THE MILLIONAIRE.
Nearly a twelvemonth passed, and an autumn morning again hovered over Glanyravon Farm. It would seem that all the inmates of the homestead were sleeping; but there was one already awake and moving furtively about. It was Netta, not usually such an early riser. The curtains of her trim little bed and window were drawn aside to admit all the light that a September twilight could cast upon the chamber in which she had slept since her childhood. A lovely bunch of monthly roses and some leaves of dark green ivy alone looked in upon her in the uncertain gloaming, as if imaging her present and future. She was dressing herself hastily, but with care, in her very best attire. She stood before the glass braiding and arranging her dark glossy hair, that luxuriant ornament of her bright, rosy face; then she put on the blossom white lace habit-shirt and striped pink and drab silk dress, her kind father's last gift, and the smart shawl and pink bonnet were duly arranged afterwards. Whatever the early visit Netta was about to make, it was evidently a premeditated one. When the attire was quite complete, and she had surveyed herself in the glass, she suddenly paused and looked around her. In a moment she was putting her room to rights, and pushing stray articles of dress into drawers, until all was quite neat; then she paused again, and glanced at a letter that was lying on her little dressing-table. Turning hastily away from this she opened the window and looked out. The sun had not yet arisen, though there was a streak of light, forerunner of his advent, on the horizon. Mountains, rivers, fields, and woods were all wrapped in a cold, grey mist, but still it was not dark. Netta tore the bunch of roses from the bough and put them in her bosom, then re-closed the window. She took up a large shawl that was lying on a chair, and a small package from underneath and dexterously arranged the shawl so as to fall over the parcel, as she held both in her hand and on her arm. Again she paused a moment and glanced around her. Her face was flushed, and there was moisture in her dark eye.
Oh, pause a little longer and consider, poor Netta! But no. The sudden flash of sunlight into the room terrifies the thoughtless child, and she goes hastily into the passage. Quietly she closes her door; stealthily she creeps along. She makes no sound as she steals, like a thief, through the house where she was born some eighteen summers ago. Before one closed door she pauses again—listens. She can hear the breath of the sleepers within. She is on her knees, and represses with difficulty a rising sob, 'Mother! mother! forgive me! God bless you!' she whispers, as she once more rises and runs down the remainder of the passage—downstairs—through the hall—through the parlour, and out by the little glass door into the garden. In spite of her tears, haste, agitation she cannot pass that bed of carnations—her mother's treasure—without stopping to gather one fresh and dripping with the air and dews of night. Innocent flowers! they will see her mother that very day; but what of the stray, wandering rose of Glanyravon? Through the garden, and out by the little wicket into the lane; across a field sparkling with dewdrops; over a stile; down another lane; over another stile, and into another field! Here she pauses and glances round. A dark figure at the opposite side of the field seems to assure her that all is well. She runs quickly across the meadow, and within it, under shelter of the hedge, near a half-open gate, stands Mrs Griffith Jenkins.
'Where is Howel?' asks Netta hastily.
'He did write yesterday to say he 'ould bring the carriage from Swansea to meet us at Tynewydd, and he was sure to be there by six o'clock,'
'Let us make haste then, Aunt 'Lisbeth. Why didn't he come here himself? I have a great mind to turn back.'
'Come you, Netta, fach! we'll soon be there. See you the letter?'
'Not now—not now,' cries Netta impatiently, walking along the high road as fast as she possibly can. Mrs Jenkins keeps up with her, but is soon out of breath.
'There's Jack Trefortyn; he'll be sure to tell. Aunt 'Lisbeth, I will turn back. Father will be after me. It is too bad,' sobs Netta.
'We are near by now, Netta, fach. Come you!'
The little woman quickened her pace into a short run to keep up with Netta.
'Here's the turnpike; we'll be at Tynewydd 'rectly.'
'I see Tynewydd,' says Netta, straining her eyes to catch sight of some object far down the road; 'there is no carriage—I am sure there is none. Cousin Howel ought to be ashamed of himself.'
Netta runs on very fast, leaving Mrs Jenkins far behind, until she reaches the turning to a lane that leads to a little farm called 'Tynewydd.' She bursts out crying, and stamps her foot as she exclaims,—
'Does he think he's going to do what he likes with me because he's rich? I'll tell him he shall wait for me, I will!'
Hereupon she turns back and runs faster than before towards Mrs Jenkins.
'Come you, Netta, fach! He'll be here by now. Read you the letter.'
Netta pauses a moment to read a letter held out to her by Mrs Jenkins. It runs thus:—
'I can't be with you to-day. Meet Netta at the appointed place, and walk to Tynewydd. I will be there with a carriage by six o'clock.—Yours, H.J.'
'See you, Netta, it isn't six yet.' Mrs Jenkins pulls out a large gold watch, which, while Netta was running on, she has managed to put back half-an-hour. 'Five-and-twenty minutes to six, see you.'
Netta turns again and hurries on.
'There is Jones Tynewydd. If he should see me,' says Netta. 'Do make haste, Aunt 'Lisbeth.'
They walk on for about a quarter of a mile, when carriage wheels are distinctly heard, and in a few moments a fly and pair is distinctly seen coming at great speed. The driver would have passed them, but Mrs Jenkins calls out,—
'A gentleman for Tynewydd inside?' Upon which he pulls up. Howel is out of the fly, and Netta lifted in before she knows what she is about. Mrs Jenkins is put in almost as quickly, and the fly turned and off again in less time than it takes to write it.
'Howel, how could you? I was going back, and I wish I had,' sobs Netta.
Howel kisses her and tells her to be a good little cousin, and she shall see London in no time. She clings close to him, and hides her face on his shoulder and sobs on. He draws her to him, and lets her grief have way. Few words are spoken for a time, but at last Netta dries her tears and says,—
'I was so frightened, cousin, and I didn't think it would be so hard to leave mother without saying good-bye. Mother was always kind.'
'Hide you, Howel! hide you, Netta! there's Mr Jonathan Prothero,' says Mrs Jenkins, shrinking back into the corner of the fly.
Howel peeps out and sees Netta's worthy uncle, bag on back, setting forth on some archæological search.
Howel and Netta lean back in the fly whilst he passes, little thinking whom the vehicle contains.
'Uncle and aunt will be glad at least,' says Netta. 'Aunt says you are very clever and handsome, Howel, and wonders why father won't let us—'
'Marry, Netta—say the word. I suppose Aunt Jonathan found out my talents and beauty after I acquired my fortune.'
After driving about ten miles they stop to change horses, and in the course of three or four hours arrive at the Swansea railway station, newly erected within the last few months. The scene is equally new to Netta and Mrs Jenkins, and whilst Howel goes to take their tickets they stand wondering and admiring. Neither of them has ever travelled by rail, and both are equally nervous at the prospect. They are just in time for the express, and soon find themselves seated in a first-class carriage. As it is a carriage of two compartments, Howel fastens the door between the two, draws down the blind, puts some coats on the fourth seat, and says they will now have it to themselves all the way to London.
Netta seizes his hand and screams when the steam whistle sounds, and his mother falls down upon him from the opposite seat He laughs aloud, and seems in such buoyant spirits that the women laugh too; and very soon Netta has quite forgotten her home, as with her hand clasped in Howel's he unfolds to her his future plans and arranges hers.
'Deet, and this is like a sofa in a drawing-room. I shall be asleep if I don't take care,' says Mrs Jenkins.
'The best thing you can do, mother. I will awake you when we get to Reading, where the biscuits are made you used to sell, faugh! and be sure to show you Windsor Castle.'
Mrs Jenkins obeys her son's wish, and is soon sleeping soundly.
Howel then gives Netta the following intelligence, which, as it interests her, we will hope may be interesting to her friends.
'The old gown you gave my mother, Netta, I sent to a celebrated house in town, and calling there the next day ordered a proper trousseau to be made for you.'
'What's a trousseau, Howel?'
'You little dunce. Why, what we call a stafell without the household furniture. So you will find a wedding dress and all kinds of dresses and garments without number awaiting you, for I gave the milliner carte blanche.'
'What's carte blanche, cousin? You are become so grand.'
'Never mind—white paper with two meanings. And here is a present to begin with.'
Howel takes a leather case from his pocket and puts it into Netta's hand. She opens it, and sees a beautiful little gold watch and chain.
'Oh, you dear, kind cousin, Howel!' she cries; her eyes sparkling with delight. 'I have longed for one all my life.'
'Will you go back again, Netta dear?' asks Howel archly.
The watch and chain are duly put on, and then Howel continues,—
'To-morrow you will have a hard day's work. You must purchase a great many things that will be necessary for travelling that I could not buy. The rest we can get in Paris. I have invited my friends, Sir John and Lady Simpson, and their son and daughter, to the wedding, which I have fixed for the day after to-morrow. One of the reasons for my not being able to come to you yesterday was that I must be a fortnight in the parish where we are to be married before we are married. I just ran down by the night train, took the fly, and met you; and shall make up my lost night by sleeping in town, for certainly I slept nowhere yesterday. Can't sleep in a train like mother; always feel too excited.'
'I don't like those grand people,' interrupted Netta, pouting.
'You will know them directly. But don't let out anything about the farm, or father and mother; papa and mamma now, little coz. Miss Simpson guesses it is an elopement, I think, but I haven't told her so. They are very great friends of mine; very grand people.'
'Quite like Lady Nugent, I suppose,' suggests Netta.
'Quite—grander indeed. Well, I have ordered the wedding-breakfast, carriages, everything. Never had such fun in my life. It was quite an excitement. You don't know half my talents yet.'
'Suppose brother Rowland were to hear of it?' says Netta, frightened at the idea.
Howel laughs aloud, and awakes his mother.
'He is east, we are west, my dear cousin. He is amongst the plebeians, we the patricians; he is canaille, we are noblesse.'
'What are they, Howel?'
''Tis a pleasure to be hearing you talk, Howel,' says Mrs Jenkins, yawning and rubbing her eyes.
'I was saying, mother, that we are to have a grand wedding, and you must take care not to let anything come out about the shop, faugh! or, indeed, not talk much to the friends I have asked—Lady Simpson, for instance,'
'Oh, yes? you was telling me of her. Wasn't it when you was dining with Prince Albert wanst, and was wanting that money of my Griffey?'
'Do hold your tongue, mother,' shouts Howel, shuddering; he always shivers when he hears his father's name.
He sees a head trying to peep through the curtain, and thinks it best to hold his tongue for a time, then continues,—
'I mean, mother, don't mention my dining with the prince, or any of these old stories, to the Simpsons. You must both be very careful of what you say. I shall show you as much as I can of London to-morrow, mother, as you will be obliged to return the day after.'
'Deet now, I did be thinking I should stay a week in London, now I am going there for the first time in my life? I'll be staying after you, Howel, bach. I've plenty of money now.'
'You shall come up again to meet us when we return; but you must be at home to see to the house, and let us know what is said of our doings. You see we shall go direct to Paris, stay some time abroad, and then come and settle at home. Won't we astonish the county! Mr and Mrs Howel Jenkins will be no longer the Howel and Netta of old days; we shall be the upon, not the fawners!'
'I'd scorn to fawn on any one, Howel,' says Netta indignantly; 'I never did in my life. I always gave Miss Rice Rice as big a stare as she gave me.'
'You will be able to give her a bigger now,' laughs Howel. As they journeyed on, Howel pointed out all the different objects that were likely to interest his mother and Netta. Every one, or nearly every one, knows what an exciting event is a first journey to London, it matters not whether performed at eighteen or sixty-five. And if the first journey to London be also the first journey by rail, the wonder and excitement are doubled.
When Howel had finished all his instructions concerning the future, he thoroughly entered into the present, and enchanted his companions by his general knowledge of the passing scenes, and the amusing stories he had to tell. Netta was more in love with him than ever before they reached town, and wondered that such a grand and clever gentleman could have kept constant to a little country cousin like herself. She had seen nothing of Howel during the most stirring years of his life, and could not have supposed what a change the mere commerce with the world could effect. She considered him far more agreeable than her brother Rowland, handsomer and more polished than Sir Hugh Pryse, and much more fashionable than Mr Rice Rice.
At Swindon he treated them liberally, and loaded Netta with sweets to take with her to the carriage after she had swallowed her cold chicken and wine. As to his mother, knowing her peculiar tastes, he gave her a glass of brandy and water, upon plea of illness, which she took with evident pleasure; but fearing to attract the attention of the smart people around her, sipped so daintly, that it was not half finished when the signal to return to the carriages sounded, and Howel hurried her off.
'Just let me put this piece of chicken and ham into my bag, Howel, and finish this drop,' she whispered.
'Quick, mother, not a minute,' was all the answer she received, accompanied by a pull of the sleeve so imperative, that she was obliged to leave her half filled glass behind her.
At the Oxford Station, Netta began to wonder what Rowland would think of her conduct.
'Think!' said Howel, with a scowling brow, 'the prig! what right has he to think? He will know that three or four thousand a-year are somewhat better than a London curacy—ha! ha! and wish himself in my place, I fancy,'
As they neared London, Netta was haunted by visions of her brother, the only person she really feared.
'Suppose he should meet them! should find her out! Suppose the clergyman who married them should guess, from her name, she was his sister, and go and tell him?'
Howel laughed heartily at this, told her to look out of the window at London as they entered it, and see whether she thought one parson would be likely to be met by chance by another.
'This London!' exclaims Netta, 'I see nothing but the roofs of a lot of ugly black houses!'
'Carmarthen is as fine, and Swansea finer!' says Mrs Jenkins, her face expressive of great disappointment.
'Draw down your veils, and stand there whilst I get a cab,' says Howel, after they have descended upon the platform.
Netta trembles all over, and fancies every tall man in black must be Rowland.
'Name o' goodness what are all the people about?' says Mrs Jenkins. 'My deet, there do be a lot of carriages! And look you, Netta, at all the gentlemen's servants in blue and silver! Here's a place! big enough to hold our town. Look you at the glass—like a large hot-house. Seure all London isn't covered up like this!'
'Here you are! all right—come along quick!' says Howel, taking them to a cab, and putting them in.
'Half Moon Street, Piccadilly,' and off they go, as fast as the poor cab-horse can take them.
'Now, what do you think of it, Netta?' asks Howel, as they drive through the magnificent streets and squares of the West End of London, where every house looks a palace.
Netta was so bewildered that she could not answer; but Mrs Jenkins talked for both.
'Look you! well to be seure! that's grander than I ever see. There's a church! Trees too! Who'd be thinking of trees in London? Well, name o' goodness, where are all they people going? That church 'ont hold 'em all! There's beauty! Is that St Paul's, Howel, bach! or the Monument? My Griffey was talking of them! There's houses! Seure that's Prince Albert's coach! There again! Where was all those carriages going? Ach a fi! that man was just driving into our horse. Howel, name o' goodness tell the coachman to tak' care. He'll be upsetting us. Yes, indeet, Netta, there's shops! One after another. Did you be buying Netta's wedding clothes there, Howel! Is that a play-house? No! not a gentleman's house? I 'ould like to see a play for wanst, if nobody 'ould tell our minister.'
'If you are not too tired, I'll take you to-night, mother,' here broke in Howel. 'We may go, perhaps, after you have had some tea. What do you say, Netta?'
'Anywhere you like, Howel,' said Netta, 'I am no more ready than if I was just starting.'
'Pic what, Howel, was you calling this?' asked Jenkins.
'Piccadilly, mother. One of the best parts of London.'
'Deet, and I should think so. 'Tis like a 'lumination lights. There's no night here. Daylight all the year round. Trees again, like Glanyravon Park, and lights along by. There pretty—what a many carriages! Was they all going to the play? Soldiers, too, I am thinking! And more o' them gentlemen's servants in blue and white. Do all the servants in London be wearing the same livery, Howel?'
'Those are the police, mother,' said Howel, laughing.
'The pleece! Well, I do be calling them handsome men. When will the noise stop, Howel? I can't hear myself speak, much less you and Netta. 'Tis more noise than Hollantide fair! But maybe 'tis fairday here to-day, only I wasn't seeing no cattle. There for you! that man 'll upset us, seure he will.'
'Here we are, mother,' interrupted Howel, as the cab stopped in Half Moon Street. 'Now, you must remember that the landlady is not to be in all our secrets.'
'Seure, and this isn't half as grand as Pic—what's that long name, Howel?'
'Will you walk upstairs, ma'am,' said a well-dressed woman who stood in the passage of the house at which they stopped.
'Thank you, ma'am,' said Mrs Jenkins, making her very best curtsey to the landlady.
'Is tea ready, Mrs Thompson?' asked Howel, hastening into the passage.
'Yes, sir!' replied Mrs Thompson, trying to catch a glimpse of Netta's face.
'This way, mother,' said Howel, striding upstairs. 'You can send the traps into the bedrooms, Mrs Thompson. William, take them up.'
This to a smart tiger, emblazoned in green and gold, belonging to Howel's private menagerie.
'What a lovely room! what a beautiful fire!' cried Netta, as she followed Howel into a handsome first-floor drawing-room.
'Treue for you there!' said Mrs Jenkins, surveying herself in the glass.
Tea was ready, and a substantial repast besides, of which they all soon began to partake, and to which they did justice.
'I do wish I had that drop of brandy I left in those grand rooms, I am feeling a pain,' began Mrs Jenkins.
Howel drew a flask from his pocket, and poured a little brandy into his mother's tea.
'This must be the first and last time mother,' he said, as he did so.
When they had finished tea, Howel told them that their room was within the folding-doors, and that Netta would find a dress there for the play, and must make haste, if she meant to go. His mother, being in her very best black, wanted nothing but the widow's cap to complete her attire as chaperon. Howel lighted his cigar, and finished the brandy in the flask whilst the women were dressing. They soon returned, Netta looking really beautiful, in a new and fashionable white dress, elaborately trimmed with ribbons and lace.
Howel went up to her and kissed her with infinite satisfaction.
'Won't we create a sensation at the Olympic,' he said. 'There will not be such bright eyes and lilies and roses to be seen there as yours, cousin Netta!'
'Mother don't approve of plays, Howel!'
'You must think of me, not mother now,' said Howel, ringing the bell and ordering a cab, which as soon as it arrived received our trio, and was driven to the Olympic, where they arrived in due time, and where we will leave them for the present.