THE PENITENT.
A week after the marriage of Owen and Gladys, the following conversation took place between Gladys and Netta. The latter had been much more wandering in mind since the wedding, and had been occupying herself by writing a variety of letters, all of which were addressed to Howel, with the exception of one, which was to her brother Rowland.
'You see, dear sister,' said Netta, 'that Howel cannot come to me, because he is in debt, so I must go to him. He is in America, I know. His letter was from America.'
'But America is an immense continent, dear Netta,' said Gladys; 'you would not know where to seek him.'
'Oh, yes! I should find him very soon. My love would point the way. I should track his steps like a dog, Gladys—like a dog.'
'But you cannot go till you are better and stronger. Then we can all consult upon the best way.'
'Hush not a word to any one. They would stop me. And you know now Howell is my husband, I must leave father and mother to follow him. I know I was wrong to leave them to marry him; though he loves me, Gladys! he loves me! Don't you think he does?'
'I am sure he does. Still, it might not be well for you to go to him, if he is hiding for debt. He might prefer your remaining here?'
'Would you not go to Owen? Would he like you to be away from him in trouble? You, who have only been married a week, know better; and I have been married years.'
'Owen shall tell you, my dear love, whether he would wish me to go to him at such a time. Perhaps men know best what other men would like?'
'But I mean to go, Gladys. Neither Owen nor you can hinder me.'
'And what of Minette? You would kill her, if you took her so far.'
'Ah! that is what I wanted to say to you. I knew there was something; but my head aches so, I forget. If I go away, will you take care of Minette till I come back. Will you love her as if she were your own?'
'Wherever you go I will be a mother to her; but she would not like to part from her own dear mother, any better than you will from yours. We will not think of the journey just yet, dear; we will be happy together, all of us, for a little longer. You cannot leave so soon, after you have made Owen and me so blest.'
'None of you want me now; father and mother have a new daughter, a better one than I have ever been; Owen a wife! What a word that is, Gladys! We don't understand it till we are parted from our husband; and I give Minette a mother in my place. I must go very soon.'
Poor Netta laid her head on Gladys' shoulder, and began to cry.
'Well, dear,' said Gladys soothingly, 'we will see about it, you and I. But you must not go till I think you strong enough, and till we are prepared with clothes and money.'
'Oh! I can beg! I don't want clothes or money to get to Howel.'
Gladys knew that it was of no use to try to combat Netta's purpose. All she could do was to seem to yield.
'We will see,' she said, 'when the days are a little longer. But you have not told me about the letters yet.'
'No, I was forgetting them. If anything happens to me, or it I should miss Howel on my way, I want him to have this packet of letters. In them, I have told him that I wish Minette to remain here with you and mother; I have said a great deal to him, but mostly to beg him to forgive me, as I forgive him, all our unkindness to one another. Was that right, Gladys?'
'Quite right, love. We must forgive, as we hope to be forgiven.'
'Father and mother have forgiven me. Do you think my heavenly Father has?'
'Yes, I do; because you have repented, and "come to your Father," and asked forgiveness for His Son's sake.'
'I have, Gladys; so I can go on my journey cheerfully.'
Gladys could scarcely refrain from tears, when she thought of the journey she was really travelling.
'I know you have forgiven me, Gladys, for all I said of you when you came here first. Strange that I should have been willing to leave you in the barn, or anywhere, to die; you who have done so much for me! Oh, Gladys!'
'Don't think of those times, Netta, dear; they are past, thank God.'
Here the door opened, and Owen appeared, his face beaming with a happiness that it did all around him good to see.
'What! tears! both of you! Only a week married!' he said, half playfully, half reproachfully, as he kissed, alternately, his wife and sister, and finally, sat down by the side of the former.
'It was my fault, Owen,' said Netta.
'Is that true, Gladys—quite true?' asked Owen, taking Gladys' hands in his, and looking into her eyes.
'Quite true, Owen,' said Gladys, smiling lovingly on the open countenance of Owen, whilst a quiet tear rolled down her cheek.
Owen kissed off the tear.
'You are happy, my love?' again he asked, as if fearing that a shadow should pass over that fair, sweet face, to obscure the light of their spring of wedded life.
Gladys pressed his hands, assured him by a glance true as oaths, and looked at Netta. The hint was taken.
In a moment Netta's were the thin hands that Owen clasped, her's the face into which he gazed.
'Owen,' she said earnestly, 'if I go away, will you take my child, as if she were your own? Will you love her, and bring her up?'
'You are not going away, Netta! But you may be quite sure that I will love Minette, without any going away. We will all keep together now, we are too happy—so happy, my Gladys, are we not?'
There was a strange restlessness about Netta. This resolution to go away had taken such a hold upon her, that she reverted to it again and again. Gladys confided it to Owen and their mother, and they all decided that it would be necessary to watch her night and day, without letting her know that she was watched.
They resorted to every possible means of amusement, but in vain. She was quite preoccupied, and even her child failed to attract her attention. Again she became nervous at every sudden sound, and started at every footfall. She told Gladys that she knew that Howel would either come to her during the course of that week, or that she should go to him.
Her mother assisted her in going to bed that night, and before she laid down, she said,—
'Dear mother! do you remember that you used to come to this dear room when I was a child, the last thing at night, and, sleeping or waking, to kiss me before you went to sleep? and do you remember that I always said my prayers at your knee, in that very corner by the little table? Sometimes I feel as if I was a child, or quite a young girl again. It was so good of you to give me my own room, and my own bed, that I love so well. If I go away, I should like Minette to have this room. It will make her think of me. I pray she may be a better child than I have been.'
'Will you not get into bed, dear, and try to sleep?' said Mrs Prothero.
'I think I should like to say my prayers again alone with you; so, at your feet. You shall pray for me, and I will join with you.'
Netta knelt, as if she were, indeed, once more a child, at her mother's knees, and clasped her thin white hands together.
'Will you pray for Howel, mother?' asked Netta.
Mrs Prothero laid her hand on her kneeling daughter's head, and uplifting her tearful eyes to heaven, prayed aloud for Netta, for Howel, for all. Netta repeated each sentence after her mother, and when the prayer was concluded, threw her arms around her, and thanked her for praying for Howel.
'I cannot deceive you again mother, fach,' she said 'I am going away to seek Howel, because he cannot come to me. If I should never find him, mother—but I shall, I know I shall, if I should die on the road—tell him that I never loved any one but him all my life, and I am sure he loves me. And now I am at peace with all the world, and have repented of all my sins. Gladys thinks I shall go to heaven if I die. And I humbly believe I shall. I feel quite calm and happy in my own mind, only wishful to go to my poor Howel, who is alone and unhappy. Now, mother, I will go to bed.'
She went to bed accordingly.
'Let Minette come and say good-night to me, mother,' she said, when Mrs Prothero had made her comfortable.
Mrs Prothero called the child, and her grandfather brought her upstairs.
'How does my girl feel to-night?' asked Mr Prothero cheerfully.
'Better, father, thank you; quite well indeed. God bless you, darling. Be a good child to grandmother and Aunt Gladys, and all. God bless you, father. I think I should like to have Owen and Gladys to wish me good-night; it is so nice to see you all together.'
Owen and Gladys came, and Netta bade 'God bless' them all, and said she should now go to sleep quite happy.
Gladys went to put Minette to bed, and Mrs Prothero sat by Netta's pillow.
'Good-night, mother; God bless you,' Netta said, more than once, before she fell asleep.
When Gladys returned, she was sleeping peacefully.
'The excitement of the day seems to have passed away,' whispered Gladys. 'Let me watch by her, dear mother.'
The words 'mother' and 'daughter' had come quite naturally to Mrs Prothero and Gladys.
'No, Gladys, thank you; not to-night. I will be in the room to-night.'
'Then you will go to bed soon?'
'Yes, very shortly.'
The two women embraced one another tenderly.
'We can only pray for her, poor lamb,' said Mrs Prothero gently. 'I have given her to the Lord to do with her according to His good pleasure.'
'He will not leave her nor forsake her,' said Gladys.
Mrs Prothero sat a long time by her child's side watching her, but she slept so calmly that at last she went to the little table by the fire, and read her Bible. It was late—very late for the farm—when she undressed herself and lay down on the little bed, placed near the larger bed of Netta. Even then, more than an hour passed before she slept. The last thing she heard before she closed her eyes was her daughter's somewhat irregular breathing—the last words that rang in her ears were her 'God bless you, mother.'
Gladys, uneasy, she knew not wherefore, was in the room at about three o'clock in the morning. She had learnt to move so gently that the sleepers were not conscious of her presence. She was most thankful to find them sleeping.
Gladys was up and dressed by six o'clock. She was anxious to spare her mother all possible trouble, and to see that the household was astir before she arose. It was a cold, dark January morning. As she went down the passage, a candle in her hand, towards Netta's room, she felt the chill air press heavily around her. She put the candle on the floor, outside the room, and went in. The night-light had burnt out, and the fire was dim, though not extinguished. Gladys passes Mrs Prothero without awaking her, and stands at Netta's bedside.
She cannot see clearly the face of the sleeping Netta, but such a restless anxiety about her had haunted her all the night, that she stoops down to listen to her breathing. It is so faint that she kneels down, and puts her ear close to the face. So very faint it is, that she is not quite sure that she hears it at all. She goes into the passage for the candle, and meets Owen. She signs him to silence, and her pale face frightens him. He goes with her into Netta's room. Shading the candle with her hand, she again stoops over Netta, so does Owen.
Very calm, very pale, and most lovely is the face on which they gaze with an eager, throbbing anxiety. Gladys presses her hand on Owen's arm, as she puts the candle near that placid face. He, too, puts his ear close to the half-open mouth, touches the hand that lies on the white counterpane, feels for the pulse, so quick but yesterday. He is about to utter the fear that oppresses him, but Gladys points to his mother, still heavily sleeping.
'Perhaps it is a swoon,' she whispers, and goes for the draught ready for such an attack. The light of the candle awakes Mrs Prothero, and she is out of bed in a moment.
'Netta has fainted, mother; she has one of her spasms,' says Owen, turning his pale face to his mother.
'My God, it is death!' cries the stricken mother, falling on her knees by the bedside of her child.
And it is death. Without a groan the spirit has quitted its dwelling of clay to enter upon its eternal rest!