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.