THE SERVICE AT ST. ELWYN'S
At the moment when Joseph had met the Vicar of St. Elwyn's, he knew him
for just what he was. The mysterious power which had enabled the Teacher
to lay bare the sins and secrets of the strangers in the theatre came to
him then, and he saw deep through the envelope of flesh to the man's
naked soul. Nothing was hidden from him. The meanness, the snobbery, the
invincible absorption in a petty self, the hunger for notoriety and
applause--all the layers and deposits of earthly stuff which overlaid
the little undeveloped germ of good--these were plain to the spiritual
vision of the man who was filled with the Holy Ghost.
The man's mind and its workings moved in his sight as a scientist sees
the blood pulsing in the veins of an insect under the microscope. But
directly Mr. Persse asked him to address the congregation of the
fashionable West End church, Joseph knew that, whatever motives dictated
the vicar's offer, the opportunity was from God. It was ordained that he
should mount the pulpit and deliver the message that was within him.
He had slipped out of the mansion in Berkeley Square without bidding any
of its inmates farewell. He had no wish to make mysterious entrances
and exits. Indeed, he never thought about the matter at all, but there
was something within him that led and moved him, a force which he obeyed
without question.
As he went out into the square, Joseph's heart was full of hope and
thankfulness to God. God had led him to the door of Sir Thomas Ducaine's
house in Piccadilly. God had been with him during the still watches of
the night as he pleaded and reasoned with the young man having great
possessions. And God had prevailed! All that had seemed so hopeless and
insuperable during the dark hours after the scene in the theatre was
over, was now lightened and smoothed away. In a few hours money and
influence had come to him, and at a time when the sword of the Lord had
but hardly left its sheath for the battle that was to be fought.
Joseph bent his steps at once towards the Euston Road. His faithful
followers were there in the quiet hotel by the station. Ignorant of
London, knowing nothing of what was going to happen, unaware of their
leader's plans or place, they waited, trusting in God. The thought
quickened his steps. He longed to be with these trusting ones, to pray
with them that God would be with him on the morrow.
Every now and again, as he walked, some one or other glanced curiously
at him. The face of this or that passer-by would wear a look of
curiosity and interrogation, and then, in several instances, the wonder
changed into recognition, and the wayfarers felt almost sure that this
must indeed be the very man with whose name all London was ringing. But
no one followed him. No one could be quite sure of his identity, even
though it was more than once suspected, and walking so swiftly as he
did, he was far out of hail before anyone could make up his mind to
accost or follow him.
For his part Joseph heeded these significant signs and tokens of the
huge interest with which his personality was inspiring London very
little. He had not seen the morning papers, though he knew from what he
had heard in Berkeley Square that they were much occupied with his name
and doings. That was to be expected, he knew. But he did not care to see
what they were saying of him. He walked through the streets of London, a
man walking with God, holding high commune with the Eternal. But ere he
met his brethren, he was to have a very practical illustration of
London's excitement, and London was to have another sensation.
He had turned into the Euston Road, and was nearing the house which
sheltered his disciples, when he saw that a huge crowd stood before it.
The road was almost impassable for traffic, and a dozen stalwart
policemen urged the thick mass of humanity to move in vain.
Every face was turned up to the dingy red-brick front of the hotel.
There may have been nearly a thousand people there, and the crowd was
growing every moment, and every one was gazing up at the windows of the
house.
The strange thing about the crowd was that it was an absolutely silent
one. No one shouted or spoke, the thick clotted mass of humanity was
motionless and orderly, though it refused to obey the orders of the
police to disperse.
What had occurred was simple enough. The landlord of the hotel was
interested from the first in the band of grave, silent men who had
arrived at his house on the evening before. He had had but a few
moments' conversation with Joseph, but the interview had powerfully
affected him. Himself one of the sidesmen of a neighboring church, an
honest and God-fearing man, who ran his temperance hotel with
conspicuous decency in a street renowned for its bad and unsavory
reputation, the landlord had read all about the strange mountain revival
in Wales.
He identified his new guests immediately upon their arrival. It was
impossible to mistake Joseph, that strange and mysterious being whose
outward form resembled the very Christ Himself in such a marvellous and
awe-inspiring fashion. When the band had bestowed their simple luggage
in their rooms, and had left the hotel for the theatre under Joseph's
guidance, the landlord, all agog with his news, went to the local
Conservative club, of which he was a member, and told it. Then had come
the stupendous intelligence in the journals of that morning, and it had
immediately got about--as news does get about, who shall say how or
why?--that the headquarters of the evangelist were at a certain
temperance hotel in that neighborhood.
By half-past eleven, silently, swiftly, as if drawn by some unseen
magnet, the people had collected in front of the house, and, even as
Joseph drew near, journalists from all parts of Fleet Street, summoned
by telephone and telegram, were hastening to the scene as fast as hansom
cabs could bring them.
Joseph walked straight up to the edge of the tightly packed mass of
people. The way to the hotel door was entirely blocked, and he was at a
loss how to approach it.
At length he touched a policeman upon the shoulder. The man's back was
turned to him, and he also was staring at the window of the hotel in
puzzled silence.
"My friend," Joseph said quietly, "do you think you could make a way for
me? I must get to the house. My friends are there."
Something in the deep, quiet voice startled the constable. He turned
round with a rapid movement, involuntarily knocking off the Teacher's
soft felt hat as he did so.
The big man's face grew pale with surprise, and then flushed up with
excitement. He was a huge fellow, a tower of bone and muscle, but he
seemed no taller than the man beside him, no more powerful than Joseph
at the moment of their meeting.
The sun was still shining, and it fell upon the Teacher's face and form,
lighting them up with almost Eastern definiteness and distinctness. But
it was not only the sun which irradiated Joseph's face with an unearthly
serenity and beauty. He had been communing with God. His thoughts were
still on high. His face was not of this world. It was "as the face of an
angel."
The man shouted out in a loud, high-pitched voice, which sent an
immediate responsive quiver through the crowd.
"Make way!" he called. "Make way! He's come! Joseph has come!"
There was a sudden rustling sound, like the first murmur the upspringing
wind makes in a forest. The crowd swayed and strained as every member of
it turned, and Joseph saw a mass of stippled pink framed in black before
him.
There was a deep organ note from many voices, interspersed here and
there with sharp cries, falsetto, high in the palate, ejaculations of
excitement, which could not be controlled.
Then every one saw him.
The deep note swelled into a great shout of welcome, astonishment, and
even fear, while, as the waters rolled back for the passage of Israel,
the living billows of humanity separated and were cleaved asunder.
It was the triumph of a personality which, at this moment, was
superhuman, a personality such as had never visited the modern Babylon
before. Good men and saints have ofttimes trodden, and still tread the
streets of London, but never before had its weary, sin-worn people known
the advent of one such as this man, an "angel" or "messenger" of warning
straight from God!
It was a scene which recalled other scenes in the dim past. Human nature
has not changed, though the conditions under which it manifests itself
have changed. Steam and electricity, all the discoveries of science,
all the increase of knowledge which they have produced, have had no real
influence for change upon the human heart. Science does not limit, nor
does knowledge destroy, the eternal truths of Christianity. This man,
coming as he did, influenced as he was influenced, had the same power
over a modern mob in London as he would have had in those ages which
fools call "dark" or "superstitious"--not realizing that the revelation
of God to man is still going on in perfect beauty and splendor, that day
by day new proofs are added to the great Central Truth of the
Incarnation.
They swept aside to let him pass, calling aloud upon his name, in anger,
in supplication, in fear and in joy--a mighty multiple voice of men and
women stirred to the very depths of being.
His bare head bowed, his face still shining with inward spiritual fire,
Joseph passed among them, and was lost to their sight within the doors
of the house.
He moved swiftly up the stairs, still as if in a dream in which worldly
things had no part, with the rapt face of one who sees a vision still.
Pushing open a door, he found himself by instinct, for no one had
directed him, in the large upper chamber where the brethren were
gathered together.
The room was a large bare place, occasionally let for dinners and other
social occasions, but ordinarily very little used. The dozen or so of
the faithful friends who had come with Joseph from their native hills
were kneeling at the chairs placed round the walls. One of them, David
Owen, was praying aloud, in a deep fervent voice.
"Lord God of Hosts, we know how Thou didst anoint Our Lord with the Holy
Ghost and with power; Who went about doing good, and healing all that
were oppressed of the devil; for God was with Him. Anoint our Master
Joseph in the same way, that he and we with him may prevail against the
devils of London and their captain, Beelzebub. And oh, most Merciful
Father, preserve our Teacher while he is away from us from the assaults
of Satan and the craft and subtlety of evil men. Send him back to us
with good news, and armed for the battle with Thy grace and protection.
Dear Lord, Amen."
There was a deep groan of assent, and then a momentary silence, broken
by David, who said: "Brethren, I have it in my mind to read a portion of
the Holy Book, this being the first chapter of the Acts of the Apostles.
For it is therein that we shall remind ourselves of how the Apostles
remained at Jerusalem waiting for the promise of the Father that ere
many days passed they should be baptized with the Holy Ghost. And
reading thus, we shall be comforted and of a stout heart."
With these words the old man rose, and, turning, saw Joseph standing
among them. He gave a glad shout of surprise, and in a moment the
Teacher was surrounded by the faces of his friends. They wrung him by
the hand, they pressed on him with words of joy, the sonorous Welsh
ejaculations of praise and thanksgiving rang like a carillon in the
long, bare room.
The tears came into Joseph's eyes.
"My brethren," he said, and all marked the splendor of his countenance
and the music of his voice, "God has richly blessed us, and shown us
signs of His love and favor. Sit you down, and I will tell you my story
and all that has happened to me. Blessed be the name of the Lord!"
He told them everything, leaving out no single detail, and beginning his
story from the moment on which he had left them the night before. Many
were the exclamations of sympathy and comprehension as he told of the
black doubts and fears that had haunted him upon this midnight walk.
Like all men who have passed through deep spiritual experiences, they
know such hours well. For all men who love God and try to serve Him must
endure their agony and must be tempted in the desert places, even as
Christ Jesus Who died for us was tempted.
The simple band of brethren heard with rapt attention how the Holy
Spirit had led their chief into the dwellings of the rich and powerful,
and raised up mighty help for the battle that was to come.
In all they saw the hand of God. Miracle had succeeded miracle from the
very moment when they laid the body of their beloved Lluellyn Lys to
rest upon the wild mountain top.
God was with them indeed!
It is not too much to say that during the remainder of the Saturday
London was in an extraordinary ferment.
* * * * *
The time was one of great religious stagnation. It was as though, as the
old chronicle of the Middle Ages once put it: "God and all his angels
seemed as asleep." For months past a purely secular spirit had been
abroad. Socialistic teachings had been widely heard, and the man in the
street was told that here, and here only, was the real panacea for the
ills of life to be found.
And now, at the very moment of this universal stagnation, Joseph had
come to London.
There had suddenly arisen, with every circumstance of mystery and awe
calculated to impress the popular mind, a tremendous personality, a
revolutionary from God--as it seemed--a prophet calling man to repent, a
being with strange powers, a lamp in which the fires of Pentecost burned
anew, one who "spake boldly in the name of the Lord Jesus."
By dinner-time on the Saturday night all Mayfair knew that Joseph was to
preach at St. Elwyn's on the evening of the morrow. The evening papers
had announced the fact, and a series of notes had been sent round to
various houses by the vicar and his assistant clergy.
St. Elwyn's was a large and imposing building, but its seating capacity
was limited.
Mr. Persse was very well aware that the occasion he had provided would
have filled Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's as well. The crowd was sure
to be enormous. He therefore determined that admission to the service
should be by ticket only, a perfectly unjustifiable proceeding, of
course, but one which would secure just the sort of congregation he
wished to be impressed by his own activity and broad-mindedness. The
tickets were hurriedly printed and issued, some of them were sent to the
Press, the remainder to the wealthy and influential society people who
were accustomed to "worship" at this church.
The service was fixed for eight o'clock. As a usual thing the Sunday
evensong was but poorly attended at St. Elwyn's. The fashionable world
didn't mind going to church on Sunday morning, and afterwards for
"church parade" in Hyde Park, but one really couldn't be expected to go
in the evening! The world was dining then--and dinner was dinner!
Mr. Persse knew this, and he announced a "choral evensong" at eight, and
"an address by the Evangelist Joseph" at nine. No one, owing to the fact
of the numbered and reserved tickets, need necessarily attend the
preliminary service. Every one could dine in peace and comfort and
arrive in time for the sensation of the evening. Nothing could have been
more pleasant and satisfactory.
The vicar, busy as he was with the necessary work of preparation, yet
found time for a few moments of acute uneasiness. Nothing had been seen
of Joseph. Would he come after all? Could he be depended upon, or would
the whole thing prove a tremendous fiasco?
Late on the afternoon of the Saturday, Mr. Persse heard of the doings
outside the hotel which had obviously occurred within an hour of
Joseph's acceptance of the offer to preach and his mysterious departure
from Berkeley Square. Immediately on reading this the vicar had
dispatched his senior curate in his motor-brougham to make final
arrangement with the Teacher about Sunday evening.
The young man, however, had returned with the news that Joseph and his
companions had left the house by a back entrance during the afternoon,
and that nothing was known of their whereabouts.
During the day of Sunday Mr. Persse, though he wore an expression of
pious and sanctified expectation, found his uneasiness and alarm
increase. He showed nothing of it at the luncheon party which he
attended after morning service, and answered the excited inquiries of
the other guests with suavity and aplomb. But as the hour of eight drew
near and no word had been received from the Teacher, all the mean fears
and worries that must ever be the portion of the popularity-hunter
assailed him with disconcerting violence.
At eight o'clock that evening there was probably no more nervous and
frightened man in the West End of London than this priest.
* * * * *
The stately ritual of evensong was over. The celebrated choir, in their
scarlet cassocks and lace cottas, had filed away into the vestry,
preceded by the great silver-gilt cross which Lady Kirwan had given to
the church, and followed by the clergy in their copes and birettas.
A faint sweet smell of incense lingered about the great arched aisles,
and an acolyte was putting out the candles on the High Altar with a long
brass extinguisher.
It was a quarter before nine, and the church was filling rapidly. The
vergers in their gowns of black velvet were showing the ticket-holders
to their seats; on all sides were the rustle of silk, the gleam of
jewels, breaths of faint, rare perfumes.
Mr. Persse always encouraged people to come to his church in evening
dress. He said, and quite rightly, that there was no possible reason why
people who belonged to a class which changes its costume in the evening
as a matter of course should be prevented from coming together to
worship God by that circumstance.
Nevertheless, the sight was a curious one, in comparison with that seen
at the same hour in most other churches. The women wore black mantillas
over their elaborate coiffures--just as the poorer class do at church in
Italy--but the sparkle of diamonds and the dull sheen of the pearls were
but hardly veiled. Fans moved incessantly, and there was a continuous
sound of whispering, like the wind in the reeds on the bank of a river.
Mr. Persse was in the inner vestry with his two curates. His face was
pale, and little beads of perspiration were beginning to start out upon
it.
"I don't know what we shall do, Nugent," he said to one of the young
men; "this is dreadful. We can't wait very much longer. Nearly every one
has come, the verger tells me. Every seat is occupied, and they are
putting chairs in the aisles. There is an enormous crowd of ordinary
people outside the church, and fifty policemen can hardly keep a way for
the carriages. There has been nothing like it before; it is marvellous.
And the man has never turned up! I don't know what to do."
"It's very awkward," Mr. Nugent answered--he was Sir Arbuthnot Nugent's
second son, and a great pet in Park Lane and its environs--"and if the
man does not come it will do St. Elwyn's a great deal of harm."
"It will indeed," the vicar answered, "and I don't mind telling you,
Nugent, that I have had quite an inspiration concerning him. When I
asked him to come here he assented at once. I felt--you know how one has
these intuitions--that he was a man over whom I should have great
influence. Now, why should I not induce him to take Holy Orders, and
give him a title to St. Elwyn's? He is no mere ignorant peasant, as the
general public seem to imagine. He is a gentleman, and, I am informed by
Sir Thomas Ducaine, took an excellent degree at Cambridge. The bishop
would be glad to obtain him, I feel quite sure of it, and there can be
no manner of doubt that he is a real spiritual force. Nor must we forget
that God in His Providence has ensured a most influential following for
him. I have it on quite unimpeachable authority that Joseph is to be
taken up by all the best people."
There was a knocking at the door which led into the small courtyard at
the back of the church.
The vicar called out "Come in!" in a voice that rang with uncertainty
and hope, and Joseph himself entered.
The Teacher was very pale and worn. His face was marked and lined as if
he had quite recently passed through some rending and tearing
experiences, some deep agony of the soul. So Jacob might have appeared
after he had wrestled with the Angel of the Lord, or Holy Paul when at
last the scales fell from his eyes, and he received sight forthwith and
arose.
"Ah, here you are," Mr. Persse said in tones of immeasurable relief. "We
had almost given you up! There is a very large congregation, and some of
the most important people in London are here. I hope you are prepared!"
"God will give me words," Joseph answered quietly, though he did not
look at the priest as he spoke.
"Oh, ah, yes!" Mr. Persse replied; "though, for my own part, I confess
to anxious preparation of all my sermons. Have you a surplice and a
cassock? No? Oh well then we can fit you out very well from the choir
cupboard."
A surplice was found for him, the vicar knelt and said a prayer, and
then the three men, the two priests and the evangelist, walked into the
church.
There was a stir, a rustle, and then a dead silence.
Mr. Persse and the curate sat in their stalls, and Joseph ascended the
stone steps to the pulpit, which was set high on the left side of the
chancel arch.
He looked down from his high place upon the faces below. Row after row
of faces met his eye. Nearly all the electric lights, save only those
which gleamed on the pulpit ledge and illuminated a crucifix behind his
head, were lowered. He saw a sheen of black and white, the dull glitter
of jewels, and the innumerable faces.
Still standing, he lifted his hands high above his head, and in a loud
voice cried upon God--
"Father, give me a tongue to speak to these Thy children. Lord Jesus,
guide me. Holy Ghost, descend upon this church, and speak through the
mouth of Thy servant."
The voice rang like a bugle through the arches, and echoed in the lofty
roof.
And now the words of the text: "Oh, consider this, ye that forget God;
lest I pluck you away, and there be none to deliver you."
The second terrible warning to London had begun.