Читать книгу Gladys, the Reaper - Anne Beale - Страница 12

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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.