XXXVIII
He knew just where he was going, and walked so fast that before
anyone had time to realize what was happening, he was on the altar
steps, and facing the congregation. You could hear the gasp of
amazement; he was so absolutely identical with the painted figure
over his head, that if he had remained still, you could not have
told which was painting and which was flesh and blood. The rector in
the pulpit stood with his mouth open, staring as if seeing a ghost.
The prophet stretched out both his hands, and pointed two accusing
fingers at the congregation. His voice rang out, stern and
commanding: "Let this mockery cease!" Again he cried: "What do ye
with my Name?" And pointing over his head: "Ye crucify me in stained
glass!"
There came murmurs from the congregation, the first mutterings of a
storm. "Oh! Outrageous! Blasphemy!"
"Blasphemy?" cried Carpenter. "Is it not written that God dwelleth
not in temples made with hands? Ye have built a temple to Mammon,
and defile the name of my Father therein!"
The storm grew louder. "This is preposterous!" exclaimed my uncle
Timothy at my side. And the Reverend Lettuce-Spray managed to find
his voice. "Sir, whoever you are, leave this church!"
Carpenter turned upon him. "You give orders to me--you who have
brought back the moneychangers into my Father's temple?" And
suddenly he faced the congregation, crying in a voice of wrath:
"Algernon de Wiggs! Stand up!"
Strange as it may seem, the banker rose in his pew; whether under
the spell of Carpenter's majestic presence, or preparing to rush at
him and throw him out, I could not be sure. The great banker's face
was vivid scarlet.
And Carpenter pointed to another part of the congregation. "Peter
Dexter! Stand up!" The president of the Dexter Trust Company also
arose, trembling as if with palsy, mumbling something, one could not
tell whether protest or apology.
"Stuyvesant Gunning! Stand up!" And the president of the Fidelity
National obeyed. Apparently Carpenter proposed to call the whole
roll of financial directors; but the procedure was halted suddenly,
as a tall, white-robed figure strode from its seat near the choir.
Young Sidney Simpkinson, assistant to the rector, went up to
Carpenter and took him by the arm.
"Leave this house of God," he commanded.
The other faced him. "It is written, Thou shalt not take the name of
the Lord thy God in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless
that taketh His name in vain."
Young Simpkinson wasted no further words in parley. He was an
advocate of what is known as "muscular Christianity," and kept
himself in trim playing on the parish basket-ball team. He flung his
strong arms about Carpenter, and half carrying him, half walking
him, took him down the steps and down the aisle. As he went,
Carpenter was proclaiming: "It is written, My house shall be called
a house of prayer; but ye have made it a den of thieves. He that
steals little is called a pickpocket, but he that steals much is
called a pillar of the church. Verily, he that deprives the laborer
of the fruit of his toil is more dangerous than he that robs upon
the highway; and he that steals the state and the powers of
government is the father of all thieves."
By that time, the prophet had been hustled two-thirds down the
aisle; and then came a new development. Unobserved by anyone, a
number of Carpenter's followers had come with him into the church;
and these, seeing the way he was being handled, set up a cry: "For
shame! For shame!" I saw Everett, secretary to T-S, and Korwsky,
secretary of the tailor's union; I saw some one leap at Everett and
strike him a ferocious blow in the teeth, and two other men leap
upon the little Russian and hurl him to the ground.
I started up, involuntarily. "Oh, shame! Shame!" I cried, and would
have rushed out into the aisle. But I had to pass my uncle, and he
had no intention of letting me make myself a spectacle. He threw his
arms about me, and pinned me against the pew in front; and as he is
one of the ten ranking golfers at the Western City Country Club, his
embrace carried authority. I struggled, but there I stayed,
shouting, "For shame! For shame!" and my uncle exclaiming, in a
stern whisper, "Shut up! Sit down, you fool!" and my Aunt Caroline
holding onto my coat-tails, crying, and my aunt Jennie threatening
to faint.
The melee came quickly to an end, for the men of the congregation
seized the half dozen disturbers and flung them outside, and mounted
guard to make sure they did not return. I sank back into my seat, my
worthy uncle holding my arm tightly with both hands, lest I should
try to make my escape over the laps of Aunt Caroline and Aunt
Jennie.
All this time the Reverend Lettuce-Spray had been standing in the
pulpit, making no sound. Now, as the congregation settled back into
order, he said, with the splendid, conscious self-possession of one
who can remain "equal to the occasion": "We will resume the
service." And he opened his portfolio, and spread out his manuscript
before him, and announced:
"Our text for the morning is the fifth chapter of the gospel
according to St. Matthew, the thirty-ninth and fortieth verses: 'But
I say unto you, that ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite
thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if any man
shall sue thee at law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy
cloak also."
