Mr and Mrs Jones promised to come if only for one clear day, and sent a box of presents to their niece, which Netta had the pleasure of unpacking. Amongst them was a simple and pretty wedding dress and bonnet, that poor Netta wept over, thinking of her own.

On the whole, however, Netta was better and more cheerful, and even a.s.sisted in the preparations that were going forward. She helped to make that pretty dove-coloured silk dress that was manufactured at home, and tried to join in the happiness which her apparently improved health seemed to make allowable.

But Netta's heart was with Howel, and the certainty that she felt of his return and constant love, alone sustained her. Alas! that poor, fluttering, uncertain heart!

CHAPTER XLVI.

THE HEIR.

Miss Gwynne returned to Glanyravon on Christmas Eve. She had not visited it before, since she left it when her father married. She had seen her father, his wife, and her little brother almost yearly in London, whither Lady Mary Nugent insisted on dragging her husband annually; but she had not hitherto had love, or courage, or Christian charity enough to visit them at home. When last in town, and repeatedly by letter, her father had urged her doing so, and she had at last complied with his request, more from a latent sense of duty than from inclination.

It was a bright, frosty night, when the carriage that had been sent to meet her drove up to the door. If poor Netta had fainted on returning to the farm, Freda was obliged to brush away gathering tears as she returned to the Park. Every branch of tree, as it glittered in the moonlight in its dress of h.o.a.r frost, was familiar to her, every pane of gla.s.s in the windows of the old place seemed a friend.

On the lowest step, bare-headed and expectant, were the old butler and footman she had left when she went away; she shook hands with each, and they almost rung her hand off. In the door-way stood her father, not bare-headed, but expectant, who received her with paternal warmth. Freda knew that he must for once have forgotten himself and his nervous debility to have thus exposed himself to the frosty air. In the hall was Lady Mary ready with smiles and embraces, with which Freda would gladly have dispensed; but she did her best to seem, if she could not feel, glad to see her.

Her ladyship preceded her to her own old bedroom, where a huge fire, and bright wax candles bade her welcome, and whither she was followed by Frisk, who was exuberant in his demonstrations of delight at his return home after his long absence.

'I have ordered my maid to wait on you my dear,' said Freda's stepmother, 'because I find your's does not return to you. But we can replace her. Dinner will be ready whenever you are; can I do anything for you?'

'No, thank you, I shall not be long,' said Freda mechanically.

Lady Mary left the room.

Freda felt that her tact was good after all; for no nice feeling could have been more successful than it was. She had received her just as if she had come home after a short absence. No demonstrations of any kind; her room was much as it had ever been. There were even some of her clothes in the wardrobe.

'I won't cry! I won't give way!' muttered Freda, beginning to take off her wrappings.

There was a tap at the door.

'Come in!' And Anne the old housemaid appeared.

'Oh, miss, I am so glad to see you home again, it do seem so natural.

Please to let me unpack your things, miss. My lady thought you might like me better than Mrs Pink.'

'Thank you, Anne, it does look like home to see you.'

'Shall I get your dress, miss?'

'I can't dress to-night, I am too tired. There, that will do. Now I will go downstairs.'

She did so, and found her father alone in the library.

'I won't cry,' again she said, as she kissed him affectionately.

'Thank you for coming, Freda, it will do me good, and my wife is delighted. Harold, too, is in ecstasies, and only went to bed with a promise that sister Freda--he calls you sister, you know, and--and all that sort of thing.'

The 'my wife,' grated strangely on Freda's ear, but she promised to go and see her little brother.

Lady Mary came in, and they went to dinner.

It seemed strange to see her at the head of the table, and Freda felt as if she were in a dream. But nothing could be more perfect than her ladyship's manner. She behaved as if nothing had ever happened to cause the least estrangement between them, and almost as if she were still Lady Mary Nugent. Handsome as ever, and perfectly well-bred, she almost made even Freda believe, after her long absence from her, that she really was what she seemed. However, Freda tried to take her as she was, and to feel thankful that she was no worse. It was she who princ.i.p.ally kept up the conversation; Freda made great efforts, and signally failed, and Mr Gwynne never talked much.

After dinner, Freda proposed to go and see the little brother. As she looked at the magnificent boy who lay peacefully sleeping in his little crib, she was thankful to be able to kiss him, and say, 'G.o.d bless you, my brother,' without feeling angered that he had deprived her of the inheritance she had once been so proud of. She knew that Lady Mary was watching her narrowly, but there was no hypocrisy in her affection, so she did not care.

They went down to the library, where were Mr Gwynne, tea and coffee.

'Is he not a splendid fellow, my dear?' said Mr Gwynne.

'He certainly is, papa,' replied Freda, aloud, saying inwardly, 'and everything with you now. I am quite second--third I ought to say.'

This was true; Mr Gwynne was proud of his wife and son. The former took care of him, and did not greatly interfere with his pursuits or peculiarities, the latter gave him new life and hopes. An heir in his old age was a gift that might well exceed that of the daughter who could not perpetuate his name.

Freda was glad when she went to bed, which she did as soon as tea was over. It was a great relief to sit down once more in the easy-chair which had helped to nurse so many crude fancies and humours in days gone by, and think over the past and present. There was an atmosphere of unreality about everything at Glanyravon, that she hoped to clear off on the morrow, so she resolved to try not to feel depressed under its influence; but having once known what it was to enjoy living with real, working men and women, with aims beyond the formalities of society, it seemed hard to be thrown back upon the cold worldliness of her stepmother, and the selfish nervousness of her father.

She was, however, aroused on the blessed morning of Christmas Day by something that was very real.

'A merry Kismas, sister Freda,' shouted a sharp little voice into her ear, and before her eyes were half opened brisk little feet were stamping at her bedside, and the same voice authoritatively enouncing, 'Put me up, Dane, I 'ull be put up.'

'I beg your pardon, miss,' said the nurse, who stood in the doorway, 'but Master Harold would come, and my lady isn't up, and--'

'Never mind, let him in,' said Freda, sitting up in bed, and opening her arms to receive the rosy, wilful, handsome child, who did not know how he had supplanted her.

'A merry Kismas!' he repeated, returning Freda's kisses by pulling off her night-cap, and letting down her long hair before she knew what he was about. 'Now, I'll dive 'ou to Tewey.'

'Master Harold! don't, sir!' said the nurse.

But Master Harold was jumping on the pillow behind his sister, making reins of her hair and horses of her head in no very gentle fashion.

'I sha'n't give you what I brought you from London if you pull my hair,'

said Freda, catching the bare, firm, st.u.r.dy leg of the small tyrant who called her sister.

'Is it soldiers?' asked the child, suddenly tumbling down before her.

She caught the little fellow in her arms, and told him that if he would go away whilst she dressed he should have the present. After some demur he consented, having first informed Freda that ''ittle Minnie, and Winnie, and Dot, and baby' were all coming to dinner.

'A family party!' groaned Freda, when the child was carried away by its nurse, 'myself the only rightful member of the family, and probably the only one who will feel as if she doesn't belong to it.'

Freda got up and looked out upon the fine park and the hills beyond. She sighed involuntarily.

'Why should I sigh,' she said. 'I am happier than when it was my home,--happier, and, I hope, more useful. My father doesn't want me,'--here she paused. Perhaps that father really did want her, for she, at least, loved him, and his wife did not; and she was beginning to be conscious, daily more and more conscious, of the exceeding preciousness of love.

Breakfast pa.s.sed, with the same effort to feel at home on her part, and attempt to keep up a conversation on that of Lady Mary, as had the dinner of the previous day.