But Owen did not come back that night.
We got a nurse for Gwen, who was suffering sadly from her broken leg,
and mother and I sat up together by the dining-room fire.
Without saying a word to each other, but with the same thought in both
our minds, we piled coals on the grate for a night watch.
Mother ordered meat and wine to be laid on the table, then she told the
servants to go to bed, but she gave me no such direction; on the
contrary, she came close to where I had seated myself on the sofa, and
laid her head on my shoulder.
I began to kiss her, and she cried a little, just a tear or two; but
tears never came easily with mother. Suddenly starting up, she looked
me eagerly in the face. "Gwladys, how old are you?"
"Sixteen--nearly seventeen, mother."
"So you are. You were born on May Day. I was so pleased, after my two
big boys, to have a daughter--though you _were_ fair-haired, and not
like the true Morgans. Well, my daughter, you don't want me to treat
you like a child--do you?"
"Dear mother, if you did, you would treat me like what I am not. I can
never be a child again, after to-day."
"I am glad of that--two women can comfort one another."
"Dear mother," I said, kissing her again.
"Gwladys," catching my hand, nervously, "I have had an awful day. I
have still the worst conjectures. I don't believe we are half through
this trouble."
"Dear mother, let us hope so--let us pray to God that it may be so."
"Oh! my dear child, I was never a very religious woman. I never was,
really. I have obeyed the forms, but I think now, I believe now that I
know little of the power. I don't feel as if I _could_ come to God the
moment I am in trouble. If I were like Gwen it would be different--I
wish you could have heard her quoting texts all day long--but I am not
like her. I am not," an emphatic shake of her head. "I am not a
religious woman."
"And, mother," my words coming out slowly, "I am not religious either.
I have no past to go to God with. Still it seems to me that I want God
awfully to-night."
"Oh! my child," breaking down, and beginning to sob pitifully. "I
don't; I only want Owen. Oh I suppose Owen never comes back to me."
"But, mother, that is very unlikely."
"I don't know, Gwladys. You did not see his face when that terrible
news was broken to him this morning. He never spoke to me--he just got
ghastly, and rushed away without a single word; and he has never been
back all day--never once; though that boy--young Thomas, has been
asking, asking for him. He said he had promised to go down into the
mine. I could not stop the boy, or put him off--so unfeeling, after all
that has happened. But _why_ is Owen away? It is dreadful--the sudden
death of the dear little baby. But I never knew Owen cared so much for
him; he only saw him once or twice."
"Mother, I wonder you cannot guess. Do you not know that it was through
Owen's--Owen's--well, mother, I _must_ tell you--it was partly through
Owen that little David was killed."
Mother's face grew very white, her eyes flashed, she left my side, and
went over to the fire. "Gwladys, how dare you--yes, how dare you even
utter such falsehoods. Did Owen take the child to the eye-well? Did
Owen put the wicked bull in the field? How can you say such things of
your brother?"
"They are no falsehoods, mother. If Owen had kept his promise to poor
Mrs Jones, and had the old shaft filled up, nothing would have happened
to the baby."
"It is useless talking to you, Gwladys. I would rather you said no
more. Ever since his return you have been unjust to Owen."
Mother, seating herself in the arm-chair by the fire, turned her back on
me, and I lay down on the sofa. I was very tired--tired with the
tension of my first day of real grief; but I could not sleep, my heart
ached too badly. Hitherto, during the long hours that intervened since
the early morning, I had, as I said, hardly thought of Owen; but now
mother herself could scarcely ponder on his name, or his memory, more
anxiously than I did. As I thought, it seemed to me that I, too, was
guilty of the baby's death. I had turned my heart from my brother--a
thousand things that I might have done I left undone. David had asked
me to help him, to aid him. I had not done so. Never once since his
return had I strengthened his hands in any right way. On the contrary,
had I not weakened them? And much was possible for me. In many ways--
too many and small to mention--I might have kept Owen's feet in the
narrow path of duty. In this particular instance might I not have
reminded him of the old shaft, and so have saved little David's life?
Yes, mother was right. I was unjust to Owen; but I saw now that I had
_always_ been unjust to him. In the old days when I thought him perfect
as well as now. I was a child then, and knew no better. Now I was a
woman. Oh! how bitterly unjust was I to my brother now. Loudly,
sternly did my heart reproach me, until, in my misery and
self-condemnation, I felt that David and Owen could never love me again.
Through the mists and clouds of my own self-accusation, Owen's true
character began to dawn on me. Never wholly good, or wholly bad, had
Owen been. Affectionate, generous, enthusiastic, was one side of that
heart--selfish and vain the other. Carefully had mother and I nurtured
that vanity--and the fall had come. All his life he had been earning
these wages; at last they had been paid to him--paid to him in full and
terrible measure. _The wages of sin is death_. Little David was dead.
Owen's face, as I had seen it this morning, returned to me. His sharp
cry of bitter agony rang again in my ears. Yes, the fruit of all that
easy, careless life had appeared. I saw my brother as he was; but,
strange as it may seem, at last, with all this knowledge, with the veil
torn away from my eyes, I longed, prayed for, and loved him as I had
never done before. I think I did this because also from my heart of
hearts rose the bitter supplication--
"Have mercy on my sin too. Thou who knowest all men--Thou knowest well
that my sin is as deep and black as his."
The clock struck twelve, and mother, who had been sitting silent, and
who I hoped was asleep, moved restlessly, turned round, and addressed
me.
"Has not David gone to look for Owen?"
"He said he would go, mother."
"My dear boy--if any one can find him he will. How did he bear the
terrible news? Gwladys. I had no time to ask you before."
"I can hardly tell you, mother. He said scarcely anything--he seemed
greatly troubled on Owen's account."
"Ah! dear fellow--the most unselfish fellow in the world; and how Owen
does love him. You are sure he has gone to look for him?"
"Dear mother, did you not hear him say so?"
"Yes, yes--well. God give me patience."
Another restless movement from mother, then a couple of hours' silence.
At two o'clock she got up and made down the fire, then went to the
window and looked out, opened her lips to speak to me--I saw the
movement; restrained herself, and sat down again. The clock struck
three. A slight sound of a passing footfall outside, an eager clasping
of mother's hands. The footfall passed--all was stillness. Mother rose
again, poured out a glass of sherry, drank it off, filled out another,
and brought it to my side. I, too, drank the wine without a comment.
Mother returned to her seat, and I went to sleep.
The clock was striking six when I awoke. The window-shutters were open;
the place was full of bright sunshine and daylight. I was awakened by
mother standing over me. She was trembling and half crying.
"Oh! Gwladys--oh! my darling, they have never come home--the whole
night has gone, and they have never appeared. Oh! I am so dreadfully
frightened. Yes, Gwladys, though I am not a religious woman, yet I must
go to God; I must get God to help me. Come with me, my daughter."
Together we went down on our knees. I clasped mother's hands. We
neither of us spoke.
"Say something, Gwladys," said mother.
"Mother--I cannot. I have never prayed aloud."
"Well, a form--some words. I am so broken--so frightened."
"Our Father," I began, impelled to say something quickly by the sound in
mother's voice, "our Father--deliver us from evil."
"Ah! there it is," sobbed mother. "That's what I want. Oh! Lord, hear
me. Oh! Christ, hear me. I'm a poor, weak, broken-down mother. Hear
a mother's cry. Save my boy--deliver my boy from evil. Oh! I have
been wrong to think only of getting back the old place as it used to
be--it was _my_ fault, if any one's, if my Owen forgot to see to the
general safety. I urged him so hard; I gave him no rest. But oh! don't
punish me too hard--deliver my boy--my boy from evil."
Now, I don't know why I said what I did, for all night long my thoughts
and fears had been with Owen; but at this juncture I burst out with an
impulse I could not withstand--with a longing I could not restrain.
"That is not fair--you say nothing about David. Ask God to deliver
David, too, from evil."
"Gwladys, why--why do you say this?"
"I don't know," rising to my feet, and steadying my voice. "Mother, it
is daylight. I will go down to see little Nan--she may tell me
something."