by L. T. Meade
head on his breast, while he stretched himself under the trees.Then after an hour or two of this, would come in a soft, seductivewhisper in my ear--
"Now, Gwlad, you will get up at six to-morrow, and have those exercisesfinished for me before breakfast."
Of course I did what he asked, of course I was proud of the stealthystealing away from Nurse Gwen, of course I enjoyed the cool of thestudy, the romance of copying verses, and making themes appear neat andfair for Owen; and if before the hour of release came, my back ached atrifle, and my face was slightly pale, were not the fatigue and the painwell worth while for Owen's sake? For Owen, as I said, was my hero.How grandly he spoke of the noble deeds he would accomplish when he wasa man--they were no idle words, they were felt through and through thegraceful young frame, they came direct from the passionate heart. Athousand dreams he had of glory and ambition, and he meant them, meantthem truly, as he lay in the long summer days under the great coolhorse-chestnuts. Very goodly were the blossoms, and very fair to myinexperienced eyes the show of fruit, in that heart and nature.
In those days, it never occurred to me that while Owen spoke, Davidacted. David had so few words, David never alluded to the possibilityof a grand future. Once he even said, almost roughly, that he had notime to dream. Oh! how inferior he seemed, how far beneath Owen!
This intercourse, and this instruction of heart and life, I had withOwen more or less from my eighth to my twelfth year; then suddenly itceased. How little grown people remember of their own childhood! howvery little most grown people understand children! There was I, twelveyears old, slim, tall, awkward, gaily bright on the surface, intenselyreserved within; there was I, the child of an imaginative race, great inghost lore, great in dreams; there was I, come to an age when childhoodand youth meet, when new perceptions awaken, and new thoughts arise,left to puzzle out a problem in which my own heart and life wereengaged. How little the grown people guessed what thoughts were surgingthrough my brain, what wondering ideas were taking possession of me!When mother and David told me, that for a reason they could not quiteexplain, Owen had gone for a time abroad, did it never occur to themthat when I accepted the fact, I should also try to fathom the reason?
I don't suppose it ever did. Their childhood was a thing of the past,they were pressed hard by a sorer trouble than any I could know. Couldthey have read my thoughts, could they have guessed my feelings, perhapsthey would have smiled. And yet, I think not; for the pain of the childis a real pain: if the shadow that eclipses the sun is a little shadow,yet it falls upon little steps, and its chill presence keeps out thelight of day, and the joy of hope, as effectually as the larger, darkershadow dooms the man to despair.
When Owen went away, this shadow fell on me. The shadow to me lay inthe pain of his absence, in the fact that no long summer days, no joyouswinter evenings, were bringing him back to me. I never connecteddisgrace and Owen; how could I? Was he not my hero, my darling?
When no reason was given for his lengthened absence, I formed a reasonof my own. He had gone to win some of the glory he spoke of, to executesome of the brave deeds, the recital of which had so often caused bothour eyes to sparkle, and both our hearts to glow.
I could hardly guess what Owen was to do, in those distant countrieswhere he had gone so suddenly and mysteriously, but that some day hewould return covered with fame--a knight who had nobly won his spurs, Ifelt quite sure of. This was the silver lining to the cloud, whichOwen's absence had cast upon my path, and this thought enabled me tobear the long years of his absence, with outward gaiety and inwardpatience.
And now, kneeling by my window, looking out at the fluctuating,shifting, restless tide, I told my heart that the long probation timewas over, that at last, at last, Owen was coming home; but _was_ thehero returning? was the laurel-crowned coming back with his long tale ofglorious victories? Alas! Owen had sinned. This fact danced before meon the treacherous waves, floated in front of my weary eyes. Owen wasno great man, gone away to perform noble deeds; Owen had gone because ofhis sin.
Oh! my gay castle in the air! Oh! my hero-worship, with my hero lyingshattered at my feet. He, a Morgan, had brought disgrace on his race;he, a Morgan, had sinned; he, my brother, had sinned bitterly. And Ithought him perfect.
The blow was crushing. I laid my head down on the window-sill, andsobbed bitterly. I was sobbing in this manner loudly andunrestrainedly, when a hand was laid on my shoulder, a firm cool handthat I knew too well to startle me even then.
"What is it? my maid; what's the trouble?" said the tender voice ofGwen.
I had been deeply hurt with Gwen for the tone in which she had spoken ofOwen half an hour before, but now I was too much broken down, and toomuch humbled, to feel angry with any one, and I turned to my old nursewith an eager longing to let her share some of the burden which hadfallen upon me.
"Gwen, _do_ you know about Owen?"
"Of course I do, my lamb. Dear, dear, praised be the Lord for Hisgoodness!"
Gwen was a Methodist, and I was well accustomed to her expressions, butI could hardly see their force now, and raised my tear-dimmed eyesquestioningly.
"And why not? Gwladys," she said, in reply to my look. "Have we notcause to praise the Lord? have we not hope that the prayer that has goneup earnestly has been answered abundantly? Don't you be foolish enoughto suppose, in your poor weak little heart, that no one cared for OwenMorgan but you. Yes, my maid, others gave a thought to the lad in thefar-away country, and many a strong prayer went up to the God of godsfor him. Why, sweet Mistress Amy has told me how the Squire prayed, andI know she prayed, bless her dear heart! and I have had my prayers too,Gwladys, my dear, and now perhaps they're being answered."
It was quite evident, from these words, that while I was in the darknessof despair with regard to Owen, Gwen was in the brightness of some hope.It was also evident that she had known for years what I only knewto-day, but I was too sore at heart to question her on this point now,though I turned eagerly to the consolation.
"How do you know that your prayers are answered?" I asked.
"Nay, Gwladys, I don't _say_ as they're answered, but I have a goodstrong hope in the matter. Don't it stand to common-sense, my maid,that I should have hope now; the lad is coming back to his own people,the lad is ready to work, honest and hard too, in the coalfields. Don'tit look, Gwladys, something like the coming home again of the prodigal?"
I was silent. Gwen's words might be true, and she, even if she did loveOwen as I loved him, might take the comfort of them. She who had knownof the sorrow and pain for four years, might be glad now if she could;but I, who until a few hours before had placed Owen far above even theelder brother in the father's house, how could I think of the repentantprodigal, in his rags and misery, without pain, how could I help failingto receive comfort! I little knew then, I little dreamt, that our ragsand misery, our shame and bitter repentance, may often but lead usnearer to the Father and the Father's home. If the storm alone canbring the child to nestle in the Father's breast, surely the storm mustbe sent for good!
"Gwen," I said, at last, "I think 'tis very hard."
"What's hard? my dear."
"I think 'tis hard that this should have been kept from me all theseyears, that I should have been dreaming of Owen, and fancying good andglory, when 'twas all shame and evil. I think 'twas very bitter to keepit from me, Gwen."
"Well, my dear, _I'd_ have broke the news to you, and so I think wouldthe Squire, but my mistress, she was so fearful that you'd fret--and--and--she knew, we all knew, how your heart was bound up with Mr Owen."
"I think it is bitter to deceive any one," I continued, "to let themwaste love. Well, 'tis done now, it can't be helped." There was, Iknew, a bitter tension about my lips, but my eyes were dry, they shed nomore tears. I felt through and through my frame, that my hero was gone,my idol shattered into a thousand bits.
"Gwen," I said, "I could not ask David to-day, but I had better know. Idon't mind pain. I'm not a child, and I've
got to bear pain like everyone else. What was it Owen did, Gwen,--what was his sin?"
"Nay, my dear, my dear, I can't rightly tell you, I don't rightly know,Gwladys. It had something to say to money, a great lot of money, and Iknow David saved him, David paid it h'all up and set him free. I don'tknow what he did rightly, Gwladys, my maid, I never heard more than onelittle end and another little end, but I believe there was dishonour atthe bottom of it, and 'twas that cut up the Squire, and I'm quite suretoo, Gwladys, that the Squire never told my mistress the half; shethought 'twas all big debts that they must cramp the estate to pay, but'twas more."
"What was it?" I said, "I don't want to be deceived again, I wish toknow all."
"I can't tell you, my dear, I don't know myself, 'tis only thoughts Ihave, and words Mistress Amy has dropped, but she did not mean me tolearn anything by 'em. Only I think she felt bitter, when people calledthe Squire stingy, for she knew what an awful lot of money it took toclear Owen."
"I must know all about it," I said; "I shall ask David to tell me if youwon't."
"My dear, I can't, and I think, if I was you, I'd not do that."
"Why?" I asked.
"My maid, isn't it better to forget what you does know, than to try tolearn more."
"I don't understand you, Gwen, what do you mean?"
"Why, this, my lamb, don't you think when the Lord has forgiven the lad,that you may forgive him too, where's the use of knowing more of the sinthan you need to know, and where's the use of 'ardening your 'art'gainst the one you love best in the world?"
"Oh! I did love him, I did love him," I sobbed passionately, all mycalm suddenly giving way.
"Don't say `did,' my maid, you love him still."
"But, Gwen," I said, "he has sinned, the old, grand, noble Owen is nevercoming back. No, Gwen, I _don't_ love the man who brought disgrace andmisery on us all--there--I can't help it, I don't."
"Dear, dear," said Gwen, beginning to smooth down her apron, and tryingto stroke my hair, which I shook away from her hand. "What weakcreatures we are! dear, dear, why 'tis enough to fret the Lord h'all tonothing, to hearken to us, a-makin' idols one time o' bits o' clay, andthen when we finds they ain't gods for us to worship, but poor sinnin'mortals like ourselves, a-turnin' round and hating of 'em; dear, dear,we're that weak, Gwladys, seems to me we can never have an h'easy momentunless we gets close up to the Lord."
"I wish you wouldn't preach," I said, impatiently.
"No, my dear, I ain't a-going, but, Gwladys, I will say this, as you'rewrong; you were wrong long ago, but you're more wrong now; you did harmwith the old love, but if you ain't lovin' and sisterly to Owen now,you'll do harm as you'll rue most bitter. I'm a h'ignorant, poor spokewoman, my maid, but I know as Owen will turn to you, and if you'll belovin' to him, and not spoil him, as h'everybody but David has h'alwaysbin a-doin', why you may help on the work the good Lord has begun. Butthere, you'll take what I says in good part, my dear, and now I may aswell tell you what brought me in at this hour to see you."
"Yes, you may tell me," I said, but I spoke wearily, there was nointerest in my voice.
"I thought how 'twould be," continued Gwen, "I guessed how the maidwould fret and fret, and when you turned me out of your room so sharp, Iwas fit to cry with the fear on me that you thought poor old Gwen hadturned selfish, and 'ad an h'eye to her own comfort and meant to leavethe Squire.
"Why, my dear, it stan's to reason I should fret. Do I not remember theold time when the old mistress was alive, and when your mother came homea bride, so grand, and rich, and beautiful; and now to know thatthere'll never be a woman of the house about, and only the Squire andthe little blind darlin' to live at Tynycymmer; but you're right,Gwladys, 'twould never do to part the Squire and the little lad; and Iwas 'shamed o' myself for so much as thinkin' of it; and before Idropped asleep, with the baby close to me, so that I could see hislittle face, I made up my mind that I'd think no more of thelonesomeness, but stay at Tynycymmer, after you and my mistress wentaway. When I settled me to do that, I felt more comfort; but still,what with the feel of not seeing my maid every day, and being worried,and kissed, and made a fool of by her; and what with the thought thatshe had a sore heart of her own for Mr Owen's sake, who was coming backso different from what she fancied; I was no way as easy in my mind as Iam most nights. And 'twas that, Gwladys, and the moon being at thefull, and me only asleep for a few minutes, that made me set such storeby the dream."
Gwen's last words had been very impressive, and she and I believed fullyin dreams.
"What was it?" I asked excitedly, laying my hand on her arm.
"Well, my dear; 'twas as vivid as possible; though by the clock, Icouldn't 'ave bin more'n five minutes dreamin' it. I thought we hadh'all gone away to the black coal country, where there's never a greenleaf or a flower, only h'everything black, and dear, dear! as dismal ascould be; and I thought that David went down into one of those unearthlyplaces they calls a mine. Down he would go, into a place not fit forhonest men, and only meant for those poor unfortnets as 'ave to trade byit."
"I mean to go into a mine when we live at Ffynon," I interrupted.
"Then, my dear, I can only say as you'll tempt Providence. Why, wot wasmines invented for? Hasn't we the surface of the earth, green andpleasant, without going down into its bowels; but there, Gwladys, shallI finish the dream?"
"Oh, yes!" very earnestly; "please go on."
"Well, my maid; David, he went down into the mine, and we all waited onthe surface to see him drawed h'up; and the chains went clankin', andone after the other everybody came up out of the pit but David; andafter a while we heard that David had gone a long way into the pit, andhe couldn't find his way back again; and the place where he went wasvery dangerous; and all the miners were cryin' for the Squire, and theywent down and they tried every mortal man of 'em to get him out of themine; but there was a wind down below in that dreadful place louder thanthunder, and when the men tried to get to where David was shut up, itseemed as if it 'ud tear 'em in pieces. So at last they one and all wasdaunted, and they said nothing could be done. Then, Gwladys, we allcried, and we gave the Squire up for lost, when suddenly, who shouldcome to the pit's mouth but Owen--Owen, with his breath comin' hard andfast, and his eyes shinin', and he said, `I'm not frighted; David savedme, and I'll save David, or I'll die!' And with that, before anyonecould hinder him, he went down into the dark, loathsome pit!"
"Well?" I said, for Gwen had paused.
"That's h'all. I woke then. The rest was not revealed to me. When Iwoke, the cock crowed sharp and sudden, that made it certain."
"What?" I asked, in an awe-struck, frightened voice.
"Why, 'twill come true, my maid. 'Twas sent to us for a comfort and awarnin'. If David saved Owen, Owen will save David yet."
CHAPTER SEVEN.
VERY NEW AND VERY INTERESTING.
It is certainly possible when one is only sixteen to go to sleep in thedepths of misery, and to awake after a few hours of slumber, with aheart, if not as light as a feather, yet quite sufficiently so, toenable one to dance, not walk, to eat with an appetite, and to laughwith more than surface merriment. These easily changed feelings may bereckoned as some of the blessings of this pleasant age.
At sixteen we have our sharp sorrows, but we have our equally keenpleasures, and it is quite impossible for us to be sad always.
So on the morning after Gwen had related to me her dream, though therewere sore places which I could not quite bear to touch, somewhere aboutmy heart, yet the leading fact which danced before my young eyes layconcentrated in the one word--_change_. We were going away, we weregoing to make another place our home; we would soon be in all the grandexcitement of a move. I was very childish in the matter, for thisexperience was so new to me, so completely novel. I had never seen ahouse in the chaos of a removal. I had never seen furniture ruthlesslypiled up in corners, beds in packing-cases, chairs and tables upsidedown, carpetless and straw-littered floors.
I have been so put out and so tired by the everlasting sameness ofTynycymmer, that on some of these exciting occasions, I have forced myway into the dethroned and disarranged rooms, tied the housemaid's whiteapron over my hair, and flourished wildly about with a mop, neversubsiding into rationalism until I had laid one or two articles of valuein fragments at my feet.
But now we were going to have confusion grand and
