Part 18 (1/2)
It means nothing to me. It is a beautiful fable, that is all. And I cannot pretend, Mr. Hampson--I would not if I could. To gain the woman I love for my wife I would do anything except live a lie. No union founded on a fundamental deceit can be a happy one. If I pretended to believe I should never know a moment's peace. Mary would soon find it out by that marvellous sixth sense of hers, and both our lives would be ruined beyond recall.”
”I fear,” Hampson answered sadly, ”that there are many people who profess and call themselves Christians who would have no such scruples, Sir Thomas. They do you honor.”
”Oh, no,” the baronet answered. ”It's temperament with me, that's all.
Well, again and again I have returned to the attack, but it has been useless. Nothing will move her. However much she loved me, so she stated, she would never marry me unless I gave up everything and followed Christ. Those were her very words. And that I cannot do, for Christ is nothing to me, and does not touch my heart at all. I can't believe in Him. It is an impossibility. And I am rich, very rich. I love my life; I am fond of beautiful things; I shrink from pain and sorrow and poverty. And yet I don't think I am a bad man, as men go. I have no particular vices. When you saw me at that filthy play to-night it was quite an accident. I hate that sort of thing; the life that the Frivolity type of man leads is absolutely disgusting to me. I felt unhappy and bored; it happened that I had no engagement to-night, and I turned into the first place I came to, without a thought. But Mary wants me to give up everything and work among the poor--as a very poor man myself. How can I give it up--my houses, estates, my yacht, and pictures, all the things that make life pleasant? I can't do it! And now, after to-night, Mary will be further away from me than ever.”
He spoke with grief and despair in his fresh, young voice. Obviously he was deeply stirred and moved. But there was doubt in his voice also. He seemed to be talking in order to convince himself. There was a struggle going on within his mind.
”What a wonderful man your friend Joseph must be,” he said suddenly.
”There cannot be any one else like him in the world. There seems something almost supernatural about him--only, of course, the supernatural does not exist.”
Then Hampson spoke.
”I know that you will believe what I am going to tell you,” he said quietly. ”First, I must say a few words about myself. All my thinking life--since I was a very young man--I have been a convinced Christian.
Even in the darkest hours my faith has not wavered, whatever my sins and errors may have been. Joseph, on the contrary, has been as convinced an atheist as you say that you yourself are. A hundred times in my hearing he has derided Jesus Christ and mocked at G.o.d. He threw up a great career at Cambridge because he felt it his duty to express his convictions in public. Only a few weeks ago he was exactly of the same way of thinking. To-night you heard him sway and move hundreds of sinful men and women directly inspired by G.o.d. Like a prophet of old--even as Jesus Himself--he preached the truth in the places of the unG.o.dly. You, yourself, were profoundly stirred. Now, I ask you, what does this mean?”
Sir Thomas had been gazing at his guest with deep interest and wonder.
”You startle me, sir,” he said. ”You overwhelm me with what you tell me.
I must believe you. I do indeed! But what had changed him? Tell me that!”
”The power of the Holy Ghost,” said the journalist.
There was a silence.
Sir Thomas leant back in his chair with an abstracted gaze. He had eaten nothing, though his guest, wiser than he, had made a sufficient and recuperative meal.
The little j.a.panese spaniel rose from his sleep before the glowing fire, and put his nose into his master's hand. Sir Thomas stroked the tiny creature absently.
”The Holy Ghost?” he said, fixing his eyes upon Hampson. ”What is that?
Who can say?”
”The Holy Ghost, proceeding from the Father and the Son, is of one substance, majesty, and glory with the Father and the Son, very and eternal G.o.d.”
”I would,” the young man said, with great sadness--”would that the Holy Ghost would come to me also.”
He had hardly finished the sentence--probably the first prayer he had ever made since he lisped ”Our Father” at his mother's knee--when the door opened, and the butler entered the room.
”A note, Sir Thomas,” the man said. ”A note from Miss Lys. The bearer awaits an answer.”
The young man took the note with trembling fingers and tore it open.
This was what he read:--
”I saw you in the theatre to-night, and I knew that you were disturbed about me. Have no fear. I am writing this from my aunt's house, where I went immediately when we left the theatre. But I want you to come and see me here to-morrow, quite early. Would ten o'clock be too soon? I have something of the highest importance to say to you. Send back an answer to say that you can come. I have been here for an hour, and I have been thinking of you the whole time. I have a premonition about you--a happy one!
”MARY.”