He recoiled from this thrust, for, however his charity might seek to ignore the fact, however his simplicity might fail to discern it, his involuntary intuition made him well aware that “prancing ez prideful ez a peacock” was not altogether foreign to the pulpit here or elsewhere, and that undue vainglory must needs wait on special proficiency. She felt that she struck hard in imputing to him a motive of which he knew himself to be incapable. Perhaps he would have pleased her better had he combined his religious fervors with any intention so practical, so remunerative, so satisfying to the earthly sentiment of one not too good to live in this world.
It was eminently in keeping with that phase of his character which she most contemned that he should, with his cheek still flushed, with his eyes wincing and narrowing as from a blow, begin a vehement defense, not of himself and his motives, but of Absalom Tynes.
She would hardly listen. “I hev hearn ye talk about Absalom Tynes, an’ I don’t want ter hear no mo’. I know what I know. Tell me thar ain’t no pride in the pul-pit,—a-readin’ an’ a-talkin’ an’ a-preachin’ so glib an’ precise, an’ showin’ off so gran’ afore the wimminfolks, an’ a-singin’ so full-mouthed an’ loud, an’ bein’ the biggest man thar; fur Satan, though he often gits his club-foot on the pul-pit stairs, ain’t never been knowed ter step up! Ye tell me that ain’t true ’bout some, ef not that precious friend o’ yourn, Absalom Tynes?”
“Euphemia,” he said sternly in his turn, and her heart was full at the tone of his voice, “I dunno what idee you-uns hev got; ye ’pear so—so—diff’unt—so”—He hesitated; his words were not wont to be ready.
“So diff’unt from what? From you-uns? I reckon so! Ef I war ter drap dead this minit, nuthin’, nuthin’ could hev made me act like you-uns, prayin’ an’ prayin’ fur the power ter preach—whenst—whenst—Owen Haines, ye ain’t even got the power ter pray! The Lord denies ye that—even the power ter ax so ez—ter be fitten fur folks ter hear!”
“The Lord kin hear, Euphemy; he reads the secret thoughts.”
“Let yourn be secret, then!” cried Euphemia. “Fur the folks air listenin’ too ter the thoughts which the Lord kin hear ’thout the need o’ words—listenin’ an’—an’, Owen Haines, laffin’!” She choked back a sob, as her eyes filled and the tears ran out on her scarlet cheek. With a stealthy gesture she wiped them away with the curtain of her pink sunbonnet, carrying herself very stiffly lest some unconsidered turn of the head betray her rush of emotion to the other church-goers loitering behind. When she lifted her eyes, the flow of tears all stanched, her sobs curbed, she beheld his eyes fixed sorrowfully upon her.
“D’ye ’low I dunno that, Euphemy?” he said, his voice trembling. “D’ye ’low I don’t see ’em an’ hear ’em too when I’m nigh the Amen?”
Her tears burst out anew when she remembered that the “Amen” was often said for him by the presiding minister, with such final significance of intonation, ostentatiously rising the while from the kneeling posture, as to fix perforce a period to this prolix incoherency of “prayin’ fur the power.”
“Ye don’t feel it,” she protested, very cautiously sobbing, for since her grief would not be denied, she indulged it under strict guard,—“ye don’t feel it! But me,—it cuts me like a knife!”