Poor Gwen's death had caused quite a pleasurable excitement in the village.

There can be no question that to all save the immediate few whose natural emotions are involved, most deaths bring a quicker tide of life to the living.

It has been said, indeed, that funerals are often the preludes to marriage. Be that as it may, Gwen, despite her gift of grace, had lived all her short life on such a different plane from the rest of the village girls that, except in the little shepherd's cottage amid the hills, few real tears were shed over her dramatic death.

And it was so dramatic! To die in full song--to shed her life-blood in trying to bring the glad news to other souls. Surely that must avail! Surely that sacrifice must turn those sinful souls to peace.

Though they did not know it, and for Mr. Sylvanus Smith's prospect of peace, it was as well he did not, both Aura and her grandfather were special objects of intercession at many hundreds of chapels the very next Sunday. For the story naturally grew in the telling.

Meanwhile Gwen, poor soul, was laid with much fervour beside her baby, the rector duly officiating; for the old shepherd and his wife, thinking of their own funerals to come, held fast to tradition. Whatever else you might be in life, death brought you back to the Church, back to the solemn old service in which dust is reverently committed to dust, ashes to ashes.

Nearly all the village attended, for, in a way, it was proud of Gwen. There was but one notable absence. Alicia Edwards was not there to take her part in singing "Day of Wrath" over her dead friend. She was in bed or at any rate confined to her room; for the dramatic death on New Year's morning had apparently been too much for her nerves.

The gossips of the village went in and out, condoling with her, and applauding her sensibility, and retailing to her all the affecting particulars of the funeral, the wreaths, the remembrances from souls saved by the dead girl's singing, the excellence of the mournings provided by Myfanwy Jones, and the apparently real grief of Mervyn Pugh, who went about looking like a lost soul himself.

Only over the latter statement did Alicia Edwards commit herself so far as to say with sphinxlike gravity, "I do not wonder. Mervyn and Gwen were always friends. Yes, indeed! even at school they were friends."

Looking back from her new knowledge concerning Gwen's past, Alicia's only wonder was, indeed, that no one had ever suspected Mervyn. And yet, who could suspect Mervyn? Mervyn, the pattern of the village; Mervyn, among whose perfections her own facile heart had been entangled these many years past. Nor was she alone. Half the village girls would have given their eyes to secure him for their own.

And now that he had fallen from his high pedestal, it seemed to her, woman-like, that she desired him more than ever. That desire, in truth, was the cause of her seclusion. She was not ill--simply she could not make up her mind what to do. One-half of her asserted that she ought to denounce Mervyn; that it was wrong for her to allow him thus to play the hypocrite, that it would be good for his soul's health to do penance in sackcloth and ashes; the other half found excuses for him beneath the cloak of consideration for the slur which would be cast by the unrighteous over the whole revival, could it be shown that one of the most prominent in starting it was--so to speak--an unrepentant castaway; for repentance in such a case as this meant the confession for which the elders of the congregation had clamoured, the lack of which had sent an unbaptized child to the happily infinite mercy--seat of God.

Alicia knew all this. She had been well brought up, well drilled by her father in the catechisms, and in her inmost soul--a very conventional, placid, harmless soul--she was quite shocked at Mervyn's stony-heartedness. For all that, she could not make up her mind to denounce him. She would give him time. He knew that she knew his secret, and that she was the only person in the world now who knew it--at least of this world; for the "wild girl of Cwmfairnog," as the village had dubbed Aura, had not even attended the inquest. Martha had given her evidence, and Martha had known nothing. So there was no likelihood of the truth coming out except through her, Alicia. Perhaps Mervyn, knowing this, would come to her and unburden his soul. Undoubtedly, if Providence had not intended her to denounce the sinner--and of this, as the days went on, she became more and more certain--it must have had some other purpose in making her the sole recipient of the terrible knowledge.

What purpose?

For to her, as to Morris Pugh, as to nearly all these traffickers in cheap marvels, the impulse to see some hidden meaning, some direct dealing of the Creator with His creature man, had become almost an obsession.

What purpose, then, could Providence have had in thus choosing Alicia Edwards out of all the village to be this sole recipient?

The answer was easy. That Mervyn might come to her as a sort of mediator, as he might have come to a father confessor.

So, as the time wore on, Alicia waited for Mervyn; but Mervyn never appeared, not even after she came down, becomingly dressed in deep mourning, to sit in the back parlour and receive her friends. Myfanwy Jones, whose holiday had been extended over the funeral by reason of the many orders she had successfully placed for it, looked in several times, but there was not much love lost between the two nowadays. So when, on the morning after the funeral, Myfanwy came to say good-bye, Alicia was relieved. She felt the influence of this big, beautiful, worldly creature to be malign; and, once it was removed, she was sure that Mervyn would surely return to the holder of his secret.

"You will be going by the midday carrier," said Alicia cheerfully; "you will have a fine drive to Llanilo whatever."

"A beautiful drive," assented Myfanwy; "I was trying to make Mervyn Pugh take it with me for a change, but he prefers to mope. I did not know him such a friend of poor dead Gwen."

She challenged Alicia with her bold black eyes, and Alicia felt herself flush.

"When people spend their lives together in holy work, Myfanwy dear," she replied in a purring voice, "it is very close they grow to each other, very close indeed."

"If they spend their lives together anyway," retorted Myfanwy with a superior laugh, "they often grow very close--very close indeed--sometimes too close."

But Alicia was prepared for her, and smiled sweetly. "You do not understand religion, Myfanwy. As Mervyn says, it is such a pity--but we must hope for the best--it will come some day."

"So will Christmas," replied Myfanwy with a sphinxlike smile; "but I am not fond of waiting, whatever you may be. Well, good-bye, dear. Do not be frightened when Williams and Edwards send in their bill--it need not be paid till you are married, remember."

Alicia paled. The memory of that bill was more to her now than the mere fact that when it came, it would mean a demand for money. That she might manage; but how about the claim on her character? For it would be a big bill, a record of much extravagance. One comfort was that, if she married Mervyn--which seemed not so unlikely now as it had seemed a short time ago--he would not be so terribly shocked; or at any rate he would not be in a position to throw so many stones!

It was a lovely afternoon, one of those early January days when earth and sea and sky combine to play a trick on the world, and cheat it into the belief that winter is over. The air, too, felt lighter, more wholesome to Alicia, now that Myfanwy Jones had presumably left the village; presumably, because, though Alicia had not actually seen her go, her boxes had certainly been in the carrier's cart.

Alicia had almost made up her mind that if the mountain would not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain. Another Sunday must not pass without an explanation between her and Mervyn; it would not be right to allow him to remain without reproof and exhortation.

It required a good deal of courage, for she was by nature timid; but by making a duty of it, and assuring herself that his soul's good was her only object, she succeeded in bracing herself up to sufficient virtue for her task. So, feeling there was no time like the present, she spent half an hour in making herself look as attractive as she could in her singing dress--and that had been designed with considerable care for appearances--and set off on her mission. She did not go straight to the minister's house, which stood at the further end of the village--a most incongruous, unhappy-looking villa, such as one sees by dozens in the suburbs of any large town, all stucco, bow windows, and gable ends--for that might have provoked attention. She branched off to the left and so, going up the School Road, was prepared to make her visit on the return journey by going down a pathway which led from the school towards the house. She had often returned from class thus with Mervyn, choosing the longer road for the sake of the handsome boy's company. The thought made her mind drift back to those long years during which she had been taught, and had taught, so many things. What a relief it had been to escape from living by rule; so much time for this, so much time for that; duty punctual as the clock, dependent on the machinery, certain to run down and stop unless it received some continual impetus from without.

--'That which cometh from without.'--

The words came back to her vaguely. Yes! she had been taught so many things. What had she herself learnt? How many four shillings' worth of stamps, for instance, had she not saved up herself, or caused her pupils to save up. Every child in the village had a post-office savings' bank book. They had been taught thrift. But every one of the girls would do as she had done--run into debt over their clothes--or at least put their money on their backs. She was tired of it all. She was hungering for her natural work. She wanted to be the wife of some strong man, bear him children, and live immersed in household details. That was her mÉtier; she felt drawn to that.

So, as she turned in at the back entrance of the minister's house, her heart was soft; she felt in a sentimental mood. The past was past. Most men's lives held something that was not quite--well, quite respectable--but in this case there would be earnest repentance to make that past more--more presentable.

And then through the window of the dining-room she saw a group of two people standing, their faces to the fire, their backs towards her; but there could be no doubt as to the skin--tight black sheen of the waist round which Mervyn's arm circled in all the security of possession. It was Myfanwy's--Myfanwy in her best dress also!

In a second all the hot Cymric blood which lay hidden somewhere behind Alicia's almost phlegmatic calm had leapt up in resentment; and almost before she realised what she was doing, she had passed the entrance and stood in the room, challenging those two. The table was laid for tea; there was an air of placid comfort, of as it were collusion, which gave the finishing-touch to her anger.

"So you have not gone with the carrier, Myfanwy Jones?" she said.

Mervyn's arm left the black-satin waist hastily, but Myfanwy did not budge. She simply threw a backward glance over her shoulder.

"Oh! good afternoon, Alicia! No! I did not go. Mervyn and I are to drive over to Llanilo in Thomas's waggonette, as soon as we have had our tea."

In an instant it resolved itself into a duel between these two women for the possession of the man who stood, his beauty somewhat blurred by anxiety, looking like a fool between them.

"But I have come," replied Alicia firmly, "to have a talk with Mervyn about--about something; so, perhaps, you will drive alone to Llanilo, Myfanwy. It might be better." She fixed Mervyn with an eye that held in it a world of entreaty besides some indignation.

His inward uneasiness felt the threat. "Perhaps it would be better, Myfanwy," he said helplessly. "We have much to talk over and arrange before we start again on--on our work."

Myfanwy turned on him like a flash. "Will you hold your tongue, Mervyn Pugh," she said magnificently. "This is between Alicia Edwards and me." Then she turned back again to her adversary, "Say what you will to him now, Alicia. We are engaged to be married, so you can say to me what you will say to him."

Alicia gave a little cry of real dismay. "Oh Mervyn! Say it is not true;--think of poor silly Gwen, but just dead!" she pulled herself up, being in truth still but half-hearted in her desire to denounce.

Myfanwy shot a swift glance at Mervyn; she was really and honestly fond of him, and the idea, at any rate, which Alicia's words suggested was not new to her. Still no matter what she said to him about it in the future, this was the time for defence--quick, ready defence.

"Yes!" she said. "Gwen is dead, so why should you drag her out of the grave, poor soul! 'Let the dead past bury its dead,' Alicia, you learnt that in school, I am sure. And, whatever happens, I am going to marry Mervyn--of that you may be sure."

It was then that Alicia, feeling the inward certainty that this was true, that her bolt had failed of its mark, gave the rein to denunciation.

"But I must speak to him! Oh Mervyn! Think," she cried, her voice ringing with a perfect medley of emotion, "you who have saved so many, think of your own soul. Think how the soul of your child, think how the soul of poor Gwen cry out against you!"

A man's step on the gravel outside made Myfanwy start forward with a muffled exclamation.

"Be quiet, will you! you will be overheard--you--you will ruin him! Will you hold your tongue?" she cried.

But Alicia was past worldly wisdom; even with Myfanwy's strong hand threatening her, she stood her ground, and her voice rose--

"Let them hear! Let all the world know that Mervyn Pugh--Mervyn the good, the righteous, is Gwen's seducer, the father of her child!"

Then, even her anger failed before the knowledge that Morris Pugh stood at the door listening.

With a muffled cry Mervyn turned and flung himself down on the sofa, his face crushed into the hard horsehair cushions; vaguely he felt their hardness to be a shelter.

Myfanwy, looking as if she could have killed Alicia, moved to him and laid her hand softly, protectingly on his shoulder.

"Do not fret, Mervyn," she said coldly, "it will soon be over."

So for a space there was silence. Then Morris Pugh braced himself to the task which was his, as pastor of these wandering sheep.

"As you stand before your Maker, Alicia Edwards," he said, bringing his hand down on the table to grip it with clenched nervous force, "is this accusation true?"

Her answer was a sudden burst of tears, "Don't--don't ask me," she sobbed.

"Is it true?"

His voice insistent, almost cold in its very insistence, would take no denial.

"Yes!" The assent could scarcely be heard for the sobs.

Morris Pugh gave a sigh. It was almost as if all that was human in him left his body with that long, laboured breath, for an instant afterwards he was the accuser, the judge.

"And you--Mervyn Pugh--God forgive you for bearing my father's honoured name--have done this wrong without repentance. You have stood by your child's grave and said never a word--never a word even to me, your spiritual guide, although I asked you, remember that! I asked you; and you have stood before the Lord all these long months, eating at His Table, drinking of His Blood, with this sin lying unconfessed in your heart! And you and the partner of your sin have stood together before the Great White Throne, your voices mingling in God's praise while your bodies----"

Mervyn started to his feet.

"Morris! Morris! before Heaven, that is not true--no! I am not so bad as that!"

Checked in the full flow of his superhuman blame, the minister paused, and something of the man came back to him.

"I will say nothing of myself," he went on, "of--of the shame. But have you any excuse? Can you show just cause why I should not deal with you, alas!--a thousand times alas!--my brother--as a minister of God must deal with the unrepentant sinner, with the hypocrite, with the man who has defiled the innermost sanctuary of God's temple?"

There was silence. Only round Myfanwy's full lips showed a certain impatience, a weariness for this necessary fuss to subside, and leave room for common sense.

"So you have no excuse. Then prepare for the condemnation of the congregation. Prepare to be humbled to the dust before the Lord."

Myfanwy shifted impatiently. "What good will that do? It will only humble the congregation," came her clear, full voice; "It will only be a paragraph in the papers."

Morris Pugh winced. "I thought of that before," he muttered. "God forgive me, I thought of it before--too much, perhaps. No!" he added firmly, "the shame must be faced! Yes, Mervyn, it must be faced, even if our mother----"

And then, with a cry, Morris Pugh himself was on his knees by the table, his hands clutching at its rim, his head between them sinking to the very dust.

"Oh, God forgive him! Oh God, for my sake, for her sake, forgive him!--for the sake of her many prayers and tears, forgive him!"

Mervyn stood pale as death. Alicia, her little part long since played, sobbed softly in a corner; only Myfanwy looked at them all three almost with distaste.

"Mervyn is very sorry, I am sure of that--it could not have been worth all this--this fuss," she said hardly; "but why should shame be faced when--when every one is dead and buried? Mervyn can go away."

"The living and the dead are one, woman, in the sight of the Lord!" replied Morris, his righteous wrath re-aroused by her words. "Mervyn may go if he likes, but I, his brother, will denounce him before the congregation."

His lips, his hands, were trembling, but his voice was firm.

Mervyn sat down on the sofa again and covered his handsome face with his hands. His mind was in a whirl, its chief thought being abject remorse for his brother's sake--for his mother's.

"It is best so, Myfanwy," he muttered hoarsely; "Go--it--it is all I can do for--for them now."

She took up her cloak and hat without a word. There was no use in trying to persuade people when they were so exalted.

"Yes, I will go," she said, "but you are very silly, Mervyn. Come, Alicia! You have done enough mischief for one day, I am sure."

Alicia followed her meekly, feeling not in the least ashamed of the rÔle she had played; for these violent emotions were to her part of the religious stock-in-trade. By and by they would quiet down, Mervyn would make a noble confession, and eventually he would rise superior to all these troubles; above all, rise superior to Myfanwy.

The girls did not say one word to each other as they went back to the village together. Any one meeting them might have judged them the best of friends; only as Myfanwy branched off to the smith's cottage she paused a moment to say with a smile--

"Some day I will pay you out for this, Alicia Edwards--so, mark my words, you will pay!"

"May you be forgiven, Myfanwy Jones," retorted Alicia with spirit; "I have but done my duty."

Left alone by themselves the brothers reverted of necessity to more humble, more homely relations. The righteous wrath gave place to real grief, the blank, hopeless remorse to real regret.

By the time that the housekeeper came in to clear away the almost untouched tea, they had both accepted the position in so far as it could be accepted. There was nothing for it but to face this public confession, and by so doing make what reparation could be thus tardily made. Mervyn, indeed, was by far the more cheerful when the time came to say good-night. He had barely had time to think; the relief of having touched bottom, as it were, was great; he felt, in fact, as a repentant criminal might do on his last night on earth, as if the morrow which was to bring expiation must also bring pardon and peace.

They had spent the evening together on the highest possible plane of religious exaltation, and it was Mervyn who gripped his brother's hand and said "Courage!" out of the fulness of his emotion. His face looked almost saintly as he said it.

An hour later, indeed, when Morris--who had lingered near the dying fire, beset, now he was alone, by almost unbearable grief--looked in to see if his brother were asleep, he found him lying like a child, smiling in his dreams.

Morris gave a faint sob, and Mervyn stirred in his sleep. "Mother," he said hurriedly, softly--"Mother, dear, dear mother--I must."

Instinctively Morris blew out the light he held, lest it might wake the dreamer from his dream; so in the moonlight he stood, torn asunder by love and grief, watching the dim peaceful form upon the bed.

Suddenly he turned and, closing the door silently behind him, went downstairs once more. Outside the narrow walls of the house, the moonlight slumbered peacefully upon the everlasting hills. Surely somewhere beyond the narrow walls of this world's judgment slept eternal Peace.

An instant afterwards the front door closed softly, and Morris Pugh, leaving his brother asleep, had gone to find wisdom where he had often sought it of late in the temple not made with hands.

It must have been an hour later that Mervyn woke, roused by a pebble at his window. He sat up with blurred consciousness, wondering vaguely what it was, until another pebble struck the pane, and a voice cried in a soft whisper, "Mervyn!"

Myfanwy! by all that was strange! Then in a second the whole memory of what had happened came back to him; but it came back to find him, as it were, a giant refreshed with sleep. None of us are really the same for two consecutive hours, and many a man will brave that in the morning, from which he would shrink at night. And there, as he peered through the curtain, was Myfanwy, sure enough, beckoning to him to come down. A sight sufficient to bring combativeness to any young blood, even without those two hours of blessed rest in sleep.

"Mervyn," she said, when five minutes after, their lips met in a long kiss; "I have come for you. See how I love you, to do this thing which might ruin any poor girl's reputation. You have done wrong, my poor boy, very wrong; but so have many of the others who are so saintly. And why should you stay to be prayed over by them--by Alicia Edwards too! I will not have it! There will be no more me if you stop, Mervyn. Come now with me to Blackborough, the waggonette is waiting up the road at the bridge; we can catch the three o'clock mail at Llanilo. If you come, Mervyn, I will marry you in three days at the registrar's office."

"But," he gasped, half-drunk with her kisses, half-stunned by his remembrances.

She stamped her foot. "You must decide. I cannot stop here all night, some one may come. Oh! Mervyn! Mervyn! do you not feel that you were not made for this narrow life? You--you are no worse than others, and you have brains. You can make money if you will in the world, but not here."

Those two hours of blessed sleep! How they had obliterated that stress of over-wrought emotion, and how his young blood leapt up in assent. But Morris----

Her instinct was keen--"And see you, Mervyn, it will be better for Morris, too! If you go, why should he speak? What is confession without a culprit? Come! you can write to him from Blackborough. Come--or there is no more me for you from to-night."

When Morris Pugh returned from the temple that is made without hands an hour later, the house lay very still in the moonlight. He paused at his brother's door to listen. There was no sound. So he passed on to his own room, took his father's Bible, his mother's picture, the few odd pounds he had in the house, and so passed downstairs again to the writing-table in the study, where he had thought out so many sermons, so many appeals to his wandering flock. But it was neither a sermon nor an appeal which he set down on paper and left lying where Mervyn would see it next morning. Rather was it a confession, for this is how it ran:--

"Wisdom has come to me among the eternal hills, brother. Go your way. Be one of the saints in light. I will go mine since I cannot stay and remain silent. May God in His mercy preserve you always from the judgment of men, and give you His Grace."

It lay there all night with the moonlight shining on it. Then the moonbeams faded and the greyness of the false dawn found it lying there still.

But the breath of the real dawn winning its way through the door opened by the housekeeper who came to set the room in order, tilted it into the waste-paper basket, whence swiftly it made its way to the fire by the hands of tidiness.

Thus Mervyn would have had no chance of seeing it, even if he had been there.

But he was not.