Gladys, the Reaper Part 79

'I understand, Gladys,' said Miss Gwynne. 'You are quite right. Let them all value you for yourself, and then we will introduce you as--'

'I didn't mean that, indeed, indeed, Miss Gwynne,' said Gladys, her pale face growing red. 'I only wanted to show my grat.i.tude, as I am, to them all. Perhaps even Mr Prothero may excuse me then, and--'

Here Gladys broke down again. She could not explain her own bewildered thoughts; but her friends understood her, and respected the honest pride that would be known, welcomed and beloved for merit, and not for a bettered position and condition. Miss Gwynne saw a vision of Owen in the background, with his handsome, honest, black eyes, and white teeth; but she did not mention what she saw.

'At any rate, I must go and make the best of lame excuses,' she said, 'and leave you in your new relationship, to dry your eyes, and learn to say "Uncle." Such a pleasant name! I always longed for an uncle.'

Miss Gwynne returned to the drawing-room, and told Rowland that Mr Jones had been quite upset by the Welsh hymn that Minette had repeated, having known it under peculiar circ.u.mstances when he was young. She apologised for his non-appearance, and Rowland, seeing that something unusual had occurred, took his departure. She promised Minette a visit to the school, and prevailed on the little girl to allow one of the servants to put her to bed, instead of Gladys. Minette begged Miss Gwynne to let her say her 'English prayers' to her first, which she, of course, did.

Then Freda did her best to amuse Netta until Mrs Jones appeared, and said Gladys was quite ready to a.s.sist Netta, if she liked to retire for the night.

When Netta was in bed, Gladys joined her friends, and they discussed, more calmly than before, their newly-found relationship.

Gladys brought with her her Bible, in which her mother had written her name, and Mr Jones recognised his sister's hand writing. She had also a lock of her mother's hair, and her wedding-ring, and one or two other trifles, that drew fresh tears from a brother's eyes.

Gladys said that she should like, for her own satisfaction, that a certificate of her mother's marriage, and of her birth, should be obtained. Her mother was married, she believed, during the short time she was in Ireland; and she was born, she knew, in the parish where her father's parents lived, to whose care her father had confided her mother. Two children had been born, and died before her birth, during the period that her parents were abroad.

It may be as well to say here, that the certificates were duly procured, through the clergyman of the parish, to whom Mr Jones wrote a statement of the case. Also that letters, written for the gratification of Gladys, to the Protestant and Roman Catholic clergy of her parent's last neighbourhood were duly answered, and confirmed all that Gladys had said of them and of herself from first to last. This, of course, took some time to effect; but I have so far antic.i.p.ated the event, to avoid fanning to it again.

Gladys now recapitulated, more minutely, the circ.u.mstances of her early history, a sketch of which she gave Miss Gwynne and Mrs Prothero when she was recovering from her fever.

There were a few points that she did not mention at that time, which, we will insert for the benefit of the reader, in Gladys' own words.

'My father left my mother in Ireland, and went with his regiment to India. My mother lived with my grandfather, who was old and infirm, but still managed a small farm, in which my mother a.s.sisted. He died, and then my mother kept a school, took in needlework, and did what she could to help out my father's remittances, which were small, but regular. He was severely wounded in the head, and got his discharge upon his corporal's pay. Being a clever man, he soon procured work, as a kind of under-agent, and we lived very happily together for some years. He was never a saving man, so what he earned he spent, and my poor mother spent it with him. I had two brothers and three sisters, and when my father died, rather suddenly, we had nothing but our own exertions to depend upon. My mother and I managed to live and keep the children--how, I scarcely know--till the famine from the failure of the potato crop, and consequent fever and starvation came upon us. G.o.d preserve me, and every one else, from witnessing such misery again! One child died after another, and then the darling mother! I had nothing to give her; literally nothing. Every one round us was in the same state. On her death-bed she was rambling and incoherent, but talked of Wales, and her father and brother.

'"Go to them, Gladys," she said, "when I am gone. Maybe they'll take to ye." "Where, mother dear!" I asked. But she did not hear me. Thank G.o.d!

she clasped her hands and prayed for pardon of her sins through Jesus Christ; and so she died. I don't know how I lived after her--how I buried her--how I came into Wales. I scarcely remember anything, till I awoke from that illness in calm, clean, beautiful Glanyravon; with my mistress's blessed face looking down upon me, and Miss Gwynne waiting on me, and Mr Rowland praying for me.'

For some years past Gladys had succeeded in obtaining a calm and even spirit, by striving to banish these dreadful scenes from her mind, by active labours for others, and abnegation of self. Now, they opened once more the flood-gates of memory, and as the old recollections rushed through, like repressed waters, her strength of mind gave way, and she could do nothing but weep.

'Only to-night--forgive me!' she sobbed. 'I shall be better to-morrow.

But it all comes back, all; even in the moment of my great happiness.'

Her kind friends soothed and comforted her--her uncle wept with her, and by degrees she once more grew calm.

Before they separated for the night, Mr Jones offered up a thanksgiving for the great mercy G.o.d had vouchsafed to them; and commending his newly-found niece to the further protection of that gracious Providence, who had led the orphan to her home; in His presence, and that of his wife and her friends, he solemnly blessed her, and adopted her as his own child.

It need scarcely be added that his wife registered and signed the vow that her husband made.

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE HAPPIEST MAN IN THE WORLD.

Most people know what it is to awake from sleep the morning after a great sorrow; some, also, know what it is to awake after a great and unexpected joy. Gladys opened her eyes upon a dark, thick, cheerless November fog in London, one of the most depressing of all the atmospheric influences. But she did not think of the fog. Although she did not at first fully realise the happiness that she had experienced, and was to experience, she felt, on awakening, a strange sensation of spirits so light, and a heart beating to such cheerful measure, that it all seemed too ethereal to be real. She thought it was the continuation of a blissful dream. For many a long year she had retired to rest, and arisen in the morning calm, resigned, nay, cheerful; but it was the calmness and resignation of a soul attuned by prayer and self-restraint to an equanimity that rarely was disturbed by mirth or pleasure. Now, that soul seemed to dance within her to exhilarating melodies. So happy had been her dreams, so joyous her sleep, that her eyes sparkled unwonted fires when she opened them; and as she jumped out of bed, there was an elasticity in her movements that surprised her very self.

Netta and Minette were still sleeping, and as she dressed herself carefully and neatly, she almost forgot that every one else was not as suddenly raised from sorrow to joy as herself.

'He will come to-day,' she thought, as she smoothed her dark hair, 'and I shall meet him as an equal, no longer a suspicion of my truth. He will not know it yet, but I know it, and oh! the difference of feeling that you can clear yourself by a word when you like. Not to him, for he never doubted--generous, kind Mr Owen! but to his father! to all. How can I be thankful enough! and such an uncle and aunt! It must be a dream; but will he care for me still? so long! and after all my coldness. He has asked me again and again, and each time have I refused him; but then I was an Irish beggar, and nothing more, and I would have died rather than have brought disgrace into his family. And still my promise to his father is binding, and without his consent I never could--but where am I wandering? Maybe he'll not care for me now I am all this older--and he so handsome that he may have any one in and about Glanyravon.'

Gladys cast a shy look into her gla.s.s, and a delicate blush kindled her cheek as those dark violet eyes glanced from beneath their long black fringes. Gladys! you are but a weak woman after all.

When Gladys was dressed, she gently awoke Minette, and took her into the dressing-room to attire her also.

'Gladys, dear, how pretty you look!' exclaimed the child, 'you have a pink cheek, and your eyes are as bright as the sky; and you have such a pretty gown and collar, and everything. You are quite a lady, now you have left off that gown mamma gave you so long ago. Is Uncle Owen, who is coming to-day, as nice as Uncle Rowland? Do you love him as well, Gladys?'

'He is very, very nice, dear, and as kind as any gentleman in the world.'

The little girl clapped her hands.

'I shall like to go to Glanyravon and make mamma quite well.'

Soon after breakfast, Rowland arrived, accompanied by Owen, who had travelled all night.

Gladys was with Netta in her bedroom, but all the rest of the family welcomed Owen. Mr Jones shook him by the hand with peculiar warmth, because he was given to understand that he loved his newly-found niece.

Minette was soon on his knee, and in less than ten minutes had duly informed him that she loved him next to Uncle Rowland and that Gladys told her he 'was the nicest gentleman in the world.'

Owen laughed heartily at this, to conceal his rising colour, and said,--

'And how is Gladys?'

'Quite well; she is coming to Glanyravon with us, to take care of mamma and me.'

Here Mrs Jones interposed, and explained how matters stood.

In a few moments Gladys appeared to say that Netta was ready in her little sitting-room to see her brothers.

Owen was not shy, so he walked bravely across the room to meet Gladys, and to shake hands with her, so thoroughly _con amore_ that if, as Minette expressed it, her cheek was pink when she entered the room, it was crimson when she quitted it.

Mr and Mrs Jones looked at one another with great satisfaction, and somehow or other Rowland's eyes met Miss Gwynne's, and both smiled involuntarily.

'He is a fine young fellow,' said Mrs Jones, when Owen and Rowland had gone upstairs to Netta, accompanied by Minette.

'I almost wonder how two such sons, with such a fine, st.u.r.dy, sensible father, should have had such a silly little sister as that poor child upstairs; but I must go out. Ask them to dinner, my dear, and don't let Gladys tire herself to death before she starts for her journey. Did you ever see any one look prettier in your life than she did when she met that fine young man? What a couple they will make!'

'What a romance you have worked up already, my dear,' said Mrs Jones laughing, 'but certainly one may be proud of Gladys. How thoroughly ladylike she is, and looks. And she is so happy; she told me just now that she felt as if she had suddenly begun a new life.'

'G.o.d grant it may be a happy one, and may He bless you, my dear, for taking to the poor child so kindly.'

Miss Gwynne, who had left the party to put on her bonnet, here appeared, and Mr Jones and she set out on parochial business.

When Rowland and Owen had been some time with Netta, they returned to Mrs Jones, who pressed them to come to dinner. They declined, however, having much to talk of, that could not be discussed in public, even before the kindest of friends. Moreover, when Owen had been in London before, he told his brother that he would not dine in any house as guest where Gladys was considered as a servant. In vain his brother a.s.sured him that she was more friend than servant--she did not dine with her friends, and therefore he would not dine with them.