We were a fortnight at Ffynon. All my possessions were unpacked and put
neatly away in the wardrobes allotted to them. My favourite books, my
"Cambrian Magazine," my "Westward Ho!" my "Arabian Nights," my
"Mabinogion," reflected gay colours behind polished glass doors.
Packing-cases had disappeared. The cottage inside was perfection,
bright with potted plants, cool with muslin drapery, glowing with rich
crimson curtains. The rare and lovely Tynycymmer china filled niches in
the drawing-room, exquisite landscapes from the pencils of Fielding and
Cooper adorned the walls, the blackest of coal sent out the clearest
flames of ruddy hue from the highly-polished grates. Every room was
perfect, perfect with neatness, cleanliness, order, and perfect also
with a minute, but highly-finished beauty. The tiny abode hardly needed
even a fairy's touch to render it more lovely, on the day Owen was
expected home. On this day mother came down in the black velvet robe
which had lain by for years. It was worn high to her throat, finished
off at neck and wrists with Honiton. A tiny Honiton cap rested
becomingly on her shining, abundant, still raven black hair.
I was lying on my bed, my face flashed, my yellow locks in confusion, a
rumpled cotton dress, too soiled for July, too out of season for
October, adorning my person, when mother in her massive folds, her eyes
bright as stars, came in.
"Make yourself nice, my darling. Owen will be here before long," she
said.
She kissed me and went away. When she left me I jumped up, and looked
at my watch. It was not yet four o'clock. Owen could not arrive before
another hour. I cared nothing about my dress. I could not sit in state
in the tiny drawing-room to meet Owen. I put on a winter jacket, and my
hat, ran downstairs, and went out.
Mother saw me from the window, and called after me, and I called back in
reply--
"I shall not be long, I shall return in time for Owen."
Mother turned away with a sigh. What a rebellious, thoughtless young
thing I was! Of course mother wanted me. She would like to look at me
in my trim, orderly, number one gown, to arrange a ribbon here and a
curl there, to sigh, and smile, and talk, to hazard a thousand sweet
innocent conjectures. Should we know our darling? What would he think
of me? I had been such a little one when he went away!
These remarks, these touches, these looks, would have helped mother
through that last trying hour of suspense, that hour which, if all _has_
been well, if all _will_ be well, is still fraught with pain through its
very intensity. Yes, they would have helped mother, and driven me wild.
I was selfish. I went on my way. Oh! that ugly coal country, with the
wintry fading light of the first November evening over it! I kicked up
coal dust with my feet, and two heavy tears fell from my eyes. Yes,
Owen was coming home. Even now, each moment was bringing him nearer to
us. Owen was coming home, and I was unhappy. Between this hour, and
the hour six weeks before, when David had broken to me one sad fact, a
strange but complete revulsion had taken place within me. I was a
childish creature still, childish in heart and nature; but just,
perhaps, or in part, perhaps, because I _was_ so inexperienced, so
immature, I had turned from my hero, I had hardened myself against the
warmest love of my life.
Yes, I had made a god and worshipped it. Nothing was too good for it,
no homage too great to lay at its feet, no sacrifice too worthy to offer
at its shrine. Mother, David, Amy, were all as nothing in comparison of
this my hero. My dream lasted through my childhood and early youth,
then suddenly it vanished. My god was a clay god, my idol was dust.
Owen Morgan still lived. Owen Morgan was coming back to his mother,
brother, sister, but my perfect Owen was dead. A man who had sinned,
who had brought disgrace on us, was coming home to-day. More and more
as the time drew nearer I had shrunk from seeing, from speaking to, from
touching, this altered Owen. I was intensely unmerciful, intensely
severe, with the severity of the very young. No after repentance, no
future deed of glory could wipe away this early stain. I had been
deceived--Owen had sinned--and _my_ Owen was dead. As I walked quickly
along the barren, ugly coal country, I pictured to myself what my
feelings would have been to-day had this not been so. Would mother have
sat alone then in her velvet and lace to meet the returning hero? Would
I? ah! what would I _not_ have done to-day? I could not think of it. I
dashed away another tear or two and walked on. I chose unfrequented,
lonely paths, and these abounded in plenty, paths leading up to old,
used-up shafts, and neglected mines; paths with thin ragged grass
covering them, all equally ugly. At last I came to a huge cinder-heap,
which had lain undisturbed so long, that some weak vegetation had
managed now to grow up around it. Here I sat down to rest. The
cinder-heap was close to the closed-up shaft of an unused pit. In this
fortnight I had already learned something of mining life, and I knew
where to look for the old shafts, and always examined them with
curiosity. As I sat there, I heard the voices of two children, who,
evidently quite unaware of my close neighbourhood, were talking eagerly
together, at the other side of the cinder-heap. It was a boy's voice I
heard first--high, shrill, passionate.
"Yes, indeed, Nan; they'll call me a coward. No, Nan; I'll not be
daunted. I will go down on Monday!"
To these words the girl replied with sobs. I heard the boy kissing her;
then there was silence, then the same eager voice said--
"Don't cry, Nan; Monday ain't come yet. Let's talk of something
pleasant."
"Don't talk at all, Miles. Let's sing."
"Shall we sing `The Cross?'"
"I don't--no, I do care. Yes, we'll sing that." There was a pause,
then two sweet, wild voices took up the following words to a plaintive
Welsh air:--
"The cross! the cross! the heavy cross!
The Saviour bore for me!
Which bowed Him to the earth with grief,
On sad Mount Calvary.
"How light, how light, this precious cross
Presented now to me;
And if with care I take it up,
Behold a crown for me!"
Here the voices ceased suddenly, and I again heard a kiss of comfort,
and the sound of a girl's sob. I could bear no more. I started to my
feet, ran round the cinder-heap, and confronted the children.
"Please don't be frightened! I heard you sing. I want you to sing
again. I want to know what's the matter. I'm Gwladys Morgan--you may
have heard of me; my brother is going to manage the mine at Ffynon."
Two pairs of black eyes were raised to my face, then the boy rose slowly
to his feet, came forward a step or two, and after gazing at me with the
most searching, penetrating glance I had ever been favoured with, said
brightly, as if satisfied with the result of his scrutiny--
"I'm Miles, and this is little Nan."
"And father works down in the mine," said little Nan.
"Father's name is Moses Thomas--he's deputy," said the boy again, in a
proud tone.
"Go on," I said, seating myself close to the children; "tell me all
about yourselves. I'm so glad I've met you. I am sure we shall be
friends. I like you both already. Now you must let me know your whole
story, from beginning to end; only first, do, _do_ sing that lovely hymn
again."
"I'll sing, Miss Morgan," said the boy, instantly; "but you'll forgive
little Nan; little Nan's in trouble, and her voice ain't steady."
Throwing back his head, looking straight before him, and clasping his
hands round his knee, he sang to the same wild measure the next verse of
the Methodist hymn:--
"The crown! the crown! the glorious crown!
A crown of life for me.
This crown of life it shall be mine,
When Jesus I shall see."
"When Jesus I shall see," he repeated, under his breath, looking at the
girl as he spoke. As the children looked at each other they seemed to
have forgotten my presence.
"What's the cross you've got to bear? Nan," I asked.
An old-fashioned, troubled, anxious face was raised to mine; but it was
Miles who answered.
"'Tis just this, Miss Morgan: 'tis nothing to fret about. I've got to
go down into the mine to work on Monday. I've never been into the mine
before, and little Nan's rare and timmersome; but I says to her that
she's faithless. She knows, and I know, that the Lord'll be down in the
mine too. 'Tis none so dark down there but He'll find me h'out, and
take care on me."
"He didn't find out Stephie," sobbed Nan, all her composure giving way.
"He took no care on Stephie."
"What is it?" I said; "do tell me about it; and who is Stephie?
Miles."
"Stephie is dead, Miss Morgan. There's only us two now--only us and
father. Mother died arter Stephie went; she fretted a good bit, and she
died too; and then there was Nan, and me, and father. We lives near
Ffynon Mine, and father's deputy; and we're none so rich, and father
works rare and 'ard; and he don't get much money, 'cause the times is
bad; and I'm fourteen, and I'm very strong, and I says I should work."
"No--no--no!" here screamed the girl, forgetting, in a perfect paroxysm
of fright and grief, the presence of the stranger. She clasped her arms
round the boy's neck, and her white lips worked convulsively.
"There it is," said Miles; "she's sure set agen it, and yet it must be."
Then bending down and speaking in a low voice, in her ear. "Shall I
tell the lady about Stephie? Nan."
"Yes," said Nan, unloosing her hold, and looking up into his face with a
sigh. She had the scared look in her wild, bright eyes, I have seen in
the hunted hare, when he flew past me--dogs and horsemen in full
pursuit. Now she buried her head in her brother's rough jacket, with
the momentary relief which the telling of Stephie's story would give to
the tension of her fears.
"Tell me about Stephie," I said.
"Stephie," continued Miles--"he was our brother. Mother set great store
by Stephie; he was so strong, and big, and brave. Nothing 'ud daunt
'im. Many of the lads about 'ere 'ud try; and they'd say, `Wait till
the day you goes down inter the mine, and you'll show the white
feather'; but he--he larfed at 'em. He 'ad no fear in 'im, and h'all
the stories 'bout fire-damp, and h'all the other dangers--and worse'rn
all, the ghosts of the colliers as died in the mine, they couldn't daunt
him. Other lads 'ud run away, wen they come near the h'age; but he--he
on'y counted the days; and `Mother,' 'e'd say--for mother war werry
weakly--`Mother, wen you 'as my wage, you can buy this thing and t'other
thing, and you'll be strong in no time.' Well, mother she thought a
sight on Stephie, and she never wanted 'im to go down inter the mine;
and she used to ask father to try and 'prentice 'im to another trade,
for he war so big, and bright, and clever; but the times was bad, and
father couldn't, so Stephie had to go. He _was_ clever, and fond o'
readin', and a man wot lived near, lent 'im books, real minin' books,
and he knew 'bout the dangers well as anybody; but nothing could daunt
Stephie, and he often said that he'd work and work, and rise hisself;
and he'd try then ef he couldn't find h'out something as 'ud help to
lessen the danger for the colliers. At last the day came wen he was to
go down."
Here Miles paused, drew a long breath, and little Nan buried her head
yet farther into his rough jacket. He stooped to kiss her, then raising
his head, and fixing his eyes on my face, he continued. "The day 'ad
come, and Stephie got h'up very early in the mornin', and he put on 'is
collier's dress, and we h'all got up--Nan and h'all; and mother she give
'im 'is breakfast. Well, he was standin' by the fire, and mother's 'and
on 'is shoulder, and 'er eyes on 'is face, when father, he came.
"Father had h'always promised to go down the first time wid Stephie, and
show 'im the mine, and put 'im wid someone as 'nd learn 'im 'is work;
but now he said, `Stephie, lad, I can't go down till night. I 'as 'ad a
sudden call elsewhere, so thee 'ad better wait, lad;' but Stephie
answered, `No, father; there's poor little James, Black William's son,
and he's going down too, to-day; and he's rare and daunted, and I ain't
a bit; and Black William said as he might stay along wid me the first
day, so I must go, father, and Black William ull take care on us both;'
then father, he said no more--on'y mother, she cried and begged Stephie
to wait. And he looked at 'er amost scornful, for h'all he loved her
so; and he said, `Does _thee_ tell me to forsake the little sickly lad?'
Then he kissed mother, and he kissed little Nan, and waved his hand
back at 'em, and set off running to the bank, and I ran wid 'im, and he
said to me, `Miles, lad, don't you h'ever be daunted when your turn
comes to go down, for God takes care of h'everybody, in the earth and on
the earth--'tis all the same to God.' Then he stepped on to the cage,
and gripped the hand of little James, who was shakin' fit to drop, and
he called h'out to me--`Tell mother as I'll be coming up wid the day
crew, and to 'ave supper ready, for I'll be very 'ungry,' and the other
colliers larfed to 'ear 'im so 'arty.
"Well, Miss Morgan, that day mother war stronger nor ordinary, and she
cleaned and scrubbed the floor, and when evening came, she got a rare
and good bit of supper ready, and just wen we was looking h'out for
Stephie, and mother had put a rough towel, and water in the tub, ready
for him to wash hisself, who should come runnin' in but the wife of
Black Bill, h'all crazy like, and 'ringin' 'er 'hands; and she said
there had been a gas explosion, and h'every livin' soul in the mine was
dead."
Here Miles paused; speaking again in a moment, more slowly.
"_That_ wasn't true. A few did escape, and was brought up next day.
But Black Bill was dead, and Stephie, and little James. Black Bill was
found all burnt dreadful; but Stephie and little James--it was the
after-damp had done for them. They was found in one of the stalls;
Stephie's arms round the little lad." Another long pause. "Mother, she
never held up her head--she died three months later, and now there's
on'y Nan, and father, and me. Nan is such a careful little body, and
keeps the house so trim."
"You are not afraid to go down into the mine?" I said.
"Well, miss, it is a bit of a cross; partic'lar as it cuts up the little
'un so; but, good gracious! it ain't nothin'; there ain't bin a
h'accident for h'ages--and _I_ ain't daunted."
"When are you going down?"
"On Monday, Miss Morgan."
"Little Nan," I said, turning to the child, "I mean to come to see you
at your own house on Monday. You may expect me, for I shall be sure to
come; and I'll bring you pictures--lots; and if you like, I can show you
how to colour them."
I thought this offer must charm Nan, and make her forget the terrors of
the mine; but it did not. She looked gravely, almost fretfully at me,
and it was Miles who said, "Thank you."
"I must go now," I said, jumping to my feet. "I have stayed too long
already; but I'm very glad I have met you, Miles, and Nan. I think your
Stephie a real, real hero; and, Miles, I _love_ you for being so brave,
and I should like, beyond anything, to shake hands with you, and to kiss
little Nan."
After clasping a small brown hand, and pressing a warm salute on two
trembling lips, I started home. The children's story had excited me,
and warmed my heart. For the present it absorbed my thoughts, even to
the exclusion of Owen. I said I would do much for these two. This boy
and girl, so lonely, so interesting, with their tragic story and tragic
life, should find in me a benefactor and friend. The thought was
delicious and exhilarating. David, through my intervention, should
rescue Miles from the miner's life, and relieve the timid little sister
from her worst fears. My spirits rose high as I contemplated this
event, which a word from my lips could bring about. I entered the house
humming the wild sweet air which the children had set to their Methodist
hymn. The music of my voice was greeted by the richer music of gay and
happy laughter. I stood motionless in the hall. My heart almost ceased
to beat, then bounded on wildly. The colour fled from my cheeks and
lips, returning in a moment in a full tide of richest crimson. I could
have given way then. I could have rushed to Owen's side, thrown my arms
round his neck, and wept out on his breast, a whole flood of healing and
forgiving tears. Had I done so, my soul would have been knit to his
with a love strong as the old love was weak--noble as the old passionate
affection was erring and idolatrous; but I did not. I conquered the
emotion, which the sound of his voice, and his laughter, had stirred
within me. I told myself that _that_ was not my Owen--mine, my hero was
dead. Untidy, pale, agitated, but unforgiving, I opened the
drawing-room door and went in. David, mother, and Owen, were standing
in a loving, happy group. I went up to the group--they had not heard me
come in--and touched Owen on the sleeve, and said, in a quiet voice,
"Welcome home, brother."
For an instant two bright, dark eyes looked expectantly into mine--one
instant the brilliant eyes wore that look--one instant after, they were
blank with disappointment. Then all was commonplace--a commonplace, but
affectionate brother's kiss was on my cheek, and a gay voice said,
laughingly--
"Why, Gwladys, you're as wild and disreputable-looking a little romp as
ever."