FullReads

“In that case,” Sister Humphreys argued at once, “will you kindly take you’ seat an’ let me speak fo’ de las’ time to Zion Baptis’ Chu’ch?”

It was impossible to refuse a hearing. Brother Morrow shuffled into a lower seat.

“My people,”–a vague, incomprehensible thrill of apprehension and magnetic fascination stirred the attentive faces, all save the widow Macklin’s; hers was bent on her own withered, toil-crooked hands while she prayed,–“I want to say, first, that I nev’ did aim to keep on hu’tin’ you’ feelin’s. But I am ‘bleeged to save you’ souls. You-all know how my po’ husban’ toiled an’ prayed. Thar’s ol’ people who loved him an’ followed his teachin’s, but they went to their reward, an’ he was lef’ with a generation of young niggers who feared neither God nor man nor the grand jury–lying, stealing, with no more morals than pigs an’ no great cleaner. It broken my po’ ol’ man’s heart, so he hadn’t no strength to stand the breast complaint, so he died. The last night I heard him praying for you, an’ I come to him. When he looked up at me I knowed I couldn’t hold him; I knowed he ain’t never again goin’ look up at me with the light in his eyes an’ the love in his smile like he looked then. An’ I sayd to him, ‘Silas, honey, don’ you worry ’bout that there wuthless flock of yours. I’ll save ’em. I know the way. I sho’ do!’ An’ he believed me; because of his believing me his end was peace. So you see, my people, I am ‘bleeged to save you. I tol’ him I know the way; I do know it. You’ pastor, who is a saint in heaven, done used always the ways of gentleness. He preached the love of God, an’ you swallered it down, smiling and happy; an’ it ain’t done you-all no mo’ good than stick candy does do a person that done taken poison an’ needs wahm water an’ mustard. What you-all needed didn’t be’n loving kindness, but the terrors of the law, an’ not strained, neider. An’ if it takes the las’ day of my pilgrimage, you’ll git ’em till you begin to repent an’ show works meet for repentence. But when you begin to repent, the word of mercy will come. ‘Cause when the prodigal son be’n a long way off, his father come a-runnin’ to him. Now, hark to me: I went this evening to the cunnel. He explained to me about the Baptis’ dis- cip -line.” (A ripple of excitement in the audience.) “In consequence, this chu’ch will hereayfter be the Methodis’ Zion Chu’ch. That is why I am speaking fo’ the las’ time to Zion Baptis’ Chu’ch. Ayfter to-night there won’t be no Zion Baptis’ Chu’ch. There ain’t no great differ ence in doctrine, an’ the dis- cip -line is more convenient. Any brother or sister desiring it, an’ not in danger of catching col’, can be immersed. The cunnel an’ I done talked this over; an’ he done rented this chu’ch-house to me. If the congregation ain’t satisfied, they got to take to the woods. I also got one word mo’ to say: it is that the work of grace in this community is a right smart hampered by the evil doings of Sister Susannah Coffin.”

Susannah and her husband were both on their feet, both ready to speak; but something in the attitude of the figure on the platform to which the long lines of the mourning-veil gave a strange suggestion of sibylline dignity, held speech away from them. Solemnly and not with any anger, Sister Humphreys’ eyes searched the eyes of the man and woman before her, while the spectators held their breath. “Wherefo’ it is bettah ever’ way,” she said slowly, “that both her an’ her husband go out from us fo’evermo’. Bruddah Coffin, the cunnel has got another blacksmith, an’ you ain’t got no mo’ reason fo’ stayin’ on longer. And as fo’ you, Sister –“