CHAPTER XXIV.

AT MT. ZION.

On a Sunday morning, Lyman and Warren hired a light spring wagon and drove out through the green and romantic country that lay stretched and tumbled along the Mt. Zion road. The great clover-fields, now red with bloom, looked like a mighty spreading of strawberry-land ready for the pickers; and a red bird, arising from the ground, might have been a bloom of a berry suddenly endowed with wings. The air breathed delicious laziness, and when the horse stopped midway and knee-deep in a rivulet, he stood with his mouth in the water pretending to swallow, stealing the enjoyment of the cool current against his legs. The two men enjoyed the old rascal's trick, agreeing to let him stand there as long as he practiced the duplicity of keeping his mouth in the stream. Minnows nibbled at his lips, and he lifted his head, but observing the men, who leaned out to look at him, he again immersed his mouth and pretended to swallow. At last, as if ashamed of himself, he pulled out, trotting briskly in the sun, but hanging back in the shade. Down in the low places bright-winged flies had come in swarms to hum their tunes, and on the high ridges where the thin grass was wilting, the gaunt rabbit sat in the sun. Driving along the low, smooth and sandy margin of a stream, where the thick bushes bore a bloom that looked like a long caterpillar, they reached an iron spring, deep red, a running wound on the face of the earth. They came to an old water mill, long ago fallen into decay and halted to listen to the water pouring over the ruined dam. They turned into a broader road, and now saw numerous vehicles, bright with calico and dun with home-spun, all moving in one direction, toward the old Mt. Zion meeting house on a hill. To view one of those places of worship is to gaze upon religious history. We look at the great trees, the rocks worn smooth, the house squatting with age, and we no longer regard our country as new. In Mt. Zion there were loop-holes where men had stood to shoot Indians, while their wives were muttering a prayer. The old oak benches, made of split slabs, were almost as hard as iron. A slab, called the altar, but known as the mourners' bench, had caught the tears of many an innocent maiden and roistering youth.

Lyman unhitched the horse and led him down a glade to feed him in the cool shadow of a chestnut tree, and while he was spreading the oats Warren came running down to him.

"Lyman, she's here," he said. "It's a fact and I'll swear it. Yes, sir, she's here, and I was never more surprised in my life."

"I am not surprised," Lyman replied. "I expected her."

"The deuce you did! Then you know her."

"Know her. Of course I do."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you? What do you mean?"

"Why, I mean that you ought to have told me. What's her name?"

"Look here, have you gone crazy?"

"No, but you have. How the deuce did you know she would be here? All right, but she won't get away from me so easy this time. I see the old man's with her, and the idea of supposing that he could have been her husband is preposterous."

"Oh," Lyman laughed, "I thought you meant my—meant Eva McElwin."

"No, I mean the girl that flavored the apple. Come up and I'll introduce you to her."

"But have you met her?"

"I met her in the path a minute ago."

"But have you been introduced to her?"

"No, but I'll fix that all right. Come on."

Lyman was laughing, but Warren was deeply in earnest. They went up the hill toward the church. Everybody was outside in the shade, the preacher not having arrived. "There she is," Warren whispered; "that girl standing with that man near the door. Stand here till I go and fix it."

He hastened toward the man, and not the slightest abashed, walked up to him. He said something; the man spoke to the girl and Lyman saw Warren lift his hat. They stood for a few moments, talking, and then they came out toward Lyman, the girl blushing and hanging back, and Warren gently urging her.

"Miss Nancy Pitt," said Warren, approaching, "I have the honor to present Mr. Lyman, one of the best writers in the country, although he is not cut out for a newspaper man."

Miss Pitt blushed and smiled and said that she was glad to meet him. She looked like a spirit of the woods, on a day when red buds and white blossoms are mingled; she was not handsome, but striking, fresh, and with an early morning brightness in her eyes; she was an untrained athlete of the farm, ready to put a back-log into the yawning fire-place or to choke a greedy calf off from its mother. She had no manners and was shy; and, without knowing how to play with a man's affection, was coy. Lyman looked into her eyes and thought of the bluish pink of the turnip. She blushed again and said: "I reckon we'd have rain if it was cloudy, but it ain't. Where's pa?" And then looking round she called: "Come on, pap."

"Comin'," the old man replied, walking with a limp in his Sunday shoes. He did not wait for an introduction to Lyman, but shook hands with him, glanced upward and said: "Mighty bright day."

"Just as fresh as if this were the first one," Lyman replied.

"Well, sir, I hadn't thought of that, but I reckon you're right." His daughter reached over and brushed a measuring-worm off his shoulder. "Going to get a new coat," she said. "Worm measuring you."

"Put him on me," said Lyman, looking about as if searching for the worm.

"Get away," Warren broke in, shoving him to one side. "I want him. Well, let him go. How far do you live from here, Mr. Pitt?"

"Well, a leetle the rise of three mile and a half, at this time of the year, but when the weather is bad, the road stretches powerful. My wife wanted to come today to hear the new preacher, but along come some folks visitin' from over the creek, with a passul of haungry children, and she had to stay and git 'em a bite to eat. Her doctrine is that it's better to feed the haungry than to eat, even if the table is served by a new preacher. Well," he added, as a hymn arose within the church, "they've struck up the tune of sorrow in there and I reckon we'd better go in."

Warren walked with Nancy. "What, we ain't going in the same door?" she said as they approached.

"Yes," he replied, "and I'm going to sit with you during the sermon."

"No," she said, drawing back. "That won't do. I have heard that in town the women and the men sit together in church, but they don't out here, and if I did I'd never hear the last of it."

"All right, I don't want to mark you in any way, but I want you to wait for me when you come out."

Bostic came in. His face was grave, and he carried the timid air of a first appearance as he walked slowly down the aisle. The men mumbled, the women whispered, and Lyman heard a girl remark: "He ain't so mighty good-looking." At the door, there was a rustle of strange skirts, and as if a new note had been introduced into an old melody, the congregation looked around. Lyman looked too, and his breast grew warm with the new beating of his heart. Mrs. McElwin and her daughter entered the church. The preacher glanced up from his text and saw them, and his eye kindled. He gave out an old hymn and the congregation arose. The air was vibrant in the unctuous swell of sound. The spider webs hanging from the rafters trembled; the woods caught up the echo and bore it afar through the timber-land, and the distant leaves caught it as a whisper and hushed it. In it there was not music, not the harmony that seeks the approval of the brain; it was a chant that called upon the heart to humble itself in the sight of the Lord and to be brave in the presence of man, the tune that subdued the wilderness of a new world, a tune that men have sung before plunging into the swallowing fire of battle. The city is ashamed of it, laughs at it, but, far away in the country, it is still the war-cry of Jehovah.

The preacher began in a rambling way, missing the thoughts that he expected to find, finding thoughts that surprised him. Sometimes his road was rough, and he clamored over rocks and fell into gullies, but occasionally he struck a smooth path and then he ran because the way was easy. After a time he forgot to be impressive and then he impressed. He filled the house with words, like a flight of pigeons, and on their backs some of them caught the sunlight that streamed through the cracks in the walls. Lyman was reminded of one Of William Wirt's stories—"The Blind Preacher"—the man who in a ruinous old house raised his hand and cried: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God."

There was to be another sermon in the afternoon, by an old man who plowed for a living and who preached without pay, and Lyman caught himself wondering whether the McElwins would remain to hear him. Through the window he saw a light buggy under the trees, and he mused that they would at least let him help them into it. He was afraid that they might get away, and he was nervous at the fear that slow-moving persons, halting in the aisle to talk over the sermon, might obstruct his path; and as soon as the benediction was pronounced, he hastened toward the rear end of the house. Eva stepped toward him and frankly held out her hand.

"Mother, this is Mr. Lyman," she said.

Mrs. McElwin bowed, resolved to be cool and dignified. She said that she was pleased to meet Mr. Lyman, which statement Mr. Lyman looked upon as a polite fib. She spoke of the charm of the day and expressed surprise that the young preacher had done so well. Lyman asked if she were going to remain to hear the afternoon sermon. She did not think it wise to stay so long. The road home was very attractive by day, with its over-hanging branches and streams of clear water, but it was dark and rather desolate at night. Still they would not start immediately. She would like to look at the old spring at the foot of the hill; history bubbled in its water; her grandfather had camped there. They walked down to the spring and seated themselves on the rocks. The men who had come down to "swap" saddles and lies, got up and moved away.

"Mr. Lyman," said Eva, sitting with her hands full of leaves and wild-flowers, and glancing down at them, "we were very sorry to hear that the White Caps had called on you."

"I wasn't expecting them," Lyman replied, "but I made them feel at home."

Mrs. McElwin looked at him with a cool smile. "Yes," she said, "for home probably means a fight with most of them. It was an outrage and everybody is glad that you sent them off with broken heads. Of course there has been a great deal of talk, but have you any idea as to who lead the party?"

"Not the slightest," Lyman answered, and the girl looked up at him.

"Some one has been mean enough, so a very dear friend told us, to insinuate that—that father knew of it in time to have prevented it," she said.

"Eva, why should you mention such a thing. Mr. Lyman couldn't give it credence, even for a moment." She frowned.

"Mr. McElwin was kind enough to come to me the next morning," said Lyman. "He was very much moved, and I feel that if he could he would have the ruffians punished."

"I thank you for saying that, Mr. Lyman," Mrs. McElwin spoke up. "I know he would." She glanced about and appeared to be nervous under the gaze of the people on the hill. "I don't know what they think of us three sitting here together," she said. "People out here are peculiar."

"Let them think," the girl replied.

Lyman looked down and saw her shapely foot on the rock. The light was strong where she sat, and he noticed a freckle on her cheek, and this slight blemish drew her closer to him.

"But we must respect their thoughts," the mother replied.

"We should not put ourselves out on account of their prejudices," Lyman was bold enough to remark. The girl smiled at him.

"Perhaps not," Mrs. McElwin weakly agreed.

"Perhaps not!" Eva repeated. "Mother, you don't seem to think that I am just as human as any of those girls up there, that I have practically the same feelings. But I am, and I am not a bit better than they—not any better than that girl up there under the tree talking to that young man. Why, he's from town."

"He is Mr. Warren, my partner," said Lyman.

"Oh, is he? They say he is such a funny man. But he's nice looking. I have seen him many a time, and he was pointed out to me once, but I had forgotten his name."

"We'd better go now," said Mrs. McElwin.

"Oh, not yet," the daughter replied. "There's plenty of time. It won't take us long to drive home. And besides, we haven't congratulated the preacher yet. And there he comes now, down this way. See that girl draw back as if she were going to throw something at Mr. Warren. He must be a tease. Look at that old man laughing. Everybody wants to shake hands with the preacher. I think he did splendidly. He surprised me, I'm sure."

"He surprised us both on one occasion," said Lyman. Eva laughed, but her mother looked grave. "Let us not speak of that," she said. "It has caused us trouble enough; and not even now do I fully understand it. Oh, I know that the legislature made some sort of blunder and that Henry Bostic had been ordained, but I cannot realize that I am sitting here talking to my daughter's legal husband. Still we can get accustomed to anything in time, I suppose."

"I can hardly realize that I am a married man," Lyman replied. Mrs. McElwin looked at him with a start, as if his words hurt her, as if she suddenly felt that she was doing a grave injustice to her husband to sit there talking to a man who would not have been permitted to cross her threshold. She got up. "We must go," she said.

"Oh, not now," the daughter pleaded.

"Yes, we must go."

"But can't you let me stay and come home with Mr. Lyman."

If the mother had been startled before she was shocked now. "If you talk like that, my daughter, I shall not believe that you are very much different from the girls up there. Do you want your father scandalized? Pardon me, Mr. Lyman, but I must speak plainly to her."

Lyman, who had also arisen, bowed to her. "No offense," he said. "I am thoroughly in harmony with the absurdity of my position, even if I can't realize that I am married."

Mrs. McElwin winced. "Please don't repeat that again," she said.

The girl stamped her foot upon the rock. "Don't talk that way," she commanded. "If Mr. Lyman wants me to stay and go home when he does no one could prevent it. He can command me to stay."

Mrs. McElwin fluttered, but afraid of a scene, she smoothed herself down. "I was joking," she said.

"We will go now," the daughter replied, "but I do wish you would stay. I'd like to go up there among those girls. I know they are having a good time. Help me up." She put out her hand and Lyman took hold of it, but she pulled back, laughing. "Help me up." She put out the other hand, her mother looking on in a fright. "You'll have to help me into the buggy," she said.