CHAPTER XVI
When the family gathered about the table the next morning in the rectory, the Dominie told his wife solemnly that he wished to talk with her after the children had gone to school. Breakfast over, he broached the subject of the women talking in prayer meeting, Mrs. Graves listening eagerly. As the pastor's wife she had done the best in her power; but her power had been weak, and the stronger ones in the congregation had ridden over her convictions and teachings.
There was Augusta Hall, the beautiful wife of one of the deacons who had demanded that she be allowed to voice her sentiments in public; and other women had followed her lead, although it had been absolutely against the tenets of the church.
This woman was in Mrs. Graves' mind, when the Dominie brought down his hand upon the table, saying he had decided to stop once and for all the nonsense in his church, which was keeping the best of his members away.
Mrs. Graves breathed Mrs. Hall's name meekly to her husband.
"She can leave the church," growled Graves. "In my mind it's almost sacrilegious for women to dare to go so far that some of the best of its members will leave a well-regulated church. Maria, you must talk to Mrs. Hall and bring her to reason."
"If you can't succeed," replied Mrs. Graves, "how do you expect me to? You're her pastor."
"I will go and talk to her first, then you follow close upon my heels, Maria, and between us both, we will get Bill Hopkins and Carey back among us. If they come the rest will."
Late in the afternoon Mrs. Graves put on her bonnet, and, with a sigh, tied the strings under her withered chin. In the very moment when the congregation had at last become reconciled to the privileges extended to its female members, another church war was to be fought. But the little woman dared not refuse her husband's command, so she climbed the long hill toward the south and timidly rang the bell marked "Hall."
Her husband would have been there and gone, for the afternoon was well toward its close.
As the servant ushered her in, Mrs. Graves heard loud voices coming from the drawing-room, and instantly recognized one of them as the clergyman's.
"It's all very well, Mrs. Hall," he was saying, "for the women to work if they can do it without showing too much authority, but, my dear lady, I have been studying into this matter and it is positively against the Scriptural injunction for women to speak in church."
"Where did you read that?" asked Mrs. Hall, handing the Dominie a Bible, which he did not take in his half-extended fingers.
"I know, and you know where it is without looking," said he sharply. "There is a command from Paul that all women should keep silent in the church in the presence of men."
"Paul was an old bachelor," irreverently answered Mrs. Hall. "What did he know about women and their needs?"
"He received the commandments from God," replied the pastor gravely.
"Not that one, and what's more, I am going to talk all I want to, and if there is a man who does not want to hear, let him go away until he either changes his mind or desires to take things as they are.... Why! the women have been speaking in our church for over a year."
At this juncture, Mrs. Graves walked in, pale and weary. She dropped weakly into a chair.
"Your husband has just informed me," snapped Mrs. Hall, her beautiful face flushing as she spoke, "that we are not to speak any more at the church meetings. Do you approve of that, Mrs. Graves? I'm sure—"
"Like all dutiful and obedient wives," came the sharp interruption from the minister, without giving his sorry-looking spouse a chance to speak, "my wife thinks as I do. Mrs. Hall, allow me to entreat you to follow the dictates of your conscience, and obey your husband always."
"My husband gives me my own way," answered Mrs. Hall with a toss of her head.
"There he is wrong, but I shall leave you to talk things over with my wife. On Sunday I shall make it the theme of my sermon and I hope before Wednesday, my dear Mrs. Hall, that you and some others will look upon the matter in a different light."
The Dominie wended his way toward the business quarter of the city and turned into the Gas Company'soffice. Inquiring for Mr. Hall, he was ushered into a private room marked "President," and heartily greeted one of the deacons of his church.
"Anything wrong?" asked Hall, noticing the expression upon his pastor's face.
"No, only I called about a new rule which we're going to pass Wednesday evening, and you can help us if you will."
The president looked up inquiringly.
"The women must no longer speak at the prayer meeting."
Mr. Hall half rose from his chair as these words fell from the clergyman's lips, but he sank mutely back.
"It has become necessary to enforce the laws of the church," explained Graves, "and I have taken up this matter with some of the members—also with your wife."
Mr. Hall dropped his eyes upon his left hand with the fingers of which he was bending back those of his right.
"And what did she say?"
"I think it will be necessary for you to talk with her, Hall; surely you have enough influence over her to make her see that it is absolutely necessary that women should cease their—"
"I thought, Dominie," broke in the deacon, "that we had long outgrown such notions. You had better let matters go on as they are."
The minister shook his head emphatically, and looked searchingly at his parishioner.
"Fact is, Mr. Hall, you know that it is not a personal thing with me, but for the good of the church. Hopkins has left and Carey only comes when he feelslike it. Several others stay away without a place to worship, simply because the ladies will have their way. I have no trouble with my wife and no man would if he were to demand obedience as God says that he should. I shall preach upon it Sunday."
"Don't make it too strong," ventured Hall, thinking of his beautiful wife.
As far as he was concerned it made no difference whether women were silent or not, whether they wore hats to church or came in with bare heads. He was happy in his home life, and was not willing to bring about discord by arguments that meant nothing to him. When the church matter had come up before, he had acquiesced without a word, had watched the fight as it progressed, and when it ended had settled back to enjoy peace—a happy official of Ithaca's gas company.
He looked out under his brows at the clergyman, as he fingered the paper-cutter on his desk. He took it up mechanically and read the inscription on the handle: "From me to you."
His wife had given it to him, and Hall mentally wondered if the woman who could think of, and would dare to use, such a unique expression would be frightened by a word from him.
Without asking Augusta, the husband knew that his wife would be the first woman to rise to speak next Wednesday evening. This much he intimated to Graves. An expression of sarcasm flitted over the clergyman's countenance, but it quickly vanished—Graves was trying to add to his strong friends that day. He only remarked that he hoped it would be settled amicably. The president ventured another shot:
"Dominie, there's a complete turn in the affairs of Skinner; he says that he did not commit the murder—that he positively did not pick up the gun from the shore. Simply because he owned the gun is no proof that he used it. Young says—"
"Young had better attend to his campus business," interrupted Graves. "He will have all he can do. There's no doubt in my mind that Skinner is guilty. I should have thought that his conviction was proof of that."
"But he didn't have a chance to prove his innocence," replied Hall. "He has such a good reputation among his own people that Young is going to take up subscriptions for another trial."
Elias turned sharply upon the gas official.
"Few people who understand the matter will give money to save the life of a squatter. That's another thing I'm going to preach upon next Sunday. The very manner in which they live would prove what bad citizens they are."
"We can't hang a man," argued Hall, "because he doesn't live in accordance with our stilted notions. Professor Young says that the girl is a genius—that she has a beautiful voice. I promised that if he took up—a contribution for the family that I would send him a check."
Elias Graves rose hastily to his feet, forgetting to put out his hand as he went out. He now hated Tessibel Skinner with a deep religious hatred, and it would be war between him and her for the life of the imprisoned squatter.
President Hall, with a smile upon his face, closed the door of his private office after his pastor had departed.
"It's evident why Graves wants the women turned down," mused he; "he thinks that he will draw about him again such men as Hopkins and Carey and that they will help him in removing Skinner from his land. I won't help persecute the poor devil—Gad, but that daughter of his did turn things upside down. I wonder what Augusta will say to me when I go home?"
It was a keen, cold and blizzardly Sunday morning when the bells of the different churches rang out upon the air. Ithaca was astir and her citizens anxious to worship. For one-half hour the streets teemed with well-dressed people, then became as silent as if the town were uninhabited. Minister Graves took his place in the pulpit and scanned the pews which were filled to overflowing. Not only had his members come, one and all, but people from other congregations were standing at the back of the railing, eager to hear the mighty effort which would be given forth from the clergyman's eloquent tongue. Elias Graves took his text from Genesis—"And thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee."
The minister leaned far over his flock, as he finished this impressive text.
His eyes fell upon Deacon Hall's pew, then upon his own in which sat his wife with Babe near her. Frederick was between Teola and the little girl, and they were all earnestly watching their father—something was going to happen, but they did not know what. The deep voice broke out into a prayer, followed by a soulful anthem from the choir.
Minister Graves rose with dignity, and began his sermon.
"It is my intention," said he, "to divide my sermon this morning directly in two, because my subjects are so entirely different. Before the expiration of it, you will see the force of my argument and will, I hope, profit by it."
He continued by saying, a house divided against itself would surely fall, that even a stone structure built upon sand would slip into the sea.
"Brethren, the sea of which I speak is a sea of discontent and disobedience. From my reading text you will see that God commanded that woman should be obedient, that she should obey her husband to the letter—to the letter, brethren."
There was a decided rustle of silken petticoats in the church.
"It was the disobedience of our first mother," spoke the clergyman, "that threw Adam into ill-repute with his Creator, and also Adam's love for her that drove him from the Garden of Eden. Brethren, God is good to mankind, ever ready to listen to his appeals. If Adam had only believed in the greatness as well as the goodness of God, he would have spurned the woman who had dared to so flagrantly disobey, instead of following her from the garden.
"Adam had more than one rib," went on the minister, "and how readily and kindly would God have disposed of the first sinning Eve and under the pleasant sleep of the man, Adam, extracted another rib out of which he would have constructed another and yet more beautiful woman. Some of us are finding it impossible to keep order in our families, and until we do, we cannot expect to live to the glory of God."
A loud hacking cough came from Deacon Hall's pewand many heads were turned toward it. This disconcerted the clergyman for a moment, but he picked up the threads of his sermon and resumed:
"If every man in this little city would rely upon the goodness of God to supply him with another Eve, when the woman joined to him in holy matrimony disobeys His law, it would be a simple matter to re-establish order in his household. Just as happiness was given to Lot after the turning to salt of his wife."
The minister paused—the silence was so deathly that it appalled him. He allowed his eyes to fall upon the memorial window with a man's face upon it. The words underneath the figure passed before him dimly. Then he remembered that he was preaching a sermon. Was he not the chosen shepherd of the flock? Was he not the one man called by God to show these people the righteous paths in which to walk? Should his voice be silenced because others did not believe as he did? And was he not showing them the light through the Scriptures? With these thoughts in his mind and renewed energy in his voice he spoke again:
"I should be the last man in the world to raise a false alarm, neither do I desire to enter homes and bring discord there. But I read from a passage under my hand, 'If thy right hand offend thee cut it off.'
"From the words of the Scriptures I have proven to you that a household must be ruled by the husband and by him alone. And that it is the duty of every wife to obey her husband as long as she shall live.
"I shall ask the women of this congregation not to rise next Wednesday evening in the prayer meeting, either to pray or testify. The privilege has been withdrawn as one perniciously against the tenets of thechurch. For Paul says in first Timothy, 'I suffer not a woman to teach nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence;' also I give you Paul's further command, 'Let the deacons be the husband of one wife, ruling their children and their own houses well.'"
He ran over the last few words quickly for the louder rustle of silk could be heard. The minister changed his subject and gave them another text which said that the wicked people of the earth should be cut down. Was the minister going to sanction the killing of wives who refused to obey their husbands? Had he lost his mind? But his voice rang out upon the congregation upon a subject in which they had recently become so interested.
"There is on our city," said the clergyman, "a terrible blot. The wicked ones of Jerusalem could not equal them in wickedness.
"The plans of God in keeping peace among his people are to be carried out to-day, with as much vigor as they were three thousand years ago. I need not give you the details of a murder committed a short time ago within the limits of our city. The very fact that the murderer has the chance of another trial after his conviction demonstrates that something must be done, and quickly. If the secular law is not able to wipe out such a blot then the church must help. It is my idea, brethren, that the weeds of the earth must be cut down, and by weeds I mean bad men. If a petition is handed you to sign asking time for Orn Skinner, I ask you one and all not to place your names upon it."
The clergyman suddenly stopped, closing his Bible. "Papa would cut off Tessibel's father's head if he could, wouldn't he, Frederick," whispered Babe.
Frederick gave the child a reproving glance and the little girl sank back after explaining that if Skinner were hung "papa" would have the land which ought to be his.
But as his father was speaking again the student turned his serious face toward the pulpit.
"Brethren," finished the pastor impressively, "before I close I would adjure every one of you to take the reins of his household into his own hands," and then looking straight at Deacon Hall, he concluded:
"And if you have never had the reins, then I command you to take them this day and rule your homes as God would have you. 'Let us pray.'"
Augusta Hall made but one remark on her way home from church.
"Wednesday evening, I am going to show Dominie Graves that he can't rule every woman in Ithaca, and I want you to go with me, dearie."
CHAPTER XVII
Orn Skinner was to be taken to prison the Monday after the famous sermon preached by Dominie Graves. Professor Young had gained permission for Tessibel to spend fifteen minutes with Skinner before his departure. There was something about the fishermaid that touched his heart. Her ignorance, her devotion to her father, and the loveliness of the anxious young face haunted the professor during his working hours, and at night, when he could not sleep, he created plans for her future and her father's release. He persuaded himself continually that Tessibel was not the motive for clearing the fisherman of the murder charge, it was the love of justice—justice to the squatter and his lovely child. Often the lawyer had set his jaw when he thought of Minister Graves and the evident malice shown by the parson against the fisherman.
That Monday afternoon he met Tessibel as she came into the jail-yard, much the same Tessibel he had seen in the court-room.
Professor Young took the girl's hand in his and led her into the small waiting room of the stone prison. He desired to be alone with her for a few minutes that he might satisfy himself as to her history, which since her dramatic entrance into the court-room had been so distorted.
"You have no mother, I understand, my dear," he began.
"Nope," and Tessibel shifted one boot along the seam in the red carpet.
"Do you remember her?"
"Nope; don't remember none but Daddy."
"Have you ever been to school?"
Tessibel shook her head, displaying her teeth in smile which quickly faded.
"Squatter's brats don't never go to school," she muttered.
She edged away from the professor, raising her eyes pleadingly to his. The man read the desire the girl dared not put into words, but without heeding her glance he proceeded to question her.
"Would you like to go to school?"
"Nope, all I want air Daddy home in the shanty. That air enough for me."
She suddenly turned her face away toward the door that led to the upper cells.
"But if I assure you," urged Professor Young, "that your father will positively get another trial, which is all that can be done at present, would you then like to study?"
A definite shake of her head and another quick glance was Tessibel's answer.
"I wants to read the Bible," she said, presently turning toward the professor; "it air a dum hard book to read, I hear."
Professor Young tugged at the corners of his mustache to keep down a smile.
"It would be easy for you to read any book if you went to school," he told her. "How old are you?"
"Comin' sixteen."
"And cannot read—it's a pity! And wouldn't you like to learn to sing?"
Young was desirous of touching a responsive strain in the girl.
"Dum sight rather see Daddy—that's what I came here for! Ain't ye going to let me see him?"
Professor Young rose with a sigh. Like the rest of her race, she did not know gratitude. He had worked diligently, preparing an appeal for a new trial which would bring acquittal to her humpbacked father, and he was interested in her own welfare, but her thankless words checked his inquiry. The professor did not realize what love meant to Tessibel, for every desire within her paled into insignificance beside her passionate devotion to Daddy Skinner.
Tess followed him silently up the long winding stairs, her heart thumping in anticipation. The deputy's search of her clothing brought a flush to her face, but without a word she allowed him to draw off the great boots and quietly watched him as he turned them upside down, receiving them back gravely. Her longing to see Daddy Skinner, to be in his arms, to hug the grizzled head, overshadowed even this indignity. So long had it been since Tess had nestled in the shaggy chin hair, that her heart was sore and wildly impatient. Faith in Frederick's God had been forgotten—no other thought occupied her mind save that they were going to take away her beloved—the only one left to her. She deigned not a glance at Professor Young after the deputy had gone, and measured the oilcloth-covered floor restlessly with the stamp, stamp, stamp of the big boots.
Professor Young's presence was no more to her than the small insects which scurried from the edge of thefloor covering into the light and then back into their hiding places, afraid of the human giants which loomed up before them. What did she care for reading, writing and such things. She wanted to be with Daddy Skinner—wanted him home in the shanty, as of old.
She kept her eyes riveted upon the open door. Suddenly she leaned forward, for the ominous clanging of irons came to her ears. She thought of the night she had been found scaling the ivy to Daddy's cell—how long she had waited in the darkness for only a little word about him. They had given her none, and her vivid imagination brought back the anguish of that lonely walk through the storm to the hut.
Approaching footsteps made her alert, and in the paling of the sweet face Professor Young divined the tumult going on in the tender, uneducated heart.
"Child," exclaimed he, "don't make your father's going away harder for him!"
"Shut up," muttered Tess, just as the huge shackled prisoner appeared at the door.
Every muscle in the strong young body stiffened. Tess had not seen her father since the trial. Intensity narrowed the eyes, the drooping white lids covering the lights in the brown iris, the small hands clutched convulsively. Daddy Skinner—her Daddy—was standing before her, his blue-gray eyes piercing her very soul from under the long shaggy brows. She bounded toward him, and two creatures of primeval passion met in one long embrace. It was the passion of an aboriginal father for his child, of a primitive girl watching her loved one separate from her through the portals of death. Tess had lifted herself deftly to the bible-back, and lowered her head to the grizzled face, the man'slarge mouth covering the twitching lips of the girl. The shrouding red hair hid the squatter faces from the professor, and he turned his eyes away. He could not look upon them without distressing emotion. The strange maid was an enigma to him and he found himself wishing that he might guide her future. When Young glanced again, the fisherman had seated himself and had slipped Tessibel from his shoulders, gathering her closely into his great embrace—for she was the brawn of his brawn and the bone of his bone.
Under the squatter's huge red arm, the fisher-girl had wedged her head tightly, the low brows were taut with pain, the bronze eyes defiantly closed. Tess was as firmly fixed in her position as the iron chains that encased her "Daddy's" ankles. She had come to stay with Daddy Skinner, to go with him where he went, in spite of the great man from the hill, in spite of the majesty of the law—even in spite of Daddy himself.
The deputy warden with open watch stood over the prisoner with observing eye. The fifteen minutes allowed the girl were gone, and he slowly touched the humpback on the shoulder.
"Time's up, Skinner," said he. "Sorry, but it's the law, you know."
Skinner tried to draw the curly head from under his arm but the muscles in the girl's body only tightened, the white lips grew more rigid.
"It air time fer me to go, Tess," murmured the squatter in her ear.
"I air—I—I air a goin' with ye."
The words were scarcely more than the flutter of a breath. The deputy warden stepped forward a little, then back to his place by the door; the professor rosebut sank again to his chair; the bible-back of the fisherman pulsated as if a separate heart was beating in each great hump. Tess was as immovable as if nature had aided her to grow into her position. Skinner again tried to loosen the bare red arms.
"Ye can't go to prison with me, Tess," he said coaxingly; "set up like a good brat ... Daddy'll kiss ye good-bye."
"I air goin'," she insisted. "It air like a dead man's yard without ye in the shanty.... I can wash dishes. I can do a hull lot if ye'll take me with ye, Daddy Skinner."
Not one whit less rigid was the slender body, the closed lids only pressed tighter together.
The deputy grunted impatiently.
"Come, Kid," said he gruffly; "it's the law ye're tamperin' with. Do you hear? Let the prisoner go."
Professor Young felt his throat tighten. The pitiful sight of the girl, the ragged skirt, the terrible unkemptness of the small body, almost brought a shout from his lips. It was a new sensation to the learned man, a stinging, rebellious, pitying sensation, a feeling that he wanted to shake the girl from her father's arms, and then care tenderly for her. One great boot had fallen from Tessibel's many times frozen foot. The little toe marked and cut by frost, limply hanging independent of its fellows, made Young wince.
Suddenly Tessibel sat up and wound her arms more tightly about the big humpbacked body.
"I can't go back to the shanty without ye, Daddy," she whimpered, "and they said—as how ye was comin'—home to stay.... And I ain't goin'—darned if I air."
Young turned his head again toward the window. He could not banish the wish that Tess would listen to him.
The deputy placed his hand firmly upon the prisoner's arm, the fisherman himself trying in vain to loosen the girl's fingers from the shaggy beard.
"I—I—air to go with Daddy—I air—I air!"
Tessibel brought out the words snappingly, but Skinner, with the aid of the deputy, opened the clenched hands. Tessibel gave way; she was unable to stop the awful impending danger that hung over her—absolute separation from Daddy Skinner.
"Daddy, Daddy," she gasped, sitting up straight: "man—man, let me go ... I air dyin' without my Daddy ... I air alone—all alone!"
The official moved anxiously as she made this appeal to him. She was now standing on her bare feet, but she bounded forward as the bible-back rose and fell, and large tears dragged themselves from the lowered lids of the fisherman's blue-gray eyes. She pantingly caught her father's hand in hers.
"Kisses, Daddy Skinner, kisses on the bill for Tess—before ye go ... Tess air a bad brat—"
She could not finish the sentence for the squatter had pressed her to him convulsively. Then Skinner dropped the slender, relaxed body into the wooden arm-chair, and iron-hampered, took up his march behind the deputy. The professor mutely watched the storm, desperate and terrible, break over the squatter girl. Her wild weeping settled into sobs, the sound of which rent and shook the man's emotions. At last he ventured to speak:
"Child, may I be your friend?"
"'Taint no friends I want. It air somethin' to love—to kiss. It air Daddy I want."
The voice came brokenly from the veil of red hair.
Just then the great iron door clanged in the distance behind the prisoner. Tessibel sprang to the open door, straining her ears to catch another sound from the "black place" which had enveloped her father within its menacing shadows.
"He air—gone.... Daddy—air—gone!"
The words were spoken slowly, and hurt the watching man almost as if the torture were his own. A shriek rose from the rounded white throat and the girl threw herself bootless upon the floor, and screamed in passionate childish sorrow, the wealth of disheveled hair mantling the dirty jacket, and covering the woful face.
Neither the professor nor Tessibel heard the hurrying footsteps upon the stone floor in the prison corridor, but Tess, still in the frenzy of her new grief, heard her name spoken through a maze:
"Tessibel Skinner!" And then again: "Tessibel Skinner!"
The squatter raised a pale, tear-streaked face to Frederick Graves. She sat up with a painful flush, drawing the bare legs closely under the wet skirt. The student spoke again:
"Tessibel Skinner has forgotten that God rules and is just. Have your prayers proven nothing to you?"
Tessibel gazed scarlet and embarrassed, into Frederick's face, her under lip quivering. The red head sank slowly down, and the exhausted child wept as only a hurt child can weep.
"I were a-goin' with him," she cried between her sobs, "I could have washed dishes in the prison—to be near Daddy. I air such a lonely Tess 'out him in the hut."
The student lifted her gently in his arms and seated her in the wooden chair. With the tenderness of a brother, he placed the great boots once more upon the girl's feet, and Tessibel was ready to start again upon her long tramp through the row of huts to her shanty home.
The tears had ceased to flow, and with bowed head she was hanging upon every word the student uttered. Professor Young went quietly out, unheeded by either girl or boy.
"No one blames you for your grief, child, at being obliged to leave your father," Frederick said huskily. "But are you going to take off the 'Armor of God' and forget all that He has promised you?"
Tessibel blinked ignorantly at the long words, "Armor of God," "Armor of God." It was something she had not heard before—perhaps it meant that the student's Christ would not help her now. It all came back in a flood of light—her utter faithlessness in the prayers of the student, in the pine-tree God who had waved her so many assurances. She had not dared to look into the noble face above her, but when they stepped from the jail into the street, she raised her eyes to Frederick's and murmured:
"I air sorry cause I were so cussed ... I only wanted to go with Daddy."
"I realize that," replied Frederick, making preparations to walk with her by drawing his coat collar tightly about his neck, "but it was impossible, and, from now until the time he comes back, study your Bible."
Tess halted a moment, looking up steadily into the dark eyes of the tall boy.
"Does the Bible talk of Daddy Skinner?" she entreated; "does it tell as how he air comin' home?"
"Indeed, yes," was the student's answer. "There's nothing the Bible doesn't contain. The Saviour was nailed to the Cross bearing his misery to give you a heavenly harp and crown, Tessibel. If you read Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, you will see it all plainly. You can be happy if you pray and are a good girl while your father is away." Then, desiring to ease the tense-drawn face, he added:
"It will please him if you write him often and tell him about yourself.... Come now, it's getting too dark for you to walk those tracks. Child, haven't you a friend in town with whom you can pass the night? It's frightful to tramp that distance alone."
Tess stiffened instantly. Daddy's shanty was in her care, and of what night had she ever been afraid?
"I air a goin' home," she answered almost sullenly; "ain't a dum bit afraid of nothin'."
As Frederick turned to her side, Tess glanced up confusedly.
"Ye can't walk with me through the streets of Ithacy," said she.
"Why not?"
"Cause—well, cause ye can't, that's why!"
Frederick understood, and, gravely lifting his hat, turned in the other direction with the remark that he would see her again soon.
The girl stood for some seconds staring fixedly after him. Then, wiping her face with the sleeve of a ragged jacket, she started off toward the squatters' row.
CHAPTER XVIII
Many were the troubling thoughts which possessed the mind of Tess as she strode along. In the fulvid depths of her red-brown eyes there dwelt an expression of misery. As the child took her way through the streets, with none to care whither she went, her face lighted with a sudden determination. Frederick had told her to read, to study, to pray—that these three with faith would save Daddy Skinner from the rope of the Canadian Indian; but the student, like all those having plenty, forgot to enquire how Tess was to read without books, or study without anyone to teach her. True, Tess could pick out a few words which Daddy had taught her, could haltingly count the stars in the heavens at night, and the rain-drops on the shanty window. She could read the names upon the store signs and had often seated herself on the railroad tracks with a bit of newspaper to stammer forth the words she knew.
But it was a Bible she needed—to learn about the student's God and the Christ. Tess was more interested in the cross than the crown, more interested in the nails that had opened the wounds in the Saviour's hands and feet, than in any royal head-covering that might come in some future time to her. There was too much misery in her own life, too much desperate desire for her loved one, to allow the glitter of a promised crown to affect her. She wanted to know of the suffering Christ,to read of how He had promised—Here Tess stopped and tossed back the red hair. What was it she wanted to read about? Ah, yes—not heaven and its glories nor hell and its terrors, but of Daddy Skinner back in the shanty.
The Bible would tell her just how to bring him back,—but where should she get one? At the squatter mission, of course. Tessibel remembered that once she had been coaxed to enter the mission, but the children had laughed at her rags and after that she could not be induced to go again. Then in the bitterness of her heart she had thrown stones and clay from the edges of the track through the open window upon the other children, and had been told by the superintendent never to come near the small church again. But that was four long months ago, and not once since—since the horror of Daddy's going, had she even looked toward the mission.
The dusk fell, slowly striking out the day-shadows from the railroad bed and she halted where the two tracks met. The mission was opposite her. Would she dare ask for a Bible? A rich, warm light flooded through the window and then the old squatter who had kept the place in order for many years came out and closed the door. Tessibel's eyes followed his form through the dim twilight until he disappeared into his shanty.
Her hand clutched convulsively the knob of the mission door; it yielded to her touch, and for the second time in her life Tessibel Skinner was inside the mission room. The small reed organ stood open: a hymn book stretched back with a rubber band caught her eye. A bright bit of red carpet wound its way about the altar.The squatter did not pause to examine the pictures on the wall nor even an instant before the glowing fire. Her eyes were searching for a Bible—the shade deepening in them as she sidled toward the nearest seat.
She read "H-y-m-n-a-l" on the back of the first book—dropping it she gathered up another.
"H-o-l-y B-i-b-l-e," she spelled.
Thrusting it into her blouse, she bounded out into the night, and raced up the railroad track almost to the Hoghole trestle before she stopped, satisfied that no one had seen her theft.
Then, taking the book from her bosom, she kissed it reverently.
"Them old fools ain't goin' to have every damn Bible in this here town. I air a right like them to this un." Again she kissed it, as she mumbled: "Matthew, Mark, Luke and John."
That night the candle burned longer in the Skinner shanty, and an auburn head bent over an open book. A faltering voice spelled out the sufferings of the Nazarene. Once Tess smiled wanly when reading of how the Saviour had borne all the woes of the world—that any one believing could be saved. Her head nodded over the pages, and almost instantly the rapt face dropped upon the open Bible and Tessibel slept.
A strange dream filled her sleep. A great light flashed suddenly into the sky—Tessibel's sky—and through the brightness of it she could see the cross with the Man upon it; could see the nail prints in the swollen flesh, the thorns pressing into the bowed head. Then as Tessibel dreamed she moved upon the open Bible and groaned with the dream-Christ upon thecross. Directly in front of the crucified Saviour Daddy Skinner was coming toward her with the student.
She started up—a cry of disappointed anguish escaping her lips. The candle had burned out in the grease cup, the wind was rocking the shanty and making the rafters creak dismally. Tess shivered as she tossed her clothes upon the floor, and crept exhausted into Daddy's bed. The last thing she heard was the splashing of her pet eel in the water-pail.
The next morning, on a piece of yellow paper, she scratched Daddy a small note. Frederick's words that her father would be pleased with it filled her with a desire to write. For three hours she struggled with her first letter.
"daddy the ice air a goin out of the lake ben letts air a gettin well he air a cuss i air lonlie yit without ye i red my bible last nite i cribbed it frum the mishion it says as how god air gooder then i thote he wer cum home and i reads as how a brite lite was a shinin about the cross and as how the christ ruz up here air a story bout a squatter brat it air bout tess she cride and cride fer her dady til her eel what she luved herd her and he cride hisself to deth this here mornin he wer belly up in the bucket i air yer brat dady"the man on the cross ruz fer the hull world aint it nise to ruz."
"daddy the ice air a goin out of the lake ben letts air a gettin well he air a cuss i air lonlie yit without ye i red my bible last nite i cribbed it frum the mishion it says as how god air gooder then i thote he wer cum home and i reads as how a brite lite was a shinin about the cross and as how the christ ruz up here air a story bout a squatter brat it air bout tess she cride and cride fer her dady til her eel what she luved herd her and he cride hisself to deth this here mornin he wer belly up in the bucket i air yer brat dady
"the man on the cross ruz fer the hull world aint it nise to ruz."
This delicate effusion of love to her father, Tess read over many times. With pardonable pride she folded it carefully and placed it in the Bible where she had read about the cross and dying Christ.
CHAPTER XIX
On Wednesday evening Deacon Hall tucked Augusta's pretty hand under his arm with a happy sense of proprietorship. He was proud to stand by his beautiful wife in her fight for church liberty. Hall really believed, as he had told Dominie Graves, that the world had outgrown its foggy notions, and he delighted in hearing Augusta air her ideas in meetings; in watching the rich blood mantling and playing under the transparent skin; and in listening to the modulated tones of the vibrant voice. Augusta was his style of woman. The thought of her force of character made him throw back his shoulders that Wednesday evening as they neared the church door. Few members had gathered for the hour was early. Deacon Hall nodded pleasantly to Bill Hopkins, and a broad smile parted the latter's lips, giving his square face a softer, more genial expression. Bill calmly took his seat on the left side of the room; crossed his legs, placed his fingers about the white wart, and then sat looking thoughtfully out of the window into the lighted street. For the first time in many months Bill Hopkins was in his chair at the weekly prayer meeting. His one idea in being present was to witness the Dominie's success in keeping the women in their places. He had had conscientious scruples about remaining in a church, which, in spite of the fact that its tenets forbade itsfemales to rise and voice either prayers or opinions before the males, countenanced this very abuse.
Bill Hopkins had no objection to women in their places—in fact, he enjoyed the company of a pretty woman—but it was not her place to try and teach him. Hopkins had the overwhelming idea of the physical and moral superiority of men, while, as far as intellectuality was concerned, women were leagues and leagues behind.
Many a warm argument had been held between Bill and the pretty Mrs. Hall, and as this lady came into the chapel she saw the former elder seated in his old chair, the familiar wart shining high and white on the bald pate. She tilted her pretty chin an instant before inclining her head, then to the amazement of those present, she parted from her husband in the middle aisle, marching to the right, her amiable deacon taking the left. Bill Hopkins smiled inwardly as the thought flashed over him that there must have been a secret female conclave among the strong-minded women as well as among the men during the past week. The same idea occurred to the minister's mind as he saw his members separate in the middle aisle.
He drew his brow into a pucker which furrowed the flesh between his brows. Mrs. Graves was seated at the rear of the room to the right, her eyes upon an open book in her hand. She did not raise them as her husband took his chair behind the small pulpit table upon which lay a huge Bible marked by a dangling blue ribbon. The clergyman bent his head a few moments in secret prayer, drew the book toward him, opened it, found his text and placed the marker carefully between the pages. He coughed slightly and with an extra effortraised his eyes to his congregation. This is what he saw:
The middle aisle divided almost every woman from her husband; only here and there had a timid wife with lowered eyes followed her lord and master to the left.
Dominie Graves caught a peculiar gleam in the eye of Augusta Hall and followed the line of her vision which was leveled at Bill Hopkins. There was no enmity in the latter's mien, but Dominie Graves knew that when the elderly deacon toyed with the white wart his nerves were vastly disturbed. For an instant the thought traveled through the clergyman's brain, that if Tessibel Skinner could work with her magic words on the dull protrusion upon Hopkins's glistening head the former deacon would lose his favorite occupation. He looked doubtfully down upon his own hands and remembered the warts which Tessibel had whispered away. Then, trying to drive all thoughts of the fisher-girl and her squatter father from his mind, the minister rose to his feet. Frederick Graves had been watching his father intently and as he saw his effort to rise the boy whitened a little and settled back. Just growing into manhood and beginning to think for himself, the lad blushed with shame at the state of affairs that rose before his eyes this night. He threw a sidelong glance at Hopkins and met a dejected expression from the eyes of his mother. She looked so tired, so humiliated, that a bitter rebellious feeling arose in Frederick's heart against his father. Then his mind wandered again from the church to Tessibel Skinner in her shanty home. The quick look she had given him in the court-room had impressed him as nothing else could. He sawagain the bright head thrown back in eager appeal and the shining eyes filled with pain. How he wished that his own faith in the Infinite had a touch of the strength which made that of Tessibel stand alone by itself! Little did Frederick realize or know that the intensity of the fishermaid, the wonderful faith and trust she had exhibited in her time of trial and trouble, had come to her from him. Every prayer Tessibel had uttered, every devout wish of her heart for Daddy Skinner, had been vaguely centered about the student. Her love for the Christ of whom she had heard so little was based upon the power of attraction that Frederick Graves held for her.
Twice had he, unobserved, seen Tessibel through the hut window; and the picture of the tired little figure with its drooping prayerful attitude came back with a force that brought a great lump into his throat, invigorating his desire to raise the standard of his own love for God's words and promises.
His father's eloquent voice brought him back to the present and, as his eyes fell upon Hopkins, he saw the nervous fingers twiddling the great white wart and a smile forced itself to his lips.
Then he dragged his truant mind from outside subjects and concentrated his attention upon the pulpit.
"In accordance with the creed of the church," the clergyman was saying, "and of the laws under which our beloved congregation holds together, I speak. It is with love for all I adjure you this night. When I say that the subject of my talk will be upon duty you will not be surprised, for you, one and all, know what I mean. I shall ask the sisters in the church not to rise again to speak. If they desire church work thereare the poor, the blind, and always the needy. By needy I mean those desiring the faith of God and yet being unable to grasp it without help. To the dear sisters of the congregation I commend all these." He made no allusion to the division of the men and women, nor to the sermon of the past Sunday.
After the hymn he sat down, bowing his handsome dark head quietly, and remaining mute in the dismal silence that followed. Suddenly an elderly woman with a meek face struggled to her feet, glancing toward Augusta Hall for an encouraging smile. Several trimmed hats however loomed up between her and the deacon's wife, so still standing she lowered her eyes and began to pray. Simultaneously with hers a masculine voice broke through the air mingling with the weak petition of the woman. Frederick Graves lifted his head quickly—the trend of war cutting through his mind like a knife. It had evidently been planned before the meeting just how severely the women were to be dealt with, for Frederick noted that his father's eyes did not raise from his reverent position at the unusual happening. As the man's voice grew louder, importunately seeking guidance in this unhappy church affair, the woman closed her lips and fell backward upon the seat crying weakly. The masculine voice rose higher and clearer and finished the petition with ringing clarity. Another embarrassing silence out of which came scarcely a breath. Augusta Hall caught a glimpse of the piercing blue eyes peering from under the shaggy brows of Bill Hopkins. The deacon was watching her, and Augusta knew that he exulted as one woman after another was driven to her chair by the masculine voice of her shouting opponent.
So far the men held the day. This was demonstrated to Augusta Hall and Bill Hopkins by the undertoned sobs that continually emerged from behind the numerous white handkerchiefs. So dense was the quietude of the painful meeting that Frederick Graves could plainly hear the thumping of his own heart. Suddenly Augusta with a slight cough and a rustle of her fine skirts rose to her feet. She started to speak reverently in a low tone. It was the usual petition that blessing should descend upon the missions, the sewing circle and the children's work—and here her voice wavered a little, for a man's bass voice joined in with her own. It was that of the deacon who carried the offering plate each Sunday morning, opposite her husband. On and on both man and woman shouted their words with strength and rapidity upon their hearers' ears. The Deacon's voice lifted and fell with the power of an orator. Augusta strained forth her tones high and clear. Minute after minute until fifteen had passed was the oratorical word display of each pitted against the other.
Dominie Graves' fingers were twitching nervously beside his well-shaped nose. Bill Hopkins still twiddling his wart had drawn himself to a straighter position, and was listening with all intentness. The pallor of Deacon Hall's face deepened as Augusta talked on and on until all thought of prayer had left her mind, and her words shaped themselves into a discourse. She was holding the floor against the church official, whose brow was now running with the sweat of his embarrassment—his voice had become fainter and his words fewer and less well chosen. Augusta's voice, on the contrary, rang clearly through the room, a prepared speech upon the aptitude of women and their field of labor. Her husbandwas watching her intently—and thought how beautiful she looked as the blood mantled to her white forehead, descending and rising as her thoughts took turn after turn. The unfortunate deacon was mumbling forth a few ill-connected sentences. At last with a groan he sank to his seat and placed a handkerchief to his fevered brow. Presently Augusta sat down and there was again an awful silence. No one advanced another petition and Dominie Graves pronounced a halting benediction.
The congregation rose hastily and hurried toward the doors, with no desire for further discussion.
Bill Hopkins leaned back against the outer door and as Mrs. Hall passed him he grasped her hand.
"You had nerve," said he, "I'm not saying it's the right kind ... but it's nerve just the same, and, well, I do believe that you women have gained the day in this church."
Augusta, leaning on her husband's arm, looked down meekly from a pair of wicked twinkling eyes—she could be a sweet clinging creature if she wished, and this was her special charm to Deacon Hall.
Suddenly she raised her gaze and looked winningly into Bill Hopkin's face.
"I suppose you won't give me the money I asked you for, to aid Skinner," she said slowly.
"I'll send you the check to-morrow morning," and Bill Hopkins' big shoulders disappeared through the open door.
"It frightened me at first," exclaimed Deacon Hall to his wife afterward, "but, as your voice went up and up, I knew my little woman would win, God bless her."
"And we'll win about poor Skinner too," rejoined Augusta. "Every man and woman so far has agreed to help a little, and I don't want you to try to drive the squatters from our lake property."
Here her words were checked by a sudden thought which darkened her eyes—she burst forth with a rich low laugh:
"That'll make two triumphs over my haughty parson."