Part 18 (1/2)
”Y' know, Billy,” said the voice over the phone, ”y' could a'
knocked me over vit a fedder! Dat young feller, he vas alvays so quiet, and such a fine business feller, I put him in charge of all my collections. I said to him, 'Vot you gonna do?' And he said, 'I gonna learn from Mr. Carpenter.' Says I, 'Vot you gonna learn?' and he says, 'I gonna learn to be a better man.' Den he vaits a minute, and he says, 'Mr. T-S, he _told_ me to foller him!' J' ever hear de like o' dat?”
”What did you say?”
”Vot could I say? I vanted to say, 'Who's givin' you de orders?' But I couldn't, somehow! I hadda tell him to go ahead, and come back before he forgot all my business.”
I dressed, and had my breakfast, and drove to St. Bartholomew's. It was a November morning, bright and sunny, as warm as summer; and it is always such a pleasure to see that goodly company of ladies and gentlemen, so perfectly groomed, so perfectly mannered, breathing a sense of peace and well being. Ah, that wonderful sense of well being! ”G.o.d's in His Heaven, all's right with the world!” And what a curious contrast with the Labor Temple! For a moment I doubted Carpenter; surely these ladies with their decorative bonnets, their sweet perfumes, their gowns of rose and lilac and other pastel shades--surely they were more important life-products than women in frowsy and dowdy imitation clothes! Surely it was better to be serene and clean and pleasant, than to be terrible and bewildered, sick and quarrelsome! I was seized by a frenzy, a sort of instinctive animal l.u.s.t for this life of ease and prettiness. No matter if those dirty, raucous-voiced hordes of strikers, and others of their ”ilk”--as the ”Times” phrased it--did have to wash my clothes and scrub my floors, just so that _I_ stayed clean and decent!
I bowed to a score or two of the elegant ladies, and to their escorts in s.h.i.+ny top hats and uncreased kid gloves, and went into the exquisite church with its glowing stained gla.s.s window, and looked up over the altar--and there stood Carpenter! I tell you, it gave me a queer shock. There he was, up in the window, exactly where he had always been; I thought I had suddenly wakened from a dream.
There had been no ”prophet fresh from G.o.d,” no ma.s.s-meeting at Grant Hall, no editorial in the ”Times”! But suddenly I heard a voice at my elbow: ”Billy, what is this awful thing you've been doing?” It was my Aunt Caroline, and I asked what she meant, and she answered, ”That terrible prophet creature, and getting your name into the papers!”
So I knew it was true, and I walked with my dear, sweet old auntie down the aisle, and there sat Aunt Jennie, with her two lanky girls who have grown inches every time I run into them; and also Uncle Timothy. Uncle Timothy was my guardian until I came of age, so I am a little in awe of him, and now I had to listen to his whispered reproaches--it being the first principle of our family never to ”get into the papers.” I told him that it wasn't my fault I had been knocked down by a mob, and surely I couldn't help it if this man Carpenter found me while I was unconscious, and made me well. Nor could I fail to be polite to my benefactor, and try to help him about. My Uncle Timothy was amazed, because he had accepted the ”Times” story that it was all a ”movie” hoax. Everybody will tell you in Western City that they ”never believe a word they read in the 'Times'”; but of course they do--they have to believe something, and what else have they?
I was trying to think about that picture over the altar. Of course, they would naturally have replaced it! I wondered who had found old de Wiggs up there; I wondered if he knew about it, and if he had any idea who had played that prank. I looked to his pew; yes, there he sat, rosy and beaming, bland as ever! I looked for old Peter Dexter, president of the Dexter Trust Company--yes, he was in his pew, wizened and hunched up, prematurely bald. And Stuyvesant Gunning, of the Fidelity National--they were all here, the masters of the city's finance and the pillars of ”law and order.” Some wag had remarked if you wanted to call directors' meeting after the service, you could settle all the business of Western City in St. Bartholomew's!
The organ pealed and the white-robed choir marched in, bearing the golden crosses, and followed by the Reverend Dr. Lettuce-Spray, smooth-shaven, plump and beautiful, his eyes bent reverently on the floor. They were singing with fervor that most orthodox of hymns:
The church's one foundation Is Jesus Christ, her Lord.
It is a beautiful old service, as you may know, and I had been taught to love it and thrill to it as a little child, and we never forget those things. Peace and propriety are its keynotes; order and dignity, combined with sensuous charm. Everyone knows his part, and it moves along like a beautiful machine. I knelt and prayed, and then sat and listened, and then stood and sang--over and over for perhaps three-quarters of an hour. We came to the hymn which precedes the sermon, and turning to the number, we obediently proclaimed:
The Son of G.o.d goes forth to war A kingly crown to gain: His blood-red banner streams afar: Who follows in His train?
During the singing of the last verse, the Reverend Lettuce-Spray had moved silently into the pulpit. After the choir had sung ”Amen,” he raised his hands in invocation--and at that awesome moment I saw Carpenter come striding up the aisle!
x.x.xVIII
He knew just where he was going, and walked so fast that before anyone had time to realize what was happening, he was on the altar steps, and facing the congregation. You could hear the gasp of amazement; he was so absolutely identical with the painted figure over his head, that if he had remained still, you could not have told which was painting and which was flesh and blood. The rector in the pulpit stood with his mouth open, staring as if seeing a ghost.
The prophet stretched out both his hands, and pointed two accusing fingers at the congregation. His voice rang out, stern and commanding: ”Let this mockery cease!” Again he cried: ”What do ye with my Name?” And pointing over his head: ”Ye crucify me in stained gla.s.s!”
There came murmurs from the congregation, the first mutterings of a storm. ”Oh! Outrageous! Blasphemy!”
”Blasphemy?” cried Carpenter. ”Is it not written that G.o.d dwelleth not in temples made with hands? Ye have built a temple to Mammon, and defile the name of my Father therein!”
The storm grew louder. ”This is preposterous!” exclaimed my uncle Timothy at my side. And the Reverend Lettuce-Spray managed to find his voice. ”Sir, whoever you are, leave this church!”
Carpenter turned upon him. ”You give orders to me--you who have brought back the moneychangers into my Father's temple?” And suddenly he faced the congregation, crying in a voice of wrath: ”Algernon de Wiggs! Stand up!”
Strange as it may seem, the banker rose in his pew; whether under the spell of Carpenter's majestic presence, or preparing to rush at him and throw him out, I could not be sure. The great banker's face was vivid scarlet.
And Carpenter pointed to another part of the congregation. ”Peter Dexter! Stand up!” The president of the Dexter Trust Company also arose, trembling as if with palsy, mumbling something, one could not tell whether protest or apology.
”Stuyvesant Gunning! Stand up!” And the president of the Fidelity National obeyed. Apparently Carpenter proposed to call the whole roll of financial directors; but the procedure was halted suddenly, as a tall, white-robed figure strode from its seat near the choir.
Young Sidney Simpkinson, a.s.sistant to the rector, went up to Carpenter and took him by the arm.
”Leave this house of G.o.d,” he commanded.