Gladys, the Reaper. Anne Beale
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.
CHAPTER X.
THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER.
'You will oblige me by remaining at home this evening, my dear,' said Mr. Gwynne to his daughter.
'That I assuredly shall, papa,' was the reply, 'for dear Miss Hall is coming to-day, and that princess of bores, Miss Nugent, has invited herself to tea. I certainly do wish Rowland Prothero would fall in love with her. She is quite ready for the premier venu, be he prince or peasant.'
'Does not Lady Mary come, my dear?'
'No; I am thankful to say she is gone to spend a few days with the Llanfawr family.'
'I am very glad Miss Hall is coming, Freda. I wish she would live with you; it would be very pleasant, and a protection for you, and all that sort of thing.'
'Oh, do ask her, dear papa. I have tried a thousand times to persuade her to come here and live with us for ever; but I think she will not come on my invitation.'
'I could not possibly ask her, my dear. I should break down at the first word; we never were very familiar. She is stiff, and I am nervous—and—and—I really could not summon courage.'
Miss Hall had been Miss Gwynne's governess during a few years of her education era, and had succeeded in entirely gaining her affections, as well as a small portion of ascendancy over her determined will. She had left Glanyravon to reside with an aged father, who, having lately died, left her again under the necessity of seeking a situation. Miss Gwynne had invited her to pay her a visit, and she was to arrive almost immediately.
She did arrive whilst they were talking about her, and as the carriage that had been sent to meet her drove up to the door out flew Freda in great excitement, and scarcely allowed her ci-devant governess to alight before she was overwhelming her with embraces. Mr. Gwynne followed somewhat more leisurely, and received Miss Hall with his usual nervous reserve of manner, but great courtesy. She responded most warmly to the embraces of Freda, and quietly to the welcome of Mr. Gwynne.
We will not give a minute description of the new comer, because she is not quite a person to be described. She is neither very good-looking nor very plain, neither very old nor very young, neither very tall nor very short, neither very talkative nor very reserved, neither very much over-dressed nor very much under-dressed, neither very merry nor very grave. Freda used to say that she was the personification of gentle dignity and serenity, and in the days of her Italian studies called her occasionally La Dignità, but more frequently La Serenità, which epithet would sometimes be abbreviated into Serena, or Sera, or Nita, or anything but Miss Hall, which the love of the impulsive pupil, so hard to obtain, and so great when obtained, thought much too formal.
When Freda took Miss Hall to the delightful apartment she had been adorning for her for a week past, the first impulse of the older lady was to throw herself upon the neck of the younger, and burst into tears.
'Dearest Serena, I have been so very sorry for you,' was all that Freda could say.
For a minute there was silence, when Miss Hall, recovering herself, said—
'Dear Freda, this is all so kind of you. If anything could console me for the loss of my last earthly support, it is such affection as yours.'
We will pass over the long conversation of those two friends, its melancholy and its mirth, for there was much of both, and bring them to the dinner-table and Messrs Gwynne and Rowland Prothero.
They were rather a formal quartette, and at first conversation did not flow easily. Mr. Gwynne's nerves, Rowland's embarrassment Miss Hall's natural depression of spirits, and Freda's resolution not to make herself agreeable to a person she was determined to consider conceited, were bad ingredients for a dish of good sociable converse. By degrees, however, they thawed a little. Mr. Gwynne wished to say something that would set his young chess opponent at his ease, and said the very thing likely the most to confuse a shy man. He made a personal remark and paid a compliment.
'I am sure your uncle and—and your father, of course, must have been much gratified, and so forth, at your gaining that fellowship at Oxford.'
'I think you labour under a mistake,' said Rowland, looking more than usually confused when he saw Miss Gwynne's eyes turned upon him; 'I merely gained a scholarship at Rugby, which is really nothing. I did not even try for a fellowship.'
'Conceited!' thought Freda. 'I suppose he thinks if he had tried he would have got one.'
'Were you not at Baliol?' asked Mr. Gwynne.
'Yes; I went there because my aunt had a fancy for the college,