Troublous

In the storm which felled the grand old oak, whose roots spread wide and deep, the encompassing earth was rent, and other oaks, for a distance round, were rendered less secure. Those nearest the prostrate one felt most the shock of its downfall; some of them being so deeply barked that summer breezes, rain, and dew, and heat could never heal their scars. The death of Abel Hughes deprived the town of one who had carried conviction to the hearts of loafing “corner men,” and even worse characters, that he was a good man. The tradesmen lost from their midst an example of one who could deal with the world without lying, and at the same time earn a livelihood honestly and without stint. Let us hope he was not the last of those old-fashioned people! But it was to the chapel and the cause that the loss was greatest. The inhabitants could not think of Methodism without Abel. Rightly had witling Seth called the chapel Abel’s chapel, and, when he fell, the members felt as if their sanctuary had lost its inward life. There were not a dozen belonging to the church who could remember the Big Seat without Abel in it. The majority had repeated their verses to him in the Children’s Society, and been received by him into full membership. The affairs, temporal and spiritual, of nearly every family connected with the church were known to Abel; and there was hardly a Methodist house in the town that he had not been in, by someone’s bedside with counsel and with prayer. Old men and women on the parish, like others higher stationed, could pour their woes in Abel’s ear, confident that their secrets would never be divulged. For many years he had acted as pastor to the church, with this distinct advantage, that he could tell the truth in public and in private, fearless of dismissal or visible falling off in the collections. The truth will stand; but how many of us are ready to stand by the truth without trying to trim it after our own particular fashion? “And they knew that they were naked.” Possessed of truths which we are certain should be spoken, are we not apt to dress them up in our own aprons? On the other hand, men are met with, boastful of their honesty, their fondness for telling the truth and plain speaking; but who display an impertinence and a rudeness which make the sensible regard their bluntness of speech as the outcome of ignorance and bad manners. Truth is a knife, in the estimation of people like these, and “the truth that kills” is their only truth. Some churches, even unto this day, keep their religious butcher and executioner. The former’s chief delight is in cutting up his co-religionist into four quarters and a head, and exhibiting him upon his stall; the latter likes to hang him at once, and have done with it. Speaking metaphorically, Abel could wield a knife, but not the butcher’s. He used it, not to take away life, but to spare it. Once he believed there was danger, he never dilly-dallied. He brought home to the patient’s mind the unspeakable value of his soul’s health, and that to save it he must undergo the severest operation. And, as a rule, those who had been longest under his hands were his warmest, fastest friends. I think it was the common experience of those who were bred in the church that, as children, they considered Abel Hughes too sharp, precise and severe; but that, as they gathered age and sense, their estimate of him softened, In their childhood he seemed a sort of sour green crab, which set their teeth on edge; grown up, they came to regard him as a great, round apple—yellow, ripe and sweet in the mouth, It was not often, as Thomas Bartley said, that Abel made a mistake. Many a time have I seen several church members ardent and determined concerning this thing and that, but directly they got to know Abel differed from them, they began to doubt—not Abel, but themselves. Often, in the Society, have I known John Lloyd rise to his feet and dilate hotly upon some complaint or other. You might think from his speech that religion had died out of the land, and that certain persons in the church, whom he did not name, had been guilty of every form of wickedness conceivable. Abel would thereupon get up and, with some dozen soothing words, would clear the air and still the ferment. He would then walk straight up to old Betty Kenrick or Thomas Bartley to ask an experience; and two minutes later everybody had forgotten all about John Lloyd and his lecture. Will Bryan detested John Lloyd, and nothing pleased him better than to see Abel give his enemy a “sitting on,” as he used to call it. “Did ye spot how Abel put out Old Scraper’s bonfire by spitting on it?” Will would sometimes ask me in the Society. “That was the smartest bit of work I’ve seen, for I can’t tell how long, I’ll take my oath.” Abel had an awl of his own which never failed to flatten out a blustering, pretentious wind-bag. He never spoke of it aftewards, but I often thought that a feat of this kind afforded him a little secret pleasure; for, in his corner by the fire at home, a smile of satisfaction would spread across his face, as if he were enjoying a good thing all to himself. He was strict, as I have said. He could not tolerate a harum-scarum religionist; but whatever & man’s shortcomings and defects might be, he always sympathised with him deeply. I have mentioned, in a previous chapter, that I never saw his like at reading the human heart. He had studied his own for an age, and I heard him say, several times, it was the most deceitful of all things. He was able, on that account, to understand and guide the young man fighting against temptation and doubt. He could feel for the toiling and the troubled, make allowance for the raw and inexperienced, who had any good in them, and participate in the spiritual joy and sorrow of the old and tried. But idleness, carelessness, hypocrisy and cant he found unbearable, always. I had better advantages than anyone else, almost, for knowing him thoroughly. To me he never once appeared to pride himself upon his own virtues; but when he saw those virtues shine, even in a less degree, in others, his face fairly beamed with pleasure. He had set himself so high a standard of conduct that his failings were kept continually in view; and he regarded with envy some people who, to my mind, did not deserve comparison with himself. His sincerity and force of character gave him an authority in the church which no one either dared or desired to question.

I must acknowledge it was not these reflections which filled my mind when Abel died; but others much less disinterested. I saw that I had lost my most precious friend, at a time when my future, humanly speaking, was almost entirely dependent upon him. I am ashamed to think how selfish I was. For the moment, I feared all my prospects blighted. I remember well feeling astonished and hurt to find no one sympathising with me. Everybody talked of the loss it would be to the cause, and all the sympathy ran towards Miss Hughes. “Poor Miss Hughes!” “What’ll Miss Hughes do now?” “Miss Hughes, poor thing, will be left alone in the world, now she has lost her brother.” “Who will Miss Hughes get to look after the business? There’s that boy, there, going to college it would be much fitter for him to stay at home to help Miss Hughes, if he has any feeling in him.” “Surely, Rhys Lewis won’t think of leaving Miss Hughes in her present trouble. He ought to be ashamed of himself if he does.” That was how people talked. All thought of Miss Hughes and, as far as I was aware, no one thought of Rhys Lewis. Why? Because no one knew it was Abel’s chief desire that I should go to college. He had never told a living soul, save me, that I should not want a single penny as long as I was away and that I was always to consider the Corner Shop my home. I realised my loss in all its bitterness, and felt myself unfriended and alone. I knew I was selfish, but I could not help it. I saw all my plans upset, and thought that nothing remained for me but to abandon my intention of going to college and settle down to business once more. Simultaneously there came to mind Abel’s injunction not to think of keeping shop and preaching; and I thought I should be bound to give up the preaching also. My heart sank within me. I had not an atom of taste, nay, I had a positive dislike, for business. This was not my fault, I fancied. It was Abel Hughes who had led me into it; had created in me a hatred of trade, and disposed my mind to other things. For a considerable time before his death he allowed me the widest liberty. I was asked to do but next to nothing in the shop, if he saw I was diligent with my books and was not idling. But now, I feared all the trouble he had taken with me had been in vain, and that all my own efforts had gone with the wind. The more I thought of all this the more I commiserated myself, the less ready was I to become reconciled to my fate. As described in a previous chapter, Miss Hughes had been remarkably kind towards me, even during my mischievous period, and my indebtedness to her was great. She was a simple, innocent old soul, who resembled her brother in nothing save in kindness and fidelity. She took no interest in the questions Abel and I used to discuss, and I wondered many times to think how little she comprehended those matters of which the knowledge had made her brother noted. To her there was no difference between preacher and preacher; they were all good, and she had as much respect for the least of them as for the greatest. She read a chapter of the Bible in her bedroom every night without fail; and then went peacefully to sleep. I do not know that she ever read anything else except on the Sabbath, when she took up Y Drysorfa,* opening it at random and nodding over it, directly. She knew next to nothing about the business and, I feared, but little about her brother’s circumstances, either. But for all that, she was a good woman, who filled the sphere of life she was called into excellently well. She kept the house clean and beautiful, and her hospitality to all whom Abel brought beneath his roof was cordial and sincere. Abel’s sudden death was a heavy blow to her, and one which, apparently, excited not only my own but others’ deepest sympathy, for “many came to comfort her concerning her brother.” In view of the number of our visitors—well-intentioned people, no doubt—I think I did wisely in calling in a sensible woman to look after Miss Hughes, and prevent her from being killed with kindness. One of the things which affords me the greatest consolation at the present moment is, that I myself carried out the funeral arrangements to the satisfaction of all, without consulting anybody save David Davis. No; not so, either. I marvel when I think of the state of dreamy absent-mindedness I was in at the time. In everything I did, I felt my dear old master at my side, and I seemed to be doing it all according to his command. On the sad day we buried him, and when I was conscious of, rather than saw, the crowd of people that came together, I remember wondering into how small a gap they put poor Abel, and how large the one, which never could be filled, that he had left behind. When David Davis and I were returning from the churchyard, I fancied hearing my old master addressing us with a “Thank you, Rhys; thank you, David. Ye did well.” To which we replied, “We have only done that which it was our duty to do by thee.”

David Davis accompanied me back to the house, and we both went into the kitchen, there being “of women some” with Miss Hughes in the parlour. If these lines are ever read, I dare say I shall be deemed foolish for noting such trifles, I had hoped David would sit in Abel’s old arm chair; but instead of doing so he took the chair he usually sat on when Abel was alive. The old chair was empty, and beside it, on the wide hob, lay the pipe, exactly in the spot it was left four days ago. Neither David nor I spoke a word, but I knew we both appeared as if constantly expecting Abel to come in. How difficult it is to realise the departure, nevermore to return, of one who has for years been a part of your life! After talking over one thing and another, David presently asked me what I intended to do? Did I consider it wise, under the circumstances, to go to college? I said I was not prepared to answer.

“No one would blame you, now, as things have happened,” he went on, “if you did not go to Bala—Abel taken suddenly away, Miss Hughes left all alone, and knowing nothing about the business. Indeed, everybody would think the more of you if you were not to go. What if you were to wait another year, to see how things turn out?”

He spoke feelingly and persuasively; but his words stabbed me to the heart. What, thought I, David Davis exhort me not to go to college! I I was hurt, and said to him, a little excitedly, “David Davis, if I don’t go to college now I never shall. If I find, after taking time to consider the matter, that it is my duty to stay here, I shall bid an eternal good-bye to preaching; if otherwise, nothing will prevent my going. But to-night I do not clearly see what my duty is, and I do not choose to discuss the subject.”

“Pray for light, then,” returned David, rising to go. But before he left I took him to the parlour to Miss Hughes, whose friends, with the exception of the “sensible woman,” had by this time gone. I had held but little converse with her since her brother’s death. In her affliction she left everything to me. When I attempted to consult with her, “You know best,” was the only answer I got. Naturally enough, she began to cry immediately on our entrance, and for some time was not able to say a word. I followed her example, for, of a truth, although selfish, I was not hard-hearted.

“David Davis,” she presently observed, “hasn’t Rhys done well? I always did like him—he knows that himself. When he came here first he was very wicked, and Abel was so strict. I used to take his part, as he knows. You won’t leave me to go to that old college, will you, Rhys?”

David answered for me, for which I was very thankful: “You’ll talk of that another time, Miss Hughes,” and after adding a few consolatory words, he went away.

I felt very wretched that night. For some hours I sat by the fire in a reverie. The old clock had stopped, and no one had thought of setting it going again. I feared Providence clearly meant me not to go to college, and consequently not to preach. Abel Hughes had told me, more than once, that no young man, in these enlightened days, should think of the ministry without first spending some years at college; and I fancied, then, it was almost impossible Abel could err in judgment. I reflected that if I stayed with Miss Hughes the whole care of the business would devolve upon me; Jones being merely a kind of useful fixture. All my time must be devoted to the shop, so that reading and sermon-making would be utterly out of the question. On the other hand, if I went to college, how was I to get the means of subsistence? I could not hope to win prizes. Those would be taken by the well-to-do, properly-supported young men who had received a good education in early life. I had heard that some of the boys were able to live on very little at Bala, and I thought I should like to show myself able to live on less than any of them. With the exception of a few shillings lying loose in my pocket, all the money I owned was in my purse. How much had I? Taking my purse out, I emptied it into my hand and placed it upon the table. “I counted my money carefully: six pounds in gold, ten and sixpence in silver, I remember well. I was gazing at the coin as it rested in the palm of my right hand, when I heard Miss Hughes and her companion coming along the passage to bid me “good-night” before going to bed. I hurriedly thrust my wealth into my pocket and brushed the purse aside, lest they should discover how earthly my contemplations were. A few minutes later, the house was perfectly quiet, and I again fell to racking my brains with reference to my situation, and vexing myself by thinking how completely my circumstances and plans for the future had changed in less than a week. I did not know how long I remained in this state. I was sure it must be late at night, because the stir in the streets had ceased, and nothing was to be heard save someone passing slowly around the corner of the house. I thought it was the policeman. The same step sounded three or four times over. I knew I could not sleep if I went to bed; I had got to feel so uneasy and sick at heart. Fancying a mouthful of fresh air would do me good, I slipped out quietly, carefully locking the door behind me. It was a lovely moonlit night, with a nice light breeze blowing, although it was not cold. The details of the occasion are still vividly present in my memory. Deep silence reigned in the streets, as if all their dwellers were dead. I turned down one street and up another, just as if I had a particular destination in view, which, however, was not the case. In the second street I saw a light in the upstairs window of a little cottage, where, I remembered, there lay a young girl who was very ill. Yes, I reflected, it is worse with her than with me, and there are those about her who cannot give sleep to their eyes for sorrow and the ‘multitude of thoughts within them.” Going on a little, I heard a sound in the distance, and paused to listen. It was the rumble of a barrow upon the pavement, from which I understood that “Ready Ned” was on night duty. It was at night Ned always worked, at night that his work must be done. For more reasons than one I took another direction, proceeding along which I remember a white cat gliding, spirit-like, across my path. Hurrying on, I saw, just before reaching the top of the high street, a slightly built little man wearing a soft hat, slouched somewhat low over the eyes; a tired, hard-up tramp, most likely. I bade him good night, but he made no reply. I thought no worse of him for that, it being possible, I fancied, he may be fatigued, empty-stomached, angered at a cold-hearted world, too wearied or careless to reply, and saying to himself, “What’s your ‘good-night’ worth if you don’t give me anything?”

Presently, I had left the town behind me, without seeing one other creature save William the Coal’s mule grazing the hedge. I knew it was he before coming up, from the clink of his fetter. I remembered that “Duke” was of a wandering disposition, and that William was obliged to chain him by the leg in order to keep him within the bounds of his own parish. “Duke” was busily browsing, and occasionally shaking his head, with the greatest gravity, as if discussing something with himself in a negative sense, for at that time of night it was impossible he could be plagued by the gnats. When he heard me approach, “Duke” stopped eating, arrested his jaw in the midst of a bite and began wondering, apparently, why William had come to fetch him thus early, for his ears went up like a double note of admiration. Seeing his mistake, “Duke” went on with his grazing and argument. I went on, too, my mind rambling over all sorts of subjects, but always reverting to myself. I was conscious of a deep and earnest desire for knowledge and for being of service to both God and man. And yet everything seemed to be driving me back behind the counter, doomed for life to sell cloths, flannels and calico! I I tried to cheer myself and look at things in a different light. What mattered it if my life were spent in the shop? There was no scarcity of young men, better qualified than I, for the ministry and more advantageously placed in preparation for the work. I looked up into the infinite, star-studded, sky overhead. What difference would it make, I asked myself, if eternal darkness settled down upon that tiny solitary speck in the far-off distance? No one would miss it. And yet that star shone with a lovely lustre, and, doubtless, served some useful purpose or other. Yes, there are clouds in the firmament of blue. How beautiful the luminous moon, in her radiance! Ah! there comes a cloud across her face, which hides her wholly. How like, now, she is to me! But, see, the cloud passes—one part of her placid countenance is already in sight—aye, the cloud has cleared away again, and gentle Luna beams brighter than before. Can the cloud pass from me, also? Everything is possible unto Him.

Such were the thoughts of my heart when I fancied hearing footsteps behind me. I looked back, but saw no one. Turning suddenly upon my heel, I made for home. I had not gone many yards when I saw a man get up from the hedge side, and walk to meet me. It was the tramp I had passed on the road; only he did not now seem to halt in the slightest, neither did his hat-cantle cover his eyes as before. I believed he had some evil intention towards me, and at once thought of running away. But how could I tell what arms he had? It would be wisest to face him boldly, and make the best of a bad matter. When we met I recognised him instantly.

“You must’nt think me too proud to speak just now, because I refused to answer you,” he observed. ‘O, no, I’m never above owning my relations; but I take care not to lower myself by talking to all sorts. And how——”

“Uncle,” I broke in, “do you remember what I said to you the last time I saw you?”

“Good -night!’” he replied.

“You know that is not the occasion I’m referring to,” I rejoined. ‘Do you recollect what I told you in the garden of Nic’las of Garth Ddu?”

“Well, wait a bit; my memory is not so bad, as a rule. What was it, though? O! I remember now—that you’d give me a sovereign next time you saw me. How a man does forget things, to be sure.”

“You know better,” I retorted. “You know that what I told you was—if ever you showed your face in this neighbourhood again, I would give you into the hands of the police; and I’ll do so, too.”

“Bosh!” he returned, contemptuously. ‘Look here—when you want a good shot, never: take a double-barrelled gun. That’s the disadvantage of a revolver. It’s good for nothing except at short range. Am I not your uncle, your father’s brother? To whom would the disgrace be if you gave me up to the police? To James Lewis or Rhys Lewis? What does James Lewis care about disgrace? I know a certain proud chap, though, who wouldn’t like it at all—eh? But there, I don’t wan’t to quarrel with you. It isn’t respectable for relations to fall out. Let byegones be byegones. So, old Abel has gone to his account, has he? The old screw—he’ll have a lot to answer for, like myself.”

“Here, uncle,” said I, “I’d rather you killed me than spoke disrespectfully of my good old master.”

“Well, well,” he continuned; “I don’t want to hurt your feelings. It was a capital thing for you that Abel took himself off. You’ll be boss, now; for what does the old gal and that born idiot, Jones, know about the business? If you don’t make your fortune now, the fault will be yours. I hope you won’t deal shabby by me. I’m the only relation left you in the world, and I’ve been real unlucky of late. Haven’t had a haul I don’t know when, and it was a narrow shave I wasn’t nabbed last week. I had to fight like——.”

“I can’t bear to listen to your ungodly talk, and I must leave you, uncle,” said I.

“I don’t wan’t you to take apartments for me,” he went on; “because that wouldn’t pay either of us. But I’m in want of cash, and cash I must have or starve. P’r’aps you haven’t much about you to-night; but I can come over to see you, now and then, since you’re to be boss, and are a late bird, like myself,”

“As long as I am there you’ll never set foot inside the house,” I declared. “And besides, I’m as poor as yourself.”

“That’s your own fault,” he remarked. ‘If you hadn’t swallowed so much of the flummery ladled out to you by your mother you need never have been poor. Trust me, if I had had your chance.”

I must tell the honest truth: at his mention of my mother, I felt I could throttle him with pleasure, and had to punish myself very considerably in order to prevent myself from flying at his throat. So severe was the internal struggle with my worse nature that I was, for a minute, unable to speak. On regaining self-possession—God forgive me my mad words—I said to him:—

“You scoundrel! Say another disrespectful word about my mother and I’ll pull you limb from limb. My mother taught me to lead an honest life.”

Uncle retreated two or three yards, looked at me in astonishment, and fumbled for something in his pockets. I was not a bit afraid, and was quite prepared to fall a sacrifice to his wrath in defence of the reputation of, to my mind, the best mother in the world. After a minute’s silence he said, with perfect composure;

“I’m glad to see a bit of the family pluck in you. I’d always considered you a bit of a chicken; but I think a hundred times better of you, now. If I said anything wrong about your mother, I apologise. She was a good sort, in her way, and she did me an occasional kindness. But why do you everlastingly want to quarrel with me? Let’s be chums. That’s where your father beat you—he was as cool as a turnip, always, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. But you know what I’m after. I’m stone broke; I haven’t a brown to buy a bit of grub with, and I know you wouldn’t like to see me getting into trouble.”

“I don’t want to have anything to do with you,” said I, “Tell me which way you wish to go, and I’ll take some other. I shan’t walk a step with you.”

“Agreed,” he said. “But give me what you have about you, first. It isn’t much, I dare say.”

Impulsively, I turned out my pocket into his hand, thinking I had only a few shillings loose among the coppers. Thanking me, he went away, and I returned home. The encounter fully determined me in the course I should take. It was no longer possible I could stay at home to be plagued by this horrid wretch. I felt he had got the upper hand of me, that he knew my weakness, and that I dared not denounce him to the authorities without bringing disgrace upon myself. Obviously he was not aware that I preached, and by going to college he would lose scent of me, for he dared not make inquiries. I believed it was Providence that had brought me face to face with the vagabond that night, and was inviting me to throw myself into its arms. I resolved to do so, and go to college, come what may. Although I could not help my family connections, I felt thankful at the thought that, associated with the rest of the scholars, none of them would know my history. ‘And possibly, I argued, even some of them may have a history which they would not like everybody else to know. Having made up my mind, I felt happy and in my element. Indeed my bliss was such that I could enjoy the altered look on “Duke” as I went by. My old friend had eaten to satiety, and was nodding where he stood, one leg resting limply, and his head bent low and still, as if he had long since carried the point in discussion. “Duke,” I fancied, had, like myself, his story, if he could only tell it, and could preface others—a more interesting one than mine, it may be. I walked rapidly on, and let myself into the house as softly as I could. When Hit the gas, one of the first things I saw was my purse upon the edge of the table. I took it up; it was empty! Alas! I had given every farthing I possessed to the “Irishman,” as I used to call him when a lad. I grasped the situation with grief. Having made up my mind to go to college, here was I without as much as a penny to pay my fare thither. Stupified and sorrowful, I stood on the middle of the kitchen floor, where Abel Hughes had many a time exhorted me to put my trust in God. Verily, He was trying me sore. I sat down, laid my head between my hands upon the table, and cried my eyes out, nearly.