THOMAS OWEN
Thomas Owen went to his room, but not to bed. Taking a Bible from the
table, he consulted reference after reference.
“The promise is clear,” he said aloud presently, as he shut the
book; “clear and often repeated. There is no escape from it, and no
possibility of a double meaning. If it is not true, then it would seem
that nothing is true, and that every Christian in the world is tricked
and deluded. But if it _is_ true, why do we never hear of miracles?
The answer is easy: Because we have not faith enough to work them. The
Apostles worked miracles; for they had seen, therefore their faith was
perfect. Since their day nobody’s faith has been quite perfect; at least
I think not. The physical part of our nature prevents it. Or perhaps the
miracles still happen, but they are spiritual miracles.”
Then he sat down by the open window, and gazing at the dreamy beauty of
the summer night, he thought, for his soul was troubled. Once before
it had been troubled thus; that was nine years ago, for now he was but
little over thirty. Then a call had come to him, a voice had seemed to
speak to his ears bidding him to lay down great possessions to follow
whither Heaven should lead him. Thomas Owen had obeyed the voice;
though, owing to circumstances which need not be detailed, to do so he
was obliged to renounce his succession to a very large estate, and to
content himself with a younger son’s portion of thirty thousand pounds
and the reversion to the living which he had now held for some five
years.
Then and there, with singular unanimity and despatch, his relations came
to the conclusion that he was mad. To this hour, indeed, those who stand
in his place and enjoy the wealth and position that were his by right,
speak of him as “poor Thomas,” and mark their disapprobation of his
peculiar conduct by refusing with an unvarying steadiness to subscribe
even a single shilling to a missionary society. How “poor Thomas” speaks
of them in the place where he is we may wonder, but as yet we cannot
know--probably with the gentle love and charity that marked his every
action upon earth. But this is by the way.
He had entered the Church, but what had he done in its shadow? This was
the question which Owen asked himself as he sat that night by the open
window, arraigning his past before the judgment-seat of conscience. For
three years he had worked hard somewhere in the slums; then this living
had fallen to him. He had taken it, and from that day forward his record
was very much of a blank. The parish was small and well ordered; there
was little to do in it, and the Salvation Army had seized upon and
reclaimed two of the three confirmed drunkards it could boast.
His guest’s saying echoed in his brain like the catch of a tune--“that
_you_ might lead that life and attain that death.” Supposing that
he were bidden so to do now, this very night, would he indeed “think
differently”? He had become a priest to serve his Maker. How would it be
were that Maker to command that he should serve Him in this extreme and
heroic fashion? Would he flinch from the steel, or would he meet it as
the martyrs met it of old?
Physically he was little suited to such an enterprise, for in appearance
he was slight and pale, and in constitution delicate. Also, there was
another reason against the thing. High Church and somewhat ascetic in
his principles, in the beginning he had admired celibacy, and in secret
dedicated himself to that state. But at heart Thomas was very much a
man, and of late he had come to see that that which is against nature is
presumably not right, though fanatics may not hesitate to pronounce
it wrong. Possibly this conversion to more genial views of life was
quickened by the presence in the neighbourhood of a young lady whom
he chanced to admire; at least it is certain that the mere thought of
seeing her no more for ever smote him like a sword of sudden pain.
*****
That very night--or so it seemed to him, and so he believed--the Angel
of the Lord stood before him as he was wont to stand before the men of
old, and spoke a summons in his ear. How or in what seeming that summons
came Thomas Owen never told, and we need not inquire. At the least he
heard it, and, like the Apostles, he arose and girded his loins to obey.
For now, in the hour of trial, it proved that this man’s faith partook
of the nature of their faith. It was utter and virgin; it was not
clogged with nineteenth-century qualifications; it had never dallied
with strange doctrines, or kissed the feet of pinchbeck substitutes for
God. In his heart he believed that the Almighty, without intermediary,
but face to face, had bidden him to go forth into the wilderness there
to perish. So he bowed his head and went.
On the following morning at breakfast Owen had some talk with his friend
the Deputation.
“You asked me last night,” he said quietly, “whether I would undertake
a mission to that people of whom you were telling me--the Sons of Fire.
Well, I have been thinking it over, and come to the conclusion that I
will do so----”
At this point the Deputation, concluding that his host must be mad,
moved quietly but decidedly towards the door.
“Wait a moment,” went on Owen, in a matter-of-fact voice, “the dog-cart
will not be round for another three-quarters of an hour. Tell me, if it
were offered to you, and on investigation you proved suitable, would you
care to take over this living?”
“Would I care to take over this living?” gasped the astonished
Deputation. “Would I care to walk down that garden and find myself in
Heaven? But why are you making fun of me?”
“I am not making fun of you. If I go to Africa I must give up the
living, of which I own the advowson, and it occurred to me that it might
suit you--that is all. You have done your share; your health is broken,
and you have many dependent upon you. It seems right, therefore, that
you should rest, and that I should work. If I do no good yonder, at the
least you and yours will be a little benefited.”
*****
That same day Owen chanced to meet the lady who has been spoken of as
having caught his heart. He had meant to go away without seeing her, but
fortune brought them together. Hitherto, whilst in reality leading him
on, she had seemed to keep him at a distance, with the result that he
did not know that it was her fixed intention to marry him. To her,
with some hesitation, he told his plans. Surprised and frightened into
candour, the lady reasoned with him warmly, and when reason failed to
move him she did more. By some subtle movement, with some sudden word,
she lifted the veil of her reserve and suffered him to see her heart.
“If you will not stay for aught else,” said her troubled eyes, “then,
love, stay for me.”
For a moment he was shaken. Then he answered the look straight out, as
was his nature.
“I never guessed,” he said. “I did not presume to hope--now it is too
late! Listen! I will tell you what I have told no living soul, though
thereafter you may think me mad. Weak and humble as I am, I believe
myself to have received a Divine mission. I believe that I shall execute
it, or bring about its execution, but at the ultimate cost of my own
life. Still, in such a service two are better than one. If you--can care
enough--if you----”
But the lady had already turned away, and was murmuring her farewell in
accents that sounded like a sob. Love and faith after this sort were not
given to her.
Of all Owen’s trials this was the sharpest. Of all his sacrifices this
was the most complete.