Eben Bell came in with an armful of wood and banged it cheerfully
down in the box behind the glowing Waterloo stove, which was
coloring the heart of the little kitchen's gloom with tremulous,
rose-red whirls of light.
"There, sis, that's the last chore on my list. Bob's milking.
Nothing more for me to do but put on my white collar for meeting.
Avonlea is more than lively since the evangelist came, ain't it,
though!"
Mollie Bell nodded. She was curling her hair before the tiny
mirror that hung on the whitewashed wall and distorted her round,
pink-and-white face into a grotesque caricature.
"Wonder who'll stand up to-night," said Eben reflectively,
sitting down on the edge of the wood-box. "There ain't many
sinners left in Avonlea--only a few hardened chaps like myself."
"You shouldn't talk like that," said Mollie rebukingly. "What if
father heard you?"
"Father wouldn't hear me if I shouted it in his ear," returned
Eben. "He goes around, these days, like a man in a dream and a
mighty bad dream at that. Father has always been a good man.
What's the matter with him?"
"I don't know," said Mollie, dropping her voice. "Mother is
dreadfully worried over him. And everybody is talking, Eb. It
just makes me squirm. Flora Jane Fletcher asked me last night
why father never testified, and him one of the elders. She said
the minister was perplexed about it. I felt my face getting
red."
"Why didn't you tell her it was no business of hers?" said Eben
angrily. "Old Flora Jane had better mind her own business."
"But all the folks are talking about it, Eb. And mother is
fretting her heart out over it. Father has never acted like
himself since these meetings began. He just goes there night
after night, and sits like a mummy, with his head down. And
almost everybody else in Avonlea has testified."
"Oh, no, there's lots haven't," said Eben. "Matthew Cuthbert
never has, nor Uncle Elisha, nor any of the Whites."
"But everybody knows they don't believe in getting up and
testifying, so nobody wonders when they don't. Besides," Mollie
laughed--"Matthew could never get a word out in public, if he did
believe in it. He'd be too shy. But," she added with a sigh,
"it isn't that way with father. He believes in testimony, so
people wonder why he doesn't get up. Why, even old Josiah Sloane
gets up every night."
"With his whiskers sticking out every which way, and his hair
ditto," interjected the graceless Eben.
"When the minister calls for testimonials and all the folks look
at our pew, I feel ready to sink through the floor for shame,"
sighed Mollie. "If father would get up just once!"
Miriam Bell entered the kitchen. She was ready for the meeting,
to which Major Spencer was to take her. She was a tall, pale
girl, with a serious face, and dark, thoughtful eyes, totally
unlike Mollie. She had "come under conviction" during the
meetings, and had stood up for prayer and testimony several
times. The evangelist thought her very spiritual. She heard
Mollie's concluding sentence and spoke reprovingly.
"You shouldn't criticize your father, Mollie. It isn't for you
to judge him."
Eben had hastily slipped out. He was afraid Miriam would begin
talking religion to him if he stayed. He had with difficulty
escaped from an exhortation by Robert in the cow-stable. There
was no peace in Avonlea for the unregenerate, he reflected.
Robert and Miriam had both "come out," and Mollie was hovering on
the brink.
"Dad and I are the black sheep of the family," he said, with a
laugh, for which he at once felt guilty. Eben had been brought
up with a strict reverence for all religious matters. On the
surface he might sometimes laugh at them, but the deeps troubled
him whenever he did so.
Indoors, Miriam touched her younger sister's shoulder and looked
at her affectionately.
"Won't you decide to-night, Mollie?" she asked, in a voice
tremulous with emotion.
Mollie crimsoned and turned her face away uncomfortably. She did
not know what answer to make, and was glad that a jingle of bells
outside saved her the necessity of replying.
"There's your beau, Miriam," she said, as she darted into the
sitting room.
Soon after, Eben brought the family pung and his chubby red mare
to the door for Mollie. He had not as yet attained to the
dignity of a cutter of his own. That was for his elder brother,
Robert, who presently came out in his new fur coat and drove
dashingly away with bells and glitter.
"Thinks he's the people," remarked Eben, with a fraternal grin.
The rich winter twilight was purpling over the white world as
they drove down the lane under the over-arching wild cherry trees
that glittered with gemmy hoar-frost. The snow creaked and
crisped under the runners. A shrill wind was keening in the
leafless dogwoods. Over the trees the sky was a dome of silver,
with a lucent star or two on the slope of the west. Earth-stars
gleamed warmly out here and there, where homesteads were tucked
snugly away in their orchards or groves of birch.
"The church will be jammed to-night," said Eben. "It's so fine
that folks will come from near and far. Guess it'll be
exciting."
"If only father would testify!" sighed Mollie, from the bottom of
the pung, where she was snuggled amid furs and straw. "Miriam
can say what she likes, but I do feel as if we were all
disgraced. It sends a creep all over me to hear Mr. Bentley say,
'Now, isn't there one more to say a word for Jesus?' and look
right over at father."
Eben flicked his mare with his whip, and she broke into a trot.
The silence was filled with a faint, fairy-like melody from afar
down the road where a pungful of young folks from White Sands
were singing hymns on their way to meeting.
"Look here, Mollie," said Eben awkwardly at last, "are you going
to stand up for prayers to-night?"
"I--I can't as long as father acts this way," answered Mollie, in
a choked voice. "I--I want to, Eb, and Mirry and Bob want me to,
but I can't. I do hope that the evangelist won't come and talk
to me special to-night. I always feels as if I was being pulled
two different ways, when he does."
Back in the kitchen at home Mrs. Bell was waiting for her husband
to bring the horse to the door. She was a slight, dark-eyed
little woman, with thin, vivid-red cheeks. From out of the
swathings in which she had wrapped her bonnet, her face gleamed
sad and troubled. Now and then she sighed heavily.
The cat came to her from under the stove, languidly stretching
himself, and yawning until all the red cavern of his mouth and
throat was revealed. At the moment he had an uncanny resemblance
to Elder Joseph Blewett of White Sands--Roaring Joe, the
irreverent boys called him--when he grew excited and shouted.
Mrs. Bell saw it--and then reproached herself for the sacrilege.
"But it's no wonder I've wicked thoughts," she said, wearily.
"I'm that worried I ain't rightly myself. If he would only tell
me what the trouble is, maybe I could help him. At any rate, I'd
KNOW. It hurts me so to see him going about, day after day, with
his head hanging and that look on his face, as if he had
something fearful on his conscience--him that never harmed a
living soul. And then the way he groans and mutters in his
sleep! He has always lived a just, upright life. He hasn't no
right to go on like this, disgracing his family."
Mrs. Bell's angry sob was cut short by the sleigh at the door.
Her husband poked in his busy, iron-gray head and said, "Now,
mother." He helped her into the sleigh, tucked the rugs warmly
around her, and put a hot brick at her feet. His solicitude hurt
her. It was all for her material comfort. It did not matter to
him what mental agony she might suffer over his strange attitude.
For the first time in their married life Mary Bell felt
resentment against her husband.
They drove along in silence, past the snow-powdered hedges of
spruce, and under the arches of the forest roadways. They were
late, and a great stillness was over all the land. David Bell
never spoke. All his usual cheerful talkativeness had
disappeared since the revival meetings had begun in Avonlea.
From the first he had gone about as a man over whom some strange
doom is impending, seemingly oblivious to all that might be said
or thought of him in his own family or in the church. Mary Bell
thought she would go out of her mind if her husband continued to
act in this way. Her reflections were bitter and rebellious as
they sped along through the glittering night of the winter's
prime.
"I don't get one bit of good out of the meetings," she thought
resentfully. "There ain't any peace or joy for me, not even in
testifying myself, when David sits there like a stick or stone.
If he'd been opposed to the revivalist coming here, like old
Uncle Jerry, or if he didn't believe in public testimony, I
wouldn't mind. 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."
Mrs. Bell turned on her tormentor in swift anger. She 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
with 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, appealingly,
"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.