THE CROSS AT ST. PAUL'S
Hampson had been in the editorial chair of the religious weekly for
nearly a month, and the change in the little journalist's circumstances
was enormous; from the most grinding poverty, the most precarious
existence, he had arrived at what to him was wealth.
He felt himself a rich man, and, indeed, the big firm of newspaper
proprietors which had singled him out to occupy his present position was
not niggardly in the matter of salary. With careful discrimination they
sought out the best man for this or that post, and when they found him
paid him sufficiently well to secure his continued adherence to their
interests.
Hampson generally arrived at his office about eleven, and opened his
letters. On the day of which this chapter treats he came earlier as he
had to "pass the paper for press."
A large amount of correspondence awaited him, and he waded steadily
through it for about an hour, giving directions to his secretary as each
letter was opened. When the man had gone to his own room Hampson leant
back in his comfortable chair with a sigh. His usually cheerful face
wore an expression of perplexity and annoyance.
More than a fortnight had elapsed since he had received any
communication from his friend Joseph.
When Joseph had first left London he had written every two or three days
to Hampson--brilliant, if slightly caustic letters, describing his new
environment and the life he was leading on the mountain with Lluellyn
Lys. These letters had concealed nothing, and had told the journalist
exactly what had occurred. Yet every time that the writer recorded some
strange happening, or wrote of some unusual experience and sensation, he
had given a _material_ explanation of it at considerable length.
The astonishing climb up the final peak of the mountain, for example,
was recorded with great accuracy. The voice of the Teacher as it pealed
down through the mist, the sudden access of strength that made it
possible for Joseph to join his host--all this, and much more, was set
down with orderly and scientific precision. But the explanation had been
that the tonic power of the mountain air had provided the muscular
impetus necessary for the climb, and that its heady influence upon a
mind unaccustomed to so much oxygen had engendered the delusion of a
supernatural force.
Hampson had his own opinion about these strange things. He saw further
into them than Joseph appeared to be able to see. Yet his friend's
letters were a constant source of pleasure and inspiration to him--even
while he deplored Joseph's evident resolve to admit nothing into his
life that did not allow of a purely material explanation.
And now the letters had stopped.
He had heard no single word for days and days. His own communications
had remained unanswered, nor had he received any reply to an anxious
inquiry after Joseph's health, addressed to Lluellyn Lys himself.
This morning, again, there was nothing at all, and the faithful little
man was gravely disturbed. Something serious had indubitably happened,
and how to find out what it was he did not know.
It was a day of thick and lurid fog. London lay under a pall--the whole
world around was sombre and depressing.
The well-furnished editorial sanctum, with it's electric lights,
leather-covered armchairs, gleaming telephones, and huge writing-table
was comfortable enough, but the leaden light outside, upon the Thames
Embankment, made London seem a city of dreadful night.
Hampson rose from his chair, and stood at the window for a moment, lost
in thought.
Yes, London was indeed a terrible city. More terrible than Babylon of
old, more awful when one remembered that Christ had come to the world
with His Message of Salvation.
The ancient city of palaces, in its eternal sunlit majesty, had never
known the advent of the Redeemer. Yet, were those forgotten people who
worshipped the God Merodach really worse than the Londoners of to-day?
Only on the day before, a West End clergyman had come to Hampson with
detailed statistics of the vice in his own parish in the neighborhood of
Piccadilly. The vicar's statements were horrible. To some people they
would have sounded incredible. Yet they were absolutely true, as Hampson
was very well aware--naked, shameful horrors in Christian London.
"Ah," the clergyman said, "if only Our Lord came to London now how awful
would His condemnation be!"
As the editor looked out upon the gloom he felt that the material
darkness was symbolic of a spiritual darkness which sometimes appalled
him when he realized it.
The door opened, and the sub-editor came in with "pulls" of the final
sheets of the paper. Hampson had to read these carefully, initial them,
and send them to the composing-room marked as ready for the
printing-machines. Then his work was done for the day.
At lunch time, the fog still continuing, he left the office. An idea had
come to him which might be of service in obtaining news of Joseph.
He would take a cab down to the East End Hospital, and ask Mary Lys if
she knew anything about his friend. Probably she would know something,
her brother, Lluellyn Lys, would almost certainly have written to her.
Hampson had met Mary two or three times during the last weeks. He
reverenced the beautiful girl who had saved him from the consequences of
his sudden madness, with all the force of his nature.
In her he saw a simple and serene holiness, an absolute abnegation of
self which was unique in his experience. She represented to him all that
was finest, noblest, and best in Christian womanhood.
Since his appointment to the editorial chair he had gloried in the fact
that he had been able to send her various sums of money for distribution
among the most destitute of the patients under her charge.
At four o'clock he had an appointment with the clerk of the works at St.
Paul's Cathedral, but until then he was free. The _Sunday Friend_
covered a very wide field, and hardly any question of interest to
religious people was left untouched. At the moment grave fears were
entertained as to the safety of the huge building upon Ludgate Hill. The
continual burrowing for various purposes beneath the fabric had caused a
slight subsidence of one of the great central piers. A minute crack had
made its appearance in the dome itself.
Hampson had obtained permission from the dean to inspect the work of
repair that was proceeding, knowing that his readers would be interested
in the subject.
Until four, however, he was perfectly free, and he drove straight
towards Whitechapel.
His cab drove slowly through the congested arteries of the City, where
the black-coated business men scurried about like rats in the gloom. But
in half an hour Hampson arrived at the door of the hospital, and was
making inquiries if Nurse Lys was off duty or no, and that if she were
would she see him.
He had not come at this time entirely on speculation. He knew that, as a
general rule, Mary was free at this hour.
She proved to be so to-day, and in a moment or two came into the
reception-room where he was waiting.
She was like a star in the gloom, he thought.
How beautiful her pure and noble face was, how gracious her walk and
bearing! All that spiritual beauty which comes from a life lived with
utter unselfishness for others, the holy tranquillity that goodness
paints upon the face, the light God lends the eyes when His light burns
within--all these, added to Mary's remarkable physical beauty, marked
her out as rare among women.
The little journalist worshipped her. She seemed to him a being so
wonderful that there was a sort of desecration even in touching her
hand.
"Ah, my friend," she said to him, with a flashing smile of welcome, "I
am glad to see you. To tell you the truth, I have a melancholy mood
to-day, a thing so very rare with me that it makes me all the more glad
to see a friend's face. How are you, and how is your work?"
"I am very well, Nurse Mary, thank you, but I am troubled in mind about
Joseph. I cannot get an answer to any of my letters, though at first he
wrote constantly. I even wrote to Mr. Lluellyn Lys, hoping to hear from
him that all was well. But I have received no answer to that letter
either. I came to ask you if you had any news."
Mary looked at him strangely, and with perplexity in her eyes.
"No," she said. "I have had no news at all from either of them for some
time. I have been disturbed in mind about it for some days. Of course I
have written, too, but there has been no response. That is why I have
been feeling rather downhearted to-day. It is curious that you, Mr.
Hampson, should have come to me with this question, and at this moment."
They looked at each other apprehensively, and for this reason: they were
not talking of two ordinary men and their doings.
Both felt this strongly.
There had been too many unusual and inexplicable occurrences in
connection with Joseph's accident and arrival at the hospital for either
Mary or Hampson to disregard any seeming coincidence. Both knew, both
had always felt, that they were spectators of--or, rather, actors in--a
drama upon which the curtain had but lately risen.
"When did you last hear from Joseph?" Mary asked.
Hampson mentioned the date. It was, though, of course, he did not know
it, the date of Joseph's strange experience upon the midnight moor, the
date on which he had been struck down, and on which his second illness
began.
"It was at that time that I received my last letter from my brother,"
the girl answered--"the exact day, in fact. The letter troubled me when
it came; it has troubled me ever since. It spoke of the end of his work
here, hinted that he felt he had almost done what he was sent into the
world to do, though at the same time he bade me prepare myself for great
events immediately imminent."
There was a silence in the big, bare reception-room. Mary broke it.
"What a dreadful day it is, Mr. Hampson," she said, with an effort to
give the conversation a less gloomy turn. "I have rarely seen the fog
lie so low over town. Oh, for a breath of fresh air--just five short
minutes of fresh, unclouded air! I think I would give almost anything
for that at this moment."
A sudden thought came to the journalist.
"Do you know, nurse," he said, "I think I am one of the few men in
London who can give you just what you ask at this moment; that is, if
you don't mind doing something slightly unconventional?"
"Oh, convention!" she answered, with the serene smile of the
high-natured woman for whom the world has no terrors.
Hampson explained where he was bound when he left the hospital, and for
what purpose. There would be no difficulty in the matter at all, if Mary
cared to accompany him to the roof of the cathedral. It was certain,
also, that the dome would rise high above the low belt of fog which was
stifling London.
Mary had three hours at her own disposal. In ten minutes they were
driving to the great church.
When they had ascended to the roof of St. Paul's they found the fog was
not so dense. The sun was setting over the modern Babylon.
Hampson pointed down at the nether gloom.
"Vanity Fair!" he said. "Vanity Fair! What would Jesus Christ say to
London if He came to it now?"
As he spoke the breeze suddenly freshened, the fog clouds took new
shapes, the light of the western sun grew in the dark.
And then a thing happened that set their hearts beating furiously.
Right ahead in the gloom, flashing, flame-like, clear-cut, and distinct,
a mighty cross hung over London.
It was at precisely this moment that Joseph was staring, trembling, into
the mirror, at the foot of which lay the long white body of Lluellyn
Lys, and realizing his own exact resemblance to the Man of Sorrows,
Jesus Who came to save us all.