by L. T. Meade
to me, my dear."
But I had given way, I was down on the grass, my face hidden, my sobsrending 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 wardme 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 thewhole of that day had I given Owen a thought. His agony and his sinwere 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, andasked me to tell him what I knew.
I did not dare look in his face. I repeated as briefly, as impassivelyas I could, what I had witnessed and heard this morning. To make mystory intelligible, it was necessary to mention Owen's forgetfulness ofthe old shaft; this brought Owen back to my mind, but with only thepassing thought essential to the telling of my tale.
To my whole story David listened without a comment, or the putting of asingle question. He sat, his head a little forward, his hands claspedround his knee. I saw that the veins had started prominently forward inthe strong hands. When I came to the part of my tale where Owenappeared 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 handon 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. "Doyou 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 andsteam could take us, I heard David say again under his breath, "This isan 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 hasnot 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 forOwen?" he said, impatiently, and in pain; then, turning to leave theroom, "I am going to find Owen at once!--but stay! where and how isGwen?"
"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, motherand Gwladys; I will see her alone."
David had been with Gwen for five minutes, I heard Gwen sobbing, andDavid talking to her quietly, when at the end of that time I entered theroom.
"David, Miles Thomas is downstairs; he has been hanging about the placeall day; he begs to see you; he knows about everything. Still, he sayshe _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 downoutside. I saw David's hand on his shoulder, and observed the boy raiseentreating 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 tryingto prepare some tea for him. Mother was upstairs with Gwen. David cameup 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 issomething not quite right with the mine. I am going down there to-nightwith Miles. I cannot look for Owen to-night. If all goes well, as Ihope, I may be up in the morning. I want you, Gwladys, to try and keepall knowledge of where I have gone from mother, until the morning. Sheheard me say I would look for Owen; let her suppose this as long as youcan."
"And you--you are going into danger!"
"I hope not. I hope I am going to prevent danger; but there isdoubtless 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 ofothers." Then, seeing that I began to sob again, that I was tremblingand broken with grief. "Come with me, darling; I should like to see thelittle lad before I go away." I led the way upstairs. The baby waslying on my bed--his nursery was used by Gwen. The moonlight--for itwas evening--flooded the white bed, and lit up the pale check. Thistime last night I heard Gwen soothing him into his last earthly slumber;but now, how sweetly did Jesus his shepherd make the baby sleep; thedark-fringed eyes were hardly closed, the lips were smiling.
"He sees at last, my little lad," said David, stooping down and kissinghim--he was about to say something more, but checked himself; two tearssplashed heavily down on the happy little face, then he went away to mywriting-table, and taking out a pen, ink, and paper, wrote hastily a fewlines, 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 bothour 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 theservants to go to bed, but she gave me no such direction; on thecontrary, she came close to where I had seated myself on the sofa, andlaid her head on my shoulder.
I began to kiss her, and she cried a little, just a tear or two; buttears never came easily with mother. Suddenly starting up, she lookedme 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 twobig boys, to have a daughter--though you _were_ fair-haired, and notlike the true Morgans. Well, my daughter, you don't want me to treatyou like a child--do you?"
"Dear mother, if you did, you would treat me like what I am not. I cannever 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. Ihave still the worst conjectures. I don't believe we are half throughthis 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 Iknow little of the power. I don't feel as if I _could_ come to God themoment I am in trouble. If I were like Gwen it would be different--Iwish you could have heard her quoting texts all day long--but I am notlike her. I am not," an emphatic shake of her head. "I am not areligious woman."
"And, mother," my words coming out slowly, "I am not religious ei
ther.I have no past to go to God with. Still it seems to me that I want Godawfully to-night."
"Oh! my child," breaking down, and beginning to sob pitifully. "Idon'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 terriblenews was broken to him this morning. He never spoke to me--he just gotghastly, and rushed away without a single word; and he has never beenback all day--never once; though that boy--young Thomas, has beenasking, asking for him. He said he had promised to go down into themine. I could not stop the boy, or put him off--so unfeeling, after allthat has happened.