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Fir /r # WB ;< -:X yMyk ."B'..w ■ ■ ’life ■MiWW- ■ 4><:- ■" ■ : '.V7- ••• ■■‘ ■ f " .- i . 3^^HBRmßK££Sßra&; vV S W&kay • y , ' j : Wl \> ‘sM^ 5 J £B#** >A 'W]- C——s» —>i (®y Winston The Waring Problems' THE scene of this story is in one of the largest cities of the United States of America, and of that portion called the Middle West. A city once con servative and provincial, and rather proud of these qualities; . but now outgrown them, and tnked by lightning limited trains to other teeming centers of the modern world: a city overtaken, in recent years, by the plague that has swept our country from the At lantic to the Pacific—Prosperity. Before its advent, the Goodriches and Gores, the Warings, the Prestons, and the Atterburys lived leisurely liven in a sleepy quarter of shade trees and spacious yards and muddy macadam streets, now passed away forever. Existence was decorous, marriage an irre vocable step, wives were wives, and the Authorized Version of the Bible was true from cover to cover. Among the many church bells that rang on those bygone Sundays wds that of St. , John's, of which Dr. Gilman, of belo\ ed memory, was rector. Dr. Gilman was a saint, and if you had had the good luck to ba baptized or confirmed or married or buried A by him. you were probably fortunate, in an 1 earthly as well as heavenly sense. One has Jto be careful not to deal exclusively in / superlatives, and yet it is not an exaggera tion to say that St. John's was the most beautiful and churchly edifice in the City, thanks chiefly to several gentlemen of sense, and one gentleman, at least, of taste —Mr- Horace Bentley.. Little did the Goodriches and Gores, the Warings and Prestons and Atterburys and other prominent people forsee the havoc that prosperity and smoke were to play with their residential plans! One by one, sooty commerce drove them oqt. westward, con servative though they were, from the para dise they had created; blacker and blacker grew the gothic facade of St. John’s. And before you could draw your orcath. the cable ears had become electric. Gray hairs began to appear in the heads of trie people of Dr. Gilman had married in the '6o’s, and their children were going East to college. Asa Waring looked with <. stern distaste upon certain aspects of modern life. And though he possessed the means to follow his friends and erstwhile neighbors into the r»ewer paradise five miles westward, he had successfully resisted for several years a formidable campaign to uproot him. His three married daughters lived in that clean and verdant district surrounding the Park (spelled with a capital), while Evelyn and Rex spent most of their time in the West End or at the Country Chins. Even Mrs. Waring, who resembled a Roman matron, with her wavy white hair parted in the middle and her gentle yet classic features, sighed secretly at times at the unyielding attitude of her husband, although admiring him for it. The grandchildren drew her. On the occasion of Sunday dinner, when they surrounded her. her heart was filled to overflowing. Sometimes a visitor was admitted to this sacramental feast, the dearest old gentle man in tjip world, with a great, high bridged nose, a slight stoop, a kindling look, and snow white hair, though the tep of his head was bald He sat on Mrs. Waring's right, and was treated with !h° greatest, deference by the elders, and with none at all by the children, who besieged him. The bigger ones knew that he had what is called a history; that he had been rich once, wfth a great mansion of his own, bur now | ie lived on Dalton Street, almost in the slums, and worked among the poor. His name was Mr. Bentley. He was not there on the particular Sun day when this story opens, otherwise the conversation about to be recorded would not, have taken place For St. John’s t hurch was not often mentioned in Mr Bentley's presence. "Well, grandmother." said Phil Good rich. who was the favorite son-in-law. "how was the new rector to-day?” "Mr. Hodder is a remarkable young man, Phil,” Mrs Waring declared, "and de livered such a pood sermon I couldn't help wishing that you and Rex and Evelyn and George had been in church ” "Phil couldn't go,” explained the unmar ried and sunburned Evelyn, "he had a match on of eighteen holes with me." Mrs. Waring sighed. "1 can't think what's got into the younger people these days that they seem so in different to religion. Yrtur father's a ves tryman. Phil, and 1 believe it has always been his hope that you would succeed him. I’m afraid Rex won’t succeed hii father," she added with a touch of regret and a glance of pride at her husband "You never go to church, Rex Phil does." ”1 got enough church at boarding school to last me a lifetime, mother," her son re plied. He was slightly older than Evelyn, ami just out of college. "Besides, any heathen can get on the vestry—it's a finan cial board, and they're due to put Phil on some day. They're always putting him on boards" His mother looked a little distressed. "Rex. 1 wish you wouldn't talk that way about the Church" "I'm sorry, mother," he said, with quick penitence. "Mr. Langmaid’s a vestryman, you know, and they’ve only got him there because he’s the best corporation lawyer in the city. He isn't exactly what you’d call orthodox He never goes ' "We are indebted Io Mr Langmaid so" Mr Hodder.” Ibis was one of Mr War ing’s rare remarks. Eleanor Goodrich smiled. "I like him I think he's sincere And that first Sunday he came, when I saw him get up in the pulpit and wave that long arm of his, all 1 could think of was a modern Savonarola He looks like one. And then, when he began to preach, it was madden ing 1 felt all the time that he could say something helpful jf he only would But he didn’t It was all about the sufficiencv of grace—whatever that may be He dfdn t explain it He didn't give me one notion as tn how to cope a little better with the frightful complexities of the modern lives we live, or how to Stop quarreling will* Phil when he stays at the office and is late for dinner” "There's Eldon Parr,” suggested George Bridges, mentioning the name of the city’s famous financier; "I'm told he relieved Mr. Bentley of his property some twenty-five years ago. If Mr. Hodder should begin to preach the modern heresy which you desire, Mt. Parr might object. He's very orthodox, J'm told.” "And Mr- Parr,” remarked the modern Evelyn sententiously, "pays the bills at St. John's Doesn't he, father?” ”1 fear he pays a large proportion of them,” admitted Mr. Waring, in a serious tone. ‘ In these days,” said Evelyn, "the man who pays the bills is entitled to have his religion as he likes it.” "No matter how he got the money to pay them,” added Phil. ■'That suggests another little hitch in the modern church which will have to be straightened out.” said George Bridges. “ 'Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees. h- ;:ocrites! For ye make clean the outside of the cup and of the platter, but within they are full of extortion and excess.’ Mr. Langmaid'# Mission. FOR forty years Dr. Gilman had been the rector of St. John's. One Sunday morning he preached his not unfamiliar sermon on the text, "For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face,” and when the next Sunday dawned he was in his grave in Winterbourne Ceme tery, sincerely mourned within the parish and without. In the nature of mortal things his death was to be expected; no less real was the crisis to be faced. At the vestry meeting that followed, the problem was tersely set forth by Eldon Parr, his frock coat tightly buttoned about his chest, his glasses in his hand. "Gentlemen.” he said, "we have to fulfill a grave responsibility to the parish, to the city, and to God. The matter of choosing a rector to-day. when clergymen are meddling with all sorts of affairs which do not concern them, is not so simple as it was twenty years ago We have at St. John s always been orthodox and dignified, and I take it. to be the sense of this vestry that we remain so- 1 conceive it our duty to find a man who is neither too old nor too young, who vil! preach the faith as we received it, who is not sensational, and who does not mistake Socialism for Christianity.” By force of habit, undoubtedly, Mr. Parr glanced at Nelson Langmaid as he sat down, innumerable had been the meetings of finan cial boards at which Mr. Parr had glanced at Langmaid, who had never failed to re spond. His reputation for judgment —which by some is deemed the highest of human quali fies — was unimpaired; and a man who in his time had selected presidents of banks and trust companies could certainly be trusted to choose a preacher—particularly if the, re quirements were not of a spiritual nature. A week later he boarded an east bound limited train, armed with plenary powers. His destination was the hill town whore he had spent the first fifteen years of nis life. He was met at the station by his sis ter. a large, matronly woman, who invari ably set the world whizzing backward for Langmaid, so completely did she typify the contentment, the point of view of an age gone by. For life presented no more com plicated problems to the middle-aged Mrs. Whitely than it had to Alice Langmaid. "I know what you’ve come for, Nelson.” she said reproachfully, when she greeted him at the station. "Dr. Gilman’s dead, and you want our Mr. Hodder. 1 feel it in tny bones. Well, you can’t get him. He had ever so many calls, but he won’t leave Bremerton.” She knew perfectly well, however, that Nelson would get him. although her brother characteristica'ly did not at once acknowl edge his missicn "Gerald,” asked Nelson Langmaid of his brother-in-law last night, after his sister and the girls had gone to bed, are you sure that this young man’s orthodox?" “He's been here for over ten years, ever since he left the seminary, and he’s never done or said anything radical yet,” replied the mill owner of Bremerton. “How has he built up the church?” Lang maid demanded. "Well ’ said Gerald Whltety. "1 think the service appeals We've made it as beautiful as possible. And then Mr. Hodder goes to see these people and sits up with them, and they tell him their troubles He’s reformed one or two rather bad cases. I suppose It's the man's personality ” ' Ah," Langmaid exc'aimed, "now you're talking! “ "I can't see what you’re driving at." con fessed his brother-in-law. “You're too deep lor me. Nelsm.” If the truth be told. Langmaid himself did not quite see On behalf of the vestry he offered next day to Mr. Hodder the rector ship '’f St. John's, and that offer was taken under consideration; but there was in the lawyer’s mind no doubt of the acceptance, which, in the course of a fortnight after he had returned to the West, followed. THE high, oozing note of the brakes, and the heavy train came .to a stop Hodder looked out of the window of the sleeper to read the sign Marcion against the yellow brick of the station set down in the prairie mud. and flanged by a long row of dun-colored freight cars backed up to a factory Leaning back on the cushioned seat, as the train started again, he reviewed the Author of “Richard Carv§ ” Illustrated by Jame 1 years at Bremerton, his first and only par ish. His success, modest though it were, had been too simple He had loved the peapie, and they him, and the pang of homesickness he now experienced was the intensest sor row he had known since he had been among them. Yes. Bremerton had been for him (he realized now that he had left it) as near an approach to Arcadia as this life permits, -and the very mountains by which it was encircled had seemed effectively to shut out those monster problems which had set the modern world outside to seething. He, John Hodder, had held fast to the essential efficacy of the w-ord of God as pro pounded in past ages by the Fathers And. to it he attributed the flourishing condition in which he had left the Church of the As cension at' Bremerton. Hodder looked at his watch, only tv be re minded poignantly of the chief cause of his heaviness of spirit, for it represented con cretely the affections of those whom he had left behind; brought before him vividly the purple haze of the Bremerton valley, and the garden party, in the ample Whitely grounds, which was their tribute to him. And he behe’d. moving from the sunlight to shadow, the figure of Rachel Ogden She might have been with him now, speeding by his side into the larger life! In his loneliness, he seemed to be gazing into reproachful eyes. Nothing had passed between them, li was ■he who had held back, a fact, that in the retrospect caused him some amazement. For, if wifehood were to be regarded as a profession, Rachel Ogden had every qualification. And Mrs. Whitely’s skilful suggestions had on occa sions almos. brought him to believe in the reality of the mirage—never quite. This he did know—for he had long ago torn from his demon the draperies of dis guise—that women were his great tempia tion. Ordination had not. destroyed it, and even during those peaceful years at Bremerton he had been forced to maintain a watchful guard. He had a power over women, and they over Imu, that threatened to lead him constantly into wayside paths, and often he wandered what those who listened to him from the pulpit would think if they guessed that, at times, he struggled with the, suggestion even now. Yet, with his hatred of compromises, he had scorned marriage. Popularity had followed him from the small New England college tv the Harvard Law School. He had been sobered there, marked as a pleader, and at last the day ar rived when he was summoned by a great New York lawyer to discuss his future. Sun day intervened. Obeying a wayward im pluse he had gone to one of the metropoli tan churches to hear a preacher renowned for his influence over men. There is, in deed, much that is stirring to the imagina tion in the spectacle of a mass of human beings thronging into a great church, pour ing up the aisles, crowding the galleries, joining with full voices in the hymns. What drew them? He himself was singing words familiar since childhood, and suddenly they were fraught with a startling meaning! me. radiuney divine, Scatter all. my unbelief!" Visions of the Crusades rose before him, of a frair arousing France, of a Maid of Or .eans; of masses of soiled, war-worn, sin worn humanity groping towards the light. Even after all these ages, the belief, the hope would not down Then came the sermon, “I will rise and go to my father.” After the service, far into the afternoon, he had walked the wet streets heedless of his direction, in an exaltation that he had felt before, but never with such intensity. It seemed as though he had always wished to preach, and marveled that the perception had not come to him sooner. Still under the spell, he reached his room and wrote to the lawyer thanking him, but saying that he had reconsidered coming to New York. NELSON LANGMAID’S extra ordinary judgment appeared once more to be vindicated. The new rector was plain ly not a man who might be accused of policy in pan dering to the tastes of a wealthy and conservative flock. But if, in the series of sermons which lasted from his advent until well after Christmas, he had deliberately consulted their prejudices, he could not have done better. It is true that he went beyond the majority of them, but into a region which they regarded as pre-eminently safe —a re gion the soil of which was traditional To wit: St. Paul had left to the world a con sistent theology. Historical research was gnored rather than condemned. There were, no doubt, many obscure passages in the Scripture, but men’s minds were finite. It was entirely fitting, no doubt, when the felicitations of certain of the older par ishioners on his initial sermon were over, that Mr Hodder should be carried westward 10 lunch with the first layman of the dio ( ese. But Mr. Parr, as became a person of his responsibility, had been more mod erate in his comment. For he had seen, in his day. many men whose promise had been unfulfilled. Tight!' buttoned, silk batten, upright, he sat in the corner of the limou- Sin*, tin tasseien t-peakingtube in Ins hand, from time io time cautioning his chauffeur. The neighborhood they traversed was characteristic of our rapidly expanding American cities There were rows of dwell ing houses, once ultra-respectable, now slatternly, and lawns gone gray; some of these houses hud been remodeled into third-rate shops, or thrown together t> make j manufacturing establishments; salons oc cupied all the favorable corners. , Hodde r read the sign on a lanp post, Dalton street. The name clung in hs taem ory. "We thought, some twenty years ago. of moving the church westward,” aid Mr. Parr, "but finally agreed to remai. where we w'ere." The rector had a conviction on tKs point,/ and did not hesitate to state it without waiting to be enlightened as to thevanker’s views. “It would seem to me a wise tecision,” he said, looking out of the winow, and wholly absorbed in the contemplatin of the evidences of misery and vice, “rith tills poverty at the very doors of thechurch.” Something in his voice impend Eldon Parr to shoot a glance at his profle. ‘ Poverty is inevitable, Mr. Hoder," he» declared. "The weak always sinl” They alighted under a porte conere with a glass roof. ‘ I’m sorry,” said Mr. Parr, as he doors swung open and he led the way into the house, "I'm sorry 1 can't give ya a more cheerful welcome, but my son anddaughter, for their own reasons, see fit tolive else where.” Hodder's quick ear detected it the tone another cadence, and he glance at E'.don Parr with a new interest. . . Presently they stood, face to Pre. acres/ a table reduced to its smallest Apportions, in the tempered light of a vast djing-room, an apartment that seemed to syibolize the fortress-like properties of wealth- The odd thought struck the clergyman tha tlfis man had made his own Tower of Lcdon, had hurt with his own hands the irison in which he was to end his day? Mr. P;,rr bowed his head while Hodder aspd grace. They sat down. Suddenly, the financier launches forth on a series of shrewd and searchingquestions about Bremertcn, its church, its sople. its industries, and social conditions Al! ot which Hodder answered to his apparent satisfaction. "1 have had a letter from yer former bishop speaking of you in tht highest! terms." Mr. Parr observed. "The bishop is very kind." Mr. Parr cleared his throat. ' 1 am considerably older thariyou,” ho went on, and I. have the futile of St John’s very much at heart, Mr. tedder I ; trust you will remember this am make al lowances for it as I talk to yo. I need not remind you that you have ggrave re sponsibility on your shoulders so so young a man. and that St. John's is.he oldest parish in the diocese.” "I think I realize it, Mr. arr,” st':4 Hodder, gravely. "It was onlythe oppor tunity of a larger work here tht induced me to leave Bremerton.” "I take it for granted." Eldor Parr con tinued, "that you and I and al sensible men are happily agreed that te Church should remain where she is. Lt. the peo ple come to her. She should b, if I may so express it, the sheet anchordf society, our bulwark against Socialism, n spite of, Socialists who call themselves rinisters of God. The Church has lost grand—why? Because she has given ground. The sanc tity of private property is beinj menaced, . demagogues are crying out fronrhe house tops and inciting people agains the men who have made this country wha it is. who - have risked their fortunes and thir careers for the present prosperity. W have no longer any right, it seems, to enilov whopt we will in our factories and outTailroads. we are not allowed to regulateour rates, although the risks were all ours Even the women are meddling—they arenot satis fied to stay tn the homes, wher- they be long. You agree with me?” "As to the women," said therector 'I must confess that I have never std anv’ex perience with the militant typeof which you speak. ' I pray God you may never iave ” e\ n ai Mr Parr ’ with more filing thai' he had yet. shown. 8 , Ves " the rector replied thougtfullv "I "now that the problems here wil he more f'njpHcated, more modern- mor. chfn”- And I thoroughly agree with vou hat the i tiankv 1? anlty If , q lfl not believe—ir snlte cc rhe evident fact which you point ut of th-. Church s lost ground-that her f tu ,e w be greater than her past I a clergyman.” ’ ’ 1 Sho, S l not "Come." said the financier at i s t “I'm stire you like pictures, and Languid te Is Would o 'co ' a fan, ' y for editions. Mould you care to go to the galhr?" ' Hy all means," the rector asserted 1 heir footsteps, as they crossed be'bar,l -wood floors, echoed in the empt ho'.i-c. Aftei pausing to contemplate a fillet »n the stair landing, they came at la- to .'n<3 1 mmt e ; S l'iaht g f a !! ery ' Wh * re the sor ' t ’"' a ‘ lp ‘ quale lignt fell upon many mask-pieces,' anc ent and modern. And it wa het'.'/ while gazing at the Corots and Bohcurs, h i ' u rtT Romnejs ' Copleys, and Raises that Hodders sense of their owner’ is o’a. tion grew almost overpowering. Once dancing over his at Mr p*- r ha of lr i'ain ed hiß eyes an ex Pression Im. t/ "These pictures must give you -r <t pleasure," he said. Oh.” replied the banker.-in a qeer voice. "I’m always glad when any nm ..e --preciaies them. I never come in o alone.” Hodder <iid not replv. They passed a. i/ to an upstairs sitting-room, which m , Hodder thought, be directly over the din ;.- room Between its window’s was a c y containing priceless curios. Mv wife i.ked this room," Mr. Parr x. plained, as be opened the case. When th ’ nad inspected it, the rcetor stood for a n-