"So you have come to pay me a visit, little woman; that is right. I was
wishing for you, and thinking of you only this morning. I have been
lonely. Mother and Owen quite well?"
"Yes, David."
"And my boy?"
"He is well."
"How I have missed him, little monkey! he was just beginning to prattle;
but I am glad I sent him away, there is a great deal of sickness about."
"David," I said suddenly, "you are not yourself, is anything wrong?"
"No, my dear, I have been in and out of these cottages a great deal, and
have been rather saddened," then with a smile, "I _did_ miss the little
lad, 'tis quite ridiculous."
He moved away to do something at the other end of the room; he looked
worn and fagged, not unhappy. I never saw him with quite _that_
expression, but wearied. I could not tell him yet, but I must speak, or
my face would betray me.
"How nice the old place looks?" I said.
"Ah! yes; does it not? You would appreciate it after the ugly coal
country; but, after all, Owen is working wonders by the mine--turning
out heaps of money, and making the whole thing snug and safe."
"Yes," I said.
"Can you stay with me to-night? Gwladys. I must go to Ffynon
to-morrow, and I will bring you back then--"
"I will stay," I said.
"I would ask you to give me two or three days; but am afraid of this
unwholesome atmosphere for you."
"Oh! I must get back to-morrow," I said.
I do not know how I got out these short sentences; indeed, I had not the
least idea what I was saying.
"But there is no real fear, dear," added David, noticing my depression.
"You shall come with me for a nice walk on the cliffs, and it will seem
like old times--or stay"--pulling out his watch, while a sudden thought
struck him--"you don't look quite yourself, little girl; you have got
tired out with ugliness. I was just starting for Chepstow, when you
arrived. Suppose you come with me. I have business there which will
occupy me ten minutes, and then we can take the train and run down to
Tintern. You know how often I promised to show you the Abbey."
"Oh! yes, David," I said, a feverish flush on my face, which he must
have mistaken for pleasure. "I will go with you. I should like it; but
can we not get back to Ffynon to-night?"
"A good thought. Ffynon is as near Tintern as Tynycymmer; we will do
so, Gwladys, and I shall see my little lad all the sooner."
He went out of the room, and I pressed my face, down on my hands. No
fear now that my heart was not aching--it was throbbing so violently
that I thought my self-control must give way. Far more than I ever
feared death, did I at that moment, dread the taking away of a certain
light out of David's eyes, when he spoke of his little lad. I could not
whisper the fatal words yet: it might seem the most unnatural thing in
the world, but I would go with David to Tintern. I would encourage him
to talk. I would listen to what he said. He was depressed now--worn,
weary, not quite himself--recurring each moment to one bright beacon
star--his child. But David had never been allowed to wander alone in
the wilderness without the sunlight. I would wait until God's love
shone out again on his face, and filled his heart. Perhaps this would
happen at Tintern.
I said to myself, it will only make a difference of two or three hours,
and the child is dead. Yes, I will give him that respite. I do not
care what people think, or what people say. I cannot break this news to
him in his home and the child's. This study where he and Amy sat
together, where his boy climbed on his knee and kissed him, where he has
knelt down and prayed to God, and God has visited him, shall not be the
spot where the blow shall fall. He shall learn it from my lips, it is
true. I myself will tell him that his last treasure has been suddenly
and rudely torn away; but not yet, and never at Tynycymmer.
Having made this resolve, I looked at my watch--it was between eleven
and twelve then. I determined that he should learn the evil tidings by
four o'clock; this would enable us to catch the return train from
Chepstow to Cardiff and from thence to Ffynon. No trains ran to Ffynon
in the middle of the day. By allowing David to take me to Tintern, I
would, in reality, only delay his coming to Ffynon by an hour or two.
Whether I acted rightly or wrongly in this matter, I have not the least
idea. I never thought, at that moment, of any right or wrong. I simply
obeyed an impulse. Having quite arranged in my own mind what to do, I
grew instantly much stronger and more composed. My heart began to beat
tranquilly. Having given myself four hours' respite, I felt relieved,
and even capable of playing the part that I must play. I had been, when
first I came, suppressing agitation by the most violent effort; but when
David returned to tell me that the carriage was at the door, I was calm.
He found me with well-assumed cheerfulness, looking over some prints.
"Now, Gwladys, come. We shall just catch the train." I started up with
alacrity and took my seat. As we were driving down the avenue, poor Gyp
began to howl, and David, who could not bear to see a creature in
distress, jumped out and patted him.
"Give Gyp a good dinner," he called back to the servants; "and expect me
home to-morrow."
Nods and smiles from all. No tears, as there might have been--as there
might have been had they known...
It is not very long, measured by weeks and hours, since David and I took
that drive to Tintern; but I think, as God counts time, one day being
sometimes as a thousand years, it _is_ very long ago. It has pushed
itself so far back now in the recesses of my memory--so many events have
followed it, that I cannot tell what we spoke, or even exactly what we
did. By-and-by, when the near and the far assume their true
proportions, I may know all about it; but not just now. At present that
drive to Tintern is very dim to me. But not my visit to Tintern itself.
Was I heartless? It is possible, if I say here that the beauty of
Tintern gave me pleasure on that day. If I say that this was the case,
then some, who don't understand, may call me heartless. For when I
entered the old ruin of Tintern my heart did throb with a great burst of
joy.
I had always loved beautiful things--God's world had always a power over
me. In my naughty fits as a child, I had sat on the edge of a cliff,
gazed down at the waves, and grown quiet. However rebellious I had been
when I went there, I had usually returned, in half-an-hour, penitent;
ready to humble myself in the _very_ dust for my sins. Not all the
voices of all the men and women I knew, could affect me as nature could.
For six months now, I had been living in a very ugly country--a country
so barren and so desolate, that this longing in me was nearly starved;
but even at Ffynon I had found, in my eager wanderings, now and then, a
little gurgling stream--now and then, some pretty leaves and tufts of
grass, and these had ministered to me. Still the country was ugly, and
the place black and barren--what a change to the banks of the Wye, and
the ruins of Tintern. When I entered the Abbey, I became conscious for
the first time that the day was a spring one--soft, sunshiny, and
bright. I looked around me for a moment, almost giddy with surprise and
delight; then I turned to David, and laid my hand on his arm.
"May I sit here," pointing to a stone at the right side of the ruin,
"may I sit here and think, and not speak to any one for half-an-hour?"