The events in this story followed each other quickly, I must not delay
in writing of them. Hitherto I have but skirted the drama, I have
scarcely ventured to lift the folds of the dark curtain, but now I
hesitate no longer.
Here! I push back the veil, let those who will step with me beyond its
kind screen. I am going into a battle-field, and the place is gloomy.
Heavy with clouds is the sky, red with blood the ground, and cold with
death lie the conquered, ay, and the conquerors too. But enough! my
story must tell itself, the shadows must come up one by one as they
will.
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We were five months at Ffynon, and the dreary winter had nearly passed,
a few snowdrops and crocuses were in the little garden, and all spring
flowers that money could buy and care cultivate, adorned the pretty
cottage within. I had been on a long rambling expedition, and had taken
Nan with me, and Nan had entertained me as I liked best to be
entertained, with accounts of mining life and mining danger. Strange,
how when we are young, we do like stories of danger. I came back a good
deal excited, for Nan had been giving me particulars, learned from her
mother's lips, of the fearful accident caused in our very mine in 1856
by fire-damp, when one hundred and fourteen lives were swept in a moment
into eternity. "That was a dark day for Ffynon," said Nan, "not a house
without a widow in it, not a home without a dead husband or father.
Mother lost her father and brother, and our Stephie was born that very
night. Mother warn't twenty then, but she got old in a minute and never
grew young again. Eh! dear," added the small thing, with her heavy old
world sigh, "ain't it a weary world, Miss Morgan?"
"Well, I don't know," I said, "you are inclined to take a dark view of
life, but things will brighten, Nan. Owen is making things so
delightfully safe down in the mine, that soon you'll have no cause to be
anxious, and then you'll grow young, as young as me, and enjoy your
life."
"I'll never be younger nor twenty," said Nan, solemnly, "never; and,
Miss Morgan, I can't help telling _you_ something."
"Well, my dear, what is it?"
"They do say, father and Miles, not to me, for they knows I'm so
anxious, but I hears 'em whispering when they thinks I'm asleep o'
nights. They do say that for all Mr Morgan is so keen about saving the
miners, and making things safe and compact, that he have the coal
pillars what supports the roof, cut all away to nothing, and the timber
what's put in, in place o' the pillars, ain't thick enough. It don't
sound much I know, but it means much."
"What does it mean? Nan," I asked.
"Why, falls o' roofs, Miss Morgan. Oh! _I_ knows the sign of 'em, but
there," seeing how white my face had grown, "may be 'tis 'cause I'm an
anxious thing, and they do say there's a heap more coal bin brought up,
and the ventilation twice as good."
I made no reply to this. I did not say another word. When we came in
sight of Nan's cottage, I bade her adieu by a single-hand shake, and ran
home. On the gravel sweep outside the sunny, smiling cottage, might be
seen the substantial form of Gwen, and by Gwen's side, his hat off, the
breeze stirring his wavy brown hair, stood Owen.
Graceful, careless, happy, handsome, looked my brother, as he raised his
face to kiss David's boy, who sat astride on his shoulder. The baby was
kicking, laughing, crowing, stretching his arms, catching at Owen's
hair, and making a thousand happy sounds, the first indications of a
language he was never to learn perfectly on earth. Alas! what _did_ the
baby see in the darkness, that made his face the brightest thing I ever
looked at, the brightest thing I ever shall look at in this world. The
sight of the baby and Gwen caused me to forget Nan's words; I ran
forward eagerly and spoke eagerly.
"Gwen, what a surprise! how delighted I am! have you come to stay? Oh!
you darling, darling pet!" These last words were addressed to little
David, whom I took out of Owen's arms, and covered with kisses. "How
much he has grown! What a beauty he is!--like a little king. There! my
precious lamb; go back to Owen, for I _must_ give old Gwen a hug!"
Laughing heartily, Owen received him back, perched him anew on his
shoulder, while I turned to Gwen, whom I nearly strangled with the
vehemence of my embrace. "There! you dear old thing. _Have_ you come
to live with us? Oh! how dreadfully, dreadfully I have missed you. Oh!
never mind your cap. I'll quill you another border in no time. Now,
are you coming to live here? Do speak, and don't look so solemn."
"Dear, dear, my maid!" said Gwen, shaking herself free, and panting for
breath. "Good gracious! Gwladys, my maid, I'm a bit stout, and none so
young; and you did shake me awful." A pause, pant-pant, puff-puff from
Gwen. "Why, there! I'm better now, and fit to cry with the joy of
seeing you, my maid; but,"--with a warding-off gesture of her fat
hands--"good gracious! Gwladys, don't fall on me again." A peal of
laughter from Owen, in which the baby joined.
"Speak," I said, solemnly; "if you don't instantly declare your
intentions, and the duration of your stay, I shall _strangle_ you."
"'Twas on account o' the fever," said Gwen. At these words my hands
dropped to my sides, the baby's laughter ceased to float on the air, and
Owen was silent. "There's nought, to be frighted at," continued Gwen,
observing these signs; "on'y a case or two at the lodge, and little
Maggie and Dan, the laundress's children were rather bad. The Squire
said it warn't likely to spread; but it would be best to make all safe,
so he sent little David and me here for a fortnight, or so. Dear heart,
he was sore down in the mouth at sayin' good-bye to the baby; but I was
pleased enough, Gwladys, my maid. I wanted to get a sight o' your
yellow hair, and to see my mistress, and Mr Owen."
"And I'm delighted to renew my acquaintance with you, Gwen," responded
Owen, heartily. "I assure you I have not forgotten you. There! take
baby now," he added. "I think I hear my mother calling you." When Gwen
was gone, Owen, to my surprise came to my side, and drew my hand through
his arm.
"I want to talk to you about the baby," he said. "What a splendid
fellow he is? How sad he should be blind. Somehow I never realised it
before. I always knew that David's boy was without sight, but, as I
say, I never took in the meaning of it until I looked into those
beautiful dark eyes. Isn't David awfully cut up about it? Gwladys."
"I'm not sure," I replied. "You must remember, Owen, that he is
accustomed to it; and then all about baby's birth was so sad. Indeed,
David does not like even to talk much about him; and when we are by, he
never takes much notice, when he is brought into the room, only Gwen
tells me how he comes up every night to see him, and how he kisses him--
indeed, I know he quite lives for baby."
"Gwladys, I wish you would tell me about Amy? Was she worthy of that
noble fellow?"
I looked at Owen in surprise--surprise from a twofold cause, for the
voice that brought out the unexpected and unusual words trembled.
"He is the noblest fellow I know, quite," said Owen, emphatically,
looking me full in the face. "What kind of woman was his wife?"
"I did not know her very well," I replied. "I don't believe I cared
greatly for her. Still, I am sure, Owen--yes, I _know_ that she was
worthy of David."
Owen turned away his face, looked on the ground; in a moment he spoke in
a different tone, on a different subject.
"I was quite glad to see that little bit of enthusiasm in you; you used
to be a very affectionate, warm-hearted child, and I thought it had all
died out."
I felt my face growing crimson. I tried not to speak, then the words
burst forth--
"It has not died away; I can love still."
"I make no doubt of that, my dear," continued he, carelessly, "but you
have not the same pleasant way of showing it."
He dropped my hand and walked towards the house, but his indifferent
words had renewed the feeling with which I had parted from Nan. He too
might be indifferent, but at least he should know. I would tell him
Nan's words.
"Owen, I want to ask you a question."
"Well!" turning round, and leaning his graceful figure against the
porch.
"We are going to be rich again, before long?"
"Perhaps; I cannot say."
"But you are getting up a lot of coal now out of the mine?"
"Certainly; the weekly supply is nearly double what it was six months
ago."
"Then of course we must be rich before long?"
"There is the possibility, but mines are uncertain things." A pause, a
scarcely suppressed yawn, then Owen turned on his heel. "I am going in,
Gwladys; I don't care to talk business out of business hours, and I want
to have a chat with mother."
His tone of easy indifference, coming so soon after seeing Nan's
suffering face, and hearing her words of intense anxiety, half maddened
me. I know I forgot myself. I ran forward and caught his arm, and made
him look me full in the face. No fear then, as he gazed at my
crimsoning cheek and angry eye, that he should say I lacked my
childhood's enthusiasm.
"You are not going in yet," I said, "for I have got something to say to
you--something, I repeat, which I _will_ say. You need not pretend to
me, Owen, that we are not getting rich, for I _know_ we are. But I ask
you one question, Is it right that we should have this money at the risk
of the colliers' lives? is it right, in order that we should have a
little more gold, that the coal pillars should be cut away, until the
roofs are in danger of falling? and is it right that the timber supports
should be made thinner than is safe? All this adds to our money, Owen;
is it right that we should grow rich in that way?"
"Good God! Gwladys;" a pause, then vehemently, "How dare you say such
things to me! who has been telling you such lies?"
"I won't mention the name of the person who has told me the truth, but I
have heard it through the colliers; the colliers themselves are speaking
of it."
Owen covered his face with his hand; he was trembling, but whether with
anger or pain, I could not say. I stood silent, waiting for him to
speak; he did not, perhaps for two minutes; those minutes watching his
trembling hand, seemed like twenty.
"You and the colliers have both made a mistake," he said then; "they
have exaggerated notions of the necessary thickness of the coal pillars.
I never have them worked beyond what is safe. As to the timber
supports, they are measured with the nicest mathematical accuracy. You
and they both forget that I am an engineer, that I work the mine with a
knowledge which they cannot possess. Good God! to think that I am
capable of risking willingly men's lives to win gold; to think that
_you_, Gwladys, should believe me capable of it; but you are not what
you were. Once, such words could never have been said to _you_ of _me_.
You are changed to me utterly, and I am _utterly_ disappointed in you."
He pushed his hat over his eyes, and before I could reply was several
paces away, walking rapidly in the direction of the still romantic and
once beautiful Rhoda Vale.