There was in the house that night one person who did not attempt to sleep--its mistress, Mrs. Miriam Powell, a woman of character; a fact which was sufficiently demonstrated by the name by which she was best known to the world. For when the Christian name of a married woman is familiar to the public it is because she is a person of marked individuality.
Something of her history was notorious; not only within a large circle of acquaintance, but outside of it. It had lost nothing in the telling. An unhappy marriage; a loose-living husband--a man who was in more senses than one unclean; a final resolution on her part to live out her life alone. Out of these data she had evolved a set of opinions on sexual questions to which she endeavoured to induce anyone and everyone, in season and out of season, to listen. There were some who regarded her with sympathy, some with admiration, some with respect, and some with fatigue.
In such cases women are apt to be regarded as representatives of a class; as abstractions, not concrete facts. The accident of her having had a bad husband was known to all the world; that she was herself the victim of a temperament was not. She was of the stuff out of which saints and martyrs may have been made, which is not necessarily good material out of which to make a wife. Enthusiasm was a necessity of her existence--not the frothy, fleeting frenzy of a foolish female, but an enduring possession of the kind which makes nothing of fighting with beasts at Ephesus. Although she herself might not be aware of it, the nature of her matrimonial experiences had given her what her instincts craved for: a creed--sexual reform.
She maintained that sexual intercourse was a thing of horror; the cause of all the evil which the world contains. Although she was wise enough not to proclaim the fact, in her heart she was of opinion that it would be better that the race should die out rather than that the evil should continue. She aimed at what she called universal chastity; maintaining that the less men and women had to do with each other the better. In pursuit of this chimera she performed labours which, if not worthy of Hercules, at least resembled those of Sisyphus in that they had to be done over and over again. The stone would not stay at the top of the hill.
At the outset she had been convinced--as the fruit of her own experience--that the fault lay with the men. Latterly she had been inclining more and more to the belief that the women had something to do with it as well. Indeed, she was beginning to more than suspect that theirs might be the major part of the blame. The suspicion filled her with a singular sort of rage.
This was the person to whose house the Stranger had come at this particular stage of her mental development. His advent had brought her to the verge of what is called madness in the case of an ordinary person of to-day; and spiritual exaltation in the case of saints and martyrs. She already knew that she was on a hopeless quest, and, although the fact did not daunt her for a moment, had realised that nothing short of a miracle would bring about that change in the human animal which she desired. Here was the possibility of a miracle actually at hand. Here was a worker of wonders--men said, the very Christ.
It was the reflection that what men said might be true which made her courage quail at last.
A miracle-monger she desired. But--the Christ! To formulate the proposition which was whirling in her brain to a doer-of-strange-deeds was one thing, but--to Him! That was another.
When she had come into His near neighbourhood she had shrunk back, a frightened creature. She had been afraid to look Him in the face. Ever since He had been beneath her roof she had been shaken as with palsy.
Dare she do this thing?
That was the problem which had been present in her mind the whole day long, and which still racked it in the silent watches of the night. To and fro she passed, from room to room, from floor to floor. More than once she approached the door behind which He was, only to start away from it again and flee. She did not even dare to kneel at His portal, fearful lest He, knowing she was there, might come out and see. In her own chamber she scanned the New Testament in search of words which would comfort and encourage her. In vain. The sentences seemed to rise up from off the printed pages to condemn her.
She had an idea. The lame man and the charcoal-burner were the joint occupants of a spare room. She would learn from them what manner of man their Master was--whether He might be expected to lend a sympathetic ear to such a supplication as that which she had it in her heart to make. But when she stood outside their apartment she reflected that they were common fellows. Her impulse had been to refuse them shelter, being at a loss to understand what connection there could be between her guest and such a pair. That they had thrust themselves upon Him she thought was probable; the more reason, therefore, why she should decline to countenance their presumptuous persistence. To seek from them advice or information would be an act of condescension which would be as resultless as undignified.
No. Better go directly to the fountainhead. That would be the part both of propriety and wisdom.
She screwed her courage to the sticking-point, and went.
The two disciples were lodged in an upper story. She had her knuckles against the panel of their door when at last her resolution was arrived at. Straightway relinquishing her former purpose, she hastened down the stairs to the floor on which He was. As she went the clock in the hall struck three.
The announcement of the hour moved her to fresh irresolution. Would it be seemly to rouse Him out of slumber to press on Him such a petition? Yet if she did not do it now, when could she? She might never again have such an opportunity. Were His ears not always open to the prayers of those that stood in need of help? What difference did the night or the morning make to Him? She put out her hand towards the door.
As she did so a great fear came over her. It was as though she was stricken with paralysis. She could neither do as she intended nor withdraw her hand. She remained as one rooted to the floor. How long she stayed she did not know. The seconds and the minutes passed, and still she did not move. Presently her fear grew greater. She knew, although she had not made a sound, that, conscious of her presence, He was coming towards her on the other side of the door.
Then the door was opened, and she saw Him face to face. He did not speak a word; and she was still. The gift of fluent speech for which she was notorious had gone from her utterly. He looked at her in such fashion that she was compelled to meet His eyes, though she would have given all that she had to have been able to escape their scrutiny. For in them was an eloquence which was not of words, and a quality which held her numb. For she was conscious not only that He knew her, in a sense of which she had never dreamed in her blackest nightmares, but that He was causing her to know herself. In the fierce light of that self-knowledge her heart dried up within her. She saw herself as what she was--the embittered, illiberal, narrow-minded woman who, conscious of her isolation, had raised up for herself a creed of her own--a creed which was not His. She saw how, with the passage of the years, her persistence in this creed had forced her farther and farther away from Him, until now she had grown to have nothing in common with Him, since she had so continually striven to bring about the things which He would not have. She had placed herself in opposition to His will, and now had actually come to solicit His endorsement of her action. And she knew that in so doing she had committed the greatest of all her sins.
She did not offer her petition. But when the door was closed again, and He had passed from her actual sight, there stood without one from whose veins the wine of life had passed, and whose hair had become white as snow. Although not a word had been spoken, she had stood before the Judgment Seat, and tasted of more than the bitterness of death. When she began to return to her own room she had to feel her way with her hands. Her sight had become dim, her limbs feeble. She had grown old.
All through the night people remained in the street without. With the return of day their numbers so increased that the authorities began to be concerned. The house itself was besieged. It was with difficulty that the police could keep a sufficient open space in front to enable persons to pass in and out. An official endeavoured to represent to the inmates the authoritative point of view.
'Whose house is this?' he asked of the servant who opened the door.
He was told.
'Can I see Mrs. Powell?'
The maid seemed bewildered.
'We don't know what's the matter with her. We're going to send for a doctor.'
'Is she ill?'
'She's grown old since last night.'
'What do you mean?'
The officer stared. The girl began to cry.
'I want to get away. I'm frightened.'
'Don't be silly. What have you got to be frightened at? Can't I see someone who's responsible? I don't know who you've got in the house, but whoever it is, he'd better go before there's trouble.'
'They say it's Christ.'
'Christ or no Christ, I tell you he'd better go somewhere where his presence won't be the occasion of a nuisance. Is there no one I can see?'
'I am here.' The answer came from Mr. Treadman, who, with three other persons, had just entered the hall. 'What is it, constable? Is there anything you want?'
'I don't know who you are, sir, but if you're the cause of the confusion outside you're incurring a very serious responsibility.'
'I am not the cause; it is not me they have come to see. They have come to see the Lord. Officer, Christ has come again.'
Mr. Treadman laid his hand upon the official's arm; who instantly shook it off again.
'I know nothing about that; I want to know nothing. I only know that no one has a right to cause a nuisance.'
'Cause a nuisance? Christ! Officer, are you mad?'
'I don't want to talk to you. I have my instructions; they're enough for me. My instructions are to see that the nuisance is abated. The best way to do that is to induce your friend to take himself somewhere else without any fuss.' Voices came from the street. 'Do you hear that? A lot of half-witted people have foolishly brought their sick friends, and have actually got them out there, as if this was some sort of hospital at which medical attendance could be had for the asking. If anything happens to those sick people, it won t be nice for whoever is to blame.'
'Nothing will happen. The Lord has only to raise His hand, to say the word, for them to be made whole. They know it; their faith has made them sure.'
The officer regarded the other for a moment or two before he spoke again.
'Look here, I don't know what your game is----'
'Game?'
'And I don't know what new religion it is you're supposed to be teaching----'
'New religion? The religion we are teaching is as old as the hills.'
'Very well; then that's all right. You take it to the hills; there'll be more room there. You tell your friend that the sooner he takes a trip into the country the better it'll be for everyone concerned.'
'Officer, don't you understand what it means when you are told that Christ has come again? Can it be possible that you are not a Christian?'
The official waved his hand.
'The only thing about which I'm concerned is my duty, and my duty is to carry out my instructions. If, as I say, your friend is a sensible man, he'll change his quarters as soon as he possibly can. You'll find me waiting outside, to know what he intends to do. Don't keep me any longer than you can help.'
The official's disappearance was followed by a momentary silence; then Mr. Treadman laughed awkwardly, as if his sense of humour had been tickled by something which was not altogether pleasant.
'That is the latest touch of irony, that Christ should be regarded as a common nuisance, and on His Second Coming to be the Judge of all the earth requested to take Himself elsewhere!'
The Rev. Martin Philipps pursed his lips.
'What you say is correct enough; it is a ludicrous notion. But, on the other hand, the position is not a simple one. If, as they bid fair to do, the people flock here in huge crowds, at the very least there will be confusion, and the police will have difficulty in keeping order.'
'You would not have the people refrain from coming to greet their Lord?'
'I would nave them observe some method. Do you yourself wish that they should press upon Him in an unmanageable mob?'
'Have no fear of that. He will hold them in the hollow of His hand, and will see that they observe all the method that is needed. For my part, I'd have them flock to Him from all the corners of the earth-- and they will.'
'In that case I trust that they will not endeavour to pack themselves within the compass of the London streets.'
'Be at peace, my friend; do not let yourself be troubled. All that He shall do will be well. Now, first, to see our dear sister, whose request He granted, and whom He so greatly blessed by staying beneath her roof.'
As he spoke, turning, he saw a figure coming down the stairs--an old woman, who tottered from tread to tread, clinging to the banister, as if she needed it both as a guide and a support.
'Who is this?' he asked. Then: 'It can't be Mrs. Powell?' It was. He ran to her. 'My dear friend, what has happened to you since I saw you last?'
The old woman, grasping the banister with both hands, looked down at him.
'I have seen Him face to face!'
'Seen whom?'
'Christ. I have stood before the judgment-seat of God.'
There was a quality in her voice which, combined with the singularity and even horror of her appearance, caused them to stare at her with doubting eyes. Mr. Treadman put a question to the servant, who still lingered in the passage:
'What does she mean? What has taken place?'
The girl began again to whimper.
'I don't know. I want to go--I daren't stop--I'm frightened!'
Mr. Treadman ascended to the old woman.
'Take my arm; let me help you down, then you can tell me all that has happened.'
With her two hands she caught his arm in a convulsive grip. At her touch they saw that his countenance changed. As they descended side by side upon his face was a curious expression, almost as if he was afraid of his companion. As she came the others retreated. When he led her into a room the others followed at a distance, showing a disposition to linger in the doorway. He brought her to a chair.
'Here is a seat. Sit down.'
She glanced with her dim eyes furtively to the front and back, to the right and left, continuing to clutch his arm, as if unwilling to relinquish its protection. He was obviously embarrassed.
'Did you not hear what I said? Here is a seat. Let me go.'
She neither answered nor showed any signs of releasing him. He called to those in the doorway:
'Come and help me, someone; she grips my arm as in a vice. Mrs. Powell, I must insist upon your doing as I request. Let me go!'
With a sudden wrench he jerked himself away. Deprived of his support, she dropped on to the ground. Indifferent to her apparent helplessness, he hurried to the trio at the door.
'There's something awful about her--worse than madness. She has given me quite a nervous shock.'
'General' Robins answered; he was one of the three who had come with Mr. Treadman.
'As she herself says, she has seen Him face to face. Wait till we also have seen Him face to face. God help us all!'
The Rev. Martin Philipps fidgeted.
'Without wishing to countenance any extravagant theories, it is plain that something very strange has happened to Mrs. Powell. I trust that we ourselves are incurring no unnecessary risks.'
Mr. Jebb, who also had come with Mr. Treadman, regarded the speaker in a manner which was not flattering.
'You religious people are always thinking of yourselves. It is because you are afraid of what will happen to what you call your souls that you try to delude yourselves with the pretence that you believe; regarding faith as a patent medicine warranted to cure all ills. You might find indifference to self a safer recipe.'
Picking up Mrs. Powell from where she still lay upon the floor, he placed her in a chair.
'My good lady, the proper place for you is in bed.' He called to the maid: 'See that your mistress is put to bed at once, and a doctor sent for.'
'A doctor,' cried Mr. Treadman, 'when the Great Healer Himself is upstairs!'
'You appear to ignore the fact that, according to your creed, the Great Healer, as you call him, metes out not rewards only, but punishments as well. He is not a doctor to whom you have only to offer a fee to command his services.'
'General' Robins caught at the words.
'He does ignore it; and by his persistence in so doing he makes our peril every moment greater.'
'At the same time,' continued Mr. Jebb, 'it is just as well that we should keep our heads. A person of Mrs. Powell's temperament and history may pass from what she was to what she is in the twinkling of an eye without the intervention of anything supernatural. So much is certain.'
Mr. Treadman, who had been wiping his brow with his pocket-handkerchief, as if suffering from a sudden excess of heat, joined in the conversation.
'My dear friend, God moves in a mysterious way. We all know that. Let us not probe into His actions in this or that particular instance, but rest content with the general assurance that all things work together for the good of those that love the Lord. Let us not forget the errand which has brought us here. Let us lose no more time, but use all possible expedition in opening our hearts to Him.'
'I wish, Treadman, since you are not a parson, that you wouldn't ape the professional twang. Isn't ordinary English good enough for you?'
'My dear Jebb, you are pleased to be critical. My sole desire is to speak of Him with all possible reverence.'
'Then be reverent in decent every-day English. Are you suggesting that we should seek his presence? Because, if so I'm ready.'
It seemed, however, that the other two were not. 'General' Robins openly confessed his unwillingness to, as he put it, meet the Stranger face to face. Nor was Mr. Philipps's eagerness in that direction much greater than his. Even Mr. Treadman showed signs of a chastened enthusiasm. It needed Mr. Jebb's acerbity to rekindle the expiring flame. Mr. Treadman repudiated the hints which his associate threw out with a show both of heat and scorn.
Soon the quartette were mounting the stairs which led to the Stranger's room. On the landing there was a pause. The 'General' and Mr. Philipps, whose unwillingness to proceed further had by no means vanished, still lagged behind. Mr. Jebb lashed them with his tongue.
'What's wrong with you? Is it spiritual fear or physical? In either case, what fine figures you both present! All these years you have been sounding your trumpets, proclaiming that you are Christ's, and Christ is yours; that the only thing for which you have yearned is His return. Now see how you shiver and shake! Is it because you are afraid that He has come, or because you fear He hasn't?'
'I don't think,' stammered Mr. Philipps, 'that you are entitled to say I am afraid--other than in the sense in which every true believer must be afraid when he finds himself standing on the threshold of the Presence.'
The 'General' was more candid.
'I fear, I fear! He knows me altogether! He knows I fear!'
Mr. Treadman endeavoured to return to his old assurance.
'Come, my friends, let us fear nothing. Whether we live we are the Lord's; or whether we die we are the Lord's, blessed be the name of the Lord! Let us rejoice and make glad, and enter into His presence with a song.'
Without knocking, turning the handle of the door in front of which they stood, he went into the room. Mr. Jebb went with him. After momentary hesitation, the Rev. Martin Philipps followed after. But 'General' Robins stayed without. It was as if he made an effort to force his feet across the threshold, and as if they refused him their obedience. The tall, rugged figure, clad in its bizarre uniform, trembled as with ague.
On a sudden one of the bands for whose existence he was responsible burst into blatant sound in the street beyond. As its inharmonious notes reached his ears, he leant forward and hid his face against the wall.
The Stranger was seated, conversing with His two disciples. When the trio entered He was still. From the street came the noise of the Salvation Army band and the voices of the people. There was in the air the hum of a great multitude.
Something of his assurance had gone from Mr. Treadman. His tongue was not so ready, his bearing more uncertain. When he spoke, it was with emotion which was almost tearful, at first, in gentler tones than he was wont to use.
'Lord, we Thy servants, sinners though we are, and conscious of our infirmities, come to Thee to offer up our supplications. We come in the name of Thy people. For though, like children, they have erred and strayed, and lacked the wisdom of the Father, yet they are Thy children, Lord, and hold Thy name in reverence. And they are many. In all the far places of the world they are to be found. And in this great city they are for numbers as the sands of the sea. Not all of one pattern--not all wise or strong. Associated with the various branches of the universal Church, differing in little things, they are all of one mind upon one point, their love for Thee. We pray Thee to make Thyself known to the great host which is Thy family, assuring Thee that Thou hast only to do so to find that it fills all the world. The exigencies of modern civilisation render it difficult for a mortal monarch to meet his subjects as he would desire; nor, with all respect be it urged, is the difficulty made less in the case of the King of Kings. Therefore we have ventured, subject to Thy approval, to make arrangements for the hire of a large building, called the Albert Hall, which is capable of holding several thousand persons. And we pray that Thou wilt deign to there meet detachments of Thy people in such numbers as the structure will accommodate, as a preliminary to the commencement of Thy reign over all the earth. Since the people are so anxious to see Thy face that already the police find it difficult to keep their eagerness within due bounds, we would entreat Thee to delay as little as possible, and to hold Thy first reception in the Albert Hall this afternoon. This prayer we lay at Thy feet in the hope and trust that Thou wilt not be unwilling to avail Thyself of the experience and organising powers of such of Thy servants as have spent their lives in the highways and byways of this great city, working for Thy Holy Name.'
When Mr. Treadman had finished, the Stranger asked of Mr. Jebb:
'What is it that you would say to Me?'
Mr. Jebb replied:
'I have not Mr. Treadman's command of a particular sort of language, but in a general way I would endorse all that he has said, adding a postscript for which I am alone responsible. I do not know what is the purpose of your presence here, and--with all respect to certain of my friends--I do not think that anyone else knows either. I trust that you are here for the good of the world at large, and not as the representative of this or that system of theology. Should that be the case, I would observe that sound religion is synonymous with a sound body, and that no soldier is at his best as a fighting man who is under-fed. I ask your attention to the poor of London--the materially poor. You have, I am told, demonstrated your capacity to perform miracles. If ever there was a place in which a miracle was required, it is the city of London. Cleanse the streets, purify the dwellings, clothe the poor, put food into their bellies, make it possible for them to live like decent men and women, and you will raise an enduring monument to the honour and glory of God. The human family has shown itself incapable of providing adequately for its various members. Make good that incapacity, and you will at once establish the kingdom of heaven here on earth. I ask to be allowed to place before you certain details which will illustrate some of the worst of the evils which require attention, in the belief that they have only to be brought home to you with sufficient force to be at once swept out of existence.'
The Stranger turned to the Rev. Martin Philipps.
'What is it that you would say?'
Mr. Philipps began to stammer.
'I--I had put together the heads of a few remarks which I had intended to make on this occasion, but they have all gone from me.' He stretched out his arms with a sudden cry: 'Forgive me, Lord, if in Thy presence I am dumb.'
'You have done better than these others. Is there not one who waits outside? Let him come in.'
The 'General' entered, and fell on the floor at His feet, crying, 'Lord, Lord!'
He said: 'What would you have of Me?'
'Nothing, Lord, nothing, except that You would hide from me the anger which is on Your face!'
'You also are of the company of those who would administer the kingdom of heaven as if it were their own. So that God must learn of men, not men of God! You call yourselves His children, yet seek not to know what is in the Father's heart, but exclaim of the great things which are in yours, forgetting that the wisdom of God is not as the wisdom of men. So came sin and death into the world, and still prevail. Rise. Call not so often on My Name, nor proclaim it so loudly in the market-place. Seek yourself to know Me. Take no heed to speak of Me foolishly to others, for God is sufficient unto each man for his own salvation.'
He arose, and the 'General' also. He said to Mr. Treadman and to Mr. Jebb:
'You foolish fellows! To think that God needs to be advised of men! Consider what God is; then consider what is man.' He turned to the lame man and to the charcoal-burner. 'Come! For there is that to do which must be done.'
When He had left the room the 'General' stole after Him. Mr. Jebb spoke to Mr. Treadman.
'You and I are a pair of fools!'
'Why do you say that?'
'To suppose that anything that we could say would have the slightest weight with Him. It's clearly a case of His will, not ours, be done. If tradition is to be trusted, His will was not the popular will in the days of old. He'll find that it is still less so now. Millions of men, conscious of crying grievances, are not to be treated as automata. There's trouble brooding.'
'Oh, if He only would be guided, so easily He might avoid a repetition of the former tragedy, and hold undisputed sway in the hearts of all men and women which the world contains.'
'I doubt the very easily; and anyhow, He won't be guided. I for one shall make no further attempt. I don't know what it is He proposes to Himself (I never could clearly understand what was the intention of the Christ of tradition), but I'm sure that it was something very different to what is in your mind. I am equally certain that the world has never seen, and will never suffer, such an autocrat as He suggests.'
'Jebb, I know you mean well, I know how you have devoted your whole life to the good of others, but I wish I could make you understand how every word you utter is a shock to my whole sense of decency and reverence.'
'Your sense of decency and reverence! You haven't any. You and Philipps and Robins, and all men of your kidney, have less of that sort of thing than I have. You are too familiar ever to be reverent.'
'Jebb, what noise is that?'
'He has gone out into the street. At sight of Him the people have started shouting. The police will have their hands full if they don't look out. Something very like the spirit of riot is abroad.'
'I must follow Him; I must try to keep close to Him, wherever He may go. Perhaps my assiduity may at last prevail. As it is, it all threatens to turn out so differently to what I had hoped.'
'Yes, you had hoped to be a prominent figure in the proceedings, but you are going to take no part in them at all; that's where the shoe pinches with you, Treadman.'
Mr. Treadman had not stayed to listen. He was already down the stairs and at the street door, to find that the Stranger had just passed through it, to be greeted by a chorus of exclamations from those who saw Him come.
The spacious roadway was filled with people from end to end--an eager, curious, excitable crowd. There were men, women, and children; but though it contained a sprinkling of persons of higher social rank, it was recruited mostly from that class which sees nothing objectionable in a crowd as such. Vehicular traffic was stopped. The police kept sufficient open space upon the pavement to permit of pedestrians passing to and fro. In front of the house was a surprising spectacle. Invalids of all sorts and kinds were there gathered together in heterogeneous assemblage. The officials, finding it impossible without using violence to prevent their appearance on the scene, had cleared a portion of the roadway for their accommodation, so that when He appeared, He found Himself confronted by all manner of sick. There were blind, lame, and dumb; idiots and misshapen folk; sufferers from all sorts of disease, in all stages of their maladies. Some were on the bed from which they were unable to raise themselves, some were on chairs, some on the bare ground. They had been brought from all parts of the city--young and old, male and female. There were those among them who had been there throughout the night.
When they saw Him come out of the door, those who could move at all began to press forward so that they might be able to reach Him, crying:
'Heal us! heal us!'
In their eagerness they bade fair to tread each other under foot; seeing which the officer who stood at the gate turned to Him, saying:
'Is it you these poor wretches have come to see? If you have encouraged them in their madness you have incurred a frightful responsibility; the deaths of many of them will be upon your head.'
He replied:
'Speak of that of which you have some understanding.' To the struggling, stricken crowd in front of Him He said: 'Go in peace and sin no more.'
Straightway they all were healed of their diseases. The sick sprang out of their beds and from off the ground, cripples threw away their crutches, the crooked were made straight, the blind could see, the dumb could talk. When they found that it was so they were beside themselves with joy. They laughed and sang, ran this way and that, giving vent to their feelings in divers strange fashions.
And all they that saw it were amazed, and presently they raised a great shout:
'It is Christ the King!'
They pressed forward to where He stood upon the step. Stretching out His hand, He held them back.
'Why do you call me king? Of what am I the king? Of your hearts and lives? Of your thoughts at your rising up and lying down? No. You know Me not. But because of this which you have seen you exclaim with your voice; your hearts are still. Who among you doeth My commandments? Is there one who has lived for Me? My name is on your tongues; your bodies you defile with all manner of evil. You esteem yourselves as gods. There are devils in hell who are nearer heaven than some of you. As was said to those of old, Except you be born again you know Me not. I know not you; call not upon My name. For service which is of the lips only is a thing hateful unto God.'
When He ceased to speak the people drew farther from Him and closer to each other, murmuring among themselves:
'Who is he? What are these things which he says? What have we done to him that he should speak to us like this?'
A great stillness came over the crowd; for, although they knew not why, they were ashamed.
When He came down into the street they made way for Him to pass, no one speaking as He went.
The fame of these things passed from the frequenters of the streets and the hunters of notoriety to those in high places. The matter was discussed at a dinner which was given that night by a Secretary of State to certain dignitaries, both spiritual and temporal. There was no Mr. Treadman there. The atmosphere was sacrosanct. There was an absence of enthusiasm on any subject beneath the sun which, to minds of a certain order, is proper to sanctity. The conversation wandered from Shakespeare to the musical glasses; until at last something was said of the subject of the day.
It was the host who began. He was a person who had risen to his high position by a skilful manipulation of those methods which have made of politics a thing apart. A clever man, shrewd, versatile, desirous of being in the van of any movement which promised to achieve success.
'The evening papers are full of strange stories of what took place this morning at Maida Vale. They make one think.'
'I understand,' said Sir Robert Farquharson, known in the House of Commons as 'the Member for India,' 'that the people are quite excited. Indeed, one can see for oneself that there are an unusual number of people in the streets, and that they all seem talking of the same thing. It reminds one of the waves of religious frenzy which in India temporarily drive a whole city mad.'
'We don't go quite so far as that in London, fortunately. Still, the affair is odd. Either these things have been done, or they haven't. In either case, I confess myself puzzled.'
The Archbishop looked up from his plate.
'There seems to be nothing known about the person of any sort or kind--neither who he is, nor what he is, nor whence he comes. The most favourable supposition seems to be that he is mentally deranged.'
'Suppose he were the Christ?' The Archbishop looked down; his face wore a shocked expression. The Secretary smiled; he has not hesitated to let it be known that he is in bondage to no creed. 'That would indeed be to bring religion into the sphere of practical politics.'
'Not necessarily. It was a Roman blunder which placed it there before.'
This was the Earl of Hailsham, whose fame as a diplomatist is politically great.
'You think that Christ might come and go without any official notice being taken of the matter?'
'Certainly. Why not? That might, and would, have been the case before had Pontius Pilate been a wiser and a stronger man.'
'That point of view deserves consideration. Aren't you ignoring the fact that this is a Christian country?'
'In a social sense, Carruthers, most decidedly. I hope that we are all Christians in England--I know I am--because to be anything else would be the height of impropriety.'
The Secretary laughed outright.
'Your frankness shocks the Archbishop.'
Again the Archbishop looked up.
'I am not easily shocked at the difference of opinion on questions of taste. It is so easy to jeer at what others hold sacred.'
'My dear Archbishop, I do implore your pardon a thousand times; nothing was farther from my intention. I merely enunciated what I supposed to be a truism.'
'I am unfortunately aware, my lord, that Christianity is to some but a social form. But I believe, from my heart, that, relatively, they are few. I believe that to the great body of Englishmen and Englishwomen Christianity is still a vital force, probably more so to-day than it was some years ago. To the clergy I know it is; by their lives they prove it every hour of every day.'
'In a social or a spiritual sense? Because, as a vital force, it may act in either direction. Let me explain to you exactly what I mean. That it is nothing offensive you will see. My own Rector is a most estimable man; he, his curates, and his family are untiring in their efforts to increase the influence of the Church among the people. There is not a cottager in the parish who does not turn towards the Rectory in time of trouble--he would rather turn there than towards heaven. In that sense I say that the Rector's is a social, rather than a spiritual, influence; he himself would be the first to admit it. The work which the Church is doing in the East of London is social. The idea seems to be that if you improve the social conditions, spiritual improvement will follow. Does it? I wonder. Christianity is a vital force in a social sense, thank goodness! But my impression is that its followers await the Second Coming of their Founder with the same dilettante interest with which the Jews anticipate the rebuilding of Jerusalem. Both parties would be uncomfortably surprised if their anticipations were fulfilled. They would be confronted with a condition for which they were not in any way prepared. Candidly, wouldn't they? What would you yourself do if this person who is turning London topsy-turvy were actually the Christ?'
'I am unable to answer so very serious a question at a moment's notice.'
'In other words, you don't believe that he is the Christ; and nothing would make you believe. You know such things don't happen--if they ever did.'
'You would not believe even though one rose from the dead--eh, Archbishop?'
The question came from Sir William Braidwood, the surgeon. The Earl of Hailsham looked towards him down the table.
'By the way, what is the truth about that woman at the hospital?'
'The woman was dead; living, she was cancerous. He restored her to life; healed of her cancer. No greater miracle is recorded of the Christ of tradition. This afternoon a woman came to me who has been paralysed for nearly five years, unable to move hand or foot, to raise herself on her bed, or to do anything for herself whatever. She came on her own feet, ran up the stairs, radiant with life, health, and good spirits, in the full enjoyment of all her limbs. She was one of those who were at Maida Vale, whither she had been borne upon her bed. You should hear her account of what took place. The wonder to me is that the crowd was not driven stark, staring mad!'
'These things cause one to think furiously.' The Secretary sipped his wine. He addressed the Archbishop. 'Have you received any official intimation of what is taking place?'
'I have had letters, couched in the most extraordinary language, and even telegrams. Also verbal reports, full of the wildest and most contradictory statements. I occupy a position of extreme responsibility, in which my slightest word or action is liable to misconstruction.'
'Has it been clearly proved,' asked Farquharson, 'that he himself claims to be the Christ?' No one seemed to know; no one answered. 'Do I understand, Braidwood, that you are personally convinced that this person is possessed of supernatural powers?'
'I am; though it does not necessarily follow on that account that he is the Christ, any more than that he is Gautama Siddartha or Mahomet. I believe that we are all close to what is called the supernatural, that we are divided from it by something of no more definite texture than a membrane. We have only to break through that something to find such powers are. Possibly this person has performed that feat. My own impression is that he's a public danger.'
'A public danger? How?'
'Augustus Jebb called to see me before I came away--the social science man, I mean. He followed close on the heels of the woman of whom I told you. He was himself in Mrs. Powell's house at the time, and from a window saw all that occurred. He corroborates her story, with additions of his own. A few moments before he, with others, had an interview with the miracle-worker. He says that he was afraid of him, mentally, physically, morally, because of the possibilities which he saw in the man. He justifies his fear by two facts. As you are aware, this person stopped last night at the house of Mrs. Miriam Powell, the misguided creature who preaches what she calls social purity. She was a hale, hearty woman, in the prime of life, as late as yesterday afternoon. She was, however, a terrible bore. The probability is that, during the night, for some purpose of her own, she forced herself into her guest's presence; with the result that this morning she was a thing of horror.'
'In what sense?'
'Age had prematurely overtaken her--unnatural age. She looked and moved like a hag of ninety. She was mentally affected also, seeming haunted by an unceasing causeless terror. She kept repeating: "I have seen Him face to face!"--significant words. Jebb's other fact referred to Robins, the Salvation Army man. When Robins came into this person's presence he was attacked as with paralysis, and transformed into a nerveless coward. Jebb says that he is a pitiable object. His inference--which I am disposed to endorse--is, that if that person can do good he can also do evil, and that it is dependent upon his mood which he does. A man who can perform wholesale cures with a word may, for all we know, also strike down whole battalions with a word. His powers may be new to him, or the probability is that we should have heard of him before. As they become more familiar, to gratify a whim he may strike down a whole cityful. And there is another danger.'
'You pile up the agony, Braidwood.'
'Wait till I have finished. There are a number of wrong-headed persons who think that he may be used as a tool for their own purposes. For instance, Jebb actually endeavoured to induce him to transform London, as it were, with a touch of his wand.'
'What do you mean?'
'You know Jebb's panacea--better houses for the poor, and that sort of thing. He tried to persuade this person to provide the London poor with better houses, money in their pockets, clothes on their backs, and food in their stomachs, in the same instantaneous fashion in which he performed his miracle of healing.'
'Is Mr. Jebb mad?'
'I should say certainly not. He has been brought into contact with this person, and should be better able to judge of his powers than we are. He believes them to be limitless. Jebb himself was badly snubbed. But that is only the beginning. He tells me that the man Walters, the socialistic agitator, and his friends are determined to make a dead set at the wonder-worker, and to leave no stone unturned to induce him to bring about a revolution in London. The possibility of even such an attempt is not agreeable to contemplate.'
'If these things come to pass, religion--at least, so far as this gentleman is concerned--will at once be brought within the sphere of practical politics. Don't you think so, Hailsham?'
'It might bring something novel into the political arena. I should like to see how parties would divide upon such a question, and the shape which it would take. Would the question as to whether he was or was not the Christ be made the subject of a full-dress debate, and would the result of the ensuing division be accepted as final by everyone concerned?'
'I should say no. If the "ayes" had it in the House, the "noes" would have it in the country, andvice versâ.'
'Farquharson, you suggest some knowledge of English human nature. In our fortunate country obstinacy and contrariness are the dominant public notes. A Briton resents authority in matters of conscience, especially when it emanates from the ill-conditioned persons who occupy the benches in the Lords and Commons; which is why religious legislation is such a frightful failure.'
This with a sly glance at the Archbishop, who had been associated with a Bill for the Better Ordering of Public Worship.
The Duke of Trent joined in the conversation. He was a young man who had recently succeeded to the Dukedom. Coming from a cadet branch of the family, he had hitherto lived a life of comparative retirement. His present peers had not yet made up their minds as to the kind of character he was. He spoke with that little air of awkwardness peculiar to a certain sort of Englishman who approaches a serious subject. His first remark was addressed to Sir William Braidwood:
'But if this is the Christ, would you not expect Him to mete out justice as well as mercy? He may have come to condemn as well as to bless. In that case a sinner could hardly expect to force himself into His presence and escape unscathed.'
'On points of theology I refer you to the Archbishop. My point is, that an autocrat possessed of supernatural powers is a public danger.'
'Does that include God the Father? He is omnipotent. Whom He will He raises up, and whom He will He puts down. So we Christians believe.'
The Archbishop turned towards him.
'You are quite right, Duke; we know it. To suppose that Christ could be in any sense a public danger is not only blasphemous but absurd. Such a notion could only spring from something worse than ignorance. I take it that Sir William discredits the idea that about this person there is anything divine.'
'I believe He is the Christ!'
'You do?'
'I do.'
'But why?'
All eyes had turned towards the young man; who had gone white to the lips.
'I do not know that I am able to furnish you with what you would esteem a logical reason. Could the Apostles have given a mathematical demonstration of the causes of their belief? I only know that I feel Him in the air.'
'Of this room?'
'Yes, thank God! of this room.'
'You use strange words. Do you base your belief on his reported miracles?'
'Not entirely, though I entirely dissent from Sir William Braidwood's theory that we are near to what he calls the supernatural; except in the sense that we are near heaven, and that God is everywhere. Such works are only of Him. Man never wrought them; or never will. My mother loved Christ. She taught me to do so. Perhaps that is why I know that He is in London now.'
'What do you propose to do?'
'That is what troubles me. I don't know. I feel that I ought to do something, but--it is so stupid of me!--I don't know what.'
'Does your trouble resemble the rich young man's of whom some of us have read?'
This was the Earl of Hailsham. The Duke shook his head.
'No; it's not that. He knows that I will do anything I can do; but I don't think He wants me to do anything at all. He is content with the knowledge that I know He is here, that His presence makes me happy. I think that's it.'
Such sentiments from a young man were unusual. His hearers stared the more. The Archbishop said, gravely, sententiously:
'My dear Duke, I beg that you will give this matter your most serious consideration; that you will seek advice from those qualified to give it; and that only after the most careful deliberation you will say or do anything which you may afterwards regret. I confess I don't understand how you arrive at your conclusions. And I would point out to you very earnestly how much easier it is to do harm than good.'
The young man, leaning over on to the table, looked his senior curiously in the face.
'Don't you know that He is Christ--not in your heart of hearts?'
The question, and the tone of complete conviction with which it was put, seemed to cause the Archbishop some disturbance.
'My dear young friend, the hot blood of youth is in your veins; it makes you move faster than we old men. You are moved, I think, easily in this direction and in that, and are perhaps temperamentally disposed to take a good deal for granted.'
'I'm sorry you don't know. You yourself will be sorry afterwards.'
'After what?'
This again was Hailsham.
'After He has gone. He may not stay for long.'
'Trent, I find you a most interesting study. I won't do you the injustice to wonder if your attitude can be by any possibility a pose, but it takes a great deal for granted. For instance, it presumes that the legends found in what are called the four gospels are historical documents, which no man has believed yet.'
This roused the Archbishop.
'My lord, this is a monstrous assertion. It is to brand a great multitude of the world's best and greatest as liars--the whole host of the confessors!'
'They were the victims of self-delusion. There are degrees of belief. I have endeavoured to realise Christ as He is pictured in the gospels. I am sure no real believer of that Christ ever was a member of any church with which I am acquainted. That Christ is in ludicrous contrast with all that has been or is called Christianity.'
The Secretary interposed.
'Gently, Hailsham! How have we managed to wander into this discussion? If you are ready, gentlemen, we will go into the drawing-room. One or two ladies have promised to join us after dinner; I think we may find that some of them are already there. Archbishop, Hailsham will stultify himself by dragging religion into the sphere of practical politics yet.'
'I won't rest,' declared the Archbishop, as he rose from his chair, 'until I have seen this man.'
'Be careful how you commit yourself, and be sure that you are in good bodily health, and free from any sort of nervous trouble, before you go. Because, otherwise, it is quite within the range of possibility that you won't rest afterwards. And in any case you run a risk. My impression is that my suspicions will be verified before long, and that it will be seen only too plainly that this person is a grave public danger.'
This was Sir William Braidwood. Lord Hailsham exclaimed:
'That suggests something. What do you say, Trent, to our going to-morrow to pay our respects together?'
The Duke smiled.
'We should be odd associates. But I don't think that would matter. He knows that your opportunities have perhaps been small, and that your capacity is narrow. You might find a friend in Him after all. What a good thing it would be for you if you did!'
Hailsham laughed outright.
'Will you come?'
'I think not, until He calls me. I shall meet Him face to face in His own good time.'
Hailsham laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder.
'Do you know, I'm inclined to ask myself if I haven't chanced upon a Christian after all. I didn't know there was such a thing. But I'm beginning to wonder. If you really are a Christian after His pattern, you've the best of it. If I'm right, I gain nothing. But if you're right, what don't I lose?'
The young man said:
'He knows.'