'But, Freda—after all—if you do like him. You see, his uncle married a Perry, one of the oldest families in Herefordshire, niece of the baronet, daughter of the dean, cousin of the present baronet.'

'My dear father! I know all the Perrys by heart. Mrs Jonathan is not likely to have left me ignorant of their antiquity. But, pray, do you want to get rid of me, that you force me upon poor Rowland, or him upon me, whichever it may be?'

'Of course not, my dear. Only I am naturally anxious to see you settled. And if you really like him—'

'But I am settled, and I do not like him; that is to say, I like him well enough, fifty times better than I used to like him, but I have not the most remote intention of marrying him. And now, I should like to know what particular reason Lady Mary Nugent had for putting this absurd notion into your head. There must be something, my dear papa, under all this sudden anxiety to get me married. You used rather to rejoice when I declined settling Glanyravon on a suitor.'

'Yes, my dear—but—you see—it is not quite certain that Glanyravon—I mean that you—I mean that I—in short—the fact is—you are so impetuous, Freda.'

'What can my impetuosity have to do with it?'

Freda saw that her father was more than usually nervous and fidgety, and became alarmed lest there should be some sudden money difficulty, as any threat, however slight, of debt or involvement always made him ill. She sat down beside him, and putting her hand in his, as it rested on a table nervously fidgeting with a pen, she said gently,—

'Now, pappy, I hope we are not all going to jail?'

'By no means; the tenants are most prosperous. I could raise any sum if necessary, and give you a marriage portion suitable in every way.'

What was there in this marriage scheme? Freda grew impatient and indignant again.

'Now, really, papa, this is too absurd; If you have anything on your mind, will you say it?'

'Well—the fact is, Freda, that you—I mean that I, have made up my mind—you see you may marry, and leave me alone, and I should want a companion, and—and all that sort of thing, you know—so I have considered—for your—for our—for my, perhaps—happiness, that it might be well for me to—to—to—in short, my dear—to marry again; in fact, Freda, I have resolved to do so.'

'Lady Mary Nugent!' screamed Freda; 'not her! not her! not settled! oh papa!'

Mr Gwynne had called Freda impetuous, but he was not prepared for the sudden burst of uncontrollable grief that followed his announcement. Often as Freda had jested over the proposal Lady Mary was to make her father, she had never believed that he would marry her. It came upon her like the news of an unexpected death, or great family misfortune. She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed till her father thought she must burst some blood vessel then and there before him. He got up, sat down; went to the bell, touched the rope, let it go; opened the window, put his hand on Freda's bowed head, called her by name, and, in return, was greeted by—

'Not Lady Mary! think of my mother! think of me! oh father! father! cruel! this is too much! Say it is not true; only a jest. What have I done? I will be better, kinder, gentler—I will nurse you, tend you—never marry. I would rather not—I never shall. Nobody loves you as well as I. Your only child. My mother's only child. Say it is not true—oh, say it is not true?'

This was impossible, for Mr Gwynne knew full well that he was pledged beyond recall. But now, as he looked on his daughter, heard her words, thought of her mother, he began to repent of what he had done. He, who hated scenes, dreaded tears, would not annoy Freda for the world, to have raised such emotion! He did not understand it. Lady Mary had assured him Freda would be so glad to be allowed to marry Rowland. And she was so discerning and clever! But he could not bear those sobs.

'Freda! my dear, don't, I beg, I entreat! You will make me so nervous. You know I cannot bear—in short, I feel quite ill. The fact is, you will make yourself ill, and after all, it need make no difference to you. You will be just the same. Freda, I must beg you to desist. I must insist—I will ring for the housekeeper.'

'No, no, papa. Do not let us expose ourselves!' cried Freda, rising suddenly; 'I will go upstairs. Neither you nor I will ever be happy again!'

Freda was about to leave the room, when Mr Gwynne suddenly went up to her, and putting his arm round her neck, whispered, whilst the tears sprang into his eyes,—

'Freda, Freda! my child, forgive me! I didn't think it would vex you so. I scarcely know how it has all happened.'

Poor Freda threw both her arms around her father, and sobbed again. As she leaned on his shoulder, his white hairs touched the brown glossy braids of her head, and his lips kissed them. At that moment he knew that he did not love Lady Mary Nugent as well as he loved his child, and that child was conscious for the first time how very dear her father was to her.

Again she roused herself, and as if ashamed of her emotion, hastened out of the room. She went upstairs, and locking herself in her room, threw herself on her bed. Here she gave way to feelings that were as new as strange to her, unaccustomed as she was to what some one calls 'the luxury of tears.' She scarcely knew whether sorrow or anger predominated, but she was wretched and indignant. Tumultuous thoughts rushed through her mind of the past, present, and probable future! thoughts too numerous and changeable to be transcribed, but which may well be imagined.

At last her pride, that one grand feature of her character, got the better of her grief and anger. She rose from her bed, dried her eyes, arranged her hair, and with a carriage as erect as her soul was haughty, once more entered her father's library. The momentary emotion and pathos of their last embrace had been overpowered in both by stronger sensations; in him by the remembrance of Lady Mary Nugent's fascinations, in her by the sense of that lady's tact and duplicity.

Freda sat quietly down opposite her father, and said abruptly,—

'Papa, this odious subject must be begun and ended between us this day. If you will be good enough to answer me a few questions and to listen to me, I will never mention it again. Are you really engaged to Lady Mary Nugent, or is it a horrible dream?'

'I—yes—I certainly am, my dear—engaged to be married to her ladyship.'

'And you mean to marry her? Impossible!'

'Do you consider me a man of honour? or am I one likely to break my word when pledged?'

'Oh! papa, when a woman proposes and makes love, and waits till the very moment when it suits her own convenience to marry, do you think she deserves consideration? You know that Lady Mary Nugent has done it all herself, and that you would never have taken the trouble, or had the courage to propose for any woman under the sun, if she had not asked you first. You know you do not want to marry. I would give the world to know how she managed to bring you to the point.'

'Really, Freda, this is too—too—personal, and rude, I may call it—and—'

'Forgive me, papa. Of course you are your own master, and are at liberty to be chosen by any woman, but she will not choose me, nor I her. I hate Lady Mary Nugent, despise her most intensely, and shall leave this house before she comes into it; never—'

It seemed as if an invisible hand checked the end of Freda's determination, for she stopped short at the 'never.'

'But what I came particularly to say, papa, is, that I believe I have some little private fortune of my own, my dear mother's, in short, and I suppose I can have that when I like.'

'Certainly—certainly—but—'

'Then I wish both you and Lady Mary Nugent to understand that I shall not live here. Not on your account, but on hers. I ask, as a particular favour, that I may not be informed of the day of your marriage; and I shall make it a point of going away in a month or so, so as to leave you free to act. I shall hope to hear from you, and to write to you. I am only sorry for you, because she cannot understand your tastes; but that is nothing. I don't think either she or her daughter ever read any book but a fashionable novel in their lives. But what is the difference! Money and tact against the world! I cannot help speaking my mind for this first and last time. Forgive me. You will not have me long to speak it, and my successor never spoke her's in her life, so she will not bore you by abruptness and sincerity, as I perhaps have done.'

Freda had spoken so fast that she paused to take breath, and during that necessary process her father wiped his face, as if he, too, were exhausted by her volubility. Freda could scarcely help smiling.

'I am very sorry for everything I have ever done to displease you,' she began again; 'and I only hope you will not be so unhappy, as I am afraid you will be.'

'This is too exhausting!' muttered Mr Gwynne, sinking back in his chair. 'Freda, you really do talk too much. Will you ring for Perkins? I must take a dose of that cordial.'

When the cordial was mentioned, Freda knew that all conversation was at an end. She rang the bell, and when Perkins came, left the room.

She went at once to her writing desk, and wrote the following note:—

'MY DEAREST SERENA,—What you and I have sometimes feared is about to come to pass. My father is going to marry Lady Mary Nugent. Of course I can no longer live here; will you and Mr Jones give me shelter for a time whilst I arrange my thoughts and plans? I will give as little trouble as I can, but I know you will bear with me.—Your loving friend,

'WINIFRED GWYNNE.'

Freda sealed and directed her letter, and then went to the open window, and stood there for some time. A slight shower of rain was falling and a few light clouds were struggling with the afternoon sunbeams. Strong shadows fell from the trees in the Park, equally strong lights were on the distant hills. The river looked hot and hazy, and the cattle had congregated under the arch of the bridge—the only cool spot—as if for shelter from the sun. A shrill, blithe, distant whistle sounded, and the bells of Llanfawr church pealed in the far-away town, just sending their faint echoes across the river.

'What are those bells ringing for?' said Freda, as she wiped away some large tears that were gathering in her eyes. 'They ring for everything; soon it will be for these odious marriages. Why was I ever born? Why, above all, was I born in such a place as this? And to leave it! Yes, Frisk' (to her terrier, that was barking and jumping outside the window), 'you and I must go away. No more quarrels with Jerry; no more fights with Gelert?; no more hunts in the brook. Will you come with me to smoky London? Yes, and hate it as much as I shall. Sleep away your life by a city fire, and grow fat and old, instead of racing after me and Prince. But we shall not live long in a town, Frisk. We shall soon die of sheer laziness, and so much the better—for who will care for us? Lion and Jerry and even Gipsy will forget you; and every one has forgotten me already. Why am I so foolish as to cry so? I never knew how weak I could be until these last few days. But we must be strong, Frisk—we must be strong, and not care for this old place, and the beautiful park, and all the—oh, why will those bells ring? and what are they ringing for? And there is the dinner-bell, too, harsh as my lot. And I must try to be dutiful, and show a bold face and good courage to the world, who will pity me, or rejoice over me, and say that I wanted something to pull down my pride. And so, perhaps, I do; but this shall not be the something. No, no; it shall only make me prouder. Poor papa, too; he will be more wretched than I—I am sure he will. I cannot bear to think of him. Frisk! Frisk! don't make such a noise. Don't jump so, Frisk. There! I will take you in. Good dog! good Frisk! You love me if no one else does; you and Gladys.'



CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE FIRST-BORN.

Those Llanfawr bells which, as Freda said, certainly did ring for everything, were sending forth their chimes to celebrate the birth of a daughter at Plas Abertewey. But whilst they were ringing, and Freda was abusing them, the mother of the little daughter was, apparently, about to depart for that other country where bells shall no longer 'ring out the old, and ring in the new,' welcome the babe, or speed the spirit of the dead.

Good Dr Richards and the nurse stood, one on either side of Netta's bed, pouring brandy and wine down her throat, whilst her infant was on its grandmother's, Mrs Jenkins's lap, in the next room. The doctor was in a state of intense anxiety. He had sent off one man and horse for another surgeon, and a second to Swansea, to telegraph for Howel, who had not yet returned from London, where he had been nearly three months. He felt the great responsibility of his situation, and that if Netta did not rally, she must die.

It was six o'clock in the evening; the baby had been born in the morning, and Netta's continual cry had been 'Howel! Howel! When will my husband come?' But she had not spoken for some hours, and seemed to be sinking out of the world.

As Dr Richards leaned over her, he thought she murmured something. Putting his ear close to her, he heard the words, 'Mother! oh, mother!'

'She shall come! you shall see her!' said Dr Richards. He went to a writing-table, and wrote as follows:—

'Mrs Howel Jenkins is dying. The only chance to save her is her mother's presence. Come, for God's sake.'

He went out of the room, and ordered the carriage and horses to be prepared at once, and sent them and the coachman to Glanyravon Farm. The man said it was as much as his place was worth to go; but Dr Richards insisted, and he went.

In about two hours the carriage returned. Dr Richards heard the distant sound of wheels, so did Netta. She opened her eyes, and with a painful, eager glance, again said, 'Mother!'

Dr Richards left the room, and, to his great joy, welcomed Mrs Prothero in the hall.

'Thank God, you are come! She is yet alive,' said he.

'I did not stop to ask David,' said Mrs Prothero, 'but came straight away.'

She followed Dr Richards to Netta's room, and the feelings of the mother and the daughter may well be imagined, as they thus met after such a separation. Mrs Prothero turned away and wept—then prepared to wait upon her child.

As the long absence of Howel, and his non-arrival day after day, according to promises almost daily made, had caused Netta's extreme prostration of mental as well as physical power; so the presence of her mother appeared to revive and cheer her. Again she had some one near her who loved her. Her mother, whom she had so grievously offended, had come to her in trouble, and she was roused and comforted. The mother-in-law, who had been so anxious to take her from her parents, did not fill their places.

Whilst Mrs Prothero was tenderly nursing her daughter, and gently assuring her of her love and forgiveness, Mrs Griffey Jenkins was discussing her arrival with the various domestics and the nurse, who went into an adjoining room to have her supper, where Mrs Griffey also had hers.

Their conversation was carried on in an under voice, and between sips of gin and water, Mrs Griffey said,—

'You do see, Mrs Gwillim, that if Mrs Howel was to die, my Howels 'ould be seure to be marrying again. He could have anybody.'

'Of course, ma'am—of course.'

'There don't be a lady anywhere as 'ouldn't be proud to be marrying my Howels. Up in London there's my Lady Sinclairs, and a hundred others; and down here there's Miss Nugent, or Miss Gwynne. You do see, Mrs Gwillim, that though Mrs Howels do be very respectable, she 'ouldn't be Mrs Howel Jenkins, Abertewey, only my Howels was too honourable not to be marrying her. I 'ould be sorry after her, but if she was to be taken, why, she couldn't go at a better time. What was you thinking of her by now?'

'Very bad, ma'am, very bad,' said Mrs Gwillim, ominously shaking her head.

And 'very bad,' Netta undoubtedly was all that night. Dr Richards did not leave the house, and in due course of time the other medical man arrived; still, the half-expressed and wholly felt wishes of her mother-in-law for her death were not realised. The dawn of morning found her sleeping peaceably with her infant in her arms, and her mother thanking God that she was better.

At ten o'clock in the morning, carriage wheels were again heard, and Mrs Prothero trembled as Howel entered the house, and there was a consultation of doctors as to the propriety of his seeing his wife at once.

Mrs Griffey anticipated every one else by going direct to Howel.

'How is she, mother?' were his first words.

'Better they do say.'

'Then why on earth did they telegraph for me. It may be the loss of thousands.'

'Mrs Prothero is with Netta, Howel, bach.'

'Who dared to bring her into my house?'

'Netta, I 'spose. They was turning me out of Glanyravon.'

'And I'll turn her out of Abertewey, the canting old humbug.'

Here Dr Richards came in.

'She is out of danger, I hope, Mr Jenkins; anxiety about you reduced her so low; and I took upon myself to send for her mother, who has roused her, and, I believe, saved her life. She knows you are come, and perhaps the sight of you for a moment may not injure her, as she is very anxious to see you; but we must not excite her.'

Howel looked paler and darker than usual, and Dr Richards attributed it, and his silence, to his emotion. They went together upstairs, and Howel stood by the bed where lay his young wife and his first-born child. As he looked upon the pale face of Netta, and saw her large black eyes gleam with joy, and her lips purse themselves up like a double cherry, to kiss him, he was touched. He bent over her, and kissed her warmly. When she uncovered a small portion of the bed-clothes, and displayed the infant that lay in her arms, a smile passed over his countenance, and he kissed his wife and child together.

'Dear Howel,' murmured Netta, as the nurse covered up the mother and her babe, and the doctor touched Howel, and told him to come away. He caught sight of the trembling Mrs Prothero as he was leaving the room, and a terrible frown passed over his face. She followed him downstairs, and anticipated his abuse of her, by saying at once, gently, but firmly,—

'Howel, I came here at Dr Richards' summons to my dying child. My husband did not even know I was coming, but neither he nor you could have prevented me at such a time. You cannot turn me from your doors whilst she is still in danger. When she is out of danger I will go.'

'You turned my mother from yours.'

'Not I, Howel; and I have never injured you. Leave me till to-morrow, and I will go.'

One of the few people in the world for whom Howel had a small amount of respect and affection, was Mrs Prothero. The simply good, and unaffectedly pious, will sometimes command the regard of the worldly and irreligious.

'If you remain in my house, Mrs Prothero, it is because you have been consistently kind to me, and received my mother. As to your husband, I would—'

'Not to me, Howel, if you please I can hear nothing against him. You must remember the provocation, and try to forgive and forget as I do. But thank you for letting me stay with Netta. I have so longed and prayed to see her again, and it has been brought about for me.'

Mrs Prothero remained one clear day and two nights longer at Abertewey. As Netta was quite out of danger before that time had expired, she thought it right to go home, both on Howel's account and her own husband's, whose anger she would have to allay. During her stay with Netta she lost no opportunity to work gently on the mind of her child, now opened and softened by her late trials. She found, with grief, what she had always feared, that Howel and Netta were not happy together; that he was frequently morose and unkind, and that she was passionate and revengeful. This eked out in Netta's confessions to her mother, for Howel was attentive and affectionate during her illness. Mrs Prothero entreated her to be gentle and obedient. Earnestly did she speak to her of religion, trying to recall the lessons of her childhood; and with tears poor Netta promised everything. Particularly she promised to read her Bible. Her mother was shocked that the Book was not to be found in her bedroom. She put a little Testament, that she always carried in her pocket, under her child's pillow. It was lined, and underlined by her own hand, and she fondly hoped she might read it for her sake.

Netta was so loving, gentle, and teachable with her mother—blamed herself so severely for having displeased her and her father—sent so many messages to him, and seemed so desirous of obtaining his forgiveness, that Mrs Prothero hoped everything.

It was a hard struggle to part again with that dear child, and to kiss the little grandchild for the last time, perhaps, for years—she would not believe for ever; but both she and Netta were obliged to put a brave face upon it, in order not to displease Howel, already suspicious of their conversations.

'You see Netta has all the grandest lady could desire,' said Howel, before Mrs Prothero left.

'Oh yes! I hope you will be happy,' was the reply. Mrs Prothero had never given a thought to the grandeur by which she was surrounded.

'Why not? Does Netta complain?' said Howel.

'No, no; she says you are very good, and let her have all she wants; but, Howel, riches may not always bring happiness, and we must try to look beyond the perishable things of life for it.'

'Pshaw!' said Howel, impatiently; 'you know, aunt, I hate that sort of cant.'

Soon after she left Abertewey, Colonel Vaughan called Howel and he had a long conversation, the purport of which was, that the colonel wished to come himself to reside at Abertewey at the end of Howel's term of two years; and Howel was quite ready and willing to give it up to him, saying that he meant to purchase a house in town—in Belgravia, of course—and to reside there until he could meet with a property that he could purchase.

Howel told Netta that he was tired of the neighbourhood already, it was so stupid; and that London, and a country house in some English county, would be far preferable to living in such a dull part of the world. She quite agreed with him, and had her own reasons for being glad to leave Wales. In the first place, she was not at home with the people she met in society, and liked the notion of living where no one would know that she was the daughter of the Protheros of Glanyravon. In the second, Howel would be always at home in London, and never again absent for three months, she knew not why. Moreover, she longed to be far away from the mother-in-law, who was a sort of spy over all she said or did; and she thought Howel would be kinder to her when he was at a distance from their kith and kin, whose propinquity seemed to irritate him.

Netta did not stop to consider Howel's real reasons for leaving the country, or imagine for a moment that a man of his, to her, inexhaustible resources, could be induced to do so because he found those resources were not inexhaustible. Neither did she remember that in London he would be in the midst of the gamblers, horse-racers, and spendthrifts who had been helping him to diminish his father's ill-gotten gains, before and since, he came into possession of them.

During the remainder of his stay in the county, his house was open to sportsmen of every grade. His racers, hunters, hounds, and good dinners were points of union to all the sporting men of the county; and Captain Dancy, Mr Deep, Sir Samuel Spendall, the Simpsons, Madame Duvet, and many others, again adorned Plas Abertewey. Races and race-balls, steeple-chases, and steeple-chase balls, hunts, and hunt-balls, took Howel, Netta, and his friends from place to place, and he and his horses soon became celebrated. The latter ran at all the races. He was a good rider, and rode himself in several steeple-chases; in short, he was declared to be 'a capital fellow!' and one who, if he would only remain in the county, would raise the sporting interest throughout it. As 'blessings brighten as they take their flight,' so Howel's popularity reached its zenith just as he resigned Abertewey to Colonel Vaughan, and went, with his wife and child, abroad for a few months.

As Freda foretold, bells rang, bonfires blazed, and cannons fired, when the respective owners of Glanyravon and Abertewey brought home their respective brides, which took place in due course. If anybody thought of Miss Gwynne, it was to comment loudly on her conduct in leaving her home, because her father chose to marry again, and lowering herself and her position by going to reside with her former governess, the wife of a curate in the East End of London. Some few sympathised with her, but the greater number laughed at Mr Gwynne, admired Lady Nugent's tact, and blamed Freda.

Those, also, who discussed Colonel Vaughan, as everybody did, thought him a wise man to marry a woman who could at once clear his estate, and enable him to live upon it as his fathers had never lived before him, and welcomed him home with great ardour, and a regular volley of dinner parties.

Thus Lady Mary Nugent and her daughter, with their various worldly and external advantages, and Colonel Vaughan, with his savoir faire, had done more for themselves than Freda or Gladys, or Owen or Rowland could have done, with their honesty of purpose, beauty, and intelligence, in a worldly point of view, I would be understood to mean.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE SPENDTHRIFT.

We must now run rapidly through the next six years of Howel and Netta's career.

After spending nearly a year abroad, where Howel amused himself, in addition, to his usual diversions, by speculating in some German mines, they came back to England. They went for a time to Spendall Lodge in Yorkshire, on a visit to Sir Samuel Spendall, in order to be in the vicinity of the Doncaster races. Thence they went to Scarborough, where Howel left Netta, her child and maid in a lodging, whilst he attended the various races in other parts of the country.

About this time, Sir John Simpson died, and his son came into his fortune. Howel immediately bought a handsome house in Belgravia, furnished it expensively, and began life as a London fine gentleman.

It is needless to describe how Howel's income and position in society gradually dwindled down; or more properly, how his means fluctuated according as his horses lost or won, or his various speculations succeeded or failed. Long before his father died, he had mortgaged that father's very mortgages; and had spent a large portion of his wealth in paying off debts of honour, and freeing himself from the Jews, into whose hands he had got before he went to live at Abertewey.

During his four years' residence in London, it was evident that his means fluctuated in some wonderful way. His house was the rendezvous of men of all ranks who were on the turf, and his life was passed in a state of perpetual excitement. Netta did not see much of him, except at their own table, or that of their acquaintances. When she was alone with him, he was either quite silent, or abusive; the career of such a man will be better understood by most of my readers, than described by me. The resorts of black-legs, and the betting-books of men on the turf, the dishonourable payment of so-called debts of honour, the trickery of horse-dealers, horse-trainers, and horse-racers, and the wretched madness of professed gamblers, are things we have all heard of, but of which, happily, comparatively few of us know much, practically.

Howel managed to maintain his reputation as a gentleman and man of large fortune, even when he was, from time to time, on the verge of ruin; and the purchase of Sir Samuel Spendall's property in Yorkshire, when that baronet was obliged to leave the country for debt, confirmed the opinion of his wealth. Every one did not know that Sir Samuel, like Mr Simpson, owed him an enormous sum of money, for various bets, loans, and even mortgages, of which Howel kept quite as usurious an account as his father would have done before him, and at which the lawyers of those gentlemen shook their heads, although they could not disprove any item of it. Howel had learnt enough of law to serve his purposes, and to teach him how far he might venture to go, in the matter of interest and compound interest, with impunity.

Howel's friend, Mr Deep, was a lawyer by profession. He had duly taken out his stamps, and had chambers in Lincoln's Inn, and did such business as fell in his way amongst his sporting friends.

It was he who had been Howel's attorney in all his dealings with Sir Samuel Spendall, Mr Simpson and others, and although his reputation was not very good amongst his professional brethren, nothing dishonourable had ever been proved against him.

We will now look into the chambers of this worthy in Lincoln's Inn, and listen to a conversation that is passing between him and Howel, over what appears to be their mid-day potation of brandy and water. Howel's manner is excited, and his face at its darkest; Mr Deep is calm, and his face smooth as usual.

'You see, we must have money!' says Howel, 'I, at least, must have six thousand five hundred pounds before this month is out. I owe that to Dancy, who, of all men in the world, I don't choose to make wait. If I lose at the Derby, I must have twenty thousand more.'

'But the chances are you will win. Alma is pretty safe, I think.'

'Yes, if we can manage to drug Magnificent. I think I have Little Bill in my power; he will do anything for us. But this six thousand five hundred is the first thing to think of. I have mortgaged Spendall Lodge almost to its value. By the way, are you quite sure that Spendall has nothing against us? They say his mother is paying his debts, and that he will be able to come back.'

'Positive; besides, he never knows what money he has paid, or what receipts he has had, or what the amount of his mortgages was.'

'Simpson, again, I think he is sharper since his father's death. He was regularly frightened when he found what a sum he owed me; and if I hadn't got into a passion, and threatened to call him out for doubting my honour, I believe he would have checked our bill.'

'Can't you get more money on your house in town?'

'No; I have tried Levi and Jacobs, and they won't advance any more without better security.'

'Your mother; surely she would help you, if you were to make up a good story.'

'No; I ran down to see her the other day, and she had taken offence because she chose to think I had neglected her, and was as obstinate as an old mule. I believe she is getting stingy, too, and says she will keep her money as long as she lives, and then I may do what I like with it.'

'What is she worth?'

'Well, I should say by this time, she must have as good as six or seven hundred a-year. She hasn't lived up to her income, and what she has doled out to me now and then, hasn't touched the principal. She must have from fifteen to twenty thousand pounds one way and another.'

'Ask her to come and visit you; take her about and make much of her, and then seize upon her in an unwary moment. Borrow the money, and say you will pay it back, which you know, you will be able to do, if you have any luck.'

'That's a bright idea. The old soul has always been hankering to come to London. Give me a pen and ink directly. Let me see; I know how she likes me to begin. "Dear and honoured mother." Faugh! shall we go on in the ancient style? "I hope this will find you well, as it leaves me at present." I only wish it would find her—well—I think that will do. I have told her that Netta and I will be delighted to see her, etc., etc. And Netta hates her, too.'

'By the way, Jenkins, could not Mrs Howel Jenkins get Dancy to give in about that money? She is a prime favourite.'

'Mrs Jenkins knows nothing of my money transactions, and certainly would be the last person I should wish to interfere in such a matter. Let us go and post this letter, and then I want to go to Tattersalls. Will you dine with me at the club at six? and afterwards we will keep our appointment with Dancy and Lord Dupe; we may make something of the latter, if we can't of the former.'

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when Howel reached his home. His little girl was ill in the measles, and Netta, feeling anxious about her, had been sitting up with her. When Howel entered the bedroom in which the mother and child were, he began to talk in a loud voice.

'Why on earth don't you go to bed, Netta?'

Netta put her finger on her lips, and pointed to the little bed in which her child was sleeping, then hurried into the next room, a kind of nursery and play-room, and sent the maid, who was sitting there, into the bedroom. Howel followed her; Netta saw that he had been drinking, and was greatly excited; he never was absolutely intoxicated, but he constantly drank too much.

'Why do you sit up I say, Netta?'

'Because Minette is so feverish; I did not like to leave her.'

The child had been called Minette by a French bonne, and they had all somehow adopted it as a name; her real name was Victoria.

'You didn't sit up for me, of course?'

'Certainly not; you are not so very agreeable when you come home, as to make me sit up for you.'

'I say, Netta, do you know I have written to invite my mother to come and pay us a visit.'

'Your mother! then you must amuse her, for I certainly won't.'

'I beg to say you will, and will do everything in your power to make her visit agreeable. It will be worse for you if you do not. What do you mean by always disobeying me?'

'You had better not strike me again, you coward, you! Justine will hear you. She can see and hear, if she can't understand.'

'I tell you what, Netta, everything may depend on our reception of my mother—your very living, and mine, and Minette's.'

'I don't care about living; I'd rather starve than live the life I do, and if I have Aunt 'Lizbeth, too, I shall run away, I am sure I shall.'

'With whom, madam?'

'With anybody or nobody; I don't care what becomes of me since you're so unkind. Perhaps you'd like to see my shoulder that you hurt yesterday? I haven't had the pleasure of seeing you since. Your shakes, and pinches ain't very soft, sir, I assure you.'

Netta threw off a portion of the white dressing-gown she had on, and displayed her round white neck and shoulder disfigured by a black-and-blue mark.

'I'll do the same to the other if you aggravate me any more,' said Howel, clenching his teeth, and moving towards Netta.

'Not to-night, anyhow,' said Netta, running through the door and short passage into her child's bedroom. She knew that he was always sufficiently master of himself not to expose himself before the servants.

'Justine, I shall sleep with Minette to-night—that is to say, I shall lie down on this sofa by her side. You can go to bed as usual,' said Netta.

And when Minette and Justine were fast asleep in their respective beds, poor Netta sat and cried the livelong night, with her feet upon the fender, and her eyes fixed upon the almost-extinguished fire.

The following morning, when she was watching her child, Howel came into the room. He went up to the bed on which Minette lay, and kissed her, and asked her how she did. The little girl looked pleased, and putting her arms round her father's neck, whispered,—

'Papa! do you know mamma has not been in bed all night? Will you tell her I am quite well, and ask her to go to bed?'

'I will, darling. I have a new picture-book for you downstairs Mamma will come and fetch it. Mamma, will you come and fetch a new book for Minette?'

Netta looked at Howel for the first time, and seeing that his face was tolerably pleasant, followed him out of the room, and down into the dining-room, where his breakfast was awaiting him.

'Netta! you must make my breakfast, and have some with me. Minette is better, and you needn't starve yourself to death,' said Howel, sitting down at the breakfast-table.

'Thank you,' replied Netta sulkily. 'I can't eat anything, I am a great deal too tired and wretched.'

'Netta, I am sorry I hurt you; but you do aggravate me so, and I have a great deal on my mind.'

Netta's face brightened a little.

'Why don't you tell me what you have on your mind, instead of bullying me from morning to night?'

'Because a woman cannot understand such matters. But if I do not get some money this month we shall be ruined. I have asked my mother up to see whether she will advance it, and that will depend on our treatment of her. Will you be kind to her?'

'I suppose you will give me some of the money, if you get it, to pay servants' wages, and other bills? I am dunned for money from morning to night, and never have a farthing to pay.'

'I shall be able to pay everything next month. I am sure of plenty of money.'

'And I suppose you want to get money from your mother to pay bets, or something of the sort? Why won't you tell me?'

'Yes; I owe it to your friend Dancy. Perhaps you will help me to pay him.'

'He is no friend of mine. I don't like him; but he would do more for me than you would, and is kinder too. But I don't want to be under any obligation to him.'

'If you wish to keep a house over your head, or me out of a prison, you must either ask him, as a personal favour, to let me off the debt, or you must help me to get the money out of my mother.'

'Howel, I don't like underhand ways. I don't mind trying to be civil to Aunt 'Lizbeth, provided you tell her exactly how you are situated, and promise me never to bet with Captain Dancy, or borrow money of him again.'

'I promise most faithfully.'

'And if you can't afford to live in this grand house, Howel, why don't you give it up, and take to the law, or anything to get your living? Perhaps, if you did, we should be happy again. I would rather work like a slave, and not keep a servant, and live in a small lodging, or anything, than see you so altered.'

Here Netta began to cry.

'If I get this money from mother, and what I expect from other sources, we shall be all right again, and then—'

'And then, Howel, you will give up horse-racing and betting and gambling and bad company, and think more of Minette and me—your poor unhappy Netta—your wife—your little cousin that you used to say you loved!—oh, Howel! Howel! that you hate so now, and treat so unkindly.'

Netta had been standing by the fire-place hitherto, but at this juncture she went towards Howel timidly, and kneeling down by his side as he sat at the table, put her hands on his arm, and fixed her tearful eyes on his face.

Howel was touched. We know that there are moments in the lives of the worst of men when better feelings overcome the evil ones; and Howel was not utterly bad; and now his guardian angel seemed to be making a great effort to reclaim him from his sins. He really loved Netta as much as he could love anything. Was she not the only creature in the world who had really loved him?

'Then you do not quite hate me, Netta?' he said, putting his arm round her neck, 'I thought all the old love was gone.'

'No, no, Howel! Dear, dear Howel! I love you in my heart! but you are so changed—so—so—you don't care for my company now. You never come home and play and sing as you used to do. You never speak to Minette; you never speak to me except—'

Here Netta leant her head on Howel's knees, and began to sob. He put his hand on her head, smoothed her hair, and finally raised her from the ground, and took her in his arms to his weak, wicked heart—a heart not wholly depraved, because there was still in it love for his wife.

For a long time she clung to him; her arms round his neck, her cheek to his cheek, her beating heart to his bosom, as if she was afraid that the spell would be broken if once she let go. Howel kissed her pale cheek, wiped those large black eyes, and comforted her as she had never hoped to be comforted again. Vague thoughts entered his mind of the possibility of beginning life afresh—of being a better husband and father—of giving up his wild, sinful courses. 'Shall the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots.'

'I will do anything, Howel, darling—anything you wish,' suddenly murmured Netta, returning his caresses, 'only you will promise never to be unkind again. I will beg, starve for you as long as you love me; but you know I am hot-tempered, and when you are cross I get angry; and then you are violent, and I am hard and sullen and wicked—oh, so wicked! I think I must have lived fifty years in the last five years, Howel, I feel so old and altered. Don't make me so hard-hearted again, Howel, bach, or I shall die, indeed I shall; I feel it now at my heart.'

Netta put her hand on her heart as she leant against Howel. He raised her, and saw that she was of a deathly paleness.

'Don't be—frightened—I have—it—often—only—a spasm,' she gasped, as frightened he went to the sideboard, and poured out some brandy into one of the tea cups, and putting a little water to it, gave it her to drink.

She soon revived, and recovering a little of her old colour again, put her arms round Howel, and thanked him for being so kind. Howel was aware, for the first time for many years, that conscience is not a myth; his smote him.

'Will you stay at home to-day, Howel?' asked Netta. 'I will write myself to your mother, if you will.'

'Yes, Netta, dear, I will. Now, shall we carry the picture-book to Minette?'

'No; you must have your breakfast now, and I will make it. Oh! I am so happy.'

'And you do not care for Dancy, Netta?'

'No; I hate him.'

Howel kept his word, and stayed at home that one day with Netta and her child, and she wrote that day down on the tablets of her memory as the brightest spot in six years of trouble and distrust.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE FORGER.

In a few days Mrs Griffith Jenkins arrived in London, equally surprised and delighted by the invitation she had received from her son and daughter-in-law. Netta kept her word, and behaved to her with all the kindness and consideration she could assume. She took her to various places of amusement, and tried to find pleasure herself in scenes that a few years before would have given her great delight; but the forebodings of coming evil hung heavily over her, and she could not rouse herself into her old spirits. Howel was very kind to her when with her; but after that one white day he was not much at home. He went out once or twice with her and his mother in the evening, and was so very attentive to the latter that she began to think herself a person of consideration once more.

'There's kind Howels is, Netta, fach!' she would say. 'There's proud you ought to be to be having such a kind husband. But he don't be looking well, nor you neither. You was looking as pale as those wox figures at Mrs Tuss's; and seure won was as like you as could be. Ach a fi! I 'ouldn't like to be going again into that little room with all the murderers. And Howel was looking quite pale. But such beauty music, and dresses, and all like life. I thought I should a-screeked out when that man turned and looked at me, and wogged his head, and was nodding, is seure as if he was alive, and he only wox!'

Mrs Jenkins had been in London about a week, when Howel began carelessly the subject nearest his heart.

'I say, mother, fach, how does your money hold out? I daresay you are rich as a Jew by this time.'

'Pretty well, Howel. I hope you do be well off now, and don't be living so gay as you wos.'

'Well, mother, if I could just get a few thousands for a couple of weeks I should be as rich as Croesus, and out of all those difficulties I told you of in another month. Do you know of any one likely to have such a sum to lend?'

'Thousands, Howel! why hundreds wasn't plenty with us, let alone thousands. You do know that there don't be any wan so rich as you in our parts.'

'So I am, mother, or rather shall be by-and-by. I have lived beyond my income, but I am going to retrench, and if you could only lend me five or six thousands pounds, it would set me right, and I could pay you again in a month.'

'Five or six thousand! Why, Howel, I 'ouldn't know how to get it; and I don't cheuse to be reuining myself, and bringing myself down again for nobody.'

'Not even for me, mother? To save me from jail, perhaps! Ha! ha! I'm sure you wouldn't like to see me in jail; and 'pon my honour I don't know how I shall keep out of it unless you help me.'

'And where's the thousands and hundreds of thousands your father was leaving you? Ten years ago come next Jeune he did die, my poor Griffey.'

'Now, mother, don't humbug me about that. You know you were glad enough. Only let me have the money, unless you want me to leave the country, never to come back.'

'Ach an wyr! How you be talking. You wos frightening me to death. I 'ouldn't mind lending you a few hundreds, but—'

'Hundreds won't do, mother. I must have five thousand six hundred before this week is out, or else—It is impossible you could be cruel enough to see your only son in distress, and not help him out of it.'

'I have been helping you all your life, Howel. I could lend you wan thousand, and no more, and if you'll promise to be paying me soon.'

'One thousand six hundred, mother, I must have that at least.'

It would be waste of time to write the reasons urged by Howel to induce his mother to advance him this money; but after some hours of entreaty, and a promise from him that he would repay it shortly, she consented to write the necessary cheque for that sum. She insisted upon the business being managed through Mr Rice Rice, her attorney at home, and wrote to him to empower him to raise it as he best could for her son at once.

As she was a poor scribe, and a still worse orthographer, Howel superintended the letter, and when it was written said he would enclose and post it. He was most particular in telling her where and how to write the figures; and before the ink was dry begged her to go to a davenport, which stood at the other end of the room, for a stamp.

No sooner was her back turned towards him, than with the same pen and ink he made the straight figure one into a four, and in the cheque which she had written, as well as in the accompanying letter, four thousand six hundred pounds held the place that one thousand six hundred had held when Mrs Griffith Jenkins left the table to go to the davenport.

If Howel trembled, or if his conscience smote him when he did this dreadful deed, he did not let his mother see it.

'Perhaps, after all, you had better direct the letter, mother,' he said, as he finished sealing it. 'If I do it it will look as if I thought you couldn't write, and you really write just as well as any other lady of your age. I am really very much obliged to you.'

When Howel carried the letter out of the room, and went for a few moments into another, he said to himself, 'I can pay the whole back after the races, and manage so as to prevent her knowing anything about it. And if the worst come to the worst, I must tell her what I did. She won't expose me; it will be a furious quarrel, and then all will be over. We must keep her here for a long time, and I must get hold of her letters first and read them to her, and alter them if necessary. Now I must look about for another thousand pounds.'

In due course of time the money was procured for Mrs Jenkins, and paid into a London bank. Howel took possession of the letter of advice concerning it, and told his mother he had opened it because she was out when it arrived, and he had not a moment to lose in obtaining the money from the bank. He kissed her, and talked to her, and hurried her and Netta to dress for a drive in the park with him, until he made her forget to obtain possession of the letter, and so far his fraud prospered.

A few mornings after he had received the money, he had a note from Mr Deep, containing the intelligence of the return from abroad of Sir Samuel Spendall, and that his attorneys were investigating his affairs. As soon as he received this note, he went by a succession of omnibuses to the east of London, and, as it chanced, into his brother-in-law's parish. In this parish there was a wretched-looking suburb, inhabited principally by Jews, whose houses were, unlike the whited sepulchres metaphorically used in scripture to describe the hearts of their race, most unclean without, but magnificent within. Into many of these dwellings Howel went in the hope of raising money, but without success. His credit was at zero.

In a desolate, but somewhat more respectable-looking house of the same parish, he hired a couple of rooms, giving his name as Mr Mills, and paying a week's rent in advance.

He was walking up this street, looking for a cab, when he was suddenly accosted by his brother-in-law, Rowland Prothero.

'You are coming to see me, Howel, I am so glad,' said Rowland, as they shook hands.

'Not to-day; I am here on a little business, and in a great hurry.'

Howel walked on, but Rowland accompanied him.

'You were all out when I called yesterday,' said Rowland, 'and I particularly wanted to see you, Howel. When will you be at home?'

'It is impossible to say.'

'It is on your own account; it is about Sir Samuel Spendall that I wish to speak.'

Howel turned pale, and stood still for a moment, looking round him as he did so to see that no one was listening.

'What of him?'

'Sir Philip told me that he had been heard to say he would dispute your right to his property, for you had acquired it by unfair means.'

'The scoundrel!' cried Howel, turning pale. 'You have always something agreeable to communicate when we do meet. It is well it is so seldom, Mr Rowland Prothero.'

'Oh, Howel! hear me whilst it is yet time, and clear yourself from the imputations to which I cannot shut my ears. My eyes, alas! have been long opened, and I would have helped you, but neither Netta nor you will listen.'

'Cab!' shouted Howel, and a cab drew up, and Howel jumped into it, with a 'good morning,' leaving Rowland looking mournfully after it.

The next morning Rowland was at Howel's house very early. He found Netta alone, and heard from her that Howel had not been at home since the previous morning. She had had a line from him telling her that he was going with Mr Deep to Greenwich.

Netta looked ill and anxious. Rowland entreated her to tell him freely what made her so unhappy. He said he did not wish to interfere between her and her husband, only to advise her for her good.

Netta burst into tears, and said that Howel was very kind now, but that she feared there was something on his mind. She knew they were in debt, but that Howel told her all would soon be right.

Rowland begged her to come to him if she were in any difficulty; assured her of his brotherly love and deep interest in her; pointed out her path of duty to her, and urged her to be patient with her husband whatever might happen, and to endeavour to win him to better courses; then left her with a heavy heart and a promise to return on the morrow. He was obliged to be at home that evening for a service in the church.

Late at night Howel returned, anxious and pale. Netta and Mrs Griffey had been to see Albert Smith's entertainment, and the latter was in a great state of descriptive excitement, when Howel interrupted her by saying,—

'Mother, I am very sorry to seem so unkind and inhospitable, but I am afraid I must ask you to return home to-morrow.'

'To-morrow! I am feeling too tired to be up in time to-morrow, and, seure! if you 'on't give your own mother a home for as long as she do like to stay, there's my Lady Simpson who is asking me there, and—'

'Impossible, mother, I must see you off for Wales. I am in great trouble about money, and I must leave to-morrow myself or shall be in jail.'

'Name o' goodness, Howel, what wos you doing with what I did give you?'

'Never mind; only, if anything is said to you about that money by any one, take care what you say in answer. Don't answer at all, indeed, or it may ruin you and me. Now you must pack up your things to be ready for the first train. Tell the servants—I will—that you are summoned home by a telegraphic message.'

Howel impelled his mother upstairs, and then said to Netta, who was standing looking very pale, with her hand on her heart,—

'Netta, you must fill your pockets, and every corner of your dress that will contain them, with such jewels and plate as are of value. Money, I fear, there is none, unless my mother has any. Send the servants to bed, and do this when all is quiet. I am liable to be arrested for debt, and do not know when it may or may not take place. Have a cab to-morrow morning, and send my mother to the station; then take Minette, at your usual hour, through the park to Hyde Park Corner. Start about ten. I will meet you. I must not stay here to-night; indeed, I must not stay longer.'

Netta threw her arms round Howel's neck, and entreated him not to leave her.

'Netta, don't be a fool! You don't want to ruin me, do you?'

Netta withdrew her arms, and stood like a statue before Howel.

'You needn't look so frightened? it will be all right in a few weeks. To-morrow at ten, remember.'

Howel kissed her, and again left the house.

Poor Netta set about the work that was appointed her mechanically. First of all, however, she went into her mother-in-law's room, and assisted her to pack. Mrs Griffey was by turns indignant, alarmed, and sorrowful; but finding that she must depart, and that some real difficulty existed, she made no further resistance. Seeing that Netta had literally no money, she gave her a ten-pound note, under a faithful promise that she would not transfer it to Howel.

'He do be very good-for-nothing, Netta, and have been spending money enough to buy half London. Tak' you care of this, and write you to me. You was very good to me since I was come here.'

The kind word was too much for Netta, and she sat down and cried bitterly. Mrs Griffey tried to comfort her by crying too, and so the night waned away.

The following morning the cab was sent for, according to Howel's order, and a man-servant ordered to accompany Mrs Griffith Jenkins to the station and see her off. Netta had never believed it possible that she could have cried at parting with her mother-in-law; but after she left the house she wrung her hands in despair, and wept as if she had lost her last earthly friend.

Still, she thought, Howel is kind, and loves me, so I will not mind what else happens.

She ordered Justine to dress Minette, whilst she hurriedly finished such preparations as she could make for her uncertain future. She found that all Howel's jewels were already gone, so she had only to fill her pockets and a bag with the best of her own and some plate and lock her drawers. She took it for granted that Howel wanted the jewels for himself, and that she would be obliged, when she returned home, to secure other things.

As she took Minette by the hand, and led her along the handsome square in which they lived, she saw two men look at her very intently, and then exchange some words apparently about her. In former days, when her bright colour and pretty face attracted the notice of passers-by, this would only have pleased her; now it frightened her.

Before they reached Hyde Park Corner Howel hailed her from a cab.

'Netta, would you rather go into Wales to my mother or come with me?' said Howel.

'With you, Howel, anywhere, not into Wales for the world.'

Howel leaned back into a corner of the cab, and did not speak again.

Netta did not know where they went, but they got into four cabs in succession, driving a certain distance in one, then paying the driver, then walking into another street and hailing a fresh vehicle.

At last they reached the far east of London, and found themselves in a dirty, wretched street, amongst a squalid population.

'Give me the bag, and take care of your pocket,' said Howel, as they walked along the pavement. 'Keep close to me.'

They reached the house where Howel had taken a lodging the previous day. He walked through the passage, and bade his wife and child follow him; ascended two pair of stairs, and entered a large and tolerably respectable room.

There was a letter on the table, which he opened at once. It contained the following lines:—

'The double S are comparing notes, and various rumours are in circulation amongst that set.'

He put the letter in his pocket, and, turning to Netta, told her to go into the bedroom and take off her own and Minette's bonnet, as they must stay for a little while where they were.

'Not here, papa,' said Minette, beginning to cry. 'I don't like this place.'

'Hold your tongue!' said her father sternly, as Netta led her out of the room.

'Netta,' whispered Howel, 'our name is Mills here—just for a time only.'

When Netta went into the close, dark bedroom at the back of the sitting-room, she took off her sobbing child's things, set her on her lap, and by degrees soothed her to sleep. She laid her on such a bed as she had assuredly never slept on before, and then returned to Howel.

She stood before him pale and resolute. He was pacing the room rapidly, and muttering to himself.

'Howel, I must know all! What is the matter? What is to become of us?' she said.

'We must not be seen by our friends for a time, dear Netta, because I am liable to be arrested. Will you mind staying here a day or two alone? I must go away for a short time on business but will return and remove you when it is settled. You are better here than at home, as everything will be seized. You are in Rowland's parish, if the worst should come to the worst; but I don't want him to know anything about me, as it will be all right again by-and-by.'

'Howel, I asked Captain Dancy not to insist upon that money.'

'You did! That is why he let me off with half for another month. What did he say?'

'He said, Howel, that if I would go to France with him he would forgive your debt.'

'And you, Netta?' Howel clenched his fist.

'And I, Howel? I left the room, and have never seen him since. He called after, but I could not speak to him again. How could I?'

'Netta, will you forgive and try to forget how jealous and unkind I have been? In spite of all, I have loved you, Netta. Oh! if I had not taken you away from your happy home!'

'I can bear anything if you love me, Howel. We will try to get through this difficulty, and then you will begin afresh as a clerk or anything; and we will be happy—oh, so happy again! Happier than ever!'

Netta smiled through her tears, whilst Howel groaned aloud.

'Think kindly of me, Netta; don't let them make you hate me. I care for no one else in the world. If I send for you, will you come to me, supposing I cannot come myself?'

'Anywhere! anywhere!'

Netta put her arms around her husband and sobbed aloud.

By-and-by some refreshments that Howel had ordered came up. The landlady appeared, who seemed a quiet, meek-looking woman.

'I shall be obliged to leave Mrs Mills and the little girl for a day or two,' said Howel. 'You will see they are attended to, I hope.'

'Yes, sir,' said the landlady looking, and, doubtless, feeling astonished at the sort of person Netta was, so pretty and well-dressed.

That evening another letter arrived from Mr Deep, which told Howel very plainly that writs were issued against him, and that his bills, cheques, betting debts, and affairs generally, were being questioned by his friends. There was also rather more than a hint of his being suspected of forgery.

He went out as soon as he had received that letter, and did not return until past midnight. Netta awaited him in an agony of terror lest he should return no more.

He gave Netta ten pounds and told her on no account to disclose her real name, or give a clue to his having been with her in those lodgings, if she should see Rowland.

'But you will be back soon?' said poor Netta.

'In a few days I hope, or else I will send for you. I must leave to-morrow morning at daybreak.'

A few weeks ago and neither husband nor wife would have cared how long the separation might be, now it seemed death for each to part.

Howel kissed his child again and again as she lay sleeping in her dingy bed, and held Netta long in his arms. The only human being who really loved him! Him, weak, wild, sinful, godless! yet with one divine spark rekindling in his breast—the spark of human love.

He laid his wife, fainting, by the side of her child on the bed, bathed her temples with water until he saw that she would revive, and then rushed out into the dirty streets, under the misty, murky morning sky, a reckless and miserable man.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE ACCOUNTANT.

'I never shall get through these accounts!' is the soliloquy of Miss Gwynne, to whom we return with much pleasure, on my part, at least, after a separation of six years.

She is seated in a gloomy but comfortable dining-room, in a house situated in one of the squares at the East End of London. We left her in her large, airy, country home, looking out upon a beautiful view of hill and valley—we find her in a close, dark square, with nothing to enliven the scene without but a few dingy shrubs, a row of tall gaunt houses, and a smoke-discoloured, soot-filled atmosphere. We left her unhappy and discontented—we find her happy and contented. We left her with a mind harassed by uncertain plans, disappointed hopes, and humbled pride—we find her with a mind strengthened by good purposes, holy aspirations, and prayers for humility. Still, we left her and find her Winifred Gwynne. She has not lost her idiosyncrasy.

Reader, be not hasty to pronounce upon the suddenness of these changes. Six years spent principally amongst the earnest minded, laborious clergy of London and their families, in the heart of the most wretched, squalid parish, amongst the lowest, most depraved, most ignorant, most utterly miserable set of people in England, would sober the most thoughtless woman in the world, provided she had a heart. And Freda has not only a heart, but one earnestly desirous of doing good.

She has found vent for her energy, occupation for her time, a bank for all the money she possesses; therefore we find her in the midst of papers covered with figures, containing accounts of ragged schools, which she is labouring to reckon up, in the simplest of morning dresses, without ornament or extraneous adornment. She is somewhat paler and thinner than she used to be amongst the breezy hills of Wales, but her eyes are brighter, and the expression of her countenance is gentler.

'How stupid I am!' she exclaims. 'Gladys would reckon them up directly, but she is at the school, and I am ashamed to ask Nita, with all her accounts.'

She pauses a moment and lays down her pen. Her eyes fall upon an unopened letter.

'And I declare I have not broken the seal of my own father's letter,' she mutters, performing this duty as she does so, and running through it with occasional comments.

'"We hope you will come and spend Christmas—" I suppose I must—"and see your little brother, who longs to see sister Freda again—" Humph! but who cut her out of Glanyravon Park and all thereto belonging, though he certainly is a dear little man. "Her ladyship quite well, and desires her love." I suppose I ought to be glad and try to return the love. "Mrs Gwynne Vaughan and her children were here yesterday. She asked for you, and the little ones wished to know when you were coming home—" I am much obliged to her, and am afraid I am not too anxious to see either her or her husband, in spite of their civility. "Little Harold is really a wonderful child! He begins to spell already!" So like my good father. Well, I ought to be thankful he is happy, and that it all turned out so much better than I expected. But I can't help feeling a kind of wicked disappointment when I think that Lady Mary should be quite as good a tactician as a second wife, as she was before she married again. But, I hope, I am happy that she makes poor papa comfortable and doesn't worry him to death. I don't think he loves her now half as well as he does me; still, perhaps she suits him better, because she manages him, and I never could. But the tyfydd [Footnote: Welsh for heir.] is a dear little fellow, and I am really fond of him.'

Miss Gwynne's soliloquy is cut short by a rap at the door, followed by the entrance of Rowland Prothero, who says, as he bows and seems about to retreat,—

'I beg your pardon—I was told Mr Jones was here.'

'Oh, do come in!' says Miss Gwynne, rising, and advancing to meet Rowland; 'I cannot get through these accounts. I have been reckoning and reckoning ever since breakfast, and they will not come right. I should be so much obliged to you if you would just look them over for me.'

Rowland seated himself at Freda's desk, and began at once to do her bidding. The ragged school was the one in which he was so much interested, and that he had been instrumental in establishing.

Whilst Miss Gwynne had been living with her friend, Mrs Jones, she had seen a great deal of Rowland; they had, in fact, been thrown much together. At first, Rowland ceased to come to consult the Joneses, or to spend his few spare hours with them, when he heard that Freda was there; and, of course, they and she understood and respected his reasons for absenting himself; but in the course of time, they met at Sir Philip Payne Perry's, at his rector's, and elsewhere, and his reserve slightly wore off. When Freda began to assist Mrs Jones in her parish work, and threw herself, heart and soul, into the ragged school, they met of necessity very frequently. Freda was so studiously polite in her manners to him, and so careful to avoid every subject that would recall their old relations at Glanyravon, that he gradually felt more at his ease with her, and it ended by his resuming his old, friendly intercourse with Mr and Mrs Jones. But Freda knew well that, in spite of her best efforts to propitiate him, he never forgot those words, 'Do you know who I am, and who you are?' He was always gentlemanlike, always kind, always ready to do anything she asked him, but he never relaxed the somewhat formal respect of his manner. In society, he was quite different with every one else to what he was with her. With the Perrys he was as much at ease as if he were their own son; and they seemed almost to consider him as such. At his rector's he was the life of their little circle, and might have been, Freda shrewdly suspected, united to it by a link closer than that of curate, had he so chosen; for there was a very pretty daughter who evidently looked upon him with favourable eyes. Amongst the respectable portion of his flock he was a general favourite, and all the young ladies, as young ladies will, worked with and for him; not only in the matter of schools, but in slippers and purses. What was still more clear and satisfactory to Freda was, that he made way amongst the miserable poor.

The ragged school children loved him, and through them, he got at the hearts of some of their degraded parents. His seemed a labour of love with every one but her. She received his marked politeness and nothing more. But he interested her daily. Some new trait of character would break out—some little touch of deep feeling—some symptom of a highly sensitive nature, which told her how much he must have felt her cutting words. He was proud, too, and she liked him for it, although she was striving to humble her own pride. What would she not have given to have recalled those words! The Rowland Prothero of London, esteemed and loved by the wise and good, for his unpretending but strenuous parochial labours, his clear, forcible, but very simple preaching—was to her quite a different person from him of Glanyravon Farm, the son of her father's tenant. In short they were no longer identical. As she was no longer the heiress of Glanyravon, but simply Miss Gwynne, Mrs. Jones' friend—so he was Mr. Rowland Prothero, a respectable and respected London clergyman.

And these are the relations under which they appear, sitting near one another over the accounts of the ragged school, which Freda has undertaken to keep.

'I think there is a slight fault here, Miss Gwynne,' he says, pointing out an error in calculation.

'Of course, I never had a head for figures, and Mrs. Jones could never get me to do my sums.'

'Still, the account is quite right in the main, the errors were in the adding up, and it is rightly balanced.'

'Thank you, I am so very much obliged to you. I should never have got through them. And now, will you tell me of those wretched people that Mr. Jones would not let me go and see.'

'I gave them the money you kindly sent, or, at least, laid it out for them, as they would have spent it in gin, and they are already more comfortable; but the father is gone away, and the mother apparently dying.'

'Is there no way of alleviating all this wretchedness?'

'I fear none. Sin is at the root, and as long as the present world lasts, there must be misery with it.'

Rowland spoke these words in an unusually melancholy and depressed tone of voice, which caused Miss Gwynne to look up from the papers, directly at him. He was paler than usual, and his lip quivered. He met her glance, and making an effort to rise, said hastily,—

'Can I have the honour of doing anything more for you, Miss Gwynne. I am sure I can return you the thanks of the committee, indeed of every one concerned for—'

'I want no thanks, I deserve no thanks from any one; are you ill, Mr. Rowland? You have been in some of those dreadful haunts, and they have upset you. May I get you something?'

'Thank you, I am quite well.' Rowland's lip quivered still more and he grew still less calm, as he again met Miss Gwynne's eye fixed on him with evident interest.

'I am sure you are ill; you must allow me the privilege of a parishioner, if not of an old friend, and let me ask what is the matter?'

Her manner was so kind, that Rowland's reserve was for a moment overcome.

'Thank you, Miss Gwynne—my poor sister.'

'Yes, what of her? I assure you I am truly interested for her; poor Netta!'

'I fear she is in serious trouble, I scarcely know what myself as yet; but she, her husband and child have left the house, and Howel's creditors have taken possession of all his effects. No one knows where they are gone, or what is to become of them.'

Rowland had not the courage to tell Miss Gwynne that the police were searching for Howel right and left upon a charge of forgery.

'Poor Netta! I am very, very sorry. What can have reduced him to this?'

'Gaming, horse-racing, speculating! These will waste the largest fortune and ruin the fairest hopes. But he deserves it all, only my poor sister is the victim, and the respectability of an honest name is impeached.'

'Oh no—poor Netta's hasty marriage and wilful temper were the causes of her trouble, it can have nothing to do with your family; besides, many people of high family and position are obliged to fly for debt.'

'That is dishonour enough, Miss Gwynne, but this—this is worse; Howel is suspected of—of forgery.'

Rowland gave Miss Gwynne one quick, searching glance as he said that word, and then rose to go. She rose, too, but putting out her hands, and looking him full in the face, kindly and gently, she said,—

'Mr. Prothero, I am very sorry for you; for Netta; for all. But if this is true, the sin and the shame will rest with him who caused them—it cannot fall on you or yours.'

Rowland shook the offered hand, and then left the room.

In the hall he met Gladys, who had just come in from the school. Frisk was barking and jumping about her with great animation, not having grown, as Freda foretold, a useless and fat London dog. When Rowland appeared, he transferred his attentions to him, and looked much disappointed at receiving none in return.

Rowland shook hands with Gladys, and asked her to come with him into Mr Jones' little study, where he told her, more clearly than he had told Miss Gwynne, what he knew of Howel and Netta.

He said that he had been to their house the previous day in the afternoon, and had found it occupied by sheriffs' officers and policemen, who were trying, in vain, to ascertain from the servants where their master and mistress were. All that they knew was that their master did not sleep in the house the previous night, and that their mistress left it that morning. Rowland had waited until late at night, but no further intelligence was gained.

He gleaned that Howel was accused of having forged cheques, at different times, to a very large amount, in the names both of Sir Samuel Spendall and Sir Horatio Simpson. The frauds had been discovered through a cheque on the latter's bank, purporting to be written by him for five hundred pounds, received by Howel a few weeks before. Sir Horatio Simpson having gone himself to his bankers for some money, it was found that he had overdrawn his account, and, upon examining his late cheques, he utterly disclaimed that of Howel, and declared it forged. The result of this was a general examination of his banking accounts for the last four years, and the discovery of forgeries, by alteration of figures and forged signatures, to the amount of some five or six thousand pounds.

At the same time Sir Samuel Spendall's attorneys found, from a rigid examination of that baronet's affairs, that Howel's claim on him did not amount to two-thirds of his demand, and that various signatures to betting debts, and loans of money, etc., were forgeries.

In addition to this, Howel's own debts, both on the turf and to his tradesmen, were enormous, and ignominy surrounded him on all sides.

Rowland groaned aloud as he told Gladys these horrible truths, and Gladys had no words of comfort; all she could say was,—

'It is not poor Netta's fault; it is not yours, Mr Rowland, or that of any one belonging to you.'

'But the shame, Gladys; you know my father, it will be his death.'

'Oh no, sir, he always expected something of the kind. I have often heard him say so. If we could only find Mrs Jenkins and her child it would not be so bad.'

Mr Jones came in, and Gladys left the room and went to Miss Gwynne.

Gladys has become the friend and confidential adviser of every member of that small household; no one but herself considers her as a servant. She acts as housekeeper for Mrs Jones, maid to Miss Gwynne, school teacher and district visitor to Mr Jones and Rowland, almoner and confidante to all. Gladys, within doors, Miss Gladys, without; no one knows that she has any other name. In spite of her beauty, her youth, her timidity, she goes amongst scenes and people, from whom most women, even the best, would shrink, and seems to bear about with her a charmed life and invisible strength that nothing can destroy.

Amongst the wretched Irish who inhabit a portion of that vast, depraved parish, she has an influence that even the clergy cannot boast, due to her Irish extraction and slight accent; and the sufferings she has herself undergone from gaunt famine and grim death, make her keenly alive to their wants and feelings. No one has such power over the poor untutored heathen children of the ragged school as she has, and no one loves them as she does. She, too, like her mistress, has found her vocation in their city home; who cannot find a vocation in any home, if they will only look around them for it?

Whilst Rowland and Mr Jones discuss the sad news Rowland has to tell, Miss Gwynne, Mrs Jones and Gladys discuss it also, for Mrs Jones has joined the pair in the dining room. There is but one feeling in that household—sorrow for Rowland and his family, anxiety about Netta. Tears are in the eyes of all those true-hearted women as they think of the probable fate of the once bright little belle of their country neighbourhood, deserted, perhaps amongst the wild wildernesses of London houses.

Mr Jones endeavours to console Rowland by suggesting that if Netta is left by her husband she will surely fall back upon her brother; and when he has exhausted what little portion of hope he can inspire, Rowland turns resolutely to subjects that must be attended to, even if his heart were breaking from sorrow.

The respected rector of that large parish was in very uncertain health, and had gone abroad with his family for three months, leaving all the parochial duties in the hands of his two curates. They were heavy enough for three clergymen, but Mr Jones and Rowland found them almost too weighty for them, unassisted by their chief; however, they fought manfully through them, Sundays and week days.

Rowland refused Mr and Mrs Jones' invitation to dinner, and, crossing the square, entered his solitary lodging in one of the opposite houses, and began to write to his brother Owen. He told him all that he knew of Howel and Netta, and begged him to break it to their parents as best he might.

When he had finished his letter he prepared to go out again. His landlady brought him some luncheon, but he could not touch it. He went first to his ragged school, and there the sight of those children of crime and infamy recalled his little niece to his mind, and made his heart sink still lower with the fear of what she might become. Never had he spoken with such feeling to the motley throng that stood about him as he did that day. Then he had to thread some of the haunts whence those children came to seek out the miserable parents to whom they had been a sort of introduction, and never before had he experienced so forcibly that he was their brother, even theirs, as now that he knew that his sister's husband was 'a thief and a forger;' he could almost fancy that they already pointed to him as belonging, at least, to one as degraded as themselves.

That evening he read prayers and lectured in one of the churches. He lectured extempore, and it was noted by all his congregation that more than once his feelings nearly overcame him. They thought and talked of the fact, when, at a later period, they heard of his family sorrow. But they all said that his 'word was with power,' and there was many a moist eye amongst them as he warned them, in language made even more forcible than usual by the events of the day, against the pleasures and vices of the world.

After the service many of the school teachers and Scripture-readers met him in the vestry to have their work allotted, and their word of advice and encouragement. Again he pressed upon them the subject brought home to his heart, that of resisting in youth the 'temptations of the world, the flesh, and the devil.'

His youthful regiment of soldiers talked to one another afterwards of the earnestness and piety of Him who led them on in their battle against evil, and prayed to become more like one who was so devoted to 'fighting that good fight,' which they had enlisted to join in.

Tired and exhausted, Rowland returned to his lodging. He tried to review the events of the day, but in doing so, fairly broke down. He had been striving to keep his mind in subjection by beating down his monster enemy, pride, for the last six years; but he found that he was still rampant within him. It was not simply the grief for a sister's distress and a brother-in-law's sin that he felt, but strong personal mortification. How could he think of self, of the Perrys, of his rector, of his family, of his parishioners and their opinion, above all, how could he think of Miss Gwynne, who disdained him,—at a time when every personal feeling ought to be merged into sympathy with others? He prayed and struggled against the tempter; prayed for his sister; above all, for Howel; in words too fervent and holy for these pages; and went to bed and slept from mere exhaustion of mind and body. Little did Netta imagine, when she made that disobedient step into the dark future, what misery it would bring upon all who loved her!

Pause, then, and think, all you young women who may be meditating a similar course, even whilst reading this story, or may be at issue with your parents, because their experience shows them a future which your inexperience cannot show you! Pause and think that Netta is no fictitious character, her story no mere creation of an author's brain, but the portrait and history of one out of hundreds of wilful daughters brought to shame and grief, and bringing all belonging to them to shame and grief by an unblessed and unholy marriage.



CHAPTER XL.

THE FORGER'S WIFE.

Days and weeks passed, and there was no intelligence of Netta. Rowland had heard from Owen of the domestic misery at home, and also that he had been to see Mrs Griffith Jenkins, who disclaimed all knowledge of her son's hiding place, or what had become of his wife and child. Her own grief was too real to allow even the sceptical Owen to doubt it; and when, in addition, she gave him to understand that she, too, was nearly ruined by Howel's forgeries, but that she would die rather than tell any one else of it, he could only pity the wretched mother who had, by her bad example and teaching, helped to train her son for the ruin into which he had fallen.

Rowland heard that Mr Deep had been arrested upon a charge of abetting Howel in his crimes, and that a search-warrant for the examination of his papers had brought to light other nefarious dealings, as well as an unsigned letter, supposed to be in Howel's writing, intimating his intention of going to America. This had caused inquiries to be made at the docks, and police emissaries to be despatched forthwith to America. A person answering his description had sailed for that continent from Southampton the day after Howel left his house, but unaccompanied by wife or child.

Strange to say that the Epsom races had come off, and that Howel's horse, Magnificent, had actually won the Derby stakes! Too late! save for his creditors and those he had defrauded. Still, doubtless, one more bitter drop in the cup of his despair, wherever he might chance to be drinking it.

All that he had left behind him was sold, hunters inclusive, and this Magnificent alone, particularly after the Derby, yielded a princely fortune. Too late, either for further crimes, or poor Netta's hoped-for reformation.

It was hard work for Rowland to go through his heavy parochial duties with this great misfortune hanging over his head. But if the sympathy and kindness of friends could help him in his work, and support him under the pressure of anxiety, he was helped and supported. Still it was evident to all that he fled from society, and in spite of the delicate tact of the Joneses and Freda, he had scarcely been near them since that first day. Whether it was pride or susceptibility, he could scarcely tell himself, but he could not bring himself to thrust his sorrow and those of his family upon others. He caused every possible search to be made, through the police and otherwise for Netta, but in vain.

But Providence answered his prayers, when his own efforts seemed fruitless, and that through the instrumentality of one of the poor children, for whose benefit he had exerted such talents as God had given him.

Some four years before, a miserable girl of eleven years old had become one of his ragged school children. I say his, because even his rector allowed him the merit of establishing the school. Through this child, Rowland became acquainted with her mother, a wretched, starving widow, living in squalor and iniquity. Miss Gwynne had helped her temporally, Rowland spiritually, and when she had died, about a year ago, he had strong hopes that much suffering had brought forth a sincere repentance.

Her little girl was one of the many examples of the blessed effects of a ragged school. At her mother's death she was fifteen years old, teachable and anxious to be taught. Rowland prevailed on a respectable woman, the lodging-house keeper, in whose house Netta had found a refuge, to try her as a servant, and she had turned out well.

So it was that this girl, having an idea that Rowland could effect wonders, waited for him one Sunday evening after service, and asked if she might speak with him. She told him, with a long preface of apologies, that she did not know if she was right in saying what she was going to say, but that there was a poor lady in her mistress's second floor, who was very ill, out of her mind she thought, and who hadn't a friend in the world. The lady had forbidden her mistress to speak to any doctor or clergyman about her, but she had not forbidden her. And indeed it seemed almost worse to see a lady in such trouble and sickness than it did those who were used to it, as she, and the like of her had been, and would be still, but for Mr Prothero.

'What is her name?' asked Rowland eagerly.

'Mrs Mills, sir.'

Rowland's sudden hope fell.

'And she has a little girl, sir, who isn't well either, and who does nothing but cry and moan.'

'What is her name?'

'Her mamma calls her Minette, or some such name, sir.'

'I will come with you now,' said Rowland, in great agitation. 'Make haste; I suppose she has been with you some time.'

'More than a month, sir, and she is always expecting some one to come—and no one comes.'

Rowland strode on, fast—faster than he had once before walked with Gladys—heedless of everything around him. In about a quarter of an hour he and the girl reached the lodging house.

'You will tell missus how it was, please, sir. I don't think she can be angry, sir.'

'I am sure she will not be angry; tell her that I want to see her.

Mrs Saunders, the landlady, came at once.

Rowland inquired into the particulars of Netta's arrival at her house, her illness, etc., and heard what we already know of Howel's sudden departure; and the following account, in addition of the month Netta had spent since he left her.

'The morning after Mr Mills left, sir,' said the landlady 'Mrs Mills did not ring for breakfast, or show any sign of being up. I waited for a long time, and then I went and listened at the bedroom door. I heard a kind of moaning, and was so frightened, I made so bold as to go in. I found the poor lady lying down on the bed, beside the little girl, who was still asleep. She seemed more dead than alive, and looked at me terrified-like, as if she didn't know who was coming in. When she saw me, she tried to get up and look cheerful, and to give account of her never having undressed. I went and made her some tea, and got her to go into the sitting-room by the fire which the girl lighted, for she was as cold as death. Then I dressed the little girl, who awoke and began to cry when she saw how pale her mamma looked, and I told her to try to make her mamma eat and drink. And the little dear, like an angel as she is, began to comfort her mother, and to coax her, and when I saw the poor lady begin to shed tears over the child I went away.

'Ever since that morning, sir, she has been in a kind of a dream. She does nothing but look out of the window, up and down the street, as if she was expecting some one, and whenever there is a step on the stairs, she runs to the door and peeps out. And then, when the postman's knock is heard, she starts, turns red, turns pale, and puts her hand on her heart. I am sure she has heart complaint, and I asked her to let me send for a doctor, but she wouldn't hear of it. Sometimes I think she's a little crazed. Once I mentioned the clergy, and asked if she wouldn't like to see one, and said you and Mr Jones, sir, were very kind gentlemen. She started up, and said, "Hush! hush! not for worlds—not for worlds! Mr Mills will soon be back!" She gave me a ten-pound note to change twice—and I was obliged to buy everything for her and the little girl, for they hadn't a rag with them, except what they stood up in. I was as careful as I could be, but the money went, and now she talks of selling some jewels and things she brought with her. Oh, sir! if you could find their friends!'

As may be supposed, Rowland had some difficulty in controlling his emotion during this recital. When Mrs Saunders paused, he said,—

'I have every reason to believe that I know this poor lady, and, if you will trust me to go to her, I am sure that I shall be of service. I must go quite alone. You may depend upon my having a right to do this.'

'Whatever you do, sir, is sure to be right and kind. If you will take it upon yourself I shall be only too glad. You know the room, sir? the one where you used to go and see my poor husband.'

Rowland was upstairs immediately. Almost before he reached the door, a pale, haggard face peered out of it.

'It is—it is Howel!' cried poor Netta, rushing into the gloomy passage, and throwing her arms round Rowland's neck.

'No, Netta—dearest Netta! it is I, Rowland—your brother,' said Rowland, supporting his fainting sister back into the room.

'Uncle! Uncle Rowland! I am so glad!' exclaimed a little voice, as Minette ran towards him and clasped his knees.

As, the glare of the gas by which the room was lighted fell upon Netta's face, Rowland half believed that it was the corpse of his once blooming sister that he was placing on the sofa.

'Fetch some water, Minette, darling,' said Rowland, supporting Netta.

'This is what mamma takes,' said the child, bringing Rowland a small bottle labelled 'Prussic acid' from the bedroom.

'I cannot give her this. Is there no wine?'

'The little girl went to an old chiffonier and brought a decanter with wine in it. Rowland poured some down Netta's throat, and she recovered.

'Rowland, is it you? Not—not—' muttered Netta, as she strove to rise. 'I think you had better go. Perhaps, when he comes, he won't like—oh, my heart.'

'Be calm, dear Netta; I will do nothing you dislike. If Howel comes back I will go away directly. I will be most careful of what I say. You need not fear me, Netta,—your brother who loves you so dearly'

'You won't go away again, uncle, will you?' said the pale, little Minette, climbing on Rowland's knee and nestling her head in his bosom; 'or will you take mamma and me away from this nasty place?'

'No, dear, Uncle Rowland will not leave you, he is so very glad to find you.'

Tears, actual tears, filled Rowland's eyes as he kissed the brow of the child, who was soon fast asleep in his arms, and as he held Netta's thin hand and looked at her bewildered face.

'Did you say you loved me, Rowland?' asked Netta, looking at him with a strange, wandering glance, whilst large tears rolled down her cheeks. 'I don't think I deserve any one's love, do I? Is mother vexed that I have been away so long?'

'Yes, dear, and you must come home at once. You must come to me first to get strong, and then—'

'Hush! hush! No, I cannot leave this house,—I will not; never, never till Howel comes or sends for me. Isn't that some one on the stairs?'

'I will see, dear.'

'No, not you,—not you.'

'It is some one gone to the next floor. Lie still, dear Netta.'

'It is nice having you, Rowland; but if he should come—'

'I would go away. You are ill, Netta. Tell me what is the matter with you.'

Rowland was feeling Netta's pulse, and found that they were too rapid to be counted, whilst he could literally hear the pulsation of her heart.

'I don't know; something at my heart. And—and—my head, just here,—at the top. It is so burning, like fire.'

'We must nurse you, Netta. If you would only come to my lodgings.'

'Hush! hush! not for the world. I will stay here till—I am sure that is a step.'

'No dear. Try to be calm and sleep for half-an-hour, whilst I go and make some arrangements.'

'Do you think he will come to-night?'

'I scarcely think he can, Netta. You know he is obliged to hide, dear, do you not? for—'

'Yes, yes! he told me for a few days for debt, and then he would come back. But he didn't murder Captain Dancy, did he?'

Netta started up and fixed her eyes wildly on her brother.

'No,—I assure you, no! I saw some one who saw Captain Dancy yesterday.'

'Thank God! thank God!'

'And, Netta, I do not think he can venture to come back just yet; so you must try to get well for all our sakes.'

'Yes, I will, that I may go to him. I will sleep now. Put Minette by my side. Poor Minette!'

Rowland laid the child's head on her mother's lap, and arranged the pillows for Netta, and then went, with a heart full to bursting, to Mrs Saunders.

'Mrs Saunders,' he said, 'I know that I can trust you. The poor lady to whom you have been so kind is my own sister, for whom we have been anxiously searching all this time. I don't know how far secrecy may be necessary, but, at present at least, do no let this fact go beyond yourself. Her husband has reduced her to what you see. I must leave her for half-an-hour; meanwhile, will you prepare supper, make a cheerful fire, let off the gas, and give us a couple of candles? Make the room as home-like as you can, in short. After my sister and the little girl are gone to bed, put a couple of blankets on the sofa in the sitting-room for me. I cannot leave her to-night.'

'Excuse me, sir,' said Mrs Saunders, 'wouldn't your sleeping here excite observation, if secrecy is necessary. You may depend on my care. Sarah has slept on the sofa for a fortnight, unknown to Mrs Mills, to be within call.'

'Perhaps you are right; but I want to make my sister fancy she is at home. It might recall her mind, which is evidently wandering. I shall be back soon.'

Rowland walked as fast as he could to Mr Jones'. He found him, his wife, and Freda together in his library.

'I must apologise for coming so late,' he began; 'but I know you are so kindly interested in my poor sister that you will excuse me. I have found her and her child, and cannot prevail on her to leave her rooms at Mrs Saunders', where she is.'

Then Rowland told his friends shortly how he had found her, and that he feared her mind was in a most uncertain state.

'She evidently does not know her husband's crimes, but thinks he is hiding on account of debt, and is expecting him to fetch her away every moment. I think if we could distract her thoughts from this one subject she might get better; but she is very ill, bodily as well as mentally.'

'Would not the sight of old friends be the best restorative?' suggested Miss Gwynne. 'Gladys and I could go to her, and as we are in the habit of visiting the sick in the parish, no suspicion could attach to our being with her; for it would never do, in poor Netta's state, to expose her to inquisitive people connected with her husband's flight.'

'Thank you—thank you, Miss Gwynne,' said Rowland 'This is what I wished, but scarcely dared to ask.'

Miss Gwynne left the room, and returned accompanied by Gladys.

'Gladys says she is ready to go at once, if necessary,' said Freda; 'and we can do without her, cannot we, Serena?'

'Quite well,' said Mrs Jones; 'but it will not do to excite an invalid, and so sudden a visit may not be good for her.'

'She must not be left another night without a friend at hand,' said Freda decidedly.

Rowland looked his thanks.

'Could not Mr Rowland prepare her for my coming? And I could sleep in the sitting-room, and not even see her to-night, but be ready to wait upon her to-morrow morning,' said Gladys.

'Yes,' said Freda. 'If you will go back and try to prepare her for Gladys, Mr Prothero, she shall follow you in a short time.'

'I will bring her,' said Mr Jones, 'and she can but return, if you cannot prevail on your sister to see her.'

Rowland could only press the hands of his kind friends, and hurry back to Netta.

He found her sitting in an old easy-chair, with Minette on a stool at her feet, fast asleep. The child refused to go to bed till 'Uncle Rowland' came back. There was a bright fire in the grate, and a supper was spread on a table drawn close to it. Candles replaced the gas-lamp, and the room looked almost cheerful, in spite of its faded red curtains and dingy furniture.

Netta had a small book in her hand, which she gave Rowland to look at.

'Mother gave me that when I was ill years ago—how long ago? How old is Minette?'

'She must be nearly eight, I think,' said Rowland, turning over the small, well-read Testament that had once been his mother's.

'I like that book now, Rowland!' said Netta. 'I am so glad you have come back. It seemed so lonesome when you were gone. Ha! ha! Howel used to say I must say lonely and not lonesome. Are you sure he won't come and find you here?'

'Quite sure. And I am going to bring another old friend to see you?—you remember Gladys?'

'Gladys! No, I don't remember her. What! The Irish beggar? I don't like her, and she don't like me. I think I was very unkind to her. Yes, I should like to see her once to ask her pardon.'

Minette awoke just at this moment, and Rowland took her on his knee, and gave her some supper, and tried to make Netta eat, but it was evident that she had neither appetite nor inclination for food, though she did her best to please her brother.

'This is like old times, Rowland,' she said. 'I like it better than grandeur. When will Gladys come? Owen told me she saved mother's life. Is it true? Why doesn't mother come?'

'Would you like to see Gladys to-night, Netta?'

'Yes. Will you go and fetch her?'

Rowland found Gladys and Mr Jones in Mrs Saunders' parlour. Gladys said she would take her bonnet off, that she might meet Netta as she used to do at the farm.

Rowland did not know that Gladys had put on the identical print gown that Netta had given her years ago, and which she had kept carefully, in remembrance of her. This and a plain cap transformed her into the Gladys of Netta's recollection, from the Gladys of Miss Gwynne's attiring.

Her heart beat almost as quickly as Netta's as she entered her room, but she steadied her nerves and voice as she went up to Netta, curtseyed, and said quite naturally,—

'How do you do, Miss Netta?'

Netta put her hand to her brow, as if to clear her memory, and fixed her large bewildered eyes on Gladys. Then she put out her hand, rather condescendingly, with something of the old attempt at superiority, and finally burst into tears.

The tears were so natural that Rowland and Gladys let them flow on; only the latter knelt down by poor Netta's side, and taking her hands in hers, pressed them tenderly. Netta threw her arms round Gladys' neck and kissed her, and called her, 'Gladys, Gladys, fach!' and said, 'You will not leave me.'