"Now," said Jim softly, "will you be after pulling a little? Yes? Come now," he coaxed wheedlingly, "come now," and he tightened the lines. But the horse shook his head, showed temper as before, and held back.
"Oh, that's what ye want, is it?" said Jim. "All right, back up it is," and gently man[oe]uvring, he shouted: "Back!" Both horses backed. He kept them backing, and by deft steering, held the wagon in the road. Back they went steadily. Now the baulky horse indicated his willingness to go on; but Jim wasn't ready. It was back, back, and back some more. For a hundred yards he kept it up. At last, when he changed about and gave the order to "Get up!" the one-time baulky horse was only too glad to change his gear and pull his very best. Jim took the load up the little hill, and on a quarter mile, where he waited for the original teamsters to come up.
"There, now," said Jim as he handed over the lines to the sullen driver, "you should have found that bunch of cockle burrs. It was all your fault, not the horse's. And if he hadn't responded to the backing, I'd have tied a pebble in his ear and left him for a few minutes to think it over. Then he'd have gone all right; it never fails. I tell you there aren't any baulky horses if they are rightly handled."
A cheer came from the buggies as the load of timber rolled away around the hill. As Hartigan got in beside Belle the two rigs came by. The men shouted, "Good for you! That was a fine job."
Jim blushed with pleasure; it was all so simple and familiar to him; but when he turned to look at Belle, she was white and ill. "Let's go home, Jim," she whispered. He looked at her in some surprise; then slowly it dawned on him—she had never before seen the roughness of men fighting. To him it was no more than the heavy sport of the football field. To her it was brutality unloosed; it was shocking, disgusting, next to murder. With mingled feelings of regret, amusement, and surprise he said, "Dear heart, you take it all too seriously." Then he put his arm about her, tender as a woman, and a few minutes later placed her gently in the rocking chair in the white cottage.
* * *
CHAPTER XLIX
The Power of Personality
"Who is that?" said an elderly man in one of the buggies that passed Hartigan after the adventure with the baulky horse.
"I think it's the new preacher," said the driver. "Anyhow, we can easily see." They watched the buckboard with the black horse and saw it turn in at the white cottage.
"My guess was right, Mr. Hopkins," said the driver. "I haven't been in church for two years, but I'm going to hear that fellow preach next Sunday, all right."
"Why don't you go to church?" said the older man, who by his dress and manner was apparently some one of social importance.
"Oh, I dunno. I got out of the habit when I came out West," said the driver.
"Why do you want to hear this man?"
"Well, he kind o' makes one think he's 'some punkins.' He's a real man. He ain't just a sickly dough-lump as the bunch mostly is."
John Hopkins, President of the Dakota Flour and Milling Company, Regent of Madison University, man of affairs, philosopher and patron of a great many things, was silent for some time. He was pondering the question of the day and the light just thrown on it. Why don't men go to church? This Black Hills driver had answered: "Because the preachers are a bunch of dough-lumps." Whatever this might mean, it was, at best, a backhanded compliment to Hartigan. Yet, the driver was anxious to hear the new preacher. Why? Because he was impressed with his personality. It all resolved itself into that; the all-ruling law of personality. How wise, thought Hopkins, was the Church that set aside rules, dogmas, and scholastic attainments to make room for a teacher of real personality; such was the Founder's power.
Along with the livery driver and a hundred more than the church could hold, Hopkins went that night to the Evangelical Church to hear Hartigan. The Preacher's choice of hymns was martial; he loved the trumpets of the Lord. His prayers were tender and sincere; and his sermon on kindness—human kindness, spontaneous, for its own sake, not dictated by a creed—was a masterpiece of genuine eloquence. His face and figure were glorified in his effort. The story of his active sympathy with the injured horse had got about, and won the hearts of all. They came ready to love him, and—responding to the warm, magnetic influence—he blazed forth into the compelling eloquence that was native to his Celtic blood. He was gentle and impassioned; he spoke as never before. They heard him breathlessly; they loved his simple, Irish common sense. He held them in the hollow of his hands. The half hour allotted had been reached, and his story was told, and yet, not fully told. For a moment he paused, while his eyes sought a happy face in the nearest pew. Belle gently drew her watch. Mindful of their careful plan, he stopped at the signal, raised his hands, and said, "Let us pray." With one great sigh, the congregation kneeled before him, and with him, in body and spirit, and prayed as they never before had prayed in Deadwood.
* * *
After the service the young preacher came forward to meet the people. He was uplifted and radiant with a sense of power, with all the magic influence of the place and thought; and they crowded round him, many with tears in their eyes.
An elderly man of polished manner pushed through the circle and shook him by the hand. "I'm a stranger in town," he said; "here's my card. May I call on you to-morrow?"
"Certainly," said the Preacher. And the stranger disappeared.
There was a holy joy enveloping the little white cottage that night as they sat together reviewing the events of the day. "Don't you see, Jim, how much better it was to stop then? It's a thousand times better to have them go away saying: 'Why did he stop so soon?' rather than: 'Yes, wonderful, inspiring; but too long.' They will now be keener than ever to hear you. You never spoke so well before. Oh, my dear, I was never so proud of you! Now I know, without a doubt, that you are a chosen vessel of the Lord."
He held her in his mighty arms and kissed the gold-brown hair. "It's all your doing, Belle. I'm a rudderless ship without you." Then, after a long pause: "I'm thinking of my first visit to Deadwood."
She spoke no word, but pressed her frail face against the knotted muscles of his great throat and gently stroked his cheek.
* * *
CHAPTER L
The Call to Chicago
"Get up, you lazy giant; the breakfast is ready," she called from the dining room. In truth, he had been up to light the fire and chop some wood, but was now reading in bed.
"Jim, I want you to be prepared for something very important to-day. I have a presentiment that this means something." She held up the card that had been presented after the service the evening before, and read:
Mr. John Hopkins,
Englewood, Chicago
"If he comes with a proposition, don't accept it off-hand. Ask for a little while to consider."
Belle put on her smartest frock that morning and pressed Jim's trousers and tied his necktie repeatedly till its form was right. With a very critical eye she studied his appearance and her own, and that of the house, from every angle. Why? Would any business man make note of such things? Detailed note, no; perhaps not. But the sum total of such trifles—expressing decorum, experience, worldly wisdom of the kind that makes itself felt as tact, and judgment that is better than genius as guarantee of success—would unquestionably produce its effect.
Promptly at ten thirty a.m., Mr. John Hopkins called. He apologized for the unseemly hour, but said he was leaving town at noon. His first impression of Belle was a very delightful one. He found her refined and cultured and he recalled the advice of a certain old bishop: "Never give a call to a clergyman unless you are satisfied to call his wife as well." There was no use denying it, the wife was as important as the preacher; she could build up or disrupt the congregation, and so she made a double problem; that is why Rome ruled the wives out altogether.
Mr. Hopkins was a citizen of the world; he approached the object of the visit gracefully, but without loss of time. The Evangelical Alliance needed a man of personality and power to carry on its work in the slums o
f South Chicago among the iron-workers. The church cared nothing about creeds or methods—applied no gauge but results; the best result was a diffusion of human kindness. The salary was twenty-five hundred a year, with one week vacation at Christmas and one month at midsummer. He, John Hopkins, as President of the Board of Deacons, was empowered to select a man, and now made formal offer of the post to the Rev. James Hartigan. Mr. Hartigan might have a week to decide; but Mr. Hopkins would greatly prefer it if Mr. Hartigan could decide before noon that day when Mr. Hopkins was leaving town. Until stage time he could be found at the Temperance House.
He rose quickly to go. Belle asked if he would, at his convenience, put the offer in writing, so that they might be clear as to details, indicating whether it was understood to be by the year and permanent, or for a time on approbation.
"I'll do that now," he replied. Taking the writing materials that she brought, he wrote and signed the formal call, with the intimation that it was for one year, subject to renewal.
As soon as their caller was safely gone, Jim picked up Belle in his arms and, marching up and down with her as if she had been a baby, he fairly gasped: "You are a wonder! You are a wonder! If I had gone my way, where should I be now? A drunkard or a cowboy; maybe in jail; or, at best, a doorkeeper in the Salvation Army. Oh, Belle, I swear I'll never pick a trail or open my mouth—never do a thing—without first consulting you." And the elation of the moment exploded into a burst of Irish humour. "Now, please ma'am, what am I to do?"
"What are we to do, you mean," retorted Belle. "Well, in view of the fact that we haven't got the cash the folks here think we have, we must do something. Twenty-five hundred dollars a year is an improvement on three hundred a year, and as there is no other positive offer in sight, I vote for accepting."
"That settles it. What right has a worm like me to vote?"
"That's a poor metaphor, Jim; try again."
"All right! The mighty Captain of this warship accepts the advice of the insignificant pilot—who happens to know the channel. How is that?"
"It can't be done, Jim. I may help the guiding, but without you I'd have nothing to guide. Each of us gives his best to the combine—each is a half of the arch; not simply are we twice as strong together, but twenty times as strong as we should be singly."
"Now for the call. Do you realize, Jim, that it means good-bye to the prairies, good-bye to the hills, and good-bye to Midnight?"
Jim nodded and looked grave. Belle went on: "But it also means living the life that you long ago elected to live—being a chosen instrument of good to bring blessings to those whose lives are black with sorrow and despair. It means giving up all the physical pleasures you love so deeply and rightly; but it also means following the Master. Which is it to be?"
"I know," he responded, "I know. But Belle, dear, I never had a moment of doubt when I had to decide between Belle and Blazing Star; why should I hesitate now when it's Midnight or Christ?"
So the letter was written and delivered forthwith at the Temperance Hotel. One week later Belle and Jim were driving again toward Cedar Mountain, headed for the railway which was to take them to Chicago. As they swung down the trail Belle looked out on the familiar objects and said:
"Here we are again at the beginning of a new chapter; and again it starts on the old Deadwood trail."
* * *
CHAPTER LI
These Little Ones
It was a long but easy journey down south to the Union Pacific, and finally east to Chicago. And when the young couple, whom the passengers watched with much interest, arrived at the great city, they found half a dozen men and women of importance awaiting them at the Union Station, with more servants to assist them than they had pieces of luggage. Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins, with their own carriage, were in attendance to offer the hospitality of their house to the Rev. James Hartigan and his bride. It was a long drive to Englewood; but everything that kind friends, clear skies, and human forethought could do to make it pleasant was fully done. For the time being, they were installed in the Hopkins mansion—a veritable palace—and for the first time Jim had the chance to learn how the rich folk really live. While it was intensely interesting, he was eager to see the field of his future work. Belle, however, agreed with their host and hostess that it would be worth while to see a little of Chicago first.
The stockyards are either fascinating or intensely disgusting. The Hartigans had their fill of them in five minutes. The Art Institute had not yet been built, but there were museums and galleries and good music in many places. Lincoln Park and the great rolling, gusty lake were pleasant to behold; but to Jim, the biggest thing of all—the thing of which the buildings and the crowds were mere manifestations—was the vast concentration of human life, strife, and emotion—the throb and compulsion of this, the one great heart of the West.
There was dirt in the street everywhere; there were hideous buildings and disgusting vulgarities on every side, and crime in view on nearly every corner; but still one had to feel that this was the vital spot, this the great blood centre of a nation, young, but boiling with energy, boundless in promise—a city with a vital fire in its heart that would one day burn the filth and dross away and show the world the dream of the noblest dreamers all come true—established, gigantic, magnificent. There is thrill and inspiration—simple, natural, and earthy—in the Canyon where the Cheyenne cut the hills; but this was a different thrill that slowly grew to a rumble in Jim's heart as he felt the current floods of mind, of life, of sin, of hope that flowed from a million springs in that deep Wabash Canyon that carved in twain the coming city of ten million hopes that are sprung from the drifted ashes of a hundred million black and burnt despairs.
Hartigan had ever been a man of the saddle and the open field; but gazing from the top of that tall tower above the station, sensing the teeming life, the sullen roar, far below, he glimpsed another world—a better thing, for it was bigger—which, in its folded mantle, held the unborn parent, the gentler-born parent, of the mighty change—the blessed cleanup that every wise man prays for and works to bring about.
What place were they to occupy in this maelstrom? Two ways were open—one, to dwell in the dungeons and the horrors as poor among the poor; the other, to come as different beings—as frequent visitors—from another world. Jim, with his whole-souled abandon, was for the former; but Belle thought that all he would gain in that way would be more than offset by loss of touch with the other world. At that time those two worlds were at war and she contended that his place was to stand between the world of power and the world of need.
Their compromise was a little flat on the second floor of a house in Englewood, near enough to the rolling Lake to afford a glimpse of it and convenient to the open stretch that is now the famous Jackson Park. Here, with pretty rugs and curtains and pictures of horses and hills, they lined the home nest and gathered the best thoughts of the lives they had lived. Here at all times they could come assured of peace and rest.
Then came the meeting with the Board of Deacons, the preliminary visits to the field of work, where the streets were full of misery and the slum life rampant. A few short blocks away was another world—a world of palaces. Jim had never before seen massed misery; he had never before seen profligate luxury, and the shock of contrast brought to him the sudden, overwhelming thought: "These people don't want preaching, they want fair play. This is not a religious question, it is an economic question." And in a flash: "The religious questions are economic questions," and all the seemingly wild utterances of old Jack Shives came back, like a sudden overwhelming flood at the breaking of a dam. In an instant he was staggering among the ruins of all in religious thought that he had held holy.
When he reached their apartment that evening he was in a distraught condition. For some time he paced up and down. At last he said: "I must go out, Belle. I must walk alone." He spoke with intense emotion. He longed for his mountain; there was but one thing like it near—the mighty, moving lake. He put on his hat and str
ode away. Belle wanted to go with him, but he had not asked her; her instinct also said "no"; besides, there was the physical impossibility of walking with him when he went so striding. She sat down in the dusk to wonder—to wait.
He went to the lake shore. A heavy gale was blowing from the north and the lake was a wild waste. It touched him as the sage plains did; and the rough wind helped him by driving away all other folk afoot. Northward he went, feeling, but seeing nothing, of the rolling waters. Jack Shives with his caustic words came back to mind: "It's their 'fore-God duty to steal if their babies are hungry and they can't feed them any other way." Jim had never seen these things before; now they were the whole world; he had seen nothing else these slumming days. His spiritual ferment was such that, one by one, all the texts he had read came back as commentaries on this new world of terror. He recalled the words of the Master: "Your Heavenly Father knoweth ye have need of these things"; the fearful doom of those that "offend these little ones"; the strict injunction to divide with the needy and care for the helpless; and again, the words, "The Kingdom of heaven is within you"—not in a vague, unplaced world after death, but here, now—and those who thought that, by placating the custodians of costly edifices, they were laying up "treasure in heaven" were blindly going to destruction.
He strode in the night with his brain awhirl. The old texts held for him some new power: "Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added into you"; and again, "The kingdom of heaven is within you"; "Sell all that thou hast and give to the poor." In vain he sought for inspired words that would reestablish the happy land beyond the grave that his teachers had ever pictured in set phrase. Yet every word of the Master pointed the other way. "Here"; "now"; and "first within" was the kingdom. And the hollowness of all the rich man's preachment—that the poor must suffer patiently in hope of a reward beyond the grave—was more and more a hideous stratagem as in his mind arose together two portrait types: the pinched, sullen, suffering face of the slums and the bloated, evil face to be found on the boulevard.
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