An Indiana Girl/Chapter 12

Quietly and slowly the snow fell that night before Thanksgiving, laying out its virgin cloth with unostentatious goodness, and in the early morn the beautiful spread rolled away in broken lines over street to housetop, and housetop to trees, until far up in the hills it reached to Heaven in an almost indiscernible border line of gray against the hazy sky. Away off to the west lay Nigger Hill, jagged and uncomely, as its sparse trees stood out in stubborn relief against the purer mantle. Down at its base generous fertility had reared a border of giant growths, and from plane to plane of shelving rock leading toward the summit an occasional giant tree had reached maturity; but these were few and only served to spoil the more picturesque outline—beautiful under its rounding coverlet. High up and at the very apex of the hill a dwarfed and gnarled lookout grew, marking the highest point against the sky. Stunted for lack of nourishment, deformed and bent by many storms, it was still the peer of them all. Diminutive it stood in impudent glory, swaying in saucy arrogance with seeming consciousness of its undeserved but fortunate superior position.

George Brandt had observed it many, many times, and as many times had he reflected over the grandeur of its position. It had taught him that this example of eminence was but a parallel of human position, and, if that man who stands at the top must be dwarfed and beaten and exposed to every gale as this tree was, mayhap the fellow-men further down were in as good position, all things considered, as they should wish to be. Given the opportunity some men could stand against it all, and Brandt assured himself that he would have been among these—but reflection brought discernment, and in the review of his serene life he concluded each time that his lot had fallen in the best place after all, and he was content.

Youthful Ashville was the first astir. Many sleds of strange workmanship were drawn out, their polished runners examined and a speedy test given by merry children filled with the double joy of a holiday combined with fine sleighing.

Orrig's apprentice awoke a full ten minutes late, and, dressing hurriedly, came upstairs. He unlocked the front door with surprised joy as he saw the street from beneath the curtains. Stepping out on to the walk he was greeted by a merry whiz of boys as they sped down the road. "Hi! hi!" was all he could distinguish, but it held such bundles full of enjoyment that he responded "Hi! hi!" grabbing up a handful of snow and shooting it at the next squad that passed.

"What y' leavin' th' door open fer? Want-a freeze th' house out?" Orrig asked, stepping up from behind.

"Nozzer," the boy replied with a start.

"An' yer kivvers! Not a kivver teched yet, be they? What's th' matter—air y' awake er not?" he said, with great severity, to which the apprentice responded by sidling over toward a counter, where he took hold of his work dejectedly.

"What's th' matter with y'?" Orrig asked again, with strange persistency. "Air yer feelin's hurt? I never see sech a lad!" Stepping out of the door he received a rousing welcome, accompanied by a volley that was startling, and he turned and looked within as a knowing smile spread over his face. "Let them kivvers be!" he thundered sternly. "Drop 'em right where y' air,"— and, as the boy looked at him in speechless wonder and fear, he added, "an' go get yer sled. I 'low I can work th' kivvers one morning a year—special' a day like this!"

Scarcely was the town awake ere the sexton had the church bell joyously ringing, proclaiming the day of good old Puritan custom. The air was full of fresh vivacity. Happiness was come in the mere joy of living, and the world seemed to impart great exhilaration.

Kent came to his breakfast with a most happy countenance, and Martin met him with a more evident joy, illy concealed by her over-indulgent attentions. His first observance was of the happy day in which she would again unite fortunes with her ideal man, and she responded with a flurried gesture with her apron as she bade him "Go on!"

Landy arrived sooner than was originally intended, after casting himself about his home restlessly for more than two hours, and furtively observing his raiment each moment of that time with insecure consciousness. Entering at the study door with unusual care, as he hoped bashfully to avoid Martin as long as possible, he happened at once upon Kent, who was laboriously attempting to construct a sermon for the morning service.

"Hello! You here?" asked the parson rising.

"I got tired a-waitin'," Landy replied, in dogged embarrassment.

"Well, I don't blame you," Kent laughed. "I suppose that I would be the same way myself, only—" And here he caught Landy by the shoulder, and, clasping his hand warmly, continued: "You are especially to be congratulated, Landy; for Martin is a jewel. I speak from experience. We have not known each other long, she and I, but she is the kind that a day does as well as a year in which to learn her worth, and I warn you that you will have to be a model to make yourself worthy of her." "No, no!" he added, as his companion choked a bit and essayed to speak. "I know what you want to say, and I will not listen to promises; so go to her and tell her. Besides I am still without a sermon and only an hour for work." At this he laughed again, and Landy smiled with deep-moved seriousness.

Returning to the table Kent picked up the much-corrected few lines of manuscript, glanced over them wearily and, raising his eyes, stood, leaning one hand on the table, looking out of the window. A disconnected train of thought swirled in his brain. The beauties of life and light and freshness were before him, and from them grand deductions of precious truths, each a delicious theme for enlargement and exposition, came to him, but he could not hold to a single one. He resumed his seat under the spell of these ideally lofty thoughts. Taking up his pen he slowly drew a line through that which was already written. He rested his elbow on the table, placed his hand against his forehead, slowly closing his eyes. With baffling persistence the thoughts would begin at the middle, or near the end, or anywhere save at the beginning, and, with happiness and contentment everywhere about him, he finally gave himself over to the merry jingle of Thanksgiving in its seductive accompaniment.

"Indeed it is Thanksgiving!" he mused. "Thanksgiving for Martin and Landy, with the bells a double herald of their happiness. Also for me, as I am nearing the lives of my people, there must be one tone of Thanksgiving, for I am happily giving my life over to this end. Results count. Results—that's it, and my efforts are beginning to show results," he was saying contentedly, when ——

"Ten minutes to service," announced Martin, with customary punctuality, beaming from between the curtains.

"Service! Not service?" he replied, as he arose.

"No, not service 'zactly," she grinned in confusion, "but fer me an' Landy it is."

"All right," he said, taking up hasty preparations. "You folks get ready and I'll rush through by the time you do."

"We're ready now," she replied.

"In just a minute, then, and I will go with you," he smiled, redoubling his speed to keep down their respectful impatience.

Martin again gave her attention to her wedding gown, while Gyp admired quietly from across the room—Bennie observing the creation not at all.

Soon the little train was in motion, and they moved off happily, Kent and the babies in the lead and Martin following proudly, holding to Landy's unwilling arm. The bell pealed merrily as they turned the corner. Coming to the church platform an ovation burst forth that caused the already erect bridegroom to expand himself most unusually, Kent laughed heartily as he greeted the throng and stepped within, taking his stand on the platform to await their coming.

Slowly, laboriously and with heavy dignity Landy led his companion through the teasing crowd, while Martin beamed upon those nearest to her with unabashed security. The ceremony was short, owing to the absence of any attendant formality. Of bridesmaids, of bestmen there were none. Simplicity pervaded it all. When the end came and they were man and wife, Landy kissed her for the first time with ludicrous enjoyment and pride, and the onslaught of congratulating friends nearly swept them from their position. Even Doles forgot, in the general disorder, Landy's angered speech of the night previous.

Virgie reached Martin after much struggling and implanted a kiss upon her cheek just as Kent was striving to grasp the bride's hand. Each of the young people were laughing gayly, and when they met Virgie forgetfully smiled pleasantly as she nodded. Kent returned the recognition with pleased surprise, and, as she seemed in no way inclined to follow up the greeting, he drew away, happily nursing this the first sign of friendliness that he had had from her since his angry leave-taking. Without a note for his sermon he stepped into his pulpit and, buoyed up by the happiness that surged within him, he signified his intention to begin. Landy and the new Mrs. George sat in the front row—she fussily settling to outsit the ordeal and he striking at once an attitude of absorbed interest.

"Filled with the joy of this glorious day," Kent began, "and moved by a spirit of genuine gratitude, we have always come here to give thanks to a generous Providence for His goodness. In all Broom County I do not believe that there is a man, woman or child who could live such a day as this one is without a responsive feeling and satisfaction that he is part of it; and this is Thanksgiving, the time in which we lay out our blessings, our benefits, our successes. Following the good old Puritan footsteps, we bring the past year back again and go over it, counting out of each month the things that were given us for happiness. It is a good way, for these are the joys that we have in hand; we can hold to them and add them together as much as we will. The next year may give us disappointments, because we are hoping for so much for ourselves. The happiness, though, that we have had is a sure happiness, because we can cling to it and no one can take it away. For this we should indeed be thankful!"

He became serious as he progressed, taking up condition after condition with an ease and fluency of handling that evidenced familiarity and interest. He was growing nearer his people's interest, or they to his. He came to speak as if he were one of them, forgetting entirely in his earnestness the lack of notes or preparation. After passing over many localisms with engaging feeling, he arose to an eloquence that held his hearers in a spell of astonished admiration.

"Providence," he said forcefully, "has, among His most gracious gifts, given you common-sense, and you have exerted it nowhere with more kindness than in my case." Smiling faintly he paused for the inference to take hold. Resuming he said: "Among our weak I have been the very weakest. To be good is to do good, and there is not a man among you who has done less than I. Yet I look back over the past year and see my blessings sticking up like fence-posts. I have them all in mind now, and each one gets bigger as I look upon it to-day, for they mark the line that leads into your land, and that is where I want to be. The coming year may bring sorrows to you and me, but, no matter what they are, I am holding fast to the thought of the past blessings I have had from your hands, and with these to guide me I want to—and I will return to you all that my power may permit me to."

Again he paused, and they watched him with expectant faces, deeply moved by his sincere eloquence. He stood their fascinated gaze well, as he searched his mind for a continuance of the thought; but, when he found himself barren of further words, he was forced to a speedy termination. Finally he said: "Thanksgiving Day is turkey day, too. I must not let you forget the turkey!" And this was rewarded at once by many relaxing countenances.

Brandt was one of the first to greet him as he came down to the door, but Virgie evidenced no intention of doing likewise. In the hearty handshakes that took up his attention Kent felt vaguely a disappointment in her failure to join the group, as was her usual wont. Landy and Mrs. George had also their throng of admirers, and to these Virgie quickly added her company, grateful for the relief to escape observation and cover her indifference. She had been deeply and favorably impressed, after her surprise, by the goodness in his sermon, and under its spell had been drawn to his new strength with irresistible admiration. But, once that spell was gone, the memory of a series of circumstances rushed in on her, the most distracting of which was her discovery of his mysterious visit, and somehow she could not help but feel his new role an evidence of insincerity, and she sickened in this thought.

Kent waited expectantly at first for the appearance of her face among those about him, until the group had dwindled sufficiently for his complete survey of the room. Even then he glanced hurriedly to the outer edge of the thinning ranks, hoping to find her amongst the last. Then he looked even farther over their heads in growing fear, and, in some hesitancy, turned about to find her entirely vanished from the edifice. All his triumph was gone on the instant. He disengaged himself with a sudden coldness from the stragglers still about him that awakened no small surprise among them, and would have walked away alone but for "Si," who caught up to him and awkwardly pushed beneath his arm a package in newspaper tied with thread.

"Faribee couldn't get over t' th' house while services wuz on," he said, apologetically. "She thought as how she'd surprise Martin—er I mean Mrs. George. Dern! I can't never get myself t' call her that, an' bein' 's I see you, you can give it to her. It's a weddin' present ere sunthin'. Hope y' hev a good dinner, parson—good's yer sermon. I heerd it. Ef Martin don't feed y' right come over t' th' 'Yaller Front;' we'll hev some leavin's anyhow!"

"Thanks, 'Si,'" Kent replied, laughing. "I'll give this to Martin, and, if the wedding feast gets too much for me, remember I'll hold you to your word!"

"All right!" said Doles, with a merry twinkle in his eye. "But, remember, I said 'on'y th' leavin's!'" And, turning, he marched away with a proud chuckle over his own wit, while Kent laughed again in momentary forgetfulness.