As Gwen spoke, I no longer found her arms comforting. I rose to my feet, went to the window, from where I could see the silver moon reflecting glorious light on the glistening waves.
“Good-night, Gwen,” I said, when she had done speaking. “I’m tired; don’t stay any longer—good-night.”
“But, Gwladys,” said Gwen, looking at me with astonishment.
“Good-night,” I repeated, in a gentle voice; but the voice was accompanied with a little haughty gesture; and Gwen, still with a look of surprise, went slowly out of the room.
I shut the door; but though I had told her I was tired, I did not go to bed.
I knelt down by the open window, placed my elbows on the window-sill, leant my cheeks on my hands, gazed steadfastly out at the silver-tipped waves, and now I called up David’s last item of news. I summoned my enemy to the forefront of the battle, and prepared to fight him to the death.
Owen had sinned!
I was a proud girl—proud with the concentrated pride of a proud race. Sin and disgrace were synonymous. I writhed under those three pregnant words—Owen had sinned. But for David, Owen would have been publicly disgraced. Had he been a cousin, had he been the most distantly connected member of our house, such a fact in connection with him could hardly have failed to make my cheeks burn with humiliation. But the one who brought me this agony, was not a stranger cousin, but a brother—the brother I loved, the brother I had dreamed of, the brother I had boasted of, the brother who had, hitherto, embodied to me every virtue under the sun. How well I remembered the graceful, athletic young form, the flashing, dark eyes, the ring of the clear voice, as he said to me—
“You—a Morgan! I would scorn to do a dirty action, if I were you.”
I was the culprit then. I had been discovered by Owen, surreptitiously hiding away for private consumption some stolen cherries. I was eight years old at the time, and the sharp words had wrung from me a wail of shame and woe. I flung the fruit away. I would not show my ashamed face for the rest of the evening. I was cured for ever of underhand dealings. The next day I begged Owen’s pardon—it was granted, and from that time his word was law to me. I was his slave. For the next four years, until I was twelve years old, I was Owen’s faithful and devoted slave. He was my king, and my king could do no wrong. His vacations were my times of blessing, his absence my time of mourning. He ordered me about a great deal, but his commands were my pleasure. He rather took advantage of my affection, to impose hard tasks on his little slave; but the slave loved her taskmaster, and work for him was light. I was a romantic, excitable, enthusiastic child, and Owen played with a skilful hand on these strong chords in my heart. He knew what words would excite my imagination, what stories would fire my enthusiasm; these stories and these words he gave, not always—sometimes, indeed, at rare intervals—but just when he saw I needed them, when I was weary and spent after a long day of waiting on my despotic young king—standing patient while he fished, or copying with my laboured, but neat hand, his blotted exercises; then my reward would come—a few, well-selected lines from Byron, a story from history, or a fairy tale told as only Owen could tell it. I would lie at his feet then, or better still, recline with my head on his breast, while he stretched himself under the trees. Then after an hour or two of this, would come in a soft, seductive whisper in my ear—