Part 8

“Well, I 'll be bungfuzzled,” Abner exclaimed, “ef you hain't got on a clean shirt! Church?”

“Yes, I 'lowed I would, Uncle Ab. I couldn't stay away. I told Sally it ud be the biggest fun on earth. She's a-comin' on as soon as she gits the childern ready. She's excited, too, an' wants to see how it 'll come out. She's as big a believer in you as I am, mighty nigh, an' she 'lowed, she did, that she'd bet you'd take hair an' hide off'n that gang 'fore they got good started.”

Abner raised his shaggy eyebrows. If this was one of Pole's jokes it failed in the directness that usually characterized the jests of the ex-moonshiner.

“I wonder what yo' re a-drivin' at, you blamed fool,” he said, smiling in a puzzled fashion.

Pole was walking in front, and suddenly wheeled about. He took off his hat, and, wiping the perspiration from his high brow with his forefinger, he cracked it into the broom-sedge like a whip.

“Looky' heer, Uncle Ab,” he laughed, “what you givin' me?”

“I was jest tryin' to find out what you was a-givin' me,” retorted the rural philosopher, a dry note of rising curiosity dominating his voice.

They had reached a rail fence which separated the field from the wood, and they climbed over it and stood in the shade of the trees. Pole stared at the old man incredulously. “By hunkley, Uncle Ab, you don't mean to tell me you don't know what that passle o' hill-Billies is a-goin' to do with you this mornin' at meetin'?”

Abner smiled mechanically. “I can't say I do, Pole. I'm at the fust of it, if thar is to be any--”

Pole slapped his thigh and gave vent to a loud guffaw that rang through the trees and was echoed back from a hidden hill-side.

“Well, what they _are_ a-goin' to do with you 'll be a God's plenty. They are a-goin' to walk yore log, ur make you do it on all fours so they kin see you. You've made it hot fer them an' they are a-goin' to turn t'other cheek an' git a swipe at you. They are a-goin' to show you whar you come in--ur, ruther, whar you go out.”

Abner's face was a study in seriousness. “You don't say!” he muttered. “I _did_ notice that brother Dole kinder give our house a wide berth last night. I reckon he sorter hated to eat at the same table with a feller he was goin' to hit at to-day. Yes, Dole is at the bottom of it. I know in reason I pushed 'im too fur the last time he was heer, but when he rears back an' coughs up sanctimony like he was literally too full of it fer comfort, I jest cayn't hold in. Seems to me I kin jest close my eyes an' hit some spot in 'im that makes 'im wiggle like a tadpole skeered in shallow water. But maybe I mought 'a' got a better mark to fire at; fer this 'll raise no end of a rumpus, an' they may try to make me take back water, but I never did crawfish. I couldn't do that, Pole. No siree, I--I can' t crawfish.”

Abner was a special object of regard as he and Pole emerged from the wood into the opening in front of the little unpainted meeting-house, where the men stood about among the buggies and horses, whittling, gossiping, and looking strange and fresh-washed in their clean clothes. But it was noticeable that they did not gather around him as had been their habit. His standing in that religious community was at stake; his continued popularity depended on the result of that day's investigation. Pole could afford to stand by him, and he did. They sat down on a log near the church door and remained silent till the cast-iron bell in the little belfry, which resembled a dog-kennel, was rattled vigorously as an announcement that the service was about to begin. They all scurried in like sheep. Abner went in last, with slow dignity and deliberation, leaving Pole in a seat near the door.

He went up the narrow aisle to his accustomed seat near the long-wood stove. Many eyes were on his profile and the back of his neck. Dole was seated in the arm-chair behind the preacher's stand, but somehow he failed to look at Abner as he entered, or even after he had taken his seat. He seemed busy making notes from the big Bible which lay across his lap. Abner saw Bishop and his wife come in and sit down, and knew from the glances they gave him that they had heard the news. Mrs. Bishop looked keenly distressed, but Bishop seemed to regard the matter only as a small, buzzing incident in his own troubled career. Besides, Abner was no blood relative of his, and Bishop had enough to occupy him in looking after the material interests of his own family without bothering about the spiritual welfare of a connection by marriage.

Dole stood up and announced a hymn, and read it from beginning to end in a mellow, sonorous voice. The congregation, all eying Abner, rose and sang it energetically; even Abner, who sang a fair bass of the rasping, guttural variety, popular in the mountains, found himself joining in, quite unconcerned as to his future right to do so. After this, Dole led in prayer, standing with both hands resting on the crude, unpainted stand, the sole ornament of which was a pitcher of water, a tumbler, and a glass lamp with a green paper shade on it. Abner remarked afterwards that Dole, in this prayer, used the Lord as a cat's-paw to hit at him. Dole told the Lord a few things that he had never had the courage to tell Daniel. Abner was a black sheep in a flock earnestly striving to keep itself white--a thing in human shape that soiled that with which it came in contact. He had the subtle tongue of the serpent that blasted the happiness of the primeval pair in the Garden of Eden. Under the cloak of wit and wisdom he was continually dropping poison into the beverages of earnest folk who had not the religious courage to close their ears. As a member of a consecrated body of souls, it was the opinion of many that Abner was out of place, but that was to be decided after careful investigation in the Lord's presence and after ample testimony pro and con had been submitted. Any one wishing to show that the offending member had a right to remain in good standing would be gladly listened to, even prayerfully. On the other hand, such members as had had their religious sensibilities wounded should feel that a most sacred duty rested on them to speak their minds. All this Dole said he trusted the Lord would sanction and bless in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, the Saviour and Director of all men.

Dole then started another hymn, and when it had been sung he announced that no sermon would be preached that day, as the important business in hand would consume all available time before the dinner-hour. Then he courageously faced Abner. His countenance was pale and determined, his tone perfunctory and sharp as a knife.

“I reckon, brother Daniel,” he said, “that you have a idee who I've been talkin' about?”

Abner was slightly pale, but calm and self-possessed. The light of merriment, always kindled by contact with Dole, danced in his eyes. “I kinder 'lowed I was the one,” he said, slowly, “an' I'm sorter curis to see who' ll speak an' what they 'll say. I 'll tell you now I ain't a-goin' to do myse'f jestice. I 'ain't been to a debatin' club sence I was a boy, but I 'll do my best.”

Dole stroked his beard and consulted a scrap of paper in the palm of his hand. “Brother Throg-martin,” he called out, suddenly, and a short, fat man on a bench behind Abner rose and cleared his throat.

“Now, brother Throgmartin,” went on the preacher, “jest tell some o' the things you've heerd brother Daniel say that struck you as bein' undoctrinal an' unbecomin' a member of this body.”

“Well, sir,” Throgmartin began, in a thin, high voice that cut the profound silence in the room like a rusty blade, “I don't raily, in my heart o' hearts, believe that Ab--brother Daniel--has the right interpretation of Scriptur'. I remember, after you preached last summer about the sacred teachin' in regard to future punishment, that Ab--brother Daniel--an' me was walkin' home together. Ever' now an' then he'd stop in the road an' laugh right out sudden-like over what you'd contended.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Dole's face hardened. He couldn't doubt that part of the testimony, for it was distinctly Abner's method.

“Yes, sir,” responded Throgmartin, sternly, “he 'lowed what you'd said was as funny to him as a circus clown's talk, an' that it was all he could do to hold in. He 'lowed ef you was to git up in a Darley church with sech talk as that they'd make you preach to niggers. He 'lowed he didn't believe hell was any hot place nohow, an' that he never could be made to believe that the Lord ud create folks an' then barbecue 'em alive through all eternity. He said it sorter turned his stomach to see jest a little lamb roasted at a big political gatherin', an' that no God he believed in would institute sech long torture as you spoke about when you brought up the mustard-seed p'int.”

“He deliberately gives the lie to Holy Scripture, then,” said Dole, almost beside himself with rage. “What else did he say of a blasphemous nature?”

“Oh, I hardly know,” hesitated the witness, his brow wrinkled thoughtfully.

“Well,” snarled Dole, “you hain't told half you said to me this mornin' on the way to meetin'. What was his remark about the stars havin' people on 'em ever' bit an' grain as worthy o' salvation as us all?”

“I disremember his exact words. Perhaps Ab--brother Daniel--will refresh my memory.” Throg-martin was gazing quite respectfully at the offender. “It was at Billy Malone's log-rollin', you know, Ab; me 'n' you'd eat a snack together, an' you said the big poplar had strained yore side an' wanted to git it rubbed.”

Abner looked straight at Dole. The corners of his big, honest mouth were twitching defiantly.

“I said, I think,” he answered, “that no matter what some folks mought believe about the starry heavens, no man ever diskivered a big world with a tail to it through a spy-glass without bein' convinced that thar was other globes in the business besides jest this un.”

Dole drew himself up straight and gazed broadly over his congregation. He felt that in the estimation of unimaginative, prosaic people like his flock Abner's defence would certainly fall.

“Kin I ax,” he asked, sternly, “how you happen to think like you do?”

Abner grasped the back of the bench in front of him and pulled himself up, only to sink back hesitatingly into his seat. “Would it be out o' order fer me to stand?” he questioned.

Dole spread a hard, triumphant smile over the congregation. “Not at all, if it will help you to give a sensible answer to my question.”

“Oh, I kin talk settin',” retorted the man on trial. “I jest didn't know what was right an' proper, an' I 'lowed I could hit that spit-box better standin' than I kin over brother Tarver's legs.”

The man referred to quickly slid along the bench, giving Abner his place near the aisle, and Abner calmly emptied his mouth in the wooden box filled with sawdust and wiped his lips.

“I hardly know why I think like I do about other worlds,” he answered, slowly, “unless it's beca'se I've always had the notion that the universe is sech a powerful, whoppin' big thing. Most folks believe that the spot they inhabit is about all thar is to creation, anyway. That's human natur'. About the biggest job I ever tackled was to drive a hungry cow from bad grass into a good patch. She wants to stay thar an' eat, an' that's about the way it is with folks. They are short-sighted. It makes most of 'em mad to tell 'em they kin better the'r condition. I've always believed that's the reason they make the bad place out so bad; they've made up the'r minds to live thar, an' they ain't a-goin' to misrepresent it. They are out o' fire-wood in this life an' want to have a good sweat in the next.”

XIV

T looked as if Dole thought he could get down to the matter better out of the pulpit, so he descended the steps on the side near Abner, and stood on the floor inside the altar railing.

“We didn't assemble heer to argue with brother Daniel,” he informed the congregation, “fer that's evidently jest what he'd like. It would be raily kind of you all to consider what he's jest said as the product of a weak brain ruther 'n a bad heart. Brother Throgmartin, have you any other charges to prefer agin brother Daniel?” Dole looked as if he had already been apprised of the extent of the witness's testimony.

“That's all I keer to say,” replied the man addressed, and he coughed.

Dole consulted the scrap of paper in his hand, and while he did so Abner stole a glance at Bishop and his wife. Mrs. Bishop had her handkerchief to her eyes as if she were crying, and her husband's face wore the impatient look of a man detained by trivialities.

“Brother Daniel,” the preacher began, suddenly, “charges has been preferred agin you on the score that you are a profane man. What have you got to say on that line?”

Abner bent his head and spat down into the hopper-shaped box in the aisle.

“I hardly know, brother Dole,” he said. “It's all owin' to what profanity is an' what it hain't. I don't know that I ever used but one word out o' the general run, an' that is 'dem.' I don't believe thar's any more harm in sayin' 'dem' than 'scat,' ur gruntin' when thar's no absolute call fer it. I don't know as anybody knows what it means. I don't. I've axed a number o' times, but nobody could tell me, so I knowed it wasn't patented anyway. Fer a long time I 'lowed nobody used it but me. I met a feller from up in Yankeedom that said 'darn,' an' another from out West that said 'dang,' so I reckon they are all three in a bunch.”

At this juncture some one in the rear of the church laughed out, and the entire congregation turned its head. It was Pole Baker. He was red in the face, had his big hand pressed tightly over his mouth, and was bent over the bench towards the open doorway. Abner's eyes sparkled with appreciative merriment as he saw him, but he did not permit himself to smile. Dole could not hide his irritation, for Pole's unalloyed enjoyment had communicated itself to some of the less rigid members, and he felt that the reply which was stinging his tongue would fall less forcefully than if the incident hadn't happened.

He held up his hand to invoke silence and respect. “I believe such a word, to say the least, is unbecoming in a Christian, and I think the membership will back me up in it.”

“I don't look at it that away,” argued Abner. “I'd be above takin' the Lord's name in vain, but a little word that nobody cayn't find no fault with or tell its origin shorely is different.”

“Well, that 'll be a matter to decide by vote.”

Dole paused a moment and then introduced another topic.

“A report has gone round among the members that you said that red-handed murderer who killed a man over in Fannin' an' was hung, an' passed on without a single prayer fer pardon to his Maker--that he'd stand a chance fer redemption. In all my experience I've never heerd sech a dangerous doctrin' as that, brother Daniel--never, as I myself hope to be redeemed.”

“I said he'd have a chance--I _thought_,” said Abner. “I reckon I must 'a' got that idee from what Jesus said to the thief on the cross. You see, brother Dole, I believe the Almighty gives us all equal chances, an' I don't believe that feller in Fannin' had as good a opportunity to git his heart saftened as the feller did that was dyin' right alongside o' the great Redeemer o' the world. Nobody spoke a kind word to the Fannin' man; on the contrary, they was hootin' an' spittin' at 'im night an' day, an' they say the man he killed had pestered 'im all his life. Scriptur' says we ort to forgive a man seventy times seven, an' that is four hundred an' ninety. Why they didn't make it even five hundred I never could tell. An' yet you-uns try to make folks believe the Lord that made us, frail as we are an' prone to sin, won't forgive us once ef we happen to die sudden. Shucks! that doctrine won't hold water; it's hide-bound an' won't stretch one bit. It seems to me that the trouble with yore--”

“We haven't time to listen to a speech on the subject,” interrupted the preacher, whose anger was inflamed by hearing Pole Baker sniggering. “If thar is anybody else that has anything to say we'd be glad to hear from 'em.”

Then Mrs. Bishop rose, wiping her eyes. She was pale and deeply agitated. “I jest want to ax you all to be lenient with my pore brother,” she began, her thin voice cracking under its strain. “I've predicted that he'd bring disrepute down on us with his ready tongue an' odd notions. I've tried an' tried to stop 'im, but it didn't do a bit o' good.”

“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.”

Pole rose; many thought he was going to leave, but to the surprise of all he walked deliberately up to the altar and laid his hand upon the railing.