A Second Coming

CHAPTER XIX

THE HUNT AND THE HOME

Wherever that day the Stranger went, He was observed of the people. It had been stated in a newspaper that a lame man seemed to be His invariable companion. The fact that such an one did limp at His side served as a mark of recognition; also the charcoal-burner, still in the attire in which he plied his forest trade, was an unusual figure in a London street. Mr. Treadman, issuing from the house at Maida Vale, had been unable to penetrate the crowd which closed behind them, so that his vociferous proclamations of identity were absent. Still, such a trio moving together through the London streets were hardly likely to escape observation.

Not that, for the most part, the Stranger's proceedings were marked by the unusual. He passed from street to street, looking at what was about Him, standing before the shops examining their contents, showing that sort of interest in His surroundings which denotes the visitor to town. Again and again He stopped to consider the passers-by, how they were as a continual stream.

'They are so many, and among them are so few!'

When He reached the top of Ludgate Hill, He looked up at St. Paul's Cathedral.

'This is a great house which men have builded. Let us go in.'

When they were in, He said:

'The Lord is not absent from this house. It is sweet to enter the place where they call upon His Name. If He were in their hearts, and not only on their tongues!'

A service was commencing. He joined the worshippers. There were many there that day who rejoiced exceedingly, although they knew not why.

When the service was over, and they were out in the street again, He said:

'It is good that the work of men's hands should be for the glory of God; yet if to build a house in His Name availed much, how full would the courts of heaven be. This He desires: a clean heart in a clean body; for where there is no sin He is. How does it profit a man to build unto God if he lives unto the world?'

When they came into Cheapside people were flocking into the restaurants for their mid-day meal. He said:

'Come, let us go with them; let us also eat.'

Entering, food was brought to them. The place was full. There was one man who, as he went out, spoke to the proprietor:

'That is the man of whom they are all talking. I know it. He frightens me.'

'He frightens you! What has he done?'

'It is not that he has done anything; it is that I dare not sit by him-I dare not. Let me go.'

'Are you sure that it is he?'

'I am very sure. Here is the money for what I have had-take it. Don't trouble about the change; only let me go.'

The speaker rushed into the street like one flying from the wrath to come.

There were those who had heard what he had said. Immediately it was whispered among them that He of whom such strange tales were told was in their very midst. Presently one said to the other:

'My daughter is dying of consumption; I wonder if he could do anything to cure her.'

A second said:

'My wife's sick of a fever. It might be worth my while to see if he could save further additions to my doctor's bill.'

A third:

'I've a cousin who's deformed-can't do anything for himself-a burden on all his friends. Now, if he could be made like the rest of us, what a good thing it would be for everyone concerned!'

A fourth:

'My father's suffering from some sort of brain disease. It's not enough to enable us to declare him legally insane, but it's more than sufficient to cause him to let his business go to rack and ruin. We don't know where it will end if the thing goes on. If this worker of wonders could do anything to make the dad the man he used to be!'

There were others who told similar tales. Soon they came to where He sat, each with his own petition. When he had heard them to an end, He said:

'You ask always; what is it you give?'

They were silent, for among them were not many givers. He said further:

'He among you who loves God, his prayer shall be answered.' Yet they were still. 'Is there not one who loves Him?'

One replied:

'Among those whom you healed this morning, how many were there who, as you call it, love God? Yet you healed them.

'Though I heal your bodies, your souls I cannot heal. As I said to them, I say to you: Go in peace, and sin no more.'

They went out guiltily, as men whose consciences troubled them. It was told up and down the street that He was there. So that when He came out a crowd was gathered at the door. Some of those who had petitioned Him had proclaimed that He had refused their requests; for so they had interpreted His words. When He appeared one cried in the crowd:

'Why didn't you heal them, like you did the others?'

And another:

'It seems easy enough, considering that you've only got to say a word.'

A third:

'Shame! Only a word, and he wouldn't say it.'

As if under the inspiration of some malign influence, the crowd, showing sudden temper, pressed upon Him. Someone shook his fist in His face, mocking Him:

'Go on! Go on back where you come from! We don't want you here!'

A big man forced his way through the people. When he had reached the Stranger's side he turned upon them in a rage.

'You blackguards, and worse than blackguards-you fools! What is it you think you are doing? This morning he healed a great crowd of things like you; you know it-you can't deny it. What does it matter who he is, or what he is? He has done you nothing but good, and in return what would you do to him? Shame upon you, shame!'

They fell back before the speaker's fiery words and the menace which was in his bearing. The Stranger said:

'Sir, your vehemence is great. You are not far from those that know Me.'

The big man replied:

'Whether I know you or whether I don't, I don't care to stand idly by when there are a hundred setting upon one. Besides, from all I hear, you've been doing great things for the sick and suffering, and the man who does that can always count upon me to lend him a hand. Though, mark my words, he who lays a crowd under an obligation is in danger. There is nothing to be feared so much as the gratitude of the many.'

Police appearing, the crowd in part dispersed. The Stranger began to make His way along the pavement, the big man at His side. Still, many of the people went with them, who being joined by others, frequently blocked the way. Locomotion becoming difficult, a police sergeant approached the Stranger.

'If you take my advice, sir, you'll get into a cab and drive off. We don't want to have any trouble with a lot like this, and I don't think we shall be able to stop them from following you without trouble.'

The big man said:

'Better do as the sergeant advises. Now that you have the reputation of working miracles, if you don't want to keep on reeling them off all day and all night too, you'd better take up your abode on the top of some inaccessible mountain, and conceal the fact that you are there. They'll make a raree-show of you if they can; and if they can't they'll perhaps turn ugly. Better let the sergeant call a cab- here are these idiots on to us again!'

He turned into the crowd.

'Let me go about My Father's business.'

They remained where they were, and let Him go.

But He had not gone far before He was perceived of others. It was told how He had performed another miracle by holding back the people at the Mansion House. Among the common sort there was at once a desire to see a further illustration of His powers. Throughout the afternoon they pressed upon Him more or less, sometimes fading away at the bidding of the police, sometimes swelling to an unwieldy throng. For the most part they pursued Him with shouts and cries.

'Do something-go on! Show us a miracle! Stop us from coming any further! Let's see how you do it!'

As the evening came He found Himself in a certain street in Islington where were private houses. The people pressed still closer; their cries grew louder, their importunity increasing because He gave them no heed. The police continually urged Him to call a cab and so escape. But He asked:

'Where shall I go? In what place shall I hide? How shall I do My Father's business if I seek a burrow beneath the ground?'

The constable replied:

'That's no affair of ours. You can see for yourself that this sort of thing can't be allowed to go on. If it does, I shouldn't be surprised if we had to look you up for your own protection. They'll do you a mischief if you don't look out.'

'What have I done to them, save healing those that were sick?'

'I'm not here to answer such questions. All I know is some queer ideas are getting about the town. If you knew anything about a London mob, you'd understand that the less you had to do with it the better.'

Someone called to the Stranger out of one of the little gardens which were in front of the houses.

'Come in here, sir, come in here! don't stand on ceremony; give those rascals the slip.' The speaker came down to the gate, shouting at the people. 'A lot of cowards I call you-yes, a lot of dirty cowards! What has he done to you that you hound him about like this? Nothing, I'll be bound. If the police did their duty, they'd mow you down like grass.' He held the gate open. 'Come in, sir, come in! I can see by the look of you that you're an honest man; and it shan't be said that an honest man was chivied past George Kinloch's door by such scum as this without being offered shelter.'

The Stranger said:

'I thank you. I have here with Me two friends.'

'Bring them along with you; I can find room for three.'

The Stranger and His two disciples entered the gate. As they passed into the house the people groaned; there were cat-calls and cries of scorn. Mr. Kinloch, standing on his doorstep, shouted back at them:

'You clamouring curs! It is such creatures as you that disgrace humanity, and make one ashamed of being a man. Back to your kennels! herd with your kind! gloat on the offal that you love!' To the Stranger he exclaimed: 'I must apologise to you, sir, for the behaviour of these vagabonds. As a fellow-citizen of theirs, I feel I owe you an apology. I've no notion what you've done to offend them, but I'm pretty sure that the right is on your side.'

'I have done nothing, except heal some that were sick.'

'Heal some that were sick? Why, you don't mean to say- Are you he of whom all the world is talking? Ada! Nella! Lily!' The three whom he called came hastening. 'Here is he of whom we were speaking. It is he whom that swarm of riff-raff has been chivying. Bid him welcome! Sir, I am glad to have you for a guest, though only for a little.'

When He had washed and made ready He found them assembled in the best room of the house. The lamps were lit, the curtains drawn; within was peace. But through the window came the voices of the people in the street. Mr. Kinloch did his utmost to entertain his guest with conversation.

'These are my three daughters, as you have probably supposed. Their mother is dead.'

'I know their mother.'

'You knew her? Indeed! When and where? It must have been before she was married, because I don't seem to recognise your face.'

'I knew her before she was married, and after, and I know her now.'

'Now? My dear sir, she's dead!'

'Such as she do not die.'

Mr. Kinloch stared. The girl Ada touched him on the arm:

'Mother is in heaven; do you not understand?' She went with her sisters and stood before Him. 'It is so good to look upon Your face.'

'You have seen it from of old.'

'Then darkly, not as now, in the light.'

'Would that all the world saw Me in the light as you do! Then would My Father's brightness shine out upon all men, as does the sun. But yet they love the darkness rather than the light.'

Mr. Kinloch inquired, being puzzled:

'What is this? Have you met this gentleman before? Is he a friend of yours as well as of your mother's? I thought I knew something of all your acquaintance. I've always tried to make a rule of doing so. How comes it that you womenfolk have had a friend of whom I've been told nothing?'

Ada replied to his question with another.

'Father, do you not know Christ?'

'My dear girl, don't speak to me as if you were one of those women who go about with tracts in their hands! Haven't I always observed your mother's wishes, and seen that you went regularly to church? What do you mean by addressing your father as if he were a heathen?'

'This is Christ.'

'This? Girl, this is a man!'

'Father, have you forgotten that Christ was made man?'

'Yes, but that-that's some time ago.'

'He is made man again. Don't you understand?'

'No, I don't. Sir, I'm not what you might call very intellectual, and it's taken me all my time to find the means to bring these girls up as young women ought to be brought up. I suppose it's because I'm stupid, but, while I'll write myself down a Christian with any man, there's a lot of mystery about religion which is beyond my comprehension. There's a deal about you in the papers. I'm told you've been doing a wonderful amount of good to many who were beyond the reach of human help. For that I say, God bless you!'

The Stranger said: 'Amen.'

'At the same time there's much that is being said which I don't understand. I don't know who you are, or what you are, except that it's pretty clear to me that a man who has been doing what you have can't be very far from heaven; and if I ought to know, I'm sorry. God gave me a good wife, and she gave me three daughters who are like her. She's in heaven-I don't need anyone to tell me that; and if they'll only let her know, when they meet her among the angels, that I loved her while I'd breath, so long as she and they have all they want for ever and for ever, I don't care what God thinks it right to do with me. The end and aim of my life has been to make my wife and her children happy. If they're happy in heaven I'll be happy, too. That's a kind of happiness of which it will not be easy to deprive me, no matter where I am.'

'You are nearer to Me than you think.'

'Am I? We'll hope so. I like you; I like your looks; I like your voice; I like your ways; I like what you have brought into the house with you-it's a sort of a kind of peace. As Ada says-she knows; God tells that girl things which perhaps I'm too stupid to be told-it's good to look upon your face. Whatever happens in the time to come, I never shall be sorry that I've had a chance to see it.'

'You never shall.'

A voice louder than the rest was heard shouting in the street:

'Show us another miracle!'

Ada said:

'You hear that? Why, father, I do believe that a miracle is beginning to be worked in you!'

She smiled at him. He took her in his arms and kissed her.

CHAPTER XX

THEY THAT WOULD ASK WITH A THREAT

There was a meeting of Universalists. This was a society whose meeting-place was in Soho. It called itself a club, using the word in a sense of its own, for anyone was admitted to its membership who chose to join; and, as a rule, all comers, whether members or not, were free to attend its meetings. It was a focus for discontent. To it came from all parts of the world the discontented, examples of that huge concourse which has a grudge against what is called Society-not of the silent part, which is in the majority, but of that militant section whose constant endeavour it is to goad the dumb into speech, in the hope and trust that the distance between speech and action will not be great.

The place was packed. There were women there as well as men-young and old-representatives of most of the nations which describe themselves as civilised; their common bond a common misery. The talk was old. But in the atmosphere that night was something new. Bellows had given vitality to the embers which smouldered in their hearts.

Henry Walters was speaking. They listened to him with a passionate eagerness which suggested how alluring was the dream which he proposed to wrest out of the arena of visions.

'I said to a policeman as I was coming in that I believed we were going to have our turn. He laughed. The police have had all the laughing. We'll laugh soon. We've been looking for a miracle, recognising that a miracle was the only thing that could help us. The arrival of a worker of miracles is a new factor in the situation with which the police, and all they represent, will have to reckon. It's just possible that they mayn't find him an easy reckoning. He who can raise a woman from the dead with a word can just as easily turn London upside down, and the police with it.

'We've heard of taking the kingdom of heaven by violence. I believe that it has been recommended by high authorities as a desirable method of procedure. I propose to try it. I propose we go to-morrow morning to this worker of miracles, saying: "You see how our wrongs ascend as a dense smoke unto Heaven. Put an end to them, so that they may cease to be an offence unto God." He has shown that he has bowels of compassion. I believe, if we put this plainly to him, with all the force that is in us, that the greatest of his miracles will be worked for us. If he will heal the sick, he will heal us; for we are sick unto more than death, since our pains have dragged us unto the gates of hell.

'The fashion of the healing we had better leave to him. Let us but point out that we come into the court of his justice asking for our rights; if he will give us what is ours we need not trouble about the manner of the giving. Let us but remind him that in the sight of God all men are equal; if he restores to us our equality, what does it matter how he does it? For the substance let the shadow go. But on so much we must insist; we must have the substance. We must be healed of our diseases, cured of our sores, relieved of our infirmities. If our just prayer is quickly heard, good. If not, the kingdom of heaven must be taken by violence, and shall be, if we are men and women. How are we profited, though miracles are worked for others, if none are worked for us? We stand most in need of the miraculous-none could come into this room, and see us, and deny it! – and we'll have it, or we'll know the reason why. He can scarcely smite us more heavily than we are already smitten. I wish to use no threats. I trust no one else will use them. I'm hopeful, since he has shown that he has sympathy for suffering, that he'll show sympathy for our sufferings. But-I say it not as a threat, but as a plain statement of a plain fact-if he won't do his best for us, we'll do our worst to him. God grant, however, that at last a Saviour has come to us in very deed!'

When Walters stopped a score of persons sprang to their feet. The chairman called upon a German, one Hans Küntz, wild, lean, unkempt, with something of frenzy in his air. He spoke English with a volubility which was only mastered by an occasional idiom; in a thin falsetto voice which was like a continuous shriek.

'I am hungry; that is not new. In the two small rooms where I live I have a wife and children who are also hungry; that also is not new. I run the risk of becoming more hungry by coming out to-night, and leaving work that must be finished by the morning. But when I hear that there is come to London one who can raise people from the dead, I say to my wife: "Then He can raise us too." My wife says: "Go and see." So to see I am come. With Mr. Walters I say, Let us all go and see-all, all that great London which when it works starves slowly, and when it does not work starves fast. We need not speak. We need but show Him our faces, how the skin but covers our bones. If he is not a devil, he will do to us what he has done to others: he will heal us and make us free. What I fear is that it is exaggerated what he has done-I have got beyond the region of hope. But if it is true, if but the half of it is true-if this morning he healed that crowd of people with a word, why should he not do the same to us? Why? Why? Did they deserve more than we? Are our needs not greater? We are the victims of others' sins. We are the slaves who sow, and reap, and garner, and yet are only suffered to eat the husks of the great stores of grain for which we give our lives. Surely this healer of the sick will give us a chance to live as men should live, and to die, when our time comes, as men should die! Oh, my brothers, if God has come among us He'll know! He'll know! And if He is a God of mercy, a God of love, and not a Siva, a destroyer, who delights in the groans and cries of bruised and broken hearts and lives, we have but to make to Him our petition, and He'll wipe the tears out of our eyes. To-night it is late, but in the morning, early, let us all go to Him-all! all! – all go!'

Out of the throng who were eager to speak next a woman was chosen- middle-aged, decently dressed, with fair hair and quiet eyes. Her voice was low, yet distinct, her manner calm, her language restrained, her bearing judicial rather than argumentative.

'Brothers Küntz and Walters seem to take it for granted that the God of the Christians is a God of love. I thought so when I was a child; I know better now. The idea seems to be supported in the present case by the fact that the person of whom we have heard so much has done works of healing, of mercy. It is not clear that, in all cases, to heal is to be merciful. Apart from that consideration, I would point out that the works in question have been spasmodic rather than continuous, the fruits, apparently, of momentary whims rather than of a settled policy. This afternoon his assistance was invited in similar cases. He declined. The crowd continually entreated him to do unto them as he had done unto others. Their requests were persistently ignored. It is plain, therefore, that one has not only to ask to receive. Nor is any attempt made to differentiate between the justice of contending claims. If this person is Divine, which I, personally, take leave to more than doubt, he is irresponsible. His actions are dependent on the mood of the moment.

'I am not saying this with any desire to throw cold water on the proposition which has been made to us. On the contrary, I think the suggestion that we should go to him in a body-as large a body as possible-and request his good offices on our behalf, an excellent one. At the same time, I cannot lose sight of one fact: that it is one thing to pray; to receive a satisfactory answer-or, indeed, an answer of any sort to one's prayer-is quite another. In our childish days we have prayed, believing, in vain. In the acuter agonies of our later years prayers have been wrung from us-always, still, in vain. There seems no adequate reason why, in the present case, we should pin our faith to the efficacy of prayer alone. The disease has always existed. Why should we suppose that the remedy has become accessible to whoever chooses to ask for it? If this person is Divine, he knows what we suffer; has always known, yet has done nothing. We are told that God is unchangeable, the same for ever and ever. The history of the world sustains this theory, inasmuch as it has always been replete with human suffering. That, therefore, disposes of any notion that it is at all likely that he has suddenly become sensitive to mere cries of pain.

'I would lay stress on one word which Brother Walters used more than once: violence. We are confronted with an opportunity which may never recur, and may vanish if not used quickly. Here is a person who has done remarkable things. The presumption is that he can do other remarkable things for us, if he chooses. He must be made to choose. That is the position.

'Let us clear our minds of cant. We are going to him with a good case. The reality of our grievances, the justice of our claims, he scarcely will be prepared to deny. Still, you will find him unwilling to do anything for us. Probably, assuming an air of Divine irresponsibility, he will decline to listen, or to discuss our case at all. Such is my own conviction. There will be a general rush for him to-morrow. All sorts and conditions of people will have an axe of their own to grind. In the confusion, ours will be easily and conveniently ignored. Therefore, I say, we must go in as large a body as possible, force him to give us an interview, compel him to accede to our request-that is, speak for us the same kind of word which he spoke for those sick people this morning. If he strikes us dead, he'll do himself no good and us no harm, for many of us would sooner be dead than as we are. Unless he does strike us dead we ought to stick to him until we have wrung from him our desire. It is possible that this is a case in which resolution may succeed. At the worst, in our plight, with everything to gain, and nothing-nothing-to lose, the attempt is one which is worth making, on the understanding that we will not take no for an answer, but will use all possible means to win a yes. We must make it as plain as it can be made that, if he will do nothing for us, he shall do nothing for others, at least on earth. What does it matter to us who enters heaven if the door is slammed in our faces?'