The Unhallowed Harvest/Chapter 5
When the rector of Christ Church entered the chancel on the Sunday morning following the funeral of John Bradley, and looked out over the well-filled pews, he had no reason to be dissatisfied with the size of his congregation. Yet a full church was no unusual thing. For many Sundays now, people had been coming in ever greater numbers to hear him preach. They were attracted not alone by his ability, his earnestness and his spirituality; but also by the novelty of his message to society concerning the proper relation of the Church to the wage-workers and to the poor. It was by the attendance of the wage-working class that congregations had, for the most part, been swollen. There were few accessions from homes of wealth. To the rich and the exclusive the new interpretation of the Gospel of Christ had not proved to be especially attractive. They had not formally repudiated it. They had not absented themselves from the services in order that they might not hear it. They had not relinquished any proper effort to uphold and maintain the dignity and usefulness of the Church, notwithstanding the divergent views of the rector on certain matters of no little importance. So that, on this particular Sunday morning, there was no evidence of desertion on the part of the rich and the well-to-do. It was noted, however, that the pews in the rear of the church, those renting at low prices and therefore occupied by parishioners in moderate or humble circumstances, were the ones that were filled to overflowing. It was plainly evident that more than one laboring-man and working-woman had followed the example of the lookers-on at John Bradley's funeral, and had come to hear the minister preach. The story of his address at the grave on the preceding Sunday had spread through the ranks of the toilers, and was responsible in no small degree for the size of the congregation to-day. People wanted to hear, in his own pulpit, the clergyman who could stand by the open grave of a common laborer, one not given either to religious beliefs or practices, and say things acceptable to all of the dead man's friends, believers and disbelievers alike. So they had come, men in rusty attire, with stolid countenances and awkward bearing, women with bent shoulders and toil-hardened hands, and care-worn faces looking out from under the brims of hats and bonnets that had done Sunday service for unknown years. They did not respond to the prayers, nor join in the litany, nor kneel nor rise in accordance with the rubrics. But they were silent, attentive, respectful. They came not so much to worship as to listen.
The text that morning was the question asked by those offended aristocrats of old:
"Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary?"
The preacher called the attention of his hearers to the fact that the founder of the Christian religion, in His early manhood, had been a laborer. He had gone about, with hammer and axe, working for wages, as did the carpenter of to-day. He was born of humble parents, reared in adversity, hardened to toil. Why should not the wage-earner of the twentieth century listen to His gospel and follow in His footsteps? His message was especially to the humble and the poor. His condemnation was for the haughty and self-sufficient rich. He founded His Church on the brotherhood of man. Its very existence was declaratory of the solidarity of the human race. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female, for ye are all one in Christ Jesus. No other Messiah, no other religion in the history of the world has made so strong, so sympathetic an appeal to the humble and toil-worn. How utterly inconsistent it was, therefore, for the workers of the world to permit any other class to monopolize the benefits and enjoyments of the Church, an institution founded by one of their own, and dedicated to the principle that we are all "heirs of God, and joint heirs with Christ; if so be that we suffer with Him."
But the preacher's special appeal this morning was to the men and women of wealth and prominence in his church and parish, on behalf of their brothers and sisters on whom fortune had not so abundantly smiled. It was not an appeal for kindness and charity, or material help of any kind. It was an appeal for recognition.
"I say to you," he said, in concluding his sermon, "that until we professed followers of Christ utterly abandon the idea that the Church is an institution to be enjoyed, managed and patronized only by the cultured, the wealthy and the well-to-do, we shall not begin to understand the lesson taught us by the carpenter of Nazareth. Until we abandon the pleasing delusion that we have measured up to our full duty as members and supporters of the Church when we attend its services, recite its prayers, contribute to its charities, relieve its poor and visit its suffering; until we take a vastly broader view than that of our duty and privilege as Christian men and women, we are yet in our sins. Neither my work as minister nor your work as laymen will be satisfactory in the sight of God until these church portals and pew-doors stand equally wide open to the poor and the rich. If we would do as the Master would have us do, we must hold out welcoming hands to the toiler, no matter how humble the character of his toil, and we must say to him, not 'Come and be my guest to-day in the House of God,' but 'Come and be my fellow-worshiper, my comrade in Christ, my brother and my friend.' I say to you frankly that I shall not be satisfied with my labors here until the workingman and the toiling-woman sit, side by side, in every pew, with the cultured and the rich; until they read together from the same prayer-book, recite together the same creed, kneel by each other at the same chancel-rail, and partake together of the Holy Communion in loving memory of Him who died for all men, 'the carpenter, the son of Mary.'"
Whether or not the humble folk who crowded the rear pews enjoyed the rest of the beautiful and solemn service, they were at least pleased with the sermon. On many a homely and rugged face, as these people passed out into the street, there was a smile of approval, and on many a lip that had never moved in prayer there was a comment of rejoicing that at least one preacher in the city understood the hearts of the poor and was not afraid to tell the rich, to their faces, what they ought to do.
But the regular, influential parishioners of Christ Church, those to whom the appeal had been made, were, apparently, not so well pleased with the sermon. It was not noticed that any among them made immediate response by mingling in friendly intercourse with the humble strangers who had come to their house of worship.
For the most part they waited in their pews until the unfamiliar faces had vanished beyond the outer doors. Then, by ones and twos and in little groups they moved slowly down the aisles. The stamp of unimpeachable respectability was on them all. They were well-mannered and well-dressed.
The majority of the men wore black coats and gray trousers and carried silk hats and canes in their hands, while the women were handsomely and appropriately gowned. The principal topic of conversation among them was, of course, the rector's sermon; and, regrettable as it may seem, there were few who were heard to speak of it approvingly. Why should they approve of it? These people and their ancestors had worshiped in Christ Church through more than two generations. Their wealth and social standing had given to the church a position in the diocese second to none. Their polished manners and timely courtesies and gracious hospitality had attracted to the church many other people of wealth and prominence who, in their turn, had become regular attendants and liberal supporters. By their concern for the welfare of the poor they had made the name of Christ Church a synonym for well-organized and widely distributed Christian charity. Surely it hardly lay in the mouth of this young preacher, who had been scarcely two years in their pulpit, to announce to them that, notwithstanding all this, they were yet in their sins. It is no wonder that a mild spirit of resentment had been roused within them, or that it found expression as they talked with each other on their way to the street. It was noticeable that the men, as a rule, were not outspoken in their disapproval of the sermon. Business and professional men are apt to be cautious in the matter of a hasty expression of opinion. Experience has taught them the policy of being conservative. But the women were under no similar restraint. They did not hesitate to say what was in their minds. And their minds were, apparently, made up. Of course Mr. Farrar was an eloquent preacher and, personally, a most attractive man, and Mrs. Farrar was perfectly lovely; but really, the sermons they had been having of late were unpardonable, and the one of to-day had simply capped the climax. Such things were so unjust to the people who were doing the work of the Church and bearing its financial burdens; so subversive of all accepted theories and customs; so well calculated to stir up discontent and jealousy, if not open antagonism, in the breasts of the envious and ignorant. One woman, prominent in the church, pompous and matronly, declared that she would not again humiliate herself by coming to listen to such heterodox preaching. She considered such sermons as the one of to-day to be positively irreligious, and destructive of the first principles of Christianity.
Following her down the aisle came Ruth Tracy and her mother, and it was to them that this opinion had been expressed. Ruth's face flushed and she made no reply; but Mrs. Tracy nodded her head in approval and said, "Yes, indeed!" Mr. Tracy, the husband and father, was not present. He went to church only on rare occasions. His week-days were strenuous, and his Sundays were needed for rest and recreation. He was the senior partner in the law firm of Tracy, Black and Westgate, of which firm Ruth's fiancé was the junior member.
Before Mrs. Tracy and her daughter reached the curb where their car was waiting, Westgate joined them.
"And what did you think of the sermon?" asked the elder woman, after the morning greetings had been exchanged.
"Oh, I know what Philip thought of it," interrupted Ruth. "He thought it was an unwarranted attack on the supporters of the church, and a sop to socialism. Didn't you, Philip?"
The young man laughed and colored a little as he replied:
"While I wouldn't want to be quoted in just that way, you have gauged my mind with reasonable accuracy."
"I knew it," responded the girl. "And now I'll tell you what I think. I think it was a brave and conscientious sermon, and fully warranted by existing conditions."
She stood there, handsomely and good-naturedly defiant, attractive in the eyes of her lover, even in her opposition to him.
"It was brave enough," he responded; "and there's no doubt about the man's conscientiousness; but I believe he's mistaken."
At that moment Barry and Miss Chichester came up.
"Are you talking about the sermon?" asked Miss Chichester. "Barry and I are agreed that it was simply impossible, aren't we, Barry?"
"Preposterous!" asserted Barry. "Why, don't you know, the thing would never work out. We couldn't really have those people in our pews with us. Could we, Mrs. Tracy?"
"I'm pretty sure that I couldn't have them in mine," Mrs. Tracy replied.
"Why, just think of it!" added Barry. "For instance, the vice-president of the Malleson Manufacturing Company reading the responses out of the same prayer-book with a common day-laborer in his employ. How could the proper attitude be preserved on week days between the employer and the employee? Why, Phil, old man, the whole thing is absurd!"
"You might stay away from church, Barry," suggested Ruth.
"Don't put that idea into his head," said Westgate. "Barry needs all the religion he can possibly absorb."
Then Mrs. Tracy came to the rescue of the vice-president.
"Barry's not so far wrong," she declared. "It's ridiculous to think of having these people in our pews. Just imagine Lucy Breen sitting with me. You all know poor Lucy, with her green gown and her red hat with the enormous white feather in it. Why, I should go into hysterics. Really I should."
"And," laughed Ruth, "if Red-nosed Mike the burglar should sit with you he'd steal your Sunday dollar before ever the alms-basin came around."
"Now, I don't think it's fair," said Miss Chichester, "to make fun of Barry and Mrs. Tracy that way. It's really a serious matter. Don't you think so, Phil?"
"Very!" responded Phil gravely.
"And," continued Mrs. Tracy, "he said we should commune together. Now, just think of it! There's our gardener, Jim, you know, who chews tobacco constantly. Imagine having him next you at communion, and having him drink first out of the cup! Heavens!"
She shuddered and drew her skirts closer about her ample figure, lest haply some unclean member of the proletariat, passing by, should brush advertently against them.
"I think," said Miss Chichester, "that some one ought to speak to Mr. Farrar. I don't believe he really knows how objectionable his theories are."
"Good idea!" exclaimed Barry. "I'll speak to him myself. He'll listen to me. The thing has got to be stopped before some of those people actually intrude themselves into our pews. There isn't one of them" Barry stopped suddenly. A vision of the fascinating face and trim figure of the woman of Factory Hill had flashed into his mind.
"What is it, Barry?" inquired Miss Chichester in apparent alarm.
"I was just thinking," replied Barry, hesitatingly, "that there might be exceptions—exceptions, you know."
"Mrs. Bradley, for instance?" asked Miss Chichester.
"Why," responded Barry, "I don't think Mrs. Bradley would be what you might call really objectionable."
"And who is Mrs. Bradley?" inquired Mrs. Tracy.
"Oh," replied Westgate, "she's one of Barry's discoveries in humble life."
"Is she the one who lost the lawsuit?" inquired Ruth.
"The very one," answered Westgate. "I shall not soon forget how you took me to task for my part in that case."
"I did think," responded Ruth, "that it was a shame to send her out of court empty-handed. And I think so still, begging Barry's pardon for expressing myself so forcibly in his presence."
"You can't hurt my feelings, Ruth," exclaimed Barry. "Phil did his duty. And I must say that the woman behaved very decently about it afterward."
"So decently," added Westgate, "that Barry went up the other day to make her a gift. Tell the ladies about that adventure, Barry."
"Oh, I know all about it," exclaimed Miss Chichester. "Barry told me about it the same evening."
"But we don't know," said Ruth. "What happened, Barry?"
"Why," replied Barry, "I went up, as Phil says, to make her a gift of a little money, four hundred dollars, to be exact. We usually make a gift to widows of our employees. And, would you believe me, the woman declined to accept it."
"Remarkable!" exclaimed Mrs. Tracy.
"It's true," continued Barry. "But I'm going up again before long to try to persuade her to change her mind. I—I really think she needs the money."
"And Barry's going to take me with him. Aren't you, Barry?" broke in Miss Chichester.
"Why, I suppose so," replied Barry, "if you still want to go."
"Indeed, I want to go."
Then Mrs. Tracy inquired: "Is she the woman who is so irreligious? has no use for the Church? and wouldn't have a preacher at her husband's funeral?"
"She's the one," replied Westgate.
"Then I think," said Mrs. Tracy, turning to Barry, "that you might find better use for your money. Why don't you give it to religious people who are in want; people of our own church?"
"Why," responded Barry, "I think there's a fair chance of getting her into the church. I spoke to Farrar about her and he's going to see what he can do with her in a religious way."
"It seems to me, Barry," said Ruth mischievously, "that you're very much interested in the handsome Mrs. Bradley."
This time Miss Chichester responded for Barry. "He is, Ruth; but purely in a sociological way. He hasn't the faintest idea of becoming unduly impressed by her beauty. Have you, Barry?"
"She's a deucedly handsome woman," replied Barry.
"Handsome or not," said Mrs. Tracy, "I don't think such persons should be encouraged and made much of. Mr. Farrar is certainly making a very serious mistake when he caters to the lower classes. Why, if he had his way, there'd be no exclusiveness in the church at all."
"Indeed there wouldn't," replied Ruth heartily.
"Right you both are!" exclaimed Barry. "That is as—as a rule. Every rule has its exceptions, you know."
"Well," added Mrs. Tracy, moving toward her car, "don't let's talk about it any more. It doesn't leave a good taste in the mouth. You'll ride up with us, won't you, Philip, and have luncheon? No? Then give my love to your mother and tell her I'm coming over to see her to-morrow afternoon. Come, Ruth!"
She entered her car, assisted by Westgate, but her daughter hesitated.
"I've a mind," she said, "to walk up the hill with Philip; it's such a beautiful day. I'll be home long before luncheon time, mother."
"A very wise suggestion," remarked Westgate, "and one which I shall be delighted to adopt."
"What a happy thought!" exclaimed Miss Chichester. "We'll do that too, won't we, Barry?"
"Why," said Barry, "I thought of going down-town for a little while before luncheon. I want to slip into the office and look at something."
"Oh, Barry! And it's such a beautiful day!"
Miss Chichester looked up at him pleadingly.
"I know, but this is really a matter I ought to attend to."
"You can go down early to-morrow morning and attend to it. I shall be so disappointed if you don't walk up with me. And stop and have luncheon with us. Do! Father is so fond of discussing politics with you."
"Thank you, Jane. But it's out of the question for me to stop to luncheon. It really is."
"Then walk up with me, anyway."
"All right! I'll do that."
Mrs. Tracy was already moving homeward in her luxuriously appointed car, and Ruth and her lover had started slowly up the walk. His eyes were alight and his cheeks aglow with pleasant anticipation. To walk a mile with Ruth Tracy through the invigorating air of a beautiful September noonday was a privilege that any man might covet, much more a man in whose heart she filled so large and so queenly a place as she did in Philip Westgate's.
But no sooner were they on their way than recurrence was had to the subject of the morning sermon.
"I like Mr. Farrar," said Westgate. "I believe he intends to say and do the right thing. But he has permitted himself, by reason of his sympathy with toiling humanity, to be led off into strange paths."
"I like him too," responded Ruth. "And I can't help feeling that he's on the right track. I don't believe there's any other way than the one he suggests to evangelize the working people. Just think what he's done already. Did you ever see more persons of all kinds coming to the services at Christ Church than he is drawing there now?"
"No; but big congregations do not necessarily make the Church prosperous, nor advance the cause of religion. These people come because it pleases them to hear attacks made on the rich, and commendation given to the poor. It is simply an expression of class consciousness with them. They have no religious motive in coming."
"But how else are you going to get them at all under the influence of the Church? Here I've been doing guild work for years. I've distributed I don't know how many bushels of food and loads of outgrown garments to the poor; and how many people do you suppose I've been able to bring into the Church by doing it? Just four. I counted them up yesterday. I tell you, Phil, these people will not be bribed into accepting religion. What they want, as Mr. Farrar explained, is recognition, not charity. When they get that we'll get them into the Church. The Church needs new life, and Mr. Farrar has chosen the only way to supply it."
"I'm afraid he's putting into it more discord than life. I can't believe that the pulpit is the place from which to propound doctrines of social and political economy. And there are many in Christ Church that are not only like-minded with me, but who resent the rector's attitude far more than I do."
"That's because you're all of you behind the times. Because you're over conservative, just as mother is; just as all these people are who have more than enough for themselves, and can't begin to appreciate the desires and struggles and needs of the poor."
Westgate's patience was ebbing. He felt that the girl was taking an entirely unreasonable attitude.
"Ruth," he said, "you are losing your head over this thing. You are being carried away by your sympathies and by this man's plausible appeal. You don't detect the fallacies in his position. You are not exercising your judgment."
"Oh," she replied, "I know my own mind, and I've thought it all out, and I've read, and I've investigated on my own account, and I've come to the conclusion that if all these dreadful social ills, and this degrading and unremitting toil, and this hopeless poverty are ever to be done away with, the Church must be the leader in the movement to abolish them. There's no earthly power or influence that can accomplish the task unaided by the power and influence of the Church. Oh, I know that Mr. Farrar is going about the work in the right way, and I know that in the end his work will produce splendid results."
She paused, half out of breath, wondering a little at her own temerity, and, with a look partly of defiance, partly of anxiety, she glanced up into her lover's face. He was plainly distressed. He felt that their views were so utterly divergent that the discussion could not be continued without endangering the harmony that should prevail between them. Yet it was hard to hold his peace and permit this girl with whom he was so profoundly in love, whose future was to be so irrevocably bound up in his, to enter on a course of which both his conscience and his judgment so heartily disapproved.
"I'm sorry," he said after a moment's pause, "more sorry than I can tell you, that we don't agree in this matter. Unless Mr. Farrar adopts a complete change of policy, I can see serious trouble ahead. And when that trouble comes I should like to have you in harmony with me."
"And I should like to be in harmony with you, Philip; I should like it dearly; but I can't afford to stifle my conscience and ignore my reason—not even for you."
It was plain that her mind was made up, and that neither argument, appeal nor entreaty would move her from the path on which she had set out.
"Well," said Westgate, "don't let's talk about it any more now. The crisis hasn't come yet. Maybe it won't come. I hope to heaven it won't! At any rate there's no use to-day in our borrowing trouble for to-morrow."
They walked on in the mild September sunlight, up the hill, by the pleasant streets that bordered on Fountain Park, past homes of ease and luxury, until Ruth's own home was reached. But a reserve had fallen on them. The first shadow had drifted across their common path and lay impalpably about them. Could it be possible that so slight a shadow as this, deepening and darkening, would eventually so blind their eyes that, unseen each by the other, they would go stumbling and alone, by cruelly divergent paths, toward unknown goals as far apart as the antipodes of eternity?
This was the thought and fear that hugged Westgate's mind as he strolled back down the hill that day to his mother's home in the city. And, as he walked, the glory of the day was obscured. Gray clouds dragged their unwelcome bulk across the sun, a chill and hostile wind set the shadowed leaves of the trees to trembling and sighing, and the gloom that forebodes the coming storm settled down upon the earth.