NEARER
Joseph turned to his companion.
His face was white and worn by his long illness, but now it was suddenly
overspread with a ghastly and livid greyness.
He murmured something far down in his throat, and at the inarticulate
sound, Hampson, who had been bowing with a flush of gratitude to Mary,
turned in alarm.
He saw a strange sight, and though he--in common with many others--was
to become accustomed to it in the future, he never forgot his first
impression.
Joseph's head had sunk back against the cushions of the cab. His mouth
was open, the jaw having fallen a little, as though he had no control of
it.
In a flash the terrible thought came to the journalist that his friend
was in the actual throes of death.
Then, in another second or two, just as the block in the traffic ceased,
and the cab moved on again, he knew that Joseph lived. The eyes which at
first were dark and lustreless--had seemed to be turned inward, as it
were--suddenly blazed out into life. Their expression was extraordinary.
It appeared to Hampson as if Joseph saw far away into an illimitable
distance. So some breathless watcher upon a mountain-top, who searched a
far horizon for the coming of a great army might have looked. A huge
eagle circling round the lonely summit of an Alp might have such a
strange light in its far-seeing eyes.
At what was the man looking? Surely it was no narrow vision bounded by
the bricks and mortar, the busy vista of the London Strand!
Then, in a flash, the journalist knew.
Those eyes saw no mortal vision, were not bounded by the material
circumstance of place and time. They looked into the future.
It was thus that Jeremiah, the son of Hilkiah looked when the word of
the Lord came to him.
Unconsciously Hampson spoke a verse from Holy Writ:--
"Then the Lord put forth His hand and touched my mouth. And the Lord
said unto me, Behold, I have put My words in thy mouth."
Then Joseph began to speak, and never had his friend heard a man speak
in this fashion.
The lips moved very little. The fixed far-off light remained in the
eyes, the face did not change with the word's as the face of an ordinary
man does.
"I hear a voice; and the voice says to me, 'Thou therefore gird up thy
loins and arise, and speak unto them all that I command thee: be not
dismayed at their faces, lest I confound thee before them.' The words,
which seemed to come from a vast distance, though they were very keen,
vibrant and clear, dropped in tone, and ceased for a moment. Then once
more they began--
"And I see the woman Mary and the one that was with her. They are with
me upon an hill-top. And they are as maids that have forgotten their
ornaments, and as brides that have not remembered their attire. And
below us I see great cities and busy markets, the movements of
multitudes, and the coming and going of ships. And I see that the maid
and I and those others who are with us upon the mountain pray to God.
And God touches my mouth, and I go down from the hill and those that are
with me, to root out, to pull down and destroy, and to throw down, to
build and to plant."
Trembling with eagerness and excitement, Hampson listened to these
extraordinary words.
Ever since the black hour when he had been rescued from the consequences
of his sudden madness, the journalist had known that there was something
very wonderful about his friend. Hampson could not in justice to himself
blame himself for his attempt at suicide. He knew that he had not been
responsible for what he did. The long privations of his life, the sudden
accident to Joseph in the Whitechapel Road, had been too much for a
sensitive and highly-strung nature. Gradually but surely reason had been
temporarily undermined, and Hampson had only a very slight remembrance
of the events in the fortnight which had preceded his attempt. It was in
the hospital, after the careful nursing and the generous food, that his
brain was restored to its balance. And it was in the hospital also that
Mary Lys had told him of the strange and supernatural occurrence that
had saved his life.
"Nurse," he had said to her, "I know nothing of what you tell me. I was
mad--quite unconscious of what I did. But I have always known that there
was something about my dear friend that tells me that he is not as other
men are. He is a man set apart, though for what end I do not know, and
cannot foresee. But one thing I plainly know and recognize--the Almighty
Father chose Joseph to be the medium by which I was saved. God moves in
a mysterious way, but he has destined my friend for wonderful things."
Mary Lys had agreed with her patient.
"I also have a prescience," she had said, "that Joseph has a work to do
for God. He does not know it. He cannot realize it. He has made no
submission to the Divine Will, but nevertheless he will be an instrument
of It. I know with a strange certainty that this is his high destiny."
The rapid and vivid remembrance of all this went through Hampson's brain
as a bullet goes through a board, when he heard Joseph's last words.
He caught him by the hand, holding the long, wasted fingers in his own,
chafing them to bring back some living warmth into their icy coldness.
The strange voice ceased finally, and Joseph closed his eyes. The rigid
tension of his face relaxed and a little color came back into it.
Then he gave a long sigh, shuddered and once more opened his eyes.
"I feel unwell," he said, in faint and hesitating tones. "I saw our
dear, kind nurse in a carriage with another lady. We were all stopped by
a block in the traffic, weren't we? I saw Nurse Mary, and then I can
remember nothing more. I have been in a faint. I did not know I was
still so weak."
"Don't you remember anything then, Joseph?"
"Nothing at all. But I feel exactly as I felt when I was lying in
hospital, and suddenly fainted there. It was the time when I said those
extraordinary words to nurse and she went and found you, poor old chap,
just in the nick of time."
Hampson quivered with excitement.
"Then you felt just the same sensation a few minutes ago as you did when
you were inspired to save my life by some mysterious influence?"
"Exactly the same. It is a weird feeling. It is as though suddenly my
whole mind and body are filled with a great wind. I seem to lose my
personality entirely, and to be under the dominion of an enormous
overwhelming power and force. Then everything goes away like a stone
falling through water, and I remember nothing until I regain
consciousness."
Hampson took his friend's hand.
"Joseph," he said in tones that were strangely moved and stirred, "have
you yourself no explanation? How do you account for the fact that you
told Nurse Mary to go and save my life?"
"I suppose it was owing to some sort of telepathy. The mind, so I
believe, gives off waves of electricity exactly like the instrument
which sends the wireless telegraphy messages. You know that if a
receiver in Marconi's system is tuned exactly to the pitch of a
transmitter it picks up the messages automatically, even if they are
not intended for it in the first instance. Some thought wave from your
sub-conscious brain must have reached mine when you were preparing to
hang yourself. That is the only explanation possible."
"No, Joseph," Hampson answered. "It is not the only explanation. There
is another, and if you could know the words that you spoke in your
trance but a few moments ago, you would think as I do."
"Did I speak? What did I say?"
"I think I will not tell you yet. Some day I will tell you. But I am
certain that every act of yours, every word you say, and every step you
take, are under special and marvellous guidance. The Holy Spirit is
guiding and leading you."
Joseph made a slight movement with his hand. There was something almost
petulant in the gesture.
"Let us not talk of that," he said. "I think we are agreed not to speak
of it. Certainly I will own that some curious things have happened. That
there is a destiny that shapes our ends may possibly be true. But that
any man does know anything of the nature and qualities of that destiny I
am unable to believe. You and that dear, sweet Nurse Mary have put your
own interpretation on the strange events of the last few weeks.
Certainly I seem to be the sport of some dominating influence. I admit
it, my friend. But it is coincidence, and nothing more. In my weaker
moments I have something of this sense; in my stronger ones I know that
it cannot be so."
"Well, Joseph, we shall see what the future has in store. For my part I
am certain it is big with events for you."
"I shall owe everything to Nurse Mary," Joseph answered, changing the
conversation. "It was extraordinarily kind of her to write to her
brother, and ask him to have me as his guest until I recover! Such
charity is rare in life. I have not often met with it, at any rate, on
my way through the world."
"She is a saint," Hampson answered, with deep reverence in his voice.
"She is something very like it," Joseph answered. "Some day I hope to
repay her. This long stay in the beautiful Welsh hills will give me the
necessary strength and quietness of nerve to get to work again. The
brother, I understand, is a sort of mystic. He lives a hermit's life,
and is a sort of mountain prophet. It is a strange thing, Hampson, that
I should be going as a pauper to stay with the brother of a dear girl
who took pity on my misfortunes! They have given me the money for my
journey. When I am well again I shall be given the money to return to
London, I, who am a graduate of Cambridge, and I may say it without
ostentation, a mathematician of repute, depend for my present sustenance
upon the charity of strangers. Yet I don't feel in the least
embarrassed. That is more curious than anything else. I have a sense
that my troubles are over now, that I shall come into my own again. We
are nearly at the station, are we not?"
Hampson made some ordinary remark of assent. He knew the history of the
almost incredible circumstances which had led to this journey of Joseph
to Wales. He had seen the letter from Lluellyn Lys which bade Mary to
send the man Joseph to him.
But Joseph did not know.
The patient had been told nothing of the mysterious circumstances that
had brought about this plan of his journey. Joseph simply thought that
he was invited to stay with Mary's brother, so that he might get well
and strong and recover power to enter the battle of life once more. But
Hampson was quite certain that before many days had passed his friend
would realize not only the truth about his mysterious summons, but also
the eternal truths of the Divine forces which were animating his
unconscious will and bringing him nearer and nearer to the consummation
of a Will which was not of this world, and of which he was the
instrument.
The cab was rolling through the wide squares and streets of Bloomsbury.
In three or four minutes it would arrive at Euston.
"You will soon be in splendid health, old fellow," Hampson said, anxious
to turn the conversation into an ordinary and conventional channel.
"Meanwhile, I'll have a cigarette. You mustn't smoke, of course, but you
won't grudge me the single comfort that my poor health allows me?"
He felt in his pocket for the packet of cigarettes that he had bought
that morning. Then, quite suddenly, he paused.
A sense of the tremendous incongruity of the present situation came to
him.
He was riding in a London cab to a London station. He was going to see a
sick friend start in a modern train for healing airs and a quiet sojourn
among the hills.
And yet--and yet he firmly believed--almost knew, indeed--that this
friend, this man who was called Joseph, was, so to speak, under the
especial convoy of the Holy Ghost!
It was incredible! Were there indeed miracles going on each day in the
heart of modern London? Was the world the same, even now, as it was in
the old, dim days when Jesus the Lord walked among the valleys and the
hills of Palestine?
Euston and cabs, and yet the modern world was full of mystery, of
wonder. Yes, indeed, God ruled now as He had always ruled.
Joseph was going towards some divinely-appointed goal! He had been told
nothing of the vision which had made Lluellyn Lys, the recluse of Wales,
write to Mary, commanding her to send him to his mountains. He was
moving blindly to meet his destiny.
Yet soon Joseph also would know what his friends knew. And with that
knowledge--
Hampson's thoughts had passed through his brain in a single instant,
while he was feeling for the cigarettes. He withdrew his hand
mechanically from his pocket and found that it grasped a letter--a
letter which had not been opened.
"Hullo," he said, "I have quite forgotten about my letter! It came by
the afternoon post just as I was leaving my room to go to the hospital
and meet you. I put it in my pocket and then thought no more about it."
He began to open the type-written envelope.
Joseph said nothing, but gazed out upon the panorama of the London
streets with dreamy eyes. He was thinking deeply.
Suddenly he was startled by an exclamation from Hampson.
Turning, he saw that the little man's face was alive with excitement and
flushed with pleasure.
"What is it, my dear fellow?" he asked.
"The most wonderful thing, Joseph! Fortune and prosperity at last! The
big newspaper firm of Rees--Sir David Rees is the head of it--have
offered me the editorship of their religious weekly, _The Sunday
Friend_. I have written a dozen articles or so for them from time to
time, and I suppose this is the result! I am to go and see Mr. Marston,
the managing editor, to-morrow."
The words tumbled breathlessly from his lips--he could hardly articulate
them in his enthusiasm and excitement. Joseph pressed his friend's hand.
He knew well what this opportunity meant to the conscientious and
hard-working little journalist, who had never had a chance before.
It meant freedom from the terrible and nerve-destroying hunt for
food--the horrible living from meal to meal--the life of an animal in
this regard, at least, but without the animal's faculties for satisfying
its hunger. It meant that Hampson's real talent would now be expressed
in its fullest power.
"I cannot congratulate you enough, dear friend," he said in a voice
which trembled with emotion. "Of all men, you deserve it. I cannot say
how happy this makes me, my friend, my brother--for it is as brothers
that you and I have lived this long while. I always knew your chance
would come. In the long run it always comes to those who are worthy of
it. To some it comes early, to others late, but it always comes."
"It means everything to me, Joseph," Hampson answered. "And think what
it will mean to you also! When you return cured and robust from Wales I
shall be able to give you regular employment. You will be able to write
any amount of articles for me. It means safety and a new start for us
both."
For some curious reason Joseph did not immediately reply.
Then he spoke slowly, just as the cab rolled under the massive archway
which guards the station courtyard.
"Thank you, indeed!" he answered. "But when you spoke, I had a sort of
presentiment that I should never need your aid. I can't account for it,
but it was strong and sudden."
"Oh, don't say that, old fellow! You must not be morbid, you know. You
will outlive most of us, without a doubt."
"I did not mean that I felt that I should die, Hampson. Rather a
sensation came to me that I was about to enter some new and strange life
which--"
The cab stopped.
"You and the porter must help me down," Joseph said, with a faint,
musing smile of singular sweetness and--so Hampson thought--of inward
anticipation and hope.
There was yet half an hour before the train was to start. It had been
thought better that Joseph should make a night journey to Wales. The
weather was very hot, and he would have more chance of rest.
"I'll take you to the waiting-room," Hampson said, "and then I will go
and get your ticket and some papers. I have told the porter who has your
bag what train you are going by. And the guard will come and see if you
want anything."
Joseph waited in the dingy, empty room while Hampson went away.
It was the ordinary bare, uncomfortable place with the hard leather
seats, the colored advertisements of seaside resorts, and the long,
heavy table shining with hideous yellow varnish.
Hampson seemed a long time, Joseph thought, though when he looked up at
the clock over the mantel-shelf he saw that the journalist had only been
gone about four minutes.
The waiting-room was absolutely silent save for the droning of a huge
blue fly that was circling round and round in the long beam of dusty
sunlight which poured in from one window.
The noise of the station outside seemed far away--a drowsy diapason.
Joseph, soothed by the distant murmur, leaned back in his chair and
emptied his mind of thought.
Then his eye fell idly and carelessly upon an open book that lay upon
the table.
The book was a copy of the Holy Bible, one of those large print books
which a pious society presents to places of temporary sojourn, if
perchance some passing may fall upon the Word of God and find comfort
therein.
From where he sat, however, Joseph could not see what the book was.
Nevertheless, for some strange reason or other, it began to fascinate
him. He stared at it fixedly, as a patient stares at a disc of metal
given him by the trained hypnotist of a French hospital when a trance is
to be induced.
Something within began to urge him to rise from his seat, cross the
room, and see exactly what it was that lay there. The prompting grew
stronger and stronger, until it filled his brain with an intensity of
compulsion such as he had never known before.
He resented the extraordinary influence bitterly. A mad, unreasoning
anger welled up within him.
"I will not go!" he said aloud. "Nothing in the world shall make me go!"
All that an ordinary spectator--had there been one in the
waiting-room--would have seen was a pale-faced man staring at the table.
Yet, nevertheless, a wild battle was going on, almost frightful in its
strength and power, though the end of it came simply enough.
The man could bear the fierce striving against this unknown and
mysterious compulsion no longer. His will suddenly dissolved, melted
away, fell to pieces like a child's house of cards, and with a deep sigh
that was almost a groan he rose and moved unsteadily towards the table.
He looked down at the book.
At first there was a mist before his eyes; then it rolled up like a
curtain and these words sprang out clear and vividly distinct from the
printed page: "But the Lord was with Joseph, and showed him mercy."