THE GREAT TRANSFORMATION
John Harding seemed a new man. If ever man fought desperately the evil in his nature, he did. It would be foolish to say that he became a saint. Far from it. He was at all times very human.
All the years of his life, his deeper nature had been lying fallow. No one had ever cared enough about him to suspect or discover its richness. Now some one had found him who did care, and who knew instinctively what lay below the forbidding exterior.
He sought Esther Bright with all sorts of questions, many of them questions a child might have asked (for he was but a child as yet in knowledge of many things); and she poured out the richness of her own knowledge, the inspiration of her transcendent faith, until the man roused from a long sleep, and began to grapple with great questions of life. He read, he thought, and he questioned.
Sometimes, when long away from Esther's influence, he yielded to the temptations of the saloon again, and drank heavily. On one of these occasions, he chanced to cross her path as he came staggering from a saloon. He tried to avoid her, but failed.
"Oh, Jack," she said, laying her hand on his arm, "is this what Jesus would have you do? Come home."
"'Taint no use," he answered, in a drunken drawl, "no use. I ain't nobody; never was nobody. Let me be, I say. Nobody cares a blank for me." He threw an arm out impatiently.
"'Sh!" she interrupted. "Jesus cares. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton care. I care. Miss Edith cares. Come home with me, John."
So saying, she led him on to the Clayton ranch.
After a field has lain fallow many years, it must be turned and overturned again, in order to yield an abundant harvest. So it is with a soul.
John Harding's soul was slowly but surely being prepared to receive the seeds of truth. There were days when it seemed as though a demon possessed him. Then he would mysteriously disappear, and be gone for days. He always returned worn and haggard, but gentle. Then he would seek Esther Bright, and say simply:
"I have conquered!"
He seemed to know intuitively that she never lost faith in him. He felt certain that he would yet become what she wished him to be,—a true man. And this conviction made every battle with himself less terrible. At last he knew that the good in him was master.
All this did not come about at once. Months passed before he knew that he could feel sure of his victory.
In the meantime, the church service had become established in Gila. Esther Bright preached with deepening spiritual power. The cowlasses now attended regularly. Other women, too, had come. Miners, dirt begrimed, had astonished their cronies by coming to hear the teacher talk. Even men from the charcoal pits and burro camps found their way to the crowded room.
One Sunday, the atmosphere of the meeting was so remarkable it still stands out in the memory of many a Gilaite of those early days.
Esther Bright had preached on the Healing of the Lepers. She had told them of the disease of leprosy, its loathsomeness, its hopelessness. Then she vividly pictured the ten lepers, the approach of Christ, and their marvelous restoration. She showed them sin, its power to degrade men and women, and to weaken the will. She urged the need of God's help, and the necessity for each one to put forth his will power. Her low, earnest, heart-searching voice seemed to move many in that audience. Again and again rough hands brushed away tears they were ashamed for others to see. Ah, could there be help for them! Could there!
The speaker seemed filled with a power outside of herself, a power that was appealing to the consciences of men.
Kenneth Hastings, caught in this great spiritual tide, was swept from his moorings, out, out, on and away from self, Godward. He rose and spoke with deep feeling. Then some one sang the first stanza of "Where are the Nine?" The singing ceased. The Spirit of God seemed brooding over all. The pregnant silence was followed by a succession of marvels. A Scotch miner rose and said:
"I am a sinner. Jesus, Maister, hae mercy on me."
Then voice after voice was heard confessing sin and praying for mercy.
At the close of the service, there were many touching scenes as men and women long hardened and burdened, came to this young girl for words of hope and encouragement.
If ever human being was an instrument in the hands of God, Esther Bright was that day.
The attendance at the meetings increased so that the schoolhouse could no longer accommodate the people. It was still too cool to hold out-of-door meetings. In the midst of Esther's perplexity, she received a call from one of the saloon keepers.
"I 'ave been attending the meetings," he said, "and see that you need a larger room. I 'ave come to offer you my saloon."
"Your saloon, Mr. Keith?" she said, aghast.
"Yes," he replied, "my saloon! I'm one of the lepers ye told about the other day. I 'ave decided to give up the saloon business."
This was beyond Esther's wildest dreams.
"You have decided to give up the saloon?" she said, overjoyed. "I am so glad! But how will you make your living?"
"I'll go to minin' again, an' my wife'll keep boarders. She's glad to 'ave me give up the dram shop."
Esther's eyes filled with happy tears.
The first Sunday in February had arrived. Nearly all vestiges of a saloon had disappeared from what had been Keith's saloon. Masses of mistletoe and fragrant spruce had taken the place of indecent pictures. A cabinet organ, borrowed for the occasion, stood at one side. A small table served as the speaker's desk. The billiard tables had disappeared, and chairs now filled the room.
The crowd that gathered about the door the day of this first service in the saloon was unusually large, for word had gone out that David Bright, the grandfather of their pastor, would speak at the meeting.
The saving of the souls of men had come to be the vital question of the hour in Gila.
As the crowd caught sight of a stately white-haired man accompanying their leader, there was a respectful hush. Men and women stepped aside, leaving a passage to the door. The two entered. The singers were already in their places. The congregation assembled, and the song service began. At its close, there followed an impressive stillness, broken only by the joyous notes of a Kentucky cardinal.
The aged preacher sat with bowed head. One would hardly have been surprised to hear a voice from on high.
At last he rose. Everyone looked intently into his benevolent, kindly face. Slowly and impressively he repeated:
"Repent ye; for the kingdom of Heaven is at hand."
He repeated the words a second time, then took his seat.
Again the pregnant silence. When David Bright rose the second time, he read Matthew III., and closing his Bible spoke to them for an hour, holding their undivided attention.
"Beloved," he said, "this voice is speaking to us to-day. 'Repent ye: for the kingdom of Heaven is at hand.' The kingdom comes to us individually. It comes only as men's hearts are prepared for it."
Then he carried his audience with him as he preached the need of repentance, and Christ's compassionate love for every human soul. His voice rose and fell, and the roughest men listened, while down many faces flowed repentant tears. Oh miracle of miracles,—the turning from sin to righteousness! Oh greatest experience of the human heart,—the entrance of the Divine!
As the godly man took his seat, Esther Bright rose, and sang, with face shining, "I Love to Tell the Story." As she sang, the notes of the Kentucky cardinal burst forth, a joyous accompaniment to her glad song.
To the amazement of all, Ben Keith rose and said:
"I 'ave been a sinful man. May God forgive me. I repent me of my sins. I 'ave led men and women astray in this saloon. May God forgive me. I 'ave determined to turn face about, and to lead an honest life. I 'ave sold my last drop o' whiskey. I 'ave poured all I 'ad left on the ground. I shall keep no more saloon. May God 'ave mercy on my soul, and on the souls of them as I 'ave led astray."
A sob was heard. It came from the long-suffering Mrs. Keith. Then another stood, asking for prayers; then another, then another. Last of all, David Bright rose, and after speaking a few fatherly encouraging words, he dismissed them with the benediction.
He was soon surrounded by men waiting for a word, a hand grasp. They asked for personal conferences with him.
"Let us go down to the timber," suggested Jack Harding. So together these men strolled down to the river bank.
"Thou art troubled about the unpardonable sin, thou sayest?" the preacher said to a young man walking by his side.
"Yes," replied the youth addressed. "I've been a bad one, but now I really want to be a Christian. I fear I have committed the unpardonable sin. Do you suppose—" he asked in a voice that choked a little, "that God could pardon such a sinner as I am?"
"With God all things are possible," reverently replied the other, laying a kindly hand on the young man's shoulder. "The only sin that seems to me to be unpardonable is that unrighteous obstinacy that forever refuses the offer of salvation."
And into the old man's face came an expression of sorrow.
"But if the offer of salvation is forever passed by, what then?" asked another.
"I believe the soul is lost."
"You mean the soul is in a place of fire and torment, literal hell fire?" asked the first speaker.
"I said I believe the soul is lost."
"Then you don't believe in hell?" asked another.
"No," answered David Bright; "not as some believe in it,—literal fire. Spirit or soul is, I believe, immortal. It lives on. To know God, and Jesus Christ, His Son, is eternal life; not to know them is death. To obey the laws of God here on earth means a foretaste of heaven; to disobey them, means a foretaste of hell."
"And you think there can be hell on earth?" asked one.
"Yes: a man's own evil mind and life make for him a constant hell."
"And you believe heaven may begin on earth?"
"I do. Heaven is the rightful heritage of the soul. Heaven is accord with the Divine. It is the natural environment of the soul. It is more natural to do right than wrong. It is evil environment that perverts the soul."
They seated themselves on a dead tree trunk.
"Here," said David Bright, laying his hand on the fallen tree, "you see an illustration of what happens to many a life. Its environment has brought a parasite that lays hold upon the life of the tree, saps its strength, and decay follows. Destructive agencies in a sinful environment lay hold of human life, sap its strength, and moral decay follows. Many a strong man has fallen as has this magnificent tree. Nothing can revitalize the tree once fallen into decay; but, thanks be to God, there is a force that can revitalize the human being long after he seems dead and lost to the world, and that is the redemptive power of Jesus Christ. There is no other name under heaven given among men whereby we must be saved."
The look of one who bears the sorrow of his race upon his heart came into the beautiful face. And the men watched him with deepening reverence for their kind.
One who had thus far been silent spoke.
"But if the soul is immortal, spiritual death cannot come."
The old man looked keenly into the young man's eyes. He spoke with deepest conviction as he said:
"I believe there is almost no limit to the possibilities of the mind and soul to him whose ideals are high, whose courage is great, and who holds himself to the very highest ideals of living. Christ paved the way for such a life for every young man. That sort of life is real living, for it means constructive work in the world. It means growth, immortality.
"To come short of what one might be, steadily, increasingly, brings moral deterioration, atrophy;—to my mind, the saddest form of death. It is life to grow toward the Divine. My son, it will soon be too late. Turn Godward now. Shall we pray?"
Then up to the throne of God went a prayer for these young men,—sons of parents who had long ago lost their grip on them.
For about two weeks, religious meetings were held daily. Night after night the room was crowded. The services consisted of talks by David Bright, songs, short prayers and testimony. Sometimes several men and women would be on their feet at once, eager to voice their repentance, and to testify of God's mercy.
The interest did not end here. Down in the mines, brief meetings were held daily at the noon hour. One group of miners would start a hymn; then way off, another group would catch up the refrain. On many lips the oath or unclean story died unspoken.
Men sought David Bright as they would a father confessor, pouring the story of their lives into his kind and sympathetic ear. They seemed to know intuitively that he was a man of God. What mattered, if he were Catholic or Protestant? He found men evil, and left them good.
And Esther Bright's influence was hardly less marked. Her deep spirituality made her a great power for righteousness.
John Harding seemed scarcely less interested in saving men's souls than she. "Giving men a chance," he called it. He went from mining camp to mining camp, carrying the tidings of salvation, and urging men to repent. And those who heard him not only came to the meetings, but began to bring others also. And so the work grew.
It was at the close of David Bright's second week in Gila that the most impressive meeting was held. At its close, the aged evangelist bade them farewell. Then they crowded about him, thanking him for all he had done for them, and asking him to remember them in his prayers.
Kenneth Hastings was the last to speak with him. He asked for a personal interview. Then arm in arm, they strolled up the mountain road.
What was said during that interview no one ever knew. But when the two returned to Clayton Ranch, David Bright walked with his hand resting on the young man's shoulder. Esther heard her grandfather say to him:
"I honor thee for it, my son. I believe under the same circumstances, I should feel as thou dost. It is a serious question."
Kenneth said something in reply that did not reach Esther's ears. She heard her grandfather speaking again:
"Yes, she is an unusual woman, as thou sayest. She has always been a delightful character, and Christlike in her purity. She is compassionate and loving because she has always walked in the Master's steps."
The two men entered the house, and John Clayton advanced to greet them.
"That was a great meeting," he said.
"Yes," David Bright replied, "God has touched the hearts of the people."
He sat down by his granddaughter, put his arm about her, and drew her to him.
"The field is white unto the harvest, Beloved," he said, looking into her upturned face.
"I hadn't thought of the harvest yet, Grandfather," she said simply. "We have been getting the soil ready to sow good seed at every opportunity. We are on the verge of the growing time."
"Well, well, as you will, little philosopher," he said, releasing her.
It was a lovely picture to see the two side by side. The white head of the one suggested a life work near completion; while the golden brown of the other, suggested life's work at its beginning. Happy would it be if godly and beautiful age could give up its unfinished tasks to those who are content to prepare the soil, and sow good seed, intent on the growing time!
The social hours in the Clayton home that day were ones to be long remembered. David Bright was a man enriched from many sources. He gave himself to his companions in intercourse as rare as it was beautiful. Conversation had never become to him a lost art; it was the flowering out of the life within.
And Kenneth Hastings listened. If he had only had such a father! He was beginning to see it all now,—life's great possibility.
At last he was drawn into the conversation.
"I hardly know," he responded to a question from David Bright. How many things he now realized he "hardly knew!" How vague a notion he had, anyhow, of many questions affecting the destiny of the human race! He thought aloud:
"You see Mr. Bright, I was reared in a worldly home, and I was brought up in the Church of England. My religion is simply a beautiful ritual. But, further than that, I know nothing about it. I never felt any interest in religion until—" here his face flushed "—until your granddaughter came. She found me a heathen—" He hesitated, and glancing toward Esther, caught her glance. How lovely she was! As he hesitated, David Bright finished his sentence, smiling genially as he did so.
"And made you a Christian, I hope."
"I fear not. I am plagued with doubts."
"You will conquer the doubts," responded David Bright, "and be stronger for the struggle. Triumphant faith is worth battling for."
"Well," said Kenneth, "I feel that I am adrift on a great sea. If anyone pilots me to a safe harbor, it will be your granddaughter."
"No," she said, looking into his face with a sudden radiance in her own, "but the Man of Galilee."
And so the talk drifted, talk where each one could be himself and speak out of his innermost heart, and not be misunderstood. So blessed is friendship of the higher sort.
The day passed and the morrow dawned. Then David Bright journeyed eastward again, to minister to the world's unfortunate ones.
He left behind him in Gila an influence that men speak of to this day. But to no one, probably, did his coming mean more than to John Harding. John's transformation was now complete. He became the self-appointed evangelist to numbers of unfortunate and tempted men. He had risen in the scale of life, and had become a Man!