The Witness by Grace Livingston Hill Lutz (mobi reader android TXT) 📕

Side,  He Would Have Been Sure It Was Not Wholly A Hallucination

Connected With His Memory Of Stephen.

It Was Strange,  For Now That He Sat There In That Quiet Room That Had

Once Witnessed The Trying Out Of A Manly Soul,  And Saw The Calm Eyes Of

The Plain Mother On The Wall Opposite,  And The True Eyes Of The Dowdy

School-Boy On The Other Wall,  He Was Feeling The Presence Again!

Why Hadn't He Felt Its Power In The Church? Was It Because Of The

Presence Of Such People In The Temple As That Little Mean-Souled

Professor,  Whom Everybody Knew To Be Insincere From The Crown Of His

Head To The Soles Of His Sly Little Feet? Was It Because The People Were

Cold And Careless And Didn't Sing Even With Their Lips,  Let Alone Their

Hearts,  But Hired It All Done For Them?

And Then There Had Been That Call Of His Name When He Was With Gila

Dare,  As Clear And Distinct,  Like A Friend He Had Left Outside Who Had

Grown Tired Of Waiting,  And Worried About Him. Why Hadn't The Sense Of

The Presence Gone With Him Into The Room? Would A Presence Like That Be

Afraid Of Hostile Influences? No. If It Was Real And A Presence At All

It Would Be More Powerful Than Any Other Influence In The Universe. Then

Why?

Could It Be That He Had Gone Deliberately Into An Influence That Would

Make It Impossible For The Presence To Guide?

Or Was It Possible That His Own Attitude Toward That Girl Had Been At

Fault? He Had Gone To See Her Regarding Her Somewhat Lightly. As A

Gentleman He Should Regard No Woman With Disrespect. Her Womanhood

Should Be Honored By Him Even If She Chose To Dishonor It Herself. If He

Had Gone To See Gila With A Different Attitude Toward Her,  Expecting

High,  Fine Things Of Her,  Rather Than Merely To Be Amused By One Whom He

Scarcely Regarded Seriously,  Perhaps All This Strange Mental Phenomena

Would Not Have Come To Pass.

Finally He Locked The Door And Knelt Down With His Head Upon The Worn

Bible. He Had No Idea Of Praying. Prayer Meant To Him But A Repetition

Of A Form Of Words. There Had Been Prayers In His Childhood,  Brought

About By The Maiden Aunt Who Kept House For His Father After His

Mother's Death,  And Assisted In Bringing Him Up Until He Was Old Enough

To Go Away To Boarding-School. They Were A Good Deal Of A Bore,  Coming

As They Did When He Was Sleepy. There Was A Long,  Vague One Beginning,

"Our Father Which Art," In Which He Always Had To Be Prompted. There

Was,  "Now I Lay Me," And "Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  And John,  Bless The Bed I

Lie Upon; Wish I May,  Wish I Might,  Get The Wish I Wish To-Night!" Or

_Was_ That A Prayer? He Never Could Remember As He Grew Older.

He Did Not Know Why He Was Drawn To Kneel There With His Eyes Closed And

His Cheek Upon That Bible. Strange That When He Was In That Room All

Doubt About The Presence Vanished,  All Uneasiness About Reconciling It

With Realities,  Laws,  And Science Fled Away.

Later He Stood In His Own Room By The Window,  Watching The Great Red Sun

Buildings That Stretched Beyond The Campus. The Glow In No Wise

Resembled,  But Yet Reminded Him,  Of The Fire In The Glowing Grate Of The

Dare Library. Why Had That Room Affected Him So Strangely? And Gila,

Little Gila,  How Sweet And Innocent She Had Looked When They Met Her

That Morning With Her Prayer-Book. How Wrong He Must Have Been To Take

The Idle Talk That People Chattered About Her And Let It Influence His

Thoughts Of Her. She Could Not Be All That They Said,  And Yet Look So

Sweet And Innocent. What Had She Reminded Him Of In Literature? Ah! He

Had It. Solveig In _Peer Gynt_!

       How Fair! Did Ever You See The Like?

     Looked Down At Her Shoes And Her Snow-White Apron!--

     And Then She Held On To Her Mother's Skirt-Folds,

     And Carried A Psalm-Book Wrapped Up In A 'Kerchief!--

That Ample Purple Person By Her Side,  With The Dark Eyes,  The Double

Chin,  And The Hard Lines In Her Painted Face,  Must Be Gila's Mother!

Perhaps People Talked About The Daughter Because Of Her Mother,  For

_She_ Looked It Fully! But Then A Girl Couldn't Help Having A Foolish

Mother! She Was To Be Pitied More Than Blamed If She Seemed Silly And

Frivolous Now And Then.

What A Thing For A Man To Do,  To Teach Her To Trust Him,  And Then Guide

Her And Help Her And Uplift Her Till She Had The Highest Standards

Formed! She Was So Young And Tiny,  And So Sweet At Times! Yes,  She Was,

She Must Be,  Like Solveig.

If A Man With A Good Moral Character,  A Tolerably Decent Reputation For

Good Taste And Respectability,  No Fool At His Studies,  No Stain On His

Name,  Should Go With Her,  Help Her,  Get Her To Give Up Certain Daring

Things She Had The Name Of Doing--If Such A Fellow Should Give Her The

Protection Of His Friendship And Let The World See That He Considered

Her Respectable--Wouldn't It Help A Lot? Wouldn't It Stop People's

Mouths And Make Them See That Gila Wasn't What They Had Been Saying,

After All?

It Came To Him That This Would Be A Very Pleasant Mission,  For His

Leisure Hours During The Rest Of That Winter. All Thought Of Any Danger

To Himself Through Such Intercourse As He Was Suggesting To His Thoughts

Had Departed From His Mind.

Half A Mile Away Gila Was Pouring Tea For Two Extremely Ardent Youths

Who Scarcely Occupied Half Of Her Mind. With The Other Half She Was

Planning A Little Note Which Should Bring Courtland To Her Side Early In

The Week. She Had No Thoughts Of God. She Was Never Troubled With Much

Pondering. She Knew Exactly What She Wanted Without Thinking Any Further

About It,  And She Meant To Have It.

It Was A Great Source Of Question With Courtland Afterward,  Just Why It

Should Have Been He That Happened To Carry That Telegram Over To The

West Dormitory To Wittemore,  Instead Of Any One Of A Dozen Other Fellows

Who Were In The Office When It Arrived And Might Just As Well Have Gone.

Did Anything In This World _Happen_,  He Wondered?

He Could Not Tell Why He Had Held Out His Hand And Offered To Take The

Message.

It Was Not Because He Was Not Trying Hard,  And Studying For All He Was

Worth,  That "Witless Abner," As Wittemore Had Come To Be Called,  Had Won

His Nickname. He Worked Night And Day,  Plunged In A Maze Of Things He

Did Not Quite Understand Until Long After The Rest Of The Class Had

Passed Them. He Was Majoring In Sociology Through The Advice Of A

Faddist Uncle Who Had Never Seen Him. He Had Told Abner's Mother That

Sociology Was The Coming Science,  And Abner Was Faithfully Carrying Out

The Course Of Study He Suggested. He Was Floundering Through Hours Of

Lectures On The Theory Of The Subject,  And Conscientiously Working In

The College Settlement To Get The Practical Side Of Things. He Had The

Distressed Look Of A Person With Very Short Legs Who Is Trying To Keep

Up With A Procession Of Six-Footers,  Although There Was Nothing Short

About Abner. His Legs Were Long,  And His Body Was Long,  His Arms Were

Long,  Too Long For Most Of His Sleeves. His Face Was Long,  His Nose And

Chin Were Painfully Long,  And Were Accompanied By A Sensitive Mouth

That Was Always On The Quiver With Apprehension,  Like A Rabbit's,  And

Little Light Eyes With Whitish Eyelashes. His Hair Was Like Licked Hay.

There Was Absolutely Nothing Attractive About Wittemore Except His

Smile,  And He So Seldom Smiled That Few Of The Boys Had Ever Seen It. He

Had Almost No Friends.

He Had Apparently Just Entered His Room When Courtland Reached His Door,

And Was Stumbling About In A Hurry To Turn On The Light. He Stopped With

His Lips Aquiver And A Dart Of Fear In His Eyes When He Saw The

Telegram. Nobody But His Mother Would Send Him A Telegram,  And She Would

Never Waste The Money For It Unless There Was Something Dreadful The

Matter. He Looked At It Fearfully,  Holding It In His Hand And Glancing

Up Again At Courtland Half Helplessly,  As If He Feared To Open It.

Then,  With That Set,  Stolid Look Of Prodding Ahead That Characterized

All Abner's Movements He Clumsily Tore Open The Envelope.

"Your Mother Is Dying. Come At Once," Were The Terse,  Cruel Words That

He Read,  Signed With A Neighbor's Initials.

The Young Man Gave The Gasp Of A Hurt Thing And Stood Gaping Up At

Courtland.

"Nothing The Matter,  I Hope," Said Courtland,  Kindly,  Moved By The Gray,

Stricken Look That Had Come Over The Poor Fellow's Face.

"It's Mother!" He Gasped. "Read!" He Thrust The Telegram Into

Courtland's Hand And Sank Down On The Side Of His Bed With His Head In

His Hands.

"Tough Luck,  Old Man!" Said Courtland,  With A Kindly Hand On The Bowed

Shoulder. "But Maybe It's Only A Scare. Sometimes People Get Better When

They're Pretty Sick,  You Know."

Wittemore Shook His Head. "No. We've Been Expecting This,  She And I.

She's Been Sick A Long Time. I Didn't Want To Come Back This Year! I

Thought She Was Failing! But She Would Have It! She'd Got Her Heart So

Set On My Graduating!"

"Well,  Cheer Up!" Said Courtland,  Breezily. "Very Likely Your Coming

Will Help Her To Rally Again! What Train Do You Want To Get? Can I Help

You Any?"

Wittemore Lifted His Head And Looked About His Room Helplessly. It Was

Plain He Was Dazed.

Courtland Looked Up The Train,  'Phoned For A Taxi,  Went Around The Room

Gathering Up What He Thought Would Be Necessities For The Journey,  While

Wittemore Was Inadequately Trying To Get Himself Dressed. Suddenly

Wittemore Stopped Short In The Midst Of His Ineffective Efforts And Drew

Something Out Of His Pocket With An Exce Strange

For Wilhelm Ii To Aid Nicholas Ii In Quelling A Revolution That Menaced His

Throne Than It Was For Alexander I To