The little village of Dinas was in a turmoil. Considering its small
size, and the extreme peace of its situation happed round by
everlasting hills, and so cuddled close to the very heart of calm
creation, it held an extraordinary capability for fuss. The hot Celtic
blood would get into the hot Celtic brain at the slightest
provocation, and it had risen from the sub-normal of rural life to the
fever-heat of a revolution over a baby whom some one had refused to
baptize, and some one else had declined to bury.
The rector, relying on the Middle Ages, had pointed to the
nettle-grown corner reserved for those whose salvation was doubtful.
The whole Calvinistic body, forgetful of election and predestination,
had fled as one man from the authority of the Bible to that of the
Burials Act.
Radical religion and religious radicalism had once more met in grips,
and the guarantors of the little telegraph station in the village
breathed freely by reason of the wires that were sent, and that came
from the princes and powers of darkness and light all over the
country.
The result was, of course, that foregone conclusion of these later
days--a compromise. The churchyard belonged to the parish, the burial
service to the Church. And so, with a curious falter at its innermost
heart because of the absence of the rector's familiar surplice and
biretta, the village had signalised its victory by a triumphal
following of Gwen's baby to the grave, not of its fathers, but its
mothers.
As they gathered round the coffin which looked so tiny far away down
in the greasy, black earth, the sound of "Day of wrath, that dreadful
day," sung by the rector at his usual evening service, floated out
from the church to join Morris Pugh's indignant militant prayer to the
Almighty; but the peaceful little dead child slept undisturbed by
either.
Yet the rector, honest man, had no ill-feeling at all, but rather a
profound pity for the lamb of his flock who had been lost through
ignorance on his part, for had he known of its illness nothing would
have prevented him from storming the shepherd's hut and claiming his
right as rector. Indeed, but for the necessity for reprobating the
scandalous withholding of one of the Church's sacraments from an
innocent soul because its parents were blameworthy, there is small
doubt that he would have asked no questions, and buried the small dead
body decently and in order. As it was he came, after service was over,
tall and cassock-garbed, to stand beside the tiny mound of new-turned
soil which broke the lush green of the churchyard, make the sign of
the cross over it, and pray a little prayer for mercy.
Nevertheless, he went back to his study and his ecclesiastical
histories a harder man for the incident. His bishop had not upheld
the authority of the Church; he had--in all reverence be it
spoken--hedged, and the Rev. Gawain Meredith was too priestly, soul
and body, for hedging with heretics.
For there was no mincing of words about him. The Wesleyans were
possibly schismatics; all other dissenters were heretics, and the
Calvinistic Methodists the most distinctly dangerous heretics with
whom he had to deal. They reminded him in their social, religious, and
political organisation of the Jesuits whose history he was studying.
He had a reluctant admiration for their determination to force means
to an end, and he saw plainly how much capital they would make out of
his refusal to bury the body. Elections to the parish council were
coming on, and he had already made himself unpopular by questioning
the expenditure. So he read the paragraphs concerning the baby's
burial which he found waiting for him on his study table in the weekly
local, with a setting of his thin lips. They might turn him out of the
council if they choose, but while he was in it, he would do his duty
by the ratepayers.
Morris Pugh had read these same paragraphs in manuscript; they had
been sent to him for revision, and he had returned them without a word
of comment; yet he had felt a vague regret pluck at his heart.
He was an enthusiast, pure and simple. Those chiefs of his party, who
seized so quickly on every point of vantage, were enthusiasts and
something more.
He felt ill at ease; though, in attempting to get at the truth
concerning Gwen's fault he had acted almost at the instigation of his
elders. Isaac Edwards and Richard Jones, stern fathers of the village,
had been inexorable, and so Gwen, once the pride of the choir, despite
her being "light in the weighing," had been practically
excommunicated. Not that there had ever been any intention of such
excommunication being permanent, or of its injuring the child; but
spasmodic croup waits for nothing, and so--so the Middle Ages and the
Burials Act had come into conflict.
This, however, was not the only cause for Morris Pugh's uneasiness.
Oddly enough, the disturbing element was the hundred pounds which Ned
Blackborough had hidden in the cleft of the rocks. The last two months
had been one long temptation to go and take it at all costs--take it
and say nothing. And yet his soul revolted from the very idea. The
constant conflict, however, had forced him into clearer thought, and
he had shrunk back in horror from much that he saw in himself and
others. The greed of gold! How it riddled all human life; it even
touched the next, for it was the mainspring of religion. Money! Money!
There was a perpetual call for it. Half the spiritual life of his
flock was due to the efforts of those who had built the chapel and who
worked--for God, no doubt--but also to get five per cent. interest on
their mortgages.
Yes! the souls for whom Christ died were bartering them for gold.
O! for something, some voicing of the Great Spirit, to stir them to a
nobler commerce!
This was his desire, his constant prayer, and he had grown haggard and
anxious over the stress of both.
The last two days also had brought a fresh anxiety. Mervyn, his
brother, had returned from a month's visit to Blackborough, curiously
moody, curiously unlike himself; that is the earnest, clever lad who
for years had been the pride of the village, the joy of his mother's
and of his brother's heart. No doubt his failure to pass the
examination had discouraged him; but was that all? It did not really
matter; he was young yet, had another chance, and meanwhile could go
on as he was, earning enough to keep him as clerk to the village
councils and boards.
So as Morris Pugh, hollow-eyed, pale, lingered at the grave of the
little child which he had just committed to the dust whence it had
come, there was no stability in his thoughts. They wandered on
dreamily until, suddenly as a flash, came the certainty that one of
the many mourners, who had but a minute before been looking down on
the tiny coffin, was father to what it held.
And he had stood there silent, unrepentant!
Yes; it must be so, for poor Gwen was no wanderer; her own people
sufficed for that limited life.
He covered his face with his hands and turned swiftly, almost to
stumble over his brother who stood behind him. His face was haggard
also, and Morris looked at it with a quick dread clutching at his
heart.
"There's--there's nothing wrong is there--Merve--" he faltered.
The lad flushed crimson. "Only you've trodden on my toe; that's all,"
he answered, bending low to brush off the dust of the grave which his
brother's foot had left on his boot.
"I beg your pardon," replied Morris Pugh slowly; then the remembrance
that he was pastor here as elsewhere made him add, "I was so overcome
by the horrible thought that the father of that poor child must have
been here--beside us, Merve."
But the lad's face was up again; he looked his brother calmly in the
face.
"I suppose he was; but what is the use of bothering about it? The
thing's over--" He glanced at the grave as he spoke, and looked back
at his brother almost impatiently. "Oh! for God's sake, Morris, let
her be--I dare say it--it was a sort of mistake--he mayn't have
meant--but anyhow, the thing's done with!
"Done!" echoed Morris; "how can it be done without repentance?"
Mervyn's handsome eyes narrowed, his lip set. "And how do you know he
doesn't repent? If the--the baby had lived it might have been worth
while; but now--" he smiled suddenly. "Don't worry any more about it,
there's a good chap. Mother will be waiting tea for us, and you have
all those envelopes to send round this evening."
Morris Pugh winced under the reminder. Yes! tomorrow was Collection
Sunday, and each household of the faith must be provided with an
envelope addressed to it in which the offering must be enclosed, thus
enabling those in authority to trace home any inadequate donation.
Oh! would the time never come to the Church of Christ when the Elect
would need no such precautions against cheating their God? For that
was what it meant.
His whole soul sickened as he thought of how each one of his flock
would weigh the balance between this world and the next. And yet a
good collection was the vivifier of spiritual life. Without it, how
could extra preachers be paid for, and the religio-social work of the
community be kept up?
It was late ere all the arrangements for the morrow, including a
reception and prayer-meeting in honour of the Reverend Hwfa Morgan,
who was to conduct the morning service, were over; but even then
Morris Pugh had not finished his work. That was to wrestle through the
night in prayer for Divine Guidance, for Divine Help.
And all the while the slow, certain stars wheeled in their appointed
courses to meet the dawn, the dawn that came true to its appointed
time.
There was a stir in the village, of course. To begin with, there was
the excitement of a new preacher. Would he come up to his reputation?
And would the performance of the village choir be satisfactory? Then,
as all the outlying members of the congregation came in from the
distant farms early, there was the additional excitement of hearing
and giving gossip. As one of the yearly functions, too, Collection
Sunday was a festival for fine clothes. Alicia Edwards wore hers, an
entirely new get-up which, remembering Myfanwy's look at Mervyn, and
having in mind various penny novelettes in which jealousy played the
principal part, she had ordered from another shop in Blackborough. For
she was becoming reckless. At heart she was an excellent creature, but
her education had been against her. She had learnt so much that was
absolutely unnecessary for what she wanted to make out of life. What
did it matter to her whether she could reel off the names of the
claimants to the crown of Spain during the War of Succession? All she
really desired was love; sentimental, not overpassionate love. Life
without emotion was to her an empty life. Other girls, feeling as
restless as she did, might have defied home authority and followed,
say, Myfanwy Jones's lead; but she was too dutiful, and in addition
she had a reputation to keep up, the reputation of being the best girl
in the village. Her father, of whom she was desperately afraid, talked
of a Training College for Teachers; she held her peace, and lived
feverishly for the moment. That, at any rate, was productive of
emotion!
So she put on her finest clothes and went down to meet Mervyn at the
chapel door, and greet him with a sprightly challenge and a little
quiver of her lip: Not that she was really in love with him. Any other
of the stalwart young men, who cultivated the same forehead curl,
would have done as well, if he had been attracted by her and called
her his darling, and asked her to be his wife; for all her education
had left her woman--woman pure and simple.
There was quite a crowd at the chapel door, a general excitement over
the thought of the new preacher, though to many a bent old man and
worn old woman the great event of the day was in the envelope, safely
tucked away in the Bibles they clutched so confidently. For, realising
that this might be their last donation, they had given their ransom
for the skies. Isaac Edwards fussed round, keeping a watchful eye for
the doubtful members of the flock; and the Reverend Hwfa Morgan, a
tall young man who might have looked sensual but for his exceeding
pallor, spoke to the favoured few, giving them a taste of his fluency.
He was extraordinarily fluent. His periods swept along soundfully and
brought forth many encomiums in the brief period between the services,
for the evening hour had been put forward to the afternoon in order to
allow the outermost outsiders to get home ere dark, and thus have no
excuse for absence.
So the westering sun shone full into the bare, whitewashed chapel when
Morris Pugh, as a preliminary to his final appeal, stepped forward,
and the Reverend Hwfa Morgan stepped back for the moment.
There was the difference of two worlds between their faces. As Morris
gave out a well-known Welsh hymn, a little sudden thrill seemed to
vibrate in the humanity-burdened air of the packed chapel.
What was it?
The quaint modulations rose and fell in wide compass, now high, now
low. Would the Spirit of the Lord speak in a singing voice?
The thought was no new one; it had been in Morris Pugh's mind as he
had listened of late to the oft-told tale--which grew in the telling--
of the mysterious music in the church on Trinity Sunday.
But no! The hymn died away to its Amen, and there was no sign. So he
began his address.
And then suddenly his eye caught a figure by the door, a figure in
black, close veiled. Surely it was Gwen--Gwen the sinner?
And then he spoke again. He had passed the night in prayer; he had
eaten nothing; the whole body and soul of him was in deadly earnest.
Whether there was something more than this or not, that in itself has
to be reckoned with, especially with an emotional audience.
So, as he spoke of the dead child, an old woman, her face seamed with
wrinkles, seemed to feel a half-forgotten tug at her breast and began
to weep; an old man, straining with almost sightless eyes for some
glimpse which might make the young, flexible, lamenting voice more
earthly, less heavenly, followed suit. Then the golden haze which
filled the chapel seemed to hold a radiance, and close to the speaker,
Alicia Edwards gave a little half-suffocated cry and tore, as if for
breath, at the laces round her throat.
And still the insistent, strenuous voice held to its high protesting
pitch of passionate reproof. Its cadence was the only sound----
No! What was that?
From the figure by the door a sound--the merest shadow of a sound!
'Just as I am without one plea.'
The Welsh translation of a sinner's joy was familiar, and a thrill,
individual yet collective, ran through the chapel as, turning, every
one in it saw Gwen, her whole face, sodden with tears, transfigured
into angelic light and peace and joy as she sang--
'Save that Thy Blood was shed for me.'
The strenuous man's voice failed suddenly before the exquisite
sweetness of the woman's, but only for a moment. A voice less
strenuous, yet still a man's, joined in the singing, then another
woman's.
So, by ones and twos and threes, the message of certain salvation grew
from a whisper to a storm of sound.
'O Lamb of God, I come!'
And then?
Then, while Morris Pugh stood white, trembling, almost appalled, the
Reverend Hwfa Morgan sprang forward with a shout of "Hallelujah!"
It swept away the last barrier of reserve. With cries and groans the
congregation leapt to its feet or grovelled in the dust.
"Speak to them, man, speak to them, the Spirit is upon you," urged the
Reverend Hwfa Morgan, as Morris Pugh still stood, paralysed by the
realisation of his prayer.
So he essayed to speak, but the power did not lie with him. It lay in
the soft, almost unearthly, harmonies of Gwen's voice, and Mervyn's,
and Alicia Edwards, followed by those of many a young man and maiden.
Over and over again some wild Welsh chant pitted itself against prayer
or preaching, or even the earnest confession of sin from some sinner,
and always with the same result, a victory for the service of song.
Against that soothing background even Time itself seemed lost. The
evening drew in wet and stormy. The necessity for closing the chapel
doors burdened the pent air still more with man's great need of
forgiveness. The miserable ventilation, which sanitation allows to
churches and forbids to theatres, made women faint and strong men turn
sick, while every now and again a burst of unrestrained laughter or
sobbing told of nerves strained to the breaking point.
It was nigh dawn when, by the light of a pale moon obscured by
drifting storm-clouds, Morris Pugh turned the key in the chapel door
with a trembling hand. The Reverend Hwfa Morgan and Isaac Edwards were
waiting for him on the wet, glittering steps.
"That is over," he muttered slowly in Welsh.
"Over!" echoed his brother cleric. "If the Lord will, it has just
begun: from it will spread a wave of revival. You and those sweet
singers--!" His excitement was too much for him, he reverted to
English, "Yes, indeed! We will have a collection----"
Isaac Edwards slapped his thigh with an inarticulate ejaculation.
"Morris Pugh," he said, his voice quivering with regret, "we have
forgotten it. God forgive us, we have forgotten the money!"