The Witness

by Grace Livingston Hill

Courtland sprang to his feet in dismay and instant contrition. He had made the horror of the fire too dramatic. He had not realized how dreadful it would be to a woman's delicate sensibilities. This gentle, loving girl had felt it all to her soul and her nerves had given way before the reality of it. He had been an idiot to tell the story in that bald way. He should have gone about it more gently. He was not used to women. He must learn better. Would she forgive him?

And now indeed he had her in his arms, although he was utterly unaware of it. He was trying to comfort and soothe her, as he would soothe a little child who had been frightened. Not only his handkerchief but his hands were called into requisition to charm away those tears and comfort the pitiful little face that looked so streaked and pink and helpless there against his shoulder. He wanted to stoop and lay his lips on those trembling ones. Perhaps Gila thought he would. But he would not take advantage of her moment of helplessness. Not until she was herself and could give him permission would he avail himself of that sacred privilege. Now it was the part of a man to comfort her without any element of self in the matter.

When he had drawn her down upon the couch again, with the sobs still shaking her soft blue-and-white frilly breast, her blue-black hair all damp and tossed upon her temples, and tried to tell her how sorry he was that he had put her through the horrors of that fire, she put in a quivering protest. It was not the fire. She shivered. It was not the horror and the smoke! It was not Stephen's death, nor the danger to himself! It was not any of those that had unnerved her! It was that other awful thing he had said: that ghostly, ghastly, uncanny, dreadful story of a Presence! She almost shrieked again as she said it, and she shivered away from him, as if still there were something cold and clammy in his touch that gave her the horrors.

A cold disappointment settled down upon him. She had not understood. He looked at her, troubled, disappointed, baffled. It was not possible, then, for him to bring her this knowledge that he wished so much for her to have. It was a thing that one could tell about to one's friends, but could not give to them. It was something they must take for themselves, must feel and see by themselves! With new illumination he turned to her and said in a voice wonderfully tender for a man so young:

"Listen, Gila! I have been clumsy in telling you! You cannot see it just from my poor story. But He will come to you and you shall see Him for yourself! I will ask Him to come to you as He has to me!"

Again that piercing scream, and with a quick, lithe movement, almost like a serpent, she slid from his side and stood quivering in the middle of the room, her eyes flashing, her body shrinking, both little hands clenched at her throat.

"Stop!" she cried. "Stop!" and screamed again, stamping her foot. "I won't hear such horrible things! I won't have any spirits coming around me! I won't see them! Do you understand? I hate that Presence, and I hate you when you talk like that!"

She had worked herself into a fine tantrum, but there was behind it all a horrible fear and shrinking from the Christ he had described, the shrinking of the naked soul in the garden from its God. The drooping, child-like eyes were wide with horror now; the sweet, innocent mouth was trembling with emotion. She was anything but Solveig-like. If Courtland caught a glimpse of the real Gila through it all he laid it to his own clumsy way of handling the delicate mystery of a girl's shy nature. He saw she was wrought up beyond her own control, and he was so far under the illusion that he blamed himself only, and set himself to calm her.

He coaxed her to sit down again, put his strong hand on her quivering one, marveling in tenderness at its smallness and softness. He talked to her in quiet, soothing tones, grave and reassuring. He promised he would talk no more about the Presence till she was ready to hear. He was leaning toward her in his strength, his arm behind her, his hand on her shoulder, with a sheltering, comforting touch when he told her this, as one would treat a little child in trouble, and, suddenly, like the sun flashing out from behind the clouds, she lifted up her teary face and smiled, nestling toward him, her head falling down on his shoulder with a sigh like a tired, satisfied child, her face lifted temptingly so close, so very close to his.

It was then that he did the thing that bound him to what followed. He stooped and laid his lips upon her warm little trembling ones and kissed her. The thrill that shot through him was like the click of shackles snapping shut about one's wrist; like the turning of the key in a prison-house; the shooting of the bolt to one's dark cell. He held her there and touched her soft hair with his finger-tips; touched her cool little forehead with his lips; touched her warm, soft lips again and felt the thrill; but something was the matter. He felt the surging forces within him rise and batter at the gate of his self-control. He wanted to say, "Gila, I love you!" but the words stuck in his throat.