THE "SCIET"
"Art going to chapel to-night, Morva?" said Ebben Owens on the
following Sunday afternoon, as he sat smoking in the chimney-corner,
Tudor beside him gazing rather mournfully into the fire. He was
looking ill and worn, and spoke in a low, husky voice. He had sat
there lost in thought ever since he had pushed away his almost untasted
dinner.
"Yes," said Morva, "I am going; but mother is not coming to-night; she
doesn't like the Sciet, you know."
"She is an odd woman," said Ann. "Not like the Sciet indeed! If I
didn't love her so much I would be very angry with her."
Morva flushed.
"She is very different to other people, I know; but she is a good woman
whatever."
"Yes, yes, yes," said Ebben Owens emphatically; "but why doesn't she
like the Sciet?"
"Oh! that's what she is saying," answered the girl, "that she doesn't
see the use of people standing up to confess half their sins and
keeping back the other and the worst half. She has been talking to
Gwilym Morris about it, and he is agreeing with her."
"Och fi!" sighed the old man, relapsing into his moody silence, from
which not even little Gwyl's chatter was able to rouse him.
At last when the cheerful sound of the tea-things, and Ann's
oft-repeated summons, recalled him to outward surroundings, he rose as
if wearily, and drew his chair to the table, where, stooping more and
more over his tea, Ann detected a tear furtively wiped away.
"You won't take little Gwyl to chapel to-night, will you? 'tis rather
damp," he said, though it was really a clear twilight.
"No, no," said Ann, "Magw will take care of him at home."
Gwilym helped the old man to change his coat.
"Where are his gloves, Ann, and his best hat? There's grand he'll be!"
But there was no answering smile on his father-in-law's face.
"Twt, twt," he said, "there is no need of gloves for me, and I won't
wear my best hat, give me my old one."
He sighed heavily as with bent head, and hands buried deep in his coat
pockets, he followed Ann and her husband down the stony road to the
valley where Penmorien Chapel lay. It was one of the unlovely square
buildings so much affected by the Welsh Dissenters, its walls of grey
stone differing little in appearance and colour from the rocky bed of
the hill which had been quarried out for its site.
As the Garthowen family entered, led by the preacher hat in hand, there
was a little movement of interest in the thronging congregation, and a
settling down to their prospective enjoyment, for an eloquent sermon
possesses for the Welsh the intense charm of a good drama. The
familiar pictures of every-day life with which the sermon is frequently
illustrated, the vivid word-painting, the tender but firm touch which
plays upon the chords of their strongest emotions, all combine to
awaken within them those feelings of pleasurable excitement, denied to
them through the medium of the forbidden theatre.
Gwilym Morris was heart and soul a preacher, full of burning zeal for
his mission, and, moreover, at this period of his ministry he was
passing through a crisis in his spiritual life--a crisis which left him
with a broader field of vision, and more enlightened views of God's
Providence than he had hitherto dared to adopt. As he passed up the
pulpit stairs and saw the thronging mass of eager faces upraised to
his, a subtle influence reached him, a fervour of spirit which he knew
was the answer to the expectancy depicted on his people's faces. It
was as though that waiting throng had formed itself into one collective
being, for whose soul he bore a message, and to whom he must unburden
himself, and there was a depth of meaning in his voice as he gave out
the words of an old familiar hymn which fixed his hearers' attention at
once. Ebben Owens had always led the hymns, but latterly he had
dropped that custom, and to-night he stood silent with eyes fixed upon
the evening sky, visible through the long chapel window. The hymn was
sung with fervour, and in that volume of sound his voice was not
missed. The old grey walls reverberated to the rich tones, which
filled the chapel, and pouring out through the open doors, flooded the
narrow valley with harmony. It was followed by a prayer, and another
hymn, after which the candles were lighted, one on each iron pillar
supporting the crowded gallery, one on each side of the "big seat"
under the pulpit, and one on each side of the preacher, who, leaning
his arms on the open Bible before him, began in low impressive tones to
deliver himself of the message which he bore to his people. Only the
old familiar words, "Come unto Me all ye that are weary and heavy laden
and I will give you rest." Only the message of a greater Preacher than
he--only the theme of a love unchanging and unfathomable, but told in
such vivid though simple language, that the sensitive Celtic hearts of
his audience, were enthralled and subdued, and there were few in that
large crowd who did not gaze at the preacher through eyes blurred with
tears. Sometimes his voice rose in indignant protest, and sometimes
fell in tender appeal, and when at last the sermon was over and the
last hymn had been sung, there was an evident feeling of regret and a
furtive drying of eyes.
In curious almost ludicrous contrast to the preacher's mellow tones,
Jos Hughes's cracked voice broke the solemn silence, with the
information that there would be an "experience" meeting after the
service. One third of the congregation therefore, remained seated
while the rest poured out through the narrow doorways into the stony
road, up which the sea wind was blowing. Then the doors were closed
and the preacher came down and sat among the deacons in the "big seat."
Ebben Owens was asked for his usual opening prayer, but he declined the
request with a shake of his head. Jos Hughes gladly took his place,
and after a long-winded prayer from him, a hymn was sung again, and
then the business of the meeting commenced.
From a dark corner pew a weak voice broke the silence, and every eye
turned to the speaker, a little shrivelled woman who was a frequent
confessor of sins, and was correspondingly respected.
"I wish to say," said the quavering voice, "that I am daily and hourly
becoming less sure of my salvation, my past sins weigh heavily upon me,
and neither prayer nor reading bring a gleam of comfort into my heart.
I should be glad to see the preacher or one of the deacons if they will
trouble to come to Ffoshelig."
"I will certainly," said the preacher; and again there was a pause,
till Jos Hughes stood up, and with great unction delivered his soul of
its burden.
"My dear brethren," he said, with eyes upturned to the ceiling, his
stubby fingers interlaced over his waistcoat of fawn kerseymere, "I am
much perplexed and disheartened! I have been deacon of this chapel for
thirty years, and I am not aware that I have ever failed in my duty as
a member of this 'body.' I neglect no opportunity of prayer, or hymn
singing, or warning my neighbour. I teach in the Sunday School, and I
fulfil every duty as far as I am able--and yet, my friends, for two
whole days in the week that is past, I was as dry as--a paper bag! I
felt no fervour of spirit, no uplifting of soul; in fact, dear people,
it was low tide with me, the rocks were bare, the sands were dry, and I
was almost despairing. But thank the Lord! the tide turned, grace and
praise and joy flowed in upon me once more; I have received the
'Invoice' of good things to come, and I am filled with the peace and
content I generally enjoy."
A few words of congratulation and sympathy were spoken by another
grey-headed deacon, after which a silence fell upon the meeting, the
preacher making no comment upon what he had heard. The tick of the
clock on the gallery, the distant swish of the waves, and the soft
sighing of the evening breeze alone were audible.
At length another voice broke the silence. It was Ebben Owens, who was
standing up, and for a moment looking round at the old familiar faces
of his fellow worshippers.
It had been a frequent custom of his to relate his religious
experiences at the "Sciets," so neither Ann nor her husband were
surprised; but Morva detected something unusual in the old man's
manner. At many a meeting he had confessed to the frailties of human
nature, with platitudes, and expressions of repentance, which had lost
all reality from constant repetition. But he had satisfied the
meeting, and at the end of it he had taken up his hat, smoothed his
hair down over his forehead, and walked out of the chapel in the odour
of sanctity. To-night it was a very different man who stood there. At
first his voice was low and trembling, but as he proceeded it gathered
strength, so that his words were audible even in the corner pew, whose
little shrivelled occupant was eagerly listening, in the hopes that
another person's experience--and he a good man--might throw some light
upon her own difficulties.
"Good people all!" said the old man, "will you bear with me for a few
moments, while I unburden my mind of a weight that is pressing sore
upon me? and God grant that none of you may suffer what I have suffered
lately! but justly--remember justly am I punished.
"You think you know me well, my dear friends. 'There is Ebben Owens
Garthowen,' you say, 'our deacon,' and perhaps you say 'an upright man
and honest!' But I am here to-night to tell you what I am in truth. I
have stood before you dozens of times, and told you of want of
faith--of cold prayers--and lack of interest in holy things. I have
asked for your prayers many times, and have gone home and forgotten to
pray myself! Yes, I have been your deacon for thirty years, and all
that time I have deceived you, and deceived myself. I never told you
about my real sins, but you shall know to-night what Ebben Owens is. I
have been weak and yielding in money matters--have lent and given my
money, not out of real charity, but because it brought me the praise of
man. I have lied and cheated in the market, and still my soul was
asleep, and you all thought well of me. I have pretended to be a
temperate man, but I have often drunk until my brain was dull, and my
eyes were heavy, and have flung myself down on my bed in a drunken
sleep, without thought and without prayer."
He paused a moment, and the sea wind, coming in at the window, blew a
stray lock of his grey hair over his forehead. His tongue seemed
parched and dry, his voice husky and uncertain, but with a fresh effort
he continued:
"Are you beginning to know me, my friends? Not yet, not yet, listen!
God gave me two brave boys, and how did I take his gift? I made an
idol of one, and was unjust, and often harsh, to the other. As the
years went on I continued in that sinful path, and in my old age the
Lord is punishing me. The boy I idolised and loved--God knows with a
love that effaced the image of the Almighty from my heart--has deserted
me, has grown ashamed of me, and my punishment is just and righteous.
The other--whom I treated harshly and thrust from me--has also deserted
me in my old age; this, too, is just and righteous. The sting of it is
sharp and hard to bear, for God has made me love that boy, and long for
his presence; and this, too, is just and righteous. Let no one pity
me, or think I am punished more than I deserve. And now, do you think
you know me? Not yet, my friends, for listen, your deacon, Ebben Owens
of Garthowen, is a thief! Do you hear it, all of you? A thief!" and
he looked round the chapel inquiringly.
The men looked at him with flushed, excited faces, the women stooped
forward to hide theirs, some of them crying silently, but all moved as
by a sudden storm. Ann had bent lower and lower in her pew, and was
weeping bitter tears of shame, clasping Morva's hand, who stood looking
in frightened amazement from one to another.
"A thief!" continued the old man, "and a cowardly thief! One who
sacrificed honour and truth and common honesty that he might gratify
his foolish pride. But to come nearer, my friends, hear what I have
done. By careless spendthrift ways I had wasted my money so that I had
not sufficient to send my son to college. This galled my pride, and I
stole from my son-in-law's drawer the sum of 40 pounds which I knew he
had placed there. I was too proud to borrow from a Methodist preacher
the money I required to get my son into the Church. When the theft was
discovered," and the old man held up his finger to enforce his
words--"are you listening?--when the theft was discovered I tried at
first to throw the blame upon a member of this congregation, whom, of
course, I knew to be innocent; later on, when circumstances seemed to
point more directly to my dear eldest son, I gladly let the suspicion
rest upon him, and I did everything in my power to give colour to the
idea of his guilt. There I am, dear friends. That is Ebben Owens.
You know him now as what he is--a liar--a sot--a thief! You will turn
me out of your 'Sciet.' You are right; I am not worthy to be a member
of it. I don't want anyone's pity, I only want you to know me as I am,
and may God forgive me."
And he sat down amidst breathless silence, his hands sunk deep into his
pockets, his chin resting on his chest. Shame, repentance, and sorrow
filled his heart, and it required all the strength of his manhood to
keep back the tears which would well up into his eyes. It was all so
still in the chapel, not a word of sympathy; even a word of reproach
would have been acceptable to the miserable man, who could not read
beneath the surface, the tumult of varied feelings which were surging
through the hearts of the congregation.
Suddenly two heavy paws were resting on his knee, and Tudor's warm
breath was on his face as he tried to lick the old man's bare forehead.
The touch of sympathy was more than he could bear, he rose hastily to
his feet, and, followed by the dog, passed out of the chapel, leaving
Gwilym Morris, with a tremble in his voice, to bring the meeting to a
close.
Although he had sometimes strayed into the chapel Tudor had never
before been known to invade the sanctity of the "big seat," and what
brought him there on this particular evening was one of those mysteries
which enshroud the possibilities of animal instinct. Perhaps he had
been struck by the dejected attitude of his master, as he followed his
daughter and son-in-law through the farmyard; at all events the loving
and loyal heart had felt that over that bent head and stooping figure a
cloud of trouble hung low, and as he followed his master through the
silent congregation he hung his head and drooped his tail as though he
himself were the delinquent.
"Come, Ann, let us follow him," whispered Morva.
"No," answered Ann, withdrawing her hand from Morva's warm clasp, "I
cannot. Go thou and comfort him. I will wait for Gwilym."
And Morva did not hesitate, though it required some courage to make her
way through that shocked and scandalised throng.
Gaining the door, where the fresh night air met her with refreshing
coolness, she saw the tall, stooping figure moving slowly up the stony
road, followed by the dejected Tudor, and in a moment was at his side.
Taking his hard, rough hand in both her warm palms she lifted it to her
cheek and pressed it to her neck.
"'N'wncwl Ebben dear, and dear, and very dear! my heart is breaking for
you! To think that while we knew nothing about it you were bearing all
the burden of your repentance alone. But there is plenty of love in
all our hearts to sink every sin you ever committed in its depths, for
the sake of all the good you have done and all the kindness you have
shown to me and to every one who came near you, and you know God's
forgiveness is waiting for every sinner who repents."
The old man said nothing for some time, but trudged heavily beside her.
"_Thou_ art tender and forgiving, whatever," he said at last; "but Ann,
where is she? Will she ever forgive me?"
"She is waiting for Gwilym," answered Morva.
"She is right; but come thou with me, lass; thou must help me to-night,
for I have only done half my task," and as they passed under the elder
tree at the back door he hurried before her into the house.
"Now, 'merch i, bring me pen and ink and some paper."
Now was the time, he felt, when he must make a clean breast of all his
guilt, and drink his bitter draught of expiation to the dregs. He
seized the pen eagerly and with trembling hands began to write, "My
beloved son." The letter was to Will, of course. A clergyman! a
gentleman! with a lady to wife! What would he say when he heard that
his father was a thief?
He made a full and ample confession, adding no extenuating
circumstances and making no excuses. He wrote slowly and laboriously,
Morva meanwhile rifling Ann's work-box for a seal.
"There's beautiful writing for an old man," she said at last, as Ebben
Owens toiled through the address, his tongue following every movement
of the pen. "Now, here's the seal, and I will put the letter in the
post at once, and then your mind will be easy."
"Easy!" he said, leaning his head on his folded arms; "'tis my son,
girl, my beloved son, whose love and respect I am cutting off from me
for ever. Tell thy mother, too; let them all know what I am. Here
come Ann and Gwilym; perhaps they will be as hard upon me as I deserve."
Here Tudor again laid his soft head on the table beside his master's,
and the old man passed his arm round the dog's neck.
"Yes--yes, 'machgen i, I know I have thee still. Go, Morva, post my
letter at Pont-y-fro, though 'tis Sunday night. Good-night, girl, thou
hast an old man's blessing. For what it is worth," he added, under his
breath, as the girl passed out of one door, while Gwilym and Ann
entered at the other.
On their way home through the clear starlight, Gwilym had endeavoured
to soothe Ann's distress, to point out to her how real a proof of
repentance was her father's confession. He reminded her of the joy
amongst the angelic host over one sinner that repenteth! but his words
failed to make their usual impression upon her. Shame, and contempt
for her father's weakness were uppermost in her heart, and expressed
upon her countenance, when she entered the kitchen. One glance,
however, at the bowed grey head and the dejected attitude, banished
every feeling of anger to the winds; with a bound she was at her
father's side, her arms round his neck, her head leaning with his on
the table, Tudor laying his own beside them.
Ebben Owens's departure from the chapel had been followed by a few
moments of breathless silence. No more experiences were told, no hymn
was sung, but a short and fervid prayer from the preacher alone
preceded the dismissal which sent the astonished and deeply-moved
congregation pouring out into the roadway.
Jos Hughes had trembled with fright when Ebben Owens had alluded to his
want of money at the time of Will's entering college, and had expected
nothing less than an exposure of his oft broken promises and the long
delayed payment of his debt; but as the old man proceeded without
allusion to his shortcomings, he had regained his courage, and his
usual smug appearance of righteous peace and content.
"Well!" he said to his fellow-deacons, as they followed the rough road
to Pont-y-fro, "did you ever think we had such a fool for a deacon?"
"'Ts--'ts! never indeed," said John Jones of the "Blue Bell."
"Well, indeed," said old Thomas Morgan, the weaver, "I didn't know we
had such a sinner amongst us; but fool! perhaps it would be better if
we were all such fools."
But no one took any notice of his remark, for he was never considered
to have been endowed with his full complement of sense, though his pure
and unblemished life had caused him to be chosen deacon.
"Well," said Jos again, as he reached his own shop door, "I always knew
Garthowen's pride would come down some day; but I never, never thought
he was such a fool!"