THE SEMPSTRESS.
Owen Prothero, like his sister Netta, had been very much spoilt by his
father during his childhood and boyhood. Indeed it would have been
difficult not to have spoilt him. Handsome in person, and frank in
manners, he was a general favourite. His uncle, the vicar, quite
idolised him, and would have lavished a fortune on his education had he
been of a studious nature. His mother, alone, conscious of his many
faults, strove to correct them, and to counterbalance the undue
admiration he received on all sides, by impartial justice in her praises
and reproofs.
But we have not much to do with his boyhood, which was wild and
untameable; beyond the fact that, when sent by his good uncle to Rugby
with a view to his becoming a clergyman, he resolutely declared his
intention of going to sea, and ran away from school to effect his
purpose. He was captured, however by the masters, and a sharp look-out
kept upon him for the future, which prevented further escapades.
He did not make brilliant progress in his studies, though he was clever
enough, and accordingly his aunt persuaded her vicar to adopt her
favourite nephew, Rowland, in his stead, and to let Owen go a voyage or
two in a merchant vessel, to cure him of his love for a seafaring life.
It was Mr Prothero's wish to have one of his two sons a farmer, he did
not much care which, so it was with some difficulty that Aunt Jonathan
induced him to listen to her proposal of making a clergyman of Rowland.
He yielded at last, however, in the hope that when Owen had had enough
of the sea, he would come and settle at home, since, next to this, his
favourite hobby, he professed to like farming.
Owen was about fifteen when he first went to sea--he was just
seven-and-twenty when he came home with the peep-show. During the
intermediate twelve years he had been all over the world: not merely as
a sailor, but as an adventurer, traveller, speculator, merchant, and
wandering Jack-of-all trades. As quickly as he made money, so he lost
it, spent it, or gave it away; and when he had no other resource, he
worked as a common sailor, or labourer, until some lucky chance opened a
passage for some fresh excitement. There is this to be said in his
favour. During this long period he was never chargeable to his father in
any way. If he got into difficulties, he got out of them pretty easily:
if he was in want of bread, which had been frequently the case, his
friends at home knew nothing of it. Beyond the regular new outfit, in
the way of clothes, that his mother made for him each time that he
returned home, he had never had anything from his parents, and
resolutely refused it if offered. Always cheerful, hopeful, in high
spirits, open as the day, affectionate, and attractive, he was a welcome
guest wherever he went. Did he come home in rags, or as now, with a
peep-show in his arms, or as once before, with a hurdy-gurdy and
monkey, all his old friends made merry, and gave parties in his honour.
And whatever the state of his wardrobe or exchequer, he was sure to be
in the fields the following day, reaping, hay-making, ploughing, sowing,
or even milking, as either of these, or similar avocations, came in his
way. Nobody could be angry with him, and his father's lectures, and his
brother's reasonings all melted away before the row of white teeth that
he was for ever displaying in his joyous laughter.
Of middle height, athletic, sunburnt--with hands almost as brown as his
merry brown eyes--with black, long, curly hair, a bushy beard, and
plenty of whiskers, a bronze neck from which, in sailor fashion, the
blue and white shirt-collar receded--and a broad forehead, showing all
kinds of bumps, particularly those of locality over the bushy black
eyebrows--Owen Prothero was as fine a type of an English sailor as could
be found the broad seas over.
He was in the habit of falling desperately in love with at least one out
of every five or six girls that came in his way, and of making frightful
havoc in the hearts of females of all ranks and ages. Netta's general
inquiry was,--'Well, Owen, who is the last new love?' to which Owen
would gravely reply, by a recapitulation of the charms of some fair
damsel on whom his affections would be for ever fixed, could he only
afford to marry. All his beauties had bright eyes, bright complexions,
mirthful smiles, and were very 'jolly,' which seemed to be the word
including all that was necessary to make a woman charming in his eyes.
'So, Netta, Howel has come into a fine fortune!' he began one morning,
when he and his sister were alone together. 'I suppose he won't think of
little cousin Netta now?'
'Oh! indeed,' was Netta's reply with a toss of the head.
'I wish he was here now. He is a fine fellow in his way. I do like
Howel.'
'I knew you would say so,' exclaimed Netta. 'You are a kind, dear
brother. They are all turned against him, even mother, who can take in
the scum of the earth, and make much of a wretched Irish beggar, and
will not ask Howel here, who is a gentleman,'
'Oh! oh! that's the way the wind blows. So you do not forget cousin
Howel, Miss Netta.'
'No, I assure you; and I won't forget him, that's more.'
'Bravo! Netta. I admire a girl of spirit. But, perhaps now he is so rich
he will not think of you.'
'I suppose that depends upon whether I choose to think of him. They say
he is coming down soon, and that he will be the grandest man in the
county.'
What Netta had heard rumoured came to pass in due time, Mr Howel
Jenkins did come from London, and established himself in the best hotel
of his native town, throwing out hints as to the probability of his
taking a certain beautiful park in the neighbourhood. He was soon
supplied with the best horses, dogs, and general appointments of any man
in the county; and being really clever, handsome, and sufficiently
gentleman like, had made his way into society that had hitherto been
closed to him. Like Prince Hal, he eschewed most of his former
companions and appeared to be beginning life anew, in a new world. The
country rang with rumours of his enormous wealth, which, considerable as
it was, report nearly doubled. Indeed he himself scarcely knew what he
was worth, as he was continually finding memorandums of moneys out at
high interest, of which his father had not chosen to speak to Rowland,
but which his carefully secreted books and papers proved, as well as the
knowledge of Mr Rice Rice, who had been his attorney.
In the course of the autumn the Irish girl was quite convalescent and,
although not strong, had recovered from the fever, and was regaining
some degree of health. As she was such a clever sempstress, even Netta
did not object to a proposal made by Mrs Prothero, that she should
remain as a work-girl, at least until Owen's wardrobe was in a decent
condition; and she was accordingly installed in a small room, half
lumber-room, half work-room, as shirt-maker in ordinary to the son and
heir. He was restored to his own bedroom, and, together, with his father
kept at a distance from the bone of contention.
However, adverse elements cannot always be kept apart, and one day when
Mrs Prothero was sitting stitching wrist-bands with Gladys, her better
half made his appearance suddenly in the room.
'Mother, I have been hunting you out all over the house,' he exclaimed?
'I have torn the sleeve of my coat from top to bottom in that confounded
hedge.'
As he took off his coat and displayed the tear, he perceived Gladys, who
had risen from her work, and curtseyed very timidly and profoundly. Mr
Prothero had almost forgotten the Irish beggar, and certainly did not
suppose the tidy-looking, pale, tall girl before him to be her.
'Oh, young 'ooman, I daresay you can do this job for me. You've got a
new manty-maker, mother; where's Jane Morris, name o' goodness?'
'We're only making shirts for Owen, father,' replied the wife meekly,
dreading an outburst.
Gladys took up the coat and was instantly engaged in mending it, whilst
Mr Prothero produced a letter just received from Rowland.
'There, my dear, now you ought to be satisfied, and I am sure Mrs
Jonathan will be as proud as Punch. Rowland has been ordained by the
Bishop of London himself, and "passed a very good examination," or
whatever they call it. He has taken lodgings up in London, and preached
his first sermon in a great church that 'ould hold three of ours. He has
dined with the rector, and been to call on Sir Philip Payne Perry,--the
three green peas as Owen calls him--and I wonder what even Mrs Jonathan
'ould desire more?'
Mrs Prothero read, her dear son's letter with tears in her eyes, the
sudden sight of which caused sympathetic tears to flow from the eyes of
the poor work-girl, much to the surprise of Mr Prothero, who chanced to
look round to see whether his coat was finished.
'Hang the 'oomen,' he muttered to himself, 'they can't read a bit of a
letter without blubbing. How long will that take you to do?--what's your
name?'
'Gladys, if you please, sir,' said Gladys, looking up from her work. 'I
shall have finished it directly, sir.'
'Gladys? Gladys what?' asked Mr Prothero.
'Gladys O'Grady, sir,' was the reply whilst the mending was coming to a
close.
'Where on earth did you pick up such names as that?'
'One was my mother's, and the other my father's, sir,' said Gladys,
rising and presenting the coat with a deep curtsey.
Mrs Prothero was absorbed in her letter.
'Name o' goodness where did your father get such a name? and where do
you live?'
The girl bent her head over the coat she held in her hand, and her tears
fell upon it.
'There, never mind? give me my coat. Thank you. Why, Lewis the tailor
'ouldn't 'a mended it better. Why, girl, where did you learn tailoring?'
'Mother taught me to mend everything, sir.'
'There then, take you that old hat and see if you can make as good a job
of sewing on the brim as you done of the coat. Mother, come you here, I
want to speak to you.'
Mr Prothero left the room, and Mrs Prothero followed.
'Who's that girl, mother? I never saw her before,' were his first words
in the passage, whilst pulling to the coat that he had begun to put on
in the work-room.
'Why, David, you see--it is--there now, don't be angry.'
'Angry! what for? Hasn't she mended my coat capital, and isn't she as
modest looking a young 'ooman as I ever saw?'
'She is very delicate, but she works night and day. Indeed, she does
more in a day than most girls in a week Owen wanted some shirts, you
see--she made that cap you admired so much, and that new gown of
Netta's; and has more than paid for--'
'But who the deuce is she?'
'There now, don't be angry, David. 'Tis that poor Irish girl that was so
ill of the fever.'
'I'll never believe she's Irish as long as I live--she's too pretty and
tidy and delicate and fair. She's no more Irish than I am, mother, and
you've been taken in.'
'She is Welsh on the mother's side. But are you very angry, David?'
'No, I don't mind her doing a little work in an honest way like that.
I'm not such a fool. When she has done the work send her off, that's
all. Poor soul! she does look as if she had been dead and buried and
come to life again. Mother, you're a good 'ooman, and God bless you!'
Mrs Prothero looked up into her husband's face with an expression of
such love and joy as must have delighted a much harder heart than that
spouse possessed. Don't laugh, gentle reader, at the conjugal embrace of
that middle-aged pair, which seals the quarrel about the Irish girl; but
believe me, there is more real sentiment in it than in most of the
love-scenes you may have read about.
Mrs Prothero took advantage of her husband's approval of Gladys's
exterior to send her out into the garden in the evening to breathe the
air, and afterwards into the fields. The girl's strength gradually
returned, but with it there appeared to be no return of youth or hope. A
settled melancholy was in her countenance and demeanour; and when Netta
rallied her on being so sad and silent, her reply was, 'Oh, miss, there
is no more joy or happiness for me in this world! all I love have left
it, and I am but a lonely wanderer and an outcast!'
When the shirts were finished, it was time to think of her departure,
for she had exhausted all the sewing-work of the house. Mrs Prothero
could not bear to turn the friendless, homeless girl adrift on the
world. She ventured upon the subject one day at dinner.
'What will become of her, David? And she so beautiful! I declare I think
I never saw a prettier girl.'
'Well, mother, who will you call pretty next?' said Owen, who had seen
her once or twice by chance. 'Why, she has no more colour in her face
than this tablecloth, and I don't believe she has any eyes at all; at
least, I never saw them; but I mean to try whether she has any some day,
by making a frightful noise when she drops me that smart curtsey in
passing.'
'I am sure we want hands badly enough in the wheat field, said Farmer
Prothero. 'If the girl could pick up her crumbs a little by harvesting,
you could keep her a while longer, and then send her off in search of
her relations.'
'Thank you, David. I will ask her what she can do,' said Mrs Prothero.
'Not much in that way, I am pretty sure,' said Netta. 'How should those
wretched Irish, who live on nothing but potatoes, know any thing about
the wheat harvest?'
'Treue for you there, my girl,' said Mr Prothero, 'but I daresay mother
will make believe that she knows something.
'Mother' found the object of their conversation that very evening in the
wheat field, sitting under a tree, at work. She had sent her out for a
walk, and this was her exercise. Owen and Netta were with their mother,
and as they approached, Gladys rose, curtseyed, and was going away, when
Owen made an unnatural kind of whistle, as if to frighten away some cows
in the distance. Gladys started, and with a terrified face glanced at
him. He found that she had very beautiful, violet eyes, with lashes so
long and black, that when she looked to the earth again they made a
strange contrast to her pale face.
'What sad, uncomfortable eyes,' thought Owen; 'I must have another
glance at them by-and-by. If she had a colour she might be pretty, as
mother says, but it makes one ill to look at her.'
'Do you think,' said Mrs Prothero, addressing Gladys, 'that you could
manage to help in the harvest; My husband says he will employ you, if
you can.'
'Oh, thank you, my lady! I would do my best, and if I could only stay
here longer under any circumstances--I should--oh, be so thankful!'
This was said with much hesitation.
'Very well, then; if you will try to-morrow we shall be able to judge
what you can do.'
'She don't look strong enough to bind the sheaves,' said Owen.
'I will try, sir, if you please,' said Gladys.
'What is the name of the friends you are seeking?' asked Owen with a
glance at his sister.
'Jones, sir,' replied Gladys, again looking at Owen.
'Perhaps there is a David in the family?' asked Owen.
'I believe that my grandfather's name was David,' was the reply.
'Now, if you walk through Carmarthenshire, and just ask every one you
meet if they know David Jones, I am sure you would find him. It is
astonishing what a powerful name David Jones is. I know a Rev. David
Jones very well? a clergyman too--'
'Oh! if you could only tell me where to find him. I would go anywhere
for my poor mother's sake!'
The girl clasped her hands and looked imploringly at Owen. He was
silenced by the appeal of the eyes he did not believe in. Mrs Prothero
glanced at him reproachfully, and said,--
'It is such a common Welsh name that I am afraid it would be no guide to
you, unless you would remember the place where he lived.'
'I daresay it began with Llan,' broke in Owen.
'I am almost sure it did,' said Gladys; 'but mother never liked to talk
of the place,'
'What do you say, mother, to writing to the Rev. David Jones, Llan.,
etc., Carmarthenshire?'
Netta laughed aloud; she could not help it; whilst Gladys again looked
upon the ground.
'Owen,' whispered Mrs Prothero, taking her son's arm and leading him
away, 'what is a joke to you is death to her, remember that.'
'There, don't be angry, mother; I will help her to do her work
to-morrow.'
'He was as good as his word, and the following day resolutely kept near
the poor, timid girl, aiding her to bind up the full-eared corn, and
carrying it himself for her to the mows, into which they were hastily
forming the sheaves for fear of rain. He could not resist occasionally
alluding to Mr David Jones, but receiving no encouragement to carry out
the jest, and finding her as silent and shy as a frightened child, he
gave up the subject, and with it all attempt at conversation. He
declared afterwards that she worked like a slave, and knew all about
harvesting as well as anybody, only she was not strong, and that she was
the dullest Irish woman he ever saw in his life, since even the beggars
had a bit of fun in them. Indeed he didn't believe her to be Irish, or
credit a word of her story; but, as to beauty, he began to agree with
his mother, for if she had only a colour she would be as pretty a girl,
with as graceful a figure, as anybody need wish to see.
The farmer declared that she had well earned her supper; and that if
mother thought she would do, she might keep her instead of Betty, after
Hollantide; the said Betty having signified her intention of getting
married at the matrimonial season of the year. Mrs Prothero said she
would think it over, but she was afraid she was not strong enough for
hard farm service. It was evident that Gladys had taken a step into the
kind heart of the worthy farmer.