The time was altered at Panty-cuckoo Farm. Christmas had come and gone—rather a melancholy Christmas. The weather had been raw and chill; Mrs Llewellyn had been laid up with sciatica; and the farmer had appeared depressed and out of spirits. Hugh Owen had left off coming to the farm altogether, at which Nell was not surprised, though her mother grumbled, and her father said that with some people out of sight seemed out of mind. But with the advent of spring things grew better. Is it not always the way with spring? Its bright, hopeful surroundings seemed to make one ashamed of murmuring over one’s own troubles. The bursting buds; the rivulets released from the icy grip of winter; the callow birds; the balmy life-giving air; all speak of renewed action and strength, after the numbing effects of winter. One grows young again with spring. The buoyancy of the atmosphere, and all the glad sights and sounds that salute one’s eyes and ears, seem to fill one with new feelings—new ideas—new hopes. Even Nell succumbed to the delights of the season, and felt sorry to think she had driven her kindest friend from her side. She had tried several times to see Hugh Owen, and make up her quarrel with him, but he always managed to avoid meeting her. There was a baby at Dale Farm now, over which Hetty and her mother-in-law were crooning half the day, with which, of course, old Mrs Llewellyn was delighted, but which Nell never saw without a sigh. She thought that when Hugh christened her little nephew, she would at least secure a word or two with him in private, but it was not so. He never turned his eyes her way during the ceremony, and pleaded other duties as an excuse for not being present at the substantial feast which was spread for them afterwards at Dale Farm.
‘I can’t think what’s come of Hugh lately,’ said his mother. ‘He was never what you might call very sociable-like, but now it’s a wonder ever to get a word out of him. He seems to spend his life praying people out of the world, and I’m sure it don’t make him more cheerful at home.’
‘There, missus, let the lad alone, do!’ exclaimed her husband. ‘You know’d from the first that he was good for nothing but the ministry. He’s got no heart, nor stomach, nor liver, nor nothing, hasn’t Hugh; he’s just a minister and nothing else. He’s been as silent and as sulky as a bear for the last three months, but I take no notice of it. Let him go on his own way, say I, and thank the Lord, ’tain’t mine.’
‘Well, I suppose we’ve offended him, though I’m sure I can’t tell how,’ interposed Mrs Llewellyn, ‘for he’s not been near us for ever so long. When our Nell was ill, he was at the farm every day, praying most beautiful, and bringing her books and flowers, and such-like; but I don’t believe we’ve seen him, not to speak of, since Christmas, have we, Nell?’
‘I don’t think we have, mother,’ replied Nell consciously.
‘Oh, that’s plain enough,’ said Farmer Owen. ‘You ain’t dying any longer, my lass, or you’d have Master Hugh at your bedside often enough. He don’t care for lasses with rosy cheeks, and who can eat a good dinner, and use their legs. They’ve no interest for a minister. You shouldn’t have got well, if you wanted to keep Hugh by your side.’
‘Well, for my part, I wish she was better than she is, if we never saw Hugh again for it, begging your pardons, neighbours. But Nell ain’t half satisfactory. Dr Cowell, he says it’s only the weakness after the fever, but she’s a long time coming round, to my mind. She eats pretty well, but she hasn’t got any life in her, nor she can’t seem to take any interest in anything. Her memory too is something dreadful. She’s always dreaming when she ought to be doing. We must see if we can’t send her to Swansea this summer for the benefit of the sea air.’
Nell coloured faintly as she replied,—
‘Now, mother, I wish you’d talk of something more interesting than me. I’m right enough. And we’re all talking of ourselves, and forgetting the little man’s health. Who’ll propose the toast? Shall I? Here’s to the very good health of Griffith William Owen, and may he live a long life and a happy one!’
And in the chatter and congratulations that followed the toast, Nell and Hugh were both happily forgotten. All the same, she wished he had not taken her communication so much to heart, and was dreadfully afraid lest his evident avoidance of Panty-cuckoo Farm should end by directing some sort of suspicion towards herself. It was about this time that Nell perceived that there was something decidedly wrong with her father. Not in health, but in mind. He seemed to regard everything in its worst light, and to have some objection to make to whatever might be said to him. If her mother remarked how comfortable and happy Hetty was in her new home, Mr Llewellyn would observe,—