All this time I had completely forgotten Owen. Never once during the
whole of that day had I given Owen a thought. His agony and his sin
were alike forgotten by me; his very name had passed from my memory.
At the end of two hours David returned to my side, sat down quietly, and
asked me to tell him what I knew.
I did not dare look in his face. I repeated as briefly, as impassively
as I could, what I had witnessed and heard this morning. To make my
story intelligible, it was necessary to mention Owen's forgetfulness of
the old shaft; this brought Owen back to my mind, but with only the
passing thought essential to the telling of my tale.
To my whole story David listened without a comment, or the putting of a
single question. He sat, his head a little forward, his hands clasped
round his knee. I saw that the veins had started prominently forward in
the strong hands. When I came to the part of my tale where Owen
appeared and bent over the dead child, he started for the first time,
and looked me full in the face; then he rose to his feet, put his hand
on my shoulder, and said--
"Come, my dear; we will go home. I must find Owen!"
"Find Owen!" I repeated, too surprised to keep in my hasty words. "Do
you want him so quickly? has he not brought this trouble upon you?"
"Hush, Gwladys, in God's name--this is an awful thing for Owen!"
Once or twice as we travelled back to Ffynon, as quickly as horses and
steam could take us, I heard David say again under his breath, "This is
an awful thing for Owen!"
His first question when we got back, and mother raised her white,
agitated face to his, was--
"Where is Owen? I must see Owen directly!"
"Oh, my boy! he is not here; he has not been here all day. Oh, my dear,
dear boy; I am so terrified about him!"
"Not here all day, mother! Have you no idea where he is?"
"No, my son; he left the house when he heard of the accident, and has
not been back since. David, you won't be hard on him--you will--"
"How can you ask me, mother? Will you never understand what I feel for
Owen?" he said, impatiently, and in pain; then, turning to leave the
room, "I am going to find Owen at once!--but stay! where and how is
Gwen?"
"Gwen is upstairs; she is very ill; she blames herself most bitterly.
She has been asking for you."
"I will see her for a moment before I go. Don't come with me, mother
and Gwladys; I will see her alone."
David had been with Gwen for five minutes, I heard Gwen sobbing, and
David talking to her quietly, when at the end of that time I entered the
room.
"David, Miles Thomas is downstairs; he has been hanging about the place
all day; he begs to see you; he knows about everything. Still, he says
he _must_ see you. I hope nothing is wrong."
"Who is Miles Thomas?"
"A boy--one of the trappers in the mine."
"Oh! of course. I will see him directly."
David and the boy were together for half-an-hour; they paced up and down
outside. I saw David's hand on his shoulder, and observed the boy raise
entreating eyes to his face. At the end of that time Miles ran away,
and David returned to the house. He entered the room where I was trying
to prepare some tea for him. Mother was upstairs with Gwen. David came
up and put his arm round my waist.
"My dear little woman, I want to lay on you a great responsibility."
"I am ready, brother," I said, looking up, bravely. "Gwladys, there is
something not quite right with the mine. I am going down there to-night
with Miles. I cannot look for Owen to-night. If all goes well, as I
hope, I may be up in the morning. I want you, Gwladys, to try and keep
all knowledge of where I have gone from mother, until the morning. She
heard me say I would look for Owen; let her suppose this as long as you
can."
"And you--you are going into danger!"
"I hope not. I hope I am going to prevent danger; but there is
doubtless a possibility of my being too late."
"Then, David," rising selfishly, clinging to him cowardly; "dear David--
dear, dear David, do not go."
"What!" said David, holding me from him, and looking into my face. "No,
my dear; that is not your real counsel, when I may save the lives of
others." Then, seeing that I began to sob again, that I was trembling
and broken with grief. "Come with me, darling; I should like to see the
little lad before I go away." I led the way upstairs. The baby was
lying on my bed--his nursery was used by Gwen. The moonlight--for it
was evening--flooded the white bed, and lit up the pale check. This
time last night I heard Gwen soothing him into his last earthly slumber;
but now, how sweetly did Jesus his shepherd make the baby sleep; the
dark-fringed eyes were hardly closed, the lips were smiling.
"He sees at last, my little lad," said David, stooping down and kissing
him--he was about to say something more, but checked himself; two tears
splashed heavily down on the happy little face, then he went away to my
writing-table, and taking out a pen, ink, and paper, wrote hastily a few
lines, folded up the paper, and brought it back to me.
"_Whenever_ Owen returns, give him that _at once_!"
Then he was gone.