Gladys, the Reaper. Anne Beale
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