CHAPTER XVII
THE REVIVAL SERVICE
Ambrose was raking the dead leaves in his front yard two weeks after the oyster supper when Susan Barrows summoned him across to her with a wave of her ear trumpet. All day she sat outdoors in her wheeled chair, huddled in rugs, until the snow came, with her eager old eyes fastened on the street, her curiosity hungry after eighty years.
Ambrose knelt beside her with his lips to her trumpet.
"They're sayin' ugly things about you," she whispered. Then seeing the hurt in the man's face that even Miner had not fully understood, she rested her trembling hand on his gray head. "Talkin' but not believin', Ambrose Thompson. I ain't sayin' that some people don't agree to this ugly story, since whatever's ugly naturally pleases 'em, but the most of Pennyroyal is just rollin' this bit of scandal 'bout you under their tongues like a sweet morsel and then spittin' it out, knowin' it ain't fitten to swallow. But what worries me is that I'm afeard you'll be losin' the widow. Here's Brother Tupper startin' in with a series of revival services to-night at his new church, and the legislator neglectin' the welfare of his State to keep close to the widow! Not that it's the law I am so much scared of as the preacher. Peachy's plump and jelly-like and kin be easy shook, and I ain't been a female eighty years 'thout knowin' how easy 'tis to work on our religious feelin's. You goin' to the revivin'?"
Not at once did Uncle Ambrose reply; instead he seemed to be considering.
"I'm not at all sure, Miss Susan; seems like I've felt kind of lonesome in church since we lost Brother Bills, but I've more'n half way promised Peachy; she seemed so dead set on my attendin'."
Susan grinned. "Ef she's worryin' about you needin' religious instruction, Ambrose, don't you lose hope. It's a powerful wifely sign."
And so Uncle Ambrose went on back to his work, vaguely comforted though not yet certain whether or not to obey the widow's request. To tell the truth, he had comparatively little faith in his own chance with Peachy, since his befriending the boy Sam had brought with it so unfortunate a result. And yet the thought of the possession of the Widow Tarwater had daily grown more and more alluring as his rivals' claims progressed, and she seemed so much less ready for his picking than in past times.
Late that evening when the first of the present series of revival services was in full swing, a tall man cautiously entered an open door. He had never yet been inside the church itself, and to-night found it crowded to the doors with men and even women standing in the aisles. Uncle Ambrose felt annoyed, for having made a special effort to be subservient he certainly desired that the widow should know of it, and, moreover, though he preferred not having the matter discussed, frequent rheumatic twinges in his right leg made standing for any length of time an impossibility.
Now he shoved himself forward, politely edging his way between saints and sinners alike, hoping that Mrs. Tarwater would at least get a passing glimpse of him, when at the front of the church, to his immense surprise, he discovered an entirely empty pew.
There was no time for thought, and almost immediately the newcomer dropped down upon the seat, observing at the same instant that the widow and her escort, the Honorable Calvin, were in an opposite pew just across the aisle, though why their pew should be so jammed and his own exactly under the chancel entirely unoccupied he did not then consider. Obeying his first impulse Uncle Ambrose turned a smile upon the widow. It was tremendously gratifying to observe her large bosom heave with emotion, but puzzling when soon after large tears coursed down her quivering face.
Moreover, the persons in Uncle Ambrose's immediate vicinity were also beginning to behave queerly.
"The Lord be praised that one more sinner is called to repentance!" he heard a sister's shrill voice cry out just back of him, and then loud "Amens" boomed all about. But even more alarming—the Rev. Elias Tupper's expressionless eyes were apparently glued upon him, while his face wore an exaggerated edition of that smile of heavenly forgiveness so irritating to the other man's soul.
With a shudder of horror it was now borne in upon Uncle Ambrose Thompson that by misadventure he had placed himself upon the mourners' bench—the seat at revival services specially set apart for sinners overcome with remorse who desired to make open confession.
With a hunted look the unhappy man searched about for some way of escape; there was none, for the congregation had come crowding closer toward the front of the church until every foot of room was occupied.
Folding his arms across his lean chest and lifting his head Uncle Ambrose waited. During the first moments of his discovery his face had grown extraordinarily red, but now was paler than any man or woman had ever seen it before.
Lifting his right hand the Rev. Elias Tupper commanded an intense and awed silence. "Ambrose Thompson is before us to-night openly to confess his sins," he announced in a loud voice.
Still the tall man did not move and not even a muscle of his set face pulsated. A moment of waiting or longer must have gone by—nobody could have guessed the exact passage of time—and yet Uncle Ambrose appeared insensible.
The minister cleared his throat. "If Ambrose Thompson is unable to speak for himself, then I will do my best to speak for him."
But at this the presumably repentant sinner rose up slowly, very slowly, almost it would seem by inches, until he stood taller than any other person in the new red brick church.
"It ain't my way to pray before a audience," he began quietly and with his gray head bowed, although his words could be distinctly heard, "and I don't know as I feel called to do any special repentin' this evenin', seein' as I got up on this here mourning bench by accident and with no idea but to set and listen fer a while. Still I reckon I got sins enough to be sorry 'bout most any time the chance comes." Ambrose then seemed to be reflecting for a moment, and it is just possible that during this pause the thin ghost of a smile played like heat lightning about the end of his sensitive nose, although his expression continued perfectly reverent.
"I wouldn't be a mite surprised though, Lord," he went on in almost a conversational tone, "ef my neighbours wasn't better able to confess my sins fer me than I am fer myself, bein's as we've all got such special talents fer our neighbours' motes. The trouble is I'm none too sure one man can precisely understand another man's, Heavenly Father, you've so many and various ways of revealin' yourself to your children. Course I know, Lord, I've loved fine apparel too dear and smokin' and the outdoors when mebbe I should 'a' been workin' in, and mebbe I've laughed now and then over things folks think should 'a' been cried over. And I've had my hours of distrustin' and repinin' and forgettin' it's God's privilege to run His world 'cordin' to His idees, not mine. But, O Lord, what's the use mentionin' things that ain't cheerful even to you? I'm plumb sorry fer all I've done that's bad 'thout goin' into further details."
And here again Uncle Ambrose paused; however, not one of his strained and over-eager listeners had any delusion that his prayer was finished. He simply had been forgetting them and now remembered. Then he lifted his head and straightened his shoulders, and what he saw through the shining oak ceiling of the new brick church no one shall ever know.
"Ef any one here present is waitin' to hear me say I'm sorry fer any lovin' I've ever done of man—or woman (course I know you ain't expectin' it, Lord)—then I am obleeged to state he or she'll be disappointed. Women is the nearest things I've known on this earth to the angels, and I ain't been disobedient to the heavenly vision."
Up to this moment Uncle Ambrose's voice had been low and evenly modulated, but now it changed like the deeper tones of an organ until it came to be the most wonderful music in the world—a voice that was able perfectly to express the richest things of the spirit. "But, Lord, ef ever I'd wronged a woman, I'd not be askin' forgiveness of you; I'd just ask that it be meted out to me in like proportion as it has been meted out to the woman, forever and ever. Amen."
And then not waiting for the closing of the service, and forgetting his hat, Uncle Ambrose passed on down the church aisle, where room was instantly made for him, out into the white stillness of the autumn night, away from calumny and human irritation, and the little congregation seeing him go with a look of added dignity and peace, whatever their former ill-founded suspicions, after to-night believed nothing against him.