hisonly comforter was the sweet little boy whom she had left behind. Thatpart of the squire’s character, which was so tender, and almost feminine,seemed called forth by the helpless situation of the little infant, whostretched out his arms to his father with the same earnest cooing thathappier children make use of to their mother alone. Augharad was almostneglected, while the little Owen was king of the house; still next to hisfather, none tended him so lovingly as his sister. She was so accustomedto give way to him that it was no longer a hardship. By night and by dayOwen was the constant companion of his father, and increasing yearsseemed only to confirm the custom. It was an unnatural life for thechild, seeing no bright little faces peering into his own (for Augharadwas, as I said before, five or six years older, and her face, poormotherless girl! was often anything but bright), hearing no din of clearringing voices, but day after day sharing the otherwise solitary hours ofhis father, whether in the dim room, surrounded by wizard-likeantiquities, or pattering his little feet to keep up with his “tada” inhis mountain rambles or shooting excursions. When the pair came to somelittle foaming brook, where the stepping-stones were far and wide, thefather carried his little boy across with the tenderest care; when thelad was weary, they rested, he cradled in his father’s arms, or theSquire would lift him up and carry him to his home again. The boy wasindulged (for his father felt flattered by the desire) in his wish ofsharing his meals and keeping the same hours. All this indulgence didnot render Owen unamiable, but it made him wilful, and not a happy child.He had a thoughtful look, not common to the face of a young boy. He knewno games, no merry sports; his information was of an imaginative andspeculative character. His father delighted to interest him in his ownstudies, without considering how far they were healthy for so young amind.
Of course Squire Griffiths was not unaware of the prophecy which was tobe fulfilled in his generation. He would occasionally refer to it whenamong his friends, with sceptical levity; but in truth it lay nearer tohis heart than he chose to acknowledge. His strong imagination renderedhim peculiarly impressible on such subjects; while his judgment, seldomexercised or fortified by severe thought, could not prevent hiscontinually recurring to it. He used to gaze on the half-sad countenanceof the child, who sat looking up into his face with his large dark eyes,so fondly yet so inquiringly, till the old legend swelled around hisheart, and became too painful for him not to require sympathy. Besides,the overpowering love he bore to the child seemed to demand fuller ventthan tender words; it made him like, yet dread, to upbraid its object forthe fearful contrast foretold. Still Squire Griffiths told the legend,in a half-jesting manner, to his little son, when they were roaming overthe wild heaths in the autumn days, “the saddest of the year,” or whilethey sat in the oak-wainscoted room, surrounded by mysterious relics thatgleamed strangely forth by the flickering fire-light. The legend waswrought into the boy’s mind, and he would crave, yet tremble, to hear ittold over and over again, while the words were intermingled with caressesand questions as to his love. Occasionally his loving words and actionswere cut short by his father’s light yet bitter speech—“Get thee away, mylad; thou knowest not what is to come of all this love.”
When Augharad was seventeen, and Owen eleven or twelve, the rector of theparish in which Bodowen was situated, endeavoured to prevail on SquireGriffiths to send the boy to school. Now, this rector had many congenialtastes with his parishioner, and was his only intimate; and, by repeatedarguments, he succeeded in convincing the Squire that the unnatural lifeOwen was leading was in every way injurious. Unwillingly was the fatherwrought to part from his son; but he did at length send him to theGrammar School at Bangor, then under the management of an excellentclassic. Here Owen showed that he had more talents than the rector hadgiven him credit for, when he affirmed that the lad had been completelystupefied by the life he led at Bodowen. He bade fair to do credit tothe school in the peculiar branch of learning for which it was famous.But he was not popular among his schoolfellows. He was wayward, though,to a certain degree, generous and unselfish; he was reserved but gentle,except when the tremendous bursts of passion (similar in character tothose of his father) forced their way.
On his return from school one Christmas-time, when he had been a year orso at Bangor, he was stunned by hearing that the undervalued Augharad wasabout to be married to a gentleman of South Wales, residing nearAberystwith. Boys seldom appreciate their sisters; but Owen thought ofthe many slights with which he had requited the patient Augharad, and hegave way to bitter regrets, which, with a selfish want of control overhis words, he kept expressing to his father, until the Squire wasthoroughly hurt and chagrined at the repeated exclamations of “What shallwe do when Augharad is gone?” “How dull we shall be when Augharad ismarried!” Owen’s holidays were prolonged a few weeks, in order that hemight be present at the wedding; and when all the festivities were over,and the bride and bridegroom had left Bodowen, the boy and his fatherreally felt how much they missed the quiet, loving Augharad. She hadperformed so many thoughtful, noiseless little offices, on which theirdaily comfort depended; and now she was gone, the household seemed tomiss the spirit that peacefully kept it in order; the servants roamedabout in search of commands and directions, the rooms had no longer theunobtrusive ordering of taste to make them cheerful, the very firesburned dim, and were always sinking down into dull heaps of gray ashes.Altogether Owen did not regret his return to Bangor, and this also themortified parent perceived. Squire Griffiths was a selfish parent.
Letters in those days were a rare occurrence. Owen usually received oneduring his half-yearly absences from home, and occasionally his fatherpaid him a visit. This half-year the boy had no visit, nor even aletter, till very near the time of his leaving school, and then he wasastounded by the intelligence that his father was married again.
Then came one of his paroxysms of rage; the more disastrous in itseffects upon his character because it could find no vent in action.Independently of slight to the memory of the first wife which childrenare so apt to fancy such an action implies, Owen had hitherto consideredhimself (and with justice) the first object of his father’s life. Theyhad been so much to each other; and now a shapeless, but too realsomething had come between him and his father there for ever. He felt asif his permission should have been asked, as if he should have beenconsulted. Certainly he ought to have been told of the intended event.So the Squire felt, and hence his constrained letter which had so muchincreased the bitterness of Owen’s feelings.
With all this anger, when Owen saw his stepmother, he thought he hadnever seen so beautiful a woman for her age; for she was no longer in thebloom of youth, being a widow when his father married her. Her manners,to the Welsh lad, who had seen little of female grace among the familiesof the few antiquarians with whom his father visited, were so fascinatingthat he watched her with a sort of breathless admiration. Her measuredgrace, her faultless movements, her tones of voice, sweet, till the earwas sated with their sweetness, made Owen less angry at his father’smarriage. Yet he felt, more than ever, that the cloud was between himand his father; that the hasty letter he had sent in answer to theannouncement of his wedding was not forgotten, although no allusion wasever made to it. He was no longer his father’s confidant—hardly ever hisfather’s companion, for the newly-married wife was all in all to theSquire, and his son felt himself almost a cipher, where he had so longbeen everything. The lady herself had ever the softest consideration forher stepson; almost too obtrusive was the attention paid to his wishes,but still he fancied that the heart had no part in the winning advances.There was a watchful glance of the eye that Owen once or twice caughtwhen she had imagined herself unobserved, and many other nameless littlecircumstances, that gave him a strong feeling of want of sincerity in hisstepmother. Mrs. Owen brought with her into the family her little childby her first husband, a boy nearly three years old. He was one of thoseelfish, observant, mocking children, over whose feelings you seem to haveno control: agile and mischievous, hi
s little practical jokes, at firstperformed in ignorance of the pain he gave, but afterward proceeding to amalicious pleasure in suffering, really seemed to afford some ground tothe superstitious notion of some of the common people that he was a fairychangeling.
Years passed on; and as Owen grew older he became more observant. Hesaw, even in his occasional visits at home (for from school he had passedon to college), that a great change had taken place in the outwardmanifestations of his father’s character; and, by degrees, Owen tracedthis change to the influence of his stepmother; so slight, soimperceptible to the common observer, yet so resistless in its effects.Squire Griffiths caught up his wife’s humbly advanced opinions, and,unawares to himself, adopted them as his own, defying all argument andopposition. It was the same with her wishes; they met their fulfilment,from the extreme and delicate art with which she insinuated them into herhusband’s mind, as his own. She sacrificed the show of