The Cursed Riding Hood

Has the age of miracle quite gone by, or is it still possible to theVoice of Faith calling aloud upon the earth to wring from the dumbheavens an audible answer to its prayer? Does the promise uttered bythe Master of mankind upon the eve of the end--"Whoso that believethin Me, the works that I do he shall do also . . . and whatsoever yeshall ask in My name, that will I do"--still hold good to such as doask and do believe?

　　Let those who care to study the history of the Rev. Thomas Owen, andof that strange man who carried on and completed his work, answer thisquestion according to their judgment.

　　*****The time was a Sunday afternoon in summer, and the place a church inthe Midland counties. It was a beautiful church, ancient and spacious;moreover, it had recently been restored at great cost. Seven or eighthundred people could have found sittings in it, and doubtless they haddone so when Busscombe was a large manufacturing town, before thefailure of the coal supply and other causes drove away its trade. Nowit was much what it had been in the time of the Normans, a littleagricultural village with a population of 300 souls. Out of thispopulation, including the choir boys, exactly thirty-nine had electedto attend church on this particular Sunday; and of these, three werefast asleep and four were dozing.

　　The Rev. Thomas Owen counted them from his seat in the chancel, foranother clergyman was preaching; and, as he counted, bitterness anddisappointment took hold of him. The preacher was a "Deputation," sentby one of the large missionary societies to arouse the indifferent toa sense of duty towards their unconverted black brethren in Africa,and incidentally to collect cash to be spent in the conversion of thesaid brethren. The Rev. Thomas Owen himself suggested the visit of theDeputation, and had laboured hard to secure him a good audience. Butthe 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 makeit 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 sixtyyears of age, was gaunt with recent sickness, patient andunimaginative in aspect. He preached extemporarily, with the aid ofnotes; and it cannot be said that his discourse was remarkable forinterest, at any rate in its beginning. Doubtless the sparsecongregation, so prone to slumber, discouraged him; for offeringexhortations to empty benches is but weary work. Indeed he wasmeditating the advisability of bringing his argument to an abruptconclusion when, chancing to glance round, he became aware that he hadat least one sympathetic listener, his host, the Rev. Thomas Owen.

　　From that moment the sermon improved by degrees, till at length itreached a really high level of excellence. Ceasing from rhetoric, thespeaker began to tell of his own experience and sufferings in theCause amongst savage tribes; for he himself was a missionary of manyyears standing. He told how once he and a companion had been sent to anation, who named themselves the Sons of Fire because their god wasthe lightning, if indeed they could be said to boast any gods otherthan the Spear and the King. In simple language he narrated histerrible adventures among these savages, the murder of his companionby command of the Council of Wizards, and his own flight for his life;a tale so interesting and vivid that even the bucolic sleepersawakened and listened open-mouthed.

　　"But this is by the way," he went on; "for my Society does not ask youto subscribe towards the conversion of the Children of Fire. Untilthat people is conquered--which very likely will not be forgenerations, seeing that they live in Central Africa, occupying aterritory that white men do not desire--no missionary will dare againto visit them."At this moment something caused him to look a second time at ThomasOwen. He was leaning forward in his place listening eagerly, and astrange light filled the large, dark eyes that shone in the pallor ofhis delicate, nervous face.

　　"There is a man who would dare, if he were put to it," thought theDeputation to himself. Then he ended his sermon.

　　That evening the two men sat at dinner in the rectory. It was a veryfine rectory, beautifully furnished; for Owen was a man of taste whichhe had the means to gratify. Also, although they were alone, thedinner was good--so good that the poor broken-down missionary, sippinghis unaccustomed port, a vintage wine, sighed aloud in admiration andinvoluntary 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 yourhospitality, am envious of you. Don't think too hardly of me; I have alarge family to support, and if only you knew what a struggle my lifeis, and has been for the last twenty years, you would not, I am sure.

　　But you have never experienced it, and could not understand. 'Thelabourer is worthy of his hire.' Well, my hire is under two hundred ayear, 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 very hodman,a spiritual Sisyphus. And now I must go back to carry my load and rollmy stone again and again among those hopeless savages till I die of it--till I die of it!""At least it is a noble life and death!" exclaimed Owen, a sudden fireof enthusiasm burning in his dark eyes.