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Title: Gladys, the Reaper

Author: Anne Beale

Release Date: March 10, 2005  [eBook #15315]

Language: English

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GLADYS, THE REAPER

by

ANNE BEALE

Author of _Fay Arlington_, _Simplicity and Fascination_,
_The Miller's Daughter_, etc. etc.




... standing like Ruth amid the alien corn




Griffith Farran Browne & Co. Limited
35 Bow Street, Covent Garden
London

1881







[Illustration: Frontispiece.]





CHAPTER I.

THE FARMER'S WIFE.


It is an evening in June, and the skies that have been weeping of late,
owing to some calamity best known to themselves, have suddenly dried
their eyes, and called up a smile to enliven their gloomy countenances.
The farmers, who have been shaking their heads at sight of the unmown
grass, and predicting a bad hay-harvest, are beginning to brighten up
with the weather, and to consult upon the propriety of mowing to-morrow.
The barometer is gently tapped by many a sturdy hand, and the result is
favourable; so that there are good prospects of a few weeks' sunshine to
atone for the late clouds.

Sunshine: how gracious it is just now! Down yonder in the west, that
ancient of days, the sun throws around him his evening glory, and right
royally he does it. The rain-covered meadows glow beneath it, like so
many lakes--the river looks up rejoicing, and the distant mountains are
wrapped in garments dyed in the old king's own regal colours. The woods
look as smooth and glossy as the braided locks of maidens prepared for
conquests; and the roads and paths that wind here and there amongst the
trees, are as gay as little streamlets in the sun's reflected light.

Suddenly a rainbow leaps, as it were, out of the river, and spans, with
its mighty arch, the country scene before us.

     'A rainbow at night
      Is the shepherd's delight;'

so the proverbially-grumbling farmers will have another prognostic to
clear their countenances.

Perchance the worthy man who inhabits the farm we have just reached, may
be congratulating himself upon it, as he jogs home from market this
Saturday evening. If he could look upon his homestead with our eyes, I
feel sure he would cease to despond. How cheerily the wide, slated roof
gleams forth from amongst the trees, and returns the warm glance of the
sun with one almost as warm, albeit proceeding from a very moist eyelid!
How gladly the white smoke arises once more, spirally, from the large
chimneys, after having been so long depressed by the heavy atmosphere!
and how the massive ivy that covers the gable end, responds to the songs
of the birds that warble their evening gladness amongst its gleaming
leaves! The face of the dwelling is as cheerful as are the sun, river,
mountains and meads, that it looks down upon from its slight elevation.
Every leaf of the vine and pyrus-japonica that covers its front, is
bedecked with a diamond; and the roses, laburnums, nasturtiums, and
other gay flowers in the garden, drop jewels more freely than the maiden
in the fairy tale, as they glisten beneath the rainbow.

This is what we see from the hawthorn lane below the house; but walking
up into the highroad at the back, the scene changes, and just as our
sympathies with beautiful nature were called forth below, so are they
instantaneously assailed by our fellow-creatures above.

We come to the substantial gate that is the entrance to the pretty farm,
and a curious and a motley group is there. We see such groups almost
daily, here in Carmarthenshire; but as all the counties of England and
Wales are not thoroughfares for the Irish from their country to England,
we will describe these poor people as graphically as we can. There is
evidently a consultation going on amongst them, and the general
attention is directed to one individual of their party.

This is a young girl of some seventeen or eighteen years of age. She is
seated on the ground, and leans her back against the stone wall that
flanks the substantial gate afore mentioned. To judge from her general
appearance she can scarcely belong to the ragged set that surround her,
for there is an attempt at neatness and cleanliness in her attire,
though it is poor enough, that the rest cannot boast of. She wears a
cotton gown, shawl, straw bonnet, and shoes and stockings, which were
once respectable and seem to have been originally intended for her.
True, they are all worn and shabby-looking. The gown is faded, the
bonnet very brown, and the shoes have holes in them; but they indicate
a mind, or station, at least a degree above those of her companions. Her
head is so inclined upon her breast, that it is difficult to see more
than a pale face underneath the bonnet; but a pair of thin white hands
that rest listlessly upon her lap, still tend to induce the notion that
the girl cannot quite belong to the wild-looking company with which she
is mixed up.

Right in front of her, and looking alternately from her to a man to whom
she is talking, stands a middle-aged woman of good-natured but terrified
aspect. A checked and ragged handkerchief confines her black, rough
hair--a torn red cloak covers a portion of her body, and a curious
collection of rags and tatters makes a vain effort to shelter the rest.
In the large hood of the red cloak a hardy-looking infant is tied up,
its little head and hand being alone visible, which are engaged in
munching and holding a crust of bread. At the feet of the woman are
sundry articles, amongst which a bundle of rags, an iron pot, and a tin
saucepan, are the most conspicuous. The man to whom she is talking is a
tall, gaunt specimen of Irish poverty and famine. He holds a rake and
pitchfork in his hand, and leans upon them for support. Gazing into his
face is a rough, surly-looking youth, who seems cordially to agree with
all that he says.

Leaning against the wall that flanks the gate on the side opposite that
which supports the girl, are another man and woman, who cast from time
to time pitying glances at the pale face beneath the straw bonnet. These
are as raggedly picturesque in their attire as the rest--a short red
petticoat, a blanket substituted for a shawl, and a bundle on the back,
distinguish the female; a long great coat and short trousers the male.
They are deep in conversation upon the common theme. A young man of more
stalwart figure stands beside the girl, and failing to attract her
attention, kneels down on one knee and speaks low to her. A little boy
is seated at her feet, alternately stroking her hands, and stirring up a
small puddle of water with a short stick. Two other children are engaged
at a little distance in making a lean cur beg for a mouthful of bread,
which the generous urchins would evidently rather share with the dog
than eat alone.

The one prevailing feature of the party is rags, and how they hold
together no tongue can tell.

At last there is a general movement, as well as general clamour of
voices and much gesticulation. All, old and young, with the exception of
the girl, gather round the woman in the red cloak, and seem to be urging
her to do something that she does not like to do. They point to the
girl, and the appeal is not in vain.

The woman moves slowly and somewhat sulkily towards one of the boys,
takes him by the hand, and returning to the gate, opens it, and walks
down the good broad road that leads to the farm, the boy trotting by her
side. We watch the bright red cloak till it disappears amongst the trees
that surround the house; and turn again to wonder what can be the matter
with the girl. She neither moves nor speaks, although her kindly
companions in turn endeavour to attract her attention.

In the course of a few minutes the red cloak is again seen coming up the
road, closely followed by another figure. We soon hear sounds of earnest
pleading, in a broad Irish brogue, from our friend of the red cloak. As
they approach the gate sound distinctly the words,--

'It's all thrue, my leddy--as thrue as the blessed gospel. I'm afeered
she's dyin' if yer honour's glory won't lend us a hand.'

'I don't know how to believe you, my good woman, for some of you come
every week and deceive me with all kinds of stories.'

'An' she's Welsh, yer honour. She's come to find out her friends, my
leddy! God bless ye, ye've a kind eye and a gintle voice,'

Red cloak spoke the truth. The woman who is now added to the group has
truly 'a kind eye and a gintle voice.' She is short and small of form,
of middle age and matronly appearance; neatly and even handsomely
dressed, as becomes the mistress of one of the largest and wealthiest
farms of a country where large farms are rare. She has a handsome,
placid face, and looks as if the world had moved on quietly and happily
ever since she had been on its surface. Her dark eyes, that must once
have been bright and piercing, are softened down to gentleness by the
quieting hand of time; and the black hair is slightly streaked with
white by the same unsparing fingers. But for this, age would seem to
have little to do with the comely dame who is now bending her
neatly-attired head before the shabby-looking girl against the wall,

'What is the matter with you, my poor girl?' says the 'gintle voice,'

These kind words have a power that the equally kind ones of the rough
friends around had not. The brown straw bonnet is raised from the
breast, and we perceive that the girl is neither dead nor sleeping. We
perceive something more--a pair of the most painfully melancholy, and
beautiful violet eyes that we ever looked into, which are languidly
uplifted to the farm-lady. With the words, 'I am very tired, ma'am,' the
eyes reclose, and we see long black fringes of soft hair rest upon the
pale, thin cheek. The ready tear of compassion springs to the matron's
eyes, as she stoops still lower to feel the pulse in the wan hand.

'What is the matter with her?' she inquires, turning to the bystanders.

'Tis tiert all out she is, my leddy. We come by say from Watherford to
Milford, and thin, yer honour, we come on foot all trough Pembrokeshire,
and County Carmarthin, and now she's jist kilt.'

'But what is she going to do? Why do you come away from Ireland at all?'

'Och, my leddy, shure we're starvin' there. And we jist come to luk for
the work in the harvest, an' we're goin' to Herefordshire to git it. An'
plaase yer honour's glory, she come wid us to this counthry to luk for
her mother's relations that's Welsh, my leddy, small blame to thim,
seein' her mother married an Irishman, and come to live in our
counthry.'

'I will give you a night's lodging, and that is all I can do for you,'
says the gentle mistress of the farm.

'The Lord bless ye, my leddy, the holy angels keep ye, the blessed
Vargin and all the saints--'

'Oh, hush! hush!' exclaims the good woman, highly shocked. 'Help the
poor girl, and come with me.'

The woman went towards the girl, and trying to assist her to rise,
said,--

'Now, Gladys, asthore! An' shure, my leddy, she's a thrue Welsh name.
I'll help ye, my darlin', there! Och! an it's betther she is already, as
soon as she heerd of a night's lodgin'.'

The young man who was kneeling by the girl just now, goes to her other
side, and succeeds in supporting her by putting his arm round her waist,
whilst the woman holds her by one arm; and thus they follow the good
mistress of the farm, followed in their turn by the rest of the party.

They move slowly down the road, underneath the fine oak and ash trees
that shelter the back of the farm, until they reach a large farm-yard,
wherein some thirty fine cows, of Welsh, English, and Alderney breed,
are yielding their rich milk at the hands of some three or four
rough-looking men and women who are kneeling down to get it.

'Come here, Tom,' cries the mistress, authoritatively.

Tom gives a knowing wink to the nearest girl, mutters, 'Irish again,'
and goes to his mistress.

'See if there is good clean straw spread in the barn, Tom, and make
haste.'

Tom goes to a large building outside the farm-yard, whither his mistress
and the rest follow him.

'Plenty of straw, ma'am, good enough for such folk,' says Tom.

'Spread some more, and shut the window in the loft.'

This is done in a slow grumbling way.

The barn is a large, clean, airy building, that must look like a palace
to these ragged, way-worn people.

'Now you may sleep here to-night, provided you go off early and quietly
to-morrow morning. There is a good pump down below, where you can get
water to wash yourselves, and at eight o'clock I shall lock the barn
door; my husband always insists upon that.' Thus speaks the mistress.

'Heaven bless his honour, we're all honest. We wouldn't harm a hair of
your blessed heads. We heerd o' ye many a time, and o' the good lodgin'
and supper--the sun shine upon ye--ye give to the poor Irish on their
thravels.' Thus answers the Irishwoman.

'You tell one another then! And this is why we have more calls than any
one else!'

'The Lord love ye, and why wouldn't we? 'Tis the good as always gets the
blessin'.'

Whilst this little conversation is going on, the girl, Gladys, is laid
upon the shawl-blanket of the woman who wears that singular attire, and
a pillow, half rags, half straw, is contrived for her head. The bonnet
is taken off to increase her comfort, and, as her head falls languidly
back upon the rough pillow, a wan, thin face is disclosed, that, from
the regular outline of the profile, must be pretty, under happier
circumstances, and is interesting.

Whilst the guests prepare to make themselves comfortable in different
ways, the kindly farm-lady leaves them, amid many and enthusiastic
blessings, and returns to the house.

In less than half-an-hour she reappears, followed by a female servant,
both carrying tokens of a true hospitality that expects no return. She
goes towards the poor girl with a small basin of good broth and a plate
of toasted bread, such as might tempt the palate of a more dainty
invalid; whilst the servant places a can of real Welsh broth, smelling
strongly of the country emblem, the leek, in the midst of the hungry
crew who are scattered over the barn. To this she adds various scraps of
coarse bread and hard cheese, which she draws from a capacious apron,
and evidently considers too good for the luckless vagabonds before her.
She is soon, however, as much interested as her mistress in the sick
girl, to whom the latter is administering the warm restorative. Spoonful
after spoonful is applied to her lips, and greedily swallowed though
with evident effort. The toasted bread is soaked in a portion of the
broth, and is also devoured as speedily as offered, with an avidity made
still more painful by the difficulty of swallowing, occasioned by some
obstruction in the throat.

'God help you, poor girl,' says the good Samaritan, as she puts the
last mouthful to the lips of the patient.

The eyes unclose, and a tear falls upon the wan cheek, as a murmured,
'Thank you, my lady,' is faintly heard.

The 'lady' turns away with a heavy sigh, whilst the servant begins to
arrange the blanket-shawl and rags more comfortably, and finally takes
off her large linsey-woolsey apron to make a softer resting-place for
the head and neck of the girl. The grateful friends that stand around
now bless the servant as zealously as they blessed her mistress, and if
she understood the language in which the warm Irish hearts express their
gratitude, she would probably wonder who 'the Vargin and all the holy
saints and angels' are, that are invoked for her sake.

Again the farm-lady goes away, and returns bearing a small bottle of
medicine, that she bids the red-cloaked woman give the sick girl in
about an hour. She then leaves her patient and motley guests to their
supper and night's repose, followed by such prayers as the poor alone
know how to utter, and perhaps how to feel.






CHAPTER II.

THE FARMER.


The rainbow was a true prophet; the sun that went down so gloriously
last night amid the half-dried tears of a lately weeping earth, has
arisen this morning with a resolution to dry up all the remaining tears,
and to make the Sabbath as it should be--a day of rejoicing. Sunrise
amongst the hills and valleys! I wish we all saw it oftener. Not only
would the glorious spectacle make us wiser and better, but the early
rising would be not only conducive to health and good spirits, but to
the addition of a vast amount of time to the waking and working hours of
our very short life.

All nature arouses herself by degrees, as the great source of light
rises from his couch, curtained with rose and daffodil-coloured drapery.
As these gorgeous curtains spread east and west, and he takes his
morning bath in the clouds and vapours, rises up the proud monarch of
the farm-yard, as if in bold rivalry, outspreads his fine plumage in
emulation of the rose and daffodil curtains, and bids him welcome with a
voice so loud and shrill, that he must almost hear it from his domed
throne above. More arbitrary in his kingdom than the sun in his, this
grand Turk insists on arousing all his subjects; and the sleepy inmates
of his harem withdraw their heads from beneath their wings, and, one by
one, begin to smooth their feathers, and to descend lazily from their
dormitories. A faint twittering is heard amongst the ivy-leaves, in
answer to 'the cock's shrill clarion,' and in a few seconds, the little
sleepers amongst the oak and ash trees take it up, and by the time the
sun has come out of his bath, and the cock has ceased crowing, there is
a full chorus of heart stirring minstrelsy round about the quiet farm.
Down below in the meadow, the cattle begin to shake off the dew-drops
from their hides, and to send forth a plaintive low as they slowly seek
their early breakfast in the spangled grass, or by the steaming river.
Away among the hills, the faint bleat of the sheep echoes from heath to
heath, whilst their white fleeces dot the plains. Over the face of happy
nature creeps a glow that seems to come from the heart, and to make her
look up, rejoicing, to the sun as part of herself, and yet a type of the
Great Creator.

But whilst this Sabbath morning hymn thus rises, betimes, to the throne
of Him who sits beyond the sunbeams, tired man sleeps on. The farmer's
household is still slumbering, and after a week of hard labour, taking
an additional hour's repose on that day which was graciously appointed
as a day of rest. Scarcely can the sun peep in through the drawn
curtains and shutters of the windows, and no song of birds, or low of
cows, seems as yet to have reached the closed ears of the sleepers.
Master and men alike obtain the bounteous gift of sleep so often denied
to the less laborious rich.

We are wrong in supposing that all are slumbering in the farm-house.
Quietly the mistress steps out of the back door which she has
noiselessly opened, as if afraid of disturbing her household. As the
brisk little figure moves across the farm-yard, it is instantly
surrounded by a flock of poultry that seem intuitively to expect an alms
at her hand, as do the poor Irish who haunt her dwelling. But she has
nothing to give them thus early in the morning, and scarcely heeds their
cackling and crowing. The fierce house-dog, however, will be noticed as
bounding through the poultry, and knocking down one luckless hen, he
jumps upon his mistress, and almost oversets her also. The 'Down Lion,
down,' of the 'gintle voice,' serves only to make him more
demonstrative, as he gambols roughly on her path as she proceeds towards
the barn.

Mrs Prothero--such is the name of our farm-lady--had been haunted all
night long by visions of the poor Irish girl. She had not slept as
soundly as the other members of her family, because there was a
fellow-creature suffering within her little circle. Although she had
lived nearly fifty years in the world, and had been variously cheated
and imposed upon by beggars of all kinds, her heart was still open to
'melting charity,' and liable to be again and again deceived. As she
stopped before the barn door with the key in her hand, Lion began a low
growl. He could never get over his antipathy to Irish beggars, and all
his mistress's influence was necessary to prevent the growl becoming a
bark. She put her ear to the door and listened, but no sound disturbed
the stillness within. She knocked gently, but there was no answer. At
last she thought she heard a feeble voice say something which she
interpreted into 'Come in,' and she turned the key in the lock of the
door and opened the top half of it. She looked in, and saw all her
mendicant guests in profound repose, excepting the girl Gladys, who
endeavoured to rise as she perceived the kindly face, but fell back
again immediately. She unclosed the other half of the door, and
carefully excluding Lion, by shutting it after her, walked softly across
the barn to the rough couch on which Gladys lay. She appeared to be in
the same state of exhaustion as on the previous night; and if she had
noticed Mrs Prothero at all, the transient effort was over, and she
remained with closed eyes and listless form, whilst the good woman
looked at her and felt her pulse. Then her lips moved slightly, as if
wishing to say something, but emitted no sound. What was to be done for
one in such a helpless state? Mrs Prothero's kind heart sank within her.

As she did not like to disturb the weary wretches, who were sleeping so
soundly in their rags amongst the hay and straw, she prepared to leave
the barn; but as she moved away, the girl's eyes unclosed, and glanced
dimly at her through a film of tears. Nourishment seemed the only remedy
that presented itself to her mind. She smiled kindly at the girl,
murmured 'I will come again,' and went through the sleepers towards the
door, pausing, however, to look at the peaceful face of the baby, as it
lay on its mother's arm, covered with the old red cloak.

She returned to the house, and went to the clean, large dairy, where she
took a cup of the last night's milk, already covered with rich cream,
from a pan and went with it to the back kitchen, where was a fire, kept
up all night by means of the hard Welsh coal, and heat-diffusing balls.
She warmed the milk, procured a piece of fine white bread, and once more
returned to the barn.

She administered these remedies to her patient, who swallowed them with
the same avidity and difficulty as she had done the broth. She fancied
she again heard the words, 'God bless you, my lady,' but they were so
faint that she was not sure.

Again she threaded her way amongst the sleepers, and left the barn. She
went into her garden, and walked for a few moments amongst the flowers,
as if for council. The bees were beginning to hum about the hives, and
the butterflies to flit amongst the flowers. She stood and looked at the
beautiful scene before her--the woods, hills, river, and above, the
morning sun--and offered up a prayer and thanksgiving to the Giver of
all good things. Her thoughtful face brightened into a smile, and her
walk became more brisk as she left her garden, and went again into the
farm-yard.

The cow-man was bringing up the cows to be milked, and he looked
astonished as he greeted his mistress. So did the two ruddy, disheveled
farm maidens, who had barely turned out of their beds to milk the cows,
and had paid small attention either to their toilet or ablutions.

The house was perfectly quiet as she entered it, and she crept upstairs,
and into her bedroom very softly, for fear of disturbing any one.

'Where in the world have you been, my dear?' greeted her, in a gruff
voice from amongst the bed-clothes, that covered a large old-fashioned
bed, hung with chintz curtains.

'Go to sleep and don't trouble, Davy, _bach'_, [Footnote A Welsh term of
endearment, equivalent to 'dear,' pronounced like the German.] quietly
replied the brisk little dame.

'Go to sleep, indeed! Easier said than done, when one wakes up in a
fright, and finds you gone, nobody knows where. Now where _have_ you
been? You 'ont let one sleep, even of a Sunday morning.'

'Well, now, don't get into a passion, my dear--I mean, don't be angry.'

'What have I to be angry about when I don't know what you've been
doing?'

This was said in an injured tone, as if the heart under the bed-clothes
were softer than the voice.

'I didn't mean to say you were angry, only I thought--'

'You thought what?'

'Well, my dear, I have only just been across to the barn.' This was
uttered timidly and pleadingly, and as if our good housewife knew she
had been doing wrong.

Suddenly, a large red face started up from amongst the bed-clothes,
ornamented with a peculiarly-shaped white cap and tassel.

'Now you haven't been after them Irishers again?' exclaimed the owner
of the red face. 'The idle vagabonds! I vow to goodness that all our
money, and food and clothing, too, I believe, go to feed a set of
good-for-nothing, ragged rascals.'

'Hush, Davy! Remember they are God's creatures, and this is Sunday.'

'I don't know that. And if it's Sunday, why mayn't I sleep in peace?'

'Indeed, I am very sorry. But that poor girl I told you of is so ill!'

'Hang the poor girl! Then send her to the workhouse, and they'll give
her a lift home.'

'But if she has no home?'

'Then let her go to her parish.'

'But they don't seem to have any parishes in Ireland.'

'No parishes! I suppose that's the geography the vagabonds teach you?
Well you pay dear enough for your lessons. But I tell you what, Mary,
you just go and tell 'em all to decamp this minute.'

'But the girl is too weak and ill.'

'Then send her to the Union, I say, and they are bound to forward her.'

'But a Sunday! and the House miles away! Oh, Davy, we really cannot do
it to-day!'

'What with the Irish, and one charity and another, I declare there's no
peace in life! Name o' goodness, 'oornan, why do you harbour such folk?
If the girl's too ill to go on with her gang, they must leave her at the
Union, or else get the overseers to send for her.'

'Will you just go and look at her?'

'No, I 'ont, and that's plain speaking!'

Here the red face, and white night-cap and tassel, suddenly, disappeared
amongst the bed-clothes.

Mrs Prothero considered a few minutes, and again left the room, and went
to the barn. Here, all was confusion and consultation. They had tried to
help Gladys to rise, and the girl could not stand.

A clamour of voices assailed Mrs Prothero, who was bewildered by the
noise, and terrified at the remembrance of her husband.

'My good people, I don't know what to advise,' she said at last.

'She don't want to laive Carrmanthinshire, my leddy.'

'We'll be ruined intirely if we stop till she's cured, yer leddyship!'

'Niver a frind in the worrld, yer honour.'

'Her mother and father, sisthers and brothers, all dead of the faver
and the famine.'

'Nobody left but her relations in Carrmarrthinshire, and, maybe, they're
all dead and buried, yer honour's glory.'

'And what'll we do wid her, poor sowl?'

Mrs Prothero was looking compassionately on the poor girl, whilst
sentence upon sentence was poured into her ear; and as the death of her
relation was mentioned, she fancied she perceived a movement in her
seemingly impassive features. She opened her eyes, and looked at Mrs
Prothero, who went to her, and seeing her lips move, knelt down by her
side.

'Let them go, and send me to the workhouse, if you please, my lady,' she
murmured.

Mrs Prothero once more left the barn, promising to return shortly, and,
with trembling steps, again sought the apartment where her lord and
master was reposing. A very decided snore met her ear. She stood by the
bedside, and looked at the tassel, which was the only portion visible of
her better half. She sat down on a chair; she got up again; she fussed
about the room; she even opened the drawers and took out the Sunday
attire of that Somnus before her. But nothing she could do would arouse
him.

At last she gently touched the face. A louder snore was the only reply.
She gave a nervous push to the shoulder, and whispered into the
bed-clothes, 'My dear.'

'Well, what now?' growled the justly irritated sleeper.

'My dear, I am very sorry, but the poor girl is too ill to move, and I
really don't know what is to be done.'

'Upon my very deed, if you are not enough to provoke a saint!' broke out
Mr Prothero, now fairly sitting up in bed. 'If you will encourage
vagrants, get rid of 'em, and don't bother me. I'll tell you what it is,
Mrs Prothero, if all of 'em are not off the farm before I'm up, I'll
give 'em such a bit of my mind as 'll keep 'em away for the future; see
if I don't.'

Mrs Prothero saw that her husband was redder in the face than usual, and
she had a very great dread of putting him in a passion; still she
ventured one word more very meekly.

'But the girl, David?'

'What's the girl to you or me! we've a girl of our own, and half-a-dozen
servant girls. We don't want any more. Send her to the Union.'

'How can we send her?'

'Let the rascally Irish manage that, 'tis no affair of mine; but if you
bother me any more, I vow I'll take a whip and drive 'em, girl and all,
off the premises.'

'Very well, David,' said Mrs Prothero, submissively, and with a heavy
sigh: 'but if the girl should die?'

She walked across to the door, paused on the threshold, and glanced
back; but there was no change in the rubicund face. She went into the
passage, and slowly closed the door, holding the handle in her hand for
a few seconds as she did so. She walked deliberately down the passage,
pausing at each step. Before she was at the end of it, a loud voice
reached her ear. She joyfully turned back and re-entered the bedroom.

'Yes, David?' she said quietly.

'If the girl is really bad, send her in the cart, or let her have a
horse, if you like,' growled Mr Prothero. 'Only I do wish, mother, you
would have nothing to do with them Irishers.'

'Thank you, my dear,' said the quiet little woman. 'Then if the rest go
away, I may manage about the girl?'

'Do what you like, only get rid of 'em somehow.'

'Thank you.'

'Oh, you needn't thank me! I'd as soon send every one of 'em to jail as
not; but I can't stand your puffing and sighing just as if they were all
your own flesh and blood.'

'We're all the same flesh and blood, my dear.'

'I'd be uncommon sorry to think so. I've nothing but Welsh flesh and
blood about me, and should be loath to have any other, Irish, Scotch, or
English either.'

Mrs Prothero disappeared.

'That 'ooman 'ould wheedle the stone out of a mill,' continued the
farmer, rubbing his eyes, and deliberately taking off his night-cap,
'and yet she don't ever seem to have her own way, and is as meek as
Moses. She has wheedled me out of my Sunday nap, so I suppose I may as
well get up. Hang the Irish! There is no getting rid of 'em. She's given
'em a night's lodging, and a supper for so many years, that they come
and ask as if it was their due. But I'll put a stop to it, yet, in spite
of her, or my name isn't David Prothero.'

When Mr Prothero came forth from his dormitory, he was in his very best
Sunday attire. As he walked across the farm-yard in search of his wife,
there was an air about him that seemed to say, 'I am monarch of all I
survey.' Indeed, few monarchs are as independent, and proud of their
independence, as David Prothero of Glanyravon.

He was a tall, muscular man, of some fifty years of age. He was well
made, and of that easy, swinging gait, that is rather the teaching of
Dame Nature, than of the dancing mistress or posture master. His face
was full and ruddy, betokening health, spirits, and that choleric
disposition to which his countrymen are said to incline, whether justly
or unjustly is not for me to determine. His hair had a reddish tinge,
and his whiskers were decidedly roseate, bearing still further testimony
to a slight irrascibility of temperament. But he was a good-looking man,
in spite of his hair and whiskers, which, as his wife admired them, are
not to be despised.

'Where's your mistress, Sam?' roared Mr Prothero across the farm-yard.

'In the barn, master,' answered a man, who was eating bread and cheese
on the gate, and swinging his legs pleasantly about.

'Tell her I want her,'

In answer to the summons, immediately appeared his worthy helpmate. She
carried a very beautiful half-blown rose in her hand, which, as soon as
she approached her husband, she placed carefully in his button-hole,
standing on tiptoe to perform this graceful Sunday morning service.

'Thank you, mother,' said Mr Prothero, smiling, and looking down
complacently on his little wife.

What went with all his lecture upon the profligacy of Irish beggars? I
suppose it was silently delivered from his breast to the rose, for none
of it came to his lips, though it was quite ready to be heard when the
rose made her appearance.

All the Irish are gone except the girl, Davy, _bach_' said quiet Mrs
Prothero, 'and they are gone to the Overseer to tell him about her, and
I will see that she is sent to the workhouse to-night, that is to say if
I can.'

'I suppose you fed and clothed the ragged rascals?'

'I just gave them some scraps for breakfast, and indeed their blessings
did me good,'

'I should think they must. People that left a dying girl behind 'em.'

'They promised to come back and see after her when the hay-harvest is
over. They are going into Herefordshire to get work, and she, poor
thing, is looking for her relations in this county, and meant to get
work here.'

'Well, I want my breakfast. I promised brother Jonathan to go to church
to-day. He is going to preach a charity sermon for the Church Building
Society, and wants my shilling. He and Mrs Jonathan are to come
to-morrow, you know, my dear. I hope in my heart everything is as fine
as fippence, or my lady 'll turn up her nose.'

'I can't make things neater, Davy.'

This was said by Mrs Prothero, in a desponding tone, quite different
from her former quiet cheerfulness, and she accompanied the words by
rubbing her hands nervously one over the other.

'There now, don't look as if you were going to be smothered. Mrs
Jonathan isn't so bad as all that. I wish to goodness Jonathan hadn't
married a fine lady. But then she brought him a good fortune, and it's
all the better for our children.'

'I don't want her money.'

'But if it wasn't for her, my dear, Rowland would never have had an
Oxford edication.'

'I'd as soon he had gone to Lampeter, or been made a good Wesleyan
minister, and then he might have been content to stay in Wales, instead
of going off to England.'

'There, there! never mind! He'll be a bishop some day; and though you do
still incline to the chapel, you'll be proud of that. Now, name o'
goodness, let's have some breakfast.'

With this peculiarly Welsh interjection, Mr Prothero turned towards the
farm, and, followed by his wife, went to the desired repast.






CHAPTER III.

THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER.


'Nobody has come for that poor girl, Netta, and I have'n't the heart to
send her away,' said Mrs Prothero to her only daughter Janetta, towards
the close of the Sunday, the morning of which we noticed in the last
chapter.

'I am sure, mother, you have been plagued quite enough with her already.
You have neither been to church nor chapel, and scarcely eaten a morsel
all the day. I can't imagine what pleasure you take in such people.'

'I wouldn't care if your father was at home; but I don't quite like to
have her into the house without his leave, and she is not fit to be left
in the barn.'

'Into the house, mother! That wild Irish beggar! Why, father would get
into a fury, and I'm sure I should be afraid to sleep in the same place
with such a creature.'

'Oh, my dear child! when will it please the Lord to soften your heart,
and teach you that all men and women are brothers and sisters.'

'Never, I'm sure, in that kind of way.'

Whilst the mother and daughter continue their conversation about Gladys,
of which the above is a specimen, we will glance at Janetta Prothero,
the spoilt daughter of Glanyravon Farm.

She is decidedly a pretty girl? some might call her a beauty. She has
dark eyes, black hair, a clear pink and white complexion, a round,
dimpled cheek, a fair neck, a passable nose, and a very red-lipped,
pouting mouth. She is small of stature--not much taller than her
mother--but so well-formed, that her delicate little figure is quite the
perfection of symmetry. Her movements are languid rather than brisk like
her mother's, and she either has, or is desirous of having, more of the
fine lady in her manners and appearance. We discern, as she talks, more
of obstinacy than reason, and more of pride than sense, in her
conversation, and the face rather expresses self-will than intellect,
although not deficient in the latter.

We are led to suppose, from the appearance of the room in which the
mother and daughter are located, that Miss Janetta is somewhat
accomplished; more so than young ladies in her position commonly were
some thirty or forty years ago. This is a large parlour, with some
pretensions to be called a drawing-room. True, the furniture is of
old-fashioned mahogany, the sofa of hair, the curtains of chintz, and
all that appertains to the master and mistress of the house, of solid
but ancient make. But the square piano, the endless succession of
baskets, card-racks, etc., the footstools with the worsted-work dog and
cat thereon emblazoned, the album and other books, so neatly and
regularly placed round the table, and above all, three heads in very bad
water-colours that adorn the walls--all proclaim the superior education
of the daughter of the house, and her aspirations after modern
gentility.

We will just take up the thread of the conversation of the mother and
daughter at the end of it, and see what conclusions they have arrived
at. In a somewhat doggedly excited tone, Miss Janetta says,--

'Well, mother, I know that father would be very angry, and that she
might give us all low Irish fever. I shouldn't wonder if she brought a
famine with her.'

'Remember, Netta, who said "and if ye have done it unto the least of
these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."'

'If those people are one's brethren, as father says, the sooner we
disown our relations the better.'

Whilst Miss Janetta was uttering this unchristian speech, and greatly
shocking her mother thereby, a young man entered with a book in his
hand, and throwing himself on the sofa, began to read. It was soon,
however, evident that he was listening to the conversation, although he
professedly kept his eyes on his book. Poor Mrs Prothero continued her
efforts to enlist her daughter on the side of charity, but did not
greatly prevail. The young man did not interfere, probably being aware
that it is better to let two women finish their own quarrel.

Again, however, they were interrupted by the appearance of a fourth, and
more animated personage.

'Good evening, Mrs Prothero. How do you do, Netta?' exclaimed the new
comer, shaking Mrs Prothero's hand, and pulling Netta's curls. Hereupon
the young man arose from the sofa, and bowing profoundly, said,--

'Good evening, Miss Gwynne,' with a tone as grave as his appearance.

'I beg your pardon, Mr Rowland,' said the young lady, who we now
introduce in form as Miss Gwynne of Glanyravon Park.

With a very becoming grace, she advanced and held out her hand to Mr
Rowland Prothero, eldest son of the good farmer and his wife, just
returned from Oxford. Mr Rowland slightly touched the hand, bowed again
gravely, and placed a chair for Miss Gwynne.

'I thought I should never come here again,' said that young lady,
turning from Mr Rowland with a nod and a 'thank you,' and retreating
towards the window where the mother and daughter were standing, 'what
with the rain, and poor papa's nervous complaints, and all the affairs,
I declare I have been as busy as possible.'

'Now, Miss Gwynne, I am sure you will agree with me,' cried Netta,
suddenly brightening up and getting animated 'Do you think it right to
encourage those Irish beggars?'

'Right! no, of course I don't.'

'And do you think people ought to allow them to come into the house--to
take them in, and to--to shelter them in short?'

'Decidedly not. I hope you don't do such things, Mrs Prothero?'

There was a wicked twinkle in a merry eye as this was said.

'The truth is, Miss Gwynne,' said Mrs Prothero, slowly rubbing her hands
one over another, 'there is a poor Irish girl in the barn almost dying,
and it is impossible to send her to the Union to-night, or to leave her
where she is.'

'Oh, I'll write an order for the Union in papa's name. You can't believe
a word those Irish say. You had better get her sent off directly.'

This was said with the air of command and decision of one not accustomed
to have her orders disputed.

'But, Miss Gwynne, if you only knew--' began the overwhelmed Mrs
Prothero.

'I know quite well. We are obliged to commit dozens of them as vagrants,
and I should not at all wonder if we should not be compelled to have
you taken up some day for harbouring suspicious characters.'

The tears stood in Mrs Prothero's kind eyes. She had not much authority
amongst the young people apparently.

'There, mother! I knew Miss Gwynne would agree with me.'

'And do you think the law of Christian charity would agree with you,
Netta?' here broke in a grave and stern voice from the sofa.

Both the young ladies coloured at this interruption? Miss Gwynne with
mortified dignity, Netta with anger. Mrs Prothero cast an appealing
glance at her son, who came forward.

'She may have my bed, mother,' said the young man, colouring in his
turn, as he met Miss Gwynne's defiant glance, that seemed to say, 'Who
are you?'

'How very absurd, Mr Rowland,' said that young lady, laughing
scornfully. 'I suppose, according to your law of Christian charity, we
must fill our houses with all the Irish beggars that come through
Carmarthenshire! A goodly company!'

'Have you seen this poor girl. Miss Gwynne?'

'No, certainly not, but I know by heart all she has to say.'

'If you would but just see her,' said Mrs Prothero entreatingly not
daring to contradict the heiress of Glanyravon Park, who had a will of
her own, if Mrs Prothero had not.

'With the greatest pleasure; but I know all the "my leddy's," "yer
honour's," and "the sweet face o' ye," that I shall hear.'

'Don't go, Miss Gwynne, you may take the fever. I wouldn't go for the
world,' cried Netta.

'I am not afraid of fevers or anything else, I hope,' said Miss Gwynne
contemptuously. 'You will be afraid of catching a toothache from
infection next,' and herewith she left the room, followed by Mrs
Prothero.

During their short absence, Mr Rowland Prothero read his sister a very
proper lecture for a clergyman, on Christian charity and filial
obedience, to which she listened with pouting lips and knitted brow, but
with no answering speech, good or bad. She was not silent because she
had nothing to say, but because she was afraid of her brother, who was
the only person of whom she was afraid. Her feelings, however, found
vent in the leaves of a rose that she was pulling to pieces and
scattering ruthlessly.

The lecturer on Christian charity was a tall, gentlemanly-looking young
man, whose apparently habitual gravity of deportment warmed into
earnestness and animation as he talked to his sister. He looked and
spoke as if his soul were in the words he uttered, and as if it had
been choice and not compulsion that led him to become a minister in
Christ's family.

The entrance of Mrs Prothero and Miss Gwynne was a great relief to
Netta. She looked up briskly at the latter, as if sure of sympathy, and
if eyes full of tears could give it, she certainly was satisfied.

Mr Rowland Prothero perceived the tears, and retired to his sofa, taking
up his book and pretending to read.

'Can I help you, Mrs Prothero? There does not seem a moment to lose. I
will send for a doctor, or do anything I can,' said Miss Gwynne.

'Thank you, dear Miss Gwynne,' replied Mrs Prothero, 'I will put her in
Owen's room.'

'Who can we get to bring her in? Shall I go and fetch one of the men?
Netta, do get some one to help us.'

'I will help you, if you will allow me,' said Mr Rowland, rising from
his sofa, and looking at Miss Gwynne with a glance of warm approval.

'Pray do; now; at once. I will go with you whilst your mother prepares
the room. You could carry her quite well, for she is as thin as a ghost;
I never saw such a wretched girl.'

Miss Gwynne hurried to the barn, followed by Rowland. They found Gladys
with a farm-servant by her side, apparently either dead or asleep.

Rowland Prothero knelt down, and took her up gently in his arms, Miss
Gwynne assisting. The poor girl unclosed her eyes, and looked wistfully
at the face that was bending over her.

'You are with friends, and in God's hands,'said Rowland gently, as the
eyes languidly reclosed.

He carried her upstairs to his brother's room, and having placed her on
the bed, left her to the care of his mother and Miss Gwynne.

Whilst they were employed in getting her into bed, a house-servant came
to say that Miss Gwynne was wanted. She found a footman awaiting her,
who told her that his master had sent him in search of her, and was in a
state of great anxiety about her. She ran up to Mrs Prothero for a few
minutes.

'Really papa is too absurd, too provoking,' she said with a vexed voice;
'he has sent after me again, and I am sure he must know I am here. Let
me hear if I can be of any service, Mrs Prothero; I will send anything
in the way of medicine or nourishment. Good-bye, I will come again
to-morrow.'

'Mr and Mrs Prothero, the Vicarage, come to-morrow,' said Mrs Prothero.

'Yes, they are to dine with us on Wednesday, and told me they meant to
sleep here. Good evening. Dear me, how wretched that poor girl looks.'

Miss Gwynne was soon hastening homewards, heedless of the splendid sky
above, or the glowing fields beneath. She was making reflections on the
excellence of Mrs Prothero, the silliness of Netta, the precision of
Rowland, and the misery of the girl Gladys. Thence she turned her
thoughts upon herself, and suddenly discovered that she had been too
decided in at once ordering any person to the workhouse, without at
first knowing the case.

'But it is no wonder that I am too decided sometimes, when my father is
so dreadfully weak and vacillating,' she said to herself; 'indeed I do
not think, after all, that one can be too decided in this irresolute
world.'

This very decided young lady is the only child and supposed heiress of
Gwynne of Glanyravon, as her father is usually called. She is an
aristocratic-looking personage, with a certain I-will-have-my-own-way
air, that you cannot help recognising at once. She is rather taller than
most tall women, and the tokens of decision in her carriage, eyes,
voice, and general deportment would be disagreeable, but for the extreme
grace of her figure, the unaffected ease of her manner, and the
remarkable clearness and sweetness of her voice. She is handsome, too,
with a noble forehead, sensible grey eyes, glossy chestnut hair, and a
very fine complexion. The many of her nominal friends and admirers who
at heart dislike her, prophesy that in a few years she will be coarse,
and say that she is already too masculine; but the few who love her,
think that she will improve both in person and mind, as she rubs off the
pride and self-opinionativeness of twenty years of country life against
the wholesome iron of society and the world. But we shall see.

At present she is fortunate enough to rule everybody she comes in
contact with; her father, his servants, his tenants, the poor, the very
mendicants that come to the door.

Certainly there is something very charming in her appearance, as she
hurries up the fine old avenue that leads to her ancestral home. The
ease of her port, the graceful dignity of her extreme haste, the
heightened colour, and the glowing eye, are all very handsome, in spite
of the coarseness in perspective. The poor footman can scarcely keep up
with her; he has not found the last twenty years at Glanyravon
productive of the same lightness of step to him, as to his young
mistress, and wishes she were a little less agile.

A handsome country house in a good park has not often in itself much of
the picturesque. Ruskin would not consider Glanyravon, with its heavy
porch, massive square walls, and innumerable long windows, a good
specimen of architectural beauty; still it is a most comfortable
dwelling, beautifully situated; and the magnificent woods at the back,
and grand view in front, would make the most unartistic building
picturesque in appearance if not in reality.

Miss Gwynne ran up the broad stairs, through the large hall, and into a
good library. Here a very tall, thin, sickly-looking man was seated in
an easy-chair.

'My dear Freda, I am so thankful you are come!'

'My dear father, how I wish you would not send for me the very moment I
go out. I really cannot be pestered with servants. It fidgets me to
death to have a man walking and puffing after me.'

'But just consider, my love, the lateness of the hour.'

'It is scarcely eight o'clock now, papa, and as light as possible.'

'I am too nervous, my love, to bear your being out alone.'

Miss Gwynne rang the bell authoritatively, and the footman entered.

'Tell Mrs Davies to send some jelly, and whatever strengthening things
there are in the house, to Glanyravon Farm immediately,' she said; then
turning to her father, added, 'do you know, papa, Mrs Prothero has taken
in a sick Irish girl, and I have abetted it.'

'You, child! I hope she has no infectious disease; it quite alarms me.'

'I really don't know. But Mr and Mrs Jonathan Prothero are going to
Glanyravon to-morrow, and remember you invited them to dinner on
Wednesday.'

'I am very sorry! that man kills me with the antiquities of the Welsh
language, and heaven knows what old things that happened before the
flood. But you must entertain them. I suppose we had better ask young
Rowland.'

'Oh, papa! He is so dreadfully quiet and stiff, and thinks there is only
one man who ever went to Oxford, and he is that man; and I can't endure
him.'

'Perhaps not, my dear--indeed, perhaps not.'

'If we ask him, we must ask Netta. She has come home quite accomplished
from boarding school, and would do in a quiet way. Mrs Jonathan would be
pleased, and you know she _is_ a lady, though awfully particular. I
can't endure her either.'

'Perhaps you could invite Lady Mary, and Miss Nugent to meet them?'

'I don't think they would like it. They would not object to the two
clergymen, because, as Lady Mary says, 'You see, my dear, the cloth is a
passport to all grades of society;' but they would not approve of Netta.
That is to say, Lady Mary would think herself insulted if we introduced
her sweet Wilhelmina to a farmer's daughter.'

'She is a very superior woman, my love, and understands etiquette, and
all that sort of thing, better than any one I ever met.'

'She seems to me to understand her own interests, papa, as well as most
people. But I will tell her that Sir Hugh and the Protheros are coming,
and that we have asked Netta, so she can accept or decline as she
likes.'

'Do you think it wise, my dear, to put yourself so much on a level with
Miss Prothero, as to invite her?'

'Oh! she understands how we are very well. It will be a source of pride
and satisfaction to her, without making her presume more than before;
and the vicar and his lady will like the attention.'

'I dread the vicar. His genealogies are too much for me.'

'Oh, I can put up with the vicar's antiquities, but not with the young
vicar's pedantic Oxonianism. He does think so well of himself, and quite
rules every one at home.'

'Oh! that is very fatiguing, I should think.'

'I wish he would fall in love with Miss Nugent, and she with him, and
carry off her forty-thousand pounds. She is silly enough for anything,
and it would be such a downfall to her mother's pride.'

'Her mother is much too careful, my dear, and by far too superior a
woman. And Miss Wilhelmina is very accomplished and all that sort of
thing, you know, and likely to make a fine match. She is very pretty,
too.'

'Yes; she and Netta Prothero would run in harness. Pretty, silly, rather
affected, and having drawn each four or five drawings, and learnt six
tunes on the piano. Only the one is more fashionable than the other. Do
you know, papa, Miss Nugent can play the Irish and Scotch quadrilles,
and Netta '_Ar hydy Nos,_' with small variations. We will have a
concert; you know I have asked the Rice Rices?'

'Very well, my dear. Now I think I will read a sermon to the servants,
so just ring the bell.'






CHAPTER IV.

THE MISER.


Whilst Mr Gwynne is reading his sermon, and Mrs Prothero is nursing the
mendicant Gladys, an event is passing in the neighbouring country-town,
involving matters of interest to her, and those belonging to her. In a
small bedroom over a little huckster's shop, an old man lies dangerously
ill. By his side is seated a middle-aged woman watching. In a dark
corner, behind the bed, stands a man, who is so deep in shadow that you
scarcely know whether he is young or old.

The room is small and shabby, and contains apparently few comforts for
one nearly approaching his last hour.

There is a tap at the door, upon which the man behind the bed goes out,
and returns, almost immediately, followed by Rowland Prothero. He goes
towards the bed, and stooping down, whispers to the sick man.

'Father, you wished to see Rowland--he is here.'

Rowland advances, and takes the seat vacated for him by the woman.

The three inmates of the room are Mr and Mrs Griffith Jenkins, and their
only son, Howel. They are cousins of the Protheros, Mrs Jenkins being Mr
Prothero's first cousin, and the members of the younger generation being
consequently second cousins.

Griffith Jenkins motions to his wife and son to leave the room, which
they do immediately. Rowland kneels beside his bed, the better to hear
what he has to say. He appears, however to revive, and is distinct
enough in his enunciation of the following words, though very slow.

'My son Howel is come back, Mr Rowland, and do promise to be study.'

'I am very glad to hear it; it must be a great comfort to you,'

'But I am not seure of him. He will be spending my money that I have
been takking such pains to make.'

'I hope he may do good with it, Uncle Griff.'

'Good! no such thing. Squander, squander! Spend the beauty gold! Will
you promise me to see to it? tak' care of it?'

'I, Uncle Griff! I have no power with Howel. Would it not be better to
pray to God to guide Howel, and trust in a higher power than mine?'

Mr Jenkins put a long, thin, bony hand out of bed, and grasped
Rowland's hand tightly. He fixed two keen black eyes upon him, and, as
he half raised himself in bed, displayed a withered face, the most
remarkable feature of which was a very prominent, hooked nose, like the
beak of a large bird.

'You wasn't thinking I was going to die, was you, Rowland? I 'ont just
awhile, see you. But tell you your father there's more gold than he is
thinking of; and Howel'll be a husband for any one, much less for Miss
Netta. Promise me to be lending him a hand, if he do keep constant to
your sister.'

'I am sorry, Uncle Griff, that I cannot promise anything for Howel. If
he grows steady as you say, there can be no objection; but he must prove
it first. Would you like me to read to you, and pray to Almighty God,
for Christ's sake, to change his and all our hearts?'

'I didn't be wanting a parson, but a relation, sir; and I don't be going
to die yet. Look you here. There's money in the bank--there's more in
mortgages on Davies, Llansadwn, and Rees, Llanarthney--there's more on
loan to Griffiths, Pontardewé,--Jones, Glantewey,--Pugh the draper,
Llansant--and others. And there's a box beside. Mind you, I 'ont die
yet, but I tell you, because I can trust you; and Howel don't know
nothing.'

'May I write it down for you, Uncle Griff; or would you have a lawyer?'

'No, no. I've had enough of law in paying for Howel, and nothing come of
it. But you may be writing down a little. Here, in that chest, there's
pen, ink and paper; tak' you my keys, and open you it.'

Griffith Jenkins took from under his pillow a bunch of keys, and
fumbling amongst them, gave one to Rowland, with which he opened the
chest, and procured the necessary writing apparatus.

'Give you me my keys--quick, quick!' cried the old man, again hiding
them somewhere in his bed.'

At his dictation, Rowland wrote a list of the different moneys he
possessed in various places, and was utterly astonished to find that he
had soon written down between sixty and seventy thousand pounds.
Everybody knew that Griffith Jenkins was rich, but nobody had guessed
how rich he was.

'Now say, "I give and bequeath to my wife, 'Lizbeth Jenkins, ten
thousand pound out of the aforesaid mortgage on Jacob Davies Llansadwn's
property."'

'Is that all, Uncle Griff?'

'Yes, I sha'n't say no more.'

'And the box of gold?'

Again the miser grasped Rowland's hand, and fixed his keen eyes on his
face.

'I 'ont be dying yet, and I 'ont be putting that down to-night. Tell you
your father what there is, without the box, and without more mortgages
and loans; but don't you be talking to anybody about it. Mind you, not
to Howel nor to 'Lizbeth: promise me.'

Rowland promised.

The miser fell back exhausted.

'And now Uncle Griff, may I pray for you? Only think how soon you may be
called to your account, to say exactly how you have employed your time,
and the talents given--'

'I have done plenty--plenty--all out at interest, at five, six, even ten
per cent.; none wrapped up in a napkin. I don't be calling a box a
napkin, Rowland Prothero.'

'May I call in Mrs Jenkins and Howel, and pray for you? Think; oh think,
of the great Judge, and great Mediator. O God, have mercy upon us,
miserable sinners!'

As Rowland said this, he clasped his hands, and looked upwards, in
unutterable supplication. The old man was alarmed.

'I don't be going to die, but you may call 'em in.'

Rowland rose and obeyed. Mrs Jenkins appeared with a candle in her hand.
The old man rose with an effort as she drew near the bed.

'Put--out--the--candle,' he muttered.

As the night was fast drawing in, Mrs Jenkins hesitated.

'Put--out--the--candle,' repeated the dying man, with a still stronger
effort to rise and extinguish it himself. 'The ruling passion strong in
death' must be attended to, and the light was extinguished.

Rowland Prothero clasped his hands with a groan, and repeated aloud a
prayer from the service for the dying. The terrified wife knelt down by
the bed in the deep gloom, and in the still deeper gloom behind, the son
buried his face in his arms, and leaned upon the little table.

Whilst Rowland Prothero was praying from the very depth of his heart for
the soul that was thus awfully passing to its account, they were all
aroused by the last fearful struggle between death and life of him who
had made gold his god. For some time they feared to rekindle the light,
but at last they ventured. It was but to witness the last dread pangs of
one who had made wife and son secondary to the great absorbing passion
of avarice; and now he was constrained to depart from the scene of his
toil, and to leave all that he had grovelled for behind him, for ever!

We will not dwell upon the awful hours that succeeded his final words.
He neither spoke nor was conscious again. Light and dark were alike to
him. Save that he grasped something in his right hand with an iron hold,
reason and power had left him; death was still fighting with life, and
gradually gaining the last great victory.

A few hours afterwards, and when that victory had been gained, the scene
was changed in that small house. The chamber of death was deserted, and
the wretched clay of the miser, decently covered with a white sheet, lay
heavy and still, where the spirit that formerly animated it had been
accustomed to brood over the miserable gains of its clays and years on
earth.

In the small sitting-room below, behind the little shop where these
gains had been begun and continued for half-a-century or more, sat the
widow, surrounded by a score of gossips, who had left their beds and
homes at daybreak to condole with her.

It would have been much more unnatural than natural if Mrs Jenkins had
grieved at heart for the husband she had lost. Married, or rather sold
to him, when he was fifty and she thirty, she had lived five or six and
twenty years of pure misery with him. She had starved with him, when she
could not pilfer from him, and had endured patiently all these years
what seemed past endurance in expectation of the closing scene. She had
married and lived upon the prospect of his death, and it was come at
last; and now that it was come, the awfulness of that last struggle
overpowered her, and she wept and lamented as copiously as if her
husband had been the kindest and most liberal in the world. Still, she
was free, with competence, she hoped, in perspective? and this thought,
together with the ever all-pervading one of her idol, her treasure, her
only son, and his expectations, more than counterbalanced that of the
death she had witnessed.

'Come you, don't you be takking on so,' said one old woman soothingly,
as the widow rocked herself to and fro, and held her handkerchief to her
eyes.

'Tak' you this drop o' tea,' said another, 'it'll be doing you good,'

'The Lord will be having mercy on his soul,' said a third, whose
conscience was large when she was offering comfort.

'There now, keep up your spirits, Mrs Jinkins, fach,' said a fourth,
entering with a comfortable glass of gin and water that did seem of an
exhilarating nature.

'There's a comfort Howel will be to you now!' said a fifth triumphantly.

'Deed to goodness, Griffey Jinkins was a saving man, and you have lost
him, Mrs Jinkins, fach,' began the friend with the gin and water; 'but
I am seeing no use in takking on so. When John Jones died, he was
leaving me with ten children, and they have all come on somehow. And you
have only wan son, and he is so ginteel! Drink you this, my dear, and
don't be down-hearted.'

Mrs Jenkins turned from the tea to the gin and water with no apparent
reluctance, and swallowed a portion of it. Revived by the beverage, she
responded to the condolences of her friends by more rockings, sobs, and
applications of the handkerchief and finally unburdened herself of her
grief in the following manner.

'My son Howel, oh yes, he'll be a blessing to me, I know. Says I to my
poor Griffey--oh, dear, only to be thinking of him now!--says I, "Let us
be giving Howel a good eddication, and he so clever as never was, and
able to be learning everything he do put his mind to, and never daunted
at nothing--grammar, nor music, nor Latin, nor no heathen languages, and
able to read so soon as he could speak, and knowing all the beasts in
the ark one from another, when he was no bigger than that," says I, to
my poor Griffey; "oh, annwyl! we have only wan child, let him be a
clargy, or a 'torney, or a doctor, or something smart," and says he, "I
can't afford it." He was rather near or so, you know, was my poor
Griffey; but I never was letting him rest day or night, and the only
thing he wasn't liking was being much talked over. So says I, "Come you,
Jinkins, bach,"--he liked to be called by his sirname--"if you do larn
Howel well, he'll be making his fortune some day," for he do say so, he
do be always saying, "I'll be a great man, and get as much money as
father." I eused to put in the last words of myself, for Howel never was
taking to making money, but 'ould as soon give it away as not. Only poor
Griffey--oh dear! oh dear!--was never knowing that, because I did be
hiding it from him as much as I could.'

Whilst the widow talks on in this strain to her sympathising friends,
her son and Rowland Prothero are in another small room of the house,
engaged in a very different style of conversation. The room in which
they are is worth a few words of description, not for any beauty or
desert of its own, but for its heterogeneous, contents. You would think
a small music warehouse, a miniature tobacco shop, or branch depot of
foreign grammars and dictionaries were before you. Every kind of musical
instrument seems to have met with a companion in this tiny apartment.
Here are a violin, violoncello, horn, and cornopean; there an old Welsh
harp and unstrung guitar. On this shelf are pipes of all sorts and
sizes, forms, and nations--the straight English, the short German, and
the long Turkish; on that are cigar-boxes, snuff-boxes, and
tobacco-boxes of various kinds and appearances. Scattered about the room
are play-books without number, from Shakspeare to the dramatists of the
present day; and, interspersed with these, collections of songs of all
countries and of all grades of merit. Some few novels, mostly French,
live with the plays and songs; and Latin, French, German, Italian,
Welsh, Spanish, and English grammars and dictionaries take up their
abode in every available corner. A quantity of fishing tackle and a gun
are thrown upon the window seat, and an embroidered waistcoat, blue
satin cravat, and a pair of yellow kid gloves lie on an unoccupied
chair.

From the general appearance of this room, the imagination would conceive
great things of its inmate. All we shall here say is that he is one who
has the reputation of being a natural genius, and firmly believes that
he is one.

As all natural geniuses are supposed to have something very remarkable
in their appearance, we will just take a sketch of the miser's son, as
he alternately leans on the table or stalks about the room during his
earnest conversation with his cousin. He has decidedly sentimental hair;
long, black, shining, and with a tendency to curl; he has what might be
termed poetical eyes, bright, piercing, and very restless; the sharp,
aquiline nose of his father, slightly modified; and a mouth and brow
which curl and knit in a manner that may be poetic, but might be
disagreeable, under less soothing influences. That he is very handsome
no one could dispute, and it is equally certain that he has an air much
above the position in which he was born; but the expression of his face
inspires distrust rather than confidence, and conveys the impression
that there is more of passion than feeling beneath the fiery eyes and
compressed mouth.

A great contrast to this family genius is presented in the person of his
cousin Rowland, now addressing him earnestly and seriously upon the
grave subjects naturally uppermost at such a time. He, too, is
sufficiently good-looking, with an open, though grave, cast of
countenance, fine, soft, hazel eyes, and a tall, manly figure. By
'sufficiently good-looking,' I mean that he is neither very handsome nor
ugly, and when his lady friends debate upon his outer man they generally
wind up by saying, 'Well, if he isn't handsome, he is very genteel.'

We are not going to repeat here the well-known fable of the 'Hare and
the Tortoise,' but something of the character of those animals may be
found in the cousins. At their first dame's school, as well as at the
more advanced grammar school of their little town. Howel was always able
to beat Rowland in swiftness, whilst Rowland effectually distanced
Howel in the long run. It was Rowland who carried off the prizes, when
study and prolonged endeavour were necessary to obtain them, whilst
Howel eclipsed all his contemporaries, if a theme were to be written, or
a poem learnt.

Such differences are so frequent, and have been so often discussed that
it is scarcely necessary to pursue the contrast further; but the result
at the present stands thus. Howel, the elder of the two, has dipped a
little into everything; has gained a reputation for genius; has been
articled to an attorney--but is in no apparent danger of becoming
one--has written various articles for the county papers, and has had the
pleasure of seeing them printed; has acquired a smattering of several
languages, and various styles of music; and has proved himself an
admired beau amongst the ladies, and a favourite boon companion amongst
the gentlemen. He has been idolised and spoilt by his mother, and
stinted and pinched by his father, and having no very great respect or
admiration for the talents or conduct of either parent, has not tried
much to please them, save when it suited him.

The result of all this, if not already apparent, will doubtless be seen
hereafter, for, at four or five and twenty, conduct and principles begin
to establish themselves.

Rowland Prothero is very much the reverse of all this. From a child he
had a desire to enter the Church, which desire was fostered by his uncle
and aunt into a resolution, when he grew old enough to resolve. As they
very nearly adopted and educated him, his parents made no objection, and
as they were ambitious to raise their family in worldly position, they
spared no expense.

Rowland was reckoned dull, but plodding, at Rugby, whither his uncle
sent him. However, his dulness and plodding were more successful than
the brightness of many, since they managed to gain a scholarship at
school, which helped him at Oxford. He was called proud and obstinate,
and he was both. Pride and obstinacy were the characteristics of his
family, but in him they fortunately tended to good: inasmuch as his
pride generally led him to do well, and his obstinacy kept up his pride.

At present, it would be difficult to say whether he is a young man
likely to shine in the path he has chosen, or to walk quietly along it
unnoticed. His friends do not anticipate anything remarkable, but they
expect him to be slow and sure. He did very well at college, but gained
no greater honours than the respect and goodwill of those he was known
to. Query--Is not that worth as much, morally, as a first class?

At home, he is understood by few. He has not many associates, because,
either from his own fault, or some mental peculiarity, he cannot fall in
with those who are immediately about him; and consequently is rather
feared by his acquaintances and reckoned proud, stiff, and
conceited--above his birth, in short.

With him, as with Howel and every one else, the course of years will
show the man. 'Handsome is that handsome does.'

'The fact is, Rowland,' said Howel, as he suddenly stood still in one of
his rapid walks across the room, 'you and I never could agree in
anything, and never shall.'

'I hope we may yet agree in many things,' said Rowland gently. 'At
present, all I wish you to do is to pay your debts, go to London, take
out your stamps, and become an attorney.'

'I am the best judge of that, and shall be my own master now. At all
events, I can make some people ashamed of themselves.'

'I only wish to advise you for your good, now that you are your own
master. Your poor father begged me--'

'Oh, Rowland, I can't stand any more about my father. Everybody knows
what he was, and, I suppose, nobody expects me to live in the same line.
I am emancipated, thank heaven! and the world shall soon know it.'

'Still, he was your father.'

'No one knows that better than I do, I should imagine; but if you expect
me to mourn as others do for a parent, you will be disappointed. He
never showed me one token of love, or acted by me as a father from the
day of my birth till his death.'

'At least he has left you and your mother handsomely provided for, and
with his last words, hoped that you were now very steady.'

'He did! I wonder who dares to say that I am not steady? But how do you
know how we are provided for?'

'He begged me to write down what he was worth. I will give it you at
some future period, but not now.'

'Why not now?'

'Because I think it is scarcely yet a time to consider money matters.
After the last duties are performed you shall have the paper. Part of
his property is written down, but a box of gold and some other sums he
did not name. After that last sad scene one can scarcely think of
anything earthly. Oh, Howel! I wish you would consider the shortness and
uncertainty of life, and what is its end.'

'So awful do I consider its end that I mean to enjoy it while it lasts.
But don't go off with the impression that I was not shocked and
frightened with what we have just seen. It is one thing to read and
write about a death-bed and another to witness it. But I cannot weep or
pray as some people can.'

'You might do both if you would only seek aright.'

'There, enough! I am past being preached to as a naughty boy, and can
now look forward to some enjoyment without robbing my own father, or
getting my mother to rob him, to procure it. But I shall never forget
that last struggle? no, never.'

Here, with a face of horror, Howel began his restless walk again.
Rowland sat in melancholy silence.

'Rowland,' suddenly broke in Howel, 'how is Netta?'

'Quite well, I thank you,' answered Rowland gravely.

'I have not seen her for a long time? will you remember me to her?'

'I cannot promise to do so.'

'Do you think me a fiend, sir, that my name cannot be mentioned to my
cousin? I will manage to convey my own remembrances.'

'Howel, you know how it is? I do not mean to be unkind. If only you
would give up your old life, enter your profession, and begin another--'

'That is as I choose. I shall be glad of the paper you wrote for my
father, and then you and I, Rowland, are best apart.'

'Good-bye then, Howel? perhaps some day you may know that I wish you
well. I will bring the paper at the funeral.'

'For heaven's sake stay, or send some one else! I cannot bear to be
alone here? his ghost will haunt me.'

'Then let me read to you.'

Howel assented gloomily and threw himself on the bed in the corner of
the room. Rowland took a small Testament from his pocket and resolutely
read several chapters.

During the reading Howel fell asleep.






CHAPTER V.

THE FARMER'S SON.


At about ten o'clock on Monday morning Miss Gwynne rode up to the door
of Glanyravon Farm, and, dismounting, entered the house. She was
attended by a groom, and told him that she should not be long.

'How is that poor girl, Netta?' were her first words on entering the
house.

'Very ill indeed, I believe,' said Netta, rather sulkily.

'Where is your mother?'

'She has been with the Irish beggar all the morning, and all night too.
I don't know what father and uncle and aunt will think.'

'Will you ask your mother whether I can see her for a few minutes?'

'Certainly.'

'Netta, you must come and dine with us on Wednesday, with your uncle and
aunt.'

'Thank you,' said Netta, brightening up as she left the room.

'I'm sure I scarcely know whether she will behave rightly,' muttered
Miss Gwynne, tapping her hand with her riding-whip.

Mrs Prothero soon appeared.

'You good, clear Mrs Prothero!' exclaimed Miss Gwynne, running up to her
and taking both her hands. 'You look quite worn out. How is that poor
girl?'

'Alive, Miss Gwynne, and that is almost all,' was the reply very gravely
uttered.

'Can we do anything? Did Dr Richards come?'

'Yes, Miss Gwynne, and was very kind. He has been again this morning.'

'I came to invite Mr Rowland and Netta to dinner on Wednesday, with Mr
and Mrs Jonathan Prothero.'

'Thank you, Miss Gwynne, I will tell Rowland; but I really think Netta
had better not go.'

'I have just told her of the invitation.'

'Dear me! I am really very sorry. I beg your pardon, Miss Gwynne, but it
will put ideas into her head above her station.'

'We shall be very quiet.'

The conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Rowland. He
drew back on seeing Miss Gwynne, and bowed, as usual, profoundly. She
also, as usual, advanced and held out her hand.

'My father begged me to ask if you would come and dine with us on
Wednesday,' said Miss Gwynne.

'Thank you, I am much obliged,' stammered Rowland, whilst a bright Hush
overspread his face, 'I shall be very happy, if I am not obliged to be
elsewhere. Mother, poor Griffith Jenkins is dead. I have been there all
the night.'

'Dead! I had no idea he was so ill! Oh, Rowland, how did he die?'

'Just as he lived, mother. With the key of his coffers so tightly
clasped in one hand that it was impossible to take it from it after he
was dead. And the said coffers hidden, nobody knows where. But poor Mrs
Jenkins has no friend near who can be of any real comfort to her. I wish
you could go to her for a few hours.'

'This poor girl, Rowland--what can I do with her? And your uncle and
aunt coming.'

'I think I can manage my uncle and aunt till your return. As to the poor
girl I really know not what to say.'

'Oh! if you will trust her to me, Mrs Prothero, I will nurse her till
you come back!' exclaimed Miss Gwynne eagerly. 'I assure you I can
manage capitally, and will send back the horses, and a message to papa.'

'I am afraid it would not be right--I think the girl has low fever--Mr
Gwynne would object.'

'I assure you it would be quite right, and I don't fear infection and
papa would let me do just as I like. In short, I mean to stay, and you
must go directly. Is young Jenkins at home, Mr Rowland?'

'Yes, he returned a few hours before his father's death.'

'I suppose that horrid old man died as rich as Croesus, and, according
to custom in such cases, his son will spend the money.'

'I wish he had not got it,' said Mrs Prothero.

'That is scarcely a fair wish, mother. Let us hope that he will do well
with it.'

'Never, never. He was not born or bred in a way to make him turn out
well.'

'Nothing is impossible, mother.'

'You must take care of Netta, Mrs Prothero. But now do go to that
wretched Mrs Jenkins, and leave the poor girl to me, and Mr and Mrs
Jonathan to Mr Rowland. I hope you have been studying the antiquities of
Wales at Oxford, Mr Rowland?'

This was said as Mrs Prothero left the room; and Rowland was startled
from a rather earnest gaze on Miss Gwynne's very handsome and animated
face, by this sudden appeal to him, and by meeting that young lady's
eyes as they turned towards him. A slight blush from the lady and a very
deep one from the gentleman were the result. The lady was indignant with
herself for allowing such a symptom of female weakness to appear, and
said somewhat peremptorily,--

'Will you be so good as to tell Jones to take the horses home, and to
let my father know that he must not wait luncheon, or even dinner for
me?'

'Excuse me, Miss Gwynne,' said the young man, recovering his composure,
'but I do not think my mother would be justified in allowing you to
attend upon that poor girl.'

'Allowing me! Really I do not mean to ask her. I choose to do it, thank
you, and I will speak to the servant myself.'

It was now Miss Gwynne's turn to grow very red, as, with haughty port,
she swept past Rowland, leaving him muttering to himself.

'What a pity that one so noble should be so determined and absolute. Let
her go, however. Nobody shall say that I lent a hand to her remaining
here. In the first place she runs the risk of infection, in the second
every one else thinks she degrades herself by coming here as she does.
Still, her desire to take care of the girl is a fine, natural trait of
character. I must just go and look over the _Guardian_. A curacy in
England I am resolved to get, away from all temptation. Yet I hate
answering advertisements, or advertising. If my aunt's friends would
only interest themselves in procuring me a London curacy, I think I
should like to work there. That would be labouring in the vineyard, with
a positive certainty of reaping some of the fruits.'

The soliloquy was interrupted by the reappearance of Mrs Prothero,
dressed for her walk.

'Mother, you ought not to let Miss Gwynne stay.'

'I! my dear Rowland! Do you think she would mind what I say to her?'

Miss Gwynne entered.

'I have sent off the servant, and now let me go to the girl.'

This was said with the decision of an empress, and with equal grandeur
and dignity was the bow made with which she honoured Rowland as she made
her exit, followed meekly by Mrs Prothero.

A short time afterwards she was alone by the bedside of the sick girl.
Every comfort had been provided for her by Mrs Prothero, and Miss Gwynne
had little to do but to administer medicines and nourishment.

'Is there anything I can do for you, my poor girl?' she said, leaning
over her bed. 'Anything you have to say--any letter I can write--any--'

'If--you--would--pray--my lady,' was the slow, almost inarticulate
reply.

Pray! This was what Miss Gwynne could not do. 'Why,' she asked herself,
'can I not say aloud what I feel at my heart for this unhappy creature?
I never felt so before, and yet I know not how to pray.'

She went to the head of the stairs, and called Netta.

'Will you ask your brother whether he will come and read a prayer to the
poor girl?' she said.

A few seconds after there was a knock at the door. She opened it and
admitted Rowland. He went to the bed, and began to whisper gently of the
hope of salvation to those who believe. Gladys opened her eyes, and
caught the hand extended to her.

'More--more,' she murmured. 'Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief.'

Rowland read the Office for the Sick, from the prayer book, and she
responded inwardly, her lips moving. Miss Gwynne came to the bed, and
kneeling down, joined in the prayers.

Again Rowland spoke soothingly to the girl of the need of looking to
Christ, the Saviour, alone in the hour of her extremity; and she
murmured, 'He is my rock and my fortress.'

'Do you trust wholly in Him?'

'In whom else should I trust? All human friends are gone.'

'Not all, you have friends around you.'

'Have I? Thank you, sir? God bless you.'

'I will come again and read to you when you are able to bear it.'

Rowland said this and withdrew, without speaking again to Miss Gwynne,
or even bowing as he left the room.

'He certainly reads most impressively,' thought Miss Gwynne; 'I could
scarcely believe he was not English born and bred; but still he is quite
a Goth in manners, and I am sure he thinks no one in the country so
clever as himself.'

Rowland met Netta at the foot of the stairs.

'Netta, I really am ashamed to think that you can allow Miss Gwynne to
wait upon that girl in your own house.'

'I'm sure, Rowland, Miss Gwynne needn't do it if she didn't choose. I
don't want to catch the fever, and I never will run the risk by nursing
such a girl as that.'

'Surely, Netta, you cannot be our mother's daughter, or you could not
use such unchristian expressions.'

'I'm no more unchristian than other people, but you're always finding
fault with me.'

The conversation was interrupted by a loud knocking at the house door,
and Farmer Prothero's voice was heard without, calling,--

'Mother, mother, where are you? Here we are, all come!'

Netta flew to open the door, and was soon industriously kissing a lady
and gentleman, who had just alighted from a little four-wheeled
carriage, and were waiting, with her father, for admission. Rowland,
also, in his turn, duly embraced the lady, who seemed much pleased to
see him. They brought in various packages, and proceeded to the parlour.

'Where's mother, Netta?' exclaimed Mr Prothero.

Rowland answered for her.

'She is gone to Mrs Griffey Jenkins, father; perhaps you have not heard
that Uncle Griff is dead.'

'Not I, indeed. Well! he's as good out of the world as in, though I'm
sorry for the old fellow. But what'll we do without mother? She's always
nursing somebody or other, either alive or dead.'

Rowland turned to his aunt, and said that his mother begged him to
apologise for her necessary absence for a few hours.

'I shall do very well, I daresay,' said the aunt, whose countenance wore
a somewhat austere expression.

She was a lady of middle age, who prided herself upon having a first
cousin a baronet. Her father, a clergyman, rector of a good English
living, was the younger son of Sir Philip Payne Perry, and she an only
child, was his heiress. Mr Jonathan Prothero had been, in years gone by,
his curate, and had succeeded in gaining the affections, as well as
fortune, of the daughter, and in bringing both into his native country.
He had the living of Llanfach, in which parish Glanyravon was situated,
and lived in very good style in a pretty house that he had built
something in the style of an English vicarage.

Mrs Jonathan Prothero, or Mrs Prothero, the Vicarage, as she was usually
called, was tall and thin, very fashionably dressed, with a very long
face, a very long nose, very keen greenish grey eyes, a very elaborately
curled front, a very long neck, very thin lips, and very dainty manners.
She was proud of her feet and hands, which were always well shod,
stockinged, gloved, and ringed, and as these were the only pretty points
about her, we cannot wonder at her taking care of them. People used to
say she would have been an old maid, had not a certain auspicious day
taken the Rev. Jonathan Prothero to her father's parish, who, having an
eye after the fashion of servants of a lower grade, to 'bettering
himself,' wisely made her a matron. Having no children of their own,
they lavished their affections on their nephews and niece, and their
money on their education.

'My dear Rowland,' said Mrs Jonathan, 'I think I have agreeable news for
you. I wrote to my cousin, Sir Philip Payne Perry, whose wife's brother
is, as you know, high in the church, and received this answer.'

She put a letter into Rowland's hands, and watched his countenance as he
read it.

'My dear aunt, how very good of you!' exclaimed Rowland; 'the very
thing I wished for. Oh, if I can only get it, I shall be quite happy. A
curacy in London, father! Just read this. Sir Philip thinks I might not
like it in the heart of the city, but that is really what I wish. Plenty
to do all the week long. Oh, aunt, how can I thank you enough?'

'By making every effort to advance yourself in life, and to rise in the
world, my dear nephew,' said Mrs Jonathan.

'What do you think, uncle?' asked Rowland, turning to Mr Jonathan
Prothero, who was seated in the window, with a large book before him,
that he had brought from the carriage.

'He! what! what did you ask?'

'Only what you think of this London curacy that my aunt has been so kind
as to write about.'

'Me! I! Oh, capital! just the thing in my humble opinion. If you get it,
you will be able to go to the Museum, and look up the old genealogy we
were talking about. Do you know I have made a remarkable discovery about
Careg Cennin Castle. It was built--'

'Never mind, my dear, just now; we were talking of Rowland's curacy,'
interrupted Mrs Jonathan, who generally managed all business matters.

'To be sure, my dear, to be sure, you know best,' said Mr Jonathan
absently, resuming his book.

'For my part, sister,' said the farmer, 'I 'ould rather he had a curacy
in his own country, and so 'ould his mother; but he's so confoundedly
ambitious.'

'Aunt, won't you come upstairs and take off your things?' asked Netta,
interposing, for once in her life, at the right time.

'Thank you, my dear, I should be very glad,' and they accordingly
disappeared.

'Father,' began Rowland, as soon as they were gone, 'I think it right to
tell you, that we were obliged, out of sheer charity, to take that poor
Irish girl into the house. It was impossible to move her without risk of
instant death.'

'And upon my very deed, Rowland, if this isn't too bad,' cried the
farmer, stamping his foot on the floor, and instantaneously swelling
with passion. 'As if it wasn't enough to have paupers, and poor-rates,
and sick and dying, bothering one all day long, without your bringing an
Irish beggar into the house. I never saw such an 'ooman as your mother
in my life; she's never quiet a minute. I 'ont stand it any longer; now
'tis a subscription for this, now a donation for that, then sixpence for
Jack such a one, or a shilling for Sal the other, till I have neither
peace nor money. Come you, sir, go and turn that vagabond out directly,
or I'll do it before your mother comes home, hark'ee, sir.'

'I can't father, really.'

'Then I will.'

Off stalked the farmer in his passion, crying out in the passage,
'Shanno, come here!'

A servant girl quickly answered the summons.

'Where's that Irish vagabond?'

'In Mr Owen's room, sir.'

Upstairs went the farmer, leaving Shanno grinning and saying, 'He, he,
he'll do be turning her out very soon, she will, he, he.'

Rowland ran upstairs after his father, calling out gently, 'Stop,
father, Miss Gwynne--' but the father was in the bedroom before he heard
the words, and had made the house re-echo the noise of his opening the
door.

He was instantaneously checked in his career by seeing Miss Gwynne
advance towards him, with her finger in the air.

'Hush, Mr Prothero,' she whispered, 'she is asleep. Look here; gently,
very gently.'

She led the enraged farmer by one of his large brass buttons to the
bedside, where the white-faced Gladys lay. She looked so much like a
corpse, that he started back affrighted. Then Miss Gwynne led him out
into the passage, and seeing from his angry face the state of the case,
instantly said,--

'It was I who had her brought here, Mr Prothero; and by-and-by I will
get her sent back to her parish, but until she is better we must take
care of her.'

At these words from the all-powerful Miss Gwynne, Mr Prothero was fain
to put such check upon his rising choler as the shortness of the notice
would allow. He could not, however, fully restrain the whole of the
invective that had been upon his lips a short time before.

'No offence, Miss Gwynne? but 'pon my soul, I'm sick to death of my
missus's pensioners and paupers, and I'm determined to have no more of
'em. You may do as you please, miss, at your own house, and I'll do as I
please in mine.'

Here Rowland popped his head out of a neighbouring bedroom

'Father, Miss Gwynne is taking upon herself a risk and encumbrance that
should be wholly my mother's. She has nothing to do with the girl,
beyond showing her great kindness.'

'Really, Mr Rowland Prothero,' began Miss Gwynne, drawing herself up to
her fullest height, 'I wish you would allow me to manage my own
affairs.'

'Yes, yes, Rowland. What, name o' goodness, have you to do with Miss
Gwynne? I'm ashamed of the boy. I really beg your pardon, miss, but I
believe he's so set up by having a chance of going to London, that he
don't know whether he stands on his head or his heels. Go you away,
Rowland, directly. I won't have you interfaring with me.'

Miss Gwynne could not help laughing as she saw Rowland's sense of duty
struggle with his pride at this authoritative mandate; but she was very
much surprised to see him bow politely to her and walk away. She
wondered whether anything on earth could have induced her to obey a
similar order.

She followed Mr Prothero downstairs and made herself so agreeable to him
and Mrs Jonathan, that they quite forgot Mrs Prothero's absence, until
the sudden return of that good woman set all matters right, and enabled
Miss Gwynne to leave the farm.






CHAPTER VI.

THE MISER'S WIFE.


'I must have money,' said Howel Jenkins as he sat alone with his mother
in their little parlour, the evening after Mrs Prothero had left them.

'My dear, there will be plenty when we can find it, be you sure of that.
I do know well enough that your poor father was having a chest full,
only he was keeping his door locked and barred so that I couldn't see
him at it.'

'But surely, mother, you must have some idea where my father kept his
gold. If I don't pay a man in London by tomorrow's post, I shall be in
jail before a week is over my head.'

'Mercy! Howel, bach! Now don't you be spending the mint o' money that'll
be coming to you, there's a good boy, before you do know what it is.
Remember Netta! You'll be as grand as any of 'em now, if you do only
begin right, and are being study and persevaring, and sticking to your
business. I 'ouldn't wonder if you was to be a councillor some day. Only
to think of me, mother of Councillor Jenkins! You may be looking higher
than Netta, and be marrying a real lady, and be riding in your coach and
four, and be dining with my Lord Single ton, and be in the London
papers; and I 'ouldn't wonder if you was to be visiting the Queen and
Prince Albert again, and behaving your picture taken to put into your
own books and the "'Lustrated." I always was saying I 'ould be making a
gentleman of you, and I have.'

'But, mother, before I can do anything like this I must pay my debts and
make a new beginning. I will marry Netta, now, in spite of the whole
tribe of Davids and Jonathans, and they shall see us as much above them
as--as--money can make us. Now, mother, we must have a search for the
money.'

'Not whilst your father is in the house, Howel; I should be afraid. Be
you sure his spirit'll be looking after the money till the funeral's
over.'

'Nonsense; where are the keys? We'll have a turn at the old bureau
anyhow. Money I must have, at once, and Rowland is as obstinate as a pig
about what the governor told him.'

'Indeet, and indeet, Howel, you had better don't. Suppose it 'ould bring
him to life again?'

'I'll risk that. Give me the keys.'

Mrs Jenkins handed a bunch of keys to her son with trembling fingers.

'Tak you a drop of spirits first. It do show how rich they are thinking
us now. There's Jones, the Red Cow, and Lewis, draper, are letting us
have as much credit as we like; and they 'ouldn't let us have as much as
a dobbin or a yard of tape before poor Griffey died.'

Howel drank a wine-glass of raw brandy and went upstairs with the keys
in his hand. He crept stealthily into that room where the miser breathed
his last, as if fearful of arousing the body within the drawn curtains.
He proceeded to the bureau and tried the various keys of the large bunch
that he now grasped for the first time in his life. At last one key
entered the lock and turned in it. Hush! there is a sound in the room.
He turns very pale as he glances round. He sees no movement anywhere.
The curtains are so still that he almost wishes the wind would stir
them. He opens the bureau and again looks wistfully round. He is almost
sure that the curtains move. 'Coward that I am,' he cries, 'what do I
fear?'

He turns again, and, looking into the bureau, sees that all the open
divisions are filled with papers, and imagines what must be the contents
of the closed and secret compartments. As he touches one of these a
tremor seizes him, and he fancies that a hand is on his shoulder. He
starts and turns, but the curtains are motionless as ever. He goes into
the passage and calls, 'Mother, come here. Quick! I want you directly.'

Mrs Jenkins comes upstairs, looking as pale as her son.

'Just help me out with this bureau, mother; I cannot examine it in this
room, you have put such ridiculous notions into my head.'

'I'm afraid, Howel.'

'Nonsense, come directly, or I must get some one else.'

The pair went into the room and tried to move the bureau that had stood
for nearly fifty years in that corner untouched, save by the husband and
father, now lifeless near them. It was very heavy, and scarcely could
their united strength move it from its resting-place. They finally
succeeded, however, in dragging it towards the door, in doing which they
had to pass the foot of the bed. Unconsciously they pushed the bed with
the corner of the bureau and shook it. They nearly sank to the ground
with terror, expecting, for the moment, to see the miser arise, and
again take possession of his treasures. The mother rushed into the
passage, the son again called himself a coward, and, with a great
effort, pushed the bureau through the door and shut it after him.

'Now, mother, help to get it into my room. One would think we were
breaking into another man's house, instead of taking possession of our
own property.'

With the whole of their joint strength they succeeded in getting the
heavy piece of furniture into Howel's room, where, having first locked
the door, they proceeded to examine its contents. Disappointment awaited
them; they could find nothing but papers. Deeds, mortgages, bills,
letters, accounts, were arranged in every open and shut division. The
drawers contained nothing else, and the little locked cupboard in the
centre, the key of which was found upon the bunch, also enshrined
nothing but a few very particular documents.

'These papers could not have made the bureau so heavy,' said Howel,
biting his nails. 'There must be secret drawers.'

He pulled out the drawers and papers, and threw them on his bed. He
tried to move the bureau, and found it almost as heavy as ever.

'I am thinking, Howel, bach, that cupboard don't go through to the back
of the bureau,' suggested Mrs Jenkins.

Howel seized the poker and aimed a blow at the cupboard; the mahogany
did not give way, but they fancied they heard a chinking sound within.

'I am thinking,' said the mother, 'that it must be a double bureau. It
is looking so much broader than it do seem.'

Howel examined it, and began to think so, too; he took some carpenter's
tools down from the shelf, and set to work to try to pierce the back of
the bureau with a gimlet, in order to see if the gimlet would appear on
the other side.

He worked the implement through a portion of the wood, and then found
its course stopped by some still harder matter. He had recourse to his
penknife, with which he hacked a hole in the wood, large enough to find
that there was an inner back of iron, or some kind of metal. Each new
obstacle served only to inflame his impatience, and to provoke his
temper. He forgot the bed in the next room, and everything else in the
world except the attainment of his object, and running downstairs,
returned with a large sledge-hammer that he found in the coal-hole. With
his strength concentrated in one blow, he swung it against the back of
the bureau, and had the satisfaction of finding his wishes gratified.
The concussion moved some secret spring somewhere, for as the piece of
furniture tottered on its foundation, and fell forwards against the bed,
out rolled such a profusion of gold, as led Howel to believe, the 'El
dorado' was found at last. Mother and son lifted up their hands in
astonishment; gold pieces were in every corner of the room, scattered
here and there like large yellow hail.

The noise of the blow, however, and the subsequent fall of the bureau
had alarmed a neighbour, and before one piece of the tempting gold had
been picked up, there was a loud knock at the door.

'Say the house has fallen in; the inquisitive fools!' exclaimed Howel,
as his mother left the room.

Howel began to fill his pockets with gold pieces, and opening a box,
pushed as many as he could hastily gather up into it also. There were
thousands upon thousands of sovereigns upon the floor.

'It was old Pal, the shop,' said Mrs Jenkins, returning to her golden
harvest, 'she was up nursing next door, and heard the noise. I tell her
it was the table falling down.'

'Now, mother, as soon as all is over, I must go to London and clear off
my debts with some of this money; but I must see Netta first.'

'Why don't you be putting it in the bank, Howel, bach? It will make a
gentleman of you.'

'There's enough besides to make me a gentleman, if I am not one already;
and I promise you, that when I am clear again I will come back and make
all the rich men in the country hang their heads. But I want to see
Netta.'

'Write you a bit of a note, and I will manage to send it.'

'Pick up the money, mother, and I will write the note.' Mrs Jenkins
proceeded to obey her son, whilst he unlocked a desk, and wrote the
following hasty lines:--

'I must be in London next Monday. I must see you before I leave. Meet
me at the old place in the wood by the little Fall, Sunday evening,
during church time.'

He folded the note without signing it, and gave it to his mother,
without adding any address.

'Seal it mother, and deliver it, or rather send it by some one you can
trust.'

'I'll manage that. Now pick you up some of the money. Here's a hundred
pound in my apron now, and gracious me! the lots more!'

'If you will keep the hundred pounds in your apron, mother, and let me
have the rest, I shall be satisfied.'

'But what'll you be doing with all this goold?'

'Preparing to make you the mother of Councillor Jenkins, or of a famous
man of some sort or other. What do you say to a poet or a prime
minister?'

'I 'ould rather you do be a councillor, than anything--like Councillor
Rice, Llandore.'

'Well, I shall perhaps, be a judge with all this money, and I daresay my
father--'

Here a vision of the bed in the next room stopped the young man's
speech, and shuddering slightly, he kicked a heap of sovereigns that lay
near his foot, and sent them rolling into different corners of the room.

'Take away the ill-gotten gain, mother, it will never prosper; you had
better go to bed, and I will do the same. I suppose it would be
impossible to sleep with that yellow usury on the floor. I should have
Plutus at the head of the imps of darkness about my bed, instead of
"Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John," that I used to pray to "bless the bed
that I lie on."'

'Don't talk so fullish, Howel.'

'Why it was you taught me all that Popery.'

'The Lord forgive you, Howel, I never did see the Pope, and 'ould sooner
teach you the Methodist hymn book.'

'Well, never mind, let us go to bed.'

'I'll go down and sit by the fire. Lie you down here. God bless you, my
boy, give your poor mother a kiss.'

'Good-night, mother, or rather good morning,' said the son, bending down
carelessly to be embraced by the parent who would sacrifice her life for
him.

When Mrs Jenkins had left the room, Howel hastily collected the gold
that was scattered about, and tossed it, without counting it, into the
box already mentioned, which he locked, and put the key in his pocket.
He then lay down on the bed without undressing, and tried to sleep. In
vain, no sleep would come to 'steep his senses in forgetfulness.' The
bed in the next room, with its grim, gaunt inmate, was constantly before
his eyes. If he dozed for a moment, the miser, his father, and the gold
he had for years longed to obtain possession of, haunted him, and made
him start like a thief, as if taken in the act of stealing the coin now
by inheritance his own.

'Cursed gold!' he exclaimed at last, jumping from the bed, 'what shall I
do with it? Pay my debts, and turn a sober man? I will try. If 'Netta
will have me, perhaps I may; indeed I am sure I could. We will come here
and cut a dash first, however. I should like to humble some of our Welsh
aristocrats by showing them how the son of Griffey Jenkins can eclipse
their genealogies, by the magic power of the Golden God. I will stay
over the funeral, then off to town and get rid of my pressing debts;
then pay Levi and Moses, and all my debts of honour; then set myself up
in clothes and jewels, and come home and carry off Netta; and, finally,
have a year's pleasure at least. Take Netta to the continent, and teach
her to _parlez-vous_ a little more fluently than she does now, and to
assume more aristocratic manners; in short--in short--'

The soliloquy was interrupted by the sudden explosion of some substance
under his feet, upon which he accidentally trod as he was pacing up and
down the room. He swore an oath that emanated from his fear, and thought
that the lower regions had actually opened to receive the gold he was
meditating upon, since fire and smoke accompanied the noise, together
with a smell of gunpowder. He rushed out of the room, just as his
mother, alarmed by the sound, was running upstairs.

'They will carry him off before the funeral,' he cried, as his mother
asked what was the matter.

Ashamed of his cowardice, he made an effort to return to the room,
followed by his mother. There was such a strong smell of sulphur that
both recoiled.

'What fools we are!' exclaimed Howel, forcing himself to enter. He
stooped to examine the floor, and to his amusement and disgust, found
the remains of a cracker, which had burst beneath his foot-tread. There
were several others scattered about, that had been unnoticed, because
they looked simply like bits of paper. These had evidently been placed
by his father amongst the gold, in the hope of frightening any one who
might wish to finger it, and had rolled out with the treasure they were
intended to protect.

Mother and son again left the room, the latter locking the door as he
did so, and putting the key in his pocket. They descended to the little
parlour below stairs, where they finished the night, alternately dozing
in their chairs, and talking, and occasionally supporting themselves by
draughts of the different liquors that were spread upon the table near
them. In spite of his best efforts to throw aside such thoughts, Howel
could see nothing all that night but the gold, the father who had won
it, and the poor wretches who had been ruined in paying usurious
interest for it.






CHAPTER VII.

THE SQUIRE.


The dinners at Glanyravon were always unexceptionable. Mr Gwynne was a
bit of an epicure, and kept a capital cook, and his daughter liked to
see everything done in good style. Even Mrs. Jonathan Prothero declared
that the dinner-parties at her cousin's, Sir Philip Payne Perry's, were
scarcely more agreeable or better managed.

Still, at the dinner in question, all the elements were not quite well
amalgamated. Although the dishes were so discreetly seasoned, and the
_entremets_ so exquisitely prepared, that the most fastidious critic of
the gastronomic art would not have found a grain too much of any one
ingredient, there was a less judicious mixture amongst the guests.
Nothing could be more perfect than the bearing of the host and hostess.
Mr Gywnne was a gentleman, even in his peculiarities--fastidiously a
gentleman--and comported himself as such to every one. But he was too
nervous, and had too low a voice to put his guests at ease: one half did
not hear him at all, and the rest were slightly afraid of him on account
of this extreme fastidiousness, his nervous complaints and his being
very easily tired, or bored. Miss Gwynne was more successful at her end
of the table, but she rather annoyed some of her guests by being too
much bent on bringing out her friend Netta, and playing her off against
Miss Nugent.

She was, however, very polite to all, and, for so young a woman, made a
very agreeable and fascinating hostess. So, apparently, thought all the
gentlemen, as they principally addressed their conversation to her, and
had manoeuvred, particularly the young ones, to sit as near her as
possible. The Rev Jonathan Prothero had the place of honour at her
right, and did not take up much of her time. He appeared to be deep in
the speculation concerning the ancient castle of which we have already
heard, and was learnedly descanting upon it to Mrs Rice Rice, a lady on
his other side. The said Mrs Rice Rice, having _un oeil aux champs, et
l'autre à la ville,_ was ostensibly listening to him, whilst she was
really attending to her son, who was making visible efforts on the heart
of the heiress, Miss Gwynne.

The Rice Rices were people of family and fortune, living in the
neighbouring town. Mr Rice Rice was in the law, and was at that moment
engaged in discussing the affairs of the deceased Mr. Griffith Jenkins
and his quondam articled pupil, Howel, with Rowland Prothero across Miss
Nugent. He was a portly well-to-do-looking man, with a bald head and
good-humoured countenance. His wife was even more portly than himself,
and sat, in black velvet and marabout feathers, as stately as a princess
at a drawing-room. The task of keeping up the family reputation of the
ancient house of Rice Rice devolved in a great measure on this lady,
assisted by her daughter; and, it must be said, that if any one could
have doubted the antiquity of this honourable race after an hour's
conversation with this enthusiastic pair he must have been a sceptic
indeed! Family pride is a common weakness, but one could almost call it
the stronghold of Mrs. Rice Rice, just as the various archæological and
historical glories of Wales and the Welsh was the fortress of Mr.
Jonathan Prothero.

It was into these towers of strength that these worthies retreated on
all occasions. One saw the bulwark in Mrs. Rice Rice's ample, immoveable
figure, and in the glance of the eyes that looked over the somewhat
mountainous cheek; one saw it in a certain extension of the chin, turn
of the mouth, and slightly _retroussé_ nose. One saw it, above all, in
her manner to the Protheros.

But Mrs. Jonathan Prothero was quite as capable of sustaining the
dignity of the Philip Payne Perrys as the Welsh lady that of the Rice
Rices, and a satirist might have made a clever caricature of these
patriotic dames--the one thin and stiff, the other stout and stiff--as
they compared their family honours.

But the lady of undoubted rank and pretension of the party is Lady Mary
Nugent, who can afford to patronise or throw over-board whomsoever she
will. She is seated next to Mr Gwynne, and is lavishing a considerable
share of good looks and eloquence on that gentleman. Still in the prime
of life, elegant, refined, pretty, and a skilful tactician, she is a
dangerous rival of the young ladies, and is not wholly innocent of a
desire to eclipse them. She and her daughter are dressed very nearly
alike, in some white and light material, and at a little distance she
might pass for the fair Wilhelmina's elder sister. A profusion of
ornaments, too well arranged to appear too numerous, alone distinguish
mother and daughter. She has a handsome profile and a captivating
manner, two dangerous things in woman; but therewith she has an
occasionally malicious expression of eye and mouth, that somewhat
impairs the effect of the captivation.

Her daughter is like her in profile, but has not her fascination of
manner. She is, however, beautiful as a statue, with chiselled features
and marble complexion. But she does not at present appear to have
character enough to possess the clever malice of her mother. This may
possibly come with suitors and rivals, who generally draw out all the
evil, and sometimes much of the good, of woman's nature.

She is now simpering and blushing and saying pretty nothings between
Rowland Prothero and a certain Sir Hugh Pryse, who, on their respective
parts, think her a goose, being attracted elsewhere. Sir Hugh is
exerting his lungs to their utmost, and much beyond the boundaries that
etiquette would vainly try to impose upon them, in endeavouring to
attract the attention of Miss Gwynne; whilst Rowland is, as we before
said, discussing the death of Mr Jenkins and the prospects of his son.

Perhaps the most uncomfortable person at the table is Netta, who really
does not quite understand how to behave herself in the new atmosphere in
which she finds herself. She never was at a dinner-party before, never
waited upon by grand servants, never surrounded by such gay people; and,
in spite of her ambition to eclipse by her beauty the Misses Nugent and
Rice Rice, she feels and looks rather awkward. Miss Gwynne does all in
her power to reassure her, but she sits, looking very pretty--by far the
prettiest person in the room--and very ill at ease, until the ladies
adjourn to the drawing-room, and she takes refuge in the pictures of the
drawing-room scrap-book and her aunt.

The gentlemen arrive in course of time, which they must do, linger as
long as they will over the delights of port and politics, and then the
various schemes and thoughts engendered at the dinner-table are brought
to light over the coffee-cup.

Miss Gwynne patronisingly singles out Rowland Prothero, who, reserved by
nature, feels doubly so amongst the ill-assorted elements around him.

'Have you seen that poor girl since I was last at your house, Mr
Prothero, and how is she to-day?' inquires the heiress.

'She asked to see me yesterday, and I went to her. She seemed more
composed, and liked being read to; but she is in a very precarious
state.'

'Is your father more reconciled to her being with you?'

'Not at all. And it certainly is very unfortunate. But he would not
allow her to be neglected now she is thrown on his kindness.'

'I wish she had never come,' interposed Netta, who had ventured to cross
the room to Miss Gwynne.

'Have you heard of the great catch you are all likely to have, Miss
Gwynne?' here broke in Sir Hugh Pryse, of stentorian reputation.

'I do not know what you mean,' said Miss Gwynne.

'Why, Mr Rice Rice tells me there is more than a hundred thousand pounds
to be raffled for by all the young ladies in the country. They have
simply to put themselves into the lottery, and only one can have the
prize.'

'I never knew you so figurative before. Sir Hugh.' 'Don't pay any
attention to him, Miss Gwynne,' said a fresh addition to the circle that
stood round that young lady's chair. 'He means that old Griffey Jenkins,
the miser, is dead, and that Howel comes into all his immense wealth.'

Miss Gwynne gave her head such a magnificent toss that her neck looked
quite strained.

'I do not imagine many _young ladies_ will purchase tickets in that
lottery,' she said, with a stress upon the 'young ladies.'

'I have no doubt there are dozens who would, and will, do it at once,'
responded Sir Hugh. 'And quite right too. Such a fortune is not to be
had every day.'

'But it is gentlemen, and not ladies, who are fortune-hunters,' said
Miss Gwynne, changing her tone, when she suddenly perceived that Netta's
face and neck were crimson.

But the subject was become quite an interesting piece of local gossip,
and, one after another, all the party joined in it.

'Howel Jenkins might make anything of himself if he would but be
steady,' said Mr Rice Rice.

'Except a gentleman by birth,' said his lady.

'Or the least bit of an archæologist,' said Mr Jonathan Prothero. 'I
tried one day--you will scarcely believe it, Mr Gwynne--to make him
understand that Garn Goch was an old British encampment, but he would
not take it in.'

'Ah, really; I do not very much wonder myself, for I cannot quite "take
in" those heaps of stones and all that sort of thing,' responded the
host.

'What can they find to interest them in that sort of person?' asked
Lady Mary in an aside to Mr Gwynne.

Miss Gwynne overheard it, and answered for her father.

'He is a young man of great talent, very rich, very handsome, and has
had a miser for a father. Is not that the case Mr Rowland?'

'I--I--really, it is scarcely fair to appeal to me, as he is a
relation.'

'And do you never say a good word in favour of your relations?'

'I hope so, when they deserve it,' said Rowland resolutely, glancing at
his sister, who was biting her glove.

'If I may be allowed an opinion,' said Mrs Jonathan decidedly, also
glancing at poor Netta, 'I should say that Howel Jenkins was a complete
scapegrace. What he may yet turn out remains to be proved.'

'Well, that is putting an end to him at once,' said Miss Gwynne, 'and I
think we had better play his funeral dirge. Lady Mary, will you give us
'The Dead March in Saul,' or something appropriate? Never mind, Netta; I
daresay cousin Howel will turn out a great man by-and-by;' this last
clause was whispered to Netta, whilst the young hostess went towards a
grand piano that stood invitingly open, and begged Lady Mary Nugent to
give them some music.

That lady played some brilliant waltzes, after which, her daughter
accompanied her in the small bass of a duet.

'Pon my soul, that's a pretty girl, that little Prothero!' said Sir Hugh
Pryse to young Rice Rice. 'I never saw such a complexion in my life.
Roses and carnations are nothing to it.'

'Rather a vulgar style of beauty, I think,' said Mr Rice Rice, junior,
taking up an eyeglass, and finding some difficulty in fixing it in his
eye. He had lately discovered that he was nearsighted, to the great
grief of his mother, who, however, sometimes spoke of the sad fact in
the same tone that she used to speak of the Rice Rice, and Morgan of
Glanwilliam families. She herself belonged to the latter.

'I vow she's lovely!' cried the baronet, so emphatically that every one
in the room might have heard him. Most of the ladies, doubtless, did,
and appropriated the sentiment, but, by-and-by, Netta was triumphant, as
he went and sat by her, and complimented her in very audible terms.

She blushed and coquetted very respectably for a country damsel, and
wondered whether a poor baronet, or a wealthy miser's son would best
help her to humble the pride and condescension of the Nugents and the
Rice Rices.

Whilst Lady Mary Nugent was playing, Mr Gwynne very nearly went to
sleep, and Rowland Prothero, who liked nothing but chants, and a solemn
kind of music that he chose to think befitting a clergyman, was, in his
turn, looking over the drawing-room scrap book. Miss Gwynne gave her
papa a sly push, and whispered, that she believed Mr Rowland Prothero
played chess.

Mr Gwynne aroused himself, and challenged his young neighbour. Miss
Gwyne, assisted by all the gentlemen, brought the chess-table, and the
game soon began.

There is no doubt that there is nothing in the world more selfish, more
absorbing, more disagreeable to every one excepting the players, than
chess. Mr Gwynne began his game half asleep; Rowland began his in a very
bad temper. The former was glad of anything that could keep him awake,
the latter was disgusted at having been made the victim of Miss Gwynne's
anxiety to preserve her father from falling fast asleep in the midst of
his guests. But, by degrees, the one was thoroughly aroused, and the
other forgot his annoyance. Both soon ignored the presence of any human
being save himself and his opponent.

Music and talking sounded on all sides, but they made no impression on
the chess-players. Lady Mary performed all her most brilliant airs and
variations in vain, as far as Mr Gwynne was concerned; and Rowland was
even unconscious that Netta had resolutely played through all the small
pieces she had learnt at school at the particular request of Sir Hugh
Pryse.

'That game will never finish,' at last exclaimed Lady Mary, approaching
Mr Gwynne. 'How can any one like chess?'

Mr Gwynne kept his finger on a piece he was about to move, glanced up,
but did not speak.

'They tell me you ought to have at least five or six moves in your eye
whilst you are making one,' said Sir Hugh. 'For my part, I always find
one move at a time more than I can manage. It certainly is the dullest
game ever invented.'

'Chess is a game of great antiquity,' said the Rev. Jonathan
sententiously. 'It is supposed to have been invented in China or
Hindustan, and was known in the latter place by the name _Chaturanga_,
that is, four _angas_, or members of an army.'

'The army must be proud to send such members to parliament,' said young
Rice Rice, with a consciousness of superior wit, in which the remainder
of the party did not appear to participate.

'True, young gentleman,' said Mr Jonathan, 'and well she might, for they
were elephants, horses, chariots, and foot-soldiers; but what such
members of an army have to do with parliament, I should be glad to hear
you explain. I do not remember mention being made of parliament till the
twelfth century. It was first applied to general assemblies in France
during the reign of Louis the Seventh; and the earliest mention of it in
England is in the preamble to the statute of Westminster in 1272. It is
derived from the French word _parler_, to speak.'

'Then,' said Miss Gwynne, 'there must be some truth in what I have
heard, that the first parliament was composed of women.'

'Good, good, 'pon my soul!' roared Sir Hugh.

'But Sir William Jones says of chess,' continued Mr Jonathan, in the
same unchanged tone and manner, 'that the Hindus--'

'Oh, my dear, pray do not let us hear anything of Sir William Jones; I
am sick to death of all the Jones',' interrupted Mrs Prothero, causing a
diversion, and a suppressed laugh at her expense, instead of at young
Rice Rice's, who had made the last sally upon Mr Jonathan, and a
somewhat mortifying retreat.

It was remarkable, that whoever made a sly attack upon that worthy, with
a view to a joke, was sure to have the tables turned upon him, by the
matter-of-fact way in which his joke was received, refuted, and cut to
pieces.

'I assure you, my dear, there have been many very celebrated Jones', Sir
William at the head of them. He was a great Oriental scholar. Then there
was Inigo Jones, the architect; and John Paul Jones, the admiral; and Dr
John Jones, the grammarian, born in this very county; and--and--'

'That celebrated Mr David Jones, Mr Prothero, whose locker was so deep
that I am sure he must have been a relation of the admiral,' suggested
Miss Gwynne.

'Truly so, my dear--but I have read--'

'I am afraid I must trouble you to order my carriage, Mr Gwynne,' said
Lady Mary, looking impatiently, first at the chess-table, secondly at
her daughter, who was engaged in animated nonsense with Mr Rice Rice,
junior; and thirdly at Sir Hugh, still occupied in making Netta blush.

'I beg your pardon; one moment, Lady Mary; I must just castle my king.'

'Perhaps you had better put an end to the game, papa,' said Miss Gwynne.

'Not for the world, my dear. What do you say, Mr Rowland?'

'I should certainly like to finish it, but perhaps we are
inconveniencing others.'

'Ah, yes, to be sure. Then will you come and dine with me to-morrow, and
we will finish it?'

'Thank you, I shall be very happy,'

Mr Rice Rice, junior, and Sir Hugh wished that they were good chess
players. It was quite an honour to be invited to a family party at
Glanyravon.

'Put the chess-table into the book-room, Winifred, and lock the door.'

Mr Gwynne actually rose in the excitement of the moment.

'If the servants come they will disturb the men, and--and--all that sort
of thing, you know.'

Miss Gwynne and Rowland carried the chess-table into a small room,
opening into the drawing-room, and duly locked the door after them.

'I suppose you are fond of chess,' said Miss Gwynne for want of
something to say.

'Very,' said Rowland laconically, and she little knew what was passing
in his mind.

Always the same thoughts when in her presence--thoughts of mingled
approbation and dislike. But she cared little what he thought of her.

'Dry and pedantic, and very disagreeable,' was what she thought of him.

'Your nephew is rather a sinking-looking young man,' were Lady Mary's
words to Mrs Prothero, during his temporary absence.

'Yes, he is very clever and gentlemanlike. He gained high honours at
Oxford, and my cousin. Sir Philip Payne Perry, is going to procure him a
London curacy,'

Lady Mary looked still more favourably upon Rowland when he returned,
with a flush on his face, from the book-room.

'Do you know that young Prothero is a very handsome young man?' she said
to Miss Gwynne.

'Very handsome,' said Miss Gwynne, remembering her intentions for
Wilhelmina. And the carriages were announced.






CHAPTER VIII.

THE MISER'S SON.


It was Sunday evening, and all the inmates of Glanyravon Farm were
either at church or chapel, with the exception of Netta and one of the
servants, who remained to watch the sick Gladys. Netta said she had a
headache, and preferred staying at home. By way of curing it she put on
her best bonnet and went for a walk. As soon as she was out of sight of
the house she set off at a pace that did not bespeak pain of any kind.
She soon struck out of the country road, with its hedges of hawthorn,
into a field, and thence into a small wood or grove, almost flanking the
road. The warm June sun sent his rays in upon her through the trees, and
helped them to cast checkered shadows upon her path, lighting up, every
here and there, a bunch of fern or flowers, and brightening the trunks
of the interlacing trees. As she saw the lights and shadows dancing
before her she became serious for a moment, and fancied they were like
the will-o'-the-wisp, and portended no good; but she soon quickened her
pace, and at the first opening went out again into the road, where the
sun was uninterrupted in his gaze, and her few fanciful thoughts took
flight.

She glanced furtively into one or two cottages as she passed them, and
the absence of all inmates seemed to reproach her for her Sunday evening
falsehood. At last she reached a small cross-road or lane, down which
she turned, heedless of the profusion of wild roses that actually
canopied the way. Another path, narrower still, and thickly bordered
with blackberry bushes in full blossom, brought her to what seemed a
large mass of brambles, low underwood, and occasional young oaks. There
were, however, little patches of grass here and there amongst the
thicket, and into one of these she got with some difficulty. This was
the hall from which diverged one or two little passages, that looked so
dark, narrow, and brambly, that they appeared inaccessible. But Netta
managed to push aside some briars with her parasol and enter one. Almost
at her first footstep she tore her pretty muslin dress, but folding it
closer round her, she pushed her way. The smart pink bonnet was in great
danger, but escaped uninjured.

At last she found herself on the brink of a deep ravine, almost
precipitous, and heard the sound of rushing water beneath her. Large,
gloomy trees outspread their brawny arms on each side of this gorge and
lovingly embraced above it, so that the rays of the sun were again
thwarted in their purpose, and turned and twisted about before they
could glance upon the dark waters below.

Netta did not know all the tangles and tears she was to meet with when
she set out on her walk. She had not visited this spot for some time,
and then she had taken a more frequented path, on the other side of the
ravine. She looked around, and down into the depth below, but she could
see nothing but trees and brushwood. She was not strong-minded, so she
began to be afraid. However, summoning up her courage, she pushed into
a kind of broken stony path, down the side of the gully, and at the
expense of a few more rents in the muslin dress, and some scratches on
her hands, she succeeded in scrambling to the bottom.

Here was a wild and beautiful scene. A waterfall rolled from a height,
over rocks and brushwood, down into a foaming stream beneath, that
rushed, in its turn, over huge stones through the dark ravine.

As Netta stood almost at the base of the waterfall, and on the edge of
the rapid brook, something like reflection took possession of her
volatile mind. There was a solemn gloom and grandeur about the scene
that reminded her of the Sabbath she was desecrating, and therewith of
her parents, and her duty to them. For a moment--only for a moment--she
thought she would return, and strive to atone for the falsehood, by
giving up the object of her evening wandering. But a bright gleam of
sunshine darted through the trees--the stream foamed and leapt towards
it--the waterfall sparkled beneath--the arrowy fern glittered like gold,
and Netta's heart forgot her duty, and thought of her recreant lover.
Her repentance must come in gloom, her sin in sunshine.

She plucked a bunch of the wild roses that hung around and above her,
and dashed them petulantly into the stream. She watched them as their
course was interrupted by the large masses of rock, and they were tossed
here and there by the angry mischievous water. At last they hung
trembling on a huge stone, stranded, as it were, on their impetuous
course. Again, for a moment, a serious comparison arose in her mind, and
she wondered whether her life might be like that of the flowers she had
cast away from her? whether she might be carried, by the force of
contending passions, and left to wither upon some hard shore that as yet
she knew not of. Such ideas naturally present themselves to the mind of
all who are not wholly devoid of imagination and when the rapid stream
again bore, away the bunch of roses, and Netta saw them no more, she had
quite believed that such would be her course upon the troubled waters of
the world.

But she was not long left to speculate upon her future. Whilst her eyes
were yet fixed upon the spot whence the roses had vanished, she felt a
hand on her shoulder, heard a voice call her name, and starting round,
saw her cousin Howel behind her. He had crept so softly down that she
had not heard him, and she uttered a sharp cry that sounded like one of
terror, as she suddenly felt his touch.

'A strange greeting, Netta,' were the first words, after they had shaken
hands.

'You frightened me, and why were you not here sooner? I have been
waiting an hour,' was the rejoinder, in a tone of voice that belied the
radiant joy of the young face.

Suddenly Netta seemed to recollect something that brought a shadow over
the sunshine.

'Cousin Howel, I--I am very sorry for you. Poor Uncle Griff! How is
aunt?--and you--you look ill, Howel; what is the matter?'

It was difficult for Netta to know what to say about the death of the
miser. She was not sorry, and she could not tell how her cousin felt.

'Oh, yes; my mother is pretty well. I have been ill, but shall soon be
all right again. Netta, how long is it since we met?'

'A twelvemonth next Friday.'

'You remember the day, dear Netta. Then you do not hate me, although
they have done their best to make you do so, by calling me gambler,
spendthrift, drunkard, and all the charming etceteras.'

'Oh no, Howel.'

'Take off that bonnet, and let me see if you are altered.' He unfastened
the strings, and let the long black curls fall over the girl's neck.
'No, you are only prettier than ever, cousin Netta. How would you look
in lace and pearls, and all the goodly array of a fine lady?'

'I don't know, Howel; but tell me what you wanted me for.

'Just let me twist this bunch of roses into your hair first, to see how
an evening toilette would become my pretty cousin Netta.'

Howel had torn a spray from the rose-bush at their back, and he inserted
it carelessly amongst the curls.

'How well you look, Netta. I should like to see you in a ball-room. We
will go together to plenty of balls, if you will only consent.'

'I don't like those roses, cousin,' said Netta hastily, 'they are
unlucky I think,' and she tore them from her hair, and threw them, as
she had done the previous ones, into the brook. 'Now let us see where
they will go.'

'We have not time, Netta, and I do not know why I am fooling away the
hours. You must answer all my questions truly and plainly. I am become a
rich man, how rich I do not myself know; and I mean to let every one
belonging to me see that I can spend my money like a gentleman, and be
as grand as those who have hitherto lorded it over me.'

'Particularly the Rice Rices and Lady Mary Nugent,' interrupted Netta.

'Would you like to be grander than they, Netta? have a finer carriage,
more beautiful clothes, a handsomer house, plate, jewels, servants, and
all sorts of magnificence?'

'Oh, yes, of all things in the world.'

'Then you shall be my wife, Netta, and we will soon see whether we
cannot be as grand as the grandest.'

'Oh, cousin!'

'Well, dear Netta; tell me, are you changed?'

'No, cousin.'

'If I ask your father's consent, and he gives it, will you marry me?'

'You know we settled that long ago, cousin Howel; but father will not
consent, unless--unless--'

'Pshaw, but if I ask his consent, and he refuses it, will you marry me
then, dear Netta, dear, dear cousin?'

Howel fixed his large, piercing eyes upon Netta, who coloured and
trembled, and murmured, 'Oh, Howel, I don't know--how can I?'

'How can you? Who is to prevent you? We can marry and go abroad, and
return and ask pardon, and I will take a fine house, and they will be
only too proud to own us?'

'Not father, Howel, unless--'

'Unless I become a steady fellow, and settle down, as I mean to do, if
you will marry me. But if you refuse me, I shall just go on as I am, or
put an end to my wretched life perhaps.'

'Howel, don't be so wicked,' cried Netta, bursting into tears.

'Then, Netta, you must give me your promise to be mine, whether your
father consents or not, whenever I write you word, through my mother,
that I will have a carriage ready at the corner near the turnpike. But I
can settle all particulars at the proper time, provided only you
promise. Remember, you have told me hundreds of times that you will be
my wife, and neither father nor mother should prevent it.'

'I do not know--I cannot tell whether it would be right.'

'Not right to save me from destruction, to make me what I ought to be,
to cleave to your husband as if he were yourself, in spite of parents or
relations! I am sure, Netta, that you are taught to do all this;
besides, you cannot help it, if you love me. You know that I would have
married you when I had nothing, as readily as I will now that I have
tens of thousands, and surely this deserves a return?'

Netta began to sob.

'You know how it is, Howel. I am afraid of father, and could not bear to
annoy mother, but--'

'But you love me better still, Netta; so do not cry, and we will be as
happy as the day is long. Will you promise me?'

Netta sobbed on and hesitated.

'I am going to London to-morrow, cousin Netta, to pay debts, and make
myself clear of the world. If you will promise, in a few months I will
return for you; we will travel, we will do anything in the world you
like; I shall have plenty of money, I shall probably write a book when
we are abroad, which will make me famous as well as rich; we will come
home and astonish the world. If you do not promise, I shall never come
here again, and shall probably live a gay, wretched life on the
continent, or elsewhere, and be really the good-for-nothing fellow I am
thought to be;--will you promise, dear cousin Netta?'

Howel knew well how to assume a manner that should add force to the
feelings he expressed, and rarely did he employ his powers of persuasion
in vain, particularly with the fair sex, never with his cousin, to whom
he was really attached, and who was wholly devoted to him.

'Netta,' he added, in a low, sad voice, 'I fear, after all, you do not
love me, and I have very few who care for me in this world.'

'Do not say this, cousin,' sobbed Netta, 'you know I always promised--I
always said--I--I--will do anything in the world you wish me, cousin
Howel.'

'Even if your father refuses?'

'Yes, I will not care for any one but you.'

'Thank you, dear Netta; now I know that we shall be happy, and you shall
have everything you can desire.'

'Stop, cousin; I shall not marry you because you are rich, or great, or
likely to be as grand as other people--though I should like to put them
down, just as well as you--but because we have loved each other ever
since we were little children, and I could not care for any one
else--not even if Sir Hugh Pryse were to ask me.'

Howel was both touched and amused.

'You are a good, kind, little cousin, Netta; but what can you mean about
Sir Hugh?'

Netta tossed her head, and looked vain-glorious.

'Oh, I dined at Glanyravon on Thursday, and the Rice Rices, and Nugents,
and Sir Hugh were there; and Sir Hugh was very attentive to me, and said
a great many things to me. And he has been at our house since, and has
met me in the road, and been as polite as possible.'

'But he is desperately in love with Miss Gwynne, or her fortune; so you
need not alarm yourself, my little cousin.'

'You need not alarm _yourself_, you ought to say,' and Netta again
tossed her head.

'Well, I am not jealous. Sir Hugh, with his loud voice, vulgar manners,
and stupid fat face, could not light a candle to me, and as to his
title, I will back my fortune against that.'

'It sounds very grand to be called my lady.' Netta said this to pique
her cousin, and she succeeded; but she did not expect to provoke the
storm that she raised. The dark brow lowered, and he said,--

'Netta, I am in no mood to be trifled with. If you wish to be 'my lady,'
take Sir Hugh, if he will have you; but I go halves with nobody. Now is
the time to resolve; I shall never ask you again; and whatever your
opinion may be upon the subject, I consider that I do you as great
honour in asking you to be my wife, as if there were fifty Sir Hughs at
your feet.'

It was now Netta's time to pout and look cross. She generally did before
her private interviews with her cousin ended. Their quick tempers were
sure to inflame each other.

'I am sure I don't care whether you ask me again or not. It is not such
a great favour on your part.'

'Very well; then "your ladyship" has probably decided in favour of
this,' and Howel made a face to represent Sir Hugh swelling his cheeks
to their utmost extent. Netta tried to smother a laugh.

'I am sure he is quite as good looking as you are, with your cross face.
You are enough to frighten one out of one's wits.'

'If you had any, Miss Netta. But come, this is absurd. Is it to be Sir
Hugh in perspective, or cousin Howel at once?'

Netta was still pouting, fidgeting with her parasol, and restlessly
pushing her foot through the grass and flowers, when they were startled
by a voice crying,--

'Is that you, Netta?'

Both looked up in affright, and, to their extreme disgust, perceived
their very sedate brother and cousin, Rowland, threading his way down
the opposite side of the ravine. He was soon at the bottom, and in less
than a minute had crossed from stone to stone over the brook, and stood
by the side of his sister.

'Netta, what can you be doing here?' he asked abruptly.

'I came for a walk,' was the somewhat hesitating reply.

'Then, perhaps, you will have no objection to walk home with me,' said
Rowland, looking reproachfully at Howel. He met a defiant glance in
return.

'Howel,' he said, 'I do not think my father would approve of Netta's
meeting you here, and, I therefore, must beg to break up an interview
that had been better avoided.'

'Whatever right your father may have, sir, to prevent my seeing your
sister, at any rate you have none,' was Howel's indignant reply.

'Then I shall take a brother's right, and in the absence of my father,
assume his place. Netta, you know you are doing wrong; come with me.'

Netta hesitated, but her brother's manner was authoritative, and she
felt that she dared not disobey.

'I tell you what it is, Rowland, you have always assumed a tone with me
that I neither can nor will brook,' passionately exclaimed Howel.' I beg
you to account for your conduct, and to understand that I will have
either an apology or satisfaction for your ungentlemanly proceedings.'

'I never apologise when I have done no wrong; and as for satisfaction,
as you understand it, I have not the power of making it. I will not
desecrate the Sabbath by an unseemly quarrel amidst the most beautiful
works of creation, nor offend my sister's ear by recrimination. If you
have any real regard for her, you will allow her to go home quietly with
me, and remember that we are all relations, and ought to be friends.'

'Friends we can never be. The only friend I have in your family is Owen,
except, perhaps, Netta, who is turned by one and the other of you, like
a weathercock by the winds.'

'I beg your pardon, cousin Howel,' began Netta.

'We have had enough of this,' said Rowland calmly. 'If you choose to
come and see us as a relation, in a straightforward manner, Howel, we
should be glad to see you, but underhand ways are equally disagreeable
to us all.'

'How remarkably condescending!' said Howel with a sneer. 'But I will not
waste time with a canting, Methodist parson like you. I wish you as many
converts as you desire, but not myself amongst them. Remember, Netta!
Good bye. I suppose your most excellent brother will allow us to shake
hands.'

Netta held out her hand, and as Howel shook it, he again repeated the
word 'remember.' Rowland advanced a pace or two, and partly extended his
hand. Howel turned abruptly away, and with a contemptuous glance, merely
said, 'Good day to you,' The brother and sister took an opposite course
to his, and had to cross the brook, whilst he pushed his way through the
briers that had impeded Netta's path. He turned and watched them as they
stepped from stone to stone, and finally ascended the ravine. Netta
looked round, and he kissed his hand to her, to which she responded by
nodding her head; but Rowland neither turned to the right nor left.

'Meddling coxcomb!' he exclaimed, 'what is there in him that commands
the attention and respect that I fail to obtain with ten times his
talents?'

He stood for a few minutes musing, whilst the music of the waterfall
insensibly soothed his irritated mind.

'Why should I care for Netta, who could marry any one I like?' were his
thoughts. 'I suppose because she really loves me, and because they all
oppose me. Well, supposing I do turn over a new leaf, and spend the gold
my father got so usuriously, in doing good! That would be making a use
of a miser's money, rarely, if ever, made before? and might be worth the
trial, if only to work a new problem, whether ill-gotten wealth could
conduce to moral health. I should like to out-Herod that puppy Rowland,
and make a saint of myself out of a sinner. That would be working out
two problems at once. I wonder whether Netta will help me to solve
them?'

Netta, meanwhile, was receiving a very severe lecture from her brother,
to which she did not condescend to reply, until he spoke of what his
father would say to her meeting Howel clandestinely,

'I suppose you are not going to be cross enough to tell father,' said
Netta'

'I shall certainly think it my duty to tell him,' was the reply.

'Then you are an unkind, unfeeling, unnatural brother,' cried Netta,
bursting into tears.

'Will you promise not to meet Howel again without my father or mother's
consent?' asked Rowland, relenting,

'I won't promise anything? and Howel is a thousand times nicer and
kinder than you are. You have no feeling for any one. I wish Owen were
at home.'

'Netta, you are very unjust? you know I only wish your good.'

'And I suppose you wish Howel's good, too. Just as his father is dead,
and he meaning to be good, and only wishing to see me before he goes to
London, and having plenty of money to do what he likes, and intending to
pay his debts with it, and--and--'

Here sobs and tears came to the rescue of the voluble words that would
soon have worn themselves out--for Netta had no great flow of language.

Rowland was perplexed. He was fond of his sister? he wished Howel well?
he did not know whether it would be best to let them marry or not. If
they were prevented, they would either take French leave, or hate all
their relations? and if they married they would not be happy, he was
sure. But he knew it was wrong to deceive his parents. In this uncertain
state of mind they reached home, through, the little hawthorn lane
before described. Mrs Prothero was on the look out for them, she having
returned from chapel and missed them.

Netta ran past her mother into the house, without replying to her
question concerning her headache, and Rowland at once related to his
mother what he had seen of Howel and Netta's private interview, which
that good lady was very much distressed to hear.






CHAPTER IX.

THE IRISH BEGGAR.


Glanyravon farm was anything but a quiet home during the ensuing week.
Mrs Prothero thought it right to inform her husband of what had passed;
and he blustered and raged even more than he had ever done about the
Irish beggars. Everybody thought proper to try to convert Netta, but
none of them knew the indomitable obstinacy of her character, and all
signally failed. Even Uncle and Aunt Jonathan had their turn, and drove
over on purpose to canvass the matter; but as the elders disagreed upon
the various points at issue, it was no wonder that all remained much as
it was before the unfortunate meeting we have mentioned.

'For my part,' said Mrs Jonathan Prothero, when all were assembled,
except Netta, in family conclave, 'I cannot see so much against the
young man after all. Such a fortune as his is not to be met with every
day, and I must say he is very handsome and clever.'

Here we must remark that this lady's sentiments had undergone a change,
since it had been rumoured that Howel was worth more than a hundred
thousand pounds.

'I tell you what it is, ma'am,' roared the farmer, 'if he were worth his
weight in gold, he 'ouldn't be a good match for any prudent 'ooman. To
my certain knowledge he drinks and gambles, and he shall never have my
consent to marry Netta so long as I live, and you may tell him so.'

'I do not know enough of him, sir, to have any communication of the kind
with him,' said Mrs Jonathan, stiffly.

'My dear,' interposed mild Mrs Prothero, 'if he gets steady, and settles
down, it might be better to let them marry, than to make them miserable
for life.'

'_Study_! miserable! mother, you're a--I beg your pardon, but when
Howel's study, I'll turn to smoking cigars. Why, the very night of his
father's funeral he was half drunk, instead of being decent for once.'

'He couldn't care much for his father, my dear; you must make
allowances.'

'An odd man, that Griff, brother David,' said Mr Jonathan Prothero, as
if just awaking from a dream. 'Do you remember when we were lads
together, and used to go up to Garn Goch looking for treasures? I knew,
even then, that it was an old British encampment, and began to speculate
upon its date, and so on; you used to hunt rabbits, and provoke me by
overturning the walls, but Griff got it into his head that there was
money buried somewhere, and never ceased digging for it. At last he
found an old coin of very ancient date, and seeing that I wished to have
it, he bargained with me, until he got all the money I had for it. Of
course the coin was worth any money, and satisfactorily proves that Garn
Goch was an old British encampment at the time of the invasion of the
Romans.'

'Well, brother, you _are_ by the head! That old coin is nothing but a
well-used sixpence.'

'I have every reason to believe, and I am supported in my opinion by
various antiquaries, that it bears the inscription either of Cunobelin
or Caractacus. There is a decided C, and we are told that money was
coined in Britain in the time of Cunobelin.'

'And how on earth did he get up to Garn Goch?'

'Why, you know that Caractacus commanded the Silures, or people of South
Wales, against the Romans, and that they held out bravely, I have no
shadow of doubt that Garn Goch was one of their strongholds.'

'But what can Garn Goch have to do with Netta and Howel? Brother, I
always shall say you are by the head with your antiquities.'

'Well, I think you had better let them marry, I really do. It's no good
opposing young people, when they will have their own way at last.'

'I sha'n't send for you to consult with again. Mother, go and bring
Netta here, and let us see what she has to say for herself.'

'My dear Davy, would it not be better to speak to her privately?'

'Not a bit. I can't say a word when I am alone with her, but I could
give her a bit of my mind when you are all present. Why don't you go,
and not stand looking as if you was as much by the head as brother Jo.'

Poor Mrs Prothero perceived that her husband was determined to have
Netta publicly reprimanded, so, much against her will, she left the
room. Rowland was preparing to follow, not liking the prospect of a
scene, when his father peremptorily called him back.

'Stay you, sir. If you was the better for going to Oxford, you'd try to
teach your sister how to behave, instead of cutting off the moment
you're wanted.'

'I really do not think, father, that a public reproof is likely to make
Netta change her mind. You would do better to talk quietly to her.'

Here Mrs Prothero returned, followed by Netta, looking as sulky as she
possibly could, and with the traces of tears on her face. There was an
awkward silence for a few seconds, during which both Mr Prothero and
Netta were getting redder and redder, and their inner man
correspondingly choleric. At last the father began the strife.

'Now, I say, Miss Netta,' there was a pause for a few minutes. 'Do you
hear, miss?'

'Yes, father, I hear very well,' said Netta, and muttered to herself in
continuation, 'who could help it?'

'You hear very well--I should think so. You hear a good deal you've no
business to listen to. Do you mean to give up that scamp Howel?'

No reply.

'Now it's no use for you to stand there and say nothing, for an answer I
will have.'

'I don't think he's a scamp,' said Netta boldly.

Poor Mrs Prothero trembled, and looked imploringly at Netta.

'My dear Netta, you should not contradict your father,' said Mrs
Jonathan, with a severe look.

'You don't think he's a scamp. Then you mean to have him, I suppose?'
said Mr Prothero.

'I didn't say that, father. But I don't see why I may not speak to my
own cousin.'

Every one was surprised at Netta's answers. Like her father, she could
talk better before numbers. She had done nothing but cry when her mother
had reasoned with her.

'Very well, miss. All I can say is, that if you meet him again
I'll--I'll--I'll--' the good farmer did not know what he would do. He
was not prepared to say.

'He is gone to London, father,'

'Will you promise not to meet him any more, you good-for-nothing girl,
you? You most disobedient daughter!'

Again Netta was silent.

'Will you promise your father, Netta,' said Mrs Prothero, gently, 'not
to meet Howel again, or have anything to say to him, without his
consent?'

Still Netta was silent.

'He may reform, you know,' suggested Mrs Jonathan, 'and then you may be
allowed to marry,'

'No chance of that,' roared Mr Prothero, advancing towards Netta, taking
her by the arm, and looking as if a few more of her rejoinders would
bring her a good shaking. 'Do you mean to promise, miss?'

'Father, you're hurting me,' said Netta petulantly. 'You needn't pinch
me so.'

Mr Prothero relaxed his hold. He doated on this obstinate, pretty,
wilful child of his--the only girl, and whose temper was the very
facsimile of his own.

'It's you're hurting me most, Netta, by rushing into certain misery.
Will you promise?'

Again he took hold of the arm.

'One would think you were a Papist, father, and this the Inquisition,'
said Netta, growing learned under the torture of her father's grasp,

'Well said, Netta,' broke in Mr Jonathan, aroused by any allusion to any
subject out of the present. 'A cruel court that perhaps more properly
called Jesuitical than Papistical.'

Mr Prothero gave Netta a slight shake, which shook more passion into
both of them, and frightened Mrs Prothero.

'Once for all, Netta, will you promise to give up that scamp of a cousin
of yours, Howel Jenkins?' roared the father.

'I won't promise anything at all,' replied Netta doggedly; and freeing
herself from her father, she ran to her uncle as if for protection.

'You won't!' said Mr Prothero, pursuing her, 'then I tell you what it
is. The moment you are known to keep company with him, you may find some
other home than this; and if you determine to marry him, you shall be no
longer a daughter of mine. I'll never, as long as I live--'

'Hush, hush, David, hush, please,' said Mrs Prothero, putting her hand
on his arm. 'Netta will not disobey us, I am sure. But it is her
obstinate temper; she never would say anything she was commanded to
say.'

'Then you ought to have taught her better. She is a good-for-nothing
girl, and I'll--'

'Netta, you had better leave the room,' said Rowland, opening the door,
through which Netta gladly escaped. '"Fathers, provoke not your children
to wrath,"' he added, turning to his father. 'You will do nothing with
her at present. She is worked up to a spirit of resistance by too much
argument, and the more you say the more obstinate she will become.'

'You are all as obstinate as mules,' said Mr Prothero; 'I can't think
who you turn after. And then to have the impudence to say I was a
Papist! Why, I'd rather be a Methody preacher any day. And you to
encourage her, brother Jonathan. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.'

Brother Jonathan started up from his dream of Garn Goch and the
Inquisition, to repudiate the imputation of encouragement.

'I was merely glad to find that she knew anything about the Inquisition,
and had any information at all in her head; generally speaking, women
know so little. I assure you, David, it was far from me to wish to
encourage her in disobedience, or to offend you; so give me your hand.'

The brothers shook hands very warmly, and in so doing, the contrast
between them was very great. The farmer I have already described. The
clergyman was a remarkable specimen of the 'dry-as-dust' species. Very
tall, very thin, with very loose joints, seemingly hung together on
wires, and a very prominent nose. He had acquired the habit of poking
his chin and looking on the ground, as if he were always in search for
something, which he possibly was, as he never despaired of finding some
antiquity or curiosity at any moment. It must not be augured from his
devotion to antiquarian lore that he made a bad clergyman On the
contrary, he was always ready at the call of the poorest parishioner,
regular in his visits to the sick, charitable in no mean degree, and
humble in his deportment to rich and poor. True, his sermons were
somewhat dry, and occasionally too learned for the greater portion of
his flock; but he made up for this by the simplicity of his conversation
when he talked to them at their own houses.

He seldom was seen without a sort of school-boy satchel at his back,
containing a small hammer and other useful tools, which, it was
believed, had actually carried his lesson-books years ago. All the
villagers knew his strong-and-weak point, and he rarely appeared amongst
them without having various stones and imaginary curiosities presented
to him, particularly by the young people. Many of these stones found
their way into his bag, and it was not to be wondered at that he had a
somewhat round back, as he frequently carried a load upon it, that a
beast of burden would not have rejoiced in.

He and Mrs Jonathan were a remarkable pair; one of those ill-assorted
couples that you wonder at. 'How in the world did they come together?'
was the usual question, the philosophic reply to which would have been,
that theirs was actually one of the 'Matches made in heaven.' The
gentleman got money to enable him to follow the bent of his genius
without anxiety for his daily bread, and therewith a stirring wife to
take care of him and his house; the wife got her great desideratum, a
husband, and therewith the desideratum of all women, her own way.

But we must return to Netta and the other belligerents. As nothing more
was to be made of her at present, they let her alone, perhaps the wisest
thing they could do, and sat down to dinner. Netta declined eating, and
consequently was left to her own reflections. Mr Prothero inquired
anxiously of his wife, when he had cooled a little, whether he had
really hurt Netta when he took hold of her arm; to which Mrs Prothero
replied with unusual severity, 'No, perhaps it had been better if you
had; she wanted some trial or punishment to bring down her proud
spirit.'

In the course of the evening, a little before Mr and Mrs Jonathan left
Glanyravon to return home, Miss Gwynne came to inquire for the poor
Irish girl. She joined the party in the parlour for a short time, and
gave a message from her father to Rowland, to the effect that he was
very anxious for another game of chess, and begged him to come and dine
at the Park on the morrow. Of course Rowland was only too happy, and the
rest of the party too proud.

'Papa is disgusted at your having beaten him the other night,' said Miss
Gwynne to Rowland.

'I think Mr Gwynne got tired,' said Rowland modestly.

'What affectation,' thought Miss Gwynne, as she said, 'oh, no! he says
you are the best player.'

'I disclaim that entirely,' said Rowland. 'I merely beat two games out
of three, and we had not time for another.'

Rowland had been, according to promise, to dine and play chess with Mr
Gwynne; Miss Gwynne had dined with them, but had left them after dinner
to follow their own devices, whilst she had followed hers, and did not
reappear during the evening. Mr Gwynne had reproached her for her
absence, and she had declared that she hated to be so long without
talking, and that chess and young Prothero were perfect antidotes to
conversation.

'That ancient, Saracenic game, as Mr Jonathan Prothero calls it, played
by a Goth,' she said, 'is beyond my store of politeness.'

Mrs Prothero and Miss Gwynne went to see the poor Irish girl; they found
her rather better, and able to speak to them with some degree of
composure. The fever and its accompanying delirium had abated, and the
danger was past; but, as is usual in such cases, extreme weakness was
the result.

'God bless you, my ladies,' she murmured, as Miss Gwynne stooped over
her to inquire how she did, and Mrs Prothero took her thin hand. 'I am
better, thank ye; I can see and understand, and know now all that you
have done for the wretched beggar.'

Here the poor girl's tears began to flow.

'We only wish to see you get well,' said Miss Gwynne softly, 'and then
we can help you to find your friends.'

'I have no friends in the world miss, asthore; my father died years ago,
and my mother, brother, and sister all died of this horrible famine and
pestilence! oh me! oh me!'

The tears flowed still faster, and Mrs Prothero begged her to be silent,
and not to excite herself; but with restless eagerness she went on, as
if anxious to pour forth her sorrows whilst she felt the strength to do
so. It was remarkable that her English was very good, and that, with the
exception of an occasional Irish epithet of endearment, you would
scarcely have discovered her country. Indeed, the Welsh peculiarities of
expression and accent sometimes appeared, so that it would have been
difficult to say where she was born or brought up.

'I am going to look for my friends, if I live, and then, may be, I may
be able to repay you for your kindness to me, a poor, wretched wanderer
on the face of God's earth. If you'll be pleased to listen whilst I have
the strength, I will tell you my story.

'My mother was a Welshwoman, born in some part of South Wales; she was
the daughter of a clergyman, and respectably brought up. Her father
taught her a great many things that we ignorant people in Ireland used
to think a great deal of. Oh, she was a good and tender mother to me,
ladies, avourneen.

'My father was an Irishman, and a fine, handsome man. He was a soldier,
a corporal in the Welsh Fusiliers, and used to be called Corporal
O'Grady. He was going through this country to Ireland, to visit his
friends, on leave, when he first saw mother, and fell in love with her,
and she with him. She knew that her father would not be willing that
they should marry, so she ran away with him to Ireland. They travelled
about for some time with his regiment, but, after I was born, mother
went to settle in Ireland with father's family, and there she had three
other children, two boys and a girl. After this my father was wounded in
India, and got his discharge and his half-pay. He became a kind of
under-agent for a gentleman that lived in England, so we were very well
off as long as he lived; but he died when I was about twelve years old,
and then mother did not well know what to do. I remember my father's
death, and all our trouble, as if it was yesterday.

'She set up a little school, and for some years did pretty well. She
could teach all that the farmers' daughters wanted to learn, and I
helped her; so we managed to live. It was a hard struggle sometimes, but
everybody was kind to widow O'Grady and her orphans; God reward them.

'But the bad time came for poor Ireland; the famine visited us, and
then the pestilence! Ye have heard enough of the horrors, without doubt,
but not half of what they really were. We were all starving, dying--I
saw enough people die to make me wish myself dead hundreds of times, to
be hidden from the sight; but I was fated to live. You, ladies, in your
charity, have saved me again; but oh! if it were not wicked, I should
wish myself with my mother, brothers, and sister in heaven.'

Here the poor girl's sobs choked her speech, and Mrs Prothero entreated
her not to proceed.

'Only one word more, my ladies, and I have done. When they were all
gone--all--all--and I only left, I did not care what became of me. I
went about amongst those stricken down with the fever; but, woe is me, I
never caught it. I fasted from morning to night, day after day, but I
could not die of starvation; nothing would kill me. I was alone in the
wide world, yet it would not please God to take me to another, much as I
prayed to Him.

'Before mother died she told me to go into Wales, and try to find if she
had any relations left. It was all she said, or had strength for; and
before she got ill she seldom talked of her friends. All that I know of
them I heard from my father when I was quite a child. He told me that
mother had written to her father when she settled in Ireland, and that
her letter had been returned with a note, saying that he was dead, and
his only son gone away, no one knew where. This was her brother, and my
uncle, but I do not know where to find him, only I am come to seek them,
that I may do her bidding.'

'And what was your mother's name?' asked Mrs Prothero.

'Margaret Jones, ma'am,'

'My poor girl, there are hundreds of that name in South Wales. But we
will make inquiries for you, and when you are better--'

'I am better now, thank you, ma'am. To-morrow I think I may go on my
way. I would not trouble you any more; a poor beggar like me is not
fit--oh dear! oh dear!'

'Now I insist on your being quiet and going to sleep, and forgetting all
those horrors,' said Miss Gwynne, assuming her most decided voice to
hide her emotion. 'You are not to go away to-morrow; but I daresay in a
few days you will be able to do so, and we can help you a little. But
your best plan now is to get as strong as you can whilst you have the
opportunity,' and herewith Miss Gwynne put a large spoonful of jelly
into the girl's mouth.

Mrs Prothero was wiping her eyes, and stifling a rising sob behind the
curtain, which caused Miss Gwynne to become very severe, and to utter
something about giving way to foolish weakness which aroused Mrs
Prothero, and made the patient bury her head beneath the bed-clothes.

Miss Gwynne beckoned to Mrs Prothero, and they left the room together.
Upon asking for Netta, Miss Gwynne was let into the secret of the family
troubles and consultations, and greatly fearing to be made a party in
the lecturings overhanging the luckless head of the offender, she took a
hasty leave of Mr and Mrs Jonathan, and begging Mrs Prothero not to be
too hard upon Netta, or to let her son Rowland preach too many sermons,
went her very independent way.






CHAPTER X.

THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER.


'You will oblige me by remaining at home this evening, my dear,' said Mr
Gwynne to his daughter.

'That I assuredly shall, papa,' was the reply, 'for dear Miss Hall is
coming to-day, and that princess of bores, Miss Nugent, has invited
herself to tea. I certainly do wish Rowland Prothero would fall in love
with her. She is quite ready for the _premier venu_, be he prince or
peasant.'

'Does not Lady Mary come, my dear?'

'No; I am thankful to say she is gone to spend a few days with the
Llanfawr family.'

'I am very glad Miss Hall is coming, Freda. I wish she would live with
you; it would be very pleasant, and a protection for you, and all that
sort of thing.'

'Oh, do ask her, dear papa. I have tried a thousand times to persuade
her to come here and live with us for ever; but I think she will not
come on my invitation.'

'I could not possibly ask her, my dear. I should break down at the first
word; we never were very familiar. She is stiff, and I am
nervous--and--and--I really could not summon courage.'

Miss Hall had been Miss Gwynne's governess during a few years of her
education era, and had succeeded in entirely gaining her affections, as
well as a small portion of ascendancy over her determined will. She had
left Glanyravon to reside with an aged father, who, having lately died,
left her again under the necessity of seeking a situation. Miss Gwynne
had invited her to pay her a visit, and she was to arrive almost
immediately.

She did arrive whilst they were talking about her, and as the carriage
that had been sent to meet her drove up to the door out flew Freda in
great excitement, and scarcely allowed her _ci-devant_ governess to
alight before she was overwhelming her with embraces. Mr Gwynne followed
somewhat more leisurely, and received Miss Hall with his usual nervous
reserve of manner, but great courtesy. She responded most warmly to the
embraces of Freda, and quietly to the welcome of Mr Gwynne.

We will not give a minute description of the new comer, because she is
not quite a person to be described. She is neither very good-looking nor
very plain, neither very old nor very young, neither very tall nor very
short, neither very talkative nor very reserved, neither very much
over-dressed nor very much under-dressed, neither very merry nor very
grave. Freda used to say that she was the personification of gentle
dignity and serenity, and in the days of her Italian studies called her
occasionally _La Dignità_, but more frequently _La Serenità_, which
epithet would sometimes be abbreviated into Serena, or Sera, or Nita, or
anything but Miss Hall, which the love of the impulsive pupil, so hard
to obtain, and so great when obtained, thought much too formal.

When Freda took Miss Hall to the delightful apartment she had been
adorning for her for a week past, the first impulse of the older lady
was to throw herself upon the neck of the younger, and burst into tears.

'Dearest Serena, I have been so very sorry for you,' was all that Freda
could say.

For a minute there was silence, when Miss Hall, recovering herself,
said,--

'Dear Freda, this is all so kind of you. If anything could console me
for the loss of my last earthly support, it is such affection as yours.'

We will pass over the long conversation of those two friends, its
melancholy and its mirth, for there was much of both, and bring them to
the dinner-table and Messrs Gwynne and Rowland Prothero.

They were rather a formal quartette, and at first conversation did not
flow easily. Mr Gwynne's nerves, Rowland's embarrassment Miss Hall's
natural depression of spirits, and Freda's resolution not to make
herself agreeable to a person she was determined to consider conceited,
were bad ingredients for a dish of good sociable converse. By degrees,
however, they thawed a little. Mr Gwynne wished to say something that
would set his young chess opponent at his ease, and said the very thing
likely the most to confuse a shy man. He made a personal remark and paid
a compliment.

'I am sure your uncle and--and your father, of course, must have been
much gratified, and so forth, at your gaining that fellowship at
Oxford.'

'I think you labour under a mistake,' said Rowland, looking more than
usually confused when he saw Miss Gwynne's eyes turned upon him; 'I
merely gained a scholarship at Rugby, which is really nothing. I did not
even try for a fellowship.'

'Conceited!' thought Freda. 'I suppose he thinks if he had tried he
would have got one.'

'Were you not at Baliol?' asked Mr Gwynne.

'Yes; I went there because my aunt had a fancy for the college, her
father having been, there, otherwise I should have gone to Jesus College
and tried for a Welsh fellowship, which is more easily obtained, because
there are few competitors.'

'Did you know anything of Mr Neville, Sir Thomas Neville's son?' asked
Miss Hall.

'Yes; I was introduced to him through some friends of my aunt's, and we
became very intimate. He was very kind to me.'

'Is he clever?'

'Very. I think he has very fine talents, and is likely to shine at the
bar if he continues in his resolution to go to it. I have just had an
invitation to spend a few days with him, but do not think I shall have
time before I go to be ordained.'

'Has your aunt settled the curacy?' asked Freda, with a wicked laugh in
the corner of her eye.

'I think and hope so,' replied Rowland, answering the visible smile by a
blush; 'she has done her utmost to obtain it for me.'

'Ah! she was well connected, and has some interest, and a--a great deal
of energy, and all that sort of thing; I should think she was a clever,
or I mean a--an enterprising woman.'

Mr Gwynne hesitated as he said this, not admiring the lady in question,
yet thinking it incumbent upon him to pay her a compliment. His daughter
glanced inquiringly at Rowland, as if wondering what he could say to so
dubious a speech. He appeared equally at a loss, and, as he turned from
Mr Gwynne for a moment, caught Miss Gwynne's mirthful eye. He could not
help smiling, but said with much spirit,--

'My aunt has been very good to me, Mr Gwynne, and I owe her a heavy debt
of gratitude for giving me at least the opportunity of getting on in the
world.'

'Well, I like him for that,' thought Freda; 'and are you going to
London?' she asked aloud, with a degree of interest.

'I am to be ordained by the Bishop of London to a city curacy,' was the
reply.

'Will you allow me to take wine with you and wish you success, sir?'
said Mr Gwynne. 'Who knows but we may see you Bishop of London some day?
Miss Hall, Freda, will you join us?'

Mr Gwynne became quite animated. He felt proud that the son of his most
respectable tenant should be going to take a London curacy.

Freda bent rather less stiffly than usual to Mr Rowland Prothero. She
was annoyed with herself for feeling more inclined to be friendly with
him since she had heard that he was intimate with young Neville, and was
to be ordained by the Bishop of London.

There was more conversation, which it is unnecessary to repeat; but in
due course of time the ladies retired to the drawing-room, where they
found Miss Nugent awaiting them.

'Whose _beaux yeux_ do you think we have in the dining-room?' asked
Freda.

'I am thure I cannot gueth; perhapth Thir Hugh Prythe's,' Miss Nugent
lisped.

'Do you call his _beaux yeux_? Little ferret eyes like his! No; guess
again.'

'Young Rithe Rithe?'

'Wrong again.'

'Not Captain Lewith?'

'Some one much nearer home.'

'I do not know any one elthe, exthept that Mr Howel Jenkinth, who, they
thay, will be quite a grand man.'

'I do not even know him. What do you think of his cousin, Mr Rowland
Prothero?'

'I never thought about him; mamma thayth he ith very handthome, but I am
thure he is very _gauche_ and countrified.'

'Oh, I am sure he is not. You are greatly mistaken, he has been in
excellent society, and is going at once to a London living--curacy I
mean, but it is all the same.'

Miss Hall looked rather amazed at Freda. A few hours before she had been
lamenting the necessity of entertaining that 'stupid young Prothero.'

'Ith he really?' said Miss Nugent. 'The London curateth are tho
interething. There ith one at Tht Jameth'th, with a pale face and black
hair, and thuch a beautiful voice. Ith Mr Prothero going to Tht
Jameth'th?'

'You shall ask him yourself; I daresay he will like you to seem
interested.'

'Are you going to Tht Jameth'th, Mr Prothero?' inquired Miss Nugent,
when that young man entered the room shortly after.

'I beg your pardon, I do not quite understand what you mean.'

'Mith Gwynne thaid you were going to a London curacy; I thought it might
be Tht Jameth'th.'

'I believe not. If I go to London I shall probably be in the city--a
very different locality to St James's.'

'Oh! when we are in town we alwayth go to Tht Jameth'th, it ith thuch a
nice church.'

Freda perceived that Miss Nugent's interest fell as soon as she found
that Rowland was going into the city. She also saw a smile lurking about
Rowland's mouth when he said,--

'I have never been in London; but I suppose St James's is one of the
fashionable parts.'

'Oh yeth, very. Numberth of grand people go to Tht Jameth'th; don't you
with you were going to be curate there instead of the thity?'

Rowland was grave in a moment.

'I should wish to labour wherever there is the largest field to work in,
Miss Nugent, whether in the city or St James's.'

'Yeth, to be sure, I believe there are loths of poor people in Tht
Jameth'th. I onthe went by chance into thuch a nathty alley clothe by
Tht Jameth'th Threet. Thuch dirty children!'

'Alas,' said Miss Hall, coming to the rescue of Rowland, who was looking
quite distressed, 'we cannot go many steps in the London parishes, be
they fashionable or unfashionable, without entering a "vineyard" amply
wide enough for any one who wishes to work in it, whether priest or
layman.'

Rowland looked round brightly and pleasantly at Miss Hall. Freda could
not help noticing the sudden animation in a face that she had considered
a minute ago almost heavy.

'When are we to have our game at chess?' interrupted Mr Gwynne. 'The
poor of London is a subject I quite dread to hear discussed, it is so
hopeless. One can do no good, and what is the use of tormenting oneself
about it here in Wales.'

'Oh, papa! they want very decided measures; plenty of police, active
magistrates, and I don't know what besides,' said Freda.

'Would you allow me to supply what you have omitted?' asked Rowland;
'they want Christian sympathy, Christian teaching, brotherly kindness,
and the aid of the rich and powerful.'

Freda considered Rowland's finale to her sentence impertinent and was
about to take up the defence of her magisterial system very warmly,
when she met a glance so earnest and appealing, and withal so beautiful
in its earnestness, that she could not find in her heart to answer it by
a hard look or word; so, for want of better reply, she went to prepare
the chess-table.

'I wish you joy of that Saracenic game,' she said ironically, as her
father and Rowland sat down to chess, not perhaps quite by the wish of
one of the pair.

'I thought you liked chess, Freda?' said Miss Hall.

'Oh, pretty well, when I can get any one who does not beat me. I hate so
to lose a game that I think it is better not to play at all than to run
the risk of feeling in a passion, and not being able to give vent to
it.'

'Perhaps the better plan would be to control the passion,' said Miss
Hall.

'Impossible! I am sure it must be just such a feeling as a good general
would have if he lost a battle, after having done his best to win it.'

'I suppose the best general is always the calmest, both in victory and
defeat,' murmured Rowland, without taking his eyes from his men.

'If you would oblige me by not talking,' said Mr Gwynne nervously; 'I
can never play if my opponent talks.'

'I beg your pardon,' said Rowland; 'I know it is very disagreeable.'

'Are you too tired to visit some of your old haunts, Serenità?' said
Freda. 'By the way that would be a good name for Mr Prothero's ideal
general.'

'Not quite,' began Rowland, but was silent in a moment.

'My dear Freda, are you going out? I really am sorry to stop your
amusement, and so forth, but I cannot play,' said Mr Gwynne.

'Exactly, papa; we will go directly if Miss Hall likes.'

The three ladies left the room, and, as Rowland glanced after them, he
very decidedly wished that he might be permitted to accompany them. One
other great wish he also had at his heart, the conversion of Miss Gwynne
to a purer and higher tone of mind. He did not, we grieve to say, bestow
a similar pastoral thought on Miss Nugent.

'That position of your queen at such an early stage of the game must be
an oversight, I think. Excuse me, but I could not take such an unfair
advantage,' said Mr Gwynne.

Rowland was roused at once. He gave himself up to his game, and an hour
afterwards, when the ladies returned from their walk, and candles were
ordered, it was still in progress, but he had the best of it.

'Will you sing for us, Serena?' said Freda.

'Will you sing a duet with me?' was the reply.

The duet was sung, and another and another and another, and Rowland lost
the game.

Mr Gwynne arose, very much elated and rubbing his hands gently,
according to his wont.

'How do you feel, general, defeated?' asked Freda.

'Very much like a subaltern,' said Rowland.

'Do you sing, Mr Prothero?' asked Miss Hall; 'all the Welsh are so
musical that I think there are few who have not voices.'

'I sometimes sing chants and sacred music; but I know very few songs,
and those old ones.'

'Perhaps you will take the bass of some of these old glees. Here is "The
Chough and Crow," "When shall we three meet again," "The Canadian Boat
Song," "The Sicilian Mariner," and I know not how many more,' said Miss
Hall, turning over the leaves of a thick old book full of glees.

'I will do my best,' said Rowland, and the glees began in earnest.

All the Protheros were musical, and Rowland had a very fine clear voice.
Miss Hall was right in saying that the Welsh are a musical people;
Rowland was a happy example. He had been studying Church music a good
deal, and learning to take different parts, so he acquitted himself very
creditably in the glees, all of which he had either tried or heard sung.
Freda was quite astonished. She had a great taste for music herself, and
a good voice, but would never sing with any one but Miss Hall, a piece
of wilfulness that her father occasionally reproached her with. The
addition of Rowland was rather agreeable to her, as it enabled them to
sing the glees that she was fond of. She no longer objected to the
chess, and when her father proposed giving Rowland his revenge on the
morrow, she added, 'And then we can wind up with a few more glees.'

Rowland bowed his thanks and departed.

During the ensuing month there were frequent chess and glee clubs at
Glanyravon. What the effect such associations had upon Rowland he never
confided to any one, but when Miss Hall expressed her opinion that 'Mr
Prothero was a sensible, unaffected young man, but shy,' Freda
condescended to say, 'Well, he is not quite such a Goth or half as
affected as I fancied he was, but he has a very good opinion of himself,
nevertheless.'

In due course Rowland went to London to be ordained, and so ended the
chess and glee clubs.






CHAPTER XI.

THE SAILOR.


Argument and persuasion were alike thrown away upon Netta Prothero. She
would make no promises, no concessions; she stood her ground with the
obstinacy of a Cadwallader. Her father stormed for about a week, when he
got tired of the subject and of Netta's resolute manner and cross face,
and gave it up. He heard that Howel had started for London, having put
his affairs in the hands of an attorney, and that it was not at all
unlikely that he would marry some lady of rank. He laughed heartily at
the notion. It was also rumoured that he meant to return and take a
place in the neighbourhood, stand for the county, and be one of the
greatest men in South Wales. In short, the enchanter, the merlin, the
open sesame, the omnipotent sorcerer _gold_ was to work the miracles to
which Howel had been so long looking forward. And the gossips were not
far wrong. Gold is truly a famous master-key to all hearts and to all
companies.

But whilst the gossips--and who is not a gossip in a country
neighbourhood?--whilst the gossips were settling Howel's future so
comfortably and respectably for him, he was dispensing his gold amongst
gamblers and the like--paying debts of honour as they are called.

However, Mr Prothero thought it not unlikely that what the gossips said
might prove true, and was therefore tolerably comfortable about his
spoilt pet, Netta. When his anger and her pouting had subsided, matters
went on much as usual for a time at the farm. Even the blaze that was
kindled at the incursion of the Irish girl, had well-nigh gone out, and
Mr Prothero had nearly forgotten her existence.

She, meanwhile, was slowly recovering under Mrs Prothero's kind care.
One day, that good woman was sitting with her in the little room that
had been allotted to her, and said,--

'Is there anything you could think of that would amuse you, my dear?'

'If I might--' Gladys began and paused.

'Pray, go on, do not be afraid to ask.'

'If I might only make up that cap for you, ma'am, I should be so proud.
I used to make caps at home.'

Mrs Prothero was manufacturing a cap for herself, and had a certain
womanly fear as to how it would turn out, if transferred to other
fingers; but she did not like to refuse the request, so she resigned it
into the thin hands of Gladys. She was almost immediately called away,
and did not return for some hours. When she again visited her invalid
she found her quite excited with her work that she had just completed.

'Oh, what a pretty cap!' said Mrs Prothero, quite astonished at the
taste displayed. 'I must just run and show it to Netta--I am so much
obliged to you.'

Mrs Prothero left the room and soon returned, followed by her daughter.

'Can you trim bonnets as well as make caps?' asked Netta, forgetful of
infection when her personal interest was involved.

'Yes, miss, a little,' replied Gladys modestly.

'I wish you would trim mine for me to-morrow.'

'Oh, thank you, miss! If you will only let me try I shall be so
grateful.'

'She does not seem like a beggar after all,' thought Netta. 'Who taught
you to work so nicely?' she said aloud.

'I was apprenticed to a mantua-maker and milliner for six months, miss,
and after that I worked for the neighbours.'

'How could you work for them, when they are all rags and tatters?'

'There were some farmers' wives, miss,' said Gladys, colouring slightly,
'and the clergyman's family, and the steward's--I used to work for
them.'

'Then how came you here?'

'People couldn't work, or pay for work, miss, when every one was
starvin' around them.'

Mrs Prothero looked at Netta reproachfully. The girl was not really
hard-hearted, so she changed the subject.

'I daresay you can knit and mark samplers?' she said.

'Yes, miss, mother taught us to do that at school.'

'I think, Netta,' interrupted Mrs Prothero, 'that she must go to bed
now. She looks tired, and has been up long enough.'

'What a fuss mother makes about the girl,' muttered Netta as she left
the room.

The following day the bonnet was tastily trimmed under Netta's
superintendence, and work enough hunted up to employ Gladys for a month
at least. Netta even found an old cotton gown, which she presented to
her in return for her labours. It was not long enough, but Gladys
thought she might be able to lengthen it.

Whilst her convalescence and Netta's needlework were thus progressing,
there was an arrival at the farm. One evening the family were assembled
in the large hall, their usual sitting-room. Mr Prothero was reading the
newspaper at a small round table, with an especial candle to himself.
His worthy wife was mending or making shirts. At another round table,
not very far off, Netta had some work in her hands, and one of Captain
Marryat's novels open before her.

'Why don't you do your work instead of reading those trashy stories,
Netta?' suddenly exclaimed Mr Prothero.

'I am working, father,' said Netta.

'Pretty working sure enough. What nonsense have you got reading now?'

'Peter Simple, father, oh it is so funny.'

'Ah! it was that stupid stuff, and 'The Pilot,' and 'The Spy,' and I
don't know what else, that sent Owen off to sea. I suppose it's there
you learn all your nonsense. I wish you would read the cookery book, and
help your mother to take care of the house and dairy, instead of doing
what's no good in the world.'

A loud knocking at the door interrupted a rather pert reply.

'Who on earth is that at this time of night?' exclaimed the farmer,
throwing down his paper.

'Shanno,' called Mrs Prothero into the passage, 'ask who it is before
you open the door.'

'It's no great things,' suggested Netta, 'for they're knocking with a
stick, and not with the knocker.'

'Name o' goodness, what's the row?' said the farmer.

'Who's there?' demanded Shanno, in the passage.

The answer did not reach the hall, but Shanno came rushing in, 'It's
them Irishers again, master, upon my deet, they do be here for ever.'

'Give me my stick!' exclaimed Mr Prothero, 'if I don't give them a
lesson my name isn't David.'

He seized a stick and went into the passage, followed by his wife,
murmuring, 'Oh, David, bach,' and by Netta as far as the door, from
which she peeped down the passage.

'Who's there?' roared the farmer in a voice of thunder.

'May it please yer honour, I'm cowld and hungry. Long life to yer honour
and her leddyship, if yell only give the loan o' yer barn, or maybe yer
loft, or--'

'I'll show you the way to my barn, you idle, good-for-nothing scamp,'
cried Mr Prothero, opening the door, and levelling a blow with his stick
into the moonlight, that must infallibly have knocked down any one less
agile than the man for whom it was intended. As it was, the unwelcome
visitor jumped aside, whilst the portly farmer tripped himself up by his
own impetuosity, and fell upon the threshold. Mrs Prothero and Netta
screamed, and Shanno took hold of the beggar's arm, to prevent his
escape. But the beggar had pulled Mr Prothero up, and was beginning to
sympathise with him in broad brogue, when that valiant anti-Irishman got
hold of his stick again, and began to belabour the unoffending party's
back most manfully.

'Enough's as good as a faist, yer honour,' cried the stranger, skipping
from side to side, and evading the blows very skilfully; 'pon my sowl,
yer honour 'ud do for a fair or a wake. 'Tis madam as has the heart an'
the conscience for the poor Irish, an' miss, too, asthore!'

The impudent fellow ran round to where Netta stood, who, in terror, went
into the house, followed by the man, and after him, the rest in full hue
and cry.

'Tin thousand pardons, miss,' said the man, taking off his hat and
confronting Netta.

'Owen! Owen!' screamed Netta. 'For shame upon you, you naughty boy,' and
therewith Netta and the unexpected guest were hugging one another, most
lovingly.

''Tis the mother will give the poor Irisher a lodgin' and a drop o' the
cratur,' cried that mother's well-beloved eldest born almost catching
her up in his arms, and smothering her with kisses. 'And the masther
isn't so hard-hearted as he looks,' he added, shaking the astonished
farmer by the hand.

'Owen! oughtn't you to be ashamed of yourself?' cried the farmer,
laughing aloud, and rubbing his right leg.

'Not kilt intirely, yer honour! didn't I take you all in, that's all!'

'Where did you come from? How did you come? When did you leave your
ship?' were the questions reiterated on all sides of the welcome guest.

'I'll tell you all that to-morrow. At present I am dying of cowld and
hunger, and haven't broke me fast since morning. Let me show you how the
locker stands.'

Owen emptied his pockets, and from a corner of one of them turned out a
solitary halfpenny.

'I shouldn't have had that if old Nanny Cwmgwyn hadn't given it to me
just now. But I'll tell you my story to-morrow in character.'

'Not an improved one anyhow,' said Mr Prothero with a gathering frown.

'Don't lecture to-night, Datta, bach; you shall have an hour on purpose
to-morrow, when I promise to listen to edification. 'Pon my word it is
pleasant to be at home again. How I long to sleep in my comfortable bed
once more.'

Poor Mrs Prothero's countenance fell, and Netta looked malicious.

'Not likely to sleep there to-night, boy,' said the farmer; 'mother has
got visitors.'

'Visitors!' exclaimed Owen, 'and gone to bed already! what sleepy
people.'

'Some of your friends of the cowld and hungry sort,' said the farmer.

'Not mother's old friends, and my relations, the Irish beggars?'

'Singular number, and a young lady!' said the farmer with a sneer and a
puff of the tobacco with which he was beginning to solace himself, at
the sight of the bread and cheese that were appearing.

'A poor girl, Owen, who was taken ill,' said Mrs Prothero.

'I understand it all, mother; never mind, she's welcome for once,
provided I get a good bed, but to-morrow she must turn out.'

'Very well, my dear,' said Mrs Prothero submissively; for Owen, though a
prodigal, was the eldest son, and generally had his own way.

'Now don't be frightened at my appetite,' said Owen, sitting down to
cold meat and strong ale.

'Bless you and your appetite,' said Mrs Prothero, kissing his forehead;
upon which he jumped up again, and hugged her with all his heart.

'Now, Netta, let us go and see about the sheets,' said Mrs Prothero,
smoothing her dress.

The mother and daughter left the room, and were not long in preparing
the best bedroom for Owen. This done, they hastened back to the hall,
where they found diminished ham and increased smoke, Owen having lighted
a short pipe, and taken to smoking with his father, over a large jug of
ale.

'We must have your adventures to-night, Owen,' cried Netta, as she
entered, 'and you must tell us why you came home so very shabby. I
suppose you have been wrecked on a desert island.'

'To be sure,' said Owen, laying down the pipe. 'But I must go out and
find my wardrobe, and all my valuables, that my hospitable Daddy there
caused me to throw down, when he gave me such a warm welcome.'

Owen disappeared, but soon returned with a box in his hands, apparently
of some weight, and a bundle slung across his shoulder, suspended on a
walking stick. Putting down the box he began to sing,--

     'A handkerchief held all the treasure I had.'

whilst he flourished his walking-stick and bundle over his mother's
head. When he had finished his song, he put down his bundle and went to
the box.

'I have shown you the size of my wardrobe, now allow me to show off the
rest of my fortune and stock in trade. Father, you shall have the first
peep. Let me put my box on the table, and the light--so. Now, stoop,
so--look through that glass, so--and--have you got the right focus?
Yes!--To the right, you beholds the gallant 'ero, Lord Nelson, him as
lost his harm, a just fallin' in the harms of Capen 'Ardy and
Victory.--To the left--but first his lordship is a singin' "England
expects every man to do his dooty." To the left--'

'Well, if that isn't as pretty a picture and as much like life as
anything I ever saw,' said Mr Prothero, interrupting the showman. 'Come
here, mother; Netta, look here.'

Mrs Prothero glanced into the box, which was nothing more nor less than
a penny peep-show, and Owen began again.

'To the right you beholds,' when Netta, impatient, looked through a
second glass, and exclaimed in ecstasy, 'Where did you get this, Owen?'

In answer, the scene shifted, and Owen recommenced.

'Here you beholds Lisbon, that wast city, or rayther what wos Lisbon
after the great earthquake. See the ruins all around, and the women and
children a screamin'; and the priests a-prayin'--those men in robes is
priests, papishers, like them Irish beggars.'

'Hush, Owen,' interrupted Mrs Prothero. 'Look, father, do look here!'

While Mr Prothero and Netta gazed admiringly, Mrs Prothero was off and
returned with Shanno, Mal, and Tom the boy, who were all in a broad grin
of delight at the arrival of their prime favourite, Owen.

He, meanwhile, is in his element; begins with Lord Nelson again, and
makes the whole party take turns. Then he goes to Lisbon; afterwards he
has The Queen of the Cannibal Islands; The Great Fire of London; a
portrait large as life of the immense fat man Daniel Lambert, at sight
of which the servants all exclaim 'Ach!' and a variety of other splendid
designs, which we decline to enumerate. Suffice it to say that they all
draw forth the approving commendations of the spectators, from Mr
Prothero, master, to Tom, serving-lad.

When the peep-show has been duly exhibited, Netta again demands her
brother's history, and a particular account of how he procured the show.

'Oh! there is not much to tell,' says Owen, 'and I won't tell that
unless father promises to keep his lecture till to-morrow. I hate a
sermon late at night, but don't so much mind it in the morning. Don't
look so serious, mother; I don't mean a clerical preachment. Do you
promise, father?'

'Well, there, as you like,' said Mr Prothero, laughing? 'but I wish you
hadn't made me break my shin.'

'Here's a patch of diaculum, father. I hope you have not really hurt
yourself?'

'No, wild goose. Now, let's have the story.'

'Well, here goes. Since this time twelvemonth I have been a voyage to
Australia and back: seen Sydney and Botany Bay, and my brethren the
convicts; done a little in the mercantile way: speculated in gin and
'baccy on my own account, and helped the captain. Came home as first
mate of the 'Fair Weather,' and had enough of tailoring in the worst
voyage I ever made. We were almost wrecked more than once, and almost
starved for the last month, owing to the time the leaky old hulk took in
the voyage. When we landed in Plymouth we had a spree, as you may
suppose, and soon spent most of our money. I and a messmate were to
travel together as far as Swansea, so we just saved money enough to pay
our way, and enjoyed ourselves with the rest; but, as ill luck would
have it, we fell in with a poor Welsh woman, who had come to Plymouth in
the hope of meeting her husband, and being disappointed, and having
spent all her money, she didn't know how to get back to her home again.
Of course we couldn't leave a fellow-countrywoman in distress, so we
gave her what we had: enough to pay her journey home, and a few
shillings over. We then sold some of our clothes, and stumbling upon a
man with this old box in his arms, we bargained with him, and bought it
for twelve shillings. He wanted a pound, but we beat him down.

'Having thus a fortune in our possession we set out with our peep-show,
and thought of getting interest for our money. We have been about three
weeks journeying from place to place; and I assure you we have seen a
good deal of life. We unfortunately spent the interest of our fortune as
it came in; but, as you will perceive, I have brought the whole capital
home with me. When we entered a town on a fair or market-day, we made a
great deal of money, but then the temptations to spend were all the
greater. I used to have all the labour of the imagination, for my friend
Jack Jenkins had not the gift of eloquence; so we agreed that I should
be showman, and he porter--a division of work that we thought quite
fair. When we arrived at Swansea I gave him all the money we had in
hand, and he resigned the peep-show to me, and so we parted company; he
to go to his friends in Glamorganshire, I to come on here.

'I had a rare lark on my way home. I went to uncle's, and finding aunt
in the garden, slouched my hat over my face, and began my story. She
ordered me off the premises instantly as a vagrant. I went round to the
back door and got a penny a-piece from the servants, who were quite
delighted. Then I met uncle, and telling him that I had a wonderful box
of antiques to exhibit, he gave me sixpence, and with great curiosity
poked his proboscis against the glass. It was worth something to see
him. I at once put a picture of Stonehenge, and afterwards one of
Herculaneum into the box, that I had bought on purpose for his benefit.
I went through the history of the Druids, and managed a touch of Garn
Goch and the Welsh castles with a strong and masterly nasal, that so
delighted the worthy vicar, that he actually invited me in to see his
museum. I excused myself by saying that my wife was waiting for
me--mother, that was my only fib, I assure you--and hastened away, lest
in his delight at finding an itinerant archæologist, he should ask my
wife to see his museum as well. The rest of my adventures you had the
honour and glory of sharing, so I must beg to say they are at an end.
And now I am really and truly and soberly come to settle at home for the
remainder of my days, and to become a farmer in good earnest if father
will take me into partnership. The two things I like best in the world
are, the rolling sea by moonlight and a field of golden corn in broad
sunshine, of a fine day in autumn.'

'Oh, you naughty boy!' cried Netta, as Owen ended his story.

'A fine sturdy farmer you would make,' said Mr Prothero, trying to
stifle a very hearty fit of laughter, that burst out at last in spite of
himself. 'I'm glad you took in brother Jonathan, or he'd have had the
laugh against me.'

Mrs Prothero had a tear in her eye as she smiled sadly, and shook her
head at the darling son who had caused her nothing but love and grief
since he was born; but the tear was soon kissed away, and the smile
turned into a cheerful one by that son's merry lips.






CHAPTER XII.

THE SEMPSTRESS.


Owen Prothero, like his sister Netta, had been very much spoilt by his
father during his childhood and boyhood. Indeed it would have been
difficult not to have spoilt him. Handsome in person, and frank in
manners, he was a general favourite. His uncle, the vicar, quite
idolised him, and would have lavished a fortune on his education had he
been of a studious nature. His mother, alone, conscious of his many
faults, strove to correct them, and to counterbalance the undue
admiration he received on all sides, by impartial justice in her praises
and reproofs.

But we have not much to do with his boyhood, which was wild and
untameable; beyond the fact that, when sent by his good uncle to Rugby
with a view to his becoming a clergyman, he resolutely declared his
intention of going to sea, and ran away from school to effect his
purpose. He was captured, however by the masters, and a sharp look-out
kept upon him for the future, which prevented further escapades.

He did not make brilliant progress in his studies, though he was clever
enough, and accordingly his aunt persuaded her vicar to adopt her
favourite nephew, Rowland, in his stead, and to let Owen go a voyage or
two in a merchant vessel, to cure him of his love for a seafaring life.

It was Mr Prothero's wish to have one of his two sons a farmer, he did
not much care which, so it was with some difficulty that Aunt Jonathan
induced him to listen to her proposal of making a clergyman of Rowland.
He yielded at last, however, in the hope that when Owen had had enough
of the sea, he would come and settle at home, since, next to this, his
favourite hobby, he professed to like farming.

Owen was about fifteen when he first went to sea--he was just
seven-and-twenty when he came home with the peep-show. During the
intermediate twelve years he had been all over the world: not merely as
a sailor, but as an adventurer, traveller, speculator, merchant, and
wandering Jack-of-all trades. As quickly as he made money, so he lost
it, spent it, or gave it away; and when he had no other resource, he
worked as a common sailor, or labourer, until some lucky chance opened a
passage for some fresh excitement. There is this to be said in his
favour. During this long period he was never chargeable to his father in
any way. If he got into difficulties, he got out of them pretty easily:
if he was in want of bread, which had been frequently the case, his
friends at home knew nothing of it. Beyond the regular new outfit, in
the way of clothes, that his mother made for him each time that he
returned home, he had never had anything from his parents, and
resolutely refused it if offered. Always cheerful, hopeful, in high
spirits, open as the day, affectionate, and attractive, he was a welcome
guest wherever he went. Did he come home in rags, or as now, with a
peep-show in his arms, or as once before, with a hurdy-gurdy and
monkey, all his old friends made merry, and gave parties in his honour.
And whatever the state of his wardrobe or exchequer, he was sure to be
in the fields the following day, reaping, hay-making, ploughing, sowing,
or even milking, as either of these, or similar avocations, came in his
way. Nobody could be angry with him, and his father's lectures, and his
brother's reasonings all melted away before the row of white teeth that
he was for ever displaying in his joyous laughter.

Of middle height, athletic, sunburnt--with hands almost as brown as his
merry brown eyes--with black, long, curly hair, a bushy beard, and
plenty of whiskers, a bronze neck from which, in sailor fashion, the
blue and white shirt-collar receded--and a broad forehead, showing all
kinds of bumps, particularly those of locality over the bushy black
eyebrows--Owen Prothero was as fine a type of an English sailor as could
be found the broad seas over.

He was in the habit of falling desperately in love with at least one out
of every five or six girls that came in his way, and of making frightful
havoc in the hearts of females of all ranks and ages. Netta's general
inquiry was,--'Well, Owen, who is the last new love?' to which Owen
would gravely reply, by a recapitulation of the charms of some fair
damsel on whom his affections would be for ever fixed, could he only
afford to marry. All his beauties had bright eyes, bright complexions,
mirthful smiles, and were very 'jolly,' which seemed to be the word
including all that was necessary to make a woman charming in his eyes.

'So, Netta, Howel has come into a fine fortune!' he began one morning,
when he and his sister were alone together. 'I suppose he won't think of
little cousin Netta now?'

'Oh! indeed,' was Netta's reply with a toss of the head.

'I wish he was here now. He is a fine fellow in his way. I do like
Howel.'

'I knew you would say so,' exclaimed Netta. 'You are a kind, dear
brother. They are all turned against him, even mother, who can take in
the scum of the earth, and make much of a wretched Irish beggar, and
will not ask Howel here, who is a gentleman,'

'Oh! oh! that's the way the wind blows. So you do not forget cousin
Howel, Miss Netta.'

'No, I assure you; and I won't forget him, that's more.'

'Bravo! Netta. I admire a girl of spirit. But, perhaps now he is so rich
he will not think of you.'

'I suppose that depends upon whether I choose to think of him. They say
he is coming down soon, and that he will be the grandest man in the
county.'

What Netta had heard rumoured came to pass in due time, Mr Howel
Jenkins did come from London, and established himself in the best hotel
of his native town, throwing out hints as to the probability of his
taking a certain beautiful park in the neighbourhood. He was soon
supplied with the best horses, dogs, and general appointments of any man
in the county; and being really clever, handsome, and sufficiently
gentleman like, had made his way into society that had hitherto been
closed to him. Like Prince Hal, he eschewed most of his former
companions and appeared to be beginning life anew, in a new world. The
country rang with rumours of his enormous wealth, which, considerable as
it was, report nearly doubled. Indeed he himself scarcely knew what he
was worth, as he was continually finding memorandums of moneys out at
high interest, of which his father had not chosen to speak to Rowland,
but which his carefully secreted books and papers proved, as well as the
knowledge of Mr Rice Rice, who had been his attorney.

In the course of the autumn the Irish girl was quite convalescent and,
although not strong, had recovered from the fever, and was regaining
some degree of health. As she was such a clever sempstress, even Netta
did not object to a proposal made by Mrs Prothero, that she should
remain as a work-girl, at least until Owen's wardrobe was in a decent
condition; and she was accordingly installed in a small room, half
lumber-room, half work-room, as shirt-maker in ordinary to the son and
heir. He was restored to his own bedroom, and, together, with his father
kept at a distance from the bone of contention.

However, adverse elements cannot always be kept apart, and one day when
Mrs Prothero was sitting stitching wrist-bands with Gladys, her better
half made his appearance suddenly in the room.

'Mother, I have been hunting you out all over the house,' he exclaimed?
'I have torn the sleeve of my coat from top to bottom in that confounded
hedge.'

As he took off his coat and displayed the tear, he perceived Gladys, who
had risen from her work, and curtseyed very timidly and profoundly. Mr
Prothero had almost forgotten the Irish beggar, and certainly did not
suppose the tidy-looking, pale, tall girl before him to be her.

'Oh, young 'ooman, I daresay you can do this job for me. You've got a
new manty-maker, mother; where's Jane Morris, name o' goodness?'

'We're only making shirts for Owen, father,' replied the wife meekly,
dreading an outburst.

Gladys took up the coat and was instantly engaged in mending it, whilst
Mr Prothero produced a letter just received from Rowland.

'There, my dear, now you ought to be satisfied, and I am sure Mrs
Jonathan will be as proud as Punch. Rowland has been ordained by the
Bishop of London himself, and "passed a very good examination," or
whatever they call it. He has taken lodgings up in London, and preached
his first sermon in a great church that 'ould hold three of ours. He has
dined with the rector, and been to call on Sir Philip Payne Perry,--the
three green peas as Owen calls him--and I wonder what even Mrs Jonathan
'ould desire more?'

Mrs Prothero read, her dear son's letter with tears in her eyes, the
sudden sight of which caused sympathetic tears to flow from the eyes of
the poor work-girl, much to the surprise of Mr Prothero, who chanced to
look round to see whether his coat was finished.

'Hang the 'oomen,' he muttered to himself, 'they can't read a bit of a
letter without blubbing. How long will that take you to do?--what's your
name?'

'Gladys, if you please, sir,' said Gladys, looking up from her work. 'I
shall have finished it directly, sir.'

'Gladys? Gladys what?' asked Mr Prothero.

'Gladys O'Grady, sir,' was the reply whilst the mending was coming to a
close.

'Where on earth did you pick up such names as that?'

'One was my mother's, and the other my father's, sir,' said Gladys,
rising and presenting the coat with a deep curtsey.

Mrs Prothero was absorbed in her letter.

'Name o' goodness where did your father get such a name? and where do
you live?'

The girl bent her head over the coat she held in her hand, and her tears
fell upon it.

'There, never mind? give me my coat. Thank you. Why, Lewis the tailor
'ouldn't 'a mended it better. Why, girl, where did you learn tailoring?'

'Mother taught me to mend everything, sir.'

'There then, take you that old hat and see if you can make as good a job
of sewing on the brim as you done of the coat. Mother, come you here, I
want to speak to you.'

Mr Prothero left the room, and Mrs Prothero followed.

'Who's that girl, mother? I never saw her before,' were his first words
in the passage, whilst pulling to the coat that he had begun to put on
in the work-room.

'Why, David, you see--it is--there now, don't be angry.'

'Angry! what for? Hasn't she mended my coat capital, and isn't she as
modest looking a young 'ooman as I ever saw?'

'She is very delicate, but she works night and day. Indeed, she does
more in a day than most girls in a week Owen wanted some shirts, you
see--she made that cap you admired so much, and that new gown of
Netta's; and has more than paid for--'

'But who the deuce is she?'

'There now, don't be angry, David. 'Tis that poor Irish girl that was so
ill of the fever.'

'I'll never believe she's Irish as long as I live--she's too pretty and
tidy and delicate and fair. She's no more Irish than I am, mother, and
you've been taken in.'

'She is Welsh on the mother's side. But are you very angry, David?'

'No, I don't mind her doing a little work in an honest way like that.
I'm not such a fool. When she has done the work send her off, that's
all. Poor soul! she does look as if she had been dead and buried and
come to life again. Mother, you're a good 'ooman, and God bless you!'

Mrs Prothero looked up into her husband's face with an expression of
such love and joy as must have delighted a much harder heart than that
spouse possessed. Don't laugh, gentle reader, at the conjugal embrace of
that middle-aged pair, which seals the quarrel about the Irish girl; but
believe me, there is more real sentiment in it than in most of the
love-scenes you may have read about.

Mrs Prothero took advantage of her husband's approval of Gladys's
exterior to send her out into the garden in the evening to breathe the
air, and afterwards into the fields. The girl's strength gradually
returned, but with it there appeared to be no return of youth or hope. A
settled melancholy was in her countenance and demeanour; and when Netta
rallied her on being so sad and silent, her reply was, 'Oh, miss, there
is no more joy or happiness for me in this world! all I love have left
it, and I am but a lonely wanderer and an outcast!'

When the shirts were finished, it was time to think of her departure,
for she had exhausted all the sewing-work of the house. Mrs Prothero
could not bear to turn the friendless, homeless girl adrift on the
world. She ventured upon the subject one day at dinner.

'What will become of her, David? And she so beautiful! I declare I think
I never saw a prettier girl.'

'Well, mother, who will you call pretty next?' said Owen, who had seen
her once or twice by chance. 'Why, she has no more colour in her face
than this tablecloth, and I don't believe she has any eyes at all; at
least, I never saw them; but I mean to try whether she has any some day,
by making a frightful noise when she drops me that smart curtsey in
passing.'

'I am sure we want hands badly enough in the wheat field, said Farmer
Prothero. 'If the girl could pick up her crumbs a little by harvesting,
you could keep her a while longer, and then send her off in search of
her relations.'

'Thank you, David. I will ask her what she can do,' said Mrs Prothero.

'Not much in that way, I am pretty sure,' said Netta. 'How should those
wretched Irish, who live on nothing but potatoes, know any thing about
the wheat harvest?'

'Treue for you there, my girl,' said Mr Prothero, 'but I daresay mother
will make believe that she knows something.

'Mother' found the object of their conversation that very evening in the
wheat field, sitting under a tree, at work. She had sent her out for a
walk, and this was her exercise. Owen and Netta were with their mother,
and as they approached, Gladys rose, curtseyed, and was going away, when
Owen made an unnatural kind of whistle, as if to frighten away some cows
in the distance. Gladys started, and with a terrified face glanced at
him. He found that she had very beautiful, violet eyes, with lashes so
long and black, that when she looked to the earth again they made a
strange contrast to her pale face.

'What sad, uncomfortable eyes,' thought Owen; 'I must have another
glance at them by-and-by. If she had a colour she might be pretty, as
mother says, but it makes one ill to look at her.'

'Do you think,' said Mrs Prothero, addressing Gladys, 'that you could
manage to help in the harvest; My husband says he will employ you, if
you can.'

'Oh, thank you, my lady! I would do my best, and if I could only stay
here longer under any circumstances--I should--oh, be so thankful!'

This was said with much hesitation.

'Very well, then; if you will try to-morrow we shall be able to judge
what you can do.'

'She don't look strong enough to bind the sheaves,' said Owen.

'I will try, sir, if you please,' said Gladys.

'What is the name of the friends you are seeking?' asked Owen with a
glance at his sister.

'Jones, sir,' replied Gladys, again looking at Owen.

'Perhaps there is a David in the family?' asked Owen.

'I believe that my grandfather's name was David,' was the reply.

'Now, if you walk through Carmarthenshire, and just ask every one you
meet if they know David Jones, I am sure you would find him. It is
astonishing what a powerful name David Jones is. I know a Rev. David
Jones very well? a clergyman too--'

'Oh! if you could only tell me where to find him. I would go anywhere
for my poor mother's sake!'

The girl clasped her hands and looked imploringly at Owen. He was
silenced by the appeal of the eyes he did not believe in. Mrs Prothero
glanced at him reproachfully, and said,--

'It is such a common Welsh name that I am afraid it would be no guide to
you, unless you would remember the place where he lived.'

'I daresay it began with Llan,' broke in Owen.

'I am almost sure it did,' said Gladys; 'but mother never liked to talk
of the place,'

'What do you say, mother, to writing to the Rev. David Jones, Llan.,
etc., Carmarthenshire?'

Netta laughed aloud; she could not help it; whilst Gladys again looked
upon the ground.

'Owen,' whispered Mrs Prothero, taking her son's arm and leading him
away, 'what is a joke to you is death to her, remember that.'

'There, don't be angry, mother; I will help her to do her work
to-morrow.'

'He was as good as his word, and the following day resolutely kept near
the poor, timid girl, aiding her to bind up the full-eared corn, and
carrying it himself for her to the mows, into which they were hastily
forming the sheaves for fear of rain. He could not resist occasionally
alluding to Mr David Jones, but receiving no encouragement to carry out
the jest, and finding her as silent and shy as a frightened child, he
gave up the subject, and with it all attempt at conversation. He
declared afterwards that she worked like a slave, and knew all about
harvesting as well as anybody, only she was not strong, and that she was
the dullest Irish woman he ever saw in his life, since even the beggars
had a bit of fun in them. Indeed he didn't believe her to be Irish, or
credit a word of her story; but, as to beauty, he began to agree with
his mother, for if she had only a colour she would be as pretty a girl,
with as graceful a figure, as anybody need wish to see.

The farmer declared that she had well earned her supper; and that if
mother thought she would do, she might keep her instead of Betty, after
Hollantide; the said Betty having signified her intention of getting
married at the matrimonial season of the year. Mrs Prothero said she
would think it over, but she was afraid she was not strong enough for
hard farm service. It was evident that Gladys had taken a step into the
kind heart of the worthy farmer.






CHAPTER XIII.

THE WIDOW.


'Whose grand groom is that, half afraid to ride through the yard?' asked
Mr Prothero, as he and his son Owen were standing by the big wheat-mow,
awaiting the arrival of a load of corn.

'I'll go and see what he wants,' said Owen, and off he went.

He returned, bearing a note for his father.

'He says he is Mr Griffith Jenkins's groom, and waits for an answer.
Howel doesn't do the thing by halves anyhow.'

'Mr Griffith Jackanapes!' said the farmer, breaking the seal of the note
hastily, and reading it.

Owen watched his countenance assume an angry expression, and then heard
him utter a very broad Welsh oath.

'Tell that feller there's no answer,' said Mr Prothero.

'What is it about father? you had better let mother see it first.'

'The impudent young ass! does he think I am to be taken in by all that
gold and plush? He shall never have my consent, and you may tell him so,
Owen.'

'Come into the house a minute, father, and let us see the note.'

They went into the house, the farmer giving an indignant grunt at the
groom as he passed.

'Mother, come here!' he roared as he entered the parlour, followed by
Owen.

The obedient wife left her kitchen and went to her husband.

'Read you it out loud, Owen.'

Owen read.

     'SIR,--Being in a position to marry, and to marry any lady in the
     county, I think you need not be surprised at my now aspiring to the
     hand of your daughter, to whom I have been many years attached. I
     beg, therefore, to say that my object in writing to you is, to ask
     your permission to pay my addresses to her, and to make her my
     wife. My attorney will see to any arrangements you may require as
     regards settlements, which are matters of no importance to me,--I
     remain, sir, your obedient servant,

     'HOWEL GRIFFITH JENKINS.'

'The impudent scoundrel!' said Mr Prothero.

'Well, father, I don't see--' began Owen.

'You don't see, sir, I daresay you don't. Wasn't he as near ruining you
as possible! Didn't he teach you to gamble, and fleece you, and lead
you into all kinds of mischief? Didn't I forbid him the house for it?
Didn't he rob his own father, and make his mother miserable? Didn't he
drink and keep company with the worst profligates of the country? Didn't
he as good as rob me, sir, out of a ten-pound note when he was a bit of
a boy, and when I found it out, called it a lark? Do you think a great
fortune will all of a sudden change such a chap as that into an honest
man? No, what's ill got is ill spent, and old Giffrey Jenkins's money
'ill never turn to good account. He that grinds the poor, and goes
against scripture as a usurer, 'ill never find his son do well. Howel
shall never have my consent to marry Netta, and there's an end of it.'

'But suppose they are determined,' said Mrs Prothero.

'Then I'll wash my hands of 'em for ever, and vow Netta's no girl of
mine. Go you, Owen, and send off that fine yellar-band, sent to astonish
me, and tell him I'll have nothing to do with his master nor him.'

'But, father, you must write!'

'Write! not I: but stop, I'll write. Bring the paper. Haven't you got
any with a fine gloss, and coloured?'

'Now, David, bach, if you would only consider a little. I am really
afraid of the consequences.'

'Now, mother, my mind's made up, and you won't wheedle me in this
matter. So, here's the pen and ink,'

Mr Prothero sat down and wrote the following reply to Howel's note:--

     'HOWEL,--You have had my answer before now, and you may have it
     again. When I know you're out-and-out a changed man, I may think
     differently; but I don't know it yet, so you shall not have my
     consent to marry Netta. One hundred pounds of steadiness and
     honesty is worth a hundred thousand pounds of gold. I wish you
     well, but if you was king of England you shouldn't have my girl as
     you are now.'--Yours to command, 'DAVID PROTHERO,'

'There, mother, there's my mind,' said Mr Prothero, giving the note to
his wife.

'Well, David, I believe you are right, only Netta is so determined!'

'Determined, is she! Then I'll lock her up. Take that to yon
yellar-band, Owen.'

Owen took the note to the servant

'Tell your master that I am coming to see him this evening,' he said,
and soliloquised thus when the man was gone. 'Howel is a good fellow, I
believe, only a little extravagant and gay. I must tell him not to be
down-hearted about Netta. Why, the girl isn't worth such a bother? I
never saw one that was yet. It would take a great deal of time and
trouble to work me up into that kind of thing--and at least a dozen
girls. Netta's very pretty, to be sure, but she has a will of her own,
and so has Howel. I am sure they would soon fight. As to father, he is
as obstinate as a mule. And Howel with such a mint of money! But I like
father's pride, and I must say I reel proud of him for it. I would never
give in just because a man has suddenly got a fortune.'

When Owen had arrived at this conclusion, he perceived Netta coming
towards him.

'What did that servant want, Owen?' she asked when she came quite near?
'and what were those two notes about?'

'I dare say you know, Miss Netta. It is all over with you for this
present. Howel has popped the question, and father has refused him.'

If Owen had ever been really in love, he would have spoken less abruptly
on such a delicate subject, as he found, when he saw Netta turn pale,
then red, then burst into tears and run away from him into the house.

He followed her, somewhat distressed, to the door of her bedroom. He
knocked gently, but received no answer.

'Netta, let me in, I have something to say to you,'

No reply, but a passionate sobbing audible.

'Netta, dear Netta, I am so sorry for you. Let me in.'

He tried the door, but it was locked.

'Netta, if you don't let me in I'll go and fetch mother directly. One,
two, three, and, now, open the door, I'm going. One, two, three, and
away!'

He walked down the passage, and heard the door opened behind him.

'Owen, come here, I will let you in,'

'There's a good little sister.'

'Don't palaver me, sir,' burst forth Netta, as soon as her door was
closed. 'You are all unfeeling, unnatural, cruel, selfish, hard-hearted
heathens! You don't care for me or Howel any more than as if we were
strangers. Father don't mind what he drives me to, and mother cares more
for that Irish beggar than for me--I know she does. I did think you
would be our friend, and now you are as stiff and unfeeling as Rowland.
Seure you are,'

'Why, if I was a parson like Rowland, I'd marry you to-morrow.'

'Then, why don't you try to bring father round. You know he thinks more
of you than of anybody else.'

'It's no use trying; nobody but mother has any influence with father,
and she is not sure that 'tis right or good for you and Howel to marry.'

'She is cruel and unkind,' sobbed Netta; 'I don't believe any one really
loves me but Howel,'

'Stick to that, Netta; 'I for one haven't a spark of affection for you.
All father wants is to get rid of you, and that is why he is in such a
hurry for you to make such a grand match!'

'Oh! indeed! he and all the rest of you are as jealous of Howel's good
fortune as you can be,--you know you are. And you wouldn't like to see
me a grand lady, grander than Miss Rice or Miss Nugent even. Won't I let
them know I'm somebody, and not to be looked down upon any more, that's
all!'

Hereupon Netta wiped her eyes, and walked up and down the room grandly,
whilst Owen burst out laughing,

'I beg you to go out of, my room, Owen!' said Netta, stamping her foot
and getting into a passion. 'One can't expect manners or sympathy from
seafaring porcupines like you. Go away directly. Why, John James, the
carter, is genteeler than a great coarse sailor such as you. Go you
away, I say.'

'You ought to have said a seafaring dolphin or whale; they don't pay
twopence a week to learn manners, like you land-lubbers. When you want
me you may send for me.'

Owen went off very much offended, leaving Netta to cogitate upon the
cruelty of her relations.

In the course of that afternoon, a very well-dressed woman, in the
deepest of sables, was seen going down the road to the farm. She went
round through the garden to the glass-door, disdaining the yard, knocked
a great many times, to the great astonishment, of Shanno, and was at
last admitted, as Mrs Griffith Jenkins. Shanno, all reverence at sight
of the crape bonnet, crape veil, and widow's cap, ushered her into the
parlour, feeling that a chasm now lay between her and the dame she had
last seen in a high-crowned Welsh hat, striped flannel gown, and checked
apron. Having duly dusted a chair with her skirts, Shanno glanced at Mrs
Jenkins, and was about to leave the room, when Mrs Jenkins said,--

'Tell you your missus that I am coming on particular business and wish
to speak with her in private. Here, stop you, Shanno, where is Miss
Netta? I 'ouldn't mind giving you a shilling to tell her I was wanting
to see her before I am seeing her mother.'

The shilling was offered, and received with much satisfaction and an
intelligent grin, and in less than five minutes Netta was with Mrs
Jenkins.

'Deet to goodness, and you do look very poorly, Netta, fach!' said that
worthy, 'Howel was telling me to see you, and to be giving you this
note. Give you another to Shanno before I will be going away, and I will
give it to my Howel. Annwyl! you shall be seeing my Howel, now; how he
do look a horseback. Beauty seure! he do say you will have a horse, too.
There, go you? tell Shanno to tell your mother that I do be glad to see
her, let her tak' care how she do refuse you again.'

Netta escaped with her note, and was soon succeeded by Mrs Prothero, who
shook hands in a trembling, frightened way with Mrs Jenkins, who, on the
contrary, strong in the consciousness of fortune and new apparel, was
perfectly self-possessed. She began at once.

'I am coming about my Howel and your Netta, Mrs Prothero Howel is in a
fine temper, keeping noise enough, I can tell you; and I should like to
be knowing why he isn't good enough for your doater, Mrs Prothero; him
as is worth hundreds of thousands, and is as like to be coming a member,
and to be riding in his own carriage, and to be dining with the Queen
for that much! and seurely, he don't be good enough for Miss Prothero
Glanyravon Farm! Ach a fi! some peoples do be setting themselves up! my
Howel, too! So handsome, and genteel, so full of learning! Name o'
goodness what would you have, Mrs Prothero, Glanyravon Farm?'

Mrs Jenkins paused with a long emphasis on the farm.

'I am very sorry, Mrs Jenkins,' began trembling Mrs Prothero rubbing one
hand nervously over the other, 'but my husband is afraid that Howel is
not quite steady enough for such a giddy young thing as Netta.'

'Study! why, tak' your time and you'll be seeing how study and pretty he
do behave. On my deet, and I 'ouldn't say that, if I wasn't as seure as
I'm alive, he haven't took a drop too much, nor said a wicked word, nor
keep no low company since his poor dear father was dying. Ah, Mrs
Prothero! you was being very good to us when I was losing my poor
Griffey. Who'd be thinking what a heap of money he'd be leaving, and
Howel'll be building a good house for me? and seure, I must be dressing
in my best, and having servants to wait on me? and, bless you, nothing
as my son Howel's can be getting is too good for his poor old mother!'

'I am very glad to hear he is so kind,' said Mrs Prothero.

'Then what do you say about Netta, Mrs Prothero, fach?' sharply asked
Mrs Jenkins.

'To tell you the truth, I have very little power; my husband made up his
mind and wrote the note without consulting me.'

'Then maybe I could be seeing Mr Prothero?'

'I am afraid it would only lead to something unpleasant between you.'

'Oh, you needn't be taking the trouble to be afraid, ma'am! I am calling
my Howel as good or better as your Netta. There was a time when you
might been looking higher, but now I conceit it, it will be us as do
condescend. There's Miss Rice Rice, and the Miss Jamms's, Plas Newydd,
and Miss Lawis, Pontammon, and Miss Colonel Rees, and Miss Jones the
'Torney, and Miss Captain Thomas, and I 'ouldn't say but Miss Gwynne,
Glanyravon, do be all speaking, and talking, and walking, and dancing
with my Howels! There's for you: and yet he do like his cousin Netta
best he do say.'

'If you wish to see David, Mrs Griffey, I will call him,' said timid Mrs
Prothero, at her wits' end for anything to say or do.

'Seurely I am wishing to see him,' said Mrs Jenkins majestically.

David had not come in from his farm, so there was nothing for it but to
ask Mrs Jenkins to take off her bonnet and have some tea, to which that
lady graciously consented. When the crape shawl and black kid gloves
were removed Mrs Prothero perceived a large mourning brooch, containing
a gloomy picture of a tomb, set in pearls and diamonds, and surrounded
by the age, death, etc., of the lamented deceased; and a handsome
mourning ring, displaying a portion of iron-grey hair, also set in
pearls and diamonds, and surrounded with an appropriate epithalamium.
Mrs Prothero sat 'washing her hands in invisible soap,' whilst she saw
these ensigns of grandeur in the once mean, ill-dressed Mrs Jenkins, and
heard of all that 'her Howels' was about to effect.

Owen came in, and with due gravity admired the mourning insignia, and
examined the dates, age, etc., of the defunct Griffey. He went so far as
to venture upon a distant allusion to the future.

'I never thought those caps so becoming before, Aunt Jenkins,' he said,
eyeing her from head to foot, and wondering that he had never previously
been aware of what a good-looking woman his Welsh aunt was.

A Welsh aunt, be it understood, is your father or mother's cousin, and
Mrs Jenkins and Mr Prothero were first cousins.

'Isn't Davies, Pennycoed, that you used to tell us was once a lover of
yours, a widower?' continued Owen.

'Well, Owen,' said Mrs Jenkins, not displeased, 'you are always for
jokes, but I do mean never to marry again.'

'Don't make any rash vows; a young woman like you!'

Here Netta having dried her eyes, joined the party, and shortly after
Mr Prothero's voice was heard.

'After tea!' whispered Mrs Prothero to Mrs Jenkins, as she went out to
meet her husband. 'Here's Elizabeth Jenkins, David, come over to see us,
and she is going to stay to tea. I think she wants to speak to you
afterwards.'

'Very glad to see her; but Howel sha'n't have Netta a bit the more for
that.'

Mr Prothero put on a smart coat, brushed his hair, and came into the
parlour, as became one about to meet a grand lady.

'How d'ye do, cousin 'Lizabeth? Glad to see you looking so well; welcome
to Glanyravon.'

They shook hands, and as Mrs Jenkins made rather a grand attempt at a
curtsey, Owen looked at Netta, and showed his white teeth; but Netta was
as grave as a judge.

Mr Prothero was as much struck with the improvement in the widow's
appearance as his son.

'Why, I declare, cousin 'Lizabeth, you look ten years younger than you
did when I saw you last. Do you mind when we two used to go nutting
together? If 'twasn't for my good 'ooman there--'

'I was just saying so, father,' interrupted Owen; 'don't you think
Davies, Pennycoed--'

'I am not having no intentions of marrying again,' simpered the widow;
'wanst is enough. My poor Griffey.'

'Quite right, cousin 'Lizabeth, wan Griffey is enough, in all
conscience.'

The best tea things were duly arranged; cakes hot from the oven
buttered; the best green tea put into the best teapot, and all proper
honour done to Mrs Jenkins, from which she augured well for her Howels.

As Shanno was very busy and very dirty, Mrs Prothero, during her
preparations in the kitchen, was at a loss to know who was to wait if
anything was wanted. Gladys chanced to be there, and said modestly,--

'If I could do, ma'am, I would soon make myself neat in Miss Prothero's
gown; and if I might just take in the tray instead of you.'

'Thank you, Gladys, I am sure you will do,' and Gladys was installed.

'There is nothing that girl cannot do,' thought Mrs Prothero, as she
arranged everything on the tea-table as neatly and properly as Mrs
Prothero could have done herself.

'What a tidy girl you have!' said Mrs Jenkins. 'Do she mean to be
staying over Hollantide? I am wanting a servant.'

All eyes were turned on Gladys as she came into the room again, but as
hers were always fixed on what she was carrying, or on her mistress, she
was not aware of the sudden attention she excited.

'Irish beggars!' muttered Netta.

'One of mother's godsends,' said Mr Prothero.

'What a beautiful piece of snow,' thought Owen.

After tea Mr Prothero invited Mrs Jenkins to go and see his fine fat
cattle. The pair went together, leaving an anxious trio behind them.

Farmer Prothero was a man of few words when his mind was made up, and
was not long in beginning the subject each had at heart.

'I'm sorry, cousin 'Lizabeth, that I can't let Netta marry just now.
She's too young, and Howel isn't the lad to study her.'

'Oh! but you can't be knowing, David Prothero, how study he is since his
poor father's death.'

'Then let him wait two years, and if he is downright well-conducted,
then he may have Netta.'

'Upon my deet! he as can be marrying Miss Rice Rice or any young lady in
the country! Mighty condescent, Mr Prothero!'

'Let him marry 'em all, I don't want him.'

'Then you won't let Netta marry my Howels?'

'If he's study in two years, and they are both in the same mind, they
may marry, and be hanged to 'em! I never was so bothered in my life.
But, between ourselves, I think it's just as likely your son Howel 'ould
be study in two years as my son Owen.'

'Oh, name o' goodness, we don't want Miss Netta! No 'casion to be
waiting!'

'Then don't wait, 'ooman! Who wants you to wait?'

Mrs Jenkins hurried back into the house, and left Mr Prothero with his
cattle.

'I must be going now, Mrs Prothero--my son Howels too! Thousands and
thousands of pounds. Netta, come you upstairs, my dear, whilst I am
putting on my bonnet.'

Mrs Prothero was not duenna enough to accompany them upstairs, and
consequently Netta gave a note to Mrs Jenkins, cried a little, and
helped her to abuse her parents.

'Never you mind, Netta, fach,' were the last words, 'Howels don't be
meaning to give you up.'

'Good evening, ma'am; good evening, Mr Owen,' said Mrs Jenkins, as she
made the attempt at a curtsey, that caused Owen to show his white teeth
again.

'Oh dear, dear! what will be the end of it?' said Mrs Prothero to Owen
as Netta sulked upstairs. 'I wish Rowland was at home.'

'Very complimentary to your eldest son!' said Owen, laughing.






CHAPTER XIV.

THE MILLIONAIRE.


Nearly a twelvemonth passed, and an autumn morning again hovered over
Glanyravon Farm. It would seem that all the inmates of the homestead
were sleeping; but there was one already awake and moving furtively
about. It was Netta, not usually such an early riser. The curtains of
her trim little bed and window were drawn aside to admit all the light
that a September twilight could cast upon the chamber in which she had
slept since her childhood. A lovely bunch of monthly roses and some
leaves of dark green ivy alone looked in upon her in the uncertain
gloaming, as if imaging her present and future. She was dressing herself
hastily, but with care, in her very best attire. She stood before the
glass braiding and arranging her dark glossy hair, that luxuriant
ornament of her bright, rosy face; then she put on the blossom white
lace habit-shirt and striped pink and drab silk dress, her kind father's
last gift, and the smart shawl and pink bonnet were duly arranged
afterwards. Whatever the early visit Netta was about to make, it was
evidently a premeditated one. When the attire was quite complete, and
she had surveyed herself in the glass, she suddenly paused and looked
around her. In a moment she was putting her room to rights, and pushing
stray articles of dress into drawers, until all was quite neat; then she
paused again, and glanced at a letter that was lying on her little
dressing-table. Turning hastily away from this she opened the window and
looked out. The sun had not yet arisen, though there was a streak of
light, forerunner of his advent, on the horizon. Mountains, rivers,
fields, and woods were all wrapped in a cold, grey mist, but still it
was not dark. Netta tore the bunch of roses from the bough and put them
in her bosom, then re-closed the window. She took up a large shawl that
was lying on a chair, and a small package from underneath and
dexterously arranged the shawl so as to fall over the parcel, as she
held both in her hand and on her arm. Again she paused a moment and
glanced around her. Her face was flushed, and there was moisture in her
dark eye.

Oh, pause a little longer and consider, poor Netta! But no. The sudden
flash of sunlight into the room terrifies the thoughtless child, and she
goes hastily into the passage. Quietly she closes her door; stealthily
she creeps along. She makes no sound as she steals, like a thief,
through the house where she was born some eighteen summers ago. Before
one closed door she pauses again--listens. She can hear the breath of
the sleepers within. She is on her knees, and represses with difficulty
a rising sob, 'Mother! mother! forgive me! God bless you!' she whispers,
as she once more rises and runs down the remainder of the
passage--downstairs--through the hall--through the parlour, and out by
the little glass door into the garden. In spite of her tears, haste,
agitation she cannot pass that bed of carnations--her mother's
treasure--without stopping to gather one fresh and dripping with the air
and dews of night. Innocent flowers! they will see her mother that very
day; but what of the stray, wandering rose of Glanyravon? Through the
garden, and out by the little wicket into the lane; across a field
sparkling with dewdrops; over a stile; down another lane; over another
stile, and into another field! Here she pauses and glances round. A dark
figure at the opposite side of the field seems to assure her that all is
well. She runs quickly across the meadow, and within it, under shelter
of the hedge, near a half-open gate, stands Mrs Griffith Jenkins.

'Where is Howel?' asks Netta hastily.

'He did write yesterday to say he 'ould bring the carriage from Swansea
to meet us at Tynewydd, and he was sure to be there by six o'clock,'

'Let us make haste then, Aunt 'Lisbeth. Why didn't he come here himself?
I have a great mind to turn back.'

'Come you, Netta, fach! we'll soon be there. See you the letter?'

'Not now--not now,' cries Netta impatiently, walking along the high road
as fast as she possibly can. Mrs Jenkins keeps up with her, but is soon
out of breath.

'There's Jack Trefortyn; he'll be sure to tell. Aunt 'Lisbeth, I will
turn back. Father will be after me. It is too bad,' sobs Netta.

'We are near by now, Netta, fach. Come you!'

The little woman quickened her pace into a short run to keep up with
Netta.

'Here's the turnpike; we'll be at Tynewydd 'rectly.'

'I see Tynewydd,' says Netta, straining her eyes to catch sight of some
object far down the road; 'there is no carriage--I am sure there is
none. Cousin Howel ought to be ashamed of himself.'

Netta runs on very fast, leaving Mrs Jenkins far behind, until she
reaches the turning to a lane that leads to a little farm called
'Tynewydd.' She bursts out crying, and stamps her foot as she
exclaims,--

'Does he think he's going to do what he likes with me because he's rich?
I'll tell him he shall wait for me, I will!'

Hereupon she turns back and runs faster than before towards Mrs Jenkins.

'Come you, Netta, fach! He'll be here by now. Read you the letter.'

Netta pauses a moment to read a letter held out to her by Mrs Jenkins.
It runs thus:--

'I can't be with you to-day. Meet Netta at the appointed place, and walk
to Tynewydd. I will be there with a carriage by six o'clock.--Yours,
H.J.'

'See you, Netta, it isn't six yet.' Mrs Jenkins pulls out a large gold
watch, which, while Netta was running on, she has managed to put back
half-an-hour. 'Five-and-twenty minutes to six, see you.'

Netta turns again and hurries on.

'There is Jones Tynewydd. If he should see me,' says Netta. 'Do make
haste, Aunt 'Lisbeth.'

They walk on for about a quarter of a mile, when carriage wheels are
distinctly heard, and in a few moments a fly and pair is distinctly seen
coming at great speed. The driver would have passed them, but Mrs
Jenkins calls out,--

'A gentleman for Tynewydd inside?' Upon which he pulls up. Howel is out
of the fly, and Netta lifted in before she knows what she is about. Mrs
Jenkins is put in almost as quickly, and the fly turned and off again in
less time than it takes to write it.

'Howel, how could you? I was going back, and I wish I had,' sobs Netta.

Howel kisses her and tells her to be a good little cousin, and she shall
see London in no time. She clings close to him, and hides her face on
his shoulder and sobs on. He draws her to him, and lets her grief have
way. Few words are spoken for a time, but at last Netta dries her tears
and says,--

'I was so frightened, cousin, and I didn't think it would be so hard to
leave mother without saying good-bye. Mother was always kind.'

'Hide you, Howel! hide you, Netta! there's Mr Jonathan Prothero,' says
Mrs Jenkins, shrinking back into the corner of the fly.

Howel peeps out and sees Netta's worthy uncle, bag on back, setting
forth on some archæological search.

Howel and Netta lean back in the fly whilst he passes, little thinking
whom the vehicle contains.

'Uncle and aunt will be glad at least,' says Netta. 'Aunt says you are
very clever and handsome, Howel, and wonders why father won't let us--'

'Marry, Netta--say the word. I suppose Aunt Jonathan found out my
talents and beauty after I acquired my fortune.'

After driving about ten miles they stop to change horses, and in the
course of three or four hours arrive at the Swansea railway station,
newly erected within the last few months. The scene is equally new to
Netta and Mrs Jenkins, and whilst Howel goes to take their tickets they
stand wondering and admiring. Neither of them has ever travelled by
rail, and both are equally nervous at the prospect. They are just in
time for the express, and soon find themselves seated in a first-class
carriage. As it is a carriage of two compartments, Howel fastens the
door between the two, draws down the blind, puts some coats on the
fourth seat, and says they will now have it to themselves all the way to
London.

Netta seizes his hand and screams when the steam whistle sounds, and his
mother falls down upon him from the opposite seat He laughs aloud, and
seems in such buoyant spirits that the women laugh too; and very soon
Netta has quite forgotten her home, as with her hand clasped in Howel's
he unfolds to her his future plans and arranges hers.

'Deet, and this is like a sofa in a drawing-room. I shall be asleep if I
don't take care,' says Mrs Jenkins.

'The best thing you can do, mother. I will awake you when we get to
Reading, where the biscuits are made you used to sell, faugh! and be
sure to show you Windsor Castle.'

Mrs Jenkins obeys her son's wish, and is soon sleeping soundly.

Howel then gives Netta the following intelligence, which, as it
interests her, we will hope may be interesting to her friends.

'The old gown you gave my mother, Netta, I sent to a celebrated house in
town, and calling there the next day ordered a proper _trousseau_ to be
made for you.'

'What's a _trousseau_, Howel?'

'You little dunce. Why, what we call a _stafell_ without the household
furniture. So you will find a wedding dress and all kinds of dresses and
garments without number awaiting you, for I gave the milliner _carte
blanche_.'

'What's _carte blanche_, cousin? You are become so grand.'

'Never mind--white paper with two meanings. And here is a present to
begin with.'

Howel takes a leather case from his pocket and puts it into Netta's
hand. She opens it, and sees a beautiful little gold watch and chain.

'Oh, you dear, kind cousin, Howel!' she cries; her eyes sparkling with
delight. 'I have longed for one all my life.'

'Will you go back again, Netta dear?' asks Howel archly.

The watch and chain are duly put on, and then Howel continues,--

'To-morrow you will have a hard day's work. You must purchase a great
many things that will be necessary for travelling that I could not buy.
The rest we can get in Paris. I have invited my friends, Sir John and
Lady Simpson, and their son and daughter, to the wedding, which I have
fixed for the day after to-morrow. One of the reasons for my not being
able to come to you yesterday was that I must be a fortnight in the
parish where we are to be married before we are married. I just ran down
by the night train, took the fly, and met you; and shall make up my lost
night by sleeping in town, for certainly I slept nowhere yesterday.
Can't sleep in a train like mother; always feel too excited.'

'I don't like those grand people,' interrupted Netta, pouting.

'You will know them directly. But don't let out anything about the farm,
or father and mother; papa and mamma now, little coz. Miss Simpson
guesses it is an elopement, I think, but I haven't told her so. They are
very great friends of mine; very grand people.'

'Quite like Lady Nugent, I suppose,' suggests Netta.

'Quite--grander indeed. Well, I have ordered the wedding-breakfast,
carriages, everything. Never had such fun in my life. It was quite an
excitement. You don't know half my talents yet.'

'Suppose brother Rowland were to hear of it?' says Netta, frightened at
the idea.

Howel laughs aloud, and awakes his mother.

'He is east, we are west, my dear cousin. He is amongst the plebeians,
we the patricians; he is _canaille_, we are _noblesse_.'

'What are they, Howel?'

''Tis a pleasure to be hearing you talk, Howel,' says Mrs Jenkins,
yawning and rubbing her eyes.

'I was saying, mother, that we are to have a grand wedding, and you must
take care not to let anything come out about the shop, faugh! or,
indeed, not talk much to the friends I have asked--Lady Simpson, for
instance,'

'Oh, yes? you was telling me of her. Wasn't it when you was dining with
Prince Albert wanst, and was wanting that money of my Griffey?'

'Do hold your tongue, mother,' shouts Howel, shuddering; he always
shivers when he hears his father's name.

He sees a head trying to peep through the curtain, and thinks it best to
hold his tongue for a time, then continues,--

'I mean, mother, don't mention my dining with the prince, or any of
these old stories, to the Simpsons. You must both be very careful of
what you say. I shall show you as much as I can of London to-morrow,
mother, as you will be obliged to return the day after.'

'Deet now, I did be thinking I should stay a week in London, now I am
going there for the first time in my life? I'll be staying after you,
Howel, bach. I've plenty of money now.'

'You shall come up again to meet us when we return; but you must be at
home to see to the house, and let us know what is said of our doings.
You see we shall go direct to Paris, stay some time abroad, and then
come and settle at home. Won't we astonish the county! Mr and Mrs Howel
Jenkins will be no longer the Howel and Netta of old days; we shall be
the upon, not the fawners!'

'I'd scorn to fawn on any one, Howel,' says Netta indignantly; 'I never
did in my life. I always gave Miss Rice Rice as big a stare as she gave
me.'

'You will be able to give her a bigger now,' laughs Howel. As they
journeyed on, Howel pointed out all the different objects that were
likely to interest his mother and Netta. Every one, or nearly every one,
knows what an exciting event is a first journey to London, it matters
not whether performed at eighteen or sixty-five. And if the first
journey to London be also the first journey by rail, the wonder and
excitement are doubled.

When Howel had finished all his instructions concerning the future, he
thoroughly entered into the present, and enchanted his companions by his
general knowledge of the passing scenes, and the amusing stories he had
to tell. Netta was more in love with him than ever before they reached
town, and wondered that such a grand and clever gentleman could have
kept constant to a little country cousin like herself. She had seen
nothing of Howel during the most stirring years of his life, and could
not have supposed what a change the mere commerce with the world could
effect. She considered him far more agreeable than her brother Rowland,
handsomer and more polished than Sir Hugh Pryse, and much more
fashionable than Mr Rice Rice.

At Swindon he treated them liberally, and loaded Netta with sweets to
take with her to the carriage after she had swallowed her cold chicken
and wine. As to his mother, knowing her peculiar tastes, he gave her a
glass of brandy and water, upon plea of illness, which she took with
evident pleasure; but fearing to attract the attention of the smart
people around her, sipped so daintly, that it was not half finished when
the signal to return to the carriages sounded, and Howel hurried her
off.

'Just let me put this piece of chicken and ham into my bag, Howel, and
finish this drop,' she whispered.

'Quick, mother, not a minute,' was all the answer she received,
accompanied by a pull of the sleeve so imperative, that she was obliged
to leave her half filled glass behind her.

At the Oxford Station, Netta began to wonder what Rowland would think of
her conduct.

'Think!' said Howel, with a scowling brow, 'the prig! what right has he
to think? He will know that three or four thousand a-year are somewhat
better than a London curacy--ha! ha! and wish himself in my place, I
fancy,'

As they neared London, Netta was haunted by visions of her brother, the
only person she really feared.

'Suppose he should meet them! should find her out! Suppose the clergyman
who married them should guess, from her name, she was his sister, and go
and tell him?'

Howel laughed heartily at this, told her to look out of the window at
London as they entered it, and see whether she thought one parson would
be likely to be met by chance by another.

'This London!' exclaims Netta, 'I see nothing but the roofs of a lot of
ugly black houses!'

'Carmarthen is as fine, and Swansea finer!' says Mrs Jenkins, her face
expressive of great disappointment.

'Draw down your veils, and stand there whilst I get a cab,' says Howel,
after they have descended upon the platform.

Netta trembles all over, and fancies every tall man in black must be
Rowland.

'Name o' goodness what are all the people about?' says Mrs Jenkins. 'My
deet, there do be a lot of carriages! And look you, Netta, at all the
gentlemen's servants in blue and silver! Here's a place! big enough to
hold our town. Look you at the glass--like a large hot-house. Seure all
London isn't covered up like this!'

'Here you are! all right--come along quick!' says Howel, taking them to
a cab, and putting them in.

'Half Moon Street, Piccadilly,' and off they go, as fast as the poor
cab-horse can take them.

'Now, what do you think of it, Netta?' asks Howel, as they drive through
the magnificent streets and squares of the West End of London, where
every house looks a palace.

Netta was so bewildered that she could not answer; but Mrs Jenkins
talked for both.

'Look you! well to be seure! that's grander than I ever see. There's a
church! Trees too! Who'd be thinking of trees in London? Well, name o'
goodness, where are all they people going? That church 'ont hold 'em
all! There's beauty! Is that St Paul's, Howel, bach! or the Monument? My
Griffey was talking of them! There's houses! Seure that's Prince
Albert's coach! There again! Where was all those carriages going? Ach a
fi! that man was just driving into our horse. Howel, name o' goodness
tell the coachman to tak' care. He'll be upsetting us. Yes, indeet,
Netta, there's shops! One after another. Did you be buying Netta's
wedding clothes there, Howel! Is that a play-house? No! not a
gentleman's house? I 'ould like to see a play for wanst, if nobody 'ould
tell our minister.'

'If you are not too tired, I'll take you to-night, mother,' here broke
in Howel. 'We may go, perhaps, after you have had some tea. What do you
say, Netta?'

'Anywhere you like, Howel,' said Netta, 'I am no more ready than if I
was just starting.'

'Pic what, Howel, was you calling this?' asked Jenkins.

'Piccadilly, mother. One of the best parts of London.'

'Deet, and I should think so. 'Tis like a 'lumination lights. There's no
night here. Daylight all the year round. Trees again, like Glanyravon
Park, and lights along by. There pretty--what a many carriages! Was they
all going to the play? Soldiers, too, I am thinking! And more o' them
gentlemen's servants in blue and white. Do all the servants in London be
wearing the same livery, Howel?'

'Those are the police, mother,' said Howel, laughing.

'The pleece! Well, I do be calling them handsome men. When will the
noise stop, Howel? I can't hear myself speak, much less you and Netta.
'Tis more noise than Hollantide fair! But maybe 'tis fairday here
to-day, only I wasn't seeing no cattle. There for you! that man 'll
upset us, seure he will.'

'Here we are, mother,' interrupted Howel, as the cab stopped in Half
Moon Street. 'Now, you must remember that the landlady is not to be in
all our secrets.'

'Seure, and this isn't half as grand as Pic--what's that long name,
Howel?'

'Will you walk upstairs, ma'am,' said a well-dressed woman who stood in
the passage of the house at which they stopped.

'Thank you, ma'am,' said Mrs Jenkins, making her very best curtsey to
the landlady.

'Is tea ready, Mrs Thompson?' asked Howel, hastening into the passage.

'Yes, sir!' replied Mrs Thompson, trying to catch a glimpse of Netta's
face.

'This way, mother,' said Howel, striding upstairs. 'You can send the
traps into the bedrooms, Mrs Thompson. William, take them up.'

This to a smart tiger, emblazoned in green and gold, belonging to
Howel's private menagerie.

'What a lovely room! what a beautiful fire!' cried Netta, as she
followed Howel into a handsome first-floor drawing-room.

'Treue for you there!' said Mrs Jenkins, surveying herself in the glass.

Tea was ready, and a substantial repast besides, of which they all soon
began to partake, and to which they did justice.

'I do wish I had that drop of brandy I left in those grand rooms, I am
feeling a pain,' began Mrs Jenkins.

Howel drew a flask from his pocket, and poured a little brandy into his
mother's tea.

'This must be the first and last time mother,' he said, as he did so.

When they had finished tea, Howel told them that their room was within
the folding-doors, and that Netta would find a dress there for the play,
and must make haste, if she meant to go. His mother, being in her very
best black, wanted nothing but the widow's cap to complete her attire as
chaperon. Howel lighted his cigar, and finished the brandy in the flask
whilst the women were dressing. They soon returned, Netta looking really
beautiful, in a new and fashionable white dress, elaborately trimmed
with ribbons and lace.

Howel went up to her and kissed her with infinite satisfaction.

'Won't we create a sensation at the Olympic,' he said. 'There will not
be such bright eyes and lilies and roses to be seen there as yours,
cousin Netta!'

'Mother don't approve of plays, Howel!'

'You must think of me, not mother now,' said Howel, ringing the bell and
ordering a cab, which as soon as it arrived received our trio, and was
driven to the Olympic, where they arrived in due time, and where we will
leave them for the present.






CHAPTER XV.

THE MILLIONAIRE'S WIFE.


'Don't you be taking on so, Netta, fach! if you do be crying this way,
your eyes 'll be as red as carrots, and Howel 'ont like it.'

'Oh! Aunt 'Lisbeth, I can't help thinking of mother, and how she is
vexing about me.'

'Look you at yourself in the glass, Netta, fach! and you 'ont be vexing
any more. I never was seeing such a glass as that before. Look you! you
can see yourself from the beauty-flowers in the white bonnet--dear!
there is a bonnet! and you was looking so well in it--down to them
lovely white shoes on your foots, I never was thinking before you had
such little foots.'

This conversation takes place whilst Mrs Jenkins is engaged in dressing
Netta for her wedding, and in endeavouring at the same time to soothe
various ebullitions of grief that burst out ever and anon, between the
different acts of the attiring. The girl cannot quite forget the friends
she left behind her, when she so suddenly ran away from home. The appeal
to her personal appearance is not, however, in vain. She looks in the
cheval-glass which draws forth Mrs Jenkins' admiration, and thinks she
has seldom seen anything so pretty as the reflection of her own person
in her bridal dress. She hastily dries her eyes, and turns round and
round several times to assure herself that all is right.

'Ah! Howel is knowing everything!' says Mrs Jenkins. 'Silks and laces,
and flowers, and worked-handkerchiefs, and all as white as a lily! And
your cheeks a deal redder than any I do see here along! My deet! but you
do be looking genteel.'

'Do I look as if I had been crying, aunt?' asks Netta, wetting her eyes
with lavender water. 'I'm afraid of Howel and those grand people. I wish
he hadn't asked them.'

'Oh, for sham! Netta. There they are, I shouldn't wonder! Yes indeet!
says Mrs Jenkins, 'I hear them talking on the stairs.'

A knock at the bedroom door is followed by the entrance of two ladies,
apparently mother and daughter; the former a portly and roseate dame,
clad in the richest of brocades and white lace shawls--the latter a thin
and somewhat yellow damsel, a tired in white and pink bonnet and mantle
to match, evidently in bridesmaid's gear.

'Ah I how charming! how beautiful! what a country-flower in London
leaves!' exclaim the ladies, rushing up to Netta and kissing her. 'Good
morning, Mrs Jenkins, your son has chosen a bewitching young person
indeed!'

'Treue for your ladyship,' says Mrs Jenkins, making her very best
curtsey, as the ladies alternately shake hands with her.

'Your ladyship' is no less a person than Lady Simpson, the wife of Sir
John Simpson, a gentleman who acquired that title on an occasion when
William the Fourth, of blessed memory, was fêted in the city. Sir John,
having made a considerable fortune in trade, and being blessed with a
helpmate of an aspiring mind, has removed from his old neighbourhood to
that of Hyde Park, where he is spending the money he earned on the
general advancement of his family. This family consists of a son and
daughter, who have been highly educated according to the general
acceptation of the term. With the son Howel is very intimate, and
through him he has long been known to the rest of the family; but it is
only since his vast accession of wealth that he has had the
distinguished honour of claiming Sir John and Lady Simpson as his
particular friends. To them he confided his intended marriage with a
beautiful cousin, who, for family reasons, was coming to London, he
said, under his mother's protection, to be united to him. They had
called on Mrs Jenkins and Netta the previous day, and were invited to
the wedding in the various capacities of father, bridesman, and
bridesmaid. Previously to their making his mother's acquaintance, Howel
informed them that being Welsh, she naturally spoke the language of her
country, and was so patriotic that she disliked any other; and said that
they must not be surprised at her peculiar English, which was simply a
translation of the Welsh idioms into what, to her, was a foreign tongue.
He also gave his mother an hour's lecture upon her dress and deportment;
and Netta a few hints as to her general behaviour, which, whilst it
enchanted the elder, frightened the younger lady. Thus 'forewarned,' if
not 'fore-armed' the forces of Simpson and Jenkins were thrown together.

Lady Simpson is an average specimen of a vulgar woman aping gentility;
her daughter of a would-be fine lady.

After they have sufficiently admired Netta's dress, and put the
finishing touches to it, Miss Simpson informs Netta of her duty as bride
elect.

'Of course, my dear, papa will take you to the hymeneal altar, and our
friend Captain Dancy will take me.'

'Oh! I hope there is no other stranger,' gasps Netta.

'Only a particular friend of my brother's and of Mr Jenkins'. Do not be
alarmed, you shy little dove.'

'Netta, fach!' whispers Mrs Jenkins, 'the ladies was knowing what is
right'

'Then my brother must take up Mrs Jenkins, and Mr Jenkins, mamma. I
declare we shall be a charming party; and remember to take off your
glove, dear, and give it to me.'

'We had better go downstairs now,' said Lady Simpson. 'Bridegrooms are
very impatient at these times.'

Lady Simpson took the blushing, frightened Netta by the hand, and led
her into the drawing-room. Truly the poor child did look like a lovely
country rose, as Miss Simpson had not inaptly called her. Howel led her,
proud of her beauty, to the portly Sir John, who patted her kindly on
the cheeks, and reminded Netta so strongly of her father that the tears
sprung into her eyes. Howel's frown soon checked them, and a thundering
knock at the door, followed by the entrance of Mr Simpson, junior, and
his friend, Captain Dancy, turned her attention from the father to the
son. The look of decided admiration that the new comers cast upon her,
quite revived her drooping spirits, and she smiled, curtseyed, and
blushed as becomingly and naively as Howel could have wished.

Mr Horatio Simpson was a young man very much adorned with chains, rings,
studs, and black curls. He had, moreover, a very fine waistcoat, and was
altogether well fitted by his tailor. His face was not unlike that of an
otter. He used grand words when he spoke, but did not tire his
companions by quite as voluble a tongue as did his mother. He was one of
those fine gentlemen who would, or could neither plod nor dash at his
studies, and who was quite willing to take all his knowledge second hand
from any one who would kindly impart it.

Captain Dancy was so entirely his devoted friend, that he gladly gave
him the advantage of his superior parts, in return for various favours
which Miss Simpson also aided in conferring.

Captain Dancy is a tall, fashionable-looking man, with what Miss Simpson
and her mamma consider a splendid figure. 'And such a lovely moustache!'
Miss Simpson usually adds with a sigh. The moustache and hair are,
however, inclined to red, and the face within them is not unlike that of
a fox. Perhaps some of his friends might be surprised if they found him
in the present company; but he would do anything to oblige Simpson and
Jenkins, who are, in turn, always at his service, in more ways than one.

After a little preliminary conversation, Mr Simpson offers Netta his
arm; and followed by the rest of the bridal party, leads the way
downstairs. A smart little liveried page is at the door, and two fine
carriages are in the street, each with its horses and coachman
ornamented with bridal favours.

'We cannot make all our arrangements' as I could wish, whispers Howel
to Miss Simpson, 'owing to circumstances; or I should have met you at
the church from another house.'

Netta, Mr Simpson, and the two ladies are in the first carriage, which
soon arrives at St James's Church, followed by the other. How the
bouquet in Netta's hand trembles, as she takes Mr Simpson's arm, and
walks with him up the steps, and finally through the centre aisle to the
altar! She has never been in a London church before, and the varied
colours of that magnificent painted window strike her with wonder even
now.

Netta turns very pale as she stands by the altar, and waits until Howel
comes up. Sir John whispers some kindly words, which so forcibly remind
her of her father, that she can scarcely repress her tears. She glances
at Howel, as he stands opposite, gazing at her, and sees that his
handsome face is calm and determined. He smiles as she looks at him,
which reassures her. A prettier bride could never stand before an altar;
Howel feels this and is satisfied. And Netta has loved her cousin all
her life, and thinks him perfect. She can truly say that she leaves
father, mother, all for him.

And these are the feelings with which they receive the first words of
the earnest-spoken grey-haired priest, who tells them that they are
assembled in the sight of God, to be joined indissolubly together.

Netta once read through the marriage service years ago. She had
forgotten it, and would have read it again, but she did not take away
either her Bible or prayer book when she fled from her home, and did not
like to ask Howel to buy her one. Now, as the clergyman continues his
exhortation, the words sound to her as some solemn and wonderful address
spoken for her alone. She listens in spite of a multitude of feelings
that are struggling within her, and is struck with fear when she is
adjured to confess, if there is any impediment to her being lawfully
wedded. She knows that her father's anger and her mother's sorrow are
broad impediments in her road to happiness.

Her hand trembles, as he who holds the office that offended father ought
to hold, takes it and places it in that of the clergyman It trembles
still more as she hears the question put to her concerning her future
conduct to him, so soon to be her husband, and to think she must audibly
respond. Howel has already answered firmly and boldly, and she strives
to say the final, 'I will,' firmly too, but her voice falters; she is
too much absorbed in her own emotions to notice how carelessly and
thoughtlessly Howel repeats his solemn promise to her after the
clergyman, but she feels him press her hand and is reassured.
Tremblingly, but in all earnestness of purpose, she makes her vow to
'love, cherish, and obey' him whom she has resolutely chosen for her
husband; and, as if touched by her manner, and by the searching glance
of the clergyman, Howel becomes more serious as he places the ring on
her finger and repeats the last words in those great and awful names,
which it is sin to utter but with humility and prayer.

Truly, as they kneel before the altar to receive the final blessing of
the clergyman, they are a sight for much joy or much grief. Who shall
say what the end will be? Two human beings joined in one to all
eternity!

As that prayer and blessing are being spoken, a bright flash of
lightning darts through the church, followed by a heavy peal of thunder;
suddenly a great gloom fills the sacred edifice, and a storm of hail and
rain dashes against the windows.

Poor Netta is superstitious and as easily frightened as a child; she
starts and gives an involuntary little cry as the lightning flashes
before her eyes, and the thunder seems to shake her as she kneels. She
turns paler and paler as the storm continues, and can scarcely hear the
concluding psalms, prayers, and exhortation, for her fear of the
lightning which fitfully and at intervals slants through the painted
windows.

Stronger nerves than Netta's have been shaken by a thunderstorm on a
wedding-day. Even Howel involuntarily quails at this evil omen, and Mrs
Jenkins clasps her hands and mutters a Welsh proverb. She and Netta had
been congratulating each other on the sunshine of the morning, and such
a storm was bad indeed.

However, the service proceeds, and then he who addresses the
newly-married pair in God's name, makes himself heard in spite of the
pattering hail. He seems the more impressive as he cannot but remark
Howel's frowning brow and Netta's agitation.

It is a relief to all the wedding-party when the last words are spoken
and Howel leads his bride into the vestry. By this time tears are
running fast down her pale cheeks, and Howel's efforts at encouragement,
and the warm kiss he gives her, fail to dry them; Sir John Simpson's
fatherly embrace rather serves to increase than diminish the emotion,
and poor Netta is conscious that Howel must be very displeased.

She mutters something about her great fear of lightning and thunder;
signs her name even more stragglingly than usual, and is at last led by
Howel through the church to the carriage.

'I don't wonder she is frightened and nervous,' says Miss Simpson? 'I am
sure I should have fainted if such a storm had come on at my marriage.
It is--'

'Nonsense!' exclaims Howel, somewhat rudely, as they drive quickly
through Jermyn Street, up St James's Street, down Piccadilly, and into
Half Moon Street, without much farther conversation, whilst the storm
rolls on. Netta hurries upstairs and gives way to a burst of sobs and
tears; Howel follows, and knowing the best way to console her, takes her
in his arms, and having told her that she is his own little wife now,
begs her to remember all the grand things they are going to do.

'You are a great lady now, Netta. We must astonish the little people
down in Wales. Think of Paris, and that Lady Nugent and Miss Rice Rice,
and all your old rivals will hear of your being there, and soon see you
return smarter and richer than any one,'

'But the storm, cousin Howel! All those solemn words! I am frightened to
death!'

'Silly little Netta! what has the storm to do with you and me? All our
prosperity and happiness are beginning.'

'But they say, "Blessed is the bride the sun shines on," and that
thunder and lightning are such a bad omen.'

'Don't be'--a fool, Howel was going to say, but he modified it into
'Don't be such a silly little puss, but dry your eyes, and come and make
yourself agreeable to our first visitors. _Ours,_ Netta dear.'

Netta did as she was bid, and in a short time was at the head of the
table, on which a wedding-breakfast had been duly placed, according to
the general rules laid down for such occasions. Howel had given _carte
blanche_ to a fashionable confectioner, and everything was as it should
be for the quiet and private marriage of a man of large fortune. The
cake was splendidly ornamented, the champagne iced, and the other viands
and wines in keeping with them; the hired waiters vied with Sir John's
servants in propriety of demeanour, and Howel's page was as pompous as
pages generally are.

All Netta's pride and ambition returned when she saw herself mistress at
a table more luxuriously spread than that of Mr Gwynne, and she soon
began to enjoy her new dignity very much.

'I am to have a French maid when I get to Paris,' she said to Miss
Simpson. 'Howel does not like to take one with us, and we shall form our
establishment when we return.'

Howel laughed in his sleeve when he heard this: he managed to hear every
word that Netta uttered, and gave her an approving glance; he also saw
that his friends, Captain Dancy and Mr Horatio Simpson, greatly admired
his beautiful young wife, and little cousin Netta rose in his,
estimation.

'We shall soon meet in Paris, I hope,' said Captain Dancy. 'Simpson and
I are going to run over next week. I should like to assist in showing
you some of the lions, Mrs Howel Jenkins,'

'Lions! name o' goodness don't tak' her to see them!' exclaims Mrs
Jenkins, now put off her guard by fear.

'Ah! you have not that Welsh figure; it means--' began Miss Simpson, but
she was interrupted by Mr Simpson proposing the health of the bride and
bridegroom.

The breakfast went off very well, and the champagne went round only too
often; ladies as well as gentlemen were flushed by this exhilarating
beverage, and Mrs Griffith Jenkins was beginning to be very voluble on
the subject of 'my son Howels,' when that gentleman gave her a look that
silenced her, and that reminded Netta that he had told her to look at
Lady Simpson when it was time for her to put on her travelling-dress.

The ladies went to their retiring-room, whilst the gentlemen drank more
champagne, and arranged various Parisian amusements.

It was understood that, as Howel had no friends to leave behind him for
the final settlement of lodgings and the like, his guests were to depart
before he and his bride left. They accordingly took their leave as soon
as Netta reappeared in fashionable travelling costume. No sooner were
they fairly gone than Howel set to work to pay and arrange; this done,
he called Netta to look at their wedding cards. There were a great
number directed to different friends, some to acquaintances in their old
neighbourhood, and one to David Prothero, Esq., Glanyravon.

Netta quailed but said nothing.

'Now let me read you this, Netta? it is for the _Welshman,_ and every
one will see it:--"On the 16th instant, at St James's Church,
Piccadilly, London, Howel Jenkins, Esq., of our county, was married to
Miss Prothero, daughter of D. Prothero, Esq., of Glanyravon. Sir John
Simpson gave away the lovely bride, and the wedding-breakfast was
attended by a select, but fashionable party of friends."'

'Father will see that,' said Netta; 'he will be in such a passion.'

'Serve him right,' replied Howel, and called the page and sent the
letters to the post.

The carriage was at the door, and the luggage in. Mrs Griffith Jenkins
was busily engaged in packing up the cake and a spare bottle of
champagne, together with a few other confections' in a stray hamper.

'Make haste, mother,' cried Howel.

'Stop you, Howel, bach! in a minute. We must be wishing you joy at home;
and I should like to be sending cousin Prothero some of this grand
cake.'

At last Mrs Jenkins and her hamper were ready, and the trio started for
the Paddington Station.

When they arrived there Howel took a second-class ticket for his mother
as far as Swansea, telling her to take a first-class from that place
home. She was to sleep with some friends at Swansea.

'We mustn't waste money, mother.'

'Treue for you, Howel.'

'Tell everybody at home of the grand wedding.'

'Don't be afraid of that.'

When Howel had seen his mother off, he and Netta drove to their station,
and, per first-class carriage, with page in second, steamed off to
Folkestone, which was to be the first stage of their life-journey.






CHAPTER XVI.

THE SERVANT.


We must now leave Netta and her husband for a time, and return to the
morning when Netta left her home to go forth in search of a new one.

The breakfast-table was spread at the farm, and all were assembled
except Netta.

'Owen, go and call Netta,' said Mr Prothero, seating himself before some
smoking rashers of bacon; 'she's always late, I'll say that for her.'

Owen did his father's bidding, but returned exclaiming,--

'She is up and out of her room. There must be something wonderful to
make her go out before breakfast.'

'Such a lovely morning,' said Mrs Prothero, 'I daresay she is in the
garden.'

'Well, let her find her way in,' said the farmer; 'she knows the hour,
and we'll fall to. Say grace, mother, if you please.'

Mrs Prothero said grace, and the trio sat down to breakfast.

'I expect brother Jo and Mrs Jonathan to-day,' said Mr Prothero; 'they
are going to a clerical meeting, and are coming here on their way back.'

'Dear me!' said Mrs Prothero. 'What can we have for dinner?'

'Eggs and bacon. What better?' said the farmer. 'But you needn't be
afraid, they 'ont come till tea. Owen, I wish you'd just look out and
see after that idle slut Netta.'

Off started Owen with a piece of bread and butter in his hand.

'Mother, why don't you make that girl more regular?' asked Mr Prothero.

'Oh, David! you know she doesn't mind me.'

'Then you should make her.'

Mrs Prothero could have said, 'You should have helped me to make her all
her life,' but she refrained.

'Can't find her,' cried Owen, returning.

'Perhaps she is ill upstairs,' suggested Mrs Prothero, rising, and
running up to her room.

The room was empty, as we know, and Mrs Prothero was about to leave it
again, when she went to the open window to see if she could espy Netta
from it. She passed the dressing-table as she did so, and perceiving a
letter, glanced at the direction. She was surprised to find it addressed
to herself, and on a nearer examination saw that it was in Netta's
handwriting. It was with a trembling hand and foreboding heart that she
took it up and broke the seal After she had done this, she was some time
before she could summon courage to open it. When she did so, her brain
swam as she read the following words, written with trembling fingers:--

     'DEAR MOTHER,--I am going to marry cousin Howel. Father won't
     consent, so we are going to London to be married. I hope you will
     forgive me for not telling you, but I knew it was no good, as
     father is so much against it. I am sure I shall be very happy, only
     I should like to have been married properly at home; but it is not
     my fault that father would not hear of it, and that Howel would not
     wait. We are going to France and a great many other countries, and
     it grieves me to think how long it will be before I shall see you
     again. I hope you and father will forgive me? as Howel is a
     gentleman with plenty of money, and we have loved one another all
     our lives. I don't see why we were not allowed to marry like
     anybody else, instead of being obliged to go so far away; I am sure
     it would have been better if father had let us. Dear mother, you
     were always very good to me, and I am sorry if I ever offended you;
     but father called me bad names, and was very cross; he will be
     vexed, perhaps, when he sees how grand and happy I am.

     'Good-bye for a little time, my dear mother. Don't be very angry
     with your dutiful, affectionate daughter, JANETTA.'

The word 'dutiful' was scratched through and affectionate added.

When Mrs Prothero had read this letter, she turned very pale, and stood
like one in a dream; she could not realise the contents. That Netta was
wilful and obstinate she knew, but she had never known her guilty of
resolute disobedience; she felt very faint, and sat down on a chair
opposite the open door--she tried to rise to go downstairs to her
husband, but found that her head was too giddy, and she could not move;
she put her hand before her eyes, and became unconscious.

At this moment Gladys passed down the passage, and seeing Mrs Prothero
in this strange attitude, went into the room and asked if anything was
the matter. Receiving no answer, she put her hand tenderly on Mrs
Prothero's, and removing it from before her face, saw that she was pale,
and appeared to have fainted. She ran hastily downstairs, and finding
Owen alone, told him that his mother was ill. He followed her upstairs,
and soon perceived that Mrs Prothero was really in a kind of swoon.
Whilst he supported her, Gladys brought water and such restoratives as
she could procure; she begged him to go for his father, and whilst he
was gone, succeeded in restoring Mrs Prothero. At the sight of the open
letter, however, she sank again into a fainting fit.

Mr Prothero and Owen appeared.

'Mother, what is the matter? Name o' goodness what is the matter?' said
Mr Prothero in great alarm.

Gladys pointed out the letter to Owen, who glanced at it whilst his
father took his wife into his arms.

Gladys put vinegar to her temples and nostrils, and begged Mr Prothero
to take her to the open window; as he did so he saw Owen reading a
letter.

'How can you read now, you unnatural son?' he said sternly.

'Oh, father! father, Netta!' he exclaimed.

'Never mind her; think of your mother, ten thousand times as precious.'

At last Gladys succeeded in restoring Mrs Prothero to consciousness and
when she found herself in her husband's arms, with Owen bending over
her, she burst into a flood of hysterical tears, which partially
relieved her.

'Oh, Netta! Netta!' was all she could say, when they asked her what was
the matter.

'Never mind her, mother, but get better,' said Mr Prothero, his usually
rosy face almost as pale as his wife's.

'If you please, sir, we will lay her on the bed,' said Gladys.

'Not here--not here,' gasped Mrs Prothero.

They took her to her own room, and Gladys said,--'Perhaps, sir, if you
would leave her to me a little I could get her into bed, I am used to
illness.'

Mr Prothero looked at the girl, and saw her eyes full of tears, but her
face was calm and pale, and seemed to indicate a self-possession that no
one else present had.

'I will come back again soon, mother,' he said as he left the room,
followed by Owen.

When they were gone, Mrs Prothero gave way to an uncontrollable grief,
and threw herself upon the neck of the girl Gladys.

'What will he say? what will he do when he knows it all?' she sobbed.

'If you only hope and pray, ma'am, perhaps all will be right that
troubles you now,' faltered Gladys.

'My only girl! to be so wilful, so disobedient!'

'May I ask what has happened to Miss Netta?'

'She has run away with her cousin, and her father will never forgive
her--never!'

'Ah! that was what my poor mother did; but she was happy with my father;
and Mr Jenkins is rich and kind. Take comfort, ma'am, it may not be so
very bad.'

Gladys managed to get Mrs Prothero into bed, who, happily, did not see
the effect produced by Netta's letter on her husband. Whilst she was
shedding quiet tears on her pillow, he was raging with furious passion
to his son. Over and over again did he comment on every word of the
letter, sometimes with keen irony, sometimes with a burst of rage, until
Owen endeavoured to suggest pursuit.

'Go after her! the ungrateful, disobedient, good-for-nothing hussey! No,
not if she were stopping a mile off instead of whirling away in her
grand coach and four nobody knows where. Let her go, the impertinent
baggage! "Father 'ont consent! father was very cross! father had better
let us marry! he will be sorry when he sees how grand and happy I am!
father called me bad names!" I wish I had called her worse! she deserves
every name that was ever written!'

'But, perhaps,' suggests Owen, 'she will be happy, and Howel will be
steady.'

'Steady! hold your tongue and don't be a fool! Make a drunkard steady!
make a bad son steady! make a gambler steady! make a horse-racer steady!
make--make--make--hold your tongue, sir: don't say a word for the
ungrateful girl--never mention her name to me again--I never wish to see
her face more as long as I live--I--I--I--'

Mr Prothero's passion choked his words. Could Netta have suddenly
returned and seen her father shaking with suppressed grief, his face
crimson with rage, and his hands and teeth clenched, and her mother
pale and weeping on her bed, she would, I think, have paused longer
before she caused them this great grief.

Mr Prothero returned to his wife before his passion was calmed. He found
her sitting up in bed wringing her hands, and crying as if her heart
would break.

'Now, mother, there's no good in this,' began the farmer. 'That girl
don't deserve tears and lamentations, and I 'ont have 'em. We 'ont have
the house turned upside down because a bad, obstinate, ungrateful
daughter has run away with a miser's son, and a good-for-nothing
spendthrift. Let 'em go, I say! I 'ouldn't stir a step to bring 'em
back--'

'Oh, David! dear, dear husband! if only you will find out that they are
married; if only you would send some one to see that Howel marries her!
This is all--all--all! I will never name her again! I will try to forget
her--I will do all you wish! but for my sake, for yours, for all, for
God's sake, see to this, or I shall die.'

Mr Prothero was cowed at once by this passionate burst of grief. He had
never seen his submissive, patient little wife excited in this way
before, for never before had she felt so deep a pain. Her only daughter!

'God help me! God help me!' she sobbed, when she had controlled her
great emotion. 'I know I have indulged her--spoilt her perhaps. I know
she is proud and wilful, and obstinate; but oh! to disobey us all--to go
off, she doesn't know where--with Howel, too, who has no religion,
nothing to keep him pure and honest--this is too much! too hard! No,
David, bach! it is no good to be angry now--if you won't go after her I
must.'

'Stop you, mother, stop you! we'll see the slut married anyhow; that is
to say, Howel shall marry her--who ever doubted that? but I'll never set
eyes on her again as long as I live, I 'ont.'

Whilst Mr Prothero was speaking, Gladys, who had been waiting upon Mrs
Prothero until that moment, slipped out of the room, and ran in search
of Owen. She found him amongst servants making inquiries.

'Mr Owen, may I speak with you if you please.'

Owen followed her into the hall.

'Oh! sir, if you would go after Miss Netta, now that the master is
willing, at once; may be you will save your mother's life. If she goes
on this way, she will surely be very ill.'

'What use would it be for me to go after her? The cow-boy saw her pass
at about five this morning, and she is at Swansea by this time. My
father ought to have let 'em marry, and get on together like other young
couples.'

'But, Mr Owen, the mistress is afraid--she wants to be sure--she would
be happier, sir, if some one could see them married!'

'Oh! that's the way the wind blows! You may tell mother that I'll try to
track them--but it won't be of any use. At any rate it will calm her to
think we are making the attempt. You write to my brother Rowland,
Gladys, and tell him of this affair; but the truth is, we must make the
best of it. They are off to London to be married, and 'tis no good to
try to look for 'em there.'

Here Shanno entered.

'Mr Owen, Mr Jones, Tenewydd, did tell Mr Thomas, Trefortyn, who did
tell John, blacksmith, who did tell Betto, that he saw Miss Netta and
Mrs Jenkins, tallow-chandler, this morning about six o'clock, and they
did get into a carriage by there.'

'Go and tell mother that Aunt Jenkins was with Netta, Gladys, and I'll
go and see whether Mr Jones really saw her or not.'

Gladys returned to her mistress, who had become more quiet, and was
trying to persuade Mr Prothero to go after the fugitives.

'Mr Owen is gone, ma'am,' said Gladys, 'and Mr Jones, of Tynewydd, saw
Miss Netta this morning with Mrs Griffith Jenkins, and they got into a
carriage together.'

'Thank God that 'Lizbeth was with her,' said Mrs Prothero.

'The deceitful, pompous old vagabond,' thundered Mr Prothero. 'She to
connive and contrive! fit mother for such a son. They 'ont come to no
good end. No, mother, I can't, nor I 'ont go after 'em; Netta has made
her own bed, and she must lie on it.'

'Mr Owen is gone, ma'am,' whispered Gladys. 'Try to take comfort; there
is One who can make all our rough ways straight, and will bring poor
Miss Netta home again, if we pray for it.'

'What's the girl preaching about?' said Mr Prothero, glancing sternly at
Gladys, who was silenced at once. 'Now, mother, we mustn't let that
undutiful girl upset us. I must go to the wheat-field--you must--' he
looked at his wife, and changed what he was going to say to, 'lie in
bed.'

'No, Davy, I can't lie in bed, I must go and look for Netta.'

'Now, wife, I 'ont have none of this nonsense. You must either lie in
bed or go about your work. The whole house sha'n't be turned
topsey-turvey for a baggage like that.'

Mr Prothero left the room, and his wife insisted upon getting up.

'If you could pray for her, ma'am, you would be happier, and perhaps
poor Miss Netta might be helped in a way we cannot see.'

'Pray for me, Gladys, I cannot think or pray for myself, I am so
bewildered.'

The two earnest-minded women knelt down by the bedside, and Gladys
offered up a simple prayer in her clear, strong language, for the 'poor
lamb who had strayed from the fold;' in which the mother joined in the
midst of her sobs and tears. When they arose from their knees, Mrs
Prothero kissed Gladys, and said she would go downstairs, and try to
work, and seek to keep her heart in prayer.

And the day wore through, until the evening brought Mr and Mrs Jonathan
Prothero. For the first time, Mrs Jonathan comforted her sister-in-law.

'Now, really, I do not see why you should be so very much distressed,'
she said. 'Howel is a fine, clever young man, with plenty of money. He
is sure to make his way into good society, and to place Netta in a
superior position. Of course, it was very wrong of her to elope, very;
but your husband is so obstinate that they knew he would never consent,
and what else were they to do? I confess I should have done the very
same thing. As to his not marrying her after all, that is absurd. He is
devotedly attached to her, and he knows that with her beauty and spirit,
she will soon be fit for good society.'

Mr Jonathan was not so successful with his brother. After saying that he
had seen a carriage and pair pass at about six that morning, he
proceeded to offer consolation.

'It is according to nature, brother. Since the creation, the man has
cleaved to the woman and the woman to the man. You married according to
your fancy, so did I; so have men and women ever since the world began.
It may turn out better than you imagine.'

'Brother Jo!' thundered the farmer, 'hold your tongue. I know Howel
better than you do, or anybody else, except Rowland. I 'ont hear any
more about 'em, and the less you say the better. She's no daughter o'
mine any more.'

With this Mr Prothero walked away, leaving his brother very much
perplexed and distressed, but comforting himself with hoping that time
would soften even his choleric relative.

Owen returned about ten o'clock. He had ridden to the inn where Howel
had changed horses, and learnt the name of the house whence the fly
came; had left his own horse and taken another, and gone on to Swansea,
where he found from the drivers that the trio had gone direct to London.
Thinking it useless to try to track them farther, he returned, fully
impressed with the wisdom of Howel in running off with what he couldn't
get by fair means.

'Such a row as father makes,' he soliloquised. 'Why, I should do the
very same thing to-morrow. And Howel's a decent chap too; will be, at
least, when he's sown a few more wild oats. But if Netta doesn't lead
him a dance I'm mistaken. She's father all over. There's a difference
between her and that Irish girl! My wig! if she isn't a quiet one. But I
never saw such eyes as hers in all my life, or such a sweet temper. I
wonder what father would say if I ran off with her, and took her a
voyage or two to give her a little more colour. That's all she wants to
make her a downright angel'






CHAPTER XVII.

THE COLONEL.


The next day it was evident to every one that Mrs Prothero was very ill.
She had never had any very extraordinary misfortunes or troubles, and
the elopement of an only daughter was an event to her so dreadful and
unexpected that it seemed as bad, or worse, than her death. As nothing
more was to be gleaned concerning Netta, and further inquiries were
literally useless--indeed, Mr Prothero would not hear of their being
made--Mrs Prothero gave way to her grief, and her husband's most
passionate demonstrations of displeasure failed to frighten her into her
usual calm submission to him and his humours.

Owen paid a visit to Mrs Jenkins' abode, and heard from the servant left
in charge that she was not expected home for some time. Owen bribed the
woman to let him know when her mistress returned, and comforted his
mother by assuring her that he would find out all about Netta from Aunt
'Lizbeth, whose tongue was too well oiled to stop going.

Mr and Mrs Jonathan offered to remain at the farm, but as they rather
irritated Mr Prothero by their evident inclination to take up the
defence of the offenders, Owen told his aunt that she had better write
to Lady Payne Perry about Netta, as there was always a chance of great
people hearing the news. Owen was very well aware that his aunt could
not possibly write to her aristocratic cousin with the pens, ink, and
paper in general use at the farm, and that she would be obliged to go
to her davenport at the vicarage, where he already saw her, in
imagination, with the finest satin letter paper before her, mending her
pen into the most delicate of points.

Accordingly they took their leave, with a promise to return on Monday,
and were soon succeeded by Miss Gwynne, who, having heard of the
elopement, came to see Mrs Prothero.

'If you could prevail on the mistress to go to bed, ma'am,' said Gladys
when she opened the door to her, 'I would be for ever thankful to you;
she is much too ill to be about, and she has done nothing but mope and
fret all day.'

Miss Gwynne went straight into the dairy, where Mrs Prothero was making
butter.

'So Netta has taken the law into her own hands, Mrs Prothero. So much
the better; I shouldn't grieve about it if I were you. It is a grand
thing for her.'

'Not to disobey us and run away, Miss Gwynne? she would be better doing
her father's bidding than marrying a lord, much less Howel.'

'But you are not going to make yourself ill and miserable about it.
Since it is done, you may as well make the best of it; but you must go
to bed and keep quiet, to-day at least. You are not fit to see all the
people who are already on their way to condole or congratulate. You will
have half the parish here before night; I passed old Nancy, Cwmriddle,
hobbling down the lane, and she will be here shortly.'

'Oh, I couldn't see them, Miss Gwynne.'

'Then you must go to bed to avoid it. Do be advised, you look so ill.'

'When Miss Gwynne so far forgot herself as to be persuasive instead of
commanding, she was irresistible. She put her hand so gently on Mrs
Prothero's shoulder, and looked so kindly into her tearful eyes, that
the poor woman began to cry afresh. The sound of a stick knocking at the
back door completed the victory, and Mrs Prothero went sobbing upstairs,
whilst Gladys opened the door to admit Nancy, Cwmriddle, and another
gossip who had overtaken her. Mr Prothero came into the yard at the same
time.

'Well, sir, to be sure; only to think of Miss Netta,' began the old
woman in Welsh.

'If you're come here to talk about her, I'll thank you to go away again,
and tell everybody you meet that they may have their nine days' wonder
about us anywhere but here,' roared Mr Prothero into Nancy's ear, who
was very deaf.

The old crones, knowing Mr. Prothero well, turned away quicker than
they came, and soon began to do his bidding, perceiving that he was in
an 'awful way.'

'Mr Prothero, do you know I have sent Mrs Prothero to bed,' began Miss
Gwynne, advancing towards him; 'she looks so very ill and unlike herself
that I am sure you must be careful of her for a time.'

'All that ungrateful, good-for-nothing daughter of ours, Miss Gwynne.
What would she care if she were to kill her mother? I know you are a
true lady and a kind friend, miss, and have more sense than all the rest
of the country put together, so I don't mind telling you what I think.
Those that disobey their parents'll be seure to come to a bad end.'

'We will hope the best, Mr Prothero; and you must remember that you have
your sons to comfort you.'

'Fine comfort to be seure. There's Owen as wild as an untrained colt,
and Rowland such a grand man up in London that he 'ont know his own
father by-and-by. Dining with bishops and rectors, and as fine as my
lord. I always told my wife that all Mrs Jonathan's eddication was too
much for us, and so it is turning out. We shall be left in our old age
to shift for ourselves; one son at sea, without a shirt to his back;
another preaching upon a hundred a-year--gentleman Rowland I call him;
and the third in a workhouse, maybe. And all this because brother Jo
must needs bring a fine lady amongst us, and with her nothing but
grammar-schools, boarding-schools, and colleges. My wife always spoilt
that girl.'

'Perhaps you helped a little bit, Mr Prothero,' said Miss Gwynne,
smiling, to stop the farmer's flow of words. 'But one couldn't help
spoiling poor--'

'There, don't you go for to take her part, miss. Name o' goodness, let
alone the girl. Beg pardon for being so rude.'

Here Gladys appeared, who had followed her mistress upstairs.

'Sir, the mistress is very ill. I think she would like to see you.
Perhaps you had better have a doctor.'

'Never had a doctor in my house since Netta was born, that's the trouble
she brought with her; I'd as soon have an undertaker. Send you for a
doctor, and everybody in the house is seure to be ill. He's infectious.
Excuse me, Miss Gwynne, whilst I go and see what's the matter.'

Miss Gwynne waited until she heard Mr Prothero come down from his wife's
room, calling busily for Owen, who was in the wheat-field, and telling
him to go and fetch Dr Richards. She then called Gladys, and said she
should have whatever her mistress could fancy from the Park, and that
she would come again in the afternoon and see how she was.

This done, Miss Gwynne went her own erratic way, which led her over
stiles, and through fields, and into various cottages, where she
alternately scolded, lectured, and condoled, accordingly as she thought
their inmates deserved the one or the other. She rarely left them,
however, without giving some substantial proof of the interest she felt
in their wants and trials, either by promises of food or clothing, or by
money given then and there. She finally anchored in a pretty
school-house that she had lately prevailed on her father to build, close
by the Park, where she found Miss Hall patiently superintending the
needlework of the girls. She gave two or three quick nods to the
children, and they curtseyed and bowed on her entrance, and then told
Miss Hall it was twelve o'clock, and she had had quite enough teaching
for one morning.

'I don't see what use it is having a school, if half the children are to
stay away,' she said to the mistress.

'It is the harvest, ma'am; they stay at home to take care of the younger
children; that is why we have so few.'

'Yes, and half go to the Dissenting schools; I see them creeping out.
Now, children,' turning to the terrified urchins, who were just about to
leave the room, if I see any of you going to any other school but this,
or going away from church to the meeting-houses, you shall neither have
new frocks, hats, nor shawls, nor shall you come to the tea-party I am
going to give you soon; do you hear?'

'Yes, ma'am--yes, ma'am,' muttered the children as they curtseyed and
bowed and slipped away.

As Freda and Miss Hall walked through the park to the house, the former
grew very excited in her manner.

'I tell you what it is, Nita,' she said, 'Lady Nugent is doing
everything in her power to win papa, and as soon as Miss Nugent marries,
or rather as soon as somebody marries her fortune, she will get papa to
marry her, I am sure of it. She must propose for him herself, for he
will never have the courage to do so; I see through her, and I am sure
you must do the same. He is flattered by the constant attentions, and
little notes, and insinuating manners of a very handsome, fashionable,
agreeable woman; and she thinks Glanyravon Park and a man of fortune
that she will be able to turn round her fingers, better than the
jointure she will have to live upon when her daughter leaves her. I was
actually disgusted with her yesterday; it was what I call a dead set; if
he marries her I shall hang myself, for live with her I never will; I
positively detest her.'

'Oh! Freda; those are the old expressions of years gone by. But you are
jumping at a conclusion.'

'Not at all; papa always stands up for Lady Nugent and her insipid
daughter. You know he is a thorough gentleman himself and does not
understand such a maneuvering woman. I told him so the other day, and he
was quite angry; and I am sure she sets him against me. Why will you not
try to marry papa, if he must marry again? and you are the only person I
could tolerate for a step-mother.'

'My dear Freda,' said Miss Hall, laughing, 'your papa would as soon
think of Miss Rice Rice as of me.'

'You are quite mistaken, he has always admired you very much, only you
are so dreadfully reserved with him. You won't see that he wants some
one who can talk to and for him, to save him the trouble. This Lady
Nugent does with the most contemptible tact; and does it so cleverly
that nobody sees through her. If you will only try, and just propose at
the right moment, I am convinced papa would have you. If he marries her,
I say good-bye to Glanyravon for ever.'

'You are so impetuous, Freda; I am sure your papa has never thought of
it.'

'Not exactly in a downright way, nor will he till Lady Nugent makes the
proposal; then he will be rather frightened at first, and finally think
that she will head his table more gracefully than I shall, and be less
dictatorial--and I shall go into a convent.'

'Better marry yourself, my dear.'

'Marry who? The only person who would really care to have me, whether I
had a fortune or not, is Sir Hugh Pryse, and I could no more marry him
than--than--Mr Rice Rice, or Major Madox, who thinks only of the heiress
of Glanyravon.'

'But you have refused half-a-dozen more, and have not even taken the
trouble to try to like any one of them!'

'They were all in love with the Park, not with me; and I certainly never
mean to try to like any one. It must be true love with me, or none at
all. I shall die an old maid, and unless you will, just for my sake, try
to cut out Lady Nugent, I daresay you and I will nurse the black cat
together.'

Freda's conversation was checked by the sound of horses' hoofs behind;
she turned sound and saw a gentleman riding slowly up the drive. He soon
overtook them, and raising his hat, said,--

'Miss Gwynne! I am sure it must be Miss Gwynne; am I right?'

Freda bowed.

'You do not remember me! twelve years make a great difference! and you
were a child when I left.'

'Colonel Vaughan! Oh! I am so glad to see you!' claimed Freda. 'And
papa will be charmed; we heard you were in England, but did not know you
were in this county.'

Colonel Vaughan dismounted, and shook hands with Freda, evidently with
all his heart, then glancing at Miss Hall, started, and said,--

'Yes--no--I beg your pardon, surely not Miss Hall.'

'Yes,' said Miss Hall, colouring slightly, and holding out her hand, I
am very glad to welcome you home again, but can well imagine you did not
expect to see me here.'

By this time they were at the house, and Freda was planning introducing
Colonel Vaughan to her father as a stranger, and seeing whether he would
recognise him or not.

She accordingly preceded him to the study, and said to Mr Gwynne, 'A
gentleman wishes to see you, papa.'

Mr Gwynne rose and made his bow, and motioned to a seat in his usually
nervous manner.

'How do you do, Mr Gwynne? Don't you know me?' said the colonel,
standing up before him.

'I beg your pardon--no--I do not think I have ever--impossible! It
cannot be my godson, Gwynne Vaughan?'

'The very same!' said the colonel. 'I only came down last night, and
this is the first place I have visited.'

'I am very glad to see you, my dear fellow,' said Mr Gwynne, absolutely
rising from his chair.

'And this was what the bells were ringing for last night?' said Freda,
looking flushed and handsome.

'In spite of my poverty they did me that honour,' said the colonel. 'I
heard the old place was likely to be let again, and so ran down to have
a look at it first, and beat up my old friends. It was years ago that I
went, a youth of nineteen, into the army, and twelve since I have been
here, and I have been all the world over since then; but I come back and
find everything much as I left it.'

'But surely you will not go away again?' said Mr Gwynne.

'I am not rich enough to keep up the old place as it ought to be kept,
and the debts are not half wiped off yet, so I don't mean to settle down
at present.'

'But a little economy and that sort of thing would soon clear the
property. You had better settle down.'

'I don't think I should like it; besides, I hear there are negotiations
going on between my attorneys and some other persons for a fresh
tenant.'

The luncheon-bell rang, and the party went into the dining-room; and
whilst they are eating and talking we will examine the new comer.

He is decidedly a handsome man. The most fastidious judge of masculine
beauty could scarcely deny this fact. Tall, well made, of commanding
figure and aristocratic appearance, black hair, a high rather than a
broad forehead, well marked eyebrows, and black lashes so long that they
half conceal the grey eyes beneath; an aquiline nose, and a well-defined
mouth, with an expression slightly sarcastic; a chin so deeply indented
with a dimple that, if the old saw be true, he must be a flirt or a
deceiver; and withal, a manner so perfectly easy and self-possessed that
you say at once court, camp, or cottage must be equally accessible to
that man.

There is a certain power in him that even a reader of character would
scarcely understand for some time. Is it intellect? There is decidedly
intelligence in the face, yet it is not highly intellectual; there are
no disfiguring lines and cross lines, the furrows of study or thought.
Is it mere health and animal spirits? He is neither particularly rosy
nor overpoweringly cheerful. Does he read your mind at a glance? His
eyes are penetrating, but not uncomfortably so. It is, we are inclined
to think, that general and instinctive knowledge of the characters and
tendencies of those with whom he converses, which commerce with the
world, and a keen observation of men and manners, alone can give. He is,
in short, a man of the world.

When he first entered the army his father and an elder brother were
alive. They, dying about three years after, left him in possession of a
large but greatly encumbered property. It was estimated that it would
take twenty years at least to clear the estate, and that only by letting
it and never drawing upon the proceeds.

The young heir was wise enough to retain his post as officer in Her
Majesty's service, though not to sequester all his income for the
payment of his father's, grandfather's, and great-grandfather's debts or
mortgages. He spent about a fourth of it annually, and consequently the
property was still greatly encumbered and he knew that to reside on it
and clear it he would be obliged to live in a very humdrum style, or
else add to the burden of debt already incurred. He preferred, remaining
in the army, and being a general favourite in society, and having no
near relations in Wales, it never occurred to him to spend his furloughs
in his native county. He had always some distant land to visit, and
either with his regiment or on leave had travelled nearly all over the
world.

His return was therefore an event of considerable interest to the
neighbourhood in which his place and property lay; and, doubtless, Mr
Gwynne was not the only person who wished Colonel Vaughan to settle at
Plas Abertewey.

When he was last at Glanyravon Park Mrs Gwynne was alive, Freda was a
child of eight, and Miss Hall a very elegant and pretty young woman. Mr
Gwynne Vaughan was then one of her numerous admirers; but there was
apparently no remnant of his early passion left, if you can judge of the
heart of a man, or his character at least, by his face or manner. Miss
Hall was much more confused when she suddenly met him than he was when
he first recognised her.

Freda had always had a pleasant recollection of him. He had been very
kind to her when she was a child, and an occasional letter to her
father, or the intelligence, through the papers, of his distinguishing
himself in India, or his gradual rise in the army, had kept alive a
certain amount of interest in her mind for this old friend.

She showed it at once, and delighted Colonel Vaughan by the perfectly
natural manner with which she welcomed him, and the frank heartiness of
her expressed wish that he should remain in the country now he had
returned to it.

'We have never had any one we cared for at Abertewey,' she said.
'Sometimes it was an English family who came to ruin themselves in
mining speculations; sometimes a sporting man who came for the hunting,
shooting, and fishing; and now, if you don't stay, I daresay it will be
a Manchester mill owner or some such person.'

'Much nearer home, I fancy; but I believe it is a kind of secret, only I
am so much like a woman that I cannot keep a secret. To my utter
astonishment I find it is to be a son of old Jenkins, the miser! I
remember the father, but the son was some years my junior. You need not
mention this, however, as it may fall to the ground. He wanted to buy
the place, but I am too patriotic still to wish to sell.'

'Howel Jenkins! little Netta! at Abertewey!' exclaimed the trio in
concert.

'True it is that mountains fall and mushrooms rise,' said the colonel
laughing. 'But he has money, and as far as negotiations have gone, seems
willing to pay, so I am content.'

'And I am not,' said Freda. 'It will be odious, and I shall be so sorry
for poor Mrs Prothero. You must settle there yourself, Colonel Vaughan.'

'A poor lonely bachelor with no money!'

'Hem--hem, you might find a wife, I should think,' suggested Mr Gwynne.
'There is a beautiful girl in this neighbourhood with thirty thousand
pounds at her disposal.'

'Oh, papa!' said Freda frowning perceptibly, 'such an empty-headed,
insipid idiot would be dear at a hundred thousand.'

Colonel Vaughan looked at Freda to see whether she was jealous, but
could not quite understand the frown.

Soon after luncheon he took his leave, with promises to make Glanyravon
his head-quarters if he remained any time in the country.






CHAPTER XVIII.

THE NURSE.


Mrs Prothero continued very ill, and the doctor said there was no chance
of her amendment until her mind was more at ease. Four days had passed,
and no intelligence of Netta. Each day found her worse than the
preceding, and brain fever was apprehended. Gladys nursed her day and
night. Mr Prothero stormed and lamented by turns. Owen did what he could
to assist and comfort all, and Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall sent every kind
of nourishing food from the Park.

On the fifth morning, Owen rode into the town in the vague hope that he
should hear something of his sister, either through Mrs Jenkins's
servant or the post. Mrs Jenkins had not returned, but there was a neat,
smooth letter for his father, directed by Howel, with which he rode off
homewards at full gallop. He longed to open it, but he dared not. He was
fearful that his father would put it into the fire unread, so he formed
twenty plans for securing it, which he knew he could not carry out;
however, when he returned home and sought his father in the harvest
field, he said,--

'Father, I have a letter directed by Howel. Will you let me open it for
mother's sake?'

'If it is yours, do what you will with it? if it is mine, burn it
unread.'

'But, father, surely you would do something to save mother's life. Any
news of Netta--'

'Don't name that girl to me, sir, or I'll horsewhip you!'

'May I open the letter, father?'

'Do as you will, but don't let me see it. The deceitful up-start! the
pompous fool! the--the--'

Owen waited for no more epithets but ran into the house, and stumbling
upon Gladys in the passage, told her to come and see what the letter
contained. When he opened the outer envelope and took out the beautiful
little glossy note with its silver border and white seal, stamped with
a small crest of an eagle, he burst out laughing.

'Cards, by jingo!' he exclaimed.

'Oh, Mr Owen, just let me cut round the neat little seal. I am sure your
mother would like to see it,' said Gladys, joining involuntarily in the
laugh, and taking a pair of scissors out of her pocket.

The seal was cut, and two cards were taken out, silver-lettered and
silver-bordered, showing that Netta was now Mrs Howel Jenkins.

Gladys ran off with them without asking any questions, followed by Owen.
They found Mrs Prothero crying, as she usually was when left alone.

'I hope we have good news, ma'am,' said Gladys.

'All right, mother. Cheer up! Netta is married at any rate,' cried Owen.

'Thank God!' said Mrs Prothero, taking the cards and pressing them to
her lips. 'But not a line--not a word from Netta!'

'She would not dare to write, ma'am,' suggested Gladys.

'I suppose not? but why did she go away? Why did she leave me never to
see me again?'

The following day brought the _Welshman_, Mr Prothero's weekly treat,
which it generally took him the week thoroughly to read and enjoy.

Owen chanced to open it first, and, as is usually the case, stumbled at
once upon the marriage of his sister. When his father came in he was in
uncontrollable fits of laughter.

'Don't be angry, father, but I can't help it. Ha, ha, ha! D. Prothero,
Esq. of Glanyravon! Oh, I shall die of it! Now, really, father, you
ought to be proud.'

'What are you making such a row about?' said Mr Prothero looking over
Owen's shoulder.

His eye caught the words, 'Howel Jenkins, Esq., and Miss Prothero,
Glanyravon, and Sir John Simpson. This was quite enough. He seized the
paper with an oath, crumpled it up, and thrust it into the fire, and
gave Owen such a violent blow on the back with his fist, that the young
man's first impulse was to start up and clench his in return; however,
his flush of passion cooled in a moment, and he said,--

'Come, father! remember it isn't I that ran away. Time enough to give me
a licking when I do. I'm much obliged to you for letting me know what a
strong father I've got.'

'Once for all, Owen, take you care how you laugh upon that subject or
name it to me. I can give and take a joke as well as most people, but
not about that, sir, and from you. Name o' goodness, what d'ye think I'm
made of!'

The farmer walked out of the hall, and left Owen heartily sorry for
having hurt his father's feelings, but chuckling over the fashionable
marriage.

The following morning he managed to procure another paper, and read his
mother and Gladys the announcement, knowing full well that maternal
pride must rejoice in the exaltation, whilst it wept over the
disobedience of an only daughter.

To the astonishment of every one, the following morning brought Mrs
Griffith Jenkins to Glanyravon, attended by her maid-servant. Gladys
answered the door to the thundering double-knock that resounded through
the house, and was quite taken aback when she saw who the visitor was.

'Is Mrs Prothero at home, young 'ooman?' asked Mrs Jenkins in a grand
tone of voice.

'My mistress is very ill, ma'am,' said Gladys.

'Ill! Since when?'

'Ever since Miss Netta left, ma'am.'

'Do Mr Prothero be in the house, or Mr Owen?'

'They are out harvesting, ma'am.'

'Tell you Mrs Prothero that I do bring message from Mrs Howel Jenkins
for her, and that I was promising to give it myself.'

Gladys did not know what to do. She felt sure that Mr Prothero would not
admit Mrs Jenkins under his roof, and that her mistress would be afraid
to do so; however, she ventured to ask her to come in and wait a little
time whilst she sent for Mr Owen. Fortunately, Owen was not far from the
house, and Mr Prothero was riding to some distant part of his farm, so
Gladys left Mrs Jenkins to Owen, and went upstairs to tell Mrs Prothero
that she was in the house. Mrs Prothero was greatly agitated, but
declared that she would see her at all risks, and tell her husband that
she had done so. She begged Gladys to remain in the room during the
visit, and to prevent a meeting between Mrs Jenkins and Mr Prothero.

Gladys went downstairs again, and found Owen telling Mrs Jenkins what he
thought of Howel's and her own conduct.

'My mistress would like to see you, ma'am,' said Gladys.

'I'm thinking I 'ont go near her now, you, Owen, have been so reude.'

'Oh, for that much, you may do as you please, Aunt 'Lizbeth. I shall
have the pleasure of going with you to my mother. You've pretty nearly
killed her amongst you, and I don't mean to let her be quite put an end
to.'

'Will you be showing the way, young 'ooman,' said Mrs Jenkins, rising
majestically and smoothing down a very handsome silk dress, which she
had carefully taken up before she sat down.

Owen's wrath was turned to amusement

'Did you think we hadn't a duster in the house, aunt? I can tell you
you've pretty well dirtied that white petticoat.'

Gladys led the way to Mrs Prothero's room, and Mrs Jenkins and Owen
followed.

'I'm sorry to see you so poorly, cousin,' said Mrs Jenkins, approaching
the bed on which Mrs Prothero lay, looking flushed and excited.

'What did you expect, 'Lizabeth Jenkins? when you have carried off my
daughter--my child--my Netta! And caused misery in our house never to be
mended.'

'Well, seure! One 'ould think we'd murdered Netta, 'stead of making her
as grand as a queen, with a lord and a lady to be giving her away, and a
captain to be at the wedding, and a gentleman in a waistcoat and chains
and rings that do be worth a hundred pounds at least, and a young lady
for bridesmaid in a shoall of lace, handsomer than your Miss Gwynne of
the Park, and a wedding-cake covered with sugar, and silver, and little
angels, and all sorts of things which I was bringing with me for you;
and a clergy like a bishop to marry her, and a coach and horses to be
taking her back and fore, and she looking as beauty and happy as ever I
was seeing! And my Howel's as rich and fine as anybody in London, Prince
Albert nothing to him, and might be marrying Miss Simpson, my ladyship's
doter, if he wasn't so fullish as to be marrying your Netta!'

'Now, aunt, it is our turn, if you please,' said Owen, as soon as Mrs
Jenkins gave him time to speak. 'Will you tell my mother Netta's
message?'

'I am taking it very unkind that you should all turn upon me. David
Prothero I 'spected 'ould be in a passion, but, stim odds! Netta said,
cousin, that I wos to tell you she was sorry to be leaving you in a
hurry, but that she had everything she could be wishing, gowns, and
white shoes, and lace veils--seure you never wos seeing such a
beauty--and a _stafell_--_trosy_ they do call it in London--good enough
for my Lady Nugent, and a goold watch and chains, and rings and
bracelets, ach un wry! there's grand!'

'But what did Netta say to me, cousin 'Lizbeth? I don't care if she was
all gold from head to foot. I would rather have her here in rags,' said
Mrs Prothero, bursting afresh into tears.

'She's more likely to be here in satins and velvets, cousin,' said Mrs
Jenkins, rising from her seat, and walking up and down, apparently in
great wrath. 'What you think of my Howels and your Netta at Abertewey:
And you to be all toalking as if we wos ail dirt. And they in France,
over the sea, where I 'ould be going with them only I am so 'fraid of
the water.'

'There's a loss it would be, Aunt 'Lizbeth, if anything had happened to
you! Suppose a shark had swallowed you up! gold watch, mourning ring,
silk gown, brooch, and all? Those creatures aren't particular. But we
haven't had all Netta's message yet.'

'She was sending her kind love and duty to you, cousin, and was saying
she was sorry to be leaving you, but my Howels was so kind as you, and
she was as happy as could be.'

'Did she cry, cousin? did she shed one tear?' asked Mrs Prothero,
sitting up in bed, and looking at Mrs Jenkins with a quick, wild eye,
quite unlike her usual quiet glance.

'You needn't be looking at me so fierce, cousin, I didn't be killing
Netta. Is seure--she did cry enough, if that's a pleasure to you. She
was crying when she was meeting my Howels; she was crying when she was
putting on her wedding gown; she was crying when the parson was
preaching that sermon, and when the thunder and lightning did frighten
her, seure, and no wonder--'

'Did it thunder and lighten when they were married? 'asked Mrs Prothero,
through her sobs.

'Yes, indeet! I thoate I should be struck myself; but she was soon
forgetting it at breakfast; they do call it breakfast, you see, but I
never was seeing a grander dinner. Chickens, and tongue, and ham, and
meats, and cakes, and jellies, and fruit, and wines, all froathing up
like new milk, some sort of _pain_ they was calling it; but I never did
be seeing such good _pain_ or tasting it before, he! he!'

'I don't care about the dress or the dinner, or the grand people,
cousin,' said Mrs Prothero, 'I pray God to forgive Howel for making our
only girl run away from us like a thief in the night; and I would rather
hear she cried for us whom she treated so badly, than that she was
dressed in velvet and jewels. All those fine people and fine things
won't make her happy, and her father will never forgive her, never. Oh
dear! oh dear!'

'What will I tell her, Mrs Prothero, when I do write to my son Howels?'

'Tell her--tell her that my heart is breaking; but I forgive her. Beg
her not to forget her parents, and, above all, not to forget her God.
Poor child! poor silly, thoughtless child, she will never be happy
again.'

'Indeet to goodness, this is fullish! I shall go, Mrs Prothero. Good
morning.'

Just as Mrs Jenkins was making a kind of curtsey by the bedside Gladys
said that she saw Mr Prothero riding up to the house.

'Perhaps you had better make haste, Aunt 'Lizbeth,' said Owen, 'it would
not very well do for you and my father to meet.'

'I 'ont be running away from any man's house, Mr Owen. I do hope I'm as
good as your father any day.'

'Oh, pray make haste,' said Mrs Prothero, very much frightened.
'Good-bye, cousin. Forgive me if I have been rude? I beg your pardon.'

'This way, ma'am, if you please,' said Gladys, opening the door; but Mrs
Jenkins was smoothing down her silk dress, and arranging her bonnet in
the looking glass.

'Quite ready for another husband, aunt; but you had better make haste,
you don't know what you may come in for if you meet my father.'

'I am not caring neither,' said the little woman, sweeping across the
room and out at the door. At the top of the stair she met Mr Prothero,
face to face. The effect of her appearance upon that worthy man is not
to be described. She made a kind of curtsey and began to speak, but no
sooner did she see his face than she held her tongue. Neither did words
appear to come at the farmer's bidding, but very decided deeds did. He
took the alarmed Mrs Jenkins by the two shoulders, literally lifted her
from the ground, carried her downstairs a great deal faster than she
came up, helped her along the passage much in the same way, and with
something very nearly approaching a kick and an oath, turned her out of
doors, and shut the door behind her with so violent a bang that it
echoed through the house.

Owen ran down stairs to receive the first brunt of his passion, and to
prevent his going up to his mother. He allowed the words that came at
last to have way, and then took all the fault on himself; said that he
had admitted Mrs Jenkins to try to soothe his mother, and that she had
done so, he thought.

'Take you care, sir, how you let that 'ooman darken my doors again, or
any one belonging to her. It'll be worse for you than for them,' said Mr
Prothero, with a brow like a thunder cloud.

His wrath was interrupted by the sound of wheels, and to Owen's great
relief, he saw the head of his uncle's well known grey mare through the
window. He ran out to admit him and his aunt.

'We have just seen Mrs Jenkins, Owen,' began his aunt.

'Not a word to father, aunt.'

'Very well. But she stopped us and began telling us that she had been
turned out of these doors, and would have the law on your father. She
was furious; talked of Netta and Howel, and your mother, and Paris, and
the wedding, all in the same breath, and would not let us go on until we
had heard all. Neither of us spoke to her, but she stood at the horse's
head and frightened me to death.'

When they all went into the hall, they found that Mr Prothero was not
there. Gladys came in and said he was with her mistress, but had not
mentioned Mrs Jenkins.

'I am afraid she has made my mistress worse, sir,' she said to Owen.
'She has been very faint ever since she left,'

In truth she had made her worse, and when Dr Richards came to see her
that afternoon, she was quite delirious. He shook his head, and declared
that she had brain fever, and that the utmost quiet and freedom from all
excitement were necessary for her. Poor Mr Prothero was beside himself,
and the whole household was in great consternation. Serious illness had
never visited either the farm or the vicarage before, and none of the
Prothero family knew what it was. Not so Gladys, however. She did not
wait to be directed or ordered, but took her post as nurse by her dear
mistress's bedside. To her the doctor gave his directions, to her Mr
Prothero turned for information, to her Owen came for comfort; and even
Mrs Jonathan, who had scarcely ever spoken to her before, looked to her
as the only hope in this time of uncertainty.

'I have seen all kind of fevers,' she would say to one and another as
they questioned her, 'worse than this, and with God's grace the dear
mistress will recover. I am not afraid to sit up alone with her, oh, no!
It is better not to have too many in the room at once. Do not be uneasy,
master, the delirium is not very bad. Yes, Mr Owen, you can do better
than any one else, because you are calmer. No, ma'am, it is not an
infectious fever--you need not be afraid,' and so from one to another at
intervals she went, giving hope and comfort.

During all that night and several successive ones, Gladys sat up with
her beloved mistress. It was she who listened to her disturbed,
delirious talk about Netta, and tried to console her; she who read the
Bible to her, and prayed with and for her during the intervals of
reason, and she who gave her all her medicines and nourishment.

Poor Mr Prothero could do nothing but wander from the fields to the
house, and the house back again to the fields, followed by his brother
like his shadow, who strove to comfort him in vain. Mrs Jonathan made
jellies, and did her best. Owen was gentle and tender as a girl, and
helped to nurse his mother with a love and care that Gladys could
scarcely understand in the lighthearted, wild sailor.

Before the end of the week, they wrote to summon Rowland, for Mrs
Prothero's life was despaired of, and great was the anxiety and terror
of all, lest he should come too late.

'Pray for her, Mr Owen, pray for her. There is nothing else of any avail
at such a time as this,' would Gladys say in answer to the young man's
entreating glance.

'If I were as good as you I could, Gladys. Oh, God! spare my beloved
mother!' he would reply.






CHAPTER XIX.

THE CURATE.


Although it was a bright autumn morning, the stillness of death hovered
over Glanyravon Farm. There was scarcely a sound to be heard within or
without. The men in the yard moved about like spectres, and work was
suspended in the harvest fields; whispers circulated from bedroom to
kitchen, and from kitchen to outhouse, that the good and kind mistress
whom every body loved, was on her deathbed; and how should they labour?
All the talk of the farm-servants was upon subjects ominous of death.
One said that he had heard Lion, the big watch-dog, howl long and loud
before daylight; another that he had seen a corpse candle as he went
homewards the previous evening; a third that she had seen her mistress
all in white at her bedside, looking beautiful; a fourth that she had
heard a raven croak; in short, if sighs and wonders could kill poor Mrs
Prothero, there was little chance for her life. Where every one was
usually so busy, so full of energy and spirit, there was more than a
Sabbath calm. They were expecting some one, too, for Tom and Bill were
looking down the road about every five minutes, whilst Shanno appeared
now and again at the back door, and whispered 'Is he coming?' to which a
shake of the head was a constant reply.

The doctor had just gone into the house, and knots of men and women
stood about with sorrowful faces; kind neighbours who came one after
another to hear the last report as soon as he should again reappear. Mrs
Prothero was greatly beloved, and no one could afford to lose her.

'She was so bad last night that she was not expected to see the
morning,' whispered one.

'Couldn't take a drop of anything,' said another.

'Is talking of Miss Netta for ever,' said a third.

'There'll be a loss to every one. Mr Jonathan prayed for her in church
last Sunday; if prayers'll save her she 'ont die, no seure.'

'She gave me a jug of milk only Friday week.'

'And was coming to see my John in the measles Wednesday before Miss
Netta ran away.'

'She's the death of her mother I always say.'

'Poor master is nearly mad.'

'And Mr Owen crying like a baby.'

'And they do say that the Irish girl is better than a daughter to 'em
all.'

'Hush! I do hear wheels. Oh! if he do come, perhaps he may rouse her up
a bit.'

The gates were open, and before the last whisper was over Mr Gwynne's
carriage was driving down to the farm. The bystanders drew back as it
rolled through a part of the yard and stopped at the door. Rowland got
out, and was in the house almost before any one could see him. He went
into the hall, and there he saw Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, and Dr Richards.
Miss Gwynne held out her hand, and said at once,--'Your mother is still
alive.'

'Thank God I!' exclaimed Rowland, giving a sort of convulsive gasp, and
wringing the hand that pressed his.

'Is there any hope?' he asked of Dr Richards.

'The crisis is at hand, and she is insensible; it is impossible to
say--if we could rouse her?'

'I may go upstairs?'

'Yes, but you had better let your father know you are come; he is in the
outer room.'

Rowland went at once to what had been his own bedroom in former times;
he opened the door gently, and there alone on his knees by the bedside,
groaning audibly, was his poor stricken father. He went up softly to him
and whispered, 'Father, it is I, Rowland!' and Mr Prothero rose, and in
a few seconds went with him into the room where the beloved wife and
mother lay.

Rowland went up to the bedside, and took the place which Gladys silently
vacated for him. He gazed upon what appeared to him to be death, but was
really the prostration and insensibility that followed the delirium and
fever of the past week. He bent down and kissed the cold forehead of his
mother, then turned away, covered his face with his hands, and wept
silently. Gladys whispered to him that there was still hope, and resumed
her occupation of bathing the temples with vinegar, wetting the lips
with wine, and administering tea spoonfuls of wine, which still
continued to find a passage down the throat. Mrs Jonathan Prothero
crept softly up to Rowland, and put her hand in his--Owen came to
him--his uncle--all were there.

But as soon as he had recovered from his temporary emotion, he went to
his father's side, who had seated himself on a chair behind the curtain
of the bed, and tried to comfort him. The presence of his second son was
in itself a consolation to poor Mr Prothero; but he could not listen to
his words.

'Pray for your mother, Rowland,' was all he could say.

Rowland knelt down with all those present, except Gladys, who joined in
spirit and prayed. Never before had he known what it was to use the
prayers of his church for one so dear to him; never before had he felt
the great difficulty of reading them when his emotion nearly choked his
utterance. But as priest and son he prayed fervently for his mother.

Mr Prothero seemed calmer after he rose from his knees, and ventured to
lean over his wife to assure himself that she still breathed. There was
an occasional slight pulsation scarcely to be called breath.

The doctor came in and felt her pulse. It was not quite gone, and whilst
there was life there was hope.

They stood round her bed watching the calm, pale face with a love and
anxiety so intense that they could neither speak nor breathe. Gladys
looked almost as pale as her mistress, and as the light fell upon her
when she was leaning over her, she might have been the angel of death
herself.

Mrs Jonathan Prothero drew Rowland from the room and insisted upon his
taking some refreshment. He had travelled all night, and Mr Gwynne, at
his daughter's request, had sent his carriage to meet him.

Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall were still waiting downstairs. They asked Mrs
Jonathan if they could be of any use in taking Gladys's place whilst the
poor girl got some rest; Mrs Jonathan said it was useless to urge her to
leave her mistress for a moment.

Rowland thanked Miss Gwynne for her kindness, and she said she would do
anything in the world for Mrs Prothero.

She and Miss Hall went away in the carriage that brought Rowland,
promising to return again in the afternoon.

When Rowland had swallowed some coffee, he went back to his mother's
room. As he walked from the door to the foot of the bed, she opened her
eyes, and seemed for a moment to look at him; a thrill of hope shot
through him. He went round and took her hand, and whispered, 'Mother!'
Did she smile? He thought she did.

Shortly afterwards her lips moved, and Gladys heard the name ever on
them, 'Netta.' This was better, far better, than that death-like trance.

'Mother, dear mother,' again whispered Rowland, and once more her eyes
opened and fixed on him, with something like consciousness.

At last an opiate which the doctor had given took effect, and she slept;
her pulse was so weak, and her breathing so faint, that at first the
watchers thought she was passing away into that sleep from which there
is no awakening; but it was not so. It was a weak troubled sleep; still
it was a sleep.

By degrees all left the room but Rowland and Gladys. Mrs Prothero's hand
seemed to be clasping that of her son, as if it would not let go; and
Gladys never moved from the bedside.

She saw that there must be hope if real sleep came. As she sat down in a
kind of easy chair that Owen had placed for her by the bedside, she
thanked God for this amount of hope,

'Sleep, Gladys, I will watch,' whispered Rowland.

And truly the poor girl had need of rest. Scarce had she closed her eyes
during that anxious week, and she knew well how necessary rest was to
her. But she felt as if she could not sleep whilst this uncertainty
lasted. All the anxious faces of the household flitted before her when
she tried to compose herself. Her poor master, his brother, Mrs
Jonathan, Rowland, but mostly Owen. He who had said the least, had shown
the greatest self-command and done the most. His large kind eyes seemed
to be looking at his mother or at her, and trying to anticipate their
wants. His hands so brown and sinewy, yet so very gentle, seemed to be
touching hers, as they had done when moving his mother or otherwise
helping in the sick-room. His cheery voice seemed to be telling her not
to weary herself so much, or to be thanking her for the care she
bestowed upon his dear parent. In vain she tried to put aside this kind
of haunting vision. Her mistress and Owen were painted on the
over-strained retina, and she could not efface the picture. She prayed
for them, for all. Then, as the afternoon sunlight faded away, and a
twilight hue crept over the room, with just a flickering streak of light
playing on the wall opposite to her, the death-beds of her father,
mother, sister, and brothers rose up before her with a vivid reality
that made her tremble, and forced tears from her weary eyes. The tears
seemed a relief, and as they flowed quietly down her cheeks, and the
coming shadows dispersed the visions of the living, dying, and dead
faded away, a mist fell on her eyes and she slept.

Rowland, meanwhile, watched his mother. During the twelve months that he
had been a curate in a parish in one of the worst parts of London, he
had seen much of the sick and the dying. He had seen poverty,
wretchedness, and sin in their most dreadful aspects, and the peace and
comfort of his mother's present condition were a great contrast to the
riot and squalor of many a death room into which he had sought to carry
the gospel message of mercy. Truly he felt thankful in his inmost soul
that she, over whom he was watching with filial love, was ready at any
moment to appear before the great Tribunal, because she 'believed and
knew in whom she believed.' It was for Netta, his beloved and wayward
sister, the cause of this first great family trouble, that he grieved
the most, because he feared that she had entered upon that downward path
that would lead her far astray from the one in which her mother had so
long and happily trod. But he, too, knew where to apply in all his times
of doubt and misgiving, and thither he went for comfort as the shadows
fell around and night crept on.

Mrs Jonathan Prothero came noiselessly into the room, bringing in a
shaded night light, and anxious to bear some intelligence to the
watchers downstairs. Her step, light as it was, awoke Gladys. She
started up, and looking on her mistress, clasped her hands, and
fervently thanked God.

'She is sleeping as calmly as a child,' she said. 'I am sure the worst
is past.'

Mrs Jonathan went out to tell the good news, and to beg the brothers to
go to bed, which they did, after some demur. Gladys and Rowland watched
on for about an hour longer, when Mrs Prothero opened her eyes and fixed
them upon Rowland. She smiled as if she knew him, and when he bent over
her and kissed her, murmured some faint words which he could not
understand.

Gladys gave her some jelly which she swallowed, and soon afterwards she
slept again.

'The crisis is over, she will recover, I hope, Mr Rowland,' said Gladys.
'You can go to bed, sir--you had better. The mistress will want you
to-morrow, and you can be of no use to-night.'

Rowland felt the force of this, and again kissing his mother's forehead,
and shaking Gladys by the hand, he went downstairs to Owen, who he found
asleep on the sofa in the parlour. Supper was awaiting him, and Owen and
he were soon seated over the fire, discussing their mother's illness and
Netta's conduct.

They had not met for three or four years, and there was much to say. Few
brothers loved one another more tenderly than they did, despite the
dissimilarity of habits, tastes, and occupations, and when they were
together, all the secrets of their hearts were usually unfolded.
Although Owen's wild roving nature had caused Rowland much anxiety,
still he had perfect confidence in his honest, open character. Owing to
early education Owen was not deficient in general acquirements. He knew
a little Latin and Greek, and could read, write, and cypher well. Added
to this, his knowledge of foreign lands was great, and of men and
manners greater. Under a careless exterior, he had a considerable
portion of talent and information, and Rowland was delighted to find in
his sea-faring, roystering brother, a much more cultivated and sensible
mind than he had expected. Rowland was beginning to be conscious of
wishing to see all his family superior to what they were. Placed by his
own profession amongst gentle-folks, and feeling in himself all the
refinement of the class so called, he was often annoyed and pained to be
differently situated from those who were nearest and dearest to him. He
knew that in London he was received as an equal by men and women of rank
and position, as well as by those of talent and learning; whereas, in
the country, even Miss Gwynne, at whose house he visited, considered it
a condescension to speak to him, whilst she looked upon those who
belonged to him as people of another sphere. In spite of all his prayers
for humility, and his striving after pure Christianity, Rowland was, and
knew that he was a proud man, and all the prouder because his original
station was beneath his present one. He felt that he must be humbled
before he could be the pastor and disciple of One whose whole life was a
lesson of humility. But the world knew nothing of this. He walked before
it, and through it as a bright example of a young clergyman devoted to
his work. Neither was he less devoted to his mother, dutiful to his
father, or loving to his brother, because they were good, honest, plain
farmers, and he a clergyman; or which was, perhaps, more to the point,
because Miss Gwynne could not, or would not separate him from his
family.

When he and his brother and sister were children, they were constantly
at the vicarage with their uncle and aunt, and Miss Gwynne was their
playmate there, and had not known their inferiority. Now that he really
was a man of education and a gentleman, in spite of all her kindness to
his mother, she knew it full well. Why did he never consider what any
one else in his own neighbourhood thought of him or his family? It was
only Miss Gwynne--always Miss Gwynne.

Early the following morning that young lady came to inquire for Mrs
Prothero, accompanied by Miss Hall. It was Rowland who gave them the
joyful intelligence that his mother had had a good night, and was much
more quiet. The real pleasure that shone from Miss Gwynne's intelligent
and intelligible eyes, showed Rowland how fond she was of his mother.

'And now,' she said, 'Miss Hall and I are come, resolutely bent on
remaining with your mother, whilst your aunt and Gladys go to bed. We
are quite determined, and you know I always have my way.'

Rowland bowed, smiled, and called his aunt, who, after some hesitation
consented, and went upstairs to request Gladys to do the same, but
Gladys was inexorable until Mr Prothero came in, and in his most decided
manner insisted on her taking some rest. Mrs Prothero also murmured a
'Go, Gladys fach!' and she kissed the dear cheek and went at once.

Mr Prothero took her place. He was alone with his wife, and the rough,
loud man became gentle as one of his own lambs, as he bent over her and
thanked God that she was better. A big tear fell from his eyes on her
face, and he made an inward vow, that if her life were spared, he would
never again say a cross word to her as long as he lived.

She felt the tear, heard the kind words, and seemed to understand the
vow, for she looked at him tenderly, and said in her low, weak voice,
'God bless you, David!'

From that moment he went out to his work with a lightened heart; the
labourers read the good news that their mistress was better in his face,
and heard it in his voice. Even Netta's disobedience was forgotten, if
not forgiven, in the joy of feeling that the partner of more than half
his life was likely to recover. And by degrees she did recover. That is
to say, before Rowland was obliged again to leave her, she was able to
go down into the parlour and sit at her work, 'quite like a lady,' as
she expressed it. And even out of the evil of such an illness good had
sprung. It had aroused all the sympathy and kind feeling of relatives,
friends, and neighbours; but especially had it been beneficial in
bringing out the womanly kindness that lay hid under the stiffness of
pride in Mrs Jonathan Prothero, and in opening the hearts of the
sisters-in-law towards each other. Mrs Jonathan forgot her cousin, Sir
Philip Payne Perry, and helped to nurse, and learned to love her humbler
connection, whilst the ever-ready tenderness of the simple farmer's
wife, sprung up to respond to it like a stream leaping in the sunlight.
Gladys, too, reaped the reward of her devotion, in the increased
kindness of Mr Prothero, who began to forget the Irish beggar in the
gentle girl whose care, under God, had saved his wife's life; and so, as
is usually the case, affliction had not come from the ground, but had
fallen like a softening dew upon the irritated feelings of the
afflicted, and bound heart still nearer to heart.

Perhaps in the younger and more impetuous natures it had done almost too
much. Thoughtless of consequences, they had all worked to save a life,
valuable to so many. Rowland, Owen, Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, Gladys, had
been thrown together at a time when the formalities of the world and the
distinctions of rank are forgotten, and the tear of sympathy, the word
of friendly comfort, or the pressure of the hand of kindly feeling are
given and taken, without a thought of giver or receiver. But they are
remembered, and dwelt upon in after years as passages in life's history
never to be obliterated--never to be forgotten.






CHAPTER XX.

THE HEIRESS.


Glanyravon Park lay, as we have said, in the parish of which Mr Jonathan
Prothero was vicar, but as the parish and park were large, the house was
three or four miles from the church; and it was on account of this
distance of Glanyravon and its dependencies from church and school, that
Miss Gwynne had induced her father to build the school-house, of which
mention has been already made, since there was a large school in the
village for such children as were within its reach. She would have had
him build a small church also, and endow it, to remove all excuse, as
she said, from the chapel-goers; but this was an undertaking too mighty
for him. However, the school flourished wonderfully, both on week days
and Sundays, and Miss Gwynne always filled every corner of an omnibus in
which the servants went to church with such of the children as could not
walk so far. Miss Hall was an admirable assistant to the school-mistress
during the week; and Gladys, with Mrs Prothero's permission, undertook
the Sunday duty for the mistress, in order that she might have a holiday
on that day. Miss Gwynne also attended, but she was too impatient and
imperious to be a good teacher, much as she wished to be one.

Miss Gwynne had great ideas of doing good; grand schemes that she tried
to carry out, but in which she often failed. Nevertheless, she did a
great deal of good in her own peculiar way.

She had been reading of the 'harvest homes' that they were endeavouring
to revive in England, and had induced her father to have one in the
park. Happily, the day fixed for this general rejoicing was during Mrs
Prothero's convalescence, and before Rowland's return to London, so that
most of the members of the Prothero family could be present. They also
yielded to Miss Gwynne's ready assistance in such preparations as she
made, and were the instruments in surprising her and her father by some
tasteful decorations in their honour, unknown to them. Owen and Gladys
worked very hard at floral and evergreen mottoes for the tent, whilst
Rowland gave his advice as he sat with his mother, and tried to amuse
her during the tedium of her recovery.

A few hours before the general gathering, a messenger arrived at the
Park in great haste, bearing a note to Miss Gwynne, containing the
information that the vicar had sprained his ankle just as he was going
to set out for Glanyravon, and was unable to move. There was another
note for Rowland, which was to be carried on to the farm, requesting him
to supply his uncle's place.

Miss Gwynne was greatly annoyed; wished that the vicar would not go
wandering about after old stones, as she was sure he had done; knew that
Rowland would never be able to manage and was very sorry she had
attempted the treat at all.

Whilst she was still grumbling, and Miss Hall laughing and consoling,
Rowland arrived. This was his first visit to the Park since he had been
in the country, and Mr Gwynne was delighted to see him. He perceived at
once that Miss Gwynne's equanimity was disturbed; and said that he was
very sorry to come as a substitute for his uncle, but that he would do
his best. His manner was so quiet and composed, and he seemed so little
alarmed by the honours thrust upon him, that Miss Gwynne gradually
became reassured.

In less than half-an-hour she told Miss Hall that he was worth a hundred
of the vicar, and that after all the sprained ankle was rather a
fortunate accident.

At about two o'clock the guests began to assemble at the school-house,
over the door of which was the motto in dahlias on a ground of
evergreens, 'Welcome for all,' which had been arranged by Miss Hall. The
school-room was very tastefully decorated by the mistress, Gladys, and
the children; and the motto, 'Long Live Miss Gwynne,' was very apparent
in scarlet letters amongst a crown of laurels.

All the children and their teachers were assembled here, and a great
many of their relations, also most of the farmers and their families. In
addition, there were Mr and Miss Gwynne, Miss Hall, Lady Mary and Miss
Nugent, Colonel Vaughan, who was staying at the Park, Sir Hugh Pryse,
Mrs Jonathan Prothero, who left her husband at his particular request,
and Rowland. No one out of the precincts of the Park had been invited,
and as it was, there was a goodly number.

As there was no church near enough for them to go to, Rowland read the
evening service in the school-room; after this he gave out one of the
hymns for harvest, and led the youthful band in singing it. His fine
clear voice seemed to give the children courage, especially when a
beautiful full treble joined, to which they were evidently accustomed.
It was impossible not to try to discover from whom those sweet notes
proceeded, and one by one everybody looked at Gladys, who had a
magnificent voice; she, however, was unconscious of observation, for her
eyes were fixed on her hymn-book that she was sharing with a small
child.

It must be acknowledged that she not unfrequently distracted the
attention of many a young man from his hymn-book on Sunday, when at
church; and on the present occasion, what with the face and the voice,
more than one pair of eyes were fixed on her. Owen, I am sorry to say,
looked more attentively at her than at his book; and, as to Colonel
Vaughan, he never took his eyes off her face, and was heard to whisper
the question of 'Who is that girl?' to Lady Mary Nugent.

When the hymn was sung, Rowland stood behind the high desk of the
mistress, and gave a short lecture on the words, 'Thou crownest the year
with thy goodness.' Rowland was not ungifted with the talent for
extempore preaching, common to so many of his countrymen, and therewith
possessed, in general, much self-possession; on the present occasion, it
must be confessed that he felt unusually nervous, still he commanded
himself and his feelings, and by degrees, forgetting them and his
hearers, in his subject, warmed into a natural flow of eloquence that
somewhat astonished his congregation, and entirely gained their
attention.

Beneath a quiet exterior Rowland hid a romantic and poetic mind, which
few, if any of his friends knew anything about; for he had never shown
his poetry to them, and never attempted to publish it. But it sometimes
appeared, in spite of his efforts to repress it, in his sermons; and now
it made a desperate effort to burst forth, and conquered.

There was so much to excite the enthusiasm of a young preacher in that
harvest-home gathering--in the mows of golden corn heaped up against the
future--in the splendid autumn weather they were then enjoying--in the
bright sunshine and many-hued leaves of the changing trees--and the
goodness of God crowning the whole!

I am not going through his sermon, for I should only mar what his
feelings made powerful. Suffice it to say that some of his friends had
tears in their eyes as he preached; others, according to the custom of
their country, uttered occasional exclamations of approval as he went
on, and some were glad to own him as their near and dear relation.

Perhaps the proudest moment of the farmer's life was when Mr Gwynne went
up to him after that short discourse, and shook him by the hand, with
the words--emphatic words for him--

'Well, Prothero, I congratulate you upon your son. You have reason to be
proud of him. He managed his sermon well at a short notice, clear,
poetical, etc., and all that sort of thing.'

The abrupt termination to the speech was occasioned by the approach of
Lady Mary Nugent, who also congratulated Mr Prothero.

'Thank you, sir; thank your ladyship; glad you approve,' was all the
proud father could say, with the tears in his eyes all the while.

As to Rowland, he was undergoing an ovation of hand-shakings and praises
from everybody present, which he was fain to put an end to, by beginning
to organise the procession to the tent. One simple sentence, however,
rang in his ears for the remainder of that day.

'Thank you, Mr Rowland, for your sermon. I hope you have done us all
good,' said Miss Gwynne.

She began to think more highly of him than she had ever thought before,
and owned to Miss Hall that he had words at command, and that at a short
notice.

The procession was very pretty. The school-children walked two and two,
and looked like so many large scarlet poppies, as they wended their way
through the avenue. Miss Gwynne gave them all their outer garments, and
it was her picturesque and pleasing fancy to keep to the national
costume; so they had high-crowned black beaver hats, scarlet cloaks with
hoods, striped linsey frocks, and woollen aprons. They carried a due
amount of little flags with appropriate mottoes, and some few of the
Glanyravon musicians formed a band for the occasion, and played
cheerily, 'The March of the Men of Harlech.'

Mr Prothero and his son Owen headed the tenantry, and carried between
them a magnificent banner, fashioned at the farm, bearing as motto,
'Prosperity to Glanyravon.' Others followed with appropriate Welsh
mottoes. And one was conspicuous as containing the sentiment, 'Long live
our Vicar and his Lady.'

A large tent was erected in front of the house, ornamented with flowers,
wreaths of evergreens, devices, and mottoes. The most conspicuous of
these was in Welsh, and above Mr Gwynne's seat at the head of the long
table. It was composed of wheat-ears and oak-leaves, and contained the
words, 'May God bless Gwynne of Glanyravon and his daughter.' Mr Gwynne
felt almost uncomfortable in seating himself beneath such a sentence,
but having consented for the first time in his life, and, he earnestly
hoped, for the last, to become a hero, he knew he must go through with
it. Accordingly, with Colonel Vaughan on his left, and Lady Mary Nugent
on his right hand he prepared to do the honours of a most substantial
feast to his tenantry, their wives and children. When every one was
seated Rowland said grace, and they began the feast _con amore_. They
were as merry and happy a party as could be assembled on a fine autumn
day. Every one was in good humour, and thoroughly enjoyed the treat. As
soon as they had feasted enough, they proceeded to give toasts, which
were enthusiastically drunk in good Welsh ale.

Mr Gwynne proposed the health of the Queen and royal family. Sir Hugh
proposed Mr Gwynne and his daughter, the kind and liberal donors of the
feast, in a hearty speech, which all understood. Mr Gwynne did his best
to return thanks, but found that he could not get much beyond,--'I feel
most grateful for the honour you have done me, but--my
feelings--been--and--and--all that sort of thing,' at which point the
cheers grew so deafening that he sat down quite overwhelmed, and wished
himself in his library.

'So very exciting, so complimentary, so touching,' whispered Lady Mary
Nugent to Mr Gwynne.

Rowland was again called upon to exert his eloquence in responding for
the Church, which he did in a short, apt speech, duly applauded.

He, in return, proposed the army, coupled with Colonel Vaughan,
who--and, he said, he knew he was expressing the thoughts of all
present--was heartily welcomed home, and earnestly entreated to remain
in his native country.

Colonel Vaughan delighted every one by a most eloquent response. 'Such a
grand gentleman, but so humble,' was the general opinion of him. As for
the ladies, they were all in love with him. Lady Mary Nugent, Freda,
Miss Nugent--they had never seen so charming a man. And he was so
universally gallant that he might have been in love with them all in
return. He gave the 'Welsh Yeomanry,' for whom Mr Prothero returned
thanks, and right well he did it; giving the colonel to understand in
something more than a hint, that if he wished the farmers and farming to
improve, he, and other absent landlords, must come and live on their
property as Mr Gwynne did, and then there would be more wealth and
prosperity, and more 'harvest homes.'

And so, with various other toasts, including the vicar and his lady, for
whom Owen had to return thanks, the afternoon wore on. The children were
playing at games in the Park, and by degrees the elders joined them.

Here Gladys was foremost. It was wonderful to see how she had gained the
affections of the young. One and all were round her, and when the
gentlemen and ladies came to look on, and join in the revels, the first
thing that attracted them was the flushed face and graceful figure of
this really beautiful girl, as she led the boisterous youngsters in a
game of 'French and English.'

In a moment Colonel Vaughan was in the ring heading the boys; but Gladys
immediately retired, abashed, as he stood opposite to her, as captain on
the French side. But Owen came to the rescue, and the gallant officer
and equally gallant sailor headed the ranks, as commanders of the bands
of French and English. They had a hard fight on both sides, but at last
the English conquered, and Owen and his party won the day amidst great
cheering.

Sir Hugh and Rowland joined in the succeeding games; and sixpences,
sweetmeats, apples, and every available prize was given to the boys and
girls for racing, jumping, singing, and the like, until the shades of
evening fell over the scene.

Lady Mary Nugent and her daughter were the first to wish good-night; as
they were to walk home, Colonel Vaughan proposed accompanying them.

'You will return at once?' asked Freda, rather peremptorily, for she
disliked that the Nugents should carry off the all-fascinating colonel.

He bowed and said 'yes,' and Rowland, who was near, saw Freda's cheek
flush as he looked at her.

It chanced that Rowland and Miss Gwynne were left together at a distance
from the revel. They stood awhile, looking on, and talking over the day.
Rowland said it had been most successful. Indeed he felt that all had
been pleased; none more than himself, for had not everyone congratulated
him, and above all, had not Miss Gwynne been even kinder and more
friendly, than when by his mother's bed side she had seemed to him as a
sister?

'If it has been successful, Mr Rowland, it is in a great measure due to
you,' said Miss Gwynne, looking up into his face with a smile of real
satisfaction. 'I should never have managed the children so well, and I
must say, much as I like your uncle, I don't think he would have managed
the services so well as you have done.'

Reader! were you ever praised by a very handsome woman, whom you have
loved all your life, when standing with her alone under a wide-spreading
oak, in a noble park, with mountains bathed in the red and yellow of the
sunset before you, and a broad harvest-moon rising above your heads? If
so, you will not wonder at the end of this chapter.

Rowland suddenly fixed his fine, dark eyes upon Freda's face, and looked
into it, as if he would read her soul. For a moment she was abashed at
the gaze, and coloured deeply, whilst her eye-lids drooped over the eyes
he sought. Was there ever a woman who was not flattered and excited by
such a look?

'Miss Gwynne,' at last said Rowland tremulously, 'if in any way I can
have served and pleased you I am happy. For this, in part, I have
laboured, and still would labour. You do not, you cannot know how I have
loved you all my life.'

Poor Rowland almost whispered these few words, and as he did so, wished
he could recall them, but now the deed was done, and she knew the secret
of his childhood, boyhood, and manhood. He said no more, but stood
looking down upon her with his heart beating as it had never beaten
before.

Higher and higher rose the colour on her cheek. What were the feelings
that deepened it so? Alas! poor Rowland! Pride, only pride. For a moment
she stood as if hesitating what to say, then, suddenly drawing herself
up to her full height, she looked haughtily at him, and said words that
he never forgot to his dying day.

'Mr Rowland Prothero, have you quite forgotten who I am, and who you
are?'

With these words she made a stately bow, and turned towards the house.
Proudly and hastily she walked up the avenue; once she had turned round,
and seeing Rowland standing exactly where she had left him, hurried on
until she found herself in her own room, indulging in a very decided
flood of indignant tears.






CHAPTER XXI.

THE BROTHERS.


During this short conversation between Rowland and Miss Gwynne, Gladys
was still playing with the children at no great distance from them. With
all a woman's penetration, she had guessed Rowland's secret during his
mother's illness, and had perceived no symptoms of attachment on the
part of Miss Gwynne; and now, with all a woman's pity, she was watching
him from afar. She had seen them standing together, had marked the hasty
bow and retreat of the lady, and the immoveable attitude of the
gentleman; she saw that he continued to stand where Miss Gwynne had left
him, as if he were a statue; she guessed something must have passed
between them.

As twilight was fairly come on, she told the schoolmistress that she
must go home, and begged her to see that the children dispersed when she
thought best. Owen, who was in the midst of a game of cricket with the
boys, was as well aware of all Gladys's movements as if he had been by
her side. He saw that she was shaking hands with the mistress, and that
the children were imploring her to stay a little longer. He went to her
and asked her to remain until he had finished his game, in order that he
might see her home.

She thanked him, but said, rather abruptly for her, that she must go at
once, and, heedless of what he or others might think, went hastily
across the park to Rowland.

'That's the way the wind blows, is it?' said Owen to himself, whilst a
frown gathered on his open forehead.

Rowland was unconscious of the approach of Gladys, and was startled from
his trance by the words,--

'Mr Rowland, sir, I think the mistress will be expecting you home.'

He looked at her half unconsciously for a moment, and then rousing
himself, said,--

'Oh! Gladys, is it you? Yes, I will go directly. Where? Home? Of course
it is time. I will walk with you.'

These were the only words spoken between the pair. Rapidly he strode
down the avenue, inwardly resolving never to enter it again; as rapidly
along the road that led to the farm, until he reached the house, with
Gladys breathless by his side.

'I am afraid I have walked too quickly, Gladys, I am very sorry. I was
anxious to get home, I do not feel very well.'

With these words he hurried through the passage, and was going to his
room, when his father met him and called him into the parlour. He felt
so bewildered that he scarcely knew what his mother said, when she told
him how proud and happy he had made her by his conduct that day.

'All, my dear son, church-people and dissenters were pleased with your
sermon, and the way you managed everything. Your aunt repeated it word
for word to me, and it was just what I like. This is the first comfort I
have felt since--'

Mrs Prothero pressed her son's hand, and her eyes filled with tears.

'Thank you, mother, I am glad,' was all Rowland could say.

'Mind you, Row, my boy, you must write a good sermon for Sunday. You've
got a character to lose now,' said Mr Prothero, giving him a slap on the
back.

'Yes, father. I will go and write it.'

'Not to-night, Rowland,' said Mrs Prothero, anxiously; 'you look pale
and tired. What is the matter?'

'Nothing, mother; but I must think of this sermon, I have only one clear
day. We will talk to-morrow. Good-night, dear mother.'

Rowland stooped to kiss his mother, and she felt that his face was very
cold, and that his hand trembled.

'You are ill, Rowland?'

'No, only tired. I will come and see you again by-and-by.'

Rowland went to his room and bolted himself in. He threw himself on a
chair, covered his face with his hands, and wept like a child. He was
seated by a little writing-table near the window, through which the moon
looked down pitifully upon him in his great anguish. Yes, great. Perhaps
the greatest anguish of a life. His arms on the table, his head on his
arms, he thought, in the misery of that moment, that he must die, and he
wished to die. The illusion of a life was destroyed, and how? So rudely,
so cruelly, so heartlessly broken! He could have borne it if there had
been one kind word, only a look of interest or pity; but that pride and
haughtiness were like the stabs of a dagger in his heart.

'Womanly weakness! unmanly folly!' you say, some one who has never felt
keenly and suddenly the pangs of such a passion unrequited. Perhaps so.
But out of our great weakness sometimes grows our strength; out of our
bitterest disappointments our sternest resolution. By-and-by such
weakness will strengthen; such folly will breed wisdom.

Thus Rowland remained for some time, with unkind and unholy thoughts and
feelings rushing through his mind, like the howling winds through the
air in a great storm. Afterwards, he prayed humbly to be forgiven those
devilish feelings of anger, pride, hatred of life and mistrust of God's
goodness that assailed him in that hour of misery. But for the time,
they were darting to and fro, and casting out every good thought, and
hopeful purpose from his soul, like demons as they were.

But strength came at last, and like one arising out of a horrid dream,
Rowland got up from his anguish, and looked out into the night. The moon
was too tender and beautiful for his mood at that time; he roughly drew
down the blind, took a box of matches from the table, and lighted a
candle. Then he paced up and down the room, and suddenly thought of
Howel and Netta. He knew not how the transition took place, but he
immediately accused himself of having been hard to them. Does any one
ever fully sympathise with another, until he has felt as he does? No, we
should not judge our weak fellow mortals so harshly, if we knew all
their temptations and trials.

Then, again, Miss Gwynne returned to him, with her pride and coldness.
How could he love such a woman? he, whose beau ideal of feminine
perfection was a creature of gentleness, love, and pity? but he would
think of her no more. She, at least, should discover that he was as
proud as herself.

Yes, he was proud, he knew it, and now, he would glory in his pride
instead of trample it down, as he had been of late trying to do, as an
arch tempter; he should be justified in showing pride for her pride.

Again a gentler and better mood came. Was he not vain, ambitious,
ridiculous in her eyes, for venturing to speak to her as he had done?
Doubtless he had been wrong, but she needed not to spurn him as she had
done; she might have told him so as a friend. Friend! she thought him
beneath her friendship.

But we will not pursue these musings further; every kind and degree of
feeling alternated for nearly two hours, when, as if by some sudden
impulse or resolution, Rowland sat down and determined to write his
sermon. It should be upon pride, and should touch her as well as
himself. He found pleasure in thinking of all the texts in which the
word occurs, in looking for them, and considering which was the most
biting.

A hasty knock at his door interrupted this study. It was Owen, who
insisted upon coming in, and would take no excuse.

Owen, too, had been ruminating upon the nature of woman, and was not in
a very good humour; he, however, had been cheerfully talking to his
mother of the events of the day, and duly lauding their own particular
hero, Rowland.

When he entered, he looked surprised at seeing Rowland with his Bible in
his hand; he took a chair, and, turning his seat towards him, sat down
astride upon it, leaning his chin upon the back and facing Rowland.

'Now, Rowland, I'm going to ask you a very plain question. There ought
to be no secrets between brothers: I've told you all mine, nearly? you
must tell me yours. Are you in love?'

Poor Rowland coloured to the temples, but did not answer.

'You won't tell me? There was a time, Rowland, when you and I knew one
another's hearts as well as if they were two open books, in which we
could read when we like, but I suppose London and fine people--'

'Stop, Owen, do not disgrace yourself or me by going on. Why do you wish
to probe me in a wounded place, where every stab is death?'

Owen looked at his brother, and saw the conflict that was going on in
his mind in the working of his features.

'Rowland, I only want your confidence; by Jove you shall have mine, even
though you are my successful rival; and I love you so well that I would
give her up to you, if it cost me--let me see--a voyage to the North
Pole.'

'Owen, this is no jesting matter. I have been a fool, I am ashamed of
myself, I am trying to conquer my feelings; leave me until I have
succeeded, and then--'

'But, Rowland, if she loves you, I don't see why you should try to
overcome your feelings. It would not be quite the right match,
certainly; but she would make a better parson's wife than a sailor's
wife after all; and my father might consent in time, and--'

'Owen, is it kind of you to make a jest of me?' asked Rowland, rising
from his chair, and resuming his walk up and down his room. 'If you had
ever really loved either of the many girls you have fancied you adored,
you would understand me better; but I deserve it all for my
presumption--my folly.'

'For that much, Rowland, perhaps I love her a trifle better than you do
at this very moment; still I am not selfish enough to come between you,
and would rather try absence and the northern latitudes; only just be
honest. I'm not quite such a piece of blubber as not to be capable of
constancy, though I may have been a rover until now; but when I see a
girl walk right away from me, and refuse to wait for me to go home with
her, and go straight off to another man, never mind if he was my father,
instead of my brother, I don't mean to break my heart about her.
Besides, I'm disappointed in her, and that's the truth. I thought she
was as modest as the moon; but I never saw the moon walk out of her
straight path to go after another planet, and no girl that I have
anything to say to, shall go after another man. So you're welcome to
her, though I'll say this, that I never saw the woman yet I loved so
well, and believe she's as good as gold, as pure as that same moon, but
as cold as ice itself; at least, so I've found her, perhaps you've a
warmer experience.'

As soon as Owen paused in his rapid speech, Rowland paused in his walk,
and putting his hand on Owen's shoulder, said,--

'This is a misapprehension, my dear Owen; you and I are thinking of a
different person.'

'I am thinking of Gladys,' said Owen bluntly, 'and repeat that I love
you both too well to come between you and happiness.'

'I am sure of that, Owen, you have no selfishness about you; but I do
not love Gladys. I never thought of her except as a beautiful and
superior girl, thrown by Providence amongst us, and to be treated with
kindness and consideration. I only hope my manner to her has never
indicated anything else.'

'Do you mean what you say?' said Owen, jumping up from his chair, and
cutting a caper, 'then shake hands, and tell me you forgive me for being
so hasty.'

They shook hands heartily, and Rowland said,--

'Thank you, Owen, you have done me good; now go away, and I will write
my sermon.'

'Not before I know what is the matter with you, and why Gladys went
across on purpose to walk home with you.'

After much hesitation, and some pressing on the part of Owen, Rowland
told his brother what had passed between him and Miss Gwynne. When he
had made a clean breast of it, he felt as if relieved of half his
load--especially when Owen assured him that women were all alike, and
that when you asked them the first time, they were as proud as Lucifer.

'It is first and last with me, Owen. I have forgotten my position, my
profession, my own dignity in giving way to a passion that I had no
right to suppose could be returned. I will crush it, and nobody but you
shall ever know of its existence. This struggle over, and I shall hope
henceforth to have but one Master and to serve Him.'

'Well, I never should have thought you would have fancied Miss Gwynne;
not but that she is handsome and clever and very agreeable and kind,
too, when she pleases; but so proud, so domineering, and then--'

'Neither should I have supposed Gladys to be your choice, Owen; and I am
sorry it should be so. What would my father say? so soon upon Netta,
too; and you must confess that her uncertain history, her present
condition, the way she came to us, would be utter barriers to anything
serious.'

'Bravo, Rowland; now I must put the application to your lecture. I
suppose everything is by comparison in this world--the squire and the
squire's daughter look down upon the farmer and the farmer's son, and
beg to decline the honour of an alliance. The farmer and the farmer's
son look down upon the corporal and corporal's daughter, and beg to do
the same, especially as she is their servant. Tom, the carpenter, thinks
his daughter too good for Joseph the labourer, and Matthew the shoeblack
wouldn't let his son marry Sal the crossing-sweeper for all the world.
Oh, Rowland!, is this what you have learnt from your profession, and
the book before you? Why, I've found a better philosophy on board ship,
with no teachers but the moon and stars.'

'Owen, I am ashamed of myself. My pride deserves to be thus pulled
down.'

'I don't want to seem unkind, Rowland, but my notion is, that an honest
gentleman, such as you, educated, and a clergyman is good enough for any
lady; and that a good, religious girl, who has saved my mother's life,
is a great deal too good for a ne'er-do-well fellow like me. But I won't
fall before I'm pushed, since I'm pretty sure she thinks so too. So,
now, cheer up, old boy! and show the heiress what a sermon you can
preach; and let her see you don't care a fig for her; and then, by
jingo, she'll be over head and ears in love with you, and propose
herself next leap-year.'

Rowland laughed, in spite of himself, at this notion.

'I will go and wish my mother good night,' he said, 'and then set to
work.'

The brothers went together to their mother, who was in bed, and together
received her 'God bless you, my children!' Then they separated for the
night, and Rowland returned to his room a wiser, if still a sadder, man,
than when Owen visited it. Owen's plain common sense had often got the
better of Rowland's romance; and although he could not approve his
roving and seemingly useless life, he always acknowledged that he
gathered some wisdom by his experience.

Again Rowland sat down, but this time he drew up the blind, and let the
moonlight in upon his chamber like a silver flood. He took himself to
task for his pride, ambition, and conceit, in a way that did him good,
doubtless, but was not palatable; still he made many excuses for
himself, and none for Miss Gwynne. He was not to recover the effects of
that disappointment in a few hours! Days and even years were necessary
for that. But he asked for strength where it is never asked in vain, and
then resolutely wrote a sermon on the words, 'Blessed are the poor in
spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'

He wrote as he felt, and under the influence of those strong,
half-curbed feelings, wrote so easily, that he was astonished to find
how quickly he composed, and how soon a sufficient number of sheets were
written, to occupy his customary half-hour when preached. He did not
read them over, but promised to do so on the morrow, which was Saturday.
He was already far into the small hours, and knew that he ought to be in
bed.

When he was there he could not sleep. That love of his was too
deeply-rooted to be torn up by a few proud words that haunted him all
the night, and to which he was constantly adding 'Yes, you are the
heiress of Glanyravon, and I am only a farmer's son and a poor curate.'






CHAPTER XXII.

THE GOVERNESS.


'Only a curate!' exclaimed Miss Gwynne, as she and Miss Hall were
discussing Rowland's presumption the following morning.

'Still, a gentleman,' replied Miss Hall quietly.

'The son of one of my father's tenants; a farmer's son!'

'Still, a gentleman!'

'The ninety-ninth attempt on Glanyravon, and, happily, an unsuccessful
one.'

'Perhaps the first sincere attempt to gain the heiress's heart, without
any thought of her park and its broad acres.'

'I declare, Serena, _vous m'impatientez_. I verily believe you are in
his interest and confidence, and trying to plead his cause.'

This was said with great excitement; the answer, however, was calm.

'Scarcely possible, if probable, because I was never alone with him in
my life, and have rarely seen him except in your presence.'

'Then, why do you take up his defence? You would not have me marry him,
would you?'

'Certainly not, for many reasons. In the first place, you do not love
him; in the second, your father would not approve of such a match; in
the third, you are not suited to him.'

'I understand. Not good enough. But why do you defend him? Do you think
it was right of him to say what he did to me?'

'Well, perhaps not. But I think he has been nursing these feelings for
you so long, that he began to forget whether they were right or wrong,
sensible or foolish; and last night, carried away by the excitement of
the day and his own success, and finding himself alone with you--you,
probably, more friendly than usual--he forgot his customary prudence,
and overstepped the bounds of conventionality.'

'Very well said, Nita. Then it was wrong of me to be friendly, and right
of him to make a dunce of himself.'

'Perhaps if you had ever felt as he does, Freda, you might make some
excuse for him.'

'I am sure you must have been in love a hundred times, you are so
sentimental, and would like to see him run away with me.'

'Quite wrong again.'

'Then what would you like, for I am sure you don't approve of my
conduct?'

'Simply, that you should have treated a clergyman and a gentleman as
such, and at least felt grateful that a good and honest heart was
offered to you, even though you would not accept it.'

'But I don't believe in the heart, you see, Serena. There is not a more
mercenary race under the sun than the clergy. They all marry for money.
I can mention quite a dozen; his own uncle at the head of them. Now, you
cannot suppose that he married Mrs Jonathan Prothero for anything but
her fortune and her family.'

'I think he is too simple-minded a man to have considered either the one
or the other.'

'Then why didn't he marry some simple-minded girl, his equal? No, you
are quite out of your depth now, Serena. Depend upon it, that Rowland
Prothero will soon find some English lady just as rich as _I am to
be_--always provided that Lady Mary Nugent doesn't carry off papa, and
get him to leave her the property. These men don't seem to know that it
is not entailed; and that, after all, I may be cut off with a shilling.
I think I may venture to affirm that were such the case, there is not
one of my ninety-nine adorers who would have me, except, perhaps poor
Sir Hugh.'

'Perhaps, Freda, I may have been imprudent, situated as I am here, in
even saying what I have in favour of Rowland Prothero. The fact is, that
not only do I particularly like what I know of him, but there is a
little passage in my early history that makes me have a great pity for
young men who venture to fall in love with young ladies who consider
themselves their superiors.'

'If you will tell me your story, Nita, I will forgive you all the rest,
and finish this sketch of Abertewey for Colonel Vaughan, meanwhile.'

Freda drew well in water-colours, and had before her, as she sat in the
embrasure of one of the windows of that charming morning-room, a
half-finished sketch of Colonel Vaughan's place, which he had begged her
to take for him. Hitherto it had been untouched; now she began to work
at it with pretended vigour, whilst Miss Hall took up the little frock
she was making for a poor child, which had been laid down during the
discussion, and also made believe to stitch and sew industriously.

But there was a flush on her cheek, and a tremor in her voice, as she
began to tell Freda the little passage in her life to which she had
alluded. Freda was conscious of this, and accordingly devoted herself
more energetically to her drawing.

'It was when I was just eighteen, Freda, and during my _beaux jours_,
before my father had lost his fortune, or been obliged to retire from
the army on half-pay on account of that dreadful paralytic
stroke--before my sister's imprudent marriage, and consequent emigration
to Australia--before my dear mother's death. We were a happy and gay
family, and I had then more pride and higher spirits than you would
probably give me credit for now.

'I was visiting a friend who had married the head-master of one of our
principal grammar schools. Amongst his tutors there was a young man of
whom he was very fond, and who used to be a good deal with his family
after the duties of the day were over. It is just possible that he was a
countryman of yours, for his name was Jones.'

'Oh, Serena! you don't mean to say that you fell in love with a Jones in
England, and then came into Wales to be in the midst of that very
ancient and numerous family.'

'I have not come to the love part yet, Freda. He was a very quiet and
unobtrusive person, but, my friends said, very amiable and sufficiently
clever. I know that I used to take an unkind delight in teasing him, and
that he was rather clever in repartee, and never spared me in return. I
liked him as an amusing companion, and had no objection to his getting
me books or flowers, or whatever lay within his reach that might be
agreeable to me. Moreover, I pitied him, because I was told that both
his parents were dead, and that he was working hard to pay for his own
course at college, whither he intended to go as soon as he could get the
means.

'As my father was with his regiment abroad at this time, and my mother
and sister were making a round of visits amongst our Scotch friends, I
stayed a long time with the Merryweathers. They were very pleasant
people, and had an agreeable circle of acquaintance.

'But that has nothing to do with my story. The evening before I left
them to return home, my friend, Mr Jones, managed to be alone with me;
how, I never found out, for he ought to have been with the boys--and
committed a similar misdemeanour to that of poor Rowland Prothero. He
had unfortunately lost his heart to me--so he said, and was constrained
to tell me so. Would I think of him, if, in the course of time, he could
enter the church and marry me?

'Now I had the world before me, a happy home, a prospect of a certain
independence, and, I suppose, a sufficient share of personal
attractions. I had never considered whether I could like this young man
or not; but I had well considered that when I married, I must have
talent, position, personal beauty, and a hundred other visionary
attributes in my husband. I was of a most imaginative, and at the same
time, ambitious temperament; and on the one hand, thought a great poet
or warrior would fall to my lot, and on the other, that a prince of the
blood royal was not too good for me.

'Your pride, my dear Freda, is too matter-of-fact, as is your general
character, thoroughly to understand me. At that time I was touched and
flattered by the devotion of this young man, and felt, that had he been
differently placed, and had he more of the attributes either of station
or romance about him, I might have taken him under my august
consideration; but as I had never even looked upon him in the light of a
lover, or supposed it possible that he could be one, I at once, and
decidedly refused him.

'I shall never forget the pained and melancholy expression of his
features when I did so, or the few words he uttered. He said that he had
not ventured to hope for a different answer, though he had dared to
speak, and that his one slight prospect of happiness had vanished. He
had now nothing but a life of labour before him, without a gleam of hope
to cheer his way, but that he should think of me always, and of the
happy hours we had passed together. I felt so sorry for him that I could
really say nothing, either to cheer or discourage him. He simply asked
me to allow him to remain my friend, and to forgive his presumption; and
so we shook hands and parted. He did not join the family that evening,
and the next day I left the Merryweathers.

'I do not know how it was, but when I returned home, I thought more of
this young man than of any one else. Although my sister and myself were
surrounded by men of a very different, and I may say, superior class,
still he haunted me very much, for a time at least.

'Then came my sister's marriage, which proved, as you know, unfortunate
in a pecuniary point of view, and her and her husband's emigration to
Australia in search of fortune. Then followed our own ruin, and my
father's paralytic seizure. To help my parents and support myself, I
came to you as governess. You know, dearest Freda, how happy your dear
mother made me as long as she lived, and how ardently I desired to
fulfil her dying wish that I should finish your education. Most thankful
I am that I was permitted to do so.

'I need not tell you, over and over again, the sad story of my mother's
death, and my return home to live with my father, and become a daily
instead of a resident governess. All the happiness I have known--at
least the greatest--since our troubles, has been in this house.

'But this has nothing to do with Mr Jones. I heard, casually from my
friend, Mrs Merryweather, that he had left them and gone to college;
what college, she did not say. For some years I had quite enough of
painful duty to perform to make me forget the weeks passed in his
society, and their termination; or to think of a person of whom I had
quite lost sight. About six or seven years ago, however, I heard of him,
strange to say, through my sister. I had, of course, told her of his
proposal and my refusal.

'She and her husband were among the early settlers at Melbourne, and in
the course of time became tolerably prosperous. He, you know, was
obliged to leave his regiment for drunkenness, and contrary to the usual
course of things, became steadier, though not steady, in Australia. My
sister lost two children in one week from fever, and during her great
sorrow, was constantly visited by the clergyman of her parish, who
turned out to be my early friend, Mr Jones. I do not think he knew she
was my sister for some time; but she described his untiring kindness and
gentleness as her greatest comfort during her troubles. He was also of
great benefit to her husband, by taking advantage of the opportunity
offered by the loss of his children, to press upon him the necessity of
a reformation in his own course of life, which, I am thankful to say,
has been gradually effected. They became very intimate, and, I suppose
by mutually comparing notes concerning Old England, found one another
out, so to say. But he seldom spoke of me. If my sister tried to draw
him into the subject of his acquaintance with me, he changed it as soon
as possible, as if it were disagreeable to him. And no wonder.

'However, my sister looks upon this man as her greatest benefactor--him,
whom I, in my pride and ignorance, considered beneath me in every
respect; and when he left Melbourne a year or two ago, she said they had
lost their best and dearest earthly friend, and that the children cried
when he wished them good-bye, as if they were parting from a father.'

Whilst Miss Hall was telling this simple narrative, Freda was very
attentive. As it drew to a close, she rose from her drawing, and
kneeling, as she sometimes would do, by Miss Hall's side, put her arm
affectionately round her. There was something in the action at that
moment which drew tears from Miss Hall's eyes.

'But he is not married, Serena, I know he is not married,' she
exclaimed. 'Who knows!'

'My dear child,' said Miss Hall, smiling, and stroking Freda's shining
hair, 'I have long given up all thoughts of matrimony. But the
recollection of old times always affects me, and your love affects me
still more. I have not told you this because I regret not being married
to Mr Jones--it was mercifully ordained that I should not marry any one.
What would my dear father have done if I had? but simply to show you how
the very people we think the least of frequently become our best
friends; the "weak things of the earth confounding those that are
mighty," in scripture phrase.'

'Oh, Serena! do you hear?' interrupted Freda, 'there is Miss Nugent in
the hall. Of all the bores! we never can be free from those people. Yes
it is; I hear her _lithp_;' and Miss Nugent was announced.

She had walked over, she said, to ask how they all were after the
delightful Harvest Home, and to bring an invitation from her mamma to
dinner the following Tuesday.

'I do hope you will come, Freda, and you, Mith Hall, and bring that
charming Colonel Vaughan with you. He ith tho nithe. Don't you think
tho.'

'Very,' said Freda, drily.

'But, do you know, I don't admire him half ath much ath Mr Rowland
Prothero. Mamma thaith he ith tho gentlemanlike and that the meanth to
athk him Tuethday.'

'Really!' again said Freda, not daring to look at Miss Hall.

'We are going to Llanfach to-morrow to hear him preach. Hith thermon
wath beautiful in the school-room. Don't you think he ith like the
picture at the beginning of "Evangeline." Dear me, who wath he, Freda?'

'Longfellow, you mean, I suppose.'

'Of courth. And hith language ith tho poetical. Mamma thaith the
thouldn't wonder if he turned out a great author by-and-by. Thould you,
Mith Hall?'

'It takes so much to make a great author, dear; but it is just
possible.'

'But not probable,' whispered Freda.

'Oh, Freda! don't you like him? I am thure you ought; he managed
everything tho nithely for you yethterday. Mamma thaith--Ah! there is
Colonel Vaughan coming up the drive.'

Miss Hall looked across at Freda, and remarked that she began to draw
most industriously, and did not glance out of the window as Miss Nugent
did.

'Mamma thaith,' began that young lady, 'that the colonel ith the motht
accomplithed and agreeable man in Waleth.'

'How can she tell that?' asked Freda, with feigned surprise. 'There are
so many clever men in Wales. I assure you we are a talented race.'

'I am thure of that, Freda; but I think the Englith are more thinthere;
mamma thaith tho.'

'Ah, she must be a good judge,' said Freda, somewhat ironically.

'Yeth; mamma ath theen a great deal of the world,' replied the
unsuspecting Miss Nugent.

Here Colonel Vaughan made his appearance, and that young lady gave him
her mamma's invitation, which he said he should be delighted to accept,
if his friends did; so Freda said her papa was out, but she would send
Lady Mary Nugent an answer when he came in.

'Ah! this _is_ a sketch, Freda,' said Colonel Vaughan, who had somehow
returned to the old familiarity of earlier days. 'How can I thank you
sufficiently? who could think that the child I left twelve years ago
would be such a good artist when I returned? But that was the cleverest
bit of life-like drawing I ever saw, that sketch of your old pony. By
the way, do you know who this is?'

The colonel opened a sketch-book that he had in his hand, and put it
into Freda's.

'Why, this is Gladys, Mrs Prothero's Gladys. How could you prevail on
her to stand for her picture? Look, Serena, how well Colonel Vaughan has
hit off her expression and general effect in those few touches!'

'I went to see Prothero, who used to be a good friend of mine in old
times, and whilst I was waiting for him and looking out of the window, I
saw this Gladys in the garden, and made the attempt you are pleased to
praise. Certainly she is about the loveliest specimen of country beauty
I ever saw in my life.'

'Do you admire her, Colonel Vaughan? I think the ith tho very pale and
thupid.'

'I never contradict a young lady, and suppose you must be right; but in
the present company, one cannot think of other belles. It would be a
case of looking for stars in the presence of the sun.'

Colonel Vaughan glanced from one to the other of the ladies. Freda bent
more closely over her sketch, but coloured perceptibly. Miss Nugent
simpered and looked very handsome withal.

Miss Hall was struck with her beauty as she then appeared; a perfect
profile, perfect complexion, perfect features, beneath a most becoming
straw hat and feathers. Such a colour and complexion, but no expression,
not even the sarcastic turn of the lip of the mother.

'Perfectly child-like, amiable, and silly,' thought Miss Hall, 'and yet
Colonel Vaughan admires that statue more than the noble face and grand
expression of my Freda.'






CHAPTER XXIII.

THE PREACHER.


As Mr Jonathan Prothero's sprain proved to be a very bad one, Rowland
was obliged to undertake his weekly as well as his Sunday duty, and
being summoned to the vicarage early on Saturday morning for a wedding,
and finding other clerical duty in the afternoon, he had no time to
revise his sermon until the morning on which he was to preach it. His
mind was still in a state of so much excitement, that he found, on
reading it over, that he had no power to amend what he had written
hastily, but feeling that it was what he earnestly desired to act up to
himself, and to bring his own mind down to, he hoped the words would not
be without effect on his hearers. If Miss Gwynne took them as intended
personally to touch her, why, he could not help it, and besides, she
probably would be at Llanfawr church, to avoid seeing him.

But this was not the case. Gwynnes, Nugents, Protheros, and many others
of Rowland's neighbours, helped to fill the little church that Sunday,
all anxious to hear him preach; this made him feel nervous in spite of
himself. In vain he reasoned with himself, prayed to forget himself, and
those present--he could not get rid of those haunting words of Miss
Gwynne's, or of the consciousness that she was listening to him.
However, he read the service clearly and impressively, in the manly
tone, and simply religious manner of one who knows that he is leading
the prayers and praises of a congregation who cannot express their wants
too humbly and naturally, to One who knows what they desire, even before
they ask. No one in that church prayed more earnestly to be delivered
from 'all blindness of heart, from pride, vain-glory and hypocrisy; from
envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness,' than he did. And
as he proceeded with the litany, his mind grew calmer, and he gradually
received strength to overcome the great inward struggle that he was
suffering from.

Before reading the thanksgiving, he gave out in a tremulous voice, that
a 'member of that congregation was desirous of returning thanks to
Almighty God for her recovery from dangerous, illness.' When he thanked
God for all His mercies to all men, 'particularly to her who desires now
to offer up her praises and thanksgivings for late mercies vouchsafed
unto her,' every one felt that he was returning thanks for his own
mother's recovery, and joined him in so doing. His father was seen to
put his handkerchief to his eyes, as he lifted up his heart in praise.

His earnest manner evidently impressed his congregation, who were
usually accustomed to the somewhat monotonous reading of his uncle, and
to his rather learned discourses.

It is generally the case, that words spoken from the overflowings of the
speaker's own heart and feelings, make the greatest impression on the
hearts and feelings of his hearers; so it was now. When Rowland, in
simple and forcible language, told his listeners that the first words of
our Lord's Sermon on the Mount were to bless the poor in spirit, and to
promise them the kingdom of heaven; and went on to contrast such poverty
of spirit with the pride and vain glory inherent in man, and to call up
the various scriptural examples and texts that bore upon the subject of
humility; he gained the attention of all. Then he enlarged more
particularly on the necessity of curbing and bridling and keeping down
the spirit, until it attained that lowliness to which Our Saviour
alludes in the very first of the beatitudes; and finally went through
that Saviour's life, as the great example for all men, of meekness,
gentleness, and humility--the interest in his words increased.

Rowland preached from the heart to the heart, and so his sermon that day
was not in vain, albeit not perhaps written in the very best of moods.
There was no poetry, no overheated enthusiasm no display of eloquence,
but the plain, straightforward announcement to rich and poor alike, that
to enter God's kingdom the spirit must become even as that of a little
child.

Perhaps this is the least understood, and least palatable of all
subjects, and when brought before a congregation, and well discussed for
half-an-hour, must make many of its members pause to consider whether,
on such terms, 'theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'

Miss Gwynne was one of those who paused so to consider, and acknowledged
to herself that she had never looked upon our Lord's Sermon on the
Mount, as so practically and so particularly addressed to herself
before. She did not for a moment believe that the sermon was intended
for her, more than for the rest of the congregation, but she felt, for
the first time, that she had been proud and overbearing in her conduct
to the preacher, as well as to many others whom she chose to think her
inferiors.

She left the church, resolved to make such amends as were in her power,
for the hasty and haughty way of her rejection of Rowland, and to strive
to be less proud for the future.

When she was without, her father said to her, that he must go into the
vicarage to congratulate the vicar on his nephew's preaching, and to ask
Rowland to dinner. Miss Gwynne endeavoured to dissuade him from doing
so, but Lady Mary Nugent expressed her intention of performing similar
civilities; consequently the whole party, Colonel Vaughan and Miss Hall
inclusive, walked across the churchyard to the vicarage, which lay just
the other side of it.

The vicarage was a snug little cottage, with a rustic porch, adorned
with the Virginian creeper, which, together with the massive ivy, also
nearly covered the house. Red and cheerful looked the tiny dwelling
beneath the autumn sun; and very pretty was the garden which surrounded
it, still bright with dahlias, fuchsias, red geraniums, and monthly
roses. It was here, years ago, that Rowland, Miss Gwynne, and Netta had
often played together; and it was here that Rowland had passed the
principal part of his holidays when at home from Rugby or college. It
was here that Mrs Jonathan had done her utmost to make a gentleman of
him, and had succeeded to her heart's content. Rowland had been very
happy with his uncle and aunt, and loved them almost as well as his
parents.

In the pretty garden were innumerable wonderful stones heaped into all
sorts of masses, which he had helped his uncle to bring from various
parts in the neighbourhood, and all of which were curiosities in their
way; and there, also, was a fernery which he himself had made, and which
contained all the remarkable ferns of a country rich in those beautiful
productions of nature. The vicarage and its garden were neatness itself.
Mrs Jonathan prided herself on them, and took great pains to prove that
there could be, in a Welsh country village, a clergyman's abode
something akin to the far-famed dwellings of the English ecclesiastic.

The party from the church quite filled the little drawing-room. Mr
Jonathan Prothero was in an easy-chair, with his foot on a cushion, and
looking very much like a caged stork.

Every one began by congratulating him on the success of his nephew in
the pulpit.

'He must become a popular preacher,' said Lady Mary Nugent.

'I must say I have seldom heard more simple yet forcible language,'
said Mr Gwynne.

'He touched us all upon our besetting sin of pride,' said Colonel
Vaughan, glancing at Miss Gwynne, who said nothing.

'And thuch a beautiful voice!' remarked Miss Nugent.

Mrs Jonathan looked delighted.

'But where is he all this time, my dear?' asked the vicar.

We must answer the question by informing the reader that, having watched
his congregation leave the church, he went into the vestry and sat down
there, in order to avoid meeting any of the Gwynne party; when a
messenger from his aunt came to inform him that he was wanted at once.
He inquired by whom, and on hearing, tried to arm himself for an
unavoidable encounter with Miss Gwynne.

When he entered the room she was talking to his uncle, and had her back
turned to the door. He was at once greeted by Mr Gwynne and Lady Mary
Nugent, so that he did not find it necessary to shake hands with every
one, and made a kind of general bow, which he addressed to Miss Hall
particularly, and was therefore unconscious of the half-attempt of Freda
to rise from her seat as he entered. Miss Hall, alone, saw the flush on
her cheek, as she relapsed into her position by Mr Jonathan Prothero and
professed to be listening to the cause of his accident. His adventurous
search after trinobites in a celebrated quarry, the slipping of a stone,
and consequent spraining of his right ankle, sounded into one of her
ears, whilst the following conversation, entered the other:--

'I hope you will give us the pleasure of your company on Tuesday,' said
Lady Mary Nugent. 'We shall not be a large party.'

'And will come to us on Wednesday,' said Mr Gwynne. 'We must have some
more chess. I have never met with a fair opponent since--hem--I beg your
pardon, Lady Mary--Ah--yes--or, on Thursday. You see we did not like to
ask you whilst your mother was so ill; my daughter thought it would be
useless.'

Rowland coloured at the allusion to Freda, but did not even glance at
her.

'Thank you, Lady Mary; thank you, Mr Gwynne, very much indeed, but I
intend being in London on Tuesday. I have already outstayed my
prescribed fortnight.'

'My dear Rowland!' exclaimed his aunt, 'you do not mean this?'

'Yes, aunt; my fellow curate has been fortunate enough to get a living
given to him, and is to read himself in next Sunday, and I have promised
to take double duty.'

'But one day more or less,' suggested Lady Nugent, who did not imagine
it possible that Rowland Prothero _could_ refuse an invitation from her,
which was, in her opinion, quite a royal command. She, so exclusive!

'I am very much obliged to your ladyship, but I have promised to be in
London on Tuesday; and as my mother is really better, there is no longer
any necessity for my staying in the country.'

'Your uncleth foot?' suggested Miss Nugent.

'Two good dinners, and more agreeable company than you will meet with in
your East End parish!' said Colonel Vaughan.

'My uncle will easily find help,' said Rowland, turning to Miss Nugent,
'although I am sorry not to be able to give him more; and,' to Colonel
Vaughan, with a smile, 'had you ever tried the far East, you would know
that there is very good company there, as well as in the West. I should
be very glad to introduce you to some, if you would come and see me in
town.'

'That I certainly will,' said the colonel, heartily; 'and I shall be
able to tell you all about your sister, as I heard yesterday that her
husband has finally taken my place, and will be down here as soon as it
is put in first-rate order, furnished, etc.'

'You are not likely to leave us yet I hope, Colonel Vaughan?' said Lady
Mary Nugent.

'For a time, I must; but having found how pleasant you all are down
here, I shall hope to come again frequently, if Miss Gwynne will second
her papa's invitation.'

Freda just turned round, bowed, and smiled, and then resolutely resumed
her conversation with, or rather act of listening to, the vicar.

'How interested you appear to be,' whispered the colonel, sitting down
behind her.

Rowland saw this little bit of by-play, and wished himself in London;
whilst Colonel Vaughan joined in the vicar's archæological description
of the quarry in which he had met with his accident. Freda heard all
that Rowland said more distinctly than what passed close at her side.

She heard her father and Lady Mary's repeated entreaties that he would
remain until the end of the week, and the decided, but polite refusal of
Rowland. She heard her father prophecy that he would soon have a good
living, and Rowland's reply, 'that without interest or any particular
talent for what is called "popular preaching," there was little chance
of church preferment. 'But,' he added, 'I am well content to be only a
curate. There is enough to do in my parish to keep one from morning to
night employed, and that in real, active, heart-stirring work, that will
not let one flag if one would wish it.'

'I thould like to thee the Eatht End, mamma,' said Miss Nugent. 'People
in the Wetht theem to think all the inhabitanths barbarians.'

'It is a pity they don't come and try to civilise us, then,' said
Rowland. 'We should be very glad of their help.'


'I will go if mamma will let me,' said Miss Nugent.

Lady Mary smiled somewhat superciliously, and observed that she did not
think she would be of much use.

'All who have a desire to do good will make a path of usefulness, Lady
Mary, I think,' said Rowland. 'In these days the enlightened must not
hide their light under a bushel. We live in stirring, striving times,
when good and evil seem at terrible issue.'

'And which will conquer?' broke in Colonel Vaughan suddenly. 'I don't
see that all the meetings and tracts have done much, as yet, towards
their part in the fight.'

'Good must conquer eventually,' said Rowland, 'and is conquering daily
and hourly.'

'In your East End parish?'

'We hope so. If our progress is slow we are not without encouragement
even there, in the very thick of the battle, and where the armies of
evil are ten to one against good.'

'I know something of fighting, Mr Rowland, and I fear the odds are too
great. You may as well give up the conflict.'

'Remember, Colonel Vaughan, that in all the great battles of antiquity,
and not a few of modern times--the Swiss for example--those who fought
for freedom and right have always found their arms nerved to resist
multitudes--hundreds have conquered tens of thousands. So is it with our
warfare. We have strength given us that makes the single champion of the
cross, powerful against the legion of his adversaries.'

'Very well said, nephew,' broke in the vicar, 'Marathon, Thermopylæ,
Platea--'

'I am afraid we are keeping you from your dinner, Mrs Prothero,'
interrupted Mr Gwynne, who had a nervous dread of the vicar's
antiquities, whether in war or peace. 'Freda, I think we must go.'

Freda rose from her seat, and shook hands very warmly with Mr and Mrs
Prothero. She had made up her mind to do the same with Rowland; but just
as she approached the door near which he had been standing, he said he
would go out and see whether the carriages were ready, and did so
accordingly. They followed him as soon as the leave-takings were over,
and found him waiting at the gate. He immediately assisted Lady Mary and
Miss Nugent into their carriage, leaving Colonel Vaughan to perform the
same office for Miss Gwynne and Miss Hall. Mr Gwynne stayed to shake
hands with him, and tell him that he should always be glad to see him;
and Colonel Vaughan promised to pay him a visit as soon as he went to
town. The former got into the carriage, the latter upon the box to
drive. Rowland stood by the door a moment irresolute.

'Good-bye, Mr Rowland,' said Miss Hall, 'I shall hope often to see your
mother.'

'Thank you, Miss Hall,' said Rowland, pressing the hand she held out to
him with an iron pressure.

Freda was just going to put out her hand across Miss Hall, when Colonel
Vaughan touched the horses, and the carriage drove off. Rowland raised
his hat, and as he glanced at Freda saw that she was looking at him not
altogether unkindly. After those words of hers, he never could have
shaken hands with her, unless she made the advance; and so they parted,
he believing her too proud to acknowledge him after what he had said to
her; she admiring what she considered his pride and resentment a great
deal more than she had ever done his humility.






CHAPTER XXIV.

THE LOVER.


Spring came round again, and Owen and Gladys were still at the farm. The
following conversation will show how they went on together.

'Let me carry that bucket for you, Gladys,' said Owen, one evening when
she was proceeding across the farm-yard, to carry a warm mesh to a sick
cow.

'It is not heavy, sir,' said Gladys, gently.

'It is too heavy for you, _ma'am_, said Owen, emphasising the 'ma'am.'

He took the bucket from her, and carried it to the shed, where Gladys
dosed and fed her sick cow so very tenderly, that Owen was impelled to
say,--

'I wish I were that cow.'

'Oh, sir! she is but a poor, sick, witless animal.'

'But she has you to nurse and be kind to her; so I wish I were that
cow.'

'Sure, sir, I would be glad to nurse you if you were sick,'

'Would you, Gladys? Then I will be sick to-morrow.'

'I hope not, Mr Owen. Come, poor Mally. Drink it up.'

'Never mind, Mally, but attend to me. Will you not be so cold and stiff,
and respectful to me? I hate a girl who "sir's" me as if I were a lord,
and makes me curtseys, and never looks at me, and seems as if she hated
me--'

'Oh, no, indeed no, sir--'

'And lives all day long in the same house, and scarcely speaks to me.
You will drive me off to sea again, _ma'am_, if you don't take care.
Look into my face, and say why you hate me so!'

'I hate no one in the world, sir; much less any one of your name.'

Here the girl looked up from the poor cow who was licking her hand, and
round whose neck her arm was flung, into the face of the young man. Owen
put his hand on the arm that rested on the cow, and said earnestly,--

'Then treat me as your brother.'

'I have lost my brothers and sisters, and father and mother, and kith
and kin. I have seen them all die--all that ever loved me. Oh! Mr Owen!
you are too kind--too kind; but do not talk to me so, or it will break
my heart.'

Here was even more of Irish feeling than Owen either expected or
desired. But he took Gladys's hand in his, and, looking kindly from his
large honest dark eyes into hers, said,--

'Forgive me, Gladys, for making you think of your sorrows. But you know
my dear sister Netta is as good as lost to me, and I want some one who
will be like her, or at least, who will not be quite as cold as clay.'

'Gladys withdrew her eyes and her hand. There was even more than
brotherly warmth in that kind glance and winning manner.

'Thank you, sir, I will try; indeed I will,' said Gladys, as she took up
the bucket, and turned to leave the shed.

'Thank you, ma'am, you are very obliging, but you are not going to carry
my bucket.'

'Oh,' sir! if you please do not speak so to a poor servant girl like me.
I would rather not hear it.'

'You will not see, or hear, or believe what I do, and say and think all
day long; so now, here, where nobody else can listen, you must hear me.
You must learn to be happy with us, you must love us, you must--'

'Oh! I do, sir, I do. Let me go, sir, if you please.'

'Not until you hear that you must love me, even me whom you cannot
bear.'

'Oh! I do, sir--I do. I thank you, I pray for you, I love you all,
always; indeed, indeed, I do.'

'But better than all the others, as I love you, so as to be my wife
when--when--'

'Let me go, Mr Owen, if you please. You must not talk to me so, sir; me,
just now a beggar at your gate.'

'But I must, I will, and you must listen. In spite of myself, and of
your cold manners and pale face, and all the trouble you take to avoid
me, I love you, Gladys, and will marry you if you will have me. I will
give up the sea, and become a steady fellow, and live at home, and make
you and my parents happy, and--'

'Oh! Mr Owen, if your parents were to hear you talking like this to me,
what would they say to you? what would they think of me? You should not
make a joke of my poverty and friendless state, sir. Anything else, but
not this! oh! not this! and from you.'

'I was never more in earnest in all my life, and ask for only one word
of encouragement from you to go and tell my and mother directly,'

'Oh! if you please, Mr Owen, do not do this. If are in earnest, sir, and
I hope you are not, you must forget that you ever said this to me.'

'I do not mean to forget it, Gladys, or to let you forget it. Will you
say the word? only give me hope and all will be right. Will you marry
me, and be the daughter of your adopted mother?'

'I can never marry any one, sir; I have nothing to live for in this
world, but to try to do my duty to you and yours, and to think of those
I have lost.'

'Gladys, your cold manner maddens me. Say you hate me, and would rather
marry some one else; say anything that has some heart in it. We sailors
are made of warmer stuff than such icebergs as you.'

'I cannot say that, sir, because I do not hate you; and I never mean to
marry, and I would sooner die than cause trouble in your family.'

'Then you won't have me, Gladys? and you mean to send me back to sea
again, and to make me return to my wild ways, and to make my mother
miserable?'

'Och hone! what will I do? Why do you say such things to me, Mr Owen,
who have never done you any harm? I cannot marry--I cannot do what would
be wicked and ungrateful--I will go away again back to old Ireland, and
not cause trouble to those who have been so good to me.'

'No, you will not do anything of the kind, unless you wish me to go
after you. I shall tell my father that I will be off to sea again, and
then I need not trouble you any more.'

'I will not stay, Mr Owen, to make mischief; so if you will only please
to stop at home with your parents I will go away.'

'I shall not please to do anything of the kind, for I only stayed so
long on your account, and this is the reward I get.'

Owen was in a passion, and vainly striving to keep it down. His face was
flushed, he looked angrily and moodily upon the drooping head of Gladys
as it bent lower and lower over the poor cow upon which she was leaning.
He suddenly seized her hand, and exclaimed,--

'I am not used to be refused in this cool sort of way, and I don't
believe there ever was a woman in the world who doesn't wish to get
married to some one or other. Now whether you mean to have me or not is
not the question I am going to ask; but whether you have any other
lover, or ever had one that you prefer to me?--Tell me this, and I shall
be satisfied.'

Gladys tried to draw away her hand from the impetuous young man, but he
held it fast.

'You needn't be afraid; I would not hurt a hair of your head. And if you
knew what I am feeling now at this moment you will tell me the truth.
Will you answer me a few questions?'

'Yes, Mr Owen, if I can without doing or saying what is wrong.'

Owen looked Gladys again in the face, as she slightly raised her head to
answer his question. Why that burning blush? Why those bright,
expressive eyes, if she did not care for him? For a moment he had hope,
and pressed the hand he held. Again she bent over the cow that divided
them, and tried to withdraw her hand.

At any other time Owen would have laughed at the notion of making an
offer, divided from his beloved by a fine Alderney cow, but now he was
too much in earnest for laughing.

'Gladys, do you love my brother Rowland?' he asked.

Gladys now looked at him in unfeigned astonishment as she answered,--

'No, Mr Owen; surely I have never given you reason to suppose so. A
grand gentleman like him!'

'But there is a still grander of whom I am jealous,' continued Owen.
'Colonel Vaughan, I have often seen him here upon every excuse--and
always to look at you. I have seen him, and know it well. Do you care
for this great gentleman?'

'Oh! no sir,' said Gladys, sadly. 'How can you suspect me of such a
thing? Are my manners so forward, or am I so foolish as to let any one
suppose I could think of people so far above me? This is not kind, Mr
Owen.'

'One more, Gladys. Those beneath you, then. You cannot, I feel you
cannot, think of that gardener or footman at the Park, or of young
Gwillim, the Half Moon, or--there are so many who admire you, Gladys.'

'Oh! no, sir, I do not think so; no one says so to me, and I care for
none of them. Now, I had better go, if you please, Mr Owen--my mistress
will be wanting me.'

'I should think she 'ould, seure enough,' said a stentorian voice, as Mr
Prothero entered the cow-house, having just heard the last words, and
seen the clasped hands.

Gladys looked entreatingly at Owen, who at once said, 'It was my fault
that she stayed here, I kept her against her will.'

Gladys glanced gratefully at Owen, and left him with his father; but
before she was out of hearing, the farmer's loud voice was audible,
informing Owen that he 'didn't want another 'lopement from his house;
and that that Irish beggar should leave the place.'

'It was all chance, father, and my fault,' said Owen.

'It's always chance and your fault then. Where Gladys is, you're seure
to be pretty near. She's a good sort of young 'ooman enough, but you
have no call to be for ever hunting after her.'

'I don't see why I shouldn't if I like. It doesn't hurt anybody, and is
only kind to her.'

'But I don't cheuse her to be thinking you're going to make love to her,
and by-and-by, perhaps, expecting to--there's no knowing what young
'oomen may expect.'

'She isn't one to expect very much, and I am sure she doesn't take any
liberties with any one, or go beyond her place.'

'Treue for you there; but that's no fault of yours. You don't take
notice of any other female that I see, and seure you eused to make love
to them all in turns.'

'I don't see any girl half as good as Gladys, or worthy to light a
candle to her, that's why I have given them all up.'

'Name o' goodness what for? If you are going to make a fool of yourself
about her, I'll soon send her away, and stop that anyhow.'

'You may save yourself the trouble, father, for I am going away myself.
I can't be a land-lubber any longer, and I won't, so I shall look out
for a ship, pretty soon.'

'All because that girl came here to bother us. Deet to goodness, them
Irishers have been the plagues of my life ever since I married.'

'But she's Welsh, father, and you said so yourself.'

'She's a mongrel, and no good ever came out of them.'

'She saved mother's life, anyhow.'

This reflection posed the worthy farmer. He softened somewhat in his
reply.

'Treue for you again there. But that's no reason for your going to sea,
just when you're getting euseful here.'

'Well, father, thank you for saying for once in my life that I'm useful.
You never said that before.'

'And it don't seem out of any great favour to us that you are euseful
now; but only to please an Irish beggar.'

'I tell you what, father, if you were anybody else, you shouldn't call
her an Irish beggar.'

As Gladys went on her way, she heard the voices, ever louder and louder;
she hurried into the house, and then to her own little bedroom, where
she still seemed to hear the words, 'Irish beggar,' and a little spark
of the pride of poor human nature kindled in her heart.

'They shall not quarrel about me--they shall not throw my misery after
me--they shall not think I want to marry him--I will go away,' were her
muttered expressions. 'Why have I lived--why have I been kindly treated?
if I am to be the sport and the by-word of my friends? A poor
outcast--an Irish beggar--a lone girl, friendless, homeless,
heartless, wretched, miserable! Och hone! what will I do? what will I
do?'

She threw herself on her bed and sobbed.

'And I only want to do my duty--to show my gratitude--to die for the
mistress, if needs be, and they will think me forward and vain. Why was
I born to cause trouble and to bear such misery? Oh! mother, mother, if
you were here to comfort your poor child! If I could but go after you!
if I could but go away to my mother and all the lost ones!'

This thought of her mother and the lost ones seemed to overpower her for
a few seconds, and then to calm her. She rose from her bed, and fell
upon her knees and prayed.

'I can go to them, if they cannot come to me. I can fill my place of
sorrow, as is best for me. I need not bring trouble on this blessed
home! I will not. I need not send away that kind Mr Owen from his
family. I will not. Why does he think of a poor, wretched being like me?
Why has he been so good to me; so tender to me--as if he were my
brother? If I go away, he will think of some one else, and make them all
happy here, and live with them, and be good and steady. And I shall be
only one sufferer instead of many. May God bless them all! I will go
away, but never to see him more!--never, never!' Thus thought Gladys.
For half-an-hour, whilst she was striving to calm herself, such thoughts
and thousands of others flitted through her mind; but she did not murmur
again at the sad lot which had been assigned to her by Providence; she
had gathered strength in that prayer which she had offered up out of her
trouble of heart. Still she felt aggrieved by her master's hard words,
knowing as she did that she did not deserve them; but she struggled hard
to conquer that pride which she knew ill became one in her dependent and
friendless state.

When she had sufficiently recovered herself, she went down to prepare
the supper, according to her custom. She found the hall empty, and
wondered what had become of her master and mistress. She glanced into
the garden, and saw them walking up and down engaged in earnest
conversation, although the hour was late and it was getting dark and
chill. She felt that they were talking about her. She would not listen,
and returned to spread the table for their evening meal; whilst doing
so, Owen made his appearance.

'Gladys,' he said, 'shake hands with me, and forgive me for causing you
pain. I hope it will be the first and last time.'

Gladys held out her hand, saying 'Oh, Mr Owen, I have nothing to
forgive, I am only very sorry''

As Owen held her hand, in stalked Mr Prothero, followed by his wife. He
was not looking very well pleased when he entered, but finding them
together, his dark frowning brow became still darker.

'Good-night, mother,' said Owen, 'I don't want any supper. Good-night,
father,' he added with a strong effort, but receiving no response, he
left the room.

Gladys longed to follow his example, but feared it would not be right.

'Gladys, I fear you are not well,' said Mrs Prothero gravely, but
kindly, 'perhaps you would like to go to bed.'

'Thank you, ma'am,' said Gladys, glancing furtively at her mistress,
whose gentle face looked perplexed and anxious.

'Good-night, then,' said Mrs Prothero.

Gladys could not speak, for there was something constrained in the
manners of her dear mistress, that she could not bear to see. She did
not venture to speak to Mr Prothero, but dropping him a silent curtsey,
as she left the room, went to bed, but not to sleep.

That night, Mrs Prothero went to her son, Owen's room, and heard the
history of the evening. He told her that he loved Gladys, but that she
did not care for him; and that his father would not believe him when he
said so. Mrs Prothero gave him a maternal lecture on his conduct, and
the impossibility of his marrying Gladys, particularly whilst his father
was so irritated against his sister. She rallied him, in a quiet way, on
his various previous loves, and said that she had no doubt he would
forget his present one in the same manner.

She was struck with the unusually grave tone of his reply, as he simply
said, that if Gladys were like his other loves, he might forget her in
the same way; but as she was quite different from any one he had ever
liked before, so he should remember her as he had never before
remembered any one. She was also struck with his manner of wishing her
good night, and of recommending Gladys to her care, entreating her not
to be less kind to her than she had always been, because he had the
misfortune to love her.

Mrs Prothero promised all he desired, scarcely believing, as she did so,
in the depth of his affection.

'And, mother, fach,' he said, 'you must not be vexed if I run away again
to cure myself. There is nothing like sea air for my disease; and if I
do, I promise to write regularly, and to come home at the end of my
voyage. Only be kind to Gladys, and don't let her go away.'

Owen had a presentiment, that if he did not leave Glanyravon, Gladys
would.

'And you must try to bring father round by degrees. I don't want to
annoy him; and I know you are as fond of Gladys as if she were your own
daughter, and father likes her, too. Will you try, mother?'

'Anything to keep you at home, and steady, my son,' said Mrs Prothero
with tears in her eyes, 'but you must not go away again, we cannot do
without you.'

'Only this once, for change of air; I assure you it is best'

'Well, we will talk of this again, Owen; good night, and God bless you.'

'Just tell father not to be angry with me or Gladys, and that I can't
run away with her, because she won't have me. Good night, mother dear.'

Again Owen kissed his mother, more lovingly than usual, and so they
parted for the night.






CHAPTER XXV.

THE FUGITIVE.


Gladys did not go to bed all that night. If her mistress could have
watched her occupations, seen her tears, and listened to her prayers,
she would, at least, have known that she was grateful. The first thing
she did was to finish a cap that she had been making for her, the next
to complete a large piece of ornamental netting, that had been long in
secret progress, and had been intended as a present for that dear
mistress's birthday on the morrow. The third, last and most difficult,
was to write a letter. Gladys usually wrote easily and well. She had
been accustomed to assist her father at an early age, and had been
carefully taught by her mother, but on the present occasion she
considered every sentence with a too painful thoughtfulness, and
literally blotted her writing with her tears.

Morning was beginning to dawn before she had finished these tasks, and
then she washed her face and hands, took off the pretty cotton gown she
had on, and put on the one Netta gave her when first she came to
Glanyravon. An old straw hat that she had been in the habit of wearing
in the fields, and a tidy, but plain shawl, completed her attire. She
had a few shillings which Mr Prothero had given her, and these she put
into her pocket, together with a pincushion, and a curious foreign
shell, gifts of Owen.

She thought of Netta, and of her very different flight from the same
house; she fancied that if she had been in her place, no lover, however
dear, could have prevailed upon her to leave so good a mother; but she
was different. An orphan and a beggar, she had no right to remain to
cause dissension between father and son.

And so she fell upon her knees, and prayed for blessings on every member
of that family; she forgot no one, not even poor Owen, whose suit she
had rejected. Most especially she prayed that he might be a comfort to
his parents, and turn from his wild, wandering ways, to those of rest
and sobriety; she particularly used that latter word, which would have
sounded formal in less earnest lips.

With tearful eyes, and throbbing heart, but with a resigned spirit, she
rose from her knees, took her little bundle in her hand, and went
quickly out into the passage. She did not trust herself to pass the
doors of her slumbering friends, but went by the back-staircase into the
kitchen, and thence into the yard. There was a thick mist over the face
of nature, falling like a heavy veil on the rising sun, and making the
early day but a lengthened night; not a sound was heard, not an animal
had yet been aroused from sleep, save Lion, the large watch-dog, whose
duty it was to wake when others slept, and he bounded towards Gladys,
and her suppressed, 'Down, Lion, down,' failed to quiet him. As she
hurried up the road, he ran after her, and it was not until she reached
the gate, that she had courage to command him with heightened voice, and
threatening manner, to go home. The dog crouched, and then licked the
hand, upraised to send him back. Poor Gladys fell upon his neck, and
burst into tears. He licked off the tears with a wistful, canine
earnestness and love, and again prepared to follow her.

'Back, good dog! Home, Lion!' said Gladys.

The dog turned away with his tail between his legs, and walked half-way
down the road. Gladys hurried through the gate, and along the public
road, shutting the gate behind her upon Lion. No sooner was she out of
sight than the tail was again in motion, the head turned, and Lion was
peering over the hedge after her. As she swiftly pursued her way,
turning neither to the right nor to the left, she did not perceive the
faithful friend that was literally dogging her steps; but still Lion
followed; and thoughtless of master and mistress at home, kept in view
the poor beggar-girl who had managed to win his love, together with that
of all the animal kind around and about Glanyravon.

Thus pursuing her unknown way, and thus pursued by Lion, we must leave
Gladys and return to the farm.

At the usual hour, Mrs Prothero came down to breakfast; no Gladys was
visible, and no neat table was laid for the early meal. Mrs Prothero
asked the servants if they had seen Gladys, and they said she had not
yet come down; not altogether ill-pleased to find the favourite, for
once, in fault. Mrs Prothero thought that the events of the past night
had probably made her ill; and relenting from her somewhat severe
feelings towards her, she went upstairs to see what was the matter.
Receiving no answer to her tap at the door, and call of 'Gladys,' she
went into her little room. She saw all neat as usual, and the bed
unruffled. Her heart misgave her, and she painfully remembered the
morning of Netta's flight. As if by instinct she went to the small
dressing-table, and at once had her fears confirmed. Very sadly she took
up the pretty cap that was left there, and looked at the large piece of
netting to which was appended a paper. She unpinned the paper, and read
the following words:--'For my dear mistress, with respectful wishes, and
best prayers for many happy returns of the day.'

Mrs Prothero unfolded the work slowly, and saw two handsome, long,
netted window curtains, with a fancy border, that must have taken hours
from the donor's sleep to accomplish. As she unfolded them, a letter
fell upon the floor.

Poor, nervous Mrs Prothero, rubbed her hands over one another several
times before she had the courage to pick it up, and then she scarcely
dared to open it. As she made the attempt, however, a cry of 'Mother!
mother! why isn't my breakfast ready?' was heard from the foot of the
stairs, proceeding from Mr Prothero's lusty voice, who was too proud and
too angry to call for Gladys.

Mrs Prothero ran downstairs with the letter in her hand.

'My dear David, I am afraid Gladys is gone,' she said tremblingly.

'Well, let her go,' said the farmer. 'A good riddance. But what do you
mean?'

Mrs Prothero told of the empty room, unused bed, cap, curtains, and
letter.

'This house is bewitched!' said Mr Prothero. 'What's in the letter?'

'Indeed, I don't know, Davy bach!' said the wife, giving him the
document.

Mr Prothero took out his glasses, wiped them deliberately, and put them
on, whilst his wife stood before him rubbing her poor little hands as
usual.

'What a good hand the girl writes,' said Mr Prothero, as he carefully
unfolded the letter, and then began to read aloud as follows:--


     'DEAR AND HONOURED MISTRESS,--Before leaving for ever your blessed
     home, I beg you will allow me to write you a few lines, and I hope
     you will not think me too bold in so doing. I am going away,
     because I would not cause trouble to you, or my good, kind master.
     May it please God to bless you both for ever and ever! As long as I
     live I shall pray for you and love you! If I am too bold, forgive
     me, but my heart is full. I can only thank you for all you have
     done for me, by my prayers! Farewell! my dear, kind, honoured
     mistress and master. You will be rewarded in this world for your
     care of the poor orphan, who prays to meet you in the
     next.--GLADYS.'


It was evident that the writer had been obliged to conclude hastily,
because her paper was so wet with tears that she could write no more.

When Mr Prothero finished reading, he hemmed two or three times and
cleared his throat, and took off his spectacles and wiped them; then
perceiving that his wife was crying like a child, he said,--

'Don't be so fullish!' Suddenly recollecting himself, he exclaimed,
'Where's Owen? Go you, mother, and see if we haven't had another
'lopement,'

'No fear of that,' said Mrs Prothero, leaving the room to do her
husband's bidding.

She stayed so long that Mr Prothero, out of patience, bustled after her.
He found her standing before an open, half-empty chest of drawers. The
room was very untidy, and here, also, the bed had not been slept in the
past night.

Mrs Prothero was rubbing her hands and crying pitifully; more from fear
of her husband's wrath than from sorrow for Owen, because she had
anticipated a sudden flight.

Mr Prothero began to stamp with rage. It was a long time before he could
speak, and his wife had a certain fear that he would choke. At last
words found vent.

'The impudent, lying, hypocritical, young baggage! The ungrateful,
disobedient, good-for-nothing brute! Ach a fi! upon 'em both. That's
what you get by harbouring Irish beggars!--that's the return they make!
A pale-faced, deceitful hussy!'

'Davy, bach! they are not gone together,' said Mrs Prothero,
half-believing at the same time that they were.

'Shall I lay breakfast, ma'am?' interrupted Shanno, putting her head in
at the door and grinning suspiciously.

'Go your way, and mind your own business,' said Mr Prothero.

Shanno disappeared.

'I'll go out and see whether either of the horses is gone. Go you and
make breakfast--the good-for-nothing--'

'Just let me tell you first what Owen said to me last night,' said Mrs
Prothero. 'I don't think he ever deceived us, Davy; and if he did wrong,
he was never the one to hide it.'

'Treue for you! Well, what did the young scamp say? I don't blame him
half as much as that meek, pale-faced, still-water thing, who's as deep
as the north star, I'll be bound.'

'But Owen told me, seriously, that she refused to have anything to say
to him, and begged me to be kind to her when he was gone away, for his
sake.'

'Nothing but a trap to take you in--the deceitful young
puppies--the--the--'

'Go and look about the horses and I'll make breakfast.'

He went accordingly. All the horses were safe. Nothing was missing
anywhere but Lion.

'I 'ouldn't take twenty pounds for that dog,' said Mr Prothero when he
returned to the house, and sat down to breakfast.

'Hadn't we better send to look for them?' asked Mrs Prothero timidly.

'I'll see 'em hanged first. What! go and make another hullabaloo all
through the country, as if one wasn't enough in one house. No, not I.
Let 'em go to sea, or where they will; but don't tell anybody anything
about 'em. Let people think what they will; I only wish I was at the
world's end. But it's all your fault. Do you remember that morning when
you bothered me into letting the girl stay? Fine things have come of it,
seure enough.'

'But we don't know that they're together.'

'But we do, I say, Mrs Prothero; or why should they go off together?
Fine things, indeed, for the gossips! Two 'lopements from one house. The
young hussy.'

Mrs Prothero could not help crying. To lose them both at once--a son and
one who had been better than a daughter to her--it was too sad--and to
feel so uncertain as to what would become of them!

Mr Prothero was resolved to take no notice of her tears, but hastily
swallowed his breakfast and went out. The servants did not need to be
asked about the fugitives. They were all sure that they had run away
together. Gladys, good and quiet as she seemed, was deep enough; and
they had managed so well that nobody had seen them! Not like Miss Netta,
who was so open! Many had seen her when she ran away!

Mrs Prothero sent one of the men off in a search for Lion, feeling sure
that if he were found, Gladys would be discovered.

At about eleven o'clock, to Mrs Prothero's great delight, Miss Gwynne
and Miss Hall called to see if the report about Owen and Gladys were
true, and to hear what Mrs Prothero thought of it. Miss Gwynne was
highly indignant.

'You cannot believe it, Mrs Prothero. That girl Gladys would no more run
away with any man living than I would. If Mr Prothero won't send after
her I will. Where is he?'

'Shall I send and tell him you want to speak to him?'

'By all means--directly.'

Mr Prothero was soon in the house again, at Miss Gwynne's bidding. He
looked more than usually red and excited.

'Mr Prothero, I would stake my life upon it, that girl has not gone off
with your son. I don't like the Irish, or their beggars more than you
do; but I am very fond of Gladys, and she shall not lose her character,
or die of starvation whilst I have a horse to send after her, or a
shilling to help her.'

'That's very well for you, Miss Gwynne, but Owen is no relation of
yours; and I don't cheuse him to marry an Irish beggar. This house is
bewitched, and my children are bewitched, all except Rowland.'

Miss Gwynne wondered what Mr Prothero would think of _him_ if he knew
all.

'Well, Mr Prothero, will you send after Gladys, or shall I? You needn't
have her back here. There is a situation of schoolmistress or lady's
maid for her at once. I will take her in either capacity.'

'Indeed, Mr Prothero,' said Miss Hall, 'I think you may trust Gladys;
that letter is sincere if ever anything was.'

'Who is to search, for there is no time to lose?' asked Miss Gwynne.

She was the only person in Wales who would have moved Mr Prothero, but
he never could refuse her anything.

'What you say, Miss, is seure to have sense in it. I never knew you take
to any one yet who wasn't worth something, so I'll just ride myself and
look after 'em both. I shouldn't like people to fancy we were in a fuss
and fright. But remember, Miss Gwynne, it is to oblige you; and if I
find that she has run away with my son--'

'You may do what you like, Mr Prothero, for then I will have nothing to
say to her. But go at once, and thank you very much.'

'I'll go Swansea way, for I am sure they'll take to the sea. Ach a fi!
what's gone to the young people.'

In less than a quarter of a hour Mr Prothero had mounted his best mare,
and muttering a great many Welsh oaths, was soon riding in search of the
fugitives. When he got out of his own immediate neighbourhood, he began
to ask whether 'a tall, dark, young man, and a tall, pale, young 'ooman'
had been seen.

'Is it a couple of gipsies, Mr Prothero?' asked a farmer, who lived
about seven miles from Glanyravon. 'I did see a dark man, and a sallow
'ooman go up the lane by now.'

'Was the man like my son Owen?'

'Well, I didn't be seeing his face, but I shouldn't wonder.'

Up the lane Mr Prothero went for a good half mile, and at last reached a
gipsy encampment, where there were plenty of dark men, and sallow women,
but not Owen and Gladys.

A shrewd old gipsy, seeing him evidently on the search for some one,
assured him before he had asked any questions, that she had seen those
whom he was looking for.

'Where?' asked the farmer.

'Cross my hand with a silver coin, and I'll tell ye,' she said.

He gave her a shilling.

'Young couple, my lord?' asked the woman.

Mr Prothero nodded assent.

'Dark and fair, yer honour?'

Another nod.

'I never tell secrets under a half-a-crown, but I have seen them, sir.
Young man something like you, and handsome.'

'Make haste and tell, you cheat and vagabond,' said Mr Prothero,
throwing her eighteenpence.

'Up the first turning to the right, off the road, over the hill,' said
the woman.

'When?'

'An hour ago.'

Mr Prothero rode quickly down the lane, along the turnpike, up the first
turning to the right, and then up a long and tedious hill.

It will be unnecessary to describe how Mr Prothero wandered over this
hill for hours, without finding those he sought. As the said hill was a
short cut to the road to Swansea, whither he was persuaded they were
gone, it is not much to be wondered at that he was taken in, and that he
went on as fast as his good horse would go for many a long mile; but he
found neither Owen nor Gladys, and all his inquiries after them were
fruitless.

Towards evening he returned home, tired and very cross, and found his
good wife looking anxious and unhappy, and ready to say at any moment,
'Dear, dear, how I do miss Gladys.'

A messenger from the Park was awaiting him, with a note from Miss
Gwynne, inquiring whether he had found the poor girl or not. He was
obliged to write a few respectful lines in reply, to inform her of the
failure of his search.

'I wish we had never set eyes on the girl,' he muttered, as he was
writing the note with much pains and some difficulty. 'To take off Owen,
too, just as he was getting euseful, and he such a good writer and
accountant.'

Still more heartily did he repeat that wish several times during the
night. Mrs Prothero could not sleep, and what with her anxiety about
Gladys, sorrow for the departure of Owen, and longing to see her own
daughter, her mind was excited beyond its wont. As is often the case
under such circumstances, she fancied she heard all kinds of noises in
the house; once she was sure some one was coming upstairs, and another
time that there was a tapping at the front door. She crept softly out of
bed, and half fancying she should find Gladys without, went downstairs,
and opened it. Nothing was visible but the flickering moonbeams amongst
the trees, or audible save the tinkling of the brook through the
farm-yard.

'Name o' goodness, what's the matter now?' ejaculated the farmer, as
the creaking of the bedroom door awoke him.

'Don't be angry, Davy, bach, but I can't sleep for thinking of that poor
girl; maybe she's without a roof to cover her.'

'Owen'll see to that. 'Tis a hard case a man mayn't sleep in his bed
because of a good-for-nothing wench like her.'

The next morning, after breakfast, when Mrs Prothero was urging him once
more to look for Gladys, and he was vehemently refusing, Miss Gwynne and
Miss Hall again made their appearance.

Mr Prothero had to swallow a very broad expression of disgust, as well
as to listen politely to that young lady, who persisted in saying she
would continue the search for Gladys if he would not.

'I am sorry to annoy you, Mr Prothero,' she said, 'but it is due to
Gladys to clear her character; there are plenty of jealous people about
us, quite ready to take it away. I do not wish you to have any more
trouble in this matter, but I cannot let it rest until I find the poor
girl. She shall come to me direct, and need not be an eyesore to you. I
will send off in every direction until I find her.'

'I beg your pardon, Miss Gwynne. If she is to be found, I must do it. I
'ont have a talk made about our turning her out of doors, and such like.
As she isn't gone Glamorganshire way, I suppose she must be gone towards
Ireland, and I had best follow that scent. I'll give her one more turn,
and then have done with her. Mother, if I don't come home to-night,
don't be frightened, as she may have gone a good step.'

Mr Prothero was leaving the room, when Miss Hall stopped him, saying,--

'I thought, Mr Prothero, that you might not have seen this notice of a
meeting in your son's parish, and as he is mentioned, I brought over the
paper for you.'

Mr Prothero thanked Miss Hall, and took out his spectacles. Whilst he
was wiping them, however, Miss Hall read from the _Times_ the report of
a meeting for forming a ragged school in Rowland's parish, in which was
the following paragraph:--'The Reverend Rowland Prothero, curate of the
parish, made a very clear and able speech upon the subject, and brought
forward a well-digested plan for the school, which will probably be
adopted. The thanks of the meeting were offered to him.'

'There is always a pleasure with every pain,' said Mrs Prothero, wiping
her eyes. 'Thank you, Miss Hall.'

'And the Bishop of London was in the chair. So, mother, if he isn't a
bishop himself, you see he's been very near one,' said Mr Prothero,
looking very much gratified. 'Well, I'll go now, Miss Gwynne, and look
after that confounded--I beg your pardon, Miss--after that Irish jade,'
and he went accordingly, leaving the ladies to talk it over with his
wife.






CHAPTER XXVI.

THE FRIEND.


Mr Prothero started as soon as his horse was ready, and, it must be
confessed, in a very bad temper. As soon as he got out of the precincts
of Glanyravon, he began to make inquiries of every one he met, and at
every cottage he passed, concerning Gladys. It was evident, from the
replies that he received, that if she had gone that road, it was so
early in the morning that no one had seen her.

At last he fell in with a farmer's wife whom he knew, who was jogging
along on horseback, with a little boy behind her. After the usual
greetings, he said,--

'You never come to Glanyravon now, Mrs Davies. I daresay you haven't
seen any of our folk for a year?'

'Well, not exactly. But I almost fancied I saw that pretty young 'ooman
that lives with you yesterday morning. She was too shabby, or I should
have been seure of the face. Only when she saw me she turned away and
went on.'

'Which way?'

'Oh, down the Carmarthen road, seure.'

'You'll excuse my hurrying on, Mrs Davies; I want to call at Lewis,
Dryslwyn.'

'To be seure. Good morning, Mr Prothero.'

The worthy farmer rode off at a gallop, till he was more than out of
sight of Mrs Davies. He stopped at a tidy cottage to speak to an old
woman who was washing at the door.

'Did you chance to see a strange young 'ooman go by here yesterday,
early?' he asked.

'What young 'ooman?' was the rejoinder.

'Rather shabbily dressed, with blue eyes, and a very pale face?'

'Had she a big black dog along, sir?' asked a boy who came from within
the house.

'I think she had.'

'Then granny gave her a cup of tea when she asked for some water, and I
gave the dog a piece of my bread and cheese,' said the boy.

'There's sixpence for you, my lad,' said Mr Prothero. 'Was there a
young man with the girl?'

'Nobody was along, sir.'

'Which way did she go?'

'By there, to Dryslwyn, sir.'

Mr Prothero rode on to the picturesque village bearing this name. The
old ruined castle looked down upon him from its curiously formed,
tumulus-looking elevation, as he stopped before a neat farm-house.

'Good morning, Mrs Lewis.'

'Walk in, Mr Prothero. We were talking of you by now. There was a young
'ooman by here yesterday, and John Lewis said he was seure she had your
dog with her. She went away so fast, that I hadn't time to ask about the
dog.'

'Which way did she go?'

'Down the Carmarthen road.'

'Good morning, Mrs Lewis, thank you. I must look after my dog.'

Mr Prothero found it easiest to ask for the girl with a large black dog,
and traced them to within a mile of Carmarthen.

He stopped at a small roadside inn to have a glass of _cwrw
da_.[Footnote: Good ale] Here he asked the landlady of Gladys.

'See her and the dog! Is seure. They come here in the evening, and she
asked for a slice of bread and a drink of water, and took out sixpence
to pay for it. She gave all the bread to the dog, and my master, who is
fond of dogs, told me to give 'em both a good supper. Poor dear! she
couldn't help crying; and my master, who is tender-hearted when he sees
a girl do be crying, tell me to give her and the dog a good supper and a
bed in the barn, which I did, is seure.'

Mr Prothero paid handsomely for his ale, and having learnt that Gladys
and Lion went straight to Carmarthen, went thither also. He made some
few inquiries at the small inns that he passed, but gained no
information. He accordingly rode through the town, and took the direct
route to Hob's Point, whence, he knew, she would probably sail for
Ireland.

The afternoon was far advanced, still he rode on. He began to feel as
anxious as he was angry and annoyed, and declared to himself that he
wouldn't turn back until he had found her. He soon began to track her
again. All the little boys on the way had noticed the big dog, and could
point out the route he and Gladys had pursued.

He stopped at one cottage where the mistress told him that she had made
the girl sit down in the porch, because she looked so tired; and at
another where she had asked how far it was to Pembrokeshire.

He had ridden about thirty miles, and twilight was creeping on. He began
to think of the necessity of finding a night's lodging, and once more
consigned Gladys and the Irish generally to any distant region where he
should never see them again.

'If she hadn't nursed mother so tenderly,' he muttered to himself, 'I'd
turn back now; but as she does seem to be running away from Owen, and
not with him, it 'ould be creuel.'

The moon, the young May moon, arose in the heavens, and the farmer
quickened his pace, for he knew the road, and that he was a good way
from an inn, or, indeed, from any habitation where he could ask a
night's lodging. Lights peeped out, one by one, from the cottages as he
passed, and when he glanced into them, and saw the cheerful little
fires, he thought more compassionately of Gladys, and wondered whether
she had found food and lodging for the night.

He was within a mile of a small village that he knew very well, when it
was about ten o'clock. The wind blew rather keenly, and he buttoned up
his great-coat, and began to whistle, by way of keeping himself warm.

'Come, old girl! we shall soon have something to eat! come along,' he
said to his mare, as he gave her a slight touch with his whip.

He was passing by a very lonely quarry in a field by the road-side,
about which he had heard some ugly stories of robbers and ghosts years
ago. Although he was a courageous, he was a superstitious man, and gave
his mare another stroke as he encouraged her to proceed. She started,
however, suddenly, and made a kind of halt. The moon was shining so
brightly that Mr Prothero could see into the quarry across the hedge,
and he fancied he perceived somebody moving about. He urged his horse on
by whip and voice, but as he did so, some one jumped over the gate that
led into the quarry, and made towards him. He was so much alarmed that
he spurred the mare vigorously. He was sure it was a robber. He turned
his whip, and held the heavy handle ready for a blow, which fell, in
effect on the robber or ghost, or whatever it was, that leapt upon his
leg, and seemed, to his imagination, to lay hold of it.

A loud howl, and then a sharp, joyous bark, however, soon told him who
the intruder was, and gave him courage to encounter the jumpings and
gambols of his own good dog, Lion.

The mare kicked, and Mr Prothero exclaimed, 'Lion! Lion! down, good
dog, down! Don't upset me, Lion, bach. Let me get off, Lion! Name o'
goodness, be quiet, dog! There; now you may jump as you will. Where is
she? Where's Gladys?'

Mr Prothero was off his horse, and Lion was over the hedge in a moment.
The former climbed the gate somewhat less speedily--and both were, in a
few seconds, in the quarry, where, either dead or asleep, lay Gladys,
beneath and upon the hard stones.

As the rays of the moon fell upon her pale face, Mr Prothero almost
thought it was death and not sleep; but when Lion began to bark
joyously, and to lick the cold hands and cheek, and when Mr Prothero
ventured to stoop down and whisper, 'Gladys! Gladys!' and to take one of
the damp, clammy hands in his, the white eyelids unclosed, and with a
little scream of terror, the poor girl started up.

There, beneath the moonlight, she recognised her master, and falling
down on her knees before him, clasped her hands, but uttered no word.

Where was Mr Prothero's ready-prepared lecture on ingratitude? Where
were the questions about Owen? Where was the passion of the previous
day? He could not tell. He only knew that he raised the poor kneeling
girl kindly, almost tenderly. She threw her arms round him, and for the
first time kissed him as if he were her father. Then, suddenly,
recollecting herself, she exclaimed,--'Oh! Master! Oh, sir! forgive me.'

Her master did not speak, but lifted her in his strong arms, and carried
her to the gate; lifted her over, lifted her on his horse, and, amidst
the joyous caperings of Lion, mounted himself.

'Put you your arms round me, and hold fast,' he said to Gladys.

'Come you, Lion, good dog! we'll have a supper by now!' And so they all
went, as fast as they could, to the neighbouring village.

Mr Prothero, with no small noise and bluster, knocked up the inmates of
the little inn of that little place, and succeeded in getting Gladys
ensconced by a cheerful fire in the kitchen. The poor girl was benumbed
with cold and overpowered with fatigue. The landlady rubbed her feet and
hands, administered hot brandy and water, and finally got her to bed.

Mr Prothero kept out of her way lest he should say something that he
might afterwards repent of in the warmth of his delight at finding her
again. After she was in bed, and he had heard from the landlady that she
seemed better and more comfortable, he and Lion had a good supper--a
meal the dog appeared thoroughly to enjoy, and which he ate with a
ravenous appetite.

Mr Prothero told the landlady to leave Gladys in bed the next morning
until nine o'clock, by which hour he supposed she would be sufficiently
refreshed, and then retired himself, feeling thankful to Miss Gwynne for
having made him do a good action, but still believing that Owen must
have been in the secret of Gladys' sudden flight.

Gladys slept soundly until the landlady took her a good breakfast at
nine o'clock. She then awoke, refreshed but frightened, and uncertain as
to her present state or future proceedings. She was told that Mr
Prothero wished to see her as soon as she was dressed, and accordingly
when she had eaten her breakfast, she got up. She felt very stiff and
weak, and her hands trembled so much that she could scarcely dress
herself.

Lion found her out, however, and gained admittance into her bedroom. He
was in such very boisterous spirits that he quite cheered her, as pale
and frightened she tried to gain courage to meet her master. Before she
left the bedroom, she sought for guidance where she was always in the
habit of going for help and comfort, and found strength 'according to
her day.'

Mr Prothero was waiting for her in the little parlour of the inn. During
the morning, having nothing to do, he had employed himself by getting up
his temper, and persuading himself that he ought to be very angry with
Gladys. He had quite slept off his softer feelings, and whilst at his
lonely breakfast had gone through an imaginary quarrel with Owen, and a
dispute with his wife, which had so raised his choler, that when Gladys
entered he was as red as he usually was when in a passion at home.

Gladys saw that he was angry and trembled very much; but she knew that
she had done no wrong, and tried to reassure herself.

Mr Prothero began at once. It must be remarked, however, that he had
previously learnt from the landlady that Gladys was pretty well, and had
eaten a good breakfast.

'Name o' goodness, young 'ooman, what did you run away from our house
for in such a sly, underhand way, and give us all this trouble and
bother? Don't suppose I 'ould a run after you, if it wasn't for Miss
Gwynne and your mistress.'

'Oh, sir, I am very thankful to ye and to them. I know I don't deserve
such kindness.'

'Treue for you there. I should have thought you'd have known that one
'lopement was quite enough from one house. Pray, what have you done with
my son Owen?'

'I, sir? Nothing, sir!' said Gladys, trembling at this abrupt question.

Lion licked her hand as if to reassure her.

'You needn't tell no lies about it, because I shall be seure to find
out. Where is he gone?'

'Indeed--indeed, I don't know, sir. I thought he was at home at
Glanyravon.'

'But he isn't at home. He went off with you.'

'Oh, not with me, sir--not with me, I assure you. I went away that he
might stay, and that I might not cause anger between you. I am speaking
the truth, sir, indeed I am.'

Mr Prothero looked at the agitated girl, and felt inclined to believe
her.

'Tell me why you went away at all, then?'

'Because Mr Owen said to me words that I knew he would be sorry for, and
because I saw that you, sir, were displeased at what he said about me.'

'What did he say to you? Tell me the truth.'

'He said, sir--oh! I cannot tell. Perhaps you would be more angry with
him if you knew.'

Gladys' head drooped low, and a burning blush overspread her pale face.

'I can't be much more angry with him than I am, but tell you the treuth.
Did he want to marry you?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And you--what did you say?'

'That I couldn't marry any one in this world, sir.'

'What do you mean to wait for, then?'

'Nothing, sir, nobody.'

'And what did Owen say to that?'

'I don't think anything more particular passed between us. He was very
kind, sir.'

'I daresay. But what made him go away?'

'I think it must have been because he thought you would send me away.'

'And you don't want to marry my son Owen?'

'No, sir.'

Gladys' voice wavered slightly as she said this.

'Ha, ha! He's a fine young man, however.'

'Yes, sir, and very kind.'

'I daresay. Will you promise never to marry him?'

As Mr Prothero asked this question, he looked Gladys full in the face.

She blushed again, but returned his gaze with a quiet, grave look that
seemed to wonder at the question. She did not reply at once, and Mr
Prothero repeated it, louder than before, with the additional one of 'Do
you hear, girl?'

'Sir, I don't like to make promises,' said Gladys; 'suppose the
temptation to break it ever came, and proved too strong for me. I might
perjure myself.'

'Then you mean to marry my son Owen?'

'No, sir, I don't think I shall ever marry him. As far as I can see now,
I am sure I never shall.'

'Name o' goodness, what does the girl mean? You don't mean to marry him,
and yet you 'ont promise--what do you mean?'

'I scarcely know myself, sir. But I cannot tell what God may appoint for
me in the future, and so I cannot make a solemn promise.'

'Then I 'spose you're going to run off like Netta?'

'No, sir, never.'

'Why, "no, sir," if you 'ont promise?'

'Because I could never do what you and my mistress would dislike.'

'Then you can promise, perhaps, never to marry my son Owen without my
consent.'

'Yes, sir, I can--do--that--'

Gladys said these words very slowly, and turned very pale as she said
them. She clasped her hands firmly together with a visible effort.

'Well, you're an odd girl; you 'ont promise one thing, and yet you as
good as promise it in another way. What's the difference?'

Again the colour came and went.

'It would be wrong, sir, in me to make a son disobey a father, and I
wouldn't like to do it; so I can promise that; and maybe you may
change.'

'Then you love the boy? Tell me the treuth.'

Gladys began to cry, and was a few moments before she could say,
somewhat more resolutely than usual,--

'Sir, my feelings are my own. Mr Owen has been like a brother to me, and
the mistress like a mother--and you--oh, sir! should I not love his
mother's son?'

Mr Prothero was touched; he could ask no more questions.

'There, there--go you and get ready directly. I promised Miss Gwynne to
bring you back to Glanyravon, where she means to make you schoolmistress
and lady's maid, and all the rest. I suppose you don't want to go to
Ireland?'

'No, sir.'

'Have you any relations there?'

'No, sir.'

'You don't want to leave Glanyravon parish?'

'No, sir. I would rather live and die there than anywhere else in the
world.'

'Then go you and get ready; and, mind you, have some ale before you
start. I must keep my promise to Miss Gwynne; mind you yours to me. You
'ont encourage my son Owen without my consent'

'No, sir--never. And I do not wish or mean ever to marry any one, if you
will only believe me.'

'I don't believe any young 'ooman who says that. You may as well go into
a nunnery. But I believe the rest till I find you out to the contrary.
Now, go you and get ready.'

'Thank you, sir--thank you.'

Soon after this conversation the farmer had mounted his good mare, who
was as much refreshed as her master by a night's rest, and with Gladys,
_en croupe_, and Lion running by his side, he jogged back to his home.

'We shall have a fine long journey, and a tiresome one enough,' he
muttered. 'Thirty mile and carrying double is too much for my
mare.--take the 'oomen! they'll be the death 'o me, one way and another.
There's mother, and Netta, and Miss Gwynne, and now this Gladys! This is
the last time I'll put myself out for any of 'em, or my name isn't David
Prothero.'






CHAPTER XXVII.

THE MISSIONARY.


It was about half-past ten o'clock when Mr Prothero and Gladys started
on their homeward journey. When they had gone about half way, they
stopped for an hour to bait the mare, which brought them to nearly two
o'clock, and reduced Mr Prothero to a state of great ill humour. Poor
Gladys had to bear many reproachful speeches, which reached her between
a very animated conversation which he kept up with the mare and Lion
alternately. He did not talk much to her, but contented himself with
making her eat and drink a great deal more than was pleasant for her,
because, as he phrased it, 'People shouldn't think she was starved at
Glanyravon.'

In truth, there was a great contrast between the farmer's rosy, broad,
good-humoured countenance, which not even his present angry feelings
could make morose, and Gladys' pale, wearied face, rendered more palid
than usual by her late fatigue and anxiety. It was with some difficulty
that she could keep her seat behind Mr. Prothero, as the mare trotted on
at an equal but somewhat rough pace, and made her long for rest.

However, all things come to an end, and within about five miles of
Glanyravon, Mr Prothero muttered,--'Confound the 'ooman! Shall we ever
get home; 'tis enough to kill the mare. Come along, old girl! Good dog!
Lion, old boy!'--which sentences were interrupted by the address of a
stranger on horseback, who asked if he were right for Glanyravon Park.

'Quite right, sir,' said Mr Prothero, pleased at any break in a ride
that had been peculiarly devoid of adventure. 'I am going half a mile
beyond the Park myself, and shall be proud to show you the way if you
aren't in a hurry.'

'By no means. I am too tired to ride very fast myself, for I have been a
great traveller of late. I came down from London to Glamorganshire two
days ago, and have come across country in coaches and dogcarts to the
"Coach and Horses." I daresay you know the inn?'

'Oh yes, sir. That's the "Coach and Horses" mare you're upon now?'

'Yes; I borrowed her to come to Glanyravon, and have promised to ride
her back to-night, but I am sure I shall not be able. How far are we
from Glanyravon?'

'About four mile and a half.'

'You live in the village?'

'There is no village, sir. I live at Glanyravon Farm.'

'Is there any inn nearer than the "Coach and Horses" where I might get a
night's lodging, and a man to ride the mare back?'

'No, sir; but I shall be glad to offer a bed to any friend of Mr
Gwynne's, though I am sure you'll find one at the Park.'

'Thank you kindly. I am not known to Mr Gwynne; but I am going to see
Miss Hall, who, I believe, resides with him.'

'To be seure she does; and a better lady never lived. If you're a friend
of Miss Hall's, you're as welcome to our house as if you were born and
bred at Glanyravon.'

'You are very kind. It does one good to meet with true Welsh hospitality
once more.'

'You're not Welsh, sir, I should say?'

'I was Welsh originally; but it would be difficult to make out my
parish, as I have been wandering about for many years.'

'A clergyman, sir?'

'Yes, sir.'

The gentleman smiled, and thought the question savoured of American
curiosity.

'I have a son a clergyman. Perhaps you may have fallen in with him. They
tell me he's a very promising young man.'

'What is his name?'

'Prothero, sir--Rowland Prothero.'

'I do not know him personally, but I know him by reputation; he is
curate of an old friend of mine, Mr Stephenson.'

'To be seure--Rowly's rector! Allow me to shake hands with you, sir.
You'll sleep at Glanyravon.'

'Certainly, if I shall not inconvenience you and your family. Your
daughter looks very ill and tired; perhaps it may--'

'Not a bit, sir. She's not my daughter; she always looks as pale as
moonlight, 'scept when she blushes up; she'll see to a bed for a strange
gentleman, and so'll my missus. To think of your knowing Mr Stephenson!'

'Yes, I saw him during my short stay in town, and he told me he had a
capital curate, a countryman of mine. A regular hard-working, useful
parish priest, he called him; a good preacher besides!'

'Well, mother will be pleased, won't she, Gladys?'

This was said in the old good-humoured way, and Gladys brightened up as
she answered,--

'Yes, sir, very.'

'Are you ill?' said the stranger, looking at Gladys with sudden
interest.

'No, sir, thank you; I am only rather tired,' was the reply.

'Tired! I should think so! Why, she's walked more than thirty miles, and
ridden thirty in the last two days,' said the farmer gruffly.

The stranger glanced again compassionately at Gladys, but merely said,--

'She looks so pale that I fancied she was suddenly faint. How long has
Miss Hall been at Glanyravon?'

'Somewhere about two or three years now, I should say; but when she was
teaching Miss Gwynne she was there a great many years.'

'Is she in good health? How does she look? Is she happy?'

'If she was ill, sir, I don't think any one 'ould know it, she's so
quiet and patient; but I think she's pretty well, and she can't help
being happy, for she's just the same as if she was at home with her
father and sister. Now she is a nice lady! If all 'oomen were like her
there 'ouldn't be half the plague with 'em there is. She's quite content
without having a lot of lovers after her, and running away, and making
everybody in a fever. Deet to goodness, my opinion is that the world
'ould go on a sight better without 'em. What do you think, sir? You must
have plenty of experience as a clergyman, for all the ladies are pretty
sharp after the cloth.'

The stranger laughed, and said he thought the world would be very
disagreeable without the fair sex, and that he had no doubt Mr Prothero
would find it so if they became suddenly extinct.

The farmer was so pleased with his new acquaintance that when they
reached the Park gate, he said very heartily,--

'Now, mind you, sir, there's a warm welcome, and a well-aired bed, and
fine, white, home-spun linen at the farm. The squire may give you a
better dinner, may be, but not a hotter, I'll answer for it; Gladys'll
see to that; she's capital for that. And mother 'ould be so glad to hear
what the rector said about our Rowly.'

'You may depend upon my coming,' said the stranger. 'What time does Mr
Gwynne dine? I suppose I shall escape his dinner hour? It is now about
five o'clock.'

'Oh! they don't dine till Christian folks are going to bed--seven or
eight o'clock, or some such heathen hour. You'll be able to see them all
before dinner; but I don't believe Mr Gwynne'll let you come away.'

'I shall not see him probably. Good day for the present.'

The stranger rode slowly up the drive from the lodge to the house, and
Mr Prothero quickened his pace homeward. The mare, nothing loath,
trotted off hard and fast, and Gladys looked paler than ever.

When they reached the farm gate they were greeted by a loud shout from
the 'boys,' Tom and Bill, who were right glad to see pretty Gladys back
again. They both ran as fast as they could to the house, to tell their
mistress the good news, and Lion after them. Mrs Prothero was at the
door to receive the travellers, and as Gladys slipped off the mare, took
her round the neck, and gave her a hearty kiss.

'My dear David, I am so thankful! so much obliged!' she said, as her
more portly husband dismounted. 'Come in quick; Miss Gwynne and Miss
Hall are here. They were just going, but they will be relieved of all
their anxiety when they see Gladys. Come in, Gladys, fach! don't be
afraid; they must see you.'

Poor Gladys was crying with all her heart--good, comfortable, refreshing
tears of joy at her mistress's kind welcome.

Miss Gwynne appeared at the parlour door.

'Well, Gladys! you have had your long walk for nothing. What a foolish
girl you were to go away. Mr Prothero, how do you do? I am so glad you
have brought us back Gladys. We couldn't do without her in these parts.'

'Do you still stand to your text, Miss Gwynne?' said Mr Prothero. 'We
may as well settle the matter at once. It will be a great thing for the
girl.'

'Oh, certainly; only she looks too tired to settle anything. Gladys, I
will give you a day or two to consider whether you will come and live
with me, as my maid, or be Miss Hall's pattern school-mistress.'

Gladys looked from Miss Gwynne to Miss Hall, and then from her master to
her mistress, through the tears that were gathering faster and faster.
She answered in a voice half choked by them,--

'Thank you, ma'am, thank you over and over and over again. If I must go
away--if I must--whichever--you--like--I--' Here she finally gave way,
and, sitting down on a chair, sobbed aloud. Mrs Prothero went to her,
and put her arm round her neck. Miss Gwynne looked on compassionately,
and Miss Hall turned to Mr Prothero.

'She does not like to leave you, Mr Prothero,' she said gently.

'I don't want to turn the girl out of the house. But if Miss Gwynne
wants her, I think it is better for all parties for her to go.'

'If you please--certainly,' said Gladys, recovering herself with an
effort. 'I would much rather go to Miss Gwynne in any capacity, and if I
can be of use--it is best, my dear mistress.'

'Then go you, Gladys, and stop crying,' said Mr Prothero. 'Why, your
eyes'll be as red as ferrets when the gentleman comes, and he'll think
we've been giving you an appetite by making you cry. I was near
forgetting, Miss Hall, that we left a strange gentleman at the Park
gate, who said he was going to call on you; he's going to take a bed
here, because there's no inn nearer than the "Coach and Horses."'

'Who can that be?' said Miss Hall.

'We had better make haste home, or we shall miss him,' said Freda.

'Good-bye, Mrs Prothero; I will come again and settle about Gladys.'

It was nearly dusk when the ladies left the farm, and they walked very
fast. They had not gone far when they saw some one on horseback coming
towards them.

'I daresay this is your friend, and that stupid Morgan hasn't let him
in,' said Freda.

'It cannot be; I do not know this gentleman at all,' said Miss Hall, as
the stranger advanced.

He looked at them, and they looked at him; but as there was no symptom
of recognition on either side, they passed without speaking.

'I hope we shall have a good night's rest, now that Gladys is found,'
said Miss Gwynne. 'What is there in the girl that interests one so much?
Even Mr Prothero, in spite of his son, was glad to find her, and to
have her at the farm again. Colonel Vaughan admires her very much.'

'I hope not too much,' said Miss Hall quietly.

'What an absurd idea!' said Miss Gwynne, colouring from beneath her
broad hat. 'He is a man that admires beauty and talent, wherever it is
to be found. I do like that sort of person; free from vulgar prejudice.'

'Not quite, I think, my dearest Freda. He is not so easily read,
perhaps, as you in your straightforward nature fancy.'

'If he isn't prejudiced, you are, at any rate,' said Freda.

When they reached the house, Freda went into the drawing-room first, and
Miss Hall heard her exclaiming, as she rushed out of it with a card in
her hand,--

'Serena! Nita! only think! Mr Jones, Melbourne, South Australia! Hurrah!
I never thought I should be so glad to see a card bearing that name.
Morgan! why didn't you ask the gentleman who called on Miss Hall to come
in and wait?'

'I did not know, ma'am,' said the man who was at the door. 'My master
does not always like strangers, and I did not know the gentleman.'

Miss Hall had vanished upstairs during this little interlude with
Morgan, so Freda did not see the agitation of her manner when she took
the card and read the name. Freda went straight into the library, where
she found her father half asleep over a letter.

'Papa! papa! Do you know an old friend of Miss Hall's has called, that
she has not seen for twenty years, and Morgan let him go away?'

'Wasn't she glad, my dear? It is so exciting to see people whose very
faces you have forgotten.'

'Glad, papa? Of course not. He must just have come from Australia, where
her sister is living, and I daresay has brought letters. By the way,
there was a packet near the card.'

'I don't understand people going so far away from their own country.'

'But, papa, Mr Jones--this gentleman--has gone to sleep at Mr
Prothero's, and I daresay they are not prepared for him.'

'Really--well, my dear?'

'Don't you think you had better write and ask him here to dinner, and I
will order a bed to be prepared?'

'Me! My dear!--a perfect stranger!--a bore! Some one full of tiresome
adventures and travellers' stories, and all that sort of thing.'

'He is a clergyman, papa, and a Welshman, I believe. It would only be
hospitable. We must not belie our country. Do write, papa. Think how
anxious Miss Hall must be to hear of her sister.'

'But you say she has a packet of letters.'

'There is nothing like seeing a friend who has seen one's sister, I
should think. Just one line of invitation! We will amuse him. He is very
quiet, Miss Hall says. Here is the paper and a new pen. There's a good
pappy, and--yes, "Presents his compliments"--yes--don't forget the bed.
That's right! Now, just add, "that if he prefers not coming to-night,
you hope he will make a point of spending the day here to-morrow."'

'But I don't hope it, my dear.'

'We will amuse him. Drive him out--anything. And perhaps he won't come.'

'Very well. Remember that I am not expected to--to--'

'Nothing, but just to drive with him. Thanks! you are a capital _pater_,
and I will send this off immediately. Just direct it, "---- Jones, Esq.,
Glanyravon Farm." I wonder whether his name is David? I hope not. I
don't like David.'

'Freda carried the note to the butler herself, and told him to get it
sent immediately, and to tell the messenger to wait for an answer; then
she went with the parcel of letters to Miss Hall.

The note found Mr Jones, Mr Prothero, and Gladys comfortably established
near a snug fire in the hall, at a well-spread tea-table. Mr Jones asked
for tea in preference to _cwrw da_, and he and Gladys were enjoying it,
whilst Mr Prothero chose the good home-brewed. Eggs and bacon, cold
meat, and most tempting butter were upon the table, and Mrs Prothero was
acting waitress and hostess at the same time.

Shanno appeared with the note, delicately held by the corner between her
finger and thumb.

'From the Park, missus, for the gentleman.'

'Promise you me, before you open it, not to go there to-night,' said Mr
Prothero, taking the note.

'That I can safely do,' said Mr Jones.

When he had read the note he looked pleased, and his manner was rather
flurried, as he said,--

'Perhaps I can manage to stay over to-morrow, but I will not go
to-night. Will you oblige me with a pen and ink?'

Gladys was off in a moment, and returned with writing materials.

Mr Jones wrote a polite note, declining the invitation for that evening
upon plea of the lateness of the hour and fatigue, but promising to call
on the morrow early, and to remain the day, if he possibly could.

After he had despatched his note he seemed more thoughtful than he was
before, and, for a short time, absent when spoken to; but rousing
himself he made good return for the kindness and hospitality of his host
and hostess by his agreeable and instructive conversation.

He told them that he had been a missionary ever since his ordination,
and had travelled over the principal parts of the continent of
Australia. Gladys forgot her fatigue in her great interest in his
subject; and when he saw her deep attention, he frequently addressed her
and drew forth questions from her which surprised Mr Prothero quite as
much, or more than it did Mr Jones. Mrs Prothero knew the girl's turn of
mind too well to be astonished at the amount of missionary and
geographical knowledge that she possessed. Gladys was naturally very
timid and modest, but when subjects of interest were introduced she
forgot her timidity in a desire for information.

Owen had discovered her bent, and in their frequent meetings, accidental
or designed, had often chained her to him by descriptions of the
countries he had visited and the wonders he had seen. He, too, had found
out that there was a deep vein of romance running beneath the stratum of
reserve that, at first, had formed the outward feature of her character,
but which was wearing away as she became accustomed to her new friends,
and had been treated as a friend by them.

It was evident that Mr Jones was greatly interested in Gladys. He
addressed her, looked at her, called her 'my dear,' somewhat to the
scandal of Mr Prothero, who thought him too young a man for such a
familiar address. But Gladys only turned on him two beautiful eyes
beaming with a kind of wondering gratitude, and thought the white and
grey hairs that were mingled with the brown, and the deep lines in his
forehead, quite passport enough for the two kind words.

In addition to a great deal of missionary adventure, Mr Jones told his
new friends that he had come home partly in search of health and rest,
and partly to stir up friends at home in the cause of religion abroad.
He said that he might or might not return himself to Australia,--it
would depend on circumstances; but that he could not be idle in England,
and was likely to become either a fellow-curate of Rowland's, or a
neighbouring one. He liked a city curacy, because, having taught the
heathen in another land for many years, he thought he might do some good
amongst them at home. He told them, also, that it was during a year's
residence in Melbourne that he had known Miss Hall's sister. He had been
obliged to undertake clerical duty there, because his health was failing
in his attempts to convert the aborigines.

Mr Jones was a man of grave and quiet manner, one who seemed to think
much and deeply. He habitually led the conversation, without pedantry,
to religious or instructive subjects, and when lighter matter was
introduced, was given rather to withdraw his mind from it to his own
thoughts.

He had been little in society for many years, during which his time had
been passed in the highest, weightiest, gravest, grandest of all
labours,--that of studying to turn the human soul from darkness to
light. Now that he found himself in his own country again, he felt far
behind most men in worldly conversation though very far beyond them, not
only in religious, but in practical, useful, and general knowledge; such
knowledge, I mean, as would be suited to the improvement, not merely of
savages, but of the wild, lawless bushmen, gold diggers, and convicts of
the Australian world. His manners were gentlemanlike but slightly
old-fashioned, and, doubtless, many a young Englander would have found
matter for ridicule in some of his doings and sayings. Not so, however,
the good and cultivated Englishman of the nineteenth century. He would
have found abundance to love and respect in the man who left the luxury,
science, learning and refinement of England, in that most wonderful of
all ages, to labour amongst the refuse of her people in the largest of
her colonies. For Mr Jones had seen but little, during his twenty years
of Australian life, of the better portion of Australian settlers, or the
grandeur of her cities. He had devoted himself to those who had no means
of gaining religious teaching elsewhere and he thanked God that the
years of his ministry had not been without abundance of those fruits in
which the heart of the laborious worker in Christ's vineyard rejoices.

When Mr Jones left the farm the following morning, it was with a promise
to pay it another visit at no very distant period. He took away with him
a letter to Rowland, which was to introduce the brother, clergymen to
each other. As he shook Mr Prothero by the hand, he thanked him warmly
for his hospitality, and then abruptly added, 'Take care of that young
girl Gladys. She will surely prove a blessing to you, and repay you for
any kindness you may bestow upon her,'






CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE LADY'S MAID.


Miss HALL and Freda were sitting alone in the morning-room that has
before been alluded to. The former was much more nervous than Freda had
ever seen her. First she took up her work, then her book, then she began
to copy some music. Freda had great pleasure in watching her, and in
remarking that the calm Serena could be excited by the expected
appearance of a lover of twenty years ago; also in observing that she
had a most becoming colour on her cheeks, and looked quite young; also
that she was dressed even with more care than usual, and her hair was
smooth as brush could make it. Freda longed to laugh at her, but she
forbore; she felt that there was something very touching in this meeting
between two people who had parted under such uncomfortable circumstances
so many years ago.

When the door bell rang Freda rose to leave the room.

'If you please, Freda, remain where you are, I would very much rather.'

Freda resumed her seat, and shortly after Mr Jones was announced.

'Quite an old man; twice as old as Nita,' was Freda's first thought as
she looked at him.

Miss Hall rose and advanced to meet Mr Jones. They shook hands, Freda
thought, very much like other people, and then Miss Hall introduced her,
and Mr Jones bowed.

'I promised your sister to come and see you, Miss Hall, when I came down
into Wales,' he said after he was duly seated.

'I am very much obliged to you, it was very kind,' was the reply.

Freda saw that they were both as nervous and shy as a couple of
children, and came to the rescue by apologising for her father's
unavoidable absence, he having gone to a neighbouring tenant's, and by
saying that he would be at home at luncheon.

By degrees they all three got into conversation, and Mr Jones gave Miss
Hall an account of her sister and her family. One little girl was very
like Miss Hall, and she was the general favourite.'

'I am sure she must be very pretty,' suggested Freda.

'Very,' said Mr Jones, with a smile at Freda, of greater archness than
she gave him credit for.

'Don't you think Miss Hall very little altered?' she asked again.

'I think I should have known her anywhere, though I passed her in the
twilight, uncertain who she was.'

A long conversation followed upon various general topics, until the
luncheon bell rang. As no Mr Gwynne appeared, Freda was obliged to make
another excuse for him; but Mr Jones seemed perfectly satisfied without
him, if not relieved by his non-appearance.

Freda proposed a walk as soon as luncheon was over, and she and Miss
Hall took their guest to see the school, which Freda was careful to say
was under Miss Hall's superintendence. Then they pioneered him to
various points of view, which he seemed to look upon with the eye of a
real lover of the beauties of nature; and finally they rested on a
rustic seat at the top of a wooded hill, whence they looked down on the
magnificent valley beneath, with its green meadows, winding river, and
boundary of distant mountains.

Alter Freda had remained here a few minutes, she suddenly said,--

'Would you mind my just running down to Mrs Prothero's to settle with
her about Gladys? I am sure we shall none of us be happy until that
matter is arranged. If you will go down through the wood, Nita, I will
join you at the waterfall, or somewhere else, in less than a quarter of
an hour. Will you excuse me, Mr Jones?'

'Certainly,' was the reply.

'But had we not better all go?' asked Miss Hall, casting an entreating
glance upon Freda, who, however, would not see it.

'I think not. Mrs Prothero is so nervous that we should frighten her to
death. It will take me five minutes to run down the hill, five minutes
to say my say, and five to get to the waterfall. But you need not hurry
away, as I can wait for you; or, if you are not there, I will find you.
Come, Frisk, come with me.'

Frisk was a fine, little Scotch terrier, his mistress's especial
favourite, and he bounded after her with great satisfaction. The pair
were soon half-way down the hill, near the bottom of which Glanyravon
Farm lay.

'I think I managed that capitally,' said Freda to Frisk? 'didn't I,
Frisk? Now, if he doesn't take advantage of the opportunity, he is very
foolish. Don't you think so, Frisk?'

Frisk jumped, and barked, and twirled about in a very affirmative way.

'I should like to make up a match, it would be such fun. And I think he
is a very worthy, gentlemanly sort of man, though I shouldn't like him
for myself, and he is not quite the sort of person that I could have
supposed would have made such an impression on Serena. But she would be
such a capital clergyman's wife, and he would be so fond of her! But
what should I do without her? Get married myself? The only man that I
ever saw that I could marry won't marry; and then he doesn't care for
me. Heigho! this is an odd world. All of us at cross-purposes. But I
don't mean to break my heart,--do I, Frisk?'

The 'do I, Frisk?' brought Freda and her dog to the gate that led into
the road, and the road soon led them to the farm, where Frisk began at
once to run after all the poultry, to the no small annoyance of Shanno.
But Freda succeeded in catching him, and carrying him off with her into
the parlour, whither she went, and whither Mrs Prothero followed her.

'I have just come to ask what you have settled about Gladys,' said Miss
Gwynne. 'I cannot stay long, and am anxious to know.'

'My husband thinks it better that she should go to you, as you kindly
wish to take her,' replied Mrs Prothero, with tears in her eyes. 'He
says that he has no ill-will to the poor girl; on the contrary, he is
very fond of her; but he don't think her a good match for our eldest
son, Owen, who might marry very well. For my own part, I think he would
never meet with such another as Gladys; but that is in the hands of
Providence, and if it is to be it will be. He says that he is sure Owen
will never come home as long as she is with us, for fear of sending her
away; but that when he knows that she is so well off with you, he will
perhaps come back again. And, indeed, we want him sadly, Miss Gwynne. It
is a great trial to us, to have three children, and neither of them at
home to help us. My husband is much altered since Netta married, though
he don't show it; and Netta won't write, or do anything to prove she's
sorry, and though he don't say so, I think this makes him more angry.'

'Then you really wish Gladys to come to me?'

'I do indeed, Miss Gwynne. I am quite sure it will be for her good; and
you cannot help liking her. But she will not make any choice between the
two situations you offer, but says you must do with her whatever you
think best.'

'Is she very unhappy at the idea of coming to us?'

'Not at all. She is very sad to leave us, but she says she would rather
do so, and would rather serve you than any other lady in the world.'

'Well, perhaps it may be best for all parties. I think she is too young
and too pretty to live alone at the school-house, and besides, I don't
particularly want to change mistresses: so I mean to have her as my
maid, and then I can take care of her myself. You know I have not had a
regular maid since that disagreeable affair of Evans; one of the
housemaids has waited on me, and I don't like maids, they are so in
one's way. But I shall like Gladys. And she can help Miss Hall in the
school, and go and see you every evening if she likes, when we are at
dinner. In short, I am sure it is a capital plan for us all, and will
make matters easy for you.'

'You are so very kind, Miss Gwynne, I do not know what we should have
done without you. Gladys would have begged her way back to Ireland, and
died there.'

'I mustn't stay any longer; I have outstayed my five minutes over and
over again. You can send Gladys when you like. I have heaps of dresses,
and clothes, of all kinds for her, so don't you think of giving her
anything new. I will give her the same wages that I gave Evans, so she
will feel quite independent; and I will put her under the particular
charge of the housekeeper, until she gets into the ways of the house.
Now I must go; what will Miss Hall say?'

Well might Freda ask, 'What will Miss Hall say?' She walked as quickly
as possible to the waterfall, she was not there; up the hill again, not
there; home through the wood, not there; into the house, not there. She
waited a little while with her hat on, but as no Mr Jones or Miss Hall
arrived, she took off her walking things, and went about her usual
avocations, saying to herself, with a smile on her lips the while,--

'I never thought I was a manoeuvrer before. It is evident they don't
want me, or they would have waited for me, and I have no doubt they are
much happier without me. I must go and look, after my father.'

Freda found Mr Gwynne in his library.

'Where is your guest, Freda? What is he like? Is he a bore?' were his
queries.

'He is walking with Miss Hall, and my impression is they are very good
company. He is very quiet, very grave, has no wonderful travellers'
stories, and none of the ologies, and can play chess, for I asked him. I
don't think him a bore, and I am sure Miss Hall doesn't.'

'Very well, then I will go into the drawing-room against he comes in.'

'Thanks; and I will whisper a little secret into your ear; he is an old
lover of Serena's, and I cannot help hoping he is come to propose for
her.'

Mr Gwynne was alive and interested in a moment. It is curious how on the
alert people are when they hear of a love affair.

'I will go and dress at once; he must be nice if Miss Hall likes him,
for she is certainly the least intrusive, and all that sort of thing. Is
he like Rowland Prothero?'

Freda coloured at this sudden question.

'No, not at all; besides, he is a middle-aged man.'

'To be sure; I suppose so. Miss Hall must be--I don't know--nearly forty
I suppose. I wish Rowland Prothero lived at the farm; he was so obliging
and pleasant; even Lady Mary Nugent admires him.'

'She is no great criterion of what is agreeable; I shouldn't think it
any compliment to be liked by her. There is the dressing bell. Now,
papa, do be ready for dinner, if you please.'

Freda went to her room in a sudden fit of ill-temper. The mention of
Lady Mary always put her out of humour. In a few moments there was a tap
at the door, and Miss Hall made her appearance.

'I might have waited a long time at the waterfall, Serena,' she began
maliciously.

For answer, Miss Hall went to her and kissed her, and when Freda looked
up, she saw that there was an unusually bright colour in her cheeks, and
something very like tears in her eyes.

Freda threw her arms round her friend, exclaiming,--

'I know, Nita dear! It is all signed, sealed, and settled _n'est-ce
pas_?'

And so it proved; during that long walk the old love had become new, and
two people as deserving of happiness as most of the poor sinful mortals
who are for ever seeking her, were made perfectly happy for that day at
least.

Freda's reflections, whilst she sat alone, listlessly brushing her hair
and dressing herself, were as follows:--

'How happy she seems; she looks twenty years younger; and he, an
elderly, iron-grey clergyman; it would be ridiculous, only it is all so
true and good. I suppose, after all, there is something grand, as the
poet says, in constancy, and love, and the like; and I ought to pity
Rowland Prothero, if he really cares for me. And yet I don't; on the
contrary, I could be over head and ears in love with another man
to-morrow if he would only ask me; and he is gone away without telling
me that he cares for me, if he does, as I cannot help hoping. But
nothing shall induce me to give my heart to any one, unless I am asked
for it, of that I am resolved; no, not if I were to die in the struggle
to keep it.'

With this prudent and womanly resolution, Freda got up from her seat,
hastily put on her dress, and went to Miss Hall, to insist on dressing
her on that particular day.

'You must put on the pink and white muslin that you look so well in. I
insist on it, and will have my way to-night,' she said, and had her way
accordingly, and the satisfaction of hearing her father remark
afterwards, that he had 'not seen Miss Hall look so well for years. She
really was a very pretty ladylike person, and Mr Jones ought to think
himself very fortunate, and all that sort of thing.'

To judge from Mr Jones' manner and countenance, he did think himself
very happy and fortunate; and his happiness and good fortune had the
effect of making him so very agreeable, that Mr Gwynne was quite pleased
with him, and strongly urged his remaining some days at Glanyravon. But
this could not be, as he was engaged to be present at a meeting of the
Society for the Propagation of the Gospel the next day but one. To
Freda's indignation, her father engaged him in a game of chess, which
lasted the greater part of the evening; but as he seemed quite patient
under the infliction, and Miss Hall glad that he should be agreeable to
her kind friend, Mr Gwynne, Freda was obliged to give up her plan of
leaving them alone for the remainder of the evening, and to be content
with resolving that they should at least have the following morning to
themselves. This she effected, and was rewarded by a lusty squeeze of
the hand from the gentleman, when he took his leave, which she
afterwards declared to Miss Hall, would have made an Australian native
scream. Mr Gwynne sent Mr Jones to meet the train in his carriage, and
invited him to return as soon as he possibly could.

It may, perhaps, be as well to anticipate some of the events of this
story, and to say that in the course of three or four months, Mr Jones
and Miss Hall were married.

Soon after his return to London, Mr Jones was appointed brother curate
to Rowland Prothero, recommended by his friend, the rector. He undertook
this as temporary duty, because he was in expectation either of
obtaining a living or of returning to Australia; Miss Hall was quite
ready for either kind of work, feeling that, whether as the wife of a
clergyman at home or abroad, she would be most thankful to be permitted
to devote herself to her woman's part of missionary labour. Mr Jones had
a small income as secretary to one of the London and Colonial religious
societies, and was also engaged in work for the S.P.G., which, together
with his curacy, and the small savings of twenty years abroad, enabled
him to take and furnish a home for his wife, and gave them the prospect
of comfort, if not of ease and riches. Their desires were very moderate,
and their hopes fixed on objects beyond the general scope of vision; so
that they were content to 'live by the day,' and trust for the rest. The
world called them romantic and foolish for people of their ages; they
'knew in whom they believed,' and, 'having food and raiment, were
therewith content.'

Gladys had been installed in her offices of parcel lady's-maid, parcel
school-mistress at the Park, nearly three months, when the wedding took
place. She had largely contributed towards making Miss Hall's simple
wardrobe and wedding gear, and was rewarded by being allowed to marshal
the school children on the happy-day, as they lined the drive at the
Park gates, on the going forth and return of the bridal party. She was,
moreover, the one selected by the children to present Miss Hall with a
handsome Bible in Welsh and English, in token of their gratitude and
love for her. Mr Jones had been too much engaged in London to allow of
his visiting Wales until two or three days before his marriage, during
which time he had occasionally met, and spoken kindly to Gladys, and
given her a book on Missionary subjects, which he had brought purposely
for her, expecting to find her at the farm. He had also carried pleasant
news of Rowland to Mrs Prothero, and frequently spoken of him to Mr
Gwynne and Freda--of his earnestness in his profession, and of the love
and esteem in which he was held by his rector and his flock.

Freda felt very lonely when her dear Serena was gone. She had no one
amongst her immediate neighbours for whom she cared much. The general
round of country dinner-parties she had always found very dull, and the
annual hunt week and assize balls she had never liked; so she found
herself again thrown quite upon her own resources. As long as Colonel
Vaughan had been in the country, she had taken an interest in
everything; when he left, her ordinary pursuits--her riding, painting,
music, garden--in all of which he had aided her, suddenly lost their
charm. Her friend's marriage came about just when she wanted an object
of interest, and when that was over she was thrown back upon herself.

By degrees, however, a healthier tone returned to her mind, and she
forgot the fascinating Colonel Vaughan, and recovered her interest in
her house, school, dogs, birds, garden, and the thousand and one small
objects that serve to make time pass cheerfully and happily in a country
home. Above all, she became more and more interested in Gladys, and
anxious to shelter her from the many dangers and temptations which she
saw her peculiar beauty and position subjected her to. She soon found
out that all the men-servants paid their devotions to her shrine, and
that even the ancient and portly butler was not indifferent to her
charms; but the simplicity and modesty of Gladys kept them all at a
respectful distance, and the housekeeper told Miss Gwynne, that 'Reelly,
she was quite a pattern in the servants' 'all, and it was a treat to see
a young 'oman who knew how to keep the men off--not but the girls were
as jealous of her as could be; but that wasn't to be wondered at, for
none of 'em was made anything of when Gladys was near.' Even Mr Gwynne
roused himself to make inquiries concerning Freda's pretty maid, which
was quite the crowning feather in Gladys' cap.






CHAPTER XXIX.

THE COUNTRY GENTLEMAN.


Plas Abertewey was a fine old country seat, that had been in Colonel
Vaughan's family for generations. Miss Gwynne was not the only scion of
the good old county gentry who was disgusted at seeing it in the
possession of a son of old Griffey Jenkins, the miser. But so it was to
be. Howel took the place, nominally for a term, but with the avowed
intention of purchasing it, or the first place of any note that should
be for sale in the county.

He made liberal proposals to Colonel Vaughan's agents as regarded
improvements and repairs, the house having been much neglected for some
years; and in the course of a few months after his marriage with Netta,
workmen of all kinds were employed in adorning Plas Abertewey for his
expected arrival with his bride.

This did not take place, however, until the following spring, by which
time the house and grounds were in as fine order as money could make
them. Howel sent down a person from London to superintend the work, and
remained with Netta in Paris until it was nearly completed; then he
brought her over to England, left her in London with his friends the
Simpsons, and ran down into Wales, accompanied by Captain Dancy, who had
been his companion during a great portion of his Paris trip.

They remained only a few days, and then returned to town to superintend
the purchase of furniture, plate, and the various appurtenances of a
country establishment, which were duly despatched to the _chargé
d'affaires_ in the country, and vigilantly guarded by Mrs Griffith
Jenkins, who took up her abode at Abertewey for the time being.

As bell-ringers do not pause to consider the cause and effect of the
events they are ordered to commemorate, but rather think of the amount
of money and liquid they are likely to receive for their labour, the
chime of Llanfawr rang a merry peal when the future master and mistress
of Plas Abertewey drove through the town. There was, moreover, a small
show of fireworks on the occasion. Blue balls, crackers, rockets and the
like blazed and hissed about to the no small danger of the thatched
roofs of some of the houses. Mrs Griffith Jenkins undrew her purse
strings on that day, and the cheering and shouting were great as the
bride and bridegroom appeared. Howel bowed and smiled as all great men
do on such occasions, and Netta laughed, and was proud. One of the blue
balls made the fine pair of horses that drew Howel's new carriage take
fright, but the London coachman showed the superiority of his driving by
pulling them in' and the crowd shouted amain.

Captain Dancy and Miss Simpson, who accompanied the pair, were duly
impressed with the loyalty of Howel's subjects, and were not
particularly shown the little shop to which he owed their sudden
devotion. 'Jenkins, the miser,' was quite swallowed up in 'Howel
Jenkins, Esq.,' and 'Netta Prothero, Glanyravon,' was engulphed in his
wife. So goes the world. Shout on, little boys, for so will it be when
you are in your turn big men, and 'adore the rising, rather than the
setting sun,' as the French proverb hath it.

Fortunately, Abertewey was in the parish of Llanfawr, and some seven or
eight miles from Glanyravon, therefore Mr and Mrs Prothero knew nothing
of the demonstrations in honour of their children.

Mrs Griffith Jenkins received them, dressed in a new _moiré antique_,
quite in baronial style, under the portico of their dwelling, and the
proper complement of retainers was in the background. More shouts were
heard from some of the immediate neighbours, who had gathered round the
door to see the arrival; and as Netta alighted from her carriage,
attired like a Paris doll, she felt that she was now a grand lady, and
could conscientiously look down on Miss Rice Rice, and be on an equality
with Miss Nugent.

Howel gave some orders in a very commanding tone to the various
lords-in-waiting, and then the door closed upon their majesties, and the
admiring crowds saw them no more.

It is no wonder that the world without Plas Abertewey was much engaged
in talking of, and speculating on, the world within. Howel's horses,
Netta's dress, Miss Simpson's father's baronetcy, Captain Dancy's
regiment, Plas Abertewey's appointments, the footmen's liveries, the
reputed wealth of the miser, even Mrs Griffith Jenkins' _moiré antique_,
mourning ornaments and gold watch were variously remarked upon, and
doubtless with great good nature and deserving approbation. We all know
how we rejoice when our neighbours rise to wealth or eminence. There was
not one breakfast-table within twenty miles of Abertewey, from that of
my lord and my lady to Jim Davies and his wife, shoemakers, over which
the arrival of Howel Jenkins, the miser, as he was called, according to
his father before him, was not pulled to pieces, from the first sound of
the bells to the last shout at his hall door.

'Shall we call?' were the words on the lips of all heads of families,
generally settled by the said 'heads' driving in their very best
equipages and gayest clothes, to pay the wedding visit to the reputed
millionnaire and his pretty, elegantly attired wife.

Money, as I have somewhat commonplacedly remarked elsewhere, is the
master-key to most hearts, and Howel found that nearly all the hearts in
his native county were opened by his wealth. The exceptions were
principally those of his wife's family, and even in some of these he
managed to turn the key.

It was shortly after the arrival at Plas Abertewey that Owen and Gladys
simultaneously left the farm, and we find the former on that same
morning, standing at a little distance from this residence of his sister
and Howel, surveying it, and ruminating on the family fortunes.

'Well done, Howel,' he said to himself; 'if money hasn't done something
for you, I don't know for whom it has done anything. I declare I will
try and make some myself, and come back and marry Gladys in spite of the
world.'

Then he began to ask himself, whether it was kind and brotherly to pass
by his only sister's door without saying good-bye to her, and whether
his father had any right to expect all her relations to give her up,
because he chose to do so? His reflections were suddenly cut short by
the appearance of Howel and another gentleman, bound, apparently, on a
fishing expedition.

'Owen, come at last!' cried Howel, hastening up to him with great good
will. 'Better late than never. I am very glad to see you, so will be
Netta. Travelled early to hide your carpet bag, or whatever it is?'

'Knapsack,' said Owen, shaking his cousin's offered hand; 'I'm off to
sea again.'

'A queer road to take; but you come to see us on your way, of course.
Let me introduce you to Mr Simpson, Sir John Simpson's son. My cousin,
Mr Simpson, my wife's brother.

Owen nodded, and Mr Simpson bowed.

'We're going out fishing, but you'll find Netta--in bed, I'm afraid, but
she'll be glad to see you anywhere. Go up the avenue, and let Netta know
you've come. We shall be home to dinner at seven. Good-bye for the
present.'

Owen did not stay to consider, but walked past the handsome lodge, and
up the drive, according to Howel's direction.

'Mighty condescending and very patronising, cousin Howel!' he
soliloquised; 'but I will go and see how Netta gets on, and how your
highness treats her.'

He reached the house, and rang stoutly at the bell. A servant answered
it, who was adjusting his coat just put on, he not having expected such
early visitors.

'The back entrance is round the corner there, young man,' were his words
on perceiving Owen, whose pride was greatly roused thereby.

'Tell Mrs Howel Jenkins that her brother, Mr Owen Prothero, is here,'
said Owen, intending to electrify the man.

But he did not succeed. The servants knew very well that their
mistress's family was not of 'county rank,' and that its members were
not upon terms with the Aberteweys, therefore had no very high opinion
of them. He turned on his heel, and told a female servant to tell
Lucette, the French maid, to tell her mistress that Mr Owen Prothero was
at the door.

In a few minutes the man reappeared, and, with a great increase of
civility, asked Mr Prothero to walk into the breakfast-room, and said
his mistress would be down as soon as possible. Whilst he was admiring
the room and its costly furniture, and considering the tea service, a
smart little French-woman came to him and asked him in French, whether
he would stay to breakfast; as he knew something of the language he
replied in the affirmative. Then appeared an equally smart and
fascinating French valet, who begged to be allowed the honour of
conducting Monsieur to a bedroom, to arrange his toilet.

Owen laughed heartily and followed the man, who took up his knapsack
daintily, and led him to a very handsome bedroom, where Owen brushed his
hair as becomingly as he could, arranged his beard, and made himself as
smart as his wardrobe would allow of his doing. He was, as we have
before said, a very handsome young man, and sufficiently well mannered
to pass muster anywhere.

'What is the next act, I wonder?' said he, as he found his way into the
breakfast-room. He was quite taken aback as he entered, when he saw a
pale young lady sitting in one of the windows, reading. He made his bow,
she curtseyed, and said,--

'Mrs Howel Jenkins' brother, I believe? My name is Simpson.'

Owen bowed again, and not being of a shy turn, and having seen ladies of
various degrees during his travels, began to make himself agreeable.

In a few minutes, a little French fairy flitted into the room, with her
hair off her face to display such eyes and complexion as are rare in all
times; and muslins, laces, and ribbons so blended, as to set off a
petite figure to the very best advantage. Owen was going to bow again,
when a little affected laugh, and a 'Ma foi! he doesn't know me, Miss
Simpson,' proclaimed the fairy to be his sister Netta.

'Owen, you naughty boy, not to know me,' the little thing continued,
more naturally, running up to her brother, who took her, despite
muslins, laces, and ribbons, almost up in his big arms, and kissed her.

'How you have rumpled me, Owen? did you ever see such a thing, Miss
Simpson?' she cried, half laughing, half in tears, as she smoothed down
the point-lace sleeves and collar.

Just then a tall man entered, and Netta disengaging herself from Owen,
who was on the point of kissing her again, and asking her what she had
done to herself, simpered out an introduction between 'Captain Dancy and
my brother, Captain Prothero.'

'Not quite that yet,' began Owen, anxious to disclaim the captaincy,
when he was interrupted by the entrance of one or two other men, who
were, in their turn, named to him as Sir Samuel Spendall and Mr Deep.
Owen did not like their appearance and looked towards his really lovely
little sister, to see how she received them. Her manners had a mixture
of affectation and simplicity that was rather taking than otherwise. And
Owen wondered how Howel could leave one so young and pretty amongst
three men of the world, which he soon discovered his new acquaintances
to be. True, Miss Simpson was with her, and in the middle of breakfast,
to which, in due time, they sat down, another lady came upon the scene,
by name Madame Duvet, who turned out to be the English widow of a
Frenchman. She was young, handsome, but over-bold for the taste of a man
who was in love with Gladys.

She was at once taken with Owen's handsome face, and talked to him
incessantly, whilst Captain Dancy seated himself near Netta, and devoted
himself to her much more closely than Owen liked. However, he was very
hungry, and managed to make a good breakfast.

He heard Netta telling Captain Dancy that her brother had been at sea
all his life, and knew nothing of the fashionable world; at which he
thought the ham he was eating would have choked him, in his effort to
repress a laugh. He longed very much to knock down one of the
'Jeames's,' who would stand gazing at him, and did so far betray his
indignation, as to ask him, when he came behind his chair, whether he
saw anything remarkable in his appearance, which so amused Madame Duvet,
that she exclaimed '_Charmant! brava!_ you make me _crêver de rire_.'

Owen was astonished at everything, but at nothing so much as at his
sister. Netta had always aped the fine lady, and made the most of her
few accomplishments; but now it was all like a fairy-tale, and the
heroine was Netta, transformed by some fairy into a princess. By turns
coquettish, affected, simple, languishing, accordingly as she feared she
was too like her natural self--the Netta of the Farm was no more, and
her representative was, to Owen at least, an anomaly. How she could have
acquired such an amount of small talk, and such a mincing speech in nine
months, was an enigma to him. London, Paris, the opera, the fashions,
even the picture galleries, were alternately in her mouth; and she
poured out tea and coffee, and laughed a silly laugh, much to her own
satisfaction, and Owen's disgust, whilst all the men were looking at
her; for assuredly she was very pretty.

'Owen,' she said, during a sudden pause in rather a noisy conversation,
'I hear Rowland is quite a fashionable preacher. Howel means to ask him
down here, I believe. Miss Simpson went to hear him--didn't you, Miss
Simpson?'

This was drawled out, and Owen felt very much disposed to get up and
shake his sister, as he had often done when she came from school with
any new airs and graces. But he contented himself with saying,----

'Rowly's a capital fellow, Netta, fach, and doing his best. Whether he's
a fashionable preacher or not I don't know, but he kept us all awake at