In a few minutes more she was seated beside Miss Cole in the limousine on her way to church. She was thankful because she felt she would not have to be constantly on her guard as if she were at the house. So absorbed was she in her own thoughts that it was not until he stood up to read the morning lesson that she noticed John Treeves in the pulpit, and even then it was his voice and not the sight of him that suddenly startled into her absorption:
“Who hath believed our report, and to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed?”
It was as if a prophet of old stood up and cried out against them as the age-old chapter rang out under the high-carven arches, and broke into the hearts of the people. There was perhaps no person present who had not heard the words before, yet it seemed curiously original to them, like a new revelation. They had been accustomed all their lives to hearing of the sufferings of Christ. It was the proper churchly phrasing conveying vague pictures of the mistakes of a people long ago about One who had done them all honor and whose position had not been fully understood. But now they seemed all at once forced into a listening attitude of heart that scarcely seemed comely for a stately service. Such phrases as "WE hid, as it were, our faces from Him--” No, certainly not. They had never done any such thing!” He was despised and we esteemed Him not.” The arraignment was unjust! It was an absurd rendering. Still the arraigning voice went on. “Surely He hath borne OUR griefs, and carried OUR sorrows: yet WE did esteem Him smitten of God and afflicted!” Why, yes, of course, that was exactly their attitude, but why should that suddenly seem an accusation? Had not God chosen to smite Christ for their sakes ? Was not that the blessed truth that all who comforted themselves by churchgoing on a pleasant Sabbath morning had always hugged to their hearts? What was wrong with that? “But HE WAS WOUNDED FOR OUR TRANSGRESSIONS, HE WAS BRUISED FOR OUR INIQUITIES, the chastisement of OUR peace was upon Him, and with His stripes WE are healed!”
There was a curious breathless attention as the tremendous statements went on. It almost seemed as if the young man had got hold of a new kind of version of the Scriptures, so strangely did the old words sound with the new emphasis, or was it the quiet, direct way the reader had of putting a personal note into his voice?
“All we like sheep have GONE ASTRAY!” Why! Could it be possible that any one considered them still responsible for all this? They shifted uneasily, coughed, glanced about, and sat quiet again to the end. The prayer was spoken as to a visible Presence and in a tone so intimate that it seemed to some of the more ceremonious almost unseemly. The choir chirruped in with an intricate anthem like costly, hand-picked angels from the celestial chorus trilling around and playing at hide and seek among the heights and peaks of melody. It was exquisite, but it was usual, and the congregation drew breath and sat back relaxed and endeavored to forget impressions. The hymn, a stately, churchly one on themes of prophets and martyrs of old, goers-before who had done all the strenuous religion for those of this favored age, drowsed down upon their souls, and they settled into comfort and apathy for the sermon.
If the church pews had been secretly wired and the current suddenly turned on, the people could not have been more thoroughly electrified than by the sermon which followed. Not that it was sensational, not in the least. John Treeves did not take off his coat, nor stride about the pulpit, nor thump the Bible, nor use college or army slang to convey his meaning. He spoke in a quiet, direct, personal voice as if he were talking to one person, about a certain particular act of his life. They were all sinners, and there was no getting away from it. Not just the sin of Adam which they had quietly accepted and grown used to long ago; got so they could joke about it at a dinner party or in the office during the process of a crooked deal; but sin, Sin, SIN. Plain, bald, unvarnished SIN. A Personal SIN, differing in no way from the sin of the degraded lower classes. And worse still, not a faraway childish sin, nor a forgotten sin, but a sin of to-day, now, present, and to be reckoned for at once!
They sat in startled indignation with stem eyes fixed unflinchingly upon him, trying to look the hideous thought out of countenance. Before each one like a phantom danced the special act which represented present sin with him or her, and there was that sense upon them of not looking at one another lest consciousness of conviction should be writ large in their own eyes.
There were those whose indignation drove away conviction; whose haunting memories were exorcised by thoughts of sins so much worse they had not done. And then, suddenly those little sins they had picked out and were ashamed of were swept into a great caldron of sin seething and boiling in which they were overwhelmed. It appeared that the greatest sin of all, the sin that was at the bottom of every sin, was that they had “esteemed HIM not.” A kind of hopeless terror seemed to be brooding in the still deep-colored light of the old aristocratic church. Not one of its respected, respectable members would have owned to a panicky feeling, yet it was there beside them in a sickening dismay. If this were true, all this the daring young preacher was telling them, what was there of life left that was worth while? What but to be undoing the past, to be seeking forgiveness?
“Who hath believed our report!” There were those in the audience who had never had a very definite idea of who Isaiah was, whether he really ever lived, or what his work in life could have been anyhow. It developed that he was a prophet sent of the Lord to give this message which was not only for the people then but for the people of all time who heard or read. The great sin, the sin of the whole world, was that they had not believed the report. Who were those who had believed? The speaker went on rapidly to picture before them the different classes of people down through the ages who had believed. Mary the Mother had believed, even though it laid a burden upon her heart. The humble shepherds, feeding their flocks in the field had believed and started at once to search and find Him; the Wise Men in far distant lands, knowing not even one another, and following only a star had believed, but they were only three out of all the wise men of the earth. Not many wise nor great had believed. The King --he had believed the belief of fear, but only sought Him to kill Him because he loved himself. Not many mighty, not many rich men had believed. Like a procession marched the men and women of the Bible, each answering yes or no to the question, “Who hath believed our report?” And when the last one was passed there was not a man or woman in the church that had not heard himself or herself somehow described. They were facing a fact they would never have owned before; they had not believed the report that a Saviour was born. Oh, born to the world, yes! A large comprehensive Saviour for a large comprehensive Sin in which they were willing to take a modest share provided everybody else took equally. But a personal Saviour and a personal SIN, writ large, that they had not believed -- did not believe in now!
At this juncture the speaker brought in the remainder of his text, “To whom is the arm of the Lord revealed?”
And now a great fact suddenly became plain. Believing came before revelation. One must believe the report before it was possible to have the truth of it verified. Indeed, unwillingness to believe precluded any possibility for seeing the truth. It was like a closed door, closed by the will. Believing was an act of the will. Real believing meant acting on that belief. There were those in the world who professed to accept the truth of the report, but it had made no difference in their lives. Such could never have the revelation of the Lord's arm because they had never gone farther than a mere intellectual belief which was no better than a mere intellectual unbelief because it got nowhere. The proof of belief was willingness to go searching for the Lord. The Lord would reveal Himself to those who searched with all their hearts. The speaker made this statement quietly, but with a throb in the words that gave a personal touch to what he was saying, an eager conviction that it was worth seeking. Every tone, every gesture, every inflection of voice said as plainly as words could have done, “I know this is true because I have tried it myself.” And then he began to give quick and fast the reasons for making such a search. First, because God had urged it and promised great rewards in the way of revelation and blessing; and he poured forth promises, speaking rapidly and quoting them like something that had been lived into his heart. Second, because those who had tried it had testified of the wonder and glory that had come to them through finding Christ, and he instanced some quiet everyday saints who had fought the fight and worn the glory in their faces. Patty knew he was talking about his mother. She did not know that her own face was wet with tears as she listened. She only knew that something had come to her that day which stirred her deeper than anything she had ever heard, which crystallized and put in motion all the latent hunger and desire and ambition she had ever known.
John Treeves was not preaching a sermon he had made up out of his inner consciousness, nor yet one framed upon the system of theology which he had learned in the seminary. He was giving the message that had been given to him as he knelt upon the frozen ground at the old trysting place on the bluff above the little home town. He had strewn it thickly with scripture, not after careful midnight study to find the appropriate text, but with words from his store of Bible learned at his mother's knee; words whose meaning had long ago entered his soul, and whose convincing truths were unanswerable. Without realizing that he was being great he had preached a mighty sermon that day because he had taken God's words instead of his own.
“Yesterday,” said he in that quiet, conversational tone that held the attention so steadily, “we celebrated once more the birthday of the Saviour King. He was born again to us as He was born long years ago to those who lived then. What are you going to do with your King, your Saviour? Will you let Him lie in a manger, or will you cradle Him in your heart? You that are shepherds, will you leave your sheep to follow the star and find your Saviour? You that are wise men, will you go on the search, no matter how long or hard it may be and give Him the great gift of yourself? You that are rich, will you go sell all that you have if He asks it and come and follow Him? To-morrow He will be treading the way to Golgotha again, and that heavy cross is the price of your punishment, not His. That burden of sins He will bear is not His but yours. He is despised, and you esteem Him not even though He took your sins upon Himself? What are you going to do about it?”
Chapter 22
There was a sense of sudden letting down as the organ boomed forth a bit of left-over Christmas oratorio, and a drawing of breath in relief. Ah! Here was solid ground and something quite in the line of regular things to be expected. A truly noble work of art combined with religion. Unquestionably great, unquestionably religious, and yet calling for no responsibility on the part of the listener. Composed by a great master, performed by great artists, well paid for, and appreciated by a refined and well-meaning audience, what more could a reasonable God require in the way of worship? Why was not this greater than the praise of those simple, illiterate shepherds, the myrrh and incense of those long-ago sages? Already the keen air from the outer door had stolen into the church and turned the thoughts of the congregation away from the tense and unusual thought of the hour. In a moment more they would be smiling and bowing and asking after friends as they progressed down the aisle in dignified accord with the rolling of the wonderful organ. A few minutes more and they would be walking up Fifth Avenue and their dinners would be waiting. Then would come an afternoon of friendly intercourse, and recreation. Already they were drawing up their wraps, and girding up their thoughts for the next act of the day, and the sermon was a thing of the past.
Not everyone, of course. A few simple worshippers “hid all these things in their hearts” and went away to remember. There are always a few.
Down by the door Marjorie Horliss-Cole paused to speak to a girl friend:
“Isn't he perfectly stunning!” said the friend. “Don't you love the way he combs his hair? And wasn't that a darling sermon? If sermons were all like that I wouldn't mind coming to church oftener. I'm crazy about the way he looks straight at you when he's talking. Wouldn't it be dandy to have a young minister with some life in him?”
Back by the altar Maxim Petrol lingered to speak to Horliss-Cole:
“Say, Jim, tell him to cut out that rubbish about Sin. We can't stand for any such antiquated rot as that. Tell him to give us something a little more modern, you know, with some punch to it, social service and that sort of stuff--”
Horliss-Cole nodded understandingly:
“I'll have a talk with him this afternoon,” he said. “Of course he's young. It wouldn't do him any harm to take some post-graduate work; in one of our broader institutions. I'll suggest that later if it seems wise. Meantime, he's a personable young man, will fit in well socially. I guess he'll get by. What do you think?”
“Oh, yes, he’ll do. Get him to preach up to modern thought and he'll be a prince. It’s well to take them young and train them. Going to get in a game this afternoon, Jim?”
“Well, yes, I thought I would. See you up at the links.”
Patty, seated beside Miss Cole in the limousine, with her thoughts on what she had just heard, suddenly became aware that she had been spoken to.
“I said that young man was no saphead!” stated Miss Cole over again.
“Oh, no!” said Patty rousing to a polite enthusiasm. “That was a fine sermon, wasn't it?”
“H'm! P'fine!” sniffed Miss Cole significantly.
Patty laughed:
“I mean -- it was the real thing, wasn't it? I never quite heard anything like it. It set me to thinking.”
“I suspect that was what it was meant to do!” said Miss Cole grimly. “I guess it set a good many to thinking!” she chuckled with twinkling mirth, “He didn't know how near the mark he was coming sometimes. It was as good as a play to see all their pet sins brought out. It certainly did make some of them squirm. Didn't you notice Mrs. Peter Pancoast's neck was as red as fire. Her daughter's been divorced three times and is about to marry a fourth.”
“Oh,” gasped Patty, “I was thinking of myself, I guess.”
“You, child! You haven't any sins alongside the rest of us!” said Miss Cole with a sudden wistful look at the soft pink cheek and delicate earnest profile next her.
“But for knowing the human heart that young man certainly is a past master!” she went on. “He must have had a good mother!”
She looked keenly, significantly at Patty, but Patty only smiled sadly, reminiscently, and said ''Yes," with an indescribable little shrinking motion as if some old wound had been touched, and Miss Cole said no more. But Patty went back home to search the Horliss-Cole libraries for a Bible.
She found one at last in the back corner of Miss Cole's sitting-room bookcase, behind a row of old novels, a little queer old-fashioned fat one with rusty gild edges and a faded inscription:
“To Sylvia from her Sunday School teacher as a reward for reciting the ten commandments perfectly.” She sat by her own room window reading it earnestly when Miss Cole came to the door late in the afternoon to suggest that they go down to the library for tea with the family, but when she caught sight of the Little book, and saw the absorption of the girl in its pages she beat a hasty retreat.
As it happened Horliss-Cole chose to take his tea with the young minister alone in his den, where as admonitory talk would be more private, and so Miss Cole's plans would have missed fire in any case.
“We like,” said Horliss-Cole settling back in his deep air-cushioned chair and sipping his tea delicately, “we like a conservative style of preaching in our church. Not that we lean too far to modern ideas. They are apt to be overdrawn, as all new things are. Now, the Sermon on the Mount is a good pattern. Give us plenty of that and we shall be satisfied!”
Mr. Horliss-Cole was tall and thin, with a tall, smug, gray face and a cold blue eye. He had long delicate fingers, and when he talked, particularly when he was giving a delicate hint which was really intended for a command, he always leaned his elbows on the arms of his deep chair, braced his thumbs together, and then tapped the tips of the three middle long thin fingers of each hand on one another, punctuating his sentences thereby. In this instance he had set down his Sevres cup on the carved teakwood stand and was elaborating his sentences by measured taps as usual.
John Treeves, his own cup still untasted, watched him curiously with a growing understanding and a slow narrowing of his eyes. What was this old hypocrite about anyway? That was the involuntary question that came to his mind immediately. The Sermon on the Mount! That began with the blesseds. What was the old fellow trying to get at? It was evident he had not liked the morning discourse, but thought there was hope. It all amused John Treeves very much, for he wasn’t caring a picayune whether the New York church called him or not. He was waiting to be called by God, and until then he preached wherever he was sent.
“Our people are interested in social service --” went on Horliss-Cole in his cool, oily voice after a dignified pause; and then paused again to let that soak in.
Other verses from the Sermon on the Mount were coming to John Treeves now. Ah! “Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works!” Was that the idea John Treeves wondered thoughtfully, nodding to signify to Horliss-Cole that he was listening.
“Many of our most influential members are interested in corporations and large operations that employ thousands of men-laborers --” the long fingers tapped each other emphatically to call attention to the prominence of the people mentioned. “There are sugar, oil, manufacturing interests of many sorts, and all of them have large plants which involve many problems of the poor. There, for instance, is the housing problem, the educational problem, educating the children of these workmen, teaching the workmen and their families to live economically, teaching them sanitary laws and rules of health, helping the young people to get ready to support themselves, all these questions are most vital and interesting, and should demand the keenest attention from the church to-day. It is the one great solution for all the turmoil that the war has left us. It is the one great meaning of Christianity to make better citizens and better workmen. Then, of course, there is the question of proper amusement and uplift. Our women have been most zealous about providing occasional concerts and lectures for the working people during their noon hours. Some of our best women have actually gone down to the plant themselves and sung or played, and endeavored to understand the working girl and bring culture down to her. It has been most praise-worthy and satisfactory--! Perhaps you have seen the accounts in the papers--”
The rest of the verse was coming to John Treeves now –- “that they may see your good works AND GLORIFY YOUR FATHER WHICH IS IN HEAVEN.”
The attention that John Treeves seemed to be giving to Horliss-Cole was most flattering. He cleared his throat and decided that the task of making over this young pulpit giant was going to be easier than he had anticipated. Next week, if all went well, he would broach the subject of a course of study somewhere!
“Give them the Sermon on the Mount! That is the gospel they want--!” he continued.
“I believe you have an interesting plant yourself, Mr. Horliss-Cole. I’ve heard a good deal about it since I’ve been in New York. It is located out of the city, is it not?”
The adroitness with which the question was asked would have gained the admiration of any of Mr. Horliss-Cole's acquaintances, for “The Plant” was the one absorbing interest of his life, and when it was mentioned all other subjects faded into complete obscurity. For he was the plant. Had he not made it? Was it not the outgrowth of his own industry and cunning, the work of his hand and heart? Not even his wife and children, nor yet his bank account, meant as much to Mr. Horliss-Cole as that plant, for it was at once the epitome of his own industry and his farsightedness, and of what he liked to call generosity. He liked to tell men about it and have them praise him. He told John Treeves about it now and swelled with pride. Treeves narrowed his eyes in that attractive speculating sort of way he had and said:
“I should like to see it.”
Then Mr. Horliss-Cole completely forgot that he had been delivering an adroit reproof to a young and inexperienced minister and had been getting on very well with his suggestions for next Sunday’s sermon, and began to talk about himself. He told about the houses he had built for his men, how he insisted on their all keeping the grass cut or turning them out of the house if they neglected it. How the hospital was all white tiled and there was a rest room for the girls and a library. He neglected to say that these were kept in applepie order and used exclusively by the guests who drove out by automobile to view the wonders of The Plant, but that was not generally known. Perhaps he had even forgotten the fact himself. The rooms of course were ostensibly for the girls of The Plant, and as such continually in the limelight. They masqueraded as among the very first of such recreation rooms to be established in plants of that sort.
Horliss-Cole did not return to the Sermon on the Mount He talked a long time about The Plant, finding it more and more necessary because of that steady, narrowing gaze of attention and interest to make known little details of good works that he himself had thrown in here and there. He did not want to stop until he was sure he had made an impression; and that young upstart of a preacher just would not look impressed. Whatever he might think he sat and held his opinion in reserve, only saying again quietly: “I should certainly like to see it!”
And so after all Horliss-Cole did not get back to the Sermon on the Mount at all that evening, but promised to take John Treeves out to see The Plant the next day.
And at last, free to follow his own thoughts at the dose of the day, John Treeves sat in his stately bedchamber overlooking Fifth Avenue and pondered over a face, one face he had seen in his audience that morning, the face with the listening eyes that had helped him to preach. The face of the girl who looked so like his friend of long ago. Somehow he must get acquainted with that girl and see if she knew Patty Merrill! Perhaps she was a relative.
