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Gladys, the Reaper by Anne Beale

A >> Anne Beale >> Gladys, the Reaper




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!'

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