Minette was in a great state of excitement whilst saying her hymn, and repeated it so energetically, and withal so feelingly, that the attention of Mrs Jones, Miss Gwynne, and Rowland was quite drawn towards her. They did not, therefore, notice the still greater excitement of Mr Jones, as he was, professedly, looking at the hymn book to see whether the child repeated her task correctly.
'Well done, my little niece,' cried Rowland, catching her up in his arms, and giving her a hearty kiss.
'Let me go, uncle. Mr Jones, Mr Jones,' screamed Minette, 'may I go with you to see the poor children, Mr Jones?'
Mr Jones did not even hear the entreating appeal of the little girl. He was out of the drawing-room, book in hand, and in Gladys' work-room, almost before the struggling Minette was released from her uncle's arms, and forcibly caught by Miss Gwynne.
Gladys was sitting quietly at her work, humming low the air of the hymn Minette had been saying, when Mr Jones entered the room abruptly.
'Gladys, tell me where you got this book?' he said, putting the hymn book on the table before her.
He looked so nervous and excited that Gladys was almost frightened.
'My mother gave it me, sir,' was the reply.
'And who wrote these names?' he asked, pointing to the words written on the fly-leaf, which were, "Margaret Jones, from her affectionate brother, William Jones."
'My uncle, sir, I believe, who gave the book to my mother.'
'And your mother—your mother, who was she?'
'The daughter of a clergyman, sir.'
'I know that. But where—what—who?'
'That is what I don't know, sir.'
'Who did she marry? For God's sake tell me all, Gladys.'
'She ran away with my father, sir, an Irish soldier, a corporal named O'Grady. She went abroad with him, and did not come back to Ireland for two years.'
'And then—and her father—and—and her brother?'
'Her father was dead, sir, and nobody knew where her brother was.'
'Where did her father live?'
'Alas! sir, I cannot tell that either. We never talked to my poor mother about him, because it made her so unhappy, and as he was dead, I had no interest in asking for the address. All I know was, that she was Welsh; and when she was dying, she told me to go into Wales and find my uncle. I don't think she quite knew what she was saying, but I came.'
The tears gathered in Gladys' eyes, and hearing a strange heavy sigh from Mr Jones, she looked up at him through their mist, and saw that he was struggling to speak through some great emotion.
'Oh, sir! what is the matter?' said Gladys, rising and going towards him as he stood, trembling, on the other side of her work-table.
He could not speak, but opening his arms as she approached him, folded her in them, and kissed her, as she had not been kissed before, since her poor mother died.
Gladys could only yield to the embrace, she knew not wherefore. She loved Mr Jones as if he were her own father, he had been almost like a father to her ever since she had been in his house; she felt as if she were once more in a father's arms.
We will leave them thus for one moment, to return to the drawing-room.
Mrs Jones, in her turn, kissed Minette, and praised her for repeating her hymn so well.
'But where is Mr Jones?' asked the child. 'Will he take me to see the little boys and girls?'
'I think he must be gone to find a book for you, dear,' was the reply.
But as neither Mr Jones nor the book came, Mrs Jones got rather fidgety, and fancying her husband might be ill, left the room to see what had become of him. She went to the dining-room, study, and bedroom, and, not finding him, went to ask Gladys whether she knew where he was. She was not a little astonished at finding him with Gladys in his arms, and the door half open at his back.
Mrs Jones was not a jealous wife, but Gladys was a very pretty girl, Mr Jones was avowedly very fond of her, and Mr Jones was mortal.
She felt a strange pain at her heart, turned pale, and stood for a moment unobserved by either, on the threshold, irresolute, when she heard these words from her husband,—
'It must be so. Gladys—- you are—you must be—my poor, dear, lost sister's child!'
Gladys and Mrs Jones uttered a simultaneous cry, and the latter entered the room.
'My dear William, what does this mean?' she said, approaching her husband and putting her hand on his shoulder.
'Serena!' (he, too called that gentle woman Serena) 'my love. For my sake! This is my sister's child—my niece—my—our Gladys!'
Mr Jones released the bewildered Gladys from his embrace, and almost placed her in the arms of his wife, who, scarcely comprehending what was passing, kissed her tenderly.
Then Gladys sat down, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed convulsively. It was all a dream to her, from which she must awake. It could not be true. Mr and Mrs Jones soothed her. The former, restraining his own emotion, endeavoured to calm hers, by telling her that it was he who had written the names in that fortunate hymn book; he who was the brother of her mother; he who was her uncle, and who would be, not only an uncle, but a father to her henceforth.
At last, the agitated girl looked up at the kind and loving faces that were bending over her, and murmured,—
'It cannot be—it is—too good—too great—too happy.'
'It is true, Gladys, my niece, my child,' said Mr Jones, stooping to kiss her forehead.
Mrs Jones sat down by her, and taking one of her hands in hers, said,—
'It all seems a dream, Gladys. But if it be true, remember, you are now my niece, my child as well; and, God knows, I love you, and value you dearly.'
Once more the lonely Gladys felt that she had kindred. Yielding to the feeling, she threw her arms round Mrs Jones' neck, and gave vent to the emotion she had been striving to suppress.
At this juncture, Miss Gwynne appeared, who, wondering in her turn what could detain Mr and Mrs Jones so long from their guests, came to look for them.
Of course, she wondered still more when she found them both with their arms round one another and Gladys.
She was going away; but Mrs Jones, perceiving her, said,—
'Come in, dear Freda, Minette's hymn has led to a wonderful discovery—has given us a niece—a child—in—in—our dear friend Gladys.'
Miss Gwynne knelt down at the feet of the sobbing Gladys, and taking one of her hands, said,—
'Gladys, if this be true, we cannot love you better than we do now, or esteem you more; but you now feel one of us, instead of the isolated Gladys of this little room, which you have resolutely been hitherto.'
As may be imagined, Gladys was a long time realising the fact, that she was suddenly, and in the most extraordinary manner, raised from the Irish beggar, lady's maid, or whatever she had hitherto chosen to consider herself—for every one about her had long looked upon her as a friend—to the niece of the good and kind Mr Jones. When she was able to speak, her first words were,—
'I do not understand it—I cannot believe it. It is too good—too happy.'
'I can scarcely believe it either,' said Mr Jones, taking up the hymn book, and turning to his wife and Miss Gwynne, who had, thus far, taken the strange news upon Mr Jones' word, which they never ventured to dispute.
'This is my writing. Margaret Jones was my sister, and Gladys' mother. I gave her this book when we were both young, and the date, also in my handwriting, marks the time, some two or three years after the gift, when I was at college, and she must have been about eighteen; she ran away with an Irish soldier, whose real name, even, we never learnt. My poor father doated on my sister, and spoilt her. She was high-spirited and wilful, but very loving, and very handsome. Not at all like Gladys. My sister's was the Welsh, Gladys' the Irish cast of countenance; yet I have seen an expression in Gladys' face that has reminded me of her mother.'
'We discovered, after my sister ran away, that she had met the man she married when going to visit the landlady of a small inn, in my father's parish, who was ill. It seems that this woman connived at their meeting; and when strictly questioned, said, that she had believed he was a gentleman, and that he had called himself Captain O'Brien.'
'My poor father!' here broke in Gladys. 'He bitterly repented this, his only deception. He was of a good family, and his mother was an O'Brien; but no one belonging to him could afford to purchase him a commission, and so he went into the ranks. He once told me, that he persuaded my mother to marry him first, and then promised to let her write to his father. But I only know scraps of the story. I fancy my father was on his way home on leave, when he saw my mother and fell in love with her. He loved her very dearly, and as long as he lived she wanted nothing that he could get her. The regiment was suddenly ordered abroad, and my mother could not write to her father, or did not, before they sailed. And so she delayed, and delayed; but she wrote at last, and received no answer at all. I fancy she wrote several times from foreign parts, but never heard from any one. I know she wrote again from Ireland; but the letter was returned, with a note from some one, saying that her father had been dead some years, and no one knew anything of her brother.'
'Too true! too true!' said Mr Jones. 'My poor father, never very strong, was in his grave in less than six months after my sister left him. I returned from college to nurse, and bury him. I have told you all this, my dear Serena, little thinking that the young girl I first saw, after visiting his grave some twenty years after I had seen him laid in it, should be the child of the beloved daughter who had helped to hasten him thither.'
'My poor, dear mother!' said Gladys, sobbing as if her heart would break.
'Still less that you, my dear niece, would be five or six years in my house; I loving you as a daughter, and yet not knowing the relationship existing between us. But how could it have been discovered but for this book? I only knew of you, that you were an Irish girl escaping from poverty in Ireland, to find some Welsh friends, whose address even you did not know. But for your evident truthfulness, the very story must have been doubted. When I saw you at Mr Prothero's, I took you for his daughter; since I have looked upon you as one of our family, an orphan to be pitied and loved. Let us thank God and kind Christian people, that you have been so pitied and loved.'
Mr Jones' mild grey eyes, full of tears, turned upon Miss Gwynne, who said, hastily,—
'Ought not we to tell her first and best friends of this strange discovery?—Rowland, Mr Prothero, and Netta. What must they think of our long absence?'
'Not for worlds, Miss Gwynne, if you please!' cried Gladys, 'I could never be what I would like to be to Mrs Jenkins and her dear mother, if I were anything but the Gladys they have always known. They would be treating me as—as—they would not let me work and wait upon Mrs Jenkins. Until she is at home, at least, let me be as I am, as I was; it is all so strange. Until I have offered to remain and nurse her, and been refused—until, in short—'
'I understand, Gladys,' said Miss Gwynne. 'You are quite right. Let them all value you for yourself, and then we will introduce you as—'
'I didn't mean that, indeed, indeed, Miss Gwynne,' said Gladys, her pale face growing red. 'I only wanted to show my gratitude, as I am, to them all. Perhaps even Mr Prothero may excuse me then, and—'
Here Gladys broke down again. She could not explain her own bewildered thoughts; but her friends understood her, and respected the honest pride that would be known, welcomed and beloved for merit, and not for a bettered position and condition. Miss Gwynne saw a vision of Owen in the background, with his handsome, honest, black eyes, and white teeth; but she did not mention what she saw.
'At any rate, I must go and make the best of lame excuses,' she said, 'and leave you in your new relationship, to dry your eyes, and learn to say "Uncle." Such a pleasant name! I always longed for an uncle.'
Miss Gwynne returned to the drawing-room, and told Rowland that Mr Jones had been quite upset by the Welsh hymn that Minette had repeated, having known it under peculiar circumstances when he was young. She apologised for his non-appearance, and Rowland, seeing that something unusual had occurred, took his departure. She promised Minette a visit to the school, and prevailed on the little girl to allow one of the servants to put her to bed, instead of Gladys. Minette begged Miss Gwynne to let her say her 'English prayers' to her first, which she, of course, did.
Then Freda did her best to amuse Netta until Mrs Jones appeared, and said Gladys was quite ready to assist Netta, if she liked to retire for the night.
When Netta was in bed, Gladys joined her friends, and they discussed, more calmly than before, their newly-found relationship.
Gladys brought with her her Bible, in which her mother had written her name, and Mr Jones recognised his sister's hand writing. She had also a lock of her mother's hair, and her wedding-ring, and one or two other trifles, that drew fresh tears from a brother's eyes.
Gladys said that she should like, for her own satisfaction, that a certificate of her mother's marriage, and of her birth, should be obtained. Her mother was married, she believed, during the short time she was in Ireland; and she was born, she knew, in the parish where her father's parents lived, to whose care her father had confided her mother. Two children had been born, and died before her birth, during the period that her parents were abroad.
It may be as well to say here, that the certificates were duly procured, through the clergyman of the parish, to whom Mr Jones wrote a statement of the case. Also that letters, written for the gratification of Gladys, to the Protestant and Roman Catholic clergy of her parent's last neighbourhood were duly answered, and confirmed all that Gladys had said of them and of herself from first to last. This, of course, took some time to effect; but I have so far anticipated the event, to avoid fanning to it again.
Gladys now recapitulated, more minutely, the circumstances of her early history, a sketch of which she gave Miss Gwynne and Mrs Prothero when she was recovering from her fever.
There were a few points that she did not mention at that time, which, we will insert for the benefit of the reader, in Gladys' own words.
'My father left my mother in Ireland, and went with his regiment to India. My mother lived with my grandfather, who was old and infirm, but still managed a small farm, in which my mother assisted. He died, and then my mother kept a school, took in needlework, and did what she could to help out my father's remittances, which were small, but regular. He was severely wounded in the head, and got his discharge upon his corporal's pay. Being a clever man, he soon procured work, as a kind of under-agent, and we lived very happily together for some years. He was never a saving man, so what he earned he spent, and my poor mother spent it with him. I had two brothers and three sisters, and when my father died, rather suddenly, we had nothing but our own exertions to depend upon. My mother and I managed to live and keep the children—how, I scarcely know—till the famine from the failure of the potato crop, and consequent fever and starvation came upon us. God preserve me, and every one else, from witnessing such misery again! One child died after another, and then the darling mother! I had nothing to give her; literally nothing. Every one round us was in the same state. On her death-bed she was rambling and incoherent, but talked of Wales, and her father and brother.
'"Go to them, Gladys," she said, "when I am gone. Maybe they'll take to ye." "Where, mother dear!" I asked. But she did not hear me. Thank God! she clasped her hands and prayed for pardon of her sins through Jesus Christ; and so she died. I don't know how I lived after her—how I buried her—how I came into Wales. I scarcely remember anything, till I awoke from that illness in calm, clean, beautiful Glanyravon; with my mistress's blessed face looking down upon me, and Miss Gwynne waiting on me, and Mr Rowland praying for me.'
For some years past Gladys had succeeded in obtaining a calm and even spirit, by striving to banish these dreadful scenes from her mind, by active labours for others, and abnegation of self. Now, they opened once more the flood-gates of memory, and as the old recollections rushed through, like repressed waters, her strength of mind gave way, and she could do nothing but weep.
'Only to-night—forgive me!' she sobbed. 'I shall be better to-morrow. But it all comes back, all; even in the moment of my great happiness.'
Her kind friends soothed and comforted her—her uncle wept with her, and by degrees she once more grew calm.
Before they separated for the night, Mr Jones offered up a thanksgiving for the great mercy God had vouchsafed to them; and commending his newly-found niece to the further protection of that gracious Providence, who had led the orphan to her home; in His presence, and that of his wife and her friends, he solemnly blessed her, and adopted her as his own child.
It need scarcely be added that his wife registered and signed the vow that her husband made.
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE HAPPIEST MAN IN THE WORLD.
Most people know what it is to awake from sleep the morning after a great sorrow; some, also, know what it is to awake after a great and unexpected joy. Gladys opened her eyes upon a dark, thick, cheerless November fog in London, one of the most depressing of all the atmospheric influences. But she did not think of the fog. Although she did not at first fully realise the happiness that she had experienced, and was to experience, she felt, on awakening, a strange sensation of spirits so light, and a heart beating to such cheerful measure, that it all seemed too ethereal to be real. She thought it was the continuation of a blissful dream. For many a long year she had retired to rest, and arisen in the morning calm, resigned, nay, cheerful; but it was the calmness and resignation of a soul attuned by prayer and self-restraint to an equanimity that rarely was disturbed by mirth or pleasure. Now, that soul seemed to dance within her to exhilarating melodies. So happy had been her dreams, so joyous her sleep, that her eyes sparkled unwonted fires when she opened them; and as she jumped out of bed, there was an elasticity in her movements that surprised her very self.
Netta and Minette were still sleeping, and as she dressed herself carefully and neatly, she almost forgot that every one else was not as suddenly raised from sorrow to joy as herself.
'He will come to-day,' she thought, as she smoothed her dark hair, 'and I shall meet him as an equal, no longer a suspicion of my truth. He will not know it yet, but I know it, and oh! the difference of feeling that you can clear yourself by a word when you like. Not to him, for he never doubted—generous, kind Mr Owen! but to his father! to all. How can I be thankful enough! and such an uncle and aunt! It must be a dream; but will he care for me still? so long! and after all my coldness. He has asked me again and again, and each time have I refused him; but then I was an Irish beggar, and nothing more, and I would have died rather than have brought disgrace into his family. And still my promise to his father is binding, and without his consent I never could—but where am I wandering? Maybe he'll not care for me now I am all this older—and he so handsome that he may have any one in and about Glanyravon.'
Gladys cast a shy look into her glass, and a delicate blush kindled her cheek as those dark violet eyes glanced from beneath their long black fringes. Gladys! you are but a weak woman after all.
When Gladys was dressed, she gently awoke Minette, and took her into the dressing-room to attire her also.
'Gladys, dear, how pretty you look!' exclaimed the child, 'you have a pink cheek, and your eyes are as bright as the sky; and you have such a pretty gown and collar, and everything. You are quite a lady, now you have left off that gown mamma gave you so long ago. Is Uncle Owen, who is coming to-day, as nice as Uncle Rowland? Do you love him as well, Gladys?'
'He is very, very nice, dear, and as kind as any gentleman in the world.'
The little girl clapped her hands.
'I shall like to go to Glanyravon and make mamma quite well.'
Soon after breakfast, Rowland arrived, accompanied by Owen, who had travelled all night.
Gladys was with Netta in her bedroom, but all the rest of the family welcomed Owen. Mr Jones shook him by the hand with peculiar warmth, because he was given to understand that he loved his newly-found niece.
Minette was soon on his knee, and in less than ten minutes had duly informed him that she loved him next to Uncle Rowland and that Gladys told her he 'was the nicest gentleman in the world.'
Owen laughed heartily at this, to conceal his rising colour, and said,—
'And how is Gladys?'
'Quite well; she is coming to Glanyravon with us, to take care of mamma and me.'
Here Mrs Jones interposed, and explained how matters stood.
In a few moments Gladys appeared to say that Netta was ready in her little sitting-room to see her brothers.
Owen was not shy, so he walked bravely across the room to meet Gladys, and to shake hands with her, so thoroughly con amore that if, as Minette expressed it, her cheek was pink when she entered the room, it was crimson when she quitted it.
Mr and Mrs Jones looked at one another with great satisfaction, and somehow or other Rowland's eyes met Miss Gwynne's, and both smiled involuntarily.
'He is a fine young fellow,' said Mrs Jones, when Owen and Rowland had gone upstairs to Netta, accompanied by Minette.
'I almost wonder how two such sons, with such a fine, sturdy, sensible father, should have had such a silly little sister as that poor child upstairs; but I must go out. Ask them to dinner, my dear, and don't let Gladys tire herself to death before she starts for her journey. Did you ever see any one look prettier in your life than she did when she met that fine young man? What a couple they will make!'
'What a romance you have worked up already, my dear,' said Mrs Jones laughing, 'but certainly one may be proud of Gladys. How thoroughly ladylike she is, and looks. And she is so happy; she told me just now that she felt as if she had suddenly begun a new life.'
'God grant it may be a happy one, and may He bless you, my dear, for taking to the poor child so kindly.'
Miss Gwynne, who had left the party to put on her bonnet, here appeared, and Mr Jones and she set out on parochial business.
When Rowland and Owen had been some time with Netta, they returned to Mrs Jones, who pressed them to come to dinner. They declined, however, having much to talk of, that could not be discussed in public, even before the kindest of friends. Moreover, when Owen had been in London before, he told his brother that he would not dine in any house as guest where Gladys was considered as a servant. In vain his brother assured him that she was more friend than servant—she did not dine with her friends, and therefore he would not dine with them.
When they had left the house, and reached Rowland's lodging, Owen said, his usually joyful face clouded by an expression of sorrow and pain,—
'Curse that fellow! I say, Rowland, I can't help it, it breaks my heart to see Netta as she is; and she will kill mother. As to father, there is no getting a civil word from him ever since the news came.'
'I suppose every one knows it?' said Rowland.
'Of course Aunt 'Lizbeth has employed Mr Rice Rice and a counsel for that scoundrel, to do what they can when the case is tried. You know they have indicted him, and, present or absent, it is to come on at the next assizes. Then, if they prove him guilty, or make out a case against him, or whatever they call it, he will be brought to trial as soon as they can catch him.'
'Sir Samuel Spendall and Sir Horatio Simpson are furious against him, I hear,' said Rowland.
'No wonder; I foresaw something bad when I was at Abertewey. But what of that rascal, Deep?'
'They can make nothing of him; he is already released, and if he knows anything of Howel he has not let it out.'
'I can't help liking poor Aunt 'Lizbeth; she says she will spend every farthing she has for Howel, and when I tell her to remember her old age and keep her money, all I get is, "What will I do if my Howel is ruined? What will I care for money if he is gone?" It is pretty well known that he has forged her name for thousands of pounds, but she won't own it, and swears to all his signatures as her own, I verily believe, with her eyes shut.'
'Does father hear all these things?'
'Nobody dares to speak to him. He opens out to me with a vengeance, and wants a little of your preaching to refine his language. But who can wonder? I am ashamed to show my nose myself. The first bit of pleasure I have had since it began was seeing Gladys look so well and happy this morning. What has happened to her? Is she going to be married? for nothing else have changed a girl's face from November to June. At the same time, she might have a little more feeling for us than to look her best when we are at our worst. Poor Netta! I'm sure she won't live. I've wished myself at sea nearly every day for the last six years, and I'm sure I wish myself there now.'
'My good fellow,' said Rowland, 'don't say that; what should any of us do without you? You are the only stay of our parents at home, and will be poor Netta's last comfort.'
'If I were sure I were of any use I wouldn't mind; but when I see Gladys, or think of her, the truth is I get savage. Perhaps it is a proper punishment for pretending to stay at home on father and mother's account, when it was really on hers. But never mind; I suppose one girl's really as good as another. Will you come down at Christmas, Rowland?'
'I wish I could; but our rector is so ill that there is no chance of his being able to leave Nice this winter, and Jones and I have all the duty. The last account was so bad that Mr Wenlock fears, if he returns at all, it will be only to die.'
We will not follow the brothers further in their conversation; they made the most of the few hours they were together, and after a short night's rest, arose early, breakfasted, and went to fetch Netta.
The sight of her favourite brother, and the prospect of returning home had roused her, and she seemed more herself than she had been since Howel's letter. Gladys was as bright and busy as a queen-bee, and Minette was all tears and smiles.
There were a great many 'last words' to be said, and as all the preparations had been made the previous day, there was plenty of time to say them.
'I don't know how to thank you,' said poor Netta to Mrs Jones and Miss Gwynne, as they were putting on her last warm cloak. The tears were streaming down her pale cheeks, and her hand, as usual, was on her heart.
Mrs Jones kissed her, and Miss Gwynne said cheerfully, 'I shall see you soon, Netta, and I want Mrs Jones to come to Glanyravon with me, so it will not be a long parting.'
'You have been very good to my child and me,—God will bless you!' sobbed Netta.
'I will come again, Mr Jones, and see you, and Mrs Jones, and the little children,' said Minette, who was hugging Mr Jones warmly.
He took her up in his arms, kissed her, and put her into the cab next her mother, who had been placed therein by Rowland.
Gladys' farewells were the last.
'That's what I call something like it, Rowly,' said Owen tapping his brother's shoulder, as he watched Mr and Mrs Jones alternately give Gladys a most affectionate embrace.
'But why does the old parson hug her so? He shouldn't do that if I were Mrs Jones, or if she were Mrs—'
The truth was, that at the last the uncle's feelings overcame Gladys' desire for secrecy, and exploded in a kiss long and fatherly.
When she was in the cab Mr Jones called Owen aside, and said in a whisper,—
'I know you will take care of Gladys, and remember, that although she is ready for everything that is good, she is not strong. If your father makes the least objection to her remaining with your sister, take her to the Park, whence she can return at once to us. As long as I live, no one will neglect her with impunity; but I am sure I can trust you and yours.'
'That you certainly may,' said Owen, nearly shaking Mr Jones' hand off, but saying to himself a few minutes after, 'What could he mean by putting her into my care? If his wife had done it, or Miss Gwynne, well and good; but I declare parsons are no better than the rest of us, I daresay Rowly isn't half as steady as he seems; he and Miss Gwynne are wonderfully polite to one another, and he's as grand as any lord.'
Owen jumped upon the box, and Rowland by the side of Gladys inside the cab, and so they drove off through the thick fog, some five or six miles to the Paddington Station.
Owen took a second-class ticket for himself, but when Netta heard that he had done so she begged so hard to be allowed to travel second class with him, or that he would come with her, that he was obliged to change it, and become, as he expressed it, 'a grand gentleman for once in his life.'
They had a compartment to themselves, into which Rowland went, to be with Netta until the whistle sounded.
'Oh, brother!' sobbed Netta, 'if I never see you again, promise to be kind to Howel; promise to give him whatever I leave for him. Perhaps I shall die,—I don't know. Tell him all you have said to me; try to make him good, and give him the hope you have given me. Will you, brother? Say, will you?'
'I will do everything you wish, my darling sister, if I have the opportunity.'
'And will you write to me about what you have been saying to me?'
'I will, dear, regularly. But you have only to believe and pray. God bless you, Netta, dear! God for ever bless you!'
The guard was at the door, Owen in the carriage. Rowland gave Netta one long, last kiss, and went out upon the platform.
'Kiss me, uncle,' said Minette, putting her little face out of the window.
When she drew it in again she wiped off a tear that Rowland had left upon her cheek.
'Good-bye, Gladys,—good-bye, Owen,' he said, stretching out his hand, which was clasping that of his brother as the train began to move, and separated him from the sister, brother, niece, and friend whom he loved so well.
Poor Netta cried long and quietly in the corner of the carriage in which she had been placed. Of course she had the side without an arm that she might put up her feet when she liked, so Owen and Gladys were placed, of necessity, side by side, and Minette jumped upon Gladys' lap, and began talking of Glanyravon. Owen and Gladys were quite shy with one another. The former studied Bradshaw, the latter occupied herself with Minette.
When Netta ceased crying, Owen tried to engage her attention, and amused her for a time by accounts of home and country news. But by degrees she relapsed into her usual abstraction.
Owen hated railway travelling, and was a great fidget. Out at every station, of course, and alternately reading the newspaper and making remarks upon the confounded November weather when in the carriage. He scarcely addressed Gladys particularly, but talked to Netta or Minette; and Gladys thought him very cold and constrained, but did not know that he was thinking of what Colonel Vaughan had done years ago, and comparing it with Mr Jones' embrace.
'Do you know, Netta, that I am thinking of getting married?' he said suddenly, and thoroughly rousing Gladys.
'Don't be so foolish, Owen! You have been getting married or falling in love ever since you were twelve,' said Netta. 'Who is it now?'
'Miss Richards,—Dr Richards' daughter. It is the talk of the county. You know she has plenty of money.'
Owen cast a side glance towards Gladys and saw her turn quite pale, which was very satisfactory to him.
'Is Miss Richards pretty, uncle?' asked Minette. 'Is she as pretty as Gladys?'
'That depends upon taste.'
'But what do you think, uncle? She must be very pretty, if she is as pretty as my dear Gladys! Isn't Gladys pretty, uncle?'
'Gladys knows what I think on that subject,' said Owen, 'but she doesn't care what I think.'
This was said so that Netta, sitting opposite, did not hear.
'Oh, Mr Owen!' said Gladys, involuntarily.
'Oh, Mrs Snow!' said Owen.
'As the day went on, Netta got very weary, and, finally, slept. Minette, also, in spite of Gladys' resolute efforts to keep her awake, fell fast asleep, curled up in the corner, with her mother's feet in her lap. And so Owen and Gladys were tête-à-tête.
The November day was drawing to a close, and it was dull and dark. Gladys fancied Owen was asleep, and was thinking how very much more cheerful she felt in the morning than she did at that moment; and all because Owen said he was going to be married. She was trying to remember the great blessings she had lately experienced, and that she ought to be thinking of Netta instead of her brother.
At last, Owen started up, and said,—
'Gladys, do you like coming back to Glanyravon?'
'Dearly, sir, if you like to have me.'
'Now, Gladys, that is too absurd! You know I have wanted to have you all these years.'
'I didn't mean that, Mr Owen.'
'Gladys, tell me why that old Jones kissed you.'
'I—I—don't know. Because—because he is fond of me, Mr Owen.'
'That is no reason, Miss Gladys. If it was, somebody else would kiss you, too. Now I have an opportunity, I must ask you a few more questions. I beg you to understand that old Jones, who is so fond of you, put you under my especial care.'
'Oh, Mr Owen!'
'Oh, Mrs Snow! Now, tell me why you let that cunning man of the world, Colonel Vaughan, give you ten shillings? This has been on my mind for six or seven years, and I have never had an opportunity of getting it off before. You know if you won't have me for a lover, you may for a brother.'
'Colonel Vaughan offered me the money, Mr Owen, and I returned it to him. Who could have told you of that?'
'The boy who saw him give you some money, and picked up the half-sovereign you dropped.'
'He gave me money for poor Mr Lloyd, who was ill, and offered me the half-sovereign for myself, which I refused.'
'Why did you refuse it.'
'Because I did not want it, and because he had no right to offer it me.'
'Bravo, Gladys! You are a capital girl!'
'And yet, Mr Owen, you think all sorts of unkind things of me when I am absent. For six years!'
'How can I help it, Gladys? You know that I love you better than my life, and yet you won't care one straw for me.'
'Oh! Mr Owen.'
'I can tell you it is no trifling mark of constancy, for a wandering fellow like me to stick to farming, and doing the dutiful son all these years. I should have been off to sea again long ago but for you, and—'
'And the father and mother, Mr Owen.'
'Well, yes, to a certain extent. But you always answer every question but one like a pure, straightforward young woman, as you are. Why won't you tell me the reason you have for hating me so?'
'I don't hate you, Mr Owen.'
'It must be either love or hate. You don't love me. Do you love any one else?'
'No.'
'Have you a heart to give?'
'Ye—no.'
'Which do you mean?'
'I cannot tell you, indeed I cannot!'
'Oh! Gladys, if you knew the pain! Why will you not make me happy, or at least give me a sensible reason?'
'I—I—promised—oh, Mr Owen.'
'Dear Gladys, what? I will never betray you, and will always be a friend, a brother. Who have you promised? Not to marry, not to love—'
'Your father, Mr Owen. I—I—promised never—to—without his consent.'
Fortunately it was dusk, and the curtain between the double carriage was drawn, and Netta and Minette were, apparently at least, fast asleep, so no one saw Owen jump up from his seat with a kind of bound, seize Gladys' hand, try to look into her face, and finally sit down again, retaining possession of the said hand across the elbow of the carriage.
'Do you mean, Gladys, that you promised never to marry me without my father's consent?'
'Yes.'
'Never to love me without his consent?'
'No.'
'That you don't hate me?'
'No.'
'That if I got his consent you would make me the happiest man in the world?'
'I would try, Mr Owen.'
'Nothing but his consent?
'Nothing, Mr Owen. If you do not change, I cannot.
'Gladys, do not trifle with me. But you could not trifle. Have you cared for me—may I say loved me—all these years?'
'All these years.'
Gladys bowed her head as if in shame over those clasped hands, and a large tear fell upon Owen's. He wanted no other confirmation of her words, and felt, as he had expressed it, the happiest man in the world.
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER.
It was nine o'clock when the fly that took the travellers from Swansea to Glanyravon reached the door of the farm. The night was 'dark and dreary;' very different was the weather, the aspect of external nature; very different were Netta's feelings and all the circumstances, when she was at home ten years ago. She had been thinking again on all these things during that gloomy drive, when her companions thought she was asleep.
Bright lights are in the windows and passage as the travellers look out of the carriage. Mrs Prothero's anxious face is visible in front, Mr and Mrs Jonathan's tall forms above her from behind, the servants are without, Lion is barking joyously, but there is no Mr Prothero.
'Is this Glanyravon, mamma?' asks Minette waking up and rubbing her eyes.
No answer.
Owen jumps out, and without stopping to greet his pale, trembling mother, turns to help Netta, who cannot help herself. He carries a dead weight into the parlour, and lays it on the sofa. Netta has fainted.
Gladys is at her side in a moment with every kind of restorative but no one notices or thinks of her. Mrs Prothero is on her knees rubbing her child's cold hands, and looking as white as the corpse-like daughter thus restored to her. Mr and Mrs Jonathan look at one another, and then at Netta, with a glance of pity and grief.
There is another face for one moment bent over the sofa, and the next a loud heavy groan is heard in the corner of the room that comes from a heart in extreme agony; but no one, save Minette, seems conscious of it. She turns affrighted at the sound, and in the impulse of her quick, warm nature runs to comfort.
'Mamma will be better soon,' she says; 'she is often so. Don't cry so loud, you will frighten her.'
Poor Mr Prothero removes his hand from his eyes to behold, for the first time, his grandchild. Another heavy groan, almost a cry, and he takes the child in his large arms, and presses her to his breast, weeping like an infant.
Netta uncloses her eyes on familiar objects for a moment, and shuts them again. Has she seen the cheerful, old-fashioned parlour, the bright fire, near which the sofa is wheeled, her father's portrait over the mantelpiece, her mother at her feet?
'She is getting better,' whispers Gladys, who still holds her place at Netta's head, with strong salts in her hand, and a bottle and glass by her side.
Again the eyes unclose, wander restlessly from one anxious face to another, settling on none; close again, once more unclose and look with some consciousness on the breathless group that surrounds the sofa.
'Father! father!' now murmurs Netta; 'where is father?'
The feeble cry has reached that father's ears and inmost heart. He puts down Minette and staggers, blinded by his grief, to the sofa. All withdrew but his wife. He is on his knees before his poor penitent daughter. Her arms are round his neck, and she strives to rise but cannot. Oh! the depth, agony, remorse of that long, silent, paternal, and filial embrace.
'Do you forgive me, father?' asks Netta.
'All—all. God forgive us both!' groans Mr Prothero.
Mrs Prothero lays her head on her hands on the sofa, by which she kneels, and gives way to a passionate burst of grief.
'My poor, poor mistress,' says Gladys, unable any longer to refrain from approaching her. 'All is well; she will be better now.'
'Mother!' cries Netta. 'Don't cry so for me. Come and kiss me, mother.'
Father and mother surround with their arms that wandering, restored lamb, and take it into the fold again.
A little voice from behind is heard.
'Mamma! mamma! think of your poor Minette!'
And in another minute Minette is on the sofa, in the midst of her mother, grandfather, and grandmother.
Blessed are the warm, gushing tears that fall on the child's head—tears of love and reconciliation.
Soon the worthy vicar and his wife, who have thus far been only spectators of the scene, draw near to bless and welcome their niece.
'She will faint again,' whispers Gladys to Owen.
'She is happy now,' replies Owen, looking into Gladys' tearful eyes from his own, equally dimmed with tears. It is the first time he has seen that face since he has known that Gladys loves him.
But Gladys is right—happiness is too overpowering for Netta. She faints in the midst of all those dear ones, so kind and loving.
Again Gladys is at her side to revive her, which she is able to do more quickly than before. When she is better, Gladys raises her pillows, and places her in a more comfortable posture. By degrees every one is conscious that Gladys is present.
'Dear Gladys!' says Netta, 'I am better now; quite—quite well, father!'
'Drink this first,' says Gladys, giving her some wine and water that Owen has brought.
She drinks the wine and water, and again calls her father
'I brought Gladys, father; I cannot do without her. She has saved my life, I think, and mother's, so Owen told me—didn't you, Owen? May she stay with me, father?'
Netta presses her hand to her head, and looks at her father with those bewildered eyes, which are only too sadly irresistible.
'Gladys!' he replies. 'Oh, yes! I haven't seen her yet.'
Gladys is by his side, and he turns and shakes her hand warmly, and says,—
'Thank you, Gladys, thank you, I have heard all; but we will talk of this another time.'
'Best now, father, whilst I remember. She may stay? You like to have her?'
'Of course, of course, my dear.'
Mr Prothero glances rather uneasily at the very lady-like looking young woman, for whom he is thus humbly petitioned, and in doing so spies Owen close behind her.
His feelings are too much softened by Netta to allow him to feel angry; still he does not know what to make of if. Mrs Prothero kisses Gladys, and Mr and Mrs Jonathan shake hands with her.
'Nothing like the present time,' thinks Owen; but Gladys declares decidedly that Netta ought to go to her room, and everybody yields to her calm, assured voice.
'Then you will stay with us?' asks gentle Mrs Prothero, looking the while at her husband.
'To be sure she will,' says Mr Prothero.
'Thank you, sir; thank you, ma'am. I shall be only too glad,' replies Gladys, as humbly as if she were really the servant she professes to be. 'Miss Gwynne will allow me to stay, if you wish it.'
After they had been upstairs they returned to tea, and Mr Prothero could not quit Netta, but sat watching her with a painful anxiety.
She was greatly excited, and her mind and eyes appeared equally to wander on the objects of her childhood. She asked her father a variety of questions concerning scenes and people that she felt were particularly associated with him, and he was quite overcome.
When the meal was finished, Owen carried Netta at once to her room, and all the womankind accompanied her. It was then that poor Mr Prothero's wrath and grief exploded. Left alone with his brother he vented both in language which, as Owen had expressed it, needed clerical revision. But Mr Jonathan knew that it must have its course before exhortations could take effect. He paced up and down the room pouring curses loud and deep upon Howel, and bemoaning his unfortunate daughter. At last he sat down and cried bitterly.
It was then that his brother drew near to comfort, and that Owen returned to the room.
'So young, so pretty—our only girl! God only knows how I love her—to come to die! Driven mad by that heartless villain —curse him—a thousand—'
'Hush, brother! hush! You cannot alter the past. Home and a father's and mother's love will soon bring her round, poor dear.'
'Do you think so? why, she looks like a corpse. No rose was redder when she went away, when I kissed her the night before. And now! and now! I say again, curse the man! I can't help it, brother,—I won't help it.'
'Come, father, let us hope the best, now we have her home again.'
Owen put his hand on his father's shoulder as he spoke, but there was no comfort for that sorrowing parent. While he cursed Howel there, was much self-reproach within him for long-harboured feelings of anger and unforgiveness against his daughter. He even began, to think that if he had been gentle and kind he might have saved her. The proud hearts of parent and child were alike subdued by heavy sorrow.
The following day Netta was unable to leave her bed. Excitement and fatigue had been too much for her. Dr Richards was sent for, who shook his head, and ordered quiet and rest. Mrs Prothero and Gladys were with her, and as she was continually sleeping, no one else was admitted. Mr and Mrs Jonathan left early, after having made friends with Minette, who confided to them that she liked them better than grandpapa and grandmamma, because they were gentlefolks. She didn't know why there was no carpet in the hall, and didn't like stones to her feet. She promised to go and see them when her mamma was better. The worthy couple took to her as they had done to her mother.
In a day or two Netta was much better and able to be brought downstairs. Matters gradually settled into their regular course at the farm, and all went on as usual. Mr Prothero spent every spare moment with Netta and his grandchild, who soon forgot that 'grandfather,' as he insisted on her calling him, 'talked loud, and had large, rough hands.' Gladys slipped imperceptibly into her old place, and alternately nursed Netta and helped Mrs Prothero in the dairy. Owen found many opportunities of entreating Gladys to let him speak to his father, but she positively forbade him, as long as there was painful anxiety about Netta; and, at the same time, angered him by refusing to consider him as her accepted lover until his father's consent was obtained. Mrs Prothero schooled her aching heart into outward calm, but her white hair and paleface showed what she had gone through, and was still suffering. Howel's name was never mentioned, except between Netta and Gladys. It was to Gladys that poor Netta opened her mind, and poured out all her hopes and fears about Howel's return.
The state of that mind varied continually. Sometimes it was tolerably clear, at others sadly wandering, and the least excitement produced faintness and pain at the heart; still her friends fancied she gained strength.
She had the sofa placed so that she could look out of the parlour-window upon the distant hills. The weather cleared up brisk and bright. The red and yellow foliage that still remained to cover the huge trunks of the oaks shone in the sunlight, and the lights and shadows danced upon the mountains. A few white chrysanthemums, and one or two roses still looked in at the window, upon her who had once been the brightest flower of Glanyravon.
Netta had been at home a fortnight, and was really stronger and better. The sun was setting behind those distant hills, and casting glorious shades of red, purple, and gold upon them. She was gazing wistfully on the sky, and thinking of Howel, whilst Minette was sitting on a stool at her feet, turning over a book, out of which she had been reading to her mother, whose chief occupation was trying to teach her.
Mr Prothero came in, and took his customary seat at the head of her sofa. He was followed, almost instantly, by Gladys, who called Minette out to have her cup of warm milk fresh from the cow, ordered by her doctor.
'Father,' began Netta, abruptly, 'I have something to say to you.'
'Well, Netta, fach!' said her father, cheerfully. 'Say away. I'm all attention,'
'Do you like Gladys, father?'
'Of course I do, my dear. Who could help it? She's an excellent young 'ooman.'
'I wish you would promise me one thing, father, before I go away.'
'But you are not going away ever again, my love?'
'Perhaps I may—far, far away; and perhaps I may go to heaven. I don't know. But I should like, when I go away, to leave you a better daughter than I have ever been to you. One that will take care of you and mother, and my Minette, as long as you and she live; who will make Owen a good wife and a happy man, as he is now, a good son and brother. Father, will you take her for my sake?'
'My darling, I don't know what you mean?'
'I mean—You won't be cross, father, bach?'
'Never again with you, Netta, please God.'
'Will you promise to grant me this great favour, now that my head is clear, and I have no pain, and can ask it right?'
'There is little I 'ould refuse you, Netta; but I should rather hear it first.'
'It is about Owen and Gladys, father. They have loved one another ever since they were first together. I found it out in the train; and when Owen pressed Gladys very hard to tell him why she didn't love him, she said it was because she had promised you something. I could not hear what; but I heard enough to know that she loved Owen dearly. And she is good and clever; and, oh! so kind and gentle to me. I never think now of what I used to think so much—how she was a beggar at our gate; and everybody in London looks up to her and loves her. Mr and Mrs Jones, Miss Gwynne, and Rowland, all treat her like a lady. I should die, I think I should, so much happier, or go away when I am fetched, so much happier, if I could know she was with you as a daughter. I have been very disobedient and wilful; but she has been obedient and grateful, though she was not your child. When I left mother to die of fever, she nursed her and saved her life. May God forgive me, for Christ's sake, and bless her! She has made Owen steady. She has nursed the sick. She has taught in the poor, wretched London ragged-schools, as well as in the others. She has made clothes for the poor. What has she not done? Oh, that I were like her! And now she is waiting on me, and helping mother, and nursing my child, like a common servant. Oh, father! take to her instead of me. Indeed indeed, you will never repent—never!'
As Netta spoke, her wasted cheek flushed, her eyes sparkled, and her manner grew more and more animated. Her father listened attentively, without interrupting her, and when she paused, said,—
'Netta, fach, are you seure you didn't dream or fancy this? Owen declared to me, Gladys 'ouldn't have him, and didn't love him.'
'Because you would not let her, father. Think of her making him believe this, and yet loving him dearly all the time; and because she was too grateful to you and mother to do what you don't like.'
'Yes; the girl's a good girl, Netta, I don't deny that; but I can't bear the Irish, and don't want Owen, who is a fine, sensible young man, who might have any respectable young 'ooman, to marry a girl nobody knows of, and there's the treuth! If you let him alone, he'd marry Miss Richards.'
'Never, father! Only ask him; for my sake—though I don't deserve you should do anything for me.'
'There—there; don't you begin to cry, and excite yourself. I'll ask the boy.'
'Now, father! He's in the hall; I heard him whistling. Let him come here.'
Mr Prothero went out and called Owen, who came in forthwith He began the subject at once.
'Owen, Netta has got into her head that you and Gladys are making fools of one another still, in spite of all I said. Is that treue?'
'Not exactly, father. You know I have been in love with Gladys nearly ever since I knew her, and made up my mind never to have anybody else. I don't call that making a fool of her; perhaps it was of myself. She has refused me, without rhyme or reason, more than once; and it was only when we came home with Netta that I found out the cause of her refusal. It is just because she won't marry me without your consent. I have been waiting for her permission to speak to you about this ever since I came home; but she wouldn't let me, because Netta was ill. I must confess to you, honestly, that I would have married her any day these seven years, and worked for her, by sea of land, if she would have had me. But she wouldn't, so there's an end of that I find, now, that your consent is wanting alone, and I ask it boldly. If you let us marry, you make us happy; if you refuse, you make us miserable, and send me to sea again—for I don't see that you can expect me to work at home, if you don't try to contribute to my happiness. I am not angry, father, though I can't see what right you had to extract a promise from a girl to whom you had done a service. That was not generous, or like Prothero, Glanyravon.'
'Treue for you there, boy.'
Mr Prothero began to rub his ear; a trick he had when in doubt. Netta, seeing this, put her arms round his neck, and whispered,—
'Oh, father! make us happy. He is a good son, father, bach.'
'Then go you and tell the girl, you may have her, as far as I am concerned,' said Mr Prothero.
'Indeed, father!' said Owen doubtfully.
'Do you want me to swear, sir? Upon my deed, then, you may marry the girl. I have but one objection, and that's the way she came here. The girl's a good girl, and I like her well enough. Now, p'r'aps you 'ont go to sea.'
'Decidedly not; I'm a steady land-lubber for my life: thank you, father. Shake hands upon it! You won't repent. Kiss me, Netta! You have done it, I know, and you shall dance at the wedding. Now, I'll go and tell Gladys.'
Owen and his father shook hands until their arms ached. Then the brother and sister kissed one another, and, with a sort of greyhound leap, or caper, Owen started off in search of Gladys.
'Father, you will never repent it. Thank you—a thousand times,' said Netta, covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears.
The worthy farmer cried with her, and thus the father and daughter's love returned and increased.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE BETROTHED.
Owen found Gladys in the dairy with his mother and Minette. She had a candle in one hand, lighting Mrs Prothero, whilst she was looking at the fresh milk just put into the pans; Minette held the other.
'All right, Gladys! all right! Father has consented!' cried Owen, literally tumbling down the passage between the milk-pans.
Down went a splendid tin of milk right over Minette. Owen didn't mind. His arm was round Gladys' waist, and the candle stowed away somewhere, before any one knew what he was about. Mother and niece saw the long, fervent embrace to which Gladys yielded; but Owen didn't mind that. If all the servants, domestic and otherwise, had been there, he wouldn't have cared.
'Oh, Mr Owen!' said Gladys.
'Oh, Mrs. Owen,' said he.
'Mother, she is mine and yours now for ever!' he continued, releasing Gladys somewhat from his firm clasp. 'Father has given her to me. I needn't ask you. We will live all together. I will herd the cows, and she shall milk them.'
'Come into the kitchen, Owen,' said Mrs Prothero, utterly astonished.
'Uncle, you have wet me all over,' sighed Minette.
'Never mind. Come by the fire and dry yourself.'
They all went into the kitchen, which was empty. There, by the blazing wood fire, Owen kissed Gladys and his mother and Minette, and Mrs Prothero kissed Gladys; and the women cried and Owen laughed. It was a long time before he could explain the real state of the case.
'You are quite sure you love me, Gladys? It is not gratitude, but love!' said Owen, looking into the pure, lustrous 'violets dropping dew,' that he had studied so long and so lovingly.
The answering glance and the quick blush were quite satisfactory.
'Then, will you come with me to father and Netta. We owe it all to her—poor dear Netta!'
'Please to wipe my frock first,' said Minette to her grandmother; 'and tell me if uncle is going to marry Gladys. I am so glad.'
The frock was wiped, and Owen took the child up in his arms, and told her to love her new aunt better than ever.
'I can't love her better, uncle,' was the simple assurance of the little girl.
'Nor can I, even as my daughter,' said Mrs Prothero, pressing the hand she held with a mother's love.
They all went to the parlour, where Mr Prothero and Netta were sitting, quite silent, by the fire-light.
Owen led Gladys to his father, who did not well know what to do on the occasion, not being quite satisfied with the respectability of the parentage of his future daughter-in-law.
Gladys summoned all her courage, and standing before Mr Prothero, said firmly,—
'You will be glad, sir, to know that I have found my friends, and that they acknowledge me as their relation. I could never have consented to bring disgrace upon you and yours. I do not think I could have accepted your present great kindness even, had I not been able to make my truth as clear as the noon-day. Mr Jones, with whom Miss Gwynne and I have been living so long, is my uncle—my mother's own brother.'
The general exclamations of surprise may be imagined.
'The girl's dreaming, like Netta,' from Mr Prothero.
'Why didn't you tell me before?' from Owen.
'I knew she was true,' from Mrs Prothero.
'How can this be, Gladys?' from Netta.
Gladys told her story simply. Every one was too much engrossed with it, to think of the pretty picture that wondering family group made; but as we know it already, we will look at the picture whilst she is telling her tale.
The large, old-fashioned sofa is placed at one side of the fire-place, its head against the wall, its foot towards the window, so as to give Netta warmth and the view of the distant hills at the same time. Between the head of the sofa and the fire-place is an arm-chair, also against the wall, Mr Prothero's favourite seat; and Minette's footstool is by the side of her mother, and at the feet of her grandfather.
Netta's pale face is in shadow, but the large, bright black eyes beam upon Gladys, with preternatural lustre, and the raven hair shines against the white pillow that supports her head. The broad, massive figure of the father, in its rough work-a-day clothes, is also in shadow. One elbow rests upon the arm of Netta's sofa, one hand smooths mechanically the head of his grandchild, resting against his knee. This large hand and that tender head come within the glow of the fire-light. His grey head is lifted towards Gladys, on whom his keen black eyes, so like Netta's, are also fixed. Minette, too, sitting at his feet, gazes with child-like wonder on Gladys; her long black curls falling over her pale face. Grandsire, daughter, child, so like one another, and yet so far apart in age. Three types they are of the ancient Briton.
Opposite this trio, with her left hand clasped in that of Netta, and close to her sofa, stands the fair, blue-eyed, graceful Gladys; thoroughly Irish in beauty, if Welsh in heart. The red glare of the large bright fire brings out her sweet, earnest face, and slight form. Her eyes are cast down, as if they cannot support the gaze of so many other eyes, and her cheeks are flushed with a strange excitement. Towering a full head above her, his arm round her waist, the thick black beard touching her hair is the manly, handsome Owen. Love, joy, pride, in his honest black eyes, and health on his bronzed and ruddy cheeks. Seated on the sofa, her arms on Netta's knees, her head, with its silver hair, and plain white lace cap, eagerly pressed forward, is the well-beloved mother. For the first time since Netta's return, grief for the one child, has merged into joy for the other, and prayer and praise for all are in her heart even whilst she listens.
The story is told, Gladys raises her eyes and head somewhat proudly for her. Owen lowers his, and kisses the pure, white forehead. There is silence for a few moments, no one can speak for tears. Owen is the first.
'Well, father! all's right now, at any rate.'
'Treue for you there, Owen, my boy. The only objection is removed; everybody will know now that Gladys was honest, God bless you both, and make you happy.'
At this moment there was a suppressed sob from Netta. Her mind had wandered from the open, straightforward betrothal of Owen and Gladys, crowned, after years of difficulty, with a father's and mother's blessing, to her own unhallowed marriage—to her lost husband.
Again poor Netta was the object of every one's thoughts, Gladys forgot herself, and Owen his joy, to cheer and comfort her.
It was in private that Mrs Prothero poured out her feelings to Gladys, and assured her of her unbounded satisfaction in the prospect of such a daughter. It was also in private that Netta solemnly gave her child into Gladys' care. She said,—
'If I die, Gladys, you are to be her mother. You are to bring her up; she is never to leave you. If Howel comes back, say to him this was my wish. But I will write it for him. You must teach her to love her father, and to pray for him; and when she is old enough to be firm in her duty, to go to him if he wishes it. But never let Aunt 'Lizbeth have her—never. I must see Aunt 'Lizbeth, I must tell her my wishes myself; you must talk to her, Gladys; she must not have my child if I die.'
Owen and Minette went together to see poor Mrs Griffey. They found her much altered. Owen could scarcely recognise the brisk, handsomely-dressed Aunt 'Lizbeth who came to announce her son's gay wedding to Mrs Prothero, in that son's mother, as stricken by his crime. Moreover, there was a very strong smell of spirits in the room, and Owen perceived a bottle and glass, that had been hastily put aside, under a table in the corner.
Mrs Jenkins cried a great deal when she saw Minette, and Owen was soon very sorry that he had brought the child. However he told her to go to a small inner room, the window of which looked into the street, and her attention was soon quite absorbed. Her grandmother was in a maudlin condition, out of which, under any other circumstances, Owen would have extracted mirth, but now he only felt anger and sorrow.
'Have you heard anything of Howel, Aunt 'Lizbeth?' he asked.
'Oh, annwyl! No. Mr Rice Rice is telling me there is a 'ditement brought against him for forgery, and now they can be taking him anywhere, and bringing him to trial as soon as they do find him. Forgery! name o' goodness, why 'ould he be forging, as I do say to every one, and his own mother as 'ould be giving him thousands of pounds. My Howels! Ach a fi! for sham to them! But he 'ont be found guilty, if they do tak him. Owen, bach! it was killing me, 'deet to goodness it was,'
'Don't cry, Aunt 'Lizbeth, I wanted to speak to you about Netta.'
'Oh seure! she 'ont come to see her husband's mother! and I don't be cheusing to be turned out of doors again.'
'She is very ill, aunt. We don't know whether she can ever recover. Her mind is wandering, and has been ever since that —Howel left her; she thinks he is gone for debt, and if she knew the real state of the case, it would probably be the death of her. If we could manage a meeting between you, could you speak only of Howel's debts, and not of this terrible suspicion.'
'Seurely I could; but I 'ont go to Glanyravon; if your father was turning me out of doors then, what will he be doing now?'
'We must see, Aunt 'Lizbeth? poor Netta sends her love to you, and begs you to keep up; she says she is sure Howel will come back; I was to tell you this.'
'Netta! Netta! poor dear, poor dear.'
Mrs Jenkins began to rock herself to and fro in her chair violently, and to cry hysterically.
'He was very fond of her, Owen; you don't think she'll be dying? I do be wishing all day long that she hadn't gone off with him, and that my Griffey hadn't left all that money—and—- and—tak you a glass of brandy and water, Owen, it will be warming you after your cold walk, and I do feel so poorly and wretched all over, that I'll be having a drop along.'