"SOMETHING MARVELLOUS IS GOING TO HAPPEN"
In the drawing-room of a house in Berkeley Square, Lady Kirwan--the wife
of Sir Augustus Kirwan, the great banker--was arguing with her niece,
Mary Lys.
The elder lady was tall and stately, and although not aggressive in any
way, her manner was distinctly that of one accustomed to rule. Her
steady grey eyes and curved, rather beak-like nose gave her an aspect of
sternness which was genially relieved by a large, good-humored mouth. At
fifty, Lady Kirwan's hair was still dark and glossy, and time had dealt
very gently with her.
Of the old Welsh family of Lys, now bereft of all its great heritage of
the past, but with a serene and lofty pride in its great name still, she
had married Sir Augustus, then Mr. Kirwan, in early girlhood. As the
years went on, and her husband's vast wealth grew vaster still, and he
rose to be one of the financial princes of the world, Lady Kirwan became
a very prominent figure in society, and at fifty she had made herself
one of the hundred people who really rule it.
One daughter, Marjorie, was born to Sir Augustus and his wife, a beauty,
and one of the most popular girls in society.
"You may say what you like, but I have no patience at all with either
you or your crack-brained brother, Mary!" Lady Kirwan exclaimed, with an
irritable rapping of her fingers upon a little lapis lazuli table at her
side.
Mary Lys was a tall girl, dressed in the blue uniform of a hospital
nurse. The cloak was thrown back over her shoulders, and its scarlet
lining threw up the perfect oval contour of her face and the glorious
masses of black hair that crowned it. If Marjorie Kirwan was generally
said to be one of the prettiest girls in London--and the couple of
millions she would inherit by no means detracted from her good
looks--certainly Mary Lys might have been called one of the most
beautiful.
The perfect lips, graver than the lips of most girls, almost maternal in
their gentleness, formed, as it were, the just complement to the great
grey eyes, with their long dark lashes and delicately-curved black
brows. The chin was broad and firm, but very womanly, and over all that
lovely face brooded a holy peace, a high serenity, and a watchful
tenderness that one sees in the pictures of the old masters when they
drew the pious maids and matrons who followed the footsteps of Our Lord
on earth.
Her beauty was not the sort of beauty which would attract every one. It
was, indeed, physical beauty in perfection, but irradiated also by
loveliness of soul. The common-minded man who prefers the conscious and
vulgar prettiness of some theatre girl, posed for the lens of the camera
or the admiring glances of the crowd, would have said:--
"Oh, yes, she's beautiful, of course! One can't help admitting that. But
she's not my style a bit. Give me something with a little more life in
it."
But there were not wanting many men and women who said that they had
thought that the mother of the Saviour must have looked like Mary Lys.
"No! I've really no patience with either of you!" Lady Kirwan repeated.
"But, Aunt Ethel, surely we ought to live our own lives. I am quite
happy with my nursing in the East End. One can't do more good than by
trying to nurse and cure the sick, can one? And Lluellyn is happy also
in his Welsh mountains. He lives a very saintly life, auntie--a life of
prayer and preaching and good works, even if it is unconventional and
seems strange to you. I would not have it otherwise. Lluellyn is not
suited for the modern world."
"Fiddlesticks, Mary!" Lady Kirwan answered. "'Modern world,' indeed! You
speak as if you said 'Modern pestilence'! Who made the world, I should
like to know? And what right have you and your brother to despise it?
I'm sick of all this nonsense. How a girl with your looks and of your
blood, for there is hardly a peer in England with such a pedigree as
that of our family, can go on grubbing away nursing horrible people with
horrible diseases in that dreadful East End I can't possibly imagine.
You've no money, of course, for your two hundred a year is a mere
nothing. But what does that matter? Haven't your uncle and I more than
we know what to do with? Marjorie has already an enormous fortune
settled upon her. She is almost certain to marry the Duke of Dover next
season. Well, what do we offer you--you and Lluellyn? You are to be as
our second daughter. We will give you everything that a girl can have in
this world. You shall share in our wealth as if you were my own
daughter. With your looks and the money which is available for you, you
may marry any one. We stand well at Court. His Majesty is pleased when
one of the great old families of the realm restores its fallen fortunes.
Every chance and opportunity is yours. As for your brother, as I have so
often written and told him, he will be a son to us. We have not been
given a son; he shall become one. There is enough and to spare for all.
Give up this nonsense of yours. Make Lluellyn come to his senses and
leave his absurd hermit life, and this mad preaching about in the
mountain villages. Come to us at once, both of you. What more could any
one offer you, child? Am I not pleading with you out of my love for you
and my nephew, out of a sincere desire to see you both take your proper
place in the world?"
Lady Kirwan stopped, a little out of breath after her long speech, every
word of which had been uttered with the sincerest conviction and
prompted by real affection.
There was probably no more worldly woman in London than the kindly wife
of the great financier. The world was all in all to her, and she was as
destitute of religion or any knowledge of spiritual things as the parish
pump. She would not have divided her last shilling with any one, but
she was generous with her superfluity.
And certainly one of the great wishes of her life was to see the ancient
family from which she had sprung once more take a great place in life.
She felt within her veins the blood of those old wild princes of the
"stormy hills of Wales"--those Arthurs and Uthers, Caradocs and
Lluellyns innumerable, who had kept their warlike courts in the dear
mountains of her home.
It was monstrous, it was incredible to Lady Kirwan that the last two
survivors of the Lys family in the direct line should live obscure,
strange lives away from the world. Mary Lys a hospital nurse in the East
End! Lluellyn Lys a sort of anchorite and itinerant preacher! It was
inconceivable; it must be stopped.
"I will write to Lluellyn again, auntie," Mary said, rising from her
chair. "But, honestly, I fear it will be of little use. And as for
myself--"
As she spoke the door opened, and a footman entered the room.
"Miss Marjorie has returned, my lady," he said. "She is waiting below in
the motor-brougham. I was to say that if Miss Lys was ready Miss
Marjorie has a free hour, and will drive Miss Lys back to the hospital."
"There, there!" Lady Kirwan said to her niece, "Marjorie will take you
back to that place. It will be more comfortable than a horrid, stuffy
omnibus. Now don't give me any answer at present, but just think over
what I have said very seriously. Come again in a week, and we will have
another talk. Don't be in a hurry to decide. And remember, dear, that
with all your exaggerated ideas of duty, you may owe a duty to your
relations and to society quite as much as to indigent aliens in
Whitechapel. Run along, and be a dear good girl, and be sure you don't
catch some dreadful infectious disease."
A couple of footmen in knee-breeches, silk stockings, and powdered hair
stood on each side of the door. A ponderous butler opened it, another
footman in motor livery jumped down from his seat beside the driver and
held open the door of the brougham.
"All this pomp and circumstance," Mary thought sadly, "to get a poor
hospital nurse out of a house and into a carriage. Four great men are
employed to do so simple a thing as that, and whole families of my dear
people are starving while the breadwinner lies sick in the hospital!"
She sighed heavily, and her face was sad as she kissed the brilliant,
vivacious cousin who was waiting in the brougham.
"Well, you poor dear," Marjorie Kirwan said. "And how are you? I suppose
the usual thing has happened? Mother has been imploring you to take a
proper place in the world--you and my delightfully mysterious cousin
Lluellyn, who is quite like an old Hebrew prophet--and you have said
that you prefer your grubby scarlet-fever friends in Whitechapel!"
Mary nodded.
"Dear auntie," she said. "She is wonderfully kind and good, but she
doesn't quite understand. But don't let us talk about it."
"Very well, then, we won't," Marjorie answered affectionately. "Every
one must gang their own gait! You don't like what I like; I don't like
what you like. The great thing is to be happy, and we're both that. Tell
me something of your work. It always interests me. Have you had any new
adventures in Whitechapel?"
"Everything has been much the same," she said, "except that a very
wonderful personality has come into the hospital."
"Oh, how delightful! A man, of course! Do tell me all about him!"
"His name is Joseph. It sounds odd, but he doesn't seem to use his
surname at all. I did hear it, but I have forgotten. He is simply
Joseph. He was hurt, though not nearly as badly as he might have been,
by some falling planks from a house they were building. But he was in a
dreadfully exhausted and rundown condition--nearly starved indeed. He is
a great scholar and scientist, but he was ruined some years ago because
he made a speech against God and religion at Cambridge, before all the
dignitaries."
"And are you converting him?"
"No. That is no woman's work, with this man. He is in a strange state.
We have nursed him back to something like health, but his mind seems
quite empty. At first, when we had some talks together, he railed
against God--always with the proviso that there wasn't any God! Now he
is changed, with returning health. He is like an empty vessel, waiting
for something to be poured into it. He neither disbelieves nor believes.
Something has washed his mind clear."
"How extraordinary!"
"Extraordinary you say; but listen! Three days ago--it was in the early
evening--he called me to his bedside. He drew his hand from the
bedclothes and laid it on my arm. How I thrilled at the touch, I cannot
explain...."
"But, my dear, think of Tom--This is extraordinary!"
"I've thought of Thomas; but, Marjorie, you cannot know--it was not that
kind of love. It was nothing like love. Perhaps I put it badly, but you
jumped to quite a wrong conclusion. It was something quite different.
His eyes seemed to transfix me. The touch--the eyes--the thrill they
sent through me will remain as long as I live! But listen. He spoke to
me as he hadn't spoken before. 'Mary,' he said--"
"Did he call you _Mary_?"
"He had never done so before--he did then. Before I had always been
'Nurse' to him."
"Well, go on, dear--I am quite interested."
"He said, 'Mary, you are going off duty in a few minutes. Go to the
upper chamber of 24, Grey Street, Hoxton, and walk straight in. There is
one that has need of you.' I was about to expostulate, but he fell back
in exhaustion, and I called the house surgeon."
"You surely didn't go?"
"Yes, I went," Mary went on rapidly. "Something made me go. The low door
of Number 24 was open. I climbed till I got to the top. There was no
light anywhere. It was a miserable foggy evening. I felt for a door and
found one at last. It yielded to my hand and I entered an attic which
was immediately under the roof.
"Nothing could be seen. I had come unprepared for such darkness. But
taking courage I asked aloud if there was any one there.
"There was no answer. Yet I felt--I had a curious certainty--that I was
not alone. I waited--and waited. Then I moved slowly about the room. I
was afraid to move with any freedom for fear of stumbling
over--something or other.
"Suddenly a costermonger's barrow came into the court below. The naphtha
lamps lit up the whole place and the room was suddenly illuminated with
a flickering red light. I could see quite well now.
"I am accustomed to rather dreadful things, as you know, Marjorie--or at
least things which you would think rather dreadful. But I will confess I
was frightened out of my life now. I gave a shriek of terror, and then
stood trembling, utterly unable to move!"
"What was it?"
"I saw a man hanging by a rope to the rafters. His jaw had fallen down,
and his tongue was protruding. I shall never forget how the red light
from the court below glistened on his tongue--His eyes were starting out
of his head.... It was horrible."
"Oh, how frightful! I should have been frightened to death," said
Marjorie, and a cold shiver ran through her whole body, which Mary could
feel as her cousin nestled closer to her in the brougham.
"Yes, it was awful! I had never seen anything so awful before--except
once, perhaps, at an operation for cancer. But do you know, Marjorie, I
was quite unlike my usual self. I was acting under some strange
influence. The eyes of that poor man, Joseph, seemed to be following me.
I acted as I never should have been able to act unless something very
curious and inexplicable was urging me. I knew exactly what I had to do.
"I am experienced in these things, as you know, and I saw at once that
the man who was hanging from the roof was not dead. He was only just
beginning the last agony. There was a big box by the window, and upon a
little table I saw an ordinary table-knife. I dragged the box to the
man's feet, put them upon it, caught hold of the knife, and cut him
down.
"He was a small man, and fell limply back into my arms, nearly knocking
me over the box, but I managed to support him, and staggered down on to
the floor.
"Then I got the rope from round his neck, and tried to restore breathing
by Hall's method--you know, one can use this method by oneself. It is
really the basis of all methods, and is used very successfully in cases
of drowning."
"What did you do then?" Marjorie asked.
"As soon as he began to breathe again I rushed downstairs. In a room at
the bottom of the stairs, which was lit by a little cheap paraffin lamp
there was a horrid old woman, an evil-looking young man, and several
children. The old woman was frying some dreadful sort of fish for
supper, and I was nearly stifled.
"To cut a long story short, I sent the children out for a cab, made the
young fellow come upstairs, and together we brought down the man, who
was in a semi-conscious state. No questions were asked because, as you
know, or at least, as is a fact, a nurse's uniform commands respect
everywhere. I took the man straight to the hospital and managed to hush
the matter up, and to arrange with the house surgeon. Of course I could
not tell the doctors everything, but they trusted me and nothing was
said at all. The man was discharged as cured a few days ago. The poor
fellow had attempted his life in a fit of temporary madness. He was very
nearly starving. There is no doubt at all about it. He proved it to the
satisfaction of the hospital authorities."
"And have you found out who he is?"
"He is a friend of Joseph's--a comrade in his poverty, a journalist
called Hampson, and the garret was where Joseph and he had lived
together."
"Extraordinary is not the word for all this," Marjorie interrupted. "It
almost frightens me to hear about it."
"But even that is not all. When I got back to the hospital after seeing
the would-be suicide in safe keeping, I went straight to my own ward.
"Joseph was awake. He turned to me as I entered, smiled, and said in a
sort of whisper, 'Inasmuch.' I could hear no more.
"From that time his mind seemed to lapse into the same state--a state of
complete blank. He is waiting."
"For what?"
"Ah, here comes the most strange part of it all. I have received an
extraordinary letter from Lluellyn. My brother has strange psychic
powers, Marjorie--powers that have often been manifested in a way which
the world knows nothing of, in a way which you would find it impossible
to believe. In some way my brother has known of this man's presence in
the hospital. Our minds have acted one upon the other over all the vast
material distance which separates us. He wrote to me: 'As soon as the
man Joseph is recovered, send him to me. He will question, but he will
come. The Lord has need of him, for he shall be as a great sword in the
hand of the Most High.'"
Marjorie Kirwan shivered.
"You speak of mystical things," she said. "They are too deep for me.
They frighten me. Mary, you speak as if something was going to happen!
What do you mean?"
"I speak as I feel, dear," Mary answered, with a deep-ringing certainty
in her voice. "How or why, I do not know, but a marvellous thing is
going to happen! I feel the sense of it. It quickens all my life. I
wait for that which is to come. A new force is to be born into the
world, a new light is to be kindled in the present darkness. The lonely
mystic of the mountain and the strange-eyed man who has come into my
life are, even now, in mysterious spiritual communion. This very
afternoon Joseph goes to Lluellyn. I said good-bye to him before I left
the East End. What will be the issue my poor vision cannot tell me yet."
Through the hum the maiden of the world heard Mary's deep, steadfast
voice.
"Something great is going to happen. Now is the acceptable hour!"
It was utterly outside her experience. It was a voice which chilled and
frightened her. She didn't want to hear voices like this.
Even as Mary spoke, Marjorie Kirwan heard a change in her voice. The
brougham was quite still, and the long string of vehicles which were
passing in the other direction were motionless also.
Mary was staring out of the window at a hansom cab that was its
immediate _vis-à-vis_.
Two men were in the cab.
One of them, a small, eager-faced man flushed with excitement, was
bowing to Mary.
The other, taller, and very pale of face, was looking at the hospital
nurse with the wildest and most burning gaze the society girl had ever
seen.
"Who are they?" Marjorie whispered, though even as she asked she knew.
"The man I saved from death," Mary answered, in a low, quivering voice,
"and the man Joseph--Joseph!"
She sank back against the cushions of the carriage in a dead faint.