Gladys, the Reaper. Anne Beale
Table of Contents
THE FARMER'S SON.
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