Since the night on which poor Morris Pugh had sought in vain for God's Providence upon the mountain-top, he had not left his room; for rheumatic fever--that curse of Wales--had laid hold of him.
The mental shock also militated against recovery. It would be almost impossible to overestimate what that shock had been, surcharged as he was by religious exaltation. He had been dashed from high heaven to earth, and at first he lay stunned, absolutely maimed. Then, as feeling returned to his numb mind, the desire to slip away and so avoid the necessity for thought was the despair of his mother, who had come from the lonely hill-farm, where she still was mistress, to be his devoted nurse. She was a woman of the true saintly type, full to the brim of sympathies and sentimentalities; as such, not one to be burdened with the reality of doubt.
By degrees, however, chaos became order. The fiat, "Let there be light," went forth, and Morris Pugh, enthusiast by nature, began to creep towards it. What although the so-called miracles in which he and many others had believed were unreal, that could not be said of the effects of the revival. They were everywhere manifest, abundantly real. Thousands hitherto spiritually blind were now with open eyes following the straight and narrow way. Oh! there was proof enough to show what Power was at work. As the Reverend Hwfa Williams had said (he found such small jests no inconsiderable aid in his rough and ready missioning), there was proof enough for every Thomas in Wales.
And there was more work to be done; so what mattered it whether he, Morris Pugh, the man to do it, rose or did not rise to the height of sublime folly which had been his once? There was work to be done and he must do it. So on the last day of the old year, after a week's change at Aberystwith, he returned, eager for the big revival meeting which was to see the New Year in. It was to be a great occasion, for Merv, Gwen, and Alicia Edwards were back for a Christmas holiday from their arduous labour abroad. Their presence in the little village must surely awaken the few sleepers that remained; these would be gathered in, their names added to the already long list of the elect. Even Myfanwy Jones who, as usual, had come down for a long week-end laden with bandboxes, might follow the example of her father and come into the ranks of the saved.
That would be great gain, for though Myfanwy, being well-to-do, might dress as she pleased, the influence of that dress was not benign on poorer girls. And there were so many points besides drunkenness and open immorality which the undoubted increase of faith did not seem to touch. David Morgan had sold his mare at Wrexham for five-and-twenty pounds. An open market truly, and it was a good-looking beast, for all that it had the staggers. Then the hole in the hedge, through which Evan Rees' sheep were in the habit of pushing their way to graze on a water-meadow belonging to an absentee proprietor, was still unmended.
There were, in fact, many things which to Morris Pugh's sobered sight seemed ill advised, while some, such as the midnight meetings held by mere lads and lassies, could not be defended.
All these things must be combated. But on this eve of a new step towards Eternity (that quaint Eternity which apparently has not yet begun for the religious) the work must be to rouse every dead soul to life.
The chapel was packed from floor to ceiling. Taken simply as a sight, it was marvellous to think of the sordid lives lived from year to year, begun, continued, and ended in the cult of the ultimate sixpence (by which alone the struggle for existence could be maintained) that many of those present were leading; here, before the Lord, they were at least seeking a higher sanction.
And yet----
Morris Pugh's whole heart and soul went out in one vivid prayer for true guidance.
Gwen, on the platform, was looking dreadfully ill. She was wasted to a skeleton, her fever-bright eyes seemed larger than ever, but they were steadier, and her voice was even sweeter, despite the hollow hacking cough which assailed her at all times, save when she was singing.
Those same eyes of hers had learned the trick of fastening themselves on one face; but so had the eyes of all these practised missioners, and even Abel Parry, who was taking Hwfa Williams' part as bass, looked out steadily, earnestly.
Myfanwy Jones felt the thrill of this, though she was conscious that much of her physical sense of strain arose from the presence of Mervyn Pugh.
How very handsome he was, and what a gentleman he looked after his three months of touring about the country!
In truth he had changed. He was finer, more complex; for it had been impossible to lead the old simple village life in the hotels and boarding-houses where he had lodged. He was different in every way, and in becoming different he had almost forgotten his past self. Even the mental emotion of his first association with Gwen in this work of salvation had passed; he took it now as a matter of course. For the rest, seeing his way clear, and urged thereto by those who had heard him speak, he had almost made up his mind to the ministry.
Yet not quite so; and the sight of Myfanwy Jones robed in black samite, mystic, wonderful, in the very first row, roused recollections, almost regrets.
For there had been no harm in their holiday junketing at Blackborough; they had only enjoyed themselves immensely.
A sense of something electrical in the air disturbed him from recollections of a man in a music hall, who had ventured to comment on his companion's beauty, and he became conscious that Gwen and Alicia Edwards were both looking at him. There was a whole world of difference in the meaning of these looks, but Mervyn lumped them together as a control to his wandering thoughts.
He need not have felt that sudden sense of guilt so far as poor Gwen was concerned. Her limited mind had long since relegated the stormy past to the Devil. She shuddered at the thought of it, as she shuddered at the thought of Him.
But Mervyn was a soul which, mysteriously, she had saved.
In a measure this was true. All unknown to herself, she was largely responsible for the outburst of spiritual energy around her. There was that in her which, given freely as she gave it, without measure and without stint, was bound to force response. And to-night, wearied utterly, yet elated, singing against the doctor's orders, racked by a terrible pain when she drew her breath, she was at the flood-tide of her potentiality; and she knew it.
Beside this--the joy and rapture of the stigmatic--Alicia Edwards'
jealousy of Myfanwy was trivial indeed. But though much that was trivial lingered in the minds of many in the chapel, there was a deadly earnestness in most of the faces which looked up to the missioners, almost as they might have looked at a veritable transfiguration of their Lord.
The toilworn, the smug, the rugged, the sensuous, the clever, on all these lay a supreme desire, yet a supreme content. Briefly, they had what they wanted, yet they wanted something more. What?
An analysis of the minds of most would, no doubt, have yielded a large percentage of purely personal sense of salvation, but there was more than that in the whole atmosphere of the little chapel as Morris Pugh stood up to give his first address since his vigil upon the mountain.
What it was, who can say? Call it the Spirit of God, call it anything you please, all explanations resolve themselves into a still further away, "What is it?"
Now, all those days and nights of mental and physical torture through which Morris Pugh had passed, had left their unfailing mark on him.
Before he could even creep back into the old straight way, it had been necessary for him to acknowledge that he had been at fault in seeking to dictate to the Greater Wisdom, in looking for a sign, when no sign would be given. It had been a bitter struggle for him to lay down these, his highest hopes, but he had laid them down, and he stood before his people humbled, patient, almost wistful.
But they were not attuned to this mood; so as he spoke, the electricity--the _something_--in the air failed, and silence passed to faint shiftings, to louder shufflings. Practised speaker as he was, he realised at once that he was not, as usual, holding his audience. With an almost convulsive inward prayer for guidance, he modulated his voice into the bardic "hwl," that marvellous maker of emotion amongst the Welsh.
A cough? Yes! a distinct cough! followed by another and another!
Mervyn looked anxiously at his brother. This would never do!
Experience told him that the unknown force on which the professional missioner relies was oozing away, so without more ado, he gave the signal to Gwen, and straightway a hymn, softly, persuasively, sung in the perfect harmony of four exquisite voices, arrested the wavering attention of the crowded chapel.
Emotionally musical to the _n_'th degree, the audience needed no more.
In an instant the atmosphere changed and, as Morris Pugh resumed his seat, the waves of sweet sound seemed to stun him with a sense of failure.
Verse after verse, those waves grew to almost tumultuous chorus, seeming to monopolise with their vibration even the small amount of stifling air left to each pair of human lungs. So through that human chorus, half-drowned by the glad summons to Eternity, came the passing of Time as the church clock struck--
Twelve!!
The sound stilled the singing for a second, and Mervyn, a genius in emotion, seized on the propitious moment.
"Let us pray!" he cried, falling on his knees, "let us pray for our brothers and sisters who are still in bondage!"
Without an instant's hesitation the congregation of the elect followed suit, leaving the few standing, uncertain. Amongst them, Myfanwy Jones. Her face showed a sudden fear, not unmixed with resentment; but Mervyn had leapt from the platform and was beside her, his face brilliant, ere she could decide on either.
"Do not go!" he whispered passionately. "Listen! The door is open--we wait for you! we want you, Myfanwy!"
The girl turned to him. A faint tremor showed in her full, lithe figure; her lip trembled. Another moment and she would have given way, but that moment brought another factor to the equation of assent.
"Yes! We want you, Myfanwy! We wait for you!"
It was a girl's voice, and Myfanwy flashed round on it superbly self-possessed. "Thank you much, Alicia Edwards," she said in clear tones, "but there is no need for you to wait at all. I am going!"
And go she did, with her head held high, a sphinxlike calm of malice in her face, the _frou-frou_ of her silken skirts heard above the sudden silence which fell upon the chapel.
It had needed but this example to make other hesitants follow. The congregation, taken aback, looked for guidance and got it from Gwen.
"I will not let thee go!" she chanted in still clearer, higher tones as she threw out her hands to those retreating souls. "Yea, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me. Where thou goest I will go. Thy God shall be my God! Follow! Follow!"
The cry was caught up readily, as all her cries were, when as now, her nervous equilibrium was disturbed. So on the heels of the retreating few, the many swept out into the chill, frost-bound moonlit night.
The utter peace of it, its cold indifference, disturbed by no questionings, struck like a knife to Morris Pugh's heart as he followed also, uncertain whether to accompany his flock on their midnight visitations, or go home to pray in secret for the salvation of sinners.
He chose the latter, and as he closed the door of his room the rousing chorus of a revival hymn echoed out under the stars of heaven, making him think sadly, how far away these were, for all their brightness.
They seemed so also to Aura, who at that moment--looking as if she might have stood as illustration to Keats' "St. Agnes' Eve"--was standing at her window in the moonlight. Four days had passed since her grandfather's sudden fainting fit, and he was quite himself again.
He had even been able to see Mr. Hirsch, who had called in his motor; and Peter Ramsay, after delaying his departure a day or two, had left.
There was nothing more to be feared for the present; and for the future, a peaceful, unemotional life was all that was required. So well, in fact, was he that Ted had obeyed an urgent summons from Mr.
Hirsch, and, much against his will on this last night of the Old Year, had gone over to him at Aberafon. It was a bore, he felt; and yet the last few days of closer companionship with Aura, of her natural inevitable reliance on him, had made him leave her with a lighter heart.