"Nope, Andy, only a note askin' me to come to church tomorrow afternoon, but I jest can't go, Andy!... I can't! I ain't been fer two Sundays, now, 'cause I been feelin' so bad."
She raised her eyes full of misery to meet Andy's sympathetic gaze. How could she go after that awful scene nearly three weeks before with Madelene and Frederick? She never could face the Waldstricker family again.
"I won't never go to church, ever any more," she mourned presently.
"Mebbe not, dear," returned the dwarf, smothered in his throat. "An' the church'll be worser off'n you!"
Troubled in spirit, Tess considered the letter a few minutes.
"I s'pose they be gittin' up somethin' fer Christmas, an' I ought to go an' tell 'em I can't sing. I said as how I would over three months ago if Miss Waldstricker'd help me; but I can't.... Will ye look after Daddy while I air gone, Andy?"
"Sure," agreed the dwarf. "I'll slide under his bed an' talk the pains right out o' 'im."
"I wish the meetin' was in the mornin'," Tess sighed. "It gits dark so early, an' Mr. Young ain't home! He'd come an' git me an' bring me back if he were. It air a long walk," and she sighed again.
"Mebbe 'twon't be so cold tomorrow as it air today," cheered Andy and they lapsed into silence.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE CHURCHING
The dawning of Wednesday brought one of those drab days so frequent in the lake-country. The daylight, dim even at high noon, hardly suggested a possible sun shining anywhere. Misty sheets of stinging ice-particles drove from the northern skyline to the hill south of Ithaca.
The snow crunched sharply under Tessibel's feet as she picked her way from the shanty to the lane. Kennedy's brindle bull, leaping and barking, invited her to a frolic. The girl called the dog to her, and petted him.
"No, no, Pete, Tess ain't able to run an' play with ye any more," she told him, sadly, "but ye can go with me to Hayt's."
Nuzzling her hand, the great dog walked soberly by her side, as though he understood. Tess shivered a little as the frost-laden air bit nippingly at her ears. The winter birds between her and the lake lifted their wings and mounted against the wind, some driving in flocks, others now and then by twos and threes. Tess followed their flight through the storm.... How strong and happy they seemed!
For an instant she paused at the gate in front of Deforrest Young's empty house. The snow had drifted until the path could no longer be discerned. A little twinge of loneliness touched Tessibel's heart. Her friend would not be at the church that day.
When she came within sight of the chapel, she bent and petted Pete. She took his head between her gloved hands and looked into the lovely eyes shining out of his ugly face.
"Go home, Petey dearie," she said. "Tessibel air goin' to church. They don't let dogs in God's house, honey."
Obediently the dog turned and trotted off.
Tess opened the chapel door and stepped in. Buffeted, as she had been by the storm, she met the warmth within with a grateful little sigh.
Half-way to the stove in the middle of the room, she stopped, arrested by the unusual group beyond. Ebenezer Waldstricker stood there, surrounded by the elders of the church. In all she counted five men: the minister, Silander Griggs, and three elders. At one side sat Frederick Graves.
Puzzled and embarrassed by Frederick's presence and appearance, half-conscious of something menacing in the stern faces turned toward her, she was tempted, weary as she was, to turn back into the blizzard raging without. As she awkwardly scraped the snow from her shoes, Pastor Griggs came to her and led her to a seat near the fire.
Waldstricker gazed at her critically, but didn't bow his head. Tessibel didn't mind if people failed to speak to her, and she didn't like Waldstricker anyway. She did not look at Frederick after that first fleeting glance, but bowed her head on the pew-back in front from sheer weariness. The memory of that scene in the cabin three weeks previous recurred with renewed clearness. Madelene's insulting words, re-echoing in her ears, made her grow faint from stinging humiliation. Oh, how sorry she was she'd come to church! She could have asked Jake Brewer to bring up a note explaining that she could not take part in the Christmas doings.
The sound of moving feet told her the time had arrived for opening the meeting. If she thought at all of the absence of the female members of the church, she sought for no other reason than the steadily increasing blizzard.
One by one she heard the men take their places. Then, the pastor cleared his throat loudly and began to pray. Perfect silence save for his droning voice filled the small chapel. Tess heard him praying for the members of the congregation, for the mothers at home with their children, and as usual for all earthly sinners.
"And particularly, dear Lord," continued the deep voice, "may thy tender mercy and loving kindness visit the heart of our sinning sister here present and soften it, making her obedient to these thy servants, to whom Thou hast committed the government of thy church."
Why! What had he said? "Sinning sister ... here present." Why, they were all men but her! The pastor finished his prayer with a resounding "Amen," in which the elders joined reverently. Confused, Tessibel sat back in the pew, puzzled and frightened.
"I have before me here on my desk," Griggs announced, "a letter from Deforrest Young. In answer to a letter from the church, asking him to be with us this afternoon, he has requested that Brother Ebenezer Waldstricker be instructed to vote in his name.... I do so instruct you, Brother Waldstricker."
Ebenezer moved in his seat as if in consent.
"It's a delicate matter which we have to consider," observed the minister, looking from pale face to pale face.
Tessibel glanced at the speaker. He, too, was ashen in the dim afternoon light.
"Come to the point, please," commanded Waldstricker, curtly.
The minister bowed his head in silent prayer.
"Tessibel Skinner," he said, "I ask you to stand up."
The girl got up obediently, but sank down again, her trembling legs refused to support her. She did not, however, turn her startled brown eyes from her pastor's face.
"It is charged against you, Tessibel Skinner," he read from a paper before him, "that you have broken the laws of God and violated the discipline of this church; that you, an unmarried woman, are now pregnant. Are you guilty or not guilty?"
As the accusing voice ceased, the stern eyes of the dark-faced men, who had watched her closely during the reading, seemed to pierce her through and through, ... to lay bare her most intimate secrets.
What should she say? She wasn't unmarried, as the pastor had charged, but the rest was true. Without Frederick's consent, she couldn't explain; she couldn't deny the charge. Surely, Frederick would stand forth and defend her now. She listened intently for a sound from him.
She dared not turn toward him, for fear she might break her promise by some look or word. But nothing except the storm-sounds disturbed the silence of the little church. Frederick had failed her again!
Unable alike to plead guilty or not guilty, she sat head bowed and eyes downcast before her judges.
Waldstricker broke the appalling hush.
"Speak up, girl," he ordered harshly. "You're guilty, aren't you?"
The forlorn child struggled to her feet and raised her eyes to the speaker's face.
"Oh, sirs, don't ask me 'bout it," she begged with outstretched hands.
"I can't tell ye nothing 'bout it 'cept ... I air goin' to have a baby in the spring."
Waldstricker glanced significantly at the other elders who nodded in acquiescence. Then he turned to the minister, still in the pulpit.
"It is enough," he decided sternly. "She has confessed her sin."
Dropping again into the pew, Tessibel cast a quick glance toward Frederick, who stared set-faced out into the storm.
"We find, Tessibel Skinner," continued the minister, as though reciting a carefully rehearsed speech, "you have sinned grievously. Your silence convicts you. You are no longer worthy of membership in this church, of communion with Christian people. But it is not right that you should suffer alone. For your soul's welfare and in the interest of justice, I ask you the name of the man--"