David's Little Lad

by L. T. Meade

than David's face during that year.I have said that Amy was meek, I never remember her showing any spiritbut once, but that occasion I shall not quickly forget. She and I weresitting together in the arbour overhanging the sea. She was not verywell, and was lying back in a little wicker chair, and I was seated ather feet, arranging different coloured sea weeds. As I worked, I talkedof Owen. I did not mean it in the least, but as I spoke of my favouritebrother, of his beauty and talent, I unconsciously used David as a foilto show him off by. I was speaking more to myself than to Amy. I wasnot thinking of her at all.

  Suddenly she started to her feet, her pale face grew crimson, her softbrown eyes flashed angrily.

  "Gwladys," she said, "little as you think of David now, some day youwill see that he is a nobler man than a thousand of your Owens."

  "How can you speak so, when you don't know Owen," I retorted, the hotblood of the Morgans flying into my cheeks at this unexpected show ofspirit.

  "I know David," she replied, and she burst into tears.

  Poor little Amy! that night a son was born to her and David, and thatnight she died.

  Perhaps had mother and I understood Amy, and cared for her more, Davidmight have told us something of the sorrow which followed quickly on hisjoy. Most of the time between Amy's death and her funeral, he spent inher room. After the funeral he went away for a week; he told neithermother nor me where he was going! we never heard how or in what part ofthe world he spent that week; on his return he never mentioned thesubject. But his face, which on the day of Amy's funeral was convulsedwith agony, was after that short absence peaceful, and, I say it withoutexpecting to be misunderstood, even happy.

  It was about this time I really noticed what a religious man my brotherwas. With all his want of talent, he knew the Bible very well, and Ithink he was well acquainted with God. It must have been God who gavehim power to act as he did now, for if ever a man truly loved a woman,he loved Amy; but he never showed his sorrow to mother and me; he neverappeared before us with a gloomy brow. After a time even, his faceawoke into that pathetic joy which follows the right reception of agreat sorrow.

  I _did_ once see him, when he thought no one was by, dropping greattears over the baby.

  "My boy, my little motherless lad," I heard him say.

  I longed to go up and comfort him; I longed to tell him that I cared forAmy now, but I did not dare. Mother, too, who had not loved her inlife, could not speak of her in death. So David could only tell hissorrow to God, and God comforted and heard him, and the baby grew,healthy, handsome, strong, worthy in his beauty and his strength of theproudest Morgan of the race, and David loved him; but, alas! the littlelad was blind.

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  OWEN IS COMING HOME.

  I managed to hush little David into a sound sleep, before Gwen returnedfrom her supper in the old servants' hall. When I had done so, I wentback to my room and undressed quickly, hoping much that I too would soonsink into slumber, for I was in that semi-frightened and semi-excitedcondition, when Gwen's stories about the Green Lady--our Welsh Banshee--and other ghostly legends, would come popping under my eyelids, andforcing me to look about the room with undefined uneasiness. I didsleep soundly, however; and in the morning the brilliant sunshine, thedancing waves which I could even see from my bed, put all myuncomfortable fears to rest. To-day I was to visit Hereford, for thefirst time to set my foot on English soil. Laid out on a chair closeby, lay my clean white muslin dress. I must get up at once, for we wereto start early, the distance from our part of Glamorganshire to Herefordbeing very considerable. I rose and approached the window with adancing step; the day was perfection, a few feathery clouds floated hereand there in the clear blue of the sky, the sea quivered in thousands ofjubilant silver waves, the trees crimsoned into all the fulness of theirautumnal beauty. My heart responded to the brightness of the morning;ages back lay the ugly dreams and discontented thoughts of yesterday. Iwas no longer enduring the slow torture of a death-in-life existence. Iwas breathing the free air of a world full of love, glory, happiness.In short, I was a gay girl of sixteen, going out for a holiday. I puton my white dress. I tied blue ribbon wherever blue ribbon could betied. I had never worn a bonnet in my life, so I perched a broad whitehat over my clustering fair curls, made a few grimaces at myself in theglass, for reflecting back a pink and white and blue-eyed image, insteadof the proper dark splendour of the true Morgans; consoled myself withthe thought that even blue eyes could take in the beauties of Hereford,and ears protected by a fair skin, could yet communicate to the soulsome musical joys. I danced downstairs, kissed mother and Davidrapturously, trod on Gyp's tail, but was too much excited, and tooimpatient, to pat him or beg his pardon; found, under existingcircumstances, the eating of a commonplace ordinary breakfast, a featwholly impossible; seated myself in the pony-carriage full ten minutesbefore it started; jumped out again, at the risk of breaking my neck, toadorn the ponies' heads with a few of the last summer roses; stuck asplendid crimson bud into my own belt; hurried David off some minutestoo soon for the train; forgot to kiss mother, and blew a few of thosedelightful salutes vigorously at her instead; finally, started with afull clear hurrah, coming from a pair of very healthy lungs, prompted bya heart filled, brimming over, leaping up with irrepressible joy. Oh!that summer morning! Oh! that young and happy heart! Could I haveguessed then, what almost all men have to learn, that not under thecloudless sky, not by the summer sea, but with the pitiless raindropping, and the angry waves leaping high, and threatening to engulfall that life holds dearest, have most of God's creation to find theirCreator? Could I have guessed that on this summer day the first tinycloud was to appear, faint as the speck of a man's hand, which was toshow me, in the awful gloom of sorrow, the face of my God?

  From my fancied woes, I was to plunge into the stern reality, and it wasall to begin to-day. When we got into the train, and were whirling awayin the direction of that border county, which was to represent Englandto me, my excitement had so far toned down as to allow me to observeDavid, and David's face gave to my sensations a feeling scarcely ofuneasiness, but scarcely, either, of added joy. Any one who did notknow him intimately, would have said what a happy, genial-looking man mybrother was. Not a wrinkle showed on his broad forehead, and no shadowlurked in his kind eyes; but I, who knew him, recognised an expressionwhich had come into his face once or twice, but was hardly habitual toit. I could not have told, on that summer morning, what the expressionmeant, or what it testified. I could not have read it in my childishjoy; but now, in the sober light of memory, I recall David's face as itlooked on that September day, and in the knowledge born of my sorrow, Ican tell something of its story.

  My brother had looked like this twice before--once on his unexpectedreturn from Oxford; once, more strongly, when Amy died. The look onDavid's face to-day, was the look born of a resolution--the resolutionof a strong man to do his duty, at the risk of personal pain. As Isaid, I read nothing of this at the time; but his face touched me. Iremembered that I had rather pained him last night. We had the carriageto ourselves. I bent forward and kissed him; tossed my hat off, andlaid my head against his breast. In this attitude, I raised to him thehappiest of faces, and spoke the happiest of words.

  "David, the world is just delicious, and I do love you."

  David, a man of few words, responded with a smile, and his invariableexpression--

  "That's right, little woman."

  After a time, he began to speak of the festival.

  He had been at the last celebration of the Three Choirs at Hereford. Hetold me a few of his sensations then, and also something of what he feltyesterday; he had a true Welshman's love of music, and he spokeenthusiastically.

  "Yes, Gwladys, it lifts one up," he said, in conclusion, "I'd like tolisten to those choirs in the old cathedral, or go to the top of theBrecon--'tis much the same, the sensation, I mean--they both lift oneinto finer air. And what a grand thing that is, little woman," headded, "I mean when anything li
fts us right out of ourselves. I meanwhen we cease to look down at our feet, and cease to look for ever atour own poor sorrows, and gaze right straight away from them all intothe face of God."

  "Yes," I said, in a puzzled voice, for of course I knew nothing of thesesensations; then, still in my childish manner, "I expect to enjoy itbeyond anything; for you know, David, I have never been in any cathedralexcept Llandaff, and I have never heard the `Messiah.'"

  "Well, my dear, you will enjoy it to-day; but more the second time, Idoubt not."

  "Why? David."

  "Because there are depths in it, which life must teach you tounderstand."

  "But, dear David, I often have had _such_ sad thoughts."

  "Poor child!" a touch of his hand on my head, then no more words fromeither of us.

  Just before we reached Hereford, as I was drawing on my long whitegloves, which I had thrown aside as an unpleasant restraint during thejourney, David said one thing more, "When the service is over, Gwladys,we will walk round the Close, if you don't mind, for I have gotsomething I want to tell you."

  It darted into my head, at these words, that perhaps I was going toLondon after all. The thought remained for only an instant, it wasquickly crowded out, with the host of new sensations which allcompressed themselves into the next few hours.

  No, I shall never forget it, when I have grey hairs I shall remember it.I may marry some day, and have children, and then again grandchildren,and I shall ever reserve as one of the sweetest, rarest stories, thekind of story one tells to a little sick child, or whispers on Sundayevenings, what I felt when I first listened to Handel's "Messiah."David had said that I should care more for it the second time. This waspossible, for my feelings now were hardly those of pleasure, even to-daydepths were stirred within me, which must respond with a tension akin topain. I had been in a light and holiday mood, my gay heart was all inthe sunshine of a butterfly and unawakened existence; and the music,while it aroused me, brought with it a sense of shadow, of oppressionwhich mingled with my joy. Heaven ceased to be a myth, an uncertainpossibility, as I listened to the full burst of the choruses, or held mybreath as one single voice floated through the air in quivering notes ofsweetness. What had I thought, hitherto, of Jesus Christ? I had givento His history an intellectual belief. I had assented to the fact thatHe had borne my sins, and "The Lord had laid on Him the iniquity of usall;" but with the ponderous notes of the heavy music, came the crushingknowledge that _my_ iniquities had added to His sorrows, and helped tomake Him acquainted with grief. I was in no sense a religious girl; butwhen "Come unto Him, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and He willgive you rest," reached my ears, I felt vibrating through my heartstrings, the certainty that some day I should need this rest. "Take Hisyoke upon you, and learn of Him."

  "His yoke is easy, and His burden is light." I looked at David, thebook had fallen from his hands, his fine face was full of a kind ofradiance, and the burden which had taken from him Amy, and the yokewhich bade him resign his own will and deny himself, seemed to be bornewith a sense of rejoicing which testified to the truth of how lightlyeven heavy sorrow can sit on a man, when with it God gives him rest.

  The opening words, "Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God,"would bring their own message at a not very distant day; but now theyonly spoke to me, something as a mother addresses a too happy, toowildly-exultant child, when she says in her tenderest tones, "Come andrest here in my arms for a little while, between your play." Yes, I wasonly a child as yet, at play with life; but the music awoke in me thepossible future, the possible working day, the possible time of rain,the possible storm, the possible need of a shelter from its blast. Toheighten the effect of the music, came the effect of the cathedralitself. It is not a very beautiful English cathedral, but it was thefirst I had seen. Having never revelled in the glories of Westminster,I could appreciate the old grey walls of Hereford; and what man had donein the form of column and pillar, of transept and roof, the sun touchedinto fulness of life and colouring to-day. The grey walls had manycoloured reflections from the painted windows, the grand old nave lay ina flood of light, and golden gleams penetrated into dusky corners, andbrought into strong relief the symmetry and beauty of aisle andtransept, triforium and clerestory. I mention all this--I try to touchit up with the colour with which it filled my own mind--because in theold cathedral of Hereford I left behind me the golden, unconsciouslyhappy existence of childhood; because I, Gwladys, when I stepped outsideinto the Cathedral Close, and put my white-gloved hand inside David'sarm, and looked up expectantly into David's face, was about to taste myfirst cup of life's sorrow. I was never again to be an unconsciouschild, fretting over imaginary griefs, and exulting in imaginarydelights.

  "Gwladys," said David, looking down at me, and speaking slowly, asthough the words gave him pain, "Owen is coming home."

  CHAPTER FIVE.

  WHY DID YOU HESITATE?

  Let no one suppose that in their delivery these words brought with themsorrow. I had been walking with my usual dancing motion, and it istrue, that when David spoke, I stood still, faced round, and gazed athim earnestly, it is also true that the colour left my cheeks, and myeyes filled with tears, but my emotions were pleasurable, my tears weretears of joy.

  Owen coming home!

  Nobody quite knew how I loved Owen, how _my_ heart had longed for him,how many castles in the air I had built, with him for their hero.

  In all possible and impossible dreams of my own future, Owen had figuredas the grand central thought. Owen would show me the world, Owen wouldlet me live with him. He had promised me this when I was a littlechild, and he was a fine noble-looking youth, and I had believed him, Ibelieved him still. I had longed and yearned for him, I had neverforgotten him. My love for my good and sober brother David was verycalm and sisterly, but my love for Owen was the romance of my existence.And now he was coming home, crowned with laurels, doubtless. For hehad been away so long, he had left us so suddenly and mysteriously, thatonly could his absence be accounted for by supposing that my beautifuland noble brother had gone on some very great, and important, anddangerous mission, from which he would return now, crowned with honourand glory.

  "Oh, David!" I exclaimed, when I could find my voice, "is it true? Howvery, very happy I am."

  "Yes, Gwladys," replied David, "it is true; but let us walk up and downthis path, it is quite quiet here, and I have a story to tell you aboutOwen."

  "How glad I am," I repeated, "I love him more than any one, and I quiteknew how it would be, I always guessed it, I knew he would come backcovered with glory. Yes, David, go on, tell me quickly, what did mydarling do?"

  I was rather impatient, and I wondered why David did not reply morejoyfully, why, indeed, at first he did not speak at all. I could see noreason for his silence, the crowds of men and women who had filled thecathedral had dispersed, had wandered to hotels for refreshment, or goneto explore, if strangers, the beauties and antiquities the old townpossessed. There was no one to molest or disturb us, as we walked upand down in this quiet part of the Close.

  "Well, David," I said, "go on, tell me about my darling."

  "Yes," said David, "I will tell you, but I have got something else tosay first."

  "What?" I asked, impatiently.

  "This; you have made a mistake about Owen, you imagine him to be what heis not."

  "What do I imagine him to be?" I asked, angrily, for David's tone putinto my heart the falsest idea it ever entertained--namely, that he wasjealous of my greater love for Owen.

  "What do I imagine?" I asked.

  "You imagine that Owen is a hero. Now, Gwladys, you cannot love Owentoo much, nor ever show your love to him too much, but you can do him nogood whatever, if you start with a false idea of him."

  I was silent, too amazed at these words to reply at once.

  "I tell you this, Gwladys," continued David, "because I really believeit is in your power to help Owen. Nay, more, I want you to help him." />
  Still I said nothing, the idea suggested by David's words might beflattering, but it was too startling to be taken in its fullsignificance at first. What did it mean? In all my dreams of Owen Ihad never contemplated his requiring help from me; but David had saidthat my ideas were false, my dreams mistaken. I woke up into full andexcited listening, at his next words.

  "And now I mean to tell you why you have not seen Owen for so long--whyhe has been away from us all these years."

  "Four years, now," I said. "Yes, David, I have often wondered why yougave me no reason for his long, long absence. I said nothing, but Ifelt it a good bit--I did indeed."

  "It was a story you could hardly hear when you were a little child.Even now I only tell it to you because of Owen's unlooked-for andunexpected return; because, as I say, I want you to help Owen; but evennow I shall only tell you its outline."

  "David, you speak of Owen's return as if you were not glad--as if itwere not quite the happiest news in the world."

  "It is not that, my dear."

  "But why? Do you not love him?"

  "Most truly I love him."

  "Well, what is the story? How mysterious you are!"

  "Yes, I am glad," continued David, speaking more to himself than to me."I suppose I ought to be _quite_ glad--to have no distrust. Howfaithless Amy would call me!"

  When he mentioned Amy, I knew he had forgotten my presence--the namemade me patient. I waited quietly for his next remark.

  As I have said, he was