# The Unhallowed Harvest/Chapter 22

The tragedy was now complete. Its climax had been reached when two souls were thrust, unshriven, into the Great Presence. The city gasped and shuddered, and rioted in the rehearsal of strange and conflicting stories. But at the heart of every one of them, tangled in its sordid meshes, was the name of the rector of Christ Church. The motive for the murder of Mary Bradley was known of all men. If Lamar, dead by his own hand, had lived to shout it from the housetops, it could not have been better or more widely understood. Yet no one now charged the minister with conscious guilt. His life had been too open and too clean to make that believable. It was said of him now only that he had been the victim of his own deplorable theories and his mistaken zeal. But it was plain to every one that the end had been reached. His old parishioners, friend and foe alike, admitted and declared that his further ministrations at Christ Church had become impossible. He, himself, in an hour of forced calmness and deliberate thought, had reached the same inevitable conclusion. "Ye shall know them by their fruits." The fruits of his ministry, so far as he could now see, had been scandal, riot, bloodshed, murder, suicide, a wrecked and desolated church; an unhallowed harvest. And the future held no hope of better things.
For three days he wrestled with himself in agony. On the morning of the fourth day he boarded a train, bound for the see city, to meet a telegraphed appointment with his bishop. Twenty miles out Barry Malle​son came wandering down the aisle of the car and caught sight of him.
"Why, Farrar," exclaimed Barry, "I didn't know you were on the train! Come into the Pullman with me."
"No, thank you! I change at the junction, but I'd be glad to have you sit with me for a while."
Barry needed no second invitation. He dropped into the aisle end of the seat; but when he had settled himself comfortably he had nothing to say. If the rector's face gave evidence of the shock and strain he had undergone, Barry's countenance and manner were still more indicative of the intense suffering he had endured.
"You're going to New York?" asked the rector, finally.
"Yes. It doesn't matter much. But that seems to be the obvious place. If I get tired of it there I'll come back in a day or two, and go west. I think maybe a taste of ranch life might help some. But I can't stay here. You know, Farrar, that's impossible."
"I understand. I too must leave the city. Conditions here make it imperative."
"And where will you go?"
"God knows! I have no plans."
Barry looked at his companion pityingly. In the midst of his own grief he had a heart of sympathy for the defeated and despairing rector. For a few moments there was silence between them. Then Barry spoke up again.
"You know, Farrar, this thing has left me in a whirl. I feel as though I were still whirling. I try to stop, and get out of it, and get my head, but I can't. There's so much about it all that I don't understand."
"I don't wonder. The whole thing is a terrible mystery."
"Not that I'm blaming her, you know. I couldn't do that. She wasn't to blame for anything. Why, do you know, I never even blamed her for being fond of ​you. And of course I didn't charge it up to you. Nobody does, Farrar. You can rest easy on that score. It was just one of those things that neither of you could help."
"Thank you, Barry!"
"And that reminds me. That night when I saw her last—it was last Sunday; God in heaven! but it seems a year—well, that night she asked me to do her one favor. She said she was going away. She said if you ever found out what she said on the factory steps that day of the riot, I should tell you that it was true; I should tell you that because she loved you she was going to drop out of your life forever—drop out—of your life—forever."
Barry straightened himself out as he sat, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and stared hard at the back of the seat in front of him. Something in the last phrase that had left his lips had set his brain to whirling again. The rector laid a comforting hand on his knee.
"You are very kind to tell me this," he said. "You have a big and generous heart, Barry. We can each mourn over her fate, without entrenching on the domain of the other."
Apparently Barry did not hear him. He was still staring at the back of the seat, and the muscles of his jaws could be seen moving under the pallid skin of his face. But he roused himself, after a moment, and said:
"I told her I would; sure I would. And then, Farrar, do you know what she did? Do you know?"
"No, Barry."
"Well—I wouldn't whisper it to another human being but you, you know that, it's too—sacred."
His voice choked a little, but he went on:
"Well—she put her arms around my neck—and kissed me."
He did not give way to tears nor manifest any of the ​usual signs of emotion. But on his face was a look of awe and tenderness, as if some holy and wonderful vision had just been revealed to his mortal eyes.
At the junction the rector bade him Godspeed, and left him to continue his journey alone. But, somehow, the sight and expression of Barry's dull and simple grief had served to soften the harsh musings with which the minister's own mind was filled.
It was late afternoon when he reached the episcopal residence. A rich and pious widow, dying, had made testamentary provision for the erection of this beautiful bishop's home, whereupon disgruntled heirs had severed their relations with the Church, and had sought religious shelter in another fold.
The rector approached the quaintly fashioned entrance by a path bordered with blossoming crocuses and tulips, rioting in a very wantonness of color. The sinking sun threw a mellow, yellow light on the flowers, on the fresh green of the lawn, on a spreading maple just starting into leaf. But the minister saw nothing and realized nothing of the peace and beauty that surrounded him. His step was heavy, his eyes were dim, his face was the face of one who has witnessed horrors, and cannot shut out the sight or memory of them.
The bishop was awaiting him. If he had framed any words of condemnation for this priest of his diocese, one look at the man himself drove them utterly and forever from his mind. At a glance he read in the countenance of the minister a story of suffering, of humiliation, of bitter and blinding defeat, that would have made episcopal reproof as cruel as it was unnecessary.
He put his arm tenderly about his visitor's shoulder and led him to a chair.
"I know it all, Farrar," he said. "What I have not heard and read I have easily divined. I suffer with you."
​If the rector heard him he paid no heed to his words. He was there on his own errand, his message was on his lips, and he must deliver it.
"Bishop, I have come to hand back to you the shattered remnant of a sacred trust. I have not been unfaithful to it, but my administration of it has been a tragic failure."
"I know, Farrar. You have been ahead of your generation. You have tried to do things for which the world is not ready. That is the reason you have failed."
"That may be so. But it remains true, nevertheless, that I have wrecked my church, and have brought discredit on the religion of Christ. I am innocent of evil intention, but I am guilty of the actual failure, and I stand ready to suffer the penalty."
"My dear man, do not think too harshly of yourself. You have simply tried to do a beautiful and an impossible thing. Disaster was inevitable. You thought, as did the beloved of Isaiah, that you had planted your vineyard 'with the choicest vine.' And you 'looked that it should bring forth grapes, and it brought forth wild grapes.' It could not have done otherwise."
"Pardon me, Bishop, but that is what I do not yet understand. Why should such an unhallowed harvest, unbelief, scandal, riot, murder, suicide, follow on the preaching of the simple gospel of Christ?"
"Ah, but it was not the simple gospel of Christ that you preached. Christ never concerned Himself with economic problems, nor with the reorganization of human society. There are some, I know, who affect to admire and reverence Him, who hold, with great show of learning, that His message was primarily to the Galilean peasants, and so to all whose necks were bowed under the Roman yoke, and so to all the world, that men should rise and scatter their oppressors, and establish an earthly kingdom of justice and righteousness. These do but pervert His teaching, and degrade ​His gospel. His message was wholly to the soul of the individual man that he should turn spiritually from darkness to light. And having so turned, it would necessarily follow that man's material environment would undergo a similar beneficent change."
"But why should not the Church, in order to do her perfect work on earth, face the whole life of man, physical, industrial and social, as well as spiritual?"
"Because it is not her province to transform the environment of men. Jesus Christ sought only to transform the man. He was satisfied to have the man deal thereafter with his own environment. Social reform is possible only through spiritual renewal. To have a new society we must first have new men. When the regeneration of the individual has been accomplished, society itself will, perforce, be regenerated, and a social organization that will do justice to all men will spring automatically into existence. I tried to make this clear to you that night at the Tracy house."
"I know. I have been too impatient to await the spiritual regeneration. My heart has gone out to the poor and churchless of my own day who are suffering for material and spiritual bread."
"Your heart does you credit. No servant of Christ should ignore or neglect the poor. They were very close to Him in His lifetime. They should be special objects of our care in this day. But the mission of the Church is not alone to the poor; the message of Christ was to all men. You have permitted your passionate sympathy for the poor and the oppressed to run away with your judgment, to destroy your sense of proportion, to—there, Farrar, forgive me! I did not mean to scold or condemn you; it is too late for that. All I want to do to-day is to help you if I may."
"Nor did I come, Bishop, to argue my case anew, nor to plead justification for my conduct, nor to make excuses for my failures. I came to tell you that my service at Christ Church is at an end. The vestry ​holds my letter of resignation. It remained only for me to make acknowledgment to you as my Reverend Father in God, of your kindness, and patience, and fatherly solicitude, and to beg your forgiveness, if I may, for all that I have said or done that has caused you trouble or sorrow, or that has cast discredit on the Church of your love and care."
"You have my forgiveness without the asking, Farrar. It is true that I have deeply deplored the situation in your parish, but I have had no resentment toward you, because, while I have believed you to be mistaken, I have known you to be utterly conscientious, and loyal."
"That is true, Bishop."
"And in that respect you were in very different case from those priests who, having lost faith in certain vital points in the principles of our religion and the doctrines of our Church, have, nevertheless, insisted on remaining with us and preaching heterodoxy from the shelter of our pulpits. That, in my judgment, is not only ungrateful and dishonest, but borders very close upon downright treason. You, on the other hand, in all your aspirations and ambitions, have been faithful to the precepts of our religion and the tenets of our Church. For that I commend you and rejoice in you."
"You are very good to me, Bishop."
"Let me add that I have no doubt of the wisdom and expediency of your course in resigning your office as rector of Christ Church. Now then; what are your plans?"
"I have none. I have thought nothing out except that I must go away. My wife is ill. The burden of these things has been too great for her to bear. I do not know how soon she can be moved. But when I told her, last night, that we would go elsewhere, the news seemed to give her new life. I believe that in some other and distant environment she will find her lost health and her old happiness."
​"I pray that it may be so. But you must not leave the ministry of the Church, Farrar. We need such men as you. You are still young, but you have learned wisdom by sad and bitter experience. You were never better prepared to preach Christ's religion than you are now. And some day you will come into your own."
The rector turned his eyes to the window and looked out across the lawn to the Gothic pinnacles of the church on which the glory of the setting sun still lay. It was apparent that he was in deep thought, and for a moment he did not reply. Then he looked back at the prelate.
"Bishop," he said, "I think it is your faith in me that has saved me. For days I have seen nothing before me but the blackness of the pit. I come here, and you, whom I have perhaps wronged most deeply, are most ready to forgive me and help me. In my own city I have yielded because I have been bludgeoned into it; but you, by your magnanimity—you bring me—to my knees—in true repentance."
He laid his arms on the table and bowed his head on his arms. There was no longer any doubt that he was not only broken, but also repentant.
The bishop rose from his chair, crossed over to the penitent priest and laid his arm once more affectionately about his shoulders.
"Farrar," he said, "God bless you! I love you."
Underneath his hand he felt the broad shoulders tremble. He went on comfortingly:
"This is not the end; it is but the beginning. You are going to start a new career. I have already for you, in my mind, an outpost of the Church, in another diocese, where I believe your great talent and your love for neglected men will lead to the establishment of a mighty stronghold of our religion."
The rector sprang to his feet and dashed the tears from his eyes.
"You bring me a message," he said, "straight from ​God. An outpost on the fighting line will be my delight. Bishop, you have not only saved me, you have invigorated and inspired me. How can I show my gratitude?"
"By preaching, hereafter, the simple gospel of Christ as I have explained it to you. But enough of this. We have disposed of the case; let's talk of other things. Come and have dinner with me, and we'll discuss the state of the Church at large."
And, with his arm still resting on the broad shoulders of the rector, the wise and big-hearted prelate led his guest from the room.