Three weeks after the accident, on an afternoon soft with west wind, and
glowing with May beauty, I went to visit little David's grave. They had
laid him in a very old churchyard, and the tiny grave faced the Rhoda
Vale, and could be seen with its companion graves, from the bank of the
Ffynon mine below. I had brought some flowers to plant there. Having
completed my task, I sat, for a few moments, by the side of the little
mound to rest. As I sat there, I saw a man walking quickly along the
high road. He mounted the stile and ascended the steep path which led
to the graveyard. As I watched him, my heart beat loud and audibly--for
this man was Owen. He was coming to visit little David's grave. He had
probably never seen it yet. Still I would not go away. I had something
to say to Owen, I could say it best here. He came up, saw me, started
for a moment, then seated himself by my side.
"Gwladys, this is a fit place for us to meet. I have something to say
to you."
His words, look, manner, put any speech of my own out of my head. I
turned to watch him.
"There is such a thing, Gwladys, as being guilty even of this--
blood-guiltiness--and yet being washed white."
Silence on my part. He laid his hand on the little grave, and
continued--
"David, who never told a lie in his life, says he is glad; that if only
the death of his child could bring me to his God, he is glad--glad even
at that price." A long pause. "I have found his God. Even by so dark
a path as my own sin, I have been led to his God and Saviour."
Owen pressed his head on his hands. I saw two heavy tears drop between
his fingers.
"You will never know, Gwladys, what the finding of God out of so awful a
storm of sin and suffering is like. I looked for Him down in the mine.
With every stroke of my mandril, my heart cried, `Punish me as you will.
I do not care what punishment you lay upon me. My life itself is
valueless. Only let me find Thee.' But I could not find Him. As I
went further and further into the mine, I seemed getting further and
further away from Him; my sins were between Him and me. I could not get
a glimpse of Him. I was in despair. I worked with the strength of
despair. It was no true courage prompted me to go back, when the other
men faltered. My life was valueless to me. Then, as you know, we
brought the men out. I went to David. I _was_ glad that he was saved;
but my heart was as heavy as ever. I used to sit up at night and fancy
myself drifting further and further from God. My whole past life was
before me, and it seemed hateful. Not only the wild, reckless days at
Oxford, but the months that had seemed so righteous and proper here.
One evening I said to David--
"`David, can you forgive me?'
"`Ay, lad,' he answered, instantly, `and so can thy God.'
"`No, that He can't,' I said. `He never can forgive the death of the
baby.'
"`You wrong Him, lad,' continued my brother. `He took the baby away in
love. He knew your eyes were shut, and a great shock must open them.
Surely, Owen, if the only way He could bring you to His arms was to take
the baby first, _that_ won't turn Him away now. We must go through
death to Him sometimes--the death of another, if not our own.'
"`And _you_ are willing to give up your child for that?'
"`Willing and glad, if by so doing you may find Christ.'
"`David, how you have worked and suffered for me.'"
"But not in vain," said David, with a radiant smile.
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"No, Gwladys, it was not in vain; the brother's love was not in vain;
the death of the Son of Man was not in vain. _I have found God_. There
is to be a coroner's inquest; things may go hard with me, for I have
been much to blame; but I shall tell the whole story. If I am allowed,
I shall remain at Ffynon; but wherever I am, I mean to devote my life--
my whole life--all my time and all my energy, to the great cause of the
miners; to the lessening of their many dangers; to the furthering of
their well-being. This is my life-work; I promise to devote my life to
the miners of Wales, here, by this little grave."
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"Owen, before we leave this spot, I have something to say to you."
"What is that? my dear."
"I want you to forgive me."
"For what?"
"Do you not know--can you not guess? I shut my heart against you; I
gave you no true sister's welcome when you came home."
"I thought you changed; I was disappointed. Had you ceased to love me?"
"No, no; never that. But I had dreamt so of you--I thought you perfect.
I thought you would come back bringing honour and glory; then I was
told--I--"
"I see; your love could not stand the shock."
"No, Owen; my old, poor, and weak love--my idolatry, could not; under
the blow it died."
"Go on, my dear."
"Owen, can you ever forgive me? I have been cold, unloving, unsisterly.
I wonder, now, looking back on it, that you did not hate me!"
"No; at first I was disappointed. You hardly know how I loved you long
ago; how you had managed to twine your little childish self round my
heart. When away I thought of you. I longed, almost as much for your
sake as for David's, to win back that wretched gold. You were much
changed. At first I was much disappointed; at last, I believe,
indifferent."
"It is my just punishment, brother. Still, I must say something now.
Owen, I love you now. I love you now as I never did long ago; I
understand you now. My heart can read yours at last I love you a
thousand times better than of old. I don't expect you to respond to
it," I concluded, with a sob.
Owen rose to his feet. "One moment," he said; "do you love me well
enough not to flatter me; well enough never to flatter me again; well
enough to help me?"
"Oh, yes! Oh! if we might help each other!"
"I do respond to your love. Come to me, Gwladys."
Standing by the little grave, he held out his arms and folded them round
me, and kissed my cheek; and as I looked up into the dear, beautiful,
noble face--it was all that truly now--I felt that my air castle had
arisen out of its ashes; my day dream was fulfilled, and I had got back
my hero and my darling.
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The End.