CHAPTER V.

THE FARMER'S SON.

At about ten o'clock on Monday morning Miss Gwynne rode up to the door

of Glanyravon Farm, and, dismounting, entered the house. She was

attended by a groom, and told him that she should not be long.

'How is that poor girl, Netta?' were her first words on entering the

house.

'Very ill indeed, I believe,' said Netta, rather sulkily.

'Where is your mother?'

'She has been with the Irish beggar all the morning, and all night too.

I don't know what father and uncle and aunt will think.'

'Will you ask your mother whether I can see her for a few minutes?'

'Certainly.'

'Netta, you must come and dine with us on Wednesday, with your uncle and

aunt.'

'Thank you,' said Netta, brightening up as she left the room.

'I'm sure I scarcely know whether she will behave rightly,' muttered

Miss Gwynne, tapping her hand with her riding-whip.

Mrs Prothero soon appeared.

'You good, clear Mrs Prothero!' exclaimed Miss Gwynne, running up to her

and taking both her hands. 'You look quite worn out. How is that poor

girl?'

'Alive, Miss Gwynne, and that is almost all,' was the reply very gravely

uttered.

'Can we do anything? Did Dr Richards come?'

'Yes, Miss Gwynne, and was very kind. He has been again this morning.'

'I came to invite Mr Rowland and Netta to dinner on Wednesday, with Mr

and Mrs Jonathan Prothero.'

'Thank you, Miss Gwynne, I will tell Rowland; but I really think Netta

had better not go.'

'I have just told her of the invitation.'

'Dear me! I am really very sorry. I beg your pardon, Miss Gwynne, but it

will put ideas into her head above her station.'

'We shall be very quiet.'

The conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Rowland. He

drew back on seeing Miss Gwynne, and bowed, as usual, profoundly. She

also, as usual, advanced and held out her hand.

'My father begged me to ask if you would come and dine with us on

Wednesday,' said Miss Gwynne.

'Thank you, I am much obliged,' stammered Rowland, whilst a bright Hush

overspread his face, 'I shall be very happy, if I am not obliged to be

elsewhere. Mother, poor Griffith Jenkins is dead. I have been there all

the night.'

'Dead! I had no idea he was so ill! Oh, Rowland, how did he die?'

'Just as he lived, mother. With the key of his coffers so tightly

clasped in one hand that it was impossible to take it from it after he

was dead. And the said coffers hidden, nobody knows where. But poor Mrs

Jenkins has no friend near who can be of any real comfort to her. I wish

you could go to her for a few hours.'

'This poor girl, Rowland--what can I do with her? And your uncle and

aunt coming.'

'I think I can manage my uncle and aunt till your return. As to the poor

girl I really know not what to say.'

'Oh! if you will trust her to me, Mrs Prothero, I will nurse her till

you come back!' exclaimed Miss Gwynne eagerly. 'I assure you I can

manage capitally, and will send back the horses, and a message to papa.'

'I am afraid it would not be right--I think the girl has low fever--Mr

Gwynne would object.'

'I assure you it would be quite right, and I don't fear infection and

papa would let me do just as I like. In short, I mean to stay, and you

must go directly. Is young Jenkins at home, Mr Rowland?'

'Yes, he returned a few hours before his father's death.'

'I suppose that horrid old man died as rich as Croesus, and, according

to custom in such cases, his son will spend the money.'

'I wish he had not got it,' said Mrs Prothero.

'That is scarcely a fair wish, mother. Let us hope that he will do well

with it.'

'Never, never. He was not born or bred in a way to make him turn out

well.'

'Nothing is impossible, mother.'

'You must take care of Netta, Mrs Prothero. But now do go to that

wretched Mrs Jenkins, and leave the poor girl to me, and Mr and Mrs

Jonathan to Mr Rowland. I hope you have been studying the antiquities of

Wales at Oxford, Mr Rowland?'

This was said as Mrs Prothero left the room; and Rowland was startled

from a rather earnest gaze on Miss Gwynne's very handsome and animated

face, by this sudden appeal to him, and by meeting that young lady's

eyes as they turned towards him. A slight blush from the lady and a very

deep one from the gentleman were the result. The lady was indignant with

herself for allowing such a symptom of female weakness to appear, and

said somewhat peremptorily,--

'Will you be so good as to tell Jones to take the horses home, and to

let my father know that he must not wait luncheon, or even dinner for

me?'

'Excuse me, Miss Gwynne,' said the young man, recovering his composure,

'but I do not think my mother would be justified in allowing you to

attend upon that poor girl.'

'Allowing me! Really I do not mean to ask her. I choose to do it, thank

you, and I will speak to the servant myself.'

It was now Miss Gwynne's turn to grow very red, as, with haughty port,

she swept past Rowland, leaving him muttering to himself.

'What a pity that one so noble should be so determined and absolute. Let

her go, however. Nobody shall say that I lent a hand to her remaining

here. In the first place she runs the risk of infection, in the second

every one else thinks she degrades herself by coming here as she does.

Still, her desire to take care of the girl is a fine, natural trait of

character. I must just go and look over the _Guardian_. A curacy in

England I am resolved to get, away from all temptation. Yet I hate

answering advertisements, or advertising. If my aunt's friends would

only interest themselves in procuring me a London curacy, I think I

should like to work there. That would be labouring in the vineyard, with

a positive certainty of reaping some of the fruits.'

The soliloquy was interrupted by the reappearance of Mrs Prothero,

dressed for her walk.

'Mother, you ought not to let Miss Gwynne stay.'

'I! my dear Rowland! Do you think she would mind what I say to her?'

Miss Gwynne entered.

'I have sent off the servant, and now let me go to the girl.'

This was said with the decision of an empress, and with equal grandeur

and dignity was the bow made with which she honoured Rowland as she made

her exit, followed meekly by Mrs Prothero.

A short time afterwards she was alone by the bedside of the sick girl.

Every comfort had been provided for her by Mrs Prothero, and Miss Gwynne

had little to do but to administer medicines and nourishment.

'Is there anything I can do for you, my poor girl?' she said, leaning

over her bed. 'Anything you have to say--any letter I can write--any--'

'If--you--would--pray--my lady,' was the slow, almost inarticulate

reply.

Pray! This was what Miss Gwynne could not do. 'Why,' she asked herself,

'can I not say aloud what I feel at my heart for this unhappy creature?

I never felt so before, and yet I know not how to pray.'

She went to the head of the stairs, and called Netta.

'Will you ask your brother whether he will come and read a prayer to the

poor girl?' she said.

A few seconds after there was a knock at the door. She opened it and

admitted Rowland. He went to the bed, and began to whisper gently of the

hope of salvation to those who believe. Gladys opened her eyes, and

caught the hand extended to her.

'More--more,' she murmured. 'Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief.'

Rowland read the Office for the Sick, from the prayer book, and she

responded inwardly, her lips moving. Miss Gwynne came to the bed, and

kneeling down, joined in the prayers.

Again Rowland spoke soothingly to the girl of the need of looking to

Christ, the Saviour, alone in the hour of her extremity; and she

murmured, 'He is my rock and my fortress.'

'Do you trust wholly in Him?'

'In whom else should I trust? All human friends are gone.'

'Not all, you have friends around you.'

'Have I? Thank you, sir? God bless you.'

'I will come again and read to you when you are able to bear it.'

Rowland said this and withdrew, without speaking again to Miss Gwynne,

or even bowing as he left the room.

'He certainly reads most impressively,' thought Miss Gwynne; 'I could

scarcely believe he was not English born and bred; but still he is quite

a Goth in manners, and I am sure he thinks no one in the country so

clever as himself.'

Rowland met Netta at the foot of the stairs.

'Netta, I really am ashamed to think that you can allow Miss Gwynne to

wait upon that girl in your own house.'

'I'm sure, Rowland, Miss Gwynne needn't do it if she didn't choose. I

don't want to catch the fever, and I never will run the risk by nursing

such a girl as that.'

'Surely, Netta, you cannot be our mother's daughter, or you could not

use such unchristian expressions.'

'I'm no more unchristian than other people, but you're always finding

fault with me.'

The conversation was interrupted by a loud knocking at the house door,

and Farmer Prothero's voice was heard without, calling,--

'Mother, mother, where are you? Here we are, all come!'

Netta flew to open the door, and was soon industriously kissing a lady

and gentleman, who had just alighted from a little four-wheeled

carriage, and were waiting, with her father, for admission. Rowland,

also, in his turn, duly embraced the lady, who seemed much pleased to

see him. They brought in various packages, and proceeded to the parlour.

'Where's mother, Netta?' exclaimed Mr Prothero.

Rowland answered for her.

'She is gone to Mrs Griffey Jenkins, father; perhaps you have not heard

that Uncle Griff is dead.'

'Not I, indeed. Well! he's as good out of the world as in, though I'm

sorry for the old fellow. But what'll we do without mother? She's always

nursing somebody or other, either alive or dead.'

Rowland turned to his aunt, and said that his mother begged him to

apologise for her necessary absence for a few hours.

'I shall do very well, I daresay,' said the aunt, whose countenance wore

a somewhat austere expression.

She was a lady of middle age, who prided herself upon having a first

cousin a baronet. Her father, a clergyman, rector of a good English

living, was the younger son of Sir Philip Payne Perry, and she an only

child, was his heiress. Mr Jonathan Prothero had been, in years gone by,

his curate, and had succeeded in gaining the affections, as well as

fortune, of the daughter, and in bringing both into his native country.

He had the living of Llanfach, in which parish Glanyravon was situated,

and lived in very good style in a pretty house that he had built

something in the style of an English vicarage.

Mrs Jonathan Prothero, or Mrs Prothero, the Vicarage, as she was usually

called, was tall and thin, very fashionably dressed, with a very long

face, a very long nose, very keen greenish grey eyes, a very elaborately

curled front, a very long neck, very thin lips, and very dainty manners.

She was proud of her feet and hands, which were always well shod,

stockinged, gloved, and ringed, and as these were the only pretty points

about her, we cannot wonder at her taking care of them. People used to

say she would have been an old maid, had not a certain auspicious day

taken the Rev. Jonathan Prothero to her father's parish, who, having an

eye after the fashion of servants of a lower grade, to 'bettering

himself,' wisely made her a matron. Having no children of their own,

they lavished their affections on their nephews and niece, and their

money on their education.

'My dear Rowland,' said Mrs Jonathan, 'I think I have agreeable news for

you. I wrote to my cousin, Sir Philip Payne Perry, whose wife's brother

is, as you know, high in the church, and received this answer.'

She put a letter into Rowland's hands, and watched his countenance as he

read it.

'My dear aunt, how very good of you!' exclaimed Rowland; 'the very

thing I wished for. Oh, if I can only get it, I shall be quite happy. A

curacy in London, father! Just read this. Sir Philip thinks I might not

like it in the heart of the city, but that is really what I wish. Plenty

to do all the week long. Oh, aunt, how can I thank you enough?'

'By making every effort to advance yourself in life, and to rise in the

world, my dear nephew,' said Mrs Jonathan.

'What do you think, uncle?' asked Rowland, turning to Mr Jonathan

Prothero, who was seated in the window, with a large book before him,

that he had brought from the carriage.

'He! what! what did you ask?'

'Only what you think of this London curacy that my aunt has been so kind

as to write about.'

'Me! I! Oh, capital! just the thing in my humble opinion. If you get it,

you will be able to go to the Museum, and look up the old genealogy we

were talking about. Do you know I have made a remarkable discovery about

Careg Cennin Castle. It was built--'

'Never mind, my dear, just now; we were talking of Rowland's curacy,'

interrupted Mrs Jonathan, who generally managed all business matters.

'To be sure, my dear, to be sure, you know best,' said Mr Jonathan

absently, resuming his book.

'For my part, sister,' said the farmer, 'I 'ould rather he had a curacy

in his own country, and so 'ould his mother; but he's so confoundedly

ambitious.'

'Aunt, won't you come upstairs and take off your things?' asked Netta,

interposing, for once in her life, at the right time.

'Thank you, my dear, I should be very glad,' and they accordingly

disappeared.

'Father,' began Rowland, as soon as they were gone, 'I think it right to

tell you, that we were obliged, out of sheer charity, to take that poor

Irish girl into the house. It was impossible to move her without risk of

instant death.'

'And upon my very deed, Rowland, if this isn't too bad,' cried the

farmer, stamping his foot on the floor, and instantaneously swelling

with passion. 'As if it wasn't enough to have paupers, and poor-rates,

and sick and dying, bothering one all day long, without your bringing an

Irish beggar into the house. I never saw such an 'ooman as your mother

in my life; she's never quiet a minute. I 'ont stand it any longer; now

'tis a subscription for this, now a donation for that, then sixpence for

Jack such a one, or a shilling for Sal the other, till I have neither

peace nor money. Come you, sir, go and turn that vagabond out directly,

or I'll do it before your mother comes home, hark'ee, sir.'

'I can't father, really.'

'Then I will.'

Off stalked the farmer in his passion, crying out in the passage,

'Shanno, come here!'

A servant girl quickly answered the summons.

'Where's that Irish vagabond?'

'In Mr Owen's room, sir.'

Upstairs went the farmer, leaving Shanno grinning and saying, 'He, he,

he'll do be turning her out very soon, she will, he, he.'

Rowland ran upstairs after his father, calling out gently, 'Stop,

father, Miss Gwynne--' but the father was in the bedroom before he heard

the words, and had made the house re-echo the noise of his opening the

door.

He was instantaneously checked in his career by seeing Miss Gwynne

advance towards him, with her finger in the air.

'Hush, Mr Prothero,' she whispered, 'she is asleep. Look here; gently,

very gently.'

She led the enraged farmer by one of his large brass buttons to the

bedside, where the white-faced Gladys lay. She looked so much like a

corpse, that he started back affrighted. Then Miss Gwynne led him out

into the passage, and seeing from his angry face the state of the case,

instantly said,--

'It was I who had her brought here, Mr Prothero; and by-and-by I will

get her sent back to her parish, but until she is better we must take

care of her.'

At these words from the all-powerful Miss Gwynne, Mr Prothero was fain

to put such check upon his rising choler as the shortness of the notice

would allow. He could not, however, fully restrain the whole of the

invective that had been upon his lips a short time before.

'No offence, Miss Gwynne? but 'pon my soul, I'm sick to death of my

missus's pensioners and paupers, and I'm determined to have no more of

'em. You may do as you please, miss, at your own house, and I'll do as I

please in mine.'

Here Rowland popped his head out of a neighbouring bedroom

'Father, Miss Gwynne is taking upon herself a risk and encumbrance that

should be wholly my mother's. She has nothing to do with the girl,

beyond showing her great kindness.'

'Really, Mr Rowland Prothero,' began Miss Gwynne, drawing herself up to

her fullest height, 'I wish you would allow me to manage my own

affairs.'

'Yes, yes, Rowland. What, name o' goodness, have you to do with Miss

Gwynne? I'm ashamed of the boy. I really beg your pardon, miss, but I

believe he's so set up by having a chance of going to London, that he

don't know whether he stands on his head or his heels. Go you away,

Rowland, directly. I won't have you interfaring with me.'

Miss Gwynne could not help laughing as she saw Rowland's sense of duty

struggle with his pride at this authoritative mandate; but she was very

much surprised to see him bow politely to her and walk away. She

wondered whether anything on earth could have induced her to obey a

similar order.

She followed Mr Prothero downstairs and made herself so agreeable to him

and Mrs Jonathan, that they quite forgot Mrs Prothero's absence, until

the sudden return of that good woman set all matters right, and enabled

Miss Gwynne to leave the farm.