At the earnest request of his wife and all his children, backed by the feeling that Netta would have wished it, Mr Prothero had consented to ask Mrs Jenkins to the funeral, which she had attended, together with Mrs Prothero, Mrs Jonathan, and Gladys. Mr Prothero had shaken her by the hand on that sad day, but had not spoken to her. Sorrow had so far bowed his spirit as to teach him to forgive her, if not Howel.
Mrs Jenkins scarcely gave herself time to say 'How do you do?' when she poured out the grief which had brought her to Glanyravon.
'Oh, Mrs Prothero, fach! Ach, Rowland! what will I do? They was finding him in America—the pleece was finding him, my Howels! And he do be in jail in London, 'dited for forgery. He, my beauty Howels—he forge! Why 'ould he be forging? Annwyl! Fie was innocent, Rowland—on my deet, he was innocent. Oh, bach gen anwyl!' [Footnote: Oh, darling boy!]
Mrs Jenkins wrung her hands and cried bitterly.
'How do you know this, Aunt 'Lizbeth?' said Rowland. 'Tell me calmly, and then we will see what can be done,'
'Read you that letter. By to-morrow he'll be in all the papers. He—so clever, so genteel, so rich! And all my Griffey's savings—hundreds of thousands of pound—nobody do be knowing where they was. Ach a fi! ach a fi!'
Rowland read a letter from a celebrated London counsel retained by Mr Rice Rice for Howel, to the effect that Howel had been taken in America on the very day that his poor wife was planning to wander away in search of him, and was a prisoner the day she died. He had arrived in London, and been lodged in Newgate the previous day, the one on which that letter was written.
Rowland gently told his mother the contents of it.
'Thank God that my child did not live to see this day!' exclaimed Mrs Prothero.
'Better dead, cousin, than to be living as Howels is!' sobbed Mrs Griffey. 'In a prison, too, my beauty Howels! But I was wanting to know, Mr Rowland, when you was going to London? Seure, I do think of going to-night, or to-morrow morning.'