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diff --git a/2549-h/2549-h.htm b/2549-h/2549-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..379af65 --- /dev/null +++ b/2549-h/2549-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2181 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Doom of the Griffiths, by Elizabeth Gaskell</title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + + </style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Doom of the Griffiths, by Elizabeth Gaskell</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Doom of the Griffiths</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Elizabeth Gaskell</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 21, 2000 [eBook #2549]<br /> +[Most recently updated: December 22, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS ***</div> + +<h1>THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Elizabeth Gaskell</h2> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<p> +I have always been much interested by the traditions which are scattered up and +down North Wales relating to Owen Glendower (Owain Glendwr is the national +spelling of the name), and I fully enter into the feeling which makes the Welsh +peasant still look upon him as the hero of his country. There was great joy +among many of the inhabitants of the principality, when the subject of the +Welsh prize poem at Oxford, some fifteen or sixteen years ago, was announced to +be “Owain Glendwr.” It was the most proudly national subject that +had been given for years. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps, some may not be aware that this redoubted chieftain is, even in the +present days of enlightenment, as famous among his illiterate countrymen for +his magical powers as for his patriotism. He says himself—or Shakespeare +says it for him, which is much the same thing— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + ‘At my nativity<br/> +The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes<br/> +Of burning cressets . . . .<br/> +. . . . I can call spirits from the vasty deep.’ +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And few among the lower orders in the principality would think of asking +Hotspur’s irreverent question in reply. +</p> + +<p> +Among other traditions preserved relative to this part of the Welsh +hero’s character, is the old family prophecy which gives title to this +tale. When Sir David Gam, “as black a traitor as if he had been born in +Builth,” sought to murder Owen at Machynlleth, there was one with him +whose name Glendwr little dreamed of having associated with his enemies. Rhys +ap Gryfydd, his “old familiar friend,” his relation, his more than +brother, had consented unto his blood. Sir David Gam might be forgiven, but one +whom he had loved, and who had betrayed him, could never be forgiven. Glendwr +was too deeply read in the human heart to kill him. No, he let him live on, the +loathing and scorn of his compatriots, and the victim of bitter remorse. The +mark of Cain was upon him. +</p> + +<p> +But before he went forth—while he yet stood a prisoner, cowering beneath +his conscience before Owain Glendwr—that chieftain passed a doom upon him +and his race: +</p> + +<p> +“I doom thee to live, because I know thou wilt pray for death. Thou shalt +live on beyond the natural term of the life of man, the scorn of all good men. +The very children shall point to thee with hissing tongue, and say, +‘There goes one who would have shed a brother’s blood!’ For I +loved thee more than a brother, oh Rhys ap Gryfydd! Thou shalt live on to see +all of thy house, except the weakling in arms, perish by the sword. Thy race +shall be accursed. Each generation shall see their lands melt away like snow; +yea their wealth shall vanish, though they may labour night and day to heap up +gold. And when nine generations have passed from the face of the earth, thy +blood shall no longer flow in the veins of any human being. In those days the +last male of thy race shall avenge me. The son shall slay the father.” +</p> + +<p> +Such was the traditionary account of Owain Glendwr’s speech to his +once-trusted friend. And it was declared that the doom had been fulfilled in +all things; that live in as miserly a manner as they would, the Griffiths never +were wealthy and prosperous—indeed that their worldly stock diminished +without any visible cause. +</p> + +<p> +But the lapse of many years had almost deadened the wonder-inspiring power of +the whole curse. It was only brought forth from the hoards of Memory when some +untoward event happened to the Griffiths family; and in the eighth generation +the faith in the prophecy was nearly destroyed, by the marriage of the +Griffiths of that day, to a Miss Owen, who, unexpectedly, by the death of a +brother, became an heiress—to no considerable amount, to be sure, but +enough to make the prophecy appear reversed. The heiress and her husband +removed from his small patrimonial estate in Merionethshire, to her heritage in +Caernarvonshire, and for a time the prophecy lay dormant. +</p> + +<p> +If you go from Tremadoc to Criccaeth, you pass by the parochial church of +Ynysynhanarn, situated in a boggy valley running from the mountains, which +shoulder up to the Rivals, down to Cardigan Bay. This tract of land has every +appearance of having been redeemed at no distant period of time from the sea, +and has all the desolate rankness often attendant upon such marshes. But the +valley beyond, similar in character, had yet more of gloom at the time of which +I write. In the higher part there were large plantations of firs, set too +closely to attain any size, and remaining stunted in height and scrubby in +appearance. Indeed, many of the smaller and more weakly had died, and the bark +had fallen down on the brown soil neglected and unnoticed. These trees had a +ghastly appearance, with their white trunks, seen by the dim light which +struggled through the thick boughs above. Nearer to the sea, the valley assumed +a more open, though hardly a more cheerful character; it looked dark and +overhung by sea-fog through the greater part of the year, and even a +farm-house, which usually imparts something of cheerfulness to a landscape, +failed to do so here. This valley formed the greater part of the estate to +which Owen Griffiths became entitled by right of his wife. In the higher part +of the valley was situated the family mansion, or rather dwelling-house, for +“mansion” is too grand a word to apply to the clumsy, but +substantially-built Bodowen. It was square and heavy-looking, with just that +much pretension to ornament necessary to distinguish it from the mere +farm-house. +</p> + +<p> +In this dwelling Mrs. Owen Griffiths bore her husband two sons—Llewellyn, +the future Squire, and Robert, who was early destined for the Church. The only +difference in their situation, up to the time when Robert was entered at Jesus +College, was, that the elder was invariably indulged by all around him, while +Robert was thwarted and indulged by turns; that Llewellyn never learned +anything from the poor Welsh parson, who was nominally his private tutor; while +occasionally Squire Griffiths made a great point of enforcing Robert’s +diligence, telling him that, as he had his bread to earn, he must pay attention +to his learning. There is no knowing how far the very irregular education he +had received would have carried Robert through his college examinations; but, +luckily for him in this respect, before such a trial of his learning came +round, he heard of the death of his elder brother, after a short illness, +brought on by a hard drinking-bout. Of course, Robert was summoned home, and it +seemed quite as much of course, now that there was no necessity for him to +“earn his bread by his learning,” that he should not return to +Oxford. So the half-educated, but not unintelligent, young man continued at +home, during the short remainder of his parent’s lifetime. +</p> + +<p> +His was not an uncommon character. In general he was mild, indolent, and easily +managed; but once thoroughly roused, his passions were vehement and fearful. He +seemed, indeed, almost afraid of himself, and in common hardly dared to give +way to justifiable anger—so much did he dread losing his self-control. +Had he been judiciously educated, he would, probably, have distinguished +himself in those branches of literature which call for taste and imagination, +rather than any exertion of reflection or judgment. As it was, his literary +taste showed itself in making collections of Cambrian antiquities of every +description, till his stock of Welsh MSS. would have excited the envy of Dr. +Pugh himself, had he been alive at the time of which I write. +</p> + +<p> +There is one characteristic of Robert Griffiths which I have omitted to note, +and which was peculiar among his class. He was no hard drinker; whether it was +that his head was easily affected, or that his partially-refined taste led him +to dislike intoxication and its attendant circumstances, I cannot say; but at +five-and-twenty Robert Griffiths was habitually sober—a thing so rare in +Llyn, that he was almost shunned as a churlish, unsociable being, and paused +much of his time in solitude. +</p> + +<p> +About this time, he had to appear in some case that was tried at the Caernarvon +assizes; and while there, was a guest at the house of his agent, a shrewd, +sensible Welsh attorney, with one daughter, who had charms enough to captivate +Robert Griffiths. Though he remained only a few days at her father’s +house, they were sufficient to decide his affections, and short was the period +allowed to elapse before he brought home a mistress to Bodowen. The new Mrs. +Griffiths was a gentle, yielding person, full of love toward her husband, of +whom, nevertheless, she stood something in awe, partly arising from the +difference in their ages, partly from his devoting much time to studies of +which she could understand nothing. +</p> + +<p> +She soon made him the father of a blooming little daughter, called Augharad +after her mother. Then there came several uneventful years in the household of +Bodowen; and when the old women had one and all declared that the cradle would +not rock again, Mrs. Griffiths bore the son and heir. His birth was soon +followed by his mother’s death: she had been ailing and low-spirited +during her pregnancy, and she seemed to lack the buoyancy of body and mind +requisite to bring her round after her time of trial. Her husband, who loved +her all the more from having few other claims on his affections, was deeply +grieved by her early death, and his only comforter was the sweet little boy +whom she had left behind. That part of the squire’s character, which was +so tender, and almost feminine, seemed called forth by the helpless situation +of the little infant, who stretched out his arms to his father with the same +earnest cooing that happier children make use of to their mother alone. +Augharad was almost neglected, while the little Owen was king of the house; +still next to his father, none tended him so lovingly as his sister. She was so +accustomed to give way to him that it was no longer a hardship. By night and by +day Owen was the constant companion of his father, and increasing years seemed +only to confirm the custom. It was an unnatural life for the child, seeing no +bright little faces peering into his own (for Augharad was, as I said before, +five or six years older, and her face, poor motherless girl! was often anything +but bright), hearing no din of clear ringing voices, but day after day sharing +the otherwise solitary hours of his father, whether in the dim room, surrounded +by wizard-like antiquities, or pattering his little feet to keep up with his +“tada” in his mountain rambles or shooting excursions. When the +pair came to some little foaming brook, where the stepping-stones were far and +wide, the father carried his little boy across with the tenderest care; when +the lad was weary, they rested, he cradled in his father’s arms, or the +Squire would lift him up and carry him to his home again. The boy was indulged +(for his father felt flattered by the desire) in his wish of sharing his meals +and keeping the same hours. All this indulgence did not render Owen unamiable, +but it made him wilful, and not a happy child. He had a thoughtful look, not +common to the face of a young boy. He knew no games, no merry sports; his +information was of an imaginative and speculative character. His father +delighted to interest him in his own studies, without considering how far they +were healthy for so young a mind. +</p> + +<p> +Of course Squire Griffiths was not unaware of the prophecy which was to be +fulfilled in his generation. He would occasionally refer to it when among his +friends, with sceptical levity; but in truth it lay nearer to his heart than he +chose to acknowledge. His strong imagination rendered him peculiarly +impressible on such subjects; while his judgment, seldom exercised or fortified +by severe thought, could not prevent his continually recurring to it. He used +to gaze on the half-sad countenance of the child, who sat looking up into his +face with his large dark eyes, so fondly yet so inquiringly, till the old +legend swelled around his heart, and became too painful for him not to require +sympathy. Besides, the overpowering love he bore to the child seemed to demand +fuller vent than tender words; it made him like, yet dread, to upbraid its +object for the fearful contrast foretold. Still Squire Griffiths told the +legend, in a half-jesting manner, to his little son, when they were roaming +over the wild heaths in the autumn days, “the saddest of the year,” +or while they sat in the oak-wainscoted room, surrounded by mysterious relics +that gleamed strangely forth by the flickering fire-light. The legend was +wrought into the boy’s mind, and he would crave, yet tremble, to hear it +told over and over again, while the words were intermingled with caresses and +questions as to his love. Occasionally his loving words and actions were cut +short by his father’s light yet bitter speech—“Get thee away, +my lad; thou knowest not what is to come of all this love.” +</p> + +<p> +When Augharad was seventeen, and Owen eleven or twelve, the rector of the +parish in which Bodowen was situated, endeavoured to prevail on Squire +Griffiths to send the boy to school. Now, this rector had many congenial tastes +with his parishioner, and was his only intimate; and, by repeated arguments, he +succeeded in convincing the Squire that the unnatural life Owen was leading was +in every way injurious. Unwillingly was the father wrought to part from his +son; but he did at length send him to the Grammar School at Bangor, then under +the management of an excellent classic. Here Owen showed that he had more +talents than the rector had given him credit for, when he affirmed that the lad +had been completely stupefied by the life he led at Bodowen. He bade fair to do +credit to the school in the peculiar branch of learning for which it was +famous. But he was not popular among his schoolfellows. He was wayward, though, +to a certain degree, generous and unselfish; he was reserved but gentle, except +when the tremendous bursts of passion (similar in character to those of his +father) forced their way. +</p> + +<p> +On his return from school one Christmas-time, when he had been a year or so at +Bangor, he was stunned by hearing that the undervalued Augharad was about to be +married to a gentleman of South Wales, residing near Aberystwith. Boys seldom +appreciate their sisters; but Owen thought of the many slights with which he +had requited the patient Augharad, and he gave way to bitter regrets, which, +with a selfish want of control over his words, he kept expressing to his +father, until the Squire was thoroughly hurt and chagrined at the repeated +exclamations of “What shall we do when Augharad is gone?” +“How dull we shall be when Augharad is married!” Owen’s +holidays were prolonged a few weeks, in order that he might be present at the +wedding; and when all the festivities were over, and the bride and bridegroom +had left Bodowen, the boy and his father really felt how much they missed the +quiet, loving Augharad. She had performed so many thoughtful, noiseless little +offices, on which their daily comfort depended; and now she was gone, the +household seemed to miss the spirit that peacefully kept it in order; the +servants roamed about in search of commands and directions, the rooms had no +longer the unobtrusive ordering of taste to make them cheerful, the very fires +burned dim, and were always sinking down into dull heaps of gray ashes. +Altogether Owen did not regret his return to Bangor, and this also the +mortified parent perceived. Squire Griffiths was a selfish parent. +</p> + +<p> +Letters in those days were a rare occurrence. Owen usually received one during +his half-yearly absences from home, and occasionally his father paid him a +visit. This half-year the boy had no visit, nor even a letter, till very near +the time of his leaving school, and then he was astounded by the intelligence +that his father was married again. +</p> + +<p> +Then came one of his paroxysms of rage; the more disastrous in its effects upon +his character because it could find no vent in action. Independently of slight +to the memory of the first wife which children are so apt to fancy such an +action implies, Owen had hitherto considered himself (and with justice) the +first object of his father’s life. They had been so much to each other; +and now a shapeless, but too real something had come between him and his father +there for ever. He felt as if his permission should have been asked, as if he +should have been consulted. Certainly he ought to have been told of the +intended event. So the Squire felt, and hence his constrained letter which had +so much increased the bitterness of Owen’s feelings. +</p> + +<p> +With all this anger, when Owen saw his stepmother, he thought he had never seen +so beautiful a woman for her age; for she was no longer in the bloom of youth, +being a widow when his father married her. Her manners, to the Welsh lad, who +had seen little of female grace among the families of the few antiquarians with +whom his father visited, were so fascinating that he watched her with a sort of +breathless admiration. Her measured grace, her faultless movements, her tones +of voice, sweet, till the ear was sated with their sweetness, made Owen less +angry at his father’s marriage. Yet he felt, more than ever, that the +cloud was between him and his father; that the hasty letter he had sent in +answer to the announcement of his wedding was not forgotten, although no +allusion was ever made to it. He was no longer his father’s +confidant—hardly ever his father’s companion, for the newly-married +wife was all in all to the Squire, and his son felt himself almost a cipher, +where he had so long been everything. The lady herself had ever the softest +consideration for her stepson; almost too obtrusive was the attention paid to +his wishes, but still he fancied that the heart had no part in the winning +advances. There was a watchful glance of the eye that Owen once or twice caught +when she had imagined herself unobserved, and many other nameless little +circumstances, that gave him a strong feeling of want of sincerity in his +stepmother. Mrs. Owen brought with her into the family her little child by her +first husband, a boy nearly three years old. He was one of those elfish, +observant, mocking children, over whose feelings you seem to have no control: +agile and mischievous, his little practical jokes, at first performed in +ignorance of the pain he gave, but afterward proceeding to a malicious pleasure +in suffering, really seemed to afford some ground to the superstitious notion +of some of the common people that he was a fairy changeling. +</p> + +<p> +Years passed on; and as Owen grew older he became more observant. He saw, even +in his occasional visits at home (for from school he had passed on to college), +that a great change had taken place in the outward manifestations of his +father’s character; and, by degrees, Owen traced this change to the +influence of his stepmother; so slight, so imperceptible to the common +observer, yet so resistless in its effects. Squire Griffiths caught up his +wife’s humbly advanced opinions, and, unawares to himself, adopted them +as his own, defying all argument and opposition. It was the same with her +wishes; they met their fulfilment, from the extreme and delicate art with which +she insinuated them into her husband’s mind, as his own. She sacrificed +the show of authority for the power. At last, when Owen perceived some +oppressive act in his father’s conduct toward his dependants, or some +unaccountable thwarting of his own wishes, he fancied he saw his +stepmother’s secret influence thus displayed, however much she might +regret the injustice of his father’s actions in her conversations with +him when they were alone. His father was fast losing his temperate habits, and +frequent intoxication soon took its usual effect upon the temper. Yet even here +was the spell of his wife upon him. Before her he placed a restraint upon his +passion, yet she was perfectly aware of his irritable disposition, and directed +it hither and thither with the same apparent ignorance of the tendency of her +words. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Owen’s situation became peculiarly mortifying to a youth whose +early remembrances afforded such a contrast to his present state. As a child, +he had been elevated to the consequence of a man before his years gave any +mental check to the selfishness which such conduct was likely to engender; he +could remember when his will was law to the servants and dependants, and his +sympathy necessary to his father: now he was as a cipher in his father’s +house; and the Squire, estranged in the first instance by a feeling of the +injury he had done his son in not sooner acquainting him with his purposed +marriage, seemed rather to avoid than to seek him as a companion, and too +frequently showed the most utter indifference to the feelings and wishes which +a young man of a high and independent spirit might be supposed to indulge. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps Owen was not fully aware of the force of all these circumstances; for +an actor in a family drama is seldom unimpassioned enough to be perfectly +observant. But he became moody and soured; brooding over his unloved existence, +and craving with a human heart after sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +This feeling took more full possession of his mind when he had left college, +and returned home to lead an idle and purposeless life. As the heir, there was +no worldly necessity for exertion: his father was too much of a Welsh squire to +dream of the moral necessity, and he himself had not sufficient strength of +mind to decide at once upon abandoning a place and mode of life which abounded +in daily mortifications; yet to this course his judgment was slowly tending, +when some circumstances occurred to detain him at Bodowen. +</p> + +<p> +It was not to be expected that harmony would long be preserved, even in +appearance, between an unguarded and soured young man, such as Owen, and his +wary stepmother, when he had once left college, and come, not as a visitor, but +as the heir to his father’s house. Some cause of difference occurred, +where the woman subdued her hidden anger sufficiently to become convinced that +Owen was not entirely the dupe she had believed him to be. Henceforward there +was no peace between them. Not in vulgar altercations did this show itself; but +in moody reserve on Owen’s part, and in undisguised and contemptuous +pursuance of her own plans by his stepmother. Bodowen was no longer a place +where, if Owen was not loved or attended to, he could at least find peace, and +care for himself: he was thwarted at every step, and in every wish, by his +father’s desire, apparently, while the wife sat by with a smile of +triumph on her beautiful lips. +</p> + +<p> +So Owen went forth at the early day dawn, sometimes roaming about on the shore +or the upland, shooting or fishing, as the season might be, but oftener +“stretched in indolent repose” on the short, sweet grass, indulging +in gloomy and morbid reveries. He would fancy that this mortified state of +existence was a dream, a horrible dream, from which he should awake and find +himself again the sole object and darling of his father. And then he would +start up and strive to shake off the incubus. There was the molten sunset of +his childish memory; the gorgeous crimson piles of glory in the west, fading +away into the cold calm light of the rising moon, while here and there a cloud +floated across the western heaven, like a seraph’s wing, in its flaming +beauty; the earth was the same as in his childhood’s days, full of gentle +evening sounds, and the harmonies of twilight—the breeze came sweeping +low over the heather and blue-bells by his side, and the turf was sending up +its evening incense of perfume. But life, and heart, and hope were changed for +ever since those bygone days! +</p> + +<p> +Or he would seat himself in a favourite niche of the rocks on Moel Gêst, +hidden by a stunted growth of the whitty, or mountain-ash, from general +observation, with a rich-tinted cushion of stone-crop for his feet, and a +straight precipice of rock rising just above. Here would he sit for hours, +gazing idly at the bay below with its back-ground of purple hills, and the +little fishing-sail on its bosom, showing white in the sunbeam, and gliding on +in such harmony with the quiet beauty of the glassy sea; or he would pull out +an old school-volume, his companion for years, and in morbid accordance with +the dark legend that still lurked in the recesses of his mind—a shape of +gloom in those innermost haunts awaiting its time to come forth in distinct +outline—would he turn to the old Greek dramas which treat of a family +foredoomed by an avenging Fate. The worn page opened of itself at the play of +the Œdipus Tyrannus, and Owen dwelt with the craving disease upon the +prophecy so nearly resembling that which concerned himself. With his +consciousness of neglect, there was a sort of self-flattery in the consequence +which the legend gave him. He almost wondered how they durst, with slights and +insults, thus provoke the Avenger. +</p> + +<p> +The days drifted onward. Often he would vehemently pursue some sylvan sport, +till thought and feeling were lost in the violence of bodily exertion. +Occasionally his evenings were spent at a small public-house, such as stood by +the unfrequented wayside, where the welcome, hearty, though bought, seemed so +strongly to contrast with the gloomy negligence of home—unsympathising +home. +</p> + +<p> +One evening (Owen might be four or five-and-twenty), wearied with a day’s +shooting on the Clenneny Moors, he passed by the open door of “The +Goat” at Penmorfa. The light and the cheeriness within tempted him, poor +self-exhausted man! as it has done many a one more wretched in worldly +circumstances, to step in, and take his evening meal where at least his +presence was of some consequence. It was a busy day in that little hostel. A +flock of sheep, amounting to some hundreds, had arrived at Penmorfa, on their +road to England, and thronged the space before the house. Inside was the +shrewd, kind-hearted hostess, bustling to and fro, with merry greetings for +every tired drover who was to pass the night in her house, while the sheep were +penned in a field close by. Ever and anon, she kept attending to the second +crowd of guests, who were celebrating a rural wedding in her house. It was busy +work to Martha Thomas, yet her smile never flagged; and when Owen Griffiths had +finished his evening meal she was there, ready with a hope that it had done him +good, and was to his mind, and a word of intelligence that the wedding-folk +were about to dance in the kitchen, and the harper was the famous Edward of +Corwen. +</p> + +<p> +Owen, partly from good-natured compliance with his hostess’s implied +wish, and partly from curiosity, lounged to the passage which led to the +kitchen—not the every-day, working, cooking kitchen, which was behind, +but a good-sized room, where the mistress sat, when her work was done, and +where the country people were commonly entertained at such merry-makings as the +present. The lintels of the door formed a frame for the animated picture which +Owen saw within, as he leaned against the wall in the dark passage. The red +light of the fire, with every now and then a falling piece of turf sending +forth a fresh blaze, shone full upon four young men who were dancing a measure +something like a Scotch reel, keeping admirable time in their rapid movements +to the capital tune the harper was playing. They had their hats on when Owen +first took his stand, but as they grew more and more animated they flung them +away, and presently their shoes were kicked off with like disregard to the spot +where they might happen to alight. Shouts of applause followed any remarkable +exertion of agility, in which each seemed to try to excel his companions. At +length, wearied and exhausted, they sat down, and the harper gradually changed +to one of those wild, inspiring national airs for which he was so famous. The +thronged audience sat earnest and breathless, and you might have heard a pin +drop, except when some maiden passed hurriedly, with flaring candle and busy +look, through to the real kitchen beyond. When he had finished his beautiful +theme on “The March of the men of Harlech,” he changed the measure +again to “Tri chant o’ bunnan” (Three hundred pounds), and +immediately a most unmusical-looking man began chanting +“Pennillion,” or a sort of recitative stanzas, which were soon +taken up by another, and this amusement lasted so long that Owen grew weary, +and was thinking of retreating from his post by the door, when some little +bustle was occasioned, on the opposite side of the room, by the entrance of a +middle-aged man, and a young girl, apparently his daughter. The man advanced to +the bench occupied by the seniors of the party, who welcomed him with the usual +pretty Welsh greeting, “Pa sut mae dy galon?” (“How is thy +heart?”) and drinking his health passed on to him the cup of excellent +<i>cwrw</i>. The girl, evidently a village belle, was as warmly greeted by the +young men, while the girls eyed her rather askance with a half-jealous look, +which Owen set down to the score of her extreme prettiness. Like most Welsh +women, she was of middle size as to height, but beautifully made, with the most +perfect yet delicate roundness in every limb. Her little mob-cap was carefully +adjusted to a face which was excessively pretty, though it never could be +called handsome. It also was round, with the slightest tendency to the oval +shape, richly coloured, though somewhat olive in complexion, with dimples in +cheek and chin, and the most scarlet lips Owen had ever seen, that were too +short to meet over the small pearly teeth. The nose was the most defective +feature; but the eyes were splendid. They were so long, so lustrous, yet at +times so very soft under their thick fringe of eyelash! The nut-brown hair was +carefully braided beneath the border of delicate lace: it was evident the +little village beauty knew how to make the most of all her attractions, for the +gay colours which were displayed in her neckerchief were in complete harmony +with the complexion. +</p> + +<p> +Owen was much attracted, while yet he was amused, by the evident coquetry the +girl displayed, collecting around her a whole bevy of young fellows, for each +of whom she seemed to have some gay speech, some attractive look or action. In +a few minutes young Griffiths of Bodowen was at her side, brought thither by a +variety of idle motives, and as her undivided attention was given to the Welsh +heir, her admirers, one by one, dropped off, to seat themselves by some less +fascinating but more attentive fair one. The more Owen conversed with the girl, +the more he was taken; she had more wit and talent than he had fancied +possible; a self-abandon and thoughtfulness, to boot, that seemed full of +charms; and then her voice was so clear and sweet, and her actions so full of +grace, that Owen was fascinated before he was well aware, and kept looking into +her bright, blushing face, till her uplifted flashing eye fell beneath his +earnest gaze. +</p> + +<p> +While it thus happened that they were silent—she from confusion at the +unexpected warmth of his admiration, he from an unconsciousness of anything but +the beautiful changes in her flexile countenance—the man whom Owen took +for her father came up and addressed some observation to his daughter, from +whence he glided into some commonplace though respectful remark to Owen, and at +length engaging him in some slight, local conversation, he led the way to the +account of a spot on the peninsula of Penthryn, where teal abounded, and +concluded with begging Owen to allow him to show him the exact place, saying +that whenever the young Squire felt so inclined, if he would honour him by a +call at his house, he would take him across in his boat. While Owen listened, +his attention was not so much absorbed as to be unaware that the little beauty +at his side was refusing one or two who endeavoured to draw her from her place +by invitations to dance. Flattered by his own construction of her refusals, he +again directed all his attention to her, till she was called away by her +father, who was leaving the scene of festivity. Before he left he reminded Owen +of his promise, and added— +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps, sir, you do not know me. My name is Ellis Pritchard, and I live +at Ty Glas, on this side of Moel Gêst; anyone can point it out to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +When the father and daughter had left, Owen slowly prepared for his ride home; +but encountering the hostess, he could not resist asking a few questions +relative to Ellis Pritchard and his pretty daughter. She answered shortly but +respectfully, and then said, rather hesitatingly— +</p> + +<p> +“Master Griffiths, you know the triad, ‘Tri pheth tebyg y naill +i’r llall, ysgnbwr heb yd, mail deg heb ddiawd, a merch deg heb ei +geirda’ (Three things are alike: a fine barn without corn, a fine cup +without drink, a fine woman without her reputation).” She hastily quitted +him, and Owen rode slowly to his unhappy home. +</p> + +<p> +Ellis Pritchard, half farmer and half fisherman, was shrewd, and keen, and +worldly; yet he was good-natured, and sufficiently generous to have become +rather a popular man among his equals. He had been struck with the young +Squire’s attention to his pretty daughter, and was not insensible to the +advantages to be derived from it. Nest would not be the first peasant girl, by +any means, who had been transplanted to a Welsh manor-house as its mistress; +and, accordingly, her father had shrewdly given the admiring young man some +pretext for further opportunities of seeing her. +</p> + +<p> +As for Nest herself, she had somewhat of her father’s worldliness, and +was fully alive to the superior station of her new admirer, and quite prepared +to slight all her old sweethearts on his account. But then she had something +more of feeling in her reckoning; she had not been insensible to the earnest +yet comparatively refined homage which Owen paid her; she had noticed his +expressive and occasionally handsome countenance with admiration, and was +flattered by his so immediately singling her out from her companions. As to the +hint which Martha Thomas had thrown out, it is enough to say that Nest was very +giddy, and that she was motherless. She had high spirits and a great love of +admiration, or, to use a softer term, she loved to please; men, women, and +children, all, she delighted to gladden with her smile and voice. She +coquetted, and flirted, and went to the extreme lengths of Welsh courtship, +till the seniors of the village shook their heads, and cautioned their +daughters against her acquaintance. If not absolutely guilty, she had too +frequently been on the verge of guilt. +</p> + +<p> +Even at the time, Martha Thomas’s hint made but little impression on +Owen, for his senses were otherwise occupied; but in a few days the +recollection thereof had wholly died away, and one warm glorious summer’s +day, he bent his steps toward Ellis Pritchard’s with a beating heart; +for, except some very slight flirtations at Oxford, Owen had never been +touched; his thoughts, his fancy, had been otherwise engaged. +</p> + +<p> +Ty Glas was built against one of the lower rocks of Moel Gêst, which, +indeed, formed a side to the low, lengthy house. The materials of the cottage +were the shingly stones which had fallen from above, plastered rudely together, +with deep recesses for the small oblong windows. Altogether, the exterior was +much ruder than Owen had expected; but inside there seemed no lack of comforts. +The house was divided into two apartments, one large, roomy, and dark, into +which Owen entered immediately; and before the blushing Nest came from the +inner chamber (for she had seen the young Squire coming, and hastily gone to +make some alteration in her dress), he had had time to look around him, and +note the various little particulars of the room. Beneath the window (which +commanded a magnificent view) was an oaken dresser, replete with drawers and +cupboards, and brightly polished to a rich dark colour. In the farther part of +the room Owen could at first distinguish little, entering as he did from the +glaring sunlight, but he soon saw that there were two oaken beds, closed up +after the manner of the Welsh: in fact, the domitories of Ellis Pritchard and +the man who served under him, both on sea and on land. There was the large +wheel used for spinning wool, left standing on the middle of the floor, as if +in use only a few minutes before; and around the ample chimney hung flitches of +bacon, dried kids’-flesh, and fish, that was in process of smoking for +winter’s store. +</p> + +<p> +Before Nest had shyly dared to enter, her father, who had been mending his nets +down below, and seen Owen winding up to the house, came in and gave him a +hearty yet respectful welcome; and then Nest, downcast and blushing, full of +the consciousness which her father’s advice and conversation had not +failed to inspire, ventured to join them. To Owen’s mind this reserve and +shyness gave her new charms. +</p> + +<p> +It was too bright, too hot, too anything to think of going to shoot teal till +later in the day, and Owen was delighted to accept a hesitating invitation to +share the noonday meal. Some ewe-milk cheese, very hard and dry, oat-cake, +slips of the dried kids’-flesh broiled, after having been previously +soaked in water for a few minutes, delicious butter and fresh butter-milk, with +a liquor called “diod griafol” (made from the berries of the +<i>Sorbus aucuparia</i>, infused in water and then fermented), composed the +frugal repast; but there was something so clean and neat, and withal such a +true welcome, that Owen had seldom enjoyed a meal so much. Indeed, at that time +of day the Welsh squires differed from the farmers more in the plenty and rough +abundance of their manner of living than in the refinement of style of their +table. +</p> + +<p> +At the present day, down in Llyn, the Welsh gentry are not a wit behind their +Saxon equals in the expensive elegances of life; but then (when there was but +one pewter-service in all Northumberland) there was nothing in Ellis +Pritchard’s mode of living that grated on the young Squire’s sense +of refinement. +</p> + +<p> +Little was said by that young pair of wooers during the meal; the father had +all the conversation to himself, apparently heedless of the ardent looks and +inattentive mien of his guest. As Owen became more serious in his feelings, he +grew more timid in their expression, and at night, when they returned from +their shooting-excursion, the caress he gave Nest was almost as bashfully +offered as received. +</p> + +<p> +This was but the first of a series of days devoted to Nest in reality, though +at first he thought some little disguise of his object was necessary. The past, +the future, was all forgotten in those happy days of love. +</p> + +<p> +And every worldly plan, every womanly wile was put in practice by Ellis +Pritchard and his daughter, to render his visits agreeable and alluring. +Indeed, the very circumstance of his being welcome was enough to attract the +poor young man, to whom the feeling so produced was new and full of charms. He +left a home where the certainty of being thwarted made him chary in expressing +his wishes; where no tones of love ever fell on his ear, save those addressed +to others; where his presence or absence was a matter of utter indifference; +and when he entered Ty Glas, all, down to the little cur which, with clamorous +barkings, claimed a part of his attention, seemed to rejoice. His account of +his day’s employment found a willing listener in Ellis; and when he +passed on to Nest, busy at her wheel or at her churn, the deepened colour, the +conscious eye, and the gradual yielding of herself up to his lover-like caress, +had worlds of charms. Ellis Pritchard was a tenant on the Bodowen estate, and +therefore had reasons in plenty for wishing to keep the young Squire’s +visits secret; and Owen, unwilling to disturb the sunny calm of these halcyon +days by any storm at home, was ready to use all the artifice which Ellis +suggested as to the mode of his calls at Ty Glas. Nor was he unaware of the +probable, nay, the hoped-for termination of these repeated days of happiness. +He was quite conscious that the father wished for nothing better than the +marriage of his daughter to the heir of Bodowen; and when Nest had hidden her +face in his neck, which was encircled by her clasping arms, and murmured into +his ear her acknowledgment of love, he felt only too desirous of finding some +one to love him for ever. Though not highly principled, he would not have tried +to obtain Nest on other terms save those of marriage: he did so pine after +enduring love, and fancied he should have bound her heart for evermore to his, +when they had taken the solemn oaths of matrimony. +</p> + +<p> +There was no great difficulty attending a secret marriage at such a place and +at such a time. One gusty autumn day, Ellis ferried them round Penthryn to +Llandutrwyn, and there saw his little Nest become future Lady of Bodowen. +</p> + +<p> +How often do we see giddy, coquetting, restless girls become sobered by +marriage? A great object in life is decided; one on which their thoughts have +been running in all their vagaries, and they seem to verify the beautiful fable +of Undine. A new soul beams out in the gentleness and repose of their future +lives. An indescribable softness and tenderness takes place of the wearying +vanity of their former endeavours to attract admiration. Something of this sort +took place in Nest Pritchard. If at first she had been anxious to attract the +young Squire of Bodowen, long before her marriage this feeling had merged into +a truer love than she had ever felt before; and now that he was her own, her +husband, her whole soul was bent toward making him amends, as far as in her +lay, for the misery which, with a woman’s tact, she saw that he had to +endure at his home. Her greetings were abounding in delicately-expressed love; +her study of his tastes unwearying, in the arrangement of her dress, her time, +her very thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +No wonder that he looked back on his wedding-day with a thankfulness which is +seldom the result of unequal marriages. No wonder that his heart beat aloud as +formerly when he wound up the little path to Ty Glas, and saw—keen though +the winter’s wind might be—that Nest was standing out at the door +to watch for his dimly-seen approach, while the candle flared in the little +window as a beacon to guide him aright. +</p> + +<p> +The angry words and unkind actions of home fell deadened on his heart; he +thought of the love that was surely his, and of the new promise of love that a +short time would bring forth, and he could almost have smiled at the impotent +efforts to disturb his peace. +</p> + +<p> +A few more months, and the young father was greeted by a feeble little cry, +when he hastily entered Ty Glas, one morning early, in consequence of a summons +conveyed mysteriously to Bodowen; and the pale mother, smiling, and feebly +holding up her babe to its father’s kiss, seemed to him even more lovely +than the bright gay Nest who had won his heart at the little inn of Penmorfa. +</p> + +<p> +But the curse was at work! The fulfilment of the prophecy was nigh at hand! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<p> +It was the autumn after the birth of their boy; it had been a glorious summer, +with bright, hot, sunny weather; and now the year was fading away as seasonably +into mellow days, with mornings of silver mists and clear frosty nights. The +blooming look of the time of flowers, was past and gone; but instead there were +even richer tints abroad in the sun-coloured leaves, the lichens, the golden +blossomed furze; if it was the time of fading, there was a glory in the decay. +</p> + +<p> +Nest, in her loving anxiety to surround her dwelling with every charm for her +husband’s sake, had turned gardener, and the little corners of the rude +court before the house were filled with many a delicate mountain-flower, +transplanted more for its beauty than its rarity. The sweetbrier bush may even +yet be seen, old and gray, which she and Owen planted a green slipling beneath +the window of her little chamber. In those moments Owen forgot all besides the +present; all the cares and griefs he had known in the past, and all that might +await him of woe and death in the future. The boy, too, was as lovely a child +as the fondest parent was ever blessed with; and crowed with delight, and +clapped his little hands, as his mother held him in her arms at the +cottage-door to watch his father’s ascent up the rough path that led to +Ty Glas, one bright autumnal morning; and when the three entered the house +together, it was difficult to say which was the happiest. Owen carried his boy, +and tossed and played with him, while Nest sought out some little article of +work, and seated herself on the dresser beneath the window, where now busily +plying the needle, and then again looking at her husband, she eagerly told him +the little pieces of domestic intelligence, the winning ways of the child, the +result of yesterday’s fishing, and such of the gossip of Penmorfa as came +to the ears of the now retired Nest. She noticed that, when she mentioned any +little circumstance which bore the slightest reference to Bodowen, her husband +appeared chafed and uneasy, and at last avoided anything that might in the +least remind him of home. In truth, he had been suffering much of late from the +irritability of his father, shown in trifles to be sure, but not the less +galling on that account. +</p> + +<p> +While they were thus talking, and caressing each other and the child, a shadow +darkened the room, and before they could catch a glimpse of the object that had +occasioned it, it vanished, and Squire Griffiths lifted the door-latch and +stood before them. He stood and looked—first on his son, so different, in +his buoyant expression of content and enjoyment, with his noble child in his +arms, like a proud and happy father, as he was, from the depressed, moody young +man he too often appeared at Bodowen; then on Nest—poor, trembling, +sickened Nest!—who dropped her work, but yet durst not stir from her +seat, on the dresser, while she looked to her husband as if for protection from +his father. +</p> + +<p> +The Squire was silent, as he glared from one to the other, his features white +with restrained passion. When he spoke, his words came most distinct in their +forced composure. It was to his son he addressed himself: +</p> + +<p> +“That woman! who is she?” +</p> + +<p> +Owen hesitated one moment, and then replied, in a steady, yet quiet voice: +</p> + +<p> +“Father, that woman is my wife.” +</p> + +<p> +He would have added some apology for the long concealment of his marriage; have +appealed to his father’s forgiveness; but the foam flew from Squire +Owen’s lips as he burst forth with invective against Nest:— +</p> + +<p> +“You have married her! It is as they told me! Married Nest Pritchard yr +buten! And you stand there as if you had not disgraced yourself for ever and +ever with your accursed wiving! And the fair harlot sits there, in her mocking +modesty, practising the mimming airs that will become her state as future Lady +of Bodowen. But I will move heaven and earth before that false woman darken the +doors of my father’s house as mistress!” +</p> + +<p> +All this was said with such rapidity that Owen had no time for the words that +thronged to his lips. “Father!” (he burst forth at length) +“Father, whosoever told you that Nest Pritchard was a harlot told you a +lie as false as hell! Ay! a lie as false as hell!” he added, in a voice +of thunder, while he advanced a step or two nearer to the Squire. And then, in +a lower tone, he said— +</p> + +<p> +“She is as pure as your own wife; nay, God help me! as the dear, precious +mother who brought me forth, and then left me—with no refuge in a +mother’s heart—to struggle on through life alone. I tell you Nest +is as pure as that dear, dead mother!” +</p> + +<p> +“Fool—poor fool!” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the child—the little Owen—who had kept gazing from +one angry countenance to the other, and with earnest look, trying to understand +what had brought the fierce glare into the face where till now he had read +nothing but love, in some way attracted the Squire’s attention, and +increased his wrath. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he continued, “poor, weak fool that you are, hugging +the child of another as if it were your own offspring!” Owen +involuntarily caressed the affrighted child, and half smiled at the implication +of his father’s words. This the Squire perceived, and raising his voice +to a scream of rage, he went on: +</p> + +<p> +“I bid you, if you call yourself my son, to cast away that miserable, +shameless woman’s offspring; cast it away this instant—this +instant!” +</p> + +<p> +In this ungovernable rage, seeing that Owen was far from complying with his +command, he snatched the poor infant from the loving arms that held it, and +throwing it to his mother, left the house inarticulate with fury. +</p> + +<p> +Nest—who had been pale and still as marble during this terrible dialogue, +looking on and listening as if fascinated by the words that smote her +heart—opened her arms to receive and cherish her precious babe; but the +boy was not destined to reach the white refuge of her breast. The furious +action of the Squire had been almost without aim, and the infant fell against +the sharp edge of the dresser down on to the stone floor. +</p> + +<p> +Owen sprang up to take the child, but he lay so still, so motionless, that the +awe of death came over the father, and he stooped down to gaze more closely. At +that moment, the upturned, filmy eyes rolled convulsively—a spasm passed +along the body—and the lips, yet warm with kissing, quivered into +everlasting rest. +</p> + +<p> +A word from her husband told Nest all. She slid down from her seat, and lay by +her little son as corpse-like as he, unheeding all the agonizing endearments +and passionate adjurations of her husband. And that poor, desolate husband and +father! Scarce one little quarter of an hour, and he had been so blessed in his +consciousness of love! the bright promise of many years on his infant’s +face, and the new, fresh soul beaming forth in its awakened intelligence. And +there it was; the little clay image, that would never more gladden up at the +sight of him, nor stretch forth to meet his embrace; whose inarticulate, yet +most eloquent cooings might haunt him in his dreams, but would never more be +heard in waking life again! And by the dead babe, almost as utterly insensate, +the poor mother had fallen in a merciful faint—the slandered, +heart-pierced Nest! Owen struggled against the sickness that came over him, and +busied himself in vain attempts at her restoration. +</p> + +<p> +It was now near noon-day, and Ellis Pritchard came home, little dreaming of the +sight that awaited him; but though stunned, he was able to take more effectual +measures for his poor daughter’s recovery than Owen had done. +</p> + +<p> +By-and-by she showed symptoms of returning sense, and was placed in her own +little bed in a darkened room, where, without ever waking to complete +consciousness, she fell asleep. Then it was that her husband, suffocated by +pressure of miserable thought, gently drew his hand from her tightened clasp, +and printing one long soft kiss on her white waxen forehead, hastily stole out +of the room, and out of the house. +</p> + +<p> +Near the base of Moel Gêst—it might be a quarter of a mile from Ty +Glas—was a little neglected solitary copse, wild and tangled with the +trailing branches of the dog-rose and the tendrils of the white bryony. Toward +the middle of this thicket a deep crystal pool—a clear mirror for the +blue heavens above—and round the margin floated the broad green leaves of +the water-lily, and when the regal sun shone down in his noonday glory the +flowers arose from their cool depths to welcome and greet him. The copse was +musical with many sounds; the warbling of birds rejoicing in its shades, the +ceaseless hum of the insects that hovered over the pool, the chime of the +distant waterfall, the occasional bleating of the sheep from the mountaintop, +were all blended into the delicious harmony of nature. +</p> + +<p> +It had been one of Owen’s favourite resorts when he had been a lonely +wanderer—a pilgrim in search of love in the years gone by. And thither he +went, as if by instinct, when he left Ty Glas; quelling the uprising agony till +he should reach that little solitary spot. +</p> + +<p> +It was the time of day when a change in the aspect of the weather so frequently +takes place; and the little pool was no longer the reflection of a blue and +sunny sky: it sent back the dark and slaty clouds above, and, every now and +then, a rough gust shook the painted autumn leaves from their branches, and all +other music was lost in the sound of the wild winds piping down from the +moorlands, which lay up and beyond the clefts in the mountain-side. Presently +the rain came on and beat down in torrents. +</p> + +<p> +But Owen heeded it not. He sat on the dank ground, his face buried in his +hands, and his whole strength, physical and mental, employed in quelling the +rush of blood, which rose and boiled and gurgled in his brain as if it would +madden him. +</p> + +<p> +The phantom of his dead child rose ever before him, and seemed to cry aloud for +vengeance. And when the poor young man thought upon the victim whom he required +in his wild longing for revenge, he shuddered, for it was his father! +</p> + +<p> +Again and again he tried not to think; but still the circle of thought came +round, eddying through his brain. At length he mastered his passions, and they +were calm; then he forced himself to arrange some plan for the future. +</p> + +<p> +He had not, in the passionate hurry of the moment, seen that his father had +left the cottage before he was aware of the fatal accident that befell the +child. Owen thought he had seen all; and once he planned to go to the Squire +and tell him of the anguish of heart he had wrought, and awe him, as it were, +by the dignity of grief. But then again he durst not—he distrusted his +self-control—the old prophecy rose up in its horror—he dreaded his +doom. +</p> + +<p> +At last he determined to leave his father for ever; to take Nest to some +distant country where she might forget her firstborn, and where he himself +might gain a livelihood by his own exertions. +</p> + +<p> +But when he tried to descend to the various little arrangements which were +involved in the execution of this plan, he remembered that all his money (and +in this respect Squire Griffiths was no niggard) was locked up in his +escritoire at Bodowen. In vain he tried to do away with this matter-of-fact +difficulty; go to Bodowen he must: and his only hope—nay his +determination—was to avoid his father. +</p> + +<p> +He rose and took a by-path to Bodowen. The house looked even more gloomy and +desolate than usual in the heavy down-pouring rain, yet Owen gazed on it with +something of regret—for sorrowful as his days in it had been, he was +about to leave it for many many years, if not for ever. He entered by a side +door opening into a passage that led to his own room, where he kept his books, +his guns, his fishing-tackle, his writing materials, et cetera. +</p> + +<p> +Here he hurriedly began to select the few articles he intended to take; for, +besides the dread of interruption, he was feverishly anxious to travel far that +very night, if only Nest was capable of performing the journey. As he was thus +employed, he tried to conjecture what his father’s feelings would be on +finding that his once-loved son was gone away for ever. Would he then awaken to +regret for the conduct which had driven him from home, and bitterly think on +the loving and caressing boy who haunted his footsteps in former days? Or, +alas! would he only feel that an obstacle to his daily happiness—to his +contentment with his wife, and his strange, doting affection for the +child—was taken away? Would they make merry over the heir’s +departure? Then he thought of Nest—the young childless mother, whose +heart had not yet realized her fulness of desolation. Poor Nest! so loving as +she was, so devoted to her child—how should he console her? He pictured +her away in a strange land, pining for her native mountains, and refusing to be +comforted because her child was not. +</p> + +<p> +Even this thought of the home-sickness that might possibly beset Nest hardly +made him hesitate in his determination; so strongly had the idea taken +possession of him that only by putting miles and leagues between him and his +father could he avert the doom which seemed blending itself with the very +purposes of his life as long as he stayed in proximity with the slayer of his +child. +</p> + +<p> +He had now nearly completed his hasty work of preparation, and was full of +tender thoughts of his wife, when the door opened, and the elfish Robert peered +in, in search of some of his brother’s possessions. On seeing Owen he +hesitated, but then came boldly forward, and laid his hand on Owen’s arm, +saying, +</p> + +<p> +“Nesta yr buten! How is Nest yr buten?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked maliciously into Owen’s face to mark the effect of his words, +but was terrified at the expression he read there. He started off and ran to +the door, while Owen tried to check himself, saying continually, “He is +but a child. He does not understand the meaning of what he says. He is but a +child!” Still Robert, now in fancied security, kept calling out his +insulting words, and Owen’s hand was on his gun, grasping it as if to +restrain his rising fury. +</p> + +<p> +But when Robert passed on daringly to mocking words relating to the poor dead +child, Owen could bear it no longer; and before the boy was well aware, Owen +was fiercely holding him in an iron clasp with one hand, while he struck him +hard with the other. +</p> + +<p> +In a minute he checked himself. He paused, relaxed his grasp, and, to his +horror, he saw Robert sink to the ground; in fact, the lad was half-stunned, +half-frightened, and thought it best to assume insensibility. +</p> + +<p> +Owen—miserable Owen—seeing him lie there prostrate, was bitterly +repentant, and would have dragged him to the carved settle, and done all he +could to restore him to his senses, but at this instant the Squire came in. +</p> + +<p> +Probably, when the household at Bodowen rose that morning, there was but one +among them ignorant of the heir’s relation to Nest Pritchard and her +child; for secret as he tried to make his visits to Ty Glas, they had been too +frequent not to be noticed, and Nest’s altered conduct—no longer +frequenting dances and merry-makings—was a strongly corroborative +circumstance. But Mrs. Griffiths’ influence reigned paramount, if +unacknowledged, at Bodowen, and till she sanctioned the disclosure, none would +dare to tell the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +Now, however, the time drew near when it suited her to make her husband aware +of the connection his son had formed; so, with many tears, and much seeming +reluctance, she broke the intelligence to him—taking good care, at the +same time, to inform him of the light character Nest had borne. Nor did she +confine this evil reputation to her conduct before her marriage, but insinuated +that even to this day she was a “woman of the grove and +brake”—for centuries the Welsh term of opprobrium for the loosest +female characters. +</p> + +<p> +Squire Griffiths easily tracked Owen to Ty Glas; and without any aim but the +gratification of his furious anger, followed him to upbraid as we have seen. +But he left the cottage even more enraged against his son than he had entered +it, and returned home to hear the evil suggestions of the stepmother. He had +heard a slight scuffle in which he caught the tones of Robert’s voice, as +he passed along the hall, and an instant afterwards he saw the apparently +lifeless body of his little favourite dragged along by the culprit +Owen—the marks of strong passion yet visible on his face. Not loud, but +bitter and deep were the evil words which the father bestowed on the son; and +as Owen stood proudly and sullenly silent, disdaining all exculpation of +himself in the presence of one who had wrought him so much graver—so +fatal an injury—Robert’s mother entered the room. At sight of her +natural emotion the wrath of the Squire was redoubled, and his wild suspicions +that this violence of Owen’s to Robert was a premeditated act appeared +like the proven truth through the mists of rage. He summoned domestics as if to +guard his own and his wife’s life from the attempts of his son; and the +servants stood wondering around—now gazing at Mrs. Griffiths, alternately +scolding and sobbing, while she tried to restore the lad from his really +bruised and half-unconscious state; now at the fierce and angry Squire; and now +at the sad and silent Owen. And he—he was hardly aware of their looks of +wonder and terror; his father’s words fell on a deadened ear; for before +his eyes there rose a pale dead babe, and in that lady’s violent sounds +of grief he heard the wailing of a more sad, more hopeless mother. For by this +time the lad Robert had opened his eyes, and though evidently suffering a good +deal from the effects of Owen’s blows, was fully conscious of all that +was passing around him. +</p> + +<p> +Had Owen been left to his own nature, his heart would have worked itself to +doubly love the boy whom he had injured; but he was stubborn from injustice, +and hardened by suffering. He refused to vindicate himself; he made no effort +to resist the imprisonment the Squire had decreed, until a surgeon’s +opinion of the real extent of Robert’s injuries was made known. It was +not until the door was locked and barred, as if upon some wild and furious +beast, that the recollection of poor Nest, without his comforting presence, +came into his mind. Oh! thought he, how she would be wearying, pining for his +tender sympathy; if, indeed, she had recovered the shock of mind sufficiently +to be sensible of consolation! What would she think of his absence? Could she +imagine he believed his father’s words, and had left her, in this her +sore trouble and bereavement? The thought madened him, and he looked around for +some mode of escape. +</p> + +<p> +He had been confined in a small unfurnished room on the first floor, +wainscoted, and carved all round, with a massy door, calculated to resist the +attempts of a dozen strong men, even had he afterward been able to escape from +the house unseen, unheard. The window was placed (as is common in old Welsh +houses) over the fire-place; with branching chimneys on either hand, forming a +sort of projection on the outside. By this outlet his escape was easy, even had +he been less determined and desperate than he was. And when he had descended, +with a little care, a little winding, he might elude all observation and pursue +his original intention of going to Ty Glas. +</p> + +<p> +The storm had abated, and watery sunbeams were gilding the bay, as Owen +descended from the window, and, stealing along in the broad afternoon shadows, +made his way to the little plateau of green turf in the garden at the top of a +steep precipitous rock, down the abrupt face of which he had often dropped, by +means of a well-secured rope, into the small sailing-boat (his father’s +present, alas! in days gone by) which lay moored in the deep sea-water below. +He had always kept his boat there, because it was the nearest available spot to +the house; but before he could reach the place—unless, indeed, he crossed +a broad sun-lighted piece of ground in full view of the windows on that side of +the house, and without the shadow of a single sheltering tree or shrub—he +had to skirt round a rude semicircle of underwood, which would have been +considered as a shrubbery had any one taken pains with it. Step by step he +stealthily moved along—hearing voices now, again seeing his father and +stepmother in no distant walk, the Squire evidently caressing and consoling his +wife, who seemed to be urging some point with great vehemence, again forced to +crouch down to avoid being seen by the cook, returning from the rude +kitchen-garden with a handful of herbs. This was the way the doomed heir of +Bodowen left his ancestral house for ever, and hoped to leave behind him his +doom. At length he reached the plateau—he breathed more freely. He +stooped to discover the hidden coil of rope, kept safe and dry in a hole under +a great round flat piece of rock: his head was bent down; he did not see his +father approach, nor did he hear his footstep for the rush of blood to his head +in the stooping effort of lifting the stone; the Squire had grappled with him +before he rose up again, before he fully knew whose hands detained him, now, +when his liberty of person and action seemed secure. He made a vigorous +struggle to free himself; he wrestled with his father for a moment—he +pushed him hard, and drove him on to the great displaced stone, all unsteady in +its balance. +</p> + +<p> +Down went the Squire, down into the deep waters below—down after him went +Owen, half consciously, half unconsciously, partly compelled by the sudden +cessation of any opposing body, partly from a vehement irrepressible impulse to +rescue his father. But he had instinctively chosen a safer place in the deep +seawater pool than that into which his push had sent his father. The Squire had +hit his head with much violence against the side of the boat, in his fall; it +is, indeed, doubtful whether he was not killed before ever he sank into the +sea. But Owen knew nothing save that the awful doom seemed even now present. He +plunged down, he dived below the water in search of the body which had none of +the elasticity of life to buoy it up; he saw his father in those depths, he +clutched at him, he brought him up and cast him, a dead weight, into the boat, +and exhausted by the effort, he had begun himself to sink again before he +instinctively strove to rise and climb into the rocking boat. There lay his +father, with a deep dent in the side of his head where the skull had been +fractured by his fall; his face blackened by the arrested course of the blood. +Owen felt his pulse, his heart—all was still. He called him by his name. +</p> + +<p> +“Father, father!” he cried, “come back! come back! You never +knew how I loved you! how I could love you still—if—Oh God!” +</p> + +<p> +And the thought of his little child rose before him. “Yes, father,” +he cried afresh, “you never knew how he fell—how he died! Oh, if I +had but had patience to tell you! If you would but have borne with me and +listened! And now it is over! Oh father! father!” +</p> + +<p> +Whether she had heard this wild wailing voice, or whether it was only that she +missed her husband and wanted him for some little every-day question, or, as +was perhaps more likely, she had discovered Owen’s escape, and come to +inform her husband of it, I do not know, but on the rock, right above his head, +as it seemed, Owen heard his stepmother calling her husband. +</p> + +<p> +He was silent, and softly pushed the boat right under the rock till the sides +grated against the stones, and the overhanging branches concealed him and it +from all not on a level with the water. Wet as he was, he lay down by his dead +father the better to conceal himself; and, somehow, the action recalled those +early days of childhood—the first in the Squire’s +widowhood—when Owen had shared his father’s bed, and used to waken +him in the morning to hear one of the old Welsh legends. How long he lay +thus—body chilled, and brain hard-working through the heavy pressure of a +reality as terrible as a nightmare—he never knew; but at length he roused +himself up to think of Nest. +</p> + +<p> +Drawing out a great sail, he covered up the body of his father with it where he +lay in the bottom of the boat. Then with his numbed hands he took the oars, and +pulled out into the more open sea toward Criccaeth. He skirted along the coast +till he found a shadowed cleft in the dark rocks; to that point he rowed, and +anchored his boat close in land. Then he mounted, staggering, half longing to +fall into the dark waters and be at rest—half instinctively finding out +the surest foot-rests on that precipitous face of rock, till he was high up, +safe landed on the turfy summit. He ran off, as if pursued, toward Penmorfa; he +ran with maddened energy. Suddenly he paused, turned, ran again with the same +speed, and threw himself prone on the summit, looking down into his boat with +straining eyes to see if there had been any movement of life—any +displacement of a fold of sail-cloth. It was all quiet deep down below, but as +he gazed the shifting light gave the appearance of a slight movement. Owen ran +to a lower part of the rock, stripped, plunged into the water, and swam to the +boat. When there, all was still—awfully still! For a minute or two, he +dared not lift up the cloth. Then reflecting that the same terror might beset +him again—of leaving his father unaided while yet a spark of life +lingered—he removed the shrouding cover. The eyes looked into his with a +dead stare! He closed the lids and bound up the jaw. Again he looked. This time +he raised himself out of the water and kissed the brow. +</p> + +<p> +“It was my doom, father! It would have been better if I had died at my +birth!” +</p> + +<p> +Daylight was fading away. Precious daylight! He swam back, dressed, and set off +afresh for Penmorfa. When he opened the door of Ty Glas, Ellis Pritchard looked +at him reproachfully, from his seat in the darkly-shadowed chimney-corner. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re come at last,” said he. “One of our kind +(<i>i.e.</i>, station) would not have left his wife to mourn by herself over +her dead child; nor would one of our kind have let his father kill his own true +son. I’ve a good mind to take her from you for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not tell him,” cried Nest, looking piteously at her husband; +“he made me tell him part, and guessed the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +She was nursing her babe on her knee as if it was alive. Owen stood before +Ellis Pritchard. +</p> + +<p> +“Be silent,” said he, quietly. “Neither words nor deeds but +what are decreed can come to pass. I was set to do my work, this hundred years +and more. The time waited for me, and the man waited for me. I have done what +was foretold of me for generations!” +</p> + +<p> +Ellis Pritchard knew the old tale of the prophecy, and believed in it in a +dull, dead kind of way, but somehow never thought it would come to pass in his +time. Now, however, he understood it all in a moment, though he mistook +Owen’s nature so much as to believe that the deed was intentionally done, +out of revenge for the death of his boy; and viewing it in this light, Ellis +thought it little more than a just punishment for the cause of all the wild +despairing sorrow he had seen his only child suffer during the hours of this +long afternoon. But he knew the law would not so regard it. Even the lax Welsh +law of those days could not fail to examine into the death of a man of Squire +Griffith’s standing. So the acute Ellis thought how he could conceal the +culprit for a time. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said he; “don’t look so scared! It was your +doom, not your fault;” and he laid a hand on Owen’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re wet,” said he, suddenly. “Where have you been? +Nest, your husband is dripping, drookit wet. That’s what makes him look +so blue and wan.” +</p> + +<p> +Nest softly laid her baby in its cradle; she was half stupefied with crying, +and had not understood to what Owen alluded, when he spoke of his doom being +fulfilled, if indeed she had heard the words. +</p> + +<p> +Her touch thawed Owen’s miserable heart. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Nest!” said he, clasping her in his arms; “do you love +me still—can you love me, my own darling?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” asked she, her eyes filling with tears. “I only +love you more than ever, for you were my poor baby’s father!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Nest—Oh, tell her, Ellis! <i>you</i> know.” +</p> + +<p> +“No need, no need!” said Ellis. “She’s had enough to +think on. Bustle, my girl, and get out my Sunday clothes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand,” said Nest, putting her hand up to her +head. “What is to tell? and why are you so wet? God help me for a poor +crazed thing, for I cannot guess at the meaning of your words and your strange +looks! I only know my baby is dead!” and she burst into tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Nest! go and fetch him a change, quick!” and as she meekly +obeyed, too languid to strive further to understand, Ellis said rapidly to +Owen, in a low, hurried voice— +</p> + +<p> +“Are you meaning that the Squire is dead? Speak low, lest she hear. Well, +well, no need to talk about how he died. It was sudden, I see; and we must all +of us die; and he’ll have to be buried. It’s well the night is +near. And I should not wonder now if you’d like to travel for a bit; it +would do Nest a power of good; and then—there’s many a one goes out +of his own house and never comes back again; and—I trust he’s not +lying in his own house—and there’s a stir for a bit, and a search, +and a wonder—and, by-and-by, the heir just steps in, as quiet as can be. +And that’s what you’ll do, and bring Nest to Bodowen after all. +Nay, child, better stockings nor those; find the blue woollens I bought at +Llanrwst fair. Only don’t lose heart. It’s done now and can’t +be helped. It was the piece of work set you to do from the days of the Tudors, +they say. And he deserved it. Look in yon cradle. So tell us where he is, and +I’ll take heart of grace and see what can be done for him.” +</p> + +<p> +But Owen sat wet and haggard, looking into the peat fire as if for visions of +the past, and never heeding a word Ellis said. Nor did he move when Nest +brought the armful of dry clothes. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, rouse up, man!” said Ellis, growing impatient. But he +neither spoke nor moved. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, father?” asked Nest, bewildered. +</p> + +<p> +Ellis kept on watching Owen for a minute or two, till on his daughter’s +repetition of the question, he said— +</p> + +<p> +“Ask him yourself, Nest.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, husband, what is it?” said she, kneeling down and bringing her +face to a level with his. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know?” said he, heavily. “You won’t +love me when you do know. And yet it was not my doing: it was my doom.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does he mean, father?” asked Nest, looking up; but she caught +a gesture from Ellis urging her to go on questioning her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“I will love you, husband, whatever has happened. Only let me know the +worst.” +</p> + +<p> +A pause, during which Nest and Ellis hung breathless. +</p> + +<p> +“My father is dead, Nest.” +</p> + +<p> +Nest caught her breath with a sharp gasp. +</p> + +<p> +“God forgive him!” said she, thinking on her babe. +</p> + +<p> +“God forgive <i>me</i>!” said Owen. +</p> + +<p> +“You did not—” Nest stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I did. Now you know it. It was my doom. How could I help it? The +devil helped me—he placed the stone so that my father fell. I jumped into +the water to save him. I did, indeed, Nest. I was nearly drowned myself. But he +was dead—dead—killed by the fall!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he is safe at the bottom of the sea?” said Ellis, with hungry +eagerness. +</p> + +<p> +“No, he is not; he lies in my boat,” said Owen, shivering a little, +more at the thought of his last glimpse at his father’s face than from +cold. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, husband, change your wet clothes!” pleaded Nest, to whom the +death of the old man was simply a horror with which she had nothing to do, +while her husband’s discomfort was a present trouble. +</p> + +<p> +While she helped him to take off the wet garments which he would never have had +energy enough to remove of himself, Ellis was busy preparing food, and mixing a +great tumbler of spirits and hot water. He stood over the unfortunate young man +and compelled him to eat and drink, and made Nest, too, taste some +mouthfuls—all the while planning in his own mind how best to conceal what +had been done, and who had done it; not altogether without a certain feeling of +vulgar triumph in the reflection that Nest, as she stood there, carelessly +dressed, dishevelled in her grief, was in reality the mistress of Bodowen, than +which Ellis Pritchard had never seen a grander house, though he believed such +might exist. +</p> + +<p> +By dint of a few dexterous questions he found out all he wanted to know from +Owen, as he ate and drank. In fact, it was almost a relief to Owen to dilute +the horror by talking about it. Before the meal was done, if meal it could be +called, Ellis knew all he cared to know. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Nest, on with your cloak and haps. Pack up what needs to go with +you, for both you and your husband must be half way to Liverpool by +to-morrow’s morn. I’ll take you past Rhyl Sands in my fishing-boat, +with yours in tow; and, once over the dangerous part, I’ll return with my +cargo of fish, and learn how much stir there is at Bodowen. Once safe hidden in +Liverpool, no one will know where you are, and you may stay quiet till your +time comes for returning.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will never come home again,” said Owen, doggedly. “The +place is accursed!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hoot! be guided by me, man. Why, it was but an accident, after all! And +we’ll land at the Holy Island, at the Point of Llyn; there is an old +cousin of mine, the parson, there—for the Pritchards have known better +days, Squire—and we’ll bury him there. It was but an accident, man. +Hold up your head! You and Nest will come home yet and fill Bodowen with +children, and I’ll live to see it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” said Owen. “I am the last male of my race, and the +son has murdered his father!” +</p> + +<p> +Nest came in laden and cloaked. Ellis was for hurrying them off. The fire was +extinguished, the door was locked. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Nest, my darling, let me take your bundle while I guide you down +the steps.” But her husband bent his head, and spoke never a word. Nest +gave her father the bundle (already loaded with such things as he himself had +seen fit to take), but clasped another softly and tightly. +</p> + +<p> +“No one shall help me with this,” said she, in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +Her father did not understand her; her husband did, and placed his strong +helping arm round her waist, and blessed her. +</p> + +<p> +“We will all go together, Nest,” said he. “But where?” +and he looked up at the storm-tossed clouds coming up from windward. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a dirty night,” said Ellis, turning his head round to speak +to his companions at last. “But never fear, we’ll weather +it?” And he made for the place where his vessel was moored. Then he +stopped and thought a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“Stay here!” said he, addressing his companions. “I may meet +folk, and I shall, maybe, have to hear and to speak. You wait here till I come +back for you.” So they sat down close together in a corner of the path. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me look at him, Nest!” said Owen. +</p> + +<p> +She took her little dead son out from under her shawl; they looked at his waxen +face long and tenderly; kissed it, and covered it up reverently and softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Nest,” said Owen, at last, “I feel as though my +father’s spirit had been near us, and as if it had bent over our poor +little one. A strange chilly air met me as I stooped over him. I could fancy +the spirit of our pure, blameless child guiding my father’s safe over the +paths of the sky to the gates of heaven, and escaping those accursed dogs of +hell that were darting up from the north in pursuit of souls not five minutes +since. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t talk so, Owen,” said Nest, curling up to him in the +darkness of the copse. “Who knows what may be listening?” +</p> + +<p> +The pair were silent, in a kind of nameless terror, till they heard Ellis +Pritchard’s loud whisper. “Where are ye? Come along, soft and +steady. There were folk about even now, and the Squire is missed, and madam in +a fright.” +</p> + +<p> +They went swiftly down to the little harbour, and embarked on board +Ellis’s boat. The sea heaved and rocked even there; the torn clouds went +hurrying overhead in a wild tumultuous manner. +</p> + +<p> +They put out into the bay; still in silence, except when some word of command +was spoken by Ellis, who took the management of the vessel. They made for the +rocky shore, where Owen’s boat had been moored. It was not there. It had +broken loose and disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +Owen sat down and covered his face. This last event, so simple and natural in +itself, struck on his excited and superstitious mind in an extraordinary +manner. He had hoped for a certain reconciliation, so to say, by laying his +father and his child both in one grave. But now it appeared to him as if there +was to be no forgiveness; as if his father revolted even in death against any +such peaceful union. Ellis took a practical view of the case. If the +Squire’s body was found drifting about in a boat known to belong to his +son, it would create terrible suspicion as to the manner of his death. At one +time in the evening, Ellis had thought of persuading Owen to let him bury the +Squire in a sailor’s grave; or, in other words, to sew him up in a spare +sail, and weighting it well, sink it for ever. He had not broached the subject, +from a certain fear of Owen’s passionate repugnance to the plan; +otherwise, if he had consented, they might have returned to Penmorfa, and +passively awaited the course of events, secure of Owen’s succession to +Bodowen, sooner or later; or if Owen was too much overwhelmed by what had +happened, Ellis would have advised him to go away for a short time, and return +when the buzz and the talk was over. +</p> + +<p> +Now it was different. It was absolutely necessary that they should leave the +country for a time. Through those stormy waters they must plough their way that +very night. Ellis had no fear—would have had no fear, at any rate, with +Owen as he had been a week, a day ago; but with Owen wild, despairing, +helpless, fate-pursued, what could he do? +</p> + +<p> +They sailed into the tossing darkness, and were never more seen of men. +</p> + +<p> +The house of Bodowen has sunk into damp, dark ruins; and a Saxon stranger holds +the lands of the Griffiths. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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