The Angel Part 22

"And you, Mary?" Sir Augustus asked suddenly.

"I mean to give my humble aid to this great work," Mary answered slowly.

"Oh, don't oppose me, uncle--don't forbid me! It would make me so unhappy to do anything that you did not wish. But Jesus calls me--He calls all of us--His voice is ever in my ears."

"I propose," Sir Augustus said, at length, "that you all go into another room and leave me here with my wife. I should like to discuss this with her for a few minutes."

When the two elder people were alone, their conference was brief and to the point.

"Of course, we shall withdraw all opposition," said Sir Augustus the worldly. "The thing has quite changed its aspect. This Joseph fellow is, of course, as mad as a hatter. But he is obviously a gentleman, and, at the same time, quite sincere--another Lluellyn, in fact, though with a good deal more in him. Ducaine's accession to the movement makes all the difference. Joseph will become a fas.h.i.+onable fad, and all sorts of people will join him in search of a new sensation. I'm quite looking forward to it. London will be more amusing than it has been for years.

Then it will all die a natural death, this Joseph will disappear, and Mary will marry Tom Ducaine, the biggest catch in London."

"It does seem as if Providence was in it, after all," said Lady Kirwan piously.

"No doubt, no doubt!" the banker answered jovially. "Just make the girl promise to make this house her home--she shall have perfect freedom to go and come as she pleases, of course--and everything will come right."

They had settled it to their mutual satisfaction, and were about to send for Mary, when the butler entered the library and announced that the Reverend Mr. Persse had called and asked for her ladys.h.i.+p.

Lady Kirwan was about to say that she was engaged, and could not see the clergyman, when Sir Augustus interposed. "I think I should see Mr.

Persse, dear," he said. And then, when the man had gone: "We'll introduce him to this Joseph. It will be most amusing, and I want a little amus.e.m.e.nt, after being tied by the leg like this for nearly a fortnight. And besides, that humbug Persse will go and tell everyone in Mayfair, and it will give the whole thing a _cachet_ and a send-off!

Don't say anything--leave it all to me."

Sir Augustus did not like The Hon. Mr. Persse, the fas.h.i.+onable clergyman of Mayfair, and it was with a somewhat sardonic smile that he welcomed him a moment afterwards.

The vicar of St. Elwyn's was a tall, clean-shaven priest, who would have been pompous had he not been so suave. His face was a smooth cream-color, his eyes ingratiating and perhaps a little furtive, while the mouth was mobile and clever. He occupied a somewhat peculiar position among the London clergy. He was an advanced Ritualist, inclining to many ceremonies that were purely Roman and Continental.

But he had very little of the ascetic about him, and was as far removed from the patient, self-denying Anglican clergy of the slum districts in the East End, as four pounds of b.u.t.ter is from four o'clock. St. Elwyn's was one of the "smartest" congregations in London. The costly splendor of its ceremony, the perfection with which everything was done, attracted pleasure-loving people, who would go anywhere for a thrill that would act as the blow of a whip to jaded and enervated lives.

Mr. Persse "catered"--the word exactly describes his methods--for precisely that cla.s.s of people whom he was so successful in attracting.

"How do you do, Lady Kirwan?" he said, in a pleasant and gentlemanly voice. "Ah, Sir Augustus, I hope you are better. It is a trying time of the year. I have called this morning on a somewhat singular errand. I was told, I must not say by whom, that he actually saw your niece, Miss Lys, in the theatre last night--you have read the papers this morning--yes?--in company with this extraordinary mountebank of whom every one is talking. Of course I denied it indignantly. I have met Miss Lys at your house, and I knew such a thing to be impossible. But my informant is, I am sorry to say, a little p.r.o.ne to gossip and t.i.ttle-tattle, and I thought, in justice to you that if I were armed with an authoritative denial, I should be able to nip all such foolish gossip in the bud, before it has time to spread. You know how people talk, dear Lady Kirwan."

Lady Kirwan certainly knew--and so did Mr. Persse. He was the hero of many afternoon tea-tables, and an active disseminator of gossip.

"My dear Mr. Persse," Sir Augustus said somewhat emphatically, "allow me to tell you that you have been _quite_ mistaken in your view of the new movement. The man whom the papers call Joseph is not at all what you think. Sir Thomas Ducaine, for example, is hand and glove with him. I must really correct your ideas on the point. If irregular, perhaps, the mission will be most influential."

"Oh, ah! I had no idea," said Mr. Persse, with remarkable mental agility. "Dear me, is that so, Sir Augustus? Anything that makes for good, of course, must be welcomed by all of us. I myself--"

"I will introduce you to Joseph," Sir Augustus interrupted, with intense internal enjoyment. "He happens to be in the house at this moment."

That afternoon all the evening papers contained an announcement that Joseph, the new evangelist, would preach at St. Elwyn's, Mayfair, after evening service on the morrow--which was Sunday.

What had happened was this:

Joseph had been duly introduced to Father Persse. The latter, in whom the instincts of the theatrical _entrepreneur_ were very largely developed, saw his chance at once. Mayfair would have a sensation such as it had never enjoyed before.

Joseph had promised to preach without any more words than a simple a.s.sent. That there would probably be trouble with the bishop Mr. Persse knew very well. But he was already out of favor in Episcopal quarters, and could hope for nothing in that direction. At the worst, an apology and a promise not to repeat the offence of asking a layman, who was unlicensed by the bishop, to preach in St. Elwyn's, would make everything right. He had made the actual request to Joseph privately, asking leave to have a few moments' conversation alone with him.

After obtaining the promise he went back to the library, where Mary and Sir Thomas Ducaine had returned, and announced his success.

But when they went to look for the Teacher he had disappeared. No one knew where he had gone, and neither Mary nor any of the others saw him again that day.

The West End of London waited with considerable excitement for what Sunday would bring forth.

CHAPTER XII

THE SERVICE AT ST. ELWYN'S

At the moment when Joseph had met the Vicar of St. Elwyn's, he knew him for just what he was. The mysterious power which had enabled the Teacher to lay bare the sins and secrets of the strangers in the theatre came to him then, and he saw deep through the envelope of flesh to the man's naked soul. Nothing was hidden from him. The meanness, the sn.o.bbery, the invincible absorption in a petty self, the hunger for notoriety and applause--all the layers and deposits of earthly stuff which overlaid the little undeveloped germ of good--these were plain to the spiritual vision of the man who was filled with the Holy Ghost.

The man's mind and its workings moved in his sight as a scientist sees the blood pulsing in the veins of an insect under the microscope. But directly Mr. Persse asked him to address the congregation of the fas.h.i.+onable West End church, Joseph knew that, whatever motives dictated the vicar's offer, the opportunity was from G.o.d. It was ordained that he should mount the pulpit and deliver the message that was within him.

He had slipped out of the mansion in Berkeley Square without bidding any of its inmates farewell. He had no wish to make mysterious entrances and exits. Indeed, he never thought about the matter at all, but there was something within him that led and moved him, a force which he obeyed without question.

As he went out into the square, Joseph's heart was full of hope and thankfulness to G.o.d. G.o.d had led him to the door of Sir Thomas Ducaine's house in Piccadilly. G.o.d had been with him during the still watches of the night as he pleaded and reasoned with the young man having great possessions. And G.o.d had prevailed! All that had seemed so hopeless and insuperable during the dark hours after the scene in the theatre was over, was now lightened and smoothed away. In a few hours money and influence had come to him, and at a time when the sword of the Lord had but hardly left its sheath for the battle that was to be fought.

Joseph bent his steps at once towards the Euston Road. His faithful followers were there in the quiet hotel by the station. Ignorant of London, knowing nothing of what was going to happen, unaware of their leader's plans or place, they waited, trusting in G.o.d. The thought quickened his steps. He longed to be with these trusting ones, to pray with them that G.o.d would be with him on the morrow.

Every now and again, as he walked, some one or other glanced curiously at him. The face of this or that pa.s.ser-by would wear a look of curiosity and interrogation, and then, in several instances, the wonder changed into recognition, and the wayfarers felt almost sure that this must indeed be the very man with whose name all London was ringing. But no one followed him. No one could be quite sure of his ident.i.ty, even though it was more than once suspected, and walking so swiftly as he did, he was far out of hail before anyone could make up his mind to accost or follow him.

For his part Joseph heeded these significant signs and tokens of the huge interest with which his personality was inspiring London very little. He had not seen the morning papers, though he knew from what he had heard in Berkeley Square that they were much occupied with his name and doings. That was to be expected, he knew. But he did not care to see what they were saying of him. He walked through the streets of London, a man walking with G.o.d, holding high commune with the Eternal. But ere he met his brethren, he was to have a very practical ill.u.s.tration of London's excitement, and London was to have another sensation.

He had turned into the Euston Road, and was nearing the house which sheltered his disciples, when he saw that a huge crowd stood before it.

The road was almost impa.s.sable for traffic, and a dozen stalwart policemen urged the thick ma.s.s of humanity to move in vain.

Every face was turned up to the dingy red-brick front of the hotel.

There may have been nearly a thousand people there, and the crowd was growing every moment, and every one was gazing up at the windows of the house.

The strange thing about the crowd was that it was an absolutely silent one. No one shouted or spoke, the thick clotted ma.s.s of humanity was motionless and orderly, though it refused to obey the orders of the police to disperse.

What had occurred was simple enough. The landlord of the hotel was interested from the first in the band of grave, silent men who had arrived at his house on the evening before. He had had but a few moments' conversation with Joseph, but the interview had powerfully affected him. Himself one of the sidesmen of a neighboring church, an honest and G.o.d-fearing man, who ran his temperance hotel with conspicuous decency in a street renowned for its bad and unsavory reputation, the landlord had read all about the strange mountain revival in Wales.

He identified his new guests immediately upon their arrival. It was impossible to mistake Joseph, that strange and mysterious being whose outward form resembled the very Christ Himself in such a marvellous and awe-inspiring fas.h.i.+on. When the band had bestowed their simple luggage in their rooms, and had left the hotel for the theatre under Joseph's guidance, the landlord, all agog with his news, went to the local Conservative club, of which he was a member, and told it. Then had come the stupendous intelligence in the journals of that morning, and it had immediately got about--as news does get about, who shall say how or why?--that the headquarters of the evangelist were at a certain temperance hotel in that neighborhood.

By half-past eleven, silently, swiftly, as if drawn by some unseen magnet, the people had collected in front of the house, and, even as Joseph drew near, journalists from all parts of Fleet Street, summoned by telephone and telegram, were hastening to the scene as fast as hansom cabs could bring them.

Joseph walked straight up to the edge of the tightly packed ma.s.s of people. The way to the hotel door was entirely blocked, and he was at a loss how to approach it.

At length he touched a policeman upon the shoulder. The man's back was turned to him, and he also was staring at the window of the hotel in puzzled silence.

"My friend," Joseph said quietly, "do you think you could make a way for me? I must get to the house. My friends are there."

Something in the deep, quiet voice startled the constable. He turned round with a rapid movement, involuntarily knocking off the Teacher's soft felt hat as he did so.

The big man's face grew pale with surprise, and then flushed up with excitement. He was a huge fellow, a tower of bone and muscle, but he seemed no taller than the man beside him, no more powerful than Joseph at the moment of their meeting.