Part 82 (1/2)

'I would try, Mr Owen.'

'Nothing but his consent?

'Nothing, Mr Owen. If you do not change, I cannot.

'Gladys, do not trifle with me. But you could not trifle. Have you cared for me--may I say loved me--all these years?'

'All these years.'

Gladys bowed her head as if in shame over those clasped hands, and a large tear fell upon Owen's. He wanted no other confirmation of her words, and felt, as he had expressed it, the happiest man in the world.

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER.

It was nine o'clock when the fly that took the travellers from Swansea to Glanyravon reached the door of the farm. The night was 'dark and dreary;' very different was the weather, the aspect of external nature; very different were Netta's feelings and all the circ.u.mstances, when she was at home ten years ago. She had been thinking again on all these things during that gloomy drive, when her companions thought she was asleep.

Bright lights are in the windows and pa.s.sage as the travellers look out of the carriage. Mrs Prothero's anxious face is visible in front, Mr and Mrs Jonathan's tall forms above her from behind, the servants are without, Lion is barking joyously, but there is no Mr Prothero.

'Is this Glanyravon, mamma?' asks Minette waking up and rubbing her eyes.

No answer.

Owen jumps out, and without stopping to greet his pale, trembling mother, turns to help Netta, who cannot help herself. He carries a dead weight into the parlour, and lays it on the sofa. Netta has fainted.

Gladys is at her side in a moment with every kind of restorative but no one notices or thinks of her. Mrs Prothero is on her knees rubbing her child's cold hands, and looking as white as the corpse-like daughter thus restored to her. Mr and Mrs Jonathan look at one another, and then at Netta, with a glance of pity and grief.

There is another face for one moment bent over the sofa, and the next a loud heavy groan is heard in the corner of the room that comes from a heart in extreme agony; but no one, save Minette, seems conscious of it. She turns affrighted at the sound, and in the impulse of her quick, warm nature runs to comfort.

'Mamma will be better soon,' she says; 'she is often so. Don't cry so loud, you will frighten her.'

Poor Mr Prothero removes his hand from his eyes to behold, for the first time, his grandchild. Another heavy groan, almost a cry, and he takes the child in his large arms, and presses her to his breast, weeping like an infant.

Netta uncloses her eyes on familiar objects for a moment, and shuts them again. Has she seen the cheerful, old-fas.h.i.+oned parlour, the bright fire, near which the sofa is wheeled, her father's portrait over the mantelpiece, her mother at her feet?

'She is getting better,' whispers Gladys, who still holds her place at Netta's head, with strong salts in her hand, and a bottle and gla.s.s by her side.

Again the eyes unclose, wander restlessly from one anxious face to another, settling on none; close again, once more unclose and look with some consciousness on the breathless group that surrounds the sofa.

'Father! father!' now murmurs Netta; 'where is father?'

The feeble cry has reached that father's ears and inmost heart. He puts down Minette and staggers, blinded by his grief, to the sofa. All withdrew but his wife. He is on his knees before his poor penitent daughter. Her arms are round his neck, and she strives to rise but cannot. Oh! the depth, agony, remorse of that long, silent, paternal, and filial embrace.

'Do you forgive me, father?' asks Netta.

'All--all. G.o.d forgive us both!' groans Mr Prothero.