Gladys, the Reaper Part 25

The best tea things were duly arranged; cakes hot from the oven b.u.t.tered; the best green tea put into the best teapot, and all proper honour done to Mrs Jenkins, from which she augured well for her Howels.

As Shanno was very busy and very dirty, Mrs Prothero, during her preparations in the kitchen, was at a loss to know who was to wait if anything was wanted. Gladys chanced to be there, and said modestly,--

'If I could do, ma'am, I would soon make myself neat in Miss Prothero's gown; and if I might just take in the tray instead of you.'

'Thank you, Gladys, I am sure you will do,' and Gladys was installed.

'There is nothing that girl cannot do,' thought Mrs Prothero, as she arranged everything on the tea-table as neatly and properly as Mrs Prothero could have done herself.

'What a tidy girl you have!' said Mrs Jenkins. 'Do she mean to be staying over Hollantide? I am wanting a servant.'

All eyes were turned on Gladys as she came into the room again, but as hers were always fixed on what she was carrying, or on her mistress, she was not aware of the sudden attention she excited.

'Irish beggars!' muttered Netta.

'One of mother's G.o.dsends,' said Mr Prothero.

'What a beautiful piece of snow,' thought Owen.

After tea Mr Prothero invited Mrs Jenkins to go and see his fine fat cattle. The pair went together, leaving an anxious trio behind them.

Farmer Prothero was a man of few words when his mind was made up, and was not long in beginning the subject each had at heart.

'I'm sorry, cousin 'Lizabeth, that I can't let Netta marry just now.

She's too young, and Howel isn't the lad to study her.'

'Oh! but you can't be knowing, David Prothero, how study he is since his poor father's death.'

'Then let him wait two years, and if he is downright well-conducted, then he may have Netta.'

'Upon my deet! he as can be marrying Miss Rice Rice or any young lady in the country! Mighty condescent, Mr Prothero!'

'Let him marry 'em all, I don't want him.'

'Then you won't let Netta marry my Howels?'

'If he's study in two years, and they are both in the same mind, they may marry, and be hanged to 'em! I never was so bothered in my life.

But, between ourselves, I think it's just as likely your son Howel 'ould be study in two years as my son Owen.'

'Oh, name o' goodness, we don't want Miss Netta! No 'casion to be waiting!'

'Then don't wait, 'ooman! Who wants you to wait?'

Mrs Jenkins hurried back into the house, and left Mr Prothero with his cattle.

'I must be going now, Mrs Prothero--my son Howels too! Thousands and thousands of pounds. Netta, come you upstairs, my dear, whilst I am putting on my bonnet.'

Mrs Prothero was not duenna enough to accompany them upstairs, and consequently Netta gave a note to Mrs Jenkins, cried a little, and helped her to abuse her parents.

'Never you mind, Netta, fach,' were the last words, 'Howels don't be meaning to give you up.'

'Good evening, ma'am; good evening, Mr Owen,' said Mrs Jenkins, as she made the attempt at a curtsey, that caused Owen to show his white teeth again.

'Oh dear, dear! what will be the end of it?' said Mrs Prothero to Owen as Netta sulked upstairs. 'I wish Rowland was at home.'

'Very complimentary to your eldest son!' said Owen, laughing.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE MILLIONAIRE.

Nearly a twelvemonth pa.s.sed, and an autumn morning again hovered over Glanyravon Farm. It would seem that all the inmates of the homestead were sleeping; but there was one already awake and moving furtively about. It was Netta, not usually such an early riser. The curtains of her trim little bed and window were drawn aside to admit all the light that a September twilight could cast upon the chamber in which she had slept since her childhood. A lovely bunch of monthly roses and some leaves of dark green ivy alone looked in upon her in the uncertain gloaming, as if imaging her present and future. She was dressing herself hastily, but with care, in her very best attire. She stood before the gla.s.s braiding and arranging her dark glossy hair, that luxuriant ornament of her bright, rosy face; then she put on the blossom white lace habit-shirt and striped pink and drab silk dress, her kind father's last gift, and the smart shawl and pink bonnet were duly arranged afterwards. Whatever the early visit Netta was about to make, it was evidently a premeditated one. When the attire was quite complete, and she had surveyed herself in the gla.s.s, she suddenly paused and looked around her. In a moment she was putting her room to rights, and pushing stray articles of dress into drawers, until all was quite neat; then she paused again, and glanced at a letter that was lying on her little dressing-table. Turning hastily away from this she opened the window and looked out. The sun had not yet arisen, though there was a streak of light, forerunner of his advent, on the horizon. Mountains, rivers, fields, and woods were all wrapped in a cold, grey mist, but still it was not dark. Netta tore the bunch of roses from the bough and put them in her bosom, then re-closed the window. She took up a large shawl that was lying on a chair, and a small package from underneath and dexterously arranged the shawl so as to fall over the parcel, as she held both in her hand and on her arm. Again she paused a moment and glanced around her. Her face was flushed, and there was moisture in her dark eye.

Oh, pause a little longer and consider, poor Netta! But no. The sudden flash of sunlight into the room terrifies the thoughtless child, and she goes hastily into the pa.s.sage. Quietly she closes her door; stealthily she creeps along. She makes no sound as she steals, like a thief, through the house where she was born some eighteen summers ago. Before one closed door she pauses again--listens. She can hear the breath of the sleepers within. She is on her knees, and represses with difficulty a rising sob, 'Mother! mother! forgive me! G.o.d bless you!' she whispers, as she once more rises and runs down the remainder of the pa.s.sage--downstairs--through the hall--through the parlour, and out by the little gla.s.s door into the garden. In spite of her tears, haste, agitation she cannot pa.s.s that bed of carnations--her mother's treasure--without stopping to gather one fresh and dripping with the air and dews of night. Innocent flowers! they will see her mother that very day; but what of the stray, wandering rose of Glanyravon? Through the garden, and out by the little wicket into the lane; across a field sparkling with dewdrops; over a stile; down another lane; over another stile, and into another field! Here she pauses and glances round. A dark figure at the opposite side of the field seems to a.s.sure her that all is well. She runs quickly across the meadow, and within it, under shelter of the hedge, near a half-open gate, stands Mrs Griffith Jenkins.

'Where is Howel?' asks Netta hastily.

'He did write yesterday to say he 'ould bring the carriage from Swansea to meet us at Tynewydd, and he was sure to be there by six o'clock,'

'Let us make haste then, Aunt 'Lisbeth. Why didn't he come here himself?

I have a great mind to turn back.'

'Come you, Netta, fach! we'll soon be there. See you the letter?'

'Not now--not now,' cries Netta impatiently, walking along the high road as fast as she possibly can. Mrs Jenkins keeps up with her, but is soon out of breath.

'There's Jack Trefortyn; he'll be sure to tell. Aunt 'Lisbeth, I will turn back. Father will be after me. It is too bad,' sobs Netta.

'We are near by now, Netta, fach. Come you!'

The little woman quickened her pace into a short run to keep up with Netta.

'Here's the turnpike; we'll be at Tynewydd 'rectly.'

'I see Tynewydd,' says Netta, straining her eyes to catch sight of some object far down the road; 'there is no carriage--I am sure there is none. Cousin Howel ought to be ashamed of himself.'

Netta runs on very fast, leaving Mrs Jenkins far behind, until she reaches the turning to a lane that leads to a little farm called 'Tynewydd.' She bursts out crying, and stamps her foot as she exclaims,--

'Does he think he's going to do what he likes with me because he's rich?

I'll tell him he shall wait for me, I will!'

Hereupon she turns back and runs faster than before towards Mrs Jenkins.