Further Chronicles of Avonlea - Lucy Maud Montgomery (best reads .TXT) š
- Author: Lucy Maud Montgomery
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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 evangelistās āThank Godā was hearty and insistent.
David Bell looked almost imploringly at Mollie; but she kept her seat, with downcast eyes. Over in the big square āstone pewā he saw Eben bending forward, with his elbows on his knees, gazing frowningly at the floor.
āIām a stumbling block to them both,ā 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,
āHas EVERY Christian in this church to-night spoken a word for his Master?ā
There were many who had not testified, but every eye in the building followed the pastorās 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.
āBrethren and sisters,ā he said hoarsely, ābefore I can say a word of Christian testimony here to-night Iāve got something to confess. Itās been lying hard and heavy on my conscience ever since these meetings begun. As long as I kept silence about it I couldnāt get up and bear witness for Christ. Many of you have expected me to do it. Maybe Iāve 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.
āFriends 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 Iād done a mean and sinful thing. I couldnāt drive it out of my thoughts. A few days afterwards I went down to Mrs. Rachelās 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 Iād done what I could to right the wrong, and I thought it would be all right. But it wasnāt. Iāve never known a minuteās 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 couldnāt do it. It would have seemed like blasphemy. And I couldnāt endure the thought of telling what Iād done, either. I argued it all out a thousand times that I hadnāt done any real harm after all, but it was no use. Iāve been so wrapped up in my own brooding and misery that I didnāt 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.ā
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 evangelistās āamenā 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.
āIs there yet one,ā he asked gently, āwho wishes to be especially remembered in our concluding prayer?ā
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.
āThank God,ā whispered Mary Bell.
āAmen,ā said her husband huskily.
āLet us pray,ā said Mr. Bentley.
XIV. ONLY A COMMON FELLOW
On my dearieās 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.
āYou were the first to take me in your arms when I came into the world, Aunt Rachel,ā she had said, āand I want you to be the first to greet me on that wonderful day.ā
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 ināa 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.
āYou look as if you havenāt slept all night, dearie,ā I said.
āI didnātānot a great deal,ā she answered me. āBut the night didnāt seem long; no, it seemed too short. I was thinking of a great many things. What time is it, Aunt Rachel?ā
āFive oāclock.ā
āThen in six hours moreāā
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 couldnāt see her face.
āWe didnāt think it would be like this once, did we, Aunt Rachel?ā she said, very softly.
āIt shouldnāt be like this, now,ā I said. I had to say it. I never could hide the thought of that marriage, and I couldnāt pretend to. It was all her stepmotherās doingsāright well I knew that. My dearie would never have taken Mark Foster else.
āDonāt let us talk of that,ā 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. āLet us talk about the old daysāand HIM.ā
āI donāt see much use in talking of HIM, when youāre going to marry Mark Foster to-day,ā I said.
But she put her hand on my mouth.
āItās for the last time, Aunt Rachel. After to-day I can never talk of him, or even think of him. Itās four years since he went away. Do you remember how he looked, Aunt Rachel?ā
āI mind well enough, I reckon,ā I said, kind of curt-like. And I did. Owen Blair hadnāt a face a body could forgetāthat long face of his with its clean color and its eyes made to look love into a womanās. When I thought of Mark Fosterās sallow skin and lank jaws I felt sick-like. Not that Mark was uglyāhe was just a common-looking fellow.
āHe was so handsome, wasnāt he, Aunt Rachel?ā my dearie went on, in that patient voice of hers. āSo tall and strong and handsome. I wish we hadnāt 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 didnāt 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, Iād meet him just as before, all his and his only. But it isnāt to be.ā
āThanks to your stepmaās wheedling and Mark Fosterās scheming,ā said I.
āNo, Mark didnāt scheme,ā she said patiently. āDonāt be unjust to Mark, Aunt Rachel. He has been very good and kind.ā
āHeās as stupid as an owlet and as stubborn as Solomonās mule,ā I said, for I WOULD say it. āHeās just a common fellow, and yet he thinks heās good enough for my beauty.ā
āDonāt talk about Mark,ā she pleaded again. āI mean to be a good, faithful wife to him. But Iām my own woman yetāYETāfor just a few more sweet hours, and I want to give them to HIM. The last hours of my maidenhoodāthey must belong to HIM.ā
So she talked of him, me sitting there and holding her, with her lovely hair hanging down over my arm, and my heart aching so for her that it hurt bitter. She didnāt feel as bad as I did, because sheād made up her mind what to do and was resigned. She was going to marry Mark Foster, but her heart was in France, in that grave nobody knew of, where the Huns had buried Owen Blairāif they had buried him at all. And she went over all they had been to each other, since they were mites of babies, going to school together and meaning, even then, to be married when they grew up; and the first words of love heād said to her, and what sheād dreamed and hoped for. The only thing she didnāt bring up was the time he thrashed Mark Foster for bringing her apples. She never mentioned Markās name; it was all OwenāOwenāand how he looked, and what might have been, if he hadnāt gone off to the awful war and got shot. And there was me, holding her and listening to it all, and her stepma sleeping sound
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