I'd understand. But, as it is, I feel dreadful
humiliated."
Revival meetings had never been held in Avonlea before.
"Uncle" Jerry MacPherson, who was the supreme local
authority in church matters, taking precedence of even
the minister, had been uncompromisingly opposed to
them. He was a stern, deeply religious Scotchman, with
a horror of the emotional form of religion. As long as
Uncle Jerry's spare, ascetic form and deeply-graved
square-jawed face filled his accustomed corner by the
northwest window of Avonlea church no revivalist might
venture therein, although the majority of the
congregation, including the minister, would have
welcomed one warmly.
But now Uncle Jerry was sleeping peacefully under the
tangled grasses and white snows of the burying ground,
and, if dead people ever do turn in their graves, Uncle
Jerry might well have turned in his when the revivalist
came to Avonlea church, and there followed the
emotional services, public testimonies, and religious
excitement which the old man's sturdy soul had always
abhorred.
Avonlea was a good field for an evangelist. The Rev.
Geoffrey Mountain, who came to assist the Avonlea
minister in revivifying the dry bones thereof, knew
this and reveled in the knowledge. It was not often
that such a virgin parish could be found nowadays, with
scores of impressionable, unspoiled souls on which
fervid oratory could play skillfully, as a master on a
mighty organ, until every note in them thrilled to life
and utterance. The Rev. Geoffrey Mountain was a good
man; of the earth, earthy, to be sure, but with an
unquestionable sincerity of belief and purpose which
went far to counterbalance the sensationalism of some
of his methods.
He was large and handsome, with a marvelously sweet and
winning voice - a voice that could melt into
irresistible tenderness, or swell into sonorous appeal
and condemnation, or ring like a trumpet calling to
battle.
His frequent grammatical errors, and lapses into
vulgarity, counted for nothing against its charm, and
the most commonplace words in the world would have
borrowed much of the power of real oratory from its
magic. He knew its value and used it effectively -
perhaps even ostentatiously.
Geoffrey Mountain's religion and methods, like the man
himself, were showy, but, of their kind, sincere, and,
though the good he accomplished might not be unmixed,
it was a quantity to be reckoned with.
So the Rev. Geoffrey Mountain came to Avonlea,
conquering and to conquer. Night after night the church
was crowded with eager listeners, who hung breathlessly
on his words and wept and thrilled and exulted as he
willed. Into many young souls his appeals and warnings
burned their way, and each night they rose for prayer
in response to his invitation. Older Christians, too,
took on a new lease of intensity, and even the
unregenerate and the scoffers found a certain
fascination in the meetings. Threading through it all,
for old and young, converted and unconverted, was an
unacknowledged feeling for religious dissipation.
Avonlea was a quiet place, - and the revival meetings
were lively.
When David and Mary Bell reached the church the
services had begun, and they heard the refrain of a
hallelujah hymn as they were crossing Harmon Andrews'
field. David Bell left his wife at the platform and
drove to the horse-shed.
Mrs. Bell unwound the scarf from her bonnet and shook
the frost crystals from it. In the porch Flora Jane
Fletcher and her sister, Mrs. Harmon Andrews, were
talking in low whispers. Presently Flora Jane put out
her lank, cashmere-gloved hand and plucked Mrs. Bell's
shawl.
"Mary, is the elder going to testify to-night?" she
asked, in a shrill whisper.
Mrs. Bell winced. She would have given much to be able
to answer "Yes," but she had to say stiffly,
"I don't know."
Flora Jane lifted her chin.
"Well, Mrs. Bell, I only asked because every one thinks
it is strange he doesn't - and an elder, of all people.
It looks as if he didn't think himself a Christian, you
know. Of course, we all know better, but it looks that
way. If I was you, I'd tell him folks was talking about
it. Mr. Bentley says it is hindering the full success
of the meetings."
might resent her husband's strange behavior herself,
but nobody else should dare to criticize him to her.
"I don't think you need to worry yourself about the
elder, Flora Jane," she said bitingly. "Maybe 'tisn't
the best Christians that do the most talking about it
always. I guess, as far as living up to his profession
goes, the elder will compare pretty favorably with Levi
Boulter, who gets up and testifies every night, and
cheats the very eye-teeth out of people in the
daytime."
Levi Boulter was a middle-aged widower, with a large
family, who was supposed to have cast a matrimonial eye
Flora Janeward. The use of his name was an effective
thrust on Mrs. Bell's part, and silenced Flora Jane.
Too angry for speech she seized her sister's arm and
hurried her into church.
But her victory could not remove from Mary Bell's soul
the sting implanted there by Flora Jane's words. When
her husband came up to the platform she put her hand on
his snowy arm appealingly.
"Oh, David, won't you get up to-night? I do feel so
dreadful bad - folks are talking so - I just feel
humiliated."
David Bell hung his head like a shamed schoolboy.
"I can't, Mary," he said huskily. "'Tain't no use to
pester me."
"You don't care for my feelings," said his wife
bitterly. "And Mollie won't come out because you're
acting so. You're keeping her back from salvation. And
you're hindering the success of the revival - Mr.
Bentley says so."
David Bell groaned. This sign of suffering wrung his
wife's heart. With quick contrition she whispered,
"There, never mind, David. I oughtn't to have spoken to
you so. You know your duty best. Let's go in."
"Wait." His voice was imploring.
"Mary, is it true that Mollie won't come out because of
me? Am I standing in my child's light?"
"I - don't - know. I guess not. Mollie's just a foolish
young girl yet. Never mind - come in."
He followed her dejectedly in, and up the aisle to
their pew in the center of the church. The building was
warm and crowded. The pastor was reading the Bible
lesson for the evening. In the choir, behind him, David
Bell saw Mollie's girlish face, tinged wi
th a troubled
seriousness. His own wind-ruddy face and bushy gray
eyebrows worked convulsively with his inward throes. A
sigh that was almost a groan burst from him.
"I'll have to do it," he said to himself in agony.
When several more hymns had been sung, and late
arrivals began to pack the aisles, the evangelist
arose. His style for the evening was the tender, the
pleading, the solemn. He modulated his tones to
marvelous sweetness, and sent them thrillingly over the
breathless pews, entangling the hearts and souls of his
listeners in a mesh of subtle emotion. Many of the
women began to cry softly. Fervent amens broke from
some of the members. When the evangelist sat down,
after a closing appeal which, in its way, was a
masterpiece, an audible sigh of relieved tension passed
like a wave over the audience.
After prayer the pastor made the usual request that, if
any of those present wished to come out on the side of
Christ, they would signify the wish by rising for a
moment in their places. After a brief interval, a pale
boy under the gallery rose, followed by an old man at
the top of the church. A frightened, sweet-faced child
of twelve got tremblingly upon her feet, and a dramatic
thrill passed over the congregation when her mother
suddenly stood up beside her. The evangelist's "Thank
God" was hearty and insistent.
David Bell looked almost imploringly at Mollie; but she
kept her seat, with downcast eyes. Over in the big
square "stone pew" he saw Eben bending forward, with
his elbows on his knees, gazing frowningly at the
floor.
"I'm a stumbling block to them both," he thought
bitterly.
A hymn was sung and prayer offered for those under
conviction. Then testimonies were called for. The
evangelist asked for them in tones which made it seem a
personal request to every one in that building.
Many testimonies followed, each infused with the
personality of the giver. Most of them were brief and
stereotyped. Finally a pause ensued. The evangelist
swept the pews with his kindling eyes and exclaimed,
"Has every Christian in this church to-night spoken a
word for his Master?"
There were many who had not testified, but every eye in
the building followed the pastor's accusing glance to
the Bell pew. Mollie crimsoned with shame. Mrs. Bell
cowered visibly.
Although everybody looked thus at David Bell, nobody
now expected him to testify. When he rose to his feet,
a murmur of surprise passed over the audience, followed
by a silence so complete as to be terrible. To David
Bell it seemed to possess the awe of final judgment.
Twice he opened his lips, and tried vainly to speak.
The third time he succeeded; but his voice sounded
strangely in his own ears. He gripped the back of the
pew before him with his knotty hands, and fixed his
eyes unseeingly on the Christian Endeavor pledge that
hung over the heads of the choir.
"Brethren and sisters," he said hoarsely, "before I can
say a word of Christian testimony here to-night I've
got something to confess. It's been lying hard and
heavy on my conscience ever since these meetings begun.
As long as I kept silence about it I couldn't get up
and bear witness for Christ. Many of you have expected
me to do it. Maybe I've been a stumbling block to some
of you. This season of revival has brought no blessing
to me because of my sin, which I repented of, but tried
to conceal. There has been a spiritual darkness over
me.
"Friends and neighbors, I have always been held by you
as an honest man. It was the shame of having you know I
was not which has kept me back from open confession and
testimony. Just afore these meetings commenced I come
home from town one night and found that somebody had
passed a counterfeit ten-dollar bill on me. Then Satan
entered into me and possessed me. When Mrs. Rachel
Lynde come next day, collecting for foreign missions, I
give her that ten dollar bill. She never knowed the
difference, and sent it away with the rest. But I knew
I'd done a mean and sinful thing. I couldn't drive it
out of my thoughts. A few days afterwards I went down
to Mrs. Rachel's and give her ten good dollars for the
fund. I told her I had come to the conclusion I ought
to give more than ten dollars, out of my abundance, to
the Lord. That was a lie. Mrs. Lynde thought I was a
generous man, and I felt ashamed to look her in the
face. But I'd done what I could to right the wrong, and
I thought it would be all right. But it wasn't. I've
never known a minute's peace of mind or conscience
since. I tried to cheat the Lord, and then tried to
patch it up by doing something that redounded to my
worldly credit. When these meetings begun, and
everybody expected me to testify, I couldn't do it. It
would have seemed like blasphemy. And I couldn't endure
the thought of telling what I'd done, either. I argued
it all out a thousand times that I hadn't done any real
harm after all, but it was no use. I've been so wrapped
up in my own brooding and misery that I didn't realize
I was inflicting suffering on those dear to me by my
conduct, and, maybe, holding some of them back from the
paths of salvation. But my eyes have been opened to
this to-night, and the Lord has given me strength to
confess my sin and glorify His holy name."
The broken tones ceased, and David Bell sat down,
wiping the great drops of perspiration from his brow.
To a man of his training, and cast of thought, no
ordeal could be more terrible than that through which
he had just passed. But underneath the turmoil of his
emotion he felt a great calm and peace, threaded with
the exultation of a hard-won spiritual victory.
Over the church was a solemn hush. The evangelist's
"amen" was not spoken with his usual unctuous fervor,
but very gently and reverently. In spite of his coarse
fiber, he could appreciate the nobility behind such a
confession as this, and the deeps of stern suffering it
sounded.
Before the last prayer the pastor paused and looked
around.
"Is there yet one," he asked gently, "who wishes to be
especially remembered in our concluding prayer?"
For a moment nobody moved. Then Mollie Bell stood up in
the choir seat, and, down by the stove, Eben, his
flushed, boyish face held high, rose sturdily to his
feet in the midst of his companions.
"Thank God," whispered Mary Bell.
"Amen," said her husband huskily.
"Let us pray," said Mr. Bentley
Chapter XIV
Only A Common Fellow
ON my dearie
's wedding morning I wakened early and went
to her room. Long and long ago she had made me promise
that I would be the one to wake her on the morning of
her wedding day.
"You were the first to take me in your arms when I came
into the world, Aunt Rachel," she had said, "and I want
you to be the first to greet me on that wonderful day."
But that was long ago, and now my heart foreboded that
there would be no need of wakening her. And there was
not. She was lying there awake, very quiet, with her
hand under her cheek, and her big blue eyes fixed on
the window, through which a pale, dull light was
creeping in - a joyless light it was, and enough to
make a body shiver. I felt more like weeping than
rejoicing, and my heart took to aching when I saw her
there so white and patient, more like a girl who was
waiting for a winding-sheet than for a bridal veil. But
she smiled brave-like, when I sat down on her bed and
took her hand.
"You look as if you haven't slept all night, dearie," I
said.
"I didn't - not a great deal," she answered me. "But
the night didn't seem long; no, it seemed too short. I
was thinking of a great many things. What time is it,
Aunt Rachel?"
"Five o'clock."
"Then in six hours more - "
She suddenly sat up in her bed, her great, thick rope
of brown hair falling over her white shoulders, and
flung her arms about me, and burst into tears on my old
breast. I petted and soothed her, and said not a word;
and, after a while, she stopped crying; but she still
sat with her head so that I couldn't see her face.
"We didn't think it would be like this once, did we,
Aunt Rachel?" she said, very softly.
"It shouldn't be like this, now," I said. I had to say
it. I never could hide the thought of that marriage,
and I couldn't pretend to. It was all her stepmother's
doings - right well I knew that. My dearie would never
have taken Mark Foster else.
"Don't let us talk of that," she said, soft and
beseeching, just the same way she used to speak when
she was a baby-child and wanted to coax me into
something. "Let us talk about the old days - and him."
"I don't see much use in talking of him, when you're
going to marry Mark Foster to-day," I said.
But she put her hand on my mouth.
"It's for the last time, Aunt Rachel. After to-day I
can never talk of him, or even think of him. It's four
years since he went away. Do you remember how he
looked, Aunt Rachel?"
"I mind well enough, I reckon," I said, kind of curt-
like. And I did. Owen Blair hadn't a face a body could
forget - that long face of his with its clean color and
its eyes made to look love into a woman's. When I
thought of Mark Foster's sallow skin and lank jaws I
felt sick-like. Not that Mark was ugly - he was just a
common-looking fellow.
"He was so handsome, wasn't he, Aunt Rachel?" my dearie
went on, in that patient voice of hers. "So tall and
strong and handsome. I wish we hadn't parted in anger.
It was so foolish of us to quarrel. But it would have
been all right if he had lived to come back. I know it
would have been all right. I know he didn't carry any
bitterness against me to his death. I thought once,
Aunt Rachel, that I would go through life true to him,
and then, over on the other side, I'd meet him just as
before, all his and his only. But it isn't to be."
"Thanks to your stepma's wheedling and Mark Foster's
scheming," said I.
"No, Mark didn't scheme," she said patiently. "Don't be
unjust to Mark, Aunt Rachel. He has been very good and
kind."
"He's as stupid as an owlet and as stubborn as
Solomon's mule," I said, for I would say it. "He's just
a common fellow, and yet he thinks he's good enough for
my beauty."
"Don't talk about Mark," she pleaded again. "I mean to
be a good, faithful wife to him. But I'm my own woman
yet - yet - for just a few more sweet hours, and I want
to give them to him. The last hours of my maidenhood -
they must belong to him."
So she talked of him, me sitting there and holding her,