“I hope it will be good for you,” Wilmott said without conviction.
“I’m sure it will, Boss. A man cannot live by fish alone.”
“You had better go and tell this to Mr. Pink, the rector,” said Wilmott.
“Can’t you advise me, Boss?”
“I don’t consider myself competent for that. Better go to the rector.”
“But, Boss, I’ve never been baptized or confirmed. He’d likely want to do both to me.”
“Do as you please,” said Wilmott, and left him.
In spite of Wilmott’s guardianship, Tite was accustomed to do as he pleased. Now it was his pleasure to seek out Mr. Pink, the rector of the small church that had been built by the Whiteoaks. It was but one of two country churches in Mr. Pink’s spiritual care. Here, beside it, was the rectory, almost as large as the church. Mr. Pink was sitting in the porch enjoying his mid-morning pipe. At the half-breed’s approach he gave him a friendly nod and said:
“You are Titus Sharrow, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Tite answered, in his gentle polite voice. “I have come to ask you a religious question.”
The rector looked at him keenly. “Yes? Go ahead.”
“Please tell me,” said Tite, “whether unbelief is a sin.”
“We all sin in that way, for none of us believes as completely as he should.”
“How much do you believe, Mr. Rector?”
“I have never told that to any man.”
“I am a beginner,” said Tite. “You have told me all I need to know.”
“Sit down,” said Mr. Pink, “and I will explain further.”
But Tite had drifted away.
VI
VI
The Meeting
Very soon the loft would be filled with this year’s hay that now stood golden in the ten-o’clock sunshine. The floor of the loft had been swept clean and sprinkled from a watering can to lay the dust. A pulpit had been fashioned out of clean boards. On it lay a Bible. The window had been washed and over it a pink calico curtain was hung. The mulatto girl, Annabelle, was responsible for this. Once, in the South, she had been to a service in a church where there were stained-glass windows. Those windows, she thought, had given a holy feeling to all that took place inside the church. In the hayloft, the pink calico curtain was to lend this air of holiness. So Annabelle prayed. Indeed, as the sun shone through the curtain, a pinkish light was noticeable in the loft. It had been possible to borrow thirty kitchen chairs in the neighbourhood. If the congregation exceeded this number, the overflow were to sit at the back of the loft on a mound of last year’s hay. From below came the mooing of a cow whose calf had been taken from her.
Thirty Negroes waited, with expectant faces, for the meeting to begin. Twenty were seated in chairs. The rest squatted on the hay, leaving the row of chairs at the front for the white visitors. These were Adeline and Philip, the two Sinclairs, Wilmott, David Vaughan and his wife, Elihu Busby and wife. These two couples had come to encourage the blacks, to show their sympathy with the cause of emancipation. It was hard for them to sit at ease so near the Sinclairs. Their elegant airs were particularly distasteful to Elihu Busby. He wondered at their insolence in showing their slave-owning faces. Yet their three servants had begged them to come, polished their shoes, assisted them to dress for what was, to the Negroes, an important occasion.
The Negroes, of whom the gathering mainly consisted, had come by various routes to this sheltered part of the province of Ontario, where some had already found work and hoped to settle, while others strained toward the day when they might return to their own country. Among those who proposed remaining in Ontario were a couple who had left the devastated plantation of their master, taking with them whatever they had fancied. The man carried a heavy gold watch and chain. The woman, named Oleander, was arrayed in a crimson velvet dress with velvet flounces. She wore, on her woolly head, a pink satin bonnet tied in a large bow beneath her chin. Scarcely could Cindy restrain her contempt for this pair. But Annabelle was not aware of their existence. Hands clasped on breast, she waited in happy anticipation for the meeting to begin. Titus Sharrow, from the back of the loft, watched her.
Among the Negroes who had found refuge in this vicinity was one who had been a preacher in his native village. He was a man of forty with a deep and moving voice, a broad flat nose and humid bloodshot eyes. His thick-lipped mouth was flexible, his teeth fine.
He mounted the crude pulpit, bent his head a moment in prayer. Titus Sharrow, standing barely inside the loft, surveyed the scene with cynical interest.
The preacher gave out the name of a hymn. There were no hymn books but the Negroes knew it by heart. The fervour of their lusty voices made the cobwebs in the ceiling of the hayloft tremble. Months had passed, in some instances years, since they had been to a meeting. Now, in exultation, they poured out their feelings.
Following the hymn, the tribulations of Job were read by the preacher in a quiet voice. He gave a short address, welcoming all, thanking those who had assisted in making this meeting possible. He made no reference to the war between North and South.
Adeline was disappointed, for she had expected something emotional. The Busbys and the Vaughans were disappointed, for they had expected an impassioned outburst against slavery. The Negroes waited composedly for the praying.
Now, the preacher, after the singing of another revival hymn, left the pulpit and dropped to his knees on the floor. In his sonorous voice he began to pray, at first quietly, then becoming more fervent, less coherent, as he went on. A shudder of ravishment galvanized the Negro congregation. Kneeling they clasped imploring hands, raised eyes to the ceiling of the loft.
Now the preacher was uttering no more than broken phrases, “Oh, Lawd … oh, Lawd … Save us … lead us … out of the night … save us!”
The Negroes rocked on their haunches, their faces wet with tears. Annabelle was sobbing without restraint. Suddenly the loft seemed unbearably hot to the whites.
It was more than Adeline could endure. To Philip’s consternation she burst into tears. She leant forward in her chair, covering her face with her hands. The ribbon bow of her bonnet was loose. The bonnet all but fell off, disclosing her shining red hair. Lucy Sinclair put a consoling arm about her. On her other side Philip whispered, “Stop it … control yourself! Adeline, do you hear me?” His face was scarlet. He gave her a pinch.
“Oh!” she said loudly, sat up and straightened her bonnet.
Wilmott’s hand covered his lips to hide a smile of embarrassment.
The preacher rose to his feet and announced a hymn. It had as its refrain a jubilant “Hallelujah — we’re saved!” Over and over this was reiterated. In exultation the Negroes jumped up and down, clapping their hands. They shouted, “Hallelujah — de Lawd has saved us!”
To escape from the hay-scented, sweat-scented atmosphere of the loft into the freshness of the outdoor air was a relief, especially to Philip. He made no reference to the scene Adeline had made in the loft till they were safely in their bedroom. Then he said, “I have never been so ashamed of you.”
“Why?” she asked, in a gentle voice. She was examining her face in the mirror.
“Making an exhibition of yourself — just because a Negro preacher made an hysterical prayer.”
“I found it very moving.”
“I found it ridiculous. As for you — all our friends were staring at you in consternation.”
“Were they?” She was not ill-pleased. She took off her bonnet and stroked a wandering lock into