Other Main Travelled Roads

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The lustrous moon passed over the house, leaving the room dark, and
still the patient watcher sat beside the bed, listening to the slow
breathing of the dying one. The cool air grew almost chill; the east
began to lighten, and with the coming light the tide of life sank in the
dying body. The head, hitherto restlessly turning, ceased to move. The
eyes grew quiet and began to soften like a sleeper's.

"How are you now, dear?" asked the watcher several times, bending over
the bed, and bathing back the straying hair.

"I'm tired--tired, mother--turn me," she murmured drowsily, with heavy
lids drooping.

Martha patted the pillows once again, and turned her friend's face to
the wall. The poor, tortured, restless brain slowly stopped its grinding
whirl, and the thin limbs, heavy with years of hopeless toil,
straightened out in an endless sleep.

Matilda Fletcher had found rest.

A PREACHER'S LOVE STORY

I

The train drew out of the great Van Buren Street depot at 4.30 of a dark
day in late October. A tall young man, with a timid look in his eyes,
was almost the last passenger to get on, and his pale face wore a
worried look as he dropped into an empty seat and peered out at the
squalid city reeling past in the mist.

The buildings grew smaller, and vacant lots appeared stretching away in
flat spaces, broken here and there by ridges of ugly, squat, little
tenement blocks. Over this landscape vast banners of smoke streamed,
magnified by the misty rain which was driven in from the lake.

At last there came a swell of land clothed on with trees. It was still
light enough for him to see that they were burr oaks, and the young
student's heart thrilled at sight of them. His forehead smoothed out,
and his eyes grew tender with boyish memories.

He was seated thus, with head leaning against the pane, when another
young man came down the aisle from the smoking-car and took a seat
beside him with a pleasant word.

He was a handsome young fellow of twenty three or four. His face was
large and beardless, and he had a bold and keen look, in spite of the
bang of yellow hair which hung over his forehead. Some commonplaces
passed between them, and then silence fell on each. The conductor coming
through the car, the smooth-faced young fellow put up a card to be
punched, and the student handed up a ticket, simply saying, "Kesota."

After a decent pause the younger man said, "Going to Kesota, are you?"

"Yes."

"So am I. I live there, in fact."

"Do you? Then perhaps you can tell me the name of your County
Superintendent. I'm looking for a school." He smiled frankly. "I'm just
out of Jackson University, and--"

"That so? I'm an Ann Arbor man myself." They took a moment for mutual
warming up. "Yes, I know the Superintendent. Why not come right up to my
boarding-place, and to-morrow I'll introduce you? Looking for a school,
eh? What kind of a school?"

"Oh, a village school, or even a country school. It's too late to get a
good place; but I've been sick, and--"

"Yes, the good positions are all snapped up; still, you might by
accident hit on something. I know Mott; he'll do all he can for you.
By-the-way, my name's Allen."

The young student understood this hint and spoke. "Mine is Stacey."

The younger man mused a few minutes, as if he had forgotten his new
acquaintance. Suddenly he roused up.

"Say, would you take a country school several miles out?"

"I think I would, if nothing better offered."

"Well, in my old district they're without a teacher. It's six miles out,
and it isn't a lovely neighborhood! However, they will pay fifty dollars
a month; that's ten dollars extra for the scrimmages. They wanted me to
teach this winter--my sister tackles it in summer--but, great Peter! I
can't waste my time teaching school, when I can run up to Chicago and
take a shy at the pit and make a whole term's wages in thirty minutes!"

"I don't understand," said Stacey.

"Wheat Exchange. I've got a lot of friends in the pit, and I can come in
any time on a little deal. I'm no Jim Keene, but I hope to get cash
enough to handle five thousand. I wanted the old gent to start me up in
it, but he said, 'Nix come arouse.' Fact is, I dropped the money he gave
me to go through college with." He smiled at Stacey's disapproving look.
"Yes, indeedy; there's where the jar came into our tender relations. Oh,
I call on the Governor--always when I've got a wad. I have fun with
him." He smiled brightly. "Ask him if he don't need a little cash to pay
for hog-killin', or something like that." He laughed again. "No, I
didn't graduate at Ann Arbor. Funny how things go, ain't it? I was on my
way back the third year, when I stopped in to see the pit--it's one o'
the sights of Chicago, you know--and Billy Krans saw me looking over the
rail, I went in, won, and then took a flyer on December. Come a big
slump, and I failed to materialize at school."

"What did you do then?" asked Stacey, to whom this did not seem
humorous.

"I wrote a contrite letter to the Governor, stating case, requesting
forgiveness--and money. No go! Couldn't raise neither. I then wrote,
casting him off. 'You are no longer father of mine.'" He smiled again
radiantly. "You should have seen me the next time I went home! Plug hat!
Imported suit! Gold watch! Diamond shirt-stud! Cost me $200 to paralyze
the General, but I did it. My glory absolutely turned him white as a
sheet. I knew what he thought, so I said: 'Perfectly legitimate, Dad.
The walls of Joliet are not gaping for me.' That about half-fetched
him--calling him _Dad_, I mean; but he can't get reconciled to my
business. 'Too many ups and downs,' he says. Fact is, he thinks it's
gambling, and I don't argue the case with him. I'm on my way home now to
stay over Sunday."

The train whistled, and Allen looked out into the darkness. "We're
coming to the crossing. Now, I can't go up to the boarding-place when
you do, but I'll give you directions, and you tell the landlady I sent
you, and it'll be all right. Allen, you remember--Herman Allen."

Following directions, Stacey came at length to a two-story frame house
situated on the edge of the bank, with its back to the river. It stood
alone, with vacant lots all about. A pleasant-faced woman answered the
ring.

He explained briefly. "How do you do? I'm a teacher, and I'd like to get
board here a few days while passing my examinations. Mr. Herman Allen
sent me."

The woman's quick eye and ear were satisfied. "All right. Walk in, sir.
I'm pretty full, but I expect I can accommodate you--if you don't mind
Mr. Allen for a room-mate."

"Oh, not at all," he said, while taking off his coat.

"Come right in this way. Supper will be ready soon."

He went into a comfortable sitting-room, where a huge open fire of soft
coal was blazing magnificently. The walls were papered in florid
patterns, and several enlarged portraits were on the walls. The fire was
the only adornment; all else was cheap, and some of it was tawdry.

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 glees
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.

Taken altogether, it was an appalling picture to the young servant of
the Man of Galilee--a blunt reminder of the inherent ferocity and
depravity of man.

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