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Witness

<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2> Courtland went back to college that night in a tender and exalted mood. He thought he was in love with Gila! That had been a wonderful little scene before the fire, with the soft, hidden yellow lights above, and Gila with her delicate, fervid little face, great, dark eyes, and shy looks. Gila had risked a tear upon her pearly cheek and another to hang upon her long lashes, and he had had a curious desire to kiss them away; but something held him from it. Instead, he took his clean handkerchief, softly wiping them, and thought that Gila was shy and modest when she shrank from his touch. He did not take her in his arms. Something held him from that, too. He had a feeling that she was too sacred, and he must not lightly snatch her for himself. Instead, he put her gently in the big chair by his side, and they sat and talked together quietly. He did not realize that he had done the most of the talking. He did not know what they had talked about; only that reluctant whispered confession of hers had somehow entered him into a close intimacy with her that pleased and half awed him. But when he tried to tell her of a wonderful experience he had had she lifted up her little hand and begged: "Please, not to-night! Let us not think of anything but just each other to-night!" And so he had let it pass, knowing she was all wrought up. He had not asked her to marry him, nor even told her he loved her. They had talked in quiet, wondering ways of feeling drawn to each other; at least he had talked, and Gila had sat watching him with deep, dissatisfied eyes. She had sense enough to see that she could not win him with the arts that had won others. His was a nature deeper, stronger. She must bide her time and be coy. But her spirit chafed beneath delay, and dark passions lurked behind and brooded in her eyes. Perhaps it was this that held him in a sort of uncertainty. It was as if he waited permission from some unseen source to take what she was so evidently ready to give. He thought it was the sacredness in which he held her. Almost the sermon and the feeling of the Presence were out of mind as he went home. There played around him now a little phantom joy that hovered over like a will-o'-the-wisp above his heart, and danced, giving him a strange, inexplicable exhilaration. Was this love? Was he in love? He flung himself down on Tennelly's couch when he got back to the dormitory. Bill Ward was deep in a book under the drop-light, and Tennelly was supposed to be finishing a theme for the next day. "Nelly, what is love?" asked Courtland, suddenly, in the midst of the silence. "How do you know when you are in love?" Tennelly dropped his fountain-pen in his surprise, and had to crawl under the table after it. He and Bill Ward exchanged one lightning glance of relief as he emerged from the table. "Search me!" said Tennelly, as he sat down again. "Love's an illusion, they say. I never tried it, so I don't know." There was silence again in Tennelly's room. Presently Courtland got up and said good-night. Over in his own room he stood by the window, looking out into the moonlight. The preacher had said prayer was talking with the Lord face to face. That was a new idea. Courtland dropped upon his knees and talked aloud to God as he had never opened his heart to living creature before. If prayer was that, why, prayer was good! Gila, standing bewildered, studying her pretty, discontented little face in the mirror, with all its masks laid aside, would have shivered in fear and been all the more uncertain of her success if she could have known that the man she would have had for a lover was on his knees talking about her to God. Her little naked soul in a garden all alone with the Lord God, and a man who was set to follow Him! Tennelly looked up and raised his eyebrows as Courtland closed the door. "Guess you needn't have written that letter, after all!" chuckled Bill Ward. "I thought Gila would get in her little old work!" "Well, it's written and mailed, so that doesn't do any good now. And, anyway, it's always well to have more than one string to your bow!" growled Tennelly. Courtland in love! He wasn't exactly sure he liked it. Courtland and Gila! What kind of a girl was Gila, anyway? Was she good enough for Court? He must look into this. "Say, Bill, why don't you introduce me to your cousin? I think it's about time I had a chance to judge for myself how things are getting on," growled Tennelly, presently. "Sure!" said Bill. "Good idea! Why didn't you mention it before? How about going now? It's only half past ten. Court didn't stay very late, did he? No, it isn't too late for Gila. She never goes to bed till midnight, not if there's anything interesting on. Wait. I'll call her up and see. I'm privileged, anyway, you know. Cousins can do anything. I'll tell her we're hungry." So it came about that an hour after Gila had sat in the firelight with Courtland and listened, puzzled, to his reverent talk of a soul-friendship, she ushered into the same room her cousin and Tennelly. She met Tennelly with a challenge in her eye. Tennelly had one in his. Their glances lingered, sparred and lingered again, and each knew that this was a notable meeting. For Tennelly was tall and strikingly handsome. He had those deep black eyes that hold a maiden's gaze and dare a devil; yet there was behind his look something strong, dashing, scholarly. Gila saw at once that he was distinguished in his way, and though her thoughts were strangely held by Courtland she could not let one like this go by unchallenged. If Courtland did not prove corrigible, why, there was still as good fish in the sea as ever was caught. It were well to have more than one hook baited. So she received Tennelly graciously, boldly, impressively, and in three minutes was talking with that daring intimacy that young people of her style love to affect; and Tennelly, fascinated by her charms, yet seeing through them and letting her know he saw through them, was fencing with her delightfully. He told himself it was his duty for Courtland's sake. Yet he was interested for his own sake and knew it. But he did not like the idea of Court and this girl! They did not fit. Court was too genuine! Too tender-hearted! Too idealistic about women! With himself, now, it was different. He knew women! Understood this one at a glance. She was "a peach" in her way, but not the "perfect little peach" Court ought to have. She would flirt all her life and break old Court's heart if he married her. So he laughed and joked with Gila, answering her challenging glances with glances just as ardent, while Bill Ward sat and watched them both, chuckling away to himself. And Courtland, on his knees, talked with God! The next morning Courtland awoke with a pleasant sensation of eagerness to see what life had in store for him. Was this really the wonderful experience of love into which he had begun to enter? He thought of Gila all in halos now. The questionings and unpleasantnesses were forgotten. He told himself that she would one day see and understand the wonderful experience through which he had been passing. He would tell her just as soon as possible. Not to-day, for he would be busy, and she had engagements Tuesday evening and all day Wednesday. He had not noticed the subtle withdrawing as she told him, the quick, furtive calculation in her glance. She knew how to make coming to her a privilege. Just because she had let him think he saw a bit of her heart that night, she meant to hold him off. Not too long, for he was not sufficiently bound to her to be safe from forgetting, but just long enough to whet his eagerness. Her former experience in such matters had taught her to expect that he would probably call her up and beg to see her sooner, when she might relent if he was humble enough. And she had not misjudged him. He was looking forward to Thursday as a bright, particular goal, planning what he would say to her, wondering if his heart would bound as it had when she looked at him Sunday night, and if the strange sweetness that seemed about to be settling upon him would last. Before he left his room that morning he did something he had never done before in college; he locked his door and knelt beside his bed to pray, with a strong, sweet sense of the Presence standing beside him, and breathing power into his soul. He had not much to ask for himself. He simply craved that Presence, and it had never seemed so close. As he unlocked his door and hurried down the hall to the dining-room he marveled that a thing so sweet had been so long neglected from his life. Prayer! How he had sneered at it! Yet it was a reasonable thing, after all, now that he had come believing. Nurse Wright was on hand promptly at the place appointed. She was armed with a list of written instructions. They went to work at once, setting aside the things to be sold; folding and packing the scanty wardrobe, and putting by themselves the clothes and things that had belonged to little Aleck. One incident brought tears to their eyes. In moving out the trunk a large pasteboard box fell down, and the contents dropped upon the floor. The nurse stooped to pick up the things, some pieces of an old overcoat of fine, dark-blue material, cut into small garments, basted, ready to be sewed; a tissue-paper pattern in a printed envelope marked "Boy's suit." Courtland lifted up the cover to put it on again, and there they saw, in a child's stiff little printing letters, the inscription, "Aleck's new Sunday suit," and underneath, like a subtitle, in smaller letters, "Made out of father's best overcoat." "Poor little kid!" said Courtland. "He never got to wear it!" "He's wearing something far better!" said the nurse, cheerfully; "and think what he's been spared. He'll never know the lack of a new suit again!" Courtland looked at her thoughtfully. "You believe in the resurrection, don't you?" "I certainly do!" said the nurse. "If I didn't I'd get another job. I couldn't see lives go out the way I do, and those left behind, suffering, and not go crazy if I didn't believe in the resurrection. You are a college student. I suppose you've got beyond believing things. It isn't the fashion to believe in God and the Bible any more, I understand, not if you're supposed to have any brains. But I thank God He's left me the resurrection. And when you come to face the loss of those you love you'll wish you believed in it, too." "But I do," said Courtland, quietly, making his second confession of faith. "I never thought much about it till lately. It goes along with a Christ, of course. There had to be a resurrection if there was a Christ!" "Well, I certainly am glad there's one college student that has some sense!" said the nurse, looking at him with admiration. "I guess you had a good mother." "No," said Courtland, shaking his head. "I never knew my own mother. That'll be one of the things for me to look forward to in the resurrection. I was like all the rest of the fellows—thought I knew it all, and didn't believe anything till something happened! I was in a fire and one of the fellows died! He was a great Christian, and I saw his face when he died! And then, afterward—maybe you'll think I'm nuts when I tell you—but Christ came and stood by me in the smoke and talked with me and I knew Him! He's been with me more or less ever since." The nurse looked at him curiously, a strange light in her eyes. Then she turned suddenly and looked out of the little window to the vista of gray roofs. "No! I don't think you're nuts!" she said, brusquely. "I think you're the only sensible man I've met in a long time. It stands to reason if there is a Christ He'd come to people that way sometimes. I never had any vision, or anything that I know of, but I've always known in my heart there was a Christ and He was helping me! I couldn't answer their arguments, those smart-Aleck young doctors and the nurses that talked so much, but I always felt nobody could upset my belief, even if the whole world turned against Him, for I knew there was a Christ! I don't know how I know it, but I know it and that's enough for me! I don't boast of being much of a Christian myself, but if I didn't know there was a Christ I couldn't stand the life I have to live, nor the disappointments that I've had." There were tears rolling down her cheeks, but her eyes were shining when she turned around. "Say, I guess we're sort of relations, aren't we?" laughed Courtland, holding out his hand. "You've described my feelings exactly." She took the offered hand and gripped it warmly. "I knew you must be different, somehow, when you went out to hunt for my patient so late at night that way," she said. Courtland went out presently, bringing back a second-hand man with whom he made a quiet bargain that not even the nurse could hear, and the surplus furniture was carted away. It was not long before the little room was dismantled and empty. They went together to a department store and purchased a charming little bag with a lot of traveling accessories in plain compact form, light enough for an invalid to carry. Courtland begged to be let in on the gift, but the nurse was firm: "This is my picnic, young man," she said. "You're doing enough! You can't deny it! For pity's sake, wait till you know her better before you try to do any more!" "Do you think I'll ever know her any better?" laughed Courtland. "If you have any sense you will!" snapped back the nurse, and waved a grim but pleasant good-by as she took the trolley back to the hospital. Wednesday night Courtland was on hand with his car in plenty of time to take Bonnie and the nurse down to the station. He was almost startled at the beauty of the girl as she came slowly down the steps. There were certain little details of her costume that showed the hand of the nurse: a soft white collar; a floating, sheltering veil, gathered up now about the black sailor-hat; well-fitting gloves; shoes polished like new. All these things made a difference and set off the girl's lovely face in its white resignation to an almost unearthly beauty. He found himself wanting to turn back often and look again as he drove his car through the crowded evening streets. She looked so frail and sweet he could not help thinking of Mother Marshall and how she would feel when she saw her. Surely she could not help but take her to her heart! He felt a certain pride in her, as if she were his sister. He was half sorry she was going away. He would like to know her better. The words of the nurse, "until you know her better" floated through his mind. What a strange thing that had been for her to say! It wasn't in the least likely that he would ever see Bonnie again. They left her in the sleeper, with special instructions to the porter to look after her, and surrounding her with magazines and fruit. "She looks as if a breath might blow her away!" said Courtland, speaking out of a troubled thought, as he and the nurse stood on the platform watching the train move off. "Do you think she'll get through the journey all right?" "Sure!" said the nurse, wiping away a wistful tear furtively. "She's got lots of pep. She'll rally and get strong pretty soon. She's had a pretty tough time the last two years. Lost her mother, father, a sister, and this little brother. Her father's heart was broken by being asked to leave his church because he preached temperance too much. The martyrs in this world didn't all die in the dark ages! They're having them yet!" "But she looks so ethereal!" pursued Courtland. "I wish I'd thought to suggest you going along. We could have trumped up some reason why you had to have a vacation." "Couldn't do it!" said the nurse, smiling and patting his arm. "I thought of it, but it wouldn't work. I have to be at the hospital to-morrow for a very important operation. There isn't anybody else in the hospital could very well take my place. Besides, she's sharp as a tack, and you needn't think she doesn't see through a lot of the things you've done for her! Mark my words, you'll hear from her some day! She means to know the truth about those bills and pay every cent back! But don't you worry about her. She'll get through all right. She's got more nerve than any dozen girls I know, and she doesn't go alone through this world, either. She's had a vision, too, or you'd never see her wearing that patient face with all she's had to bear!" "Did it ever seem strange to you that good people have so much trouble in this world?" said Courtland, voicing his same old doubting thought. "Well, now why? What's trouble going to be in the resurrection? We won't mind then what we passed through, and this world isn't forever, thank the Lord! If it's serving His plan any for me to get more than what seems my share of trouble, why, I'm willing. Aren't you? The trouble is we can't see the plan, and so we go fretting because it doesn't fit our ideas. If it was our plan now we'd patiently bear everything, I suppose, to make it come out right. We aren't up high enough to get the whole view of the finished plan, so of course lots of things look like mistakes. But if we trust Him at all, we know they aren't. And some time, I suppose, we'll see the whole and then we'll understand why it was. But I never was one to do much fretting because I didn't understand. I always know what my job is, and that's enough. I'm content to trust the rest to God. It's a God-size job to run the universe, and I know I'm not equal to it." Her simple logic calmed his restless thoughts, but there was still a strange wistfulness in his heart about Bonnie. She looked so white and resigned and sad! He wished she hadn't gone quite so far out of his life. Meantime, out in the darkness of the night Bonnie's train whirled along, and some time during the long hours between midnight and dawning it passed in a rush and a thunder of sound the express that was bearing back to Courtland another menace to his peace of mind. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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