'This,' said the lame man, 'is where I live. My rooms are on the first floor. My name is Henry Fenning. I am a shoemaker. My wife helps me at my trade. Our son lives with us, he's a little chap, just nine, and, like me, he's lame.'
The man had conducted the Stranger to a street opening on to the Brompton Road. Even in that uncertain light it could be seen that the houses stood in need of repairs; they were of irregular construction, small, untidy, old. On the ground floor of the one in which he had paused was a shop, a little one; the shop front was four shutters wide. One surmised, from the pictures on the wall, that it sold sweetstuff and odds and ends. The man's manner was anxious, timid, as if, while desirous that his Visitor should take advantage of such hospitality as he could offer, he yet wished to inform Him as to the kind of place He might expect. The Stranger smiled; there was that in His smile which seemed to fill His companion with a singular sense of elation.
'It is good of you to give Me what you can.'
The shoemaker laughed gently, as if his laughter was inspired by a sudden consciousness of gladness.
'It is good of You to take what I can give.' He opened the door. 'Wait a moment while I show You a light.' Striking a match, he held it above his head. 'Take care how You come in; the boards are rough.' The Stranger, entering, followed His host up the narrow stairs, into a room on the first floor. 'Mary, I have brought you a Visitor.'
At the utterance of the name the Stranger started.
'Mary!' He exclaimed. 'Blessed are you among women!'
It was a small apartment--work-room, living-room, kitchen, all in one. Implements of the shoemaker's trade were here and there; some partly finished boots were on a bench at one side. The man's wife was seated at a sewing-machine, working; she rose, as her husband entered, to give him greeting. She was a rosy-faced woman, of medium height, but broadly built, with big brown eyes, about forty years of age. She observed the Stranger with wondering looks.
'Sir, I seem to know You.'
And the Stranger said:
'I know you.'
The woman turned to her husband.
'Who is this?'
Her husband replied:
'It is the Welcome Guest. Give Him to eat and to drink, and after, He would sleep.'
The woman put some cold meat and cheese and bread upon a small table, which she drew into the centre of the floor.
'Sir, this is all I have.'
'I know it.' He took the chair which her husband offered. 'Come and sit and eat and drink with Me.'
The man and his wife sat with Him at the table, and they ate and drank together. When the meal was finished, He said:
'You are the first that have given Me food. What you have given Me shall be given you, and more.'
Presently the shoemaker came to the Stranger.
'Sir, in our bedroom we have only one bed. If You will sleep in it, my wife will make up another for us here upon the floor. We shall do very well.'
In the bedroom the Stranger saw that a child slept in a little bed which was against a wall. The shoemaker explained.
'It is my son. He will not trouble You. He sleeps very sound.'
The Stranger bent over the bed.
'In his sleep he smiles.'
'Yes, he often does. He has happy dreams. And he comes of a smiling stock.'
The Stranger turned to the lame man.
'Do you often smile?'
'Yes; why not? God has been very good to me.'
'God is good to all alike.'
'That's what my wife and I say to each other; but it's only the lucky ones who know it.'
When the shoemaker and his wife were alone in the living-room together, they kissed and gave thanks unto God. For they said:
'This night the Lord is with us. Blessed is the name of the Lord!'
In the morning, when it was full day, the boy woke up and went to the bed on which the Stranger lay asleep, crying:
'Father!'
And the Stranger was roused, and saw the boy standing at his side. He stretched out His arms to him.
'My son!'
But the boy shrank back.
'You are not my father. Where is my father and my mother?'
'They are in the next room, asleep. They have given Me their bed. And, because they have done so, I am your Father too. So in your sleep you smiled?'
'Did I? I expect it was because I dreamed that I was happy.'
'Was your happiness but a dream?'
'While I was asleep. Now I am awake I know I'm happy.'
'But you are lame?'
'So's father. I don't mind being lame if father is.'
The Stranger was still. He smiled, and touched the child upon the shoulder. And the boy gave a sudden cry. He drew up his night-shirt, and looked down at his right leg.
'Why, it's straight!--like the other.' He began to move about the room. 'I'm not lame! I'm not lame!' All aglow with excitement, he went running through the door. 'Father! mother! my leg's gone straight! I can run about like other boys. Look!--I'm no longer lame!'
When his mother saw that it was so, she took him into her arms and cried:
'My boy! my boy! God be thanked for what He has done to you this day!'
When they saw that the Stranger was standing in the doorway the father and mother were silent. Their hearts were too full to find speech easy. But the boy ran to Him.
'Oh, sir! make father's leg straight like mine!'
The Stranger asked of his father:
'Would you have it so?'
But the lame man answered:
'If it may be, let me stay as I am; for if I had not been lame I might never have known Your face.'
To which the Stranger said:
'That is a true saying. For by suffering eyes are opened; so that he who endures most sees best. For to all men God gives gifts.'
The woman busied herself in making breakfast ready. When they were at table, the lame man said:
'Lord, if You will not stay with us, may we come with You?'
'Nay; you are with Me although you stay. For where My own are, I am.'
'Lord, suffer me to come! Suffer it, Lord!'
'If you will, come, until you find the way too long and the path too hard for your feet to travel; for the road by which I go is not an easy one.' He turned to the woman. 'Do you come also?'
'If You will, I will stay at home, to make ready against You come again.'
He answered:
'You have not chosen the worse part.'
While they had been sitting at breakfast the boy had run out into the street, and told first to one and then to another how, with a touch, a wonderful Stranger had straightened his leg, so that he was no longer lame. And, since they could see for themselves that he was healed of his lameness, the tale was quickly noised about; so that when the Stranger came out of the shoemaker's house, He found that a number of people awaited Him without. A woman came pushing through the crowd, bearing a crooked child in her arms.
'Heal my son also! Make him straight like the other!'
And being moved by pity for the child, He touched him, so that he sprang from his mother's arms, and stood before them whole. And all the people were amazed, saying:
'What manner of man is this, that makes the lame to walk with a touch?'
So when He came out into the Brompton Road He was already attended by a crowd, some crying:
'This is the man who works miracles!'
Others:
'Bring out your sick!'
With each step He took the crowd increased, so that when He came to the narrow part of Knightsbridge the street became choked and the traffic blocked. The people, because there were so many, pressed against Him so that He could not move, and there began to be danger of a riot.
The lame man, who found it difficult to keep close to His side, said to Him:
'Lord, if You do not send them from us we shall be hurt.'
But He replied:
'It is to these I have come, although they know it not. If I send them from us, why did I come?'
When they reached that portion of the road where it grows wider in front of the park, the pressure became less. But still the crowd increased.
'He goes to the hospital,' they cry, 'to heal the sick with a touch.'
And some ran on to St. George's Hospital, and pushed past the porters up the stairs and into the wards, and began to lift the sick out of their beds. And those who could walk, being persuaded by them that had run on, went out into the streets. So that when He came, He found awaiting Him a strange collection of the sick, who were ill of all manner of diseases. And the people cried:
'Heal them!--heal them with a touch!'
But He replied:
'What is it you ask of Me? I came not to heal the sick, but to call sinners to repentance.'
They cried the more:
'Heal them!--heal them with a touch!'
'If I heal them, what then? Of what shall they be healed? Of what avail to heal the body if the spirit continues sick?'
But they persisted in their exclamations. While still they pressed on Him, an inspector of police edged his way through the crowd.
'I don't know who you are, sir, but you are doing a very dangerous thing in causing these people to behave like this.'
'Suffer Me first to do as they ask.'
He stretched out His hand and touched those that were sick, so that they were whole. But when they came to look for Him who had done them this service, behold He was gone. And the lame man had gone with Him.
He came, with His disciple to a gate which led into a field, through which there ran a stream. It was high noon. He entered the gate, and sat beside the stream. And the lame man sat near by. The Stranger watched the water as it plashed over the stones on its race to the mill. When presently He sighed, the lame man said:
'I have money; there is a village close handy. Let me go and buy food, and bring it to you here.'
But He answered:
'We shall not want for food. There is one who comes to offer it to us now.'
Even as He spoke a carriage drew up in the road on the other side of the hedge. A lady, standing up in it, looked through a pair of glasses into the field. Bidding the footman open the carriage-door, alighting, she came through the gate to where He sat with His disciple beside the stream. She was a woman of about forty years of age, very richly dressed. As she walked, with her skirts held well away from the grass, she continued to stare through the glasses, which were attached to a long gold handle. Looking from one to the other, her glance rested, on the Stranger.
I Are you the person of whom such extraordinary stories are being told? You look it--you must be--you are. George Horley just told me he saw you on the Shaldon Road. I don't know how he knew it was you-- and his manner was most extraordinary--but he's a sharp fellow, and I shouldn't be surprised if he was right. Tell me, are you that person?'
'I am He that you know not of.'
'My dear sir, that doesn't matter one iota. What I've heard of you is sufficient introduction for me. I don't know if you're aware that this field is mine, and that you're trespassing. I'm very particular about not allowing the villagers to come in here--they will go after the mushrooms. But if you'll take a seat in my carriage I shall be very happy to put you up for a day or two. I'm Mrs. Montara, of Weir Park. I have some very delightful people staying with me, who will be of the greatest service to you in what I understand is your propaganda. Most interesting what I've heard of you, I'm sure.' The Stranger was silent. 'Well, will you come?'
'Woman, return to your own place. Leave Me in peace.'
'I don't admire your manners, my good man, especially after my going out of my way to be civil to you. Is that all the answer you have to give?'
'What have I to do with you, or you with Me? I am not that new thing which you seek. I am of old.'
He looked at her. The great lady shrank back a little, as if abashed.
'Whoever you are, I shall be glad to have you as my guest.'
'I am not found in rich women's houses. They are too poor. They offer nothing. They seek only to obtain.'
'I offer you, in the way of hospitality, whatever you may want.'
'You cannot offer Me the one thing which I desire.'
'What is that?'
'That you should know Me even as you are known. For unless you know Me I have nothing, and less than nothing, and there is nothing in the world that is at all to be desired. For if I have come unto Mine own, and they know Me not, then My coming indeed is vain. Go! Strip yourself and your house, and be ashamed. In the hour of your shame come to Me again.'
'If that's the way you talk to me, get up and leave my field, before I have you locked up for trespass.'
He stood up, and said to the lame man:
'Come!'
And they went out of the field, and passed through that place without staying to eat or drink. In the next village an old woman, who was standing at a cottage gate, stopped them as they were passing on.
'You are tired. Come in and rest.'
And they entered into her house. And she gave them food, refusing the money which the lame man offered.
'I have a spare bedroom. You can have it if you'd like to stay the night, and you'll be kindly welcome.'
So they stayed with her that night.
And in the morning, while it was yet early, they arose and went upon their way. And when they had gone some distance they heard on the road behind them the sound of a horse's hoofs. And when they turned, they saw that a wagonette was being driven hotly towards them. When, on reaching them, it stopped, they saw that it contained five men. One, leaning over the side, said to the Stranger:
'Are you he we are looking for?' The Stranger replied:
'I am He whom you seek.'
'That is,' added a second man, 'you are the individual who is stated to have been performing miracles in London?'
The Stranger only said:
'I am He whom you seek.'
'In that case,' declared the first speaker, 'we are very fortunate.'
He scrambled out on to the road, a short, burly man, with restless bright eyes and an iron-gray beard. He wore a soft, round, black felt hat, and was untidily dressed. He seemed to be in perpetual movement, in striking contrast to the Stranger's immutable calm.
'Will you come with us in the wagonette?' he demanded. 'Or shall we say what we have to say to you here? It is early; we're in the heart of the country; no one seems about. If we cross the stile which seems to lead into that little copse, we could have no better audience-chamber, and need fear no interruption.'
'Say what you have to say to Me here.'
'Good! Then, to begin with, we'll introduce ourselves.'
His four companions were following each other out of the wagonette. As they descended he introduced each one in turn.
'This is Professor Wilcox Wilson, the pathologist. Professor Wilson does not, however, confine himself to one subject, but is interested in all live questions of the day; and, while he keeps an open mind, seeks to probe into the why and wherefore of all varieties of phenomena. This is the Rev. Martin Philipps, the eminent preacher and divine, who joins to a liberal theology a far-reaching interest in the cause of suffering humanity. Augustus Jebb, perhaps the greatest living authority on questions of social science and the welfare of the wage-earning classes. John Anthony Gibbs, who may be said to represent the religious conscience of England in the present House of Commons. I myself am Walter S. Treadman, journalist, student, preacher, and, I hope, humanitarian. I only know that where there is a cry of pain, there my heart is. I heard that you were in this neighbourhood, and lost no time in requesting these gentlemen to associate themselves with me in the appeal which I am about to make to you. Therefore I beg of you to regard me as, in a sense, a deputation from England. Your answer will be given to England. And on that account, if no other, we implore you to weigh, with the utmost care, any words which you may utter. To come to the point: Do we understand you to assert that the feats with which you have set all London agape are, in the exact sense of the word, miraculous--that is, incapable of a natural interpretation?'
'Why do you speak such words to Me?'
'For an obvious reason. England is at heart religious. Though, for the moment, she may seem torpid, it needs but a breath to fan the smouldering embers into a mighty blaze which will light the world, and herald in the brightness of the eternal dawn. If these things which you have done are of God, then you must be of Him, and from Him, and may be the bearer of a message to the myriads whose ears are strained to listen. Therefore I implore you to answer.'
'What I have done, I have done not as a sign, nor to be magnified in the eyes of men, but to dry the tears which were in their eyes.'
'Then they were miracles. So the question at once assumes another phase--Who are you?'
'I am He whom you know not of, though you call often on My name.'
'You are the Christ--the Lord Christ?'
Professor Wilson laid his hand on Mr. Treadman's arm.
'You go too fast. No such assertion has been made; no such claim has been put forth. I may add that there has been no such outrage on good taste.'
The Rev. Martin Philipps interposed.
'Good taste is not necessarily outraged by such a claim; or, if it is now, it was also at the first. Jesus was a man, such as we are, such as this one here.'
Mr. Jebb agreed.
'And a labouring man at that. He worked with His own hands--a wage-earner if ever there was one.'
'But,' pleaded the Professor, 'at least something was known of His pedigree, of His credentials.'
'I am not so sure of that.'
'Nor I.'
'At any rate, let us proceed as if we were reasonable beings, and actuated by the dictates of common-sense. Permit me to put one or two questions: Are you an Englishman?'
'I am of a country which also you know not of. Thither I return to meet Mine own.'
'Your answer is evasive. Allow me to point out, with the greatest possible deference, that it is on record how Jesus originally damaged His own case by the vagueness of the replies which He gave to questions and the want of lucidity which characterised His description of Himself. If you claim any, even the remotest, connection with Him, let me advise you to avoid His errors.'
'You know not what you say, you fool of wisdom!'
'Lord,' cried Mr. Treadman,' I believe--help Thou my unbelief! I believe because faith is the great want of the age, and it shall remove mountains; I believe because belief is like the pinch of yeast which, being dropped into the dough, leavens the whole. The leaven spreads through the whole body politic, so that out of a little thing proceeds a great. And, Lord, suffer Thy servant to entreat with Thee. Lose no time. Thy people wait--have waited long; they cry aloud; they look always for the little speck upon the sky; they lift up their hands and beat against heaven's gates. Speak but the word--the one word which Thou canst speak so easily! A whole world will leap into Thy arms.'
'Their will, not mine, be done?'
'Nay, Lord, not so--not so! Esteem me not guilty of such presumption; but I have lived among them, and have seen how the world labours and is in pain, and how Thy people are crushed beneath heavy burdens which press them down almost to the confines of the pit. And therefore out of the fulness and anguish of my knowledge I cry: Lord, come quickly--come quickly! Lose not a moment's time!'
'Your knowledge is greater than Mine?'
'Nay, Lord, I do not say that, nor think it. But Thou art immortal; Thy children are mortal--very mortal. I understand the agony of longing with which they look for Your presence--Your very presence-- in their midst.'
'They that know Me know that I am ever with them. They that do not know Me know not that they see Me before their eyes.'
'You speak in a spiritual sense, I in a material. I know with what a passionate yearning they desire to see you with their mortal eyes, flesh of their flesh, bone of their bone--a man like unto themselves.'
'You also seek a sign?'
'Who does not seek a sign? The soldier watches for the sign which shows that his general is in command; the child looks for the sign which proclaims his parent is at hand; the explorer searches for the sign which shows his guide is leading him aright. There is chaos where there is no sign.'
'Did I not say I am He you know not of? Those who know Me need no sign.'
'Nor, in that sense, do I need one either. I have been unfortunate in my choice of words if I have conveyed the impression that I do.'
'I have suffered you too much.' He turned to the lame man. 'Come!'
The Stranger and His disciple were continuing on their way when Mr. Treadman's companions placed themselves in the path.
'Mr. Treadman's well-known command of language,' explained the Professor, 'is likely to obscure the purpose of our presence here. We have come to ask you to accompany us to town as our guest, and to avail yourself of our services in placing, in the most efficient and practical manner possible, your views and wishes before the country as a whole.'
'In other words,' observed the Rev. Martin Philipps, 'we are here as the Lord's servants, desirous to do His work and His will.'
'Having at heart,' continued Mr. Jebb, 'the welfare--spiritual, moral, and physical--of the struggling millions.'
'Acting also,' added Mr. Gibbs, 'as the mouthpiece of Christ's kingdom as it exists in our native land.'
The Professor's tone, as he commented on his colleagues' remarks, was a little grim.
'What my friends say is, no doubt, very excellent in its way; but the main point still is--Will you come with us? If so, here is a conveyance. You have only to jump in at once, and we shall be in time to catch a fast train back to town. My strong advice to you is, Be practical, and come.'
'Suffer Me to go My way.'
'Is that your answer? Remember that history records how, on a previous occasion, a great opportunity was frittered away for lack of a little business acumen. There can be no doubt that the great need of the hour is a practical religion. It is quite within the range of possibility that you might go far towards placing such a propaganda on a solid basis. Consider, therefore; before you treat our offer with contempt.'
He made no answer, but went along the road, with the lame man at His side.
For some seconds the deputation stood staring after Him. Then the Professor gave expression to his feelings in these words:
'An impracticable person.'
The Rev. Martin Philipps had something to say on this curt summing up of the position.
'I think, Professor, that what you call practicality is likely to be your stumbling-block. In your sense, God is not always practical.'
'In a country of practical men that is unfortunate.'
'When you say practical you mean material. There is something higher than materiality.'
'The material and the spiritual, Philipps, are more closely allied than you may suppose. It is useless to ask a mere man to give primary attention to his spiritual wants when, in a material sense, he lacks everything. To formulate such a demand, even by inference, is to play into the hands of the plutocracy.'
'Still,' remarked Mr. Gibbs,' I think there might have been more said of the things of the soul, and less of the things of the body. It is the soul of England we are here to plead for, not its mere corporeal husk.'
While they talked Mr. Treadman stood looking after the retreating Stranger. Suddenly he started running, calling as he went:
'Lord, Lord, suffer that I may come with You!'
He went on, with the lame man at His side, and Mr. Treadman at His heels, calling persistently: 'Suffer that I may come with You!' until presently He turned, saying:
'Why do you continue to entreat that I should suffer you? Have I forbidden you to come?'
For a time Mr. Treadman was still. But continually he broke again into speech, talking of this thing and of that.
But there was none that answered him.
They lay that night at the house of a certain curate, who stopped the Stranger, saying:
'You are he of whom I have heard?'
Mr. Treadman said:
'It is the Lord--the Lord Christ! He has come again!'
The Stranger rebuked Mr. Treadman.
'Peace! Why do you trouble Me with your babbling tongue?' To the curate He said: 'What do you want of Me?'
'Nothing but to offer you shelter for the night. I cannot give you much, for I am poor, and have a small house and a large family, but such as I have is at your service. Not that I wish you to understand that my action marks my approval of your proceedings, of which, as I say, I have heard. For I am an ordained priest of the Church of England, and have sufficient trouble with dissent and such-like fads already. But I am a Christian, and, I trust, a gentleman, and in that dual capacity would not wish one of whom I have heard such remarkable things to remain in need of shelter when near my house.'
So they went with the curate. But the family was found to be so large, and the house so small, that there was not room within its walls for three unexpected guests. So it was arranged that they would sleep in the loft over the stable where hay was kept. Thither, after supper, the Stranger and the lame man repaired. But Mr. Treadman remained talking to the host.
They stood outside the house in the moonlight, looking towards the loft in which the Stranger sought slumber.
'That is a good man,' said the curate, 'and a strange one. He has filled my mind with curious thoughts.'
'It is the Lord! said Mr. Treadman.
'The Lord?' The curate regarded the speaker with a peculiar smile. 'Are you mad, sir? Or do you think I am?'
'It is the Lord!' Mr. Treadman held out his clenched fists in front of him, as if to add weight to his assertion. 'I know it of a surety!'
'Does it not occur to you what an awful thing it would be if what you say were true?' Awful? How awful?'
'When He came before He found them unprepared--so unprepared that they could not believe it was He. What would it not mean if, at His Second Coming, He found us still unready? He might be moving among us, and we not know it; we might meet Him in the street, and pass Him by. The human mind is not at its best when it is wholly unprepared: it cannot twist itself hither and thither without even a moment's notice. And our civilisation is so complex that the first result of an unexpected Advent would be to plunge it into chaos. Saints and sinners alike would be thrown off their balance. There would be a carnival of confusion. The tragedy which rings down the ages might be re-enacted. Christ might be crucified again by Christian hands.'
'We must avoid it! We must avoid it! We must prepare the people's minds; we must let them know that His reign is about to begin. They need but the knowledge to fill the world with songs of gladness.'
'You really believe your friend is a supernatural being?'
'It is the Lord! I know it of a surety! You call yourself His minister. Is it possible you do not know Him, too?'
'No; I do not. For one thing, I do not think that, really and truly, I have ever contemplated the possibility of such an occurrence. To me the Second Coming has been an abstraction--a nebulous something that would not happen in my time. Yet he troubles me, the more so since I remember that good men must have stood in His presence aforetime, and yet not have known Him for what He was, although He troubled them. However, it may be written to the good of my account that for your friend I have done what I could.'
The curate returned into his house. But it was long before Mr. Treadman sought the shelter of the loft. He passed here and there in an agony of mind which grew greater as the night went on. By the light of the waning moon he wrought himself into a frenzy of supplication.
'O Lord, I say it in no spirit of irreverence, but in a sense, You do not understand the idiosyncrasies and character of those to whom You are about to appeal. To come to them unheralded, to move about among them unannounced, will be useless--ah, and worse than useless! O Lord, do not take them by surprise. Sound, at least, one trumpet blast. Come to them as You should come--as their Christ and King. It needs such a very little, and You will have them at Your feet. Do not lose all for want of such a little. Let me tell them You are on the way, that You are here, that You are in their very midst. Let me be John Baptist. I promise You that I shall not be a voice crying in the wilderness, but that at the proclamation of the tidings, trumpeted by all the presses of the land, and from ten thousand pulpits, from all the cities and the villages will issue happy, hot-footed crowds, eager to look upon the face they have had pictured in their hearts their whole lives long, and on the form they have yearned to see, filled with but one desire--to lay themselves at the feet of their Christ and King! But, Lord, if no one tells them You are here, how shall they know it? They are but foolish folk, fashioned as Thou knowest they are fashioned. If You come upon them at the market or the meeting, and take them unawares, they will not know that it is You. Suffer me first to spread the glad tidings through all the land. I have but to put a plain statement on the wires, and foot it with my name, and there is not a newspaper in an English-speaking country which will not give it a prominent place in its morning's issue. Suffer me at least to do so much as that.'
The figure of the Stranger appeared at the door which led into the loft; and He spoke to Mr. Treadman, saying:
'You know not what are the things of which you speak, as is the manner of men. Are you, then, so ignorant as not to be aware that God's ways are not as men's? Let your soul cease from troubling. God asks not to learn of you. He made you; He holds you in the hollow of His hand; you are the dust of the balance. Come, and sleep.'
Mr. Treadman went up into the loft, crying like a child. Almost as soon as he laid himself down among the sweetness of the hay his tears were dried, and his eyes were closed in slumber. And he and the lame man slept together.
But the Stranger sought not sleep. Through the night He did not close His eyes. As the day came near He stood looking down upon the sleepers. And His face was sorrowful.
'Men are but little children: if they had but the heart of a child!'
And He went down the loft out into the morning.
And presently the lame man woke up and found that he was alone with Mr. Treadman. So he began to scramble down the ladder. As he went, because of his haste and his lameness, he stumbled and fell. The noise of his fall woke Mr. Treadman, who hurried down the ladder also. At the foot he found the lame man, who was rising to his feet.
'Are you hurt?' he asked.
'I think not. I am only shaken. The Lord has gone!'
'Gone! Lean on me. We will find Him.'
The two went out into the lifting shadows, the lame man on Mr. Treadman's arm. The country was covered by a morning mist. It was damp and cold. The light was puzzling. Mr. Treadman looked to the right and left.
'Which way can He have gone?'
'There! there He is! I see Him on the road. My leg is better; let us hasten. We shall catch Him.'
'No. Do not let us catch Him. Let us follow and see which way He goes. I have a reason.'
'But He will know you are following, and your reason.'
'May be. Still let us follow.'
Mr. Treadman had his way. They followed at a distance. As was his habit, Mr. Treadman talked as he went.
'It is strange that He should try to leave us like this, when He knows that we would leave no stone unturned to follow Him, through life, to death.'
'It is not strange. He does nothing strange.'
'You think not?'
'How can the Lord of all the earth do wrong?'
'There is something in that.' Mr. Treadman was still for a time. 'Yet He runs a great risk of wrecking His entire cause.' The lame man said nothing. 'It is necessary that the people should be told that He is coming, that their minds should be prepared. If they have authentic information of His near neighbourhood, then He will triumph at once and for always. If not--if He comes on them informally, unheralded, unannounced, then there will be a frightful peril of His cause being again dragged in the mire.'
Yet the lame man said nothing. But Mr. Treadman continued to talk, apparently careless of the fact that he had the conversation to himself.
When they came to a place where there were cross-roads, and Mr. Treadman saw which way He went, he caught the lame man by the arm.
'I thought as much! He's heading for London.'
Taking out a note-book, he began to write in it with a fountain pen, still continuing to walk and to talk.
'I know this country well. There's a telegraph-office about a mile along the road. It ought to be open by the time we get there. If it isn't, I'll rouse them up. I'll send word to some friends of mine-- men and women whose lifelong watchword has been God and His gospel-- that He is coming. They will run to meet Him. They will bring with them some of the brightest spirits now living; and He will have a foretaste of that triumph which, if matters are properly organised, awaits Him. He shall enter on His inheritance as the Christ and King, and pain, sin, sorrow, shall cease throughout the world, if He will but suffer me to make clear the way. Tell me, my friend,--you don't appear to be a loquacious soul,--don't you think that to be prepared is half the battle?'
But the lame man made no reply. He only kept his eyes fixed on the Figure which went in front.
His companion's irresponsive mood did not appear to trouble Mr. Treadman. He never ceased to talk and write, except when he broke into the words of a hymn, which he sung in a loud, clear voice, as if he wished that all the country-side should hear.
'There,' he cried, after they had gone some distance, 'is the place I told you of. The village is just round the bend in the road. If I remember rightly, the post-office is on the left as you enter. Soon the telegraph shall be on the side of the Lord, and the glad tidings be flashing up to town. We're not twenty miles from London. Within an hour a reception committee should be on the way. Before noon many longing eyes will have looked with knowledge on the face of the Lord; and joyful hearts shall sing: "Hosanna in the highest! Hallelujah! Christ has come!"'
On their coming to the village Mr. Treadman made haste to the post-office. It was not yet open. He began a violent knocking at the door.
'I must rouse them up. Official hours are as nothing in such a case as this. I must get my messages upon the wires at once, whatever it may cost.'
The lame man made all haste to reach the Stranger that went in front, passing alone through the quiet village street.