by Lynn Austin
I watched her put away her knitting and slowly rise to her feet, leaning on the arms of her chair. I wondered if she was as disappointed in me as Aunt Matt was for getting so caught up in the social scene. Grandmother worked very hard for several charitable causes, yet I’d shown no interest at all in what she did. She had asked me to help her knit socks, but I hadn’t taken time to do that either.
“To tell you the truth, Grandmother, a lot of what goes on at these high-society functions seems a bit … phony. I want to find a good husband but …” I shrugged and left the sentence dangling. She rested her hand on my arm.
“What is your definition of good? A wealthy one?”
“I don’t know anymore. According to Aunt Agnes, Father sent me to Chicago to find a proper husband. So does that mean he wants me to marry into high society?”
Grandmother removed her hand and turned away. “I really don’t know, dear. Your father doesn’t tell me what he’s thinking.” Her voice sounded sad.
“But you’re his mother. Why doesn’t he—?”
“It’s very late,” she said, stifling a yawn. “We’d better go to bed. Will you be coming to church with me tomorrow?”
Attending weekly church services was a chore to me, and I longed to sleep until noon on Sunday. But I didn’t want to hurt Grandmother’s feelings—especially after she’d waited up for me tonight.
“Yes,” I replied. “I would be happy to go to church with you.”
Chapter
9
Sunday, June 11, 1893
Sunday morning dawned much too soon. I regretted my promise to attend church services with my grandmother the moment she tapped on my bedroom door to awaken me.
“Violet Rose? If you still want to come to church with me you’ll need to get up soon.”
“Okay,” I mumbled. “I’m up.” But I waited until the last possible moment to climb out of bed, just as I had in boarding school. I could get dressed faster than any of the other girls could. It helped that I always skipped breakfast—as I planned to do this morning.
Grandmother was waiting for me in the front hall when I finally descended the stairs. I still wore my hair pinned up from last night— a trick I’d learned that helped me get ready faster—but it looked very disheveled. I had also learned that I could avoid fussing with it by wearing a very large hat.
“Ready?” Grandmother asked.
I managed to nod in reply. I could barely keep up with her as she set off briskly down the street. Maybe I could squeeze in a short nap during the sermon.
“How far away is your church?” I asked, hoping it belonged to the steeple I saw on the next block.
“We’ll have to take a streetcar. It’s too far to walk. The church is downtown, on the corner of Chicago and LaSalle Streets.” I perked up at the name LaSalle, the street where my mother lived. If only I had thought to bring her address.
We took the same streetcar that Aunt Matt and I had taken and got off at the LaSalle Street stop. Then we boarded another car that drove straight up LaSalle. I studied all of the buildings we passed, wondering if my mother was inside one of them at this very moment, a stone’s throw away from me. Most of the buildings looked more like offices than residential dwellings.
My grandmother took me by the arm the moment we stepped off the streetcar and towed me behind her like a tugboat hauling an overloaded barge. She seemed flushed and excited and in a great hurry to get to church.
“What’s the rush?” I asked as I stumbled along behind her. “Are we late?”
“Not yet. But there’s someone I want you to meet before the service starts.” She led me to an enormous brick building, several stories tall, with an even taller, castlelike tower.
“I can’t believe this is a church,” I said, gazing up at the imposing building.
“The first church that Dwight Moody founded was over on Illinois Street, but it burned down during the Great Fire. He dedicated this building five years later.”
I was wide-awake now. My mother and father had met during the Great Fire. Maybe I could find another clue to the mystery.
“Did my grandfather preach at that other church?” I asked. “Did you live in Chicago at the time of the fire?”
“No, your grandfather’s church was in Lockport—you know that.”
I feared that my arm would come out of the socket as she pulled me up the stairs and into the building. She stopped once we reached the dim foyer and craned her neck to look around at the milling crowd, searching for someone.
“Ah, there he is!” she said with a smile of relief. “Yoo-hoo! Louis! Here we are!” She towed me by the arm toward a young man in his midtwenties who was kneading his hat in his hands.
“Louis, this is my granddaughter, Violet Rose.” She beamed as if presenting him with the grand prize in a prestigious contest. “And, Violet, I’d like you to meet a dear young friend of mine, Louis Decker.”
“How do you do, Miss Hayes? Your grandmother has told me so much about you. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Um … a pleasure, Mr. Decker.”
I confess that I was much too surprised to say anything else.Was he the reason why my grandmother had been so eager for me to accompany her? Was she trying to find a husband for me too? I suppose it was only fair, since Aunt Agnes was doing the same thing, but I had never expected matchmaking from my grandmother.
Louis Decker was a compact, vigorous-looking young man with dark, discerning eyes behind his smudged, wire-rimmed spectacles. He was the first man I’d met in Chicago who seemed able to look at me rather than at my pretty facade. Nevertheless, I wished I had taken more time with my appearance.
“Louis is a student at the Chicago Evangelistic Society,” Grandmother explained. “We’ve both been helping with Mr. Moody’s campaign to win souls for the Lord while the Columbian Exposition is in town.”
“Are you interested in Mr. Moody’s work too, Miss Hayes?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of him.”
He blinked and his eyes widened in surprise.
“I’ve been away at boarding school for the past three years,” I quickly explained, “and I’ve only been in Chicago for a week.”
“I see. Well, Dwight L. Moody is a very famous evangelist who has traveled all over the United States and England, leading people to the Savior. And now that the whole world is coming to Chicago for the Exposition, he has organized a special campaign to preach the Gospel all over the city.”
“Louis is very dedicated to Mr. Moody’s work,” my grandmother added, patting his shoulder. “And he also helps me with my work with the poor.”
Louis held up his hands in protest. “It’s all for the Lord’s glory. After all, He has done so much for me.” They might have been speaking a foreign language.
The best word to describe Louis Decker would be intense. He had a sense of urgency about him, as if a celestial clock was ticking away the seconds and soon he would have to give a thorough accounting of himself to the Almighty. Louis had longish hair and he wore a rumpled suit, but unlike my own tousled appearance, which was the result of my own laziness, Mr. Decker’s dishevelment seemed the result of his having more important matters to attend to than his appearance.
“Why don’t you take Violet Rose to see the Sunday school?” Grandmother asked. “There’s time before the service starts. I’ll meet you back here in a few minutes.”
Louis nodded and led the way, plowing a path through the crowd for me. He was either too shy or too focused on his mission to offer me his arm, so I followed him as best I could. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.
The Sunday school children—and there were hundreds of them—were the poorest, most bedraggled souls I’d ever seen. Not one of them wore a decent set of clothing. I saw outfits that were many sizes too big or too small, ragged, worn out, falling apart at the seams. Most of the children were without shoes, and the shoes I did see obviously didn’t fit—or were about to disi
ntegrate. I thought of the cold winters in Illinois and knew that if Grandmother and I both knit from now until Christmas, we would never be able to make enough warm socks for all those dirty, callused little feet.
“Oh my!” My hands fluttered helplessly. “Oh, the poor little dears!” I looked at their matted hair and scabby faces, and I couldn’t help comparing them to pudgy, well-scrubbed Horace and Harriet, who had probably never known a day of want in their lives. Louis Decker must have noticed the tears that had sprung to my eyes.
“We can always use an extra pair of hands around here,” he said gently.
“Yes … I-I can see that you might.”
“The Gospel gives them hope, Miss Hayes. Jesus was born into poverty, just as they were. And He loved these little ones. He said, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.’ That’s what our work is all about— building the kingdom.”
“They seem very happy here.” It was true. I saw smiles on nearly every little face in spite of their destitution.
“Mr. Moody started out as a shoe salesman,” Louis told me. “He saw kids like these roaming Chicago’s streets, and he made up his mind to start a Sunday school for them. His father had died when he was a child, and he understood what it was like to grow up desperately poor. But he also knew that God promises to be a Father to the fatherless.”
“What about the motherless?” I murmured.
Louis bent his head toward mine and cupped his ear. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you above the noise.”
“Nothing. Please continue.”
“Mr. Moody’s first Sunday school classes met in a converted saloon, but when that space became too small, he raised money to build his first church over on Illinois Street. He eventually had fifteen hundred children in his classes. President Lincoln heard about it and paid the Sunday school a visit. Mr. Moody is still a salesman—and I mean that in the best sense of the word. Only now he’s using his talent to pitch the Gospel instead of shoes.”
I could only nod, too moved by all of the ragged, exuberant children to speak. I recalled the fervor of Mr. McClure’s presentation aboard the train for Dr. Dean’s Blood Builder, and I tried to imagine that same fervor applied in selling religion. Louis Decker reminded me of Silas McClure and of Herman Beckett all rolled together into one man; he had the same restless energy I’d seen in the elixir salesman, combined with Herman’s somber earnestness. If he had Nelson Kent’s fortune, he could have transformed the world.
“We’d better find your grandmother,” Louis finally said. He gently led me away from the pitiful children, walking back the way we had come. I confess that I couldn’t have turned aside on my own.
“Have you enjoyed your visit to Chicago so far, Miss Hayes? How have you been occupying your time?”
His question caused the tears in my eyes to overflow. I couldn’t reply. My own superficiality horrified me. I’d spent my time sipping tea and preening to win a wealthy husband. I shuddered at the thought of all the wasted food I’d seen at Aunt Agnes’ parties, at all of the money her society friends spent on gowns and jewels, and at the shallowness of my pea-pod dancing partners. Louis Decker lived a life that was meaningful, and mine felt banal and superficial in comparison. What good were all of the fine manners I’d learned at Madame Beauchamps’ School for Young Ladies when children were shivering and hungry?
“I would like to help you with your work,” I said, wiping a tear.
He smiled for the first time. “I’d be honored, Miss Hayes. Do you play the piano, by any chance?”
“Yes, a little. I haven’t practiced in weeks though.Why do you ask?”
“We’re desperate for a pianist for some of our evangelistic services. Mr. Moody rents theaters in various parts of the city and puts up tents in order to preach to the crowds wherever he finds them.
You could be a tremendous help if you would be willing to accompany us on the piano for our song services.”
“Oh, but I’m not a professional by any means.”
“That doesn’t matter. The music is quite simple—four-part hymns, usually. I could give you a copy of Mr. Sankey’s songbook so you could practice in advance.”
“I-I guess I could give it a try.” I was glad that at least one other thing I’d learned at Madame B.’s besides my enigmatic smile would be put to good use.
“I understand that your grandfather was an outstanding preacher—and that your father worked for Mr. Moody around the time of the Great Fire.”
“What? Not my father. You must be mistaken. He owns a bunch of grain elevators in Lockport.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I’m mistaken. I must have misunderstood what your grandmother told me.”
What had she told Louis? And what other secrets was my family keeping from me? Anger boiled up inside me the way it had the night I’d learned the truth about my mother. I was trying not to let it spew out when Louis spoke again.
“I would love to hear your testimony, Miss Hayes.”
“My what?”
“Your testimony—the story of your faith.”
I drew a deep breath, not sure of what he meant. “There isn’t much to tell. My father and I usually attend a small church in Lockport, but religion doesn’t seem to interest him very much— which is why I’m certain you’re mistaken about his working for Mr. Moody. When I went away to boarding school, the headmistress required all of us to attend church services on Sunday. It was our duty, Madame B. said. She called it our ‘weekly obligation.’ My grandmother is much more religious than Father and I are. She pours all of her energy into her causes, as I’m sure you know. My grandfather was a minister, as you also know, but my father seems rather indifferent when it comes to religion.”
“What about you, Violet? I’m not asking about your father’s faith or your grandmother’s. I want to know about yours.”
I had no idea what to say. Going to church was simply something everyone did on Sunday. The religious traditions were especially nice during the holidays. But Louis Decker seemed to imply that there should be more to it than that.
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” he said when I didn’t reply. “I’d just like to get to know you a little better.” He removed his smudged spectacles and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to clean them. I saw no difference at all when he’d finished rubbing them and had put them on again.
“I would like to know you better too,” I said.
I longed to ask him one of my “If you could choose” questions, but I didn’t dare. I didn’t want him to know how frivolous and shallow I really was. My wild flights of imagination seemed immature compared to the serious work he did every day. For some reason I wanted Louis to like me, to approve of me—and I sensed that he would be shocked to learn that I enjoyed reading detective stories and dime novels. I had just met Louis Decker a few minutes ago, yet I cared very much about what he thought of me. Was it for my grandmother’s sake or for my own?
We found my grandmother again, and she looked so hopeful as she studied our faces that I was certain she was indeed playing matchmaker. I never would have expected it of her.
“I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Hayes,” Louis said as we parted.
“Yes. So do I.” I meant it too.
The Sunday worship service in my grandmother’s church was very different from the one back home in Lockport. The music was livelier, the preaching more passionate, and for once I had no trouble at all staying awake during the sermon.
“Is this where you come to do your charity work every day?” I asked her later as we rode the streetcar home.
“This is just one of the places where I’m needed.Why do you ask?”
“Mr. Decker asked me to come back with you some time and play the piano for the song services.”
“And are you going to?”
“I told him I would try. I’m not a very accomplished player. And I’m horribly out of practice.”
“Louis
is a very fine young man. He works tirelessly for the Lord.”
“He asked if he could see me again. He wants to get to know me better.”
“I’m so glad.” Grandmother and I sat side by side on the wooden streetcar seat and she rested her hand on top of mine. “I realize that Louis Decker can’t compete with all of the wealthy suitors Agnes has lined up for you. But I think that in the long run you would find life with a man like Louis much more meaningful than a life of endless parties and teas.”
I suspected that she was right. And I was quite certain that a man like Louis Decker wouldn’t commit adultery.
“Can I ask you something?” I said after a moment. “Louis said that my father used to work with Mr. Moody. Is that true?” The streetcar rumbled down an entire city block before she replied.
“Your father was a volunteer with Mr. Moody’s Yokefellows.”
“What are Yokefellows?”
“It’s a group of layman he started. They go around to saloons and bars searching for converts.”
Now it was my turn to pause as I summoned the courage to ask my next question.
“Was that how he met my mother?”
“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t know all the details of the night they met, but I know that it wasn’t in a saloon.”
“Aunt Birdie said that my parents met during the Great Fire. Is that true?”
Again Grandmother hesitated for a long time, as if deciding whether or not to talk about my mother. I knew that she might not answer, but I also knew that she wouldn’t lie.
“Yes, it’s true,” she said quietly. “Your father rescued her.”
“Rescued her? How?”
“Your father had gone to the evening service at Mr. Moody’s Illinois Street church. It was a beautiful building with Sunday school classrooms, an office, a library … He told me that Mr. Moody preached a sermon on the life of Jesus. The service was still in progress, in fact, when they heard all the fire engines rushing past. Then the great courthouse bell began to toll in warning, and the congregation started to grow restless, concerned about all the noise and confusion in the streets outside. Mr. Moody ended the service so everyone could leave. The fire swept through the city that night, burning Mr. Moody’s church and his home to the ground.”