THE DAUGHTER-IN-LAW.
New Year's Day dawned under the influence of a bright sun, and a clear,
frosty atmosphere. The old year was dead and buried with all his griefs
and joys; his son and heir came forward smiling, to begin his career of
times and seasons, clouds and sunbeams.
With him, Owen and Gladys were to commence their united lives. An
auspicious morning ushered in this, their bridal day, and the year's
birthday. Nature had put on all her jewels in honour of the joint
festivities. Her very tears were turned into diamonds that sparkled on
her capacious breast, neck, and arms, more brilliantly than stomachers,
necklaces and bracelets of gems, on the courtiers of an Indian monarch.
Truly, as the fair and gentle Gladys drove through the roads and lanes
that led from the farm to the church, the hedge-rows sparkled with these
brilliants, and her very pathway was strewn with them. Attired in that
Quaker-like garb of dove-colour and white, her soft cheek tinged as from
the sun, her eyes cast down in modest shyness, and her heart beating
with quiet happiness, she seemed a fitting bride to wait upon that heir
of so many by-gone generations.
And assuredly a happier never drove to a church to meet her expectant
bridegroom, her hand clasped lovingly between the kindly palms of her
future mother, sitting by her side; and the affectionate glances of her
uncle and aunt cast upon her from the opposite seat. She felt as if it
were all a dream. She, the Irish beggar--the friendless--the
wanderer--the orphan!
And now so honoured! All whom she most cared for in the world, with the
exception of Rowland, were assembled in that village church to meet her.
There were Owen and his father--Miss Gwynne and Minette--Mr and Mrs
Jonathan Prothero.
Gentleness, gratitude and simple merit, were, for once rewarded, even in
this world.
The kind and worthy Uncle Jonathan--so soon to be _her_ uncle--married
her. Her own uncle gave her, with prayers and blessings, to him whom she
had loved so long and truly--her former mistress, now her fast friend,
and another mistress's grandchild, were her bridesmaids.
If a tear gathered in her eye, it was a tear of joy; and there, at the
altar, amongst all those to whom she was henceforth to be united by the
ties of relationship, she inwardly vowed to devote herself to their
happiness, and to the fulfilment of the promises she was making to him
who would be one with her for ever.
The churchyard was full of spectators, as the proud and happy Owen led
his bride through it to the vicarage, and the general opinion was, that
there had never been married so handsome a couple in the church of
Llanfach.
The bells and the sunbeams rang out and shone out together, and all the
wedding-party forgot their private sorrows in the joy of the moment.
Even Netta, who had been taken to the vicarage for the occasion,
received them with one of her old bright smiles. She threw her arms
round Gladys, and called her 'sister.'
'_My_ sister,' she said more than once emphatically.
And if tears would, from time to time, spring into her eyes, as she
contrasted herself with Gladys, she brushed them away, and did her best
not to cast a shadow from her grief, on the brightness of a brother and
sister's joy. That little drawing-room at the vicarage contained as
pretty and pleasant a group as could well be seen, of which Owen and
Gladys formed the centre figures.
'Now, my good girl, let me give you a real kiss,' said honest Mr
Prothero, 'and tell you that I am proud of my daughter. Mother, what do
you say?'
'I say, thank God for all His mercies,' said quiet Mrs Prothero, shaking
Gladys' hand, which she seemed loath to part with.
If there is a great variety of character and feeling displayed in
shaking hands, there assuredly is, also, in kissing. Gladys experienced
it in that same little drawing-room, where she submitted her blushing
cheeks to all sorts of impressions.
Mr Prothero gave her three very hearty smacks, which resounded through
the room, and seemed to say at once, 'I am your father; his wife's
embrace was quieter, but more tender. Mrs Jonathan stooped majestically,
and imprinted her lips patronisingly on the forehead, as much as to say,
'I receive you into the family of the Payne Perrys, since you are
respectably connected.' Mrs Jones kissed her on the lips, and said, 'God
bless you, my dear.' Miss Gwynne, who hated kissing, and did not
consider herself one of the family, looked on, but took no active part.
Was that pride? she asked herself afterwards, and the answer was, 'Yes.'
As to Mr Jones, his embrace made Owen exclaim, 'It is well I know you
are her uncle now. I was as jealous as could be when you kissed her in
London.' Minette's embrace was a long hug, and when the vicar came in,
he wound up the scene by a salute as original as himself, which called
forth the following reproof from his brother:--
'Why, man, you don't know how to kiss. You stumbled upon the very tip of
her nose, and almost put her eyes out with your spectacles.'
Heedless of the interruption, Mr Jonathan addressed his niece as
follows:--
'My dear Niece, Claudia,--I shall henceforth call you by that name, in
memory of her of the Epistle, and I so registered it just now, Gladys or
Claudia--I wish you and my good nephew, Owen, all happiness and
prosperity, both spiritual and temporal. I pray that you may, according
to the example of your illustrious namesake, devote yourself to works of
piety and hospitality, making your husband's home happy, and keeping a
place therein for his and your friends.'
'To be sure she will, uncle,' said Owen, 'and we will have an especial
corner for you, called "The Claudia," where the little hypocrite shall
talk to you of all the druidical remains, and fossil mammoths, that she
pretends to be so interested in.'
'You had better come and take off your bonnet now, my dear,' said Mrs
Jonathan to the flushed and shy Gladys.
'I hope I shall never be married,' whispered Freda to Mrs Jones, 'if I
am to undergo that sort of ordeal. But I suppose all brides are not
kissed in that way.'
Uncle and Aunt Jonathan had prepared a substantial early dinner--they
did not dignify it by the name of _dejeuner_, or miscall it
breakfast--to which, in the course of an hour or so, the family party
sat down, much as they would have sat down to any ordinary dinner. The
dining-table just accommodated ten comfortably, and Netta sat in her
easy-chair by the fire, with a small table by her side, making the
eleventh.
Miss Gwynne remained to luncheon only, being engaged to dine at
Abertewey, and not considering herself quite as one of the guests. She
had come uninvited and unexpected, to show due honour to Gladys and her
dear friends, Mr and Mrs Jones, and the whole party were gratified by
the attention.
The remarks upon her doing so made by her friends at home, were various.
'Freda is certainly very eccentric,' said Lady Mary to her husband. 'Her
former maid--your tenant's son--the brother-in-law of that Howel
Jenkins. Do you think it discreet, Mr Gwynne?'
'Why, really, Lady Mary, I didn't think about it. She has always done
what she likes; they are very worthy, respectable people, you know, and
all that sort of thing.'
'Well, if you don't object, of course it is no affair of mine. But it
looks very much as if she still thought of Mr Rowland.'
'Oh, an excellent young man! It was only yesterday I saw his name
mentioned in the _Times_, as having attended a large meeting in the
place of his rector, who is ill. It was upon the general question of all
sorts of improvements of the low parts of London. I can't exactly
remember what they were, religious, and sanitary, and all that sort of
thing you know. Well, the thanks of the meeting were awarded him, for
his very clear and accurate information, or something of the sort. Very
satisfactory, you know.'
'Oh very! but that can have nothing to do with Freda.'
'She is very good, is Freda, much improved! she never disputes and
quarrels with me now. I hope she will live with us--indeed I cannot part
with her again.'
At Abertewey, Mrs Vaughan asked the colonel whether 'he thought Freda
would come away from that thupid wedding, in time for dinner.'
'If she doesn't, I will never ask her here again,' was the reply. 'Now
Freda really is a capital girl, unaffected and sensible; improving every
year. I wish all women were more like her.'
'Tho do I, Gwynne; the ith very nice, tho kind to the children, and not
tho thatirical to me as the uthed to be. I uthed to be afraid of her,
but I am not now, at all. Don't you think thatirical people very
dithagreeable? I hope Winnie won't be thatirical, don't you? Mamma
thaith--'
'Never mind what she says, my dear. I hope Freda will come. All the
people will be so disgusted if she does not, particularly poor Sir Hugh.
I wish she would marry him--but she is too good for him. Intellectual
people ought not to marry those who have no brains.'
'No, thertainly not. Oh! here they are! Freda and all. I hear her
voithe. I am tho glad.'
To Freda's surprise, every one seemed really glad to see her, and to the
surprise of every one, the more they saw of her, the more they liked
her. The very people whom she had shunned as bores, and who had shunned
her as 'tho thatirical,' now became friendly and pleasant to her, and
she to them; how it was they could not tell, but various reasons were
assigned for the change.
'How altered Miss Gwynne is,' said one; 'I suppose the birth of the
brother has made her more humble.'
'Nothing like London to pull the pride out of our country gentry,' said
a second. 'Lords at home, they are only one of a multitude there. Miss
Gwynne has learnt her true position at last.'
'How much more agreeable Miss Gwynne is,' said a fourth. 'I suppose it
is because she has been living in a clergyman's family, where they are
obliged to be pleasant to all the parishioners.'
'How much less fastidious, satirical, and overbearing Freda Gwynne is,'
a fourth; 'her very countenance is altered; I am sure there has been
some great change in her mind.'
And thus the neighbours rang the changes upon Freda's change; but Mrs
Gwynne Vaughan had been, perhaps, the nearest to the real cause. She was
no longer satirical, no longer striving to find out vulnerable points in
people's characters to laugh at; she had learnt to make allowances for
others, who in turn made allowances for her. Satirical people are very
amusing, but rarely welcome, companions; not that Freda was exactly
satirical, but she had the gift of finding out every one's weak
points--a good gift to those who will kindly cover the point, but a bad
one to such as like to lay it bare.
The party at Abertewey went off very well; the colonel was in good
humour, and devoted to Freda, who tried to treat him as her
brother-in-law; and Sir Hugh was more gallant than ever, and long before
the evening was over, had managed to tell Freda that he would rather
have her without the Park than with it, which Freda pretended to take as
a joke on the part of her old admirer.
The following day, Mr and Mrs Jones spent at the Park, according to a
special invitation from its master and mistress. Lady Mary's attention
to Freda's friends did more towards reconciling her to her step-mother
than anything else; and she even forgot to ask whether it was tact or
not. Mr Jones was obliged to return to London the next day, but at
Freda's earnest entreaty, he left his wife behind him for a week, which
was spent by her between the Park and farm very agreeably.
Before she left, Mr Gwynne had a little private conference with her, to
the following effect, and very nervous he was meanwhile:--
'I am very much obliged to you and Mr Jones, I am sure, for your
kindness to Freda. I hope you understand how satisfied, and--and--all
that sort of thing, you know, I am whilst she is with you.'
Mrs Jones saw that she must say something to help him on.
'We are only too glad to have her society and aid. I assure you she has
been invaluable in the parish, and is beloved by every one.'
'Exactly; I perceive a wonderful change in her; she is gentler, and less
excitable. I feel that you--that your husband--in short, I
mean--that--hem--'
'Freda has such a fine natural character, Mr Gwynne.'
'Precisely; I would say that I am convinced you would not influence her,
and so forth, in remaining away from--you understand--from me, in
short.'
'Certainly not. I should be very glad to think that she would return
and live happily at her natural home, sorry as I should be to lose her.'
'Thank you very much indeed; you have always been her true friend. I am
very anxious--so we are all you see--Lady Mary would like a
companion--Harold attends to her better than to any one else. I hope you
like Harold; ah--yes--he is a fine boy, and so talented; and you
know--to be sure. I should wish to have Freda to read with me again; I
assure you I miss her in many ways. And the colonel and Mrs Vaughan--the
children--in fact--in short--you understand?'
'Perfectly, and will not throw any obstacle in the way of Freda's
remaining at home.'
'Thank you very much. You are a true friend, Mrs Jones; thank you.'
Mrs Jones made a point of repeating that conversation to Freda, whose
look of blank dismay quite startled her.
'Oh! Serena, you want to get rid of me. I could never live this kind of
life again. Lady Mary would kill me in another month; not an idea in
common. Her daughter is fifty times more endurable, for she is innocent
in her silliness. And then that cranky, exigeant colonel, longing to
make love to me if I would let him; the stiff dinner parties, tiresome
people, spoilt children--though I do delight in Harold and Winnie and
Gwynne and Dot and baby, too, for that much--and--'
'And your father,' quietly suggested Mrs Jones.
'I never thought you would wish me to leave you, Serena. Those happy,
useful days! The poor, the schools, the church!'
'They are everywhere, my love.'
'But so different. I never felt so happy or useful before I lived with
you in London.'
'The change is in yourself, not in the place.'
'Oh! Serena, this is cruel! I could live with my father anywhere, but
the others--impossible.'
'Think it over. You know that you have a home with us whenever you like;
that it would be my pleasure as well as interest to have you always.
That we shall miss you in every possible way; still duty is duty. As
long as your father did not care, and Lady Mary was rather glad to have
the Park to herself, the thing was, perhaps, different, at any rate
Freda was not then the Freda she is now.
'Serena, you are a bitter-sweet, and a horrible little apple that is.'
'But they say it makes good cider.'
'At any rate you ought not to influence me. I will not decide whilst you
are here, and that is all I will promise. If I do, it will be to go to
you undoubtedly. But I will think it over.'
That very night before she went to bed, Freda did think it over, sitting
by the fire in her delightful, warm, well-lighted, well-furnished
bedroom; but she could not come to any determination. She made out a
sort of debtor and creditor account in her own head, and cashed it
according to her somewhat imperfect notions of book-keeping.
'My father--of course I owe him a great deal in the way of duty and
love; but he owes me something for letting me have my own way all my
life, bringing me up with the notion that I should be an heiress, and
then disappointing me by marrying a woman whom I utterly despise. Lady
Mary--I owe her nothing whatever, beyond the common proper treatment
that one must give to every one; she, on the contrary, owes me
compensation for marrying my father when I am sure he didn't want her,
and certainly I did not.
'Colonel Vaughan--I don't owe him anything beyond a little improvement
in my style of singing and drawing; yes, I owe him a heavy debt of
gratitude for not proposing for me instead of Wilhelmina, for assuredly
I should have married him, and he owes me something for making a fool of
me. Wilhelmina--I owe her a good deal, firstly, for despising her,
laughing at her, ridiculing her--and she all the time better than I was,
for she never retaliated--and secondly, for trying to prejudice the
colonel against her. Harold--I owe him the love of a sister, and he owes
me nothing as yet; here I am decidedly debtor. The poor, of course,
wherever one is, one owes them a great debt of Christian charity and
love; and I must confess that they are not quite so well seen to as when
Gladys was my almoner; but then she is here again to see to them, and
that, on her own responsibility, and it is Lady Mary's place to care for
them now.
'On the other hand, Serena--I owe her everything; all my few good
thoughts, words and works. She owes me nothing. Mr Jones, ditto; I am
wholly creditor in London: the poor, the ragged schools, I owe them
every farthing I can give, for they want it, and have few to help them.
I feel almost sure I should be best in London. Rowland Prothero, I owe
him compensation for my great, unpardonable rudeness and pride; I am
more ashamed of that one action than of any other. He so superior to me
in every way, but the mere accident of birth.'
Thus far Freda got in her arithmetic. But Rowland seemed to open a new
rule, farther on in Butler than addition and substraction. In short,
she found herself lost in the maze of fractions, and could not extricate
herself. When she jumped up from her easy-chair, she was trying to
reduce the following complex fractions, into one simple one, and
entirely failed.
'A curate, the son of my father's tenant, the brother-in-law of my
former maid, brother-in-law also of a man indicted for forgery. But,
proud as myself; below me here, but above me in London; infinitely my
superior in everything worth the consideration of a person travelling
quickly through a world of silly distinctions, to one where we shall all
begin life on very different principles. The fact is, Freda, that the
tables are turned, and you now esteem this same Rowland Prothero much
higher than he esteems you. Constant intercourse has brought out all his
grand points, and all your weak ones. His mind has conquered your vulgar
prejudices, but has also fully seen through them, and despises you
accordingly. Well, I suppose duty and propriety concur in my remaining
at Glanyravon Park, discretion being the better part of valour.'
And so ended Freda's arithmetic.