Chapter 21: The Asking

In the morning the thoughts of England were turned towards that house in Islington: and no small number of its people were on their way to it. The newspapers besieged it with their representatives--on a useless quest, though their columns did not lack news on that account. Throughout the night the crowd increased in the street. The authorities began to be concerned. They acted as if the occasion of public interest was a fire. Placing a strong cordon of police at either end of the road, they made of it a private thoroughfare; only persons with what were empirically regarded as credentials were permitted to pass. Only after considerable hesitation was sickness allowed to be a passport. When it was officially decided to admit the physically suffering an extraordinary scene began to be enacted. It almost seemed as if all the hospitals and sick-rooms of London had been emptied of their occupants. They came in an unceasing stream. The police displayed their wonted skill in the management of the amazing crowd. Those who had been brought on beds were placed in the front ranks; those on chairs next; those who could stand, though only with the aid of crutches, at the back. The people had to be forced farther and farther away to make room for the sick that came; and yet before it was full day admission had to be refused to any more--every foot of available ground was occupied.

There were doctors present, some of whom were dissatisfied with the turn matters were taking. Perceiving, perhaps, that if it continued their occupation would be gone, they represented to the police that if certain of the sufferers did not receive immediate attention they might die. So that at an early hour their chief, Colonel Hardinge, who had just arrived, knocked at Mr. Kinloch’s door. Ada opened.

‘I understand that he whom these unfortunate people have come to see is at present in this house.’

‘The Lord is in this house.’

‘Quite so. We won’t quarrel about description. The fact is, I’m told that if something isn’t done for these poor creatures at once, they’ll die. So, with your permission, I’ll see the--er--person.’

‘It is not with my permission, but with His. He is the Lord. When He wishes to see you, well. He does not wish to see you now.’

She shut the door in the Colonel’s face.

‘That’s an abrupt young lady!’

This he said to the doctors and other persons who were standing at the gate. Among them was Sir William Braidwood, who replied:

‘I don’t know that she isn’t right.’

‘It’s all very well for you to talk like that, but what am I to do? You tell me with one breath that if something isn’t done people will die, and with another that because I try to get something done I merit a snubbing.’

‘Exactly. This isn’t a public institution; the girl has a right to resent your treating it as if it were. These people oughtn’t to be here at all. Those who are responsible for some of them ought to be made to stand their trial for murder. This person, whoever he is, has promised nothing. They have not the slightest claim upon him. They are here as a pure speculation. Your men are to blame for allowing them to assemble in such a fashion, not the girl who endeavours to protect her guest from intrusion.’

Someone called out from the crowd:

‘Ain’t he coming, sir? I’m fair finished, I am--been here six hours. I’m clean done up.’

‘What right have you to be there at all? You ought to be at home in bed.’

‘I’ve come to be healed.’

‘Come to be healed! I suppose if you want a hatful of money, you think you’ve only got to ask for it. You’ve no right to be here.’

Murmurs arose--cries, prayers, stifled execrations. An inspector said to his chief:

‘If something isn’t done, sir, I fancy there’ll be trouble. Our men have difficulty in keeping order as it is. Half London must be here, and they’re coming faster than ever. There’s an ugly spirit about, and some ugly customers. If it becomes known that nothing is going to be done for these poor wretches, I don’t know what will happen. How we are going to get them safely away is more than I can guess.’

‘You hear what Sir William Braidwood says.’

‘Begging Sir William’s pardon, it’s a choice of evils, and if I were you, sir, I should try again. They can’t refuse to let you see this person. Not that I suppose he can do what they think he can, but still there you are.’

‘He can do it.’

‘With a word?’

‘With a word.’

‘Then he ought to.’

‘Why? I can give you a thousand pounds with a word. But why ought I to?’

‘That’s different.’

‘You’ll find that a large number of people don’t think it’s different. These people want the gift of health; others in the crowd there want the gift of wealth. I dare wager there’s no form of want which is not represented in that eager, greedy, lustful multitude. The excuse is common to them all: he can give it with a word. I am of your opinion, there will be trouble; because so many persons misunderstand the situation.’