David's Little Lad

by L. T. Meade

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.”