“It's very good of you to speak in his behalf,” said Dole, as she sank back into her seat. “I'm sure the membership will do its duty, sister Bishop.”
Then a little, meanly clad man behind Daniel stood up. It was Jasper Marmaduke, a ne 'er-do-well farmer, who had a large family, few friends, and no earthly possessions. He was greatly excited, and as white as if he were on trial for his life.
“I ain't no member,” he began. “I know I ort to be, but I hain't. I don't know whether a outsider's got a right to chip into this or not, but it seems to me I 'll bu'st wide open ef I don't git up heer an' say as loud as I kin holler that Abner Daniel's the best man I ever seed, knowed, ur heerd tell of.” Tears were on the man's face and his voice shook with emotion. “He's fetched food an' medicine over to my folks an' run after a doctor when all the rest o' humanity had turned the'r backs on us. He made me promise not to cheep it to a soul, but I'm a-goin' to tell it—tell it, ef he never speaks to me agin. I ain't no godly man, an' this thing's makin' me so mad I feel like throwin' rocks!” And with a sob bursting from him, Marmaduke strode from the church with a loud clatter of his untied shoes.
“Good! Good man!” spoke up Pole Baker, impulsively, unconscious of where he was. “Jas', yo're the right stuff.” And then, in the dead silence that followed his ejaculation, Pole realized what he had said and lowered his head in red embarrassment, for Dole's fierce eyes were bearing down on him. The preacher's pent-up wrath burst; he was really more infuriated at the man who had just left the church, but he had to make an example of some one, and Pole had laid himself open to attack.
“This is no place fer rowdies,” he snarled. “That outlaw back thar who has been continually disturbing these proceedings ort to be jailed. He's undertakin' to bring his violations of decency into the very house of God.”
A vast surprise clutched the congregation, who, knowing Pole, scented trouble. And Pole did not disappoint them. With his flabby hat in his brawny grasp, Pole stood up, but his wife, who sat on the women's side across the aisle from him with her three eldest children, stepped to him and drew him back in his seat, sitting by him and whispering imploringly. Dole stared fiercely for a moment, and then, seeing that the disturbance was over, he shrugged his broad shoulders and applied himself to the business in hand.
“Is thar anybody else pro or con that ud like to be heerd?”
It was the widow Pellham, sitting well towards the front, who now rose. “I feel like Jas' Marmaduke does,” she began, falteringly. Her hearers could not see her face, for she wore a black calico sunbonnet, and it was tilted downward. “I believe I 'll be committin' of a grievous sin ef I let my natural back'ard-ness keep me quiet. Abner Daniel was the fust, last, an' only pusson that made me see the true way into God's blessed sunshine out o' the pitch-black darkness that was over me. All of you, especially them livin' nigh me, knowed how I acted when my daughter Mary died. We'd lived together sence she was born, an' after her pa passed away she was all I had. Then God up an' tuck 'er. I tell you it made a devil out'n me. I liter'ly cussed my Maker an' swore revenge agin 'Im. I quit meetin' an' closed my door agin my neighbors. They all tried to show me whar I was wrong, but I wouldn't listen. Some nights I set up from dark till daylight without candle or fire, bemeanin' my God fer the way He'd done me. You remember, brother Dole, that you come a time or two an' prayed an' read, but I didn't budge out'n my cheer an' wouldn't bend a knee. Then that other little preacher, that was learnin' to preach, an' tuck yore place when you went off to bury yore mother—he come an' made a set at me, but every word he said made me wuss. I ordered him off the hill, an' told 'im ef he appeared agin I'd set my dog on 'im. I don't know why everybody made me so mad, but they did. The devil had me by the leg, an' was a-drag-gin' me as fast to his hole as a dog kin trot. But one mornin' Abner Daniel come over with that thar devilish twinkle in his eyes that ud make a cow laugh, an' begun to banter me to sell 'im the hay off'n my little neck o' land betwixt the creek an' the road. I kept tellin' 'im I didn't want to sell, but he kept a-com-in' an' a comin', with no end o' fool talk about this un an' that un, tell somehow I got to watchin' fer 'im, but still I wouldn't let nobody else in. Then one day, after I'd refused to sell an' told 'im I'd give 'im the hay, he growed serious an' said, ses he: 'Sister Pellham, I don't want the hay on that patch. I've been deliberately lyin'. I've been comin' over heer as a friend, to try to make you feel better.' Then he set in, an', as God is my highest judge, ef thar 'll be any more speritual talk on t'other shore it 'll be after Abner Daniel gits thar. He jest rolled me about in his hands like a piece o' wheat dough. He showed me what aileded me as plain as I could p'int out the top o' old Bald Mountain to you on a cleer day. He told me, I remember, that in grievin' like I was, I was sinnin' agin the Holy Ghost, an' jest as long as I did it I'd suffer wuss an' wuss as a penalty. He said it was a fight betwixt me an' my Maker an' that I was bound to be worsted. He said that when my Mary come into the world I couldn't tell whar she was from, nur why the Lord had fetched 'er, but I was jest pleased beca'se it suited me to be pleased, but, ses he, when she went back into the great mystery o' God's beautiful plan I wasn't satisfied beca'se it didn't suit me to be. He said it was downright selfishness, that had no part nur parcel in the kingdom o' heaven. He said to me, ses he, 'Sister, ef you 'll jest fer one minute make up yore mind that Mary is in better hands 'an she was in yor'n '—an' you kin bet yore bottom dollar she is—'you 'll feel as light as a feather. 'I had a tussle, but it come, God bless him! it come. It was jest like a great light had bu'sted over me. I fell down on my knees before 'im an' shouted an' shouted till I was as limp as a wet rag. I had always thought I was converted away back in the sixties when I was a gal, but I wasn't. I got my redemption that day under Abner Daniel's talk, an' I shall bless 'im an' sing his name on my dyin' bed. I don't want to entertain no spiteful feelin' s, but ef he goes out I 'll have to. I wouldn't feel right in no church too puore to fellowship with Abner Daniel.”
“Good! Good woman!” shouted Pole Baker, as if he were at a political speaking. She sat down. The house seemed profoundly moved. People were thinking of the good things they had heard about Abner Daniel. However, the turn of affairs did not suit Dole, who showed decided anger. His eyes flashed as they rested on Pole Baker, who had offended him again.
“I shall have to ax that law-breaker back thar to leave the church,” he said. “I think it's come to a purty pass ef strong, able-bodied church-members will set still an' allow the'r own house o' worship to be insulted by such a rascal as that one.”