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Gladys, the Reaper by Anne Beale

A >> Anne Beale >> Gladys, the Reaper




Her little girl was one of the many examples of the blessed effects of a
ragged school. At her mother's death she was fifteen years old,
teachable and anxious to be taught. Rowland prevailed on a respectable
woman, the lodging-house keeper, in whose house Netta had found a
refuge, to try her as a servant, and she had turned out well.

So it was that this girl, having an idea that Rowland could effect
wonders, waited for him one Sunday evening after service, and asked if
she might speak with him. She told him, with a long preface of
apologies, that she did not know if she was right in saying what she was
going to say, but that there was a poor lady in her mistress's second
floor, who was very ill, out of her mind she thought, and who hadn't a
friend in the world. The lady had forbidden her mistress to speak to any
doctor or clergyman about her, but she had not forbidden her. And indeed
it seemed almost worse to see a lady in such trouble and sickness than
it did those who were used to it, as she, and the like of her had been,
and would be still, but for Mr Prothero.

'What is her name?' asked Rowland eagerly.

'Mrs Mills, sir.'

Rowland's sudden hope fell.

'And she has a little girl, sir, who isn't well either, and who does
nothing but cry and moan.'

'What is her name?'

'Her mamma calls her Minette, or some such name, sir.'

'I will come with you now,' said Rowland, in great agitation. 'Make
haste; I suppose she has been with you some time.'

'More than a month, sir, and she is always expecting some one to
come--and no one comes.'

Rowland strode on, fast--faster than he had once before walked with
Gladys--heedless of everything around him. In about a quarter of an hour
he and the girl reached the lodging house.

'You will tell missus how it was, please, sir. I don't think she can be
angry, sir.'

'I am sure she will not be angry; tell her that I want to see her.

Mrs Saunders, the landlady, came at once.

Rowland inquired into the particulars of Netta's arrival at her house,
her illness, etc., and heard what we already know of Howel's sudden
departure; and the following account, in addition of the month Netta had
spent since he left her.

'The morning after Mr Mills left, sir,' said the landlady 'Mrs Mills did
not ring for breakfast, or show any sign of being up. I waited for a
long time, and then I went and listened at the bedroom door. I heard a
kind of moaning, and was so frightened, I made so bold as to go in. I
found the poor lady lying down on the bed, beside the little girl, who
was still asleep. She seemed more dead than alive, and looked at me
terrified-like, as if she didn't know who was coming in. When she saw
me, she tried to get up and look cheerful, and to give account of her
never having undressed. I went and made her some tea, and got her to go
into the sitting-room by the fire which the girl lighted, for she was as
cold as death. Then I dressed the little girl, who awoke and began to
cry when she saw how pale her mamma looked, and I told her to try to
make her mamma eat and drink. And the little dear, like an angel as she
is, began to comfort her mother, and to coax her, and when I saw the
poor lady begin to shed tears over the child I went away.

'Ever since that morning, sir, she has been in a kind of a dream. She
does nothing but look out of the window, up and down the street, as if
she was expecting some one, and whenever there is a step on the stairs,
she runs to the door and peeps out. And then, when the postman's knock
is heard, she starts, turns red, turns pale, and puts her hand on her
heart. I am sure she has heart complaint, and I asked her to let me send
for a doctor, but she wouldn't hear of it. Sometimes I think she's a
little crazed. Once I mentioned the clergy, and asked if she wouldn't
like to see one, and said you and Mr Jones, sir, were very kind
gentlemen. She started up, and said, "Hush! hush! not for worlds--not
for worlds! Mr Mills will soon be back!" She gave me a ten-pound note to
change twice--and I was obliged to buy everything for her and the little
girl, for they hadn't a rag with them, except what they stood up in. I
was as careful as I could be, but the money went, and now she talks of
selling some jewels and things she brought with her. Oh, sir! if you
could find their friends!'

As may be supposed, Rowland had some difficulty in controlling his
emotion during this recital. When Mrs Saunders paused, he said,--

'I have every reason to believe that I know this poor lady, and, if you
will trust me to go to her, I am sure that I shall be of service. I must
go quite alone. You may depend upon my having a right to do this.'

'Whatever you do, sir, is sure to be right and kind. If you will take it
upon yourself I shall be only too glad. You know the room, sir? the one
where you used to go and see my poor husband.'

Rowland was upstairs immediately. Almost before he reached the door, a
pale, haggard face peered out of it.

'It is--it is Howel!' cried poor Netta, rushing into the gloomy passage,
and throwing her arms round Rowland's neck.

'No, Netta--dearest Netta! it is I, Rowland--your brother,' said
Rowland, supporting his fainting sister back into the room.

'Uncle! Uncle Rowland! I am so glad!' exclaimed a little voice, as
Minette ran towards him and clasped his knees.

As, the glare of the gas by which the room was lighted fell upon Netta's
face, Rowland half believed that it was the corpse of his once blooming
sister that he was placing on the sofa.

'Fetch some water, Minette, darling,' said Rowland, supporting Netta.

'This is what mamma takes,' said the child, bringing Rowland a small
bottle labelled 'Prussic acid' from the bedroom.

'I cannot give her this. Is there no wine?'

'The little girl went to an old chiffonier and brought a decanter with
wine in it. Rowland poured some down Netta's throat, and she recovered.

'Rowland, is it you? Not--not--' muttered Netta, as she strove to rise.
'I think you had better go. Perhaps, when he comes, he won't like--oh,
my heart.'

'Be calm, dear Netta; I will do nothing you dislike. If Howel comes back
I will go away directly. I will be most careful of what I say. You need
not fear me, Netta,--your brother who loves you so dearly'

'You won't go away again, uncle, will you?' said the pale, little
Minette, climbing on Rowland's knee and nestling her head in his bosom;
'or will you take mamma and me away from this nasty place?'

'No, dear, Uncle Rowland will not leave you, he is so very glad to find
you.'

Tears, actual tears, filled Rowland's eyes as he kissed the brow of the
child, who was soon fast asleep in his arms, and as he held Netta's thin
hand and looked at her bewildered face.

'Did you say you loved me, Rowland?' asked Netta, looking at him with a
strange, wandering glance, whilst large tears rolled down her cheeks. 'I
don't think I deserve any one's love, do I? Is mother vexed that I have
been away so long?'

'Yes, dear, and you must come home at once. You must come to me first to
get strong, and then--'

'Hush! hush! No, I cannot leave this house,--I will not; never, never
till Howel comes or sends for me. Isn't that some one on the stairs?'

'I will see, dear.'

'No, not you,--not you.'

'It is some one gone to the next floor. Lie still, dear Netta.'

'It is nice having you, Rowland; but if he should come--'

'I would go away. You are ill, Netta. Tell me what is the matter with
you.'

Rowland was feeling Netta's pulse, and found that they were too rapid to
be counted, whilst he could literally hear the pulsation of her heart.

'I don't know; something at my heart. And--and--my head, just here,--at
the top. It is so burning, like fire.'

'We must nurse you, Netta. If you would only come to my lodgings.'

'Hush! hush! not for the world. I will stay here till--I am sure that is
a step.'

'No dear. Try to be calm and sleep for half-an-hour, whilst I go and
make some arrangements.'

'Do you think he will come to-night?'

'I scarcely think he can, Netta. You know he is obliged to hide, dear,
do you not? for--'

'Yes, yes! he told me for a few days for debt, and then he would come
back. But he didn't murder Captain Dancy, did he?'

Netta started up and fixed her eyes wildly on her brother.

'No,--I assure you, no! I saw some one who saw Captain Dancy yesterday.'

'Thank God! thank God!'

'And, Netta, I do not think he can venture to come back just yet; so you
must try to get well for all our sakes.'

'Yes, I will, that I may go to him. I will sleep now. Put Minette by my
side. Poor Minette!'

Rowland laid the child's head on her mother's lap, and arranged the
pillows for Netta, and then went, with a heart full to bursting, to Mrs
Saunders.

'Mrs Saunders,' he said, 'I know that I can trust you. The poor lady to
whom you have been so kind is my own sister, for whom we have been
anxiously searching all this time. I don't know how far secrecy may be
necessary, but, at present at least, do no let this fact go beyond
yourself. Her husband has reduced her to what you see. I must leave her
for half-an-hour; meanwhile, will you prepare supper, make a cheerful
fire, let off the gas, and give us a couple of candles? Make the room as
home-like as you can, in short. After my sister and the little girl are
gone to bed, put a couple of blankets on the sofa in the sitting-room
for me. I cannot leave her to-night.'

'Excuse me, sir,' said Mrs Saunders, 'wouldn't your sleeping here excite
observation, if secrecy is necessary. You may depend on my care. Sarah
has slept on the sofa for a fortnight, unknown to Mrs Mills, to be
within call.'

'Perhaps you are right; but I want to make my sister fancy she is at
home. It might recall her mind, which is evidently wandering. I shall be
back soon.'

Rowland walked as fast as he could to Mr Jones'. He found him, his wife,
and Freda together in his library.

'I must apologise for coming so late,' he began; 'but I know you are so
kindly interested in my poor sister that you will excuse me. I have
found her and her child, and cannot prevail on her to leave her rooms at
Mrs Saunders', where she is.'

Then Rowland told his friends shortly how he had found her, and that he
feared her mind was in a most uncertain state.

'She evidently does not know her husband's crimes, but thinks he is
hiding on account of debt, and is expecting him to fetch her away every
moment. I think if we could distract her thoughts from this one subject
she might get better; but she is very ill, bodily as well as mentally.'

'Would not the sight of old friends be the best restorative?' suggested
Miss Gwynne. 'Gladys and I could go to her, and as we are in the habit
of visiting the sick in the parish, no suspicion could attach to our
being with her; for it would never do, in poor Netta's state, to expose
her to inquisitive people connected with her husband's flight.'

'Thank you--thank you, Miss Gwynne,' said Rowland 'This is what I
wished, but scarcely dared to ask.'

Miss Gwynne left the room, and returned accompanied by Gladys.

'Gladys says she is ready to go at once, if necessary,' said Freda; 'and
we can do without her, cannot we, Serena?'

'Quite well,' said Mrs Jones; 'but it will not do to excite an invalid,
and so sudden a visit may not be good for her.'

'She must not be left another night without a friend at hand,' said
Freda decidedly.

Rowland looked his thanks.

'Could not Mr Rowland prepare her for my coming? And I could sleep in
the sitting-room, and not even see her to-night, but be ready to wait
upon her to-morrow morning,' said Gladys.

'Yes,' said Freda. 'If you will go back and try to prepare her for
Gladys, Mr Prothero, she shall follow you in a short time.'

'I will bring her,' said Mr Jones, 'and she can but return, if you
cannot prevail on your sister to see her.'

Rowland could only press the hands of his kind friends, and hurry back
to Netta.

He found her sitting in an old easy-chair, with Minette on a stool at
her feet, fast asleep. The child refused to go to bed till 'Uncle
Rowland' came back. There was a bright fire in the grate, and a supper
was spread on a table drawn close to it. Candles replaced the gas-lamp,
and the room looked almost cheerful, in spite of its faded red curtains
and dingy furniture.

Netta had a small book in her hand, which she gave Rowland to look at.

'Mother gave me that when I was ill years ago--how long ago? How old is
Minette?'

'She must be nearly eight, I think,' said Rowland, turning over the
small, well-read Testament that had once been his mother's.

'I like that book now, Rowland!' said Netta. 'I am so glad you have come
back. It seemed so lonesome when you were gone. Ha! ha! Howel used to
say I must say _lonely_ and not lonesome. Are you sure he won't come and
find you here?'

'Quite sure. And I am going to bring another old friend to see you?--you
remember Gladys?'

'Gladys! No, I don't remember her. What! The Irish beggar? I don't like
her, and she don't like me. I think I was very unkind to her. Yes, I
should like to see her once to ask her pardon.'

Minette awoke just at this moment, and Rowland took her on his knee, and
gave her some supper, and tried to make Netta eat, but it was evident
that she had neither appetite nor inclination for food, though she did
her best to please her brother.

'This is like old times, Rowland,' she said. 'I like it better than
grandeur. When will Gladys come? Owen told me she saved mother's life.
Is it true? Why doesn't mother come?'

'Would you like to see Gladys to-night, Netta?'

'Yes. Will you go and fetch her?'

Rowland found Gladys and Mr Jones in Mrs Saunders' parlour. Gladys said
she would take her bonnet off, that she might meet Netta as she used to
do at the farm.

Rowland did not know that Gladys had put on the identical print gown
that Netta had given her years ago, and which she had kept carefully, in
remembrance of her. This and a plain cap transformed her into the Gladys
of Netta's recollection, from the Gladys of Miss Gwynne's attiring.

Her heart beat almost as quickly as Netta's as she entered her room, but
she steadied her nerves and voice as she went up to Netta, curtseyed,
and said quite naturally,--

'How do you do, Miss Netta?'

Netta put her hand to her brow, as if to clear her memory, and fixed her
large bewildered eyes on Gladys. Then she put out her hand, rather
condescendingly, with something of the old attempt at superiority, and
finally burst into tears.

The tears were so natural that Rowland and Gladys let them flow on; only
the latter knelt down by poor Netta's side, and taking her hands in
hers, pressed them tenderly. Netta threw her arms round Gladys' neck and
kissed her, and called her, 'Gladys, Gladys, fach!' and said, 'You will
not leave me.'

And thus the once proud little Netta and the always humble Gladys clave
to one another, as Naomi and Ruth.

Minette got off her uncle's knee, and climbed up into the chair, and
put her arms, too, round her mother's neck, and began to cry with her.

Rowland's emotion at this scene found vent in prayer. Inwardly he asked
that Gladys might be a comfort and support to his dear, wandering,
forsaken sister.

When Netta's emotion had worn itself out, Rowland prepared to go,
promising to return early on the morrow.

He asked Netta if she would like him to offer up a few words of
thanksgiving for their reunion before he left her, and when she assented
they all knelt together in family prayer. Eight full years had passed
since Netta had so knelt before.

When Rowland had departed, Gladys asked Minette if she might put her to
bed. The child looked shyly at her at first, and then allowed her to
undress her, and to take her to the close, gloomy bedroom. It was so
late, and the child was so tired, that her little head drooped in sleep
even before she was undressed, and when Gladys laid her pale cheek on
the pillow she slept soundly at once. Then Gladys returned to the
sitting-room, and found Netta at the door listening.

'Hush! you had better go. I think he is coming,' she said.

Gladys withdrew for a moment, till the steps were no longer heard. As
long as Netta had been occupied with her brother and Gladys, she seemed
to have forgotten the passing sounds, but when left alone she listened
as before.

With some difficulty Gladys prevailed on her to go to bed. Mrs Jones had
given her night-lights, and a slight sleeping potion before she left
home, upon the chance of their being wanted; and she put one of the
former in the bedroom, and gave Netta the latter. She sat by her side
until she fell asleep, and then returned to the sitting-room, literally
'to watch and pray.'






CHAPTER XLI.

THE SISTER OF CHARITY.


The following morning, soon after eight o'clock, there arrived a basket
from Miss Gwynne, containing various meats and condiments that she
thought might be good for Netta and her child, and, above all, a nosegay
of Glanyravon flowers. Mr Gwynne had of late taken to send his daughter
baskets of game, poultry, and other country cheer, to which her
particular ally, the old gardener always added a tin of well-packed
flowers. These Miss Gwynne was in the habit of tending and treasuring,
as people in large cities alone can tend and treasure flowers, until
their last odour and colour departed, and these she now gladly
sacrificed to Netta.

It was an October morning, dull and misty. Gladys had kept up the fire,
and when Rowland's friend, Sarah, came to clean the room, she found that
her work had been done for her.

'Oh, Miss Gladys,' said the girl, 'why did you?'

'Never mind, Sarah, you get the breakfast things and boiling water, and
I will do the rest.'

Netta and her child slept late, and so heavily, that Gladys thought they
would never awake. She had arranged and rearranged the room, the
breakfast, everything; and was employed in mending a rent in Minette's
frock, when she heard the little girl say 'Mamma!' She went into the
bedroom, and found Minette sitting up in bed, and her mother still
sleeping. She washed and dressed the child, who seemed to take to her
naturally, and then led her into the sitting-room. Her delight was so
unbounded at the sight of the breakfast and the flowers on the table,
that her exclamations pierced the thin partition, and awoke her mother.

'He is come! he is come!' cried Netta, jumping out of bed, and hastening
into the sitting-room in her night-dress through the door that
communicated with the bedroom.

When Gladys saw the wild excitement of Netta's manner, and the unusual
gleam of her eyes, she understood what Rowland meant by saying that her
mind was unsettled; when she saw Gladys, she started, and ran back again
into the bedroom, whither Gladys followed her. A fit of depression and
pain at the heart succeeded, as they always did, this new
disappointment; and it was evident to Gladys that the only chance of
restoring her to health of mind or body was by keeping her amused, and
distracting her thoughts from her husband.

Minette brought in the flowers, and Gladys ventured to say that they
came from Glanyravon, and that Miss Gwynne had sent them. The flowers,
or their associations, brought the tears, which were the best outlets
for poor Netta's hysterical feelings, and when she had minutely examined
each--chrysanthemums, verbenas, salvias, geraniums--she shook the one
carnation from the vase, and kissing it, and pressing it to her heart,
said,--

'This came from mother, how good of her to think of me.'

Then she let Gladys help her to dress, and went to the well-stored
breakfast-table, sitting down on a chair Gladys placed for her. She
seemed to take up the teapot mechanically, and began to pour out the
tea; Gladys did not attempt to sit down, but waited upon her and
Minette, as if she were, indeed, the servant she professed to be. Either
Netta took this as a matter of course, or was too much absorbed in other
thoughts to give it consideration.

'Mamma, I should like Gladys to have some breakfast with us,' said
Minette, 'she must be so hungry. I think she is a lady, mamma; I like
her, she is so kind.'

'Yes, Gladys, do,' said Netta, 'you know this is not Abertewey. But
where did you get this game?'

'Miss Gwynne sent it, ma'am, she will come and see you by-and-by. I am
sure I hear Mr Rowland's voice on the stairs,'

Gladys said this to avoid another start, and Rowland appeared. Having
kissed his sister and niece, and shaken hands with Gladys, he sat down
to the breakfast-table. Gladys was still standing, but he begged her to
sit down, and she did so.

'Miss Gwynne sent me all this, Rowland,' said Netta, 'except the
carnation, that was mother's.'

Netta had placed it in her bosom.

'Uncle must have a flower too, mamma,' said Minette, jumping up, and
taking him a red geranium. 'Let me put it into your button-hole, it
smells so sweet.'

Rowland smiled and coloured as that sprig of red geranium from
Glanyravon was placed in his coat by his little niece, and in spite of
his better resolutions, when he went home, it was transferred to a
glass, and treasured as long as imagination could fancy it a flower.

After breakfast, Gladys asked Netta if Minette might go with her to see
Miss Gwynne, as she was obliged to leave for a short time.

'Gladys, you are going away, and would carry off my child, I know you
are,' said Netta, 'all, all! nobody cares what becomes of me. Why can I
not die?'

Minette's arms were round her mother's neck in a moment.

'I will stay till you return, Gladys,' said Rowland.

'She will not come back if once she goes,' repeated Netta; 'none of them
do, except you, Rowland. Owen never did--mother never did--Howel--oh! he
will! he will!'

'They will both return, dear Netta, only let Minette go.'

'No, uncle, I won't leave mamma, never--never!'

Gladys went away alone. Sarah came to clear the breakfast things, and
when Netta was seated in her old armchair, Rowland again began to urge
her to leave the lodgings she was in, and either come to his, or accept
an invitation that he brought her from Mrs Jones to go to her house.

'I will never leave these rooms, Rowland,' she said solemnly, 'until
_he_ fetches me, or sends for me, or bids me go. He loves me, Rowland,
dearly; he said so. Do you know, I once fancied he did not, and tried
not to care for him. But when he was in debt and trouble, it all came
back again. And, you know, he is my husband, even if I did run away from
home, and I must do as he bids me.'

Mrs Saunders came to say that Mr Wenlock wanted Rowland.

'Perhaps it is he, Rowland,' said Netta.

'No, dear Netta; it is a great friend of mine, a doctor. Will you see
him to please me? We all want so much to get you better.'

'Yes, if you will not tell him about Howel. I must get well, for it may
be a long, long journey. Do you know that I dreamt last night that he
sent for me, and that I was to travel thousands of miles before I met
him. I must get well, so I will see your friend, Rowland, only don't
tell him my name. Minette, go with Mrs Saunders, whilst mamma sees Uncle
Rowland's friend.'

Mrs Saunders took Minette away, and Mr Wenlock, a gentle-looking,
elderly medical man, a great friend of Rowland's, made his appearance.

Netta rose with a little attempt at her Parisian curtsey, and an effort
to assume her Abertewey manners; but she soon forgot her grandeur when
the doctor spoke to her in a soothing, fatherly way, and won her to
confide her long-concealed illness to him. Rowland left them together,
and went down to Mrs Saunders' parlour to amuse his little niece.

In something less-than half-an-hour he was joined by Mr Wenlock, who
took Minette on his knee, and looked at her thin cheeks and hollow eyes,
felt her weak pulse, and asked her many questions.

When she went upstairs to her mother, Mr Wenlock said,--

'The poor lady is very ill, dangerously, I fear. She must have had some
heavy sorrows for years to have reduced her to her present state of
nervousness, nearly amounting to insanity, but not quite. This may yet
be warded off with great care, total freedom from all excitement, and
change of air and scene. She has heart complaint of an alarming nature.
This can never be cured; but if her strength can be restored, she may
live for years--her natural life, in short--or she may be taken at any
moment. Any sudden shock would probably be fatal.'

Rowland had not told Mr Wenlock that Netta was his sister. When he heard
his opinion, so clearly and unreservedly expressed, he was greatly
distressed.

'She will not be moved from these lodgings,' he said. 'She positively
refuses. Will it do to oblige her to leave?'

'By no means. But I hear that admirable young woman, whom I call _our_
Sister of Charity, Miss Gladys, has undertaken to nurse her. If any one
can persuade her to submit to go elsewhere she will do it. It should be
into the country. To her native air, if possible.'

Just at this juncture, Gladys returned, and Rowland called her into the
consultation. Mr Wenlock continued,--

'Lead her to think of her child, who is also in a most delicate state.
Tell her, that change of air, country air, is absolutely necessary for
her--which it really is--but she must not be taken from her mother.
Distract her mind as much as possible from the trouble, whatever it is,
that oppresses it. Had she been left much longer to herself, she would
have quite lost her reason. Let her see such friends as can be trusted
to talk to her cheerfully and to amuse, without wearying her. If you
undertake this office, Miss Gladys, you will require all your patience,
and more than your natural health; and once undertaken, you must not
give it up, for she will get used to you, and depend upon you. Poor
thing! poor thing! I have seen many such cases, and never need to
inquire much into private history to know their origin. Wicked, morose,
unfeeling, cruel husbands are generally at the root, and God only knows
what their victims have to bear. There will be a pretty large account to
make up at the Great Day, Mr Prothero, between man and wife, of marriage
vows broken, and feelings outraged.'

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