David's Little Lad

“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.