I was silent. Gwen’s words might be true, and she, even if she did love Owen as I loved him, might take the comfort of them. She who had known of the sorrow and pain for four years, might be glad now if she could; but I, who until a few hours before had placed Owen far above even the elder brother in the father’s house, how could I think of the repentant prodigal, in his rags and misery, without pain, how could I help failing to receive comfort! I little knew then, I little dreamt, that our rags and misery, our shame and bitter repentance, may often but lead us nearer to the Father and the Father’s home. If the storm alone can bring the child to nestle in the Father’s breast, surely the storm must be sent for good!
“Gwen,” I said, at last, “I think ’tis very hard.”
“What’s hard? my dear.”
“I think ’tis hard that this should have been kept from me all these years, that I should have been dreaming of Owen, and fancying good and glory, when ’twas all shame and evil. I think ’twas very bitter to keep it from me, Gwen.”
“Well, my dear, I’d have broke the news to you, and so I think would the Squire, but my mistress, she was so fearful that you’d fret—and—and—she knew, we all knew, how your heart was bound up with Mr Owen.”
“I think it is bitter to deceive any one,” I continued, “to let them waste love. Well, ’tis done now, it can’t be helped.” There was, I knew, a bitter tension about my lips, but my eyes were dry, they shed no more tears. I felt through and through my frame, that my hero was gone, my idol shattered into a thousand bits.
“Gwen,” I said, “I could not ask David to-day, but I had better know. I don’t mind pain. I’m not a child, and I’ve got to bear pain like every one else. What was it Owen did, Gwen,—what was his sin?”
“Nay, my dear, my dear, I can’t rightly tell you, I don’t rightly know, Gwladys. It had something to say to money, a great lot of money, and I know David saved him, David paid it h’all up and set him free. I don’t know what he did rightly, Gwladys, my maid, I never heard more than one little end and another little end, but I believe there was dishonour at the bottom of it, and ’twas that cut up the Squire, and I’m quite sure too, Gwladys, that the Squire never told my mistress the half; she thought ’twas all big debts that they must cramp the estate to pay, but ’twas more.”
“What was it?” I said, “I don’t want to be deceived again, I wish to know all.”