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.