VII
All the members of the evangelistic crew planned effects to throw a brighter limelight on Sharon. There was feverish discussions of her costumes. Adelbert had planned the girdled white robe in which she appeared as priestess, and he wanted her to wear it always. “You are so queeeeenly,” he whimpered. But Elmer insisted on changes, on keeping the robe for crucial meetings, and Sharon went out for embroidered golden velvet frocks, and, at meetings for business women, smart white flannel suits.
They assisted her also in the preparation of new sermons.
Her “message” was delivered under a hypnotism of emotion, without connection with her actual life. Now Portia, now Ophelia, now Francesca, she drew men to her, did with them as she would. Or again she saw herself as veritably the scourge of God. But however richly she could pour out passion, however flamingly she used the most exotic words and the most complex sentiments when someone had taught them to her, it was impossible for her to originate any sentiment more profound than “I’m unhappy.”
She read nothing, after Cecil Aylston’s going, but the Bible and the advertisements of rival evangelists in the bulletin of the Moody Bible Institute.
Lacking Cecil, it was a desperate and cooperative affair to furnish Sharon with fresh sermons as she grew tired of acting the old ones. Adelbert Shoop provided the poetry. He was fond of poetry. He read Ella Wheeler Wilcox, James Whitcomb Riley, and Thomas Moore. He was also a student of philosophy: he could understand Ralph Waldo Trine perfectly, and he furnished for Sharon’s sermons both the couplets about Home and Little Ones, and the philosophical points about willpower, Thoughts are Things, and Love is Beauty, Beauty is Love, Love is All.
The Lady Director of Personal Work had unexpected talent in making up anecdotes about the deathbeds of drunkards and agnostics; Lily Anderson, the pretty though anemic pianist, had once been a school teacher and had read a couple of books about scientists, so she was able to furnish data with which Sharon absolutely confuted the rising fad of evolution; and Art Nichols, the cornetist, provided rude but moral Maine humor, stories about horse-trading, cabbages, and hard cider, very handy for cajoling skeptical business men. But Elmer, being trained theologically, had to weave all the elements—dogma, poetry to the effect that God’s palette held the sunsets or ever the world began, confessions of the dismally damned, and stories of Maine barn-dances—into one ringing whole.
And meanwhile, besides the Reverend Sister Falconer and the Reverend Mr. Gantry, thus cooperative, there were Sharon and Elmer and a crew of quite human people with grievances, traveling together, living together, not always in a state of happy innocence.