Gladys, the Reaper Part 43

'I should think she 'ould, seure enough,' said a stentorian voice, as Mr Prothero entered the cow-house, having just heard the last words, and seen the clasped hands.

Gladys looked entreatingly at Owen, who at once said, 'It was my fault that she stayed here, I kept her against her will.'

Gladys glanced gratefully at Owen, and left him with his father; but before she was out of hearing, the farmer's loud voice was audible, informing Owen that he 'didn't want another 'lopement from his house; and that that Irish beggar should leave the place.'

'It was all chance, father, and my fault,' said Owen.

'It's always chance and your fault then. Where Gladys is, you're seure to be pretty near. She's a good sort of young 'ooman enough, but you have no call to be for ever hunting after her.'

'I don't see why I shouldn't if I like. It doesn't hurt anybody, and is only kind to her.'

'But I don't cheuse her to be thinking you're going to make love to her, and by-and-by, perhaps, expecting to--there's no knowing what young 'oomen may expect.'

'She isn't one to expect very much, and I am sure she doesn't take any liberties with any one, or go beyond her place.'

'Treue for you there; but that's no fault of yours. You don't take notice of any other female that I see, and seure you eused to make love to them all in turns.'

'I don't see any girl half as good as Gladys, or worthy to light a candle to her, that's why I have given them all up.'

'Name o' goodness what for? If you are going to make a fool of yourself about her, I'll soon send her away, and stop that anyhow.'

'You may save yourself the trouble, father, for I am going away myself.

I can't be a land-lubber any longer, and I won't, so I shall look out for a s.h.i.+p, pretty soon.'

'All because that girl came here to bother us. Deet to goodness, them Irishers have been the plagues of my life ever since I married.'

'But she's Welsh, father, and you said so yourself.'

'She's a mongrel, and no good ever came out of them.'

'She saved mother's life, anyhow.'

This reflection posed the worthy farmer. He softened somewhat in his reply.

'Treue for you again there. But that's no reason for your going to sea, just when you're getting euseful here.'

'Well, father, thank you for saying for once in my life that I'm useful.

You never said that before.'

'And it don't seem out of any great favour to us that you are euseful now; but only to please an Irish beggar.'

'I tell you what, father, if you were anybody else, you shouldn't call her an Irish beggar.'

As Gladys went on her way, she heard the voices, ever louder and louder; she hurried into the house, and then to her own little bedroom, where she still seemed to hear the words, 'Irish beggar,' and a little spark of the pride of poor human nature kindled in her heart.

'They shall not quarrel about me--they shall not throw my misery after me--they shall not think I want to marry him--I will go away,' were her muttered expressions. 'Why have I lived--why have I been kindly treated?

if I am to be the sport and the by-word of my friends? A poor outcast--an Irish beggar--a lone girl, friendless, homeless, heartless, wretched, miserable! Och hone! what will I do? what will I do?'

She threw herself on her bed and sobbed.

'And I only want to do my duty--to show my grat.i.tude--to die for the mistress, if needs be, and they will think me forward and vain. Why was I born to cause trouble and to bear such misery? Oh! mother, mother, if you were here to comfort your poor child! If I could but go after you!

if I could but go away to my mother and all the lost ones!'

This thought of her mother and the lost ones seemed to overpower her for a few seconds, and then to calm her. She rose from her bed, and fell upon her knees and prayed.

'I can go to them, if they cannot come to me. I can fill my place of sorrow, as is best for me. I need not bring trouble on this blessed home! I will not. I need not send away that kind Mr Owen from his family. I will not. Why does he think of a poor, wretched being like me?

Why has he been so good to me; so tender to me--as if he were my brother? If I go away, he will think of some one else, and make them all happy here, and live with them, and be good and steady. And I shall be only one sufferer instead of many. May G.o.d bless them all! I will go away, but never to see him more!--never, never!' Thus thought Gladys.

For half-an-hour, whilst she was striving to calm herself, such thoughts and thousands of others flitted through her mind; but she did not murmur again at the sad lot which had been a.s.signed to her by Providence; she had gathered strength in that prayer which she had offered up out of her trouble of heart. Still she felt aggrieved by her master's hard words, knowing as she did that she did not deserve them; but she struggled hard to conquer that pride which she knew ill became one in her dependent and friendless state.

When she had sufficiently recovered herself, she went down to prepare the supper, according to her custom. She found the hall empty, and wondered what had become of her master and mistress. She glanced into the garden, and saw them walking up and down engaged in earnest conversation, although the hour was late and it was getting dark and chill. She felt that they were talking about her. She would not listen, and returned to spread the table for their evening meal; whilst doing so, Owen made his appearance.

'Gladys,' he said, 'shake hands with me, and forgive me for causing you pain. I hope it will be the first and last time.'

Gladys held out her hand, saying 'Oh, Mr Owen, I have nothing to forgive, I am only very sorry''

As Owen held her hand, in stalked Mr Prothero, followed by his wife. He was not looking very well pleased when he entered, but finding them together, his dark frowning brow became still darker.

'Good-night, mother,' said Owen, 'I don't want any supper. Good-night, father,' he added with a strong effort, but receiving no response, he left the room.

Gladys longed to follow his example, but feared it would not be right.

'Gladys, I fear you are not well,' said Mrs Prothero gravely, but kindly, 'perhaps you would like to go to bed.'

'Thank you, ma'am,' said Gladys, glancing furtively at her mistress, whose gentle face looked perplexed and anxious.

'Good-night, then,' said Mrs Prothero.

Gladys could not speak, for there was something constrained in the manners of her dear mistress, that she could not bear to see. She did not venture to speak to Mr Prothero, but dropping him a silent curtsey, as she left the room, went to bed, but not to sleep.

That night, Mrs Prothero went to her son, Owen's room, and heard the history of the evening. He told her that he loved Gladys, but that she did not care for him; and that his father would not believe him when he said so. Mrs Prothero gave him a maternal lecture on his conduct, and the impossibility of his marrying Gladys, particularly whilst his father was so irritated against his sister. She rallied him, in a quiet way, on his various previous loves, and said that she had no doubt he would forget his present one in the same manner.

She was struck with the unusually grave tone of his reply, as he simply said, that if Gladys were like his other loves, he might forget her in the same way; but as she was quite different from any one he had ever liked before, so he should remember her as he had never before remembered any one. She was also struck with his manner of wis.h.i.+ng her good night, and of recommending Gladys to her care, entreating her not to be less kind to her than she had always been, because he had the misfortune to love her.

Mrs Prothero promised all he desired, scarcely believing, as she did so, in the depth of his affection.

'And, mother, fach,' he said, 'you must not be vexed if I run away again to cure myself. There is nothing like sea air for my disease; and if I do, I promise to write regularly, and to come home at the end of my voyage. Only be kind to Gladys, and don't let her go away.'

Owen had a presentiment, that if he did not leave Glanyravon, Gladys would.

'And you must try to bring father round by degrees. I don't want to annoy him; and I know you are as fond of Gladys as if she were your own daughter, and father likes her, too. Will you try, mother?'

'Anything to keep you at home, and steady, my son,' said Mrs Prothero with tears in her eyes, 'but you must not go away again, we cannot do without you.'

'Only this once, for change of air; I a.s.sure you it is best'

'Well, we will talk of this again, Owen; good night, and G.o.d bless you.'

'Just tell father not to be angry with me or Gladys, and that I can't run away with her, because she won't have me. Good night, mother dear.'