Other Main-Travelled Roads

by Garland, Hamlin

  Stacey spread his thin hands to the blaze, while the landlady sat down a moment, out of politeness, to chat, scanning him keenly. She was a handsome woman, strong, well-rounded, about forty years of age, with quick, gray eyes, and a clean, firm-lipped mouth.

  "Did you just get in?"

  "Yes. I've been on the road all day," he said, on an impulse of communication. "Indeed, I'm just out of college."

  "Is that so!" exclaimed Mrs. Mills, stopping her rocking in an access of interest. "What college?"

  "Jackson University. I've been sick, and only came West—"

  There came a look into her face that transformed and transfigured her. "My boy was in Ann Arbor. He was killed on the train on his way home one day." She stopped, for fear of breaking into a quaver, and smiled brightly. "That's why I always like college boys. They all stop here with me." She rose hastily. "Well, you'll excuse me, won't you, and I'll go an' 'tend to supper."

  There was a great deal that was feminine in Stacey, and he felt at once the pathos of the woman's life. He looked a refined, studious, rather delicate young man, as he sat low in his chair and observed the light and heat of the fire. His large head was heavy with learning, and his dark eyes deep with religious fervor.

  Several young women entered, and the room was filled with the clatter of tongues. Herman came in a few moments later, his face in a girlish glow of color. Everybody rushed at him with loud outcry. He was evidently a great favorite. He threw his arms about Mrs. Mills, giving her a hearty hug. The girls pretended to be shocked when he reached out for them, but they were not afraid of him. They hung on his arms and besieged him with questions till he cried out, in jolly perplexity:

  "Girls, girls! This will never do!"

  Mrs. Mills brushed out his damp yellow curls with her hands. "You're all wet."

  "Girls, if you'll let me sit down, I'll take one on each knee," he said, pleadingly, and they released him.

  Stacey grew red with sympathetic embarrassment, and shrank away into a corner.

  "Go get supper ready," commanded Herman. And it was only after they had left him that he said to Stacey: "Oh, you found your way all right." He took a seat by the fire and surveyed his wet shoes. "I took a run up to Mott's house—only a half block out o' the way. He said they'd be tickled to have you at Cyene. By-the-way, you're a theolog, aren't you?" Wallace nodded, and Herman went on: "So I told Mott. He said you might work up a society out there at Cyene."

  "Is there a church there?"

  "Used to be, but—say, I tell you what you do: you go out with me to-morrow, and I'll give you a history of the township."

  The ringing of the bell took them all out into the cheerful dining-room in a good-natured scramble. Mrs. Mills put Stacey at one end of the table, near a young woman who looked like a teacher, and he had full sweep of the table, which was surrounded by bright and happy faces. The station-hand was there, and a couple of grocery clerks, and a brakeman sat at Stacey's right hand. They all seemed very much at home, and called one another by their Christian names, and there was very obvious courtship on the part of several young couples.

  Stacey escaped from the table as soon as possible, and returned to his seat beside the fire. He was young enough to enjoy the chatter of the girls, but his timidity made him glad they paid so little attention to him. The rain had changed to sleet outside and hammered at the window viciously, but the blazing fire and the romping young people set it at defiance. The landlady came to the door of the dining-room, dish and cloth in hand, to share in each outburst of laughter, and not infrequently the hired girl peered over her shoulder with a broad smile on her face. A little later, having finished their work, they both came in and took active part in the light-hearted fun.

  Herman and one of the girls were having a great struggle over some trifle he had snatched from her hand, and the rest stood about laughing to see her desperate attempts to recover it. This was a familiar form of courtship in Kesota, and an evening filled with such romping was considered a "cracking good time." After the girl, red and dishevelled, had given up, Herman sat down at the organ, and they all sang Moody and Sankey hymns, negro melodies, and college songs till ten o'clock. Then Mrs. Mills called, "Come, now, boys and girls!" and they all said good-night, like obedient children.

  Herman and Wallace went up to their bedroom together.

  "Say, Stacey, have you got a policy?" Wallace shook his head. "And don't want any, I suppose. Well, I just asked you as a matter of form. You see," he went on, winking at Wallace comically, "nominally I'm an insurance agent, but practically I'm a 'lamb'—but I get a mouthful o' fur myself occasionally. What I'm working for is to get on that Wheat Exchange. That's where you get life! I'd rather be an established broker in that howling mob than go to Congress."

  He rose on his elbow in bed and looked at Wallace, who was rising from a silent prayer.

  "Say, why didn't you shout? I forgot all about it—I mean your profession."

  Wallace crept into bed beside his communicative bedfellow in silence. He didn't know how to deal with such spirits.

  "Say," called Herman suddenly, as Wallace was about dropping off to sleep, "you ain't got no picnic, old man!"

  "Why, what do you mean?"

  "Wait till you see Cyene Church. Oh, it's a daisy snarl!"

  "I wish you'd tell me about it."

  "Oh, it's quiet now. The calmness of death," said Herman. "Well, you see, it came this way. The church is made up of Baptists and Methodists, and the Methodists wanted an organ, because, you understand, father was the head centre, and Mattie is the only girl among the Methodists who can play. The old man has got a head like a mule. He can't be switched off, once he makes up his mind. Deacon Marsden, he don't believe in anything above tuning-forks, and he's tighter'n the bark on a bulldog. He stood out like a sore thumb, and Dad wouldn't give an inch.

  "You see, they held meetings every other Sunday. So Dad worked up the organ business and got one, and then locked it up when the Baptists held their services. Things went from bad to worse. They didn't speak as they passed by—that is, the old folks; we young folks didn't care a continental whether school kept or not. Well, upshot is, the church died out. The wind blew the horse-sheds down, and there they lie—and the church is standing there empty as an—old boot—and—Say, Stacey—by Jinks!—are you a Baptist?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh, Peter! ain't that lovely!" He chuckled shamelessly, and went off to sleep without another word.

  II

  Herman was still sleeping when Stacey rose and dressed and went down to breakfast. Mrs. Mills defended Herman against the charge of laziness: "He's probably been out late all the week."

  Stacey found Mott in the county court-house, and a perfunctory examination soon put him in possession of a certificate. There was no question of his attainments.

  Herman met him at dinner-time.

  "Well, elder, I'm going down to get a rig to go out home in. It's colder'n a blue whetstone, so put on all the clothes you've got. Gimme your check, and I'll get your traps. Have you seen Mott?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, then, everything's all fixed."

  He turned up about three o'clock, seated on the spring seat of a lumber wagon beside a woman, who drove the powerful team. Whether she was young or old could not be told through her wraps. She wore a cap and a thick, faded cloak.

  Mrs. Mills hurried to the door. "Why, Mattie Allen! What you doin' out such a day as this? Come in here instanter!"

  "Can't stop!" called a clear, boyish voice. "Too late!"

  "Well, land o' stars, you'll freeze!"

  When Wallace reached the wagon side, Herman said, "My sister, Stacey."

  The girl slipped her strong, brown hand out of her huge glove and gave him a friendly grip. "Get right in," she said. "Herman, you're going to stand up behind."

  Herman appealed to Mrs. Mills for sympathy. "This is what comes of having plebeian connections."

  "Oh, dry up," laughed the girl, "or I'll make you
drive."

  Stacey scrambled in awkwardly beside her. She was not at all embarrassed, apparently.

  "Tuck yourself in tight. It's mighty cold on the prairie."

  "Why didn't you come down with the baroosh?" grumbled Herman.

  "Well, the corn was contracted for, and father wasn't able to come—he had another attack of neuralgia last night, after he got the corn loaded, so I had to come."

  "Sha'n't I drive for you?" asked Wallace.

  "No, thank you. You'll have all you can do to keep from freezing." She studied his thin coat and worn gloves with keen glance. He could see only her pink cheeks, strong nose, and dark, smiling eyes.

  It was one of those terrible Illinois days when the temperature drops suddenly to zero, and the churned mud of the highways hardens into scoriac rock, which cripples the horses and sends the heavy wagons booming and thundering along like mad things. The wind was keen as a saw-bladed sword, and smote incessantly. The desolate sky was one thick, impenetrable mass of swiftly flying clouds.

  When they swung out upon the long pike leading due north, Wallace drew his breath with a gasp, and bent his head to the wind.

  "Pretty strong, isn't it?" shouted Mattie.

  "Oh, the farmer's life is the life for me, tra-la!" sang Herman, from his shelter behind the seat.

  Mattie turned. "What do you think of Penelope this month?"

  "She's a-gitten there," said Herman, pounding his shoe heels.

  "She's too smart for young Corey. She ought to marry a man like Bromfield. My, wouldn't they talk!"

  "Did y' get the second bundle of magazines last Saturday?"

  "Yes; and Dad found something in the Popular Science that made him mad, and he burned it."

  "Did 'e? Tum-la-la! Oh, the farmer's life for me!"

  "Are you cold?" she asked Wallace.

  He turned a purple face upon her. "No—not much."

  "I guess you better slip right down under the blankets," she advised.

  The wind blew gray out of the north—a wild blast which stopped the young student's blood in his veins. He hated to give up, but he could no longer hold the blankets over his knees, so he slipped down into the corner of the box, with his back to the wind, while Mattie drew the blankets over his head, slapped the reins down on the backs of the snorting horses, and encouraged them with shouts like a man: "Get out o' this, Dan! Hup there, Nellie!"

  The wagon boomed and rattled. The floor of the box seemed beaten with a maul. The glimpses Wallace had of the land appalled him, it was so flat and gray and bare.

  Herman sang at the top of his voice, and danced, and pounded his feet against the wagon box. "This ends it! If I can't come home without freezing to death, I don't come. I should have hired a rig, irrespective of you—"

  The girl laughed. "Oh, you're getting thin-blooded, Herman. Life in the city has taken the starch all out of you."

  "Better grow limp in a great city than freeze stiff in the country," he replied.

  An hour's ride brought them into a yard before a large, gray-white frame house.

  Herman sprang out to meet a tall old man with head muffled up. "Hello, Dad! Take the team. We're just naturally froze solid—at least, I am. This is Mr. Stacey, the new teacher."

  "How de do? Run in; I'll take the horses."

  Herman and Wallace stumbled toward the house, stiff and bent.

  Herman flung his arms about a tall woman in the kitchen door. "Hello, muz!" he said. "This is Mr. Stacey, the new teacher."

  Mattie came in soon with a boyish rush, gleeful as a happy babe. She unwound the scarf from her head and neck, and hung up her cap and cloak like a man, but she gave her hair a little touch of feminine care, and came forward with both palms pressed to her burning cheeks.

  "Did you suffer, child?" asked Mrs. Allen.

  "No; I enjoyed it."

  Herman looked at Stacey. "I believe on my life she did."

  "Oh, it's fun. I don't get a chance to do anything so exciting very often."

  Herman clicked his tongue. "Exciting? Well, well!"

  "You must remember things are slower here," Mattie explained.

  She came to light much younger than Stacey thought her. She was not eighteen, but her supple and splendid figure was fully matured. Her hair hung down her back in a braid, which gave a distinct touch of childishness to her.

  "Sis, you're still a-growin'," Herman said, as he put his arm around her waist and looked up at her.

  She seemed to realize for the first time that Stacey was a young man, and her eyes fell.

  "Well, now, set up the chairs, child," said Mrs. Allen.

  When the young teacher returned from his cold spare room off the parlor the family sat waiting for him. They all drew up noisily, and Allen said:

  "Ask the blessing, sir?"

  Wallace said grace.

  As Allen passed the potatoes he continued:

  "My son tells me you are a minister of the gospel."

  "I have studied for it."

  "What denomination?"

  "Tut, tut!" warned Herman. "Don't start any theological rabbits to-night, Dad. With jaw swelled up you won't be able to hold your own."

  "I'm a Baptist," Stacey answered.

  The old man's face grew grim. It had been ludicrous before with its swollen jaw. "Baptist!" He turned a stern look upon his son, whose smile angered him. "Didn't you know no more'n to bring a Baptist preacher into this house?"

  "There, there, father!" began the wife.

  "Be quiet. I'm boss of this shanty, and I won't have you bringing—"

  Herman struck in: "Don't make a show of yourself, old man. Never mind the old gent, Stacey; he's mumpy to-day, anyhow."

  Stacey rose. "I guess I—I'd better not stay—I—"

  "Oh no, no! Sit down! It's all right. The old man's a little acid at me. He doesn't mean it."

  Stacey got his coat and hat. His heart was swollen with indignation. He felt as if something fine were lost to him, and the land outside was so desolate!

  Mrs. Allen was in tears; but the old man, having taken his stand, was going to keep it.

  Herman lost his temper a little. "Well, Dad, you're a little the cussedest Christian I ever knew! Stacey, sit down. Don't you be a fool just because he is—"

  Stacey was buttoning his coat with trembling hands when Martha went up to him.

  "Don't go," she said. "Father's sick and cross. He'll be sorry for this to-morrow."

  Wallace looked into her frank, kindly eyes, and hesitated.

  Herman said: "Dad, you are a lovely follower of Christ! You'll apologize for this, or I'll never set foot on your threshold again."

  Stacey still hesitated. He was hurt and angry, but being naturally of a sweet and gentle nature, he grew sad, and, yielding to the pressure of the girl's hand on his arm, he began to unbutton his overcoat.

  She helped him with it, and hung it back on the nail, and her mother and Herman tried to restore something of the brightness which had been lost; but Allen sat grimly eating, his chin pushed down like a hog's snout.

  After supper, as his father was about retiring to his bedroom, Herman fixed his bright eyes on him, and something very hard and masterful came into his face.

  "Old man, you and I haven't had a settlement on this thing yet. I'll see you later."

  Allen shrank before his son's look, but shuffled sullenly off without uttering a word.

  Herman turned to Wallace. "Stacey, I want to beg your pardon for getting you into this scrape. I didn't suppose the old gentleman would act like that. The older he gets, the more his New Hampshire granite shows. I hope you won't lay it up against me."

  Wallace was too conscientious to say he didn't mind it, but he took Herman's hand in a quick clasp.

  "Let's have a song," proposed Herman. "Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast, to charm a rock, and split a cabbage."

  They went into the best room, where a fire was blazing, and Mattie and Herman sang hymns and old-fashioned love-songs and college gle
es wonderfully intermingled. They ended with Lorena, a wailing, extra sentimental love-song current in war times, and when they looked around there was a lofty look on the face of the young preacher—a look of exaltation, of consecration and resolve.

  III

  The next morning, at breakfast, Herman said, as he seized a hot biscuit, "We'll dispense with grace this morning, and till after the war is over." But Wallace blessed his bread in a silent prayer, and Mattie thought it very brave of him to do so.

  Herman was full of mockery. "The sun rises just the same, whether it's 'sprinkling' or 'immersion.' It's lucky Nature don't take a hand in these theological contests. She doesn't even referee the scrap; she never seems to care whether you are sparring for points or fighting to a finish. What you theologic middle-weights are really fighting for I can't see—and I don't care, till you fall over the ropes on to my corns."

  Stacey listened in a daze to Herman's tirade. He knew it was addressed to Allen, and that it deprecated war, and that it was mocking. The fresh face and smiling lips of the young girl seemed to put other affairs very far away. It was such a beautiful thing to sit at table with a lovely girl.

  After breakfast he put on his cap and coat, and went out into the clear, cold November air. All about him the prairie outspread, marked with farm-houses and lined with leafless hedges. Artificial groves surrounded each homestead, and these relieved, to some degree, the desolateness of the fields.

  Down the road he saw the spire of a small white church, and as he walked briskly toward it, Herman's description of it came to his mind.

  As he drew near, the ruined sheds, the rotting porch, and the windows boarded up told a sorry story, and his face grew sad. He tried one of the doors, and found it open. Some tramp had broken the lock. The inside was even more desolate than the outside. It was littered with rotting straw and plum stones and melon seeds. Obscene words were scrawled on the walls, and even on the pulpit itself.