I did not dare look in his face. I repeated as briefly, as impassively as I could, what I had witnessed and heard this morning. To make my story intelligible, it was necessary to mention Owen’s forgetfulness of the old shaft; this brought Owen back to my mind, but with only the passing thought essential to the telling of my tale.
To my whole story David listened without a comment, or the putting of a single question. He sat, his head a little forward, his hands clasped round his knee. I saw that the veins had started prominently forward in the strong hands. When I came to the part of my tale where Owen appeared and bent over the dead child, he started for the first time, and looked me full in the face; then he rose to his feet, put his hand on my shoulder, and said—
“Come, my dear; we will go home. I must find Owen!”
“Find Owen!” I repeated, too surprised to keep in my hasty words. “Do you want him so quickly? has he not brought this trouble upon you?”
“Hush, Gwladys, in God’s name—this is an awful thing for Owen!”
Once or twice as we travelled back to Ffynon, as quickly as horses and steam could take us, I heard David say again under his breath, “This is an awful thing for Owen!”
His first question when we got back, and mother raised her white, agitated face to his, was—
“Where is Owen? I must see Owen directly!”
“Oh, my boy! he is not here; he has not been here all day. Oh, my dear, dear boy; I am so terrified about him!”
“Not here all day, mother! Have you no idea where he is?”