I have said that David's great characteristic was strength, but by this
I do not at all mean to imply that he was clever. No one ever yet had
called David clever. When at school he had won only second or third
class prizes, and at Oxford very few honours had come in his way.
He had a low opinion of his own abilities, and considered himself a
rather stupid, lumbering kind of fellow, not put into the world to make
a commotion, but simply, as far as in him lay, to do his duty.
David was never known to lecture any one; he never, in the whole course
of his life, gave a piece of gratuitous advice; he could and did advise
when his advice was directly demanded, but he was diffident of his own
opinion, and did not consider it worth a great deal. To the sinners he
was always intensely pitiful, and so gentle and sorrowful over the
erring, that many people must have supposed he knew all about their
weaknesses, and must once have been the blackest of black sheep himself.
No, David possessed none of the characteristics of genius; he was
neither clever nor ambitious. To be in all men's mouths, and spoken
highly of by the world, would not have suited him at all; he cared, we
some of us thought, almost too little for man's opinion, and I have even
on one occasion heard Owen call him poor-spirited.
But all the same, I am not wrong in saying that David's great, and
grand, and distinguishing characteristic was strength. He possessed
strength of body, soul, and spirit, to a remarkable degree. Long ago,
in the past ages, there were men of our house, men who ate roast beef,
and quaffed beer and cider, and knew nothing of the weak effeminacy of
tea and coffee; these were the men who would laugh at a nerve ache, who
possessed iron frames, and were of goodly stature. Of course we
degenerated since then, our lives became less simple, and more
luxurious, and our men and women in their paler cheeks and slighter
frames, and bodies capable of feeling bodily suffering, bore witness to
the change.
But David was a Morgan of the old race--tall, upright, broad, with
massive features, neither handsome nor graceful, but strong as a lion.
He had never in his life known an ache, or a day's serious illness.
When Owen and I suffered so much with the measles, David did not even
stay in bed; so also with whooping-cough, so also with all other
childish maladies. He caught them of course, but they passed over him
lightly as a summer breeze, never once ruffling his brow, or taking the
colour from his cheek. Yes, David was strong in body, and he was also
strong in mind; without possessing talent, he had what was better,
sense; he knew which path was the wisest to tread in, which course of
action would lead, not to the happiest, but to the best result. His
mind was of that calm and rare order, which decides quickly, and once
for all; he was never troubled with indecision, and he never asked of
others, "What shall I do here? There is a lion in my path at this
juncture, how shall I overcome him?" No, he slew his own lions, and in
a silent warfare, which gave no token of the tears and blood expended by
the victorious warrior.
But the strongest part of David, that which made him the man he was, was
his soul; and here, he had asked for and obtained, the aid of a higher
Power.
His was the sort of character that never could have got on without the
conscious presence of a God. His soul must be anchored upon some rock
which would balance the whole equilibrium of a grand but simple nature.
His faith was primitive, and undisturbed by modern doubts. He took the
commandments of God in their obvious and literal meaning, he believed
what the apostle said when he told men to "pray without ceasing;" he
hearkened to him again, when he entreated men to "search the
Scriptures;" he was a man of few rather than of many words, but he
always found some to cry to God with; he cared very little for books,
but he read his Bible daily. Thus his views of life were clear and
unclouded. He was put into the world to do his duty. His duty was to
love God better than, and his neighbour as well as, himself. This
simple rule of action comprises much, and here David acted right nobly,
and proved the strength of his soul. And he was early tried, for our
father died when he was twelve years old, and then the most obvious part
of the duty which stared him in the face lay in the text, "Bear ye one
another's burdens." This was one of David's plainest and earliest
duties; a duty which he performed humbly, hardly knowing that he
performed it at all. Others leant upon him, and he bore their burdens,
so fulfilling the law of Christ.
I think I may truly say of David, that he was the most self-sacrificing
man I ever met.
But for all that, for all his gentleness, his kindness, his affection,
he was not my favourite brother, nor was he my mother's favourite son.
I remember an early incident which revealed this fact in my mother's
heart, and perhaps unduly biassed my own.
I was standing, shortly after my father's death, in the deep recess of
the nursery window--I was standing there watching David and Owen, both
home for their holidays, pacing up and down on the gravel sweep in front
of the house. David was very strong, and showed his superior strength
in his great size even then, but Owen was very beautiful. David was
stout and clumsy, Owen slightly made and graceful. As I watched them,
mother came behind me, put her arms round my tiny waist, kissed my brow,
and whispered as she looked at the two lads--
"My noble boy!"
"Which? mother," I asked.
"My Owen," replied mother.
I opened my eyes very wide, gazed again with new wisdom at the boys,
perceived the superior beauty of the one, worshipped the beauty, and
from this time I loved Owen best.
And Owen was very lovable, Owen was beautiful, brilliant, gay, with
lofty ambitions, and versatile showy talents. If his affections wanted
depth, they never wanted outward warmth. His smile was a thing to
remember, his caress was worth waiting six months to obtain. How well I
remember those summer holidays, when he flashed like the sunshine into
the dull old house, when his whistle and gay laugh sounded from parlour
to cellar. When Owen was at home, Tynycymmer was the happiest place in
the world to me; then mother put on her best gowns, and wore her most
festive air, then my lessons, always scant and desultory, were thrown to
the four winds, and I was allowed unbridled liberty. What fishing
expeditions we made all round the coast! how daring were our exploits!
I was much younger than my brothers, but the brothers were always gentle
to the only little sister--both the brothers--but while I oftenest rode
on David's broad shoulder, I received most caresses and most loving
words from Owen, so I loved Owen best. So too with mother, she thought
very highly of that broad-shouldered, plain-faced, sensible lad, who was
so ready to fly at her slightest bidding, so anxious to execute her
smallest command. She said over and over again that David was the best
boy that widowed mother ever possessed, and that he was the comfort of
her life. But her eye never brightened at his approach, as it did when
Owen came and sat by her side; to David she gave her approval, but to
Owen she gave of the fulness of her mother's love.
He was an exacting boy, and from those who gave much, he demanded more.
Though David was the eldest and the heir, Owen had double his allowance
of pocket money when at school; but then Owen was delicate, fastidious,
refined; he needed small indulgences, that would have been wasted on
David's coarser strength. He was taught accomplishments, for he was an
inborn artist, and his musical ear was fine. At Oxford he entered an
expensive and learned college, but then his intellect was of the first
order. For every indulgence he demanded, an excuse was found; and for
every granted indulgence, he was only loved the more.
To the worship of his women folks, Owen returned an easy, nonchalant
regard; but David he loved, to David he gave his strongest and deepest
affection. And yet David was the only one who opposed him, the only one
who was not carried away by his fascinations, the only one who read him
aright; and some of the heaviest burdens of David's youth, had been
borne because of, and through Owen. I heard it dimly whispered, first
in the early college days, something about Owen and his wild oats. It
came to me through the servants, and I did not know what it meant. I
was an innocent country child, I had never even read a novel. Owen was
sowing his wild oats. I remember puzzling over the phrased I should
have forgotten what was to me so meaningless an expression, but for some
events that happened about the same time. Mother got some letters,
which she would not show to me, which she carried away to her own room
to read, returning to my presence, some time after, with her eyes red
with weeping. Then there was a visit from a man, a lawyer, nurse Gwen
informed me, who brought with him piles of papers, and was closeted with
mother for the best part of a day; and soon after, most wonderful of
all, David came home suddenly, in the middle of the term, came home
without Owen, and I was informed that Owen had gone abroad for a time,
and that David was not going back to Oxford any more. David settled
down quietly at home, without taking his degree, and his coming of age,
which took place a couple of months after, was let pass without any
celebration. This made a deep impression on me, for we four, mother,
David, Owen, and I, had so often spoken of it, and of the grand things
that should then be done. Never a Morgan had come of age yet, without
oxen being roasted whole, without beer and cider flowing freely, without
dancing and festivity. But this Morgan stepped into his honours
quietly; the day unnoticed, except by an extra kiss from mother and
sister, his brother far away, his own brow thoughtful, and already
slightly careworn.
The tenants were angry, and voted him stingy--close--an unworthy son of
the ancient race, no true chip of the old block, and fresh signs of what
they considered closeness and nearness, were soon forthcoming. Several
servants, amongst them the housekeeper, were dismissed, the
establishment was put upon a smaller scale, a humble pony phaeton was
substituted for the old and time-honoured family coach. I was twelve
years old at that time, a good deal with nurse Gwen, and many words,
unmeant for my ears, were heard by me. The substance of them all lay in
this remark--
"If the young master gave the tenants any more of his closeness, he
would be the least popular Squire Morgan who ever lived at Tynycymmer!"
Indignant, and with tears in my eyes, I sought David, told him what I
had heard, and demanded an explanation.
"There is nothing to explain, dear," he replied. "We have lost some
money, and are obliged to retrench for a bit. But don't repeat the
servants' foolish talk to the mother, Gwladys, 'twill only pain her."
After this, we settled down very quietly, no fresh event occurring for
some time. David went more and more amongst the people, acquainting
himself with every man, woman, and child on the estate, winning his way
just in the most natural way into their hearts, learning all about their
private history, finding out exactly where the shoe pinched John Thomas,
and where Thomas John's sorest trouble lay, until gradually I heard
nothing more of his stinginess, but much of his love, and when he took
the babies in his arms, and called the tiny children by their names, the
mothers prayed God to bless the young squire with a fervour they had
never used for the old.
This took place very naturally, and mother's face began to grow
contented and happy. Still, Owen never came home; he was spoken of
lovingly, hopefully, but neither mother nor David mentioned his return,
and I grew tired of asking questions on this subject, and tired of
wishing him back. I dreamed dreams of him instead, and imagined with
pride the great deeds he must be doing, and the glory he must be
winning. So far away, so little mentioned, his return so indefinite, he
became clothed with a halo of romance to me. My love grew in intensity,
and I magnified my beautiful and gifted brother into a hero. It was
just then David's great joy, and also his great trouble, came to him.
We Morgans of Tynycymmer were very proud. Why not? we were poor, old,
and Welsh--quite enough to account for any haughtiness we might assume.
We believed ourselves to be, if not the direct descendants, at least a
collateral branch of that Morgan, son of Leir, some time a king of this
land, after whom this county was named. There was a time when to be a
true Morgan, of Glamorganshire, meant more to its happy possessor than
many a higher sounding title. Of course that time and its glory had
passed away, years had deprived us of more than the old stout hearts of
our ancient ancestors; our gold had also taken to itself wings, our grey
and ivy-covered home had fallen, much of it, into ruins, and our broad
and goodly acres passed into the unloving hands of strangers. Still,
firmly as the limpet to the rock, the poorer we grew, the more did we
attach ourselves to the wild old Welsh country. Each squire of
Tynycymmer bringing home, in his turn, a bride who often possessed
neither money nor beauty; but always something else, without which she
could never have married a Morgan of our house--she had pure, untainted
Welsh blood in her veins. None of the Morgans were so foolish, so
unfaithful to the old stock, as to marry an English woman; if our gold
was scant, our blood at least was pure. So we went on, each fresh
master of Tynycymmer a little poorer than his father, when suddenly and
unexpectedly a chance came in our way. There was born into the world, a
Morgan either more sensible or more lucky than his progenitors; a Morgan
who, going abroad to seek a bride, brought home one who not only could
boast of blue Welsh blood, but had also beauty and a fortune. This
lucky Morgan was my father, his rich and lovely bride my mother.
Esther Williams was the daughter of a Glamorganshire man. Her father
possessed, at the other side of the county, a fine extent of coal
country, and a very large fortune was he able to bestow upon his only
child. The fortune consisted of some coalfields, and with the rental
from these my father was able to restore Tynycymmer to much of its
ancient splendour. My mother's family was not so old as ours, but being
true Welsh, and having beauty and a fortune, this fact was graciously
overlooked by us, and we condescended to use her money to our own
aggrandisement. I have said that we were a proud family--but of us all,
there was none who so upheld the family traditions, and who so rejoiced
in the family honour, as the one who was herself only a Morgan by
marriage, my mother.
Of the days when she was only Esther Williams, she never cared to speak;
her money was never "her money," but the "Morgans' money." Money that
brought fresh glory to the old house, was honoured indeed--she regarded
herself individually, as a humble instrument destined to do much good--
for herself, her appearance, her character, she felt little pride or
satisfaction; but for the sake of the name given to her by her husband,
she would indeed walk with stately mien, and uphold her dignity to the
last; and well she could do it, for though a little woman, she was
singularly dignified and graceful-looking, and was, in short, every inch
worthy of the high position she believed herself to have attained. She
possessed the dark eyes and raven locks of the true Welsh woman. How I
came to be fair-haired and blue-eyed remained a mystery, and was
reckoned rather a disgrace. When a tiny child, Gwen had impressed this
fact upon me, and I remember blushing and looking distressed, when fair
people were mentioned. Yes, my mother was a beautiful woman; I have a
vivid memory of her, as she looked in my father's lifetime, dressed in
the time-honoured black velvet, the old jewels flashing in her hair, as
bending down her haughty dark face, until it touched my fair one, she
filled my greedy and receptive little brain with the ancient stories of
our house.
I heard of the ghosts and the deeds of vengeance from Gwen, of the
fairies and deeds of glory from mother.
Yes, my mother was very beautiful, and with the exception of two specks
in the fair fruit of her heart, the best woman I know. How loving she
was, how tender, how strong, how brave! But the specks marred the full
perfection: one speck was her pride, the other her unjust preference for
Owen. At the time of which I write, I did not consider this preference
unjust, for I too loved Owen best, but even then I had felt the full
power of her pride. I mention it here in order to make David's sorrow
and David's joy more fully understood.
Those retrenchments which took place when David came of age, were no
small sorrow to mother. When the housekeeper went away, and many of the
servants were dismissed, when the old coach was not sold, but put out of
sight in some unused coach-house, when the horses were parted with to
the highest bidder;--mother felt pain, though of her feelings she never
spoke, and to their expression she gave no vent; her pride was hurt by
this lowering of the Morgans' importance, but her very pride was its own
shield in preventing its betrayal, and _she_ knew then, though I did
not, why these things were done. But a year later, that pride received
another blow. I remember the beginning of it. The postman brought to
us a letter. I say to _us_, for all our letters, with the exception of
those few received when David returned so suddenly from Oxford, were
public property. This letter contained news. A distant cousin of
mother's had died in London; had died and left one orphan daughter quite
unprovided for. This cousin was a Williams, but though calling himself
by the well-known Welsh name, was no true Welshman: his family had long
ago settled in England, had married English wives, and had become, in
mother's opinion, nobodies. The unprovided daughter had not written
herself, knew nothing indeed about the letter, but a friend of hers in
despair how best to help her, had ventured to inform Mrs Morgan of
Tynycymmer, that her cousin's child was a pauper.
"Have her here on a visit," said David, promptly.
Mother, her heart full of sorrow and pity for the lonely girl, assented
at once. Amy Williams was invited and came.
And now came mother's trouble and the shock to her pride, for David fell
in love with the penniless English girl.
I am not surprised at it, and looking back on it now, I am glad. Amy
was the only person I ever met who understood David, and who appreciated
him. I am glad for his sake, and hers, that they had one short happy
year together. For however tender and considerate David was with
mother, on this point he was firm; he thought more of Amy's happiness
than mother's pride, and he married Amy though mother opposed it
bitterly. Of course I did not hear a great deal about it. I was very
young, only fourteen, at the time, and mother ever kept her feelings
well under control, and not one of the servants even guessed how much
she disapproved of this marriage; but I remember on David's and Amy's
wedding-day, running in to mother to show her my white muslin
bride's-maid's dress, and mother kissing me, and then saying, with
concentrated bitterness, "Had Owen been the eldest son, whatever his
faults, he would never have given me the pain David has done to-day."
Fond and proud as I was of Owen, I did not quite like mother to say that
of David on his wedding-day. Well, he and Amy were married; they spent
a week in North Wales, another week in London, and then came home.
Mother wanted to transfer the reins of authority into Amy's hands, but
Amy would not take them; she was the meekest little thing I ever knew,
she was quite too meek to please me. I never got to know her, I never
really cared for her; but she suited our David, and he suited her. His
presence was to her as the sun to the flower, and truly he was a great
sun for the little fragile thing to bask in. I am sure she had a great
deal in her which David alone could draw out, for after talking to her
he always looked happy, his whole face in a glow. Looking back on it
now, I can recall nothing brighter than David's face during that year.
I have said that Amy was meek, I never remember her showing any spirit
but once, but that occasion I shall not quickly forget. She and I were
sitting together in the arbour overhanging the sea. She was not very
well, and was lying back in a little wicker chair, and I was seated at
her feet, arranging different coloured sea weeds. As I worked, I talked
of Owen. I did not mean it in the least, but as I spoke of my favourite
brother, of his beauty and talent, I unconsciously used David as a foil
to show him off by. I was speaking more to myself than to Amy. I was
not thinking of her at all.
Suddenly she started to her feet, her pale face grew crimson, her soft
brown eyes flashed angrily.
"Gwladys," she said, "little as you think of David now, some day you
will see that he is a nobler man than a thousand of your Owens."
"How can you speak so, when you don't know Owen," I retorted, the hot
blood of the Morgans flying into my cheeks at this unexpected show of
spirit.
"I know David," she replied, and she burst into tears.
Poor little Amy! that night a son was born to her and David, and that
night she died.
Perhaps had mother and I understood Amy, and cared for her more, David
might have told us something of the sorrow which followed quickly on his
joy. Most of the time between Amy's death and her funeral, he spent in
her room. After the funeral he went away for a week; he told neither
mother nor me where he was going! we never heard how or in what part of
the world he spent that week; on his return he never mentioned the
subject. But his face, which on the day of Amy's funeral was convulsed
with agony, was after that short absence peaceful, and, I say it without
expecting to be misunderstood, even happy.
It was about this time I really noticed what a religious man my brother
was. With all his want of talent, he knew the Bible very well, and I
think he was well acquainted with God. It must have been God who gave
him power to act as he did now, for if ever a man truly loved a woman,
he loved Amy; but he never showed his sorrow to mother and me; he never
appeared before us with a gloomy brow. After a time even, his face
awoke into that pathetic joy which follows the right reception of a
great sorrow.
I _did_ once see him, when he thought no one was by, dropping great
tears over the baby.
"My boy, my little motherless lad," I heard him say.
I longed to go up and comfort him; I longed to tell him that I cared for
Amy now, but I did not dare. Mother, too, who had not loved her in
life, could not speak of her in death. So David could only tell his
sorrow to God, and God comforted and heard him, and the baby grew,
healthy, handsome, strong, worthy in his beauty and his strength of the
proudest Morgan of the race, and David loved him; but, alas! the little
lad was blind.