The sermon surpassed Margot’s expectation. Hamlin spoke extempore, disdaining notes, talking to his flock simply, in words easily to be understood by a child. His thin, capable hands rested upon an ancient cushion of red brocade. This cushion was all that was left of the three-decker pulpit removed when Hamlin first came to Nether-Applewhite. Long ago, in the Squire’s boyhood, old Mr. Pomfret, in a moment of excitement, had pushed the cushion from him. It fell upon the sexton’s head. The sexton replaced it, interrupting the flow of the Parson’s discourse. Whereupon the Parson hurled the cushion into the aisle, saying loudly:
“Do you suppose, Abel Whitehorn, that I can’t preach without a cushion?”
Margot recalled this story, one of the Squire’s time-ripened anecdotes, as her eyes rested upon the nervous hands upon the same cushion. Hamlin’s hands betrayed his feelings.
His theme concerned itself with cleanliness. He took the text from Zechariah: “Behold, I have caused thine iniquity to pass from thee, and I will clothe thee with change of raiment.”
Hamlin was at his best when he dealt with matters of common interest to his parishioners. At his worst, like most parsons, when he expounded dogma and doctrine. Margot perceived that the Squire was composing himself to enjoy the sermon. Cleanliness was next to godliness in his opinion.
Hamlin began with soap and water. Members of the congregation, too racy of the soil, stirred uneasily in their seats. Those who were fresh from the Saturday night tub smirked complacently. From bodies, the Parson moved easily to houses, and thence to the soil, much to the interest and gratification of Bonsor and the Squire. Then he paused. When he spoke again, his tone had deepened. He leaned forward, sweeping the church with his keen glance.
“Are your minds clean?”
He went on temperately, delicately, but unmistakably. The children listened to every word.
“The Divine Spirit cannot dwell in an unclean mind.”
And then the last injunction.