David's Little Lad

On the dismissal of the late manager, the young woman who lived in this cottage had come with her complaint to David, and had begged of him to use his influence with his brother to have the dangerous shaft filled up. David had assured her that this should be one of the first steps in the general reformation. When Owen came, I heard David speak to him on the subject, and Owen promised to have all that was necessary done without delay. I am quite sure Owen meant what he said, but in the absorbing interest of more engrossing work, month after month went by, and Pride’s Pit still remained with its open shaft. A fortnight ago, I was walking with Owen, when poor Mrs Jones met us with tears in her eyes, “Was nothing going to be done to the shaft, her baby had nearly been killed there a few days since.”

Owen was really sorry, declared he had completely forgotten it, won Mrs Jones’s heart by his sweet graciousness and real regret, and promised to send round men to put the whole thing straight in the morning. Of course, he had done so by this time, but how great and unnecessary was the previous delay; suppose Mrs Jones’s baby had been killed, would Owen ever have forgiven himself?

After thinking these and many other thoughts, I had brushed my hair, bathed my eyes, and was preparing to go downstairs, when there came a tap at my door, and Gwen, carrying little David in her arms, came in. She placed the child on the floor, came to my side, and looked hard into my face. If ever there was a purpose written in any woman’s countenance it was in Gwen’s at this moment.

“Gwladys, my maid,” she said, “will you help your old nurse at a pinch?”

“Yes, that I will, Gwen,” I replied, heartily; “what is it you want me to do?”

“And you’ll keep it a secret, and never let it out to mortal?”

“Of course,” rather proudly.

“Well, then, ’twasn’t the fever brought me over here.”

“Oh! Gwen,” in a tone of some alarm, “what are you keeping back from me? is David ill?”

“Dear, dear, no, my pet; and I don’t say as there isn’t a fever, and that that is not the reason the Squire sent us away, Gwladys. No, I’d scorn to tell a lie, and there is a fever, though it ain’t much; but that wasn’t what brought me and the little lad here, Gwladys.”

“How mysterious you are,” I said, laughing. “What was the reason?”

“Why, you see, my maid, I’d soon have persuaded the Squire to let us stay, for I knew he’d be lonesome without me and the baby, and, Lord bless you, he (pointing to the child) wouldn’t take the fever, God bless him; sweet and sound would I keep him, and free from all that low dirt, and those bad smells, which the negligent, never-me-care, unthrifty poor have, a tempting of Providence. No, it wasn’t fright at no fever took me away, but a downright answer to prayer, Gwladys.” Gwen paused, and I nodded to her to proceed. “Hadn’t I been praying all the winter for some lucky wind to blow me to this place, and wasn’t the fever the wind as God sent; so why shouldn’t I come with a thankful heart?”

“Poor, dear old Gwen! you wanted to see mother and me. I am sorry you were so lonely.”

“Well, my maid, it wasn’t that; I’m none so selfish. No, Gwladys, it wasn’t for myself I was praying, nor about myself I felt so happy. No, ’twas about little David. Gwladys, I mean to take little David to the eye-well.”

“Oh! dear me, Gwen, what is that?”

“Hush, hush, child! don’t speak of it lightly; just sit patient for five minutes, my dear, and you shall know the whole ins and outs of it.”

I have said that Gwen, though a very religious woman, was, if possible, a more superstitious one. From the fountain-head of her knowledge and wisdom I had drunk deeply; of late, when away from her, I had been deprived of these goodly draughts, but I was all the more ready now to partake of the very delicious one she had ready dished up for my benefit.

“Go on,” I said, in a tone of intense interest.

“I mean to take the child to the eye-well,” continued Gwen; “there’s one within a mile or two of this place that’s famed, and justly, through the whole country. Many’s the blind person, or the weak-eyed body, that has been cured by it; and many and many thoughts have I cast toward it, Gwladys; not liking to speak, for sure, if you long too earnestly, you hinders, so’s the belief, the cure. Now there’s wells that have a ‘perhaps’ to ’em, and there’s wells that have a ‘certainty,’ and of all the wells that ever was sure, this is the one. And I’ve a strong belief and faith in my mind, that though I brought the little lad here blind, I may carry him home seeing.”

True, oh! Gwen, dear Gwen, not in your way, perhaps in a better!

As she spoke, attracted by the sound of her voice, the child toddled to his feet, came to her side, and raised his dark, sightless eyes to her face.

“But it must be managed clever,” continued Gwen, “and ’tis there I want you to help me. I don’t want my mistress, nor a soul in the house but yourself to know, until I can bring in the laddie with the daylight let into his blessed eyes; and to have any success we must obey the rules solemn. For three mornings we must be at the well before sunrise, and when the first sunbeam dips into the water, down must go the child’s head right under too, with it, and this we must do three days running, and then stop for three days, and then three days again. Ah! but I feel the Lord’ll give His blessing, and there’s real cure in the well.”

Gwen paused, and I sat still, very much excited, dazzled, and full of a kind of half belief, which falling far short of Gwen’s certainty, still caused my heart to beat faster than usual.

“And now, Gwladys,” proceeded Gwen, “I mean to go to-morrow morning; and can you come with me, and can you show me the way?”

“I can and will come with you, Gwen, but I cannot show you the way. I fancy I have heard of this eye-well, but I have never been there.”

“Then I must find some one who can,” proceeded Gwen, rising.

“Stay, Gwen,” I said, earnestly. “I know a little girl very well here, she has lived all her life in this place, and is sure to have heard of the well. I am sure, too, she would never tell a soul. Shall I go to her and find out if she can come with us?”

“Do, my dear maid, and let me know soon, for I am sore and anxious.”

Chapter Fourteen

The Eye-Well

I found that Nan knew all about the eye-well, and had a very strong belief in its curative powers; she was only too anxious and willing to accompany us, and accordingly at five o’clock next morning, Gwen, little David, and I met her, and set off to our destination with a delightful sense of secrecy and mystery.

I look back on that day now, when, light-hearted, happy, not having yet met with any real sorrow, I stood and laughed at the baby’s shouts of glee, when Gwen dipped his head under the cold water. I remember the reproving look of dear old Gwen’s anxious face, and the expectant half-fearful, half-wondering gaze of Nan. I see again the water of the old well, trembling on the dark lashes of two sightless eyes, a little voice shouts manfully, a white brow is radiant, dimples play on rosy cheeks, golden brown curls are wet and drip great drops on the hard, worn hand of Gwen. Nan, excited and trembling, falls on her knees and prays for a blessing. Gwen prays also. I take David’s little lad into my own arms, he clasps me firmly, shouts and laughs anew. I too, in a voiceless prayer, ask God to bless the noble boy. We are standing under a great tree, whose sheltering branches protect the old well, the bright sun shines in flickering light through the early spring leaves, on the boughs the birds sing, from the hedge a white rabbit peeps. Yes, I see it all, but I see it now with a precipice beyond. I see now where the sun went down and the dark night came on. I see where the storm began to beat, that took our treasure away.

It was the evening before the third visit to the eye-well; I heard Gwen in the room fitted up for a temporary nursery, singing little David to sleep.

Hush-a-by, little dear,Hush-a-by, lovely child.

It was the old Welsh lullaby song. Soft, soft, softer went her voice to the queer old measure, the quaint old words —

Hush-a-by, lovely child,Hush – hush – hush – hush!

Profound stillness, no one could keep awake after that last hush of Gwen’s; I felt my own eyes closing. The next moment I found myself starting up to see the singer standing before me.

“David’s asleep, my dear, and, Gwladys, you need not come with me in the morning.”

In a very sleepy tone, induced by my early rising and the lullaby song, “Oh! yes, Gwen, I don’t – mind – I’d better.”

“No, no, my dear lamb, David and me’ll go alone to-morrow; little Nan ain’t coming neither.”

“Very well, Gwen,” I said, just asleep.

I was in bed when Gwen came again to me.

“My maid, I’m very trouble to you to-night.”

“No, Gwen, what is it?”

To my surprise, Gwen burst into tears; this unusual sign of emotion roused me completely.

“Oh! my maid, I’m fearful and troubled, I don’t know why. I’ve set my heart so on the baby getting his sight. If I could only take him back seeing to the Squire, I think I could die content.”

“Well, Gwen, perhaps you will. Of course, I don’t quite believe in the eye-well as much as you do, but still, who knows?”

“No one knows, Gwladys, that’s what’s troubling me; the Almighty has it all hid from us. He may think it good for the baby not to see. There’s sights in this world what ain’t right for mortal eyes, perhaps He have shut up his, to make and keep the little heart all the whiter.”

“Perhaps so, Gwen; as you say, God knows best.”

“Yes, only I do feel troubled to-night; perhaps ’tis wrong of me to take the baby to the h’eye-well, but I did pray for a blessing. Eh! dear, but I’m faithless.”

“You are down-hearted anyhow,” I said. “Go to bed now and dream that the baby is kissing you, and looking at you, and thanking you as he knows how, for getting him his eyesight. Good-night, dear Gwen.” But Gwen did not respond to my good-night, she knelt on by my bedside; at last she said in a change of voice —

“Gwladys, have you made it up with Owen?”

I was excited by Gwen’s previous words, now the sore place in my heart ached longingly. I put my arms round my old nurse’s neck.

“Gwen, Gwen, Owen and I will never understand each other again.”

“I feared she’d say that,” repeated Gwen, “I feared it; and yet ain’t it strange, to make an idol of the dreaming boy, and to shut up the heart against the man who has suffered, repented, who will yet be noble!”

“Oh! Gwen, if I could but think it! Will he ever be that?”

“I said, Gwladys,” continued Gwen, “that he was coming home to His Father, he was coming up out of the wilderness of all his sin and folly to the Father’s house, he aren’t reached it yet – not quite – when he do, he will be noble.”

I was silent.

“’Tis often a sore bit of road,” continued Gwen, “sore and rough walkin’, but when the Father is waiting for us at the top of the way; waiting and smiling, with arms outstretched, why then we go on even through death itself to find Him.”

“And when we find Him?” I asked.

“Ah! my maid, when we find Him, ’tis much the same, I think, as when the shepherd overtook the lost lamb; the lamb lies down in the shepherd’s arms, and the child in the Father’s, ’tis much the same.”

I lay back again on my pillow; Gwen covered me up, kissed me tenderly, and went away. I lay quiet for a few moments, then I sat up in bed, pressed my hands on my cheeks, and looked out through the window, at the white sky and shining moon. I looked eagerly and passionately. I had been sleepy; I was not sleepy now. After a time of steady gazing into the pitiless cold heavens, I began to cry, then out of my sobs two words were wrung from me, “My Father.” Never was there a girl more surrounded by religious influences, and yet less at heart religious than I. This was the first time in my whole life that I really felt a conscious want of God. The wish for God and the longing to understand Owen, to be reconciled to Owen, came simultaneously, but neither were very strong as yet. As yet, these two wants only stirred some surface tears, and beat on the outer circle of my heart. I knew nothing of the longing which would even go through the valley of the shadow of death to the Father, nothing of the love which would care a thousand times more for Owen because he had sinned and had repented. I wanted God only a little, my cry was but from the surface of my heart, still it was a real cry, and had more of the true spirit of prayer in it than all the petitions I had made carelessly, morning and evening since my babyhood.

After a time I lay down, and, tired out, went to sleep. I did not sleep easily, I had confused dreams of Owen, of little David, of Gwen. Then I had a distinct vision. I saw the children of the under-viewer, playing on the place where the shaft leading down into Pride’s Pit had been; the ground was smooth, the danger was past, the children played happily and shouted gleefully. Two of them ran to tell their mother, the baby stayed to throw gravel into the air. All looked secure, but it was not so; as I watched, I suddenly perceived that the work was badly done, the place only half filled up; as I watched, I saw the loose stones and rubbish give way, and the baby sink into the loathsome pit below; although I was quite close, I could hold out no hand to save the under-viewer’s baby.

Chapter Fifteen

That Man was Owen

Tired with my two days’ early rising, I did not get up until late. I had nearly finished dressing, and was standing by my window, when I heard a woman’s voice calling me in muffled tones below.

My room looked to the back of the house, and the woman had come to the inside of a thick fuchsia-hedge, which here divided the cottage, and its tiny surroundings, from the road.

Looking out, I saw the under-viewer’s wife, gazing up with clasped hands and a white face.

“For the love of God, come down to me quietly, Miss Morgan.”

The pain and anguish in the woman’s face communicated part of her intelligence to me. I knew there was great and urgent need for me to go downstairs without anybody hearing. The immediate action which this required, prevented my feeling any pain. I stood by the woman, looked hard into her eyes, and said, “Well?”

“Dear heart, you must know it,” she said, taking my hand. “Come with me.”

She almost pushed me before her through the little gate; when we got on the high road, she began to run. I knew that she was going in the direction of Pride’s Pit. My strangely vivid dream returned to me. Here was a solution of the mystery. I believed in dreams – this dream was not accidental. It had been sent to me as a warning – it was true. Owen had neglected to have the shaft, leading into Pride’s Pit, filled up, and the under-viewer’s child had fallen a victim to this neglect. The child had fallen down the old shaft. He was dead, and the mother was bringing me now to show me face to face what my brother’s carelessness had effected. The life of a little child was sacrificed. I was to see for myself what Owen had done. I felt sure of this. The woman ran very fast, and I kept pace by her side. The distance was over half a mile, and partly up-hill. When we came to the ascent, which was rather steep, we could not go quite so quickly, and I had time to look in the woman’s face. It was hard and set, the lips very white, the eyes very staring. She neither looked at me nor spoke. It came into my heart that she was cruel, even though her child was dead, to hurry me forward without one word of warning: to show me, without any preparation, what my brother had done. I would not be treated so. I would not face this deed without knowing what I was to see. The instant I made this resolution, I stood still.

“Stop!” I said. “I will know all. Is the baby dead?”

The woman stood still also, pressing her hand on her labouring breast. “Dear heart! she knows,” she gasped. “Yes, yes, my dear – the baby’s dead.”

I did not say I was sorry, nor a single word. I simply, after my momentary pause, began to run harder than ever. We had now got in sight of the pit, and I saw a little crowd of people about it. Some men in their miners’ dresses, a boy or two, a larger proportion of women. I half expected the men, women, and children to curse me as I drew near. We ran a little faster, and the woman’s panting breath might have been heard at some distance. Suddenly a boy caught sight of us, and detaching himself from the group, ran to the woman’s side.

“Does she know?” he exclaimed, catching her hand almost frantically. “She must not see without knowing.”

The boy, who spoke in a voice of agony, was Miles Thomas.

“Yes,” replied the woman; “she guessed it herself. She knows that the baby’s dead.”

“Thank God!” said the boy. I looked from one face to the other. I could not help pitying myself, as though it were my sorrow. I thought the boy’s tone the kindest – he should take me to see the murdered child. Suddenly I changed my mind. Why should I need or look for compassion. The mother had come all this way to punish me and mine – the mother’s just revenge should not be foiled. When we got into the group, I took her hand.

“You shall show him to me,” I said. “You shall show me your little dead baby.”

There was a pause on all sides – one or two people turned aside. I saw a woman put her apron to her face, and heard a man groan. Every eye was fixed on me, and, at the same moment, the under-viewer’s wife and Miles went on their knees, and began to sob.

“Oh! my darling; you are wrong – you have made a mistake,” began the woman.

“I felt she did not, could not know,” sobbed Miles.

The crowd opened a little more, and I went forward. Very near the mouth of the old shaft, lying on a soft bed of grass and undergrowth, was a woman – a woman with a face as white as death. I went up close to her, and gazed at her steadily. Her face looked like death, but she was not dead – a moan or two came through white lips. By the side of the woman, stretched also flat, lay a child; his hat was thrown by his side, and one little leg was bare of shoe and stocking. A white frock was also considerably soiled, and even torn. I took in all these minor details first – then my eyes rested on the face. I went down on my knees to examine the face, to note its expression more attentively. On the brow, but partly concealed by the hair, was a dark mark, like a bruise, otherwise the face was quiet, natural, life-like. A faint colour lingered in the cheeks; the lips were parted and smiling.

The woman was groaning in agony. The child was quiet – looking as a child will look when he has met with a new delight. I laid my hand on the little heart – it never stirred. I felt the tiny pulse – it was still. The injured and suffering woman was Gwen. The dead baby was not the under-viewer’s child, but David’s little lad.

I took no further notice of Gwen, but I kept on kneeling by the side of the dead child. I have not the least idea whether I was suffering at this moment; my impression is that I was not. Mind, body, spirit, were all quiet under the influence of a great shock. I knew and realised perfectly that little David was dead; but I took in, as yet, no surrounding circumstances. Finding that I was so still, that I neither sobbed nor groaned – in fact, that I did nothing but gaze steadily at the dead child, the under-viewer’s wife knelt down by my side, and began to pour out her tale. She did this with considerable relief in her tone. When she began to speak, Miles also knelt very close to me, and laid his hand with a caressing movement on my dress. I was pleased with Miles’ affection – glad to receive it – and found that I could follow the tale told by the under-viewer’s wife, without any effort.

I mention all this just to show how very quiet I not only was in body, but in mind.

“No, the shaft was never filled in,” began the woman. “I waited day after day, but it was never done; and little Ellen, and Gwenllynn, and the baby, they seemed just from contrariness to h’always want to go and look over the brink. And what made it more danger, was the brambles and grass, and growth of h’all kinds, which from never being cut away, has got thicker year by year; so that coming from that side,” pointing west with her finger, “you might never see the old shaft at all, but tumble right in, and know nothing till you reach the bottom. Well, I was so frighted with this, and the contrariness of the children, that finding Mr Morgan had forgot again to have the shaft filled in, or closed round, only last night I spoke to my husband, and begged him to cut away some of the rankest of the growth, as it war, what it is, a sin and a shame to have the shaft like a trap, unknown to folks; but my husband, he war dead tired, and he knowed that I’m timmersome, so he only said, ‘Let be, woman – let be.’ And this morning he was away early – down to the mine. Well,” after a long pause, “I had done my bit o’ work. I had dressed the baby – bless him – and given Ellen and Gwenllynn their breakfast, and I was standing by the house door, my eye on the old shaft, and my mind set on the thought that I might put up a fence round it myself, so as to ward off the children, when sudden and sharp – almost nigh to me – I heard a woman scream, and looking, I saw a woman running for her bare life, and screaming and making for my cottage; and she had a child in her arms; and sudden, when I saw her, I knew who she was, and why she was running. I knew she was the nurse of Squire Morgan’s little son, and that she had the child with her. I knew she had been to the eye-well, for the cure of the sight of the baby, and that she was coming by this short cut home. And she never knew that she’d have to pass through the field with Mr Daniels’ bull. Well, I saw her running, and the bull after her, but he was a good way behind; and I thought she’d reach the cottage. And I shouted out to encourage her; when all on a heap, it flashed on me, that she was making straight for the shaft, and that she’d be right down in the pit, if I couldn’t stop her. Just then, two men came up, and turned the bull aside, but she didn’t know it, and kept on running harder and harder. ‘Stop!’ I shouted. ‘Stop! you’ll be down in the mine’; but she neither heeded nor heard me, and she went right through the thicket and the underwood. I heard it cracking under her feet. I saw her fall, and scream more piercing than h’ever.” Another pause from the narrator – then in a breathless kind of way, “I war at the other side o’ the pit in a twinkling. She had not gone down – not quite. Her head was above the ground, and she was holding on for bare life to a bit of underwood. She could only hold with one hand; the other was round the child. In one second she’d have been down, for the weight was too much, when I threw myself on my face and hands, and grasped the baby’s frock. ‘Hold the tree with both hands,’ I said, ‘and I’ll keep the baby.’ Poor soul! she looked up at me so anguish-like; but she did what I bid her, or they’d both have gone down. I was drawing up the baby, when a loose stone came tumbling – it was not much, it but hit him sharp on the temple. He never cried out, but his head dropped all on a sudden. When I got him to the top, he was dead. I laid him on the bank, and just then the men who had turned away the bull, came up, and they lifted the woman out of the shaft – one of her legs was broke!”

The under-viewer’s wife paused to wipe the moisture from her brow. Just then little feet came pattering, and the living child of the under-viewer, about whom I had grieved and dreamt, came up and looked down at the dead child of my brother. The face of the living baby gazed solemnly at the face of the dead baby. Nobody interrupted him, and he sat down and put, half in play, as though expecting an answering touch, his plump hand on the little hand that was still. At this moment there was a commotion in the crowd, then profound stillness, then a giving way on all sides, and a man’s hasty footsteps passed rapidly through our midst. Up straight to where the dead child was lying, the man came. He bent his head a little – he saw no other creature. This man was Owen. For about half a minute he was still. Then from his lips came one sharp cry – the sharpest cry of anguish I ever heard from mortal lips – then he rushed away.