Part 34 (1/2)

'Do Mr Prothero be in the house, or Mr Owen?'

'They are out harvesting, ma'am.'

'Tell you Mrs Prothero that I do bring message from Mrs Howel Jenkins for her, and that I was promising to give it myself.'

Gladys did not know what to do. She felt sure that Mr Prothero would not admit Mrs Jenkins under his roof, and that her mistress would be afraid to do so; however, she ventured to ask her to come in and wait a little time whilst she sent for Mr Owen. Fortunately, Owen was not far from the house, and Mr Prothero was riding to some distant part of his farm, so Gladys left Mrs Jenkins to Owen, and went upstairs to tell Mrs Prothero that she was in the house. Mrs Prothero was greatly agitated, but declared that she would see her at all risks, and tell her husband that she had done so. She begged Gladys to remain in the room during the visit, and to prevent a meeting between Mrs Jenkins and Mr Prothero.

Gladys went downstairs again, and found Owen telling Mrs Jenkins what he thought of Howel's and her own conduct.

'My mistress would like to see you, ma'am,' said Gladys.

'I'm thinking I 'ont go near her now, you, Owen, have been so reude.'

'Oh, for that much, you may do as you please, Aunt 'Lizbeth. I shall have the pleasure of going with you to my mother. You've pretty nearly killed her amongst you, and I don't mean to let her be quite put an end to.'

'Will you be showing the way, young 'ooman,' said Mrs Jenkins, rising majestically and smoothing down a very handsome silk dress, which she had carefully taken up before she sat down.

Owen's wrath was turned to amus.e.m.e.nt

'Did you think we hadn't a duster in the house, aunt? I can tell you you've pretty well dirtied that white petticoat.'

Gladys led the way to Mrs Prothero's room, and Mrs Jenkins and Owen followed.

'I'm sorry to see you so poorly, cousin,' said Mrs Jenkins, approaching the bed on which Mrs Prothero lay, looking flushed and excited.

'What did you expect, 'Lizabeth Jenkins? when you have carried off my daughter--my child--my Netta! And caused misery in our house never to be mended.'

'Well, seure! One 'ould think we'd murdered Netta, 'stead of making her as grand as a queen, with a lord and a lady to be giving her away, and a captain to be at the wedding, and a gentleman in a waistcoat and chains and rings that do be worth a hundred pounds at least, and a young lady for bridesmaid in a shoall of lace, handsomer than your Miss Gwynne of the Park, and a wedding-cake covered with sugar, and silver, and little angels, and all sorts of things which I was bringing with me for you; and a clergy like a bishop to marry her, and a coach and horses to be taking her back and fore, and she looking as beauty and happy as ever I was seeing! And my Howel's as rich and fine as anybody in London, Prince Albert nothing to him, and might be marrying Miss Simpson, my ladys.h.i.+p's doter, if he wasn't so fullish as to be marrying your Netta!'

'Now, aunt, it is our turn, if you please,' said Owen, as soon as Mrs Jenkins gave him time to speak. 'Will you tell my mother Netta's message?'

'I am taking it very unkind that you should all turn upon me. David Prothero I 'spected 'ould be in a pa.s.sion, but, stim odds! Netta said, cousin, that I wos to tell you she was sorry to be leaving you in a hurry, but that she had everything she could be wis.h.i.+ng, gowns, and white shoes, and lace veils--seure you never wos seeing such a beauty--and a _stafell_--_trosy_ they do call it in London--good enough for my Lady Nugent, and a goold watch and chains, and rings and bracelets, ach un wry! there's grand!'

'But what did Netta say to me, cousin 'Lizbeth? I don't care if she was all gold from head to foot. I would rather have her here in rags,' said Mrs Prothero, bursting afresh into tears.

'She's more likely to be here in satins and velvets, cousin,' said Mrs Jenkins, rising from her seat, and walking up and down, apparently in great wrath. 'What you think of my Howels and your Netta at Abertewey: And you to be all toalking as if we wos ail dirt. And they in France, over the sea, where I 'ould be going with them only I am so 'fraid of the water.'

'There's a loss it would be, Aunt 'Lizbeth, if anything had happened to you! Suppose a shark had swallowed you up! gold watch, mourning ring, silk gown, brooch, and all? Those creatures aren't particular. But we haven't had all Netta's message yet.'

'She was sending her kind love and duty to you, cousin, and was saying she was sorry to be leaving you, but my Howels was so kind as you, and she was as happy as could be.'

'Did she cry, cousin? did she shed one tear?' asked Mrs Prothero, sitting up in bed, and looking at Mrs Jenkins with a quick, wild eye, quite unlike her usual quiet glance.

'You needn't be looking at me so fierce, cousin, I didn't be killing Netta. Is seure--she did cry enough, if that's a pleasure to you. She was crying when she was meeting my Howels; she was crying when she was putting on her wedding gown; she was crying when the parson was preaching that sermon, and when the thunder and lightning did frighten her, seure, and no wonder--'

'Did it thunder and lighten when they were married? 'asked Mrs Prothero, through her sobs.

'Yes, indeet! I thoate I should be struck myself; but she was soon forgetting it at breakfast; they do call it breakfast, you see, but I never was seeing a grander dinner. Chickens, and tongue, and ham, and meats, and cakes, and jellies, and fruit, and wines, all froathing up like new milk, some sort of _pain_ they was calling it; but I never did be seeing such good _pain_ or tasting it before, he! he!'

'I don't care about the dress or the dinner, or the grand people, cousin,' said Mrs Prothero, 'I pray G.o.d to forgive Howel for making our only girl run away from us like a thief in the night; and I would rather hear she cried for us whom she treated so badly, than that she was dressed in velvet and jewels. All those fine people and fine things won't make her happy, and her father will never forgive her, never. Oh dear! oh dear!'

'What will I tell her, Mrs Prothero, when I do write to my son Howels?'