GRANT ADAMS PREACHING A MESSAGE OF LOVE RAISES THE VERY DEVIL IN HARVEY
The most dramatic agency in life is time--time that escapes the staged
drama. The passing years, the ceaseless chiselling of continuous events
upon a soul, the reaction of a creed upon the material routine of the
days, the humdrum living through of life that brings to it its final
color and form--these things shape us and guide us, make us what we are,
and alas, the story and the stage may only mention them. It is all very
fine to say that as the years of work and aspiration passed, Grant
Adams's channel of life grew narrower. But what does that tell? Does it
tell of the slow, daily sculpturing upon his character of the three big,
emotional episodes of his life? To be a father in boyhood, a father
ashamed, yet in duty bound to love and cherish his child; to face death
in youth horribly and escape only when other men's courage save him; to
react upon that experience in a great spiritual awakening that all but
touched madness; and to face unspeakable pain and terror and possible
death to justify one's fanatic consecration. Then day by day to renounce
ambition, to feel no desire for those deeper things of the heart that
gather about a home and the joys of a home; to be atrophied where others
are quick and to be supersensitive and highstrung where others are dull;
these are facts of Grant Adams's life, but the greater facts are hidden;
for they pass under the slow and inexorably moving current of life. They
are that part of the living through of life that may not be staged nor
told.
But something of the living through is marked on the man. Here he stands
toward the close of the century that bore him--a tall, spare,
red-haired, flint-visaged, wire-knit man, prematurely middle-aging in
late youth. Under his high white forehead are restless blue eyes--deep,
clear, challenging, combative blue eyes, a big nose protrudes from under
the eyes that marks a willful, uncompromising creature and a big strong
mouth, not finely cut, but with thick, hard lips, often chapped, that
cover large irregular teeth. The face is determined and dogged--almost
brutal sometimes when at rest; but when a smile lights it, a charm and
grace from another being illumines the solemn countenance and Grant
Adams's heart is revealed. The face is Puritan--all Adams, dour New
England Adams, and the smile Irish--from the joyous life of Mary Sands.
We may only see the face: here and there on it is the mark of the
sculptor's tool: now and then a glare or a smile reveals what deep
creases and gashes the winds of the passing years have made in the soul
behind the mask. Here and there, as a rising strident voice in
passionate exhortation lifts, we may hear the roar of the narrowing
channel into which his life is rushed with augmented force as he hurries
forward into his destiny. In that tumult, family, home, ambition, his
very child itself that was his first deep wellspring of love, are
slipping from him into the torrent. The flood washes about him; his one
idea dominates him. He is restless under it--restless even with the
employment of the hour. The unions, for which he has been working for
more than half a decade, do not satisfy him. His aim is perfection and
mortality irritates him, but does not discourage him. For even vanity is
slipping from him in the erosion of the waters rushing down their
narrowing groove.
But it is only his grim flint face we see; only his high strident, but
often melodiously sympathetic voice we hear; only his wiry, lank body
with its stump of a right arm that stands before us. The minutes--awful
minutes some of them--the hours, painful wrestling hours, the days,
doubt-ridden days, and the long monotonous story of the years, we may
not know. For the living through of life still escapes us, and only
life's tableau of the moment is before us.
* * * * *
Now whatever gloss of gayety Dr. Nesbit might put upon his opinion of
Grant Adams and his work in the world, it was evident that the Doctor's
opinion of that work was not high. But it was comparatively high; for
Harvey's opinion of Grant Adams and his work was abysmal in its depth.
He was running his life on a different motor from the motor which moved
Harvey; the town was moving after a centripetal force--every one was for
himself, and the devil was entitled to the hindermost. Grant Adams was
centrifugal; he was not considering himself particularly and was
shamelessly taking heed of the hindermost which was the devil's by
right. And so men said in their hearts, if this man wins, there will be
the devil to pay. For Grant was going about the district spreading
discontent. He was calling attention to the violation of the laws in the
mines; he was calling attention to the need of other laws to further
protect the miners and smelter men. He was going about from town to town
in the Valley building up the unions and urging the men to demand more
wages, either in actual money or in shorter hours, improved labor
conditions, and cheaper rent and better houses from the company which
housed the families of the workers.
"Why," he asked, "should labor bear the burden of industry and take its
leavings?"
"Why," he demanded, "should capital toil not nor spin and be clothed as
Solomon in his glory?"
"Why," he argued, "should the profits of toil be used to buy more tools
for toil and not more comforts for toil?"
"Why, why--" he challenged Market Street, "is the partnership of
society, not a partnership, but a conspiracy?"
Now Market Street had long been wrathful at that persistent Why.
But when it became known that John Dexter had invited Grant Adams to
occupy the pulpit of the Congregational Church one Sunday evening to
state his case, Market Street's wrath choked it. For several years John
Dexter had been preaching sermons that made the choir the only possible
theme of conversation between him and Ahab Wright. John Dexter had been
crucified a thousand times by the sordid greed of man in Harvey, and had
cried out in the wilderness of his pulpit against it; but his cries fell
upon deaf ears, or in dumb hearts.
The invitation to Grant to speak at John Dexter's Sunday evening service
was more of a challenge to Harvey than Harvey comprehended. But even if
the town did not entirely realize the seriousness of the challenge, at
least the minister found himself summoned by Market Street to a meeting
to discuss the wisdom of his invitation. Whereupon John Dexter accepted
the invitation and, girding up his loins, went as a strong man rejoicing
to run a race.
To what a judgment seat they summoned John Dexter! First, up spake
Commerce. "Dr. Dexter," said Commerce--Commerce always referred to John
Dexter as Doctor, though no Doctor was he and he knew it well, "Dr.
Dexter, we feel that your encouragement--hum--uhm--well, your patronage
of this man Adams, in his--well, shall we say incendiary--" a harsh word
is incendiary, so Commerce stopped and touched its graying side whiskers
reverently and patted its immaculate white necktie, and then went on:
"--well perhaps indiscreet will do!" With Commerce indeed there is no
vast difference between the indiscreet and the incendiary. "--indiscreet
agitation against the--well--uhm--the way we have to conduct business,
is--is regrettable,--at least regrettable!"
"Why?" interrupted John Dexter sharply, throwing Commerce sadly out of
balance. But the Law, which is the palladium of our liberties, answered
for Commerce in a slow snarling, "because he is preaching discontent."
"But Mr. Calvin," returned John Dexter quickly, "if any one would come
to town preaching discontent to Wright & Perry, showing them how to make
more money, to enlarge their profits, to rise among their fellow
merchants--would you refuse to give him audience in a pulpit?" The Law
did not deign to answer the preacher and then Industry took heart to
say, pulling its military goatee vigorously, and clearing its dear old
throat for a passage at arms: "'Y gory man, there's always been a
working class and they've always had to work like sixty and get the
worst of it, I guess, and they always will--what say? You can't improve
on the way the world is made. And when she's made, she's made--what say?
I tell you now, you're wasting your time on that class of people."
The antagonists looked into each other's kindly eyes. Industry
triumphing in its logic, the minister hunting in his heart for the soft
answer that would refute the logic without hurting its author.
"Captain," he said, "there was once a wiser than we who went about
preaching a new order, spreading discontent with injustice, whose very
mother was of the lowest industrial class."
"Yes--and you know what happened to Him," sneered the Courts, which are
the keystones of government in the structure of civilization. "And,"
continued the Courts, in a grand and superior voice, "you can't drag
business into religion, sir. Religion is one thing and I respect
it,"--titters from the listening angels, "--and business is another
thing, and we think, sir, that you are trying to mix the insoluble, and
as business men who have our own deep religious convictions--" inaudible
guffaws from the angels, "--we feel the sacrilege of asking this
blatherskite Adams to speak on any subject in so sacred a place as our
consecrated pulpit, sir." Hoarse hoots from the angels.
No soft benignity beamed in the preacher's face as he turned to the
Courts. "My pulpit, Judge," answered John Dexter sternly, "first of all
stands for the gospel of Justice between man and man. It will afford
sanctuary for the thief and the Magdalene, but only the penitent thief
and the weeping Magdalene!" And John Dexter brought down a resounding
fist on the table before him. "I believe that the first duty of religion
is to preach shame on the wicked, that they may quit their wickedness,
and if," John Dexter's voice rose as he went on, "in the light of our
widening intelligence we see that employers are organized wickedly to
rob their workers of justice in one way or another, I stand with those
who would make the thief disgorge for his own soul's sake, incidentally,
but chiefly that justice may come into an evil world and men may not
mock the mercy and goodness of God by pointing at the evil men do
unrebuked in His name, and under His servants' noses. My pulpit is a
free pulpit, sir. When it is not that, I shall leave it. And even though
I do not agree sometimes with a man's message, so long as my pulpit is
free, any man who desires to cry stop thief, in the darkness of this
world, may lift his voice there, and no man shall say him nay! Have you
gentlemen anything further to offer?"
Commerce ceased rubbing its hands. Its alter ego, Business, was
obviously getting ready to say something, but was only whistling for the
station, and the crowd knew it would be a minute before his stuttering
speech should arrive. Patriotism was leaning forward with its hands back
of its ears, smiling pleasantly at what he did not understand, and
Industry, who saw the strings in which his world was wrapped up for
delivery, cut, and the world sprawled in confusion before him by the
preacher's defiance, was pulling his military goatee solemnly when
Science toddled in, white-clad, pink-faced, smoking his short pipe and
clicking his cane rather more snappily than usual. He saw that he had
punctuated an embarrassed situation. Only Religion and Patriotism were
smiling. Science brought his cane down with a whack and piped out:
"So you are going to muzzle John Dexter, are you--you witch-burning old
pharisees. I heard of your meeting, and I just thought I'd come around
to the bonfire! What are you trying to do here, anyway?"
At last Business which had been whistling for the station was ready to
pull in; so it unloaded itself thus: "We are p-protesting, Doc, at
th-th-th-th m-m-m-man Adams--this l-l-labor sk-sk-skate and
s-s-socialist occupying J-J-John Dexter's p-pulp-p-pit!"
Science looked at Business a grave moment, then burst out, "What are you
all afraid of! Here you are, a lot of grown men with fat bank accounts
sitting around in a blue funk because Grant Adams does a little more or
less objectionable talking. I don't agree with Grant much more than you
do. But you're a lot of old hens, cackling around here because Grant
Adams invades the roost to air his views. Let him talk. Let 'em all
talk. Talk is cheap; otherwise we wouldn't have free speech." He grinned
cynically as he asked, "Haven't you any faith in the Constitution of the
fathers? They were smart enough to know that free speech was a safety
valve; let 'em blow off. Then go down and organize and vote 'em
afterwards according to the dictates of your own conscience. Politics is
the antidote for free speech!" The Doctor glared at the Courts, smiled
amiably at Business and winked conspicuously at Religion. Religion
blushed at the blasphemy and as there seemed to be nothing further
before the house the Doctor and John Dexter left the room.
But the honest indignation of Market Street that an agitator should
appear in a pulpit--that an agitator for anything, should appear in any
pulpit--waxed strong. For it was assumed that religion had nothing to do
with social conduct; religion was solely a matter of individual
salvation. Religion was a matter concerned entirely with getting to
heaven oneself, and not at all a matter of getting others to heaven
except as they took the narrow and individual path. The idea that
environment affects character and that society through politics and
social and economic institutions may change a man's environments and
thus affect the characters and the chances for Heaven of whole sections
of the population, was an idea which had not been absorbed by Market
Street in Harvey. So Market Street raged.
That evening when Grant Adams returned from work he received two
significant notes. One was from John Dexter and ran:
"Dear Grant: Fearing that you may hear of the comment my invitation to
you to speak in my pulpit is causing and fearing that you may either
decide at the last minute not to come or that you will modify your
remarks out of consideration for me, I write to say that while of course
I may not agree with everything you advocate, yet my pulpit is a free
pulpit and I cannot consent that you restrict its freedom in saying your
full say as a man, any more than I could consent to have my own freedom
restricted. Yours in the faith--J. D."
The other note ran: "Father says to tell you to tone it down. I have
delivered his message. I say here is your chance to get the truth where
it is most needed, and even if for the most part it falls on stony
ground--you still must sow it.--L. N. VD."
Sunday evening saw a large congregation in the pews of the Rev. John
Dexter's church. In the front and middle portion of the church were the
dwellers on the Hill, those whose lines fell in pleasant places. They
were the "Haves" of the town,--conspicuous and highly respectable with
rustle of silks and flutter of ribbons.
And back of these sat a score of men and women from South Harvey, the
"Have-nots," the dwellers in the dreary valley. There was Denny Hogan,
late of the mines, but now of the smelter--with his curly hair plastered
over his forehead, and with his wife, she that was Violet Mauling
holding a two-year-old baby with sweaty, curly red hair to her breast
asleep; there was Ira Dooley, also late of the mines, but now proprietor
of a little game of chance over the Hot Dog Saloon; there was Pat
McCann, a pit boss and proud of it, with Mrs. McCann--looking her eyes
out at Mrs. Nesbit's hat. There was John Jones, in his Sunday best, and
Evan Hughes and Tom Williams, the wiry little Welsh miners who had faced
death with Grant Adams five years before. They were with him that night
at the church with all the pride in him that they could have if he were
one of the real nobility, instead of a labor agitator with a little more
than local reputation. And there were Dick and his boy Mugs and the
silent Mrs. Bowman and Bennie her youngest and Mary the next to the
youngest. And Mrs. Bowman in the South Harvey colony was a person of
consequence, for she nodded to the Nesbits and the Mortons and to Laura
and to Mrs. Calvin and to all the old settlers of Harvey--rather
conspicuously. She had the gratification of noting that South Harvey saw
the nobility nod back. With the South Harvey people came Amos Adams in
his rough gray clothes and rough gray beard. Jasper Adams, in the
highest possible collar, and in the gayest possible shell-pink necktie
and under the extremest clothes that it might be possible for the
superintendent of a Sunday School to wear, shared a hymnal, when the
congregation rose to sing, with the youngest Miss Morton. There were
those who thought the singing was merely a duet between young Mr. Adams
and the youngest Miss Morton--so much feeling did they put into the
music. Mr. Brotherton was so impressed, that he marked young Adams for a
tryout at the next funeral where there was a bass voice needed, making
the mental reservation that no one needed to look at the pimples of a
boy who could sing like that.
When the congregation sat down after the first hymn John Dexter formally
presented Grant Adams to the congregation. The young man rose, walked to
the chancel rail and stood for a moment facing his audience without
speaking. The congregation saw a tall, strong featured, uncouth man with
large nose and a big mouth--clearly masculine and not finely chiselled.
In these features there was something almost coarse and earthy; but in
the man's eyes and forehead, there lurked the haunting, fleeting shadow
of the eternal feminine in his soul. His eyes were deep and blue and
tender, and in repose always seemed about to smile, while his forehead,
high and broad, topped by a shock of red hair, gave him a kind of
intellectual charity that made his whole countenance shine with
kindness. Yet his clothes belied the promise of his brow. They were
ill-fitting, with an air of Sunday-bestness that gave him an incongruous
scarecrow effect. It was easy to see why Market Street was beginning to
call him that "Mad Adams." As he lifted his glance from the floor, his
eyes met Laura Van Dorn's, then flitted away quickly, and the smile she
should have had for her own, he gave to his audience. He began speaking
with his arms behind him to hide the crippled arm which was tipped with
a gloved iron claw. His voice was low and gentle, yet his hearers felt
its strength in reserve.
"I suppose," he began slowly, "every man has his job in the world, and I
presume my job seems rather an unnecessary one to some of my friends,
and I can hardly blame them. For the assumption of superiority that it
may seem to require upon the whole must be distasteful to them. For as a
professional apostle of discontent, urging men to cease the worship of
things as they are, I am taking on myself a grave burden--that of
leading those who come with me, into something better. In the end
perhaps, you will not be proud of me. For my vision may be a delusion.
Time may leave me naked to the cold truth of life, and I may awaken from
my dreaming to reality. That is possible. But now I see my course; now I
feel the deep call of a duty I cannot resist." He was speaking softly
and in hardly more than a conversational tone, with his hand at his side
and his gloved claw behind him. He lifted his hand and spoke in a deeper
tone.
"I have come to you--to those of you who lead sheltered lives of
comfort, amid work and scenes you love, to tell you of your neighbors;
to call to you in their name, and in the name of our common God for
help. I have come from the poor--to tell you of their sorrows, to beg of
you to come over into Macedonia and help us; for without you we are
helpless. True--God knows how true--the poor outnumber you by ten to
one. True, they have the power within them to rise, but their strength
is as water in their hands. They need you. They need your neighborly
love."
As he spoke something within him, some power of his voice or of his
presence played across the congregation like a wind. The wind which at
first touched a few who bent forward to hear him, was moving every one.
Faces gradually set in attention. He went on:
"How wonderful is this spirit of life that has come rolling in through
the eons, rolling in from some vast illimitable sea of life that we call
God. For ages and ages on this planet life could only give to new life
the power to feed and propagate, could only pass on to new life the
heritage of instinct; then another impulse of the outer sea washed in
and there came a day when life could imitate, could learn a little,
could pass on to new life some slight power of growth. And then came
welling in from the unknown bourne another wave, and lo! life could
reason, and God heard men whisper, Father, and deep called unto deep.
Since then through the long centuries, through the gray ages, life
slowly has been rising, slowly coming in from the hidden sea that laves
the world. Millions and millions of men are doomed to know nothing of
this life that gives us joy; millions are held bound in a social
inheritance that keeps them struggling for food, over outworn paths,
mere creatures of primal instinct, whose Godhood is taken from them at
birth; by you--by you who get what you do not earn from those who earn
what they do not get."
He turned to the group near the rear of the room, looked at them and
continued:
"The poor need your neighborly sacrifice, and in that neighborly love
and sacrifice you will grow in stature more than they. What you give you
will keep; what you lose you will gain. The brotherhood you build up
will bless and comfort you.
"The poor," he exclaimed passionately, "need you, but how, before God
you need them! For only a loving understanding of your neighbors' lives
will soften your calloused hearts. Long benumbing hours of grimy work,
sordid homes amid daily and hourly scenes of filth and shame!" He leaned
forward and cried: "Listen to me, Ahab Wright," and he thrust forward
his iron claw toward the merchant while the congregation gasped, "what
if you had to strip naked and bathe in a one-roomed hut before your
family every night when you came home, dirty and coal-stained from your
day's work! the beggar and the harlot and the thief nearby." He moved
his accusing claw and the startled eyes of the crowd followed it as it
pointed to Daniel Sands and Grant exclaimed: "Listen, Uncle Dan Sands,
how would you like to have your daughter see the things the children see
who live in your tenements next to the Burned District, which is your
property also! Poisoned food, cheap, poisoned air, cheap, poisoned
thoughts--all food and air and ideas, the cast-off refuse of your daily
lives who live in these sheltered homes. You have a splendid sewer
system up here; but it flows into South Harvey and the Valley towns, a
great open ravine, because you people sitting here who own the property
down there won't tax yourselves to enclose those sewers that poison us!"
A faint--rather dazed smile ran over the congregation like a wraith of
smoke. He felt that the smoke proved that he had struck fire. He went
on: "Love, great aspiring love of fathers and mothers and sisters and
brothers, love stifled by fell circumstance, by cruel events, and love
that winces in agony at seeing children and father and brother go down
in the muck all around them--that is the heritage of poverty.
"Hear me, Kyle Perry and John Kollander. I know you think poverty is the
social punishment of the unfit. But I tell you poverty is not the
punishment of the weak. Poverty is a social condition to which millions
are doomed and from which only hundreds escape when the doom of birth is
sealed. What has Ahab Wright given to Harvey more than James McPherson,
who discovered coal here? What has Daniel Sands done for Harvey more
than Tom Williams, who has spent his life at hard work mining coal? Is
not his coal as valuable as Uncle Daniel's interest? Friends--think of
these things!"
The wraith of smoke that had appeared when Grant first began speaking
personally to the men of Harvey, in a minute had grown to a surer
evidence of fire. The smiling ceased. Angry looks began flashing over
the faces before Grant, like darts of flame. And after these looks came
a great black cloud of wrath that was as perceptible as a gust of smoke.
He felt that soon the fire would burst forth. But he hurried on with his
message: "Poverty is not the social punishment of the weak, I repeat it.
Poverty is a social inheritance of the many, a condition which holds men
hard and fast--a condition that you may change, you who have so much.
All this coal and oil and mineral have profited you greatly, oh, men of
Harvey. You are rich, Daniel Sands. You are prosperous, Ahab Wright. You
have every comfort around you and yours, John Kollander, and you, Joseph
Calvin, are rearing your children in luxury compared with Dick Bowman's
children. Hasn't he worked as hard as you? Here are Ira Dooley and Denny
Hogan. They started as equals with you up here and have worked as hard
and have lived average lives. Yet if their share is a fair share of the
earnings of this community, you have an unfair share. How did you get
it?" He leaned out over the chancel rail, pointed a bony, accusing
finger at the congregation and glared at the eyes before him angrily.
Quickly he recovered his poise but brought his steel claw down on the
pulpit beside him with a sharp clash as he cried again, "How did you get
it?"
Then it was that the flame of indignation burst forth. It came first in
a hiss and another and a third--then a crackling fire of hisses greeted
his last sentence. When the hissing calmed, his voice rose slightly. He
went on:
"We of the middle classes--we have risen above the great mass below us:
we are permitted to learn--a little--to imitate and expand somewhat. But
above us, thank God, is another group in the social organization. Here
at the top stand the blessed, privileged few who are the world's
prophets and dreamers and seers--they know God; they drink deep of the
rising tide of everlasting life that is booming in, flooding the world
with mercy and love and brotherhood; and what they see in one
century--and die for disclosing--we all see in the next century and
fight to hold it fast!" He stood looking at the floor, then opened wide
his glaring eyes, a fanatic's mania blazing in them, lifted his arms and
cried with a great voice like a trumpet: "You--you--you who have known
God's mercy and his goodness and his love--why, in the dead Christ's
name do you sit here and let the flood of life be dammed away from your
brothers, stealing the waters of life like thieves from your brethren by
your cruel laws and customs and the chains of social circumstance!"
They tried to hiss again but he hurried on as one possessed of a demon:
"A little love, a little sacrifice, a little practical brotherly care
from each of you each day would help. We don't want your alms, we want
justice. Thousands of babies--loved just as yours are loved--are
slaughtered every month through poisoned food that comes from commercial
greed. Thousands of fathers and brothers over this land are killed every
year because it is cheaper to kill them than to protect them by
machinery guarded and watched. Their blood is upon you--for by your
laws, by your middle class courts you could stop its flowing. Thousands
of mothers die every week from poor housing--you could stop that if you
would. They are stopping it by laws in other lands. Millions of girls
the world over are led like sheep to shameful lives because of
industrial conditions that your vote and voice could change; and yet,"
his voice lost its accusing tone and he spoke gently, even tenderly, "as
babies they cuddled in their mothers' arms and roused all the hope and
inspired all the love that a soft little body may bring. Millions and
millions of mothers who clasp their children to them in hope, must see
those children go into life to be broken and crushed by the weight from
above."
As Grant was speaking he noticed that Morty Sands was nodding his head
off in gorgeous approval. Then without thinking how his words might cut,
he cried, "And look at our good friend Morty Sands who enjoys every
luxury and is arrayed as the lilies of the field! What does Morty give
to society that he can promise the girl who marries him, comfort and
ease and all the happiness that physical affluence may bring? And then
there sits Mugs Bowman. What can Mugs offer his girl except a life of
hard, grinding work, a houseful of children and a death perhaps of slow
disease? Yet Mugs must have his houseful of children for they must all
work to support Morty. Where is the justice in a society organized like
this?
"For Christ's living sake," cried the man as his face glowed in his
emotion, "let life wash in from its holy source to these our brothers.
Shame on you--you greedy ones, you dollar worshipers--you dam the
stream, you muddy the waters, you poison the well of
life--shame--shame!" he cried and then paused, gloated perhaps in his
pause, for the storm he saw gathering in the crowd, to break. His face
was transfigured by the passion in his heart and seemed illumined with
wrath.
"The flag--the flag!" bawled deaf John Kollander, rising, "He is
desecrating Old Glory!"
Then fire met fire and the conflagration was past control. It raged over
the church noisily.
"Look-a here, young man," called Joseph Calvin, standing in his seat.
"The flag--will no one defend the flag!" bellowed John Kollander, while
Rhoda, his wife, looked on with amiable approval.
"P-put him out," stuttered Kyle Perry, and his clerks and understrappers
joined the clamor.
"Well, say, men," cried George Brotherton in the confusion of hissing
and groaning, "can't you let the man talk? Is free speech dead in this
town?" His great voice silenced the crowd, and John Dexter was in the
pulpit holding out his hands. As he spoke the congregation grew silent,
and they heard him say:
"This is a free pulpit; this man shall not be disturbed." But Joseph
Calvin stamped noisily out of the church. John Kollander and his wife
marched out behind him with military tread and Kyle Perry and Ahab
Wright with their families followed, amid a shuffling of feet and a
clamor of voices. The men from South Harvey kept their places. There was
a whispering among them and Grant, fearing that they would start
trouble, called to them sternly:
"My friends must respect this house. Let property riot--poverty can
wait. It has waited a long time and is used to it."
When Market Street was gone, the speaker drew a deep breath and said in
a low, quiet voice charged with pent-up emotion: "Now that we are alone,
friends,--now that they are gone whose hearts needed this message, let
me say just this: God has given you who live beautiful lives the keeping
of his treasure. Let us ask ourselves this: Shall we keep it to share it
with our brethren in love, or shall we guard it against our brethren in
hate?"
He walked back to the rear of the room and sat, with his head bowed
down, beside his friends, spent and weary while the services closed.
At the church door Laura Van Dorn saw the despair that was somewhat a
physical reaction from weariness. So she cut her way through the group
and went to him, taking his arm and drawing him aside into the homebound
walk, as quickly as she could. He remained grim and spoke only in answer
to challenge or question from Laura. It was plain to her that he felt
that his speech was a failure; that he had not made himself understood;
that he had overstated his case. She was not sure herself that he had
not lost more ground than he had gained in the town. But she wrapped him
about in a garment of kindness--an almost maternal tenderness that was
balm to his heart. She did not praise his speech but she let him know
that she was proud of him, that her heart was in all that he had said,
even if he felt definitely that there were places in his adventure where
her head was not ready to go. She held no check upon the words that came
to her lips, for she felt, even deeper and surer than she felt her own
remoteness from the love which her girlhood had known, that in him it
was forever dead. No touch of his hand; no look of his eye, no quality
of his voice had come to her since her childhood, in which she could
find trace or suggestion that sex was alive in him. The ardor that
burned so wildly upon his face, the fire in his eyes that glowed when he
spoke of his work and his problems, seemed to have charred within him
all flower and beauty of romance. But they left with him a hunger for
sympathy. A desire to be mothered and a longing for a deep and sweet
understanding which made Laura more and more necessary to him as he went
into his life's pilgrimage. As they reached a corner, he left her with
her family while he turned away for a night walk.
As he walked, he was continually coming upon lovers passing or meeting
him in the night; and Grant seeing them felt his sense of isolation from
life renewed, but was not stirred to change his course. For hours he
wandered through the town and out of it into the prairies, with his
heart heavy and wroth at the iniquities of men which make the inequities
of life. For his demon kept him from sleep. If another demon, and
perhaps a gentler, tried to whisper to him that night of another life
and a sweeter, tried to turn him from his course into the normal walks
of man, tried to break his purpose and tempt him to dwell in the comely
tents of Kedar--if some gentler angels that would have saved him from a
harsher fate had beckoned to him and called him that night, through
passing lovers' arms and the murmur of loving voices, his eyes were
blind and his ears were deaf and his heart was hot with another passion.
Amos Adams was in bed when Grant came into the house. On the table was a
litter of writing paper. Grant sat down for a minute under the lamp. His
father in the next room stirred, and asked:
"What kept you?" And then, "I had a terrific time with Mr. Left
to-night." The father appeared in the doorway. "But just look there what
I got after a long session."
On the page were these words written in a little round, old-fashioned
hand, some one's interminably repeated prayer. "Angels guide him--angels
strengthen him; angels pray for him." These words were penned clear
across the page and on the next line and the next and the next to the
very bottom of the page, in a weary monotony, save that at the bottom of
the sheet the pen had literally run into the paper, so heavily was the
hand of the writer bearing down! Under that, written in the fine hand
used by Mr. Left was this:
"Huxley:--On earth I wrote that I saw one angel--'the strong, calm angel
playing for love.' Now I see the forces of good leading the world
forward, compelling progress; all are personal--just as the Great All
Encompassing Force is personal, just as human consciousness is personal.
The positive forces of life are angels--not exact--but the best figure.
So it is true that was written, 'there is more joy in Heaven'--and 'the
angels sang for joy.' This also is only a figure--but the best I can get
through to you. Angels guide us, angels strengthen us, angels pray for
us."