But there was another experience. From his youth upwards he had been trained with every weapon in the chapel armoury, and yet he now found himself as powerless as the merest novice to prevent the very sinful occupation of dwelling upon every attitude of Pauline, and outlining every one of her limbs. Do what he might, her image was forever before his eyes, and reconstructed itself after every attempt to abolish it, just as a reflected image in a pool slowly but inevitably gathers itself together again after each disturbance of the water. When he got home, he found, to his surprise, that his wife was still sitting up. She had been to the weekly prayer-meeting, and was not in a very pleasant temper. She was not spiteful, but unusually frigid. She felt herself to be better than her husband, and she asked him if he could not arrange in future that his political meetings might not interfere with his religious duties.
“Your absence, too, was noticed, and Mrs. Carver asked me how it was that Mr. Coleman could let me go home alone. She offered to tell Mr. Carver to come home with me; but I refused.”
Delightfully generous of Mrs. Carver! That was the sort of kindness for which she and many of her Pike Street friends were so distinguished; and Mrs. Coleman not only felt it deeply, but was glad of the opportunity of letting Mr. Coleman know how good the Carvers were.
It was late, but Mrs. Coleman produced the Bible. Zachariah opened it rather mechanically. They were going regularly through it at family worship, and had got into Numbers. The portion for that evening was part of the 26th chapter: “And these are they that were numbered of the Levites after their families: of Gershon, the family of the Gershonites: of Kohath, the family of the Kohathites: of Merari, the family of the Merarites,” etc., etc. Zachariah, having read about a dozen verses, knelt down and prayed; but, alas, even in his prayer he saw Pauline’s red stockings.
The next morning his wife was more pleasant, and even talkative—talkative, that is to say, for her. Something had struck her.
“My dear,” quoth she, as they sat at breakfast, “what a pity it is that the Major is not a converted character!”
Zachariah could not but think so too.
“I have been wondering if we could get him to attend our chapel. Who knows?—some word might go to his heart which might be as the seed sown on good ground.”
“Have you tried to convert him yourself?”
“Oh no, Zachariah! I don’t think that would be quite proper.”
She screwed up her lips a little, and then, looking down at her knees very demurely, smoothed her apron.
“Why not, my dear? Surely it is our duty to testify to the belief that is in us. Poor Christiana, left alone, says, as you will remember, ‘O neighbour, knew you but as much as I do, I doubt not but that you would go with me.’ ”
“Ah, yes, that was all very well then.” She again smoothed her apron. “Besides, you know,” she added suddenly, “there were no public means of grace in the City of Destruction. Have you said anything to the Major?”
“No.”
She did not push her advantage, and the unpleasant fact again stood before Zachariah’s eyes, as it had stood a hundred times before them lately, that when he had been with sinners he had been just what they were, barring the use of profane language. What had he done for his master with the Major, with Jean, and with Pauline?—and the awful figure of the Crucified seemed to rise before him and rebuke him. He was wretched: he had resolved over and over again to break out against those who belonged to the world, to abjure them and all their works. Somehow or other, though, he had not done it.
“Suppose,” said Mrs. Zachariah, “we were to ask the Major here on Sunday afternoon to tea, and to chapel afterwards.”
“Certainly.” He was rather pleased with the proposition. He would be able to bear witness in this way at any rate to the truth.
“Perhaps we might at the same time ask Jean Caillaud, his friend. Would to God”—his wife started—“would to God,” he exclaimed fervently, “that these men could be brought into the Church of Christ!”
“To be sure. Ask Mr. Caillaud, then, too.”
“If we do, we must ask his daughter also; he would not go out without her.”
“I was not aware he had a daughter. You never told me anything about her.”
“I never saw her till the other evening.”
“I don’t know anything of her. She is a foreigner too. I hope she is a respectable young person.”
“I know very little; but she is more English than foreign. Jean has been here a good many years, and she came over when she was quite young. I think she must come.”
“Very well.” And so it was settled.
Zachariah that night vowed to his Redeemer that, come what might, he would never again give Him occasion to look at him with averted face and ask if he was ashamed of Him. The text ran in his ears: “Whosoever therefore shall be ashamed of me and of My words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him also shall the Son of man be ashamed, when He cometh in the glory of His Father with the holy angels.”
VI
Tea à la Mode
Sunday afternoon came. It was the strangest party. Pauline, on being introduced to Mrs. Coleman, made a profound curtsey, which Mrs. Coleman returned by an inclination of her head, as if she consented to recognise Pauline, but to go no further. Tea was served early, as chapel began at half-past six. Mrs. Coleman, although it was Sunday, was very busy. She had made hot buttered
