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Gladys, the Reaper by Anne Beale

A >> Anne Beale >> Gladys, the Reaper




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.

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