As Maggie looked round upon them she could see that they were throbbing with the anticipation of some almost sensuous delight.By now they had filled the Chapel to its utmost limits, but there was not one human being there who did not seem to have the appearance of having been especially selected from other less interesting human beings.It was not that the forces that surrounded her were especially interesting, but she felt that all of them had taken on some especial dramatic character from the occasion.Such personalities as Aunt Anne and Miss Avies were in any case vivid and dramatic, but to-night Aunt Elizabeth and the placidly rotund Mrs.
Smith, who was sitting in the front row with her mouth open, and simple little Miss Pyncheon, Aunt Anne's friend, were remarkable and exceptional.
Then suddenly Maggie caught sight of Martin.He was sitting in the extreme right next the wall; his ill-tempered sister was next to him.Maggie could only see his head and shoulders, but she realised at once that he had been, for a long time, trying to catch her eye.
He smiled at her an intimate peculiar smile that sent the blood flooding to her face and made her heart beat with happiness.At the moment of her smiling she realised that Miss Avies' dim eye was upon her.What right had Miss Avies to watch over her? She set back her shoulders, sat up stiffly, and tried to look as old as she might--that was not, unhappily, very old.That smile exchanged with Martin had made her happy for ever.Miss Avies was of less than no importance at all...
The little bell ceased its jangling, the harmonium began a quavering prelude, and from a door at the back, behind the little platform and desk, three men entered: first Mr.Thurston; then a little crooked man who must, Maggie knew, be Mr.Crashaw; finally, in magnificent contrast, Mr.Warlock.A quiver of emotion passed over the Chapel--there was then a hushed expectant pause.
"Brothers and sisters, let us pray," said Mr.Thurston.
Maggie had not seen him before; she wondered what strange chance had led him and Mr.Warlock to work together.In every movement of the body, in every tone of the voice, Thurston showed the professional actor--his thoughts were all upon himself and the effect that he was making.So calculated was he in his attitude that his eyes betrayed him, having in their gleam other thoughts, other intentions very far away from his immediate business in the Chapel.Maggie, watching him, wondered what those thoughts were.His voice was ugly, as were all his movements; his sharp actor's face, with the long rather dirty black hair, the hooked nose, the long dirty fingers which moved in and out as though they worked of themselves--all these things were false and unmoving.But behind his harsh voice, gross accent and melodramatic tone there was some power, the power of a man ambitious, ruthless, scornful, self-confident.He did not care a snap of his fingers for his congregation, he laughed at their beliefs, he made use of their credulity.
"Oh God," he prayed, his voice now shrill and quivering and just out of tune, so that it jarred every nerve in Maggie's body, "Thou seest what we are, miserable sinners not worthy of Thy care or goodness, sunk deep in the mire of evil living and evil 'abits, nevertheless, oh God, we, knowing Thy loving 'eart towards Thy sinful servants, do pray Thee that Thou wilt give us Thy blessing before we leave this Thy 'ouse this night; a new contrite 'eart is what we beg of Thee, that we may go out into this evil world taught by Thee to search out our ways and improve our thoughts, caring for nothing but Thee, following in Thy footsteps and making ready for Thy immediate Coming, which will be in Thine own good time and according to Thy will.""This we pray for the sake of Thy dear Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, who died for our sins upon the bloody Cross.""Amen."
From between her hands Maggie watched those two strange eyes wandering about the Chapel, picking up here a person, there a person, wondering over this, wondering over that, and always, in the end, concerned not about these things at all but about some other more ultimate loneliness, fear or expectation, something that set him apart and made him, as are all men in the final recesses of their spirit, as lonely as though he were by himself on a desert island.
The thrill of anticipation faded through the Chapel as Thurston continued his prayer.He had not to-night, at any rate, power over his audience--the thing that they were waiting for was something that he could not satisfy.A restlessness was abroad; coughing broke out once, twice, then everywhere; chairs creaked, sighs could be heard, some one moved to the door.Thurston seemed to realise his failure; with a sudden snap of impatience he brought prayer to an end and rose to his feet.
"We will sing," he said, "No.341.'Bathed in the blood of the Lamb.'"The singing of the hymn roused the excitement of the congregation to even more than its earlier pitch.The tune was a moving one, beginning very softly, beseeching God to listen, then, more confident, rising to a high note of appeal:
By all Thy sores and bloody pain Come down and heal our sins again;falling, after that, to a note of confidence and security in the last refrain:
By the blood, by the blood, by the blood of the Lamb We beseech Thee--In spite of the crudity of the words and the simplicity of the tune Maggie had tears in her eyes.The whole Chapel was singing now, singing as though the sins of the world could be redeemed only by the force and power of this especial moment.Maggie was caught up with the rest.She found herself singing parts of the second verse, then in the third she was carried away, had forgotten herself, her surroundings, even Martin.There was something real in this, something beyond the ugliness of the Chapel and its congregation.
