Being very much excited, he used largely the words of St. Paul, and not his own. How clear it all seemed to him, how indisputable! Childish association and years of unquestioning repetition gave an absolute certainty to what was almost unmeaning to other people.
Mrs. Zachariah, although she had expressed a strong desire for the Major’s conversion, and was the only other representative of the chapel present, was very fidgety and uncomfortable during this speech. She had an exquisite art, which she sometimes practised, of dropping her husband, or rather bringing him down. So, when there was a pause, everybody being moved at least by his earnestness, she said:
“My dear, will you take any more tea?”
He was looking on the tablecloth, with his head on his hands, and did not answer.
“Major Maitland, may I give you some more tea?”
“No, thank you.” The Major too was impressed—more impressed than the lady who sat next to him, and she felt rebuffed and annoyed. To Pauline, Zachariah had spoken Hebrew; but his passion was human, and her heart leapt out to meet him, although she knew not what answer to make. Her father was in the same position; but the Major’s case was a little different. He had certainly at some time or other read the Epistle to the Romans, and some expressions were not entirely unfamiliar to him.
“ ‘Vessels of wrath fitted to destruction!’—a strong and noble phrase. Who are your vessels of wrath, Coleman?”
Caillaud and Pauline saw a little light, but it was speedily eclipsed again.
“The unregenerate.”
“Who are they?”
“Those whom God has not called.”
“Castlereagh, Liverpool, Sidmouth, and the rest of the gang, for example?”
Zachariah felt that the moment had come.
“Yes, yes; but not only they. More than they. God help me if I deny the Cross of Christ—all of us into whose hearts God’s grace has not been poured—we, you, all of us, if we have not been born of the Spirit and redeemed by the sacrifice of His Son.”
Zachariah put in the “us” and the “we,” it will be observed. It was a concession to blunt the sharpness of that dreadful dividing-line.
“We? Not yourself, Caillaud, and Pauline?”
He could not face the question. Something within him said that he ought to have gone further; that he ought to have singled out the Major, Caillaud, and Pauline; held them fast, looked straight into their eyes, and told them each one there and then that they were in the bonds of iniquity, sold unto Satan, and in danger of hellfire. But, alas! he was at least a century and a half too late. He struggled, wrestled, self against self, and failed, not through want of courage, but because he wanted a deeper conviction. The system was still the same, even to its smallest details, but the application had become difficult. The application, indeed, was a good deal left to the sinner himself. That was the difference. Phrases had been invented or discovered which served to express modern hesitation to bring the accepted doctrine into actual, direct, weekday practice. It was in that way that it was gradually bled into impotence. One of these phrases came into his mind. It was from his favourite author:
“ ‘Who art thou that judgest?’ It is not for me, Major Maitland.”
Ah, but, Zachariah, do you not remember that Paul is not speaking of those who deny the Lord, but of the weak in faith; of differences in eating and drinking, and the observation of days? Whether he remembered it or not, he could say no more. Caillaud, the Major, Pauline, condemned to the everlasting consequences of the wrath of the Almighty! He could not pronounce such a sentence, and yet his conscience whispered that just for want of the last nail in a sure place what he had built would come tumbling to the ground. During the conversation the time had stolen away, and, to their horror, Zachariah and his wife discovered that it was a quarter-past six. He hastily informed his guests that he had hoped they would attend him to his chapel. Would they go? The Major consented. He had nothing particular on hand, but Caillaud and Pauline refused. Zachariah was particularly urgent that these two should accompany him, but they were steadfast, for all set religious performances were hateful to them.
“No, Coleman, no more; I know what it all means.”
“And I,” added Pauline, “cannot sit still with so many respectable people; I never could. I have been to church, and always felt impelled to do something peculiar in it which would have made them turn me out. I cannot, too, endure preaching. I cannot tolerate that man up in the pulpit looking down over all the people—so wise and so self-satisfied. I want to pull him out and say. ‘Here, you, sir, come here and let me see if you can tell me two or three things I
