Rowland was a humbler man than he had been, when he used, years before, to argue with Howel, and endeavour to convert him to the truth. He was equally right in his views then, but he gave them forth more dogmatically, and allowed self to peep in; now self was wholly swallowed up in the Word itself; and so Howel gave heed as to G.o.d, and not to man.

He laid bare Howel's heart to himself, for the first time that it had ever been so exposed, and then showed him the denunciations of the law against sin. He did not spare him. He knew that the only way to save such a man was by bringing him to know himself first, and then to ''

preach repentance and remission of sin.'

In his energy and longing to rescue him from destruction, he stood before him as one sent to tear up his unbelief by the roots not to dally with it.

'Flee from the wrath to come,' might have been the text of his discourse, as it was that of the Baptist.

When he paused, as if for breath, Howel exclaimed,--

'Enough! enough! Stop! I can hear no more; you have opened to me the gates of h.e.l.l wide enough.'

'And now I would open those of heaven. Let us pray.'

Rowland's eyes flashed such a fire as Howel had never seen in them before; his voice and words had a command that he had never heard.

Perforce he obeyed. And there, in that narrow cell, actuated by fear, rather than remorse, astonishment rather than contrition, bowed by a will yet stronger than his own, Howel fell on his knees beside his cousin, and listened to a prayer for pardon and help, that might have melted the heart of a Nero.

At first he heard as in a dream, then his ears were opened, then his heart. And at last Rowland's spirit breathed within him the blessed words, 'Behold he prayeth.'

It is not for us to look into the heart of the criminal, and decide how G.o.d works in it. Even Rowland could not tell the ultimate effect of his preaching and prayers. All he knew that from that day Howel welcomed him to his cell as the one hope of his life. He was awakened to a sense of his condition, and Rowland thanked G.o.d, and took courage.

As the meetings and partings of parent and child--however wicked they both may be--in the cell of a felon, simply harrow the feelings of the reader, I will pa.s.s over those of Howel and his mother. Some recrimination, and much grief on the one side--some remorse, and much misery on the other. Rowland did what he could for both until the last parting was over. And then he left the mother to the care of Mrs Jones to accompany the son on board the ship that was to convey him to his convict home.

We are not to suppose that the 'Ethiopian's skin' was changed because it was pierced. Howel continued outwardly proud, scornful, and hard to the last; but Rowland witnessed the struggle that went on within to maintain that bearing, and knew that some good might arise even out of the spendthrift and the forger.

'You will take care of Minette amongst you, for her mother's sake,' he said to Rowland.

'And for yours, and her own,' was the reply.

'Tell her not to hate her father. You who never told her mother of my--I suppose I must use the word--crime, will be as gentle as you can in letting the child know who and what her father is. I thank you all, more for keeping _her_ in ignorance till death, than for all the rest.'

'And for _her_ sake, Howel, you will read that book, and pray to be kept from temptation.'

'What temptation shall I have? I shall be more inclined to pray to be thrown into temptation.'

'Oh, Howel!'

'Well! This convict ship and the ocean, and chains and hard labour at the end, don't seem very inviting. I know it has been my own fault and my father's, but that doesn't make it better; however, I will try. And if ever I get back to Old England again a reformed character, will you lend me a helping hand, or turn your back upon me?'

'Give you the hand of friendship and brotherhood.'

'Thank you; and don't let them quite desert my mother. Bad as she is, I am worse, and I have ruined her; a worse thing that than getting a little money out of those turf-dupes and idiots, though hers was ill-gotten wealth.'

'We will take care of your mother amongst us as well as we can. My mother never forsakes an old friend.'

'Give my love to her; she was kind to me and to my child. All the rest have deserted me, and wished me hanged. But I have to thank you, who always despised me, for being here now, and for your anxiety about me.

Rowland, you are a better fellow than I thought you, and you have helped to rid me of some of those spectres that haunted me night and day. You must go! I know it. Alone! alone! with this crew! Is this Heaven's law or man's? and I was not made for this. I shall destroy myself--I must--I will. Good-bye! oh Rowland! cousin! brother! remember me, for G.o.d's sake and for hers!'

The hands of the minister of the Gospel and the felon were clasped for a few seconds, as if they could never unlink, and then, with a heavy groan, Howel sank down upon some timber that was near him, and covered his face with his hands. Thick tears filled Rowland's eyes as he stooped over his wretched cousin, and again whispered, 'G.o.d bless you, cousin Howel, G.o.d bless you.'

And so they parted.

CHAPTER LIII.

GLADYS REAPING HER FRUITS.

Our story began at Glanyravon, in the cheery month of June, and at Glanyravon, in the same cheery month, we will end it.

I must beg my readers to pa.s.s over in their imaginations one twelvemonth, of which I do not mean to say anything, and to accompany me to the gate at Glanyravon Farm, where they first made acquaintance with Mrs Prothero and Gladys. A hasty glance will suffice to show that all is much the same at this said gate as it was ten years ago, save and except that the extraneous accompaniments are changed. Instead of a group of Irish beggars and a dying girl, it is surrounded by a party of well-dressed peasants in high, smooth hats and striped flannel gowns.

Moreover, it is surrounded by an arch of evergreens and flowers, of most tasteful form and beautiful colour.

We will not linger here at present, but pursue our way along the road.

We meet more peasants, in holiday costume, talking and laughing together, with Miss Gwynne's school children in their scarlet cloak and best frocks. They all seem to be lingering about, with nothing to do, and enjoying their idleness and June holiday as thoroughly as the greatest philanthropist in the world could desire. As we approach the entrance of the Park, we see another magnificent arch spanning the road.

We turn to the large iron gates, and they, too, are circled with laurels and roses.

We walk through the gates, and to the right, far in amongst the trees, are long lines of tables covered with white, and bearing the remains of a huge feast, at which, we take it for granted, the people we have met have been regaled. Scattered here and there amongst the oaks, elms, and ashes are more peasants and school children amusing themselves variously.

We pursue our way up the drive until we come to the memorable oak, under which words were spoken greatly influencing the fates of two of the individuals in whom I have been endeavouring to interest my readers.

From this venerable tree to another, almost as venerable, hangs another wreath, flanked with banners. We reach the house, and another garland entirely surrounds the door. White roses and lillies of the valley make the air heavy with their breath, drawn out by the attractive rays of the beaming afternoon sun.

We enter the hall, and peep into the different rooms. In the dining-room is the remains of an ample repast. At the head of the table is an enormous cake, covered with silver doves and ornaments of all kinds; servants are drinking the remains of champagne out of gla.s.ses and bottles with healths innumerable. In the library and hall, children in white frocks, with silver bows fastened to them, pattering to and fro in unchecked excitement. In the drawing-room we pause, and listen to the conversation that is pa.s.sing between Mr Gwynne, Lady Mary, Colonel and Mrs Gwynne Vaughan, and Sir Hugh Pryse.

'I am so thankful it is over, and that it has all gone off so well,'

says Lady Mary.

'Really, Lady Mary,' says Mr Gwynne, 'great thanks are due to you for the admirable manner in which you managed everything. I think it was wonderful that we amalgamated, and all that sort of thing, don't you, Gwynne?'

Colonel Vaughan replies, yawning,--

'I don't know what on earth we shall do without Freda! And she to throw herself away upon that stupid London parish, where all her charming manner and talent will be lavished upon ragged schools and missionary meetings. I wish she had never come back.'

'Oh, Gwynne, I'm thure Mr Prothero ith very nithe, and tho gentlemanlike and good and handthome. And, you know, clergymen are ath good ath any one in London.'

'Prothero is better than most, I think,' says Sir Hugh, 'because there is no humbug about him. And I'm sure, since Freda wouldn't have me, I'm glad she had him, though I never guessed she liked him; I used to think she liked you best, Vaughan.'

The colonel sighs.

'Oh! I never flattered myself so far, I wish--'

'Certainly, I could not have believed the Protheros were such superior people,' says Lady Mary. 'As to Mr Owen and his wife, they might be introduced into any society.'

'Thweetly pretty, Gladyth ith, I never thought tho much of her before,'