A Second Coming

CHAPTER XI
THE SECOND DISCIPLE

They lay that night at the house of a certain curate, who stopped the Stranger, saying:

'You are he of whom I have heard?'

Mr. Treadman said:

'It is the Lord-the Lord Christ! He has come again!'

The Stranger rebuked Mr. Treadman.

'Peace! Why do you trouble Me with your babbling tongue?' To the curate He said: 'What do you want of Me?'

'Nothing but to offer you shelter for the night. I cannot give you much, for I am poor, and have a small house and a large family, but such as I have is at your service. Not that I wish you to understand that my action marks my approval of your proceedings, of which, as I say, I have heard. For I am an ordained priest of the Church of England, and have sufficient trouble with dissent and such-like fads already. But I am a Christian, and, I trust, a gentleman, and in that dual capacity would not wish one of whom I have heard such remarkable things to remain in need of shelter when near my house.'

So they went with the curate. But the family was found to be so large, and the house so small, that there was not room within its walls for three unexpected guests. So it was arranged that they would sleep in the loft over the stable where hay was kept. Thither, after supper, the Stranger and the lame man repaired. But Mr. Treadman remained talking to the host.

They stood outside the house in the moonlight, looking towards the loft in which the Stranger sought slumber.

'That is a good man,' said the curate, 'and a strange one. He has filled my mind with curious thoughts.'

'It is the Lord! said Mr. Treadman.

'The Lord?' The curate regarded the speaker with a peculiar smile. 'Are you mad, sir? Or do you think I am?'

'It is the Lord!' Mr. Treadman held out his clenched fists in front of him, as if to add weight to his assertion. 'I know it of a surety!'

'Does it not occur to you what an awful thing it would be if what you say were true?' Awful? How awful?'

'When He came before He found them unprepared-so unprepared that they could not believe it was He. What would it not mean if, at His Second Coming, He found us still unready? He might be moving among us, and we not know it; we might meet Him in the street, and pass Him by. The human mind is not at its best when it is wholly unprepared: it cannot twist itself hither and thither without even a moment's notice. And our civilisation is so complex that the first result of an unexpected Advent would be to plunge it into chaos. Saints and sinners alike would be thrown off their balance. There would be a carnival of confusion. The tragedy which rings down the ages might be re-enacted. Christ might be crucified again by Christian hands.'

'We must avoid it! We must avoid it! We must prepare the people's minds; we must let them know that His reign is about to begin. They need but the knowledge to fill the world with songs of gladness.'

'You really believe your friend is a supernatural being?'

'It is the Lord! I know it of a surety! You call yourself His minister. Is it possible you do not know Him, too?'

'No; I do not. For one thing, I do not think that, really and truly, I have ever contemplated the possibility of such an occurrence. To me the Second Coming has been an abstraction-a nebulous something that would not happen in my time. Yet he troubles me, the more so since I remember that good men must have stood in His presence aforetime, and yet not have known Him for what He was, although He troubled them. However, it may be written to the good of my account that for your friend I have done what I could.'

The curate returned into his house. But it was long before Mr. Treadman sought the shelter of the loft. He passed here and there in an agony of mind which grew greater as the night went on. By the light of the waning moon he wrought himself into a frenzy of supplication.

'O Lord, I say it in no spirit of irreverence, but in a sense, You do not understand the idiosyncrasies and character of those to whom You are about to appeal. To come to them unheralded, to move about among them unannounced, will be useless-ah, and worse than useless! O Lord, do not take them by surprise. Sound, at least, one trumpet blast. Come to them as You should come-as their Christ and King. It needs such a very little, and You will have them at Your feet. Do not lose all for want of such a little. Let me tell them You are on the way, that You are here, that You are in their very midst. Let me be John Baptist. I promise You that I shall not be a voice crying in the wilderness, but that at the proclamation of the tidings, trumpeted by all the presses of the land, and from ten thousand pulpits, from all the cities and the villages will issue happy, hot-footed crowds, eager to look upon the face they have had pictured in their hearts their whole lives long, and on the form they have yearned to see, filled with but one desire-to lay themselves at the feet of their Christ and King! But, Lord, if no one tells them You are here, how shall they know it? They are but foolish folk, fashioned as Thou knowest they are fashioned. If You come upon them at the market or the meeting, and take them unawares, they will not know that it is You. Suffer me first to spread the glad tidings through all the land. I have but to put a plain statement on the wires, and foot it with my name, and there is not a newspaper in an English-speaking country which will not give it a prominent place in its morning's issue. Suffer me at least to do so much as that.'

The figure of the Stranger appeared at the door which led into the loft; and He spoke to Mr. Treadman, saying:

'You know not what are the things of which you speak, as is the manner of men. Are you, then, so ignorant as not to be aware that God's ways are not as men's? Let your soul cease from troubling. God asks not to learn of you. He made you; He holds you in the hollow of His hand; you are the dust of the balance. Come, and sleep.'

Mr. Treadman went up into the loft, crying like a child. Almost as soon as he laid himself down among the sweetness of the hay his tears were dried, and his eyes were closed in slumber. And he and the lame man slept together.

But the Stranger sought not sleep. Through the night He did not close His eyes. As the day came near He stood looking down upon the sleepers. And His face was sorrowful.

'Men are but little children: if they had but the heart of a child!'

And He went down the loft out into the morning.

And presently the lame man woke up and found that he was alone with Mr. Treadman. So he began to scramble down the ladder. As he went, because of his haste and his lameness, he stumbled and fell. The noise of his fall woke Mr. Treadman, who hurried down the ladder also. At the foot he found the lame man, who was rising to his feet.

'Are you hurt?' he asked.

'I think not. I am only shaken. The Lord has gone!'

'Gone! Lean on me. We will find Him.'

The two went out into the lifting shadows, the lame man on Mr. Treadman's arm. The country was covered by a morning mist. It was damp and cold. The light was puzzling. Mr. Treadman looked to the right and left.

'Which way can He have gone?'

'There! there He is! I see Him on the road. My leg is better; let us hasten. We shall catch Him.'

'No. Do not let us catch Him. Let us follow and see which way He goes. I have a reason.'

'But He will know you are following, and your reason.'

'May be. Still let us follow.'

Mr. Treadman had his way. They followed at a distance. As was his habit, Mr. Treadman talked as he went.

'It is strange that He should try to leave us like this, when He knows that we would leave no stone unturned to follow Him, through life, to death.'

'It is not strange. He does nothing strange.'

'You think not?'

'How can the Lord of all the earth do wrong?'

'There is something in that.' Mr. Treadman was still for a time. 'Yet He runs a great risk of wrecking His entire cause.' The lame man said nothing. 'It is necessary that the people should be told that He is coming, that their minds should be prepared. If they have authentic information of His near neighbourhood, then He will triumph at once and for always. If not-if He comes on them informally, unheralded, unannounced, then there will be a frightful peril of His cause being again dragged in the mire.'

Yet the lame man said nothing. But Mr. Treadman continued to talk, apparently careless of the fact that he had the conversation to himself.

When they came to a place where there were cross-roads, and Mr. Treadman saw which way He went, he caught the lame man by the arm.

'I thought as much! He's heading for London.'

Taking out a note-book, he began to write in it with a fountain pen, still continuing to walk and to talk.

'I know this country well. There's a telegraph-office about a mile along the road. It ought to be open by the time we get there. If it isn't, I'll rouse them up. I'll send word to some friends of mine- men and women whose lifelong watchword has been God and His gospel- that He is coming. They will run to meet Him. They will bring with them some of the brightest spirits now living; and He will have a foretaste of that triumph which, if matters are properly organised, awaits Him. He shall enter on His inheritance as the Christ and King, and pain, sin, sorrow, shall cease throughout the world, if He will but suffer me to make clear the way. Tell me, my friend, – you don't appear to be a loquacious soul, – don't you think that to be prepared is half the battle?'

But the lame man made no reply. He only kept his eyes fixed on the Figure which went in front.

His companion's irresponsive mood did not appear to trouble Mr. Treadman. He never ceased to talk and write, except when he broke into the words of a hymn, which he sung in a loud, clear voice, as if he wished that all the country-side should hear.

'There,' he cried, after they had gone some distance, 'is the place I told you of. The village is just round the bend in the road. If I remember rightly, the post-office is on the left as you enter. Soon the telegraph shall be on the side of the Lord, and the glad tidings be flashing up to town. We're not twenty miles from London. Within an hour a reception committee should be on the way. Before noon many longing eyes will have looked with knowledge on the face of the Lord; and joyful hearts shall sing: "Hosanna in the highest! Hallelujah! Christ has come!"'

On their coming to the village Mr. Treadman made haste to the post-office. It was not yet open. He began a violent knocking at the door.

'I must rouse them up. Official hours are as nothing in such a case as this. I must get my messages upon the wires at once, whatever it may cost.'

The lame man made all haste to reach the Stranger that went in front, passing alone through the quiet village street.

II
The Tumult which Arose

CHAPTER XII
THE CHARCOAL-BURNER

When Mr. Treadman had brought the post-office to a consciousness of his presence, and induced the postmaster, with the aid of copious bribes, to do what he desired, some time had passed. On his return into the street neither the Stranger nor the lame man was in sight. At this, however, he was little concerned, making sure of the way they had gone, and of his ability to catch them up. But after he had gone some distance, at the top of his speed, and still saw no sign of the One he sought, he began to be troubled.

'They might have waited. The Lord knew that I was engaged upon His work. Why has He thus left me in the lurch?'

A cart approached. He hailed the driver.

'Have you seen, as you came along, two persons walking along the road towards London?'

'Ay; about half a mile ahead.'

'Half a mile! So much as that! I shall never catch them if I walk. You will have to give me a lift, and make all haste after them.'

He began to bargain with the driver, who, agreeing to his terms, permitted him to climb into his cart, and turning his horse's head, set off after those of whom he had spoken. But they were nowhere to be seen.

'It was here I passed them.'

'Probably they are a little further on. Drive more quickly. We shall see them in a minute. The winding road hides them, and the hedges.'

The driver did as he was bid. But though he went on and on, he saw nothing of those whom he was seeking. Mr. Treadman began to be alarmed.

'It is a most extraordinary thing. Where can He have got to? Is it possible that that lame fellow can have told Him of the message I was sending, and that He has purposely given me the slip? If so, I shall be placed in an embarrassing position. These people are sure to come. Mrs. Powell and Gifford will be off in an instant. They have been looking for the Lord too long not to make all haste to see Him now. For all I know, they may bring half London with them. If they find they have come for nothing, the situation will be awkward. My reputation will be damaged. I ask it with all possible reverence, but why is the Lord so little mindful of His own?'

The driver stopped his horse.

'You must get out here. I must go back. I'll be late as it is.'

'Go back! My man, you must press forward. It is for the Lord that I am looking.'

'The Lord!'

'The Lord Christ. He has come to us again, this time to win the world as a whole, and for ever; and by some frightful accident I have allowed Him to pass out of my sight.'

'I've heard tell of something of the kind. But I don't take no count of such things. There's some as does; but I'm not one. I tell you you must get out. I'm more than late enough already.'

Left stranded in the middle of the road, Mr. Treadman stared after the retreating carter.

'The man has no spiritual side; he's a mere brute! In this age of Christianity and its attendant civilisation, it's wonderful that such creatures should continue to exist. If there are many such, it is a hard task which He has set before Him. He will need all the help which we can give. Why, then, does he seem to slight the efforts of His faithful servant? I don't know what will happen if those people find that they have come from town for nothing. His cause may receive an almost irreparable injury at the very start.'

Those people came. The messages with which he troubled the wires were of a nature to induce them to come. There was Mrs. Miriam Powell, whose domestic unhappiness has not prevented her from doing such good work among fallen women, that it is surprising how their numbers still continue to increase. And there was Harvey Gifford, the founder of that Christian Assistance Society which has done such incalculable service in providing cheap entertainments for the people, and which ceaselessly sends to the chief Continental pleasure resorts hordes of persons, in the form of popular excursions, whose manners and customs are hardly such as are even popularly associated with Christianity. When these two Christian workers received Mr. Treadman's telegram, phrased in the quaint Post-Office fashion-'Christ is coming to London the Christ I have seen him and am with him and I know he is here walking on the highroad come to him and let your eyes be gladdened meet him if possible between Guildford and Ripley I will endeavour to induce him to come that way about eleven spread the glad tidings so that he enters London as one that comes into his own this is the Lord's doing this is the day of the Lord we triumph all along the line the stories told of his miracles are altogether inadequate state that positively to all inquirers as from me no more can be said within the limits of a telegram for your soul's sake fail not to be on the Ripley road in time the faithful servant of the Lord- Treadman'-their minds were made up on the instant. London was ringing with inchoate rumours. Scarcely within living memory had the public mind been in a state of more curious agitation. The truth or falsehood of the various statements which were made was the subject of general controversy. Where two or three were gathered together, there was discussed the topic of the hour. It seemed, from Treadman's telegram, that he of whom the tales were told was coming back in town, which he had quitted in such mysterious fashion. It seemed that Treadman himself actually believed he was the Christ.

Could two such single-minded souls, in the face of such a message, delay from making all haste in the direction of the Ripley road?

Yet before they went, and as they went, they did their best to spread the tidings. Mr. Treadman had done his best to spread them too. He had sent messages to heads of the Salvation and Church Armies, and of the various great religious societies, to ministers of all degrees and denominations, and, indeed, to everyone of whom, in his haste, he could think as being, in a religious or philanthropic, or, in short, in any sense, in that curious place-the public eye.

And presently various specimens of these persons were on their way to the Ripley road-some journeying by train, some on foot, some on horseback; a large number, both men and women, upon bicycles, and others in as heterogeneous a collection of vehicles as one might wish to see. Sundry battalions of the Salvation Army confided themselves to vans such as are used for beanfeasts and Sunday-School treats. They shouted hymns; their bands made music by the way.

He whom all these people were coming out to see had gone with the lame man across a field-path to a little wood, which lay not far from the road. In the centre of the wood they found a clearing, where the charcoal-burners had built their huts and plied their trade. An old man watched the smouldering heap. He sat on some billets of wood, one of which he was carving with a clumsy knife. The Stranger found a seat upon another heap, and the lame man placed himself, cobbler fashion, upon the turf at His side. For some moments nothing was said. Then the old man broke the silence.

'Strangers hereabouts?'

He replied:

'My abiding-place is not here.'

'So I thought. I fancied I hadn't seen you round about these parts; yet there's something about you I seem to know. Come in here to rest?'

'It is good to rest.'

'That's so; there's nothing like it when you're tired. You look as if you was tired, and you look as if you'd known trouble. There's a comfortable look upon your face which never comes upon a man or woman's face unless they have known trouble. I always says that no one's any good until it shines out of their eyes.'

'Sorrow and joy walk hand in hand.'

'That's it: they walk hand in hand, and you never know one till you've known the other, just as you never know what health is till you've had to go without it. Do you see what I'm doing here? I'm a charcoal-burner by trade, but by rights I ought to have been a wood-carver. There's few men can do more with a knife and a bit of wood than I can. All them as knows me knows it. That's a cross I'm carving. My daughter's turned religious, and she's a fancy that I should cut her a cross to hang in her room, so that, as she says, she can always think of Christ crucified. To me that's a queer start. I always think of Him as Christ crowned.'

'He is crowned.'

'Of course He is. As I put it, what He done earned Him the V.C. It's with that cross upon His breast I like to think of Him. In what He done I can't see what people see to groan about. It was something to glory in, to be proud of.'

'He was crucified by those to whom He came.'

'There is that. They must have been a silly lot, them Jews. They didn't know what they was doing of.'

'Which man knows what he does, or will let God know, either?'

'It's a sure and certain thing that some of us ain't over and above wise. There do be a good many fools about. I mind that I said to my daughter a good score times: "Don't you have that Jim Bates." But she would. Now he's took himself off and she's took to religion. It's a true fact she didn't know what she was doing of when she had him.'

'Did Jim Bates know what he was doing?'

'I shouldn't be surprised but what he didn't. He never did know much, did Jim. It isn't everyone as can live with my daughter, as he had ought to have known. She's kept house for me these twelve year, so I do know. She always were a contrary piece, she were.'

'The world is full of discords, but He who plays upon it tunes one note after another. In the end it will be all in tune.'

'There's a good many of us as'll wish that we was deaf before that time comes.'

'Because many men are deaf they take no heed of the harmonies.'

'There's something in that. I shouldn't wonder but what there's a lot of music as no one notices. The more you speak, the more I seem to know you. You're like a voice I've heard talking to me when the speaker was hid by the darkness.'

'I have spoken to you often.'

'Ay, I believe you have. I thought I knew you from the first. I felt so comfortable when you came. All the morning I've been troubled, what with worries at home and the pains what seems all over me, so that I can't move about as I did use to; and then when I saw you coming along the path all the trouble was at an end.'

'I heard you calling as I passed along the road.'

'You heard me calling? Why, I never opened my mouth!'

'Not the words of the lips are heard in heaven, but none ever called from his heart in vain.'

The charcoal-burner rose from his heap of billets.

'Why, who are you?' He came closer, peering with his dim eyes. 'It is the Lord! What an old fool I am not to have known You from the first! Yet I felt that it was You.'

'You know Me, although you knew Me not.'

'And me that's known You all my life, and my old woman what knew You too! Anyhow, I'd have seen You before long.'

'You have seen Me from the first.'

'Not plain-not plain. I've heard You, and I've known that You was there, but I haven't seen You as I've tried to. You know the sort of chap I am-a silly old fool what's been burning since I was a little nipper. I ain't no scholar. The likes of me didn't have no schooling when I was young, and I ain't no hand at words; but You know how I'm all of a twitter, and there ain't no words what will tell how glad I am to see You. Like the silly old jackass that I am, I'm a-cryin'!'

The Stranger stood up, holding out His hand.

'Friend!'

The charcoal-burner put his gnarled, knotted, and now trembling hand into the Stranger's palm.

'Lord! Lord!'

'So often I have heard you call upon My Name.'

'Ay, in the morning when the day was young; at noon, when the work was heavy; at night, when rest had come. Youth and man, You've been with me all the time, and with my old woman, too.'

'She and I met long since.'

'My old woman! She was a good one to me, she was.'

'And to Me.'

'A better wife no man could have. It weren't all lavender, her life wasn't, but it smelt just as sweet as if it were.'

'The perfume of it ascended into heaven.'

'My temper, it be short. There were days when I was sharp with her. She'd wait till it was over, and me ashamed, and then she'd say: "Each time, William, you be in a passion it do bring you nearer to the Lord." I'd ask her how she made that out, and she'd say: "'Tis like a bit of 'lastic, William. When you pulls it the ends get drawed apart, but when you lets it go again, the ends come closer than they was before. When you be in a passion, William, you draws yourself away from the Lord's end; when your passion be over, back you goes with a rush, until you meets Him plump. Only," she'd say, "don't you draw away too often, lest the 'lastic break." I never could tell if she were laughing at me, or if she weren't. But I do know she did make me feel terrible ashamed. I used to wonder if the Lord's temper ever did go short.'

'The Lord is like unto men-He knows both grief and anger.'

'Seems to me as how He wouldn't be the Lord if He didn't. He feels what we feels, or how'd He be able to help us?'

'The Lord and His children are of one family. Did you not know that?'

'I knowed it. But there's them as thinks the Lord's a fine gentleman, what's always a-looking you up and down, and that you ain't never to come near Him without your best clothes and your company manners on. Seems to me the Lord don't only want to know you now and then, He wants to know you right along. If you can't go to Him because you be mucked with charcoal, it be bitter hard.'

'You know you can.'

'I do know you can, I do. When I've been as black as black can be I've felt Him just as close as in the chapel Sundays.'

'The Lord is not here or there, in the house or in the field; He is with His children.'

'Hebe that! He be!'.