by L. T. Meade
a man of few words. His ideas moved slowly, andhis language hardly came fluently.
"There are two kinds of love," he began, still in his indirect way."There is the love that thinks the object it loves perfection, and willsee no fault in it."
"Yes," I interrupted, enthusiastically; "I know of that love--it is theonly kind worth having."
"I cannot agree with you, dear. That love may be deep and intense, butit is not great. There is a love which sees faults in the object of itslove, but loves on through all. Such--"
"Such love I should not care for," I interrupted.
"Such love I could not live without, Gwladys. Such is the Divine love."
"But God's love is not like ours," I said.
"No, dear; and I have only made the remark to justify myself--for,Gwladys, I have loved Owen through his faults."
I started impatiently; but David had now launched on his tale, and wouldnot be interrupted.
"Yes," he continued, "I loved and love Owen through his faults. I knowthat mother thought him perfect, and so did you. I am not surprised ateither of your feelings with regard to him--he was undoubtedly verybrilliant, and on the surface, Gwladys, you might almost have said thatso noble a form must have held a noble soul. I do not say this will_never_ be so; but this was not so when you knew him last."
I would have spoken again, but David laid his hand on my arm, to silenceme.
"He had much of good in him; but he was not noble; he had one greatweakness--pleasure was dearer to him than duty. Even when a little ladhe would leave his tasks unlearned, to play for half an hour longer withyou; this was a small thing, but it grew, Gwladys--it grew. And he hadgreat temptations. It was much harder for him to do the right than forme; he was so brilliant--so--so, not clever--but so ready-witted. Hewas a great favourite in society, and society brought with it heaps oftemptations. He struggled against the temptations, but he did notstruggle hard enough; and his natural weakness, his great love forpleasure, grew on the food he gave it.
"We were in different colleges, and did not see each other every day.He made some friends whose characters--well, they were not men he oughtto know. I spoke to him about this; poor fellow! it has lain on myheart often, that I may have spoken harshly, taking on myself elderbrother airs, and made myself a sort of mentor. I _could_ not do thisintentionally, but it is possible I may have done it unintentionally. Ifelt hot on the subject, for the fellows I spoke against seemed to melow, in every sense beneath his notice. I did not know that even then,they had a hold on him which he could not, even if he would, shake off.He got angry, he--quarrelled with me. After this, I did not see him forsome time. I blame myself again here, for I might have gone to him, butI did not. He had said some words which hurt me, and I stayed away."David paused. "Yes," he continued, taking up his narrative without anycomment from me, "I remember, it was the middle of the term. I wassitting with some fellows after dinner; we were smoking in my rooms. Iremember how the sun looked on the water, and how jolly I felt. We weretalking of my coming of age, and I had asked all these fellows to helpme to celebrate the event at Tynycymmer, when suddenly a man I knew cameto the door, and called me out; he was a great friend of mine, he lookedawfully white and grave; he put his arm inside mine, and we went downthrough Christ Church meadows to the edge of the river. There, as westood together looking down into the river, and nodding, as if nothingwere the matter, to some men of our college as they rowed past us;there, as we stood and listened to the splash of the oars, my friendtold me about Owen. A long story, Gwladys. Shall I ever forget thespot where I stood and listened to it? As I said, I am not going totell you the tale; it was one of disgrace--weakness--and sin. Evilcompanions had done most of it, but Owen had done some. It was a longstory, dating back from the day of his first arrival; but now the climaxhad come--Owen had fallen--had sinned. I never knew until my friendspoke, how much I loved Owen. I blamed myself bitterly. I was hiselder brother. I might have so treated him as to win his confidence,and to save him from this. He had fallen by means of the verytemptations that must assail such a nature as his, and I, instead ofholding out a helping hand, had stood aloof from him. In this moment ofagony, when I learned all about his sin, I blamed myself as much as him.I started off at once to find him, I could not reproach him. I couldonly blame myself. When I did this, he burst into tears."
Here David paused, and I tried to speak, but could not.
"Owen had sinned," he continued, "and in such a way that the most publicexposure seemed inevitable. To avoid this, to give him one chance forthe future, I would do anything. There was one loophole of escape, andthrough that loophole, if any strength of mine could drag him, I wasdetermined Owen should come. I could not leave Oxford, but I wrote tomy mother. Her assistance was necessary, but I felt little doubt of hercomplying. I was not wrong. She helped me, as I knew she would. Nay,I think she was more eager than I. Between us we saved Owen."
Here David paused, and taking out his handkerchief, he wiped somemoisture from his brow.
His words were hardly either impassioned or eloquent; but no one knew,who did not hear them, with what pain they came slowly up from hisheart.
Then I ventured to put the question which was hanging on the top of mylips--
"What was his sin?"
"The sin of weakness, Gwladys. The sad lacking of moral courage to sayno, when no should be said. The putting pleasure before duty, that wasthe beginning of it. Then evil companions came round; temptation wasyielded to, and, at last, the very men who had ruined and tempted him,managed to escape, and he was left to bear the brunt of everything.However, my dear, this is a story you need not know. I have told youthe little I have, because, now that Owen is coming home, I want you tohave a truer idea of his character, so that you may help him better. Ineed and want you to help him, Gwladys. I have said all this to youto-day for no other reason."
I said nothing. David looked into my face, and I looked into his, thenhe went on.
"After that dreadful time at Oxford he went abroad, and I came home.Now he, too, is coming home."
"To live with us at Tynycymmer?" I asked.
"No, no, my dear; he is coming home with a definite purpose; I have hada long letter from Owen, I must tell you some of it. He always wrote tome while he was away, but his letters, though tolerably cheerful, andfairly hopeful, were reserved, and seemed always to have somethingbehind. I used to fear for him. Dear fellow, dear, dear fellow, myweak heart fears for him still, and yet with it all, I am proud andthankful. There _is_ something great in Owen, otherwise this wouldnever have so weighed on his mind.
"I must tell you that to save Owen, I had to spend money; that reallywas no sacrifice to me, a thing not worth mentioning, but it seems tohave weighed much on him. In his letter, he told me that he has neverceased working hard at his profession, learning all he can about it. Hesays that he is now nearly qualified to work as a mechanical engineer;and in that particular department he has made mining engineering hisspecial study. In his letter he also said that he had done this with adefinite hope and object.
"There is a large coal mine on my property, a mine that has never beenproperly worked. Owen believes that out of this mine he can win backthe gold I have spent on him; he has begged me to allow him to take themanagement of the mine; to live at Ffynon until this object is effected.I hesitated--I thought--at last I yielded."
"Why did you hesitate? David."
"Because, Gwladys, the object with which Owen works is worthless to me.I am glad he is coming to manage the mine, I have no doubt whatever asto his ability in the matter. I know in his profession he has muchtalent. Had he not written to me, I should have been obliged to ask aLondon engineer to take his place for a time. Yes, Gwladys, I like hiswork, but not his motive. The mine at Ffynon yields me little money,that is nothing; it also is dangerous, that is much; many accidents havetaken place there, many lives have been lost. I want Owen to make themine safe, as far as man can make it safe: I don'
t care for the money.And this is the object I want you to help me in, Gwladys, not in words,but in a thousand ways in which a loving and true sister can. I wantyou to show to Owen that we none of us care for the money."
"You lay upon me an impossible task," I said; "you forget that I shallnot be with Owen."
"You said last night you were tired of Tynycymmer?"
"So I am, very often."
"You are going to leave it, at least for a time; you and mother are tolive with Owen at Ffynon."
CHAPTER SIX.
GWEN'S DREAM.
If I felt excited when starting for Hereford on the morning of that day,how much more feverishly did my heart beat when I returned home in theevening!
I was in that state of mind when the need of a confidante was sore andpressing.
In whom should I confide? I loved my brother David, I dearly loved mymother, but in neither of them would I now repose confidence. No, theyknew too much already. Into fresh ears, but still into ears thatcommunicated with a very affectionate and faithful heart, would I pourmy tale--or rather that portion of my tale of which I wished to speak.David had given me, in the old Cathedral Close, two very distinct piecesof information--two pieces of information, either of which would haveproved quite sufficient to keep my eyes wakeful for many nights, and myheart restless for many days. Mother and I were going to leaveTynycymmer! Owen was coming home! Round this last item of intelligencefloated murky and shadowy words. Owen had sinned! Owen was not thespotless hero I had imagined him! With regard to this piece of news Iwished to take no one into my confidence; by the sheer strength of avery strong will I pushed it into the background of my thoughts; Imanaged to give it a subordinate place where the full sharpness of itssting would not for the present be felt. By-and-by I would drag it tothe light; by-and-by I would analyse this thing and pull it to pieces;by-and-by I would face this enemy and dare it to do its worst;by-and-by, defeated, baffled, I would writhe under its blows; but, as Isaid, for the present it lay in abeyance, and other thoughts pressedupon me.
How much a change, even a little change, does signify to us girls! Ionce met a man who told me calmly, and with easy nonchalance, that hewas about to visit Australia. I observed his eye never brightening atthe prospect of the gay sea voyage, and the sights to be witnessed inthe tropical richness of the far-off land; he had seen many changes, hehad visited many lands, to him change was a thing of every day, and hetold me, when I pressed him to speak, that he was weary of it all, andthat there was nothing new under the sun. But to me! What did not achange, even from one end of Glamorgan to another, mean to me? How verylong it would take before I could be satiated with fresh places, or myeyes grow weary of new sights. So much did this one very small changemean to me, that I almost fancied, as we were whirled back in the train,that my fellow-passengers must know something of the uprooting about totake place, and some disquieting waves from the agitation which wassurging round me, must be pulsing in their own hearts.
I, who had lived all my sixteen years at Tynycymmer, was going to makeanother place my home! It was on this item of David's news that Ilonged so for a confidante.
When I got home, my eyes were bright and my cheeks flushed. Motherlooked anxiously from David to me.
"She knows, mother," said David, going over and kissing the stately andbeautiful face, and looking down tenderly into the dark depths of theeyes, which were raised inquiringly to his.
Mother glanced at me; but I could not speak of it to her--not then. Sheknew all, and of all I would not speak. I pleaded hunger as a reasonfor my silence. After supper, I pleaded fatigue, and made a hastyretreat to my bedroom. On my way there, I passed through the nursery.Gwen was in the nursery, knitting a long grey stocking, by littleDavid's bedside.
"Gwen," I said, "I want you--come into my room."
When we got there, I locked the door, pushed Gwen down into anarm-chair, seated myself in her lap, put my arms round her neck, laid myhead on her bosom, and burst into tears. These tears were mysafety-valve, but they frightened Gwen.
"Now, Gwladys, my maid, what is it? What is wrong? Ah! dear, dear!she's tired--the poor little maid."
I wanted Gwen to soothe me. I meant her to stroke my cheek with herlarge, but soft hand. I meant her to pour, with her dear Welsh accent,some foolish nothings into my ear. Gwen's soothing, joined to my owntears, were, as I said, my safety-valve. When enough of the steam ofstrong excitement was evaporated by these means, I started up, dried myeyes, and spoke.
"Gwen, we're going away. Mother and I are not going to live atTynycymmer any more. We're going away to the black ugly coal country--to Ffynon."
"Yes, Gwladys," said Gwen; "my mistress told me to-day. She said youwas to move quick, so as to have things ready for Owen. And, goodnessme! Gwladys, what I says is, that little David and me should go too.What if little David was took with the croup, and me to lose my senses;and what could the Squire do? What I say is, that David and me shouldgo--least for a year--till his h'eye teeth are down--and they do say asthere's holy wells out there, what works miracles on the sight, if youdips afore sunrise."
It was plain that Gwen had her own troubles in the matter. She spokevehemently.
"And who's to brush h'out your yellow hair, my maid? and who's to makethings comfort for my mistress? Dear, dear Gwladys, 'tis worse norfolly me not going with you."
"Well, where's the use of making a fuss about nothing?" I said, findingthat I had to listen to a complaint instead of making one. "Who saysyou are not to come!"
"My mistress, dear. She says the Squire wishes little David to stay atTynycymmer. Dear heart! what store he do set by the little lad. Seemsto me he loves the blessed lamb h'all the better for being blind."
"Well, Gwen, that is all right. Of course David wishes to keep thebaby--and I think," I added virtuously, "that as he _does_ wish it, itwould be very selfish of us to take him away."
"Dear, dear Gwladys," said the penitent Gwen, "don't think as _I_ haveno thought for the Squire. _I_ don't see why the house is to be brokeup for--but there! Owen and David aren't the same, Gwladys, and no onewill make me think 'em the same. But if you and my mistress must go, Iwas only supposing what 'ud be best for the baby in case he was tookwith sickness. 'Tisn't _I_ as 'ud be the one to neglect the Squire,Gwladys. Course I'll stay; though dear, dear, dear! I'll be lonesome,but what of that?"
As Gwen spoke, I no longer found her arms comforting. I rose to myfeet, went to the window, from where I could see the silver moonreflecting glorious light on the glistening waves.
"Good-night, Gwen," I said, when she had done speaking. "I'm tired;don't stay any longer--good-night."
"But, Gwladys," said Gwen, looking at me with astonishment.
"Good-night," I repeated, in a gentle voice; but the voice wasaccompanied with a little haughty gesture; and Gwen, still with a lookof surprise, went slowly out of the room.
I shut the door; but though I had told her I was tired, I did not go tobed.
I knelt down by the open window, placed my elbows on the window-sill,leant my cheeks on my hands, gazed steadfastly out at the silver-tippedwaves, and now I called up David's last item of news. I summoned myenemy to the forefront of the battle, and prepared to fight him to thedeath.
Owen had sinned!
I was a proud girl--proud with the concentrated pride of a proud race.Sin and disgrace were synonymous. I writhed under those three pregnantwords--_Owen had sinned_. But for David, Owen would have been publiclydisgraced. Had he been a cousin, had he been the most distantlyconnected member of our house, such a fact in connection with him couldhardly have failed to make my cheeks burn with humiliation. But the onewho brought me this agony, was not a stranger cousin, but a brother--thebrother I loved, the brother I had dreamed of, the brother I had boastedof, the brother who had, hitherto, embodied to me every virtue under thesun. How well I remembered the graceful, athletic young form, theflashing, dark eyes, the ring of the clear voice, as he said to m
e--
"You--a Morgan! I would _scorn_ to do a dirty action, if I were you."
I was the culprit then. I had been discovered by Owen, surreptitiouslyhiding away for private consumption some stolen cherries. I was eightyears old at the time, and the sharp words had wrung from me a wail ofshame and woe. I flung the fruit away. I would not show my ashamedface for the rest of the evening. I was cured for ever of underhanddealings. The next day I begged Owen's pardon--it was granted, and fromthat time his word was law to me. I was his slave. For the next fouryears, until I was twelve years old, I was Owen's faithful and devotedslave. He was my king, and my king could do no wrong. His vacationswere my times of blessing, his absence my time of mourning. He orderedme about a great deal, but his commands were my pleasure. He rathertook advantage of my affection, to impose hard tasks on his littleslave; but the slave loved her taskmaster, and work for him was light.I was a romantic, excitable, enthusiastic child, and Owen played with askilful hand on these strong chords in my heart. He knew what wordswould excite my imagination, what stories would fire my enthusiasm;these stories and these words he gave, not always--sometimes, indeed, atrare intervals--but just when he saw I needed them, when I was weary andspent after a long day of waiting on my despotic young king--standingpatient while he fished, or copying with my laboured, but neat hand, hisblotted exercises; then my reward would come--a few, well-selected linesfrom Byron, a story from history, or a fairy tale told as only Owencould tell it. I would lie at his feet then, or better still, reclinewith my
