Bob

Months went by. The work at Red Fields prospered under the management of Abraham Jones, who, by this time, had brought the place to order. Expenses were less and profits greater than when the “Lankie,” as he was called, was overseer, while the workmen received a wage of which they could not complain. The unpleasant words “oppression” and “injustice” were no longer heard in our house, and Bob was wholly satisfied with his earnings. In a few weeks he paid off every farthing of the debt my mother had incurred during his imprisonment, and poverty and want were banished our cot. But was my mother happy? Bob’s wages, as I have said, were more than enough to meet the family requirements, and mother was no longer compelled to puzzle her head about paying her way. To me it appeared that Providence smiled upon us, and that our troubles and trials were all at an end. One bitter thing, it is true, had a permanent place in our consciousness, though none of us ever made mention of it. But, by now, it had become an old story of which we took no account, save as we did original sin—something of which we could not shake ourselves free. As far as I could perceive, the prison had had but little effect on Bob’s spirit, one way or the other. In his hours of leisure he read unremittingly, mother saying he would ruin his eyesight, for certain. He came, also, regularly to chapel as before; but, although earnestly pressed, he declined to take up again his class in the Sunday School. I must admit one other change in him—he never now read the Bible in our presence, a fact which troubled mother greatly, for she feared, for some time, that he did not read it at all. Generally he sat up after mother and I had gone to bed; mother regularly, after the device had presented itself to her mind, taking care to place the Bible every night in a peculiar position upon the table near the window, which enabled her to make sure, next morning whether Bob had touched it or not. So much was she comforted on perceiving that the Bible had been moved that it became her nightly habit to note its precise position on the table. Against this change for the worse in Bob must be placed his increased love and tenderness towards mother. He appeared more respectful in his demeanour, and more tolerant of her prejudices.

But was my mother happy? I am certain she was not. The bloom did not return to her cheek, nor did the black marks disappear from under her eyes. In the space of three months she seemed to have aged ten years. And yet I think the bloom would have come back, and the blackness beneath the eyes have gone thence, had Bob but said, “Mother, I feel very uneasy, and mean to offer myself to the Society next Sunday.” But the words were never spoken. Often did my mother refer to the danger of tribulations, not merely leaving us where we were, but driving us farther from God, instead of bringing us gentleness of spirit, and making us consecrate and more religiously inclined. Bob quite saw the drift of her remarks. But inasmuch ag he persistently took it upon him that they did not apply personally to himself, mother, one night, gave up parablising, and pressed upon him seriously the duty of betaking himself once more to his religious professions. His answer, as near as I can recollect it, was in these words:—

“You know that it is not my fault that I do not profess. It was not I who threw away profession, but the church who took it from me. As far as I’m aware, there is nothing different in me now from what there was when I professed, except that I have been to prison; and that, I should think, does not add to my fitness to profess. Were I to offer myself to the church, the first question asked—or, at any rate, that ought to be asked —me would be, have I repented the fault for which I was excommunicated? I should be obliged to reply that I have not repented, never can repent it. Either the church or I, in that case, would look like a It is the church alone that is responsible for my non-profession—if having my name on the Society-book means profession. I believe, however, there is a higher profession, and a far superior confession of faith. There are men to be found—I do not say I am one, lest you should tell me, as you did once, that I am self-righteous --but there are men, I repeat, whose chief object it is to find out the truth, from whatever direction it may come; men who are constantly groping for the God of Truth, and who know what it is to lose many a night’s rest in eager, painful expectation of the light. They know well what it is to be grievously wounded by doubt and unbelief, and yet they will not give up searching for the balm which is to heal them. I call these God’s sons, even though some of them have not their names on any book of the Society. I have, as you know, a deep respect for several members of the church as true-principled, piously-disposed men, and, after their own fashion, strict disciplinarians. But, to me, it does appear strange that they can see only one kind of sin. Are Robert Lewis and William the Coal the only transgressors? Can you explain to me why William has been many times censured and John Lloyd not once? As far as 1 know, there is not one who doubts William’s innocence, poor fellow. His besetting sin is a forgetfulness that his head is not strong enough to resist the effects of more than two glasses of beer, and that he has a tendency, after overstepping the mark, to fall upon his back, or lurch on one side—in which no one can, or wants to justify him. But is there, pray, any regulation by which a man can be called to account for avarice and pirsimony? Are some men to be allowed to go on sowing the seeds of discord, persecuting their fellows, and blackening their characters, snapping like curs at their heels, living ever on envy and bitterness of spirit, always for killing and flaying preachers and deacons, merely because they are preachers and deacons? ‘That thou doest do quickly,’ said Christ to Judas, and Judas obeyed the command. But people like these can’t come up even to Judas’s standard. They sell the Master every day for thirty pieces of silver, but they do it leisurely, slowly, without haste, and without any sign either, more’s the pity, of speedily hanging themselves and going to their own place. And yet it would appear there is no rule of discipline for folk like them. Has the church no punishment save for William the Coal and me? When William took too much drink, every letter in the regulations of discipline cried aloud for his expulsion, notwithstanding, as Will Bryan says, that he put all the fault on Satan. And when I happened to lay the Old Soldier on his back, on seeing him cruelly beating my brother, the spirit and letter of the rules demanded my expulsion also. It’s nonsense I call a thing like that. In the great day to come —the day when will be revealed the secrets of our hearts—were I compelled to stand in either William the Coal’s shoes or John Lloyd’s, I know the ones I’d choose. As you are aware, I’m as strict an abstainer as anyone in church, and I think I grieve as much as any man over the evils of intemperance. But our God is not the God of temperance alone, is He? Is He not also the God of justice, love, magnanimity and meekness? The New Testament teaches me He is, pre-eminently so. But when did you see Abel Hughes—all respect to Abel; I believe he is a sincere Christian—when did you see him get upon his feet to move the excommunication of anyone for avarice, hard-heartedness and hard-facedness? Whom have you seen expelled for setting people by the ears? For persecuting his betters? For foul-mouthedness? No one, I’m sure. Not because there are none guilty of such sins; you know that as well as I do. Would that Paul lent me his authority and the mantle he left behind him at Troas! You should see directly that others besides William the Coal and myself were delivered over unto Satan.”

Mother, quiet and self-possessed, heard him right through; at which I was greatly surprised, for I remembered a time when she would not have suffered him to go on in this way for half a minute without setting upon him fluently and unsparingly. Indeed had Bob dared speak as now some six months previously, I doubt whether, strong a man as he was, she would not have boxed his ears. Now, however, she listened attentively to every word he said, and were they the last he spoke from his deathbed, her face could not have been more serious and sorrowful. She appeared as one who had let go her every hope, as one who, cast down by despair, endeavoured to look calm and resigned in the face of doom. I was only a lad but from childhood upwards my mother had drenched me with religious ideas and the terms of divinity, and I think I was then quite as competent as I am now to grasp the bitterness of her disappointment and her sorrow. I was able to follow and understand her words and feelings as she answered Bob in such sentences as:—

“Well, my son, I never expected to live to hear you talk like that; although I must admit having feared it was to this it would come. I have tried to listen to you carefully, fearing I should misunderstand and misjudge you. I can never tell you what my feelings were when you were taken to jail—wrongfully I know, thanks for that. But in the midst of many a night, when everybody else was fast asleep, I lay thinking of you, till I feared my heart would burst asunder before the morning; and I now fancy, if I’d not tried to believe your imprisonment was something in the Lord’s hand to bring you back to the fold, that my heart would indeed have broken. Your words to-night have disappointed me much, and hurt me cruelly. It is evident your soul has gone into a far off country, and I much fear you will be left to yourself. I am loth to believe that God’s Spirit does not wrestle with your mind. But remember, my son, there is a danger that you may vex Him, and that there’s an end to the patience even of the Almighty. You can never picture the state you’d be in were He to say, ‘Let him alone.’ You spoke of some people whose chief object was to find out the truth; and I understood from your words that you put yourself in the same bundle with them. But what truth do you mean? If it is the truth about God, about sinners, and about eternity, I know you’ll never get that outside God’s own Word. And here is what that says:—‘If ye continue in my word, then are ye my disciples indeed, and ye shall know the truth. The secret of the Lord is with them that fear him.’ And the same Word says: ‘He that is not with me is against me; and he that gathereth not with me scattereth abroad. Whosoever shall be ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation; of him also shall the Son of Man be ashamed when he cometh in the glory of his Father with the holy angels.’ Who are the people you talk about, who lose their sleep in searching for truth, but whose names are not on the books of the Society? I’d like to know them, ’cause I never saw anyone prospering very much who did not belong to the Society. I can’t make you out, even if you can yourself. To speak my mind plain, I think it’s some notions you’ve got from those old English books that have addled your head. I was sorry to hear you speak in the language of the backslider when you were pointing out the failings of those who profess. I thought you were above taking shelter behind anything of that sort, and although I admit there was a deal of truth in what you said, your conscience must tell you a story of that kind ’ont hold water before the judgment seat. Beware, my son, beware! I’ve no wish to hurt your feelings, and I wouldn’t for the world say anything to drive you further astray, but really I’d like to hear more of the publican ring about you. I, also, try to believe there is no difference of condition in you since you have ceased to profess, and I can’t tell you how glad I am that you continue to come to service regularly, and that you haven’t given way to sin. But I desire you to remember, my son, that when a shower comes the rain is always heaviest under the eaves. There is no verandah to God’s house; so that if you are not inside, you had almost better be out in the open. It is your own business, my boy. In a manner of speaking, it is nothing in the world to me; and yet it is something—as Mr. Hughes of Llangollen, says. I shall not be long with you—something tells me so. Between one thing and another I begin to feel that I am drawing near to some country, for in my soundings I find the fathoms getting fewer and fewer every day. But the ship would ride much more lightly could I cast into the sea my concern for you. Between one Euroclydon and the other 1 have been rather sorely tossed of late; but the Great Ruler has seen fit to show me a creek with a shore to it, more than once, and I have taken the hint that my soul shall not be lost. I have no desire to live to grow old, because I know I shall only be a drag upon you both. ‘Although my house be not so with God’ —you know who I’m referring to, and I hope God will visit the soul of him—‘Yet He hath made with me an everlasting covenant.’ Rhys, I really believe, is in a place where both soul and body’ll have fair play, and if I only saw you, Bob, like you used to be, I wouldn’t care how soon I was called away. The eternal world is quite new to me, and I do not know what change I must go through before entering it; but at present I can’t see how I’m going to be happy, even in Heaven, without the knowledge that I have left my two sons zealous in the cause of the dear old Methodists.”

Mother wiped her eyes with her apron which, according to her old habit, she began to pleat. While she was referring to her departure, which we never before heard her do, her words fell upon my ears, not as the complaint of the hypochondriac, but as the utterance of a prophet of God who was speaking the awful truth. My heart jumped to my throat. I looked at Bob, and found his eyes wet. As I said before, Bob was a most difficult one to move, once he had formed an opinion; but he had a remarkably tender heart, and his love towards mother was intense. Did the need arise, he would have died for her, any day. I noticed his whole soul was stirred, and that it was only by a great effort he could control his emotion. I fancy he and I felt like those disciples of old when Paul told them they should look upon his face no more. After a brief silence, Bob said,—

“I can’t understand, mother, why you should grieve so much on my account, and especially why you should talk of dying and leaving us. You are no ‘drag’ upon me at all; and as long as I have health and strength it will be my chiefest pleasure to make you happy and comfortable. Why do you repine? Do you see any falling off in my character? What difference would it make in my condition supposing the church rose their hands, and Abel Hughes wrote my name on the book? I know you would not wish me to dissemble; and even if you did, I would never do so. It is as painful to me as it is to you that we cannot see eye to eye. But I say again— and you shall think, if you like, that I am self-righteous—that I hate hypocrisy with a perfect hatred. I cannot pretend that I feel, this way and that, if I do nothing of the kind. I know as well as you do that it is a privilege for any man to be a religious professor; but then the church has deprived me of it, and what help have I Perhaps you will say I have transgressed? But I say no; for I will never believe that religion is antagonistic to the best feelings of human nature. If, to-morrow morning, I saw the strong chastise the weak, and knew myself to be stronger than the strong, I would make him show his heels to the sun that very instant, and would leave for work with a calm conscience that I had done nothing but my duty. Besides, you must admit that Heaven will have but a very scanty population if none are to enter it but those who have their names on the books of the Methodist Society. I know you’re not so narrow-minded as to think that.”

“Will you answer me one question?” said mother.

“A hundred if I can,” replied Bob.

“Good,” returned mother. “If you answer two or three, to my satisfaction, I shall feel perfectly easy. Do you see yourself a miserable sinner eternally and hopelessly lost, on your own account? Do you see in the Lord Jesus Christ a perfect and sufficient Saviour? Do you feel that you must rely entirely upon his deservedness for your salvation? And is your conscience perfectly easy, as you say, that you are upon the path of duty?”

I saw from Bob’s face that he had been squeezed into a corner. For some time he made no reply; mother meanwhile fixing him with her eve as if she meant to read his very soul.

“You know,” he said presently, “that it is but few, even of the professors, who can answer questions like those, clearly and unequivocally?”

“What am I to understand by‘unequivocally’?” she asked. “Don’t try to hide your meaning in words which are beyond me.”

“Well,” replied Bob, “we’ll put ‘unequivocally’ on one side. I say again, it is but few even of the really religious who are able to answer your questions clearly and without hesitation or doubt. And I believe you hardly expect me to answer them authoritatively. If I am able to do so after reaching your age I shall be thankful. I do not want to conceal my meaning from you, so I must confess it is in darkness I am, up to now, and that I am but feeling the way. I can honestly say I continue to grope, but spiritual truths appear to escape me. I assure you that my soul’s cry is—‘Light, light, more light!’ At times I think I have it—from on high; but it is only as a lightning flash, which leaves me in greater darkness than before. At other times I get another kind of light—from below; in following which I find myself among the bogs and marshes, whereupon I become aware the light is that of a corpse-candle. What am I to do I am not willing to shut my eyes and sit, despairing, in the dark. If I did that I should be like Satan, of whom Goronwy Owen says that he

I do not love the darkness; I rub my eyes, stand a-tiptoe, and crane my neck for some sign of morning. All I see, however, is the night shaking out black sheets across the sideless bed of truth. I had resolved not to say anything to you about the state of my mind, for I knew it would pain you. I am already sorry that I did not keep it all to myself; and yet I could not, since you questioned me. I know you do not understand me. To you who are ever living in the midst of the light, my words seem mad; but I can assure you they are the words of truth and soberness. I have gathered from your talk, for some time, that you believe me to be careless with respect to religious matters; but the Omniscient knows that I am not so. And yet the future is utterly dark to me. I am certain there is light beyond, somewhere; the thickness of the night assures me of that, to say nothing of the enjoyment I see you at all times taking in it. Why it is withheld from me I do not know. I, every day, go down into the darkness of the coal-pit, but there I have my lamp; when I try to delve in the world of mind and spirit, the darkness is quite as great, and my lamp goes out. What have I done, more than some other sinner, to prevent the dawn from breaking upon my soul? Perhaps you can tell me. I feel I am not as other people. I smile and laugh so as to be like my companions, but my heart is ever sad, my spirit ever weeps and makes moan. How can I laugh when I do not know the minute a mass of coal may crush me into yet deeper darkness than the one I am already in? Perhaps you will bid me pray; but are not the aspirations of the soul one constant prayer? And when I put my desires into words, they come back to me, saying, ‘No reply.’ O, wretched man that I am!”

Mother, with an effort at cheerfulness, said, “Well, my dear boy, I’m afraid you’re in the melancholy. I used to think no one was troubled with that but the preachers of old, and I haven’t heard of it troubling any of them since the time of Michael Roberts of Pwllheli. You are low-spirited, my son; you must take a little physic and a change of air. There’s nothing in the world like it, they say. Sing a bit, my boy; I’ll help you.” And mother began, as best she could, the hymn—

From that minute mother changed her tone and demeanour towards Bob. She spoke consolingly and encouragingly to him. But he only shook his head, as much as to say she did not understand him.

I think it must have been a fortnight or so after the foregoing conversation, that I was returning from the country where I had taken a shop parcel—my first months with Abel Hughes were occupied mostly in running errands. It was a lovely night, and I was well acquainted with the way, knowing every house, hedgerow, wall, gate and milestone. I fancied the trees gave me each a “Good Night” as I went past, as if to show that they rememembered me well since the time Will Bryan and I came birds’-nesting and nutting that way. Even at that early period I was, methinks, a bit of a dreamer, able to enjoy the romantic scenery and the profound calm. Ever since I can remember I have preferred the country to the town. I always feel that the noise and bustle of the town hinder one from hearing the voice of God speaking through nature. The night, because of its silence, has had a great charm for me. People would laugh, possibly, at the notion were they to read it; but true it is that I have often wondered why police-officers are not more refined and spiritual than other men. Think of the time they have for study, in God’s air, in the deep silence of the night, “the blue glittering firmament,” as John Jones, Talsarn, describes it, overhead, and all around wrapped in heavy slumber. What a glorious opportunity for communing with nature and with God, in the deep silence, unbroken by aught, save an occasional dog-bark at some farm house in the far-off distance. If it were not for the other duties connected with the office, I should like to be a policeman, for the sake of being out at night! But whither am I straying? I was, I repeat, returning from the country, fanciful and happy, thinking little of anything unpleasant awaiting me. On nearing home I saw numbers of people running towards the town. I hurried after them, and speedily overtook a lame old collier, making in the same direction. I asked him what the people were running for?

His reply was—“An explosion, my boy, at Red Fields Colliery.”

The words seemed to give me wings. My feet did not appear to touch the ground. I was lifted and carried along, as it were, by the whirlwind of fears which rushed upon my heart. Leaving the high road, I took a straight line for home, leaping walls, hedges, stiles, totally unconscious of any obstacle in the way. How selfish of me! I thought of no one but Bob. Was he amongst the injured? According to the time of day he should have been home, long before this, for his turn finished at seven o’clock. And yet it was only a few minutes past seven now! Supposing Bob were burnt to death, what should I do? Had the fire not touched him, how glad I should be!.But if it had reached his face—what a pity! Fancy his having lost an eye—how ugly he would look! O, the thoughts that ran through my brain as I devoured the distance between me and a full knowledge of all! Very speedily I got within sight of the house, and found Bob had come home. But how? In a trolly filled with straw, supported by two men, one on either hand of him. I was at his side in an instant. I heard him groan, as they were carrying him upstairs. Mother was deathly pale, but perfectly calm; Bob, black as the coal, and charred to a cinder, lay quite still. His bright and intelligent eyes had been burnt clean out of his head; and yet he was alive. I would not have known him from all the people in the world. The works’ surgeon, Dr. Bennett, who was in the room, shook his head as if there were no hope. I envied him the great tear I saw stealing down his cheek, because, for once, I could not cry. Trouble is sometimes so sharp and severe that our usual tokens of it refuse their services from very diffidence. So was it with mother and me at this juncture. We could not weep. Someone, I forget who, having given him a draught of water, Bob appeared to revive, and we heard him distinctly say:—

“Mother!”

“Can you see a little, my son?” asked mother on approaching him.:

“She did not know that he had lost both eyes.

“Yes, mother,” he replied. “The light has come at last.’

A second or two later he added, in English,—“Doctor, it is broad daylight.”

Next minute Bob had left behind him all the doubt and the darkness to others and to me.