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diff --git a/2549-0.txt b/2549-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c6fa550 --- /dev/null +++ b/2549-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1775 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Doom of the Griffiths, by Elizabeth Gaskell + +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 +www.gutenberg.org. 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. + +Title: The Doom of the Griffiths + +Author: Elizabeth Gaskell + +Release Date: April 21, 2000 [eBook #2549] +[Most recently updated: December 22, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Price + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS *** + + + + + THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS + + + by Elizabeth Gaskell + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +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. + +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— + + ‘At my nativity + The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes + Of burning cressets . . . + . . . I can call spirits from the vasty deep.’ + +And few among the lower orders in the principality would think of asking +Hotspur’s irreverent question in reply. + +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. + +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: + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _cwrw_. 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. + +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. + +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— + +“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.” + +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— + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Sorbus aucuparia_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +But the curse was at work! The fulfilment of the prophecy was nigh at +hand! + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“That woman! who is she?” + +Owen hesitated one moment, and then replied, in a steady, yet quiet +voice: + +“Father, that woman is my wife.” + +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:— + +“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!” + +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— + +“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!” + +“Fool—poor fool!” + +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. + +“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: + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, + +“Nesta yr buten! How is Nest yr buten?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Father, father!” he cried, “come back! come back! You never knew how I +loved you! how I could love you still—if—Oh God!” + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“It was my doom, father! It would have been better if I had died at my +birth!” + +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. + +“You’re come at last,” said he. “One of our kind (_i.e._, 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.” + +“I did not tell him,” cried Nest, looking piteously at her husband; “he +made me tell him part, and guessed the rest.” + +She was nursing her babe on her knee as if it was alive. Owen stood +before Ellis Pritchard. + +“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!” + +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. + +“Come,” said he; “don’t look so scared! It was your doom, not your +fault;” and he laid a hand on Owen’s shoulder. + +“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.” + +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. + +Her touch thawed Owen’s miserable heart. + +“Oh, Nest!” said he, clasping her in his arms; “do you love me still—can +you love me, my own darling?” + +“Why not?” asked she, her eyes filling with tears. “I only love you more +than ever, for you were my poor baby’s father!” + +“But, Nest—Oh, tell her, Ellis! _you_ know.” + +“No need, no need!” said Ellis. “She’s had enough to think on. Bustle, +my girl, and get out my Sunday clothes.” + +“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. + +“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— + +“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.” + +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. + +“Come, rouse up, man!” said Ellis, growing impatient. But he neither +spoke nor moved. + +“What is the matter, father?” asked Nest, bewildered. + +Ellis kept on watching Owen for a minute or two, till on his daughter’s +repetition of the question, he said— + +“Ask him yourself, Nest.” + +“Oh, husband, what is it?” said she, kneeling down and bringing her face +to a level with his. + +“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.” + +“What does he mean, father?” asked Nest, looking up; but she caught a +gesture from Ellis urging her to go on questioning her husband. + +“I will love you, husband, whatever has happened. Only let me know the +worst.” + +A pause, during which Nest and Ellis hung breathless. + +“My father is dead, Nest.” + +Nest caught her breath with a sharp gasp. + +“God forgive him!” said she, thinking on her babe. + +“God forgive _me_!” said Owen. + +“You did not—” Nest stopped. + +“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!” + +“Then he is safe at the bottom of the sea?” said Ellis, with hungry +eagerness. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“I will never come home again,” said Owen, doggedly. “The place is +accursed!” + +“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.” + +“Never!” said Owen. “I am the last male of my race, and the son has +murdered his father!” + +Nest came in laden and cloaked. Ellis was for hurrying them off. The +fire was extinguished, the door was locked. + +“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. + +“No one shall help me with this,” said she, in a low voice. + +Her father did not understand her; her husband did, and placed his strong +helping arm round her waist, and blessed her. + +“We will all go together, Nest,” said he. “But where?” and he looked up +at the storm-tossed clouds coming up from windward. + +“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. + +“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. + +“Let me look at him, Nest!” said Owen. + +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. + +“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. + +“Don’t talk so, Owen,” said Nest, curling up to him in the darkness of +the copse. “Who knows what may be listening?” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +They sailed into the tossing darkness, and were never more seen of men. + +The house of Bodowen has sunk into damp, dark ruins; and a Saxon stranger +holds the lands of the Griffiths. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOOM OF THE GRIFFITHS *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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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