The Wizard | Page 6

ears, if it be
true. Tell them that having proved you liars, they dealt with you as all
honest men seek that liars should be dealt with. Tell them that they
desire to hear more of this matter, and if one can be sent to them who
has no false tongue; who in all things fulfills the promises of his lips,
that they will hearken to him and treat him well, but that for such as
you they keep a spear.'"
"And who went after you got back?" asked Owen, who was listening
with the deepest interest.
"Who went? Do you suppose that there are many mad clergymen in
Africa, Mr. Owen? Nobody went."
"And yet," said Owen, speaking more to himself than to his guest, "the
man Hokosa was right, and the Christian who of a truth believes the
promises of our religion should trust to them and go."
"Then perhaps you would like to undertake the mission, Mr. Owen,"
said the Deputation briskly; for the reflection stung him, unintentional
as it was.
Owen started.
"That is a new idea," he said. "And now perhaps you wish to go to bed;
it is past eleven o'clock."
CHAPTER II
THOMAS OWEN
Thomas Owen went to his room, but not to bed. Taking a Bible from
the table, he consulted reference after reference.
"The promise is clear," he said aloud presently, as he shut the book;
"clear and often repeated. There is no escape from it, and no possibility
of a double meaning. If it is not true, then it would seem that nothing is

true, and that every Christian in the world is tricked and deluded. But if
it /is/ true, why do we never hear of miracles? The answer is easy:
Because we have not faith enough to work them. The Apostles worked
miracles; for they had seen, therefore their faith was perfect. Since their
day nobody's faith has been quite perfect; at least I think not. The
physical part of our nature prevents it. Or perhaps the miracles still
happen, but they are spiritual miracles."
Then he sat down by the open window, and gazing at the dreamy
beauty of the summer night, he thought, for his soul was troubled. Once
before it had been troubled thus; that was nine years ago, for now he
was but little over thirty. Then a call had come to him, a voice had
seemed to speak to his ears bidding him to lay down great possessions
to follow whither Heaven should lead him. Thomas Owen had obeyed
the voice; though, owing to circumstances which need not be detailed,
to do so he was obliged to renounce his succession to a very large
estate, and to content himself with a younger son's portion of thirty
thousand pounds and the reversion to the living which he had now held
for some five years.
Then and there, with singular unanimity and despatch, his relations
came to the conclusion that he was mad. To this hour, indeed, those
who stand in his place and enjoy the wealth and position that were his
by right, speak of him as "poor Thomas," and mark their disapprobation
of his peculiar conduct by refusing with an unvarying steadiness to
subscribe even a single shilling to a missionary society. How "poor
Thomas" speaks of them in the place where he is we may wonder, but
as yet we cannot know--probably with the gentle love and charity that
marked his every action upon earth. But this is by the way.
He had entered the Church, but what had he done in its shadow? This
was the question which Owen asked himself as he sat that night by the
open window, arraigning his past before the judgment-seat of
conscience. For three years he had worked hard somewhere in the
slums; then this living had fallen to him. He had taken it, and from that
day forward his record was very much of a blank. The parish was small
and well ordered; there was little to do in it, and the Salvation Army

had seized upon and reclaimed two of the three confirmed drunkards it
could boast.
His guest's saying echoed in his brain like the catch of a tune--"that
/you/ might lead that life and attain that death." Supposing that he were
bidden so to do now, this very night, would he indeed "think
differently"? He had become a priest to serve his Maker. How would it
be were that Maker to command that he should serve Him in this
extreme and heroic fashion? Would he flinch from the steel, or would
he meet it as the martyrs met it of old?
Physically he was little suited to such an enterprise, for in appearance
he was slight and pale, and in constitution delicate. Also,