by L. T. Meade
thing is memory! howimpossible it is to make her fit herself to existing circumstances, whatugly tricks she was playing me now! Event after event, each small inthemselves, came crowding up before me, pointing every one of them withinexorable finger to one fact. Of wilful and purposeful neglect itwould be wrong to accuse Owen. He wished to do all in his power tosecure the safety of the colliers' lives, but money in his heart ofhearts ranked first. I found at last a solution of the problem whichrelieved my pain, without satisfying me. Owen wished to do right, hemeant to do right; but the easy carelessness which had characterised hisboyhood had not deserted his manhood. He meant to do well for thecolliers, but careless of danger for himself, he might be for them also;and yet, how fatal and disastrous, now and then, were the effects ofcarelessness! At this moment one very prominent instance of Owen's wantof thought rose before me. There was an old used-up mine, known in thecountry by the name of Pride's Pit, which adjoined the mine at presentbeing worked at Ffynon. Close to this old pit lived the under-viewerand his family. A not very desirable residence was theirs for thisreason, that the old shaft leading into the pit had never been filledup; and making it all the more dangerous, it was, from long disuse andneglect, nearly covered by a thick growth of weeds and brushwood, sothat an unwary traveller might step into the mine before he was aware.This old shaft for every reason was dangerous, as its open mouth let inthe rain and helped to fill the pit beneath with water, which watermight by an untoward accident, a boring away of too much of the coal,help at any moment to inundate the larger mine. It was at present theterror of the young wife of the under-viewer, who had three smallchildren, and who was never weary of warding them off the dangerousground.
On the dismissal of the late manager, the young woman who lived in thiscottage had come with her complaint to David, and had begged of him touse his influence with his brother to have the dangerous shaft filledup. David had assured her that this should be one of the first steps inthe general reformation. When Owen came, I heard David speak to him onthe subject, and Owen promised to have all that was necessary donewithout delay. I am quite sure Owen meant what he said, but in theabsorbing interest of more engrossing work, month after month went by,and Pride's Pit still remained with its open shaft. A fortnight ago, Iwas walking with Owen, when poor Mrs Jones met us with tears in hereyes, "Was nothing going to be done to the shaft, her baby had nearlybeen killed there a few days since."
Owen was really sorry, declared he had completely forgotten it, won MrsJones's heart by his sweet graciousness and real regret, and promised tosend round men to put the whole thing straight in the morning. Ofcourse, he had done so by this time, but how great and unnecessary wasthe previous delay; suppose Mrs Jones's baby had been killed, wouldOwen ever have forgiven himself?
After thinking these and many other thoughts, I had brushed my hair,bathed my eyes, and was preparing to go downstairs, when there came atap at my door, and Gwen, carrying little David in her arms, came in.She placed the child on the floor, came to my side, and looked hard intomy face. If ever there was a purpose written in any woman's countenanceit was in Gwen's at this moment.
"Gwladys, my maid," she said, "will you help your old nurse at a pinch?"
"Yes, that I will, Gwen," I replied, heartily; "what is it you want meto do?"
"And you'll keep it a secret, and never let it out to mortal?"
"Of course," rather proudly.
"Well, then, 'twasn't the fever brought me over here."
"Oh! Gwen," in a tone of some alarm, "what are you keeping back fromme? is David ill?"
"Dear, dear, no, my pet; and I don't say as there _isn't_ a fever, andthat _that_ is not the reason the Squire sent us away, Gwladys. No, I'dscorn to tell a lie, and there is a fever, though it ain't much; butthat wasn't what brought me and the little lad here, Gwladys."
"How mysterious you are," I said, laughing. "What was the reason?"
"Why, you see, my maid, I'd soon have persuaded the Squire to let usstay, for I knew he'd be lonesome without me and the baby, and, Lordbless you, _he_ (pointing to the child) wouldn't take the fever, Godbless him; sweet and sound would I keep him, and free from all that lowdirt, and those bad smells, which the negligent, never-me-care,unthrifty poor have, a tempting of Providence. No, it wasn't fright atno fever took me away, but a downright answer to prayer, Gwladys." Gwenpaused, and I nodded to her to proceed. "Hadn't I been praying all thewinter for some lucky wind to blow me to this place, and wasn't thefever the wind as God sent; so why shouldn't I come with a thankfulheart?"
"Poor, dear old Gwen! you wanted to see mother and me. I am sorry youwere so lonely."
"Well, my maid, it wasn't that; I'm none so selfish. No, Gwladys, itwasn't for myself I was praying, nor about myself I felt so happy. No,'twas about little David. Gwladys, I mean to take little David to theeye-well."
"Oh! dear me, Gwen, what is that?"
"Hush, hush, child! don't speak of it lightly; just sit patient for fiveminutes, my dear, and you shall know the whole ins and outs of it."
I have said that Gwen, though a very religious woman, was, if possible,a more superstitious one. From the fountain-head of her knowledge andwisdom I had drunk deeply; of late, when away from her, I had beendeprived of these goodly draughts, but I was all the more ready now topartake of the very delicious one she had ready dished up for mybenefit.
"Go on," I said, in a tone of intense interest.
"I mean to take the child to the eye-well," continued Gwen; "there's onewithin a mile or two of this place that's famed, and justly, through thewhole country. Many's the blind person, or the weak-eyed body, that hasbeen cured by it; and many and many thoughts have I cast toward it,Gwladys; not liking to speak, for sure, if you long too earnestly, youhinders, so's the belief, the cure. Now there's wells that have a`perhaps' to 'em, and there's wells that have a `certainty,' and of allthe wells that ever was sure, this is the one. And I've a strong beliefand faith in my mind, that though I brought the little lad here blind, Imay carry him home seeing."
True, oh! Gwen, dear Gwen, not in your way, perhaps in a better!
As she spoke, attracted by the sound of her voice, the child toddled tohis feet, came to her side, and raised his dark, sightless eyes to herface.
"But it must be managed clever," continued Gwen, "and 'tis there I wantyou to help me. I don't want my mistress, nor a soul in the house butyourself to know, until I can bring in the laddie with the daylight letinto his blessed eyes; and to have any success we must obey the rulessolemn. For three mornings we must be at the well before sunrise, andwhen the first sunbeam dips into the water, down must go the child'shead right under too, with it, and this we must do three days running,and then stop for three days, and then three days again. Ah! but I feelthe Lord'll give His blessing, and there's real cure in the well."
Gwen paused, and I sat still, very much excited, dazzled, and full of akind of half belief, which falling far short of Gwen's certainty, stillcaused my heart to beat faster than usual.
"And now, Gwladys," proceeded Gwen, "I mean to go to-morrow morning; andcan you come with me, and can you show me the way?"
"I can and will come with you, Gwen, but I cannot show you the way. Ifancy I _have_ heard of this eye-well, but I have never been there."
"Then I must find some one who can," proceeded Gwen, rising.
"Stay, Gwen," I said, earnestly. "I know a little girl very well here,she has lived all her life in this place, and is sure to have heard ofthe well. I am sure, too, she would never tell a soul. Shall I go toher and find out if she can come with us?"
"Do, my dear maid, and let me know soon, for I am sore and anxious."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
THE EYE-WELL.
I found that Nan knew all about the eye-well, and had a very strongbelief in its curative powers; she was only too anxious and willing toaccompany us, and accordingly at five o'clock next morning, Gwen, littleDavid, and I met her, and set off to our destination with a delightfulsense of
secrecy and mystery.
I look back on that day now, when, light-hearted, happy, not having yetmet with any real sorrow, I stood and laughed at the baby's shouts ofglee, when Gwen dipped his head under the cold water. I remember thereproving look of dear old Gwen's anxious face, and the expectanthalf-fearful, half-wondering gaze of Nan. I see again the water of theold well, trembling on the dark lashes of two sightless eyes, a littlevoice shouts manfully, a white brow is radiant, dimples play on rosycheeks, golden brown curls are wet and drip great drops on the hard,worn hand of Gwen. Nan, excited and trembling, falls on
