Gladys, the Reaper Part 11

'I'll go down and sit by the fire. Lie you down here. G.o.d bless you, my boy, give your poor mother a kiss.'

'Good-night, mother, or rather good morning,' said the son, bending down carelessly to be embraced by the parent who would sacrifice her life for him.

When Mrs Jenkins had left the room, Howel hastily collected the gold that was scattered about, and tossed it, without counting it, into the box already mentioned, which he locked, and put the key in his pocket.

He then lay down on the bed without undressing, and tried to sleep. In vain, no sleep would come to 'steep his senses in forgetfulness.' The bed in the next room, with its grim, gaunt inmate, was constantly before his eyes. If he dozed for a moment, the miser, his father, and the gold he had for years longed to obtain possession of, haunted him, and made him start like a thief, as if taken in the act of stealing the coin now by inheritance his own.

'Cursed gold!' he exclaimed at last, jumping from the bed, 'what shall I do with it? Pay my debts, and turn a sober man? I will try. If 'Netta will have me, perhaps I may; indeed I am sure I could. We will come here and cut a dash first, however. I should like to humble some of our Welsh aristocrats by showing them how the son of Griffey Jenkins can eclipse their genealogies, by the magic power of the Golden G.o.d. I will stay over the funeral, then off to town and get rid of my pressing debts; then pay Levi and Moses, and all my debts of honour; then set myself up in clothes and jewels, and come home and carry off Netta; and, finally, have a year's pleasure at least. Take Netta to the continent, and teach her to _parlez-vous_ a little more fluently than she does now, and to a.s.sume more aristocratic manners; in short--in short--'

The soliloquy was interrupted by the sudden explosion of some substance under his feet, upon which he accidentally trod as he was pacing up and down the room. He swore an oath that emanated from his fear, and thought that the lower regions had actually opened to receive the gold he was meditating upon, since fire and smoke accompanied the noise, together with a smell of gunpowder. He rushed out of the room, just as his mother, alarmed by the sound, was running upstairs.

'They will carry him off before the funeral,' he cried, as his mother asked what was the matter.

Ashamed of his cowardice, he made an effort to return to the room, followed by his mother. There was such a strong smell of sulphur that both recoiled.

'What fools we are!' exclaimed Howel, forcing himself to enter. He stooped to examine the floor, and to his amus.e.m.e.nt and disgust, found the remains of a cracker, which had burst beneath his foot-tread. There were several others scattered about, that had been unnoticed, because they looked simply like bits of paper. These had evidently been placed by his father amongst the gold, in the hope of frightening any one who might 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 princ.i.p.ally 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 a 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, a.s.sisted 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 archaeological 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 _retrousse_ 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 pa.s.s 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 rea.s.sure 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 sc.r.a.p-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-a.s.sorted 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 country. They have simply to put themselves into the lottery, and only one can have the prize.'

'I never knew you so figurative before. Sir Hugh.' 'Don't pay any attention to him, Miss Gwynne,' said a fresh addition to the circle that stood round that young lady's chair. 'He means that old Griffey Jenkins, the miser, is dead, and that Howel comes into all his immense wealth.'

Miss Gwynne gave her head such a magnificent toss that her neck looked quite strained.

'I do not imagine many _young ladies_ will purchase tickets in that lottery,' she said, with a stress upon the 'young ladies.'

'I have no doubt there are dozens who would, and will, do it at once,'

responded Sir Hugh. 'And quite right too. Such a fortune is not to be had every day.'

'But it is gentlemen, and not ladies, who are fortune-hunters,' said Miss Gwynne, changing her tone, when she suddenly perceived that Netta's face and neck were crimson.

But the subject was become quite an interesting piece of local gossip, and, one after another, all the party joined in it.

'Howel Jenkins might make anything of himself if he would but be steady,' said Mr Rice Rice.

'Except a gentleman by birth,' said his lady.

'Or the least bit of an archaeologist,' said Mr Jonathan Prothero. 'I tried one day--you will scarcely believe it, Mr Gwynne--to make him understand that Garn Goch was an old British encampment, but he would not take it in.'

'Ah, really; I do not very much wonder myself, for I cannot quite "take in" those heaps of stones and all that sort of thing,' responded the host.

'What can they find to interest them in that sort of person?' asked Lady Mary in an aside to Mr Gwynne.

Miss Gwynne overheard it, and answered for her father.

'He is a young man of great talent, very rich, very handsome, and has had a miser for a father. Is not that the case Mr Rowland?'

'I--I--really, it is scarcely fair to appeal to me, as he is a relation.'