|
|
| print this
In
His Steps
by Charles
M. Sheldon
Chapter
Fifteen
"He
that followeth me shall not walk in darkness."
THE
body of Loreen lay in state at the Page mansion on the avenue.
It was Sunday morning and the clear sweet spring air, just
beginning to breathe over the city the perfume of early
blossoms in the woods and fields, swept over the casket
from one of the open windows at the end of the grand hall.
The church bells were ringing and people on the avenue going
by to service turned curious, inquiring looks up at the
great house and then went on, talking of the recent events
which had so strangely entered into and made history in
the city.
At the First Church, Mr. Maxwell, bearing on his face marks
of the scene he had been through, confronted an immense
congregation, and spoke to it with a passion and a power
that came so naturally out of the profound experiences of
the day before that his people felt for him something of
the old feeling of pride they once had in his dramatic delivery.
Only this was with a different attitude. And all through
his impassioned appeal this morning, there was a note of
sadness and rebuke and stern condemnation that made many
of the members pale with self-accusation or with inward
anger.
For Raymond had awakened that morning to the fact that the
city had gone for license after all. The rumor at the Rectangle
that the second and third wards had gone no-license proved
to be false. It was true that the victory was won by a very
meager majority. But the result was the same as if it had
been overwhelming. Raymond had voted to continue for another
year the saloon. The Christians of Raymond stood condemned
by the result. More than a hundred professing Christian
disciples had failed to go to the polls, and many more than
that number had voted with the whiskey men. If all the church
members of Raymond had voted against the saloon, it would
today be outlawed instead of crowned king of the municipality.
For that had been the fact in Raymond for years. The saloon
ruled. No one denied that. What would Jesus do? And this
woman who had been brutally struck down by the very hand
that had assisted so eagerly to work her earthly ruin what
of her? Was it anything more than the logical sequence of
the whole horrible system of license, that for another year
the very saloon that received her so often and compassed
her degradation, from whose very spot the weapon had been
hurled that struck her dead, would, by the law which the
Christian people of Raymond voted to support, perhaps open
its doors tomorrow and damn a hundred Loreens before the
year had drawn to its bloody close?
All this, with a voice that rang and trembled and broke
in sobs of anguish for the result, did Henry Maxwell pour
out upon his people that Sunday morning. And men and women
wept as he spoke. President Marsh sat there, his usual erect,
handsome, firm, bright self-confident bearing all gone;
his head bowed upon his breast, the great tears rolling
down his cheeks, unmindful of the fact that never before
had he shown outward emotion in a public service. Edward
Norman near by sat with his clear-cut, keen face erect,
but his lip trembled and he clutched the end of the pew
with a feeling of emotion that struck deep into his knowledge
of the truth as Maxwell spoke it. No man had given or suffered
more to influence public opinion that week than Norman.
The thought that the Christian conscience had been aroused
too late or too feebly, lay with a weight of accusation
upon the heart of the editor. What if he had begun to do
as Jesus would have done, long ago? Who could tell what
might have been accomplished by this time! And up in the
choir, Rachel Winslow, with her face bowed on the railing
of the oak screen, gave way to a feeling which she had not
allowed yet to master her, but it so unfitted her for her
part that when Mr. Maxwell finished and she tried to sing
the closing solo after the prayer, her voice broke, and
for the first time in her life she was obliged to sit down,
sobbing, and unable to go on.
Over the church, in the silence that followed this strange
scene, sobs and the noise of weeping arose. When had the
First Church yielded to such a baptism of tears? What had
become of its regular, precise, conventional order of service,
undisturbed by any vulgar emotion and unmoved by any foolish
excitement? But the people had lately had their deepest
convictions touched. They had been living so long on their
surface feelings that they had almost forgotten the deeper
wells of life. Now that they had broken the surface, the
people were convicted of the meaning of their discipleship.
Mr. Maxwell did not ask, this morning, for volunteers to
join those who had already pledged to do as Jesus would.
But when the congregation had finally gone, and he had entered
the lecture-room, it needed but a glance to show him that
the original company of followers had been largely increased.
The meeting was tender; it glowed with the Spirit's presence;
it was alive with strong and lasting resolve to begin a
war on the whiskey power in Raymond that would break its
reign forever. Since the first Sunday when the first company
of volunteers had pledged themselves to do as Jesus would
do, the different meetings had been characterized by distinct
impulses or impressions. Today, the entire force of the
gathering seemed to be directed to this one large purpose.
It was a meeting full of broken prayers of contrition, of
confession, of strong yearning for a new and better city
life. And all through it ran one general cry for deliverance
from the saloon and its awful curse.
But if the First Church was deeply stirred by the events
of the last week, the Rectangle also felt moved strangely
in its own way. The death of Loreen was not in itself so
remarkable a fact. It was her recent acquaintance with the
people from the city that lifted her into special prominence
and surrounded her death with more than ordinary importance.
Every one in the Rectangle knew that Loreen was at this
moment lying in the Page mansion up on the avenue. Exaggerated
reports of the magnificence of the casket had already furnished
material for eager gossip. The Rectangle was excited to
know the details of the funeral. Would it be public? What
did Miss Page intend to do? The Rectangle had never before
mingled even in this distant personal manner with the aristocracy
on the boulevard. The opportunities for doing so were not
frequent. Gray and his wife were besieged by inquirers who
wanted to know what Loreen's friends and acquaintances were
expected to do in paying their last respects to her. For
her acquaintance was large and many of the recent converts
were among her friends.
So that is how it happened that Monday afternoon, at the
tent, the funeral service of Loreen was held before an immense
audience that choked the tent and overflowed beyond all
previous bounds. Gray had gone up to Virginia's and, after
talking it over with her and Maxwell, the arrangement had
been made.
"I
am and always have been opposed to large public funerals,"
said Gray, whose complete wholesome simplicity of character
was one of its great sources of strength; "but the cry of
the poor creatures who knew Loreen is so earnest that I
do not know how to refuse this desire to see her and pay
her poor body some last little honor. What do you think,
Mr. Maxwell? I will be guided by your judgment in the matter.
I am sure that whatever you and Miss Page think best, will
be right."
"I
feel as you do," replied Mr. Maxwell. "Under the circumstances
I have a great distaste for what seems like display at such
times. But this seems different. The people at the Rectangle
will not come here to service. I think the most Christian
thing will be to let them have the service at the tent.
Do you think so, Miss Virginia?"
"Yes,"
said Virginia. "Poor soul! I do not know but that some time
I shall know she gave her life for mine. We certainly cannot
and will not use the occasion for vulgar display. Let her
friends be allowed the gratification of their wishes. I
see no harm in it."
So the arrangements were made, with some difficulty, for
the service at the tent; and Virginia with her uncle and
Rollin, accompanied by Maxwell, Rachel and President Marsh,
and the quartet from the First Church, went down and witnessed
one of the strange things of their lives.
It happened that that afternoon a somewhat noted newspaper
correspondent was passing through Raymond on his way to
an editorial convention in a neighboring city. He heard
of the contemplated service at the tent and went down. His
description of it was written in a graphic style that caught
the attention of very many readers the next day. A fragment
of his account belongs to this part of the history of Raymond:
"There
was a very unique and unusual funeral service held here
this afternoon at the tent of an evangelist, Rev. John Gray,
down in the slum district known as the Rectangle. The occasion
was caused by the killing of a woman during an election
riot last Saturday night. It seems she had been recently
converted during the evangelist's meetings, and was killed
while returning from one of the meetings in company with
other converts and some of her friends. She was a common
street drunkard, and yet the services at the tent were as
impressive as any I ever witnessed in a metropolitan church
over the most distinguished citizen.
"In
the first place, a most exquisite anthem was sung by a trained
choir. It struck me, of course -- being a stranger in the
place -- with considerable astonishment to hear voices like
those one naturally expects to hear only in great churches
or concerts, at such a meeting as this. But the most remarkable
part of the music was a solo sung by a strikingly beautiful
young woman, a Miss Winslow who, if I remember right, is
the young singer who was sought for by Crandall the manager
of National Opera, and who for some reason refused to accept
his offer to go on the stage. She had a most wonderful manner
in singing, and everybody was weeping before she had sung
a dozen words. That, of course, is not so strange an effect
to be produced at a funeral service, but the voice itself
was one of thousands. I understand Miss Winslow sings in
the First Church of Raymond and could probably command almost
any salary as a public singer. She will probably be heard
from soon. Such a voice could win its way anywhere.
"The
service aside from the singing was peculiar. The evangelist,
a man of apparently very simple, unassuming style, spoke
a few words, and he was followed by a fine-looking man,
the Rev. Henry Maxwell, pastor of the First Church of Raymond.
Mr. Maxwell spoke of the fact that the dead woman had been
fully prepared to go, but he spoke in a peculiarly sensitive
manner of the effect of the liquor business on the lives
of men and women like this one. Raymond, of course, being
a railroad town and the centre of the great packing interests
for this region, is full of saloons. I caught from the minister's
remarks that he had only recently changed his views in regard
to license. He certainly made a very striking address, and
yet it was in no sense inappropriate for a funeral.
"Then
followed what was perhaps the queer part of this strange
service. The women in the tent, at least a large part of
them up near the coffin, began to sing in a soft, tearful
way, 'I was a wandering sheep.' Then while the singing was
going on, one row of women stood up and walked slowly past
the casket, and as they went by, each one placed a flower
of some kind upon it. Then they sat down and another row
filed past, leaving their flowers. All the time the singing
continued softly like rain on a tent cover when the wind
is gentle. It was one of the simplest and at the same time
one of the most impressive sights I ever witnessed. The
sides of the tent were up, and hundreds of people who could
not get in, stood outside, all as still as death itself,
with wonderful sadness and solemnity for such rough looking
people. There must have been a hundred of these women, and
I was told many of them had been converted at the meetings
just recently. I cannot describe the effect of that singing.
Not a man sang a note. All women's voices, and so soft,
and yet so distinct, that the effect was startling.
"The
service closed with another solo by Miss Winslow, who sang,
'There were ninety and nine.' And then the evangelist asked
them all to bow their heads while he prayed. I was obliged
in order to catch my train to leave during the prayer, and
the last view I caught of the service as the train went
by the shops was a sight of the great crowd pouring out
of the tent and forming in open ranks while the coffin was
borne out by six of the women. It is a long time since I
have seen such a picture in this unpoetic Republic."
If Loreen's funeral impressed a passing stranger like this,
it is not difficult to imagine the profound feelings of
those who had been so intimately connected with her life
and death. Nothing had ever entered the Rectangle that had
moved it so deeply as Loreen's body in that coffin. And
the Holy Spirit seemed to bless with special power the use
of this senseless clay. For that night He swept more than
a score of lost souls, mostly women, into the fold of the
Good Shepherd.
It should be said here that Mr. Maxwell's statements concerning
the opening of the saloon from whose windows Loreen had
been killed, proved nearly exactly true. It was formally
closed Monday and Tuesday while the authorities made arrests
of the proprietors charged with the murder. But nothing
could be proved against any one, and before Saturday of
that week the saloon was running as regularly as ever. No
one on the earth was ever punished by earthly courts for
the murder of Loreen.
|
|
GO
BACK
GO
BACK