There was only a much-worn red-and-black carpet on the floor reinforced by coarse floor matting in the aisles, and the walls were white plaster, much cracked, with no attempt at decoration. The windows had a border of colored paper in imitation of stained glass, and the rest of the panes were coated with something white that looked like whitewash. The pulpit was plain and stained with a wood grain. The two chairs behind it were covered with haircloth, the donation of an old elder long since departed from this life. It was plain and dingy and unassuming in the extreme, nothing beautiful nor churchlike about it; yet the moment Constance entered, she felt a pleasant sense of cheer and hopefulness.
They sat about halfway up the side, and Constance looked about her in wonder. The church was filling rapidly. It was evident there would be no empty seats. Two old ladies in front nodded their black bonnets together, whispering loudly about some sick one in their family. They took an eager interest in all the newcomers who walked up the aisles, keeping up a running comment on them. Constance quite enjoyed it. Her eyes danced in spite of her, though the rest of her face was demure. She kept reminding herself that this was a church service, though it was so unlike any she had ever attended before that it was hard to realize it.
She compared it to the deeply carpeted aisles and dim arches of the stately edifice in which she had been accustomed to worship on Sundays, and a sense of the vast difference made her wonder whether this church were not a sort of travesty on the sacred temple of the living God. Yet she knew that in her own church there was probably, that evening, no such crowd gathered to worship, for the home church was not well attended in the evening. She had been once at night with a relative who was visiting with them, and there were no more than forty people in the great church. She had heard it said that that was the usual evening attendance except upon special occasions. She had always supposed that most people were weary in the evening and did not care to go to church; for her own part, she had never felt a desire to go again.
The minister came up the aisle just a moment later. The people at the door seemed to flock about him and be anxious each to have a word with him, and many followed in at once as if his coming was what they had been waiting for. The old sexton, a little man with grizzly hair and a roughly shaven face, went to the front door and took hold of the bell rope. With a pause, as if he would give the boys about the steps a warning, he held his hands high for an instant and then threw his weight upon the rope, and the old bell turned and gave forth a doleful utterance, loud, penetrating, wailing, yet solemn as a warning from the grave. The whole church shook with the fervor of its utterance. Constance started, and looked around to see what could possibly be happening. But all the people sat still, and no one seemed to think there was anything unusual going on. Gradually it dawned upon her that the hour for evening service was being rung and that this ceremony had been waited for by that line of boys outside the door, who now were slipping in and filling the back seats decorously enough. An elderly woman with tired eyes and hair sprinkled with gray took her place at the cabinet organ, and as soon as the last reverberation of the bell died away, the organ began.
To Constance’s ear, trained to enjoy a symphony orchestra, the whole thing was awful. The bell seemed like the falling of tin pans and pots and kettles in one awful clanging crash; the organ reminded her of an asthmatic cat, as it drawled out a gospel hymn.
To Jimmy, whose soul rejoiced in both bell and organ, the sounds were solemn and awe-inspiring. Whenever he sat in church—and particularly since this new minister had come—and the old bell began its work, little tingling thrills of mingled joy and awesomeness would go through him. He felt it tonight in double force, because, in a sense, the church was his, and he was displaying it. He glanced at his companion a number of times to see whether she was properly impressed, and was well pleased to see her turn to watch the bell ringer an instant.
Jimmy took delight in song, and he was glad for the tune that had been selected for an opening that evening, “There Is Life for a Look at the Crucified One.” It was a favorite one since Mr. Endicott came there. He had them sing it a great deal. Jimmy liked it. He knew all the words and even growled it out to himself sometimes when he was dressing in the mornings. He found the place in the book and held it out to his companion. Constance took it, her eyes dancing with the merriment she felt over the organ prelude.
But now the people began to sing, and Jimmy was singing. His little colorless brows were drawn together in an earnest frown, and he was putting his whole soul into the words. So were all the people. They dragged horribly, it is true, and their voices were untrained and nasal, but they were singing from the heart, and they were all singing. Their minister had trained them to do that. He had impressed it upon them that the music was a part of the service as much as the prayer or the sermon, and it was their part. He had told them that he could not do his part well without their incense of prayer and praise, for which God listened and waited. So they sang.
Presently the spirit in the room came over Constance, too, and she sang. The words were impressive. Constance could not help wondering whether the men around the store heard and whether the words meant anything to them. Was there life for such men as that at this moment if they chose to take it? Could they turn around by simply believing in a system of religion and be different? Did the crucified One have a real power in the world, or not?
Constance was unconsciously dealing with deep theological subjects, but ever since the change had come into her life, she had been more or less filled with the thought of God: how and why He let certain things happen to certain people; whether He really did take any personal interest in individuals as the Bible stated. She would have been incredulous if she had been told that she might as well have been an out-and-out infidel all her life as the kind of negative, indifferent Christian she had been; a Christian only because she had been confirmed when a child and because it belonged to the traditions of her house to be trained that way. It had given her no peace or comfort, nor had it been in any way a part of her daily thought or life. Not until she spent those days with her aunt Susan had it come to her to wonder whether there was anything else in religion for her than the mere going to church once on Sunday and giving to charitable causes when asked.
The people bowed their heads with a slight rustle, and Constance bowed her head also. The minister prayed briefly.
“Jesus Christ, Thou who hast promised that where two or three are gathered together in Thy name there Thou wilt be in the midst of them, help us to feel Thy presence here tonight in this room. Let Thy Spirit brood over each heart, and impress us with Thy life that is freely given to us. Help us to take it. Help us to know if we are not taking it.”
During the rest of the opening exercises Constance watched the minister. She made up her mind that he was an interesting man.
And this was the man who had patronized her tearoom the first day of its opening. She had caught one glimpse of his face as she passed into the library through the hall. She had not connected him then with the man who had addressed her in the moonlight, and indeed had almost forgotten about that little adventure, for John Endicott had never yet made up his mind to say anything more to her about the matter. His little experience with Silas Barton on the day when he had been to the tearoom, and Mrs. Bartlett’s after-comments with pursed lips and offended air, had made him cautious of the new family. He did not care to become town talk. He would bide his time.
So Constance was having her first view of him in full bright light. She decided at once there was something fine about him that held attention. He looked like a man who would be true no matter what came.
He divided his subject that evening into three points, with a text for each. The first was “Ye will not come to me, that ye might have life.” He spoke very simply and searchingly about the indifference of the world to Jesus Christ and the general apathy concerning eternal life, while yet life was the thing that all were reaching after. As he talked, Constance felt that he w
as looking straight at her and searching into her life. She knew suddenly that hers was an empty life, an indifferent life, just the kind of life he had been describing. She listened intently to all that he said. His directness appealed to her. She was ready for the next point.
“I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.” The common idea that Christianity was a wearisome business was combated by the words of Jesus Himself. He was come that everyone might have life in abundance, full, free, delightful, not a poor groveling for existence. He spoke just a word on what life should be—life at its fullest—and compared it to the life that many led. Then he told of a poor, hungry wanderer whom someone brought into his house and put down to a table abundantly supplied with all the good things of the season, plenty, more than could be eaten, and in richness and variety. He showed them how that was what Jesus would do for the soul that would come to Him.
Jimmy sat there, his eyes big and round, drinking it all in, thinking of the fine meals he had had lately of Norah’s cooking and comparing them to the scanty ones that were sometimes served in his own home, where his mother could barely get bread enough to go around. Jimmy was not quite sure what part of him his soul was, but he felt that he would like to have his soul as well supplied as his hungry little stomach had been lately. A dim idea of what more abundant life might mean was dawning upon his young animal senses, and it was appealing to him through the new experiences that had been his since Constance came.
Constance looked about the room. Every eye was upon the minister. People had forgotten about everything but what he was saying. In some faces there was a wistful longing for a fuller life. Constance suddenly knew that her own heart felt a great need.
She turned back, wondering whether in this little country church, with its outlandish furnishings, atrocious music, and uncultivated people, she was to find anything that would satisfy her.
The sermon had reached the third point.
“And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent.”
The minister pictured a life that not even death could cause to tremble and fear because Jesus had conquered all things, even death.
The speaker’s voice changed slightly, as one will change tone to speak to another person who stands close by, and he said, “O Jesus Christ, wilt Thou show this roomful of people how much joy and comfort and life they might find in Thee if they will come and get acquainted with Thee, as a man talks with his friend face-to-face? Go with us this week, and help us to get hold of a different kind of life, the kind of life Thou canst give us if we know Thee. We ask it because Thou hast promised, and we trust in Thee. Amen.”
There was a solemnity that pervaded the audience even after the hymn was given out. No one looked at his neighbor, or stirred to gather up wraps. All were intent upon the hymn, which seemed to be looked for as a kind of climax to the sermon. And Constance found herself looking curiously at the words to see what the preacher had selected to finish his discourse.
“I sighed for rest and happiness;
I yearned for them, not Thee;
But, while I passed my Saviour by,
His love laid hold on me.”
As she read the words, Constance felt as if they were written for her, and she longed to be able to sing the chorus with the heartiness of the old man who sat across the aisle.
“Now none but Christ can satisfy;
No other name for me;
There’s love, and life, and lasting joy,
Lord Jesus, found in Thee.”
As Constance followed Jimmy down the aisle after the benediction, she was conscious of having been a part of that service more than of any service she had ever attended before in her life.
“We are glad to see you here tonight,” said the minister at the door as he reached out a welcoming hand.
“Thank you,” said Constance simply. “I have enjoyed the service.”
It was merely a pleasant thing to say, but in spite of herself Constance put more meaning into the tone than she wished to do. She did not care to have that minister see how deeply into self he had searched for her. But there came a sudden lighting of his eyes as if he had met a kindred spirit.
“Then you know Him,” he said in a low tone, for the groups about them were talking to one another at that moment and did not seem to notice. They were almost at the steps.
He looked at her almost eagerly. It seemed as if he longed to have her understand.
Constance was embarrassed. She did not know how to reply. Her face flushed.
“I am afraid not, in the way you have been describing,” she answered half shyly. Then the crowd surged between them, and she went out with Jimmy.
Jimmy was very quiet on the way home. He seemed thoughtful. At last he said, “Thet there dinner he told ’bout was like some o’ yours. Say, I guess you’re one o’ them kind of folks, ain’t you?”
Constance started in the darkness. The same question with the same taking-for-granted tone that the minister had used. Only the phraseology differed. She had been honest with herself and the minister, and confessed that she was not what she had been supposed, but now with Jimmy she shrank from saying no. She recognized a something in his voice like inquiry. She knew instantly, though she had had no experience in such things, that this little soul was reaching out after some kind of newness of life. He was as ready to take it from Jesus Christ as he had been to take it from Constance Wetherill. Her instinct told her that it might be disastrous to him to be turned aside from his search for better things. Strange to say, though she was not fully impressed that Constance Wetherill needed newness of life, she fully realized that Jimmy Watts did. Therefore she hesitated for an answer and found herself turning the question upon her interrogator.
“Are you, Jimmy?”
Jimmy kicked a stone out of his path and dug his hands deeper into his Sunday pockets in search of something familiar to help him out.
“Never knowed much ’bout sech things. I might try ef I thought I could be like him. He’s great, he is. Mebbe I’ll try,” said Jimmy. “Good night!” And he sped away into the darkness.
Chapter 15
The next afternoon Jennie made her second call. “I saw you at church last night. I meant to speak to you, but you got out so quick I couldn’t. I sing in the choir. Didn’t you see me? I nodded to you twice, but you just looked straight ahead. I s’pose you didn’t expect to see me up there, did you? Yes, I sing. I’ve sung ever since I was a little mite of a thing. They used to have me sing at all the children’s concerts when I was little. They asked me to sing, and I don’t mind. It makes something goin’ on. Si didn’t like it very well when he found out I’d promised, ’cause, you see, he don’t like the minister. He says he meddles with what don’t concern him and tries to make trouble about his selling sodas on Sunday. Well, I don’t know but I ’gree with him. I’ve got a boyfriend that drives a truck. He goes all over the country and has real nice times, and he makes a whole lot of money. I wish Si had some business like that. But there’s no use talkin’, Si is awfully set. Say, why don’t you bob your hair?”
Constance hesitated. She could not tell this bobbed head that she hated it.
“I never saw any hair look prettier than yours,” went on her admirer, “and yet it isn’t like that in the fashion magazines. It doesn’t look quite fashionable to me.”
Constance smiled pleasantly. “Don’t you think it is better for people to have a little individuality in the way they dress? They can conform, of course, to the general mode of the prevailing style, but when it comes to every woman in the world cutting her hair just because someone else does, it seems ridiculous. I think it is so much better to wear things that are becoming.”
“I never thought about it that way,” said Jennie thoughtfully.
Constance ventured a little further.
“Did you ever try your hair in that new way so many girls use now, parted and waved and d
one in a soft knot behind? I think that would be becoming to you, and your hair seems quite long enough to do that way.”
Jennie rose and walked solemnly to a mirror that hung at one end of the room, where she surveyed herself with dissatisfaction.
Constance went on, “You should study the lines of your head and face, and try to follow them. See, you have put your head all out of proportion, letting your hair bush out that way.”
Jennie blushed uncomfortably. She had been very proud of her hair, but she admired her new friend exceedingly, and she now perceived that one or the other must go. Which should it be? She looked at the clear reflection of herself in the glass and then back to the cultured, lovely face of her friend, crowned by the soft golden-brown hair, then again to herself in the glass; and behold, she was no longer pleased with her pretty little self.
“Fix it!” she demanded, tears springing into her eyes. “Put it up like yours.”
Constance sat in dismay before her, her hands shrinking from the task put upon them. Her influence had worked with a vengeance. Arrange human hair on another head other than her own! Horrible! Her flesh shrank back from the thought. She, who had always from her very babyhood had someone to arrange her own hair whenever she chose, to be asked to arrange the hair of this coarse, possibly unclean girl! How could she?
“Won’t it fix like yours?” demanded Jennie, anxiously peering through her bushy locks, a kind of fierce desperation in her eyes. Constance was touched. She had undone this girl’s self-satisfaction and given her nothing in its place. She must help her out.
It is strange how interested Constance was in that hair after she had once conquered her aversion to touching it. The skillful fingers went to work, swiftly subduing the wiry locks to comeliness. In a few minutes Jennie stood before the glass, staring in amazement. She did not know herself.
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