FARMER BELL'S BARGAIN

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Mountain View, California · Feb 6, 1907

FARMER BELL'S BARGAIN.

[Mrs. A. G. Lewis, in Woman's Magazine.]

FARMER BELL ate with a keen relish his supper of feathery griddle cakes, well sweetened with maple syrup. He didn't notice that the tablecloth was snowy white, and the glasses and china were polished and lintless. He didn't stop to tell poor, tired-looking Mrs. Bell that she was the best cook in York County. He knew it, and boasted of it away from home; but then it wasn't his way "ter speak out a-praisin' his own family." Besides, the griddle cakes and Mrs. Bell belonged to him; and he declared it as his policy "ter keep only the very best uv every kind of stuff, from the woman folks in the house down to the primest pertater patch on the country roads."

Farmer Bell took his hat from its peg in the entry-way and sauntered down the shady walk. At the foot of the garden he found his good neighbor, Deacon Bonus, attending to the weeds and potato bugs just across the garden fence.

Altho the neighbors hadn't met before for several days there was no conventional greeting, not even a "howdy," for Farmer Bell wasn't in any way a conventional man. He claimed to be simply "square," and took pride in the sharp corners that stuck out on every side of his nature. He had no sympathy for any sensitive person who "couldn't stand the hard knocks they got round in his neighborhood." Yet underneath all this rough masonry, inside which he incased himself, there was a soul that scorned every form of double dealing with God or man. He was just as "square" with one as with the other.

"Keeps yer purty lively, deacon, a-huntin' them calikerbacks, eh?"

"Yes, rather," replied the deacon as he snipped at a vine where a strong army of the destructive beauties were huddled.

"There ain't no calkerlatin' on them chaps. They're a nuisance, created for what purpose I never could make out," added the farmer, who went on to explain what he considered to be the best methods of "squelchin' the things."

The neighbors chatted about crops, the weather, and politics, and finally fell to discussing religion.

"They say neighbor Green has got most thru, deacon, an' they've sent for Corliss ter come home from college."

"Indeed! Is it true then that we must spare him? A good, Christian man. Ah, yes, neighbor Bell, there are few like him. 'Twill be pretty sad for the family to lose such a kind, indulgent husband and father. Well, well, this neighborhood can't afford to lose its best men. We haven't many like Brother Green; no, not many," and the deacon's face spoke the sincere sorrow of his heart.

Farmer Bell drummed a bit on the top rail, looked up and down the valley, and said nothing. He was thinking what the deacon would probably have said had he, Josiah Bell, been lying near to death, like neighbor Green. The thought wasn't very pleasant. He knew very well that no one would think of calling him "a good, Christian man," nor "a kind, indulgent husband and father." For the first time in his life the truth forced itself upon him that there would not be much about him that people could praise, except, perhaps, that he was "square," and owed no man a cent. Then a vision of a darkened room, and people moving about softly, with drawn faces, such as are seen always in the house of death, came to him. There in the front room, he, Josiah Bell, was lying, and the neighbors had come in to help at the funeral. Mary and John were there. But somehow there were few tears, if any. He could see the parson, too; but there was no ring of sorrow in his voice. And the singers, why, they sang "Old China" as tho it were a sort of Christmas tune, so gladsome-like and cheery. And, stranger still, he could hear the boys shouting in the playground just beyond his house, not thinking it worth while to stop their sport "because such a disagreeable old codger was out of the way," even long enough to let the funeral go on. Of course this was only a vision, but it meant a great deal to Farmer Bell. It illumined his darkened understanding as no human voice or argument could do. He had spent many an hour with the deacon; when going the round of discussion time after time, the farmer would swing the outer circle with what he believed was this "clincher" that the deacon never tried to combat: "I never could stan' the idee of this livin' in the go-as-you-please style all your lifetime, then buying up a lot of religious stock jest in time for the rise. Ef I'm goin' to ask the Lord ter make a good Christian outer me, I've got to make a bargain with Him as will hold me clus an' fast ter doin' 'bout right ev'ry day. I don't calkerlate thet ef I should git down onto my knees an' tell the Lord what a lot I think on Him, an' how much I'm willin' ter do for Him, an' then go out inter the barn an' trade horses crooked, that He'd be fooled inter believin' thet I'd got religion. An' it's my opinion, deacon, the Lord ain't a-goin' ter trust any man ter go inter heaven, an' send him ter walk thru the golden streets when He knows thet before he'd been there an hour, ner even a half an hour, he'd be down onto his knees a tearin' up the pavements an' tryin' to stuff 'em inter his breeches' pockets."

Still the farmer stood by the fence, and his silence and the frozen-up look on his face forbade the deacon to address him further. The vision of that darkened room would not depart. It stood like an accusing angel, and burned letters of fire into the soul of its victim. His head dropped lower and at last rested upon his arms, crossed above the top rail of the garden fence. A strange tremor shook his frame, like the chill that forebodes sudden sickness.

The deacon questioned, "Are you ill, neighbor Bell?"

No answer; only a movement as of raising his bowed head; then it sunk again upon his arms.

"Do you feel chill, neighbor? The air is damp. Will you throw my coat across your shoulders?" urged the deacon very gently, at the same time taking the garment from a post near at hand and spreading it protectingly upon him.

At last Farmer Bell, as if arousing from deep sleep, raised his head slowly and turned toward the west. Was it the light of the sunset that made his face luminous, and smoothed from his countenance all the hard, bitter lines that the deacon had been wont to see there?

"I'm a rough old feller, deacon," said he, speaking in a strange, hoarse voice, "an' I don't suppose I ken make yer understan' jest how I happened to be fixed. Ye and I have had a great many talks together 'bout the way things ought ter be, and I allus got the best on ye in the argument; but sumthin' ye've said to-night has struck hum, deacon—it's struck hum. "Did ye ever have the nightmare, deacon, when sumthin' clutched ye an' it wouldn't let go till it hed crushed yer life and yer breath and yer strength? I've hed such a one sence I've stood here. Ye see, deacon, I've allus been a 'square' man; I hain't cheated nobody—no, never one cent. But, deacon, I ken see it now, I've cheated Mary an' John, an' most of all, I've cheated myself all along. I've cheated myself out uv the lovin' thet belongs to a man in his family; and, deacon, the nightmare thet's been upon me—mebby it's God thet's sent it—He's showed me thet ef I should die ter-day there ain't a man er woman er child es would remember anything good uv me. "Ye've asked me a great many times ter try ter be a Christian, deacon, an' I've told ye thet the kind o' religion that folks was a-gittin' generally wouldn't suit my case. But now I've come to thinkin' ef we can make out some kind of a contract—some sort of an insurance—not thet kind es is lookin' fer a good chance in the next world, but one as will make me be lovin' an' tender an' honest by Mary an' John an' all the rest, now, before I die, I want it. An' I'd be willin' ter give a medder farm fer it, deacon—a medder farm, an' more, yes—more, a deal more. Fer I hain't done right by Mary. I've let her work just es hard es if she's a poor man's wife. An', deacon, I'm ashamed ter remember how I've let thet dear woman do my prayin' fer me all the years sence we've been husband and wife. Many is the time I've waked up in the dead of the night ter find Mary down onto her knees a-prayin' soft like an' still. An' I've

heard her askin' God ter bless her husband an' lead him inter the light. An' deacon, I've laid there jest like a great, lazy hulk, when I knowed I orter git down on my knees beside her an' do my share uv the askin', because I needed it a powerful sight mor'n she did.

"An' so, deacon, when ye fix up the dokiment, I want ye to make sure that I be bound fast an' strong ter try ter make up ter Mary, jest the best that I ken, all that I've starved out uv her life."

"An' now there's one thing more—an' I want this ter be the most bindin' of all, because ye know it's Mary's dearest hope—an' thet is, thet I shan't stan' in the way of John an' his hankerin' after bein' a minister. An' I want the Lord ter git a strong grip onto my purse-strings an' not let 'em git shet up tight an' kinked inter hard knots when the call comes ter help along His work."

"Now, Deacon Bonus, do ye think ye ken make out the dokiment in the right kind er fashion, an' make it strong, deacon, make it strong and bindin'?"

"Thanks be to God, my brother! The compact shall be written in letters of living light. Let us kneel that God may place upon it His sacred seal."

The farmer's knees, so unaccustomed to bending, almost refused to do him that service; but his soul knelt in the depths of that divine humility which asks no outward sign.

Upon the soft sward, on either side of the garden fence, the two neighbors prostrated themselves. The evening breeze lifted gently the gray locks of their silvered heads, and, while the deacon prayed aloud, across the hills came the sound of the village bell. With slow and solemn strokes the years of neighbor Green's life were being measured off. The sound disturbed not the kneeling supplicants. When the prayer was ended, and the bell ceased tolling, Farmer Bell said:

"For life and death is it, deacon?"

"For life and death, neighbor Bell."

When Farmer Bell arose upon his feet, the twilight had shaded almost into darkness. His ear caught the sound of something moving softly just beyond the russet apple-tree by which he had been kneeling. He thought at first it must be Rover; but he remembered that he left the dog chained in his kennel. It was some one weeping; but it sounded more like gladness than tears. It roused the old man, for he knew it must be Mary. It was Mary.

After supper had been cleared away, and the last shining pail and pan for the dairy set to dry—these tasks had been hurried lest the oncoming darkness might force the wasting of a tallow dip, an extravagance that Farmer Bell was wont to disapprove—weary in body and sick of heart, Mrs. Bell sat down by the window to rest. Bitter thoughts would come in spite of her longing to be content. Bitter tears would start as she remembered the long, thankless, drudging years thru which she had "toiled without recompense" to make Josiah Bell a rich man. She looked out upon the hills, watching the darkening shadows creep slowly toward their summits, and thought of her young life, and of the bright, happy youth that had been hers. She couldn't help thinking how its light had been extinguished just as relentlessly as the darkness was quenching the last bit of the day's sunshine.

She thought, too, of John, her precious boy; and how his young, sensitive soul was going to be forced to grapple with work for which he had no heart, just because Josiah Bell—his father, her husband—was a great tyrant and would have his own way; just because money was his god, and he demanded that his god should be worshiped.

The thought would come—it was a wicked one—"What if Josiah Bell should die? Then these broad acres would be John's and her's to do with as they pleased. How different everything could be! They could have their way then, and there'd be no more drudgery for her and John. Ah! John, her John, the dear, beautiful soul!"

Just then the first stroke of the tolling bell fell upon her ear. It roused her to life—to herself.

"What is it? Who is dead? Who is the bell tolling for? Can it be that Josiah—I've just been wishing it—O, my God, can it be that Josiah is dead?"

She didn't think of neighbor Green. She remembered that she last saw her husband, more than an hour ago, going down the garden path. Had he come in? If so, where was he?

She flew to his room. Perhaps he had gone to bed. He often did so earlier than this. He was not there. She ran to the porch, then to the stable, then up-stairs and down, calling all the while, yet hearing no response, only the echo of her own frightened voice.

Then down the garden path she fled, nor stopped a moment, until, nearing the russet apple-tree, she heard a voice—a voice in prayer; and there upon his knees—could she believe her eyes?—she saw Josiah, her husband. Could it be possible? Josiah Bell, whose will had never yielded either to the love of wife or children, giving up to God?

She knelt upon the grass; but Josiah heard not the rustle of her garments, for his soul was uplifted in the first rapture of divine love. The bell tolled on, stroke after stroke, with solemn, measured sound, but each stroke for her was like the music of the heavenly hosts when the plains of Bethlehem resounded with the news of the Saviour's birth.

"Are ye there, Mary?"

A voice—not Josiah's of this morning, yesterday, or of the long, hard, weary, grasping, grudging years of her married life—but the voice of the lover who had wooed and won her young heart and life.

"Yes, Josiah," she answered softly. "The tolling of the bell frightened me. You were gone so long, I was afraid—it—might be—be tolling—for—for—you," she answered, half apologetically and quite timidly, as had been her wont to address him.

"It was, Mary; it was tolling for old Josiah Bell, a wretched, miserable, old tyrant, as hasn't been worth your worryin' fer, an' yer lovin'. Mebby ye haven't any objection to havin' a new husband—one thet's goin' ter live fer ye an' John, an' the rest on 'em, accordin' to the contract I've made with the Lord. If ye hain't sorry fer it, we'll have a new weddin' an' the deacon here shall tie the knot."

"Here, Mary, give me yer right han', and may the Lord hold me clus ter my bargain!"

With bowed heads, and hands tenderly clasped, the old couple stood while the deacon leaned across the top rail of the garden fence, the tears streaming down his cheeks; he invoked the blessing of the Father upon the waiting pair and the new life upon which they were about to enter. The bridegroom's lips touched reverently the fair, tho wrinkled forehead of the bride, and, as they walked hand in hand up the garden path, the holy stars looked down upon the new and the true wedding.