David's Little Lad
Page 20
I ask you? you needn't go into the mine to-day."
"Perhaps not to work, but I must, I must wait for Mr Morgan; I musttake him into the mine."
"Well, I cannot stay," I said impatiently; "tell Williams to take me tothe railway station at P--." As I drove away I had a passing feelingthat Miles might have obliged me by coming, otherwise, I thought no moreof his words. After a rapid drive I reached the railway station; I hadnever travelled anywhere, I had never gone by rail alone in my life, butthe great pressure on my mind prevented my even remembering this fact.I procured a ticket, stepped into the railway carriage, and went as farin the direction of Tynycymmer as the train would take me. At thelittle roadside station where I alighted, I found that I could get afly. I ordered one, then went into the waiting-room, and surveyed myown image in a small cracked glass. I took off my hat and arranged myhair tidily; after doing this, I was glad to perceive that I looked muchas usual, if only my eyes would laugh, and my lips relax a little fromtheir unyouthful tension? The fly was ready, I jumped in; a two-miledrive would bring me to Tynycymmer. Hitherto in my drive from Ffynon,and when in the railway carriage, I had simply let the fact liequiescent in my heart that I was going to tell David. Now, for thefirst time, I had to face the question, "How shall I tell him?" Thenecessary thought which this required, awoke my mind out of its trance.I did not want to startle him; I wished to break this news so as to givehim as little pain as possible. I believed, knowing what I did of hischaracter, that it could be so communicated to him, that the brightnessshould reach him first, the shadow afterwards. This should be my task;how could I accomplish it? Would not my voice, choked and constrainedfrom long silence, betray me? Of my face I was tolerably confident. Ittakes a long time for a young face like mine to show signs of grief; butwould not my voice shake? I would try it on the driver, who I foundknew me well, and was only waiting for me to address him. Touching hishat respectfully, the man gave me sundry odds and ends of information."Yes, Mr Morgan was very well; but there had been a good deal ofsickness about, and little Maggie at the lodge had died. Squire Morganwas so good to them all; he was with little Maggie when she died."
"Did Maggie die of the fever?" I asked.
"Yes, there was a good deal of it about."
"And was it not infectious?"
"Well, perhaps so, but only amongst children."
I said nothing more, only I resolved more firmly than ever to break thenews gently to David.
I was received with a burst of welcome from trees and shining waves,early spring flowers, and dear birds' notes. Gyp got up from the matwhere he lay in the sunshine, and wagged his tail joyfully, and lookedwith glad expressive eyes into my face. The servants poured out amixture of Welsh and English. I began to tremble; I very nearly gaveway. I asked for David; he was out, somewhere at the other end of theestate; he would however be back soon, as he was going on business toChepstow. The servants offered to go and fetch him, but I said no, Iwould wait until he came in. I went into the house, how familiareverything looked! the old oak chairs in the hall, the flowers andferns. I opened the drawing-room door, but did not enter, for itsforlorn and dismantled condition reminded me forcibly that withfamiliarity had come change. A few months ago I had longed for change,but now to-day I disliked it. I knew for the first time to-day thatchange might mean evil as well as good. I went into David's study andsat down to wait for him; the study looked as it had done since I was alittle child. No, even here there was a difference. Over themantelpiece was an engraving, so placed that the best light might fallon it. It was Noel Paton's "_Mors Janua Vitae_." I suppose most peoplehave seen the original. David and Amy had brought this painter's proofhome after their short wedding trip. It was a great favourite of Amy's;she had said once or twice, when least shy and most communicative, thatthe dying knight reminded her of David. For the first time to-day, as Ilooked at it, I saw something of the likeness. I stood up to examine itmore closely--the victorious face, humble, trustful, glad,--stirred myheart, and awoke in me, though apparently without any connection betweenthe two, the thoughts of last night. I again began to feel the need ofGod. I pressed my hands to my face; "God give me strength," I said veryearnestly. This was my second real prayer.
I had hardly breathed it, when David's hand was on my shoulder.
"So you have come to pay me a visit, little woman; that is right. I waswishing for you, and thinking of you only this morning. I have beenlonely. Mother and Owen quite well?"
"Yes, David."
"And my boy?"
"He is well."
"How I have missed him, little monkey! he was just beginning to prattle;but I am glad I sent him away, there is a great deal of sickness about."
"David," I said suddenly, "you are not yourself, is anything wrong?"
"No, my dear, I have been in and out of these cottages a great deal, andhave been rather saddened," then with a smile, "I _did_ miss the littlelad, 'tis quite ridiculous."
He moved away to do something at the other end of the room; he lookedworn and fagged, not unhappy. I never saw him with quite _that_expression, but wearied. I could not tell him yet, but I must speak, ormy face would betray me.
"How nice the old place looks?" I said.
"Ah! yes; does it not? You would appreciate it after the ugly coalcountry; but, after all, Owen is working wonders by the mine--turningout heaps of money, and making the whole thing snug and safe."
"Yes," I said.
"Can you stay with me to-night? Gwladys. I must go to Ffynonto-morrow, and I will bring you back then--"
"I will stay," I said.
"I would ask you to give me two or three days; but am afraid of thisunwholesome atmosphere for you."
"Oh! I must get back to-morrow," I said.
I do not know how I got out these short sentences; indeed, I had not theleast idea what I was saying.
"But there is no real fear, dear," added David, noticing my depression."You shall come with me for a nice walk on the cliffs, and it will seemlike old times--or stay"--pulling out his watch, while a sudden thoughtstruck him--"you don't look quite yourself, little girl; you have gottired out with ugliness. I was just starting for Chepstow, when youarrived. Suppose you come with me. I have business there which willoccupy me ten minutes, and then we can take the train and run down toTintern. You know how often I promised to show you the Abbey."
"Oh! yes, David," I said, a feverish flush on my face, which he musthave mistaken for pleasure. "I will go with you. I should like it; butcan we not get back to Ffynon to-night?"
"A good thought. Ffynon is as near Tintern as Tynycymmer; we will doso, Gwladys, and I shall see my little lad all the sooner."
He went out of the room, and I pressed my face, down on my hands. Nofear now that my heart was not aching--it was throbbing so violentlythat I thought my self-control must give way. Far more than I everfeared death, did I at that moment, dread the taking away of a certainlight out of David's eyes, when he spoke of his little lad. I could notwhisper the fatal words yet: it might seem the most unnatural thing inthe world, but I would go with David to Tintern. I would encourage himto talk. I would listen to what he said. He was depressed now--worn,weary, not quite himself--recurring each moment to one bright beaconstar--his child. But David had never been allowed to wander alone inthe wilderness without the sunlight. I would wait until God's loveshone out again on his face, and filled his heart. Perhaps this wouldhappen at Tintern.
I said to myself, it will only make a difference of two or three hours,and the child is dead. Yes, I will give him that respite. I do notcare what people think, or what people say. I cannot break this news tohim in his home and the child's. This study where he and Amy sattogether, where his boy climbed on his knee and kissed him, where he hasknelt down and prayed to God, and God has visited him, shall not be thespot where the blow shall fall. He shall learn it from my lips, it istrue. I myself will tell him that his last treasure has been suddenlyand rudely torn away; but n
ot yet, and never at Tynycymmer.
Having made this resolve, I looked at my watch--it was between elevenand twelve then. I determined that he should learn the evil tidings byfour o'clock; this would enable us to catch the return train fromChepstow to Cardiff and from thence to Ffynon. No trains ran to Ffynonin the middle of the day. By allowing David to take me to Tintern, Iwould, in reality, only delay his coming to Ffynon by an hour or two.
Whether I acted rightly or wrongly in this matter, I have not the leastidea. I never thought, at that moment, of any right or wrong. I simplyobeyed an impulse. Having quite arranged in my own mind what to do, Igrew instantly much stronger and more composed. My heart began to beattranquilly. Having