Since my arrival at smoky, ugly Ffynon, I had never again to complain of
being buried alive. The life I led was certainly not the life I should
have chosen. I was young; I had day dreams. Had the choice been mine,
I should have liked, as all other young things, to win for myself either
pleasure, love, or fame. But the choice was not mine; and at Ffynon,
strange as it may seem, I grew more contented than I had been now for
many years at Tynycymmer.
I was pleased with the people, I liked their occupation, their life. I
soon found interests outside myself--a grand secret--thus I grew happy.
Nan and Miles soon also became my real friends: I learned to appreciate
their characters, to understand them; they were alike in many ways, but
in far more ways were they different. Nan had more character and more
originality than Miles, but Miles had far more simple bravery than Nan.
They were both religious; but Miles's religion was the least dreamy, and
the most practical. On the whole, I think the boy had the grander
nature, and yet I think I loved the girl best.
I made many other acquaintances amongst the colliers, but these two
children were my friends.
In about a fortnight after Owen's return, David went back to Tynycymmer,
and we settled down quietly into our new and altered life. From morning
to night Owen was busy, now making engineering plans, now down in the
mine. As a boy he had been dilatory and fitful in his movements,
working hard one day, dreaming or idling away the next; but now this
boyish character had disappeared--now all this was changed. Now he
worked unremittingly, unflinchingly; he had a goal before him, and to
this goal he steadily directed his steps, looking neither to the right
hand nor to the left. In his present plans, whatever they may have
been, mother helped him. Mother gave him of her sympathy and her
interest. Long ago, dearly as they loved each other, I don't think
those two natures had quite met; but this was no longer so now; the same
hope animated both pairs of eyes, the same feeling actuated both
breasts. They had long conferences, anxious, and yet hopeful
consultations; but it was less in their words than in their faces that I
read that their wishes were the same.
I never saw mother look happier. Her long-lost son seemed now more her
son than ever.
And I--had I, too, got back my Owen? had my hero returned? was this my
brother, once dead to me, now alive again?
Alas! no. We were friends, Owen and I; we were outwardly affectionate,
outwardly all that could be wished; but the man of the world made no
advances of heart and confidence to the still childish sister; and the
sister was glad that this should be so. We kissed each other
affectionately night and morning, we chatted familiarly, we broached a
thousand gay topics, but on the old sacred ground we neither of us
ventured to set our feet. After a time I concluded that Owen had really
forgotten the old days; and believing this, I yet was glad.
Why so? Why was my heart thus hard and unforgiving? Had my love for
Owen really died? I do not think it had. Looking back on that winter
now, with the light of the present, making all things clear, I believe
that this was not so. I know now what was wrong: I know that I, by my
pride, by the lack of all that was really noble in my affection, had set
up a thin wall of ice between my brother's heart and my own.
Once, I think, Owen made an effort, though a slight one, to break it
down. He had been talking to my mother for an hour or more; their
interview had excited him; and with the excitement still playing in his
eyes he came to my side, and stood close to me as I bent down to water
some plants.
"Poor little girl!" he said, laying his hand on my hair, "you are very
good to come and live in this poky, out-of-the-way corner of the world;
but never mind, Gwladys, soon there will be plenty of money, and you can
do as you like."
"How soon? Owen," I said, raising my head and looking in his face.
"How soon? In a year, at farthest."
"Will the mine then be safe 'n a year?"
The bright look left Owen's face. "What do you know of the mine?
child," he laughed. "I am speaking about money."
I made no reply to this, though Owen waited for it. I watered my
flowers in silence, and then walked away. Yes, there was a gulf between
us.
I might have broken it down then--he gave me the opportunity: he showed
by his manner that the old days still occupied some dim corner of his
memory; the old days were not quite forgotten; but I would not break
down the wall; I would not breathe on the ice with the breath of love.
I walked away, and my opportunity was gone! As I did so, I thought of
David's words when he begged of me to help Owen to keep in the right
path; when he expressed his fears, and asked me to aid him. I did not
aid him--I neglected my duty. Owen was not the only sinner. In God's
sight, was he the worst?
Meanwhile, in the outside world, the people of Ffynon talked of a good
time coming, of freedom from danger, of improvements about to be
effected, which would enable the mothers to send down their boys into
the mine without fear, and would insure the return of the fathers to the
children, of the husbands to their wives. Higher wages, too, and more
constant employment would follow the new, safe, and profitable system,
which not only would save lives, but bring a much greater proportion of
coal to the surface. Thus all parties were bright and happy--all
parties happy from their own point of view; but while the miners talked
of safety, mother and Owen talked of money.