"Mother," I said, "I will go to Tynycymmer, and tell David."
"No, no, my dear child; you are not able."
"Mother, some one must tell him; you have to stay here to take care of
poor Gwen when they bring her home, and perhaps Owen will come back.
Mother, I will tell David, only I may tell him in my own way, may I
not?"
"As you please, my child, my child!"
Mother put her head down on the table and began to sob.
I kissed her. I was not crying. From the first I had never shed a
tear. I kissed mother two or three times, then I went out and asked
Miles, who had followed me home, to get the horse put to Owen's
dog-cart; when the dog-cart was ready, I kissed mother again and got
into it.
"Come with me, Miles," I said to the boy.
The bright colour mounted to his cheeks, he was preparing to jump into
the vacant seat by my side, when suddenly he stopped, his face grew
pale, and words came out hurriedly--
"No, I mustn't, I'd give the world to, but I mustn't."
"Why not, when I ask you? you needn't go into the mine to-day."
"Perhaps not to work, but I must, I must wait for Mr Morgan; I must
take him into the mine."
"Well, I cannot stay," I said impatiently; "tell Williams to take me to
the railway station at P--." As I drove away I had a passing feeling
that Miles might have obliged me by coming, otherwise, I thought no more
of his words. After a rapid drive I reached the railway station; I had
never travelled anywhere, I had never gone by rail alone in my life, but
the great pressure on my mind prevented my even remembering this fact.
I procured a ticket, stepped into the railway carriage, and went as far
in the direction of Tynycymmer as the train would take me. At the
little roadside station where I alighted, I found that I could get a
fly. I ordered one, then went into the waiting-room, and surveyed my
own image in a small cracked glass. I took off my hat and arranged my
hair tidily; after doing this, I was glad to perceive that I looked much
as usual, if only my eyes would laugh, and my lips relax a little from
their unyouthful tension? The fly was ready, I jumped in; a two-mile
drive would bring me to Tynycymmer. Hitherto in my drive from Ffynon,
and when in the railway carriage, I had simply let the fact lie
quiescent in my heart that I was going to tell David. Now, for the
first time, I had to face the question, "How shall I tell him?" The
necessary thought which this required, awoke my mind out of its trance.
I did not want to startle him; I wished to break this news so as to give
him as little pain as possible. I believed, knowing what I did of his
character, that it could be so communicated to him, that the brightness
should reach him first, the shadow afterwards. This should be my task;
how could I accomplish it? Would not my voice, choked and constrained
from long silence, betray me? Of my face I was tolerably confident. It
takes a long time for a young face like mine to show signs of grief; but
would not my voice shake? I would try it on the driver, who I found
knew me well, and was only waiting for me to address him. Touching his
hat respectfully, the man gave me sundry odds and ends of information.
"Yes, Mr Morgan was very well; but there had been a good deal of
sickness about, and little Maggie at the lodge had died. Squire Morgan
was so good to them all; he was with little Maggie when she died."
"Did Maggie die of the fever?" I asked.
"Yes, there was a good deal of it about."
"And was it not infectious?"
"Well, perhaps so, but only amongst children."
I said nothing more, only I resolved more firmly than ever to break the
news gently to David.
I was received with a burst of welcome from trees and shining waves,
early spring flowers, and dear birds' notes. Gyp got up from the mat
where he lay in the sunshine, and wagged his tail joyfully, and looked
with glad expressive eyes into my face. The servants poured out a
mixture of Welsh and English. I began to tremble; I very nearly gave
way. I asked for David; he was out, somewhere at the other end of the
estate; he would however be back soon, as he was going on business to
Chepstow. The servants offered to go and fetch him, but I said no, I
would wait until he came in. I went into the house, how familiar
everything looked! the old oak chairs in the hall, the flowers and
ferns. I opened the drawing-room door, but did not enter, for its
forlorn and dismantled condition reminded me forcibly that with
familiarity had come change. A few months ago I had longed for change,
but now to-day I disliked it. I knew for the first time to-day that
change might mean evil as well as good. I went into David's study and
sat down to wait for him; the study looked as it had done since I was a
little child. No, even here there was a difference. Over the
mantelpiece was an engraving, so placed that the best light might fall
on it. It was Noel Paton's "_Mors Janua Vitae_." I suppose most people
have seen the original. David and Amy had brought this painter's proof
home after their short wedding trip. It was a great favourite of Amy's;
she had said once or twice, when least shy and most communicative, that
the dying knight reminded her of David. For the first time to-day, as I
looked at it, I saw something of the likeness. I stood up to examine it
more closely--the victorious face, humble, trustful, glad,--stirred my
heart, and awoke in me, though apparently without any connection between
the two, the thoughts of last night. I again began to feel the need of
God. I pressed my hands to my face; "God give me strength," I said very
earnestly. This was my second real prayer.