David's Little Lad. Meade L. T.
the healthy hue of youth, I coloured its eyes blue, and its hair a golden brown, and I called it, when I had given it life and being, Gwladys Morgan.
I took this fair young person of my creation, and buried her in a living tomb; true, the fresh air of heaven still blew upon her, the sun shone over her head, and the flowers blossomed at her feet. She could walk through lovely gardens, she could watch the coming and going of the fresh tide, on the fresh ocean, she could repose at night in the softest of beds, in a spacious oak-lined room. She could receive counsel and love, from the kind and tender lips of mother and brother. All this she could have, but still she was in a tomb, and the name of the tomb was Tynycymmer. Her body was free, as far as the walls of her prison allowed it, to roam, but her mind, with its noble aspirations, her soul, which had conceived great and possible commissions of wide and ever-widening usefulness, these were shut up in a tomb; in short, this feeling, breathing creature, with her talents and her longings, was buried alive.
Having consigned Gwladys to this fate, I went on to imagine the result. She would struggle in vain for freedom, she would beat with her wings – poor imprisoned bird – against her cage, she would pant and long for a less confined air, for emancipation from her living grave, she would suffer in uncomplaining silence, and then gradually, her mind would recoil upon itself, her aspiring soul would cease to struggle, and starved out with earth’s hard fate, would soar to nobler worlds! – (here my tears began to drop).
But I had not done yet; I imagined still further, and in all its minutest details, the body’s decay of this suffering creature. How thin and hollow, how pale and worn the once round and rosy cheeks would become! what a pathetic and far-away look of sad yearning would enter the blue eyes! how the curling hair would begin to grow! – I did not like the idea of the hair growing thin, it was not poetical – had not nurse Gwen a great bald division in her hair, a division clefting her raven locks asunder, deep and wide as a potato ridge? No, I substituted thin locks for grey, and so completed the picture.
Over my completed picture I should assuredly have wept, had not, at this opportune juncture, the blue eyes, which were certainly anything but dim as yet, descried, bowling smoothly along the road, and making swift advances to Tynycymmer, a little pony-carriage, driven by a pair of hands, very well fitted for their present task, that of keeping two spirited ponies in order. Into the long, winding avenue the carriage dashed, down the avenue it sped, and the next instant it had drawn up at the front entrance, and a large, strongly-made man was helping a delicate, stately woman to alight. The strong man was my brother, the woman was my mother.
Quick as lightning, I had left my seat in the nursery window, had wreathed my face with smiles, had filled my heart with laughter, had, for the time being, banished every trace of the ugly, bad dream in which I had been indulging, had descended the stairs almost like an arrow from its bow, had lifted mother bodily up the steps, and placed her amid my own and David’s laughter, in the old oak arm-chair, the family heirloom, the undoubted gift of some old Arch-Druid ancestor, which stood in the wide entrance hall.
“Well! mother, what an age you’ve been away! Did you catch the first train this morning? Aren’t you dreadfully tired? What was it like, was it glorious? Were there crowds of people? Did the Bishop preach? Is the music ringing in your ears? Doesn’t your head ache? And oh! did you get a new fashion for my blue silk gown?”
These questions I poured out, toppling them one over the other, down on my knees the while, removing mother’s boots, and encasing her dear, pretty feet in a pair of warm, fur-lined slippers.
“I saw one or two nicely-dressed girls,” began mother slowly, whereupon I suspended my operations with her feet, and looked up with a face of absorbed interest.
“And, Gwladys,” said David, laying his hand on my shoulder, “you are to come to-morrow, the Messiah is to be sung, and I will take you over.”
“Oh! oh! oh!” I exclaimed, beginning to dance about, but then observing that mother was gazing at me a little sadly, I stopped short, and exclaimed with a sudden burst of unselfishness —
“The pony-carriage only holds two; I don’t want to take mother’s place.”
“No, my darling, I am tired, I should not care to go again to-morrow, and I want you to hear the Messiah.”
“We must start even earlier than to-day, Gwladys,” continued David, as he led the way to the supper-room. “We nearly missed the train this morning, and I have unfortunately failed to get reserved seats, but you don’t mind a crowd?”
“I love a crowd,” I answered energetically; looking and feeling, as I spoke, a totally different creature from the sentimental being who had gazed with dismal eyes from the nursery window, half an hour before.
“What kind of voice had Madame Edith Wynne, mother, and did you hear Sims Reeves?”
“Sims Reeves did not sing to-day, but he will to-morrow in the Messiah,” replied mother.
“And I shall be there to-morrow!” I exclaimed again, then a sudden thought darted through my brain, and I fell into a reverie.
In my great excitement and delight at the prospect of going to Hereford, to the festival of the Three Choirs, I had forgotten something which now returned to my memory with painful consciousness. I had nothing to wear. My blue silk, my beautiful navy blue, mother’s last present, was still unmade, and my white dress was with the laundress. My white dress, though simple and childish, was new and tolerably fashionable, and in no other could I think of appearing before the great and gay world of Hereford, on this my first visit.
“Mother,” I said, jumping from my seat, and upsetting a cup of hot tea over Gyp the terrier, “I must go this very moment to speak to Nancy at the lodge; she has got my frock, and she must iron it to-night.”
Without waiting for a reply, I ran out of the room, and bonnetless and hatless sped up the avenue. The light autumn breeze tossed my curls into wild confusion, my gay voice rose, humming a merry Welsh air. Very far away now were my gloomy thoughts, very like a child I felt, as I walked on. My mind was fully occupied with my promised treat, my dreams were all rainbow tinted, my world all tinged with sunshine and glory. The only cloud that shadowed the gay expanse of my firmament was the possibility of my white dress not being ironed in time for me to wear.
Chapter Two
David, I am Tired of Tynycymmer
When I reached the lodge, Nancy, a stout, red-faced Welsh woman, came out to meet me, accompanied by a troupe of wild-looking children, who stood round and stared with open eyes and mouths, for Miss Morgan of Tynycymmer was a great person in their eyes.
“Is my white dress ready? Nancy; I want to wear it to-morrow morning early.”
“Eh! dear, dear, Miss Gwladys,” dropping a profound curtsey. “Eh! goodness me! yes, I’ll h’iron it to-night, miss. Get out of that, Tum,” addressing her sturdy-limbed son, who had placed himself between his mother and me.
“I know what Tum wants,” I said. “Here, Tum, Dai, Maggie, catch!”
I threw some halfpence amongst the children, and turned away.
As I did so, two ladies came out of the lodge; one, a handsome dark-eyed girl, a casual acquaintance of mine, came eagerly to my side.
“Now, Miss Morgan, I call this provoking; what right have you to go away, just when I want to know you!”
“What do you mean?” I asked, bluntly.
“You are going away from Tynycymmer?”
“Indeed we are not,” I said.
“Well, but my mother heard it from – oh! I forgot,” blushing deeply and looking confused. “I was not to say. Of course it is not the case, or you would know – just idle gossip; I am sorry I mentioned it, but so glad you are not going.”
“Good-night,” I said, holding out my hand.
I had retraced a few steps home, when my little friend ran after me.
“Please, please, Miss Morgan, you won’t speak of this; I should get into trouble, indeed.”
“Oh,