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“Then I must find some one who can,” proceeded Gwen, rising.
“Stay, Gwen,” I said, earnestly. “I know a little girl very well here, she has lived all her life in this place, and is sure to have heard of the well. I am sure, too, she would never tell a soul. Shall I go to her and find out if she can come with us?”
“Do, my dear maid, and let me know soon, for I am sore and anxious.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Eye-Well
I found that Nan knew all about the eye-well, and had a very strong belief in its curative powers; she was only too anxious and willing to accompany us, and accordingly at five o’clock next morning, Gwen, little David, and I met her, and set off to our destination with a delightful sense of secrecy and mystery.
I look back on that day now, when, light-hearted, happy, not having yet met with any real sorrow, I stood and laughed at the baby’s shouts of glee, when Gwen dipped his head under the cold water. I remember the reproving look of dear old Gwen’s anxious face, and the expectant half-fearful, half-wondering gaze of Nan. I see again the water of the old well, trembling on the dark lashes of two sightless eyes, a little voice shouts manfully, a white brow is radiant, dimples play on rosy cheeks, golden brown curls are wet and drip great drops on the hard, worn hand of Gwen. Nan, excited and trembling, falls on her knees and prays for a blessing. Gwen prays also. I take David’s little lad into my own arms, he clasps me firmly, shouts and laughs anew. I too, in a voiceless prayer, ask God to bless the noble boy. We are standing under a great tree, whose sheltering branches protect the old well, the bright sun shines in flickering light through the early spring leaves, on the boughs the birds sing, from the hedge a white rabbit peeps. Yes, I see it all, but I see it now with a precipice beyond. I see now where the sun went down and the dark night came on. I see where the storm began to beat, that took our treasure away.
It was the evening before the third visit to the eye-well; I heard Gwen in the room fitted up for a temporary nursery, singing little David to sleep.
Hush-a-by, little dear,
Hush-a-by, lovely child.
It was the old Welsh lullaby song. Soft, soft, softer went her voice to the queer old measure, the quaint old words —
Hush-a-by, lovely child,
Hush – hush – hush – hush!
Profound stillness, no one could keep awake after that last hush of Gwen’s; I felt my own eyes closing. The next moment I found myself starting up to see the singer standing before me.
“David’s asleep, my dear, and, Gwladys, you need not come with me in the morning.”
In a very sleepy tone, induced by my early rising and the lullaby song, “Oh! yes, Gwen, I don’t – mind – I’d better.”
“No, no, my dear lamb, David and me’ll go alone to-morrow; little Nan ain’t coming neither.”
“Very well, Gwen,” I said, just asleep.
I was in bed when Gwen came again to me.
“My maid, I’m very trouble to you to-night.”
“No, Gwen, what is it?”
To my surprise, Gwen burst into tears; this unusual sign of emotion roused me completely.
“Oh! my maid, I’m fearful and troubled, I don’t know why. I’ve set my heart so on the baby getting his sight. If I could only take him back seeing to the Squire, I think I could die content.”
“Well, Gwen, perhaps you will. Of course, I don’t quite believe in the eye-well as much as you do, but still, who knows?”
“No one knows, Gwladys, that’s what’s troubling me; the Almighty has it all hid from us. He may think it good for the baby not to see. There’s sights in this world what ain’t right for mortal eyes, perhaps He have shut up his, to make and keep the little heart all the whiter.”
“Perhaps so, Gwen; as you say, God knows best.”
“Yes, only I do feel troubled to-night; perhaps ’tis wrong of me to take the baby to the h’eye-well, but I did pray for a blessing. Eh! dear, but I’m faithless.”
“You are down-hearted anyhow,” I said. “Go to bed now and dream that the baby is kissing you, and looking at you, and thanking you as he knows how, for getting him his eyesight. Good-night, dear Gwen.” But Gwen did not respond to my good-night, she knelt on by my bedside; at last she said in a change of voice —
“Gwladys, have you made it up with Owen?”
I was excited by Gwen’s previous words, now the sore place in my heart ached longingly. I put my arms round my old nurse’s neck.
“Gwen, Gwen, Owen and I will never understand each other again.”
“I feared she’d say that,” repeated Gwen, “I feared it; and yet ain’t it strange, to make an idol of the dreaming boy, and to shut up the heart against the man who has suffered, repented, who will yet be noble!”
“Oh! Gwen, if I could but think it! Will he ever be that?”
“I said, Gwladys,” continued Gwen, “that he was coming home to His Father, he was coming up out of the wilderness of all his sin and folly to the Father’s house, he aren’t reached it yet – not quite – when he do, he will be noble.”
I was silent.
“’Tis often a sore bit of road,” continued Gwen, “sore and rough walkin’, but when the Father is waiting for us at the top of the way; waiting and smiling, with arms outstretched, why then we go on even through death itself to find Him.”
“And when we find Him?” I asked.
“Ah! my maid, when we find Him, ’tis much the same, I think, as when the shepherd overtook the lost lamb; the lamb lies down in the shepherd’s arms, and the child in the Father’s, ’tis much the same.”
I lay back again on my pillow; Gwen covered me up, kissed me tenderly, and went away. I lay quiet for a few moments, then I sat up in bed, pressed my hands on my cheeks, and looked out through the window, at the white sky and shining moon. I looked eagerly and passionately. I had been sleepy; I was not sleepy now. After a time of steady gazing into the pitiless cold heavens, I began to cry, then out of my sobs two words were wrung from me, “My Father.” Never was there a girl more surrounded by religious influences, and yet less at heart religious than I. This was the first time in my whole life that I really felt a conscious want of God. The wish for God and the longing to understand Owen, to be reconciled to Owen, came simultaneously, but neither were very strong as yet. As yet, these two wants only stirred some surface tears, and beat on the outer circle of my heart. I knew nothing of the longing which would even go through the valley of the shadow of death to the Father, nothing of the love which would care a thousand times more for Owen because he had sinned and had repented. I wanted God only a little, my cry was but from the surface of my heart, still it was a real cry, and had more of the true spirit of prayer in it than all the petitions I had made carelessly, morning and evening since my babyhood.
After a time I lay down, and, tired out, went to sleep. I did not sleep easily, I had confused dreams of Owen, of little David, of Gwen. Then I had a distinct vision. I saw the children of the under-viewer, playing on the place where the shaft leading down into Pride’s Pit had been; the ground was smooth, the danger was past, the children played happily and shouted gleefully. Two of them ran to tell their mother, the baby stayed to throw gravel into the air. All looked secure, but it was not so; as I watched, I suddenly perceived that the work was badly done, the place only half filled up; as I watched, I saw the loose stones and rubbish give way, and the baby sink into the loathsome pit below; although I was quite close, I could hold out no hand to save the under-viewer’s baby.
Chapter Fifteen
That Man was Owen
Tired with my two days’ early rising, I did not get up until late. I had nearly finished dressing, and was standing by my window, when I heard a woman’s voice calling me in muffled tones below.
My room looked to the back of the house, and the woman had come to the inside of a thick fuchsia-hedge, which here divided the cottage, and its tiny surroundings, from the road.
Looking out, I saw the under-viewer’s wife, gazing up with clasped hands and a white face.
“For the love of God, come down to me quietly, Miss Morgan.”
The pain and anguish in the woman’s face communicated part of her intelligence to me. I knew there was great and urgent need for me to go downstairs without anybody hearing. The immediate action which this required, prevented my feeling any pain. I stood by the woman, looked hard into her eyes, and said, “Well?”
“Dear heart, you must know it,” she said, taking my hand. “Come with me.”
She almost pushed me before her through the little gate; when we got on the high road, she began to run. I knew that she was going in the direction of Pride’s Pit. My strangely vivid dream returned to me. Here was a solution of the mystery. I believed in dreams – this dream was not accidental. It had been sent to me as a warning – it was true. Owen had neglected to have the shaft, leading into Pride’s Pit, filled up, and the under-viewer’s child had fallen a victim to this neglect. The child had fallen down the old shaft. He was dead, and the mother was bringing me now to show me face to face what my brother’s carelessness had effected. The life of a little child was sacrificed. I was to see for myself what Owen had done. I felt sure of this. The woman ran very fast, and I kept pace by her side. The distance was over half a mile, and partly up-hill. When we came to the ascent, which was rather steep, we could not go quite so quickly, and I had time to look in the woman’s face. It was hard and set, the lips very white, the eyes very staring. She neither looked at me nor spoke. It came into my heart that she was cruel, even though her child was dead, to hurry me forward without one word of warning: to show me, without any preparation, what my brother had done. I would not be treated so. I would not face this deed without knowing what I was to see. The instant I made this resolution, I stood still.
“Stop!” I said. “I will know all. Is the baby dead?”
The woman stood still also, pressing her hand on her labouring breast. “Dear heart! she knows,” she gasped. “Yes, yes, my dear – the baby’s dead.”
I did not say I was sorry, nor a single word. I simply, after my momentary pause, began to run harder than ever. We had now got in sight of the pit, and I saw a little crowd of people about it. Some men in their miners’ dresses, a boy or two, a larger proportion of women. I half expected the men, women, and children to curse me as I drew near. We ran a little faster, and the woman’s panting breath might have been heard at some distance. Suddenly a boy caught sight of us, and detaching himself from the group, ran to the woman’s side.
“Does she know?” he exclaimed, catching her hand almost frantically. “She must not see without knowing.”
The boy, who spoke in a voice of agony, was Miles Thomas.
“Yes,” replied the woman; “she guessed it herself. She knows that the baby’s dead.”
“Thank God!” said the boy. I looked from one face to the other. I could not help pitying myself, as though it were my sorrow. I thought the boy’s tone the kindest – he should take me to see the murdered child. Suddenly I changed my mind. Why should I need or look for compassion. The mother had come all this way to punish me and mine – the mother’s just revenge should not be foiled. When we got into the group, I took her hand.
“You shall show him to me,” I said. “You shall show me your little dead baby.”
There was a pause on all sides – one or two people turned aside. I saw a woman put her apron to her face, and heard a man groan. Every eye was fixed on me, and, at the same moment, the under-viewer’s wife and Miles went on their knees, and began to sob.
“Oh! my darling; you are wrong – you have made a mistake,” began the woman.
“I felt she did not, could not know,” sobbed Miles.
The crowd opened a little more, and I went forward. Very near the mouth of the old shaft, lying on a soft bed of grass and undergrowth, was a woman – a woman with a face as white as death. I went up close to her, and gazed at her steadily. Her face looked like death, but she was not dead – a moan or two came through white lips. By the side of the woman, stretched also flat, lay a child; his hat was thrown by his side, and one little leg was bare of shoe and stocking. A white frock was also considerably soiled, and even torn. I took in all these minor details first – then my eyes rested on the face. I went down on my knees to examine the face, to note its expression more attentively. On the brow, but partly concealed by the hair, was a dark mark, like a bruise, otherwise the face was quiet, natural, life-like. A faint colour lingered in the cheeks; the lips were parted and smiling.
The woman was groaning in agony. The child was quiet – looking as a child will look when he has met with a new delight. I laid my hand on the little heart – it never stirred. I felt the tiny pulse – it was still. The injured and suffering woman was Gwen. The dead baby was not the under-viewer’s child, but David’s little lad.
I took no further notice of Gwen, but I kept on kneeling by the side of the dead child. I have not the least idea whether I was suffering at this moment; my impression is that I was not. Mind, body, spirit, were all quiet under the influence of a great shock. I knew and realised perfectly that little David was dead; but I took in, as yet, no surrounding circumstances. Finding that I was so still, that I neither sobbed nor groaned – in fact, that I did nothing but gaze steadily at the dead child, the under-viewer’s wife knelt down by my side, and began to pour out her tale. She did this with considerable relief in her tone. When she began to speak, Miles also knelt very close to me, and laid his hand with a caressing movement on my dress. I was pleased with Miles’ affection – glad to receive it – and found that I could follow the tale told by the under-viewer’s wife, without any effort.
I mention all this just to show how very quiet I not only was in body, but in mind.
“No, the shaft was never filled in,” began the woman. “I waited day after day, but it was never done; and little Ellen, and Gwenllynn, and the baby, they seemed just from contrariness to h’always want to go and look over the brink. And what made it more danger, was the brambles and grass, and growth of h’all kinds, which from never being cut away, has got thicker year by year; so that coming from that side,” pointing west with her finger, “you might never see the old shaft at all, but tumble right in, and know nothing till you reach the bottom. Well, I was so frighted with this, and the contrariness of the children, that finding Mr Morgan had forgot again to have the shaft filled in, or closed round, only last night I spoke to my husband, and begged him to cut away some of the rankest of the growth, as it war, what it is, a sin and a shame to have the shaft like a trap, unknown to folks; but my husband, he war dead tired, and he knowed that I’m timmersome, so he only said, ‘Let be, woman – let be.’ And this morning he was away early – down to the mine. Well,” after a long pause, “I had done my bit o’ work. I had dressed the baby – bless him – and given Ellen and Gwenllynn their breakfast, and I was standing by the house door, my eye on the old shaft, and my mind set on the thought that I might put up a fence round it myself, so as to ward off the children, when sudden and sharp – almost nigh to me – I heard a woman scream, and looking, I saw a woman running for her bare life, and screaming and making for my cottage; and she had a child in her arms; and sudden, when I saw her, I knew who she was, and why she was running. I knew she was the nurse of Squire Morgan’s little son, and that she had the child with her. I knew she had been to the eye-well, for the cure of the sight of the baby, and that she was coming by this short cut home. And she never knew that she’d have to pass through the field with Mr Daniels’ bull. Well, I saw her running, and the bull after her, but he was a good way behind; and I thought she’d reach the cottage. And I shouted out to encourage her; when all on a heap, it flashed on me, that she was making straight for the shaft, and that she’d be right down in the pit, if I couldn’t stop her. Just then, two men came up, and turned the bull aside, but she didn’t know it, and kept on running harder and harder. ‘Stop!’ I shouted. ‘Stop! you’ll be down in the mine’; but she neither heeded nor heard me, and she went right through the thicket and the underwood. I heard it cracking under her feet. I saw her fall, and scream more piercing than h’ever.” Another pause from the narrator – then in a breathless kind of way, “I war at the other side o’ the pit in a twinkling. She had not gone down – not quite. Her head was above the ground, and she was holding on for bare life to a bit of underwood. She could only hold with one hand; the other was round the child. In one second she’d have been down, for the weight was too much, when I threw myself on my face and hands, and grasped the baby’s frock. ‘Hold the tree with both hands,’ I said, ‘and I’ll keep the baby.’ Poor soul! she looked up at me so anguish-like; but she did what I bid her, or they’d both have gone down. I was drawing up the baby, when a loose stone came tumbling – it was not much, it but hit him sharp on the temple. He never cried out, but his head dropped all on a sudden. When I got him to the top, he was dead. I laid him on the bank, and just then the men who had turned away the bull, came up, and they lifted the woman out of the shaft – one of her legs was broke!”
The under-viewer’s wife paused to wipe the moisture from her brow. Just then little feet came pattering, and the living child of the under-viewer, about whom I had grieved and dreamt, came up and looked down at the dead child of my brother. The face of the living baby gazed solemnly at the face of the dead baby. Nobody interrupted him, and he sat down and put, half in play, as though expecting an answering touch, his plump hand on the little hand that was still. At this moment there was a commotion in the crowd, then profound stillness, then a giving way on all sides, and a man’s hasty footsteps passed rapidly through our midst. Up straight to where the dead child was lying, the man came. He bent his head a little – he saw no other creature. This man was Owen. For about half a minute he was still. Then from his lips came one sharp cry – the sharpest cry of anguish I ever heard from mortal lips – then he rushed away.
Chapter Sixteen
The Little Lad
“Mother,” I said, “I will go to Tynycymmer, and tell David.”
“No, no, my dear child; you are not able.”
“Mother, some one must tell him; you have to stay here to take care of poor Gwen when they bring her home, and perhaps Owen will come back. Mother, I will tell David, only I may tell him in my own way, may I not?”
“As you please, my child, my child!”
Mother put her head down on the table and began to sob.
I kissed her. I was not crying. From the first I had never shed a tear. I kissed mother two or three times, then I went out and asked Miles, who had followed me home, to get the horse put to Owen’s dog-cart; when the dog-cart was ready, I kissed mother again and got into it.
“Come with me, Miles,” I said to the boy.
The bright colour mounted to his cheeks, he was preparing to jump into the vacant seat by my side, when suddenly he stopped, his face grew pale, and words came out hurriedly —
“No, I mustn’t, I’d give the world to, but I mustn’t.”
“Why not, when I ask you? you needn’t go into the mine to-day.”
“Perhaps not to work, but I must, I must wait for Mr Morgan; I must take him into the mine.”
“Well, I cannot stay,” I said impatiently; “tell Williams to take me to the railway station at P – .” As I drove away I had a passing feeling that Miles might have obliged me by coming, otherwise, I thought no more of his words. After a rapid drive I reached the railway station; I had never travelled anywhere, I had never gone by rail alone in my life, but the great pressure on my mind prevented my even remembering this fact. I procured a ticket, stepped into the railway carriage, and went as far in the direction of Tynycymmer as the train would take me. At the little roadside station where I alighted, I found that I could get a fly. I ordered one, then went into the waiting-room, and surveyed my own image in a small cracked glass. I took off my hat and arranged my hair tidily; after doing this, I was glad to perceive that I looked much as usual, if only my eyes would laugh, and my lips relax a little from their unyouthful tension? The fly was ready, I jumped in; a two-mile drive would bring me to Tynycymmer. Hitherto in my drive from Ffynon, and when in the railway carriage, I had simply let the fact lie quiescent in my heart that I was going to tell David. Now, for the first time, I had to face the question, “How shall I tell him?” The necessary thought which this required, awoke my mind out of its trance. I did not want to startle him; I wished to break this news so as to give him as little pain as possible. I believed, knowing what I did of his character, that it could be so communicated to him, that the brightness should reach him first, the shadow afterwards. This should be my task; how could I accomplish it? Would not my voice, choked and constrained from long silence, betray me? Of my face I was tolerably confident. It takes a long time for a young face like mine to show signs of grief; but would not my voice shake? I would try it on the driver, who I found knew me well, and was only waiting for me to address him. Touching his hat respectfully, the man gave me sundry odds and ends of information. “Yes, Mr Morgan was very well; but there had been a good deal of sickness about, and little Maggie at the lodge had died. Squire Morgan was so good to them all; he was with little Maggie when she died.”
“Did Maggie die of the fever?” I asked.
“Yes, there was a good deal of it about.”
“And was it not infectious?”
“Well, perhaps so, but only amongst children.”
I said nothing more, only I resolved more firmly than ever to break the news gently to David.
I was received with a burst of welcome from trees and shining waves, early spring flowers, and dear birds’ notes. Gyp got up from the mat where he lay in the sunshine, and wagged his tail joyfully, and looked with glad expressive eyes into my face. The servants poured out a mixture of Welsh and English. I began to tremble; I very nearly gave way. I asked for David; he was out, somewhere at the other end of the estate; he would however be back soon, as he was going on business to Chepstow. The servants offered to go and fetch him, but I said no, I would wait until he came in. I went into the house, how familiar everything looked! the old oak chairs in the hall, the flowers and ferns. I opened the drawing-room door, but did not enter, for its forlorn and dismantled condition reminded me forcibly that with familiarity had come change. A few months ago I had longed for change, but now to-day I disliked it. I knew for the first time to-day that change might mean evil as well as good. I went into David’s study and sat down to wait for him; the study looked as it had done since I was a little child. No, even here there was a difference. Over the mantelpiece was an engraving, so placed that the best light might fall on it. It was Noel Paton’s “Mors Janua Vitae.” I suppose most people have seen the original. David and Amy had brought this painter’s proof home after their short wedding trip. It was a great favourite of Amy’s; she had said once or twice, when least shy and most communicative, that the dying knight reminded her of David. For the first time to-day, as I looked at it, I saw something of the likeness. I stood up to examine it more closely – the victorious face, humble, trustful, glad, – stirred my heart, and awoke in me, though apparently without any connection between the two, the thoughts of last night. I again began to feel the need of God. I pressed my hands to my face; “God give me strength,” I said very earnestly. This was my second real prayer.
I had hardly breathed it, when David’s hand was on my shoulder.
“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.
