by L. T. Meade
was going to school; perhaps some London cousins had asked meto pay them a visit. Oh! yes, this last thought must be right, and howpleasant, how lovely, how charming that would be! I should see theHouses of Parliament, and Westminster, and visit the Parks, and theMuseums, and Madame Tussaud's.
Yes, certainly this was going to happen. Mother had not told me yet,which was a little strange, but perhaps she had heard it herself verysuddenly, and had met some friends, and had mentioned it to them. Yes,this must be the mystery, this must be the fire from whence the smoke ofSybil's gossip came. I felt it tingling from my throat down to my verytoes. I was _not_ going to be buried alive. So cruel a fate was not instore for me. I should see the world--the world of beauty, of romance,of love, and all possible things might happen to me. I skipped alonggaily.
David was smoking his pipe, and pacing up and down under some treeswhich grew near the house. The short September sun had set, but themoon had got up, and in the little space of ground where my brotherwalked, it was shedding a white light, and bringing into relief hisstrongly marked features.
David's special characteristic was strength; he possessed strength ofbody, and strength of--mind, I was going to say, but I shall substitutethe word soul. His rugged features, his height, his muscular hands andarms, all testified to his great physical powers. And the repose on hisface, the calm gentleness and sweetness that shone in his keen, darkeyes, and played round his firm lips, showed how strong his soul mustbe--for David had known great trouble.
I mention his strength of character here, speaking of it first of all inintroducing him into my story, for the simple reason that when I saw himstanding under the trees, I perceived by the expression of his face,that he was yielding to a most unusual emotion; he looked anxious, evenunhappy. This I took in with a kind of side thought, to be recurred toby and by, but at present I was too much excited about myself. I walkedwith him nearly every evening when he smoked, and now I went to my usualplace, and put my hand through his arm. I longed to ask him if thesurmise, which was agitating my whole being, was correct, but by doingthis I should betray Sybil, and I must not even mention that I had seenher.
"What bright cheeks, and what a happy face!" said David, looking at meaffectionately, "are you very glad to come to the Messiah with me?little woman."
"Yes," I answered absently, for to-morrow's treat had sunk intoinsignificance. Then out it came with a great irrepressible burst,"David, I am _longing_ to see London."
David, who knew nothing of my discontent, who imagined me to be, what Ialways appeared to him, a child without the shadow of a care, or asorrow, without even the ghost of a longing outside my own peacefulexistence, answered in the tone of surprise which men can throw intotheir voices when they are not quite comfortable.
"London, my dear Gwladys."
"Yes, why not?"
"Well, we don't live so very far away from London, you may see it someday."
It was quite evident, by David's indifferent tone, that he knew nothingof any immediate visit in store for me. I bit my lips hard, and triedto say nothing. I am sure I should not have spoken but for his nextwords.
"And in the meantime you can wait; you are very happy, are you not?"
"No, I am not. I'm not a bit happy, David," and I burst into tears.
"What's this?" said David in astonishment.
"I am not happy," I repeated, now that the ice was broken, letting forthsome of my rebellious thoughts, "I'm so dull here, I do so want to livea grand life."
"Tell me, dear, tell me all about it?" said David tenderly. To judgefrom the tone of his voice he seemed to be taking himself to task insome strange way. The love in his voice disarmed my anger, and I spokemore gently.
"You see, David, 'tis just this, you and mother have got Tynycymmer, youhave the house, and the farm, and all the land, and, of course, you haveplenty to do on the land, riding about and seeing to the estate, andkeeping the tenants' houses in order, and 'tis very nice work, for 'tisall your own property, and of course you love it; and mother, she hasthe house to manage, and the schools to visit, but I, David, I have onlydull, stupid lessons. I have nothing interesting to do, and oh!sometimes I am so dull and so miserable, I feel just as if I was buriedalive, and I do so want to be unburied. I have no companions. I haveno one to speak to, and I do long to go away from here, and to see theworld."
"You would like to leave Tynycymmer!" said David.
"Yes, indeed, indeed I should. I should dearly love to go out into theworld as Owen has done; I think Owen has such a grand life."
Here I paused, and finding that David did not reply, I ventured to lookinto his face. The expression of his silent face was peculiar; itshowed, though not a muscle moved, though not a feature stirred, thepresence of some very painful thought. I could not believe that mywords had given birth to this thought, but I did consider it possiblethat they might have called it into fuller being; quickly repentant Ibegan to apologise, or to try to apologise, the sting out of my words.
"You know, David, that you and mother are not like me, you both haveplenty to interest you here. Mother has the schools, and, oh! athousand other things, and you have the place and the farm."
"And I have my little lad."
"Of course--I forgot baby."
"Yes, Gwladys," said David, rousing himself and shaking off hisdepression, "I have my son, and he won't leave me, thank God. I amsorry you find your home dull, my dear. I have always wanted you tolove it, there is no place like it on earth to me."
He took my hand very gently, and removed it from his arm, then walkedwith great strides into the house. His face and manner filled me withan undefined sense of gloom and remorse.
I followed him like a guilty thing. I would not even go into thedrawing-room to bid mother good-night, but went at once up to my ownroom. When I got there, I locked the door; this conversation had nottended to raise my spirits. As I sat on my bed, I felt veryuncomfortable.
What an old, old room it was, and all of oak, floor, walls, ceiling, allhighly-polished, and dark with the wear of age. Other Gwladys Morganshad carved their names on the shutters, and had laid down to rest on thegreat four-post bedstead. Other daughters of the house had stood in themoonlight and watched the silent shining of the waves. Had they too, intheir ignorance and folly, longed for the bustle and unrest of the greatwide world, had they, too, felt themselves buried alive at Tynycymmer?With David's face in my memory, I did not like these thoughts. I wouldbanish them. I opened a door which divided my room from the nursery,and went noisily in. What an awkward girl I was! I could do nothinglike any one else; every door I opened, shut again with a bang, everyboard my foot pressed, creaked with a sharp note of vengeance. Hadnurse Gwen been in the nursery, what a scolding I should have merited,but nurse Gwen was absent, and in the moonlit room I advanced and bentover a little child's cot. In the cot lay a boy of between one and two,a rosy, handsome boy, with sturdy limbs, and great dark-fringed eyes; hewas sleeping peacefully, and smiling in his sleep; one little fat handgrasped a curly, woolly toy dog, the other was flung outside thebedclothes; his little pink toes were also bare. With undefined painstill in my heart, and David's face vividly before me, I bent down andkissed the child. I kissed him passionately, forgetting his peculiarsensitiveness to touch. He started from his light slumbers with ashrill baby cry, his dark eyes opened wide. I took him out of his crib,and paced up and down with him. For a wonder I managed to soothe him,skilfully addressing him in my softest tones, rubbing my foreheadagainst his soft cheek, and patting his back. The moon had left thisside of the house, and the room was in complete shadow, but I did notthink of lighting a candle, for to the child in my arms the darkness wastoo dense for any earthly candle to remove; he was David's little lad,and he was blind.
CHAPTER THREE.
SOME DAY, YOU WILL SEE THAT HE IS NOBLE.
I have said that David's great characteristic was strength, but by thisI do not at all mean to imply that he was clever. No one ever ye
t hadcalled David clever. When at school he had won only second or thirdclass prizes, and at Oxford very few honours had come in his way.
He had a low opinion of his own abilities, and considered himself arather stupid, lumbering kind of fellow, not put into the world to makea commotion, but simply, as far as in him lay, to do his duty.
David was never known to lecture any one; he never, in the whole courseof his life, gave a piece of gratuitous advice; he could and did advisewhen his advice was directly demanded, but he was diffident of his ownopinion, and did not consider it worth a great deal. To the sinners hewas always intensely pitiful, and so gentle and sorrowful over theerring, that many people must have supposed he knew all about theirweaknesses, and must once have been the blackest of black sheep himself.
No,
