Part 9 (1/2)

It was as if he had said, ”I have no faith in your style of preaching the gospel. I am going to put you to the test.”

Robert faltered. He knew his preaching would not please his father or his people, and he shrank from the ordeal. It seemed like setting them all at defiance and attempting to enforce his ideas over their own. Then a perception of his cowardice struck him, and he threw off the feeling that was possessing him. He looked up to find his father watching him keenly, and he remembered that he had not yet answered.

”I had not thought of preaching here,” he said, ”but I will relieve you if you wish it.”

”De folks will want to hyeah you an' see what you kin do,” pursued his father tactlessly. ”You know dey was a lot of 'em dat said I oughn't ha'

let you go away to school. I hope you'll silence 'em.”

Robert thought of the opposition his father's friends had shown to his ambitions, and his face grew hot at the memory. He felt his entire inability to please them now.

”I don't know, father, that I can silence those who opposed my going away or even please those who didn't, but I shall try to please One.”

It was now Thursday evening, and he had until Sat.u.r.day night to prepare his sermon. He knew Danvers, and remembered what a chill fell on its congregations, white or black, when a preacher appeared before them with a ma.n.u.script or notes. So, out of concession to their prejudices, he decided not to write his sermon, but to go through it carefully and get it well in hand. His work was often interfered with by the frequent summons to see old friends who stayed long, not talking much, but looking at him with some awe and a good deal of contempt. His trial was a little sorer than he had expected, but he bore it all with the good-natured philosophy which his school life and work in a city had taught him.

The Sunday dawned, a beautiful, Southern summer morning; the lazy hum of the bees and the scent of wild honeysuckle were in the air; the Sabbath was full of the quiet and peace of G.o.d; and yet the congregation which filled the little chapel at Danvers came with restless and turbulent hearts, and their faces said plainly: ”Rob Dixon, we have not come here to listen to G.o.d's word. We have come here to put you on trial. Do you hear? On trial.”

And the thought, ”On trial,” was ringing in the young minister's mind as he rose to speak to them. His sermon was a very quiet, practical one; a sermon that sought to bring religion before them as a matter of every-day life. It was altogether different from the torrent of speech that usually flowed from that pulpit. The people grew restless under this spiritual reserve. They wanted something to sanction, something to shout for, and here was this man talking to them as simply and quietly as if he were not in church.

As Uncle Isham Jones said, ”De man never fetched an amen”; and the people resented his ineffectiveness. Even Robert's father sat with his head bowed in his hands, broken and ashamed of his son; and when, without a flourish, the preacher sat down, after talking twenty-two minutes by the clock, a s.h.i.+ver of surprise ran over the whole church.

His father had never pounded the desk for less than an hour.

Disappointment, even disgust, was written on every face. The singing was spiritless, and as the people filed out of church and gathered in knots about the door, the old-time head-shaking was resumed, and the comments were many and unfavourable.

”Dat's what his schoolin' done fo' him,” said one.

”It wasn't nothin' mo'n a lecter,” was another's criticism.

”Put him 'side o' his father,” said one of the Rev. Abram Dixon's loyal members, ”and bless my soul, de ol' man would preach all roun' him, and he ain't been to no college, neither!”

Robert and his father walked home in silence together. When they were in the house, the old man turned to his son and said:

”Is dat de way dey teach you to preach at college?”

”I followed my instructions as nearly as possible, father.”

”Well, Lawd he'p dey preachin', den! Why, befo' I'd ha' been in dat pulpit five minutes, I'd ha' had dem people moanin' an' hollerin' all over de church.”

”And would they have lived any more cleanly the next day?”

The old man looked at his son sadly, and shook his head as at one of the unenlightened.

Robert did not preach in his father's church again before his visit came to a close; but before going he said, ”I want you to promise me you'll come up and visit me, father. I want you to see the work I am trying to do. I don't say that my way is best or that my work is a higher work, but I do want you to see that I am in earnest.”

”I ain't doubtin' you mean well, Robbie,” said his father, ”but I guess I'd be a good deal out o' place up thaih.”

”No, you wouldn't, father. You come up and see me. Promise me.”

And the old man promised.