The Angel

Two days ago Lluellyn Lys was buried. But his was no ordinary burial; and, moreover, it is quite within the bounds of possibility that it may yet become the subject of an official inquiry.

When the news of the Teacher's decease spread over the surrounding country, from valley and mountain an enormous concourse of people assembled. The body – it is described as being like a statue of white marble – was taken from the cottage without a coffin and buried on the very highest point of the mountain Llan-y-Van – a spot where the dead preacher had been wont to pray.

It is understood that this was done by the dead man's wish and stipulation, though, probably quite contrary to law. No one, however, interfered – and interference would, of course, have been useless against several thousand people, who appeared to be in an ecstasy of grief, and who were obviously determined to carry out the wishes of their dead friend to the letter.

If at this point readers of the Daily Wire express incredulity at what follows we can only say that we guarantee the substantial accuracy of our report in the completest way.

After the actual interment of the corpse, and amid the wailing cries of the vast multitude of mourners, a man mounted the cairn of boulders which forms the highest part of the mountain – the exact summit, so to speak.

Immediately the sounds of mourning were hushed, as if at the beat of a conductor's bâton.

Our correspondents describe the scene as wonderfully impressive and without parallel in their very varied experience.

It was a cloudy morning, and somewhat chill in those high places. Yet a beam of sunlight, white and sudden, fell upon the tall figure upon the cairn. Every one could see the man quite distinctly; every one knew that this was the stranger known as Joseph, who had been the companion of Lluellyn Lys during the last weeks of his life.

The sudden silence was perhaps due to the fact of this universal knowledge, but equally, perhaps, to another and extraordinary fact.

Joseph in appearance resembles the traditional pictures of the Christ in an astounding manner. It seems almost irreverent to write these words. But they are written with no such intention. This man, whoever he may be – charlatan and impostor, or sincere saint and reformer of our own day – is the living, walking image of that idea which all the world has of Him who died upon the Cross!

The words came; not very many, neither mystical nor obscure, but plain statements of intention. Yet the voice hushed that vast multitude of people as if with a magician's wand. Deep and clear, full of a music that our correspondents say no orator of our day can compass, a voice that goes straight to the heart – so, we are informed, was the voice of this man Joseph.

The substance of his speech was startling – an actual shorthand report of the words will be found upon another page:

This man, call him what you will, believes that he has a Divine mission to come to London, that he may warn it of its sins and bring its inhabitants to the foot of the Cross.

With a band of disciples – we must use the word – he is even now speeding towards the metropolis. A dozen or more people are with him, and it is also said that the sister of the late Teacher, a very beautiful girl, who was formerly a hospital nurse, has joined the little band of fanatics. One thing is quite certain. London is on the eve of a new and most extraordinary sensation.

Thus the article concluded.

Lady Kirwan gave a gasp of dismay.

"Augustus!" she cried, "what a terrible scandal! What does it all mean? I was right! I knew something had happened to Mary. Why hasn't Mr. Owen looked after her properly? The poor girl has lost her senses, of course. She is under the influence of some unscrupulous impostor. Oh, this is awful, awful! To think that a member of the House of Lys should come to this! What shall we do? What can we do? Something must be done at once!"

She had but hardly finished speaking, and both husband and wife were looking into each other's eyes with faces of perplexity and alarm, when the door opened and the butler entered.

"Mr. Owen has returned, Sir Augustus," he said, "and asks to see you immediately."

In a moment or two a tall, elderly gentleman, with grey side-whiskers and a keen, though benevolent face, was ushered into the room. He was in morning dress, carried a plaid travelling-coat upon his arm, and a hard felt hat in his hand.

He seemed anxious and distressed.

"I can't get up, Owen," Sir Augustus said at once. "I'm still a victim to this confounded gout. What's all this preposterous stuff I see in the Daily Wire? And where is my niece?"

The lawyer choked and swallowed. His face grew red and embarrassed. For a moment or two he did not speak.

Mr. Owen was a considerable man. He was one of the best known family solicitors in London. His reputation was unspotted; he was the confidant of many great folk, and he may or may not have been worth three hundred thousand pounds. But he was, at this moment, obviously embarrassed, and perhaps angry also.

"Kirwan," he said, at length, "we are old friends, and we have been in business relations for many years. You know, I think, that I am no fool. You have entrusted vast interests to my care. I have never failed you that I know of – until to-day."

"What has happened, dear Mr. Owen?" Lady Kirwan asked, terrified by the solemnity of the lawyer's manner. "Where is Mary?"

"I've only just arrived," Mr. Owen answered. "I came straight here from the station, Lady Kirwan. Your niece, Miss Mary Lys, has gone with that fellow they call Joseph, and his company of crack-brained fools. Short of force, I did everything a man could do to restrain her; but she beat me. It was impossible to move her from her decision. For my part, I believe the girl's mad!"

He paused, and both Sir Augustus and his wife realized that this eminent man was considerably affected.

In the radiance of the electric light they could see the beads of perspiration starting out upon his forehead like little pearls. The baronet's face had gone quite pale.

With difficulty he rose from his seat, and an oath escaped him as he did so.

"The little fool," he cried – "the fool! It's not your fault, Owen. Of course, I know that. But where is she now? Where is this precious company of tomfools and madmen?"

"I have every reason to believe," Mr. Owen answered with quiet emphasis, "that the whole crew – and Miss Lys with them – are in London at the present moment!"

CHAPTER VIII

"THE GOLDEN MAIDEN"

The theatrical criticism of the Daily Wire was always printed on page 4; the more important news on page 6, over the leaf.

It was for this reason that Hampson, the editor of the Christian Friend, never saw the news from Wales, and realized nothing of the stupendous happenings there until the extraordinary events of the same night in London.

He had arrived at his office for a long day's work. Among his letters was one from a young man who, it appeared, had but lately arrived in the metropolis to fill a situation as clerk in a big mercantile house.

Hampson had inaugurated a special feature in the paper. It was a sort of "advice bureau," and already he knew that he had been able to help hundreds of people in this way.

The letter from the clerk, obviously a Christian man who desired to live a godly life, but was puzzled by the newness and strangeness of the modern Babylon, in especial asked one question. He had been invited by one of his fellows to attend a theatrical performance at one of the "musical comedy" houses. Although he knew nothing of theatres, save that there was a strong prejudice against them among his own people in the country, he had declined the invitation. The result had been that he had endured a good deal of ridicule, and when asked to state his reasons for refusal, had been unable to do so. Now he asked the editor's opinion upon the whole matter.

The question was one that Hampson had never thoroughly gone into. He had certainly a low opinion of the calling of an actor or actress. He believed the body to be the temple of the Holy Ghost, and therefore thought it wrong to nightly paint that body and expose its grace and beauty to the gaze of every one. It was years, however, since he himself had entered the doors of a theatre. While he was thinking the matter out, and wondering what answer he should make to the inquirer, his eye happened to fall upon the Daily Wire, which lay open on the desk beside him.

He took up the paper and read the criticism of the new play at the Frivolity – read it with very different feelings to those which animated Sir Augustus Kirwan on the evening of the same day.

If this was what the theatre was coming to, then let all decent men and women keep out of such places!

Yet he was a cautious man, and one who was averse to hasty judgments. He had, moreover, a strict love of truth, and an intense dislike for hearsay evidence. An idea struck him. He would himself go and see this play at the Frivolity! If it were really licentious and improper, he knew that it could not harm him personally. It would disgust him, but that was all. On the other hand, the critic might have exaggerated, or he might even have had some personal spite against the management of the theatre. Dramatic critics sometimes wrote plays themselves, and these plays were rejected! Such things had been. And it would be a good thing that his readers should have the impression of a cool and unbiassed mind upon a subject which was not without importance in the life of the modern Christian in London.

Accordingly he wrote a brief note to the business manager of the theatre, explaining exactly why he wished to see the play, and asking if a seat was to be had. This he sent round by a boy, with instructions that if there was a vacant seat he should purchase it for him.

In an hour the lad returned. He brought a courteous note from the manager, enclosing the coupon for a seat, marked "complimentary," and returning Hampson's ten-and-sixpence.

During the rest of the day the editor was very hard at work, and had no time to read any more news. The story of the strange doings upon the mountains in Wales, therefore, escaped him entirely.

He had heard nothing from Joseph, even yet, nor had he seen Mary Lys since they had climbed to the roof of St. Paul's Cathedral together. At that time, when both of them were filled with doubt and anxiety about Lluellyn and Joseph, they had seen the august symbol of the world's salvation painted on the sky. Through the terrible fog that hung over the Babylon of our times the crimson Cross had shone.

The curious circumstance had brought comfort and relief to both of them. It might be that they were sentimental, superstitious.

Yet God moves in a mysterious way, and who were they to say that the Father had not sent them a message from on high?

Miracle is not dead yet, whatever the materialists may say. Ask a captain of the Salvation Army if Mary Magdalene does not still come to the foot of the Cross! Ask the head of the Church Army if a thief is never converted at almost the last moment in his evil career! Ask an Anglican priest, a Congregationalist minister – a Roman Catholic priest, – for their experiences of death-beds!