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Witness

<h2>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> Gila had never been more beautiful than when she stood and uttered her terrible ultimatum to Courtland. Her little imperial head sat on her lovely shoulders royally, her attitude was perfect grace. Her spirited face with its dark eyes and lashes, its setting of blue-black hair, was fascinating in its exquisite modeling. She looked like a proud young cameo standing for her portrait. But her words shot through Courtland's heart like icy swords dividing his soul from his body. He rose to his feet, gone suddenly white and stern, and stood looking at her as if his own heart had turned traitor and slain him. A moment they stood in battle array, two forces representing the two great powers of the universe. Looking straight into each other's souls they stood, plumbing the depths, seeing as in a revelation what each really was! To Courtland it was suddenly made plain that this girl had no part or lot in the things that had become vital to him. She had not seen, she would not see! Her love was not great enough to carry her over the bridge that separated them, and back over which he might not go after her! Gila in her fierce haughtiness looked into her lover's eyes and saw, as she had never seen before, the mighty strength of his character! Saw that here was a man such as she would not likely meet again upon her way, and she was about to lose him forever. Saw that he would never give in about a matter of principle, and that his love was worth all the more to any woman because he would not; knew which way he would choose, from the first word of her challenge; yet the little fury within her would not let her withdraw. She stood with haughty mien and cold, flashing eyes, watching him suffer the blow she had dealt him; knew that it was more than his love for her she was killing with that blow, yet did not withdraw it while she might. "Gila! Do you mean that?" She looked him straight in the eye and thrust her sword in the deeper with a steady hand. "I do!" He stood for a moment looking steadily at her with that cold, observant glance, as if he would have this last picture of her this way to cut away all tender memories that might cause pain in the future. Then he turned as if to One who stood by his side. Not looking back again, he said, clearly and distinctly: "I choose!" And with erect bearing he passed out of the door. Gila stood, white and furious, her little clenched fists down at her sides, the sharp little teeth biting into the red underlip until the blood came. She heard the front door shut in the distance, and her soul cried out within her, yet she stood still and held her ground. She turned her face toward the library window. Between the curtains she could presently see his tall form walking down the street. He was not drooping, nor disheartened. He held his head up and walked as if in company with One whom he was proud to own. There was nothing dejected about the determined young back. Fine, noble, handsome as a man could be! She saw that one glimpse of his figure for a moment, then he passed beyond her sight and she knew in her heart he would come to her no more! She had sent him from her forever! She dashed up to her room in a fury and locked herself in. She wept and stormed and denied herself to every one; she watched and waited for the telephone to ring, yet she knew he would not call her up! Courtland never knew where he was walking as he went forth that day to meet his sorrow and face it like a man. He passed some of his professors, but did not see them. Pat McCluny came up and he looked him in the eye with an unseeing stare, and walked on! Pat stood still and looked after him, puzzled! "Holy Mackinaw! What's eating the poor stew now!" he ejaculated. He stood a moment looking back after Courtland as he walked straight ahead, passing several more university fellows without so much as a nod of recognition. Then he turned and slowly followed, on through the city streets, out into the quieter suburbs, out farther into the real country, mile after mile; out a by-path where grass grew thick and wild flowers straggled under foot, where presently a stream wound soft and deep between steep banks, and rocks loomed high on either hand; under a railroad bridge, and up among the rocks, climbing and puffing till at last they stood upon a great rock, McCluny just a little way behind and out of sight. It was there in a sort of crevice, where the natural fall of the crumbling rocks had formed a shelter, that Courtland dropped upon his knees. Not as a spot he had been seeking for, but as a haven to which he had been led. He knelt, and all that Pat, standing, awed and uncovered, a few feet below, heard, was: "O God! O God!" He knelt there a long time, while Pat waited below, trying to think what to do. The sun was beginning to sink, and a soft, pink summer light was glinting over the brown rocks and bits of moss and grasses. The young leaves waved lightly overhead like children dancing in the morning, and something of the sweetness and beauty of the scene crept into Pat McCluny's soul as he stood and waited before this Gethsemane gate for a man he loved to come forth. At last he stepped up the rocks quietly and came and stood by Courtland, laying a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "Come on, old man, it's getting late. About time we were going back!" Courtland got up and looked at him in a dazed way, as if his soul had been bruised and he was only just recovering consciousness. Without a word he turned and followed Pat back again to the city. They did not talk on the way back. Pat whistled a little, that was all. When they reached the gates of the university Courtland turned and put out his hand, speaking in his own natural tone: "Thanks awfully, old chap! Sorry to have made you all this trouble!" "That's all right, pard," said Pat, huskily, grasping the hand in his big fist. "I saw you were up against it and I stuck around, that's all!" "I sha'n't forget it!" They parted to their rooms. It was long past suppertime. Pat went away by himself to think. Over and over again to himself Courtland was saying, as he came to himself and began to realize what had come to him: "It isn't so much that I have lost her. It is that she should have done it!" Pat said nothing even to Tennelly about his walk with Courtland. He figured that Courtland would rather they did not know. He simply hovered near like a faithful dog, ready for whatever might turn up. He was relieved to see that his friend came down to breakfast next morning, with a white, resolute face, and went about the order of the day quietly, as if everything were as usual. Tennelly and Bill Ward were on the alert. They had missed Courtland from the festivities the night before, but were so thoroughly occupied with their own part in the busy week that they had little time to question him. Later in the day Tennelly began to wonder why Courtland had not brought Gila, as he intended, for the class play, but a note from Gila informed him that she was done with Paul Courtland forever, and that he would have to get some one else to further his uncle's schemes, for she would not. She intimated that she might explain further if he chose to call, and Tennelly made a point of calling in between things, and found Gila inscrutable. All he could gather was that she was very, very angry with Courtland, hopelessly so, and that she considered him worth no more effort on her part. She was languidly interested in Tennelly and accepted his invitation to the dance that evening most graciously. She had expected to go in Courtland's company, but now if he repented and came to claim his right she would ignore it. But Courtland had taken Gila at her word. He had no idea of claiming any former engagement with her. She had cut him off forever, and he must abide by it. Courtland had spent the night upon his knees in the little sacred room at the end of the hall. He was much stronger to face things than he had been when he left her. So when he met Gila walking with Tennelly he lifted his hat courteously and passed on, his face grave and stern as when she had last seen him, but in no way showing other sign that he had suffered or repented his choice. Pat, walking by his side, looked furtively at Gila then keenly at his companion, and winked to his inner consciousness. "She's the poor simp that did the business! And she looks her part, b'leeve me!" he told himself. "But he'll get over that! He's too big to miss her long!" Although there was pain in these days that followed Courtland's choice, there was also great peace in his heart. He seemed to have grown older, counting days as years, and to have a wider vision on life. Love of woman was gone out of his life, he thought, forever! Love wasn't an illusion quite as he had thought. No! But Gila had not loved him, or she never would have made him choose as she did! That was plain. If she had not loved, then it was better he should go out of her life! He was glad that the university days were over, and he might begin a new environment somewhere. He felt something strong within his soul pushing him on to a decision. Was it the Voice calling him again, leading up to what he was to do? This thought was uppermost in his mind during the Commencement, which beforehand had meant so much to him; which all the four years had been the goal to which he had been urging forward. Now that it was here he seemed to have gone beyond it, somehow, and found it to be but a little detail by the way, a very small matter not worth stopping and making so much fuss about. Of course, if Gila had loved him; if she had been going to be there watching for him when he came forward to take his diploma; if she were to be listening when he delivered that oration upon which he had spent so much time and for which he received so much commendation, that would have meant everything to him a few brief days ago—of course, then it would have been different! But as it was he wondered that everybody seemed so much interested in things and took so much trouble for a lot of nonsense. Courtland was surprised to see his father come into the great hall just as he went up on the platform with his class. He hadn't expected his father. He was a busy man who did not get away from his office often. It touched him that his father cared to come. He changed his plans and made it possible to take the train home with him after the exercises, instead of waiting a day or two to pack up, as he had expected to do. The packing could wait awhile. So he went home with his father. They had a long talk on the way, one of the most intimate that they had ever had. It appeared during the course of conversation that Mr. Courtland had heard of the offer made to his son by Ramsey Thomas, and that he was not unfavorable to its acceptance. "Of course, you don't really need to do anything of the sort, you know, Paul," he said, affably. "You've got what your mother left you now, and on your twenty-fifth birthday there will be two hundred and fifty thousand coming to you from your Grandfather Courtland's estate. You could spend your life in travel and study if you cared to, but I fancy, with your temperament, you wouldn't be quite satisfied with an idle life like that. What's your objection to this job?" Courtland told the whole story carefully, omitting no detail of the matter concerning conditions at the factory, and the matters at which he was not only expected to wink, but also sometimes to help along by his influence. He realized, as he told it, that his father would look at the thing fairly, but very differently. "Well, after all," said the father, comfortably settling himself to another cigar, "that's all a matter of sentiment. It doesn't do to be too squeamish, you know, if you have ambitions. Besides, with your income you would have been able to help out and do a lot of good. You ought to have thought of that." "In other words, earn my salary by squeezing the life out of them and then toss them a penny to buy medicine. I don't see it that way! No, dad, if I can't work at something clean I'll go out and work in the ground, or do nothing, but I won't oppress the poor." "Oh, well, Paul, that's all right if you feel that way about of it, of course. Ramsey Thomas wanted me to talk it over with you; promised to do the square thing by you and all that; and he's a pretty good man to get in with. Of course I won't urge you against your will. But what are you going to do, son? Haven't you thought of anything?" "Yes," said Courtland, leaning back and looking steadily at his father. "I've decided that I'd like to study theology." "Theology!" The father started and knocked an ash delicately from the end of his cigar. "H'm! Well, that's not a bad idea! Rather odd, perhaps, but still there's always dignity and distinction in it. Your great grandfather on your mother's side was a clergyman in the Church of England. Of course it's rather a surprise, but it's always respectable, and with your money you would be independent. You wouldn't have any trouble in getting a wealthy and influential church, either. I could manage that, I think." "I'm not sure that I want to be a clergyman, father. I said study theology. I want to know what scholarly Christians think of the Bible. I've studied it with a lot of scholarly heathen who couldn't see anything in it but literary merit. Now I want to see what it is that has made it a living power all through the ages. I've got to know what saints and martyrs have founded their faith upon." "Well, Paul, I'm afraid you're something of an idealist and a dreamer like your mother. Of course it's all right with your income, but, generally speaking, it's as well to have an object in view when you take up study. If I were you I would look into the matter most carefully before I made any decisions. If you really think the ministry is what you want, why, I'll just put a word in at our church for you. Our old Doctor Bates is getting a little out of date and he'll be about ready to be put on the retired list by the time you are done your theological course. Let's see, how long is it, three years? Had you thought where you will go? What seminary? Better make a careful selection; it has so much to do with getting a good church afterward!" "Father! You don't understand!" said Courtland, desperately, and then sat back and wondered how he should begin. His father had been a prominent member of the board of trustees in his own church for years, but had he ever felt the Presence? In the days when Courtland used to sit and kick his heels in the old family pew and be reproved for it by his aunt, he never remembered any Presence. Doctor Bates's admirable sermons had droned on over his head like the dreamy humming of bees in a summer day. He couldn't remember a single thought that ever entered his mind from that source. Was that all that came of studying theology? Well, he would find out, and if it was, he would quit it! They were all comfortably glad to see him at home. His stepmother beamed graciously upon him in between her social engagements, and his young brothers swarmed over him, demanding all the athletic news. The house was big, ornate, perfect in its way. It was good to eat such superior cooking—that is, if he had been caring to eat anything just then; and there was a certain freedom in life out of college that he knew he ought to enjoy; but somehow he was restless. The girls he used to know reminded him of Gila, or else had grown old and fat. The Country Club didn't interest him in the least, nor did the family's plans for the summer. It suited him not at all to be lionized on account of his brilliant career at college. It bored him to go into society. Sometimes, when he was alone in his room, he would think of the situation and try to puzzle it out. It seemed as if he and the Presence were there on a visit which neither of them enjoyed very much, and which they were enduring for the sake of his father, who seemed gratified to have his eldest son at home once more. But all the time Courtland was chafing at the delay. He felt there was something he ought to be about. There wasn't anything here. Not even the young brothers presented a very hopeful field, or perhaps he didn't know how to go about it. He tried telling them stories one day when he wheedled them off in the car with him, and they listened eagerly when he told them of the fire in the theater, Stephen Marshall's wonderful part in the rescue of many, and his death. But when he went on and tried to tell them in boy language of his own experience he could see them look strangely, critically at him, and finally the oldest one said: "Aw rats! What kinda rot are you giving us, Paul? You were nutty then, o' course!" and he saw that, young as they were, their eyes were holden like the rest. In the second week Courtland made his decision. He would go back to the university and pack up. Gila would be away from the city by that time; there would be no chance of meeting her and having his wound opened afresh. The fellows would be all gone and he could do about as he pleased. It was the second day after he went back that he met Pat on the street, and it was from Pat that he learned that Tennelly and Bill Ward had gone down to the shore to a house party given by "that fluffy-ruffles cousin of Bill's." Pat drew his own conclusions from the white look on Courtland's face when he told him. He would heartily have enjoyed throttling the girl if he had had a chance just then, when he saw the look of suffering in Courtland's eyes. Pat clung to Courtland all that week, helped him pack, and dogged his steps. Except when he visited the little sacred room at the end of the hall in the dormitory, Courtland was never sure of freedom from him. He was always on hand to propose a hike or a trip to the movies when he saw Courtland was tired. Courtland was grateful, and there was something so loyal about him that he couldn't give him the slip. So when he went down after Burns and whirled him away in his big gray car to the seashore Friday morning to stay until Saturday evening, Pat went along. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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