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!"