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Chapter Twenty Three
After the Fire – A Still, Small Voice
This is the story. The rest England knows; she knows how all the rescued men recovered, she also knows how she has honoured rescued and rescuers.
The last to get well, the slowest to get back again his health and strength, was David. For a time, indeed, for David there were grave doubts and anxieties, which on the doctors’ parts amounted to fears.
The previous shock and sorrow may have made the ten days without food, in that gloomy prison, tell more severely on him, for originally he was the strongest man of the five. However, after a fortnight of intense watching, the dreaded fever began to abate, and the burden of life which he had so nearly laid aside, he took up again, with his old cheerfulness and courage.
“I’m glad he’s not going to die,” said Nan, “he’s wanting down on earth still. Oh! ain’t he strong,” she added; “oh! if you only heard Miles talk of him!”
One day I did hear a little of what David had done, from the boy himself.
“Yes, Miss, he was standin’ by me, when the water came in, we felt it running past our feet, he took my hand and said we’d run for the shaft; we run a few steps when we met Jones and two men, Powell and Williams; they said the waters were up to the roof, then we got into Powell’s stall.”
“Had you any light?”
“Yes, for a while we had candles, then we was in the dark, the water was a few feet away; when we was thirsty we drank the water, but it was very bad. No, we was not very hungry, but we was most bitter cold.”
“You did not think you were so long in the stall?”
“No, not more’n a week.”
“And you were not frightened?”
Here the dark eyes, preternaturally large and eager-looking, gazed hard into mine.
“No, I worn’t feared to die. I thought I might die, we h’all thought it. I did want to kiss Nan, and father once, but Mr Morgan – ”
“Well, what about Mr Morgan?”
“He spoke so, he said that the Better Land were worth going through anything to reach; he said that may be there were no other road for any of us to heaven, but right through the mine, and he axed us if we was willin’ to go through that road to reach it. After a bit we all said we was.”
“Well?”
“Then he’d pray to the Lord so earnest, it seemed as if the Lord was nigh to us, and Mr Morgan said He was with us in the stall; then we’d sing.”
“What did you sing, Miles?”
“Only one hymn, over and over. We sings it at h’our meetings.”
“I know it,” said Nan, “I’ll sing it now.
“In the deep and mighty waters.
No one there can hold my head;
But my only Saviour Jesus,
Who was slaughtered in my stead.
“Friend, he is in Jordan’s river.
Holds above the wave my head;
With His smile I’ll go rejoicing,
Through the regions of the dead.”
“Ah!” said Miles, “you never’d know wot that hymn’s worth unless you was in the mine. Then we heard the men knocking, and that kep up our hearts, and Mr Morgan said we might be rescued; but any way ’twas all right. Towards the end two of the men got queer and off their heads, and Mr Morgan, and Jones, the under-viewer, had a deal of trouble with ’em; then Mr Morgan thought the water might have gone down, and on Friday he went in and tried for a bit to wade through, but it was too deep, and he did not know the mine. Jones would have tried after him, but then we was let h’out. No, I doesn’t remember that part. I knows nothing until I felt Nan kiss me, and I thought ’twas Stephie, and that I was in heaven.”
All the time during David’s slow recovery, one person nursed him day and night – one person, with hardly any intermission, remained by his bedside; this was Owen. And no hand so soothed the sick and weary man, no face brought so peaceful a smile into his eyes, as the hand and face of Owen. As David grew better they had long talks together, but I never heard what they said.
I have one thing more to write here.
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.
“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.”
“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.
The End.
