Kitabı oku: «David's Little Lad», sayfa 9

I had always loved beautiful things – God’s world had always a power over me. In my naughty fits as a child, I had sat on the edge of a cliff, gazed down at the waves, and grown quiet. However rebellious I had been when I went there, I had usually returned, in half-an-hour, penitent; ready to humble myself in the very dust for my sins. Not all the voices of all the men and women I knew, could affect me as nature could. For six months now, I had been living in a very ugly country – a country so barren and so desolate, that this longing in me was nearly starved; but even at Ffynon I had found, in my eager wanderings, now and then, a little gurgling stream – now and then, some pretty leaves and tufts of grass, and these had ministered to me. Still the country was ugly, and the place black and barren – what a change to the banks of the Wye, and the ruins of Tintern. When I entered the Abbey, I became conscious for the first time that the day was a spring one – soft, sunshiny, and bright. I looked around me for a moment, almost giddy with surprise and delight; then I turned to David, and laid my hand on his arm.

“May I sit here,” pointing to a stone at the right side of the ruin, “may I sit here and think, and not speak to any one for half-an-hour?”

I was conscious that David’s eyes were smiling into mine.

“You may sit there and lose yourself for half-an-hour, little woman, but not longer, I will come back for you in half-an-hour.”

When David left me, I pulled out my watch; it was past three, in half-an-hour I would tell him.

But for half-an-hour I would give myself up to the joy – no, that is the wrong word – to the peace that was stealing over me. I have said that I was not practically religious. Had anybody asked me, I should have answered, “No, no, I have a worldly heart;” but sitting there in the ruins, the longing for God rose to a strange and passionate intensity. Last night I had said “My Father,” with the faint cry of a hardly acknowledged belief. I said it again now, with the satisfied sound of a child. The words brought me great satisfaction, and the sense of a very present help, for my present need.

The bright sunlight flickered on the green grass. I sat back, clasped my hands and watched it. A light breeze stirred the dark ivy that twined round the ruins, some cows were feeding in the shade under the western window outside – I could see their reflections – two men, of the acknowledged tourist stamp, were perambulating on the walls; these men and the happy dumb creatures were the only living things I saw. But I did not want life just then, the lesson I needed and was learning was the lesson of the dead. I had looked at a little dead child that morning, now I looked at the dead work of centuries. The same thought came to me in connection with both – God did it; the old monks of Tintern are with God, little David is with God. To be with God must be for good, not for evil to His creatures. If only then by death we can get quite away to God, even death must be good.

It is a dreadful thing when we can only see the evil of an act; once the good, however faintly, appears, then the light comes in. The light came back to me now, and I felt it possible that I could tell David about the death of the child. Meanwhile I let my soul and imagination rest in the loveliness before me. Here was not only the beauty of flower and grass, of tree, and sky, and river, but here also was the wonderful beauty God put long ago into the hearts of men. It grew in chancel, and aisle, and pillar, and column. The minds may have conceived, but the hearts must have given depth and meaning to the conception. The mind is great, but the heart is greater. I saw the hearts of the old monks had been at work here. No doubt they fasted, and wrestled in prayer, and had visions, some of them, as they reared this temple, of another and greater built without hands. The many-tinted walls of the New Jerusalem may have been much in their thoughts as the light of their painted windows streamed on their heads when they knelt to pray.

Yes, they were dead, their age with its special characteristics was gone, their Abbey was in ruins, their story was a story of long ago. The old monks were dead, gone, some of them, to a world where a narrow vision will extend into perfect knowledge, where the Father whom they dimly sought will fully reveal Himself.

“David,” I said, when David returned and seated himself by my side, “it is beautiful, but it is dead, I can only think of the dead here.”

“Yes, my dear, the story of the old monks does return to one.”

David too looked very peaceful. I could tell him. I pulled out my watch, I had a few moments yet.

“Do you remember, David, what you said once about music, and high hills, or mountains; you said they lifted you up, and made you feel better, do you feel that here?”

“Yes, dear, I feel near God,” he took off his hat as he spoke, “I think God comes close to us in such a beautiful scene as this, Gwladys.”

“Yes,” I said.

“But my thoughts are not quite with you about Tintern,” he continued, “it is full of memories of the dead, of a grand past age, full of earnestness which I sometimes think we lack, still the central thought to me here is another.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“Thou remainest,” raising his head and looking up at the sky, “all others may leave us – all, home, earthly love – all may pass away, only to leave us more completely alone with God, only to fill us more with God.” I was silent.

“Yes, Gwladys, that is the thought of thoughts for me at Tintern – God remains. Never with His will need we unloose our hold of the Divine hand.”

I looked at my watch again, the time had nearly come for me to tell him; was he not himself making it easy?

“And God’s mercies follow us so continually too, Gwladys,” continued my brother; “I have had some sorrow, it is true, but still mercy has always gone with it. Think of Owen, for instance. Oh! I have wrestled in prayer for him, and been faithless. Amy often reproached me for it; she said God would make it all right for Owen, that God loved and would always love him. Dear child, how I remember her words; and now, my dear, it seems all coming true, Owen is so steady, so careful, so anxious to succeed, so much liked, he is so honourable too about that money I lent him. Not that I care for it, not in the least, but I like the feeling in the dear fellow, and he is making everything right down in the mine. When I remember how nearly he was shipwrecked, and now see good hope of his yet making for the haven; I’m not quite sure yet that the love of God actuates him solely, but it will come, for God is leading him.”

I looked at my watch again, it was four o’clock. I must speak.

“David,” I said, “do you love God better than any one?”

The agitation in my voice must have penetrated to David’s heart at once; he turned round and looked at me.

“I do love Him better than any one, Gwladys; but why do you ask?”

“You would never be angry with God whatever He did?” I said, again.

“Angry? no, no; what a strange question.”

“I have a reason for asking it,” I said.

“Gwladys, you have been keeping something from me; what is the matter, what is wrong?”

David was excited now, he took my hand in his with a grasp which unconsciously was fierce.

“There is something wrong,” I whispered.

“Something you have been keeping from me?”

“Yes.”

“All day?”

“Yes.”

“How dared – ” checking himself – remaining silent for a second, then speaking with enforced composure.

“Tell it to me, my dear.”

But I had given way, I was down on the grass, my face hidden, my sobs rending me.

“Is anything wrong with the mother? Gwladys.”

“No, no, she is well.”

“Or Owen?”

“No.”

“The mine is all safe, there has been no accident?”

“The mine is safe.”

A long pause, I was sobbing, David was breathing hard.

“It isn’t, oh! my God, there is nothing wrong with the little lad?”

“It is him.”

“Not dead.”

“He is dead.”

I raised my head now to look at David. David put out his hand to ward me back.

“Don’t speak to me,” he said, “don’t tell me anything more about it yet. I must be alone for a little, wait here for me.”

He disappeared out of the doorway, he did not return for two hours; during those two hours I prayed without ceasing for him.

Chapter Seventeen
Sight to the Blind

All this time I had completely forgotten Owen. Never once during the whole of that day had I given Owen a thought. His agony and his sin were alike forgotten by me; his very name had passed from my memory.

At the end of two hours David returned to my side, sat down quietly, and asked me to tell him what I knew.

I did not dare look in his face. I repeated as briefly, as impassively as I could, what I had witnessed and heard this morning. To make my story intelligible, it was necessary to mention Owen’s forgetfulness of the old shaft; this brought Owen back to my mind, but with only the passing thought essential to the telling of my tale.

To my whole story David listened without a comment, or the putting of a single question. He sat, his head a little forward, his hands clasped round his knee. I saw that the veins had started prominently forward in the strong hands. When I came to the part of my tale where Owen appeared and bent over the dead child, he started for the first time, and looked me full in the face; then he rose to his feet, put his hand on my shoulder, and said —

“Come, my dear; we will go home. I must find Owen!”

“Find Owen!” I repeated, too surprised to keep in my hasty words. “Do you want him so quickly? has he not brought this trouble upon you?”

“Hush, Gwladys, in God’s name – this is an awful thing for Owen!”

Once or twice as we travelled back to Ffynon, as quickly as horses and steam could take us, I heard David say again under his breath, “This is an awful thing for Owen!”

His first question when we got back, and mother raised her white, agitated face to his, was —

“Where is Owen? I must see Owen directly!”

“Oh, my boy! he is not here; he has not been here all day. Oh, my dear, dear boy; I am so terrified about him!”

“Not here all day, mother! Have you no idea where he is?”

“No, my son; he left the house when he heard of the accident, and has not been back since. David, you won’t be hard on him – you will – ”

“How can you ask me, mother? Will you never understand what I feel for Owen?” he said, impatiently, and in pain; then, turning to leave the room, “I am going to find Owen at once! – but stay! where and how is Gwen?”

“Gwen is upstairs; she is very ill; she blames herself most bitterly. She has been asking for you.”

“I will see her for a moment before I go. Don’t come with me, mother and Gwladys; I will see her alone.”

David had been with Gwen for five minutes, I heard Gwen sobbing, and David talking to her quietly, when at the end of that time I entered the room.

“David, Miles Thomas is downstairs; he has been hanging about the place all day; he begs to see you; he knows about everything. Still, he says he must see you. I hope nothing is wrong.”

“Who is Miles Thomas?”

“A boy – one of the trappers in the mine.”

“Oh! of course. I will see him directly.”

David and the boy were together for half-an-hour; they paced up and down outside. I saw David’s hand on his shoulder, and observed the boy raise entreating eyes to his face. At the end of that time Miles ran away, and David returned to the house. He entered the room where I was trying to prepare some tea for him. Mother was upstairs with Gwen. David came up and put his arm round my waist.

“My dear little woman, I want to lay on you a great responsibility.”

“I am ready, brother,” I said, looking up, bravely. “Gwladys, there is something not quite right with the mine. I am going down there to-night with Miles. I cannot look for Owen to-night. If all goes well, as I hope, I may be up in the morning. I want you, Gwladys, to try and keep all knowledge of where I have gone from mother, until the morning. She heard me say I would look for Owen; let her suppose this as long as you can.”

“And you – you are going into danger!”

“I hope not. I hope I am going to prevent danger; but there is doubtless a possibility of my being too late.”

“Then, David,” rising selfishly, clinging to him cowardly; “dear David – dear, dear David, do not go.”

“What!” said David, holding me from him, and looking into my face. “No, my dear; that is not your real counsel, when I may save the lives of others.” Then, seeing that I began to sob again, that I was trembling and broken with grief. “Come with me, darling; I should like to see the little lad before I go away.” I led the way upstairs. The baby was lying on my bed – his nursery was used by Gwen. The moonlight – for it was evening – flooded the white bed, and lit up the pale check. This time last night I heard Gwen soothing him into his last earthly slumber; but now, how sweetly did Jesus his shepherd make the baby sleep; the dark-fringed eyes were hardly closed, the lips were smiling.

“He sees at last, my little lad,” said David, stooping down and kissing him – he was about to say something more, but checked himself; two tears splashed heavily down on the happy little face, then he went away to my writing-table, and taking out a pen, ink, and paper, wrote hastily a few lines, folded up the paper, and brought it back to me.

“Whenever Owen returns, give him that at once!”

Then he was gone.

Chapter Eighteen
Our Father

But Owen did not come back that night.

We got a nurse for Gwen, who was suffering sadly from her broken leg, and mother and I sat up together by the dining-room fire.

Without saying a word to each other, but with the same thought in both our minds, we piled coals on the grate for a night watch.

Mother ordered meat and wine to be laid on the table, then she told the servants to go to bed, but she gave me no such direction; on the contrary, she came close to where I had seated myself on the sofa, and laid her head on my shoulder.

I began to kiss her, and she cried a little, just a tear or two; but tears never came easily with mother. Suddenly starting up, she looked me eagerly in the face. “Gwladys, how old are you?”

“Sixteen – nearly seventeen, mother.”

“So you are. You were born on May Day. I was so pleased, after my two big boys, to have a daughter – though you were fair-haired, and not like the true Morgans. Well, my daughter, you don’t want me to treat you like a child – do you?”

“Dear mother, if you did, you would treat me like what I am not. I can never be a child again, after to-day.”

“I am glad of that – two women can comfort one another.”

“Dear mother,” I said, kissing her again.

“Gwladys,” catching my hand, nervously, “I have had an awful day. I have still the worst conjectures. I don’t believe we are half through this trouble.”

“Dear mother, let us hope so – let us pray to God that it may be so.”

“Oh! my dear child, I was never a very religious woman. I never was, really. I have obeyed the forms, but I think now, I believe now that I know little of the power. I don’t feel as if I could come to God the moment I am in trouble. If I were like Gwen it would be different – I wish you could have heard her quoting texts all day long – but I am not like her. I am not,” an emphatic shake of her head. “I am not a religious woman.”

“And, mother,” my words coming out slowly, “I am not religious either. I have no past to go to God with. Still it seems to me that I want God awfully to-night.”

“Oh! my child,” breaking down, and beginning to sob pitifully. “I don’t; I only want Owen. Oh I suppose Owen never comes back to me.”

“But, mother, that is very unlikely.”

“I don’t know, Gwladys. You did not see his face when that terrible news was broken to him this morning. He never spoke to me – he just got ghastly, and rushed away without a single word; and he has never been back all day – never once; though that boy – young Thomas, has been asking, asking for him. He said he had promised to go down into the mine. I could not stop the boy, or put him off – so unfeeling, after all that has happened. But why is Owen away? It is dreadful – the sudden death of the dear little baby. But I never knew Owen cared so much for him; he only saw him once or twice.”

“Mother, I wonder you cannot guess. Do you not know that it was through Owen’s – Owen’s – well, mother, I must tell you – it was partly through Owen that little David was killed.”

Mother’s face grew very white, her eyes flashed, she left my side, and went over to the fire. “Gwladys, how dare you – yes, how dare you even utter such falsehoods. Did Owen take the child to the eye-well? Did Owen put the wicked bull in the field? How can you say such things of your brother?”

“They are no falsehoods, mother. If Owen had kept his promise to poor Mrs Jones, and had the old shaft filled up, nothing would have happened to the baby.”

“It is useless talking to you, Gwladys. I would rather you said no more. Ever since his return you have been unjust to Owen.”

Mother, seating herself in the arm-chair by the fire, turned her back on me, and I lay down on the sofa. I was very tired – tired with the tension of my first day of real grief; but I could not sleep, my heart ached too badly. Hitherto, during the long hours that intervened since the early morning, I had, as I said, hardly thought of Owen; but now mother herself could scarcely ponder on his name, or his memory, more anxiously than I did. As I thought, it seemed to me that I, too, was guilty of the baby’s death. I had turned my heart from my brother – a thousand things that I might have done I left undone. David had asked me to help him, to aid him. I had not done so. Never once since his return had I strengthened his hands in any right way. On the contrary, had I not weakened them? And much was possible for me. In many ways – too many and small to mention – I might have kept Owen’s feet in the narrow path of duty. In this particular instance might I not have reminded him of the old shaft, and so have saved little David’s life?

Yes, mother was right. I was unjust to Owen; but I saw now that I had always been unjust to him. In the old days when I thought him perfect as well as now. I was a child then, and knew no better. Now I was a woman. Oh! how bitterly unjust was I to my brother now. Loudly, sternly did my heart reproach me, until, in my misery and self-condemnation, I felt that David and Owen could never love me again. Through the mists and clouds of my own self-accusation, Owen’s true character began to dawn on me. Never wholly good, or wholly bad, had Owen been. Affectionate, generous, enthusiastic, was one side of that heart – selfish and vain the other. Carefully had mother and I nurtured that vanity – and the fall had come. All his life he had been earning these wages; at last they had been paid to him – paid to him in full and terrible measure. The wages of sin is death. Little David was dead.

Owen’s face, as I had seen it this morning, returned to me. His sharp cry of bitter agony rang again in my ears. Yes, the fruit of all that easy, careless life had appeared. I saw my brother as he was; but, strange as it may seem, at last, with all this knowledge, with the veil torn away from my eyes, I longed, prayed for, and loved him as I had never done before. I think I did this because also from my heart of hearts rose the bitter supplication —

“Have mercy on my sin too. Thou who knowest all men – Thou knowest well that my sin is as deep and black as his.”

The clock struck twelve, and mother, who had been sitting silent, and who I hoped was asleep, moved restlessly, turned round, and addressed me.

“Has not David gone to look for Owen?”

“He said he would go, mother.”

“My dear boy – if any one can find him he will. How did he bear the terrible news? Gwladys. I had no time to ask you before.”

“I can hardly tell you, mother. He said scarcely anything – he seemed greatly troubled on Owen’s account.”

“Ah! dear fellow – the most unselfish fellow in the world; and how Owen does love him. You are sure he has gone to look for him?”

“Dear mother, did you not hear him say so?”

“Yes, yes – well. God give me patience.”

Another restless movement from mother, then a couple of hours’ silence. At two o’clock she got up and made down the fire, then went to the window and looked out, opened her lips to speak to me – I saw the movement; restrained herself, and sat down again. The clock struck three. A slight sound of a passing footfall outside, an eager clasping of mother’s hands. The footfall passed – all was stillness. Mother rose again, poured out a glass of sherry, drank it off, filled out another, and brought it to my side. I, too, drank the wine without a comment. Mother returned to her seat, and I went to sleep.

The clock was striking six when I awoke. The window-shutters were open; the place was full of bright sunshine and daylight. I was awakened by mother standing over me. She was trembling and half crying.

“Oh! Gwladys – oh! my darling, they have never come home – the whole night has gone, and they have never appeared. Oh! I am so dreadfully frightened. Yes, Gwladys, though I am not a religious woman, yet I must go to God; I must get God to help me. Come with me, my daughter.”

Together we went down on our knees. I clasped mother’s hands. We neither of us spoke.

“Say something, Gwladys,” said mother.

“Mother – I cannot. I have never prayed aloud.”

“Well, a form – some words. I am so broken – so frightened.”

“Our Father,” I began, impelled to say something quickly by the sound in mother’s voice, “our Father – deliver us from evil.”

“Ah! there it is,” sobbed mother. “That’s what I want. Oh! Lord, hear me. Oh! Christ, hear me. I’m a poor, weak, broken-down mother. Hear a mother’s cry. Save my boy – deliver my boy from evil. Oh! I have been wrong to think only of getting back the old place as it used to be – it was my fault, if any one’s, if my Owen forgot to see to the general safety. I urged him so hard; I gave him no rest. But oh! don’t punish me too hard – deliver my boy – my boy from evil.”

Now, I don’t know why I said what I did, for all night long my thoughts and fears had been with Owen; but at this juncture I burst out with an impulse I could not withstand – with a longing I could not restrain.

“That is not fair – you say nothing about David. Ask God to deliver David, too, from evil.”

“Gwladys, why – why do you say this?”

“I don’t know,” rising to my feet, and steadying my voice. “Mother, it is daylight. I will go down to see little Nan – she may tell me something.”