Part 9

The year was drawing to its close. The little village had its share of Christmas festivities, and family reunions were taking place. There were men from the East, and men from the West, back in the old haunts for the holiday season. Wonderful stories of material success were told as "the boys" from the West expounded the opportunities of the prairie provinces. As is too often the case, the bar-room was the main social centre of week-day life in the village, and John Gage was always ready to fall into line when the prosperous ones gave the all-inclusive invitation, "Come on, boys." And so long as John helped to swell the receipts, his drunken presence was tolerated around the bar. Scores of times did he join in the greeting "A Merry Christmas," and the merrier it seemed to be to the frequenters of the Derby House bar, the sadder it really was to the homes from which they came.

THE PRODIGAL'S DELIRIUM

Weeks of drinking, followed by the revelry of Christmas, brought John to such a condition that when the bar-room closed on Saturday night he was turned out of the house, and a little later dragged out of a corner of the drive-shed, and told to "get clean away" from the premises.

There was a strange look about the man on this particular Saturday night--a wild, almost savage appearance. He stood a moment on the sidewalk as if uncertain of his whereabouts, and then turned and walked in the direction of the Manse.

The minister answered the door-bell, and without a word John walked right in and through the hall to the study. At last he spoke. "You--told--me--to--come--any--time. I--want--to--stay--here--to-night." Then, with body bent, and as if in pain, with arms crossed, he rocked himself to and fro. "Oh, God! but I'm sick; three days nothing but whiskey: I've got it to-night for sure."

After much persuading the minister had the man in bed. The mistress of the Manse had prepared strong coffee as fast as her trembling body would let her. Once before she had passed through a night such as she feared this would be, and the prospect might well make her timorous. But the Manse and its furniture had three years ago been pledged to His service, and she murmured not.

The doctor had been sent for, but he was on a country call, and was not expected back until eleven.

At one end of the bedroom the minister sat watching John Gage. In some way the drink-inflamed man had placed under his pillow an old revolver and a short stiletto. After a time the hands clasped these with a vice-like grip. Suddenly standing out on the carpet he looked at the preacher, and said, "Why in the devil don't you go home? D'you want a fight? Say! I could rip you so's they'd have to pick you up in baskets."

A little later he imagined he was once more on the South African battle-field. With a sickening shudder he pointed to where his deluded eyes saw again the wounded and bleeding. "My God! see that poor devil with his leg nearly off! Look! ain't that awful. See that one squirming!--him yonder with his head half open!" Then straightening himself, he said, as if addressing some audience, "Friends, I say, and I know, _war is hell_!"

From time to time, under persuasion, he would return to his bed. Once he imagined he was driving down the old concession road near his grandfather's farm as in boyhood days. The sheets were jerked and handled as if reins. "Well, now, this _is_ a slow horse. It will, ladies and gentlemen, be quite appropriate to sing we won't get home till morning.' I tell you what I'll do--I'll put the horse in the rig, and I'll get in the shafts, and then there'll be a horse in the buggy and an ass in the shafts, but we'll make better time." Then followed a weird burst of laughter.

The doctor arrived about midnight. For a couple of hours he watched the effect of his treatment, but rest would not come to the occupant of the guest-room. The eyes would appear to be closing in sleep, and then would suddenly open wide as if their owner were in terror of some impending disaster. Then the danger spot seemed to have been located, and with a series of jerks the head was raised higher and higher until John was sitting up in bed. Never once did the gaze leave the corner of the room. With the utmost stealth, first one foot and then the other was pushed from under the bedclothes to the floor. Very slowly and noiselessly, with knife still gripped, the demon-possessed man glided toward the corner. With great caution, as if measuring the distance, he bent the left knee, and at the same time lifted the right hand ready to strike. Then with blasphemous exclamations he stabbed the imaginary monstrosities. Again and again he seemed hurled back as by some real enemy in the fight. At last the knife went deep into the floor, and he seemed to have conquered. Never once taking his gaze from where the knife stood he backed slowly toward the bed. "Ah! I got him that time! See him! see him!" Then followed a blood-chilling burst of profanity at the wriggling object of his delirium. "But he can't get up! No! no! no! it's through his neck."

And so the long night wore on, and the wearied preacher, looking upon what drink could do with "God's Masterpiece," vowed anew to fight the cursed traffic in intoxicants as long as life lasted, and never knowingly to have his home defiled by such a life-blasting beverage.

It was nearly seven o'clock on Sabbath morning when John Gage fell asleep. At ten o'clock the bell of the adjoining church awakened him. The minister had anticipated the awakening, and was at the bedside. John seemed dazed for a time, but in a little while conversed with the one who had befriended him. He was urged to remain quietly in bed, and after a few words the minister clasped the hand of the outcast man, and kneeling at the bedside, laid the burden of his heart upon the One who is mighty to save. As the Amen was uttered Ruth approached the door. "Alright, little one, come and see your friend John," were her father's words. Ruth was ready for church, and with garments and face alike attractive, laid her little hand in the big hand of the sin-wrecked man. Who can understand the power of the touch of a child's hand? Closing his fingers over the dainty, wee hand, John Gage turned his face to the wall and sobbed aloud. Little Ruth hardly knew what to do. Gently she placed the other hand on the dirty, unshaven cheek, and merely said sympathetically, "Don't cry."

John turned his head back again long enough to say brokenly, "God bless you, little gal."

Leading Ruth out the room, the minister gathered up his books and went to the morning service. When he returned John Gage had departed. Early Monday morning Allan Short, a near-by farmer, called to tell him that John was out at his place cutting away at the winter's wood-pile. Allan promised to do what he could for John, but incidentally remarked that he did not see why a man couldn't "take a glass of beer without making a fool of himself."

A day or two later the minister drove by the Short homestead, presumably to make a call at the Meen's farm, where he had several faithful church-goers. As he passed, he recognised John at the saw-horse, and waved a greeting as to a friend.

On his return he drove up the road to the Short Farm, and John at once came forward, with the customary Canadian courtesy, to tie up or unhitch the horse, according to the visitor's wish. After a few pleasantries the minister went to the house and made a call on such members of the Short family as were home, and then returned to where his horse was tied. Hesitating a moment, he turned and walked to the wood-pile, and after complimenting John on his ability to swing the axe, spoke a few encouraging words. For a moment the hand rested on John's shoulder as he said, "You will be one of God's good men yet, John. I know it's a terrible fight, but God knows all about it, and with Him you can conquer. Come and see us any time you are in, but for the life of you don't loiter around the village, and do keep clear of the men who would be likely to make it easy for you to get what you know is ruinous to you. And don't forget we are your friends always, always."

As he turned the corner of the side road, he met Allan Short returning from a trip to the village. Referring to John Gage the farmer said, "He's been as straight as a British Columbia pine since he came out; but, say! it's kind o' pitiful, after all, the way he craves for whiskey. Me and the Missus watched him yesterday. She's been keeping her eyes open. Well! John was taking a breathing spell, after he had done a fine lot of splitting (and he's no greenhorn with the axe, let me tell you!), when all of a sudden he went to the fence-post where his coat was hanging, and putting it on as he walked, he made down the road. He got about ten rod and then stopped like as if he'd forgotten something, and then he started back, took off his coat, and pitched into that wood-pile as if it was sure death if he didn't get it finished by night. The missus says he's done the same thing three times to her knowledge, and once he went so far she was sure he was gone for good. But she says he sure did 'lambaste' them blocks when he got back."

RUTH'S ILLNESS

The following Sunday morning little Ruth was missing from the Manse pew, and her absence from that service was so unusual as to cause many inquiries.

"Nothing serious," said the mother. "Just a little throat trouble, and as she seemed somewhat feverish we thought we had better leave her at home. Lizzie is taking care of her."

But on Monday morning the doctor looked very anxious after an examination of Ruth's throat, and in departing advised the minister to keep out of the child's room until an examination a few hours later.

On Tuesday morning it was a bit of village news that was passed from mouth to mouth, that the minister's little girl had diphtheria, and that the house was placarded. The occupants of the Manse were deeply touched during the following days by that spontaneous expression of practical sympathy that is characteristic of village life. But perhaps no one stirred the deepest emotions as did John Gage. Darkness had fallen over the village on Tuesday before he had heard of Ruth's sickness. There was some look of solicitation on Mrs. Short's face when John "guessed" he would stroll to the village.

He answered the look by saying almost curtly, "I'm going to the Manse."

The little patient's symptoms showed severe infection, and a second doctor was in consultation when the minister heard a very gentle rap on the door.

"Sorry I can't ask you in, John," he said, as he saw John standing on the verandah.

"How is she?" asked the caller, in a tone that revealed a great concern.

"She is a very sick little girl, John. Dr. Dodds is with Dr. Burnett just now. We can only give her the best care possible, and hope and pray. It is good of you to call, and when the wee girl is better she will be pleased to know you came. The poor little soul has been restless and feverish all the afternoon."

"Poor little gal! Tell her John hopes she'll soon be alright. I ain't much of a friend, God knows, but all the same I've been that lonesome like, since I heard she was sick, I don't feel as if I want to do anything, but just wait around. If there's any job I can do to help, I give you my word I'll be in trim to do it as long as the little gal needs me."

For two weeks John's "little gal" caused anxious days and nights--some of them days and nights when tearful prayers were sobbed out in the solitariness of study or bedroom--times when the physicians found no hopeful signs, and the little life seemed to be passing beyond human reach. It was on one such night that John brought a few delicacies from the farm for the minister's household, and waited for the report from the sick-room.

"The doctor has been with her an hour, John, and the wee girl is alive, and that's all we can say." The voice broke into a sob as the last words were spoken.

The two men stood in silent sympathy for a few minutes, and then John broke the silence. "She was friendly to me, sir, and I'll never forget it. Lots of folks what thinks they're big toads in the puddle treats me as if I was dirt, but the little gal is the biggest Christian of the lot, and she's done me more good than the whole gang of 'em. Say! the way she put her little hand on my face that Sunday morning was better'n any sermon I ever heard. Queer, ain't it, but it broke me all up." Then in response to a request from the minister John continued, "I'm afeared it wouldn't count much if I tried to pray, sir; but there ain't anything I wouldn't try my hand at for her."

The following day there was better news, and two days later the little sufferer was able to smile in response to the tokens of love that were showered upon her.

The physicians' faces relaxed, and they were delighted that professionally they were winning the battle, and the big-hearted senior physician rejoiced for other reasons. "By the way," he said that night in the Manse study, "I have met that fellow John Gage several times lately, and his interest in Ruthie is really remarkable. I didn't think it was in the man to care for anybody. And stranger still, he was sober each time. The little girl may yet be the salvation of the poor chap, and do what no one else has been able to do."

Shortly before St. Valentine's Day the Manse was thoroughly fumigated, and the placard removed. Ruth was amusing herself cutting out the kindergarten suggestions for Valentines, and sending them to selected friends. On a crudely shaped heart in poorly fashioned letters that she had learned to print, were the words, "Ruth loves John." On February the 14th, John Gage received the tiny envelope containing his Valentine. Nothing he had received in years pleased him quite so much.

"Now, ain't that great," he confided to Mrs. Short, "'tain't worth a cent, I suppose, but just this very minute they're ain't enough money in the whole village to buy it."

THE PREPARATORY SERVICE

The quarterly communion service was about to be conducted in St. Andrew's Church. The usual invitations had been given from the pulpit, and a few had called at the Manse to discuss the question of membership. It was always a time of prayerful concern on the part of the minister lest any should take the step without realizing its obligations and privileges. At the minister's invitation, John Gage had spent over an hour in the study.

"Nothing less than an out and out surrender will do, John. You have had your way, and the devil has had his way, now you must be willing to let God have full control. There must be an entire breaking away from past associations, and you must take the step that can never mean retreat. Unless you do that the path back to the old ways will be too attractive, and too easy."

Once again the two men read passages from well-thumbed pages in the study Bible, and again the shepherd of souls called on the One who is Mighty to Save, and then John prayed, and as the long silence was broken and a wanderer in a far country turned his face to his Father and uttered penitent words, the minister's tears of joy could no longer be restrained. As they rose from their knees, hands were clasped, and those feelings, too deep for words, found expression in the pressure of a protecting and a trusting hand.

In the eyes of the majority of the Kirk Session, there was little risk in receiving into membership the well-to-do respectable sinner, but when the minister narrated the conversations he had had with John Gage, and suggested his name as a candidate for membership, eyebrows were raised and heads shook ominously.

"Wad it no' be better to put him off for a few months to see whether he could stan' alone first?" was the question of John McNair, the senior elder.

Colonel Monteith, who was greatly burdened with the responsibility for maintaining the dignity of the Presbyterian Church, wondered whether "this rather disreputable man Gage would not find more congenial associates down in the Free Methodist Hall." Tom Rollins didn't know "how the people would take it."

Murray Meiklejohn, characterized by his reticence and good common sense, moved that "John Gage be received," and stammeringly added that so far as leaving John to stand alone was concerned, he "guessed" they had been doing that ever since he came to town, ten years ago.

And so with some misgivings, and with some wounded pride, the Session included John Gage in its reception list.

On Friday night, an hour before the time for preparatory service, John called at the Manse. "I'm a-trembling all through," he said to the minister, "and I was half-minded not to come. If it hadn't been for what you said about the hospital being a place for sick folks, I wouldn't had the courage to face it."

The preparatory service of that night is still spoken of in the quiet village. Perhaps the atmosphere was created by one who had prayed much that day that the congregation might receive a new vision of the Redeemer, through the words of one for whom not an individual in the entire congregation had any hope six weeks before.

The sermon over, the minister and elders extended the right hand of fellowship to the little company occupying the front seats. "To-night," said the minister, as he returned to the platform, "I have asked my friend Mr. John Gage to say a few words." The lecture-hall had probably never known stiller moments than those immediately following the announcement.

John Gage, pale and trembling, not daring to look at his audience, stood facing the platform. In a low voice he said, "Well, friends, I have been a bad man--that's no news to anybody, but God helping me I'm going to be better. Seems like a miracle, don't it, that John Gage has been sober for five weeks?"

As he sat down, the "Let us pray" of the minister preceded a petition for "our brother," that made most hearts tender and prayerful.

"It's a new day for St. Andrew's," said Murray Meiklejohn, as he shook the hand of the minister after the benediction. "Nothing like to-night's meeting in my memory. Looks as if we were going to stop singing 'Rescue the Perishing' and get on the job."

It is no easy task for the average Presbyterian elder to utter a fervent "God bless you," but that night hearts were stirred and tongues were loosened, and John Gage felt that after all the world was not so unfriendly as he had imagined. Hand after hand was extended in genuine welcome. But the finest thing of all, as the minister said a little later, was the way the Colonel warmed up to John. He had never been seen to manifest the same cordiality in the Church before. "A manly step to take, sir--a manly step--needs courage to fight that kind of a battle. Personally I am glad to welcome you to St. Andrew's."

When story-time came at the Manse on the following evening, Ruth was all attention as her mother told of the homecoming of another prodigal, and of all it might mean.

Ruth's prayer had two additional words that night. The closing part was uttered more deliberately than usual, as if in anticipation of the seriousness of the added petition. "Bless daddy and mamma, and--all--the--friends--I--love--_and John_, for Jesus' sake. Amen."

THE TEMPTATION

John Gage secured temporary work in the village delivering freight for a local carter. Whenever opportunity afforded, the _habitués_ of the bar-rooms did not spare him their sneers and jeers. "Folks say you're a hell of a good preacher, John." "When are you going to wear the starched dog-collar, John?" Calling him to a little group on the sidewalk, one of his former chums said, with mock solemnity, "Let us pray." A roar of laughter followed, as John, crimson-faced, walked away.

There were days when the sting in some of the taunts was hard to bear--days when only One knows the conflict in that will that had become enfeebled by sin. But John Gage was steadily gaining the victory, and the visits to the Manse and the new friends around the church were displacing the former associations.

Signs of a material prosperity that John had never before known were gradually appearing. The village tailor took particular pride one morning in showing the minister a piece of blue serge, "as fine a bit of goods as is imported. I'm cutting a suit out of it for John Gage, and it will be as good as I can make it. Did you ever think how much the tailor can co-operate with God in fixing a man up?"

But not all the villagers were desirous of co-operating with God in the reformation of John Gage. A little crowd had gathered one night in McKee's barber shop, and the minister of St. Andrew's was being harshly criticized for his frequent attacks on the liquor traffic. The proprietor of the pool-room, who attended St. Andrew's at the time of the Lodge annual parade, announced his intention of absenting himself unless the minister "minded his own business." Others made similar threats, which in the aggregate might bring the minister to the proper frame of mind which became one who "received his bread and butter from some of the very people he had been abusing."

Then the case of John Gage was discussed, and uncomplimentary terms were freely applied. McKee thought "it would be a d----d good joke on the Presbyterian preacher if John could be made as full as a goat, and then sent to the Manse." To the lasting disgrace of the barber, he attempted to perpetrate the "joke."

Bud Jenks was a willing tool of anybody who would reward him with a whiskey, and when McKee offered him all he could take at one standing if he got Gage to take a drink, he was ready to at least make the attempt. And so on a day when John had shovelled coal from car to waggon and waggon to cellar for eight hours, and was warm, tired and thirsty, Bud appeared with a little pail, as if coming from the town pump. John was at the grating tramping the coal further into the cellar, and his head was about on a level with the sidewalk. "Good-day, Bud," he called up as Bud stood for a moment.

"Good-day, John; warm job, eh?"

"You bet it's warm," was the reply, as the coal-begrimed brow was wiped.

"Take a drink o' water?" asked Bud.

"Sure I will, and thank you," answered the thirsty toiler with hand extended to the pail, which was placed on the sidewalk. Quickly Bud removed the lid, and gave the pail a tilt as the rim came near John's face. Just a touch of froth from the lager beer was carried to John's lips, but instantly he pushed back the pail with an exclamation almost of pain. At the same moment he slid further into the cellar, and kneeling on the coal, with hands clasped against the wall, cried out again and again, "Oh, my God, help me, help me, help me!"

Bud peered into the darkness and called several times to John. At last John approached the grating again. "Bud," he said quietly, "for God's sake go away and leave me alone; I'd rather drop dead than put another drop of that to my lips."

Bud did not immediately depart, despite the pleading of the man in the cellar, and not until a passer-by had entered into conversation with him, and the two had moved off together, did John pull himself to the sidewalk and drive away. "Oh, the smell of it near drove me mad for a few minutes," he said, as he confided the occurrence to his friends at the Manse. "If it wasn't for the little gal, and coming up here, I'd get far enough away from this place, so's I wouldn't have the same temptations."