Читать книгу Gladys, the Reaper - Anne Beale - Страница 21

Table of Contents

Glanyravon farm was anything but a quiet home during the ensuing week. Mrs. Prothero thought it right to inform her husband of what had passed; and he blustered and raged even more than he had ever done about the Irish beggars. Everybody thought proper to try to convert Netta, but none of them knew the indomitable obstinacy of her character, and all signally failed. Even Uncle and Aunt Jonathan had their turn, and drove over on purpose to canvass the matter; but as the elders disagreed upon the various points at issue, it was no wonder that all remained much as it was before the unfortunate meeting we have mentioned.

'For my part,' said Mrs. Jonathan Prothero, when all were assembled, except Netta, in family conclave, 'I cannot see so much against the young man after all. Such a fortune as his is not to be met with every day, and I must say he is very handsome and clever.'

Here we must remark that this lady's sentiments had undergone a change, since it had been rumoured that Howel was worth more than a hundred thousand pounds.

'I tell you what it is, ma'am,' roared the farmer, 'if he were worth his weight in gold, he 'ouldn't be a good match for any prudent 'ooman. To my certain knowledge he drinks and gambles, and he shall never have my consent to marry Netta so long as I live, and you may tell him so.'

'I do not know enough of him, sir, to have any communication of the kind with him,' said Mrs. Jonathan, stiffly.

'My dear,' interposed mild Mrs. Prothero, 'if he gets steady, and settles down, it might be better to let them marry, than to make them miserable for life.'

'Study! miserable! mother, you're a—I beg your pardon, but when Howel's study, I'll turn to smoking cigars. Why, the very night of his father's funeral he was half drunk, instead of being decent for once.'

'He couldn't care much for his father, my dear; you must make allowances.'

'An odd man, that Griff, brother David,' said Mr. Jonathan Prothero, as if just awaking from a dream. 'Do you remember when we were lads together, and used to go up to Garn Goch looking for treasures? I knew, even then, that it was an old British encampment, and began to speculate upon its date, and so on; you used to hunt rabbits, and provoke me by overturning the walls, but Griff got it into his head that there was money buried somewhere, and never ceased digging for it. At last he found an old coin of very ancient date, and seeing that I wished to have it, he bargained with me, until he got all the money I had for it. Of course the coin was worth any money, and satisfactorily proves that Garn Goch was an old British encampment at the time of the invasion of the Romans.'

'Well, brother, you are by the head! That old coin is nothing but a well-used sixpence.'

'I have every reason to believe, and I am supported in my opinion by various antiquaries, that it bears the inscription either of Cunobelin or Caractacus. There is a decided C, and we are told that money was coined in Britain in the time of Cunobelin.'

'And how on earth did he get up to Garn Goch?'

'Why, you know that Caractacus commanded the Silures, or people of South Wales, against the Romans, and that they held out bravely, I have no shadow of doubt that Garn Goch was one of their strongholds.'

'But what can Garn Goch have to do with Netta and Howel? Brother, I always shall say you are by the head with your antiquities.'

'Well, I think you had better let them marry, I really do. It's no good opposing young people, when they will have their own way at last.'

'I sha'n't send for you to consult with again. Mother, go and bring Netta here, and let us see what she has to say for herself.'

'My dear Davy, would it not be better to speak to her privately?'

'Not a bit. I can't say a word when I am alone with her, but I could give her a bit of my mind when you are all present. Why don't you go, and not stand looking as if you was as much by the head as brother Jo.'

Poor Mrs. Prothero perceived that her husband was determined to have Netta publicly reprimanded, so, much against her will, she left the room. Rowland was preparing to follow, not liking the prospect of a scene, when his father peremptorily called him back.

'Stay you, sir. If you was the better for going to Oxford, you'd try to teach your sister how to behave, instead of cutting off the moment you're wanted.'

'I really do not think, father, that a public reproof is likely to make Netta change her mind. You would do better to talk quietly to her.'

Here Mrs. Prothero returned, followed by Netta, looking as sulky as she possibly could, and with the traces of tears on her face. There was an awkward silence for a few seconds, during which both Mr. Prothero and Netta were getting redder and redder, and their inner man correspondingly choleric. At last the father began the strife.

'Now, I say, Miss Netta,' there was a pause for a few minutes. 'Do you hear, miss?'

'Yes, father, I hear very well,' said Netta, and muttered to herself in continuation, 'who could help it?'

'You hear very well—I should think so. You hear a good deal you've no business to listen to. Do you mean to give up that scamp Howel?'

No reply.

'Now it's no use for you to stand there and say nothing, for an answer I will have.'

'I don't think he's a scamp,' said Netta boldly.

Poor Mrs. Prothero trembled, and looked imploringly at Netta.

'My dear Netta, you should not contradict your father,' said Mrs. Jonathan, with a severe look.

'You don't think he's a scamp. Then you mean to have him, I suppose?' said Mr. Prothero.

'I didn't say that, father. But I don't see why I may not speak to my own cousin.'

Every one was surprised at Netta's answers. Like her father, she could talk better before numbers. She had done nothing but cry when her mother had reasoned with her.

'Very well, miss. All I can say is, that if you meet him again I'll—I'll—I'll—' the good farmer did not know what he would do. He was not prepared to say.

'He is gone to London, father,'

'Will you promise not to meet him any more, you good-for-nothing girl, you? You most disobedient daughter!'

Again Netta was silent.

'Will you promise your father, Netta,' said Mrs. Prothero, gently, 'not to meet Howel again, or have anything to say to him, without his consent?'

Still Netta was silent.

'He may reform, you know,' suggested Mrs. Jonathan, 'and then you may be allowed to marry,'

'No chance of that,' roared Mr. Prothero, advancing towards Netta, taking her by the arm, and looking as if a few more of her rejoinders would bring her a good shaking. 'Do you mean to promise, miss?'

'Father, you're hurting me,' said Netta petulantly. 'You needn't pinch me so.'

Mr. Prothero relaxed his hold. He doated on this obstinate, pretty, wilful child of his—the only girl, and whose temper was the very facsimile of his own.

'It's you're hurting me most, Netta, by rushing into certain misery. Will you promise?'

Again he took hold of the arm.

'One would think you were a Papist, father, and this the Inquisition,' said Netta, growing learned under the torture of her father's grasp,

'Well said, Netta,' broke in Mr. Jonathan, aroused by any allusion to any subject out of the present. 'A cruel court that perhaps more properly called Jesuitical than Papistical.'

Mr. Prothero gave Netta a slight shake, which shook more passion into both of them, and frightened Mrs. Prothero.

'Once for all, Netta, will you promise to give up that scamp of a cousin of yours, Howel Jenkins?' roared the father.

'I won't promise anything at all,' replied Netta doggedly; and freeing herself from her father, she ran to her uncle as if for protection.

'You won't!' said Mr. Prothero, pursuing her, 'then I tell you what it is. The moment you are known to keep company with him, you may find some other home than this; and if you determine to marry him, you shall be no longer a daughter of mine. I'll never, as long as I live—'

'Hush, hush, David, hush, please,' said Mrs. Prothero, putting her hand on his arm. 'Netta will not disobey us, I am sure. But it is her obstinate temper; she never would say anything she was commanded to say.'

'Then you ought to have taught her better. She is a good-for-nothing girl, and I'll—'

'Netta, you had better leave the room,' said Rowland, opening the door, through which Netta gladly escaped. '"Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath,"' he added, turning to his father. 'You will do nothing with her at present. She is worked up to a spirit of resistance by too much argument, and the more you say the more obstinate she will become.'

'You are all as obstinate as mules,' said Mr. Prothero; 'I can't think who you turn after. And then to have the impudence to say I was a Papist! Why, I'd rather be a Methody preacher any day. And you to encourage her, brother Jonathan. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.'

Brother Jonathan started up from his dream of Garn Goch and the Inquisition, to repudiate the imputation of encouragement.

'I was merely glad to find that she knew anything about the Inquisition, and had any information at all in her head; generally speaking, women know so little. I assure you, David, it was far from me to wish to encourage her in disobedience, or to offend you; so give me your hand.'

The brothers shook hands very warmly, and in so doing, the contrast between them was very great. The farmer I have already described. The clergyman was a remarkable specimen of the 'dry-as-dust' species. Very tall, very thin, with very loose joints, seemingly hung together on wires, and a very prominent nose. He had acquired the habit of poking his chin and looking on the ground, as if he were always in search for something, which he possibly was, as he never despaired of finding some antiquity or curiosity at any moment. It must not be augured from his devotion to antiquarian lore that he made a bad clergyman On the contrary, he was always ready at the call of the poorest parishioner, regular in his visits to the sick, charitable in no mean degree, and humble in his deportment to rich and poor. True, his sermons were somewhat dry, and occasionally too learned for the greater portion of his flock; but he made up for this by the simplicity of his conversation when he talked to them at their own houses.

He seldom was seen without a sort of school-boy satchel at his back, containing a small hammer and other useful tools, which, it was believed, had actually carried his lesson-books years ago. All the villagers knew his strong-and-weak point, and he rarely appeared amongst them without having various stones and imaginary curiosities presented to him, particularly by the young people. Many of these stones found their way into his bag, and it was not to be wondered at that he had a somewhat round back, as he frequently carried a load upon it, that a beast of burden would not have rejoiced in.

He and Mrs. Jonathan were a remarkable pair; one of those ill-assorted couples that you wonder at. 'How in the world did they come together?' was the usual question, the philosophic reply to which would have been, that theirs was actually one of the 'Matches made in heaven.' The gentleman got money to enable him to follow the bent of his genius without anxiety for his daily bread, and therewith a stirring wife to take care of him and his house; the wife got her great desideratum, a husband, and therewith the desideratum of all women, her own way.

But we must return to Netta and the other belligerents. As nothing more was to be made of her at present, they let her alone, perhaps the wisest thing they could do, and sat down to dinner. Netta declined eating, and consequently was left to her own reflections. Mr. Prothero inquired anxiously of his wife, when he had cooled a little, whether he had really hurt Netta when he took hold of her arm; to which Mrs. Prothero replied with unusual severity, 'No, perhaps it had been better if you had; she wanted some trial or punishment to bring down her proud spirit.'

In the course of the evening, a little before Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan left Glanyravon to return home, Miss Gwynne came to inquire for the poor Irish girl. She joined the party in the parlour for a short time, and gave a message from her father to Rowland, to the effect that he was very anxious for another game of chess, and begged him to come and dine at the Park on the morrow. Of course Rowland was only too happy, and the rest of the party too proud.

'Papa is disgusted at your having beaten him the other night,' said Miss Gwynne to Rowland.

'I think Mr. Gwynne got tired,' said Rowland modestly.

'What affectation,' thought Miss Gwynne, as she said, 'oh, no! he says you are the best player.'

'I disclaim that entirely,' said Rowland. 'I merely beat two games out of three, and we had not time for another.'

Rowland had been, according to promise, to dine and play chess with Mr. Gwynne; Miss Gwynne had dined with them, but had left them after dinner to follow their own devices, whilst she had followed hers, and did not reappear during the evening. Mr. Gwynne had reproached her for her absence, and she had declared that she hated to be so long without talking, and that chess and young Prothero were perfect antidotes to conversation.

'That ancient, Saracenic game, as Mr. Jonathan Prothero calls it, played by a Goth,' she said, 'is beyond my store of politeness.'

Mrs. Prothero and Miss Gwynne went to see the poor Irish girl; they found her rather better, and able to speak to them with some degree of composure. The fever and its accompanying delirium had abated, and the danger was past; but, as is usual in such cases, extreme weakness was the result.

'God bless you, my ladies,' she murmured, as Miss Gwynne stooped over her to inquire how she did, and Mrs. Prothero took her thin hand. 'I am better, thank ye; I can see and understand, and know now all that you have done for the wretched beggar.'

Here the poor girl's tears began to flow.

'We only wish to see you get well,' said Miss Gwynne softly, 'and then we can help you to find your friends.'

'I have no friends in the world miss, asthore; my father died years ago, and my mother, brother, and sister all died of this horrible famine and pestilence! oh me! oh me!'

The tears flowed still faster, and Mrs. Prothero begged her to be silent, and not to excite herself; but with restless eagerness she went on, as if anxious to pour forth her sorrows whilst she felt the strength to do so. It was remarkable that her English was very good, and that, with the exception of an occasional Irish epithet of endearment, you would scarcely have discovered her country. Indeed, the Welsh peculiarities of expression and accent sometimes appeared, so that it would have been difficult to say where she was born or brought up.

'I am going to look for my friends, if I live, and then, may be, I may be able to repay you for your kindness to me, a poor, wretched wanderer on the face of God's earth. If you'll be pleased to listen whilst I have the strength, I will tell you my story.

'My mother was a Welshwoman, born in some part of South Wales; she was the daughter of a clergyman, and respectably brought up. Her father taught her a great many things that we ignorant people in Ireland used to think a great deal of. Oh, she was a good and tender mother to me, ladies, avourneen.

'My father was an Irishman, and a fine, handsome man. He was a soldier, a corporal in the Welsh Fusiliers, and used to be called Corporal O'Grady. He was going through this country to Ireland, to visit his friends, on leave, when he first saw mother, and fell in love with her, and she with him. She knew that her father would not be willing that they should marry, so she ran away with him to Ireland. They travelled about for some time with his regiment, but, after I was born, mother went to settle in Ireland with father's family, and there she had three other children, two boys and a girl. After this my father was wounded in India, and got his discharge and his half-pay. He became a kind of under-agent for a gentleman that lived in England, so we were very well off as long as he lived; but he died when I was about twelve years old, and then mother did not well know what to do. I remember my father's death, and all our trouble, as if it was yesterday.

'She set up a little school, and for some years did pretty well. She could teach all that the farmers' daughters wanted to learn, and I helped her; so we managed to live. It was a hard struggle sometimes, but everybody was kind to widow O'Grady and her orphans; God reward them.

'But the bad time came for poor Ireland; the famine visited us, and then the pestilence! Ye have heard enough of the horrors, without doubt, but not half of what they really were. We were all starving, dying—I saw enough people die to make me wish myself dead hundreds of times, to be hidden from the sight; but I was fated to live. You, ladies, in your charity, have saved me again; but oh! if it were not wicked, I should wish myself with my mother, brothers, and sister in heaven.'

Here the poor girl's sobs choked her speech, and Mrs. Prothero entreated her not to proceed.

'Only one word more, my ladies, and I have done. When they were all gone—all—all—and I only left, I did not care what became of me. I went about amongst those stricken down with the fever; but, woe is me, I never caught it. I fasted from morning to night, day after day, but I could not die of starvation; nothing would kill me. I was alone in the wide world, yet it would not please God to take me to another, much as I prayed to Him.

'Before mother died she told me to go into Wales, and try to find if she had any relations left. It was all she said, or had strength for; and before she got ill she seldom talked of her friends. All that I know of them I heard from my father when I was quite a child. He told me that mother had written to her father when she settled in Ireland, and that her letter had been returned with a note, saying that he was dead, and his only son gone away, no one knew where. This was her brother, and my uncle, but I do not know where to find him, only I am come to seek them, that I may do her bidding.'

'And what was your mother's name?' asked Mrs. Prothero.

'Margaret Jones, ma'am,'

'My poor girl, there are hundreds of that name in South Wales. But we will make inquiries for you, and when you are better—'

'I am better now, thank you, ma'am. To-morrow I think I may go on my way. I would not trouble you any more; a poor beggar like me is not fit—oh dear! oh dear!'

'Now I insist on your being quiet and going to sleep, and forgetting all those horrors,' said Miss Gwynne, assuming her most decided voice to hide her emotion. 'You are not to go away to-morrow; but I daresay in a few days you will be able to do so, and we can help you a little. But your best plan now is to get as strong as you can whilst you have the opportunity,' and herewith Miss Gwynne put a large spoonful of jelly into the girl's mouth.

Mrs. Prothero was wiping her eyes, and stifling a rising sob behind the curtain, which caused Miss Gwynne to become very severe, and to utter something about giving way to foolish weakness which aroused Mrs. Prothero, and made the patient bury her head beneath the bed-clothes.

Miss Gwynne beckoned to Mrs. Prothero, and they left the room together. Upon asking for Netta, Miss Gwynne was let into the secret of the family troubles and consultations, and greatly fearing to be made a party in the lecturings overhanging the luckless head of the offender, she took a hasty leave of Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan, and begging Mrs. Prothero not to be too hard upon Netta, or to let her son Rowland preach too many sermons, went her very independent way.