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.