THE FUGITIVE.
Gladys did not go to bed all that night. If her mistress could have
watched her occupations, seen her tears, and listened to her prayers,
she would, at least, have known that she was grateful. The first thing
she did was to finish a cap that she had been making for her, the next
to complete a large piece of ornamental netting, that had been long in
secret progress, and had been intended as a present for that dear
mistress's birthday on the morrow. The third, last and most difficult,
was to write a letter. Gladys usually wrote easily and well. She had
been accustomed to assist her father at an early age, and had been
carefully taught by her mother, but on the present occasion she
considered every sentence with a too painful thoughtfulness, and
literally blotted her writing with her tears.
Morning was beginning to dawn before she had finished these tasks, and
then she washed her face and hands, took off the pretty cotton gown she
had on, and put on the one Netta gave her when first she came to
Glanyravon. An old straw hat that she had been in the habit of wearing
in the fields, and a tidy, but plain shawl, completed her attire. She
had a few shillings which Mr Prothero had given her, and these she put
into her pocket, together with a pincushion, and a curious foreign
shell, gifts of Owen.
She thought of Netta, and of her very different flight from the same
house; she fancied that if she had been in her place, no lover, however
dear, could have prevailed upon her to leave so good a mother; but she
was different. An orphan and a beggar, she had no right to remain to
cause dissension between father and son.
And so she fell upon her knees, and prayed for blessings on every member
of that family; she forgot no one, not even poor Owen, whose suit she
had rejected. Most especially she prayed that he might be a comfort to
his parents, and turn from his wild, wandering ways, to those of rest
and sobriety; she particularly used that latter word, which would have
sounded formal in less earnest lips.
With tearful eyes, and throbbing heart, but with a resigned spirit, she
rose from her knees, took her little bundle in her hand, and went
quickly out into the passage. She did not trust herself to pass the
doors of her slumbering friends, but went by the back-staircase into the
kitchen, and thence into the yard. There was a thick mist over the face
of nature, falling like a heavy veil on the rising sun, and making the
early day but a lengthened night; not a sound was heard, not an animal
had yet been aroused from sleep, save Lion, the large watch-dog, whose
duty it was to wake when others slept, and he bounded towards Gladys,
and her suppressed, 'Down, Lion, down,' failed to quiet him. As she
hurried up the road, he ran after her, and it was not until she reached
the gate, that she had courage to command him with heightened voice, and
threatening manner, to go home. The dog crouched, and then licked the
hand, upraised to send him back. Poor Gladys fell upon his neck, and
burst into tears. He licked off the tears with a wistful, canine
earnestness and love, and again prepared to follow her.
'Back, good dog! Home, Lion!' said Gladys.
The dog turned away with his tail between his legs, and walked half-way
down the road. Gladys hurried through the gate, and along the public
road, shutting the gate behind her upon Lion. No sooner was she out of
sight than the tail was again in motion, the head turned, and Lion was
peering over the hedge after her. As she swiftly pursued her way,
turning neither to the right nor to the left, she did not perceive the
faithful friend that was literally dogging her steps; but still Lion
followed; and thoughtless of master and mistress at home, kept in view
the poor beggar-girl who had managed to win his love, together with that
of all the animal kind around and about Glanyravon.
Thus pursuing her unknown way, and thus pursued by Lion, we must leave
Gladys and return to the farm.
At the usual hour, Mrs Prothero came down to breakfast; no Gladys was
visible, and no neat table was laid for the early meal. Mrs Prothero
asked the servants if they had seen Gladys, and they said she had not
yet come down; not altogether ill-pleased to find the favourite, for
once, in fault. Mrs Prothero thought that the events of the past night
had probably made her ill; and relenting from her somewhat severe
feelings towards her, she went upstairs to see what was the matter.
Receiving no answer to her tap at the door, and call of 'Gladys,' she
went into her little room. She saw all neat as usual, and the bed
unruffled. Her heart misgave her, and she painfully remembered the
morning of Netta's flight. As if by instinct she went to the small
dressing-table, and at once had her fears confirmed. Very sadly she took
up the pretty cap that was left there, and looked at the large piece of
netting to which was appended a paper. She unpinned the paper, and read
the following words:--'For my dear mistress, with respectful wishes, and
best prayers for many happy returns of the day.'
Mrs Prothero unfolded the work slowly, and saw two handsome, long,
netted window curtains, with a fancy border, that must have taken hours
from the donor's sleep to accomplish. As she unfolded them, a letter
fell upon the floor.
Poor, nervous Mrs Prothero, rubbed her hands over one another several
times before she had the courage to pick it up, and then she scarcely
dared to open it. As she made the attempt, however, a cry of 'Mother!
mother! why isn't my breakfast ready?' was heard from the foot of the
stairs, proceeding from Mr Prothero's lusty voice, who was too proud and
too angry to call for Gladys.
Mrs Prothero ran downstairs with the letter in her hand.
'My dear David, I am afraid Gladys is gone,' she said tremblingly.
'Well, let her go,' said the farmer. 'A good riddance. But what do you
mean?'
Mrs Prothero told of the empty room, unused bed, cap, curtains, and
letter.
'This house is bewitched!' said Mr Prothero. 'What's in the letter?'
'Indeed, I don't know, Davy bach!' said the wife, giving him the
document.
Mr Prothero took out his glasses, wiped them deliberately, and put them
on, whilst his wife stood before him rubbing her poor little hands as
usual.
'What a good hand the girl writes,' said Mr Prothero, as he carefully
unfolded the letter, and then began to read aloud as follows:--
'DEAR AND HONOURED MISTRESS,--Before leaving for ever your blessed
home, I beg you will allow me to write you a few lines, and I hope
you will not think me too bold in so doing. I am going away,
because I would not cause trouble to you, or my good, kind master.
May it please God to bless you both for ever and ever! As long as I
live I shall pray for you and love you! If I am too bold, forgive
me, but my heart is full. I can only thank you for all you have
done for me, by my prayers! Farewell! my dear, kind, honoured
mistress and master. You will be rewarded in this world for your
care of the poor orphan, who prays to meet you in the
next.--GLADYS.'
It was evident that the writer had been obliged to conclude hastily,
because her paper was so wet with tears that she could write no more.
When Mr Prothero finished reading, he hemmed two or three times and
cleared his throat, and took off his spectacles and wiped them; then
perceiving that his wife was crying like a child, he said,--
'Don't be so fullish!' Suddenly recollecting himself, he exclaimed,
'Where's Owen? Go you, mother, and see if we haven't had another
'lopement,'
'No fear of that,' said Mrs Prothero, leaving the room to do her
husband's bidding.
She stayed so long that Mr Prothero, out of patience, bustled after her.
He found her standing before an open, half-empty chest of drawers. The
room was very untidy, and here, also, the bed had not been slept in the
past night.
Mrs Prothero was rubbing her hands and crying pitifully; more from fear
of her husband's wrath than from sorrow for Owen, because she had
anticipated a sudden flight.
Mr Prothero began to stamp with rage. It was a long time before he could
speak, and his wife had a certain fear that he would choke. At last
words found vent.
'The impudent, lying, hypocritical, young baggage! The ungrateful,
disobedient, good-for-nothing brute! Ach a fi! upon 'em both. That's
what you get by harbouring Irish beggars!--that's the return they make!
A pale-faced, deceitful hussy!'
'Davy, bach! they are not gone together,' said Mrs Prothero,
half-believing at the same time that they were.
'Shall I lay breakfast, ma'am?' interrupted Shanno, putting her head in
at the door and grinning suspiciously.
'Go your way, and mind your own business,' said Mr Prothero.
Shanno disappeared.
'I'll go out and see whether either of the horses is gone. Go you and
make breakfast--the good-for-nothing--'
'Just let me tell you first what Owen said to me last night,' said Mrs
Prothero. 'I don't think he ever deceived us, Davy; and if he did wrong,
he was never the one to hide it.'
'Treue for you! Well, what did the young scamp say? I don't blame him
half as much as that meek, pale-faced, still-water thing, who's as deep
as the north star, I'll be bound.'
'But Owen told me, seriously, that she refused to have anything to say
to him, and begged me to be kind to her when he was gone away, for his
sake.'
'Nothing but a trap to take you in--the deceitful young
puppies--the--the--'
'Go and look about the horses and I'll make breakfast.'
He went accordingly. All the horses were safe. Nothing was missing
anywhere but Lion.
'I 'ouldn't take twenty pounds for that dog,' said Mr Prothero when he
returned to the house, and sat down to breakfast.
'Hadn't we better send to look for them?' asked Mrs Prothero timidly.
'I'll see 'em hanged first. What! go and make another hullabaloo all
through the country, as if one wasn't enough in one house. No, not I.
Let 'em go to sea, or where they will; but don't tell anybody anything
about 'em. Let people think what they will; I only wish I was at the
world's end. But it's all your fault. Do you remember that morning when
you bothered me into letting the girl stay? Fine things have come of it,
seure enough.'
'But we don't know that they're together.'
'But we do, I say, Mrs Prothero; or why should they go off together?
Fine things, indeed, for the gossips! Two 'lopements from one house. The
young hussy.'
Mrs Prothero could not help crying. To lose them both at once--a son and
one who had been better than a daughter to her--it was too sad--and to
feel so uncertain as to what would become of them!
Mr Prothero was resolved to take no notice of her tears, but hastily
swallowed his breakfast and went out. The servants did not need to be
asked about the fugitives. They were all sure that they had run away
together. Gladys, good and quiet as she seemed, was deep enough; and
they had managed so well that nobody had seen them! Not like Miss Netta,
who was so open! Many had seen her when she ran away!
Mrs Prothero sent one of the men off in a search for Lion, feeling sure
that if he were found, Gladys would be discovered.
At about eleven o'clock, to Mrs Prothero's great delight, Miss Gwynne
and Miss Hall called to see if the report about Owen and Gladys were
true, and to hear what Mrs Prothero thought of it. Miss Gwynne was
highly indignant.
'You cannot believe it, Mrs Prothero. That girl Gladys would no more run
away with any man living than I would. If Mr Prothero won't send after
her I will. Where is he?'
'Shall I send and tell him you want to speak to him?'
'By all means--directly.'
Mr Prothero was soon in the house again, at Miss Gwynne's bidding. He
looked more than usually red and excited.
'Mr Prothero, I would stake my life upon it, that girl has not gone off
with your son. I don't like the Irish, or their beggars more than you
do; but I am very fond of Gladys, and she shall not lose her character,
or die of starvation whilst I have a horse to send after her, or a
shilling to help her.'
'That's very well for you, Miss Gwynne, but Owen is no relation of
yours; and I don't cheuse him to marry an Irish beggar. This house is
bewitched, and my children are bewitched, all except Rowland.'
Miss Gwynne wondered what Mr Prothero would think of _him_ if he knew
all.
'Well, Mr Prothero, will you send after Gladys, or shall I? You needn't
have her back here. There is a situation of schoolmistress or lady's
maid for her at once. I will take her in either capacity.'
'Indeed, Mr Prothero,' said Miss Hall, 'I think you may trust Gladys;
that letter is sincere if ever anything was.'
'Who is to search, for there is no time to lose?' asked Miss Gwynne.
She was the only person in Wales who would have moved Mr Prothero, but
he never could refuse her anything.
'What you say, Miss, is seure to have sense in it. I never knew you take
to any one yet who wasn't worth something, so I'll just ride myself and
look after 'em both. I shouldn't like people to fancy we were in a fuss
and fright. But remember, Miss Gwynne, it is to oblige you; and if I
find that she has run away with my son--'
'You may do what you like, Mr Prothero, for then I will have nothing to
say to her. But go at once, and thank you very much.'
'I'll go Swansea way, for I am sure they'll take to the sea. Ach a fi!
what's gone to the young people.'
In less than a quarter of a hour Mr Prothero had mounted his best mare,
and muttering a great many Welsh oaths, was soon riding in search of the
fugitives. When he got out of his own immediate neighbourhood, he began
to ask whether 'a tall, dark, young man, and a tall, pale, young 'ooman'
had been seen.
'Is it a couple of gipsies, Mr Prothero?' asked a farmer, who lived
about seven miles from Glanyravon. 'I did see a dark man, and a sallow
'ooman go up the lane by now.'
'Was the man like my son Owen?'
'Well, I didn't be seeing his face, but I shouldn't wonder.'
Up the lane Mr Prothero went for a good half mile, and at last reached a
gipsy encampment, where there were plenty of dark men, and sallow women,
but not Owen and Gladys.
A shrewd old gipsy, seeing him evidently on the search for some one,
assured him before he had asked any questions, that she had seen those
whom he was looking for.
'Where?' asked the farmer.
'Cross my hand with a silver coin, and I'll tell ye,' she said.
He gave her a shilling.
'Young couple, my lord?' asked the woman.
Mr Prothero nodded assent.
'Dark and fair, yer honour?'
Another nod.
'I never tell secrets under a half-a-crown, but I have seen them, sir.
Young man something like you, and handsome.'
'Make haste and tell, you cheat and vagabond,' said Mr Prothero,
throwing her eighteenpence.
'Up the first turning to the right, off the road, over the hill,' said
the woman.
'When?'
'An hour ago.'
Mr Prothero rode quickly down the lane, along the turnpike, up the first
turning to the right, and then up a long and tedious hill.
It will be unnecessary to describe how Mr Prothero wandered over this
hill for hours, without finding those he sought. As the said hill was a
short cut to the road to Swansea, whither he was persuaded they were
gone, it is not much to be wondered at that he was taken in, and that he
went on as fast as his good horse would go for many a long mile; but he
found neither Owen nor Gladys, and all his inquiries after them were
fruitless.
Towards evening he returned home, tired and very cross, and found his
good wife looking anxious and unhappy, and ready to say at any moment,
'Dear, dear, how I do miss Gladys.'
A messenger from the Park was awaiting him, with a note from Miss
Gwynne, inquiring whether he had found the poor girl or not. He was
obliged to write a few respectful lines in reply, to inform her of the
failure of his search.
'I wish we had never set eyes on the girl,' he muttered, as he was
writing the note with much pains and some difficulty. 'To take off Owen,
too, just as he was getting euseful, and he such a good writer and
accountant.'
Still more heartily did he repeat that wish several times during the
night. Mrs Prothero could not sleep, and what with her anxiety about
Gladys, sorrow for the departure of Owen, and longing to see her own
daughter, her mind was excited beyond its wont. As is often the case
under such circumstances, she fancied she heard all kinds of noises in
the house; once she was sure some one was coming upstairs, and another
time that there was a tapping at the front door. She crept softly out of
bed, and half fancying she should find Gladys without, went downstairs,
and opened it. Nothing was visible but the flickering moonbeams amongst
the trees, or audible save the tinkling of the brook through the
farm-yard.
'Name o' goodness, what's the matter now?' ejaculated the farmer, as
the creaking of the bedroom door awoke him.
'Don't be angry, Davy, bach, but I can't sleep for thinking of that poor
girl; maybe she's without a roof to cover her.'
'Owen'll see to that. 'Tis a hard case a man mayn't sleep in his bed
because of a good-for-nothing wench like her.'
The next morning, after breakfast, when Mrs Prothero was urging him once
more to look for Gladys, and he was vehemently refusing, Miss Gwynne and
Miss Hall again made their appearance.
Mr Prothero had to swallow a very broad expression of disgust, as well
as to listen politely to that young lady, who persisted in saying she
would continue the search for Gladys if he would not.
'I am sorry to annoy you, Mr Prothero,' she said, 'but it is due to
Gladys to clear her character; there are plenty of jealous people about
us, quite ready to take it away. I do not wish you to have any more
trouble in this matter, but I cannot let it rest until I find the poor
girl. She shall come to me direct, and need not be an eyesore to you. I
will send off in every direction until I find her.'
'I beg your pardon, Miss Gwynne. If she is to be found, I must do it. I
'ont have a talk made about our turning her out of doors, and such like.
As she isn't gone Glamorganshire way, I suppose she must be gone towards
Ireland, and I had best follow that scent. I'll give her one more turn,
and then have done with her. Mother, if I don't come home to-night,
don't be frightened, as she may have gone a good step.'
Mr Prothero was leaving the room, when Miss Hall stopped him, saying,--
'I thought, Mr Prothero, that you might not have seen this notice of a
meeting in your son's parish, and as he is mentioned, I brought over the
paper for you.'
Mr Prothero thanked Miss Hall, and took out his spectacles. Whilst he
was wiping them, however, Miss Hall read from the _Times_ the report of
a meeting for forming a ragged school in Rowland's parish, in which was
the following paragraph:--'The Reverend Rowland Prothero, curate of the
parish, made a very clear and able speech upon the subject, and brought
forward a well-digested plan for the school, which will probably be
adopted. The thanks of the meeting were offered to him.'
'There is always a pleasure with every pain,' said Mrs Prothero, wiping
her eyes. 'Thank you, Miss Hall.'
'And the Bishop of London was in the chair. So, mother, if he isn't a
bishop himself, you see he's been very near one,' said Mr Prothero,
looking very much gratified. 'Well, I'll go now, Miss Gwynne, and look
after that confounded--I beg your pardon, Miss--after that Irish jade,'
and he went accordingly, leaving the ladies to talk it over with his
wife.