The First Soprano | Page 3

for of building, and
congregation, and set order of things, and there had been a sort of
subconscious satisfaction in the fact that going to church was a
religious thing to do, and that to sing in the choir (especially for no pay,

as she did) was very meritorious. But was it so?
The minister was saying:
"If worship is not sincere, it becomes, spiritually, an abomination. If,
for instance, our singing, instead of being a true sacrifice of praise to
God degenerates into the sensuous enjoyment of a 'concourse of sweet
sounds,' it is no longer worship, and it is not even an innocent
employment. However fine it may be as a musical entertainment, if
offered as a substitute for worship it may be likened to the offering of
'strange fire,' which met such instant judgment in the time of Moses."
Winifred winced under the clear, bold words. There was a little
well-bred stir in the congregation. Doctor Schoolman's disciplined
countenance betrayed a startled moment and then relapsed into an
expression of bland, but non-committal interest. Winifred glanced
about to see how her neighbors were taking it. She looked first at
George Frothingham, for he and she were unusually good friends. His
handsome face showed only abstraction, and she knew he had not heard
a word that was said. She glanced warily back toward the organ and
saw the player in his chair, but he was indulging in a few winks of
sleep. His duties at the theater the night before had illy prepared him
for very wakeful attention to the sermon, and other influences were
telling upon him, too, for the man of music knew the taste of wines.
The leader of the choir was listening. His penetrating eyes were fixed
upon the calm-faced man in the pulpit, and an unconscious scowl bent
his dark brows. Yet it was not an angry frown, but simply intent. He
looked half defensive, half convicted.
The minister went on:
"I fear that this is an unusual way of looking at it, and that we are all
too accustomed to pass unchallenged our professed worship. Vice may
be so habitual and under such common sanction as to be mistaken for
virtue. But surely in the most vital matter of our intercourse with God
we do well to let every act be tested by the truth. It shall be so tested
eventually, whether we will or no; and even now in the midst of the
churches the Son of Man is walking, still with eyes of flame, and still

He is saying: 'I know thy works.'"
Winifred's next excursion in thought away from the sermon led her to
review her part of the morning program, and she wondered if the
minister thought of it too. The hymns?--she had forgotten what they
were. But the anthem--was it unto the Lord she sang her part? Was
there an atom of sincerity in the sentiment she sang? The words were
from a Psalm, she thought, and she did not really understand what
David meant. Had she any clearer ideas as to what Winifred Gray
might mean? She surely did not wish the wings of a dove, literally, nor
to fly away into the wilderness. She loved her home and many friends
and had no desire to escape from them or her surroundings. If it meant
to fly away to heaven--? Surely she did not wish that! The world and
"the things that are in the world" were very attractive to the young
soprano. She had no wish for heaven save as an alternative from hell.
What did it mean? Was it a heart-rest that David longed for? But she
had been conscious of no unrest--until just now. Honestly, the truth was
that she had not meant anything! Was it worship? But her friends
would tell her she sang it with feeling, she argued defensively, and then
asked herself candidly, what sort of feeling? She had sung Mignon's
song with equal sympathy the night before. She confessed the truth; it
was dramatic instinct that led her in both songs, and the Spirit of God
in neither.
"I am a hypocrite," she cried within herself, "and no true worshiper!"
Then she thought of the positive side of her action. While there was no
offering to God, she had received in her own heart the subtle incense of
the people's praise. Enveloped in its cloud she had sat until the sermon
disturbed her. She wished the young stranger had not come to preach.
Doctor Schoolman's sermons were nice, and learned, and elevating, and
never gave her such uncomfortable thoughts! Had he preached this
morning all might have gone on as before so pleasantly.
And now?--should it not go on? Could she think for a moment of
stopping it all? Impossible! But