THE SISTER OF CHARITY.
The following morning, soon after eight o'clock, there arrived a basket
from Miss Gwynne, containing various meats and condiments that she
thought might be good for Netta and her child, and, above all, a nosegay
of Glanyravon flowers. Mr Gwynne had of late taken to send his daughter
baskets of game, poultry, and other country cheer, to which her
particular ally, the old gardener always added a tin of well-packed
flowers. These Miss Gwynne was in the habit of tending and treasuring,
as people in large cities alone can tend and treasure flowers, until
their last odour and colour departed, and these she now gladly
sacrificed to Netta.
It was an October morning, dull and misty. Gladys had kept up the fire,
and when Rowland's friend, Sarah, came to clean the room, she found that
her work had been done for her.
'Oh, Miss Gladys,' said the girl, 'why did you?'
'Never mind, Sarah, you get the breakfast things and boiling water, and
I will do the rest.'
Netta and her child slept late, and so heavily, that Gladys thought they
would never awake. She had arranged and rearranged the room, the
breakfast, everything; and was employed in mending a rent in Minette's
frock, when she heard the little girl say 'Mamma!' She went into the
bedroom, and found Minette sitting up in bed, and her mother still
sleeping. She washed and dressed the child, who seemed to take to her
naturally, and then led her into the sitting-room. Her delight was so
unbounded at the sight of the breakfast and the flowers on the table,
that her exclamations pierced the thin partition, and awoke her mother.
'He is come! he is come!' cried Netta, jumping out of bed, and hastening
into the sitting-room in her night-dress through the door that
communicated with the bedroom.
When Gladys saw the wild excitement of Netta's manner, and the unusual
gleam of her eyes, she understood what Rowland meant by saying that her
mind was unsettled; when she saw Gladys, she started, and ran back again
into the bedroom, whither Gladys followed her. A fit of depression and
pain at the heart succeeded, as they always did, this new
disappointment; and it was evident to Gladys that the only chance of
restoring her to health of mind or body was by keeping her amused, and
distracting her thoughts from her husband.
Minette brought in the flowers, and Gladys ventured to say that they
came from Glanyravon, and that Miss Gwynne had sent them. The flowers,
or their associations, brought the tears, which were the best outlets
for poor Netta's hysterical feelings, and when she had minutely examined
each--chrysanthemums, verbenas, salvias, geraniums--she shook the one
carnation from the vase, and kissing it, and pressing it to her heart,
said,--
'This came from mother, how good of her to think of me.'
Then she let Gladys help her to dress, and went to the well-stored
breakfast-table, sitting down on a chair Gladys placed for her. She
seemed to take up the teapot mechanically, and began to pour out the
tea; Gladys did not attempt to sit down, but waited upon her and
Minette, as if she were, indeed, the servant she professed to be. Either
Netta took this as a matter of course, or was too much absorbed in other
thoughts to give it consideration.
'Mamma, I should like Gladys to have some breakfast with us,' said
Minette, 'she must be so hungry. I think she is a lady, mamma; I like
her, she is so kind.'
'Yes, Gladys, do,' said Netta, 'you know this is not Abertewey. But
where did you get this game?'
'Miss Gwynne sent it, ma'am, she will come and see you by-and-by. I am
sure I hear Mr Rowland's voice on the stairs,'
Gladys said this to avoid another start, and Rowland appeared. Having
kissed his sister and niece, and shaken hands with Gladys, he sat down
to the breakfast-table. Gladys was still standing, but he begged her to
sit down, and she did so.
'Miss Gwynne sent me all this, Rowland,' said Netta, 'except the
carnation, that was mother's.'
Netta had placed it in her bosom.
'Uncle must have a flower too, mamma,' said Minette, jumping up, and
taking him a red geranium. 'Let me put it into your button-hole, it
smells so sweet.'
Rowland smiled and coloured as that sprig of red geranium from
Glanyravon was placed in his coat by his little niece, and in spite of
his better resolutions, when he went home, it was transferred to a
glass, and treasured as long as imagination could fancy it a flower.
After breakfast, Gladys asked Netta if Minette might go with her to see
Miss Gwynne, as she was obliged to leave for a short time.
'Gladys, you are going away, and would carry off my child, I know you
are,' said Netta, 'all, all! nobody cares what becomes of me. Why can I
not die?'
Minette's arms were round her mother's neck in a moment.
'I will stay till you return, Gladys,' said Rowland.
'She will not come back if once she goes,' repeated Netta; 'none of them
do, except you, Rowland. Owen never did--mother never did--Howel--oh! he
will! he will!'
'They will both return, dear Netta, only let Minette go.'
'No, uncle, I won't leave mamma, never--never!'
Gladys went away alone. Sarah came to clear the breakfast things, and
when Netta was seated in her old armchair, Rowland again began to urge
her to leave the lodgings she was in, and either come to his, or accept
an invitation that he brought her from Mrs Jones to go to her house.
'I will never leave these rooms, Rowland,' she said solemnly, 'until
_he_ fetches me, or sends for me, or bids me go. He loves me, Rowland,
dearly; he said so. Do you know, I once fancied he did not, and tried
not to care for him. But when he was in debt and trouble, it all came
back again. And, you know, he is my husband, even if I did run away from
home, and I must do as he bids me.'
Mrs Saunders came to say that Mr Wenlock wanted Rowland.
'Perhaps it is he, Rowland,' said Netta.
'No, dear Netta; it is a great friend of mine, a doctor. Will you see
him to please me? We all want so much to get you better.'
'Yes, if you will not tell him about Howel. I must get well, for it may
be a long, long journey. Do you know that I dreamt last night that he
sent for me, and that I was to travel thousands of miles before I met
him. I must get well, so I will see your friend, Rowland, only don't
tell him my name. Minette, go with Mrs Saunders, whilst mamma sees Uncle
Rowland's friend.'
Mrs Saunders took Minette away, and Mr Wenlock, a gentle-looking,
elderly medical man, a great friend of Rowland's, made his appearance.
Netta rose with a little attempt at her Parisian curtsey, and an effort
to assume her Abertewey manners; but she soon forgot her grandeur when
the doctor spoke to her in a soothing, fatherly way, and won her to
confide her long-concealed illness to him. Rowland left them together,
and went down to Mrs Saunders' parlour to amuse his little niece.
In something less-than half-an-hour he was joined by Mr Wenlock, who
took Minette on his knee, and looked at her thin cheeks and hollow eyes,
felt her weak pulse, and asked her many questions.
When she went upstairs to her mother, Mr Wenlock said,--
'The poor lady is very ill, dangerously, I fear. She must have had some
heavy sorrows for years to have reduced her to her present state of
nervousness, nearly amounting to insanity, but not quite. This may yet
be warded off with great care, total freedom from all excitement, and
change of air and scene. She has heart complaint of an alarming nature.
This can never be cured; but if her strength can be restored, she may
live for years--her natural life, in short--or she may be taken at any
moment. Any sudden shock would probably be fatal.'
Rowland had not told Mr Wenlock that Netta was his sister. When he heard
his opinion, so clearly and unreservedly expressed, he was greatly
distressed.
'She will not be moved from these lodgings,' he said. 'She positively
refuses. Will it do to oblige her to leave?'
'By no means. But I hear that admirable young woman, whom I call _our_
Sister of Charity, Miss Gladys, has undertaken to nurse her. If any one
can persuade her to submit to go elsewhere she will do it. It should be
into the country. To her native air, if possible.'
Just at this juncture, Gladys returned, and Rowland called her into the
consultation. Mr Wenlock continued,--
'Lead her to think of her child, who is also in a most delicate state.
Tell her, that change of air, country air, is absolutely necessary for
her--which it really is--but she must not be taken from her mother.
Distract her mind as much as possible from the trouble, whatever it is,
that oppresses it. Had she been left much longer to herself, she would
have quite lost her reason. Let her see such friends as can be trusted
to talk to her cheerfully and to amuse, without wearying her. If you
undertake this office, Miss Gladys, you will require all your patience,
and more than your natural health; and once undertaken, you must not
give it up, for she will get used to you, and depend upon you. Poor
thing! poor thing! I have seen many such cases, and never need to
inquire much into private history to know their origin. Wicked, morose,
unfeeling, cruel husbands are generally at the root, and God only knows
what their victims have to bear. There will be a pretty large account to
make up at the Great Day, Mr Prothero, between man and wife, of marriage
vows broken, and feelings outraged.'
'And my poor--and Mrs Mills,' said Rowland, 'ought, you think, to be
removed at once from London?'
'Decidedly, if she can be prevailed upon to go of her own free will, not
otherwise. I will see her again to-morrow, and watch her case as long as
she remains here. As regards the poor child, Miss Gladys, she, too, must
be nursed and amused, and well fed. I suppose she has been neglected
since the measles that her mother told me of, or else she never was a
strong child. Poor little lamb! It would kill her mother if she were to
be taken! But, really, I couldn't say--however, we shall see. Good
morning. I ought to be elsewhere by this time.'
Mr Wenlock took his departure.
'Miss Gwynne is coming directly, Mr Rowland,' said Gladys; 'I suppose I
had better tell Mrs Jenkins so. She has been out all the morning,
purchasing everything she thought Mrs Jenkins and Miss Minette could
want, and is going to bring what she has bought, in a cab, herself,'
'God bless her!' murmured Rowland. 'Gladys, do say Minette, and not
Miss. Why will you not consider yourself as a friend--a sister?'
Why did that quick, bright flush spread so suddenly over Gladys' pale
face?
'Thank you, Mr Rowland, I will. But I cannot forget what I really was,
and am.'
'You are and have been everything to us all, and now all our hopes seem
to centre in you. Can Miss Gwynne spare you?'
'She proposed my coming herself; but even if she had not, my first duty
is to my dear mistress and her children.'
'You will receive Miss Gwynne, Gladys. It will be less awkward. I have a
hundred things to do. Tell Netta that I will come again.'
Rowland went first of all to his lodgings, and wrote a long letter to
his father. He told him boldly and plainly what Mr Wenlock had said; he
had already written to his mother the good news of his having found
Netta. He asked his father in a straightforward manner to receive Netta,
and to forgive her. He made no comments, preached no sermon. He thought
that a statement of facts would have more effect on his father than all
his eloquence, or all the texts of the Bible, every one of which his
father knew as well as he did. He also began to feel it was not for him
to lecture and reprimand a parent, even though he knew that parent to be
in the wrong. As he folded his manly and affectionate letter, he prayed
for a blessing upon it, and went to preach and pray with many members of
his flock, who, alas! knew not, like his father, those blessed texts,
which teach us to 'forgive as we hope to be forgiven.'
Later in the afternoon he went to Netta again; he found Miss Gwynne with
her, cloak and bonnet thrown off, and Minette in full and eager talk on
her lap. Netta was looking quite cheerful under the influence of Miss
Gwynne's animated manners, and Minette's shouts of laughter. Toys and
picture-books were on the table before the child, and all sorts of
garments spread about the room. Miss Gwynne had sent Gladys home for a
large dressing-gown for Netta, and had expressed her intention of
remaining some time.
Minette jumped off her lap when Rowland entered, and ran towards him,
with a book in one hand, and a doll in the other.
'Look, uncle, what this kind lady has brought me; and she has made mamma
quite well. She has been laughing like she used to laugh. Oh, uncle, I
love her very much, don't you?'
Rowland did not say 'yes,' but went up to Miss Gwynne, and with all his
heart,--
'Oh, Miss Gwynne, how can we ever thank you enough for all this
kindness?'
'By not thanking me at all,' replied Miss Gwynne, stooping to pick up a
book, doubtless to conceal a very decided increase of colour.
These were the first genuine and natural words that Rowland had spoken
to Miss Gwynne since those fatal sentences under the great oak in her
father's park.
'It is all like a dream,' said Netta, passing her hand over her eyes and
forehead, as she did constantly, as if to clear away some cloud that
obscured her memory. 'If mother were only here, it would be quite
home-like.'
Truly Gladys had made the room almost a pleasant place. The books and
work she had brought with her, were already on the tables, and the
flowers filled all the old-fashioned vases, taken from the mantelpiece.
The fire was bright, and the hearth swept, and poor Netta and Minette
were neat and clean.
'Uncle, what have you done with the geranium?' suddenly asked Minette.
'I left it at home, dear.'
'How cross of you, uncle, to let the pretty flower die.'
'I put it in water, Minette, because it came from Glanyravon, where your
mother and I were born, and where your grandfather and grandmother
live.'
'I don't like grandmamma, uncle, she was so fat, and talked so
strangely.'
'You should not say that; but you have another grandmother whom you have
never seen.'
'Shall we go to her, mammy dear? and will you come, Uncle Rowland? and
shall the kind lady come, and Gladys? and then we can gather those
pretty flowers. I saw them growing once at the Crystal Palace, and they
would not let me pick them.'
Netta forgot her grief, Rowland his sermon, Miss Gwynne her dignity, in
talking to Minette of Glanyravon and its inhabitants; and, by degrees,
they fell into a conversation upon old friends and old times, that ended
in the days when they played together as children in the garden at the
vicarage, whilst the squire and his lady were paying their periodical
visits to the vicar and his lady.
Unconsciously it oozed out how every incident of those childish games
was remembered and treasured up by Rowland, as well as the meetings of a
more advanced age, when, as a Rugby boy, he tried to make himself
agreeable to the young heiress, who bestowed no thought on him.
But Rowland suddenly remembered that he was treading on dangerous
ground, and must not forget who he was, and who Miss Gwynne was. Those
words always came to haunt him, whenever he felt more than usually
happy; and how could he feel happy for one moment, with Netta possibly
dying, and Howel an exile for forgery. Poor fellow, it was only a
passing gleam through the mists of a hard life; let him enjoy it.
Gladys returned, and Rowland got a cab for Miss Gwynne, who went home to
dinner. Rowland had some tea, and went to his evening service in the
church.
After tea, Gladys read a story to Minette, which interested Netta, and
so the day passed, with but a slight recurrence of Netta's nervous
excitement.
Gladys asked Netta if she would like her to read a chapter in the Bible,
and Netta said yes; so, with Minette on her lap, she read one of the
lessons of the day, which she knew to be particularly applicable to her.
'I will read the other with you,' said Netta, when it was concluded
taking her mother's little Testament out of her pocket.
'I wish you would teach me to read, Gladys?' said Minette. 'Justine
taught me to read French, and to say French prayers, but I can't read
English,'
'Perhaps mamma will teach you, darling!' said Gladys, 'and I will help
when she is poorly.'
'We will begin to-morrow,' said Netta? 'I meant to get her a governess,
but we were always moving about, and so I never did.'
They read the second lesson, and when it was finished, Netta asked
Gladys to sing her a hymn. 'The Evening Hymn, Gladys. I could sing and
play that once, before I learnt to sing French songs.'
Gladys' beautiful, clear voice soon began the 'Glory to Thee, my God,
this night,' that has been the evening song of praise of so many
thousands for so many years. Netta joined at intervals, and her
wandering eyes seemed to be steadied, for the time, into a fixed
attention, as she gazed at Gladys whilst she sung.
When she finished, Minette was crying. Gladys soothed her, and asked her
what was the matter.
'It was so beautiful!' she said. 'Your voice was like the lady's I heard
at the play, only the words were so solemn. I thought of my papa. I do
not love him much, because he was cross to mamma, but I want to see him,
that you may sing to him and make him good.'
Gladys saw Netta's countenance lose the expression of calm it had worn
for a few moments, and regain the bewildered and painful one of the
morning.
'We can pray for your papa, my love,' she said, gently.
'Will you, will you, Gladys!' almost screamed Netta. 'Your prayers will
be heard, you are so good. Now, before Minette goes to bed, that she,
too, may pray for her father.'
Gladys had long been in the habit of praying with and for people in
great misery, as well as in great sin, so the request did not startle
her as it might have startled many. She read, from the Prayer Book, the
Confession, and then chose the concluding portion of the Litany, feeling
sure that almost any part of that list of petitions was suitable both
for Howel and themselves. When she read the words, 'That it may please
Thee to have mercy upon all men,' she paused, and added earnestly,
'especially upon him for whom we now desire to pray,' and little Minette
added to this, 'that is my poor papa.'
It was with difficulty that Gladys could conclude, she was herself so
affected by Netta's sobs, and Minette's innocent petition, but when they
rose from their knees, Netta said, 'I have not really prayed before,
Gladys, for a long time. Will God ever forgive me?' and Minette
entreated Gladys 'to teach her prayers in English; she liked them so
much better than in French.'
Gladys endeavoured to comfort the poor mother by passages from the
Scripture, and promised the child 'to teach her to pray,' and so she
helped to repay to her mother and grandmother the debt of gratitude she
owed to her and her family.