AT CHURCH
That Sunday evening Aurora Lane sat alone in her dingy little home. The
walls seemed to her close as those of any prison. She found about her
nothing of comfort. For once the little white bedside, all her life her
shrine, failed in its ministration. There rose in her heart a great
vague hunger for gregarious worship--the sort which all these others had
freely offered every week of all their lives--that same wish for
gregarious worship on which are based all the churches, all the creeds,
of all the world. As never in her life before Aurora felt now that she
could no longer fight alone, in solitude--she needed something--she
needed the sight of other faces, the touch of other hearts; needed the
assemblage, the crowd--needed, in short, the world _en masse_, as we all
do. She had lived without association and without sympathy too long. Now
her starved nature at last rebelled.
So, having prayed faithfully, Aurora Lane rose not wholly comforted; and
therefore she resolved to break the habit of her life, as she had lived
it more than twenty years in this little town. In all that time she had
not been within the door of any church, but now she felt that she must
go--must be at least in part like to all these others on this evening of
the Sabbath day.
The main note of such a community as Spring Valley is that of a resigned
acceptance of life. This means a drab middle course, of small heroics,
which yet does not debar from a quiet sympathy and mutual understanding.
This in turn essentially implies some manner of religious belief, for
the most part of the passive, un-investigative sort. Without doubt the
church of this or that denomination--and in any such community there
will be many--is the club and the court alike to those who maintain its
beliefs--aye, and it is their hope and stay as well.
Aurora chose the largest church, where there was most apt to be the
largest congregation. Passing there, she had heard the organ roll in its
moving appeal. It seemed to her that she must hear music or she must
starve, must die. The drain on her nature now had been so great that,
much as every impulse drew her to yonder other edifice, the one with
iron bars where lay her own son, a prisoner, she could not go there,
could not see him again, until she herself had had restoration of some
of the forces of her own life. She wanted music--she wanted light--she
wanted the presence, close, near to her, of other human beings. Surely
they must know--surely they too must some time have suffered, have
grieved, have yearned.
The slow life of the little town, which the excitement of this
extraordinary Sabbath had so largely diverted from its usual channels,
now began to reassemble and to trickle toward the conventional meeting
grounds. Those who had been delinquent at the morning services were at
least tonight devout.
There is a sort of life of affairs, a sort of business life, of any
church in any community. Thus, there may be many meetings beside that of
the Sabbath day, in each church in any community. There must fall the
practice of the choir, weekly, usually of Wednesday, sometimes of
Saturday evenings as well, if the anthem prove especially difficult of
mastery.
As to the choir proper, there must of course be the soprano--not always
elocutionist, as was the soprano in this church of Spring Valley--but
always well-clad, most frequently with long and glossy curls of chestnut
and the most modish hat of any in the church. Most tenors are bank
clerks or cashiers. It is the function of the tenor in any such choir to
escort the soprano to her home. The contralto is for the most part
married, beginning to show _embonpoint_. She is brunette, with wide and
pleasant mouth; is able to make excellent currant jelly, of which she
gives her neighbors generously. Her attire is apt to be not quite so
well-appointed as that of the soprano, which indeed should not be
expected of the mother of three, the arrangement of those white starched
collars in a part of each Sunday's task. The basso may sometimes be a
school teacher, yet some of the best have been owners of livery barns,
no more; modest folk withal, and covetous of the back seat in the choir.
To this essential personnel of the church choir there may be added
others, supplements or understudies for this or that musical part, young
men with large cameo pins in their cravats, young women with spectacles.
All these who sing soprano or contralto, at least all who still are
young, must be taken home after services--not only the regular services
of the church, but those of the choir practice midway of the week or at
the week's close. And thereto, one must count the weekly prayer
meetings, mostly for the old, but for the young in part.
It is, therefore, easy to be seen that the vestibule of any Spring
Valley church of a Wednesday evening, sometimes of a Thursday evening,
quite often a Saturday evening, and always of a Sunday evening, must
hold a certain lay representation of the community. It is, or once was,
one of the proper functions of the village church to act as social
meeting ground. Practically all of the respectable marriages in Spring
Valley actually were contracted, at least as to the preliminary stages,
under the eaves of this or that church.
The vestibule was crowded this Sunday evening, as was customary, when
Aurora Lane, quite alone, turned in from the sidewalk and ascended the
eight broad wooden steps up to the church door. Passing thence to the
inner door, she felt the silence which came upon the boys and young men
who loitered there, waiting for the entrance or the exit of those of the
opposite sex. She felt the stares which fell upon her--felt, rather than
saw, the icy disapproval which greeted her even here, even among these.
But she passed by, entered the house of worship, and sank into a seat
very far back in the long, bare, ghastly, rectangular room.
Before or after the entry of Aurora Lane, there failed not in coming
those who sit in judgment upon the lives of their fellows--the baker,
the butcher, the school teacher, the hanger of paper, the maker of
candlesticks as well. All these were here, parts of the life of this
community. Miss Julia was not there, as Aurora Lane discovered. She
wondered dully if it had not been her duty to go around to the library
and ask for Miss Julia; but the longing for personal solitude had been
as strong in her heart as the longing for silent human companionship, so
she had come alone. In truth Miss Julia was recreant tonight. She was
alone in her own room--alone with her diary--that is to say, face to
face with the picture of the same man whom Aurora Lane had met that
afternoon.
In the slowly filling pews there reigned now silence, broken only by the
shuffling footfalls of the arrivals, that uneasy, solemn silence which
holds those seated and waiting for the services at church. A school
teacher who was born in the East somewhere leaned her head forward on
the back of the seat before her, and with a certain ostentation prayed,
or seemed to pray. Others would have done this very fetching thing as
well, but lacked the courage, so sat coldly, stiffly, unhappily, bolt
upright, awaiting the arrival of the minister.
The tenor came after a time, soon following the soprano, models alike of
social graces and correct attire. They passed modestly, seemingly
unregardful of the glances bent upon them. The bass singer was more
conscious of his ill-fitting clothes as he hurried up the aisle, his
Adam's apple agitated, betokening his lack of ease. The soprano by this
time was shaking out her curls, fussing among the music sheets at the
top of the organ, pushing back the stool, twirling its top about--all
the while still quite highly unmindful of the gazes of the audience. The
contralto came last, her brow furrowed with the thought that perhaps she
had not left the cold meat on the table where her husband, the doctor,
would find it when he came back from the country.
Came also in due and proper time the minister of church, the pillar of
it all, bearing in his hand, rolled in its leather case, the sermon
which he had written last Thursday morning--and which perforce he had
been obliged wholly to rewrite since Saturday at noon! For, be sure,
this sermon must take up the issues of the day--must stand for the
weekly platform of the town's morality. The eyes of all now were bent
upon the little roll of leather in the preacher's hand. They knew what
must be there. In a way they moistened their lips. This was why the
attendance was so large and prompt tonight.
But Aurora Lane, unskilled in any of these things, the prey to so many
conflicting emotions at this hour, a novice in the house of God, sat
silent, her hands folded, well enough aware she was not welcomed by
those who saw her there, yet craving of them, dumbly, anguished, all
their tolerance in her time of need.
Now the organ rolled after its fashion. There were voices not too highly
skilled, perhaps, yet after all productive of a certain melody. The
music softened the ice of Aurora Lane's heart. She felt that after all
she was a human being, as these others all about her. Was not this
anthem universal in its wording? Did it not say "Come unto Me"? Did it
not say something about "All ye"?--something about "Whosoever"? And
Aurora Lane, all her life debarred from this manner of human
classification, felt her heart tremble within her bosom as she heard
these universal, all-embracing words. Those about her, righteous,
virtuous, heard them not at all, because they had been sung so oft
before.
The text of the evening matters little. Everyone there, excepting Aurora
Lane, knew that the real text was the red-handed young criminal lying in
the prison.
The preacher invoked the wrath of God upon him who had raised his hand
against the life of one of the town's beloved. He read large lessons as
to right living, educed all proper morals from these events, so
startling, which had come upon this peaceful town. In short, he preached
what manner of sermon he must have preached in this manner of church and
this manner of town. At times his voice was low and tense, at times his
tones grew thunderous. And every word he said he felt was true, or
thought was true, or hoped to be the truth; because he himself had
written it; and this was the Lord's day; and these were the services
wherein the Lord is worshiped regularly.
But the music of the anthem remained in Aurora Lane's soul, so that she
was practically unconscious of all this. Her mind was vague, dazed. She
did not know her son had been tried and found guilty. The words clung in
her heart; "All ye"; "Whosoever." And presently they sang yet another
hymn, and in it again were the words, "Come unto Me!" There was great
emotional uplift in all Spring Valley this day. The minister felt the
emotion, here upon the souls of his audience. He prayed for what he
termed an awakening.
But Aurora was not awakened. On the contrary, for a time her strained
senses seemed dull, relaxed. Only she heard the music, only the Divine
words still lingered in her consciousness. It seemed but a moment to her
before she saw all the others rising noisily, opening hymn books, for
the final hymn. She herself therefore rose and stood silently, her hands
folded before her, her eyes fixed forward. They sang a dismissal hymn.
Perhaps there were some who really praised God, from Whom all blessings
flow. The minister raised his hands in that benediction which sent them
all away full of a sense of duty done, albeit a trifle guilty as to that
moral awakening regarding which the minister righteously had upbraided
them.
All this was but the usual and regular experience of the congregation.
To this woman, this outcast, the unconscious object of the wrath so
lately uttered from the pulpit, it had been a great and gracious
experience. Yes, she said to herself, she had been one of these others!
She was within sight and touch of other women. There were boys and
girls, young human beings, close to her, all about her. And nothing had
happened to her after all!
Her precious words, assimilated rather from the hymns than from the
sermon, were uppermost in her consciousness as, absorbed, almost
unseeing, she stepped out once more into the vestibule. "All ye ...
_All_ ye...."
Many passed her; none addressed her; a few drew aside their gowns as she
came near. All stared. A sort of commotion therefore existed in the back
portion of the vestibule as she emerged. The eyes of many young men
were upon her boldly, curiously, insultingly, perhaps--she did not know.
It is a part of the formula of village life in such a community as
Spring Valley, for the young men thus lingering in the vestibule to
accost the maidens of their choice as they emerge from the body proper
of the church building. The youth steps forward--preceding any rival if
he may--removes his hat, at least in part, and having gained the
maiden's eye, speaks the unvarying phrase, "May I see you home tonight?"
Whereupon the young lady, smiling if favorably disposed to him, is
expected to take his arm in sight of all; and they thus, arm in arm,
descend the eight wooden steps to the sidewalk, and so walk away
undisturbed. Thus there gradually ensues a general pairing off of all.
The swain or the maid left alone is not rated of the social elect. This
is the selecting place of the sexes, far more than the sacred parlor
with its horsehair chairs and its album midway on the table of the
marble top.
But now, as the little assemblage in the vestibule dissipated, there
came an added commotion, not at the rear, but at the front of the
vestibule. Someone was pushing on inside of the door--someone who
apparently did not belong there.
It was the half-witted son of Ephraim Adamson, John, commonly called
Johnnie, the idiot! Why he had come hither, why he was allowed to come,
none might say, nor why he came unattended by any of his kin as was the
usual custom. But none molested him. A bold youth said "Hello, Johnnie,"
and Johnnie respectfully took off his hat to him with an amiable grin.
They would have mocked him had they dared, but in truth none knew what
to do with him.
When Aurora Lane had passed in part the gauntlet of the loitering
youths, and was about to step down the stair into the street, she felt a
heavy hand fall on her arm. Then a peal of laughter rose back of
her--laughter on the threshold of the church itself. For what the
half-wit did was what he had seen these others do. Sidling up to her,
his hat off, he said, "May I see--may I see you home this--this
evening?"
This was accounted the greatest jest, the most unfailingly mirthful
thing in the recountal, ever known in the annals of Spring Valley.
Aurora Lane started back from him in sudden shocked loathing, swiftly
resentful also of the mocking laughter that she heard from those who
still stood within the sanctuary. Sanctuary? Was there such a place as
sanctuary for her in all the world? Was there any place where she might
be safe, where she might be unmolested?
"Go on away!" she said sharply, and would have hurried down the stair.
She looked this way and that. There was not a man to whom she might
appeal as her champion--not one! She must trust herself.
"Go along!" said she. But actually she saw tears in the eyes of the
half-witted giant now. "No, Johnnie; but I'll walk with you with these
others as far as the corner of the square."
"All right," said he. "I'll do--I'll do that." A wide gap opened in the
ranks of the slow procession on the sidewalk now as these two joined in.
Not too wide, however, for there were certain ones who must keep track
of all details regarding this epochal event.
"Where is your father, Johnnie?" asked Aurora Lane, quietly and
distinctly, so that all might hear.
"He--he--I don't--I don't know. I ain't--I ain't been home. I'm out!"
said Johnnie.
"You've not been home? What do you mean?"
"Wasn't there--wasn't there a funer'l for somebody today?" he asked
mysteriously. "I can whip any man in Jackson County. My pa said so.
We've--we've done it--we'd done it then if he--if he hadn't pitched on
to me. He done that."
A sudden terror caught Aurora Lane's soul as she realized that the
addled mind of this half-wit was more than to a usual extent gone wrong.
She feared him with every fiber in her body. She stepped aside quickly
as he made a loutish thrust at her arm, as though to pinch her.
"I'll pinch you!" said he. "You know why?"
"No, don't! Go away!" she exclaimed, and pushed out her hand.
"'Cause--'cause I like you!" said the half-wit. "That's why!"
Then for a time those who crowded up at the rear heard little, until he
resumed.
"Oh, I know a lot more I could tell you some time. I ain't--I ain't been
home at all. I'm just looking round. Ain't no one can stop me. There was
some sort of--of funer'l, wasn't there, in town today? Me and my father,
we can lick ary two men in Jackson County."
He would have made some sort of rude approach once more. But now even
the tardy chivalry of these men of Spring Valley came back to them. Two
or three stepped in between him and Aurora Lane. "Here, you," said the
voice of one, "that'll do! Quit it now."
Aurora Lane did not have time to thank her rescuers. The painful
situation was relieved suddenly. Just as they were turning at the corner
of the public square there hurried up a man, an oldish man, untidy even
in his Sunday garb, half running toward the group which now he saw
approaching.
"Hello, Pa," exclaimed the half-wit, and laughed long and loud. "I
didn't come home," said he. "I'm--I'm out!"
The sad face of Ephraim Adamson was seen by all, as he pushed in among
them and took his son by the arm. They walked away briskly now
together, Johnnie looking back over his shoulder.
But now, to the surprise of all--to her own surprise as well, so sudden
was her resolve--Aurora Lane hurried after these two.
"Mr. Adamson," said she, "wait, don't whip him--I'm not angry--I
understand."
Adamson halted for just a moment. "He's been away all day," said he, his
face showing no resentment of her presence. "I didn't know they let him
out last night--he didn't come home. I began looking for him as soon as
I knew he was out--I thought he might be hiding in the fields--he does
sometimes. He always runs away whenever he gets a chance. I'm sorry if
he's done wrong--has he been bad to you?"
"I understand everything," said Aurora Lane. Many heard her say that.
"Don't mind. Tomorrow, will you both be in town?--I might talk to you."
"No, Ma'am," said Adamson briefly. "He can't come any more. I may be
here. What do you want of me--after what I've said--after what I've done
to you? And here you come and bring him back to me."
His own face showed whitish blue in the flicker of the great arc light.
"Ma'am," he went on again, "there's a lot about you--you're some woman
after all. Where have you been--at church?"
"Yes," said Aurora Lane, "I was at church."
"I ain't been there in years," said Eph Adamson sadly.
"Neither have I," rejoined Aurora Lane, "twenty years, I think--perhaps
more."
He gazed at her now out of his old, bleared, sad eyes. "I wouldn't of
been here now but for what's happened," said he. "Already I was sad--and
I was drunk before I was. And I was--well, I felt like I was a rebel,
that was all, yesterday. That boy of yours looked so fine, I couldn't
stand it. Look at mine! I done wrong, Ma'am. I said what I had no right
to say. I'm sorry, clean through--with all my heart I'm sorry for what I
done yesterday."
She made no answer to him, and he went on. "It seems like some folks was
sort of born under a cloud, don't it? I'm one of them, I reckon. All
this has been my fault. I'm sorry as I can be. Can't you forgive me,
Miss Lane, can't you forgive me any?"
"You didn't hear the anthem," said Aurora Lane, "because you were not in
church. It said 'Whosoever.' It said 'All ye.'"
"In some ways," said Eph Adamson slowly--they had been for some time
quite apart from the others, walking on slowly--"it seems like you and
me was living our lives pretty much alike, don't it, Miss Lane? It's
funny, ain't it--we hadn't either of us been to church--not in twenty
years!"
None the less, as of old, these others passed by upon the other side,
and left unattended those whose wounds were grievous.
At the corner of her street Aurora Lane paused. "Good-by, Mr. Adamson,"
said she. "Good night. I don't want to be unjust to anyone. I'm going to
try not to blame you--I'd like to forgive all the world if I could. I'm
in great trouble now."
He broke out in a sullen rage. "Forgive? Do that if you can," said he.
"I can't. Maybe a woman can--but forgiving ain't in my line. Well, I'd
give anything I could in the world if I hadn't said what I did yesterday
right there on the public square. All this has come out of that--this
whole trouble. You're different from what I thought. You're a good
woman. I take off my hat to you."
"I take off my hat to you," mowed the idiot also, imitating what he saw
and heard.... "May I see you home--may I see you home tonight? I'm--I'm
out--I was out all last night. They can't pitch on us. Whip any man in
Jackson County. Good night--good night, Ma'am. I'm sorry--I'm sorry,
too."