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 horseshed.
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 tonight?” 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 tonight? 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
