THE NURSE.
Mrs Prothero continued very ill, and the doctor said there was no chance
of her amendment until her mind was more at ease. Four days had passed,
and no intelligence of Netta. Each day found her worse than the
preceding, and brain fever was apprehended. Gladys nursed her day and
night. Mr Prothero stormed and lamented by turns. Owen did what he could
to assist and comfort all, and Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall sent every kind
of nourishing food from the Park.
On the fifth morning, Owen rode into the town in the vague hope that he
should hear something of his sister, either through Mrs Jenkins's
servant or the post. Mrs Jenkins had not returned, but there was a neat,
smooth letter for his father, directed by Howel, with which he rode off
homewards at full gallop. He longed to open it, but he dared not. He was
fearful that his father would put it into the fire unread, so he formed
twenty plans for securing it, which he knew he could not carry out;
however, when he returned home and sought his father in the harvest
field, he said,--
'Father, I have a letter directed by Howel. Will you let me open it for
mother's sake?'
'If it is yours, do what you will with it? if it is mine, burn it
unread.'
'But, father, surely you would do something to save mother's life. Any
news of Netta--'
'Don't name that girl to me, sir, or I'll horsewhip you!'
'May I open the letter, father?'
'Do as you will, but don't let me see it. The deceitful up-start! the
pompous fool! the--the--'
Owen waited for no more epithets but ran into the house, and stumbling
upon Gladys in the passage, told her to come and see what the letter
contained. When he opened the outer envelope and took out the beautiful
little glossy note with its silver border and white seal, stamped with
a small crest of an eagle, he burst out laughing.
'Cards, by jingo!' he exclaimed.
'Oh, Mr Owen, just let me cut round the neat little seal. I am sure your
mother would like to see it,' said Gladys, joining involuntarily in the
laugh, and taking a pair of scissors out of her pocket.
The seal was cut, and two cards were taken out, silver-lettered and
silver-bordered, showing that Netta was now Mrs Howel Jenkins.
Gladys ran off with them without asking any questions, followed by Owen.
They found Mrs Prothero crying, as she usually was when left alone.
'I hope we have good news, ma'am,' said Gladys.
'All right, mother. Cheer up! Netta is married at any rate,' cried Owen.
'Thank God!' said Mrs Prothero, taking the cards and pressing them to
her lips. 'But not a line--not a word from Netta!'
'She would not dare to write, ma'am,' suggested Gladys.
'I suppose not? but why did she go away? Why did she leave me never to
see me again?'
The following day brought the _Welshman_, Mr Prothero's weekly treat,
which it generally took him the week thoroughly to read and enjoy.
Owen chanced to open it first, and, as is usually the case, stumbled at
once upon the marriage of his sister. When his father came in he was in
uncontrollable fits of laughter.
'Don't be angry, father, but I can't help it. Ha, ha, ha! D. Prothero,
Esq. of Glanyravon! Oh, I shall die of it! Now, really, father, you
ought to be proud.'
'What are you making such a row about?' said Mr Prothero looking over
Owen's shoulder.
His eye caught the words, 'Howel Jenkins, Esq., and Miss Prothero,
Glanyravon, and Sir John Simpson. This was quite enough. He seized the
paper with an oath, crumpled it up, and thrust it into the fire, and
gave Owen such a violent blow on the back with his fist, that the young
man's first impulse was to start up and clench his in return; however,
his flush of passion cooled in a moment, and he said,--
'Come, father! remember it isn't I that ran away. Time enough to give me
a licking when I do. I'm much obliged to you for letting me know what a
strong father I've got.'
'Once for all, Owen, take you care how you laugh upon that subject or
name it to me. I can give and take a joke as well as most people, but
not about that, sir, and from you. Name o' goodness, what d'ye think I'm
made of!'
The farmer walked out of the hall, and left Owen heartily sorry for
having hurt his father's feelings, but chuckling over the fashionable
marriage.
The following morning he managed to procure another paper, and read his
mother and Gladys the announcement, knowing full well that maternal
pride must rejoice in the exaltation, whilst it wept over the
disobedience of an only daughter.
To the astonishment of every one, the following morning brought Mrs
Griffith Jenkins to Glanyravon, attended by her maid-servant. Gladys
answered the door to the thundering double-knock that resounded through
the house, and was quite taken aback when she saw who the visitor was.
'Is Mrs Prothero at home, young 'ooman?' asked Mrs Jenkins in a grand
tone of voice.
'My mistress is very ill, ma'am,' said Gladys.
'Ill! Since when?'
'Ever since Miss Netta left, ma'am.'
'Do Mr Prothero be in the house, or Mr Owen?'
'They are out harvesting, ma'am.'
'Tell you Mrs Prothero that I do bring message from Mrs Howel Jenkins
for her, and that I was promising to give it myself.'
Gladys did not know what to do. She felt sure that Mr Prothero would not
admit Mrs Jenkins under his roof, and that her mistress would be afraid
to do so; however, she ventured to ask her to come in and wait a little
time whilst she sent for Mr Owen. Fortunately, Owen was not far from the
house, and Mr Prothero was riding to some distant part of his farm, so
Gladys left Mrs Jenkins to Owen, and went upstairs to tell Mrs Prothero
that she was in the house. Mrs Prothero was greatly agitated, but
declared that she would see her at all risks, and tell her husband that
she had done so. She begged Gladys to remain in the room during the
visit, and to prevent a meeting between Mrs Jenkins and Mr Prothero.
Gladys went downstairs again, and found Owen telling Mrs Jenkins what he
thought of Howel's and her own conduct.
'My mistress would like to see you, ma'am,' said Gladys.
'I'm thinking I 'ont go near her now, you, Owen, have been so reude.'
'Oh, for that much, you may do as you please, Aunt 'Lizbeth. I shall
have the pleasure of going with you to my mother. You've pretty nearly
killed her amongst you, and I don't mean to let her be quite put an end
to.'
'Will you be showing the way, young 'ooman,' said Mrs Jenkins, rising
majestically and smoothing down a very handsome silk dress, which she
had carefully taken up before she sat down.
Owen's wrath was turned to amusement
'Did you think we hadn't a duster in the house, aunt? I can tell you
you've pretty well dirtied that white petticoat.'
Gladys led the way to Mrs Prothero's room, and Mrs Jenkins and Owen
followed.
'I'm sorry to see you so poorly, cousin,' said Mrs Jenkins, approaching
the bed on which Mrs Prothero lay, looking flushed and excited.
'What did you expect, 'Lizabeth Jenkins? when you have carried off my
daughter--my child--my Netta! And caused misery in our house never to be
mended.'
'Well, seure! One 'ould think we'd murdered Netta, 'stead of making her
as grand as a queen, with a lord and a lady to be giving her away, and a
captain to be at the wedding, and a gentleman in a waistcoat and chains
and rings that do be worth a hundred pounds at least, and a young lady
for bridesmaid in a shoall of lace, handsomer than your Miss Gwynne of
the Park, and a wedding-cake covered with sugar, and silver, and little
angels, and all sorts of things which I was bringing with me for you;
and a clergy like a bishop to marry her, and a coach and horses to be
taking her back and fore, and she looking as beauty and happy as ever I
was seeing! And my Howel's as rich and fine as anybody in London, Prince
Albert nothing to him, and might be marrying Miss Simpson, my ladyship's
doter, if he wasn't so fullish as to be marrying your Netta!'
'Now, aunt, it is our turn, if you please,' said Owen, as soon as Mrs
Jenkins gave him time to speak. 'Will you tell my mother Netta's
message?'
'I am taking it very unkind that you should all turn upon me. David
Prothero I 'spected 'ould be in a passion, but, stim odds! Netta said,
cousin, that I wos to tell you she was sorry to be leaving you in a
hurry, but that she had everything she could be wishing, gowns, and
white shoes, and lace veils--seure you never wos seeing such a
beauty--and a _stafell_--_trosy_ they do call it in London--good enough
for my Lady Nugent, and a goold watch and chains, and rings and
bracelets, ach un wry! there's grand!'
'But what did Netta say to me, cousin 'Lizbeth? I don't care if she was
all gold from head to foot. I would rather have her here in rags,' said
Mrs Prothero, bursting afresh into tears.
'She's more likely to be here in satins and velvets, cousin,' said Mrs
Jenkins, rising from her seat, and walking up and down, apparently in
great wrath. 'What you think of my Howels and your Netta at Abertewey:
And you to be all toalking as if we wos ail dirt. And they in France,
over the sea, where I 'ould be going with them only I am so 'fraid of
the water.'
'There's a loss it would be, Aunt 'Lizbeth, if anything had happened to
you! Suppose a shark had swallowed you up! gold watch, mourning ring,
silk gown, brooch, and all? Those creatures aren't particular. But we
haven't had all Netta's message yet.'
'She was sending her kind love and duty to you, cousin, and was saying
she was sorry to be leaving you, but my Howels was so kind as you, and
she was as happy as could be.'
'Did she cry, cousin? did she shed one tear?' asked Mrs Prothero,
sitting up in bed, and looking at Mrs Jenkins with a quick, wild eye,
quite unlike her usual quiet glance.
'You needn't be looking at me so fierce, cousin, I didn't be killing
Netta. Is seure--she did cry enough, if that's a pleasure to you. She
was crying when she was meeting my Howels; she was crying when she was
putting on her wedding gown; she was crying when the parson was
preaching that sermon, and when the thunder and lightning did frighten
her, seure, and no wonder--'
'Did it thunder and lighten when they were married? 'asked Mrs Prothero,
through her sobs.
'Yes, indeet! I thoate I should be struck myself; but she was soon
forgetting it at breakfast; they do call it breakfast, you see, but I
never was seeing a grander dinner. Chickens, and tongue, and ham, and
meats, and cakes, and jellies, and fruit, and wines, all froathing up
like new milk, some sort of _pain_ they was calling it; but I never did
be seeing such good _pain_ or tasting it before, he! he!'
'I don't care about the dress or the dinner, or the grand people,
cousin,' said Mrs Prothero, 'I pray God to forgive Howel for making our
only girl run away from us like a thief in the night; and I would rather
hear she cried for us whom she treated so badly, than that she was
dressed in velvet and jewels. All those fine people and fine things
won't make her happy, and her father will never forgive her, never. Oh
dear! oh dear!'
'What will I tell her, Mrs Prothero, when I do write to my son Howels?'
'Tell her--tell her that my heart is breaking; but I forgive her. Beg
her not to forget her parents, and, above all, not to forget her God.
Poor child! poor silly, thoughtless child, she will never be happy
again.'
'Indeet to goodness, this is fullish! I shall go, Mrs Prothero. Good
morning.'
Just as Mrs Jenkins was making a kind of curtsey by the bedside Gladys
said that she saw Mr Prothero riding up to the house.
'Perhaps you had better make haste, Aunt 'Lizbeth,' said Owen, 'it would
not very well do for you and my father to meet.'
'I 'ont be running away from any man's house, Mr Owen. I do hope I'm as
good as your father any day.'
'Oh, pray make haste,' said Mrs Prothero, very much frightened.
'Good-bye, cousin. Forgive me if I have been rude? I beg your pardon.'
'This way, ma'am, if you please,' said Gladys, opening the door; but Mrs
Jenkins was smoothing down her silk dress, and arranging her bonnet in
the looking glass.
'Quite ready for another husband, aunt; but you had better make haste,
you don't know what you may come in for if you meet my father.'
'I am not caring neither,' said the little woman, sweeping across the
room and out at the door. At the top of the stair she met Mr Prothero,
face to face. The effect of her appearance upon that worthy man is not
to be described. She made a kind of curtsey and began to speak, but no
sooner did she see his face than she held her tongue. Neither did words
appear to come at the farmer's bidding, but very decided deeds did. He
took the alarmed Mrs Jenkins by the two shoulders, literally lifted her
from the ground, carried her downstairs a great deal faster than she
came up, helped her along the passage much in the same way, and with
something very nearly approaching a kick and an oath, turned her out of
doors, and shut the door behind her with so violent a bang that it
echoed through the house.
Owen ran down stairs to receive the first brunt of his passion, and to
prevent his going up to his mother. He allowed the words that came at
last to have way, and then took all the fault on himself; said that he
had admitted Mrs Jenkins to try to soothe his mother, and that she had
done so, he thought.
'Take you care, sir, how you let that 'ooman darken my doors again, or
any one belonging to her. It'll be worse for you than for them,' said Mr
Prothero, with a brow like a thunder cloud.
His wrath was interrupted by the sound of wheels, and to Owen's great
relief, he saw the head of his uncle's well known grey mare through the
window. He ran out to admit him and his aunt.
'We have just seen Mrs Jenkins, Owen,' began his aunt.
'Not a word to father, aunt.'
'Very well. But she stopped us and began telling us that she had been
turned out of these doors, and would have the law on your father. She
was furious; talked of Netta and Howel, and your mother, and Paris, and
the wedding, all in the same breath, and would not let us go on until we
had heard all. Neither of us spoke to her, but she stood at the horse's
head and frightened me to death.'
When they all went into the hall, they found that Mr Prothero was not
there. Gladys came in and said he was with her mistress, but had not
mentioned Mrs Jenkins.
'I am afraid she has made my mistress worse, sir,' she said to Owen.
'She has been very faint ever since she left,'
In truth she had made her worse, and when Dr Richards came to see her
that afternoon, she was quite delirious. He shook his head, and declared
that she had brain fever, and that the utmost quiet and freedom from all
excitement were necessary for her. Poor Mr Prothero was beside himself,
and the whole household was in great consternation. Serious illness had
never visited either the farm or the vicarage before, and none of the
Prothero family knew what it was. Not so Gladys, however. She did not
wait to be directed or ordered, but took her post as nurse by her dear
mistress's bedside. To her the doctor gave his directions, to her Mr
Prothero turned for information, to her Owen came for comfort; and even
Mrs Jonathan, who had scarcely ever spoken to her before, looked to her
as the only hope in this time of uncertainty.
'I have seen all kind of fevers,' she would say to one and another as
they questioned her, 'worse than this, and with God's grace the dear
mistress will recover. I am not afraid to sit up alone with her, oh, no!
It is better not to have too many in the room at once. Do not be uneasy,
master, the delirium is not very bad. Yes, Mr Owen, you can do better
than any one else, because you are calmer. No, ma'am, it is not an
infectious fever--you need not be afraid,' and so from one to another at
intervals she went, giving hope and comfort.
During all that night and several successive ones, Gladys sat up with
her beloved mistress. It was she who listened to her disturbed,
delirious talk about Netta, and tried to console her; she who read the
Bible to her, and prayed with and for her during the intervals of
reason, and she who gave her all her medicines and nourishment.
Poor Mr Prothero could do nothing but wander from the fields to the
house, and the house back again to the fields, followed by his brother
like his shadow, who strove to comfort him in vain. Mrs Jonathan made
jellies, and did her best. Owen was gentle and tender as a girl, and
helped to nurse his mother with a love and care that Gladys could
scarcely understand in the lighthearted, wild sailor.
Before the end of the week, they wrote to summon Rowland, for Mrs
Prothero's life was despaired of, and great was the anxiety and terror
of all, lest he should come too late.
'Pray for her, Mr Owen, pray for her. There is nothing else of any avail
at such a time as this,' would Gladys say in answer to the young man's
entreating glance.
'If I were as good as you I could, Gladys. Oh, God! spare my beloved
mother!' he would reply.