David's Little Lad

“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.