THE LADY IN HER OWN RIGHT.
When Freda reached her room, Gladys was awaiting her there.
'Why did you not go to bed, Gladys? you know I dislike your sitting up
so late.'
'I could not go to bed, ma'am, feeling that I have offended you, without
begging your pardon for having done so.'
'Then all you said was an invention.'
'I said nothing but the truth, ma'am, but perhaps offended you in saying
it to you, merely to excuse myself. I am very sorry.'
There were traces of tears on Gladys' face and she looked pale and
agitated.
'Gladys, you can go to bed, I have nothing to forgive. If you tell me
the truth, I am very sorry for it, and that such words should have been
said to you. Of course you did not believe them?'
'No, ma'am, I certainly did not.'
Miss Gwynne was fidgeting with her dress, and Gladys went to assist her,
uncalled for. When it was unfastened, Miss Gwynne again said, 'Thank
you, that will do; I wish you to go to bed; good-night,' and Gladys
again obeyed in sorrow.
Miss Gwynne had little sleep that night, and the next morning she felt
very ill. Much as she longed to lie in bed, however, and to avoid
meeting Colonel Vaughan again, she got up when Gladys called her, and
was, as usual, first downstairs. Much to her satisfaction, her father
appeared next, and the colonel soon afterwards. She exerted herself to
talk and laugh as usual, and the only difference in her manner to
Colonel Vaughan was, that instead of shaking hands with him, as was her
custom every morning, she busied herself with the cups and saucers when
he approached, and simply said good morning. Her father remarked that
she was looking ill, and she said she had one of her old headaches.
When breakfast was over, she expressed her intention of visiting the
school, and said that, as Colonel Vaughan was going to Sir Hugh's, she
probably should not see him again before he left. She wished him good
morning and a pleasant visit, stiffly, but courteously; felt compelled
to shake hands with him, and went her way with a proud but aching heart.
He also went his, wondering in his very selfish heart whether Freda
really cared for him after all, and scheming to see Gladys, whose utter
carelessness of him had roused his vanity.
When he had left Glanyravon, with a promise to Mr Gwynne of returning,
Freda no longer strove to appear what she was not, and went to bed
really ill. She was subject to occasional severe nervous headaches, and
was obliged to be very quiet when so attacked, in order to prevent
congestion of the brain, which the doctors had once threatened her with.
Her father, therefore, insisted on her keeping her room until she was
quite well, which she was only too thankful to do, and so great were her
actual sufferings from her head, that they distracted her mind from
brooding over her real or imaginary miseries.
Gladys waited on her quietly and patiently for about a week, at the end
of which time she began to feel better. Her gratitude to Gladys for the
perfectly unobtrusive nature of her attention was so great that she felt
as if she could never do enough for her, and she frequently assured her
that she knew she had been unjust towards her in accusing her of
falsehood. She never, however, again mentioned Colonel Vaughan's name to
her.
Mr Gwynne paid daily visits to his daughter's sick-room. In spite of her
head, she could not help noticing something peculiar in his manner. He
did not talk, because conversation was forbidden during these attacks,
but there was an increased briskness in his eyes and step as he
approached her, and, she fancied, more of anxious care in his tone when
he spoke. She was sure he had something to communicate.
'Gladys, what makes you so calm and patient?' she suddenly asked, when
she was getting better, and trying to reason herself out of her fancy
for Colonel Vaughan.
'Perhaps, ma'am, trouble has made me calm, and I pray to be made
patient; but I have a rebellious heart,' was the reply.
'Have you? I am very glad to hear it. Then there is hope for me. Now I
am going to get up.'
Freda had made some good resolutions during the intervals of her pain,
the principal of which were, entirely to forget Colonel Vaughan, or to
feel only intense contempt for him; to be more gentle with her father,
and more considerate of his nerves and peculiarities; more patient with
the servants, school children, and poor people generally; to do more
good, and to be more useful to others; but she had not made these
resolutions in Gladys' spirit. They were not made with prayer for help,
but in her own strength.
In the same way, she threw off the remains of her headache, and went
downstairs again with a prouder step and a prouder heart than when she
went up last.
In the library she found her father writing a letter and looking quite
animated. He was so sprucely dressed that she asked him if he were going
out.
'Not at present,' he said. 'I am so glad you are come down again. There
is so much to tell you; I have scarcely been able to keep myself from
letting you hear the news. Do you know it is all settled, and Gwynne
Vaughan is actually engaged to Miss Nugent! Isn't he a lucky fellow?'
Freda felt suddenly very sick; she sat down in an arm-chair near her
father, but did not speak. He looked at her, and said,--
'My dear, you are very pale still. Coming downstairs has been too much,
and dressing, and--and--all that sort of thing. Let me ring for Gladys.'
'No, I shall be better directly. Only the exertion--yes, you were
telling me--'
Strange that Mr Gwynne never supposed that Freda could be in love with
any one. She had refused so many, and was so different from other girls,
that the thought never entered his mind, and he had left her alone with
Colonel Vaughan, and would have done so with Cupid himself, quite
thoughtless of results. Moreover, his own natural inactivity and love of
ease, led him to allow her to take her own course, as long as she left
him alone to take his.
'Yes; I was saying that it is now quite settled. I believe he proposed
the very ball-night to Miss Nugent, at least, and the next day went in
form, and after certain preliminaries, was duly accepted by all parties.
Of course, he is quite unexceptionable, and she can do as she likes now
she is of age. Lady Mary expected a title, and I don't think she is
quite satisfied. She told me--at least--they say--at least--of course,
there are always objections, and--and--all that sort of thing, you
know.'
Freda was too hard at work, trying to overcome a very strong desire to
burst into tears, to observe that her father had not once used his
favourite phrase, or lost the thread of his words, until he came to
'Lady Mary told me,' so when he stopped, she simply said, 'Really! Yes!'
and he went on again.
'I must confess, Freda, I am rather disappointed. I thought Gwynne liked
you, and, indeed, I think so still. But--ah! my dear--you are so proud,
or cold, or--or--that you refuse every one. It has been suggested to me
by--ah! I have remarked, I mean, that you must have a secret liking for
some one, not quite what one considers--ah!--eligible--and that--but, I
am sure, Freda, I would make any sacrifice for your happiness, and
should wish to see you married.'
'What do you mean, papa?' said Freda, effectually roused.
'Well, my dear, it is thought--I mean, I have fancied--I mean
Lady--I--I--the fact is, are you attached to Rowland Prothero? Now, I am
not angry, Freda; he is one of the nicest young men, and the best--but I
should have preferred Gwynne, or Sir Hugh, or--or--in fact, many others,
in a worldly point of view. A tenant's son, and only a curate!--and all
that sort of thing. But then as Lady--as--as I--as your father, my dear,
I should like to make you happy. You see, that day at the vicarage,
we--that is to say, I--thought there was something peculiar in his
manner and yours; and to be sure, he may be a bishop, he is so good and
clever. A great favourite of mine. And if he lives in London, it doesn't
so much matter; and--and--in short--Freda--'
'Papa, I understand,' said Freda, rising from her seat with majestic
pride, 'Lady Mary has been kind enough to suggest, doubtless for her own
ends, what never could have entered your mind. I am very much obliged to
you for forgetting, on my account, what I cannot forget on my own, that
I am a Gwynne of Glanyravon! and I daresay you meant it kindly. But you
may make my compliments to Lady Mary Nugent, and tell her, that if there
was anything peculiar in Rowland Prothero's manner on that particular
Sunday, it was because he had been bold enough to propose for me, and I
had rejected him. You may tell her also that if he had asked her
daughter instead, she would have given him herself and her fortune quite
as willingly, and, I believe, more willingly, than to Colonel Vaughan.
With her it is a case of "first come first served."'
When Freda had given her message to Lady Mary Nugent, she walked out of
the room. But scarcely had she crossed the hall when she turned again
and re-entered it.
'Papa, I must beg you _not_ to tell Lady Mary Nugent that Rowland
Prothero proposed for me. He is at least a gentleman, and a man of
honour, and deserves to be treated as such with all due courtesy. The
more I see of men, the more I begin to think him one of the few true
gentlemen one meets with. I should not even have told you this had it
not escaped me in reply to what you said, because I thought it would
annoy you, and perhaps make you feel unkindly towards the Prothero
family. But you may tell her, if you like, that were Rowland Prothero
not the gentleman I begin to perceive he is, Miss Nugent and her money
might be his.'
'But, Freda--after all--if you do like him. You see, his uncle married a
Perry, one of the oldest families in Herefordshire, niece of the
baronet, daughter of the dean, cousin of the present baronet.'
'My dear father! I know all the Perrys by heart. Mrs Jonathan is not
likely to have left me ignorant of their antiquity. But, pray, do you
want to get rid of me, that you force me upon poor Rowland, or him upon
me, whichever it may be?'
'Of course not, my dear. Only I am naturally anxious to see you settled.
And if you really like him--'
'But I am settled, and I do not like him; that is to say, I like him
well enough, fifty times better than I used to like him, but I have not
the most remote intention of marrying him. And now, I should like to
know what particular reason Lady Mary Nugent had for putting this absurd
notion into your head. There must be something, my dear papa, under all
this sudden anxiety to get me married. You used rather to rejoice when I
declined settling Glanyravon on a suitor.'
'Yes, my dear--but--you see--it is not quite certain that Glanyravon--I
mean that you--I mean that I--in short--the fact is--you are so
impetuous, Freda.'
'What can my impetuosity have to do with it?'
Freda saw that her father was more than usually nervous and fidgety, and
became alarmed lest there should be some sudden money difficulty, as any
threat, however slight, of debt or involvement always made him ill. She
sat down beside him, and putting her hand in his, as it rested on a
table nervously fidgeting with a pen, she said gently,--
'Now, pappy, I hope we are not all going to jail?'
'By no means; the tenants are most prosperous. I could raise any sum if
necessary, and give you a marriage portion suitable in every way.'
What was there in this marriage scheme? Freda grew impatient and
indignant again.
'Now, really, papa, this is too absurd; If you have anything on your
mind, will you say it?'
'Well--the fact is, Freda, that you--I mean that I, have made up my
mind--you see you may marry, and leave me alone, and I should want a
companion, and--and all that sort of thing, you know--so I have
considered--for your--for our--for my, perhaps--happiness, that it might
be well for me to--to--to--in short, my dear--to marry again; in fact,
Freda, I have resolved to do so.'
'Lady Mary Nugent!' screamed Freda; 'not her! not her! not settled! oh
papa!'
Mr Gwynne had called Freda impetuous, but he was not prepared for the
sudden burst of uncontrollable grief that followed his announcement.
Often as Freda had jested over the proposal Lady Mary was to make her
father, she had never believed that he would marry her. It came upon her
like the news of an unexpected death, or great family misfortune. She
covered her face with her hands, and sobbed till her father thought she
must burst some blood vessel then and there before him. He got up, sat
down; went to the bell, touched the rope, let it go; opened the window,
put his hand on Freda's bowed head, called her by name, and, in return,
was greeted by--
'Not Lady Mary! think of my mother! think of me! oh father! father!
cruel! this is too much! Say it is not true; only a jest. What have I
done? I will be better, kinder, gentler--I will nurse you, tend
you--never marry. I would rather not--I never shall. Nobody loves you as
well as I. Your only child. My mother's only child. Say it is not
true--oh, say it is not true?'
This was impossible, for Mr Gwynne knew full well that he was pledged
beyond recall. But now, as he looked on his daughter, heard her words,
thought of her mother, he began to repent of what he had done. He, who
hated scenes, dreaded tears, would not annoy Freda for the world, to
have raised such emotion! He did not understand it. Lady Mary had
assured him Freda would be so glad to be allowed to marry Rowland. And
she was so discerning and clever! But he could not bear those sobs.
'Freda! my dear, don't, I beg, I entreat! You will make me so nervous.
You know I cannot bear--in short, I feel quite ill. The fact is, you
will make yourself ill, and after all, it need make no difference to
you. You will be just the same. Freda, I must beg you to desist. I must
insist--I will ring for the housekeeper.'
'No, no, papa. Do not let us expose ourselves!' cried Freda, rising
suddenly; 'I will go upstairs. Neither you nor I will ever be happy
again!'
Freda was about to leave the room, when Mr Gwynne suddenly went up to
her, and putting his arm round her neck, whispered, whilst the tears
sprang into his eyes,--
'Freda, Freda! my child, forgive me! I didn't think it would vex you so.
I scarcely know how it has all happened.'
Poor Freda threw both her arms around her father, and sobbed again. As
she leaned on his shoulder, his white hairs touched the brown glossy
braids of her head, and his lips kissed them. At that moment he knew
that he did not love Lady Mary Nugent as well as he loved his child,
and that child was conscious for the first time how very dear her father
was to her.
Again she roused herself, and as if ashamed of her emotion, hastened out
of the room. She went upstairs, and locking herself in her room, threw
herself on her bed. Here she gave way to feelings that were as new as
strange to her, unaccustomed as she was to what some one calls 'the
luxury of tears.' She scarcely knew whether sorrow or anger
predominated, but she was wretched and indignant. Tumultuous thoughts
rushed through her mind of the past, present, and probable future!
thoughts too numerous and changeable to be transcribed, but which may
well be imagined.
At last her pride, that one grand feature of her character, got the
better of her grief and anger. She rose from her bed, dried her eyes,
arranged her hair, and with a carriage as erect as her soul was haughty,
once more entered her father's library. The momentary emotion and pathos
of their last embrace had been overpowered in both by stronger
sensations; in him by the remembrance of Lady Mary Nugent's
fascinations, in her by the sense of that lady's tact and duplicity.
Freda sat quietly down opposite her father, and said abruptly,--
'Papa, this odious subject must be begun and ended between us this day.
If you will be good enough to answer me a few questions and to listen to
me, I will never mention it again. Are you really engaged to Lady Mary
Nugent, or is it a horrible dream?'
'I--yes--I certainly am, my dear--engaged to be married to her
ladyship.'
'And you mean to marry her? Impossible!'
'Do you consider me a man of honour? or am I one likely to break my word
when pledged?'
'Oh! papa, when a woman proposes and makes love, and waits till the very
moment when it suits her own convenience to marry, do you think she
deserves consideration? You know that Lady Mary Nugent has done it all
herself, and that you would never have taken the trouble, or had the
courage to propose for any woman under the sun, if she had not asked you
first. You know you do not want to marry. I would give the world to know
how she managed to bring you to the point.'
'Really, Freda, this is too--too--personal, and rude, I may call
it--and--'
'Forgive me, papa. Of course you are your own master, and are at liberty
to be chosen by any woman, but she will not choose me, nor I her. I hate
Lady Mary Nugent, despise her most intensely, and shall leave this house
before she comes into it; never--'
It seemed as if an invisible hand checked the end of Freda's
determination, for she stopped short at the 'never.'
'But what I came particularly to say, papa, is, that I believe I have
some little private fortune of my own, my dear mother's, in short, and I
suppose I can have that when I like.'
'Certainly--certainly--but--'
'Then I wish both you and Lady Mary Nugent to understand that I shall
not live here. Not on your account, but on hers. I ask, as a particular
favour, that I may not be informed of the day of your marriage; and I
shall make it a point of going away in a month or so, so as to leave you
free to act. I shall hope to hear from you, and to write to you. I am
only sorry for you, because she cannot understand your tastes; but that
is nothing. I don't think either she or her daughter ever read any book
but a fashionable novel in their lives. But what is the difference!
Money and tact against the world! I cannot help speaking my mind for
this first and last time. Forgive me. You will not have me long to speak
it, and my successor never spoke her's in her life, so she will not bore
you by abruptness and sincerity, as I perhaps have done.'
Freda had spoken so fast that she paused to take breath, and during that
necessary process her father wiped his face, as if he, too, were
exhausted by her volubility. Freda could scarcely help smiling.
'I am very sorry for everything I have ever done to displease you,' she
began again; 'and I only hope you will not be so unhappy, as I am afraid
you will be.'
'This is too exhausting!' muttered Mr Gwynne, sinking back in his chair.
'Freda, you really do talk too much. Will you ring for Perkins? I must
take a dose of that cordial.'
When the cordial was mentioned, Freda knew that all conversation was at
an end. She rang the bell, and when Perkins came, left the room.
She went at once to her writing desk, and wrote the following note:--
'MY DEAREST SERENA,--What you and I have sometimes feared is about
to come to pass. My father is going to marry Lady Mary Nugent. Of
course I can no longer live here; will you and Mr Jones give me
shelter for a time whilst I arrange my thoughts and plans? I will
give as little trouble as I can, but I know you will bear with
me.--Your loving friend,
'WINIFRED GWYNNE.'
Freda sealed and directed her letter, and then went to the open window,
and stood there for some time. A slight shower of rain was falling and
a few light clouds were struggling with the afternoon sunbeams. Strong
shadows fell from the trees in the Park, equally strong lights were on
the distant hills. The river looked hot and hazy, and the cattle had
congregated under the arch of the bridge--the only cool spot--as if for
shelter from the sun. A shrill, blithe, distant whistle sounded, and the
bells of Llanfawr church pealed in the far-away town, just sending their
faint echoes across the river.
'What are those bells ringing for?' said Freda, as she wiped away some
large tears that were gathering in her eyes. 'They ring for everything;
soon it will be for these odious marriages. Why was I ever born? Why,
above all, was I born in such a place as this? And to leave it! Yes,
Frisk' (to her terrier, that was barking and jumping outside the
window), 'you and I must go away. No more quarrels with Jerry; no more
fights with Gelert?; no more hunts in the brook. Will you come with me
to smoky London? Yes, and hate it as much as I shall. Sleep away your
life by a city fire, and grow fat and old, instead of racing after me
and Prince. But we shall not live long in a town, Frisk. We shall soon
die of sheer laziness, and so much the better--for who will care for us?
Lion and Jerry and even Gipsy will forget you; and every one has
forgotten me already. Why am I so foolish as to cry so? I never knew how
weak I could be until these last few days. But we must be strong,
Frisk--we must be strong, and not care for this old place, and the
beautiful park, and all the--oh, why will those bells ring? and what are
they ringing for? And there is the dinner-bell, too, harsh as my lot.
And I must try to be dutiful, and show a bold face and good courage to
the world, who will pity me, or rejoice over me, and say that I wanted
something to pull down my pride. And so, perhaps, I do; but this shall
not be the something. No, no; it shall only make me prouder. Poor papa,
too; he will be more wretched than I--I am sure he will. I cannot bear
to think of him. Frisk! Frisk! don't make such a noise. Don't jump so,
Frisk. There! I will take you in. Good dog! good Frisk! You love me if
no one else does; you and Gladys.'