Gladys, the Reaper

THE MILLIONAIRE'S WIFE.

'Don't you be taking on so, Netta, fach! if you do be crying this way, your eyes 'll be as red as carrots, and Howel 'ont like it.'

'Oh! Aunt 'Lisbeth, I can't help thinking of mother, and how she is vexing about me.'

'Look you at yourself in the glass, Netta, fach! and you 'ont be vexing any more. I never was seeing such a glass as that before. Look you! you can see yourself from the beauty-flowers in the white bonnet—dear! there is a bonnet! and you was looking so well in it—down to them lovely white shoes on your foots, I never was thinking before you had such little foots.'

This conversation takes place whilst Mrs Jenkins is engaged in dressing Netta for her wedding, and in endeavouring at the same time to soothe various ebullitions of grief that burst out ever and anon, between the different acts of the attiring. The girl cannot quite forget the friends she left behind her, when she so suddenly ran away from home. The appeal to her personal appearance is not, however, in vain. She looks in the cheval-glass which draws forth Mrs Jenkins' admiration, and thinks she has seldom seen anything so pretty as the reflection of her own person in her bridal dress. She hastily dries her eyes, and turns round and round several times to assure herself that all is right.

'Ah! Howel is knowing everything!' says Mrs Jenkins. 'Silks and laces, and flowers, and worked-handkerchiefs, and all as white as a lily! And your cheeks a deal redder than any I do see here along! My deet! but you do be looking genteel.'

'Do I look as if I had been crying, aunt?' asks Netta, wetting her eyes with lavender water. 'I'm afraid of Howel and those grand people. I wish he hadn't asked them.'

'Oh, for sham! Netta. There they are, I shouldn't wonder! Yes indeet! says Mrs Jenkins, 'I hear them talking on the stairs.'

A knock at the bedroom door is followed by the entrance of two ladies, apparently mother and daughter; the former a portly and roseate dame, clad in the richest of brocades and white lace shawls—the latter a thin and somewhat yellow damsel, a tired in white and pink bonnet and mantle to match, evidently in bridesmaid's gear.

'Ah I how charming! how beautiful! what a country-flower in London leaves!' exclaim the ladies, rushing up to Netta and kissing her. 'Good morning, Mrs Jenkins, your son has chosen a bewitching young person indeed!'

'Treue for your ladyship,' says Mrs Jenkins, making her very best curtsey, as the ladies alternately shake hands with her.

'Your ladyship' is no less a person than Lady Simpson, the wife of Sir John Simpson, a gentleman who acquired that title on an occasion when William the Fourth, of blessed memory, was fêted in the city. Sir John, having made a considerable fortune in trade, and being blessed with a helpmate of an aspiring mind, has removed from his old neighbourhood to that of Hyde Park, where he is spending the money he earned on the general advancement of his family. This family consists of a son and daughter, who have been highly educated according to the general acceptation of the term. With the son Howel is very intimate, and through him he has long been known to the rest of the family; but it is only since his vast accession of wealth that he has had the distinguished honour of claiming Sir John and Lady Simpson as his particular friends. To them he confided his intended marriage with a beautiful cousin, who, for family reasons, was coming to London, he said, under his mother's protection, to be united to him. They had called on Mrs Jenkins and Netta the previous day, and were invited to the wedding in the various capacities of father, bridesman, and bridesmaid. Previously to their making his mother's acquaintance, Howel informed them that being Welsh, she naturally spoke the language of her country, and was so patriotic that she disliked any other; and said that they must not be surprised at her peculiar English, which was simply a translation of the Welsh idioms into what, to her, was a foreign tongue. He also gave his mother an hour's lecture upon her dress and deportment; and Netta a few hints as to her general behaviour, which, whilst it enchanted the elder, frightened the younger lady. Thus 'forewarned,' if not 'fore-armed' the forces of Simpson and Jenkins were thrown together.

Lady Simpson is an average specimen of a vulgar woman aping gentility; her daughter of a would-be fine lady.

After they have sufficiently admired Netta's dress, and put the finishing touches to it, Miss Simpson informs Netta of her duty as bride elect.

'Of course, my dear, papa will take you to the hymeneal altar, and our friend Captain Dancy will take me.'

'Oh! I hope there is no other stranger,' gasps Netta.

'Only a particular friend of my brother's and of Mr Jenkins'. Do not be alarmed, you shy little dove.'

'Netta, fach!' whispers Mrs Jenkins, 'the ladies was knowing what is right'

'Then my brother must take up Mrs Jenkins, and Mr Jenkins, mamma. I declare we shall be a charming party; and remember to take off your glove, dear, and give it to me.'

'We had better go downstairs now,' said Lady Simpson. 'Bridegrooms are very impatient at these times.'

Lady Simpson took the blushing, frightened Netta by the hand, and led her into the drawing-room. Truly the poor child did look like a lovely country rose, as Miss Simpson had not inaptly called her. Howel led her, proud of her beauty, to the portly Sir John, who patted her kindly on the cheeks, and reminded Netta so strongly of her father that the tears sprung into her eyes. Howel's frown soon checked them, and a thundering knock at the door, followed by the entrance of Mr Simpson, junior, and his friend, Captain Dancy, turned her attention from the father to the son. The look of decided admiration that the new comers cast upon her, quite revived her drooping spirits, and she smiled, curtseyed, and blushed as becomingly and naively as Howel could have wished.

Mr Horatio Simpson was a young man very much adorned with chains, rings, studs, and black curls. He had, moreover, a very fine waistcoat, and was altogether well fitted by his tailor. His face was not unlike that of an otter. He used grand words when he spoke, but did not tire his companions by quite as voluble a tongue as did his mother. He was one of those fine gentlemen who would, or could neither plod nor dash at his studies, and who was quite willing to take all his knowledge second hand from any one who would kindly impart it.

Captain Dancy was so entirely his devoted friend, that he gladly gave him the advantage of his superior parts, in return for various favours which Miss Simpson also aided in conferring.

Captain Dancy is a tall, fashionable-looking man, with what Miss Simpson and her mamma consider a splendid figure. 'And such a lovely moustache!' Miss Simpson usually adds with a sigh. The moustache and hair are, however, inclined to red, and the face within them is not unlike that of a fox. Perhaps some of his friends might be surprised if they found him in the present company; but he would do anything to oblige Simpson and Jenkins, who are, in turn, always at his service, in more ways than one.

After a little preliminary conversation, Mr Simpson offers Netta his arm; and followed by the rest of the bridal party, leads the way downstairs. A smart little liveried page is at the door, and two fine carriages are in the street, each with its horses and coachman ornamented with bridal favours.

'We cannot make all our arrangements' as I could wish, whispers Howel to Miss Simpson, 'owing to circumstances; or I should have met you at the church from another house.'

Netta, Mr Simpson, and the two ladies are in the first carriage, which soon arrives at St James's Church, followed by the other. How the bouquet in Netta's hand trembles, as she takes Mr Simpson's arm, and walks with him up the steps, and finally through the centre aisle to the altar! She has never been in a London church before, and the varied colours of that magnificent painted window strike her with wonder even now.

Netta turns very pale as she stands by the altar, and waits until Howel comes up. Sir John whispers some kindly words, which so forcibly remind her of her father, that she can scarcely repress her tears. She glances at Howel, as he stands opposite, gazing at her, and sees that his handsome face is calm and determined. He smiles as she looks at him, which reassures her. A prettier bride could never stand before an altar; Howel feels this and is satisfied. And Netta has loved her cousin all her life, and thinks him perfect. She can truly say that she leaves father, mother, all for him.

And these are the feelings with which they receive the first words of the earnest-spoken grey-haired priest, who tells them that they are assembled in the sight of God, to be joined indissolubly together.

Netta once read through the marriage service years ago. She had forgotten it, and would have read it again, but she did not take away either her Bible or prayer book when she fled from her home, and did not like to ask Howel to buy her one. Now, as the clergyman continues his exhortation, the words sound to her as some solemn and wonderful address spoken for her alone. She listens in spite of a multitude of feelings that are struggling within her, and is struck with fear when she is adjured to confess, if there is any impediment to her being lawfully wedded. She knows that her father's anger and her mother's sorrow are broad impediments in her road to happiness.

Her hand trembles, as he who holds the office that offended father ought to hold, takes it and places it in that of the clergyman It trembles still more as she hears the question put to her concerning her future conduct to him, so soon to be her husband, and to think she must audibly respond. Howel has already answered firmly and boldly, and she strives to say the final, 'I will,' firmly too, but her voice falters; she is too much absorbed in her own emotions to notice how carelessly and thoughtlessly Howel repeats his solemn promise to her after the clergyman, but she feels him press her hand and is reassured. Tremblingly, but in all earnestness of purpose, she makes her vow to 'love, cherish, and obey' him whom she has resolutely chosen for her husband; and, as if touched by her manner, and by the searching glance of the clergyman, Howel becomes more serious as he places the ring on her finger and repeats the last words in those great and awful names, which it is sin to utter but with humility and prayer.

Truly, as they kneel before the altar to receive the final blessing of the clergyman, they are a sight for much joy or much grief. Who shall say what the end will be? Two human beings joined in one to all eternity!

As that prayer and blessing are being spoken, a bright flash of lightning darts through the church, followed by a heavy peal of thunder; suddenly a great gloom fills the sacred edifice, and a storm of hail and rain dashes against the windows.

Poor Netta is superstitious and as easily frightened as a child; she starts and gives an involuntary little cry as the lightning flashes before her eyes, and the thunder seems to shake her as she kneels. She turns paler and paler as the storm continues, and can scarcely hear the concluding psalms, prayers, and exhortation, for her fear of the lightning which fitfully and at intervals slants through the painted windows.

Stronger nerves than Netta's have been shaken by a thunderstorm on a wedding-day. Even Howel involuntarily quails at this evil omen, and Mrs Jenkins clasps her hands and mutters a Welsh proverb. She and Netta had been congratulating each other on the sunshine of the morning, and such a storm was bad indeed.

However, the service proceeds, and then he who addresses the newly-married pair in God's name, makes himself heard in spite of the pattering hail. He seems the more impressive as he cannot but remark Howel's frowning brow and Netta's agitation.

It is a relief to all the wedding-party when the last words are spoken and Howel leads his bride into the vestry. By this time tears are running fast down her pale cheeks, and Howel's efforts at encouragement, and the warm kiss he gives her, fail to dry them; Sir John Simpson's fatherly embrace rather serves to increase than diminish the emotion, and poor Netta is conscious that Howel must be very displeased.

She mutters something about her great fear of lightning and thunder; signs her name even more stragglingly than usual, and is at last led by Howel through the church to the carriage.

'I don't wonder she is frightened and nervous,' says Miss Simpson? 'I am sure I should have fainted if such a storm had come on at my marriage. It is—'

'Nonsense!' exclaims Howel, somewhat rudely, as they drive quickly through Jermyn Street, up St James's Street, down Piccadilly, and into Half Moon Street, without much farther conversation, whilst the storm rolls on. Netta hurries upstairs and gives way to a burst of sobs and tears; Howel follows, and knowing the best way to console her, takes her in his arms, and having told her that she is his own little wife now, begs her to remember all the grand things they are going to do.

'You are a great lady now, Netta. We must astonish the little people down in Wales. Think of Paris, and that Lady Nugent and Miss Rice Rice, and all your old rivals will hear of your being there, and soon see you return smarter and richer than any one,'

'But the storm, cousin Howel! All those solemn words! I am frightened to death!'

'Silly little Netta! what has the storm to do with you and me? All our prosperity and happiness are beginning.'

'But they say, "Blessed is the bride the sun shines on," and that thunder and lightning are such a bad omen.'

'Don't be'—a fool, Howel was going to say, but he modified it into 'Don't be such a silly little puss, but dry your eyes, and come and make yourself agreeable to our first visitors. Ours, Netta dear.'

Netta did as she was bid, and in a short time was at the head of the table, on which a wedding-breakfast had been duly placed, according to the general rules laid down for such occasions. Howel had given carte blanche to a fashionable confectioner, and everything was as it should be for the quiet and private marriage of a man of large fortune. The cake was splendidly ornamented, the champagne iced, and the other viands and wines in keeping with them; the hired waiters vied with Sir John's servants in propriety of demeanour, and Howel's page was as pompous as pages generally are.

All Netta's pride and ambition returned when she saw herself mistress at a table more luxuriously spread than that of Mr Gwynne, and she soon began to enjoy her new dignity very much.

'I am to have a French maid when I get to Paris,' she said to Miss Simpson. 'Howel does not like to take one with us, and we shall form our establishment when we return.'

Howel laughed in his sleeve when he heard this: he managed to hear every word that Netta uttered, and gave her an approving glance; he also saw that his friends, Captain Dancy and Mr Horatio Simpson, greatly admired his beautiful young wife, and little cousin Netta rose in his, estimation.

'We shall soon meet in Paris, I hope,' said Captain Dancy. 'Simpson and I are going to run over next week. I should like to assist in showing you some of the lions, Mrs Howel Jenkins,'

'Lions! name o' goodness don't tak' her to see them!' exclaims Mrs Jenkins, now put off her guard by fear.

'Ah! you have not that Welsh figure; it means—' began Miss Simpson, but she was interrupted by Mr Simpson proposing the health of the bride and bridegroom.

The breakfast went off very well, and the champagne went round only too often; ladies as well as gentlemen were flushed by this exhilarating beverage, and Mrs Griffith Jenkins was beginning to be very voluble on the subject of 'my son Howels,' when that gentleman gave her a look that silenced her, and that reminded Netta that he had told her to look at Lady Simpson when it was time for her to put on her travelling-dress.

The ladies went to their retiring-room, whilst the gentlemen drank more champagne, and arranged various Parisian amusements.

It was understood that, as Howel had no friends to leave behind him for the final settlement of lodgings and the like, his guests were to depart before he and his bride left. They accordingly took their leave as soon as Netta reappeared in fashionable travelling costume. No sooner were they fairly gone than Howel set to work to pay and arrange; this done, he called Netta to look at their wedding cards. There were a great number directed to different friends, some to acquaintances in their old neighbourhood, and one to David Prothero, Esq., Glanyravon.

Netta quailed but said nothing.

'Now let me read you this, Netta? it is for the Welshman, and every one will see it:—"On the 16th instant, at St James's Church, Piccadilly, London, Howel Jenkins, Esq., of our county, was married to Miss Prothero, daughter of D. Prothero, Esq., of Glanyravon. Sir John Simpson gave away the lovely bride, and the wedding-breakfast was attended by a select, but fashionable party of friends."'

'Father will see that,' said Netta; 'he will be in such a passion.'

'Serve him right,' replied Howel, and called the page and sent the letters to the post.

The carriage was at the door, and the luggage in. Mrs Griffith Jenkins was busily engaged in packing up the cake and a spare bottle of champagne, together with a few other confections' in a stray hamper.

'Make haste, mother,' cried Howel.

'Stop you, Howel, bach! in a minute. We must be wishing you joy at home; and I should like to be sending cousin Prothero some of this grand cake.'

At last Mrs Jenkins and her hamper were ready, and the trio started for the Paddington Station.

When they arrived there Howel took a second-class ticket for his mother as far as Swansea, telling her to take a first-class from that place home. She was to sleep with some friends at Swansea.

'We mustn't waste money, mother.'

'Treue for you, Howel.'

'Tell everybody at home of the grand wedding.'

'Don't be afraid of that.'

When Howel had seen his mother off, he and Netta drove to their station, and, per first-class carriage, with page in second, steamed off to Folkestone, which was to be the first stage of their life-journey.

THE SERVANT.

We must now leave Netta and her husband for a time, and return to the morning when Netta left her home to go forth in search of a new one.

The breakfast-table was spread at the farm, and all were assembled except Netta.

'Owen, go and call Netta,' said Mr Prothero, seating himself before some smoking rashers of bacon; 'she's always late, I'll say that for her.'

Owen did his father's bidding, but returned exclaiming,—

'She is up and out of her room. There must be something wonderful to make her go out before breakfast.'

'Such a lovely morning,' said Mrs Prothero, 'I daresay she is in the garden.'

'Well, let her find her way in,' said the farmer; 'she knows the hour, and we'll fall to. Say grace, mother, if you please.'

Mrs Prothero said grace, and the trio sat down to breakfast.

'I expect brother Jo and Mrs Jonathan to-day,' said Mr Prothero; 'they are going to a clerical meeting, and are coming here on their way back.'

'Dear me!' said Mrs Prothero. 'What can we have for dinner?'

'Eggs and bacon. What better?' said the farmer. 'But you needn't be afraid, they 'ont come till tea. Owen, I wish you'd just look out and see after that idle slut Netta.'

Off started Owen with a piece of bread and butter in his hand.

'Mother, why don't you make that girl more regular?' asked Mr Prothero.

'Oh, David! you know she doesn't mind me.'

'Then you should make her.'

Mrs Prothero could have said, 'You should have helped me to make her all her life,' but she refrained.

'Can't find her,' cried Owen, returning.

'Perhaps she is ill upstairs,' suggested Mrs Prothero, rising, and running up to her room.

The room was empty, as we know, and Mrs Prothero was about to leave it again, when she went to the open window to see if she could espy Netta from it. She passed the dressing-table as she did so, and perceiving a letter, glanced at the direction. She was surprised to find it addressed to herself, and on a nearer examination saw that it was in Netta's handwriting. It was with a trembling hand and foreboding heart that she took it up and broke the seal After she had done this, she was some time before she could summon courage to open it. When she did so, her brain swam as she read the following words, written with trembling fingers:—

'DEAR MOTHER,—I am going to marry cousin Howel. Father won't consent, so we are going to London to be married. I hope you will forgive me for not telling you, but I knew it was no good, as father is so much against it. I am sure I shall be very happy, only I should like to have been married properly at home; but it is not my fault that father would not hear of it, and that Howel would not wait. We are going to France and a great many other countries, and it grieves me to think how long it will be before I shall see you again. I hope you and father will forgive me? as Howel is a gentleman with plenty of money, and we have loved one another all our lives. I don't see why we were not allowed to marry like anybody else, instead of being obliged to go so far away; I am sure it would have been better if father had let us. Dear mother, you were always very good to me, and I am sorry if I ever offended you; but father called me bad names, and was very cross; he will be vexed, perhaps, when he sees how grand and happy I am.

'Good-bye for a little time, my dear mother. Don't be very angry with your dutiful, affectionate daughter,     JANETTA.'

The word 'dutiful' was scratched through and affectionate added.

When Mrs Prothero had read this letter, she turned very pale, and stood like one in a dream; she could not realise the contents. That Netta was wilful and obstinate she knew, but she had never known her guilty of resolute disobedience; she felt very faint, and sat down on a chair opposite the open door—she tried to rise to go downstairs to her husband, but found that her head was too giddy, and she could not move; she put her hand before her eyes, and became unconscious.

At this moment Gladys passed down the passage, and seeing Mrs Prothero in this strange attitude, went into the room and asked if anything was the matter. Receiving no answer, she put her hand tenderly on Mrs Prothero's, and removing it from before her face, saw that she was pale, and appeared to have fainted. She ran hastily downstairs, and finding Owen alone, told him that his mother was ill. He followed her upstairs, and soon perceived that Mrs Prothero was really in a kind of swoon. Whilst he supported her, Gladys brought water and such restoratives as she could procure; she begged him to go for his father, and whilst he was gone, succeeded in restoring Mrs Prothero. At the sight of the open letter, however, she sank again into a fainting fit.

Mr Prothero and Owen appeared.

'Mother, what is the matter? Name o' goodness what is the matter?' said Mr Prothero in great alarm.

Gladys pointed out the letter to Owen, who glanced at it whilst his father took his wife into his arms.

Gladys put vinegar to her temples and nostrils, and begged Mr Prothero to take her to the open window; as he did so he saw Owen reading a letter.

'How can you read now, you unnatural son?' he said sternly.

'Oh, father! father, Netta!' he exclaimed.

'Never mind her; think of your mother, ten thousand times as precious.'

At last Gladys succeeded in restoring Mrs Prothero to consciousness and when she found herself in her husband's arms, with Owen bending over her, she burst into a flood of hysterical tears, which partially relieved her.

'Oh, Netta! Netta!' was all she could say, when they asked her what was the matter.

'Never mind her, mother, but get better,' said Mr Prothero, his usually rosy face almost as pale as his wife's.

'If you please, sir, we will lay her on the bed,' said Gladys.

'Not here—not here,' gasped Mrs Prothero.

They took her to her own room, and Gladys said,—'Perhaps, sir, if you would leave her to me a little I could get her into bed, I am used to illness.'

Mr Prothero looked at the girl, and saw her eyes full of tears, but her face was calm and pale, and seemed to indicate a self-possession that no one else present had.

'I will come back again soon, mother,' he said as he left the room, followed by Owen.

When they were gone, Mrs Prothero gave way to an uncontrollable grief, and threw herself upon the neck of the girl Gladys.

'What will he say? what will he do when he knows it all?' she sobbed.

'If you only hope and pray, ma'am, perhaps all will be right that troubles you now,' faltered Gladys.

'My only girl! to be so wilful, so disobedient!'

'May I ask what has happened to Miss Netta?'

'She has run away with her cousin, and her father will never forgive her—never!'

'Ah! that was what my poor mother did; but she was happy with my father; and Mr Jenkins is rich and kind. Take comfort, ma'am, it may not be so very bad.'

Gladys managed to get Mrs Prothero into bed, who, happily, did not see the effect produced by Netta's letter on her husband. Whilst she was shedding quiet tears on her pillow, he was raging with furious passion to his son. Over and over again did he comment on every word of the letter, sometimes with keen irony, sometimes with a burst of rage, until Owen endeavoured to suggest pursuit.

'Go after her! the ungrateful, disobedient, good-for-nothing hussey! No, not if she were stopping a mile off instead of whirling away in her grand coach and four nobody knows where. Let her go, the impertinent baggage! "Father 'ont consent! father was very cross! father had better let us marry! he will be sorry when he sees how grand and happy I am! father called me bad names!" I wish I had called her worse! she deserves every name that was ever written!'

'But, perhaps,' suggests Owen, 'she will be happy, and Howel will be steady.'

'Steady! hold your tongue and don't be a fool! Make a drunkard steady! make a bad son steady! make a gambler steady! make a horse-racer steady! make—make—make—hold your tongue, sir: don't say a word for the ungrateful girl—never mention her name to me again—I never wish to see her face more as long as I live—I—I—I—'

Mr Prothero's passion choked his words. Could Netta have suddenly returned and seen her father shaking with suppressed grief, his face crimson with rage, and his hands and teeth clenched, and her mother pale and weeping on her bed, she would, I think, have paused longer before she caused them this great grief.

Mr Prothero returned to his wife before his passion was calmed. He found her sitting up in bed wringing her hands, and crying as if her heart would break.

'Now, mother, there's no good in this,' began the farmer. 'That girl don't deserve tears and lamentations, and I 'ont have 'em. We 'ont have the house turned upside down because a bad, obstinate, ungrateful daughter has run away with a miser's son, and a good-for-nothing spendthrift. Let 'em go, I say! I 'ouldn't stir a step to bring 'em back—'

'Oh, David! dear, dear husband! if only you will find out that they are married; if only you would send some one to see that Howel marries her! This is all—all—all! I will never name her again! I will try to forget her—I will do all you wish! but for my sake, for yours, for all, for God's sake, see to this, or I shall die.'

Mr Prothero was cowed at once by this passionate burst of grief. He had never seen his submissive, patient little wife excited in this way before, for never before had she felt so deep a pain. Her only daughter!

'God help me! God help me!' she sobbed, when she had controlled her great emotion. 'I know I have indulged her—spoilt her perhaps. I know she is proud and wilful, and obstinate; but oh! to disobey us all—to go off, she doesn't know where—with Howel, too, who has no religion, nothing to keep him pure and honest—this is too much! too hard! No, David, bach! it is no good to be angry now—if you won't go after her I must.'

'Stop you, mother, stop you! we'll see the slut married anyhow; that is to say, Howel shall marry her—who ever doubted that? but I'll never set eyes on her again as long as I live, I 'ont.'

Whilst Mr Prothero was speaking, Gladys, who had been waiting upon Mrs Prothero until that moment, slipped out of the room, and ran in search of Owen. She found him amongst servants making inquiries.

'Mr Owen, may I speak with you if you please.'

Owen followed her into the hall.

'Oh! sir, if you would go after Miss Netta, now that the master is willing, at once; may be you will save your mother's life. If she goes on this way, she will surely be very ill.'

'What use would it be for me to go after her? The cow-boy saw her pass at about five this morning, and she is at Swansea by this time. My father ought to have let 'em marry, and get on together like other young couples.'

'But, Mr Owen, the mistress is afraid—she wants to be sure—she would be happier, sir, if some one could see them married!'

'Oh! that's the way the wind blows! You may tell mother that I'll try to track them—but it won't be of any use. At any rate it will calm her to think we are making the attempt. You write to my brother Rowland, Gladys, and tell him of this affair; but the truth is, we must make the best of it. They are off to London to be married, and 'tis no good to try to look for 'em there.'

Here Shanno entered.

'Mr Owen, Mr Jones, Tenewydd, did tell Mr Thomas, Trefortyn, who did tell John, blacksmith, who did tell Betto, that he saw Miss Netta and Mrs Jenkins, tallow-chandler, this morning about six o'clock, and they did get into a carriage by there.'

'Go and tell mother that Aunt Jenkins was with Netta, Gladys, and I'll go and see whether Mr Jones really saw her or not.'

Gladys returned to her mistress, who had become more quiet, and was trying to persuade Mr Prothero to go after the fugitives.

'Mr Owen is gone, ma'am,' said Gladys, 'and Mr Jones, of Tynewydd, saw Miss Netta this morning with Mrs Griffith Jenkins, and they got into a carriage together.'

'Thank God that 'Lizbeth was with her,' said Mrs Prothero.

'The deceitful, pompous old vagabond,' thundered Mr Prothero. 'She to connive and contrive! fit mother for such a son. They 'ont come to no good end. No, mother, I can't, nor I 'ont go after 'em; Netta has made her own bed, and she must lie on it.'

'Mr Owen is gone, ma'am,' whispered Gladys. 'Try to take comfort; there is One who can make all our rough ways straight, and will bring poor Miss Netta home again, if we pray for it.'

'What's the girl preaching about?' said Mr Prothero, glancing sternly at Gladys, who was silenced at once. 'Now, mother, we mustn't let that undutiful girl upset us. I must go to the wheat-field—you must—' he looked at his wife, and changed what he was going to say to, 'lie in bed.'

'No, Davy, I can't lie in bed, I must go and look for Netta.'

'Now, wife, I 'ont have none of this nonsense. You must either lie in bed or go about your work. The whole house sha'n't be turned topsey-turvey for a baggage like that.'

Mr Prothero left the room, and his wife insisted upon getting up.

'If you could pray for her, ma'am, you would be happier, and perhaps poor Miss Netta might be helped in a way we cannot see.'

'Pray for me, Gladys, I cannot think or pray for myself, I am so bewildered.'

The two earnest-minded women knelt down by the bedside, and Gladys offered up a simple prayer in her clear, strong language, for the 'poor lamb who had strayed from the fold;' in which the mother joined in the midst of her sobs and tears. When they arose from their knees, Mrs Prothero kissed Gladys, and said she would go downstairs, and try to work, and seek to keep her heart in prayer.

And the day wore through, until the evening brought Mr and Mrs Jonathan Prothero. For the first time, Mrs Jonathan comforted her sister-in-law.

'Now, really, I do not see why you should be so very much distressed,' she said. 'Howel is a fine, clever young man, with plenty of money. He is sure to make his way into good society, and to place Netta in a superior position. Of course, it was very wrong of her to elope, very; but your husband is so obstinate that they knew he would never consent, and what else were they to do? I confess I should have done the very same thing. As to his not marrying her after all, that is absurd. He is devotedly attached to her, and he knows that with her beauty and spirit, she will soon be fit for good society.'

Mr Jonathan was not so successful with his brother. After saying that he had seen a carriage and pair pass at about six that morning, he proceeded to offer consolation.

'It is according to nature, brother. Since the creation, the man has cleaved to the woman and the woman to the man. You married according to your fancy, so did I; so have men and women ever since the world began. It may turn out better than you imagine.'

'Brother Jo!' thundered the farmer, 'hold your tongue. I know Howel better than you do, or anybody else, except Rowland. I 'ont hear any more about 'em, and the less you say the better. She's no daughter o' mine any more.'

With this Mr Prothero walked away, leaving his brother very much perplexed and distressed, but comforting himself with hoping that time would soften even his choleric relative.

Owen returned about ten o'clock. He had ridden to the inn where Howel had changed horses, and learnt the name of the house whence the fly came; had left his own horse and taken another, and gone on to Swansea, where he found from the drivers that the trio had gone direct to London. Thinking it useless to try to track them farther, he returned, fully impressed with the wisdom of Howel in running off with what he couldn't get by fair means.

'Such a row as father makes,' he soliloquised. 'Why, I should do the very same thing to-morrow. And Howel's a decent chap too; will be, at least, when he's sown a few more wild oats. But if Netta doesn't lead him a dance I'm mistaken. She's father all over. There's a difference between her and that Irish girl! My wig! if she isn't a quiet one. But I never saw such eyes as hers in all my life, or such a sweet temper. I wonder what father would say if I ran off with her, and took her a voyage or two to give her a little more colour. That's all she wants to make her a downright angel'

THE COLONEL.

The next day it was evident to every one that Mrs Prothero was very ill. She had never had any very extraordinary misfortunes or troubles, and the elopement of an only daughter was an event to her so dreadful and unexpected that it seemed as bad, or worse, than her death. As nothing more was to be gleaned concerning Netta, and further inquiries were literally useless—indeed, Mr Prothero would not hear of their being made—Mrs Prothero gave way to her grief, and her husband's most passionate demonstrations of displeasure failed to frighten her into her usual calm submission to him and his humours.

Owen paid a visit to Mrs Jenkins' abode, and heard from the servant left in charge that she was not expected home for some time. Owen bribed the woman to let him know when her mistress returned, and comforted his mother by assuring her that he would find out all about Netta from Aunt 'Lizbeth, whose tongue was too well oiled to stop going.

Mr and Mrs Jonathan offered to remain at the farm, but as they rather irritated Mr Prothero by their evident inclination to take up the defence of the offenders, Owen told his aunt that she had better write to Lady Payne Perry about Netta, as there was always a chance of great people hearing the news. Owen was very well aware that his aunt could not possibly write to her aristocratic cousin with the pens, ink, and paper in general use at the farm, and that she would be obliged to go to her davenport at the vicarage, where he already saw her, in imagination, with the finest satin letter paper before her, mending her pen into the most delicate of points.

Accordingly they took their leave, with a promise to return on Monday, and were soon succeeded by Miss Gwynne, who, having heard of the elopement, came to see Mrs Prothero.

'If you could prevail on the mistress to go to bed, ma'am,' said Gladys when she opened the door to her, 'I would be for ever thankful to you; she is much too ill to be about, and she has done nothing but mope and fret all day.'

Miss Gwynne went straight into the dairy, where Mrs Prothero was making butter.

'So Netta has taken the law into her own hands, Mrs Prothero. So much the better; I shouldn't grieve about it if I were you. It is a grand thing for her.'

'Not to disobey us and run away, Miss Gwynne? she would be better doing her father's bidding than marrying a lord, much less Howel.'

'But you are not going to make yourself ill and miserable about it. Since it is done, you may as well make the best of it; but you must go to bed and keep quiet, to-day at least. You are not fit to see all the people who are already on their way to condole or congratulate. You will have half the parish here before night; I passed old Nancy, Cwmriddle, hobbling down the lane, and she will be here shortly.'

'Oh, I couldn't see them, Miss Gwynne.'

'Then you must go to bed to avoid it. Do be advised, you look so ill.'

'When Miss Gwynne so far forgot herself as to be persuasive instead of commanding, she was irresistible. She put her hand so gently on Mrs Prothero's shoulder, and looked so kindly into her tearful eyes, that the poor woman began to cry afresh. The sound of a stick knocking at the back door completed the victory, and Mrs Prothero went sobbing upstairs, whilst Gladys opened the door to admit Nancy, Cwmriddle, and another gossip who had overtaken her. Mr Prothero came into the yard at the same time.

'Well, sir, to be sure; only to think of Miss Netta,' began the old woman in Welsh.

'If you're come here to talk about her, I'll thank you to go away again, and tell everybody you meet that they may have their nine days' wonder about us anywhere but here,' roared Mr Prothero into Nancy's ear, who was very deaf.

The old crones, knowing Mr. Prothero well, turned away quicker than they came, and soon began to do his bidding, perceiving that he was in an 'awful way.'

'Mr Prothero, do you know I have sent Mrs Prothero to bed,' began Miss Gwynne, advancing towards him; 'she looks so very ill and unlike herself that I am sure you must be careful of her for a time.'

'All that ungrateful, good-for-nothing daughter of ours, Miss Gwynne. What would she care if she were to kill her mother? I know you are a true lady and a kind friend, miss, and have more sense than all the rest of the country put together, so I don't mind telling you what I think. Those that disobey their parents'll be seure to come to a bad end.'

'We will hope the best, Mr Prothero; and you must remember that you have your sons to comfort you.'

'Fine comfort to be seure. There's Owen as wild as an untrained colt, and Rowland such a grand man up in London that he 'ont know his own father by-and-by. Dining with bishops and rectors, and as fine as my lord. I always told my wife that all Mrs Jonathan's eddication was too much for us, and so it is turning out. We shall be left in our old age to shift for ourselves; one son at sea, without a shirt to his back; another preaching upon a hundred a-year—gentleman Rowland I call him; and the third in a workhouse, maybe. And all this because brother Jo must needs bring a fine lady amongst us, and with her nothing but grammar-schools, boarding-schools, and colleges. My wife always spoilt that girl.'

'Perhaps you helped a little bit, Mr Prothero,' said Miss Gwynne, smiling, to stop the farmer's flow of words. 'But one couldn't help spoiling poor—'

'There, don't you go for to take her part, miss. Name o' goodness, let alone the girl. Beg pardon for being so rude.'

Here Gladys appeared, who had followed her mistress upstairs.

'Sir, the mistress is very ill. I think she would like to see you. Perhaps you had better have a doctor.'

'Never had a doctor in my house since Netta was born, that's the trouble she brought with her; I'd as soon have an undertaker. Send you for a doctor, and everybody in the house is seure to be ill. He's infectious. Excuse me, Miss Gwynne, whilst I go and see what's the matter.'

Miss Gwynne waited until she heard Mr Prothero come down from his wife's room, calling busily for Owen, who was in the wheat-field, and telling him to go and fetch Dr Richards. She then called Gladys, and said she should have whatever her mistress could fancy from the Park, and that she would come again in the afternoon and see how she was.

This done, Miss Gwynne went her own erratic way, which led her over stiles, and through fields, and into various cottages, where she alternately scolded, lectured, and condoled, accordingly as she thought their inmates deserved the one or the other. She rarely left them, however, without giving some substantial proof of the interest she felt in their wants and trials, either by promises of food or clothing, or by money given then and there. She finally anchored in a pretty school-house that she had lately prevailed on her father to build, close by the Park, where she found Miss Hall patiently superintending the needlework of the girls. She gave two or three quick nods to the children, and they curtseyed and bowed on her entrance, and then told Miss Hall it was twelve o'clock, and she had had quite enough teaching for one morning.

'I don't see what use it is having a school, if half the children are to stay away,' she said to the mistress.

'It is the harvest, ma'am; they stay at home to take care of the younger children; that is why we have so few.'

'Yes, and half go to the Dissenting schools; I see them creeping out. Now, children,' turning to the terrified urchins, who were just about to leave the room, if I see any of you going to any other school but this, or going away from church to the meeting-houses, you shall neither have new frocks, hats, nor shawls, nor shall you come to the tea-party I am going to give you soon; do you hear?'

'Yes, ma'am—yes, ma'am,' muttered the children as they curtseyed and bowed and slipped away.

As Freda and Miss Hall walked through the park to the house, the former grew very excited in her manner.

'I tell you what it is, Nita,' she said, 'Lady Nugent is doing everything in her power to win papa, and as soon as Miss Nugent marries, or rather as soon as somebody marries her fortune, she will get papa to marry her, I am sure of it. She must propose for him herself, for he will never have the courage to do so; I see through her, and I am sure you must do the same. He is flattered by the constant attentions, and little notes, and insinuating manners of a very handsome, fashionable, agreeable woman; and she thinks Glanyravon Park and a man of fortune that she will be able to turn round her fingers, better than the jointure she will have to live upon when her daughter leaves her. I was actually disgusted with her yesterday; it was what I call a dead set; if he marries her I shall hang myself, for live with her I never will; I positively detest her.'

'Oh! Freda; those are the old expressions of years gone by. But you are jumping at a conclusion.'

'Not at all; papa always stands up for Lady Nugent and her insipid daughter. You know he is a thorough gentleman himself and does not understand such a maneuvering woman. I told him so the other day, and he was quite angry; and I am sure she sets him against me. Why will you not try to marry papa, if he must marry again? and you are the only person I could tolerate for a step-mother.'

'My dear Freda,' said Miss Hall, laughing, 'your papa would as soon think of Miss Rice Rice as of me.'

'You are quite mistaken, he has always admired you very much, only you are so dreadfully reserved with him. You won't see that he wants some one who can talk to and for him, to save him the trouble. This Lady Nugent does with the most contemptible tact; and does it so cleverly that nobody sees through her. If you will only try, and just propose at the right moment, I am convinced papa would have you. If he marries her, I say good-bye to Glanyravon for ever.'

'You are so impetuous, Freda; I am sure your papa has never thought of it.'

'Not exactly in a downright way, nor will he till Lady Nugent makes the proposal; then he will be rather frightened at first, and finally think that she will head his table more gracefully than I shall, and be less dictatorial—and I shall go into a convent.'

'Better marry yourself, my dear.'

'Marry who? The only person who would really care to have me, whether I had a fortune or not, is Sir Hugh Pryse, and I could no more marry him than—than—Mr Rice Rice, or Major Madox, who thinks only of the heiress of Glanyravon.'

'But you have refused half-a-dozen more, and have not even taken the trouble to try to like any one of them!'

'They were all in love with the Park, not with me; and I certainly never mean to try to like any one. It must be true love with me, or none at all. I shall die an old maid, and unless you will, just for my sake, try to cut out Lady Nugent, I daresay you and I will nurse the black cat together.'

Freda's conversation was checked by the sound of horses' hoofs behind; she turned sound and saw a gentleman riding slowly up the drive. He soon overtook them, and raising his hat, said,—

'Miss Gwynne! I am sure it must be Miss Gwynne; am I right?'

Freda bowed.

'You do not remember me! twelve years make a great difference! and you were a child when I left.'

'Colonel Vaughan! Oh! I am so glad to see you!' claimed Freda. 'And papa will be charmed; we heard you were in England, but did not know you were in this county.'

Colonel Vaughan dismounted, and shook hands with Freda, evidently with all his heart, then glancing at Miss Hall, started, and said,—

'Yes—no—I beg your pardon, surely not Miss Hall.'

'Yes,' said Miss Hall, colouring slightly, and holding out her hand, I am very glad to welcome you home again, but can well imagine you did not expect to see me here.'

By this time they were at the house, and Freda was planning introducing Colonel Vaughan to her father as a stranger, and seeing whether he would recognise him or not.

She accordingly preceded him to the study, and said to Mr Gwynne, 'A gentleman wishes to see you, papa.'

Mr Gwynne rose and made his bow, and motioned to a seat in his usually nervous manner.

'How do you do, Mr Gwynne? Don't you know me?' said the colonel, standing up before him.

'I beg your pardon—no—I do not think I have ever—impossible! It cannot be my godson, Gwynne Vaughan?'

'The very same!' said the colonel. 'I only came down last night, and this is the first place I have visited.'

'I am very glad to see you, my dear fellow,' said Mr Gwynne, absolutely rising from his chair.

'And this was what the bells were ringing for last night?' said Freda, looking flushed and handsome.

'In spite of my poverty they did me that honour,' said the colonel. 'I heard the old place was likely to be let again, and so ran down to have a look at it first, and beat up my old friends. It was years ago that I went, a youth of nineteen, into the army, and twelve since I have been here, and I have been all the world over since then; but I come back and find everything much as I left it.'

'But surely you will not go away again?' said Mr Gwynne.

'I am not rich enough to keep up the old place as it ought to be kept, and the debts are not half wiped off yet, so I don't mean to settle down at present.'

'But a little economy and that sort of thing would soon clear the property. You had better settle down.'

'I don't think I should like it; besides, I hear there are negotiations going on between my attorneys and some other persons for a fresh tenant.'

The luncheon-bell rang, and the party went into the dining-room; and whilst they are eating and talking we will examine the new comer.

He is decidedly a handsome man. The most fastidious judge of masculine beauty could scarcely deny this fact. Tall, well made, of commanding figure and aristocratic appearance, black hair, a high rather than a broad forehead, well marked eyebrows, and black lashes so long that they half conceal the grey eyes beneath; an aquiline nose, and a well-defined mouth, with an expression slightly sarcastic; a chin so deeply indented with a dimple that, if the old saw be true, he must be a flirt or a deceiver; and withal, a manner so perfectly easy and self-possessed that you say at once court, camp, or cottage must be equally accessible to that man.

There is a certain power in him that even a reader of character would scarcely understand for some time. Is it intellect? There is decidedly intelligence in the face, yet it is not highly intellectual; there are no disfiguring lines and cross lines, the furrows of study or thought. Is it mere health and animal spirits? He is neither particularly rosy nor overpoweringly cheerful. Does he read your mind at a glance? His eyes are penetrating, but not uncomfortably so. It is, we are inclined to think, that general and instinctive knowledge of the characters and tendencies of those with whom he converses, which commerce with the world, and a keen observation of men and manners, alone can give. He is, in short, a man of the world.

When he first entered the army his father and an elder brother were alive. They, dying about three years after, left him in possession of a large but greatly encumbered property. It was estimated that it would take twenty years at least to clear the estate, and that only by letting it and never drawing upon the proceeds.

The young heir was wise enough to retain his post as officer in Her Majesty's service, though not to sequester all his income for the payment of his father's, grandfather's, and great-grandfather's debts or mortgages. He spent about a fourth of it annually, and consequently the property was still greatly encumbered and he knew that to reside on it and clear it he would be obliged to live in a very humdrum style, or else add to the burden of debt already incurred. He preferred, remaining in the army, and being a general favourite in society, and having no near relations in Wales, it never occurred to him to spend his furloughs in his native county. He had always some distant land to visit, and either with his regiment or on leave had travelled nearly all over the world.

His return was therefore an event of considerable interest to the neighbourhood in which his place and property lay; and, doubtless, Mr Gwynne was not the only person who wished Colonel Vaughan to settle at Plas Abertewey.

When he was last at Glanyravon Park Mrs Gwynne was alive, Freda was a child of eight, and Miss Hall a very elegant and pretty young woman. Mr Gwynne Vaughan was then one of her numerous admirers; but there was apparently no remnant of his early passion left, if you can judge of the heart of a man, or his character at least, by his face or manner. Miss Hall was much more confused when she suddenly met him than he was when he first recognised her.

Freda had always had a pleasant recollection of him. He had been very kind to her when she was a child, and an occasional letter to her father, or the intelligence, through the papers, of his distinguishing himself in India, or his gradual rise in the army, had kept alive a certain amount of interest in her mind for this old friend.

She showed it at once, and delighted Colonel Vaughan by the perfectly natural manner with which she welcomed him, and the frank heartiness of her expressed wish that he should remain in the country now he had returned to it.

'We have never had any one we cared for at Abertewey,' she said. 'Sometimes it was an English family who came to ruin themselves in mining speculations; sometimes a sporting man who came for the hunting, shooting, and fishing; and now, if you don't stay, I daresay it will be a Manchester mill owner or some such person.'

'Much nearer home, I fancy; but I believe it is a kind of secret, only I am so much like a woman that I cannot keep a secret. To my utter astonishment I find it is to be a son of old Jenkins, the miser! I remember the father, but the son was some years my junior. You need not mention this, however, as it may fall to the ground. He wanted to buy the place, but I am too patriotic still to wish to sell.'

'Howel Jenkins! little Netta! at Abertewey!' exclaimed the trio in concert.

'True it is that mountains fall and mushrooms rise,' said the colonel laughing. 'But he has money, and as far as negotiations have gone, seems willing to pay, so I am content.'

'And I am not,' said Freda. 'It will be odious, and I shall be so sorry for poor Mrs Prothero. You must settle there yourself, Colonel Vaughan.'

'A poor lonely bachelor with no money!'

'Hem—hem, you might find a wife, I should think,' suggested Mr Gwynne. 'There is a beautiful girl in this neighbourhood with thirty thousand pounds at her disposal.'

'Oh, papa!' said Freda frowning perceptibly, 'such an empty-headed, insipid idiot would be dear at a hundred thousand.'

Colonel Vaughan looked at Freda to see whether she was jealous, but could not quite understand the frown.

Soon after luncheon he took his leave, with promises to make Glanyravon his head-quarters if he remained any time in the country.