L.T. Meade (continued 3)

And of what had I not accused him? How I admired him with something of the old admiration, something of the old hero-worship, as the stinging words of indignant denial dropped from his lips. He do so base, so cruel, so wicked a thing! how could I possibly so misunderstand him! I sat up on my bed, I wished earnestly then to put Owen in the right, and myself in the wrong, but try as I would, I could not quite come to this wished-for conclusion. Nan’s words had not been the only hints I had received. I saw daring the winter months, that the great popularity with which Owen had been received on his first arrival, had hardly abated, but still was clouded and tempered with a scarcely perceptible tone of dissatisfaction. The last manager had been most inefficient; in his time the mine was badly worked, it also was dangerous. Owen had begun promptly to remedy both these defects. The question now was, which did he care most for, the gold he would win from the mine, or the safety he would secure for the people? and the evil thought, kept coming and coming, he thinks most of the gold, he values the gold more than the lives of the men!

This evil thought had been with me for weeks past; not stirring into active life, lying, indeed, so dormant that it scarcely gave me pain, but none the less had it been there. And now, to-day, this living thing had leaped to the surface of my mind, had trembled in my voice and glittered in my eye, and I had accused Owen of what I suspected.

With what an agony of pain, and yet joy, I recalled his unfeigned anger, distress, reproach, that I should think of him so, that any one could accuse him of so base an act. As I recalled his look, his face, his words, the old love which I had thought dead, came surging back. I had, I must have been mistaken; the colliers and I both, in our ignorance, had misunderstood Owen, the safety of their lives was his first consideration. But what an unaccommodating thing is memory! how impossible it is to make her fit herself to existing circumstances, what ugly tricks she was playing me now! Event after event, each small in themselves, came crowding up before me, pointing every one of them with inexorable finger to one fact. Of wilful and purposeful neglect it would be wrong to accuse Owen. He wished to do all in his power to secure the safety of the colliers’ lives, but money in his heart of hearts ranked first. I found at last a solution of the problem which relieved my pain, without satisfying me. Owen wished to do right, he meant to do right; but the easy carelessness which had characterised his boyhood had not deserted his manhood. He meant to do well for the colliers, but careless of danger for himself, he might be for them also; and yet, how fatal and disastrous, now and then, were the effects of carelessness! At this moment one very prominent instance of Owen’s want of thought rose before me. There was an old used-up mine, known in the country by the name of Pride’s Pit, which adjoined the mine at present being worked at Ffynon. Close to this old pit lived the under-viewer and his family. A not very desirable residence was theirs for this reason, that the old shaft leading into the pit had never been filled up; and making it all the more dangerous, it was, from long disuse and neglect, nearly covered by a thick growth of weeds and brushwood, so that an unwary traveller might step into the mine before he was aware. This old shaft for every reason was dangerous, as its open mouth let in the rain and helped to fill the pit beneath with water, which water might by an untoward accident, a boring away of too much of the coal, help at any moment to inundate the larger mine. It was at present the terror of the young wife of the under-viewer, who had three small children, and who was never weary of warding them off the dangerous ground.

On the dismissal of the late manager, the young woman who lived in this cottage had come with her complaint to David, and had begged of him to use his influence with his brother to have the dangerous shaft filled up. David had assured her that this should be one of the first steps in the general reformation. When Owen came, I heard David speak to him on the subject, and Owen promised to have all that was necessary done without delay. I am quite sure Owen meant what he said, but in the absorbing interest of more engrossing work, month after month went by, and Pride’s Pit still remained with its open shaft. A fortnight ago, I was walking with Owen, when poor Mrs Jones met us with tears in her eyes, “Was nothing going to be done to the shaft, her baby had nearly been killed there a few days since.”

Owen was really sorry, declared he had completely forgotten it, won Mrs Jones’s heart by his sweet graciousness and real regret, and promised to send round men to put the whole thing straight in the morning. Of course, he had done so by this time, but how great and unnecessary was the previous delay; suppose Mrs Jones’s baby had been killed, would Owen ever have forgiven himself?

After thinking these and many other thoughts, I had brushed my hair, bathed my eyes, and was preparing to go downstairs, when there came a tap at my door, and Gwen, carrying little David in her arms, came in. She placed the child on the floor, came to my side, and looked hard into my face. If ever there was a purpose written in any woman’s countenance it was in Gwen’s at this moment.

“Gwladys, my maid,” she said, “will you help your old nurse at a pinch?”

“Yes, that I will, Gwen,” I replied, heartily; “what is it you want me to do?”

“And you’ll keep it a secret, and never let it out to mortal?”

“Of course,” rather proudly.

“Well, then, ’twasn’t the fever brought me over here.”

“Oh! Gwen,” in a tone of some alarm, “what are you keeping back from me? is David ill?”

“Dear, dear, no, my pet; and I don’t say as there isn’t a fever, and that that is not the reason the Squire sent us away, Gwladys. No, I’d scorn to tell a lie, and there is a fever, though it ain’t much; but that wasn’t what brought me and the little lad here, Gwladys.”

“How mysterious you are,” I said, laughing. “What was the reason?”

“Why, you see, my maid, I’d soon have persuaded the Squire to let us stay, for I knew he’d be lonesome without me and the baby, and, Lord bless you, he (pointing to the child) wouldn’t take the fever, God bless him; sweet and sound would I keep him, and free from all that low dirt, and those bad smells, which the negligent, never-me-care, unthrifty poor have, a tempting of Providence. No, it wasn’t fright at no fever took me away, but a downright answer to prayer, Gwladys.” Gwen paused, and I nodded to her to proceed. “Hadn’t I been praying all the winter for some lucky wind to blow me to this place, and wasn’t the fever the wind as God sent; so why shouldn’t I come with a thankful heart?”

“Poor, dear old Gwen! you wanted to see mother and me. I am sorry you were so lonely.”

“Well, my maid, it wasn’t that; I’m none so selfish. No, Gwladys, it wasn’t for myself I was praying, nor about myself I felt so happy. No, ’twas about little David. Gwladys, I mean to take little David to the eye-well.”

“Oh! dear me, Gwen, what is that?”

“Hush, hush, child! don’t speak of it lightly; just sit patient for five minutes, my dear, and you shall know the whole ins and outs of it.”

I have said that Gwen, though a very religious woman, was, if possible, a more superstitious one. From the fountain-head of her knowledge and wisdom I had drunk deeply; of late, when away from her, I had been deprived of these goodly draughts, but I was all the more ready now to partake of the very delicious one she had ready dished up for my benefit.

“Go on,” I said, in a tone of intense interest.

“I mean to take the child to the eye-well,” continued Gwen; “there’s one within a mile or two of this place that’s famed, and justly, through the whole country. Many’s the blind person, or the weak-eyed body, that has been cured by it; and many and many thoughts have I cast toward it, Gwladys; not liking to speak, for sure, if you long too earnestly, you hinders, so’s the belief, the cure. Now there’s wells that have a ‘perhaps’ to ’em, and there’s wells that have a ‘certainty,’ and of all the wells that ever was sure, this is the one. And I’ve a strong belief and faith in my mind, that though I brought the little lad here blind, I may carry him home seeing.”

True, oh! Gwen, dear Gwen, not in your way, perhaps in a better!

As she spoke, attracted by the sound of her voice, the child toddled to his feet, came to her side, and raised his dark, sightless eyes to her face.

“But it must be managed clever,” continued Gwen, “and ’tis there I want you to help me. I don’t want my mistress, nor a soul in the house but yourself to know, until I can bring in the laddie with the daylight let into his blessed eyes; and to have any success we must obey the rules solemn. For three mornings we must be at the well before sunrise, and when the first sunbeam dips into the water, down must go the child’s head right under too, with it, and this we must do three days running, and then stop for three days, and then three days again. Ah! but I feel the Lord’ll give His blessing, and there’s real cure in the well.”

Gwen paused, and I sat still, very much excited, dazzled, and full of a kind of half belief, which falling far short of Gwen’s certainty, still caused my heart to beat faster than usual.

“And now, Gwladys,” proceeded Gwen, “I mean to go to-morrow morning; and can you come with me, and can you show me the way?”

“I can and will come with you, Gwen, but I cannot show you the way. I fancy I have heard of this eye-well, but I have never been there.”

“Then I must find some one who can,” proceeded Gwen, rising.

“Stay, Gwen,” I said, earnestly. “I know a little girl very well here, she has lived all her life in this place, and is sure to have heard of the well. I am sure, too, she would never tell a soul. Shall I go to her and find out if she can come with us?”

“Do, my dear maid, and let me know soon, for I am sore and anxious.”

Chapter Fourteen.

The Eye-Well.

I found that Nan knew all about the eye-well, and had a very strong belief in its curative powers; she was only too anxious and willing to accompany us, and accordingly at five o’clock next morning, Gwen, little David, and I met her, and set off to our destination with a delightful sense of secrecy and mystery.

I look back on that day now, when, light-hearted, happy, not having yet met with any real sorrow, I stood and laughed at the baby’s shouts of glee, when Gwen dipped his head under the cold water. I remember the reproving look of dear old Gwen’s anxious face, and the expectant half-fearful, half-wondering gaze of Nan. I see again the water of the old well, trembling on the dark lashes of two sightless eyes, a little voice shouts manfully, a white brow is radiant, dimples play on rosy cheeks, golden brown curls are wet and drip great drops on the hard, worn hand of Gwen. Nan, excited and trembling, falls on her knees and prays for a blessing. Gwen prays also. I take David’s little lad into my own arms, he clasps me firmly, shouts and laughs anew. I too, in a voiceless prayer, ask God to bless the noble boy. We are standing under a great tree, whose sheltering branches protect the old well, the bright sun shines in flickering light through the early spring leaves, on the boughs the birds sing, from the hedge a white rabbit peeps. Yes, I see it all, but I see it now with a precipice beyond. I see now where the sun went down and the dark night came on. I see where the storm began to beat, that took our treasure away.

It was the evening before the third visit to the eye-well; I heard Gwen in the room fitted up for a temporary nursery, singing little David to sleep.

Hush-a-by, little dear, Hush-a-by, lovely child.

It was the old Welsh lullaby song. Soft, soft, softer went her voice to the queer old measure, the quaint old words—

Hush-a-by, lovely child, Hush—hush—hush—hush!

Profound stillness, no one could keep awake after that last hush of Gwen’s; I felt my own eyes closing. The next moment I found myself starting up to see the singer standing before me.

“David’s asleep, my dear, and, Gwladys, you need not come with me in the morning.”

In a very sleepy tone, induced by my early rising and the lullaby song, “Oh! yes, Gwen, I don’t—mind—I’d better.”

“No, no, my dear lamb, David and me’ll go alone to-morrow; little Nan ain’t coming neither.”

“Very well, Gwen,” I said, just asleep.

I was in bed when Gwen came again to me.

“My maid, I’m very trouble to you to-night.”

“No, Gwen, what is it?”

To my surprise, Gwen burst into tears; this unusual sign of emotion roused me completely.

“Oh! my maid, I’m fearful and troubled, I don’t know why. I’ve set my heart so on the baby getting his sight. If I could only take him back seeing to the Squire, I think I could die content.”

“Well, Gwen, perhaps you will. Of course, I don’t quite believe in the eye-well as much as you do, but still, who knows?”

“No one knows, Gwladys, that’s what’s troubling me; the Almighty has it all hid from us. He may think it good for the baby not to see. There’s sights in this world what ain’t right for mortal eyes, perhaps He have shut up his, to make and keep the little heart all the whiter.”

“Perhaps so, Gwen; as you say, God knows best.”

“Yes, only I do feel troubled to-night; perhaps ’tis wrong of me to take the baby to the h’eye-well, but I did pray for a blessing. Eh! dear, but I’m faithless.”

“You are down-hearted anyhow,” I said. “Go to bed now and dream that the baby is kissing you, and looking at you, and thanking you as he knows how, for getting him his eyesight. Good-night, dear Gwen.” But Gwen did not respond to my good-night, she knelt on by my bedside; at last she said in a change of voice—

“Gwladys, have you made it up with Owen?”

I was excited by Gwen’s previous words, now the sore place in my heart ached longingly. I put my arms round my old nurse’s neck.

“Gwen, Gwen, Owen and I will never understand each other again.”

“I feared she’d say that,” repeated Gwen, “I feared it; and yet ain’t it strange, to make an idol of the dreaming boy, and to shut up the heart against the man who has suffered, repented, who will yet be noble!”

“Oh! Gwen, if I could but think it! Will he ever be that?”

“I said, Gwladys,” continued Gwen, “that he was coming home to His Father, he was coming up out of the wilderness of all his sin and folly to the Father’s house, he aren’t reached it yet—not quite—when he do, he will be noble.”

I was silent.

“’Tis often a sore bit of road,” continued Gwen, “sore and rough walkin’, but when the Father is waiting for us at the top of the way; waiting and smiling, with arms outstretched, why then we go on even through death itself to find Him.”

“And when we find Him?” I asked.

“Ah! my maid, when we find Him, ’tis much the same, I think, as when the shepherd overtook the lost lamb; the lamb lies down in the shepherd’s arms, and the child in the Father’s, ’tis much the same.”

I lay back again on my pillow; Gwen covered me up, kissed me tenderly, and went away. I lay quiet for a few moments, then I sat up in bed, pressed my hands on my cheeks, and looked out through the window, at the white sky and shining moon. I looked eagerly and passionately. I had been sleepy; I was not sleepy now. After a time of steady gazing into the pitiless cold heavens, I began to cry, then out of my sobs two words were wrung from me, “My Father.” Never was there a girl more surrounded by religious influences, and yet less at heart religious than I. This was the first time in my whole life that I really felt a conscious want of God. The wish for God and the longing to understand Owen, to be reconciled to Owen, came simultaneously, but neither were very strong as yet. As yet, these two wants only stirred some surface tears, and beat on the outer circle of my heart. I knew nothing of the longing which would even go through the valley of the shadow of death to the Father, nothing of the love which would care a thousand times more for Owen because he had sinned and had repented. I wanted God only a little, my cry was but from the surface of my heart, still it was a real cry, and had more of the true spirit of prayer in it than all the petitions I had made carelessly, morning and evening since my babyhood.

After a time I lay down, and, tired out, went to sleep. I did not sleep easily, I had confused dreams of Owen, of little David, of Gwen. Then I had a distinct vision. I saw the children of the under-viewer, playing on the place where the shaft leading down into Pride’s Pit had been; the ground was smooth, the danger was past, the children played happily and shouted gleefully. Two of them ran to tell their mother, the baby stayed to throw gravel into the air. All looked secure, but it was not so; as I watched, I suddenly perceived that the work was badly done, the place only half filled up; as I watched, I saw the loose stones and rubbish give way, and the baby sink into the loathsome pit below; although I was quite close, I could hold out no hand to save the under-viewer’s baby.

Chapter Fifteen.

That Man was Owen.

Tired with my two days’ early rising, I did not get up until late. I had nearly finished dressing, and was standing by my window, when I heard a woman’s voice calling me in muffled tones below.

My room looked to the back of the house, and the woman had come to the inside of a thick fuchsia-hedge, which here divided the cottage, and its tiny surroundings, from the road.

Looking out, I saw the under-viewer’s wife, gazing up with clasped hands and a white face.

“For the love of God, come down to me quietly, Miss Morgan.”

The pain and anguish in the woman’s face communicated part of her intelligence to me. I knew there was great and urgent need for me to go downstairs without anybody hearing. The immediate action which this required, prevented my feeling any pain. I stood by the woman, looked hard into her eyes, and said, “Well?”

“Dear heart, you must know it,” she said, taking my hand. “Come with me.”

She almost pushed me before her through the little gate; when we got on the high road, she began to run. I knew that she was going in the direction of Pride’s Pit. My strangely vivid dream returned to me. Here was a solution of the mystery. I believed in dreams—this dream was not accidental. It had been sent to me as a warning—it was true. Owen had neglected to have the shaft, leading into Pride’s Pit, filled up, and the under-viewer’s child had fallen a victim to this neglect. The child had fallen down the old shaft. He was dead, and the mother was bringing me now to show me face to face what my brother’s carelessness had effected. The life of a little child was sacrificed. I was to see for myself what Owen had done. I felt sure of this. The woman ran very fast, and I kept pace by her side. The distance was over half a mile, and partly up-hill. When we came to the ascent, which was rather steep, we could not go quite so quickly, and I had time to look in the woman’s face. It was hard and set, the lips very white, the eyes very staring. She neither looked at me nor spoke. It came into my heart that she was cruel, even though her child was dead, to hurry me forward without one word of warning: to show me, without any preparation, what my brother had done. I would not be treated so. I would not face this deed without knowing what I was to see. The instant I made this resolution, I stood still.

“Stop!” I said. “I will know all. Is the baby dead?”

The woman stood still also, pressing her hand on her labouring breast. “Dear heart! she knows,” she gasped. “Yes, yes, my dear—the baby’s dead.”

I did not say I was sorry, nor a single word. I simply, after my momentary pause, began to run harder than ever. We had now got in sight of the pit, and I saw a little crowd of people about it. Some men in their miners’ dresses, a boy or two, a larger proportion of women. I half expected the men, women, and children to curse me as I drew near. We ran a little faster, and the woman’s panting breath might have been heard at some distance. Suddenly a boy caught sight of us, and detaching himself from the group, ran to the woman’s side.

“Does she know?” he exclaimed, catching her hand almost frantically. “She must not see without knowing.”

The boy, who spoke in a voice of agony, was Miles Thomas.

“Yes,” replied the woman; “she guessed it herself. She knows that the baby’s dead.”

“Thank God!” said the boy. I looked from one face to the other. I could not help pitying myself, as though it were my sorrow. I thought the boy’s tone the kindest—he should take me to see the murdered child. Suddenly I changed my mind. Why should I need or look for compassion. The mother had come all this way to punish me and mine—the mother’s just revenge should not be foiled. When we got into the group, I took her hand.

“You shall show him to me,” I said. “You shall show me your little dead baby.”

There was a pause on all sides—one or two people turned aside. I saw a woman put her apron to her face, and heard a man groan. Every eye was fixed on me, and, at the same moment, the under-viewer’s wife and Miles went on their knees, and began to sob.

“Oh! my darling; you are wrong—you have made a mistake,” began the woman.

“I felt she did not, could not know,” sobbed Miles.

The crowd opened a little more, and I went forward. Very near the mouth of the old shaft, lying on a soft bed of grass and undergrowth, was a woman—a woman with a face as white as death. I went up close to her, and gazed at her steadily. Her face looked like death, but she was not dead—a moan or two came through white lips. By the side of the woman, stretched also flat, lay a child; his hat was thrown by his side, and one little leg was bare of shoe and stocking. A white frock was also considerably soiled, and even torn. I took in all these minor details first—then my eyes rested on the face. I went down on my knees to examine the face, to note its expression more attentively. On the brow, but partly concealed by the hair, was a dark mark, like a bruise, otherwise the face was quiet, natural, life-like. A faint colour lingered in the cheeks; the lips were parted and smiling.

The woman was groaning in agony. The child was quiet—looking as a child will look when he has met with a new delight. I laid my hand on the little heart—it never stirred. I felt the tiny pulse—it was still. The injured and suffering woman was Gwen. The dead baby was not the under-viewer’s child, but David’s little lad.

I took no further notice of Gwen, but I kept on kneeling by the side of the dead child. I have not the least idea whether I was suffering at this moment; my impression is that I was not. Mind, body, spirit, were all quiet under the influence of a great shock. I knew and realised perfectly that little David was dead; but I took in, as yet, no surrounding circumstances. Finding that I was so still, that I neither sobbed nor groaned—in fact, that I did nothing but gaze steadily at the dead child, the under-viewer’s wife knelt down by my side, and began to pour out her tale. She did this with considerable relief in her tone. When she began to speak, Miles also knelt very close to me, and laid his hand with a caressing movement on my dress. I was pleased with Miles’ affection—glad to receive it—and found that I could follow the tale told by the under-viewer’s wife, without any effort.

I mention all this just to show how very quiet I not only was in body, but in mind.

“No, the shaft was never filled in,” began the woman. “I waited day after day, but it was never done; and little Ellen, and Gwenllynn, and the baby, they seemed just from contrariness to h’always want to go and look over the brink. And what made it more danger, was the brambles and grass, and growth of h’all kinds, which from never being cut away, has got thicker year by year; so that coming from that side,” pointing west with her finger, “you might never see the old shaft at all, but tumble right in, and know nothing till you reach the bottom. Well, I was so frighted with this, and the contrariness of the children, that finding Mr Morgan had forgot again to have the shaft filled in, or closed round, only last night I spoke to my husband, and begged him to cut away some of the rankest of the growth, as it war, what it is, a sin and a shame to have the shaft like a trap, unknown to folks; but my husband, he war dead tired, and he knowed that I’m timmersome, so he only said, ‘Let be, woman—let be.’ And this morning he was away early—down to the mine. Well,” after a long pause, “I had done my bit o’ work. I had dressed the baby—bless him—and given Ellen and Gwenllynn their breakfast, and I was standing by the house door, my eye on the old shaft, and my mind set on the thought that I might put up a fence round it myself, so as to ward off the children, when sudden and sharp—almost nigh to me—I heard a woman scream, and looking, I saw a woman running for her bare life, and screaming and making for my cottage; and she had a child in her arms; and sudden, when I saw her, I knew who she was, and why she was running. I knew she was the nurse of Squire Morgan’s little son, and that she had the child with her. I knew she had been to the eye-well, for the cure of the sight of the baby, and that she was coming by this short cut home. And she never knew that she’d have to pass through the field with Mr Daniels’ bull. Well, I saw her running, and the bull after her, but he was a good way behind; and I thought she’d reach the cottage. And I shouted out to encourage her; when all on a heap, it flashed on me, that she was making straight for the shaft, and that she’d be right down in the pit, if I couldn’t stop her. Just then, two men came up, and turned the bull aside, but she didn’t know it, and kept on running harder and harder. ‘Stop!’ I shouted. ‘Stop! you’ll be down in the mine’; but she neither heeded nor heard me, and she went right through the thicket and the underwood. I heard it cracking under her feet. I saw her fall, and scream more piercing than h’ever.” Another pause from the narrator—then in a breathless kind of way, “I war at the other side o’ the pit in a twinkling. She had not gone down—not quite. Her head was above the ground, and she was holding on for bare life to a bit of underwood. She could only hold with one hand; the other was round the child. In one second she’d have been down, for the weight was too much, when I threw myself on my face and hands, and grasped the baby’s frock. ‘Hold the tree with both hands,’ I said, ‘and I’ll keep the baby.’ Poor soul! she looked up at me so anguish-like; but she did what I bid her, or they’d both have gone down. I was drawing up the baby, when a loose stone came tumbling—it was not much, it but hit him sharp on the temple. He never cried out, but his head dropped all on a sudden. When I got him to the top, he was dead. I laid him on the bank, and just then the men who had turned away the bull, came up, and they lifted the woman out of the shaft—one of her legs was broke!”

The under-viewer’s wife paused to wipe the moisture from her brow. Just then little feet came pattering, and the living child of the under-viewer, about whom I had grieved and dreamt, came up and looked down at the dead child of my brother. The face of the living baby gazed solemnly at the face of the dead baby. Nobody interrupted him, and he sat down and put, half in play, as though expecting an answering touch, his plump hand on the little hand that was still. At this moment there was a commotion in the crowd, then profound stillness, then a giving way on all sides, and a man’s hasty footsteps passed rapidly through our midst. Up straight to where the dead child was lying, the man came. He bent his head a little—he saw no other creature. This man was Owen. For about half a minute he was still. Then from his lips came one sharp cry—the sharpest cry of anguish I ever heard from mortal lips—then he rushed away.

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, “I did miss 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 quite that expression, 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, it is very 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 the very dust 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 that I care 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 how nearly he 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.

“I do love 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 he must see 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.

“Whenever Owen returns, give him that at 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 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.

“Heroic males the country bears, But daughters give up more than sons; Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares You flash your souls out with the guns, And take your heaven at once. “But we; we empty heart and home. Of life’s life, love! we bear to think You’re gone, to feel you may not come. To hear the door-latch stir and clink, Yet no more you—nor sink.”

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.

“Mother,” I said, “Mrs Jones has come, and something dreadful has happened in the mine.”

Then I took the weeping, agitated woman’s hand, and mother clasped her other hand, and we both looked hard in her face, and she looked into ours, and in broken words she told her tale.

How few were her words, but how crushing her intelligence! Just as the men were leaving work, the water had burst in like the sea into the workings; most of the day crew had escaped in time, but fourteen were still below.

“Which?” we asked breathlessly, “who were the doomed ones?”

“Not my son?” said mother.

“Not my brother?” said I.

“Yes,” said the woman, “Squire Morgan is still below—and—and—” bringing out the words with a great gasp, her face, her lips, growing white, “My husband—my George.”

She was silent then, and we three looked at each other in blank wonder and surprise; each was saying in her heart of hearts, “My sorrow is the greatest.”

At last I started to my feet.

“I will go down to the bank and learn more,” I said.

Bonnetless and shawlless the next moment I was mingling with the black men, and wild-looking women; I was clasping their hands, looking into their faces, and entreating them to tell me all they knew. One or two turned away from me, one or two muttered that it was the new manager’s fault. Words that made my heart freeze within me, about the blood of husbands and sons being on our heads, reached my ears, then a strong hand was laid on my shoulder, and turning, I recognised through all his coal dust, and blackened face, little Nan’s father, Moses Thomas.

“Come round to my house, dear young lady,” he said, in a gentle tone; then turning to the angry men and women, “Shame on you! cowards! has not Squire Morgan sacrificed his life for you to-day?”

The people shrank back; one woman said, “God bless him!” and Moses Thomas took my hand in his.

Little Nan was waiting for us. In the midst of all my own agony, I almost dreaded seeing Nan’s face, but to my surprise it was quiet. When I entered the house she came up and kissed me. She had never ventured to kiss me of her own accord before, but on this occasion we were equals—nay, on this occasion Nan was greater than I.

“Yes, Miss Morgan,” said Thomas, seating himself and beginning his tale at once. “’Tis very like they is drowned, the Squire, and my lad, and Jones, and eleven more of ’em; and oh! Lord! some was ready, and some isn’t; some was turning to the Lord, and some was just goin’ on in evil; and oh! dear Lord! forgive me, and have mercy upon me!” The man covered his face with his hands, and Nan went down on her knees.

“Lord, forgive father, and lay not this sin to his charge,” she said.

Thomas looked at her from under his shaggy brows, stretched out his hand and stroked her cheek, then making an effort to master some strong emotion, continued his tale.

“Yes, my dear young lady, as I say, ’twas mostly my fault; I felt rare and h’angered this morning, when I went down into the mine, to find that the little chap, unknownst to me, had brought down the Squire. I spoke sharp to the lad, the Lord have mercy on me! The Squire, he had a long talk with me and the deputy, and he wanted the overman to be sent for, but the overman was ill, and I ranks next, and I was rare and vexed, and I laughed at the thought of danger, and I knew the Squire had no knowledge of mines, and ’twas all the little chap’s conceit. So the upshot of it was we went on with the workin’ of the new seam, and I had my h’eye out sharp, and to prevent all chance of danger, I made the men work, as I thought, in a new direction, away from Pride’s Pit. Well, the Squire stayed down all day, and two or three times he axed me to stop working until Mr Morgan come back; but I never, no, God knows, I never thought of danger. At last it was evening, and I came to the surface, but Miles, being trapper, had to stay down to the last; and the Squire, who seemed mighty taken with the lad, said they would come up together. Well, I had not been to the surface more’n ten minutes, when the news came that the water had burst out of Pride’s Pit; most of the men got to the surface in time, but fourteen are below. Oh! God forgive me, God forgive me. My boy, my brave boy was right; if I had hearkened to him, all would have been saved.”

At these words Nan went down on her knees again, and looked into her father’s face with flushed cheeks and glistening eyes.

“Father, father, do you call Miles brave and noble now?”

“Ay, ay, little lass, brave as a lion, my noble lad; how patient he was when I nearly struck him across the face this morning, and how he spoke up so manful, ‘Father, I’m not afeerd, but I know there’s danger.’”

“I’m so glad,” said little Nan. “I’m so glad he was brave and noble, and not afeerd; he was follerin’ of Jesus. Why, father, if Miles is drowned, he’s only gone to Jesus.”

“True enough, Nan, he’s crossed the Jordan river, and is safe on the holy hill of the better land. No fear for Miles, little lass.”

“But, perhaps—perhaps,” I murmured, “they are not all drowned; is there no place of escape in the mine?”

“Oh! God grant it, lady; yes, there are rises and levels, they may have got into them, but how are they to be got out? however are they to be got at? Well, if there’s a shadow of a chance of this, we miners won’t leave a stone unturned to save ’em, no, not one, trust us! I must see what can be done!”

Chapter Twenty One.

The Lord was not in the Wind.

I have said that all England knows the story. Still I will tell it, dwelling most on the part that most touched my own heart and my own life.

In doing this I may be selfish, but I can tell this part best.

That night Moses Thomas, with several other brave volunteers, went down the shaft of the Ffynon mine.

The shaft was ninety-two yards deep.

They went down determined to risk life, to save life; but even with this determination, they had little hope of success.

When they reached the mine, the scene that met their eyes was likely to kill that slight hope.

All the workings within a few hundred yards of the bottom of the shaft, were filled with water to the roof. It seemed utterly impossible that a soul now left in the mine could be alive. The water from the old pit had truly come in like a flood, carrying all before it. This being the case, the men were about to ascend to the surface, hopeless and despairing, when suddenly faint knockings were heard on the other side of the coal, at a distance, it was thought, of about a dozen yards.

These knockings sent a thrill of joy through the breasts of the brave men. Every thought of persona! danger was put out of sight, and all night they laboured to cut away the wall of coal, fondly hoping that all the men were safe, imprisoned, but not drowned, and in a few hours they would rescue them. Well, as I said before, the story is known: in the morning five men were reached; four of these five were brought in safety to the surface; but the fifth, a noble young fellow, who had worked splendidly all night for his own rescue, and that of his companions, was killed by a terrific gas explosion, which took place when the coal was worked through.