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Witness

<h2>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> They certainly were a queer trio, the little Scotch preacher, the big Irish athlete, and the cultured aristocrat! Yet they managed to have a mighty good time of it those two days at the shore, and came back the warmest of friends. Pat proved his devotion to Burns by attending church the next day with Courtland, and listening attentively to every word that was said. It is true he did it much in the same way the fellows used to share one another's stunts in college, sticking by and helping out when one of the gang had a hard task to perform. But it pleased both Courtland and Burns that he came. Courtland wondered, as he shared the hymn-book with him and heard him growl out a few bass notes to old "Rock of Ages," why it was that it seemed to fill him with a kind of exaltation to hear Pat sing. He hadn't yet recognized the call to go a-fishing for men, nor knew that it was the divine angler's deep delight in his employment that was filling him. It was while they were singing that hymn that he stole a look at Pat, and felt a sudden wonder whether he would understand about the Presence or not, a burning desire to tell him about it some time if the right opportunity offered. The days down at the shore had done a lot for Courtland. He had taken care that the spot he selected was many miles removed from the popular resort where Mr. Dare had a magnificent cottage; and there had been absolutely nothing in the whole two days to remind him of Gila. It was a quiet place, with a far, smooth beach, and no board walks nor crowds to shut out the vision of the sea. He leaped along the sand and dived into the water with his old enthusiasm. He played like a fish in the ocean. He taught Burns several things about swimming, and played pranks like a school-boy. He basked in the sun and told jokes, laughing at Pat's brilliant wit and Burns's dry humor. At night they took long walks upon the sand and talked of deep things that Pat could scarcely understand. He was satisfied to stride between them, listening to the vigorous ring of Courtland's old natural voice again. He heard their converse high above where he lived, and loved them for the way they searched into things too deep for him. It was out in the wildest, loneliest part of the beach that night that he heard the first hint of what had come to the soul of Courtland. Pat had come of Catholic ancestry. He had an inheritance of reverence for the unseen. He had never been troubled with doubts or sneers. He had let religion go by and shed it like a shower, but he respected it. Courtland spent much time in the vicinity of the factory and of Robert Burns's church during the next few weeks. He helped Burns a good deal, for the man had heavily taxed himself with the burdens of the poor about him. Courtland found ways to privately relieve necessity and put a poor soul now and then on his feet and able to face the world again by the loan of a few cents or dollars. It took so pitifully little to open the gate of heaven to some lives! Courtland with his keen intellect and fine perceptions was able sometimes to help the older man in his perplexities; and once, when Burns was greatly worried over a bill that was hanging fire during a prolonged session of congress, Courtland went down to Washington for a week-end and hunted up some of his father's Congressional friends. He told them a few facts concerning factories in general, and a certain model, white-marble, much be-vined factory in particular, that at least opened their eyes if it did not make much difference in the general outcome. But though the bill failed to pass that session, being skilfully side-tracked, Courtland had managed to stir up a bit of trouble for Uncle Ramsey Thomas that made him storm about his office wrathfully and wonder who that "darned little rat of a preacher" had helping him now! It was late in September that Pat, with a manner of studied indifference, told Courtland of a rumor that Tennelly was engaged to Gila Dare. It was the very next Sunday night that Tennelly turned up at Courtland's apartment after he and Pat had gone to the evening service, and followed them to the church. He dropped into a seat beside Pat, amazed to find him there. "You here!" he whispered, grasping Pat's hand with the old friendly grip. "Where's Court?" Pat grinned and nodded up toward the pulpit. Tennelly looked forward and for a minute did not comprehend. Then he saw Courtland sitting gravely in a pulpit chair by the little red-headed Scotch preacher. "What in thunder!" he growled, almost out loud. "What's the joke?" Pat's face was on the defensive at once, though it was plain he was enjoying Tennelly's perplexity. "Court's going to speak to-night!" It is probable Pat never enjoyed giving any information so much as that sentence in his life. "The deuce he is!" said Tennelly, out loud. "You're lying, man!" which, considering that the Scotchman was praying, was slightly out of place. Pat frowned. "Shut up, Nelly. Can't you see the game's called? I'm telling you straight. If you don't believe it wait and see." Tennelly looked again. That surely was Courtland sitting there. What could be the meaning of it all? Had Courtland taken to itinerary preaching? Consternation filled his soul. He loved Courtland as his own brother. He would have done anything to save his brilliant career for him. He hadn't intended staying to service. His plan had been to slip in, get Courtland to come away with him, have a talk, and go back to the shore on the late train. But the present situation altered his plans. There was nothing for it now but to stay and see this thing through. Pat was a whole lot deeper than the rest had ever given him credit for being. Pat was enjoying the psychological effect of the service on Tennelly. He had never been much of a student in the psychology class, but when it came right down to plain looking into another man's soul and telling what he was thinking about, and what he was going to do next, Pat was all there. That was what made him such an excellent football-player. When he met his opponent he could always size him up and tell just about what kind of plays he was going to make, and know how to prepare for them. Pat was no fool. That was a most unusual service. The minister read the story of the martyr Stephen, and the conversion of Saul of Tarsus, taken from the sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth chapters of Acts. It was brief and dramatic in the reading. Even Tennelly was caught and held as Burns read in his clear, direct way that made Scripture seem to live again in modern times. "I have asked my friend Mr. Courtland to tell you the story of how he met Jesus one day on the Damascus road," said Burns, as he closed the Bible and turned to Courtland, sitting still with bowed head just behind him. Courtland had made many speeches during his college days. He had been the prince among his class for debate. He had been proud of his ability as a speaker, and had delighted in being able to hold and sway an audience. He had never known stage fright, nor dreaded appearing before people. But ever since Burns had asked him if he would be willing to tell the story of the Presence to his people in the church before he left for his theological studies, Courtland had been just plain frightened. He had consented. Somehow he couldn't do anything else, it was so obviously to his mind a "call"; but if had been a coward in any sense he would have run away that Saturday afternoon and got out of it all. Only his horror of being "yellow" had kept him to his promise. Since ascending to the platform he had been overcome by the audacity of the idea that he, a mere babe in knowledge, a recent scorner, should attempt to get up and tell a roomful of people, who knew far more about the Bible than he did, how he found Christ. There were no words in which to tell anything! They had all fled from his mind and it was a blank! He dropped his head upon his hand in his weakness to pray for strength, and a great calm came to his soul. The prayer and Bible-reading had steadied him, and he had been able to get hold of what he had to say as the story of the young man Saul progressed. But when he heard himself being introduced so simply, and knew his time had come, he seemed to hear the words he had read that afternoon: <div class="blockquot">Fear not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness. </div> Courtland lifted up his head and arose. He faced the sea of faces that a few moments before had swum before his gaze as if they had been a million. Then all at once Tennelly's face stood out from all the rest, intent, curious, wondering, and Courtland knew that his opportunity had come to tell Tennelly about the Presence! Tennelly, the man whom he loved above all other men! Tennelly, the man who perhaps loved Gila and was to be close to her through life! His fears vanished. His soul burned within him. Fixing his eyes on that fine, vivid face, Courtland began his story; and truly the words that he used must have been drawn red-hot from his heart, for he spoke as one inspired. Simply, as if he were alone in the room with Tennelly, he looked into his friend's eyes and told his story, forgetting all others present, intent only on making Tennelly see what Christ had been to him, what He was willing to be to Tennelly—and Gila! If they would! Tennelly did not take his eyes from the speaker. It was curious to see him so absorbed, Tennelly, who was so conventional, so careful what people thought, so always conscious of all elements in his environment. It was as if his soul were sitting frankly in his eyes for the first time in his life, and things unsuspected, perhaps, even by himself, came out and showed themselves: traits, weaknesses, possibilities; longings, too, and pride. When Courtland had finished and sat down he did not drop his head upon his hands again. He had spoken in the strength of the Lord. He had nothing of which to be ashamed. He was looking now at the audience, no longer at Tennelly. He began to realize that it had been given to him to bear the message to all these other people also. He was filled with humble exaltation that to him had been intrusted this great opportunity. The people, too, were hushed and filled with awe. They showed by the quiet way they reached for the hymn-books, the reverent bowing of their heads for the final prayer, that they had all felt the power of Christ with the speaker. They lingered, many of them, and came up, pressing about him, just to touch his hand and make mute appeal with their troubled eyes. Some to ask him eagerly for reassurance of what he had been saying; others to thank him for the story. They were so humble, so sincere, so eager, these common people, like the ones of old who crowded around the Master and heard him gladly. Paul Courtland was filled with humility. He stood there half embarrassed as they pressed about him. He took their hands and smiled his brotherhood, but scarcely knew what to say to them. He felt an awkward boy who had made a great discovery about which he was too shy to talk. Pat and Tennelly stood back against the wall and waited, saying not a word. Tennelly watched the people curiously as they went out: humble, common people, subdued, wistful, even tearful; some of them with illumined faces as if they had seen a great light in their darkness. When at last Courtland drifted down to the back of the church and reached Tennelly the two met with a look straight into each other's soul, while their hands gripped in the old brotherhood clasp. Not a smile nor a commonplace expression crossed either face—just that strong, steady look of recognition and understanding. It was Tennelly looking at Courtland, the new man in Christ Jesus; Courtland looking at Tennelly after he had heard the story. They walked back to Courtland's apartments almost in silence, a kind of holy embarrassment upon them all. Pat whistled "Rock of Ages" softly under his breath most of the way. They sat for a time, talking, stiffly, as if they hardly knew one another, telling the news. Bill Ward had gone to California to look into a big land deal in which his father was interested. Wittemore's mother had died and he wasn't coming back next year for his senior year. It was all surface talk. Pat put in a little about football. He discussed which of last year's scrubs were most hopeful candidates for the 'varsity team this year. Not one of the three at that moment cared a rap whether the university had any football team or not. Their thoughts were upon deeper things. But the recent service was not mentioned, nor the extraordinary fact of Courtland's having taken part in it. By common consent they shunned the subject. It was too near the heart of each. Finally Pat discreetly took himself off, professedly in search of ice-water, as the cooler in the hall had for some reason run dry. He was gone some time. When he had left the room Tennelly sat up alertly. He had something to say to Courtland alone. It must be said now before Pat returned. Courtland got up, crossed the room, and stood looking out of the window on the myriad lights of the city. There was in his face a far yearning, and something too deep for words. It was as if he were waiting for a blow to fall. Tennelly looked at Courtland's back and gathered up his courage: "Court," he said, hoarsely, trying to summon the nomenclature of the dear old days; "there's something I wanted to ask you. Was there anything—is there—between you and Gila Dare that makes it disloyal for your friend to try and win her if he can?" It was very still in the room. The whir of the trolleys could be heard below as if they were out in the hall. They grated harshly on the silence. Courtland stood as if carved out of marble. It seemed ages to Tennelly before he answered, with the sadness of the grave in his tone: "No, Nelly! It's all right! Gila and I didn't hit it off! It's all over between us forever. Go ahead! I wish you luck!" There was an attempt at the old loving understanding in the answer, but somehow the last words had almost the sound of a sob in them. Tennelly had a feeling that he was wringing his own happiness out of his friend's soul: "Thanks, awfully, Court! I didn't know," he said, awkwardly. "I think she likes me a lot, but I couldn't do anything if you had the right of way." When Pat came back with a tray of glasses clinking with ice, and the smell of crushed lemons, they were talking of the new English professor and the chances that he would be better than the last, who was "punk." But Pat was not deceived. He looked from one to the other and knew the blow had fallen. He might have prevented it, but what was the use? It had to come sooner or later. They talked late. Finally, Tennelly rose and came toward Courtland, with his hand outstretched, and they all knew that the real moment of the evening had come at last: "That was a great old talk you gave us this evening, Court!" Tennelly's voice was husky with feeling. One felt that he had been keeping the feeling out of sight all the evening. He was holding Courtland's hand in a painful grip, and looking again into his eyes as if he would search his soul to the depths: "You sure have got hold of something there that's worth looking into! You had a great hold on your audience, too! Why, you almost persuaded me there was something in it!" Tennelly tried to finish his sentence in lighter vein, but the feeling was in his voice yet. Courtland gripped his hand and looked his yearning with a sudden light of joy and hope: "If you only would, Nelly! It's been the thing I've longed for—!" "Not yet!" said Tennelly, almost pulling his hand away from the detaining grasp. "Some time, perhaps, but not now! I've too much else on hand! I must beat it now! Man alive! Do you know what time it is? See you soon again!" Tennelly was off in a whirl of words. "Almost thou persuadest me!" Had some one whispered the words behind him as he went? Courtland stood looking after him till the door closed, then he turned and stepped to the window again. He was so long standing there, motionless, that Pat went at last and touched him on the shoulder. "Say, pard," he said, in a low, gruff voice. "I'm nothing but a roughneck, I know, and not worth much at that, but if it's any satisfaction to you to know you've bowled a bum like me over to His side, why I'm with you!" Courtland turned and grasped his hand, throwing the other arm about Pat's shoulder. "It sure is, Pat, old boy," he said, eagerly. "It's the greatest thing ever! Thanks! I needed that just now! I'm all in!" They stood so for some minutes with their arms across each other's shoulders, looking out of the window to the city, lying sorrowful, forgetful, sinful, before them; down to the street below, where Tennelly hastened on to win his Gila; up to the quiet, wise old stars above. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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