PART 13 of 24 parts
The body of Loreen lay in state in the Page mansion. It was Sunday morning, and the clear, sweet air of the late spring was 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 the people on the avenue going by to Sunday church services directed curious, inquiring looks up at the great house and then went on, talking of the recent events that had made history in the city.
At First Church, Mr. Maxwell, bearing on his face marks of the scene he had been through the night before, confronted an immense congregation. He spoke to it with a passion and a power that came naturally out of the profound experiences of the day before. Yet through his impassioned words this morning there was a note of sadness and rebuke that turned many of the members pale with self-accusation or inward anger.
For Raymond had awakened that morning to the fact that the city had gone for the licensing of liquor after all. The rumor at the Rectangle that the second and third wards had voted for no license proved to be false. It was true that the victory was won by a meager majority, but the result was the same as if it had been overwhelming. Raymond had voted to continue the saloon another year. The Christians of Raymond stood condemned by the result. Hundreds of Christians had failed to go to the polls, and many more than that number had voted with the whisky interests. If all the church members of Raymond had voted against the saloon, it would have been outlawed instead of crowned king of the municipality. That had been the fact in Raymond for years. The saloon ruled.
Then the pastor told the story of Loreen, brutally struck down by the very hand that had led her toward an alcoholic existence. Meanwhile the saloon, which so many Christian people of Raymond voted to support, would open its doors tomorrow and damn with earthly and eternal destruction a hundred Loreens before the year had drawn to its close.
All this, with a voice that rang and trembled, 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, self-confident bearing all gone; his head bowed upon his breast; great tears rolling down his cheeks, unmindful of the fact that never before had he shown outward emotion in a public service.
Nearby Edward Norman sat erect, his clear-cut, keen face looking straight ahead. But his lips trembled and he clutched the end of the pew with deep emotion. No man had given or suffered more to influence public opinion that last 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 long ago he had begun to do as Jesus would have done? Who could tell what might have been accomplished by this time?
And up in the choir, Rachel Winslow gave way to feelings that had never before mastered her. 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, unable emotionally to go on.
Over the church, in the silence that followed this unusual scene, the sounds 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 unseemly 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 springs of life. Now that these had broken to 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 took 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 new war on the entrenched political power of Raymond that would break its reign.
Since that first Sunday when the first company of volunteers had pledged themselves to do as Jesus would do, the meetings had been characterized by different 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 civic life. And all through it ran the one general cry for deliverance from the awful curse of the saloon.
But if the First Church was deeply stirred by the events of the last week, the Rectangle also felt moved strongly 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. Everyone 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? Whom did Miss Page intend to invite? 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. Mr. Gray and his wife were besieged by inquiries wanting 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.
To make a decision about the funeral, Mr. and Mrs. Gray and Henry Maxwell met with Virginia Page at her home.
"I am and always have been opposed to large public funerals," said Mr. Gray, whose simplicity of character was one of his great sources of strength. "But the plea of those people who knew Loreen is so earnest that I cannot refuse their desire to see her and pay this last little honor to her poor body. 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 decide will be right."
"I feel as you do," replied Mr. Maxwell. "Under most circumstances I have a great distaste for what seems like public display at such times. But this seems different. The people at the Rectangle will not come to a service in my church. I think the most Christian thing will be to let them have the service at the tent. How do you feel about it,
"I agree," said
So with some difficulty, arrangements were made to hold the service at the tent.
It happened that a noted newspaper correspondent was passing through Raymond that afternoon on his way to an editorial convention in a neighboring city. He had heard of the unusual goings-on in Raymond, the death of Loreen, and that the service would be held in the tent, and he decided to attend. His description of it caught the attention of many readers throughout the country:
There was a unique funeral service held in Raymond this afternoon in the tent of an evangelist, Rev. John Gray, down in a slum district known as the Rectangle. It was for a woman, Loreen Carson, killed during an election riot last Saturday night. Miss Carson had been recently converted during the evangelist’s meetings and was struck and killed by a bottle thrown from a window while returning from one of the meetings in company with other converts and some of her friends. Though a drunkard and for years known as a woman of the street, the services for Miss Carson were as impressive as any I ever witnessed in a metropolitan church for a distinguished citizen.
First, a most exquisite anthem was sung by a trained choir. I was astonished to hear voices like those one expects to hear only in great churches or at important concerts. But the most remarkable part of the music was a solo sung by a strikingly beautiful young woman, Rachel Winslow, who I understand has been sought by the National Opera, and who for some reason refused to accept an offer to go on the stage. Everybody was weeping before she had sung two dozen words. Miss Winslow sings in the First Church of Raymond, and could probable command a huge salary as a concert artist. She will probably be heard from soon. Such a voice could win its way anywhere.
The funeral service, too, was remarkable. Evangelist John Gray, a man of unassuming style, said a few words and he was followed by the Rev. Henry Maxwell, pastor of the First Church of Raymond. Mr. Maxwell spoke of the dead woman and her decision for Christ. Then he related in an eloquent manner how the liquor business destroyed the lives of men and women. Raymond, being a railroad town and the center of the 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.
Then followed what was perhaps the most unusual 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.
While the singing was going on, the row of women stood up and walked slowly past the casket, and as they went by, each one placed a flower of some kind on 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 at once one of the simplest and one of the most impressive sights I have 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 a rough-looking people. There must have been a hundred of these women, and I was told that many of them had been converted at recent meetings. I cannot describe the effect of that singing. Not a man sang a note. All you heard were women’s voices, 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. In order to catch my train, I had to leave during the prayer, but the last view I caught of the scene as the train moved out of the station was on the great crowd pouring from 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 moving picture in this unpoetical 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 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 lifeless form; for that night He swept more than a score of lost souls, mostly women, into God’s Kingdom.
The saloon, from whose window Loreen had been killed, was formally closed Monday and Tuesday, while the authorities arrested the proprietor who was charged with the murder. But nothing could be proven against anyone, so before Saturday the saloon was running as regularly as ever. And the forces of law were never able to bring anyone to conviction for the murder of Loreen.
No one in all Raymond, including the Rectangle, felt Loreen’s death more keenly than
"I am going to do something with my money to help these women to a better life," said
"How much money have you,
"I have available for use at least 450 thousand dollars. Rollin has as much more. It is one of his bitter regrets now that his extravagant habits of life before his conversion dissipated nearly half of what Father left him. We are both eager to make all the reparation in our power. What would Jesus do with this money? We want to answer that question honestly and wisely. The money I shall put into the News is, I am confident, in line with His probable action. It is as necessary that we have a daily Christian paper in Raymond as it is to have a church or a college. I am satisfied that the half-million dollars going to Mr. Norman will be a powerful factor in Raymond to serve Christ.
"About my other plan, Rachel, I want you to work with me. Rollin and I are going to buy up a large part of the property in the Rectangle. The field where the tent now is located has been in litigation for years. We mean to secure the entire tract as soon as the courts have settled the title. For some time I have been making a special study of the various methods of Christian church work in the heart of great city slums. I do not know that I have yet been able to tell just what is the wisest and most effective kind of work that can be done in Raymond.
"But I do know this much. My money—I mean God’s, which He wants me to use—can build wholesome lodging houses, refuges for poor women, asylums for shop girls, safety for many a lost girl like Loreen. And I do not want to be simply a dispenser of this money. God help me! I want to put myself into the project.
"And now, Rachel, I want you to look at your part in this plan for capturing and saving the Rectangle. Your voice is a power, I have had many ideas lately. Here is one of them. You could organize among the girls a musical institute. Give them the benefit of your training. There are some splendid voices in the rough there. Did anyone ever hear such singing as that yesterday by those women? Rachel, what a beautiful opportunity! You shall have the best that money can buy in the way of musical equipment."
Before
Both young women, in the excitement of their enthusiasm, wept openly.
"Yes, I will gladly put my life into that kind of service!" exclaimed Rachel. "I do believe that Jesus would have me use my life this way.
When Rollin joined them for a brief discussion of their future plans, Rachel studied him with interest. The dissolute look was gone from his face. Eyes that had been listless were now alive with expectancy. Already there seemed to be a firming up of his jawline. His manner toward her was warm, yet somehow cautious, even hesitant. After Rollin left, Rachel and Virginia began to talk of other things.
"By the way, what has become of Jasper Chase?"
Rachel replied with the frankness that had always existed between the two friends. "Jasper proposed to me several weeks ago after one of the tent meetings. I thought that I loved him as he said he loved me, but when he spoke, my heart felt repelled. Somehow his timing was all wrong. I’m afraid my rejection is the reason we haven’t seen him lately."
"I am glad for you," said
"Why?" asked Rachel, a little startled.
"Because I never thought Jasper Chase was right for you. He’s too cold. And I don’t like to judge him, but I questioned his sincerity in taking the pledge at the church with the rest."
Rachel looked at
"He touched my emotions and I admired his skill as a writer. I thought at times that I cared a good deal for him. I think, perhaps, if he had spoken to me at any other time than the one he chose, I could easily have persuaded myself that I loved him. But not now."
Rachel paused suddenly, aware again at the amazing changes taking place in both of them. Where would the Lord lead them next?
