Part 78 (2/2)

'It is true, Gladys, my niece, my child,' said Mr Jones, stooping to kiss her forehead.

Mrs Jones sat down by her, and taking one of her hands in hers, said,--

'It all seems a dream, Gladys. But if it be true, remember, you are now my niece, my child as well; and, G.o.d knows, I love you, and value you dearly.'

Once more the lonely Gladys felt that she had kindred. Yielding to the feeling, she threw her arms round Mrs Jones' neck, and gave vent to the emotion she had been striving to suppress.

At this juncture, Miss Gwynne appeared, who, wondering in her turn what could detain Mr and Mrs Jones so long from their guests, came to look for them.

Of course, she wondered still more when she found them both with their arms round one another and Gladys.

She was going away; but Mrs Jones, perceiving her, said,--

'Come in, dear Freda, Minette's hymn has led to a wonderful discovery--has given us a niece--a child--in--in--our dear friend Gladys.'

Miss Gwynne knelt down at the feet of the sobbing Gladys, and taking one of her hands, said,--

'Gladys, if this be true, we cannot love you better than we do now, or esteem you more; but you now _feel_ one of us, instead of the isolated Gladys of this little room, which you have resolutely been hitherto.'

As may be imagined, Gladys was a long time realising the fact, that she was suddenly, and in the most extraordinary manner, raised from the Irish beggar, lady's maid, or whatever she had hitherto chosen to consider herself--for every one about her had long looked upon her as a friend--to the niece of the good and kind Mr Jones. When she was able to speak, her first words were,--

'I do not understand it--I cannot believe it. It is too good--too happy.'

'I can scarcely believe it either,' said Mr Jones, taking up the hymn book, and turning to his wife and Miss Gwynne, who had, thus far, taken the strange news upon Mr Jones' word, which they never ventured to dispute.

'This is my writing. Margaret Jones was my sister, and Gladys' mother. I gave her this book when we were both young, and the date, also in my handwriting, marks the time, some two or three years after the gift, when I was at college, and she must have been about eighteen; she ran away with an Irish soldier, whose real name, even, we never learnt. My poor father doated on my sister, and spoilt her. She was high-spirited and wilful, but very loving, and very handsome. Not at all like Gladys.

My sister's was the Welsh, Gladys' the Irish cast of countenance; yet I have seen an expression in Gladys' face that has reminded me of her mother.'

'We discovered, after my sister ran away, that she had met the man she married when going to visit the landlady of a small inn, in my father's parish, who was ill. It seems that this woman connived at their meeting; and when strictly questioned, said, that she had believed he was a gentleman, and that he had called himself Captain O'Brien.'

'My poor father!' here broke in Gladys. 'He bitterly repented this, his only deception. He was of a good family, and his mother was an O'Brien; but no one belonging to him could afford to purchase him a commission, and so he went into the ranks. He once told me, that he persuaded my mother to marry him first, and then promised to let her write to his father. But I only know sc.r.a.ps of the story. I fancy my father was on his way home on leave, when he saw my mother and fell in love with her.

He loved her very dearly, and as long as he lived she wanted nothing that he could get her. The regiment was suddenly ordered abroad, and my mother could not write to her father, or did not, before they sailed.

And so she delayed, and delayed; but she wrote at last, and received no answer at all. I fancy she wrote several times from foreign parts, but never heard from any one. I know she wrote again from Ireland; but the letter was returned, with a note from some one, saying that her father had been dead some years, and no one knew anything of her brother.'

'Too true! too true!' said Mr Jones. 'My poor father, never very strong, was in his grave in less than six months after my sister left him. I returned from college to nurse, and bury him. I have told you all this, my dear Serena, little thinking that the young girl I first saw, after visiting his grave some twenty years after I had seen him laid in it, should be the child of the beloved daughter who had helped to hasten him thither.'

'My poor, dear mother!' said Gladys, sobbing as if her heart would break.

'Still less that you, my dear niece, would be five or six years in my house; I loving you as a daughter, and yet not knowing the relations.h.i.+p existing between us. But how could it have been discovered but for this book? I only knew of you, that you were an Irish girl escaping from poverty in Ireland, to find some Welsh friends, whose address even you did not know. But for your evident truthfulness, the very story must have been doubted. When I saw you at Mr Prothero's, I took you for his daughter; since I have looked upon you as one of our family, an orphan to be pitied and loved. Let us thank G.o.d and kind Christian people, that you have been so pitied and loved.'

Mr Jones' mild grey eyes, full of tears, turned upon Miss Gwynne, who said, hastily,--

'Ought not we to tell her first and best friends of this strange discovery?--Rowland, Mr Prothero, and Netta. What must they think of our long absence?'

'Not for worlds, Miss Gwynne, if you please!' cried Gladys, 'I could never be what I would like to be to Mrs Jenkins and her dear mother, if I were anything but the Gladys they have always known. They would be treating me as--as--they would not let me work and wait upon Mrs Jenkins. Until she is at home, at least, let me be as I am, as I was; it is all so strange. Until I have offered to remain and nurse her, and been refused--until, in short--'

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