“ORDEAL BY FIRE"

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXV, Issue 18659, 30 August 1930, Page 9

“ORDEAL BY FIRE"

It was a close summer evening. Thunder had rumbled threateningly among the mountains all day, like an | unquiet spirit seeking release. But despite the heat and the ominous : * cloud-banks, the small Welsh chapel was full to its open door. It was the prayer-meeting, the Seiet. Streams of : perspiration ran down the minister’s ■ face, for Gwilt Owen was young, energetic, and “powerful in prayer.” His flock sweltered below him in the garb of the early half of the last century, i the men in decent homespun, the ; women in cross-over shawls and mush- ; room hats. They sat closely packed ; on the rough benches, and panted, perspired, prayed, and witnessed to- • gether with groans of edification. The mental atmosphere, like the . physical, was charged with electricity. l A tense expectancy hung over the ; meeting. Rhys Probert, Ty Mawr i (the Big House), was absent from his [ seat in the square pew which filled the right-hand corner of the chapel, next i the pulpit, which towered above it in . the centre of the end wall, opposite i the door. His absence roused no sur- ; prise. “Big old heathen was Rhys . Probert, Ty Mawr,” in the estimation . of his neighbours, also the biggest . farmer in the district. But the sight of his only daughter. Malys, sitting - there, shrinking and alone, had brought many a "See you that now?” from the lips of those present, so seldom did she go abroad without her father. Yet, as the minister’s promised wife, the general opinion was, “Fitting surely it was she should come to the Seiet even if that old heathen, Ty Mawr, did s stay away.” , “But there’s black the minister did look at her when she came in! What for, now?” So ran the whispered comments of the congregation. The meeting neared its close. After a powerful experience of John Jenkyns, butcher, there was a pause. Suddenly a stir ran over the crowded benches. Malys Probert was up in the corner pew. Tremors of strong feeling shook her girlish form. The fingers of her black-mittened hands were locked tightly together against her black merino gown. The gold brooch in the folds of her muslin neckerchief rose and fell to her pant- | ing breath. Her frightened eyes wandered over the sea of curious faces as she broke the silence in a sweet, shrill, hurrying voice that carried to the farthest corner of the chapel. 1 “I stand here a sinner before you all. I, Malys Probert. Tempted of the Bad One have I been, and afraid—sore afraid. Laid on me is it to tell you, and abide judgment. Three nights ago I dreamed ” Her hunted dark eyes closed, she swayed, her face showed as though carved in ivory against the rough grey- : washed wall on which she leaned. In the pulpit above her the minister sprang to his feet, his dark eyes fixed on the girl in surprise and misgiving. “Malys!” he cried, in mingled anger and distress. The dark eyes opened at his voice, but without a glance at him she hurried on. “I dreamed, and in my dream, standing we were on a high place, I and Gwilt Owen beside me, and beneath us—hell fires, flames and smoke and stench rising to where we stood, and I clung to him. Then, sudden-like, he, Gilt Owen, grasps me, and holds me out over that fiery pit. I shriek. He roars at me, ‘Let go of me—you must!’ and flings me in. And I wake screaming.” “Groans and sobs rose from her listeners. The passion of the Celt for drama, the love of emotional excitement easily roused in Welsh folk, turned every eye on the minister. No ascetic man of God was Owen, but a handsome, passionate man in | the flush of youth and strength. Now a heavy frown was on his brow; his hands clenched and unclenched. He slowly descended the pulpit steps and advanced towards her. She stood, her wide eyes fixed on him, her hands outstretched in a mute plea for pardon. •‘Malys," he said again, and at the | sound of that stem voice a sigh went , through the chapel, “told I not you to j keep silence to drive this devil's sendj ing from your mind?” ! “Anghcariad! (beloved)” wailed she, I “how to forget, when I do dream it every night?” I The young man fell back a step with I a gasp ol horror. Over the listening | crowd went a rustle as when the wind j sways the dry golden ears of the 1 cornfield. j “And last night,” the wailing voice I went on. “rise and pray I did, and beg | hard to know what was right to do. and as r rose my hand knocked my . Bible. Open at James, Five, the good | Book did, and beneath my thumb the |

words, ‘Confess your faults one to another. and pray for one another that ye may be healed.’ ” A sort of sobbing groan ran through the chapel. “What could I do after that, Gwilt Owen, but come and confess, and stand, a sinner, before you all?” With arms spread wide, she faced the gloating crowd, then raised clasped hands to Heaven, crying, “Oh, Diw! Diw; let it be my sin—not his!” The minister sprang before her, his face dark and set. as though to shield her at once from the curiosity of man and from the wrath of God. “You, a sinner?” he exclaimed, hoarsely. “Where have you sinned, Malys? You cannot lay a sin to you—not one.” “Loving you—too much,” she cried, then sank into the pew-corner in a passion of weeping. Three of the deacons drew near. This was out of the ordinary run of chapel confessions. They did not know how to deal with the situation. Probert, Ty Mawr, was a man of importance, and known to be “a bad one to cross.” There was the minister, too. With that lowering face he looked to be as bad to deal with as Probert. Things were awkward. They wished themselves safely at home. But one among them thrilled with satisfaction, too. The backslidings and misfortunes of his fellows were meat and drink to John Jones, Trecatty. His thin nose twitched with curiosity, he gave a timid cough, and the minister was upon him, like a terrier on a rat. “What for do you come creeping up, Jones, Trecatty? This is between me and Malys Probert, no one else. Too strong meat for her was my sermon on hell last Sunday.” “Ah, grand it was.’* “Fine, yes indeed.” “The real old doctrine,” came purring, assenting voices. Up went Gilt Owen’s arm in command. “Back to your seats now, all of you,” he thundered. But although the three gave way a step or two, they did not obey. He read the hesitating, doubtful faces/ They would not be talked down. With a heavy sigh he turned to the corner pew, drew the weeping girl gently but masterfully to her feet, and half-led, half-carried her to the pulpit stair. From the lowest step they looked down on the whispering throng. Raising his hand for silence, the young man spoke:— “In the sight of the great God, and of all you here to-night, I stand here innocent of all sin toward or with Malys Probert, my promised wife.” He caught her unresisting hand in his large warm one. “Now, Malys. repeat you after me.” Her soft, high voice was heard in docile repetition. The pause that followed was broken by a peal of thunder overhead. Owen started and drew Malys to him, while a quiver went through the superstitious crowd. He recovered himself, and his voice pealed through the chapel. “Now, my people, heard have you all. Counsel us.” His anxious eyes searched the sea of upturned faces before him. “ ’Tis a warning plain. Have nothing to do one with t'other.” screamed a woman, in a voice shaking with excitement.

“Uch-a-fi! Hark to her now! Hark to Betti Pugh, and she wanting him so bad for her Cattws, as we do know,” muttered one scandalized matron to another. “Hah. yes, indeed. Joy, not tears, in that seat to-night,” agreed her neighbour. But their voices were drowned in the hoarse murmur of approbation which rose from the whole chapel. As it sank came another thunder-roll. Malys lifted her drooping head, and slowly, inexorably, drew off her ring. She kissed it, and. with a stifled sob, held it out to Owen. He looked at her with miserable eyes, sought counsel in the faces of his deacons, and, reading their grim approval, took the slender circlet in his brown fingers, and watched his love stumble back to her seat alone. A month later he wedded Cattws Pugh, the true daughter of her mother, the village termagant. The year passed slowly on. Except to go to chapel Malys scarcely left the farm. but. in spite of her seclusion, rumours of trouble in the minister’s home reached her ears. “Cattws had met her match, for sure.” the gossips asserted gleefully. But, if the victory was Owen’s, it was not without cost. His face grew hard and stern, his boyish laugh was arely heard. He preached on punishment, judgment, and hell-fire. Malys

By CLARA MARTIN.

wept and trembled as she listened, not 1 for herself, but for his unhr.ppiness. ! His deacons and the chapel folk, however, were much pleased. His fame as a preacher grew. One stormy October evening, anxiety for her father, late in returning from market, drove Malys out beyond the farm bounds to the main road. She dreaded market-days. Her father tippled at home, but from market and meetings with his cronies he would return roaring drunk. And there was the quarry. . . . Unfenced, it lay almost at the edge of the road, the low sod hedge that bordered the road being the only protection for man or beast skirting it in the dark. From the farm the high road Malys was following ran straight to the dreaded corner, where it swerved sharply to the left. Easy, terribly easy to miss the corner on a night like this, with the clouds gathering above. She braced her slight form to meet the strong warm wind blowing in her face, and struggled on. It was dark now, and growing darker. In her hurry and anxiety she had come without a lantern, but she knew every step. and. bending forward, almost ran towards the danger-spot. Then she stopped, panting. Round the corner swung a lantern. Her father? No. the light approached too slowly for his farm gig. She hurried forward, but the light moved on

too steadily for Rhys Probert's swaying footsteps. She walked on. It would look odd to be waiting there stock-still. So Gwilt Owen and she met in the gathering dark, while the wind roared around them. With a startled excla- , mation he stopped her, his strong grasp on her arm. | "Malys! What do you here, out in | the dark, alone?" j She gazed up at him, too thrilled by ! joy at his nearness to heed what he was saying. “Where are you going?” he demanded again, and started at her :*eply, “To the quarry, Gwilt.” “The quarry?” he cried, aghast, staring at the sweet, wistful face shining in the circle of his lantern’s light. “Never, Malys. You will turn and go back ” His hands on her shoulders. he turned her with gentle force. “Oh. no, not that!” she exclaimed, suddenly enlightened. “No, so long as you live ” She paused aghast at the confession her words conveyed. “’Tis my father. I’m feared for him there. Market night, and he so late,” she faltered, not daring to lift her eyes to the dark, imperio-s face ber.t towards hers. “Malys.” came Owen’s deep voice. His next words were drowned in a clatter of wheels and hoofs. Round the corner dashed the Ty Mawr gig. Swerving from side to side to escape the cruel blows of his driver, the horse was almost upon them. In a flash Gwilt swung himself, with Malys in his arms, to the top of the sod hedge beside the road. The gig flashed by, her father lashing the half-maddened horse. But Malys saw nothing; her face was pressed to Owen’s broad chest, his arms were round her, she felt the thudding of his heart. Owen, following the gig with his eyes, met those of John Jones, Trecatty. hunched up, clinging for dear life to the back-seat. He dropped his lantern, but knew it was too late. Those small, evil eyes were fixed on the couple silhouetted against the sky. “He’s seen us,” Owen groaned, and felt her start. “Father?’’ “No, John Jones. Trecatty." "Let me go, Gwilt, let me go," wailed Malys in horror. He gently set her on her feet on the road below. “We two must never meet again,” she said, and darted from him into the night. It was summer again: hot, dry, breathless. The hay-harvest was early and plentiful, but few of the ricks seemed likely to be left until the winter. A coal-mine had been sunk in the neighbourhood, and there were a lot of wild young fellows about. Rick-firing was a popular pastime. ( “Baiting the Methodees” was another. One Sunday, a group of young colliers entered Owen’s chapel, jostling, nudging, and laughing in their grimy pit clothes. Gwilt Owen, fiercely righteous, roared out his text in Welsh. "And if thy hand offend thee cut it off: it is better for thee to enter into life maimed than having two hands to go into hell, into the fire that never shall be quenched.” He preached against rick-burning. drunkenness, and adultery in searing, biting Welsh heedless of black looks and curses. That night his. two large ricks went up in flames.

A horror-struck crowd stood watcht ng. Owen's house was built into the 2 aill that rose sheer behind it. Door and windows were all in front, and be- ? tween the house and the would-be 1 helpers spread a barrier of fire. The ■, ricks had been dragged down and T scattered with wicked calculation until :he yard was covered feet deep with i masses of blazing hay. Against the door was a huge burning mound. Loud 7 were the curses against the men of 3 Belial who had done this wickedness. On the outskirts of the crowd knelt ’ cruelty and Owen's danger. She saw L ’ Malys. sick with terror at human him stand with his wife at the window • above the porch, looking with set fact ' at the fire that roared without. Then • came shouts. “The door has caught! 5 The house will be next! Diw, Diw, • they’ll be burnt alive!” Malys hid her face, shuddering. ’ Owen, hearing the ominous shouts, ’ caught the fainting Cattws and laid ” her on the floor, then wrenched in the small window, and, creeping out on | the flat stone roof of the porch, lifted his wife and set her beside him. The crowd groaned relief. “Jump, you, ' jump!” came hoarse shouts. Above the tumult rose Owen's voice in clear command. I “Go you quick to the barn! Bring the two big ladders here, and the coil , of rope behind the door.” , In a moment the things were t brought. , “Lash you the two together, so they’ll , bend at the join. Dash water over all. Raise the one up straight, and the other may reach us here.” The fragile bridge was raised, an inverted L. One end rested on the ground beyond the flaming mounds, the other, caught by the minister’s eager hands, lay safe on the porchroof. Malys. watching now breathlessly, saw flames lick up the window behind them. Revived by the outside air. Cattws clung to her husband as he pushed her towards the ladder. “Come too, oh, come too!” she screamed. But he drew back. “ ’Twill bear but one. Cross quick, Cattws. I’ll follow.” The crowd roared encouragement. “You must let go!”, he said, and wrenched himself free as he pushed her out on the ladder. Malys hid her face. The clinging figure, the roaring flames below—it was her vision come true. And in it all, somehow, somewhere was danger for him. The crowd had eyes for no one but the woman staggering across the frail bridge to safety. But Malys watched the man. who, tight-lipped, grim-faced, with folded arms, schooled himself to endure until she was safe and the way free for him. The intensity of Malys’s gaze drew his in return. Lifting eyes scorched and smarting, he saw her. her ivory face yearning to hi 6. Through pain, danger, the estrangement of many days, its unconscious love pierced to the core of his being. Parted in body, they met in soul. In that ecstasy danger was forgotten, parting was no more, Cattws did not exist. A shout of triumph from the crowd told that she was safe. Owen was wrenched back to the present. The passion of love he must crush for Malys rose as hatred of Cattws. Oh, God. that she had fallen! that the flames had licked her out of life! Faint with revulsion of feeling, he J staggered, passed a hand across his smarting eyes, and looked once more at his love. How could he dare approach her unsullied purity with the feelings of a murderer in his heart? As their glances met, he saw peering over her shoulder the greedily curious face of John Jones, Trecatty. He felt the evil in himself read by that crouching watcher. Encouraging shouts urged him on the ladder. “Come, you, all safe now!?” they cried. He stepped forward to the shaking bridge. Beyond lay love and Malys. Then the evil grin on his deacon's face flashed before him. To that his love would deliver Malys. Gwilt Owen made his decision. Sudden and sweet he smiled at his love, strode on the ladder, swayed, covered his face, and sank without a struggle to save himself into tlie tires below The shrieks of the watchers rent the air. Malys. watching, understood. The tears streamed down her face, while on her knees she thanked God. His danger was past. He was safe for ever more. Hell fires could not touch him now. Her love was given back to her in death; her terror for him was lifted.