DR. AND MRS. CAIAPHAS were spending the latter part of the summer at
the sea-side with their son-in-law, Mr. Henry Herbert Gilderman.
Mrs. Gilderman was Dr. and Mrs. Caiaphas's daughter Florence--their
eldest girl, and perhaps the best-beloved by the doctor of all the
children. She had been married now a little over a year, during nearly
all of which time she and her husband had lived abroad.
Gilderman was one of the richest men in the world. His grandfather
had laid the foundation of that great Gilderman estate of the present
generation, and his father had built well upon the foundation that the
first Gilderman had laid. Gilderman had been born into all this great
wealth--so great that, perhaps, no man could realize how vast it was.
To be born into such a fortune is almost as to be born into royalty. It
shuts the inheritor into a shell of circumstances from which there is
no escape. Such a man as Gilderman must live his life after a certain
routine and in a certain way from which there is no escape. There was
no privacy in his life, for all the world looked on and saw what he
did. His business of life was to spend money and to enjoy himself. For
that purpose, and for that purpose alone, he was born into the world.
He had a house in the metropolis, another at the nation's capital, and
still another where the Romans of his class spent the torrid weather
of summer. Each of these was a palace, and each was filled with gems
of art and rare pieces of china, plate, tapestries, and bric-à-brac
that his agents had collected for him from all parts of the world. He
had given a hundred and sixty thousand dollars for a single painting,
and after it was hung he had, perhaps, hardly looked at it. When he
travelled he had a valet to look after him, and to foresee and to
fulfil his wishes. He hardly did anything for himself--not even to
order a cab or to purchase a railroad-ticket. Other attendants looked
after the heaps of luggage which he took with him when he travelled.
He had his _avant-courier_ to prepare soft places for him in which to
lodge, and others remained behind to close the places which he left.
Now that he was married, his wife--who had fallen very pliantly into
her new life, as women do--must also have a maid to accompany her
wherever she went. They would almost fill the private car in which they
nearly always travelled if they had any distance to go, especially if
they travelled upon any of the railroads which Gilderman controlled.
There was no escape from this routine. Even when Gilderman would seek
to change the monotonous smoothness of his existence with a taste
of something rougher--say of the mountains--it was only a pretended
roughness covering over the same perpetual smoothness and softness of
life. His log-hut in the wilderness was a palace masquerading as a hut
of logs. Everything was really soft and warm; the furniture was an
artificial reproduction of something rough; the floors were spread with
skins of wild beasts that cost three or four or five hundred dollars
apiece; there was an open fireplace that was designed and built by
Marcy, the architect, and a picture of this pretence of roughness was
published in the voluminous Sunday issue of some daily paper for all
the world to behold.
Such were the surroundings of Henry Herbert Gilderman. Into these
circumstances the mysterious paradox of divine wisdom had placed a
selfhood, eager, alertly intelligent, receptive, warm, affectionate.
A nature which, perhaps, lacked the gritty strenuosity in which a
character grows strong and fibrous and hard, but a nature soft, rich,
and lovable--a nature into which the seeds of truth fell easily and
struck quick roots and thrust forth a rapid growth. The garden of his
soul was rather luxuriant than well tilled, but it was fruitful and
beautiful.
As said before, the business of Gilderman's life was its
enjoyments--and the spending of money; the dream of his life was of
religious faith, of social reform, of an equitable readjustment of the
classes. He read intermittently of advanced socialistic and theological
literature. In these readings he would soon grow tired, presently find
himself becoming dull and drowsy; but each time he read a few seeds
would fall scatteringly in the soft, warm loam of his soul, and would
there spring up into the quick, rank growth of which he was very proud.
He loved nothing better than to talk to some intimate friend of his
dreams and of his religious and socialistic views. He would talk on
such an occasion until his cheeks glowed and his breath came hot and
thick. He would, sometimes, afterwards wonder dimly whether he had not
been a little foolish--whether he had not talked too much and said too
much nonsense. But he enjoyed the intensity of the excitement while it
lasted.
His friends loved him.
He was, unless crossed in his desires, kind to every one whom he
met; but he never forgot that he was Henry Herbert Gilderman and the
grandson of James Quincy Gilderman.
Gilderman was singularly attracted by the popular interest that centred
about John the Baptist, and now about the Christ who taught and healed
the poor. He used to talk about these things to his father-in-law when
he could get Dr. Caiaphas to discuss the matter. The subject was one
not very pleasant to the rector of the Church of the Advent, and he was
not often willing to discuss it.
When September arrived, Mrs. Caiaphas did not immediately return to
town. Mrs. Gilderman was not at that time feeling at all well, and her
mother continued with her for a while. Dr. Caiaphas, however, used to
go down on a Saturday morning--generally in Gilderman's yacht--preach
on Sunday, attend to his more pressing parish work on Monday and
possibly on Tuesday, and then return directly to his summer home again.
One day Gilderman went down to the metropolis with his father-in-law,
having business in town with his manager. They started late in the
afternoon, and took their dinner aboard the yacht, which they had to
themselves. They sat smoking on the deck after dinner, each in a great
rattan chair. The day had been very hot, and they enjoyed to the full
the swift motion and the chill of the night air. It was a beautiful
night, soft and mild--the sky dusted over with a myriad stars. The
yacht sped forward, with a ceaseless rushing of the water alongside.
The cigar-points alternately glowed and paled as they smoked. Dr.
Caiaphas buttoned up his coat close to his chin. Every now and then the
voice of the sailors forward broke the stillness of the night, or the
clinking of dishes and tumblers sounded loud as the steward put away
the glass and the china in the saloon.
There was a distant light over across the dark water. It led
Gilderman's thoughts to the subject which had occupied them much of
late.
"By-the-way," he said, "has it never occurred to you, sir, to question
whether, after all, the Messiah whom the people are proclaiming over
yonder is not really the Divine Truth incarnated?"
"No," said Dr. Caiaphas, "it has not. And, to tell you the truth,
Henry, I would a great deal rather not discuss that phase of the
question."
"Why not?"
"Well, because it is unpleasant to me--because it is distressful to
me." Gilderman was silent, and, by-and-by, Dr. Caiaphas voluntarily
continued: "The Divine Word leads us to understand that God is a
spirit, and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in
truth. It is revolting to me to even listen to the supposition that the
God of Heaven could have a human son--a carpenter by trade--and that
the mother should be the wife of a common carpenter."
"I think I enter perfectly into your feelings," said Gilderman, after
another little space of silence; "but--I don't want to force the
conversation upon you, you understand, sir--but I must say that it
seems to me that you think only of God's acting according to your own
ideas of fitness. I do not believe that He ever acts according to man's
ideas, and maybe He may not have done so in this instance. How do you
know, sir, that we may not be mistaken? And, if we are mistaken, what a
great wrong are we doing!"
"In that case," said Dr. Caiaphas, "and, if I am mistaken,
speaking for myself, I see nothing for it but to suffer for my own
short-sightedness. Every man must exercise his own judgment, and if
his judgment is wrong he must suffer for it. I cannot believe that
this poor journeyman carpenter is the son of the Almighty God whom I
worship. If I am mistaken, I must suffer for it, for I cannot change my
mind. And I am so sure in my disbelief," he added, as though to close
the discussion, "that I am willing to stand my chances upon it at the
day of judgment, even if that day were to-morrow."
After that, Gilderman did not say anything more. But in the few words
he had said he had begun almost to convince himself that the miracles
of which the world was beginning to talk were really worthy of
attention.
The next morning, after an eleven-o'clock breakfast aboard the yacht,
Gilderman had himself driven down to his office. After the freshness
of the open air at the sea-side, the city felt like a steaming oven.
Gilderman sat leaning back in the brougham smoking and looking out upon
the hot bustle of the street. The ceaselessly streaming crowds on the
sidewalk hurried and jostled and pushed, paying no attention to the
heat or to their fellow-men or to heaven or to hell, or to anything but
the business they were just then so intent upon--each man a little life
in himself shut out from all the other little lives around him.
A bulletin was posted on a board in front of a newspaper-office--a
square of brownish paper covered with ink-drawn characters. Half a
dozen men stood looking at it, but the stream of humanity flowed by,
neither thinking of nor caring for the words posted above their heads.
In large letters it proclaimed that John the Baptist had been executed
the night before.
It brought a singular shock to Gilderman, who was still impressed
by the recollection of the brief talk that he had had with his
father-in-law. He said to himself, as he sat leaning back in the
carriage, "It's a confounded shame!"
He thought about it intermittently all the way down to the office and
until the brougham stopped at the sidewalk and he got out.
The office was on the first floor of an imposing brown-stone building.
Over the great, glazed doors were carved in relief the words:
"GILDERMAN BUILDING."
On both sides of the plate-glass windows that looked out into the busy
street were gilt letters:
"OFFICE OF THE GILDERMAN ESTATE."
Now the windows were open, and through them he could see the clerks
busy over the books. They looked warm, and wore linen or madras
jackets. Mr. Wright, the manager, was standing with the cashier looking
over a book. They neither of them saw him.
"You may come for me at three o'clock," Gilderman said to the man, who
stood holding open the door of the brougham. And then he turned and
went up the steps and through the swinging-door. The electric-fans were
whirring, and the air felt cool after the hot street outside.
He went directly through to the manager's room beyond. Those whom he
passed turned and looked after him; he was used to having men look
after him in that way. He felt that the fact of his presence became
almost instantly known throughout the entire office. There was a
silent, indescribable movement among the clerks. He saw the cashier
speak to Mr. Wright, the manager, who looked up sharply.
Gilderman went directly into his private office. He laid his hat on
the table among the newspapers. There was a brass electric-fan on
the mantel, and he turned the switch and started it moving, standing
before the refreshing coolness. As he did so the other door opened and
Mr. Wright came in. The manager bowed and Gilderman acknowledged his
presence with a nod. He did not move away from the cooling breezes of
the fan.
"I am sorry to have called you away from the sea in such weather as
this, Mr. Gilderman," said the manager.
"I'm sorry to come, Wright. It seems to me we've had nothing but hot
weather ever since February."
"How's Mrs. Gilderman?" asked the manager.
"Not very well," said Gilderman, briefly. "I suppose you wanted me
about those copper-mines?"
"Yes, sir; the transfers will have to be signed this week. I've made
arrangements with Mr. Pengrist and Walton, of Walton & Boone, to be
here. Shall I send word to Mr. Pengrist now?"
"You might as well," said Mr. Gilderman. As Mr. Wright touched the
electric-bell he remembered the bulletin he had just seen posted at
the newspaper office. "By-the-way," said he, "I saw it posted on the
bulletin-board as I came down that John the Baptist had been executed."
"Yes; so I was told awhile ago," said Mr. Wright. "I think it's a pity
that there should have been any dilly-dallying about it. Herod might as
well have acted sharply in the first instance. He has gained nothing by
all this delay."
"I don't think the Baptist ought to have been executed at all," said
Gilderman, briefly.
Mr. Wright smiled, and then looked quickly sober. He had for the moment
forgotten Gilderman's radical and socialistic proclivities. He thought
that they were very foolish, but he was too practical a man and had too
much good sense to argue the point.
The messenger-boy appeared at the open door. "Go down to Pengrist &
Ball's," said Mr. Wright, "and tell Mr. Pengrist that Mr. Gilderman is
here."
"Yes, sir," said the boy and disappeared.