"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.
