Domestic fiction; England -- Fiction; Mothers and sons -- Fiction; Religious fiction; Unmarried mothers -- Fiction
The coach passed by the foot of the steep ascent which led up to
Llan-dhu. He took a boy to carry his sister's luggage when she
arrived; they were too soon at the bottom of the hill, and the boy
began to make ducks and drakes in the shallowest part of the stream,
which there flowed glassy and smooth, while Mr Benson sat down on a
great stone, under the shadow of an alder bush which grew where the
green, flat meadow skirted the water. It was delightful to be once
more in the open air, and away from the scenes and thoughts which had
been pressing on him for the last three days. There was new beauty in
everything: from the blue mountains which glimmered in the distant
sunlight, down to the flat, rich, peaceful vale, with its calm round
shadows, where he sat. The very margin of white pebbles which lay on
the banks of the stream had a sort of cleanly beauty about it. He
felt calmer and more at ease than he had done for some days; and yet,
when he began to think, it was rather a strange story which he had to
tell his sister, in order to account for his urgent summons. Here was
he, sole friend and guardian of a poor sick girl, whose very name he
did not know; about whom all that he did know was, that she had been
the mistress of a man who had deserted her, and that he feared--he
believed--she had contemplated suicide. The offence, too, was one for
which his sister, good and kind as she was, had little compassion.
Well, he must appeal to her love for him, which was a very
unsatisfactory mode of proceeding, as he would far rather have had
her interest in the girl founded on reason, or some less personal
basis than showing it merely because her brother wished it.
The coach came slowly rumbling over the stony road. His sister was
outside, but got down in a brisk active way, and greeted her brother
heartily and affectionately. She was considerably taller than he was,
and must have been very handsome; her black hair was parted plainly
over her forehead, and her dark, expressive eyes and straight nose
still retained the beauty of her youth. I do not know whether she
was older than her brother, but, probably owing to his infirmity
requiring her care, she had something of a mother's manner towards
him.
"Thurstan, you are looking pale! I do not believe you are well,
whatever you may say. Have you had the old pain in your back?"
"No--a little--never mind that, dearest Faith. Sit down here, while
I send the boy up with your box." And then, with some little desire
to show his sister how well he was acquainted with the language,
he blundered out his directions in very grammatical Welsh; so
grammatical, in fact, and so badly pronounced, that the boy,
scratching his head, made answer,
"Dim Saesoneg."
So he had to repeat it in English.
"Well now, Thurstan, here I sit as you bid me. But don't try me too
long; tell me why you sent for me."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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