In thirty minutes she passed along several streets, each a little more run-down and poverty-scarred than the last. The packed snow was dirty, and as she went farther, the cinders from the chimneys of factories fell like black snowflakes. Frame houses leaned against one another for support, ornamented by ragged washing that hung from lines in the barren yards, and by children of all ages who played in the streets. Some blocks were lined with ugly brick buildings several stories high, sparsely scattered with smeared glass windows. Most of them had large chimneys, and dirty clouds of coal-smoke rose heavily to foul the skies.
The people she met were all poorly dressed, and once a man came up and put his hand on her arm. She could smell the liquor on him. “Come on, now!” he grinned drunkenly. “Let’s you and me have a li’l drink, sweetie!”
She pulled away, revolted, as he cursed and reeled down the street. For an hour longer she walked down the unpaved streets, and her feet were wet from wading through the dirty slush. It was almost ten o’clock when she came to the end of the industrial section. There was only one brick factory on her left, and six miserable unpainted shacks that seemed to huddle together for warmth. One woman was boiling something in a large black pot on an open fire, and an old man was being led inside one of the huts by a child.
Rebekah stood uncertainly, looking out at the fields where cows grazed and a few small farmhouses lay back from the winding road that led east. She was very cold, and her arm ached from carrying the suitcase. She was thirsty as well, her lips dry and her throat thick with the sharp, acrid smoke that churned from the factories.
Wearily she turned, and would have made her way back, but she heard a voice call. Turning, she saw the woman who was stirring the pot lift a hand and motion for her to come. She hesitated, then walked across the street and into the yard that was littered with trash mixed with the mush of dirty snow.
“You look all tired out, dearie,” the woman said. She herself looked quite worn; her body was thin beneath the shapeless woolsey dress, and her face pale except for two spots of red on her cheekbones. There were only traces of an earlier beauty left now; her hands were rough and reddened by hard work and by the cold, and her shoulders stooped. When she smiled, her teeth were yellowed and stained. Somewhere in her thirties, Rebekah decided. The woman’s face was hardened by a rough life, but the kindness in her blue eyes warmed Rebekah.
“I’m a little tired,” Rebekah admitted. Then she asked, “Could I trouble you for a drink of water?”
“Why, ’course you can!” the woman replied. “You stir these clothes, and I’ll fix you a drink.”
Rebekah took the stick the woman had used to stir the clothes in the big black pot. As she pushed them around she noticed that most of the clothes were for a baby.
“Take this now, dearie!”
Rebekah drank the water, then smiled gratefully. “Thank you. I was so thirsty.”
“That’s the smoke as does that. I’m Mary Sullivan. What do they call you, dearie?”
“Rebekah Jackson.”
“My, what a pretty name!” She studied the girl before her openly. “You come all the way from downtown?”
“Yes. It’s a long way.”
“That it is. And it so cold and all—maybe you’d like to have some coffee and a bite of toast, and thaw out a bit before you go back?”
Rebekah hesitated, and the woman said a bit defensively, “ ’Course, it ain’t so fine, you know—”
“Oh no, it’s not that!” Rebekah said quickly. “I just don’t want to be a bother.”
“Bother!” Mary scoffed. “Let me finish boiling these things out, and I’ll make us a warm snack.”
“Oh, let me do that!”
The woman looked at Rebekah strangely as she held out the washing stick. “That’ll be a help.” Quickly, Rebekah set down her suitcase and began stirring the clothes again.
Ten minutes later, Mary was back to say, “Let me wring these out, and we’ll have our coffee.”
“Let me help.”
Mary protested, “You’ll get your hands all red!” But Rebekah only laughed, and the two of them quickly finished the job. Then Mary said, “Come on now,” and led her into the house.
It was dark, the only light coming from two small windows, and the floor was hard-packed earth. The small room contained a table and three chairs, an old mattress, a battered chest of drawers and a large box that had been made into a bed for a baby. The room was heated by a small fireplace, and the smell of fresh coffee and warm bread made Rebekah hungry.
“We’ll hang them clothes later,” Mary said. She went to pick up the baby, and holding him up said with a proud smile, “This is Mister Timothy Sullivan—ain’t he a fine man now?”
Rebekah moved closer and the baby peered at her, then gave a loud belch and smiled toothlessly. “Oh, he’s a fine boy!” she exclaimed. “Can I hold him?”
“Well—I can’t make no guarantees, Rebekah,” Mary said doubtfully. “He’s about as messy as the next one.”
“I don’t mind.” She took the baby and sat down in one of the chairs, pushing his fat cheeks with one finger, laughing when he made bubbles. She took his hand and examined it carefully, marveling at the perfect little nails.
She did not see Mary’s intent gaze, and looked up in surprise when she asked, “You like babies?”
“Why, everybody likes them, don’t they?”
Mary’s face tightened and she said shortly, “Not everybody.” Then she turned away and began to pour coffee into two mugs. She took two pieces of toast that had been browning over the fire in a wire grill, and set them on the table. “Let’s have a bite,” she offered. “Go ahead and put Timothy in his bed.”
“Can I hold him later?”
Mary hesitated, and once again her eyes brightened. “Sure you can—but let’s eat a bite first.”
Rebekah put the baby in the bed, then came and sat down. “I always thank the Lord for the food,” Mary said.
“I think that’s good, Mary.”
“Lord, we thank Thee for the food. Bless this guest and provide for all our needs. I ask it in the name of Jesus.” Then she looked up and smiled. “Have some of this jelly. Made it myself from berries that grow in the bog.”
They began to eat, and the toast and jelly was so good that Rebekah wolfed hers down. Mary noticed, and got up, saying, “I declare, I’m so hungry I could eat some more!” She made four more pieces of toast, but ate only one, saying, “Guess my eyes were bigger than my stomach—you’ll have to eat the rest, Rebekah.”
After they had eaten, Mary put some more coal on the fire and suggested, “If you’re in no hurry, we might talk a bit.”
“I’m in no hurry, Mary,” she replied. “I don’t have any place to go, anyway.”
Mary’s expression did not change. “What about your people?”
“I—I can’t go there.”
As they sat in front of the glowing coals, Rebekah found herself telling Mary Sullivan her story. It came out slowly, for parts of it were still difficult for Rebekah to talk about. Patiently the older woman listened, occasionally stopping her to ask a question. In less than an hour, Mary knew it all.
When Rebekah finished, she shook her head. “I didn’t mean to burden you with my troubles, Mary. It’ll work out somehow—but I guess I best be going now.” She started to get up, but Mary stopped her.
“Don’t go, Rebekah. I’m thinking we might be able to help each other.” Mary took a sip of coffee. “I’ve got me a job at the factory down the street. It’s hard work and it don’t pay much, but it’s more than lots of folks have. But I don’t have nobody to keep my baby.”
Rebekah saw that Mary’s eyes were anxious. “Are you asking me to do that, Mary?”
She nodded. “I don’t know if you’re a Christian or not, but I’ve been praying for God to send somebody to help me with Timmy—and it comes to me you’re the one He’s sent.” She chuckled. “We entertain angels unawares, Mr. Finney said.”
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p; Rebekah shook her head. “I’m no angel, Mary.” Looking outside, she murmured softly, “I have no place to go—and now my baby won’t have a father.”
“Mine never did either,” Mary answered, taking another sip of coffee. “I used to leave Timmy with a woman down the street, but she drinks terrible. I come home yesterday and she was passed out and him on the floor where she’d dropped him. I can’t stand that!”
Rebekah said slowly, “I’ve been praying too, Mary. Maybe God does want us to be together.” She rose and went to pick up the baby, then said, “I’m willing to do what I can.”
Mary’s eyes filled with tears, and she whispered, “Thank you, Lord Jesus! It’s just like Mr. Finney said—God always hears our prayers!”
“Who is Mr. Finney, Mary?”
“Why—Rev. Charles Finney. Surely you’ve heard of him!”
“I don’t think so.”
“He is an evangelist, Rebekah,” Mary said eagerly. “He made a church out of the Chatham Street Theatre and that’s where I was converted. Now I try to go to church every night I can.” She paused and smiled. “We’ll go tonight, Rebekah—me and you and Timmy! You won’t believe the preachin’ of our pastor, Rev. Finney!”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE ANXIOUS SEAT
The Free Church—an offshoot of the Chatham Street Chapel that had been established several years before—looked like any other church, but Rebekah could see that the people flowing steadily into the building were not the type who would normally frequent such a place. Most of them were poorly dressed factory workers and other members of the lower class.
“Come along, Rebekah!” Mary urged. “There’ll still be some good seats if we hurry. Let me take Timmy.”
“No, you just lead the way, Mary—I’m not tired.” Mary’s stamina amazed Rebekah. The two-mile walk to the church had been difficult, and they had taken turns carrying the baby. Rebekah wondered at the determination of her friend, who usually came alone—carrying Timmy both ways. Following Mary up the steps, she marveled at the light of expectation on the faces of those around her. Everyone seemed to be sharing some sort of glad anticipation at the service to come, just as Mary did. This was a novelty to Rebekah, for her faithfulness in attending services had been required of her by her parents. Uneasily she realized that her religion lacked something—whatever it was that put excitement on the faces of the men and women who moved eagerly to find seats.
“Now—this will do us fine!” The two women found seats relatively close to the front. Mary took Timmy, and Rebekah stretched her aching arms as she looked over the crowd. The church was packed, and the place hummed as people talked and laughed together.
The platform was bare except for a few straight chairs and a stand with a pitcher of water on it. In front of the platform was a long, low bench that caught her attention because it was placed in such a way that no one sitting on it could possibly see. “What’s that bench for, Mary?” she asked.
“That? Why, that’s the anxious seat, Becky.”
“The what?”
Mary laughed and squeezed Rebekah’s arm. “That’s what Rev. Finney used to call it.” She had a sober light in her eyes as she recounted the story. “I used to go to Chatham Street Chapel when I was living a bad life. Went there many a time so drunk I could hardly stand up—and with some of the lowest men who ever drew breath.” She had been blunt about the sordidness of her past life—and now the memory of those days came back to her, drawing her lips tight with regret. After a few seconds, her face softened. “But that’s all under the blood of Jesus, praise God!”
“But—what’s the anxious seat?”
“Ah, you’ll see tonight, Becky. When Rev. Finney preaches the gospel, talking about how wicked sinners are and how they need to leave their sin—why, people start to get anxious! You’ll see! First time, I just went to the chapel to hear Mr. Finney ’cause a friend of mine asked me. Had no idea of getting religion—not likely! I just come in, and we set right on the balcony. ’Course, I was just wanting it to be over so I could go get some gin. There was the singing—and then Rev. Finney stood up behind the pulpit and started preaching—and that was it for Mary Sullivan!”
“What happened?”
“Why, he preached about Jesus on the cross, and how the Savior was nailed to it for our sins. It was real strange, Rebekah! There was nigh onto a thousand people in the place—but all at once it was like he was talking right to me. He looked right up to the balcony and pointed at me—and he called out, ‘Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world!’—oh, Rebekah, it just came near to killin’ me! I started to cry, and all the time he preached I was just sitting there cryin’ an’ cryin’!”
Rebekah saw tears fill Mary’s eyes. “What happened then, Mary?”
“When Rev. Finney finished preaching, he asked everyone who wanted to be saved from their sin to come to the front, but I couldn’t do it! I was too bad! So I was just cryin’ like to die, and this young woman come and put her hand on my arm and said kind of quiet like, ‘Sister, let me go with you to the anxious seat. God wants to do a work in your life.’ So I went down and it was a time, I tell you, Becky!
“The devil had me tight, and lots of people come to pray for me, but seemed like nothing worked—and finally Rev. Finney himself come and looked at me with them blazing eyes of his, and he prayed for me so hard—and as he was praying, I just sort of gave up—and soon as I did, the Lord came into my heart and I was saved!”
Mary’s worn face, lined with fatigue, glowed; Rebekah wondered at the joy she saw there. “It was hard, Rebekah—after, I mean. Oh, it was hard! I’d been drinking a lot and running with a wild crowd! And I—I was carrying Timmy, though I didn’t know it. I’d never worked, but the Lord carried me through it all. My job ain’t much, but it’s enough for Timmy and me—and now the Lord’s sent you to me to help!—Oh, look, the service is about to start . . .”
Rebekah looked up to see a tall man in a black suit come out on the platform, followed by several others who seated themselves in the other chairs. “That’s Brother White,” Mary said. “He does the music.”
White shouted, “Let us sing of the mercies of the Lord!” As he lifted his voice, everyone stood and joined in, and the sound of hundreds of voices filled the church and overflowed outside. It was a song that Rebekah had often sung in her own church, but it had never sounded like this!
When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride!
Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast
Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most
I sacrifice them to His blood!
The sound rose like waves, breaking against the walls with a joyful triumph Rebekah had never heard before. The trained voices of the choir in her home church had been technically superior—but this was full of life! Filled with joy, she was moved to tears as the worshipful words rolled out:
See from His head, His hands, His feet
Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
Did ere such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?
The singing went on and on, at times triumphant and victorious, sometimes more quietly, but always the faces of those around her glowed with expressions of such peace and joy that Rebekah marvelled.
After several more hymns, the song leader stepped back, and another man seated in the chairs behind him stood up. “That’s Rev. Finney!” Mary whispered. Charles Grandison Finney was a serious-looking, smooth-shaven man of medium height. Stepping forward to read his text, he paused, then looked around the church. His gaze was intensely electrifying, penetrating the crowd. Rebekah felt as if he were looking right at her, though she knew that was unlikely. As he read his text, the clear tones of his solemn voice carried easily to the farthest corners of the building.
This preacher followed closely the techniques that he had used during the revivals some years before. Rebekah later learned that Finney had practiced law in upper New York state, but left his profession to enter the ministry after a dramatic conversion experience. His powerful preaching drew thousands to the revival meetings, but his methods—or the “New Measures,” as they were called—often brought him into conflict with established church leadership: He prayed publicly for people by name, permitted females to pray in public meetings, invaded towns without an invitation from the local pastor, employed the use of the anxious seat, conducted inquiry meetings, and called for the immediate admission of converts into churches.
Finney’s evangelism ministry in “The Burned-Over District” of Rochester had been enormously successful. After two years there, he moved into New York City in 1832; his success as a pastor of the Chatham Street Chapel rivaled his victories as an evangelist. From the time he first took up the work, Finney insisted that the church should not be filled with Christians from other churches, but by new converts. As soon as the mother church was filled, a group was sent out to form a new one. There were seven churches in the area that had been planted by the Chatham Street Chapel, including the one they were attending tonight.
“My text is taken from Luke, chapter thirteen, the third verse,” Finney announced. “ ‘Except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish.’ “ For nearly two hours the congregation sat spellbound as he went from scripture to scripture, proving that men were lost and on their way to hell; that unless they turned from their sin to find forgiveness, there was no hope.
The man had a systematic method of preaching, each point being laid down in careful succession. Like someone building a house, he first laid a foundation, then raised the walls and finally capped it with a roof, so that it stood complete. The roof, in this case, was an invitation: Those who felt they needed to be saved from hell should come forward.
The Reluctant Bridegroom Page 5