"Please, please, Miss Morgan, you won't speak of this; I should get into
trouble, indeed."
"Oh, dear, no!" I answered, lightly; "there is nothing to repeat. Make
your mind easy."
The girl, satisfied, ran away, and I walked on.
But I was not so cool and unconcerned as she supposed her words had
excited me, her words had aroused both discontent and hope. I forgot my
certain pleasure of to-morrow, in the bare possibility of a greater and
a wider pleasure, and as a moth round a candle, my thoughts fluttered
round the magic words, "You are going away."
Could they be true? could the gossip the girl had heard be correct? How
certain she looked! how startled and frightened, when she found herself
mistaken. And, little fool! she had made me promise not to betray her,
just too when I wanted to solve the mystery. Oh, if only she might be
right! if only we might be going to leave this dull life, this stupid
country existence! Could it be the case? gossip was often mistaken, but
seldom utterly without foundation. I asked myself this question
tremblingly and eagerly. Instantly I had a reply. Sober reason started
to the forefront of all my faculties, and said--
"It is impossible; the girl has made a mistake; the gossip is false.
How could you leave Tynycymmer? Is not David master here? does not the
place belong to David, as it did to his father before him? and do not he
and mother love every stone in the old house, every tree in the old
ground? would not the idea, the most distant idea, of going away break
their hearts?"
Yes, it was quite out of the question that mother and David could think
of leaving Tynycymmer. But my little friend had said nothing about
mother and David, she had only whispered the delicious and soul-stirring
words, "_You_ are going away."
Perhaps I was going to school; perhaps some London cousins had asked me
to pay them a visit. Oh! yes, this last thought must be right, and how
pleasant, how lovely, how charming that would be! I should see the
Houses of Parliament, and Westminster, and visit the Parks, and the
Museums, and Madame Tussaud's.
Yes, certainly this was going to happen. Mother had not told me yet,
which was a little strange, but perhaps she had heard it herself very
suddenly, and had met some friends, and had mentioned it to them. Yes,
this must be the mystery, this must be the fire from whence the smoke of
Sybil's gossip came. I felt it tingling from my throat down to my very
toes. I was _not_ going to be buried alive. So cruel a fate was not in
store for me. I should see the world--the world of beauty, of romance,
of love, and all possible things might happen to me. I skipped along
gaily.
David was smoking his pipe, and pacing up and down under some trees
which grew near the house. The short September sun had set, but the
moon had got up, and in the little space of ground where my brother
walked, it was shedding a white light, and bringing into relief his
strongly marked features.
David's special characteristic was strength; he possessed strength of
body, and strength of--mind, I was going to say, but I shall substitute
the word soul. His rugged features, his height, his muscular hands and
arms, all testified to his great physical powers. And the repose on his
face, the calm gentleness and sweetness that shone in his keen, dark
eyes, and played round his firm lips, showed how strong his soul must
be--for David had known great trouble.
I mention his strength of character here, speaking of it first of all in
introducing him into my story, for the simple reason that when I saw him
standing under the trees, I perceived by the expression of his face,
that he was yielding to a most unusual emotion; he looked anxious, even
unhappy. This I took in with a kind of side thought, to be recurred to
by and by, but at present I was too much excited about myself. I walked
with him nearly every evening when he smoked, and now I went to my usual
place, and put my hand through his arm. I longed to ask him if the
surmise, which was agitating my whole being, was correct, but by doing
this I should betray Sybil, and I must not even mention that I had seen
her.
"What bright cheeks, and what a happy face!" said David, looking at me
affectionately, "are you very glad to come to the Messiah with me?
little woman."
"Yes," I answered absently, for to-morrow's treat had sunk into
insignificance. Then out it came with a great irrepressible burst,
"David, I am _longing_ to see London."
David, who knew nothing of my discontent, who imagined me to be, what I
always appeared to him, a child without the shadow of a care, or a
sorrow, without even the ghost of a longing outside my own peaceful
existence, answered in the tone of surprise which men can throw into
their voices when they are not quite comfortable.
"London, my dear Gwladys."
"Yes, why not?"
"Well, we don't live so very far away from London, you may see it some
day."
It was quite evident, by David's indifferent tone, that he knew nothing
of any immediate visit in store for me. I bit my lips hard, and tried
to say nothing. I am sure I should not have spoken but for his next
words.
"And in the meantime you can wait; you are very happy, are you not?"
"No, I am not. I'm not a bit happy, David," and I burst into tears.
"What's this?" said David in astonishment.
"I am not happy," I repeated, now that the ice was broken, letting forth
some of my rebellious thoughts, "I'm so dull here, I do so want to live
a grand life."
"Tell me, dear, tell me all about it?" said David tenderly. To judge
from the tone of his voice he seemed to be taking himself to task in
some strange way. The love in his voice disarmed my anger, and I spoke
more gently.
"You see, David, 'tis just this, you and mother have got Tynycymmer, you
have the house, and the farm, and all the land, and, of course, you have
plenty to do on the land, riding about and seeing to the estate, and
keeping the tenants' houses in order, and 'tis very nice work, for 'tis
all your own property, and of course you love it; and mother, she has
the house to manage, and the schools to visit, but I, David, I have only
dull, stupid lessons. I have nothing interesting to do, and oh!
sometimes I am so dull and so miserable, I feel just as if I was buried
alive, and I do so want to be unburied. I have no companions. I have
no one to speak to, and I do long to go away from here, and to see the
world."
"You would like to leave Tynycymmer!" said David.
"Yes, indeed, indeed I should. I should dearly love to go out into the
world as Owen has done; I think Owen has such a grand life."
Here I paused, and finding that David did not reply, I ventured to look
into his face. The expression of his silent face was peculiar; it
showed, though not a muscle moved, though not a feature stirred, the
presence of some very painful thought. I could not believe that my
words had given birth to this thought, but I did consider it possible
that they might have called it into fuller being; quickly repentant I
began to apologise, or to try to apologise, the sting out of my words.
"You know, David, that you and mother are not like me, you both have
plenty to interest you here. Mother has the schools, and, oh! a
thousand other things, and you have the place and the farm."
"And I have my little lad."
"Of course--I forgot baby."
"Yes, Gwladys," said David, rousing himself and shaking off his
depression, "I have my son, and he won't leave me, thank God. I am
sorry you find your home dull, my dear. I have always wanted you to
love it, there is no place like it on earth to me."
He took my hand very gently, and removed it from his arm, then walked
with great strides into the house. His face and manner filled me with
an undefined sense of gloom and remorse.
I followed him like a guilty thing. I would not even go into the
drawing-room to bid mother good-night, but went at once up to my own
room. When I got there, I locked the door; this conversation had not
tended to raise my spirits. As I sat on my bed, I felt very
uncomfortable.
What an old, old room it was, and all of oak, floor, walls, ceiling, all
highly-polished, and dark with the wear of age. Other Gwladys Morgans
had carved their names on the shutters, and had laid down to rest on the
great four-post bedstead. Other daughters of the house had stood in the
moonlight and watched the silent shining of the waves. Had they too, in
their ignorance and folly, longed for the bustle and unrest of the great
wide world, had they, too, felt themselves buried alive at Tynycymmer?
With David's face in my memory, I did not like these thoughts. I would
banish them. I opened a door which divided my room from the nursery,
and went noisily in. What an awkward girl I was! I could do nothing
like any one else; every door I opened, shut again with a bang, every
board my foot pressed, creaked with a sharp note of vengeance. Had
nurse Gwen been in the nursery, what a scolding I should have merited,
but nurse Gwen was absent, and in the moonlit room I advanced and bent
over a little child's cot. In the cot lay a boy of between one and two,
a rosy, handsome boy, with sturdy limbs, and great dark-fringed eyes; he
was sleeping peacefully, and smiling in his sleep; one little fat hand
grasped a curly, woolly toy dog, the other was flung outside the
bedclothes; his little pink toes were also bare. With undefined pain
still in my heart, and David's face vividly before me, I bent down and
kissed the child. I kissed him passionately, forgetting his peculiar
sensitiveness to touch. He started from his light slumbers with a
shrill baby cry, his dark eyes opened wide. I took him out of his crib,
and paced up and down with him. For a wonder I managed to soothe him,
skilfully addressing him in my softest tones, rubbing my forehead
against his soft cheek, and patting his back. The moon had left this
side of the house, and the room was in complete shadow, but I did not
think of lighting a candle, for to the child in my arms the darkness was
too dense for any earthly candle to remove; he was David's little lad,
and he was blind.