He laid his wife, fainting, by the side of her child on the bed, bathed her temples with water until he saw that she would revive, and then rushed out into the dirty streets, under the misty, murky morning sky, a reckless and miserable man.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

THE ACCOUNTANT.

'I never shall get through these accounts!' is the soliloquy of Miss Gwynne, to whom we return with much pleasure, on my part, at least, after a separation of six years.

She is seated in a gloomy but comfortable dining-room, in a house situated in one of the squares at the East End of London. We left her in her large, airy, country home, looking out upon a beautiful view of hill and valley--we find her in a close, dark square, with nothing to enliven the scene without but a few dingy shrubs, a row of tall gaunt houses, and a smoke-discoloured, soot-filled atmosphere. We left her unhappy and discontented--we find her happy and contented. We left her with a mind hara.s.sed by uncertain plans, disappointed hopes, and humbled pride--we find her with a mind strengthened by good purposes, holy aspirations, and prayers for humility. Still, we left her and find her Winifred Gwynne. She has not lost her idiosyncrasy.

Reader, be not hasty to p.r.o.nounce upon the suddenness of these changes.

Six years spent princ.i.p.ally amongst the earnest minded, laborious clergy of London and their families, in the heart of the most wretched, squalid parish, amongst the lowest, most depraved, most ignorant, most utterly miserable set of people in England, would sober the most thoughtless woman in the world, provided she had a heart. And Freda has not only a heart, but one earnestly desirous of doing good.

She has found vent for her energy, occupation for her time, a bank for all the money she possesses; therefore we find her in the midst of papers covered with figures, containing accounts of ragged schools, which she is labouring to reckon up, in the simplest of morning dresses, without ornament or extraneous adornment. She is somewhat paler and thinner than she used to be amongst the breezy hills of Wales, but her eyes are brighter, and the expression of her countenance is gentler.

'How stupid I am!' she exclaims. 'Gladys would reckon them up directly, but she is at the school, and I am ashamed to ask Nita, with all her accounts.'

She pauses a moment and lays down her pen. Her eyes fall upon an unopened letter.

'And I declare I have not broken the seal of my own father's letter,'

she mutters, performing this duty as she does so, and running through it with occasional comments.

'"We hope you will come and spend Christmas--" I suppose I must--"and see your little brother, who longs to see sister Freda again--" Humph!

but who cut her out of Glanyravon Park and all thereto belonging, though he certainly is a dear little man. "Her ladyship quite well, and desires her love." I suppose I ought to be glad and try to return the love. "Mrs Gwynne Vaughan and her children were here yesterday. She asked for you, and the little ones wished to know when you were coming home--" I am much obliged to her, and am afraid I am _not_ too anxious to see either her or her husband, in spite of their civility. "Little Harold is really a wonderful child! He begins to spell already!" So like my good father.

Well, I ought to be thankful he is happy, and that it all turned out so much better than I expected. But I can't help feeling a kind of wicked disappointment when I think that Lady Mary should be quite as good a tactician as a second wife, as she was before she married again. But, I hope, I am happy that she makes poor papa comfortable and doesn't worry him to death. I don't think he loves her now half as well as he does me; still, perhaps she suits him better, because she manages him, and I never could. But the _tyfydd_ [Footnote: Welsh for heir.] is a dear little fellow, and I am really fond of him.'

Miss Gwynne's soliloquy is cut short by a rap at the door, followed by the entrance of Rowland Prothero, who says, as he bows and seems about to retreat,--

'I beg your pardon--I was told Mr Jones was here.'

'Oh, do come in!' says Miss Gwynne, rising, and advancing to meet Rowland; 'I cannot get through these accounts. I have been reckoning and reckoning ever since breakfast, and they will not come right. I should be so much obliged to you if you would just look them over for me.'

Rowland seated himself at Freda's desk, and began at once to do her bidding. The ragged school was the one in which he was so much interested, and that he had been instrumental in establishing.

Whilst Miss Gwynne had been living with her friend, Mrs Jones, she had seen a great deal of Rowland; they had, in fact, been thrown much together. At first, Rowland ceased to come to consult the Joneses, or to spend his few spare hours with them, when he heard that Freda was there; and, of course, they and she understood and respected his reasons for absenting himself; but in the course of time, they met at Sir Philip Payne Perry's, at his rector's, and elsewhere, and his reserve slightly wore off. When Freda began to a.s.sist Mrs Jones in her parish work, and threw herself, heart and soul, into the ragged school, they met of necessity very frequently. Freda was so studiously polite in her manners to him, and so careful to avoid every subject that would recall their old relations at Glanyravon, that he gradually felt more at his ease with her, and it ended by his resuming his old, friendly intercourse with Mr and Mrs Jones. But Freda knew well that, in spite of her best efforts to propitiate him, he never forgot those words, 'Do you know who I am, and who you are?' He was always gentlemanlike, always kind, always ready to do anything she asked him, but he never relaxed the somewhat formal respect of his manner. In society, he was quite different with every one else to what he was with her. With the Perrys he was as much at ease as if he were their own son; and they seemed almost to consider him as such. At his rector's he was the life of their little circle, and might have been, Freda shrewdly suspected, united to it by a link closer than that of curate, had he so chosen; for there was a very pretty daughter who evidently looked upon him with favourable eyes. Amongst the respectable portion of his flock he was a general favourite, and all the young ladies, as young ladies will, worked with and for him; not only in the matter of schools, but in slippers and purses. What was still more clear and satisfactory to Freda was, that he made way amongst the miserable poor.

The ragged school children loved him, and through them, he got at the hearts of some of their degraded parents. His seemed a labour of love with every one but her. She received his marked politeness and nothing more. But he interested her daily. Some new trait of character would break out--some little touch of deep feeling--some symptom of a highly sensitive nature, which told her how much he must have felt her cutting words. He was proud, too, and she liked him for it, although she was striving to humble her own pride. What would she not have given to have recalled those words! The Rowland Prothero of London, esteemed and loved by the wise and good, for his unpretending but strenuous parochial labours, his clear, forcible, but very simple preaching--was to her quite a different person from him of Glanyravon Farm, the son of her father's tenant. In short they were no longer identical. As she was no longer the heiress of Glanyravon, but simply Miss Gwynne, Mrs. Jones'

friend--so he was Mr. Rowland Prothero, a respectable and respected London clergyman.

And these are the relations under which they appear, sitting near one another over the accounts of the ragged school, which Freda has undertaken to keep.

'I think there is a slight fault here, Miss Gwynne,' he says, pointing out an error in calculation.

'Of course, I never had a head for figures, and Mrs. Jones could never get me to do my sums.'

'Still, the account is quite right in the main, the errors were in the adding up, and it is rightly balanced.'

'Thank you, I am so very much obliged to you. I should never have got through them. And now, will you tell me of those wretched people that Mr. Jones would not let me go and see.'

'I gave them the money you kindly sent, or, at least, laid it out for them, as they would have spent it in gin, and they are already more comfortable; but the father is gone away, and the mother apparently dying.'

'Is there no way of alleviating all this wretchedness?'

'I fear none. Sin is at the root, and as long as the present world lasts, there must be misery with it.'

Rowland spoke these words in an unusually melancholy and depressed tone of voice, which caused Miss Gwynne to look up from the papers, directly at him. He was paler than usual, and his lip quivered. He met her glance, and making an effort to rise, said hastily,--

'Can I have the honour of doing anything more for you, Miss Gwynne. I am sure I can return you the thanks of the committee, indeed of every one concerned for--'

'I want no thanks, I deserve no thanks from any one; are you ill, Mr.

Rowland? You have been in some of those dreadful haunts, and they have upset you. May I get you something?'

'Thank you, I am quite well.' Rowland's lip quivered still more and he grew still less calm, as he again met Miss Gwynne's eye fixed on him with evident interest.

'I am sure you are ill; you must allow me the privilege of a parishioner, if not of an old friend, and let me ask what is the matter?'

Her manner was so kind, that Rowland's reserve was for a moment overcome.

'Thank you, Miss Gwynne--my poor sister.'

'Yes, what of her? I a.s.sure you I am truly interested for her; poor Netta!'

'I fear she is in serious trouble, I scarcely know what myself as yet; but she, her husband and child have left the house, and Howel's creditors have taken possession of all his effects. No one knows where they are gone, or what is to become of them.'

Rowland had not the courage to tell Miss Gwynne that the police were searching for Howel right and left upon a charge of forgery.

'Poor Netta! I am very, very sorry. What can have reduced him to this?'

'Gaming, horse-racing, speculating! These will waste the largest fortune and ruin the fairest hopes. But he deserves it all, only my poor sister is the victim, and the respectability of an honest name is impeached.'

'Oh no--poor Netta's hasty marriage and wilful temper were the causes of her trouble, it can have nothing to do with your family; besides, many people of high family and position are obliged to fly for debt.'

'That is dishonour enough, Miss Gwynne, but this--this is worse; Howel is suspected of--of forgery.'

Rowland gave Miss Gwynne one quick, searching glance as he said that word, and then rose to go. She rose, too, but putting out her hands, and looking him full in the face, kindly and gently, she said,--

'Mr. Prothero, I am very sorry for you; for Netta; for all. But if this is true, the sin and the shame will rest with him who caused them--it cannot fall on you or yours.'

Rowland shook the offered hand, and then left the room.

In the hall he met Gladys, who had just come in from the school. Frisk was barking and jumping about her with great animation, not having grown, as Freda foretold, a useless and fat London dog. When Rowland appeared, he transferred his attentions to him, and looked much disappointed at receiving none in return.

Rowland shook hands with Gladys, and asked her to come with him into Mr Jones' little study, where he told her, more clearly than he had told Miss Gwynne, what he knew of Howel and Netta.