THE LOVER.
Spring came round again, and Owen and Gladys were still at the farm. The
following conversation will show how they went on together.
'Let me carry that bucket for you, Gladys,' said Owen, one evening when
she was proceeding across the farm-yard, to carry a warm mesh to a sick
cow.
'It is not heavy, sir,' said Gladys, gently.
'It is too heavy for you, _ma'am_, said Owen, emphasising the 'ma'am.'
He took the bucket from her, and carried it to the shed, where Gladys
dosed and fed her sick cow so very tenderly, that Owen was impelled to
say,--
'I wish I were that cow.'
'Oh, sir! she is but a poor, sick, witless animal.'
'But she has you to nurse and be kind to her; so I wish I were that
cow.'
'Sure, sir, I would be glad to nurse you if you were sick,'
'Would you, Gladys? Then I will be sick to-morrow.'
'I hope not, Mr Owen. Come, poor Mally. Drink it up.'
'Never mind, Mally, but attend to me. Will you not be so cold and stiff,
and respectful to me? I hate a girl who "sir's" me as if I were a lord,
and makes me curtseys, and never looks at me, and seems as if she hated
me--'
'Oh, no, indeed no, sir--'
'And lives all day long in the same house, and scarcely speaks to me.
You will drive me off to sea again, _ma'am_, if you don't take care.
Look into my face, and say why you hate me so!'
'I hate no one in the world, sir; much less any one of your name.'
Here the girl looked up from the poor cow who was licking her hand, and
round whose neck her arm was flung, into the face of the young man. Owen
put his hand on the arm that rested on the cow, and said earnestly,--
'Then treat me as your brother.'
'I have lost my brothers and sisters, and father and mother, and kith
and kin. I have seen them all die--all that ever loved me. Oh! Mr Owen!
you are too kind--too kind; but do not talk to me so, or it will break
my heart.'
Here was even more of Irish feeling than Owen either expected or
desired. But he took Gladys's hand in his, and, looking kindly from his
large honest dark eyes into hers, said,--
'Forgive me, Gladys, for making you think of your sorrows. But you know
my dear sister Netta is as good as lost to me, and I want some one who
will be like her, or at least, who will not be quite as cold as clay.'
'Gladys withdrew her eyes and her hand. There was even more than
brotherly warmth in that kind glance and winning manner.
'Thank you, sir, I will try; indeed I will,' said Gladys, as she took up
the bucket, and turned to leave the shed.
'Thank you, ma'am, you are very obliging, but you are not going to carry
my bucket.'
'Oh,' sir! if you please do not speak so to a poor servant girl like me.
I would rather not hear it.'
'You will not see, or hear, or believe what I do, and say and think all
day long; so now, here, where nobody else can listen, you must hear me.
You must learn to be happy with us, you must love us, you must--'
'Oh! I do, sir, I do. Let me go, sir, if you please.'
'Not until you hear that you must love me, even me whom you cannot
bear.'
'Oh! I do, sir--I do. I thank you, I pray for you, I love you all,
always; indeed, indeed, I do.'
'But better than all the others, as I love you, so as to be my wife
when--when--'
'Let me go, Mr Owen, if you please. You must not talk to me so, sir; me,
just now a beggar at your gate.'
'But I must, I will, and you must listen. In spite of myself, and of
your cold manners and pale face, and all the trouble you take to avoid
me, I love you, Gladys, and will marry you if you will have me. I will
give up the sea, and become a steady fellow, and live at home, and make
you and my parents happy, and--'
'Oh! Mr Owen, if your parents were to hear you talking like this to me,
what would they say to you? what would they think of me? You should not
make a joke of my poverty and friendless state, sir. Anything else, but
not this! oh! not this! and from you.'
'I was never more in earnest in all my life, and ask for only one word
of encouragement from you to go and tell my and mother directly,'
'Oh! if you please, Mr Owen, do not do this. If are in earnest, sir, and
I hope you are not, you must forget that you ever said this to me.'
'I do not mean to forget it, Gladys, or to let you forget it. Will you
say the word? only give me hope and all will be right. Will you marry
me, and be the daughter of your adopted mother?'
'I can never marry any one, sir; I have nothing to live for in this
world, but to try to do my duty to you and yours, and to think of those
I have lost.'
'Gladys, your cold manner maddens me. Say you hate me, and would rather
marry some one else; say anything that has some heart in it. We sailors
are made of warmer stuff than such icebergs as you.'
'I cannot say that, sir, because I do not hate you; and I never mean to
marry, and I would sooner die than cause trouble in your family.'
'Then you won't have me, Gladys? and you mean to send me back to sea
again, and to make me return to my wild ways, and to make my mother
miserable?'
'Och hone! what will I do? Why do you say such things to me, Mr Owen,
who have never done you any harm? I cannot marry--I cannot do what would
be wicked and ungrateful--I will go away again back to old Ireland, and
not cause trouble to those who have been so good to me.'
'No, you will not do anything of the kind, unless you wish me to go
after you. I shall tell my father that I will be off to sea again, and
then I need not trouble you any more.'
'I will not stay, Mr Owen, to make mischief; so if you will only please
to stop at home with your parents I will go away.'
'I shall not please to do anything of the kind, for I only stayed so
long on your account, and this is the reward I get.'
Owen was in a passion, and vainly striving to keep it down. His face was
flushed, he looked angrily and moodily upon the drooping head of Gladys
as it bent lower and lower over the poor cow upon which she was leaning.
He suddenly seized her hand, and exclaimed,--
'I am not used to be refused in this cool sort of way, and I don't
believe there ever was a woman in the world who doesn't wish to get
married to some one or other. Now whether you mean to have me or not is
not the question I am going to ask; but whether you have any other
lover, or ever had one that you prefer to me?--Tell me this, and I shall
be satisfied.'
Gladys tried to draw away her hand from the impetuous young man, but he
held it fast.
'You needn't be afraid; I would not hurt a hair of your head. And if you
knew what I am feeling now at this moment you will tell me the truth.
Will you answer me a few questions?'
'Yes, Mr Owen, if I can without doing or saying what is wrong.'
Owen looked Gladys again in the face, as she slightly raised her head to
answer his question. Why that burning blush? Why those bright,
expressive eyes, if she did not care for him? For a moment he had hope,
and pressed the hand he held. Again she bent over the cow that divided
them, and tried to withdraw her hand.
At any other time Owen would have laughed at the notion of making an
offer, divided from his beloved by a fine Alderney cow, but now he was
too much in earnest for laughing.
'Gladys, do you love my brother Rowland?' he asked.
Gladys now looked at him in unfeigned astonishment as she answered,--
'No, Mr Owen; surely I have never given you reason to suppose so. A
grand gentleman like him!'
'But there is a still grander of whom I am jealous,' continued Owen.
'Colonel Vaughan, I have often seen him here upon every excuse--and
always to look at you. I have seen him, and know it well. Do you care
for this great gentleman?'
'Oh! no sir,' said Gladys, sadly. 'How can you suspect me of such a
thing? Are my manners so forward, or am I so foolish as to let any one
suppose I could think of people so far above me? This is not kind, Mr
Owen.'
'One more, Gladys. Those beneath you, then. You cannot, I feel you
cannot, think of that gardener or footman at the Park, or of young
Gwillim, the Half Moon, or--there are so many who admire you, Gladys.'
'Oh! no, sir, I do not think so; no one says so to me, and I care for
none of them. Now, I had better go, if you please, Mr Owen--my mistress
will be wanting me.'
'I should think she 'ould, seure enough,' said a stentorian voice, as Mr
Prothero entered the cow-house, having just heard the last words, and
seen the clasped hands.
Gladys looked entreatingly at Owen, who at once said, 'It was my fault
that she stayed here, I kept her against her will.'
Gladys glanced gratefully at Owen, and left him with his father; but
before she was out of hearing, the farmer's loud voice was audible,
informing Owen that he 'didn't want another 'lopement from his house;
and that that Irish beggar should leave the place.'
'It was all chance, father, and my fault,' said Owen.
'It's always chance and your fault then. Where Gladys is, you're seure
to be pretty near. She's a good sort of young 'ooman enough, but you
have no call to be for ever hunting after her.'
'I don't see why I shouldn't if I like. It doesn't hurt anybody, and is
only kind to her.'
'But I don't cheuse her to be thinking you're going to make love to her,
and by-and-by, perhaps, expecting to--there's no knowing what young
'oomen may expect.'
'She isn't one to expect very much, and I am sure she doesn't take any
liberties with any one, or go beyond her place.'
'Treue for you there; but that's no fault of yours. You don't take
notice of any other female that I see, and seure you eused to make love
to them all in turns.'
'I don't see any girl half as good as Gladys, or worthy to light a
candle to her, that's why I have given them all up.'
'Name o' goodness what for? If you are going to make a fool of yourself
about her, I'll soon send her away, and stop that anyhow.'
'You may save yourself the trouble, father, for I am going away myself.
I can't be a land-lubber any longer, and I won't, so I shall look out
for a ship, pretty soon.'
'All because that girl came here to bother us. Deet to goodness, them
Irishers have been the plagues of my life ever since I married.'
'But she's Welsh, father, and you said so yourself.'
'She's a mongrel, and no good ever came out of them.'
'She saved mother's life, anyhow.'
This reflection posed the worthy farmer. He softened somewhat in his
reply.
'Treue for you again there. But that's no reason for your going to sea,
just when you're getting euseful here.'
'Well, father, thank you for saying for once in my life that I'm useful.
You never said that before.'
'And it don't seem out of any great favour to us that you are euseful
now; but only to please an Irish beggar.'
'I tell you what, father, if you were anybody else, you shouldn't call
her an Irish beggar.'
As Gladys went on her way, she heard the voices, ever louder and louder;
she hurried into the house, and then to her own little bedroom, where
she still seemed to hear the words, 'Irish beggar,' and a little spark
of the pride of poor human nature kindled in her heart.
'They shall not quarrel about me--they shall not throw my misery after
me--they shall not think I want to marry him--I will go away,' were her
muttered expressions. 'Why have I lived--why have I been kindly treated?
if I am to be the sport and the by-word of my friends? A poor
outcast--an Irish beggar--a lone girl, friendless, homeless,
heartless, wretched, miserable! Och hone! what will I do? what will I
do?'
She threw herself on her bed and sobbed.
'And I only want to do my duty--to show my gratitude--to die for the
mistress, if needs be, and they will think me forward and vain. Why was
I born to cause trouble and to bear such misery? Oh! mother, mother, if
you were here to comfort your poor child! If I could but go after you!
if I could but go away to my mother and all the lost ones!'
This thought of her mother and the lost ones seemed to overpower her for
a few seconds, and then to calm her. She rose from her bed, and fell
upon her knees and prayed.
'I can go to them, if they cannot come to me. I can fill my place of
sorrow, as is best for me. I need not bring trouble on this blessed
home! I will not. I need not send away that kind Mr Owen from his
family. I will not. Why does he think of a poor, wretched being like me?
Why has he been so good to me; so tender to me--as if he were my
brother? If I go away, he will think of some one else, and make them all
happy here, and live with them, and be good and steady. And I shall be
only one sufferer instead of many. May God bless them all! I will go
away, but never to see him more!--never, never!' Thus thought Gladys.
For half-an-hour, whilst she was striving to calm herself, such thoughts
and thousands of others flitted through her mind; but she did not murmur
again at the sad lot which had been assigned to her by Providence; she
had gathered strength in that prayer which she had offered up out of her
trouble of heart. Still she felt aggrieved by her master's hard words,
knowing as she did that she did not deserve them; but she struggled hard
to conquer that pride which she knew ill became one in her dependent and
friendless state.
When she had sufficiently recovered herself, she went down to prepare
the supper, according to her custom. She found the hall empty, and
wondered what had become of her master and mistress. She glanced into
the garden, and saw them walking up and down engaged in earnest
conversation, although the hour was late and it was getting dark and
chill. She felt that they were talking about her. She would not listen,
and returned to spread the table for their evening meal; whilst doing
so, Owen made his appearance.
'Gladys,' he said, 'shake hands with me, and forgive me for causing you
pain. I hope it will be the first and last time.'
Gladys held out her hand, saying 'Oh, Mr Owen, I have nothing to
forgive, I am only very sorry''
As Owen held her hand, in stalked Mr Prothero, followed by his wife. He
was not looking very well pleased when he entered, but finding them
together, his dark frowning brow became still darker.
'Good-night, mother,' said Owen, 'I don't want any supper. Good-night,
father,' he added with a strong effort, but receiving no response, he
left the room.
Gladys longed to follow his example, but feared it would not be right.
'Gladys, I fear you are not well,' said Mrs Prothero gravely, but
kindly, 'perhaps you would like to go to bed.'
'Thank you, ma'am,' said Gladys, glancing furtively at her mistress,
whose gentle face looked perplexed and anxious.
'Good-night, then,' said Mrs Prothero.
Gladys could not speak, for there was something constrained in the
manners of her dear mistress, that she could not bear to see. She did
not venture to speak to Mr Prothero, but dropping him a silent curtsey,
as she left the room, went to bed, but not to sleep.
That night, Mrs Prothero went to her son, Owen's room, and heard the
history of the evening. He told her that he loved Gladys, but that she
did not care for him; and that his father would not believe him when he
said so. Mrs Prothero gave him a maternal lecture on his conduct, and
the impossibility of his marrying Gladys, particularly whilst his father
was so irritated against his sister. She rallied him, in a quiet way, on
his various previous loves, and said that she had no doubt he would
forget his present one in the same manner.
She was struck with the unusually grave tone of his reply, as he simply
said, that if Gladys were like his other loves, he might forget her in
the same way; but as she was quite different from any one he had ever
liked before, so he should remember her as he had never before
remembered any one. She was also struck with his manner of wishing her
good night, and of recommending Gladys to her care, entreating her not
to be less kind to her than she had always been, because he had the
misfortune to love her.
Mrs Prothero promised all he desired, scarcely believing, as she did so,
in the depth of his affection.
'And, mother, fach,' he said, 'you must not be vexed if I run away again
to cure myself. There is nothing like sea air for my disease; and if I
do, I promise to write regularly, and to come home at the end of my
voyage. Only be kind to Gladys, and don't let her go away.'
Owen had a presentiment, that if he did not leave Glanyravon, Gladys
would.
'And you must try to bring father round by degrees. I don't want to
annoy him; and I know you are as fond of Gladys as if she were your own
daughter, and father likes her, too. Will you try, mother?'
'Anything to keep you at home, and steady, my son,' said Mrs Prothero
with tears in her eyes, 'but you must not go away again, we cannot do
without you.'
'Only this once, for change of air; I assure you it is best'
'Well, we will talk of this again, Owen; good night, and God bless you.'
'Just tell father not to be angry with me or Gladys, and that I can't
run away with her, because she won't have me. Good night, mother dear.'
Again Owen kissed his mother, more lovingly than usual, and so they
parted for the night.