In His Steps
by Charles M.
Sheldon
(1857-1946)
Congregational minister
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CHAPTER QUICK JUMP
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17
18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31
In His Steps is in the public domain.
Author's Forward
The story "In His Steps" was written in 1896, and it was read a chapter
at a time to my young people, Sunday evenings in the Central Congregational Church,
Topeka, Kansas. While it was being read it was being published in the Chicago Advance,
a religious weekly, as a serial. The publisher did not know the conditions of the
copyright law, and he filed only one copy of the advance each week with the department,
instead of two, which the law required. On that account the copyright was defective,
and the story was thrown into the "public domain" when the Advance Company
put it out in a ten cent paper edition. Owing to the fact that no one had any legal
ownership in the book, sixteen different publishers in America and fifty in Europe
and Australia put out the book in various editions from an English penny to eight
shillings. Mr. Bowden, the London publisher, sold over 3,000,000 copies of the penny
edition on the streets of London. The book has been translated into twenty-one languages,
including a Russian publication which was banned by the Soviet. A Turkish Translation
in Arabic is permitted circulation by the government and is being read all over Turkey.
The Story has been made into the drama form and is being used by groups of young
church people and by college students. And while conditions have changed in the years
since the story was written, the principle of human conduct remains the same. I do
not need to say that I am very thankful that owing to the defective copyright the
book has had a larger reading on account of the great number of publishers. I find
readers in every part of the world where I go. And I am informed by the Publishers'
Weekly that the book has had more circulation than any other book except the Bible.
If that is true, no one is more grateful than I am, as it confirms the faith I have
always held that no subject is more interesting and vital to the human race than
religion.
May I be allowed to add a word of appreciation for the courtesy of the publishers
of this authorized edition who through these years recognized the moral rights of
the author and have kindly permitted him a share in the financial sales of the book.
I hope for this edition a hearty and kindly welcome from the readers, old and young,
who believe that in the end of human history Jesus will be the standard of human
conduct for the entire human race.
Charles M. Sheldon
Topeka, Kansas, 1935
Chapter One
"For hereunto were ye called; because Christ also suffered for you, leaving
you an example, that ye should follow in his steps."
It was Friday morning and the Rev. Henry Maxwell was trying to finish his Sunday
morning sermon. He had been interrupted several times and was growing nervous as
the morning wore away, and the sermon grew very slowly toward a satisfactory finish.
"Mary," he called to his wife, as he went upstairs after the last interruption,
"if any one comes after this, I wish you would say I am very busy and cannot
come down unless it is something very important."
"Yes, Henry." But I am going over to visit the kindergarten and you will
have the house all to yourself."
The minister went up into his study and shut the door. In a few minutes he heard
his wife go out, and then everything was quiet. He settled himself at his desk with
a sigh of relief and began to write. His text was from 1_Peter 2:21: "For hereunto
were ye called; because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example that
ye should follow his steps."
He had emphasized in the first part of the sermon the Atonement as a personal sacrifice,
calling attention to the fact of Jesus' suffering in various ways, in His life as
well as in His death. He had then gone on to emphasize the Atonement from the side
of example, giving illustrations from the life and teachings of Jesus to show how
faith in the Christ helped to save men because of the pattern or character He displayed
for their imitation. He was now on the third and last point, the necessity of following
Jesus in His sacrifice and example.
He had put down "Three Steps. What are they?" and was about to enumerate
them in logical order when the bell rang sharply. It was one of those clock-work
bells, and always went off as a clock might go if it tried to strike twelve all at
once.
Henry Maxwell sat at his desk and frowned a little. He made no movement to answer
the bell. Very soon it rang again; then he rose and walked over to one of his windows
which commanded the view of the front door. A man was standing on the steps. He was
a young man, very shabbily dressed.
"Looks like a tramp," said the minister. "I suppose I'll have to go
down and --"
He did not finish his sentence but he went downstairs and opened the front door.
There was a moment's pause as the two men stood facing each other, then the shabby-looking
young man said:
"I'm out of a job, sir, and thought maybe you might put me in the way of getting
something."
"I don't know of anything. Jobs are scarce--" replied the minister, beginning
to shut the door slowly.
"I didn't know but you might perhaps be able to give me a line to the city railway
or the superintendent of the shops, or something," continued the young man,
shifting his faded hat from one hand to the other nervously.
"It would be of no use. You will have to excuse me. I am very busy this morning.
I hope you will find something. Sorry I can't give you something to do here. But
I keep only a horse and a cow and do the work myself."
The Rev. Henry Maxwell closed the door and heard the man walk down the steps. As
he went up into his study he saw from his hall window that the man was going slowly
down the street, still holding his hat between his hands. There was something in
the figure so dejected, homeless and forsaken that the minister hesitated a moment
as he stood looking at it. Then he turned to his desk and with a sigh began the writing
where he had left off. He had no more interruptions, and when his wife came in two
hours later the sermon was finished, the loose leaves gathered up and neatly tied
together, and laid on his Bible all ready for the Sunday morning service.
"A queer thing happened at the kindergarten this morning, Henry," said
his wife while they were eating dinner. "You know I went over with Mrs, Brown
to visit the school, and just after the games, while the children were at the tables,
the door opened and a young man came in holding a dirty hat in both hands. He sat
down near the door and never said a word; only looked at the children. He was evidently
a tramp, and Miss Wren and her assistant Miss Kyle were a little frightened at first,
but he sat there very quietly and after a few minutes he went out."
"Perhaps he was tired and wanted to rest somewhere. The same man called here,
I think. Did you say he looked like a tramp?"
"Yes, very dusty, shabby and generally tramp-like. Not more than thirty or thirty-three
years old, I should say."
"The same man," said the Rev. Henry Maxwell thoughtfully.
"Did you finish your sermon, Henry?" his wife asked after a pause.
"Yes, all done. It has been a very busy week with me. The two sermons have cost
me a good deal of labor."
"They will be appreciated by a large audience, Sunday, I hope," replied
his wife smiling. "What are you going to preach about in the morning?"
"Following Christ. I take up the Atonement under the head of sacrifice and example,
and then show the steps needed to follow His sacrifice and example."
"I am sure it is a good sermon. I hope it won't rain Sunday. We have had so
many stormy Sundays lately."
"Yes, the audiences have been quite small for some time. People will not come
out to church in a storm." The Rev. Henry Maxwell sighed as he said it. He was
thinking of the careful, laborious effort he had made in preparing sermons for large
audiences that failed to appear.
But Sunday morning dawned on the town of Raymond one of the perfect days that sometimes
come after long periods of wind and mud and rain. The air was clear and bracing,
the sky was free from all threatening signs, and every one in Mr. Maxwell's parish
prepared to go to church. When the service opened at eleven o'clock the large building
was filled with an audience of the best- dressed, most comfortable looking people
of Raymond.
The First Church of Raymond believed in having the best music that money could buy,
and its quartet choir this morning was a source of great pleasure to the congregation.
The anthem was inspiring. All the music was in keeping with the subject of the sermon.
And the anthem was an elaborate adaptation to the most modern music of the hymn,
"Jesus, I my cross have taken,
All to leave and follow Thee."
Just before the sermon, the soprano sang a solo, the well-known hymn,
"Where He leads me I will follow,
I'll go with Him, with Him, all the way."
Rachel Winslow looked very beautiful that morning as she stood up behind the screen
of carved oak which was significantly marked with the emblems of the cross and the
crown. Her voice was even more beautiful than her face, and that meant a great deal.
There was a general rustle of expectation over the audience as she rose. Mr. Maxwell
settled himself contentedly behind the pulpit. Rachel Winslow's singing always helped
him. He generally arranged for a song before the sermon. It made possible a certain
inspiration of feeling that made his delivery more impressive.
People said to themselves they had never heard such singing even in the First Church.
It is certain that if it had not been a church service, her solo would have been
vigorously applauded. It even seemed to the minister when she sat down that something
like an attempted clapping of hands or a striking of feet on the floor swept through
the church. He was startled by it. As he rose, however, and laid his sermon on the
Bible, he said to himself he had been deceived. Of course it could not occur. In
a few moments he was absorbed in his sermon and everything else was forgotten in
the pleasure of his delivery.
No one had ever accused Henry Maxwell of being a dull preacher. On the contrary,
he had often been charged with being sensational; not in what he had said so much
as in his way of saying it. But the First Church people liked that. It gave their
preacher and their parish a pleasant distinction that was agreeable.
It was also true that the pastor of the First Church loved to preach. He seldom exchanged.
He was eager to be in his own pulpit when Sunday came. There was an exhilarating
half hour for him as he faced a church full of people and know that he had a hearing.
He was peculiarly sensitive to variations in the attendance. He never preached well
before a small audience. The weather also affected him decidedly. He was at his best
before just such an audience as faced him now, on just such a morning. He felt a
glow of satisfaction as he went on. The church was the first in the city. It had
the best choir. It had a membership composed of the leading people, representatives
of the wealth, society and intelligence of Raymond. He was going abroad on a three
months vacation in the summer, and the circumstances of his pastorate, his influence
and his position as pastor of the First Church in the city --
It is not certain that the Rev. Henry Maxwell knew just how he could carry on that
thought in connection with his sermon, but as he drew near the end of it he knew
that he had at some point in his delivery had all those feelings. They had entered
into the very substance of his thought; it might have been all in a few seconds of
time, but he had been conscious of defining his position and his emotions as well
as if he had held a soliloquy, and his delivery partook of the thrill of deep personal
satisfaction.
The sermon was interesting. It was full of striking sentences. They would have commanded
attention printed. Spoken with the passion of a dramatic utterance that had the good
taste never to offend with a suspicion of ranting or declamation, they were very
effective. If the Rev. Henry Maxwell that morning felt satisfied with the conditions
of his pastorate, the First Church also had a similar feeling as it congratulated
itself on the presence in the pulpit of this scholarly, refined, somewhat striking
face and figure, preaching with such animation and freedom from all vulgar, noisy
or disagreeable mannerism.
Suddenly, into the midst of this perfect accord and concord between preacher and
audience, there came a very remarkable interruption. It would be difficult to indicate
the extent of the shock which this interruption measured. It was so unexpected, so
entirely contrary to any thought of any person present that it offered no room for
argument or, for the time being, of resistance.
The sermon had come to a close. Mr. Maxwell had just turned the half of the big Bible
over upon his manuscript and was about to sit down as the quartet prepared to arise
to sing the closing selection,
"All for Jesus, all for Jesus,
All my being's ransomed powers,..."
when the entire congregation was startled by the sound of a man's voice. It came
from the rear of the church, from one of the seats under the gallery. The next moment
the figure of a man came out of the shadow there and walked down the middle aisle.
Before the startled congregation fairly realized what was going on the man had reached
the open space in front of the pulpit and had turned about facing the people.
"I've been wondering since I came in here" -- they were the words he used
under the gallery, and he repeated them-- "if it would be just the thing to
say a word at the close of the service. I'm not drunk and I'm not crazy, and I am
perfectly harmless, but if I die, as there is every likelihood I shall in a few days,
I want the satisfaction of thinking that I said my say in a place like this, and
before this sort of a crowd."
Mr. Maxwell had not taken his seat, and he now remained standing, leaning on his
pulpit, looking down at the stranger. It was the man who had come to his house the
Friday before, the same dusty, worn, shabby-looking young man. He held his faded
hat in his two hands. It seemed to be a favorite gesture. He had not been shaved
and his hair was rough and tangled. It is doubtful if any one like this had ever
confronted the First Church within the sanctuary. It was tolerably familiar with
this sort of humanity out on the street, around the railroad shops, wandering up
and down the avenue, but it had never dreamed of such an incident as this so near.
There was nothing offensive in the man's manner or tone. He was not excited and he
spoke in a low but distinct voice. Mr. Maxwell was conscious, even as he stood there
smitten into dumb astonishment at the event, that somehow the man's action reminded
him of a person he had once seen walking and talking in his sleep.
No one in the house made any motion to stop the stranger or in any way interrupt
him. Perhaps the first shock of his sudden appearance deepened into a genuine perplexity
concerning what was best to do. However that may be, he went on as if he had no thought
of interruption and no thought of the unusual element which he had introduced into
the decorum of the First Church service. And all the while he was speaking, the minister
leaded over the pulpit, his face growing more white and sad every moment. But he
made no movement to stop him, and the people sat smitten into breathless silence.
One other face, that of Rachel Winslow from the choir, stared white and intent down
at the shabby figure with the faded hat. Her face was striking at any time. Under
the pressure of the present unheard-of incident it was as personally distinct as
if it had been framed in fire.
"I'm not an ordinary tramp, though I don't know of any teaching of Jesus that
makes one kind of a tramp less worth saving than another. Do you?" He put the
question as naturally as if the whole congregation had been a small Bible class.
He paused just a moment and coughed painfully. Then he went on.
"I lost my job ten months ago. I am a printer by trade. The new linotype machines
are beautiful specimens of invention, but I know six men who have killed themselves
inside of the year just on account of those machines. Of course I don't blame the
newspapers for getting the machines. Meanwhile, what can a man do? I know I never
learned but the one trade, and that's all I can do. I've tramped all over the country
trying to find something. There are a good many others like me. I'm not complaining,
am I? Just stating facts. But I was wondering as I sat there under the gallery, if
what you call following Jesus is the same thing as what He taught. What did He mean
when He said: 'Follow Me!'? The minister said," -- here he turned about and
looked up at the pulpit -- "that it is necessary for the disciple of Jesus to
follow His steps, and he said the steps are 'obedience, faith, love and imitation.'
But I did not hear him tell you just what he meant that to mean, especially the last
step. What do you Christians mean by following the steps of Jesus?
"I've tramped through this city for three days trying to find a job; and in
all that time I've not had a word of sympathy or comfort except from your minister
here, who said he was sorry for me and hoped I would find a job somewhere. I suppose
it is because you get so imposed on by the professional tramp that you have lost
your interest in any other sort. I'm not blaming anybody, am I? Just stating facts.
Of course, I understand you can't all go out of your way to hunt up jobs for other
people like me. I'm not asking you to; but what I feel puzzled about is, what is
meant by following Jesus. What do you mean when you sing 'I'll go with Him, with
Him, all the way?' Do you mean that you are suffering and denying yourselves and
trying to save lost, suffering humanity just as I understand Jesus did? What do you
mean by it? I see the ragged edge of things a good deal. I understand there are more
than five hundred men in this city in my case. Most of them have families. My wife
died four months ago. I'm glad she is out of trouble. My little girl is staying with
a printer's family until I find a job. Somehow I get puzzled when I see so many Christians
living in luxury and singing 'Jesus, I my cross have taken, all to leave and follow
Thee,' and remember how my wife died in a tenement in New York City, gasping for
air and asking God to take the little girl too. Of course I don't expect you people
can prevent every one from dying of starvation, lack of proper nourishment and tenement
air, but what does following Jesus mean? I understand that Christian people own a
good many of the tenements. A member of a church was the owner of the one where my
wife died, and I have wondered if following Jesus all the way was true in his case.
I heard some people singing at a church prayer meeting the other night,
'All for Jesus, all for Jesus,
All my being's ransomed powers,
All my thoughts, and all my doings,
All my days, and all my hours.'
and I kept wondering as I sat on the steps outside just what they meant by it. It
seems to me there's an awful lot of trouble in the world that somehow wouldn't exist
if all the people who sing such songs went and lived them out. I suppose I don't
understand. But what would Jesus do? Is that what you mean by following His steps?
It seems to me sometimes as if the people in the big churches had good clothes and
nice houses to live in, and money to spend for luxuries, and could go away on summer
vacations and all that, while the people outside the churches, thousands of them,
I mean, die in tenements, and walk the streets for jobs, and never have a piano or
a picture in the house, and grow up in misery and drunkenness and sin."
The man suddenly gave a queer lurch over in the direction of the communion table
and laid one grimy hand on it. His hat fell upon the carpet at his feet. A stir went
through the congregation. Dr. West half rose from his pew, but as yet the silence
was unbroken by any voice or movement worth mentioning in the audience. The man passed
his other hand across his eyes, and then, without any warning, fell heavily forward
on his face, full length up the aisle. Henry Maxwell spoke:
"We will consider the service closed."
He was down the pulpit stairs and kneeling by the prostrate form before any one else.
The audience instantly rose and the aisles were crowded. Dr. West pronounced the
man alive. He had fainted away. "Some heart trouble," the doctor also muttered
as he helped carry him out into the pastor's study.
Chapter Two
Henry Maxwell and a group of his church members remained some time in the study.
The man lay on the couch there and breathed heavily. When the question of what to
do with him came up, the minister insisted on taking the man to his own house; he
lived near by and had an extra room. Rachel Winslow said:
"Mother has no company at present. I am sure we would be glad to give him a
place with us."
She looked strongly agitated. No one noticed it particularly. They were all excited
over the strange event, the strangest that First Church people could remember. But
the minister insisted on taking charge of the man, and when a carriage came the unconscious
but living form was carried to his house; and with the entrance of that humanity
into the minister's spare room a new chapter in Henry Maxwell's life began, and yet
no one, himself least of all, dreamed of the remarkable change it was destined to
make in all his after definition of the Christian discipleship.
The event created a great sensation in the First Church parish. People talked of
nothing else for a week. It was the general impression that the man had wandered
into the church in a condition of mental disturbance caused by his troubles, and
that all the time he was talking he was in a strange delirium of fever and really
ignorant of his surroundings. That was the most charitable construction to put upon
his action. It was the general agreement also that there was a singular absence of
anything bitter or complaining in what the man had said. He had, throughout, spoken
in a mild, apologetic tone, almost as if he were one of the congregation seeking
for light on a very difficult subject.
The third day after his removal to the minister's house there was a marked change
in his condition. The doctor spoke of it but offered no hope. Saturday morning he
still lingered, although he had rapidly failed as the week drew near its close. Sunday
morning, just before the clock struck one, he rallied and asked if his child had
come. The minister had sent for her at once as soon as he had been able to secure
her address from some letters found in the man's pocket. He had been conscious and
able to talk coherently only a few moments since his attack.
"The child is coming. She will be here," Mr. Maxwell said as he sat there,
his face showing marks of the strain of the week's vigil; for he had insisted on
sitting up nearly every night.
"I shall never see her in this world," the man whispered. Then he uttered
with great difficulty the words, "You have been good to me. Somehow I feel as
if it was what Jesus would do."
After a few minutes he turned his head slightly, and before Mr. Maxwell could realize
the fact, the doctor said quietly, "He is gone."
The Sunday morning that dawned on the city of Raymond was exactly like the Sunday
of a week before. Mr. Maxwell entered his pulpit to face one of the largest congregations
that had ever crowded the First Church. He was haggard and looked as if he had just
risen from a long illness. His wife was at home with the little girl, who had come
on the morning train an hour after her father had died. He lay in that spare room,
his troubles over, and the minister could see the face as he opened the Bible and
arranged his different notices on the side of the desk as he had been in the habit
of doing for ten years.
The service that morning contained a new element. No one could remember when Henry
Maxwell had preached in the morning without notes. As a matter of fact he had done
so occasionally when he first entered the ministry, but for a long time he had carefully
written every word of his morning sermon, and nearly always his evening discourses
as well. It cannot be said that his sermon this morning was striking or impressive.
He talked with considerable hesitation. It was evident that some great idea struggled
in his thought for utterance, but it was not expressed in the theme he had chosen
for his preaching. It was near the close of his sermon that he began to gather a
certain strength that had been painfully lacking at the beginning.
He closed the Bible and, stepping out at the side of the desk, faced his people and
began to talk to them about the remarkable scene of the week before.
"Our brother," somehow the words sounded a little strange coming from his
lips, "passed away this morning. I have not yet had time to learn all his history.
He had one sister living in Chicago. I have written her and have not yet received
an answer. His little girl is with us and will remain for the time."
He paused and looked over the house. He thought he had never seen so many earnest
faces during his entire pastorate. He was not able yet to tell his people his experiences,
the crisis through which he was even now moving. But something of his feeling passed
from him to them, and it did not seem to him that he was acting under a careless
impulse at all to go on and break to them this morning something of the message he
bore in his heart.
So he went on: "The appearance and words of this stranger in the church last
Sunday made a very powerful impression on me. I am not able to conceal from you or
myself the fact that what he said, followed as it has been by his death in my house,
has compelled me to ask as I never asked before 'What does following Jesus mean?'
I am not in a position yet to utter any condemnation of this people or, to a certain
extent, of myself, either in our Christ-like relations to this man or the numbers
that he represents in the world. But all that does not prevent me from feeling that
much that the man said was so vitally true that we must face it in an attempt to
answer it or else stand condemned as Christian disciples. A good deal that was said
here last Sunday was in the nature of a challenge to Christianity as it is seen and
felt in our churches. I have felt this with increasing emphasis every day since.
"And I do not know that any time is more appropriate than the present for me
to propose a plan, or a purpose, which has been forming in my mind as a satisfactory
reply to much that was said here last Sunday."
Again Henry Maxwell paused and looked into the faces of his people. There were some
strong, earnest men and women in the First Church.
He could see Edward Norman, editor of the Raymond DAILY NEWS. He had been a member
of the First Church for ten years.
No man was more honored in the community. There was Alexander Powers, superintendent
of the great railroad shops in Raymond, a typical railroad man, one who had been
born into the business. There sat Donald Marsh, president of Lincoln College, situated
in the suburbs of Raymond. There was Milton Wright, one of the great merchants of
Raymond, having in his employ at least one hundred men in various shops. There was
Dr. West who, although still comparatively young, was quoted as authority in special
surgical cases. There was young Jasper Chase the author, who had written one successful
book and was said to be at work on a new novel. There was Miss Virginia Page the
heiress, who through the recent death of her father had inherited a million at least,
and was gifted with unusual attractions of person and intellect. And not least of
all, Rachel Winslow, from her seat in the choir, glowed with her peculiar beauty
of light this morning because she was so intensely interested in the whole scene.
There was some reason, perhaps, in view of such material in the First Church, for
Henry Maxwell's feeling of satisfaction whenever he considered his parish as he had
the previous Sunday. There was an unusually large number of strong, individual characters
who claimed membership there. But as he noted their faces this morning he was simply
wondering how many of them would respond to the strange proposition he was about
to make. He continued slowly, taking time to choose his words carefully, and giving
the people an impression they had never felt before, even when he was at his best
with his most dramatic delivery.
"What I am going to propose now is something which ought not to appear unusual
or at all impossible of execution. Yet I am aware that it will be so regarded by
a large number, perhaps, of the members of this church. But in order that we may
have a thorough understanding of what we are considering, I will put my proposition
very plainly, perhaps bluntly. I want volunteers from the First Church who will pledge
themselves, earnestly and honestly for an entire year, not to do anything without
first asking the question, 'What would Jesus do?' And after asking that question,
each one will follow Jesus as exactly as he knows how, no matter what the result
may be. I will of course include myself in this company of volunteers, and shall
take for granted that my church here will not be surprised at my future conduct,
as based upon this standard of action, and will not oppose whatever is done if they
think Christ would do it. Have I made my meaning clear? At the close of the service
I want all those members who are willing to join such a company to remain and we
will talk over the details of the plan. Our motto will be, 'What would Jesus do?'
Our aim will be to act just as He would if He was in our places, regardless of immediate
results. In other words, we propose to follow Jesus' steps as closely and as literally
as we believe He taught His disciples to do. And those who volunteer to do this will
pledge themselves for an entire year, beginning with today, so to act."
Henry Maxwell paused again and looked out over his people. It is not easy to describe
the sensation that such a simple proposition apparently made. Men glanced at one
another in astonishment. It was not like Henry Maxwell to define Christian discipleship
in this way. There was evident confusion of thought over his proposition. It was
understood well enough, but there was, apparently, a great difference of opinion
as to the application of Jesus' teaching and example.
He calmly closed the service with a brief prayer. The organist began his postlude
immediately after the benediction and the people began to go out. There was a great
deal of conversation. Animated groups stood all over the church discussing the minister's
proposition. It was evidently provoking great discussion. After several minutes he
asked all who expected to remain to pass into the lecture-room which joined the large
room on the side. He was himself detained at the front of the church talking with
several persons there, and when he finally turned around, the church was empty. He
walked over to the lecture- room entrance and went in. He was almost startled to
see the people who were there. He had not made up his mind about any of his members,
but he had hardly expected that so many were ready to enter into such a literal testing
of their Christian discipleship as now awaited him. There were perhaps fifty present,
among them Rachel Winslow and Virginia Page, Mr. Norman, President Marsh, Alexander
Powers the railroad superintendent, Milton Wright, Dr. West and Jasper Chase.
He closed the door of the lecture- room and went and stood before the little group.
His face was pale and his lips trembled with genuine emotion. It was to him a genuine
crisis in his own life and that of his parish. No man can tell until he is moved
by the Divine Spirit what he may do, or how he may change the current of a lifetime
of fixed habits of thought and speech and action. Henry Maxwell did not, as we have
said, yet know himself all that he was passing through, but he was conscious of a
great upheaval in his definition of Christian discipleship, and he was moved with
a depth of feeling he could not measure as he looked into the faces of those men
and women on this occasion.
It seemed to him that the most fitting word to be spoken first was that of prayer.
He asked them all to pray with him. And almost with the first syllable he uttered
there was a distinct presence of the Spirit felt by them all. As the prayer went
on, this presence grew in power. They all felt it. The room was filled with it as
plainly as if it had been visible. When the prayer closed there was a silence that
lasted several moments. All the heads were bowed. Henry Maxwell's face was wet with
tears. If an audible voice from heaven had sanctioned their pledge to follow the
Master's steps, not one person present could have felt more certain of the divine
blessing. And so the most serious movement ever started in the First Church of Raymond
was begun.
"We all understand," said he, speaking very quietly, "what we have
undertaken to do. We pledge ourselves to do everything in our daily lives after asking
the question, 'What would Jesus do?' regardless of what may be the result to us.
Some time I shall be able to tell you what a marvelous change has come over my life
within a week's time. I cannot now. But the experience I have been through since
last Sunday has left me so dissatisfied with my previous definition of Christian
discipleship that I have been compelled to take this action. I did not dare begin
it alone. I know that I am being led by the hand of divine love in all this. The
same divine impulse must have led you also.
"Do we understand fully what we have undertaken?"
"I want to ask a question," said Rachel Winslow. Every one turned towards
her. Her face glowed with a beauty that no physical loveliness could ever create.
"I am a little in doubt as to the source of our knowledge concerning what Jesus
would do. Who is to decide for me just what He would do in my case? It is a different
age. There are many perplexing questions in our civilization that are not mentioned
in the teachings of Jesus. How am I going to tell what He would do?"
"There is no way that I know of," replied the pastor, "except as we
study Jesus through the medium of the Holy Spirit. You remember what Christ said
speaking to His disciples about the Holy Spirit: "Howbeit when he, the Spirit
of truth, is come, he shall guide you into all the truth: for he shall not speak
from himself; but what things soever he shall hear, these shall he speak: and he
shall declare unto you the things that are to come. He shall glorify me; for he shall
take of mine, and shall declare it unto you. All things whatsoever the Father hath
are mine: therefore said I, that he taketh of mine, and shall declare it unto you.'
There is no other test that I know of. We shall all have to decide what Jesus would
do after going to that source of knowledge."
"What if others say of us, when we do certain things, that Jesus would not do
so?" asked the superintendent of railroads.
"We cannot prevent that. But we must be absolutely honest with ourselves. The
standard of Christian action cannot vary in most of our acts."
"And yet what one church member thinks Jesus would do, another refuses to accept
as His probable course of action. What is to render our conduct uniformly Christ-like?
Will it be possible to reach the same conclusions always in all cases?" asked
President Marsh.
Mr. Maxwell was silent some time. Then he answered, "No; I don't know that we
can expect that. But when it comes to a genuine, honest, enlightened following of
Jesus' steps, I cannot believe there will be any confusion either in our own minds
or in the judgment of others. We must be free from fanaticism on one hand and too
much caution on the other. If Jesus' example is the example for the world to follow,
it certainly must be feasible to follow it. But we need to remember this great fact.
After we have asked the Spirit to tell us what Jesus would do and have received an
answer to it, we are to act regardless of the results to ourselves. Is that understood?"
All the faces in the room were raised towards the minister in solemn assent. There
was no misunderstanding that proposition. Henry Maxwell's face quivered again as
he noted the president of the Endeavor Society with several members seated back of
the older men and women.
They remained a little longer talking over details and asking questions, and agreed
to report to one another every week at a regular meeting the result of their experiences
in following Jesus this way. Henry Maxwell prayed again. And again as before the
Spirit made Himself manifest. Every head remained bowed a long time. They went away
finally in silence. There was a feeling that prevented speech. The pastor shook hands
with them all as they went out. Then he went into his own study room back of the
pulpit and kneeled. He remained there alone nearly half an hour. When he went home
he went into the room where the dead body lay. As he looked at the face he cried
in his heart again for strength and wisdom. But not even yet did he realize that
a movement had begun which would lead to the most remarkable series of events that
the city of Raymond had ever known.
Chapter Three
"He that saith he abideth in Him ought himself also to walk even as He walked."
EDWARD NORMAN, editor Of the Raymond DAILY NEWS, sat in his office room Monday morning
and faced a new world of action. He had made his pledge in good faith to do everything
after asking "What would Jesus do?" and, as he supposed, with his eyes
open to all the possible results. But as the regular life of the paper started on
another week's rush and whirl of activity, he confronted it with a degree of hesitation
and a feeling nearly akin to fear.
He had come down to the office very early, and for a few minutes was by himself.
He sat at his desk in a growing thoughtfulness that finally became a desire which
he knew was as great as it was unusual. He had yet to learn, with all the others
in that little company pledged to do the Christlike thing, that the Spirit of Life
was moving in power through his own life as never before. He rose and shut his door,
and then did what he had not done for years. He kneeled down by his desk and prayed
for the Divine Presence and wisdom to direct him.
He rose with the day before him, and his promise distinct and clear in his mind.
"Now for action," he seemed to say. But he would be led by events as fast
as they came on.
He opened his door and began the routine of the office work. The managing editor
had just come in and was at his desk in the adjoining room. One of the reporters
there was pounding out something on a typewriter. Edward Norman began to write an
editorial. The DAILY NEWS was an evening paper, and Norman usually completed his
leading editorial before nine o'clock.
He had been writing for fifteen minutes when the managing editor called out: "Here's
this press report of yesterday's prize fight at the Resort. It will make up three
columns and a half. I suppose it all goes in?"
Norman was one of those newspaper men who keep an eye on every detail of the paper.
The managing editor always consulted his chief in matters of both small and large
importance. Sometimes, as in this case, it was merely a nominal inquiry.
"Yes -- No. Let me see it."
He took the type-written matter just as it came from the telegraph editor and ran
over it carefully. Then he laid the sheets down on his desk and did some very hard
thinking.
"We won't run this today," he said finally.
The managing editor was standing in the doorway between the two rooms. He was astounded
at his chief's remark, and thought he had perhaps misunderstood him.
"What did you say?"
"Leave it out. We won't use it."
"But " The managing editor was simply dumbfounded. He stared at Norman
as if the man was out of his mind.
"I don't think, Clark, that it ought to be printed, and that's the end of it,"
said Norman, looking up from his desk.
Clark seldom had any words with the chief. His word had always been law in the office
and he had seldom been known to change his mind. The circumstances now, however,
seemed to be so extraordinary that Clark could not help expressing himself.
"Do you mean that the paper is to go to press without a word of the prize fight
in it?"
"Yes. That's what I mean."
"But it's unheard of. All the other papers will print it. What will our subscribers
say? Why, it is simply--" Clark paused, unable to find words to say what he
thought.
Norman looked at Clark thoughtfully. The managing editor was a member of a church
of a different denomination from that of Norman's. The two men had never talked together
on religious matters although they had been associated on the paper for several years.
"Come in here a minute, Clark, and shut the door," said Norman.
Clark came in and the two men faced each other alone. Norman did not speak for a
minute. Then he said abruptly: "Clark, if Christ was editor of a daily paper,
do you honestly think He would print three columns and a half of prize fight in it?"
"No, I don't suppose He would."
"Well, that's my only reason for shutting this account out of the NEWS. I have
decided not to do a thing in connection with the paper for a whole year that I honestly
believe Jesus would not do."
Clark could not have looked more amazed if the chief had suddenly gone crazy. In
fact, he did think something was wrong, though Mr. Norman was one of the last men
in the world, in his judgment, to lose his mind.
"What effect will that have on the paper?" he finally managed to ask in
a faint voice.
"What do you think?" asked Norman with a keen glance.
"I think it will simply ruin the paper," replied Clark promptly. He was
gathering up his bewildered senses, and began to remonstrate, "Why, it isn't
feasible to run a paper nowadays on any such basis. It's too ideal. The world isn't
ready for it. You can't make it pay. Just as sure as you live, if you shut out this
prize fight report you will lose hundreds of subscribers. It doesn't take a prophet
to see that. The very best people in town are eager to read it. They know it has
taken place, and when they get the paper this evening they will expect half a page
at least. Surely, you can't afford to disregard the wishes of the public to such
an extent. It will be a great mistake if you do, in my opinion."
Norman sat silent a minute. Then he spoke gently but firmly.
"Clark, what in your honest opinion is the right standard for determining conduct?
Is the only right standard for every one, the probable action of Jesus Christ? Would
you say that the highest, best law for a man to live by was contained in asking the
question, What would Jesus do?' And then doing it regardless of results? In other
words, do you think men everywhere ought to follow Jesus' example as closely as they
can in their daily lives?" Clark turned red, and moved uneasily in his chair
before he answered the editor's question.
"Why -- yes -- I suppose if you put it on the ground of what men ought to do
there is no other standard of conduct. But the question is, What is feasible? Is
it possible to make it pay? To succeed in the newspaper business we have got to conform
to custom and the recognized methods of society. We can't do as we would in an ideal
world."
"Do you mean that we can't run the paper strictly on Christian principles and
make it succeed?"
"Yes, that's just what I mean. It can't be done. We'll go bankrupt in thirty
days."
Norman did not reply at once. He was very thoughtful.
"We shall have occasion to talk this over again, Clark. Meanwhile I think we
ought to understand each other frankly. I have pledged myself for a year to do everything
connected with the paper after answering the question, What would Jesus do?' as honestly
as possible. I shall continue to do this in the belief that not only can we succeed
but that we can succeed better than we ever did."
Clark rose. "The report does not go in?"
"It does not. There is plenty of good material to take its place, and you know
what it is."
Clark hesitated. "Are you going to say anything about the absence of the report?"
"No, let the paper go to press as if there had been no such thing as a prize
fight yesterday."
Clark walked out of the room to his own desk feeling as if the bottom had dropped
out of everything. He was astonished, bewildered, excited and considerably angered.
His great respect for Norman checked his rising indignation and disgust, but with
it all was a feeling of growing wonder at the sudden change of motive which had entered
the office of the DAILY NEWS and threatened, as he firmly believed, to destroy it.
Before noon every reporter, pressman and employee on the DAILY NEWS was informed
of the remarkable fact that the paper was going to press without a word in it about
the famous prize fight of Sunday. The reporters were simply astonished beyond measure
at the announcement of the fact. Every one in the stereotyping and composing rooms
had something to say about the unheard of omission. Two or three times during the
day when Mr. Norman had occasion to visit the composing rooms the men stopped their
work or glanced around their cases looking at him curiously. He knew that he was
being observed, but said nothing and did not appear to note it.
There had been several minor changes in the paper, suggested by the editor, but nothing
marked. He was waiting and thinking deeply.
He felt as if he needed time and considerable opportunity for the exercise of his
best judgment in several matters before he answered his ever present question in
the right way. It was not because there were not a great many things in the life
of the paper that were contrary to the spirit of Christ that he did not act at once,
but because he was yet honestly in doubt concerning what action Jesus would take.
When the DAILY NEWS came out that evening it carried to its subscribers a distinct
sensation.
The presence of the report of the prize fight could not have produced anything equal
to the effect of its omission. Hundreds of men in the hotels and stores down town,
as well as regular subscribers, eagerly opened the paper and searched it through
for the account of the great fight; not finding it, they rushed to the NEWS stands
and bought other papers. Even the newsboys had not a understood the fact of omission.
One of them was calling out "DAILY NEWS! Full 'count great prize fight 't Resort.
NEWS, sir?"
A man on the corner of the avenue close by the NEWS office bought the paper, looked
over its front page hurriedly and then angrily called the boy back.
"Here, boy! What's the matter with your paper? There's no prize fight here!
What do you mean by selling old papers?"
"Old papers nuthin'!" replied the boy indignantly. "Dat's today's
paper. What's de matter wid you?"
"But there is no account of the prize fight here! Look!"
The man handed back the paper and the boy glanced at k hurriedly. Then he whistled,
while a bewildered look crept over his face. Seeing another boy running by with papers
he called out "Say, Sam, le'me see your pile." A hasty examination revealed
the remarkable fact that all the copies of the NEWS were silent on the subject of
the prize fight.
"Here, give me another paper!" shouted the customer; "one with the
prize fight account."
He received it and walked off, while the two boys remained comparing notes and lost
in wonder at the result. "Sump'n slipped a cog in the Newsy, sure," said
the first boy. But he couldn't tell why, and ran over to the NEWS office to find
out.
There were several other boys at the delivery room and they were all excited and
disgusted. The amount of slangy remonstrance hurled at the clerk back of the long
counter would have driven any one else to despair.
He was used to more or less of it all the time, and consequently hardened to it.
Mr. Norman was just coming downstairs on his way home, and he paused as he went by
the door of the delivery room and looked in.
"What's the matter here, George?" he asked the clerk as he noted the unusual
confusion.
"The boys say they can't sell any copies of the NEWS tonight because the prize
fight isn't in it," replied George, looking curiously at the editor as so many
of the employees had done during the day. Mr. Norman hesitated a moment, then walked
into the room and confronted the boys.
"How many papers are there here? Boys, count them out, and I'll buy them tonight."
There was a combined stare and a wild counting of papers on the part of the boys.
"Give them their money, George, and if any of the other boys come in with the
same complaint buy their unsold copies. Is that fair?" he asked the boys who
were smitten into unusual silence by the unheard of action on the part of the editor.
"Fair! Well, I should--But will you keep this up? Will dis be a continual performance
for the benefit of de fraternity?"
Mr. Norman smiled slightly but he did not think it was necessary to answer the question.
He walked out of the office and went home. On the way he could not avoid that constant
query, "Would Jesus have done it?" It was not so much with reference to
this last transaction as to the entire motive that had urged him on since he had
made the promise.
The newsboys were necessarily sufferers through the action he had taken. Why should
they lose money by it? They were not to blame. He was a rich man and could afford
to put a little brightness into their lives if he chose to do it. He believed, as
he went on his way home, that Jesus would have done either what he did or something
similar in order to be free from any possible feeling of injustice.
He was not deciding these questions for any one else but for his own conduct. He
was not in a position to dogmatize, and he felt that he could answer only with his
own judgment and conscience as to his interpretation of his Master's probable action.
The falling off in sales of the paper he had in a measure foreseen. But he was yet
to realize the full extent of the loss to the paper, if such a policy should be continued.
Chapter Four
DURING the week he was in receipt of numerous letters commenting on the absence from
the News of the account of the prize fight. Two or three of these letters may be
of interest.
Editor of the News:
Dear Sir -- I have been thinking for some time of changing my paper. I want a journal
that is up to the times, progressive and enterprising, supplying the public demand
at all points. The recent freak of your paper in refusing to print the account of
the famous contest at the Resort has decided me finally to change my paper.
Please discontinue it.
Very truly yours,-------
Here followed the name of a business man who had been a subscriber for many years.
Edward Norman,
Editor of the Daily News, Raymond:
Dear Ed.--What is this sensation you have given the people of your burg? What new
policy have you taken up? Hope you don't intend to try the "Reform Business"
through the avenue of the press. It's dangerous to experiment much along that line.
Take my advice and stick to the enterprising modern methods you have made so successful
for the News. The public wants prize fights and such. Give it what it wants, and
let some one else do the reforming business.
Yours,-------
Here followed the name of one of Norman's old friends, the editor of a daily in an
adjoining town.
My Dear Mr. Norman:
I hasten to write you a note of appreciation for the evident carrying out of your
promise. It is a splendid beginning and no one feels the value of it more than I
do. I know something of what it will cost you, but not all. Your pastor,
HENRY MAXWELL.
One other letter which he opened immediately after reading this from Maxwell revealed
to him something of the loss to his business that possibly awaited him.
Mr. Edward Norman,
Editor of the Daily News:
Dear Sir -- At the expiration of my advertising limit, you will do me the favor not
to continue it as you have done heretofore. I enclose check for payment in full and
shall consider my account with your paper closed after date.
Very truly yours,-------
Here followed the name of one of the largest dealers in tobacco in the city. He had
been in the habit of inserting a column of conspicuous advertising and paying for
it a very large price.
Norman laid this letter down thoughtfully, and then after a moment he took up a copy
of his paper and looked through the advertising columns. There was no connection
implied in the tobacco merchant's letter between the omission of the prize fight
and the withdrawal of the advertisement, but he could not avoid putting the two together.
In point of fact, he afterward learned that the tobacco dealer withdrew his advertisement
because he had heard that the editor of the NEWS was about to enter upon some queer
reform policy that would be certain to reduce its subscription list.
But the letter directed Norman's attention to the advertising phase of his paper.
He had not considered this before.
As he glanced over the columns he could not escape the conviction that his Master
could not permit some of them in his paper.
What would He do with that other long advertisement of choice liquors and cigars?
As a member of a church and a respected citizen, he had incurred no special censure
because the saloon men advertised in his columns. No one thought anything about it.
It was all legitimate business. Why not? Raymond enjoyed a system of high license,
and the saloon and the billiard hall and the beer garden were a part of the city's
Christian civilization. He was simply doing what every other business man in Raymond
did. And it was one of the best paying sources of revenue. What would the paper do
if it cut these out? Could it live? That was the question. But was that the question
after all? "What would Jesus do?" That was the question he was answering,
or trying to answer, this week. Would Jesus advertise whiskey and tobacco in his
paper?
Edward Norman asked it honestly, and after a prayer for help and wisdom he asked
Clark to come into the office.
Clark came in, feeling that the paper was at a crisis, and prepared for almost anything
after his Monday morning experience. This was Thursday.
"Clark," said Norman, speaking slowly and carefully, "I have been
looking at our advertising columns and have decided to dispense with some of the
matter as soon as the contracts run out. I wish you would notify the advertising
agent not to solicit or renew the ads that I have marked here."
He handed the paper with the marked places over to Clark, who took it and looked
over the columns with a very serious air.
"This will mean a great loss to the NEWS. How long do you think you can keep
this sort of thing up?" Clark was astounded at the editor's action and could
not understand it.
"Clark, do you think if Jesus was the editor and proprietor of a daily paper
in Raymond He would permit advertisements of whiskey and tobacco in it?"
"Well no--I--don't suppose He would. But what has that to do with us? We can't
do as He would. Newspapers can't be run on any such basis."
"Why not?" asked Norman quietly.
"Why not? Because they will lose more money than they make, that's all!"
Clark spoke out with an irritation that he really felt. "We shall certainly
bankrupt the paper with this sort of business policy."
"Do you think so?" Norman asked the question not as if he expected an answer,
but simply as if he were talking with himself. After a pause he said:
"You may direct Marks to do as I have said. I believe it is what Christ would
do, and as I told you, Clark, that is what I have promised to try to do for a year,
regardless of what the results may be to me. I cannot believe that by any kind of
reasoning we could reach a conclusion justifying our Lord in the advertisement, in
this age, of whiskey and tobacco in a newspaper. There are some other advertisements
of a doubtful character I shall study into. Meanwhile, I feel a conviction in regard
to these that cannot be silenced."
Clark went back to his desk feeling as if he had been in the presence of a very peculiar
person. He could not grasp the meaning of it all. He felt enraged and alarmed. He
was sure any such policy would ruin the paper as soon as it became generally known
that the editor was trying to do everything by such an absurd moral standard. What
would become of business if this standard was adopted? It would upset every custom
and introduce endless confusion. It was simply foolishness. It was downright idiocy.
So Clark said to himself, and when Marks was informed of the action he seconded the
managing editor with some very forcible ejaculations. What was the matter with the
chief? Was he insane? Was he going to bankrupt the whole business?
But Edward Norman had not yet faced his most serious problem. When he came down to
the office Friday morning he was confronted with the usual program for the Sunday
morning edition. The NEWS was one one of the few evening papers in Raymond to issue
a Sunday edition, and it had always been remarkably successful financially. There
was an average of one page of literary and religious items to thirty or forty pages
of sport, theatre, gossip, fashion, society and political material. This made a very
interesting magazine of all sorts of reading matter, and had always been welcomed
by all the subscribers, church members and all, as a Sunday morning necessity. Edward
Norman now faced this fact and put to himself the question: "What would Jesus
do?" If He was editor of a paper, would he deliberately plan to put into the
homes of all the church people and Christians of Raymond such a collection of reading
matter on the one day in the week which ought to be given up to something better
holier? He was of course familiar with the regular arguments of the Sunday paper,
that the public needed something of the sort; and the working man especially, who
would not go to church any way, ought to have something entertaining and instructive
on Sunday, his only day of rest. But suppose the Sunday morning paper did not pay?
Suppose there was no money in it? How eager would the editor or publisher be then
to supply this crying need of the poor workman? Edward Norman communed honestly with
himself over the subject.
Taking everything into account, would Jesus probably edit a Sunday morning paper?
No matter whether it paid. That was not the question. As a matter of fact, the Sunday
NEWS paid so well that it would be a direct loss of thousands of dollars to discontinue
it. Besides, the regular subscribers had paid for a seven-day paper. Had he any right
now to give them less than they supposed they had paid for?
He was honestly perplexed by the question. So much was involved in the discontinuance
of the Sunday edition that for the first time he almost decided to refuse to be guided
by the standard of Jesus' probable action. He was sole proprietor of the paper; it
was his to shape as he chose. He had no board of directors to consult as to policy.
But as he sat there surrounded by the usual quantity of material for the Sunday edition
he reached some definite conclusions. And among them was a determination to call
in the force of the paper and frankly state his motive and purpose. He sent word
for Clark and the other men it the office, including the few reporters who were in
the building and the foreman, with what men were in the composing room (it was early
in the morning and they were not all in) to come into the mailing room. This was
a large room, and the men came in curiously and perched around on the tables and
counters. It was a very unusual proceeding, but they all agreed that the paper was
being run on new principles anyhow, and they all watched Mr. Norman carefully as
he spoke.
"I called you in here to let you know my further plans for the NEWS. I propose
certain changes which I believe are necessary. I understand very well that some things
I have already done are regarded by the men as very strange. I wish to state my motive
in doing what I have done."
Here he told the men what he had already told Clark, and they stared as Clark had
done, and looked as painfully conscious.
"Now, in acting on this standard of conduct I have reached a conclusion which
will, no doubt, cause some surprise.
"I have decided that the Sunday morning edition of the NEWS shall be discontinued
after next Sunday's issue. I shall state in that issue my reasons for discontinuing.
In order to make up to the subscribers the amount of reading matter they may suppose
themselves entitled to, we can issue a double number on Saturday, as is done by many
evening papers that make no attempt at a Sunday edition. I am convinced that from
a Christian point of view more harm than good has been done by our Sunday morning
paper. I do not believe that Jesus would be responsible for it if He were in my place
today. It will occasion some trouble to arrange the details caused by this change
with the advertisers and subscribers. That is for me to look after. The change itself
is one that will take place. So far as I can see, the loss will fall on myself. Neither
the reporters nor the pressmen need make any particular changes in their plans."
He looked around the room and no one spoke. He was struck for the first time in his
life with the fact that in all the years of his newspaper life he had never had the
force of the paper together in this way. Would Jesus do that? That is, would He probably
run a newspaper on some loving family plan, where editors, reporters, pressmen and
all meet to discuss and devise and plan for the making of a paper that should have
in view--
He caught himself drawing almost away from the facts of typographical unions and
office rules and reporters' enterprise and all the cold, businesslike methods that
make a great daily successful. But still the vague picture that came up in the mailing
room would not fade away when he had gone into his office and the men had gone back
to their places with wonder in their looks and questions of all sorts on their tongues
as they talked over the editor's remarkable actions.
Clark came in and had a long, serious talk with his chief. He was thoroughly roused,
and his protest almost reached the point of resigning his place. Norman guarded himself
carefully. Every minute of the interview was painful to him, but he felt more than
ever the necessity of doing the Christ-like thing. Clark was a very valuable man.
It would be difficult to fill his place. But he was not able to give any reasons
for continuing the Sunday paper that answered the question, "What would Jesus
do?" by letting Jesus print that edition.
"It comes to this, then," said Clark frankly, "you will bankrupt the
paper in thirty days. We might as well face that future fact."
"I don't think we shall. Will you stay by the NEWS until it is bankrupt?"
asked Norman with a strange smile.
"Mr. Norman, I don't understand you. You are not the same man this week that
I always knew before."
"I don't know myself either, Clark. Something remarkable has caught me up and
borne me on. But I was never more convinced of final success and power for the paper.
You have not answered my question. Will you stay with me?"
Clark hesitated a moment and finally said yes. Norman shook hands with him and turned
to his desk. Clark went back into his room, stirred by a number of conflicting emotions.
He had never before known such an exciting and mentally disturbing week, and he felt
now as if he was connected with an enterprise that might at any moment collapse and
ruin him and all connected with it.
Chapter Five
SUNDAY morning dawned again on Raymond, and Henry Maxwell's church was again crowded.
Before the service began Edward Norman attracted great attention. He sat quietly
in his usual place about three seats from the pulpit. The Sunday morning issue of
the NEWS containing the statement of its discontinuance had been expressed in such
remarkable language that every reader was struck by it. No such series of distinct
sensations had ever disturbed the usual business custom of Raymond. The events connected
with the NEWS were not all. People were eagerly talking about strange things done
during the week by Alexander Powers at the railroad shops, and Milton Wright in his
stores on the avenue. The service progressed upon a distinct wave of excitement in
the pews. Henry Maxwell faced it all with a calmness which indicated a strength and
purpose more than usual. His prayers were very helpful. His sermon was not so easy
to describe. How would a minister be apt to preach to his people if he came before
them after an entire week of eager asking, "How would Jesus preach? What would
He probably say?" It is very certain that he did not preach as he had done two
Sundays before. Tuesday of the past week he had stood by the grave of the dead stranger
and said the words, "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," and
still he was moved by the spirit of a deeper impulse than he could measure as he
thought of his people and yearned for the Christ message when he should be in his
pulpit again.
Now that Sunday had come and the people were there to hear, what would the Master
tell them? He agonized over his preparation for them, and yet he knew he had not
been able to fit his message into his ideal of the Christ. Nevertheless no one in
the First Church could remember ever hearing such a sermon before. There was in it
rebuke for sin, especially hypocrisy, there was definite rebuke of the greed of wealth
and the selfishness of fashion, two things that First Church never heard rebuked
this way before, and there was a love of his people that gathered new force as the
sermon went on. When it was finished there were those who were saying in their hearts,
"The Spirit moved that sermon." And they were right.
Then Rachel Winslow rose to sing, this time after the sermon, by Mr. Maxwell's request.
Rachel's singing did not provoke applause this time. What deeper feeling carried
the people's hearts into a reverent silence and tenderness of thought? Rachel was
beautiful. But her consciousness of her remarkable loveliness had always marred her
singing with those who had the deepest spiritual feeling. It had also marred her
rendering of certain kinds of music with herself. Today this was all gone. There
was no lack of power in her grand voice. But there was an actual added element of
humility and purity which the audience distinctly felt and bowed to.
Before service closed Mr. Maxwell asked those who had remained the week before to
stay again for a few moments of consultation, and any others who were willing to
make the pledge taken at that time. When he was at liberty he went into the lecture-room.
To his astonishment it was almost filled. This time a large proportion of young people
had come, but among them were a few business men and officers of the church.
As before, he, Maxwell, asked them to pray with him. And, as before, a distinct answer
came from the presence of the divine Spirit. There was no doubt in the minds of any
present that what they purposed to do was so clearly in line with the divine will,
that a blessing rested upon it in a very special manner.
They remained some time to ask questions and consult together. There was a feeling
of fellowship such as they had never known in their church membership. Mr. Norman's
action was well understood by them all, and he answered several questions.
"What will be the probable result of your discontinuance of the Sunday paper?"
asked Alexander Powers, who sat next to him.
"I don't know yet. I presume it will result in the falling off of subscriptions
and advertisements. I anticipate that."
"Do you have any doubts about your action. I mean, do you regret it, or fear
it is not what Jesus would do?" asked Mr. Maxwell.
"Not in the least. But I would like to ask, for my own satisfaction, if any
of you here think Jesus would issue a Sunday morning paper?"
No one spoke for a minute. Then Jasper Chase said, "We seem to think alike on
that, but I have been puzzled several times during the week to know just what He
would do. It is not always an easy question to answer."
"I find that trouble," said Virginia Page. She sat by Rachel Winslow. Every
one who knew Virginia Page was wondering how she would succeed in keeping her promise.
"I think perhaps I find it specially difficult to answer that question on account
of my money. Our Lord never owned any property, and there is nothing in His example
to guide me in the use of mine. I am studying and praying. I think I see clearly
a part of what He would do, but not all. What would He do with a million dollars?
is my question really. I confess I am not yet able to answer it to my satisfaction.
"I could tell you what you could do with a part of it, said Rachel, turning
her face toward Virginia. "That does not trouble me," replied Virginia
with a slight smile. "What I am trying to discover is a principle that will
enable me to come to the nearest possible to His action as it ought to influence
the entire course of my life so far as my wealth and its use are concerned."
"That will take time," said the minister slowly. All the rest of the room
were thinking hard of the same thing. Milton Wright told something of his experience.
He was gradually working out a plan for his business relations with his employees,
and it was opening up a new world to him and to them. A few of the young men told
of special attempts to answer the question. There was almost general consent over
the fact that the application of the Christ spirit and practice to the everyday life
was the serious thing. It required a knowledge of Him and an insight into His motives
that most of them did not yet possess.
When they finally adjourned after a silent prayer that marked with growing power
the Divine Presence, they went away discussing earnestly their difficulties and seeking
light from one another.
Rachel Winslow and Virginia Page went out together. Edward Norman and Milton Wright
became so interested in their mutual conference that they walked on past Norman's
house and came back together. Jasper Chase and the president of the Endeavor Society
stood talking earnestly in one corner of the room. Alexander Powers and Henry Maxwell
remained, even after the others had gone.
"I want you to come down to the shops tomorrow and see my plan and talk to the
men. Somehow I feel as if you could get nearer to them than any one else just now."
"I don't know about that, but I will come," replied Mr. Maxwell a little
sadly. How was he fitted to stand before two or three hundred working men and give
them a message? Yet in the moment of his weakness, as he asked the question, he rebuked
himself for it. What would Jesus do? That was an end to the discussion.
He went down the next day and found Mr. Powers in his office. It lacked a few minutes
of twelve and the superintendent said, "Come upstairs, and I'll show you what
I've been trying to do."
They went through the machine shop, climbed a long flight of stairs and entered a
very large, empty room. It had once been used by the company for a store room.
"Since making that promise a week ago I have had a good many things to think
of," said the superintendent, "and among them is this: The company gives
me the use of this room, and I am going to fit it up with tables and a coffee plant
in the corner there where those steam pipes are. My plan is to provide a good place
where the men can come up and eat their noon lunch, and give them, two or three times
a week, the privilege of a fifteen minutes' talk on some subject that will be a real
help to them in their lives."
Maxwell looked surprised and asked if the men would come for any such purpose.
"Yes, they'll come. After all, I know the men pretty well. They are among the
most intelligent working men in the country today. But they are, as a whole, entirely
removed from church influence. I asked, 'What would Jesus do?' and among other things
it seemed to me He would begin to act in some way to add to the lives of these men
more physical and spiritual comfort. It is a very little thing, this room and what
it represents, but I acted on the first impulse, to do the first thing that appealed
to my good sense, and I want to work out this idea. I want you to speak to the men
when they come up at noon. I have asked them to come up and see the place and I'll
tell them something about it."
Maxwell was ashamed to say how uneasy he felt at being asked to speak a few words
to a company of working men. How could he speak without notes, or to such a crowd?
He was honestly in a condition of genuine fright over the prospect. He actually felt
afraid of facing those men. He shrank from the ordeal of confronting such a crowd,
so different from the Sunday audiences he was familiar with.
There were a dozen rude benches and tables in the room, and when the noon whistle
sounded the men poured upstairs from the machine shops below and, seating themselves
at the tables, began to cat their lunch. There were present about three hundred of
them. They had read the superintendent's notice which he had posted up in various
places, and came largely out of curiosity.
They were favorably impressed. The room was large and airy, free from smoke and dust,
and well warmed from the steam pipes. At about twenty minutes to one Mr. Powers told
the men what he had in mind. He spoke very simply, like one who understands thoroughly
the character of his audience, and then introduced the Rev. Henry Maxwell of the
First Church, his pastor, who had consented to speak a few minutes.
Maxwell will never forget the feeling with which for the first time he stood before
the grimy-faced audience of working men. Like hundreds of other ministers, he had
never spoken to any gatherings except those made up of people of his own class in
the sense that they were familiar in their dress and education and habits. This was
a new world to him, and nothing but his new rule of conduct could have made possible
his message and its effect. He spoke on the subject of satisfaction with life; what
caused it, what its real sources were. He had the great good sense on this his first
appearance not to recognize the men as a class distinct from himself. He did not
use the term working man, and did not say a word to suggest any difference between
their lives and his own.
The men were pleased. A good many of them shook hands with him before going down
to their work, and the minister telling it all to his wife when he reached home,
said that never in all his life had he known the delight he then felt in having the
handshake from a man of physical labor. The day marked an important one in his Christian
experience, more important than he knew. It was the beginning of a fellowship between
him and the working world. It was the first plank laid down to help bridge the chasm
between the church and labor in Raymond.
Alexander Powers went back to his desk that afternoon much pleased with his plan
and seeing much help in it for the men. He knew where he could get some good tables
from an abandoned eating house at one of the stations down the road, and he saw how
the coffee arrangement could be made a very attractive feature. The men had responded
even better than he anticipated, and the whole thing could not help being a great
benefit to them.
He took up the routine of his work with a glow of satisfaction. After all, he wanted
to do as Jesus would, he said to himself.
It was nearly four o'clock when he opened one of the company's long envelopes which
he supposed contained orders for the purchasing of stores. He ran over the first
page of typewritten matter in his usual quick, business-like manner, before he saw
that what he was reading was not intended for his office but for the superintendent
of the freight department.
He turned over a page mechanically, not meaning to read what was not addressed to
him, but before he knew it, he was in possession of evidence which conclusively proved
that the company was engaged in a systematic violation of the Interstate Commerce
Laws of the United States. It was as distinct and unequivocal a breaking of law as
if a private citizen should enter a house and rob the inmates. The discrimination
shown in rebates was in total contempt of all the statutes. Under the laws of the
state it was also a distinct violation of certain provisions recently passed by the
legislature to prevent railroad trusts. There was no question that he had in his
hands evidence sufficient to convict the company of willful, intelligent violation
of the law of the commission and the law of the state also.
He dropped the papers on his desk as if they were poison, and instantly the question
flashed across his mind, "What would Jesus do?" He tried to shut the question
out. He tried to reason with himself by saying it was none of his business. He had
known in a more or less definite way, as did nearly all the officers of the company,
that this had been going on right along on nearly all the roads. He was not in a
position, owing to his place in the shops, to prove anything direct, and he had regarded
it as a matter which did not concern him at all. The papers now before him revealed
the entire affair. They had through some carelessness been addressed to him. What
business of his was it? If he saw a man entering his neighbor's house to steal, would
it not be his duty to inform the officers of the law? Was a railroad company such
a different thing? Was it under a different rule of conduct, so that it could rob
the public and defy law and be undisturbed because it was such a great organization?
What would Jesus do? Then there was his family. Of course, if he took any steps to
inform the commission it would mean the loss of his position. His wife and daughter
had always enjoyed luxury and a good place in society. If he came out against this
lawlessness as a witness it would drag him into courts, his motives would be misunderstood,
and the whole thing would end in his disgrace and the loss of his position. Surely
it was none of his business. He could easily get the papers back to the freight department
and no one be the wiser. Let the iniquity go on. Let the law be defied. What was
it to him? He would work out his plans for bettering the condition just before him.
What more could a man do in this railroad business when there was so much going on
anyway that made it impossible to live by the Christian standard? But what would
Jesus do if He knew the facts? That was the question that confronted Alexander Powers
as the day wore into evening.
The lights in the office had been turned on. The whirr of the great engine and the
clash of the planers in the big shop continued until six o'clock. Then the whistle
blew, the engine slowed up, the men dropped their tools and ran for the block house.
Powers heard the familiar click, click, of the clocks as the men filed past the window
of the block house just outside. He said to his clerks, "I'm not going just
yet. I have something extra tonight." He waited until he heard the last man
deposit his block. The men behind the block case went out. The engineer and his assistants
had work for half an hour but they went out by another door.
At seven o'clock any one who had looked into the superintendent's office would have
seen an unusual sight. He was kneeling, and his face was buried in his hands as he
bowed his head upon the papers on his desk.
Chapter Six
"If any man cometh unto me and hateth not his own father and mother and wife
and children and brethren and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my
disciple."
"And whosoever forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple."
WHEN Rachel Winslow and Virginia Page separated after the meeting at the First Church
on Sunday they agreed to continue their conversation the next day. Virginia asked
Rachel to come and lunch with her at noon, and Rachel accordingly rang the bell at
the Page mansion about half-past eleven. Virginia herself met her and the two were
soon talking earnestly.
"The fact is," Rachel was saying, after they had been talking a few moments,
"I cannot reconcile it with my judgment of what Christ would do. I cannot tell
another person what to do, but I feel that I ought not to accept this offer."
"What will you do then?" asked Virginia with great interest.
"I don't know yet, but I have decided to refuse this offer."
Rachel picked up a letter that had been lying in her lap and ran over its contents
again. It was a letter from the manager of a comic opera offering her a place with
a large traveling company of the season. The salary was a very large figure, and
the prospect held out by the manager was flattering. He had heard Rachel sing that
Sunday morning when the stranger had interrupted the service. He had been much impressed.
There was money in that voice and it ought to be used in comic opera, so said the
letter, and the manager wanted a reply as soon as possible.
"There's no great virtue in saying 'No' to this offer when I have the other
one," Rachel went on thoughtfully. "That's harder to decide. But I've about
made up my mind. To tell the, truth, Virginia, I'm completely convinced in the first
case that Jesus would never use any talent like a good voice just to make money.
But now, take this concert offer. Here is a reputable company, to travel with an
impersonator and a violinist and a male quartet, all people of good reputation. I'm
asked to go as one of the company and sing leading soprano. The salary--I mentioned
it, didn't I?--is guaranteed to be $200 a month for the season. But I don't feel
satisfied that Jesus would go. What do you think?"
"You mustn't ask me to decide for you," replied Virginia with a sad smile.
"I believe Mr. Maxwell was right when he said we must each one of us decide
according to the judgment we feel for ourselves to be Christ-like. I am having a
harder time than you are, dear, to decide what He would do."
"Are you?" Rachel asked. She rose and walked over to the window and looked
out. Virginia came and stood by her. The street was crowded with life and the two
young women looked at it silently for a moment. Suddenly Virginia broke out as Rachel
had never heard her before:
"Rachel, what does all this contrast in conditions mean to you as you ask this
question of what Jesus would do? It maddens me to think that the society in which
I have been brought up, the same to which we are both said to belong, is satisfied
year after year to go on dressing and eating and having a good time, giving and receiving
entertainments, spending its money on houses and luxuries and, occasionally, to ease
its conscience, donating, without any personal sacrifice, a little money to charity.
I have been educated, as you have, in one of the most expensive schools in America;
launched into society as an heiress; supposed to be in a very enviable position.
I'm perfectly well; I can travel or stay at home. I can do as I please. I can gratify
almost any want or desire; and yet when I honestly try to imagine Jesus living the
life I have lived and am expected to live, and doing for the rest of my life what
thousands of other rich people do, I am under condemnation for being one of the most
wicked, selfish, useless creatures in all the world. I have not looked out of this
window for weeks without a feeling of horror toward myself as I see the humanity
that passes by this house."
Virginia turned away and walked up and down the room. Rachel watched her and could
not repress the rising tide of her own growing definition of discipleship. Of what
Christian use was her own talent of song? Was the best she could do to sell her talent
for so much a month, go on a concert company's tour, dress beautifully, enjoy the
excitement of public applause and gain a reputation as a great singer? Was that what
Jesus would do?
She was not morbid. She was in sound health, was conscious of her great powers as
a singer, and knew that if she went out into public life she could make a great deal
of money and become well known. It is doubtful if she overestimated her ability to
accomplish all she thought herself capable of. And Virginia--what she had just said
smote Rachel with great force because of the similar position in which the two friends
found themselves.
Lunch was announced and they went out and were joined by Virginia's grandmother,
Madam Page, a handsome, stately woman of sixty-five, and Virginia's brother Rollin,
a young man who spent most of his time at one of the clubs and had no ambition for
anything but a growing admiration for Rachel Winslow, and whenever she dined or lunched
at the Page's, if he knew of it he always planned to be at home.
These three made up the Page family. Virginia's father had been a banker and grain
speculator. Her mother had died ten years before, her father within the past year.
The grandmother, a Southern woman in birth and training, had all the traditions and
feelings that accompany the possession of wealth and social standing that have never
been disturbed. She was a shrewd, careful business woman of more than average ability.
The family property and wealth were invested, in large measure, under her personal
care. Virginia's portion was, without any restriction, her own. She had been trained
by her father to understand the ways of the business world, and even the grandmother
had been compelled to acknowledge the girl's capacity for taking care of her own
money.
Perhaps two persons could not be found anywhere less capable of understanding a girl
like Virginia than Madam Page and Rollin. Rachel, who had known the family since
she was a girl playmate of Virginia's, could not help thinking of what confronted
Virginia in her own home when she once decided on the course which she honestly believed
Jesus would take. Today at lunch, as she recalled Virginia's outbreak in the front
room, she tried to picture the scene that would at some time occur between Madam
Page and her granddaughter.
"I understand that you are going on the stage, Miss Winslow. We shall all be
delighted, I'm sure," said Rollin during the conversation, which had not been
very animated.
Rachel colored and felt annoyed. "Who told you?" she asked, while Virginia,
who had been very silent and reserved, suddenly roused herself and appeared ready
to join in the talk.
"Oh! we hear a thing or two on the street. Besides, every one saw Crandall the
manager at church two weeks ago. He doesn't go to church to hear the preaching. In
fact, I know other people who don't either, not when there's something better to
hear."
Rachel did not color this time, but she answered quietly, "You're mistaken.
I'm not going on the stage."
"It's a great pity. You'd make a hit. Everybody is talking about your singing."
This time Rachel flushed with genuine anger. Before she could say anything, Virginia
broke in: "Whom do you mean by 'everybody?'"
"Whom? I mean all the people who hear Miss Winslow on Sundays. What other time
do they hear her? It's a great pity, I say, that the general public outside of Raymond
cannot hear her voice."
"Let us talk about something else," said Rachel a little sharply. Madam
Page glanced at her and spoke with a gentle courtesy.
"My dear, Rollin never could pay an indirect compliment. He is like his father
in that. But we are all curious to know something of your plans. We claim the right
from old acquaintance, you know; and Virginia has already told us of your concert
company offer."
"I supposed of course that was public property," said Virginia, smiling
across the table. "I was in the NEWS office day before yesterday."
"Yes, yes," replied Rachel hastily. "I understand that, Madam Page.
Well, Virginia and I have been talking about it. I have decided not to accept, and
that is as far as I have gone at present."
Rachel was conscious of the fact that the conversation had, up to this point, been
narrowing her hesitation concerning the concert company's offer down to a decision
that would absolutely satisfy her own judgment of Jesus' probable action. It had
been the last thing in the world, however, that she had desired, to have her decision
made in any way so public as this. Somehow what Rollin Page had said and his manner
in saying it had hastened her decision in the matter.
"Would you mind telling us, Rachel, your reasons for refusing the offer? It
looks like a great opportunity for a young girl like you. Don't you think the general
public ought to hear you? I feel like Rollin about that. A voice like yours belongs
to a larger audience than Raymond and the First Church."
Rachel Winslow was naturally a girl of great reserve. She shrank from making her
plans or her thoughts public. But with all her repression there was possible in her
an occasional sudden breaking out that was simply an impulsive, thoroughly frank,
truthful expression of her most inner personal feeling. She spoke now in reply to
Madam Page in one of those rare moments of unreserve that added to the attractiveness
of her whole character.
"I have no other reason than a conviction that Jesus Christ would do the same
thing," she said, looking into Madam Page's eyes with a clear, earnest gaze.
Madam Page turned red and Rollin stared. Before her grandmother could say anything,
Virginia spoke. Her rising color showed how she was stirred. Virginia's pale, clear
complexion was that of health, but it was generally in marked contrast with Rachel's
tropical type of beauty.
"Grandmother, you know we promised to make that the standard of our conduct
for a year. Mr. Maxwell's proposition was plain to all who heard it. We have not
been able to arrive at our decisions very rapidly. The difficulty in knowing what
Jesus would do has perplexed Rachel and me a good deal."
Madam Page looked sharply at Virginia before she said anything.
"Of course I understand Mr. Maxwell's statement. It is perfectly impracticable
to put it into practice. I felt confident at the time that those who promised would
find it out after a trial and abandon it as visionary and absurd. I have nothing
to say about Miss Winslow's affairs, but," she paused and continued with a sharpness
that was new to Rachel, "I hope you have no foolish notions in this matter,
Virginia."
"I have a great many notions," replied Virginia quietly. "Whether
they are foolish or not depends upon my right understanding of what He would do.
As soon as I find out I shall do it."
"Excuse me, ladies," said Rollin, rising from the table. "The conversation
is getting beyond my depth. I shall retire to the library for a cigar."
He went out of the dining-room and there was silence for a moment. Madam Page waited
until the servant had brought in something and then asked her to go out. She was
angry and her anger was formidable, although checked I m some measure by the presence
of Rachel.
"I am older by several years than you, young ladies," she said, and her
traditional type of bearing seemed to Rachel to rise up like a great frozen wall
between her and every conception of Jesus as a sacrifice. "What you have promised,
in a spirit of false emotion I presume, is impossible of performance."
"Do you mean, grandmother, that we cannot possibly act as our Lord would? or
do you mean that, if we try to, we shall offend the customs and prejudices of society?"
asked Virginia.
"It is not required! It is not necessary! Besides how can you act with any--"
Madam Page paused, broke off her sentence, and then turned to Rachel. "What
will your mother say to your decision? My dear, is it not foolish? What do you expect
to do with your voice anyway?"
"I don't know what mother will say yet," Rachel answered, with a great
shrinking from trying to give her mother's probable answer. If there was a woman
in all Raymond with great ambitions for her daughter's success as a singer, Mrs.
Winslow was that woman.
"Oh! you will see it in a different light after wiser thought of it. My dear,"
continued Madam Page rising from the table, "you will live to regret it if you
do not accept the concert company's offer or something like it."
Rachel said something that contained a hint of the struggle she was still having.
And after a little she went away, feeling that her departure was to be followed by
a very painful conversation between Virginia and her grandmother. As she afterward
learned, Virginia passed through a crisis of feeling during that scene with her grandmother
that hastened her final decision as to the use of her money and her social position.
Chapter Seven
RACHEL was glad to escape and be by herself. A plan was slowly forming in her mind,
and she wanted to be alone and think it out carefully. But before she had walked
two blocks she was annoyed to find Rollin Page walking beside her.
"Sorry to disturb your thoughts, Miss Winslow, but I happened to be going your
way and had an idea you might not object. In fact, I've been walking here for a whole
block and you haven't objected."
"I did not see you," said Rachel briefly.
"I wouldn't mind that if you only thought of me once in a while," said
Rollin suddenly. He took one last nervous puff on his cigar, tossed it into the street
and walked along with a pale look on his face.
Rachel was surprised, but not startled. She had known Rollin as a boy, and there
had been a time when they had used each other's first name familiarly. Lately, however,
something in Rachel's manner had put an end to that. She was used to his direct attempts
at compliments and was sometimes amused by them. Today she honestly wished him anywhere
else.
"Do you ever think of me, Miss Winslow?" asked Rollin after a pause.
"Oh, yes, quite often!" said Rachel with a smile.
"Are you thinking of me now?"
"Yes. That is--yes--I am."
"What?"
"Do you want me to be absolutely truthful?"
"Of course."
"Then I was thinking that I wished you were not here." Rollin bit his lip
and looked gloomy.
"Now look here, Rachel--oh, I know that's forbidden, but I've got to speak some
time!--you know how I feel. What makes you treat me so? You used to like me a little,
you know."
"Did I? Of course we used to get on very well as boy and girl. But we are older
now."
Rachel still spoke in the light, easy way she had used since her first annoyance
at seeing him. She was still somewhat preoccupied with her plan which had been disturbed
by Rollin's sudden appearance.
They walked along in silence a little way. The avenue was full of people. Among the
persons passing was Jasper Chase. He saw Rachel and Rollin and bowed as they went
by. Rollin was watching Rachel closely.
"I wish I was Jasper Chase. Maybe I would stand some chance then," he said
moodily.
Rachel colored in spite of herself. She did not say anything and quickened her pace
a little. Rollin seemed determined to say something, and Rachel seemed helpless to
prevent him. After all, she thought, he might as well know the truth one time as
another.
"You know well enough, Rachel, how I feel toward you. Isn't there any hope?
I could make you happy. I've loved you a good many years--"
"Why, how old do you think I am?" broke in Rachel with a nervous laugh.
She was shaken out of her usual poise of manner.
"You know what I mean," went on Rollin doggedly. "And you have no
right to laugh at me just because I want you to marry me."
"I'm not! But it is useless for you to speak, Rollin," said Rachel after
a little hesitation, and then using his name in such a frank, simple way that he
could attach no meaning to it beyond the familiarity of the old family acquaintance.
"It is impossible." She was still a little agitated by the fact of receiving
a proposal of marriage on the avenue. But the noise on the street and sidewalk made
the conversation as private as if they were in the house.
"Would that is--do you think--if you gave me time I would "
"No!" said Rachel. She spoke firmly; perhaps, she thought afterward, although
she did not mean to, she spoke harshly.
They walked on for some time without a word. They were nearing Rachel's home and
she was anxious to end the scene.
As they turned off the avenue into one of the quieter streets Rollin spoke suddenly
and with more manliness than he had yet shown. There was a distinct note of dignity
in his voice that was new to Rachel.
"Miss Winslow, I ask you to be my wife. Is there any hope for me that you will
ever consent?"
"None in the least." Rachel spoke decidedly.
"Will you tell me why?" He asked the question as if he had a right to a
truthful answer.
"Because I do not feel toward you as a woman ought to feel toward the man she
marries."
"In other words, you do not love me?"
"I do not and I cannot."
"Why?" That was another question, and Rachel was a little surprised that
he should ask it.
"Because--" she hesitated for fear she might say too much in an attempt
to speak the exact truth.
"Tell me just why. You can't hurt me more than you have already."
"Well, I do not and I cannot love you because you have no purpose in life. What
do you ever do to make the world better? You spend your time in club life, in amusements,
in travel, in luxury. What is there in such a life to attract a woman?"
"Not much, I guess," said Rollin with a bitter laugh. "Still, I don't
know that I'm any worse than the rest of the men around me. I'm not so bad as some.
I'm glad to know your reasons."
He suddenly stopped, took off his hat, bowed gravely and turned back. Rachel went
on home and hurried into her room, disturbed in many ways by the event which had
so unexpectedly thrust itself into her experience.
When she had time to think it all over she found herself condemned by the very judgment
she had passed on Rollin Page. What purpose had she in life? She had been abroad
and studied music with one of the famous teachers of Europe. She had come home to
Raymond and had been singing in the First Church choir now for a year. She was well
paid. Up to that Sunday two weeks ago she had been quite satisfied with herself and
with her position. She had shared her mother's ambition, and anticipated growing
triumphs in the musical world. What possible career was before her except the regular
career of every singer?
She asked the question again and, in the light of her recent reply to Rollin, asked
again, if she had any very great purpose in life herself. What would Jesus do? There
was a fortune in her voice. She knew it, not necessarily as a matter of personal
pride or professional egotism, but simply as a fact. And she was obliged to acknowledge
that until two weeks ago she had purposed to use her voice to make money and win
admiration and applause. Was that a much higher purpose, after all, than Rollin Page
lived for?
She sat in her room a long time and finally went downstairs, resolved to have a frank
talk with her mother about the concert company's offer and the new plan which was
gradually shaping in her mind. She had already had one talk with her mother and knew
that she expected Rachel to accept the offer and enter on a successful career as
a public singer.
"Mother," Rachel said, coming at once to the point, much as she dreaded
the interview, "I have decided not to go out with the company. I have a good
reason for it."
Mrs. Winslow was a large, handsome woman, fond of much company, ambitious for distinction
in society and devoted, according to her definitions of success, to the success of
her children. Her youngest boy, Louis, two years younger than Rachel, was ready to
graduate from a military academy in the summer. Meanwhile she and Rachel were at
home together. Rachel's father, like Virginia's, had died while the family was abroad.
Like Virginia she found herself, under her present rule of conduct, in complete antagonism
with her own immediate home circle. Mrs. Winslow waited for Rachel to go on.
"You know the promise I made two weeks ago, mother?"
"Mr. Maxwell's promise?"
"No, mine. You know what it was, do you not, mother?"
"I suppose I do. Of course all the church members mean to imitate Christ and
follow Him, as far as is consistent with our present day surroundings. But what has
that to do with your decision in the concert company matter?"
"It has everything to do with it. After asking, 'What would Jesus do?' and going
to the source of authority for wisdom, I have been obliged to say that I do not believe
He would, in my case, make that use of my voice."
"Why? Is there anything wrong about such a career ? "
"No, I don't know that I can say there is."
"Do you presume to sit in judgment on other people who go out to sing in this
way? Do you presume to say they are doing what Christ would not do?"
"Mother, I wish you to understand me. I judge no one else; I condemn no other
professional singer. I simply decide my own course. As I look at it, I have a conviction
that Jesus would do something else."
"What else?" Mrs. Winslow had not yet lost her temper. She did not understand
the situation nor Rachel in the midst of it, but she was anxious that her daughter's
course should be as distinguished as her natural gifts promised. And she felt confident
that when the present unusual religious excitement in the First Church had passed
away Rachel would go on with her public life according to the wishes of the family.
She was totally unprepared for Rachel's next remark.
"What? Something that will serve mankind where it most needs the service of
song. Mother, I have made up my mind to use my voice in some way so as to satisfy
my own soul that I am doing something better than pleasing fashionable audiences,
or making money, or even gratifying my own love of singing. I am going to do something
that will satisfy me when I ask: 'What would Jesus do?' I am not satisfied, and cannot
be, when I think of myself as singing myself into the career of a concert company
performer."
Rachel spoke with a vigor and earnestness that surprised her mother. But Mrs. Winslow
was angry now; and she never tried to conceal her feelings.
"It is simply absurd! Rachel, you are a fanatic! What can you do?"
"The world has been served by men and women who have given it other things that
were gifts. Why should I, because I am blessed with a natural gift, at once proceed
to put a market price on it and make all the money I can out of it? You know, mother,
that you have taught me to think of a musical career always in the light of financial
and social success. I have been unable, since I made my promise two weeks ago, to
imagine Jesus joining a concert company to do what I should do and live the life
I should have to live if I joined it."
Mrs. Winslow rose and then sat down again. With a great effort she composed herself.
"What do you intend to do then? You have not answered my question."
"I shall continue to sing for the time being in the church. I am pledged to
sing there through the spring. During the week I am going to sing at the White Cross
meetings, down in the Rectangle."
"What! Rachel Winslow! Do you know what you are saying? Do you know what sort
of people those are down there?"
Rachel almost quailed before her mother. For a moment she shrank back and was silent.
Then she spoke firmly: "I know very well. That is the reason I am going. Mr.
and Mrs. Gray have been working there several weeks. I learned only this morning
that they want singers from the churches to help them in their meetings. They use
a tent. It is in a part of the city where Christian work is most needed. I shall
offer them my help. Mother!" Rachel cried out with the first passionate utterance
she had yet used, "I want to do something that will cost me something in the
way of sacrifice. I know you will not understand me. But I am hungry to suffer for
something. What have we done all our lives for the suffering, sinning side of Raymond?
How much have we denied ourselves or given of our personal ease and pleasure to bless
the place in which we live or imitate the life of the Savior of the world? Are we
always to go on doing as society selfishly dictates, moving on its little narrow
round of pleasures and entertainments, and never knowing the pain of things that
cost?"
"Are you preaching at me?" asked Mrs. Winslow slowly. Rachel rose, and
understood her mother's words.
"No. I am preaching at myself," she replied gently. She paused a moment
as if she thought her mother would say something more, and then went out of the room.
When she reached her own room she felt that so far as her own mother was concerned
she could expect no sympathy, nor even a fair understanding from her.
She kneeled. It is safe to say that within the two weeks since Henry Maxwell's church
had faced that shabby figure with the faded hat more members of his parish had been
driven to their knees in prayer than during all the previous term of his pastorate.
She rose, and her face was wet with tears. She sat thoughtfully a little while and
then wrote a note to Virginia Page. She sent it to her by a messenger and then went
downstairs and told her mother that she and Virginia were going down to the Rectangle
that evening to see Mr. and Mrs. Gray, the evangelists.
"Virginia's uncle, Dr. West, will go with us, if she goes. I have asked her
to call him up by telephone and go with us. The Doctor is a friend of the Grays,
and attended some of their meetings last winter."
Mrs. Winslow did not say anything. Her manner showed her complete disapproval of
Rachel's course, and Rachel felt her unspoken bitterness.
About seven o'clock the Doctor and Virginia appeared, and together the three started
for the scene of the White Cross meetings.
The Rectangle was the most notorious district in Raymond. It was on the territory
close by the railroad shops and the packing houses. The great slum and tenement district
of Raymond congested its worst and most wretched elements about the Rectangle. This
was a barren field used in the summer by circus companies and wandering showmen.
It was shut in by rows of saloons, gambling hells and cheap, dirty boarding and lodging
houses.
The First Church of Raymond had never touched the Rectangle problem. It was too dirty,
too coarse, too sinful, too awful for close contact. Let us be honest. There had
been an attempt to cleanse this sore spot by sending down an occasional committee
of singers or Sunday-school teachers or gospel visitors from various churches. But
the First Church of Raymond, as an institution, had never really done anything to
make the Rectangle any less a stronghold of the devil as the years went by.
Into this heart of the coarse part of the sin of Raymond the traveling evangelist
and his brave little wife had pitched a good-sized tent and begun meetings. It was
the spring of the year and the evenings were beginning to be pleasant. The evangelists
had asked for the help of Christian people, and had received more than the usual
amount of encouragement. But they felt a great need of more and better music. During
the meetings on the Sunday just gone the assistant at the organ had been taken ill.
The volunteers from the city were few and the voices were of ordinary quality.
"There will be a small meeting tonight, John," said his wife, as they entered
the tent a little after seven o'clock and began to arrange the chairs and light up.
"Yes, I fear so." Mr. Gray was a small, energetic man, with a pleasant
voice and the courage of a high-born fighter. He had already made friends in the
neighborhood and one of his converts, a heavy-faced man who had just come in, began
to help in the arranging of seats.
It was after eight o'clock when Alexander Powers opened the door of his office and
started for home. He was going to take a car at the corner of the Rectangle. But
he was roused by a voice coming from the tent.
It was the voice of Rachel Winslow. It struck through his consciousness of struggle
over his own question that had sent him into the Divine Presence for an answer. He
had not yet reached a conclusion. He was tortured with uncertainty. His whole previous
course of action as a railroad man was the poorest possible preparation for anything
sacrificial. And he could not yet say what he would do in the matter.
Hark! What was she singing? How did Rachel Winslow happen to be down here? Several
windows near by went up. Some men quarreling near a saloon stopped and listened.
Other figures were walking rapidly in the direction of the Rectangle and the tent.
Surely Rachel Winslow had never sung like that in the First Church. It was a marvelous
voice. What was it she was singing? Again Alexander Powers, Superintendent of the
machine shops, paused and listened,
"Where He leads me I will follow,
Where He leads me I will follow,
Where He leads me I will follow,
I'll go with Him, with Him.
All the way!"
The brutal, coarse, impure life of the Rectangle stirred itself into new life as
the song, as pure as the surroundings were vile, floated out and into saloon and
den and foul lodging. Some one stumbled hastily by Alexander Powers and said in answer
to a question: "De tent's beginning to run over tonight. That's what the talent
calls music, eh?"
The Superintendent turned toward the tent. Then he stopped. After a minute of indecision
he went on to the corner and took the car for his home. But before he was out of
the sound of Rachel's voice he knew he had settled for himself the question of what
Jesus would do.
Chapter Eight
"If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross
daily and follow me."
HENRY MAXWELL paced his study back and forth. It was Wednesday and he had started
to think out the subject of his evening service which fell upon that night. Out of
one of his study windows he could see the tall chimney of the railroad shops. The
top of the evangelist's tent just showed over the buildings around the Rectangle.
He looked out of his window every time he turned in his walk. After a while he sat
down at his desk and drew a large piece of paper toward him. After thinking several
moments he wrote in large letters the following:
A NUMBER OF THINGS THAT JESUS WOULD
PROBABLY DO IN THIS PARISH
1.Live in a simple, plain manner, without needless luxury on the one hand or undue
asceticism on the other.
2.Preach fearlessly to the hypocrites in the church, no matter what their social
importance or wealth. 3.Show in some practical form His sympathy and love for the
common people as well as for the well-to-do, educated, refined people who make up
the majority of the parish. 4.Identify Himself with the great causes of humanity
in some personal way that would call for
