Stronger nerves than Netta's have been shaken by a thunderstorm on a wedding-day. Even Howel involuntarily quails at this evil omen, and Mrs Jenkins clasps her hands and mutters a Welsh proverb. She and Netta had been congratulating each other on the sunshine of the morning, and such a storm was bad indeed.

However, the service proceeds, and then he who addresses the newly-married pair in God's name, makes himself heard in spite of the pattering hail. He seems the more impressive as he cannot but remark Howel's frowning brow and Netta's agitation.

It is a relief to all the wedding-party when the last words are spoken and Howel leads his bride into the vestry. By this time tears are running fast down her pale cheeks, and Howel's efforts at encouragement, and the warm kiss he gives her, fail to dry them; Sir John Simpson's fatherly embrace rather serves to increase than diminish the emotion, and poor Netta is conscious that Howel must be very displeased.

She mutters something about her great fear of lightning and thunder; signs her name even more stragglingly than usual, and is at last led by Howel through the church to the carriage.

'I don't wonder she is frightened and nervous,' says Miss Simpson? 'I am sure I should have fainted if such a storm had come on at my marriage. It is—'

'Nonsense!' exclaims Howel, somewhat rudely, as they drive quickly through Jermyn Street, up St James's Street, down Piccadilly, and into Half Moon Street, without much farther conversation, whilst the storm rolls on. Netta hurries upstairs and gives way to a burst of sobs and tears; Howel follows, and knowing the best way to console her, takes her in his arms, and having told her that she is his own little wife now, begs her to remember all the grand things they are going to do.

'You are a great lady now, Netta. We must astonish the little people down in Wales. Think of Paris, and that Lady Nugent and Miss Rice Rice, and all your old rivals will hear of your being there, and soon see you return smarter and richer than any one,'

'But the storm, cousin Howel! All those solemn words! I am frightened to death!'

'Silly little Netta! what has the storm to do with you and me? All our prosperity and happiness are beginning.'

'But they say, "Blessed is the bride the sun shines on," and that thunder and lightning are such a bad omen.'

'Don't be'—a fool, Howel was going to say, but he modified it into 'Don't be such a silly little puss, but dry your eyes, and come and make yourself agreeable to our first visitors. Ours, Netta dear.'

Netta did as she was bid, and in a short time was at the head of the table, on which a wedding-breakfast had been duly placed, according to the general rules laid down for such occasions. Howel had given carte blanche to a fashionable confectioner, and everything was as it should be for the quiet and private marriage of a man of large fortune. The cake was splendidly ornamented, the champagne iced, and the other viands and wines in keeping with them; the hired waiters vied with Sir John's servants in propriety of demeanour, and Howel's page was as pompous as pages generally are.

All Netta's pride and ambition returned when she saw herself mistress at a table more luxuriously spread than that of Mr Gwynne, and she soon began to enjoy her new dignity very much.

'I am to have a French maid when I get to Paris,' she said to Miss Simpson. 'Howel does not like to take one with us, and we shall form our establishment when we return.'

Howel laughed in his sleeve when he heard this: he managed to hear every word that Netta uttered, and gave her an approving glance; he also saw that his friends, Captain Dancy and Mr Horatio Simpson, greatly admired his beautiful young wife, and little cousin Netta rose in his, estimation.

'We shall soon meet in Paris, I hope,' said Captain Dancy. 'Simpson and I are going to run over next week. I should like to assist in showing you some of the lions, Mrs Howel Jenkins,'

'Lions! name o' goodness don't tak' her to see them!' exclaims Mrs Jenkins, now put off her guard by fear.

'Ah! you have not that Welsh figure; it means—' began Miss Simpson, but she was interrupted by Mr Simpson proposing the health of the bride and bridegroom.

The breakfast went off very well, and the champagne went round only too often; ladies as well as gentlemen were flushed by this exhilarating beverage, and Mrs Griffith Jenkins was beginning to be very voluble on the subject of 'my son Howels,' when that gentleman gave her a look that silenced her, and that reminded Netta that he had told her to look at Lady Simpson when it was time for her to put on her travelling-dress.

The ladies went to their retiring-room, whilst the gentlemen drank more champagne, and arranged various Parisian amusements.

It was understood that, as Howel had no friends to leave behind him for the final settlement of lodgings and the like, his guests were to depart before he and his bride left. They accordingly took their leave as soon as Netta reappeared in fashionable travelling costume. No sooner were they fairly gone than Howel set to work to pay and arrange; this done, he called Netta to look at their wedding cards. There were a great number directed to different friends, some to acquaintances in their old neighbourhood, and one to David Prothero, Esq., Glanyravon.

Netta quailed but said nothing.

'Now let me read you this, Netta? it is for the Welshman, and every one will see it:—"On the 16th instant, at St James's Church, Piccadilly, London, Howel Jenkins, Esq., of our county, was married to Miss Prothero, daughter of D. Prothero, Esq., of Glanyravon. Sir John Simpson gave away the lovely bride, and the wedding-breakfast was attended by a select, but fashionable party of friends."'

'Father will see that,' said Netta; 'he will be in such a passion.'

'Serve him right,' replied Howel, and called the page and sent the letters to the post.

The carriage was at the door, and the luggage in. Mrs Griffith Jenkins was busily engaged in packing up the cake and a spare bottle of champagne, together with a few other confections' in a stray hamper.

'Make haste, mother,' cried Howel.

'Stop you, Howel, bach! in a minute. We must be wishing you joy at home; and I should like to be sending cousin Prothero some of this grand cake.'

At last Mrs Jenkins and her hamper were ready, and the trio started for the Paddington Station.

When they arrived there Howel took a second-class ticket for his mother as far as Swansea, telling her to take a first-class from that place home. She was to sleep with some friends at Swansea.

'We mustn't waste money, mother.'

'Treue for you, Howel.'

'Tell everybody at home of the grand wedding.'

'Don't be afraid of that.'

When Howel had seen his mother off, he and Netta drove to their station, and, per first-class carriage, with page in second, steamed off to Folkestone, which was to be the first stage of their life-journey.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE SERVANT.

We must now leave Netta and her husband for a time, and return to the morning when Netta left her home to go forth in search of a new one.

The breakfast-table was spread at the farm, and all were assembled except Netta.

'Owen, go and call Netta,' said Mr Prothero, seating himself before some smoking rashers of bacon; 'she's always late, I'll say that for her.'

Owen did his father's bidding, but returned exclaiming,—

'She is up and out of her room. There must be something wonderful to make her go out before breakfast.'

'Such a lovely morning,' said Mrs Prothero, 'I daresay she is in the garden.'

'Well, let her find her way in,' said the farmer; 'she knows the hour, and we'll fall to. Say grace, mother, if you please.'

Mrs Prothero said grace, and the trio sat down to breakfast.

'I expect brother Jo and Mrs Jonathan to-day,' said Mr Prothero; 'they are going to a clerical meeting, and are coming here on their way back.'

'Dear me!' said Mrs Prothero. 'What can we have for dinner?'

'Eggs and bacon. What better?' said the farmer. 'But you needn't be afraid, they 'ont come till tea. Owen, I wish you'd just look out and see after that idle slut Netta.'

Off started Owen with a piece of bread and butter in his hand.

'Mother, why don't you make that girl more regular?' asked Mr Prothero.

'Oh, David! you know she doesn't mind me.'

'Then you should make her.'

Mrs Prothero could have said, 'You should have helped me to make her all her life,' but she refrained.

'Can't find her,' cried Owen, returning.

'Perhaps she is ill upstairs,' suggested Mrs Prothero, rising, and running up to her room.

The room was empty, as we know, and Mrs Prothero was about to leave it again, when she went to the open window to see if she could espy Netta from it. She passed the dressing-table as she did so, and perceiving a letter, glanced at the direction. She was surprised to find it addressed to herself, and on a nearer examination saw that it was in Netta's handwriting. It was with a trembling hand and foreboding heart that she took it up and broke the seal After she had done this, she was some time before she could summon courage to open it. When she did so, her brain swam as she read the following words, written with trembling fingers:—

'DEAR MOTHER,—I am going to marry cousin Howel. Father won't consent, so we are going to London to be married. I hope you will forgive me for not telling you, but I knew it was no good, as father is so much against it. I am sure I shall be very happy, only I should like to have been married properly at home; but it is not my fault that father would not hear of it, and that Howel would not wait. We are going to France and a great many other countries, and it grieves me to think how long it will be before I shall see you again. I hope you and father will forgive me? as Howel is a gentleman with plenty of money, and we have loved one another all our lives. I don't see why we were not allowed to marry like anybody else, instead of being obliged to go so far away; I am sure it would have been better if father had let us. Dear mother, you were always very good to me, and I am sorry if I ever offended you; but father called me bad names, and was very cross; he will be vexed, perhaps, when he sees how grand and happy I am.

'Good-bye for a little time, my dear mother. Don't be very angry with your dutiful, affectionate daughter, JANETTA.'

The word 'dutiful' was scratched through and affectionate added.

When Mrs Prothero had read this letter, she turned very pale, and stood like one in a dream; she could not realise the contents. That Netta was wilful and obstinate she knew, but she had never known her guilty of resolute disobedience; she felt very faint, and sat down on a chair opposite the open door—she tried to rise to go downstairs to her husband, but found that her head was too giddy, and she could not move; she put her hand before her eyes, and became unconscious.

At this moment Gladys passed down the passage, and seeing Mrs Prothero in this strange attitude, went into the room and asked if anything was the matter. Receiving no answer, she put her hand tenderly on Mrs Prothero's, and removing it from before her face, saw that she was pale, and appeared to have fainted. She ran hastily downstairs, and finding Owen alone, told him that his mother was ill. He followed her upstairs, and soon perceived that Mrs Prothero was really in a kind of swoon. Whilst he supported her, Gladys brought water and such restoratives as she could procure; she begged him to go for his father, and whilst he was gone, succeeded in restoring Mrs Prothero. At the sight of the open letter, however, she sank again into a fainting fit.

Mr Prothero and Owen appeared.

'Mother, what is the matter? Name o' goodness what is the matter?' said Mr Prothero in great alarm.

Gladys pointed out the letter to Owen, who glanced at it whilst his father took his wife into his arms.

Gladys put vinegar to her temples and nostrils, and begged Mr Prothero to take her to the open window; as he did so he saw Owen reading a letter.

'How can you read now, you unnatural son?' he said sternly.

'Oh, father! father, Netta!' he exclaimed.

'Never mind her; think of your mother, ten thousand times as precious.'

At last Gladys succeeded in restoring Mrs Prothero to consciousness and when she found herself in her husband's arms, with Owen bending over her, she burst into a flood of hysterical tears, which partially relieved her.

'Oh, Netta! Netta!' was all she could say, when they asked her what was the matter.

'Never mind her, mother, but get better,' said Mr Prothero, his usually rosy face almost as pale as his wife's.

'If you please, sir, we will lay her on the bed,' said Gladys.

'Not here—not here,' gasped Mrs Prothero.

They took her to her own room, and Gladys said,—'Perhaps, sir, if you would leave her to me a little I could get her into bed, I am used to illness.'

Mr Prothero looked at the girl, and saw her eyes full of tears, but her face was calm and pale, and seemed to indicate a self-possession that no one else present had.

'I will come back again soon, mother,' he said as he left the room, followed by Owen.

When they were gone, Mrs Prothero gave way to an uncontrollable grief, and threw herself upon the neck of the girl Gladys.

'What will he say? what will he do when he knows it all?' she sobbed.

'If you only hope and pray, ma'am, perhaps all will be right that troubles you now,' faltered Gladys.

'My only girl! to be so wilful, so disobedient!'

'May I ask what has happened to Miss Netta?'

'She has run away with her cousin, and her father will never forgive her—never!'

'Ah! that was what my poor mother did; but she was happy with my father; and Mr Jenkins is rich and kind. Take comfort, ma'am, it may not be so very bad.'

Gladys managed to get Mrs Prothero into bed, who, happily, did not see the effect produced by Netta's letter on her husband. Whilst she was shedding quiet tears on her pillow, he was raging with furious passion to his son. Over and over again did he comment on every word of the letter, sometimes with keen irony, sometimes with a burst of rage, until Owen endeavoured to suggest pursuit.

'Go after her! the ungrateful, disobedient, good-for-nothing hussey! No, not if she were stopping a mile off instead of whirling away in her grand coach and four nobody knows where. Let her go, the impertinent baggage! "Father 'ont consent! father was very cross! father had better let us marry! he will be sorry when he sees how grand and happy I am! father called me bad names!" I wish I had called her worse! she deserves every name that was ever written!'

'But, perhaps,' suggests Owen, 'she will be happy, and Howel will be steady.'

'Steady! hold your tongue and don't be a fool! Make a drunkard steady! make a bad son steady! make a gambler steady! make a horse-racer steady! make—make—make—hold your tongue, sir: don't say a word for the ungrateful girl—never mention her name to me again—I never wish to see her face more as long as I live—I—I—I—'

Mr Prothero's passion choked his words. Could Netta have suddenly returned and seen her father shaking with suppressed grief, his face crimson with rage, and his hands and teeth clenched, and her mother pale and weeping on her bed, she would, I think, have paused longer before she caused them this great grief.

Mr Prothero returned to his wife before his passion was calmed. He found her sitting up in bed wringing her hands, and crying as if her heart would break.

'Now, mother, there's no good in this,' began the farmer. 'That girl don't deserve tears and lamentations, and I 'ont have 'em. We 'ont have the house turned upside down because a bad, obstinate, ungrateful daughter has run away with a miser's son, and a good-for-nothing spendthrift. Let 'em go, I say! I 'ouldn't stir a step to bring 'em back—'

'Oh, David! dear, dear husband! if only you will find out that they are married; if only you would send some one to see that Howel marries her! This is all—all—all! I will never name her again! I will try to forget her—I will do all you wish! but for my sake, for yours, for all, for God's sake, see to this, or I shall die.'

Mr Prothero was cowed at once by this passionate burst of grief. He had never seen his submissive, patient little wife excited in this way before, for never before had she felt so deep a pain. Her only daughter!

'God help me! God help me!' she sobbed, when she had controlled her great emotion. 'I know I have indulged her—spoilt her perhaps. I know she is proud and wilful, and obstinate; but oh! to disobey us all—to go off, she doesn't know where—with Howel, too, who has no religion, nothing to keep him pure and honest—this is too much! too hard! No, David, bach! it is no good to be angry now—if you won't go after her I must.'

'Stop you, mother, stop you! we'll see the slut married anyhow; that is to say, Howel shall marry her—who ever doubted that? but I'll never set eyes on her again as long as I live, I 'ont.'

Whilst Mr Prothero was speaking, Gladys, who had been waiting upon Mrs Prothero until that moment, slipped out of the room, and ran in search of Owen. She found him amongst servants making inquiries.

'Mr Owen, may I speak with you if you please.'

Owen followed her into the hall.

'Oh! sir, if you would go after Miss Netta, now that the master is willing, at once; may be you will save your mother's life. If she goes on this way, she will surely be very ill.'

'What use would it be for me to go after her? The cow-boy saw her pass at about five this morning, and she is at Swansea by this time. My father ought to have let 'em marry, and get on together like other young couples.'

'But, Mr Owen, the mistress is afraid—she wants to be sure—she would be happier, sir, if some one could see them married!'

'Oh! that's the way the wind blows! You may tell mother that I'll try to track them—but it won't be of any use. At any rate it will calm her to think we are making the attempt. You write to my brother Rowland, Gladys, and tell him of this affair; but the truth is, we must make the best of it. They are off to London to be married, and 'tis no good to try to look for 'em there.'

Here Shanno entered.

'Mr Owen, Mr Jones, Tenewydd, did tell Mr Thomas, Trefortyn, who did tell John, blacksmith, who did tell Betto, that he saw Miss Netta and Mrs Jenkins, tallow-chandler, this morning about six o'clock, and they did get into a carriage by there.'

'Go and tell mother that Aunt Jenkins was with Netta, Gladys, and I'll go and see whether Mr Jones really saw her or not.'

Gladys returned to her mistress, who had become more quiet, and was trying to persuade Mr Prothero to go after the fugitives.

'Mr Owen is gone, ma'am,' said Gladys, 'and Mr Jones, of Tynewydd, saw Miss Netta this morning with Mrs Griffith Jenkins, and they got into a carriage together.'

'Thank God that 'Lizbeth was with her,' said Mrs Prothero.

'The deceitful, pompous old vagabond,' thundered Mr Prothero. 'She to connive and contrive! fit mother for such a son. They 'ont come to no good end. No, mother, I can't, nor I 'ont go after 'em; Netta has made her own bed, and she must lie on it.'

'Mr Owen is gone, ma'am,' whispered Gladys. 'Try to take comfort; there is One who can make all our rough ways straight, and will bring poor Miss Netta home again, if we pray for it.'

'What's the girl preaching about?' said Mr Prothero, glancing sternly at Gladys, who was silenced at once. 'Now, mother, we mustn't let that undutiful girl upset us. I must go to the wheat-field—you must—' he looked at his wife, and changed what he was going to say to, 'lie in bed.'

'No, Davy, I can't lie in bed, I must go and look for Netta.'

'Now, wife, I 'ont have none of this nonsense. You must either lie in bed or go about your work. The whole house sha'n't be turned topsey-turvey for a baggage like that.'

Mr Prothero left the room, and his wife insisted upon getting up.

'If you could pray for her, ma'am, you would be happier, and perhaps poor Miss Netta might be helped in a way we cannot see.'

'Pray for me, Gladys, I cannot think or pray for myself, I am so bewildered.'

The two earnest-minded women knelt down by the bedside, and Gladys offered up a simple prayer in her clear, strong language, for the 'poor lamb who had strayed from the fold;' in which the mother joined in the midst of her sobs and tears. When they arose from their knees, Mrs Prothero kissed Gladys, and said she would go downstairs, and try to work, and seek to keep her heart in prayer.

And the day wore through, until the evening brought Mr and Mrs Jonathan Prothero. For the first time, Mrs Jonathan comforted her sister-in-law.

'Now, really, I do not see why you should be so very much distressed,' she said. 'Howel is a fine, clever young man, with plenty of money. He is sure to make his way into good society, and to place Netta in a superior position. Of course, it was very wrong of her to elope, very; but your husband is so obstinate that they knew he would never consent, and what else were they to do? I confess I should have done the very same thing. As to his not marrying her after all, that is absurd. He is devotedly attached to her, and he knows that with her beauty and spirit, she will soon be fit for good society.'

Mr Jonathan was not so successful with his brother. After saying that he had seen a carriage and pair pass at about six that morning, he proceeded to offer consolation.

'It is according to nature, brother. Since the creation, the man has cleaved to the woman and the woman to the man. You married according to your fancy, so did I; so have men and women ever since the world began. It may turn out better than you imagine.'

'Brother Jo!' thundered the farmer, 'hold your tongue. I know Howel better than you do, or anybody else, except Rowland. I 'ont hear any more about 'em, and the less you say the better. She's no daughter o' mine any more.'

With this Mr Prothero walked away, leaving his brother very much perplexed and distressed, but comforting himself with hoping that time would soften even his choleric relative.

Owen returned about ten o'clock. He had ridden to the inn where Howel had changed horses, and learnt the name of the house whence the fly came; had left his own horse and taken another, and gone on to Swansea, where he found from the drivers that the trio had gone direct to London. Thinking it useless to try to track them farther, he returned, fully impressed with the wisdom of Howel in running off with what he couldn't get by fair means.

'Such a row as father makes,' he soliloquised. 'Why, I should do the very same thing to-morrow. And Howel's a decent chap too; will be, at least, when he's sown a few more wild oats. But if Netta doesn't lead him a dance I'm mistaken. She's father all over. There's a difference between her and that Irish girl! My wig! if she isn't a quiet one. But I never saw such eyes as hers in all my life, or such a sweet temper. I wonder what father would say if I ran off with her, and took her a voyage or two to give her a little more colour. That's all she wants to make her a downright angel'



CHAPTER XVII.

THE COLONEL.

The next day it was evident to every one that Mrs Prothero was very ill. She had never had any very extraordinary misfortunes or troubles, and the elopement of an only daughter was an event to her so dreadful and unexpected that it seemed as bad, or worse, than her death. As nothing more was to be gleaned concerning Netta, and further inquiries were literally useless—indeed, Mr Prothero would not hear of their being made—Mrs Prothero gave way to her grief, and her husband's most passionate demonstrations of displeasure failed to frighten her into her usual calm submission to him and his humours.

Owen paid a visit to Mrs Jenkins' abode, and heard from the servant left in charge that she was not expected home for some time. Owen bribed the woman to let him know when her mistress returned, and comforted his mother by assuring her that he would find out all about Netta from Aunt 'Lizbeth, whose tongue was too well oiled to stop going.

Mr and Mrs Jonathan offered to remain at the farm, but as they rather irritated Mr Prothero by their evident inclination to take up the defence of the offenders, Owen told his aunt that she had better write to Lady Payne Perry about Netta, as there was always a chance of great people hearing the news. Owen was very well aware that his aunt could not possibly write to her aristocratic cousin with the pens, ink, and paper in general use at the farm, and that she would be obliged to go to her davenport at the vicarage, where he already saw her, in imagination, with the finest satin letter paper before her, mending her pen into the most delicate of points.

Accordingly they took their leave, with a promise to return on Monday, and were soon succeeded by Miss Gwynne, who, having heard of the elopement, came to see Mrs Prothero.

'If you could prevail on the mistress to go to bed, ma'am,' said Gladys when she opened the door to her, 'I would be for ever thankful to you; she is much too ill to be about, and she has done nothing but mope and fret all day.'

Miss Gwynne went straight into the dairy, where Mrs Prothero was making butter.

'So Netta has taken the law into her own hands, Mrs Prothero. So much the better; I shouldn't grieve about it if I were you. It is a grand thing for her.'

'Not to disobey us and run away, Miss Gwynne? she would be better doing her father's bidding than marrying a lord, much less Howel.'

'But you are not going to make yourself ill and miserable about it. Since it is done, you may as well make the best of it; but you must go to bed and keep quiet, to-day at least. You are not fit to see all the people who are already on their way to condole or congratulate. You will have half the parish here before night; I passed old Nancy, Cwmriddle, hobbling down the lane, and she will be here shortly.'

'Oh, I couldn't see them, Miss Gwynne.'

'Then you must go to bed to avoid it. Do be advised, you look so ill.'

'When Miss Gwynne so far forgot herself as to be persuasive instead of commanding, she was irresistible. She put her hand so gently on Mrs Prothero's shoulder, and looked so kindly into her tearful eyes, that the poor woman began to cry afresh. The sound of a stick knocking at the back door completed the victory, and Mrs Prothero went sobbing upstairs, whilst Gladys opened the door to admit Nancy, Cwmriddle, and another gossip who had overtaken her. Mr Prothero came into the yard at the same time.

'Well, sir, to be sure; only to think of Miss Netta,' began the old woman in Welsh.

'If you're come here to talk about her, I'll thank you to go away again, and tell everybody you meet that they may have their nine days' wonder about us anywhere but here,' roared Mr Prothero into Nancy's ear, who was very deaf.

The old crones, knowing Mr. Prothero well, turned away quicker than they came, and soon began to do his bidding, perceiving that he was in an 'awful way.'

'Mr Prothero, do you know I have sent Mrs Prothero to bed,' began Miss Gwynne, advancing towards him; 'she looks so very ill and unlike herself that I am sure you must be careful of her for a time.'

'All that ungrateful, good-for-nothing daughter of ours, Miss Gwynne. What would she care if she were to kill her mother? I know you are a true lady and a kind friend, miss, and have more sense than all the rest of the country put together, so I don't mind telling you what I think. Those that disobey their parents'll be seure to come to a bad end.'

'We will hope the best, Mr Prothero; and you must remember that you have your sons to comfort you.'

'Fine comfort to be seure. There's Owen as wild as an untrained colt, and Rowland such a grand man up in London that he 'ont know his own father by-and-by. Dining with bishops and rectors, and as fine as my lord. I always told my wife that all Mrs Jonathan's eddication was too much for us, and so it is turning out. We shall be left in our old age to shift for ourselves; one son at sea, without a shirt to his back; another preaching upon a hundred a-year—gentleman Rowland I call him; and the third in a workhouse, maybe. And all this because brother Jo must needs bring a fine lady amongst us, and with her nothing but grammar-schools, boarding-schools, and colleges. My wife always spoilt that girl.'

'Perhaps you helped a little bit, Mr Prothero,' said Miss Gwynne, smiling, to stop the farmer's flow of words. 'But one couldn't help spoiling poor—'

'There, don't you go for to take her part, miss. Name o' goodness, let alone the girl. Beg pardon for being so rude.'

Here Gladys appeared, who had followed her mistress upstairs.

'Sir, the mistress is very ill. I think she would like to see you. Perhaps you had better have a doctor.'

'Never had a doctor in my house since Netta was born, that's the trouble she brought with her; I'd as soon have an undertaker. Send you for a doctor, and everybody in the house is seure to be ill. He's infectious. Excuse me, Miss Gwynne, whilst I go and see what's the matter.'

Miss Gwynne waited until she heard Mr Prothero come down from his wife's room, calling busily for Owen, who was in the wheat-field, and telling him to go and fetch Dr Richards. She then called Gladys, and said she should have whatever her mistress could fancy from the Park, and that she would come again in the afternoon and see how she was.

This done, Miss Gwynne went her own erratic way, which led her over stiles, and through fields, and into various cottages, where she alternately scolded, lectured, and condoled, accordingly as she thought their inmates deserved the one or the other. She rarely left them, however, without giving some substantial proof of the interest she felt in their wants and trials, either by promises of food or clothing, or by money given then and there. She finally anchored in a pretty school-house that she had lately prevailed on her father to build, close by the Park, where she found Miss Hall patiently superintending the needlework of the girls. She gave two or three quick nods to the children, and they curtseyed and bowed on her entrance, and then told Miss Hall it was twelve o'clock, and she had had quite enough teaching for one morning.

'I don't see what use it is having a school, if half the children are to stay away,' she said to the mistress.

'It is the harvest, ma'am; they stay at home to take care of the younger children; that is why we have so few.'

'Yes, and half go to the Dissenting schools; I see them creeping out. Now, children,' turning to the terrified urchins, who were just about to leave the room, if I see any of you going to any other school but this, or going away from church to the meeting-houses, you shall neither have new frocks, hats, nor shawls, nor shall you come to the tea-party I am going to give you soon; do you hear?'

'Yes, ma'am—yes, ma'am,' muttered the children as they curtseyed and bowed and slipped away.

As Freda and Miss Hall walked through the park to the house, the former grew very excited in her manner.

'I tell you what it is, Nita,' she said, 'Lady Nugent is doing everything in her power to win papa, and as soon as Miss Nugent marries, or rather as soon as somebody marries her fortune, she will get papa to marry her, I am sure of it. She must propose for him herself, for he will never have the courage to do so; I see through her, and I am sure you must do the same. He is flattered by the constant attentions, and little notes, and insinuating manners of a very handsome, fashionable, agreeable woman; and she thinks Glanyravon Park and a man of fortune that she will be able to turn round her fingers, better than the jointure she will have to live upon when her daughter leaves her. I was actually disgusted with her yesterday; it was what I call a dead set; if he marries her I shall hang myself, for live with her I never will; I positively detest her.'

'Oh! Freda; those are the old expressions of years gone by. But you are jumping at a conclusion.'

'Not at all; papa always stands up for Lady Nugent and her insipid daughter. You know he is a thorough gentleman himself and does not understand such a maneuvering woman. I told him so the other day, and he was quite angry; and I am sure she sets him against me. Why will you not try to marry papa, if he must marry again? and you are the only person I could tolerate for a step-mother.'

'My dear Freda,' said Miss Hall, laughing, 'your papa would as soon think of Miss Rice Rice as of me.'

'You are quite mistaken, he has always admired you very much, only you are so dreadfully reserved with him. You won't see that he wants some one who can talk to and for him, to save him the trouble. This Lady Nugent does with the most contemptible tact; and does it so cleverly that nobody sees through her. If you will only try, and just propose at the right moment, I am convinced papa would have you. If he marries her, I say good-bye to Glanyravon for ever.'

'You are so impetuous, Freda; I am sure your papa has never thought of it.'

'Not exactly in a downright way, nor will he till Lady Nugent makes the proposal; then he will be rather frightened at first, and finally think that she will head his table more gracefully than I shall, and be less dictatorial—and I shall go into a convent.'

'Better marry yourself, my dear.'

'Marry who? The only person who would really care to have me, whether I had a fortune or not, is Sir Hugh Pryse, and I could no more marry him than—than—Mr Rice Rice, or Major Madox, who thinks only of the heiress of Glanyravon.'

'But you have refused half-a-dozen more, and have not even taken the trouble to try to like any one of them!'

'They were all in love with the Park, not with me; and I certainly never mean to try to like any one. It must be true love with me, or none at all. I shall die an old maid, and unless you will, just for my sake, try to cut out Lady Nugent, I daresay you and I will nurse the black cat together.'

Freda's conversation was checked by the sound of horses' hoofs behind; she turned sound and saw a gentleman riding slowly up the drive. He soon overtook them, and raising his hat, said,—

'Miss Gwynne! I am sure it must be Miss Gwynne; am I right?'

Freda bowed.

'You do not remember me! twelve years make a great difference! and you were a child when I left.'

'Colonel Vaughan! Oh! I am so glad to see you!' claimed Freda. 'And papa will be charmed; we heard you were in England, but did not know you were in this county.'

Colonel Vaughan dismounted, and shook hands with Freda, evidently with all his heart, then glancing at Miss Hall, started, and said,—

'Yes—no—I beg your pardon, surely not Miss Hall.'

'Yes,' said Miss Hall, colouring slightly, and holding out her hand, I am very glad to welcome you home again, but can well imagine you did not expect to see me here.'

By this time they were at the house, and Freda was planning introducing Colonel Vaughan to her father as a stranger, and seeing whether he would recognise him or not.

She accordingly preceded him to the study, and said to Mr Gwynne, 'A gentleman wishes to see you, papa.'

Mr Gwynne rose and made his bow, and motioned to a seat in his usually nervous manner.

'How do you do, Mr Gwynne? Don't you know me?' said the colonel, standing up before him.

'I beg your pardon—no—I do not think I have ever—impossible! It cannot be my godson, Gwynne Vaughan?'

'The very same!' said the colonel. 'I only came down last night, and this is the first place I have visited.'

'I am very glad to see you, my dear fellow,' said Mr Gwynne, absolutely rising from his chair.

'And this was what the bells were ringing for last night?' said Freda, looking flushed and handsome.

'In spite of my poverty they did me that honour,' said the colonel. 'I heard the old place was likely to be let again, and so ran down to have a look at it first, and beat up my old friends. It was years ago that I went, a youth of nineteen, into the army, and twelve since I have been here, and I have been all the world over since then; but I come back and find everything much as I left it.'

'But surely you will not go away again?' said Mr Gwynne.

'I am not rich enough to keep up the old place as it ought to be kept, and the debts are not half wiped off yet, so I don't mean to settle down at present.'

'But a little economy and that sort of thing would soon clear the property. You had better settle down.'

'I don't think I should like it; besides, I hear there are negotiations going on between my attorneys and some other persons for a fresh tenant.'

The luncheon-bell rang, and the party went into the dining-room; and whilst they are eating and talking we will examine the new comer.

He is decidedly a handsome man. The most fastidious judge of masculine beauty could scarcely deny this fact. Tall, well made, of commanding figure and aristocratic appearance, black hair, a high rather than a broad forehead, well marked eyebrows, and black lashes so long that they half conceal the grey eyes beneath; an aquiline nose, and a well-defined mouth, with an expression slightly sarcastic; a chin so deeply indented with a dimple that, if the old saw be true, he must be a flirt or a deceiver; and withal, a manner so perfectly easy and self-possessed that you say at once court, camp, or cottage must be equally accessible to that man.

There is a certain power in him that even a reader of character would scarcely understand for some time. Is it intellect? There is decidedly intelligence in the face, yet it is not highly intellectual; there are no disfiguring lines and cross lines, the furrows of study or thought. Is it mere health and animal spirits? He is neither particularly rosy nor overpoweringly cheerful. Does he read your mind at a glance? His eyes are penetrating, but not uncomfortably so. It is, we are inclined to think, that general and instinctive knowledge of the characters and tendencies of those with whom he converses, which commerce with the world, and a keen observation of men and manners, alone can give. He is, in short, a man of the world.

When he first entered the army his father and an elder brother were alive. They, dying about three years after, left him in possession of a large but greatly encumbered property. It was estimated that it would take twenty years at least to clear the estate, and that only by letting it and never drawing upon the proceeds.

The young heir was wise enough to retain his post as officer in Her Majesty's service, though not to sequester all his income for the payment of his father's, grandfather's, and great-grandfather's debts or mortgages. He spent about a fourth of it annually, and consequently the property was still greatly encumbered and he knew that to reside on it and clear it he would be obliged to live in a very humdrum style, or else add to the burden of debt already incurred. He preferred, remaining in the army, and being a general favourite in society, and having no near relations in Wales, it never occurred to him to spend his furloughs in his native county. He had always some distant land to visit, and either with his regiment or on leave had travelled nearly all over the world.

His return was therefore an event of considerable interest to the neighbourhood in which his place and property lay; and, doubtless, Mr Gwynne was not the only person who wished Colonel Vaughan to settle at Plas Abertewey.

When he was last at Glanyravon Park Mrs Gwynne was alive, Freda was a child of eight, and Miss Hall a very elegant and pretty young woman. Mr Gwynne Vaughan was then one of her numerous admirers; but there was apparently no remnant of his early passion left, if you can judge of the heart of a man, or his character at least, by his face or manner. Miss Hall was much more confused when she suddenly met him than he was when he first recognised her.

Freda had always had a pleasant recollection of him. He had been very kind to her when she was a child, and an occasional letter to her father, or the intelligence, through the papers, of his distinguishing himself in India, or his gradual rise in the army, had kept alive a certain amount of interest in her mind for this old friend.

She showed it at once, and delighted Colonel Vaughan by the perfectly natural manner with which she welcomed him, and the frank heartiness of her expressed wish that he should remain in the country now he had returned to it.

'We have never had any one we cared for at Abertewey,' she said. 'Sometimes it was an English family who came to ruin themselves in mining speculations; sometimes a sporting man who came for the hunting, shooting, and fishing; and now, if you don't stay, I daresay it will be a Manchester mill owner or some such person.'

'Much nearer home, I fancy; but I believe it is a kind of secret, only I am so much like a woman that I cannot keep a secret. To my utter astonishment I find it is to be a son of old Jenkins, the miser! I remember the father, but the son was some years my junior. You need not mention this, however, as it may fall to the ground. He wanted to buy the place, but I am too patriotic still to wish to sell.'

'Howel Jenkins! little Netta! at Abertewey!' exclaimed the trio in concert.

'True it is that mountains fall and mushrooms rise,' said the colonel laughing. 'But he has money, and as far as negotiations have gone, seems willing to pay, so I am content.'

'And I am not,' said Freda. 'It will be odious, and I shall be so sorry for poor Mrs Prothero. You must settle there yourself, Colonel Vaughan.'

'A poor lonely bachelor with no money!'

'Hem—hem, you might find a wife, I should think,' suggested Mr Gwynne. 'There is a beautiful girl in this neighbourhood with thirty thousand pounds at her disposal.'

'Oh, papa!' said Freda frowning perceptibly, 'such an empty-headed, insipid idiot would be dear at a hundred thousand.'

Colonel Vaughan looked at Freda to see whether she was jealous, but could not quite understand the frown.

Soon after luncheon he took his leave, with promises to make Glanyravon his head-quarters if he remained any time in the country.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE NURSE.

Mrs Prothero continued very ill, and the doctor said there was no chance of her amendment until her mind was more at ease. Four days had passed, and no intelligence of Netta. Each day found her worse than the preceding, and brain fever was apprehended. Gladys nursed her day and night. Mr Prothero stormed and lamented by turns. Owen did what he could to assist and comfort all, and Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall sent every kind of nourishing food from the Park.

On the fifth morning, Owen rode into the town in the vague hope that he should hear something of his sister, either through Mrs Jenkins's servant or the post. Mrs Jenkins had not returned, but there was a neat, smooth letter for his father, directed by Howel, with which he rode off homewards at full gallop. He longed to open it, but he dared not. He was fearful that his father would put it into the fire unread, so he formed twenty plans for securing it, which he knew he could not carry out; however, when he returned home and sought his father in the harvest field, he said,—

'Father, I have a letter directed by Howel. Will you let me open it for mother's sake?'

'If it is yours, do what you will with it? if it is mine, burn it unread.'

'But, father, surely you would do something to save mother's life. Any news of Netta—'

'Don't name that girl to me, sir, or I'll horsewhip you!'

'May I open the letter, father?'

'Do as you will, but don't let me see it. The deceitful up-start! the pompous fool! the—the—'

Owen waited for no more epithets but ran into the house, and stumbling upon Gladys in the passage, told her to come and see what the letter contained. When he opened the outer envelope and took out the beautiful little glossy note with its silver border and white seal, stamped with a small crest of an eagle, he burst out laughing.

'Cards, by jingo!' he exclaimed.

'Oh, Mr Owen, just let me cut round the neat little seal. I am sure your mother would like to see it,' said Gladys, joining involuntarily in the laugh, and taking a pair of scissors out of her pocket.

The seal was cut, and two cards were taken out, silver-lettered and silver-bordered, showing that Netta was now Mrs Howel Jenkins.

Gladys ran off with them without asking any questions, followed by Owen. They found Mrs Prothero crying, as she usually was when left alone.

'I hope we have good news, ma'am,' said Gladys.

'All right, mother. Cheer up! Netta is married at any rate,' cried Owen.

'Thank God!' said Mrs Prothero, taking the cards and pressing them to her lips. 'But not a line—not a word from Netta!'

'She would not dare to write, ma'am,' suggested Gladys.

'I suppose not? but why did she go away? Why did she leave me never to see me again?'

The following day brought the Welshman, Mr Prothero's weekly treat, which it generally took him the week thoroughly to read and enjoy.

Owen chanced to open it first, and, as is usually the case, stumbled at once upon the marriage of his sister. When his father came in he was in uncontrollable fits of laughter.

'Don't be angry, father, but I can't help it. Ha, ha, ha! D. Prothero, Esq. of Glanyravon! Oh, I shall die of it! Now, really, father, you ought to be proud.'

'What are you making such a row about?' said Mr Prothero looking over Owen's shoulder.

His eye caught the words, 'Howel Jenkins, Esq., and Miss Prothero, Glanyravon, and Sir John Simpson. This was quite enough. He seized the paper with an oath, crumpled it up, and thrust it into the fire, and gave Owen such a violent blow on the back with his fist, that the young man's first impulse was to start up and clench his in return; however, his flush of passion cooled in a moment, and he said,—

'Come, father! remember it isn't I that ran away. Time enough to give me a licking when I do. I'm much obliged to you for letting me know what a strong father I've got.'

'Once for all, Owen, take you care how you laugh upon that subject or name it to me. I can give and take a joke as well as most people, but not about that, sir, and from you. Name o' goodness, what d'ye think I'm made of!'

The farmer walked out of the hall, and left Owen heartily sorry for having hurt his father's feelings, but chuckling over the fashionable marriage.

The following morning he managed to procure another paper, and read his mother and Gladys the announcement, knowing full well that maternal pride must rejoice in the exaltation, whilst it wept over the disobedience of an only daughter.

To the astonishment of every one, the following morning brought Mrs Griffith Jenkins to Glanyravon, attended by her maid-servant. Gladys answered the door to the thundering double-knock that resounded through the house, and was quite taken aback when she saw who the visitor was.

'Is Mrs Prothero at home, young 'ooman?' asked Mrs Jenkins in a grand tone of voice.

'My mistress is very ill, ma'am,' said Gladys.

'Ill! Since when?'

'Ever since Miss Netta left, ma'am.'

'Do Mr Prothero be in the house, or Mr Owen?'

'They are out harvesting, ma'am.'

'Tell you Mrs Prothero that I do bring message from Mrs Howel Jenkins for her, and that I was promising to give it myself.'

Gladys did not know what to do. She felt sure that Mr Prothero would not admit Mrs Jenkins under his roof, and that her mistress would be afraid to do so; however, she ventured to ask her to come in and wait a little time whilst she sent for Mr Owen. Fortunately, Owen was not far from the house, and Mr Prothero was riding to some distant part of his farm, so Gladys left Mrs Jenkins to Owen, and went upstairs to tell Mrs Prothero that she was in the house. Mrs Prothero was greatly agitated, but declared that she would see her at all risks, and tell her husband that she had done so. She begged Gladys to remain in the room during the visit, and to prevent a meeting between Mrs Jenkins and Mr Prothero.

Gladys went downstairs again, and found Owen telling Mrs Jenkins what he thought of Howel's and her own conduct.

'My mistress would like to see you, ma'am,' said Gladys.

'I'm thinking I 'ont go near her now, you, Owen, have been so reude.'

'Oh, for that much, you may do as you please, Aunt 'Lizbeth. I shall have the pleasure of going with you to my mother. You've pretty nearly killed her amongst you, and I don't mean to let her be quite put an end to.'

'Will you be showing the way, young 'ooman,' said Mrs Jenkins, rising majestically and smoothing down a very handsome silk dress, which she had carefully taken up before she sat down.

Owen's wrath was turned to amusement

'Did you think we hadn't a duster in the house, aunt? I can tell you you've pretty well dirtied that white petticoat.'

Gladys led the way to Mrs Prothero's room, and Mrs Jenkins and Owen followed.

'I'm sorry to see you so poorly, cousin,' said Mrs Jenkins, approaching the bed on which Mrs Prothero lay, looking flushed and excited.

'What did you expect, 'Lizabeth Jenkins? when you have carried off my daughter—my child—my Netta! And caused misery in our house never to be mended.'

'Well, seure! One 'ould think we'd murdered Netta, 'stead of making her as grand as a queen, with a lord and a lady to be giving her away, and a captain to be at the wedding, and a gentleman in a waistcoat and chains and rings that do be worth a hundred pounds at least, and a young lady for bridesmaid in a shoall of lace, handsomer than your Miss Gwynne of the Park, and a wedding-cake covered with sugar, and silver, and little angels, and all sorts of things which I was bringing with me for you; and a clergy like a bishop to marry her, and a coach and horses to be taking her back and fore, and she looking as beauty and happy as ever I was seeing! And my Howel's as rich and fine as anybody in London, Prince Albert nothing to him, and might be marrying Miss Simpson, my ladyship's doter, if he wasn't so fullish as to be marrying your Netta!'

'Now, aunt, it is our turn, if you please,' said Owen, as soon as Mrs Jenkins gave him time to speak. 'Will you tell my mother Netta's message?'

'I am taking it very unkind that you should all turn upon me. David Prothero I 'spected 'ould be in a passion, but, stim odds! Netta said, cousin, that I wos to tell you she was sorry to be leaving you in a hurry, but that she had everything she could be wishing, gowns, and white shoes, and lace veils—seure you never wos seeing such a beauty—and a stafell—trosy they do call it in London—good enough for my Lady Nugent, and a goold watch and chains, and rings and bracelets, ach un wry! there's grand!'

'But what did Netta say to me, cousin 'Lizbeth? I don't care if she was all gold from head to foot. I would rather have her here in rags,' said Mrs Prothero, bursting afresh into tears.

'She's more likely to be here in satins and velvets, cousin,' said Mrs Jenkins, rising from her seat, and walking up and down, apparently in great wrath. 'What you think of my Howels and your Netta at Abertewey: And you to be all toalking as if we wos ail dirt. And they in France, over the sea, where I 'ould be going with them only I am so 'fraid of the water.'

'There's a loss it would be, Aunt 'Lizbeth, if anything had happened to you! Suppose a shark had swallowed you up! gold watch, mourning ring, silk gown, brooch, and all? Those creatures aren't particular. But we haven't had all Netta's message yet.'

'She was sending her kind love and duty to you, cousin, and was saying she was sorry to be leaving you, but my Howels was so kind as you, and she was as happy as could be.'

'Did she cry, cousin? did she shed one tear?' asked Mrs Prothero, sitting up in bed, and looking at Mrs Jenkins with a quick, wild eye, quite unlike her usual quiet glance.

'You needn't be looking at me so fierce, cousin, I didn't be killing Netta. Is seure—she did cry enough, if that's a pleasure to you. She was crying when she was meeting my Howels; she was crying when she was putting on her wedding gown; she was crying when the parson was preaching that sermon, and when the thunder and lightning did frighten her, seure, and no wonder—'

'Did it thunder and lighten when they were married? 'asked Mrs Prothero, through her sobs.

'Yes, indeet! I thoate I should be struck myself; but she was soon forgetting it at breakfast; they do call it breakfast, you see, but I never was seeing a grander dinner. Chickens, and tongue, and ham, and meats, and cakes, and jellies, and fruit, and wines, all froathing up like new milk, some sort of pain they was calling it; but I never did be seeing such good pain or tasting it before, he! he!'

'I don't care about the dress or the dinner, or the grand people, cousin,' said Mrs Prothero, 'I pray God to forgive Howel for making our only girl run away from us like a thief in the night; and I would rather hear she cried for us whom she treated so badly, than that she was dressed in velvet and jewels. All those fine people and fine things won't make her happy, and her father will never forgive her, never. Oh dear! oh dear!'

'What will I tell her, Mrs Prothero, when I do write to my son Howels?'

'Tell her—tell her that my heart is breaking; but I forgive her. Beg her not to forget her parents, and, above all, not to forget her God. Poor child! poor silly, thoughtless child, she will never be happy again.'

'Indeet to goodness, this is fullish! I shall go, Mrs Prothero. Good morning.'

Just as Mrs Jenkins was making a kind of curtsey by the bedside Gladys said that she saw Mr Prothero riding up to the house.

'Perhaps you had better make haste, Aunt 'Lizbeth,' said Owen, 'it would not very well do for you and my father to meet.'

'I 'ont be running away from any man's house, Mr Owen. I do hope I'm as good as your father any day.'

'Oh, pray make haste,' said Mrs Prothero, very much frightened. 'Good-bye, cousin. Forgive me if I have been rude? I beg your pardon.'

'This way, ma'am, if you please,' said Gladys, opening the door; but Mrs Jenkins was smoothing down her silk dress, and arranging her bonnet in the looking glass.

'Quite ready for another husband, aunt; but you had better make haste, you don't know what you may come in for if you meet my father.'

'I am not caring neither,' said the little woman, sweeping across the room and out at the door. At the top of the stair she met Mr Prothero, face to face. The effect of her appearance upon that worthy man is not to be described. She made a kind of curtsey and began to speak, but no sooner did she see his face than she held her tongue. Neither did words appear to come at the farmer's bidding, but very decided deeds did. He took the alarmed Mrs Jenkins by the two shoulders, literally lifted her from the ground, carried her downstairs a great deal faster than she came up, helped her along the passage much in the same way, and with something very nearly approaching a kick and an oath, turned her out of doors, and shut the door behind her with so violent a bang that it echoed through the house.

Owen ran down stairs to receive the first brunt of his passion, and to prevent his going up to his mother. He allowed the words that came at last to have way, and then took all the fault on himself; said that he had admitted Mrs Jenkins to try to soothe his mother, and that she had done so, he thought.

'Take you care, sir, how you let that 'ooman darken my doors again, or any one belonging to her. It'll be worse for you than for them,' said Mr Prothero, with a brow like a thunder cloud.

His wrath was interrupted by the sound of wheels, and to Owen's great relief, he saw the head of his uncle's well known grey mare through the window. He ran out to admit him and his aunt.

'We have just seen Mrs Jenkins, Owen,' began his aunt.

'Not a word to father, aunt.'

'Very well. But she stopped us and began telling us that she had been turned out of these doors, and would have the law on your father. She was furious; talked of Netta and Howel, and your mother, and Paris, and the wedding, all in the same breath, and would not let us go on until we had heard all. Neither of us spoke to her, but she stood at the horse's head and frightened me to death.'

When they all went into the hall, they found that Mr Prothero was not there. Gladys came in and said he was with her mistress, but had not mentioned Mrs Jenkins.

'I am afraid she has made my mistress worse, sir,' she said to Owen. 'She has been very faint ever since she left,'

In truth she had made her worse, and when Dr Richards came to see her that afternoon, she was quite delirious. He shook his head, and declared that she had brain fever, and that the utmost quiet and freedom from all excitement were necessary for her. Poor Mr Prothero was beside himself, and the whole household was in great consternation. Serious illness had never visited either the farm or the vicarage before, and none of the Prothero family knew what it was. Not so Gladys, however. She did not wait to be directed or ordered, but took her post as nurse by her dear mistress's bedside. To her the doctor gave his directions, to her Mr Prothero turned for information, to her Owen came for comfort; and even Mrs Jonathan, who had scarcely ever spoken to her before, looked to her as the only hope in this time of uncertainty.

'I have seen all kind of fevers,' she would say to one and another as they questioned her, 'worse than this, and with God's grace the dear mistress will recover. I am not afraid to sit up alone with her, oh, no! It is better not to have too many in the room at once. Do not be uneasy, master, the delirium is not very bad. Yes, Mr Owen, you can do better than any one else, because you are calmer. No, ma'am, it is not an infectious fever—you need not be afraid,' and so from one to another at intervals she went, giving hope and comfort.

During all that night and several successive ones, Gladys sat up with her beloved mistress. It was she who listened to her disturbed, delirious talk about Netta, and tried to console her; she who read the Bible to her, and prayed with and for her during the intervals of reason, and she who gave her all her medicines and nourishment.

Poor Mr Prothero could do nothing but wander from the fields to the house, and the house back again to the fields, followed by his brother like his shadow, who strove to comfort him in vain. Mrs Jonathan made jellies, and did her best. Owen was gentle and tender as a girl, and helped to nurse his mother with a love and care that Gladys could scarcely understand in the lighthearted, wild sailor.

Before the end of the week, they wrote to summon Rowland, for Mrs Prothero's life was despaired of, and great was the anxiety and terror of all, lest he should come too late.

'Pray for her, Mr Owen, pray for her. There is nothing else of any avail at such a time as this,' would Gladys say in answer to the young man's entreating glance.

'If I were as good as you I could, Gladys. Oh, God! spare my beloved mother!' he would reply.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE CURATE.

Although it was a bright autumn morning, the stillness of death hovered over Glanyravon Farm. There was scarcely a sound to be heard within or without. The men in the yard moved about like spectres, and work was suspended in the harvest fields; whispers circulated from bedroom to kitchen, and from kitchen to outhouse, that the good and kind mistress whom every body loved, was on her deathbed; and how should they labour? All the talk of the farm-servants was upon subjects ominous of death. One said that he had heard Lion, the big watch-dog, howl long and loud before daylight; another that he had seen a corpse candle as he went homewards the previous evening; a third that she had seen her mistress all in white at her bedside, looking beautiful; a fourth that she had heard a raven croak; in short, if sighs and wonders could kill poor Mrs Prothero, there was little chance for her life. Where every one was usually so busy, so full of energy and spirit, there was more than a Sabbath calm. They were expecting some one, too, for Tom and Bill were looking down the road about every five minutes, whilst Shanno appeared now and again at the back door, and whispered 'Is he coming?' to which a shake of the head was a constant reply.

The doctor had just gone into the house, and knots of men and women stood about with sorrowful faces; kind neighbours who came one after another to hear the last report as soon as he should again reappear. Mrs Prothero was greatly beloved, and no one could afford to lose her.

'She was so bad last night that she was not expected to see the morning,' whispered one.

'Couldn't take a drop of anything,' said another.

'Is talking of Miss Netta for ever,' said a third.

'There'll be a loss to every one. Mr Jonathan prayed for her in church last Sunday; if prayers'll save her she 'ont die, no seure.'

'She gave me a jug of milk only Friday week.'

'And was coming to see my John in the measles Wednesday before Miss Netta ran away.'

'She's the death of her mother I always say.'

'Poor master is nearly mad.'

'And Mr Owen crying like a baby.'

'And they do say that the Irish girl is better than a daughter to 'em all.'

'Hush! I do hear wheels. Oh! if he do come, perhaps he may rouse her up a bit.'

The gates were open, and before the last whisper was over Mr Gwynne's carriage was driving down to the farm. The bystanders drew back as it rolled through a part of the yard and stopped at the door. Rowland got out, and was in the house almost before any one could see him. He went into the hall, and there he saw Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, and Dr Richards. Miss Gwynne held out her hand, and said at once,—'Your mother is still alive.'

'Thank God I!' exclaimed Rowland, giving a sort of convulsive gasp, and wringing the hand that pressed his.

'Is there any hope?' he asked of Dr Richards.

'The crisis is at hand, and she is insensible; it is impossible to say—if we could rouse her?'

'I may go upstairs?'

'Yes, but you had better let your father know you are come; he is in the outer room.'

Rowland went at once to what had been his own bedroom in former times; he opened the door gently, and there alone on his knees by the bedside, groaning audibly, was his poor stricken father. He went up softly to him and whispered, 'Father, it is I, Rowland!' and Mr Prothero rose, and in a few seconds went with him into the room where the beloved wife and mother lay.

Rowland went up to the bedside, and took the place which Gladys silently vacated for him. He gazed upon what appeared to him to be death, but was really the prostration and insensibility that followed the delirium and fever of the past week. He bent down and kissed the cold forehead of his mother, then turned away, covered his face with his hands, and wept silently. Gladys whispered to him that there was still hope, and resumed her occupation of bathing the temples with vinegar, wetting the lips with wine, and administering tea spoonfuls of wine, which still continued to find a passage down the throat. Mrs Jonathan Prothero crept softly up to Rowland, and put her hand in his—Owen came to him—his uncle—all were there.

But as soon as he had recovered from his temporary emotion, he went to his father's side, who had seated himself on a chair behind the curtain of the bed, and tried to comfort him. The presence of his second son was in itself a consolation to poor Mr Prothero; but he could not listen to his words.

'Pray for your mother, Rowland,' was all he could say.

Rowland knelt down with all those present, except Gladys, who joined in spirit and prayed. Never before had he known what it was to use the prayers of his church for one so dear to him; never before had he felt the great difficulty of reading them when his emotion nearly choked his utterance. But as priest and son he prayed fervently for his mother.

Mr Prothero seemed calmer after he rose from his knees, and ventured to lean over his wife to assure himself that she still breathed. There was an occasional slight pulsation scarcely to be called breath.

The doctor came in and felt her pulse. It was not quite gone, and whilst there was life there was hope.

They stood round her bed watching the calm, pale face with a love and anxiety so intense that they could neither speak nor breathe. Gladys looked almost as pale as her mistress, and as the light fell upon her when she was leaning over her, she might have been the angel of death herself.

Mrs Jonathan Prothero drew Rowland from the room and insisted upon his taking some refreshment. He had travelled all night, and Mr Gwynne, at his daughter's request, had sent his carriage to meet him.

Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall were still waiting downstairs. They asked Mrs Jonathan if they could be of any use in taking Gladys's place whilst the poor girl got some rest; Mrs Jonathan said it was useless to urge her to leave her mistress for a moment.

Rowland thanked Miss Gwynne for her kindness, and she said she would do anything in the world for Mrs Prothero.

She and Miss Hall went away in the carriage that brought Rowland, promising to return again in the afternoon.

When Rowland had swallowed some coffee, he went back to his mother's room. As he walked from the door to the foot of the bed, she opened her eyes, and seemed for a moment to look at him; a thrill of hope shot through him. He went round and took her hand, and whispered, 'Mother!' Did she smile? He thought she did.

Shortly afterwards her lips moved, and Gladys heard the name ever on them, 'Netta.' This was better, far better, than that death-like trance.

'Mother, dear mother,' again whispered Rowland, and once more her eyes opened and fixed on him, with something like consciousness.

At last an opiate which the doctor had given took effect, and she slept; her pulse was so weak, and her breathing so faint, that at first the watchers thought she was passing away into that sleep from which there is no awakening; but it was not so. It was a weak troubled sleep; still it was a sleep.

By degrees all left the room but Rowland and Gladys. Mrs Prothero's hand seemed to be clasping that of her son, as if it would not let go; and Gladys never moved from the bedside.

She saw that there must be hope if real sleep came. As she sat down in a kind of easy chair that Owen had placed for her by the bedside, she thanked God for this amount of hope,

'Sleep, Gladys, I will watch,' whispered Rowland.

And truly the poor girl had need of rest. Scarce had she closed her eyes during that anxious week, and she knew well how necessary rest was to her. But she felt as if she could not sleep whilst this uncertainty lasted. All the anxious faces of the household flitted before her when she tried to compose herself. Her poor master, his brother, Mrs Jonathan, Rowland, but mostly Owen. He who had said the least, had shown the greatest self-command and done the most. His large kind eyes seemed to be looking at his mother or at her, and trying to anticipate their wants. His hands so brown and sinewy, yet so very gentle, seemed to be touching hers, as they had done when moving his mother or otherwise helping in the sick-room. His cheery voice seemed to be telling her not to weary herself so much, or to be thanking her for the care she bestowed upon his dear parent. In vain she tried to put aside this kind of haunting vision. Her mistress and Owen were painted on the over-strained retina, and she could not efface the picture. She prayed for them, for all. Then, as the afternoon sunlight faded away, and a twilight hue crept over the room, with just a flickering streak of light playing on the wall opposite to her, the death-beds of her father, mother, sister, and brothers rose up before her with a vivid reality that made her tremble, and forced tears from her weary eyes. The tears seemed a relief, and as they flowed quietly down her cheeks, and the coming shadows dispersed the visions of the living, dying, and dead faded away, a mist fell on her eyes and she slept.

Rowland, meanwhile, watched his mother. During the twelve months that he had been a curate in a parish in one of the worst parts of London, he had seen much of the sick and the dying. He had seen poverty, wretchedness, and sin in their most dreadful aspects, and the peace and comfort of his mother's present condition were a great contrast to the riot and squalor of many a death room into which he had sought to carry the gospel message of mercy. Truly he felt thankful in his inmost soul that she, over whom he was watching with filial love, was ready at any moment to appear before the great Tribunal, because she 'believed and knew in whom she believed.' It was for Netta, his beloved and wayward sister, the cause of this first great family trouble, that he grieved the most, because he feared that she had entered upon that downward path that would lead her far astray from the one in which her mother had so long and happily trod. But he, too, knew where to apply in all his times of doubt and misgiving, and thither he went for comfort as the shadows fell around and night crept on.

Mrs Jonathan Prothero came noiselessly into the room, bringing in a shaded night light, and anxious to bear some intelligence to the watchers downstairs. Her step, light as it was, awoke Gladys. She started up, and looking on her mistress, clasped her hands, and fervently thanked God.

'She is sleeping as calmly as a child,' she said. 'I am sure the worst is past.'

Mrs Jonathan went out to tell the good news, and to beg the brothers to go to bed, which they did, after some demur. Gladys and Rowland watched on for about an hour longer, when Mrs Prothero opened her eyes and fixed them upon Rowland. She smiled as if she knew him, and when he bent over her and kissed her, murmured some faint words which he could not understand.

Gladys gave her some jelly which she swallowed, and soon afterwards she slept again.

'The crisis is over, she will recover, I hope, Mr Rowland,' said Gladys. 'You can go to bed, sir—you had better. The mistress will want you to-morrow, and you can be of no use to-night.'

Rowland felt the force of this, and again kissing his mother's forehead, and shaking Gladys by the hand, he went downstairs to Owen, who he found asleep on the sofa in the parlour. Supper was awaiting him, and Owen and he were soon seated over the fire, discussing their mother's illness and Netta's conduct.

They had not met for three or four years, and there was much to say. Few brothers loved one another more tenderly than they did, despite the dissimilarity of habits, tastes, and occupations, and when they were together, all the secrets of their hearts were usually unfolded. Although Owen's wild roving nature had caused Rowland much anxiety, still he had perfect confidence in his honest, open character. Owing to early education Owen was not deficient in general acquirements. He knew a little Latin and Greek, and could read, write, and cypher well. Added to this, his knowledge of foreign lands was great, and of men and manners greater. Under a careless exterior, he had a considerable portion of talent and information, and Rowland was delighted to find in his sea-faring, roystering brother, a much more cultivated and sensible mind than he had expected. Rowland was beginning to be conscious of wishing to see all his family superior to what they were. Placed by his own profession amongst gentle-folks, and feeling in himself all the refinement of the class so called, he was often annoyed and pained to be differently situated from those who were nearest and dearest to him. He knew that in London he was received as an equal by men and women of rank and position, as well as by those of talent and learning; whereas, in the country, even Miss Gwynne, at whose house he visited, considered it a condescension to speak to him, whilst she looked upon those who belonged to him as people of another sphere. In spite of all his prayers for humility, and his striving after pure Christianity, Rowland was, and knew that he was a proud man, and all the prouder because his original station was beneath his present one. He felt that he must be humbled before he could be the pastor and disciple of One whose whole life was a lesson of humility. But the world knew nothing of this. He walked before it, and through it as a bright example of a young clergyman devoted to his work. Neither was he less devoted to his mother, dutiful to his father, or loving to his brother, because they were good, honest, plain farmers, and he a clergyman; or which was, perhaps, more to the point, because Miss Gwynne could not, or would not separate him from his family.

When he and his brother and sister were children, they were constantly at the vicarage with their uncle and aunt, and Miss Gwynne was their playmate there, and had not known their inferiority. Now that he really was a man of education and a gentleman, in spite of all her kindness to his mother, she knew it full well. Why did he never consider what any one else in his own neighbourhood thought of him or his family? It was only Miss Gwynne—always Miss Gwynne.

Early the following morning that young lady came to inquire for Mrs Prothero, accompanied by Miss Hall. It was Rowland who gave them the joyful intelligence that his mother had had a good night, and was much more quiet. The real pleasure that shone from Miss Gwynne's intelligent and intelligible eyes, showed Rowland how fond she was of his mother.

'And now,' she said, 'Miss Hall and I are come, resolutely bent on remaining with your mother, whilst your aunt and Gladys go to bed. We are quite determined, and you know I always have my way.'

Rowland bowed, smiled, and called his aunt, who, after some hesitation consented, and went upstairs to request Gladys to do the same, but Gladys was inexorable until Mr Prothero came in, and in his most decided manner insisted on her taking some rest. Mrs Prothero also murmured a 'Go, Gladys fach!' and she kissed the dear cheek and went at once.

Mr Prothero took her place. He was alone with his wife, and the rough, loud man became gentle as one of his own lambs, as he bent over her and thanked God that she was better. A big tear fell from his eyes on her face, and he made an inward vow, that if her life were spared, he would never again say a cross word to her as long as he lived.

She felt the tear, heard the kind words, and seemed to understand the vow, for she looked at him tenderly, and said in her low, weak voice, 'God bless you, David!'

From that moment he went out to his work with a lightened heart; the labourers read the good news that their mistress was better in his face, and heard it in his voice. Even Netta's disobedience was forgotten, if not forgiven, in the joy of feeling that the partner of more than half his life was likely to recover. And by degrees she did recover. That is to say, before Rowland was obliged again to leave her, she was able to go down into the parlour and sit at her work, 'quite like a lady,' as she expressed it. And even out of the evil of such an illness good had sprung. It had aroused all the sympathy and kind feeling of relatives, friends, and neighbours; but especially had it been beneficial in bringing out the womanly kindness that lay hid under the stiffness of pride in Mrs Jonathan Prothero, and in opening the hearts of the sisters-in-law towards each other. Mrs Jonathan forgot her cousin, Sir Philip Payne Perry, and helped to nurse, and learned to love her humbler connection, whilst the ever-ready tenderness of the simple farmer's wife, sprung up to respond to it like a stream leaping in the sunlight. Gladys, too, reaped the reward of her devotion, in the increased kindness of Mr Prothero, who began to forget the Irish beggar in the gentle girl whose care, under God, had saved his wife's life; and so, as is usually the case, affliction had not come from the ground, but had fallen like a softening dew upon the irritated feelings of the afflicted, and bound heart still nearer to heart.

Perhaps in the younger and more impetuous natures it had done almost too much. Thoughtless of consequences, they had all worked to save a life, valuable to so many. Rowland, Owen, Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, Gladys, had been thrown together at a time when the formalities of the world and the distinctions of rank are forgotten, and the tear of sympathy, the word of friendly comfort, or the pressure of the hand of kindly feeling are given and taken, without a thought of giver or receiver. But they are remembered, and dwelt upon in after years as passages in life's history never to be obliterated—never to be forgotten.



CHAPTER XX.

THE HEIRESS.

Glanyravon Park lay, as we have said, in the parish of which Mr Jonathan Prothero was vicar, but as the parish and park were large, the house was three or four miles from the church; and it was on account of this distance of Glanyravon and its dependencies from church and school, that Miss Gwynne had induced her father to build the school-house, of which mention has been already made, since there was a large school in the village for such children as were within its reach. She would have had him build a small church also, and endow it, to remove all excuse, as she said, from the chapel-goers; but this was an undertaking too mighty for him. However, the school flourished wonderfully, both on week days and Sundays, and Miss Gwynne always filled every corner of an omnibus in which the servants went to church with such of the children as could not walk so far. Miss Hall was an admirable assistant to the school-mistress during the week; and Gladys, with Mrs Prothero's permission, undertook the Sunday duty for the mistress, in order that she might have a holiday on that day. Miss Gwynne also attended, but she was too impatient and imperious to be a good teacher, much as she wished to be one.

Miss Gwynne had great ideas of doing good; grand schemes that she tried to carry out, but in which she often failed. Nevertheless, she did a great deal of good in her own peculiar way.

She had been reading of the 'harvest homes' that they were endeavouring to revive in England, and had induced her father to have one in the park. Happily, the day fixed for this general rejoicing was during Mrs Prothero's convalescence, and before Rowland's return to London, so that most of the members of the Prothero family could be present. They also yielded to Miss Gwynne's ready assistance in such preparations as she made, and were the instruments in surprising her and her father by some tasteful decorations in their honour, unknown to them. Owen and Gladys worked very hard at floral and evergreen mottoes for the tent, whilst Rowland gave his advice as he sat with his mother, and tried to amuse her during the tedium of her recovery.

A few hours before the general gathering, a messenger arrived at the Park in great haste, bearing a note to Miss Gwynne, containing the information that the vicar had sprained his ankle just as he was going to set out for Glanyravon, and was unable to move. There was another note for Rowland, which was to be carried on to the farm, requesting him to supply his uncle's place.

Miss Gwynne was greatly annoyed; wished that the vicar would not go wandering about after old stones, as she was sure he had done; knew that Rowland would never be able to manage and was very sorry she had attempted the treat at all.

Whilst she was still grumbling, and Miss Hall laughing and consoling, Rowland arrived. This was his first visit to the Park since he had been in the country, and Mr Gwynne was delighted to see him. He perceived at once that Miss Gwynne's equanimity was disturbed; and said that he was very sorry to come as a substitute for his uncle, but that he would do his best. His manner was so quiet and composed, and he seemed so little alarmed by the honours thrust upon him, that Miss Gwynne gradually became reassured.

In less than half-an-hour she told Miss Hall that he was worth a hundred of the vicar, and that after all the sprained ankle was rather a fortunate accident.

At about two o'clock the guests began to assemble at the school-house, over the door of which was the motto in dahlias on a ground of evergreens, 'Welcome for all,' which had been arranged by Miss Hall. The school-room was very tastefully decorated by the mistress, Gladys, and the children; and the motto, 'Long Live Miss Gwynne,' was very apparent in scarlet letters amongst a crown of laurels.

All the children and their teachers were assembled here, and a great many of their relations, also most of the farmers and their families. In addition, there were Mr and Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, Lady Mary and Miss Nugent, Colonel Vaughan, who was staying at the Park, Sir Hugh Pryse, Mrs Jonathan Prothero, who left her husband at his particular request, and Rowland. No one out of the precincts of the Park had been invited, and as it was, there was a goodly number.

As there was no church near enough for them to go to, Rowland read the evening service in the school-room; after this he gave out one of the hymns for harvest, and led the youthful band in singing it. His fine clear voice seemed to give the children courage, especially when a beautiful full treble joined, to which they were evidently accustomed. It was impossible not to try to discover from whom those sweet notes proceeded, and one by one everybody looked at Gladys, who had a magnificent voice; she, however, was unconscious of observation, for her eyes were fixed on her hymn-book that she was sharing with a small child.

It must be acknowledged that she not unfrequently distracted the attention of many a young man from his hymn-book on Sunday, when at church; and on the present occasion, what with the face and the voice, more than one pair of eyes were fixed on her. Owen, I am sorry to say, looked more attentively at her than at his book; and, as to Colonel Vaughan, he never took his eyes off her face, and was heard to whisper the question of 'Who is that girl?' to Lady Mary Nugent.

When the hymn was sung, Rowland stood behind the high desk of the mistress, and gave a short lecture on the words, 'Thou crownest the year with thy goodness.' Rowland was not ungifted with the talent for extempore preaching, common to so many of his countrymen, and therewith possessed, in general, much self-possession; on the present occasion, it must be confessed that he felt unusually nervous, still he commanded himself and his feelings, and by degrees, forgetting them and his hearers, in his subject, warmed into a natural flow of eloquence that somewhat astonished his congregation, and entirely gained their attention.

Beneath a quiet exterior Rowland hid a romantic and poetic mind, which few, if any of his friends knew anything about; for he had never shown his poetry to them, and never attempted to publish it. But it sometimes appeared, in spite of his efforts to repress it, in his sermons; and now it made a desperate effort to burst forth, and conquered.

There was so much to excite the enthusiasm of a young preacher in that harvest-home gathering—in the mows of golden corn heaped up against the future—in the splendid autumn weather they were then enjoying—in the bright sunshine and many-hued leaves of the changing trees—and the goodness of God crowning the whole!

I am not going through his sermon, for I should only mar what his feelings made powerful. Suffice it to say that some of his friends had tears in their eyes as he preached; others, according to the custom of their country, uttered occasional exclamations of approval as he went on, and some were glad to own him as their near and dear relation.

Perhaps the proudest moment of the farmer's life was when Mr Gwynne went up to him after that short discourse, and shook him by the hand, with the words—emphatic words for him—