THE NIECE.
THE following day Mrs Jones came to see Netta, and to do her part in
amusing her, and distracting her mind from Howel's promised return. Mr
Jones also accompanied Rowland in the afternoon in his visit to his
sister, and, the ice once broken, these kind and Christian people came,
alternately with Miss Gwynne, daily, for about a week, during which
period there had been no news of Howel, either public or private. Mr
Wenlock visited Netta regularly, but said there could be no improvement
in her health, and comparatively little strengthening of the mind, until
she could be removed to country air; this, however, she would not hear
of, although she cried very much, and was painfully excited, when
Rowland gave her a letter from her mother, entreating her to come to
Glanyravon, and made her acquainted with the contents of a letter he had
received from his father, which we will transcribe.
GLANYRAVON FARM, _October 9, 18--._
'MY DEAR SON,--Your letter came duly to hand, and I will not deny
that it affected me very much. Netta, set up above her station at
Abertewey, after disobeying her parents by running away, is very
different from Netta, deserted by her scamp of a husband, and left
in a poor London lodging. Bring her home, and we will take care of
her and her child, though I would rather lose a thousand pounds
than have to see her as she is. Mother wants to go up and nurse
her, but as that would kill her, I don't choose to let her go. If
you can't bring her down, Owen shall fetch her. I always said how
it would all end. Netta will believe me now it's no good; but no
need to tell her that. I wish Howel the--Well, I won't say more,
but remain your affectionate father, DAVID PROTHERO.'
Miss Gwynne was very anxious to tell Netta that Howel was supposed to be
in America, and that it was well known he could not return; and at last
Rowland took Mr Wenlock into full confidence and asked him whether it
would be advisable to do so. He said that he feared she would be
frightened at first, and then consider it a _ruse_ to get her away.
However, something must be done. To tell her that her husband was a
felon would kill her; and she would die if she remained in that close
air. He would think the matter over, and decide.
It was, however, decided for them the following morning. Netta was the
first to hear, as usual, the postman's rap. Manoeuvre as she would,
Gladys could not prevent this, and it always brought on considerable
excitement. This morning, however, there was actually a letter for
Netta, and Sarah went upstairs with it to Gladys. Although she called
Gladys out of the room to give it to her, Netta suspected something, ran
into the passage, and seized the letter.
Gladys was obliged to support her back to the sofa, and give her some
medicine, before she was sufficiently herself to open it When she
recovered, she waited for Gladys to leave the room, which she thought it
best to do, and then broke the seal. The letter contained the following
words:--
'DEAREST,--You had better go to your mother or mine. Kiss our child
for me. Believe that I love you. God bless you.'
When Gladys returned to the sitting-room, upon a cry from Minette, she
found Netta in a swoon. The letter was tightly clasped in her hand, the
envelope was on the floor. She ventured to look at the address and
postmark. The former was to Mrs Mills, the latter some illegible place
in America. She wanted no more information, and asked for none. She
brought poor Netta to herself with difficulty, and let her put the
letter in its envelope, and both in her bosom, without a question. Netta
lay on the sofa, with her eyes closed, and said not a word. All that
Gladys or Minette could do to attract her attention was unavailing. But
when Rowland came, she roused herself sufficiently to say, 'I am ready
to go home now, Rowland: I must go directly.' And then she relapsed into
a state of passive inaction. Rowland went for Mr Wenlock, and was
fortunate in finding him at home. He accompanied him to Netta, and said
that she must be roused by a change of some kind. Rowland said that it
was absolutely necessary to write to summon his brother to fetch Netta,
and that by the time the letter reached home, and Owen reached London,
three days must elapse. Fortunately, Miss Gwynne arrived, and with her
usual promptitude, proposed that Netta should be taken for those three
days to Mrs Jones'; and she returned home at once to expedite any
arrangements Mrs Jones might have to make.
'I am afraid, my dear Serena,' she said, when she had begun the subject,
'that it will put you out. But the poor creature shall have my bedroom,
and I can sleep anywhere for those few nights. The dressing-room,
Gladys' workroom, will do beautifully for her to sit in if she shouldn't
be able to come into the drawing-room.'
'Yes,' said Mrs Jones, 'we can put a sofa in it and easy-chair, and make
a regular snuggery of it.'
Mr Jones came in and entered into consultation.
'I shall be thankful if she can come here,' he said, 'for poor Prothero
is making himself quite ill with anxiety and overwork. I don't think he
has slept four hours a night since he found her. And then, Gladys! she
is not strong, she will be laid up.'
'I believe you love Gladys better than me,' laughed Mrs Jones.
'It was love at first sight, my dear. She was the first pretty girl that
I saw after I came from Australia. And I have gone on loving her better
and better ever since.'
'The worst of it is, that it is mutual,' said Miss Gwynne. 'I wonder
whether it is on your account or Owen Prothero's that she has refused
all the London swains who are dying for her.'
Mrs Jones and Freda were soon hard at work arranging rooms. Every
available comfort was put into Freda's bedroom and dressing-room, and
her own clothes and general possessions were turned out to find a home
elsewhere. Gladys' little workroom soon wore a most cheerful aspect, and
the easiest chair and sofa the house afforded were put into it. Whilst
these matters were being arranged, Mr Jones was despatched to tell
Rowland to bring his sister as soon as possible, and in the course of a
few hours they arrived, accompanied by Gladys and Minette. The shock of
the morning had so weakened Netta's nervous system, that Rowland was
obliged to carry her upstairs. When she was put on the sofa in the
little room, and saw so many kind friends about her once more, the
bewildered, wandering eyes found relief in tears.
'Gladys! you will not go away?' she said, holding Gladys by the hand.
'She may come home with me, Miss Gwynne?'
Gladys knelt down by the sofa, and tried to soothe her, by telling her
that her brother was coming to fetch her.
'I can't go home without Gladys!' persisted Netta, casting wild,
beseeching glances from one to the other of the friends who stood round
her.
'She shall go with you, Netta, decidedly,' said Miss Gwynne. 'It will be
much the best plan.'
'Gladys, you will come with us?' said Minette, throwing her arm round
her neck, as she knelt by her mother. 'You won't go away from poor
mamma, and your little Minette.'
Gladys felt, that in this, she was but an instrument. However it was
settled that she was to accompany Netta home; and if the inmates of the
farm did not receive her willingly, she was to go to the Park, whither
Miss Gwynne was to follow shortly, for her long-promised Christmas
visit.
When Netta and Rowland were left alone, Minette having been seduced by
Miss Gwynne into another room, Netta said,--
'You see, Rowland, I must go away directly, because I don't know when he
may come. I am sure he will fetch me, and if I stay here he will not
know where to find me.'
'Only two or three days, dear Netta. I have written to Owen. He will get
the letter to-morrow, and be here the next day. You can start the day
after to-morrow, if you will try to rouse yourself, and eat and drink.'
'Yes, I will; but I am afraid of father. It is nearly ten years since I
saw him, and if he is cross now, I shall die.'
'He will be kind, quite kind.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes, quite sure.'
'And will you come and see me, Rowland? I used to think you cross too,
but now you are very good to me. Do you think it was wrong of me to run
away with Howel? You know he loves me; he says so, Rowland.'
Here Netta pressed her hand upon the letter that was in her bosom, and
Rowland kissed her tenderly.
At intervals, during that day and the next, Netta made fitful efforts
to exert herself, but it was evident to all that her body was getting
weaker, and every one dreaded the journey in prospect, and longed for
its conclusion.
Netta had taken a sudden and violent interest in teaching her child to
read and repeat hymns. The hymns that it pleased Minette best to learn
were some that Gladys had sung at her mother's request. These Netta did
not know by heart, indeed, her failing memory prevented her retaining
anything she had once known; so an old hymn book was produced from
Gladys' book-shelf, which contained these hymns that she had been taught
in her childhood by her mother.
It was the second evening of Netta's stay with the Joneses, and she had
been prevailed upon to go into the drawing-room, where Rowland was added
to the usual little party.
She was gradually sinking into a state of apparent forgetfulness of
those around her, from which it had been so difficult to rouse her since
Howel's letter, when Miss Gwynne said,--
'I think Minette knows the hymn now, Mr Jones. Ask mamma if you may say
it, dear.'
'Mamma, may I try to say the hymn now? Mr Jones will take me to see the
little children to-morrow if I know it,' asked the child.
Netta was roused.
'Where is the book? I don't think I remember it, she said.
'I will go to Gladys for the book. I know the way, mamma.'
Minette ran to the little room where Gladys was at work busily preparing
for the journey. She got the hymn book, asked Gladys to find the place,
and returning to the drawing-room triumphantly, gave the book to Mr
Jones.
'You must hear me, to see that I say it quite, quite right,'
The hymn was somewhat difficult for a child, but it had taken Netta's
fancy, because the words were written for an old Welsh air that she knew
well; indeed the book consisted principally of English and Welsh hymns
that had been composed for some of the fine old Welsh tunes.
The words were as follow:--
MORNING, Y FOREU.
Great God, look on me,
From Thy throne eternal;
Make pure unto Thee
This my hymn diurnal.
I my grateful voice would blend,
With nature's loud thanksgiving;
Praises through the earth would send
For the bliss of living.
Then, God, look on me,
From Thy throne eternal,
Make pure unto Thee,
This my hymn diurnal.
On the wings of morning,
With songs of birds up-soaring,
I address Thee,
Praise and bless Thee,
Joying and adoring.
O Lord! bless this day,
All my thoughts and doings,
And keep my heart away
From all vain pursuings.
Shield me with Thy fostering wings,
From every wild temptation.
Let the daily course of things,
Work for my salvation.
O Lord I bless this day,
All my thoughts and doings,
And keep my heart away
From all vain pursuings.
With the hymns of flowers,
And streams and fountains blending?
I adore Thee,
And implore Thee,
Prayer and praise upsending.
Minette was in a great state of excitement whilst saying her hymn, and
repeated it so energetically, and withal so feelingly, that the
attention of Mrs Jones, Miss Gwynne, and Rowland was quite drawn towards
her. They did not, therefore, notice the still greater excitement of Mr
Jones, as he was, professedly, looking at the hymn book to see whether
the child repeated her task correctly.
'Well done, my little niece,' cried Rowland, catching her up in his
arms, and giving her a hearty kiss.
'Let me go, uncle. Mr Jones, Mr Jones,' screamed Minette, 'may I go with
you to see the poor children, Mr Jones?'
Mr Jones did not even hear the entreating appeal of the little girl. He
was out of the drawing-room, book in hand, and in Gladys' work-room,
almost before the struggling Minette was released from her uncle's arms,
and forcibly caught by Miss Gwynne.
Gladys was sitting quietly at her work, humming low the air of the hymn
Minette had been saying, when Mr Jones entered the room abruptly.
'Gladys, tell me where you got this book?' he said, putting the hymn
book on the table before her.
He looked so nervous and excited that Gladys was almost frightened.
'My mother gave it me, sir,' was the reply.
'And who wrote these names?' he asked, pointing to the words written on
the fly-leaf, which were, "Margaret Jones, from her affectionate
brother, William Jones."
'My uncle, sir, I believe, who gave the book to my mother.'
'And your mother--your mother, who was she?'
'The daughter of a clergyman, sir.'
'I know that. But where--what--who?'
'That is what I don't know, sir.'
'Who did she marry? For God's sake tell me all, Gladys.'
'She ran away with my father, sir, an Irish soldier, a corporal named
O'Grady. She went abroad with him, and did not come back to Ireland for
two years.'
'And then--and her father--and--and her brother?'
'Her father was dead, sir, and nobody knew where her brother was.'
'Where did her father live?'
'Alas! sir, I cannot tell that either. We never talked to my poor mother
about him, because it made her so unhappy, and as he was dead, I had no
interest in asking for the address. All I know was, that she was Welsh;
and when she was dying, she told me to go into Wales and find my uncle.
I don't think she quite knew what she was saying, but I came.'
The tears gathered in Gladys' eyes, and hearing a strange heavy sigh
from Mr Jones, she looked up at him through their mist, and saw that he
was struggling to speak through some great emotion.
'Oh, sir! what is the matter?' said Gladys, rising and going towards him
as he stood, trembling, on the other side of her work-table.
He could not speak, but opening his arms as she approached him, folded
her in them, and kissed her, as she had not been kissed before, since
her poor mother died.
Gladys could only yield to the embrace, she knew not wherefore. She
loved Mr Jones as if he were her own father, he had been almost like a
father to her ever since she had been in his house; she felt as if she
were once more in a father's arms.
We will leave them thus for one moment, to return to the drawing-room.
Mrs Jones, in her turn, kissed Minette, and praised her for repeating
her hymn so well.
'But where is Mr Jones?' asked the child. 'Will he take me to see the
little boys and girls?'
'I think he must be gone to find a book for you, dear,' was the reply.
But as neither Mr Jones nor the book came, Mrs Jones got rather fidgety,
and fancying her husband might be ill, left the room to see what had
become of him. She went to the dining-room, study, and bedroom, and, not
finding him, went to ask Gladys whether she knew where he was. She was
not a little astonished at finding him with Gladys in his arms, and the
door half open at his back.
Mrs Jones was not a jealous wife, but Gladys was a very pretty girl, Mr
Jones was avowedly very fond of her, and Mr Jones was mortal.
She felt a strange pain at her heart, turned pale, and stood for a
moment unobserved by either, on the threshold, irresolute, when she
heard these words from her husband,--
'It must be so. Gladys--you are--you must be--my poor, dear, lost
sister's child!'
Gladys and Mrs Jones uttered a simultaneous cry, and the latter entered
the room.
'My dear William, what does this mean?' she said, approaching her
husband and putting her hand on his shoulder.
'Serena!' (he, too called that gentle woman Serena) 'my love. For my
sake! This is my sister's child--my niece--my--our Gladys!'
Mr Jones released the bewildered Gladys from his embrace, and almost
placed her in the arms of his wife, who, scarcely comprehending what was
passing, kissed her tenderly.
Then Gladys sat down, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed
convulsively. It was all a dream to her, from which she must awake. It
could not be true. Mr and Mrs Jones soothed her. The former, restraining
his own emotion, endeavoured to calm hers, by telling her that it was he
who had written the names in that fortunate hymn book; he who was the
brother of her mother; he who was her uncle, and who would be, not only
an uncle, but a father to her henceforth.
At last, the agitated girl looked up at the kind and loving faces that
were bending over her, and murmured,--
'It cannot be--it is--too good--too great--too happy.'
'It is true, Gladys, my niece, my child,' said Mr Jones, stooping to
kiss her forehead.
Mrs Jones sat down by her, and taking one of her hands in hers, said,--
'It all seems a dream, Gladys. But if it be true, remember, you are now
my niece, my child as well; and, God knows, I love you, and value you
dearly.'
Once more the lonely Gladys felt that she had kindred. Yielding to the
feeling, she threw her arms round Mrs Jones' neck, and gave vent to the
emotion she had been striving to suppress.
At this juncture, Miss Gwynne appeared, who, wondering in her turn what
could detain Mr and Mrs Jones so long from their guests, came to look
for them.
Of course, she wondered still more when she found them both with their
arms round one another and Gladys.
She was going away; but Mrs Jones, perceiving her, said,--
'Come in, dear Freda, Minette's hymn has led to a wonderful
discovery--has given us a niece--a child--in--in--our dear friend
Gladys.'
Miss Gwynne knelt down at the feet of the sobbing Gladys, and taking one
of her hands, said,--
'Gladys, if this be true, we cannot love you better than we do now, or
esteem you more; but you now _feel_ one of us, instead of the isolated
Gladys of this little room, which you have resolutely been hitherto.'
As may be imagined, Gladys was a long time realising the fact, that she
was suddenly, and in the most extraordinary manner, raised from the
Irish beggar, lady's maid, or whatever she had hitherto chosen to
consider herself--for every one about her had long looked upon her as a
friend--to the niece of the good and kind Mr Jones. When she was able to
speak, her first words were,--
'I do not understand it--I cannot believe it. It is too good--too
happy.'
'I can scarcely believe it either,' said Mr Jones, taking up the hymn
book, and turning to his wife and Miss Gwynne, who had, thus far, taken
the strange news upon Mr Jones' word, which they never ventured to
dispute.
'This is my writing. Margaret Jones was my sister, and Gladys' mother. I
gave her this book when we were both young, and the date, also in my
handwriting, marks the time, some two or three years after the gift,
when I was at college, and she must have been about eighteen; she ran
away with an Irish soldier, whose real name, even, we never learnt. My
poor father doated on my sister, and spoilt her. She was high-spirited
and wilful, but very loving, and very handsome. Not at all like Gladys.
My sister's was the Welsh, Gladys' the Irish cast of countenance; yet I
have seen an expression in Gladys' face that has reminded me of her
mother.'
'We discovered, after my sister ran away, that she had met the man she
married when going to visit the landlady of a small inn, in my father's
parish, who was ill. It seems that this woman connived at their meeting;
and when strictly questioned, said, that she had believed he was a
gentleman, and that he had called himself Captain O'Brien.'
'My poor father!' here broke in Gladys. 'He bitterly repented this, his
only deception. He was of a good family, and his mother was an O'Brien;
but no one belonging to him could afford to purchase him a commission,
and so he went into the ranks. He once told me, that he persuaded my
mother to marry him first, and then promised to let her write to his
father. But I only know scraps of the story. I fancy my father was on
his way home on leave, when he saw my mother and fell in love with her.
He loved her very dearly, and as long as he lived she wanted nothing
that he could get her. The regiment was suddenly ordered abroad, and my
mother could not write to her father, or did not, before they sailed.
And so she delayed, and delayed; but she wrote at last, and received no
answer at all. I fancy she wrote several times from foreign parts, but
never heard from any one. I know she wrote again from Ireland; but the
letter was returned, with a note from some one, saying that her father
had been dead some years, and no one knew anything of her brother.'
'Too true! too true!' said Mr Jones. 'My poor father, never very strong,
was in his grave in less than six months after my sister left him. I
returned from college to nurse, and bury him. I have told you all this,
my dear Serena, little thinking that the young girl I first saw, after
visiting his grave some twenty years after I had seen him laid in it,
should be the child of the beloved daughter who had helped to hasten him
thither.'
'My poor, dear mother!' said Gladys, sobbing as if her heart would
break.
'Still less that you, my dear niece, would be five or six years in my
house; I loving you as a daughter, and yet not knowing the relationship
existing between us. But how could it have been discovered but for this
book? I only knew of you, that you were an Irish girl escaping from
poverty in Ireland, to find some Welsh friends, whose address even you
did not know. But for your evident truthfulness, the very story must
have been doubted. When I saw you at Mr Prothero's, I took you for his
daughter; since I have looked upon you as one of our family, an orphan
to be pitied and loved. Let us thank God and kind Christian people, that
you have been so pitied and loved.'
Mr Jones' mild grey eyes, full of tears, turned upon Miss Gwynne, who
said, hastily,--
'Ought not we to tell her first and best friends of this strange
discovery?--Rowland, Mr Prothero, and Netta. What must they think of our
long absence?'
'Not for worlds, Miss Gwynne, if you please!' cried Gladys, 'I could
never be what I would like to be to Mrs Jenkins and her dear mother, if
I were anything but the Gladys they have always known. They would be
treating me as--as--they would not let me work and wait upon Mrs
Jenkins. Until she is at home, at least, let me be as I am, as I was; it
is all so strange. Until I have offered to remain and nurse her, and
been refused--until, in short--'
'I understand, Gladys,' said Miss Gwynne. 'You are quite right. Let them
all value you for yourself, and then we will introduce you as--'
'I didn't mean that, indeed, indeed, Miss Gwynne,' said Gladys, her pale
face growing red. 'I only wanted to show my gratitude, as I am, to them
all. Perhaps even Mr Prothero may excuse me then, and--'
Here Gladys broke down again. She could not explain her own bewildered
thoughts; but her friends understood her, and respected the honest pride
that would be known, welcomed and beloved for merit, and not for a
bettered position and condition. Miss Gwynne saw a vision of Owen in the
background, with his handsome, honest, black eyes, and white teeth; but
she did not mention what she saw.
'At any rate, I must go and make the best of lame excuses,' she said,
'and leave you in your new relationship, to dry your eyes, and learn to
say "Uncle." Such a pleasant name! I always longed for an uncle.'
Miss Gwynne returned to the drawing-room, and told Rowland that Mr Jones
had been quite upset by the Welsh hymn that Minette had repeated, having
known it under peculiar circumstances when he was young. She apologised
for his non-appearance, and Rowland, seeing that something unusual had
occurred, took his departure. She promised Minette a visit to the
school, and prevailed on the little girl to allow one of the servants to
put her to bed, instead of Gladys. Minette begged Miss Gwynne to let her
say her 'English prayers' to her first, which she, of course, did.
Then Freda did her best to amuse Netta until Mrs Jones appeared, and
said Gladys was quite ready to assist Netta, if she liked to retire for
the night.
When Netta was in bed, Gladys joined her friends, and they discussed,
more calmly than before, their newly-found relationship.
Gladys brought with her her Bible, in which her mother had written her
name, and Mr Jones recognised his sister's hand writing. She had also a
lock of her mother's hair, and her wedding-ring, and one or two other
trifles, that drew fresh tears from a brother's eyes.
Gladys said that she should like, for her own satisfaction, that a
certificate of her mother's marriage, and of her birth, should be
obtained. Her mother was married, she believed, during the short time
she was in Ireland; and she was born, she knew, in the parish where her
father's parents lived, to whose care her father had confided her
mother. Two children had been born, and died before her birth, during
the period that her parents were abroad.
It may be as well to say here, that the certificates were duly procured,
through the clergyman of the parish, to whom Mr Jones wrote a statement
of the case. Also that letters, written for the gratification of Gladys,
to the Protestant and Roman Catholic clergy of her parent's last
neighbourhood were duly answered, and confirmed all that Gladys had said
of them and of herself from first to last. This, of course, took some
time to effect; but I have so far anticipated the event, to avoid
fanning to it again.
Gladys now recapitulated, more minutely, the circumstances of her early
history, a sketch of which she gave Miss Gwynne and Mrs Prothero when
she was recovering from her fever.
There were a few points that she did not mention at that time, which, we
will insert for the benefit of the reader, in Gladys' own words.
'My father left my mother in Ireland, and went with his regiment to
India. My mother lived with my grandfather, who was old and infirm, but
still managed a small farm, in which my mother assisted. He died, and
then my mother kept a school, took in needlework, and did what she could
to help out my father's remittances, which were small, but regular. He
was severely wounded in the head, and got his discharge upon his
corporal's pay. Being a clever man, he soon procured work, as a kind of
under-agent, and we lived very happily together for some years. He was
never a saving man, so what he earned he spent, and my poor mother spent
it with him. I had two brothers and three sisters, and when my father
died, rather suddenly, we had nothing but our own exertions to depend
upon. My mother and I managed to live and keep the children--how, I
scarcely know--till the famine from the failure of the potato crop, and
consequent fever and starvation came upon us. God preserve me, and every
one else, from witnessing such misery again! One child died after
another, and then the darling mother! I had nothing to give her;
literally nothing. Every one round us was in the same state. On her
death-bed she was rambling and incoherent, but talked of Wales, and her
father and brother.
'"Go to them, Gladys," she said, "when I am gone. Maybe they'll take to
ye." "Where, mother dear!" I asked. But she did not hear me. Thank God!
she clasped her hands and prayed for pardon of her sins through Jesus
Christ; and so she died. I don't know how I lived after her--how I
buried her--how I came into Wales. I scarcely remember anything, till I
awoke from that illness in calm, clean, beautiful Glanyravon; with my
mistress's blessed face looking down upon me, and Miss Gwynne waiting on
me, and Mr Rowland praying for me.'
For some years past Gladys had succeeded in obtaining a calm and even
spirit, by striving to banish these dreadful scenes from her mind, by
active labours for others, and abnegation of self. Now, they opened once
more the flood-gates of memory, and as the old recollections rushed
through, like repressed waters, her strength of mind gave way, and she
could do nothing but weep.
'Only to-night--forgive me!' she sobbed. 'I shall be better to-morrow.
But it all comes back, all; even in the moment of my great happiness.'
Her kind friends soothed and comforted her--her uncle wept with her, and
by degrees she once more grew calm.
Before they separated for the night, Mr Jones offered up a thanksgiving
for the great mercy God had vouchsafed to them; and commending his
newly-found niece to the further protection of that gracious Providence,
who had led the orphan to her home; in His presence, and that of his
wife and her friends, he solemnly blessed her, and adopted her as his
own child.
It need scarcely be added that his wife registered and signed the vow
that her husband made.