A Second Coming

As He stopped the Stranger raised His head, and looked about Him. He saw how large was the number of the people, and He said, in a voice which was only clearly audible to those who stood near:

'It is already late. Is it not time that you should go to your homes and rest?'

A man replied; he was a young fellow in evening dress; he had had more than enough to drink:

'It's early yet. You don't call this late! The evening's only just beginning! We're game to make a night of it if you are. Where you lead us we will follow.'

The young man's words were followed by a burst of laughter from some of those who heard. The Stranger sighed. Turning towards Hyde Park, He moved towards the open gates. The crowd opened to let Him pass, then closing in, it followed after. The Stranger entered the silent park. Crossing Rotten Row, He led the way to the grassy expanse which lay beyond. Not the whole crowd went with Him. The vehicles went their several ways, many also of the people. Some stayed, loitering and talking over what had happened; so far, that is, as they understood. These the police dispersed. Still, those who continued with the Stranger were not few.

When He reached the grass the Stranger stopped again. The people, gathering closer, surrounded Him, as if expecting Him to speak. But He was still. They looked at Him with an eager curiosity. At first He did not look at them at all. So that, while with their intrusive glances they searched Him, as it were, from head to foot, He stood in their midst with bent head and downcast eyes. They talked together, some in whispers, and some in louder tones; and there were some who laughed, until, at last, a man called out:

'Well, what have you brought us here for? To stand on the grass and catch cold?'

The Stranger answered, without raising His eyes from the ground:

'Is it I that have brought you here? Then it is well.'

There was a titter-a woman's giggle rising above the rest. The Stranger, raising His head, looked towards where the speaker stood.

'It were well if most of you should die to-night. O people of no understanding, that discern the little things and cannot see the greater, that have made gods of your bellies, and but minister unto your bodies, what profiteth it whether you live or whether you die? Neither in heaven nor on earth is there a place for you. What, then, is it that you do here?'

A man replied:

'It seems that you are someone in particular. We want to know who you are, according to your own statement.'

'I am He on whose name, throughout the whole of this great city, men call morning, noon, and night. And yet you do not know Me. No! neither do those know Me that call upon Me most.'

'Ever heard of Hanwell?' asked one. 'Perhaps there's some that have known you there.'

The questioner was called to order.

'Stow that! Let's know what he's got to say! Let's hear him out!'

The original inquirer continued.

'For what have you come here?'

'For what?' The Stranger looked up towards the skies. 'It is well that you should ask. I am as one who has lost his way in a strange land, among a strange people; yet it was to Mine own I came, in Mine own country.'

There was an interval of silence. When the inquirer spoke again, it was in less aggressive tones.

'Sir, there is a music in your voice which seems to go to my heart.'

'Friend!' The Stranger stretched out His hand towards the speaker. 'Friend! Would that it would go to all your hearts, the music that is in Mine-that the sound of it would go forth to all the world! It was for that I came.'

This time there was none that answered. It was as though there was that in the Stranger's words which troubled His listeners- which made them uneasy. Here and there one began to steal away. Presently, as the silence continued, the number of these increased. Among them was the inquirer; the Stranger spoke to him as he turned to go.

'It was but seeming-the music which seemed to speak to your heart?'

Although the words were quietly uttered, they conveyed a sting; the man to whom they were addressed was plainly disconcerted.

'Sir, I cannot stay here all night. I am a married man; I must go home.'

'Go home.'

'Besides, the gates will soon be shut, and late hours don't agree with me; I have to go early to business.'

'Go home.'

'But, at the same time, if you wish me to stop with you-'

'Go home.'

The man slunk away, as if ashamed; the Stranger followed him with His eyes. When he had gone a few yards he hesitated, stopped, turned, and, when he saw that the Stranger's eyes were fixed on him, he made as if to retrace his steps. But the Stranger said:

'Go home.'

Taking the gently spoken words as a positive command, the man, as if actuated by an uncontrollable impulse, or by sudden fear, wheeling round again upon his heels, ran out of the park as fast as he was able. When the man had vanished, the Stranger, looking about Him, found that the number of His attendants had dwindled to a scanty few. To them He said:

'Why do you stay? Why do you, also, not go home?'

A fellow replied-his coat was buttoned to his chin; his hands were in his pockets; a handkerchief was round his neck:

'Well, gov'nor, I reckon it's because some of us ain't got much of a 'ome to go to. I know I ain't. A seat in 'ere'll be about my mark- that is, if the coppers'll let me be.'

Again the Stranger's glance passed round the remnant which remained. As the fellow's speech suggested, it was a motley gathering. All told, it numbered, perhaps, a dozen-all that was left of the great crowd which had been there a moment ago. Three or four were women, the rest were men. They stood a little distance off, singly-one here and there. As far as could be seen in the uncertain light, all were poorly clad, most were in rags-a tatterdemalion crew, the sweepings of the streets.

'Are you all homeless, as I am?'

A man replied who was standing among those who were farthest off; he spoke as if the question had offended him.

'I ain't 'omeless-no fear! I've got as food a 'ome as anyone need want to 'ave; 'm none o' yer outcasts.'

'Then why do you not go to it?'

'Why? I am a-goin', ain't I? I suppose I can go 'ome when I like, without none o' your interference!'

The man slouched off, grumbling as he went, his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets, his head sunk between his shoulders. And with him the rest of those who were left went too, some of them sneaking off across the grass, further into the heart of the park, bent nearly double, so as to get as much as possible into the shadow.

The cause of this sudden and general flight was made plain by the approach of a policeman, shouting:

'Now, then! Gates going to be closed! Out you go!'

The Stranger asked of him: 'May I not stay here and sleep upon the grass?

The policeman laughed, as if he thought the question was a joke.

'Not much you mayn't! Grass is damp-might catch cold-take too much care of you for that.'

'Where, then, can I sleep?'

'I don't know where you can sleep. I'm not here to answer questions. You go out!

The Stranger began to do as He was bid. As He was going towards the gate, a man came hastening to His side; he had been holding himself apart, and only now came out of the shadow. He was a little man; his eagerness made him breathless.

'Sir, it's not much of a place we've got, my wife and I, but such as it is, we shall be glad to give You a night's lodging. I can answer for my wife, and the place is clean.'

The Stranger looked at him, and smiled.

'I thank you.'

Together they went out of the park, the new-comer limping, for he was lame of one foot, the Stranger walking at his side. And all those whom they passed stopped, and turned, and looked at them as they went; some of them asking of themselves:

'What is there peculiar about that man?'

For it was as though there had been an unusual quality in the atmosphere as He went by.

CHAPTER IX

THE FIRST DISCIPLE

'This,' said the lame man, 'is where I live. My rooms are on the first floor. My name is Henry Fenning. I am a shoemaker. My wife helps me at my trade. Our son lives with us, he's a little chap, just nine, and, like me, he's lame.'

The man had conducted the Stranger to a street opening on to the Brompton Road. Even in that uncertain light it could be seen that the houses stood in need of repairs; they were of irregular construction, small, untidy, old. On the ground floor of the one in which he had paused was a shop, a little one; the shop front was four shutters wide. One surmised, from the pictures on the wall, that it sold sweetstuff and odds and ends. The man's manner was anxious, timid, as if, while desirous that his Visitor should take advantage of such hospitality as he could offer, he yet wished to inform Him as to the kind of place He might expect. The Stranger smiled; there was that in His smile which seemed to fill His companion with a singular sense of elation.

'It is good of you to give Me what you can.'

The shoemaker laughed gently, as if his laughter was inspired by a sudden consciousness of gladness.

'It is good of You to take what I can give.' He opened the door. 'Wait a moment while I show You a light.' Striking a match, he held it above his head. 'Take care how You come in; the boards are rough.' The Stranger, entering, followed His host up the narrow stairs, into a room on the first floor. 'Mary, I have brought you a Visitor.'

At the utterance of the name the Stranger started.

'Mary!' He exclaimed. 'Blessed are you among women!'

It was a small apartment-work-room, living-room, kitchen, all in one. Implements of the shoemaker's trade were here and there; some partly finished boots were on a bench at one side. The man's wife was seated at a sewing-machine, working; she rose, as her husband entered, to give him greeting. She was a rosy-faced woman, of medium height, but broadly built, with big brown eyes, about forty years of age. She observed the Stranger with wondering looks.

'Sir, I seem to know You.'

And the Stranger said:

'I know you.'

The woman turned to her husband.

'Who is this?'

Her husband replied:

'It is the Welcome Guest. Give Him to eat and to drink, and after, He would sleep.'

The woman put some cold meat and cheese and bread upon a small table, which she drew into the centre of the floor.

'Sir, this is all I have.'

'I know it.' He took the chair which her husband offered. 'Come and sit and eat and drink with Me.'

The man and his wife sat with Him at the table, and they ate and drank together. When the meal was finished, He said:

'You are the first that have given Me food. What you have given Me shall be given you, and more.'

Presently the shoemaker came to the Stranger.

'Sir, in our bedroom we have only one bed. If You will sleep in it, my wife will make up another for us here upon the floor. We shall do very well.'

In the bedroom the Stranger saw that a child slept in a little bed which was against a wall. The shoemaker explained.

'It is my son. He will not trouble You. He sleeps very sound.'

The Stranger bent over the bed.

'In his sleep he smiles.'

'Yes, he often does. He has happy dreams. And he comes of a smiling stock.'

The Stranger turned to the lame man.

'Do you often smile?'

'Yes; why not? God has been very good to me.'

'God is good to all alike.'

'That's what my wife and I say to each other; but it's only the lucky ones who know it.'

When the shoemaker and his wife were alone in the living-room together, they kissed and gave thanks unto God. For they said:

'This night the Lord is with us. Blessed is the name of the Lord!'

In the morning, when it was full day, the boy woke up and went to the bed on which the Stranger lay asleep, crying:

'Father!'

And the Stranger was roused, and saw the boy standing at his side. He stretched out His arms to him.

'My son!'

But the boy shrank back.

'You are not my father. Where is my father and my mother?'

'They are in the next room, asleep. They have given Me their bed. And, because they have done so, I am your Father too. So in your sleep you smiled?'

'Did I? I expect it was because I dreamed that I was happy.'

'Was your happiness but a dream?'

'While I was asleep. Now I am awake I know I'm happy.'

'But you are lame?'

'So's father. I don't mind being lame if father is.'

The Stranger was still. He smiled, and touched the child upon the shoulder. And the boy gave a sudden cry. He drew up his night-shirt, and looked down at his right leg.

'Why, it's straight! – like the other.' He began to move about the room. 'I'm not lame! I'm not lame!' All aglow with excitement, he went running through the door. 'Father! mother! my leg's gone straight! I can run about like other boys. Look! – I'm no longer lame!'

When his mother saw that it was so, she took him into her arms and cried:

'My boy! my boy! God be thanked for what He has done to you this day!'

When they saw that the Stranger was standing in the doorway the father and mother were silent. Their hearts were too full to find speech easy. But the boy ran to Him.

'Oh, sir! make father's leg straight like mine!'

The Stranger asked of his father:

'Would you have it so?'

But the lame man answered:

'If it may be, let me stay as I am; for if I had not been lame I might never have known Your face.'

To which the Stranger said:

'That is a true saying. For by suffering eyes are opened; so that he who endures most sees best. For to all men God gives gifts.'

The woman busied herself in making breakfast ready. When they were at table, the lame man said:

'Lord, if You will not stay with us, may we come with You?'

'Nay; you are with Me although you stay. For where My own are, I am.'

'Lord, suffer me to come! Suffer it, Lord!'

'If you will, come, until you find the way too long and the path too hard for your feet to travel; for the road by which I go is not an easy one.' He turned to the woman. 'Do you come also?'

'If You will, I will stay at home, to make ready against You come again.'

He answered:

'You have not chosen the worse part.'

While they had been sitting at breakfast the boy had run out into the street, and told first to one and then to another how, with a touch, a wonderful Stranger had straightened his leg, so that he was no longer lame. And, since they could see for themselves that he was healed of his lameness, the tale was quickly noised about; so that when the Stranger came out of the shoemaker's house, He found that a number of people awaited Him without. A woman came pushing through the crowd, bearing a crooked child in her arms.

'Heal my son also! Make him straight like the other!'

And being moved by pity for the child, He touched him, so that he sprang from his mother's arms, and stood before them whole. And all the people were amazed, saying:

'What manner of man is this, that makes the lame to walk with a touch?'

So when He came out into the Brompton Road He was already attended by a crowd, some crying:

'This is the man who works miracles!'

Others:

'Bring out your sick!'

With each step He took the crowd increased, so that when He came to the narrow part of Knightsbridge the street became choked and the traffic blocked. The people, because there were so many, pressed against Him so that He could not move, and there began to be danger of a riot.

The lame man, who found it difficult to keep close to His side, said to Him:

'Lord, if You do not send them from us we shall be hurt.'

But He replied:

'It is to these I have come, although they know it not. If I send them from us, why did I come?'

When they reached that portion of the road where it grows wider in front of the park, the pressure became less. But still the crowd increased.

'He goes to the hospital,' they cry, 'to heal the sick with a touch.'

And some ran on to St. George's Hospital, and pushed past the porters up the stairs and into the wards, and began to lift the sick out of their beds. And those who could walk, being persuaded by them that had run on, went out into the streets. So that when He came, He found awaiting Him a strange collection of the sick, who were ill of all manner of diseases. And the people cried:

'Heal them! – heal them with a touch!'

But He replied:

'What is it you ask of Me? I came not to heal the sick, but to call sinners to repentance.'

They cried the more:

'Heal them! – heal them with a touch!'

'If I heal them, what then? Of what shall they be healed? Of what avail to heal the body if the spirit continues sick?'

But they persisted in their exclamations. While still they pressed on Him, an inspector of police edged his way through the crowd.

'I don't know who you are, sir, but you are doing a very dangerous thing in causing these people to behave like this.'

'Suffer Me first to do as they ask.'

He stretched out His hand and touched those that were sick, so that they were whole. But when they came to look for Him who had done them this service, behold He was gone. And the lame man had gone with Him.

CHAPTER X

THE DEPUTATION

He came, with His disciple to a gate which led into a field, through which there ran a stream. It was high noon. He entered the gate, and sat beside the stream. And the lame man sat near by. The Stranger watched the water as it plashed over the stones on its race to the mill. When presently He sighed, the lame man said:

'I have money; there is a village close handy. Let me go and buy food, and bring it to you here.'

But He answered:

'We shall not want for food. There is one who comes to offer it to us now.'

Even as He spoke a carriage drew up in the road on the other side of the hedge. A lady, standing up in it, looked through a pair of glasses into the field. Bidding the footman open the carriage-door, alighting, she came through the gate to where He sat with His disciple beside the stream. She was a woman of about forty years of age, very richly dressed. As she walked, with her skirts held well away from the grass, she continued to stare through the glasses, which were attached to a long gold handle. Looking from one to the other, her glance rested, on the Stranger.

I Are you the person of whom such extraordinary stories are being told? You look it-you must be-you are. George Horley just told me he saw you on the Shaldon Road. I don't know how he knew it was you- and his manner was most extraordinary-but he's a sharp fellow, and I shouldn't be surprised if he was right. Tell me, are you that person?'

'I am He that you know not of.'

'My dear sir, that doesn't matter one iota. What I've heard of you is sufficient introduction for me. I don't know if you're aware that this field is mine, and that you're trespassing. I'm very particular about not allowing the villagers to come in here-they will go after the mushrooms. But if you'll take a seat in my carriage I shall be very happy to put you up for a day or two. I'm Mrs. Montara, of Weir Park. I have some very delightful people staying with me, who will be of the greatest service to you in what I understand is your propaganda. Most interesting what I've heard of you, I'm sure.' The Stranger was silent. 'Well, will you come?'

'Woman, return to your own place. Leave Me in peace.'

'I don't admire your manners, my good man, especially after my going out of my way to be civil to you. Is that all the answer you have to give?'

'What have I to do with you, or you with Me? I am not that new thing which you seek. I am of old.'

He looked at her. The great lady shrank back a little, as if abashed.

'Whoever you are, I shall be glad to have you as my guest.'

'I am not found in rich women's houses. They are too poor. They offer nothing. They seek only to obtain.'

'I offer you, in the way of hospitality, whatever you may want.'

'You cannot offer Me the one thing which I desire.'

'What is that?'

'That you should know Me even as you are known. For unless you know Me I have nothing, and less than nothing, and there is nothing in the world that is at all to be desired. For if I have come unto Mine own, and they know Me not, then My coming indeed is vain. Go! Strip yourself and your house, and be ashamed. In the hour of your shame come to Me again.'

'If that's the way you talk to me, get up and leave my field, before I have you locked up for trespass.'

He stood up, and said to the lame man:

'Come!'

And they went out of the field, and passed through that place without staying to eat or drink. In the next village an old woman, who was standing at a cottage gate, stopped them as they were passing on.

'You are tired. Come in and rest.'

And they entered into her house. And she gave them food, refusing the money which the lame man offered.

'I have a spare bedroom. You can have it if you'd like to stay the night, and you'll be kindly welcome.'

So they stayed with her that night.

And in the morning, while it was yet early, they arose and went upon their way. And when they had gone some distance they heard on the road behind them the sound of a horse's hoofs. And when they turned, they saw that a wagonette was being driven hotly towards them. When, on reaching them, it stopped, they saw that it contained five men. One, leaning over the side, said to the Stranger:

'Are you he we are looking for?' The Stranger replied:

'I am He whom you seek.'

'That is,' added a second man, 'you are the individual who is stated to have been performing miracles in London?'

The Stranger only said:

'I am He whom you seek.'

'In that case,' declared the first speaker, 'we are very fortunate.'

He scrambled out on to the road, a short, burly man, with restless bright eyes and an iron-gray beard. He wore a soft, round, black felt hat, and was untidily dressed. He seemed to be in perpetual movement, in striking contrast to the Stranger's immutable calm.

'Will you come with us in the wagonette?' he demanded. 'Or shall we say what we have to say to you here? It is early; we're in the heart of the country; no one seems about. If we cross the stile which seems to lead into that little copse, we could have no better audience-chamber, and need fear no interruption.'

'Say what you have to say to Me here.'

'Good! Then, to begin with, we'll introduce ourselves.'

His four companions were following each other out of the wagonette. As they descended he introduced each one in turn.

'This is Professor Wilcox Wilson, the pathologist. Professor Wilson does not, however, confine himself to one subject, but is interested in all live questions of the day; and, while he keeps an open mind, seeks to probe into the why and wherefore of all varieties of phenomena. This is the Rev. Martin Philipps, the eminent preacher and divine, who joins to a liberal theology a far-reaching interest in the cause of suffering humanity. Augustus Jebb, perhaps the greatest living authority on questions of social science and the welfare of the wage-earning classes. John Anthony Gibbs, who may be said to represent the religious conscience of England in the present House of Commons. I myself am Walter S. Treadman, journalist, student, preacher, and, I hope, humanitarian. I only know that where there is a cry of pain, there my heart is. I heard that you were in this neighbourhood, and lost no time in requesting these gentlemen to associate themselves with me in the appeal which I am about to make to you. Therefore I beg of you to regard me as, in a sense, a deputation from England. Your answer will be given to England. And on that account, if no other, we implore you to weigh, with the utmost care, any words which you may utter. To come to the point: Do we understand you to assert that the feats with which you have set all London agape are, in the exact sense of the word, miraculous-that is, incapable of a natural interpretation?'

'Why do you speak such words to Me?'

'For an obvious reason. England is at heart religious. Though, for the moment, she may seem torpid, it needs but a breath to fan the smouldering embers into a mighty blaze which will light the world, and herald in the brightness of the eternal dawn. If these things which you have done are of God, then you must be of Him, and from Him, and may be the bearer of a message to the myriads whose ears are strained to listen. Therefore I implore you to answer.'