In the street was riot; confusion which momentarily threatened to become worse confounded. In the press were dignitaries of the Church; that Archbishop whom we met at dinner; Cardinal De Vere, whose grace of bearing ornaments the Roman establishment in England; with him a young seminary priest, one Father Nevill. The two high clerics were on a common errand. Their carriages encountering each other on the outskirts of the crowd, they had accepted the services of a friendly constable, who offered to pilot them through the excited people. At his heels they came, scarcely in the ecclesiastical state which their dignity desired.
As they neared the house they were met by the departing Mr. Walters and his friends. Recognising who they were, Walters stopped to shout at them in his stentorian tones:
'So the High Priests have come! To do reverence to their Master? To prostrate themselves at His feet in the dust, or to play the patron? To you, perhaps, He'll condescend; with these who, in their misery, trample each other under foot He'll have no commerce; has not even a word with which to answer them. But you, Archbishop and Cardinal, Princes of His Most Holy Church, perhaps He'll have a hand for each of you. For to those that have shall be given, and from those that have not shall be taken away. He'll hardly do violence to that most excellent Christian doctrine. Tell Him how much you have that should be other men's; maybe He'll strip them of their skins to give you more.'
The constable thrust him aside.
'Move on, there! move on! That's enough of that nonsense!'
'Oh yes,' said Walters, as they forced him back into the seething throng; 'oh yes, one soon has enough of nonsense of that kind. Christ has come! God help us all!'
On the steps that led up to the door a woman fought with the police. She was as a mad thing, screaming in her agony:
'Let me see Christ! Let me see Him! My daughter's dead! I brought her to be healed; she's been killed in the crowd; I want Him to bring her back to life. Let me see Christ! Let me see Him!'
They would not. Lifting her off her feet, they bore her back among the people.
'What a terrible scene!' murmured the Archbishop. 'What lamentable and dangerous excitement!'
'You represent a Church, my dear Archbishop,' replied the Cardinal, 'which advocates the freedom of private judgment. These proceedings suggest that your advocacy may have met with even undesired success.'
The Archbishop, looking about him with dubious glances, said to the policeman who had constituted himself their guide:
'This sort of thing almost makes one physically anxious. The people seem to be half beside themselves.'
'You may well say that, my lord. I never saw a crowd in such a mood before; and I've seen a few. I hear they've sent for the soldiers.'
'The soldiers? Dear, dear! how infinitely sad!'
When they were seen on the steps, guarded by the police, waiting for the door to open, the crowd yelled at them. The Archbishop observed to his companion:
'I'm not sure, after all, that it was wise of me to come. Sometimes it is not easy to know what to do for the best. I certainly did not expect to find myself in the midst of such a scene of popular frenzy.'
Said the Cardinal:
'It at least enables us to see one phase of Protestant England.'
They were admitted by Ada, to whom the Archbishop introduced himself.
'I am the Archbishop, and this is Cardinal De Vere. We have come to see the person who is the cause of all this turmoil.'
Ada stopped before the open door of a room.
'This is the Lord!'
Within stood the Stranger, as one who listens to that which he desires, yet fears he will not hear: who looks for that for which he yearns, yet knows he will not see. The Archbishop fitted his glasses on his nose.
'Is this the person? Really! How very interesting! You don't say so!'
Since the Stranger had paid no heed to their advent, the Archbishop addressed himself to Him courteously:
'Pardon me if this seems an intrusion, or if I have come at an inconvenient moment, but I have received such extraordinary accounts of your proceedings that, as head of the English Church, I felt bound to take them, to some extent, under my official cognisance.'
The Stranger, looking at him, inquired:
'In your churches whom do you worship?'
'My dear sir! What an extraordinary question!'
'What idol have you fashioned which you call after My Name?'
'Idol! Really, really!'
'Why do you cry continually: "Come quickly!" when you would not I should come?'
'What very peculiar questions, betraying a complete ignorance of the merest rudiments of common knowledge! Is it possible that you are unaware that I am the head of the Christian hierarchy?'
Said the Cardinal:
'Of the English branch of the Protestant hierarchy, I think, Archbishop, you should rather put it. You are hardly the undisputed head of even that. Do your Nonconformist friends admit your primacy? They form a not inconsiderable section of English Protestantism. When informing ignorance let us endeavour to be accurate.'
'The differences are not essential. We are all branches of one tree, whose stem is Christ. To return to the point. This is hardly a moment, Cardinal, for theological niceties.'
'You were tendering information; I merely wished it to be correct, for which I must ask you to forgive me.'
'Your Eminence is ironical. However, as I said, to return to the point. The public mind appears to be in a state of most lamentable excitement. The exact cause I do not pretend to understand. But if your intentions are what I hope they are, you can scarcely fail to perceive that you owe it to yourself to remedy a condition of affairs which already promises to be serious. I am told that there is a notion abroad that you have advanced pretensions which I am almost convinced you have not done. I wish you to inform me, and to give me authority to inform the public, who and what you are, and what is the purport of your presence here.'
'I am He that you know not of.'
'That, my dear sir, is the very point. I am advised that you are possessed of some singular powers. I wish to know who the person is who has these powers, and how he comes to have them.'
'There is one of you that knows.'
The young priest advanced, saying:
'I know You, Lord!'
The Stranger held out to him His hand.
'Welcome, friend!'
'My Lord and my Master!'
While they still stood hand in hand, the Stranger said:
'There are those that know Me, nor are they few. Yet what are they among so many? In all the far places of the world men call upon My Name, yet know so little of what is in their hearts that they would destroy Me for being He to whom they call.'
'But shall the day never come when they shall know You?'
'Of themselves they must find Me out. Not by a miracle shall a man be brought unto the knowledge of God.'
Cardinal De Vere said to the young priest:
'Your stock of information appears to be greater than that of your spiritual superiors, Father. At Louvain do they teach such forwardness, or is this an acquaintance of your seminary days?'
'Yes, Eminence, indeed, and of before them too. For this is our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, who died for us, yet lives again, to whose service I have dedicated my life, and your Eminence your life also.'
'My son, let not your tongue betray you into speaking folly. For shame, my son, for shame!'
'But does not your Eminence know this is the Lord? Can you look upon His face and not see that it is He, or enter into His presence and not know that He is here?'
'Put a bridle upon that insolent tongue of yours. Come from that dangerous fellow.'
'Fellow? Eminence, it is the Lord! It is the Lord!' He turned to the Stranger. 'Lord Jesus, open the eyes of his Eminence, that he may see You, and his heart, that he may know that You are here!'
'Did I not say that no miracle shall bring a man to the knowledge of Me? If of himself he knows Me not, he will not know Me though I raise him out of hell to heaven.'
The young priest turned again to the Cardinal.
'But, Eminence, it is so strange! so wonderful! Your vocation is for Christ; you point always to His cross; you keep your eyes upon His face; and yet--and yet you do not know Him now that He is here! Oh, it is past believing! and you, sir, you are also a religious. Surely you know this is the Lord?'
This was to the Archbishop, who began to stammer:
'I--I know, my dear young friend, that you--you are saying some very extraordinary things--things which you--you ought to carefully consider before you--you utter them. Especially when I consider your--your almost tender years.'
'Extraordinary things! It is the Lord! it is the Lord! How shall you wonder at those who denied Him at the first if you, who preach Him, deny Him now? Oh, Eminence! oh, sir! look and see. It is the Lord!'
'Silence, sir! Another word of the sort and you are excommunicated.'
'For knowing it is the Lord?'
'For one thing, sir--for not knowing that on such matters Holy Church pronounces. Did they teach you so badly at Louvain that you have still to learn that in the presence of authority it is the business of a little seminary priest to preserve a reverent silence? It is not for you to oppose your variations of the creed upon your spiritual superiors, but to receive, with a discreet meekness, and in silence, your articles of faith from them.'
'If the Lord proclaims Himself, are His children to refuse Him recognition until the Church commands?'
'You had better return to your seminary, my son--and shall--to receive instruction in the rudiments of the Catholic faith.'
'If for any cause the Church withholds its command, is the Lord to depart unrecognised?'
'Say nothing further, sir, till you have been with your confessor. I command you to be silent until then.'
'Is, then, the Church against the Lord? It cannot be--it cannot be!' The young priest turned to the Stranger with on his face surprise, fear, wonder. 'Lord, of those that are here are You known to me alone?'
Ada came forward with her sisters.
'We also know the Lord.'
The Stranger said:
'Is it not written that many are called, but few chosen? As it was, is now, and ever will be. It is well that you know Me, and these that are the daughters of one who knows Me as I would be known; and there are those that know Me nearly.' With that He looked at Mr. Kinloch. 'Also here and there among the multitudes whom God has fashioned in His own image am I known, and in the hidden places of the world. Where quiet is, there am I often. Men that strive with their fellows in the midst of the tumult for the seats of the mighty call much upon My Name, but have Me little in their hearts; there is not room. Those that make but little noise, but are content with the lower seats, waiting upon My Father's will, they have Me much in their hearts, for there is room. Wherefore I beseech you to continue a little priest in a seminary, great in the knowledge of My Father, rather than a pillar of the Church, holding up heaven on your hands: for he that seeks to bear up heaven is of a surety cast down into hell. Would, then, that all men might be little men, since in My Father's presence they might have a better chance of standing high.'
The Cardinal, holding himself very straight, went closer to the young priest. His voice was stern.
'Father Nevill, your parents were my friends; because of that I have attached you to my person; because, also, of that I am unwilling to see you put yourself outside the pale of Holy Church as becomes a fool rather than a man of sense. What hallucination blinds you I cannot say. Your condition is probably one which calls for a medical diagnosis rather than for mine. How you can be the even momentary victim of so poor an impostor is beyond my understanding. But it ill becomes such as I am to seek for explanations from such as you. Your part is to obey, and only to obey. Therefore I bid you instantly to leave this--fellow; bow your head, and seek with shame absolution for your grievous sin. Do this at once, or it will be too late.'
When the young priest was about to reply, the Stranger, going to the Cardinal, looking him in the face, asked: 'Am I an impostor?'
The Cardinal did his best to meet His look, and return Him glance for glance. Presently his eyes faltered; he looked down. His lips twitched as if to speak. His gaze returned to the Stranger's countenance. But only for a moment. Suddenly he put up his hands before his face as if to shield it from the impact of the pain and sorrow which were in His eyes. He muttered:
'What have I to do with you?'
'Nothing; verily, and alas!'
'Why have you come to judge me before my time?'
'Your time comes soon.'
The Cardinal, dropping his hands, straightened himself again, as if endeavouring to get another grip upon his courage.
'I lean on Holy Church. She will sustain me.'
'Against Me?'
The Cardinal staggered against the wall, trembling so that he could hardly stand. The Archbishop cried, also trembling:
'What ails your Eminence? Cardinal, what is wrong?'
His Eminence replied, as if he all at once were short of breath:
'The rock--on which--the Church is founded--slips beneath my feet!'
The Archbishop surveyed him with frightened eyes.
The noise in the street had continued without ceasing. It grew louder. A sound arose as of many voices shrieking. While it still filled the air the lame man and the charcoal-burner descended from an upper room. They spoke of the tumult.
'The people are fighting with the police as if they have gone mad.'
'They seek Me,' said the Stranger.
The lame man looked at him anxiously.
'You!'
'Even Me. Fear not. All will be well.'
'Who are these persons?' inquired the Archbishop.
'They are of those that know Me.'
'Ay,' said the charcoal-burner, 'I know You--know You very well, I do. So did my old woman; she knowed You, too. I be that glad to have seen You. It's done me real good, that it have.'
'You have been with me so long; then this little while, and soon for ever.'
'Ay, very soon.'
'Father, these are of those that know Thy Son.'
He touched with His hand the six persons that were about Him.
The Archbishop plucked the Cardinal by the sleeve.
'I--I really think we'd better go. I--I'm not feeling very well.'
There came a succession of crashes. The Cardinal stood up.
'What's that? It's stones against the windows. Unless I err, they have shivered every pane.'
Someone knocked loudly at the door. The Cardinal moved as if to open. The Archbishop sought to restrain him.
'What are you doing? It isn't safe to open. The people may come in.'
The Cardinal smiled.
'Let them. The sooner the thing is done the better. To you and me what does it matter what comes?'
On the doorstep stood that Secretary of State who had given the dinner at which the Archbishop had been present. Behind him was the yelling mob.
'Your Eminence! This is an unexpected pleasure. The Archbishop, too! How delightful! The people seem in a curious frame of mind; our friend Braidwood is justified--already. It's a wonder I'm here alive. I am told that several persons have been killed in the crowd-- terrible! terrible! My own opinion is that we're threatened with the most serious riot which London has known in my time. Ah, dear sir!' He bowed to the Stranger. 'I need not ask if you are he to whom I desire to tender my sincerest salutations. There is that about you which tells me that I stand in the presence of no mean person. Unfortunately, I am so constituted as to be incapable of those more ardent feelings which are to the enthusiast his indispensable equipment. Therefore I am not of that material out of which they fashion devotees. Yet, since I cannot doubt that my trifling personal peculiarities are known to him who, as I am informed, knows all, I venture to trust that they will be regarded as extenuating circumstances should I ever stand in instant need of palliation.'
The Stranger was still.
The stones still rattled against the windows, smashed against the door. Again there came a knocking. The tumult had grown so great, the cries so threatening, that those within were trembling, hesitating what to do. When the Stranger moved towards the door, the Secretary of State prevented Him.
'Sir, I beg of you! I fear it is you they wish to see, with what purpose you may imagine from the noise which they are making. Permit me to answer the knocking. At the present moment I am of less public interest than you.'
He opened. There was an excited sergeant of police.
'The person who's in here must get away by the back somewhere at once; those are my orders. The people have found out that they can get to this house from the street behind; they're starting off to do it. We don't want murder done, and there will be murder if he doesn't take himself off pretty quick.'
'Is it so bad as that?'
'So bad as that? Look at them yourself. I never saw them in such a state. They're stark, staring mad. All the streets about are full of them; they're all the same. That man Walters and his friends have been working a lot of them into a frenzy; murder is what they mean. Then there's over a hundred been killed in front here, so I'm told-- poor wretches who came to be healed. The crowd will tear him to pieces if they get him. He must get away somehow over the walls at the back.'
'Over the walls at the back?'
'He can't get away by the front. We couldn't save him--nobody could. I tell you they'll tear him to pieces.'
As the sergeant spoke the Stranger came and stood at the door by the Secretary of State. A policeman rushed up the steps bearing something in his arms. He addressed the sergeant.
'This child's dead. Sir William Braidwood says most of the bones in its body are broken; it's crushed nearly to a jelly. It doesn't seem to have had any friends or anything. Could you see it taken into the house?'
The sergeant received the child. The Stranger said to him: 'Give it to Me.'
'You? Why you? Let it be taken into the house and put decent.'
'Give Me the child.'
He took the child and pressed it to His bosom, and the child, opening its eyes, looked up at Him. He kissed it on the brow.
'You have been asleep,' He said.
The child sat up in His arms and laughed.
The Archbishop whispered to the Cardinal:
'The child lives!'
The Stranger cried to those that were within the house:
'I return whence I came. Come there to Me.'
And a great hush fell on all the people, so that on a sudden they were still. And they fell back, so that a lane was formed in their midst, along which He went, with the child, laughing, in His arms.
It was as if the people had been carved out of stone. They moved neither limb nor feature, nor seemed to breathe, but stayed in the uncouth attitudes in which they had been flung by passion, with their faces as rage had distorted them, their mouths open as they had vomited blasphemies, their eyes glaring, their fists clenched.
Through the stricken people in the silent streets the Stranger went, the child laughing in His arms--on and on, on and on. Whither He went, no man knew. Nor has He been seen of any since, nor the child either.
And when He had gone, a great sigh went over all the people. Behold, they wept!