David's Little Lad

At last the cottage was ready, everything to our least belongings, packed and put away, and mother and I saw the day dawn when we were to leave Tynycymmer, and take up our abode at Owen’s house. I found on the morning of that day in late October, I found on that last day, to my astonishment, that even going away had its sorrows. A mist of tears came dimming my eyes as I looked at the sea, as I wandered through the gardens and grounds, as I peeped into the no longer orderly rooms. Memories I had tried to put out of sight returned to me. That arbour overhanging the sea, where I had talked to Amy of Owen, and Amy, in a short, vivid, last flash of resentment, had told me I was wrong; that David was the brave man. Poor little gentle Amy! I had never loved her very much, I had scorned her earnest words; but they were true. I acknowledged them with a great stab at my heart, when I visited the arbour for the last time.

Here was the horse-chestnut-tree where Owen and I had sat and dreamed dreams, summer after summer. I hurried away from it. Here was the cherry-tree from which I had stolen the cherries, for which Owen had reproved me. Here, crawling listlessly after me, was the lame, and half-blind terrier, which had once belonged to Owen, and had been sportive enough when Owen and I were together. Here was the study, where I had copied Owen’s exercises. Here the stain, still left in the carpet, where Owen had upset the ink. Here the spot – here, by the deep, mullioned window – where, after a long labour for Owen, he had put his arm round my childish neck, looked full into my eyes, and “called me the best little sister in the world.”

Oh! what ailed the place this morning; it was alive with Owen, peopled with Owen in every nook. From each corner Owen started up and confronted me, as he was. As he was– what was he now? I dashed my blinding tears away. Kissed little David, hugged Gwen, who was absolutely speechless with her own sorrow, got into the carriage beside mother, and was off – away! For mother’s sake, who was very white, and seemed to be suffering intensely, I abstained from shouting. For David’s sake, who kept his hat well down, and who never spoke, I, too, remained silent. In process of time we arrived at Ffynon, and at the cottage which was to be our future home. A tree or two surrounded it; a little scrap of a garden, neat with gravel, and bright with late geraniums in pots, led up to it. Inside there was a drawing-room, low and small; a dining-room to match; behind, kitchens, a pantry, and cellars; over head, four bed-rooms. That was absolutely all. Goodness me! dear, dear! as Gwen would say, was there ever such a nutshell of a place! Why, it was a toy-house, a doll’s abode. I could stand on tiptoe and touch the ceiling of the apartment set aside for my slumbers. I could stand by the bedstead at one end of the room, and nearly pull the bell at the other. But then the bedstead was so pretty, so tiny, so bright! The whole room, encased in its fairy-like pink and white, was like a little bower; the muslin curtains were partly drawn, the blinds partly down, the evening sun cast a glow over everything. I approached the window, whistling to my canary as I went. I drew up the blinds, and pushed back the curtains. My cheeks were hot, I wanted to see my waves. Perhaps from long habit, I thought I should see them. I looked out, and behold! a black country – hills, low and barren destitute of trees, clothed with coal dust; straight, red brick chimneys, from which curled volumes of ugly smoke; roads winding everywhere, of a grimy grey; a train of coal trams, whizzing up to the noisy dirty station; the roar of steam-engines filling the air; dark figures rushing here and there, and the machinery and shaft of what I afterwards learned was David’s mine, quite close. The entrance to this mine lay within not many hundred yards of the house. Oh! there was noise enough and life enough here, but it was ugly! ugly! ugly! I quickly shut down the window; I drew the blinds and curtains into their former position. I would not acknowledge, even to myself, how my heart rose up in wild longing for the green trees, and the fresh, sweet, salt waves of Tynycymmer; I only said to myself, “The cottage is lovely, fairy-like; but the view is ugly!”

That night I slept well in my little room, and in the morning was able to acknowledge that, though the coal country was far from beautiful, and Ffynon was not quite the home to choose, yet any change was welcome to me; and had Owen only been coming back the hero I had painted him, had dear old David’s brave face not worn such a patient look, had my mother not been quite so silent, and quite so sorry for leaving Tynycymmer, and had Gwen been still to the fore to scold me, and pet me, I should have been, notwithstanding the ugly view, the happiest girl in the world.

I got up early this first morning, and went out. I ran down, without anyone knowing it, to the place where the machinery roared loudest, and the black coal dust was thickest. I looked into the mouth of the shaft, watched with interest the rows of grimy miners getting into the cage, and descending into the mine; started back at first from their black faces, which, relieved by the dazzling white of teeth and eyeballs, made them look hardly human; presently gathered courage, came close, asked eager questions, made all verbal preparations for a speedy descent into the coal mine; rather laughed at the idea of fear in the matter, and returned home in time for breakfast, my light dress covered with dirty stains, my golden hair full of coal dust, my whole person very dirty indeed.

“Gwladys,” said mother, “you must never venture near the shaft alone again.”

“If you do, Gwladys, I must take you back to Tynycymmer,” said David.

I did not want that; if Ffynon was dirty, it was very new and very interesting.

Chapter Eight

I said I would do much for these Children

We were a fortnight at Ffynon. All my possessions were unpacked and put neatly away in the wardrobes allotted to them. My favourite books, my “Cambrian Magazine,” my “Westward Ho!” my “Arabian Nights,” my “Mabinogion,” reflected gay colours behind polished glass doors. Packing-cases had disappeared. The cottage inside was perfection, bright with potted plants, cool with muslin drapery, glowing with rich crimson curtains. The rare and lovely Tynycymmer china filled niches in the drawing-room, exquisite landscapes from the pencils of Fielding and Cooper adorned the walls, the blackest of coal sent out the clearest flames of ruddy hue from the highly-polished grates. Every room was perfect, perfect with neatness, cleanliness, order, and perfect also with a minute, but highly-finished beauty. The tiny abode hardly needed even a fairy’s touch to render it more lovely, on the day Owen was expected home. On this day mother came down in the black velvet robe which had lain by for years. It was worn high to her throat, finished off at neck and wrists with Honiton. A tiny Honiton cap rested becomingly on her shining, abundant, still raven black hair.

I was lying on my bed, my face flashed, my yellow locks in confusion, a rumpled cotton dress, too soiled for July, too out of season for October, adorning my person, when mother in her massive folds, her eyes bright as stars, came in.

“Make yourself nice, my darling. Owen will be here before long,” she said.

She kissed me and went away. When she left me I jumped up, and looked at my watch. It was not yet four o’clock. Owen could not arrive before another hour. I cared nothing about my dress. I could not sit in state in the tiny drawing-room to meet Owen. I put on a winter jacket, and my hat, ran downstairs, and went out.

Mother saw me from the window, and called after me, and I called back in reply —

“I shall not be long, I shall return in time for Owen.”

Mother turned away with a sigh. What a rebellious, thoughtless young thing I was! Of course mother wanted me. She would like to look at me in my trim, orderly, number one gown, to arrange a ribbon here and a curl there, to sigh, and smile, and talk, to hazard a thousand sweet innocent conjectures. Should we know our darling? What would he think of me? I had been such a little one when he went away!

These remarks, these touches, these looks, would have helped mother through that last trying hour of suspense, that hour which, if all has been well, if all will be well, is still fraught with pain through its very intensity. Yes, they would have helped mother, and driven me wild. I was selfish. I went on my way. Oh! that ugly coal country, with the wintry fading light of the first November evening over it! I kicked up coal dust with my feet, and two heavy tears fell from my eyes. Yes, Owen was coming home. Even now, each moment was bringing him nearer to us. Owen was coming home, and I was unhappy. Between this hour, and the hour six weeks before, when David had broken to me one sad fact, a strange but complete revulsion had taken place within me. I was a childish creature still, childish in heart and nature; but just, perhaps, or in part, perhaps, because I was so inexperienced, so immature, I had turned from my hero, I had hardened myself against the warmest love of my life.

Yes, I had made a god and worshipped it. Nothing was too good for it, no homage too great to lay at its feet, no sacrifice too worthy to offer at its shrine. Mother, David, Amy, were all as nothing in comparison of this my hero. My dream lasted through my childhood and early youth, then suddenly it vanished. My god was a clay god, my idol was dust.

Owen Morgan still lived. Owen Morgan was coming back to his mother, brother, sister, but my perfect Owen was dead. A man who had sinned, who had brought disgrace on us, was coming home to-day. More and more as the time drew nearer I had shrunk from seeing, from speaking to, from touching, this altered Owen. I was intensely unmerciful, intensely severe, with the severity of the very young. No after repentance, no future deed of glory could wipe away this early stain. I had been deceived – Owen had sinned – and my Owen was dead. As I walked quickly along the barren, ugly coal country, I pictured to myself what my feelings would have been to-day had this not been so. Would mother have sat alone then in her velvet and lace to meet the returning hero? Would I? ah! what would I not have done to-day? I could not think of it. I dashed away another tear or two and walked on. I chose unfrequented, lonely paths, and these abounded in plenty, paths leading up to old, used-up shafts, and neglected mines; paths with thin ragged grass covering them, all equally ugly. At last I came to a huge cinder-heap, which had lain undisturbed so long, that some weak vegetation had managed now to grow up around it. Here I sat down to rest. The cinder-heap was close to the closed-up shaft of an unused pit. In this fortnight I had already learned something of mining life, and I knew where to look for the old shafts, and always examined them with curiosity. As I sat there, I heard the voices of two children, who, evidently quite unaware of my close neighbourhood, were talking eagerly together, at the other side of the cinder-heap. It was a boy’s voice I heard first – high, shrill, passionate.

“Yes, indeed, Nan; they’ll call me a coward. No, Nan; I’ll not be daunted. I will go down on Monday!”

To these words the girl replied with sobs. I heard the boy kissing her; then there was silence, then the same eager voice said —

“Don’t cry, Nan; Monday ain’t come yet. Let’s talk of something pleasant.”

“Don’t talk at all, Miles. Let’s sing.”

“Shall we sing ‘The Cross?’”

“I don’t – no, I do care. Yes, we’ll sing that.” There was a pause, then two sweet, wild voices took up the following words to a plaintive Welsh air: —

“The cross! the cross! the heavy cross!
The Saviour bore for me!
Which bowed Him to the earth with grief,
On sad Mount Calvary.

“How light, how light, this precious cross
Presented now to me;
And if with care I take it up,
Behold a crown for me!”

Here the voices ceased suddenly, and I again heard a kiss of comfort, and the sound of a girl’s sob. I could bear no more. I started to my feet, ran round the cinder-heap, and confronted the children.

“Please don’t be frightened! I heard you sing. I want you to sing again. I want to know what’s the matter. I’m Gwladys Morgan – you may have heard of me; my brother is going to manage the mine at Ffynon.”

Two pairs of black eyes were raised to my face, then the boy rose slowly to his feet, came forward a step or two, and after gazing at me with the most searching, penetrating glance I had ever been favoured with, said brightly, as if satisfied with the result of his scrutiny —

“I’m Miles, and this is little Nan.”

“And father works down in the mine,” said little Nan.

“Father’s name is Moses Thomas – he’s deputy,” said the boy again, in a proud tone.

“Go on,” I said, seating myself close to the children; “tell me all about yourselves. I’m so glad I’ve met you. I am sure we shall be friends. I like you both already. Now you must let me know your whole story, from beginning to end; only first, do, do sing that lovely hymn again.”

“I’ll sing, Miss Morgan,” said the boy, instantly; “but you’ll forgive little Nan; little Nan’s in trouble, and her voice ain’t steady.”

Throwing back his head, looking straight before him, and clasping his hands round his knee, he sang to the same wild measure the next verse of the Methodist hymn: —

“The crown! the crown! the glorious crown!
A crown of life for me.
This crown of life it shall be mine,
When Jesus I shall see.”

“When Jesus I shall see,” he repeated, under his breath, looking at the girl as he spoke. As the children looked at each other they seemed to have forgotten my presence.

“What’s the cross you’ve got to bear? Nan,” I asked.

An old-fashioned, troubled, anxious face was raised to mine; but it was Miles who answered.

“’Tis just this, Miss Morgan: ’tis nothing to fret about. I’ve got to go down into the mine to work on Monday. I’ve never been into the mine before, and little Nan’s rare and timmersome; but I says to her that she’s faithless. She knows, and I know, that the Lord’ll be down in the mine too. ’Tis none so dark down there but He’ll find me h’out, and take care on me.”

“He didn’t find out Stephie,” sobbed Nan, all her composure giving way. “He took no care on Stephie.”

“What is it?” I said; “do tell me about it; and who is Stephie? Miles.”

“Stephie is dead, Miss Morgan. There’s only us two now – only us and father. Mother died arter Stephie went; she fretted a good bit, and she died too; and then there was Nan, and me, and father. We lives near Ffynon Mine, and father’s deputy; and we’re none so rich, and father works rare and ’ard; and he don’t get much money, ’cause the times is bad; and I’m fourteen, and I’m very strong, and I says I should work.”

“No – no – no!” here screamed the girl, forgetting, in a perfect paroxysm of fright and grief, the presence of the stranger. She clasped her arms round the boy’s neck, and her white lips worked convulsively.