The Wizard | Page 4

a beautiful church, ancient and spacious;
moreover, it had recently been restored at great cost. Seven or eight
hundred people could have found sittings in it, and doubtless they had
done so when Busscombe was a large manufacturing town, before the
failure of the coal supply and other causes drove away its trade. Now it
was much what it had been in the time of the Normans, a little
agricultural village with a population of 300 souls. Out of this
population, including the choir boys, exactly thirty-nine had elected to
attend church on this particular Sunday; and of these, three were fast
asleep and four were dozing.
The Rev. Thomas Owen counted them from his seat in the chancel, for
another clergyman was preaching; and, as he counted, bitterness and
disappointment took hold of him. The preacher was a "Deputation,"

sent by one of the large missionary societies to arouse the indifferent to
a sense of duty towards their unconverted black brethren in Africa, and
incidentally to collect cash to be spent in the conversion of the said
brethren. The Rev. Thomas Owen himself suggested the visit of the
Deputation, and had laboured hard to secure him a good audience. But
the beauty of the weather, or terror of the inevitable subscription,
prevailed against him. Hence his disappointment.
"Well," he thought, with a sigh, "I have done my best, and I must make
it up out of my own pocket."
Then he settled himself to listen to the sermon.
The preacher, a battered-looking individual of between fifty and sixty
years of age, was gaunt with recent sickness, patient and unimaginative
in aspect. He preached extemporarily, with the aid of notes; and it
cannot be said that his discourse was remarkable for interest, at any rate
in its beginning. Doubtless the sparse congregation, so prone to
slumber, discouraged him; for offering exhortations to empty benches
is but weary work. Indeed he was meditating the advisability of
bringing his argument to an abrupt conclusion when, chancing to
glance round, he became aware that he had at least one sympathetic
listener, his host, the Rev. Thomas Owen.
From that moment the sermon improved by degrees, till at length it
reached a really high level of excellence. Ceasing from rhetoric, the
speaker began to tell of his own experience and sufferings in the Cause
amongst savage tribes; for he himself was a missionary of many years
standing. He told how once he and a companion had been sent to a
nation, who named themselves the Sons of Fire because their god was
the lightning, if indeed they could be said to boast any gods other than
the Spear and the King. In simple language he narrated his terrible
adventures among these savages, the murder of his companion by
command of the Council of Wizards, and his own flight for his life; a
tale so interesting and vivid that even the bucolic sleepers awakened
and listened open-mouthed.
"But this is by the way," he went on; "for my Society does not ask you

to subscribe towards the conversion of the Children of Fire. Until that
people is conquered--which very likely will not be for generations,
seeing that they live in Central Africa, occupying a territory that white
men do not desire--no missionary will dare again to visit them."
At this moment something caused him to look a second time at Thomas
Owen. He was leaning forward in his place listening eagerly, and a
strange light filled the large, dark eyes that shone in the pallor of his
delicate, nervous face.
"There is a man who would dare, if he were put to it," thought the
Deputation to himself. Then he ended his sermon.
That evening the two men sat at dinner in the rectory. It was a very fine
rectory, beautifully furnished; for Owen was a man of taste which he
had the means to gratify. Also, although they were alone, the dinner
was good--so good that the poor broken-down missionary, sipping his
unaccustomed port, a vintage wine, sighed aloud in admiration and
involuntary envy.
"What is the matter?" asked Owen.
"Nothing, Mr. Owen;" then, of a sudden thawing into candour, he
added: "that is, everything. Heaven forgive me; but I, who enjoy your
hospitality, am envious of you. Don't think too hardly of me; I have a
large family to support, and if only you knew what a struggle my life is,
and has been for the last twenty years, you would not, I am sure. But
you have never experienced it, and could not understand. 'The labourer
is worthy of his hire.' Well, my hire is under two hundred a year, and
eight of us must live--or starve--on it. And I have worked, ay, until my
health is broken. A labourer indeed! I am a