“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.