MURDER AND SUDDEN DEATH
The big house was very plainly furnished. What was absolutely necessary
had been put into it, but that was all. Sir Thomas Ducaine had been
astounded at the simplicity of the arrangements. The wealthy young man,
accustomed as he was to every luxury and amenity of life that riches
bring, was most anxious to make the place more comfortable.
"My dear fellow," he said to Joseph, "you can't possibly live like this.
Why, it's barer than a work-house! You must really let me send you some
things in."
But the baronet had not in the least succeeded in altering the Teacher's
determination.
"The Lord's work is to be done," Joseph had answered. "We are here to do
it, and our thoughts are set on other matters. We have no need of these
things."
"But you don't think comfort or luxury, I suppose you would call it,
wrong?"
"Certainly not, if a man has earned it, is robbing nobody in acquiring
it, and finds personal enjoyment in it. Christ sat at the rich man's
feast. He took the gift of the precious ointment. But for us such things
are unnecessary."
So the house, now more famous than perhaps any house in London, was a
veritable hermit's cell in its appointments. There, however, the
resemblance ceased entirely. The place hummed with varied activities. It
was the centre of the many organizations that were springing into being
under Joseph's direction; activities made possible by Sir Thomas
Ducaine's magnificent gifts and the stream of outside donations that had
followed in their wake.
Joseph and his young companion passed through the little crowd of
loiterers and curious people that nearly always stood before the door of
the mysterious house where the Teacher was now known to reside. There
was a stir and movement as he came among them, nudgings of elbows, a
universal pressure forward, whispers and remarks below the voice:
"That's him!" "There's Joseph himself!"
Joseph passed through the crowd without taking any notice of it. On the
doorstep he paused and turned as if to speak. The people--there may have
been thirty or forty of them--pressed forward in a circle of eager
faces. On the outskirts of the group there was a woman, dressed in black
and past the middle-age. She seemed to hang back, as if reluctant, or
too timid, to approach.
Joseph's eye fell upon her. Then he took a latchkey from his pocket and
gave it to the young man.
"Open the door," he said, "and go into the house. Go into the room on
the right-hand side of the hall, and I will meet you there."
The young man did as he was bidden, and disappeared.
Then Joseph spoke.
"Among you all," he said, "there is but one here that needs me. You have
come to see a show, not to seek God and help to lead you to Him. Get you
gone from this place, for there is no health in you!"
The voice rang out in stern command--a command which it seemed
impossible to disobey. Without a word, the people turned and slunk away,
melting like ghosts into the darkness of the square.
Only the woman in black remained, and she now came timidly up to the
Teacher.
"Sir," she said, in a thin but clear and educated voice--"sir, I should
like to speak with you, if I may."
"My friend," he answered. "I was waiting for you. Come within the
house."
He led the woman into a small room on the left-hand side of the hall--an
uncarpeted room, with nothing but a few chairs, a big table covered with
papers, and a purring gas-stove upon the hearth.
At the Teacher's invitation the woman sat down, and revealed a thin,
anxious face and eyes that seemed perpetually trembling upon the brink
of tears.
"It is very kind of you to see me, sir," she said, "I never expected
that I should have such good fortune. But I have read about you in the
papers--that you go about doing good, just as our dear Lord did, and
something within me moved me to seek you out, even if it were only just
to look at you. For I am very unhappy, sir, and I have no one to confide
in, no one whom I can ask about my trouble or obtain advice from."
"Tell me all about it," Joseph said gently. "When I stood at the door
and looked at the people I felt in my heart that they were there out of
idle curiosity. God in His wisdom has given me power to know these
things. But something came straight from you to me that made me aware
that you needed me. Tell me everything."
"It's about my son, sir," the woman said, not noticing the slight start
that Joseph gave and the new light that came into his eyes. "I am a
widow with one son. He is just twenty, and is employed as a clerk in a
City House. But he is going wrong, sir. I can read the signs easily. He
stays out late at night, he seems to be losing his love for me, and is
impatient of anything I say to him. And more than once he has come home
intoxicated lately. And in his room I have found programmes of the
performances at music-halls and such places.
"I do not pry about, sir, nor am I foolishly severe and hard. Young men
must have their amusements, and they must have their secrets, I suppose.
I do not expect Charlie to tell me everything. And he only earns thirty
shillings a week, part of which he gives to me for his board and
lodging. He cannot possibly afford these amusements.
"I have a terrible fear that never leaves me that he has not been
honest, that he must have been taking other people's money, and that he
will be ruined. I have prayed and prayed, sir, but it really seems as if
prayer is of no use, though, of course, I keep on."
"Don't say that," Joseph answered. "Prayer is still the greatest force
in the world, however despondent we may become at times. But your
prayers have been answered. Charlie is saved!"
The weeping mother gave a sudden cry, half of joy, half of incredulity.
"But, sir," she stammered, "how can you know that? Oh, if only it could
be true!"
"It is true, my dear sister," he answered. "The Lord led me to a place
where I found your son, not an hour ago. The Holy Ghost told my mind
that there was a widow's son whom I could save. All you have been
conjecturing is only too true. Charlie has done the things you say. He
has taken money from his employers, but I have given him the sum that he
may return it to them. He is here, in this house now, and I know that
the leaven of repentance is working within him, and that he feels that
he is rescued from both material and spiritual ruin. We are going to
pray together. Come with me, and add your prayers to ours."
But when they crossed the hall and entered the room opposite, they found
that the young man was already on his knees.
Day by day some such episode as this occurred. Joseph's power seemed
more and more sure and wonderful. When he had sent away the widow and
her son, tearful and happy, with something in the face of the young man
that had never been there before, the Teacher went up the wide Georgian
stairs to a large room on the first floor.
No one was there but old David Owen. All the other friends and
companions of Joseph were out upon various efforts of compassion and
salvation; only the old man remained, for he had a cold, and could not
face the night air. A grey, knitted comforter was round his neck, and he
was slowly eating his supper--a bowl of bread-and-milk. Before him, on
the table, was a large Bible, and he was reading eagerly as he ate,
reading with the avidity and concentrated interest that more ordinary
people give to an engrossing romance.
He looked up as Joseph entered, and smiled at him.
"It's wonderful, Master!" he said. "It grows more and more wonderful
every time I opens it. I've spent my life reading in the Holy Book, and
I'm an old man now. But ten lives would be all too short!"
He pointed to the volume with gnarled, wrinkled fingers that trembled
with emotion.
"Ah! 'Twas a bitter nailing!" he went on. "A bitter, bitter torture He
bore for us. And remember, Joseph, He bore the sins of the whole world,
too. I'm no scholar, and I can't see things like you can. All the time
I'm reading an' yet I know I can only see a little bit of it. But even
that's rending and tearing, Master. It's dreadful what He suffered for
us! I can't understand why every one doesn't love Him. It's easy to
understand folk doing wrong things. The flesh is very strong--man is
full of wickedness. Satan, he goes about tempting the heart, with his
dreadful cunning. But, whatever a man does, and is sorry for afterwards,
I can't understand his not loving Jesus. And so few folk love Jesus in
this wicked town!"
"The clouds are very dark, David," Joseph answered. "But they will
break. The dawn of the Lord is at hand, and deliverance is sure. But I,
too, at this moment, am full of gloom and sorrow. You know my bad hours,
old friend. One of them is with me now. I fear some calamity, though I
pray against it. But it is coming. Something tells me it is coming. It
is as if I heard slow footsteps drawing nearer and nearer----"
David looked anxiously at his chief.
"I doubt but you've been doing something that's taken power from you,
Master," he said. "It has ever been thus with you. Have you not told us
of the night when we went to the theatre-house, the home of the ungodly,
when you walked the streets of Babylon, and were full of doubt, though
you had struck a blow for God that rang through England? And what
happened then? Did you not meet the young man who is great in the eyes
of the world--the young man who has given a fortune for our work--the
young man who has come to Jesus at last?"
Joseph bowed his head.
"Yes, David," he replied; "it was even so, blessed be God. But to-night
I feel differently. Then I was trembling upon the verge of doubt. My old
disbelief had appeared again within me. It was as if a serpent slept in
my brain and suddenly raised its head in coiled hate and enmity to the
Light. But now it is not the same. I love and believe. The tortures of
a martyrdom, of which I am not worthy, could not alter that. But I have
a terrible apprehension--a fear of what to-morrow may bring forth. I
cannot explain it; I do not understand it. But nevertheless it is there,
and very real."
There was a silence in the big room.
The gas-jets shone upon the walls covered in faded crimson paper, the
long table of deal where the brethren ate their simple meals, the single
picture which hung over the fireplace--a reproduction of Christ knocking
at the door of the human heart, by Holman Hunt.
There was no sound but that of a falling coal in the glowing fire.
Then old David spoke.
"Master," he said, "I think you've no call to be afraid or to fear the
future. It's in God's hands, and there it is. But as far as a poor man
can look into the matter, I think 'tis this way with you. We all know
how blessed you have been. We all know--every one in Britain knows--that
you are a special channel for the operations of the Holy Ghost in our
land. Out of all men you have been mysteriously chosen to hear the
heavenly voices and carry out their warnings. But all men are soul and
body, too. You can't divide one from t'other while men live. Therefore
it's bound to be that if your soul has been working hard on God's
business, it has drained your body of its strength, and so you have
these fearful thoughts. Eat and drink, and get back courage!"
Joseph smiled.
"You are right, David, I believe. I will have a bowl of milk-and-bread
also. I must be strong for to-morrow. With God's blessing, it will be a
great day for London. There has never been such a chance of doing good
before. Yes, I must save myself for that!"
"Is it all arranged, Master?" the old man asked. "Are all the great
people really coming?"
"Yes, David. And, please God, on the day after to-morrow the kingdom
shall be thrilled. Sir Thomas Ducaine is coming to inspect his own
property in the East End for the first time. Sir Augustus Kirwan is
coming--a powerful and influential man. And the Duke of Dover is coming
also. Then the Bishop of East London, though he knows very well--saint
that he is--will be with us also. Our dear brother Hampson will be of
the party, and also that very valiant soldier of Christ, that new
recruit, Eric Black. Black and Hampson--God bless them!--will give the
result of our pilgrimage to the world. It should wake all London to a
storm of anger and indignation.
"These things have been discovered and published before, but only in
isolated instances and at fugitive times, and the voice has always been
stifled and obscured. The vested interests have been too strong. But now
there is a real spiritual fervor in London. The Holy Spirit has
descended on the city. There is a quickening on all sides, the air is
full of the Redeemer's name. Therefore, I trust and pray that the
results of our visit to-morrow will be far-reaching. Several other
friends and well-wishers will accompany us in addition to the names of
those I have mentioned."
"It is a fine thing to get these great people to go," said the old man
simply. "Then how can you be downcast, Joseph? Surely here is yet
another evidence of the favor and protection of God?"
"I do not know why this assails me," the Teacher answered; "but it does,
and it is there. I cannot help it."
David Owen shut the Bible on the table in front of him, and rose to his
feet.
"Dear Master," he said, "the Son of God was also troubled, in the Desert
and in the Garden. But it is well--all is well. All is part of the
beneficent ordering of the Father. There is but one medicine for your
black thoughts, dear Master, and after you've taken it you'll let come
what may."
"And that is, old friend?"
"The Lord's Prayer," answered the old gentleman, taking off his horn
spectacles and placing them upon the table.
And, kneeling down, they said it together.
* * * * *
It was the middle of the morning and a dull, leaden day. There was no
fog down in the breathing areas of town, but high above a leaden pall
hung over the City of Dreadful Night, shutting out the clear light of
the sun, livid, sinister and hopeless.
In the big room of the house in Bloomsbury a dozen people were gathered
together. Sir Augustus Kirwan was talking to The Duke, a thick-set,
clean-shaven man with a strong watchful face. Sir Thomas Ducaine and
Eric Black the journalist stood together.
Several other notabilities stood in the big, bare room, and there were
also three unobtrusive men with pointed beards, who stood together a
little apart from the others. Detective-inspectors Alpha, Beta and
Gamma, the real satraps and rulers of the lawless districts of
Whitechapel and its environs.
All the men wore hard felt hats and dark overcoats, peer and policeman
alike. It does not do to venture where these were going in anything but
a very simple and unobtrusive dress.
Joseph and Hampson were talking earnestly together in one corner of the
room. They were mapping out the terrible itinerary that should be taken,
readjusting and remembering their own sad knowledge of the East, when
they had walked starving down the Commercial Road.
"And now, my friends," Joseph said at length, in his deep, organ voice,
"I think that all is prepared, and that we may start. Sir Thomas has
some carriages waiting for us below."
Sir Augustus Kirwan answered the evangelist.
"My dear fellow," he said--"my dear Joseph, we shall all be delighted to
come as soon as may be. But has it occurred to you that while we have
all, doubtless, breakfasted, none of us have as yet lunched? It is lunch
time now, you know; and though a piece of bread and cheese would do
excellently for me, and no doubt for the rest of us, you can hardly
expect the present company to penetrate into Whitechapel fasting!"
The Teacher looked at Sir Augustus with a startled face. Then he flushed
slightly. It had never occurred to him that his guests must necessarily
need refreshment. On his own part he had put away material needs as
things of no moment for himself. He was sustained, even in body, by
spiritual food. But he realized now how remiss he had been, and that all
men were not as he was.
"Sir Augustus," he said, in a voice full of pain and contrition, "I have
been absolutely stupid. It is quite abominable of me not to have thought
of it, but there is, I am dreadfully afraid, no lunch at all!"
Sir Thomas Ducaine joined in the conversation.
"My dear Joseph," he said, "don't make yourself unhappy. There is
plenty. Some of my people have brought lunch. Mary and I foresaw this
little _contretemps_, and we made arrangements accordingly. In your
burning eagerness to get us all down to see what you have to show us you
forgot that we are but mortal, and that the body must be nourished if
the eye is to see and the brain observe."
Joseph's face had cleared, but it wore a somewhat rueful expression.
"I can't thank you enough," he said, "for thinking of this. It is a
fault in me that I did not do so myself. One is too apt to forget that
we are all body and spirit also. Forgive me!"
They all fell to at the sandwiches and so forth which two of Sir Thomas
Ducaine's servants brought into the room.
Only Joseph took nothing at all. He stood by himself, tall, beautiful,
lost in a reverie that no one disturbed.
He was musing and dreaming still as the carriages took the party to the
East End of London.
But when Bishopsgate was passed at last, he threw his thoughts from him
with a great effort, and became once more the keen and eager leader of
those people whom he had brought to see the ultimate horror of the
Modern Babylon.
They sent the carriages away at a certain turning in the Whitechapel
Road. Then they plunged into the dark.
And how dark that darkness is! Fiction can hardly tell--fiction must not
tell, fearing to infringe upon the bitterness and the agony of the
truth. For we who write of things as they are must always consider our
audience. Ask General Booth, G. R. Sims, or Mr. Holmes, the police-court
missionary, what is the measure of this darkness. Ask the modern martyrs
of our day, of all sects and creeds, who labor in these hell-ridden
places.
Ask, and you shall hear nothing but the tolling of a great bell, the
deep and awful sound of immedicable misery, the iron pæan of the
blackness of sin, the deep and ringing wail of the mighty bell--the iron
bell--which tolls of hopelessness, and voices the cry of the
downtrodden, the oppressed, the lost!
The slaves of the Modern Babylon! But with one difference. In the walled
city of wickedness between the two great rivers, hope had not come. They
could not know that our Lord was to be born of a pure Virgin to save
them----
Thoughts akin to these were in the minds of all of them as they went in
and out of the foul slums of the East.
Sir Thomas Ducaine was covered with shame as he saw the horrors all
around--horrors existing upon his own property, long unregarded and
unknown. But the young man was not the only one among them who
registered a mental vow to do all that he could for the wretched beings
they had come amongst.
Sir Augustus Kirwan, though he had taken the chair at many philanthropic
meetings, and though his name often headed important subscription lists,
had never really been brought in contact, in actual personal contact,
with the great open wound of London.
The party had come to the mouth of a particularly evil-looking alley.
There is character in brick and stone, and this place--"Wilson's Rents"
by name--had a sinister cut-throat aspect in every line of it.
"What is in there?" Sir Augustus asked one of the police inspectors.
"It's a particularly bad street, Sir Augustus," the man answered. "A
sort of great human rabbit-warren or rat's run, as you may say. The
houses nearly all communicate through cellars and subterranean
passages."
"Shall we go down here?" Sir Augustus asked Joseph.
"I should not advise it, sir," said the policeman. "The people are so
dirty and degraded and disgusting in their habits that they hardly
resemble human beings at all."
"Never mind that," Sir Augustus answered. "Now we have come I wish to
see everything, however personally distasteful it may be. I am ashamed
gentlemen, to think that I have shirked so obvious a duty as this for so
long! I am sorry and ashamed of myself!"
With eyes that were not quite dry the great financier took Joseph by the
arm and marched down the alley, followed by the others.
They walked cautiously down the place, which seemed strangely deserted.
Sir Augustus was talking eagerly to Joseph, opening his heart in a way
to which he had long been a stranger, when there was a sudden loud
report in the air above them.
Looking upwards with startled eyes, they saw that a little coil of blue
smoke was floating out of an open window high above them.
A second afterwards Sir Augustus Kirwan sighed twice and fell forward
upon his face, dead, shot through the heart.