David's Little Lad

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 you were fair-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 I could come 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. But why is 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, I must tell 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 had always been 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 was my fault, 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?”

“All I 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, has my 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 brother cannot know, 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, whatever the 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 I hears it,’ 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 he would tell 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; whatever happens. Jesus loves us, and now that I’ve got the Squire with me, I feels bold as a lion, for I know I’m right, there is danger.’” 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 it may come 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.”

Chapter Twenty

The Jordan River

Can I ever forget that day? It seemed the worst of all the ten. Yes, I think it was quite the worst. Before the last of those ten days came, I had grown accustomed to suffering; the burden given me to carry began to fit on my young shoulders. I lay down with it, and arose with it; under its weight I grew old in heart and spirit, as old as Nan. Laughter was far from my lips, or smiles from my eyes.

But why do I speak of myself? Why do I say, I, I? I was one of many suffering women at Ffynon?

Let me talk of it as our sorrow!

What a leveller trouble is! There was mother, laying her proud head on little Nan’s neck; there was the under-viewer’s wife taking me in her arms, and bidding me sob a few tears, what tears I could shed, on her bosom.

Yes, in the next ten days the women of Ffynon had a common sorrow. I do not speak here of the men, the men acted nobly, but I think the women who stood still and endured, had the hardest part to play.

But I must tell my story. I left little Nan, I went home to mother. I told her, for I had to tell her now, something about David. She was not much alarmed, I don’t think I was either. We thought it probable that David would come up out of the mine at any moment. I think our worst fears and our strongest suffering was for Owen. We sat together, dear mother and I, very anxious, very expectant, very patient. Hour after hour we sat together, waiting for David and Owen. Overhead, poor Gwen suffered and moaned; we did not tell her of our anxiety, she was too ill to hear it. In the room next to Gwen’s, the little baby slept. When my fear and anxiety grew quite unbearable, I used to steal upstairs and look at David’s little lad. Once I took the little icy hand and held it in my own for a long time, and tried to chafe it into life and warmth. I could not do it. No more than I could chase away the fear which was growing, growing in my own hearty From my window I could see the pit bank. It was an ugly sight, and one I seldom gazed at. I hated the appearance of the ugly steam-engines, and the dusty coal-covered figures. I hated the harsh noise, the unpleasing commotion; but to-day nothing comforted me so much as to draw the blinds, which were down, and look towards this same pit bank; the roaring steam, the appearance of quiet, rapid, regular work soothed my fears, and became a blessed and soul-sustaining sight. I felt sure as long as these signs of regular work were going on on the bank, that all must be right in the mine. Still, why did not David return? So much depended on his return, he had promised so faithfully not to remain below a moment longer than was necessary.

As the day wore on, my heart sank and sank, and my fears rose and rose, and at five o’clock on that April afternoon, the blow came. I was standing by my room window, looking toward the pit bank. Suddenly I saw in that familiar scene a change. The greater number of the day crew had come up. I waited to see David’s figure, taller than the rest. The men stood in groups talking eagerly, a number crowded round the mouth of the shaft; out of the houses around, women came rushing, then on the air there rose a bitter sharp cry, and one woman leaving the group, which increased each moment round the shaft, ran, clasping her hands and weeping, towards our house. I recognised her, even as she ran, as the bearer of former ill tidings, Mrs Jones. I went downstairs to meet her. I opened the dining-room door. I called to mother, who was sitting close to the window watching, watching for Owen, thinking little of David. She must know all now, better learn the worst at once.