Garthowen | Page 7

shouldn't go if you wish to," said Gwilym Morris.
"I don't wish to," she answered, turning to the tea-table, and pouring out
her brother's tea.
She was a typical Welsh woman, of highly-strung nervous
temperament, though placid in outward appearance and manners,
unselfish even to self-effacement where her kindred were concerned,
but wary and suspicious beyond the pale of relationship or love; a
zealous religionist, but narrow and bigoted in the extreme. In his heart
of hearts Ebben Owens also hated the Church. Dissent had been the
atmosphere in which his ancestors had lived and breathed, but in his
case pride had struggled with prejudice, and had conquered. For three
generations a son had gone forth from Garthowen to the enemy's
Church, and had won there distinction and riches. True, their career had
withdrawn them entirely from the old simple home circle, but this did
not deter Ebben Owens from desiring strongly to emulate his ancestors.
Why should not Will, the clever one of the family, his favourite
son--who had "topped" all the boys at the village school, and had taken
so many prizes in the grammar school at Caer-Madoc--why should not
he gain distinction and preferment in the Church, and shed fresh lustre
on the fading name of "Owens of Garthowen," for the name had lost its
ancient prestige in the countryside? In early time theirs had been a
family of importance, as witness the old deeds in the tin box on the
attic rafters, but for two hundred years they had been simple farmers.
They had never been a thrifty race, and the broad lands which tradition
said once belonged to them had been sold from time to time, until
nothing remained but the old farm with its hundred acres of mountain
land. Ebben Owens never troubled his head, however, about the past

glories of his race. He inherited the "happy-go-lucky," unbusiness-like
temperament which had probably been the cause of his ancestors'
misfortunes, but Will's evident love of learning had aroused in the old
man a strong wish to remind the world that the "Owens of Garthowen"
still lived, and could push themselves to the front if they wished.
As Will drank his tea and cleared plate after plate of bread and butter,
his father looked at him with a tender, admiring gaze. Will had always
been his favourite. Gethin, the eldest son, had never taken hold of his
affections; he had been the mother's favourite, and after her death had
drifted further and further out of his father's good graces. The boy's
nature was a complete contrast to that of his own and second son, for
Gethin was bold and daring, while they were wary and secret; he was
restless and mischievous, while his brother was quiet and sedate; he
was constantly getting into scrapes, while Will always managed to steer
clear of censure. Gethin hated his books too, and, worse than all, he
paid but scant regard to the services in the chapel, which held such an
important place in the estimation of the rest of the household. More
than once Ebben Owens, walking with proper decorum to chapel on
Sunday morning, accompanied by Will and Ann, had been scandalised
at meeting Gethin returning from a surreptitious scramble on the
hillside, with a row of blue eggs strung on a stalk of grass. A hasty rush
into the house to dress, a pell-mell run down the mountain side, a
flurried arrival in the chapel, where Will and his father had already
hung up their hats on the rail at the back of their seat, did not tend to
mitigate the old man's annoyance at his son's erratic ways.
Gethin was the cause of continual disturbances in the household,
culminating at last in a severer thrashing than usual, and a dismissal
from the home of his childhood--a dismissal spoken in anger, which
would have been repented of ere night had not the boy, exasperated at
his utter inability to rule his wild and roving habits, taken his father at
his word and disappeared from the old homestead.
"Let him go," Ebben Owens had said to the tearful pleading Ann. "Let
him go, child; it will do him good if he can't behave himself at home.
Let him go, like many another rascal, and find out whether cold and

hunger and starvation will suit him. Let him feel a pinch or two, and
he'll soon come home again, and then perhaps he'll have come to his
senses and give us less trouble here."
Ann had cried her eyes red for days, and Will had silently grieved over
the loss of his brother, but he had been prudent, and had said nothing to
increase his father's anger, so the days slipped by and Gethin never
returned.
His father, relenting somewhat (for