David's Little Lad

Mother glanced at me; but I could not speak of it to her – not then. She knew all, and of all I would not speak. I pleaded hunger as a reason for my silence. After supper, I pleaded fatigue, and made a hasty retreat to my bedroom. On my way there, I passed through the nursery. Gwen was in the nursery, knitting a long grey stocking, by little David’s bedside.

“Gwen,” I said, “I want you – come into my room.”

When we got there, I locked the door, pushed Gwen down into an arm-chair, seated myself in her lap, put my arms round her neck, laid my head on her bosom, and burst into tears. These tears were my safety-valve, but they frightened Gwen.

“Now, Gwladys, my maid, what is it? What is wrong? Ah! dear, dear! she’s tired – the poor little maid.”

I wanted Gwen to soothe me. I meant her to stroke my cheek with her large, but soft hand. I meant her to pour, with her dear Welsh accent, some foolish nothings into my ear. Gwen’s soothing, joined to my own tears, were, as I said, my safety-valve. When enough of the steam of strong excitement was evaporated by these means, I started up, dried my eyes, and spoke.

“Gwen, we’re going away. Mother and I are not going to live at Tynycymmer any more. We’re going away to the black ugly coal country – to Ffynon.”

“Yes, Gwladys,” said Gwen; “my mistress told me to-day. She said you was to move quick, so as to have things ready for Owen. And, goodness me! Gwladys, what I says is, that little David and me should go too. What if little David was took with the croup, and me to lose my senses; and what could the Squire do? What I say is, that David and me should go – least for a year – till his h’eye teeth are down – and they do say as there’s holy wells out there, what works miracles on the sight, if you dips afore sunrise.”

It was plain that Gwen had her own troubles in the matter. She spoke vehemently.

“And who’s to brush h’out your yellow hair, my maid? and who’s to make things comfort for my mistress? Dear, dear Gwladys, ’tis worse nor folly me not going with you.”

“Well, where’s the use of making a fuss about nothing?” I said, finding that I had to listen to a complaint instead of making one. “Who says you are not to come!”

“My mistress, dear. She says the Squire wishes little David to stay at Tynycymmer. Dear heart! what store he do set by the little lad. Seems to me he loves the blessed lamb h’all the better for being blind.”

“Well, Gwen, that is all right. Of course David wishes to keep the baby – and I think,” I added virtuously, “that as he does wish it, it would be very selfish of us to take him away.”

“Dear, dear Gwladys,” said the penitent Gwen, “don’t think as I have no thought for the Squire. I don’t see why the house is to be broke up for – but there! Owen and David aren’t the same, Gwladys, and no one will make me think ’em the same. But if you and my mistress must go, I was only supposing what ’ud be best for the baby in case he was took with sickness. ’Tisn’t I as ’ud be the one to neglect the Squire, Gwladys. Course I’ll stay; though dear, dear, dear! I’ll be lonesome, but what of that?”

As Gwen spoke, I no longer found her arms comforting. I rose to my feet, went to the window, from where I could see the silver moon reflecting glorious light on the glistening waves.

“Good-night, Gwen,” I said, when she had done speaking. “I’m tired; don’t stay any longer – good-night.”

“But, Gwladys,” said Gwen, looking at me with astonishment.

“Good-night,” I repeated, in a gentle voice; but the voice was accompanied with a little haughty gesture; and Gwen, still with a look of surprise, went slowly out of the room.

I shut the door; but though I had told her I was tired, I did not go to bed.

I knelt down by the open window, placed my elbows on the window-sill, leant my cheeks on my hands, gazed steadfastly out at the silver-tipped waves, and now I called up David’s last item of news. I summoned my enemy to the forefront of the battle, and prepared to fight him to the death.

Owen had sinned!

I was a proud girl – proud with the concentrated pride of a proud race. Sin and disgrace were synonymous. I writhed under those three pregnant words —Owen had sinned. But for David, Owen would have been publicly disgraced. Had he been a cousin, had he been the most distantly connected member of our house, such a fact in connection with him could hardly have failed to make my cheeks burn with humiliation. But the one who brought me this agony, was not a stranger cousin, but a brother – the brother I loved, the brother I had dreamed of, the brother I had boasted of, the brother who had, hitherto, embodied to me every virtue under the sun. How well I remembered the graceful, athletic young form, the flashing, dark eyes, the ring of the clear voice, as he said to me —

“You – a Morgan! I would scorn to do a dirty action, if I were you.”

I was the culprit then. I had been discovered by Owen, surreptitiously hiding away for private consumption some stolen cherries. I was eight years old at the time, and the sharp words had wrung from me a wail of shame and woe. I flung the fruit away. I would not show my ashamed face for the rest of the evening. I was cured for ever of underhand dealings. The next day I begged Owen’s pardon – it was granted, and from that time his word was law to me. I was his slave. For the next four years, until I was twelve years old, I was Owen’s faithful and devoted slave. He was my king, and my king could do no wrong. His vacations were my times of blessing, his absence my time of mourning. He ordered me about a great deal, but his commands were my pleasure. He rather took advantage of my affection, to impose hard tasks on his little slave; but the slave loved her taskmaster, and work for him was light. I was a romantic, excitable, enthusiastic child, and Owen played with a skilful hand on these strong chords in my heart. He knew what words would excite my imagination, what stories would fire my enthusiasm; these stories and these words he gave, not always – sometimes, indeed, at rare intervals – but just when he saw I needed them, when I was weary and spent after a long day of waiting on my despotic young king – standing patient while he fished, or copying with my laboured, but neat hand, his blotted exercises; then my reward would come – a few, well-selected lines from Byron, a story from history, or a fairy tale told as only Owen could tell it. I would lie at his feet then, or better still, recline with my head on his breast, while he stretched himself under the trees. Then after an hour or two of this, would come in a soft, seductive whisper in my ear —

“Now, Gwlad, you will get up at six to-morrow, and have those exercises finished for me before breakfast.”

Of course I did what he asked, of course I was proud of the stealthy stealing away from Nurse Gwen, of course I enjoyed the cool of the study, the romance of copying verses, and making themes appear neat and fair for Owen; and if before the hour of release came, my back ached a trifle, and my face was slightly pale, were not the fatigue and the pain well worth while for Owen’s sake? For Owen, as I said, was my hero. How grandly he spoke of the noble deeds he would accomplish when he was a man – they were no idle words, they were felt through and through the graceful young frame, they came direct from the passionate heart. A thousand dreams he had of glory and ambition, and he meant them, meant them truly, as he lay in the long summer days under the great cool horse-chestnuts. Very goodly were the blossoms, and very fair to my inexperienced eyes the show of fruit, in that heart and nature.

In those days, it never occurred to me that while Owen spoke, David acted. David had so few words, David never alluded to the possibility of a grand future. Once he even said, almost roughly, that he had no time to dream. Oh! how inferior he seemed, how far beneath Owen!

This intercourse, and this instruction of heart and life, I had with Owen more or less from my eighth to my twelfth year; then suddenly it ceased. How little grown people remember of their own childhood! how very little most grown people understand children! There was I, twelve years old, slim, tall, awkward, gaily bright on the surface, intensely reserved within; there was I, the child of an imaginative race, great in ghost lore, great in dreams; there was I, come to an age when childhood and youth meet, when new perceptions awaken, and new thoughts arise, left to puzzle out a problem in which my own heart and life were engaged. How little the grown people guessed what thoughts were surging through my brain, what wondering ideas were taking possession of me! When mother and David told me, that for a reason they could not quite explain, Owen had gone for a time abroad, did it never occur to them that when I accepted the fact, I should also try to fathom the reason?

I don’t suppose it ever did. Their childhood was a thing of the past, they were pressed hard by a sorer trouble than any I could know. Could they have read my thoughts, could they have guessed my feelings, perhaps they would have smiled. And yet, I think not; for the pain of the child is a real pain: if the shadow that eclipses the sun is a little shadow, yet it falls upon little steps, and its chill presence keeps out the light of day, and the joy of hope, as effectually as the larger, darker shadow dooms the man to despair.

When Owen went away, this shadow fell on me. The shadow to me lay in the pain of his absence, in the fact that no long summer days, no joyous winter evenings, were bringing him back to me. I never connected disgrace and Owen; how could I? Was he not my hero, my darling?

When no reason was given for his lengthened absence, I formed a reason of my own. He had gone to win some of the glory he spoke of, to execute some of the brave deeds, the recital of which had so often caused both our eyes to sparkle, and both our hearts to glow.

I could hardly guess what Owen was to do, in those distant countries where he had gone so suddenly and mysteriously, but that some day he would return covered with fame – a knight who had nobly won his spurs, I felt quite sure of. This was the silver lining to the cloud, which Owen’s absence had cast upon my path, and this thought enabled me to bear the long years of his absence, with outward gaiety and inward patience.

And now, kneeling by my window, looking out at the fluctuating, shifting, restless tide, I told my heart that the long probation time was over, that at last, at last, Owen was coming home; but was the hero returning? was the laurel-crowned coming back with his long tale of glorious victories? Alas! Owen had sinned. This fact danced before me on the treacherous waves, floated in front of my weary eyes. Owen was no great man, gone away to perform noble deeds; Owen had gone because of his sin.

Oh! my gay castle in the air! Oh! my hero-worship, with my hero lying shattered at my feet. He, a Morgan, had brought disgrace on his race; he, a Morgan, had sinned; he, my brother, had sinned bitterly. And I thought him perfect.

The blow was crushing. I laid my head down on the window-sill, and sobbed bitterly. I was sobbing in this manner loudly and unrestrainedly, when a hand was laid on my shoulder, a firm cool hand that I knew too well to startle me even then.

“What is it? my maid; what’s the trouble?” said the tender voice of Gwen.

I had been deeply hurt with Gwen for the tone in which she had spoken of Owen half an hour before, but now I was too much broken down, and too much humbled, to feel angry with any one, and I turned to my old nurse with an eager longing to let her share some of the burden which had fallen upon me.

“Gwen, do you know about Owen?”

“Of course I do, my lamb. Dear, dear, praised be the Lord for His goodness!”

Gwen was a Methodist, and I was well accustomed to her expressions, but I could hardly see their force now, and raised my tear-dimmed eyes questioningly.

“And why not? Gwladys,” she said, in reply to my look. “Have we not cause to praise the Lord? have we not hope that the prayer that has gone up earnestly has been answered abundantly? Don’t you be foolish enough to suppose, in your poor weak little heart, that no one cared for Owen Morgan but you. Yes, my maid, others gave a thought to the lad in the far-away country, and many a strong prayer went up to the God of gods for him. Why, sweet Mistress Amy has told me how the Squire prayed, and I know she prayed, bless her dear heart! and I have had my prayers too, Gwladys, my dear, and now perhaps they’re being answered.”

It was quite evident, from these words, that while I was in the darkness of despair with regard to Owen, Gwen was in the brightness of some hope. It was also evident that she had known for years what I only knew to-day, but I was too sore at heart to question her on this point now, though I turned eagerly to the consolation.

“How do you know that your prayers are answered?” I asked.

“Nay, Gwladys, I don’t say as they’re answered, but I have a good strong hope in the matter. Don’t it stand to common-sense, my maid, that I should have hope now; the lad is coming back to his own people, the lad is ready to work, honest and hard too, in the coalfields. Don’t it look, Gwladys, something like the coming home again of the prodigal?”

I was silent. Gwen’s words might be true, and she, even if she did love Owen as I loved him, might take the comfort of them. She who had known of the sorrow and pain for four years, might be glad now if she could; but I, who until a few hours before had placed Owen far above even the elder brother in the father’s house, how could I think of the repentant prodigal, in his rags and misery, without pain, how could I help failing to receive comfort! I little knew then, I little dreamt, that our rags and misery, our shame and bitter repentance, may often but lead us nearer to the Father and the Father’s home. If the storm alone can bring the child to nestle in the Father’s breast, surely the storm must be sent for good!

“Gwen,” I said, at last, “I think ’tis very hard.”

“What’s hard? my dear.”

“I think ’tis hard that this should have been kept from me all these years, that I should have been dreaming of Owen, and fancying good and glory, when ’twas all shame and evil. I think ’twas very bitter to keep it from me, Gwen.”

“Well, my dear, I’d have broke the news to you, and so I think would the Squire, but my mistress, she was so fearful that you’d fret – and – and – she knew, we all knew, how your heart was bound up with Mr Owen.”

“I think it is bitter to deceive any one,” I continued, “to let them waste love. Well, ’tis done now, it can’t be helped.” There was, I knew, a bitter tension about my lips, but my eyes were dry, they shed no more tears. I felt through and through my frame, that my hero was gone, my idol shattered into a thousand bits.

“Gwen,” I said, “I could not ask David to-day, but I had better know. I don’t mind pain. I’m not a child, and I’ve got to bear pain like every one else. What was it Owen did, Gwen, – what was his sin?”

“Nay, my dear, my dear, I can’t rightly tell you, I don’t rightly know, Gwladys. It had something to say to money, a great lot of money, and I know David saved him, David paid it h’all up and set him free. I don’t know what he did rightly, Gwladys, my maid, I never heard more than one little end and another little end, but I believe there was dishonour at the bottom of it, and ’twas that cut up the Squire, and I’m quite sure too, Gwladys, that the Squire never told my mistress the half; she thought ’twas all big debts that they must cramp the estate to pay, but ’twas more.”

“What was it?” I said, “I don’t want to be deceived again, I wish to know all.”

“I can’t tell you, my dear, I don’t know myself, ’tis only thoughts I have, and words Mistress Amy has dropped, but she did not mean me to learn anything by ’em. Only I think she felt bitter, when people called the Squire stingy, for she knew what an awful lot of money it took to clear Owen.”

“I must know all about it,” I said; “I shall ask David to tell me if you won’t.”

“My dear, I can’t, and I think, if I was you, I’d not do that.”

“Why?” I asked.

“My maid, isn’t it better to forget what you does know, than to try to learn more.”

“I don’t understand you, Gwen, what do you mean?”

“Why, this, my lamb, don’t you think when the Lord has forgiven the lad, that you may forgive him too, where’s the use of knowing more of the sin than you need to know, and where’s the use of ’ardening your ’art ’gainst the one you love best in the world?”

“Oh! I did love him, I did love him,” I sobbed passionately, all my calm suddenly giving way.

“Don’t say ‘did,’ my maid, you love him still.”

“But, Gwen,” I said, “he has sinned, the old, grand, noble Owen is never coming back. No, Gwen, I don’t love the man who brought disgrace and misery on us all – there – I can’t help it, I don’t.”

“Dear, dear,” said Gwen, beginning to smooth down her apron, and trying to stroke my hair, which I shook away from her hand. “What weak creatures we are! dear, dear, why ’tis enough to fret the Lord h’all to nothing, to hearken to us, a-makin’ idols one time o’ bits o’ clay, and then when we finds they ain’t gods for us to worship, but poor sinnin’ mortals like ourselves, a-turnin’ round and hating of ’em; dear, dear, we’re that weak, Gwladys, seems to me we can never have an h’easy moment unless we gets close up to the Lord.”

“I wish you wouldn’t preach,” I said, impatiently.

“No, my dear, I ain’t a-going, but, Gwladys, I will say this, as you’re wrong; you were wrong long ago, but you’re more wrong now; you did harm with the old love, but if you ain’t lovin’ and sisterly to Owen now, you’ll do harm as you’ll rue most bitter. I’m a h’ignorant, poor spoke woman, my maid, but I know as Owen will turn to you, and if you’ll be lovin’ to him, and not spoil him, as h’everybody but David has h’always bin a-doin’, why you may help on the work the good Lord has begun. But there, you’ll take what I says in good part, my dear, and now I may as well tell you what brought me in at this hour to see you.”

“Yes, you may tell me,” I said, but I spoke wearily, there was no interest in my voice.

“I thought how ’twould be,” continued Gwen, “I guessed how the maid would fret and fret, and when you turned me out of your room so sharp, I was fit to cry with the fear on me that you thought poor old Gwen had turned selfish, and ’ad an h’eye to her own comfort and meant to leave the Squire.

“Why, my dear, it stan’s to reason I should fret. Do I not remember the old time when the old mistress was alive, and when your mother came home a bride, so grand, and rich, and beautiful; and now to know that there’ll never be a woman of the house about, and only the Squire and the little blind darlin’ to live at Tynycymmer; but you’re right, Gwladys, ’twould never do to part the Squire and the little lad; and I was ’shamed o’ myself for so much as thinkin’ of it; and before I dropped asleep, with the baby close to me, so that I could see his little face, I made up my mind that I’d think no more of the lonesomeness, but stay at Tynycymmer, after you and my mistress went away. When I settled me to do that, I felt more comfort; but still, what with the feel of not seeing my maid every day, and being worried, and kissed, and made a fool of by her; and what with the thought that she had a sore heart of her own for Mr Owen’s sake, who was coming back so different from what she fancied; I was no way as easy in my mind as I am most nights. And ’twas that, Gwladys, and the moon being at the full, and me only asleep for a few minutes, that made me set such store by the dream.”

Gwen’s last words had been very impressive, and she and I believed fully in dreams.

“What was it?” I asked excitedly, laying my hand on her arm.

“Well, my dear; ’twas as vivid as possible; though by the clock, I couldn’t ’ave bin more’n five minutes dreamin’ it. I thought we had h’all gone away to the black coal country, where there’s never a green leaf or a flower, only h’everything black, and dear, dear! as dismal as could be; and I thought that David went down into one of those unearthly places they calls a mine. Down he would go, into a place not fit for honest men, and only meant for those poor unfortnets as ’ave to trade by it.”

“I mean to go into a mine when we live at Ffynon,” I interrupted.

“Then, my dear, I can only say as you’ll tempt Providence. Why, wot was mines invented for? Hasn’t we the surface of the earth, green and pleasant, without going down into its bowels; but there, Gwladys, shall I finish the dream?”

“Oh, yes!” very earnestly; “please go on.”

“Well, my maid; David, he went down into the mine, and we all waited on the surface to see him drawed h’up; and the chains went clankin’, and one after the other everybody came up out of the pit but David; and after a while we heard that David had gone a long way into the pit, and he couldn’t find his way back again; and the place where he went was very dangerous; and all the miners were cryin’ for the Squire, and they went down and they tried every mortal man of ’em to get him out of the mine; but there was a wind down below in that dreadful place louder than thunder, and when the men tried to get to where David was shut up, it seemed as if it ’ud tear ’em in pieces. So at last they one and all was daunted, and they said nothing could be done. Then, Gwladys, we all cried, and we gave the Squire up for lost, when suddenly, who should come to the pit’s mouth but Owen – Owen, with his breath comin’ hard and fast, and his eyes shinin’, and he said, ‘I’m not frighted; David saved me, and I’ll save David, or I’ll die!’ And with that, before anyone could hinder him, he went down into the dark, loathsome pit!”

“Well?” I said, for Gwen had paused.

“That’s h’all. I woke then. The rest was not revealed to me. When I woke, the cock crowed sharp and sudden, that made it certain.”

“What?” I asked, in an awe-struck, frightened voice.

“Why, ’twill come true, my maid. ’Twas sent to us for a comfort and a warnin’. If David saved Owen, Owen will save David yet.”