Chapter Twenty-one Master, I will follow Thee whithersoever Thou goest. THE Saturday afternoon matinee at the Auditorium in Chicago was just over and the usual crowd was struggling to get to its carriage before any one else. The Auditorium attendant was shouting out the numbers of different carriages and the carriage doors were slamming as the horses were driven rapidly up to the curb, held there impatiently by the drivers who had shivered long in the raw east wind, and then let go to plunge for a few minutes into the river of vehicles that tossed under the elevated railway and finally went whirling off up the avenue. Now then, 624, shouted the Auditorium attendant; 624! he repeated, and there dashed up to the curb a splendid span of black horses attached to a carriage having the monogram, C. R. S. in gilt letters on the panel of the door. Two girls stepped out of the crowd towards the carriage. The older one had entered and taken her seat and the attendant was still holding the door open for the younger, who stood hesitating on the curb. Come, Felicia! What are you waiting for! I shall freeze to death! called the voice from the carriage. The girl outside of the carriage hastily unpinned a bunch of English violets from her dress and handed them to a small boy who was standing shivering on the edge of the sidewalk almost under the horses feet. He took them, with a look of astonishment and a Thank ye, lady! and instantly buried a very grimy face in the bunch of perfume. The girl stepped into the carriage, the door shut with the incisive bang peculiar to well-made carriages of this sort, and in a few moments the coachman was speeding the horses rapidly up one of the boulevards. You are always doing some queer thing or other, Felicia, said the older girl as the carriage whirled on past the great residences already brilliantly lighted. Am I? What have I done that is queer now, Rose? asked the other, looking up suddenly and turning her head towards her sister. Oh, giving those violets to that boy! He looked as if he needed a good hot supper more than a bunch of violets. Its a wonder you didnt invite him home with us. I shouldnt have been surprised if you had. You are always doing such queer things. Would it be queer to invite a boy like that to come to the house and get a hot supper? Felicia asked the question softly and almost as if she were alone. Queer isnt just the word, of course, replied Rose indifferently. It would be what Madam Blanc calls outre. Decidedly. Therefore you will please not invite him or others like him to hot suppers because I suggested it. Oh, dear! Im awfully tired. She yawned, and Felicia silently looked out of the window in the door. The concert was stupid and the violinist was simply a bore. I dont see how you could sit so still through it all, Rose exclaimed a little impatiently. I liked the music, answered Felicia quietly. You like anything. I never saw a girl with so little critical taste. Felicia colored slightly, but would not answer. Rose yawned again, and then hummed a fragment of a popular song. Then she exclaimed abruptly: Im sick of most everything. I hope the Shadows of London will be exciting tonight. The Shadows of Chicago, murmured Felicia. The Shadows of Chicago! The Shadows of London, the play, the great drama with its wonderful scenery, the sensation of New York for two months. You know we have a box with the Delanos tonight. Felicia turned her face towards her sister. Her great brown eyes were very expressive and not altogether free from a sparkle of luminous heat. And yet we never weep over the real thing on the actual stage of life. What are the Shadows of London on the stage to the shadows of London or Chicago as they really exist? Why dont we get excited over the facts as they are? Because the actual people are dirty and disagreeable and its too much bother, I suppose, replied Rose carelessly. Felicia, you can never reform the world. Whats the use? Were not to blame for the poverty and misery. There have always been rich and poor; and there always will be. We ought to be thankful were rich. Suppose Christ had gone on that principle, replied Felicia, with unusual persistence. Do you remember Dr. Bruces sermon on that verse a few Sundays ago: For ye know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich yet for our sakes he became poor, that ye through his poverty might become rich? I remember it well enough, said Rose with some petulance, and didnt Dr. Bruce go on to say that there is no blame attached to people who have wealth if they are kind and give to the needs of the poor? And I am sure that he himself is pretty comfortably settled. He never gives up his luxuries just because some people go hungry. What good would it do if he did? I tell you, Felicia, there will always be poor and rich in spite of all we can do. Ever since Rachel Winslow has written about those queer doings in Raymond you have upset the whole family. People cant live at that concert pitch all the time. You see if Rachel doesnt give it up soon. Its a great pity she doesnt come to Chicago and sing in the Auditorium concerts. She has received an offer. Im going to write and urge her to come. Im just dying to hear her sing. Felicia looked out of the window and was silent. The carriage rolled on past two blocks of magnificent private residences and turned into a wide driveway under a covered passage, and the sisters hurried into the house. It was an elegant mansion of gray stone furnished like a palace, every corner of it warm with the luxury of paintings, sculpture, art and modern refinement. The owner of it all, Mr. Charles R. Sterling, stood before an open grate fire smoking a cigar. He had made his money in grain speculation and railroad ventures, and was reputed to be worth something over two millions. His wife was a sister of Mrs. Winslow of Raymond. She had been an invalid for several years. The two girls, Rose and Felicia, were the only children. Rose was twenty-one years old, fair, vivacious, educated in a fashionable college, just entering society and already somewhat cynical and indifferent. A very hard young lady to please, her father said, sometimes playfully, sometimes sternly. Felicia was nineteen, with a tropical beauty somewhat like her cousin, Rachel Winslow, with warm, generous impulses just waking into Christian feeling, capable of all sorts of expression, a puzzle to her father, a source of irritation to her mother and with a great unsurveyed territory of thought and action in herself, of which she was more than dimly conscious. There was that in Felicia that would easily endure any condition in life if only the liberty to act fully on her conscientious convictions were granted her. Heres a letter for you, Felicia, said Mr. Sterling, handing it to her. Felicia sat down and instantly opened the letter, saying as she did so: Its from Rachel. Well, whats the latest news from Raymond? asked Mr. Sterling, taking his cigar out of his mouth and looking at Felicia with half-shut eyes, as if he were studying her. Rachel says Dr. Bruce has been staying in Raymond for two Sundays and has seemed very much interested in Mr. Maxwells pledge in the First Church. What does Rachel say about herself? asked Rose, who was lying on a couch almost buried under elegant cushions. She is still singing at the Rectangle. Since the tent meetings closed she sings in an old hall until the new buildings which her friend, Virginia Page, is putting up are completed. I must write Rachel to come to Chicago and visit us. She ought not to throw away her voice in that railroad town upon all those people who dont appreciate her. Mr. Sterling lighted a new cigar and Rose exclaimed: Rachel is so queer. She might set Chicago wild with her voice if she sang in the Auditorium. And there she goes on throwing it away on people who dont know what they are hearing. Rachel wont come here unless she can do it and keep her pledge at the same time, said Felicia, after a pause. What pledge? Mr. Sterling asked the question and then added hastily: Oh, I know, yes! A very peculiar thing that. Alexander Powers used to be a friend of mine. We learned telegraphy in the same office. Made a great sensation when he resigned and handed over that evidence to the Interstate Commerce Commission. And hes back at his telegraph again. There have been queer doings in Raymond during the past year. I wonder what Dr. Bruce thinks of it on the whole. I must have a talk with him about it. He is at home and will preach tomorrow, said Felicia. Perhaps he will tell us something about it. There was silence for a minute. Then Felicia said abruptly, as if she had gone on with a spoken thought to some invisible hearer: And what if he should propose the same pledge to the Nazareth Avenue Church? Who? What are you talking about? asked her father a little sharply. About Dr. Bruce. I say, what if he should propose to our church what Mr. Maxwell proposed to his, and ask for volunteers who would pledge themselves to do everything after asking the question, What would Jesus do? Theres no danger of it, said Rose, rising suddenly from the couch as the tea-bell rang. Its a very impracticable movement, to my mind, said Mr. Sterling shortly. I understand from Rachels letter that the Raymond church is going to make an attempt to extend the idea of the pledge to other churches. If it succeeds it will certainly make great changes in the churches and in peoples lives, said Felicia. Oh, well, lets have some tea first! said Rose, walking into the dining-room. Her father and Felicia followed, and the meal proceeded in silence. Mrs. Sterling had her meals served in her room. Mr. Sterling was preoccupied. He ate very little and excused himself early, and although it was Saturday night, he remarked as he went out that he should be down town on some special business. Dont you think father looks very much disturbed lately? asked Felicia a little while after he had gone out. Oh, I dont know! I hadnt noticed anything unusual, replied Rose. After a silence she said: Are you going to the play tonight, Felicia? Mrs. Delano will be here at half past seven. I think you ought to go. She will feel hurt if you refuse. Ill go. I dont care about it. I can see shadows enough without going to the play. Thats a doleful remark for a girl nineteen years old to make, replied Rose. But then youre queer in your ideas anyhow, Felicia. If you are going up to see mother, tell her Ill run in after the play if she is still awake. Chapter Twenty-two FELICIA started off to the play not very happy, but she was familiar with that feeling, only sometimes she was more unhappy than at others. Her feeling expressed itself tonight by a withdrawal into herself. When the company was seated in the box and the curtain had gone up Felicia was back of the others and remained for the evening by herself. Mrs. Delano, as chaperon for half a dozen young ladies, understood Felicia well enough to know that she was queer, as Rose so often said, and she made no attempt to draw her out of her corner. And so the girl really experienced that night by herself one of the feelings that added to the momentum that was increasing the coming on of her great crisis. The play was an English melodrama, full of startling situations, realistic scenery and unexpected climaxes. There was one scene in the third act that impressed even Rose Sterling. It was midnight on Blackfriars Bridge. The Thames flowed dark and forbidden below. St. Pauls rose through the dim light imposing, its dome seeming to float above the buildings surrounding it. The figure of a child came upon the bridge and stood there for a moment peering about as if looking for some one. Several persons were crossing the bridge, but in one of the recesses about midway of the river a woman stood, leaning out over the parapet, with a strained agony of face and figure that told plainly of her intention. Just as she was stealthily mounting the parapet to throw herself into the river, the child caught sight of her, ran forward with a shrill cry more animal than human, and seizing the womans dress dragged back upon it with all her little strength. Then there came suddenly upon the scene two other characters who had already figured in the play, a tall, handsome, athletic gentleman dressed in the fashion, attended by a slim-figured lad who was as refined in dress and appearance as the little girl clinging to her mother, who was mournfully hideous in her rags and repulsive poverty. These two, the gentleman and the lad, prevented the attempted suicide, and after a tableau on the bridge where the audience learned that the man and woman were brother and sister, the scene was transferred to the interior of one of the slum tenements in the East Side of London. Here the scene painter and carpenter had done their utmost to produce an exact copy of a famous court and alley well known to the poor creatures who make up a part of the outcast London humanity. The rags, the crowding, the vileness, the broken furniture, the horrible animal existence forced upon creatures made in Gods image were so skilfully shown in this scene that more than one elegant woman in the theatre, seated like Rose Sterling in a sumptuous box surrounded with silk hangings and velvet covered railing, caught herself shrinking back a little as if contamination were possible from the nearness of this piece of scenery. It was almost too realistic, and yet it had a horrible fascination for Felicia as she sat there alone, buried back in a cushioned seat and absorbed in thoughts that went far beyond the dialogue on the stage. From the tenement scene the play shifted to the interior of a noblemans palace, and almost a sigh of relief went up all over the house at the sight of the accustomed luxury of the upper classes. The contrast was startling. It was brought about by a clever piece of staging that allowed only a few moments to elapse between the slum and the palace scene. The dialogue went on, the actors came and went in their various roles, but upon Felicia the play made but one distinct impression. In realty the scenes on the bridge and in the slums were only incidents in the story of the play, but Felicia found herself living those scenes over and over. She had never philosophized about the causes of human misery, she was not old enough she had not the temperament that philosophizes. But she felt intensely, and this was not the first time she had felt the contrast thrust into her feeling between the upper and the lower conditions of human life. It had been growing upon her until it had made her what Rose called queer, and other people in her circle of wealthy acquaintances called very unusual. It was simply the human problem in its extreme of riches and poverty, its refinement and its vileness, that was, in spite of her unconscious attempts to struggle against the facts, burning into her life the impression that would in the end either transform her into a woman of rare love and self-sacrifice for the world, or a miserable enigma to herself and all who knew her. Come, Felicia, arent you going home? said Rose. The play was over, the curtain down, and people were going noisily out, laughing and gossiping as if The Shadows of London were simply good diversion, as they were, put on the stage so effectively. Felicia rose and went out with the rest quietly, and with the absorbed feeling that had actually left her in her seat oblivious of the plays ending. She was never absent-minded, but often thought herself into a condition that left her alone in the midst of a crowd. Well, what did you think of it? asked Rose when the sisters had reached home and were in the drawing-room. Rose really had considerable respect for Felicias judgment of a play. I thought it was a pretty fair picture of real life. I mean the acting, said Rose, annoyed. The bridge scene was well acted, especially the womans part. I thought the man overdid the sentiment a little. Did you? I enjoyed that. And wasnt the scene between the two cousins funny when they first learned they were related? But the slum scene was horrible. I think they ought not to show such things in a play. They are too painful. They must be painful in real life, too, replied Felicia. Yes, but we dont have to look at the real thing. Its bad enough at the theatre where we pay for it. Rose went into the dining-room and began to eat from a plate of fruit and cakes on the sideboard. Are you going up to see mother? asked Felicia after a while. She had remained in front of the drawing-room fireplace. No, replied Rose from the other room. I wont trouble her tonight. If you go in tell her I am too tired to be agreeable. So Felicia turned into her mothers room, as she went up the great staircase and down the upper hall. The light was burning there, and the servant who always waited on Mrs. Sterling was beckoning Felicia to come in. Tell Clara to go out, exclaimed Mrs. Sterling as Felicia came up to the bed. Felicia was surprised, but she did as her mother bade her, and then inquired how she was feeling. Felicia, said her mother, can you pray? The question was so unlike any her mother had ever asked before that she was startled. But she answered: Why, yes, mother. Why do you ask such a question? Felicia, I am frightened. Your father--I have had such strange fears about him all day. Something is wrong with him. I want you to pray--. Now, here, mother? Yes. Pray, Felicia. Felicia reached out her hand and took her mothers. It was trembling. Mrs. Sterling had never shown such tenderness for her younger daughter, and her strange demand now was the first real sign of any confidence in Felicias character. The girl kneeled, still holding her mothers trembling hand, and prayed. It is doubtful if she had ever prayed aloud before. She must have said in her prayer the words that her mother needed, for when it was silent in the room the invalid was weeping softly and her nervous tension was over. Felicia stayed some time. When she was assured that her mother would not need her any longer she rose to go. Good night, mother. You must let Clara call me if you feel badly in the night. I feel better now. Then as Felicia was moving away, Mrs. Sterling said: Wont you kiss me, Felicia? Felicia went back and bent over her mother. The kiss was almost as strange to her as the prayer had been. When Felicia went out of the room her cheeks were wet with tears. She had not often cried since she was a little child. Sunday morning at the Sterling mansion was generally very quiet. The girls usually went to church at eleven oclock service. Mr. Sterling was not a member but a heavy contributor, and he generally went to church in the morning. This time he did not come down to breakfast, and finally sent word by a servant that he did not feel well enough to go out. So Rose and Felicia drove up to the door of the Nazareth Avenue Church and entered the family pew alone. When Dr. Bruce walked out of the room at the rear of the platform and went up to the pulpit to open the Bible as his custom was, those who knew him best did not detect anything unusual in his manner or his expression. He proceeded with the service as usual. He was calm and his voice was steady and firm. His prayer was the first intimation the people had of anything new or strange in the service. It is safe to say that the Nazareth Avenue Church had not heard Dr. Bruce offer such a prayer before during the twelve years he had been pastor there. How would a minister be likely to pray who had come out of a revolution in Christian feeling that had completely changed his definition of what was meant by following Jesus? No one in Nazareth Avenue Church had any idea that the Rev. Calvin Bruce, D. D., the dignified, cultured, refined Doctor of Divinity, had within a few days been crying like a little child on his knees, asking for strength and courage and Christlikeness to speak his Sunday message; and yet the prayer was an unconscious involuntary disclosure of his souls experience such as the Nazareth Avenue people had seldom heard, and never before from that pulpit.
Posted on: Wed, 29 Jan 2014 13:53:43 +0000
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