Читать книгу Gladys, the Reaper - Anne Beale - Страница 19

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'A twelvemonth next Friday.'

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

'Oh no, Howel.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Oh, cousin!'

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

'No, cousin.'

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

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

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

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

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

'Not father, Howel, unless—'

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

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

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

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

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

Netta began to sob.

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

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

Netta sobbed on and hesitated.

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

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

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

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

'Even if your father refuses?'

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

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

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

Howel was both touched and amused.

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

Netta tossed her head, and looked vain-glorious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Is that you, Netta?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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