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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 the night before, 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 to-day 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 to-morrow, and damn a hundred Loreen's 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, 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. To-day, 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 arrangements 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 sadly. "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 rightly, 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 center 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 scene 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 un-poetical 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 the saloon was running as regularly as ever. No one on the earth was ever punished
by earthly courts for the murder of Loreen.
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