David's Little Lad

“No more you does, Twenty,” he replied, “but even Twenty can put away her fears and sing us a song when she hears a bit of good news.”

“Shall I sing a hymn? father.”

“Well, yes, my lass, I does feel like praisin’ – there, you begin, and I’ll foller up.”

Little Nan laid down her knife and fork, fixed her dark eyes straight before her, clasped her hands, and began —

“We shall meet beyond the river,
By and by,
And the darkness shall be over,
By and by.
With the toilsome journey done,
And the glorious battle won,
We shall shine forth as the sun,
By and by.”

She paused, looked at her father, who joined her in the next verse —

“We shall strike the harps of glory,
By and by.
We shall sing redemption’s story.
By and by.
And the strains for evermore
Shall resound in sweetness o’er
Yonder everlasting shore,
By and by.

“We shall see and be like Jesus
By and by.
Who a crown of life shall give us,
By and by.
All the blest ones who have gone
To the land of life and song,
We with gladness shall rejoin
By and by!”

I have given the words, but I cannot describe the fervent looks that accompanied them, nor catch any echo here, of the sweet voice of the child, or the deep and earnest tones of the man. The strong spiritual life in both their natures came leaping to the surface, the man forgot the stranger by his hearth, he saw his God; the child, too, forgot her fears and her anxieties, and as she sang she became really young.

Chapter Eleven

They Talked of Money

Since my arrival at smoky, ugly Ffynon, I had never again to complain of being buried alive. The life I led was certainly not the life I should have chosen. I was young; I had day dreams. Had the choice been mine, I should have liked, as all other young things, to win for myself either pleasure, love, or fame. But the choice was not mine; and at Ffynon, strange as it may seem, I grew more contented than I had been now for many years at Tynycymmer.

I was pleased with the people, I liked their occupation, their life. I soon found interests outside myself – a grand secret – thus I grew happy. Nan and Miles soon also became my real friends: I learned to appreciate their characters, to understand them; they were alike in many ways, but in far more ways were they different. Nan had more character and more originality than Miles, but Miles had far more simple bravery than Nan. They were both religious; but Miles’s religion was the least dreamy, and the most practical. On the whole, I think the boy had the grander nature, and yet I think I loved the girl best.

I made many other acquaintances amongst the colliers, but these two children were my friends.

In about a fortnight after Owen’s return, David went back to Tynycymmer, and we settled down quietly into our new and altered life. From morning to night Owen was busy, now making engineering plans, now down in the mine. As a boy he had been dilatory and fitful in his movements, working hard one day, dreaming or idling away the next; but now this boyish character had disappeared – now all this was changed. Now he worked unremittingly, unflinchingly; he had a goal before him, and to this goal he steadily directed his steps, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. In his present plans, whatever they may have been, mother helped him. Mother gave him of her sympathy and her interest. Long ago, dearly as they loved each other, I don’t think those two natures had quite met; but this was no longer so now; the same hope animated both pairs of eyes, the same feeling actuated both breasts. They had long conferences, anxious, and yet hopeful consultations; but it was less in their words than in their faces that I read that their wishes were the same.

I never saw mother look happier. Her long-lost son seemed now more her son than ever.

And I – had I, too, got back my Owen? had my hero returned? was this my brother, once dead to me, now alive again?

Alas! no. We were friends, Owen and I; we were outwardly affectionate, outwardly all that could be wished; but the man of the world made no advances of heart and confidence to the still childish sister; and the sister was glad that this should be so. We kissed each other affectionately night and morning, we chatted familiarly, we broached a thousand gay topics, but on the old sacred ground we neither of us ventured to set our feet. After a time I concluded that Owen had really forgotten the old days; and believing this, I yet was glad.

Why so? Why was my heart thus hard and unforgiving? Had my love for Owen really died? I do not think it had. Looking back on that winter now, with the light of the present, making all things clear, I believe that this was not so. I know now what was wrong: I know that I, by my pride, by the lack of all that was really noble in my affection, had set up a thin wall of ice between my brother’s heart and my own.

Once, I think, Owen made an effort, though a slight one, to break it down. He had been talking to my mother for an hour or more; their interview had excited him; and with the excitement still playing in his eyes he came to my side, and stood close to me as I bent down to water some plants.

“Poor little girl!” he said, laying his hand on my hair, “you are very good to come and live in this poky, out-of-the-way corner of the world; but never mind, Gwladys, soon there will be plenty of money, and you can do as you like.”

“How soon? Owen,” I said, raising my head and looking in his face.

“How soon? In a year, at farthest.”

“Will the mine then be safe ’n a year?”

The bright look left Owen’s face. “What do you know of the mine? child,” he laughed. “I am speaking about money.”

I made no reply to this, though Owen waited for it. I watered my flowers in silence, and then walked away. Yes, there was a gulf between us.

I might have broken it down then – he gave me the opportunity: he showed by his manner that the old days still occupied some dim corner of his memory; the old days were not quite forgotten; but I would not break down the wall; I would not breathe on the ice with the breath of love. I walked away, and my opportunity was gone! As I did so, I thought of David’s words when he begged of me to help Owen to keep in the right path; when he expressed his fears, and asked me to aid him. I did not aid him – I neglected my duty. Owen was not the only sinner. In God’s sight, was he the worst?

Meanwhile, in the outside world, the people of Ffynon talked of a good time coming, of freedom from danger, of improvements about to be effected, which would enable the mothers to send down their boys into the mine without fear, and would insure the return of the fathers to the children, of the husbands to their wives. Higher wages, too, and more constant employment would follow the new, safe, and profitable system, which not only would save lives, but bring a much greater proportion of coal to the surface. Thus all parties were bright and happy – all parties happy from their own point of view; but while the miners talked of safety, mother and Owen talked of money.

Chapter Twelve

You are Changed to me

The events in this story followed each other quickly, I must not delay in writing of them. Hitherto I have but skirted the drama, I have scarcely ventured to lift the folds of the dark curtain, but now I hesitate no longer.

Here! I push back the veil, let those who will step with me beyond its kind screen. I am going into a battle-field, and the place is gloomy. Heavy with clouds is the sky, red with blood the ground, and cold with death lie the conquered, ay, and the conquerors too. But enough! my story must tell itself, the shadows must come up one by one as they will.

We were five months at Ffynon, and the dreary winter had nearly passed, a few snowdrops and crocuses were in the little garden, and all spring flowers that money could buy and care cultivate, adorned the pretty cottage within. I had been on a long rambling expedition, and had taken Nan with me, and Nan had entertained me as I liked best to be entertained, with accounts of mining life and mining danger. Strange, how when we are young, we do like stories of danger. I came back a good deal excited, for Nan had been giving me particulars, learned from her mother’s lips, of the fearful accident caused in our very mine in 1856 by fire-damp, when one hundred and fourteen lives were swept in a moment into eternity. “That was a dark day for Ffynon,” said Nan, “not a house without a widow in it, not a home without a dead husband or father. Mother lost her father and brother, and our Stephie was born that very night. Mother warn’t twenty then, but she got old in a minute and never grew young again. Eh! dear,” added the small thing, with her heavy old world sigh, “ain’t it a weary world, Miss Morgan?”

“Well, I don’t know,” I said, “you are inclined to take a dark view of life, but things will brighten, Nan. Owen is making things so delightfully safe down in the mine, that soon you’ll have no cause to be anxious, and then you’ll grow young, as young as me, and enjoy your life.”

“I’ll never be younger nor twenty,” said Nan, solemnly, “never; and, Miss Morgan, I can’t help telling you something.”

“Well, my dear, what is it?”

“They do say, father and Miles, not to me, for they knows I’m so anxious, but I hears ’em whispering when they thinks I’m asleep o’ nights. They do say that for all Mr Morgan is so keen about saving the miners, and making things safe and compact, that he have the coal pillars what supports the roof, cut all away to nothing, and the timber what’s put in, in place o’ the pillars, ain’t thick enough. It don’t sound much I know, but it means much.”

“What does it mean? Nan,” I asked.

“Why, falls o’ roofs, Miss Morgan. Oh! I knows the sign of ’em, but there,” seeing how white my face had grown, “may be ’tis ’cause I’m an anxious thing, and they do say there’s a heap more coal bin brought up, and the ventilation twice as good.”