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.