Gladys, the Reaper. Anne Beale
wish to finger it, and had rolled out with the treasure they were intended to protect.
Mother and son again left the room, the latter locking the door as he did so, and putting the key in his pocket. They descended to the little parlour below stairs, where they finished the night, alternately dozing in their chairs, and talking, and occasionally supporting themselves by draughts of the different liquors that were spread upon the table near them. In spite of his best efforts to throw aside such thoughts, Howel could see nothing all that night but the gold, the father who had won it, and the poor wretches who had been ruined in paying usurious interest for it.
CHAPTER VII.
THE SQUIRE.
The dinners at Glanyravon were always unexceptionable. Mr. Gwynne was a bit of an epicure, and kept a capital cook, and his daughter liked to see everything done in good style. Even Mrs. Jonathan Prothero declared that the dinner-parties at her cousin's, Sir Philip Payne Perry's, were scarcely more agreeable or better managed.
Still, at the dinner in question, all the elements were not quite well amalgamated. Although the dishes were so discreetly seasoned, and the entremets so exquisitely prepared, that the most fastidious critic of the gastronomic art would not have found a grain too much of any one ingredient, there was a less judicious mixture amongst the guests. Nothing could be more perfect than the bearing of the host and hostess. Mr. Gywnne was a gentleman, even in his peculiarities—fastidiously a gentleman—and comported himself as such to every one. But he was too nervous, and had too low a voice to put his guests at ease: one half did not hear him at all, and the rest were slightly afraid of him on account of this extreme fastidiousness, his nervous complaints and his being very easily tired, or bored. Miss Gwynne was more successful at her end of the table, but she rather annoyed some of her guests by being too much bent on bringing out her friend Netta, and playing her off against Miss Nugent.
She was, however, very polite to all, and, for so young a woman, made a very agreeable and fascinating hostess. So, apparently, thought all the gentlemen, as they principally addressed their conversation to her, and had manoeuvred, particularly the young ones, to sit as near her as possible. The Rev Jonathan Prothero had the place of honour at her right, and did not take up much of her time. He appeared to be deep in the speculation concerning the ancient castle of which we have already heard, and was learnedly descanting upon it to Mrs. Rice Rice, a lady on his other side. The said Mrs. Rice Rice, having un oeil aux champs, et l'autre à la ville, was ostensibly listening to him, whilst she was really attending to her son, who was making visible efforts on the heart of the heiress, Miss Gwynne.
The Rice Rices were people of family and fortune, living in the neighbouring town. Mr. Rice Rice was in the law, and was at that moment engaged in discussing the affairs of the deceased Mr. Griffith Jenkins and his quondam articled pupil, Howel, with Rowland Prothero across Miss Nugent. He was a portly well-to-do-looking man, with a bald head and good-humoured countenance. His wife was even more portly than himself, and sat, in black velvet and marabout feathers, as stately as a princess at a drawing-room. The task of keeping up the family reputation of the ancient house of Rice Rice devolved in a great measure on this lady, assisted by her daughter; and, it must be said, that if any one could have doubted the antiquity of this honourable race after an hour's conversation with this enthusiastic pair he must have been a sceptic indeed! Family pride is a common weakness, but one could almost call it the stronghold of Mrs. Rice Rice, just as the various archæological and historical glories of Wales and the Welsh was the fortress of Mr. Jonathan Prothero.
It was into these towers of strength that these worthies retreated on all occasions. One saw the bulwark in Mrs. Rice Rice's ample, immoveable figure, and in the glance of the eyes that looked over the somewhat mountainous cheek; one saw it in a certain extension of the chin, turn of the mouth, and slightly retroussé nose. One saw it, above all, in her manner to the Protheros.
But Mrs. Jonathan Prothero was quite as capable of sustaining the dignity of the Philip Payne Perrys as the Welsh lady that of the Rice Rices, and a satirist might have made a clever caricature of these patriotic dames—the one thin and stiff, the other stout and stiff— as they compared their family honours.
But the lady of undoubted rank and pretension of the party is Lady Mary Nugent, who can afford to patronise or throw over-board whomsoever she will. She is seated next to Mr. Gwynne, and is lavishing a considerable share of good looks and eloquence on that gentleman. Still in the prime of life, elegant, refined, pretty, and a skilful tactician, she is a dangerous rival of the young ladies, and is not wholly innocent of a desire to eclipse them. She and her daughter are dressed very nearly alike, in some white and light material, and at a little distance she might pass for the fair Wilhelmina's elder sister. A profusion of ornaments, too well arranged to appear too numerous, alone distinguish mother and daughter. She has a handsome profile and a captivating manner, two dangerous things in woman; but therewith she has an occasionally malicious expression of eye and mouth, that somewhat impairs the effect of the captivation.
Her daughter is like her in profile, but has not her fascination of manner. She is, however, beautiful as a statue, with chiselled features and marble complexion. But she does not at present appear to have character enough to possess the clever malice of her mother. This may possibly come with suitors and rivals, who generally draw out all the evil, and sometimes much of the good, of woman's nature.
She is now simpering and blushing and saying pretty nothings between Rowland Prothero and a certain Sir Hugh Pryse, who, on their respective parts, think her a goose, being attracted elsewhere. Sir Hugh is exerting his lungs to their utmost, and much beyond the boundaries that etiquette would vainly try to impose upon them, in endeavouring to attract the attention of Miss Gwynne; whilst Rowland is, as we before said, discussing the death of Mr. Jenkins and the prospects of his son.
Perhaps the most uncomfortable person at the table is Netta, who really does not quite understand how to behave herself in the new atmosphere in which she finds herself. She never was at a dinner-party before, never waited upon by grand servants, never surrounded by such gay people; and, in spite of her ambition to eclipse by her beauty the Misses Nugent and Rice Rice, she feels and looks rather awkward. Miss Gwynne does all in her power to reassure her, but she sits, looking very pretty—by far the prettiest person in the room—and very ill at ease, until the ladies adjourn to the drawing-room, and she takes refuge in the pictures of the drawing-room scrap-book and her aunt.
The gentlemen arrive in course of time, which they must do, linger as long as they will over the delights of port and politics, and then the various schemes and thoughts engendered at the dinner-table are brought to light over the coffee-cup.
Miss Gwynne patronisingly singles out Rowland Prothero, who, reserved by nature, feels doubly so amongst the ill-assorted elements around him.
'Have you seen that poor girl since I was last at your house, Mr. Prothero, and how is she to-day?' inquires the heiress.
'She asked to see me yesterday, and I went to her. She seemed more composed, and liked being read to; but she is in a very precarious state.'
'Is your father more reconciled to her being with you?'
'Not at all. And it certainly is very unfortunate. But he would not allow her to be neglected now she is thrown on his kindness.'
'I wish she had never come,' interposed Netta, who had ventured to cross the room to Miss Gwynne.
'Have you heard of the great catch you are all likely to have, Miss Gwynne?' here broke in Sir Hugh Pryse, of stentorian reputation.
'I do not know what you mean,' said Miss Gwynne.
'Why, Mr. Rice Rice tells me there is more than a hundred thousand pounds to be raffled for by all the young ladies in the