“Have the man wait in the kitchen,” the parson impatiently repeated. “There is no time now for these worldly arrangements. No, no!” said he. “There is no time. The woman must be convicted!” He was changed: despondency had vanished––humility gone with it. In the eye of the man––the gesture––the risen voice––appeared some high authority to overawe us. He had the habit of authority, as have all parsons; but there was now some compelling, supernatural addition to weaken us. We did not dare oppose him, not one of us––not my uncle, whose head had been intruded, but was now at once withdrawn. The parson had come out of his prayer, it seemed, refreshed and inspired; he had remembered, it may be, that the child was the obstacle––the child whom Elizabeth would not slight to save her soul. “The woman must be saved,” said he. “She must be saved!” he cried, striking his fist into his palm, his body all tense, his teeth snapped shut, his voice strident. “The Lord is mighty and merciful––a forgiving God.” ’Twas an appeal (he looked far past the whitewashed rafters and the moving darkness of the night); ’twas a returning appeal––a little failure of faith, I think. “The Lord has heard me,” he declared, doggedly. “He has not turned away. The woman must––she shall––be saved!”
“Ay, but,” Aunt Esther expostulated; “she’ve been sort o’ wantin’ t’ tell––”
The parson’s green eyes were all at once bent in a penetrating way upon Aunt Esther; and she backed away, biting at her nails––daring no further protest.
“Judith, my child,” said the parson, “do you go to the kitchen.”
“No, no!” Judith wailed. “I’m wantin’ t’ stay.”
Elizabeth stretched out her arms.
“It distracts your mother’s attention, you see,” said the parson, kindly. “Do you go, my dear.”
“I will not go!”
“Judith!” Elizabeth called.