I had not forgotten my promise to visit Nan on the day her brother first
went down into the mine.
I selected a bundle of illustrated papers--some old copies of _Punch_--
as, judging from the delight I took in them myself, I hoped they would
make little Nan laugh. I also put a sixpenny box of paints into my
pocket. These sixpenny paint-boxes were the most delightful things the
Tynycymmer children had ever seen, so, doubtless, they would look
equally nice in the eyes of Nan.
The Thomas's cottage was one of a row that stood just over the pit bank.
I ascended the rather steep hill which led to it, entered the narrow
path which ran in front of the whole row of houses, and where many women
were now hanging out clothes to dry, and knocked at Nan's door. She did
not hear me; she was moving briskly about within, and singing to her
work. Her voice sounded happy, and the Welsh words and Welsh air were
gay. I knocked a second time, then went in.
"I am so glad to hear you singing, Nan," I said. "I was sure you would
be in trouble, for I thought Miles had gone into the mine to-day!"
Little Nan was arranging some crockery on the white dresser. She
stopped at the sound of my voice, and turned round with the large china
tea-pot in her hand. When I had seen her on Saturday, seated weeping on
the old cinder-heap, I had regarded her as a very little child. Now I
perceived my mistake. Nan was no child; she was a miniature woman. I
began to doubt what effect my copies of _Punch_ and my sixpenny paints
would produce on this odd mixture; more particularly when she said, in a
quiet old-fashioned voice--"But he did go into the mine, Miss Morgan;
Miles went down the shaft at five o'clock this mornin'."
"You take it very calmly when the time comes," I continued; "I thought
you would have been in a terrible state."
"Yes, ain't I easy," said Nan, "I never thought as the Lord 'ud help me
like this; why, I ain't frighted at all."
"But there's just as much danger as ever there was," I said. "Your not
being frightened does not make it at all safer for Miles down in the
pit."
I made this remark, knowing that it was both unkind and disagreeable;
but I was disappointed; I had meant to turn comforter--I was provoked to
find my services unnecessary.
"There ain't no danger to-day," replied Nan, to my last pleasant
assurance.
"How can you say that?" I asked.
"'Cause the Lord revealed it to me in a dream."
Now I, too, believed in dreams. I was as superstitious as the most
superstitious Welsh girl could possibly be. Gwen, my isolated life, my
Welsh descent, had all made me this; it was, therefore, with
considerable delight, that, just when I was beginning to place Nan very
low in my category of friends, I found that I could claim her for a
kindred spirit.
"You are a very odd little girl," I said; "but I'm sure I _shall_ like
you. See! I've brought you _Punch_, and the _Illustrated News_, and a
box of paints, and _perhaps_ I shall show you how to colour these
pictures, as the children did at Tynycymmer."
Then I seated myself uninvited, and unrolled my treasures; my
newspapers, my copies of _Punch_, my paint-box with the lid off, were
all revealed to Nan's wondering eyes.
"Get me a saucer and a cup of water," I said, "and I'll show you how to
colour this picture, and then you can pin it up against the wall for
your father to see when he comes home."
"If you please, miss," said Nan, dropping a little curtsey, and then
coming forward and examining the print in question with a critical eye,
"if you please, miss, I'd rayther not."
"What do you mean?" I said.
"Well, miss, I'm very gratified to you; but, father, he don't like
pictures pasted up on the walls, and, indeed, Miss Morgan," getting very
red, her sloe-black eyes gleaming rather angrily, "I 'as no time for
such child's play as lookin' at pictures, and colourin' of 'em, and
makin' messes in cups and plates. I 'as enough to do to wash h'up the
cups and saucers as is used for cookin', and keepin' the house tidy, and
makin' the money go as far and as comfort as possible. I'm very
gratified to you, miss; but I 'as no time for that nonsense. I ain't
such a baby as I looks."
As little Nan spoke, she grew in my eyes tall and womanly, while I felt
myself getting smaller and smaller, in fact, taking the place I had
hitherto allotted to her. I rolled up my despised goods hastily, rose
to my feet, and spoke--
"You are not half as nice as you looked. I am very sorry that I
disturbed so busy and important a person. As I see you don't want me, I
shall wish you good morning."
I had nearly reached the door, when Nan ran after me, laid her hand on
my arm, and looked into my face with her eyes full of tears.
"I ain't a wishin' you to go," she said, "I wants you to set down and
talk to me woman-like."
"How old are you? you strange creature," I said; but I was restored to
good humour, and sat down willingly enough.
"I'm ten," said Nan, "I'm small for my h'age, I know."
"You are, indeed, small for your age," I said, "and your age is very
small. Why, Nan, whatever you may pretend about it, you are a baby."
"No, I ain't," said Nan, gravely and solemnly, "it ain't years only as
makes us babies or womans, 'tis--"
"What?" I said, "do go on."
"Well, miss, I b'lieves as 'tis anxiety. Miles says as I has a very
h'anxious mind. He says I takes it from mother, and that ages one up
awful."
"I've no doubt of it," I said. "I've felt it myself, 'tis
overpowering."
"I don't think you knows it much, miss," said Nan. "I should say from
the looks o' you, that you was much younger nor me."
"Mind what you're about," I said, "I'm sixteen--a young lady full grown.
But come, now, Nan, with all your anxiety, you were merry enough when I
came in--you did sing out in such a jolly style,--I thought you such a
dear little thing; I did not know you were an old croak."
"Why yes," said Nan, half-smiling, and inclined to resume her song, "I'm
as light as a feather this mornin', that's the Lord's doing."
"What did the Lord do for you, Nan?"
"He sent me a token, miss, as sure as sure could be, and it came just in
the minute before waking."
"What was it?" I repeated, for little Nan had paused, her face had
grown soft and almost beautiful; the hard unpleasing lines of care and
anxiety had vanished, and in their stead, behold! the eyes were full of
love and faith, the lips tender, trustful, but withal, triumphant.
"I was sore fretted," she began, "as father couldn't go down with Miles;
he had to stay to go ever the mine with the strange gentleman as is to
be manager, and Miles going down h'all alone, reminded me sore of
Stephie. And I was frettin', frettin', frettin', and the prayers, nor
the hymns, nor nothing, couldn't do me no good, and Miles hisself, at
last, he were fain to be vexed with me, and when I went to bed my heart
was h'all like a lump o' lead, and I felt up to forty, at the very
least, and then it was that the Lord saw the burden was too big for me,
and He sent me the dream."
"What was it? Nan."
"I thought, miss, as I seed the Lord Hisself, all pitiful and of tender
mercy. I seed Him as plain as I sees you, and He looked me through and
through, very sorrowful, as I shouldn't trust Him, and Miles, he was
standin' on the cage, just afore it went down, and there was an empty
place near Miles, and I saw that every one had their comrade and friend
with them, 'cept Miles; and then the Lord, He went and stood by Miles,
on the empty space, and He put His arm round Miles, and he looked at me,
and I saw the Lord and Miles going down into the dark, dark pit
together."
"I'm sure that was true," I said, "that was very much what Miles said
himself, don't you remember? You were much better after your dream,
were you not? Nan."
"Yes, miss, I was light and easy in my mind, as if I was twenty!"
"What _do_ you mean, now?" I said.
"Well, Miss Morgan, I can't help it. I know I'm queer, the folks all
say I'm queer. I know I haven't h'aged with my years. Sometimes, miss,
the anxiety brings me up to fifty, and I feels my hair's a-turnin'
white; then again, I'm thirty, and forty; most times I feels like
thirty, but now and then, as to-day, the Lord gives me a special
revelation, and then, why, I'm as light as a feather, and down to
twenty, but I'm never below that, miss."
And yet I meant to offer that creature toys! Such was my mental
comment, but before I could speak again, the door was opened, and a tall
man--coal-black--with gleaming eyeballs, and snowy teeth, came in. He
took no notice of me, perhaps he did not see me, but in passing through
to another room, he called out in a full cheery voice--
"I say, little lass, how do you feel?"
"Fine, father, down to twenty."
"Well, Twenty, bustle about, and get me some dinner; I'll be ready for
it in ten minutes."
"I must go away now," I said, rising.
"No, miss, that you mustn't; I wants you to see father. Father's a
wonderful man, Miss Morgan, he have had a sight o' trouble one way and
t'other, and he's up to fifty in years; but the Lord, He keeps him that
strong and full o' faith, he never passes thirty, in his mind; but
there, what a chatterbox I am, and father a wantin' his dinner!"
The old-fashioned mortal moved away, laid a coarse but clean cloth on a
small table, dished up some bacon and potatoes in a masterly manner, and
placed beside them a tin vessel--which, she informed me, was a miner's
"jack"--full of cold tea.
"Father will never go down into the mine without his jack o' tea," she
explained; and just then the miner, his face and hands restored to their
natural hue, came in.
"Father," said Nan, in quite a stately fashion, "this lady is Miss
Morgan; she's a very kind lady, and she spoke good words to Miles o'
Saturday."
"Mornin', miss," said the miner, pulling his front lock of hair, "I'm
proud to see you, miss, and that I am; and now, lass," turning to his
daughter, "you'll have no call to be anxious now no more, for this young
lady's brother was h'all over the mine this mornin', and he and Squire
Morgan promises that all that is right shall be done, and the place made
as snug and tight as possible. That young gentleman, miss," again
addressing me, "is very sharp; _he_ knows wot he's about, that he do!"
"Is the mine dangerous?" I asked.
"No, no," said the collier, winking impressively at me, while Nan was
helping herself to a potato, "but might be made safer, as I says, might
be made safer; another shaft let down, and wentilation made more fresh.
But there! praise the Lord, 'tis all to be done, and that in no time;
why, that mine will be so safe in a month or two, that little Nan might
go and play there, if she so minded."
As the big man spoke, looking lovingly at his tiny daughter, and the
daughter replied, with anxious, knitted brows, "You know, father, as I
don't play," he looked the younger of the two.
"No more you does, Twenty," he replied, "but even Twenty can put away
her fears and sing us a song when she hears a bit of good news."
"Shall I sing a hymn? father."
"Well, yes, my lass, I does feel like praisin'--there, you begin, and
I'll foller up."
Little Nan laid down her knife and fork, fixed her dark eyes straight
before her, clasped her hands, and began--
"We shall meet beyond the river,
By and by,
And the darkness shall be over,
By and by.
With the toilsome journey done,
And the glorious battle won,
We shall shine forth as the sun,
By and by."