The Daughter of a Republican Part 5

"In the third place," and the girl sprang to her feet and stood looking her father full in the face, "a man who labored fearlessly for the overthrow of human slavery when public opinion pointed the finger of scorn at him, said to me not long since: 'Regulations and restrictions put on such a vice by the government are but its terms of partners.h.i.+p.'"

It took Judge Thorn half a minute to recognize his words. Then he laughed.

"Jean, child, you are getting sharp. Your logic is all right, but you must remember times have changed. This is different."

"I cannot see, father, that the moral issue is any different. Of the two great evils, intemperance is certainly a greater curse than ever slavery was; for while it has all the pain and heartaches and sorrow of every description that accompanies slavery, the worst feature of it is that h.e.l.l is filling up with souls that drink their doom when they drain the wine cup. I think I understand myself, father, and I say again, I am an Abolitionist. Bring on some other party platform."

"There are no others but the labor organizations and the 'cranks.'"

"What do the labor people say?"

"They regard intelligence, virtue and temperance, important as they are, as secondary to the great material issues now pressing for solution."

"And the 'cranks,' as you call them?"

"They have no policy, and their politics consists in trying to undo all the temperance legislation they get through other parties because it does not come through theirs. As a political party they are the most fanatical and narrow-minded that history takes account of. Indeed, I doubt not that, in certain instances, their obstinate opposition to men and measures has been little short of criminal. But I will read:

"'We favor the legal prohibition by state and national legislation of the manufacture, importation and sale of alcoholic beverages.'"

"Eureka!" she shouted. "I am not alone. How many others like me?"

"A quarter of a million, I presume," he answered, a trifle grimly.

"And must I take my stand in politics away from my dear father, who is so wise and just?"

"You are young, Jean, and impulsive. You will see the matter in a different light when you have given the subject more thought. I am old now. For over half a century I have studied the affairs of men, and I tell you the time is not now expedient for such an issue to be forced to the front."

"When will it be?"

"When sentiment is strong enough behind the movement to enforce the law."

"Strange," mused Jean. "One might almost imagine, by the amount of resolving that has been done in the last few years, that sentiment was strong enough to sink the traffic five miles deep in the ocean of righteous indignation. I tell you, father, sentiment is the prime essential of the whole thing; but as long as it floats around everywhere, like moons.h.i.+ne, what is it good for? We need concentration and crystallization now. In other words, I believe in a party of embodied sentiment."

CHAPTER IV.

ASLEEP IN JESUS.

Gilbert Allison, of the firm of Allison, Russell & Joy, wholesale and retail liquor dealers, walking briskly along a sideway that led toward one of the great thoroughfares of the city, halted a second before crossing the street. As he stopped a voice reached his ear. Hearing the voice he took a more careful glance at the surroundings and found himself standing in front of a plain little wooden structure that he learned, from a sign upon one corner, was some sort of an orthodox chapel. Through the narrow, open doorway the voice floated:

Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep, From which none ever wake to weep-- A calm and undisturbed repose, Unbroken by the last of foes.

Asleep in Jesus! Oh, how sweet To be for such a slumber meet!

With holy confidence to sing That death has lost its venom sting.

Both words and tune were unfamiliar to him. Was it the song itself, sung to the sweetly pathetic tune of "Rest," was it the strangely beautiful and solemn voice of the singer, or was it common curiosity to see the owner of the unusual voice that proved the attraction prompting him to step into the vestibule? Unseen he watched as the song went on:

Asleep in Jesus! peaceful rest, Whose waking is supremely blest.

No fear nor foe shall dim the hour That manifests the Savior's power.

Asleep in Jesus! Oh, for me May such a blissful refuge be!

Securely shall my ashes lie And wait the summons from the sky.

The sweet voice of the singer died away, and the stillness was broken only by low sobbing. Then the minister arose.

Gilbert Allison had seen enough. The plain, dark coffin just before the altar railing told him that another human soul had left its earthly body and had gone beyond.

He was not interested in this. His mind dwelt on the singer. She was rather small, a well-formed and graceful appearing young woman of perhaps twenty-two or twenty-four. She wore a plain dark dress, and a round hat rested on the ma.s.ses of red-brown hair that framed her face and crowned her shapely head. Here and there in the ma.s.s a carved silver hair-pin showed itself, and Gilbert Allison found himself studying the effect as he walked down the street; found himself puzzled as to why he had stopped and noticed her hair or her. Evidently she had made an impression on him. He tried, in a way, to a.n.a.lyze this, and finally gave it up, yet found himself continually recalling the face in its frame of red-brown hair.

He had known many charming women in his three and thirty years of life, but he had never felt before the indescribable charm that had suddenly, like the fragrance of a hidden violet, come to him for the unknown singer in the dingy chapel. Gilbert Allison had guarded well his heart's affections, but there comes a time in the lives of most men when the heart refuses to be subject to the will and obstinately goes whither it pleases. This man's heart was about to a.s.sert its rights. The daughter of a Republican was to have a lover, for it was Miss Thorn who sang.

That Miss Thorn should sing had been the wish of the now lifeless sleeper, and Jean had done her best.

All that was mortal of Maggie Crowley rested in the plain, dark coffin.

A life fraught with sorrow and tears and an innocent shame was ended; a body racked with hunger and pain and cold was at rest. From the time of her awful hurt, now a year ago, Maggie had been an invalid. The children had gone out to work, and the frail mother had tried to cheer them as she toiled in the valley of despair. A new sorrow had come into the wretched home: Cora, yet a child in years, because she had a fair face and a drunkard for a father, had been robbed of her one priceless possession--her unspotted character--by a man whose name was familiar in high circles, and whose hand was courted by more than one mother for some cherished daughter.

From the time that her sister had bartered away her purity, in the bitter, thankless battle that she fought for bread, Maggie had steadily grown weaker, and when the mother knew the time was near at hand for her to go she sent for Miss Thorn.

Jean had never been beside a death-bed, but she did not hesitate.

Maggie was lying, white and thin, upon the pillow. She looked eagerly toward the door. Her eyes lit with a lingering light, and a faint smile came around the corners of her drawn mouth when she saw that it was Jean. She spoke slowly and softly, without much effort, and quite distinctly.

"I'm going pretty soon, Miss Thorn, and I wanted to see you. You've been so good to us--G.o.d will bless you for it. When I am gone, don't forget poor mother. Please don't, Miss Thorn! She will be sad. I'm the only one that remembered the other days, and we used sometimes to talk of them and pray that they might come back. Maybe G.o.d will send them back some day--but I will not be here. I'm not afraid to die. Christ died for the drunkard's child--I'm sure he did. I'm so glad to go. In my Father's house are many mansions--many mansions--one for us."

She closed her eyes as she repeated the words softly.

"When I am gone, do not feel sad, mother--not too sad," she continued in a moment. "Think that I have only gone to sleep to wake up where there is no more sorrow. I'll be waiting in our mansion, mother, and there we will be happy, for the Book says he will not be there who puts the bottle to his neighbor's lips."

She stopped to rest. The room was very quiet.

"When my father comes," a look of intense longing came into her sunken eyes, and for a moment she struggled to force back the great sob of sorrow that seemed choking her, "tell him 'goodby' for Maggie. Perhaps he will be sorry--not like he once would have been--just a little. Don't let the children forget me. Dear children! How I wish I could take them all to the mansion. And Cora, poor Cora----"

The last tears that ever shone in Maggie's eyes filled them now.

"G.o.d knows about Cora," said Jean, tenderly, while the mother wept in silence.

The dying girl lay quite exhausted, and, while she rested, her eyes wandered from one to the other of the few around the bed and rested lovingly on her mother's face. Her minutes were numbered. Mortality was ebbing away. When she spoke again it was with more of an effort, pausing now and then for breath.

"Stoop over, mother; let me put--my arms around--your dear, kind neck.

Put your face down--so I can put my cheek--against yours--as I did when we were happy. I'm going back--to it. I smell the roses. I hear the pigeons--on the roof. Lift me--mother--gently. I am--tired.

Sing--my--good night--song--I'll--go--to--sleep."

Mrs. Crowley drew the dying girl's head close to her heart and tried to sing; but her voice failed. Then, in the presence of the death angel, Jean sang for the girl's long sleeping.