Thus we were at variance--God and I. I knew I must submit--that God
could sweep me aside to perform, independent of me, what seemed good to
Him. He could do this, but still my will might rise in rebellion, might
dash itself out and die against this rock; but never, no, never submit.
I was quite ready, as little Nan had expressed it, to make a bargain
with God. I was ready to sell my submission at a fair price. If He
left to me that for which my soul longed, then my soul, with its
treasures, should be His. But without them--empty, torn, and bare;
could that soul go to Him?--go to Him in its desolation, and say, "You,
who have taken what I love, who have emptied me in my youth of all light
and joy, take me too, and do with me what you will." This I could not
do--this deed of submission I could not perform. No, if God would be
good to me, I would be good to Him--that was my rebellious thought. No
wonder it brought me no rest. No wonder I was tossed about by this wind
of desolation; and the Lord--the Lord whom I needed, the Lord who,
though I knew it not, was wounding but to heal; slaying, to make me
truly live--the Lord was not in the wind. I was sitting so, thinking
these thoughts, wondering why trouble had awakened all these depths in
me--why I, who only six months ago had been, in every sense, a child,
should now feel so old and heavy at heart--when at the window of the
room where I was sitting there came a very low tap. At another time
such a sound, in the stillness of the night, would have frightened me;
but not so now. I went directly to the window, and looked out; then,
indeed, my heavy heart gave a bound, for Owen stood without. I could
not raise the sash of the window without the possibility of awaking
mother; but I went to the front door, and managed softly to open it.
"Is my mother up? Gwladys."
"No, no, Owen," clasping his hands, and trying to drag him over the
threshold. "She is worn out--she is in bed, and asleep. Come in, dear
Owen."
"No one is up but you?"
"Not a soul."
"Then I will come to the fire for a moment. I am bitterly cold; and
could you get me something to eat?"
He crossed the threshold, entered the dining-room--shading his eyes from
the light--and threw himself, with the air of one utterly spent, into
the arm-chair. So worn and miserable was he, physically, that my first
thought--my first thought before I could ask him a single question--was
to see to his bodily comforts. I got him food and wine, then going on
my knees, I unlaced and removed, as well as I could, his wet and
mud-covered boots, went softly upstairs for clean, dry socks, and his
favourite slippers. He did not oppose me by a single remark, he
submitted to my attentions, ate eagerly and hungrily of the food I gave
him. When I had done all I could, I sat down on the floor by his side,
and took his hand. I must now begin to question him, for the silence
between us, with my ignorance of what he did or did not know, was
becoming unbearable.
"Where have you been? Owen. We have wanted you here so dreadfully."
"Have you? I should have been no use to you. For the last two days I
have been mad--that was all." He looked like it now. His eyes
bloodshot, his face deadly pale.
"But, brother," I said, impelled to say the words, "our David has quite
forgiven you."
"Good God! Gwladys," starting upright, "do you want to put me on the
rack? How dare you mention his name. _His_ name, and the name of his
murdered child! Oh! my God! how that little face haunts me!"
He began to pace up and down the room. I feared he would wake mother;
but in his passion and agony I could do nothing to restrain him. After
a time, however, he sat down more quietly.
"Yes; I have been mad, or perhaps, I am sane now, and was mad all the
rest of my life. In my sanity, or madness--call it what you will--I at
last see myself. How _dared_ you and mother pamper and spoil me when I
was a boy! How dared you foster my be setting sin, my weak ambition, my
overweening vanity. I never loved you for _that_--never. I cared most
for David. How could I help it--righteous, humble, noble; judging
calmly and correctly; telling me my faults. But, there! how I must
blame others, and lay the sin on others. I did love you, my dear,"--
laying his hand for an instant on my head--"I used to dream of you when,
like the prodigal, I lived in the far country; but, as I say again, what
of that! I went to Oxford--oh! it is a long story, a story of sin upon
sin. My vanity, fed by petty adulation. I spent money. I got into
debt, frightfully--frightfully. I did worse. I got amongst a fast set,
and became the fastest of them all. At last came the crisis. I won't
tell you of it. Why should you know? But for David, I should have been
publicly disgraced--think of that! Your `hero' brother--you used to say
that of me--the conceited lad who thought the world hardly vast enough
or grand enough to hold him. David, as I say, saved me. He paid all my
debts--he set me free. My debts were enormous; to pay them the estate
was seriously crippled. I went abroad. I thought myself humbled then.
I did not care what I put my hand to. I had one dream, to fulfil that I
lived. I meant to pay back to David the money he had spent on me. I
knew of this mine on his property. I knew it was badly worked; that the
profits, which might be enormous, were very small. I thought this mine
might prove my El Dorado; might give to me the golden treasure I needed.
I always meant to be a civil engineer; to this purpose I had turned my
attention during my short periods of real work at Christ Church. Now I
determined to take up engineering with a will. I did this because I
knew that it would qualify me to have the direction of David's mine--to
get out of David's mine the gold I needed. For four years I worked for
this. I gained practical knowledge; then I came here--you know that
part of the story. I told David of my hopes; they excited no pleasure
in him. He begged of me to make the mine safe; to use my skill in
saving life. I promised him. I meant to perform my word. I did not
think I should fail bitterly and utterly a second time. I did not
suppose, when long ago I dreamed dreams, and saw visions, that I should
rob David, first of his gold, and then of his child; and this last is
murder."
Owen paused here, and wiped some great drops from his brow. "Gwladys,"
he continued, "I see myself now. I am sane, not mad. I see myself at
last. I am the greatest sinner in the world."
He paused again; these words have been used hypocritically; but there
was no hypocrisy in that voice--in those eyes then; the solemn, slow
denunciation came with the full approval of the heart and reason. I
could not contradict. I was silent. "Yes," he repeated, "I have come
to that--come down to that--to be a murderer--the lowest of all. I am
the greatest sinner in the world; and for two days I have been looking
at God, and God has been looking at me. Face to face--with that
murdered child, and all my other crimes between us--we have been viewing
each other. Is it any wonder I should tell you I have been mad?"
"You may be facing God," I said, slowly then. "You may be facing God
with all your sins; but you must remember one thing: you, a sinner, are
facing a God who died for such as you."
I don't know why I said these words; they seemed to be sent to me. I
appeared to be speaking outside myself.
"Thank you," said Owen. Then he covered his face, and was silent for a
quarter of an hour; and in that interval of quiet, the knowledge came to
me that this penitent, broken man--this agonised, stricken soul, was
nearer, far nearer to God than I was. At the end of a quarter of an
hour, Owen rose to his feet.
"I heard of the mine accident at a roadside inn, this afternoon; that
brought me home. I cannot understand how the water burst in. I had no
idea there was an accumulation of water in Pride's Pit. I thought it
was properly pumped away--but, there! I should have _known_. I am
going down into the mine at once. I know David is in the mine."
"Owen," I said, suddenly remembering, "David sent you that." I put the
little note, which David had written, into his hands.
He read it, then threw it, open, on the table.
The hard look was gone from his eyes--they were glistening.
"Farewell, dear, I am going to my duty. God helping me, I will save
David or die."
Before I could say a word, he was out of the house; before I could call
to him, his footsteps had died away on the night air.
I threw myself on my knees. I did not pray in words, but I prayed in
floods of healing tears. Then I read David's letter.
"_Owen, there are two sides to everything. What has happened is not
bad for my little lad. God has taken him--it must be good for my
child to be with God. I try to fix my mind on this thought. I ask
you to try to do the same. I know this is hard_.
"_Owen, you have been careless, and have sinned, and your sin has been
punished. The punishment is all the worse for you, because it crushes
me. It shall not quite crush me, Owen; I will rise above it. My dear
brother, don't despair. If I can and do forgive you, with all my
heart, so assuredly will God_.
"_But, Owen, you are cowardly to shirk your duty. There is danger in
the mine. As soon as ever you get this come to me there. Be brave!
Whatever you feel, do your duty like a man, for my sake, and for God's
sake_.
"David."