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!'.