charge for it. He had hung those clothes in his shanty two months
ago and had never put them on, partly from fear of ridicule, partly
from discouragement, and partly because there was something in his
own soul that revolted at the littleness of the device.
Lena was at home just at this time. Work was slack in the
laundry and Mary had not been well, so Lena stayed at home, glad
enough to get an opportunity to torment Canute once more.
She was washing in the side kitchen, singing loudly as
she worked. Mary was on her knees, blacking the stove and scolding
violently about the young man who was coming out from town that
night. The young man had committed the fatal error of laughing at
Mary's ceaseless babble and had never been forgiven.
"He is no good, and you will come to a bad end by running with
him! I do not see why a daughter of mine should act so. I do not
see why the Lord should visit such a punishment upon me as to give
me such a daughter. There are plenty of good men you can marry."
Lena tossed her head and answered curtly, "I don't happen to
want to marry any man right away, and so long as Dick dresses nice
and has plenty of money to spend, there is no harm in my going with
him."
"Money to spend? Yes, and that is all he does with it I'll be
bound. You think it very fine now, but you will change your tune
when you have been married five years and see your children running
naked and your cupboard empty. Did Anne Hermanson come to any good
end by marrying a town man?"
"I don't know anything about Anne Hermanson, but I know any of
the laundry girls would have Dick quick enough if they could get
him."
"Yes, and a nice lot of store clothes huzzies you are too. Now
there is Canuteson who has an 'eighty' proved up and fifty head
of cattle and--"
"And hair that ain't been cut since he was a baby, and a big
dirty beard, and he wears overalls on Sundays, and drinks like a
pig. Besides he will keep. I can have all the fun I want, and
when I am old and ugly like you he can have me and take care of me.
The Lord knows there ain't nobody else going to marry him."
Canute drew his hand back from the latch as though it were red
hot. He was not the kind of man to make a good eavesdropper, and
he wished he had knocked sooner. He pulled himself together and
struck the door like a battering ram. Mary jumped and opened it
with a screech.
"God! Canute, how you scared us! I thought it was crazy Lou--
he has been tearing around the neighborhood trying to convert
folks. I am afraid as death of him. He ought to be sent off, I
think. He is just as liable as not to kill us all, or burn
the barn, or poison the dogs. He has been worrying even the poor
minister to death, and he laid up with the rheumatism, too! Did
you notice that he was too sick to preach last Sunday? But don't
stand there in the cold, come in. Yensen isn't here, but he just
went over to Sorenson's for the mail; he won't be gone long. Walk
right in the other room and sit down."
Canute followed her, looking steadily in front of him and not
noticing Lena as he passed her. But Lena's vanity would not allow
him to pass unmolested. She took the wet sheet she was wringing
out and cracked him across the face with it, and ran giggling to
the other side of the room. The blow stung his cheeks and the
soapy water flew in his eves, and he involuntarily began rubbing
them with his hands. Lena giggled with delight at his
discomfiture, and the wrath in Canute's face grew blacker than
ever. A big man humiliated is vastly more undignified than a
little one. He forgot the sting of his face in the bitter
consciousness that he had made a fool of himself He stumbled
blindly into the living room, knocking his head against the door
jamb because he forgot to stoop. He dropped into a chair behind
the stove, thrusting his big feet back helplessly on either side of
him.
Ole was a long time in coming, and Canute sat there, still and
silent, with his hands clenched on his knees, and the skin of his
face seemed to have shriveled up into little wrinkles that trembled
when he lowered his brows. His life had been one long lethargy of
solitude and alcohol, but now he was awakening, and it was as when
the dumb stagnant heat of summer breaks out into thunder.
When Ole came staggering in, heavy with liquor, Canute rose at
once.
"Yensen," he said quietly, "I have come to see if you will let
me marry your daughter today."
"Today!" gasped Ole.
"Yes, I will not wait until tomorrow. I am tired of living alone."
Ole braced his staggering knees against the bedstead, and
stammered eloquently: "Do you think I will marry my daughter to a
drunkard? a man who drinks raw alcohol? a man who sleeps with
rattle snakes? Get out of my house or I will kick you out
for your impudence." And Ole began looking anxiously for his feet.
Canute answered not a word, but he put on his hat and went out
into the kitchen. He went up to Lena and said without looking at
her, "Get your things on and come with me!"
The tones of his voice startled her, and she said angrily,
dropping the soap, "Are you drunk?"
"If you do not come with me, I will take you--you had better
come," said Canute quietly.
She lifted a sheet to strike him, but he caught her arm
roughly and wrenched the sheet from her. He turned to the wall and
took down a hood and shawl that hung there, and began wrapping her
up. Lena scratched and fought like a wild thing. Ole stood in the
door, cursing, and Mary howled and screeched at the top of her
voice. As for Canute, he lifted the girl in his arms and went out
of the house. She kicked and struggled, but the helpless wailing
of Mary and Ole soon died away in the distance, and her face was
held down tightly on Canute's shoulder so that she could not see
whither he was taking her. She was conscious only of the north
wind whistling in her ears, and of rapid steady motion and of a
great breast that heaved beneath her in quick, irregular breaths.
The harder she struggled the tighter those iron arms that had held
the heels of horses crushed about her, until she felt as if they
would crush the breath from her, and lay still with fear. Canute
was striding across the level fields at a pace at which man never
went before, drawing the stinging north winds into his lungs in
great gulps. He walked with his eyes half closed and looking
straight in front of him, only lowering them when he bent his head
to blow away the snow flakes that settled on her hair. So it was
that Canute took her to his home, even as his bearded barbarian
ancestors took the fair frivolous women of the South in their hairy
arms and bore them down to their war ships. For ever and anon the
soul becomes weary of the conventions that are not of it, and with
a single stroke shatters the civilized lies with which it is unabl
e
to cope, and the strong arm reaches out and takes by force what it
cannot win by cunning.
When Canute reached his shanty he placed the girl upon a
chair, where she sat sobbing. He stayed only a few minutes. He
filled the stove with wood and lit the lamp, drank a huge swallow
of alcohol and put the bottle in his pocket. He paused a moment,
staring heavily at the weeping girl, then he went off and locked
the door and disappeared in the gathering gloom of the night.
Wrapped in flannels and soaked with turpentine, the little
Norwegian preacher sat reading his Bible, when he heard a
thundering knock at his door, and Canute entered, covered with snow
and his beard frozen fast to his coat.
"Come in, Canute, you must be frozen," said the little man,
shoving a chair towards his visitor.
Canute remained standing with his hat on and said quietly, "I
want you to come over to my house tonight to marry me to Lena
Yensen."
"Have you got a license, Canute?"
"No, I don't want a license. I want to be married."
"But I can't marry you without a license, man. it would not be
legal."
A dangerous light came in the big Norwegian's eye. "I want
you to come over to my house to marry me to Lena Yensen."
"No, I can't, it would kill an ox to go out in a storm like
this, and my rheumatism is bad tonight."
"Then if you will not go I must take you," said Canute with a
sigh.
He took down the preacher's bearskin coat and bade him put it
on while he hitched up his buggy. He went out and closed the door
softly after him. Presently he returned and found the frightened
minister crouching before the fire with his coat lying beside him.
Canute helped him put it on and gently wrapped his head in his big
muffler. Then he picked him up and carried him out and placed him
in his buggy. As he tucked the buffalo robes around him be said:
"Your horse is old, he might flounder or lose his way in this
storm. I will lead him."
The minister took the reins feebly in his hands and sat
shivering with the cold. Sometimes when there was a lull in the
wind, he could see the horse struggling through the snow with
the man plodding steadily beside him. Again the blowing snow would
hide them from him altogether. He had no idea where they were or
what direction they were going. He felt as though he were being
whirled away in the heart of the storm, and he said all the prayers
he knew. But at last the long four miles were over, and Canute set
him down in the snow while he unlocked the door. He saw the bride
sitting by the fire with her eyes red and swollen as though she had
been weeping. Canute placed a huge chair for him, and said
roughly,--
"Warm yourself."
Lena began to cry and moan afresh, begging the minister to
take her home. He looked helplessly at Canute. Canute said
simply,
"If you are warm now, you can marry us."
"My daughter, do you take this step of your own free will?"
asked the minister in a trembling voice.
"No, sir, I don't, and it is disgraceful he should force me
into it! I won't marry him."
"Then, Canute, I cannot marry you," said the minister,
standing as straight as his rheumatic limbs would let him.
"Are you ready to marry us now, sir?" said Canute, laying one
iron hand on his stooped shoulder. The little preacher was a good
man, but like most men of weak body he was a coward and had a
horror of physical suffering, although he had known so much of it.
So with many qualms of conscience he began to repeat the marriage
service. Lena sat sullenly in her chair, staring at the fire.
Canute stood beside her, listening with his head bent reverently
and his hands folded on his breast. When the little man had prayed
and said amen, Canute began bundling him up again.
"I will take you home, now," he said as he carried him out and
placed him in his buggy, and started off with him through the fury
of the storm, floundering among the snow drifts that brought even
the giant himself to his knees.
After she was left alone, Lena soon ceased weeping. She was
not of a particularly sensitive temperament, and had little
pride beyond that of vanity. After the first bitter anger wore
itself out, she felt nothing more than a healthy sense of
humiliation and defeat. She had no inclination to run away, for
she was married now, and in her eyes that was final and all
rebellion was useless. She knew nothing about a license, but she
knew that a preacher married folks. She consoled herself by
thinking that she had always intended to marry Canute someday,
anyway.
She grew tired of crying and looking into the fire, so she got
up and began to look about her. She had heard queer tales about
the inside of Canute's shanty, and her curiosity soon got the
better of her rage. One of the first things she noticed was the
new black suit of clothes hanging on the wall. She was dull, but
it did not take a vain woman long to interpret anything so
decidedly flattering, and she was pleased in spite of herself. As
she looked through the cupboard, the general air of neglect and
discomfort made her pity the man who lived there.
"Poor fellow, no wonder he wants to get married to get
somebody to wash up his dishes. Batchin's pretty hard on a man."
It is easy to pity when once one's vanity has been tickled.
She looked at the windowsill and gave a little shudder and wondered
if the man were crazy. Then she sat down again and sat a long time
wondering what her Dick and Ole would do.
"It is queer Dick didn't come right over after me. He surely
came, for he would have left town before the storm began and he
might just as well come right on as go back. If he'd hurried he
would have gotten here before the preacher came. I suppose he was
afraid to come, for he knew Canuteson could pound him to jelly, the
coward!" Her eyes flashed angrily.
The weary hours wore on and Lena began to grow horribly
lonesome. It was an uncanny night and this was an uncanny place to
be in. She could hear the coyotes howling hungrily a little way
from the cabin, and more terrible still were all the unknown noises
of the storm. She remembered the tales they told of the big log
overhead and she was afraid of those snaky things on the
windowsills. She remembered the man who had been killed in the
draw, and she wondered what she would do if she saw crazy Lou's
white face glaring into the window. The rattling of the door
became unbearable, she thought the latch must be loose and took the
lamp to look at it. Then for the first time she saw the ugly brown
snake skins whose death rattle sounded every time the wind jarred
the door.
"Canute, Canute!" she screamed in terror.
Outside the door she heard a heavy sound as of a big dog
getting up and shaking himself. The door opened and Canute stood
before her, white as a snow drift.
"What is it?" he asked kindly.
"I am cold," she faltered.
He went out and got an armful of wood and a basket of cobs and
filled the stove. Then he went out and lay in the snow before the
door. Presently he heard her calling again.
"What is it?" he said, sitting up.
"I'm so lonesome, I'm afraid to stay in here all alone."
"I will go over and get your mother." And he got up.
"She won't come."
"I'll bring her," said Canute grimly.
"No, no. I don't want her, she will scold all the time."
"Well, I will bring your father."
She spoke again and it seemed as though her mouth was close up
to the key-hole. She spoke lower than he had ever heard her speak
before, so low that he had to put his ear up to the lock to hear
her.
"I don't want him either, Canute,--I'd rather have you."
For a moment she heard no noise at all, then something like a
groan. With a cry of fear she opened the door, and saw Canute
stretched in the snow at her feet, his face in his hands, sobbing
on the doorstep.
Eric Hermannson's Soul
It was a great night at the Lone Star schoolhouse--a night
when the Spirit was present with power and when God was very near
to man. So it seemed to Asa Skinner, servant of God and Free
Gospeller. The schoolhouse was crowded with the saved and
sanctified, robust men and women, trembling and quailing before the
power of some mysterious psychic force. Here and there among this
cowering, sweating multitude crouched some poor wretch who had felt
the pangs of an awakened conscience, but had not yet experienced
that complete divestment of reason, that frenzy born of a
convulsion of the mind, which, in the parlance of the Free
Gospellers, is termed "the Light." On the floor before the
mourners' bench lay the unconscious figure of a man in whom
outraged nature had sought her last resort. This "trance" state
is the highest evidence of grace among the Free Gospellers, and
indicates a close walking with God.
Before the desk stood Asa Skinner, shouting of the mercy and
vengeance of God, and in his eyes shone a terrible earnestness, an
almost prophetic flame. Asa was a converted train gambler who used
to run between Omaha and Denver. He was a man made for the
extremes of life; from the most debauched of men he had become the
most ascetic. His was a bestial face, a. face that bore the stamp
of Nature's eternal injustice. The forehead was low, projecting
over the eyes, and the sandy hair was plastered down over it and
then brushed back at an abrupt right angle. The chin was heavy,
the nostrils were low and wide, and the lower lip hung loosely
except in his moments of spasmodic earnestness, when it shut like
a steel trap. Yet about those coarse features there were deep,
rugged furrows, the scars of many a hand-to-hand struggle with the
weakness of the flesh, and about that drooping lip were sharp,
strenuous lines that had conquered it and taught it to pray. Over
those seamed cheeks there was a certain pallor, a greyness caught
from many a vigil. It was as though, after Nature had done her
worst with that face, some fine chisel had gone over it, chastening
and almost transfiguring it. Tonight, as his muscles twitched with
emotion, and the perspiration dropped from his hair and chin, there
was a certain convincing power in the man. For Asa Skinner was a
man possessed of a belief, of that sentiment of the sublime before
which all inequalities are leveled, that transport of conviction
which seems superior to all laws of condition, under which
debauchees have become martyrs; which made a tinker an artist and
a camel-driver the founder of an empire. This was with Asa Skinner
tonight, as he stood proclaiming the vengeance of God.