Chapter Sixteen.The Little Lad.“Mother,” I said, “I will go to Tynycymmer, and tell David.”“No, no, my dear child; you are not able.”“Mother, some one must tell him; you have to stay here to take care of poor Gwen when they bring her home, and perhaps Owen will come back. Mother, I will tell David, only I may tell him in my own way, may I not?”“As you please, my child, my child!”Mother put her head down on the table and began to sob.I kissed her. I was not crying. From the first I had never shed a tear. I kissed mother two or three times, then I went out and asked Miles, who had followed me home, to get the horse put to Owen’s dog-cart; when the dog-cart was ready, I kissed mother again and got into it.“Come with me, Miles,” I said to the boy.The bright colour mounted to his cheeks, he was preparing to jump into the vacant seat by my side, when suddenly he stopped, his face grew pale, and words came out hurriedly—“No, I mustn’t, I’d give the world to, but I mustn’t.”“Why not, when I ask you? you needn’t go into the mine to-day.”“Perhaps not to work, but I must, I must wait for Mr Morgan; I must take him into the mine.”“Well, I cannot stay,” I said impatiently; “tell Williams to take me to the railway station at P—.” As I drove away I had a passing feeling that Miles might have obliged me by coming, otherwise, I thought no more of his words. After a rapid drive I reached the railway station; I had never travelled anywhere, I had never gone by rail alone in my life, but the great pressure on my mind prevented my even remembering this fact. I procured a ticket, stepped into the railway carriage, and went as far in the direction of Tynycymmer as the train would take me. At the little roadside station where I alighted, I found that I could get a fly. I ordered one, then went into the waiting-room, and surveyed my own image in a small cracked glass. I took off my hat and arranged my hair tidily; after doing this, I was glad to perceive that I looked much as usual, if only my eyes would laugh, and my lips relax a little from their unyouthful tension? The fly was ready, I jumped in; a two-mile drive would bring me to Tynycymmer. Hitherto in my drive from Ffynon, and when in the railway carriage, I had simply let the fact lie quiescent in my heart that I was going to tell David. Now, for the first time, I had to face the question, “How shall I tell him?” The necessary thought which this required, awoke my mind out of its trance. I did not want to startle him; I wished to break this news so as to give him as little pain as possible. I believed, knowing what I did of his character, that it could be so communicated to him, that the brightness should reach him first, the shadow afterwards. This should be my task; how could I accomplish it? Would not my voice, choked and constrained from long silence, betray me? Of my face I was tolerably confident. It takes a long time for a young face like mine to show signs of grief; but would not my voice shake? I would try it on the driver, who I found knew me well, and was only waiting for me to address him. Touching his hat respectfully, the man gave me sundry odds and ends of information. “Yes, Mr Morgan was very well; but there had been a good deal of sickness about, and little Maggie at the lodge had died. Squire Morgan was so good to them all; he was with little Maggie when she died.”“Did Maggie die of the fever?” I asked.“Yes, there was a good deal of it about.”“And was it not infectious?”“Well, perhaps so, but only amongst children.”I said nothing more, only I resolved more firmly than ever to break the news gently to David.I was received with a burst of welcome from trees and shining waves, early spring flowers, and dear birds’ notes. Gyp got up from the mat where he lay in the sunshine, and wagged his tail joyfully, and looked with glad expressive eyes into my face. The servants poured out a mixture of Welsh and English. I began to tremble; I very nearly gave way. I asked for David; he was out, somewhere at the other end of the estate; he would however be back soon, as he was going on business to Chepstow. The servants offered to go and fetch him, but I said no, I would wait until he came in. I went into the house, how familiar everything looked! the old oak chairs in the hall, the flowers and ferns. I opened the drawing-room door, but did not enter, for its forlorn and dismantled condition reminded me forcibly that with familiarity had come change. A few months ago I had longed for change, but now to-day I disliked it. I knew for the first time to-day that change might mean evil as well as good. I went into David’s study and sat down to wait for him; the study looked as it had done since I was a little child. No, even here there was a difference. Over the mantelpiece was an engraving, so placed that the best light might fall on it. It was Noel Paton’s “Mors Janua Vitae.” I suppose most people have seen the original. David and Amy had brought this painter’s proof home after their short wedding trip. It was a great favourite of Amy’s; she had said once or twice, when least shy and most communicative, that the dying knight reminded her of David. For the first time to-day, as I looked at it, I saw something of the likeness. I stood up to examine it more closely—the victorious face, humble, trustful, glad,—stirred my heart, and awoke in me, though apparently without any connection between the two, the thoughts of last night. I again began to feel the need of God. I pressed my hands to my face; “God give me strength,” I said very earnestly. This was my second real prayer.I had hardly breathed it, when David’s hand was on my shoulder.“So you have come to pay me a visit, little woman; that is right. I was wishing for you, and thinking of you only this morning. I have been lonely. Mother and Owen quite well?”“Yes, David.”“And my boy?”“He is well.”“How I have missed him, little monkey! he was just beginning to prattle; but I am glad I sent him away, there is a great deal of sickness about.”“David,” I said suddenly, “you are not yourself, is anything wrong?”“No, my dear, I have been in and out of these cottages a great deal, and have been rather saddened,” then with a smile, “Ididmiss the little lad, ’tis quite ridiculous.”He moved away to do something at the other end of the room; he looked worn and fagged, not unhappy. I never saw him with quitethatexpression, but wearied. I could not tell him yet, but I must speak, or my face would betray me.“How nice the old place looks?” I said.“Ah! yes; does it not? You would appreciate it after the ugly coal country; but, after all, Owen is working wonders by the mine—turning out heaps of money, and making the whole thing snug and safe.”“Yes,” I said.“Can you stay with me to-night? Gwladys. I must go to Ffynon to-morrow, and I will bring you back then—”“I will stay,” I said.“I would ask you to give me two or three days; but am afraid of this unwholesome atmosphere for you.”“Oh! I must get back to-morrow,” I said.I do not know how I got out these short sentences; indeed, I had not the least idea what I was saying.“But there is no real fear, dear,” added David, noticing my depression. “You shall come with me for a nice walk on the cliffs, and it will seem like old times—or stay”—pulling out his watch, while a sudden thought struck him—“you don’t look quite yourself, little girl; you have got tired out with ugliness. I was just starting for Chepstow, when you arrived. Suppose you come with me. I have business there which will occupy me ten minutes, and then we can take the train and run down to Tintern. You know how often I promised to show you the Abbey.”“Oh! yes, David,” I said, a feverish flush on my face, which he must have mistaken for pleasure. “I will go with you. I should like it; but can we not get back to Ffynon to-night?”“A good thought. Ffynon is as near Tintern as Tynycymmer; we will do so, Gwladys, and I shall see my little lad all the sooner.”He went out of the room, and I pressed my face, down on my hands. No fear now that my heart was not aching—it was throbbing so violently that I thought my self-control must give way. Far more than I ever feared death, did I at that moment, dread the taking away of a certain light out of David’s eyes, when he spoke of his little lad. I could not whisper the fatal words yet: it might seem the most unnatural thing in the world, but I would go with David to Tintern. I would encourage him to talk. I would listen to what he said. He was depressed now—worn, weary, not quite himself—recurring each moment to one bright beacon star—his child. But David had never been allowed to wander alone in the wilderness without the sunlight. I would wait until God’s love shone out again on his face, and filled his heart. Perhaps this would happen at Tintern.I said to myself, it will only make a difference of two or three hours, and the child is dead. Yes, I will give him that respite. I do not care what people think, or what people say. I cannot break this news to him in his home and the child’s. This study where he and Amy sat together, where his boy climbed on his knee and kissed him, where he has knelt down and prayed to God, and God has visited him, shall not be the spot where the blow shall fall. He shall learn it from my lips, it is true. I myself will tell him that his last treasure has been suddenly and rudely torn away; but not yet, and never at Tynycymmer.Having made this resolve, I looked at my watch—it was between eleven and twelve then. I determined that he should learn the evil tidings by four o’clock; this would enable us to catch the return train from Chepstow to Cardiff and from thence to Ffynon. No trains ran to Ffynon in the middle of the day. By allowing David to take me to Tintern, I would, in reality, only delay his coming to Ffynon by an hour or two.Whether I acted rightly or wrongly in this matter, I have not the least idea. I never thought, at that moment, of any right or wrong. I simply obeyed an impulse. Having quite arranged in my own mind what to do, I grew instantly much stronger and more composed. My heart began to beat tranquilly. Having given myself four hours’ respite, I felt relieved, and even capable of playing the part that I must play. I had been, when first I came, suppressing agitation by the most violent effort; but when David returned to tell me that the carriage was at the door, I was calm. He found me with well-assumed cheerfulness, looking over some prints.“Now, Gwladys, come. We shall just catch the train.” I started up with alacrity and took my seat. As we were driving down the avenue, poor Gyp began to howl, and David, who could not bear to see a creature in distress, jumped out and patted him.“Give Gyp a good dinner,” he called back to the servants; “and expect me home to-morrow.”Nods and smiles from all. No tears, as there might have been—as there might have been had they known...It is not very long, measured by weeks and hours, since David and I took that drive to Tintern; but I think, as God counts time, one day being sometimes as a thousand years, itisvery long ago. It has pushed itself so far back now in the recesses of my memory—so many events have followed it, that I cannot tell what we spoke, or even exactly what we did. By-and-by, when the near and the far assume their true proportions, I may know all about it; but not just now. At present that drive to Tintern is very dim to me. But not my visit to Tintern itself. Was I heartless? It is possible, if I say here that the beauty of Tintern gave me pleasure on that day. If I say that this was the case, then some, who don’t understand, may call me heartless. For when I entered the old ruin of Tintern my heart did throb with a great burst of joy.I had always loved beautiful things—God’s world had always a power over me. In my naughty fits as a child, I had sat on the edge of a cliff, gazed down at the waves, and grown quiet. However rebellious I had been when I went there, I had usually returned, in half-an-hour, penitent; ready to humble myself in theverydust for my sins. Not all the voices of all the men and women I knew, could affect me as nature could. For six months now, I had been living in a very ugly country—a country so barren and so desolate, that this longing in me was nearly starved; but even at Ffynon I had found, in my eager wanderings, now and then, a little gurgling stream—now and then, some pretty leaves and tufts of grass, and these had ministered to me. Still the country was ugly, and the place black and barren—what a change to the banks of the Wye, and the ruins of Tintern. When I entered the Abbey, I became conscious for the first time that the day was a spring one—soft, sunshiny, and bright. I looked around me for a moment, almost giddy with surprise and delight; then I turned to David, and laid my hand on his arm.“May I sit here,” pointing to a stone at the right side of the ruin, “may I sit here and think, and not speak to any one for half-an-hour?”I was conscious that David’s eyes were smiling into mine.“You may sit there and lose yourself for half-an-hour, little woman, but not longer, I will come back for you in half-an-hour.”When David left me, I pulled out my watch; it was past three, in half-an-hour I would tell him.But for half-an-hour I would give myself up to the joy—no, that is the wrong word—to the peace that was stealing over me. I have said that I was not practically religious. Had anybody asked me, I should have answered, “No, no, I have a worldly heart;” but sitting there in the ruins, the longing for God rose to a strange and passionate intensity. Last night I had said “My Father,” with the faint cry of a hardly acknowledged belief. I said it again now, with the satisfied sound of a child. The words brought me great satisfaction, and the sense of a very present help, for my present need.The bright sunlight flickered on the green grass. I sat back, clasped my hands and watched it. A light breeze stirred the dark ivy that twined round the ruins, some cows were feeding in the shade under the western window outside—I could see their reflections—two men, of the acknowledged tourist stamp, were perambulating on the walls; these men and the happy dumb creatures were the only living things I saw. But I did not want life just then, the lesson I needed and was learning was the lesson of the dead. I had looked at a little dead child that morning, now I looked at the dead work of centuries. The same thought came to me in connection with both—God did it; the old monks of Tintern are with God, little David is with God. To be with God must be for good, not for evil to His creatures. If only then by death we can get quite away to God, even death must be good.It is a dreadful thing when we can only see the evil of an act; once the good, however faintly, appears, then the light comes in. The light came back to me now, and I felt it possible that I could tell David about the death of the child. Meanwhile I let my soul and imagination rest in the loveliness before me. Here was not only the beauty of flower and grass, of tree, and sky, and river, but here also was the wonderful beauty God put long ago into the hearts of men. It grew in chancel, and aisle, and pillar, and column. The minds may have conceived, but the hearts must have given depth and meaning to the conception. The mind is great, but the heart is greater. I saw the hearts of the old monks had been at work here. No doubt they fasted, and wrestled in prayer, and had visions, some of them, as they reared this temple, of another and greater built without hands. The many-tinted walls of the New Jerusalem may have been much in their thoughts as the light of their painted windows streamed on their heads when they knelt to pray.Yes, they were dead, their age with its special characteristics was gone, their Abbey was in ruins, their story was a story of long ago. The old monks were dead, gone, some of them, to a world where a narrow vision will extend into perfect knowledge, where the Father whom they dimly sought will fully reveal Himself.“David,” I said, when David returned and seated himself by my side, “it is beautiful, but it is dead, I can only think of the dead here.”“Yes, my dear, the story of the old monks does return to one.”David too looked very peaceful. I could tell him. I pulled out my watch, I had a few moments yet.“Do you remember, David, what you said once about music, and high hills, or mountains; you said they lifted you up, and made you feel better, do you feel that here?”“Yes, dear, I feel near God,” he took off his hat as he spoke, “I think God comes close to us in such a beautiful scene as this, Gwladys.”“Yes,” I said.“But my thoughts are not quite with you about Tintern,” he continued, “it is full of memories of the dead, of a grand past age, full of earnestness which I sometimes think we lack, still the central thought to me here is another.”“What is that?” I asked.“Thou remainest,” raising his head and looking up at the sky, “all others may leave us—all, home, earthly love—all may pass away, only to leave us more completely alone with God, only to fill us more with God.” I was silent.“Yes, Gwladys, that is the thought of thoughts for me at Tintern—God remains. Never with His will need we unloose our hold of the Divine hand.”I looked at my watch again, the time had nearly come for me to tell him; was he not himself making it easy?“And God’s mercies follow us so continually too, Gwladys,” continued my brother; “I have had some sorrow, it is true, but still mercy has always gone with it. Think of Owen, for instance. Oh! I have wrestled in prayer for him, and been faithless. Amy often reproached me for it; she said God would make it all right for Owen, that God loved and would always love him. Dear child, how I remember her words; and now, my dear, it seems all coming true, Owen is so steady, so careful, so anxious to succeed, so much liked, he is so honourable too about that money I lent him. Not thatIcare for it, not in the least, but I like the feeling in the dear fellow, and he is making everything right down in the mine. When I remember hownearlyhe was shipwrecked, and now see good hope of his yet making for the haven; I’m not quite sure yet that the love of God actuates him solely, but it will come, for God is leading him.”I looked at my watch again, it was four o’clock. I must speak.“David,” I said, “do you love God better than any one?”The agitation in my voice must have penetrated to David’s heart at once; he turned round and looked at me.“Idolove Him better than any one, Gwladys; but why do you ask?”“You would never be angry with God whatever He did?” I said, again.“Angry? no, no; what a strange question.”“I have a reason for asking it,” I said.“Gwladys, you have been keeping something from me; what is the matter, what is wrong?”David was excited now, he took my hand in his with a grasp which unconsciously was fierce.“There is something wrong,” I whispered.“Something you have been keeping from me?”“Yes.”“All day?”“Yes.”“How dared—” checking himself—remaining silent for a second, then speaking with enforced composure.“Tell it to me, my dear.”But I had given way, I was down on the grass, my face hidden, my sobs rending me.“Is anything wrong with the mother? Gwladys.”“No, no, she is well.”“Or Owen?”“No.”“The mine is all safe, there has been no accident?”“The mine is safe.”A long pause, I was sobbing, David was breathing hard.“It isn’t, oh! my God, there is nothing wrong with the little lad?”“It is him.”“Not dead.”“He is dead.”I raised my head now to look at David. David put out his hand to ward me back.“Don’t speak to me,” he said, “don’t tell me anything more about it yet. I must be alone for a little, wait here for me.”He disappeared out of the doorway, he did not return for two hours; during those two hours I prayed without ceasing for him.
“Mother,” I said, “I will go to Tynycymmer, and tell David.”
“No, no, my dear child; you are not able.”
“Mother, some one must tell him; you have to stay here to take care of poor Gwen when they bring her home, and perhaps Owen will come back. Mother, I will tell David, only I may tell him in my own way, may I not?”
“As you please, my child, my child!”
Mother put her head down on the table and began to sob.
I kissed her. I was not crying. From the first I had never shed a tear. I kissed mother two or three times, then I went out and asked Miles, who had followed me home, to get the horse put to Owen’s dog-cart; when the dog-cart was ready, I kissed mother again and got into it.
“Come with me, Miles,” I said to the boy.
The bright colour mounted to his cheeks, he was preparing to jump into the vacant seat by my side, when suddenly he stopped, his face grew pale, and words came out hurriedly—
“No, I mustn’t, I’d give the world to, but I mustn’t.”
“Why not, when I ask you? you needn’t go into the mine to-day.”
“Perhaps not to work, but I must, I must wait for Mr Morgan; I must take him into the mine.”
“Well, I cannot stay,” I said impatiently; “tell Williams to take me to the railway station at P—.” As I drove away I had a passing feeling that Miles might have obliged me by coming, otherwise, I thought no more of his words. After a rapid drive I reached the railway station; I had never travelled anywhere, I had never gone by rail alone in my life, but the great pressure on my mind prevented my even remembering this fact. I procured a ticket, stepped into the railway carriage, and went as far in the direction of Tynycymmer as the train would take me. At the little roadside station where I alighted, I found that I could get a fly. I ordered one, then went into the waiting-room, and surveyed my own image in a small cracked glass. I took off my hat and arranged my hair tidily; after doing this, I was glad to perceive that I looked much as usual, if only my eyes would laugh, and my lips relax a little from their unyouthful tension? The fly was ready, I jumped in; a two-mile drive would bring me to Tynycymmer. Hitherto in my drive from Ffynon, and when in the railway carriage, I had simply let the fact lie quiescent in my heart that I was going to tell David. Now, for the first time, I had to face the question, “How shall I tell him?” The necessary thought which this required, awoke my mind out of its trance. I did not want to startle him; I wished to break this news so as to give him as little pain as possible. I believed, knowing what I did of his character, that it could be so communicated to him, that the brightness should reach him first, the shadow afterwards. This should be my task; how could I accomplish it? Would not my voice, choked and constrained from long silence, betray me? Of my face I was tolerably confident. It takes a long time for a young face like mine to show signs of grief; but would not my voice shake? I would try it on the driver, who I found knew me well, and was only waiting for me to address him. Touching his hat respectfully, the man gave me sundry odds and ends of information. “Yes, Mr Morgan was very well; but there had been a good deal of sickness about, and little Maggie at the lodge had died. Squire Morgan was so good to them all; he was with little Maggie when she died.”
“Did Maggie die of the fever?” I asked.
“Yes, there was a good deal of it about.”
“And was it not infectious?”
“Well, perhaps so, but only amongst children.”
I said nothing more, only I resolved more firmly than ever to break the news gently to David.
I was received with a burst of welcome from trees and shining waves, early spring flowers, and dear birds’ notes. Gyp got up from the mat where he lay in the sunshine, and wagged his tail joyfully, and looked with glad expressive eyes into my face. The servants poured out a mixture of Welsh and English. I began to tremble; I very nearly gave way. I asked for David; he was out, somewhere at the other end of the estate; he would however be back soon, as he was going on business to Chepstow. The servants offered to go and fetch him, but I said no, I would wait until he came in. I went into the house, how familiar everything looked! the old oak chairs in the hall, the flowers and ferns. I opened the drawing-room door, but did not enter, for its forlorn and dismantled condition reminded me forcibly that with familiarity had come change. A few months ago I had longed for change, but now to-day I disliked it. I knew for the first time to-day that change might mean evil as well as good. I went into David’s study and sat down to wait for him; the study looked as it had done since I was a little child. No, even here there was a difference. Over the mantelpiece was an engraving, so placed that the best light might fall on it. It was Noel Paton’s “Mors Janua Vitae.” I suppose most people have seen the original. David and Amy had brought this painter’s proof home after their short wedding trip. It was a great favourite of Amy’s; she had said once or twice, when least shy and most communicative, that the dying knight reminded her of David. For the first time to-day, as I looked at it, I saw something of the likeness. I stood up to examine it more closely—the victorious face, humble, trustful, glad,—stirred my heart, and awoke in me, though apparently without any connection between the two, the thoughts of last night. I again began to feel the need of God. I pressed my hands to my face; “God give me strength,” I said very earnestly. This was my second real prayer.
I had hardly breathed it, when David’s hand was on my shoulder.
“So you have come to pay me a visit, little woman; that is right. I was wishing for you, and thinking of you only this morning. I have been lonely. Mother and Owen quite well?”
“Yes, David.”
“And my boy?”
“He is well.”
“How I have missed him, little monkey! he was just beginning to prattle; but I am glad I sent him away, there is a great deal of sickness about.”
“David,” I said suddenly, “you are not yourself, is anything wrong?”
“No, my dear, I have been in and out of these cottages a great deal, and have been rather saddened,” then with a smile, “Ididmiss the little lad, ’tis quite ridiculous.”
He moved away to do something at the other end of the room; he looked worn and fagged, not unhappy. I never saw him with quitethatexpression, but wearied. I could not tell him yet, but I must speak, or my face would betray me.
“How nice the old place looks?” I said.
“Ah! yes; does it not? You would appreciate it after the ugly coal country; but, after all, Owen is working wonders by the mine—turning out heaps of money, and making the whole thing snug and safe.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Can you stay with me to-night? Gwladys. I must go to Ffynon to-morrow, and I will bring you back then—”
“I will stay,” I said.
“I would ask you to give me two or three days; but am afraid of this unwholesome atmosphere for you.”
“Oh! I must get back to-morrow,” I said.
I do not know how I got out these short sentences; indeed, I had not the least idea what I was saying.
“But there is no real fear, dear,” added David, noticing my depression. “You shall come with me for a nice walk on the cliffs, and it will seem like old times—or stay”—pulling out his watch, while a sudden thought struck him—“you don’t look quite yourself, little girl; you have got tired out with ugliness. I was just starting for Chepstow, when you arrived. Suppose you come with me. I have business there which will occupy me ten minutes, and then we can take the train and run down to Tintern. You know how often I promised to show you the Abbey.”
“Oh! yes, David,” I said, a feverish flush on my face, which he must have mistaken for pleasure. “I will go with you. I should like it; but can we not get back to Ffynon to-night?”
“A good thought. Ffynon is as near Tintern as Tynycymmer; we will do so, Gwladys, and I shall see my little lad all the sooner.”
He went out of the room, and I pressed my face, down on my hands. No fear now that my heart was not aching—it was throbbing so violently that I thought my self-control must give way. Far more than I ever feared death, did I at that moment, dread the taking away of a certain light out of David’s eyes, when he spoke of his little lad. I could not whisper the fatal words yet: it might seem the most unnatural thing in the world, but I would go with David to Tintern. I would encourage him to talk. I would listen to what he said. He was depressed now—worn, weary, not quite himself—recurring each moment to one bright beacon star—his child. But David had never been allowed to wander alone in the wilderness without the sunlight. I would wait until God’s love shone out again on his face, and filled his heart. Perhaps this would happen at Tintern.
I said to myself, it will only make a difference of two or three hours, and the child is dead. Yes, I will give him that respite. I do not care what people think, or what people say. I cannot break this news to him in his home and the child’s. This study where he and Amy sat together, where his boy climbed on his knee and kissed him, where he has knelt down and prayed to God, and God has visited him, shall not be the spot where the blow shall fall. He shall learn it from my lips, it is true. I myself will tell him that his last treasure has been suddenly and rudely torn away; but not yet, and never at Tynycymmer.
Having made this resolve, I looked at my watch—it was between eleven and twelve then. I determined that he should learn the evil tidings by four o’clock; this would enable us to catch the return train from Chepstow to Cardiff and from thence to Ffynon. No trains ran to Ffynon in the middle of the day. By allowing David to take me to Tintern, I would, in reality, only delay his coming to Ffynon by an hour or two.
Whether I acted rightly or wrongly in this matter, I have not the least idea. I never thought, at that moment, of any right or wrong. I simply obeyed an impulse. Having quite arranged in my own mind what to do, I grew instantly much stronger and more composed. My heart began to beat tranquilly. Having given myself four hours’ respite, I felt relieved, and even capable of playing the part that I must play. I had been, when first I came, suppressing agitation by the most violent effort; but when David returned to tell me that the carriage was at the door, I was calm. He found me with well-assumed cheerfulness, looking over some prints.
“Now, Gwladys, come. We shall just catch the train.” I started up with alacrity and took my seat. As we were driving down the avenue, poor Gyp began to howl, and David, who could not bear to see a creature in distress, jumped out and patted him.
“Give Gyp a good dinner,” he called back to the servants; “and expect me home to-morrow.”
Nods and smiles from all. No tears, as there might have been—as there might have been had they known...
It is not very long, measured by weeks and hours, since David and I took that drive to Tintern; but I think, as God counts time, one day being sometimes as a thousand years, itisvery long ago. It has pushed itself so far back now in the recesses of my memory—so many events have followed it, that I cannot tell what we spoke, or even exactly what we did. By-and-by, when the near and the far assume their true proportions, I may know all about it; but not just now. At present that drive to Tintern is very dim to me. But not my visit to Tintern itself. Was I heartless? It is possible, if I say here that the beauty of Tintern gave me pleasure on that day. If I say that this was the case, then some, who don’t understand, may call me heartless. For when I entered the old ruin of Tintern my heart did throb with a great burst of joy.
I had always loved beautiful things—God’s world had always a power over me. In my naughty fits as a child, I had sat on the edge of a cliff, gazed down at the waves, and grown quiet. However rebellious I had been when I went there, I had usually returned, in half-an-hour, penitent; ready to humble myself in theverydust for my sins. Not all the voices of all the men and women I knew, could affect me as nature could. For six months now, I had been living in a very ugly country—a country so barren and so desolate, that this longing in me was nearly starved; but even at Ffynon I had found, in my eager wanderings, now and then, a little gurgling stream—now and then, some pretty leaves and tufts of grass, and these had ministered to me. Still the country was ugly, and the place black and barren—what a change to the banks of the Wye, and the ruins of Tintern. When I entered the Abbey, I became conscious for the first time that the day was a spring one—soft, sunshiny, and bright. I looked around me for a moment, almost giddy with surprise and delight; then I turned to David, and laid my hand on his arm.
“May I sit here,” pointing to a stone at the right side of the ruin, “may I sit here and think, and not speak to any one for half-an-hour?”
I was conscious that David’s eyes were smiling into mine.
“You may sit there and lose yourself for half-an-hour, little woman, but not longer, I will come back for you in half-an-hour.”
When David left me, I pulled out my watch; it was past three, in half-an-hour I would tell him.
But for half-an-hour I would give myself up to the joy—no, that is the wrong word—to the peace that was stealing over me. I have said that I was not practically religious. Had anybody asked me, I should have answered, “No, no, I have a worldly heart;” but sitting there in the ruins, the longing for God rose to a strange and passionate intensity. Last night I had said “My Father,” with the faint cry of a hardly acknowledged belief. I said it again now, with the satisfied sound of a child. The words brought me great satisfaction, and the sense of a very present help, for my present need.
The bright sunlight flickered on the green grass. I sat back, clasped my hands and watched it. A light breeze stirred the dark ivy that twined round the ruins, some cows were feeding in the shade under the western window outside—I could see their reflections—two men, of the acknowledged tourist stamp, were perambulating on the walls; these men and the happy dumb creatures were the only living things I saw. But I did not want life just then, the lesson I needed and was learning was the lesson of the dead. I had looked at a little dead child that morning, now I looked at the dead work of centuries. The same thought came to me in connection with both—God did it; the old monks of Tintern are with God, little David is with God. To be with God must be for good, not for evil to His creatures. If only then by death we can get quite away to God, even death must be good.
It is a dreadful thing when we can only see the evil of an act; once the good, however faintly, appears, then the light comes in. The light came back to me now, and I felt it possible that I could tell David about the death of the child. Meanwhile I let my soul and imagination rest in the loveliness before me. Here was not only the beauty of flower and grass, of tree, and sky, and river, but here also was the wonderful beauty God put long ago into the hearts of men. It grew in chancel, and aisle, and pillar, and column. The minds may have conceived, but the hearts must have given depth and meaning to the conception. The mind is great, but the heart is greater. I saw the hearts of the old monks had been at work here. No doubt they fasted, and wrestled in prayer, and had visions, some of them, as they reared this temple, of another and greater built without hands. The many-tinted walls of the New Jerusalem may have been much in their thoughts as the light of their painted windows streamed on their heads when they knelt to pray.
Yes, they were dead, their age with its special characteristics was gone, their Abbey was in ruins, their story was a story of long ago. The old monks were dead, gone, some of them, to a world where a narrow vision will extend into perfect knowledge, where the Father whom they dimly sought will fully reveal Himself.
“David,” I said, when David returned and seated himself by my side, “it is beautiful, but it is dead, I can only think of the dead here.”
“Yes, my dear, the story of the old monks does return to one.”
David too looked very peaceful. I could tell him. I pulled out my watch, I had a few moments yet.
“Do you remember, David, what you said once about music, and high hills, or mountains; you said they lifted you up, and made you feel better, do you feel that here?”
“Yes, dear, I feel near God,” he took off his hat as he spoke, “I think God comes close to us in such a beautiful scene as this, Gwladys.”
“Yes,” I said.
“But my thoughts are not quite with you about Tintern,” he continued, “it is full of memories of the dead, of a grand past age, full of earnestness which I sometimes think we lack, still the central thought to me here is another.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“Thou remainest,” raising his head and looking up at the sky, “all others may leave us—all, home, earthly love—all may pass away, only to leave us more completely alone with God, only to fill us more with God.” I was silent.
“Yes, Gwladys, that is the thought of thoughts for me at Tintern—God remains. Never with His will need we unloose our hold of the Divine hand.”
I looked at my watch again, the time had nearly come for me to tell him; was he not himself making it easy?
“And God’s mercies follow us so continually too, Gwladys,” continued my brother; “I have had some sorrow, it is true, but still mercy has always gone with it. Think of Owen, for instance. Oh! I have wrestled in prayer for him, and been faithless. Amy often reproached me for it; she said God would make it all right for Owen, that God loved and would always love him. Dear child, how I remember her words; and now, my dear, it seems all coming true, Owen is so steady, so careful, so anxious to succeed, so much liked, he is so honourable too about that money I lent him. Not thatIcare for it, not in the least, but I like the feeling in the dear fellow, and he is making everything right down in the mine. When I remember hownearlyhe was shipwrecked, and now see good hope of his yet making for the haven; I’m not quite sure yet that the love of God actuates him solely, but it will come, for God is leading him.”
I looked at my watch again, it was four o’clock. I must speak.
“David,” I said, “do you love God better than any one?”
The agitation in my voice must have penetrated to David’s heart at once; he turned round and looked at me.
“Idolove Him better than any one, Gwladys; but why do you ask?”
“You would never be angry with God whatever He did?” I said, again.
“Angry? no, no; what a strange question.”
“I have a reason for asking it,” I said.
“Gwladys, you have been keeping something from me; what is the matter, what is wrong?”
David was excited now, he took my hand in his with a grasp which unconsciously was fierce.
“There is something wrong,” I whispered.
“Something you have been keeping from me?”
“Yes.”
“All day?”
“Yes.”
“How dared—” checking himself—remaining silent for a second, then speaking with enforced composure.
“Tell it to me, my dear.”
But I had given way, I was down on the grass, my face hidden, my sobs rending me.
“Is anything wrong with the mother? Gwladys.”
“No, no, she is well.”
“Or Owen?”
“No.”
“The mine is all safe, there has been no accident?”
“The mine is safe.”
A long pause, I was sobbing, David was breathing hard.
“It isn’t, oh! my God, there is nothing wrong with the little lad?”
“It is him.”
“Not dead.”
“He is dead.”
I raised my head now to look at David. David put out his hand to ward me back.
“Don’t speak to me,” he said, “don’t tell me anything more about it yet. I must be alone for a little, wait here for me.”
He disappeared out of the doorway, he did not return for two hours; during those two hours I prayed without ceasing for him.
Chapter Seventeen.Sight to the Blind.All this time I had completely forgotten Owen. Never once during the whole of that day had I given Owen a thought. His agony and his sin were alike forgotten by me; his very name had passed from my memory.At the end of two hours David returned to my side, sat down quietly, and asked me to tell him what I knew.I did not dare look in his face. I repeated as briefly, as impassively as I could, what I had witnessed and heard this morning. To make my story intelligible, it was necessary to mention Owen’s forgetfulness of the old shaft; this brought Owen back to my mind, but with only the passing thought essential to the telling of my tale.To my whole story David listened without a comment, or the putting of a single question. He sat, his head a little forward, his hands clasped round his knee. I saw that the veins had started prominently forward in the strong hands. When I came to the part of my tale where Owen appeared and bent over the dead child, he started for the first time, and looked me full in the face; then he rose to his feet, put his hand on my shoulder, and said—“Come, my dear; we will go home. I must find Owen!”“Find Owen!” I repeated, too surprised to keep in my hasty words. “Do you want him so quickly? has he not brought this trouble upon you?”“Hush, Gwladys, in God’s name—this is an awful thing for Owen!”Once or twice as we travelled back to Ffynon, as quickly as horses and steam could take us, I heard David say again under his breath, “This is an awful thing for Owen!”His first question when we got back, and mother raised her white, agitated face to his, was—“Where is Owen? I must see Owen directly!”“Oh, my boy! he is not here; he has not been here all day. Oh, my dear, dear boy; I am so terrified about him!”“Not here all day, mother! Have you no idea where he is?”“No, my son; he left the house when he heard of the accident, and has not been back since. David, you won’t be hard on him—you will—”“How can you ask me, mother? Will you never understand what I feel for Owen?” he said, impatiently, and in pain; then, turning to leave the room, “I am going to find Owen at once!—but stay! where and how is Gwen?”“Gwen is upstairs; she is very ill; she blames herself most bitterly. She has been asking for you.”“I will see her for a moment before I go. Don’t come with me, mother and Gwladys; I will see her alone.”David had been with Gwen for five minutes, I heard Gwen sobbing, and David talking to her quietly, when at the end of that time I entered the room.“David, Miles Thomas is downstairs; he has been hanging about the place all day; he begs to see you; he knows about everything. Still, he says hemustsee you. I hope nothing is wrong.”“Who is Miles Thomas?”“A boy—one of the trappers in the mine.”“Oh! of course. I will see him directly.”David and the boy were together for half-an-hour; they paced up and down outside. I saw David’s hand on his shoulder, and observed the boy raise entreating eyes to his face. At the end of that time Miles ran away, and David returned to the house. He entered the room where I was trying to prepare some tea for him. Mother was upstairs with Gwen. David came up and put his arm round my waist.“My dear little woman, I want to lay on you a great responsibility.”“I am ready, brother,” I said, looking up, bravely. “Gwladys, there is something not quite right with the mine. I am going down there to-night with Miles. I cannot look for Owen to-night. If all goes well, as I hope, I may be up in the morning. I want you, Gwladys, to try and keep all knowledge of where I have gone from mother, until the morning. She heard me say I would look for Owen; let her suppose this as long as you can.”“And you—you are going into danger!”“I hope not. I hope I am going to prevent danger; but there is doubtless a possibility of my being too late.”“Then, David,” rising selfishly, clinging to him cowardly; “dear David—dear, dear David, do not go.”“What!” said David, holding me from him, and looking into my face. “No, my dear; that is not your real counsel, when I may save the lives of others.” Then, seeing that I began to sob again, that I was trembling and broken with grief. “Come with me, darling; I should like to see the little lad before I go away.” I led the way upstairs. The baby was lying on my bed—his nursery was used by Gwen. The moonlight—for it was evening—flooded the white bed, and lit up the pale check. This time last night I heard Gwen soothing him into his last earthly slumber; but now, how sweetly did Jesus his shepherd make the baby sleep; the dark-fringed eyes were hardly closed, the lips were smiling.“He sees at last, my little lad,” said David, stooping down and kissing him—he was about to say something more, but checked himself; two tears splashed heavily down on the happy little face, then he went away to my writing-table, and taking out a pen, ink, and paper, wrote hastily a few lines, folded up the paper, and brought it back to me.“WheneverOwen returns, give him thatat once!”Then he was gone.
All this time I had completely forgotten Owen. Never once during the whole of that day had I given Owen a thought. His agony and his sin were alike forgotten by me; his very name had passed from my memory.
At the end of two hours David returned to my side, sat down quietly, and asked me to tell him what I knew.
I did not dare look in his face. I repeated as briefly, as impassively as I could, what I had witnessed and heard this morning. To make my story intelligible, it was necessary to mention Owen’s forgetfulness of the old shaft; this brought Owen back to my mind, but with only the passing thought essential to the telling of my tale.
To my whole story David listened without a comment, or the putting of a single question. He sat, his head a little forward, his hands clasped round his knee. I saw that the veins had started prominently forward in the strong hands. When I came to the part of my tale where Owen appeared and bent over the dead child, he started for the first time, and looked me full in the face; then he rose to his feet, put his hand on my shoulder, and said—
“Come, my dear; we will go home. I must find Owen!”
“Find Owen!” I repeated, too surprised to keep in my hasty words. “Do you want him so quickly? has he not brought this trouble upon you?”
“Hush, Gwladys, in God’s name—this is an awful thing for Owen!”
Once or twice as we travelled back to Ffynon, as quickly as horses and steam could take us, I heard David say again under his breath, “This is an awful thing for Owen!”
His first question when we got back, and mother raised her white, agitated face to his, was—
“Where is Owen? I must see Owen directly!”
“Oh, my boy! he is not here; he has not been here all day. Oh, my dear, dear boy; I am so terrified about him!”
“Not here all day, mother! Have you no idea where he is?”
“No, my son; he left the house when he heard of the accident, and has not been back since. David, you won’t be hard on him—you will—”
“How can you ask me, mother? Will you never understand what I feel for Owen?” he said, impatiently, and in pain; then, turning to leave the room, “I am going to find Owen at once!—but stay! where and how is Gwen?”
“Gwen is upstairs; she is very ill; she blames herself most bitterly. She has been asking for you.”
“I will see her for a moment before I go. Don’t come with me, mother and Gwladys; I will see her alone.”
David had been with Gwen for five minutes, I heard Gwen sobbing, and David talking to her quietly, when at the end of that time I entered the room.
“David, Miles Thomas is downstairs; he has been hanging about the place all day; he begs to see you; he knows about everything. Still, he says hemustsee you. I hope nothing is wrong.”
“Who is Miles Thomas?”
“A boy—one of the trappers in the mine.”
“Oh! of course. I will see him directly.”
David and the boy were together for half-an-hour; they paced up and down outside. I saw David’s hand on his shoulder, and observed the boy raise entreating eyes to his face. At the end of that time Miles ran away, and David returned to the house. He entered the room where I was trying to prepare some tea for him. Mother was upstairs with Gwen. David came up and put his arm round my waist.
“My dear little woman, I want to lay on you a great responsibility.”
“I am ready, brother,” I said, looking up, bravely. “Gwladys, there is something not quite right with the mine. I am going down there to-night with Miles. I cannot look for Owen to-night. If all goes well, as I hope, I may be up in the morning. I want you, Gwladys, to try and keep all knowledge of where I have gone from mother, until the morning. She heard me say I would look for Owen; let her suppose this as long as you can.”
“And you—you are going into danger!”
“I hope not. I hope I am going to prevent danger; but there is doubtless a possibility of my being too late.”
“Then, David,” rising selfishly, clinging to him cowardly; “dear David—dear, dear David, do not go.”
“What!” said David, holding me from him, and looking into my face. “No, my dear; that is not your real counsel, when I may save the lives of others.” Then, seeing that I began to sob again, that I was trembling and broken with grief. “Come with me, darling; I should like to see the little lad before I go away.” I led the way upstairs. The baby was lying on my bed—his nursery was used by Gwen. The moonlight—for it was evening—flooded the white bed, and lit up the pale check. This time last night I heard Gwen soothing him into his last earthly slumber; but now, how sweetly did Jesus his shepherd make the baby sleep; the dark-fringed eyes were hardly closed, the lips were smiling.
“He sees at last, my little lad,” said David, stooping down and kissing him—he was about to say something more, but checked himself; two tears splashed heavily down on the happy little face, then he went away to my writing-table, and taking out a pen, ink, and paper, wrote hastily a few lines, folded up the paper, and brought it back to me.
“WheneverOwen returns, give him thatat once!”
Then he was gone.
Chapter Eighteen.Our Father.But Owen did not come back that night.We got a nurse for Gwen, who was suffering sadly from her broken leg, and mother and I sat up together by the dining-room fire.Without saying a word to each other, but with the same thought in both our minds, we piled coals on the grate for a night watch.Mother ordered meat and wine to be laid on the table, then she told the servants to go to bed, but she gave me no such direction; on the contrary, she came close to where I had seated myself on the sofa, and laid her head on my shoulder.I began to kiss her, and she cried a little, just a tear or two; but tears never came easily with mother. Suddenly starting up, she looked me eagerly in the face. “Gwladys, how old are you?”“Sixteen—nearly seventeen, mother.”“So you are. You were born on May Day. I was so pleased, after my two big boys, to have a daughter—though youwerefair-haired, and not like the true Morgans. Well, my daughter, you don’t want me to treat you like a child—do you?”“Dear mother, if you did, you would treat me like what I am not. I can never be a child again, after to-day.”“I am glad of that—two women can comfort one another.”“Dear mother,” I said, kissing her again.“Gwladys,” catching my hand, nervously, “I have had an awful day. I have still the worst conjectures. I don’t believe we are half through this trouble.”“Dear mother, let us hope so—let us pray to God that it may be so.”“Oh! my dear child, I was never a very religious woman. I never was, really. I have obeyed the forms, but I think now, I believe now that I know little of the power. I don’t feel as if Icouldcome to God the moment I am in trouble. If I were like Gwen it would be different—I wish you could have heard her quoting texts all day long—but I am not like her. I am not,” an emphatic shake of her head. “I am not a religious woman.”“And, mother,” my words coming out slowly, “I am not religious either. I have no past to go to God with. Still it seems to me that I want God awfully to-night.”“Oh! my child,” breaking down, and beginning to sob pitifully. “I don’t; I only want Owen. Oh I suppose Owen never comes back to me.”“But, mother, that is very unlikely.”“I don’t know, Gwladys. You did not see his face when that terrible news was broken to him this morning. He never spoke to me—he just got ghastly, and rushed away without a single word; and he has never been back all day—never once; though that boy—young Thomas, has been asking, asking for him. He said he had promised to go down into the mine. I could not stop the boy, or put him off—so unfeeling, after all that has happened. Butwhyis Owen away? It is dreadful—the sudden death of the dear little baby. But I never knew Owen cared so much for him; he only saw him once or twice.”“Mother, I wonder you cannot guess. Do you not know that it was through Owen’s—Owen’s—well, mother, Imusttell you—it was partly through Owen that little David was killed.”Mother’s face grew very white, her eyes flashed, she left my side, and went over to the fire. “Gwladys, how dare you—yes, how dare you even utter such falsehoods. Did Owen take the child to the eye-well? Did Owen put the wicked bull in the field? How can you say such things of your brother?”“They are no falsehoods, mother. If Owen had kept his promise to poor Mrs Jones, and had the old shaft filled up, nothing would have happened to the baby.”“It is useless talking to you, Gwladys. I would rather you said no more. Ever since his return you have been unjust to Owen.”Mother, seating herself in the arm-chair by the fire, turned her back on me, and I lay down on the sofa. I was very tired—tired with the tension of my first day of real grief; but I could not sleep, my heart ached too badly. Hitherto, during the long hours that intervened since the early morning, I had, as I said, hardly thought of Owen; but now mother herself could scarcely ponder on his name, or his memory, more anxiously than I did. As I thought, it seemed to me that I, too, was guilty of the baby’s death. I had turned my heart from my brother—a thousand things that I might have done I left undone. David had asked me to help him, to aid him. I had not done so. Never once since his return had I strengthened his hands in any right way. On the contrary, had I not weakened them? And much was possible for me. In many ways—too many and small to mention—I might have kept Owen’s feet in the narrow path of duty. In this particular instance might I not have reminded him of the old shaft, and so have saved little David’s life?Yes, mother was right. I was unjust to Owen; but I saw now that I hadalwaysbeen unjust to him. In the old days when I thought him perfect as well as now. I was a child then, and knew no better. Now I was a woman. Oh! how bitterly unjust was I to my brother now. Loudly, sternly did my heart reproach me, until, in my misery and self-condemnation, I felt that David and Owen could never love me again. Through the mists and clouds of my own self-accusation, Owen’s true character began to dawn on me. Never wholly good, or wholly bad, had Owen been. Affectionate, generous, enthusiastic, was one side of that heart—selfish and vain the other. Carefully had mother and I nurtured that vanity—and the fall had come. All his life he had been earning these wages; at last they had been paid to him—paid to him in full and terrible measure.The wages of sin is death. Little David was dead.Owen’s face, as I had seen it this morning, returned to me. His sharp cry of bitter agony rang again in my ears. Yes, the fruit of all that easy, careless life had appeared. I saw my brother as he was; but, strange as it may seem, at last, with all this knowledge, with the veil torn away from my eyes, I longed, prayed for, and loved him as I had never done before. I think I did this because also from my heart of hearts rose the bitter supplication—“Have mercy on my sin too. Thou who knowest all men—Thou knowest well that my sin is as deep and black as his.”The clock struck twelve, and mother, who had been sitting silent, and who I hoped was asleep, moved restlessly, turned round, and addressed me.“Has not David gone to look for Owen?”“He said he would go, mother.”“My dear boy—if any one can find him he will. How did he bear the terrible news? Gwladys. I had no time to ask you before.”“I can hardly tell you, mother. He said scarcely anything—he seemed greatly troubled on Owen’s account.”“Ah! dear fellow—the most unselfish fellow in the world; and how Owen does love him. You are sure he has gone to look for him?”“Dear mother, did you not hear him say so?”“Yes, yes—well. God give me patience.”Another restless movement from mother, then a couple of hours’ silence. At two o’clock she got up and made down the fire, then went to the window and looked out, opened her lips to speak to me—I saw the movement; restrained herself, and sat down again. The clock struck three. A slight sound of a passing footfall outside, an eager clasping of mother’s hands. The footfall passed—all was stillness. Mother rose again, poured out a glass of sherry, drank it off, filled out another, and brought it to my side. I, too, drank the wine without a comment. Mother returned to her seat, and I went to sleep.The clock was striking six when I awoke. The window-shutters were open; the place was full of bright sunshine and daylight. I was awakened by mother standing over me. She was trembling and half crying.“Oh! Gwladys—oh! my darling, they have never come home—the whole night has gone, and they have never appeared. Oh! I am so dreadfully frightened. Yes, Gwladys, though I am not a religious woman, yet I must go to God; I must get God to help me. Come with me, my daughter.”Together we went down on our knees. I clasped mother’s hands. We neither of us spoke.“Say something, Gwladys,” said mother.“Mother—I cannot. I have never prayed aloud.”“Well, a form—some words. I am so broken—so frightened.”“Our Father,” I began, impelled to say something quickly by the sound in mother’s voice, “our Father—deliver us from evil.”“Ah! there it is,” sobbed mother. “That’s what I want. Oh! Lord, hear me. Oh! Christ, hear me. I’m a poor, weak, broken-down mother. Hear a mother’s cry. Save my boy—deliver my boy from evil. Oh! I have been wrong to think only of getting back the old place as it used to be—it wasmyfault, if any one’s, if my Owen forgot to see to the general safety. I urged him so hard; I gave him no rest. But oh! don’t punish me too hard—deliver my boy—my boy from evil.”Now, I don’t know why I said what I did, for all night long my thoughts and fears had been with Owen; but at this juncture I burst out with an impulse I could not withstand—with a longing I could not restrain.“That is not fair—you say nothing about David. Ask God to deliver David, too, from evil.”“Gwladys, why—why do you say this?”“I don’t know,” rising to my feet, and steadying my voice. “Mother, it is daylight. I will go down to see little Nan—she may tell me something.”
But Owen did not come back that night.
We got a nurse for Gwen, who was suffering sadly from her broken leg, and mother and I sat up together by the dining-room fire.
Without saying a word to each other, but with the same thought in both our minds, we piled coals on the grate for a night watch.
Mother ordered meat and wine to be laid on the table, then she told the servants to go to bed, but she gave me no such direction; on the contrary, she came close to where I had seated myself on the sofa, and laid her head on my shoulder.
I began to kiss her, and she cried a little, just a tear or two; but tears never came easily with mother. Suddenly starting up, she looked me eagerly in the face. “Gwladys, how old are you?”
“Sixteen—nearly seventeen, mother.”
“So you are. You were born on May Day. I was so pleased, after my two big boys, to have a daughter—though youwerefair-haired, and not like the true Morgans. Well, my daughter, you don’t want me to treat you like a child—do you?”
“Dear mother, if you did, you would treat me like what I am not. I can never be a child again, after to-day.”
“I am glad of that—two women can comfort one another.”
“Dear mother,” I said, kissing her again.
“Gwladys,” catching my hand, nervously, “I have had an awful day. I have still the worst conjectures. I don’t believe we are half through this trouble.”
“Dear mother, let us hope so—let us pray to God that it may be so.”
“Oh! my dear child, I was never a very religious woman. I never was, really. I have obeyed the forms, but I think now, I believe now that I know little of the power. I don’t feel as if Icouldcome to God the moment I am in trouble. If I were like Gwen it would be different—I wish you could have heard her quoting texts all day long—but I am not like her. I am not,” an emphatic shake of her head. “I am not a religious woman.”
“And, mother,” my words coming out slowly, “I am not religious either. I have no past to go to God with. Still it seems to me that I want God awfully to-night.”
“Oh! my child,” breaking down, and beginning to sob pitifully. “I don’t; I only want Owen. Oh I suppose Owen never comes back to me.”
“But, mother, that is very unlikely.”
“I don’t know, Gwladys. You did not see his face when that terrible news was broken to him this morning. He never spoke to me—he just got ghastly, and rushed away without a single word; and he has never been back all day—never once; though that boy—young Thomas, has been asking, asking for him. He said he had promised to go down into the mine. I could not stop the boy, or put him off—so unfeeling, after all that has happened. Butwhyis Owen away? It is dreadful—the sudden death of the dear little baby. But I never knew Owen cared so much for him; he only saw him once or twice.”
“Mother, I wonder you cannot guess. Do you not know that it was through Owen’s—Owen’s—well, mother, Imusttell you—it was partly through Owen that little David was killed.”
Mother’s face grew very white, her eyes flashed, she left my side, and went over to the fire. “Gwladys, how dare you—yes, how dare you even utter such falsehoods. Did Owen take the child to the eye-well? Did Owen put the wicked bull in the field? How can you say such things of your brother?”
“They are no falsehoods, mother. If Owen had kept his promise to poor Mrs Jones, and had the old shaft filled up, nothing would have happened to the baby.”
“It is useless talking to you, Gwladys. I would rather you said no more. Ever since his return you have been unjust to Owen.”
Mother, seating herself in the arm-chair by the fire, turned her back on me, and I lay down on the sofa. I was very tired—tired with the tension of my first day of real grief; but I could not sleep, my heart ached too badly. Hitherto, during the long hours that intervened since the early morning, I had, as I said, hardly thought of Owen; but now mother herself could scarcely ponder on his name, or his memory, more anxiously than I did. As I thought, it seemed to me that I, too, was guilty of the baby’s death. I had turned my heart from my brother—a thousand things that I might have done I left undone. David had asked me to help him, to aid him. I had not done so. Never once since his return had I strengthened his hands in any right way. On the contrary, had I not weakened them? And much was possible for me. In many ways—too many and small to mention—I might have kept Owen’s feet in the narrow path of duty. In this particular instance might I not have reminded him of the old shaft, and so have saved little David’s life?
Yes, mother was right. I was unjust to Owen; but I saw now that I hadalwaysbeen unjust to him. In the old days when I thought him perfect as well as now. I was a child then, and knew no better. Now I was a woman. Oh! how bitterly unjust was I to my brother now. Loudly, sternly did my heart reproach me, until, in my misery and self-condemnation, I felt that David and Owen could never love me again. Through the mists and clouds of my own self-accusation, Owen’s true character began to dawn on me. Never wholly good, or wholly bad, had Owen been. Affectionate, generous, enthusiastic, was one side of that heart—selfish and vain the other. Carefully had mother and I nurtured that vanity—and the fall had come. All his life he had been earning these wages; at last they had been paid to him—paid to him in full and terrible measure.The wages of sin is death. Little David was dead.
Owen’s face, as I had seen it this morning, returned to me. His sharp cry of bitter agony rang again in my ears. Yes, the fruit of all that easy, careless life had appeared. I saw my brother as he was; but, strange as it may seem, at last, with all this knowledge, with the veil torn away from my eyes, I longed, prayed for, and loved him as I had never done before. I think I did this because also from my heart of hearts rose the bitter supplication—
“Have mercy on my sin too. Thou who knowest all men—Thou knowest well that my sin is as deep and black as his.”
The clock struck twelve, and mother, who had been sitting silent, and who I hoped was asleep, moved restlessly, turned round, and addressed me.
“Has not David gone to look for Owen?”
“He said he would go, mother.”
“My dear boy—if any one can find him he will. How did he bear the terrible news? Gwladys. I had no time to ask you before.”
“I can hardly tell you, mother. He said scarcely anything—he seemed greatly troubled on Owen’s account.”
“Ah! dear fellow—the most unselfish fellow in the world; and how Owen does love him. You are sure he has gone to look for him?”
“Dear mother, did you not hear him say so?”
“Yes, yes—well. God give me patience.”
Another restless movement from mother, then a couple of hours’ silence. At two o’clock she got up and made down the fire, then went to the window and looked out, opened her lips to speak to me—I saw the movement; restrained herself, and sat down again. The clock struck three. A slight sound of a passing footfall outside, an eager clasping of mother’s hands. The footfall passed—all was stillness. Mother rose again, poured out a glass of sherry, drank it off, filled out another, and brought it to my side. I, too, drank the wine without a comment. Mother returned to her seat, and I went to sleep.
The clock was striking six when I awoke. The window-shutters were open; the place was full of bright sunshine and daylight. I was awakened by mother standing over me. She was trembling and half crying.
“Oh! Gwladys—oh! my darling, they have never come home—the whole night has gone, and they have never appeared. Oh! I am so dreadfully frightened. Yes, Gwladys, though I am not a religious woman, yet I must go to God; I must get God to help me. Come with me, my daughter.”
Together we went down on our knees. I clasped mother’s hands. We neither of us spoke.
“Say something, Gwladys,” said mother.
“Mother—I cannot. I have never prayed aloud.”
“Well, a form—some words. I am so broken—so frightened.”
“Our Father,” I began, impelled to say something quickly by the sound in mother’s voice, “our Father—deliver us from evil.”
“Ah! there it is,” sobbed mother. “That’s what I want. Oh! Lord, hear me. Oh! Christ, hear me. I’m a poor, weak, broken-down mother. Hear a mother’s cry. Save my boy—deliver my boy from evil. Oh! I have been wrong to think only of getting back the old place as it used to be—it wasmyfault, if any one’s, if my Owen forgot to see to the general safety. I urged him so hard; I gave him no rest. But oh! don’t punish me too hard—deliver my boy—my boy from evil.”
Now, I don’t know why I said what I did, for all night long my thoughts and fears had been with Owen; but at this juncture I burst out with an impulse I could not withstand—with a longing I could not restrain.
“That is not fair—you say nothing about David. Ask God to deliver David, too, from evil.”
“Gwladys, why—why do you say this?”
“I don’t know,” rising to my feet, and steadying my voice. “Mother, it is daylight. I will go down to see little Nan—she may tell me something.”
Chapter Nineteen.A Rich Vein of Coal.I think her prayer, which was literally a cry of agony to her true Father, brought mother some strength and comfort. She grew more composed, and when I ran away to Nan’s cottage, she went up to see Gwen.I had obeyed David’s message to the letter. I had not let her know of any possible danger to him. All her thoughts and fears were centred on Owen—indeed, we both had thought most of Owen during the long hours of the weary night. But now David might really seek him; the chances were that the evil he dreaded was averted, that he would come up from the mine with the night shift. He would need a few hours’ rest, and then he might really seek for Owen. It had occurred to me as I lay awake in the night, that Owen, who knew nothing of my visit to Tynycymmer, might have gone there himself to tell David, this was quite a likely thing for him to do. In that case, David might go there and bring him back. I fancied his return, I fancied gentle, humble, forgiving words; I thought of mother, sister, brother, starting together on a surer, happier footing, of possible good arising out of this sorrow. In short, as I walked down to Nan’s cottage, I saw a rainbow spanning this cloud. How short-sighted and ignorant I was! Did I not know that sin must bring its punishment, that however a man may repent, however fully and freely a man may be forgiven, yet in pain, sorrow and bitterness must the wages his own deeds have brought him, be paid. I entered Nan’s cottage; it was early, not more than six o’clock, but Nan was up, had even eaten her breakfast, and was now, when I arrived, washing some coarse delf cups and saucers in a wooden tub. I had learned in my intercourse with this strange child to read her face almost like a book. The moment I saw it to-day my heart sank, Nan had on her very oldest and most careworn expression.“You are up to fifty, to-day. Nan,” I said with the ghost of a smile. For answer, Nan looked me hard in the face, and began to cry.“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she began, coming up to my side, “I’ve been thinking so much of you all, Miss Morgan, and I’ve been crying so bitter to the Lord to comfort you.”“I am glad of that, Nan,” I said, “but don’t let us talk of our trouble now. I want you tell me all you know about the mine; and, first, has my brother come up?”“AllI know,” repeated Nan, “but Miles said I was not to babble.”“Yes, but my brother has told me there is, or was, danger; you know we always imagine danger to be worse than it is, so do tell me what is wrong; and, first,hasmy brother come up?”“No, Miss Morgan, not with the night shift. The Squire and Miles are still down in the mine.”“And all the men have gone down as usual this morning?” I asked.“Oh! yes, and father with them.”“Then there cannot be danger?”“Well, I don’t know—I’m that timmersome, it may seem so to me; or it may be h’all Miles’s fancy, but he’s rare and knowing, Miles is.”“Well, dear Nan, please sit down quietly and tell me the whole story from beginning to end, what you know and what you fear.”Nan had by this time wiped away all traces of her tears; she was given to sudden bursts of grief, out of which her dark eyes used to flash as bright as though the briny drops were unknown to them. Had I met Nan apart from personal tragedy, I might have considered her tiny form, her piquant old-fashioned face, and quaint words, an interesting study; but now I felt a little impatient over her long delays, and deep-drawn sighs, and anxious to launch her midway into her tale.“Miles is very knowing,” began Nan, seeing I was determined, and would have my way; “Miles is very knowing, and from the time he was a little, little lad, he’d study father’s plan o’ the mine. I never could make out the meanin’ o’ it, but long before Miles ever went down into a mine he knew all about levels, and drifts, and headings, and places without number; and he used to say to me, ‘Why, our mine is like a town, Nan, it has its main roads, and its crossings, and its railways, and all;’ he tried to make a romance out of the mine for me, seeing I was so timmersome, and he never spoke of danger, nor fall o’ roofs, nor gas, nor nothing, when I was by; only when they thought I was asleep, I used to hear him and father talk and talk; and somehow, Miss Morgan, the hearing of ’em whispering, whispering of danger, made the danger, just as you say, twice as big to me, and I used to be that frightened I feared I’d die just from sheer old h’age. And at last I spoke to the Lord about it, and it seemed to me the Lord made answer loud and clear, ‘Resist the devil and he will flee from you;’ and then I saw plain as daylight, that the devil to me now, was the fear of danger to father and Miles, and the only thing to do was to turn and face it like a man, or may be a woman, which sometimes is bravest. So I went to Miles and told him how I had prayed, and what the Lord had said, and I begged of Miles to tell me h’all about everything, all the danger of fire-damp, and explosions, and inundations. Oh! Miss Morgan, he did what I axed him, he seemed real pleased; and for a fortnight I scarce slept a wink, but then I got better, and I found the devil, now I was facing him, brave and manful, did not seem so big. Then I went to Miles again, and I made him promise not never to hide when he thought danger was going to be in the mine, and he was real glad, and said he would faithful tell me h’every thing. Well, Miss Morgan, he was very sharp and had his wits about him, and he heard people talk, and for all Mr Morgan was so pleasant, and so well liked, father said that he was so rare and anxious to win the coal, that sometimes, though he had reformed so much in the mine, he was a bit rash, and then the men grumbled about the coal pillars being struck away so much, and the supports not being thick enough.”“But I spoke to Owen about that,” I interrupted eagerly, “and he was so dreadfully hurt and vexed; he would not endanger the men’s lives for the world, Nan; and he said that he was an engineer and must understand a great deal more about the mine than the miners. After all, Nan,” I continued rather haughtily, and with feelings new and yet old stirring in my heart for Owen, “your little brothercannotknow, and without meaning it, he probably exaggerates the danger.”“That may be so, Miss Morgan, but in the case of the coal supports it was the talk of all the men.”“I know,” I continued, “I have heard that miners were never contented yet with any manager; they were sure,whateverthe manager did, to find fault with him.”“You wrong us there, Miss, you wrong us most bitter; there is not a man belonging to Ffynon mine who does not love Mr Morgan; there is not a man who does not feel for his trouble. Why, the way he looked yesterday when he saw the little baby, has been the talk of the place; and last night a lot of our men prayed for him most earnest. We all knows that it was want of thought with Mr Morgan, we all loves him.”“Dear Nan, forgive me for speaking so hastily, and do go on.”“Well, Miss Morgan, Miles, he always says that he must learn, if he lives, to be an engineer, he’s so fond of anything belonging to it. What ’ud you say, Miss, but he drawed h’out a plan of the mine for himself, and when it was finished he showed it to me and father; it worn’t exactly like father’s old plan, but father said in some ways it might be more right. Well, Miss, Miles, haven’t much to do in the mine, he’s what they calls a trapper—that is, he has to shut and open the doors to let the trams of coal pass, so he has to stand in the dark, and plenty of time for thought has he. Well, Miss, about a month ago, Mr Morgan was down in the mine, and he said they was letting a fine seam of coal lie idle, and he said it should be cut, and it stretched away in another direction. Well, Miles, he had to act trapper at some doors close to the new seam, and it came into his head, with his knowledge of the mine, and his own plan, that they must be working away right in the direction of Pride’s Pit, which you know, Miss, is full of water. Miles had this thought in his head for some days, and at last he told me, and at last he told father, and father said, being vexed a bit, ‘Don’t fancy you have a wiser head on your shoulders than your elders, my boy; we are likely enough working in the direction of Pride’s Pit, but what of that, ’tis an uncommon rich vein of coal; and, never fear, we’ll stop short at the right side of the wall.’ Well, Miss, Miles tried to stop his fears but he couldn’t, happen what would, he couldn’t, and he said to me, ‘Why, Nan, the men are all so pleased with the new find of coal, that they’ll just stop short at nothing, and the manager is beside himself with delight, and they’ll work on, Nan, until they gets to the water; why, sometimes standing there, I almost fancies Ihearsit,’ and at last, two nights ago, he said to me, ‘Nan, my mind is made up, I’ll speak to Mr Morgan.’ Then, Miss, you know what happened, and how all day long Mr Morgan never came back, and Miles, he wandered about just like a ghost, more fretted about the mine than he was about the dear little baby, so that I was fain to think him heartless: then at last, the Squire came, and hewouldtell him everything, and the Squire said, ‘I’ll go down with you at once, Miles; I’ll see what I can for myself, and question every man in the mine, and if there appears to be the slightest truth in what you fear, all the workings shall be stopped until my brother returns.’”A long pause from Nan, then in a low sweet voice, “Late last night Miles came in, and put his arms round my neck and said, ‘Nan, darling, the Squire and me, we’re going down; we’ll put it all right, please God. Don’t you be down-hearted, Nan;whateverhappens. Jesus loves us, and now that I’ve got the Squire with me, I feels bold as a lion, for IknowI’m right, thereisdanger.’” Another pause, then facing round and looking me full in the face. “There, Miss, that’s the whole story.”“But, Nan, Nan, suppose the water does burst in?”“Why, then, Miss, every one in the mine will be drowned, or—or starved to death.”“And itmaycome in at any moment?”“I doesn’t know, I means to keep h’up heart, don’t let you and me frighten one another, Miss Morgan.”
I think her prayer, which was literally a cry of agony to her true Father, brought mother some strength and comfort. She grew more composed, and when I ran away to Nan’s cottage, she went up to see Gwen.
I had obeyed David’s message to the letter. I had not let her know of any possible danger to him. All her thoughts and fears were centred on Owen—indeed, we both had thought most of Owen during the long hours of the weary night. But now David might really seek him; the chances were that the evil he dreaded was averted, that he would come up from the mine with the night shift. He would need a few hours’ rest, and then he might really seek for Owen. It had occurred to me as I lay awake in the night, that Owen, who knew nothing of my visit to Tynycymmer, might have gone there himself to tell David, this was quite a likely thing for him to do. In that case, David might go there and bring him back. I fancied his return, I fancied gentle, humble, forgiving words; I thought of mother, sister, brother, starting together on a surer, happier footing, of possible good arising out of this sorrow. In short, as I walked down to Nan’s cottage, I saw a rainbow spanning this cloud. How short-sighted and ignorant I was! Did I not know that sin must bring its punishment, that however a man may repent, however fully and freely a man may be forgiven, yet in pain, sorrow and bitterness must the wages his own deeds have brought him, be paid. I entered Nan’s cottage; it was early, not more than six o’clock, but Nan was up, had even eaten her breakfast, and was now, when I arrived, washing some coarse delf cups and saucers in a wooden tub. I had learned in my intercourse with this strange child to read her face almost like a book. The moment I saw it to-day my heart sank, Nan had on her very oldest and most careworn expression.
“You are up to fifty, to-day. Nan,” I said with the ghost of a smile. For answer, Nan looked me hard in the face, and began to cry.
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she began, coming up to my side, “I’ve been thinking so much of you all, Miss Morgan, and I’ve been crying so bitter to the Lord to comfort you.”
“I am glad of that, Nan,” I said, “but don’t let us talk of our trouble now. I want you tell me all you know about the mine; and, first, has my brother come up?”
“AllI know,” repeated Nan, “but Miles said I was not to babble.”
“Yes, but my brother has told me there is, or was, danger; you know we always imagine danger to be worse than it is, so do tell me what is wrong; and, first,hasmy brother come up?”
“No, Miss Morgan, not with the night shift. The Squire and Miles are still down in the mine.”
“And all the men have gone down as usual this morning?” I asked.
“Oh! yes, and father with them.”
“Then there cannot be danger?”
“Well, I don’t know—I’m that timmersome, it may seem so to me; or it may be h’all Miles’s fancy, but he’s rare and knowing, Miles is.”
“Well, dear Nan, please sit down quietly and tell me the whole story from beginning to end, what you know and what you fear.”
Nan had by this time wiped away all traces of her tears; she was given to sudden bursts of grief, out of which her dark eyes used to flash as bright as though the briny drops were unknown to them. Had I met Nan apart from personal tragedy, I might have considered her tiny form, her piquant old-fashioned face, and quaint words, an interesting study; but now I felt a little impatient over her long delays, and deep-drawn sighs, and anxious to launch her midway into her tale.
“Miles is very knowing,” began Nan, seeing I was determined, and would have my way; “Miles is very knowing, and from the time he was a little, little lad, he’d study father’s plan o’ the mine. I never could make out the meanin’ o’ it, but long before Miles ever went down into a mine he knew all about levels, and drifts, and headings, and places without number; and he used to say to me, ‘Why, our mine is like a town, Nan, it has its main roads, and its crossings, and its railways, and all;’ he tried to make a romance out of the mine for me, seeing I was so timmersome, and he never spoke of danger, nor fall o’ roofs, nor gas, nor nothing, when I was by; only when they thought I was asleep, I used to hear him and father talk and talk; and somehow, Miss Morgan, the hearing of ’em whispering, whispering of danger, made the danger, just as you say, twice as big to me, and I used to be that frightened I feared I’d die just from sheer old h’age. And at last I spoke to the Lord about it, and it seemed to me the Lord made answer loud and clear, ‘Resist the devil and he will flee from you;’ and then I saw plain as daylight, that the devil to me now, was the fear of danger to father and Miles, and the only thing to do was to turn and face it like a man, or may be a woman, which sometimes is bravest. So I went to Miles and told him how I had prayed, and what the Lord had said, and I begged of Miles to tell me h’all about everything, all the danger of fire-damp, and explosions, and inundations. Oh! Miss Morgan, he did what I axed him, he seemed real pleased; and for a fortnight I scarce slept a wink, but then I got better, and I found the devil, now I was facing him, brave and manful, did not seem so big. Then I went to Miles again, and I made him promise not never to hide when he thought danger was going to be in the mine, and he was real glad, and said he would faithful tell me h’every thing. Well, Miss Morgan, he was very sharp and had his wits about him, and he heard people talk, and for all Mr Morgan was so pleasant, and so well liked, father said that he was so rare and anxious to win the coal, that sometimes, though he had reformed so much in the mine, he was a bit rash, and then the men grumbled about the coal pillars being struck away so much, and the supports not being thick enough.”
“But I spoke to Owen about that,” I interrupted eagerly, “and he was so dreadfully hurt and vexed; he would not endanger the men’s lives for the world, Nan; and he said that he was an engineer and must understand a great deal more about the mine than the miners. After all, Nan,” I continued rather haughtily, and with feelings new and yet old stirring in my heart for Owen, “your little brothercannotknow, and without meaning it, he probably exaggerates the danger.”
“That may be so, Miss Morgan, but in the case of the coal supports it was the talk of all the men.”
“I know,” I continued, “I have heard that miners were never contented yet with any manager; they were sure,whateverthe manager did, to find fault with him.”
“You wrong us there, Miss, you wrong us most bitter; there is not a man belonging to Ffynon mine who does not love Mr Morgan; there is not a man who does not feel for his trouble. Why, the way he looked yesterday when he saw the little baby, has been the talk of the place; and last night a lot of our men prayed for him most earnest. We all knows that it was want of thought with Mr Morgan, we all loves him.”
“Dear Nan, forgive me for speaking so hastily, and do go on.”
“Well, Miss Morgan, Miles, he always says that he must learn, if he lives, to be an engineer, he’s so fond of anything belonging to it. What ’ud you say, Miss, but he drawed h’out a plan of the mine for himself, and when it was finished he showed it to me and father; it worn’t exactly like father’s old plan, but father said in some ways it might be more right. Well, Miss, Miles, haven’t much to do in the mine, he’s what they calls a trapper—that is, he has to shut and open the doors to let the trams of coal pass, so he has to stand in the dark, and plenty of time for thought has he. Well, Miss, about a month ago, Mr Morgan was down in the mine, and he said they was letting a fine seam of coal lie idle, and he said it should be cut, and it stretched away in another direction. Well, Miles, he had to act trapper at some doors close to the new seam, and it came into his head, with his knowledge of the mine, and his own plan, that they must be working away right in the direction of Pride’s Pit, which you know, Miss, is full of water. Miles had this thought in his head for some days, and at last he told me, and at last he told father, and father said, being vexed a bit, ‘Don’t fancy you have a wiser head on your shoulders than your elders, my boy; we are likely enough working in the direction of Pride’s Pit, but what of that, ’tis an uncommon rich vein of coal; and, never fear, we’ll stop short at the right side of the wall.’ Well, Miss, Miles tried to stop his fears but he couldn’t, happen what would, he couldn’t, and he said to me, ‘Why, Nan, the men are all so pleased with the new find of coal, that they’ll just stop short at nothing, and the manager is beside himself with delight, and they’ll work on, Nan, until they gets to the water; why, sometimes standing there, I almost fancies Ihearsit,’ and at last, two nights ago, he said to me, ‘Nan, my mind is made up, I’ll speak to Mr Morgan.’ Then, Miss, you know what happened, and how all day long Mr Morgan never came back, and Miles, he wandered about just like a ghost, more fretted about the mine than he was about the dear little baby, so that I was fain to think him heartless: then at last, the Squire came, and hewouldtell him everything, and the Squire said, ‘I’ll go down with you at once, Miles; I’ll see what I can for myself, and question every man in the mine, and if there appears to be the slightest truth in what you fear, all the workings shall be stopped until my brother returns.’”
A long pause from Nan, then in a low sweet voice, “Late last night Miles came in, and put his arms round my neck and said, ‘Nan, darling, the Squire and me, we’re going down; we’ll put it all right, please God. Don’t you be down-hearted, Nan;whateverhappens. Jesus loves us, and now that I’ve got the Squire with me, I feels bold as a lion, for IknowI’m right, thereisdanger.’” Another pause, then facing round and looking me full in the face. “There, Miss, that’s the whole story.”
“But, Nan, Nan, suppose the water does burst in?”
“Why, then, Miss, every one in the mine will be drowned, or—or starved to death.”
“And itmaycome in at any moment?”
“I doesn’t know, I means to keep h’up heart, don’t let you and me frighten one another, Miss Morgan.”