LOST.
It is difficult in these days of chemistry, steam, and mechanical
contrivances for reducing labour--if not for dispensing with it
altogether--to realise the difficulties attending the farmer in wild
mountainous districts, far removed from the centres of civilisation, and
unacquainted with the agricultural implements and appliances even then
in use in more favoured districts. Places where there were no carts and
no proper roads, and where the ascents and descents were too abrupt for
anything but a biped or a mule; where every acre of the cultivated
mountain or moorland had to be turned over with the spade, and every
particle of manure laid on the land had to be carried thither in baskets
strapped on human shoulders, or in panniers borne by ass or mule.
Yet, such were the difficulties Mrs. Edwards and other Welsh farmers had
to contend with even up to the present century, the moorland farmers of
Cumberland and the North-West Riding of Yorkshire being somewhat
similarly situated.
The loss of a whole week's labour at the beginning of October was a
serious detriment. Even Rhys knew that, and finding that he was to take
his instructions from his mother and not from Evan, he smothered his
ill-humour and buckled to in earnest, though his brows contracted when a
new form of labour was suggested to him.
'Rhys, do you think you could cut down the bracken at the edge of the
wood?' asked his mother dubiously.
'Yes, surely, I can cut it. Did I not help to reap the oats? But why
should it be cut?'
'Evan says it will save straw in the farmyard, and should be stacked for
bedding for the pigs and cattle before it do be too late. And after it
has served the beasts, it will be better for some of the land than
lime.'
''Deed, an' Evan do seem mighty clever! Houses and bedding for pigs
indeed!'
'Yes, indeed, Rhys, and I am not too proud or too old to learn from him.
Please God, he will be helping us to keep the farm in spite of Mr.
Pryse.'
Not another word of scorn fell from the boy's lips.
Bidding Lewis, the shepherd's son, follow with Breint, the pony, to
carry home the fern, as instructed by his mother, he, with a sickle over
his arm, took his way across a grassy slope towards the steep woodland,
stepping alongside the musical runnel the gushing hill-side spring sent,
as overflow from a huge stone trough or basin, across the land and down
the incline to join the tumbling brook from which the farm derived its
name. The tawny brook itself had its source high up in the peaty moss on
the mountain-top, and had worn, or found, a channel in a narrow cleft
between precipitous rocks, whose seamy sides barely afforded foothold
for fir and larch. Yet widening and deepening into a picturesque glen,
the ash and the elder hung out their red or purple-black berries over
the noisy and tumbling watercourse, and the sturdy trunks of oak and
beech uprose and spread out leafy arms to shade it from the too
intrusive westering sun, dropping in a ripe acorn or a triangular nut
quietly now and then, to float away and fructify in a future season far
from the parent tree.
It was otherwise when the wild north-east winds came rushing and roaring
down the glen, for then ripe or unripe acorns and prickly mast were torn
rudely away along with shoals of russet leaves and flung to the ground
as offerings to the hogs and omnivorous goats, the brook coming in for
its share, as well as the fringe of feathery ferns.
The larger portion of the farm lands were on the steep but undulating
uplands above the white homestead, the more fertile, including the
orchard and the garden-plot, lying below.
Bordered on either side by rough stone fences, and separating the grass
land from these, a wider well-trodden path or road, which the flaky
character of the stony ground converted into a natural succession of
broad shallow steps, trended obliquely from the house to the level or
main road such as it was. Across this, some two hundred yards farther
north, the simple brook spread itself out and chafed at the
stepping-stones which barred its passage to deeper woods and the great
river that would swallow it up. Just as some thoughtless youth rushes
from the safe shelter of a home too narrow for his ambition, and
plunging into the vortex of the untried world is lost for ever.
Some thirty or forty paces beyond the shallow brook stood the low
cottage of Owen Griffith, whitewashed like the larger farm above. Then
the lane took a turn and was crossed by intersecting roads perplexing to
strange travellers.
The outskirts of a flourishing and busy town now cover much of the land
I have described so carefully. Even the lanes and highways have
undergone changes since the Edwardses held Brookside Farm and traversed
them.
On that sunny October forenoon, while Rhys and Lewis cut down fern on
the borders of the wood, and Evan plied his spade to turn over the
stubble in good furrows higher up the hill, Mrs. Edwards midway, like a
true Welsh farmer's wife, resolutely dug up the long-rooted, tenacious
carrots, sparing not her toil, whilst Davy (again in petticoats) and
even four-year-old Jonet freed them from the loosened earth, and cast
them into wicker baskets for Ales to carry from the field to the barn,
poised on her head. The basket was not light when full, but she stepped
along with ease and grace, knitting as she went or came, only tucking
the rapidly increasing stocking in her girdling apron-string whilst she
emptied her load, or changed an empty basket for a full one.
At first, imitative William insisted on helping, or hindering, Davy and
Jonet, and for a while was as busy as the rest. Then he began to trot
beside Ales as she went to and fro. After a time the little bare legs
grew weary, and when the toilers rested on upturned baskets, to take
their noontide meal of oaten cake and buttermilk, he was almost too
sleepy to eat or drink, and, resting his sunny head against his mother's
knee, fell off into a doze.
Seeing that, Ales promptly lifted him up in her strong arms, and,
carrying him to the farm, laid him on his mother's bed and left him
there, as she thought, secure from harm.
Once or twice, after emptying her baskets in the barn, she came down to
the house and found him sleeping peacefully. So an hour and a half must
have slipped by, perhaps more, when turning in to look at her charge,
she found the room vacant.
Still, she was beset by no apprehensions of ill. She made up the
smouldering fire, and did one or two little household matters before she
went back to the field with her empty basket, nothing doubting but she
would find the boy with his mother. He knew his way about the farm.
'Is not Willem with you?' she cried out as she neared the group in the
field. 'He is not in bed.'
'Not in bed?' echoed his mother, but without alarm. ''Deed then, he will
have gone to Evan or to Rhys. That will be it. He will have met Lewis
with the pony, and got a ride in one of the empty panniers.'
'Sure, and that's most like.'
But on her next journey to the barn she saw Lewis bringing up the pony
laden with the panniers of bracken, but no child. Hastily ridding
herself of her load, she waited until he came near. Then she called
out--
'Have you seen Willem?'
''Deed, no! Is he lost again?' came back in reply.
'Lost? Name o' goodness, I hope not! Mistress will go distracted if he
is. Empty your bracken, and keep a look-out; I'm off up the hill to
Evan.'
And away she sped at flying speed, straight as an arrow, over field and
fallow. Her heart sank as she came in sight of Evan digging away as if
his life depended on his day's labour, companioned only by feathered
searchers for the worms he brought to light.
'Evan!' she screamed, affrighted at last, 'have you seen Willem? We
cannot find him anywhere, whatever.'
Down went the man's spade, and over the freshly-turned ground he came
bounding, in spite of his wooden-soled shoes. 'You don't mean to say the
child is lost?' he cried.
But she was already running back to her mistress, who took the alarm as
soon as they came in sight, and clasping her hands in sudden terror,
shrieked out, 'Oh, what is it? What has happened to my boy? Where is my
darling Willem? Oh, if I lose him too, I shall go crazy!'
Her only thought was that the child, in seeking Rhys, had fallen over a
rock and been killed.
Her shriek, her unbidden tears, communicated her fright to Jonet and
Davy, who clung to her skirts and cried for companionship, Jonet hardly
knew why.
There was a general rush to meet Rhys.
'Sure, he will be in the orchard,' said he confidently.
But he was not in the orchard, not anywhere on the farm.
''Deed, and I think he will be for going to the church,' put in Davy.
'He wanted to be going yesterday, look you!'
The idea was instantly caught up. Evan and Rhys were off in search, and
Lewis after them. Ales in vain endeavoured to persuade the mother to
remain behind, whilst she went up to the moor, to see if he had strayed
thither after the sheep. 'Don't fret,' she said, 'they are certain to be
bringing him back soon. His little legs would not carry him far.'
'Oh, Ales,' expostulated her mistress, 'how can you ask me to sit still
while my darling Willem may be dead or in danger?'
'Mother,' said Davy, with a gulp to swallow a sob, 'I will stay and take
care of Jonet if you both go. You will be good with me, won't you,
Jonet?'
'Yes, indeed,' replied the little girl, as his arm stole protectingly
round her shoulders, and he kissed her tear-stained face, 'I will be
very good.'
So, with strong injunctions not to go away, the two children were left
alone in the house, with only a grey cat and a rough dog to bear them
company.
At first they sat still and waited expectantly, clinging to each other.
Then the silence and solitude became oppressive. Presently Jonet began
to cry for her missing playfellow, and when brave-hearted Davy failed to
console her, his own tears began to fall. A dreadful fear began to creep
over him lest William should be lost like his father, and they might
never see him again. How long the time did seem to those two children
left alone with a new fear!
Ales was the first to return. She found the two seated on the stone
stile in front that commanded a view of the steep path, anxiously and
with beating hearts watching for some one to come.
She brought them no good news, and was off again with stool and pail,
for the cows were lowing to be milked. But her very coming had broken up
the dreary silence and monotony. And when she went she left them milk
and cake, and the consciousness she was not far away. Then, at her
suggestion, Davy began to teach Jonet to knit, and in the occupation
time passed less painfully.
Ales came back with her milk-pails, and commended them for being good;
made up the fire and set on the pot for supper. And so long as the
setting sun shone redly in through door and windows they were passive,
and she bustled about her household affairs, hiding her own fears.
But the sun set, and dusk came down, yet never a foot came near the farm
to say the boy was found.
Then Evan came up for lanthorns to renew the search. He said he had been
to the very church gates, but could find no trace of the child. Owen
Griffith had left his loom, and his wife had kept watch to give each
returning seeker news of the others. Mrs. Edwards was then at the
weaver's in pitiable distress, and Rhys rushing hither and thither
almost as wild.
The two children, unwilling to go to bed, had fallen asleep huddled
together in the chimney corner, when, between nine and ten o'clock,
restless Ales thought she heard a shout, and before she could get to the
door in burst Rhys, crying out, 'He is found! he is found!' and close at
his heels came Evan with the poor wanderer in his arms, limp and
helpless, his hair and his clothes saturated with heavy dew or mist, his
little bare feet cut and bleeding, his lips and hands stained with the
juice of purple berries.
The woods and every possible nook and corner seemed to have been
explored, when Evan chanced to question a young man upon the Merthyr
Road. The stupid fellow stared vacantly, then blundered out, ''Deed, an'
sure I did hear something about an hour ago up by the Druid Stones, but
I took it for a stray lamb bleating for the ewe.'
'Well, sure, and it _might_ be a child crying. I didn't go to see,' he
replied stupidly to a second question.
[Illustration: LYING IN THE MIDST OF THE HOARY CIRCLE OF GREY
STONES.--_See page 78._]
Evan stopped to hear no more. Without seeking a regular path, he made
his way through bush and bramble, over rock and hollow, and there in the
very midst of the hoary circle of lichen-covered grey stones, which
seemed to sentinel him round in upright double file, the light of the
lanthorn revealed the child lying in a heap under the overhanging
shadow of the great rocking-stone, his head pillowed on the arm that
rested against its conical base. Had the child mistaken those grey
stones for the upright slabs in the churchyard?
The first rejoicing over, and the boy in bed, Rhys and Ales were both of
opinion that he should be 'well whipped in the morning to teach him
better than to put people in such frights.' And no doubt Evan was of the
same mind, though he made no remark.
But the tender-hearted mother could only thank God for his restoration,
and say that he had punished himself quite sufficiently. He was not
likely to stray again.
Not for some time, for though all his garments were woollen, as were
those of his elders, the damp, the exposure, no less than his childish
terror, laid him up with a feverish illness that lasted for weeks.
As well as could be made out from his disjointed confession, Davy's
conjecture had been the true one.
He had wakened, found himself alone, and had set off to 'see the big
church,' nothing doubting he should find Robert Jones and his donkey to
help him on his way. He had gone splashing through the shallow brook,
and past Owen Griffith's unseen, but when he came to the bisecting roads
his memory failed; he hesitated, turned to the right instead of the
left, trudged on manfully northward, then took a by-path up-hill, as he
fancied to the church, got bewildered among walls and winding ways, and
out on the wild moor, stopping here and there to rest or gather
blackberries, for he was growing both weary and hungry. But he never
felt the solitude oppressive whilst there was a bird or a stray sheep
about. And it was not until the dusk began to gather and he sank utterly
exhausted under the great rocking-stone, that his courage forsook him,
and he cried piteously in his hungry loneliness and desolation, cried
himself into the insensibility of sleep, with only night and the
everlasting arms around him.
In losing himself had he lost his childish craving to see once more that
wonder of wonders--the big church?