THE POURING
Lluellyn Lys lived in a cottage on the side of the mountain where Joseph
had first been taken to meet him. His small income was enough for his
almost incredibly simple wants, and an ancient widow woman who loved and
reverenced him more than anything else in the world kept the cottage for
him, milked the cow, and did such frugal cooking as was necessary.
Lluellyn was known far and wide in that part of Wales. The miners, the
small crofting farmers, and the scattered shepherds revered and honored
the mysterious "Teacher" as men of God, were revered in the old times.
His influence was very great in the surrounding mining villages; he had
been able to do what sometimes even the parish priests had tried in
vain. The drunkard, the man of a foul and blasphemous tongue,
loose-livers and gamblers, had become sober and God-fearing folk, with
their hearts set upon the Eternal Light.
No one knew when the tall ascetic figure would appear among them with a
strange appropriateness. It was said that he possessed the gift of
second sight, and many extraordinary stories were told of him.
His sermons were wonderful in their directness and force, their strange
magnetic power. He had a mysterious knowledge of men's hearts, and would
often make a personal appeal to some sinner who had stayed to hear
him--an appeal full of such accurate and intimate knowledge of his
listener's inner life and secret actions that it appeared miraculous.
And in addition to this power of divination, it was whispered that the
Teacher possessed the power of healing, that his touch had raised the
sick from couches of pain. It was certain that several people who had
been regarded as at death's door had recovered with singular rapidity
after Lluellyn had paid them one or two visits. But in every case the
folk who had got well refused to speak of their experiences, though it
was remarked that their devotion to the recluse became almost
passionate.
A continual mystery enveloped him. Sometimes no one saw him for weeks.
He would spend day after day locked up in the room he used in the
cottage, and people who had climbed the mountain to seek him, were told
by the housekeeper that it was impossible, and that she herself had not
looked upon his face for many days.
Occasionally some late returning shepherd or miner would see the tall,
dark figure kneeling, lost in prayer, on the summit of some cloudy peak,
or the edge of some terrible abyss--stark and sharply outlined in the
moonlight.
And then again would come those sudden periods of mighty activity, of
great gatherings on the hillside, fiery words of warning and
exhortation in the villages.
* * * * *
Joseph had been with Lluellyn Lys for ten days. After the first strange
meeting on the mountain, when the Teacher had uttered the enigmatic word
"Death!" he had refused to give his newly arrived guest any explanation
of his saying.
"Brother," he said, "ask me not anything of the meaning of these things.
The time when they shall be revealed is not yet come, neither do I
myself see clearly in what manner they shall be accomplished."
Lluellyn had prayed.
"You are faint with the long journey, Joseph," he said, "but my house is
not far away, where you will find food and rest. But first let us pray
for a blessing upon your arrival, and that all things may befall as Our
Lord would have them."
And there, in the glorious noontide sunshine, on the highest point of
that great mountain from which they could survey the distant, shining
sea, and range beyond range of mighty hills, the two men knelt down and
prayed.
Joseph knelt with folded hands by the side of the Teacher.
It did not seem strange to him that he should do this. He no longer knew
the fierce revolt of the intellect against the promptings of the
conscience and the soul.
Rebellion had ceased. He bowed his head in prayer.
"Oh, Holy Ghost, descend upon us now, upon two sinful men, and fill us
with Thyself. Fill and permeate us with Thy divine power. Send down Thy
blessing upon us, and especially guard and influence Joseph that those
things which Thou hast designed for him be not too heavy for him.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Three in One,
and One in Three--Amen."
Then had come a ten minutes' descent, by an easier path on the other
side of the principal cone, till the house of the Teacher was reached.
Joseph, after a simple meal, had fallen asleep. He was wearied to death,
and when the housekeeper told him that he had slept for a whole
revolution of the clock hands his surprise was great.
For the first two or three days of his stay Joseph saw but little of his
host. They met at the frugal midday and evening repasts, but that was
all. Even then Lluellyn talked but little, though his manner was always
kind and almost deferential.
The Teacher, so his guest could not avoid thinking, regarded him from
some standpoint which he could not enter into. Lluellyn spoke to, and
regarded Joseph as if he were a man set apart, for some reason or other.
It was very mysterious and piqued the convalescent's curiosity,
sometimes to an almost unbearable degree. There were constant veiled
references to the future, hints of a time to come--of some imminent
happening of tremendous importance.
What was to happen? How was he concerned in these matters? This was the
question that Joseph constantly asked himself with growing impatience
and nervous anticipation.
After the first three days Joseph saw more of his host. They went for
walks together over the hills, and once or twice the guest was present
at a great gathering on the mountain-side, when Lluellyn preached to the
people, and swayed them as the wind sways a field of corn.
More and more Joseph began to realize the holiness of this man with whom
he lived. His love for God and for men glowed within him like a white
flame. Joseph no longer said or believed that there was no God. His
experiences had been too wonderful for that. It was impossible for any
sane mind to be with Lluellyn Lys daily and not to recognize that some
influence which was supernormal both in essence and fact made him what
he was.
But Christ? Ah, that was a different matter! As yet the Man of Sorrows
had touched no responsive chord in Joseph's heart.
It was, then, under these conditions, and while his mental development
was just at this point, that the finger of God moved at last, and the
stupendous drama of Joseph's life began.
He had been alone all day, and as evening fell went out to see if he
could find Lluellyn. There was a sense of loneliness upon him. For some
reason or other he felt forsaken and forlorn. After all, life was
empty, and held very little for him.
Such were his thoughts as he walked along a familiar path towards an
ancient Druid circle, some half a mile from the cottage, where he
thought he might find his host.
A faint watery moonlight illuminated the path among the heather, a wan
and spectral radiance, which gave the mountain-pass a strange, unearthly
aspect.
And as Joseph walked there, with a heavy heart, he became aware that
some one was coming towards him. It was not Lluellyn Lys. Of that he was
certain, an instinct told him so.
The figure came rapidly and noiselessly over the heath, and as it came
Joseph began to tremble. His knees knocked together, his tongue clave to
the roof of his mouth, the palms of his hands were wet.
Yet, as far as we may judge, it was not unmixed fear that Joseph felt.
Never, at any time, did he describe his sensations at that supreme
moment.
When questioned afterwards he was always silent.
But it was not all fear.
The figure drew nearer until at last it stood in the centre of the path,
closing the way to the wanderer.
The dark moors, the faint and spectral sky, the whole visible world
flashed away. There was a noise in Joseph's ears as of many waters, and
through the great rush that was overwhelming him, body, mind, and soul,
he seemed to hear a voice speaking--
Then a thick darkness blotted out all sensation, and he knew no more.
* * * * *
Joseph tried to lift his arm. He was conscious of the desire to do so,
but for some reason or other he was unable to move it for a moment.
The arm felt like lead.
Slowly--and this also was with an effort--he opened his eyes.
He was in bed, lying in the familiar room at Lluellyn's cottage, though
how he had come there he had no idea whatever.
His eyes wandered vaguely round the place, and as they grew accustomed
to conscious use he saw that some changes had been made in the aspect of
the room. A table had been removed, and a larger one substituted for it.
The new table was covered with bottles--square bottles with white labels
pasted on them. And there was a faint medicinal smell in the air also.
Then, a sofa-couch had made its appearance which had not been there
before. What did it all mean?
Suddenly the memory of the figure that had walked towards him upon the
moor when all was late and dark came back to him in a rush of sensation.
Why had everything flashed away as that silent figure approached? Who or
what was it that had come noiselessly upon him through the gloom? Why
had he been struck down?
Struck down? Yes; that was what had happened. He began to think a little
more clearly. He had been struck down, and now, of course, he was ill.
They had found him on the moor probably, and brought him back to the
cottage.
He began to realize more and more that he was ill--very ill. He tried to
turn in bed, and could hardly do so. Once more he endeavored to lift the
arm that felt like a limb of lead, and, partially succeeding, he saw
that it was thin and wasted.
There was a chair standing not far away from the bed, and on it a copy
of a religious journal. He started. His eye had fallen upon the date of
the paper.
Slowly and painfully he recalled the date of his first arrival in
Wales--the expiration of time since his sojourn with the Teacher began
until the date indicated upon the front page of the journal.
There could be no doubt about it, he had been lying unconscious of the
outside world, and heedless of the passage of time, for at least eight
days--possibly even more.
He gave a little gasp of astonishment--a gasp which was almost a
moan--and as he did so the door of the bedroom opened, and Mrs. Price,
the old housekeeper, entered.
She came straight up to the bedside and looked down upon Joseph. There
was something very strange in the expression of the old, wrinkled face.
It was changed from its usual expression of resigned and quiet joy.
There were red circles round the eyes, as if she had been weeping; the
kind old mouth was drawn with pain.
"Ah, my dear," she said to Joseph, "you've come to yourself at last! It
was what the doctor said--that it would be about this time that you
would come to. The Lord be praised!"
Joseph tried to answer her. The words came slowly from his lips. He
articulated with difficulty, and his voice was strange to his own ears.
"Have I been ill long?"
"For near ten days, sir, you have lain at death's door. The doctor from
Penmaenbach said that you would surely die. But the Teacher knew that
you would not. And oh, and oh, woe's the day when you came here!"
With a sudden convulsive movement, the old lady threw her hands up into
the air, and then burst into a passion of weeping.
Joseph had heard her with a languid interest. His question was answered;
he knew now exactly what had happened, but he was still too weak and
weary for anything to have much effect upon him. Yet the sudden tears
and the curious words of the kindly old dame troubled him.
"I am sorry," he said faintly. "I know that I must have been a great
trouble to you. But I had no idea I should fall ill again."
For answer she stooped over and kissed him upon the forehead.
"Trouble!" she cried, through her tears. "That's no word to say to me. I
spoke hastily, and what I said I said wrongly. It was the Teacher that
was in my mind. But it is all the will of the Lord to Whom all must
bow--you'll take your medicine now, if you please."
So she ended, with a sudden descent from high matters to the practical
occupations of the ministering angel.
Joseph drank the potion which the old lady held to his lips. Her arm was
round his head as she raised it, her brown, tear-stained face was close
to his.
He felt a sudden rush of affection for her. In the past he had ever been
a little cold in his relations with all men and women. Save, perhaps,
for Hampson, the journalist, he had not experienced anything like love
for his kind. Yet now he felt his heart going out to this dear old
nurse, and, more than that even, something cold and hard within him
seemed to have melted. He realized in his mind, as a man may realize a
whole vast landscape in a sudden flash of lightning, how much love there
was in the world after all.
Even as his whole weak frame was animated by this new and gracious
discovery, the door of the bedroom opened once more and Lluellyn Lys
came in.
Mrs. Price turned from the bed upon which Joseph was lying, and went up
to the Teacher.
She caught him by the arm--Joseph was witness of it all--and bowed her
head upon it. Then once more she began to sob.
"Oh, man, man," she said, "I've loved ye and tended ye for many years
now. And my father, and my mother, and my people for a hundred years
before, have served the house of Lys. But you have led me from the
bondage of darkness and sin into peace and light. Ye brought me to the
Lord Jesus, Lluellyn Lys. Aye and the Holy Ghost came down upon me when
I gave my heart to the Lord! And now, 'tis near over, 'tis all near
done, and my heart is bitter heavy, Lys. Master, my heart is bowed down
with woe and grief!"
Lluellyn gently took the poor old thing by the arm. He led her to the
bedside where Joseph lay.
"Old friend," he said--"dear old faithful friend and servant, it is not
me whom you must call Master any more. My work is nearly done, the time
of my departure draws near. Here is your Master."
The old dame, clinging to Lluellyn's arm, looked down at Joseph. Then
she started violently, and began to tremble like an autumn leaf in the
wind.
The old face, browned by a thousand days of mountain sun and storm, grew
pale under its tan. She looked up into Lluellyn's eyes with an
interrogation that was almost fierce in its intensity.
"I see something, Lys!" she said. "I see something! What does it
mean--what is it, Master? I never saw it before!"
Lluellyn answered her gravely and slowly.
"I know not," he said, "save only that it is God's will. All has not yet
been revealed to me. But I shall know soon, very soon, Anna, old friend.
And, as you are a godly woman of the Lord, I charge you that you go with
this man when he departs from this place. Leave us now, Anna. I have
somewhat to do with Joseph."
As his voice fell and ceased, the old lady went weeping from the room.
For some little time there was a dead silence in the place.
Joseph's brain was in a whirl, but his eyes were fixed upon the tall
figure of the Teacher.
Lluellyn Lys was strangely altered. His thin form was thinner still.
Always fragile in appearance, he now seemed as if a breath would blow
him away. His face and hands were deathly white, and his whole
appearance suggested a man almost bloodless, from whom all vitality had
been literally drained away.
"You are ill, Lluellyn," Joseph said at length.
The Teacher shook his head.
"No, dear friend," he answered. "I do what I have to do, that is all."
As he spoke, he drew a chair up to the bedside, and, stretching out his
long, thin hands, placed the finger-tips of one upon Joseph's forehead,
and those of the other upon his pulse.
A dim memory, faint and misty, came to Joseph of his recent illness.
Lluellyn had sat in this position before, the touch of his fingers was
familiar somehow or other, the stooping form awoke a chord of memory.
"Why," he said, "since I have been ill you have been doing this many
times. It is all coming back to me. What are you doing?"
Lluellyn smiled faintly.
"I am giving you strength for the work God intends you to do," he said.
"Do not talk, Joseph. Lie very still, and fix your thoughts on God."
Already the Teacher's voice seemed thin and far away to Joseph. It was
as though he was moving rapidly away from Lluellyn, carried by a strange
force, a vital fluid which was pouring into his veins.
He experienced exactly the same sensation as when he had first climbed
the mountain-top to meet Lluellyn--that of receiving power, of being a
vessel into which life itself was flowing.
At some time or another most people have been under the influence of an
anæsthetic, if only for the extraction of a tooth. Joseph now began to
lose consciousness in exactly the same way, rapidly, with a sense of
falling and a roaring noise in the ears.
The falling motion seemed to stop, the noise ceased, everything was
dark.
Then the black swayed like a curtain. Light came swiftly and silently,
and in one single moment Joseph saw stretched before him and below him a
vast panorama.
It was London that he saw, but in a way that no human eye has ever
beheld the modern Babylon. Nor does the word "saw" accurately express
the nature of the vision.
He apprehended rather than saw. The inner spiritual eye conveyed its
message to the brain far more clearly and swiftly than even the delicate
lenses and tissues of the flesh can ever do. Color, form, movement, all
these were not seen physically, but felt in the soul.
He had passed out of the dimensions of mortal things into another state.
London lay below him, and in the spirit he heard the noise of its
abominations, and saw the reek of its sin hanging over it like a vast,
lurid cloud.
They say, and the fact is well authenticated, that a drowning man sees
the whole of his past life, clear, distinct, minutely detailed, in a
second of time.
It was with some such flash as this that Joseph saw London. He did not
see a picture or a landscape of it. He did not receive an impression of
it. He saw it _whole_. He seemed to know the thoughts of every human
heart, nothing was secret from him.
His heart was filled with a terrible anguish, a sorrow so profound and
deep, so piercing and poignant, that it was even as death--as bitter as
death. He cried out aloud, "Lord Jesus, purge this city, and save the
people. Forgive them, O Lord, out of Thy bountiful goodness and mercy! I
that am as dust and ashes have taken it upon me to speak to the Lord. O
Lord, purge this city of its abominations, and save this Thy servant.
Teach me to love Thee and to labor for Thee!"
The vision changed. Into Joseph's heart there came an ineffable glow of
reverence and love. In its mighty power it was supersensual, an ecstasy
for which there are no words, a love in which self passed trembling away
like a chord of music, a supreme awe and adoration.
For he thought that a face was looking upon him, a face full of the
Divine love, the face of Our Lord.
A voice spoke in his heart--or was it an actual physical voice?--
"Lo, this has touched thy lips, and thine iniquity is taken away, and
thy sin purged. Also I heard the voice of the Lord saying, 'Whom shall I
send, and who will go for us?' Then said I, 'Here am I; send me.'"
A silence, a darkness of soul and mind, the rushing of many waters,
falling, falling, falling....
Joseph awoke, the voice rang in his ears still.
He saw the walls of the cottage room; he had come back to the world and
to life, a terrible, overmastering fear and awe shook him like a reed.
He cried out with a loud voice, calling for his friend, calling for the
Teacher.
"Lluellyn! Lluellyn Lys, come to me!"
He was lying upon his back still, in exactly the same position as that
in which he had lost consciousness while Lluellyn's hands were upon him
giving him life and strength.
Now he sat up suddenly, without an effort, as a strong and healthy man
moves.
"Lluellyn! Lluellyn!"
His loud call for help was suddenly strangled into silence. Lying upon
the floor, close to the bedside, was the body of Lluellyn Lys, a long
white shell, from which the holy soul had fled to meet its Lord.
The Teacher had given his life for his friend. In obedience to some
mysterious revelation he had received of the Divine Will, Lluellyn Lys
had poured his life into the body of another.
Joseph stared for a moment at the corpse, and then glanced wildly round
the room. He could call no more, speech had left him, his lips were
shrivelled, his tongue paralysed.
As he did so, his whole body suddenly stiffened and remained motionless.
Exactly opposite to him, looking at him, he saw once more the face of
his vision, the countenance of the Man of Sorrows.
In mute appeal, powerless to speak, he stretched out his arms in
supplication.
But what was this?
Even as he moved, the figure moved also. Hands were stretched out
towards him, even as his were extended.
He leapt from the bed, passed by the still, white body upon the
floor--and learned the truth.
A large mirror hung upon the opposite wall.
What he had thought to be the face of Christ--the veritable face of his
vision--was his own face!
His own face, bearded, changed, and moulded by his illness, altered
entirely.
His own face had become as an image and simulacrum of the traditional
pictures and representations of Our Lord's.