Taffy gasped. “He’s in there!”
“What?—the Old Gentleman?”
“Yes; no—your grandfather!”
“What? Let me get up. Here, you kneel—”
It was true. Under the rays of a paraffin lamp, in face of the kneeling congregation, sat Squire Moyle; his body stiffly upright on the bench, his jaws rigid, his eyes with horror in them fastened upon the very window through which Honoria peered—fastened, it seemed to her, upon her face. But, no; he saw nothing. The Bryanites were praying; Honoria saw their lips moving. Their eyes were all on the old man’s face. In the straining silence his mouth opened—but only for a moment—while his tongue wetted his parched lips.
A man by the pulpit-stairs shuffled his feet. A sigh passed through the Chapel as he rose and relaxed the tension. It was Jacky Pascoe. He stepped up to the Squire, and, laying a hand on his shoulder, said, gently, persuasively, yet so clearly that Honoria could hear every word:
“Try, brother. Keep on trying. O, I’ve knowed cases—You can never tell how near salvation is. One minute the heart’s like a stone, and the next maybe ’tis melted and singing like fat in a pan. ’Tis working! ’tis working!”
The congregation broke out with cries: “Amen!” “Glory, glory!” The Squire’s lips moved and he muttered something. But stony despair sat in his eyes.
“Ay, glory, glory! You’ve been a doubter, and you doubt no longer. Soon you’ll be a shouter. Man, you’ll dance like as David danced before the Ark! You’ll feel it in your toes! Come along, friends, while he’s resting a minute! Sing all together—oh, the blessed peace of it!—
“‘I long to be there, His glory to share—’”