A prophet in Babylon : a story of social service

W. J. DAWS ON

GIFT OF
:iisabeth Whitney Put nan

/

A PROPHET IN BABYLON

The Makers of Modern English

By W. J. DAWSON

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A Prophet in Babylon

A STORT OF SOCIAL SERVICE

BY

W. J. DAWSON

Author of " Makers of Modern English," " Empire of Love? etc.

NEW YORK CHICAGO TORONTO

Fleming H. Revell Company

LONDON AND EDINBURGH

Copyright, 1907, by
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

+ Fifth Avenue
Chicago : 80 Wabash Avenue
Toronto : 25 Richmond St., W.
London : 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh : 100 Princes Street

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE DEACONS' MEETING ... 9

II. A SELLER OF RHETORIC ... 20

III. PARADISE LOST 32

IV. STORM SIGNALS 44

V. DR. JORDAN 56

VI. A DISCUSSION 71

VII. THE GHOSTLY DAWN .... 85

VIII. A RETIRED PROPHET .... 101

IX. THE UNDERWORLD . . . .118

X. THE DISSIMULATION OF MARGARET . 134

XI. RENUNCIATION 151

XII. FAREWELL THE OLD . . . .168

XIII. AN INTERVIEW 185

XIV. THE HOUSE OF JOY . . . . joi
XV. THE VISION 219

XVI. THE CROSS OF STARS . . . . 237

XVII. OLIVIA'S CHOICE 252

7

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

XVIII. THE YOUNG APOSTLES .

XIX. BUTLER'S INQUISITION .

XX. THE POOL AND THE RIVER

XXI. HOME AT LAST

XXII. A TRAGEDY ....

XXIII. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

XXIV. PERFECT LOVE

PAGE
268

283
299
315

33*
348
360

A PROPHET IN BABYLON

THE DEACONS' MEETING

THE meeting of the deacons of the Mayfield
Avenue Union Church was nearly over,
and it had not been a pleasant meeting.
Nothing had been said that could be called positively
offensive to the minister, the Rev. John Gaunt, but
a good deal had been implied. John Gaunt had been
minister of the church for nearly seven years. He
had come to it on an enthusiastic call when its pres-
tige had somewhat declined, and the force of his per-
sonality and preaching genius had raised it, within
two years, to a position of commanding influence.
In the fourth year of his ministry the zenith of suc-
cess was reached. The pews were all let, and many
persons applied for seats in vain. In the fifth year a
change began to be perceptible. There was no
longer a crowd. In the sixth year there were many
vacant seats, and some of his most substantial sup-
porters had moved into new and distant suburbs.
In the seventh year the process of disintegration
was manifest. Hence the present meeting, the ob-

9

io A PROPHET IN BABYLON

ject of which was the discussion of what Deacon
Roberts tiresomely described as "the situation."

In the early years of his ministry Gaunt had been
accustomed to describe himself as more free than
any minister in New York. He could preach any
doctrine he pleased, he was untroubled by any ques-
tion of finance, and he was conscious of an atmos-
phere of warm loyalty among his people. When
some of his less successful brethren complained of
their difficulties in relation to their people, he smiled
with the suave commiseration of a superior person.
It seemed to him the easiest thing in the world to
manage men, to attach them to one's self, to evoke
from them generous feelings and acts.

"I have never had a day's trouble in my church/'
he was accustomed to say.

This was true in the broad, general sense in which
he intended it, but, nevertheless, it had never rep-
resented the real facts of the case. He had always
carried out his own policies, but he was perfectly
aware that he could not have done so but for the
fact of his success in the pulpit. The most conten-
tious church critic is silent in the presence of visible
success. But it does not follow that he will be al-
ways silent. Churches, like armies, live by con-
quest; when conquest ceases, mutiny begins.

During the last year John Gaunt had slowly come
to a partial understanding of this law. It was only
partial, for his own reluctance to face the facts of
the case made him a slow learner. He had carefully

THE DEACONS' MEETING u

closed his ears to many veiled hints on the part of
the managers of the church, the significance of
which was obvious. But the pressure of facts, how-
ever slowly exerted, cannot be continuously resisted.
His own eyes told him that his congregation was
falling off. To himself he explained this disastrous
fact by the departure of many of his best supporters
to the rapidly growing suburbs of the city. But he
soon found that such explanations excited no sym-
pathy in the minds of men like Deacon Roberts,
who were accustomed to measure things by results,
and knew no other standard of measurement. The
laws of finance, like natural laws, have no pity. It
was useless to say to himself, as he had often do,ne
of late, that a church is not a financial affair, and
ought not to be treated as such : his managers were,
with one exception, men used to judge things solely
from the financial standpoint, and they were quite
inaccessible to sentiment. From the moment when
a deficit was reported in the church accounts, he
was conscious of a certain change of attitude to-
ward him.

It was then that he made the most painful dis-
covery of his life; for the first time he realized that
he was the paid servant of the church. The gross,
naked reality of his relationship to his board of
managers was disclosed. It had been carefully hid-
den during the years of success; so carefully that he
had forgotten its existence. In those years his
boast was true; he had not had a day's trouble

12 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

in his church. Crowds hung upon his words; with
the magic of his voice he could raise any sum of
money he wished; and when he met his managers
for the discussion of affairs the meetings were as
nearly jovial as decorum would permit. Of course
he had imagined that this happy state of things
would continue. It sometimes seemed to him that
he was miraculously fed, like Elijah by the ravens.
His income was transferred silently to his pocket,
and it seemed given rather than earned. He asked
no question how it was raised; there was no need.
But for months now he had been secretly uneasy;
and though hitherto no word had been said to him,
he was conscious in the changed looks of his man-
agers that they grudged what they gave him.

To a proud and brilliant man this perception was
torture. Some men would have sought that easy
way of escape which is found in a change of pas-
torate. He could hardly doubt that many pulpits
would welcome him, if it were known that he de-
sired them. But here his pride blocked the way, and
beneath his pride was a stratum of stubbornness
which was impenetrable. He was perfectly aware of
his gifts, although the knowledge never degenerated
into vanity. He knew that he could preach as few
men could, and he was not wrong when he told him-
self that he was preaching to-day better than he had
ever preached in his life. For, with all its brilliance,
his mind was one that fructifies with experience,
that goes on learning and broadening with the years.

THE DEACONS' MEETING 13

He had only to compare his early sermons with
those preached recently to discover that his mind had
made great advances in the seven years of his min-
istry; and he told himself, with some bitterness, that
if these poor early sermons attracted crowds, the
later sermons were infinitely better deserving of
success.

Yet the plain fact met him that his career of suc-
cess was abruptly closed. He no longer moved
along the privileged way, with the elect company
of those for whom the gifts of life are unrestrained.
He had to fight for his position; it seemed not un-
likely that he might even have to fight for his daily
bread. He had often used the word "sordid" of
that great army of strugglers who compose the ma-
jority in every city — the men and women who are
too absorbed in the fight for bread to care for the
poetries and philosophies; it seemed now that he
must descend from his pedestal of privilege, and
know their anxieties and miseries. It seemed an im-
possible thing, yet there had been fugitive moments
of late when the thought thrilled him. But there
were much more frequent moments of pure dismay.
That he should fail, and fail too after having tasted
success; — no, he would not admit it. He would do
something novel, striking, impressive. He would
put all his gifts to service as he had never done
before. . . . And he had done it. Never had his
oratory struck so full a note as in these last months.
His wife, his own most gentle and acute critic, had

14 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

often told him so. His friend Palmer, the one
deacon of the church who lived an intellectual life,
had corroborated her testimony. Yet here was the
result — this long postponed, but inevitable meeting
of his deacons to consider "the situation."

"It's like this," Deacon Roberts had said: "the
time has come when we must cut our clothes accord-
ing to our cloth. There are things I have to do with-
out, not because I don't want them, but because I
can't afford them. We've just got to cut down
expenses."

"Of course we all know that," replied Deacon
Hocking. "That's what we're here for. But will
brother Roberts tell us how?"

There was an odd antipathy between Roberts
and Hocking. Every one knew that whatever the
one proposed the other would oppose, and that into
these disputes no question of principle ever entered.

"I'm not bound to answer," said Roberts.

"Yes, you are," retorted Hocking. "What's the
use of talking about economy if you daren't say
what you mean by it?"

Thus challenged, Roberts gathered himself up for
a set speech. He was a small, thin man, narrow-
shouldered, spectacled, of neat appearance, whose
deferential manners concealed a temper of obstinate
dogmatism. He had fought his way from poverty
to relative opulence, and had learnt nothing in the
struggle but the habit of penuriousness. He had a
peculiarly irritating voice, thin in tone, penetrating,

THE DEACONS' MEETING 15

i

and at the same time querulous. Hocking was
a large man, whose bluff manners covered an
equal barrenness of sentiment. The two were very
friendly in private life, but they consistently opposed
each other on all public business. John Gaunt had
treated each with a kind of humorous disregard
through the early days of his ministry; but lately
he had come to regard them with alarm, perceiving
in them qualities of opposition of which they had
previously given no sign.

"Well," said Roberts, "my meaning is plain.
The church is declining. It's not foe me to say
why."

Whereupon, with the curious inconsistency of the
speaker who is mastered by his rhetoric instead of
mastering it, he proceeded to discuss the question
at large. He gave facts and figures with a deadly
fluency. The minister waited in tortured impatience
for any generous or illuminating word. The speech
was precisely the sort of speech that would be made
at a company meeting after a bad year's trade. As
Roberts spoke, in his precise, cold fashion, an almost
visible wave of despondency settled over the meet-
ing. Gaunt felt as though he was at his own
funeral, hearing the will read.

"Such are the facts/' Roberts concluded. "We
can discuss the remedies better at another meeting
when the pastor is not present."

"Oh, don't do that !" said Gaunt. "I am quite pre-
pared to hear all that you have to say. Indeed, I

16 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

ought to hear it, since it concerns me more than
any one else."

"Let us hear what the pastor himself has to say/"
suggested Hocking.

"I've very little to say/' replied Gaunt, "and I'm
not sure that I can say it without giving offence.
What has impressed me most to-night is that you
all seem to accept defeat as if it were irreparable.
I have listened in vain for the note of courage. I
may as well let you know at once that I am not of
that spirit. I am going on. It's not a time for
economy, hut generosity. Wise generals don't re-
duce their forces in the face of the enemy. No doubt
we have lost some of our best members. We all
know why. They have migrated to the suburbs.
But there are more people living at the very doors of
the church than there were seven years ago when
I commenced my ministry. I propose to get those
people."

"We don't want them," interrupted an old deacon
named Small. "They are not our kind of folk. They
wouldn't mix."

"They are people, at all events," said Gaunt, with
a grave smile. "It may be a misfortune that the
church is situated among them, but since it is, the
church ought to exist for them more than for any-
body else."

"That's very well in sentiment, no doubt," re-
torted the old deacon. "But it won't work. This
has always been a church of the rich, and if it

THE DEACONS' MEETING 17

changes its character there are many of us that
won't wish to stay in it."

Gaunt had it on his tongue to say, "Then let the
rich support it," but he was restrained by the recol-
lection of his own attitude of mind in previous years.
How often had he been pleased to hear the church
described as a church of the rich ! He had boasted
of it, not in a vain or sordid way it is true; but he
had boasted. It had seemed to him a matter of
legitimate pride that his influence had been exerted
over rich men. Of course he had done nothing to
discourage the poor from attending nis ministra-
tions, but he had not wanted them, or sought them,
or, indeed, thought much about them. To influ-
ence the rich, to attract the men of means, to direct
their generosities — was not that, after all, the best
way to serve the poor? So he had argued a hun-
dred times. Because he had so argued his tongue
was now tied. And yet for a vivid moment he now
saw a vision of the poor — the struggling multitude
with their pathetic pretence of competence, the daily
workers crowded in narrow rooms, the heroic silent
throng of uncomplaining lives around him, and he
felt the pathos of their lot.

But they "wouldn't mix." Well, was the sentiment,
however offensive it sounded, so far from the truth ?
And with this question came another which stung
him more painfully: was he the kind of man who
had any message for the poor? From the day he
had left the seminary he had grown fastidious, and

i8 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

ever more fastidious, in his tastes and habits. Cir-
cumstances had helped him. He had lived among
people of good manners and easy lives. He had
met a good many persons of intellectual tastes, and
he had developed wonderfully through the need im-
posed upon him to understand and interpret their
ways of thinking. If his deacons were men of com-
moner quality, at all events they had admired him.
So everything had favoured the growth of his intel-
lectualism. But he was dimly aware that every
step in this road of cold and fastidious intellectual-
ism had taken him further from the mass of the
people. He no longer knew the dialect of their
thought. He had not the key to their life. In the
pride of his mind he often told himself that it was
not necessary for him to speak so as to be under-
stood of the common people. Lesser men could do
this : but he was a preacher to the cultured, and he
demanded a certain sensitiveness of ideas and sym-
pathies in his hearers as the surface on which his own
thoughts could interpret themselves. And now once
more there flashed upon his mind a faint vision of
the poor, as he had read about them in books and
newspaper articles; the strugglers who did not read,
whose minds lay dim and undeveloped under clouds
of drudgery and harassing anxiety. It was a fine
thing to say he meant to get these people into his
church; but could he? Had he any message for
them ? Could he himself mix with them ?

He did not know, but he felt his courage ebbing

THE DEACONS' MEETING 19

at the prospect. The cold wave of despondency
which had submerged the meeting at last rolled over
him, too. He became conscious of an immense
weariness: weariness of his position, of the diffi-
culties that beset him, of life itself.

There was no further discussion. One by one the
deacons rose, and bade him good-night. When he
went out into the street it was raining, and the city
wore its most doleful aspect.

He buttoned up his coat and went home with a
dismal sense that the triumph of life was over for
him. Henceforth nothing awaited him but defeat.

II

A SELLER OF RHETORIC

WHEN Gaunt woke next morning the sun
was shining brightly and the late No-
vember air was soft and pleasant. His
good spirits came back to him with a rush, as they
usually did on days of abundant sunlight. It was
impossible not to believe in himself on such a morn-
ing. The city itself which spread around him, this
wonderful New York, with its disorderly gaiety,
its clamant light-heartedness, its atmosphere of en-
ergy, courage, triumph, set his nerves tingling with
a new sense of life. New York believed so vehe-
mently in itself. It was prodigal, corrupt, foolish,
yet, somehow, it went on in its path of careless con-
quest. Its men and women were a race by them-
selves. They took the chances of life with such
inimitable gaiety. This was the outstanding char-
acteristic about them which had always moved
Gaunt to admiration. In older countries and cities
— London, for example, in which he had once been
a sojourner for several months — when men failed
they went down, and that was the end of them. In
New York failure was regarded as a mere episode
on the way of success. Men felt the solid ground

20

A SELLER OF RHETORIC 21

suddenly shift beneath their feet, but they just
squared their shoulders, escaped the avalanche by a
hair's breadth, and were soon climbing again with
undiminished courage. Well, and he was a New
Yorker. He had lived long enough in the city to
be infected by its spirit. He must now show that
he had profited by it, and be up and doing to rebuild
the tottering structure of his success.

He was quite gay when he sat down to break-
fast, and his wife rejoiced and expanded in the at-
mosphere of his cheerfulness, as flowers expand in
the sun. She was by nature a person of equal tem-
perament, indefatigably diligent, kind-hearted, and
sweet-tempered. She had little imagination, and so
was spared those extremes of emotion which come
from a too acute vision of things. Life was for
her a very plain and practical piece of business; its
one commanding ethic was to do the duty that lay
at hand, and do it as well as could be. Gaunt had
sometimes wished that she had more power of enter-
ing into his inner world of thought and feeling, but
he had come to recognise that her very disability
gave her a kind of undisturbed serenity and strength
on which he was glad to lean. On any practical
question he would have trusted her judgment
against his own. Upon the more delicate issues of
conduct he would have hesitated to consult her. He
loved her, of course, but it was not with that ador-
ing passion which far less competent women often
excite. But if he could not give her passion, he gave

22 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

her what women of capricious charm rarely get,
complete confidence in her wisdom and her ability
to guide his affairs with discretion. Was she con-
tent with what he gave? She believed she was;
but what woman ever yet was really content with
the rewards of discretion ; what woman in her private
thoughts does not yearn for the touch of passion
which transfigures life? Margaret Gaunt had
known that yearning, but being a woman of equal
temperament had dried her secret tears, had called
herself foolish for indulging them, and had schooled
herself into contentment with her lot. It was the sort
of victory which multitudes of women attain, but it
is rarely so complete that the heart never wakens
from its trance — a truth which Margaret Gaunt was
to discover later on, as her life moved out upon a
broader current to stormier seas.

She made a pleasant figure as she sat behind the
steaming coffee-maker that morning. Her calm face
refreshed by dreamless sleep had a bright, girlish
colour in it, her hair was arranged in a broad brown
braid, and she wore a plain linen dress which ad-
mirably suited her. Her face was not beautiful in
any ordinary sense, but her brow was broad, and
her eyes were of that hue of clear gray which be-
speaks sincerity.

"You were very late last night," she said. "It
was good of you not to disturb me."

"Yes; the meeting went on longer than we ex-
pected," he replied.

A SELLER OF RHETORIC 23

"What did they do? I hope it all went off
pleasantly."

"Well, no. Not exactly pleasantly, but still we
got through."

"Tell me about it."

"Oh, you can guess," he replied. "Roberts is all
for economy, and I imagine he only says bluntly
what the others think."

"Well, I suppose he's right. I'm sure it wouldn't
hurt us any if we gave up the quartette. They cost
a great deal, and lately they've sung dreadfully flat.
Besides which, they don't really take any interest in
the service. The men have taken to go out during
your sermon, and it's my belief they go out to smoke,
and the women sit and yawn."

Gaunt frowned. He knew very well the truth
of what his wife said, but he did not like to hear her
say it. However, he covered his annoyance with a
laugh, and replied: "Well, I don't think that idea
struck Roberts or any one else. Besides, it's pre-
posterous; we must maintain the music at all costs."

"Why?" she asked. "You wouldn't be pleased
if I kept an incompetent maid in your house. You
would ask if she was worth the price. Besides, I
suppose that if the managers talk of economy there
is some real need for it, and they realize that they
must cut their clothes according to their cloth."

It was the very phrase which Roberts had used,
but as he now heard it on the lips of his wife it
seemed to have an almost malignant meaning. It

24 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

laid bare the whole commercial side of the church
too nakedly, too grossly. He made no effort now
to conceal his annoyance.

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that, Margaret.
It hurts me more than I can say. You make me feel
just what I felt last night when Roberts was speak-
ing, that there's nothing sacred about a church,
and nothing delicate in my relations to it — that it's
all a matter of commerce, and I am what Augustine
long ago so bitterly called himself, a mere 'seller of
rhetoric/ "

"I don't know Augustine," she replied. "Who
was he, anyhow? But if he was pastor of a New
York church, I guess he spoke the truth. You see,
dear, however you may put it, you are a seller of
rhetoric, and very fine rhetoric, too. I don't see
that anything can alter that, and I don't see why
you and I shouldn't speak the exact truth to each
other. It may be all wrong, but that's the principle
on which churches are run to-day. I don't believe
Roberts ever thought of the church as a sacred place
in his life, except, of course, in the conventional
sense. It's a kind of business, which he is anxious
to run at a profit. So's a college for that matter, and
the professors in it; what are they but sellers of
knowledge? And a successful poet; what is he but
a .seller of emotions ?"

"Well, that's not my idea of a church, and I don't
believe it's really yours."

"I didn't say it was, dear. But you see it's not a

A SELLER OF RHETORIC 25

question of ideas but of facts. And you can't dis-
pute with facts. The only thing you can do is to be
reconciled to them."

"O Margaret/' he replied, with a passionate ges-
ture, "let us get out of it all. Let us find a cottage
somewhere and be free. But, no, that's cowardice.
It's only running away. And I gave Roberts my
word last night that I would go on, that I would
win out somehow. . . . Margaret, help me to be
brave."

"My poor dear, you're worried." She had risen
from her seat and stood by his side. She laid her
cool, capable hands a moment on his own, and said :
"I think I know how you feel."

"No, you don't, dear," he said. "You don't know
how this sort of thing tortures me, and God forbid
that I should tell you."

"Well, don't be tortured," she said, brightly. "I
don't pretend to be a philosopher, like you; but
there's one bit of philosophy I do know — admit the
facts and then make the best of them. I never knew
a house yet where everything went on perfectly.
Something is always going wrong, but then you
expect it, and you don't let people know more of it
than you can help. I guess churches are pretty
much the same. There's a lot of things go on in the
basement that aren't reported upstairs. But there's
no need to think too much about them. Now you
go and make your sermon like a good boy, and for-
get all about Roberts and the rest of them. It takes

26 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

courage to forget, more courage I sometimes think
than anything else, but it's the only way to go
through life with comfort/*

Gaunt could not help smiling, which was pre-
cisely the effect which she wished to produce.

"I believe," he said, "there's more real wisdom
in your little finger than in my whole body."

"Oh, wisdom of a kind," she said, with a laugh.
"Wisdom of the plain, not the decorated kind. A
woman who has run a house with three maids in
New York City for seven years, and never failed to
put a dinner on the table properly, can't help learn-
ing a few things worth knowing, and the chief is,
just to go on and don't worry."

"But how not to worry, that's the question, Mar-
garet. I don't think you quite realize my position,
dear."

"Oh, yes, I do. I've seen trouble coming for a
long time. Do you think I've not noticed the change
in the church, people leaving, and all that? If it
were your fault I should worry fast enough, but I
know it isn't, and so I don't worry."

"It doesn't matter whose fault it is, from what I
can see. It's the thing itself, the humiliation of it."

"/ don't feel humiliated, anyway," she said,
proudly. "When I am I'll let you know, be sure
of that. It it comes to that, I'd rather see you lead-
ing a forlorn hope than finding everything easy.
It's much more interesting for one thing, and it
appeals to one more. Of course you're going to be

A SELLER OF RHETORIC 27

disappointed in some of the people. Adversity leaves
only the worthiest for one's friends. Well, I don't
know but what it's worth it. I think you've always
thought people better than they are, — the church
people, I mean, — and so you expect from them a good
deal more than they can give. Don't you think it
would be wise just to admit what every one else
sees to be the truth, that church people are pretty
much like other folk, with all sorts of streaks in
them, and none of them good or bad right through?"

"But they ought to be better than other folk, Mar-
garet. If they are not, it is my reproach."

"If God made them so, I don't see why you should
worry because you can't improve on His workman-
ship. If they are good enough for Him to make,
they should be good enough for you to put up with.
So you take my advice, dear, and just go on, and
don't worry."

Margaret left the room with a bright smile of
gentle mockery, and Gaunt went to his library.
Usually the mere sight of the large, quiet room, with
its long rows of books, brought an instant com-
posure, but to-day the charm failed.

His was the kind of mind which, once started on a
theme, cannot dismiss it at will. It analyzes, dis-
cusses, dramatizes the intruding thought; allows it
to possess the fancy, to dominate the will, until the
entire brain is full of its echoes, its endless personifi-
cations, its subtle variations. And the thought which
obsessed him now was this humiliating thought that

28 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

he was a "seller of rhetoric/' a brain and voice
bought for a certain sum of money by an organisa-
tion called a church.

He had never quite seen himself in this light be-
fore. But once having so seen himself, he could see
nothing else. It did not help him to reassure him-
self that he had never tampered with his sincerity
for gain. His boast of freedom was true as far
as it went; he had taught what he pleased, and had
never consciously modified his teachings to suit any
man's views. But behind this boast there emerged
a disconcerting question : had not his power to please
the taste of his hearers arisen simply from the fact
that he had accepted his environment, and uncon-
sciously adapted himself to it? Was not his whole
mental life like the dyer's hand, "subdued to what
it worked in" ? He remembered now some of those
hasty socialistic generalisations which he had taken
for truths in his seminary days. He had then held,
or thought he held, very decided views on the in-
equality of wealth. Suppose these views had truth
in them, why had he not preached them? And he
knew that the reason for his silence did not lie in
any radical change of view, but in his unconscious
compliance with his environment. It was uncon-
scious, perhaps, but not the less real. For a man's
temper is revealed by unconscious qualities as well
as conscious; is even more truthfully revealed, be-
cause there is no effort to retard the truth.

From this his mind passed at a bound to a more

A SELLER OF RHETORIC 29

disturbing question: was the accepted organisation
of a modern church right ? Could any sincere man
suppose that the poor Man of Nazareth would have
approved the hire of men for their talents as the
ministers of His Church? Was it not inevitable
that the real truth about things could scarcely be
spoken under such conditions, since he who lived to
please must needs please to live ?

And the longer he thought, the clearer there rose
before his mind the vision of the Man out of whose
Tragedy all churches had been born — His poverty
and contentment with poverty; His simplicity and
entire unworldliness; His disdain for appearances,
for conventions, for the smooth hypocrisies of tradi-
tional religion; His boldness in the face of certain
social disaster; His sublime unselfishness; and at
last His solitary death, deserted even by those who
had believed Him, and yet secure in His own knowl-
edge of victory, in His own sense of the things for
which He was born having been really done. Alas,
who could say that? Whose life was not based on
compromise? And yet surely the very essence of
that divine Life was the lesson that compromise with
truth is death, that the only victory is complete
sincerity.

Dared he be sincere, he, John Gaunt? That was
the real question which confronted him. It was the
only real question in life.

But like most questions that go to the core and
root of things it was spoken so quietly that he did

30 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

not at first comprehend its force. It was a still small
voice within his soul, the sound of a bell heard
underneath the sea, in a submerged belfry. It fell
strangely on the ear of his spirit. For, like most
men who lead a busy public life, he had gradually
ceased to have any real acquaintance with himself.
The very need, the constant call, for the expression
of his thoughts had led him to a rapid harvesting
only of such thoughts as lay upon the surface of
the mind; he knew nothing of the depths. And now
from that depth of his own unrecognized personality
there came this quiet voice, which spoke with incom-
parable clearness, asking him whether he had ever
been sincere; whether he could be, even if he would?

In the ordinary sense of the term he could answer,
Yes : he had never dealt falsely with himself. But
he now saw that such a reply was insufficient. Had
he dealt truly? Had he ever allowed his soul free
play? And he knew he had not. It was not the
selling of rhetoric which troubled him now; it was
rather that he had sold himself. Not in any vulgar
sense, of course; not as men did who made fortunes
by fraud or dishonesty; but he had sold himself
for praise, and had lived by and for praise, and that
was why the withdrawal of praise was to him a
torture.

So decisive was the verdict that he looked round
the room uneasily, as though he feared that the in-
ward voice might be overheard.

As he did so, his eyes fell upon a large photo-

A SELLER OF RHETORIC 31

gravure of a picture which had always fascinated
him, the Christ upon the Cross, by Velasquez. Mar-
garet, with her practical mind, had always objected
to it, as much too morbid and depressing for the
library of a thinker. He had often thought of re-
moving it, but whenever he essayed to do so, the
pathos of the picture moved him afresh, and seemed
to protest against the wrong he would do it. He
looked at it now, the dim background, the bowed
head with the dark hair fallen over the forehead
in the last abandonment of pain, the white, rigid
limbs, the finality, the majesty, the conquering tran-
quillity of it all — -he looked, and instinctively fell
upon his knees.

For He had heard — that silent spectator on the
Cross.

And He had asked the question, too — He whose
death was the sublime vindication of sincerity.

"God help me to be sincere; I will try."

He hardly knew that he had spoken the words.
Perhaps he did not. But his inmost soul had spoken,
and deep had answered unto deep.

Ill

PARADISE LOST

GAUNT worked throughout the day steadily
at his sermon without making much prog-
ress. He was usually a rapid worker, but
to-day his faculty of concentration failed him. He
tried theme after theme, but each in turn seemed
barren. He searched his notebook for suggestions,
but found none. It would seem that his emotional
experience had had the unforeseen effect of altering
the values of his entire world of thought, as the
wave of earthquake creates new landscapes, by dis-
placement and transposition.

Ordinarily his sensitive taste would have been
quickly attracted by some poetic phrase of Scripture,
which he would have clothed with literary allusion,
and expanded into a series of suggestive paragraphs.
The result would have been an essay, more or less
exquisite according to his mood. How often had he
gone into the pulpit to deliver such an essay, him-
self keenly aware of its fine points, and glad in the
knowledge of his own efficiency ! How often had he
been thrillingly conscious of the visible delight of
his hearers when he reached and declaimed those
passages in his discourse which best displayed his
ability ! But now, for a reason which he had not yet

32

PARADISE LOST 33

fully apprehended, such a method of preaching sud-
denly appeared to him futile and empty. Yet he
knew no other. The habit of seven years was not
to be broken in a moment. So he toiled on with a
perplexed mind, and a painful sense of disappoint-
ment in himself.

In the evening his friend Palmer called. Palmer
was the one deacon, already referred to, who could
be said to live an intellectual life. He was a spare
man of about forty, with a high dome of forehead,
fringed by grizzled black hair, a satirical mouth, and
a pair of peculiarly keen light-blue eyes. He had
had a curious career. The son of prosperous farm-
ing folk in the South, he had worked his way
through college with the sparsest help from home,
for his father had had no sympathy with his ambi-
tions. He had intended entering the ministry, but
had been prevented by his own early loss of faith.
At the close of his college course he had actually
been a student in a theological seminary, but the
little stock of faith he took with him to the seminary
had been quite dissolved in his attempt to acquire
theological knowledge. The further he went, the
less he found in which he could really believe. He
was further discouraged by the low tone of reli-
gious feeling among his fellow-students, and to a
certain degree among the professors also. In the
general talk among the students he found the min-
istry regarded almost entirely as a profession. The
main theme of conversation was the status of various

34 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

churches, the salaries they paid, and the chances
each man thought he had of securing a prize. There
were exceptions, of course. There was Rees Allen,
a genuine enthusiast, who had gone to China as a
missionary, and had perished in the Boxer riots.
There was another good little fellow called Stimson,
whose faith was proof against all criticism simply
because his intellect was radically incapable of under-
standing that criticism could exist in relation to
faith. These men, and a few others of kindred
qualities, formed a group by themselves, and with
them he had no contact. As to the professors he
could never rid himself of the idea that they were
the paid apologists of a system of truth which they
themselves only believed with many reservations.
In this conclusion he was not quite just: he was
simply misled by the fact that he knew the professors
only on their intellectual side ; and he did not allow
for the fact that it was their main business to criti-
cise the basis of faith rather than impart its spirit.
But, although in later years he judged more fairly,
at the time these immature conclusions were disas-
trous to him. The result was that when the time
came for him to enter the ministry, his repugnance
to it had become invincible. He knew that he had
nothing to teach that was of any moment to the
world; and when the professor whom he most re-
spected assured him that faith would come by the
inculcation of faith in others, he replied satirically
that at least the success of the process was not appa-

PARADISE LOST 35

rent in his instructors. That sentence closed to him
the career of the ministry.

When the doors of the seminary closed behind
him, he went out into the world without the least
idea of what path he would take. At first he drifted
westward, attracted by the freedom, energy, virility,
and infinite promise of the West. One summer
found him bridge-building on the Yukon, another
engaged in journalistic work in Seattle. For a whole
winter he toiled in a lumber camp in Wisconsin.
Here, for the first time, he came to grips with real
life — that primitive life of men which has gone on
since the first day broke, and will continue to the
hour when the last sunset leaves the world tenant-
less and dark. There was no time for speculative
thought in a life that endured hunger and thirst, the
pressure of primal needs, the lash of excessive and
unintermitted labour. He fared roughly, slept
soundly, was drenched with rain and storm, and
came to rejoice in the crude valours of his daily toil.
He came also to appreciate the manhood of his asso-
ciates. They were strange comrades for one of his
upbringing; men coarse in thought and life, and
often stained by crime, but they took life with a
sort of brutal good-nature, and they had the crown-
ing virtue of courage. He found in them, and in
the life he lived with them, just the kind of tonic
which his soul needed. Questions of creed and
destiny seemed irrelevant and ridiculous in such
scenes. They were the mere toys over which chil-

36 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

dren disputed; they belonged to an artificial life; the
very vastness of the forest, the march of stars across
the lonely heavens, the daily contact with primeval
earth, removed him at an immeasurable distance
from such trivialities. That winter in the lumber
camp taught him many lessons, the chief of which
were faith in man as man, and the conviction that
the chief business of life is to live, not to get a living,
and still less to pass one's time in tedious disputes
about the nature of life.

All the time, however, he was slowly, though un-
consciously, coming to the knowledge of his own
faculties. He knew that this life of primitive exer-
tion could not last; it was but an episode. It was
inevitable that he should return to cities, and in due
time he found himself in New York studying law.
Here, at last, his analytic mind found its true arena.
He succeeded slowly in his career, not for want of
energy, but because he had no great passion for
success. He was content with modest competence,
where most men of his ability would have pushed on
to fortune. But he was one of those men who find
in leisure for books and private study a much
happier fruit of labour than could ever come
through wealth purchased at the price of a con-
stantly harassed and divided mind. He lived a quiet
and cultured life in one of the older houses of Wash-
ington Square, with his favourite sister Esther as
his housekeeper. When Gaunt came to Mayfield
Avenue Church, Palmer found him out, attracted

PARADISE LOST 37

by the reports of Gaunt's unusual intellectual ability.
In the quiet life which he now lived some of his
old religious beliefs had come back to him, though
in changed and attenuated forms. He had no diffi-
culty in joining a church where freedom of belief
was so wide as in Gaunt's church. Later on he
was unable to discover any valid reason why he
should not become a deacon in the church, although
he accepted the position more out of love for Gaunt
than any other reason, and even then reluctantly.
So it had come to pass that the two men had become
intimate friends, and there was rarely a Friday
night when Palmer did not come round to Gaunt's
house to smoke his cigar, and talk over books and
philosophies.

It was the custom with Gaunt to discuss with
Palmer the themes of his addresses, and it was nat-
ural on this occasion that he should begin by describ-
ing to his friend the new difficulties he had encoun-
tered.

"I don't know when I've felt so flat/' he said.
"It's not that I've run out of ideas, my mind is rest-
less with ideas, but I don't seem able to co-ordinate
them, don't seem to find any kind of text that offers
hospitality for them."

"Didn't know texts were created for any such
purpose," said Palmer, drily.

"Perhaps not, but it seems the best use you can
put them to. If one didn't do that, logically it ought
to be enough just to read a text and be done with it."

38 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"Why not?" said Palmer. "After all Paul man-
ages to say more in five words than you do in five
thousand/*

"Why not? Because my occupation would be
gone, for one thing," laughed Gaunt. "And if it
comes to that why don't you state a law and sit
down without making a speech on behalf of your
client?"

"I do whenever I can," said Palmer.

"I'd do it, too— if I could."

"Oh, no, you wouldn't. You're far too fond of
hearing your own voice for that. And people are
too fond of hearing you, and you're too amiable not
to indulge them."

"That's not very flattering to me, Palmer."

"I don't flatter any one. At least I try not. Flat-
tery is the diplomacy of feebleness. When you find
me indulging in flattery you may conclude my intel-
lect is decaying."

"Well, I'm bound to say you do usually tell me
the truth about myself. How many fine theories of
mine you've ridiculed out of existence in this very
room! And yet, Palmer, there are some things
about me I don't believe you so much as suspect —
things that I myself have only suspected lately."

"What things?"

"I don't know whether I can tell you. At least
I can't tell you in so many words. But let me ask
you a question. You've listened to me for several
years, and your approval of what I've said I take

PARADISE LOST 39

for granted. I would like to know if in all these
years I've ever helped you?"

"Why, of course you have. If you hadn't I'm not
the man to have listened to you so long. No man
of any intellect can listen to eloquence without a
sense of exhilaration, a kind of glow which sends
him back to common duty with a lighter heart."

"That's not what I mean/' said Gaunt, slowly.
"Let me try to be plain, though I don't find it easy."

"No, orators never do. They wouldn't be orators
if they did."

"Please don't jest, I'm really serious."

"Very well, I'll be sober as a judge. State your
case, and I'll say nothing till you're through."

"Well, then, this is the point. It has come home
to me to-day in quite a new way that all these years
I may have been playing at truth, playing at life.
Answer me honestly this question : Have I, in any-
thing I have ever said or done, helped you in such a
way as to add any vital elements to your life? I
don't doubt your admiration, your appreciation; you
have given me these in a measure much beyond my
deserts. But admiration is a diet on which a man's
soul cannot live. Have you discovered any new
truth through me ? Have I got at your soul in any
real way? I know the very phrase sounds strange
and strained. Perhaps you will think that it savours
of cant. You and I have discussed theologies and
philosophies without number, but I don't remember
one genuine conversation on religion. It is because

40 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

of this that I shrink even now from naming it. But
I can't be silent any longer. There comes a time in
a man's life when he takes stock of himself, goes
through his life with a relentless inquisition, and
that time came to me this morning. And just be-
cause I know you won't flatter me, I want to put my
question with absolute frankness : Have I, or have I
not, in all these years done anything to create in you
a more real and definite sense of religion ?"

Palmer rose from his seat, and walked up and
down the room in perfect silence for some minutes.
Then he stood beside the chair on which Gaunt was
sitting, and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

"You're sure you want me to tell you ?"

"I'm quite sure."

"Well, let me tell you a story. Some years ago,
as you know, I was working for my bread in a lum-
ber camp in Wisconsin. The life was hard and
brutal, but as near primitive life as a modern man
can get. I suppose not a man amongst us ever
prayed, or read the Scripture, or gave the least
thought to religion; and for months I was no better
than the rest. One day there arrived in the camp
a little under-sized fellow called Milton. He was
so obviously out of place that we nicknamed him in
jest Taradise Lost.' He did his best to do the work
other men did, but he was obviously unfitted for it.
When we got back from the woods at night, and
lay down in our bunks in the huge shack, with a
red-hot stove in the middle, poor Taradise Lost' was

PARADISE LOST 41

subjected to all sorts of cruel horseplay. This went
on for weeks, and Taradise Lost' never once retorted
with an oath or angry word, so that at last the men
gave up nagging him because there was no fun in it.
Presently, he revealed a new side to his character.
If a man was sick and mad with drink 'Paradise Lost'
would sit up all night with him, and help him fight
through the horrors. There were one or two bad
accidents that winter, and Taradise Lost' was always
ready to play the nurse, and did it with a skill and
tenderness no woman could surpass. All this time
he never said a word about religion, although we
knew he carried a New Testament in his pocket,
and chaffed him a good deal about it.

"One night, it was near Christmas, we were all
together in the shack, and most of us pretty dull, for
we were thinking of friends and homes far away.
Suddenly Taradise Lost' offered to sing to us. At
any ordinary time his offer would have been received
with shouts of derision. The little man whipped
out a Sankey's hymnbook, and began to sing in a
sweet, clear tenor, 'Shall we gather at the River?'
At the second verse some one heaved a boot at him,
but the little man went on with a smile, and at the
third verse we were actually joining in the chorus.
Then he pulled out his Testament, and without ask-
ing anybody's leave began to read us the beautiful
story of the birth of Jesus. It sounded as if we had
never heard it before, and somehow the recollection
of the star-shine outside, and the lonely forest, and

42 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

our warm shack in the lonely waste, made Bethlehem
and the watching Shepherds seem real. Then he
read the death of Jesus, and with such simple pathos
that I know my eyes filled with tears, and I was
not the only one. When he had done he began to
speak to us. I can't reproduce his speech, but some
of it I shall never forget.

" Tm just one of yourselves, lads/ he said, 'and
not a bit better than you, but I've got a Friend some
of you haven't got, and my Friend is Him about
whom I've been reading to you to-night. I know
you wonder why I ever came here, and I'll tell you.
I was a wicked lad, and broke my mother's heart, as
some of you have done. One day this Friend of
mine took hold of me, and said : "You've just got to
follow Me. You've been foolish long enough, but
now I've found you and I don't intend to let you
go. But you've got to do something for Me, too.
You've got to go to the wickedest sort of place you
can find, and help men to be good the best way you
know." So I said : "That's only fair, and I'll do my
best," and so I came here. I don't know books, and
I never shall, but I know that it's wiser to be good
than bad, and you know it, too. I can't talk to you
like the preachers can, and maybe you wouldn't
listen to me if I could. But I tell you that the same
Friend that found me is here to be friends with you,
if you'll let Him, and the moment you'll try to live
straight, lads, that moment you'll find Him help-
ing you.'

PARADISE LOST 43

" 'Paradise Lost' didn't get jeered at after that
night. He'd won out. He went about doing good,
and that appeared to be the only religion he knew,
and it was about all we wanted, or were capable
of understanding.

"Such religion as I have, I got from that little
man. Christ came back to me in him. He taught
me that the only way of really helping your brother
man to a real faith is by living as though your own
faith were real.

"And now you see my point. You know, Gaunt,
I wouldn't grieve you wilfully, but since you've
asked me a question, I'll answer it honestly. You've
not helped me in the way you've indicated. You've
fed my mind, and I am grateful — but my soul, no.
The only man who ever touched my soul was that
little preacher in the lumber camp. He did it be-
cause he lived like Christ, and I don't believe any
man will ever reach the soul of another man until
he lives like Christ. Sermons and theologies don't
count — it's the life and nothing else."

Gaunt sat with bowed head.

"I should hate to think I had wounded you," said
Palmer.

"I need to be wounded," said Gaunt, in a low
voice. "It's surgery — surgery that perhaps may
save me."

Palmer wrung his friend's hand, and silently left
the room.

IV
STORM SIGNALS

THE Sunday-morning service at Mayfield
Avenue Church had just concluded, and
it was evident that something unusual had
happened. Groups of people stood in the aisles and
vestibules, engaged in eager conversation. Deacon
Roberts wore his most dangerous smile — it was
characteristic of the man that he smiled most when
he was most annoyed. Hocking, Small, and the
other deacons had retired to the vestry, the door of
which was shut. Every one knew that they were
in conclave. One lady, Mrs. Somerset, who enjoyed
the reputation of being the best-dressed woman in
the church, was observed bending over the book-
locker in her pew with a very flushed face. It was
evident that she was removing her books. When
Margaret Gaunt came down the aisle Mrs. Somerset
moved toward her with peremptory eagerness, and
began to address her in a loud tone, without so much
as offering her her hand. Courtesy had never been
Mrs. Somerset's strong point, and she made no pre-
tence of it now.

"I wish you good-morning, Mrs. Gaunt," she said,
with an angry nod; "it will be some time before we
meet again."

STORM SIGNALS 45

"Why, how's that?" said Margaret. "I thought
you were not going to California this winter."

"Nor am I. I expect to be in New York all the
winter. But I don't expect to enter this church
again."

"Oh, Mrs. Somerset," said Margaret, in her
sweetest manner, "you surely don't mean that.
Why, what has happened ?"

"If you don't know, it would be no use my trying
to inform you."

Margaret flushed in spite of her self-control. It
had been one of her chief duties as a minister's wife
to cultivate self-control, and she had needed it more
in her relations toward Mrs. Somerset than toward
any other person in the church. For Mrs. Somerset
was one of those unhappily constituted women who
are only able to believe in their own self-importance
by assuring themselves of the insignificance of other
people. She was by no means a vulgar person, but
the possession of wealth had exaggerated her self-
esteem to a degree that was intolerable. She could
be flattered and cajoled into acts of considerable
generosity, but generosity was neither indigenous
nor spontaneous in her. She was the sort of woman
of whom it is said, "It's well to keep upon her right
side"; which usually means that she is a kind of
fractious child who must be bribed by sweetmeats
to be good. Put her at the head of things, and no
one could be sweeter tempered; ignore her, and no
one could be more spiteful. And so, although many

46 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

fitter persons could have been found, Mrs. Somerset
had long reigned supreme in church clubs and sim-
ilar organisations, and had even posed as an expert
on literature of which she knew nothing, and on the
"New Theology," of which she knew less.

"I'm sure I'm not in the least aware of any reason
for your extraordinary conduct," said Margaret —
"unless," she added, with a touch of delicate malice,
"you've just discovered some frightful heresy in my
husband's theology, which contradicts your own."

"Oh, it's not theology, you know that very well,"
she retorted, with an indignant rattle of her big gold
bracelets. "I believe in the New Theology, and all
that, as you very well know. But when your hus-
band tells us, as he told us this morning, that wealthy
people are usually selfish, complacent, and unsym-
pathetic: that they don't try to know the reality of
life among the poor, and all that kind of nonsense, as
if it were my business to go slumming, I for one feel
insulted. If he loves the poor so much, he'd better
go to them. Certainly I shall not stay to have them
brought to me."

"And did my husband really say all those dread-
ful things, Mrs. Somerset? If he did I must have
been asleep, for I never heard them. I will tell you
what he did say — or what I thought he said, since
your hearing seems to have been more acute than
mine. He said the tendency of wealth was toward
self-complacency, which is true enough. He said
we were responsible for the poor, since the system

STORM SIGNALS 47

of life we support creates them — which surely you
won't deny. And he did say, I admit, that a church
which was a social club, with every one in it of one
class, existing for its own gratification, was not ex-
actly the kind of church Jesus Christ came to create.
In what way can such statements be an insult to you ?
I'd really be glad to know/'

"Oh, it wasn't that altogether," she replied, with
the usual feminine skill in evading the point. "It
was his manner, the way in which he said it. It was
positively offensive. And I know he looked straight
at me, as if he meant me. And then there was that
dreadful story about a lumber camp at the end of
the sermon — drunken men and Sankey's hymns,
and all that sort of thing — so different from his
usual sermons, it was outrageous, as if that had any-
thing to do with us. I really didn't think your hus-
band could be so coarse. His own sense might have
told him it was out of place. Why, he quite ranted.
And I've never been accustomed to such goings-on. 'r

"And you never heard of a lumber camp in your
life before ? Why, how strange ! I always thought
your husband made his fortune out of lumber. I'm
almost sure you told me so."

Margaret could not for her life have resisted such
a palpable hit.

But it produced no effect except to increase the
wrath of Mrs. Somerset, who with an angry ges-
ture gathered her books together, and swept out
of the church.

48 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

As Mrs. Somerset left the church, another of the
church ladies of a very different order approached
Margaret. She was a white-haired, tall woman of
very quiet manners, and retiring disposition. She
had had some great trouble in her early married
life, of which no one knew the exact details. What-
ever it was it had broken her life, and left her poor.
She and Margaret had never met except in casual
ways. But Margaret, with her clear judgment, had
long ago perceived Mrs. Holcombe's worth. More
than once she had wished she knew her better: for
in the calm, gracious face of the older woman there
was the rare attractiveness which comes only from
sorrowful experiences which have been spiritualized
into disciplines, from obscure Calvaries out of whose
torture and darkness the soul has attained a better
resurrection.

"Will you pardon me, if I confess that I heard all
that Mrs. Somerset said, and I don't agree in a word
of it?" she began.

"I'm only too delighted to hear you say so," said
Margaret.

"I heard also every word your husband said, and
I drank it in, as one long athirst who has found the
waters. I have waited seven years for this morn-
ing's sermon. I think I always knew it would come
— at least I always believed it would. I should have
left the church long ago except for that belief. But
I knew that your husband had not only a brilliant
mind, but a big heart, and I felt that some day he

STORM SIGNALS 49

must let his heart speak. His heart spoke this morn-
ing. Oh, encourage him to let it go on speaking.
God has some great work for him to do, but he'll
only do it by letting his heart guide him. Perhaps
I ought not to say these things to you, but when I
saw how you were being grieved by the foolish
anger of the lady who has just gone out, I felt I
must speak."

The words were so lovingly spoken, with such
sincerity and deep feeling, that for the moment Mar-
garet's strong self-control forsook her. Her eyes
filled with sudden tears.

"I can only thank you," she said, "though I don't
quite know whether I take your meaning. Won't
you come and see me? I'm very sorry not to have
known you better."

"Oh, it's not your fault," she answered. "I've not
wished to be known. I lead a very quiet life, with
only my memories for company. As I've grown
older I fear I have grown less and less inclined to
meet people, which is not quite a right state of
feeling. You get to live almost entirely in the past
when you live alone. The past is all that seems real ;
the present is a kind of dream. But to-day I've felt
for the first time for many years as if I were com-
ing out of the past. The shadows are melting, and
it has come to me that there may yet be something
left for me to do before I die. I shall be very glad
to know you better, if you'll take me just as I am, a
woman growing old, whose life has had many sor-

50 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

rows, and has learned the hard lesson of resigna-
tion and renunciation."

Margaret's heart went out to her. And in the
rush of warm tenderness which she felt for this
lonely woman, there was mingled a sharp bitter
of reproach. Here was a woman whom no one had
treated as of much account, Margaret among the
number. It was women like Mrs. Somerset who
had moved in the high places of the church, de-
manded attention, absorbed notice, and all the time
this woman with her sorrow, and her character puri-
fied by sorrow, had stood by, lonely and unloved.

"I shall be gladder than I can say to have you call
upon me." But the phrase seemed too formal. "To
have you for my friend," she added.

"Then I will come."

And at that moment there began one of those pure
and deep friendships which are only possible be-
tween persons of absolute sincerity.

His heart had spoken — Mrs. Holcombe had used
the right phrase in describing the sermon which
John Gaunt preached that morning.

It was a sermon so unlike anything that had pre-
ceded it, that it was little wonder if it had startled
and offended his hearers. There had been none of
the usual literary allusions in it, not a single quota-
tion from favourite authors, not even a phrase that
could be accounted brilliant. The omissions were
the more remarkable because he had of late devoted
his Sunday mornings to a criticism of Browning's

STORM SIGNALS 51

philosophy of life. These addresses had excited un-
usual interest. Students had brought note-books
with them, and the members of various literary clubs
had been attracted by expositions which were un-
doubtedly competent and scholarly. Gaunt had
delivered them with a view to publication. He was,
in fact, already engaged in making a book out of
them.

But this morning the note-books were unused.
It was soon evident that nothing was to be said
about Browning. He read a series of passages from
the Gospels, in each one of which the Master ap-
peared as surrounded by publicans and sinners.

"Who were these people?" he asked. "Quite
clearly they were not reputable people, for every
one was surprised that Christ should associate with
them. The general opinion was that Jesus had
fallen into bad company. But what do we mean by
bad company? We usually mean vicious people,
and we think of them as a class by themselves. But
vice is more equally distributed than we suppose,
is not confined to classes, and has no exclusive brand.

"Lustfulness and intemperance are vices, but so
also are bad temper, meanness, selfishness, and in-
ordinate pride. Jesus seems to have thought selfish-
ness a much worse thing than folly. The worst
people He knew were those whom the world thought
the best. At all events He spoke to them His most
dreadful words of rebuke. But to the other people,
who were foolish and wicked, but not unkind, He

52 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

told tender stories about love and forgiveness. He
did it not once nor twice, but uniformly, so that He
came to be known as the Friend of publicans and
sinners. The good people, of course, used the
term in derision, but Jesus accepted it as a compli-
ment.

"Was Jesus wrong? Of course we dare not say
that He was wrong, though many of us may think
He was. In either case He paid for His temerity
with the Cross. For it was the good people who put
Him to death. The publicans and sinners had no
hand in the world's greatest tragedy. They could
not have crucified their Friend. But to the good
people he was not a friend but an enemy, and the
chief reason why they hated Him was because they
knew that He saw through their pretence of good-
ness.

"So then it seems that if we would imitate Christ,
as we say we wish to do, we have to find our friends
among the despised people whom He loved. The
publican and sinner — do we know any persons an-
swering to this description? Do we wish to know
them ? Do we ever think of them ? Have they ever
entered this church, or would we welcome them if
they did?"

If Gaunt had stopped at that point, there would
have been little sensation. So far he had only made
general statements, and religious congregations are
too well used to such statements to realize any per-
sonal implications in them. And, as he spoke, he

STORM SIGNALS 53

was perfectly aware of this. He knew, not indeed
for the first time, but for the first time with vivid
realisation, that the Jesus of whom he spoke was to
his hearers no more than the symbol of a sentiment,
a Jesus of romance, with romantic ideas of love and
justice, which no one supposed capable of interpre-
tation into terms of ordinary conduct. It was even
as Jesus had foreseen it would be through the ages :
men would praise His words, but would not do the
things which He commended them. An anguish of
disdain seized upon Gaunt, disdain in part for him-
self that he had been so little in accord with the
truths he had just uttered, and in part with his
hearers that they were manifestly pleased with
truths which ought to have covered them with
shame. For he knew — his long experience taught
him — that if he were to stop with the picture he had
drawn of the Friend of publican and sinners, not
one of his hearers would be moved to any novel act
of conduct. He foresaw that they would thank him
for his sermon, praise it, say they had "enjoyed"
it — that dreadful phrase which puts the seal of
entire futility on preaching ! His very soul sickened
in him at the prospect. It came to him in a flash
of blinding light that if ever he was to be sincere,
he must be so now.

He stood silent for several moments. His face
was pale, but it was a kind of pallor that had a
strange element of brightness in it. It suggested
moonlight on snow.

54 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

His hands were folded before him, his figure was
rigid.

The silence grew: it spread like a wave. Then
there were uneasy movements and rustlings in the
pews. Roberts sat very upright with lips half open.

And then at last Gaunt spoke, but the note of
challenging disdain had gone out of his voice. He
spoke quietly, but each word was surcharged with
intensity. And through all there throbbed the note
of pity — it had the effect of a sob in a singer's voice
— pity for himself that he had failed so long in his
highest duty, and for others that they did not see
what he beheld. He no longer drew a picture of
something that happened centuries ago : he made his
hearers feel that the same divine Teacher, who had
dealt so tenderly with sinners and so rigorously with
the proud and hard, stood at that very moment in
the midst of this conventionally Christian congre-
gation. And then he told the story of Palmer's
lumber-camp hero, much as Palmer had related it
to him. He pictured this weak little man, this de-
spised "Paradise Lost," with his ignorance of books
and theologies, nursing drunken men through their
nights of horror, indefatigably tender in his minis-
tration to those who derided him, sustained by one
beautiful impulse, that he must needs do what his
unseen Friend had done and bade him do. "Here
is the true Christian," he cried. "Nay, not the
Christian, but the Christ, one whose shoe's latchet
I am unworthy to unloose, one whom you and I,

STORM SIGNALS 55

living complacent lives of luxury, shall envy when
the judgment comes. Your religion and mine has
hitherto been only a gratification — never a sacrifice.
It has been a sorry travesty of religion. It will
never become a reality till it becomes a sacrifice."

Words were given to him in that hour. He who
had for seven years read his little careful essays to
an eclectic congregation, suddenly spoke with lips
of flame. During the latter part of his address he
seemed utterly unconscious both of himself and his
audience; and so he did not see the angry flush on
Mrs. Somerset's ample cheeks, nor the pale dismay
on many other faces. One face was whiter than his
own: it was Palmer's. The moment the address
concluded Palmer left the church.

As if by preconcerted signal, at the close of the
final hymn the deacons gathered at the vestry door.

Not one spoke to him. But as he passed the door
on his departure from the church, he heard a mur-
mur of voices behind that closed door. He knew
that he was the subject of their discussion.

DR. JORDAN

PEOPLE who suppose that a human character
can be altered radically by a sudden emo-
tional experience, however intense, do not
understand human nature. Such an experience ren-
ders character fluid; into what shape the molten ele-
ments will flow depends on the fibre of a man's will.
Many persons, besides St. Paul, have had their
visions on the way to Damascus; some of them, in
the cool gray light of the next morning, have dis-
missed them as hallucinations; some have believed,
but disobeyed; some have obeyed for a time, but
in the end have found the pressure of the world too
strong for them. Deliverance from an old and
accustomed mode of life is never easy and rarely
rapid. When we pull a plant up by the roots we are
astonished to discover how many fibres it has, and
with what tenacity a very small fibre will cling to
the vein of earth in which it has laboriously estab-
lished itself. Moreover, we soon find that it needs a
delicate and strong hand for the work; we must
slowly and gently loosen the roots, for if we are
rough and violent in our methods we kill that which
we meant to save.

56

DR. JORDAN 57

Gaunt had experienced a powerful emotion; a new
dynamic had been introduced into his life. During
the whole of that memorable Sunday he had literally
glowed and thrilled with its novel force. But when
Monday morning dawned physical conditions began
to assert themselves. He woke with a leaden pres-
sure on the brain, a languor in each limb, the famil-
iar symptoms of nervous exhaustion. His elation
had died down into despondence.

It was very early when he woke — that most dole-
ful hour in great cities when the day labours to be
born, and the city seems to turn on its uneasy bed,
reluctant to resume its toils. He heard far off the
hooting sirens in the harbour, those harsh voices,
raucous and persistent, which goad weary men to
new labour. He watched the slow diffusion of cold,
gray light in the clouded sky, and the gusty, uneven
wind seemed to him like the sighing of defeated
angels. It was the hour when, for imaginative men,
thought is most introspective and reminiscent. As
he lay quiet, watching the sombre dawn, his whole
past life began to march before him in a series of
rapidly unfolded pictures. His early life and strug-
gles, its mistakes and errors, the humiliations he
had endured through ignorance and lack of man-
ners, his laborious evolution from the country lad
into the scholar and the gentleman — he recalled all,
he relived all. He figured it to himself as a steep
and shining mountain, with steps of glass, up which
he had toiled with remorseless patience. With what

58 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

superb confidence he had gone on, in spite of fail-
ures and rebuffs ! And he had arrived; there was no
doubt of that. He had gained the summit, where
people of benignant features moved, and met him
with a smiling welcome. And then, with a swift
pang of self-pity, he perceived himself slipping back-
ward on those stairs of glass, and the features of
those benignant people on the summit were averted
from him in cold scorn and mockery.

One thought prevailed over all others at that
moment, the thought of Margaret. What did she
really think ? He knew her loyal, but could she give
him that inner sympathy which he most needed at
this hour? She would stand by him, of course;
that was a thing beyond doubt. But if his whole life
was to be changed, if he were now to enter on a
new struggle, compared with which all these early
struggles were a pastime, would her heart be with
him? He recalled their life together. It had begun
so beautifully, with all that exquisite tenderness of
passion of which poets have sung. He recalled the
first time that he had kissed her — it was on a winter
evening, as they trod together a path of sparkling
snow in a wood, on their way home from skating.
The rest of the party had gone on; he and she were
alone, and he had drawn her to him and kissed her
cold cheek. For a long time after that he had
fancifully loved to kiss her cheek when it was cold.
During the first months of their married life much
of his romantic and idyllic tenderness had remained.

DR. JORDAN 59

Then it had seemed as though the practical ele-
ments in her character had gradually displaced the
idyllic. There were fewer occasions of tenderness,
as life became fuller of duties for each of them.
At first he resented her absorption in household
duties ; then he became reconciled to what seemed an
inevitable condition of life. He withdrew more and
more into himself, and without observing the stages
of his process, came more and more to shut her out
of his intellectual life. She had never complained;
she had been wiser if she had. She also had ap-
peared to acquiesce in conditions which seemed
inevitable, and had developed into a very practical
woman, with a hundred daily tasks to absorb her.
And now Gaunt saw with dismay that he had lost
the clue to his wife's nature. He did not know her
real mind. He was about to expose her to a tre-
mendous ordeal, and he had nothing to guide him
as to her real attitude towards it.

At that moment his reverie was broken by the
ringing of the telephone which he kept beside his
bed. Dr. Jordan wanted to see him at nine o'clock.
He rose wearily, and began to dress.

Dr. Jordan was a man just past the middle point
of life, the minister of a neighbouring church. He
was clean-shaved, with a humorous, but firm mouth,
bright shrewd eyes, a good forehead, and thin iron-
gray hair. He was a man of no great intellectual
parts, who never pretended to be anything but a
mediocre preacher. He professed a mild kind of

60 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

heterodoxy, but he really took very little interest
in theology. All his energies were devoted to the
management of his church, and in this art he was
a past-master. No one knew better than he how
to organize the diverse elements of a church into
a harmonious whole. He had an instinct which
almost amounted to genius for comprehending the
exact limits of men, the direction of their thoughts,
the scale of their preferences, the direction in which
they wished to move. Thus, when he announced any
particular policy, it was so nicely timed that his
people recognized in it the exposition of their own
designs, and justly gave him credit for wise leader-
ship. He did not pretend to any very lofty views
of human nature. He was fond of quoting Luther's
despondent axiom that "You must take men as they
are, you cannot change their characters." In times
of dispute and difficulty he was fertile in compro-
mise, but his compromises usually had so much prac-
tical wisdom in them that no one ever thought of
accusing him of lack of principle. It was by arts
such as these that he had maintained for many years,
without great intellectual gifts, a position of influ-
ence and authority in which such gifts are com-
monly considered indispensable. Thus he was a
man generally trusted and obeyed, sagacious and
experienced; a man of suave manners and smooth
speech, who rode easily upon the waves of life, and
knew better than to expose himself to inconvenient
tempests when safe harbours were accessible. Gaunt

DR. JORDAN 61

had had much pleasant fellowship with him. He
was a welcome comrade on the golf-links, a pleasant
guest at the dinner table, a shrewd man of the
world, viewing most aspects of life in a spirit of
lucid irony; but scarcely the man to whom any one
would go in any deep spiritual emergency.

As Gaunt went downstairs to meet him, he
guessed the object of his visit. No doubt Jordan
had heard something about the sensation caused by
the sermon of the previous morning. He had prob-
ably come to talk it over.

Jordan met him with his usual humorous smile,
and at once proceeded to the business which had
made him so early a visitor.

"So you've been fluttering the dovecotes, I hear.
Have you seen the morning papers?"

"No, I have not. You don't mean to say there's
anything about me in them?"

"Read them. Here they are."

He pointed to the leading New York papers which
lay upon the table.

Gaunt took them up, and his eye at once caught
the headline, "Sensational Utterances by a New
York Minister." He perceived immediately that he
was the minister, and that at least one-third of the
report of his utterances was totally inaccurate. But
he soon discovered, that in spite of these inaccu-
racies, whoever had written the report had written
sympathetically. If here and there were garbled
phrases which he was sure he had not used, there

62 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

were others which he recognized, only they seemed
much more extreme in print than they did in speech.
Three of the reports were alike in the sympathy
which they manifested, one of the three going so far
as to applaud him as a prophet. The fourth was
openly hostile and rancorous. It was composed of
the worst kind of flippant newspaper wit — clever,
ironical, jeering. "We await developments," it con-
cluded. "We are curious to know what Dr. Gaunt's
people have to say of their pastor. He has used
the pulpit as a Coward's Castle, to make accusations
which he very well knew could not be publicly con-
tradicted. It was an act of insolence as well as
cowardice. We can hardly suppose that a church
with the reputation of Mayfield Avenue will pa-
tiently endure this new and odious kind of Sunday
Vaudeville."

"Well/' said Jordan, "what do you think of it?
You seem to have got yourself into the most unholy
kind of mess."

"Oh, the reports are right enough in the main,"
said Gaunt — "except the last. That is obviously
exaggerated and malicious."

"It's not a question now of accuracy or inaccu-
racy," said Jordan, gravely. "The mischief's done.
If every line in these paragraphs was false, it
would make no difference. You know the old
proverb, 'A lie runs round the world while Truth is
putting on its boots/ The question is what do you
intend to do about it?"

DR. JORDAN 63

"What would you have me do ? I can't pretend I
didn't say these things. I did, and I meant them. I
still mean them. Of course I intend to stand by
them."

"Come, come, my dear fellow, you're excited and
out of sorts. You've been running down nervously
a long time. I've seen it, if you haven't. Now sit
down, and let us talk the whole thing over quietly.
Any man may make a mistake, but the only mis-
take that is irretrievable is persisting in a mistake."

"But I've not make a mistake," said Gaunt, with
a vehement gesture. "I've spoken truth."

"Oh, of course, we'll grant that," said Jordan,
soothingly. "You'll excuse my saying it, but any
fool can speak what he calls the truth, and accom-
plish more harm by doing it than if he told lies.
'All things are lawful, but all things are not expe-
dient'— you know who said it. Besides, all truth
is relative."

At that moment Margaret entered the library.
The conversation ceased, and both men rose.
Gaunt's first impulse was to conceal the nature of
the conversation from his wife. Then suddenly the
recollection of his early morning reverie came back
to him. He had blamed himself for shutting Mar-
garet out of his life, and at the same time had
yearned for her sympathy in the inner matters of his
life. Here was the decisive test of whether she
was indeed capable of that sympathy. His eye
rested on her with more of that early tender passion

64 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

of devotedness than he had known for many years.
She looked pale — had she also had her painful
dreams ? And this was surely her question, as much
as his. He took his resolution instantly. "Mar-
garet/' he said, "Dr. Jordan was just discussing
with me the events of yesterday. It seems the papers
are full of reports about me. I'd like you to hear
what he says; it concerns you, too, and we'll advise
together."

Margaret looked at him with a grateful smile,
and silently sat down at his side. "Now, Dr.
Jordan, you were saying "

Jordan went over the ground again, taking care
to explain with more than his accustomed suavity
the points he wished to emphasize. He was secretly
annoyed and embarrassed by the presence of Mrs.
Gaunt. But he was much too adroit a man to be-
tray the least discomfiture.

"And what do you advise ?" said Margaret.

"Well, it's a little difficult to say offhand, but it
seems to me the wisest way would be to give it out
that you're suffering from nervous breakdown, and
go away at once to Florida for a month. It's a
mercy for us ministers that our people have very
short memories. We suppose that they remember our
sermons, and some of them like to pretend that
they do. As a matter of fact they forget them in
a month. Go away, and you'll find it will all blow
over. Take care that you don't give them very good
supplies while you are away; that will increase their

DR. JORDAN 6$

gratitude when you come back. You'll come back
with flying colours, and very likely get a new start
and do better than ever. There's nothing like a
nervous breakdown to quicken people's loyalty."

Gaunt could not forbear a burst of laughter. But
even while he laughed he was conscious of a deepen-
ing sense of annoyance, and a rising disgust. Jor-
dan's remedy for his difficulties was really too colos-
sally impudent in its complete disregard of the vital
elements of the problem.

"And you really think I could do that?" he said.

"Why not ?" said Jordan, with a grave smile. "Let
us look at the facts of the case. You've a little over-
stepped the mark of discretion. That's no great sin.
We're all liable to it. No one will think the worse
of you for it, unless you persist in it. As a matter
of fact, you've got a splendid advertisement out of
it. A month's judicious silence, and, I repeat, you
will come back to your pulpit with added popu-
larity."

"Oh, if popularity were everything, if that was
what I was playing for, I dare say you are right. But
you forget that this is a question of truth and self-
respect. I must go on in the course I have taken at
all costs, or lose all right to my own respect and the
respect of others."

"At all costs? — That's a large order. I wonder
whether you have really counted the costs? Here
and there a man is born who can afford to talk in
this way. He usually comes about once in a cen-

66 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

tury. Even then he is commonly the child of a
movement, not its creator. He happens to speak
something that is in everybody's mind, and that is
why he succeeds. He hits the psychologic moment
— that is all. Do you suppose yourself that kind of
man? If you are not, the wisest thing you can do
is to have the sense to come in out of the rain."

"I don't pretend to be any particular kind of man,
Jordan. I'm just myself. I've done what I thought
right, and as for counting the costs IVe never
thought of them."

"No. I supposed not, and that's why I came to see
you directly I knew what had occurred. Now, don't
be angry — you know I am your friend and mean well
by you. I've seen in my twenty years' experience
a good half-dozen men as brilliant as you fizzle out,
not through decay of power, but through indiscre-
tion. Where are they now? Some of them are
eating their hearts out with chagrin in miserable
country churches from which they will never emerge.
They've been relegated to obscurity, and are glad
to do a priest's poorest duty for a piece of bread.
One of them is an ill-paid journalist, — he thought
the press would welcome him and he'd be an editor,
— he's a disappointed journalist doing hackwork for
a pittance, and he'll never be anything better. An-
other of them is actually a book-hawker — I bought
a trashy cyclopaedia which I didn't want from him
the other day as an act of charity — and he once had
a church as good as yours. The trouble with all

DR. JORDAN 67

these men was that they thought themselves bigger
than they were, they imagined they could do as they
liked, and they didn't understand their relation to
their churches. Now the plain fact is no man can
do as he likes in a church, however strong he is.
If he can't carry his church with him in what he
does, he has to go — that's the brutal truth. The
church is always stronger than the man, for the
church knows perfectly that it can get a hundred
men to pick and choose from, and the man knows he
can't get a church."

"You assume I'm at war with my church," inter-
rupted Gaunt. "That's not the case. My church
has always given me the fullest liberty of speech,
and I have no reason to suppose they wish to re-
trench that liberty."

"Fiddle-de-dee!" said Jordan. "Really, Gaunt,
you amaze me. Don't you know that this boasted
liberty of speech means nothing more than liberty
to say things your people like you to say? Begin
to say the things they don't want you to say, and
you'll soon discover how little your liberty is worth."

"And you amaze me," retorted Gaunt. "I never
heard from any one so low an ideal of a church as
yours."

"It may low or high, that is a matter of opinion,
but I know it's true. I could wish it otherwise, and
if wishes were wings pigs would fly. So, being a
moderately wise man, I don't spend my time in idle
wishes — I take my facts, try to understand them,

68 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

and act accordingly. If I have to drive a freight
train over a bad road, I don't try to run it like a
Twentieth Century Flier; I know it can't be done.
I economize my steam, and do the best I can, and
am content to get through on schedule time, though
the speed is pretty poor. But after all it's better to
get there than to burst up on the way through over-
zeal. Well, a church is a pretty heavy freight-train,
and you can supply the rest of the parable for your-
self. Keep to your schedule — you may be sure it's
the best that can be done.

"I know your church better than you think; I
knew it long before you came to it. You don't like
Roberts, and you despise him for his business way
of looking at things. Now I know Roberts very
well; in fact, he's an old friend of mine. He's really
a very worthy man; a little penurious, of course, as
we know, but that's his nature. He really admires
you, as much as such a man can. And he really
loves the church, and would toil night and day for
its success, for it's the only bit of idealism in his
narrow life. Why offend him? In your position
I should conciliate and use him. And it's the same
with all your people; they are proud of their church.
But if you antagonize them, they're only human,
and they'll retaliate. And then you'll get at the true
nature of your costs — you'll have to go, and you'll
get a dreadful fall, and you'll find that the papers
which hail you as a prophet to-day will forget your
existence the moment you're a discarded minister.

DR. JORDAN 69

"Now can't you see that it's better to get your
freight train through on good time than to wreck it
by attempting the impossible ?"

"Oh, I see you're right from your point of view,
Jordan. And I should be ungrateful if I didn't rec-
ognize that you really mean to help me. Only, you
see, our points of view are different."

"Well, you'll come to mine, when you've thought
about it enough," said Jordan, cheerfully. "The sig-
nals are against you. Don't outrun your signals.
Take my advice — go to Florida, and when the
prodigal comes home there will be the usual
festivities."

Gaunt, in spite of his resentment, felt it impos-
sible to be angry with the man. He was so imper-
turbably amiable, so certain of his own wisdom, so
sincerely friendly and well-meaning. He shook
hands with him cordially, although he knew that a
great gulf separated them.

"I shall leave Mrs. Gaunt as my ambassador,"
Jordan said, as he left the room. "Mrs. Gaunt is
a practical woman. It's a lucky thing for you poor
babes of genius that you have given to you by a
merciful Providence a wise woman to mother your
ignorance."

Gaunt accompanied him to the door. When he
returned to the library Margaret was still standing
as he had left her. Her face was pale, her attitude
pensive; only in her eyes which were unusually
bright, as with a dew of tears, was there the indi-

70 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

cation of some hidden significant upheaval in her
thought.

"Well, Margaret, what do you think of him?
Didn't he make you think of Bunyan's Mr. Worldly
Wiseman ?"

"No," she said, slowly. "Not of Mr. Worldly
Wiseman, but of some one much worse. Some one
sleek, crafty, cruel — a huge purring cat, with rest-
less talons. And not that altogether — a creature
conscienceless, who didn't know it — a man recon-
ciled to evil and little ways and believing them good
and wise — a tempter of the soul with lips of honey.

"I shrank from him as he spoke. I hated to take
his hand, I felt it had power to drag me down.

"And when he left the room I drew a long breath,
and said, 'Get thee behind me, Satan.' '

For answer Gaunt stooped and kissed her. A
great wave of love and gratitude swept through his
heart.

In that moment he knew that his wife understood
him, that she had truly entered into his inner life
again, and would never again stand outside his
heart's door.

Whatever happened to him now seemed but a
light price to pay for this sweetness of restored con-
fidence, this divine new-found happiness.

VI
A DISCUSSION

DEACON ROBERTS lived in an apartment
house a few blocks from Mayfield Avenue
Church. It was a quiet house of the old-
fashioned sort, used by old-fashioned people. Occa-
sionally a young married couple strayed into it, but
soon left, unable to endure its dulness. Roberts
and his wife had lived there for twelve years, dur-
ing the whole of which period they had been sup-
posed to be looking after a house. Apparently
they had found it impossible to discover what they
wanted, for they still occupied the same suite of
rooms, and had achieved the distinction of having
become the oldest residents.

The fact was that whenever the opportunity came
to purchase a house, Roberts grudged the expendi-
ture, and after a brief struggle conquered his tempta-
tion and settled down again to the old life. Every
day he ate the same breakfast at the same hour, went
downtown, returned with automatic punctuality,
sat down to the same dinner, and was in bed on the
stroke of eleven. The menus in the dining-room
had fresh dates upon them day by day, but their sub-
stance never varied; and the same thing was true of
Roberts' life. He had steadily accumulated money,

71

72 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

but it had never occurred to him to change his mode
of life. His wife, a very plain and homely woman,
had sometimes spasmodic attacks of social ambition,
but they had come to nothing. If they had had chil-
dren the story might have been different, but they
were childless. So each settled more and more into
a groove, from which at last neither had any desire
to escape.

There are many people of this description to be
found in all large cities — people to whom the city
as a vital entity does not exist. They never go to
a theatre or a concert; they take no part in those
intellectual conclaves where the movements of art
or literature are discussed; they never look upon a
celebrated person, or are present at an historic occa-
sion; they remain provincials with a provincialism
more inelastic than any other, the provincialism of
cities. The only New York they know is bounded
by the business office on one side and the apartment
house on the other. They are ignorant alike of the
splendour and the squalor that surrounds them.
They are like the peasants of some war-devastated
country, who see without curiosity the spears and
banners of contending hosts marching hither and
thither, themselves content to go on tilling the soil,
without so much as a question concerning the tre-
mendous issues which antagonize the nations. The
capacity for the tragic is not in them. They would
stick to the narrow round of daily habit even though
the Last Trumpet blew, and would resent an inter-

IYfA DISCUSSION 73

ruption which disclosed to them the Gates of Para-
dise.

Roberts and his wife were persons of this order.
How, then, had Roberts ever come to be a leading
figure in the life of Mayfield Avenue Church? Be-
cause, as Dr. Jordan put it, the church represented
the one bit of idealism in his prosaic life. Here,
he who otherwise would have been an entirely neg-
ligible item in a vast city, was capable of becoming
important. His precise method of speech created
the impression of sound business judgment and
sagacity. In the earlier period of his association
with the church he had little influence. The man-
agement of the church was then in the hands of
men of much bigger calibre and social importance
than himself. But as these died or removed, it was
not easy to fill their places, and then the eyes of the
people were directed to Roberts. He was so method-
ical, diligent, and punctual, that the absence in him
of the larger gifts of leadership was overlooked.
The time came when it was difficult to find men
either willing or able to give the church the service
which an active part in its administration demanded.
Then Roberts found his opportunity. He became a
deacon, and was at first a silent and observant
deacon. Little by little as the business problems of
the church became exigent, he acquired influence,
till at last he found himself in a position of author-
ity. His authority was based altogether on his
business faculties; he remained narrow and pro-

74 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

vincial in his spirit. He had no more vision of the
spiritual ideals of a church than he had of the tragic
realities of the great city in which he lived the life
of a tame cat. The church was to him nothing more
than a business enterprise, and the faculties he ap-
plied to its service were precisely those which gov-
erned his office on Broadway.

It was a little after eight o'clock in the evening.
Dinner was over, and Roberts was expecting his
fellow deacons at a privately convened committee
in his own rooms. Mrs. Roberts had retired to the
company of a lady in a neighbouring room, having
been significantly warned by her husband that she
had better not return till after ten o'clock. Roberts
was clearly uneasy. He arranged and rearranged
the chairs in the room with a critical and dissatisfied
air, walked restlessly up and down, and twice retired
to the contiguous bedroom to improve his toilet.
When he had completed these exercises he found
that there was still a quarter of an hour to spare,
and he used it to review his thoughts.

These thoughts were not pleasant and by no means
clear. It was true, as Dr. Jordan had said, that he
admired Gaunt in his own way, but it was with
many reservations. His admiration chiefly went out
to Gaunt as a successful attraction; it did not extend
to his intellectual qualities, which he was incapable
of understanding. Then, at the back of all his
thoughts there was a grievance of which he had
never spoken to any one except his wife. He knew

A DISCUSSION 75

very well that Gaunt had intimate relations with
certain members of the church, which had never been
extended to himself. There was Palmer, for exam-
ple. Gaunt spent whole days in Palmer's society,
and yet Palmer was a financial nobody. Besides
this, according to Roberts' narrow creed, Palmer
was a person whose religious profession barely en-
titled him to be a member of a church at all, and still
less a deacon. Roberts could not complain that
Gaunt had ever treated him with discourtesy, but it
was manifest that the minister took no pleasure in
his company. Gaunt had never talked with him on
any subject but the business of the church. If he
had visited him, the visits had been brief and per-
functory. Gaunt's manner toward him, while out-
wardly courteous, was significant of a certain
disdain, the quiet, uncalculated disdain of superior
intellect. And Roberts, like most men who have
fought their way from penury to affluence, had an
excellent opinion of himself, and was secretly, but
sensitively, proud and vain. The more complete his
triumph in the esteem of his fellow deacons had
become, the more irritable he felt over his failure
with the minister, till at last Gaunt was to him what
the unrespectful Mordecai at the gate was to
Haman.

These were very small motives, no doubt, but
man is often a very small creature. The writer upon
human life — the novelist, for example, — is naturally
attracted by the big forces and motives, by the pas-

76 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

sions of rage or revenge which break out in the red
flame of murder, by the lust which wrecks every-
thing in its path like the tornado, by the relentless
craft which plots and achieves tragedies that fill
the world with horror. But these things are after
all exceptional. There are other tragedies, not less
deadly and much more widely disastrous in their
effects, which have their origin in causes so slight
that they appear ridiculous. What bitter estrange-
ments have arisen from a cold glance, a thoughtless
word, an indifferent manner! How often has
wounded vanity rankled till the whole heart is
poisoned! What alienations of friendship, deepen-
ing into deadly feuds, have owed themselves to noth-
ing more than stifled resentment over some act so
trivial that it has been quite unnoticed by the person
against whom the resentment has been kindled!
Roberts was an example of the play of these forces.
As he probed his thoughts in this brief quarter of
an hour of silent waiting, he discovered in the dark
recesses of his heart the coiled serpent of envenomed
enmity to Gaunt. He knew now that he wanted to
see Gaunt humbled. He would have recoiled from
the idea of doing Gaunt a personal injury, but lie did
want to humble him ; to make him conscious that he,
Roberts, was not a person to be lightly disposed of.
His injured vanity demanded the sacrifice of Gaunt.
His own voracious sense of self-importance, so long
quieted by prudential motives, could only be satiated
by such a sacrifice.

A DISCUSSION 77

Half-past eight struck, the deacons arrived, and
were soon seated at the table. Small and Hocking
were the first to come; three others followed, one of
whom only is important in this story, a little nervous
man called Tasker. The last to arrive was Palmer.

Roberts surveyed the little party with the eye of
a strategist. He could rely on Hocking and Small,
with the former of them he had had a long private
conference that morning, the issue of which was a
general agreement of hostility against Gaunt. Small
was an obstinate and awkward man, who usually
kept his own counsel; but Roberts knew him to be
highly incensed over the sermon of Sunday. Tasker
was an amiable man, who suffered from constitu-
tional inability to make up his mind on any subject
whatever. He was never so happy as in balancing
probabilities, discovering difficulties, quibbling over
non-essentials. His favourite phrase was that things
"act and react"! Everything acted and reacted,
every road had its lion in the path, every course of
action led to negations; therefore, inaction was the
only real wisdom. He was not sure whether his
politics were Republican or Democrat; sometimes
they were the one, sometimes the other. He would
argue for the New Theology, but always with the
saving clause that a good deal might be said for
the old. Sometimes he talked like a socialist, but
the moment he was acclaimed as one, he repudiated
the accusation, and became violently individualistic.
You see, everything acted and reacted. He had used

78 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

the phrase so long that he had come to believe it
the statement of an ultimate philosophic principle.
It was a perplexing world for poor Tasker; a world
singularly destitute of plain paths, and wickedly
labyrinthine in its system. What could an amiable
and irresolute man do in a world where everything
had this mischievous habit of acting and reacting ?

The conversation was at first desultory. The fact
was, no one cared to come to the point. At last
Roberts forced the pace.

"It's nine o'clock," he remarked. "Don't you
think we had better come to business ?"

"Perhaps Brother Roberts will state the business,"
said Hocking, with a knowing glance.

"I've no objection," said Roberts, with a stiffening
of his prim figure. He adjusted his spectacles, and
began in his most lawyer-like tones of precision,
his thin, querulous voice giving a disagreeable em-
phasis to each word. He at first confined himself
to his old theme of facts and figures. His fellow-
deacons moved uneasily. They had heard it all
before. They also knew that this part of his speech
was mere skirmishing. They were impatient for
the main point of attack.

"Well, then, it comes to this," he concluded. "We
can't pay our way on the present basis. This is a
meeting of business (men, and we must look at things
in a business spirit. We all respect and admire our
pastor." Here Hocking coughed loudly, and Tasker
nodded approvingly. "But when a business is not

A DISCUSSION 79

succeeding, however much we may respect our man-
ager, we have to deal with him plainly. We have
to tell him that part of the blame is his. In any
case it would be only just to reduce his income. I
am prepared to recommend the latter course in re-
lation to our manager — our minister, I mean, — viz.,
that the circumstances of the case warrant us in re-
ducing his income by one-third."

The conclave drew a long breath.

Tasker was the first to speak. He was taken by
surprise. Of course he would not dispute the fig-
ures. But there was a point that weighed with him :
what would the world think? What would become
of their prestige? Retrenchment might be neces-
sary, but was it politic ? And then came his favour-
ite phrase — these things acted and reacted. On the
one hand you might retrench, but on the other you
must consider what the effect would be on the
public. There was clearly no light of resolution in
Tasker.

"Prestige/' growled Small. "I guess that's pretty
low, anyway. Last Sunday has given the church a
black eye for all decent people."

"Allow me," replied Tasker, in his most amicable
voice, "but I really don't think I can let that pass.
I don't think I can. I don't at all agree that the
church has suffered by anything — anything from
what has occurred. In fact, if we are to discuss last
Sunday morning's address, I must say I agreed
with it — that is, in part. I think that if we came

8o A PROPHET IN BABYLON

to talk matters over with the pastor we should find
that we are all agreed with him — in part. Of course
he may have been injudicious, slightly injudicious,
but the papers were not unfriendly. I have all the
press reports in my pocket, and I think I can prove
that the press was not unfriendly — that is, not really
unfriendly "

"We are not here to discuss the press," inter-
rupted Hocking. "We have our own eyes, and can
read."

"Yes," persisted Tasker, "but isn't it a fact that
this meeting was called as a result of last Sunday's
sermon ?"

"No, it's not a fact," said Roberts. "We may
have our own views about that sermon — for my
part I thought it deplorable — but whether that ser-
mon had been preached or not, we should still have
had to consider the financial position of the church.
That is the main point. That is what we have to
discuss."

The two colourless deacons nodded their heads.
They were old gentlemen, and wanted to go home to
bed. They were amiable men, with no known an-
tipathies; but they each cherished a strong dislike
to late meetings.

In the meantime, Palmer had sat silent. He had
been coldly greeted on his arrival by Roberts, who
had secretly hoped that he would not come.

"I agree with Deacon Roberts," he said, "as to
the real point of discussion. No one is better able

A DISCUSSION 81

than he to discuss finance. No one is less fitted to
discuss ethics and philosophy/'

Palmer's voice was quietly ironical. It was that
note of irony in Palmer which always irritated
Roberts. It was a weapon against which he knew he
had no defence. He flushed at the words, and his
eyes flashed behind his spectacles; but he mastered
himself, and said with a sorry attempt at a smile,
"That is not prettily put, but I don't dispute its
truth. I am glad that Deacon Palmer supports my
view of the nature of the meeting."

"Nevertheless," said Palmer, "ethics do enter
into this discussion, as they do into any kind of
human business. I think we should be very sure
that in any attitude we may take to-night toward
the church and its affairs, no personal feeling is
allowed to distort our views."

"I disclaim all personal feeling," retorted Roberts.
"I am concerned solely over the finances of the
church. I don't allow any feeling connected with
the pastor to enter into the matter."

"Judas would probably have said the same thing/'
said Palmer. "He thought so much of the thirty
pieces of silver that he quite forgot his Master."

"What am I to understand by that?" said Roberts,
angrily.

"Precisely what I say," said Palmer. "Your
mind is obsessed by questions of finance. I don't say
that they have no importance. But you see nothing
else. And there is much more than a pitiable ques-

82 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

tion of money involved. There's a human life, a
man, a ministry. There's the question of truth;
what men ought to think and do who call them-
selves the disciples of Jesus, how they ought to feel,
what is the right interpretation of their disciple-
ship. Judas forgot all that. He saw failure ahead,
and his own prestige theatened; so he made the best
bargain he could, and got his thirty pieces of silver,
and in his shameful fear and haste had not one
thought of love, or loyalty, or even pity for the Man
he had professed to follow. We are in peril of the
same blindness to-night. We are thinking of money,
always money, and "

"I must interrupt this — this diatribe," said Rob-
erts. "As chairman of this meeting, I must inter-
rupt." His thin voice quivered with indignation.

"I must insist on the question which is before us
being discussed," he continued.

"Which is?" said Palmer.

"A recommendation which I make, after long
deliberation, that the salary of the minister of the
Mayfield Avenue Church be reduced by one-third."

"After long deliberation ?" said Palmer. "Should
I be wrong if I guessed that the deliberation was no
longer than since last Sunday — that, in fact, this
step is the direct result of certain feelings aroused
on that day?"

"Now, need we recriminate like this?" said
Tasker. "According to my view you are both right
and both wrong. Of course the question of finance

A DISCUSSION 83

must be considered, and I suppose that certain things
said last Sunday will have some influence on minds
in considering it. These things act and react."

But no one heeded him. The little man flushed
with nervousness and sat down in painful agitation.
Roberts and Palmer remained standing. It was evi-
dent that the duel was between them.

"I don't know what right any one has to investi-
gate my private thought," said Roberts. "But I
don't in the least object to giving a plain answer to
a plain question. I did resolve on my course last
Sunday. I did so because I saw that from that hour
new difficulties were certain to come upon the
church. Things were difficult before that; they are
a thousandfold worse now. Therefore, I am of
opinion that the course I recommend has now be-
come imperative. We must reduce our expenditure,
and do it at once. Has Deacon Palmer anything to
say against that course ?"

"Yes, that's the point/' said Hocking. "Let us
vote and be done with it."

Small nodded his head vehemently. The two col-
ourless deacons nodded theirs. They were eager
for bed, poor gentlemen, and did not care very much
what happened if only the meeting would close.

"Yes, I've something to say," said Palmer.

"An amendment, perhaps ?" sneered Roberts.

"Not altogether," said Palmer. "A statement,
rather, and one that may prove a little surprising.
Briefly it is this. I have had a long conversation

84 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

to-day with Dr. Gaunt. The issue of it, as regards
this particular discussion, may be stated in a few
words. Dr. Gaunt recognizes fully the financial
difficulties of the church, and takes what, I think, is
a more than generous view of his own responsibility
for those difficulties. He is also entirely aware that
since he does not intend to retract anything that
he said last Sunday, but rather to reiterate it, the
difficulties of the position may tend to increase
rather than decrease. Therefore he authorizes me
to say that henceforth he will accept no fixed salary
from the church. He wishes to be entirely free in
his teachings, and in order to become so has deter-
mined to free the church from all financial obliga-
tions toward himself."

The announcement came as a bolt out of the blue.
Roberts knew that his scheme had failed. He was
too astute to admit it, however. He uttered a few
halting words which expressed a recognition of the
generosity of Gaunt. But no one was deceived by
them. Least of all was he himself deceived. From
that hour his enmity was hatred, the unquenchable
hatred of defeated cunning.

VII
THE GHOSTLY DAWN

OF all hours that carry alarm to the human
soul, there is no hour so full of the signifi-
cance of fear as that gray interval which
follows the first breath of dawn. Not the night, for
we understand its meaning, and know how to wel-
come its silences after day's loud tumult. The true
ghostly hour, before which the soul shrinks, is not
the hour when the world falls asleep, but when it
awakes. For then the atmosphere is pregnant with
presences; the dead, it may be, hurrying back to
the house of dust before the cock crows; angels
withdrawing from the chambers where they have
watched the dying; the dying themselves, with their
last fight accomplished, gliding out with fearful feet
upon the long road that lies among the stars. Then,
too, all familiar shapes are clothed in vagueness, and
appear strange and menacing. The tall houses are
mere pillars of gloom; the windows, where no hu-
man face appears, are as sealed eyes, made blind by
tragic visions which are secret and unspoken; the
very streets, empty of their eager life, loom spectral;
the trees are as hooded nuns, clothed in gray; and
the world draws long shuddering breaths, and sigh-

85

86 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

ings fill the air, and echoes of the secular strifes of
men whose very memories are forgotten. It is this
element of uncertainty which makes the hour dread-
ful— the uncertain light, and shapes, and sounds —
and the sense that with the slow growth of light
there must come some revelation so new and
strange that the soul at once desires and shrinks
from it.

"But when the day was now breaking, Jesus

stood on the beach; yet the disciples knew not

that it was Jesus."

The veriest sceptic might believe that record. Any-
thing may happen in the ghostly dawn, when the
mists melt upon a silent sea ; and the strangest thing
of all may happen, that Jesus stands beside us, and
we do not know Him.

It was so that Gaunt felt in those weeks which
followed the events already narrated. He stood
in a spectral world, where everything seemed unreal.
His whole past life appeared an error, a nullity. It
had crumbled beneath his feet and disappeared. The
things which had loomed large in that life melted
into nothingness, and a vague new world began
to build itself around him.

Amid these shadows he groped slowly, at first
more conscious of a lost world than of a world new-
born. Ever since that memorable Sunday when he
had broken with tradition, he had been aware of a
great change in himself. The values of life had
altered. He was no longer anxious to please men,

THE GHOSTLY DAWN 87

nor careful of his reputation. He had never been
so in any narrow or unworthy sense, but as he sur-
veyed his past life he saw that these had often been
the guiding motives of his conduct. He had been a
man conscious of a great position, and of the influ-
ence which attached to it; but now self-consciousness
was dead in him. He knew men talked much of him,
and not kindly, but he was not careful to know what
they said. He was as one who treads a high moun-
tain path alone, hearing no more the babble of voices
in the village at his feet. In all his public addresses
he had hitherto cared much for literary form. He
knew the fine phrases in his sermons, was subtly con-
scious of their value, and of their effect on others, and
had waited for that effect. Perhaps his phrases were
not less felicitous now, but he was unconscious of
them ; he spoke out of the fulness of his heart, con-
scious only of the burden of his message. For men
like Roberts, whom he had once despised, he felt
now only soft commiseration. He saw them as men
imprisoned in a narrow life, men to be pitied rather
than blamed. His manner toward them was
singularly gentle; and although they often sought
to provoke him, he had no angry words for
them.

The earliest effect of this change of temper was
the decision renouncing his salary which Palmer had
made at the deacons' meeting.

"You can do nothing for men until you have con-
vinced them that you are disinterested/' Palmer had

88 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

said to him. "The chief hindrance to the Church
is that men do not believe its ministers disinter-
ested."

"Am I not disinterested ?" he had replied.

"Certainly you are, according to conventional
standards/' Palmer had replied. "I know, and a
few other people know, that a man of your ability
might have done well in any profession, and have
reaped far greater worldly rewards. But that is
not the point. The mass of men judge not by what
is, but by what seems. They see you living a com-
fortable life, well-paid, and according to their own
standards even extravagantly paid, for what appears
an easy exercise of ability. They not unnaturally
suppose that complete honesty of mind is not possible
in such a position. They regard your calling as a
profession. You do something which you are paid
to do. It does not in the least matter that their
estimate is unjust or ignorant. They think these
things. Consequently they keep away from the
church, and if they hear you at any time do so with
suspicion of your motives."

"You can never overcome prejudices of this
kind," Gaunt replied, sadly.

"Cannot you ? My dear friend, have you forgotten
your history? Why, history is full of the splendid
stories of men who have cast away their supports,
given up everything for an idea. And as I read his-
tory, that has been the supreme secret of the success
of a Francis of Assisi, of a John Wesley, of a Booth.

THE GHOSTLY DAWN 89

The world reveres its martyrs, whomsoever else it
may despise."

"But, Palmer, I am not one of these. I am only
a weak man struggling toward the light."

"And what more were they? Great men at the
last — yes — but weak men once. Oh, I know how
you think and feel. You are a victim to that en-
feebling adoration of great men which is so com-
mon to-day. You adore them as exceptions to the
rule of life. You ought to think of them as exam-
ples, and to say what man has done and been, man
can still do and be."

"No, no, Palmer. I might think in this way of
other people, but never of myself."

"Well, then, I will set you an easier task," said
Palmer. "Let us forget all about great men, and
simply look to ourselves. Do you see this one thing
to be true, that your power over men, and any one's
power, will be in the direct ratio of the conviction
men have of their disinterestedness?"

"Yes, I see that."

"And do you realize that you are just entering
on a path which can only be pursued by constant
self-renunciation? Do you realize that what the
world is always seeking, and for the most part in
vain, is living examples of what self-renunciation
means, and that Christianity can only regain its
authority by the influence of such lives ?"

"Oh, I see it, I see it," Gaunt answered, passion-
ately. "I have seen it for a long time, but have been

90 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

afraid to admit it. I can't read the Gospels without
feeling their reproach for a life like mine. I can't
come into contact with poor people without realiz-
ing the essential falseness of my position. And I
feel it most of all in the pulpit. I am a tame prophet.
I am bound by a chain of gold. — The angel with the
fire of coal hovers just above me, but I cannot reach
out to him. — Sometimes I hardly wish to. I fear
the pain."

"Touch the flame/' said Palmer, softly, "and
it will melt the chain as well as scorch the
lips."

It was Palmer's way to put a thing in a phrase,
and leave the truth so uttered to do its own work.
He had that rarest art of moral surgery, to know
exactly how far the knife should go, at what point
to stop. During all the years of his friendship with
Gaunt he had been quietly studying his friend's na-
ture, with a growing belief in its immense but latent
spiritual possibilities. He had never intruded his
advice. Often he had purposely offered it in an
ironical and even humorous form. He had always
had some dim foreshadowing of the coming crisis
in Gaunt's life; and so he was prepared for it, and
knew precisely how to act. And now that he saw
the soul struggling to be born, he knew the way
that it must travel, the method of its deliverance
and triumph. It was the old way of self-renuncia-
tion; there was no other.

"Can these things be?" Gaunt had pondered

THE GHOSTLY DAWN 91

sadly through the long sleepless night which had
followed this talk with his friend.

"Can I let the old life go — the well-ordered, com-
fortable life, of ascertained duties and desires — for
this new life whose paths seem so vague, so peril-
ous ?" The ghostly dawn weighed on him. And yet
amid all the fear and trouble of that hour, he was
conscious, as it were, of Some One who gently loos-
ened his fingers as they clung to the world —
unlocked them one by one in quiet mastery, so
that the baubles of pride and worldliness for
which he had fought fell from his grasp, and fell
unregarded.

The practical issue of these emotions was the
message which Palmer had given to the deacons.
Gaunt realized that he must be free, and he dared
be poor in order that he might be free. Hence-
forth he would take nothing from the world that
should be a bribe, or even a possible menace to his
own spiritual freedom. It may seem a small step,
perhaps, to those who have never taken it; to those
who have never had enough of the world to feel
its loss ; to those who have never known the satisfac-
tions of a life which has been fed with praise, and
have never eaten the rough crusts of blame. But to
a man of Gaunt's nature, inherently proud, and
accustomed to the material rewards of success, it
meant much. It implied a reversal of all customary
thoughts, an entire change of attitude toward the
world.

92 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

The vagueness and fear of the ghostly dawn was
also with him in other ways, particularly in rela-
tion to his thoughts about religion.

Religion had hitherto been for him a philosophy
touched with sentiment — it was so he would have
defined it. He had rationalized his religion to the
last point at which any kind of faith was possible.
The result had been that the older he grew the less
he had in which he really believed. All the super-
natural elements of the Gospels he had quietly dis-
carded. The Gospels were to him a beautiful
amalgam of legend, symbol, and poetry. They
charmed him, but the charm was in the main lit-
erary. They were the creation of adoring minds,
whose adoration flowered into literary genius; but
as sober histories they were impossible.

But now he had reached a point where he had
become humble enough to doubt his own doubts.
He could hardly have defined the exact processes
of his thought, but there were certain episodes which
marked his progress.

One of these episodes was a visit which he paid
one day to the dying bed of a youth of his congre-
gation who had been fatally injured in the football
field. He had always been a quiet youth, of good
life, but he had never made any open profession
of religion. Just before he died a wonderful smile
lit up his face, he raised his hand as if to greet some
unseen friend, and said, "I'm not afraid. I see
Jesus. He is with me." The words were not un-

THE GHOSTLY DAWN 93

usual; Gaunt knew perfectly well that in the hysteria
of death such words were often uttered by devout
people. But the curious thing in this instance was
that this dying youth had never been devout; there
was nothing hysteric in his nature; and the look
upon his face was one of immense surprise, as
though the vision had come unsought, and was not
the reflex of a previous experience — a fantasy
wrought out of memories of hymns and sermons;
such explanations were absurd, impossible. That
look of surprise — the intensity, the wonder of it,
and yet the element of recognition, as if it were
after all a natural thing that Jesus should be there, —
how explain it ?

The martyr, the saint, had a right to such a vision.
It would be the natural birth of the ecstasy which
made them capable of martyrdom. But this lad — an
ordinary good lad, fond of sport, unimaginative?
Gaunt looked round the room, seeking for some clue
among the boy's simple possessions. There were
the usual portraits of college friends, the college
badge, a shelf of books of quite commonplace char-
acter, a Greek Testament — nothing that suggested
the devout temperament. He talked with the
parents — all that they could say was that he was
always a good lad, full of brightness and affection.
And yet to him came this vision — this surprising
vision.

He told Palmer the incident.

Palmer listened with a grave smile.

94 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"Well," he said, "what is it that you find so in-
comprehensible ?"

"Why, just this/' said Gaunt, "that, granting the
vision real, it should come to that lad/'

"And to whom could it come more fittingly?"
Palmer replied. "Think a moment : here is a poor lad
torn out of life by a cruel accident just when life is at
its sweetest with him. He surely needed more than
most men something to help him die, to make him
feel in dying that life was not a hideous mistake.
It would be just like Jesus to come to such a dying
boy. He would say : 'The saints can do without Me,
they've had Me all the time, and they have the faith
which believes without sight, anyway. But this
poor broken life, this boy smitten in his prime,
he needs a Hand to help him on the dark road, an
assurance that all is well. So he shall see Me stand-
ing at the gate of death when it uncloses.' '

"Then you think it was all real?" said Gaunt, in a
low voice. "Why, if I could think that, it would
alter all the world for me."

"And why not?" said Palmer.

There was a long silence, and then Palmer spoke
again, as a man soliloquizing with himself.

"Of course it's all hallucination on the premises
you uphold —

"Far hence He lies
In that lone Syrian town,
And on His grave, with silent eyes,
The Syrian stars look down;

THE GHOSTLY DAWN 95

and all that kind of thing. Jesus is dead — and
death ends all. They buried Him, and His bones
are dust, and He has no more a living place among
men than the men of the Stone Age have.

"That is your position. It was mine once. From
the rational and materialistic point of view there is
no other.

"But suppose we begin the story at the other end,
and read it without prepossession and prejudice.
Well, this is what I see. First of all, man getting
more and more of God into him as his soul enlarges,
his spiritual capacity expands. And this means
that man gets more and more of the power of eternal
life into him, for this is eternal life, to know God.
It takes ages upon ages to work out this new con-
sciousness. The Egyptians were probably the first
to realize it. They built up a wonderful system of
religion, the entire basis of which was the conviction
of some elements in man which survived death. Then
came the Hebrews, who spoiled the Egyptians in
more senses than one, for they stole from them their
most vital ideas of religion. But the Hebrews were
too gross to believe thoroughly in the survival of
the soul. So they built up a religion which was
adapted to the practical needs of daily life — and
beyond that lay Sheol, the house of darkness, where
men cannot praise God. Yet through all this mate-
rialism of religion the Egyptian ideals survive. The
light grows. Voice after voice affirms that there
is some indestructible element in man — for God is all

96 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

the time flowing more and more into man, and man
is becoming more and more conscious that he is in
some strange way an incarnation of God.

"Then comes One who says He has found the
Great Secret — He is the authentic incarnation of
God.

"It is a tremendous claim; the majority of men
ridicule it, as was natural; a few believe. Those
who ridicule it are gross men, who are content with
their portion in this life; those who believe it are
spiritual people, who have within their own natures
elements which make the claim of Jesus probable.

"One thing at least is certain: all things fit to-
gether marvellously to support the claim of Jesus.
That claim, put in modern language, is simply this,
that He has more of God in Him than mortal ever
had before — that God finds in Him an unimpeded
channel, and that God is, therefore, able to act
through Him with a completeness never attained be-
fore. And all things, I say, fit together marvellously
in support of that claim. Jesus does precisely the
sort of things which God might do if God were
incarnated in a Man. He heals the sick, calms the
seas, gathers the winds into His hands; and, more
marvellous still, in His ideas of mercy, justice, and
love, speaks as God might speak, and at such an
elevation of thought that no thinker has ever since
been able to equal or surpass Him. Yes — that is the
real miracle, beside which all those other acts which
we name miraculous are inconsiderable. A peasant

THE GHOSTLY DAWN 97

out of Galilee, unlettered, suddenly steps upon the
throne of human thought, the supreme eminence,
and speaks as God might have spoken."

Palmer paused a moment. There was a look upon
his face which Gaunt had never seen before — a with-
drawn look, as of one who hears music inaudible to
others, one who listens and strains forward listening.

When he spoke again his voice had a deeper note,
a low, vibrating note, that thrilled his listener.

"And then He died. He was slain by evil men.
All His goodness had gone for nothing. And a few
people who had loved Him took up the poor broken
body, and hid it in a safe tomb, and that was the
end. Gaunt, was it the end? In the nature of things
could it be the end ?

"Not if we admit the truth of what I have already
said. Here is a Man in whom God was present, in
a degree never before known in human history.
Everybody felt it who came in contact with Him —
His disciples, His enemies, His judges, and crowds
of poor distressed people whom He had helped. It's
not a question of theology, it's something a man
feels. And remember that the essential fact in all
this strange life is that Jesus had carried the spirit-
uality of man to its furthest possible limit. He had
outgrown the physical long before His death; He
moves with the tranquillity and freedom of a disem-
bodied spirit along the last tragic paths, and awe
falls upon men as they watch Him. Now what
would you expect to happen? Precisely what did

98 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

happen, or what is alleged to have happened. For
once more the whole story is fitted together with a
skill which no human invention could have com-
passed. It is absolutely logical on the premises that
man is more than a body, and that Jesus had as-
serted the life of the spirit in men in its fullest form.
For the spirit now triumphs. It survives death. It
is an indestructible personality, capable of manifest-
ing itself to human eyes. All that the Egyptian
had asserted as true, all that the most pious minds
of all ages had believed, is vindicated in the actual
resurrection of a Person from the depths of the
grave. And the story is believed, not only for the
testimony which supports it, but for a much more
invincible reason, that all who are capable of form-
ing a just idea of the personality of Jesus feel that
the story ought to be true. It is demanded by the
nature of the life of Jesus.

"So I have come to think, and hence I have no
difficulty in believing that that dying boy did actu-
ally see Jesus just before his eyes closed. I tell you
Jesus is alive. I know it. There are times when I
am more conscious of His presence than I have ever
been of the presence of any human creature. It has
not been a matter of suggestion — a book, a picture,
a chord of music, stirring the devout or poetic sense
in me — nothing of that kind. It has come suddenly,
unexpectedly, when I was thinking of quite different
things — the sense of a Presence, of Some One near
me, touching me with a gentle pressure, enfolding me

THE GHOSTLY DAWN 99

for an instant. It's like a child waking in the night
with the sense that his mother has kissed him in the
dark. The child says, 'Why, that must have been
mother, no one else would have kissed me like that/
I say, 'That must have been Jesus. No one else
could have thrilled me with such awe and happi-
ness/ But who can describe these things ? I am al-
most ashamed of having tried."

"You should not be," said Gaunt. "If I felt as
you feel, I would publish my experience on the house-
tops."

"So you will one day. Speech is your portion,
silence is mine. You are the only person to whom
I have ever spoken in this way. Shall I tell you just
why I did it?"

"Tell me."

"Because you have come to a point where you
have really got a vision of Jesus, but it is as yet only
the Jesus of practical service. You see that earthly
life in all its sweet compassion and simplicity, and
you are nobly emulous to imitate it. That is a great
step — it has already changed your whole character
and temper. But you'll find that you can't stop
there. You can't live that life by imitation. You
can only do so by union. You must feel that Jesus
is alive for you — that He is really with you alway.
Do you remember those lines of Le Gallienne's :

"Loud mockers of the angry street
Say, Christ is crucified again;
Twice pierce 1 those Gospel-bearing feet,

ioo A PROPHET IN BABYLON

Twice broken that great heart in vain.

I smile, and to myself I say,

Why, Christ talks with me all the day.

That expresses what I mean."

"I wish I could feel it, but I don't, I don't."

"Well, don't try to force the feeling. Don't be
in a hurry. The hour may be nearer than you
think."

So it was that Gaunt stood in the ghostly dawn,
waiting for a revelation, for the emergence of some-
thing, he scarce knew what, out of the gray mists.

And though he knew it not, the mists were slowly
lifting all the time, the day was beginning to break,
and already through the vague light the Master was
approaching him.

VIII
A RETIRED PROPHET

THE mail one morning brought Gaunt a let-
ter which greatly interested him. It was
written in a cramped and feeble hand and
was very brief. It was signed, Paul Gordon.

Paul Gordon was, as might have been guessed
from the handwriting, a very old man. His history
was remarkable. At forty years of age he had been
known far and wide as one of the most brilliant
preachers in America. From his pulpit he had gone
to a professor's chair in a great theological sem-
inary, somewhat to the dismay of his friends, who
regarded the step as a mistake. The fact was, how-
ever, that Gordon had suddenly discovered that the
foundations of his faith were insecure. He had been
caught in the rising tide of German destructive crit-
icism, and found himself defenceless. When the
professorship of Hebrew had been offered him in the
seminary, he hailed the opportunity of escape from a
position which he had come to regard as untenable.
In his new position he gave himself up to a thorough
investigation of the sources of his faith, and as time
went on was less and less heard of as a preacher.
At fifty his star again arose above the horizon. He

101

\02 A* PPJOPHET IN BABYLON

published a book, characterized by the most daring
statements of Biblical criticism, statements which
had long been among the commonplaces of German
theology, but which were entirely novel to his Amer-
ican readers. The result was a famous heresy trial.
For three years the name of Paul Gordon was on
everybody's lips. Those who knew him best rushed
to his defence. Many of these ardent friends did not
profess to endorse his views, but they were enthu-
siastic in their admiration for his character. They
might well be, for it would have been difficult to find
any man among the churches who lived a life of
nobler sacrifice and service than Gordon. He gave
the larger part of his income, and devoted every
moment of time which he could spare from his
duties, to work among the very poorest classes of
New York. One reason why he had ceased to be
known as a popular preacher was that he refused
to leave this work. During all the progress df the
great controversy Gordon might have been dis-
covered almost any night in a dingy mission hall
near the river, doing work that very few persons in
that day attempted to do among a motley company
of drunkards, thieves, and harlots. "If he thought
like Socrates, he lived like Christ," one of his friends
said of him, and the epigram was long remem-
bered.

It was soon proved, however, that no considera-
tion of the purity and nobleness of Gordon's char-
acter was able to soften the judgment of the men

A RETIRED PROPHET 103

whose hostility he had aroused. They pressed the
case against him with remorseless logic. After three
years of excited struggle, during which Gordon him-
self was the only man who preserved his equanimity
of temper, he was formally deposed and driven from
the Church. For a dozen years longer he published
books, and went on with his mission work. In his
later books the controversial spirit had almost dis-
appeared. They were books of spiritual insight,
inculcating in the simplest language the unchange-
able elements of all religions. But as his work in
controversy had made him famous, so the cessation
of that work marked his relegation to obscurity.
His books gradually ceased to be read, and his name
was forgotten. In his sixtieth year a severe illness
made it impossible for him to continue his mission
work. He retired to a tiny home on the Hudson,
where he gave himself up to the placid pursuits of
old age. Now and again his name was heard in
clerical circles, and as the old bitterness died away,
he came to be regarded with admiration by the few
who knew him. But he rarely appeared in public,
sought no society, and was content to forget the
world and be forgotten by it. Gaunt had never
seen him but once. He had once heard the old man
speak, and retained a vivid picture of a patriarch,
calm, dignified, almost majestic in appearance, with
long white hair falling on his shoulders, whose voice
had a kind of musical magnetism in it, which made
his least word seem important. That was many

104 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

years ago, and as Gaunt read the letter which lay
on his breakfast table, he realized that Paul Gordon
must now be a man upon the verge of eighty.

"I have heard of you," the letter ran, "and though
I have never met you, have found myself unusually
interested in your career. There may be some
things which an old man might say to you, which
you might not be unwilling to hear. I am presump-
tuous enough to think that I might even help you, if
you would let me do so. Come out and see me.
I am always at home, and shall always welcome
you."

"That's a most interesting letter/' said Gaunt, as
he handed it to his wife.

Margaret read it slowly. There had been a time
when Gaunt would not have thought it worth while
to show her such a letter. The change in their rela-
tionship was marked by the fact that he now con-
sulted her on everything, and in these constant
exchanges of confidence her heart had found a new
and delightful stimulant to affection.

"Well," she said, as she put the letter down,
"why don't you go out to Riverside to-day and see
Dr. Gordon? It's a lovely day, you are tired and
need a change. It'll do you good."

"I'll go if you'll go with me, dear."

"Very well, it's a bargain. Let us start at once
before the freshness of the day is over. I'm about
tired of the house."

"That's a good thing," said Gaunt, with a boyish

A RETIRED PROPHET 105

laugh, "because it's pretty certain that we shan't
be in this house much longer. It's a wholesome dis-
pensation of Providence that you should begin to be
weaned from what you can't have."

"Oh, I didn't say that," she laughed back. "Why,
you're as bad as the orthodox commentators you are
always abusing, who read all sorts of inferences into
plain meanings. But seriously, dear, I'm about
through with this house. There are only two of us,
and yet we must needs have a dozen rooms to keep
clean, and two hired girls and a man to look after,
and my weekly bills are growing frightful! It
really doesn't seem worth while. If it goes on much
longer, I believe I'll be a convert to the simple life."

"And that's where the Providence comes in, don't
you see? I'm thinking of two rooms in a slum.
The bankbook is getting low. There's no knowing
what we may come to."

"Well," she answered, "I don't know that I
should object, not if it was a real, nice, healthy slum.
There's a Settlement girl I met the other day, who
took me to her rooms, and they were a wonderful
sight. I think they were about eight feet square,
each of them; and they were all white paint and
bright chintz, and that sort of thing, with a stove
you could put in your pocket, and a lovely collapsi-
ble bath which I think she used as a bed, and all
sorts of tiny cupboards wherever there was a spare
corner, and everything as neat as a new pin. I for-
get what she paid for them, some ridiculously small

106 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

sum, but I know she sort of pitied me for living in a
twelve-roomed house, and really made me feel that
I was a fool for my pains. And her friends lived
in Forty-eighth Street, I think she said, so she had
data for her comparison. "

"Why, it sounds quite idyllic."

"Well, according to her account, it was. She
said she had got more thrills out of that narrow
street crowded with poor working folk than she'll
ever get in Fifth Avenue. She was dying of re-
spectability in Forty-eighth Street, literally and
physically dying of dulness, but from the moment
she went to live in those tiny rooms, and tried to do
something for the working-girls of the neighbour-
hood, she got thrilled back into vitality. It was
rather a good phrase that — 'thrilled back into vital-
ity'— I suppose that is why I remember it. But
come, if we're going to Riverside, we must make
haste."

In a few minutes they started. It was, as Mar-
garet had said, a lovely morning, one of those days
of bright sunshine and crisp air which make New
Yorkers forget that there is such a thing as winter.
They were both in high spirits, for the air had an
almost intoxicating quality in it. It was the sort of
day which gives men courage; which fills them with
a happy sense of the benignity of Nature and makes
them move gaily as to the sound of trumpets. It
was a long time since Gaunt had felt so happy. No
memory of the annoyances he had endured remained

A RETIRED PROPHET 107

with him; he felt as though he had recaptured his
youth, and the careless mirth of youth.

So, as they went, they talked together in high
good-humour as people might who had never known
a care. They let their fancy range over the picture
they had conjured up of life in two rooms.

"I believe it would really be the greatest fun in
the world," said Margaret. "Besides, think what
a fine moral discipline it would be. We should be
bound to behave beautifully to each other when
neither of us could lose sight of the other for a
single moment. Depend upon it, the real cause of
most unhappy marriages is that people are able to
sulk in separate rooms by themselves."

"And think of the intellectual discipline of living
in a house so small there isn't room in it to change
your mind," he retorted.

"Nor your clothes," she said. "That's a much
more serious problem for a woman."

"That would be an incentive to economy."

"If you would do me the honour to audit my
household accounts, a thing you've never done yet,
you'd find incentive enough for economy, I promise
you. Do you know, dear, you're a very bold man?
You are making out to live without visible means of
support."

"Oh, it's not as bad as that, is it? I'm a better
economist than you suppose. Quite seriously, I've
thought the whole thing out, but I didn't mean to
say anything to you just now. I think if we give

io8 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

up the house — we can easily sublet it, you know —
and go into quiet rooms somewhere, we can stand a
pretty long siege. I can always earn enough by my
pen to find us bread."

"And why didn't you like to speak to me, dear?
Did you think I wasn't willing?"

"Not exactly that. But I thought it would come
hard on you."

"It would be a good deal harder on me to suppose
you thought I wasn't ready to make any sacrifice
you wished me to make. Besides, I'm not so sure
that it is a sacrifice. I feel very much like that Set-
tlement girl : I've grown dull with respectability, and
I wouldn't object to get thrilled again into vitality.
I'm suffering from fatty degeneration of the soul."

"And I'm afflicted with an incipient attack of love-
making. Why, Margaret, I don't believe I've had
such a dear foolish talk with you since the old days
in the woods when I was courting you."

"Does it seem so very long ago ?" said Margaret,
demurely.

At that moment they arrived at Riverside, and
were soon climbing the hill in quest of Gordon's
house. They found it at last, a very plain frame
house, with a little grove of trees at the back, and
a wonderful view of the river, and the brownish-
gray battlements of the Palisades in front. As they
drew near they saw Gordon himself, slowly walk-
ing up and down the gravel path that divided the
small lawn from the house. He wore a long black

A RETIRED PROPHET 109

cloak, over the collar of which his white hair
streamed; he was evidently lost in some profound
meditation. There was a certain grandeur of lone-
liness and detachment about that solitary figure
which they both felt instinctively. He moved slowly,
yet with a firm step which declared unabated vigour.
But the chief impression he created was of singular
and complete calm. It was hardly possible to asso-
ciate him with any thought of a tumultuous world,
still less to imagine him as a man around whom that
tumult had once raged. He looked like a seer who
had always trodden in the high silences, and dwelt
among the lonely places of life.

Gordon heard their footsteps on the gravel path,
and turned round. That impression of singular
calmness which had already been created was justi-
fied by his face. It was a face moulded after a
classic design, in fine pure lines. The nose was
straight, the mouth firm, and yet tender, the fore-
head only contradicted the Greek ideal of beauty
by its unusual loftiness. But the chief feature was
the eyes. These were of a curious shade of gray-
ish blue, quiet and penetrating, a little dulled by the
film of years, but still unusually bright. They cre-
ated a strong sense of self-absorption, as if their
vision were inward rather than outward; eyes that
brooded over their own depths, that saw hidden
things, and things that were far away.

The old man greeted his visitors with a stately
grace.

no A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"It's good of you to come so soon," he said. "Al-
though I am an old man I have never reconciled
myself to the procrastinating spirit of age. I like to
do at once the thing I mean to do. I discern the
same temperament in you, and it should help us to be
friends."

"I count it one of the privileges of my life to have
received your invitation," said Gaunt.

They walked up and down the little terrace for a
time, talking of common things, and feeling their
way toward more intimate relationship. At noon a
very simple lunch was served.

"I lunch early," said the old man, "because I like
to give all the rest of the day to study. At one
time I did all my work in the morning, but as I have
grown older I find that the machinery of the mind is
a little slower in getting started. So I spend my
mornings in the open air, and accumulate the vigour
I need for work in that way."

"Then you still work?" said Gaunt.

"In some ways I work harder than I ever did,"
said Gordon. "I've a theory that the real life of
man is the life of the intellect and spirit. Where
this is strong, the physical life is correspondingly
strong. The men who die early are usually men
of imperfectly vitalized minds and souls."

"In that case you have yet a long life before you,
Dr. Gordon."

"I hope so," he answered simply. "I have no
patience with the common talk of good people about

A RETIRED PROPHET in

wanting to go to heaven. It is the insincerest kind
of twaddle. No healthy-minded man dies except
with infinite reluctance. The world is much too
interesting for any man to wish to leave it who can
be of any use in it. Do you remember Goethe's
scornful question, 'Why should a man who has work
to do want to ramble off into Eternity ?' '

"No, it is new to me."

"Well, it is worth remembering, for it contains a
very wholesome philosophy of life. Of course, it's
not complete, for Goethe with all his vast efficiency
was a pagan. He never grasped the truth that what
the Christian calls eternal life is a real thing, only
it begins here and now. This is eternal life, to know
the only true God and Jesus Christ whom He has
sent/ not something distant and vague, but a thing
that is. To the man who has once grasped that
truth, old age is impossible."

Gordon's face glowed as he spoke, and Gaunt,
looking upon it, recognized the truest commentary
upon his words. The mass of white hair that
crowned the brow only served to accentuate the
freshness and eagerness of the face, which pre-
served, in spite of the lines drawn across it by the
finger of Thought, an element of indestructible
vitality.

When the lunch was over, Gordon at once intro-
duced the theme of Gaunt's recent doings. He in-
vited Gaunt to explain his aims and purposes. Gaunt,
encouraged by his sympathy, opened his heart freely.

U2 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

He closed with a half-indignant and half-humorous
description of Dr. Jordan's attitude toward him.

"Poor fellow!" said Gordon. "You can't be
angry with him; he only did according to his na-
ture. I think I met Jordan once; at all events I
know his type pretty well. It is a type bred by the
present condition of the Church, in which the petty
diplomatist counts for much more than the prophet.
You know the old satirical epigram, that the world
consists of three classes, men, women, and parsons.
What it crudely expresses is that the minister is an
emasculated person, and this is often true. He is
made too comfortable, nursed and dandled on the
laps of admiring coteries, and so sheltered from the
world that he is totally unacquainted with the reali-
ties of life. It is only what might be expected that
he should come to shirk realities of all kinds — the
realities of thought as well as life — and when he
comes into contact with a real man he as naturally
hates him, and wants to crush him.

"But don't let us wander into personalities/' he
continued, "and above all let us avoid satire, for
satire is a sort of moral astigmatism which fatally
distorts all the real values of things. I learned that
lesson a long time ago in my own troubles. My
first impulse was to say and write satirical things
about my opponents, for I saw how easy it would
be to cover them with derision. But I soon found
that such a temper harmed me more than it did
them. I lost my own tranquillity in disturbing

A RETIRED PROPHET 113

theirs, and the clear stream of my own thoughts
and purposes grew turbid and discoloured. The
only way for a man to do any truly great work in
the world, is for him to go straight forward to his
goal, paying no attention to either praise or blame,
as long as he is sure of his purpose. Well, then,
what is it you purpose? That is the only matter
worth thought."

Thereupon Gaunt began to sketch the plan which
he desired to follow. He did not intend to be driven
out of the Church; he would reform it from within.
He would make his church the rallying point of all
classes, rich and poor alike. He would substitute
the law of service for the yoke of creeds, as the
sole test of membership. He spoke with conviction,
the very need for positive statement and exact defi-
nition giving a form to many thoughts within him
which had hitherto been inchoate and unco-ordinate.

The old man listened attentively. When Gaunt
had done, there was a long silence. Then Gordon
said, in a gentle voice, "My dear young friend, it
can't be done."

"What can't be done ?" said Gaunt.

"Why, this: you can't reform the Church from
within. Think a moment, and you will see that I
am right. Jesus wished to do it. He was a child of
the Church. He loved it. He taught in its syna-
gogues. He repeatedly said that He came not to
destroy the law of Moses, but to fulfil it. But even
He found the task impossible, and the answer of

U4 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

the Jewish Church to His sweet reasonableness was
the Cross. Luther tried it : he also found it impossi-
ble, and the wine of new truth had to be put into new
bottles. Wesley tried it. He did not wish to break
with the Anglican Church, and he died in the delu-
sion that he had not done so. The result proved the
magnitude of his mistake. He had created a power
which he could not control, and Methodism took its
own way, and became a church in its own right.
The story is always the same. The reason is that
every new truth must grow by its own roots. You
can't gather grapes of thistles."

"Then what would you have me do ?" said Gaunt.

"Do just what you are doing. Cherish your illu-
sion as long as you can, for it is a generous illusion.
Neither I, nor any other man, can at the present
stage make you conscious of its impossibility. It is
only the event that can teach you this. I myself once
had the same programme. I imagined the Church
rallying to me, declaring for freedom, reconstituting
itself, evolving itself from within into a new form.
Later on I discovered the invincible conservatism
of human nature. I spent some bitter hours over
that discovery. Then, at last, I saw that the old
day must die before the new day could be born. It's
poor work adapting old machinery to new needs; the
cheapest way is to fling the old to the scrap-heap
at once, and be done with it, and give the new a fair
chance/'

"Then you despair of the Church?"

A RETIRED PROPHET 115

"In its present form, yes ; of its ultimate triumph,
no. For my part, I would gladly vote for the total
abolition of the Church in all its existing forms,
and begin right over again from the foundation.
Anyway, it will have to be done before long if the
Church is to survive. For the Church in its pres-
ent form is on its death-bed, with lights and incense
and moving music, and all that kind of thing, but
the odour of corruption and decomposition is in the
air. The world knows perfectly well what is going
on. I know nothing more pathetic than the angry
wonder so often expressed by all kinds of ecclesiastic
people over the fact that the mass of the people
won't go to church. Surely the inference should
be plain; it is to every one save the ecclesiastic. It
is that life has gone out of the churches. If the
Church were alive, people would not be able to stay
away from it."

The short winter afternoon was waning fast. The
old man had risen from his chair as he talked; he
stood against the window, and the red light of the
setting sun shone full upon his face. It was as
though the face itself radiated flame, and the red
sunset light clothed him in a prophet's robe.

"Pray don't think I am a pessimist/' he added.
"There is no man more hopeful than I. And my
hope for the future rises high, indeed, when I see
younger men, like yourself, willing to face poverty
for principle. Though that, of course, — poverty, I
mean, — is the least part of the matter. Any man

u6 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

who lives a real inner life should be careless of ex-
ternals. It is perhaps the best, and certainly the
most exacting, test of whether a man's inner life
is real — have externals ceased to count for much
with him?"

Involuntarily the eyes of both Gaunt and his wife
took in the aspects of the little room. There was
not a single unnecessary article of furniture in it.
All was bare and simple as a monk's cell, and yet a
certain dignity was there, the dignity that is the
expression of austerity. And against the sunset
light rose the imposing figure of this old man, who
asked nothing of the world but the freedom of his
own soul, and had refused all those gifts of the
world which would interfere with that sublime lib-
erty. And in the same instant they both recollected
by a common sympathy of thought the houses with
which they were familiar in the great city that lay
so near — the ostentation of rooms cumbered with
useless articles which were significant of nothing
more than the power to spend; the lives lived within
them, exhausting themselves in the daily pursuit of
trivialities, — and each felt the truth of Gordon's
saying that the least part of the struggle they were
entering on was the threat of poverty, for the pov-
erty of the thinker and the worker was a thing of
dignity to which wealth could not attain.

Gordon accompanied them, bareheaded, to the
road.

"Come again, and come soon," he said. "Believe

A RETIRED PROPHET

me when I say that I am at your disposal always
and I want to help you in any way I can."

"You have already helped us more than you
know," said Margaret.

As they went down the hill they felt as though a
silent benediction followed them. And they indeed
walked to the sound of trumpets, blown by lips
diviner even than the lips of joyous winds upon a
day of sunshine.

IX
THE UNDERWORLD

THE mail next morning brought Gaunt a
long letter from Paul Gordon. In this
letter Gordon said that he had never ex-
pected to be drawn again into any kind of public
activity: he had regarded himself as having earned
the right to rest. But the conversation with Gaunt
had changed his mind. He felt now that a new
occasion had arisen which might rightfully demand
from him any powers of service which might still
be left to him. It was not clear to him as yet what
form of service might be possible to him, but he
would like to come to New York and talk matters
over with Gaunt.

Gaunt at once invited him to be his guest, and a
day later Gordon arrived. Gaunt arranged that
Palmer should meet him the same evening at dinner.
Gordon at once recognized the sympathetic qualities
of Palmer's mind. The three men talked far into
the night. It was one of those delightful talks which
range easily over many fields of thought, touching
various themes with lightness and grace, the only
kind of talk which deserves the name of conversa-
tion, because it concerns itself with ideas over which
full and flexible minds can join in happy contention.

1x8

THE UNDERWORLD 119

It was not, however, till the next morning that
Gordon mentioned the subject of his letter.

"If you are free to-day/' he said to Gaunt, "I want
you to take a little pilgrimage with me. I'm not sure
that you have yet grasped some of the elements of
your problem, and I can best explain them by a study
of facts."

"I am in your hands," said Gaunt.

"Very good," said Gordon. "But before we start
I warn you that our pilgrimage will not be a pleasant
one. Let me ask you one question: do you know
New York with any kind of exactitude and com-
pleteness ?"

"I'm afraid not," said Gaunt. "To tell the truth,
I've only lately realized that for seven years I've
gone up and down in this little section of the city,
and that is all."

"It's not surprising," said Gordon. "It is a com-
mon characteristic of city-dwellers. A city so large
as New York or London is, after all, only a series
of villages joined together by the loosest kind of
municipal bond. Men dwell in their own villages,
the rich in one, the poor in another, knowing next
to nothing of each other. We complain, and justly,
that when brilliant men of letters visit us, and go
home to write books about us, they invariably con-
vey false impressions, and arrive at absurd conclu-
sions. Of course the reason is plain. They see just
one of the many villages of which New York con-
sists, and their kind friends who entertain them take

120 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

particular care that they shall not stray beyond the
bounds. Here, for example, is an excerpt from a
recent article by an English visitor, which I thought
worth preserving. Read it."

He drew from his pocketbook a carefully folded
press cutting, and handed it to Gaunt. The writer
of the article was evidently in love with America.
He praised indiscriminately all that he had seen.
According to his account there was no vice in New
York, no visible drunkenness, no dire poverty.
Every man earned excellent wages, and if he did not
it was his own fault. No wonder a million immi-
grants flocked every year to the harbour of New
York, recognizing in the gigantic Statue of Liberty,
which guarded the magnificent waterway, a hand
that beckoned them to plenty and wealth. America
alone among the nations of the earth provided a
table in the wilderness at which the starving millions
of the Old World found a welcome and an in-
heritance. And so forth, through a thousand words
or more of panegyric and indiscriminate adulation.

"Well?" said Gordon, as Gaunt handed the paper
back to him.

"Oh, of course, it's flamboyant nonsense," said
Gaunt.

"Exactly," said Gordon. "But are we any wiser,
any more just, any more ample in our vision? You
remember that when a clerical conference lamented
the scanty attendance at the churches, Phillips
Brooks naively remarked that he attached little im-

THE UNDERWORLD 121

portance to their complaints, for he himself never
saw an empty church. Of course not, but he forgot
that every one is not a Phillips Brooks. Men see
what they go out to see, and nothing is easier than
to deny the existence of what they don't want
to see."

"Yes, that's true," said Gaunt, "and I take the
reproach to myself."

"Oh, I don't mean to reproach you," said Gor-
don, "although for that matter the reproach touches
me as much as you. My point is that the very con-
stitution of these great modern cities makes for
specialized forms of life. In a certain sense, it can-
not be avoided. Men naturally fall into a groove,
live in the company of their social equals, and after
a time forget that a universe of strange things lies
round about them, just outside the groove. But
with you and me it should be different. We are
aiming at things that should affect the general life,
and we must needs seek a thorough understanding
of our world. You don't expect the soldier in the
ranks to study the strength and capacity of for-
tresses, the roads and by-ways and river-fords of
strange countries, and all the thousand details of
a great campaign. But the great captain must know
these things, or his campaign will be a failure. It
may be that you arid I are only captains in a very
small way, but not the less we must know our facts,
if we are to do anything."

Gordon put on his long black cloak, and the two

122 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

men went out. They travelled eastward, ever east-
ward, till they left the cars at a point a little south
of Fourteenth Street.

"Now," said Gordon, "I want you to observe
carefully what you see. It's many years since I first
discovered this district, and since then it has altered
for the worse. Yonder lies the New York we know,
with its churches, colleges, and clubs; its hosts of
pleasant and refined people; its green parks and
mansions; its thoughtless, pleasure-loving throngs;
its orgies of social display ; its almost insane extrava-
grance. Now look at this New York."

On every side rose towering tenements, the bas-
tilles of poverty, containing hundreds of rooms into
which sunlight and fresh air never penetrated. The
streets were narrow, crowded, unsavoury, and it was
noticeable that there were few children in them.
Upon the faces of the people, as they went to and
fro, there was a peculiar pallor, such as flowers have
which have been left a long time in the dark. The
people themselves were not ill-dressed; there were
none of those figures, clothed in dreadful rags,
which might have been seen in a London slum; nor
were there the bestial faces, soddened with alcohol,
and disfigured by ferocious passions, which Paris
can display when she vomits up a Commune from
her foul abysses. But there was something even
more pitiable — a certain dull hopelessness which
characterizes creatures long subject to ill-usage — the
look one sees in the eyes of a beaten dog or a

THE UNDERWORLD 123

starved horse. Both men and women walked with
eyes turned downward. They had a furtive, stealthy
air, as though they feared something which they
could not see. Here and there windows in these vast
populous towers were open, and from every open
window came the endless whirr and click-clack of
sewing machines. One could fancy the whole dis-
trict bestridden by some gigantic and relentless
slave-master; some monstrous figure, whose cruel
eyes watched every room, whose vast hands, thrust
through the vain secrecies of walls and doors, held
men and women to an interminable task, or dragged
them forth to feed the maw of some horrible ma-
chine whose appetite was never satiated.

"This is the New York I want you to see," said
Gordon. "Tell me what strikes you about it."

"I see no children," said Gaunt. "Where are they?"

"They are all at work," said Gordon. "These
children never play. There are sixty thousand chil-
dren in New York shut up in tenement houses like
these, or even worse places, not one of whom knows
what a game is. Most of them will never go to
school, in spite of all the efforts of truant officers.
Even baby fingers can earn a cent an hour in sweated
labour, and these little ones begin a life of slavery
in the very moment when they leave their cradles."

They were passing at that moment the door of a
tenement house. Out of the door came two gro-
tesque creatures, who appeared two small moving
hills of clothes. They were a boy and girl, perhaps

124 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

about nine or ten years of age. Upon their frail
shoulders was piled up a heap of garments which
would have been a sufficient load for a strong man.
They strained and swayed beneath the burden. The
boy was bowlegged. The girl was flat-chested,
under-sized, and spindly. The face of each wore
the same expression of dull endurance. Gordon
stooped and said a kind word to the two unchildlike
children. They simply stared at him. Kindness
was a thing they had never known, and it was unin-
telligible to them. It was clear that they regarded
the old man with vague fear, and suspected him of
some design upon them.

"And there are sixty thousand children like that
in New York," Gordon repeated. "And within one
square mile of where we stand there are six hundred
thousand people of whom those tiny drudges are
the types."

"Why, it's overwhelming," said Gaunt. "Is no one
doing anything for them socially or religiously?"

"Oh, something is being done, of course, but
hardly anything in the right way. There are lots
of little societies of good people who come down
from time to time and squirt a little rose-water over
this foetid mass of life, and come back with a fine
report that the wilderness has really blossomed as
the rose. I did that sort of thing myself, — I'll tell
you all about it some day, — so don't suppose I speak
slightingly of these kind but futile folk. I was very
much in earnest, and I don't doubt that I did some

THE UNDERWORLD 125

good, but at last I came to see that rose-water did
not alter things. Do you know how these people
live? They live in foul, unlighted rooms, some of
them not more than twelve by eight and not six feet
high; yet in these rooms you will find eight or nine
people living, cooking, eating, sleeping, working.
Think of what it means — year in and year out this
remorseless labour, with a working day of from
fourteen to fifteen hours, and then tell me of what
use little rose-water clubs and missions are in this
Inferno? They must make the devil laugh."

The old man's voice shook with indignation. If
he looked like a prophet as he had stood in the
red sunset light at Riverside, he looked trebly so
now, as he lifted his hand in accusation against
these impenetrable fortresses of poverty, these crea-
tions of a heartless greed.

They went on in silence for a time from street
to street. The same scenes met them everywhere —
always the same dull look of infinite fatigue in the
faces of the people, the same frowning buildings
shutting out the light, the same sense of lives
dwarfed, imprisoned, bound upon the wheel.

"Why don't they revolt?'' cried Gaunt. "How is
it that the poor don't all turn robbers and settle their
debt with society that way ?"

"They will some day," said Gordon. "And even
now they're settling their debt with society in ways
more terrible than robbery. Why, there's fever
and every kind of disease in these squalid rooms.

126 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

There are people with smallpox on them working
upon hundred-dollar suits of clothes which will soon
be upon the backs of rich men, and the smallpox will
go home with the suit of clothes. It is stated that
two hundred million dollars' worth of garments are
manufactured in New York each year, and nine-
tenths of all these garments are stitched and sewn
in dens like these. Half the disease of New York
is nurtured here. These tenements are the barracks
of the armies of death, and from them the destroy-
ing hosts go out silent and unseen to reap a fearful
harvest. . . . But let us sit down somewhere. I've
miscalculated my strength a little. I am tired."

A few minutes' walk took them to a restaurant
of the poorer class. It was a long, narrow room,
with sanded floor and bare tables, but it was clean
and the food was wholesome. Gordon drank a cup
of coffee, and presently began to talk again in
quieter tones.

"I never knew until to-day how horribly I have
failed in life," he said, sadly.

"No one would say that but yourself," Gaunt
eagerly responded.

"In this matter what other people say has no
weight whatever," said Gordon. "They can't pos-
sibly know another man's standard of achievement,
and achievement can only be measured by aspira-
tion. I aspired to do very great things once. Do
you know why I failed ? Partly, of course, through
my own inefficiency, but really through a perversity

THE UNDERWORLD 127

of judgment which I was unable to conquer. The
Church calls me a rebel, and yet my life has been
undone through a blind, excessive loyalty to the
Church. I imagined that all real work for the world
must be done through the organisation of the
Church, and that organisation could be remodelled
by the intrusion of new ideas, so I began with the-
ology, and you know the result. After my deposi-
tion I went on with my mission work, encouraged
by all kinds of golden dreams that men would rally
to me, that I should lead a movement, that the
Church would at last come to my point of view, and
each of these dreams in turn proved false. In other
words, I tried to do exactly what you are trying to
do now, until after ten years of lonely experiment I
made a discovery. I discovered that the Church had
turned her back upon the real facts of life."

"In what way?"

"In every way you can imagine. Thirty years
ago she turned her back upon the prophets of a new
science, who were opening new heavens and a new
earth to the astonished eyes of men. She refused
to listen to them, she derided and denounced them,
and the result was she lost the leadership of thought
among all intelligent men. To-day she turns her
back precisely in the same way upon the new schol-
arship which devotes itself to the investigation of
religion. She does not so much as ask whether
these great scholars are right or wrong; she simply
does not choose to listen to them, and the result is

128 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

she has lost the leadership of religious thought as
she lost the leadership of scientific thought, and
intelligent men prefer to do their own thinking upon
religion without any guidance from the Church.
But, worse than all, she has lost the knowledge of
her own mission. She is totally unacquainted with
the nature of those ideals which once made her a
living force, and by which she has the right to exist.
Look at New York. Where do you find the most
churches? In the localities where wealth is most
evident. Christianity has openly become the church
of the rich. It is the inevitable result of a paid min-
istry; how can it be otherwise under a system which
encourages all those elements of social rivalry and
display which are found in the world of commerce ?
Yes, you can find churches enough in Fifth Avenue,
but as you travel eastward the church spires become
fewer, and always fewer. Isn't it evident that the
Church has practically given up trying to reach the
poor? And in every American city the story is
the same. The Church constantly retreats before the
invasion of poverty. Downtown churches are con-
stantly sold for immense sums of money, and the
wealth so gained is employed to build gorgeous reli-
gious club-houses in the suburbs among the com-
fortable and wealthy classes. Then, in turn, these
classes, encouraged by the selfishness of the Church,
forget the existence of the poor, and the result is
districts like these, rotten with disease and poverty,
full of forgotten and despairing people, for whom

THE UNDERWORLD 129

life is hell. Oh, that I could have my life over again,
how differently would I live it ! But it has taken me
half a century to learn wisdom, and now it is too late
to apply that wisdom. I am an old man. But you
are young, and, perhaps, I may yet do something
to redeem the past if I can bequeath to you the wis-
dom won out of a life of errors."

Gaunt was profoundly moved. As he thought
of Gordon's history and character, the courage of
the one, the purity and nobleness of the other, his
heart went out in love and admiration to the old
man. He laid his hand gently on the old man's
hand, and said :

"Believe me, you shall find in me an obedient and
loyal disciple. What is it you would have me do ?"

"For the present, nothing more than you are
doing. After all you must find your way yourself,
you must make your own experiment. But I think
you will learn more rapidly than I; if I mistake not,
you are already near the end of the experimental
stage."

"But tell me," pressed Gaunt, "am I taking the
right course?"

"Every course is right as long as a man follows
right alone."

"Is there nothing less enigmatic that you can say
to your disciple ?" asked Gaunt, with a grave smile.

"What we have seen this morning, has that no
message?" said Gordon.

"A message all too terrible. It is ineffaceable."

130 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"And its meaning?" said Gordon.

"Its meaning is bitterly plain. I begin to see
the absurdity of my idea of ever touching these mis-
erable lives through a church organized as mine is.
They will not come to me, and I know not how to
go to them. Between us there is a great gulf
fixed."

"Yes, that is one thing, and a very important
thing too," said Gordon. "Yet, contradictory as it
may appear, I wish you to continue the experiment.
Get the poor into your church, if you can — not of
course these slaves of the tenements, for nothing
could draw them from their miserable retreats, but
such poor as are accessible to you, in your own
neighbourhood."

"I see another thing, too," Gaunt continued : "the
almost incurable levity of our temperament. And
yet — no — it's not quite that: it's rather a kind of
buoyant thoughtlessness, a dislike to pierce below
the surface of things, a habit of ignoring unpleasant
issues. We lack gravity of mind. We are intoxi-
cated with prosperity, we are reaping its rewards
so rapidly that no one stops to ask at what price, no
one wants to examine the dread foundations of
crushed and ruined lives on which that prosperity
rests. The very existence of this city of filth and
squalor, of misery and disease, in the midst of an-
other city of unparalleled luxury and extravagance,
is the proof."

"And there you are not quite just," said Gordon.

THE UNDERWORLD 131

"I don't grant the incurable levity of our tempera-
ment."

"How would you describe it?"

"It's nothing worse than the temperament of
youth. Youth often appears thoughtless, and yet
there is no more certain fact than that youth is
peculiarly susceptible to idealism. As a nation, we
are a race of idealists; we are so because we are
young. Is there any country in the world where
any new idea is welcomed so enthusiastically?
Where is there any people so ready to follow any
kind of leader who appears to have a message?
Mormonism, Zionism, Christian Science, and a hun-
dred other curious and even absurd forms of faith —
each can get a hearing, can build itself into a power,
can attract multitudes of adherents. And all this
can go on in the midst of a people supposed to be
governed solely by the worship of the almighty
dollar ! Why, the accusation is absurd. If Ameri-
cans adore the dollar, it's simply for want of some-
thing better to adore; and even then it's not the
mere possession of money that attracts them, but the
power which it implies. Give them a nobler ideal,
and they'll respond to it as only a race of idealists
can. And there lies your hope, Gaunt. You are
dealing with a young nation."

"Doesn't your own experience in the Church con-
tradict you ?" said Gaunt.

"I am not speaking of the Church, but of the
nation — a very different thing," said Gordon. "The

132 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

Church has wilfully made herself the refuge of all
that is conservative and reactionary in American
life. Of course, when I spoke of youth in the nation
I didn't mean young men ; but let me ask you, never-
theless, do you find young men in the churches?
Very rarely are they there in any numbers. Nine-
tenths of the people in the churches are over forty.
You'll find more bald heads in a church than in any
other assembly of equal numbers gathered in any
auditorium or for any purpose between Boston and
San Francisco. The Church of the future must be
found outside the churches."

"And what is your picture of the Church of the
future?"

Gordon was silent for several minutes, and in his
eyes there was that withdrawn look, which had al-
ready impressed Gaunt so powerfully. He seemed
to be gazing into inscrutable distances, traversing
illimitable realms of thought and vision, listening
for the low-breathed words of some prophetic revela-
tion. When he spoke again it was slowly, as a man
in some mesmeric trance might speak.

"It will not be called a church," he said. "It
will have neither creeds, nor forms, nor subscrip-
tions. Its law will be freedom; its condition, service.
It will unite all men who love humanity in the com-
mon service of humanity. It will be a society of
equals. It will worship Christ, but neither as God
nor man; rather as a Living Presence in all men,
making all men divine. It will attract everybody,

THE UNDERWORLD 133

for it will include everybody. Men will not be able
to afford to stay outside; to do so would be to re-
nounce their heritage as men. It will be based on
universal ideas. It will make the slum impossible,
for it will make impossible the greed and neglect
which produce it. It will be terribly just, so just
that unrighteous men will fear its disapproval far
more than any other form of punishment. It will
be infinitely pitiful, so pitiful that the life most
bruised will be certain of its consolation. And I
think it will be called ... it will be called The
League of Service, and its emblem will be a mother
with a child in her arms."

The voice died away in an awed whisper.

"The League of Service." The words seemed to
fill the dingy restaurant with light. The light spread,
until even the dreary bastilles of poverty were illu-
minated, and their roofs were plumed with sacred
flame.

And Gaunt knew that in that moment a great
thing had happened. An Ideal had entered the
world, an Ideal which he knew was worth living for
and dying for.

X

THE DISSIMULATION OF MARGARET

WHEN Margaret Gaunt had spoken so
cheerfully of giving up her house, in
which all her married life had been
lived, she was guilty of dissimulation. It was the
kind of dissimulation of which all good women are
guilty, for what good woman is not constantly en-
gaged in suppressing herself for the sake of those
she loves ? "I'd really rather not take a holiday this
year," says the tired wife, who knows the economy
forced on her by narrow means; or, "I really like
sitting up at night, it doesn't tire me at all, and you,
dear, have your work to think of," says the mother
when a sick child has to be watched and nursed
through midnight hours; and she says these things
with such a show of sincerity and conviction that
she finds herself believed. Perhaps she is a little
hurt to find herself believed so readily, but, if she is,
she takes care to hide the wound. It is only one
wound more upon a heart that has endured so many,
and, after all, the great thing is that those she loves
should be happy and content, and take their day
upon the seashore or in the woods, and sleep when
all the world sleeps, as is their right. And it is a
little hard, as years go on, to find the child taking

134

MARGARET'S DISSIMULATION 135

pleasure with a thoughtless joy, and saying: "Oh,
mother won't be lonely if we go our own way, you
know she likes to be alone"; or, perhaps, the hus-
band, used to leaning on her strength, quietly assum-
ing that that strength has no limit of endurance.
And is she tired? Suppose you should wake up in
the hour when the gray dawn breaks, and the fitful
wailing of the sick child is hushed at last, will you
find no marks of fatigue in the mother's face ? Tired,
so tired that every bone aches and cries for sleep;
but she will never say so, and an hour later you will
find her so bright and active that the memory of
those drawn features and relaxed hands on which
the cold dawn light fell will seem a thing you
dreamed. And would not she also, oh, thoughtless
child, love to lie upon the warm sea-sand, and rest
beneath the green arches of the woods with you —
she who was once as young as you, and recollects
a good time "long time ago," when she was never
vexed with unpaid bills, and stoves that wouldn't
burn, and servants who wouldn't work, and all the
complicated details and annoyances of household
management ? But she will never say so. She will
let you go on thinking that she is never happier than
when she is baking bread and making pies for you
to eat, and stitching clothes for you to wear; and
if any one of stricter vision should call you selfish,
she will at once rise up in your defence, and do
vehement battle, and declare that it is not selfishness
at all, but just your natural right to the joy of life.

136 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

It would be a dreadful world if those with whom we
have to live in closest bonds, saw all our defects
with a vision never less than accurate; or, seeing
those defects, spoke of them as a stranger might,
with a judgment that was mercilessly just. And so
it is one of woman's great arts to dissimulate, and
it is her finest charm and grace: an art which the
inherited traditions of renunciation through many
centuries have wrought to such perfectness that
only now and then do those she loves suspect the
illusion, and when they do she will blush for its
discovery.

On such a theme what pages might be written,
which it would not be good for men who dwell in
lonely homes, out of which the dead have passed,
to read alone at night; or beside the camp-fires in
strange foreign lands, where sons think of distant
homes and vanished faces; they might produce that
remorse too terrible for tears which makes life itself
seem unendurable. And so let us rather thank God
that this is woman's nature; that she is content to
sacrifice and be forgotten ; that, in her, dissimulation
is but the expression of an unselfishness so profound
that it makes a grace of falsehood, and turns a weak-
ness into an illustrious kind of fortitude and cour-
age, beside which the thing we call courage on a
battlefield appears a coarse grotesque.

Margaret Gaunt, being a good woman, was no
wiser than her sex, and so, when her husband chose
a new path for himself, she followed meekly, school-

MARGARET'S DISSIMULATION 137

ing herself to think it was the very path she would
have chosen. She met him with gay smiles, talked
lightly of the Settlement girl and the kind of home
she had established in the slums; but all the while
her own heart clung desperately to this home of hers,
which was the monument of her own taste, discre-
tion, and womanly pride. There was not a room in
it which did not appeal to some memory, some ten-
der sentiment. Here and here things had happened,
the small memorable things that make up a woman's
world, and each was like a tiny shrine in which a
lamp burned. There was one room in the house
which she and her husband never entered save on
tiptoe, and they never went together. If one found
the other there by accident, the one would go away
silently without daring to say a word. For there
had been born her one child, there he had died,
and the silence of death had never left the room.
She would often go there when the evening shadows
fell, and recall that brief ecstasy of motherhood,
and almost fancy she saw a little golden child sleep-
ing in the sunbeam that fell across the bed; and
Gaunt always opened the door of the room for an
instant as he went up to bed at night, and stood
listening, as if for a sleeper's breath; but though
each knew what the other did, neither had dared
mention it. They never mentioned it, yet it was a
bond between them; and had they been in any seri-
ous peril of drifting apart, the memories of that
room would have stayed their feet. If there was

138 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

one thing more bitter than another to the heart
of Margaret in the- thought of leaving this house, it
was that some one else would live in that room,
some other child, perhaps, strong and sturdy, before
whose happy laughter her frail ghost-child would
be driven out. If she could have taken that room
with her, she would not have grieved so much, al-
though every room had its own fragrance of asso-
ciation ; but that a stranger's feet should tread there
seemed an insult and a sacrilege. And yet, you see,
she was a woman of placid brows and cheerful
speech, of the kind called practical; and there were
a great many people who thought they knew her
well, who never even knew she had had a child, who
came with the spring flowers years ago, and went
away with the summer heats.

And then there were other things, too, in which
Margaret practised her gracious art of dissimula-
tion. For instance, she made a great deal in her
talk with her husband of her difficulties with her
hired help. But that was simply her method of
preparing him for the dreadful moment when she
meant to do without any help at all. For if her
husband knew nothing about how the money went,
she knew. You can't resign a fixed and ample
salary, and go on living just as though you had it;
at least, you can't do it honestly. Her "poor babe
of genius," as she often called him in a kind of ma-
ternal irony, might suppose that he could easily
earn enough money by his pen for his own simple

MARGARET'S DISSIMULATION 139

wants and hers — which was no doubt true; but when
you added two hired girls and a man, each gifted
with stupendous appetites and a long-practised
power of wastefulness, why, then the problem took
another phase. So she quietly dismissed her staff,
and got cheap occasional help instead, and he never
guessed the truth at all, and never learned its in-
wardness, but accepted her statement without ques-
tion that she had found it necessary to make a
change — so easily is man hoodwinked by a smiling
face in woman. For, of course she made a jest
of it, and almost made him feel that it was a kind
of special Providence that left her servantless, — the
house was so much quieter without them, — while all
the time her one desire and purpose was to save a
little money against the hour of need.

But these were trifles compared with the strain
put upon her powers of dissimulation by affairs at
the church. There was scarce a Sunday now when
something did not happen that tried her patience.
All sorts of spiteful gossip came to her, and false
reports, and often wounding words would be spoken
to her which brought the angry tears into her eyes.
Things that no one would have dared to say to
Gaunt were said to her, in the expectation that they
would reach him through her, and so inflict a double
wound; but they never did, for she hid them in
her heart and pondered them in secret, but never
let him know. And it is surprising how much can
be said without words; how contemptuous pity or

140 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

aversion can manage to convey a world of pain by a
cold glance, or the shrug of a shoulder, or a capacity
for not seeing you in the street or taking another
road when you appear. It is not pleasant to be
asked with such singular pointedness how your hus-
band's health is, that the inference is conveyed that
the questioner is thinking of his mind rather than
his body; nor "Is he better ?" in the tone of one who
assumes that he is in the last stages of decay; nor to
hear a soft-purring female voice proclaiming in a
discreet whisper, "My dear, how I pity you"; and
Margaret's blood burned under these feline ameni-
ties. But Gaunt, poor man, never knew why her
colour was so high when she came from church; he
imagined that it was the rose of health, not of anger,
that flamed upon her cheek, and congratulated her,
telling her how well she looked. And she smiled
back at him, as though it were the most natural
thing in the world to endure the smart of petty in-
sult, and say no word about it.

For instance, there was Mrs. Small, the wife of
Deacon Small, a large, plain woman, who emulated
the bluff manners of her husband, and made it her
boast that she always said what she thought. That
kind of boast usually implies an entire incapacity
for understanding what other people think; cer-
tainly it did so with Mrs. Small. By dint of long
cultivation in what was no doubt a natural gift
of rudeness, Mrs. Small had earned for herself the
reputation of a censor of everybody's methods of

MARGARET'S DISSIMULATION 141

life, and she found the church an admirable arena
for her exertions. She never failed to let Margaret
know when she thought the sermon was too long,
or when she disagreed with it.

"If your husband preached shorter it would be
much better for his health, and for our comfort,
too/' she said, bluntly, one day. "He forgets that he
is preaching to the tired business man, who really
can't follow a long sermon. The business man likes
it short and simple."

"Likes it predigested, like Grape-nuts," retorted
Margaret, with smiling irony. "But you see there
are other people in the church beside tired business
men, who are quite capable of doing their own in-
tellectual digestion."

That was not a wise speech of Margaret's, for
Mrs. Small, like most stupid people, did not under-
stand irony, and was enraged by it. So she went away
and said she was very sorry for the minister, it was
evident that his wife did not appreciate him, for had
she not compared his discourses with Grape-nuts?

Mrs. Small was also of opinion that there were a
great many things which ought not to be mentioned
in the pulpit at all, and, as these prohibited themes
happened to include about nine-tenths of the subject-
matter of the Bible, it was a little difficult to know on
what subjects a minister might preach at all for
her edification. It sounds a little incredible, but it is,
nevertheless, true, as many people will remember,
that when Gaunt introduced the recital of the Ten

142 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

Commandments with responses on the first Sunday
of the month, Mrs. Small expressed her opinion
that the Decalogue was "coarse"; that it was
offensive to her fine female sense to hear murder,
and theft, and adultery mentioned with such brutal
frankness, for while that kind of thing might be
all right for depraved Jews in the time of Moses,
it was totally unnecessary in New York, where,
of course, such things never happen. She was
even more angry when Gaunt preached one morn-
ing on the woman who was a sinner, for on that
particular morning she had with her in her pew
an engaged couple of quite mature years — they were
each close on forty — to whom such a theme must
have been most awkward, and a provocation to dis-
agreeable blushes.

"We don't come to church to hear about such
things," she said, angrily, to Margaret; "the Sunday
papers are bad enough."

"Do you find them so?" retorted Margaret, which
was again an unwise speech, for Mrs. Small was a
great reader of Sunday papers, a fact of which Mar-
garet was perfectly aware.

Then Mrs. Small assumed an almost proprietary
interest in Margaret's house, which she often visited,
not from any love for Margaret, but for the oppor-
tunity for criticism which the house afforded. She
would pretend to admire its taste, and have an
artistic interest in its furniture, after which she
would remark with an air of patient meekness:

MARGARET'S DISSIMULATION 143

"Well, I don't see how you can afford all these nice
things, anyway; I know we can't have them. My
husband won't have anything that isn't quite sim-
ple." The implication, of course, was that Mar-
garet was extravagant, whereas she was simply one
of those wise modern women who have discovered
that ugliness is no cheaper than beauty, and the
Smalls were people who didn't know the one from
the other, but chose the ugly things from a natural
love of ugliness.

Margaret made the most praiseworthy efforts to
live at peace with persons of this description, but
the trouble was that they were so arrogant in their
inferiority that they would not let her. They could
not help wishing to humble her, because in their
hearts they were jealous of her. When Gaunt began
to think and act for himself in the ways that we have
seen, Mrs. Small and her tribe became really venom-
ous in their indignation. They lost no opportunity
of veiled or open insult, all of which Margaret en-
dured in silence so far as her husband was concerned.
That baffled maternal instinct, whose shrine was the
room with the closed door where her child had died,
now flowered anew in defence of her husband. It
became the first duty of her life to shield him from
petty irritations, while he made his way toward new
heights of thought ; and but for her enfolding com-
bative maternity, perhaps he would never have
reached those heights at all. But he never knew
the cost to her. No trace of agitation marred the

144 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

calm beauty of her face; for him her lips had only
smiles and sweet encouragement, which was an-
other triumph of dissimulation.

What grieved her most in those weeks of crisis,
however, was the manifest failure of friendship
among those whom she had trusted. It seemed as
though she leaned on no one who was not a broken
reed that pierced the hand which leant upon it.
There were the Taskers, for example, people whom
she had genuinely liked, and to whom she had shown
much kindness, especially to the wife, who thought
herself delicate and was always in need of service.
They, like herself, were childless, and lived a some-
what lonely life. For this reason she had been
drawn toward them, had invited them often to her
house, especially on Sunday evenings and special
occasions like Thanksgiving Day and Christmas.
But from the hour when the trouble had begun in
the church they stood aloof. They nearly always
found some excuse to avoid visiting the house. On
the one or two occasions when they came, they were
painfully embarrassed and restrained. If Margaret
had not had a wholesome sense of the ridiculous, she
would have been much more hurt than she was; for
it was a truly absurd sight to see the little man try-
ing to avoid the burning question, yet always com-
ing back to it like a moth to a flame : beginning ex-
planations which ended in nothing, speaking with
an unusual assumption of authority on subjects of
which he knew nothing, and always falling back

MARGARET'S DISSIMULATION 145

on his favourite phrase that things "act and react."
She humorously christened him Act-and-React,
and called him by that name when she discussed
affairs with Palmer, which she often did. But at
the back of her mind there was a sense of hurt, a
pang of bitter disappointment. If these people, to
whom she had given so much real affection, were
only fair-weather friends, whom could she trust?
If, at the first strain, their friendship broke down,
where was a truly loyal friendship to be found ? She
did not see then, what she recognized long after-
wards, that church friendships are of an order by
themselves; they are after all but official friend-
ships. The friends who come to you thus are im-
posed upon you by an accidental relationship; they
are not deliberately chosen by that process of affin-
ity which constitutes any real friendship. Besides,
with people as fluid as Tasker, no real friendship is
ever possible. No amount of kindness can overcome
radical feebleness of character, or turn it into stead-
fastness and constancy. It is a lesson not easy to
learn, and Margaret found it no easier than other
people do. She shed a good many secret tears over
it. For a time she felt as though there was no such
thing as disinterested loyalty in life. Then her bet-
ter sense prevailed. She remembered Palmer and
Gordon. She began to recognize that disillusion is
not the only lesson in life — life has its revelations,
too, but disillusions must precede them. As we
journey toward the higher things, the company

146 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

improves; and if we have fewer friends, we have in
them the true comrades of the spirit, whose alliance
with us is beyond the shock of circumstances.

There was also another compensation which
Margaret never recollected without a thrill of grati-
tude. As those in whom she had trusted gradually
withdrew, another class of people came nearer —
people like Mrs. Holcombe, whose worth she had
never recognized. Her friendships had been among
the richer members of the church, not from choice,
still less from any kind of social snobbery, but
simply because these friendships had been imposed
upon her by the situation. The new note of militant
democracy which Gaunt had struck naturally of-
fended these people, and they were quick to declare
their displeasure. They were for the most part very
pleasant people to know, but their social ideas were
conventional, and Gaunt's unconventionalism irri-
tated them much more than any kind of heresy
would have done. But it soon became clear that
the new note he had struck was very welcome in
other quarters. There was in the congregation a
considerable number of quietly obscure people of
whom Mrs. Holcombe was the type: people who
fought hard battles in secret, and needed sympathy;
to them Gaunt's later teachings, being broadly hu-
man, spiritual, and touched with a tenderness of
which they had never thought him capable, were as
a brook by the way to thirsty lips. Margaret came
to know these people little by little, and it filled her

MARGARET'S DISSIMULATION 147

with a sense of shame and regret that she had not
known them earlier.

It was through contact with these people that
Margaret arrived by another road at the conclusion
Gaunt had already reached : viz., that the first aim
of any true ministry should be to seek after those
who knew most of the hardness of human life. "For
they cannot recompense thee," — the divine words
were often in her thoughts, — that strange reason for
giving feasts, which, nevertheless, seemed so simple
and axiomatic to Him who uttered it, that He did
not so much as offer the least explanation of it.

There was Mrs. Holcombe, for example, with her
tall, fine figure, and white hair, and patient eyes;
what a life hers had been! Margaret drew the
story from her one afternoon, when the falling
shadows invited confidence — that hour which women
choose for the exposition of those secret thoughts
which shun the garish day. It was an old and com-
mon story: a husband weak rather than bad, who
had consumed her property, ruined her life, and
at last, after an act of fraud, had disappeared. Mrs.
Holcombe told the story without a single word of
blame or anger. After the crash came she found
she had just enough left to live on, with grinding
economy, and the house where all her married life
had been passed; and so she stayed there, with no
company but her memories. There was another
reason, too, which Margaret found infinitely pa-
thetic. The forsaken wife still cherished a faint

148 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

hope that her husband would reappear, and, there-
fore, she remained in New York, that he might
know where to find her. There was not a day when
her eyes did not search for his face among the rest-
less passing throngs in New York; no wonder her
eyes had grown dim with long patience, for she had
searched twenty years in vain. She had even gone
to hospital wards and the poorhouse on Black well's
Island from time to time, on the same hopeless
quest, and to many other refuges of broken men,
where she imagined that he might be found. He
had wrought her great wrong, she expected noth-
ing from him, yet there was not a night when she
locked her door without the painful thought that
she might be locking him out in the dark streets;
not a morning when she would not have welcomed
him had he come to that door, the veriest beggar,
clothed in rags. And what could Margaret do
but draw the forsaken woman to her bosom in a
long caress — how different a caress from those shal-
low, quickly-forgotten conventional caresses which
she had bestowed on many a careless friend who
had now forgotten her? So Margaret also came
to touch the realities of life, to understand the trag-
edy and heroism of obscure lives, and her nature was
both sweetened and deepened by the knowledge.

And there were other people, too, whom she came
to know and love, drawn to them by the new need
for sympathy which existed in her own life. There
was a little crippled woman, nearly blind, earning

MARGARET'S DISSIMULATION 149

a precarious living by her needle, who had lately
found her way into the church, attracted by the new
note of sympathy in Gaunt's preaching. She usu-
ally chose a dim comer of the church where she
could be unobserved, and no one noticed her. But
one day she hobbled down the aisle to Margaret's
pew, and pressed into her hand a little parcel, con-
taining a specimen of exquisite needlework for her
use, and no gift Margaret had ever received touched
her so deeply as this offering. And she was more
touched still when the little old lady began to speak
in gratitude of all the help she had received from
Gaunt's ministry, for that was a kind of language
to which Margaret had long been unaccustomed.
And there were two humble men, named Plane and
Scarlett, who gave her a letter signed with their
joint names, in which they assured her that they
prayed for her and her husband every day, and bade
her be of good heart, for all would come out right
some day; with much more to the same effect, ex-
pressed in rude everyday phrases, which were the
best they knew, and much more moving in their
unaffected sincerity than more polite and scholarly
phrases would have been.

So one day Margaret made a little supper for
Plane and Scarlett at her house, and invited the
little, old crippled lady whose name was Smith, and
Mrs. Holcombe helped to entertain them; and she
found their simplicity and goodness of heart so
charming that she felt quite reconciled to the fact

ISO A PROPHET IN BABYLON

that Mrs. Somerset had struck her off her visiting
list, and Mrs. Tasker had found her delicacy of con-
stitution so great that for three months she had not
been able to take the journey to the manse.

So, you see, there are compensations in every lot.
And Margaret's great compensation at this time was
the discovery of all kinds of beautiful things in hu-
man nature, as represented by humble folk, which
made her gradually forget the discoveries she had
made of all sorts of mean and ugly things in people
by no means humble, whose code of manners and
morals did not include kindness, nor charity, nor
constancy in the hour of need. And about these
discoveries there was no need for dissimulation. She
spoke of them joyously to her husband, and his face
grew glad as she spoke, for he recognized in them
an augury that the path he was taking was the right
path. Perhaps it may sound a little paradoxical,
yet I doubt whether John and Margaret Gaunt were
ever quite so happy as in these difficult days, when
they tasted for the first time the blessing of the poor;
and daily leaned on each other with a sweeter con-
fidence, and found that through the very breaking
up of shallow friendships there was revealed to them
the deeper treasure of unselfish love.

No one minds being forsaken by the unworthy,
if the worthy remain with him. Both husband and
wife proved now the truth of Palmer's aphorism,
that the defection of the unworthy is the occasion
of the worthy.

XI
RENUNCIATION

THE LEAGUE OF SERVICE— the words
sang in Gaunt's ears night and day, they
set the rhythm of his thoughts, they were
written in shining letters upon the sky of his dreams.
It was an ideal magnificent in its very simplicity.
And the more he pondered it, the more clearly he
saw that mankind had always been in search of this
ideal. It was present in every religion, it was indeed
the root of all religions. Even in its most muti-
lated form, whenever it had appeared, it had in-
stantly appealed to the hearts of men. When re-
ligion cast it out, it found fresh incarnations in those
great secular movements which bound men together
for common ends, overspread continents, and cre-
ated secret confederacies among nations which out-
lived forms of government and changes of dynasty.
It had poured its armies of missionaries into barba-
rous lands, it had set men fighting behind barricades
against intolerable tyrannies, it had made heroes and
martyrs out of all who had embraced it. For if
man was inherently selfish, he was inherently un-
selfish too, and was always ready to respond to
an ideal which appealed to the highest and best
in himself.

i$2 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

It was in this latter thought he found his hope.
After all, the cardinal characteristics of man did not
alter, and among those characteristics the power of
unselfish action was as evident as the strength of
selfish greed. For if every age revealed man as a
selfish animal, continually struggling for his own
ends, each age also revealed man as capable of sac-
rificing himself to his fellows upon any call that
he found imperative and authoritative. It might be
that this was a selfish and corrupt age, dominated by
commercial avarice, but there had been other ages
not a whit better, in which men had arisen who had
forced the world into higher paths. The cry of
the Crusader never rang in vain. Give men a cause
worthy of their sacrifice, and men never refused the
sacrifice. Was America harder to be moved than
all other nations which had preceded her? He
could not believe it. He remembered Gordon's
words, that Americans were a race of idealists, and
the more he pondered the saying the more he recog-
nized its truth. And so he dreamed a vast dream
of an America destined to lead the nations in the
path of triumphal altruism, having first combined
all its forms of religion in one simple synthesis,
formulated in that magnificent prophetic vision of
Gordon of a church freed from creeds and forms,
whose single dogma was the law of service.

But between the dream and its realisation there
is much hard country to be traversed — a terrible and
desert country, strewn with the bones of idealists

RENUNCIATION 153

who have failed. Gaunt therefore began to ad-
vance with caution. He took Palmer into his con-
fidence, and night after night, when New York
slept, the two men sat together discussing plans and
schemes.

"We must have definite principles rather than a
definite plan," Palmer constantly reiterated. "I
don't believe in machine-made campaigns. That
may be a Moltke's idea of German warfare, but it
isn't God's idea of spiritual warfare. In this war-
fare the man who wins is the man who does not
know where he is going. He is content to start
right, and leave the rest with God."

"And what are the principles?" Gaunt replied.

"The first is that you can do nothing within the
Church: there I am in complete agreement with
Gordon," said Palmer.

Gaunt still found it difficult to accept this princi-
ple, because he was more of a churchman than he
himself knew. He had been bred into reverence for
the Church, he had breathed its atmosphere all his
life, and in spite of all that had happened he still
loved it. It gave him a homeless feeling to imagine
himself shut out from it.

"You must start fresh, unhampered by tradition,"
insisted Palmer. "I don't undervalue the Church,
it is full of good and kindly people. But they are
all of the conventional type. They have always trav-
elled on a good state road, and as long as you keep
to the beaten highway they will follow you. But

154 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

the moment you enter the wilderness they will balk
at it. They will be afraid."

And Gaunt knew that it was true. With what
infinite difficulty had he forced upon his church a
few trifling innovations ! Palmer, with kindly irony,
reminded him of how trifling these innovations were.

"You've got rid of your piffling vesper service,
and established an evening service of the popular
type; that's a very modest achievement, but it has
cost you weeks of argument, and, after all, there
are not a dozen of your older members who really
approve the change. You've established a week
evening service of the same type, with even more
vehement opposition from the older members. That
is the total result of three months' anxiety and la-
bour. And you can't go much further, remember."

"Well, it's the thin end of the wedge," said
Gaunt.

"Yes, and the wedge is now flattening itself
against impenetrable masonry."

Gaunt smiled a little sadly at the retort, for he
felt its truth. He silently reviewed his experiences,
and all at once their meaning was made clear to
him. He saw now that the element in churches
which was fatal to any real advance was the ele-
ment of littleness. They were managed by little
people, governed by little ideas. He himself had
been constantly engaged in doing little things, and
so were most ministers. And to do these little
things, to reconcile disputes, to keep people sweet-

RENUNCIATION i$5

tempered, to manage small clubs and societies, de-
manded as much nerve and skill and patience as were
needed to conduct the national government. And it
seemed as if there were something inherently en-
feebling and belittling in the very atmosphere of a
church. Men who knew how to conduct great busi-
nesses with skill and success no sooner sat upon the
board of church management than they lost their
sagacity and power of initiative. In their business
houses they would have divined the need for some
vast change of strategy by a kind of intuition, and
would have acted on it without a moment's hesita-
tion. They would have taken broad views of things,
proved themselves wise and energetic captains of
industry, and have known how to meet emergencies
with brilliant daring. But in a church nothing could
be done without tedious argument. More words
were spent over a matter of a few cents than would
have been needed in the business office for the expend-
iture of thousands of dollars. How was it? What
did it mean? And Gaunt saw that it was this be-
littling atmosphere of the Church which was to
blame. Every ideal was narrow, parochial; there
was no element of imperial thinking. How, then,
could he hope to create within the Church any senti-
ment for an ideal so new and catholic, so broad and
imperial, as this ideal of a universal League of
Service, as the one sufficient synonym of all reli-
gions ? And he knew that he could not do it.

"Yes, you are right," he said at last. "But think

156 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

mercifully if you can, of my reluctance to accept
your view."

"I respect your reluctance too much to think
harshly of it," said Palmer. "I myself have expe-
rienced it. Years ago when I broke away from the
organized Church I did so with infinite misgiving.
I shall never forget the desolation of that hour. I
seemed to have left behind me the warm hearth-
stone of home, to have made myself an outcast who
sees nothing confronting him but a homeless waste,
and the years stretching out before him, bleak and
sterile, and interminable. But I was consoled by the
thought that I was free. The road might be bleak,
but an invigorating air blew over it, and I soon found
myself acquiring new strength, and moving with a
sense of liberty that I had never known. Freedom
never disappoints her lovers. All other loves fail,
but hers — never."

"Well, so be it," said Gaunt.

But although he spoke cheerfully, there was mois-
ture in his eyes, when he recollected all that the
Church had been to him. He knew that those mem-
ories would never leave him. All his life he would
see the dim aisle and painted windows, would hear
the soft surge of familiar music, and feel the thrill
he had so often felt on entering the pulpit, conscious
of the waiting gaze of many hearers. For what-
ever faults may be alleged against the Church, it
imposes a quiet fascination on its children, which
they are never wholly able to destroy. It calls them

RENUNCIATION i$7

with so many voices, and each is a memory. It
creates a nostalgia which endures even when the
nostalgia of country is forgotten. In the moment
of renunciation Gaunt almost forgot all the faults of
the Church, as a man forgets when the last parting
comes, all the errors in the woman he has loved,
and recounts nothing but her virtues and her fair-
ness. He remembered with what a passion of in-
toxicating hope he had entered on his work at May-
field Avenue; with what pride he had watched the
growth of that work; how he had brought his young
wife there, and all the kindness of that far-off
time, and he realized, as he had never done, how
much the Church had meant to him. Sleeping and
waking through all these seven years the Church had
been with him. He had pictured himself growing
old in its service, inheriting a larger reverence and
authority with the years, and the last years proving
sweetest in their complete fulfilment of his purposes
and hopes. He had even fancifully pictured to him-
self at times the last scenes of all; how his final
illness would be announced in hushed tones from
the pulpit where he had so often stood, how its
stages would be followed by anxious hearts, how
the funeral hymn so often sung for others would
be sung for him, but surely with a deeper feeling
than was ever known before, and with organ notes
that had more of wailing in them; how his body
would lie in state beneath the pulpit, and silent
throngs would pass by, and leave their offering of

i$8 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

tears and flowers, and he would overhear their low
comments of affection and remembrance. All that
he had imagined, and now he knew that nothing
of it was true, or ever could be true. He would go
away, and the place that had known him would
know him no more forever. And if he came back,
behold another would possess his heritage, and the
old forms of worship would be going on, but he
would be forgotten, or remembered only as a
recusant.

For a moment, a fractional but intense moment,
these thoughts and fancies raced through his mind;
they passed, and with them the weakness that begot
them. For a moment he envied those whose lives
lay in smooth places, whose feet moved discreetly
in the ordered ways that led to honour among men,
and then his manlier mind prevailed.

It was as though he felt upon his face that cold,
invigorating wind of freedom of which Palmer had
spoken, the wind that calls the soul to the open
places of the world. And then that thrill which he
had so often felt in watching the life of the vast city,
that life in which men took chances and disasters
with such a smiling courage, such a strenuous
eagerness of joy — that old strenuous thrill shot
through his heart afresh with a violence that was
almost painful. Surely in a cause so great he could
not be less courageous than this host of men, whose
incentives to exertion were so much less than his.
And suddenly, with that thought, it seemed as

RENUNCIATION 159

though the past itself sank out of sight, and he could
have laughed aloud at those morbid fancies which
a moment earlier had possessed his mind. A new
joy was born in his heart — the joy of going on.
It is the most vital of all joys, the oldest, the noblest,
out of which have been born all the adventures of the
world — shared alike by the seaman daring strange
seas, the Crusader, the pioneer, the soldier, and
the spiritual captain — greater than them all, — whose
beacon-light is truth, whose goal is wisdom.

He was recalled from his reveries by the voice
of Palmer.

"Well, that is something settled," he said. "And
now for the second principle which should guide us.
Here, I know, you won't hesitate even for a moment.
You must begin with the poor."

Yes, there was no contradiction possible on that
point, since all history proved that all great move-
ments began among the poor.

"You admit the principle too easily," said
Palmer. "You'll find that very few people will agree
with you; that, in fact, the trend of modern thought
is all the other way. We don't object to pitying
the poor, and doing something for them if we have
the opportunity, but who regards them as the one class
truly capable of new ideas ? Yet it is really so, and
that is why Jesus, with an infinite sagacity, went to
the ranks of poverty for His apostles. Wesley did
it, too ; all great reformers have done it. They knew
that the sap rises from the root. We, less wise,

160 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

imagine that the sap permeates downward from
the branches. Can you mention any great reform
that has begun among men of the higher classes?"

"I can think of none/' said Gaunt. "But I can
think of many movements which in the end were
led by men of the higher classes."

"In the end — yes — when the sap had risen. The
fishermen come first, however, and then the em-
perors."

Gaunt laughed. "What a splendid professor of
church history you would have made, Palmer."

"I dare say/' said Palmer, "I could have made it-
interesting. However, let me be serious on this
point, because I regard it as vital. I don't want you
to go to the poor out of pity; if you do, you will fail.
I want you to have a genuine faith in the capacity
of the poor for religious leadership, for then you
will succeed. You've just got to believe in them,
to recognize the potency that is in them. And you'll
find that all sorts of influences will be exerted to
draw you another way, and if you yield to them
you'll lose your battle."

"What kind of influences?"

"Well,your own aristocratic tastes — for one thing.
Oh, you need not laugh — you know you've lived like
an intellectual aristocrat for a good many years, and
you've set up tendencies in your mind which are not
easily destroyed. I never reflect without wonder
on the sort of things Wesley did, when I remember
the sort of man Wesley was. For he was an intel-

RENUNCIATION 161

lectual aristocrat if ever there was one, scholarly,
and fastidious to a fault. Of course he had plenty
of pity for the poor, as a man of his philanthropic
nature would have — he had it even in his Oxford
days. But it was not until he was flung pell-mell
into the arms of the poor by the force of circum-
stance that he learned the lesson which made him
the greatest religious reformer of modern times.
What was that lesson? Why, just this, that the
poor were more accessible to religious ideas, and
infinitely more capable of religious passion, than all
the gentlemen of England put together. So he
took them with all their ignorance and lack of
manners and made them preachers. He trusted
them, and learned to love them. He found them
capable of the kind of heroism which the times de-
manded. They made the movement. They became
its officers and leaders; and they amply justified his
faith in them. By and by the movement permeated
upward — the sap rose. But it began among the
common people, it was generated in their crude
enthusiasm, it succeeded by their sacrifice/'

And so the conversation ranged from point to
point, and with each step Gaunt became more sure
of himself. If Gaunt halted for a moment, Palmer
spurred him on with ever new analogies and ob-
servations drawn from wide world-knowledge and
experience. Very few men of all those who know
the details of Gaunt's subsequent career, know how
large a part Palmer had in shaping it, how this silent

162 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

man, whose voice was hardly ever heard in public,
watched over the soul of his friend with loving
jealousy, and guided his course with the discretion
of a large wisdom and a tireless love. A book has
yet to be written on the silent friends of great re-
formers, the men who stood behind the scenes and
were content to be unknown. If ever it is written,
as it should be written, it will become one of the
great books of the world.

In these midnight conversations the plans of the
new movement were discussed and settled. In these
discussions Margaret Gaunt took a large part, and
here her practical intelligence proved of great value.
Sometimes Gaunt chafed a little under her criti-
cism, and good-humouredly remarked that her func-
tion was evident — it was to put the brake upon the
wheel; to which she replied, as gaily, that as long
as she did not apply the brake when the coach was
going up the hill he had little cause to complain.
It was Margaret Gaunt who insisted that the move-
ment must be started in some conspicuous way,
because in New York publicity was absolutely neces-
sary to success. Palmer, in his enthusiasm for
principles, was content to begin anyhow; he was
indifferent about the exact point at which his lever
should touch the world, being quite assured that
once applied the lever would do its work. Gaunt
took the same view out of humility. The meanest
kind of mission-hall would have contented him. But
Margaret insisted against them both that a big idea

RENUNCIATION 163

must be interpreted in a big way. Ocean liners
wanted sea-room. She instanced Gordon. The
League of Service was his idea, and there never had
been a man better fitted to interpret it to the world.
How was it then that he had done nothing ? Simply
because he shut himself up in a little mission-hall in
an obscure district, as if he wished to be forgotten.
He had spent all his sanctity and genius upon a few
hundreds of people — he, who ought to have been
the spiritual captain of thousands.

"Listen to me," she said. "If Mayfield Avenue
Church is too small for your ideas, how can you
suppose that an obscure mission-hall below Four-
teenth Street will be big enough ? It's all very well
to talk of small beginnings, but this is a day when
small beginnings have small endings, too. Depend
upon it, there's nothing so respected in New York
as audacity. I don't worry myself whether New
York is right or wrong; but I know that there's ex-
cellent authority for not hiding a light under a
bushel. To-day there's no choice but to be con-
spicuous or forgotten."

"When Margaret quotes Scripture, there's no
chance for me," laughed Gaunt.

"It's a very good Scripture, anyhow," retorted
Margaret. "I never did believe that there was much
virtue in humility, at least in that kind of humility
which makes men do little things because they're
easier to do than great things. That kind of hu-
mility looks to me rather like cowardice."

164 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

They argued the matter a long time, until at last
Margaret's view prevailed, for the longer they
studied it the more sound and sagacious did it
appear. Undoubtedly it was true that New York
respected only big ideas which were interpreted in
a big way — it was characteristic of that megalomania
which infected all the thought of the city. It was
a city of immense industries, businesses, and trading
corporations, and the power of each had been built
upon the widest kind of publicity. Politics were
guided by the same instinct. The politician took
care to engage the largest halls, to address as many
thousands as he could reach, to organize an adequate
press report of his ideas. Why should the children
of light be less energetic and sagacious than the chil-
dren of this world? Here was an idea far greater
than politician had ever uttered, a scheme that would
mean far more in the national life than half a century
of politics had meant, a reconstitution of the entire
religious life of the people, the creation of a spiritual
confederacy which would in time dominate both
politics and government, and perhaps supersede
them; and did not this also demand publicity of the
widest kind? It was a grandiose conception — to
flash a new idea, a living and transforming thought,
simultaneously upon the mind of an entire nation;
to write it on the heavens, as it were, so that no man
in the loneliest backwood or the most distant city,
should be able to escape its message; and then for
America to become the religious leader of the world,

RENUNCIATION 165

to give the world the Final Church, which should
include all men and absorb all religions, and should
be indestructible because it was based on pure eternal
truth. . . . Well, if this final triumph was never
reached, still this should be the aim. And to reach
this aim, even to take the first step toward it, there
must be a scheme of action full of daring, which the
world could not ignore.

"We must begin in Madison Square Garden,"
said Margaret, with quiet emphasis.

At this both Gaunt and Palmer vehemently dis-
sented. They declared such an idea impossible and
absurd.

But Margaret was not discouraged. She went on
to impress her ideas with such clearness and preci-
sion that at each stage they appeared more and more
practicable. It was the most central public building
in New York. Poor and rich could reach it easily,
and it was the kind of building from which the poor
would not be deterred. It was probable that the
poor could be better reached, and in larger numbers,
in that vast auditorium, associated with every form
of pleasure, than in any hall of less commanding
reputation in their own exact neighbourhood. It
was said that no human voice could be heard in it;
but that was nonsense, since politicians spoke there
constantly. Then the very vastness of the venture
would appeal to the imagination of the city. People
would throng to the hall in thousands out of mere
curiosity, if for no better reason. And so the League

166 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

of Service would be created in a day. At the first
sound of the trumpet an army would respond to
the call. And then the Press, that omnipotent organ
of publicity, unable to ignore an event so wonderful,
and itself, perhaps, converted to the ideas of the
League, .would disseminate those ideas from the
Atlantic to the Pacific, and they would pass around
the world, like seeds blown by a great wind, which
fall into a thousand soils, and belt the globe with
verdure.

"Yes," she concluded, "the big thing is always
more practicable than the little one. I have much
more faith in you than you have in yourselves —
faith enough to believe that you will succeed."

And so Margaret really became the prophetess of
the new movement.

As objections arose she overcame them one by
one, buoyed up by her faith. Perhaps in the bottom
of her heart she would still have preferred the old
quiet ways; but having once renounced them, her
surrender to the new idea was complete.

"If we are to be poor, we may as well be poor to
some purpose/' she said. "Let us sell everything we
have and make the venture."

And so, one night in Gaunt's quiet library the
last touches were put to the great scheme, and the
last sacrifice determined on. They resolved to ask
no one for money for its initiation. By the sale of
all their property and the realisation of some few
securities which they held, the Gaunts calculated

RENUNCIATION 167

they could raise a few thousand dollars. Palmer,
fired by their example, was ready to turn into cash
about fifty thousand dollars* worth of investments,
which represented the savings of a lifetime. With
this capital at command they could make a start,
and for the rest they had a boundless faith. If they
failed, they would have the consolation of knowing
that it was in a great cause; but their faith thrived
upon their sacrifice, till each reached the sublime
optimism of the enthusiast, who regards failure as
impossible.

XII
FAREWELL THE OLD

THE Mayfield Avenue Church was crowded
to its utmost limits. It was the first Sun-
day morning in February. On the pre-
vious Sunday, Gaunt had announced that on this
Sunday he proposed making a statement which
affected the future of the church and his own relation
to it. This announcement had had the effect which
might have been expected. Curiosity was whetted
to its keenest edge, and speculation ran high. The
Press, which had been silent for several weeks,
awoke into sudden activity. Far and wide para-
graphs had been circulated containing more or less
exact information relating to the church and its
minister. During the week the telephone on Gaunt's
desk had been ringing incessantly. Reporters had
dogged his steps, letters from former members of
the church had reached him, asking for explanations.
To all these people Gaunt had made the same reply —
let them be present on the morning of the first Sun-
day in February, and they would hear all he had to
say; until then he intended to maintain absolute
silence.

Roberts had been among the first to seek an inter-
view with Gaunt. He came early on the Monday

168

FAREWELL THE OLD 169

morning after the announcement, precise and prim
as ever, yet plainly agitated. "What was the nature
of the expected statement?" he asked point-blank.
Gaunt quietly answered him that he would hear in
due course; but this reply was very far from satis-
factory to Roberts. He ventured to hope that Gaunt
was not about to do anything rash or ill-considered.

"Not at all," replied Gaunt. He was at that mo-
ment giving the closest consideration to his state-
ment, and had been engaged in the same considera-
tion for weeks past.

"Ought not such a statement to be made first to
the deacons?'' urged Roberts. They were the au-
thorized managers of the church. They were all
tried friends. They would be glad to advise with
him, and so forth.

Gaunt had his own opinion about the friendship,
which he did not state. On the other points he spoke
plainly.

"I need no advice," he said. "I do not recog-
nize any special right of the deacons to stand be-
tween myself and the congregation in this matter.
What I shall say affects the entire congregation, and
it is to them I prefer to speak."

Roberts' agitation increased each moment. It
was in part resentment at Gaunt's independence.
Ever since the refusal of the salary he had been
chagrined by the knowledge that Gaunt had escaped
from his control, that he had no real hold over him.
It was in part fear. Who could foresee what a man

i;o A PROPHET IN BABYLON

so eccentric as Gaunt might say? Why, he might
rip up the whole past; declare the entire story of
the series of mean economies which Roberts had in-
augurated; repeat things that happened in the
secrecy of deacons' meetings ; in fact, expose Roberts
and his party to ridicule and blame. Or, again, he
might be about to propose some revolutionary policy
to the church. Had he not already discontinued the
vesper service on his own initiative, and covered the
neighbourhood with undignified placards, inviting
people to a week-night service which was in the na-
ture of a crude revival meeting ? Had he not already
attracted to the church a number of people whom no
one wished to see, people of the Plane and Scarlett
type, who could add nothing to the financial strength
of the church, whose very presence, indeed, dimmed
its social prestige ? And now, no doubt, some other
mad scheme was afoot, some wild appeal to the
people, the effect of which would be disastrous to
the dignity of the church. Again Roberts felt, as
he had so often felt, a certain incalculable element
in Gaunt, something that baffled him, that made him
impotent, that dismayed him.

The one thing which he did not suspect was that
Gaunt meditated resignation. He knew perfectly
well that a minister rarely resigned a church with-
out another in view, and he shrewdly calculated that
Gaunt' s position was such that very few churches
would desire his services. For he had talked with
Jordan, and he was aware that Gaunt's reputation

FAREWELL THE OLD 171

was greatly compromised by what nine men out of
ten would describe as his "eccentric behaviour."
And the churches wanted not eccentric men, how-
ever gifted, but safe men. A man in Gaunt's posi-
tion must needs stay on until he had worn out his
congregation or found some too credulous church
willing to entrust its destinies to him. But that he
should resign, that he should go out into the world
penniless, that was a supposition quite incredible to
a man of Roberts' temperament, to whom all forms
of unselfishness are insanity, and all self-sacrifice
imposture. Yet, what Roberts could not see nor
suspect was already evident to most people. It was
particularly evident to Tasker, who called on Gaunt
and spent nearly an hour in timorous remonstrances.
The little man was genuinely grieved at the turn
affairs had taken, and he also hoped that Gaunt was
not about to do anything rash. Not but what a bold
stroke might succeed, but then there were other
things to consider. For instance, it might not. On
general principles he favoured the safe course. No
doubt there had been some misunderstandings, but
then they were not all on one side. These things
acted and reacted. Of course Gaunt would do what
he thought right — and at this the little man's voice
vibrated with a kind of Martin Luther "Here-I-take-
my-stand" accent; but then other people must be
considered, and it was better to be cast into the sea
with a millstone round your neck than to offend
one of these little ones.

A PROPHET IN BABYLON

To which exposition of incompetence Gaunt lis-
tened with amused interest, wondering all the time
how it was possible for men of Tasker's tempera-
ment to go through the world at all, and contrive
to make money enough to live — especially that world
of New York, where the man who did not know
what he wanted usually got nothing at all.

So the week passed, and the morning of the first
Sunday in February had come, Gaunt's last Sunday
in the Mayfield Avenue Church, and the church was
crowded.

The doors were no sooner open than people began
to assemble. Some of the first to arrive were peo-
ple from distant suburbs, former members, who
knew very little of the later developments in the
church. These were soon beckoned into pews occu-
pied by old acquaintances, and wherever they came
a buzz of conversation broke out.

"What does it all mean?" was the one question
bandied to and fro, to which all kinds of conflicting
answers were returned.

"Does he mean resigning?"

"We think so."

"But why? What have you been doing to him?"
said one irascible old gentleman, who had been a
great admirer of Gaunt in the early days of his min-
istry. Thereupon some one began to whisper to
him a long explanation, which evidently afforded
him no satisfaction, for the irascible old gentleman
declaimed in a loud voice that they were a parcel

FAREWELL THE OLD 173

of fools, who didn't know when they were well
off.

He would probably have said much more, but at
this moment Mrs. Somerset swept into the pew,
with a sense of calm proprietorship, although for
months she had not occupied it, and at once elevated
her lorgnette, with an inimitable insolence, as much
as to say : "Dear me, who can all these strange peo-
ple be who have dared to invade the seclusion of a
church where I worship ?"

Still the crowd flowed in, to the evident surprise
of Roberts, who moved up and down the aisles
pale and anxious. Very soon every pew was filled,
and chairs were being placed inside the communion
rails. Among the late comers were several men
prominent in the higher circles of New York life,
whose names were passed from lip to lip in excited
whispers, as they were recognized. With them came
also men of quite another class, plainly dressed in
decent ready-made clothes: men with the sturdy
aspect of superior mechanics, with thoughtful eyes
and good foreheads. There were many young men
and a few fashionably-dressed women who made a
point to miss no notable event in the life of the city,
the kind of women who adore Wagner and the-
osophy one week, and run after the latest preacher
or boy-violinist who may happen to be the fashion,
the next. Every moment brought its sensation, and
the climax came when four reporters were grudg-
ingly afforded places just beneath the pulpit, and

1/4 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

some one started the rumour that the quiet old
gentleman in the corner beneath the gallery, who
had the air of a substantial farmer, was the greatest
millionaire in the world, and that his neighbours
were two celebrated editors. For New York, that
city of sensation, much more avid than the ancient
Athens for any new thing, had divined by some
swift intuition that something strange was fated to
happen to-day, and that behind the suggestive para-
graphs which the Press had flung far and wide,
there was something concealed much more important
than the possible resignation of a noted minister.

Still the people came, till now every chair was
occupied, even the sacred precincts of the choir
gallery were invaded, and the vestibule was rilled
with people for whom no seats could be obtained.
As the time for the commencement of the service
drew near, a solemn hush fell upon the great assem-
bly. And then, as though a magic wand had passed
over the congregation, some of those more serious
elements which had hitherto been concealed began
to manifest themselves. A subtle change passed
over the faces of those who had come through mere
curiosity; the look of levity, that look of vivacious
shallowness so common in a New York crowd, died
away, giving place to grave interest. It was as
though everything in the aspect of these faces had
deepened; something real was urging its way
through the veneer of the artificial, so that the lines
grew sharp, the very eyes had deeper colour, the

FAREWELL THE OLD 175

fashion of the countenance was changed. And now,
too, the nobler and graver faces in the crowd chal-
lenged the observant eye. There were many such,
the faces of men and women who had looked upon
the tragedy of life; whose eyes had known the
terror of solitary thought, and retained the shadow
of that terror. What did they expect? They could
not have said; but yet they betrayed the conscious-
ness of some vast anticipation, as though from some
high tower of silence they waited for the day-spring.
And in some subtle, wholly inexplicable manner,
they seemed to communicate their own emotion to
the crowd, till that waiting look suffused the entire
congregation. It spread like an invisible wave, sub-
merging in its flow all meaner elements, so that at
last the silence became almost painful in its in-
tensity. And then, with a shock that thrilled the
nerves, the first low note of the organ shook the air,
and the strain was relaxed. The service had com-
menced.

Handel's Largo had been chosen for the volun-
tary, that majestic and triumphant expression of
human desire and yearning which no familiarity can
cheapen; the slow, mighty strains filled the place
with a sea of sound, and gradually passed into the
familiar chords of the Old Hundred, at which the
whole congregation rose.

" Praise Him above, ye heavenly host,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost/

176 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

sung the entire congregation, and with the last line
of the hymn Gaunt entered the pulpit. He wore no
pulpit robes; he had laid them aside for the first
time; and their absence accentuated the firm lines
of his slight figure. He was pale but composed;
only the hands, tightly clasped before him, sug-
gested the nervous strain he suffered. As he stood
there, perfectly silent in that sea of sound, a strong
impression of great loneliness was created. He had
not the majestic height of Gordon, he had not his
classic beauty of feature; but some of the older men
there, who remembered Gordon as he was in his
prime, were instantly reminded of him as they
looked on Gaunt. There was the same height and
breadth of brow, over which the dark hair fell in a
tangled cloud, the same grave and sweet expression
of the lips; but the chief likeness lay in the sense
of intensity, of aloofness, which the face conveyed —
that unmistakable glow and solitariness which one
recognizes on the faces of all great enthusiasts.
Those who had not known Gordon simply noted
that Gaunt had the face of a dreamer, the deep mag-
netic eyes of one who saw visions; a poet's face,
thought some; a musician's face, thought others;
only here and there were those who gasped the truer
diagnosis, and said, "A Prophet's face."

To write these things takes much longer than it
did to realize them. The impression thus created
on a thousand minds was rapid, instinctive, instan-
taneous. Gaunt lifted his hand slowly and uttered

FAREWELL THE OLD 177

a few words of simple invocation. His voice, a high
sweet tenor, of unusual clearness, floated over the
crowd like the soft stroke upon a silver bell, and
compelled attention. It ceased, and once more the
strain was relaxed. People settled into their seats
with low rustlings. The reporters sharpened their
pencils; the artist for a daily journal produced his
drawing block and began to sketch the preacher. It
was once more a typical New York crowd, eager,
curious, avid of sensation, whose interrogatory
eyes seemed to say : "What have we come out into
the wilderness to see ?"

The service moved on in its usual stately course.
There were two anthems, sung exquisitely by the
quartette, for in Mayfield Avenue Church fine music
was a tradition. But this morning they attracted
no attention. The people listened indifferently, al-
most impatiently, watching for the moment when
Gaunt would speak. There was but one sensation:
when the hymn before the sermon was reached
Gaunt directed the attention of his hearers to the
order of service in their pews, whereon was a hymn
not found in the ordinary hymnal; but it was the
most suitable he could find for the occasion.
The hymn was "Rescue the Perishing/'
He read the first verse slowly with intense em-
phasis :

"Rescue the perishing, care for the dying,
Snatch them in pity from sin and the grave;
Weep o'er the erring one, lift tip the fallen,
Tell them of Jesus, the mighty to save."

i;8 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

The members of the quartette, two of them cele-
brated concert-singers, looked at each other in sym-
pathetic disdain. The organist turned to them and
smiled. When Gaunt had given them the hymn for
practice on Saturday night, the organist had re-
marked with some heat that the tune wasn't even
music, it was mere gimcrack amateurism. The
quartette, of course, shared his views, and hence
their ironical glances. He felt his organ was dis-
graced by the performance of such doggerel, and
he played the air as badly as he dared. But to his
surprise every one seemed to know the hymn. They
sang it with such heartiness that the organ was in
danger of being drowned.

"Rescue the perishing, care for the dying "

What memories the hymn evoked ! The thoughts
of many in that throng went back to the great spirit-
ual movements of an earlier time, when that hymn,
sung by thousands upon thousands in vast halls, had
conquered the most fastidious, penetrated alike cot-
tages and mansions, and had even invaded whole
cities with its simple pathos and infectious melody.
The thoughts of others went back to hill-side farms,
and shingled meeting-houses in the lonely fields,
and, perhaps, to mothers and fathers long since dead,
and brothers and sisters long since separated, all of
whom had once sung that hymn. And the thoughts
of some, it may be, invoked painful memories of
friends and children, gone far hence, no one knew

FAREWELL THE OLD 179

where, into the desert-places of the world where
folly finds a refuge, and dishonour the shelter of
obscurity. So all sang it, even the fashionably-
dressed women who knew no God but Wagner; and
somehow, before it was done, the organ was pouring
out its fullest music, and the members of the quar-
tette were leading and dominating all that wave
of sound, and had forgotten their disdain.

"Back to the narrow way patiently win them,
Tell the poor wand'rer a Saviour had died,"

sung the people, and then came a great silence, for
at last Gaunt had risen to address them.

He took no text; he began abruptly with a ques-
tion : Did they believe in the spirit and meaning of
the hymn which they had just sung? The perishing,
the fallen, the wandering — they were everywhere.
There was not a street in New York in which they
might not be found. The tragedy represented in
these words was found in Fifth Avenue palaces as
well as East Side slums. For wherever men had not
the right ideals of life they were perishing; wher-
ever they sinned against those ideals they were
fallen; wherever they forgot them they were wan-
dering.

The hymn spoke of rescuing the perishing — did
they believe that rescue was possible? Of course
they would say that they did; it would be incon-
sistent with their pride in human nature and the
orthodox creed of Christianity, to say otherwise.

i8o A PROPHET IN BABYLON

But men only really believed what they practised.
Had they ever really tried to rescue any one, who,
from whatever cause, was perishing, or fallen, or
wandering? Did the Church itself conform to the
ideal of a vast Rescue Society, affording its help to
those who needed it most? Was it not evident
enough that the chief function of the modern
Church appeared to be not to capture the sinners, but
to coddle the saints — and poor saints at that, he
added.

A smile went round the congregation. The clos-
ing epigram stuck, and the reporters noted it, as a
capital headline for "the story" that would adorn
the papers next morning.

Gaunt was so intent upon his theme that he did
not notice this demonstration. He went on with
unruffled gravity to develop his address. He drew
a rapid, vivid picture of the complexity and confu-
sion of New York life: one set of people half-
frantic with the pursuit of pleasure, another of
gold ; the flaring, splendid city, where even the night
brought no hours of stillness, pouring out its life in
a passion of work and waste, and all the time men
and women falling by the way, crushed, unnoticed
beneath this flower-decked Juggernaut of gold —
genius sucked down into the mire of shame, talents
thrown away, honour despoiled; and towering over
all, the Church, august, magnificent, but dumb, help-
less, deafened by the clamour, and more and more
forgotten by the thoughtless crowd who mocked its

FAREWELL THE OLD 181

impotence. And then, with a burst of passion, he
pictured how the best men of all countries, weary
of the Church, were combining in their own way to
help the world which the Church had forgotten.
America had its labour unions, entirely independent
of the Church; Russia had its secret revolutionary
tribunals; France had had its "Christs of the bar-
ricades."

"Think," he cried, "of what has been going on
in Russia for fifty years. Picture to the mind that
immense army of heroic men and women, who have
tramped in chains all the three thousand miles from
Moscow to Siberia upon a road of infamy, suffering
every indignity, exposed to shameful insult, living
and dying in an exile worse than death, and all for
what? That some day, through their sacrifice, jus-
tice and liberty might be won for Russia. Oh, it is
no longer under the Cross of Christ that the great
sacrifices are being made for the regeneration of
mankind; it is under the flag of politics; it may be
even under the blood-stained flag of revolution.
And what road of wounds have we ever trodden
for the sake of mankind? We, the representatives
of a church whose symbol is the Cross? Alas,
is it not true, even of the best of us, that our reli-
gion has been a gratification — rarely or never a
sacrifice ?"

He paused a moment, his face tense and pale, his
voice vibrating. Reproach, pity, accusation all
mingled in its tone; and through all there throbbed

182 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

something deeper, a certain wailing note, the sob of
the soul.

Then he began to speak again in more even tones.
What did these things mean? They indicated a
world-wide movement, whose dominant note was
hostility to the Church. One day it was Russia,
another it was France, but the same thing always:
the story of men seeking to deliver their brethren
from bondage without reference to the Church, be-
cause they had learned to regard the Church either
as effete or else as the friend of wealth, the ally of
tyranny, the enemy of progress. Yet the Church
probably contained the majority of the best people
on earth, people who were kindly, charitable, and
incapable of wilful cruelty. What could explain
such an almost incredible paradox? Simply this,
that the Church had forgotten, except in isolated
lives and instances, the original mandate to seek and
save the lost. It existed for self-culture, not for
conquest. It had lost its world-vision, its early
flame of propaganda. It was content to maintain
its life by the accretions of the hereditary good, the
people to whom church-going was a tradition,
though even that tradition was fast losing its au-
thority. And worse than all, and at the root of all,
was an absolutely wrong conception of what mem-
bership in the Church of Christ meant. It meant
with many a creed ; with others a profession of faith
or experience. But this was never the intention of
its Founder. He attached no importance to what

FAREWELL THE OLD 183

men said, whether it was about themselves or Him.
His test was at once more severe and more simple.
It was to follow Him, to do the things He did, to
reproduce His spirit and His life. In other words,
the one unalterable ideal of all membership in a
Christian church was service. To live for others,
actively, positively; to be always thinking of them,
toiling for them, suffering for them, and if needs be,
ready to die for them; to do this, each man for him-
self, not leaving it to the occasional hero, or paying
missionaries to do it for us; this was the one eternal
ideal of Christianity. Because the Church had for-
gotten the ideal of service, she had failed; she had
but to recover this ideal to attract to her multitudes,
of men who were now hostile to her, not because
they disbelieved her truths, but because she herself
had denied them.

And then the climax came, with the same abrupt-
ness which had marked the opening question of his
address. For a moment Gaunt stood perfectly still,
slowly letting his gaze sweep across the eager con-
gregation. It was a long gaze of farewell, of renun-
ciation; and those nearest to him read its meaning.

"The Church in its present form cannot conquer
the world. The form, therefore, must perish that
the spirit may be freed. Let us demolish all but the
imperishable foundations; let us build a new church
whose only creed is love, whose only test is service.

"To this great end I pledge my life.

"To accomplish it my first step is clear. From this

184 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

church, and from all churches, I pass out to-day
and forever.

"A month from to-day, on the first Sunday of
March, I shall endeavour to interpret the ideals I
have announced in practice.

"I shall invite all who feel the need for such a
movement to meet me in Madison Square Garden,
where the first meeting of the League of Service
will be held."

The sensational moment for which the congrega-
tion had so long waited had come at last. "A
League of Service" — "Madison Square Garden" —
involuntarily a thousand lips repeated the words,
some in pure astonishment, some in consternation,
not a few in derision. The reporters alone were
exultant: they had found a much bigger "story"
than had seemed possible. The church buzzed like
a hive. No one heard the last hymn announced. It
seemed to peal forth of itself, as if the soul of the
organ had found a voice — it alone responding to the
daring of the voice that had just ceased.

"Onward Christian soldiers,
Marching as to war."

During the singing of the hymn Gaunt left the
pulpit and the church.

XIII

AN INTERVIEW

GMJNT left the church by his vestry door,
and walked rapidly through the deserted
streets to Central Park. He felt an im-
perious need of solitude. Not then could he have
spoken even to those who most shared his intimacy;
he was realizing that in all the great moments of
life, whether of triumph or defeat, lover and friend
are put far from us. Hitherto his course had been
largely shaped by others — by Palmer, by Gordon,
by the practical but daring counsels of his wife. He
had been conscious of a force not born within him-
self, that had carried him whither he would not, a
wind of God that had taken him up and borne him
afar. He was conscious of that still; but now he
resumed the captaincy of his own soul; and with a
sense of awe and utter humbleness he realized that
henceforth he must guide others, he was the ap-
pointed leader, and he sought the baptism of soli-
tude for the strengthening of his spirit.

The winter sunshine filled the Park; the air was
crisp and sparkling. Already the faint footsteps
of advancing spring could be heard, as one who
hears beneath the ice the flow of living rivers. His
own mind caught at the parable. The ice of con-

185

186 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

vention which had long imprisoned his heart was
breaking, the living waters of a new faith and pur-
pose were rising. A gush of thankfulness, which
was almost ecstasy, flooded all his nature. Hope, an
angel with furled bright wings, walked beside him,
talking with him in a joyous language.

To men upon the brink of great battles God
allows such hours, for without them great battles
could not be fought. Ecstasy visits man but rarely;
it is the sacred wine God keeps for the great occa-
sions and the sacramental feasts of life. Gaunt
drank of it now, and tasted its divine inebriation.
He trod on air, his feet were among the stars.
Failure seemed impossible, conquest certain. And
if success came, it would not be his; he was but
the vehicle of some Higher Power, his warfare but
the vindication of mighty strategies designed long
since in the council chambers of the Infinite. He
rested in that thought, conscious of his entire relin-
quishment of self. Henceforth he was a surren-
dered man, his life a surrendered life. In the eternal
rhythm of things he had found his place; no longer
would he know the vain perturbations of pride, or
enmity, or inordinate desire; whatever happened he
would not know them, for he had found the peace
that passeth understanding. The battle might go ill
or well, but for him the issue was assured.

In the meantime the sensation created by Gaunt' s
action was immense.

AN INTERVIEW 187

"It is a dreadful mistake," said Tasker, in a
lamentable voice. "If he had only consulted

me."

"He is intoxicated with vanity," said Small, in
angry tones. "Madison Square Garden, indeed ! You
mark my words, he won't attract a hundred people,
and it holds twenty thousand."

"He^s mad," said Roberts, vindictively. "I told
him so long ago. I saw it coming on; and warned
him. The church will never recover from to-day's
disgrace."

All over the church people gathered in groups dis-
cussing the affair. The verdict appeared general
that Gaunt was mad. It was the bigness of the
scheme that stunned them. Had Gaunt merely re-
signed to accept another call, or to enter on some
evangelistic work upon a humble scale, they could
have understood it; but the idea of Madison Square
Garden, of a League of Service which was meant to
absorb all churches, and supplant them, overwhelmed
them.

There were others, however, to whom the very
bigness of the idea was its attraction. Within an
hour of the close of the service there was a hasty
editorial discussion in the office of the most influ-
ential newspaper in New York. Its editor had been
one of those who had heard Gaunt.

"He will go far — he has a great idea, and he
believes in it," was his outspoken comment.

He was a man accustomed to handling big ques-

188 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

tions in a big way. In the public life of New York
no man exercised such influence as Butler of The
Daily Light. By many he was accounted cynical,
by others unscrupulous ; but no one ever doubted the
singular penetration of his judgment. He possessed
in its extreme development that journalistic sense —
a kind of sixth sense — which discerns instinctively the
course human thought and events are likely to take.
Again and again he had taken up causes which
seemed insignificant and unpopular, and in a few
weeks had made them the burning questions of de-
bate throughout the nation. As he listened to Gaunt
that morning, he had again discerned such a cause.
He was not religious in any conventional sense, but
like most intellectual men of his calibre he took a
deep private interest in religion. Those who called
him a cynic had often been surprised to find in his
editorials a kind of prophetic note, which seemed
wholly at variance with his caustic and biting style.
The fact was that his cynicism was but the reverse
side of his moral earnestness. He knew too much
of the seamy side of life to have much respect for
men and their motives; but, perhaps that very knowl-
edge made him all the more vigilant to discover a
man whose motives were really pure, and all the
readier to welcome him.

He had gone to hear Gaunt that morning in search
of a sensation, but the simplicity and directness of
Gaunt's address had first charmed him, and then set
him thinking. He had expected the usual common-

AN INTERVIEW 189

place of the religious enthusiast, and he had heard
them too often to attach much value to them. They
were almost always the fruit of ignorance and fanat-
icism. But here was a man who had genuine ideas,
and, as he soon perceived, ideas based on wide and
clear deductions. He listened with the interest that
any intellectual man has in the exposition of real
ideas. The leaves of his own life were turned back.
In the first flush of his youth he had been attracted
by the ministry, and had been designed for it by his
father, himself a famous minister. But he had sor-
rowfully confessed that there was too much in his
father's life to make the idea of the ministry attract-
ive to himself. He had seen his father persecuted
for heresy, suffering all kinds of humiliations at the
hands of little and ungenerous men, triumphing over
them in the end, it was true, but at what a price ? He
had died at fifty, worn out with the long contention,
and it was at his father's death-bed Butler had re-
nounced the ministry. He entered the eager world
of journalism, rose rapidly, and at forty occupied
the editorial chair of The Daily Light. But his
interest in religion had never left him. He had
struck many hard blows against mere religiosity,
but never one against religion. And now, as Gaunt
spoke, he found his own early ideas of religion
miraculously reinvigorated. A Church wholly
freed from creed, wholly based on service — yes, he
had once imagined such a thing possible, a thing to
dream of, at least; and here at last was a man who

190 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

believed in it not as a dream, but as a practicable
reality.

There was another thing, too, which attracted
Butler. He knew, better than most men, for from
his desk he touched the centres of thought in every
country, how true it was that in every country there
was a revolt against organized forms of religion. The
legions of that revolt could be counted by millions.
What if the time had really come to interpret this
revolt, to rescue it from the cold shadows of nega-
tion, to weld the idea into a vast constructive force ?
What if the man had come at last capable of this
crusade, a crusade which would appeal to all the
thinking people of America, and not of America
alone, but of all lands not heathen ?

His blood thrilled at the thought, and then ran
cold with caution.

The supreme journalistic sense was now thor-
oughly awake and vigilant. He was tempted to play
for such tremendous stakes, but he must be sure that
he made no error in his judgment. He listened to
Gaunt with the keenest criticism, weighing every
word, watching every gesture, absorbed in the en-
deavour to read his soul. He satisfied himself of
Gaunt' s sincerity and the dynamic force of his ideas.
But there still remained one question. They were
big ideas, but could he interpret them in a big way ?
Then there came the abrupt announcement of a
League of Service, and a movement which needed
nothing less than the vast auditorium of Madison

AN INTERVIEW 191

Square Garden for its inauguration ! Butler's heart
shouted in him. He saw at a glance all the possi-
bilities of the new movement; he felt rather than
recognized the advent of the "psychologic mo-
ment."

"He will go far; he has a great idea. I believe
in it," he said. "And I will support him/' he added.

That was why there was a hasty editorial con-
sultation in the office of The Daily Light, while
Gaunt was communing with his soul in Central
Park.

"Give it headlines, and two columns at least/1 he
said. "I will write an editorial on it. This is the
biggest thing that has happened in a generation, I
tell you."

"No bigger than the insurance scandals, surely,"
said the sub-editor.

"Pooh, that only touched men's pockets. This
touches their thoughts, themselves, their souls. In
a month's time nothing else will be talked of from
New York to San Francisco."

The incredulous sub-editor went away endeavour-
ing to fortify himself with the recollection of other
occasions on which his chief had proved mysteriously
right when every one else had supposed him wrong;
and Butler sat down to write his editorial.

It was a striking editorial: every one acknowl-
edged that next morning. It was one of those per-
fectly balanced pieces of reasoning and generalisa-
tion which can be achieved only by trained skill, at

IQ2 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

its highest point of efficiency; yet it had heat in it, a
flame of passionate conviction, all the more impres-
sive by being restrained.

Butler noticed with a grim pleasure that at all
events he had not misinterpreted the sensational
value of the incident, for three-fourths of the New
York papers gave full reports of Gaunt's address,
with more or less sympathetic comments.

Yet, it must be owned, Butler was not without
certain qualms of misgiving. He knew too well
the levity of the New York mind, its strange ca-
prices, the rapidity with which it enthroned popular
idols, and the recklessness with which it forgot them.
It came to him suddenly that it was ten chances to
one that Gaunt was not the sort of man who knew
how to organize victory. And this was a case in
which victory must be organized. He resolved to
see Gaunt at once. It was late in the afternoon when
Butler arrived at Gaunt's house. He found him
seated at his library table with Palmer, and both
men were busy over an immense pile of letters and
telegrams which had arrived since the morning.
Gaunt hastened to thank him for his article, com-
menting on its generosity.

"Well, it is about that article I have come," said
Butler. "You will not need to be told that I agree
in your position. But we are only at the beginning
of the battle, and if I am really to help you I must
have some knowledge of your plans of campaign."

He spoke in dry, clear tones, with a certain busi-

AN INTERVIEW 193

ness-like precision. Gaunt felt a sense of disap-
pointment. He had imagined from the article that
its writer was capable of enthusiasm : he saw before
him a middle-aged man, with a pale, serious face,
a fine head partly bald, fringed with iron-gray hair,
and rather the appearance of a clever lawyer than
of the prophetic exponent of religious ideas. Butler
easily guessed the nature of Gaunt's impression.

"Oh, I'm a very practical man," he resumed. "For
all I know you may be one, too; but I imagine you
are better able to conceive great ideas than to equip
them with practical forms."

"I am afraid that is true, in the latter clause at
least, and my only consolation is that my friend
Palmer is less practical than I," replied Gaunt.

"Probably that is where I may be of service/'
said Butler.

He then began to engage both men in conversa-
tion, using all his diplomatic skill to draw out their
thoughts. An hour passed, they were still talking,
and not once had this vigilant inquisition into
Gaunt's ideas and character been relaxed. Yet so
skilful was Butler that Gaunt had been conscious
of no inquisition. He had yielded himself up wholly
to Butler's interrogations, with a sincerity and mod-
esty which deepened Butler's regard for him, and
quickened Butler's sense of Gaunt's intellectual
qualities.

"And now," said the great editor, "I think we
understand each other. May I presume upon a very

194 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

short acquaintance to give you some practical
hints?"

"Certainly. You will increase my obligation."

"Well, then," said Butler, "don't be above using
plain and rough weapons. I don't ask you to lower
your standards in any way; but recollect the world
is a pretty rough place, dominated by practical
forces, and therefore impatient of purely abstract
ideas. Do you mind telling me what is the nature
of that pile of telegrams and letters which I see upon
the table?"

"Not at all," said Gaunt. "Most of them are full
of kindly enthusiasm; not more than two or three
are hostile."

"But do they put no questions?"

"Why, yes. Almost everybody wants to know
what I propose to do."

"Exactly. They approve the idea, but they want
to reduce it to practical forms."

"Isn't it early to ask that?"

"Not at all. Do you know what every one in New
York is asking to-day? They are saying, Is this
man a dreamer or a man of action? Oh, I know
that to be capable of great dreams is the noblest
distinction in the world — all great men have been
dreamers who have dreamed true. But the men
who have really moved the world have been men
who knew how to make their dreams come true.
I need not give you instances — you can easily supply
them, — but I suppose Loyola is as striking as any.

AN INTERVIEW 195

He had his dream, and as long as he lived in his
dream, he was stoned out of every city he entered,
and was regarded as a madman. Then he came
down to practical details, organized an order, bent
the whole force of his character to the task, and
before he died had conquered the world. My friend,
you have to organize. Keep your dream — Loyola
kept it; you are worth nothing without it. But make
haste to give it practical form, for the world will
only listen to the dreamer when he speaks with au-
thority and condescends to details."

"I think I see some of these details clearly," said
Gaunt.

"Well, describe them."

"They are but suggestions as yet : they won't bear
much handling. The idea of an order of some
kind; yes, that is imperative. We must create a
bond, a sense of unity, of fellowship. That is where
the Church is strong, and we cannot better her expe-
rience."

"A fellowship — that's your better word, isn't it?
But of whom, and for what?"

"A fellowship of all who love in the service of all
who suffer."

"Capital," said Butler. "Make that your motto.
Remember I'm an editor, and your words will be
taken as evidence against you."

"And I think we must have something to dis-
tinguish us, some outward badge or sign."

"Not the friar's garb, I hope," laughed Palmer.

196 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"No, it must not be anything that separates men
from their fellows. It must be something that men
can wear at their work, women in the house, youths
at college. Something so small that it cannot be
thought ostentatious: yet so significant that it tells
its story."

"Yes, that is also good. Men love badges, espe-
cially Americans," said Butler. "Besides, I've al-
ways thought it a great advantage to get a man into
such a situation that he is bound to confess his re-
ligion. When a man is very anxious to conceal his
religion I always conclude that he has none to
conceal."

"I think that is as far as my thoughts have gone,"
said Gaunt, simply.

"Well, it's as far as I want you to go at present,"
said Butler. "You've given me material enough
to go on with for a day or two, and when I'm
through, I'll come for more."

"But you're not going to publish all I've said,"
said Gaunt, in some alarm.

"Well, not all; just enough for present purposes.
Do you know, sir, that there's a whole month to be
bridged over before your appearance in Madison
Square Garden? A month is a long time in the
memory of New York — time enough for the great-
est men to be forgotten. Now I don't propose that
you shall be forgotten. Remember I don't claim to
be a religious man, and please don't count on me
to wear your badge when you invent it. I am merely

AN INTERVIEW 19;

an editor whose work it is to interpret the ideas of
the world, and to get before the other fellow in the
business if I can. I believe in your ideas. I'll even
go so far as to say that if ever I formulate a religion
for myself again, it will be on your model. But
that's neither here nor there. I am going to take
up your cause because I believe that the mind and
conscience of the world are ripe for it. I am only
anxious on one point — and you know what that is.
Get your whole plan into working order as fast as
ever you can, so that when not a couple of hundred
people through telegrams and letters, but twenty
thousand people with the living voice ask you in
Madison Square Garden : 'What would'st thou have
us to do ?' you may know how to answer them with
the categorical imperative."

The fagged, lined face had grown very serious
during this speech; it now broke into a pleasant
smile.

"I'm afraid I've taken the liberty of preaching to
you. Well, I can't help it. An editor is always
preaching, and besides, it runs in my blood. My
father was a minister."

Butler made ready to leave the room and was
already at the door, when something in the denuded
aspect of the room struck him. There were no
pictures on the walls, no rug upon the polished floor,
and the bookcases showed large gaps.

He turned back, and then said, with some hesita-
tion : "I would like to put one more question if you

198 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

will let me? This is not for publication. How do
you propose to raise the sinews of war for this
campaign ?"

"Palmer will tell you; he knows all about it," said
Gaunt.

"We have raised between sixty and seventy thou-
sand dollars. That will serve us for a start/' said
Palmer.

"We? Who?"

"Gaunt and I," said Palmer, with quiet dignity.

Butler understood. Palmer had taken little part
in the conversation, and naturally Butler's mind had
been wholly taken up with Gaunt. He now looked
more searchingly at Palmer, and at once guessed the
secret Palmer would have wished to conceal. So
this was how the money was being raised? Palm-
er's manner showed his share in it ; Gaunt's de-
nuded library told its own tale. If Butler had had
any misgivings in lending his powerful support to
Gaunt and his cause, those misgivings had vanished
utterly. For he saw that which never fails to move
and attract even the most worldly man, the spectacle
of self-sacrifice. In a sudden flash of memory he
recollected all the men whom he had supported from
time to time — politicians, candidates for office, the
vendors of new social ideas, men of letters, — all of
them men of conspicuous gifts, but how rarely had
he found in them the least element of self-sacrifice !
He had found much hungry vanity; even in the best
of them he had discovered that their apparent ab-

AN INTERVIEW 199

sorption in ideas did not prevent a very astute rec-
ognition of the commercial value to themselves of
those ideas. But here were men who seemed to be
wholly free from that spirit of self-seeking which so
constantly poisoned the idealism of American life.
They had given all; they asked for nothing. He
was not, as he had said, a religious man, but he knew
his Bible almost by heart. And he found himself
breathing, as it were, the pure atmosphere of the
Gospels for a moment. He remembered that the
distinctive quality of Jesus had been just this : that
He had given all to the world and asked nothing
of it, and because He had given all, had won all.

There was a certain wonder in his gaze as he
looked upon the two men, sitting in the denuded
room. He had seen many strange sights in his
long experience of men, but he had never yet met
men like Gaunt and Palmer. He could hardly have
supposed it possible that such men could have lived
in that seething whirlpool of frantic self-interest
which was called New York. If he had already ad-
mired Gaunt, and respected his ideas, now he did
far more: he was willing to recognize his right of
spiritual leadership.

"I suppose you intend leaving this house?" he
said.

"We leave to-morrow. I ought to have told
you," said Gaunt.

"Where do you propose living?"

"In Washington Square. At first I wanted to live

200 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

in the slums, in close contact with the poor, but I
have been overruled, as I now think wisely. I shall
need a central house, for it must be accessible to all
sorts and conditions of people. And I shall need
a large house, for it must be a sort of Hospice for all
forms of distress. Palmer is joining me in the ven-
ture. Do you approve ?"

"Heartily," said Butler. "You couldn't do a
wiser thing, and it modifies my hasty suspicion of
your organizing ability."

Gaunt laughed cheerfully.

"Oh, it was not my idea, I assure you. It was
my wife's. You see I have good advisers, and I
should like to add you to the number."

"1 rather think I've already added myself," re-
turned Butler.

Butler shook hands heartily with the two men.
He went away with more of elation in his thoughts
than he had known for many years; for he saw now
that he had not only judged rightly in regard to
the fundamental ideas of the new movement, but
that he was not mistaken in its leader.

He no longer said, "Gaunt has great ideas." He
began now to say, "Gaunt is a great man."

XIV
THE HOUSE OF JOY

THE plan of living in Washington Square
was, as Gaunt had said, due to the prac-
tical intelligence of his wife.
For her own part, she was as willing as her hus-
band to live in the barest rooms in the poorest quarter
of the city. The less they spent the more would they
have to give, was her prudent principle. But as the
new movement outlined itself before her with in-
creasing distinctness, she perceived that it probably
would embrace all classes. Of course the move-
ment must go to the poor first. She heartily believed
in the principle that all great religious movements
began with the poor. But they do not stay there.
Besides, the very conception of a League of Service
implied bringing the rich into contact with the poor.
It meant the mobilisation of wealth in the service
of poverty, of culture in the service of ignorance.
Therefore the location of the movement must be
central, and for that reason she insisted on Madison
Square Garden. For the same reason she now
thought of Washington Square for their own home.
It was the most central location in New York, and
it was close enough to the poor to retain the idea

201

202 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

that the first object of the movement was for their
benefit.

Here Palmer came to her aid in an unexpected
fashion. He and his sister had long lived in Wash-
ington Square, attracted by the old-fashioned spa-
ciousness of its houses, from which fashion had long
since departed. The one luxury they allowed them-
selves was a house with large rooms; in every other
respect their life was as simple as life in a log-
cabin. They had never furnished the upper part
of the house, and had resisted many tempting offers
to let it for office purposes. It now occurred to
them that the house might be easily adapted for
the purposes of the League.

They both hailed with delight the idea of Gaunt's
coming to live with them. From that idea there was
evolved the larger idea of something in the nature of
community life. Esther Palmer was one of those
gentle and reserved women who endure loneliness of
life without complaint, but who are all the time look-
ing for some object which can give a larger interest
to their thoughts. She had long ago given up all
visions of marriage; she lived for her brother. But
there were many hours in each day when he was
absent, and she felt the lack of some positive exact-
ing duty. She read much, painted a little, studied
music with some success, but none of these employ-
ments really filled the void in her life. One winter
she took a course of classes in biology, less from any
real aptitude for science than from the desire to fill

THE HOUSE OF JOY 203

her time. She attended to her brother's corre-
spondence, sometimes wrote at his dictation an essay
for the heavier magazines, and at all times followed
his legal studies with much more appreciation than
women are commonly able to display for severe and
technical themes. She had come almost to the verge
of middle life without losing her girlish grace and
freshness. Her face was a perfect oval, with a
Madonna-like sweetness and composure, belied a
little, however, by the wistful expression of the eyes.
She was in some danger of becoming a blue-stock-
ing; under proper guidance she might have become
an authoress. But the years passed, and her devo-
tion to her brother gradually swallowed up all other
interests; and yet, in her heart, she still yearned
for some broader avenue of activity, some interest
that would lift her out of the happy monotony of
her life.

The idea of the League of Service at once ap-
pealed to her, and as Palmer developed his plans, she
discerned the value of the idea of community life.

Why not make their house not only Gaunt' s home,
but the expression of a new ideal of living? Fellow-
ship should surely have its expression not only in
public ways, but in the method of their own life.
Gaunt himself gave the last formulating touch to
the idea when he spoke of a Hospice.

She at once plunged into the scheme with de-
lighted alacrity. The old house was transformed.
The large dining-room was made a refectory, and

204 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

they resolved to keep open table. Most of the
familiar furniture was sold, and replaced by furniture
of the simplest type. A long, plain, oak table occu-
pied the centre of the room. Rugs and carpets were
replaced by a bare, stained floor. The walls were
painted white, after the fashion of the old conven-
tual refectories. At the end of the room, facing the
tall windows, was the large engraving of Velas-
quez's Christ on the Cross which had formerly hung
in Gaunt's library; this was the one touch of art
which they permitted. The upstair rooms were
treated with the same simplicity. Some were meant
to be occupied by any workers or assistants who
might give themselves to the cause. Others were
reserved for cases of distress, for the broken man
who had no place to lay his head, the penitent
daughter of shame who needed immediate rescue, or
the deserted child. For, above all, the house was
to be a Hospice. It must keep an open door to all
the world. It must typify in its own way the ideal
of fellowship.

A Hospice — the very word kindled Palmer's en-
thusiasm.

"It's something that has ceased to exist, even in
Catholic communities, in any vital form," he said.
"There was a time when the religious houses of
Europe were the houses of the people, dispensing
generously to all comers, and making no distinctions.
Catholicism has lost the ideal. Protestantism never
had it. We will revive it."

THE HOUSE OF JOY 205

"I am afraid we shan't look like nuns and monks,
however," laughed Margaret. "We all look too
happy."

"Of course," said Palmer. "And that's where the
novelty comes in. Religion has never yet gone into
partnership with Joy. It has been afraid to. I sup-
pose it is because Religion has always seen men and
women plastered over with dreadful theological la-
bels; but we see them just as men and women."

"Let us call our Hospice the House of Joy !" ex-
claimed Gaunt.

"Splendid !" exclaimed Palmer. "That's the note
we want to strike. We've heard too much of the
pains and penalties of service; let us emphasize the
truth that a life of service is the only joyous life."

So, to the great astonishment of passers-by, the
door of the house bore upon its white surface the
inscription in golden letters,

THE HOUSE OF JOY.

And certainly, if ever house knew the presence of
joy, it was this old house in Washington Square in
that week when the Gaunts came to live in it. They
and the Palmers passed from room to room with the
interest of children, examining the simple fitments,
expatiating on the uses to which they would put them,
the four happiest people in New York. Those rooms
had doubtless known many merry gatherings; light
feet had danced upon the floors, brides had come

206 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

down the great staircase with lips athirst for love,
song and revel had filled the rooms, but in all its
history no such joy had dwelt there as in these days.
Outside New York span like a roaring wheel, with
its willing martyrs bound upon it, its crowds of men
and women who sought with tortured lips some living
spring in the whirl of sterile, empty days, and sought
in vain; inside there was a great peace, and the water
of contentment, and the bread of perfect fellowship.

The life within did not belie that daring legend
on the door. It was indeed the House of Joy.

One of the first visitors they received was Gordon.
Gaunt had recognized him in the congregation in
Mayfield Avenue Church on the occasion of his fare-
well address, and among the letters which had most
cheered him was one from Gordon. The old man
was delighted with what he saw : it was a realisation
of his own early dreams.

"It makes me young again to see all this," he
said. "I am very far from saying, 'Now, Lord, let-
test thou Thy servant depart in peace/ I am much
more inclined to say, 'Now, Lord, let me live and
work/ I am tempted to join you."

"Why not?" said Gaunt, delightedly.

"I am afraid I should not be worth my salt. Some
one once proposed that all ministers should be taken
out and shot at forty. I'm eighty years old."

"Eighty years young," said Gaunt. "You were
young enough to conceive the movement; you are
young enough to serve it."

THE HOUSE OF JOY 207

"If I thought I was," he said, wistfully.

"Think you are, and you will be/' retorted Gaunt,
with a gay laugh. "I will quote you your own
doctrine, that the men who have most to do live
longest. Their work vitalizes them, you know."

"That's the worst of advising other people," said
Gordon. "They invariably return the advice with
interest. However, tell me what I can do, and let
me consider it."

"You are already our prophet," said Gaunt. "All
the prophets wrote books, I believe, or are reputed
to have done so. Write our prophetic books for us,
express our ideas; there are none of us who will have
the time when once the work begins."

"Alas, I am but a discredited prophet," said the
old man.

"Rather a prophet who has lived long enough to
outlive discredit and get his message published at
last," said Gaunt.

The old man was silent for a long time. He felt
that he had become enamoured of loneliness, that
the solitude of his life at Riverside had become
necessary to his power of thinking; but now that a
call to positive service had come to him, his heart
quickened in him with a swift revival of its early
fires.

"Old men have no time to debate," he said at
length. "They hear too clearly the voice that says,
'What thou doest, do quickly/ I will come, if you
will have me."

208 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

And so one more was added to the community of
the House of Joy. One of the smaller rooms in the
topmost story of the house was assigned him, to
which he brought the more indispensable part of
his library; and from that little room in the coming
days went forth many of those pamphlets which did
so much to disseminate the ideas of the League, and
to stir the hearts of men throughout the world.

These were very busy days in the House of Joy,
in which there was scarce leisure to eat; yet Gaunt
was conscious of an enthusiasm of spirit which he
had never known before. He was incapable of
fatigue, and he knew that the explanation was that
his work was now absolutely congenial. He had
always imagined that when he resigned his church,
the resignation would leave behind a long ground-
swell of regret. On the contrary, he now experi-
enced an immense sense of relief. He grew younger
every day, and looked younger. He often recol-
lected Gordon's phrases about the exhaustion that
attended a life spent in trifles; he saw now that very
much of his previous life in the Church answered to
that description. What had continually chafed and
irritated him was the atmosphere of pettiness in which
he had been compelled to work. He had had to fight
for even the most reasonable and insignificant innova-
tion against the timidity of men like Tasker and the
dislike of men like Roberts. How many sleepless
nights had he spent over things of no real moment —
the recollection of unkind words, the small diploma-

THE HOUSE OF JOY 209

cies that held together men of opposite tempera-
ments, to say nothing of those constant irritations
which arose in guiding the course of various organ-
isations, each one jealous of its neighbour. He was
now a soldier relieved from tedious task-work, who
hears the trumpet sound, and is filled with the gaiety
of battle. He breathed freer, walked with firmer
step, moved erect, conscious in every thought and
act of a great liberation.

In the meantime, Butler was conducting his propa-
ganda in the Press with consummate ability and
tact. He published a series of articles on the decline
of the authority of the Church in all civilized coun-
tries, which attracted great attention among all intel-
ligent men. In these articles he offered elaborate
proof of the general revolt against the Church. Both
France and Italy had been compelled to disown the
Church because the Church no longer represented
and expressed modern needs. In both countries the
men who shaped opinion, the real leaders of the na-
tion, were agnostics and even atheists. In London,
which might be regarded as the centre of Protes-
tantism, not more than one million people out of five
millions attended public worship. England had
taken the alarm. The leaders of all the churches,
united by a common danger, had published a mani-
festo, protesting against the increasing desecration
of the Sabbath. In America the case was much
worse, because while the lessened authority of the
Church was more evident, yet there was no percep-

2io A PROPHET IN BABYLON

tion of danger. He published a census of church
attendance in some of the most prominent districts
of New York. The census revealed the fact that
not more than one per cent, of the leading churches
of New York had full congregations. Some of the
churches which figured most prominently came off
worst. In one leading Fifth Avenue church, seated
for two thousand worshippers, and formerly the
scene of a famous ministry, the congregation num-
bered less than five hundred. Even in Brooklyn,
"the city of churches," as they were pleased to call
it, more than a million persons never entered a
church.

From some of the New England cities, but espe-
cially from the Middle West, he obtained reports,
carefully compiled by special commissioners, which
proved much more disastrous. One leading denom-
ination in Chicago, with many churches, occupying
fine sites, could report not one as even moderately
prosperous. In one the galleries had been closed
for several years; they were no longer needed. An-
other had been without a minister so long that the
congregation had wholly deserted it. In others,
whose size witnessed to the success of earlier days,
the present congregation was a discouraged handful.
And yet on any given Sunday night the places of
entertainment flared with light; the theatres were
crowded; concerts were thronged; and Pleasure and
Frivolity reaped their fullest harvests.

He drew a striking, and even pathetic, picture of

THE HOUSE OF JOY 211

the condition of the minister in these churches. He
deserved sympathy, for he was a brave man, con-
ducting a forlorn hope that led to nothing. There
were thousands of ministers who knew they were
beaten men, but were incapable of understanding
why. Some of them, in despair, adopted sensational
methods, and indulged in what might be called
"illicit preaching" to attract the crowds, and those
were the only men who succeeded. The man of
finer taste, of deeper spirituality, of real scholar-
ship was not listened to. He bore his defeat in
silence, and often died of it.

It was a notorious fact that the best men no longer
entered the ministry. The bishops of the Anglican
Church in England had publicly deplored the fact,
and all who had anything to do with universities and
theological seminaries in America were perfectly
aware of it. Why was this? Cynics would no
doubt reply because the rising youth of America had
discovered that much more money was to be made in
any other profession than the ministry. But that was
a libel on youth. The real reason was that the youth
of brilliant parts had discovered that the ministry
was an intolerable bondage. Such men would gladly
give themselves to the ministry if it afforded them
an opportunity commensurate with their powers,
and would be content with its modest rewards ; but
they declined to become the slaves of an institution
that robbed them of the right to think freely, bound
them by antiquated precedents, and ground out their

212 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

lives in piffling trivialities. The result was that the
men of real energy of intellect and brilliant powers
of initiation refused the ministry, and more and
more the greatest function in the world, that of the
prophet, was given over to inferior men, who per-
formed their tasks mechanically, and were wholly
unable to express the ideas which agitated thought-
ful people.

Yet America could not live without a living
church ; the fortunes of the Republic were bound up
with the fortunes of the Church. All history proved
that the decline of religion in a nation meant the
decline of the nation. Let the present processes go
on unchecked for another quarter of a century, and
the end was clear. The dawn of the year 1930
would reveal a Pagan America: an America from
which the last vestige of Christianity had vanished,
leaving pure Paganism as the one governing princi-
ple in the national life.

Day after day these striking articles appeared in
Butler's paper. Had they appeared in the religious
press they would probably have attracted little atten-
tion; but appearing as they did in the most authori-
tative daily journal in America, written as they were
with both sympathy and knowledge, and expressed
in language at once caustic and temperate, they
attracted the attention of the whole nation. They
were reprinted in a thousand journals. They were
discussed in business offices and clubs. The expres-
sion "Pagan America" fixed itself upon the popular

THE HOUSE OF JOY 213

memory. The evening papers took it up, and pub-
lished sensational episodes and statistics of New York
misery and crime. Sickening details were given of
squalor and vice, and the question was asked occasion-
ally in real earnestness, but often in derision, "What
is the Church doing?" The term Pagan America
found its way into the comic papers, which presented
their readers with barbaric pictures of what might
be supposed to happen in 1930 when America had
reverted to type. Music-hall singers used it as a
catch-word in their songs, associating it with the
most banal and vulgar ideas, and often with thinly-
disguised profanity and indecency. The gilded
youth of New York asked one another over their
cocktails, "Are you a Pagan?" and found a new
form of wit in christening a new and complicated
cocktail a "liquid Paganism." But beneath all this
characteristic levity there sounded a note of real
alarm. It was as though a sudden gulf had opened,
toward which the entire nation was seen rushing
at a frantic gallop. Sober and serious men of all
shades of thought, who had already been alarmed by
the constant revelations of corruption and fraud in
the great insurance societies, in the municipal and
political world, began to realize for the first time
that all this gangrene of chicanery, which was eat-
ing out the honour and life of the nation, had its
origin in the decay of the religious sentiment. These
things could not have existed had not the restraint
of religion been relaxed. Religion, therefore, be-

214 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

came the urgent question of the hour. And the
form which that question was bound to take was
precisely the form Butler had foreseen: was it yet
possible to free the genuine spirit of religion from
its decaying forms, to rescue it from enfeebling the-
ologies and traditions, to make it once more a gen-
uine impulse and inspiration in the lives of men ?

One day Dr. Jordan sought an interview with
Butler. He brought with him a resolution of protest
against Butler's articles, requesting that it might be
published in The Daily Light.

"Certainly I will publish it, if you wish," said
Butler, "but I think you are ill-advised to re-
quest it."

"You will find that the protest is signed by twenty
ministers, some of them among the most prominent
in New York," said Jordan, stiffly. "Probably they
know their own business better than you do."

"That is precisely what I venture to doubt," re-
plied Butler. "You know it is the looker-on who
sees most of the game."

He gravely examined the names of the signatories
to the protest.

"I see your own name here, Dr. Jordan. Suppose
you give me your own views, for I imagine that the
protest is your work."

"Yes, sir," said Jordan, pompously. "The pro-
test emanated from me, and I am not ashamed of
it. In my opinion your articles are calculated to
damage the prestige of the Church."

THE HOUSE OF JOY 215

"Prestige is a small matter, Dr. Jordan. It is
merely the mirage of false pride. The only vital
question is whether or not these articles are true."

"They may be true in point of fact," said Jordan,
"but they, nevertheless, create a false impression."

"You must forgive me, Dr. Jordan, but I am only
a plain man, and I can't for the life of me see how
a thing that is true can produce an impression that
is false."

Butler's tone of banter offended Jordan's dignity
and made him angry.

"Oh, I'm not to be put off with words," he ex-
claimed. "I know what you mean to do. You
mean to support that pestilent fellow Gaunt. I
wouldn't wonder if he wrote the articles himself.
It would be just what might be expected. The man
who can't manage to stay in the Church no sooner
leaves it than he usually proceeds to foul his own
nest."

Butler turned to his desk, and began the correc-
tion of some proofs that demanded his attention.
Without looking up, he said in quiet tones : "I allow
no one to shout in my office, Dr. Jordan. You have
said things which I am sure you will be glad to for-
get, and I prefer to forget that I have heard them."

"I don't want you to forget them," blustered
jjordan. "I warn you that the entire Church of New
York will prove hostile to you and your precious
protege. Therefore I repeat "

"Pardon me, but you will repeat nothing of what

216 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

you have already said. Repeat it outside if you like,
and get those to agree with you who will. I am
busy. Good-morning."

Jordan had no option but to go.

"Then you will not print my protest?" he said.
"I ought to have known that editors only publish
what agrees with their own views."

"On the contrary, I will print it, with pleasure —
even with malicious pleasure, if you like. But you
will find that it will do you little good."

Jordan left in a white heat of rage.

"There goes a fellow," thought Butler, "who
ought to have lived in the days of Torquemada.
He'd burn his best friend for a difference of opinion.
I'm perfectly sure he'd crucify me with pleasure."

Butler related the incident to Gaunt the same even-
ing, and Gaunt's comment was characteristic.

"Don't be hard on Jordan," he said. "He's really
a good man, who works with vast industry for his
church. But he suffers from constriction of vision,
which isn't altogether his fault. There's a curious
fact in optics which I came across the other day,
which explains Jordan. It is stated that people who
live on the prairies or on the African veldt have an
extraordinary range of vision, because the eye has to
accommodate itself daily to vast spaces. People
who live among walls, on the contrary, have very
short vision, and the prairie dweller, if he comes
to live in a city, soon finds his eye accommodating
itself to the narrower range. Well, that's Jordan's

THE HOUSE OF JOY 217

case. He's always lived among walls, church walls,
I suppose, and knows nothing about open spaces. "

"You are more charitable in your view of him
than I am," said Butler.

"Not more charitable; only a little more exact,"
said Gaunt. "You see, I know him better, and you
know the proverb, To know all is to forgive all.' '

"I suppose you would say that our business is to
get Jordan and his kind out into the open spaces ?"

"Oh, he'll have to come out when the walls fall
down," said Gaunt, cheerfully. "They're already
beginning to tremble, thanks to your seismic ef-
forts."

And this was the truth of the matter, as Butler
thankfully admitted. There lay upon his desk hun-
dreds of letters from ministers in all parts of the
country, many of them infinitely pathetic in their
confession of patient failure, and their eager hope
that at length the dawn of deliverance was near.
Many similar letters had reached Gaunt, and they
gave both Butler and himself a new respect for
the American ministry. Contrary to all previous
expectations, they began to perceive that the strength
and possibility of triumph for the movement lay in
the ministers themselves. No doubt men of Jordan's
type would be obstinately hostile; but there were
others, especially the younger men, whose temper
was wholly different. These men were not blind
to their conditions. If they were involved in the
failure of the Church, it was not so much their

2i8 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

fault as their misfortune. They had been set to
perform an impossible task with machinery that was
wholly out of date. Gaunt knew the type well:
men of sturdy manhood who had fought their way
through colleges and seminaries by indomitable sac-
rifice; who had stoked furnaces or worked on rail-
ways to earn money for their training; who were of
an incorruptible courage, and because they were
courageous, fought on silently and made no com-
plaint. But they knew quite well why they had
failed. They knew that they had never had the
freedom requisite for success, and these men would
rally to the movement.

So day by day the press campaign went on, and
daily the public interest deepened. During this
month of February Gaunt had become the most
talked-of man in America.

XV
THE VISION

THE month was near its close; the first Sun-
day in March was now imminent. With
the approach of this day which meant so
much, a sense of great solemnity and awe fell on
Gaunt's mind.

Little by little, in the incessant conferences which
he had held with his friends, he had drawn the lines
of his scheme firm and true. There had been mo-
ments of hesitation, when he had felt himself en-
tirely unequal to the magnitude of the task that
awaited him; but his dominant mood was peace.
He felt himself in the hands of a destiny stronger
than himself; he was swept out upon an unknown
sea, yet the course which the little boat of his life
had taken was so definite that he could not doubt'
the presence of some invisible steersman. For the
obverse side of his liberation was surrender; he had
gained liberty only to resign it into the hands of
One wiser and stronger than himself.

It seemed to his friends, and at times to himself,
that his whole nature had undergone some myste-
rious process of reconstruction. Intellectually he
was the same man, but morally he was a different

219

220 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

man. His whole character was sweetened and soft-
ened. And yet there was no element of conscious
effort to which he could attribute the change. That
was the strange thing over which his mind often
meditated with sincere wonder. He had not worked,
but had been worked upon. The force which had re-
shaped him was an external force; it did not arise
in himself, it owed nothing to his own volition. Was
it new birth — that inexplicable miracle which Christ
Himself could not explain: the blowing of a wind
whose sound is heard but whose source is secret;
which passes through the sterile places of the heart,
and leaves behind it fertility and life ? It seemed so
to those who knew him best. There began to be
apparent in him a certain mystic quality. It man-
ifested itself in a curious combination of charm and
authority, so that without the least demand on his
part all those with whom he came in contact accepted
his leadership. He conquered men because he had
conquered himself; or, perhaps, it would be truer to
say, because he had been conquered.

Perhaps nothing in his after life afforded so severe
a test of his character as these four weeks of wait-
ing for the lifting curtain. He was modest under
the immense notoriety that had suddenly come to
him through Butler's press campaign; but it says
even more for the change that had been wrought in
him that he was patient under the daily provocations
which he endured from those whose hostility to him
became the more open as his notoriety increased.

THE VISION 221

"They don't understand, poor fellows/* was his only
comment on many an insulting letter.

Cranks of every description waited on him; he
had never guessed before how many mad people
there were in the world.

One propagandist lady desired to know his views
on marriage, and when she found that on this point
at least he was severely orthodox, proceeded to de-
liver for his benefit a ranting half-hour lecture on
the servitude of women. Marriage, she affirmed,
was "an unholy institootion," designed in the days
of woman's innocency for her perpetual enslavement,
and she called on Gaunt, in excited tones, to set
women free. It did not appear precisely from what
woman was to be freed, or what she was to do
with her freedom when she got it; the only apparent
thing was that the poor creature had found her own
life bitter, and Gaunt did his best to soothe her. But
she proved too obstinately pugnacious for such
kindly arts, and flung out of the House of Joy,
with the shrill assurance that every woman in
America would henceforth be Gaunt's relentless
enemy.

A crank of a totally different order was a mild-
mannered gentleman with tired eyes and a subdued
pulpit manner of address, who was a long time in
coming to the point. This gentleman appeared to be
the author of a railroad scheme in the distant West
which was to be conducted on purely philanthropic
lines, no shares being issued to any one who was not

222 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

a Christian man whose character and money were
alike without taint. Under these unusual conditions
of railroad construction he proposed to build a truly
Christian railroad, and he thought it would be an
admirable thing if Gaunt would allow a prospectus
of this most original scheme to be distributed
through Madison Square Garden, coupling with it a
request that Gaunt would be good enough to men-
tion the enterprise in his sermon. It was very hard
to convince this amiable gentleman that railroad
enterprises, whether Christian or otherwise, did not
furnish a fit theme for religious addresses.

"I know that most people would think so," he
remarked, in gentle deprecation. "Indeed, I have
already interviewed several ministers in New York
on the subject without success. But I thought you
were a different sort of man, sir."

"Not different enough for that, I am afraid,"
Gaunt replied.

It was a long time before this mild-mannered en-
thusiast could be persuaded to go away, and when
he went it was with the sorrowful conviction, which
he earnestly impressed on Gaunt, that the greatest
opportunity which he had ever had of doing good
was escaping him.

Then Roberts wrote him a bitter letter, in which
he accused him of having wrecked Mayfield Avenue
Church by his ambition and eccentricity; and Jordan
waited on him with vehement prophecies of im-
pending financial and moral bankruptcy.

THE VISION 223

It seemed that Jordan had really come to get mat-
ter for a so-called interview, which appeared a few
days later in a "religious" journal. In the interview
there was scarcely a sentence which Gaunt had really
uttered: it consisted entirely of a series of bitter
and derisive comments upon Gaunt and his move-
ment. He was described as a man whose conversion
to spiritual ideals was so recent that most reasona-
ble persons would be cautious in accepting the con-
version as genuine. Every one knew that any at-
traction he had exerted was based solely upon a
reputation which he had been able to build up for
literary scholarship, and it was probable that he
knew a great deal more about Browning than he
did about the Gospel of Jesus Christ. What men
wanted was the old Gospel, pure and unadulterated,
and Gaunt had never yet given any evidence of loy-
alty to the old, old gospel, which alone was able to
make men wise unto salvation. He had notoriously
failed in his own church, and it was not until that
failure was evident and humiliating that he had sud-
denly posed as a religious reformer. Again, all
reasonable men would be extremely slow to accept
as a new religious leader one who had not been able
to retain the loyalty of his own congregation. As
for the House of Joy, it was a fantastic name for a
fantastic and mischievous social adventure. It
would end, as all other schemes for community life
had ended, in failure, and probably in disgrace. It
was quite evident that Gaunt's mind was slightly un-

224 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

balanced, and that the present notoriety which he
had attained was not favourable to his recovery. He
had now become an adventurer, who preyed upon
the credulity and fanaticism of weak-minded Chris-
tian people.

There was much more of the same sort, followed
by a letter signed by Roberts and said to have been
prepared in consultation with his fellow-deacons, in
which what he called "The True Facts of Dr.
Gaunt's Case" were set forth. According to these
facts the real reason why Gaunt had resigned the
Mayfield Avenue Church was nothing more nor less
than this, that his ministry had been a failure. It
might be only a coincidence that the late pastor of
that influential church had become a reformer only
when he had failed as a preacher; such coincidences
certainly might happen, but Dr. Gaunt's former asso-
ciates in the Mayfield Avenue Church knew him too
well to regard them as accidental.

Butler smiled grimly when Gaunt showed him
this article.

"It is what I expected," he marked. "When a
man walks in the sunshine the snakes come out to
bite his heel; success makes enemies."

"Poor fellows, they don't understand!" said
Gaunt.

"For that reason it would be folly to try to en-
lighten them. I suppose your first thought was to
answer this venomous stuff?"

"I did think of it."

THE VISION 225

"Well, think of it no more," said Butler. "You
will get plenty more of this kind of thing before you
are through. It's a good rule with such antagonists
as these never to argue, never to contradict, and gen-
erally to forget. Besides nothing makes them so
conscious of their own inferiority as silence. In
matters of controversy, when a man is obviously very
anxious for you to speak, don't/'

But the article, with its calculated malice, never-
theless, had its effect. It went the round of the so-
called orthodox religious press, and the champions
of orthodoxy arose in their wrath. One of those
champions, an old theological professor, whose
classes Gaunt had had the misfortune to attend for
a year, came to see him. How well Gaunt remem-
bered those classes ! The professor had thought his
duty accomplished when he informed his students
how many times Abraham was mentioned in the
Scriptures, and had delivered to them without the
least explanation the cut-and-dried dogmas of medi-
aeval theologies ; but not once had he ever made them
feel the real message of the Gospel, or enabled them
to see what the life of Jesus meant.

The professor came to see him in no friendly
spirit, as was soon evident. With his white hair,
narrow brow, and spare form, he presented a ven-
erable figure, but it was soon manifest that years
had done nothing to soften the asperity of his tem-
per, or to enlarge his thoughts. He also spoke of
the old Gospel as if it were a mystery which he

226 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

alone understood, and accused Gaunt of betray-
ing it.

"On the contrary/' Gaunt remonstrated, "I have
gone back to it — to a Gospel much older than the-
ology, and older even than the Church."

But it was useless to argue with the old man, who
was convinced that he lived in the period of the
world's final apostasy, which conviction he sup-
ported by strange references to the big horn and
the little horn in the Book of Revelations, and the
beast who came out of the sea, and the woman in
scarlet raiment. \

"Let us part as friends," said Gaunt.

But the old man drew away from him in anger,
exclaiming that he would take the hand of no man
who was a traitor to the truth; and so Gaunt once
more had to answer: "Poor fellow, he doesn't un-
derstand I"

There were other visitors, too, of a very different
type: people who came late at night because they
had only the scanty leisure of the workingman.
Many of them were of that intelligent and thought-
ful type which may be found on Sunday nights at
the Cooper Institute — men with calloused hands
that spoke of hard work, who had used their narrow
opportunities of culture in mastering the principles
of social and political economy. They were all of
them hostile to the Church, and Gaunt soon dis-
covered that the primary attraction he had for them
was that he had broken with the Church. But if

THE VISION 227

they were hostile to the Church, they were far from
hostile to religious ideas. They regarded Jesus as
the greatest of thinkers and reformers, who was cru-
cified by the capitalist classes, who distorted the
meaning of His Gospel, suppressed its real teach-
ings, and finally manufactured out of it a weapon
of tyranny. The more Gaunt saw of these men, the
more his heart went out to them, and he found in
their interest in him the brightest possible augury
for his work. They were socialists in theory, and
some of them might be justly called anarchists; but
there was one distinguishing quality which he found
in all of them, a real passion for humanity, a vehe-
ment desire for human betterment, a true sense of
the part which collectivist ideas must play in the
future reconstruction of society.

"These are the best Christians I have yet met,"
he said to Palmer.

"Of course," Palmer answered. "In their own
way these men are feeling after the same social ideas
which Jesus formulated; if Jesus came to New
York, as He once came to Jerusalem, in the raiment
of the carpenter, it is among these men He would
probably find His first disciples/'

But of all his visitors, the one who left the deepest
impression upon him was a burly, ill-dressed man
from a great manufacturing city in New England.

It was on the Saturday night which preceded the
opening of his mission in Madison Square Garden,
and Gaunt, who had hoped to keep his evening free

228 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

from all interruption, met his visitor with some
reluctance.

The man's appearance and manner were not pre-
possessing, but the moment he spoke Gaunt was
aware that he was no common man. He spoke in
short, abrupt sentences, using from time to time vivid
and picturesque phrases. It seemed he was a self-
constituted street-preacher in the city where he lived,
and his history was remarkable. He had been a
drunkard, a gambler, and an atheist, until he was
forty, and not once in all those years had entered
a church. One day he was working in the house of
a good woman, who asked him about his soul. He
hotly resented the question, and only a sense of re-
spect for the character of his questioner prevented
him from making an angry and insolent reply. He
left the house, but the question remained with him.
He became acutely miserable. The Sunday morn-
ing came.

"If I had a decent pair of pants, I believe I'd go
to church," he said.

His family greeted the idea with laughter. He
repaired his clothes, however, as he best could, and
went to church.

"Sir," said he to Gaunt, "I give you my word, I
was so ignorant I did not understand a single word
of that service. The minister seemed to be using
words I had never heard, and talking about things
way off from me. I grew angrier each moment,
and sad, too, for I knew I badly needed some kind

THE VISION 229

of help, for I was miserable. Then the lady who
had already spoken to me, saw me and came to speak
to me. I went home with her, and she prayed
with me.

" 'Do you feel any better now ?' she asked.

" 'I can't say that I do/ says I.

"She seemed disappointed, but I was worse hurt
than she was. I went to the drink again, but it was
no use, I was more miserable than ever. Then I
ordered all the infidel books I knew, but I found
they didn't interest me. All the while, I should say,
I was reading the Gospels a bit at a time. They
seemed all a jumble to me, but now and then some-
thing spoke to me out of them — just a whisper, as if
it was Jesus Himself. But nothing came of it; it
was like the praying, I didn't feel any better; so at
last I resolved to commit suicide. I went out on
the bridge at night, I stood in the way of the cars,
in real earnest over this suicide business, but some-
how I couldn't do it. At last I got to a point where
I had to do something or go mad. So I chose a
night when no one was in the house, went into my
room, and put my loaded pistol on the table, re-
solved to have the thing out with God. I didn't
know how to pray. I didn't know the right sort of
words, so I fell on my knees and said something
like this: 'O Jesus, I don't know where you are,
and I don't know whether I've got a soul, but if you
are anywhere round, and can do anything for my
soul, you've got to do it quick. Here's the pistol,

230 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

and here am I, and I mean business. I don't know
what it is to be saved, but I know that's about
what I want, and I've got to be saved in five min-
utes, or die. So now you know my case, and you
know what you've got to do, if you can do it any-
way.'

"Then I said amen, like I'd heard the preacher
say, and I waited."

"Well," said Gaunt, who by this time was roused
into the intensest interest.

"It was the longest five minutes I ever spent, sir.
I was in such agony that the sweat rolled off my
face, and I'd a strong mind to be done with it. But
each time I reached out for that pistol I thought:
'No, you gave Him five minutes, and five minutes
He's got to have. There's no good comes of not
playing fair/

"Then, all at once, I felt that Some One had
entered the room. I darsen't lift my head, but I knew
He was there. It was like as though something gen-
tle touched my head, a kind of little soft wind, like
you feel when anybody passes quite close to you.
And then I looked up and it seemed to me the room
was filled with sunlight. It was like the finest June
morning you ever saw, when you wake early and
find the room all ablaze with light, and can't sleep
any more. 'Glory!' I shouted. 'I do believe I'm
saved ;' and I was. I didn't know how He done it,
but I knew as well as I'll ever know anything that
Jesus had been in that room, and had stooped down

THE VISION 231

arid touched that dark soul of mine, and left His
sunlight behind."

Tears ran down the man's face as he told this
story. And then he went on to tell Gaunt its sequel,
how he was delivered from his vices, how he sought
out other men that he might save them, how five
years ago he had bought a cart which he wheeled
into the market-square every day at noon in all
weathers, and preached his plain gospel of instant
salvation to all who would hear him.

"Sir," he said, in a voice broken by emotion, "I'm
only a poor, ignorant fellow, but in those five years
I've seen two thousand men saved just as I was.
And here in my city are scores of ministers, all
good men, and with all kinds of learning, and
they've never seen a man saved like that in years.
Sir, how is it? Surely God had rather use a man
with knowledge than a poor ignorant man like me,
if only he'd let God use him. And so, sir, I thought
I'd run up to New York, just to tell you this, by way
of encouraging you. If God can use me in my poor
way, He can use you in a much bigger way, and I
believe He will, if you'll let Him."

Gaunt would gladly have kept this strange guest
with him all night, but he refused.

"No," he said; "I must get back by the night
train. I've got my work. But I'll tell my men I've
seen you, and we'll all be praying for you to-morrow
night."

The more Gaunt reflected on this story the more

232 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

it affected him by its simple truth and pathos. But
it did more than affect his emotions : it was to him a
spiritual revelation. All that Palmer had said to
him long before about his own sense of Jesus as a
living Presence came back to him with overwhelm-
ing force. Here were two men of widely different
type: the one highly cultured, the other quite ig-
norant of all that the world calls knowledge; yet
each had experienced the same revelation of Jesus
as a Personal Friend; nay, far more, as a Saviour
capable of loosening the bonds of sin and creating
new life in the human soul. He saw now, not quite
for the first time, with intense lucidity of vision that
the real dynamic of all service for others lay in this
experience of Jesus as a living Saviour. It was for
want of this dynamic that so many schemes of
social service had failed, and without it his great
League of Service would fail too.

What if this man's experience — his crude chal-
lenge to the unseen, the immediate response, the
room filled with sunlight, — was in the nature of the
miraculous? Surely enough had occurred in his
own life to make him tolerant of miracle. Had not
he, in the rapid passage of his own life in these days,
in all its unfolding of event, been conscious of an
Unseen Steersman? Besides, there was always the
fact to be reckoned with that for twenty centuries
all kinds of men had testified to the same kind of
experience which had suddenly lifted this man from
the depths of despair into a world of infinite light

THE VISION 233

and joy. Cromwell had made the same confession;
Augustine and Francis, Bunyan and Wesley, and
millions of humble people whose names had per-
ished. And then there was that remark about
preachers which the man had made — how was it
that these men, students of the Bible and its ac-
cepted expositors, had never witnessed that imme-
diate deliverance of men from the bondage of their
sin, which he, ignorant street-preacher as he was,
had seen in two thousand instances? Could it be
because they had never experienced this miracle in
themselves? Was it possible to preach religious
truth, and yet miss the supreme spiritual secret
which this man had discovered — the secret which
gave him, with all his intellectual deficiencies, a
power over the human soul which they never knew ?
A great horror fell upon the mind of Gaunt. The
hour was late, it was near midnight, and he alone
was awake in the house. He went upstairs silently
to his room, and stood for a long time looking out
upon the Square. The sky was bright with many
lights; across the corner of the Square rushed a
train upon the Elevated Railway, like a sinuous
comet; vast buildings, the Babel towers of this mod-
ern Babylon, starred with shining windows, rose
against the skyline ; and on all sides surged the sub-
dued roar of this restless city, with a sound like the
sound of many waters. And this was his battle-
field, this the immense city which he proposed to
conquer. Hidden beneath its multitudinous roofs

234 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

were those who would hear him on the morrow,
those who looked to him as a prophet; and beyond
those formidable battlements lay a continent popu-
lous with cities, and in all of them men half-inter-
ested, half-sceptical, who wondered what the mor-
row would bring forth. God help him, what had he
to say to them? With what secret was he armed
that should prove stronger than the selfishness and
lust and greed which in all these cities had built
the smoking fires of Moloch, and kindled the red
hells of Mammon, and driven the weak and helpless
through the flames?

He fell upon his knees in an agony that seemed
to rend body and spirit asunder. He prayed in
broken words. He spread his naked, tortured soul
before God. And his words, each one torn and
bleeding out of his own heart, were even such words
as his strange visitor had used in his extremity.
They were a challenge to the Unseen, a re-utterance
of the old cry of men, whose echo never leaves the
world : "O that I knew where I might find Him."

Hours passed. He had fallen asleep as he prayed,
worn out with his emotions. And then he woke,
quietly as a child wakes. He did not rise from his
knees, he did not look up; he did not wish to. But
he was sensible of a strong light that seemed to roll
in upon his soul, wave on wave. He felt no sense
of wonder; it all appeared sweetly natural, a thing
long expected. He breathed an atmosphere full of
delicious warmth and comfort.

THE VISION 235

There was a sense of shadows melting on a misty
sea. A long beach, yellow in the light, spread at
his feet. A boat, with a red sail, slipped through the
mist and came to anchor. A fire of coals burned
upon the beach — he could see how the air quivered
over it, where the flame and sunbeams met. And
beside the fire stood a Figure, white-robed and mo-
tionless. ... He moved. He lifted His hand,
pointing silently to the distant hills, blue in the
dawn, and said, "Follow Me."

"And when the day was now breaking Jesus
stood on the beach. The disciple therefore
whom Jesus loved said, (It is the Lord' '
Gaunt rose from his knees, moved slowly to the
window, like a man uncertain of his footsteps, be-
cause his feet are still tangled in the soft mesh of
dreams. Outside the window lay the great city as
he had seen it hours before, but surely in the interval
something wonderful had happened.

The great blocks of building, like battlemented
towers, still ranged themselves against the skyline;
here a dome broke their order, here a spire; but
rising over all, enfolding all, stood the figure of a
Man.

His robes, of thinnest gauze, fell across the city;
His arms were outspread; and behind His head
the stars clustered like a crown.

He stooped, as though He would take the whole
vast city to His bosom. His face was very strong
and very pitiful, and as He stooped, it seemed doors

236 A PROPHE.T IN BABYLON

opened everywhere, crowds of worn and haggard
people filled the streets, and hands were stretched
upward to Him, and a cry of gladness filled the air.
Then the Vision gradually withdrew; it faded out
among the stars; but still the people stood, and
watched, and stretched out their arms to it.

Was it a dream? It may have been; but Gaunt
knew that it was a Dream born of Truth.

Behold he also had challenged the Unseen and had
his answer.

And he knew then that that which he had waited
for all his life had come to pass. Henceforth he
was certain of the Presence of a Living Saviour
in the world, for he also had met Him.

He went to his bed, and slept like a little child.

When he woke the morning light shone across
his bed, and the Day had come.

XVI
THE CROSS OF STARS

THAT one slight figure, a mere black dot,
under the gaze of twice ten thousand
eyes, looked pathetically insignificant. It
seemed a thing impossible that any human voice
would reach so vast a throng, still less that any
single man could dominate this great assembly with
the qualities of the orator.

For Butler's press campaign had borne its fruit
in the vastest assembly ever gathered under the
auspices of religion in New York. Hundreds of
people had travelled long distances to be present at
the service. They had besieged the doors early in
the afternoon, and had waited patiently through long
hours. Substantial business men, and men whose
faces bore the tan of outdoor life, jostled one an-
other in the crowd. The millionaire and the artisan
sat side by side. College youths thronged the gal-
leries, equally ready for reverent attention or mis-
chievous interruption. Many ministers were pres-
ent; they sat in groups, from time to time conversing
in eager whispers. What had they come out to see ?
No one knew, but each felt the moment pregnant
with possibility and surprise. And then came that

237

238 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

sudden silence, that most thrilling of all moments
when ten thousand human creatures draw a long,
shuddering breath, realizing that at last a moment
long anticipated had arrived.

"Let us pray/'

The clear, high tenor dominated in an instant the
eager crowd.

"Our Father, which art in Heaven."

And the multitude found its voice in the familiar
petitions of the Lord's Prayer. At first the response
was ineffective ; but it slowly swelled in volume, end-
ing in the Amen with a sound like that of a break-
ing wave.

A cornet gave the air of "Jesus, Lover of My
Soul." Had the old hymn ever been so sung before ?
For there was no one there who did not know it,
and none for whom it had not memories. And then,
without preface, Gaunt began to speak, and a sigh
of relief rose from the crowd when it realized that
every word was distinctly articulated, and that his
voice, which seemed so light, nevertheless had a cer-
tain clear, singing quality, which reached every ear.

He spoke very simply, at first traversing the fa-
miliar ground of his last address at Mayfield Avenue
Church, which Butler had widely circulated. Those
who had expected some sensational utterance, or
some vehement attack upon the churches, grew rest-
less under a sense of disappointment. It soon be-
came evident that Gaunt's purpose was constructive
and not destructive. His address was confessional

THE CROSS OF STARS 239

in tone; the apology of a strong man for the nature
of his life. And as this tone deepened, the restless-
ness subsided. He painted for them, in a few deft
touches, what Christianity had been to him, and what
it had become. He uttered no word of blame or
criticism of others ; he quietly described the develop-
ment of his own mind and thought. It was the sort
of speech that a man might have made in the inti-
macy of a college room to a trusted friend. Yet
nothing could have been more effective. He was
simply taking that vast audience into his confidence.

"Was Christianity played out?" he asked.

And then, with a gesture that seemed to gather
all the units of the multitude into solidarity, he re-
plied : "This audience is the most convincing answer
to the question. It is the proof that the most vital of
all interests in human life is the religious interest.
Christ is not dead. He only sleeps. He may awake
at any moment. And this is the day of resurrection.
From the tomb of outworn tradition and convention
He is coming forth in the indestructible vitality of
ideas which cannot die. The rust-worn hinges give
way, the doors roll back. Behold Him, for He is
here!"

So vivid were the words that it seemed as
though an actual vision met the eyes of the silent
crowd. They leaned forward, surprised, thrilled,
expectant.

"It is even as the greatest poet of modern thought
has said," he continued : " The good Lord Jesus has

240 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

not had His day. It has only dawned. It will come
by and by. The eastern sun shines upon an empty
tomb, and the day grows strong.' '

A wave of strong emotion swept across the multi-
tude. The college boys in the gallery hung forward
open-mouthed. The rhetorician had often tri-
umphed in this vast auditorium; but every one felt
that here was more than rhetoric. Here was a be-
lieving man, a man wholly convinced, and his power
of conviction dominated the minds of those who
heard him, compelling their assent. There was
every kind of mind represented in that great array
of men and women — the curious, the flippant, the
sceptical, the serious, the hostile, — yet at that mo-
ment each realized with more or less of intensity
that religion was, after all, the most vital thing in
the world. Perhaps the noblest power of the orator
is to suggest the presence in other minds of
thoughts which they themselves do not dis-
cern, to give them form, and to interpret them.
It was precisely this triumph that Gaunt achieved.

The passionate moment passed, leaving behind it
tingling nerves; and then in clear, incisive tones
Gaunt began to analyze the reason for the apparent
failure of existing Christianity. It was the most
difficult part of his task, and he knew it. Had he
been bitter or satirical, he must have failed. He
would at once have antagonized the larger part of
his audience, for the larger part was nominally
Christian. He took, instead, the one course which

THE CROSS OF STARS 241

could have succeeded. He appealed to the best
instincts of his audience, to the nobler part in their
hearts. He spoke the truth, but it was in love.

"Were they, the Christian people, really contented
with their own conventional Christianity? Could
they conceive nothing better? If their Master
should then and there enter that auditorium, dust-
stained, weary, bearing on His shoulders the heavy
Cross, would they welcome Him ? Would they even
recognize Him. Or, if they did, would not their
easy-going Christianity shrivel up in shame before
this authentic Christianity, which meant derision,
mockery, goodness sacrificing itself for the ungrate-
ful, love stooping to the lowest tasks of service, and
at last the blood of a great sacrifice poured out will-
ingly for a world that did not understand its sub-
lime anguish and renunciation?"

And once more the note of passion vibrated
through the hearts of those who heard. Many eyes
were turned instinctively toward the doors of the
auditorium, as though they expected to see the
actual entrance of the Master with the Cross.

Gaunt stood motionless, with extended arm point-
ing to the door. The silence was intense. It was so
complete that, far away in the distant galleries, a
woman's sob was distinctly audible.

"Yet we must meet Him/' he said, in low, thrill-
ing tones. "We must meet Him at the final Judg-
ment. We are meeting Him now, for the throne
of judgment is set in the sunset-clouds of every

242 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

day, and is in our hearts when the book of each
day's life is closed."

It was very simply said. Others had no doubt
said it before. But as Gaunt said it, it had an
authority of a revelation. The wonderful voice
trembled, the spare figure, with outstretched arm,
stood tense and rigid; his face glowed with awful
fire.

Again the woman's sob was heard from the dis-
tant gallery. It was followed by a long, shuddering
breath in the immense audience, as of the wind
sighing in the boughs of innumerable trees.

For a moment it seemed as though the pent-up
emotion of the multitude would relieve itself in some
hysteric outburst. For many there it was a moment
forever memorable and awful. It was as though
the veils of use and custom were suddenly rent in
twain, the forms of religion were dissolved, and
the very soul and essence of truth stood revealed.

And then, in a voice perfectly composed and
calm, Gaunt resumed his exposition of ideals. He
sketched rapidly the condition of New York, of
America, of the world, in relation to religion; the
indifference which sprang from ignorance or de-
spair; the impotence of religion to touch in any
real way the lives even of those who accepted its
truths; the enormous social problems that threat-
ened the very existence of the Republic; the call of
the times to all good men and women to combine
to reinstate religion as a vital reality in the govern-

THE CROSS OF STARS 243

ment of the world. Could they effect this reinstate-
ment? It looked impossible; it was really easy. It
became easy when the actual life of Jesus was
accepted as the model of all human life. Chris-
tianity was really nothing more nor less than follow-
ing Christ. It was not a mode of thought, but a rule
of life. And what he had to propose that night
was the union of all who loved in the service of all
who suffered. He proposed the creation of a new
social force, the League of Universal Service.

It was for this moment that Gaunt's friends had
waited with eager anxiety. Butler, particularly,
knew from long journalistic experience the value of
phrases: how it was in the power of a phrase,
rightly uttered at the psychologic moment, to
shatter creeds, to create parties, to start far-reaching
movements. Accustomed both to measure and cre-
ate public opinion, he knew that the critical moment
had now arrived. And he had prepared for that
moment in a way peculiarly his own, without any
consultation with Gaunt.

It was a way which Gaunt would not have ap-
proved, and that was why he did not consult him.
It was daring, sensational, spectacular, but Butler
knew that there were moments when a great multi-
tude could be profoundly moved by such a method.
And so, unknown to Gaunt, he had conspired with
the authorities of the Garden to erect a vast Cross,
studded with electric lights, in the dark shadows on
the back of the stage. A curtain covered it from

244 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

view, and beside the curtain stood two men, who
had received their instructions from him.

"And so I propose," Gaunt reiterated, "a League
of Universal Service — whose emblem is the Cross,
whose motto is the union of all who love in the
service of all who suffer."

And at these words Butler knew his hour had
come. He lifted his hand; it was a preconcerted
signal.

And then in swift silence the curtain lifted, and
suddenly there flashed out, high in air, above the
astonished multitude a vast Cross, blazing with
many lights.

A cry rose from the multitude — a cry of wonder,
delight, surprise. All over the vast auditorium men
and women rose to their feet staring and startled, as
if a miracle had happened. Gaunt turned swiftly, saw
the flaming splendour, and sat down, overwhelmed,
his face in his hands. For a moment it seemed as
though Butler's daring had been miscalculated, as
though it would result in confusion. Then a happy
thought seized the man with the cornet. He turned
to the quartette who had led the singing, and the
next moment they rose to their feet.

The cornet rang out, like an inspired voice, in the
strains of "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross."

And then the emotion of the crowd broke loose
at last. Ten thousand men and women were on
their feet. The crowd needed no prompting. With
that unanimity possible only in moments of intense

THE CROSS OF STARS 245

emotion, they felt the spirit of the hour, and in the
presence of that Cross of starry lights sang :

"When I survey the wondrous Cross,
On which the Prince of Glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride."

It was the birth-song of the League of Service

The hymn ceased. The great multitude stood
silent, uncertain what to do. It was noticeable that
no one left the hall.

Gaunt rose once more, his composure restored.

"I take it that you endorse my ideal," he said. "If
^ou do, resume your seats. Let me explain in a few
words precisely what it is I mean by the League of
Universal Service."

The great audience once more became silent.

"Those who suffer are many," he said; "those
who love are yet more numerous. The vital princi-
ple of the League is, as I have said, the union of
all who love in the service of all who suffer.

"You will notice that in this ideal there is nothing
antagonistic to any existing church. I have no
quarrel with any form of creed that helps men toward
right living, or any organisation that admits the
Mastership of Jesus Christ. I make my appeal alike
to Catholic and Protestant, to Unitarians and Trini-
tarians. I would not even exclude the Buddhist and
the Mohammedan. I make my appeal to men of
no fixed religious creed, who, nevertheless, admit the

246 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

principle of altruism in human conduct. The bond
is not words but deeds. The aim is the expression
of a spirit and principle, not of a theology. It is
a vast confederacy of kindness which I contemplate.
Of that confederacy there can, however, be but one
head. Jesus Christ alone has the right to the
primacy of this confederacy. It is His, because no
one has loved mankind as He loved, no one has
done for men what He has done, no example of
self-sacrifice and love can equal His.

"You will ask me if I have any precise and defi-
nite plan of action to lay before you?

"I have.

"I desire first to enrol formally all who are ready
to join the League, as one would enrol volunteers
for war, if a great national peril threatened us.

"Those who so enrol themselves will pledge
themselves to allow no day to pass without some
positive act of service for others.

"In every district of a city, or in every town or
village where the League is established, the members
will meet for a weekly conference, in order to de-
termine the best means of organized effort by which
the principles of the League can be applied to the
needs of their locality.

"The societies of the League thus established will
pledge themselves to use all their influence for every
work of social betterment and for the return to all
public offices of men of good character irrespective
of all party considerations.

THE CROSS OF STARS 247

"I propose further that each member of the
League shall contribute a small sum — let us say a
dollar a year — to the common treasury of the
League. I have been warned that this proposition is
perilous; the only peril that I can discern is that
the funds so raised may be used for improper pur-
poses. Let me say, then, that neither I, nor any of
those now associated with me, will touch one cent
of this money. It will be used in its entirety for
the work of the League, and every cent will be
strictly accounted for.

"This is not a rich man's movement. It must not
be financed by rich men. It is a people's movement.
It exists for the people, it must be supported by the
people, and hence I fix the annual subscription so
low that the poorest can afford it.

"I propose further that every man and woman
joining the League shall wear some simple badge.
Men are proud to wear the Grand Army badge.
They should be prouder still to wear the badge of
the Grand Army of Jesus Christ, to belong to the
divine Salvage Corps of Humanity.

"And to-night I have found what that badge
should be."

He pointed to the illuminated Cross.

"It shall be a Cross with stars upon it. The Cross
shall symbolize the sacrifice Love makes for others.
The stars shall symbolize the light eternal that shines
upon the road of Service. 'And they that turn
many to righteousness shall shine as the stars, and

248 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

as the brightness of the firmament forever and

ever/

If inspiration still means anything in human life,
surely this was Gaunt's inspired moment. He had
been ignorant of Butler's device. It had taken him
by surprise. But when the Cross blazed out above
the people, when they rose as one man and sang,
"When I Survey the Wondrous Cross," he felt once
more, as he had so often felt of late, that he was
the servant of events rather than their creator. He
shared the deep emotion of the crowd. He realized
that all great movements are born out of emotional
moments. The barriers of conventionalism, which
he might in vain have sought to break down with
words, had suddenly fallen of themselves when the
most sacred symbol known to man suddenly flashed
upon the crowd. It was the very suddenness of the
vision that had shaken men, that had lifted them
out of themselves, that had given the concrete form
to his idealism. Twenty centuries of love and
heroic passion, interpreted in the noblest lives known
to history, saluted them in this illumined Cross.
And in that moment he had suddenly realized that
no truer, no more poignant and suggestive badge of
the League he wished to form, could be found than
in a Cross of Stars.

Gaunt's declaration that the Cross was the symbol
of the League marked the triumphant moment of
this memorable evening.

Once more the vast audience rose to its feet.

THE CROSS OF STARS 249

It was a simultaneous movement, a spontaneous rec-
ognition of the birth of a new world-force. In the
perfect silence which ensued Gordon stepped to the
front of the steps.

"I am an old man," he said. "My life may be a
matter of moments. I wish to give every moment
that is still mine to the work of the League. I ask
for the privilege of being the first to write my name
upon its muster-roll."

"And I will be the second," said Butler.

And then, from every part of the hall, men and
women pressed forward in a continuous line.

An hour passed, and still the enrolment went on.
Again and again the crowd broke into a song, re-
turning at intervals to that great hymn, "When I
Survey the Wondrous Cross," which alone seemed
to express the deepest sentiment of the hour.

Many had left the auditorium, but so vast was
the throng outside that their places were immediately
filled by newcomers.

"What's it all about?" asked one of these new-
comers, a roughly-dressed man with a stentorian
voice.

"It's a kind of League," replied a boyish voice
from the gallery. "You're to pay a dollar and love
everybody."

"I guess that's cheap at the price," the man with
the stentorian voice replied. "Put my name down,
mister."

To these late comers Gaunt again expounded the

2$o A PROPHET IN BABYLON

objects of the League. Brief and fragmentary as
these expositions were, yet they made their im-
pression.

It was near midnight. Gaunt, unaware of physi-
cal fatigue, still stood at his post, welcoming each
fresh volunteer. And still the Cross of Stars blazed
overhead, as in conscious triumph.

At last the meeting closed.

Butler's usually impassive face glowed with emo-
tion.

"Five thousand persons at least must have joined
us," he said. "At this rate, in a year we shall have
a million."

He gathered up sheet after sheet covered with
names.

These names represented almost every phase of
society. The addresses given were Fifth Avenue
mansions and East Side tenement houses.

"Come," said Butler, as he led Gaunt away,
"there can be no sleep for either of us to-night. I
must go at once to the office. You will do well to
go through these lists immediately and enumerate
them."

The cornet gave the first bar of the Doxology.
There were still in the house some thousands of
people to sing it.

And so, back to the House of Joy went Gaunt
and his little band of workers. It had been a night
of triumph.

The League of Universal Service was founded.

THE CROSS OF STARS 251

And as Gaunt once more looked from his window
across the Square, he knew that the vision he had
had of a Christ stooping over New York in yearn-
ing love, was no hallucination.

The stars shone clear, a soft wind whispering
of spring moved among the trees in the Square;
but though he saw no longer a Divine Man, whose
diaphanous robe trailed in dim light above the city,
yet he heard more clearly than he had ever heard
the irresistible Voice which proclaimed: "Lo, I am
with you alway, even unto the end of the world."

"Master, this is Thy City, and this is Thy work,"
he cried. "Use me as Thou wilt, but only use me."

And again the voice replied, "Lo, I am with you
alway."

And the stars paled, the eastern glory grew and
widened.

The day was once more at the dawn. It shone
upon that long path of labour and endeavour which
Gaunt must tread to make his dreams come true;
and Gaunt bowed his head, and accepted his
vocation.

XVII
OLIVIA'S CHOICE

THE leaven of the new movement spread
fast, especially among the churches.
What at first appeared fantastic and
sensational soon proved itself to be a vindication
of reason in relation to religion. It was a return
to reality, the sudden emergence of the essential
and imperishable elements of religion.

To multitudes of men, especially those men who
composed the younger ministry and membership of
the churches, its effect was like the awakening from
a dream. What had the ministry been teaching?
What had the churches been doing ? Both alike had
been moving in an unreal world. No wonder church
attendance had declined. The average man felt no
need of the Church because the Church did not un-
derstand his need.

"You can make men believe, but he who believes
against his will is worse than an atheist/' was one
of Gordon's pregnant sayings.

"It is not doctrines that inspire conduct, but con-
duct that creates doctrines/' was another.

Gordon had been saying these things all his life,
and had suffered for saying them. They had been

252

OLIVIA'S CHOICE 253

hard sayings, which only a few elect souls could
receive. But he now found that the world had
moved, after all. His teaching, long neglected and
derided, became the gospel of the hour. He be-
came, as Gaunt had prognosticated, the prophet of
the movement, and his words were everywhere
quoted, commented on, and endorsed.

"We have treated Christianity as something to
be thought about/' he wrote in one of his books;
"whereas, it is not a system of thought at all, but
a code of life. Jesus lives in the eternal memory of
the race not alone by what He taught, but by what
He did. Others could have preached the Sermon on
the Mount. Jesus alone lived it. To live a virtue
is greatly more than to attain to the clearest vision
of what virtue is. It needs a diviner inspiration to
live one day well than to write a gospel. The only
real claim to inspiration which any gospel has, is that
it can help a single man to live a single day well."

Teachings such as these, widely disseminated and
backed up by the conspicuous example of the League
of Service, were bound to have their effect; but the
chief reason of their potency lay, after all, in the
ripeness of men's minds to receive them. Gaunt
had not judged wrongly when he had announced a
universal revolt against the existing Church. But
behind every revolt there is some ideal of recon-
struction. To deny is really to affirm.

"Men hate because they love/' Gordon wrote.
"Hatred is simply love reversed. He who hates a

254 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

thing because it is bad is already in love with some-
thing better. Hatred is the shadow thrown by
love."

And so, as the great controversy went on, it
proved to be.

But because hatred must precede love, the imme-
diate effect of the movement was immense dissen-
sion. This dissension made itself felt first, as was
natural, in the churches. And among the first to
feel the ferment was Jordan's.

Jordan himself contributed to this effect in no
small degree by his vehement denunciation of Gaunt.
In this, however, he failed in his usual astuteness,
and mistook the temper of his church. He had occu-
pied a position of supremacy for so many years, his
authority had been so long unquestioned, that any
revolt against that authority seemed incredible, and
hence he stubbornly refused to recognize the signs of
the times. But as the weeks passed, the proofs that
his authority over his congregation was weakened
became too evident for denial. His geniality for-
sook him; he became anxious. Sleep failed him,
and he grew querulous. And then, to complete his
discomfiture, he found the spirit of revolt active in
his own household.

The Jordan household consisted of a sick wife
and two children, Robert and Olivia. Robert had
long ago left home, after a series of bitter quarrels
with his father. At sixteen Robert had been a high-
spirited and lovable boy, with no worse vice than a

OLIVIA'S CHOICE 255

certain proud impatience of restraint. At eighteen
he had gone to college, taking with him no better
moral ballast than a narrow traditional theology
which had never commended itself to his intellect,
and had long been repugnant to his heart. A year
at college had turned him into a freethinker. His
freethinking at the worst was but the effervescence
of a youthful mind; but with the common vanity of
youth he had been proud to parade it as a symbol
of liberty. If the boy's father had possessed any
real elasticity or sympathy of intellect, no great harm
would have been done; but Jordan possessed neither.
He did not attempt to argue with his son; he com-
manded his obedience. He had never known in
himself the ferment of a youthful mind, and he
could not comprehend it in another. A sympathetic
father would have recognized in this ferment of un-
digested ideas the signs of a growing intellect;
Jordan saw in it only the evidence of dire apostasy.
He refused to let the boy return to college on the
ground that he was responsible for his son's moral
safety and must, therefore, keep the boy under his
own eye. Of all courses which he could have taken,
this was the unwisest and the worst. Cut off from
the natural comradeship of youth, spied upon and
hindered in all his pursuits, left without regular em-
ployment, and treated with habitual sarcasm, the
boy soon fell into evil courses, less from a liking for
evil than a warm detestation of what passed for
good in his father's house. The end came suddenly,

256 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

when one night, coming home late, the boy found
his father's door closed against him. The next
morning he had disappeared. Enquiries proved
vain; he had never since been heard of. Too late,
Jordan would have given anything to have opened
the door to the boy against whom the door had been
locked on that night of anger; but beyond a tight-
ening of the mouth and some fresh lines upon the
forehead, Jordan gave no sign of what he felt. The
name of Robert was never spoken in his father's
presence. It was from that night of the closed door
that the mother's sickness began — a sickness be-
yond the reach of medicine.

In the secret forlornness of his heart, Jordan
turned for comfort to his daughter. Olivia Jordan,
like her brother, was high-spirited, but of a much
more ductile nature. When Robert left home she
was too young to understand the causes of the dis-
aster, but she recognized the ceaseless, incurable
grief of her father, and her heart went out to him.
She had shared his confidences, as far as he was
capable of imparting them; she had been educated
into his view of things : and the mere power of daily
contiguity had shaped her character into a fashion
consonant with her father's habits of thought.
She had grown into a beautiful and thoughtful
woman : conventionally active in church work, pop-
ular among the people, and much loved for her
graces of disposition and person.

Olivia Jordan had been present at the great meet-

OLIVIA'S CHOICE 257

ing in Madison Square, and had been profoundly
impressed. It proved the turning-point of her his-
tory. From that moment she had become her
father's unwilling judge. It is a terrible hour for
parents when the personality which they have cre-
ated assumes its own rights, and is no more plastic
to their control; that hour had now come for Jor-
dan. Olivia heard in silence her father's public and
private criticism of Gaunt. She heard with a
divided, and latterly with a dissenting, mind. She
had so long trusted her father's judgment that when
she at last reached the point of questioning it the
process of revolt was swift. Night after night, as
she lay sleepless, it seemed as though some power
not herself, a power at once acute and malicious,
pieced the past together, illumined it, analyzed and
dissected it, and finally combined its elements into
dreadful coherence. She realized the treachery of
such thoughts, but she could not help herself. Again
and again, by an effort of the will, she dismissed
them; always they returned again like a pain which
increases after each interval of postponement. The
father whom she had always regarded as wise
she saw now as foolish and misguided. Yet it was
not for her to say so. Even though he were a thou-
sandfold more wrong than he was, yet it was her
duty to be silent. But she had no sooner reached
this conclusion than the mind ran back again like a
returning tide, and she felt her silence a worse
treachery than the plainest speech could be. She

258 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

grew pale and thin with the constant agitation of
her thoughts. Her cheerfulness left her, and she
went about her household tasks with leaden feet.
For a long time her father had been too absorbed
in his own difficulties to notice her dejection; but
she knew that the time must come when her secret
would be laid bare, and at last it came.

On a certain evening Jordan had entertained at
his house a number of his clerical friends, who called
themselves satirically the S. P. Club, or the Club of
Superior Persons. The club met once a month,
nominally for the discussion of theological questions,
really for the purpose of comradeship. At the
dinner-table that evening Gaunt and his doings were
the theme of conversation. It was soon apparent
that not a single member of the club was friendly
to him. He himself and his work was the subject
of much humorous derision, but behind the humour
there rankled an element of acrid hostility.

"He's quite mad," said Jordan. "I saw the signs
of it long ago and warned him. He'll end where
most charlatans end, in a madhouse."

"If it were only madness !" said one of the party.
"For my part, I can't stop at that verdict. He has
the disastrous sanity of the anarchist."

"Oh, he's sane enough in the ordinary sense, I
suppose," retorted Jordan. "He, at least, knows
how to play for popularity."

"Father, is that quite fair?" asked Olivia, in a
voice that trembled.

OLIVIA'S CHOICE 259

"Why, what do you know about it, my child ?"

"I may not know all that you know, father, but I
am sure that Mr. Gaunt is honest."

Jordan flushed angrily.

"The worst men in history have thought them-
selves honest," he retorted.

"And surely the best, too," she replied, in a low
voice.

There was a long silence, and then Jordan turned
the conversation with a laugh.

But it was clear that he was both angry and dis-
concerted.

"I think you had better go to your mother,
Olivia," he said a moment later. "She may be
wanting you."

Olivia flushed and left the room.

Two hours later, when the meeting of the club
was over, Jordan called her. He was in a good
humour now, as he usually was after a club night,
when he had been strengthened in his own opinions
by hearing them expressed by others.

"And so my little girl has become a contro-
versialist," he said, with a smile. "Sit down, my
dear, I want to talk to you."

Olivia silently obeyed. Her face was pale, and
she could scarcely control the nervous movement
of her hands.

"I suppose, my dear, it's quite natural that you
should have been impressed by Gaunt's speech in
Madison Garden. I own it was effective. But do

260 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

you think it was quite nice of you to contradict
me so flatly at my own table in the presence of
others, my child?"

"No, father, it was not nice of me at all. I am
sorry that I did it, for I saw that it upset you."

"Well, my child, that' s enough said. It's all I
expected you to say, and I was sorry less for myself
than that those who heard you should have a bad
opinion of your judgment. So now we'll forget all
about Gaunt and talk of something else."

Olivia sat silent for some moments. Then she
said, in a low voice : "But, father, I want to talk to
you about Mr. Gaunt. I've wanted to for a long
time, but I've been afraid. I am sorry that I spoke
when I did, but you must not think that I did not
mean what I said. I did mean it, and I mean it still.
I think Mr. Gaunt is a very noble man, and I can't
think you are quite just in the way you talk of him."

Jordan's face hardened at the words.

"You mean to tell me you believe in a man whom
I have every reason to dislike and condemn. In
other words, you set up your judgment against
mine?"

"But why do you dislike and condemn him,
father ? Do you condemn him only because you dis-
like him?"

"That is not a question you ought to put to me."

"But, father, I can't understand your feelings.
And I'm dreadfully afraid you are wrong. Oh,
it hurts me to say it, but I must say it. I have

OLIVIA'S CHOICE 261

always taken your word for law. I have done so
sometimes against my own judgment. But I am
no longer a child, father. There are matters on
which I must think for myself, matters of right and
wrong, and this is one of them."

"And since when have you commenced the dan-
gerous process of thinking for yourself ?"

"Father, please don't speak like that. I cannot
bear satire from you."

She left her seat and knelt beside him. The ac-
tion, so gentle and dutiful, touched Jordan. He laid
his hand on her head and said, in a gentler voice:
"Well, speak to me freely. I will try to listen
patiently. What are the thoughts that trouble you,
Olivia?"

"They are thoughts that have grown up in my
heart ever since you took me with you to hear Mr.
Gaunt in Madison Garden, father. I have struggled
against them. Oh, believe me, I have struggled day
and night, because I feared they would offend you.
But they have become too strong for me. They rise
out of myself, they will not be denied. That night
when I heard Mr. Gaunt, I felt that he spoke to me,
that what he said was the voice of my own soul —
I felt that I had never been truly religious. I hadn't
understood what it meant. But then I knew. It
came to me suddenly that the path he trod was the
path of truth. I tried to laugh away the impression.
I heard all that you said against him, but still his
voice called me, and I saw him beckoning me to

262 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

the path he trod. There are some things which we
learn from the inner voice. That night the inner
voice spoke."

"Well," said Jordan, "go on. You have never
understood religion. Do you know what that means
in relation to me? I am not only your father, but
your minister. Do you wish to tell me that I have
failed to interpret to you the meaning of religion?"

"No, I dare not say that, father."

"Then what is it you have to say?"

"I don't know how to put it, father. It's not that
you have not taught me a great deal, but it is as
though I had suddenly seen a fresh light. It's like
turning a corner in a road, all at once you get a
new view which you did not imagine to exist. I
see now that religion is self-sacrifice and service.
It's not thinking about things, but doing them. That
is where it seems to me that Gaunt is so right."

"And I am so wrong, I suppose ?"

"Father, don't make me say that."

"You have already said it by implication."

Jordan rose from his chair, and began to pace the
room. A harder heart than Olivia's might have
pitied him in that moment. His face had grown
pale and set, but it was less with anger than dis-
may. He had lost one child through the harshness
of his temper; was he to lose another? A great fear
clutched his heart. But it is characteristic of men
like Jordan that the harsh egoism which has been
the habit of years cannot be set aside even when it

OLIVIA'S CHOICE 263

threatens total disaster. It must be gratified at the
price of tragedy.

For some moments his mind wavered. He knew
that his daughter was now a woman, and had a right
to her own opinions. He would have granted that
right on any other subject but her approval of Gaunt.
But on this subject his mind was inflamed, his tem-
per was exacerbated. He had made himself the
public opponent of Gaunt ; what a position of ridicule
would he occupy if his own daughter should espouse
Gaunt's cause ! And at that thought self-love turned
the scale in his contending mind. And with self-love
came a gust of angry pity for himself, a swift, ago-
nized perception that in some way life had gone
wrong with him, and would continue to go wrong.
With some men such a vision might have proved
corrective. It might have suggested caution; it
might, at least, have been a warning against rash
and angry action. But its only effect on Jordan
was to harden his heart, to render the will more
obstinate, to call forth in the name of self-respect
that assertion of authority which had already
wrought so much havoc in his life.

He spoke suddenly and sharply.

"Olivia/' he said, "let us understand each other.
Is there anything else in your mind on this painful
subject which you have not expressed?"

"Yes, father, there is."

"What is it?"

"I want to join the League of Service, father."

264 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"Then understand once and for all that I for-
bid it."

"But why, father? You cannot deny that it does
good. You surely would not forbid me doing good
in a way that seems possible to me."

"I do deny that it does good. I regard the League
of Service as ridiculous and fantastic, and Gaunt as
an impostor. I have taken my side, and I will not
allow myself to be made ridiculous by my daughter
taking the opposite side. You can find plenty of
ways of doing good without joining Gaunt' s fanati-
cal movement, if you wish to. Go, and work in any
way you will ; do anything you like ; I will not com-
plain. But this thing I forbid you to do."

Olivia had risen from her knees now. She stood
very straight and pale, her hands clasped before her.
Her face and figure, her fair hair gathered in a sim-
ple knot, her clear brown eyes, her white dress, con-
veyed an indelible impression of virginal strength
and purity.

"Then, I must disobey you, father. I have obeyed
you all my life, but here my obedience must end."

"Olivia, do you understand what you are say-
ing?"

"I understand."

"Do yon understand that if you join the League
of Service you can no longer live in this house? I
could not bear that."

"Father, do you mean that? Say you do not
mean it. You shut your door once — on Robert

OLIVIA'S CHOICE 265

Will you shut it on me, too ? Oh, father, why inflict
such suffering on yourself?"

"Ask yourself who inflicts the suffering. It is
not I."

"It is you, father. I can live here, and love and
care for you as I have always loved and cared.
What will it matter that I give some of my time
to the service of the poor? Am I to be made an
outcast for that ?"

"It does matter. I tell you I could not bear it.
If you go, my house will be desolate; it will be made
desolate by your self-will. But I could bear that
better than to see you here, knowing all the time
that you were defying my wishes."

"It is not self-will, father. Oh, I would yield to
you if I could. But I am so sure that this is my
path, the one path I must tread. I have struggled
not to think so. I have even prayed that I might
think otherwise. But it is useless — the conviction
has grown in me in spite of myself. And I cannot
silence the inner voice. If I did I should never
again be happy, and I should have no right to happi-
ness. I know that there is such a thing as obe-
dience to parents — I have never been undutiful.
But there are other duties, too: duties to one's self;
duties to one's own conscience; and whatever duties
I might fulfil, I know that if I left these duties
undone I should be miserable. There comes a time
when one must live one's own life — it is such a little
life; it is all we have. And when that time comes

266 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

it is the voice of one's own soul that must be obeyed
— and I have heard the voice."

"Then it must be so. It appears to be the fate of
parents now-a-day — at least it is my fate — to bring
up children who rebel against them." .

"If it is rebellion, father, it is the kind of rebellion
of which all lovers of truth have been guilty — all
honest men and women. Don't you see that in this
matter I have no choice? Would not you, in my
place, do as I am doing? Why do you press me
so hard ? If I had committed a crime, you could not
be harder on me."

"And it is a crime you are committing, Olivia. A
crime against common-sense. But go — leave me —
I can endure no more. Sleep over it, pray over it
if you can — to-morrow it may be you will think
differently."

"I cannot think differently on this subject."

"Then you know the consequences. There is
nothing more to be said."

Jordan turned and left the room. For some min-
utes Olivia stood perfectly silent; then the relief of
tears came. She fell upon her knees and prayed.
The house grew very still; the awe of midnight
filled it.

What was her prayer? It was the prayer which
the divinest of all sufferers uttered in the crisis
of His fate — most pathetic, most human of all
prayers : "If it be possible let the cup pass from me ;
but if not, O Father, Thy will be done."

OLIVIA'S CHOICE 267

Olive trees bathed in Paschal moonlight, the
heavy shadows of the night in a deserted garden,
the far-off complaining of a brook of tears — this is
the scenery set for the world's divinest tragedy.
Our Gethsemanes, it may be, are touched with no
gleam of poetry; they are dull enough to the casual
eye; they befall us in the heart of cities, within
hearing of the mirth of streets; they seem to exist
for ourselves alone, and there is no sustaining and
invigorating sense of a world waiting for decision,
of future ages being made richer for our pain. Yet
they are not less authentic, and though we do not
know it the world does wait tremblingly the issue
of our struggle, since it is by the solitary victory
of the individual over self, and by that alone, that
the better future of the world is shaped.

Olivia Jordan's Gethsemane found her that night
in her father's house.

XVIII
THE YOUNG APOSTLES

THE summer months had come, those
months in which cities are supposed to
be "empty," when churches are closed,
and a truce is called to their activities. A brood-
ing, stifling heat-cloud rested over New York. The
nights were terrible — nights when the lifeless air
made sleep impossible. Far off in summer woods,
beside placid lakes or blue seas, the exiles from cities
gathered in gay crowds, congratulating themselves
on their escape from the brazen furnace of inter-
minable streets, and forgetting the multitudes who
remained at their posts, unable to buy themselves
out of the cruel conscription of daily city drudgery.
"New York is empty," said the papers; never was
there sentence more ironically false.

For Gaunt and his workers the summer brought
no surcease of toil. Day by day the League of
Service sent its messengers among the poor, for
there was much sickness in the narrow streets and
airless tenements. Day by day, also, the mere
growth of the movement made rest impossible for
Gaunt. From every city of the Union came reports
of its success. Every mail brought the names of
new adherents, and hundreds of requests for prac-

268

THE YOUNG APOSTLES 269

tical direction in the formation of local leagues.
Gaunt struggled on through July, grappling with a
task beyond the strength of any dozen men, and
the end of the month found him pale and worn.
But if the flesh proved weak, there was no defect
of spirit. His prevailing mood was one which
almost approached to gaiety — the indomitable cheer-
fulness of one sustained by the force of vitalizing
ideals. Palmer watched over him with more than
a brother's care, and noted with anxiety his grow-
ing pallor. At last one day Palmer came to him
with a new idea.

"Do you remember the talks we used to have
about the great religious reformers and their meth-
ods— Wesley, for example?" said Palmer.

"Certainly/' said Gaunt. "It was through those
talks we came to the discovery of our own path."

"Well, there is still room for discovery," said
Palmer.

Gaunt laid down his pen. He was sitting at a
desk loaded with the morning's mail, rapidly noting
the contents of each letter, and dictating brief re-
plies.

"That's right," said Palmer, "let your corre-
spondence go for the time, and let us talk."

"Well, what have you to propose — something new
and daring, I'll be bound," said Gaunt, with a smile.

"No, it's not new, and it's hardly daring. But
first tell me whether there is anything in the last
week's mail which has particularly struck you."

270 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"Oh, it's all striking, for that matter," said Gaunt.
"It's a wonderful thing to say, but out of a hundred
letters I seldom find one that is commonplace. They
are almost all intimate expressions of sincere souls.
Most of the writers are young."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, a considerable number are from young
men of religious enthusiasm. Here, for example, is
one that is typical. It's from a young minister.
I'll read it to you.

"DEAR SIR: I do not know how any serious and good man
can dissent from the ideas which control your work ; I believe
that all such men, either implicitly or explicitly, must agree
with them. But the difficulty for me is the method of their
practical application. Let me put my own case. I entered the
ministry on an impulse of devout enthusiasm as I suppose
most men do; for those who enter the ministry with self-
seeking motives are, I believe, very few. I hope I shall not be
misunderstood when I say that the ideal of the ministry ap-
pealed to the heroic fibre in me. It seemed to be the grandest
of all earthly vocations to build up the living kingdom of God
among men, and such a work appeared its own exceeding great
reward. Certainly, at the time I entered the ministry I was in
that exalted mood to which any form of self-sacrifice, or self-
immolation, for an ideal, seems a positive attraction rather
than a deterrent.

"My idealism was somewhat rudely handled at the theo-
logical seminary, as you will understand; but I consoled
myself with the thought that I was only in the position of the
painter who finds the hard technique of art a very different
thing from the vague dream of art which impels his feet to
the studio of the master. At all events my idealism survived.
I told myself that soon I should be in a church, and there
the atmosphere would be very different. Like the painter,
when once I had mastered the difficulties of technique, I

THE YOUNG APOSTLES 271

should emerge into a free world, where I could breathe and
work with unimpeded joy.

"At last the hour of my deliverance came. I was the
minister of a church. It was a church that stood high in
general repute, and my prospects were much brighter than
those of scores of men who started with me. I entered on my
work resolved to build this living Kingdom of God among
men, to preach nothing but the truth as the truth was
revealed to me, to give the whole strength of my mind and
body to the task, to make religion a reality in my own life and
the lives of those committed to my charge. By slow degrees it
dawned upon me that my church was out of sympathy with
ideals which were the very breath of life to me.

"It was clear, to begin with, that my church did not want
the truth in the sense in which I used the term. They were
content with traditional truth, but with truth in any living
form they were totally unacquainted. Certain doctrines or
forms of words were to them symbols ; they were used to the
symbol, but the moment I used language which transgressed
the symbol they were offended or alarmed.

"Again, it was clear that they did not regard religion as
having any practical bearing on the actualities of daily life.
Religion was for them a series of propositions and assump-
tions dealing with matters which lay beyond the province of
the reason. It was a romance of the imagination and the
emotions. It could not be conceived in the terms of plain
conduct.

"Please do not think that I speak in any spirit of contempt.
I will say at once, and with the utmost sincerity, that the
people who composed my congregation were almost all good
and kindly people. They were good to one another and to me;
they were charitable to a variety of good causes and institu-
tions; they lived on excellent terms with one another. But
it soon became clear to me that they would have been just the
same kind of persons without religion as with it. Religion
had furnished them no doubt with a series of valuable re-
straints for conduct; but it had wrought no vital change in
their characters. It was not an experience; it was only an
external creed. Well, it might be said, surely there was

272 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

enough good material here, in any case, out of which to build
the Kingdom of God? I can only reply that I found it other-
wise— quite otherwise. For the very virtues in which these
people excelled had bred in them an immense complacency.
They were wholly satisfied with themselves; so much so that
they could conceive of no need for improvement. And, being
for the most part people of middle age, occupying assured
and comfortable positions in society, they were equally satisfied
with the world as it was. I do not like to say it, yet it is true,
they had been so long flattered upon their superiority, that they
expected flattery from the pulpit, and became irritated at the
least criticism. My predecessor, a very amiable man, had flat-
tered them for years, not intentionally or basely, of course, but
simply as an expression of his own amiability. You will
understand what I mean. You will understand how the
spirit of complacency thrives on such food, until without
knowing it people become Pharisees, proud of being not as
other men are, a select coterie out of real relation with life.

"Again and again I tried to awaken in them what I may
call a consciousness of humanity. I sought honestly to show
them the world as it was, and its needs. They simply did not
choose to see it. 'You want us to do this or that for the
poor,.' they said. 'Well, there are other churches to do that;
it is not our work. Why give us repulsive details about
poverty and vice? We come to church to be strengthened in
our faith, not lacerated in our sympathies/ It seemed to me
a poor kind of faith which needed so much strengthening.
My idea of a church was an army, always ready to be
mobilized for active conquest. Their ideal was a select club,
existing for its own edification. Surely the most singular
feature in a democratic country is an oligarchic church; but
such is mine, and such are most of the churches of this city.
And beside this, there is another thing to be noted. Kindly
as my people are, yet they are absolutely selfish in the demands
they make upon their minister. They require perpetual cod-
dling. They want you to run to them at every call, and they
resent your absorption in public work if it interferes with
your power of attention to them. And so I have come to the
melancholy conclusion that the church, that is my church, is

THE YOUNG APOSTLES 273

only playing at Christianity after all. It does nothing; it
makes no kind of impact on the world. If my church were
blotted out by some catastrophe, if it were dissolved to-
morrow, its loss would make no appreciable difference in the
life of this city. The individual members would be, so far as
I can judge, just as well off without religion as with it, for
their religion is little more than a social bond. Is it worth my
while to give the strength of my manhood simply to maintain
something that is so miserably negative in its results? I am
now thirty, the next twenty years are everything. But if I
could live twice twenty years in my present conditions, I
believe nothing more would happen than has already hap-
pened.

"I entered the ministry with a brilliant dream of an on-
ward march, through many difficulties, to ultimate conquest.
My march has ended in a cul-de-sac.

"Perhaps I am in error through pride. I try to think of all
the fine things which have been said about doing the duty that
lies nearest to your hand, and being content to make a few
souls the happier. But it seems to me that this is merely the
doctrine of idleness and a false humility. If Jesus had argued
thus, He would have remained all His days in Nazareth. He
certainly would never have entered into conflict with the
Pharisees, and would never have been crucified.

"What am I to do? The only justification I can have for
putting that question to you is that I regard you as my
spiritual master. Give me anything to do that will mean
active conflict, and I will try to do it. I have the better part
of two months at my disposal this summer. They are yours,
if you can use them. I want no holiday. The best of all
vacations for me would be a plunge into the practical realities
of life.

I am, yours truly,

GEORGE DEAN."

"An admirable letter," said Palmer. "And, as
you say, quite typical. Its writer appears to be a

274 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

strong and observant man, who feels his position a
bondage. To such a man the worst of all tortures
is futility — the sense that, work how he will, his
work ends in nothing."

"It was my own torture, as you know, until I
found the way out. I believe that there are hun-
dreds of men in the ministry to-day who feel just
as this man feels."

"And that brings me to my point," said Palmer.
"What do you propose to do with men of this kind ?
Here is a great force going to waste; don't you
think you can utilize it ?"

"We certainly ought to do so. What is your
plan?"

"My plan is simple, and, I believe, practical. You
and I believe in evangelism in the broad sense, don't
we ? And we have had our dream of various kinds
of brotherhoods. Well, here is our opportunity.
What we want is a revival of the mediaeval system
of preaching friars. The press is all very well. But
it can never supersede the living voice. It can never
equal it as an agent of conviction. It is the impact
of personality that tells most in propaganda. Wes-
ley knew his business when he sent out his bands of
workers, who entered villages and cities in the spirit
of conquest, and lived their truth before the people
as well as taught it. Now what I propose is this:
let us gather together a hundred men of the George
Dean type, and use these precious weeks of summer
by sending them out, two and two, into the smaller

THE YOUNG APOSTLES 275

towns to conduct missions, to rehabilitate the reli-
gious sense by their teaching and example."

"By outdoor preaching, you mean?"

"Certainly. It is the most striking method of
preaching, and it is the only way of reaching masses
of people who under no circumstances will find their
way into halls and churches."

"I heard a famous preacher declare not long ago,"
said Gaunt, with a laugh, "that the weather in
America made outdoor preaching impossible."

"What nonsense !" said Palmer. "He should read
Wesley's Journal. Wesley found that even pouring
rain was no obstacle to outdoor preaching. But
our summer weather ! Scene : A village green at the
close of an August day; big, leafy elms; a soft, cool
wind; every one out of doors — what better oppor-
tunity do you want?"

Gaunt was silent a few moments. Then he said,
abruptly : "We'll do it. We'll begin with Dean."

The issue of this conversation was that within
less than a fortnight Gaunt had about twenty men
at work upon the lines sketched by Palmer. They
were nearly all ministers, and all young. They
had all been accustomed to employ the summer
months in sport and recreation. More than half
were the pastors of city churches. Hitherto they
had taken the summer months as their rightful
rest-time, and who could blame them? But a new
spirit had touched them. The mere spectacle of
Gaunt toiling on at his post through the hottest

276 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

weather was to them a lesson and a rebuke. "Life
is too short for rest," became their motto. There
was all eternity to rest in.

It was beautiful to see how this new enthusiasm
seized upon them. They were quite ignorant of the
kind of work to which they were put. Not one of
them had ever spoken in the open air. But their
enthusiasm atoned for their ignorance, and they
soon learned by experience. They went in pairs to
the smaller towns, asking nothing of the people,
and night after night took their stand on some open
green, and exhorted the people in plain and simple
language to enter on a life of holiness. There are
many who will never forget the picture of such
services as these : the silent crowd in the warm dusk
of summer evenings, the fireflies weaving skeins of
flame in the dark air, the soft passage of the wind
in the high trees, the melody of some familiar hymn
and some fresh young voice, pleading for the noblest
ideals of life with beautiful sincerity and sometimes
with prophetic fire.

For these young apostles it was a Galilean idyll, a
passage of poetry. It was all so different from
preaching in churches, where every word was an-
ticipated and was received with languor or indif-
ference.

"The sermon-saturated pagans of the pews" was
a phrase which Gaunt had once used about the
customary church audience, and perhaps that phrase
explained the difference. For in these open-air

THE YOUNG APOSTLES 277

audiences there was a receptivity to ideas altogether
new and delightful to men of the George Dean type.
The people who assembled came together not in
obedience to custom, but on a living volition. If
they listened it was because there was that which
interested them; and they were free to leave when
the preacher ceased to interest them. Hence there
was a vital sincerity in these meetings which is
rarely found in churches. And this reacted on the
speakers themselves. They lost the professional
element, the professional preaching voice; they soon
learned to speak simply as men to men. They found
that phrases could not take the place of thoughts.
They had to use the plain and definite language of
the common people. And they found that, having
now a definite aim before them, they achieved defi-
nite results. Scores of people, often hundreds,
pressed forward to enrol themselves in the League,
after each service.

Perhaps nothing contributed more to the success
of this movement than the obvious disinterestedness
of its apostles. The mere fact that they asked
nothing from the people made a deep and good
impression.

"What are you doing it for?" asked a reporter,
bluntly, of George Dean.

"Because we love to do it," he replied.

"But who pays you?"

"We are not paid. It is just our way of taking
a vacation."

278 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"I never met any one who preached without be-
ing paid for it before," he replied.

"Our pay is the love of the people," Dean
replied.

The reporter went away, greatly wondering.

"It seems like a bit out of the Gospels," he wrote
in his story of the interview, for he was a youth
who had once read his Bible, and had only ceased
to read it because he found no one who practised
its teachings.

And the chance phrase was true : it was the same
message of conquering love which was spoken to
these hushed crowds that was spoken long since
beside the shores of Galilee, and the same summer
stars watched the scene.

Toward the end of August Gaunt himself joined
his itinerant apostles. At the request of George
Dean, Gaunt came to Dean's own city and began
open-air preaching.

It was a prosperous city in New York State, one
of the earliest Dutch settlements, which still bore
that aspect of solidity and sobriety which the Dutch
have left everywhere upon their handiwork. Old,
red-brick houses with gardens sloping to the river;
narrow streets with venerable elms; sleepy comfort;
decorous restfulness — -such was the older city, in
which men had walked who had left records in the
history of Indian massacres and martyrdom. But
of late years another city had grown up, throbbing
with commercial enterprise, a city of vast factories,

THE YOUNG APOSTLES 279

filled with a multitude of toilers. In the very centre
of the city rose a green hill, with pleasant shade
trees, and this hill Gaunt selected for his preaching.
His fame had preceded him, and an immense multi-
tude gathered to hear him; and there night after
night he stood, taking a delight in this unconven-
tional preaching which he had never known within
the decorous walls of churches. And simply be-
cause all the richer people were far away in the
places of pleasure, his congregation consisted in the
main of the poorer folk, to whom August brought
scant relief from labour. And not only the poorer
folk came, but the socially outcast. At the sound
of the nightly singing the saloons emptied, and men
and women of wrecked hopes drew near, and hung
upon his words.

It was at the close of one of the addresses that an
anxious-looking woman came to Gaunt with a re-
quest that he would come at once to her house to
visit a lodger who was ill. Gaunt went with her.
The house was a dilapidated frame house on the out-
skirts of the city, and the interior, not less than
the exterior, bore the marks of poverty. The stair-
case was worn and dirty, the paint dull and defaced,
and the room in which the lodger lay was a dark
room with little furniture. The lodger was a young
man of athletic frame. He lay with one arm be-
neath his head, the wet hair falling over a high
forehead, the eyes closed, the face unshaven and
flushed with fever. Gaunt looked at him keenly,

280 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

troubled by some fugitive recollection of the face,
which instantly escaped him.

"What was his name?" he asked.

"He gave the name of Smith," the woman replied.

"How long has he been here ?"

"About two months."

She then went on to tell all that she knew or
suspected about the sick man. He had some posi-
tion in the great electric works of the city, she did
not know what, but he had lost it when he became
ilL He was very well spoken; college-bred, she
imagined. He was kind-hearted, brought her chil-
dren little presents, but he never went to church.

"He told me once he didn't hold with church. I
told him that was a pity, for it was better anyway to
go to church Sundays than get too much to drink,
which he sometimes did. Not that he was really
bad and wild, and that sort of thing. But he seemed
one as had had a trouble sometime, and when he got
thinking of it, he'd go to the drink. Somehow I
don't think he gave me the right name. He called
himself Smith, but I noticed that some of his
clothes were marked with a J."

Gaunt stooped yet more closely over the flushed,
unconscious face, trying to recover that fugitive like-
ness which met him there. Then all at once there
came to him the memory of Olivia Jordan, and with
it the sudden conviction that this was her brother.
He had never seen the lad in his father's house but
once. That was years ago. And he had never

THE £oUNG APOSTLES 281

known what had happened to him, except that he
had left home. Olivia, in the various talks which
he had had with her since she had joined the Sister-
hood of helpers of the poor, had never alluded to
her brother. And yet now there came to him, with
that strange rekindling of past scenes which may
well lead us to believe that nothing once seen or
known is really forgotten, the clear picture of young
Robert Jordan as he had once seen him, and he felt
sure that this sick man was he.

He looked round the room for some means of
identification. Presently he perceived a little row
of books, and among them a college Virgil. He
opened it, and found, as he expected, the name of
Robert Jordan written in the flyleaf.

That night he wrote to Olivia Jordan a full ac-
count of his visit. By the next mail came a reply,
saying, briefly : "Don't say a word to father at pres-
ent. I will come."

Olivia came and at once took charge of the sick
man. Day by day she and Gaunt ministered to-
gether to him, until the time came for Gaunt to go
to another city. He left, promising to return in a
week, when they would consult upon what might
be done for the poor fellow, who was slowly find-
ing his way back to the life he had found so bitter.

On the day that Gaunt left he woke to conscious-
ness for a moment. He said "Olivia" in a low,
awed voice, and instantly slid back again into the
phantom fever-world.

282 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"He will live now/' said Gaunt. "Please God,
you and I will see a prodigal son come home."

"The trouble is not with the prodigal son, but the
prodigal father," said Olivia, bitterly. "I wonder
whether every prodigal child has not something to
blame the father for."

"Hush!" said Gaunt. "You must not indulge
those thoughts, Olivia. If your father still loves
his boy, as I am sure he does, love will prove
stronger than either pride or anger."

"I pray for that, but I cannot hope it," said
Olivia.

"Perhaps the noblest kind of prayer is that which
has least of hope in it," replied Gaunt. "The great-
est of all recorded prayers is, 'I believe, help Thou
my unbelief.' To go on asking when we expect
to receive nothing is a much greater thing than to
ask expecting to receive."

"Isn't that a most heretical saying?" she replied,
with a sad smile.

"It is, at all events, the kind of heresy which helps
men to endure," said Gaunt.

And with that word he left her.

XIX

BUTLER'S INQUISITION

GAUNT did not return to Olivia and her
brother as he had intended; he was re-
called to New York by an urgent letter
from Butler. This letter discussed certain new
developments of the League, which may now be
briefly described.

In six months the League had enrolled close upon
two hundred thousand members. Its success had
thus been instantaneous and beyond expectation.
Each member had contributed the dollar asked in
annual subscription, so that there was now ample
means for the prosecution of the work. It was this
fund that sent out the young Apostles, which
equipped certain mission halls in the poorer districts
of New York, and which maintained the Sisters of
the Poor — a group of noble women, of whom Olivia
Jordan was one — who gave six hours of each day to
every form of personal service among the destitute.
The badge of the Cross of Stars had become familiar
in New York.

But both Gaunt and Butler had seen for a long
time that all this social work, excellent as it was,
was remedial not radical. They knew that they

283

284 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

were dealing with the results of wrong, not with the
causes. During all these months Butler had been
conducting a quiet but thorough campaign of in-
vestigation into the causes of social misery. By the
end of the summer his investigation was complete,
and hence his letter to Gaunt.

It was an exquisite September morning when
Gaunt returned to New York. As he looked upon
the city, bathed in the fresh gold of the dawn, he
felt something of that thrill which the provincial
felt twenty centuries ago when he saw the white
wonder of Nero's palace flash across the Tiber,
which the Gascon feels when he approaches Paris,
the dweller among pastured stillness feels when he
beholds the vast disarray of London. No wonder
men were intoxicated with the charm of great cities.
No wonder that they inspired a sense of limitless
freedom, in which the irksome bonds of personal
responsibility seemed dissolved. Beneath broad
and empty skies, in the open places of the world, it
was natural that men should realize the presence of
unknown powers — that they should quiver with
spiritual apprehension, that they should seek to
reconcile their conduct to invisible and awful stand-
ards ; men had always built their altars in the silent
groves and on the bare mountain tops. But here
all was human, palpable, the work of men's hands.
In these immense highways of houses, these streets
echoing with wheels above, and veined with fire and
speed below, in this incessant march of life, as of an

BUTLER'S INQUISITION 285

endless pageant, perpetually renewed, there was no
breathing space for individual life. The individual
was overwhelmed in the mass. And hence the
perilous exhilaration — the sense that nothing mat-
tered, neither duty nor piety ; that men could be and
do as they willed, and that no higher Power watched
or cared. What was the individual but a pebble
carried outward by a great torrent, that wore it
down into a shape common to a million neighbour
pebbles? And Gaunt, fresh from those great out-
door audiences in small cities, with their receptivity
to ideas, felt anew how little there was to hold to in
these millionfold personalities ground smooth in the
attrition of New York — how in the very nature of
things men in such conditions became subdued to
the element of greed and lust and wrong in which
they worked.

"God help me," he prayed silently, as the cab
speeded along Fifth Avenue and Broadway. "It is
in the city that my problem lies, my battlefield ; for
it is in cities that the whole corruption of mankind
begins."

It was still early dawn when Gaunt reached
Washington Square and the House of Joy, but the
household was already astir and at work. Palmer
met him with a shout of welcome.

"And so you've had a great time," he said.

"Yes, thanks to you. I feel as though I had never
learned how to preach till now. Next summer we'll
put five hundred men in the field."

286 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"How about Olivia Jordan?" said Palmer. He
flushed slightly as he uttered the name.

"I left her nursing her brother. He's doing well,
but it will probably be some weeks before he is quite
recovered."

"And then?"

"Then I must see what I can do with Jordan."

"If the father were only like the daughter," said
Palmer. Then he added abruptly, "You know I've
seen a good deal of Olivia Jordan since she joined
the Sisterhood. She's the best worker we have.
There's something about her, she has such a gentle
way with her, that the roughest people love her, and
I know some who almost worship her."

"And you?" said Gaunt, with a humorous glance
at his friend.

"Oh, I'm no exception," he said, gravely.

Butler entered at that moment. The great editor
looked worn and weary. Usually he had spent
August in his little house on Long Island, but this
year he had not been there for more than a few
days.

"You look tired," said Gaunt.

"Oh, I've no time to be tired," he replied. "I
believe I'm made on the principle of the wonderful
One-horse Shay : when I go to pieces it will be all at
once, and all together."

Gaunt hastily swallowed a cup of coffee, and fol-
lowed the two men into the quiet room at the back
of the house which served him for an office.

BUTLER'S INQUISITION 287

"And now/' said Butler, "let us get to work.
First of all you'll be interested to hear that while
you've been away I have refused a donation of fifty
thousand dollars from William Stonecroft."

"Stonecroft? What made him offer fifty thou-
sand dollars ?" said Gaunt.

"An uneasy conscience/' said Butler, drily.
"We've grown powerful enough to be offered bribes.
However, that's an incident," he added, "though it
has its significance, I should have refused in any
case, because our principle is that this is a people's
movement, which must be supported by the people."

"Isn't Stonecroft a member of Jordan's church ?"
asked Palmer.

"He is. That is where the significance lies. Now
let me tell you all I have ascertained about Stone-
croft, and you may take his case as typical of the
kind of problem we have now to face. He is a
member of Jordan's church: good. Jordan would
no doubt tell you that he is an exemplary member.
Certainly he gives largely to all church purposes,
and is a regular attendant at worship. The man is
charitable, and if you met him you would be charmed
with his kindly manners. Now for the other side.
He has a large dry-goods store, as you know, and
employs a great number of girls. The other day a
young girl of my acquaintance, a beautiful, well-
educated girl whose father had been unfortunate
in business, applied at his store for a situation. It
was a last resource. She had been brought up in

288 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

the lap of wealth. When reverses came she resolved
instantly to work for her living, and knowing Stone-
croft's reputation as a religious man, applied at his
store for a situation. The manager met her with
compliments. Yes : he could give her a situation at
once. He then offered her five dollars a week.

" 'But/ she said, in alarm, 'I couldn't possibly live
upon that.'

" 'Well/ he replied, with a brutal smile, 'you can
take a companion ; all the girls do/

"She stared at him for a moment, not in the least
comprehending what he meant. The man con-
tinued smiling, and the smile at last enlightened her.
She burst into tears, and, hot with shame, left the
store.

"That's count one against Stonecroft. He pays
his girls wages on which they cannot live virtuously,
and he knows it. Probably, however, he never
thinks of it. He has long ago become blind to the
sources of his wealth.

"Count two, is that he is the proprietor of
some of the worst house property in New York.
Some of his houses are used for immoral purposes.
Again, I say, that though he must know this, yet
he probably never thinks of it. No doubt some
agent manages his property for him, and he takes
his money without scruple."

"You are quite sure of these things?" said Gaunt.

"Absolutely," replied Butler. "I can give you the
exact facts not only about Stonecroft, but about a

BUTLER'S INQUISITION 289

dozen other men in similar positions. You'll find all
the details in my portfolio."

"Well, what are we to do ?"

"That is what I am coming to. But first let us
understand the problem. You and the rest of us are
all busy in saving lost people. Has it never struck
you that such work is like baling out a pool, while
the river still runs into it? We have to begin
further up in the sources of the river. It is men like
Stonecroft who manufacture the misery we are try-
ing to heal. Of course that is obvious. But the
question is how to touch men like Stonecroft.
They present the most extraordinary psychological
problem of modern society. They go to church,
they are charitable, they are pious — yes, I grant that
— I don't believe Stonecroft is a conscious hypocrite.
For that matter I don't believe any one is — the worst
man probably appears quite a decent fellow to him-
self, even when he is doing his worst actions. The
root of the whole anomaly is that men like Stone-
croft have never really learned to apply religion to
common life. Their natures are built in water-tight
compartments — in one religion, in another business
greed — Sunday feelings in one, week-day cuteness in
another — and the Sunday man is quite a separate
person from the week-day. And the society in
which they move is composed of persons of the same
order. So it happens that no one blames them, and
naturally they themselves are the last persons to
recognize the inconsistencies in their own position."

290 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"I suppose it is no use to suggest the law?" said
Gaunt

"None whatever. Palmer knows that."

"Yes," said Palmer. "I have reason to know.
It is not that there isn't law enough to touch men
like Stonecroft, but that you can't get it enforced.
The trouble all through America is that the law is in
advance of public opinion. The good people make
good laws, the ordinary people forget them, and the
bad people defy them. The result is that there is
a compromise all round. The compromise means
that any one who is strong enough and wealthy
enough can buy immunity from the law."

"Yes, that is about the truth," said Butler. "You
may take it as certain that you can't touch Stone-
croft by any process of law. But there is one
weapon that can touch him. That is publicity. If
he was a genuinely bad man that weapon would be
useless too; but he isn't a bad man. He's good in
spots. He really values his religious reputation.
It is, therefore, through his religious reputation that
I propose to touch him."

Butler opened his portfolio, and laid a mass of
carefully docketed papers upon the table.

"I have here," he said, "details, about a dozen men,
of whom Stonecroft is one. They are all leading
members of New York churches — and by-the-bye,
Gaunt, one of them is your friend Roberts. He's
not a very bad case, not nearly so bad as the rest;
but he's bad enough to be noticeable. He also has

BUTLER'S INQUISITION 291

been deriving part of his income from some of the
worst property in New York. Well, what I propose
to do is this. First of all I shall send to each of
these men a detailed statement of all that we know
about them. The statement will be too accurate to
admit of any dispute — I have taken care of that.
I shall demand that they at once do the right thing.
This gives them a chance. If they don't take it I
shall then begin the publication of a Black List in
The Daily Light. I shall publish their names, the
sources of their income, the sworn witness of those
who have suffered by them, and I shall continue to
attack them till public opinion forces them to re-
form. Of course, this is an extreme measure, but I
think it will be effectual."

"What about libel?'' suggested Gaunt.

"Oh, they won't dare to prosecute. They'll be
too much afraid of the exposure. You only have to
remember half a dozen recent exposures of the same
kind in commercial life. In each case the accused
parties remained absolutely silent. Men of this
kind will suffer almost any kind of defamation
rather than face cross-examination in the witness-
box."

Butler rose from his seat, and began to pace up
and down the room.

"Excuse me," he said. "I believe I've got nervous
these weeks. I can't sit still for long together. You
see I've had to work far into the night to put this
business through in addition to my other work.

292 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

And night in New York has been very like hell for
the last month."

"And I have been having such a good time," said
Gaunt, contritely.

"My dear fellow, you've worked in your way, I
in mine. You couldn't have done my work and I
couldn't have done yours. Let us each be content
with Browning's famous line,

"All service ranks the same with God."

There was a moment's silence, and then Butler
broke out passionately: "It's been a horrible piece
of work. Good God, it makes me sick to think of
it ! Gaunt, how is it that a church which is founded
on the example of the most just and pitiful life that
was ever lived can have become the refuge — nay
more, the peculiar property — of men like Stone-
croft! For that is what it really means. These
rich men have bought the Church. They have
bought the ministry. And the process has been so
silent and so subtle that neither the Church nor the
ministry is aware of its own corruption."

"It can only be that the ministry has failed in
honesty," said Gaunt, sacly.

"It's worse than failure. It's betrayal," said
Butler. "I know as much as most men of the proc-
esses of corruption in the national life. I know,
we all know, that the unscrupulous rich buy the
railroads, buy the senate, buy the law; but I con-
fess to a sickening sense of horror at the knowledge
I now have that they have bought the Church. And

BUTLER'S INQUISITION 293

they have done it with a diabolical adroitness. You
won't find a single man in Jordan's church who will
say a word against Stonecroft. One year he gives
the church a new organ, another he subscribes ten
thousand dollars towards a new parish house.
Does Jordan need a holiday? Stonecroft in the
kindliest and most delicate manner gives him a
cheque and sends him off to Europe. Is some one
overtaken with misfortune? Stonecroft comes
down with an ample donation. Does a young man
want a situation ? Stonecroft procures one for him.
Every one is soon under obligation to him, and pray
who is going to enquire into the sources of his
wealth when he uses it so generously? Why, I
wouldn't trust myself to be honest in such an atmos-
phere. I believe that I should be corrupted with the
rest. It would soon seem as if mere gratitude made
criticism impossible."

Butler continued walking up and down with angry
strides. Presently he resumed: "But let that pass.
Here's the case as I see it. Things have gone so far
that it is useless to expect ministers to recognize the
situation. I can't blame them ; they've grown up in
the environment, and are mastered by it. When-
ever a mininster does recognize the situation and
speak out, he has to go. I know a great Western
city where half a dozen ministers have been driven
from their pastorates in the last half a dozen years,
for no other reason than that they, for righteous-
ness' sake, put themselves into opposition against the

294 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

rich men of their churches. No; the individual
minister is not strong enough to fight this battle
alone. Therefore we must help him. I propose to
re-establish the Inquisition."

Gaunt and Palmer both laughed at this climax,
and even Butler's lips relaxed in a grim smile.

"Oh, the Inquisition was an excellent thing, if it
had only been properly conducted," said Butler.
"My Inquisition will be conducted on strictly
modern principles. I can get on quite well without
tortures and burnings; publicity will serve my pur-
pose. I shall begin my operations with Stonecroft,
and if I don't mistake that is his hand upon the
door-bell. I have summoned him to be present here
at nine o'clock."

The words were scarcely spoken before William
Stonecroft entered the room. He was a tall elderly
man, fresh-complexioned, inclined to stoutness,
immaculately dressed in light summer costume. His
manner was genial, kindly, almost fatherly. He
might have stood for the portrait of a model philan-
thropist.

"Good-morning, gentlemen," he said, and his
voice radiated good-will and sincerity. "Ah, Mr.
Gaunt, I'm pleased to know you, sir. I've followed
your work with the greatest interest. It's a wonder-
ful work. I would have been glad to subscribe to it,
but I understand from Mr. Butler that it is one of
your principles not to receive large donations. A
mistaken principle, I think : for why should the rich

BUTLER'S INQUISITION 295

be debarred from helping in such a good work?
Eh?"

"If you will sit down, Mr. Stonecroft, I will try to
answer your question," said Butler, quietly. "It
was because I wanted to discuss the whole matter
with you, that I ventured to ask you to meet us here
this morning."

"I shall be extremely pleased to know your
views," said Stonecroft. "I have about an hour to
spare — not more, for I live very little in New York
now. I prefer the country."

"Perhaps it is because you live so little in New
York now that you are not quite aware of certain
things which are done by your authority," said But-
ler. "If you will allow me to speak for just ten
minutes without interruption, I think I can make
quite clear to you what I mean."

A shadow of apprehension passed over Stone-
croft's face, but his manner still remained genial.

"Certainly," he said. "I shall always value the
opportunity of hearing a person of Mr. Butler's
eminence speak on any subject in which he is
interested."

Butler took from his portfolio a bundle of papers,
and having carefully arranged them for easy refer-
ence, at once began to speak. He gave full details
of the condition and uses of the house property
which Stonecroft owned. Some of it was almost
ruinous, without decent conveniences, crowded by
the poor, who nevertheless paid exorbitant rentals.

296 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

Some of it was rented for immoral purposes, at yet
higher rates. He gave chapter and verse, the names
of tenants, the amount of rent paid in each instance.
He then passed on to the management of Stone-
croft's huge store. He gave the story of the girl
and her interview with the manager, as he had
already given it to Gaunt and Palmer. He sup-
plemented it with similar facts. He closed his ar-
raignment with one brief sentence. "What do you
mean to do about it? Here is vice in the process
of manufacture," he said. "It may be that person-
ally you know little of what is going on under your
name. But you are the richer by what is done.
You are responsible. While we try to remedy
wrong, you produce it. If there were no other
reason for refusing your donation, this is enough.
And so again, Mr. Stonecroft, I ask you, what do
you mean to do about it?"

As he spoke the colour left Stonecroft's face.
He looked ten years older. The moment Butler
finished, he sprang to his feet.

"By what right," he cried, "do you interfere in
my private affairs ?"

"By the right of Christian justice. And because
no affairs are private which involve the lives of
other people."

"I deny the right, all the same," he retorted.

"Oh, let the question of right go, if you like. My
only urgent question is what do you intend to do
about it?"

BUTLER'S INQUISITION 297

"What do you?" said Stonecroft.

"I want to give you the opportunity of putting
things right. I want you to look to the condition of
your house property. I want you to pay the girls
in your employ wages sufficient to maintain them in
self-respect. You are rich enough to do these
things. You believe yourself a Christian man, and
therefore you ought to do them."

"But, man, you don't know what you ask. I can't
pay more than the current rate of wages. No
wealth could stand the strain of such a reform as
you ask. And if I sold my houses who would be
the better ? They would be bought by some one else
who would prove a harsher landlord than I."

"Surely that has nothing to do with it. It is
your duty we are discussing, not the duty of other
people."

"Then I say flatly, I can't do it. You are asking
the impossible."

"Right is never impossible. It may be difficult,
but it is not impossible. Mr. Stonecroft, do you
realize that ever dollar bill you have in your pocket is
stained with the blood of innocence, that your yacht
is paid for by the price of shame, that your country
house is built over the pit of hell ? Would it not be
better to be poor and just than rich and what you
are — a manufacturer of vice ?"

"I tell you I can't do it," he replied.

"Then I reply, you must."

"And who will make me?"

298 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"I will. I propose to give you one month in which
to consider the whole question. I believe that you
have enough natural kindliness of heart, enough
natural sense of justice, if you will but consider the
matter thoroughly, to come to my point of view. If,
unfortunately, you come to an opposite decision, I
shall publish in The Daily Light all the details about
your position which I have discussed this morning."

Stonecroft rose without a word. He was too
stunned for further speech.

When he left the room Butler said, grimly :

"I think the Inquisition will prove a success. I
rather think it has made its first convert."

XX

THE POOL AND THE RIVER

BUTLER'S "Inquisition," as he called it, dur-
ing the next few weeks, continued its work
with remarkable vigour. In his heart
Gaunt was not wholly sympathetic with Butler's
methods. His nature was too tender, his spirit was
too loving and charitable, for the exercise of judi-
cial functions. He often thought that moral suasion
would have succeeded just as well; that, in fact, men
like Stonecroft might have been persuaded to right-
eousness. But he knew, nevertheless, that the facts
were against him. Had he not himself preached for
seven years to Roberts, and yet Roberts was on But-
ler's Black List? And he had preached plainly and
boldly enough. His conscience acquitted him on
that score. And yet, in spite of all, Roberts had
gone on his own way and had done evil in the sight
of the Lord.

This was the eternal anomaly, and his soul was
saddened by it. How explain it? And the more
he thought of it, the more clearly he saw that the
moral failure of the pulpit lay in its lack of au-
thority. The preacher preached professionally, and,
therefore, no one thought of taking his words seri-
ously. Moreover, he had no power of enforcing

299

300 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

them, being himself the paid servant of the men
whom he addressed. It was different in mediaeval
times when the Church knew how to enforce its
laws, and did so relentlessly. It was different in
the days of Jonathan Edwards, when the terror of
an unseen world lay on men. But the fear of the
unseen had long ago been dissipated. The vision of
a great white throne, of a judgment seat, of a hell
for evildoers — all had melted like a pageant in the
sunset clouds, and there was left only the hard, bare
sky. Slowly he began to see that social redemption
could only be achieved by the restoration of moral
authority, and he could not but admit that Butler's
work was an effort to create a centre of moral
authority.

As for Butler, he had no doubts.

"If you had been an editor as long as I have,"
he said one day to Gaunt, "you would know that
life is a pretty rough business, and cannot be car-
ried on without rough measures. You've not got
over the debilitating effects of being a minister yet,
my friend."

Gaunt laughed at the word "debilitating."
"That's about the last word my critics would think
of applying to me," he said.

"Oh, you're improving," said Butler, sardonically.
"But you'll never quite make up for the lack of
locusts and wild honey in your education. You've
had too much of soft raiment and king's houses,
you know. You've got rid of them, by the mercy

THE POOL AND THE RIVER 301

of God, but you can't get rid of their effects all at
once."

"I rather thought a famous editor knew more
about those things than a poor parson/' Gaunt re-
torted.

"Oh, yes, an editor no doubt gets a pretty fair
share of the rewards of life when he succeeds, but
that's not what I mean. What I mean is this, that
you've never until recently handled life with naked
hands, and I've never done anything else. You've
been brought up in all sorts of notions about the
beauty and kindliness of human nature, because
in a church human nature seems to the average min-
ister an amiable thing, delicately nourished on
angels' food, with some defects, no doubt, but with
no brutal instincts. So the average minister, living
in a sentimental world, sees everything through the
glamour of sentiment, and speaks and acts accord-
ingly."

"And an editor?"

"An editor has no illusions. Take my life. Ever
since I was sixteen I have been handling life with
naked hands — forgive the repetition of the phrase.
I've mixed with thieves and pickpockets; followed
the clue of repulsive crimes; discovered corruption
where I looked for rectitude; found men self-seek-
ing, greedy, unscrupulous. Life, as I have seen it,
is not an amiable affair at all; it is a strong, brutal,
terrible thing. It's a tremendous battle, in which the
fiercest passions are at work. Oh, it can be heroic,

302 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

too, — that I know. But fear lies at its base. You
must make men afraid of something if you want to
make them move to a higher plane of living. The
soldier fears to be thought a coward; therefore he
flings his life away. The merchant fears the rod of
justice; therefore he controls his greed within the
bounds of law. In the highest state of development
men fear the rebuke of conscience, they fear the
disapproval of God, and then you get the saint.
The love of God is the last word of wisdom, no
doubt, but the fear of God is the beginning of wis-
dom. My particular work just now, as I conceive
it, is to put the fear of God into the hearts of men
like William Stonecroft."

"What about Stonecroft?"

"Oh, he's a good case. I think he'll come round
to our point of view. I've kept careful track of his
doings, though, of course he doesn't know it. He's
dismissed that brute of a manager. He's closed one
of his houses, whose evil reputation was notorious.
Stonecroft is an easy case, because he is at heart
a good man. He sinned not wilfully but through
criminal carelessness — the carelessness of the man
who grows wealthy too fast, and leaves to others
the management of his affairs, and doesn't trouble
about details. If I had only to deal with men of
his order I should have no trouble, but I'm no
prophet if we are not going to be up against the
worst kind of trouble with some of the other men
on my list before many weeks are over."

THE POOL AND THE RIVER 303

Gaunt grew serious at once. "Tell me what you
mean," he said.

"I've nothing very definite to tell you at present.
I am only conscious that a storm is brewing. From
what direction it will break, I can't tell. Here, for
instance, is a letter which shows the sort of spirit
which is at work."

He handed Gaunt the letter. It was typewritten
and anonymous. It was composed with a sort of
sober violence, a cold unexaggerated vindictiveness,
much more impressive than any wild and whirling
words would have been. The writer remarked that
he and many others were aware of all Gaunt's plans
and movements. They had nothing to say against
his work as long as it was confined to its own proper
sphere of religious activity. He warned Gaunt that
if he passed beyond that sphere of activity there were
those who would remorselessly crush him. - They
had the means, they would find the way. For the
present they contented themselves with warning
him that he was in greater danger than he imag-
ined. If he made it necessary for them to strike,
they would strike hard and mercilessly, and
the blow would come in such a way that
no precautions he might take would enable him
to avoid it.

As Gaunt read the letter his eyes flamed. If he
had at all hesitated in his approval of Butler's cam-
paign, he now hesitated no more. The letter had
an effect precisely the contrary of that intended by

304 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

the writer. Instead of intimidating him, it kindled
in him the spirit of battle.

"Have you any guess who the writer is?" he said.

"None whatever." Then, noting the anger in
Gaunt's face, he added: "Now don't take it too
seriously. I have received hundreds of such letters
in my time. It may mean anything or nothing; it
may be an idle threat or a serious menace. It is
impossible to decide which. The only certain thing
is that we've hit somebody pretty hard and he's
angry."

"But it's dastardly."

"Of course it is. You don't expect the devil to
play fair, do you?"

"What do you intend to do ?

"Go on, just go on. In the course of a day or two,
I shall begin a series of articles in The Daily Light.
I shall use this letter later on, if the occasion de-
mands it. It will be a valuable bit of evidence on the
character of our opponents. We're in for a big fight,
but I've not a doubt as to the issue. I know you
think I've rather a poor opinion of human nature;
well, let me confess that I have one supreme faith;
it is that the great multitude of plain folk are always
on the side of right, when they once know what
right is."

"That's a great creed," said Gaunt.

"It is a justified creed at any rate," said Butler.
"I've never found it false. There's an inextinguish-
able moral sense in man, in spite of all our philoso-

THE POOL AND THE RIVER 305

phers. The curious thing is that it is most vital in
the people who are roughest and most ignorant.
As man goes up in the social scale he loses it. I
suppose this is the result of wealth. All revolutions
have their birth among the common people. It is
from the womb of labour and hardship that all the
Christs come. And it is the poor alone who
have the vision to recognize the Christ when He

comes."

A day or two later Butler began his memorable
series of articles in The Daily Light. In his first
article he defined his policy. He began by stating
what was perfectly obvious and familiar to all Amer-
ican citizens: viz., that law had everywhere fallen
into disrepute. It was notorious that a rich man had
means of either coercing, buying, or influencing the
law in his own favour. America was practically at
the mercy of the rich men, many of whom were scoun-
drels of the worst kind. But if law failed to touch the
lawbreaker, there still remained another tribunal, the
tribunal of publicity. He proposed, first of all, to
give a just and impartial account of the various
abuses which worked injustice and suffering in the
common life. Those who were guilty would recog-
nize their offences in those articles. If the recogni-
tion of the offence produced penitence and repara-
tion, he was content. If no such results followed
he would proceed to publish the names of the of-
fenders, with full details of their misdoing, and leave
public opinion to deal with them in its own way.

306 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

These articles at once produced furious comment
in The Yellow Press. Both Butler and Gaunt were
mercilessly caricatured and ridiculed. Who was
Butler, jeered the Press, that he should take it upon
himself to be the censor of New York ? They took
leave to remind him that tyrannical Puritanism died
a good many decades ago in New England, after
making the life of the people miserable by its exac-
tions, and that America would never permit its resur-
rection in the persons of a fanatical editor and a
crack-brained parson.

"You see," said Butler, as he read this article to
Gaunt, "the writer of that anonymous letter was
right when he said that he was perfectly aware of
our plans and movements. I have not mentioned
your name, but our antagonists recognize my mani-
festo as coming from the League of Service."

"I am proud that they should do so," said Gaunt.
"All that I am afraid of is that some of our work-
ers may be exposed to insult and violence — particu-
larly the women."

"Oh, it hasn't come to that yet, and it won't for
some time," said Butler. "Of course it may happen,
but I shall know well in advance. At present out
antagonists will be content with ridicule of out
motives and personal defamation."

To this attack Butler replied with a personal artij
cle. He stated that he had not the honour to be
called a Puritan; he was simply a plain citizen, who
was fighting the battle of the plain people. He

THE POOL AND THE RIVER 307

would not be deterred from his duty by either ridi-
cule or abuse.

And, then, day by day he followed up his first
article with others, in which the social sores of New
York were remorselessly exposed. He drew vivid
pictures of the methods by which vice was manu-
factured; how insufficient wages made virtue nearly
impossible for hosts of women workers; how the
life of crowded tenements — dark, airless, and in-
sanitary— provoked a violent passion for excess of
some kind in the lives of multitudes who felt them-
selves unjustly deprived of the joy of living; and
how behind all this phantasmagoria of social misery
there stood men and women who drew from it the
sources of their luxury, who lived delicately, who
had houses at Newport and yachts upon the Hudson,
who took all the joy of living as a right, and never
so much as thought of those who were sacrificed to
produce the pleasures they themselves enjoyed. He
dealt most trenchantly with the condition of the
women workers of New York. In its pride and
love of boasting the Press had shouted itself hoarse
in affirming that America was "a woman's country."
No doubt the women of good birth and ample means
had a good time; they had too good a time, for it
made them vain and selfish. But what of the other
kind of women — the great host of toilers? As a
class they were shamelessly underpaid, and in many
instances as shamelessly overworked. The doctors
of New York could tell a tale full of horror, if they

308 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

chose. The keepers of houses where such women
boarded could tell a yet more terrifying story.

And then he proceeded to elaborate his parable of
the pool and the river; the pool of misery which a
hundred charities and philanthropic societies were
endeavouring to bale out, and the river of wrong
forever flowing into it, so that in the end nothing
was really accomplished. And this river of wrong
often rose in the churches and philanthropic societies
themselves, though no one seemed to see it, or if he
saw it had not the daring to declare what he saw.
The very men who gave money for the relief of
social misery were often themselves the silent acces-
sories of the misery they sought to relieve. It was,
therefore, the conditions of social misery that must
be ascertained, and that implied examination of the
sources of wealth. To rescue people from a leaky
ship was no doubt humane and heroic; but would
it not be far more sensible to stop the leaks, and to
make it impossible for the leaky ship to put out to
sea? And so from day to day he pursued his for-
midable indictment. He wrote as he had always
written on moral themes, with a restrained fire and
passion; always lucid, rational, sober in statement,
but with a deadly incisiveness and force. It was
these elements that gave him his power, and never
was that power so manifest as in this memorable
series of articles.

They were widely quoted, of course. They gave
occasion for certain other cities to loudly profess

THE POOL AND THE RIVER 309

themselves not as New York, whereat Butler smiled
grimly, and related for their benefit the story of the
men upon whom the tower of Siloam fell, with
emendations and applications of his own.

But the most remarkable thing was that after
the first outburst of The Yellow Press, that great
agent of public demoralisation fell wholly silent.
Gaunt was disposed to regard this as a victory, but
Butler soon undeceived him.

"It's an ominous silence," he said. "It means a
storm."

"I rather think it means that they are waiting to
see which way the wind blows," said Gaunt.

"Not a bit of it," said Butler. "I don't say they
won't pretend to support me, if they should conclude
that it would pay them to do so; but it is far more
likely that they will conspire to crush me. Indeed,
I have reason to know that is what their silence
really means."

"Have you had any more threatening letters ?"

"No, but I've found that they have tried quietly to
buy the control of my paper. Fortunately that is
impossible. Have I ever told you the history of
my paper?"

"No; I would like to hear it."

"Well, I worked for years at journalism, saving
every cent I could, always in the hope that I might
some day get a paper of my own : for a mere editor
is in a position much more insecure than that of any
minister. He is, of course, entirely at the mercy

3io A PROPHET IN BABYLON

of the proprietors of his paper, who may change
their policy at a moment's notice or may differ from
their editor in opinion, or may sell their interests.
A mere editor is the least independent of men. So
I saved and saved to obtain independence, and for
years limited myself to two very plain meals a day.
Then a fortunate legacy gave me my chance. I
started my paper, putting all I had into it. For more
than a year ruin stared me in the face. I had finally
to sell a quarter share to save myself, and from
that day the tide turned. But I kept my three-
quarters interest, though I almost starved to do it,
in the first six months of the partnership. It was
worth starving for; it was the price of freedom.

"Well, the other man with the quarter share has
been to see me thrice in the last week. Each time he
came on the same errand. He wanted to buy a con-
trolling interest, and offered me a sum for it that
would have made me a rich man for life. He wasn't
very adroit about it. I read his purpose in his eyes.
Of course he's been got at by the other side."

"Which means that the other side is thoroughly
alarmed."

"Of course. And you'd say so if you knew all
that went on in my office."

He paused a moment and smiled at some recol-
lection. Then he added : "The task of a Grand In-
quisitor isn't pleasant, but it has some redeeming
elements of humour. The latest form of humour on
the part of one of my black sheep is to hire an ex-

THE POOL AND THE RIVER 3"

pugilist with a cudgel to wait for me at the door of
the office. He's a good-natured sort of pugilist, and
innocently let his designs be discovered by one of the
men, who indulged him in certain potent cocktails.
It seems he didn't know me by sight, and was ex-
tremely anxious to make my acquaintance. When
the cocktails had done their work I sent for him
to my office, and behaved so beautifully to him that
he actually began to regard me with affection. Con-
spirators should be very careful to understand the
antecedents of those they employ. It seemed that
my ex-pugilist had a daughter who was as the apple
of his eyes, and that Olivia Jordan had been kind to
her when the girl lay sick. When he knew that I
was in the same swim with Olivia, he became quite
maudlin and professed that he wouldn't harm me
for the world. I asked him what wages he earned
as a professional sandbagger, and he told me with
engaging frankness; also the name of his employer.
I promptly doubled his wages to go on waiting for
me at the door of the office. He's still there. He's a
ferocious-looking scoundrel, but he has a most allur-
ing wink. You should see him wink at me when I
go in and out."

Later on in the evening Butler came to see Gaunt,
bringing William Stonecroft with him. Stonecroft's
demeanour was quite altered. His surface geniality
had vanished.

"You know my errand, no doubt," he said, speak-
ing slowly and heavily.

312 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"I have been expecting you," said Gaunt, "and
am heartily glad to see you."

"You expected me?"

"Yes, because I felt quite sure that you meant to
do the right thing, and would do it."

Stonecroft's face flushed. "I think it was because
I felt you had that kind of faith in me that I've
found strength to fight the hardest battle of my life,"
he said.

"But it has been a hard, hard battle," he con-
tinued, and as he spoke the dulness in his voice
dissolved, and he began to speak with energy. "I
give you my word I had no idea of the existence of
the sort of things you laid to my charge. Of course
that's no defence, because I ought to have known.
I see that now, and I marvel that I didn't see it long
ago. Up to about ten years ago I was only moder-
ately rich, and I looked after my affairs with jealous
scrutiny. Then I found myself wealthy, and like
most wealthy men thought I had a right to enjoy
my leisure. I made my riches in New York, but I
ceased to live in it. That was the beginning of the
mischief."

"I think I understand," said Gaunt.

"No, I doubt if you do, or can. At all events, I
am sure you can't understand the temptations of
such a position. Do you know what it means to live
in a green nook of the country, with all the pleasures
that wealth can give you? Well, I will tell you
what happens — your soul goes to sleep. The days

THE POOL AND THE RIVER 3'3

pass so noiselessly, life moves on such an even keel,
that you forget the very existence of a tragic world.
If you think of it at all, it is with a complacent com-
miseration, as if of something far off and unreal.
Then your moral sense becomes lethargic, and as for
your power of sympathy, there is nothing to call it
out. That was how I lived — with my soul asleep.
But I've learned my lesson, — thank God, I've learned
it, — though it has been a terrible one."

His face was tragic.

Then he continued. "Do you remember how you
asked me that day what I was going to do ? I went
away in great anger, but night and day that ques-
tion haunted me. I found myself reviewing my
methods of life, and the more I considered them, the
more unhappy I became. At last I saw one thing
clearly: I saw that a man ought to live where his
money is being earned. The moment I arrived at
that conclusion everything else became clear to me.
I was taking the rewards of labour without labour-
ing— that was my sin; and nothing could be right
with me until that sin was renounced. Having
reached that decision, I knew what I had to do. I
have spent the last month in New York, and have
gone thoroughly into my affairs. Some of the worst
abuses have been remedied. Be patient with me, and
I promise you that the rest shall follow.

"The best guarantee that I can give you for that
promise is that at Christmas I shall return to New
York for good, and go to business every day as I

314 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

used to do when I was relatively poor and strug-
gling. I have let my country house. I intend to
live among the people who henceforth will work not
only for me but with me: and I will make it my
business to make them sharers in all the good that I
enjoy, as far as it is possible to me."

Gaunt and Butler were both deeply moved. Gaunt
stretched out his hand to Stonecroft in warm regard
— it was some moments before he could speak.
When he spoke, he said, in a low voice : "Mr. Stone-
croft, a few weeks ago when you offered me money
for the League of Service, we refused it. I want
to ask you now to give us something better than
money."

"What is that?"

"Give us yourself. Join the League, and work
with us. You have earned the right."

"I shall count it the greatest honour of my life,"
he replied.

And so that night there was written on the roll
of the League a name that has ever since been a
synonym for stainless honour and widest charity,
the name of William Stonecroft.

XXI
HOME AT LAST

THE conversion of Stonecroft soon became
public. Indeed he himself courted pub-
licity by writing a long letter to The
Daily Light, in which he earnestly pleaded the cause
of the League, and insisted on the new principle of
conduct which he had discovered, viz., that those
who make money in a city should live among those
whom they employ. His letter naturally attracted
great attention, and among those who read it was
Dr. Jordan.

Jordan was an obstinate, but not a stupid man.
The astuteness which had enabled him to manage a
church with success through so many years, also
gave him some power of reading the signs of the
times. Stonecroft's letter startled him. He began
to ask himself for the first time whether he had not
been mistaken in his estimate of Gaunt and his work.

When a man of Jordan's temperament begins to
doubt his own infallibility, the disintegration of the
said infallibility is rapid. Hitherto Jordan had had
abundant faith in himself, and had justified it.
Amid a hundred contentions and disputes, some of
them paltry enough, but others of real moment, he

315

316 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

had never once found himself seriously mistaken.
He had always chosen his ground with care, had
measured men and occasions with cautious perspi-
cacity, and had uniformly found himself upon the
winning side. He was now to discover that astute-
ness and wisdom are very different things. In the
presence of elemental forces astuteness is a vain
thing ; it is little better than a child's trick. Wisdom
would have recognized in the sudden and wide tri-
umph of Gaunt's principles the upheaval of the ele-
mental in men's thoughts; but this wisdom — the
gift of the seer — Jordan did not possess. And so it
needed the sudden conversion of a man like Stone-
croft to make him aware of the truth of things.

On a certain Monday morning Jordan sat in the
room at his church which he used as a study. It
was a large, comfortably furnished room, surrounded
by bookshelves. In the earlier and happier times of
his life he had made but infrequent use of this room,
preferring to do his intellectual work at home. But
his home had become a desolation, and in these days
he found its silence unbearable. He had driven his
son away, he had virtually expelled Olivia ; but their
reproachful ghosts seemed to haunt the house, their
footfalls lingered on threshold and stairway, their
voices echoed in the vacant rooms when the darkness
fell; until he had grown afraid. He had hardly
confessed this fear to himself; he had hitherto, in
spite of his suffering, had no misgiving about the
course which he had pursued; he saw himself rather

HOME AT LAST 317

as a martyr, a man who was punished for the follies
of others, not for his own.

But now, as he sat in his church-study on this
Monday morning, he became conscious of a new
movement in his thoughts. His egoism was crum-
bling, his faith in himself had begun to waver. He
was in the position of the man whose creed rests not
upon broad principles, but on the alleged accuracy
of numerous details ; consequently a man for whom
the disproof of a detail is the dislodgment of the
whole structure of belief. If he had been mistaken
in his estimate of Gaunt, it followed that he had
been mistaken in his treatment of Olivia. He had
treated Olivia harshly ; if in her case he was wrong,
perhaps he had also been wrong in the harshness
which he had shown toward his son. His pride
struggled against the thought, but the hour for pride
was over. Stonecroft's defection — for so he still
called it — had inflicted a fatal wound to his pride.
Here was a man of great wealth and social influence,
the one man in Jordan's church who more than any
other had stood for the old order of things, a man
moreover of great astuteness of mind, not in the
least liable to fanaticism — and he had suddenly be-
come the public advocate of Gaunt's views. Jordan
groaned in genuine bewilderment of spirit. And he
had no longer the vigour to resent the blow that had
fallen upon him. He had even begun to realize,
with a pang of torturing humiliation, that it might
be deserved.

318 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

The bell rang. Jordan roused himself from his
gloomy reverie; a visitor was climbing the stair.
The visitor was Stonecroft.

"Good-morning, Doctor/' said Stonecroft. "I
thought I would catch you early, before your day's
work began."

"I am always glad to see you/' said Jordan with
a briskness of manner which was noticeably forced.

Stonecroft sat down, and for some minutes the
conversation ranged over conventional nothings.
Each man was acutely conscious of the question
which waited for discussion, but each shrank from
introducing it. At last Stonecroft said abruptly,
"Well, Doctor, let us come to business. I want to
speak to you frankly about the League of Service."

"You know my views," said Jordan, stiffly.

"I know what you have announced as your views,"
corrected Stonecroft.

"Isn't that a somewhat insulting distinction ?"

"It is not meant so," said Stonecroft. "At the
time when Gaunt began his crusade it was perfectly
natural that you should take the stand you did. I
entirely sympathized with you. But many things
have happened since then. I should underrate your
intelligence if I supposed that you were so bound to
the fetich of consistency that you felt obliged to hold
to your first view of the case simply because you had
publicly announced it — quite irrespective, I mean,
of the deductions which may be made from later
developments."

HOME AT LAST 319

"I am not aware of any later developments that
demand a change of view on my part," said Jordan,
with a flash of his old obstinacy.

"Doctor/' said Stonecroft, earnestly, "forgive me,
but is that quite true ?"

"No, it isn't," said Jordan, with a sudden capitu-
lation which surprised himself. "I will confess that
your own conduct has been so surprising that it has
raised doubts in my own mind."

"Doubts as to my conduct or your own?"

"Both," said Jordan. He was silent a moment,
and then his misery spoke. "I am full of unhappi-
ness," he said, in a low voice. "I am no longer sure
of myself. In twenty-five years of public life I have
known many conflicts of opinion and principle, but
I have never known the misery of the divided mind.
I have never known hesitation: hesitation has been
peculiarly abhorrent to me, as the worst form of
weakness. That which I despised in others I now
endure. I am ashamed of myself and of my con-
fession. I do not suppose that you or any man can
understand the pain I suffer."

Stonecroft rose, and laid his hand on Jordan's
shoulder. "Yes, I can understand," he said.

"I can understand because I have endured the
same torture. Do you suppose it was an easy thing
for me to do what I have done? You call this
torture the torture of the divided mind. Yes, it is
that, but I suspect that it might be more truthfully
described as the torture of pride. It was my pride

320 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

that was put upon the rack; it is really your pride
that is there now. I believe that of all hard things
in life, the hardest is for a man who has always
moved with the easy stride of complete assurance to
say, 'I am wrong, I have done wrong.' The
stronger a man is by nature the harder is it for him
to say it. But oh, the relief when it is said! My
friend, you have often preached to me ; now it is my
turn to preach to you — do the hardest and bravest
thing of your life : have the courage to doubt your
own wisdom."

"But it's not altogether pride with me," said Jor-
dan. "I am not sure; that is the trouble."

"Well, then, let me put you a question. Have you
ever taken the pains to study what this League of
Service means at close quarters? Have you ex-
amined its aim and work?"

"I have regarded it as a piece of unworthy fanat-

icism."

"Regarded it? Yes, that is the mistake. You
have stood aloof, and measured it from the height of
your own supposed omniscience. I did the same.
Would it not be wiser to take nothing for granted,
not even your own omniscience?"
"Well, what would you have me do?"
"Simply cease to judge and begin to examine.
Get rid of misleading words — fanaticism is one of
them — and weigh facts. I will make you a definite
proposal. Give me this week. Let me show you the
kind of things this crusade is actually doing. If at

HOME AT LAST 321

the end of the week you still disapprove, you will at
least have more than theory and prejudice to support
you; but I shall be greatly surprised if you don't
find yourself on our side before the week's ended."

"Don't assume too much," said Jordan. "I will
promise you the week, but as for myself, I can
promise nothing."

"Very well," said Stonecroft, cheerily. "That's
understood. I'll call for you this evening about six
o'clock, if that will do."

"That will do," said Jordan.

Jordan sat silent a long time after Stonecroft left
him. His dominant feeling was a sense of over-
whelming surprise at his own conduct. He had
expected Stonecrof t's visit ; he had intended to make
it the occasion of lively controversy. On the con-
trary, he had capitulated without a struggle. More
than this : he had exposed his own heart in a way
which seemed incredible. Was it possible that these
were the acts of Robert Jordan — that taciturn,
reticent Jordan, who had always put a severe re-
straint upon his inner feeling, who had never even
to his wife or child made a full exposure of his own
soul ? And he had done this to a man whom he had
never even regarded as an intimate friend. He,
whose every act had been the fruit of calculation,
had allowed himself to be mastered by an impulse of
confession, wholly foreign to all his previous in-
stincts. And yet he was conscious of a sense of
relief, as of a burden lifted from the heart. What

322 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

did it all mean ? Another might have told him, but
as yet he had no vision to discern the truth that what
he was experiencing was the birth of humility. His
egoism was upon the cross, and through all the cruel
anguish a soft voice whispered, "Lord, it is good for
me to be here." It was as though a city had fallen,
leaving erect a single belfry, which rang out to the
awful sunset the thrilling Angelus — a high thin note
of mysterious consolation amid disastrous ruin.

A letter lay upon his desk in Olivia's handwriting.
It had lain there for days unopened. He had vowed
in the hardness of his heart to refuse all communica-
tion with the child who had deserted him; but now
he took up Olivia's letter, and slowly broke the seal.
So much had happened that was contrary to his
will, that it seemed of little consequence if he once
more obeyed his impulse rather than his habit. So
he broke the seal.

The letter bore no address and was very brief.

"Dear Father [it read] : — If your son should come back to
you in love and honour, would you refuse him? Robert is
alive, and he loves you. But he will not, cannot, come to you,
till you say 'Come.' Will you say the word? He has been
ill; he is now well, and his one desire is reconciliation with
you. For myself I ask nothing. Do with me as you please ; I
plead not for myself, but for Robert. To-morrow I shall be
once more in New York, and will await your reply at Dr.
Gaunt's house in Washington Square.

Your child, OLIVIA."

He looked at the date upon the envelope. It was
a week old. So then his children had come to New

HOME AT LAST 323

York, they had waited no doubt for some sign from
him, and all the time their plea for kindness had
lain upon his desk unread. "Robert is alive and
loves you" — yes, and he loved Robert. He knew
it now. The old affection, the old pride in his boy,
the old hopes that he had cherished for his success
in life, all those feelings that had once been his de-
light returned upon him now in torturing vehemence.
Once more he had let occasion slip, he had failed to
know the hour of his visitation, he had mismanaged
his life with a folly truly tragic. He had lost his
boy once through harshness which he no longer
justified ; he had lost him a second time through mere
obduracy, so stupid that no defence was possible.

Vaguely he became conscious of something that
defied human calculation in these happenings. He
heard over him the dark wings of fate beating the
expectant air, he felt round him the fast-closing web
of destiny. And yet, as these phrases flashed
through his mind, he knew that they were false.
Destiny, fate, — these could not explain the paradox
of his tragedy. What could? And as he groped
for a reply, he felt as though a Hand closed over
him, a Power not himself was breaking him sinew
by sinew, and he knew the name of that Power. He
fell upon his knees in a great horror of darkness.
His prayer was characteristic. "God be merciful
to me — a Fool," was all he found to say.

Toward evening Stonecroft called for him. "I
make one stipulation," said Jordan. "I will go

324 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

wherever you wish to take me, but I will not meet
Gaunt/*

"I have no intention that you should," Stone-
croft replied. "It is a movement, not a man, that I
wish you to study. I simply wish you to see some
of the things that are actually being done by the
movement, that you may form your own estimate of
them/'

Jordan nodded his assent. Presently, as the car-
riage rolled eastward, Jordan said abruptly, "You've
not told me your own story yet. I should be glad
to hear it."

Stonecroft thereupon began to narrate how his
acquaintance with the League of Service had be-
gun ; his anger against Butler and his resentment at
Butler's interference; the gradual awakening of his
own conscience; his determination to examine for
himself those causes of offence which Butler had
enumerated against him, and all those subsequent
stages of his thought, until the hour when he had
acknowledged his wrong and had determined on its
reparation.

"But surely it is a monstrous thing that Butler
should claim the right of interference with your
personal liberty. You must have felt it so?" said
Jordan.

"I did. I was never so enraged at anything in
my life. But the more I thought about it the more
I came to see that Butler was right — right not only
morally but socially."

HOME AT LAST 325

"I confess I can't follow the process of your
thought."

"Yet it's quite simple," said Stonecroft. "If Isaiah
or Jeremiah had been editors of a great newspaper
in Jerusalem, I imagine they would have done pre-
cisely what Butler is doing. I gather that they made
it their business to interfere a good deal with the
liberty of the individual. And the ground of their
interference was the same as Butler's, viz., that all
individual liberty is conditioned by the general social
welfare, and that the right of a community to
happiness takes precedence of all individual rights."

"But Butler threatened you?"

"Well, I both needed and deserved the threat."

"If I had threatened you, you would have at-
tacked me," said Jordan, bitterly.

"My dear Doctor, you would never have
threatened me, and you know it. The most you
would ever have done would have been to preach a
sermon on social duty full of glittering generalities,
which I should have promptly applied to some one
else. That's the vice of the pulpit — it deals with
mankind in the mass, it is afraid to deal with in-
dividuals. It grows eloquent about the tragedy of
the poor man's one ewe lamb, but it never takes the
rich thief by the throat and says Thou art the
man.' Oh, don't think I am blaming or deriding
you. I know the difficulties of your position. But
those very difficulties make it necessary for men like
Butler to do what you cannot do. Doctor, I have

326 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

lived fifty years, and for twenty of those years, I
have attended your ministry. In all those fifty years
Butler was the first man who spoke to me as an
individual, honestly, searchingly, and without fear."

Jordan did not reply — no reply was possible; but
his thoughts were painful. For he knew that
Stonecroft's accusation was true. The heroic, the
prophetic element of a public ministry — that element
which creates men of the Knox and the Savonarola
type, the masters of the conscience, the dictators of
morals, the regenerators of society, that element was
not in him. His ideal had been to go smoothly,
to conciliate all men, especially the wealthy, to avoid
offence — ah, how mean it all seemed, and how un-
worthy! Once more his pride was on the rack.
Stonecroft had virtually condemned his whole
ministry as futile, and he wondered how many more
of his hearers scorned him in their hearts even
while their lips praised him.

The carriage was at that moment passing a shop
outside which a long line of people waited. The
rain was beginning to fall, but they stood silent and
meek, moving a step at a time toward the door of
the shop. No one appeared to take any notice of
them. Well-dressed persons hurried by, upon their
errands of business or pleasure, without so much as
a glance at this abject throng. But as Jordan looked
more closely he saw half a dozen men and women
passing along the line, speaking earnestly to man
after man. And as the white electric light flashed

HOME AT LAST 327

upon them through the driving shower, he saw that
each of these busy people wore upon the bosom a
simple cross of quaint design.

"Do you know what that means?" said Stone-
croft. "That long line of miserables are waiting
for bread. They have no homes. They will sleep
under Brooklyn Bridge or on the park seats, or any-
where they can to-night."

"And who are those persons talking with
them?"

"Members of the League of Service. Gaunt has
lately opened half a dozen shelters — those men and
women with the cross upon the breast are giving
these poor creatures tickets for a free bed and break-
fast in the shelter."

"I didn't know Gaunt did that sort of work," said
Jordan. "I thought that his movement meant little
more than oratorical fireworks in Madison Square
Garden."

"And that is why I wanted you to come with me
to-night," said Stonecroft. "The League of Serv-
ice is the union of all who love in the service of all
who suffer."

The carriage stopped. "We must walk now/'
said Stonecroft.

They turned down a narrow crowded street.
Saloons flared upon every hand; evil faces were
numerous; the whole aspect of the street was re-
pellent and even dangerous. Twice they passed
windows that were boarded up.

328 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"Those were saloons," said Stonecroft, "and the
vilest in the street. We have closed them, and we
are not loved for it. Some day there will be trouble
over it — so our women workers say."

"Do women work here ?" said Jordan.

"Why not ?" said Stonecroft. "It is here that the
misery of life is greatest, because the vice and crime
are greatest. Therefore this street is the head-
quarters of our Sisters of the Poor. A woman, you
know, is much safer than a man in such a district
as this. Her best defence is her goodness ; even the
worst respect that."

The words sent a pang through Jordan's heart,
for he remembered that it was this very Sisterhood
that Olivia had joined. For the first time he
realized what her life must mean : a life of self-denial
and hard toil, and even of peril, amid scenes of
misery and degradation.

At last they stopped before a plain and dingy
building. It had been a dance-hall, as the half-
effaced sign declared. People were passing into
it by twos and threes; some of them with smiles
and cheerful feet, many more with a furtive and half-
reluctant air. Stonecroft and Jordan entered, tak-
ing seats in the darkest corner they could find, from
which they could be observers without being ob-
served.

Presently a group of half a dozen women, all
dressed alike in plain gray, and each wearing on the
breast a silver cross, took their seats upon the plat-

HOME AT LAST 329

form. A moment later they began to sing to a soft
and almost inaudible piano accompaniment :

"Stealing away, stealing away,
Stealing away home to Jesus."

The words were scarcely a hymn — they were
rather the long plaintive sigh of a weary human
heart. The congregation, which now quite filled the
hall, listened in perfect silence. The majority of
faces in the crowd were hard and stolid, many seemed
visibly bruised by the bufferings of circumstance,
all were care-worn and weary; but as the simple
melody rose and fell a soft light seemed to fall upon
them all. "Stealing away — home — to Jesus — "
surely it was the inarticulate cry of their own souls
they heard in the plaintive words. And then, with-
out announcement, one of these gray-garbed women
prayed, in a voice that seemed but a continuation of
the music, so soft was it, so finely toned to the spirit
of the hymn. The prayer was simplicity itself; it
was like the prayer of a little child. Perhaps that
was why it moved the people so much. Perhaps the
hardest and roughest of them had memories of little
children long since estranged or lost. Perhaps that
was why it was that Jordan felt the smart of un-
accustomed tears in his eyes ; for his thoughts went
back to a small white room in which Olivia had
slept as a little girl, and a white bed beside which
she prayed.

The prayer ended, and another hymn was sung.

330 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

There was no address, no sermon. Palmer had
taken the chair in the centre of the platform, but
his duties were merely nominal. He called upon
one and another of his strange audience to speak,
until the speaking became free and general. Jordan
sat entranced. He had never heard speaking like
this. Men who by their own confession had been
drunkards, thieves, and outcasts, rose, and in heart-
felt words, and often with streaming eyes, narrated
how they had been saved and delivered. A suicide
told of how a woman's hand laid upon his arm, as
he was hurrying to his doom, turned him back to life
and hope. "She's here now, God bless her ! She's
sitting not far from me, but she doesn't want to be
seen." All eyes turned in the direction that the
speaker indicated; Jordan unconsciously rose to
look, but saw only a shy gray figure in the dim light
under the gallery.

And then, while he thus stood, thrilled and ex-
cited, from this same dim spot under the gallery, a
man rose, and began to speak in a low, clear voice,
and with the unmistakable accent of culture. Jor-
dan's face became deadly pale. It seemed as though
a great wave had passed over him, blinding and be-
wildering him; and through this obliterating wave
the voice reached him in snatches. "I was a wan-
derer,— a prodigal — I have come home " so the

phrases of the speaker reached him. And then, in
an instant, the wave passed, and he knew the voice.

"Oh, my boy, my boy !" he cried.

HOME AT LAST 331

It was all that he could say. He would have
fallen, had not Stonecroft put his arm around him.
In another moment other arms were about his neck.
The shy gray figure was by his side, the long-lost
son had found his father.

XXII
A TRAGEDY

THE anonymous letters had begun again.
They had also become more definite in
their threats, and more vindictive in
their character.

Gaunt read them and laughed ; but both Butler and
Palmer regarded them as a grave menace.

The exciting cause of these new threats was not
far to seek. Butler had succeeded by his trenchant
exposures in The Daily Light in arousing New
York to one of those brief passions of reforming
energy which are so characteristic of the volatile
city. Public opinion had been roused, and had fur-
nished the necessary dynamic for the enforcement of
law. There had been police-raids of houses devoted
to gambling and worse things; saloons had been
closed, and some of the worst offenders had been
fined or sent to the penitentiary. One result had
been the enrolment of thousands of new members in
the League of Service Many men of influence who
cared relatively little for the religious aims of the
League recognized its social value, and joined its
ranks. The pulpits of the city rang with denuncia-

332

A TRAGEDY 333

tions of public evils. Even the papers most hostile
to Gaunt were silent, and others hitherto neutral had
indulged in cautious commendation.

But in that dark underworld of vice and crime,
whose kingdom Gaunt had invaded, there was the
growing murmur of conspiracy and retaliation. The
old Ephesian cry rose, "Our craft is in danger," and
it was all the more to be dreaded because it did not
utter itself in public clamour, but in whispered wrath.
In that dark and evil street where the Mission stood
and the Sisters of the Poor toiled, there were omi-
nous signs of dissatisfaction. One night the windows
of the hall were broken; on another night an attempt
was made to fire the building. The gray sisters went
about their work unmoved, but they noticed sadly
that they now met more scowling than smiling faces.
Butler knew the peril, but he recognized that the
wisest way of meeting it was to show no sign of
fear; for the first sign of fear is the coward's signal
to attack.

Palmer was more acutely conscious of the peril
than Butler, and for this there was a reason in his
growing love for Olivia Jordan. The figure of the
fair girl filled his thoughts, and often haunted his
dreams. Again and again he woke in terror from
the vision of her peril, but what could he do? She
met his hinted fears with the confident and cheerful
smile of a courageous child. Like Gaunt she smiled
at threats, and that, indeed, was the temper of all
these tender women.

334 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"No one will hurt us," she said. "Our frailty is
our protection."

Palmer listened, and began to understand why the
records of martyrology are so full of women's
names.

"You have disregarded our warnings," ran the
latest anonymous letter. "You must now accept
the consequences. The blow which we shall strike
will be sudden and sure. You cannot escape it."

Gaunt, Butler, and Palmer each read this letter
in turn. They were seated at a table in the little
room which Gaunt used for consultation and corre-
spondence.

"What do you make of it?" said Palmer, anx-
iously.

"It is of a piece with all the other letters," replied
Butler. "They are written by one hand. This may
mean that they simply express the intentions of an
individual, or that they are the manifesto of a group
of men. I suspect that the latter explanation is the
true one."

"Then you think that there is a conspiracy against
us?"

"I do, and more than that it is not a conspiracy of
ignorant men. If any attack is made upon us, it will
no doubt be made by ignorant men, but they will
be the tools of intelligent and probably wealthy
men."

"And what can we do?"

"Simply nothing, except sit tight," said Butler,

A TRAGEDY 335

with a grim smile. "We can't wear chain armour
under our clothes, it is out of fashion, and it would
be a confession of weakness to invoke police protec-
tion. We must just take our risks and be of good
courage."

About a week after this conversation Gordon died.
The old man had been busy until his last hour.
After a long day's work he went to bed at midnight,
and died in his sleep.

When Gordon's will was opened it was found to
contain one curious clause. He requested that the
only service held for him should be conducted in
the Mission Hall, which was within a stone's throw
of the hall in which he himself had preached five-and-
twenty years before on his secession from the
Church. In his death he wished to be identified with
the poor. He directed that his funeral should be
of the plainest possible description; that his bearers
should be six poor men chosen from the Mission
converts, that Gaunt should conduct any service of
a public character that might be arranged; and
finally he expressed the desire that those who had
loved him would not be betrayed by their affections
into speaking any words of adulation over one whose
mistakes had been many, whose acts of wisdom few,
whose sole claim to recollection was the sincerity of
his unfulfilled intentions.

"How like him !" said Gaunt, as he read these last
instructions. "While most of us are filled with a
lively sense of our value to society, I believe Gordon

336 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

had not the least idea of what his life meant to the
world."

"He saw too widely to see himself," said Palmer.

"He sees now the intention of his life fulfilled,"
replied Gaunt.

Then each felt that any further words were sacri-
lege in the presence of that inscrutable and majestic
mask of death.

Gaunt sat long that night in the quiet room where
the dead man had worked, busy in the examination
of his papers. These papers consisted of fragments
of autobiography, notes upon various scholastic and
philosophic problems, prayers, meditations, and
diaries. As Gaunt read each faded page there came
to him a new sense of the wonderful wealth of en-
ergy and wisdom compressed in such a life as Gor-
don's, and he remembered Palmer's saying that
Gordon saw widely because he did not see himself.
How rare was that temper! How few were those
whose lives were not pivoted on egoism! He saw
now what was the real secret of the majesty and
sweetness of Gordon's character: it was his total
self-effacement. He had striven, as all brave men
must needs strive, for the things which they count
worthy, but he had never made personal success his
goal, or measured the worth of his quest by the
degree of his success or failure. He had been so
sure of the triumph of God's purpose that he had
never imagined himself necessary to that triumph.
Therefore, he had dwelt in peace, incapable alike of

A TRAGEDY 337

the intoxication of success or the depression of
failure. And, therefore, also he had kept the
prophetic vision; for only those who see not them-
selves can see God.

Gaunt felt himself humbled before the testimony
of Gordon's life. In the midnight silence he ex-
amined his own heart, and put to himself inevitable
questions. Was not he in danger of this intoxication
of success? Had not he unconsciously conceived
himself as necessary to the fulfilment of God's inten-
tions? He thought he recognized in himself what
certainly no one had noticed — a certain coarsen-
ing of spiritual fibre since his cause had triumphed.
It was not pride, it was not complacency; it was
hard indeed to define it, unless as a certain dulling
of the finer sensitiveness. Amid the agonies of his
renunciation, when he let his old life go at the call
of truth, he had, nevertheless, been conscious of
rapturous moments of elation. They were the mo-
ments when his naked soul clung close to God,
knowing no other refuge. But it seemed to him
that his clinging to God was less ardent now. Did
not this imply that he saw God less clearly, be-
cause he had looked from God to himself?

He realized now, as he meditated on Gordon's
character, that those very qualities which had com-
posed the noblest elements of that character were
the products of outward failure. Fragrance from
the bruised herb, wine from the crushed grape, a
world's faith from the Cross of Desolation — so the

338 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

story of the world's redeemers had ever run. Assur-
edly if that story of the tragic centuries was to be
believed, success was the one fatal calamity in life,
defeat the true redemption.

Yet he could not honestly pray for defeat; he
could not even ask for such a life as Gordon's, so
far as its outward results went. But he saw now
the thing he might pray for, and the goal he might
strive for — it was complete self-effacement. He
saw that he must no longer think of himself as
necessary even to the movement which he led. No .'
man was necessary to the divine purpose. He must
count not his life dear unto him, he must be willing
either to succeed or fail, to live or die, as God should
decide — that was surely the last message of his
great dead friend which reached the heart of Gaunt
in that midnight hour. He bowed silently beside
the dead prophet, and rose purified and refreshed.

In that intense hour Gordon preached the last
sermon of his noble life. It was not preached in
vain.

The effect of these midnight thoughts was a new
spirit of composure in Gaunt's mind. It was most
clearly manifest in his attitude to the dangers that
threatened him. Hitherto his attitude had been one
of cheerful defiance. He had been ready to chal-
lenge the enemy, he had felt something of that thrill
of elation which all strong and courageous men
experience in the face of danger. His courage still
remained, but all lust of battle had left him. He

A TRAGEDY 339

thought of his enemies with commiseration; it was
their folly rather than their hatred which he saw.
Things would happen as they would happen ; as for
him, he heard the mystic voice which said: "What
is that to thee? Follow thou Me."

The following morning was spent in consultation
upon the best method of carrying out Gordon's last
wishes. Gordon's connection with the League of
Service, and his later writings in which he had ad-
vocated its purposes, had naturally given him
notoriety. At the time of his death he was no longer
a forgotten prophet, but rather a prophet who had
come into his kingdom. Thus his death was a public
event, and it was clear that it would be impossible
to divest his funeral of a public character.

"There are at least five thousand of our people
who will wish to show the last tokens of respect to
Gordon," said Palmer. "In all probability you
might treble that number, and it would be a safe
estimate.

"The Mission Hall seats only eight hundred; it
might hold a thousand," he added.

"That's not the only difficulty," said Gaunt.
"Gordon wished to be numbered with the poor in
his death. It is impossible to mistake his wishes.
It would be entirely contrary to his wishes if we
filled the hall with our friends — and his — but shut
out the poor."

Butler had sat silent during this discussion. His
face was anxious.

340 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"Have you no counsel to give?" said Gaunt, with
a smile.

"I had rather state facts," he replied, quietly. "It
will be time enough for counsel when we get our
facts clear."

"Well, what have you to say?" said Gaunt.

"First, that we are bound to respect Gordon's
wishes. The service must be held in the Mission
Hall, and the actual converts of the Mission are
the first people to be invited. Gordon loved them;
many of them loved him. It is quite extraordinary
that he should have had so great an influence over
them, for his visits to the Mission were not frequent.
I confess that I feel a kind of noble pathos in the
fact. Five-and-twenty years ago he tried to reach
these very people and failed. In his last days he
found the way to their hearts. We may mourn him
deeply, but none will mourn him more deeply than
these poor people. He was the prophet of the poor;
the poor have a right to their prophet."

"Yes, that is certain," said Gaunt.

"But something else is certain, too," said Butler.
"You can't get these poor people together in the
daytime. They can only come at night. There-
fore, the service must be held in the evening. That
is where the element of danger begins. You know
what the street is like at night. I have reason to
think that the saloons will take this opportunity
of revenging themselves upon us. It is a unique
opportunity. They will have us all bunched to-

A TRAGEDY 34i

gather, and God knows what violence they may
attempt/'

"Do you really anticipate violence ?" said Palmer.

"I do," said Butler. "You will remember what
I told you about my friend the ex-pugilist. He
knows all the movements of the district, and he tells
me he is certain that our enemies meditate violence."

"Well, we must take our risks," said Gaunt, with
a smile. "They are your own words."

"What if the risk is death?" said Butler, in a low
voice.

"Then we can but die," replied Gaunt.

"Very good," said Butler. "I expected you to say
that. But I thought it my duty to warn you."

"Thank you," said Gaunt. He grasped Butler's
hand in a long embrace. Then the moment of tense
emotion passed, and the three friends with complete
composure returned to the task of planning the
obsequies of Gordon.

When Butler had conjectured that many thou-
sands of adherents of the League would wish to be
present at Gordon's funeral, he had not overesti-
mated the public interest. On the day after Gor-
don's death the Press was full of articles on his
career, memoranda of his conversations, estimates of
his character and influence, and these were almost
wholly eulogistic. To Gordon had come the rare
good fortune of having outlived the enmities which
his early career had excited. Of his former an-
tagonists but few were left, and they were no longer

342 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

antagonists. These also now joined in the general
acclaim. Each mail brought Gaunt letters of appre-
ciation for the character of Gordon, and in every
instance the writers of the letters expressed the de-
sire to take some humble part in the funeral of the
dead prophet. As Gaunt read this vast mass of
correspondence it became clear that in spite of
Gordon's deprecation of any public ceremony, never-
theless his obsequies were bound to be attended
with a great popular demonstration of respect and
affection.

Once convinced of this, Gaunt did his utmost to
make the demonstration effective.

He fixed Saturday night for the simple service
in the Mission Hall, and invited all the people in
the habit of attending the Mission, especially the
known converts, to be present. Members of the
League were requested to line the street, and to wait
reverently for the conclusion of the service. At
the close of the service the body of Gordon was to be
conveyed to Madison Square Garden, accompanied
by the members of the League in procession. In
that vast auditorium, which had seen the birth of
the League, the body would rest through Saturday
night; early on Sunday morning it would be laid
to rest.

"It is not often New York honours a prophet/'
said Gaunt. "Gordon would at any time have given
his body to be burned for love of the people. I think
he would be willing, if he could know, to give his

A TRAGEDY 343

body to this brief honour, if a single heart might
thereby be touched with a single good desire/'

And now the Saturday night had come. The
great city clothed itself with light, and through the
brilliant streets rolled a glittering river of frivolity.
But here and there in that vivacious crowd other
figures were discerned, whose goal was not the
restaurant or the theatre. They were people of
earnest brows and sober dress; they were all moving
eastward, and upon each breast was a Cross of Stars.
They gathered from far and near; many had trav-
elled from distant cities; they represented all grades
of society; but the same glad and earnest look dis-
tinguished each. The common goal of all these
pilgrims of the night was a plain mission hall, in
which lay one who even in death drew them by the
magnetism of reverence and love.

Beyond Fourteenth Street their numbers became
apparent. They composed a multitude of many
thousands. Yet there was not the least disorder.
Each took his place in the long double line which
garrisoned the street; each stood in perfect silence.
Presently the whisper passed along the ranks that
the service for Gordon had commenced, and each
man stood with uncovered head, and the women
bowed their faces in sympathetic prayer.

In the Mission Hall itself the scene was one not
to be forgotten. The hall was completely filled with
the poor. Such a crowd of tragic faces: some
seamed with devastating passions, some simply worn

344 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

with years of fruitless struggle; such eyes — some
sadly joyous, tear-filled, yet bright with new-kindled
love; others pathetic with the pleading of defeat
against the weakness of the will; such tokens of
the ill-usage of life, in bowed shoulders, narrow
chests, coarsened hands; here were, indeed, "the
people of the Abyss" — 'the people of that populous,
dim underworld, whose very existence is unsus-
pected by the well-fed and the happy. And yet in
the general aspect of that strange throng there was
more of hope than sadness. Deep-sunk as they were,
the day-spring from on high had visited them, and
on their patient brows the glow of hope's morning
burned.

And for this strange congregation, all that was
meant by light and hope was represented in the quiet
dust that slumbered in a flower-covered coffin which
scattered on the air the fragrance of life — an emblem
of beauty rather than decay.

Few of these people had known Gordon person-
ally. Some had heard his voice on the rare occa-
sions when he had spoken in the hall; some had
grasped his hand; and here and there were those
who had owed their souls to his entreaties and his
prayers. But there was not one who did not under-
stand the meaning of Gordon's life. They knew that
he had loved them, that he had suffered for them,
and that his life had spent itself for their enrich-
ment. To these who had never touched his hand,
he was less a man than a symbol. He was the

A TRAGEDY 345

symbol of love, of pity, of a more than human faith
in them; of kindness in a world of hatred, of help-
fulness and justice in a world which they had found
hostile and unjust. And so from his silence there
breathed the encouragement of brotherhood; and the
fragrance of the flowers that covered him was a
perfume blown from unknown accessible Edens
which he had bade them enter.

The Sisters had begun to sing. Gray-robed, quiet-
eyed, they stood behind the banked flowers, and it
was as though the flowers sang — so soft, so tender,
was the music.

"Beyond the parting and the meeting

I shall be soon;

Beyond the farewell and the greeting,
Beyond the pulse's fever-beating,

I shall be soon.

"Beyond the gathering and the strewing,

I shall be soon ;

Beyond the ebbing and the flowing,
Beyond the coming and the going,

I shall be soon."

And then the voice of Gaunt, low, musical, in-
tense, began to speak. Of Gordon himself he said
scarcely a word; rather he spoke as Gordon might
have spoken to them. "Beyond the gathering and
the strewing" — ah, it was that they had to think
of. With delicately tender touches he drew back
the curtain of that unseen world. It was their world,
the world where all who lived rightly would meet,
when the weary comings and goings of this life

346 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

were over. They listened entranced. They seemed
to see themselves, no longer disinherited, walking
among happy throngs in tranquil light, and looking
back with a kind of rapturous commiseration on
the distant world which they had left. Oh, to be
there, there!

"Beyond the parting and the meeting,
Beyond the farewell and the greeting."

The voice of Gaunt broke into a sob, and ceased.
Then, as though recalling him, and all of them, to
the present, the choir began to sing the hymn of the
League, "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross."

The doors of the hall were flung back. The hymn
was taken up by the waiting lines of the Leaguers
in the street. Like a solemn chant it rolled from
lip to lip along that mile or more of mourners.

From the doors of the hall the Sisters came forth,
singing. Behind them, all that was mortal of Gor-
don, followed, and behind the flower-covered bier
walked Gaunt, Palmer, and Butler.

As they passed into the street a man pushed
through the crowd and whispered a word in Butler's
ear. The man was the ex-pugilist. Butler's face
paled. He moved closer to Gaunt, shook his head,
and the procession swept on.

It was just ten o'clock. Butler noticed that about
a hundred yards from the Mission Hall where the
street narrowed, the crowd seemed impenetrable.
At this point the lines of the Leaguers were broken;

A TRAGEDY 347

the crowd swayed dangerously, and there were
shouts and jeering voices. Every window was wide
open, and the people leaned out, mostly silent, some
few shouting boisterous jests to the crowd beneath.
The crowd was densest at a point where a saloon
stood, which the League had closed.

Butler instantly recognized the danger point. It
was to warn him that mischief would be attempted
at this point that the ex-pugilist had sought him.

His first thought was for Gaunt. He seized the
arm of Palmer.

"Close up round him, men," he said, in a hoarse
whisper.

Gaunt, quite unconscious of their intention, was
at that moment about a yard ahead of his friends.
His head was bare; he was singing with complete
absorption the great hymn which had witnessed the
birth of the League.

Butler and Palmer sprang forward to his side.
But it was too late. At that moment from an upper
window a pistol-shot rang.

Gaunt fell with a bullet in his breast. Fifty yards
away, his followers, quite unconscious of what had
happened, were still singing:

"When I survey the wondrous Cross
On which the Prince of Glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride."

XXIII
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

HE lay in a narrow bed in an unfamiliar
room. The walls were without adorn-
ment, the floors bare; there was scarcely
more furniture than might be found in a monk's
cell. The room breathed an air of austere cleanli-
ness; it produced also the impression of loneliness.
Two high windows let in the light; each framed a
patch of blue sky. But for that reassuring patch of
sky he might have imagined that he lay in some for-
gotten vestibule of silence, far from the human
world.

He listened eagerly for some sound, however
trifling, that might assure him that he was not ut-
terly forsaken. For a long time — it seemed a whole
day, though it was but a few seconds — no sound
came. Then a bell rang in a distant corridor. He
heard a quick footstep, the closing of a door, and
the sound of water dripping from a tap. Then an
obliterating wave of sleep rolled over him. At first
he tried to push it back ; then he yielded to it, though
with infinite reluctance. He had the sensation of
drowning, of sinking deep and deeper in some ele-
ment that was strange to him and half-repugnant.

348

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 349

That sound of water dripping from a tap pursued
him. It was a maddening sound. He had a recol-
lection of something horrible he had once heard of :
a torture by water, a thing much more terrible than
torture by fire. Drip — 'drip — drop; a pause full of
menace; then drip — drip — drop, again; and each
drop became a sharp cold weapon, puncturing its
way into the fibres of the brain. Then — oh, mirac-
ulous relief! — the sound became metamorphosed
into a noise of running brooks, the rippling of waves
along a lake shore, the regular throb of heavy seas
breaking on a beach of sand. It was sunrise, and the
brook glittered in the fresh light; it was noon, and
the lake shone like glass mingled with fire; it was
night, and the stars stooped like fire-flies, and shone
reflected in the smooth, green slope of curving
waves. And then, again, he heard that insistent
drip — drip — drop of water from a tap.

The sound once more grew faint, and it seemed
now that he was caught away by some swift wind;
yet still he dreamed of water.

He saw great forests, "motionless in an ecstasy of
rain," and his delighted body drank through every
pore the delicious coolness. The silver drops smote
his naked flesh; a dark cloud broke over him in
torrents of swift rain; like Elijah the Tishbite he
ran against a racing deluge, quivering with each
shock and buffet of the storm, yet elated, strangely
glad. There passed before him, like a rapid pan-
orama, all the scenes which he had ever known,

350 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

associated with the memory of water. He was a
boy again, plunging deep into the dark swimming-
pool beneath the great elms. Now it was a trout-
stream he followed, a clear, brown stream, flowing
over golden pebbles; now it was a lake he saw,
shining like a little pool of light amid dark woods.
From these he was whirled away to scenes im-
mensely distant, yet apparently near. He was sail-
ing on a Swiss lake at sunset; he stood beside an
English mountain tarn, over which cool, gray clouds
gathered; he leaned from a Venetian gondola, trail-
ing his hands in little waves full of soft, green fire.
Always water — he could not have enough of it.
Every nerve of his body cried for it. And, then,
lake and river faded out; he heard no more the rip-
pling sound of wave or current — only the drip —
drip — drop of water from a tap, and he groaned.

Suddenly he became aware of a new element in
these fantastic wanderings: was he not really en-
gaged in taking farewell of the world? Yes, that
must be it. His spirit, poised for flight, could not
go till it had revisited every scene of former emo-
tion or delight. He was like the youth whose fate
calls him to a new life in distant lands, who spends
his last hours in a pilgrimage of farewell to familiar
scenes. He runs from room to room; looks long at
each, as if he would impress upon his memory the
exact position of each familiar object; paces silently
along the garden paths, noting where each flower
grows, recollecting childish games, happy follies,

THE VALLEY OFTHESHADOW 351

tearful silences after rebuke — till every grass-blade
in the garden, every object in the house, seems to be
part of his life and part of its secrets. Even so,
Gaunt felt his spirit move with the anguish of fare-
well about the house of life. He could not go until
he had visited every place or scene once loved. He
must impress them on his memory; it was the only
treasure he could take with him into other worlds.
Then he would go — content.

The thought brought with it no fear. Neither
did it create any sense of wonder or anticipation.
He had become a creature without volition. He
lay quite passive now, like a tired swimmer who can
strive no more. He felt a faint sense of disappoint-
ment that dying — if this indeed were dying — should,
after all, prove an affair so commonplace. It seemed
to him that in those days of health and strength,
which were so incredibly remote, he had always
thought of this hour as something intense, sublime,
even ecstatic. There should surely be heavenly
voices, soft music, the air winnowed by angel wings,
the opening of the gates of dawn — and behold it was
nothing more than the quiet sense of sinking in a
soft wave, an infinite composure, a delicious relaxa-
tion of nerves and muscles tired with long effort.
He found himself smiling both at his former terrors
and his former hopes.

The strangest thing of all appeared to be the com-
pleteness and rapidity with which his relations to
the world had altered. He remembered that he had

352 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

once been very eager and anxious about a multitude
of matters, the very nature of which he could not
recall. All these things seemed quite unimportant
now. The world was like a ship that had sunk
at sea; utter silence and oblivion had closed over
all that strenuous, busy shipboard life. There lay
round him only the silence of the stars, and the
infinite curve of far horizons. It seemed incredible
that he had ever lived among voices, tasks, duties,
fierce exigencies, cruel perturbations; they had dwin-
dled into such nothingness that he could hardly be-
lieve they had existed. If they did exist, which
he doubted, he could not wish again to move among
them. In some marvellous way he had attained to
ultimate tranquillity; why should he renounce it?

Thereupon a long and painful argument arose in
his mind. It seemed that far down in some dark
corner of his consciousness a persistent voice bade
him live. It affirmed his power to live. It affirmed
his duty. He strove weakly to resist it. Yet all
the while he felt as though the tide beneath him had
turned, and was slowly drifting him back to the
shores of life. He was no longer at peace, no longer
sinking quietly in a sea of sleep. Something harsh
and violent clutched at him ; a weight of gray horror
pressed upon his eyeballs ; a flash of flaming pain ran
along his nerves. He shuddered, cried, woke. His
eyes took in slowly the reality of things tangible — •
stone-coloured walls, a yellow floor on which a
spot of sunlight lay, two high windows, each with

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 353

a patch of blue sky. And once more he heard the
sound of a bell far away, and the drip — drip — drop
of water from a tap.

Suddenly he became aware of certain human fig-
ures that stood beside him and stooped over him.
One was a grave, dark figure; there were two others
dressed in white. They were speaking among them-
selves in a low whisper. He felt a strong desire to
communicate with them. His lips framed agonized
interrogations, but to his dismay no sound was audi-
ble. It was clear they could not hear him, for they
did not turn to him; and yet it seemed to him that
he was shouting. A horrible conviction seized him
that he was already forgotten, as a dead man, out
of mind. What surer proof of death could there be
than this utter failure of his to communicate with
the living? He summoned all his strength for a
more intense effort at speech. The sweat stood upon
his forehead, and the muscles of his throat ached.
The effort was vain. He had not been heard. The
figures seemed to dissolve, to withdraw, and at last
entirely vanished. He was once more alone in some
intangible and dim world, which impressed him by
its vagueness and its vastness.

At first he was conscious of a quality that was
almost pleasure. Time and space were alike gone.
His body was volatile; it floated like a feather here
and there upon the obscure winds. It seemed part
of the vagueness and the vastness, a floating bubble
on the waves of an eternal sea. The sense of pleas-

354 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

ure which he felt was derived from his own entire
impotence. He was no longer required to strive
and struggle; there was no goal that he sought
to win; the imperious need for doing and acting,
once so strong in him, was wholly gone. Things
were done to him; things were done for him; he
himself did nothing. He lay calm in effortless quies-
cence, he floated in an element of peace ineffable.
He had no desires, no hopes, no fears; he was be-
yond them all.

They came back, however; this was the misery,
that they always came back. Just when the sweet
intoxication of his utter restfulness seemed com-
plete, it always happened that the spell was broken.
Something tugged at his heart-strings; a turning
of some minute wheel in the loom of life knitted the
reluctant nerves to tenseness, and he became again
a creature who willed and strove. A sense of some
imminent, tremendous issues in which he was con-
cerned, tantalized him. It was like the far-off sound
of trumpets in the ear of the stricken soldier on
the field. He must needs rise and obey; his whole
shattered strength re-united itself at that imperious
sound; he dared not die. He fought his way, half-
strangled, through the folds of that delicious enerva-
tion ; he found his strength by an effort that seemed
to rend him asunder; he felt a sudden scorn of rest-
fulness. And then, once more, he saw a blue patch
of sky grow into distinctness, and heard the drip-
drop of water from a tap.

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 355

He woke half- weeping over his deliverance.

These ebbings to and fro of consciousness con-
tinued for a long time; at last there came a brief
period of entire clearness of vision.

It was midnight. A shaded lamp stood upon the
floor, casting oblique shadows. A woman with a
kind, firm face bent over him and felt his pulse. His
eye rapidly scanned the scene : the straight, narrow
bed; the bare, stone-coloured walls; the dim light;
the white-dressed woman stooping over him; and he
realized he was in hospital.

"Have I been ill?" he whispered.

"Yes, but you are better now," she answered.

"Am I going to die ?"

The woman did not answer.

She left his room for a moment, returning with
the doctor. In that brief interval he had realized
his condition. He had realized also that in a way
the final choice between death and life rested with
himself. "Man dieth not wholly, but by the death
of the will," he thought; "therefore, God gives me
the choice."

Instantly he made his choice : he would live. He
must needs summon all his energies in the effort to
live. The most primal of all instincts, this effort
to live, reasserted itself in him. A great horror of
physical annihilation swept over him. He was con-
scious of powers and faculties which called for ex-
pression in the world of men, of work not done, of
work that waited to be done. The words of the

356 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

ancient king of Jerusalem leapt to his lips: "For
Sheol cannot praise Thee, death cannot celebrate
Thee; they that go down into the pit cannot hope
for Thy truth. The living, the living, he shall praise
Thee, as I do this day." He clung to life, as a man
climbing out of some black chasm clings to every
small projection in the precipice that is crowned
with the upper day. In that strip of blue day,
far above him, familiar faces shone radiant;
from that bright summit voices of encouragement
saluted him ; and it seemed to him that God, ap-
proving his decision, put a strong arm around
him and helped him upward. He smiled for

joy-
Again and again he was swept back toward the
abyss, but he never lost the vision of that shining
summit.

As he grew stronger, his passion for the visible
human world grew more intense, till it was almost
painful. He found food for wonder in the com-
monest features of human life. The sound of
wheels and footsteps on the street set him thinking
of the mystery of locomotion. To move, to walk —
by a mute signal of the will to set all this involved
machinery of the body travelling hither and thither,
— it seemed a miracle indeed to him, who lay there
so inert and impotent. He fancied that if he ever
walked again, he would count each step a special
revelation of God's grace, and thank Him for it;
and he blamed himself that he had been unthankful

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 357

for the precious gift of physical activity in the days
of health.

He watched with painful eagerness for each suc-
ceeding daybreak. Night was his Gethsemane;
each night seemed insurmountable, hostile, malev-
olent; a road of agonies. But, oh, the exquisite
relief when the cold, blue light of day began to fill
the room. It was as though a foe had departed, a
friend had come. And how wonderful seemed the
mere shining of the sun! Outside the window a
great elm rose, and he watched, like an eager child,
for the moment when the first ray of sunrise smote
it. When the blue dawn-light became suffused with
soft gray, he knew the moment near ; when, at last,
the first long golden spear of splendour pierced the
bosom of the tree, and made each leaf a green, quiv-
ering flame, he could have clapped his hands; and
had a company of angels moved amid the foliage,
each brow aureoled with light, it had not seemed a
greater miracle. When the day had thus come, he
usually fell asleep, for then only did he feel content
and safe.

He had gone back to childhood. Like a child he
had become dependent upon others for all the offices
of life. It seemed a strange thing at first thus to be
girded by others whom he knew not, but he soon
grew reconciled to it. He even found a certain
comfort in his dependence. Through it he came to
realize a more composed faith in God. For if these
men and women, who knew him only as a patient,

358 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

were so kind; if their skill and vigilance were al-
ways at his call; if he could learn to lean on them
with such reposeful confidence; how much more
might he lean on God, who loves to bear the human
burden ?

And, in those hours, there came to him also a
new and special sense of sympathy with all suffer-
ing. He had never before endured the violence of
pain; he had never had any vivid sense of the tre-
mendous part which pain plays in the lives of men.
Now, for the first time, he realized the terrible sig-
nificance of the Apostolic word, "The whole cre-
ation travaileth together in pain." The thought
overwhelmed him. Yet its final effect was not dis-
may; it was a sense of comradeship with all the
myriad lives that suffered. He had been made free
of the City of Anguish. He had acquired citizen-
ship with the children of pain and those who lay
in the shadow of death. Henceforth he must prove
his citizenship by new sympathy; himself initiated
into the brotherhood of pain, he must prove his
brotherhood in service. So vivid was his sense of
this new duty that he questioned if any one could
have a real sense of sympathy with suffering who
had not himself suffered; and, perhaps, the clearest
proof that there is a ministry in pain was this change
of temper which pain had wrought in him.

How often had he heard of this or that man who
had vanished behind the gates of suffering; and had
heard without emotion, because his own vision could

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 359

not pass those gates. How often had he passed be-
neath the walls of a hospital, on joyous feet, with
scarce a glance at the high windows; indeed, with-
out recollection of what the place was and of all its
poignant significance. But this could never happen
again. Henceforth and always when he passed a
hospital it would be on tiptoe and with bared head;
it would be with a gush of silent prayer for all who
suffered, and with a thrill of reverence for those
who served within those walls; it would be with the
awe of a disciple revisiting the hill of Calvary and
meditating on the Cross. And so there came to him
something more than an enlarged experience; there
came to him a fuller sense of the beauty and sanctity
that dwelt in human life; looking into the tomb
where corruption lay, he had found a garden of
lilies, had seen a vision of angels, had received new
assurance of something immortal that stirred be-
neath the muddy vesture of mortality.

XXIV
PERFECT LOVE

"iy JTARGARET!"

\/l It was a Sabbath morning, and the
•A- v J. air was fun of the sound of bells that
rang for worship.

"Margaret!"

Gaunt lay very still, and over him bent his wife,
Her face was worn with anxious watchings and
waitings, but it still retained its aspect of sweet
composure. And it seemed to Gaunt that it had
become younger; it wore the delicate colours of
girlhood, in spite of new lines traced upon the brow,
and a touch of silver in the heavy braids of brown
hair.

She stooped and kissed him, and each felt the kiss
to be the seal of a new union.

He was silent for a long time, and then he spoke
in a low voice.

"I have a confession to make," he said. "In these
long, long hours of thought it has come to me
that "

"Hush," she said, laying her fingers on his lips,
"I know what you are going to say. Let me make
my confession first"

"You can have none to make."
360

PERFECT LCKVE 361

"Yes," she answered with a smile, "I have a very
serious confession. It is that I have sometimes
grudged you to your work. I know that you have
not loved me less for it, but it has seemed to me some-
times that you have not leaned so much on me as in
the other days. And it was so sweet to be leaned
on, to bear the burden, sharing it with no one. Oh,
I know, dear, it all sounds so little, but sometimes
I have been jealous of your work."

"And now?" he said.

"Now I know better. I am proud to give you to
your work, and to be forgotten."

"Never that, Margaret!" he whispered. "Do you
really know what I was going to say ? I was going
to tell you that I never loved you as I love you now.
Come nearer, dear one, for you must hear my con-
fession after all. I have let my work absorb me, I
have let it seem as if I no longer leaned on you as I
once did. But you are more to me, greatly more,
than in the other days. Dear, am I forgiven?"

"There is nothing to forgive," she answered.
"On that night when they tried to kill you I did feel
— wicked. I wished you had never taken up the
work at all. But in those dark and dreadful hours
I found my consolation, for I came to feel that it was
a proud joy for each of us to suffer in such a cause.
I felt it, even when I saw my days stretching out
before me desolate and widowed, and I thanked God
that He had seen fit to make me the wife of a
martyr.

362 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

"There," she added, "that is my confession. I
could not be easy till I had told you."

Her arms were about his neck. The Sabbath
bells rang outside, but sweeter yet than these bells
which proclaimed "the bridal of the earth and sky"
were the bridal bells that rang in each heart. For
in each heart love had come to full fruition, for it had
found the divine grace of complete unselfishness.

It is a worn truism that no one knows how much
he is loved till disaster overtakes him, but it is also
a beautiful tribute to human nature.

The news of Gaunt's assassination aroused an out-
burst of love and sorrow probably unprecedented in
the history of any religious leader of modern times.
It was speedily apparent that evil had over-reached
itself. It was impossible to find a single voice that
approved an outrage so dastardly. Deprecation of
the act, appreciation of Gaunt's work and character,
were universal.

In the days immediately following the outrage,
there were many efforts made to discover the crim-
inal. These efforts were entirely vain. All that
ever came to public knowledge was that the room
from which the shot was fired had been hired a week
before the tragedy by a person whose identity was
never known. It is probable that Butler knew the
secret, but if so, he did not divulge it. His own
indignant sense of justice would have counselled
retaliation, but he knew that this was not Gaunt's

PERFECT LOVE 3^3

spirit. When he was urged by Stonecroft to dis-
close what he knew, he replied: "It would serve no
good purpose. It is sometimes wiser to endure a
wrong than to punish it."

From that position he was not to be moved.

The wound inflicted on Gaunt was very serious.
The bullet intended for his heart was deflected by
striking the silver Cross of Stars which he wore
upon his breast. This alone saved his life.

He meditated much on this singular deliverance
during the slow days of convalescence. The more
he thought of it, the more the conviction grew that
he was a man set apart and specially preserved for
a work that waited to be done. The many provi-
dences of his life knit themselves together into elo-
quent coherence; they culminated in this crowning
intervention; and they begot in him a very humble
but joyous sense of predetermined destiny. He saw
the pathway of his life stretching onward, firm and
clear; he would henceforth pursue it with unfluctu-
ating zeal, conscious not alone of his own deter-
mining choice, but of a strong divine propulsion.
Who could prophesy what that path would reveal, to
what eminence of service it would lead him? One
thing alone he saw with an absolute distinctness; it
was the right path. He had found the synonym
of all religion in the law of love and service. The
Church, corrupted by traditionalism, must go; it
could not long resist the disintegration whose havoc
was already so apparent ; but its vital and imperish-

364 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

able elements would reunite; they would assume a
nobler form; and this new Church of the Future
would become the universal Church of love and
service. It would be broad enough to include the
best elements of all religions; it would be the final
synthesis of all that was good and beautiful in human
life. His heart burned within him at the vision. He
longed to be at work again, and this desire gave
a new dynamic to his energies; night and day he
dreamed now of the new fields of toil that awaited
him, and heard the Future calling him.

Every afternoon his friends visited him, cheer-
ing and humbling him, not alone by the tenderness
of their solicitude, but the tidings they bore of the
love of multitudes who prayed for his recovery.

One day, Palmer and Olivia Jordan remained
after the other visitors had gone.

"I have something to tell you," said Palmer, in a
low voice.

"I think I can guess your secret," said Gaunt,
with a smile.

They knelt beside his bed, their hands clasped.

"God bless you both," said Gaunt.

He was silent for some moments, thinking of his
own married life, recalling its first lyric joy, and all
the growth of steadfast trust which had accom-
panied its course.

"Count your love God's best gift," he said. "But
I know you do. You will be the better fitted to

PERFECT LOVE 365

serve others in the degree that your own love is
pure and deep."

"That is what we both feel," said Olivia.

He laid his hand tenderly upon the bowed head
of the fair girl, then he drew her towards him, and
kissed her brow.

"Your wedding bells shall ring me back to life,"
he said, gaily.

Gaunt's recovery was slow, but at last there came
a blessed day, when the "shining summit" he had
seen in his delirious dreams was reached. Leaning
upon his wife's arm, attended by Butler and Palmer,
he passed out of the hospital, driving through a
world of sunshine back to his house in Washington
Square. His physician had urged him to go to
the seaside or the mountains for a few weeks, but
he was eager for his own house, and yet more eager
for his work.

"A man whose life has been spared by miracle can
afford to trust God to complete the miracle in the
gift of daily strength," he said. "The finest tonic
for my condition is the recovered power of work."

On the night when he came home the house was
filled with flowers. Among them was one emblem
which at once attracted his attention. It was a
large Cross composed of red roses, with yellow
roses interwoven in the upper section, — a Cross of
Stars in flowers. It was the gift of Dr. Jordan.

He stood long before it. Then he fell upon his

366 A PROPHET IN BABYLON

knees, praying in simple words that he might better
understand the spirit of the Cross, knowing not its
blood-red stain alone, but its starry joy.

Those who listened understood that this act was
the rededication of Gaunt's life to the service of
humanity.

Before the Cross they also bowed in silence : his
wife, Butler, Palmer, Mrs. Holcombe, Olivia Jor-
dan, and a few others who represented various
branches of his work. As Gaunt finished praying,
they, by common instinct, began to sing, softly,

"When I survey the wondrous Cross."

They sang it to its close.

Six weeks before it had seemed almost a requiem
— a hymn of martyrdom. They had sung it in that
hour when Gaunt had fallen.

They sang it now with triumph. They realized
that all the wisdom of the ages was enshrined in it.
Above all they realized that this man, whose prayer
still lingered in their ears, had found this wisdom;
that in him once more was wrought the eternal
miracle of the life that grows by giving, gains by
losing, lives by dying.

All can understand the pain of sacrifice; but there
is a further knowledge when we comprehend its joy.

Gaunt had found the joy.

THE END

BY W. J. DAWSON

The Empire of Love.

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His style is a perpetual delightfor clearness, variety, force
and rhythm. He is an informal and delightful critic and
his book is the work of a real critic and a master of style ;
high praise, but deserved we believe."— M Y. Evening Sun.

The Forgotten Secret. Art binding, 50
cents net.

"Sir Oliver Lodge recently declared prayer to be the
forgotten secret of the church. This then is ' The For-
gotten Secret ' treated and discussed in a practical and
helpful manner." — Christian Observer.

The Evangelistic Note. 3 d edition. $1.25 net.
"One of the most remarkable and stirring of recent
books. It is really the story of a great crisis in the life of
a great preacher. The book is epoch-making in character."
— The Watchman.

The Reproach of Christ. With an Intro-
duction by Newell Dwight Hillis. Cloth,
$1.00 net.

"Marked by a distinctive literary quality, combined with
irnest evangelical zeal, they are models of homiletic

earnest
construction.'

-Church Economist.

FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

Publishers

THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE
STAMPED BELOW

AN INITIAL FINE OP 25 CENTS

WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN
THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY
WILL INCREASE TO SO CENTS ON THE FOURTH
DAY AND TO $t.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY
OVERDUE.

iViAY 10 1946

LD 21-100TO-12, '43 (8796s)