"From God's sunny hillside pastures to the gloom and stench of the slaughter pens."
It happened two weeks to the day after Dan and Miss Farwell met inDenny's garden.
The Ally had been busy to some purpose. The Ladies' Aid, having reached the point of declaring that something must be done, did something. The Elders of Memorial Church, in their official capacity, called on their pastor.
Dan was in the garden when the Elders came. The Doctor's wife declared that Dan spent most of his time in the garden now, and that, when there, he did nothing because that nurse was always helping him. Good Martha has the fatal gift of telling a bit of news so vividly that it gains much in the telling.
Miss Farwell was in the garden that afternoon with the minister and so was Denny, while Grace Conner and Deborah were sitting on the front porch of the little cottage when the two church fathers passed. Though neither of the men turned their heads, neither of them failed to see the two women on the porch and the three friends in the garden.
"For the love of Heaven, look there!" exclaimed Deborah in an excited whisper. "They're turnin' in at the minister's gate, an' him out there in the 'taters in his shirt, a-diggin' in the ground an' a-gassin' wid Denny an' Miss Hope. I misdoubt there's somethin' stirrin' to take thim to his door the day. I must run an' give him the word."
But Dan had seen and was already on his way to the front gate, drawing on his coat as he went. From the other side of the street the Doctor waved his hand to Dan encouragingly as the young man walked hastily down the sidewalk to overtake the church officials at the front door.
Truly in this denominational hippodrome, odd yoke-fellows are sometimes set to run together; the efforts of the children of light to equal in wisdom the children of darkness leading the church to clap its ecclesiastical harness upon anything that—by flattery, bribes or intimidation, can be led, coaxed or driven to pull at the particular congregational chariot to which the tugs are fast! When the people of Corinth speak of Judge Strong's religion, or his relation to the Memorial Church they wink—if the Judge is not looking. When Elder Jordan is mentioned their voices always have a note of respect and true regard. Elder Strong is always called "The Judge"; Nathaniel Jordan was known far and wide as "Elder Jordan." Thus does the community, as communities have a way of doing, touch the heart of the whole matter.
Dan recognized instinctively the difference in the characters of these two men, yet he had found them always of one mind in all matters of the church. He felt the subtle antagonism of Judge Strong, though he did not realize that the reason for it lay in the cunning instinct of a creature that recognized a natural enemy in all such spirits as his. He felt, too, the regard and growing appreciation of Elder Jordan. Yet the two churchmen were in perfect accord in their "brotherly administration."
When the officials met in Dan's study that day, their characters were unmistakable. That they were both in harness was also clear. The minister's favorite chair creaked in dismay as the Judge settled his heavy body, and twisted this way and that in an open effort to inspect every corner of the apartment with his narrow, suspicious eyes; while the older churchman sat by the window, studiously observing something outside. Dan experienced that strange feeling of uneasiness familiar to every schoolboy when called upon unexpectedly for the private interview with the teacher. The Elders had never visited him before. It was too evident that they had come now upon matters of painful importance.
At last Judge Strong's wandering eye came to rest upon Dan's favorite fishing-rod, that stood in a corner behind a book-case. The young man's face grew red in spite of him. It was impossible not to feel guilty of something in the presence of Judge Strong. Even Elder Jordan started as his brother official's metallic voice rang out, "I see that you follow in the footsteps of the early disciples in one thing, at least, Brother Matthews. You go fishing." He gave forth a shrill, cold laugh that—more than anything else—betrayed the real spirit he laughed to hide.
This remark was characteristic of Judge Strong. On the surface it was the mild jest of a churchman, whose mind dwelt so habitually on the sacred Book, that even in his lightest vein he could not but express himself in terms and allusions of religious significance. Beneath the surface, his words carried an accusation, a condemnation, a sneer. His manner was the eager, expectant, self-congratulatory manner of a dog that has treed something. The Judge's method was skillfully chosen to give him this advantage: it made his meaning clear while it gave no possible opening for a reply to the real idea his words conveyed, and forced his listener to an embarrassed silence of self-condemnation, that secured the Judge in his assumed position of pious superiority.
Dan forced a smile. He felt that the Judge's laugh demanded it. "Yes," he said, "I am scriptural when it comes to fishing. Dr. Oldham and I had a fine day at Gordon's Mills."
"So I understand," said the other meaningly. "I suppose you and the oldDoctor have some interesting talks on religion?"
It was impossible not to feel the sneering accusation under the words. It was as impossible to answer. Again Dan's face flushed as he said, "No, we do not discuss the church very often."
"No?" said the Judge. "I should think you would find him a good subject to practice on. Perhaps, though, he practices on you, heh?" Again he laughed.
"Ahem, ahem!" Elder Jordan gave his usual warning. Dan turned to the good old man with a feeling of relief. At least Nathaniel Jordan's words would bear their face value. "Perhaps, Brother Strong, we had better tell Brother Matthews the object of our call."
The Judge leaned back in his chair with the air of one about to be pleasantly entertained. He waved his hand with a gesture that said as plainly as words, "All right, Nathaniel, go ahead. I'm here if you need me, so don't be uneasy! If you find yourself unequal to the task, depend upon me to help you out."
The minister waited with an expectant air.
"Ahem, ahem! You must not think, Brother Matthews, that there is anything really wrong because we called. But we, ahem—we thought best to give you a brotherly warning. I'm sure you will take it in the spirit in which it is meant."
The Judge stirred uneasily in his chair, bending upon Dan such a look as—had he been a real judge—he might have cast upon a convicted criminal. Dan already felt guilty. He signified his assent to the Elder's statement and Nathaniel proceeded:
"You are a young man, Brother Matthews; I may say a very talented young man, and we are jealous for your success in this community and, ahem—for the standing of Memorial Church. Some of our ladies feel—I may say that we feel that you have been a little, ah—careless about some things of late. Elder Strong and I know from past experience that a preacher—a young unmarried preacher cannot be too careful. Not that we have the least idea that you mean any harm, you know—not the least in the world. But people will talk and—ahem, ahem!"
Dan's face was a study. He was so clearly mystified by the Elder's remarks that the good man found his duty even more embarrassing than he had anticipated.
Then Judge Strong threw a flood of light upon the situation in a characteristic manner. "That young woman, Grace Conner, has a mighty bad name in this town; and the other one, her friend the nurse, is a stranger. She was in my house for a month and—well, some things about her look mighty queer to me. She hasn't been inside a church since she came to Corinth. I would be the last man in the world to cast a suspicion on anyone but—" he finished with a shake of his head, and an expression of pious doubt on his crafty face that said he could, if he wished, tell many dark secrets of Miss Farwell's life.
Dan was on his feet instantly, his face flaming and his eyes gleaming with indignation. "I—" then he checked himself, confused, as—in a flash—he remembered who these men were and his relation to them in the church. "I beg your pardon," he finished slowly, and dropped back into his chair, biting his lips and clenching his big hands in an effort at self-control.
Elder Jordan broke in nervously. "Ahem, ahem! You understand, Brother Matthews, that the sisters—that we do not think that you mean any harm, but your standing in the community, you know, is such that we must shun every appearance of evil. We, ahem—we felt it our duty to call."
Big Dan, who had never met that spirit, the Ally, knew not how to answer his masters in the church. He tried to feel that their mission to him was of grave importance. He was tempted to laugh; their ponderous dignity seemed so ridiculous.
"Thank you, sir," he at last managed to say, gravely, "I think it is hardly necessary for me to attempt any explanation." He was still fighting for self-control and chose his words carefully. "I will consider this matter." Then he turned the conversation skillfully into other channels.
When the overseers of the church were gone the young pastor walked the floor of the room trying to grasp the true significance of the situation. Gradually the real meaning of the Elders' visit grew upon him. Because his own life was so big, so broad, because his ideals and ambitions were so high, so true to the spirit of the Christ whose service he thought he had entered, he could not believe his senses.
He might have found some shadow of reason, perhaps, for their fears regarding his friendship for the girl with the bad reputation, had the circumstances been other than they were, and had he not known who it was gave Grace Conner her bad name. But that his friendship for Miss Farwell, whose beautiful ministry was such an example of the spirit of the Christian religion; and that her care for the poor girl should be so quickly construed into something evil—his mind positively refused to entertain the thought. He felt that the visit of his church fathers was unreal. He was as one dazed by an unpleasant dream.
To come from the pure, wholesome atmosphere of his home and the inspiring study of the history of the Christian religion, to such a twisted, distorted, hideous corruption of the church policy and spirit, was, to Dan, like coming from God's sunny hillside pastures to the gloom and stench of the slaughter pens. He was stunned by the littleness, the meanness that had prompted the "kindly warning" of these leaders of the church.
Slowly he began to see what that spirit might mean to him.
No man of ordinary intelligence could long be in Memorial Church, without learning that it was ruled by a ring, as truly as any body politic was ever so ruled. Dan Matthews understood too clearly that his position in Memorial Church depended upon the "bosses" then in control. And he saw farther—saw, indeed, that his final success or failure in his chosen calling depended upon the standing that should be given him by this, his first charge; depended at the last upon these two men who had shown themselves, each in his own way, so easily influenced by the low, vicious tales of a few idle-minded town gossips.
As one in the dark—stepping without warning into a boggy hole—Dan groped for firmer ground.
As one standing alone in a wide plain sees on the distant horizon the threat of a gathering storm, and—watching, shudders at the shadow of a passing cloud, Dan stood—a feeling of loneliness and dread heavy upon him.
He longed for companionship, for someone to whom he could speak his heart. But to whom in Corinth could he go? These men who had just "advised him" were, theoretically, his intimate counselors; to them he was supposed, and had expected, to look—in his inexperience, for advice and help. These men, old in the service of the church—how would they answer his troubled thoughts? He shrugged his shoulders and smiled grimly. The Doctor? He smiled again.
Dan little dreamed how much that keen old fisherman already knew, from a skillful baiting of Martha, about the visit of the Elders that afternoon; while his knowledge of Dan's character from childhood, enabled the physician to guess more than a little of the thoughts that occupied the young man pacing the floor of his room. But the Doctor would not do for the young man that day.
Dan went to the window overlooking the garden. The nurse was still there, helping crippled Denny with his work. The minister's hoe was leaning against the big rock, as he had left it when he had caught up his coat. Should he go down? What would she say if he were to tell her of the Elders' mission?
Something caused Miss Farwell to look up just then and she saw him. She beckoned to him playfully, guardedly, like a schoolgirl. Smiling, he shook his head. He could not go.
More than ever, then, he felt very much alone.
"Thus Dr. Harry presented another side of the problem to his bewildered friend—a phase of the question commonly ignored by every fiery reformer, whose particular reformation is the one—the only way."
The friendship between Dan and Dr. Abbott had grown rapidly, as was natural, for the two men had much in common. In a town as small as Corinth, there are many opportunities for even the busiest men to meet, and scarcely a day passed that the doctor and the preacher did not exchange greetings, at least. As often as their duties permitted they were together; sometimes at the office or in Dan's rooms; again, of an evening, at Harry's home; or driving miles across country behind the bay mare or big Jim—the physician to see a patient, and the minister to be the "hitchin' post."
Harry was just turning from the telephone that evening when Dan entered the house.
"Hello, parson!" he cried heartily. "I was just this minute trying to get you. I couldn't think of anything to do to anybody else, so I thought I'd have a try at you. That wasn't such a bad guess either," he added, when he had a good look at his friend's face. "You evidently need to have something fixed. What is it, liver?" He led the way into the library.
"Not mine," said Dan shortly. "I don't believe I have one."
He pushed an arm chair to face the doctor's favorite seat by the table.
Harry chuckled as he reached for his pipe and tobacco. "You don't need to have one yourself in order to suffer from liver troubles. Speaking professionally, my opinion is that you preachers, as a class, are more likely to suffer from other people's livers than from your own, though it is also true that the average parson has more of his own than he knows what to do with."
"And what do you doctors prescribe when it is the other fellow's?" askedDan.
The other struck a match. "Oh, there's a difference of opinion in the profession. The old Doctor, for instance, pins his faith to a split bamboo with a book of flies or a can of bait."
"And you?" Dan was smiling now.
The answer came through a cloud of smoke. "Just a pipe and a book."
Dan's smile vanished. "I fear your treatment would not agree with my constitution," he said grimly. "My system does not permit me to use the remedy you prescribe."
"Oh, I see. You mean the pipe." A puff of smoke punctuated the remark. The physician was watching his friend's face now, and the fun was gone from his voice as he said gravely, "Pardon me. Brother Matthews; I meant no slur upon your personal conviction touching—"
"Brother Matthews!" interrupted Dan, sharply, "I thought we had agreed to drop all that. It's bad enough to be dodged and shunned by every man in town without your rubbing it in. As for my personal convictions, they have nothing to do with the case. In fact, my system does not permit me to have personal convictions."
Dr. Harry's eyes twinkled. "This system of yours seems to be in a bad way, Dan. What's wrong with it?"
"Wrong with it! Wrong with my system? Man alive, don't you know this is heresy! How can there be anything wrong with my system? Doesn't it relieve me of any responsibility in the matter of right and wrong? Doesn't it take from me all such burdens as personal convictions. Doesn't it fix my standard of goodness, and then doesn't it make goodness my profession? You, poor drudge; you and the rest of the merely humans must be good as a matter of sentiment! Thanks to my system my goodness is a matter of business; I am paid for being good. My system says that your pipe and, perhaps your book, are bad—sinful. I have nothing to do with it. I only obey and draw my salary."
"Oh, well," said Harry, soothingly, "there is the old Doctor's remedy.It's probably better on the whole."
"I tried that the other day," Dan growled.
"Worked, didn't it?"
Dan grinned in spite of himself. "At first the effects seemed to be very beneficial, but later I found that it was, er—somewhat irritating, and that it slightly aggravated the complaint."
The doctor was smiling now. "Suppose you try a little physical exercise occasionally—working in the garden or—"
Dan threw up his hands with a tragic gesture. "Suicide!" he almost shouted.
Then they both lay back in their chairs and fairly howled with laughter.
"Whew! That does a fellow good!" gasped Dan.
"I guess we have arrived," said Harry, with a final chuckle. "Thought we were way off the track once or twice; but I have located your liver trouble, all right. When did they call?"
"This afternoon. Did you know?"
The doctor nodded. "I have been expecting it for several days. I guess you were about the only person in Corinth who wasn't."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"If I can avoid it, I never tell a patient of a coming operation until it's time to operate; then it's all over before they can get nervous."
Dan shuddered—the laugh was all out of him now. "I have certainly been on the table this afternoon," he said. "I need to talk it out with someone. That's what I came to you for."
"Perhaps you had better tell me the particulars," said Harry, quietly.
So Dan told him, and when he had finished they had both grown very serious.
"I was afraid of this, Dan," said Harry. "You'll need to be very careful—very careful."
The other started to speak, but the doctor checked him.
"I know. I know how you feel. What you say about the system and all that is all too true, and you haven't seen the worst of it yet, by a good deal."
"Do you mean to tell me that Miss Farwell will be made to suffer for her interest in that poor girl?" demanded Dan warmly.
"If Miss Farwell continues to live with Grace Conner at Mrs. Mulhall's, there is not a respectable home in this town that will receive her," answered the doctor bluntly.
"My God! are the people blind? Can't the church see what a beautiful—what a Christ-like thing she is doing?"
"You know Grace Conner's history," replied Harry, coolly. "What reason is there to think it will be different in Miss Farwell's case, so far as the attitude of the community goes?"
Dan could not keep his seat. In his agitation he walked the floor. Suddenly turning on the other he demanded, "Then I am to understand that my friendship with Miss Farwell will mean for me—"
Dr. Harry was silent. Indeed, how could he suggest, ever so indirectly, that the friendship between Dan and Miss Farwell should be discontinued. If the young woman had been anyone else, or if Dr. Harry himself had not—But why attempt explanation?
The minister continued tramping up and down the room, stopping now and then to face the doctor, who sat still in his chair by the library table, quietly smoking.
"This is horrible, Harry! I—I can't believe it! So far as my friendship for Miss Farwell goes, that is only an incident. It does not matter in itself."
Dr. Harry puffed vigorously. He thought to himself that this might be true, but something in Dan's face and voice when he spoke—something of which he himself was unconscious—made Harry glad that he had not answered.
"It is the spirit of it all that matters," the minister continued, pausing again. "I never dreamed that such a thing could be. That Grace Conner's life should be ruined by the wicked carelessness of these people seems bad enough. But that they should take the same attitude toward Miss Farwell, simply because she is seeking to do that Christian thing that the church itself will not do, is—is monstrous!" He turned impatiently to resume his restless movement. Then, when his friend did not speak he continued slowly, as though the words were forced from him against his will: "And to think that they could be so unmoved by the suffering of that poor girl, their own victim, and so untouched by the example of Miss Farwell; and then that they should give such grave consideration and be so influenced by absolutely groundless and vicious idle gossip! And that the church of Christ, that Christianity itself, should be so wholly in the hands of people so unspeakably blind, so—contemptibly mean and small in their conceptions of the religion of Jesus Christ!"
He confronted the doctor again and his face flushed. "Why, Doctor, my whole career as a Christian minister depends upon the mere whim of these people, who are moved by such a spirit as this. No matter what motives may prompt my course they have the power to prevent me from doing my work. This is one of the strongest and most influential churches in the brotherhood. They can give me such a name that my life-work will be ruined. What can I do?"
"You must be very careful, Dan," said Dr. Harry, slowly.
"Careful! And that means, I suppose, that I must bow to the people of this church—ruled as they are by such a spirit—as to my lords and masters; that I shall have no other God but this congregation; that I shall deny my own conscience for theirs; that I shall go about the trivial, nonsensical things they call my pastoral duties, in fear and trembling; that my ministry is to cringe when they speak, and do their will regardless of what I feel to be the will of Christ! Faugh!" Big Dan drew himself erect. "If this is what the call to the ministry means, I am beginning to understand some things that have always puzzled me greatly."
He dropped wearily into his chair.
"Tell me, Doctor," he demanded, "do the people generally, see these things?"
"It seems to me that everyone who thinks must see them," replied the other.
"Then why did no one tell me? Why did not the old Doctor explain the real condition of the church?"
"As a rule it is not a safe thing to attempt to tell a minister these things. Would you have listened, Dan, if he had tried to tell you? Or, because he is not a church man, would you not have misunderstood his motives? The Doctor loves you, Dan."
"But you are a church man, a member of the official board of my congregation. If men like you know these things why are you in the church at all?"
Silently Dr. Harry re-filled and lighted his pipe. It was as if he deliberated over his reply. The membership of every church may be divided into three distinct classes: those who are the church; those who belong to the church; and those who are members, but who neither are, nor belong to. Dr. Harry was a member.
"Dan," said the physician, "I suppose it is very difficult for such men as you to understand the religious dependence of people like myself. We see the church's lack of appreciation of true worth of character, we know the vulgar, petty scheming and wire-pulling for place, the senseless craving for notoriety, and the prostitution of the spirit of Christ's teaching to denominational ends. We understand how the ministers are at the mercy of the lowest minds and the meanest spirits in their congregation; but, Dan, because we love the cause we do not talk of these things even to each other, for fear of being misunderstood. It is useless to talk of them to our ministers, for they dare not listen. Why man, I never in my life felt that I could talk to my pastor as I am talking to you!" He smiled. "I guess that I was afraid that they would tell Judge Strong, and that the church would put me out. And, with most of them, that—probably, is exactly what would have happened. I am not sure but you will consider me unsafe, and avoid me in the future," he added whimsically.
Dan smiled at his words, though they revealed so much to him.
Dr. Harry went on, "We remain in the church, and give it our support, I suppose, because we are dependent upon it for our religious life; because we know no religious life outside of it. It is the only institution that professes to be distinctively Christian, and we love its teaching in spite of its practice. We are always hoping that some one will show us a way out. And some one will!" He spoke passionately now, with deep conviction: "Some one must! This Godless mockery cannot continue. I have too much faith in the goodness of men to believe otherwise. I don't know how the change will come. But it will come and it will come from men in the church—men like you, Dan, who come to the ministry with the highest ideals. But you must be careful, mighty careful, not for your own sake, alone, but for the sake of the cause we both love. Some operations are exceedingly dangerous to the life of the patient; some medicines must be administered with care lest they kill instead of cure. Men like me, from long experience with professional reformers, look with distrust upon the preacher who talks about his church, even while we know that there is a great need."
Thus Dr. Harry presented another side of the problem to his bewildered friend—a phase of the question commonly ignored by every fiery reformer, whose particular reformation istheone—the only way.
Later Dan asked, "Do you think Miss Farwell understands what her course means, Doctor?"
Harry shook his head. "I wish I knew how much she understands. Already two or three people who expected to call her have told me they would find someone else. I have several cases now that need a trained nurse, but they won't have her because of what they have heard. And yet I promised her, you know, that she should have plenty of work."
"Have you told her this?" asked Dan.
Again Harry shook his head. "What's the good?"
"But she ought to be told," exclaimed the other.
"I know that, Dan. But I can't do it, after urging her, as I did, to stay in Corinth. You are the one to tell her, I am sure."
Then, as if to avoid any further discussion of the matter he rose. "You certainly have had enough of this for today, old man. I think I'll prescribe a little music, now, and, if you don't mind, I'll take some of my own prescription. I feel the need."
He went to his piano, and for an hour Dan was under the spell.
When the last sweet harmony had slipped softly away into the night, the musician sat still, his head bowed. Dan went quietly to his side, and laid a hand on the doctor's shoulder.
"Amen!" he said, reverently. "It is a wonderful, beautiful ministry,Doctor. You have given me faith and hope and peace. Thank you!"
When his friend had gone, Dr. Harry went back to the piano. Softly, smoothly his fingers moved over the ivory keys. He had played for Dan—he played now for himself. Into the music he put all that he dared not put into words: all the longing, all the pain, all the surrender, all the sacrifice, were there. For again, when the minister had spoken of Miss Farwell the doctor had seen in his friend's face and heard in his voice that which Dan himself did not yet recognize. And Harry had spoken the conviction of his heart when he said, "You are the one to tell her, I am sure."
Of this man, too, it might be written, "He saved others; himself he could not save."
"'And do you think, Grace, that anything in all this beautiful world is of greater importance—of more value to the world—than a human life, with all its marvelous power to think and feel and love and hate and so leave its mark on all life, for all time?'"
"Miss Farwell!"
The nurse looked up from her sewing in her hands.
"What is it, Grace?"
"I—I think I will try to find a place today. Mrs. Mulhall told me last night that she had heard of two women who want help. It may be that one of them will take me. I think I ought to try."
This was the third time within a few days that the girl had expressed thoughts similar to these. Under the personal care of Miss Farwell she had rapidly recovered from her terrible experience, both physically and mentally, but the nurse felt that she was not yet strong enough to meet a possible rebuff from the community that, before, had shown itself so reluctant to treat her with any degree whatever of consideration or kindness. The girl's spirit had been cruelly hurt. She was possessed of an unhealthy, morbid fear of the world that would cripple her for life if it could not somehow be overcome.
Miss Farwell felt that Grace Conner's only chance lay in winning a place for herself in the community where she had suffered such ill-treatment. But before she faced the people again she must be prepared. The sensitive, wounded spirit must be strengthened, for it could not bear many more blows. How to do this was the problem.
Hope dropped her sewing in her lap. "Come over here by the window, dear, and let's talk about it."
The young woman seated herself on a stool at the feet of her companion who, in actual years, was but little her senior, but who, in so many ways, was to her an elder sister.
"Why are you so anxious to leave me, Grace?" asked the nurse with a smile.
The girl's eyes—eyes that would never now be wholly free from that shadow of fear and pain—filled with tears. She put out a hand impulsively, touching Miss Farwell's knee. "Oh, don't say that!" she exclaimed, with a little catch in her voice. "You know it isn't that."
The eyes of the stronger woman looked reassuringly down at her. "Well, what is it then?" The low tone was insistent. The nurse felt that it would be better for the patient to express that which was in her own mind.
The girl's face was down-cast and she picked nervously at the fold of her friend's skirt. "It's nothing, Miss Farwell; only I feel that I—I ought not to be a burden upon you a moment longer than I can help."
"I thought that was it," returned the other. Her firm, white hand slipped under the trembling chin, and the girl's face was gently lifted until Grace was forced to look straight into those deep gray eyes. "Tell me, dear, why do you feel that you are a burden upon me?"
Silence for a moment; then—and there was a wondering gladness in the girl's voice—"I—I don't know."
The nurse smiled, but there was a grave note in her voice as she said, still holding the girl's face toward her own, "I'll tell you why. It is because you have been hurt so deeply. This feeling is one of the scars of your experience, dear. All your life you will need to fight that feeling—the feeling that you are not wanted. And you must fight it—fight it with all your might. You will never overcome it entirely, for the scar of your hurt is there to stay. You will always suffer at times from the old fear; but, if you will, you can conquer it so far that it will not spoil your life. You must—for your own sake, and for my sake, and for the sake of the wounded lives you are going to help heal—help all the better because of your own hurt. Do you understand, dear?"
The other nodded; she could not speak.
"You are going out into the world to find a place for yourself, of course, for that is right," Hope continued. "And it will be best for you to find a place here in Corinth, if possible. But it is not going to be easy, Grace. It's going to be hard, very hard, and you will need to know that, no matter what other people make you feel, you have a place in my life, a place where you belong. Let me try, if I can, to tell you so that you will never, never forget."
For a little the nurse looked away out of the window, up into the leafy depths of the big trees, and into the blue sky beyond, while the girl watched her with a look that was pathetic in its wondering, hungering earnestness. When Miss Farwell spoke again she chose her words carefully.
"Once upon a time a woman, walking in the mountains, discovered by chance a wonderful mine, of such vast wealth that there was nothing in all the world like it for richness. And the mine belonged to the woman because she found it. But the wealth of the mine went out into the world for all men to use, and thus, in the largest sense, the riches the woman found belonged to all mankind. But still, because she had found it, the woman always felt that it was hers. And so, through her discovery of this vast wealth, and the great happiness it brought to the world, the mine became to the woman the dearest of all her possessions.
"Tell me, Grace, do you think that anyone could ever replace the mountains, the ocean or the stars, or any of these wonderful, wonderful things in the great universe, if they were to be destroyed?"
"No." The answer came in a puzzled tone.
"And do you think, Grace, that anything in all this beautiful world is of greater importance—of more value to the world—than a human life, with all its marvelous power to think and feel and love and hate and so leave its mark on all life, for all time?"
"No, Miss Farwell."
"Then don't you see how impossible it is that anyone should ever take your place? Don't you see that you have a place in the world—a place that is yours because God put you in it, just as truly as he put the mountains, the seas, the stars in their places? And don't you see why you must feel that you have a right to your own life-place, and that you must hold it, no matter what others say, or do, or think, because of its great value to God and to the world? And Grace—look at me, child! do you think that anything in all the universe is dearer to the Father than a human life, that is so wonderful and so eternal in its power? So life should be the dearest thing in all the world to us. Not just the life of each to himself, but every life—any life, the dearest thing to all. I think this was true of Christ; I think it should be true of Christians. I believe this with all my heart."
There was silence for a little while; then Hope said again: "Now tell me, Grace, ought the mine to have felt dependent upon the woman who found it, and who valued it so highly, do you think? Then why should you feel dependent upon me? Why, you belong to me, child! Your life, the most wonderful—the dearest thing in all the world, belongs to me; just as the mine belonged to the woman and brought her great joy because it blessed the world. When others threw your life aside, when you yourself tried to throw it away, I found it. I took it. It is mine! And it is the dearest thing in all the world to me, because it is so great a thing, because no other life can take its place, and because it is of such great worth to the world. Don't you see?" The calm voice was vibrant now with deep emotion.
Looking into those gray eyes that shone with such loving kindness into her own, Grace Conner realized a mighty truth; a truth that would mould and shape her own life into a life of beauty and power.
"So, dear," the nurse continued, "when you go out into the world again, and people make you feel the old hurt—as they will—you must remember the woman who found the mine; and, feeling that you belong to me and to all life, you will not let people rob you of your place in the world. You will not let them rob me of my great wealth. And now you must try the very best you can to get work here in Corinth, but if you should fail to find it, you won't let that matter too much. You'll keep your place right here with me just the same, won't you, Grace, because you are my mine, you know?"
Long and earnestly the girl looked into the face of the nurse, and Miss Farwell understood what the other could not say. Suddenly the girl caught her friend's hand and kissed it passionately, then rushed from the room. Miss Farwell wisely let her go without a word, but her own eyes were full.
She turned to the open window to see her neighbor, the minister, coming in at the gate.
"'You see you will need to find a way out for yourself.'"
Deborah was in the rear of the house, busily engaged with a big washing. Denny had gone up town on some errand. Much to Miss Farwell's surprise Dan did not, as usual, take the path leading to the garden, but kept straight ahead to the porch, and his face was very grave as he asked if he might come in. She welcomed him with frank pleasure, and took up at once the thread of conversation which the visit of the Elders had interrupted the day before. But it was clear that her big friend's mind was busy with other thoughts, and soon they were facing an embarrassing silence. The young woman gazed thoughtfully at the monument across the street, while Dan moved uneasily. At last the man broke the silence.
"Miss Farwell I don't know what you will think of me for coming to you upon the errand that brought me, but I feel that I—I mean, I want you to believe that I am trying to do what is best."
She looked at him questioningly.
Dan went on. "I learned something yesterday, that I am sure you ought to know, and there seems to be no one else to tell you, so I—I came."
Miss Farwell's cheeks and brow grew crimson, but in a moment she was her own calm self again.
"Go on, please."
Then he told her.
While he was speaking of the Elders' visit and his talk with Dr. Abbott, she watched him closely. Two or three times she smiled. When he had finished she asked with a touch of sarcasm in her voice, "And do you wish to see my letters of recommendation? Shall I give you a list of people to whom you might write?"
"Miss Farwell!" Dan's voice brought the hot color again to her cheek.
"Forgive me! That was unkind," she said.
"Well rather. You might see that I did not come to you with this for—well for fun," he finished with a grim smile.
"You don't seem to be enjoying it greatly," she agreed critically. "I can easily understand how this talk might result in something very serious for you. You will remember, I think, that I warned you, you could not leave the preacher on the other side of the fence." She was deliberately trying him. "But of course you can easily avoid any trouble with your people, you have only to—"
She stopped, checked by the expression on his face.
His voice rang out sharply with a quality in its tone that sent a thrill to the heart of the woman. "I did not come here to discuss the possibility of trouble for me. Please believe this—even if I am a servant of the church."
He spoke the last words with a shade of bitterness, she thought, and as she looked at him—his powerful form tense for a moment, with firm-set lips and square jaw and stern eyes—she found herself wondering what would happen if this servant should ever decide to be the master.
"Don't you see how this idle, silly, wicked talk is likely to harm you?" he asked almost roughly. "You know what the same thing did for Grace Conner. It is really serious, Miss Farwell—believe me it is, or I should not have told you about it at all. Already Dr. Harry—" He checked himself. His reference to his friend was unintentional.
She finished the sentence quietly, "—has found some people who will not employ me because of the things that are being said. I knew something was wrong, for—instead of telling me of possible cases and assuring me of work, he has been saying lately, 'I will let you know if anything turns up.'"
Dan broke in eagerly, "Dr. Abbott has done everything he could, MissFarwell. I ought not to have mentioned him at all. You must not think—"
She interrupted him with quiet dignity. "Certainly I do not think of any such thing. You and Dr. Abbott are both very kind to consider me in this way, but really you must not be troubled about this silly gossip. I am not exactly dependent upon the good people of Corinth, you know. I can go back to the city at any time. Perhaps," she added slowly, "considering everything that would be the wisest thing to do, after all. It was only for Grace Conner's sake I have remained."
Dan spoke eagerly again, "But you do not need to leave Corinth. This talk you know, is all because of your companion's reputation."
"You mean," she said quietly, "the reputation that people have given my companion."
"So far as the situation goes it amounts to the same thing," he answered. "It is your association with her. If you could arrange to board with some family now—"
Again she interrupted him. "Grace needs me, Mr. Matthews."
"But it is all so unjust," he argued lamely. "The sacrifice is too great. You can't afford to place yourself before the community in such a wrong light."
The young woman's face revealed her surprise and disappointment. She had grown to think of Dan as being big and fine in spirit as in body, and now, to hear him voice, what she believed to be the spirit and policy of his profession, was a shock that hurt. She would have flashed out at him with scornful, cutting words, but she felt, intuitively, that he was not being true to himself in this—that he was forced, as it were, into a false position by something deep down in his life. This feeling robbed her of the power to reply in stinging words, and instead gave her answer a note of sadness.
"Are you not advocating the doctrines and policy of the people who are responsible for the 'wrong light' rather than the teachings of Christ? Are you not now speaking professionally, having forgotten our agreement to leave the preacher on the other side of the fence?"
The big fellow's embarrassment was evident as he said, "Miss Farwell, you must not—you must not misunderstand me again. I did not mean—I cannot stand the thought of your being so misjudged because of this beautiful Christian service. I was only seeking a way out."
"No," she said gently, "I will not misunderstand you, but there is only one way out, as you put it."
"And that?"
"My ministry."
Dan sprang to his feet and crossed the room to her side.
"What a woman you are!" he exclaimed impulsively.
She arose, trembling; always when he came near—something about this man moved her strangely.
"But my way out will not help you," she said. "You must think of your ministry."
"I thought we agreed not to talk of that," he returned.
"But we must. You must consider what the result will be if you are seen with me—with Grace and me." She caught herself quickly. "Can the pastor of Memorial Church afford to associate with two women of such doubtful reputation? What will your church think?" She was smiling as she spoke, but beneath the smile there was much of earnestness. She was determined that he should know how well she understood his position. She wondered if he himself understood it. "You see you will need to find a way out for yourself," she insisted.
"I am not looking for a way out," he growled.
"Ah, but you should. You must consider your influence. Consider the great harm your interest in Grace Conner will do your church. You must remember your position in the community. You cannot afford to—to risk your reputation."
Under her skillfully chosen words, he again assumed an air of indignant reserve. She saw his hands clench, and the great muscles in his arms and shoulders swell.
Unconsciously—or was it unconsciously?—she had repeated almost the exact words of Elder Jordan. The stock argument sounded strange coming from her. Deliberately she went on. "Really there is no reason why you should suffer from this. It is not necessary for you to continue our little friendship. You can stay on the other side of the fence. I—we will understand. You have too much at stake. You—"
He interrupted. "Miss Farwell, I don't know what you think of me that you can say these things. I had hoped that you were beginning to look upon me as a man, not merely as a preacher. I had even dared think that our friendship was growing to be something more than just a little friendly acquaintance. If I am mistaken, I will stay on the other side of the fence. If I am right—if you do care for my friendship," he finished slowly, "I will try to serve my people faithfully, but I will not willingly shape my life by their foolish, wicked whims. Denny's garden may get along without me, and you may not need what you call 'our little friendship' but I need Denny's garden, and—I need you."
Her face shone with gladness. "Forgive me," she said. "I only wished to be sure that you understood some things clearly."
At her rather vague words, he said, "I am beginning to understand a good many things."
"And understanding, you will still come to—" she smiled, "to work inDenny's garden?"
"Yes," he answered with a boyish laugh, "just as if there were no other place in all the world where I could get a job."
She watched him as he swung down the walk, through the gate and away up the street under the big trees.
And as she watched him, she recalled his words, "I need you;—just as though there were no other place in all the world." The words repeated themselves in her mind.
How much did they mean, she wondered.
"But it was a reaching out in the dark, a blind groping for something—Dan knew not exactly what: a restless but cautious feeling about for a place whereon to set his feet."
It was the Sunday evening following the incidents just related that Dan was challenged.
His sermon was on "Fellowship of Service," a theme very different from the subjects he had chosen at the beginning of his preaching in Corinth. The Doctor smiled as he listened, telling himself that the boy was already beginning to "reach out." As usual the Doctor was right. But it was a reaching out in the dark, a blind groping for something—Dan knew not exactly what: a restless but cautious feeling about for a place whereon to set his feet.
With the sublime confidence of the newly-graduated, this young shepherd had come from the denominational granary to feed his flock with a goodly armful of theological husks; and very good husks they were too. It should be remembered that—while Dan had been so raised under the teachings of his home that, to an unusual degree his ideals and ambitions were most truly Christian—he knew nothing of life other than the simple life of the country neighborhood where he was born; he knew as little of churches. So that—while it was natural and easy for him to accept the husks from his church teachers at their valuation, being wholly without the fixed prejudice that comes from family church traditions—it was just as natural and easy for him to discover quickly, when once he was face to face with his hungry flock, that the husks were husks.
From the charm of the historical glories of the church as pictured by the church historians, and from the equally captivating theories of speculative religion as presented by teachers of schools of theology, Dan had been brought suddenly in contact with actual conditions. In his experience of the past weeks there was no charm, no glory, no historical greatness, no theoretical perfection. There was meanness, shameful littleness—actual, repulsive, shocking. He was compelled to recognize the real need that his husks could not satisfy. It had been forced upon his attention by living arguments that refused to be put aside. And Big Dan was big enough to see that the husks did not suffice—consistent enough to cease giving them out. But the young minister felt pitifully empty handed.
The Doctor had foreseen that Dan would very soon reach the point in his ministerial journey where he was now standing—the point where he must decide which of the two courses open to him he should choose.
Before him, on the one hand, lay the easy, well-worn path of obedience to the traditions, policies and doctrines of Memorial Church and its denominational leaders. On the other hand lay the harder and less-frequented way of truthfulness to himself and his own convictions. Would he—lowering his individual standard of righteousness—wave the banner of his employers, preaching—not the things that he believed to be the teachings of Jesus—but the things that he knew would meet the approval of the church rulers? Or would he preach the things that his own prayerful judgment told him were needed if his church was to be, indeed, the temple of the spirit of Christ. In short Dan must now decide whether he would bow to the official board, that paid his salary, or to his God, as the supreme authority to whom he must look for an indorsement of his public teaching.
In Dan's case, it was the teaching of the four years of school against the teaching of his home. The home won. Being what he was by birth and training, this man could not do other than choose the harder way. The Doctor with a great amount of satisfaction saw him throwing down his husks, and awaited the outcome with interest.
That sermon was received by the Elders and ruling classes with silent, uneasy bewilderment. Others were puzzled no less by the new and unfamiliar note, but their faces expressed a kind of doubtful satisfaction. Thus it happened that, with one exception, not a person of the entire audience mentioned the sermon when they greeted their minister at the close of the service. The exception was a big, broad-shouldered young farmer whom Dan had never before met.
Elder Strong introduced him, "Brother Matthews, you must meet Brother John Gardner. This is the first time he has been to church for a long while."
The two young men shook hands, each measuring the other with admiring eyes.
The Judge continued, "Brother John used to be one of our most active workers, but for some reason he has dropped behind. I never could just exactly understand it." He finished with his pious, patronizing laugh, which somehow conveyed the thought that he did understand if only he chose to tell, and that the reason was anything but complimentary to Brother John.
The big farmer's face grew red at the Judge's words. He quickly faced about as if to retort, but checked himself, and, ignoring the Elder said directly to Dan, "Yes, and I may as well tell you that I wouldn't be here today, but I am caught late with my harvesting, and short of hands. I drove into town to see if I could pick up a man or two. I didn't find any so I waited over until church, thinking that I might run across someone here."
Dan smiled. The husky fellow was so uncompromisingly honest and outspoken. It was like a breath of air from the minister's own home hills. It was so refreshing Dan wished for more, "And have you found anyone?" he asked abruptly.
At the matter-of-fact tone the other looked at the minister with a curious expression in his blue eyes. The question was evidently not what he had expected.
"No," he said, "I have not, but I'm glad I came anyway. Your sermon was mighty interesting to me, sir. I couldn't help thinking though, that these sentiments about work would come a heap more forceful from someone who actually knowed what a day's work was. My experience has been that the average preacher knows about as much about the lives of the laboring people as I do about theology."
"I think you are mistaken there," declared Dan. "The fact is, that the average preacher comes from the working classes."
"If he comes from them he takes mighty good care that he stays from them," retorted the other. "But I've got something else to do besides starting an argument now. I don't mind telling you, though, that if I could see you pitch wheat once in a while when crops are going to waste for want of help, I'd feel that we was close enough together for you to preach to me." So saying he turned abruptly and pushed his way through the crowd toward a group of working-men who stood near the door.
The Doctor had never commented to Dan on his sermons. But, that night as they walked home together, something made Dan feel that his friend was pleased. The encounter with the blunt young farmer had been so refreshing that he was not so depressed in spirit as he commonly was after the perfunctory, meaningless, formal compliments, and handshaking that usually closed his services. Perhaps because of this he—for the first time—sought an expression from his old friend.
"The people did not seem to like my sermon tonight?" he ventured.
The Doctor grunted a single word, "Stunned!"
"Do you think they will like it when they recover?" asked Dan with an embarrassed laugh.
But the old man was not to be led into discussing Dan's work.
"In my own practice," he said dryly, "I never prescribe medicine to suit a patient's taste, but to cure him."
Dan understood. He tried again.
"But how didyoulike my prescription, Doctor?"
For a while the Doctor did not answer; then he said, "Well you see, Dan, I always find more religion in your talks when you are not talking religiously."
Just then a team and buggy passed, and the voice of John Gardner hailed them cheerily.
"Good night, Doctor! Good night, Mr. Matthews!"
"Good night!" they answered, and the Doctor called after him, "Did you find your man, John?"
"No," shouted the other, "I did not. If you run across anyone send 'em out will you?"
"There goes a mighty fine fellow," commented the old physician.
"Seems to be," agreed Dan thoughtfully. "Where does he live?"
The Doctor told him, adding, "I wouldn't call until harvest is over, if I were you. He really wouldn't have time to give you and he'd probably tell you so." Which advice Dan received in silence.
The sun was just up the next morning when John Gardner was hitching his team to the big hay wagon. Already the smoke was coming from the stack of the threshing engine, that stood with the machine in the center of the field, and the crew was coming from the cook-wagon. Two hired men, with another team and wagon, were already gathering a load of sheaves to haul to the threshers.
The house dog barked fiercely and the farmer paused with a trace in his hand when he saw a big man turning into the barn lot from the road.
"Good morning!" called Dan cheerily, "I feared I was going to be late." He swung up to the young fellow who stood looking at him—too astonished to speak—the unhooked trace still in his hand.
"I understand that you need a hand," said Dan briefly. And the farmer noticed that the minister was dressed in a rough suit of clothes, a worn flannel shirt and an old slouch hat—Dan's fishing rig.
With a slow smile John turned, hooked his trace, and gathered his lines. "Do you mean to say that you walked out here from town this morning to work in the harvest field—a good eight miles?"
"That is exactly what I mean," returned the other.
"What for?" asked the farmer bluntly.
"For the regular wages, with one condition."
"And the condition?"
"That no one on the place shall be told that I am a preacher, and that—for today at least—I pitch against you. If, by tonight, you are not satisfied with my work you can discharge me," he added meaningly. As Dan spoke he faced the rugged farmer with a look that made him understand that his challenge of the night before was accepted.
The blue eyes gleamed. "I'll take you," he said curtly. Calling to his wife, "Mary give this man his breakfast." Then to Dan, "When you get through come out to the machine." He sprang on his wagon and Dan turned toward the kitchen.
"Hold on a minute," John shouted, as the wagon began to move, "what'll I call you?"
The other answered over his shoulder, "My name is Dan."
All that day they worked, each grimly determined to handle more grain than the other. Before noon the spirit of the contest had infected the whole force. Every hand on the place worked as if on a wager. The threshing crew were all from distant parts of the country, and no one knew who it was that had so recklessly matched his strength and staying power against John Gardner, the acknowledged champion for miles around. Bets were freely laid; rough, but good natured chaff flew from mouth to mouth; and now and then a hearty yell echoed over the field, but the two men in the contest were silent; they scarcely exchanged a word.
In the afternoon the stranger slowly but surely forged ahead. John rallied every ounce of his strength but his giant opponent gained steadily. When the last load came in the farmer threw down his fork before the whole crowd and held out his hand to Dan.
"I'll give it up," he said heartily. "You're a better man than I am, stranger, wherever you come from." Dan took the offered hand while the men cheered lustily.
But the light of battle still shone in the minister's eyes.
"Perhaps," he said, "pitching is not your game. I'll match you now, tonight, for anything you want—wrestling, running, jumping, or I'll go you at any time for any work you can name."
John slowly looked him over and shook his head, "I know when I've got enough," he said laughing. "Perhaps some of the boys here—" He turned to the group.
The men grinned as they measured the stranger with admiring glances and one drawled, "We don't know where you come from, pardner, but we sure know what you can do. Ain't nobody in this outfit hankerin' to tackle the man that can work John Gardner down."
At the barn the farmer drew the minister to one side.
"Look here, Brother Matthews," he began.
But the other interrupted sharply. "My name is Dan, Mr. Gardner. Don't go back on the bargain."
"Well then, Dan, I won't. And please remember after this that my name is John. I started to ask if you really meant to stay out here and work for me this harvest?"
"That was the bargain, unless you are dissatisfied and want me to quit tonight."
The other rubbed his tired arms. "Oh I'm satisfied all right," he said grimly. "But I can't understand it, that's all."
"No," said the other, "and I can't explain. But perhaps if you were a preacher, and were met by men as men commonly meet preachers, you would understand clearly enough."
Tired as he was, the big farmer laughed until the tears came.
"And to think," he said, "all the way home last night I was wondering how you could stand it. I understand it all right. Come on in to supper." He led the way to the house.
For three days Dan fairly reveled in the companionship of those rough men, who gave him full fellowship in their order of workers. Then he went back to town.
John drove him in and the two chatted like the good comrades they had come to be, until within sight of the village. As they drew near the town silence fell upon them; their remarks grew formal and forced.
Dan felt as if he were leaving home to return to a strange land where he would always be an alien. At his door the farmer said awkwardly, "Well, goodbye, Brother Matthews, come out whenever you can."
The minister winced but did not protest. "Thank you," he returned, "I have enjoyed my visit more than I can say." And there was something so pathetic in the brown eyes of the stalwart fellow that the other strong man could make no reply. He drove quickly away without a word or a backward look.
In his room Dan sat down by the window, thinking of the morrow and what the church called his work, of the pastoral visits, the committee meetings, the Ladies' Aid. At last he stood up and stretched his great body to its full height with a sigh. Then drawing his wages from his pocket he placed the money on the study table and stood for a long time contemplating the pieces of silver as if they could answer his thoughts. Again he went to the window and looked down at Denny's garden that throughout the summer had yielded its strength to the touch of the crippled boy's hand. Then from the other window he gazed at the cast-iron monument on the corner—gazed until the grim figure seemed to threaten him with its uplifted arm.
Slowly he turned once more to the coins on the table. Gathering them, one by one, he placed them carefully in an envelope. Then, seating himself, he wrote on the little package, "The laborer is worthy of his hire."