A DISTURBANCE even of a great magnitude does not pervade the whole of
a community. You may hear, for instance, in the heart of the town that
there is a riot going on in the suburbs, but you may not be brought
any more actually in touch with it than though it were a hundred miles
away. Unless you have the time to spend, and sufficient curiosity to
go and hunt it out, you may not see anything of it unless it directly
collides with some of your daily habits.
So it was with this riot. The public journals were heavy that morning
with reports of gathering disturbances in the upper parts of the city,
and there was a general feeling of apprehension of coming trouble. But
when it actually came, people living in the houses in the upper reaches
of the town saw nothing of it, even though it was then in actual
progress within a mile of their own door-sills.
It was not until three or four o'clock in the afternoon that Gilderman
heard of the attack made upon the Temple. He had been called away
from home for a couple of days, and, being tired, had remained in the
house that Sunday morning with his wife. The diamond necklace had been
brought home from Brock's the evening before, and he had that morning
given it to Mrs. Gilderman in the bon-bon box, as he had planned. They
had both been very happy. It was only on his way to the club that he
met Ryan and Stirling West coming to find him with news of the riot.
The three went off together down to the rectory of the Church of the
Advent, where the Caiaphases were still living until the 1st of May
should take the late bishop's family into their new lodgings.
The attack had been made just after the closing of the morning
services, and there were all kinds of exaggerated reports about the
affair. West, with a good deal of hesitation, told Gilderman that it
was said that Bishop Caiaphas had been assaulted, and that he had only
been saved from serious injury by the aid of the police. "That is not
so, I know," said Gilderman. "The bishop wasn't at the Temple at all
to-day. He told me only last night that he was to be out of town this
morning, at the consecration of the Church of Beth-el."
"Is that so?" said West. "Well, these things are always confoundedly
exaggerated, you know. I'm precious glad that the dear old boy wasn't
in the beastly row. I heard that he was knocked down and beaten."
"It's probably altogether a false report made out of the whole cloth,"
said Gilderman.
"Think so?" said West. "Well, I'm glad if it is so. Anyhow, it is
certain that there was an attack on the Temple."
The three young men met the bishop just at the entrance of the park.
His brougham drew up to the sidewalk when he caught sight of Gilderman
and his friends. He was very agitated. He said that he was on his way
to visit Pilate and to see if the governor would not take some steps to
prevent the recurrence of any further rioting. He said that Mr. Doling
and Mr. Latimer (the latter a cousin of Latimer-Moire's) had been
to see Herod, but it seemed to be somehow very difficult to get the
authorities to take any steps in suppressing the disturbance. "I should
be very reluctant to think," said the bishop, and his voice trembled
as he spoke--"I should be very reluctant to think that the authorities
should take less interest in the protection of church property than of
private or city property."
"Oh, I think that's hardly likely," said Gilderman. "I suppose
they don't want to take extreme measures until extreme measures are
necessary."
"I hope it is so," said the bishop. "I hope that is the reason why they
won't do anything."
"Would you like me to go up to Pilate's with you?" asked Gilderman.
"I wish you would, Henry," said the bishop. "I wish you would."
As the two bowled away through the park, the bishop gave Gilderman
a brief account of the rioting of the morning and the attack in the
Temple. There had, it appeared, been a business meeting held in the
chapel after the morning service. It had been the custom for some time
past to hold such meetings, for the members were always sure of being
together at that time. The bishop said he had not altogether approved
of these meetings, but it seemed to be more convenient to hold them
then than at any other time, and there was more certainty of getting
the committee together. There had, he said, been some difficulty for
some time past in reaching any decision as to the design for the
great chancel window, and Mr. Dorman-Webster had suggested that the
committee having the window in charge should that morning meet with
the finance committee, and that Duncan, of White & Wall, should then
submit his designs to them as a body. There had been two designs
made originally, but the design selected by the committee having the
matter in charge (the design that the late Mrs. Hapgood had so much
liked) had been so much the more expensive of the two that the finance
committee had not as yet been able to agree to purchase it. So Mr.
Duncan, of White & Wall, had come, bringing around both the colored
designs. Mr. Parrott had also come to meet the committee. He was the
importer who had brought over the Roman tapestries in gold and silver,
and he had brought around colored photographs to show the committee.
While the joint committee was sitting a Mr. Wilder Doncaster had come
in with the news that part of the mob was coming up in the direction
of the Temple. Although, as was said, there had been all morning a
general apprehension of a coming riot, it had occurred to no one that
the Temple could be the object of attack. No one had any thought of
present danger until the mob was actually in the plaza of the Temple.
The chapel in which the committee sat opened upon the side street,
but, by some mistake, both that door and the door of the chancel had
been locked, leaving only the other door leading into the Temple
cloisters open. The committee, although they were even yet not exactly
apprehensive of any violence, adjourned immediately, and Mr. Wilde
went out to see if he could get some one to come and open the street
door, so that they might escape the mob, which was then in the plaza.
Almost immediately, however, the crowd had broken into the Temple
and the cloisters. Mr. Wilde was forced back into the chapel, and a
moment or two later the leader of the mob Himself entered at the head
of the riot. He had, the bishop said, brought with Him a heavy whip,
with which He began striking at the committee. Mr. Reginald Moire,
speaking of it afterwards, said that he had seen Dorman-Webster struck
twice across the face. All the time of the attack the Man continued
repeating, "My Father's house is called a house of prayer, but you have
made it a den of thieves."
Gilderman listened intently as the two bowled rapidly along. He felt
very sorry for his father-in-law. The poor bishop was so agitated that
his hands shook and his voice trembled. Gilderman did not like to
look at him in his agitation. "If they make another attack upon the
sacred building," said the bishop, in a straining voice, "there is no
knowing what damage they may not do. Suppose they should take it into
their heads to smash in those beautiful, painted windows or blow up
the chancel. I have suffered enough in spirit over our social riots
of late, but this is the worst of all. To think of the poor, ignorant
creatures attacking the Temple of God itself; it breaks my heart!"
"Oh, well," said Gilderman, comfortingly, "maybe the worst is passed."
But the bishop only shook his head; there was no comfort for him in
Gilderman's words.
The bishop and Gilderman found Pilate at home and alone in his library.
He was smoking a cigar, and he had evidently been reading a book which
he had laid face down upon the table. It was one of the nether sort
of imported novels. Gilderman, from where he stood, could not read
the title of the volume, but there was no mistaking the yellow paper
cover, the sharp type, and the disreputable vignette picture of the two
laughing, black-stockinged women on the cover.
Pilate tried in every way to elude the subject the bishop sought
to force upon him. He tried to talk about the Whitecourt lectures,
the Women's Club, and the street missions, in all of which he knew
the bishop was much interested. But the bishop would not talk about
anything but the riot, and at last the governor had to submit. "My dear
bishop," he said, "you don't understand these affairs. One must act
deliberately and with caution in such a matter as this."
"Act deliberately! Act with caution!" cried the bishop. "In the mean
time, how are we citizens to be protected from such a mob as this,
which may at any moment take it into its head not only to gut the
sacred Temple and to smash its windows, but even to attack our very
homes?"
"My dear bishop," the governor began again, "there is not, in my
estimation, the slightest danger of any attack upon the private or the
public property of this community."
"But, sir," said the bishop, "don't you know that there has already
been an attack made upon the Temple and upon the persons of certain
citizens gathered there?"
"I know," said Pilate, "but I think that comes within the province of
the city authorities rather than under my authority. I do not feel the
riot to be as yet of sufficient magnitude to call out the troops for
active aid in suppressing it."
"But you speak about the mayor. Mr. Dorman-Webster went to see the
mayor, and he expresses it as his opinion that the mayor is not to be
counted upon for any assistance."
The governor almost shrugged his shoulders.
"And don't you mean to do anything at all, then?" cried the bishop.
"Are not the laws made to protect us and our property?"
"The laws? Yes, if you please. They are made to protect you, but I am
not made to protect you--that is, you alone. The office of governor is
made that the executive may protect not only you, but all men. Do you
think I would be protecting these poor, misguided people if I called
out the militia to shoot them down in the streets? My dear bishop, I
cannot undertake to do that until there is absolutely nothing else to
be done. Human life is too valuable for that."
The bishop was staggered for a moment. "I don't know," he said, "that I
want that the troops should actually fire upon the mob."
"Then what do you want?" said the governor.
"I would suggest that the presence of the troops might overawe them."
Governor Pilate shook his head and smiled. "That can no longer be
done," he said. "It has been tried, but it has never succeeded. It must
be fire and blood or nothing. No, my dear bishop," he continued, "you
people who are all calling so loudly upon me through the press and
the post"--here he laid his hand upon a great packet of letters upon
the desk--"you who are so calling upon me to take the law into my own
hands and to execute it to your liking for the instant suppression of
the rioting--you do not take into consideration the responsibility of
my position. You see but one side of the question; I see both sides.
I am not only governor of a part of the community such as yourself; I
am also governor of the humbler classes of the commonwealth as well. I
must consider them equally with you and your kind. I have no right to
side myself with you and strike against them. I must stand between you
and keep you apart from one another. I may sympathize with you--yes;
but I cannot sympathize so far as to do violence against these poor,
misguided people. I must hold my hand until nothing else remains to be
done than to kill them."
"I don't think I understand your position," said Gilderman, striking
in. "It seems to me that there is a right and a wrong, and that it is
right to do right and wrong to do wrong. It does not seem to me to be
right that the violent and the vicious should be allowed to work their
wills upon the peaceful and the innocent."
"I am sorry that you can't understand my position," said the governor,
who had turned to Gilderman when he began speaking. "It is very plain
to me, Mr. Gilderman. Suppose I should act hastily in this matter and
make a mistake. All the blame of that mistake would fall upon me and
upon no one else. It does not require any courage for you and those
other gentlemen and ladies who write to me, to urge that I should at
once act, and act violently, in this matter. To so advise does not take
any courage; but it does take a great deal of courage for me to do such
a thing upon my own responsibility. Consider the blame that would fall
upon me if I should err in such a matter as this. I don't think I care
over much for the opinion of other men, but even I do not care to take
unnecessary blame."
"But surely no blame can attach to you for merely putting a stop to
rioting."
"Perhaps no. Perhaps yes."
"But," said the bishop, "even if blame is attached to you, you will
have done your duty."
Again the governor smiled faintly. "That, my dear bishop," he said,
"is a higher plane of ethics than I am able to attain. I would rather
be at ease in my mind than in my conscience." Then he began fingering
among his papers, and the bishop saw he wanted him to go. Nevertheless,
Bishop Caiaphas would not give up entirely.
"You have no objection to my taking the matter in my own hands?" he
said.
"None whatever," said Pilate.
"Then I shall go and consult my lawyer. I came to you, in the first
instance, because it did not seem courteous to act without consulting
you before taking any other steps. If I can have this man arrested upon
my own responsibility I shall do so."
"My dear bishop," said the governor, rising as the bishop arose, "if
you will allow me to say so, the very best thing you can do is to go
and consult with your lawyer. He will tell you just what to do. The law
is open to you. If you choose to put it in operation against this Man,
and if you can arrest Him and convict Him, I promise you I will not
stretch out my hand to prevent His execution. Only, in doing what you
do, you act upon your own responsibility."
Then the bishop and Gilderman took their leave and the governor sat
down, took up his book, and resumed his reading almost with a grunt of
satisfaction.
As Bishop Caiaphas was driven rapidly away from the governor's house
he was very angry. He knew that it was very unbecoming in him, as a
priest, to be so angry, but he did not care. Presently he burst out:
"The idea of that man sitting there alone, debauching his own mind
with a low and obscene novel, while this Man and His mob are allowed
to overturn the religion of the world!" If Bishop Caiaphas had been a
layman he would perhaps have added, "Damn him!"
Gilderman did not say anything, but his heart went out in sympathy to
his father-in-law.
Presently the bishop burst out again, "I'll go down and see Inkerman
this evening!" (Mr. Judah Inkerman was his lawyer.)
"I would, sir, if I were in your place," said Gilderman. "I don't
doubt that he'll tell you the very best thing to do. He's got lots of
influence with Police Commissioner Robinson, too. And look here, sir,"
the young man added, "tell Inkerman not to spare any expense and to
send his bill to me." He wanted to do something to comfort the bishop,
and this was all that occurred to him.
"Thank you, Henry," said Bishop Caiaphas, gratefully. "No man ever had
a better son than you."
Gilderman slipped his hand under his father-in-law's arm and pressed it.
* * * * *
There was no further demonstration of the rioters against the Temple.
The next day the mob gathered again, but this time it did not
move towards that holy edifice, but drifted down-town towards the
law-courts. As the morning wore along it began to be apprehended that
an attack might be made upon the public buildings or the sub-treasury
or some of the larger banking-houses, but no such attack was made.
Gilderman had an appointment at the office that morning. He did not
go down-town till about noon, and then he found the blockade of cars
extended far up into the town. At last his coupé could go no farther.
The footman came and opened the door and told Gilderman that it was
impossible to go any farther, and that a policeman had said that the
streets were packed full of people. As the footman stood speaking to
Gilderman, Downingwood Lawton came up to the open door of the coupé.
"Hello, Gildy!" he said, "is that you? What are you doing down here?
Come down to see the row?"
"Not exactly," said Gilderman, laughing. And then he explained. "I
promised to be down at the office this morning and sign some papers.
There seems to be pretty poor show of getting there, according to what
my man says."
"Well, I should rather say so, unless you choose to foot it; and even
then it's only a chance of getting through. By George! I never saw such
a jam in my life."
"Were you down there, then?" said Gilderman.
"Yes; Stirling and I went over to see Belle and Janette De Haven off."
"They went this morning, did they?"
"Yes, and we went down to see them off--just for a lark, you know.
While I was down-town I thought I'd go over to the office and strike
the governor for a check, and so I got right into the thick of it all.
I left Stirling down there somewhere."
"What did Stirling stay down there for?"
"I don't know. Wants to see the row out, I guess."
"What are they doing down there now?" asked Gilderman.
"Nothing that I can see. The last I saw was the Man himself standing at
the top of the court-house steps talking to a lot of lawyers. Where are
you going now, Gildy?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Gilderman. "I don't suppose it's any use my
trying to get down to the office."
"Not the least in the world. If you're going back up-town, I'll thank
you for a lift. There isn't a cab to be had anywhere, or if you do find
one it can't budge out of the block."
"Jump in, then," said Gilderman, "and I'll take you up with me."
Just at that time the Son of Man, weary, dusty, wayworn, was talking
with the lawyers, giving utterance to those three great parables--the
last of all He gave to the world. The first parable--the man who had
two sons, the one of whom said, I will not go work in the vineyard,
and yet went; the other of whom said, I will go, and went not. The
second parable--the master of the vineyard who sent his servant to the
husbandmen, who stoned him; then his son to the same husbandmen, who
killed him outright. The third parable--that of how the king made a
marriage feast for his son and yet had to send into the highways and
byways for guests. Of how one guest came without a wedding garment,
and, as a punishment, therefore, was cast into outer darkness where
there was wailing and gnashing of teeth. The people listened and did
not understand, and Gilderman drove away from Divine Truth in his coupé.
"By George!" said Lawton, as the cab worked its way with difficulty out
of the press of vehicles, "isn't this a lovely state of affairs? I came
down from the country yesterday afternoon. I never saw such a sight in
my life. Half the trees in the park are stripped as bare as poles. We
went by one place where they'd been spreading branches in the street,
and everything all a-clutter. It's a beastly shame, I say, that Pilate
and Herod don't do something to stop it all."
As the coupé drove past the armory they saw that the authorities were
at last evidently taking some steps to prevent any fatal culmination of
the disturbance. The great armory doors stood wide open, and a crowd of
people were gathered about. A couple of soldiers stood on guard, erect,
motionless, endeavoring to appear oblivious to the interest of the
clustered group of faces looking at them.
"I am glad to see that, anyhow," said Gilderman, pointing with his
cigarette towards the armory.