THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER.
It was nine o'clock when the fly that took the travellers from Swansea to Glanyravon reached the door of the farm. The night was 'dark and dreary;' very different was the weather, the aspect of external nature; very different were Netta's feelings and all the circumstances, when she was at home ten years ago. She had been thinking again on all these things during that gloomy drive, when her companions thought she was asleep.
Bright lights are in the windows and passage as the travellers look out of the carriage. Mrs Prothero's anxious face is visible in front, Mr and Mrs Jonathan's tall forms above her from behind, the servants are without, Lion is barking joyously, but there is no Mr Prothero.
'Is this Glanyravon, mamma?' asks Minette waking up and rubbing her eyes.
No answer.
Owen jumps out, and without stopping to greet his pale, trembling mother, turns to help Netta, who cannot help herself. He carries a dead weight into the parlour, and lays it on the sofa. Netta has fainted.
Gladys is at her side in a moment with every kind of restorative but no one notices or thinks of her. Mrs Prothero is on her knees rubbing her child's cold hands, and looking as white as the corpse-like daughter thus restored to her. Mr and Mrs Jonathan look at one another, and then at Netta, with a glance of pity and grief.
There is another face for one moment bent over the sofa, and the next a loud heavy groan is heard in the corner of the room that comes from a heart in extreme agony; but no one, save Minette, seems conscious of it. She turns affrighted at the sound, and in the impulse of her quick, warm nature runs to comfort.
'Mamma will be better soon,' she says; 'she is often so. Don't cry so loud, you will frighten her.'
Poor Mr Prothero removes his hand from his eyes to behold, for the first time, his grandchild. Another heavy groan, almost a cry, and he takes the child in his large arms, and presses her to his breast, weeping like an infant.
Netta uncloses her eyes on familiar objects for a moment, and shuts them again. Has she seen the cheerful, old-fashioned parlour, the bright fire, near which the sofa is wheeled, her father's portrait over the mantelpiece, her mother at her feet?
'She is getting better,' whispers Gladys, who still holds her place at Netta's head, with strong salts in her hand, and a bottle and glass by her side.
Again the eyes unclose, wander restlessly from one anxious face to another, settling on none; close again, once more unclose and look with some consciousness on the breathless group that surrounds the sofa.
'Father! father!' now murmurs Netta; 'where is father?'
The feeble cry has reached that father's ears and inmost heart. He puts down Minette and staggers, blinded by his grief, to the sofa. All withdrew but his wife. He is on his knees before his poor penitent daughter. Her arms are round his neck, and she strives to rise but cannot. Oh! the depth, agony, remorse of that long, silent, paternal, and filial embrace.
'Do you forgive me, father?' asks Netta.
'All—all. God forgive us both!' groans Mr Prothero.
Mrs Prothero lays her head on her hands on the sofa, by which she kneels, and gives way to a passionate burst of grief.
'My poor, poor mistress,' says Gladys, unable any longer to refrain from approaching her. 'All is well; she will be better now.'
'Mother!' cries Netta. 'Don't cry so for me. Come and kiss me, mother.'
Father and mother surround with their arms that wandering, restored lamb, and take it into the fold again.
A little voice from behind is heard.
'Mamma! mamma! think of your poor Minette!'
And in another minute Minette is on the sofa, in the midst of her mother, grandfather, and grandmother.
Blessed are the warm, gushing tears that fall on the child's head—tears of love and reconciliation.
Soon the worthy vicar and his wife, who have thus far been only spectators of the scene, draw near to bless and welcome their niece.
'She will faint again,' whispers Gladys to Owen.
'She is happy now,' replies Owen, looking into Gladys' tearful eyes from his own, equally dimmed with tears. It is the first time he has seen that face since he has known that Gladys loves him.
But Gladys is right—happiness is too overpowering for Netta. She faints in the midst of all those dear ones, so kind and loving.
Again Gladys is at her side to revive her, which she is able to do more quickly than before. When she is better, Gladys raises her pillows, and places her in a more comfortable posture. By degrees every one is conscious that Gladys is present.
'Dear Gladys!' says Netta, 'I am better now; quite—quite well, father!'
'Drink this first,' says Gladys, giving her some wine and water that Owen has brought.
She drinks the wine and water, and again calls her father
'I brought Gladys, father; I cannot do without her. She has saved my life, I think, and mother's, so Owen told me—didn't you, Owen? May she stay with me, father?'
Netta presses her hand to her head, and looks at her father with those bewildered eyes, which are only too sadly irresistible.
'Gladys!' he replies. 'Oh, yes! I haven't seen her yet.'
Gladys is by his side, and he turns and shakes her hand warmly, and says,—
'Thank you, Gladys, thank you, I have heard all; but we will talk of this another time.'
'Best now, father, whilst I remember. She may stay? You like to have her?'
'Of course, of course, my dear.'
Mr Prothero glances rather uneasily at the very lady-like looking young woman, for whom he is thus humbly petitioned, and in doing so spies Owen close behind her.
His feelings are too much softened by Netta to allow him to feel angry; still he does not know what to make of if. Mrs Prothero kisses Gladys, and Mr and Mrs Jonathan shake hands with her.
'Nothing like the present time,' thinks Owen; but Gladys declares decidedly that Netta ought to go to her room, and everybody yields to her calm, assured voice.
'Then you will stay with us?' asks gentle Mrs Prothero, looking the while at her husband.
'To be sure she will,' says Mr Prothero.
'Thank you, sir; thank you, ma'am. I shall be only too glad,' replies Gladys, as humbly as if she were really the servant she professes to be. 'Miss Gwynne will allow me to stay, if you wish it.'
After they had been upstairs they returned to tea, and Mr Prothero could not quit Netta, but sat watching her with a painful anxiety.
She was greatly excited, and her mind and eyes appeared equally to wander on the objects of her childhood. She asked her father a variety of questions concerning scenes and people that she felt were particularly associated with him, and he was quite overcome.
When the meal was finished, Owen carried Netta at once to her room, and all the womankind accompanied her. It was then that poor Mr Prothero's wrath and grief exploded. Left alone with his brother he vented both in language which, as Owen had expressed it, needed clerical revision. But Mr Jonathan knew that it must have its course before exhortations could take effect. He paced up and down the room pouring curses loud and deep upon Howel, and bemoaning his unfortunate daughter. At last he sat down and cried bitterly.
It was then that his brother drew near to comfort, and that Owen returned to the room.
'So young, so pretty—our only girl! God only knows how I love her—to come to die! Driven mad by that heartless villain —curse him—a thousand—'
'Hush, brother! hush! You cannot alter the past. Home and a father's and mother's love will soon bring her round, poor dear.'
'Do you think so? why, she looks like a corpse. No rose was redder when she went away, when I kissed her the night before. And now! and now! I say again, curse the man! I can't help it, brother,—I won't help it.'
'Come, father, let us hope the best, now we have her home again.'
Owen put his hand on his father's shoulder as he spoke, but there was no comfort for that sorrowing parent. While he cursed Howel there, was much self-reproach within him for long-harboured feelings of anger and unforgiveness against his daughter. He even began, to think that if he had been gentle and kind he might have saved her. The proud hearts of parent and child were alike subdued by heavy sorrow.
The following day Netta was unable to leave her bed. Excitement and fatigue had been too much for her. Dr Richards was sent for, who shook his head, and ordered quiet and rest. Mrs Prothero and Gladys were with her, and as she was continually sleeping, no one else was admitted. Mr and Mrs Jonathan left early, after having made friends with Minette, who confided to them that she liked them better than grandpapa and grandmamma, because they were gentlefolks. She didn't know why there was no carpet in the hall, and didn't like stones to her feet. She promised to go and see them when her mamma was better. The worthy couple took to her as they had done to her mother.
In a day or two Netta was much better and able to be brought downstairs. Matters gradually settled into their regular course at the farm, and all went on as usual. Mr Prothero spent every spare moment with Netta and his grandchild, who soon forgot that 'grandfather,' as he insisted on her calling him, 'talked loud, and had large, rough hands.' Gladys slipped imperceptibly into her old place, and alternately nursed Netta and helped Mrs Prothero in the dairy. Owen found many opportunities of entreating Gladys to let him speak to his father, but she positively forbade him, as long as there was painful anxiety about Netta; and, at the same time, angered him by refusing to consider him as her accepted lover until his father's consent was obtained. Mrs Prothero schooled her aching heart into outward calm, but her white hair and paleface showed what she had gone through, and was still suffering. Howel's name was never mentioned, except between Netta and Gladys. It was to Gladys that poor Netta opened her mind, and poured out all her hopes and fears about Howel's return.
The state of that mind varied continually. Sometimes it was tolerably clear, at others sadly wandering, and the least excitement produced faintness and pain at the heart; still her friends fancied she gained strength.
She had the sofa placed so that she could look out of the parlour-window upon the distant hills. The weather cleared up brisk and bright. The red and yellow foliage that still remained to cover the huge trunks of the oaks shone in the sunlight, and the lights and shadows danced upon the mountains. A few white chrysanthemums, and one or two roses still looked in at the window, upon her who had once been the brightest flower of Glanyravon.
Netta had been at home a fortnight, and was really stronger and better. The sun was setting behind those distant hills, and casting glorious shades of red, purple, and gold upon them. She was gazing wistfully on the sky, and thinking of Howel, whilst Minette was sitting on a stool at her feet, turning over a book, out of which she had been reading to her mother, whose chief occupation was trying to teach her.
Mr Prothero came in, and took his customary seat at the head of her sofa. He was followed, almost instantly, by Gladys, who called Minette out to have her cup of warm milk fresh from the cow, ordered by her doctor.
'Father,' began Netta, abruptly, 'I have something to say to you.'
'Well, Netta, fach!' said her father, cheerfully. 'Say away. I'm all attention,'
'Do you like Gladys, father?'
'Of course I do, my dear. Who could help it? She's an excellent young 'ooman.'
'I wish you would promise me one thing, father, before I go away.'
'But you are not going away ever again, my love?'
'Perhaps I may—far, far away; and perhaps I may go to heaven. I don't know. But I should like, when I go away, to leave you a better daughter than I have ever been to you. One that will take care of you and mother, and my Minette, as long as you and she live; who will make Owen a good wife and a happy man, as he is now, a good son and brother. Father, will you take her for my sake?'
'My darling, I don't know what you mean?'
'I mean—You won't be cross, father, bach?'
'Never again with you, Netta, please God.'
'Will you promise to grant me this great favour, now that my head is clear, and I have no pain, and can ask it right?'
'There is little I 'ould refuse you, Netta; but I should rather hear it first.'
'It is about Owen and Gladys, father. They have loved one another ever since they were first together. I found it out in the train; and when Owen pressed Gladys very hard to tell him why she didn't love him, she said it was because she had promised you something. I could not hear what; but I heard enough to know that she loved Owen dearly. And she is good and clever; and, oh! so kind and gentle to me. I never think now of what I used to think so much—how she was a beggar at our gate; and everybody in London looks up to her and loves her. Mr and Mrs Jones, Miss Gwynne, and Rowland, all treat her like a lady. I should die, I think I should, so much happier, or go away when I am fetched, so much happier, if I could know she was with you as a daughter. I have been very disobedient and wilful; but she has been obedient and grateful, though she was not your child. When I left mother to die of fever, she nursed her and saved her life. May God forgive me, for Christ's sake, and bless her! She has made Owen steady. She has nursed the sick. She has taught in the poor, wretched London ragged-schools, as well as in the others. She has made clothes for the poor. What has she not done? Oh, that I were like her! And now she is waiting on me, and helping mother, and nursing my child, like a common servant. Oh, father! take to her instead of me. Indeed indeed, you will never repent—never!'
As Netta spoke, her wasted cheek flushed, her eyes sparkled, and her manner grew more and more animated. Her father listened attentively, without interrupting her, and when she paused, said,—
'Netta, fach, are you seure you didn't dream or fancy this? Owen declared to me, Gladys 'ouldn't have him, and didn't love him.'
'Because you would not let her, father. Think of her making him believe this, and yet loving him dearly all the time; and because she was too grateful to you and mother to do what you don't like.'
'Yes; the girl's a good girl, Netta, I don't deny that; but I can't bear the Irish, and don't want Owen, who is a fine, sensible young man, who might have any respectable young 'ooman, to marry a girl nobody knows of, and there's the treuth! If you let him alone, he'd marry Miss Richards.'
'Never, father! Only ask him; for my sake—though I don't deserve you should do anything for me.'
'There—there; don't you begin to cry, and excite yourself. I'll ask the boy.'
'Now, father! He's in the hall; I heard him whistling. Let him come here.'
Mr Prothero went out and called Owen, who came in forthwith He began the subject at once.
'Owen, Netta has got into her head that you and Gladys are making fools of one another still, in spite of all I said. Is that treue?'
'Not exactly, father. You know I have been in love with Gladys nearly ever since I knew her, and made up my mind never to have anybody else. I don't call that making a fool of her; perhaps it was of myself. She has refused me, without rhyme or reason, more than once; and it was only when we came home with Netta that I found out the cause of her refusal. It is just because she won't marry me without your consent. I have been waiting for her permission to speak to you about this ever since I came home; but she wouldn't let me, because Netta was ill. I must confess to you, honestly, that I would have married her any day these seven years, and worked for her, by sea of land, if she would have had me. But she wouldn't, so there's an end of that I find, now, that your consent is wanting alone, and I ask it boldly. If you let us marry, you make us happy; if you refuse, you make us miserable, and send me to sea again—for I don't see that you can expect me to work at home, if you don't try to contribute to my happiness. I am not angry, father, though I can't see what right you had to extract a promise from a girl to whom you had done a service. That was not generous, or like Prothero, Glanyravon.'
'Treue for you there, boy.'
Mr Prothero began to rub his ear; a trick he had when in doubt. Netta, seeing this, put her arms round his neck, and whispered,—
'Oh, father! make us happy. He is a good son, father, bach.'
'Then go you and tell the girl, you may have her, as far as I am concerned,' said Mr Prothero.
'Indeed, father!' said Owen doubtfully.
'Do you want me to swear, sir? Upon my deed, then, you may marry the girl. I have but one objection, and that's the way she came here. The girl's a good girl, and I like her well enough. Now, p'r'aps you 'ont go to sea.'
'Decidedly not; I'm a steady land-lubber for my life: thank you, father. Shake hands upon it! You won't repent. Kiss me, Netta! You have done it, I know, and you shall dance at the wedding. Now, I'll go and tell Gladys.'
Owen and his father shook hands until their arms ached. Then the brother and sister kissed one another, and, with a sort of greyhound leap, or caper, Owen started off in search of Gladys.
'Father, you will never repent it. Thank you—a thousand times,' said Netta, covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears.
The worthy farmer cried with her, and thus the father and daughter's love returned and increased.