Kitabı oku: «David's Little Lad», sayfa 10
Chapter Nineteen
A Rich Vein of Coal
I think her prayer, which was literally a cry of agony to her true Father, brought mother some strength and comfort. She grew more composed, and when I ran away to Nan’s cottage, she went up to see Gwen.
I had obeyed David’s message to the letter. I had not let her know of any possible danger to him. All her thoughts and fears were centred on Owen – indeed, we both had thought most of Owen during the long hours of the weary night. But now David might really seek him; the chances were that the evil he dreaded was averted, that he would come up from the mine with the night shift. He would need a few hours’ rest, and then he might really seek for Owen. It had occurred to me as I lay awake in the night, that Owen, who knew nothing of my visit to Tynycymmer, might have gone there himself to tell David, this was quite a likely thing for him to do. In that case, David might go there and bring him back. I fancied his return, I fancied gentle, humble, forgiving words; I thought of mother, sister, brother, starting together on a surer, happier footing, of possible good arising out of this sorrow. In short, as I walked down to Nan’s cottage, I saw a rainbow spanning this cloud. How short-sighted and ignorant I was! Did I not know that sin must bring its punishment, that however a man may repent, however fully and freely a man may be forgiven, yet in pain, sorrow and bitterness must the wages his own deeds have brought him, be paid. I entered Nan’s cottage; it was early, not more than six o’clock, but Nan was up, had even eaten her breakfast, and was now, when I arrived, washing some coarse delf cups and saucers in a wooden tub. I had learned in my intercourse with this strange child to read her face almost like a book. The moment I saw it to-day my heart sank, Nan had on her very oldest and most careworn expression.
“You are up to fifty, to-day. Nan,” I said with the ghost of a smile. For answer, Nan looked me hard in the face, and began to cry.
“Oh! I’m so sorry,” she began, coming up to my side, “I’ve been thinking so much of you all, Miss Morgan, and I’ve been crying so bitter to the Lord to comfort you.”
“I am glad of that, Nan,” I said, “but don’t let us talk of our trouble now. I want you tell me all you know about the mine; and, first, has my brother come up?”
“All I know,” repeated Nan, “but Miles said I was not to babble.”
“Yes, but my brother has told me there is, or was, danger; you know we always imagine danger to be worse than it is, so do tell me what is wrong; and, first, has my brother come up?”
“No, Miss Morgan, not with the night shift. The Squire and Miles are still down in the mine.”
“And all the men have gone down as usual this morning?” I asked.
“Oh! yes, and father with them.”
“Then there cannot be danger?”
“Well, I don’t know – I’m that timmersome, it may seem so to me; or it may be h’all Miles’s fancy, but he’s rare and knowing, Miles is.”
“Well, dear Nan, please sit down quietly and tell me the whole story from beginning to end, what you know and what you fear.”
Nan had by this time wiped away all traces of her tears; she was given to sudden bursts of grief, out of which her dark eyes used to flash as bright as though the briny drops were unknown to them. Had I met Nan apart from personal tragedy, I might have considered her tiny form, her piquant old-fashioned face, and quaint words, an interesting study; but now I felt a little impatient over her long delays, and deep-drawn sighs, and anxious to launch her midway into her tale.
“Miles is very knowing,” began Nan, seeing I was determined, and would have my way; “Miles is very knowing, and from the time he was a little, little lad, he’d study father’s plan o’ the mine. I never could make out the meanin’ o’ it, but long before Miles ever went down into a mine he knew all about levels, and drifts, and headings, and places without number; and he used to say to me, ‘Why, our mine is like a town, Nan, it has its main roads, and its crossings, and its railways, and all;’ he tried to make a romance out of the mine for me, seeing I was so timmersome, and he never spoke of danger, nor fall o’ roofs, nor gas, nor nothing, when I was by; only when they thought I was asleep, I used to hear him and father talk and talk; and somehow, Miss Morgan, the hearing of ’em whispering, whispering of danger, made the danger, just as you say, twice as big to me, and I used to be that frightened I feared I’d die just from sheer old h’age. And at last I spoke to the Lord about it, and it seemed to me the Lord made answer loud and clear, ‘Resist the devil and he will flee from you;’ and then I saw plain as daylight, that the devil to me now, was the fear of danger to father and Miles, and the only thing to do was to turn and face it like a man, or may be a woman, which sometimes is bravest. So I went to Miles and told him how I had prayed, and what the Lord had said, and I begged of Miles to tell me h’all about everything, all the danger of fire-damp, and explosions, and inundations. Oh! Miss Morgan, he did what I axed him, he seemed real pleased; and for a fortnight I scarce slept a wink, but then I got better, and I found the devil, now I was facing him, brave and manful, did not seem so big. Then I went to Miles again, and I made him promise not never to hide when he thought danger was going to be in the mine, and he was real glad, and said he would faithful tell me h’every thing. Well, Miss Morgan, he was very sharp and had his wits about him, and he heard people talk, and for all Mr Morgan was so pleasant, and so well liked, father said that he was so rare and anxious to win the coal, that sometimes, though he had reformed so much in the mine, he was a bit rash, and then the men grumbled about the coal pillars being struck away so much, and the supports not being thick enough.”
“But I spoke to Owen about that,” I interrupted eagerly, “and he was so dreadfully hurt and vexed; he would not endanger the men’s lives for the world, Nan; and he said that he was an engineer and must understand a great deal more about the mine than the miners. After all, Nan,” I continued rather haughtily, and with feelings new and yet old stirring in my heart for Owen, “your little brother cannot know, and without meaning it, he probably exaggerates the danger.”
“That may be so, Miss Morgan, but in the case of the coal supports it was the talk of all the men.”
“I know,” I continued, “I have heard that miners were never contented yet with any manager; they were sure, whatever the manager did, to find fault with him.”
“You wrong us there, Miss, you wrong us most bitter; there is not a man belonging to Ffynon mine who does not love Mr Morgan; there is not a man who does not feel for his trouble. Why, the way he looked yesterday when he saw the little baby, has been the talk of the place; and last night a lot of our men prayed for him most earnest. We all knows that it was want of thought with Mr Morgan, we all loves him.”
“Dear Nan, forgive me for speaking so hastily, and do go on.”
“Well, Miss Morgan, Miles, he always says that he must learn, if he lives, to be an engineer, he’s so fond of anything belonging to it. What ’ud you say, Miss, but he drawed h’out a plan of the mine for himself, and when it was finished he showed it to me and father; it worn’t exactly like father’s old plan, but father said in some ways it might be more right. Well, Miss, Miles, haven’t much to do in the mine, he’s what they calls a trapper – that is, he has to shut and open the doors to let the trams of coal pass, so he has to stand in the dark, and plenty of time for thought has he. Well, Miss, about a month ago, Mr Morgan was down in the mine, and he said they was letting a fine seam of coal lie idle, and he said it should be cut, and it stretched away in another direction. Well, Miles, he had to act trapper at some doors close to the new seam, and it came into his head, with his knowledge of the mine, and his own plan, that they must be working away right in the direction of Pride’s Pit, which you know, Miss, is full of water. Miles had this thought in his head for some days, and at last he told me, and at last he told father, and father said, being vexed a bit, ‘Don’t fancy you have a wiser head on your shoulders than your elders, my boy; we are likely enough working in the direction of Pride’s Pit, but what of that, ’tis an uncommon rich vein of coal; and, never fear, we’ll stop short at the right side of the wall.’ Well, Miss, Miles tried to stop his fears but he couldn’t, happen what would, he couldn’t, and he said to me, ‘Why, Nan, the men are all so pleased with the new find of coal, that they’ll just stop short at nothing, and the manager is beside himself with delight, and they’ll work on, Nan, until they gets to the water; why, sometimes standing there, I almost fancies I hears it,’ and at last, two nights ago, he said to me, ‘Nan, my mind is made up, I’ll speak to Mr Morgan.’ Then, Miss, you know what happened, and how all day long Mr Morgan never came back, and Miles, he wandered about just like a ghost, more fretted about the mine than he was about the dear little baby, so that I was fain to think him heartless: then at last, the Squire came, and he would tell him everything, and the Squire said, ‘I’ll go down with you at once, Miles; I’ll see what I can for myself, and question every man in the mine, and if there appears to be the slightest truth in what you fear, all the workings shall be stopped until my brother returns.’”
A long pause from Nan, then in a low sweet voice, “Late last night Miles came in, and put his arms round my neck and said, ‘Nan, darling, the Squire and me, we’re going down; we’ll put it all right, please God. Don’t you be down-hearted, Nan; whatever happens. Jesus loves us, and now that I’ve got the Squire with me, I feels bold as a lion, for I know I’m right, there is danger.’” Another pause, then facing round and looking me full in the face. “There, Miss, that’s the whole story.”
“But, Nan, Nan, suppose the water does burst in?”
“Why, then, Miss, every one in the mine will be drowned, or – or starved to death.”
“And it may come in at any moment?”
“I doesn’t know, I means to keep h’up heart, don’t let you and me frighten one another, Miss Morgan.”
Chapter Twenty
The Jordan River
Can I ever forget that day? It seemed the worst of all the ten. Yes, I think it was quite the worst. Before the last of those ten days came, I had grown accustomed to suffering; the burden given me to carry began to fit on my young shoulders. I lay down with it, and arose with it; under its weight I grew old in heart and spirit, as old as Nan. Laughter was far from my lips, or smiles from my eyes.
But why do I speak of myself? Why do I say, I, I? I was one of many suffering women at Ffynon?
Let me talk of it as our sorrow!
What a leveller trouble is! There was mother, laying her proud head on little Nan’s neck; there was the under-viewer’s wife taking me in her arms, and bidding me sob a few tears, what tears I could shed, on her bosom.
Yes, in the next ten days the women of Ffynon had a common sorrow. I do not speak here of the men, the men acted nobly, but I think the women who stood still and endured, had the hardest part to play.
“Heroic males the country bears,
But daughters give up more than sons;
Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares
You flash your souls out with the guns,
And take your heaven at once.
“But we; we empty heart and home.
Of life’s life, love! we bear to think
You’re gone, to feel you may not come.
To hear the door-latch stir and clink,
Yet no more you – nor sink.”
But I must tell my story. I left little Nan, I went home to mother. I told her, for I had to tell her now, something about David. She was not much alarmed, I don’t think I was either. We thought it probable that David would come up out of the mine at any moment. I think our worst fears and our strongest suffering was for Owen. We sat together, dear mother and I, very anxious, very expectant, very patient. Hour after hour we sat together, waiting for David and Owen. Overhead, poor Gwen suffered and moaned; we did not tell her of our anxiety, she was too ill to hear it. In the room next to Gwen’s, the little baby slept. When my fear and anxiety grew quite unbearable, I used to steal upstairs and look at David’s little lad. Once I took the little icy hand and held it in my own for a long time, and tried to chafe it into life and warmth. I could not do it. No more than I could chase away the fear which was growing, growing in my own hearty From my window I could see the pit bank. It was an ugly sight, and one I seldom gazed at. I hated the appearance of the ugly steam-engines, and the dusty coal-covered figures. I hated the harsh noise, the unpleasing commotion; but to-day nothing comforted me so much as to draw the blinds, which were down, and look towards this same pit bank; the roaring steam, the appearance of quiet, rapid, regular work soothed my fears, and became a blessed and soul-sustaining sight. I felt sure as long as these signs of regular work were going on on the bank, that all must be right in the mine. Still, why did not David return? So much depended on his return, he had promised so faithfully not to remain below a moment longer than was necessary.
As the day wore on, my heart sank and sank, and my fears rose and rose, and at five o’clock on that April afternoon, the blow came. I was standing by my room window, looking toward the pit bank. Suddenly I saw in that familiar scene a change. The greater number of the day crew had come up. I waited to see David’s figure, taller than the rest. The men stood in groups talking eagerly, a number crowded round the mouth of the shaft; out of the houses around, women came rushing, then on the air there rose a bitter sharp cry, and one woman leaving the group, which increased each moment round the shaft, ran, clasping her hands and weeping, towards our house. I recognised her, even as she ran, as the bearer of former ill tidings, Mrs Jones. I went downstairs to meet her. I opened the dining-room door. I called to mother, who was sitting close to the window watching, watching for Owen, thinking little of David. She must know all now, better learn the worst at once.
“Mother,” I said, “Mrs Jones has come, and something dreadful has happened in the mine.”
Then I took the weeping, agitated woman’s hand, and mother clasped her other hand, and we both looked hard in her face, and she looked into ours, and in broken words she told her tale.
How few were her words, but how crushing her intelligence! Just as the men were leaving work, the water had burst in like the sea into the workings; most of the day crew had escaped in time, but fourteen were still below.
“Which?” we asked breathlessly, “who were the doomed ones?”
“Not my son?” said mother.
“Not my brother?” said I.
“Yes,” said the woman, “Squire Morgan is still below – and – and – ” bringing out the words with a great gasp, her face, her lips, growing white, “My husband – my George.”
She was silent then, and we three looked at each other in blank wonder and surprise; each was saying in her heart of hearts, “My sorrow is the greatest.”
At last I started to my feet.
“I will go down to the bank and learn more,” I said.
Bonnetless and shawlless the next moment I was mingling with the black men, and wild-looking women; I was clasping their hands, looking into their faces, and entreating them to tell me all they knew. One or two turned away from me, one or two muttered that it was the new manager’s fault. Words that made my heart freeze within me, about the blood of husbands and sons being on our heads, reached my ears, then a strong hand was laid on my shoulder, and turning, I recognised through all his coal dust, and blackened face, little Nan’s father, Moses Thomas.
“Come round to my house, dear young lady,” he said, in a gentle tone; then turning to the angry men and women, “Shame on you! cowards! has not Squire Morgan sacrificed his life for you to-day?”
The people shrank back; one woman said, “God bless him!” and Moses Thomas took my hand in his.
Little Nan was waiting for us. In the midst of all my own agony, I almost dreaded seeing Nan’s face, but to my surprise it was quiet. When I entered the house she came up and kissed me. She had never ventured to kiss me of her own accord before, but on this occasion we were equals – nay, on this occasion Nan was greater than I.
“Yes, Miss Morgan,” said Thomas, seating himself and beginning his tale at once. “’Tis very like they is drowned, the Squire, and my lad, and Jones, and eleven more of ’em; and oh! Lord! some was ready, and some isn’t; some was turning to the Lord, and some was just goin’ on in evil; and oh! dear Lord! forgive me, and have mercy upon me!” The man covered his face with his hands, and Nan went down on her knees.
“Lord, forgive father, and lay not this sin to his charge,” she said.
Thomas looked at her from under his shaggy brows, stretched out his hand and stroked her cheek, then making an effort to master some strong emotion, continued his tale.
“Yes, my dear young lady, as I say, ’twas mostly my fault; I felt rare and h’angered this morning, when I went down into the mine, to find that the little chap, unknownst to me, had brought down the Squire. I spoke sharp to the lad, the Lord have mercy on me! The Squire, he had a long talk with me and the deputy, and he wanted the overman to be sent for, but the overman was ill, and I ranks next, and I was rare and vexed, and I laughed at the thought of danger, and I knew the Squire had no knowledge of mines, and ’twas all the little chap’s conceit. So the upshot of it was we went on with the workin’ of the new seam, and I had my h’eye out sharp, and to prevent all chance of danger, I made the men work, as I thought, in a new direction, away from Pride’s Pit. Well, the Squire stayed down all day, and two or three times he axed me to stop working until Mr Morgan come back; but I never, no, God knows, I never thought of danger. At last it was evening, and I came to the surface, but Miles, being trapper, had to stay down to the last; and the Squire, who seemed mighty taken with the lad, said they would come up together. Well, I had not been to the surface more’n ten minutes, when the news came that the water had burst out of Pride’s Pit; most of the men got to the surface in time, but fourteen are below. Oh! God forgive me, God forgive me. My boy, my brave boy was right; if I had hearkened to him, all would have been saved.”
At these words Nan went down on her knees again, and looked into her father’s face with flushed cheeks and glistening eyes.
“Father, father, do you call Miles brave and noble now?”
“Ay, ay, little lass, brave as a lion, my noble lad; how patient he was when I nearly struck him across the face this morning, and how he spoke up so manful, ‘Father, I’m not afeerd, but I know there’s danger.’”
“I’m so glad,” said little Nan. “I’m so glad he was brave and noble, and not afeerd; he was follerin’ of Jesus. Why, father, if Miles is drowned, he’s only gone to Jesus.”
“True enough, Nan, he’s crossed the Jordan river, and is safe on the holy hill of the better land. No fear for Miles, little lass.”
“But, perhaps – perhaps,” I murmured, “they are not all drowned; is there no place of escape in the mine?”
“Oh! God grant it, lady; yes, there are rises and levels, they may have got into them, but how are they to be got out? however are they to be got at? Well, if there’s a shadow of a chance of this, we miners won’t leave a stone unturned to save ’em, no, not one, trust us! I must see what can be done!”
Chapter Twenty One
The Lord was not in the Wind
I have said that all England knows the story. Still I will tell it, dwelling most on the part that most touched my own heart and my own life.
In doing this I may be selfish, but I can tell this part best.
That night Moses Thomas, with several other brave volunteers, went down the shaft of the Ffynon mine.
The shaft was ninety-two yards deep.
They went down determined to risk life, to save life; but even with this determination, they had little hope of success.
When they reached the mine, the scene that met their eyes was likely to kill that slight hope.
All the workings within a few hundred yards of the bottom of the shaft, were filled with water to the roof. It seemed utterly impossible that a soul now left in the mine could be alive. The water from the old pit had truly come in like a flood, carrying all before it. This being the case, the men were about to ascend to the surface, hopeless and despairing, when suddenly faint knockings were heard on the other side of the coal, at a distance, it was thought, of about a dozen yards.
These knockings sent a thrill of joy through the breasts of the brave men. Every thought of persona! danger was put out of sight, and all night they laboured to cut away the wall of coal, fondly hoping that all the men were safe, imprisoned, but not drowned, and in a few hours they would rescue them. Well, as I said before, the story is known: in the morning five men were reached; four of these five were brought in safety to the surface; but the fifth, a noble young fellow, who had worked splendidly all night for his own rescue, and that of his companions, was killed by a terrific gas explosion, which took place when the coal was worked through.
I was standing by the pit bank when these four men were brought to the surface. I saw women rush forward, and welcome with tears, fervent thanks, and joy, a father, a brother, a husband. I looked in the faces of the four, and turned away with a sick heart, for David was not amongst them. Yes, I was selfish. I could not rejoice in the joy of the few, but most bitterly could I sorrow in the grief of the many.
Mother, who had come down with me in the morning to the mouth of the shaft, quite sure of seeing David, was now weeping hysterically; crying feebly for Owen, who, she said, if present, would surely save David; and mother and I at that time had both that dim idea of the mine, that it seemed to us quite possible that if only men brave enough could be found, they might go even through the water to the rescue.
But what if the nine remaining men were dead! drowned. I knew the colliers were working with might and main, through that slow, torturing passage, the solid coal, to reach them. But what if, after all their efforts, they were only met by death!
Down on my knees in my room, beside the coffin that contained what was mortal of David’s little lad, I thought these thoughts of David. Down on my knees, I say, but not to pray. I was in a wild state of rebellion; it seemed to me that the events of the last few days had put the whole world into a state of chaos – a state of confusion so great, that even God Himself could never put it straight again. As this was so, why should I pray to Him? I had never in days of happiness made myself acquainted with God. How could I go to Him in my misery?
I was angry with God. He had been too hard on us. What had we done that He should crush us to the earth?
In a few days what had not befallen us? The sudden and terrible death of David’s only little child! Gwen’s accident! Owen’s disappearance! Now David himself probably dead.
Yes, truly, a whirlwind of destruction had encompassed us; but the Lord was not in the wind.
Raising my head with my mind full of these thoughts, my eyes again fell upon the happy, smiling face of the dead child. The little face seemed to say more eloquently than words, “Yes, God has done all this to you; but He is good – He is very good!”
The face of the baby made me cry; and my tears, without then in any way turning me consciously towards my Father, eased my heart. I was wiping them away, when the handle of the door was turned, and Nan came in. This was no time for ceremony, and Nan made none.
“The men are not all drowned, Miss Morgan; my father and the other workers have heard knockings, very faint like, and a long way off; but still, that is what they want.”
“Oh! Nan, is it possible? Is it possible that they’ll all be saved? Oh! I cannot believe it!” and I burst into tears.
“Now isn’t that wrong and faithless?” said the little girl, taking my hand. “Ain’t this a time to exercise faith? Why, there ain’t a man there – no, not a man, as won’t work with a will. Why, when father come up, he had the blood streaming from his hands. I tell you, Miss Morgan, there’s no halting when we looks to bring h’out our brothers and sons!”
“Then, Nan, they may be out to-night?”
“No, Miss; that ain’t likely – we mustn’t look for impossibles. They are in a stall a long way off, called Thomas Powell’s stall; and to get to that, they must work through thirty-eight yards of coal. That ain’t light labour; but h’everything that men can do will be done. Why, engineers and miners from all the collieries round are on the spot.”
“Nan,” I said, “I think I will ask God for one thing. I don’t mind telling you, but I have been feeling very bitter against God; but now if He brings me back David and Owen – both of them safe and well – why, then, I will love Him and serve Him always.”
Nan was silent for a long time – some thought knitting anxiously her dark brows.
“I don’t think I’d make a bargain with the Lord,” she said.
“Oh! but, Nan, you cannot quite understand; I have never told you the story of my life. I see now that I never cared for either Owen or David quite in the right way. I want to change all that. Yes,” I added, humbly, “I have a great deal to change. I had a beautiful home before I came here; and I grew so tired of it, I wanted to leave it. I know I vexed David – dear, dear David, by wishing to leave Tynycymmer; and then we came here; and he asked me to try, in the little ways a sister can, to help Owen; but I didn’t. Oh! Nan, I have not been at all good, and I want to change all that.”
“Well, Miss Morgan, from your own words, it seems to me you have a deal to ask the Lord to forgive you.”
“Yes, I know I have,” I added, humbly.
“Then why don’t you ask to be forgiven now – right away?”
“No, I cannot ask now. God is punishing me too hard. I don’t love Him now at all.”
“You want the lads home first?”
“Oh! yes, indeed. Oh! if I might hope for that, I could love Him – I could serve Him well.”
“Eh! dear,” said little Nan, “I think I could love Him, even if Miles was gone to Him. Seems to me, for all I’m so timmersome, and I does cling so to Miles, that even if Miles was dead, I could love the Lord. I think father and me, for all we’d grieve bitter, we’d never turn agen the Lord. Why, the Lord’s our guide, Miss Morgan; and however rough the way, we’d rayther go that road with Him, than any other in the world without Him. And father and me, we’d soon see that having Miles up in the better land, only ’ud make it more home like. Oh! Miss Morgan, it don’t seem to me that yours is a bit the right way.”
That night the doctor gave mother a composing draught. She had not slept for two nights; and the sleeplessness, added to her anxiety, had brought on feverish symptoms. Happen what might, sleep was necessary for her, and she was now in bed, wrapped in heavy slumber. After doing what he could for mother, the doctor looked hard into my eyes, but I assured him I was well, which was true – for in body I never felt better. He made me promise, however, to go to bed. I agreed to do so, though sleep seemed very far away. The night was still early, and for an hour or two longer I would sit by the dining-room fire. As mother had done two nights before, I made down a good fire, then sat opposite to it. I sat with my head pressed on my hands, my eyes gazing into the ruddy flames, my thoughts very busy. My thoughts were troublesome – almost agonising. For the first time in my life, my will and God’s were standing opposite to one another, opposing one another in grim conflict. My young desire dared to stand up and defy its Creator. The Creator said to the thing that He had made, “My will be done.”
The tiny atom replied, “No; not Thy will, but mine.”
Thus we were at variance – God and I. I knew I must submit – that God could sweep me aside to perform, independent of me, what seemed good to Him. He could do this, but still my will might rise in rebellion, might dash itself out and die against this rock; but never, no, never submit. I was quite ready, as little Nan had expressed it, to make a bargain with God. I was ready to sell my submission at a fair price. If He left to me that for which my soul longed, then my soul, with its treasures, should be His. But without them – empty, torn, and bare; could that soul go to Him? – go to Him in its desolation, and say, “You, who have taken what I love, who have emptied me in my youth of all light and joy, take me too, and do with me what you will.” This I could not do – this deed of submission I could not perform. No, if God would be good to me, I would be good to Him – that was my rebellious thought. No wonder it brought me no rest. No wonder I was tossed about by this wind of desolation; and the Lord – the Lord whom I needed, the Lord who, though I knew it not, was wounding but to heal; slaying, to make me truly live – the Lord was not in the wind. I was sitting so, thinking these thoughts, wondering why trouble had awakened all these depths in me – why I, who only six months ago had been, in every sense, a child, should now feel so old and heavy at heart – when at the window of the room where I was sitting there came a very low tap. At another time such a sound, in the stillness of the night, would have frightened me; but not so now. I went directly to the window, and looked out; then, indeed, my heavy heart gave a bound, for Owen stood without. I could not raise the sash of the window without the possibility of awaking mother; but I went to the front door, and managed softly to open it.
“Is my mother up? Gwladys.”
“No, no, Owen,” clasping his hands, and trying to drag him over the threshold. “She is worn out – she is in bed, and asleep. Come in, dear Owen.”
