by L. T. Meade
But _why_ is Owen away? It is dreadful--the suddendeath of the dear little baby. But I never knew Owen cared so much forhim; he only saw him once or twice."
"Mother, I wonder you cannot guess. Do you not know that it was throughOwen's--Owen's--well, mother, I _must_ tell you--it was partly throughOwen that little David was killed."
Mother's face grew very white, her eyes flashed, she left my side, andwent over to the fire. "Gwladys, how dare you--yes, how dare you evenutter such falsehoods. Did Owen take the child to the eye-well? DidOwen put the wicked bull in the field? How can you say such things ofyour brother?"
"They are no falsehoods, mother. If Owen had kept his promise to poorMrs Jones, and had the old shaft filled up, nothing would have happenedto the baby."
"It is useless talking to you, Gwladys. I would rather you said nomore. Ever since his return you have been unjust to Owen."
Mother, seating herself in the arm-chair by the fire, turned her back onme, and I lay down on the sofa. I was very tired--tired with thetension of my first day of real grief; but I could not sleep, my heartached too badly. Hitherto, during the long hours that intervened sincethe early morning, I had, as I said, hardly thought of Owen; but nowmother herself could scarcely ponder on his name, or his memory, moreanxiously than I did. As I thought, it seemed to me that I, too, wasguilty of the baby's death. I had turned my heart from my brother--athousand things that I might have done I left undone. David had askedme to help him, to aid him. I had not done so. Never once since hisreturn 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 thenarrow path of duty. In this particular instance might I not havereminded 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 perfectas well as now. I was a child then, and knew no better. Now I was awoman. Oh! how bitterly unjust was I to my brother now. Loudly,sternly did my heart reproach me, until, in my misery andself-condemnation, I felt that David and Owen could never love me again.Through the mists and clouds of my own self-accusation, Owen's truecharacter began to dawn on me. Never wholly good, or wholly bad, hadOwen been. Affectionate, generous, enthusiastic, was one side of thatheart--selfish and vain the other. Carefully had mother and I nurturedthat vanity--and the fall had come. All his life he had been earningthese wages; at last they had been paid to him--paid to him in full andterrible 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 sharpcry of bitter agony rang again in my ears. Yes, the fruit of all thateasy, 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 veiltorn away from my eyes, I longed, prayed for, and loved him as I hadnever done before. I think I did this because also from my heart ofhearts rose the bitter supplication--
"Have mercy on my sin too. Thou who knowest all men--Thou knowest wellthat my sin is as deep and black as his."
The clock struck twelve, and mother, who had been sitting silent, andwho I hoped was asleep, moved restlessly, turned round, and addressedme.
"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 theterrible news? Gwladys. I had no time to ask you before."
"I can hardly tell you, mother. He said scarcely anything--he seemedgreatly troubled on Owen's account."
"Ah! dear fellow--the most unselfish fellow in the world; and how Owendoes 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 thewindow and looked out, opened her lips to speak to me--I saw themovement; restrained herself, and sat down again. The clock struckthree. A slight sound of a passing footfall outside, an eager claspingof mother's hands. The footfall passed--all was stillness. Mother roseagain, 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 bymother standing over me. She was trembling and half crying.
"Oh! Gwladys--oh! my darling, they have never come home--the wholenight has gone, and they have never appeared. Oh! I am so dreadfullyfrightened. Yes, Gwladys, though I am not a religious woman, yet I mustgo 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. Weneither 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 inmother's voice, "our Father--deliver us from evil."
"Ah! there it is," sobbed mother. "That's what I want. Oh! Lord, hearme. Oh! Christ, hear me. I'm a poor, weak, broken-down mother. Heara mother's cry. Save my boy--deliver my boy from evil. Oh! I havebeen wrong to think only of getting back the old place as it used tobe--it was _my_ fault, if any one's, if my Owen forgot to see to thegeneral safety. I urged him so hard; I gave him no rest. But oh! don'tpunish 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 thoughtsand fears had been with Owen; but at this juncture I burst out with animpulse I could not withstand--with a longing I could not restrain.
"That is not fair--you say nothing about David. Ask God to deliverDavid, too, from evil."
"Gwladys, why--why do you say this?"
"I don't know," rising to my feet, and steadying my voice. "Mother, itis daylight. I will go down to see little Nan--she may tell mesomething."
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
A RICH VEIN OF COAL.
I think her prayer, which was literally a cry of agony to her trueFather, brought mother some strength and comfort. She grew morecomposed, 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 ofany possible danger to him. All her thoughts and fears were centred onOwen--indeed, we both had thought most of Owen during the long hours ofthe weary night. But now David might really seek him; the chances werethat the evil he dreaded was averted, that he would come up from themine with the night shift. He would need a few hours' rest, and then hemight really seek for Owen. It had occurred to me as I lay awake in thenight, that Owen, who knew nothing of my visit to Tynycymmer, might havegone there himself to tell David, this was quite a likely thing for himto do. In that case, David might go there and bring him back. Ifancied his return, I fancied gentle, humble, forgiving words; I thoughtof mother, sister, brother, starting together on a surer, happierfooting, of possible good arising out of this sorrow. In short, as Iwalked down to Nan's cottage, I saw a rainbow spanning this cloud. Howshort-sighted and ignorant I was! Did I not know that sin must bringits punishment, that however a man may repent, however fully and freelya man may be forgiven, yet in pain, sorrow and bitterness must the wageshis own deeds have brought him, be paid. I entered Nan's cottage; itwas early, not more than six o'clock, but Nan was up, had even eaten herbreakfast, and was now, when I arrived, washing some coarse delf cupsand saucers in a wooden tub. I had learned in my intercourse with thisstrange child to read her face almost like a book. The moment I saw itto-day my heart sank, Nan had on her very oldest and most carewornexpression.
"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 beenthinking so much of you all, Miss Morgan, and I've been crying so bitterto the Lord to comfort you."
"I am glad of that, Nan," I said, "but don't let us talk of our troublenow. I want you tell me all you know about the mine; and, first, has mybrother 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 wealways imagine danger to be worse than it is, so do tell me what iswrong; and, first, _has_ my brother come