The Uncalled · Chapter 11 (2/2)

The silence throughout the sermon was intense. During the closing words which have been quoted, it was like a presence in the chapel. The voice of the preacher rang out like a clarion. His eyes looked before him as if he saw into the future. His hand was uplifted as if he would call down upon them the very judgment which he predicted.

Without more words he sat down. No one moved or spoke for an instant. Dan’l Hastings let his cane fall upon the floor. It echoed through the silent place with a crash. Some of the women started and half cried out; but the spell was now partly broken. Mr. Simpson suddenly remembered to pray, and the gossips forgot to whisper when their heads were bowed. There were some pale faces in the crowd, and some which the galling of tears had made red. There was in the atmosphere something of the same tense silence that follows a terrific thunderclap. And so the service ended, and the people filed out of church silent still. Some few remained behind to shake the preacher’s hand, but as soon as the benediction was over he hurried out the side door, and, before anyone could intercept him, was on his way home. But he left a willing substitute. Mrs. Hodges accepted all his congratulations with complacent condescension.

“Dan’l,” said Thomas Donaldson, as he helped the old man down the church steps, “I was mistaken about the docterns an’ the whisky. It was stronger an’ better, because it was the pure stuff.”

“I ain’t got a word to say,” said Dan’l, “ ’ceptin’ that a good deal of it was jest sass.” But he kept mumbling to himself as he hobbled along, “Jedge not, fur you’re a-pilin’ up sentences on yoreself. I never thought of it that way before; no, I never.”

Brent did not come out of his room to dinner that afternoon. Mrs. Hodges was for calling him, but the old man objected. “No, Hester,” he said, “Freddie jest wants to be let alone. He’s a-feelin’ now.”

“But, ’Liphalet, he ought to know how nice people talked about his sermon. I tell you that was my kind o’ doctern. It’s wonderful how a child will learn.”

Notwithstanding his belief that his young friend wanted to be left alone, the old man slipped into his room later on with a cup of tea. The young man sat before the table, his head buried in his hands. Eliphalet set the cup and saucer down and turned to go, but he paused at the door and said, “Thank the Lord fur the way you give it to ’em, Freddie. It was worth a dollar.” He would have hurried out, but the young man sprang up and seized his hand, exclaiming, “It was wrong, Uncle ’Liph, it was wrong of me. I saw them sitting about me like jackals waiting for their prey; I remembered all that I had been and all that I was; I knew what they were thinking, and I was angry, angry. God forgive me! That sermon was preached from as hot a heart as ever did murder.”

The old man stroked the young one’s hair as he would a child’s. “Never mind,” he said. “It don’t matter what you felt. That’s between you an’ Him. I only know what you said, an’ that’s all I care about. Didn’t you speak about the Lord a-whippin’ the money-changers from the temple? Ain’t lots o’ them worse than the money-changers? Wasn’t Christ divine? Ain’t you human? Would a body expect you to feel less’n He did? Huh! jest don’t you worry; remember that you didn’t hit a head that wasn’t in striking distance.” And the old man pressed the boy back into his chair and slipped out.