looped his cot up against the cabin wall and gone out. Nancy was +sitting up in the bed she had made for herself on the floor, coiling a +rope of her black hair into a knot at her neck. The baby lay cooing and +kicking in her lap. The morning air came in fresh and sweet at the open +door. + +“Oh, Aunt Nancy, may I take her?” + +“Yes; I'll get the breakfast. Your father'll be hungry; he's been up a +good while, I reckon.” + +“I'll make the fire first, and then I'll take the baby.” + +The girl uncovered the embers on the hearth and blew them into life; then +she ran out into the cornfield, and gathered her apron full of the milky +ears, and grated them for the cakes which her aunt molded to fry for +breakfast. She took the baby and washed its hands and face, talking and +laughing with it. + +“You talk to it a sight more than you do to anybody else, Jane,” the +mother said. “Don't put anything but its little shimmy on; it's goin' to +be another hot day.” + +“I believe,” the girl said, “I'll get some water in the tub, and wash her +all over. There'll be time enough.” + +“It'd be a good thing, I reckon. But you mustn't forget your milkin'. I +dunno what _our_ cow'd do this morning if it wasn't for Joey. But +he'll milk her, him and Benny Hingston, between them, somehow. Benny +stayed with him last night.” + +“I did forget the milking,” the girl said, putting the baby's little +chemise on. “But I'll do it now. Sissy will have to wait till after +breakfast for her washing.” She got the tin bucket from where it blazed +a-tilt in the sun beside the back door of the cabin, and took her deep +bonnet from its peg. She did not ask why the boys slept alone in the +cabin, but her aunt felt that she must explain. + +“Laban's got work for the whole fall at the Cross Roads. He went straight +back last night. I come here.” She had got through without telling the lie +which she feared she must. “I'm goin' home after breakfast.” + +Jane asked nothing further, but called from the open door, “Sukey, Sukey! +Suk, Suk, Suk!” A plaintive lowing responded; then the snapping sound of a +cow's eager hoofs; the hoarse drumming of the milk in the bucket followed, +subduing itself to the soft final murmur of the strippings in the foam. +Jane carried the milk to the spring house before she reappeared in the +cabin with a cup of it for the baby. + +“It's so good for her to have it warm from the cow,” she said, as she +tilted the tin for the last drop on the little one's lips. “I wish you'd +leave her here with me, Aunt Nancy.” + +“It's about time she was weaned,” the mother said. “I reckon you better +call your father now. He must be ready for his breakfast, bendin' over +that tobacco ever since sun-up.” + +Jane took down the tin dinner horn from its peg, and went to the back +door with it, and blew a long, loud blast, crumbling away in broken sounds. + +The baby was beating the air with its hands up and down, and gurgling its +delight in the noise when she came back. “Oh, honey, honey, honey!” she +cooed, catching it up and hugging it to her. + +The mother looked at them over her shoulder as she put the cakes of +grated corn in the skillet, and set it among the coals on the hearth. +“It's a pity you ha'n't got one of your own.” + +“I don't want one of my own,” the girl said. + +“I thought, a spell back,”--the woman took up the subject again after a +decent interval--“that you and Hughey Blake was goin' to make a match.” + The girl said nothing, and her aunt pursued, “Was he there, last night?” + +“I didn't notice.” + +“Many folks?” her aunt asked with whatever change or fulfilment of a +first intent. + +From kneeling over to play with the baby the girl sank back on her heels +with her hands fallen before her. + +“I don't know.” + +“What did he preach?” + +“The Word of God; God's own words. All Scripture; but it was like as if +it was the first time you ever heard it.” + +The girl was looking at the woman, but seemed rapt from the sight of her +in a vision of the night before. + +“I reckon Satan could make it sound that way,” Nancy said, but her niece +seemed not to hear her. Nancy stood staring at her, with words bitter +beyond saying in her heart; words that rose in her throat and choked her. +When she spoke she only said, “Get up, Jane; your father'll be here in a +minute.” + +“I'm not going to eat anything. I'm going into the woods.” She staggered +to her feet, and dashed from the door. The child looked after her with +outstretched arms and whimpered pitifully, but she did not mind its call. + +“Where's Jane?” her father said, coming in at the back door. + +“Gone into the woods,” she said. + +[Illustration: Nancy stood staring at her, with words beyond saying in +her heart--words that rose in her throat and choked her] + +“To pray, I reckon.” + +He sat down at the table-leaf lifted from the wall, and his sister served +him his breakfast. He ate greedily, but his hand trembled so in lifting +his cup that the coffee spilled from it. + +When he had ended and sat leaning back from the board, she asked him: +“What are you going to do?” + +The old man cleared his throat. “Nothing, yet. Let the Lord work His will.” + +“And let Joseph Dylks work _his_ will, too! I'll have something to +say about that.” + +“Be careful, woman. Be careful.” + +“Oh, I'll be careful. He has as much to lose as I have.” + +“No, not half so much.” + + + + +VIII + + +Where Matthew Braile sat smoking most of the hot forenoon away on the +porch of his cabin, there came to him rumor of the swift spread of the +superstition running from mind to mind in the neighborhood, and catching +like fire in dry grass. The rumor came in different voices, some piously +meant to shake him with fear in the scorner's seat which he held so +stubbornly; some in their doubt seeking the help of his powerful unfaith; +but he required their news from them all with the same mocking. They were +not of the Scribes and Pharisees, the pillars of the Temple, the wise and +rich and proud who had been the first to follow Dylks, but the poorer and +lowlier sort who wavered before the example of their betters, and were +willing to submit it to the searching of the old Sadducee's scrutiny. + +The morning after Abel Reverdy had finished his work at the Cross Roads, +and had returned to the cares patiently awaiting him at home he rode his +claybank so hesitantly toward the Squire's cabin that his desire to stop +and talk was plain, and Braile called to him: “Well, Abel, what do they +think of the Prophet over at Wilkins's? Many converts? Many dipped or +sprinkled, as the case required?” + +Reverdy drew rein and faced the Squire with a solemnity presently +yielding to his natural desire to grin at any form of joke, and his belief +that when the Squire indulged such flagrant irreverence as this he must be +joking. Yet he answered evasively: “You hearn't he says now he hain't +never go'n to die?” + +“No. But I'm not surprised to hear it; about the next thing on the +docket. Did he say that at the Cross Roads?” + +“Said it right here in Leatherwood. Sally told me the first thing when I +got home. You wasn't at the Temple last night, I reckon?” + +“Well, not _last_ night,” Braile said with an implication that he +had been at the Temple all the other nights, which made Reverdy laugh with +guilty joy. + +“One o' the Hounds--no, it was Jim Redfield hisself--stopped on the way +out, and he says, 'What's this I hear? You say you ain't goin' to die.' +And Dylks he lifts his hands up over his head and he says, 'This shell +will fall off'; and Jim he says, 'I've got half a mind to _crack_ +your shell,' and the believers they got round, and begun to hustle Jim +off, but Dylks he told them to let him alone, and he says, 'I can endure +strong meat, but I must be fed on milk for a while.' What you s'pose he +meant, Squire?” + +Braile took his pipe out and cackled toothlessly. “I'm almost afraid to +think, Abel. Something awful, though. You say Sally told you?” + +“Yes.” + +“I should think Sally would know what he meant, if anybody.” He looked at +Abel, and Sally's husband joined him in safe derision. “Tell you anything +else?” + +“Well, no, not just in so many words. But it 'pears he's been teachun' +round all sorts of things in private, like. Who do you reckon he says he +is?” + +“Not John the Baptist, I hope. I don't know where we should get the +locusts and wild honey for him in _this_ settlement. Might try +grasshoppers, but the last bee-tree in the Bottom was cut down when I was +a boy. I got a piece of the comb.” + +“I don't know if he said John the _Baptist;_ but it was John, +anyway. And they say--or that's what Sally hearn tell--that when he was +off with Enraghty and Hingston on some 'pointments down round Seneca there +was doun's that 'uld make your hair stand up.” + +“You don't happen to know just what the doings were?” + +“Well, no, I don't, Squire. But they was doun's to deceive the very +elec', from all I hearn.” + +“That's just what Hingston and Enraghty both are--the very elect. What +deceived _them_?” + +“Oh, pshaw, now, Squire! You know I don't mean they were deceived! That's +just a Bible sayin'. You see, Brother Briggs was sick and Brother Enraghty +went along with Dylks and Brother Hingston to preach in his place.” + +“Couldn't Dylks have done the preaching?” + +“I reckon he could. But there was three 'p'intments, and may be Dylks +couldn't fill 'em all, and may be he didn't want to. Fust Brother Enraghty +preached in the Temple at Seneca, and then at Brother Christhaven's house +off south of that, and then at David Mason's, the local preacher; but +Brother Mason has got the consumption, and he couldn't preach, so Brother +Enraghty had to do _all_ the preachun'.” + +“I see. Well?” + +“Well, that wasn't anything out o' the common, but what Dylks done to the +Devil beat all the preachun', I reckon.” + +“How'd it get out? Devil tell?” + +“No. Brother Enraghty told, and Sally she got it putty straight from the +wife of the man that he told it to.” + +“Go on,” Braile said. “I can hardly wait to hear.” + +“Well, sir, they had just got acrost the Leatherwood, and Brother +Enraghty felt as if he was lifted all at once into heaven; air diff'ent, +and full of joy. Dylks's face got brighter and brighter, and his voice +sounded like music. When they got to the top of the hill where you can +look back and see the Temple, Dylks turned his horse and stretched out his +hands, and says he, 'How ignorant them people is of my true natur'. But +time will show 'em.' Well, not just them words, you know; more dictionary; +and they preached with a great outpourun' at Seneca. They didn't go to bed +that night at all, accordun' to the woman's tell that Enraghty told her +man; sot up tell mornun' prayun', and singun' hymns and readun' the Bible. +Next mornun' when they started out Brother Enraghty seen a bright ring +round Dylks's head, and whenever Dylks got down to pray the ring just +stayed in the air over the saddle tell he got back, and then it dropped +round his head ag'in.” + +Reverdy stopped for the effect, but Braile only said, “Go on! Go on!” + +“Well, sir, so they kep' on all that day and all the next night, prayun', +and singun', and readun' the Bible. The next mornun' when they started +Brother Enraghty felt kind o' cold all over, and his teeth chattered, and +Dylks looked at him hard in the face, and says he, 'Time is precious now. +This is the time for work. I now reveal unto you that you are Paul the +Apostle.'” + +“And what did Paul the Apostle say? Did he own up that he was Paul?” + +Reverdy halted in his tale. “Look here, Squire! I don't feel just right, +havun' you say such things. It sounds--well, like profane swearun'.” + +“Any worse than Dylks or Enraghty? You go right ahead, Abel. I'll take +the responsibility before the law.” + +“Well,” Reverdy continued with a reluctance that passed as he went on, +“what Dylks told him was that he would increase his faith, so't he could +see the sights of his power, and glorify him among men, and then Enraghty +he commenced to git warm ag'in, and Dylks he turned up his eyes and kep' +still, and it was so bright all round him that it made the daylight like +dusk, and Dylks made him hark if he didn't hear a kind of rush in the air, +and Dylks said it was the adversary of souls, but he would conquer him. +They came into a deep holler in the woods and there they see the devil +standun' in their way, and Dylks he lights and hollers out, 'Fear not, +Paul; this day my work is done,' and he went towards Satan and Satan he +raised his burnun' wings and bristled his scales, and stuck out his forked +tongue and dropped melted fire from it; and he rolled his eyes in his +head, hissun' and bubblun' like sinners boilun' in hell's kittles. Then +Dylks he got down on his knees and prayed, and got up and give his shout +of Salvation, and the devil's wings fell, and he took in his tongue, and +his eyes stood still, and Dylks he blowed his breath at him, and Satan he +turned and jumped, and every jump he give the ground shook, and Dylks and +the balance of 'em follered him till the devil come to Brother Mason's +house, and then he jumped through the shut winder out of sight. They found +Brother Mason's son David in bed sick, but he got up and took Dylks in his +arms and called him his Savior, and everybody got down on their knees and +prayed, and their faces was shinun' beautiful, and Dylks he walks round +David Mason, and rubs his hands over him, and says, 'I bind the devil for +a thousand years,' and he hugged David, and said, 'The work is done.' And +he wouldn't stay to preach there, but told 'em they must come back with +him to the Temple here in Leatherwood. On the way back he wouldn't talk at +all, hardly, but just kep' sayun', 'The perfect work is done,' and he +didn't give his shout any more; just snorted.” + +Braile's pipe had gone out, but he pulled at it two or three times, +before he said, “Well, Abel, I don't wonder Sally is excited. I suppose +_you_ would be, if you believed a word of this yarn?” + +“Well, it's poorty cur'ous doun's, Squire,” Reverdy said, daunted between +his natural bent and his wish to be of the Squire's thinking. “Don't +_you_ believe it?” + +“Oh, yes, _I_ believe it. But you know _I_ believe anything. If +Dylks did it, and Enraghty says he did it, why there we've got the gospel +for it--right from St. Paul himself.” + +He said no more, and Reverdy lingered a moment in vague disappointment. +Then he sighed out, “Well, I must be goun', I reckon,” and thumped his +bare heels into the claybank's ribs and rode away. + +Day by day the faith in Dylks spread with circumstance which strengthened +it in the converts; they accepted the differences which parted husband and +wife, parent and child, and set strife between brothers and neighbors as +proof of his divine authority to bring a sword; they knew by the hate and +dissension which followed from his claim that it was of supernatural +force, and when the pillars of the old spiritual temple fell one after +another under his blows, they exalted in the ruin as the foundation of a +new sanctuary. They drove the worshipers out of the material Temple, +Methodists and Moravians and Baptists who had used it in common. They met +to dedicate it solely to the doctrine of the prophet who came teaching +that neither he nor they should ever die, but should enter in the flesh +into the New Jerusalem which should come down to them at Leatherwood. His +steps in passing from teacher to prophet and to Messiah were contested by +a few with bitter and strenuous dissent, but on the night when Dylks +proclaimed before the thronging assembly in the stolen Temple, “I am God +and there is none else,” they pressed round him, men and women and +children, and worshiped him. “I am God and the Christ in one,” he +proclaimed. “In me, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost are met. There is no +salvation except by faith in me. They who put their faith in me shall +never taste death, but shall be translated into the New Jerusalem, which I +am going to bring down from Heaven.” He snorted; the few unbelievers +protested in abhorrence; but the Sisters in the faith shrieked and the +Brothers shouted, “We shall never die!” Dylks came down from the pulpit +among them, and Enraghty called out, “Behold our God!” and they fell on +their knees before him. As it had been from the beginning, the wisest and +best, the first in prayer and counsel, were foremost in the idolatry; and +young girls, and wives and mothers joined in hailing Dylks as their +Creator and Savior, and besought him to bless and keep them. + +The believers were in such force that none of the Hounds, veteran +disturbers of camp-meetings and revivals, who were there, dared molest +them; the few members of the sects expelled from the Temple of their +common worship held aloof from the tumult in dismay, and made no attempt +to reclaim the sanctuary. One man, not of any church, but of standing in +the community, tried to incite the sectarians to assert their rights, but +found no following among them. They left the Temple together with certain +others who had been trembling toward belief in Dylks, but whom the +profanation repelled; when they were gone the tumult sank enough to let +Enraghty announce another meeting a week hence, and then dismiss the +congregation. + +“An' afore that we're goin' to have a murricle,” Sally Reverdy told +Squire Braile, sitting early the next morning at the receipt of gossip on +his cabin porch with his pipe between his teeth; her cow had not come up +the night before, and Abel had not found her in the woods-pasture when he +went to look. “An' I couldn't wait all day, an' I just slipped over to git +some milk of Mis' Braile,” she explained to the Squire as she paused with +the bucket in her hand. “I told her I'd bring it back the first chance't I +git at our cow; I reckon Abel will find her some time or 'nuther; and I +'lowed you had plenty.” + +Braile had already heard her explaining all this to his wife, but now he +kept her for the full personal detail of the last night's event at the +Temple. She ended an unsparing report of the wonders seen with a prophecy +of wonders to come. + +“Why,” Braile said, “I don't see what you want of a miracle more than +what you've had already. The fact that your cow didn't come up last night, +and Abel couldn't find her in the woods-pasture this morning is miracle +enough to prove that Dylks is God. Besides, didn't he say it himself, and +didn't Enraghty say it?” + +“Well, yes, they did,” Sally assented, overborne for the moment by his +logic. + +“And didn't you all believe them?” + +“Well, _we_ all did,” Sally said. “But look here, Squire Braile, +what about them that didn't believe it?” + +“Oh, then there were some there that didn't believe it! Well, I suppose +nothing less than more miracles will do for _them_. Who were they?” + +“Well, of course, there was Jim Redfield; he's been ag'inst him from the +first; and there was old George Nixon, and there was Hughey Blake, and a +passel of the Hounds that I don't count.” + +“Why, certainly not; the Hounds would doubt anything. But I'm surprised +at Redfield and Nixon and Hughey Blake. What reason did they give for the +faith that wasn't in them? When a man stood up and snorted like a horse +and said he was God, why didn't they believe him? Or the other fellows +that didn't snort, but said they knew it was God from a sound that he +made?” + +“Oh, pshaw, now, Squire Braile!” Sally gurgled. She did not yield quite +with Abel's helplessness at a joke, but the Squire's blasphemous irony had +its force with her too, though she felt it right to bring herself back to +her religious conviction with the warning, “Some day you'll go too fur.” + +“Yes, I'm always expecting the lightning to strike in the wrong place. +Didn't Nixon or Redfield or Hughey Blake say anything? Or did they just +look ashamed of you, down there on your knees before a man that you +worshiped for a God because he snorted like a horse? Didn't anybody in +their senses say anything, or couldn't those that were out of their senses +hear anything but their own ravings?” + +The old man had pleased himself with his mockeries, but now he let the +scorn which his irony had hidden blaze out. “Wasn't anybody ashamed of it +all? Weren't you ashamed yourself, Sally?” + +“Well, I dunno,” Sally said, easing herself from one foot to another and +shifting the milk-bucket from her right hand to her left. “Where everybody +is goun' one way, you don't know what to think exactly. Jane Gillespie was +there, and she went on as bad as the best.” + +“Jane Gillespie?” + +“Yes. She come with me, and she was goun' to come home with me, as fur's +the door, and she would ha' done it, if it hadn't ha' been for her father. +He bruk through the believers and drug her up from the floor where she was +kneelun' and stoopun' her forehead over to the ground, and pulled her out +through the crowd. 'You come home with me!' says he, kind o' harsh like; +and if it hadn't ha' been for Nancy Billuns's Joey I'd ha' had to git +through the woods alone, and the dear knows I'm always skeered enough. But +Joey and Benny Hingston they come with me, or I don't feel as if I'd been +here to tell it.” + +“You'd have been safe from the devil, though; he stayed with Dylks. +Didn't David say anything to the girl?” + +“Just, 'You come home with me,' and he looked so black that Hughey Blake +he kind o' started from where he was standun' with the unbelievers, and he +says, 'Oh, don't, Mr. Gillespie!'--like that--and Jane she said, 'It's my +father, Hugh,' and she went along with him, kind o' wild lookun', like she +was walkun' in her sleep. I noticed it at the time.” + +“Didn't Dylks do anything--say anything?” + +“Well, not that _I_ seen or hearn. But some o' them that was +standun' nigh him was talkun' about it when we all got out, and they was +sayun' he said, 'Go with your earthly father; your heavenly father will +keep you safe!' I don't know whether he did or not; but that's what they +was sayun.” + +“And did Gillespie say anything back?” + +“Not't anybody heared. Just give Dylks a look like he wanted to kill him, +and then Dylks snorted, and yelled 'Salvation!' Squire,” Sally broke off, +“some of us believers was talkun' it over, when we started home, and +wonderun' what ought we to call him. Jest Dylks don't sound quite right, +and you can't say Almighty, to a body, exactly, and you can't say Lord. +What should you think was the right way?” + +Braile got back to his irony. “Well, that's an important question, Sally. +I should call him Beelzebub, myself; but then I'm not a believer. That +night when he first came, didn't he tell the people to call him just +Dylks?” + +“Yes, he did, but that was for the present, he said.” + +“Has he given himself any other name?” + +“Well, no.” + +“Then I should let it go at Dylks.” + +“Just plain Dylks? Mr. Dylks wouldn't do; or Brother Dylks, wouldn't. +Father Dylks don't sound quite the thing--” + +“Might try Uncle Dylks,” Braile said, cackling round his pipe-stem, and +now Sally perceived that it was in vain to attempt serious discussion of +the point with him. + +She said, “Oh, pshaw, Squire Braile,” and lankly let herself down +sidewise from the porch, and flopped away on the road. Then she stopped, +and called back, “Say, Squire, what do you think of the Good Old Man?” + +“What good old man?” + +“Why, Dylks. For a name. That's what most of 'em wants to call him.” + +“Sounds like a good name for them that like a name like it.” + +“He calls _us_ the Little Flock.” + +“Well, well! Geese or sheep?” + +“Oh, pshaw, now! I wouldn't belong to the Herd of the Lost, anyway. +That's what he calls the unbelievers.” + +“You don't tell me! Well, now I _will_ be scared in the dark.” + +Failing of any retort, Sally now flopped definitively beyond calling back. + +Braile watched her going with a sardonic smile, but when his wife, after +waiting for her to be quite gone, came out to him, he was serious enough. + +“Did that fool tell you of the goings on at the Temple last night?” + +“As much as I would let her. I suppose it had to come to something like +that. It seems as if the people had gone crazy.” + +“Yes,” the Squire sighed heavily, “there's no doubt about that. And it's +a pity. For such a religious community Leatherwood Creek used to be a very +decent place to live in. They were a lot of zealots, but they got on well +with one another; that Temple of theirs kept them together, and they +didn't quarrel much about doctrine. Now with the Dylksites driving the +old-fashioned believers out of the sanctuary and dedicating it to the +exclusive worship of Dylks, the other denominations are going to fight +among themselves; and there'll be no living with them. And that isn't the +worst of it. This new deity isn't going to be satisfied with worship +merely. Money, of course, he'll want and get, and he'll wear purple and +fine linen, and feed upon fried chicken every day. Still the superstition +might die out, and no great harm done, if the faith was confined to men. +But you know what women are, Martha.” + +“They're what men make 'em,” Mrs. Braile said sadly. + +“It's six of one and half a dozen of another, I'm afraid. But this god of +theirs is a handsome devil, and some poor fool of a girl, or some bigger +fool of a married woman, is going to fall in love with him, and then--” + +“Did you just think of that? Well, you can't help it by lettin' your +coffee get cold.” + +Braile tilted his chair down and rose from its rebound to follow his wife +stiffly indoors. “The question is, Who will it be? Which poor girl? Which +bigger fool? And nothing can be done to prevent it! The Real God put it +into human nature, and all Hell couldn't stop it. Well, I suppose it's for +some wise purpose,” he ended, in parody of the pious resignation +prevailing on the tongues of the preachers. + + + + +IX + + +David Gillespie woke later than his daughter, and when he had put away +the shadows of his unhappy dreams he took up the burden of waking thoughts +which weighed more heavily on him. The sight of his child groveling at the +feet of that blasphemous impostor and adoring him as her God pitilessly +realized itself to him as a thing shameful past experience and beyond +credence, and yet as undeniable as his pulse, his breath, his seeing and +hearing. The dread which a less primitive spirit would have forbidden +itself as something too abominable, possessed him as wholly possible. He +had lived righteously, and he had kept evil from those dear to him, both +the dead and the quick, by the force of his strong unselfish will; now he +had seen his will without power upon the one who was dearest, and whom he +seemed to hold from evil only by the force of his right hand. But his hand +could not be everywhere and at all times; and then? + +The breakfast which the girl had got for him and left on the hearth was +warm yet, when he put it on the table, and she could not have been gone +more than a few minutes, but she had gone, he did not know where, without +waiting to speak with him after the threats and defiances which they had +slept upon. When he had poured the coffee after the mouthfuls he forced +down, he acted on the only hope he had and crossed the woods-pasture to +his sister's cabin. + +She understood the glance he gave within from the threshold where he +paused, and said, “She ain't here, David.” Nancy had cleared her breakfast +away and was ironing at the shelf where she had eaten; the baby was +playing on the floor. + +Gillespie looked down at it. “I didn't know but what she'd come over to +dress it; she cares so much for it.” + +“It cares for her, too. But what brings you after her?” + +“She's gone somewhere without her breakfast. We had high words last night +after I brought her home.” + +“I'm afraid you'll have higher words, yet, David. Joey was at the Temple.” + +“Nancy, I don't know what to do about her.” + +“You knew what to do about _me_, David.” She gave her stab, and then +she pitied him, not for the pain she was willing he should feel from it, +but for the pain he was feeling before. “I know it isn't like that. I'm +sorry for you both. You haven't come to the end of your troubles.” + +“I can't understand the girl,” he said desolately. “Up to a year ago she +was like she had always been, as biddable as a child, and meek and +yielding every way. All at once she's got stiff-necked and wilful.” + +“She couldn't tell you why, herself, David. We are all that way--good +little girls--and then all of a sudden wilful women. I don't know what +changes us. It's harder on us than it is on you. It came on me like a +thief in the night and stole away my sense. It gave Joseph Dylks his +chance over me; if it had been sooner or later I should have known he was +a power of darkness as far as I could see him. But my eyes were holden by +my self-conceit, and I thought he was an angel of light.” + +“He's got past being an angel now,” Gillespie said, forcing himself to +the real matter of his errand, far from the question of his daughter's +estrangement from her old self. “Did Joey tell you about--last night?” + +Nancy did not quit the psychological question at once. “Up to that time +we think our fathers and brothers are something above the human; then we +think they're not even up to the common run of men. We think other men are +different because we don't know them. Yes,” she returned to his question +with a sigh, “Joey told me something about it--enough about it. I suppose +it isn't right to let him be a spy on his father; but I have to. If I +didn't he might want to go, from the talk of those fools, and get to +believin' with them. He said there was boys and girls kneelin' with the +rest--little children, almost, and shoutin' and prayin' to Joseph. Did you +see 'em?” + +“Yes; it was dreadful, Nancy. But it was worse to see the women, the +grown-up girls, and the mothers of the children. It looked like they had +been drinking. It fairly turned me sick. And my own daughter groveling on +her knees with the worst! If I didn't know Dylks for the thing he is, +without an idea beyond victuals and clothes, I might ha' thought he had +thrown a spell on 'em, just for deviltry. But they done it all themselves; +he just gave them the _chance_ to play the fool.” + +Nancy resumed from her own more immediate interest, “Well, I let Joey go; +and I don't know whether it helps or hurts to have him come home feelin' +about him, and all the goings on, just like I would myself. He always says +he's glad I wasn't there, and he pities the poor fool women more than he +despises his father. Or I ortn't to say despise; Joey don't despise +anybody; he's all good, through and through; I don't know where he gets +it. He's like Laban, and yet he ain't any kin to Laban.” + +“It must be hard on you, Nancy. I don't know how you can bear up the way +you do. It is like a living streak of fire in me.” + +“That's because there's some hope left in you. I can bear what I've got +to because the feeling is all burnt out of me. It's like as if my soul was +dead.” + +“You mustn't say that, Nancy.” + +“I say anything I please, now; anything I think. I'm not afraid any more; +I hain't got anything left to be afraid of.” + +“Well, I have,” David returned. “Something I'm ashamed to be afraid of +it: his hold on Jane. I don't understand it. We've always thought alike +and believed alike, and now to see her gone crazy after a thief and liar +like that! It's enough to drive me mad the other way. I don't only want to +kill _him_; I want to kill--” + +“David!” she stopped him, and in his pause she added, “You're worse than +what I ever was. Where is your religion?” + +“Where is _her_ religion? I raised her to fear God, the Bible God +that I've prayed to for her since she was a little babe, but now since +she's turned to this heathen image I begin to turn from _Him_. What's +_He_ been about if He's All Seeing and All Powerful, to let loose +such a devil on a harmless settlement like this where we were all brethren +and dwelt together in unity, no matter whether we believed in dipping or +sprinkling? We loved one another--in the Scripture sense--and now look! +Families broken up, brothers not speaking, wives and husbands parting, +parents cursing the day their children were born, and children flying in +the face of their parents. Did you hear about Christopher Mills, how he +come crying to his father and mother and tried to make them believe in +Dylks, and when his father said it was all a snare and a delusion, +Christopher went away telling them their damnation was sealed?” + +“No,” the woman said with bitter pleasure in the mockery, “but I heard +how our new Saint Paul Enraghty went over to his uncle's the other day, +and said he should never see corruption, and should never die, and told +his uncle he couldn't shoot him. Them that was there say the old man just +reached for his rifle, and was going to shoot Saint Paul in the legs, and +then Paul begged off and pretended that he was only in fun!” + +She laughed, but David Gillespie looked sadly at her. “I don't believe I +like to hear you laugh, Nancy.” + +“Why, are you turning believer too, David? It'll be time for me next,” + she mocked. “I couldn't laugh at Joseph, may be, but Saint Paul Enraghty +is a bigger rascal or a bigger fool than he is. Some say that Joseph is +just crazy, and some that he's after money, and that Enraghty's put him up +to everything.” + +“Yes,” David moodily assented to the general tenor of her talk. “The way +they've roped in between 'em that poor fool Davis who'd been preaching for +the United Brethren, and now preaches Dylks! First he wouldn't hardly go +into the same house, and then he wouldn't leave it till he could come with +Dylks. I don't know how they do it! Sometimes I think the decentest man +left in the place is that red-mouthed infidel, Matthew Braile! Sometimes +I'm a mind to go to his house and get him to tell me what Tom Paine would +do in my place.” + +“You _are_ pretty far gone, David. But I don't wonder at it; and I +don't believe I think so badly of Matthew Braile, either. He may be an +infidel, but he believes in some kind of a God that wants people to do +right; he don't believe in mortal sin, and may be that's where he's out; +and I hear tell he don't think there's going to be any raisin' of the +body, or any Last Day, or any Hell; but he keeps it to himself unless +folks pester him. I was afraid once to have Joey talk with him, before the +plow went over me. But now I let Joey go to him all he wants to. He lets +Joey come and pet the coon Joey give him because he heard that the +Squire's little boy used to want one. From all I can make out they don't +do much but talk about the little boy; he seems to take comfort in Joey +because Joey's like him, or the Squire thinks so.” + +“If Jane had died when she was his little boy's age, I wouldn't feel as +if I had lost her half as much as I do now.” + +Nancy lifted herself from her ironing-board and looked at her brother. +“You told me what the duty of a woman was that found out she had two +husbands. Don't you know what the duty of a man is that has a daughter +turned idolater?” + +“No, I don't, Nancy,” David answered doggedly. + +“Then, why don't you wrestle with the Lord in prayer? Perhaps He'd make +you some sign.” + +“Oh, prayer! The thought of it makes me sick since I saw them fools +wallowing round at Dylks's feet, and beseeching that heathen image to save +them.” + +“Then if you hain't got any light of yourself, and you don't believe the +Lord can give you any, what do you expect _me_ to do for you?” + +“I don't expect anything, Nancy. If she was a child I could whip it out +of her, but when your child has got to be a woman you can't whip her.” + +They left the hopeless case, and began to talk of the things they had +heard, especially the miracle which Dylks had promised to work. “He's +appointed it for to-night,” Gillespie said, “but I don't believe but what +he'll put it off, if the coast ain't clear when the time comes. He always +had the knack of leaving the back door open when he saw trouble coming up +to the front gate.” + +“You can't tell me anything about Joseph Dylks,” Nancy said. She was +ironing, and at the last word she brought the iron down with the heavy +thump that women give with it at an emphatic word in their talk. “What I +wonder is that a man like you, David, could care what people in such a +place as this would say if they found out that I was livin' with Laban +when I knowed Dylks was alive. There wouldn't be any trouble with his +followers, I reckon. He'd just tell 'em he never saw me in his life +before, and that would do them.” + +“Nancy,” her brother turned solemnly upon her, “as sure as I'm standing +here I don't care for that any more. If you say the word, I'll go and tell +Laban to come back to you.” + +“You're safe there, David. If you've parted with your conscience, I've +got it from you. I wonder you don't go and follow after Joseph Dylks too. +All the best and smartest men in the place believe in him. Just look at +Mr. Enraghty! A man with more brains and book learnin' than all the rest +put together; willin' to be the Apostle Paul because Joseph Dylks called +him it, and gets up in the Temple where he used to preach Christ Jesus and +Him crucified, and tells the people to behold their God in Joseph Dylks! +There's just one excuse for him: he's crazy. If he ain't he's the +wickedest man in Leatherwood, the wickedest man in the whole world; he's +worse than Joseph Dylks, because he knows better. Joseph is such a liar +that he could always make himself believe what he said. But it's no use +your stayin' here, David!” She suddenly broke off to turn on her brother. +“If you're a mind to let Jane come, I'll try what I can do with her.” + +The old man faltered at the door. “Are you going to tell her, Nancy?” + +“I'm not going to tell _you_, whether I am or not, David!” + +Her words began harshly, but ended with his name tenderly, pitifully +uttered. + +She called after him as he moved from her door, heavily, weakly, more +like an old man than she had noted him yet, “I'll talk to Jane, and +whatever I say will be for her good.” She watched him out of sight from +where she was working; then she went to the door, with some mind to call +more kindly yet to him; but he was not to be seen, and she went back to +her ironing, and ironed more swiftly than before, moving her lips in a +sort of wrathful revery. From time to time she changed her iron for one at +the hearth, which she touched with her wetted finger to test its heat, and +returned to her table with an unconscious smile of satisfaction in its +quick responsive hiss. In her movements to and fro she spoke to the baby, +which babbled inarticulately up to her from the floor. Then she seemed to +forget it, and it was in one of these moments of oblivion that she was +startled by a sharp cry of terror from it. A man was looking in at the +door. + + + + +X + + +The man stood with one foot on the log doorstep outside and the other +planted on the threshold of the cabin. + +Nancy came toward him with her iron held at arms' length before her. +“What do you want?” she demanded fiercely. + +“Give me to drink,” he said, with a grin. + +“Go round to the well,” she answered. + +The man bent his body a little forward, and looked in, but he did not +venture to lift his other foot to the threshold. “Where is your husband?” + he asked. + +“I have no husband. What is it to you?” + +“'Thou sayest well ... for him whom thou now hast, is not thy husband.' +You don't look a bit older, and you're as handsome as ever, Nancy. I +suppose that's his,” he said, turning his eye towards the little one on +the floor, lifted by her hands half upright, and peering at him, in +conditional alarm. + +“It's mine,” she retorted. + +“Oh, anybody could see that. It's the image of you. And so is our Joey. +You don't let your young ones favor your husbands much, Nancy; and yet you +was not always so set against me. What's your notion letting Joey come to +the Temple?” + +“To see for himself what you are.” + +“That's what I thought, maybe. Well, he don't seem to take to me much, if +I can judge from his face when he looks my way. I hain't been able to give +him all the attention I may later. But you needn't be troubled about him. +I won't do anything to make you anxious. Nancy, I wish you could feel as +friendly to me as I do to you. Will you let me have something to drink out +of?” + +“Go round,” she said, “and I'll bring the gourd to you.” + +Dylks laughed, but he obeyed, and found his way to the well where he +lowered the bucket at the end of the swoop, and stood waiting for Nancy to +follow him with the dipper fashioned from a long-necked gourd, as the +drinking cup oftenest was in the western country of those days. She held +it out to him with her head turned and he carried it to his lips from the +brimming bucket. + +He drank it empty, and then turned it over with a long, deep “Ah--h--h!” + of satisfaction. “That was good! Good as the buttermilk would have been +that you didn't think to offer me. Well, I thank you for the water, +anyway, you woman of Samaria.” He held the gourd toward her but she did +not take it, and he laughed again. “If you could have had your way without +sin you'd have made it poison, I reckon. Don't you know I could drink +poison the same as water?” + +“_You_ don't,” she said, and as he swung the gourd in tacit question +what to do with it since she did not offer to take it, she bade him, “Put +it down.” + +He did so, and she set her foot on the thin bowl and crushed it like an +egg shell. He laughed. “Is that the way you feel about me, Nancy? Pity for +the gourd, but don't you believe that if I was to will it so, it would +come good and whole again?” + +“_You_ don't believe it,” she said. + +“It's not for me to believe or to unbelieve,” he answered. “I am that I +am.” + +“Oh, yes,” she taunted him, “you've tried saying such things, and you're +not afraid because it ha'n't killed you yet. You think if you _was_ +just a man it would kill you.” + +“Who can tell what I think? Perhaps something like what you say has gone +through my mind. Why, Nancy, if you would listen once, I could convince +you of it, too. Come, now, look at it in this light! If God lets a man say +and do what the man pleases--and He _has_ to do it every now and then +according to what the Book tells--why ain't the man equal with God? You +believe, maybe, that you would be struck dead if you said the things that +I do; but why ain't I struck dead? Why, either because it ain't so, at +all, or because I'm God. It stands to reason, don't it? What is God, +anyway? If He was so mighty and terrible, wouldn't He have ways of showing +it in these times just as much as in those old times that we read about in +the Book? + +“Don't you know that if there was anything besides you and me, here now, +it would have sent the lightning out of this clear sky and blasted me when +I said, I was God? Well, now we'll try it again. Listen! I _am God_, +Jehovah, ruler of heaven and earth!” He stood a moment, smiling. “There +you see! I'm safe and sound as ever. May be you think it would be worse if +_you_ said I was God. Lots have said it. Last night all Leatherwood +was hanging to my arms and legs down there in the Temple worshiping me. If +I hadn't been God it would have made me sick! No mere man could stand the +praising God gets in the churches all the time. Why that proves I'm what I +say I am, if nothing else does. I saw it from the first; I felt it; I knew +it.” He ended with his laugh. + +She stayed herself by the trunk of the tree overhanging the well. “Yes, +you've got all Leatherwood with you, or as good as all, and I don't wonder +it's made you crazy. But don't you be so sure. Some day there's going to +be a reckoning with you, and you're going to wake up from this dream of +yours.” She seemed to gather force as she faced him. “I could feel to be +glad it _was_ a dream; I could feel to pity you. But don't you +believe but what it's going to turn against you. Some day, sooner or +later, some man's going to show the people what you are; some woman--” + +[Illustration: “You believe, maybe, that you would be struck dead if you +said the things that I do; but why ain't I struck dead?”] + +“There you've said it,” he broke in. “That's what I've come for. You're +the only woman that could hurt me, not because you think you know me the +best, but because you're the bravest woman that ever was. That's why I've +got to have you with me in my dispensation. Male and female created He +them in His image. I can swing all Leatherwood by myself, but +Leatherwood's nothing. If I had you with me we could swing the world! +Nancy, why don't you come to me?” He flung his arms wide and bent his +stalwart shape toward her. “Leatherwood's nothing, I tell you. Why, you +ought to see the towns Over-the-Mountains; you ought to see Philadelphia, +where I came from the last thing. Everywhere the people are waiting for a +sign, just as they've always been, and we would come with a sign--plenty +of signs: the perfect Godhead, male and female, for the greatest sign of +all. Why, I wonder there's a Christian woman living, with the slur that +the idea of just one male God throws on women! Don't you know that the +Egyptians and the Greeks and the Romans, and everybody but the Hebrews, +had a married God, and that the Godhead was husband and wife? If you had +ever read anything at all you would know that.” + +The bad, vulgar beauty of his face, set in its flowing beard and hair, +glowed on her. + +“You needn't look that way at me, Joseph Dylks,” she answered. “I don't +want any book-l'arning to know what _you_ are. You're what you always +was, a lazy, good-for-nothing--Oh, I don't say you wasn't handsome; that +was what done it for me when I made you my God; but I won't make you my +God now, though you're as handsome as ever you was; handsomer, if that's +any comfort to you.” + +“Nothing to what you're coming to me would be, Nancy.” + +“You'll have to do without, then. You think you can twist me round your +finger, like you used to, if you willed it, but I've outlived you, you and +your will. Now I want you to go, and not ever come near me again; or I'll +have Laban here, the next time.” + +“Laban? Laban? Oh, the man who is not thy husband! I'm not afraid of your +having Laban, here; let him come. I've converted worse sinners than +Laban.” He had remained, bent forward with his gaze still on her; now he +lifted himself, and said, as if it were another word of his spell, “Come, +Nancy!” + +She answered, “If I thought there was any mercy in you--” + +“Why, I'm All-merciful, as well as All-mighty, Nancy!” he jeered. + +“No,”--as if concluding her thought, she said, “it's no use! You couldn't +do a right thing if you wanted to; you can only do wrong things. I see +that.” + +“What is right and what is wrong? When you stand by my side in your half +of the godhead, you will know that there is no difference. Why, even a +poor human being can make wrong right by wanting it enough, and with God +there is nothing but one kind of thing, the thing that God allows. It +don't matter whether it's letting the serpent tempt that fool woman in +Eden, or Joseph's brethren selling him into Egypt, or Samuel hewing Agag +in pieces, or the Israelites smiting the heathen, or David setting Uriah +in the forefront of the battle, or Solomon having hundreds of wives; it's +all right if God wills it. You'll say it's put right by what happens to +them that do wrong. Be God yourself and the right and the wrong will take +care of themselves. I want you to come and help me. Why, with the sister +and daughter of old David Gillespie both following me--” + +She suddenly shrank from the grandeur of judging of him, to the measure +of her need of his forbearance. “Oh, why can't you let David alone? What's +he ever done to you?” + +“What have I ever done to him?” Dylks demanded, temporizing on her ground. + +“Why can't you let Jane alone?” + +He gave his equine snort, as if the sense of his power could best vent +itself so. “Why can't she let _me_ alone? That girl bothers me worse +than all the other women in Leatherwood put together. She won't _let_ +me let her alone.” + +“She was all right before you came. Why can't you let her go back to +Hughey Blake?” + +“Hughey Blake? Oh! Then it wasn't--” A light of malign intelligence shone +in his eyes. “Well, I haven't got anything against Hughey Blake.” + +“Oh, if you'd only let her go back to Hughey! If you'd only let her +alone, I'd--” + +“You'd what?” He bounded toward her, and at her recoil he laughed and +said, “I didn't mean to scare you.” + +“I wasn't scared. You can't scare _me_, Joseph Dylks. It's past that, +long ago, with you and me. But if I only knowed what you was up to--what +you would really take to let David alone; to let her go back to Hughey +Blake--But there ain't any pity in you!” + +“Don't I tell you I'm _full_ of pity? Look here, Nancy; I don't ask +you to come with me, to be one with me, to go halves in the godhead, all +at once. It's been step by step with me: first exhorter, then prophet, +then disciple, then the Son, then the Father: but it's been as easy! You +don't know how faith, the faith of the elect, helps along; and you would +have that from the beginning; they would take you on my word, you wouldn't +have to say or do anything. But that's not what I'm expecting now,” he +hurried to add, smiling at the cloud of refusal in her face. “I'm not +fooling; all I ask now is to have you come and see me do a miracle at +Brother Hingston's to-night. I'll do two miracles if you'll come, and one +will be sending Jane Gillespie away from me and back to Hughey Blake. +You'll want to see that, even if you don't want to see me turn a bolt of +cloth into seamless raiment by the touch of my hand.” + +“You are a wicked man, Joseph Dylks,” the woman solemnly answered. “And +I'm sorry I asked you anything. You _couldn't_ do good, if you +tried.” She pulled her sunbonnet across her face, as if to hide it for +shame, and went back slowly toward the cabin. + +“Salvation!” Dylks shouted after her, and gave his equine snort. He began +to sing, as he took his way through the woods, + + “Plunged in a gulf of dark despair + We wretched sinners lay.” + +At first he sang boldly, filling the woods with the mocking of his hymn. +But at the sound of footsteps crackling over the dry falling twigs toward +him intermittently, as if they paused in question, and then resumed their +course toward him, his voice fell, brokenly silencing itself till at the +encounter of a man glimpsed through the trees, and pausing in a common +arrest, it ceased altogether. + +“Who are you?” Dylks demanded of the slight, workworn figure before him. + +“Laban Billings,” the man faltered. + +“Well, then, Laban Billings, make way for the Lord thy God,” Dylks +powerfully returned, and as if he had borne the man down before him, he +strode over the place where he had stood, and lost himself in the shadows +beyond. + +Laban hurried on, stumbling and looking back over his shoulder, till he +found himself face to face with Nancy at the door of the shed behind the +cabin. She was looking, too, in the direction Dylks had ceased from their +sight in the woods. They started from each other in mutual fright. + +“Nancy!” he entreated. “I didn't see you. I--I wasn't comin' to see you, +indeed, indeed I wasn't. I just thought I might ketch sight of the +baby--It's pretty hard to do without you both! And I was just passin'--Well, +they've knocked off work at the Corners, so's to come to the miracle at +Hingston's Mill to-night--But I'll go right away again, Nancy.” + +“You needn't, Laban. Come in and see the baby.” + +“Nancy!” he uttered joyfully. Then he faltered, “Do you think it will be +right--” + +“Oh, who knows what's right?” she retorted. Then at his stare, she +demanded, “Didn't you run across anybody in the woods?” + +“Yes.” + +“What did he look like?” + +“Like what they tell the Leatherwood God looks like. They're half crazy +about him at the Corners. They don't hardly talk about anything else.” + +“Did you think he looked like God?” + +“More like Satan, I should say. He's handsome enough for Satan.” + +“It was Joseph Dylks.” + +“Yes, I s'picioned that.” + +“And he's been here, wanting me to go away with him--Over-the-Mountains.” + +Laban made a dry sound in his throat and it was by a succession of +efforts that he could say, “And--and--and--” + +“Oh, could you _ask_, Laban?” she lamented. “You're my husband, +don't you know it?” At the sound of her lament a little voice of fear and +hope answered from the cabin. The father-hunger came into the man's weak +face, making it strong. “Come in and see our baby, Laban.” + +She put out her hand to him innocently like a little girl to a little +boy, and he took it. “I know it's just for the baby; and I feel to thank +you, Nancy,” he said, and together they went into the cabin. + +At sight of him the baby crowed recognition. “She knowed you in a +minute,” the mother said, and she straightened the skirt of the little one +which the father had deranged in lifting the child from the floor. “I +don't believe she'll ever forget you; I _reckon_ she won't if I have +any say in it. Me and Joey talks about you every night when we're gettin' +her to sleep.” She gurgled out a half-sob, half-laugh, as the little one +pulled and pushed at his face, which he twisted this way and that, to get +her hand in his mouth. “She always cared more for you than she did for me. +I'll set you a piece, Laban; I was just going to get me a bite of +something; I don't take my meals very regular, with you not here.” + +“Well, I _am_ a little hungry with the walk from the Corners, after +such an early breakfast.” + +“Well, you just keep her.” + +“Oh, _I'll_ keep her,” he exulted. + +She hustled about the hearth, getting the simple meal, which she made +more than she had meant, and they had a joyous strange time together at +the leaf she stayed from the well. + +He kept the baby in his lap while he ate. Then he walked the floor till +she fell asleep in his arms. When he lifted himself from laying her in the +rough cradle which he had himself made for her, he said, without looking +at the mother, “Now, I must be going, Nancy.” + +“Don't go on account of me, Laban,” she said with the same fierce courage +she had shown in driving him from her before. “If it's for me--” + +“Nancy, I've thought it all out since I been away. And I reckon I ain't +your husband, in the sight of God. You was right about that; and I won't +ever come back again till--as long as--” He glanced wistfully at the +little one in the cradle, and then he turned to go out of the door. +“And--and--good-by, Nancy.” + +She followed him to the door. “Kiss me, Laban!” + +He put away the arms she lifted toward him. “No,” he said, “I reckon it +wouldn't be right,” and he turned and walked swiftly away, without looking +back. + + + + +XI + + +The woman stood watching the man, as long as she could see him, and long +after, with her left hand lifted to the jamb of the door, higher than her +head. Then from the distance where he passed from sight over the brow of +the hill, another figure of a man appeared, and slowly made its way down +to the cabin. As she knew while he was still far off, it was Matthew +Braile who, as long as he sat in the seat of the scorner, with his chair +tilted against the wall, seemed a strong middle-aged man; but when he +descended from his habitual place, with the crook of his stick, worn +smooth by use, in his hard palm, one saw that he was elderly and stiff +almost to lameness. He carried himself with a forward droop, and his gaze +bent ponderingly on the ground, as if he were not meaning to look her way, +and would pass without seeing her. + +“Squire Braile!” she called to him, and as he straightened himself and +turned round toward her, she besought him, “Do you believe there's any +God?” + +“Oh!” he answered, and he smiled at the challenge from the somewhat +lonely elevation which he knew the thoughts of his neighbors kept, aloof +from the sordid levels of politics and business. “Why, Nancy, haven't we +got one, right here in Leatherwood?” + +“That's what makes me think there ain't any, Squire Braile. If you're not +in too much of a hurry, I wish you'd stop and talk to me a minute. I'm in +trouble.” + +“Most women are; or men, for the matter of that. What is it, Nancy? I'm +rather stronger on law than gospel; but if I can be any help, why you know +your Joey's an old friend of mine, and I'll be glad to help you.” + +He came toward her where she had stepped from the threshold and sat +crouched on the hewn log, and stood looking down at her before he sank at +her side. + +“You may think it's pretty strange, my asking _you_ for help. Won't +you set? I can't let you come inside because the baby's just got to sleep.” + +“Well,” he assented, “if you're not afraid to be seen with such an +infidel in the full light of day,” he jested, confronting her from the log +where he sank. “What would Brother Gillespie say?” + +She ignored his kindly mockery, and again she began, “What makes you +believe there's a God? You don't believe in the Bible?” + +“Not altogether, Nancy.” + +“Do you believe in the Bible God?” + +“As much as the Bible'll let me.” + +“Then, do you believe in the miracles?” + +“What are you after, Nancy Billings?” + +“If you saw a miracle, would you believe it?” + +“That would depend on who did it. Now, I want you to let _me_ do a +little of the catechizing. I've liked you and Laban ever since you came to +Leatherwood, and you know how your Joey has all but brought my boy back to +me. Well, do _you_ believe in God?” + +“No!” + +“Why don't you?” + +“A God that would let Joseph Dylks claim to be Him, and let them poor +fools kneel down to him and worship him? Would an all-wise and +all-powerful God do that?” + +“What makes you say all-powerful? Haven't you seen time and time again +when good didn't prevail against evil, and don't you suppose He'd have +helped it if He could? And why do you call Him all-wise? Is it because men +are no-wise? That wouldn't prove it, would it? And about the miracles, +what does a miracle prove? Does it prove that the person who does it is of +God, or just that faith is stronger than reason in those who think it's +happened?” + +“But sin: do you think there's such a thing?” Nancy pursued. + +“There you are, catechizing _me_ again! Yes, I think there's sin, +because I've known it in myself, if I haven't in others.” + +“And what is it--sin?” + +“Well, Nancy, it seems to vary according to the time and place. But I +should say it was going against what you knew was right at the time being.” + +“And do you always know?” + +“Always!” the old man answered solemnly. “I never was mistaken in my +life, whether I went for or against it, and I've done both.” + +The woman drew a hapless sigh. “Yes, I reckon it's so.” + +Braile was putting out his stick to help himself in rising, after the +silence she let follow. She came from it, and reached a staying hand +toward him. “And supposin'--supposin'--there was a woman--that there was a +woman, and her husband left her, and he kept away years and years, till +she thought he was dead, and she married somebody else, and then he come +back, would it be a sin for her to keep on with the other one when she +knowed the first one was alive?” + +“I reckon that's what would be called a sin, Nancy. Not that I'd be very +quick to condemn her--” + +“And supposin' that the first one hadn't claimed her yet, and she'd made +the other one leave her, and then the first one come and wanted her to +join him in the wickedest thing that ever was, and she wasn't as strong as +she had been, and she felt to need the protection-like of the other one: +would it be a sin for her to take him back?” + +Braile made again as if to rise. “I reckon you'd better talk to Mis' +Braile about a thing like that. You see, a man--” + +She stayed him again with a beseeching gesture. + +“Squire Braile, do you believe that God is good?” + +“Ah, now, I'm more at home in a question like that. You might say that if +He lets evil prevail, it's either because He can't help it, or because He +don't care, or even because He thinks it's best for mankind to let them +have their swing when they choose to do evil. I incline to think that's my +idea. He's made man, we'll say, made him in His own image, and He's put +him here in a world of his own, to do the best or the worst with it. The +way I look at it, He doesn't want to keep interfering with man, but lets +him play the fool or play the devil just as he's a mind to. But every now +and then He sends him word. If we're going to take what the Book says, He +sent him Word made flesh, once, and I reckon He sends him Word made Spirit +whenever there's a human creature comes into the world, all loving and all +unselfish--like your Joey, or--my--my Jimmy--” + +The old man's voice died in his throat, and the woman laid her hand on +his knee. He trembled to his feet, now. “When I think of such Spirits +coming into this world, I'm not afraid of all the devils out of hell +Dylksing round.” + +He walked on down the road, and Nancy went indoors and went about her +household work. She cleaned the dishes and trimmed the hearth; she spun +the flax which tufted her wheel; then she took the rags of some garments +past repair, and in the afternoon shadow of her threshold she cut them +into ribbons and sewed them end to end and wound them into balls, for +weaving into carpets. + +People, as the evening drew on, went by, singly, in twos, in groups, +silent for the most part, but some talking seriously. These looked at +Nancy without speaking, but some asked, “Ain't you goin' to the Miracle?” + and she shook her head for answer. + +She had brushed her hair and put it up neatly after her indoors work was +done, but she was in what she would have called her every-day clothes, and +the passers had on their Sunday clothes; the girls wore their newest +plaids of linsey-woolsy, and the young men wore tall beaver hats, and long +high-collared coats, with tight pantaloons, which some pretenders to the +latest fashions had strapped under their boots. They had on their Sunday +faces, too; some severe, some sly, some simple and kind, but all with an +effect of condition for whatever might be going to happen. They went as +the people of Leatherwood went to the Temple on the Sabbaths before their +meetings had been turned from the orderly worship of the Most High to the +riot of emotions raised by the strange man who proclaimed himself God. In +their expectations of the Sign which he had promised to give them, both +those who believed and those who denied him found themselves in a sort of +truce. They were as if remanded to the peace of the time before the +difference which had rent the community into warring fragments. In this +truce brothers were speaking who had not spoken since they accepted or +refused the new God; families walked together in the harmony which he had +lately counseled; children honored their believing or disbelieving +parents; fathers and mothers ceased to abhor their children as limbs of +Satan, according to their faith or unfaith. “Let everybody come to the +Sign,” he had exhorted them when he promised them the miracle, “just as if +they had never seen or heard me before, and let His creatures judge their +Creator with love for one another in their hearts.” + +In all there was an air of release, and the young people looked as if +they were going to one of the social gatherings they would have called a +frolic, in the backwoods phrase. Nancy heard a girl titter in response to +her companion's daring whisper, “Wonder if Mis' Hingston's going to pass +round the apples and cider.” They walked in couples, openly or demurely +glad of being together for the time; and as if the miracle before them +were the wonder of coming home through the woods with their arms around +each other, whether the miracle of the seamless raiment was wrought or not. + +It was their elders who were more singly set upon the fulfilment of the +sign, and who went with a more passionate expectation in the doubt or the +faith which differenced them; children were more bent upon the affair of +the evening than the young girls and the young men. They had been +privileged in being allowed to go with their fathers and mothers when they +had not been punished in being left at home and they subdued themselves as +they could to the terms of keeping step beside them with the bare feet +that felt winged and ached to fly. Old and young they passed Nancy's cabin +thinly or at intervals, but sometimes in close groups; they glanced kindly +or unkindly askance at her when they did not question her, and very +possibly they read in her sitting there boldly aloof from them a defiance +of the question which had begun to gather about her in the common mind +since Laban had left her for his work at the Cross Roads, with none of +those Saturday night returns which it had at first expected. It was known +that Laban was of the same opposition to Dylks as Nancy and her brother, +and it could not be that Dylks had caused the break between her and Laban +which no one would have noticed if it had been an effect of religion. It +could only be that Laban had left her, or that her temper had driven him +away. + +With the last came a crowd of boys, whose lagging she understood when her +own boy jumped down from the cabin door beside her. + +“Did I scare you, mother?” he asked, at her start. + +“No; I was expecting you, and you always come in at the back. You'll want +your supper, I'll be bound. What made you so late, and all out of breath, +so?” + +“I been running. We just got the last of the tobacco in, this evening, +and Mis' Hingston made me stay and eat with Benny; she said she'd excuse +me to you. I just left the other boys up over the hill, and run through +the woods to get here in time and ask you.” + +“To ask me what, Joey dear?” She put her arms fondly round the boy's +knees, and pulled him down to her. + +“The boys said you let me go to the Temple all I want to; but I told them +the Miracle was different, and I'd have to ask you first. I told Mis' +Hingston, and I told the boys. Me 'n' Benny got them to come round. Kin I, +mother? Mis' Hingston thought may be--may be--you might come yourself. But +I told her I didn't believe you would.” + +“No, I won't go, Joey. What makes you want to go?” + +“Oh, I don't know. All the boys are goin'. And I never seen a miracle yet.” + +“Do you believe he can do a miracle?” + +“Well, it would be some fun to see what he would do if he didn't. I'd +like to hear what he'd say.” + +“And what would you think if he did do it? That he was--God?” + +“Oh, _no_, mother! He couldn't be. Mr. Dylks couldn't. I ain't ever +thought for a minute that he was _that_.” + +“And if he failed--if he tried, and put himself to shame before +everybody, how would you feel?” + +“Well, mother, nobody as't him to.” Nancy was silent for so long that the +boy said discouragedly, “But if you don't want me to go--” + +Her face hardened from the pity of her inward vision of the man's +humiliation, as if his own son had judged him justly. “Yes, you can go, +Joey. But be careful, be careful! And don't stay too late. And if anything +happens--” + +“Oh, surely, mother, nothing will _happen_,” he exulted, and he +broke from her hold and ran down the road where the group of boys had +waited for him, and as he ran he leaped into the air, and called to them, +“She's let me; she's let me!” and the boys leaped up in response, and +called back, “Hurrah, hurrah!” and when he had come up with them, they all +tried to get their arms round him, and trod on his heels and toes in +pushing one another from him. + +In the August twilight which now began to pale the hot sunset glow, as if +she had waited to come alone, in her pride or in her shame, the woman who +was bearing the body of the miracle to the place where the wonder was to +be wrought came last of all to pass Nancy where she sat at her door. She +was that strong believer who in her utter trust, when she heard that cloth +would be needed for the seamless raiment of his miracle, had offered to +provide it; and now, neither in pride nor in shame, but in defiance of her +unbelieving husband, she was bearing away from her house the bolt of +linsey-woolsey newly home from the weaver, which was to have been cut into +the winter's clothing of her children. She had spun the threads herself +and dyed them, and they had become as if they were of her own flesh and +blood. She carried the bolt wrapped about with her shawl, bearing it +tenderly in her arms, as if it were indeed her flesh and blood, her babe +which she was going to lay upon an altar of sacrifice. + + + + +XII + + +The crowd at Hingston's mill grew with the arrival of the unbelievers as +well as the believers in Dylks. They came from all sides, sometimes singly +and sometimes in groups, and the groups came disputing as often as +agreeing among themselves. When a group was altogether believing they +exchanged defiances with a party of those religious outcasts, the Hounds, +disturbers of camp-meetings and baptisms, and notorious mockers, now, of +the Leatherwood god in his services at the Temple. But the invitation +given to see the promised miracle had been _to all_; the Hounds had +felt in it the tenor of a challenge, and they had accepted it defiantly. +They jeered at the believers as these arrived, sometimes hailing them by +name; they neighed and whinnied, and shouted “Salvation!” and in the +intervals of silence they burst out with the first lines of the Believers' +hymn. + +There were those who mocked, “I am God Almighty,” “The Father and the Son +are one, and I am both of 'em put together,” and “Oh, Dylks, save us!” + “Don't leave us, Dylks!” “Make the Devil jump, Joseph! Make him rattle his +scales for us!” “Fetch on your miracle!” The believing women turned away; +some of the younger tittered hysterically at a droll profanation of their +idol's name, and then one of the ruffians applauded. “That's right, +sisters! We like to have you enjoy yourselves. Promised to let anybody in +particular see you home to-night?” The girls tried to control themselves, +and laughed the more, and the Hound called, “Say, girls, let's have a +dance--a dance before the Lord.” + +Jane Gillespie had come with her father in the family pride which forbade +them to reject each other publicly. The girl stood a little apart from her +father, and near her hung, wistfully, fearfully, the young farmer whom the +neighborhood gossip had assigned her for an acceptable if not accepted +lover. She looked steadfastly away from Hughey Blake, with her head lifted +and her cheeks coldly flushed under the flame of her vivid hair: she was +taller than the other girls, and showed above the young man. + +“Say, Hughey,” one of the Hounds spoke across the space they had left +between them and the decent unbelievers, “Can't you gimme a light? Reach +up!” He held out a cigar, in the joke of kindling it at the girl's hair. + +Hughey Blake turned, and his helpless retort, “You ought to be ashamed of +yourself,” redoubled the joy of the Hounds. The girl glanced quickly at +him, with what meaning he could not have made out, and it might have been +fear of her which kept him hesitating whether to cross over and fall upon +his tormentor. He looked at her as if for a sign, but she made as if she +had heard nothing; then while he still hesitated a slender, sinewy young +fellow came down the open ground, with a soft jolt in his gait like that +of a rangy young horse. He wore high boots with his trousers pushed +carelessly into their tops, and for a sign of week-day indifference to the +occasion, a checked shirt, of the sort called hickory; he struck up the +brim of his platted straw hat in front with one hand, and with the other +on his hip stood a figure of backwoods bravery, such as has descended to +the romance of later times from the reality of the Indian-fighting +pioneers. + +“You fellows keep still!” he called out. “If you don't I'll make you.” + +Retorts of varied sense and nonsense came from the Hounds, but without +malice in their note. One voice answered, “I'd like to see you try, Jim +Redfield!” + +The other jolted closer toward the line of the Hounds, and leaned over. +“Did I hear somebody speak?” he asked. + +“I reckon not, Jim,” the voice of his challenger returned. “Come to join +the band?” + +“I didn't come to worry helpless women,” Redfield said. + +“That's right, Jim. There's where we're with you. D'you reckon Apostle +Hingston'll let us in to see the miracle if we'll keep the believers +straight while the Almighty is at it?” + +“I can't say for Mr. Hingston,” Redfield returned. “But if I was in his +place I'd want to keep my jug out of sight when you fellows were on duty.” + +Redfield passed the Gillespies as he lounged back to his place with a +covert glance at the girl, who made no sign of seeing her champion. + +The woman who was bringing the body of the miracle came round the corner +of the mill, and showed herself in the open space with the bolt of cloth +borne carefully in her arms. + +“Why, it's a baby!” came from that merriest of the Hounds whom Redfield +had turned from an enemy into a troublesome friend of the believers. +“Reckon the women'll have something to say to that if he tries to turn +e'er a baby into seamless raiment.” + +The fellow got the laugh he had tried for, and when Redfield looked +toward him again he said, “All right, Jim. I'm keepin' 'em quiet the best +I can. But the elect _will_ make a noise, sometimes.” + +The woman with her bundle passed through the open door of the house +behind the mill. The public entrance was at the front where by day the +bags of grain were lifted by rope and tackle to the upper story, and the +farmers who brought them climbed up by the inner stairways. The believers +had expected that they were to come in by way of the dwelling, but now the +burly figure of the miller, with the light of a candle behind it, showed +black in the doorway, and he spoke up, in his friendly voice: “Neighbors, +we want you all to go round to the front of the mill and come in there. +The miracle is going to be done on the bolting-cloth floor, where there +will be room for all that wants to see. We don't mean to keep anybody out, +whether they believe or don't believe. The only thing we want is for you +all to be quiet, and not make trouble. And now, come in as quick as you +can, so you can be sure we haven't had time to do anything to the cloth +that the seamless raiment is going to be made out of.” + +“Hounds and everybody?” called that gayest voice among the outcasts. + +“Hounds and everybody,” the miller humorously assented, and his black +bulk melted into the dark as the candle disappeared within. + +The dim light from tin lanterns threw the pattern of their perforations +on the walls and roofs of the interior, and showed the tracery of the +floury cobwebs. The people could scarcely see their way to the stairs by +the glimmer, and there was more talking with nervous laughter than there +had been outside. One of the Hounds called out, “I don't want any of you +girls to kiss _me!_” and gave the relief of indignation to the +hysterical emotion of the believers; the more serious of the unbelievers +found escape in their helpless laughter from their tense expectation of +triumph in the failure of the promised miracle. + +The wide space on the bolting-cloth floor, before the bins mounded high +with new wheat, and the rows of millstones, motionless under their empty +hoppers, was lighted by candles in tin sconces, but these were so few that +they shone only on the foremost faces and left those behind a gleam of +eyes or teeth. The familiar machinery had put on a grewsome strangeness +which had its final touch from the roll lying on the table like something +dead. A table had been set in front of the barrels under the bolting +cloths, and the muslin funnels, empty of flour, hung down into the barrels +with the effect of colossal legs standing in them. The air of the hot +night was close within; a damp odor from the water flowing under the +motionless mill wheels seemed to cool it, but did not; the perspiration +shone on the faces where the light fell on them. + +The miller and his family had places in the front line of the spectators, +and with them was the woman who had given the cloth for the miracle; and +who stood staring at the stuff, which she had known so intimately in every +thread and fiber, with an air of estrangement. + +When the stumbling feet of the last arrivals ceased on the stairs, the +miller stood out facing the crowd, and told them that he expected the Good +Old Man, now, any minute, together with the Apostle Paul, whom they all +knew by his earthly name as their neighbor, Mr. Enraghty. He asked them to +be as still as they could, and especially after the Good Old Man came, to +be perfectly silent; not to whisper, and not to move if they could help +it. There was nothing, though, he said, to hinder the believers from +joining in their favorite hymn; and at once the wailing of it began to +fill the place. When it ended, the deep-drawn breath of some wearied +expectant made itself heard with the shifting of tired feet easing +themselves. The minutes grew into an hour, with no sign of Dylks or +Enraghty, and the miller was again forced to ask the patience of his +neighbors. But there began to be murmurs from the unbelievers, and more +articulate protests from the Hounds. Some children, whom the believers had +brought with them to see the divine power manifest itself, whimpered, and +were suffered to lie down at the feet of their fathers and mothers and +forget their disappointment in sleep. A babe, too young to be left at +home, woke and cried, and was suckled to rest again, with ironical +applause from the Hounds. + +At the end of two hours of waiting, relieved with pleas and promises from +the miller, there was no word from Dylks and no token of his bodily +presence. With the scoffing of the unbelievers, the prayers of the +faithful rose. “Come soon, oh Lord!” “Send thy Power!” “Remember thy +Little Flock!” Upon these at last broke falteringly, stragglingly, a +familiar voice, the voice of Abel Reverdy, kindly and uncouth as himself, +and expressive, like his presence, of an impartial interest in the +feelings of both the faithful and the unfaithful. He was there in the +company of his wife, who held a steadfast place among the believers, while +Abel ranged freely from one party to the other, and could not well have +known himself of either, though friendly with both. He was of a sort of +disapproving friendship even with the Hounds, and now his voice said in +impartial suggestion, “Why not somebody go and fetch him?” + +“Good for you, Abel!” came from the Hound who was oftenest spokesman for +the others. “Why don't you go yourself, Abel?” + +Other voices applauded, and Abel was beginning to share a general +confidence in his fitness for the mission, when his wife spoke up, “'Deed +and 'deed, I can tell you he ain't agoun' to do no such a thing, not if we +stay here all night, murricle or no murricle. I ain't agoun' to have him +put his head into the Lion of Judah's mouth, and have it bit off, like as +not. I can't tell from one minute to another whether he's a believer or +not, and if anybody is to go for the Good Old Man it's got to be a studdy +believer, and not a turncoat of many colors like Abel.” + +If Sally had satisfied her need of chastizing her husband for his +variableness, and found a comfort in her scriptural language, not +qualified by its wandering application, Abel loyally accepted her open +criticism. “That's so, Sally, I ain't the one to send. I misdoubted it +myself, or I'd 'a' gone without sayin' nothin' in the first place. But, as +Sally says,” he addressed the crowd, “it ought to be a believer.” + +“Then why not Sally?” a scorner suggested. She did not refuse, and there +was a whispering between her and those next her in debate of the question. +But it was closed by the loud, austere voice of one of the believing +matrons in the apostolic mandate, “Let your women keep silence in the +churches.” The text was not closely apt; it was not a precept obeyed in +the revivals of any of the sects in Leatherwood; it was especially ignored +in the meetings of the Dylks believers; but its proclamation now satisfied +the yearning always rife in them to affiliate their dispensation with the +scriptural tradition. + +“Well, that settles it, Sister Coombs,” Sally promptly assented, “I +wasn't agoun' to, anyway, and I ain't agoun' to now, if I stay here all +night, or the Good Old Man don't ever come.” + +“Why not Jim Redfield?” a Hound demanded, and the miller tried to be +stern in calling out, “No trifling!” but lost effect by gently adding, +“Friends.” The unbelievers laughed, but the miller's retreat from the bold +stand he had taken was covered by Redfield's threat that if those fellows +kept on he would give them something to laugh about. + +As he stepped into the neutral space between the friends and enemies of +Dylks, he had a sort of double fearfulness for the women, because he was +not only not of their faith, but because he was of no religious sect in a +community where every one but an open infidel like Matthew Braile was of +some profession. He came to the Baptist services with his mother, but he +had not been baptized, and he was not seen at the house to house prayer +meetings, where the young people came with the old, or at the frolics +where dancing was forbidden, but not kissing in their games or in their +walks home through the woods. He was not supposed to be in love with any +one, and he lived alone on a rich bottom-land farm with his mother, in a +house which his father had built where his grandfather's log cabin had +stood. He was of a tradition which held him closer to the wilderness than +most of the people of Leatherwood; in the two generations before him the +Redfields had won and held their lands against the Indians, and had fought +them in the duels, from tree to tree, which the pioneers taught the +savages, or learned from them, risking their lives and scalps in the same +chances. He was of the sort of standing which old family gives, even where +all families are new, and he was now making his way politically, in spite +of his irreligion; he meant to go to the legislature, eventually, and in a +leisurely sort he was reading law, and reciting his Blackstone to Matthew +Braile. As he came and went from the old infidel's house, he was apt to +stop at the tavern porch, where the few citizens who could detach their +minds from the things of another world gave them in cloudy conjecture to +the political affairs of this, or to scrutiny of the real motives +actuating the occasional travelers who apparently arrived for a meal's +victuals or a night's lodging. With these Redfield had scarcely a social +life, but he could talk with them almost to the point of haranguing them, +for they were men; at the store, where his mother's errands sometimes took +him, he shrank from the women as timid as they when they dismounted from +their saddles or wagons, and slipped in with their butter and eggs, and +passed out again deeply obscured in their sunbonnets. + +They were mostly women past the time of life when men look at them +curiously, but once Redfield was startled by meeting a young girl, as he +was trying to go out, and began losing himself with her in that hopeless +encounter of people who try to give way to each other and keep passing to +the same side at once. Her face and her red hair burned one fire, but at +last she stopped stone still, and let him go by, with a sort of angry +challenge in her blue eyes. He knew that it was Jane Gillespie without +knowing her to speak with, as he would have said, and he knew that against +her father's will she was one of the followers of Dylks. The idolatry was +not yet open and scandalous, but since then he had heard his mother +denouncing her as a worthless hussy with the other women who had worshiped +Dylks in that frenzy at the Temple. He walked up and down, passing near +where she stood with her father and Hughey Blake, and lost his breath at +each approach and caught it again at each remove. It so vividly seemed +that he must speak to her, though he did not know what he wished to say, +that it was as if he really had done so, when he heard one of the Hounds +saying, “Well, and what are you goin' to do about it, Jim?” + +Then he heard himself boasting, “I'm going after Dylks myself; and if +he'll come peaceably, and do his miracle I'll take him for my god, and if +he won't, God have mercy on him!” + +He was answering his jeering questioner in his words, but his eyes were +on the girl; her own eyes were lowered after a glance at her father and +Hughey Blake, and his vow remained in his ears a foolish vaunt. While he +stood unable to return to his place, a voice which no one knew, came from +the darkness outside. + +“Behold,” it said, “I am the Presence of the Most High, and I come to you +with my Peace. The miracle that ye wait to see has been wrought already +unseen of you. The cloth before you has been touched by my Power, and +turned into the seamless raiment which ye seek as a sign. But it shall not +be shown to you now. Ye shall see it seven days and seven nights hence on +the eighth night at the Temple. Till then, have patience, have faith. Thus +saith the Lord.” + +The voice died from the medley of scriptural phrase and a shiver of awe +passed over those who had heard. One of the believing women called out, +“Praise ye the Lord!” Then a yell of mockery broke from the Hounds and +some one shouted, “Let's have a look!” and the crowd rushed upon the roll +of cloth which lay on the table, where the woman who had brought it in her +arms had put it, and had stood patiently, anxiously, trustfully waiting. + +She spread her arms out over it, with a piteous gesture, like a mother +trying to keep her child from harm. “Oh, don't! Oh, don't!” she implored. +“It's _my_ cloth! I spun it, I wove it, every thread! It's all we've +got for our clothes this winter! Don't touch it, don't tear it!” + +[Illustration: “It's _my_ cloth! I spun it, I wove it, every thread! +It's all we've got for our clothes this winter!”] + +Her prayer was like a signal for its denial. One of the Hounds pushed her +away and caught the cloth up. “We won't hurt it, Sister Bladen. We just +want to see what a seamless garment looks like, anyway. Maybe it'll fit +some of us. Here, boys, take a hold!” + +He held by the outer edge of the cloth, and flung the bolt unfurling +itself toward his fellows over the heads of the believing men who had +crowded forward to save it from the desecration, while the woman tried to +seize it from him, beseeching, imploring, “Oh, don't hurt it, Bill Murray! +Oh, be careful! Don't let it drop! Oh, don't, don't, don't!” + +“We can't do it any hurt, Sister Bladen, if it's got a miracle inside of +it,” one of the ruffians mocked. “_You_ tell her we wont hurt it, Jim +Redfield! She'll trust _you!_” + +The women believers were sobbing; the men gathered themselves for a +struggle with the surprise sprung upon them, but held back as if in a +superstitious hope of help from the god whom the women seemed not to trust +in his failure of them. + +“Here, you fellows!” Redfield shouted over the tossing heads before him. +“What do you want to spoil her cloth for?” + +His look and voice had their effect with the angry, pushing, shuffling, +elbowing, wailing, weeping crowd, in a pause like the arrest of curiosity. + +“Let go that cloth, Bill,” he said, not with authority, but in a tone of +good fellowship. + +The miller interposed with his friendly voice, and it seemed as if the +unbelievers would give way in pity of the poor woman who had brought the +cloth. Suddenly the bolt of stuff which Murray had conditionally yielded +was twitched from Redfield in boisterous fun, and then in the frenzy more +of mischief than malice it was seized by the Hounds, and torn into shreds. +“Find the seamless raiment!” they yelled to one another. The unbelievers +stood aside; the believers did nothing, in a palsy of amaze; the poor +woman, to whom her toil and pride in it had hallowed the stuff, sank down +staying herself on her hands from the floor, in hapless despair. Her +moaning and sobbing filled the place after the tumult of destruction had +been stricken silent. “Oh, I don't care for the miracle,” she kept +lamenting, “but what are my children going to wear this winter? Oh, what +will _he_ say to me!” It was her husband she meant. + + + + +XIII + + +The riot in Hingston's Mill, after the failure of Dylks to appear +personally and work the promised miracle, left the question of his +divinity where it had been. With no evident change in their numbers on +either side, the believers assented, the unbelievers denied. The faithful +held that the miracle had been wrought and the seamless raiment torn to +pieces by the mob; some declared that they had seen the garments, and +tried to keep them from the sacrilege but had been overpowered. The +unfaithful laughed at the pretense, and defied the faithful to show any +scrap of the cloth having the form of clothing. The pieces remained with +the poor woman who had brought the cloth for the miracle; she carried them +weeping home, and she and her husband remained like the rest, believing +and unbelieving as before; but at every chance she scanned the dishonored +fragments in secret, and pieced them together, trying to follow the lines +of imaginary garments in them. + +Throughout the week the excitement raged, silently for the most part, in +the breasts of the two parties, but sometimes breaking out in furious +affirmation and denial at such points of common meeting as the store, the +tavern, and the postoffice. There the unbelievers outnumbered the +believers, who met for mutual support and comfort at one another's houses, +but appeared nowhere in force until the Sunday night following; then they +came three to one of the enemy, and filled the Temple to overflowing. +Dylks was expected to meet them from the concealment or the absence in +which he had passed the days; the unbelievers said that he was hiding in +fear and shame; the believers that he was preaching to the heathen in +other neighborhoods, and would come in power and glory with a great +multitude of the converted following him. But the meeting in the Temple +was opened by Enraghty, who, in front of the pulpit, rose saying, “The +Good Old Man will not be here, to-night, but I will fill his place.” A +thrill of exultation and disappointment ran through the congregation +according as they believed or denied, but they all waited patiently. + +Among the many families which had come in internecine enmity, Gillespie +and his daughter strained in the unlove which was like hate up to the door +of the Temple. He had taunted her with Dylks's failure to work the miracle +and with his absence during the week. “If I could get my hands on him, I +would pull him out of his hole, and make him face the people he's +deceived. I would show him whether he was God or not.” + +“If you touched him, your hands would be withered,” she said in an +ecstasy of faith. “If you will bring me a single hair of his head I will +deny him.” + +“I'll remember that,” he threatened bitterly, and in the loss of all the +dignity of their relation as parent and child he cast a look of +contemptuous triumph on her when Enraghty rose and said that he would take +the place of Dylks for the night. + +“Bring me one hair of his head,” she said again. + +The people of both sides had supposed that Dylks was sitting behind the +pulpit, as his habit was, with his head out of sight bowed in meditation. +But when Enraghty, after a few words, sat down to await the coming of the +Spirit, suddenly the minister whose turn to preach would have come that +night, sprang to his full height in the pulpit and denounced Enraghty's +pretense. The believers rose shouting to their feet, and crying, “He is my +God!” stormed out of the Temple in the night, where their voices were +heard repeating, “He is my God!” till they swelled together in the hymn +which was their confession of Dylks. A few of the unbelievers remained in +the Temple, amazed, but the greater part followed the believers into the +night. + +They had the courage of their triumph through Dylks's failure to work the +miracle he had promised, and then his failure to show himself in the +Temple; but they pushed on with no definite purpose except perhaps to +break up some meeting of his followers, when one of the Hounds, yelping +and baying in acceptance of their nickname, broke upon them from the woods +they were passing with word that they had found Dylks in Enraghty's house, +where the believers were already gathering. + +“We've treed him,” he said, “The whole pack's round the place, and +there's no limb in reach for him to jump to. I reckon it'll be the best +coon hunt we've ever had in Leatherwood, yit.” + +Redfield put himself in touch rather than in sight amidst the darkness +which the disembodied voices broke upon. “Enraghty's house? Then we've got +him. Come on!” + +The women of the unbelievers had fallen behind and finally gone home, but +all the believers, the women as well as the men, had followed their +apostle, and now their voices, in praying and singing, came from the house +still hidden by a strip of woodland. In the bewilderment which had fallen +upon David Gillespie amid the tumultuous rush from the Temple, he had been +parted from his daughter; now he fumbled forward on the feet of an old +man, and found himself beside Redfield. “I want you to let me at him +first, Jim. I just want one hair of his head.” + +“Why, don't you know it's death to touch him?” Redfield jeered. + +“I know that,” Gillespie assented in the same mood. “But I'll risk dying +for that one hair.” + +“What do you want with one hair? I'll get you a handful,” Redfield said. + +“One'll do to work the miracle I'm after.” + +“What miracle? None o' your seamless raiment, is it?” + +“It's bringing a crazy girl to her senses. She's said if I fetched her a +single hair of his she'd renounce him.” + +“Oh!” Redfield said with respectful understanding. Then he added, “I'll +get you the hair.” + +The unbelievers crowded to the house in the light from the uncurtained +windows. One of them stood tiptoe peering in while the others waited. +“It's chuck full,” he reported. “No room for sinners, I reckon.” + +“Oh, if Dylks is in there he'll work one of his miracles and _make_ +room,” another of the Hounds answered. Redfield stood trying the door. +“Locked? Hammer on it! Break it in! Here! Give him a shoulder!” + +The mob surged forward, laughing and shouting, and crushed Redfield +against the door. The panel cracked and groaned; Redfield called to the +crowd to hold back, but suddenly the door opened, and the fanatical face +of Enraghty showed itself above Redfield's back. + +“What do you want?” he demanded. “This is the Lord's house.” + +“Then it's as much ourn as what it is yourn,” some one shouted back. + +“We want to see the Lord,” another called. “Just one look, just one lick.” + +The old schoolmaster lost his self-control. “There are some of you out +there that I've licked before now for your mischief.” + +“Yes, we know that,” came back. “You didn't lick us enough. We'd like to +have you give us some more.” + +The hindmost of the Hounds surged against those in front, and the whole +mob fell forward upon Redfield; he staggered over the threshold to save +himself, and struck Enraghty backward in his helpless plunge. + +“Oh, look out there,” the nearest of the mob called back. “Your're +hurtin' Mr. Enraghty!” + +“Well, we don't want to hurt old Saint Paul!” a mocker returned; but they +pressed on wilfully, helplessly; they pushed those in front, who might +have held back, and filled the entry-way and the rooms beyond. In a circle +of his worshipers, kneeling at his feet, stood Dylks, while they hailed +him as their God and entreated his mercy. At the scramble behind them, +they sprang up and stood dazed, confronting their enemies. + +“We want Dylks! We want the Good Old Man! We want the Lion of Judah! Out +of the way, Little Flock!” came in many voices; but when the worshipers +yielded, Dylks had vanished. + +A moment of awe spread to their adversaries, but in another moment the +riot began again. The unbelievers caught the spirit of the worse among +them and stormed through the house, searching it everywhere, from the +cellar to the garret. A yell rose from them when they found Dylks half way +up the chimney of the kitchen. His captors pulled him forward into the +light, and held him cowering under the cries of “Kill him!” “Tie him to a +tree and whip him!” “Tar and feather him!” “Ride him on a rail!” + +“No, don't hurt him!” Redfield commanded. “Take him to a justice of the +peace and try him.” + +“Yes,” the leader of the Hounds assented. “Take him to Squire Braile. +He'll settle with him.” + +The Little Flock rallied to the rescue, and some of the herd joined them. +As an independent neutral, Abel Reverdy, whom his wife stirred to action, +caught up a stool and joined the defenders. + +“Why, you fool,” a leader of the Hounds derided him amiably, “what you +want to do with that stool? If the Almighty can't help himself, you think +_you're_ goin' to help him?” + +Abel was daunted by the reasoning, and even Sally stayed her war cries. + +“Well, I guess there's sumpin' _in_ that,” Abel assented, and he +lowered his weapon. + +The incident distracted his captors and Dylks broke from them, and ran +into the yard before the house. He was covered with soot and dust and his +clothes were torn; his coat was stripped in tatters, and his long hair +hung loose over it. + +His prophecies of doom to those who should lay hands upon him had been +falsified, but to the literal sense of David Gillespie he had not yet been +sufficiently proved an impostor: till he should bring his daughter a +strand of the hair which Dylks had proclaimed it death to touch, she would +believe in him, and David followed in the crowd straining forward to reach +Redfield, who with one of his friends had Dylks under his protection. The +old man threw himself upon Dylks and caught a thick strand of his hair, +dragging him backward by it. Redfield looked round. He said, “You want +that, do you? Well, I promised.” He tore it from the scalp, and gave it +into David's hand, and David walked back with it into the house where his +daughter remained with the wailing and sobbing women-worshipers of the +desecrated idol. + +He flung the lock at her feet. “There's the hair that it was death to +touch.” She did not speak; she only looked at it with horror. + +“Don't you believe it's his?” her father roared. + +“Yes, yes! I know it's his; and now let's go home and pray for him, and +for _you_, father. We've both got the same God, now.” + +A bitter retort came to the old man's lips, but the abhorrent look of his +daughter stayed his words, and they went into the night together, while +the noise of the mob stormed back to them through the darkness, farther +and farther away. + + + + +XIV + + +The captors of Dylks chose the Temple as the best place for keeping him +till morning, when they could take him for trial to Matthew Braile; but +they had probably no sense of the place where he had insolently triumphed +so often as the fittest scene of his humiliation. They stumbled in a loose +mob behind and before and beside him through the dim night, and tried to +pass Redfield's guard to strike him with their hands or the sticks which +they tore from the wayside bushes. At a little distance, a straggling +troop of the believers followed, men and women, wailing and sobbing, and +adoring and comforting their idol with promises of fealty, in terms of +pathetic grotesqueness. A well-known voice called to him, “Don't you be +afraid, God Almighty! They can't hurt a hair of your head,” and the burst +of savage mirth which followed Sally Reverdy's words, drowned the retort +of a scoffer, “Why, there ain't hardly any left _to_ hurt, Sally.” + +The noise of the talking and laughing and the formless progress of the +mob hushed the nearer night voices of the fields and woods; but from a +distance the shuddering cry of a screech-owl could be heard; and the +melancholy call of a killdee in a pasture beside the creek. The people, +friends and foes together, made their way unlighted except by the tin +lantern which some one had caught from where it stood on Enraghty's +gate-post. + +With this one of the unbelievers took his stand at the door of the Temple +after Redfield had passed in with his prisoner, and lifted it successively +to the faces of those trying to enter. He allowed some and refused others, +according as they were of those who denied or confessed Dylks, and a Hound +at his elbow explained, “Don't want any but goats in here, to-night.” + +The common parlance was saturated with scriptural phrase, and the gross +mockery would have been taken seriously if the speaker had not been so +notoriously irreverent. As it was the words won him applause which +Redfield and his friends were not able to quell. The joke was caught up +and tossed back and forth; the Little Flock outside raised their hymn, the +scoffers within joined in derision, and carried the hymn through to the +end. + +Dylks sat shrunken on the bench below the pulpit, his head fallen forward +and his face hidden. Redfield and one of his friends sat on either side, +and others tried to save him from those who from time to time pushed +forward to strike him. They could not save him from the insults which +broke again and again upon the silence; when Redfield rose and appealed to +the people to leave the man to the law, they came back at him with shrieks +and yells. + +“Did the law keep my family from bein' broke up by this devil? My wife +left me and my own brother won't speak to me because I wouldn't say he was +my Savior and my God.” + +“I'm an old woman, and I lived with my son, but my son has quit me to +starve, for all he cares, because I believe in the God of Jacob and he +believes in this snorting, two-legged horse.” + +“My sister won't live with me, because I won't fall down and worship her +Golden Calf.” + +“He's spread death and destruction in my family. My daughters won't look +at me, and my two sons fought till they were all blood, about him.” + +The accusings and upbraidings thickened upon him, but Dylks sat silent, +except for a low groan of what might have seemed remorse. He put his hand +to the place on his head where the hair had been torn away, and looked at +the blood on his fingers. + +A woman stole under the guard of his keepers, and struck him a savage +blow on the cheeks, first one and then the other. “_Now_ you can see +how it feels to have your own husband slap you because you won't say you +believe in such a God as you are, you heathen pest!” + +The guards struggled with her, and a man stooped over Dylks and voided a +mouthful of tobacco juice in his face; another lashed him on the head with +a switch of leatherwood: all in a squalid travesty of the supreme tragedy +of the race. As if a consciousness of the semblance touched the +gospel-read actors in the drama, they shrank in turn from what they had +done, and lost themselves in the crowd. + +The night wore away and when the red sunrise began to pierce the dusk of +the Temple, where some had fallen asleep, and others drowsed as they +walked to and fro to keep themselves awake, Redfield conferred with his +lieutenants. Then they pulled their captive to his feet, not roughly, and +moved with him down the aisle and out of the door. They left some of the +slumberers still sleeping; of the others not all followed them on their +way to Matthew Braile's, up through the woods and past the cornfields and +tobacco patches; but with those of the Little Flock who had hung +night-long about the Temple, singing and praying to their idol, they +arrived, some before and some after the prisoner, at the log cabin of the +magistrate. He was sitting after his habit in his splint-bottomed chair +tilted against the porch wall, waiting for the breakfast which his wife +was getting within. As the crowd straggled up to the porch, he tilted his +chair down, and came forward with a frown of puzzle. “What's this?” he +demanded; then, catching sight of a woman's eager face among the foremost, +his frown relaxed and he said, “Don't all speak at once, Sally.” + +“'Deed and 'deed, I'm not agoun' to speak at all, Squire Braile; but if +you want to know you can see for yourself that they've got the Good Old +Man here, and from the tell I've hearn they want you to try him; they've +been hittun' him over the face and head all night.” She looked defiantly +round on the unbelievers who so far joined in the Squire's grin as to +burst into a general laugh, and a cry of “Good for you, Sally. You're +about right.” + +[Illustration: “_Now_ you can see how it feels to have your own +husband slap you.”] + +Braile referred himself to Redfield, who mounted to the porch with the +other guards, and the tattered and bedraggled Dylks in their midst. “What +are you doing with this man, Jim?” + +“We've brought him to you to find out, Squire Braile. You know who he is, +and all the mischief he's been making in this settlement. We don't need to +go into that.” + +“Wish you'd step in there,” the Squire said, nodding toward the room +opposite the kitchen, “and bring me out the Laws of Ohio. You know where +it is.” + +His recognition of Redfield as a law-student pleased the Herd of the +Lost, and one of the guards said, “All right, Jim. We'll hold him.” + +As Redfield disappeared within, the Squire called after him, “Bring out +my table, too, will you. We'll have the trial here.” + +“That's all right as fer as it goes, Squire,” one of the crowd before the +cabin called out, “but there ain't room enough for us up there.” + +“Well,” the Squire answered, “you've got the whole State of Ohio down +there. I reckon you can find room in it, if you stand close.” + +He turned the joke on the crowd; which acquiesced with cheers. When +Redfield returned with the large book and the small table he had been sent +for, the Squire drew up to them and proclaimed silence in the Court. Then, +“Who complains against this man? You, James Redfield?” + +“I arrested him, but I don't complain of him more than the rest. You know +what he's been doing in Leatherwood, as well as other places, for the last +month or six weeks. We want his mischief stopped; we want to see what the +law can do about it. We could have lynched him, but that ain't the right +way, and so we all feel.” + +“Well, we've got to make a start, somewhere,” the justice returned. +“What's he accused of? What do _you_ accuse him of?” + +“Well, for one thing,” Redfield said, rather reluctantly, “he professes +to be Almighty God.” + +“And he _is_ God, the Most High Jehovah, Maker of Heaven and Earth,” + came in a varying cry, from the believers who had gathered increasingly on +the skirts of their enemies. + +Their voices seemed to put life and courage into the prisoner, who for +the first time lifted his fallen face and looked at the justice with a +light of hope in his dulled eyes. + +“You hear that,” the old squire addressed him. “Is that your name? Are +you God?” + +“Thou sayest,” the prisoner answered, with a sudden effrontery. + +“That will _do_!” the old man shouted. He might have been willing to +burlesque the case from his own disbelief, but he could not suffer the +desecration of the hallowed words; and Dylks shrank from his eyes of +fierce rebuke. “Stand away from him,” he added to the guards. “Now, then, +have you folks got any other charge against him? Has he stolen anything? +Like a mule, for instance? Has he robbed a hen-roost? Has he assaulted +anybody, or set a tobacco-shed on fire? Some one must make a charge; I +don't much care what it is.” + +The old man scowled round on the people nearest him and down on the crowd +below. The believers waited in anxious silence; the unbelievers applauded +his humor with friendly laughter, and a kindlier spirit spread through +them; they were beginning to see Dylks as a joke. + +“Redfield,”--the Squire turned to the young man--“let's have a look at +the Laws of Ohio, in such case made and provided.” He opened the book +which Redfield put on the table before him, and went carefully through the +index; then he closed it. “There don't seem,” he said, “to be any charge +against the prisoner except claiming to be the Almighty; he pleads guilty +to that, and he could be fined and imprisoned if there was any law against +a man's being God. But there isn't, unless it's some law of the Bible, +which isn't in force through reenactment in Ohio. He hasn't offended +against any of our statutes, neither he nor his followers. In this State +every man has a right to worship what God he pleases, under his own vine +and fig-tree, none daring to molest him or make him afraid. With religious +fanaticism our laws have nothing to do, unless it be pushed so far as to +violate some public ordinance. This I find the prisoner has not done. +Therefore, he stands acquitted.” + +A roar of protest, a shout of joy went up from the crowd according to +their belief and unbelief. After his first plea Dylks had remained silent +in becoming meekness and self-respect; now he looked wildly round in fear +and hope; but he did not speak. + +“Clear the way, you!” the Squire called to the people about him and below +him, and he got slowly to his feet. He took the arm of the prisoner at one +side, and said, “Here, Jim Redfield, you take this fellow's other arm,” + and as the young man helplessly obeyed, “Now!” he commanded, and with +Dylks between them, they left the porch and passed through the severing +crowd of friends and foes before the cabin. While they hesitated in doubt +of his purpose, Braile led the way with the prisoner, acquitted, but still +in custody, toward the turnpike road where the country lane passing the +cabin joined it a little way off. + +The crowd straggled after in patient doubt, but when the Squire halted +with his captive and bade Redfield move back, the suspicions of the +unbelievers began to stir. + +“Now, put!” the Squire said in a low voice and loosed his hold. Dylks +lifted his head alertly as he was accustomed to do when he gave his equine +snort, but now he made no sound. He leaped forward and ran with vast +bounds up the smooth turnpike toward the wall of woodland, where the +whiteness of the highway ceased in the shadow of the trees. He far +outdistanced the foremost of his pursuers, who stopped to gather the +broken stone heaped along the roadside, and under the rain of these and +the storm of curses that they sent after him, he escaped into the forest. + +“Well, Abel,” the Squire said to Reverdy, whom he found, not +unexpectedly, at his elbow when he looked round, “he may not be much of a +god, but he's a good deal of a racehorse, even if he didn't give his +snort.” + +“Look here, Squire Braile,” Redfield broke out in the first realization +of his defeat, “I'm not sure your decision was just right.” + +“Well, you can appeal the case to the Supreme Court, Jim,” the old man +returned. “It's my _breakfast_ time,” and he stamped stiffly away +down the pike and up the road to his cabin, followed by the blessings of +the Little Flock. + +The Little Flock had remained in stupefaction at the junction of the +country road and the turnpike, helplessly watching the flight of their +idol from the Herd of the Lost. When Dylks vanished in the dusk of the +forest, and the last of those who had followed him came lagging breathless +back, and dropped from their hands the broken stone which they had +unconsciously brought with them, the Little Flock involuntarily raised +their hymn, as if it had been a song of triumph; an inglorious triumph, +but an omen of final victory, and of the descent of the New Jerusalem in +Leatherwood. + +“Never mind!” one of the Herd panted. “We'll have him out of that gulf of +dark despair, yit!” + +“The Lord will put forth His might,” one of the Flock defied him. “But if +you fellows want to feel the arm of flesh, here and now, come on!” + +The Squire put himself between the forces. “I want you to keep the peace; +I command the peace,” he said with magisterial dignity. + +“Oh, all right, Squire,” a Hound applauded him. “We know you're on our +side.” + +“Brother Braile is on the side of righteousness,” the champion of the +Flock answered. + +The Squire turned a frowning face upon him. “If the law could have held +your god, he'd have been on his way to the county jail by this time. Now, +you fellows, both sides, go home, and look after your corn and tobacco; +and you women, you go and get breakfast for them, and wash up your +children and leave the Kingdom of Heaven alone for a while.” + +The weight of condemnation was for the Little Flock, but there remained +discomfort for the Herd of the Lost. “And you,” the Squire turned to them, +“you let these folks worship any stock or stone they're a mind to; and you +find out the true God if you can, and stick to Him, and don't bother the +idolaters. I reckon He can take care of Himself. I command you all to +disperse. Go home! Get out! Put!” + +The saints and the sinners felt alike the mystical force of the law in +his words and began to move away, not without threats and defiances, more +or less straggling, and not altogether ceasing even after they had lost +sight of one another in their parting ways. + +Redfield stayed to walk home with the old man. “Of course, Squire +Braile,” he said, “this ain't the last of Dylks, and it ain't the last of +_us_. It's a sin and a shame to have the thing going on among us. You +know that as well as I do. It's got to be stopped. If he'd got his just +dues from you--” + +“You young fool,” the Squire retorted, kindly, “haven't you gone far +enough yet in your Blackstone to know that justice is one thing and law is +another? I gave Dylks his legal deserts.” + +“Blackstone says the law is the perfection of reason.” + +“Well, you think it don't seem to be so in the State of Ohio. But I +reckon it is, and so long as we look after our own souls, we can't do +better than let others look after theirs in their own way. Come in and +have some breakfast!” He paused before his cabin with the young man. + +“No, not _this_ morning, Squire Braile,” Redfield lingered a moment, +and then he said, askingly, “I didn't see old Mr. Gillespie anywhere this +morning.” + +“I didn't notice. Where it comes to a division in public, he doesn't +usually take sides against his daughter.” + +“He won't have to, after this.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Didn't you know she told him once that if he would bring her a hair of +Dylks's head she would deny him? I helped him to a whole lock of it.” + +“Oh, _you_ did that?” There was condemnation in the Squire's tone, +and as if he had been going to express a more explicit displeasure, he +hesitated. Then he said, “Well, I must be going in,” and turned his back +upon Redfield, who turned again into the turnpike road and took his way +homeward past the long and deep stretch of woods where Dylks had found +refuge. + + + + +XV + + +In the middle of the forest there was a dense thicket of lower growths on +a piece of dry land lifted above the waters of a swamp. The place was the +lair of such small wild things as still survived in the wilderness once +the haunt of the wolf and the wild cat, and the resort of the bear allured +by the profusion of the huckleberries which grew there. But, except in the +early fall when the annual squirrel-hunt swept over the whole country side +and the summer drought had made the swamp easily passable to the gunners, +the place was unmolested. Even the country boy who seeks the bounty of +nature wherever she offers it, and makes the outlying property of man his +prey where nature has been dispossessed, did not penetrate the thicket in +his search for hazelnuts or chinquapins; it was proofed against his +venture by its repute of rattlesnakes and copperheads and the rumor of +ghosts and witches. Few, of men or boys, knew the approach to the interior +by the narrow ridge of dry land lifted above the marsh, and Dylks did not +stop in his flight till he reached the thicket and saw in it his hope of +securer refuge. He walked round it through the pools which the frog and +turtle haunted, twice before he found this path, overhung by a tangle of +grapevines. There his foot by the instinct which the foot has where the +eye fails of a path, divined the scarcely trodden way, and he found +himself in a central opening among the thickly growing bushes. It was warm +there, without the close heat of the woodland, and dry except for the +spring of clear water that bubbled up in the heart of it, and trickled out +over green mosses into the outer waters of the swamp. + +The man stooped over and drank his fill, and then made his greedy +breakfast on the berries that grew abundantly round, and nodded hospitably +to his hand. All the time he wept, and moaned to himself in the self-pity +of a hunted, fearful wretch. Then he drank again from the spring, and +without rising from his knees pushed himself back a little from it, and +fell over in an instant sleep. + +He slept through the whole day, and at night, falling early in the +shadows of the forest which thickened over his retreat, he supped, as he +had breakfasted, on the wild berries and spring water, but with protesting +from a stomach habitually flattered by the luxury of fried chicken and +ham, and corn-pone and shortened biscuit, and hot coffee, which his +adorers put before him when he laid aside his divinity and descended to +the gratification of his carnal greed. He was a gross feeder, and in the +midst of his fear and the joy of his escape, he thought of these things +and lusted for them with a sort of thankless resentment. + +He looked about for something he might kill, and he found a wounded +pigeon which had fluttered into his refuge from the shot of some gunner. +But he could not bring himself to eat it raw, and if he could have kindled +a fire to cook it, he reflected, it would have betrayed him to his +pursuers who must now be searching the woods for him. He wrung the +pigeon's neck and flung it into the bushes, and then fell down and wept +with his face in the grass. He had slept so long that now he could not +sleep, and when his tears would come no more, he sat up and watched the +night through till the dawn grayed the blue-black sky. The noises of the +noiseless woods made themselves heard: the cry of a night hawk, the +hooting of an owl, the whirring note of the whip-poor-will; the long, +plunging down-rush of a dead branch breaking the boughs below it; even the +snapping of twigs as if under the pressure of stealthy feet. These sounds, +the most delicate of the sounds he heard, shook him most with fear and +hope, and then with despair. The feet could be the feet of his enemies +seeking him out, or of his friends coming to succor and save him; then +they resolved themselves into the light pressure from little paws, the +paws of the wildcat, or the coon, and there was nothing to be feared or +hoped from them. The constellations wheeled over him in the clear sky, and +the planets blazed. He made out the North Star from the lower lines of the +Dipper; the glowing and fading of the August meteors that flitted across +the heavens seemed to leave a black trace on his straining eyes. Texts of +Scripture declaring how the splendors of the day and night showed forth +the glory of the Being whose name he had usurped to the deceit and shame +of those who trusted him, glowed and faded in his mind like those shooting +stars in the sky. At one time he thought he had cried aloud for +destruction in the sin which could not be forgiven, but it was only a +dull, inarticulate moan bursting from his tortured breast. + +The place where the hair had been torn from his head burned like fire; it +burned like the wound of a man whom he had once heard tell how it felt to +be scalped by an Indian; the man had recovered, but the wound had always +hurt; and Dylks pitied himself that it should be so with him, and cursed +himself for his unguarded boast that any one who touched a hair of his +head should perish. He promised that if God would show him a little mercy, +and send a raven with something for him to eat, something warm, or send +him a cup of coffee, somehow, or even a raw egg, he would go forth before +the people; he would get up in the Temple amidst his believers and declare +himself a false prophet and a false god. He would not care what they did +to him if only he had something cooked to eat, something hot to drink. + +Towards morning he slept, and then for days and nights, how many he did +not know, it seemed to him that he did not wake but dreamed through a +changing time when he was dimly aware of contending voices: voices of his +believers, the Little Flock, and voices of his unbelievers, the Herd of +the Lost, pleading and threatening in the forest round his place of +refuge. His followers were trying to bring him food and raiment, and his +enemies were preventing them and boasting that they would keep guard over +his refuge till they starved him out. Then all again was a blur, a texture +of conscious and unconscious misery till a night came when the woof broke +and trailed away from him, and he lifted himself on his elbow and after he +had drunk a long draft from the spring, found tremulous strength to get to +his feet. He tried some steps in the open space, where the light of the +full moon fell, and found that he could walk. He reached the tangled +entrance to his covert, and stealthily put the vines aside. He peered out +into the shadows striped with moonshine and could see no one, and he was +going to venture farther, when he stopped stone still at the figure of a +man crouched in the middle of the causeway. The man's head was fallen +forward and his gun lay across his lap; he must be one of the guards that +his enemies had set on his refuge to keep him there and starve him out; +and he must be asleep. Dylks stooped and peered into his face and knew the +man for one of the Hounds who had often disturbed his meetings, and now he +looked about in the rage that surged up through his penitence and +self-pity for a stone or a club to strike him senseless, or dead if need +be. But there was no such weapon that he could see, and the risk of a +struggle was greater than the risk of trying to pass the man without +waking him. After long doubt he tried with one foot and then another and +the man did not wake; then he crept slowly by, and then with softly +dragging steps he got farther from the sleeper and pushed on through the +woods in the direction of the turnpike, as he imagined it. But he came out +in a clearing where a new log cabin showed clear in the open under the +moon. + +In the single room of the house a woman lay sleeping with a little child +in its cradle beside her bed. She rose up and put out her hand +instinctively to still the child, but it was sleeping quietly, and then +she started up awake, and listened for the voice which she had dreamt was +calling her. There was no voice, and then there was a voice calling +hoarsely, weakly, “Nancy! Nancy!” + +In her dream she had thought it was the voice of her husband stealing +back to her in the night, and it was in the terror of her dream that she +now sprang from her bed, with her heart aching for pity of him, to forbid +him and rebuke him for breaking his promise, and to scold him away. But as +she stood listening, and the voice came again she knew it was not the +voice of Laban. She ran to the ladder which led to the cabin loft, and +called up through the open trapdoor, “Jane! Jane! Come down here to the +baby, will you? I've got to leave her a minute.” + +“What for?” the girl answered sleepily. Then, “Oh, I'll come. She ain't +sick, is she, Aunt Nancy? Oh, I do hope she ain't sick!” + +“No. She ain't sick,” Nancy said, as she put her hands up to help the +girl place her feet aright on the rungs of the ladder. “But--listen!” she +whispered as the voice outside called again. “It's that miser'ble wretch! +It's Joseph Dylks! I've got to go to him! Don't you say a word, Jane +Gillespie! He's Joey's father, and he must be at death's door, or he +wouldn't come to mine.” + +She left the girl standing dazed, and ran out and round the cabin. In the +shadow that it cast in the moon, Dylks crouched close in the angle made by +the chimney. + +“Oh, Nancy!” he implored her, “do give me something to eat! Something +warm. Coffee, if you've got it. I've been sick, and I'm starving.” + +She knew without seeing it in the shadow how he was stretching out +pleading hands to her, and she had mercy upon him. But she said stonily, +“Wait a minute. Don't be a cry-baby,” and ran back to the door, and called +to the girl within, “Rake open the fire, Jane, and set the kittle on.” + Then she ran back to Dylks and stood over him. “Where you been? Don't you +know they'll kill you if they ketch you?” + +“Yes, I know it, Nancy. But I knew this would be the last place they +would come for me. Will the coffee be ready soon? Oh, I'm so faint! I +reckon I'm going to die, Nancy.” + +“I reckon you ain't goin' to die before you get your coffee. It'll be +ready as soon as the kittle boils.” + +She stood looking grimly down at him, while he brokenly told, so far as +he knew it, the story of the days he had passed in hiding. + +“I reckon,” she said, with bitter scorn, “that _I_ could have +fetched you out. I'd 'a' brought you some hot coffee to the door of your +den, and you'd 'a' come when you smelt it.” + +“Yes, that's true,” he owned in meek acceptance of her scorn. + +The child cried, and she went in, but she had no need to comfort it +except with a word. Jane had come to the little one, and was stooping +above it, and cooing to it motherwise, and cuddling it to her body while +it drowsed away to silence. + +“You mind her, Jane,” the mother said, and she lifted the pot of coffee +from the bed of coals, sending a dim glow into the room to meet the dawn +at the open door. She put some sugar into the bowl she got from its shelf, +and covered it with a piece of cold corn-pone, and then went out to Dylks +who had remained on his knees, and now stretched out his trembling hands +toward her. + +She did not speak, but poured the bowl full of the steaming coffee, and +watched him while he gulped half of it down. Then he reached eagerly for +the bread. “Is it hot?” he asked. + +“No, it ain't,” the woman said. “You can eat cold pone, I reckon, can't +you?” + +“Oh, yes; oh, yes, and glad to get it. Only I thought--” He stopped and +washed down the mouthful he had torn from the cake with a draft of the +coffee which emptied the bowl. She filled it mechanically from the pot in +her hand, and he drank again more slowly, and devoured the pone as he +drank. + +“Now,” he said, “I should be all right if it wasn't for my head where +they tore out my hair. It burns like fire.” + +She bent over him and looked at the wound unflinchingly. “I can't see +very good in this light; if I only had some goose-grease--but I reckon +hog's lard will do. Hold on till I can wash it.” + +“Oh, Nancy,” he moaned gratefully. + +She was gone rather long and there was talk within and the cooing and +babble of the child. When she came out with a basin of warm water and some +lard in a broken saucer in her hands, and a towel caught under her arm, he +suggested, “I heard you talking with some one, Nancy.” + +“And I suppose it scared you,” she answered unsparingly. “Well, you may +thank your stars it wasn't Laban. I do believe he'd kill you, meek as he +is.” + +Dylks drew a quivering breath. “Yes, I reckon he would. I suppose you +must have told him about me.” + +“Of course, I did. Here! Hold still!” She had begun to wash his wound, +very gently, though she spoke so roughly, while he murmured with the pain +and with the comfort of the pain. “If you want to know,” she continued, +“it's Jane. She's been with me ever since that night they caught you. You +made her ashamed before her father, and between her shame and his pride +her and him don't speak, or hain't, since then. She stays with me and Joey +stays with him.” + +“Our Joey?” he asked plaintively. + +“_My_ Joey!” she returned, and she involuntarily twitched at the +hair she was smoothing. + +“Oh!” he cried from the pain, but she did not mind his pain. + +“There!” she said, beginning to put on the lard. Then she bound over the +wound the soft pledget of old linen she had brought, and tied round his +head a cotton rag to hold the dressing in place. She said, “There!” again, +“I reckon that will do.” + +He moaned gratefully. “It's the first time I've been out of pain for I +don't know how many days and nights. Nancy!” he burst out in all +recognition of her goodness, “I oughtn't to have left you.” + +She had been kneeling before him in dressing his hurt, and then in +critically regarding her handiwork, she got to her feet. “I know you +oughtn't,” she retorted, “but I'm glad you done it. And I'm thankful every +breath I draw. And now I want you to _go_. And don't you think I done +what I done out of love for you, Joseph Dylks. I'd 'a' done it for any +hurt or hungry dog.” + +[Illustration: She had begun to wash his wound, very gently, though she +spoke so roughly, while he murmured with the pain and with the comfort of +the pain] + +Dylks got to his feet too, with little moans for the stiffness in his +joints. “I know you would, Nancy,” he said humbly, “but all the same I +won't forget it. If there was anything I could do to show--” + +“There's something you could do besides drownin' yourself in the creek, +which I don't ask you: in the first place because I don't want your death +on my hands, and in the next place because you're the un-fittin'est man to +die that I can think of; but there's something else, and you know it +without my tellin' you, and that is to stop all this, now and forever. +Don't you pretend you don't know what I mean!” + +“I know what you mean, Nancy, and the good Lord knows I would be glad +enough to do it if I could. But I wouldn't know how to begin.” + +“Begin,” she said with a scornful glance at the long tangle of his hair, +“begin by cuttin' off that horse's tail of yours, and then stop snortin' +like a horse.” + +He shook his head hopelessly. “It wouldn't do, Nancy. They wouldn't let +me draw back now. They would kill me.” + +“They?” + +“The--the--Little Flock,” he answered shamefacedly. + +“The Herd of the Lost will kill you if you don't.” She said it not in +mocking, but in realization of the hopeless case, and not without pity. +But at his next words, she hardened her heart again. + +“I don't know what to do. I don't know where to go. I have nowhere to lay +my head.” + +“Don't you use them holy words, you wicked wretch! And if you're hintin' +at hidin' in my house, you can't do it--not with Jane here--_she_ +would kill you, I believe--and not without her.” + +“No, Nancy. I can see that. But where can I go? Even that place in the +woods, they're watching that, and they would have me if I tried to go +back.” + +From an impulse as of indifference rather than consideration she said, +“Go to Squire Braile. He let you off; let him take care of you.” + +“Nancy!” he exclaimed. “I thought of that.” + +She gathered up the basin and the towel she brought, and without looking +at him again she said, “Well, go, then,” and turned and left him where he +stood. + + + + +XVI + + +Matthew Braile was sitting in his wonted place, with his chair tilted +against his porch wall, smoking. Dylks faltered a moment at the bars of +the lane from the field of tall corn where he had been finding his way +unseen from Nancy's cabin. He lowered two of the middle bars and when he +had put them up on the other side he stood looking toward the old man. His +long hair hung tangled on his shoulders; the white bandage, which Nancy +had bound about his head, crossed it diagonally above one eye and gave +this the effect of a knowing wink, which his drawn face, unshaven for a +week, seemed to deprecate. + +Braile stared hard at him. Then he tilted his chair down and came to the +edge of his porch, and called in cruel mockery, “Why, God, is that +_you?”_ + +“Don't, Squire Braile!” Dylks implored in a hoarse undertone. “They're +after me, and if anybody heard you--” + +“Well, come up here,” the Squire bade him. Dylks hobbled slowly forward, +and painfully mounted the log steps to the porch, where Braile surveyed +him in detail, frowning and twitching his long feathery eyebrows. + +“I know I don't look fit to be seen,” Dylks began “but--” + +“Well,” the Squire allowed after further pause, “you _don't_ look as +if you had just come 'down from the shining courts above in joyful haste'! +Had any breakfast?” + +“Nancy--Nancy Billings--gave me some coffee, and some cold pone--” + +“Well, you can have some _hot_ pone pretty soon. Laban there?” + +“No, he's away at work still. But, Squire Braile--” + +“Oh, I understand. I know all about Nancy, and her first husband and how +he left her, and she thought he was dead, and married a good man, and when +that worthless devil came back she thought she was living in sin with that +good man--in _sin_!--and drove him away. But she's as white as any of +the saints you lie about. It was _like_ you to go to her the first +one in your trouble. Well, what did she say?” “She said--” Dylks stopped, +his mouth too dry to speak; he wetted his lips and whispered--“She said to +come to you; that you would know what it was best for me to do; to--” He +stopped again and asked, “Do you suppose any one will see me here?” + +“Oh, like as not. It's getting time for honest folks to be up and going +to work. But I don't want any trouble about you this morning; I had enough +that _other_ morning. Come in here!” He set open the door of one of +the rooms giving on the porch, and at Dylks's fearful glance he laughed, +not altogether unkindly. “Mis' Braile's in the kitchen, getting breakfast +for you, though she don't know it yet. Now, then!” he commanded when he +sat down within, and pushed a chair to Dylks. “Tell me all about it, since +I saw you going up the pike.” + +In the broken story which Dylks told, Braile had the air of mentally +checking off the successive facts, and he permitted the man a measure of +self-pity, though he caught him up at the close. “Well, you've got a part +of what you deserve, but as usually happens with us rascals, you've got +too much, at the same time. And what did Nancy advise?” + +“She told me to come to you--” + +“What did Nancy _advise_?” the Squire repeated savagely. + +“She advised me to stop all this”--he waved his hands outward, and the +Squire nodded intelligently--“to tell them it wasn't true; and I was +sorry; and to go away--” + +He stopped, and Braile demanded, “Well, and are you going to do it?” + +“I want to do it, and--I can't.” + +“You can't? What's to hinder you?” + +“I'm afraid to do it.” + +“Afraid?” + +“They would kill me, if I did.” + +“They? Who? The Herd of the Lost?” + +“The Little Flock.” + +The men were both silent, and then after a long breath, the Squire said, +“I begin to see--” + +“No, no! You don't _begin_ to see, Squire Braile.” Dylks burst out +sobbing, and uttering what he said between his sobs. “Nobody can +understand it that hasn't been through it! How you are tempted on, step by +step, all so easy, till you can't go back, you can't stop. You're tempted +by what's the best thing in you, by the hunger and thirst to know what's +going to be after you die; to get near to the God that you've always heard +about and read about; near Him in the flesh, and see Him and hear Him and +touch Him. That's what does it with _them_, and that's what does it +in you. It's something, a kind of longing, that's always been in the +world, and you know it's in others because you know it's in you, in your +own heart, your own soul. When you begin to try for it, to give out that +you're a prophet, an apostle, you don't have to argue, to persuade +anybody, or convince anybody. They're only too glad to believe what you +say from the first word; and if you tell them you're Christ, didn't He +always say He would come back, and how do they know but what it's now and +you?” + +“Yes, yes,” the Squire said. “Go on.” + +“When I said I was God, they hadn't a doubt about it. But it was then +that the trouble began.” + +“The trouble?” + +“I had to make some of them saints. I had to make Enraghty Saint Paul, +and I had to make Hingston Saint Peter. You think I had to lie to them, to +deceive them, to bewitch them. I didn't have to do anything of the kind. +They did the lying and deceiving and bewitching themselves, and when they +done it, they and all the rest of the believers, they had me fast, faster +than I had them.” + +“I could imagine the schoolmaster hanging on to his share of the glory, +tooth and nail,” the Squire said with a grim laugh. “But old Hingston, +good old soul, he ought to have let go, if you wanted him to.” + +“Oh, you don't know half of it,” Dylks said, with a fresh burst of +sobbing. “The worst of it is, and the dreadfulest is, that you begin to +believe it yourself.” + +“What's that?” the Squire demanded sharply. + +“Their faith puts faith into you. If they believe what you say, you say +to yourself that there must be some truth in it. If you keep telling them +you're Jesus Christ, there's nothing to prove you ain't, and if you tell +them you're God, who ever saw God, and who can deny it? You can't deny it +yourself--” + +“Hold on!” the old man said. He had risen, and he began to walk up and +down, swaying his figure and tilting his head from side to side, and +frowning his shaggy eyebrows together in a tangled hedge. Suddenly, he +stopped before Dylks. “Why, you poor devil, you're not in any unusual fix. +It must have been so with all the impostors in the world, from Mahomet up +and down! Why, there isn't a false prophet in the Old Testament that +couldn't match experiences with you! That's the way it's always gone: +first the liar tells his lie, and some of the fools believe it, and +proselyte the other fools, and when there are enough of them, their faith +begins to work on the liar's own unbelief, till he takes his lie for the +truth. Was that the way, you miserable skunk?” + +“It was exactly the way, Squire Braile, and you can't tell how it gains +on you, step by step. You see all those educated people like Mr. Enraghty, +and all those good men like Mr. Hingston taking it for gospel, and you +can't deny it yourself. They convince you of it.” + +“Exactly! And then, when the Little Flock gathers in all the mentally +lame, halt and blind in the settlement, you couldn't get out of it if you +had the whole Herd of the Lost to back you, with the Hounds yelping round +to keep your courage up; you've got to stay just where you put yourself, +heigh?” + +“There wouldn't,” Dylks said, drying his eyes on a tatter of his coat +sleeve, “be so much trouble if it wasn't for the miracles.” + +“Yes,” Braile replied to the thoughtful mood which he had fallen into, +rather than to Dylks, “the ignorant are sure to want a sign, though the +wise could get along without it. And you have to promise them a sign; you +have to be fool enough to do that, though you know well enough you can't +work the miracle.” + +“You ain't sure you can't. You think, maybe--” + +“Then, why,” the Squire shouted at him, “why in the devil's name, +_didn't_ you work the miracle at Hingston's mill that night? Why +didn't you turn that poor fool woman's bolt of linsey-woolsey into +seamless raiment?” + +Dylks did not answer. + +“Why didn't you do it? Heigh?” + +“I thought maybe--I didn't know but I did do it.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“When I came up outside and told them that the miracle had been worked +and the seamless raiment was inside the bolt, I thought it must be there.” + +“Why, in the name of--” + +“I had prayed so hard for help to do it that I thought it must be.” + +“You prayed? To whom?” + +“To--God.” + +“To yourself?” + +Dylks was silent again in the silence of a self-convicted criminal. He +did not move. + +Braile had been walking up and down again in his excitement, in his +enjoyment of the psychological predicament, and again he stopped before +Dylks. “Why, you poor bag of shorts!” he said. “I could almost feel sorry +for you, in spite of the mischief you've made. Why, _you_ oughtn't to +be sent to the penitentiary, or even lynched. _You_ ought to be put +amongst the county idiots in the poorhouse, and--” + +There came a soft plapping as of bare feet on the puncheon floor of the +porch; hesitating about and then pausing at the door of the opposite room. +Then there came with the increased smell of cooking, the talking of women. +Presently the talking stopped and the plapping of the bare feet approached +the door of the room shutting the two men in. The Squire set it slightly +ajar, in spite of Dylks's involuntary, “Oh, don't!” and faced some one +close to the opening. + +“That you, Sally? You haven't come to borrow anything at _this_ hour +of the night?” + +“Well, I reckon if you was up as early as Mis' Braile, you'd know it was +broad day. No, I hain't come to borry anything exactly, but I was just +tellin' _her_ that if she'd lend me a fryun' of bacon, I'd do as much +for her some day. She ast me to tell you your breakfast was ready and not +to wait till your comp'ny was gone, but bring anybody you got with you.” + +Sally peered curiously in at the opening of the door, and Braile abruptly +set it wide. “Perhaps you'd like to see who it is.” + +Sally started back at sight of the figure within. When she could get her +breath she gasped, “Well, for mercy's sakes! If it ain't the Good Old Man, +himself!” But she made no motion of revering or any offer of saluting her +late deity. + +“Well, now, if you've got some bacon for Abel's breakfast you better stop +and have yours with us,” the Squire suggested. + +“No, I reckon not,” Sally answered. “I ain't exactly sure Abel would like +it. He ain't ever been one of the Flock, although at the same time he +ain't ever been one of the Herd: just betwixt and between, like.” As she +spoke she edged away backward. “Well, I must be goun', Squire. Much +obleeged to you all the same.” + +The Squire followed her backward steps with his voice. “If you should +happen to see Jim Redfield on his way to his tobacco patch, I wish you'd +tell him to come here; I'd like to see him.” + +He went in again to Dylks. + +“What are you going to do with me, Squire Braile?” he entreated. “You're +not going to give me up?” + +“I know my duty to my Maker,” the old man answered. “I'll take care of +you, Jehovah Dylks. But now you better come in to breakfast--get some +_hot_ pone. I'll bring you a basin of water to wash up in.” + +He reopened the door in the face of Sally Reverdy, who gasped out before +she plapped over to the steps and dropped away, “I just seen Jim Redfield, +and I tole him you wanted him, and he said he would be here in half an +hour, or as soon as he could see that the men had begun on his tubbacco. I +didn't tell him who you had here, and I won't tell anybody else; don't you +be afraid.” + +“Well, that's a good girl, Sally. Abel couldn't have done better +himself,” the Squire called after her, and then he turned to Dylks. “Come +along now, and get your _hot_ pone. Jim Redfield won't hurt you; I'll +go bail for him, and I'll see that nobody else gets at you. I've got a +loft over this room where you'll be safe from everything but a pet coon +that your Joey gave my little boy; and I reckon the coon won't bite you. +_I_ wouldn't, in his _place_.” + + + + +XVII + + +Redfield came rather later than he had promised, excusing himself for his +delay. “I was afraid the frost had caught my tobacco, last night; but it +seems to be all right, as far as I can see; I stayed till the sun was well +up before I decided.” + +“It _was_ a pretty sharp night, but I don't believe there was any +frost,” the Squire said. “At least Dylks didn't complain of it.” + +“Dylks?” Redfield returned. + +“Yes. Didn't you know he was out again?” + +“No, I didn't. If I had that fellow by the scruff of the neck!” + +The Squire knew he meant the sleeping sentinel at the thicket where Dylks +had been hidden, and not Dylks. But he said nothing, and again Redfield +spoke. + +“Look here, Squire Braile, I think you did a bad piece of business +letting that fellow go.” + +“I know you do, Jim, but I expect you'll think different when you've seen +him.” + +“Seen him? You mean you know where he is?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, all I've got to say is that if I can lay hands on that fellow he +won't give me the slip again.” + +“Well, suppose we try,” the Squire said, and he opened the door into the +room where Dylks was cowering, and remarked with a sort of casualness, as +if the fact would perhaps interest them both, “Here's one of the Lost, +Dylks. I thought you might like to see him. Now, sit down, both of you and +let's talk this thing over.” + +He took a place on the side of the bed and the enemies each faltered to +their chairs in mutual amaze. + +“Oh, sit down, sit down!” the Squire insisted. “You might as well take it +comfortably. Nobody's going to kill either of you.” + +“I don't want to do anybody any harm,” Dylks began. + +“You'd better not!” Redfield said between his set teeth; his hands had +knotted themselves into fists at his side. + +“I'm all weak yet from the fever I had there, with nothing but water and +berries,” Dylks resumed in his self-pity. “I _did_ think some of my +friends might have come--” + +“I took good care of that,” Redfield said. “They did come, at first, with +something to eat, but they knew blame well we'd have wrung their necks if +we'd 'a' caught 'em. We meant to starve you out, that's what, and we did +it, and if it hadn't been for that good-for-nothing whelp sleeping over +his gun you wouldn't have got out alive.” + +“Well, that's all right now, Jim, and you'd better forgive and forget, +both of you,” the Squire interposed. “Dylks has reformed, he tells me; +he's sorry for having been a god, and he's going to try to be a man, or as +much of a man as he can. He's going to tell the Little Flock so, and then +he's going to get out of Leatherwood right off--” + +Dylks cleared his throat to ask tremulously, “Did I say that, Squire +Braile?” + +“Yes, you did, my friend, and what's more you're going to keep your word, +painful as it may be to you. I'll let you manage it your own way, but some +way you're going to do it; and in the meantime I'm going to put you under +the protection of Jim Redfield, here--” + +“_My_ protection?” Redfield protested. + +“Yes, I've sworn you in as special constable, or I will have as soon as I +can make out the oath, and have you sign it. And Dylks will get out of the +county as soon as he can--he tells me it won't be so easy as we would +think; and when he does, it will be much more to the purpose than riding +on a rail in a coat of tar and feathers. Why!” he broke off, with a stare +at Dylks as if he saw his raggedness for the first time, “you'll want a +coat of _some_ kind to show yourself to the Little Flock in; the Herd +of the Lost won't mind; they don't want to be so proud of you. I must look +up something for you; or perhaps send to Brother Hingston; he's about your +size. But that don't matter, now! What I want is your promise, Jim +Redfield, and I know you'll do what you say, that you won't tell anybody +that the Supreme Being is hiding in my loft, here, till I say so, and when +I do, that you'll see no harm comes to him from mortals--from Hounds, and +such like, or even the Herd of the Lost. Do you promise?” + +Redfield hesitated. “If he'll leave the county, yes.” + +“And _you_, 'Jehovah, Jove or Lord'?” + +“I will, as quick as I can, Squire Braile; I will, indeed.” + +The Squire rose from the edge of the bed. “Then this court stands +adjourned,” he said formally. + +Redfield went out with him, leaving Dylks trembling behind. He said, “I +ain't sure you ain't making a fool of me, Squire Braile.” + +“Well, _I_ am,” the Squire retorted. “And don't you make one of +yourself, and then there won't be any.” + +Redfield still hesitated. “I'd just like to had another pull at that +horse-tail of his,” he said wistfully. + +“Well, I knew old man Gillespie hadn't quite the strength. But I thought +maybe Hughey Blake helped pull--” + +“Hughey Blake,” Redfield returned scornfully, “had nothing to do with it.” + +“Well, anyway, I hear it's converted Jane Gillespie, and she was worth +it, though it was rather too much like scalping a live Indian.” + +“She's worth more than all the other girls in this settlement put +together,” Redfield said, without comment on the phase of the act which +had interested the Squire, and went down the cabin steps into the lane. + +Braile turned back and opened the door of the room where Dylks was lurking. + +“Better come out, now,” he said, not ungently, “and get into a safe place +before folks begin to be about much. Or wait--I'll put the ladder up +first.” He brought the ladder from the kitchen where he exchanged a +fleeting joke with his wife, still at her work of clearing the breakfast +things away, and set it against the wall under the trapdoor of the loft. +“Now, then!” he called and Dylks came anxiously out. + +“Ain't you afraid--” he began. + +“No, but _you_ are, and that'll do for both of us. There's nobody +round, and if you'll hurry, nobody'll see you. Push the lid to one side, +and get in, and you'll be perfectly safe,” he said as Dylks tremulously +mounted the ladder. “I don't say you'll be very comfortable. There's a +little window at one end, but it don't give much air, and this August sun +is apt to get a little warm on the clapboards. And I don't suppose it +smells very well in there; but the coon can't help that; it's the way +nature scented him; she hadn't any sweet brier handy at the time. And be +careful not to step on him. He's not very good-tempered, but I reckon he +won't bite you if you don't bite _him.”_ + +The kitchen door opened and Mrs. Braile put her head out. She saw the +ladder and the two men. Then she came out into the porch. “Well, Matthew +Braile, I might have knowed from the sound of your voice that you was up +to some mischief. Was you goin' to send that poor man up into that hot +loft? Well, I can tell you you're not.” She went into the room they had +left, and they heard her stirring vigorously about beyond its closed door, +with a noise of rapid steps and hard and soft thumpings. She came out +again and said, “Go in there, now, Mr. Dylks, and try to get some rest. +I've made up the bed for you, and _I'll_ see that nobody disturbs +you. Matthew Braile, you send and tell Mr. Hingston,--or _go_, if you +can't ketch anybody goin' past,--and tell him he's here, and bring some +decent clothes; he ain't fit to be seen.” + +“Well, he don't want to be,” the Squire said in the attempt to brave her +onset. “But I reckon you're right, mother. I should probably have thought +of it myself--in time. I'll send Sally or Abel, if they go past--and they +nearly always do--or some of the hands from the tobacco patches. Or, as +you say, I may go myself, towards evening. He won't want to be troubled +before then.” + + + + +XVIII + + +At the first meeting in the Temple after the open return of Dylks to his +dispensation, the Little Flock had apparently suffered no loss in number. +Some of his followers had left him, but his disciples had been busily +preaching him during his abeyance, and the defection of old converts was +more than made up by the number of proselytes. The room actually left by +the Flock was filled by the Herd of the Lost who occupied all the seats on +one side of the Temple, with Matthew Braile and his wife in a foremost +place, the lower sort of them worsening into the Hounds who filled the +doorway, and hung about the outside of the Temple. + +The whole assembly was orderly. Those of the Little Flock who conducted +the services had a quelled air, which might have been imparted to them by +the behavior of Dylks; he sat bowed and humble on the bench below the +pulpit, while Enraghty preached above him. It was rumored that at the +house-meetings the worship of Dylks had been renewed with the earlier +ardor; there had been genuflections and prostrations before him, with +prayers for pardon and hymns of praise, especially from the proselytes. +Dylks was said to have accepted their adoration with a certain passivity +but to have done nothing to prevent it; there was not the more scandalous +groveling at his feet which had stirred up the community to his arrest. +There was as much decorum as could consist with the sacrilegious rites +which were still practised with his apparent connivance. + +He now sat without apparent restiveness under the eyes of the two men who +had the greatest right to exact the fulfilment of his promise, to forbid +this idolatry, to end the infamy of its continuance, and to go out from +among the people whose instincts and conventions his presence outraged. +Near Redfield sat David Gillespie with his eyes fixed on Dylks in a stare +of hungry hate, and with him sat his daughter, who testified by her +removal from the Little Flock her renunciation of her faith in him. +Redfield showed greater patience than Gillespie, and at times his eyes +wandered to the face of the girl who did not seem to feel them on her, but +sat gazing at her forsaken idol in what might have seemed puzzle for him +and wonder at herself. Others who had rejected him merely kept away; but +she came as if she would face down the shame of her faith in him before +the eyes of her little world. Sometimes Dylks involuntarily put his hand +to the black silken cap which replaced the bandage Nancy Billings had tied +over the place where the hair had been torn out. When he did this, the +girl moved a little; her face hardened, and she stole a glance at Redfield. + +The schoolmaster went on and on, preaching Dylks insistently, but not +with the former defiance. He did not spare to speak of the cruel +sufferings inflicted upon their Savior and their God, who had borne it +with the meekness of the Son and the mercy of the Father. The divine being +who had come to sojourn among them at Leatherwood in the flesh, for the +purposes of his inscrutable wisdom might have blasted his enemies with a +touch, a word, but he had spared them; he had borne insult and injury, but +in the Last Day he would do justice, he the judge of all the earth. Till +then, let the Little Flock have patience; let them have faith sustained by +the daily, hourly miracles which he had wrought among them since his +return to their midst, and rest secure in the strong arms which he folded +about them. + +Dylks sat motionless. “Well, mother,” Matthew Braile hoarsely whispered +to his wife, “I reckon you'd better have let me put him up with the coon. +The heat might have tried the mischief out of him. He hasn't kept his +word.” + +“No, Matthew, he hasn't,” she whispered back, “and I think his lying to +you so is almost the worst thing he's done. The next time you may put him +with the coon. Only, the coon's too good for him. But I reckon Jim +Redfield will look out for him.” + +“Jim'll have to let him alone. We can't have any more mobbing, and +there's no law that can touch Dylks in the State of Ohio. We settled that +the first time.” + +Enraghty abruptly closed his discourse with a demand for prayer, and +addressed his supplication to the Savior and the Judge incarnate there +among them. The Little Flock sang the hymn which always opened and closed +its devotions, and at the end, Hingston, who sat by Dylks on the bench +below the pulpit, made a movement as if to rise. But Dylks put out his +hand and stayed him. He welcomed Enraghty to the place which he left +beside Hingston, and slowly, with the step of one in a dream, mounted the +stairs of the pulpit, amidst the silent amaze of the people. He began +without preamble in the blend of scriptural text and crude every-day +parlance which he ordinarily used. + +“Ye have heard it said aforetime that the New Jerusalem would come down +here in Leatherwood, but I say unto you that all that has passed away, +that the words which were spoken by the prophet might be fulfilled, 'Many +are called but few are chosen.' Verily, verily, I said unto you, that +heaven and earth shall pass away, but the words I speak now shall not pass +away. If the works which have been done in Leatherwood had been done in +Tyre and Sidon, the New Jerusalem would have come down in both places, for +they did not stone the prophets as the Herd of the Lost did in +Leatherwood.” + +“He means that morning when he took up the pike and the fellows chased +him into the tall timber,” Braile whispered to his wife; “but _I_ +can't tell what he's driving at.” + +“Be still!” she said. + +Many of the Little Flock groaned and cried aloud; the Herd of the Lost, +except for one shrill note of bitter laughter, were silent, and only those +who sat near perceived that it was Jane Gillespie who had laughed. + +Redfield looked round at her, unconscious of his look. + +“I go a long way off,” Dylks proceeded, “and some of my beloved, even my +Little Flock, cannot follow me; but though they cannot follow me, even the +lame, halt, and blind shall be with me in the spirit, and shall behold the +New Jerusalem where I will bring it down.” + +Many of the Little Flock at this cried out, “Where will it be, Lord?” + “Where will the New Jerusalem come down?” “How shall we see it?” + +“With the eyes of faith, even as ye have seen the miracles I have wrought +among ye, which were shown to babes and sucklings and were hidden from the +wise of this world. But now I go from you, and my feet shall be upon the +mountains and shall descend upon the other side and there I will bring +down the New Jerusalem, and there ye shall be, in the flesh or in the +spirit, to behold the wonder of it.” + +Some of the Little Flock cried out again. “Oh, don't leave us, Father!” + “Take us all with you in the flesh!” “We want to be taken up with you!” + and then some of them entreated, “Tell us about it; tell us what it will +be like.” + +Dylks lifted his eyes as if in the rapture of the vision. “'Its light +shall eclipse the splendor of the sun. The temples thereof, and the +residences of the faithful will be built of diamonds excelling the +twinkling beauty of the stars. Its walls will be of solid gold, and its +gates silver. The streets will be covered with green velvet, richer in +luster and fabric than mortal eye ever beheld. The gardens thereof will be +filled with all manner of pleasant fruits, precious to the sight, and +pleasant to the taste. The faithful shall ride in chariots of crimson, +drawn by jet-black horses that need no drivers; and their joys shall go on +increasing forever. The air of the city shall be scented with the smell of +shrubs and flowers, and ten thousand different instruments all tuned to +the songs of heaven shall fill the courts, and the streets and the +temples, and the residences, and the gardens with music like ear hath not +heard, swelling the soul of the saved with perpetual delight.'” + +Sighs and groans of ecstasy went up from the Flock at each of the studied +pauses which Dylks made in recounting the wonders of the heavenly city, +fancied one after another at the impulse of their expectation. At the end +they swarmed forward to the altar place and flung themselves on the +ground, and heaped the pulpit steps with their bodies. “Take us with you, +Lord!” they entreated. “Take us all with you in the flesh!” “Don't leave +us here to perish among the heathen and the ungodly when you go.” Then +some began to ask, as if he had already consented, “But what shall we eat, +and what shall we drink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed on that far +journey?” + +[Illustration: They swarmed forward to the altar-place and flung +themselves on the ground, and heaped the pulpit-steps with their bodies] + +Dylks leaned forward against the pulpit desk and showed a few coins drawn +from the pocket of Hingston's pantaloons which he was wearing. “These +shall be enough, for out of these three rusty old coppers I can make +millions of gold and silver dollars.” + +The frenzy mounted, and the Herd of the Lost who began to tire of the +sight, left the temple. Redfield followed out behind Matthew Braile and +his wife. “That settles it,” he said. “I'll see to Mr. Dylks in the +morning.” + +“Now, I look at it differently. He's going, like he said he would, and +we've got to let him go in his own way, and bring down the New Jerusalem +Over-the-Mountains, or anywhere else he pleases, so he don't bring it down +in Leatherwood.” + +“I say so, too, Matthew. He's keeping his word the best he can, poor +lying soul. They wouldn't let him back out now.” + +“I don't want you to trouble him, Jim Redfield, till you have a warrant +from me,” Braile resumed, braced by his wife's support. “And I want you to +keep the Hounds away, and give Dylks a fair start. You know the law won't +let you touch him. Now do you hear?” + +“I hear,” Redfield said sullenly, with the consent which Braile read in +his words. “But if there's any more such goings on as we've had here +to-night, I won't answer for the rest of his scalp.” + +He hurried forward from the elderly couple and overtook the Gillespies +walking rapidly. Hughey Blake had just fallen away from them and stood +disconsolately looking after them. + +“Is that you, James Redfield?” David Gillespie asked, peering at him in +the night's dimness. “This is the man that helped me to get you a lock of +that scoundrel's hair,” he said to his daughter. + +She answered nothing in acknowledgment of the introduction, but Redfield +said, coming round to her side and suiting his step to hers, “I would like +to go home with you till my road passes yours.” + +“Well,” she said, “if you ain't ashamed to be seen with such a fool. +Nobody _can_ see you to-night,” she added, bitterly, including him in +her self-scorn. + +“You needn't imply that I like it to be in the dark. I would like to walk +with you in broad day past all the houses in Leatherwood. But I don't +suppose you'd let me.” She did not say anything, and he added, “I'm going +to ask you to the first chance.” Still she did not say anything, though +her father had fallen behind and left the talk wholly to them. + + + + +XIX + + +Nancy sat at her door in the warm September evening when the twilight was +beginning to come earlier than in the August days, and her boy rushed +round the corner of the cabin in a boy's habitual breathlessness from +running. + +“Oh, mother, mother!” he called to her, as if he were a great way off. +“Guess what!” He did not wait for her to guess. “The Good Old Man is goin' +to leave Leatherwood and go Over the Mountains with the Little Flock, and +he says he's goin' to bring down the New Jerusalem at Philadelphy, and all +that wants to go up with him kin go. Mr. Hingston's goin' with him, and +he's goin' to let Benny. Benny don't know whether he can get to go up in +the New Jerusalem or not, but he's goin' to coax his father the hardest +kind.” + +He stopped panting at his mother's knees where she sat on the cabin +threshold nearly as high as he stood. She put up her hand and pushed the +wet hair from his forehead. “How you _do_ sweat, Joey! Go round and +wash your face at the bench. Maybe Jane will give you a drink of the milk, +while it's warm yet, before she lets it down in the well. She's just +through milkin'.” + +The boy tore himself away with a shout of “Oh, goody!” and his mother +heard him at the well. “Wait a minute, Jane! Mother said I could have a +drink before you let it down,” and then she heard him, between gulps, +recounting to the girl's silence the rumors she had already heard from +him. He came running back, with a white circle of milk round his lips. +“Mother,” he began, “have you ever been Over-the-Mountains?” + +“No, I've never been anywhere but just here in the country, and where you +was born, back where we moved from.” + +“Well, mother, how old am I now?” + +“You're goin' on twelve, Joey dear.” + +“Yes, that's what I thought. Benny ain't on'y ten. And he ain't as big +for his age as what I am. He's been to the circus, though; his father took +him to it at Wheeling that time when he went on the steamboat. I wisht I +could go to a circus.” + +“Well, maybe you kin when you grow up. Circuses ain't everything.” + +“No,” the boy relucted. “Benny says the New Jerusalem will be a good deal +like the circus. That's the reason he coaxed his father to let him go. Is +Philadelphy as far as Wheeling?” + +“A good deal further, from what I've heard tell,” his mother said; she +smiled at his innocently sinuous approach to his desire. + +He broke out with it. “Mother, what's the reason I can't go with Benny, +and Mr. Hingston, and the Little Flock? They'd take good care of me, and I +wouldn't make Mr. Hingston any trouble. Me 'n' Benny could sleep together. +And the Good Old Man he's always been very pleasant to me. Patted my head +oncet, and ast me what my name was.” + +“Did you tell him it was Billings?” his mother asked uneasily. + +“No, just Joseph; and he said, well, that was his name, too. Don't you +think the Good Old Man is good?” + +“We're none of us as good as we ought to be, Joey. No, he ain't a good +man, I'm afraid.” + +“My!” the boy said, and then after a moment: “I don't want to go, Mother, +unless you want to let me go.” + +His mother did not speak for a while, and it seemed as if she were not +going to speak at all, so that the boy said, with a little sigh of +renunciation, “I didn't expect you would. But I'd be as careful! And even +if the Good Old Man ain't so very good, Mr. Hingston is, and he wouldn't +let anything happen to me.” + +The woman put her hand under the boy's chin, and looked into his eager +eyes which had not ceased their pleading. At last she said, “You can go, +Joey!” + +“Mother!” He jumped to his feet from his crouching at hers. “Oh, glory to +God!” + +“Hush, Joey, you mustn't say things like that. It's like swearing, dear.” + +“I know it is, and I didn't mean to. Of course it's right, in meetin', +and it kind of slipped out when I wasn't thinkin'. But I won't say any bad +things, you needn't be afraid. Oh, I'll be as good! But look a'here, +mother! Why can't you come, too?” + +“And leave your little sister?” She smiled sadly. + +“I didn't think of that. But couldn't Jane take care of her? She's always +carryin' her around. And Uncle David could come here, and live with them. +He wouldn't want to stay there without me, or no one.” + +“It wouldn't do, Joey dear.” + +“No,” the boy assented. + +“You can go and tell Benny I said you might go, if his father will have +you.” + +“Oh, he _will_; he said so; Benny's ast him! And he said he'd take +good care of us both.” + +“I'm not afraid. You know how to take care of yourself. And, Joey--” + +She stopped, and the boy prompted her, “What, mom?” + +“When I said the Good Old Man wasn't a good man, I didn't want to set you +against him. I want you to be good to him.” + +“Yes, mother,” the boy assented in a puzzle. “But if he ain't good--” + +“He ain't, Joey. He's a wicked man. Sometimes I think he's the wickedest +man in the world. But I want you to watch out, and if ever you can help +him, or do anything for him, remember that I wanted you to do it: a boy +can often help a man.” + +“I will, mother. But I don't see the reason, if he's so very wicked, why--” + +“That's the very reason, Joey dear. And go and tell Benny now that I let +you go. And--don't tell him what I said about the Good Old Man.” + +“Oh, I woon't, I woon't, mom! Oh, glory--Oh, I didn't mean to say it, and +I didn't, really, did I? But I'm so glad, and Benny'll be, too! Can I tell +him now? To-night?” + +“Yes. Run along.” + +He hesitated; then he leaped into the air with a joyful yell and vanished +round the corner of the cabin into the dusk. + +His mother did not leave her place on the threshold, but sat with her +face bowed in her hands. By and by Jane Gillespie came to the door from +within, and then Nancy lifted her head and made room for her to sit beside +her. She told her what had passed, and Jane said, “If I was a man I +would--Well, I know what I would do!” + +She did not sit down, but stood behind Nancy and talked down over her +shoulder. “Yes,” Nancy said, “that's what I used to say when I was a girl. +But now I'm glad I ain't a man, for I wouldn't know what to do.” + +“Well, I wouldn't 'a' left a hair in his head. I'd 'a'--I'd 'a' half +killed him! Oh, when I think what a fool that man made of me!” + +“Don't let Jim Redfield make a fool of you, then.” + +“Who said I'm letting him?” the girl demanded fiercely. + +“Nobody. But don't.” + +“Aunt Nancy! If it was anybody but you said such a thing! But _I_ +know! It's because you're so set on Hughey Blake. Hughey Blake!” she ended +scornfully, and went back into the cabin. + +Nancy rose from her place with a sigh. “Oh, I 'spose you're right about +my lettin' Joey go. _I_ don't know why I let him.” + + + + +XX + + +The meetings of the Little Flock had continued ever since the +reappearance of Dylks, and in the earlier spirit. But the spring was +broken, and since he had said that the New Jerusalem would not come down +at Leatherwood, many had lost not faith but hope. Few could have the hope +of following him as far as far-off Philadelphia, and sharing the glories +which he promised them there. For a pioneer community the people were none +of them poor; some were accounted rich, and among the richest were many +followers of Dylks. But most of the Flock were hardworking farmers who +could not spare the time or the money for that long journey +Over-the-Mountains, even with the prospect of the heavenly city at the +end. Yet certain of the poorest set their houses in order, and mortgaged +their lands, and went with the richest, when on a morning after the last +great meeting in the Temple, the Little Flock assembled for parting, some +to go and some to stay. + +Nancy did not come with her boy for the farewell. They had kissed each +other at the cabin door, and then he had run light-heartedly away, full of +wild expectation, to find Benny Hingston at the Cross Roads and then race +with him to join the crowd before the Temple, where the Little Flock stood +listening to the last words which the Good Old Man should speak to them in +Leatherwood. Many wept; Dylks himself was crying. The enemies of their +faith did not molest them except for a yelp of derision now and then, and +a long-drawn howl from the Hounds, kept well back by the Herd of the Lost, +under the command of Redfield. He stood in the chief place among these, +and at his right hand Matthew Braile leaned on his stick. + +When the last prayer had been said, and they who were going had kissed or +shaken hands with those who were staying, and friends and foes had both +scattered, Braile said to the young man whom he now faced, “Well, that's +the last of him.” + +Redfield's jaw was still set from the effort of seeing the affair through +in as much decency as he had been able to enforce. “It ain't the last of +_them_. But I reckon, now he's gone, they'll behave themselves. None +of the saints that are left will make trouble.” + +“No, with Enraghty out of the way and that kind old fool Hingston, with +his example of mistaken righteousness, we can get along fairly enough with +the old dispensation. Well, Abel,” he called to Reverdy, who was lounging +about in the empty space which the crowd had left, unwilling to leave the +scene of so much excitement for the dull labors of the field, “you thought +you wouldn't go to see the New Jerusalem come down, after all. How's the +Good Old Man goin' to work it without you?” + +“He's had to work things 'thout me for a good while now, Squire,” Abel +returned, not with perfect satisfaction in the part assigned him by the +irony of the Squire. “Ever sence that night at Mr. Enraghty's, I been +putty much done with him. A god that couldn't help hisself in a little +trouble like that, he ain't no god for me.” + +“Oh, I remember. But what about Sally? She didn't go with the Little +Flock, either?” + +“I reckon me 'n' Sally thinks putty much alike about the Little Flock,” + Abel said with as much hauteur as a man in his bare feet could command. +“We hain't either of us got any use for Little Flocks, any more.” + +“Well, I'm glad of it. But I thought she might have come to see them off.” + +Abel relented. “Sally ain't very well, this mornin'. Up all night with +the toothache.” Redfield had turned from them, and Abel now remarked, “I +_was_ wonderin' whether I couldn't borry a little coffee from Mis' +Braile for breakfast; I been so took up 'ith all these goun's on that I +hain't had no time to go to the store.” + +“Why, certainly,” the Squire replied, “and you'd better come and have +breakfast with us on the way home. I came down without mine so as to see +the Ancient of Days off, and make sure of his going.” + +“Pshaw, Squire, it don't seem quite right to have you usin' them old +Bible sayun's so common like.” + +“Well, Abel, perhaps it isn't quite the thing. But you must make +allowance for my being in such high spirits. I haven't breathed so free in +a coon's age. I _would_ like to have stowed Dylks for a little while +in the loft with ours! But Mis' Braile wouldn't hear of it. Well, we've +seen the last of him, I hope. And now we're hearing the last of him.” He +halted Abel in their walk, at a rise in the ground where they caught the +sound of the hymn which the Little Flock, following Dylks for a certain +way, were singing. “'Sounds weel at a distance,' as the Scotchman said of +the bagpipes. And the farther the better. I don't believe I should care if +I _never_ heard that tune again.” They reached Braile's cabin, and he +said, “Well, now come in and have something to stay your stomach while +you're waiting for Sally to make the coffee you're going to borrow.” + +“No, I reckon not, Squire,” Abel loyally held out. + +“Well, then, come in and get the coffee, anyhow.” + +“I reckon that's a good idea, Squire,” Abel assented with a laugh for the +joke at his cost. As they mounted the steps, Braile stopped him at the +sound of voices in the kitchen. + +A prevalent voice was the voice of Sally. “Well, just one _sup_ +more, Mis' Braile. You do make the _best_ coffee! I believe in my +heart that it's took my toothache all away a'ready, and I suppose poor +Abel'll be goun' up home with some of that miser'ble stuff he gits at the +store, and expectun' to find me there in bed yit. I thought I'd jest slip +down, and borry a little o' your'n to surprise him with, but when I smelt +it, I jest couldn't hold out. I don't suppose but what he stayed to see +the Little Flock off, anyway, and you say Squire Braile went. Well, I +reckon he had to, justice o' the peace, that way. I'm thankful the Good +Old Man's gone, for one, and I don't never want to see hide or hair of him +ag'in in Leatherwood. There's such a thing as gittun' enough of a thing, +and I've got enough of strange gods for one while.” + +Murmurs of reply came from Mrs. Braile at times, but Sally mainly kept +the word. + +“Well, and what do you think of Nancy Billun's lettun' her Joey go off +with the Little Flock, her talkun' the way she always done about 'em? Of +course he's safe with Mr. Hingston and Benny, and they'll bring him back +all right, but don't you think she'd be afeared that he might be took up +in the New Jerusalem when it riz ag'in?” + +“Abel,” the Squire said, “I don't like this. We seem to be listening. I +don't believe Sally will like our overhearing her; and we ought to warn +her. It's no use your stamping your bare feet, for they wouldn't make any +noise. I'll rap my stick on the floor.” He also called out, “Hello, the +house!” and Sally herself came to the kitchen door. She burst into her +large laugh. “Well, I declare to goodness, if it ain't Abel and the +Squire! Well, if this ain't the best joke on _me!_ Did you see Dylks +off, Squire Braile? And a good riddance to bad rubbage, _I_ say.” + + + + +XXI + + +Hughey Blake, long-haired, barefooted and freckled, hung about the door +of Nancy's cabin, where she sat with her little girl playing in the weedy +turf at her foot. The late October weather was sometimes hot at noon, but +the evenings were cool and the evening air was sweet with the scent of the +ripened corn, and the faint odor of the fallen leaves. The grasshoppers +still hissed; at moments the crickets within and without the cabin creaked +plaintively. + +“I just come,” Hughey said, “to see if you thought she wouldn't go to the +Temple with me, to-night. The Flock lets us have our turn reg'lar now, and +we're goin' to have Thursday evenin' meetin' like we used to.” In a +discouraging silence from Nancy, he went on, “I'm just on my way home, +now, and I'll git my shoes there; and I don't expect to wear this hickory +shirt, and no coat--” + +“Yes, I know, Hughey, but I don't believe it'll be any use. You can try; +but I don't believe it will. I reckon you'd find out that she's goin' with +Jim Redfield, if anybody. She's been off with him 'most the whole +afternoon, gatherin' pawpaws--he knows the best places; I should think +they could have got all the pawpaws in Leatherwood by this time. You know +I've always liked you, Hughey, and so has her father, and you've played +together ever since you was babies, and you've always been her beau from +childern up. There ain't a person in Leatherwood that don't respect you +and feel to think that any girl might be glad to get you; but I'm afraid +it's just your cleverness, and bein' so gentle like--” + +“Do you 'spose, Nancy,” the young man faltered disconsolately, “it's had +anything to do with my not gettin' her that hair? I could 'a' done it as +easy as Jim Redfield; but to tear it right out of his head, that way, I +couldn't; it went ag'in my stommick.” + +“I don't believe it's that, Hughey. If you must know, I believe it's just +Jim Redfield himself. He's bewitched her and she's got to be bewitched by +somebody; if it ain't one it's another; it was _him_ then, and it's +Jim, now.” + +“I see,” the young man assented sadly. + +“She ain't good enough for you, that's the truth, Hughey, though I say +it, her own kith and kin. I can't make you understand, I know; but she's +got to have somebody that she can feel the power of.” + +“I'd do anything for her, Nancy.” + +“That's just it! She don't want that kind of lovin', as you may call it. +I don't believe my brother's a very easy man to turn, but Jane has always +done as she pleased with him; he's been like clay in the hands of the +potter with her. Many another girl would have been broken into bits before +now; but she's just as tough as so much hickory. I don't say but what +she's a good girl; there ain't a better in Leatherwood, or anywheres. +She's as true as a die, and tender as anything in sickness, and'd lay down +and die where she saw her duty, and'd work till she dropped if need be; +but, no, she ain't one that wants softness in her friends. Well, she won't +git any too much of it in Jim Redfield. They're of a piece, and she +_may_ find out that she's made a mistake, after all.” + +“Has she--she hain't promised to marry him yit?” + +“No, I don't say that. But ever since that night at the Temple he's been +round after her. He's been here, and he's been at her father's, and she +can't go down to the Corners for anything but what he comes home helpin' +her to bring it. You seen yourself, how he always gets her to come home +from meetin'.” + +“Yes,” Hughey assented forlornly. “I'm always too late at the door; he's +with her before a body can git the words out.” + +“Well, that's it. I don't say she ain't a good girl, one of the very +best, but she's hard, hard, hard; and I don't see what's ever to break +her.” + +The girl's voice came from round the cabin, calling, “Honey, honey, +honey!” and the little one started from her play at her mother's feet, and +ran toward the voice, which Jane now brought with her at the corner, and +chuckling, and jug-jugging, birdlike, for joy, threw herself at Jane's +knees. + +“See what I brought you, honey. It's good and ripe, but it ain't half as +good as my honey, honey, honey!” She put the pawpaw into the child's hands +and mumbled her, with kisses of her eyes, cheeks, hair, and neck. “Oh, I +could eat you, _eat_ you!” + +She must have seen the young fellow waiting for her notice, but Nancy had +to say, “Here's Hughey, Jane,” before she spoke to him. + +“Oh! Hughey,” she said, not unkindly, but as if he did not matter. + +He stood awkward and Nancy judged it best for all the reasons to add, +“Hughey wants you to go to the Temple with him to-night,” and the young +fellow smiled gratefully if not hopefully at her. + +The girl stiffened herself to her full height from the child she was +stooping over. She haughtily mounted the steps beside Nancy, and without +other recognition of Hughey in the matter she said, “I've _got_ +company,” and disappeared into the cabin. + +“Well, Hughey?” Nancy pityingly questioned. + +“No, no, Nancy,” he replied with a manful struggle for manfulness, +“I--I--It's meant, I reckon,” and slunk away from the girl's brutality as if it +were his own shame. + +Nancy picked up her little one, and followed indoors. + +“Don't you talk to me, Aunt Nancy!” the girl cried at her. “What does he +keep askin' me for?” + +“He won't ask you any more, Jane,” the woman quietly returned. + +They joined in putting the little one to bed. Then, without more words, +Jane kissed the child, and came back to kiss her again when she had got to +the door. “Aunt Nancy, I hate you,” she said as she went out and left the +woman alone. + +Ever since Joey went away with the believers to see the New Jerusalem +come down in Philadelphia, Jane had been sleeping at her father's cabin in +resentful duty to his years and solitude. She got him his breakfast and +left it for him before she went to take her own with Nancy, and she had +his dinner and supper ready for his return from the field, but she did not +eat with him, and he was abed before she came home at night. + +Joey had been gone nearly a month, and no word had come back from any of +the Little Flock who went with Dylks. It was not the day of letters by +mail; if some of the pilgrims had sent messages by the wagoners returning +from their trips Over the Mountains, they had not reached the families +left behind, and no angel-borne tidings came to testify of the wonder at +Philadelphia. Those left behind waited in patience rather than anxiety; +where life was often hard, people did not borrow trouble and add that +needless debt to their load of daily cares. Nancy said to others that she +did not know what to think, and others said the same to her, and they got +what comfort they could out of that. + +Now she did not light the little rag-lamp which she and Jane sometimes +sat by with their belated sewing or darning if they had not kept the +hearth-fire burning. She went to bed in the dark, and slept with the +work-weariness which keeps the heart-heavy from waking. + +She had work in her tobacco patch to do, as well as in the house, where +Jane helped her; she would not let the girl help her get the logs and +brush together on the clearing which Laban had begun burning to enrich the +soil for the planting of the next year's crop with the ashes. + +She must have slept long hours when she heard the sound of a cry from the +dark without. + +“Mother! Mother! _Oh_, mother!” it came nearer and nearer, till it +beat with the sound of a fist on the cabin door. In the piecing out of the +instant dream which she started from, she thought as that night when Dylks +called her, that it must be Laban; he sometimes called her mother after +the baby came, and now she called back, “Laban! Laban!” but the voice came +again, “It ain't father; it's me, mother; it's Joey!” + +“Oh, dear heart!” she joyfully lamented, and flung herself from her bed, +and reeled still drunk with slumber, and pulled up the latch, and flung +open the door, and caught her boy to her breast. + +“Oh, mother!” he said, laughing and crying. “I'm so hungry!” + +“To be sure you're hungry, child; and I'll have you your supper in half a +minute, as soon as I can rake the fire open. Lay down on mother's bed +there, and rest while I'm gettin' ready for you. The baby won't wake, and +I don't care if she does.” + +“I s'pose she's grown a good deal. But I _am_ tired,” the boy said, +stretching himself out. “Me 'n' Benny run all the way as soon as we come +in sight of the crick, and him 'n' Mis' Hingston wanted me to stay all +night, but I wouldn't. I wanted to see you so much, mother.” + +“Did Mr. Hingston come back with you? Or, don't tell me anything; don't +speak, till you've had something to eat.” + +“I woon't, mother,” the boy promised, and then he said, “But you ought to +see Philadelphy, mother. It's twenty times as big as Wheeling, Benny says, +and all red brick houses and white marble steps.” He was sitting up, and +talking now; his mother flew about in the lank linsey-woolsey dress she +had thrown over her nightgown in some unrealized interval of her labors +and had got the skillet of bacon hissing over the coals. + +“And to think,” she bleated in self-reproach, “that I'll have to give you +_rye_ coffee! You know, Joey dear, there hain't very much cash about +this house, and the store won't take truck for coffee. But with good cream +in it, the rye tastes 'most as good. Set up to the table, now,” she bade +him, when she had put the rye coffee with the bacon and some warmed-up +pone on the leaf lifted from the wall. + +She let the boy silently glut himself till he glanced round between +mouthfuls and said, “It all looks so funny and little, in here, after +Philadelphy.” + +Then she said, “But you don't say anything about the New Jerusalem. +Didn't it come down, after all?” She smiled, but sadly rather than gladly +in her skepticism. + +“No, mother,” the boy answered solemnly. Then after a moment he said, “I +got something to tell you, mother. But I don't know whether I hadn't +better wait till morning.” + +“It's most morning, now, Joey, I reckon, if it ain't already. That's the +twilight comin' in at the door. If you wouldn't rather get your sleep +first--” + +“No, I can't sleep till I tell you, now. It's about the Good Old Man.” + +“Did he--did he go up?” she asked fearfully. + +“No, mother, he didn't. Some of them say he was took up, but, mother, +_I_ believe he was drownded!” + + + + +XXII + + +“Drownded?” the boy's mother echoed. “What do you mean, Joey? What makes +you believe he was drownded?” + +“I seen him.” + +“Seen him?” + +“In the water. We was all walkin' along the river bank, and some o' the +Flock got to complainin' because he hadn't fetched the New Jerusalem down +yit, and wantin' to know when he was goin' to do it, and sayin' this was +Philadelphy, and why didn't he; and Mr. Hingston he was tryin' to pacify +'em, and Mr. Enraghty he scolded 'em, and told 'em to hesh up, or they'd +be in danger of hell-fire; but they didn't, and the Good Old Man he begun +to cry. It was awful, mother.” + +“Go on, Joey. Don't stop.” + +“Well, he'd been prayin' a good deal, off and on, and actin' like he +wasn't in his right senses, sometimes, talkin' to hisself, and singin' his +hymn--that one, you know--” + +“Never mind, Joey dear,” his mother said, “keep on.” + +“And all at once, he up and says, 'If I want to, I can turn this river +into a river of gold,' and one o' the Flock, about the worst one, he +hollers back, 'Well, why don't you do it, then?' and Mr. Enraghty--well, +they call him Saint Paul, you know--he told him to shut his mouth; and +they got to jawin', and I heard a rattlin' of gravel, like it was slippin' +down the bank, and then there was the Good Old Man in the water, hollerin' +for help, and his hat off, floatin' down stream, and his hair all over his +shoulders. And before I knowed what to think, he sunk, and when he come +up, I was there in the water puttin' out for him.” + +“Yes, Joey--” + +“I can't remember how I got there; must 'a' jumped in without thinkin'; +he'd been so good to me, all along, and used to come to me in the +nighttime when he 'sposed I was asleep, and kiss me; and cry--But I'd 'a' +done it for anybody, anyway, mother.” + +“Yes. Go--” + +“Some of 'em was takin' their shoes and coats off to jump in, and some +jest standin' still, and hollerin' to me not to let him ketch holt o' me, +or he'd pull me under. But I knowed he couldn't do that, becuz I could +ketch him by one arm, and hold him off--me 'n' Benny's practised it in the +crick--and I swum up to him; and he went down ag'in, and when he come up +ag'in, his face was all soakin' wet like he'd been cryin' under the water, +and he says, kind o' bubblin'--like this,” the boy made the sound. “He +says, 'Oh, my son, God help--bub-ub--bless you!' and then he went down, +and I swum round and round, expectin' he'd come up somewheres; but he +didn't come up no more. It was awful, mother, becuz that didn't seem to be +the end of it; and it was. Just didn't come up no more. They jawed some, +before they _got_ over the mountains,” the boy said reminiscently. +“They hadn't brung much money; even Mr. Hingston hadn't, becuz they +expected the Good Old Man to work miracles, and make silver and gold money +out of red cents, like he said he would. All the nights we slep' out o' +doors, and sometimes we had to ast for victuals; but the Good Old Man he +always found places to sleep, nice caves in the banks and holler trees, +and wherever he ast for victuals they give plenty. And Mr. Enraghty he +said it was a miracle if he always knowed the best places to sleep, and +the kindest women to ast for victuals. Do you believe it was, mother?” + +Nancy said, after an effort for her voice, “He might have been there +before.” + +“Well, that's so; but none of 'em thunk o' that. And what Mr. Enraghty +said stopped the jawin' at the time. It all begun ag'in, worse than ever +when we got almost to Philadelphy; and he said some of 'em must take the +south fork of the road with Saint Paul and keep on till they saw a big +light over Philadelphy, where the New Jerusalem was swellin' up, and the +rest would meet 'em there with him and Saint Peter. They said, 'Why +couldn't we all go together?' And it was pretty soon after that that he +slipped into the river. Stumbled on a round stone, I reckon.” + +[Illustration: “And he went down ag'in, and when he come up ag'in, his +face was all soakin' wet, like he'd been crying under the water”] + +The woman sat slowly smoothing the handle of the coffee-pot up and down, +and staring at the boy; but she did not speak. + +“Benny jumped in by that time, but it wasn't any use. Oh! I seen the +ocean, mother! Mr. Hingston took me 'n' Benny down on a boat; and I seen a +stuffed elephant in a show, or a museum, they called it. Benny said it was +just like the real one in the circus at Wheeling. Mother, do you believe +he throwed hisself in?” + +“Who, Joey?” she faintly asked. + +“Why, the Good Old Man. That's what some of 'em said, them that was +disappointed about the New Jerusalem. But some said he did fetch it down; +and they seen it, with the black horses and silver gates and velvet +streets, and everything just the way he promised. And the others said he'd +fooled 'em, or else they was just lyin'. And they said he'd got to the end +of his string; and that was why he throwed himself in, and when he got in, +he was scared of drowndin' and that was why he hollered for help. But I +believe he just slipped in. Don't you, mother?” + +“Yes, Joey.” + +“Mother, I don't believe the Good Old Man had a grea' deal of courage. +All the way Over the Mountains, he'd seem to scare at any little noise, +even in broad daylight. Oncet, when we was goin' along through the woods, +a pig jumped out of some hazel-nut bushes, and scared him so that he +yelled and fell down in a fit, and they was a good while fetchin' him to. +Do you think he was God, mother?” + +“No, Joey.” + +“Well, that's what I think, too. If he was God, he wouldn't been afeared, +would he? And in the night sometimes he'd come and git me to come and lay +by him where he could put his arm round my neck, and feel me, like as if +he wanted comp'ny. Well, now, that wasn't much like God, was it? And when +he thought I was asleep, I could hear him prayin', 'O merciful Savior!' +and things like that; and if he was God, who could he pray _to_? It +wasn't sense, was it? Well, I just believe he fell in, and he was afeared +he was drowndin' and that's why he hollered out. Don't you, mother?” + +“Yes, I do, Joey.” + +“And you think I done right, don't you, to try to help him, even if it +_was_ some resk?” + +“Oh, yes.” + +“I knowed it was _some_ resk, but I didn't believe it was much, and +I kind of thought you'd want me to.” + +“Oh, yes, yes,” his mother said. “You did right, Joey. And you're a good +boy, and--Joey dear,”--and she rose from the bench where she was sitting +with him--“I believe I'll go and lay down on the bed a minute. Bein' up, +so--” + +“Why, yes, mother! You lay down and I'll clear up the breakfast, or +supper if it's it. It'll be like old times,” he said in the pride of his +long absence from home. His mother lay down on the bed with her face to +the wall, and he went very quietly about his work, so as not to wake the +baby. But after a moment he went to his mother, and whispered hoarsely, +“You don't suppose I could go and see Benny, a minute, after I've got +done? It's 'most broad day, and I know he'll be up, too.” + +“Yes, go,” she said, without turning her face to him. + +He kept tiptoeing about, and when he had finished, he stood waiting to be +sure whether she was sleeping before he opened the door. Now she turned +her face, and spoke: “Joey?” + +“Yes, mother?” he whispered back, and ran to her softly, in his bare feet. + +“Did you get to like him any better?” + +He seemed not to take her question as anything strange, or to be in doubt +of whom she meant. + +“Why, there in the water, at the very last, when he kep' goin' down, I +liked him. Yes, I must have. But all along, I felt more like sorry for +him. He seemed so miser'ble, all the time, and so--well--scared.” + +“Yes.” She had got the boy's hand, and without turning her body with her +face she held his hand in hers closely under her arm. “Joey, I told you he +was a wicked man. I can't tell you any different now. But I'm glad you was +sorry for him. I am sorry too. Joey--he was your father.” She pressed his +hand harder. + +“Goodness!” he said, but he did not suffer himself to say more. + +“He went away and left me when you was a little baby, and he never come +back till he come back here. I never had any word from him. For all I +could tell he was dead. I never wanted him to be dead,” she defended +herself to herself in something above the intelligence of the boy. “I +married Laban, who's been more of a father to you than what _he_ was.” + +“Oh, _yes_, mother!” + +“When your _real_ father come here, I made your _true_ father +go away.” Now she turned and faced her son, keeping his hand tighter in +hers. “Joey, I want to have you go and tell him to come back.” + +“Right away, Mother?” + +“Why, yes?” she said with question in her answer. + +“I thought maybe you'd let me see Benny, first,” he suggested a little +wistfully. + +She almost laughed. “You dear boy! Go and see Benny on your way. Take him +with you, if his father will let him go. You're both such great travelers. +Your father's at the Wilkinses' yit, I reckon; they hain't finished with +their cider, I don't believe. Go, now!” + +The boy had been poising as if on winged feet, and now he flew. He came +back to say at the door, “I don't believe I'll want any breakfast, mother; +we had such a late supper.” + +It was a thoughtful suggestion, and she said “No,” but before her answer +came he had flown again. + +The baby woke, and she cooed to it, and she went about the one room of +the little cabin trying to put it more in order than before. Some pieces +of the moss in the chinking of the round logs near the chimney seemed +loose, and she packed them tighter. As she worked she sang. She sang a +hymn, but it was a hymn of thanksgiving. + +The doorway darkened, and she turned to see the figure of her brother +black in the light. + +“I see, you've heard the news,” he said grimly. “I was afraid I might +find you making a show of mourning. _I_ don't pretend to any. I +haven't had such a load off me since that rascal first come back.” + +She answered resentfully, “What makes _you_ so glad, David? He +didn't come back to make _you_ drive _your_ husband away!” + +“I was always afraid he might make me kill him. He tried hard enough, and +sometimes I thought he might. But blessed be the Lord, he's dead. They're +holding a funeral for him in the Temple. The news is all through the +Creek. I suppose you know how Jane has fixed it up with James Redfield. I +feel to be sorry for Hughey Blake; but he never could have mastered her. +She's got an awful will, Jane has. But James has got an awful will too, as +strong as Jane--” + +Nancy cut him short: “David, I don't care anything about Jane--now.” + +“No,” he assented. “Where's Joey?” he asked, leaning inward with his +hands resting on either jamb of the door. + +“Gone for Laban.” + +“Well,” David said, with something like grudge. “You hain't lost much +time. But I don't know as I blame you,” he relented. + +“I wouldn't care if you did, David,” she answered. + + + + +XXIII + + +Late in the long twilight of the early spring day a stranger who was +traveling in the old fashion on horseback, with his legs swathed in green +baize against the mud of the streaming roads, and with his spattered +saddle-bags hung over the pommel before him, was riding into Leatherwood. +He paused in a puddle of the lane that left the turnpike not far off, and +curved between the new-plowed fields in front of a double log cabin, which +had the air of being one of the best habitations of its time though its +time was long past; the logs it was built of were squared; the chimneys at +either end were of stone masonry instead of notched sticks laid in clay. +Against the wall of the porch between the two rooms of the cabin an old +man sat tilted back in his chair, smoking a pipe which he took from his +mouth at sight of the stranger's arrest. + +“Can you tell me, please, which is my way to the tavern, or some place +where I can find a night's lodging?” + +The old man dropped his chair forward, and got somewhat painfully out of +it to toddle to the edge of his porch. “Why, there isn't a tavern, rightly +speaking, in Leatherwood, now, though for the backwoods we had a very +passable one, once. I wish,” he said after a moment, “that we could offer +you a lodging here; but if you'll light and throw your horse's rein over +the peg in this post, I would be pleased to have you stay to supper with +us. My wife is just getting it.” + +“Why, thank you, thank you,” the stranger said. “I mustn't think of +troubling you. I dare say I can get something to eat at your tavern. I've +often been over night in worse places, no doubt. I've been traveling +through your State, and I've turned a little out of my way to stop at +Leatherwood, because I've been interested in a peculiar incident of your +local history.” + +The two men perceived from something in each other's parlance, though one +spoke with the neat accent of the countries beyond the Alleghanies, and +the other with the soft slurring Ohio River utterance, that they were in +the presence of men different by thinking if not by learning from most men +in the belated region of a new country. + +“Oh, yes,” the old man said with instant intelligence, “the Leatherwood +God.” + +“Yes,” the other eagerly assented. “I was told, at your county seat, that +I could learn all about it if I asked for Squire Braile, here.” + +“I am Matthew Braile,” the old man said with dignity, and the stranger +returned with a certain apology in his laugh: + +“I must confess that I suspected as much, and I'm ashamed not to have +frankly asked at once.” + +“Better 'light,”--the Squire condoned whatever offense there might have +been in the uncandor. “I don't often get the chance to talk of our famous +imposture, and I can't let one slip through my fingers. You must come in +to supper, and if you smoke I can give you a pipe of our yellow tobacco, +afterwards, and we can talk--” + +“But I should tire you with my questions. In the morning--” + +“We old men sometimes have a trick of not living till morning. You'd +better take me while you can get me.” + +“Well, if you put it in that way,” the stranger said, and he slipped down +from his saddle. + +The old man called out, “Here, Abel!” and the figure of what seemed an +elderly boy came lurching and paddling round the corner of the cabin, and +ducked his gray head hospitably toward the stranger. “Give this horse a +feed while we're taking ours.” + +“All right, Squire. Jest helpin' Sally put the turkey-chicks to bed out +o' the cold, or I'd 'a' been round at the first splashin' in the road.” + +“And now come in,” the Squire said, reaching a hand of welcome from the +edge of the porch to the stranger as he mounted the steps. “Old neighbors +of ours,” he explained Abel and the unseen Sally. “We've known them, boy +and girl, from the beginning, and when their old cabin fell down in the +tail-end of a tornado a few years back, we got them here in a new one +behind ours, to take care of them, and let them take care of us. They +don't eat with us,” he added, setting open the kitchen door, and ushering +the stranger into the warm glow and smell of the interior. “Mis' Braile,” + he said for introduction to his wife, and explained to her, “A friend that +I caught on the wing. I don't know that I _did_ get your name?” + +“Mandeville--T. J. Mandeville; I'm from Cambridge.” + +“Thomas Jefferson, I suppose. Cambridge, Ohio--back here?” + +“Massachusetts.” + +“Well, you didn't sound like Ohio. I always like to make sure. Well, you +must pull up. Mother, have you got anything fit to eat, this evening?” + +“You might try and see,” Mrs. Braile responded in what seemed their +habitual banter. + +“Well, don't brag,” the Squire returned, and between them they welcomed +the stranger to a meal that he said he had not tasted the like of in all +his Western travel. + +It seemed that their guest did not smoke, and the Squire alone lighted +his pipe. Then he joked his wife. “Mother, will you let us stay by the +fire here--it's a little chilly outdoors, and those young frogs do take +the heart of you with their peeping--if we don't mind your bothering +round? Mr. Mandeville wants to hear all about our Leatherwood God.” + +“He'll hear more about him than he wants to if he listens to all you +tell, Matthew,” Mrs. Braile retorted. + +“Oh, no; oh, no,” the stranger protested, and the Squire laughed. + +“You wanted to know,” he said, well after the beginning of their talk, +“whether there were many of the Little Flock left. Well, some; and to +answer your other question, they're as strong in the faith as ever. The +dead died in the faith; the living that were young in it in the late +eighteen-twenties are old in it now in the first of the fifties. It's +rather curious,” the Squire said, with a long sigh of satisfaction in the +anomaly, “but after the arrest of Dylks, and his trial and acquittal +before this court,” the Squire smiled, “when he came out of the tall +timber, and had his scalp mended, and got into a whole suit of Saint +Peter's clothes, he didn't find the Little Flock fallen off a great deal. +They were a good deal scared, and so was he. That was the worst of the +lookout for Dylks; his habit of being afraid; it was about the best thing, +too; kept him from playing the _very_ devil. There's no telling how +far he might have gone if he hadn't been afraid: I mean, gone in personal +mischief.” + +“Yes,” the stranger assented. “And his failure in all his miracles had no +effect on his followers?” + +The Squire laughed, with a rattling of loose teeth on his pipe-stem. +“Why, he didn't fail according to the Little Flock; it was only the +unbelievers that disbelieved in the miracles. Even those that went with +him Over-the-Mountains to see the New Jerusalem come down got to having +seen it as time went on, though some had their doubts when they first came +back. Before they died, they'd all seen him go up in a chariot of fire +with two black horses and no driver. Nobody but those two purblind +ignorant boys that tried to keep him from drowning, when he fell into the +river, could be got to say that the heavenly city didn't come down and +suck him up. Why, seven or eight years after he left there was a preacher +who was one of his followers came back here, and preached in the Dylks +Temple--the old Temple burned down, long ago and was never rebuilt--preached +the divinity of Dylks, and said there was no true religion that +didn't recognize him as God. As for Christianity, he said it was just a +hotch-potch of Judaism and heathenism. _He_ saw the Good Old Man go +right up into heaven, and said he was going to come back to earth before +long and set up his kingdom here. He's never done it, and that slick +preacher never came back, either, after the first. He was very well +dressed and looked as if he had been living on the fat of the land, +somewhere, among the faithful Over-the-Mountains, I reckon. Knew where the +fried chickens roosted. Excuse me, mother. She's heard that joke before,” + he explained to their guest. + +“I've heard it too often to mind it,” Mrs. Braile mocked back. + +“Well, it seems to be new to our friend here.” + +Mr. Mandeville was laughing, but he controlled himself to ask, “And had +the fellow no progressive doctrine, no steps of belief, no logical +formulation of his claims? He couldn't have been merely a dunder-headed, +impudent charlatan, who expected to convince by the miracles he didn't do?” + +“Oh, no; oh, no. I didn't mean to imply that,” the Squire explained. “He +was a cunning rascal in his way, and he had the sort of brain that has +served the purpose of the imposter in all ages. He had a plan of belief, +as you may call it, which he must have thought out before he came here, if +he hadn't begged, borrowed, or stolen it from somebody else. At first he +called himself a humble teacher of Christianity, but it wasn't a great +while before he pretended to be Jesus Christ who died on Calvary. That +didn't satisfy him long, though. When he had convinced some that he was +Christ, he began to teach that the Christ who was crucified, though he was +a _real_ Messiah, was not a _perfect_ Messiah, because he had +died and been buried, and death had had power over him just as it has over +any mortal. But the real Messiah would never taste death, and he was that +Messiah. Dylks would never taste death, and as the real Messiah, he would +be one with God, and in fact he was the one and only God. These were the +steps, and the way to belief in the godhead was clear to the meanest +understanding. The meaner the understanding, the clearer,” the Squire +summed up, with another tattoo on his pipe-stem. “You see,” he resumed +after a moment, “life is hard in a new country, and anybody that promises +salvation on easy terms has got a strong hold at the very start. People +will accept anything from him. Somewhere, tucked away in us, is the +longing to know whether we'll live again, and the hope that we'll live +happy. I've got fun out of that fact in a community where I've had the +reputation of an infidel for fifty years; but all along I've felt it in +myself. We want to be good, and we want to be safe, even if we are not +good; and the first fellow that comes along and tells us to have faith in +him, and he'll make it all right, why we have faith in him, that's all.” + +“Well, then,” the stranger said, holding him to the logic of the facts, +as he leaned toward him from his side of the fireplace, and fixed him with +an eager eye, “I can't see why he didn't establish his superstition in +universal acceptance, as, say, Mahomet did.” + +“I'm glad you came to that,” the Squire blandly submitted. “For one +thing, and the main thing, because he was a coward. He had plently of +audacity but mighty little courage, and his courage gave out just when he +needed it the most. And perhaps he hadn't perfect faith in himself; he was +a fool, but he wasn't a crazy fool. Then again, my idea is that the scale +was too small, or the scene, or the field, or whatever you call it. The +backwoods, as Leatherwood was then, was not the right starting point for a +world-wide imposture. Then again, as I said, Dylks was timid. He was not +ready to shed blood for his lie, neither other people's nor his own; and +when it came to fighting for his doctrine, he was afraid; he wanted to +run. And, in fact, he did run, first and last. No liar ever had such a +hold on them that believed his lie; they'd have followed him any lengths; +but he hadn't the heart to lead them. When Redfield and I got hold of him, +after he had tasted the _fear_ of death, there that week in the tall +timber, he was willing to promise anything we said. And he kept his +promise; he wouldn't if he could have helped it, but he knew Jim Redfield +would hold him to it, if he squeezed his life out doing it.” + +The stranger was silent, but not apparently convinced, and meanwhile he +took up another point of interest in the story which he heard from the +Squire. “And whatever became of his wife, and her 'true' husband?” + +“Oh, they lived on together. Not very long, though. They died within a +week of each other, about. Didn't they, mother?” + +“Just a week,” Mrs. Braile said, animated by the human touch in the +discussion. “They lived mighty happy together, and it was as good a death +as a body could want to die. It was that summer when the fever mowed the +people down so. They took their little girl with them,” she sighed from a +source of hidden sorrow. “They all went together.” + +Braile took his pipe out and gulped before he could answer the stranger's +next question. “And the boy? Dylks's son, is he living?” + +“Oh, yes.” At the pleasant thought of the boy, the Squire began to smile. +“He and Hingston's son took over the mill from Hingston, after he got too +old for it, and carried it on together. Hingston wasn't one that hung on +to the faith in Dylks, but he never made any fuss about giving it up. Just +staid away from the Temple that the Little Flock built for themselves.” + +“And is young Dylks still carrying on the milling business?” + +“Who? Joey? Oh, yes. He married Benny Hingston's sister. Benny's wife +died, and he lives with them.” + +“And there ain't a better man in the whole of Leatherwood than Joey +Billin's, as we always call him,” Mrs. Braile put in. “He was the best boy +anywhere, and he's the best man.” + +“Well, it's likely to come out that way, sometimes,” the Squire said with +tender irony. + +“And you can't say,” Mrs. Braile continued with a certain note of +indignation as for unjust neglect of the pair, “but what James Redfield +and Jane has got along very well together.” + +“Oh, yes, they've got along,” the Squire assented. “He's got along with +her, and she's got along with the children--plenty of them. I reckon she's +what _he_ wanted, and they're what _she_ did.” + +The stranger looked a little puzzled. + +“That instinct of maternity,” the Squire explained. “You may have noticed +it in women--some of them.” + +“Oh! Oh, yes,” Mr. Mandeville assented. He did not seem greatly +interested. + +“She's always been just crazy about 'em,” Mrs. Braile explained. +“Beginnin' with Nancy Billin's's little girl. Well!” + +“Yes,” the Squire amplified. “It was the best thing, or at least the +strongest thing in Jane. I don't say anything against it, mother,” he said +tenderly to his wife. “Jane was a good girl, especially after she got over +her faith in Dylks, and she's a good woman. At least, Jim thinks so.” + +Mrs. Braile contented herself as she could with his ironical concession. + +The stranger looked at his watch; he jumped to his feet. “Nine o'clock! +Mrs. Braile, I'm ashamed. But you must blame your husband, partly. Good +night, ma'am; good--Why, look here, Squire Braile!” he arrested himself in +offering his hand. “How about the obscurity of the scene where Joe Smith +founded his superstition, which bids fair to live right along with the +other false religions? Was Leatherwood, Ohio, a narrower stage than +Manchester, New York? And in point of time the two cults were only four +years apart.” + +“Well, that's a thing that's occurred to me since we've been talking. +Suppose we look into it to-morrow? Come round to breakfast--about six +o'clock. One point, though: Joe Smith only claimed to be a prophet, and +Dylks claimed to be a god. That made it harder, maybe for his +superstition.” + + +THE END + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Leatherwood God, by William Dean Howells + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEATHERWOOD GOD *** + +***** This file should be named 7311-0.txt or 7311-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/3/1/7311/ + +Produced by Nathan Harris, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks, +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Leatherwood God + +Author: William Dean Howells + + +Release Date: January, 2005 [EBook #7311] +This file was first posted on April 11, 2003 +Last Updated: February 25, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEATHERWOOD GOD *** + + + + +Produced by Nathan Harris, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks, David Widger +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE LEATHERWOOD GOD + </h1> + <h3> + <b> By William Dean Howells </b> + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> + <img src="images/frontis.jpg" alt="frontis " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <h5> + <a href="images/frontis.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> + </h5> + +<div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> + <img src="images/title.jpg" alt="title " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <h5> + <a href="images/title.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> + </h5> + + + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> PUBLISHER'S NOTE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_LIST"> LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>THE LEATHERWOOD GOD</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> XXIII </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <h3> + List of Illustrations + </h3> + + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0002"> Nancy Stood Staring at Her, With Words Beyond + Saying In Her Heart—words That Rose in Her Throat and Choked Her + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0003"> “You Believe, Maybe, That You Would Be Struck + Dead if You Said the Things That I Do; But Why Ain't I Struck Dead?” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0004"> “It's <i>my</i> Cloth! I Spun It, I Wove It, + Every Thread! It's All We've Got for Our Clothes This Winter!” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0005"> “<i>Now</i> You Can See How It Feels to Have + Your Own Husband Slap You.” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0006"> She Had Begun to Wash his Wound, Very Gently, + Though She Spoke So Roughly, While he Murmured With the Pain and With The + Comfort Of The Pain </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0007"> They Swarmed Forward to the Altar-place and + Flung Themselves on the Ground, and Heaped The Pulpit-steps With Their + Bodies </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkimage-0008"> “And he Went Down Ag'in, and when He Come up + Ag'in, His Face Was All Soakin' Wet, Like He'd Been Crying Under the + Water” </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PUBLISHER'S NOTE + </h2> + <p> + The author thinks it well to apprise the reader that the historical + outline of this story is largely taken from the admirable narrative of + Judge Taneyhill in the <i>Ohio Valley Series</i>, Robert Clarke Co., + Cincinnati. The details are often invented, and the characters are all + invented as to their psychological evolution, though some are based upon + those of real persons easily identifiable in that narrative. The drama is + that of the actual events in its main development; but the vital + incidents, or the vital uses of them, are the author's. At times he has + enlarged them; at times he has paraphrased the accounts of the witnesses; + in one instance he has frankly reproduced the words of the imposter as + reported by one who heard Dylks's last address in the Temple at + Leatherwood and as given in the Taneyhill narrative. Otherwise the story + is effectively fiction. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_LIST" id="link2H_LIST"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LEATHERWOOD GOD + </h2> + <p> + Already, in the third decade of the nineteenth century, the settlers in + the valley of Leatherwood Creek had opened the primeval forest to their + fields of corn and tobacco on the fertile slopes and rich bottom-lands. + The stream had its name from the bush growing on its banks, which with its + tough and pliable bark served many uses of leather among the pioneers; + they made parts of their harness with it, and the thongs which lifted + their door-latches, or tied their shoes, or held their working clothes + together. The name passed to the settlement, and then it passed to the + man, who came and went there in mystery and obloquy, and remained + lastingly famed in the annals of the region as the Leatherwood God. + </p> + <p> + At the time he appeared the community had become a center of influence, + spiritual as well as material, after a manner unknown to later conditions. + It was still housed, for the most part, in the log cabins which the + farmers built when they ceased to be pioneers, but in the older clearings, + and along the creek a good many frame dwellings stood, and even some of + brick. The population, woven of the varied strains from the North, East + and South which have mixed to form the Mid-Western people, enjoyed an ease + of circumstance not so great as to tempt their thoughts from the other + world and fix them on this. In their remoteness from the political centers + of the young republic, they seldom spoke of the civic questions stirring + the towns of the East; the commercial and industrial problems which vex + modern society were unknown to them. Religion was their chief interest and + the seriousness which they had inherited from their Presbyterian, + Methodist, Lutheran, and Moravian ancestry was expressed in their orderly + and diligent lives; but the general prosperity had so far relaxed the + stringency of their several creeds that their distinctive public rite had + come to express a mutual toleration. The different sects had their + different services; their ceremonies of public baptism, their revivals, + their camp-meetings; but they gathered as one Christian people under the + roof of the log-built edifice, thrice the size of their largest dwelling, + which they called the Temple. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + A storm of the afternoon before had cleared the mid-August air. The early + sun was hot, but the wind had carried away the sultry mists, and infused + fresh life into the day. Where Matthew Braile sat smoking his corncob pipe + in the covered porchway between the rooms of his double-log cabin he + insensibly shared the common exhilaration, and waited comfortably for the + breakfast of bacon and coffee which his wife was getting within. As he + smoked on he inhaled with the odors from her cooking the dense rich smell + of the ripening corn that stirred in the morning breeze on three sides of + the cabin, and the fumes of the yellow tobacco which he had grown, and + cured, and was now burning. His serenity was a somewhat hawklike repose, + but the light that came into his narrowed eyes was of rather amused + liking, as a man on a claybank horse rode up before the cabin in the space + where alone it was not hidden by the ranks of the tall corn. The man sat + astride a sack with a grist of corn in one end balanced by a large stone + in the other, and he made as if he were going on to the mill without + stopping; but he yielded apparently to a temptation from within, since + none had come from without. “Whoa!” he shouted at the claybank, which the + slightest whisper would have stayed; and then he called to the old man on + the porch, “Fine mornun', Squire!” + </p> + <p> + Braile took out his pipe, and spat over the edge of the porch, before he + called back, “Won't you light and have some breakfast?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, no, thank you, Squire,” the man said, and at the same time he + roused the claybank from an instant repose, and pushed her to the cabin + steps. “I'm just on my way down to Brother Hingston's mill, and I reckon + Sally don't want me to have any breakfast till I bring back the meal for + her to git it with; anyway that's what she said when I left.” Braile + answered nothing, and the rider of the claybank added, with a certain + uneasiness as if for the effect of what he was going to say, “I was up + putty late last night, and I reckon I overslep',” he parleyed. Then, as + Braile remained silent, he went on briskly, “I was wonderin' if you hearn + about the curious doun's last night at the camp-meetun'.” + </p> + <p> + Braile, said, without ceasing to smoke, “You're the first one I've seen + this morning, except my wife. She wasn't at the camp-meeting.” His + aquiline profile, which met close at the lips from the loss of his teeth, + compressed itself further in leaving the whole burden of the affair to the + man on the claybank, and his narrowed eyes were a line of mocking under + the thick gray brows that stuck out like feathers above them. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, it was great doun's,” the other said, wincing a little under + the old man's indifference. Braile relented so far as to ask, “Who was at + the bellows?” + </p> + <p> + The other answered with a certain inward deprecation of the grin that + spread over his face, and the responsive levity of his phrase, “There was + a change of hands, but the one that kep' the fire goun' the hardes' and + the hottes' was Elder Grove.” + </p> + <p> + Braile made “Hoonck!” in the scornful guttural which no English spelling + can represent. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” the man on the claybank went on, carried forward by his own + interest, but helpless to deny himself the guilty pleasure of falling in + with Braile's humor, “he had 'em goun' lively, about midnight, now I tell + you: whoopun' and yellun', and rippun' and stavun', and fallun' down with + the jerks, and pullun' and haulun' at the sinners, to git 'em up to the + mourners' bench, and hurrahun' over 'em, as fast as they was knocked down + and drug out. I never seen the beat of it in all <i>my</i> born days.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't make out anything very strange, Abel Reverdy,” Braile said, + putting his pipe back into his mouth and beginning to smoke it again into + a lost activity. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I hain't come to it yit,” Reverdy apologized. “I reckon there never + was a bigger meetun' in Leatherwood Bottom, anywhere. Folks there from + twenty mile round, just slathers; I reckon there was a thousand if there + was one.” + </p> + <p> + “Hoonch!” Braile would not trouble to take out his pipe in making the + sound now; the smoke got into his lungs, and he coughed. + </p> + <p> + Reverdy gained courage to go on, but he went on in the same strain, + whether in spite of himself or not. “There was as many as four exhorters + keepun' her up at once to diff'rent tunes, and prayun' and singun' + everywhere, so you couldn't hear yourself think. Every exhorter had a + mourners' bench in front of him, and I counted as many as eighty mourners + on 'em at one time. The most of 'em was settun' under Elder Grove, and he + was poundun' the kingdom into 'em good and strong. When the Spirit took + him he roared so that he had the Hounds just flaxed out; you couldn't + ketch a yelp from 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “Many Hounds?” Braile asked, in a sort of cold sympathy with the riotous + outlaws known to the religious by that name. + </p> + <p> + “Mought been 'fore I got there. But by that time I reckon they was most of + 'em on the mourners' benches. They ought to tar and feather some of them + fellers, or ride 'em on a rail anyway, comun' round, and makun' trouble on + the edge of camp-meetun's. I didn't hear but one toot from their horns, + last night, and either because the elder had shamed 'em back into the + shadder of the woods, or brought 'em forwards into the light, there wasn't + a Hound, not to <i>call</i> a Hound, anywheres. I tell you it was a sight, + Squire; you ought to 'a' been there yourself.” Reverdy grinned at his + notion. “They had eight camp-fires goun' instead o' four, on top of the + highest stageun's yit, so the whole place was lit up as bright as day; and + when the elder stopped short and sudden, and the other exhorters held back + their tommyhawks, and all the saints and sinners left off their groanun' + and jerkun' to see what was comun', now it was a great sight, I tell you, + Squire. The elder he put up his hand and says he, 'Let us pray!' and the + blaze from all them stageun's seemed to turn itself right onto him, and + the smoke and the leaves hung like a big red cloud over him, and everybody + had their eyes fastened tight on his face, like they couldn't turn 'em + anywhere else if they tried. But he didn't begin prayun' straight off. He + seemed to stop, and then says he, 'What shall we pray for?' and just then + there came a kind of a snort, and a big voice shouted out, 'Salvation!' + and then there come another snort,—'<i>Hooff</i>!'—like there + was a scared horse got loose right in there among the people; and some of + 'em jumped up from their seats, and tumbled over the benches, and some of + 'em bounced off, and fell into fits, and the women screeched and fainted, + thick as flies. It give me about the worst feelun' I ever had in my life: + went through me like a ax, and others said the same; some of 'em said it + was like beun' scared in the dark, or more like when you think you're just + goun' to die.” + </p> + <p> + Abel Reverdy stopped for the effect on Braile, who had been smoking + tranquilly throughout, and who now asked quietly, “And what was it?” + </p> + <p> + “What was it? A man! A stranger that nobody seen before, and nobody + suspicioned was there till they hearn him give that kind of snort, and + they seen him standun' right in front of the mourners' bench under Elder + Grove's pulpit. He was in his bare head, and he had a suit of long, + glossy, jet-black hair hengun down back of his ears clean to his + shoulders. He was kind of pale like, and sad-lookun', and he had a Roman + nose some like yourn, and eyes like two coals, just black fire, kind of. + He was putty thickset, round the shoulders, but he slimmed down towards + his legs, and he stood about six feet high. But the thing of it,” Reverdy + urged, seeing that Braile remained outwardly unmoved, “was the way he was + dressed. I s'pose the rest beun' all in brown jeans, and linsey woolsey, + made us notice it more. He was dressed in the slickest kind of black + broadcloth, with a long frock-coat, and a white cravat. He had on a + ruffled shirt, and a tall beaver hat, the color of the fur, and a pair of + these here high boots, with his breeches strapped down under 'em.” + </p> + <p> + Braile limbered himself from his splint-bottom chair, and came forward to + the edge of the porch, as if to be sure of spitting quite under the + claybank's body. Not until he had folded himself down into his seat again + and tilted it back did he ask, “Goin' to order a suit?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well!” said Reverdy, with a mingling of disappointed hope, hurt + vanity, and involuntary pleasure. + </p> + <p> + If he had been deeply moved by the incident which he had tried to make + Braile see with his own sense of its impressiveness, it could not have + been wholly with the hope of impressing Braile that he had stopped to tell + it. His notion might have been that Braile would ridicule it, and so help + him throw off the lingering hold which it had upon him. His pain and his + pleasure both came from Braile's leaving the incident alone and turning + the ridicule upon him. That was cruel, and yet funny, Reverdy had inwardly + to own, as it touched the remoteness from a full suit of black broadcloth + represented by his hickory shirt and his butternut trousers held up by a + single suspender passing over his shoulder and fastened before and behind + with wooden pegs. His straw hat, which he had braided himself, and his + wife had sewed into shape the summer before, was ragged round the brim, + and a tuft of his yellow hair escaped through a break in the crown. It was + as far from a tall hat of fur-colored beaver as his bare feet were from a + pair of high boots such as the stranger at the camp-meeting had worn, + though his ankles were richly shaded in three colors from the road, the + field, and the barnyard. He liked the joke so well that the hurt of it + could hardly keep him from laughing as he thumped his mare's ribs with his + naked heels and bade her get up. + </p> + <p> + She fetched a deep sigh, but she did not move. + </p> + <p> + “Better light,” Braile said; “you wouldn't get that corn ground in time + for breakfast, now.” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon,” Reverdy said aloud, but to himself, rather than Braile, and + with his mind on his wife in the log cabin where he had left her in high + rebellion which she promised him nothing but a bag of cornmeal could + reduce, “she don't need to wait for me, exactly. She could grate herself + some o' the new corn, and she's got some bacon, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “Better light,” Braile said again. + </p> + <p> + The sound of frying which had risen above their voices within had ceased, + and after a few quick movements of feet over the puncheon floor, with some + clicking of knives and dishes, the feet came to the door opening on the + porch and a handsome elderly woman looked out. + </p> + <p> + She was neatly dressed in a home-woven linsey-woolsey gown, with a blue + check apron reaching to its hem in front, and a white cloth passed round + her neck and crossed over her breast; she had a cap on her iron gray hair. + </p> + <p> + Braile did not visibly note her presence in saying, “The woman will want + to hear about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Hear about what?” his wife asked, and then she said to Reverdy, “Good + morning, Abel. Won't you light and have breakfast with us? It's just + ready. I reckon Sally will excuse you.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she will if <i>you</i> say so, Mrs. Braile.” Reverdy made one + action of throwing his leg over the claybank's back to the ground, and + slipping the bridle over the smooth peg left from the limb of the young + tree-trunk which formed one of the posts of the porch. “My!” he said, as + he followed his hostess indoors, “you do have things nice. I never come + here without wantun' to have my old shanty whitewashed inside like yourn + is, and the logs plastered outside; the mud and moss of that chinkun' and + daubun' keeps fallun' out, and lettun' all the kinds of weather there is + in on us, and Sally she's at me about it, too; she's wuss'n I am, if + anything. I reckon if she had her say we'd have a two-room cabin, too, and + a loft over both parts, like you have, Mis' Braile, or a frame house, + even. But I don't believe anybody but you could keep this floor so clean. + Them knots in the puncheons just shine! And that chimbly-piece with that + plaster of Paris Samuel prayin' in it; well, if Sally's as't me for a + Samuel once I reckon she has a hundred times; and that clock! It's a + pictur'.” He looked about the interior as he took the seat offered him at + the table, and praised the details of the furnishing with a reference to + the effect of each at home. In this he satisfied that obscure fealty of + the husband who feels that such a connection of the absent wife with some + actual experience of his is equivalent to their joint presence. It was not + so much to praise Mrs. Braile's belongings to her as to propitiate the + idea of Mrs. Reverdy that he continued his flatteries. In the meantime + Braile, who came in behind him, stood easing himself from one foot to the + other, with an ironical eye slanted at Reverdy from under his shaggy + brows; he dropped his head now, and began walking up and down the room + while he listened in a sort of sarcastic patience. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't you goin' to have anything to eat, Mr. Braile?” his wife demanded, + with plaintive severity. + </p> + <p> + Braile pulled at his cob-pipe which muttered responsively, “Not so long as + I've got anything to smoke. Gets up,” he explained to Reverdy, “and jerks + it out of my mouth, when we haven't got company.” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon Abel knows how much to believe of that,” Mrs. Braile commented, + and Reverdy gave the pleased chuckle of a social inferior raised above his + level by amiable condescension. But as if he thought it safest to refuse + any share in this intimacy, he ended his adulations with the opinion, “I + should say that if these here two rooms was th'owed together they'd make + half as much as the Temple.” + </p> + <p> + Braile stopped in his walk and bent his frown on Reverdy, but not in + anger. “This <i>is</i> the Temple: Temple of Justice—Justice of the + Peace. Do you people think there's only one kind of temple in + Leatherwood?” + </p> + <p> + Reverdy gave his chuckle again. “Well, Squire, I ought to know, anyway, + all the log-rollin' I done for you last 'lection time. I didn't hardly + believe you'd git in, because they said you was a infidel.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you couldn't deny it, could you?” Braile asked, with increasing + friendliness in his frown. + </p> + <p> + “No, I couldn't deny it, Squire. But the way I told 'em to look at it was, + Mis' Braile was Christian enough for the whole family. Said <i>you</i> + knowed more law and <i>she</i> knowed more gospel than all the rest of + Leatherwood put together.” + </p> + <p> + “And that was what elected the family, was it?” Braile asked. “Well, I + hope Mrs. Braile won't refuse to serve,” he said, and he began his walk + again. “Tell her about that horse that broke into the meetin' last night, + and tried to play man.” + </p> + <p> + Reverdy laughed, shaking his head over his plate of bacon and reaching for + the corn-pone which Mrs. Braile passed him. “You do beat all, Squire, the + way you take the shine off of religious experience. Why,” he addressed + himself to Mrs. Braile, “it wasn't much, as fur as anybody could make out. + It was just the queerness of the whole thing.” Reverdy went over the facts + again, beginning with deprecation for the Squire but gathering respect for + them in the interest they seemed to have for Mrs. Braile. + </p> + <p> + She listened silently, and then she asked, “And what became of him?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's where you got me, Mrs. Braile. Don't anybody know what + become of him. Just kind of went out like a fire, when the Power was + workun' the hardest, and wasn't there next time you looked where he been. + Kind o' th'owed cold water on the meetun' and folks begun goun' home, and + breakun' up and turnun' in; well it was pretty nigh sun-up, anyway, by + that time. I don't know! Made me feel all-overish. Seemed like I'd been + dreamun' and that man was a Vision.” Reverdy had lifted an enraptured + face, but at sight of Braile pausing in sarcastic pleasure, he dropped his + head with a snicker. “I know the Squire'll laugh. But that's the way it + was.” + </p> + <p> + “He'll laugh the other side of his mouth, some day, if he keeps on,” Mrs. + Braile said with apparent reproof and latent pride. “Was Sally at the + meetin' with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, no, she wasn't,” Reverdy began, and Braile asked: + </p> + <p> + “And did you wake her up and tell her about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, no, I didn't, Squire, that's a fact. She woke me up. I just crep' + in quiet and felt out the soft side of a puncheon for a nap, and the firs' + thing I know was Sally havin' me by the shoulder, and wantun' to know + about gittun' that corn groun' for breakfas'. My! I don't know what she'll + say, when I do git back.” Reverdy laughed a fearful pleasure, but his + gaiety was clouded by a shadow projected from the cabin door. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I mought 'a' knowed it!” a voice at once fond and threatening + called to Reverdy's quailing figure. The owner of the voice was a young + woman unkempt as to the pale hair which escaped from the knot at her neck, + and stuck out there and dangled about her face in spite of the attempts + made to gather it under the control of the high horn comb holding its main + strands together. The lankness of her long figure showed in the calico + wrapper which seemed her sole garment; and her large features were + respectively lank in their way, nose and chin and high cheek bones; her + eyes wabbled in their sockets with the sort of inquiring laughter that + spread her wide, loose mouth. She was barefooted, like Reverdy, on whom + her eyes rested with a sort of burlesque menace, so that she could not + turn them to Mrs. Braile in the attention which manners required of her, + even when she added, “I just 'spicioned that he'd 'a' turned in here, + soon's I smelt your breakfas', Mrs. Braile; and the dear knows whether I + blame him so much, nuther.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you'd better draw up too, Sally,” Mrs. Braile said, without + troubling herself to rise from her own chair in glancing toward another + for Mrs. Reverdy. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, I couldn't, Mrs. Braile. I on'y just meant how nice it smelt. I + got me somepin at home before I left, and I ain't a bit hungry.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, you eat breakfast for <i>me</i>; <i>I'm</i> hungry,” the + Squire said. “Sit down! You couldn't get Abel away now, not if you went on + an hour. Don't separate families!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, just as you say, Squire,” Mrs. Reverdy snickered, and she submitted + to pull up the chair which Mrs. Braile's glance had suggested. “It beats + all what a excitement there is in this town about the goun's on at the + camp-meetun', last night. If I've heard it from one I've heard it from a + dozen. I s'pose Abel's tol' you?”—she addressed herself impartially + to Mrs. Braile across the table and to the Squire tilted against the wall + in his chair, smoking behind his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Not a word,” the Squire said, and his wife did not trouble herself to + protest; Reverdy opened his mouth in a soundless laugh at the Squire's + humor, and then filled it with bacon and corn-pone, and ducked his head in + silence over his plate. “What goings on?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, that man that came in while Elder Grove was snatchun' the brands + from the burnun', and snorted like a horse—But I <i>know</i> Abel's + tol' you! It's just like one of your jokes, Squire Braile; ain't it, Mrs. + Braile?” Sally referred herself to one and the other. + </p> + <p> + “You won't get either of us to say, Sally,” Mrs. Braile let the Squire + answer for both. “You'd better go on. I couldn't hear too often about a + man that snorted like a horse, if Abel <i>did</i> tell. What did the + horses hitched back of the tents think about it? Any of 'em try to shout + like a man?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you may laugh, Squire Braile,” Sally said with a toss of her head + for the dignity she failed of. She slumped forward with a laugh, and when + she lifted her head she said through the victual that filled her mouth, “I + dunno what the horses thought, but the folks believe it was a apostle, or + somepin.” + </p> + <p> + “Who said so? Abel?” “Oh, pshaw! D'you suppose I b'lieve anythin' Abel + Reverdy says?” and this gave Reverdy a joy which she shared with him; he + tried to impart it to Mrs. Braile, impassively pouring him a third cup of + coffee. “I jes' met Mis' Leonard comun' up the crossroad, and she tol' me + she saw our claybank hitched here, and I s'picioned Abel was'nt fur off, + and that's why I stopped.” + </p> + <p> + The husband and wife looked across the table in feigned fear and threat + that gave them pleasure beyond speech. + </p> + <p> + “She didn't say it was your claybank that snorted?” the Squire gravely + inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Squire Braile, you surely will kill me,” and the husband joined the wife + in a shout of laughter. “Now I can't hardly git back to what she <i>did</i> + say. But, I can tell you, it wasn't nawthun' to laugh at. Plenty of 'em + keeled over where they sot, and a lot bounced up and down like it was a + earthquake and pretty near all the women screamed. But he stood there, + straight as a ramrod, and never moved a eye-winker. She said his face was + somepin awful: just as solemn and still! He never spoke after that one + word 'Salvation,' but every once in a while he snorted. Nobody seen him + come in, or ever seen him before till he first snorted, and then they + didn't see anybody else. The preacher, he preached along, and tried to act + like as if nowthun' had happened, but it was no use; nobody didn't hardly + pay no attention to him 'ceptun' the stranger himself; he never took his + eyes off Elder Grove; some thought he was tryun' to charm him, like a + snake does a bird; but it didn't faze the elder.” + </p> + <p> + “Elder too old a bird?” the Squire suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I reckon he mought been,” Sally innocently assented. + </p> + <p> + “And when he gave the benediction, the snorter disappeared in a flash, + with a strong smell of brimstone, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, that was the thing of it, Squire. He just stayed, and shuck hands + with everybody, pleasant as a basket of chips; and he went home with David + Gillespie. He was just as polite to the poorest person there, but it was + the big bugs that tuck the most to him.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” the Squire summed up, “I don't see but what your reports agree, + and I reckon there must be some truth in 'em. Who's that up there at the + pike-crossing?” He did not trouble himself to do more than frown heavily + in the attempt to make out the passer. Mrs. Reverdy jumped from her chair + and ran out to look. + </p> + <p> + “Well, as sure as I'm alive, if it ain't that Gillespie girl! I bet she'll + know all about it. I'll just ketch up with her and git the news out of + her, if there is any. Say, say, Jane!” she called to the girl, as she ran + up the road with the cow-like gait which her swirling skirt gave her. The + girl stopped for her; then in apparent haste she moved on again, and Sally + moved with her out of sight; her voice still made itself heard in uncouth + cries and laughter. + </p> + <p> + Braile called into the kitchen where Reverdy had remained in the enjoyment + of Mrs. Braile's patient hospitality, “Here's your chance, Abel!” + </p> + <p> + “Chance?” Reverdy questioned back with a full mouth. + </p> + <p> + “To get that corn of yours ground, and beat Sally home.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Squire,” Reverdy said, “I reckon you're right.” He came out into + the open space where Braile sat. “Well, I won't fergit <i>this</i> + breakfast very soon,” he offered his gratitude to Mrs. Braile over his + shoulder, as he passed through the door. + </p> + <p> + “You're welcome, Abel,” she answered kindly, and when he had made his + manners to the impassive Squire and mounted his claybank and thumped the + horse into motion with his naked heels, she came out into the porch and + said to her husband, “I don't know as I liked your hinting him out of the + house that way.” + </p> + <p> + Braile did not take the point up, but remained thoughtfully smiling in the + direction his guest had taken. “The idea is that most people marry their + opposites,” he remarked, “and that gives the children the advantage of + inheriting their folly from two kinds of fools. But Abel and Sally are a + perfect pair, mental and moral twins; the only thing they don't agree in + is their account of what became of that snorting exhorter. But the + difference there isn't important. If an all-wise Providence has kept them + from transmitting a double dose of the same brand of folly to posterity, + that's one thing in favor of Providence.” He took up his wife's point now. + “If I hadn't hinted him away, he'd have stayed to dinner; <i>you</i> + wouldn't have hinted him away if he'd stayed to supper.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, are you going to have some breakfast?” his wife asked. “I'll get + you some fresh coffee.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I <i>would</i> like a little—with the head on—Martha, + that's a fact. Have I got time for another pipe?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't reckon you have,” his wife said, and she passed into the + kitchen again, where she continued to make such short replies as Braile's + discourse required of her. + </p> + <p> + He knocked his pipe out on the edge of his still uptilted chair, as he + talked. “One fool like Abel I can stand, and I was just going to come in + when Sally came in sight; and then I knew that two fools like Abel would + make me sick. So I waited till the Creator of heaven and earth could get a + minute off and help me out. But He seemed pretty busy with the solar + system this morning, and I had about given up when He sent that Gillespie + girl in sight. I knew that would fetch Sally; but it was an inspiration of + my own to suggest Abel's chance to him; I don't want to put that on your + Maker, Martha.” + </p> + <p> + “It was your inspiration to get him to stay in the first place,” Mrs. + Braile said within. + </p> + <p> + “No, Martha; that was my unfailing obedience to the sacred laws of + hospitality; I <i>didn't</i> expect to fall under their condemnation a + second time, though.” Mrs. Braile did not answer, and by the familiar + scent from within, Braile knew that his coffee must be nearly ready. As he + dropped his chair forward, he heard a sound of frying, and “Pshaw, + Martha!” he called. “You're not getting me some fresh bacon?” + </p> + <p> + “Did you suppose there'd be some left?” she demanded, while she stepped to + and fro at her labors. Her steps ceased and she called, “Well, come in + now, Matthew, if you don't want <i>every</i>thing to get cold, like the + pone is.” + </p> + <p> + Braile obeyed, saying, “Oh, I can stand cold <i>pone</i>,” and at sight of + the table with the coffee and bacon renewed upon it, he mocked tenderly, + “Now just to reward you, Martha, I've got half a mind to go with you to + the next meeting in the Temple.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know as I'm goin' myself,” she said, pouring the coffee. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would, just to please me,” he teased. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + No one could say quite how it happened that the stranger went home from + the camp-meeting with old David Gillespie and his girl. Many had come + forward with hospitable offers, and the stranger had been affable with + all; but he had slipped through the hands he shook and had parried the + invitations made him. Gillespie had not seemed to invite him, and his shy + daughter had shrunk aside when the chief citizens urged their claims; yet + the stranger went with them to their outlying farm, and spent all the next + day there alone in the tall woods that shut its corn fields in. + </p> + <p> + Sally Reverdy had failed to get any light from the Gillespie girl when she + ran out from Squire Braile's cabin. The girl seemed still under the spell + that had fallen upon many at the meeting, and it appeared to Sally that + she did not want to talk; at any rate she did not talk to any satisfactory + end. A squirrel hunter believed he had caught a glimpse of the stranger in + the chestnut woods behind the Gillespie spring-house, but he was not a man + whose oath was acceptable in the community and his belief was not + generally shared. It was thought that the stranger would reappear at the + last night of the camp-meeting, but the Gillespies came without him, and + reported that they had expected he would come by himself. + </p> + <p> + The camp-meeting broke up after the Sunday morning service and most of the + worshipers, sated with their devotional experience, went home, praising + the Power in song as they rode away in the wagons laden with their camp + furniture, and their children strewn over the bedding. But for others, the + fire of the revival burned through the hot, long, August Sabbath day, and + a devout congregation crowded the Temple. + </p> + <p> + The impulse of the week past held over to the night unabated. The spacious + log-built house was packed from wall to wall; the men stood dense; the + seats were filled with women; only a narrow path was left below the pulpit + for those who might wish to rise and confess Christ before the + congregation. The people waited in a silence broken by their deep + breathing, their devout whispering, the scraping of their feet; now and + then a babe, whose mother could not leave it at home, wailed pitifully or + spitefully till it was coaxed or scolded still; now and then some one + coughed. The air was thick; a bat scandalized the assemblage by flying in + at the open door, and wavering round the tallow candles on the pulpit; one + of the men beat it down with his hat, and then picked it up and crowded + his way down the aisle, out into the night with it. When he came back it + was as if he had found the stranger whom they were all consciously + expecting, and had brought him in with David Gillespie and his girl. She + was tall and straight, like her father, and her hair was red, like his; + her eyes were gray blue, and the look in them was both wilful and dreamy. + </p> + <p> + The stranger smiled and took the hands stretched out to him in passing by + several of the different sectarians who used the Temple. Gillespie seemed + not to notice or to care for the greetings to his guest, and his girl wore + her wonted look of vague aloofness. + </p> + <p> + Matthew Braile had been given a seat at the front, perhaps in deference to + his age and dignity; perhaps in confusion at his presence. He glanced up + at the stranger with a keen glint through his branching eyebrows, and made + a guttural sound; his wife pushed him; and he said; “What?” and “Oh!” + quite audibly; and she pushed him again for answer. + </p> + <p> + The Gillespies sat down with the stranger in the foremost bench. He wore + the black broadcloth coat of the Friday night before; his long hair, + combed back from his forehead, fell down his shoulders almost to his + middle; the glances of his black eyes roved round the room, but were + devoutly lowered at the prayer which opened the service. It was a + Methodist who preached, but somehow to-night he had not the fervor of his + sect; his sermon was cold, and addressed itself to the faith rather than + the hope of his hearers. He spoke as from the hold of an oppressive spell; + at times he was perplexed, and lost his place in his exhortation. In the + close heat some drowsed, and the preacher was distracted by snoring from a + corner near the door. He lifted his voice as if to rouse the sleeper, or + to drown the noise; but he could not. He came to the blessing at last, and + the disappointed congregation rose to go out. Suddenly the loud snort that + had dismayed the camp-meeting sounded through the heavy air, and then + there came the thrilling shout of “Salvation.” + </p> + <p> + The people did not need to look where the stranger had been sitting; he + had done what they hoped, what they expected, and he was now towering over + those near him, with his head thrown back, and his hair tossed like a mane + on his shoulders. The people stopped; some who had gone out crowded in + again; no one knew quite what to do. The minister halted on the pulpit + stairs; he had done his part for the night, and he did not apparently + resent the action of the man who now took it on him to speak. + </p> + <p> + A tall, stout man among those who had lingered, spoke from the aisle. He + was the owner of the largest farm in the neighborhood and he had one of + the mills on the creek. In his quality of miller everybody knew him, and + he had the authority of a public character. Now he said: + </p> + <p> + “We want to hear something more than a snort and a shout from our brother + here. We heard <i>them</i> Friday night, and we've been talkin' about it + ever since.” + </p> + <p> + The appeal was half joking, half entreating. The minister was still + hesitating on the pulpit stairs, and he looked at the stranger. “Will you + come up, Brother—” + </p> + <p> + “Call me Dylks—for the present,” the stranger answered with a full + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Brother Dylks,” the minister repeated, and he came down, and gave him the + right hand of fellowship. + </p> + <p> + The Gillespies looked on with their different indifference. Dylks turned + to them: “Shall I speak?” + </p> + <p> + “Speak!” the girl said, but her father said nothing. + </p> + <p> + Dylks ran quickly up the pulpit steps: “We will join in prayer!” he called + out, and he held the congregation, now returned to their places, in the + spell of a quick, short supplication. He ended it with the Lord's Prayer; + then he said, “Let us sing,” and line after line he gave out the hymn, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Plunged in a gulf of dark despair + We wretched sinners lay.” + </pre> + <p> + He expounded each stanza, as to the religious sense and the poetic + meaning, before he led the singing. He gave out a passage of Scripture, as + a sort of text, but he did not keep to it; he followed with other + passages, and his discourse was a rehearsal of these rather than a sermon. + His memory in them was unerring; women who knew their Bibles by heart + sighed their satisfaction in his perfectness; they did not care for the + relevance or irrelevance of the passages; all was Scripture, all was the + one inseparable Word of God, dreadful, blissful, divine, promising heaven, + threatening hell. Groans began to go up from the people held in the strong + witchery of the man's voice. They did not know whether he spoke long or + not. Before they knew, he was as if sweeping them to their feet with a + repetition of his opening hymn, and they were singing with him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Plunged in a gulf of dark despair + We wretched sinners lay.” + </pre> + <p> + It ended, and he gave his wild brutish snort, and then his heart-shaking + cry of “Salvation!” + </p> + <p> + Some of the chief men remained to speak with him, to contend for him as + their guest; but old David Gillespie did not contend with them. “You can + have him,” he said to the miller, Peter Hingston, “if he wants to go with + you.” He was almost rude, and his daughter was not opener with the women + who crowded about her trying to make her say something that would feed + their hunger to know more. She remained hard and cold, almost dumb; it + seemed to them that she was not worthy to have had him under her father's + roof. As for her father, they had no patience with him for not putting in + a word to claim the stranger while the others were pressing him to come + home with them. In spite of the indifference of Gillespie and his girl, + Dylks elected to remain with them, and when he could pull himself from the + crowd he went away into the night between them. + </p> + <p> + When Matthew Braile made his escape with his wife from the crowd and began + to walk home through the dim, hot night, he said, “Is Jane Gillespie any + particular hand at fried chicken?” + </p> + <p> + “Now you stop, Matthew!” his wife said. + </p> + <p> + “Because that would account for it. I reckon it was fried chicken the + ravens brought to Elijah. All men of God are fond of fried chicken.” + </p> + <p> + His wife would not dispute directly with his perversity; she knew that in + this mood of his it would be useless trying to make him partake the wonder + she shared with her neighbors that the stranger had chosen David Gillespie + again for his host out of the many leading men who had pressed their + hospitality upon him, and that he should have preferred his apathy to + their eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “I wish he had worn his yellow beaver hat in the pulpit,” Braile went on. + “It must have been a disappointment to Abe Reverdy, but perhaps he + consoled himself with a full sight of the fellow's long hair. He ought to + part it in the middle, like Thomas Jefferson, and do it up in a knot like + a woman. Well, we can't have everything, even in a man of God; but maybe + he isn't really a man of God. That would account for a good many things. + But I think he shows taste in preferring old Gillespie to Peter Hingston; + next to Abe Reverdy he's the biggest fool in Leatherwood. Maybe the + prophet knew by instinct that there would be better fried chicken at + Gillespie's.” + </p> + <p> + His wife disdained to make a direct answer. “You may be sure they give him + of their best, whatever it is. And the Gillespies may be poor, but when it + comes to respectability and good works they've got a right to hold their + heads up with the best in this settlement. That girl has done all the work + of the house since her mother died, when she wasn't a little thing half + grown; and old David has slaved off his mortgage till his farm's free and + clear; and he don't owe anybody a cent.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't say anything against Gillespie; all I say is that Brother + Dylks knows which side his bread is buttered on; inspired, probably.” + </p> + <p> + “What makes you so bitter, to-night, Matthew?” his wife halted him a + little, with her question. + </p> + <p> + “Well, the Temple always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I hate to see + brethren agreeing together in unity. You oughtn't to have taken me, + Martha.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll never take you again!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “And that man's a rascal, if ever there was one. Real men of God don't + wear their hair down to their waists and come snorting and shouting in + black broadcloth to a settlement like this for the good of folks' souls.” + </p> + <p> + “You've got no right to say that, Matthew. And if you go round talking + that way you'll make yourself more unpopular than you are already.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll be careful, Martha. I'll just think it, and perhaps put two or + three of the leading intellects like Abe and Sally on their guard. But + come, come, Martha! You know as well as I do, he's a rascal. Don't you + believe it?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe in giving everybody a chance. Don't your own law books say a + man's innocent till he's proved guilty?” + </p> + <p> + “Something like that. And I'm not trying Brother Dylks in open court at + present. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt if he's ever brought + before my judgment seat. But you've got to allow that his long hair and + black broadcloth and his snort and shout are against him.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe in them any more than you do,” she owned. “But don't you + persecute him because he's religious, Matthew.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't object to him because he's religious, though I think there's + more religion in Leatherwood already than any ten towns would know what to + do with. He's got to do more than preach his brand of religion before I'd + want to trouble him.” + </p> + <p> + They were at the hewn log which formed the step to the porch between the + rooms of their cabin. A lank hound rose from the floor, and pulled himself + back from his forward-planted paws, and whimpered a welcome to them; a + captive coon rattled his chain from his corner under the porch roof. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you let that poor thing go, Matthew?” Mrs. Braile asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I will, some day. But the little chap that brought it to me was + like our—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped; both were thinking the same thing and knew they were. “I saw + the likeness from the first, too,” the wife said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + The Gillespies arrived at their simpler log cabin half an hour later than + the Brailes at theirs. It was on the border of the settlement, and beyond + it for a mile there was nothing but woods, walnut and chestnut and + hickory, not growing thickly as the primeval forest grew to the northward + along the lake, but standing openly about in the pleasant park-like + freedom of the woods-pastures of that gentler latitude. Beyond the wide + stretch of trees and meadow lands, the cornfields and tobacco patches + opened to the sky again. On their farther border stood a new log cabin, + defined by its fresh barked logs in the hovering dark. + </p> + <p> + Gillespie pulled the leatherwood latch-string which lifted the catch of + his door, and pushed it open. “Go in, Jane,” he said to his daughter, and + the girl vanished slimly through, with a glance over her shoulder at Dylks + where he stood aloof a few steps from her father. + </p> + <p> + Gillespie turned to his guest. “Did you see her?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I walked over to her house this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Did any one see <i>you</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Her man was away.” + </p> + <p> + Gillespie turned with an effect of helplessness, and looked down at the + wood-pile where he stood. “I don't know,” he said, “what keeps me from + spliting your head open with that ax.” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” Dylks said. + </p> + <p> + “Man!” the old man threatened, “Don't go too far.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn't the fear of God which you pretend is in your heart, but the + fear of man.” Dylks added with a vulgar drop from the solemn words, “You + would hang for it. I haven't put myself in your power without counting all + the costs to both of us.” + </p> + <p> + Gillespie waved his answer off with an impatient hand. + </p> + <p> + “Did she know you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? It hasn't been so long. I haven't changed so much. I wear my + hair differently, and I dress better since I've been in Philadelphia. She + knew me in a minute as well as I knew her. I didn't ask for her present + husband; I thought one at a time was enough.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—first. I might have told her she had been in a hurry. But + if she don't bother me, I won't her. We got as far as that. And I reckon + she won't, but I thought we'd better have a clear understanding, and she + knows now it's bigamy in her case, and bigamy's a penitentiary offense. I + made that clear. And now see here, David: I'm going to stay here in this + settlement, and I don't want any trouble from you, no matter what you + think of my doings, past, present, or future. I don't want you to say + anything, or <i>look</i> anything. Don't you let on, even to that girl of + yours, that you ever saw me before in your life. If you do, you'll wish + you <i>had</i> split my head open with that ax. But I'm not afraid; I've + got you safe, and I've got your sister safe.” + </p> + <p> + Gillespie groaned. Then he said desperately, “Listen here, Joseph Dylks! I + know what you're after, here, because you always was: other people's + money. I've got three hundred dollars saved up since I paid off the + mortgage. If you'll take it and go—” + </p> + <p> + “Three hundred dollars! No, no! Keep your money, old man. I don't rob the + poor.” Dylks lifted himself, and said with that air of mysterious mastery + which afterwards won so many to his obedience, “I work my work. Let no man + gainsay me or hinder me.” He walked to and fro in the starlight, swelling, + with his head up and his mane of black hair cloudily flying over his + shoulders as he turned. “I come from God.” + </p> + <p> + Gillespie looked at him as he paced back and forth. “If I didn't know you + for a common scoundrel that married my sister against my will, and lived + on her money till it was gone, and then left her and let her believe he + was dead, I might believe you <i>did</i> come from God—or the Devil, + you—you turkey cock, you stallion! But you can't prance <i>me</i> + down, or snort me down. I don't agree to anything. I don't say I won't + tell who you are when it suits me. I won't promise to keep it from this + one or that one or any one. I'll let you go just so far, and then—” + </p> + <p> + “All right, David, I'll trust you, as I trust your sister. Between you I'm + safe. And now, you lay low! That's my advice.” He dropped from his mystery + and his mastery to a level of colloquial teasing. “I'm going to rest under + your humble roof to-night, and to-morrow I'm going to the mansion of Peter + Hingston. His gates will be set wide for me, and all the double log-cabin + palaces and frame houses of this royal city of Leatherwood will hunger for + my presence. You could always hold your tongue, David, and you can easily + leave all the whys and wherefores to me. I won't go from your hospitality + with an ungrateful tongue; I will proclaim before the assembled multitudes + in your temple that I left you secure in the faith, and that I turned to + others because they needed me more. I am not come to call the righteous + but sinners to repentance; they will understand that. So good night, + David, and good morning. I shall be gone before even you are up.” + </p> + <p> + Gillespie made no answer as he followed his guest indoors. Long before he + slept he heard the man's powerful breathing like that of some strong + animal in its sleep; an ox lying in the field, or a horse standing in its + stall. At times it broke chokingly and then he snorted it smooth and + regular again. At daybreak Gillespie thought of rising, but he drowsed, + and he was asleep when his daughter came to the foot of the ladder which + climbed to his chamber in the cabin loft, and called to him that his + breakfast was ready. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + The figure of a woman who held her hooded shawl under her chin, stole with + steps often checked through the limp, dew-laden grass of the woods-pasture + and slipped on the rotting logs. But she caught herself from tumbling, and + safely gained the border of Gillespie's corn field. There she sat down + trembling on the stone doorstep of the spring-house, and waited rather + than rested in the shelter of the chestnut boughs that overhung the roof. + She was aware of the spring gurgling under the stone on its way into the + sunshine, from the crocks of cream-covered milk and of butter in the cool + dark of the hut; she sensed the thick August heat of the sun already + smiting its honeyed odors from the corn; she heard the scamper of the + squirrels preying upon the ripening ears, and whisking in and out of the + woods or dropping into the field from the tips of the boughs overhanging + the nearer rows; but it all came blurred to her consciousness. + </p> + <p> + She was recognizably Gillespie's sister, but her eyes and hair were black. + She was wondering how she could get to speak with him when Jane was not + by. He would send the girl away at a sign from her, but she could not have + that; the thing must be kept from the girl but not seem to be kept. + </p> + <p> + She let her arms rest on her knees; her helpless hands hung heavy from + them; her head was bowed, and her whole body drooped under the burden of + her heart, as if it physically dragged her down. Jane would be coming soon + with the morning's milk to pour into the crocks; she heard a step; the + girl was coming; but she must rest a moment. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing here, Nancy?” her brother's voice asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, is it you, David? Oh, blessed be the name of the Lord! Maybe He's + going to be good to me, after all. David, is he gone?” + </p> + <p> + “He's gone, Nancy.” + </p> + <p> + “In anger?” + </p> + <p> + “He's gone; I don't care whether he's gone in anger or not.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he tell you he saw me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And did you promise him not to tell on him? To Jane? To any one?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” Gillespie stood holding a bucket of milk in his hand; she sat + gathering her shawl under her chin as if she were still coming through the + suncleft shadows of the woods pasture. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, David!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want me to do, Nancy?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, I don't know. I haven't slept all night.” + </p> + <p> + “You mustn't give way like this. Don't you see any duty for you in this + matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Duty? Oh, David!” Her heart forboded the impossible demand upon it. + </p> + <p> + Gillespie set his bucket of milk down beside the spring. “Nancy,” he said, + “a woman cannot have two husbands. It's a crime against the State. It's a + sin against God.” + </p> + <p> + “But I haven't <i>got</i> two husbands! What do you mean, David? Didn't I + believe he was dead? Didn't you? Oh, David, what—Do you think I've + done wrong? You let me do it!” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think you've done wrong; but look out you don't do it. You <i>are</i> + doing it, now. I can't let you do it. I can't let you live in sin!” + </p> + <p> + “In sin? Me?” + </p> + <p> + “You. Every minute you live now with Laban you live in sin. Your first + husband, that was dead, is alive. He can't claim you unless you allow it; + but neither can your second husband, now. If you live on with Laban a day + longer—an hour—a minute—you live in deadly sin. I + thought of it all night but I had not thought it out till this minute when + I first saw you sitting there and I knew how miserable you were, and my + heart seemed to bleed at the sight of you.” + </p> + <p> + “You may well say that, David,” the woman answered with a certain pride in + the vastness of her calamity. “If it was another woman I couldn't bear to + think of it. <i>Why</i> does He do it? <i>Why</i> does He set such traps + for us?” + </p> + <p> + “Nancy!” her brother called sternly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, it's easy enough for you! But if Rachel was here, she'd see it + different.” + </p> + <p> + “Woman!” her brother said, “don't try to hide behind the dead in your + sin.” + </p> + <p> + “It's <i>no</i> sin! I was as innocent as the babe unborn when I married + Laban—as innocent as he was, poor boy, when he would <i>have</i> me; + and we all thought <i>he</i> was dead. Oh, <i>why</i> couldn't he have + been dead?” + </p> + <p> + “This is murder you have in your heart now, Nancy,” the old man said, with + who knows what awful pleasure in his casuistry, so pitilessly unerring. + “If the life of that wicked man could buy you safety in your sin you could + wish it taken.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, oh, oh! What shall I do, what shall I do.” She wailed out the words + with her head fallen forward on her knees, and her loose hair dripping + over them. + </p> + <p> + “Do? Go home, and bring your little one, and come to me. I will deal with + Laban when he gets back tonight.” + </p> + <p> + She started erect. “And let him think I've left him? And the neighbors, + let them think we've quarreled, and I couldn't live with him?” + </p> + <p> + “It won't matter what the world thinks,” Gillespie said, and he spoke of + the small backwoods settlement as if it were some great center of opinion + such as in great communities dispenses fame and infamy, and makes its + judgments supremely dreaded. “Besides,” he faltered, “no one is knowing + but ourselves to his coming back. It can seem as if <i>he</i> left <i>you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “And I live such a lie as that? Is this <i>you</i>, David?” + </p> + <p> + It was she who rose highest now, as literally she did, in standing on the + stone where she had crouched, above the level of his footing. + </p> + <p> + “I—I say it to spare you, Nancy. I don't wish it. But I wish to make + it easy—or a little bit easier—something you can bear better.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know, David, I know! You would save me if you could. But maybe—maybe + it ain't what we think it is. Maybe he was outlawed by staying away so + long?” + </p> + <p> + Neither of them named Dylks, but each knew whom the other meant, + throughout their talk. + </p> + <p> + “A lawyer might let you think so till he got all your money.” + </p> + <p> + “Matthew Braile wouldn't.” + </p> + <p> + “That infidel?” + </p> + <p> + She drooped again. “Oh, well, I must do it. I must do it. I'll go and get + ready and I'll come to you. What will Jane think?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take care of what Jane thinks. When do you expect Laban back?” + </p> + <p> + “Not before sundown. I'll not come till I see him.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll be ready for you.” He moved now to open the spring-house door; she + turned and was lost to him in the lights and shadows of the woods-pasture. + On its further border her cabin stood, and from it came the sound of a + pitiful wail; at the back door a little child stood, staying itself by the + slats let into grooves in the jambs. She had left it in its low cradle + asleep, and it must have waked and clambered out and crept to the barrier + and been crying for her there; its small face was soaked with tears. + </p> + <p> + She ran forward with long leaps out of the cornfield and caught it to her + neck and mumbled its wet cheeks with hungry kisses. “Oh, my honey, my + honey! Did it think its mother had left—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped at the word with a pang, and began to go about the rude place + that was the simple home where after years of hell she had found an + earthly heaven. Often she stopped, and wondered at herself. It seemed + impossible she could be thinking it, be doing it, but she was thinking and + doing it, and at sundown, when she knew by the eager shadow of a man in + the doorway, pausing to listen if the baby were awake, all had been + thought and done. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V + </h2> + <p> + The emotional frenzies, recurring through the day, were past, and she + could speak steadily to the man, in the absence of greeting which often + emphasizes the self-forgetfulness of love as well as marks the + formlessness of common life: “Your supper's waitin' for you, Laban; I've + had mine; you must be hungry. It's out in the shed; it's cooler there. Go + round; baby's asleep.” + </p> + <p> + The man obeyed, and she heard him drop the bucket into the well, and lift + it by the groaning sweep, and pour the water into the basin, and then + splash himself, with murmurs of comfort, presently muffled in the towel. + Her hearing followed him through his supper, and she knew he was + obediently eating it, and patiently waiting for her to account for + whatever was unwonted in her greeting. She loved him most of all for his + boylike submission to her will and every caprice of it, but now she hardly + knew how to deny his tacit question as he ventured in from the shed. + </p> + <p> + “Don't come near me, Laban,” she said with a stony quiet. “Don't touch me. + I ain't your wife, any more.” + </p> + <p> + He could not speak at first; then it was like him to ask, “Why—why—What + have I done, Nancy?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i>, you poor soul?” she answered. “Nothing but good, all your + days! He's come back.” + </p> + <p> + He knew whom she meant, but he had to ask, “Joseph Dylks? Why I thought he + was—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't say it! It's murder! I don't want you to have his blood on you <i>too</i>. + Oh, if he was <i>only</i> dead! Yes, yes! I have a right to wish it! Oh, + God be merciful to me, a sinner!” + </p> + <p> + “When—when—how did you know it, Nancy?” + </p> + <p> + “Yesterday morning or day before—just after you left. I reckon he + was waitin' for you to go. I'm glad you went first.” The man looked up at + the rifle resting on the pegs above the fireplace. “Laban, don't!” she + cried. “<i>I</i> looked at it when he was walkin' away, and I know what + you're thinkin'.” + </p> + <p> + “What is he goin' to do?” the man asked from his daze. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. He said he wouldn't do nothing if I didn't. If he hadn't said it + I might believe it!” + </p> + <p> + Laban shifted his weight where he stood from one foot to the other. + </p> + <p> + “He passed the night at David's. He's passed two nights there.” + </p> + <p> + “Was it the snorting man?” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + “I heard about him at the Cross Roads. Why didn't David tell us + yesterday?” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe he hadn't thought it out. David thinks slow. He likes to be sure + before he speaks. He was sure enough this morning!” the woman ended + bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “What did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “He said it was living in sin for us to keep together if he was alive.” + </p> + <p> + Laban pondered it. “I reckon if we come together without knowing he was + alive, it ain't no sin.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is!” she shrieked. + </p> + <p> + “We was married just like anybody; we didn't make no secret of it; we've + lived together four years. Are you goin' to unlive them years by stoppin' + now?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you s'pose I been over all that a million times? My mind's sore + workin' with it; there ain't a thought in me that don't ache from it. But + David's right. We've got to part. I put your things in this poke here,” + she said, and she gave him a bag made from an old pillow tick, with a few + clothes lumping it half full. “I'll carry the baby, Laban.” She pulled + back from him with the child in her arms. “Or no, you can carry her; + you'll have to leave her, too, and you've got a right to all the good you + can get of her now. Don't touch anything. I'll stay at David's, tonight, + but I'll come back in the morning, and then I'll see what I'll do—stay, + or go and live with David. Come!” + </p> + <p> + “And what about Joey?” Laban asked, half turning with the child when they + were outside. + </p> + <p> + “I declare I forgot about Joey! I'll see, to-morrow. It seems as if my + very soul was tired now. + </p> + <p> + “Joey will just think we've gone over to David's for a minute; he'll go to + bed when he comes; he'll have had his supper at Peter Hingston's, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + As they walked away, she said, “You're a good man, Laban Billings, to feel + the way you always do about Joey. You've been a true father to him; I + wonder what his <i>own</i> father'd have been.” + </p> + <p> + “No truer father to him than I've been a husband to you, Nancy,” the man + said, and as they walked along together, so far apart, his speech came to + him, and he began to plead their case with her as before an adverse judge. + Worn as she was with the arguments for and against them after the long day + of iteration, she could not refuse to let him plead. She scarcely answered + him, but he knew when they reached Gillespie's cabin that she had seen + them in the fierce light of her conscience, where there was no shadow of + turning. + </p> + <p> + David was alone; Jane, he said, had gone to the Reverdys, and was going + with the woman to the Temple. + </p> + <p> + Nancy did not seem to hear him. She took the sleeping baby from its + father's arms. “Laban has come with me to say good-by before you, David. I + hope you'll be satisfied.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope your conscience will be satisfied, Nancy. It doesn't matter about + me. Laban, do you see this thing like I do?” + </p> + <p> + “I see it like Nancy does.” + </p> + <p> + “God will bless your effort for righteousness. Your path is dark before + you now, but His light will shine upon it.” + </p> + <p> + The old man paused helplessly, and Nancy asked “Does Jane know?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. And I will confess I'm not certain what to do, about her, and + about the neighbors. This is a cross to me, too, Nancy. I have lived a + proud life here; there has never been talk about me or mine. Now when you + and Laban are parted, there will be talk.” + </p> + <p> + “There's no need to be,” Laban said; “not at once. They want me back at + the Cross Roads, the Wilkinses do. I can go now as well as in the morning. + I forgot to tell you,” he added to his wife. “It was drove out of my + mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't blame you,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “I can have work there all the fall.” + </p> + <p> + David Gillespie rubbed his forehead, and said tremulously: “I don't know + what to say. I suppose I am weak. It'll be <i>one</i> kind of a lie. But, + Laban—I thank you—” + </p> + <p> + “I can come back here Sundays and see Nancy and the baby,” Laban + suggested. + </p> + <p> + The old man's voice shook. “You'll be making it harder for yourself,” was + all he could say. + </p> + <p> + “But perhaps—perhaps there'll be light—that light you said—by + and by—” + </p> + <p> + “Let us pray that there'll be no light from the Pit. I am a sinful man, + Laban, to let you do this thing. I ought to have strength for all of us. + But I am older now, I'm not what I was—the day has tried me, Nancy.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, then, Laban,” the woman said. “And don't you think hard of + David. I don't. And I'm not sure I'll ever let you come. Say good-by as if + it was for life.” She turned to her brother. “We can kiss, I reckon?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I reckon,” he lamented, and went indoors. + </p> + <p> + Laban opened his arms as if to take her in them; but she interposed the + baby. + </p> + <p> + “Kiss her first. Me last. Just once. Now, go! I won't be weak with you + like David is. And don't you be afraid for <i>me</i>. I can get along. <i>I'm + not a man</i>!” She went into the cabin, with her baby over her shoulder; + but in a little while she came back without it, and stared after the + figure of Laban losing itself in the night. Then she sat down on the + doorstep and cried; it seemed as if she never could stop; but the tears + helped her. + </p> + <p> + When she lifted her head she caught the sounds of singing from the village + below the upland where the cabin stood. It was the tune that carried, not + the words, but she knew them from the tune; as well as if she were in the + Temple with them she knew what the people were singing. While she followed + the lines helplessly, almost singing them herself, she was startled by the + presence of a boy, who had come silently round the cabin in his bare feet + and stood beside her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she cried out. + </p> + <p> + “Why, did I scare you, mom?” he asked tenderly. “I didn't mean to.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Joey. I didn't know any one was there; that's all. I didn't expect + you. Why ain't you at home in bed? You must be tired enough, poor boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, I ain't tired. Mr. Hingston is real good to me; he lets me rest + plenty; and he says I'll make a first rate miller. I helped to dress the + burrs this morning—the millstones, you know,” the boy explained, + proud of the technicality. “Oh, I tell you I just like it there,” he said, + and he laughed out his joy in it. + </p> + <p> + “You always was a glad boy, Joey,” his mother said ruefully. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you wouldn't thought so if you seen me over at our house. It seemed + like there was somebody dead; I dasn't hardly go in, it was so dark and + still. Whyn't you there? Didn't pop come home?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but he had to go back to the Cross Roads; he's got work there all + the fall.” + </p> + <p> + “Well! We do seem to be gittin' along!” He laughed again. “I reckon you + come over here because it seemed kind o' lonesome. Goin' to stay all night + with Uncle?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You won't mind being there alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! Not much, I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + “You can stay here too, if you want to—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! Mom,” he confessed shyly, “I brung Benny Hingston with me. I + thought you'd let him stay all night with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, certainly, Joey—” + </p> + <p> + “He's just behind the house; I wanted to ask first—” + </p> + <p> + “You know you can always bring Benny. There's plenty of room for both of + you in your bed. But now when you go back with him be careful of the lamp. + I put a fresh piece of rag in and there's plenty of grease. You can blow + up a coal on the hearth. I covered the fire; only be careful.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we'll be careful. Benny's about the carefullest boy the' is in + Leatherwood. Oh, I do like being in the mill with Mr. Hingston.” He + laughed out his joy again, and then he asked doubtfully, “Mom?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Joey.” + </p> + <p> + “Benny and me was wonderin'—we'd go straight back home, and not + light any lamp at all—if you'd let us go to the Temple. There's a + big meetin' there to-night.” The mother hesitated, and the boy urged, + “They say that strange man—well, some calls him the Snorter and some + the Exhorter—is goin' to preach.” The mother was still silent, and + the boy faltered on: “He dresses like the people do Over-the-Mountains, + and he wears his hair down his back—” + </p> + <p> + The mother gasped. “I don't like your being out late, Joey. I'd feel + better if you and Benny was safe in bed.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well.” The boy's voice sank to the level of his disappointment; but + after a silent interval he caught it up again cheerily. “Oh, well, I + reckon Benny won't care much. We'll go right back home. We can have a + piece before we go to bed?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—” + </p> + <p> + “Benny thinks our apple-butter is the best they is. Can we have some on + bread, with sugar on top?” + </p> + <p> + His mother did not answer at once, and he said again, as if relinquishing + another ideal, “Oh, well.” + </p> + <p> + Nancy rose up and kissed him. “Yes, go to the Temple. You might as well.” + </p> + <p> + “Truly, mom? Oh, Benny, hurrah! She's let me! Come along!” + </p> + <p> + He ran round the cabin to his comrade, and she heard them shouting and + laughing together, and then the muted scamper of their bare feet on the + soft road toward the settlement. + </p> + <p> + The mother said to herself, “He'd get to see him sooner or later.” She + drew her breath in a long sigh, and went into the cabin. “What a day, what + a day! It seems a thousand years,” she said aloud. + </p> + <p> + “Are you talking to me, Nancy?” her brother asked from somewhere in the + dark. + </p> + <p> + “No, no. Only to myself, David. Where did I put the baby? Oh! I know. I've + let Joey go to the Temple to hear his father preach. Lord have mercy!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI + </h2> + <p> + The discourse of Dylks the second night was a chain of biblical passages, + as it had been the first night. But an apparent intention, which had been + wanting before, ran through the incoherent texts, leaping as it were from + one to another, and there binding them in an intimation of a divine + mission. He did not say that he had been sent of God, but he made the + texts which he gave, swiftly and unerringly, say something like that for + him to such as were prepared to believe it. Not all were prepared; many + denied; the most doubted; but those who accepted that meaning of the + inspired words were of the principal people, respected for their higher + intelligence and their greater wealth. + </p> + <p> + He had come to the Temple with Peter Hingston and he went with him from + it. Hingston's quarter section of the richest farmland in the bottom + bordered his mill privilege, with barns and corncribs and tobacco sheds, + and his brick house behind the mill was the largest and finest dwelling in + the place. His flocks and herds abounded; his state was patriarchal; and + in the neighborhood which loved and honored him, for some favor and + kindness done nearly every man there: for money when the crops failed; for + the storage of their wheat and corn in the deep bins of his mill when the + yield was too great for their barns; for the use of his sheds in drying + their tobacco before their own were ready. His growing sons and daughters, + until they were grown men and women, obeyed his counsel as they had obeyed + his will while children. But he was severe with no one; since his wife had + died his natural gentleness was his manner as it had always been his make, + and it tempered the piety, which in many was forbidding and compelling, to + a wistful kindness. His faith admitted no misgiving, for himself, but his + toleration of doubts and differences in others extended to the worst of + skeptics. He believed that revelation had never ceased; he was of those + who looked for a sign, because if God had ever given Himself in communion + with His creatures it was not reasonable that he should afterwards always + withhold Himself. A friendly humor looked from his dull eyes, and, in + never quite coming to a formulated joke, stayed his utterance as if he + were hopeful of some such event in time. He stood large in bulk as well as + height, and drew his breath in slow, audible respirations. + </p> + <p> + The first people of the community tacitly recognized him as the first man + in it, though none would have compared him in education with his nearest + friend, Richard Enraghty, who had been the schoolmaster and was now the + foremost of the United Brethren. He led their services in the Temple, and + sometimes preached for them when it came their turn to occupy the house + which they shared with the other sects. Hingston was a Methodist, but + perhaps because their sects were so akin in doctrine and polity their + difference made no division between the friends: Enraghty little and + fierce and restless, Hingston large and kind and calm. What they joined in + saying prevailed in questions of public interest; those who yielded to + their wisdom liked to believe that Enraghty's opinion ruled with Hingston. + Matthew Braile alone had the courage to disable their judgment which he + liked to say was no more infallible than so much Scripture, but the hardy + infidel, who knew so much law and was inexpugnable in his office, owned + that he could not make head against their gospel. He could darken their + counsel with citations from “Common Sense” and “The Age of Reason,” but + the piety of the community remained safe from his mockery. + </p> + <p> + The large charity of Hingston covered the multitude of the Squire's sins; + he would have argued that he had not been understood perhaps in the worst + things he said; but the fiercer godliness of Enraghty was proof against + the talk of a man whose conversation was an exhalation from the Pit. He + had bitterly opposed Matthew Braile's successive elections; he had made + the pulpit of the Temple an engine of political warfare and had launched + its terrors against the invulnerable heathen. He was like Hingston in + looking for a sign; in that day of remoteness from any greater world the + people of the backwoods longed to feel themselves near the greatest world + of all, and well within the radius of its mysteries. They talked mostly of + these when they met together, and in the solitude of their fields they + dwelt upon them; on their week days and work days they turned over the + threats and promises of the Sabbath and expected a light or a voice from + on high which should burst their darkness and silence. + </p> + <p> + To most of them there was nothing sacrilegious in the pretensions which + could be read into the closely scriptured discourse of Dylks when he + preached the second time in the Temple. The affability which he used in + descending from the pulpit among them, and shaking hands and hailing them + Brother and Sister, and personally bidding each come to the mercy seat, + convinced them of his authority; no common man would so fearlessly trust + his dignity among those who had little of their own. They thronged upon + him gladly, and the women, old and young alike, trembled before him with a + strange joy. + </p> + <p> + “Where is your father, Sister Gillespie?” he demanded of the girl, who + wavered in his strong voice like a plant in the wind. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know—he's at home,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “See that he comes, another time. I send him my peace, and tell him that + it will not return to me. Say that I said he needs me.” + </p> + <p> + He went out between Enraghty and Hingston, and as they walked away, he + sank his voice back in words of Scripture; farther away he began his hymn: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Plunged in a gulf of dark despair, + We wretched sinners lay”— +</pre> + <p> + and ended with his shout of “Salvation!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII + </h2> + <p> + The cabin of the Reverdys stood on a byway beyond the Gillespies. Sally + had joined the girl on her way out of the Temple, and was prancing beside + her as they went homeward together. “Oh, ain't it just great? I feel like + as if I could fly. I never seen the Power in Leatherwood like it was + to-night. He's <i>sent</i>; you can tell that as plain as the nose on your + face. How happy I do feel! I believe in my heart I got salvation this + minute. Don't you feel the Spirit any? But you was always such a still + girl! I did like the way the women folks was floppun' all round. <i>I</i> + say, if you feel the Power workun' in you, show it, and help the others to + git it. What do you s'pose he meant by your paw's needun' him?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. Perhaps <i>he</i> will,” the girl answered briefly. + </p> + <p> + “Goun' to tell him? Well, that's right, Janey. I kep' wonderun' why he + didn't come to-night. If Abel hadn't be'n so beat out with his work at the + Cross Roads to-day, you bet I'd 'a' made <i>him</i> come; but he said I'd + git enough glory for both. I believe his talkun' with Squire Braile don't + do him no good. You b'lieve Washington and Jefferson was friends with Tom + Paine? The Squire says they was, but I misdoubt it, myself; I always hearn + them two was good perfessun' Christians. Kind o' lonesome along here where + the woods comes so close't, ain't it? Say, Janey: I wisht you'd come a + little piece with me, though I don't suppose the bad spirits would dast to + come around a body right on the way home from the Temple this way—” + </p> + <p> + They had reached the point where Sally must part with the girl, who + stopped to lift the top rail of the bars to the lane leading from the road + to her father's cabin. She let it drop again. “Why, I'll go the whole way + with you, Sally.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you? Well, I declare to gracious, you're the best girl I ever seen. + I believe in my heart, I'll rout Abel out and make him go back home with + you.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn't,” the girl said. “I'm not afraid to go alone in the dark.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, just as you say, Janey. What do you do to keep from beun' afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know. I just think, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, <i>I</i> just want to <i>squeal</i>.” Sally had been talking in her + loud, loose voice to keep her courage up. “Well, I declare if we ain't + there a'ready. If you just say the word I'll have Abel out in half a + minute, and—” + </p> + <p> + “No,” the girl said. “Good night.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, good night. I've got half a mind to go back with you myself,” Sally + called, as she lifted her hand to pull the latchstring of her door. + </p> + <p> + Jane Gillespie found her father standing at the bars when she went back. + He mechanically let them down for her. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you would be in bed, Father,” she said gently, but coldly. + </p> + <p> + “I've had things to keep me awake; and it's hot indoors,” he answered, and + then he demanded, “Well?” + </p> + <p> + If it was his way of bidding her tell him of her evening's experience, she + did not obey him, and he had to make another attempt on her silence. “Was + Hughey there?” + </p> + <p> + “Hughey? I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn't he ask to come home with you?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't see him. Sally Reverdy came with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I knew that.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent for another moment and then she said, “Father, I have a + message for you. He said, 'I send my peace to him; and it will not return + unto me.' He said you needed him.” + </p> + <p> + Gillespie knew that she meant Dylks and he knew that she kept out of her + voice whatever feeling she had in delivering his message. + </p> + <p> + In the dark, she could not see her father's frown, but she was aware of it + in his answer. “You went there against my will. Well?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “You believe? What do you believe?” + </p> + <p> + “Him. That he is sent.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I can't tell you. He made me; he made all the people there.” + </p> + <p> + Her father was standing between her and the door. He stood aside. “Go to + bed now. But be quiet. Your Aunt Nancy is there.” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Nancy?” + </p> + <p> + “Laban came, but he went back to the Cross Roads, and she's over for the + night with the baby.” + </p> + <p> + “The baby? Oh, I'll be careful!” A joy came into her voice, and the strain + left it in something like a laugh. + </p> + <p> + Early in the morning she crept down the ladder from the loft; her father + had looped his cot up against the cabin wall and gone out. Nancy was + sitting up in the bed she had made for herself on the floor, coiling a + rope of her black hair into a knot at her neck. The baby lay cooing and + kicking in her lap. The morning air came in fresh and sweet at the open + door. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Aunt Nancy, may I take her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I'll get the breakfast. Your father'll be hungry; he's been up a + good while, I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll make the fire first, and then I'll take the baby.” + </p> + <p> + The girl uncovered the embers on the hearth and blew them into life; then + she ran out into the cornfield, and gathered her apron full of the milky + ears, and grated them for the cakes which her aunt molded to fry for + breakfast. She took the baby and washed its hands and face, talking and + laughing with it. + </p> + <p> + “You talk to it a sight more than you do to anybody else, Jane,” the + mother said. “Don't put anything but its little shimmy on; it's goin' to + be another hot day.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe,” the girl said, “I'll get some water in the tub, and wash her + all over. There'll be time enough.” + </p> + <p> + “It'd be a good thing, I reckon. But you mustn't forget your milkin'. I + dunno what <i>our</i> cow'd do this morning if it wasn't for Joey. But + he'll milk her, him and Benny Hingston, between them, somehow. Benny + stayed with him last night.” + </p> + <p> + “I did forget the milking,” the girl said, putting the baby's little + chemise on. “But I'll do it now. Sissy will have to wait till after + breakfast for her washing.” She got the tin bucket from where it blazed + a-tilt in the sun beside the back door of the cabin, and took her deep + bonnet from its peg. She did not ask why the boys slept alone in the + cabin, but her aunt felt that she must explain. + </p> + <p> + “Laban's got work for the whole fall at the Cross Roads. He went straight + back last night. I come here.” She had got through without telling the lie + which she feared she must. “I'm goin' home after breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + Jane asked nothing further, but called from the open door, “Sukey, Sukey! + Suk, Suk, Suk!” A plaintive lowing responded; then the snapping sound of a + cow's eager hoofs; the hoarse drumming of the milk in the bucket followed, + subduing itself to the soft final murmur of the strippings in the foam. + Jane carried the milk to the spring house before she reappeared in the + cabin with a cup of it for the baby. + </p> + <p> + “It's so good for her to have it warm from the cow,” she said, as she + tilted the tin for the last drop on the little one's lips. “I wish you'd + leave her here with me, Aunt Nancy.” + </p> + <p> + “It's about time she was weaned,” the mother said. “I reckon you better + call your father now. He must be ready for his breakfast, bendin' over + that tobacco ever since sun-up.” + </p> + <p> + Jane took down the tin dinner horn from its peg, and went to the back door + with it, and blew a long, loud blast, crumbling away in broken sounds. + </p> + <p> + The baby was beating the air with its hands up and down, and gurgling its + delight in the noise when she came back. “Oh, honey, honey, honey!” she + cooed, catching it up and hugging it to her. + </p> + <p> + The mother looked at them over her shoulder as she put the cakes of grated + corn in the skillet, and set it among the coals on the hearth. “It's a + pity you ha'n't got one of your own.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want one of my own,” the girl said. + </p> + <p> + “I thought, a spell back,”—the woman took up the subject again after + a decent interval—“that you and Hughey Blake was goin' to make a + match.” The girl said nothing, and her aunt pursued, “Was he there, last + night?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't notice.” + </p> + <p> + “Many folks?” her aunt asked with whatever change or fulfilment of a first + intent. + </p> + <p> + From kneeling over to play with the baby the girl sank back on her heels + with her hands fallen before her. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “What did he preach?” + </p> + <p> + “The Word of God; God's own words. All Scripture; but it was like as if it + was the first time you ever heard it.” + </p> + <p> + The girl was looking at the woman, but seemed rapt from the sight of her + in a vision of the night before. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon Satan could make it sound that way,” Nancy said, but her niece + seemed not to hear her. Nancy stood staring at her, with words bitter + beyond saying in her heart; words that rose in her throat and choked her. + When she spoke she only said, “Get up, Jane; your father'll be here in a + minute.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going to eat anything. I'm going into the woods.” She staggered + to her feet, and dashed from the door. The child looked after her with + outstretched arms and whimpered pitifully, but she did not mind its call. + </p> + <p> + “Where's Jane?” her father said, coming in at the back door. + </p> + <p> + “Gone into the woods,” she said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> + <img src="images/2001.jpg" alt="2001 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <h5> + <a href="images/2001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> + </h5> + + <p> + “To pray, I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down at the table-leaf lifted from the wall, and his sister served + him his breakfast. He ate greedily, but his hand trembled so in lifting + his cup that the coffee spilled from it. + </p> + <p> + When he had ended and sat leaning back from the board, she asked him: + “What are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + The old man cleared his throat. “Nothing, yet. Let the Lord work His + will.” + </p> + <p> + “And let Joseph Dylks work <i>his</i> will, too! I'll have something to + say about that.” + </p> + <p> + “Be careful, woman. Be careful.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll be careful. He has as much to lose as I have.” + </p> + <p> + “No, not half so much.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII + </h2> + <p> + Where Matthew Braile sat smoking most of the hot forenoon away on the + porch of his cabin, there came to him rumor of the swift spread of the + superstition running from mind to mind in the neighborhood, and catching + like fire in dry grass. The rumor came in different voices, some piously + meant to shake him with fear in the scorner's seat which he held so + stubbornly; some in their doubt seeking the help of his powerful unfaith; + but he required their news from them all with the same mocking. They were + not of the Scribes and Pharisees, the pillars of the Temple, the wise and + rich and proud who had been the first to follow Dylks, but the poorer and + lowlier sort who wavered before the example of their betters, and were + willing to submit it to the searching of the old Sadducee's scrutiny. + </p> + <p> + The morning after Abel Reverdy had finished his work at the Cross Roads, + and had returned to the cares patiently awaiting him at home he rode his + claybank so hesitantly toward the Squire's cabin that his desire to stop + and talk was plain, and Braile called to him: “Well, Abel, what do they + think of the Prophet over at Wilkins's? Many converts? Many dipped or + sprinkled, as the case required?” + </p> + <p> + Reverdy drew rein and faced the Squire with a solemnity presently yielding + to his natural desire to grin at any form of joke, and his belief that + when the Squire indulged such flagrant irreverence as this he must be + joking. Yet he answered evasively: “You hearn't he says now he hain't + never go'n to die?” + </p> + <p> + “No. But I'm not surprised to hear it; about the next thing on the docket. + Did he say that at the Cross Roads?” + </p> + <p> + “Said it right here in Leatherwood. Sally told me the first thing when I + got home. You wasn't at the Temple last night, I reckon?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, not <i>last</i> night,” Braile said with an implication that he had + been at the Temple all the other nights, which made Reverdy laugh with + guilty joy. + </p> + <p> + “One o' the Hounds—no, it was Jim Redfield hisself—stopped on + the way out, and he says, 'What's this I hear? You say you ain't goin' to + die.' And Dylks he lifts his hands up over his head and he says, 'This + shell will fall off'; and Jim he says, 'I've got half a mind to <i>crack</i> + your shell,' and the believers they got round, and begun to hustle Jim + off, but Dylks he told them to let him alone, and he says, 'I can endure + strong meat, but I must be fed on milk for a while.' What you s'pose he + meant, Squire?” + </p> + <p> + Braile took his pipe out and cackled toothlessly. “I'm almost afraid to + think, Abel. Something awful, though. You say Sally told you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think Sally would know what he meant, if anybody.” He looked at + Abel, and Sally's husband joined him in safe derision. “Tell you anything + else?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, no, not just in so many words. But it 'pears he's been teachun' + round all sorts of things in private, like. Who do you reckon he says he + is?” + </p> + <p> + “Not John the Baptist, I hope. I don't know where we should get the + locusts and wild honey for him in <i>this</i> settlement. Might try + grasshoppers, but the last bee-tree in the Bottom was cut down when I was + a boy. I got a piece of the comb.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know if he said John the <i>Baptist;</i> but it was John, anyway. + And they say—or that's what Sally hearn tell—that when he was + off with Enraghty and Hingston on some 'pointments down round Seneca there + was doun's that 'uld make your hair stand up.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't happen to know just what the doings were?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, no, I don't, Squire. But they was doun's to deceive the very elec', + from all I hearn.” + </p> + <p> + “That's just what Hingston and Enraghty both are—the very elect. + What deceived <i>them</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pshaw, now, Squire! You know I don't mean they were deceived! That's + just a Bible sayin'. You see, Brother Briggs was sick and Brother Enraghty + went along with Dylks and Brother Hingston to preach in his place.” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't Dylks have done the preaching?” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon he could. But there was three 'p'intments, and may be Dylks + couldn't fill 'em all, and may be he didn't want to. Fust Brother Enraghty + preached in the Temple at Seneca, and then at Brother Christhaven's house + off south of that, and then at David Mason's, the local preacher; but + Brother Mason has got the consumption, and he couldn't preach, so Brother + Enraghty had to do <i>all</i> the preachun'.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that wasn't anything out o' the common, but what Dylks done to the + Devil beat all the preachun', I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + “How'd it get out? Devil tell?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Brother Enraghty told, and Sally she got it putty straight from the + wife of the man that he told it to.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” Braile said. “I can hardly wait to hear.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, they had just got acrost the Leatherwood, and Brother Enraghty + felt as if he was lifted all at once into heaven; air diff'ent, and full + of joy. Dylks's face got brighter and brighter, and his voice sounded like + music. When they got to the top of the hill where you can look back and + see the Temple, Dylks turned his horse and stretched out his hands, and + says he, 'How ignorant them people is of my true natur'. But time will + show 'em.' Well, not just them words, you know; more dictionary; and they + preached with a great outpourun' at Seneca. They didn't go to bed that + night at all, accordun' to the woman's tell that Enraghty told her man; + sot up tell mornun' prayun', and singun' hymns and readun' the Bible. Next + mornun' when they started out Brother Enraghty seen a bright ring round + Dylks's head, and whenever Dylks got down to pray the ring just stayed in + the air over the saddle tell he got back, and then it dropped round his + head ag'in.” + </p> + <p> + Reverdy stopped for the effect, but Braile only said, “Go on! Go on!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir, so they kep' on all that day and all the next night, prayun', + and singun', and readun' the Bible. The next mornun' when they started + Brother Enraghty felt kind o' cold all over, and his teeth chattered, and + Dylks looked at him hard in the face, and says he, 'Time is precious now. + This is the time for work. I now reveal unto you that you are Paul the + Apostle.'” + </p> + <p> + “And what did Paul the Apostle say? Did he own up that he was Paul?” + </p> + <p> + Reverdy halted in his tale. “Look here, Squire! I don't feel just right, + havun' you say such things. It sounds—well, like profane swearun'.” + </p> + <p> + “Any worse than Dylks or Enraghty? You go right ahead, Abel. I'll take the + responsibility before the law.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Reverdy continued with a reluctance that passed as he went on, + “what Dylks told him was that he would increase his faith, so't he could + see the sights of his power, and glorify him among men, and then Enraghty + he commenced to git warm ag'in, and Dylks he turned up his eyes and kep' + still, and it was so bright all round him that it made the daylight like + dusk, and Dylks made him hark if he didn't hear a kind of rush in the air, + and Dylks said it was the adversary of souls, but he would conquer him. + They came into a deep holler in the woods and there they see the devil + standun' in their way, and Dylks he lights and hollers out, 'Fear not, + Paul; this day my work is done,' and he went towards Satan and Satan he + raised his burnun' wings and bristled his scales, and stuck out his forked + tongue and dropped melted fire from it; and he rolled his eyes in his + head, hissun' and bubblun' like sinners boilun' in hell's kittles. Then + Dylks he got down on his knees and prayed, and got up and give his shout + of Salvation, and the devil's wings fell, and he took in his tongue, and + his eyes stood still, and Dylks he blowed his breath at him, and Satan he + turned and jumped, and every jump he give the ground shook, and Dylks and + the balance of 'em follered him till the devil come to Brother Mason's + house, and then he jumped through the shut winder out of sight. They found + Brother Mason's son David in bed sick, but he got up and took Dylks in his + arms and called him his Savior, and everybody got down on their knees and + prayed, and their faces was shinun' beautiful, and Dylks he walks round + David Mason, and rubs his hands over him, and says, 'I bind the devil for + a thousand years,' and he hugged David, and said, 'The work is done.' And + he wouldn't stay to preach there, but told 'em they must come back with + him to the Temple here in Leatherwood. On the way back he wouldn't talk at + all, hardly, but just kep' sayun', 'The perfect work is done,' and he + didn't give his shout any more; just snorted.” + </p> + <p> + Braile's pipe had gone out, but he pulled at it two or three times, before + he said, “Well, Abel, I don't wonder Sally is excited. I suppose <i>you</i> + would be, if you believed a word of this yarn?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's poorty cur'ous doun's, Squire,” Reverdy said, daunted between + his natural bent and his wish to be of the Squire's thinking. “Don't <i>you</i> + believe it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, <i>I</i> believe it. But you know <i>I</i> believe anything. If + Dylks did it, and Enraghty says he did it, why there we've got the gospel + for it—right from St. Paul himself.” + </p> + <p> + He said no more, and Reverdy lingered a moment in vague disappointment. + Then he sighed out, “Well, I must be goun', I reckon,” and thumped his + bare heels into the claybank's ribs and rode away. + </p> + <p> + Day by day the faith in Dylks spread with circumstance which strengthened + it in the converts; they accepted the differences which parted husband and + wife, parent and child, and set strife between brothers and neighbors as + proof of his divine authority to bring a sword; they knew by the hate and + dissension which followed from his claim that it was of supernatural + force, and when the pillars of the old spiritual temple fell one after + another under his blows, they exalted in the ruin as the foundation of a + new sanctuary. They drove the worshipers out of the material Temple, + Methodists and Moravians and Baptists who had used it in common. They met + to dedicate it solely to the doctrine of the prophet who came teaching + that neither he nor they should ever die, but should enter in the flesh + into the New Jerusalem which should come down to them at Leatherwood. His + steps in passing from teacher to prophet and to Messiah were contested by + a few with bitter and strenuous dissent, but on the night when Dylks + proclaimed before the thronging assembly in the stolen Temple, “I am God + and there is none else,” they pressed round him, men and women and + children, and worshiped him. “I am God and the Christ in one,” he + proclaimed. “In me, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost are met. There is no + salvation except by faith in me. They who put their faith in me shall + never taste death, but shall be translated into the New Jerusalem, which I + am going to bring down from Heaven.” He snorted; the few unbelievers + protested in abhorrence; but the Sisters in the faith shrieked and the + Brothers shouted, “We shall never die!” Dylks came down from the pulpit + among them, and Enraghty called out, “Behold our God!” and they fell on + their knees before him. As it had been from the beginning, the wisest and + best, the first in prayer and counsel, were foremost in the idolatry; and + young girls, and wives and mothers joined in hailing Dylks as their + Creator and Savior, and besought him to bless and keep them. + </p> + <p> + The believers were in such force that none of the Hounds, veteran + disturbers of camp-meetings and revivals, who were there, dared molest + them; the few members of the sects expelled from the Temple of their + common worship held aloof from the tumult in dismay, and made no attempt + to reclaim the sanctuary. One man, not of any church, but of standing in + the community, tried to incite the sectarians to assert their rights, but + found no following among them. They left the Temple together with certain + others who had been trembling toward belief in Dylks, but whom the + profanation repelled; when they were gone the tumult sank enough to let + Enraghty announce another meeting a week hence, and then dismiss the + congregation. + </p> + <p> + “An' afore that we're goin' to have a murricle,” Sally Reverdy told Squire + Braile, sitting early the next morning at the receipt of gossip on his + cabin porch with his pipe between his teeth; her cow had not come up the + night before, and Abel had not found her in the woods-pasture when he went + to look. “An' I couldn't wait all day, an' I just slipped over to git some + milk of Mis' Braile,” she explained to the Squire as she paused with the + bucket in her hand. “I told her I'd bring it back the first chance't I git + at our cow; I reckon Abel will find her some time or 'nuther; and I 'lowed + you had plenty.” + </p> + <p> + Braile had already heard her explaining all this to his wife, but now he + kept her for the full personal detail of the last night's event at the + Temple. She ended an unsparing report of the wonders seen with a prophecy + of wonders to come. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” Braile said, “I don't see what you want of a miracle more than what + you've had already. The fact that your cow didn't come up last night, and + Abel couldn't find her in the woods-pasture this morning is miracle enough + to prove that Dylks is God. Besides, didn't he say it himself, and didn't + Enraghty say it?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, yes, they did,” Sally assented, overborne for the moment by his + logic. + </p> + <p> + “And didn't you all believe them?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, <i>we</i> all did,” Sally said. “But look here, Squire Braile, what + about them that didn't believe it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, then there were some there that didn't believe it! Well, I suppose + nothing less than more miracles will do for <i>them</i>. Who were they?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course, there was Jim Redfield; he's been ag'inst him from the + first; and there was old George Nixon, and there was Hughey Blake, and a + passel of the Hounds that I don't count.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, certainly not; the Hounds would doubt anything. But I'm surprised at + Redfield and Nixon and Hughey Blake. What reason did they give for the + faith that wasn't in them? When a man stood up and snorted like a horse + and said he was God, why didn't they believe him? Or the other fellows + that didn't snort, but said they knew it was God from a sound that he + made?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pshaw, now, Squire Braile!” Sally gurgled. She did not yield quite + with Abel's helplessness at a joke, but the Squire's blasphemous irony had + its force with her too, though she felt it right to bring herself back to + her religious conviction with the warning, “Some day you'll go too fur.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I'm always expecting the lightning to strike in the wrong place. + Didn't Nixon or Redfield or Hughey Blake say anything? Or did they just + look ashamed of you, down there on your knees before a man that you + worshiped for a God because he snorted like a horse? Didn't anybody in + their senses say anything, or couldn't those that were out of their senses + hear anything but their own ravings?” + </p> + <p> + The old man had pleased himself with his mockeries, but now he let the + scorn which his irony had hidden blaze out. “Wasn't anybody ashamed of it + all? Weren't you ashamed yourself, Sally?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I dunno,” Sally said, easing herself from one foot to another and + shifting the milk-bucket from her right hand to her left. “Where everybody + is goun' one way, you don't know what to think exactly. Jane Gillespie was + there, and she went on as bad as the best.” + </p> + <p> + “Jane Gillespie?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She come with me, and she was goun' to come home with me, as fur's + the door, and she would ha' done it, if it hadn't ha' been for her father. + He bruk through the believers and drug her up from the floor where she was + kneelun' and stoopun' her forehead over to the ground, and pulled her out + through the crowd. 'You come home with me!' says he, kind o' harsh like; + and if it hadn't ha' been for Nancy Billuns's Joey I'd ha' had to git + through the woods alone, and the dear knows I'm always skeered enough. But + Joey and Benny Hingston they come with me, or I don't feel as if I'd been + here to tell it.” + </p> + <p> + “You'd have been safe from the devil, though; he stayed with Dylks. Didn't + David say anything to the girl?” + </p> + <p> + “Just, 'You come home with me,' and he looked so black that Hughey Blake + he kind o' started from where he was standun' with the unbelievers, and he + says, 'Oh, don't, Mr. Gillespie!'—like that—and Jane she said, + 'It's my father, Hugh,' and she went along with him, kind o' wild lookun', + like she was walkun' in her sleep. I noticed it at the time.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn't Dylks do anything—say anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, not that <i>I</i> seen or hearn. But some o' them that was standun' + nigh him was talkun' about it when we all got out, and they was sayun' he + said, 'Go with your earthly father; your heavenly father will keep you + safe!' I don't know whether he did or not; but that's what they was + sayun.” + </p> + <p> + “And did Gillespie say anything back?” + </p> + <p> + “Not't anybody heared. Just give Dylks a look like he wanted to kill him, + and then Dylks snorted, and yelled 'Salvation!' Squire,” Sally broke off, + “some of us believers was talkun' it over, when we started home, and + wonderun' what ought we to call him. Jest Dylks don't sound quite right, + and you can't say Almighty, to a body, exactly, and you can't say Lord. + What should you think was the right way?” + </p> + <p> + Braile got back to his irony. “Well, that's an important question, Sally. + I should call him Beelzebub, myself; but then I'm not a believer. That + night when he first came, didn't he tell the people to call him just + Dylks?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he did, but that was for the present, he said.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he given himself any other name?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, no.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I should let it go at Dylks.” + </p> + <p> + “Just plain Dylks? Mr. Dylks wouldn't do; or Brother Dylks, wouldn't. + Father Dylks don't sound quite the thing—” + </p> + <p> + “Might try Uncle Dylks,” Braile said, cackling round his pipe-stem, and + now Sally perceived that it was in vain to attempt serious discussion of + the point with him. + </p> + <p> + She said, “Oh, pshaw, Squire Braile,” and lankly let herself down sidewise + from the porch, and flopped away on the road. Then she stopped, and called + back, “Say, Squire, what do you think of the Good Old Man?” + </p> + <p> + “What good old man?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Dylks. For a name. That's what most of 'em wants to call him.” + </p> + <p> + “Sounds like a good name for them that like a name like it.” + </p> + <p> + “He calls <i>us</i> the Little Flock.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well! Geese or sheep?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pshaw, now! I wouldn't belong to the Herd of the Lost, anyway. That's + what he calls the unbelievers.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't tell me! Well, now I <i>will</i> be scared in the dark.” + </p> + <p> + Failing of any retort, Sally now flopped definitively beyond calling back. + </p> + <p> + Braile watched her going with a sardonic smile, but when his wife, after + waiting for her to be quite gone, came out to him, he was serious enough. + </p> + <p> + “Did that fool tell you of the goings on at the Temple last night?” + </p> + <p> + “As much as I would let her. I suppose it had to come to something like + that. It seems as if the people had gone crazy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” the Squire sighed heavily, “there's no doubt about that. And it's a + pity. For such a religious community Leatherwood Creek used to be a very + decent place to live in. They were a lot of zealots, but they got on well + with one another; that Temple of theirs kept them together, and they + didn't quarrel much about doctrine. Now with the Dylksites driving the + old-fashioned believers out of the sanctuary and dedicating it to the + exclusive worship of Dylks, the other denominations are going to fight + among themselves; and there'll be no living with them. And that isn't the + worst of it. This new deity isn't going to be satisfied with worship + merely. Money, of course, he'll want and get, and he'll wear purple and + fine linen, and feed upon fried chicken every day. Still the superstition + might die out, and no great harm done, if the faith was confined to men. + But you know what women are, Martha.” + </p> + <p> + “They're what men make 'em,” Mrs. Braile said sadly. + </p> + <p> + “It's six of one and half a dozen of another, I'm afraid. But this god of + theirs is a handsome devil, and some poor fool of a girl, or some bigger + fool of a married woman, is going to fall in love with him, and then—” + </p> + <p> + “Did you just think of that? Well, you can't help it by lettin' your + coffee get cold.” + </p> + <p> + Braile tilted his chair down and rose from its rebound to follow his wife + stiffly indoors. “The question is, Who will it be? Which poor girl? Which + bigger fool? And nothing can be done to prevent it! The Real God put it + into human nature, and all Hell couldn't stop it. Well, I suppose it's for + some wise purpose,” he ended, in parody of the pious resignation + prevailing on the tongues of the preachers. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX + </h2> + <p> + David Gillespie woke later than his daughter, and when he had put away the + shadows of his unhappy dreams he took up the burden of waking thoughts + which weighed more heavily on him. The sight of his child groveling at the + feet of that blasphemous impostor and adoring him as her God pitilessly + realized itself to him as a thing shameful past experience and beyond + credence, and yet as undeniable as his pulse, his breath, his seeing and + hearing. The dread which a less primitive spirit would have forbidden + itself as something too abominable, possessed him as wholly possible. He + had lived righteously, and he had kept evil from those dear to him, both + the dead and the quick, by the force of his strong unselfish will; now he + had seen his will without power upon the one who was dearest, and whom he + seemed to hold from evil only by the force of his right hand. But his hand + could not be everywhere and at all times; and then? + </p> + <p> + The breakfast which the girl had got for him and left on the hearth was + warm yet, when he put it on the table, and she could not have been gone + more than a few minutes, but she had gone, he did not know where, without + waiting to speak with him after the threats and defiances which they had + slept upon. When he had poured the coffee after the mouthfuls he forced + down, he acted on the only hope he had and crossed the woods-pasture to + his sister's cabin. + </p> + <p> + She understood the glance he gave within from the threshold where he + paused, and said, “She ain't here, David.” Nancy had cleared her breakfast + away and was ironing at the shelf where she had eaten; the baby was + playing on the floor. + </p> + <p> + Gillespie looked down at it. “I didn't know but what she'd come over to + dress it; she cares so much for it.” + </p> + <p> + “It cares for her, too. But what brings you after her?” + </p> + <p> + “She's gone somewhere without her breakfast. We had high words last night + after I brought her home.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid you'll have higher words, yet, David. Joey was at the Temple.” + </p> + <p> + “Nancy, I don't know what to do about her.” + </p> + <p> + “You knew what to do about <i>me</i>, David.” She gave her stab, and then + she pitied him, not for the pain she was willing he should feel from it, + but for the pain he was feeling before. “I know it isn't like that. I'm + sorry for you both. You haven't come to the end of your troubles.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't understand the girl,” he said desolately. “Up to a year ago she + was like she had always been, as biddable as a child, and meek and + yielding every way. All at once she's got stiff-necked and wilful.” + </p> + <p> + “She couldn't tell you why, herself, David. We are all that way—good + little girls—and then all of a sudden wilful women. I don't know + what changes us. It's harder on us than it is on you. It came on me like a + thief in the night and stole away my sense. It gave Joseph Dylks his + chance over me; if it had been sooner or later I should have known he was + a power of darkness as far as I could see him. But my eyes were holden by + my self-conceit, and I thought he was an angel of light.” + </p> + <p> + “He's got past being an angel now,” Gillespie said, forcing himself to the + real matter of his errand, far from the question of his daughter's + estrangement from her old self. “Did Joey tell you about—last + night?” + </p> + <p> + Nancy did not quit the psychological question at once. “Up to that time we + think our fathers and brothers are something above the human; then we + think they're not even up to the common run of men. We think other men are + different because we don't know them. Yes,” she returned to his question + with a sigh, “Joey told me something about it—enough about it. I + suppose it isn't right to let him be a spy on his father; but I have to. + If I didn't he might want to go, from the talk of those fools, and get to + believin' with them. He said there was boys and girls kneelin' with the + rest—little children, almost, and shoutin' and prayin' to Joseph. + Did you see 'em?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; it was dreadful, Nancy. But it was worse to see the women, the + grown-up girls, and the mothers of the children. It looked like they had + been drinking. It fairly turned me sick. And my own daughter groveling on + her knees with the worst! If I didn't know Dylks for the thing he is, + without an idea beyond victuals and clothes, I might ha' thought he had + thrown a spell on 'em, just for deviltry. But they done it all themselves; + he just gave them the <i>chance</i> to play the fool.” + </p> + <p> + Nancy resumed from her own more immediate interest, “Well, I let Joey go; + and I don't know whether it helps or hurts to have him come home feelin' + about him, and all the goings on, just like I would myself. He always says + he's glad I wasn't there, and he pities the poor fool women more than he + despises his father. Or I ortn't to say despise; Joey don't despise + anybody; he's all good, through and through; I don't know where he gets + it. He's like Laban, and yet he ain't any kin to Laban.” + </p> + <p> + “It must be hard on you, Nancy. I don't know how you can bear up the way + you do. It is like a living streak of fire in me.” + </p> + <p> + “That's because there's some hope left in you. I can bear what I've got to + because the feeling is all burnt out of me. It's like as if my soul was + dead.” + </p> + <p> + “You mustn't say that, Nancy.” + </p> + <p> + “I say anything I please, now; anything I think. I'm not afraid any more; + I hain't got anything left to be afraid of.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I have,” David returned. “Something I'm ashamed to be afraid of it: + his hold on Jane. I don't understand it. We've always thought alike and + believed alike, and now to see her gone crazy after a thief and liar like + that! It's enough to drive me mad the other way. I don't only want to kill + <i>him</i>; I want to kill—” + </p> + <p> + “David!” she stopped him, and in his pause she added, “You're worse than + what I ever was. Where is your religion?” + </p> + <p> + “Where is <i>her</i> religion? I raised her to fear God, the Bible God + that I've prayed to for her since she was a little babe, but now since + she's turned to this heathen image I begin to turn from <i>Him</i>. What's + <i>He</i> been about if He's All Seeing and All Powerful, to let loose + such a devil on a harmless settlement like this where we were all brethren + and dwelt together in unity, no matter whether we believed in dipping or + sprinkling? We loved one another—in the Scripture sense—and + now look! Families broken up, brothers not speaking, wives and husbands + parting, parents cursing the day their children were born, and children + flying in the face of their parents. Did you hear about Christopher Mills, + how he come crying to his father and mother and tried to make them believe + in Dylks, and when his father said it was all a snare and a delusion, + Christopher went away telling them their damnation was sealed?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” the woman said with bitter pleasure in the mockery, “but I heard how + our new Saint Paul Enraghty went over to his uncle's the other day, and + said he should never see corruption, and should never die, and told his + uncle he couldn't shoot him. Them that was there say the old man just + reached for his rifle, and was going to shoot Saint Paul in the legs, and + then Paul begged off and pretended that he was only in fun!” + </p> + <p> + She laughed, but David Gillespie looked sadly at her. “I don't believe I + like to hear you laugh, Nancy.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, are you turning believer too, David? It'll be time for me next,” she + mocked. “I couldn't laugh at Joseph, may be, but Saint Paul Enraghty is a + bigger rascal or a bigger fool than he is. Some say that Joseph is just + crazy, and some that he's after money, and that Enraghty's put him up to + everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” David moodily assented to the general tenor of her talk. “The way + they've roped in between 'em that poor fool Davis who'd been preaching for + the United Brethren, and now preaches Dylks! First he wouldn't hardly go + into the same house, and then he wouldn't leave it till he could come with + Dylks. I don't know how they do it! Sometimes I think the decentest man + left in the place is that red-mouthed infidel, Matthew Braile! Sometimes + I'm a mind to go to his house and get him to tell me what Tom Paine would + do in my place.” + </p> + <p> + “You <i>are</i> pretty far gone, David. But I don't wonder at it; and I + don't believe I think so badly of Matthew Braile, either. He may be an + infidel, but he believes in some kind of a God that wants people to do + right; he don't believe in mortal sin, and may be that's where he's out; + and I hear tell he don't think there's going to be any raisin' of the + body, or any Last Day, or any Hell; but he keeps it to himself unless + folks pester him. I was afraid once to have Joey talk with him, before the + plow went over me. But now I let Joey go to him all he wants to. He lets + Joey come and pet the coon Joey give him because he heard that the + Squire's little boy used to want one. From all I can make out they don't + do much but talk about the little boy; he seems to take comfort in Joey + because Joey's like him, or the Squire thinks so.” + </p> + <p> + “If Jane had died when she was his little boy's age, I wouldn't feel as if + I had lost her half as much as I do now.” + </p> + <p> + Nancy lifted herself from her ironing-board and looked at her brother. + “You told me what the duty of a woman was that found out she had two + husbands. Don't you know what the duty of a man is that has a daughter + turned idolater?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't, Nancy,” David answered doggedly. + </p> + <p> + “Then, why don't you wrestle with the Lord in prayer? Perhaps He'd make + you some sign.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, prayer! The thought of it makes me sick since I saw them fools + wallowing round at Dylks's feet, and beseeching that heathen image to save + them.” + </p> + <p> + “Then if you hain't got any light of yourself, and you don't believe the + Lord can give you any, what do you expect <i>me</i> to do for you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't expect anything, Nancy. If she was a child I could whip it out of + her, but when your child has got to be a woman you can't whip her.” + </p> + <p> + They left the hopeless case, and began to talk of the things they had + heard, especially the miracle which Dylks had promised to work. “He's + appointed it for to-night,” Gillespie said, “but I don't believe but what + he'll put it off, if the coast ain't clear when the time comes. He always + had the knack of leaving the back door open when he saw trouble coming up + to the front gate.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't tell me anything about Joseph Dylks,” Nancy said. She was + ironing, and at the last word she brought the iron down with the heavy + thump that women give with it at an emphatic word in their talk. “What I + wonder is that a man like you, David, could care what people in such a + place as this would say if they found out that I was livin' with Laban + when I knowed Dylks was alive. There wouldn't be any trouble with his + followers, I reckon. He'd just tell 'em he never saw me in his life + before, and that would do them.” + </p> + <p> + “Nancy,” her brother turned solemnly upon her, “as sure as I'm standing + here I don't care for that any more. If you say the word, I'll go and tell + Laban to come back to you.” + </p> + <p> + “You're safe there, David. If you've parted with your conscience, I've got + it from you. I wonder you don't go and follow after Joseph Dylks too. All + the best and smartest men in the place believe in him. Just look at Mr. + Enraghty! A man with more brains and book learnin' than all the rest put + together; willin' to be the Apostle Paul because Joseph Dylks called him + it, and gets up in the Temple where he used to preach Christ Jesus and Him + crucified, and tells the people to behold their God in Joseph Dylks! + There's just one excuse for him: he's crazy. If he ain't he's the + wickedest man in Leatherwood, the wickedest man in the whole world; he's + worse than Joseph Dylks, because he knows better. Joseph is such a liar + that he could always make himself believe what he said. But it's no use + your stayin' here, David!” She suddenly broke off to turn on her brother. + “If you're a mind to let Jane come, I'll try what I can do with her.” + </p> + <p> + The old man faltered at the door. “Are you going to tell her, Nancy?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going to tell <i>you</i>, whether I am or not, David!” + </p> + <p> + Her words began harshly, but ended with his name tenderly, pitifully + uttered. + </p> + <p> + She called after him as he moved from her door, heavily, weakly, more like + an old man than she had noted him yet, “I'll talk to Jane, and whatever I + say will be for her good.” She watched him out of sight from where she was + working; then she went to the door, with some mind to call more kindly yet + to him; but he was not to be seen, and she went back to her ironing, and + ironed more swiftly than before, moving her lips in a sort of wrathful + revery. From time to time she changed her iron for one at the hearth, + which she touched with her wetted finger to test its heat, and returned to + her table with an unconscious smile of satisfaction in its quick + responsive hiss. In her movements to and fro she spoke to the baby, which + babbled inarticulately up to her from the floor. Then she seemed to forget + it, and it was in one of these moments of oblivion that she was startled + by a sharp cry of terror from it. A man was looking in at the door. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X + </h2> + <p> + The man stood with one foot on the log doorstep outside and the other + planted on the threshold of the cabin. + </p> + <p> + Nancy came toward him with her iron held at arms' length before her. “What + do you want?” she demanded fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “Give me to drink,” he said, with a grin. + </p> + <p> + “Go round to the well,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + The man bent his body a little forward, and looked in, but he did not + venture to lift his other foot to the threshold. “Where is your husband?” + he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I have no husband. What is it to you?” + </p> + <p> + “'Thou sayest well ... for him whom thou now hast, is not thy husband.' + You don't look a bit older, and you're as handsome as ever, Nancy. I + suppose that's his,” he said, turning his eye towards the little one on + the floor, lifted by her hands half upright, and peering at him, in + conditional alarm. + </p> + <p> + “It's mine,” she retorted. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, anybody could see that. It's the image of you. And so is our Joey. + You don't let your young ones favor your husbands much, Nancy; and yet you + was not always so set against me. What's your notion letting Joey come to + the Temple?” + </p> + <p> + “To see for himself what you are.” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I thought, maybe. Well, he don't seem to take to me much, if + I can judge from his face when he looks my way. I hain't been able to give + him all the attention I may later. But you needn't be troubled about him. + I won't do anything to make you anxious. Nancy, I wish you could feel as + friendly to me as I do to you. Will you let me have something to drink out + of?” + </p> + <p> + “Go round,” she said, “and I'll bring the gourd to you.” + </p> + <p> + Dylks laughed, but he obeyed, and found his way to the well where he + lowered the bucket at the end of the swoop, and stood waiting for Nancy to + follow him with the dipper fashioned from a long-necked gourd, as the + drinking cup oftenest was in the western country of those days. She held + it out to him with her head turned and he carried it to his lips from the + brimming bucket. + </p> + <p> + He drank it empty, and then turned it over with a long, deep “Ah—h—h!” + of satisfaction. “That was good! Good as the buttermilk would have been + that you didn't think to offer me. Well, I thank you for the water, + anyway, you woman of Samaria.” He held the gourd toward her but she did + not take it, and he laughed again. “If you could have had your way without + sin you'd have made it poison, I reckon. Don't you know I could drink + poison the same as water?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i> don't,” she said, and as he swung the gourd in tacit question + what to do with it since she did not offer to take it, she bade him, “Put + it down.” + </p> + <p> + He did so, and she set her foot on the thin bowl and crushed it like an + egg shell. He laughed. “Is that the way you feel about me, Nancy? Pity for + the gourd, but don't you believe that if I was to will it so, it would + come good and whole again?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i> don't believe it,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “It's not for me to believe or to unbelieve,” he answered. “I am that I + am.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” she taunted him, “you've tried saying such things, and you're + not afraid because it ha'n't killed you yet. You think if you <i>was</i> + just a man it would kill you.” + </p> + <p> + “Who can tell what I think? Perhaps something like what you say has gone + through my mind. Why, Nancy, if you would listen once, I could convince + you of it, too. Come, now, look at it in this light! If God lets a man say + and do what the man pleases—and He <i>has</i> to do it every now and + then according to what the Book tells—why ain't the man equal with + God? You believe, maybe, that you would be struck dead if you said the + things that I do; but why ain't I struck dead? Why, either because it + ain't so, at all, or because I'm God. It stands to reason, don't it? What + is God, anyway? If He was so mighty and terrible, wouldn't He have ways of + showing it in these times just as much as in those old times that we read + about in the Book? + </p> + <p> + “Don't you know that if there was anything besides you and me, here now, + it would have sent the lightning out of this clear sky and blasted me when + I said, I was God? Well, now we'll try it again. Listen! I <i>am God</i>, + Jehovah, ruler of heaven and earth!” He stood a moment, smiling. “There + you see! I'm safe and sound as ever. May be you think it would be worse if + <i>you</i> said I was God. Lots have said it. Last night all Leatherwood + was hanging to my arms and legs down there in the Temple worshiping me. If + I hadn't been God it would have made me sick! No mere man could stand the + praising God gets in the churches all the time. Why that proves I'm what I + say I am, if nothing else does. I saw it from the first; I felt it; I knew + it.” He ended with his laugh. + </p> + <p> + She stayed herself by the trunk of the tree overhanging the well. “Yes, + you've got all Leatherwood with you, or as good as all, and I don't wonder + it's made you crazy. But don't you be so sure. Some day there's going to + be a reckoning with you, and you're going to wake up from this dream of + yours.” She seemed to gather force as she faced him. “I could feel to be + glad it <i>was</i> a dream; I could feel to pity you. But don't you + believe but what it's going to turn against you. Some day, sooner or + later, some man's going to show the people what you are; some woman—” + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> + <img src="images/3001.jpg" alt="3001 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <h5> + <a href="images/3001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> + </h5> + + <p> + “There you've said it,” he broke in. “That's what I've come for. You're + the only woman that could hurt me, not because you think you know me the + best, but because you're the bravest woman that ever was. That's why I've + got to have you with me in my dispensation. Male and female created He + them in His image. I can swing all Leatherwood by myself, but + Leatherwood's nothing. If I had you with me we could swing the world! + Nancy, why don't you come to me?” He flung his arms wide and bent his + stalwart shape toward her. “Leatherwood's nothing, I tell you. Why, you + ought to see the towns Over-the-Mountains; you ought to see Philadelphia, + where I came from the last thing. Everywhere the people are waiting for a + sign, just as they've always been, and we would come with a sign—plenty + of signs: the perfect Godhead, male and female, for the greatest sign of + all. Why, I wonder there's a Christian woman living, with the slur that + the idea of just one male God throws on women! Don't you know that the + Egyptians and the Greeks and the Romans, and everybody but the Hebrews, + had a married God, and that the Godhead was husband and wife? If you had + ever read anything at all you would know that.” + </p> + <p> + The bad, vulgar beauty of his face, set in its flowing beard and hair, + glowed on her. + </p> + <p> + “You needn't look that way at me, Joseph Dylks,” she answered. “I don't + want any book-l'arning to know what <i>you</i> are. You're what you always + was, a lazy, good-for-nothing—Oh, I don't say you wasn't handsome; + that was what done it for me when I made you my God; but I won't make you + my God now, though you're as handsome as ever you was; handsomer, if + that's any comfort to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing to what you're coming to me would be, Nancy.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll have to do without, then. You think you can twist me round your + finger, like you used to, if you willed it, but I've outlived you, you and + your will. Now I want you to go, and not ever come near me again; or I'll + have Laban here, the next time.” + </p> + <p> + “Laban? Laban? Oh, the man who is not thy husband! I'm not afraid of your + having Laban, here; let him come. I've converted worse sinners than + Laban.” He had remained, bent forward with his gaze still on her; now he + lifted himself, and said, as if it were another word of his spell, “Come, + Nancy!” + </p> + <p> + She answered, “If I thought there was any mercy in you—” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I'm All-merciful, as well as All-mighty, Nancy!” he jeered. + </p> + <p> + “No,”—as if concluding her thought, she said, “it's no use! You + couldn't do a right thing if you wanted to; you can only do wrong things. + I see that.” + </p> + <p> + “What is right and what is wrong? When you stand by my side in your half + of the godhead, you will know that there is no difference. Why, even a + poor human being can make wrong right by wanting it enough, and with God + there is nothing but one kind of thing, the thing that God allows. It + don't matter whether it's letting the serpent tempt that fool woman in + Eden, or Joseph's brethren selling him into Egypt, or Samuel hewing Agag + in pieces, or the Israelites smiting the heathen, or David setting Uriah + in the forefront of the battle, or Solomon having hundreds of wives; it's + all right if God wills it. You'll say it's put right by what happens to + them that do wrong. Be God yourself and the right and the wrong will take + care of themselves. I want you to come and help me. Why, with the sister + and daughter of old David Gillespie both following me—” + </p> + <p> + She suddenly shrank from the grandeur of judging of him, to the measure of + her need of his forbearance. “Oh, why can't you let David alone? What's he + ever done to you?” + </p> + <p> + “What have I ever done to him?” Dylks demanded, temporizing on her ground. + </p> + <p> + “Why can't you let Jane alone?” + </p> + <p> + He gave his equine snort, as if the sense of his power could best vent + itself so. “Why can't she let <i>me</i> alone? That girl bothers me worse + than all the other women in Leatherwood put together. She won't <i>let</i> + me let her alone.” + </p> + <p> + “She was all right before you came. Why can't you let her go back to + Hughey Blake?” + </p> + <p> + “Hughey Blake? Oh! Then it wasn't—” A light of malign intelligence + shone in his eyes. “Well, I haven't got anything against Hughey Blake.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if you'd only let her go back to Hughey! If you'd only let her alone, + I'd—” + </p> + <p> + “You'd what?” He bounded toward her, and at her recoil he laughed and + said, “I didn't mean to scare you.” + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't scared. You can't scare <i>me</i>, Joseph Dylks. It's past that, + long ago, with you and me. But if I only knowed what you was up to—what + you would really take to let David alone; to let her go back to Hughey + Blake—But there ain't any pity in you!” + </p> + <p> + “Don't I tell you I'm <i>full</i> of pity? Look here, Nancy; I don't ask + you to come with me, to be one with me, to go halves in the godhead, all + at once. It's been step by step with me: first exhorter, then prophet, + then disciple, then the Son, then the Father: but it's been as easy! You + don't know how faith, the faith of the elect, helps along; and you would + have that from the beginning; they would take you on my word, you wouldn't + have to say or do anything. But that's not what I'm expecting now,” he + hurried to add, smiling at the cloud of refusal in her face. “I'm not + fooling; all I ask now is to have you come and see me do a miracle at + Brother Hingston's to-night. I'll do two miracles if you'll come, and one + will be sending Jane Gillespie away from me and back to Hughey Blake. + You'll want to see that, even if you don't want to see me turn a bolt of + cloth into seamless raiment by the touch of my hand.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a wicked man, Joseph Dylks,” the woman solemnly answered. “And + I'm sorry I asked you anything. You <i>couldn't</i> do good, if you + tried.” She pulled her sunbonnet across her face, as if to hide it for + shame, and went back slowly toward the cabin. + </p> + <p> + “Salvation!” Dylks shouted after her, and gave his equine snort. He began + to sing, as he took his way through the woods, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Plunged in a gulf of dark despair + We wretched sinners lay.” + </pre> + <p> + At first he sang boldly, filling the woods with the mocking of his hymn. + But at the sound of footsteps crackling over the dry falling twigs toward + him intermittently, as if they paused in question, and then resumed their + course toward him, his voice fell, brokenly silencing itself till at the + encounter of a man glimpsed through the trees, and pausing in a common + arrest, it ceased altogether. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” Dylks demanded of the slight, workworn figure before him. + </p> + <p> + “Laban Billings,” the man faltered. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, Laban Billings, make way for the Lord thy God,” Dylks + powerfully returned, and as if he had borne the man down before him, he + strode over the place where he had stood, and lost himself in the shadows + beyond. + </p> + <p> + Laban hurried on, stumbling and looking back over his shoulder, till he + found himself face to face with Nancy at the door of the shed behind the + cabin. She was looking, too, in the direction Dylks had ceased from their + sight in the woods. They started from each other in mutual fright. + </p> + <p> + “Nancy!” he entreated. “I didn't see you. I—I wasn't comin' to see + you, indeed, indeed I wasn't. I just thought I might ketch sight of the + baby—It's pretty hard to do without you both! And I was just passin'—Well, + they've knocked off work at the Corners, so's to come to the miracle at + Hingston's Mill to-night—But I'll go right away again, Nancy.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn't, Laban. Come in and see the baby.” + </p> + <p> + “Nancy!” he uttered joyfully. Then he faltered, “Do you think it will be + right—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, who knows what's right?” she retorted. Then at his stare, she + demanded, “Didn't you run across anybody in the woods?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What did he look like?” + </p> + <p> + “Like what they tell the Leatherwood God looks like. They're half crazy + about him at the Corners. They don't hardly talk about anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you think he looked like God?” + </p> + <p> + “More like Satan, I should say. He's handsome enough for Satan.” + </p> + <p> + “It was Joseph Dylks.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I s'picioned that.” + </p> + <p> + “And he's been here, wanting me to go away with him—Over-the-Mountains.” + </p> + <p> + Laban made a dry sound in his throat and it was by a succession of efforts + that he could say, “And—and—and—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, could you <i>ask</i>, Laban?” she lamented. “You're my husband, don't + you know it?” At the sound of her lament a little voice of fear and hope + answered from the cabin. The father-hunger came into the man's weak face, + making it strong. “Come in and see our baby, Laban.” + </p> + <p> + She put out her hand to him innocently like a little girl to a little boy, + and he took it. “I know it's just for the baby; and I feel to thank you, + Nancy,” he said, and together they went into the cabin. + </p> + <p> + At sight of him the baby crowed recognition. “She knowed you in a minute,” + the mother said, and she straightened the skirt of the little one which + the father had deranged in lifting the child from the floor. “I don't + believe she'll ever forget you; I <i>reckon</i> she won't if I have any + say in it. Me and Joey talks about you every night when we're gettin' her + to sleep.” She gurgled out a half-sob, half-laugh, as the little one + pulled and pushed at his face, which he twisted this way and that, to get + her hand in his mouth. “She always cared more for you than she did for me. + I'll set you a piece, Laban; I was just going to get me a bite of + something; I don't take my meals very regular, with you not here.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I <i>am</i> a little hungry with the walk from the Corners, after + such an early breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you just keep her.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>I'll</i> keep her,” he exulted. + </p> + <p> + She hustled about the hearth, getting the simple meal, which she made more + than she had meant, and they had a joyous strange time together at the + leaf she stayed from the well. + </p> + <p> + He kept the baby in his lap while he ate. Then he walked the floor till + she fell asleep in his arms. When he lifted himself from laying her in the + rough cradle which he had himself made for her, he said, without looking + at the mother, “Now, I must be going, Nancy.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't go on account of me, Laban,” she said with the same fierce courage + she had shown in driving him from her before. “If it's for me—” + </p> + <p> + “Nancy, I've thought it all out since I been away. And I reckon I ain't + your husband, in the sight of God. You was right about that; and I won't + ever come back again till—as long as—” He glanced wistfully at + the little one in the cradle, and then he turned to go out of the door. + “And—and—good-by, Nancy.” + </p> + <p> + She followed him to the door. “Kiss me, Laban!” + </p> + <p> + He put away the arms she lifted toward him. “No,” he said, “I reckon it + wouldn't be right,” and he turned and walked swiftly away, without looking + back. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI + </h2> + <p> + The woman stood watching the man, as long as she could see him, and long + after, with her left hand lifted to the jamb of the door, higher than her + head. Then from the distance where he passed from sight over the brow of + the hill, another figure of a man appeared, and slowly made its way down + to the cabin. As she knew while he was still far off, it was Matthew + Braile who, as long as he sat in the seat of the scorner, with his chair + tilted against the wall, seemed a strong middle-aged man; but when he + descended from his habitual place, with the crook of his stick, worn + smooth by use, in his hard palm, one saw that he was elderly and stiff + almost to lameness. He carried himself with a forward droop, and his gaze + bent ponderingly on the ground, as if he were not meaning to look her way, + and would pass without seeing her. + </p> + <p> + “Squire Braile!” she called to him, and as he straightened himself and + turned round toward her, she besought him, “Do you believe there's any + God?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” he answered, and he smiled at the challenge from the somewhat lonely + elevation which he knew the thoughts of his neighbors kept, aloof from the + sordid levels of politics and business. “Why, Nancy, haven't we got one, + right here in Leatherwood?” + </p> + <p> + “That's what makes me think there ain't any, Squire Braile. If you're not + in too much of a hurry, I wish you'd stop and talk to me a minute. I'm in + trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “Most women are; or men, for the matter of that. What is it, Nancy? I'm + rather stronger on law than gospel; but if I can be any help, why you know + your Joey's an old friend of mine, and I'll be glad to help you.” + </p> + <p> + He came toward her where she had stepped from the threshold and sat + crouched on the hewn log, and stood looking down at her before he sank at + her side. + </p> + <p> + “You may think it's pretty strange, my asking <i>you</i> for help. Won't + you set? I can't let you come inside because the baby's just got to + sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he assented, “if you're not afraid to be seen with such an infidel + in the full light of day,” he jested, confronting her from the log where + he sank. “What would Brother Gillespie say?” + </p> + <p> + She ignored his kindly mockery, and again she began, “What makes you + believe there's a God? You don't believe in the Bible?” + </p> + <p> + “Not altogether, Nancy.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe in the Bible God?” + </p> + <p> + “As much as the Bible'll let me.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, do you believe in the miracles?” + </p> + <p> + “What are you after, Nancy Billings?” + </p> + <p> + “If you saw a miracle, would you believe it?” + </p> + <p> + “That would depend on who did it. Now, I want you to let <i>me</i> do a + little of the catechizing. I've liked you and Laban ever since you came to + Leatherwood, and you know how your Joey has all but brought my boy back to + me. Well, do <i>you</i> believe in God?” + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you?” + </p> + <p> + “A God that would let Joseph Dylks claim to be Him, and let them poor + fools kneel down to him and worship him? Would an all-wise and + all-powerful God do that?” + </p> + <p> + “What makes you say all-powerful? Haven't you seen time and time again + when good didn't prevail against evil, and don't you suppose He'd have + helped it if He could? And why do you call Him all-wise? Is it because men + are no-wise? That wouldn't prove it, would it? And about the miracles, + what does a miracle prove? Does it prove that the person who does it is of + God, or just that faith is stronger than reason in those who think it's + happened?” + </p> + <p> + “But sin: do you think there's such a thing?” Nancy pursued. + </p> + <p> + “There you are, catechizing <i>me</i> again! Yes, I think there's sin, + because I've known it in myself, if I haven't in others.” + </p> + <p> + “And what is it—sin?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Nancy, it seems to vary according to the time and place. But I + should say it was going against what you knew was right at the time + being.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you always know?” + </p> + <p> + “Always!” the old man answered solemnly. “I never was mistaken in my life, + whether I went for or against it, and I've done both.” + </p> + <p> + The woman drew a hapless sigh. “Yes, I reckon it's so.” + </p> + <p> + Braile was putting out his stick to help himself in rising, after the + silence she let follow. She came from it, and reached a staying hand + toward him. “And supposin'—supposin'—there was a woman—that + there was a woman, and her husband left her, and he kept away years and + years, till she thought he was dead, and she married somebody else, and + then he come back, would it be a sin for her to keep on with the other one + when she knowed the first one was alive?” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon that's what would be called a sin, Nancy. Not that I'd be very + quick to condemn her—” + </p> + <p> + “And supposin' that the first one hadn't claimed her yet, and she'd made + the other one leave her, and then the first one come and wanted her to + join him in the wickedest thing that ever was, and she wasn't as strong as + she had been, and she felt to need the protection-like of the other one: + would it be a sin for her to take him back?” + </p> + <p> + Braile made again as if to rise. “I reckon you'd better talk to Mis' + Braile about a thing like that. You see, a man—” + </p> + <p> + She stayed him again with a beseeching gesture. + </p> + <p> + “Squire Braile, do you believe that God is good?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, now, I'm more at home in a question like that. You might say that if + He lets evil prevail, it's either because He can't help it, or because He + don't care, or even because He thinks it's best for mankind to let them + have their swing when they choose to do evil. I incline to think that's my + idea. He's made man, we'll say, made him in His own image, and He's put + him here in a world of his own, to do the best or the worst with it. The + way I look at it, He doesn't want to keep interfering with man, but lets + him play the fool or play the devil just as he's a mind to. But every now + and then He sends him word. If we're going to take what the Book says, He + sent him Word made flesh, once, and I reckon He sends him Word made Spirit + whenever there's a human creature comes into the world, all loving and all + unselfish—like your Joey, or—my—my Jimmy—” + </p> + <p> + The old man's voice died in his throat, and the woman laid her hand on his + knee. He trembled to his feet, now. “When I think of such Spirits coming + into this world, I'm not afraid of all the devils out of hell Dylksing + round.” + </p> + <p> + He walked on down the road, and Nancy went indoors and went about her + household work. She cleaned the dishes and trimmed the hearth; she spun + the flax which tufted her wheel; then she took the rags of some garments + past repair, and in the afternoon shadow of her threshold she cut them + into ribbons and sewed them end to end and wound them into balls, for + weaving into carpets. + </p> + <p> + People, as the evening drew on, went by, singly, in twos, in groups, + silent for the most part, but some talking seriously. These looked at + Nancy without speaking, but some asked, “Ain't you goin' to the Miracle?” + and she shook her head for answer. + </p> + <p> + She had brushed her hair and put it up neatly after her indoors work was + done, but she was in what she would have called her every-day clothes, and + the passers had on their Sunday clothes; the girls wore their newest + plaids of linsey-woolsy, and the young men wore tall beaver hats, and long + high-collared coats, with tight pantaloons, which some pretenders to the + latest fashions had strapped under their boots. They had on their Sunday + faces, too; some severe, some sly, some simple and kind, but all with an + effect of condition for whatever might be going to happen. They went as + the people of Leatherwood went to the Temple on the Sabbaths before their + meetings had been turned from the orderly worship of the Most High to the + riot of emotions raised by the strange man who proclaimed himself God. In + their expectations of the Sign which he had promised to give them, both + those who believed and those who denied him found themselves in a sort of + truce. They were as if remanded to the peace of the time before the + difference which had rent the community into warring fragments. In this + truce brothers were speaking who had not spoken since they accepted or + refused the new God; families walked together in the harmony which he had + lately counseled; children honored their believing or disbelieving + parents; fathers and mothers ceased to abhor their children as limbs of + Satan, according to their faith or unfaith. “Let everybody come to the + Sign,” he had exhorted them when he promised them the miracle, “just as if + they had never seen or heard me before, and let His creatures judge their + Creator with love for one another in their hearts.” + </p> + <p> + In all there was an air of release, and the young people looked as if they + were going to one of the social gatherings they would have called a + frolic, in the backwoods phrase. Nancy heard a girl titter in response to + her companion's daring whisper, “Wonder if Mis' Hingston's going to pass + round the apples and cider.” They walked in couples, openly or demurely + glad of being together for the time; and as if the miracle before them + were the wonder of coming home through the woods with their arms around + each other, whether the miracle of the seamless raiment was wrought or + not. + </p> + <p> + It was their elders who were more singly set upon the fulfilment of the + sign, and who went with a more passionate expectation in the doubt or the + faith which differenced them; children were more bent upon the affair of + the evening than the young girls and the young men. They had been + privileged in being allowed to go with their fathers and mothers when they + had not been punished in being left at home and they subdued themselves as + they could to the terms of keeping step beside them with the bare feet + that felt winged and ached to fly. Old and young they passed Nancy's cabin + thinly or at intervals, but sometimes in close groups; they glanced kindly + or unkindly askance at her when they did not question her, and very + possibly they read in her sitting there boldly aloof from them a defiance + of the question which had begun to gather about her in the common mind + since Laban had left her for his work at the Cross Roads, with none of + those Saturday night returns which it had at first expected. It was known + that Laban was of the same opposition to Dylks as Nancy and her brother, + and it could not be that Dylks had caused the break between her and Laban + which no one would have noticed if it had been an effect of religion. It + could only be that Laban had left her, or that her temper had driven him + away. + </p> + <p> + With the last came a crowd of boys, whose lagging she understood when her + own boy jumped down from the cabin door beside her. + </p> + <p> + “Did I scare you, mother?” he asked, at her start. + </p> + <p> + “No; I was expecting you, and you always come in at the back. You'll want + your supper, I'll be bound. What made you so late, and all out of breath, + so?” + </p> + <p> + “I been running. We just got the last of the tobacco in, this evening, and + Mis' Hingston made me stay and eat with Benny; she said she'd excuse me to + you. I just left the other boys up over the hill, and run through the + woods to get here in time and ask you.” + </p> + <p> + “To ask me what, Joey dear?” She put her arms fondly round the boy's + knees, and pulled him down to her. + </p> + <p> + “The boys said you let me go to the Temple all I want to; but I told them + the Miracle was different, and I'd have to ask you first. I told Mis' + Hingston, and I told the boys. Me 'n' Benny got them to come round. Kin I, + mother? Mis' Hingston thought may be—may be—you might come + yourself. But I told her I didn't believe you would.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I won't go, Joey. What makes you want to go?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know. All the boys are goin'. And I never seen a miracle + yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe he can do a miracle?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it would be some fun to see what he would do if he didn't. I'd like + to hear what he'd say.” + </p> + <p> + “And what would you think if he did do it? That he was—God?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>no</i>, mother! He couldn't be. Mr. Dylks couldn't. I ain't ever + thought for a minute that he was <i>that</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “And if he failed—if he tried, and put himself to shame before + everybody, how would you feel?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, mother, nobody as't him to.” Nancy was silent for so long that the + boy said discouragedly, “But if you don't want me to go—” + </p> + <p> + Her face hardened from the pity of her inward vision of the man's + humiliation, as if his own son had judged him justly. “Yes, you can go, + Joey. But be careful, be careful! And don't stay too late. And if anything + happens—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, surely, mother, nothing will <i>happen</i>,” he exulted, and he broke + from her hold and ran down the road where the group of boys had waited for + him, and as he ran he leaped into the air, and called to them, “She's let + me; she's let me!” and the boys leaped up in response, and called back, + “Hurrah, hurrah!” and when he had come up with them, they all tried to get + their arms round him, and trod on his heels and toes in pushing one + another from him. + </p> + <p> + In the August twilight which now began to pale the hot sunset glow, as if + she had waited to come alone, in her pride or in her shame, the woman who + was bearing the body of the miracle to the place where the wonder was to + be wrought came last of all to pass Nancy where she sat at her door. She + was that strong believer who in her utter trust, when she heard that cloth + would be needed for the seamless raiment of his miracle, had offered to + provide it; and now, neither in pride nor in shame, but in defiance of her + unbelieving husband, she was bearing away from her house the bolt of + linsey-woolsey newly home from the weaver, which was to have been cut into + the winter's clothing of her children. She had spun the threads herself + and dyed them, and they had become as if they were of her own flesh and + blood. She carried the bolt wrapped about with her shawl, bearing it + tenderly in her arms, as if it were indeed her flesh and blood, her babe + which she was going to lay upon an altar of sacrifice. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII + </h2> + <p> + The crowd at Hingston's mill grew with the arrival of the unbelievers as + well as the believers in Dylks. They came from all sides, sometimes singly + and sometimes in groups, and the groups came disputing as often as + agreeing among themselves. When a group was altogether believing they + exchanged defiances with a party of those religious outcasts, the Hounds, + disturbers of camp-meetings and baptisms, and notorious mockers, now, of + the Leatherwood god in his services at the Temple. But the invitation + given to see the promised miracle had been <i>to all</i>; the Hounds had + felt in it the tenor of a challenge, and they had accepted it defiantly. + They jeered at the believers as these arrived, sometimes hailing them by + name; they neighed and whinnied, and shouted “Salvation!” and in the + intervals of silence they burst out with the first lines of the Believers' + hymn. + </p> + <p> + There were those who mocked, “I am God Almighty,” “The Father and the Son + are one, and I am both of 'em put together,” and “Oh, Dylks, save us!” + “Don't leave us, Dylks!” “Make the Devil jump, Joseph! Make him rattle his + scales for us!” “Fetch on your miracle!” The believing women turned away; + some of the younger tittered hysterically at a droll profanation of their + idol's name, and then one of the ruffians applauded. “That's right, + sisters! We like to have you enjoy yourselves. Promised to let anybody in + particular see you home to-night?” The girls tried to control themselves, + and laughed the more, and the Hound called, “Say, girls, let's have a + dance—a dance before the Lord.” + </p> + <p> + Jane Gillespie had come with her father in the family pride which forbade + them to reject each other publicly. The girl stood a little apart from her + father, and near her hung, wistfully, fearfully, the young farmer whom the + neighborhood gossip had assigned her for an acceptable if not accepted + lover. She looked steadfastly away from Hughey Blake, with her head lifted + and her cheeks coldly flushed under the flame of her vivid hair: she was + taller than the other girls, and showed above the young man. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Hughey,” one of the Hounds spoke across the space they had left + between them and the decent unbelievers, “Can't you gimme a light? Reach + up!” He held out a cigar, in the joke of kindling it at the girl's hair. + </p> + <p> + Hughey Blake turned, and his helpless retort, “You ought to be ashamed of + yourself,” redoubled the joy of the Hounds. The girl glanced quickly at + him, with what meaning he could not have made out, and it might have been + fear of her which kept him hesitating whether to cross over and fall upon + his tormentor. He looked at her as if for a sign, but she made as if she + had heard nothing; then while he still hesitated a slender, sinewy young + fellow came down the open ground, with a soft jolt in his gait like that + of a rangy young horse. He wore high boots with his trousers pushed + carelessly into their tops, and for a sign of week-day indifference to the + occasion, a checked shirt, of the sort called hickory; he struck up the + brim of his platted straw hat in front with one hand, and with the other + on his hip stood a figure of backwoods bravery, such as has descended to + the romance of later times from the reality of the Indian-fighting + pioneers. + </p> + <p> + “You fellows keep still!” he called out. “If you don't I'll make you.” + </p> + <p> + Retorts of varied sense and nonsense came from the Hounds, but without + malice in their note. One voice answered, “I'd like to see you try, Jim + Redfield!” + </p> + <p> + The other jolted closer toward the line of the Hounds, and leaned over. + “Did I hear somebody speak?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon not, Jim,” the voice of his challenger returned. “Come to join + the band?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't come to worry helpless women,” Redfield said. + </p> + <p> + “That's right, Jim. There's where we're with you. D'you reckon Apostle + Hingston'll let us in to see the miracle if we'll keep the believers + straight while the Almighty is at it?” + </p> + <p> + “I can't say for Mr. Hingston,” Redfield returned. “But if I was in his + place I'd want to keep my jug out of sight when you fellows were on duty.” + </p> + <p> + Redfield passed the Gillespies as he lounged back to his place with a + covert glance at the girl, who made no sign of seeing her champion. + </p> + <p> + The woman who was bringing the body of the miracle came round the corner + of the mill, and showed herself in the open space with the bolt of cloth + borne carefully in her arms. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it's a baby!” came from that merriest of the Hounds whom Redfield + had turned from an enemy into a troublesome friend of the believers. + “Reckon the women'll have something to say to that if he tries to turn + e'er a baby into seamless raiment.” + </p> + <p> + The fellow got the laugh he had tried for, and when Redfield looked toward + him again he said, “All right, Jim. I'm keepin' 'em quiet the best I can. + But the elect <i>will</i> make a noise, sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + The woman with her bundle passed through the open door of the house behind + the mill. The public entrance was at the front where by day the bags of + grain were lifted by rope and tackle to the upper story, and the farmers + who brought them climbed up by the inner stairways. The believers had + expected that they were to come in by way of the dwelling, but now the + burly figure of the miller, with the light of a candle behind it, showed + black in the doorway, and he spoke up, in his friendly voice: “Neighbors, + we want you all to go round to the front of the mill and come in there. + The miracle is going to be done on the bolting-cloth floor, where there + will be room for all that wants to see. We don't mean to keep anybody out, + whether they believe or don't believe. The only thing we want is for you + all to be quiet, and not make trouble. And now, come in as quick as you + can, so you can be sure we haven't had time to do anything to the cloth + that the seamless raiment is going to be made out of.” + </p> + <p> + “Hounds and everybody?” called that gayest voice among the outcasts. + </p> + <p> + “Hounds and everybody,” the miller humorously assented, and his black bulk + melted into the dark as the candle disappeared within. + </p> + <p> + The dim light from tin lanterns threw the pattern of their perforations on + the walls and roofs of the interior, and showed the tracery of the floury + cobwebs. The people could scarcely see their way to the stairs by the + glimmer, and there was more talking with nervous laughter than there had + been outside. One of the Hounds called out, “I don't want any of you girls + to kiss <i>me!</i>” and gave the relief of indignation to the hysterical + emotion of the believers; the more serious of the unbelievers found escape + in their helpless laughter from their tense expectation of triumph in the + failure of the promised miracle. + </p> + <p> + The wide space on the bolting-cloth floor, before the bins mounded high + with new wheat, and the rows of millstones, motionless under their empty + hoppers, was lighted by candles in tin sconces, but these were so few that + they shone only on the foremost faces and left those behind a gleam of + eyes or teeth. The familiar machinery had put on a grewsome strangeness + which had its final touch from the roll lying on the table like something + dead. A table had been set in front of the barrels under the bolting + cloths, and the muslin funnels, empty of flour, hung down into the barrels + with the effect of colossal legs standing in them. The air of the hot + night was close within; a damp odor from the water flowing under the + motionless mill wheels seemed to cool it, but did not; the perspiration + shone on the faces where the light fell on them. + </p> + <p> + The miller and his family had places in the front line of the spectators, + and with them was the woman who had given the cloth for the miracle; and + who stood staring at the stuff, which she had known so intimately in every + thread and fiber, with an air of estrangement. + </p> + <p> + When the stumbling feet of the last arrivals ceased on the stairs, the + miller stood out facing the crowd, and told them that he expected the Good + Old Man, now, any minute, together with the Apostle Paul, whom they all + knew by his earthly name as their neighbor, Mr. Enraghty. He asked them to + be as still as they could, and especially after the Good Old Man came, to + be perfectly silent; not to whisper, and not to move if they could help + it. There was nothing, though, he said, to hinder the believers from + joining in their favorite hymn; and at once the wailing of it began to + fill the place. When it ended, the deep-drawn breath of some wearied + expectant made itself heard with the shifting of tired feet easing + themselves. The minutes grew into an hour, with no sign of Dylks or + Enraghty, and the miller was again forced to ask the patience of his + neighbors. But there began to be murmurs from the unbelievers, and more + articulate protests from the Hounds. Some children, whom the believers had + brought with them to see the divine power manifest itself, whimpered, and + were suffered to lie down at the feet of their fathers and mothers and + forget their disappointment in sleep. A babe, too young to be left at + home, woke and cried, and was suckled to rest again, with ironical + applause from the Hounds. + </p> + <p> + At the end of two hours of waiting, relieved with pleas and promises from + the miller, there was no word from Dylks and no token of his bodily + presence. With the scoffing of the unbelievers, the prayers of the + faithful rose. “Come soon, oh Lord!” “Send thy Power!” “Remember thy + Little Flock!” Upon these at last broke falteringly, stragglingly, a + familiar voice, the voice of Abel Reverdy, kindly and uncouth as himself, + and expressive, like his presence, of an impartial interest in the + feelings of both the faithful and the unfaithful. He was there in the + company of his wife, who held a steadfast place among the believers, while + Abel ranged freely from one party to the other, and could not well have + known himself of either, though friendly with both. He was of a sort of + disapproving friendship even with the Hounds, and now his voice said in + impartial suggestion, “Why not somebody go and fetch him?” + </p> + <p> + “Good for you, Abel!” came from the Hound who was oftenest spokesman for + the others. “Why don't you go yourself, Abel?” + </p> + <p> + Other voices applauded, and Abel was beginning to share a general + confidence in his fitness for the mission, when his wife spoke up, “'Deed + and 'deed, I can tell you he ain't agoun' to do no such a thing, not if we + stay here all night, murricle or no murricle. I ain't agoun' to have him + put his head into the Lion of Judah's mouth, and have it bit off, like as + not. I can't tell from one minute to another whether he's a believer or + not, and if anybody is to go for the Good Old Man it's got to be a studdy + believer, and not a turncoat of many colors like Abel.” + </p> + <p> + If Sally had satisfied her need of chastizing her husband for his + variableness, and found a comfort in her scriptural language, not + qualified by its wandering application, Abel loyally accepted her open + criticism. “That's so, Sally, I ain't the one to send. I misdoubted it + myself, or I'd 'a' gone without sayin' nothin' in the first place. But, as + Sally says,” he addressed the crowd, “it ought to be a believer.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why not Sally?” a scorner suggested. She did not refuse, and there + was a whispering between her and those next her in debate of the question. + But it was closed by the loud, austere voice of one of the believing + matrons in the apostolic mandate, “Let your women keep silence in the + churches.” The text was not closely apt; it was not a precept obeyed in + the revivals of any of the sects in Leatherwood; it was especially ignored + in the meetings of the Dylks believers; but its proclamation now satisfied + the yearning always rife in them to affiliate their dispensation with the + scriptural tradition. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that settles it, Sister Coombs,” Sally promptly assented, “I wasn't + agoun' to, anyway, and I ain't agoun' to now, if I stay here all night, or + the Good Old Man don't ever come.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not Jim Redfield?” a Hound demanded, and the miller tried to be stern + in calling out, “No trifling!” but lost effect by gently adding, + “Friends.” The unbelievers laughed, but the miller's retreat from the bold + stand he had taken was covered by Redfield's threat that if those fellows + kept on he would give them something to laugh about. + </p> + <p> + As he stepped into the neutral space between the friends and enemies of + Dylks, he had a sort of double fearfulness for the women, because he was + not only not of their faith, but because he was of no religious sect in a + community where every one but an open infidel like Matthew Braile was of + some profession. He came to the Baptist services with his mother, but he + had not been baptized, and he was not seen at the house to house prayer + meetings, where the young people came with the old, or at the frolics + where dancing was forbidden, but not kissing in their games or in their + walks home through the woods. He was not supposed to be in love with any + one, and he lived alone on a rich bottom-land farm with his mother, in a + house which his father had built where his grandfather's log cabin had + stood. He was of a tradition which held him closer to the wilderness than + most of the people of Leatherwood; in the two generations before him the + Redfields had won and held their lands against the Indians, and had fought + them in the duels, from tree to tree, which the pioneers taught the + savages, or learned from them, risking their lives and scalps in the same + chances. He was of the sort of standing which old family gives, even where + all families are new, and he was now making his way politically, in spite + of his irreligion; he meant to go to the legislature, eventually, and in a + leisurely sort he was reading law, and reciting his Blackstone to Matthew + Braile. As he came and went from the old infidel's house, he was apt to + stop at the tavern porch, where the few citizens who could detach their + minds from the things of another world gave them in cloudy conjecture to + the political affairs of this, or to scrutiny of the real motives + actuating the occasional travelers who apparently arrived for a meal's + victuals or a night's lodging. With these Redfield had scarcely a social + life, but he could talk with them almost to the point of haranguing them, + for they were men; at the store, where his mother's errands sometimes took + him, he shrank from the women as timid as they when they dismounted from + their saddles or wagons, and slipped in with their butter and eggs, and + passed out again deeply obscured in their sunbonnets. + </p> + <p> + They were mostly women past the time of life when men look at them + curiously, but once Redfield was startled by meeting a young girl, as he + was trying to go out, and began losing himself with her in that hopeless + encounter of people who try to give way to each other and keep passing to + the same side at once. Her face and her red hair burned one fire, but at + last she stopped stone still, and let him go by, with a sort of angry + challenge in her blue eyes. He knew that it was Jane Gillespie without + knowing her to speak with, as he would have said, and he knew that against + her father's will she was one of the followers of Dylks. The idolatry was + not yet open and scandalous, but since then he had heard his mother + denouncing her as a worthless hussy with the other women who had worshiped + Dylks in that frenzy at the Temple. He walked up and down, passing near + where she stood with her father and Hughey Blake, and lost his breath at + each approach and caught it again at each remove. It so vividly seemed + that he must speak to her, though he did not know what he wished to say, + that it was as if he really had done so, when he heard one of the Hounds + saying, “Well, and what are you goin' to do about it, Jim?” + </p> + <p> + Then he heard himself boasting, “I'm going after Dylks myself; and if + he'll come peaceably, and do his miracle I'll take him for my god, and if + he won't, God have mercy on him!” + </p> + <p> + He was answering his jeering questioner in his words, but his eyes were on + the girl; her own eyes were lowered after a glance at her father and + Hughey Blake, and his vow remained in his ears a foolish vaunt. While he + stood unable to return to his place, a voice which no one knew, came from + the darkness outside. + </p> + <p> + “Behold,” it said, “I am the Presence of the Most High, and I come to you + with my Peace. The miracle that ye wait to see has been wrought already + unseen of you. The cloth before you has been touched by my Power, and + turned into the seamless raiment which ye seek as a sign. But it shall not + be shown to you now. Ye shall see it seven days and seven nights hence on + the eighth night at the Temple. Till then, have patience, have faith. Thus + saith the Lord.” + </p> + <p> + The voice died from the medley of scriptural phrase and a shiver of awe + passed over those who had heard. One of the believing women called out, + “Praise ye the Lord!” Then a yell of mockery broke from the Hounds and + some one shouted, “Let's have a look!” and the crowd rushed upon the roll + of cloth which lay on the table, where the woman who had brought it in her + arms had put it, and had stood patiently, anxiously, trustfully waiting. + </p> + <p> + She spread her arms out over it, with a piteous gesture, like a mother + trying to keep her child from harm. “Oh, don't! Oh, don't!” she implored. + “It's <i>my</i> cloth! I spun it, I wove it, every thread! It's all we've + got for our clothes this winter! Don't touch it, don't tear it!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> + <img src="images/4001.jpg" alt="4001 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <h5> + <a href="images/4001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> + </h5> + + <p> + Her prayer was like a signal for its denial. One of the Hounds pushed her + away and caught the cloth up. “We won't hurt it, Sister Bladen. We just + want to see what a seamless garment looks like, anyway. Maybe it'll fit + some of us. Here, boys, take a hold!” + </p> + <p> + He held by the outer edge of the cloth, and flung the bolt unfurling + itself toward his fellows over the heads of the believing men who had + crowded forward to save it from the desecration, while the woman tried to + seize it from him, beseeching, imploring, “Oh, don't hurt it, Bill Murray! + Oh, be careful! Don't let it drop! Oh, don't, don't, don't!” + </p> + <p> + “We can't do it any hurt, Sister Bladen, if it's got a miracle inside of + it,” one of the ruffians mocked. “<i>You</i> tell her we wont hurt it, Jim + Redfield! She'll trust <i>you!</i>” + </p> + <p> + The women believers were sobbing; the men gathered themselves for a + struggle with the surprise sprung upon them, but held back as if in a + superstitious hope of help from the god whom the women seemed not to trust + in his failure of them. + </p> + <p> + “Here, you fellows!” Redfield shouted over the tossing heads before him. + “What do you want to spoil her cloth for?” + </p> + <p> + His look and voice had their effect with the angry, pushing, shuffling, + elbowing, wailing, weeping crowd, in a pause like the arrest of curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “Let go that cloth, Bill,” he said, not with authority, but in a tone of + good fellowship. + </p> + <p> + The miller interposed with his friendly voice, and it seemed as if the + unbelievers would give way in pity of the poor woman who had brought the + cloth. Suddenly the bolt of stuff which Murray had conditionally yielded + was twitched from Redfield in boisterous fun, and then in the frenzy more + of mischief than malice it was seized by the Hounds, and torn into shreds. + “Find the seamless raiment!” they yelled to one another. The unbelievers + stood aside; the believers did nothing, in a palsy of amaze; the poor + woman, to whom her toil and pride in it had hallowed the stuff, sank down + staying herself on her hands from the floor, in hapless despair. Her + moaning and sobbing filled the place after the tumult of destruction had + been stricken silent. “Oh, I don't care for the miracle,” she kept + lamenting, “but what are my children going to wear this winter? Oh, what + will <i>he</i> say to me!” It was her husband she meant. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIII + </h2> + <p> + The riot in Hingston's Mill, after the failure of Dylks to appear + personally and work the promised miracle, left the question of his + divinity where it had been. With no evident change in their numbers on + either side, the believers assented, the unbelievers denied. The faithful + held that the miracle had been wrought and the seamless raiment torn to + pieces by the mob; some declared that they had seen the garments, and + tried to keep them from the sacrilege but had been overpowered. The + unfaithful laughed at the pretense, and defied the faithful to show any + scrap of the cloth having the form of clothing. The pieces remained with + the poor woman who had brought the cloth for the miracle; she carried them + weeping home, and she and her husband remained like the rest, believing + and unbelieving as before; but at every chance she scanned the dishonored + fragments in secret, and pieced them together, trying to follow the lines + of imaginary garments in them. + </p> + <p> + Throughout the week the excitement raged, silently for the most part, in + the breasts of the two parties, but sometimes breaking out in furious + affirmation and denial at such points of common meeting as the store, the + tavern, and the postoffice. There the unbelievers outnumbered the + believers, who met for mutual support and comfort at one another's houses, + but appeared nowhere in force until the Sunday night following; then they + came three to one of the enemy, and filled the Temple to overflowing. + Dylks was expected to meet them from the concealment or the absence in + which he had passed the days; the unbelievers said that he was hiding in + fear and shame; the believers that he was preaching to the heathen in + other neighborhoods, and would come in power and glory with a great + multitude of the converted following him. But the meeting in the Temple + was opened by Enraghty, who, in front of the pulpit, rose saying, “The + Good Old Man will not be here, to-night, but I will fill his place.” A + thrill of exultation and disappointment ran through the congregation + according as they believed or denied, but they all waited patiently. + </p> + <p> + Among the many families which had come in internecine enmity, Gillespie + and his daughter strained in the unlove which was like hate up to the door + of the Temple. He had taunted her with Dylks's failure to work the miracle + and with his absence during the week. “If I could get my hands on him, I + would pull him out of his hole, and make him face the people he's + deceived. I would show him whether he was God or not.” + </p> + <p> + “If you touched him, your hands would be withered,” she said in an ecstasy + of faith. “If you will bring me a single hair of his head I will deny + him.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll remember that,” he threatened bitterly, and in the loss of all the + dignity of their relation as parent and child he cast a look of + contemptuous triumph on her when Enraghty rose and said that he would take + the place of Dylks for the night. + </p> + <p> + “Bring me one hair of his head,” she said again. + </p> + <p> + The people of both sides had supposed that Dylks was sitting behind the + pulpit, as his habit was, with his head out of sight bowed in meditation. + But when Enraghty, after a few words, sat down to await the coming of the + Spirit, suddenly the minister whose turn to preach would have come that + night, sprang to his full height in the pulpit and denounced Enraghty's + pretense. The believers rose shouting to their feet, and crying, “He is my + God!” stormed out of the Temple in the night, where their voices were + heard repeating, “He is my God!” till they swelled together in the hymn + which was their confession of Dylks. A few of the unbelievers remained in + the Temple, amazed, but the greater part followed the believers into the + night. + </p> + <p> + They had the courage of their triumph through Dylks's failure to work the + miracle he had promised, and then his failure to show himself in the + Temple; but they pushed on with no definite purpose except perhaps to + break up some meeting of his followers, when one of the Hounds, yelping + and baying in acceptance of their nickname, broke upon them from the woods + they were passing with word that they had found Dylks in Enraghty's house, + where the believers were already gathering. + </p> + <p> + “We've treed him,” he said, “The whole pack's round the place, and there's + no limb in reach for him to jump to. I reckon it'll be the best coon hunt + we've ever had in Leatherwood, yit.” + </p> + <p> + Redfield put himself in touch rather than in sight amidst the darkness + which the disembodied voices broke upon. “Enraghty's house? Then we've got + him. Come on!” + </p> + <p> + The women of the unbelievers had fallen behind and finally gone home, but + all the believers, the women as well as the men, had followed their + apostle, and now their voices, in praying and singing, came from the house + still hidden by a strip of woodland. In the bewilderment which had fallen + upon David Gillespie amid the tumultuous rush from the Temple, he had been + parted from his daughter; now he fumbled forward on the feet of an old + man, and found himself beside Redfield. “I want you to let me at him + first, Jim. I just want one hair of his head.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, don't you know it's death to touch him?” Redfield jeered. + </p> + <p> + “I know that,” Gillespie assented in the same mood. “But I'll risk dying + for that one hair.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want with one hair? I'll get you a handful,” Redfield said. + </p> + <p> + “One'll do to work the miracle I'm after.” + </p> + <p> + “What miracle? None o' your seamless raiment, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It's bringing a crazy girl to her senses. She's said if I fetched her a + single hair of his she'd renounce him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” Redfield said with respectful understanding. Then he added, “I'll + get you the hair.” + </p> + <p> + The unbelievers crowded to the house in the light from the uncurtained + windows. One of them stood tiptoe peering in while the others waited. + “It's chuck full,” he reported. “No room for sinners, I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if Dylks is in there he'll work one of his miracles and <i>make</i> + room,” another of the Hounds answered. Redfield stood trying the door. + “Locked? Hammer on it! Break it in! Here! Give him a shoulder!” + </p> + <p> + The mob surged forward, laughing and shouting, and crushed Redfield + against the door. The panel cracked and groaned; Redfield called to the + crowd to hold back, but suddenly the door opened, and the fanatical face + of Enraghty showed itself above Redfield's back. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” he demanded. “This is the Lord's house.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it's as much ourn as what it is yourn,” some one shouted back. + </p> + <p> + “We want to see the Lord,” another called. “Just one look, just one lick.” + </p> + <p> + The old schoolmaster lost his self-control. “There are some of you out + there that I've licked before now for your mischief.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we know that,” came back. “You didn't lick us enough. We'd like to + have you give us some more.” + </p> + <p> + The hindmost of the Hounds surged against those in front, and the whole + mob fell forward upon Redfield; he staggered over the threshold to save + himself, and struck Enraghty backward in his helpless plunge. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, look out there,” the nearest of the mob called back. “Your're hurtin' + Mr. Enraghty!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we don't want to hurt old Saint Paul!” a mocker returned; but they + pressed on wilfully, helplessly; they pushed those in front, who might + have held back, and filled the entry-way and the rooms beyond. In a circle + of his worshipers, kneeling at his feet, stood Dylks, while they hailed + him as their God and entreated his mercy. At the scramble behind them, + they sprang up and stood dazed, confronting their enemies. + </p> + <p> + “We want Dylks! We want the Good Old Man! We want the Lion of Judah! Out + of the way, Little Flock!” came in many voices; but when the worshipers + yielded, Dylks had vanished. + </p> + <p> + A moment of awe spread to their adversaries, but in another moment the + riot began again. The unbelievers caught the spirit of the worse among + them and stormed through the house, searching it everywhere, from the + cellar to the garret. A yell rose from them when they found Dylks half way + up the chimney of the kitchen. His captors pulled him forward into the + light, and held him cowering under the cries of “Kill him!” “Tie him to a + tree and whip him!” “Tar and feather him!” “Ride him on a rail!” + </p> + <p> + “No, don't hurt him!” Redfield commanded. “Take him to a justice of the + peace and try him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” the leader of the Hounds assented. “Take him to Squire Braile. + He'll settle with him.” + </p> + <p> + The Little Flock rallied to the rescue, and some of the herd joined them. + As an independent neutral, Abel Reverdy, whom his wife stirred to action, + caught up a stool and joined the defenders. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you fool,” a leader of the Hounds derided him amiably, “what you + want to do with that stool? If the Almighty can't help himself, you think + <i>you're</i> goin' to help him?” + </p> + <p> + Abel was daunted by the reasoning, and even Sally stayed her war cries. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I guess there's sumpin' <i>in</i> that,” Abel assented, and he + lowered his weapon. + </p> + <p> + The incident distracted his captors and Dylks broke from them, and ran + into the yard before the house. He was covered with soot and dust and his + clothes were torn; his coat was stripped in tatters, and his long hair + hung loose over it. + </p> + <p> + His prophecies of doom to those who should lay hands upon him had been + falsified, but to the literal sense of David Gillespie he had not yet been + sufficiently proved an impostor: till he should bring his daughter a + strand of the hair which Dylks had proclaimed it death to touch, she would + believe in him, and David followed in the crowd straining forward to reach + Redfield, who with one of his friends had Dylks under his protection. The + old man threw himself upon Dylks and caught a thick strand of his hair, + dragging him backward by it. Redfield looked round. He said, “You want + that, do you? Well, I promised.” He tore it from the scalp, and gave it + into David's hand, and David walked back with it into the house where his + daughter remained with the wailing and sobbing women-worshipers of the + desecrated idol. + </p> + <p> + He flung the lock at her feet. “There's the hair that it was death to + touch.” She did not speak; she only looked at it with horror. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you believe it's his?” her father roared. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes! I know it's his; and now let's go home and pray for him, and + for <i>you</i>, father. We've both got the same God, now.” + </p> + <p> + A bitter retort came to the old man's lips, but the abhorrent look of his + daughter stayed his words, and they went into the night together, while + the noise of the mob stormed back to them through the darkness, farther + and farther away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIV + </h2> + <p> + The captors of Dylks chose the Temple as the best place for keeping him + till morning, when they could take him for trial to Matthew Braile; but + they had probably no sense of the place where he had insolently triumphed + so often as the fittest scene of his humiliation. They stumbled in a loose + mob behind and before and beside him through the dim night, and tried to + pass Redfield's guard to strike him with their hands or the sticks which + they tore from the wayside bushes. At a little distance, a straggling + troop of the believers followed, men and women, wailing and sobbing, and + adoring and comforting their idol with promises of fealty, in terms of + pathetic grotesqueness. A well-known voice called to him, “Don't you be + afraid, God Almighty! They can't hurt a hair of your head,” and the burst + of savage mirth which followed Sally Reverdy's words, drowned the retort + of a scoffer, “Why, there ain't hardly any left <i>to</i> hurt, Sally.” + </p> + <p> + The noise of the talking and laughing and the formless progress of the mob + hushed the nearer night voices of the fields and woods; but from a + distance the shuddering cry of a screech-owl could be heard; and the + melancholy call of a killdee in a pasture beside the creek. The people, + friends and foes together, made their way unlighted except by the tin + lantern which some one had caught from where it stood on Enraghty's + gate-post. + </p> + <p> + With this one of the unbelievers took his stand at the door of the Temple + after Redfield had passed in with his prisoner, and lifted it successively + to the faces of those trying to enter. He allowed some and refused others, + according as they were of those who denied or confessed Dylks, and a Hound + at his elbow explained, “Don't want any but goats in here, to-night.” + </p> + <p> + The common parlance was saturated with scriptural phrase, and the gross + mockery would have been taken seriously if the speaker had not been so + notoriously irreverent. As it was the words won him applause which + Redfield and his friends were not able to quell. The joke was caught up + and tossed back and forth; the Little Flock outside raised their hymn, the + scoffers within joined in derision, and carried the hymn through to the + end. + </p> + <p> + Dylks sat shrunken on the bench below the pulpit, his head fallen forward + and his face hidden. Redfield and one of his friends sat on either side, + and others tried to save him from those who from time to time pushed + forward to strike him. They could not save him from the insults which + broke again and again upon the silence; when Redfield rose and appealed to + the people to leave the man to the law, they came back at him with shrieks + and yells. + </p> + <p> + “Did the law keep my family from bein' broke up by this devil? My wife + left me and my own brother won't speak to me because I wouldn't say he was + my Savior and my God.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm an old woman, and I lived with my son, but my son has quit me to + starve, for all he cares, because I believe in the God of Jacob and he + believes in this snorting, two-legged horse.” + </p> + <p> + “My sister won't live with me, because I won't fall down and worship her + Golden Calf.” + </p> + <p> + “He's spread death and destruction in my family. My daughters won't look + at me, and my two sons fought till they were all blood, about him.” + </p> + <p> + The accusings and upbraidings thickened upon him, but Dylks sat silent, + except for a low groan of what might have seemed remorse. He put his hand + to the place on his head where the hair had been torn away, and looked at + the blood on his fingers. + </p> + <p> + A woman stole under the guard of his keepers, and struck him a savage blow + on the cheeks, first one and then the other. “<i>Now</i> you can see how + it feels to have your own husband slap you because you won't say you + believe in such a God as you are, you heathen pest!” + </p> + <p> + The guards struggled with her, and a man stooped over Dylks and voided a + mouthful of tobacco juice in his face; another lashed him on the head with + a switch of leatherwood: all in a squalid travesty of the supreme tragedy + of the race. As if a consciousness of the semblance touched the + gospel-read actors in the drama, they shrank in turn from what they had + done, and lost themselves in the crowd. + </p> + <p> + The night wore away and when the red sunrise began to pierce the dusk of + the Temple, where some had fallen asleep, and others drowsed as they + walked to and fro to keep themselves awake, Redfield conferred with his + lieutenants. Then they pulled their captive to his feet, not roughly, and + moved with him down the aisle and out of the door. They left some of the + slumberers still sleeping; of the others not all followed them on their + way to Matthew Braile's, up through the woods and past the cornfields and + tobacco patches; but with those of the Little Flock who had hung + night-long about the Temple, singing and praying to their idol, they + arrived, some before and some after the prisoner, at the log cabin of the + magistrate. He was sitting after his habit in his splint-bottomed chair + tilted against the porch wall, waiting for the breakfast which his wife + was getting within. As the crowd straggled up to the porch, he tilted his + chair down, and came forward with a frown of puzzle. “What's this?” he + demanded; then, catching sight of a woman's eager face among the foremost, + his frown relaxed and he said, “Don't all speak at once, Sally.” + </p> + <p> + “'Deed and 'deed, I'm not agoun' to speak at all, Squire Braile; but if + you want to know you can see for yourself that they've got the Good Old + Man here, and from the tell I've hearn they want you to try him; they've + been hittun' him over the face and head all night.” She looked defiantly + round on the unbelievers who so far joined in the Squire's grin as to + burst into a general laugh, and a cry of “Good for you, Sally. You're + about right.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> + <img src="images/5001.jpg" alt="5001 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <h5> + <a href="images/5001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> + </h5> + + <p> + Braile referred himself to Redfield, who mounted to the porch with the + other guards, and the tattered and bedraggled Dylks in their midst. “What + are you doing with this man, Jim?” + </p> + <p> + “We've brought him to you to find out, Squire Braile. You know who he is, + and all the mischief he's been making in this settlement. We don't need to + go into that.” + </p> + <p> + “Wish you'd step in there,” the Squire said, nodding toward the room + opposite the kitchen, “and bring me out the Laws of Ohio. You know where + it is.” + </p> + <p> + His recognition of Redfield as a law-student pleased the Herd of the Lost, + and one of the guards said, “All right, Jim. We'll hold him.” + </p> + <p> + As Redfield disappeared within, the Squire called after him, “Bring out my + table, too, will you. We'll have the trial here.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right as fer as it goes, Squire,” one of the crowd before the + cabin called out, “but there ain't room enough for us up there.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” the Squire answered, “you've got the whole State of Ohio down + there. I reckon you can find room in it, if you stand close.” + </p> + <p> + He turned the joke on the crowd; which acquiesced with cheers. When + Redfield returned with the large book and the small table he had been sent + for, the Squire drew up to them and proclaimed silence in the Court. Then, + “Who complains against this man? You, James Redfield?” + </p> + <p> + “I arrested him, but I don't complain of him more than the rest. You know + what he's been doing in Leatherwood, as well as other places, for the last + month or six weeks. We want his mischief stopped; we want to see what the + law can do about it. We could have lynched him, but that ain't the right + way, and so we all feel.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we've got to make a start, somewhere,” the justice returned. + “What's he accused of? What do <i>you</i> accuse him of?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, for one thing,” Redfield said, rather reluctantly, “he professes to + be Almighty God.” + </p> + <p> + “And he <i>is</i> God, the Most High Jehovah, Maker of Heaven and Earth,” + came in a varying cry, from the believers who had gathered increasingly on + the skirts of their enemies. + </p> + <p> + Their voices seemed to put life and courage into the prisoner, who for the + first time lifted his fallen face and looked at the justice with a light + of hope in his dulled eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You hear that,” the old squire addressed him. “Is that your name? Are you + God?” + </p> + <p> + “Thou sayest,” the prisoner answered, with a sudden effrontery. + </p> + <p> + “That will <i>do</i>!” the old man shouted. He might have been willing to + burlesque the case from his own disbelief, but he could not suffer the + desecration of the hallowed words; and Dylks shrank from his eyes of + fierce rebuke. “Stand away from him,” he added to the guards. “Now, then, + have you folks got any other charge against him? Has he stolen anything? + Like a mule, for instance? Has he robbed a hen-roost? Has he assaulted + anybody, or set a tobacco-shed on fire? Some one must make a charge; I + don't much care what it is.” + </p> + <p> + The old man scowled round on the people nearest him and down on the crowd + below. The believers waited in anxious silence; the unbelievers applauded + his humor with friendly laughter, and a kindlier spirit spread through + them; they were beginning to see Dylks as a joke. + </p> + <p> + “Redfield,”—the Squire turned to the young man—“let's have a + look at the Laws of Ohio, in such case made and provided.” He opened the + book which Redfield put on the table before him, and went carefully + through the index; then he closed it. “There don't seem,” he said, “to be + any charge against the prisoner except claiming to be the Almighty; he + pleads guilty to that, and he could be fined and imprisoned if there was + any law against a man's being God. But there isn't, unless it's some law + of the Bible, which isn't in force through reenactment in Ohio. He hasn't + offended against any of our statutes, neither he nor his followers. In + this State every man has a right to worship what God he pleases, under his + own vine and fig-tree, none daring to molest him or make him afraid. With + religious fanaticism our laws have nothing to do, unless it be pushed so + far as to violate some public ordinance. This I find the prisoner has not + done. Therefore, he stands acquitted.” + </p> + <p> + A roar of protest, a shout of joy went up from the crowd according to + their belief and unbelief. After his first plea Dylks had remained silent + in becoming meekness and self-respect; now he looked wildly round in fear + and hope; but he did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “Clear the way, you!” the Squire called to the people about him and below + him, and he got slowly to his feet. He took the arm of the prisoner at one + side, and said, “Here, Jim Redfield, you take this fellow's other arm,” + and as the young man helplessly obeyed, “Now!” he commanded, and with + Dylks between them, they left the porch and passed through the severing + crowd of friends and foes before the cabin. While they hesitated in doubt + of his purpose, Braile led the way with the prisoner, acquitted, but still + in custody, toward the turnpike road where the country lane passing the + cabin joined it a little way off. + </p> + <p> + The crowd straggled after in patient doubt, but when the Squire halted + with his captive and bade Redfield move back, the suspicions of the + unbelievers began to stir. + </p> + <p> + “Now, put!” the Squire said in a low voice and loosed his hold. Dylks + lifted his head alertly as he was accustomed to do when he gave his equine + snort, but now he made no sound. He leaped forward and ran with vast + bounds up the smooth turnpike toward the wall of woodland, where the + whiteness of the highway ceased in the shadow of the trees. He far + outdistanced the foremost of his pursuers, who stopped to gather the + broken stone heaped along the roadside, and under the rain of these and + the storm of curses that they sent after him, he escaped into the forest. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Abel,” the Squire said to Reverdy, whom he found, not unexpectedly, + at his elbow when he looked round, “he may not be much of a god, but he's + a good deal of a racehorse, even if he didn't give his snort.” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Squire Braile,” Redfield broke out in the first realization of + his defeat, “I'm not sure your decision was just right.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you can appeal the case to the Supreme Court, Jim,” the old man + returned. “It's my <i>breakfast</i> time,” and he stamped stiffly away + down the pike and up the road to his cabin, followed by the blessings of + the Little Flock. + </p> + <p> + The Little Flock had remained in stupefaction at the junction of the + country road and the turnpike, helplessly watching the flight of their + idol from the Herd of the Lost. When Dylks vanished in the dusk of the + forest, and the last of those who had followed him came lagging breathless + back, and dropped from their hands the broken stone which they had + unconsciously brought with them, the Little Flock involuntarily raised + their hymn, as if it had been a song of triumph; an inglorious triumph, + but an omen of final victory, and of the descent of the New Jerusalem in + Leatherwood. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind!” one of the Herd panted. “We'll have him out of that gulf of + dark despair, yit!” + </p> + <p> + “The Lord will put forth His might,” one of the Flock defied him. “But if + you fellows want to feel the arm of flesh, here and now, come on!” + </p> + <p> + The Squire put himself between the forces. “I want you to keep the peace; + I command the peace,” he said with magisterial dignity. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all right, Squire,” a Hound applauded him. “We know you're on our + side.” + </p> + <p> + “Brother Braile is on the side of righteousness,” the champion of the + Flock answered. + </p> + <p> + The Squire turned a frowning face upon him. “If the law could have held + your god, he'd have been on his way to the county jail by this time. Now, + you fellows, both sides, go home, and look after your corn and tobacco; + and you women, you go and get breakfast for them, and wash up your + children and leave the Kingdom of Heaven alone for a while.” + </p> + <p> + The weight of condemnation was for the Little Flock, but there remained + discomfort for the Herd of the Lost. “And you,” the Squire turned to them, + “you let these folks worship any stock or stone they're a mind to; and you + find out the true God if you can, and stick to Him, and don't bother the + idolaters. I reckon He can take care of Himself. I command you all to + disperse. Go home! Get out! Put!” + </p> + <p> + The saints and the sinners felt alike the mystical force of the law in his + words and began to move away, not without threats and defiances, more or + less straggling, and not altogether ceasing even after they had lost sight + of one another in their parting ways. + </p> + <p> + Redfield stayed to walk home with the old man. “Of course, Squire Braile,” + he said, “this ain't the last of Dylks, and it ain't the last of <i>us</i>. + It's a sin and a shame to have the thing going on among us. You know that + as well as I do. It's got to be stopped. If he'd got his just dues from + you—” + </p> + <p> + “You young fool,” the Squire retorted, kindly, “haven't you gone far + enough yet in your Blackstone to know that justice is one thing and law is + another? I gave Dylks his legal deserts.” + </p> + <p> + “Blackstone says the law is the perfection of reason.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you think it don't seem to be so in the State of Ohio. But I reckon + it is, and so long as we look after our own souls, we can't do better than + let others look after theirs in their own way. Come in and have some + breakfast!” He paused before his cabin with the young man. + </p> + <p> + “No, not <i>this</i> morning, Squire Braile,” Redfield lingered a moment, + and then he said, askingly, “I didn't see old Mr. Gillespie anywhere this + morning.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't notice. Where it comes to a division in public, he doesn't + usually take sides against his daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “He won't have to, after this.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Didn't you know she told him once that if he would bring her a hair of + Dylks's head she would deny him? I helped him to a whole lock of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>you</i> did that?” There was condemnation in the Squire's tone, + and as if he had been going to express a more explicit displeasure, he + hesitated. Then he said, “Well, I must be going in,” and turned his back + upon Redfield, who turned again into the turnpike road and took his way + homeward past the long and deep stretch of woods where Dylks had found + refuge. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XV + </h2> + <p> + In the middle of the forest there was a dense thicket of lower growths on + a piece of dry land lifted above the waters of a swamp. The place was the + lair of such small wild things as still survived in the wilderness once + the haunt of the wolf and the wild cat, and the resort of the bear allured + by the profusion of the huckleberries which grew there. But, except in the + early fall when the annual squirrel-hunt swept over the whole country side + and the summer drought had made the swamp easily passable to the gunners, + the place was unmolested. Even the country boy who seeks the bounty of + nature wherever she offers it, and makes the outlying property of man his + prey where nature has been dispossessed, did not penetrate the thicket in + his search for hazelnuts or chinquapins; it was proofed against his + venture by its repute of rattlesnakes and copperheads and the rumor of + ghosts and witches. Few, of men or boys, knew the approach to the interior + by the narrow ridge of dry land lifted above the marsh, and Dylks did not + stop in his flight till he reached the thicket and saw in it his hope of + securer refuge. He walked round it through the pools which the frog and + turtle haunted, twice before he found this path, overhung by a tangle of + grapevines. There his foot by the instinct which the foot has where the + eye fails of a path, divined the scarcely trodden way, and he found + himself in a central opening among the thickly growing bushes. It was warm + there, without the close heat of the woodland, and dry except for the + spring of clear water that bubbled up in the heart of it, and trickled out + over green mosses into the outer waters of the swamp. + </p> + <p> + The man stooped over and drank his fill, and then made his greedy + breakfast on the berries that grew abundantly round, and nodded hospitably + to his hand. All the time he wept, and moaned to himself in the self-pity + of a hunted, fearful wretch. Then he drank again from the spring, and + without rising from his knees pushed himself back a little from it, and + fell over in an instant sleep. + </p> + <p> + He slept through the whole day, and at night, falling early in the shadows + of the forest which thickened over his retreat, he supped, as he had + breakfasted, on the wild berries and spring water, but with protesting + from a stomach habitually flattered by the luxury of fried chicken and + ham, and corn-pone and shortened biscuit, and hot coffee, which his + adorers put before him when he laid aside his divinity and descended to + the gratification of his carnal greed. He was a gross feeder, and in the + midst of his fear and the joy of his escape, he thought of these things + and lusted for them with a sort of thankless resentment. + </p> + <p> + He looked about for something he might kill, and he found a wounded pigeon + which had fluttered into his refuge from the shot of some gunner. But he + could not bring himself to eat it raw, and if he could have kindled a fire + to cook it, he reflected, it would have betrayed him to his pursuers who + must now be searching the woods for him. He wrung the pigeon's neck and + flung it into the bushes, and then fell down and wept with his face in the + grass. He had slept so long that now he could not sleep, and when his + tears would come no more, he sat up and watched the night through till the + dawn grayed the blue-black sky. The noises of the noiseless woods made + themselves heard: the cry of a night hawk, the hooting of an owl, the + whirring note of the whip-poor-will; the long, plunging down-rush of a + dead branch breaking the boughs below it; even the snapping of twigs as if + under the pressure of stealthy feet. These sounds, the most delicate of + the sounds he heard, shook him most with fear and hope, and then with + despair. The feet could be the feet of his enemies seeking him out, or of + his friends coming to succor and save him; then they resolved themselves + into the light pressure from little paws, the paws of the wildcat, or the + coon, and there was nothing to be feared or hoped from them. The + constellations wheeled over him in the clear sky, and the planets blazed. + He made out the North Star from the lower lines of the Dipper; the glowing + and fading of the August meteors that flitted across the heavens seemed to + leave a black trace on his straining eyes. Texts of Scripture declaring + how the splendors of the day and night showed forth the glory of the Being + whose name he had usurped to the deceit and shame of those who trusted + him, glowed and faded in his mind like those shooting stars in the sky. At + one time he thought he had cried aloud for destruction in the sin which + could not be forgiven, but it was only a dull, inarticulate moan bursting + from his tortured breast. + </p> + <p> + The place where the hair had been torn from his head burned like fire; it + burned like the wound of a man whom he had once heard tell how it felt to + be scalped by an Indian; the man had recovered, but the wound had always + hurt; and Dylks pitied himself that it should be so with him, and cursed + himself for his unguarded boast that any one who touched a hair of his + head should perish. He promised that if God would show him a little mercy, + and send a raven with something for him to eat, something warm, or send + him a cup of coffee, somehow, or even a raw egg, he would go forth before + the people; he would get up in the Temple amidst his believers and declare + himself a false prophet and a false god. He would not care what they did + to him if only he had something cooked to eat, something hot to drink. + </p> + <p> + Towards morning he slept, and then for days and nights, how many he did + not know, it seemed to him that he did not wake but dreamed through a + changing time when he was dimly aware of contending voices: voices of his + believers, the Little Flock, and voices of his unbelievers, the Herd of + the Lost, pleading and threatening in the forest round his place of + refuge. His followers were trying to bring him food and raiment, and his + enemies were preventing them and boasting that they would keep guard over + his refuge till they starved him out. Then all again was a blur, a texture + of conscious and unconscious misery till a night came when the woof broke + and trailed away from him, and he lifted himself on his elbow and after he + had drunk a long draft from the spring, found tremulous strength to get to + his feet. He tried some steps in the open space, where the light of the + full moon fell, and found that he could walk. He reached the tangled + entrance to his covert, and stealthily put the vines aside. He peered out + into the shadows striped with moonshine and could see no one, and he was + going to venture farther, when he stopped stone still at the figure of a + man crouched in the middle of the causeway. The man's head was fallen + forward and his gun lay across his lap; he must be one of the guards that + his enemies had set on his refuge to keep him there and starve him out; + and he must be asleep. Dylks stooped and peered into his face and knew the + man for one of the Hounds who had often disturbed his meetings, and now he + looked about in the rage that surged up through his penitence and + self-pity for a stone or a club to strike him senseless, or dead if need + be. But there was no such weapon that he could see, and the risk of a + struggle was greater than the risk of trying to pass the man without + waking him. After long doubt he tried with one foot and then another and + the man did not wake; then he crept slowly by, and then with softly + dragging steps he got farther from the sleeper and pushed on through the + woods in the direction of the turnpike, as he imagined it. But he came out + in a clearing where a new log cabin showed clear in the open under the + moon. + </p> + <p> + In the single room of the house a woman lay sleeping with a little child + in its cradle beside her bed. She rose up and put out her hand + instinctively to still the child, but it was sleeping quietly, and then + she started up awake, and listened for the voice which she had dreamt was + calling her. There was no voice, and then there was a voice calling + hoarsely, weakly, “Nancy! Nancy!” + </p> + <p> + In her dream she had thought it was the voice of her husband stealing back + to her in the night, and it was in the terror of her dream that she now + sprang from her bed, with her heart aching for pity of him, to forbid him + and rebuke him for breaking his promise, and to scold him away. But as she + stood listening, and the voice came again she knew it was not the voice of + Laban. She ran to the ladder which led to the cabin loft, and called up + through the open trapdoor, “Jane! Jane! Come down here to the baby, will + you? I've got to leave her a minute.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” the girl answered sleepily. Then, “Oh, I'll come. She ain't + sick, is she, Aunt Nancy? Oh, I do hope she ain't sick!” + </p> + <p> + “No. She ain't sick,” Nancy said, as she put her hands up to help the girl + place her feet aright on the rungs of the ladder. “But—listen!” she + whispered as the voice outside called again. “It's that miser'ble wretch! + It's Joseph Dylks! I've got to go to him! Don't you say a word, Jane + Gillespie! He's Joey's father, and he must be at death's door, or he + wouldn't come to mine.” + </p> + <p> + She left the girl standing dazed, and ran out and round the cabin. In the + shadow that it cast in the moon, Dylks crouched close in the angle made by + the chimney. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Nancy!” he implored her, “do give me something to eat! Something + warm. Coffee, if you've got it. I've been sick, and I'm starving.” + </p> + <p> + She knew without seeing it in the shadow how he was stretching out + pleading hands to her, and she had mercy upon him. But she said stonily, + “Wait a minute. Don't be a cry-baby,” and ran back to the door, and called + to the girl within, “Rake open the fire, Jane, and set the kittle on.” + Then she ran back to Dylks and stood over him. “Where you been? Don't you + know they'll kill you if they ketch you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know it, Nancy. But I knew this would be the last place they would + come for me. Will the coffee be ready soon? Oh, I'm so faint! I reckon I'm + going to die, Nancy.” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon you ain't goin' to die before you get your coffee. It'll be + ready as soon as the kittle boils.” + </p> + <p> + She stood looking grimly down at him, while he brokenly told, so far as he + knew it, the story of the days he had passed in hiding. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon,” she said, with bitter scorn, “that <i>I</i> could have fetched + you out. I'd 'a' brought you some hot coffee to the door of your den, and + you'd 'a' come when you smelt it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's true,” he owned in meek acceptance of her scorn. + </p> + <p> + The child cried, and she went in, but she had no need to comfort it except + with a word. Jane had come to the little one, and was stooping above it, + and cooing to it motherwise, and cuddling it to her body while it drowsed + away to silence. + </p> + <p> + “You mind her, Jane,” the mother said, and she lifted the pot of coffee + from the bed of coals, sending a dim glow into the room to meet the dawn + at the open door. She put some sugar into the bowl she got from its shelf, + and covered it with a piece of cold corn-pone, and then went out to Dylks + who had remained on his knees, and now stretched out his trembling hands + toward her. + </p> + <p> + She did not speak, but poured the bowl full of the steaming coffee, and + watched him while he gulped half of it down. Then he reached eagerly for + the bread. “Is it hot?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, it ain't,” the woman said. “You can eat cold pone, I reckon, can't + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; oh, yes, and glad to get it. Only I thought—” He stopped + and washed down the mouthful he had torn from the cake with a draft of the + coffee which emptied the bowl. She filled it mechanically from the pot in + her hand, and he drank again more slowly, and devoured the pone as he + drank. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” he said, “I should be all right if it wasn't for my head where they + tore out my hair. It burns like fire.” + </p> + <p> + She bent over him and looked at the wound unflinchingly. “I can't see very + good in this light; if I only had some goose-grease—but I reckon + hog's lard will do. Hold on till I can wash it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Nancy,” he moaned gratefully. + </p> + <p> + She was gone rather long and there was talk within and the cooing and + babble of the child. When she came out with a basin of warm water and some + lard in a broken saucer in her hands, and a towel caught under her arm, he + suggested, “I heard you talking with some one, Nancy.” + </p> + <p> + “And I suppose it scared you,” she answered unsparingly. “Well, you may + thank your stars it wasn't Laban. I do believe he'd kill you, meek as he + is.” + </p> + <p> + Dylks drew a quivering breath. “Yes, I reckon he would. I suppose you must + have told him about me.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, I did. Here! Hold still!” She had begun to wash his wound, + very gently, though she spoke so roughly, while he murmured with the pain + and with the comfort of the pain. “If you want to know,” she continued, + “it's Jane. She's been with me ever since that night they caught you. You + made her ashamed before her father, and between her shame and his pride + her and him don't speak, or hain't, since then. She stays with me and Joey + stays with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Our Joey?” he asked plaintively. + </p> + <p> + “<i>My</i> Joey!” she returned, and she involuntarily twitched at the hair + she was smoothing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” he cried from the pain, but she did not mind his pain. + </p> + <p> + “There!” she said, beginning to put on the lard. Then she bound over the + wound the soft pledget of old linen she had brought, and tied round his + head a cotton rag to hold the dressing in place. She said, “There!” again, + “I reckon that will do.” + </p> + <p> + He moaned gratefully. “It's the first time I've been out of pain for I + don't know how many days and nights. Nancy!” he burst out in all + recognition of her goodness, “I oughtn't to have left you.” + </p> + <p> + She had been kneeling before him in dressing his hurt, and then in + critically regarding her handiwork, she got to her feet. “I know you + oughtn't,” she retorted, “but I'm glad you done it. And I'm thankful every + breath I draw. And now I want you to <i>go</i>. And don't you think I done + what I done out of love for you, Joseph Dylks. I'd 'a' done it for any + hurt or hungry dog.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> + <img src="images/6001.jpg" alt="6001 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <h5> + <a href="images/6001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> + </h5> + + <p> + Dylks got to his feet too, with little moans for the stiffness in his + joints. “I know you would, Nancy,” he said humbly, “but all the same I + won't forget it. If there was anything I could do to show—” + </p> + <p> + “There's something you could do besides drownin' yourself in the creek, + which I don't ask you: in the first place because I don't want your death + on my hands, and in the next place because you're the un-fittin'est man to + die that I can think of; but there's something else, and you know it + without my tellin' you, and that is to stop all this, now and forever. + Don't you pretend you don't know what I mean!” + </p> + <p> + “I know what you mean, Nancy, and the good Lord knows I would be glad + enough to do it if I could. But I wouldn't know how to begin.” + </p> + <p> + “Begin,” she said with a scornful glance at the long tangle of his hair, + “begin by cuttin' off that horse's tail of yours, and then stop snortin' + like a horse.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head hopelessly. “It wouldn't do, Nancy. They wouldn't let me + draw back now. They would kill me.” + </p> + <p> + “They?” + </p> + <p> + “The—the—Little Flock,” he answered shamefacedly. + </p> + <p> + “The Herd of the Lost will kill you if you don't.” She said it not in + mocking, but in realization of the hopeless case, and not without pity. + But at his next words, she hardened her heart again. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what to do. I don't know where to go. I have nowhere to lay + my head.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you use them holy words, you wicked wretch! And if you're hintin' + at hidin' in my house, you can't do it—not with Jane here—<i>she</i> + would kill you, I believe—and not without her.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Nancy. I can see that. But where can I go? Even that place in the + woods, they're watching that, and they would have me if I tried to go + back.” + </p> + <p> + From an impulse as of indifference rather than consideration she said, “Go + to Squire Braile. He let you off; let him take care of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Nancy!” he exclaimed. “I thought of that.” + </p> + <p> + She gathered up the basin and the towel she brought, and without looking + at him again she said, “Well, go, then,” and turned and left him where he + stood. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVI + </h2> + <p> + Matthew Braile was sitting in his wonted place, with his chair tilted + against his porch wall, smoking. Dylks faltered a moment at the bars of + the lane from the field of tall corn where he had been finding his way + unseen from Nancy's cabin. He lowered two of the middle bars and when he + had put them up on the other side he stood looking toward the old man. His + long hair hung tangled on his shoulders; the white bandage, which Nancy + had bound about his head, crossed it diagonally above one eye and gave + this the effect of a knowing wink, which his drawn face, unshaven for a + week, seemed to deprecate. + </p> + <p> + Braile stared hard at him. Then he tilted his chair down and came to the + edge of his porch, and called in cruel mockery, “Why, God, is that <i>you?”</i> + </p> + <p> + “Don't, Squire Braile!” Dylks implored in a hoarse undertone. “They're + after me, and if anybody heard you—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, come up here,” the Squire bade him. Dylks hobbled slowly forward, + and painfully mounted the log steps to the porch, where Braile surveyed + him in detail, frowning and twitching his long feathery eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “I know I don't look fit to be seen,” Dylks began “but—” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” the Squire allowed after further pause, “you <i>don't</i> look as + if you had just come 'down from the shining courts above in joyful haste'! + Had any breakfast?” + </p> + <p> + “Nancy—Nancy Billings—gave me some coffee, and some cold pone—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you can have some <i>hot</i> pone pretty soon. Laban there?” + </p> + <p> + “No, he's away at work still. But, Squire Braile—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I understand. I know all about Nancy, and her first husband and how + he left her, and she thought he was dead, and married a good man, and when + that worthless devil came back she thought she was living in sin with that + good man—in <i>sin</i>!—and drove him away. But she's as white + as any of the saints you lie about. It was <i>like</i> you to go to her + the first one in your trouble. Well, what did she say?” “She said—” + Dylks stopped, his mouth too dry to speak; he wetted his lips and + whispered—“She said to come to you; that you would know what it was + best for me to do; to—” He stopped again and asked, “Do you suppose + any one will see me here?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, like as not. It's getting time for honest folks to be up and going to + work. But I don't want any trouble about you this morning; I had enough + that <i>other</i> morning. Come in here!” He set open the door of one of + the rooms giving on the porch, and at Dylks's fearful glance he laughed, + not altogether unkindly. “Mis' Braile's in the kitchen, getting breakfast + for you, though she don't know it yet. Now, then!” he commanded when he + sat down within, and pushed a chair to Dylks. “Tell me all about it, since + I saw you going up the pike.” + </p> + <p> + In the broken story which Dylks told, Braile had the air of mentally + checking off the successive facts, and he permitted the man a measure of + self-pity, though he caught him up at the close. “Well, you've got a part + of what you deserve, but as usually happens with us rascals, you've got + too much, at the same time. And what did Nancy advise?” + </p> + <p> + “She told me to come to you—” + </p> + <p> + “What did Nancy <i>advise</i>?” the Squire repeated savagely. + </p> + <p> + “She advised me to stop all this”—he waved his hands outward, and + the Squire nodded intelligently—“to tell them it wasn't true; and I + was sorry; and to go away—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, and Braile demanded, “Well, and are you going to do it?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to do it, and—I can't.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't? What's to hinder you?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “They would kill me, if I did.” + </p> + <p> + “They? Who? The Herd of the Lost?” + </p> + <p> + “The Little Flock.” + </p> + <p> + The men were both silent, and then after a long breath, the Squire said, + “I begin to see—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! You don't <i>begin</i> to see, Squire Braile.” Dylks burst out + sobbing, and uttering what he said between his sobs. “Nobody can + understand it that hasn't been through it! How you are tempted on, step by + step, all so easy, till you can't go back, you can't stop. You're tempted + by what's the best thing in you, by the hunger and thirst to know what's + going to be after you die; to get near to the God that you've always heard + about and read about; near Him in the flesh, and see Him and hear Him and + touch Him. That's what does it with <i>them</i>, and that's what does it + in you. It's something, a kind of longing, that's always been in the + world, and you know it's in others because you know it's in you, in your + own heart, your own soul. When you begin to try for it, to give out that + you're a prophet, an apostle, you don't have to argue, to persuade + anybody, or convince anybody. They're only too glad to believe what you + say from the first word; and if you tell them you're Christ, didn't He + always say He would come back, and how do they know but what it's now and + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” the Squire said. “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “When I said I was God, they hadn't a doubt about it. But it was then that + the trouble began.” + </p> + <p> + “The trouble?” + </p> + <p> + “I had to make some of them saints. I had to make Enraghty Saint Paul, and + I had to make Hingston Saint Peter. You think I had to lie to them, to + deceive them, to bewitch them. I didn't have to do anything of the kind. + They did the lying and deceiving and bewitching themselves, and when they + done it, they and all the rest of the believers, they had me fast, faster + than I had them.” + </p> + <p> + “I could imagine the schoolmaster hanging on to his share of the glory, + tooth and nail,” the Squire said with a grim laugh. “But old Hingston, + good old soul, he ought to have let go, if you wanted him to.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you don't know half of it,” Dylks said, with a fresh burst of + sobbing. “The worst of it is, and the dreadfulest is, that you begin to + believe it yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” the Squire demanded sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Their faith puts faith into you. If they believe what you say, you say to + yourself that there must be some truth in it. If you keep telling them + you're Jesus Christ, there's nothing to prove you ain't, and if you tell + them you're God, who ever saw God, and who can deny it? You can't deny it + yourself—” + </p> + <p> + “Hold on!” the old man said. He had risen, and he began to walk up and + down, swaying his figure and tilting his head from side to side, and + frowning his shaggy eyebrows together in a tangled hedge. Suddenly, he + stopped before Dylks. “Why, you poor devil, you're not in any unusual fix. + It must have been so with all the impostors in the world, from Mahomet up + and down! Why, there isn't a false prophet in the Old Testament that + couldn't match experiences with you! That's the way it's always gone: + first the liar tells his lie, and some of the fools believe it, and + proselyte the other fools, and when there are enough of them, their faith + begins to work on the liar's own unbelief, till he takes his lie for the + truth. Was that the way, you miserable skunk?” + </p> + <p> + “It was exactly the way, Squire Braile, and you can't tell how it gains on + you, step by step. You see all those educated people like Mr. Enraghty, + and all those good men like Mr. Hingston taking it for gospel, and you + can't deny it yourself. They convince you of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly! And then, when the Little Flock gathers in all the mentally + lame, halt and blind in the settlement, you couldn't get out of it if you + had the whole Herd of the Lost to back you, with the Hounds yelping round + to keep your courage up; you've got to stay just where you put yourself, + heigh?” + </p> + <p> + “There wouldn't,” Dylks said, drying his eyes on a tatter of his coat + sleeve, “be so much trouble if it wasn't for the miracles.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Braile replied to the thoughtful mood which he had fallen into, + rather than to Dylks, “the ignorant are sure to want a sign, though the + wise could get along without it. And you have to promise them a sign; you + have to be fool enough to do that, though you know well enough you can't + work the miracle.” + </p> + <p> + “You ain't sure you can't. You think, maybe—” + </p> + <p> + “Then, why,” the Squire shouted at him, “why in the devil's name, <i>didn't</i> + you work the miracle at Hingston's mill that night? Why didn't you turn + that poor fool woman's bolt of linsey-woolsey into seamless raiment?” + </p> + <p> + Dylks did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't you do it? Heigh?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought maybe—I didn't know but I did do it.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “When I came up outside and told them that the miracle had been worked and + the seamless raiment was inside the bolt, I thought it must be there.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, in the name of—” + </p> + <p> + “I had prayed so hard for help to do it that I thought it must be.” + </p> + <p> + “You prayed? To whom?” + </p> + <p> + “To—God.” + </p> + <p> + “To yourself?” + </p> + <p> + Dylks was silent again in the silence of a self-convicted criminal. He did + not move. + </p> + <p> + Braile had been walking up and down again in his excitement, in his + enjoyment of the psychological predicament, and again he stopped before + Dylks. “Why, you poor bag of shorts!” he said. “I could almost feel sorry + for you, in spite of the mischief you've made. Why, <i>you</i> oughtn't to + be sent to the penitentiary, or even lynched. <i>You</i> ought to be put + amongst the county idiots in the poorhouse, and—” + </p> + <p> + There came a soft plapping as of bare feet on the puncheon floor of the + porch; hesitating about and then pausing at the door of the opposite room. + Then there came with the increased smell of cooking, the talking of women. + Presently the talking stopped and the plapping of the bare feet approached + the door of the room shutting the two men in. The Squire set it slightly + ajar, in spite of Dylks's involuntary, “Oh, don't!” and faced some one + close to the opening. + </p> + <p> + “That you, Sally? You haven't come to borrow anything at <i>this</i> hour + of the night?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I reckon if you was up as early as Mis' Braile, you'd know it was + broad day. No, I hain't come to borry anything exactly, but I was just + tellin' <i>her</i> that if she'd lend me a fryun' of bacon, I'd do as much + for her some day. She ast me to tell you your breakfast was ready and not + to wait till your comp'ny was gone, but bring anybody you got with you.” + </p> + <p> + Sally peered curiously in at the opening of the door, and Braile abruptly + set it wide. “Perhaps you'd like to see who it is.” + </p> + <p> + Sally started back at sight of the figure within. When she could get her + breath she gasped, “Well, for mercy's sakes! If it ain't the Good Old Man, + himself!” But she made no motion of revering or any offer of saluting her + late deity. + </p> + <p> + “Well, now, if you've got some bacon for Abel's breakfast you better stop + and have yours with us,” the Squire suggested. + </p> + <p> + “No, I reckon not,” Sally answered. “I ain't exactly sure Abel would like + it. He ain't ever been one of the Flock, although at the same time he + ain't ever been one of the Herd: just betwixt and between, like.” As she + spoke she edged away backward. “Well, I must be goun', Squire. Much + obleeged to you all the same.” + </p> + <p> + The Squire followed her backward steps with his voice. “If you should + happen to see Jim Redfield on his way to his tobacco patch, I wish you'd + tell him to come here; I'd like to see him.” + </p> + <p> + He went in again to Dylks. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do with me, Squire Braile?” he entreated. “You're + not going to give me up?” + </p> + <p> + “I know my duty to my Maker,” the old man answered. “I'll take care of + you, Jehovah Dylks. But now you better come in to breakfast—get some + <i>hot</i> pone. I'll bring you a basin of water to wash up in.” + </p> + <p> + He reopened the door in the face of Sally Reverdy, who gasped out before + she plapped over to the steps and dropped away, “I just seen Jim Redfield, + and I tole him you wanted him, and he said he would be here in half an + hour, or as soon as he could see that the men had begun on his tubbacco. I + didn't tell him who you had here, and I won't tell anybody else; don't you + be afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's a good girl, Sally. Abel couldn't have done better himself,” + the Squire called after her, and then he turned to Dylks. “Come along now, + and get your <i>hot</i> pone. Jim Redfield won't hurt you; I'll go bail + for him, and I'll see that nobody else gets at you. I've got a loft over + this room where you'll be safe from everything but a pet coon that your + Joey gave my little boy; and I reckon the coon won't bite you. <i>I</i> + wouldn't, in his <i>place</i>.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVII + </h2> + <p> + Redfield came rather later than he had promised, excusing himself for his + delay. “I was afraid the frost had caught my tobacco, last night; but it + seems to be all right, as far as I can see; I stayed till the sun was well + up before I decided.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>was</i> a pretty sharp night, but I don't believe there was any + frost,” the Squire said. “At least Dylks didn't complain of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Dylks?” Redfield returned. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Didn't you know he was out again?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I didn't. If I had that fellow by the scruff of the neck!” + </p> + <p> + The Squire knew he meant the sleeping sentinel at the thicket where Dylks + had been hidden, and not Dylks. But he said nothing, and again Redfield + spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Squire Braile, I think you did a bad piece of business letting + that fellow go.” + </p> + <p> + “I know you do, Jim, but I expect you'll think different when you've seen + him.” + </p> + <p> + “Seen him? You mean you know where he is?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, all I've got to say is that if I can lay hands on that fellow he + won't give me the slip again.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, suppose we try,” the Squire said, and he opened the door into the + room where Dylks was cowering, and remarked with a sort of casualness, as + if the fact would perhaps interest them both, “Here's one of the Lost, + Dylks. I thought you might like to see him. Now, sit down, both of you and + let's talk this thing over.” + </p> + <p> + He took a place on the side of the bed and the enemies each faltered to + their chairs in mutual amaze. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sit down, sit down!” the Squire insisted. “You might as well take it + comfortably. Nobody's going to kill either of you.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to do anybody any harm,” Dylks began. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better not!” Redfield said between his set teeth; his hands had + knotted themselves into fists at his side. + </p> + <p> + “I'm all weak yet from the fever I had there, with nothing but water and + berries,” Dylks resumed in his self-pity. “I <i>did</i> think some of my + friends might have come—” + </p> + <p> + “I took good care of that,” Redfield said. “They did come, at first, with + something to eat, but they knew blame well we'd have wrung their necks if + we'd 'a' caught 'em. We meant to starve you out, that's what, and we did + it, and if it hadn't been for that good-for-nothing whelp sleeping over + his gun you wouldn't have got out alive.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's all right now, Jim, and you'd better forgive and forget, + both of you,” the Squire interposed. “Dylks has reformed, he tells me; + he's sorry for having been a god, and he's going to try to be a man, or as + much of a man as he can. He's going to tell the Little Flock so, and then + he's going to get out of Leatherwood right off—” + </p> + <p> + Dylks cleared his throat to ask tremulously, “Did I say that, Squire + Braile?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you did, my friend, and what's more you're going to keep your word, + painful as it may be to you. I'll let you manage it your own way, but some + way you're going to do it; and in the meantime I'm going to put you under + the protection of Jim Redfield, here—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>My</i> protection?” Redfield protested. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I've sworn you in as special constable, or I will have as soon as I + can make out the oath, and have you sign it. And Dylks will get out of the + county as soon as he can—he tells me it won't be so easy as we would + think; and when he does, it will be much more to the purpose than riding + on a rail in a coat of tar and feathers. Why!” he broke off, with a stare + at Dylks as if he saw his raggedness for the first time, “you'll want a + coat of <i>some</i> kind to show yourself to the Little Flock in; the Herd + of the Lost won't mind; they don't want to be so proud of you. I must look + up something for you; or perhaps send to Brother Hingston; he's about your + size. But that don't matter, now! What I want is your promise, Jim + Redfield, and I know you'll do what you say, that you won't tell anybody + that the Supreme Being is hiding in my loft, here, till I say so, and when + I do, that you'll see no harm comes to him from mortals—from Hounds, + and such like, or even the Herd of the Lost. Do you promise?” + </p> + <p> + Redfield hesitated. “If he'll leave the county, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And <i>you</i>, 'Jehovah, Jove or Lord'?” + </p> + <p> + “I will, as quick as I can, Squire Braile; I will, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + The Squire rose from the edge of the bed. “Then this court stands + adjourned,” he said formally. + </p> + <p> + Redfield went out with him, leaving Dylks trembling behind. He said, “I + ain't sure you ain't making a fool of me, Squire Braile.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, <i>I</i> am,” the Squire retorted. “And don't you make one of + yourself, and then there won't be any.” + </p> + <p> + Redfield still hesitated. “I'd just like to had another pull at that + horse-tail of his,” he said wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I knew old man Gillespie hadn't quite the strength. But I thought + maybe Hughey Blake helped pull—” + </p> + <p> + “Hughey Blake,” Redfield returned scornfully, “had nothing to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, anyway, I hear it's converted Jane Gillespie, and she was worth it, + though it was rather too much like scalping a live Indian.” + </p> + <p> + “She's worth more than all the other girls in this settlement put + together,” Redfield said, without comment on the phase of the act which + had interested the Squire, and went down the cabin steps into the lane. + </p> + <p> + Braile turned back and opened the door of the room where Dylks was + lurking. + </p> + <p> + “Better come out, now,” he said, not ungently, “and get into a safe place + before folks begin to be about much. Or wait—I'll put the ladder up + first.” He brought the ladder from the kitchen where he exchanged a + fleeting joke with his wife, still at her work of clearing the breakfast + things away, and set it against the wall under the trapdoor of the loft. + “Now, then!” he called and Dylks came anxiously out. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't you afraid—” he began. + </p> + <p> + “No, but <i>you</i> are, and that'll do for both of us. There's nobody + round, and if you'll hurry, nobody'll see you. Push the lid to one side, + and get in, and you'll be perfectly safe,” he said as Dylks tremulously + mounted the ladder. “I don't say you'll be very comfortable. There's a + little window at one end, but it don't give much air, and this August sun + is apt to get a little warm on the clapboards. And I don't suppose it + smells very well in there; but the coon can't help that; it's the way + nature scented him; she hadn't any sweet brier handy at the time. And be + careful not to step on him. He's not very good-tempered, but I reckon he + won't bite you if you don't bite <i>him.”</i> + </p> + <p> + The kitchen door opened and Mrs. Braile put her head out. She saw the + ladder and the two men. Then she came out into the porch. “Well, Matthew + Braile, I might have knowed from the sound of your voice that you was up + to some mischief. Was you goin' to send that poor man up into that hot + loft? Well, I can tell you you're not.” She went into the room they had + left, and they heard her stirring vigorously about beyond its closed door, + with a noise of rapid steps and hard and soft thumpings. She came out + again and said, “Go in there, now, Mr. Dylks, and try to get some rest. + I've made up the bed for you, and <i>I'll</i> see that nobody disturbs + you. Matthew Braile, you send and tell Mr. Hingston,—or <i>go</i>, + if you can't ketch anybody goin' past,—and tell him he's here, and + bring some decent clothes; he ain't fit to be seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he don't want to be,” the Squire said in the attempt to brave her + onset. “But I reckon you're right, mother. I should probably have thought + of it myself—in time. I'll send Sally or Abel, if they go past—and + they nearly always do—or some of the hands from the tobacco patches. + Or, as you say, I may go myself, towards evening. He won't want to be + troubled before then.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XVIII + </h2> + <p> + At the first meeting in the Temple after the open return of Dylks to his + dispensation, the Little Flock had apparently suffered no loss in number. + Some of his followers had left him, but his disciples had been busily + preaching him during his abeyance, and the defection of old converts was + more than made up by the number of proselytes. The room actually left by + the Flock was filled by the Herd of the Lost who occupied all the seats on + one side of the Temple, with Matthew Braile and his wife in a foremost + place, the lower sort of them worsening into the Hounds who filled the + doorway, and hung about the outside of the Temple. + </p> + <p> + The whole assembly was orderly. Those of the Little Flock who conducted + the services had a quelled air, which might have been imparted to them by + the behavior of Dylks; he sat bowed and humble on the bench below the + pulpit, while Enraghty preached above him. It was rumored that at the + house-meetings the worship of Dylks had been renewed with the earlier + ardor; there had been genuflections and prostrations before him, with + prayers for pardon and hymns of praise, especially from the proselytes. + Dylks was said to have accepted their adoration with a certain passivity + but to have done nothing to prevent it; there was not the more scandalous + groveling at his feet which had stirred up the community to his arrest. + There was as much decorum as could consist with the sacrilegious rites + which were still practised with his apparent connivance. + </p> + <p> + He now sat without apparent restiveness under the eyes of the two men who + had the greatest right to exact the fulfilment of his promise, to forbid + this idolatry, to end the infamy of its continuance, and to go out from + among the people whose instincts and conventions his presence outraged. + Near Redfield sat David Gillespie with his eyes fixed on Dylks in a stare + of hungry hate, and with him sat his daughter, who testified by her + removal from the Little Flock her renunciation of her faith in him. + Redfield showed greater patience than Gillespie, and at times his eyes + wandered to the face of the girl who did not seem to feel them on her, but + sat gazing at her forsaken idol in what might have seemed puzzle for him + and wonder at herself. Others who had rejected him merely kept away; but + she came as if she would face down the shame of her faith in him before + the eyes of her little world. Sometimes Dylks involuntarily put his hand + to the black silken cap which replaced the bandage Nancy Billings had tied + over the place where the hair had been torn out. When he did this, the + girl moved a little; her face hardened, and she stole a glance at + Redfield. + </p> + <p> + The schoolmaster went on and on, preaching Dylks insistently, but not with + the former defiance. He did not spare to speak of the cruel sufferings + inflicted upon their Savior and their God, who had borne it with the + meekness of the Son and the mercy of the Father. The divine being who had + come to sojourn among them at Leatherwood in the flesh, for the purposes + of his inscrutable wisdom might have blasted his enemies with a touch, a + word, but he had spared them; he had borne insult and injury, but in the + Last Day he would do justice, he the judge of all the earth. Till then, + let the Little Flock have patience; let them have faith sustained by the + daily, hourly miracles which he had wrought among them since his return to + their midst, and rest secure in the strong arms which he folded about + them. + </p> + <p> + Dylks sat motionless. “Well, mother,” Matthew Braile hoarsely whispered to + his wife, “I reckon you'd better have let me put him up with the coon. The + heat might have tried the mischief out of him. He hasn't kept his word.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Matthew, he hasn't,” she whispered back, “and I think his lying to + you so is almost the worst thing he's done. The next time you may put him + with the coon. Only, the coon's too good for him. But I reckon Jim + Redfield will look out for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Jim'll have to let him alone. We can't have any more mobbing, and there's + no law that can touch Dylks in the State of Ohio. We settled that the + first time.” + </p> + <p> + Enraghty abruptly closed his discourse with a demand for prayer, and + addressed his supplication to the Savior and the Judge incarnate there + among them. The Little Flock sang the hymn which always opened and closed + its devotions, and at the end, Hingston, who sat by Dylks on the bench + below the pulpit, made a movement as if to rise. But Dylks put out his + hand and stayed him. He welcomed Enraghty to the place which he left + beside Hingston, and slowly, with the step of one in a dream, mounted the + stairs of the pulpit, amidst the silent amaze of the people. He began + without preamble in the blend of scriptural text and crude every-day + parlance which he ordinarily used. + </p> + <p> + “Ye have heard it said aforetime that the New Jerusalem would come down + here in Leatherwood, but I say unto you that all that has passed away, + that the words which were spoken by the prophet might be fulfilled, 'Many + are called but few are chosen.' Verily, verily, I said unto you, that + heaven and earth shall pass away, but the words I speak now shall not pass + away. If the works which have been done in Leatherwood had been done in + Tyre and Sidon, the New Jerusalem would have come down in both places, for + they did not stone the prophets as the Herd of the Lost did in + Leatherwood.” + </p> + <p> + “He means that morning when he took up the pike and the fellows chased him + into the tall timber,” Braile whispered to his wife; “but <i>I</i> can't + tell what he's driving at.” + </p> + <p> + “Be still!” she said. + </p> + <p> + Many of the Little Flock groaned and cried aloud; the Herd of the Lost, + except for one shrill note of bitter laughter, were silent, and only those + who sat near perceived that it was Jane Gillespie who had laughed. + </p> + <p> + Redfield looked round at her, unconscious of his look. + </p> + <p> + “I go a long way off,” Dylks proceeded, “and some of my beloved, even my + Little Flock, cannot follow me; but though they cannot follow me, even the + lame, halt, and blind shall be with me in the spirit, and shall behold the + New Jerusalem where I will bring it down.” + </p> + <p> + Many of the Little Flock at this cried out, “Where will it be, Lord?” + “Where will the New Jerusalem come down?” “How shall we see it?” + </p> + <p> + “With the eyes of faith, even as ye have seen the miracles I have wrought + among ye, which were shown to babes and sucklings and were hidden from the + wise of this world. But now I go from you, and my feet shall be upon the + mountains and shall descend upon the other side and there I will bring + down the New Jerusalem, and there ye shall be, in the flesh or in the + spirit, to behold the wonder of it.” + </p> + <p> + Some of the Little Flock cried out again. “Oh, don't leave us, Father!” + “Take us all with you in the flesh!” “We want to be taken up with you!” + and then some of them entreated, “Tell us about it; tell us what it will + be like.” + </p> + <p> + Dylks lifted his eyes as if in the rapture of the vision. “'Its light + shall eclipse the splendor of the sun. The temples thereof, and the + residences of the faithful will be built of diamonds excelling the + twinkling beauty of the stars. Its walls will be of solid gold, and its + gates silver. The streets will be covered with green velvet, richer in + luster and fabric than mortal eye ever beheld. The gardens thereof will be + filled with all manner of pleasant fruits, precious to the sight, and + pleasant to the taste. The faithful shall ride in chariots of crimson, + drawn by jet-black horses that need no drivers; and their joys shall go on + increasing forever. The air of the city shall be scented with the smell of + shrubs and flowers, and ten thousand different instruments all tuned to + the songs of heaven shall fill the courts, and the streets and the + temples, and the residences, and the gardens with music like ear hath not + heard, swelling the soul of the saved with perpetual delight.'” + </p> + <p> + Sighs and groans of ecstasy went up from the Flock at each of the studied + pauses which Dylks made in recounting the wonders of the heavenly city, + fancied one after another at the impulse of their expectation. At the end + they swarmed forward to the altar place and flung themselves on the + ground, and heaped the pulpit steps with their bodies. “Take us with you, + Lord!” they entreated. “Take us all with you in the flesh!” “Don't leave + us here to perish among the heathen and the ungodly when you go.” Then + some began to ask, as if he had already consented, “But what shall we eat, + and what shall we drink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed on that far + journey?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> + <img src="images/7001.jpg" alt="7001 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <h5> + <a href="images/7001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> + </h5> + + <p> + Dylks leaned forward against the pulpit desk and showed a few coins drawn + from the pocket of Hingston's pantaloons which he was wearing. “These + shall be enough, for out of these three rusty old coppers I can make + millions of gold and silver dollars.” + </p> + <p> + The frenzy mounted, and the Herd of the Lost who began to tire of the + sight, left the temple. Redfield followed out behind Matthew Braile and + his wife. “That settles it,” he said. “I'll see to Mr. Dylks in the + morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, I look at it differently. He's going, like he said he would, and + we've got to let him go in his own way, and bring down the New Jerusalem + Over-the-Mountains, or anywhere else he pleases, so he don't bring it down + in Leatherwood.” + </p> + <p> + “I say so, too, Matthew. He's keeping his word the best he can, poor lying + soul. They wouldn't let him back out now.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want you to trouble him, Jim Redfield, till you have a warrant + from me,” Braile resumed, braced by his wife's support. “And I want you to + keep the Hounds away, and give Dylks a fair start. You know the law won't + let you touch him. Now do you hear?” + </p> + <p> + “I hear,” Redfield said sullenly, with the consent which Braile read in + his words. “But if there's any more such goings on as we've had here + to-night, I won't answer for the rest of his scalp.” + </p> + <p> + He hurried forward from the elderly couple and overtook the Gillespies + walking rapidly. Hughey Blake had just fallen away from them and stood + disconsolately looking after them. + </p> + <p> + “Is that you, James Redfield?” David Gillespie asked, peering at him in + the night's dimness. “This is the man that helped me to get you a lock of + that scoundrel's hair,” he said to his daughter. + </p> + <p> + She answered nothing in acknowledgment of the introduction, but Redfield + said, coming round to her side and suiting his step to hers, “I would like + to go home with you till my road passes yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said, “if you ain't ashamed to be seen with such a fool. + Nobody <i>can</i> see you to-night,” she added, bitterly, including him in + her self-scorn. + </p> + <p> + “You needn't imply that I like it to be in the dark. I would like to walk + with you in broad day past all the houses in Leatherwood. But I don't + suppose you'd let me.” She did not say anything, and he added, “I'm going + to ask you to the first chance.” Still she did not say anything, though + her father had fallen behind and left the talk wholly to them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XIX + </h2> + <p> + Nancy sat at her door in the warm September evening when the twilight was + beginning to come earlier than in the August days, and her boy rushed + round the corner of the cabin in a boy's habitual breathlessness from + running. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother, mother!” he called to her, as if he were a great way off. + “Guess what!” He did not wait for her to guess. “The Good Old Man is goin' + to leave Leatherwood and go Over the Mountains with the Little Flock, and + he says he's goin' to bring down the New Jerusalem at Philadelphy, and all + that wants to go up with him kin go. Mr. Hingston's goin' with him, and + he's goin' to let Benny. Benny don't know whether he can get to go up in + the New Jerusalem or not, but he's goin' to coax his father the hardest + kind.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped panting at his mother's knees where she sat on the cabin + threshold nearly as high as he stood. She put up her hand and pushed the + wet hair from his forehead. “How you <i>do</i> sweat, Joey! Go round and + wash your face at the bench. Maybe Jane will give you a drink of the milk, + while it's warm yet, before she lets it down in the well. She's just + through milkin'.” + </p> + <p> + The boy tore himself away with a shout of “Oh, goody!” and his mother + heard him at the well. “Wait a minute, Jane! Mother said I could have a + drink before you let it down,” and then she heard him, between gulps, + recounting to the girl's silence the rumors she had already heard from + him. He came running back, with a white circle of milk round his lips. + “Mother,” he began, “have you ever been Over-the-Mountains?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I've never been anywhere but just here in the country, and where you + was born, back where we moved from.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, mother, how old am I now?” + </p> + <p> + “You're goin' on twelve, Joey dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's what I thought. Benny ain't on'y ten. And he ain't as big for + his age as what I am. He's been to the circus, though; his father took him + to it at Wheeling that time when he went on the steamboat. I wisht I could + go to a circus.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, maybe you kin when you grow up. Circuses ain't everything.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” the boy relucted. “Benny says the New Jerusalem will be a good deal + like the circus. That's the reason he coaxed his father to let him go. Is + Philadelphy as far as Wheeling?” + </p> + <p> + “A good deal further, from what I've heard tell,” his mother said; she + smiled at his innocently sinuous approach to his desire. + </p> + <p> + He broke out with it. “Mother, what's the reason I can't go with Benny, + and Mr. Hingston, and the Little Flock? They'd take good care of me, and I + wouldn't make Mr. Hingston any trouble. Me 'n' Benny could sleep together. + And the Good Old Man he's always been very pleasant to me. Patted my head + oncet, and ast me what my name was.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you tell him it was Billings?” his mother asked uneasily. + </p> + <p> + “No, just Joseph; and he said, well, that was his name, too. Don't you + think the Good Old Man is good?” + </p> + <p> + “We're none of us as good as we ought to be, Joey. No, he ain't a good + man, I'm afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “My!” the boy said, and then after a moment: “I don't want to go, Mother, + unless you want to let me go.” + </p> + <p> + His mother did not speak for a while, and it seemed as if she were not + going to speak at all, so that the boy said, with a little sigh of + renunciation, “I didn't expect you would. But I'd be as careful! And even + if the Good Old Man ain't so very good, Mr. Hingston is, and he wouldn't + let anything happen to me.” + </p> + <p> + The woman put her hand under the boy's chin, and looked into his eager + eyes which had not ceased their pleading. At last she said, “You can go, + Joey!” + </p> + <p> + “Mother!” He jumped to his feet from his crouching at hers. “Oh, glory to + God!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Joey, you mustn't say things like that. It's like swearing, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it is, and I didn't mean to. Of course it's right, in meetin', and + it kind of slipped out when I wasn't thinkin'. But I won't say any bad + things, you needn't be afraid. Oh, I'll be as good! But look a'here, + mother! Why can't you come, too?” + </p> + <p> + “And leave your little sister?” She smiled sadly. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't think of that. But couldn't Jane take care of her? She's always + carryin' her around. And Uncle David could come here, and live with them. + He wouldn't want to stay there without me, or no one.” + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn't do, Joey dear.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” the boy assented. + </p> + <p> + “You can go and tell Benny I said you might go, if his father will have + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he <i>will</i>; he said so; Benny's ast him! And he said he'd take + good care of us both.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not afraid. You know how to take care of yourself. And, Joey—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped, and the boy prompted her, “What, mom?” + </p> + <p> + “When I said the Good Old Man wasn't a good man, I didn't want to set you + against him. I want you to be good to him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, mother,” the boy assented in a puzzle. “But if he ain't good—” + </p> + <p> + “He ain't, Joey. He's a wicked man. Sometimes I think he's the wickedest + man in the world. But I want you to watch out, and if ever you can help + him, or do anything for him, remember that I wanted you to do it: a boy + can often help a man.” + </p> + <p> + “I will, mother. But I don't see the reason, if he's so very wicked, why—” + </p> + <p> + “That's the very reason, Joey dear. And go and tell Benny now that I let + you go. And—don't tell him what I said about the Good Old Man.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I woon't, I woon't, mom! Oh, glory—Oh, I didn't mean to say it, + and I didn't, really, did I? But I'm so glad, and Benny'll be, too! Can I + tell him now? To-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Run along.” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated; then he leaped into the air with a joyful yell and vanished + round the corner of the cabin into the dusk. + </p> + <p> + His mother did not leave her place on the threshold, but sat with her face + bowed in her hands. By and by Jane Gillespie came to the door from within, + and then Nancy lifted her head and made room for her to sit beside her. + She told her what had passed, and Jane said, “If I was a man I would—Well, + I know what I would do!” + </p> + <p> + She did not sit down, but stood behind Nancy and talked down over her + shoulder. “Yes,” Nancy said, “that's what I used to say when I was a girl. + But now I'm glad I ain't a man, for I wouldn't know what to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I wouldn't 'a' left a hair in his head. I'd 'a'—I'd 'a' half + killed him! Oh, when I think what a fool that man made of me!” + </p> + <p> + “Don't let Jim Redfield make a fool of you, then.” + </p> + <p> + “Who said I'm letting him?” the girl demanded fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody. But don't.” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Nancy! If it was anybody but you said such a thing! But <i>I</i> + know! It's because you're so set on Hughey Blake. Hughey Blake!” she ended + scornfully, and went back into the cabin. + </p> + <p> + Nancy rose from her place with a sigh. “Oh, I 'spose you're right about my + lettin' Joey go. <i>I</i> don't know why I let him.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XX + </h2> + <p> + The meetings of the Little Flock had continued ever since the reappearance + of Dylks, and in the earlier spirit. But the spring was broken, and since + he had said that the New Jerusalem would not come down at Leatherwood, + many had lost not faith but hope. Few could have the hope of following him + as far as far-off Philadelphia, and sharing the glories which he promised + them there. For a pioneer community the people were none of them poor; + some were accounted rich, and among the richest were many followers of + Dylks. But most of the Flock were hardworking farmers who could not spare + the time or the money for that long journey Over-the-Mountains, even with + the prospect of the heavenly city at the end. Yet certain of the poorest + set their houses in order, and mortgaged their lands, and went with the + richest, when on a morning after the last great meeting in the Temple, the + Little Flock assembled for parting, some to go and some to stay. + </p> + <p> + Nancy did not come with her boy for the farewell. They had kissed each + other at the cabin door, and then he had run light-heartedly away, full of + wild expectation, to find Benny Hingston at the Cross Roads and then race + with him to join the crowd before the Temple, where the Little Flock stood + listening to the last words which the Good Old Man should speak to them in + Leatherwood. Many wept; Dylks himself was crying. The enemies of their + faith did not molest them except for a yelp of derision now and then, and + a long-drawn howl from the Hounds, kept well back by the Herd of the Lost, + under the command of Redfield. He stood in the chief place among these, + and at his right hand Matthew Braile leaned on his stick. + </p> + <p> + When the last prayer had been said, and they who were going had kissed or + shaken hands with those who were staying, and friends and foes had both + scattered, Braile said to the young man whom he now faced, “Well, that's + the last of him.” + </p> + <p> + Redfield's jaw was still set from the effort of seeing the affair through + in as much decency as he had been able to enforce. “It ain't the last of + <i>them</i>. But I reckon, now he's gone, they'll behave themselves. None + of the saints that are left will make trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “No, with Enraghty out of the way and that kind old fool Hingston, with + his example of mistaken righteousness, we can get along fairly enough with + the old dispensation. Well, Abel,” he called to Reverdy, who was lounging + about in the empty space which the crowd had left, unwilling to leave the + scene of so much excitement for the dull labors of the field, “you thought + you wouldn't go to see the New Jerusalem come down, after all. How's the + Good Old Man goin' to work it without you?” + </p> + <p> + “He's had to work things 'thout me for a good while now, Squire,” Abel + returned, not with perfect satisfaction in the part assigned him by the + irony of the Squire. “Ever sence that night at Mr. Enraghty's, I been + putty much done with him. A god that couldn't help hisself in a little + trouble like that, he ain't no god for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I remember. But what about Sally? She didn't go with the Little + Flock, either?” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon me 'n' Sally thinks putty much alike about the Little Flock,” + Abel said with as much hauteur as a man in his bare feet could command. + “We hain't either of us got any use for Little Flocks, any more.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm glad of it. But I thought she might have come to see them off.” + </p> + <p> + Abel relented. “Sally ain't very well, this mornin'. Up all night with the + toothache.” Redfield had turned from them, and Abel now remarked, “I <i>was</i> + wonderin' whether I couldn't borry a little coffee from Mis' Braile for + breakfast; I been so took up 'ith all these goun's on that I hain't had no + time to go to the store.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, certainly,” the Squire replied, “and you'd better come and have + breakfast with us on the way home. I came down without mine so as to see + the Ancient of Days off, and make sure of his going.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw, Squire, it don't seem quite right to have you usin' them old Bible + sayun's so common like.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Abel, perhaps it isn't quite the thing. But you must make allowance + for my being in such high spirits. I haven't breathed so free in a coon's + age. I <i>would</i> like to have stowed Dylks for a little while in the + loft with ours! But Mis' Braile wouldn't hear of it. Well, we've seen the + last of him, I hope. And now we're hearing the last of him.” He halted + Abel in their walk, at a rise in the ground where they caught the sound of + the hymn which the Little Flock, following Dylks for a certain way, were + singing. “'Sounds weel at a distance,' as the Scotchman said of the + bagpipes. And the farther the better. I don't believe I should care if I + <i>never</i> heard that tune again.” They reached Braile's cabin, and he + said, “Well, now come in and have something to stay your stomach while + you're waiting for Sally to make the coffee you're going to borrow.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I reckon not, Squire,” Abel loyally held out. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, come in and get the coffee, anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon that's a good idea, Squire,” Abel assented with a laugh for the + joke at his cost. As they mounted the steps, Braile stopped him at the + sound of voices in the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + A prevalent voice was the voice of Sally. “Well, just one <i>sup</i> more, + Mis' Braile. You do make the <i>best</i> coffee! I believe in my heart + that it's took my toothache all away a'ready, and I suppose poor Abel'll + be goun' up home with some of that miser'ble stuff he gits at the store, + and expectun' to find me there in bed yit. I thought I'd jest slip down, + and borry a little o' your'n to surprise him with, but when I smelt it, I + jest couldn't hold out. I don't suppose but what he stayed to see the + Little Flock off, anyway, and you say Squire Braile went. Well, I reckon + he had to, justice o' the peace, that way. I'm thankful the Good Old Man's + gone, for one, and I don't never want to see hide or hair of him ag'in in + Leatherwood. There's such a thing as gittun' enough of a thing, and I've + got enough of strange gods for one while.” + </p> + <p> + Murmurs of reply came from Mrs. Braile at times, but Sally mainly kept the + word. + </p> + <p> + “Well, and what do you think of Nancy Billun's lettun' her Joey go off + with the Little Flock, her talkun' the way she always done about 'em? Of + course he's safe with Mr. Hingston and Benny, and they'll bring him back + all right, but don't you think she'd be afeared that he might be took up + in the New Jerusalem when it riz ag'in?” + </p> + <p> + “Abel,” the Squire said, “I don't like this. We seem to be listening. I + don't believe Sally will like our overhearing her; and we ought to warn + her. It's no use your stamping your bare feet, for they wouldn't make any + noise. I'll rap my stick on the floor.” He also called out, “Hello, the + house!” and Sally herself came to the kitchen door. She burst into her + large laugh. “Well, I declare to goodness, if it ain't Abel and the + Squire! Well, if this ain't the best joke on <i>me!</i> Did you see Dylks + off, Squire Braile? And a good riddance to bad rubbage, <i>I</i> say.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXI + </h2> + <p> + Hughey Blake, long-haired, barefooted and freckled, hung about the door of + Nancy's cabin, where she sat with her little girl playing in the weedy + turf at her foot. The late October weather was sometimes hot at noon, but + the evenings were cool and the evening air was sweet with the scent of the + ripened corn, and the faint odor of the fallen leaves. The grasshoppers + still hissed; at moments the crickets within and without the cabin creaked + plaintively. + </p> + <p> + “I just come,” Hughey said, “to see if you thought she wouldn't go to the + Temple with me, to-night. The Flock lets us have our turn reg'lar now, and + we're goin' to have Thursday evenin' meetin' like we used to.” In a + discouraging silence from Nancy, he went on, “I'm just on my way home, + now, and I'll git my shoes there; and I don't expect to wear this hickory + shirt, and no coat—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know, Hughey, but I don't believe it'll be any use. You can try; + but I don't believe it will. I reckon you'd find out that she's goin' with + Jim Redfield, if anybody. She's been off with him 'most the whole + afternoon, gatherin' pawpaws—he knows the best places; I should + think they could have got all the pawpaws in Leatherwood by this time. You + know I've always liked you, Hughey, and so has her father, and you've + played together ever since you was babies, and you've always been her beau + from childern up. There ain't a person in Leatherwood that don't respect + you and feel to think that any girl might be glad to get you; but I'm + afraid it's just your cleverness, and bein' so gentle like—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you 'spose, Nancy,” the young man faltered disconsolately, “it's had + anything to do with my not gettin' her that hair? I could 'a' done it as + easy as Jim Redfield; but to tear it right out of his head, that way, I + couldn't; it went ag'in my stommick.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe it's that, Hughey. If you must know, I believe it's just + Jim Redfield himself. He's bewitched her and she's got to be bewitched by + somebody; if it ain't one it's another; it was <i>him</i> then, and it's + Jim, now.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” the young man assented sadly. + </p> + <p> + “She ain't good enough for you, that's the truth, Hughey, though I say it, + her own kith and kin. I can't make you understand, I know; but she's got + to have somebody that she can feel the power of.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd do anything for her, Nancy.” + </p> + <p> + “That's just it! She don't want that kind of lovin', as you may call it. I + don't believe my brother's a very easy man to turn, but Jane has always + done as she pleased with him; he's been like clay in the hands of the + potter with her. Many another girl would have been broken into bits before + now; but she's just as tough as so much hickory. I don't say but what + she's a good girl; there ain't a better in Leatherwood, or anywheres. + She's as true as a die, and tender as anything in sickness, and'd lay down + and die where she saw her duty, and'd work till she dropped if need be; + but, no, she ain't one that wants softness in her friends. Well, she won't + git any too much of it in Jim Redfield. They're of a piece, and she <i>may</i> + find out that she's made a mistake, after all.” + </p> + <p> + “Has she—she hain't promised to marry him yit?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't say that. But ever since that night at the Temple he's been + round after her. He's been here, and he's been at her father's, and she + can't go down to the Corners for anything but what he comes home helpin' + her to bring it. You seen yourself, how he always gets her to come home + from meetin'.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Hughey assented forlornly. “I'm always too late at the door; he's + with her before a body can git the words out.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's it. I don't say she ain't a good girl, one of the very best, + but she's hard, hard, hard; and I don't see what's ever to break her.” + </p> + <p> + The girl's voice came from round the cabin, calling, “Honey, honey, + honey!” and the little one started from her play at her mother's feet, and + ran toward the voice, which Jane now brought with her at the corner, and + chuckling, and jug-jugging, birdlike, for joy, threw herself at Jane's + knees. + </p> + <p> + “See what I brought you, honey. It's good and ripe, but it ain't half as + good as my honey, honey, honey!” She put the pawpaw into the child's hands + and mumbled her, with kisses of her eyes, cheeks, hair, and neck. “Oh, I + could eat you, <i>eat</i> you!” + </p> + <p> + She must have seen the young fellow waiting for her notice, but Nancy had + to say, “Here's Hughey, Jane,” before she spoke to him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Hughey,” she said, not unkindly, but as if he did not matter. + </p> + <p> + He stood awkward and Nancy judged it best for all the reasons to add, + “Hughey wants you to go to the Temple with him to-night,” and the young + fellow smiled gratefully if not hopefully at her. + </p> + <p> + The girl stiffened herself to her full height from the child she was + stooping over. She haughtily mounted the steps beside Nancy, and without + other recognition of Hughey in the matter she said, “I've <i>got</i> + company,” and disappeared into the cabin. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Hughey?” Nancy pityingly questioned. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Nancy,” he replied with a manful struggle for manfulness, “I—I—It's + meant, I reckon,” and slunk away from the girl's brutality as if it were + his own shame. + </p> + <p> + Nancy picked up her little one, and followed indoors. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you talk to me, Aunt Nancy!” the girl cried at her. “What does he + keep askin' me for?” + </p> + <p> + “He won't ask you any more, Jane,” the woman quietly returned. + </p> + <p> + They joined in putting the little one to bed. Then, without more words, + Jane kissed the child, and came back to kiss her again when she had got to + the door. “Aunt Nancy, I hate you,” she said as she went out and left the + woman alone. + </p> + <p> + Ever since Joey went away with the believers to see the New Jerusalem come + down in Philadelphia, Jane had been sleeping at her father's cabin in + resentful duty to his years and solitude. She got him his breakfast and + left it for him before she went to take her own with Nancy, and she had + his dinner and supper ready for his return from the field, but she did not + eat with him, and he was abed before she came home at night. + </p> + <p> + Joey had been gone nearly a month, and no word had come back from any of + the Little Flock who went with Dylks. It was not the day of letters by + mail; if some of the pilgrims had sent messages by the wagoners returning + from their trips Over the Mountains, they had not reached the families + left behind, and no angel-borne tidings came to testify of the wonder at + Philadelphia. Those left behind waited in patience rather than anxiety; + where life was often hard, people did not borrow trouble and add that + needless debt to their load of daily cares. Nancy said to others that she + did not know what to think, and others said the same to her, and they got + what comfort they could out of that. + </p> + <p> + Now she did not light the little rag-lamp which she and Jane sometimes sat + by with their belated sewing or darning if they had not kept the + hearth-fire burning. She went to bed in the dark, and slept with the + work-weariness which keeps the heart-heavy from waking. + </p> + <p> + She had work in her tobacco patch to do, as well as in the house, where + Jane helped her; she would not let the girl help her get the logs and + brush together on the clearing which Laban had begun burning to enrich the + soil for the planting of the next year's crop with the ashes. + </p> + <p> + She must have slept long hours when she heard the sound of a cry from the + dark without. + </p> + <p> + “Mother! Mother! <i>Oh</i>, mother!” it came nearer and nearer, till it + beat with the sound of a fist on the cabin door. In the piecing out of the + instant dream which she started from, she thought as that night when Dylks + called her, that it must be Laban; he sometimes called her mother after + the baby came, and now she called back, “Laban! Laban!” but the voice came + again, “It ain't father; it's me, mother; it's Joey!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear heart!” she joyfully lamented, and flung herself from her bed, + and reeled still drunk with slumber, and pulled up the latch, and flung + open the door, and caught her boy to her breast. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mother!” he said, laughing and crying. “I'm so hungry!” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure you're hungry, child; and I'll have you your supper in half a + minute, as soon as I can rake the fire open. Lay down on mother's bed + there, and rest while I'm gettin' ready for you. The baby won't wake, and + I don't care if she does.” + </p> + <p> + “I s'pose she's grown a good deal. But I <i>am</i> tired,” the boy said, + stretching himself out. “Me 'n' Benny run all the way as soon as we come + in sight of the crick, and him 'n' Mis' Hingston wanted me to stay all + night, but I wouldn't. I wanted to see you so much, mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Did Mr. Hingston come back with you? Or, don't tell me anything; don't + speak, till you've had something to eat.” + </p> + <p> + “I woon't, mother,” the boy promised, and then he said, “But you ought to + see Philadelphy, mother. It's twenty times as big as Wheeling, Benny says, + and all red brick houses and white marble steps.” He was sitting up, and + talking now; his mother flew about in the lank linsey-woolsey dress she + had thrown over her nightgown in some unrealized interval of her labors + and had got the skillet of bacon hissing over the coals. + </p> + <p> + “And to think,” she bleated in self-reproach, “that I'll have to give you + <i>rye</i> coffee! You know, Joey dear, there hain't very much cash about + this house, and the store won't take truck for coffee. But with good cream + in it, the rye tastes 'most as good. Set up to the table, now,” she bade + him, when she had put the rye coffee with the bacon and some warmed-up + pone on the leaf lifted from the wall. + </p> + <p> + She let the boy silently glut himself till he glanced round between + mouthfuls and said, “It all looks so funny and little, in here, after + Philadelphy.” + </p> + <p> + Then she said, “But you don't say anything about the New Jerusalem. Didn't + it come down, after all?” She smiled, but sadly rather than gladly in her + skepticism. + </p> + <p> + “No, mother,” the boy answered solemnly. Then after a moment he said, “I + got something to tell you, mother. But I don't know whether I hadn't + better wait till morning.” + </p> + <p> + “It's most morning, now, Joey, I reckon, if it ain't already. That's the + twilight comin' in at the door. If you wouldn't rather get your sleep + first—” + </p> + <p> + “No, I can't sleep till I tell you, now. It's about the Good Old Man.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he—did he go up?” she asked fearfully. + </p> + <p> + “No, mother, he didn't. Some of them say he was took up, but, mother, <i>I</i> + believe he was drownded!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXII + </h2> + <p> + “Drownded?” the boy's mother echoed. “What do you mean, Joey? What makes + you believe he was drownded?” + </p> + <p> + “I seen him.” + </p> + <p> + “Seen him?” + </p> + <p> + “In the water. We was all walkin' along the river bank, and some o' the + Flock got to complainin' because he hadn't fetched the New Jerusalem down + yit, and wantin' to know when he was goin' to do it, and sayin' this was + Philadelphy, and why didn't he; and Mr. Hingston he was tryin' to pacify + 'em, and Mr. Enraghty he scolded 'em, and told 'em to hesh up, or they'd + be in danger of hell-fire; but they didn't, and the Good Old Man he begun + to cry. It was awful, mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on, Joey. Don't stop.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he'd been prayin' a good deal, off and on, and actin' like he + wasn't in his right senses, sometimes, talkin' to hisself, and singin' his + hymn—that one, you know—” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, Joey dear,” his mother said, “keep on.” + </p> + <p> + “And all at once, he up and says, 'If I want to, I can turn this river + into a river of gold,' and one o' the Flock, about the worst one, he + hollers back, 'Well, why don't you do it, then?' and Mr. Enraghty—well, + they call him Saint Paul, you know—he told him to shut his mouth; + and they got to jawin', and I heard a rattlin' of gravel, like it was + slippin' down the bank, and then there was the Good Old Man in the water, + hollerin' for help, and his hat off, floatin' down stream, and his hair + all over his shoulders. And before I knowed what to think, he sunk, and + when he come up, I was there in the water puttin' out for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Joey—” + </p> + <p> + “I can't remember how I got there; must 'a' jumped in without thinkin'; + he'd been so good to me, all along, and used to come to me in the + nighttime when he 'sposed I was asleep, and kiss me; and cry—But I'd + 'a' done it for anybody, anyway, mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Go—” + </p> + <p> + “Some of 'em was takin' their shoes and coats off to jump in, and some + jest standin' still, and hollerin' to me not to let him ketch holt o' me, + or he'd pull me under. But I knowed he couldn't do that, becuz I could + ketch him by one arm, and hold him off—me 'n' Benny's practised it + in the crick—and I swum up to him; and he went down ag'in, and when + he come up ag'in, his face was all soakin' wet like he'd been cryin' under + the water, and he says, kind o' bubblin'—like this,” the boy made + the sound. “He says, 'Oh, my son, God help—bub-ub—bless you!' + and then he went down, and I swum round and round, expectin' he'd come up + somewheres; but he didn't come up no more. It was awful, mother, becuz + that didn't seem to be the end of it; and it was. Just didn't come up no + more. They jawed some, before they <i>got</i> over the mountains,” the boy + said reminiscently. “They hadn't brung much money; even Mr. Hingston + hadn't, becuz they expected the Good Old Man to work miracles, and make + silver and gold money out of red cents, like he said he would. All the + nights we slep' out o' doors, and sometimes we had to ast for victuals; + but the Good Old Man he always found places to sleep, nice caves in the + banks and holler trees, and wherever he ast for victuals they give plenty. + And Mr. Enraghty he said it was a miracle if he always knowed the best + places to sleep, and the kindest women to ast for victuals. Do you believe + it was, mother?” + </p> + <p> + Nancy said, after an effort for her voice, “He might have been there + before.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's so; but none of 'em thunk o' that. And what Mr. Enraghty + said stopped the jawin' at the time. It all begun ag'in, worse than ever + when we got almost to Philadelphy; and he said some of 'em must take the + south fork of the road with Saint Paul and keep on till they saw a big + light over Philadelphy, where the New Jerusalem was swellin' up, and the + rest would meet 'em there with him and Saint Peter. They said, 'Why + couldn't we all go together?' And it was pretty soon after that that he + slipped into the river. Stumbled on a round stone, I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0008" id="linkimage-0008"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> + <img src="images/8001.jpg" alt="8001 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <h5> + <a href="images/8001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> + </h5> + + <p> + The woman sat slowly smoothing the handle of the coffee-pot up and down, + and staring at the boy; but she did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “Benny jumped in by that time, but it wasn't any use. Oh! I seen the + ocean, mother! Mr. Hingston took me 'n' Benny down on a boat; and I seen a + stuffed elephant in a show, or a museum, they called it. Benny said it was + just like the real one in the circus at Wheeling. Mother, do you believe + he throwed hisself in?” + </p> + <p> + “Who, Joey?” she faintly asked. + </p> + <p> + “Why, the Good Old Man. That's what some of 'em said, them that was + disappointed about the New Jerusalem. But some said he did fetch it down; + and they seen it, with the black horses and silver gates and velvet + streets, and everything just the way he promised. And the others said he'd + fooled 'em, or else they was just lyin'. And they said he'd got to the end + of his string; and that was why he throwed himself in, and when he got in, + he was scared of drowndin' and that was why he hollered for help. But I + believe he just slipped in. Don't you, mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Joey.” + </p> + <p> + “Mother, I don't believe the Good Old Man had a grea' deal of courage. All + the way Over the Mountains, he'd seem to scare at any little noise, even + in broad daylight. Oncet, when we was goin' along through the woods, a pig + jumped out of some hazel-nut bushes, and scared him so that he yelled and + fell down in a fit, and they was a good while fetchin' him to. Do you + think he was God, mother?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Joey.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's what I think, too. If he was God, he wouldn't been afeared, + would he? And in the night sometimes he'd come and git me to come and lay + by him where he could put his arm round my neck, and feel me, like as if + he wanted comp'ny. Well, now, that wasn't much like God, was it? And when + he thought I was asleep, I could hear him prayin', 'O merciful Savior!' + and things like that; and if he was God, who could he pray <i>to</i>? It + wasn't sense, was it? Well, I just believe he fell in, and he was afeared + he was drowndin' and that's why he hollered out. Don't you, mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do, Joey.” + </p> + <p> + “And you think I done right, don't you, to try to help him, even if it <i>was</i> + some resk?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I knowed it was <i>some</i> resk, but I didn't believe it was much, and I + kind of thought you'd want me to.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, yes,” his mother said. “You did right, Joey. And you're a good + boy, and—Joey dear,”—and she rose from the bench where she was + sitting with him—“I believe I'll go and lay down on the bed a + minute. Bein' up, so—” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, mother! You lay down and I'll clear up the breakfast, or supper + if it's it. It'll be like old times,” he said in the pride of his long + absence from home. His mother lay down on the bed with her face to the + wall, and he went very quietly about his work, so as not to wake the baby. + But after a moment he went to his mother, and whispered hoarsely, “You + don't suppose I could go and see Benny, a minute, after I've got done? + It's 'most broad day, and I know he'll be up, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, go,” she said, without turning her face to him. + </p> + <p> + He kept tiptoeing about, and when he had finished, he stood waiting to be + sure whether she was sleeping before he opened the door. Now she turned + her face, and spoke: “Joey?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, mother?” he whispered back, and ran to her softly, in his bare feet. + </p> + <p> + “Did you get to like him any better?” + </p> + <p> + He seemed not to take her question as anything strange, or to be in doubt + of whom she meant. + </p> + <p> + “Why, there in the water, at the very last, when he kep' goin' down, I + liked him. Yes, I must have. But all along, I felt more like sorry for + him. He seemed so miser'ble, all the time, and so—well—scared.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” She had got the boy's hand, and without turning her body with her + face she held his hand in hers closely under her arm. “Joey, I told you he + was a wicked man. I can't tell you any different now. But I'm glad you was + sorry for him. I am sorry too. Joey—he was your father.” She pressed + his hand harder. + </p> + <p> + “Goodness!” he said, but he did not suffer himself to say more. + </p> + <p> + “He went away and left me when you was a little baby, and he never come + back till he come back here. I never had any word from him. For all I + could tell he was dead. I never wanted him to be dead,” she defended + herself to herself in something above the intelligence of the boy. “I + married Laban, who's been more of a father to you than what <i>he</i> + was.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>yes</i>, mother!” + </p> + <p> + “When your <i>real</i> father come here, I made your <i>true</i> father go + away.” Now she turned and faced her son, keeping his hand tighter in hers. + “Joey, I want to have you go and tell him to come back.” + </p> + <p> + “Right away, Mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes?” she said with question in her answer. + </p> + <p> + “I thought maybe you'd let me see Benny, first,” he suggested a little + wistfully. + </p> + <p> + She almost laughed. “You dear boy! Go and see Benny on your way. Take him + with you, if his father will let him go. You're both such great travelers. + Your father's at the Wilkinses' yit, I reckon; they hain't finished with + their cider, I don't believe. Go, now!” + </p> + <p> + The boy had been poising as if on winged feet, and now he flew. He came + back to say at the door, “I don't believe I'll want any breakfast, mother; + we had such a late supper.” + </p> + <p> + It was a thoughtful suggestion, and she said “No,” but before her answer + came he had flown again. + </p> + <p> + The baby woke, and she cooed to it, and she went about the one room of the + little cabin trying to put it more in order than before. Some pieces of + the moss in the chinking of the round logs near the chimney seemed loose, + and she packed them tighter. As she worked she sang. She sang a hymn, but + it was a hymn of thanksgiving. + </p> + <p> + The doorway darkened, and she turned to see the figure of her brother + black in the light. + </p> + <p> + “I see, you've heard the news,” he said grimly. “I was afraid I might find + you making a show of mourning. <i>I</i> don't pretend to any. I haven't + had such a load off me since that rascal first come back.” + </p> + <p> + She answered resentfully, “What makes <i>you</i> so glad, David? He didn't + come back to make <i>you</i> drive <i>your</i> husband away!” + </p> + <p> + “I was always afraid he might make me kill him. He tried hard enough, and + sometimes I thought he might. But blessed be the Lord, he's dead. They're + holding a funeral for him in the Temple. The news is all through the + Creek. I suppose you know how Jane has fixed it up with James Redfield. I + feel to be sorry for Hughey Blake; but he never could have mastered her. + She's got an awful will, Jane has. But James has got an awful will too, as + strong as Jane—” + </p> + <p> + Nancy cut him short: “David, I don't care anything about Jane—now.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he assented. “Where's Joey?” he asked, leaning inward with his hands + resting on either jamb of the door. + </p> + <p> + “Gone for Laban.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” David said, with something like grudge. “You hain't lost much + time. But I don't know as I blame you,” he relented. + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't care if you did, David,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XXIII + </h2> + <p> + Late in the long twilight of the early spring day a stranger who was + traveling in the old fashion on horseback, with his legs swathed in green + baize against the mud of the streaming roads, and with his spattered + saddle-bags hung over the pommel before him, was riding into Leatherwood. + He paused in a puddle of the lane that left the turnpike not far off, and + curved between the new-plowed fields in front of a double log cabin, which + had the air of being one of the best habitations of its time though its + time was long past; the logs it was built of were squared; the chimneys at + either end were of stone masonry instead of notched sticks laid in clay. + Against the wall of the porch between the two rooms of the cabin an old + man sat tilted back in his chair, smoking a pipe which he took from his + mouth at sight of the stranger's arrest. + </p> + <p> + “Can you tell me, please, which is my way to the tavern, or some place + where I can find a night's lodging?” + </p> + <p> + The old man dropped his chair forward, and got somewhat painfully out of + it to toddle to the edge of his porch. “Why, there isn't a tavern, rightly + speaking, in Leatherwood, now, though for the backwoods we had a very + passable one, once. I wish,” he said after a moment, “that we could offer + you a lodging here; but if you'll light and throw your horse's rein over + the peg in this post, I would be pleased to have you stay to supper with + us. My wife is just getting it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, thank you, thank you,” the stranger said. “I mustn't think of + troubling you. I dare say I can get something to eat at your tavern. I've + often been over night in worse places, no doubt. I've been traveling + through your State, and I've turned a little out of my way to stop at + Leatherwood, because I've been interested in a peculiar incident of your + local history.” + </p> + <p> + The two men perceived from something in each other's parlance, though one + spoke with the neat accent of the countries beyond the Alleghanies, and + the other with the soft slurring Ohio River utterance, that they were in + the presence of men different by thinking if not by learning from most men + in the belated region of a new country. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” the old man said with instant intelligence, “the Leatherwood + God.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” the other eagerly assented. “I was told, at your county seat, that + I could learn all about it if I asked for Squire Braile, here.” + </p> + <p> + “I am Matthew Braile,” the old man said with dignity, and the stranger + returned with a certain apology in his laugh: + </p> + <p> + “I must confess that I suspected as much, and I'm ashamed not to have + frankly asked at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Better 'light,”—the Squire condoned whatever offense there might + have been in the uncandor. “I don't often get the chance to talk of our + famous imposture, and I can't let one slip through my fingers. You must + come in to supper, and if you smoke I can give you a pipe of our yellow + tobacco, afterwards, and we can talk—” + </p> + <p> + “But I should tire you with my questions. In the morning—” + </p> + <p> + “We old men sometimes have a trick of not living till morning. You'd + better take me while you can get me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you put it in that way,” the stranger said, and he slipped down + from his saddle. + </p> + <p> + The old man called out, “Here, Abel!” and the figure of what seemed an + elderly boy came lurching and paddling round the corner of the cabin, and + ducked his gray head hospitably toward the stranger. “Give this horse a + feed while we're taking ours.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Squire. Jest helpin' Sally put the turkey-chicks to bed out o' + the cold, or I'd 'a' been round at the first splashin' in the road.” + </p> + <p> + “And now come in,” the Squire said, reaching a hand of welcome from the + edge of the porch to the stranger as he mounted the steps. “Old neighbors + of ours,” he explained Abel and the unseen Sally. “We've known them, boy + and girl, from the beginning, and when their old cabin fell down in the + tail-end of a tornado a few years back, we got them here in a new one + behind ours, to take care of them, and let them take care of us. They + don't eat with us,” he added, setting open the kitchen door, and ushering + the stranger into the warm glow and smell of the interior. “Mis' Braile,” + he said for introduction to his wife, and explained to her, “A friend that + I caught on the wing. I don't know that I <i>did</i> get your name?” + </p> + <p> + “Mandeville—T. J. Mandeville; I'm from Cambridge.” + </p> + <p> + “Thomas Jefferson, I suppose. Cambridge, Ohio—back here?” + </p> + <p> + “Massachusetts.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you didn't sound like Ohio. I always like to make sure. Well, you + must pull up. Mother, have you got anything fit to eat, this evening?” + </p> + <p> + “You might try and see,” Mrs. Braile responded in what seemed their + habitual banter. + </p> + <p> + “Well, don't brag,” the Squire returned, and between them they welcomed + the stranger to a meal that he said he had not tasted the like of in all + his Western travel. + </p> + <p> + It seemed that their guest did not smoke, and the Squire alone lighted his + pipe. Then he joked his wife. “Mother, will you let us stay by the fire + here—it's a little chilly outdoors, and those young frogs do take + the heart of you with their peeping—if we don't mind your bothering + round? Mr. Mandeville wants to hear all about our Leatherwood God.” + </p> + <p> + “He'll hear more about him than he wants to if he listens to all you tell, + Matthew,” Mrs. Braile retorted. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; oh, no,” the stranger protested, and the Squire laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You wanted to know,” he said, well after the beginning of their talk, + “whether there were many of the Little Flock left. Well, some; and to + answer your other question, they're as strong in the faith as ever. The + dead died in the faith; the living that were young in it in the late + eighteen-twenties are old in it now in the first of the fifties. It's + rather curious,” the Squire said, with a long sigh of satisfaction in the + anomaly, “but after the arrest of Dylks, and his trial and acquittal + before this court,” the Squire smiled, “when he came out of the tall + timber, and had his scalp mended, and got into a whole suit of Saint + Peter's clothes, he didn't find the Little Flock fallen off a great deal. + They were a good deal scared, and so was he. That was the worst of the + lookout for Dylks; his habit of being afraid; it was about the best thing, + too; kept him from playing the <i>very</i> devil. There's no telling how + far he might have gone if he hadn't been afraid: I mean, gone in personal + mischief.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” the stranger assented. “And his failure in all his miracles had no + effect on his followers?” + </p> + <p> + The Squire laughed, with a rattling of loose teeth on his pipe-stem. “Why, + he didn't fail according to the Little Flock; it was only the unbelievers + that disbelieved in the miracles. Even those that went with him + Over-the-Mountains to see the New Jerusalem come down got to having seen + it as time went on, though some had their doubts when they first came + back. Before they died, they'd all seen him go up in a chariot of fire + with two black horses and no driver. Nobody but those two purblind + ignorant boys that tried to keep him from drowning, when he fell into the + river, could be got to say that the heavenly city didn't come down and + suck him up. Why, seven or eight years after he left there was a preacher + who was one of his followers came back here, and preached in the Dylks + Temple—the old Temple burned down, long ago and was never rebuilt—preached + the divinity of Dylks, and said there was no true religion that didn't + recognize him as God. As for Christianity, he said it was just a + hotch-potch of Judaism and heathenism. <i>He</i> saw the Good Old Man go + right up into heaven, and said he was going to come back to earth before + long and set up his kingdom here. He's never done it, and that slick + preacher never came back, either, after the first. He was very well + dressed and looked as if he had been living on the fat of the land, + somewhere, among the faithful Over-the-Mountains, I reckon. Knew where the + fried chickens roosted. Excuse me, mother. She's heard that joke before,” + he explained to their guest. + </p> + <p> + “I've heard it too often to mind it,” Mrs. Braile mocked back. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it seems to be new to our friend here.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Mandeville was laughing, but he controlled himself to ask, “And had + the fellow no progressive doctrine, no steps of belief, no logical + formulation of his claims? He couldn't have been merely a dunder-headed, + impudent charlatan, who expected to convince by the miracles he didn't + do?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; oh, no. I didn't mean to imply that,” the Squire explained. “He + was a cunning rascal in his way, and he had the sort of brain that has + served the purpose of the imposter in all ages. He had a plan of belief, + as you may call it, which he must have thought out before he came here, if + he hadn't begged, borrowed, or stolen it from somebody else. At first he + called himself a humble teacher of Christianity, but it wasn't a great + while before he pretended to be Jesus Christ who died on Calvary. That + didn't satisfy him long, though. When he had convinced some that he was + Christ, he began to teach that the Christ who was crucified, though he was + a <i>real</i> Messiah, was not a <i>perfect</i> Messiah, because he had + died and been buried, and death had had power over him just as it has over + any mortal. But the real Messiah would never taste death, and he was that + Messiah. Dylks would never taste death, and as the real Messiah, he would + be one with God, and in fact he was the one and only God. These were the + steps, and the way to belief in the godhead was clear to the meanest + understanding. The meaner the understanding, the clearer,” the Squire + summed up, with another tattoo on his pipe-stem. “You see,” he resumed + after a moment, “life is hard in a new country, and anybody that promises + salvation on easy terms has got a strong hold at the very start. People + will accept anything from him. Somewhere, tucked away in us, is the + longing to know whether we'll live again, and the hope that we'll live + happy. I've got fun out of that fact in a community where I've had the + reputation of an infidel for fifty years; but all along I've felt it in + myself. We want to be good, and we want to be safe, even if we are not + good; and the first fellow that comes along and tells us to have faith in + him, and he'll make it all right, why we have faith in him, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” the stranger said, holding him to the logic of the facts, as + he leaned toward him from his side of the fireplace, and fixed him with an + eager eye, “I can't see why he didn't establish his superstition in + universal acceptance, as, say, Mahomet did.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad you came to that,” the Squire blandly submitted. “For one thing, + and the main thing, because he was a coward. He had plently of audacity + but mighty little courage, and his courage gave out just when he needed it + the most. And perhaps he hadn't perfect faith in himself; he was a fool, + but he wasn't a crazy fool. Then again, my idea is that the scale was too + small, or the scene, or the field, or whatever you call it. The backwoods, + as Leatherwood was then, was not the right starting point for a world-wide + imposture. Then again, as I said, Dylks was timid. He was not ready to + shed blood for his lie, neither other people's nor his own; and when it + came to fighting for his doctrine, he was afraid; he wanted to run. And, + in fact, he did run, first and last. No liar ever had such a hold on them + that believed his lie; they'd have followed him any lengths; but he hadn't + the heart to lead them. When Redfield and I got hold of him, after he had + tasted the <i>fear</i> of death, there that week in the tall timber, he + was willing to promise anything we said. And he kept his promise; he + wouldn't if he could have helped it, but he knew Jim Redfield would hold + him to it, if he squeezed his life out doing it.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger was silent, but not apparently convinced, and meanwhile he + took up another point of interest in the story which he heard from the + Squire. “And whatever became of his wife, and her 'true' husband?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they lived on together. Not very long, though. They died within a + week of each other, about. Didn't they, mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Just a week,” Mrs. Braile said, animated by the human touch in the + discussion. “They lived mighty happy together, and it was as good a death + as a body could want to die. It was that summer when the fever mowed the + people down so. They took their little girl with them,” she sighed from a + source of hidden sorrow. “They all went together.” + </p> + <p> + Braile took his pipe out and gulped before he could answer the stranger's + next question. “And the boy? Dylks's son, is he living?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes.” At the pleasant thought of the boy, the Squire began to smile. + “He and Hingston's son took over the mill from Hingston, after he got too + old for it, and carried it on together. Hingston wasn't one that hung on + to the faith in Dylks, but he never made any fuss about giving it up. Just + staid away from the Temple that the Little Flock built for themselves.” + </p> + <p> + “And is young Dylks still carrying on the milling business?” + </p> + <p> + “Who? Joey? Oh, yes. He married Benny Hingston's sister. Benny's wife + died, and he lives with them.” + </p> + <p> + “And there ain't a better man in the whole of Leatherwood than Joey + Billin's, as we always call him,” Mrs. Braile put in. “He was the best boy + anywhere, and he's the best man.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's likely to come out that way, sometimes,” the Squire said with + tender irony. + </p> + <p> + “And you can't say,” Mrs. Braile continued with a certain note of + indignation as for unjust neglect of the pair, “but what James Redfield + and Jane has got along very well together.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, they've got along,” the Squire assented. “He's got along with + her, and she's got along with the children—plenty of them. I reckon + she's what <i>he</i> wanted, and they're what <i>she</i> did.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger looked a little puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “That instinct of maternity,” the Squire explained. “You may have noticed + it in women—some of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Oh, yes,” Mr. Mandeville assented. He did not seem greatly + interested. + </p> + <p> + “She's always been just crazy about 'em,” Mrs. Braile explained. + “Beginnin' with Nancy Billin's's little girl. Well!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” the Squire amplified. “It was the best thing, or at least the + strongest thing in Jane. I don't say anything against it, mother,” he said + tenderly to his wife. “Jane was a good girl, especially after she got over + her faith in Dylks, and she's a good woman. At least, Jim thinks so.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Braile contented herself as she could with his ironical concession. + </p> + <p> + The stranger looked at his watch; he jumped to his feet. “Nine o'clock! + Mrs. Braile, I'm ashamed. But you must blame your husband, partly. Good + night, ma'am; good—Why, look here, Squire Braile!” he arrested + himself in offering his hand. “How about the obscurity of the scene where + Joe Smith founded his superstition, which bids fair to live right along + with the other false religions? Was Leatherwood, Ohio, a narrower stage + than Manchester, New York? And in point of time the two cults were only + four years apart.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that's a thing that's occurred to me since we've been talking. + Suppose we look into it to-morrow? Come round to breakfast—about six + o'clock. One point, though: Joe Smith only claimed to be a prophet, and + Dylks claimed to be a god. That made it harder, maybe for his + superstition.” + </p> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Leatherwood God, by William Dean Howells + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEATHERWOOD GOD *** + +***** This file should be named 7311-h.htm or 7311-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/3/1/7311/ + +Produced by Nathan Harris, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks, David Widger +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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