Mary Lys stood in the great hall of the East End Hospital, where she had worked for three years. She was saying good-bye.
A little group of men and women stood round her—the men mostly young, clean-shaven, alert, and capable in expression; the women in the uniform of hospital nurses.
Some of the women were crying quietly, and the great visiting surgeon, Sir Abraham Jones himself, alternately tugged at his grey, pointed beard or polished the glasses of his pince-nez.
"Well, nurse," said the great man, "I must go. I am due in the operating theatre. I am sure that I am only representing the thought of the whole hospital staff when I say how deeply we all regret that you are leaving us. You have—ahem!—endeared yourself to every one, and your work has been splendid. You have been a pattern to your colleagues in every way. I hope that in the new sphere of life you have chosen you will be happy and prosperous."
Sir Abraham was not an orator in ordinary life, though he had been known to rise to real eloquence when lecturing upon some of the obscurer forms of appendicitis. But the short, jerky sentences came from his heart as he shook the hand of the beautiful girl who, like himself, was a soldier in the noble army of those who fight disease and death.
They all crowded round Mary. The nurses kissed her, the young doctors wrung her by the hand and tried to express something of their feelings.
Men and women, they all loved and valued her, and every one knew that when she went out through the great doors for the last time they would all suffer a loss which could never be replaced.
It was over at last. No longer in her nurse's dress, but clothed in the ordinary tailor-made coat and skirt that young ladies wear in London during the mornings, Mary got into the waiting hansom cab. The driver shook the reins, the horse lurched into a trot, there was a vision of waving hands and kindly faces, and then the long, grimy façade of the hospital slid past the window and was lost to view.
Mary Lys was no longer a hospital nurse.
As she drove westward—for she was on her way to her aunt's house in Berkeley Square, where she was about to make her home for a time—she reviewed her past life, with its many memories, bitter and sweet. It had been a hard and difficult life—a life of unceasing work among gloomy and often terrible surroundings. And moreover, she was not a girl who was insensible to the beauty and softer sides of life. Culture, luxury, and repose were all hers did she but care to speak one word to Lady Kirwan. She was constantly implored to leave the work she had set herself to do.
She had always refused, and now, as she looked back on the past years, she knew that she had been right, that her character was now fixed and immovable, that the long effort and self-control of the past had given her a steadfastness and strength such as are the portion and attributes of few women.
And as the cab moved slowly up the Strand, Mary Lys thanked God for this. Humbly and thankfully she realized that she was now a better instrument than before, a more finely tempered sword with which to fight the battle of Christ.
For though Mary was to live beneath the roof of Sir Augustus Kirwan, she was not going to live the social life—the life of pleasure and excitement as her cousin Marjorie did. Mary had left the hospital for one definite purpose—that she might join the army of Joseph, and give her whole time to the great work which the evangelist was inaugurating in London.
Joseph and his brethren had now definitely taken up their abode in a large house in Bloomsbury which Sir Thomas Ducaine had given them to be the headquarters of their mission. Workers of all classes were flocking there, and Mary knew, without possibility of doubt, that she was called to the work. Every fibre of her spiritual nature told her the truth. From the first she had been mysteriously connected with the movement. The supernormal chain of events, the long succession of occurrences that were little less than miraculous, told their own tale. In common with all those people who had anything to do with Joseph, and who were about to join him, Mary was sure that she was being directly guided by the Holy Ghost.
She thought of her dead brother, the strange, prophet-like figure of the mountain and the mist, the real beginner of it all, the man who had taken the empty brain and soul of Joseph himself, and as it were, through his own death, by some strange psychical law unknown to us, poured the Spirit of God into them as into a vessel.
Mary knew that Lluellyn was aware of her determination, and that he approved it. There were few people who drew more comfort or believed more heartily in the glorious truth of the Communion of Saints than Mary Lys.
She felt that Jesus Christ had conquered death, that our loved ones are with us still, and the time of waiting is short before we shall see them once again.
She did not know how near she was to another special manifestation of God's grace and power, for, saint-like and humble as were the pious maids and matrons who listened to the teachings of Our Lord and ministered to Him, she did not realize the growth of her own soul and how near to the great veil her life of purity and sacrifice had brought her.
The cab passed out of the Strand into Trafalgar Square, and, the traffic being less congested, began to roll along at a smarter pace than before.
But Mary noticed nothing of her surroundings as the vehicle turned into Pall Mall. From the sweet and tender memory of her dead brother her thoughts had now fallen upon one who was becoming increasingly dear to her, but one for whom she still prayed—and over whom she mourned—unceasingly.
From the very first Mary had been strongly attracted by Sir Thomas Ducaine. Even in the past, when she had definitely refused to listen to his suit, she had known that she was upon the brink of something more than mere affection for him. He was strong, his life was clean, his heart kindly and unspoiled.
But she had restrained herself with the admirable self-control which her life of sacrifice had taught her; she had put the first beginnings and promptings of love away.
He did not believe, he could not believe. God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost were incredible to him. He would not pretend. He would not seek to win her by a lie, but the Holy Trinity meant nothing at all to him.
But then Joseph had come. The Teacher had influenced the rich and famous young man, so that he had given him everything. Without having realized in its essential essence, the truth of Joseph's mission and the Divine guidance the Teacher enjoyed, Sir Thomas had nevertheless changed his whole way of life for him.
"Father, teach him of Thyself. Lord Jesus, reveal Thyself to him. Holy Spirit, descend upon him." Thus Mary prayed as she was being driven out of her old life into the new.
It was about one o'clock when the cab stopped at Sir Augustus Kirwan's house in Berkeley Square.
"My lady and Miss Marjorie told me to tell you, miss," the butler said, as he greeted Mary, "that they are both very sorry indeed that they cannot be here to welcome you. They would have done so if they possibly could. But my lady is lunching at Marlborough House, Miss Mary. Sir Augustus is in the City."
The man handed her on to a footman, who conducted her up the great staircase, at the head of which Mrs. Summers, Lady Kirwan's maid, and confidential factotum, was waiting.
The good woman's face was one broad grin of welcome. Summers was in the confidence of her mistress, and had long known of the efforts made by the baronet and his wife to induce Miss Lys to give up her work at the hospital and take up her residence in Berkeley Square.
Only that morning Lady Kirwan had said, "Everything is really turning out quite well, after all, Summers, though, of course, one could not see it at first. The arrival of this eccentric Joseph person has really been a blessing in disguise. Sir Thomas Ducaine is more devoted to Miss Mary than ever, since they are both mixed up in this mission affair. We shall see everything come right before very long."
"Your rooms are prepared, miss," said Summers. "Bryce has told you why m'lady and Miss Marjorie couldn't be home to welcome you. But I'll send some lunch up at once to your boudoir. And there's a letter come this morning. Sir Thomas' valet brought it himself. I've put it on your writing-table, miss."
There was a world of meaning and kindly innuendo in the woman's voice as she ushered Mary into the luxurious suite of rooms which had been made ready for her.
But the girl noticed nothing of it. Her thoughts were in far distant places.
Nothing could have been more dainty and beautiful than the rooms which were to be hers.
The most loving care had been lavished on them by her aunt and cousin. One of the head men from Waring's had been there on that very morning to put the finishing touches.
Mary's eyes took in all the comfort and elegance, but her brain did not respond to their message. She was still thinking of and praying for the man who loved her and whom she loved, but the man who had not yet—despite all his marvellous generosity—bowed his head and murmured, "I believe."
Then she saw his letter upon the writing-table—the firm, strong handwriting, with the up-stroke "d" and the Greek "e," which denote a public school and University training.
Her heart throbbed as she took up the square envelope and opened it.
This is what she read—
"Lady Kirwan has told me you are coming to them to-day. I want to see you most particularly. I bring you a message from Joseph, and I bring you news of myself. At four o'clock I will call, and please see me. Dearest and best,"Thomas Sholto Ducaine."
"Lady Kirwan has told me you are coming to them to-day. I want to see you most particularly. I bring you a message from Joseph, and I bring you news of myself. At four o'clock I will call, and please see me. Dearest and best,
"Thomas Sholto Ducaine."
She smiled at the signature. Tom always signed his full name, even in the most intimate letters. It was a trick, a habit he always had. For the moment Mary was like any other girl who dwells fondly on some one or other little peculiarity of the man she loves—making him in some subtle way more than ever her own.
Mary lunched alone. Her luxurious surroundings seemed to strike an alien note. She was not as yet at home in them, though when the meal was over she drew up her chair to the glowing fire with a certain sense of physical ease and enjoyment.
In truth, she was very tired. The strongly emotional incidents of her farewell at the hospital, the concentration of nervous force during her drive to Berkeley Square, had left her exhausted for the moment. She was glad of the comfortable silence, the red glow from the cedar logs upon the hearth, and, as the afternoon lengthened into the early dusk of a London fog, she sighed herself to sleep.
Death has been defined as the cessation from correspondence with environment—a logical and scientific statement which, while it is perfectly accurate, still leaves room for every article of the Christian faith. Sleep, in a sense, is this also: and we have the authority of Holy Writ itself that many revelations have come to the dreamer of dreams.
Mary lay back in her arm-chair, and the dewy loveliness of her face would, in its perfection, have shown no trace of what was passing in her sub-conscious mind to an onlooker. But all her life was being unfolded to her in a strange panorama as she slept. From first to last everything that had ever happened to her was unwound as if from the spool of Fate itself. She saw all the events of her life as if she were standing apart from them and they were another's. But, more than all this, she saw also, in a dread and mysterious revelation, the purpose, the controlling purpose of God, which had brought these events about.
It was as though she was vouchsafed a glimpse into the workings of the Divine mind; as if all the operations of God's providence, as they had been connected with her past, were now suddenly made clear.
On some dark and mysterious fabric, half seen and but little understood, the real pattern had flashed out—clear, vivid, and unmistakable, while the golden threads that went through warp and woof were plain at last.
On and on went the strange procession of events, until she found herself upon the lonely mountain-tops of Wales. Her dead brother was there, and praying for her. She heard his passionate, appealing voice, she saw with his very mind itself. Joseph was there also, and Mary began to understand something of the miracle that had made the Teacher what he was, that had changed him as Saul was changed.
And at this moment the color of the dream began to be less real and vivid, while its panoramic movement was greatly accelerated.
She was as though suddenly removed to a great distance, and saw all things with a blurred vision as the present approached. Then her sensations entirely changed. She no longer saw pictures of the past explained for her in the light of a supernatural knowledge. All that was over. Her whole heart and mind were filled with the sense of some strange presence which was coming nearer and nearer—nearer and nearer still.
Then, quite suddenly and plainly, she saw that the figure of Lluellyn Lys was standing in the centre of the room, clear and luminous. The figure was that of her dead brother as she had last seen him, and seemed perfectly substantial and real. It was seen in the darkness by an aurora of pale light that seemed to emanate from it, as if the flesh—if flesh indeed it was—exhaled an atmosphere of light.
Mary fell upon her knees. "Brother—brother!" she cried, stretching out her hands in supplication. "Dear brother, speak to me! Tell me why you are here from the grave!"
There was no answer in words. The face of the figure grew much brighter than the rest, and the weeping, imploring girl saw upon it a peace so perfect, a joy so serene and high, a beatitude so unspeakable, that her sobs and moans died away into silence as she gazed at the transfigured countenance in breathless awe and wonder.
For the face was as the face of one who had seen God and walked the streets of Paradise.
It smiled upon her with ineffable tenderness and greeting, and then she saw that one arm was raised in blessing. For some seconds the figure remained there, motionless. Then with a slight movement, though no sound accompanied it, the luminous outline turned towards the door. The right arm still remained in its attitude of blessing, the left pointed to the portal.
There was a sound of footsteps outside in the passage, the figure began to sway and shake, precisely as a column of vapor shakes in a wind. It grew fainter and more faint, and as Mary tried to clasp it, calling aloud on it to stay, it vanished utterly away. She was awake now, and for some reason she could not explain she rushed to the wall and turned on the switch of the electric light. In a second the room was illuminated. It was just the same in its ordered daintiness and comfort. Nothing was altered, there was nothing whatever to show that any ghostly visitor had been there.
There was a knock at the door.
Sir Thomas Ducaine entered, and there was something upon his face which sent the blood leaping through Mary's veins once more in the shock of a sudden revelation.
She knew now why her brother had come to her in her vision! Sir Thomas entered the room, and came straight up to Mary.
"My dear," he said, "I asked especially to see you alone because I have something to tell you. Lady Kirwan knows; she gave me permission to come. Mary, can you guess what I have to say?"
The light upon his face had told her even before he spoke; the ghostly visitor had told her; her heart had told her.
"I think I know," she said. "I think that my prayers are answered."
He caught her by both hands, and looked steadily into her eyes.
"My love," he said, in a voice that trembled with emotion, try how he would to control it, "I have come to tell you just that."
Her face did not change. It bore the traces of the supernatural experiences through which she had passed; there was a rapt ecstasy in the eyes, the lovely lips spoke of love, belief, hope. Her face did not change, but it already wore the look he had longed to see upon it. She had never seemed more beautiful. "It has been a gradual process, Mary," he continued, speaking quickly and nervously. "But it has been quickened at the last. And I owe it all, absolutely and utterly, to Joseph. The night that Joseph came into my life, when I saw him at the theatre, and when I found him standing on the steps of my house late on the same night, was the beginning of everything for me. All life is changed. I look upon it in a new way. I see it with fresh eyes. I believe in God, I know that Jesus died for me, I know that the Holy Ghost is immanent in this world—I believe!"
"I knew it," she said in a low voice. "I knew it directly you entered the room. God sent a messenger in a dream to tell me."
"He has us in His care," the young man said reverently. "But I have much to tell you, Mary. Do not tire yourself."
He led her to a large ottoman, which came out at right angles to the Dutch fireplace, and sat down by her side. He had released her hands now, and by an intuition she knew his motive. He would not speak to her of love until he had told her the whole history of his conversion, the dawn of his belief, his acceptance of Christ!
He wanted her to be sure, to understand the change in him to the full, and he would take nothing until it was fairly due!
He was indeed a true and gallant gentleman, Mary thought, as she heard the grave young voice and saw the firelight playing upon the strong, clean-cut profile.
She had been attracted to him from the first. No one had ever stirred her as he had done. Liking and powerful attraction had grown into love, strong, steadfast, and sure.
But there had always been that great and terrible barrier between them. She could not give herself to an infidel. For that was what it meant, ugly and harsh as the word was. He did not really and truly believe there was a God. He was an atheist and infidel, even as Joseph himself had been.
And now, and now! It was all over, God had spoken and revealed Himself to the blind, ignorant heart!
The man was speaking. Thomas was telling her of how this marvel had come about.
"It was not only Joseph's great magnetic powers, the marvellous way in which he can stir one, that influenced me. A great orator is not necessarily a Christian; the personal force which hypnotizes and directs the thoughts and movements of a crowd is not necessarily derived from belief. I recognized, of course, that I had come in contact with a personality that was probably unique in the modern world. I saw it at once, I was dominated by it; I put my money and influence at Joseph's disposal because I was perfectly certain of his goodness and his power for good. I knew that I was doing right. But that, after all, was not accepting the Christian faith. Even the miraculous things that I have seen him do, or know of his having done, did not in themselves convince me. Natural causes might account for them. They might be produced by powers superior in intensity, but not different in kind, to those latent in all of us."
Mary listened carefully to the grave and reasoned statement. Every now and then there was a little break and trembling in the young man's voice, telling of the hidden fire beneath the veneer of self-control. The lovely girl who listened half smiled with love and tenderness once or twice.
"And what was it really, dear, in the end, that brought you to the foot of the Cross?" she said gently.
At the word "dear" he started violently, and made a quick movement towards her. His face was flushed with joy, his eyes shone.
Then, with a great effort, he restrained himself. She could see how his hands were clenched, could hear how his breathing came fast from his parted lips.
"It was the simplest and yet the most wonderful thing possible," he said. "I had been thinking about these questions for months. I read theology. I went to the churches and chapels of every sect, and, as you know, I couldn't believe. I know the reason now. I wanted to believe in order that we might be closer together, you and I, love of my heart. I did not want to believe because my heart was touched, and I loved God! Then Joseph came into my life, and more and more I tried. But it was still of no use.
"But I think my heart must have been softened insensibly by being in daily contact with a nature so saintly and a personality so much in communion with the Unseen as Joseph is. A little time ago, as I was reading the Gospel of St. John, one night, just before I went to bed, a sudden revolution took place in all my feelings and desires. These were the words—
"'And after eight days again His disciples were within, and Thomas was with them; then came Jesus, the doors being shut, and stood in the midst, and said, Peace be unto you.
"'Then saith He to Thomas, reach hither thy finger, and behold My hands; and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into My side; and be not faithless, but believing.
"'And Thomas answered and said unto Him, My Lord and my God.' And when I read those words, Mary, they seemed to come straight to my heart, to be spoken to me, Thomas Ducaine. I saw, for the first time, the long, frightful agony upon the Cross. I knew, as I had never known before, what the Son of God had suffered for me. A great rush of love and adoration came over me. With streaming eyes I knelt and prayed for forgiveness, I lost myself in Him and for His sake alone. All thoughts of what I might gain from surrender to Jesus and from loving Him were absent from my mind and consciousness. I loved Him for Himself—very God and very man, begotten not made, being of one substance with the Father.
"I said the Lord's Prayer, and then I slept. I would not come to you at once. I told Joseph, and he blessed me and seemed happier than I had ever seen him before. 'Go to her at once, Thomas,' he said to me. Tell her that Jesus has come to you, that your great earthly love is irradiated and made perfect by your love for Him Who was present at the marriage feast of Cana.'
"But I wouldn't go at once. I distrusted myself. I wanted to wait and see if my new belief would stand the test of time, if it was more than a mere passing emotion of the brain. Yet, every day since then it has grown stronger and more strong. I have beaten through the waves of doubt. I have overcome the assaults of the powers and principalities of the air, who would obscure the light for me. I am a Christian, with all the splendor which that word confers. I have reached the Rock of Ages, and the tempest is over, the winds are stilled.
"To-day Joseph said this to me: 'Delay no longer. You are a new man in Christ Jesus. It has been given to me to know that the hour has come. Go to my dear sister in Christ, that gentle, lovely lady, and tell her of your love. She will be ready and waiting for you. This, also, I know, for it has been told me by the Holy Ghost.'
"That is the message which I said in my letter to you that I was to bring you from Joseph. And now, and now, dearest, most beautiful and best, you have heard all my story."
With these words he suddenly rose and stood above her, looking down at a head which was now bowed, at white hands that were clasped together upon her knees.
There was a momentary silence, and then a single deep sob of happiness and realization came from the girl upon the sofa.
The sound dispelled all his hesitation. It brought him back from the mystical realms of thought and spiritual memory to pure human emotion and love.
He stooped down quickly and caught her by the arms, raising her up to him with a strong grasp that would not be denied.
Then two words rang out like a bell in the quiet room—"At last!"
She was in his arms now, close—ah, close! to the heart that beat for her alone. The freshness of her pure lips was pressed to his.
The moment was of heaven, and from heaven. Two pure and noble natures were united by God in their love for each other. And now they are sitting side by side and hand in hand.
The world is changed for them. Never again will it be the same, for they have tasted of the fruits of Paradise, have heard music which echoes from the shining pavements of the blest ...
"Darling, there are no words at all in which to tell you how I love you. I have not a thought in the world which is not bound up in you, not a wish that is not centred in you."
"And I in you. Oh, Tom, I did not know it was possible to be so happy."
How long they sat thus in the quiet, dainty room neither of them could have said. Time, so slow moving and leaden-footed in the hours of hope, flies with swiftest wings when hope has blossomed into fruition.
There was so much to say and tell! All their thoughts and hopes about each other from the very first must be mutually related, all the hidden secrets laid bare.
"Did you really think that of me, sweetheart? Oh, if I'd only known!..."
"But I wasn't different to other girls, really, darling. It was only because you, you loved me!"
Happy, roseate moments! Perhaps they are the best and finest which life has to give, that God bestows upon his servants here below.
The door opened, and a little group of people entered the room—Lady Kirwan, Sir Augustus, Marjorie, and with them Joseph himself.
No one spoke for a moment. The new-comers all saw that the lovers were sitting hand in hand, that a declaration had been made.
Then pretty Marjorie, regardless of form or ceremony or the presence of the rest, ran to her cousin, put her arms round her neck, and kissed her.
"Oh, you dear darling!" she said; "I am so glad—oh, so, so happy!"
It was most prettily and spontaneously done. Nothing could have been more natural, charming or welcome.
There were tears in Sir Augustus' eyes, as that genial, kind-hearted worldling held out his hand to Sir Thomas Ducaine.
"I congratulate you, my dear boy," he said heartily. "I see how it is with my dear niece and you. I love Mary like a daughter, and there are few people to whom I would rather trust her than to you. God bless you both! Mary, love, come and kiss your uncle."
There was a hum of excited, happy talk, and then Sir Augustus, a man who had had always a great sense of "celebrating" events by some time-honored ceremony, suddenly said:
"Now we'll have a drink out of the loving-cup to Mary and Sir Thomas."
Nobody there wanted wine, but no one liked to baulk the genial and excited old gentleman. But, just as he was about to press the bell and give the order, Sir Augustus suddenly paused. He looked at Joseph, for whom, by this time, he had acquired considerable regard, not unmixed with fear, though quite destitute of any real understanding of him.
"Oh—er—Mr. Joseph," he said, "I hope you won't mind——"
Sir Augustus had an idea that religion and teetotalism were the same thing and were inseparable. He was quite unable to differentiate between the two, no doubt because he knew absolutely nothing of either.
"Mind, Sir Augustus!" Joseph said, in surprise. "Why should I mind, and for what reason?"
The baronet did not quite know what to answer. "Oh, well, you know," he said at length. "I had an idea that you might object. Never mind."
Joseph laughed. The grave and beautiful face seemed singularly happy. Care had passed from it for a time; he looked with eyes of love at Mary and Sir Thomas, with eyes of blessing and of love. The stern denunciator of evil, the prophet and evangelist of God, who warned the world of its wickedness, had disappeared. In his stead was the kindly friend rejoicing in the joy of those who were dear to him.
A servant brought a great two-handled gold cup, which had been filled with wine.
Sir Augustus handed it to Lady Kirwan. The dame lifted the heavy chalice, jewelled with great amethysts, which had been presented to her husband by the Corporation of the City of London.
"My dear, dear niece," she said, while the tears gathered in her eyes; "I drink to your continual happiness, and to the name I bore, and which you bear now, the noble name of Lys!"
Then Sir Augustus took the cup. "To my pretty Mary, whom I love as if she were a child of mine!" said the good man; "and to you, Tom Ducaine, who will make her a true husband, and are a gallant lover."
He passed the cup to his daughter Marjorie. The girl lifted it, looked straight at Mary Lys with a curious meaning and intentness in her eyes, and then said, "With my love of your true love on this happiest of all happy hours."
She handed back the golden cup to her father, who was about to set it down upon a side table, when the Teacher spoke.
"Are you going to leave me out of your ceremony?" Joseph said.
"Very sorry, very sorry," the baronet replied, in confusion. "I wasn't quite sure." He handed the cup to Joseph, but the Teacher only lifted it on high. "May God bless your union, my dear brother and sister," he said simply, and placed it on a table nearby.
The deep music of the voice, the love in it, the deep sincerity, came to them all like a benison.
"You have given me everything in this world and hopes of everything in the next, Joseph," said Sir Thomas Ducaine.
"You were Lluellyn's friend," Mary whispered.
"And you're a jolly good fellow, Mr. Joseph," said Sir Augustus, "in spite of all your critics, and I shall be glad to say so always."
At that, for the first time during their knowledge of him, Joseph began to laugh. His merriment was full-throated and deep, came from real amusement and pleasure, was mirth unalloyed.
Joseph finished his laughter. "May this hour," he said gravely, "be the beginning of a long, joyous and God-fearing life for you, Mary and Thomas. Hand in hand and heart to heart may you do the work of the Lord."
Then, with a bow to all of the company assembled there, he went away.
When he had left the great house and walked for a few minutes, he came upon a huge public-house—a glittering structure at the corner of two streets.
He stopped in front of the great gaudy place, looked at it for a moment, sighed heavily, and went in.
Joseph pushed open the swing-doors of the big public-house and entered beneath a lamp marked "Saloon Bar."
His face was quite changed.
In the short time which had elapsed since he left Sir Augustus Kirwan's house he seemed another person. The great eyes which had looked upon the lovers with such kindly beneficence had now the strange fixity and inward light that always came to them when he was about his Master's business. The face was pale, and the whole attitude of the Teacher was as that of a man who is undergoing a great nervous strain.
He walked down a passage. To his left were the doors of mahogany and cut-glass which led into those boxes which are known as "private bars" in the smart drinking-shops of London. To his right was a wall of brightly glazed tiles, and in front of him, at the passage end, was the door which led into the saloon bar itself. Pushing this open, he entered.
He found himself in a largish room, brilliantly lit by the electric light, and triangular in shape.
Along two of the walls ran padded leather lounges, before the third was the shining semicircular bar, gleaming with mahogany, highly polished brass, and huge cut-glass urns of amber spirit.
In one corner of the room, seated at a marble topped table, a man was talking to an overdressed woman with a rouged face and pencilled eyebrows.
In front of the counter, seated upon a high cane stool, was a young man. He wore a long brown over-coat of a semi-fashionable cut and a bowler hat pushed back on his head. His fair hair was a little ruffled, and his weak, youthful, though as yet hardly vicious face, was flushed high up on the cheek-bones. He was smoking a cigarette of the ten-for-threepence type, and chattering with a somewhat futile arrogation of merriment and knowingness to the barmaid, who had just set a glass of whisky-and-water before him.
For a minute or two, hidden from view by an imitation palm in a pot of terra-cotta which stood upon the counter, Joseph escaped notice. He could hear part of the conversation from where he was—any one might have heard it.
It was the usual thing, vapid, meaningless, inane. A narrow intellect, destitute alike of experience and ideals, with one gift only, youth, imagined that it was seeing "life."
Two fools! Two weak, silly, unconsidered members of the rank and file, without knowledge, manners or charm.
Yet for these two Christ had died upon the Cross no less surely than He had died for prince or pope or potentate. It was thus Joseph thought.
The Teacher's eyes were wet with tears, a beautiful compassion dawned upon his face. He went up to the young man and touched him upon the shoulder.
At the touch the young fellow started and turned suddenly with a convulsive movement. His face was yellow with fear, his jaw dropped, his hands trembled; he was a repulsive picture of weak, nerveless, and uncontrollable terror.
The barmaid looked on in amazement. She marked the fear in her admirer's face, and with swift intuition knew from what cause it proceeded.
It was not the first time in her poor, stunted life, with its evil surroundings, that she had seen a gay young spark touched upon the shoulder; seen the acquaintance of a month vanish for ever, never to come within her ken again save only in a few brief paragraphs in the newspaper reports of the Central Criminal Court.
"Who's your friend, Charlie?" the girl said, with a sickly and inadequate attempt at merriment.
Joseph looked at her.
"My friend," he said, in his grave and beautiful voice, "I come to him with authority."
The girl gasped, then she turned and walked hurriedly to the other end of the bar, taking a newspaper from a drawer and holding it up with shaking fingers. She didn't want to be mixed up in the thing, at any cost she must pretend that she was unconcerned.
The great law of self-preservation—the animal law—had its way with her now. She was alone in the world; she had her living to get; she could not afford to be mixed up with any scandal. She acted after her kind, and fled as far as she could. Who shall blame her?
Joseph took the young man by the arm and led him to the farthest corner of the room. The man and woman who had been there when Joseph entered had gone by now; the place was quite empty.
"Charlie" found himself sitting side by side with the stranger who had led him so easily from the counter. In the shrewd, mean brain of the young man one emotion had been succeeded by another. He had realized after the first moment of terror that Joseph was not what he supposed. The enormous relief of this certainty was succeeded by resentment and puerile anger. He feared that he had given himself away in "Belle's" eyes.
"Now, look here," he said suddenly, "you startled me for a moment, and I won't deny you did. But a gentleman doesn't come and interrupt another gentleman when he's talking to a lady. Who on earth are you, anyhow?"
The high, piping voice, the silly expression, the uncertain, childish rage were unspeakably pitiable.
For answer Joseph put his hand into an inside pocket of his coat and produced a little leather bag.
It was full of sovereigns. While the young clerk stared at him with wondering, fascinated eyes, the Teacher took fourteen pounds from the bag and then returned it to his pocket.
He placed the money in the young man's hand.
"God sent me here to give you this," he said quietly. "It is the exact sum you have stolen from your firm. Replace it, and sin no more. God sends you this last opportunity."
The young fellow's face grew suddenly wet. He took the money with a hand that had lost all nervous force. He could hardly hold the coins.
"Who are you?" he said, in a faint whisper. "How did you know that I had sto—took the money?"
"The Holy Spirit brought me to you," Joseph answered very simply. "A short time ago I was leaving the house of some friends. A dear sister and brother of mine—I speak in the Christian, and not in the family sense—had just plighted their troth. They are to be united in happy and honorable wedlock. I was coming away with my thoughts full of them, and feeling very happy in their happiness. For, you must know, that I love those two people very dearly. Well, as I passed by this place, I was told that there was some one within it who was very miserable. I knew that I must come in and comfort you, and take you out of the net which had enmeshed your young life. Your mother sits at home in Balham, and longs for you. The small pittance that your father's insurance money has secured for her is just enough to support her; but it is not enough to bring any comfort or brightness into her life. But you never go home in the evenings until very late. She sits waiting for you, yearning over her only son, and praying to God for his reformation. But you never come. And when at last you go down home by the last available train, you are often more or less intoxicated, and your mind is always filled with debased images and ideals, disordered longings and evil hopes. And for that reason your mother can never get very near you in spirit. What you are becoming repels her and wounds her motherhood. And now you have begun to steal from your employers, and you walk in deadly fear. In the back of your mind you know that discovery is inevitable before very long. Yet you put the thought away, and try and persuade yourself that everything will come right somehow, though you have no idea how. And during the last fortnight the process of deterioration has been more and more rapid. You have been drinking heavily to deaden your conscience and alleviate your alarm. You have known the end is near. Is not all this the truth?"
The tears were rolling down the weak, young face. The flaccid mouth quivered; the neck was bowed.
"All this, sir," said the young man—"all this is true."
"A broken and contrite heart," the Teacher answered, "are not despised of God. By his great mercy I have been sent to you to save you. Restore the money you have stolen, but do far more. Turn from darkness; seek light. Come to Jesus Christ. Boy, you have heard of what is known as the 'Great Refusal'; you know how the young man with great possessions could not, and would not, give them up to follow the Son of God? But you deny Jesus for a pot of beer! You give up your hope of eternal life to come and the peace of God in this wicked world for nothing—nothing at all? Now come with me to my house in Bloomsbury, my house of godly men. There you shall pray and repent, and from there you shall go home cleansed and purged of your sin, filled with the Holy Spirit, ready and anxious to lead a new life, walking from henceforth in Christ Jesus."
They went out of the place together. The boy never cast a backward glance at his inamorata of a few minutes ago. He followed the Teacher in blind obedience. He was as one stunned. They came into the big old-fashioned square where was the house which Sir Thomas Ducaine had given to Joseph and his brethren. The windows were all lighted up, and there was a small crowd lingering in front of the door.
"They are all praying within," Joseph said. "To-morrow we are to go down into the worst places of the East End. A party of great people are coming with us. We have persuaded them to come, in order that they may see for themselves what these parts of London really are like."
He spoke quietly, and in a purely conversational tone, as if to an equal. He knew well what the poor lad who walked so humbly by his side was suffering. He knew of the remorse and shame, but also of the hope, which were pouring into the young man's heart. And he knew also that all this was but a preparation for what was to come—that there must, indeed, be a final agony of surrender, an absolute and utter "giving-in" to Jesus.
So, as they walked across the square, he tried to calm his captive's nerves by a quiet recital of the great and hopeful things that they were to do on the morrow.
Yet even to Joseph it was not then given to know what things the morrow would bring forth.
The big house was very plainly furnished. What was absolutely necessary had been put into it, but that was all. Sir Thomas Ducaine had been astounded at the simplicity of the arrangements. The wealthy young man, accustomed as he was to every luxury and amenity of life that riches bring, was most anxious to make the place more comfortable.
"My dear fellow," he said to Joseph, "you can't possibly live like this. Why, it's barer than a work-house! You must really let me send you some things in."
But the baronet had not in the least succeeded in altering the Teacher's determination.
"The Lord's work is to be done," Joseph had answered. "We are here to do it, and our thoughts are set on other matters. We have no need of these things."
"But you don't think comfort or luxury, I suppose you would call it, wrong?"
"Certainly not, if a man has earned it, is robbing nobody in acquiring it, and finds personal enjoyment in it. Christ sat at the rich man's feast. He took the gift of the precious ointment. But for us such things are unnecessary."
So the house, now more famous than perhaps any house in London, was a veritable hermit's cell in its appointments. There, however, the resemblance ceased entirely. The place hummed with varied activities. It was the centre of the many organizations that were springing into being under Joseph's direction; activities made possible by Sir Thomas Ducaine's magnificent gifts and the stream of outside donations that had followed in their wake.
Joseph and his young companion passed through the little crowd of loiterers and curious people that nearly always stood before the door of the mysterious house where the Teacher was now known to reside. There was a stir and movement as he came among them, nudgings of elbows, a universal pressure forward, whispers and remarks below the voice: "That's him!" "There's Joseph himself!"
Joseph passed through the crowd without taking any notice of it. On the doorstep he paused and turned as if to speak. The people—there may have been thirty or forty of them—pressed forward in a circle of eager faces. On the outskirts of the group there was a woman, dressed in black and past the middle-age. She seemed to hang back, as if reluctant, or too timid, to approach.
Joseph's eye fell upon her. Then he took a latchkey from his pocket and gave it to the young man.
"Open the door," he said, "and go into the house. Go into the room on the right-hand side of the hall, and I will meet you there."
The young man did as he was bidden, and disappeared.
Then Joseph spoke.
"Among you all," he said, "there is but one here that needs me. You have come to see a show, not to seek God and help to lead you to Him. Get you gone from this place, for there is no health in you!"
The voice rang out in stern command—a command which it seemed impossible to disobey. Without a word, the people turned and slunk away, melting like ghosts into the darkness of the square.
Only the woman in black remained, and she now came timidly up to the Teacher.
"Sir," she said, in a thin but clear and educated voice—"sir, I should like to speak with you, if I may."
"My friend," he answered. "I was waiting for you. Come within the house."
He led the woman into a small room on the left-hand side of the hall—an uncarpeted room, with nothing but a few chairs, a big table covered with papers, and a purring gas-stove upon the hearth.
At the Teacher's invitation the woman sat down, and revealed a thin, anxious face and eyes that seemed perpetually trembling upon the brink of tears.
"It is very kind of you to see me, sir," she said, "I never expected that I should have such good fortune. But I have read about you in the papers—that you go about doing good, just as our dear Lord did, and something within me moved me to seek you out, even if it were only just to look at you. For I am very unhappy, sir, and I have no one to confide in, no one whom I can ask about my trouble or obtain advice from."
"Tell me all about it," Joseph said gently. "When I stood at the door and looked at the people I felt in my heart that they were there out of idle curiosity. God in His wisdom has given me power to know these things. But something came straight from you to me that made me aware that you needed me. Tell me everything."
"It's about my son, sir," the woman said, not noticing the slight start that Joseph gave and the new light that came into his eyes. "I am a widow with one son. He is just twenty, and is employed as a clerk in a City House. But he is going wrong, sir. I can read the signs easily. He stays out late at night, he seems to be losing his love for me, and is impatient of anything I say to him. And more than once he has come home intoxicated lately. And in his room I have found programmes of the performances at music-halls and such places.
"I do not pry about, sir, nor am I foolishly severe and hard. Young men must have their amusements, and they must have their secrets, I suppose. I do not expect Charlie to tell me everything. And he only earns thirty shillings a week, part of which he gives to me for his board and lodging. He cannot possibly afford these amusements.
"I have a terrible fear that never leaves me that he has not been honest, that he must have been taking other people's money, and that he will be ruined. I have prayed and prayed, sir, but it really seems as if prayer is of no use, though, of course, I keep on."
"Don't say that," Joseph answered. "Prayer is still the greatest force in the world, however despondent we may become at times. But your prayers have been answered. Charlie is saved!"
The weeping mother gave a sudden cry, half of joy, half of incredulity.
"But, sir," she stammered, "how can you know that? Oh, if only it could be true!"
"It is true, my dear sister," he answered. "The Lord led me to a place where I found your son, not an hour ago. The Holy Ghost told my mind that there was a widow's son whom I could save. All you have been conjecturing is only too true. Charlie has done the things you say. He has taken money from his employers, but I have given him the sum that he may return it to them. He is here, in this house now, and I know that the leaven of repentance is working within him, and that he feels that he is rescued from both material and spiritual ruin. We are going to pray together. Come with me, and add your prayers to ours."
But when they crossed the hall and entered the room opposite, they found that the young man was already on his knees.
Day by day some such episode as this occurred. Joseph's power seemed more and more sure and wonderful. When he had sent away the widow and her son, tearful and happy, with something in the face of the young man that had never been there before, the Teacher went up the wide Georgian stairs to a large room on the first floor.
No one was there but old David Owen. All the other friends and companions of Joseph were out upon various efforts of compassion and salvation; only the old man remained, for he had a cold, and could not face the night air. A grey, knitted comforter was round his neck, and he was slowly eating his supper—a bowl of bread-and-milk. Before him, on the table, was a large Bible, and he was reading eagerly as he ate, reading with the avidity and concentrated interest that more ordinary people give to an engrossing romance.
He looked up as Joseph entered, and smiled at him.
"It's wonderful, Master!" he said. "It grows more and more wonderful every time I opens it. I've spent my life reading in the Holy Book, and I'm an old man now. But ten lives would be all too short!"
He pointed to the volume with gnarled, wrinkled fingers that trembled with emotion.
"Ah! 'Twas a bitter nailing!" he went on. "A bitter, bitter torture He bore for us. And remember, Joseph, He bore the sins of the whole world, too. I'm no scholar, and I can't see things like you can. All the time I'm reading an' yet I know I can only see a little bit of it. But even that's rending and tearing, Master. It's dreadful what He suffered for us! I can't understand why every one doesn't love Him. It's easy to understand folk doing wrong things. The flesh is very strong—man is full of wickedness. Satan, he goes about tempting the heart, with his dreadful cunning. But, whatever a man does, and is sorry for afterwards, I can't understand his not loving Jesus. And so few folk love Jesus in this wicked town!"
"The clouds are very dark, David," Joseph answered. "But they will break. The dawn of the Lord is at hand, and deliverance is sure. But I, too, at this moment, am full of gloom and sorrow. You know my bad hours, old friend. One of them is with me now. I fear some calamity, though I pray against it. But it is coming. Something tells me it is coming. It is as if I heard slow footsteps drawing nearer and nearer——"
David looked anxiously at his chief.
"I doubt but you've been doing something that's taken power from you, Master," he said. "It has ever been thus with you. Have you not told us of the night when we went to the theatre-house, the home of the ungodly, when you walked the streets of Babylon, and were full of doubt, though you had struck a blow for God that rang through England? And what happened then? Did you not meet the young man who is great in the eyes of the world—the young man who has given a fortune for our work—the young man who has come to Jesus at last?"
Joseph bowed his head.
"Yes, David," he replied; "it was even so, blessed be God. But to-night I feel differently. Then I was trembling upon the verge of doubt. My old disbelief had appeared again within me. It was as if a serpent slept in my brain and suddenly raised its head in coiled hate and enmity to the Light. But now it is not the same. I love and believe. The tortures of a martyrdom, of which I am not worthy, could not alter that. But I have a terrible apprehension—a fear of what to-morrow may bring forth. I cannot explain it; I do not understand it. But nevertheless it is there, and very real."
There was a silence in the big room.
The gas-jets shone upon the walls covered in faded crimson paper, the long table of deal where the brethren ate their simple meals, the single picture which hung over the fireplace—a reproduction of Christ knocking at the door of the human heart, by Holman Hunt.
There was no sound but that of a falling coal in the glowing fire.
Then old David spoke.
"Master," he said, "I think you've no call to be afraid or to fear the future. It's in God's hands, and there it is. But as far as a poor man can look into the matter, I think 'tis this way with you. We all know how blessed you have been. We all know—every one in Britain knows—that you are a special channel for the operations of the Holy Ghost in our land. Out of all men you have been mysteriously chosen to hear the heavenly voices and carry out their warnings. But all men are soul and body, too. You can't divide one from t'other while men live. Therefore it's bound to be that if your soul has been working hard on God's business, it has drained your body of its strength, and so you have these fearful thoughts. Eat and drink, and get back courage!"
Joseph smiled.
"You are right, David, I believe. I will have a bowl of milk-and-bread also. I must be strong for to-morrow. With God's blessing, it will be a great day for London. There has never been such a chance of doing good before. Yes, I must save myself for that!"
"Is it all arranged, Master?" the old man asked. "Are all the great people really coming?"
"Yes, David. And, please God, on the day after to-morrow the kingdom shall be thrilled. Sir Thomas Ducaine is coming to inspect his own property in the East End for the first time. Sir Augustus Kirwan is coming—a powerful and influential man. And the Duke of Dover is coming also. Then the Bishop of East London, though he knows very well—saint that he is—will be with us also. Our dear brother Hampson will be of the party, and also that very valiant soldier of Christ, that new recruit, Eric Black. Black and Hampson—God bless them!—will give the result of our pilgrimage to the world. It should wake all London to a storm of anger and indignation.
"These things have been discovered and published before, but only in isolated instances and at fugitive times, and the voice has always been stifled and obscured. The vested interests have been too strong. But now there is a real spiritual fervor in London. The Holy Spirit has descended on the city. There is a quickening on all sides, the air is full of the Redeemer's name. Therefore, I trust and pray that the results of our visit to-morrow will be far-reaching. Several other friends and well-wishers will accompany us in addition to the names of those I have mentioned."
"It is a fine thing to get these great people to go," said the old man simply. "Then how can you be downcast, Joseph? Surely here is yet another evidence of the favor and protection of God?"
"I do not know why this assails me," the Teacher answered; "but it does, and it is there. I cannot help it."
David Owen shut the Bible on the table in front of him, and rose to his feet.
"Dear Master," he said, "the Son of God was also troubled, in the Desert and in the Garden. But it is well—all is well. All is part of the beneficent ordering of the Father. There is but one medicine for your black thoughts, dear Master, and after you've taken it you'll let come what may."
"And that is, old friend?"
"The Lord's Prayer," answered the old gentleman, taking off his horn spectacles and placing them upon the table.
And, kneeling down, they said it together.
It was the middle of the morning and a dull, leaden day. There was no fog down in the breathing areas of town, but high above a leaden pall hung over the City of Dreadful Night, shutting out the clear light of the sun, livid, sinister and hopeless.
In the big room of the house in Bloomsbury a dozen people were gathered together. Sir Augustus Kirwan was talking to The Duke, a thick-set, clean-shaven man with a strong watchful face. Sir Thomas Ducaine and Eric Black the journalist stood together.
Several other notabilities stood in the big, bare room, and there were also three unobtrusive men with pointed beards, who stood together a little apart from the others. Detective-inspectors Alpha, Beta and Gamma, the real satraps and rulers of the lawless districts of Whitechapel and its environs.
All the men wore hard felt hats and dark overcoats, peer and policeman alike. It does not do to venture where these were going in anything but a very simple and unobtrusive dress.
Joseph and Hampson were talking earnestly together in one corner of the room. They were mapping out the terrible itinerary that should be taken, readjusting and remembering their own sad knowledge of the East, when they had walked starving down the Commercial Road.
"And now, my friends," Joseph said at length, in his deep, organ voice, "I think that all is prepared, and that we may start. Sir Thomas has some carriages waiting for us below."
Sir Augustus Kirwan answered the evangelist.
"My dear fellow," he said—"my dear Joseph, we shall all be delighted to come as soon as may be. But has it occurred to you that while we have all, doubtless, breakfasted, none of us have as yet lunched? It is lunch time now, you know; and though a piece of bread and cheese would do excellently for me, and no doubt for the rest of us, you can hardly expect the present company to penetrate into Whitechapel fasting!"
The Teacher looked at Sir Augustus with a startled face. Then he flushed slightly. It had never occurred to him that his guests must necessarily need refreshment. On his own part he had put away material needs as things of no moment for himself. He was sustained, even in body, by spiritual food. But he realized now how remiss he had been, and that all men were not as he was.
"Sir Augustus," he said, in a voice full of pain and contrition, "I have been absolutely stupid. It is quite abominable of me not to have thought of it, but there is, I am dreadfully afraid, no lunch at all!"
Sir Thomas Ducaine joined in the conversation.
"My dear Joseph," he said, "don't make yourself unhappy. There is plenty. Some of my people have brought lunch. Mary and I foresaw this littlecontretemps, and we made arrangements accordingly. In your burning eagerness to get us all down to see what you have to show us you forgot that we are but mortal, and that the body must be nourished if the eye is to see and the brain observe."
Joseph's face had cleared, but it wore a somewhat rueful expression.
"I can't thank you enough," he said, "for thinking of this. It is a fault in me that I did not do so myself. One is too apt to forget that we are all body and spirit also. Forgive me!"
They all fell to at the sandwiches and so forth which two of Sir Thomas Ducaine's servants brought into the room.
Only Joseph took nothing at all. He stood by himself, tall, beautiful, lost in a reverie that no one disturbed.
He was musing and dreaming still as the carriages took the party to the East End of London.
But when Bishopsgate was passed at last, he threw his thoughts from him with a great effort, and became once more the keen and eager leader of those people whom he had brought to see the ultimate horror of the Modern Babylon.
They sent the carriages away at a certain turning in the Whitechapel Road. Then they plunged into the dark.
And how dark that darkness is! Fiction can hardly tell—fiction must not tell, fearing to infringe upon the bitterness and the agony of the truth. For we who write of things as they are must always consider our audience. Ask General Booth, G. R. Sims, or Mr. Holmes, the police-court missionary, what is the measure of this darkness. Ask the modern martyrs of our day, of all sects and creeds, who labor in these hell-ridden places.
Ask, and you shall hear nothing but the tolling of a great bell, the deep and awful sound of immedicable misery, the iron pæan of the blackness of sin, the deep and ringing wail of the mighty bell—the iron bell—which tolls of hopelessness, and voices the cry of the downtrodden, the oppressed, the lost!
The slaves of the Modern Babylon! But with one difference. In the walled city of wickedness between the two great rivers, hope had not come. They could not know that our Lord was to be born of a pure Virgin to save them——
Thoughts akin to these were in the minds of all of them as they went in and out of the foul slums of the East.
Sir Thomas Ducaine was covered with shame as he saw the horrors all around—horrors existing upon his own property, long unregarded and unknown. But the young man was not the only one among them who registered a mental vow to do all that he could for the wretched beings they had come amongst.
Sir Augustus Kirwan, though he had taken the chair at many philanthropic meetings, and though his name often headed important subscription lists, had never really been brought in contact, in actual personal contact, with the great open wound of London.
The party had come to the mouth of a particularly evil-looking alley. There is character in brick and stone, and this place—"Wilson's Rents" by name—had a sinister cut-throat aspect in every line of it.
"What is in there?" Sir Augustus asked one of the police inspectors.
"It's a particularly bad street, Sir Augustus," the man answered. "A sort of great human rabbit-warren or rat's run, as you may say. The houses nearly all communicate through cellars and subterranean passages."
"Shall we go down here?" Sir Augustus asked Joseph.
"I should not advise it, sir," said the policeman. "The people are so dirty and degraded and disgusting in their habits that they hardly resemble human beings at all."
"Never mind that," Sir Augustus answered. "Now we have come I wish to see everything, however personally distasteful it may be. I am ashamed gentlemen, to think that I have shirked so obvious a duty as this for so long! I am sorry and ashamed of myself!"
With eyes that were not quite dry the great financier took Joseph by the arm and marched down the alley, followed by the others.
They walked cautiously down the place, which seemed strangely deserted. Sir Augustus was talking eagerly to Joseph, opening his heart in a way to which he had long been a stranger, when there was a sudden loud report in the air above them.
Looking upwards with startled eyes, they saw that a little coil of blue smoke was floating out of an open window high above them.
A second afterwards Sir Augustus Kirwan sighed twice and fell forward upon his face, dead, shot through the heart.