Gladys, the Reaper Part 37

He, in return, proposed the army, coupled with Colonel Vaughan, who--and, he said, he knew he was expressing the thoughts of all present--was heartily welcomed home, and earnestly entreated to remain in his native country.

Colonel Vaughan delighted every one by a most eloquent response. 'Such a grand gentleman, but so humble,' was the general opinion of him. As for the ladies, they were all in love with him. Lady Mary Nugent, Freda, Miss Nugent--they had never seen so charming a man. And he was so universally gallant that he might have been in love with them all in return. He gave the 'Welsh Yeomanry,' for whom Mr Prothero returned thanks, and right well he did it; giving the colonel to understand in something more than a hint, that if he wished the farmers and farming to improve, he, and other absent landlords, must come and live on their property as Mr Gwynne did, and then there would be more wealth and prosperity, and more 'harvest homes.'

And so, with various other toasts, including the vicar and his lady, for whom Owen had to return thanks, the afternoon wore on. The children were playing at games in the Park, and by degrees the elders joined them.

Here Gladys was foremost. It was wonderful to see how she had gained the affections of the young. One and all were round her, and when the gentlemen and ladies came to look on, and join in the revels, the first thing that attracted them was the flushed face and graceful figure of this really beautiful girl, as she led the boisterous youngsters in a game of 'French and English.'

In a moment Colonel Vaughan was in the ring heading the boys; but Gladys immediately retired, abashed, as he stood opposite to her, as captain on the French side. But Owen came to the rescue, and the gallant officer and equally gallant sailor headed the ranks, as commanders of the bands of French and English. They had a hard fight on both sides, but at last the English conquered, and Owen and his party won the day amidst great cheering.

Sir Hugh and Rowland joined in the succeeding games; and sixpences, sweetmeats, apples, and every available prize was given to the boys and girls for racing, jumping, singing, and the like, until the shades of evening fell over the scene.

Lady Mary Nugent and her daughter were the first to wish good-night; as they were to walk home, Colonel Vaughan proposed accompanying them.

'You will return at once?' asked Freda, rather peremptorily, for she disliked that the Nugents should carry off the all-fascinating colonel.

He bowed and said 'yes,' and Rowland, who was near, saw Freda's cheek flush as he looked at her.

It chanced that Rowland and Miss Gwynne were left together at a distance from the revel. They stood awhile, looking on, and talking over the day.

Rowland said it had been most successful. Indeed he felt that all had been pleased; none more than himself, for had not everyone congratulated him, and above all, had not Miss Gwynne been even kinder and more friendly, than when by his mother's bed side she had seemed to him as a sister?

'If it has been successful, Mr Rowland, it is in a great measure due to you,' said Miss Gwynne, looking up into his face with a smile of real satisfaction. 'I should never have managed the children so well, and I must say, much as I like your uncle, I don't think he would have managed the services so well as you have done.'

Reader! were you ever praised by a very handsome woman, whom you have loved all your life, when standing with her alone under a wide-spreading oak, in a n.o.ble park, with mountains bathed in the red and yellow of the sunset before you, and a broad harvest-moon rising above your heads? If so, you will not wonder at the end of this chapter.

Rowland suddenly fixed his fine, dark eyes upon Freda's face, and looked into it, as if he would read her soul. For a moment she was abashed at the gaze, and coloured deeply, whilst her eye-lids drooped over the eyes he sought. Was there ever a woman who was not flattered and excited by such a look?

'Miss Gwynne,' at last said Rowland tremulously, 'if in any way I can have served and pleased you I am happy. For this, in part, I have laboured, and still would labour. You do not, you cannot know how I have loved you all my life.'

Poor Rowland almost whispered these few words, and as he did so, wished he could recall them, but now the deed was done, and she knew the secret of his childhood, boyhood, and manhood. He said no more, but stood looking down upon her with his heart beating as it had never beaten before.

Higher and higher rose the colour on her cheek. What were the feelings that deepened it so? Alas! poor Rowland! Pride, only pride. For a moment she stood as if hesitating what to say, then, suddenly drawing herself up to her full height, she looked haughtily at him, and said words that he never forgot to his dying day.

'Mr Rowland Prothero, have you quite forgotten who I am, and who you are?'

With these words she made a stately bow, and turned towards the house.

Proudly and hastily she walked up the avenue; once she had turned round, and seeing Rowland standing exactly where she had left him, hurried on until she found herself in her own room, indulging in a very decided flood of indignant tears.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE BROTHERS.

During this short conversation between Rowland and Miss Gwynne, Gladys was still playing with the children at no great distance from them. With all a woman's penetration, she had guessed Rowland's secret during his mother's illness, and had perceived no symptoms of attachment on the part of Miss Gwynne; and now, with all a woman's pity, she was watching him from afar. She had seen them standing together, had marked the hasty bow and retreat of the lady, and the immoveable att.i.tude of the gentleman; she saw that he continued to stand where Miss Gwynne had left him, as if he were a statue; she guessed something must have pa.s.sed between them.

As twilight was fairly come on, she told the schoolmistress that she must go home, and begged her to see that the children dispersed when she thought best. Owen, who was in the midst of a game of cricket with the boys, was as well aware of all Gladys's movements as if he had been by her side. He saw that she was shaking hands with the mistress, and that the children were imploring her to stay a little longer. He went to her and asked her to remain until he had finished his game, in order that he might see her home.

She thanked him, but said, rather abruptly for her, that she must go at once, and, heedless of what he or others might think, went hastily across the park to Rowland.

'That's the way the wind blows, is it?' said Owen to himself, whilst a frown gathered on his open forehead.

Rowland was unconscious of the approach of Gladys, and was startled from his trance by the words,--

'Mr Rowland, sir, I think the mistress will be expecting you home.'

He looked at her half unconsciously for a moment, and then rousing himself, said,--

'Oh! Gladys, is it you? Yes, I will go directly. Where? Home? Of course it is time. I will walk with you.'

These were the only words spoken between the pair. Rapidly he strode down the avenue, inwardly resolving never to enter it again; as rapidly along the road that led to the farm, until he reached the house, with Gladys breathless by his side.

'I am afraid I have walked too quickly, Gladys, I am very sorry. I was anxious to get home, I do not feel very well.'

With these words he hurried through the pa.s.sage, and was going to his room, when his father met him and called him into the parlour. He felt so bewildered that he scarcely knew what his mother said, when she told him how proud and happy he had made her by his conduct that day.

'All, my dear son, church-people and dissenters were pleased with your sermon, and the way you managed everything. Your aunt repeated it word for word to me, and it was just what I like. This is the first comfort I have felt since--'

Mrs Prothero pressed her son's hand, and her eyes filled with tears.

'Thank you, mother, I am glad,' was all Rowland could say.

'Mind you, Row, my boy, you must write a good sermon for Sunday. You've got a character to lose now,' said Mr Prothero, giving him a slap on the back.

'Yes, father. I will go and write it.'

'Not to-night, Rowland,' said Mrs Prothero, anxiously; 'you look pale and tired. What is the matter?'

'Nothing, mother; but I must think of this sermon, I have only one clear day. We will talk to-morrow. Good-night, dear mother.'

Rowland stooped to kiss his mother, and she felt that his face was very cold, and that his hand trembled.

'You are ill, Rowland?'

'No, only tired. I will come and see you again by-and-by.'

Rowland went to his room and bolted himself in. He threw himself on a chair, covered his face with his hands, and wept like a child. He was seated by a little writing-table near the window, through which the moon looked down pitifully upon him in his great anguish. Yes, great. Perhaps the greatest anguish of a life. His arms on the table, his head on his arms, he thought, in the misery of that moment, that he must die, and he wished to die. The illusion of a life was destroyed, and how? So rudely, so cruelly, so heartlessly broken! He could have borne it if there had been one kind word, only a look of interest or pity; but that pride and haughtiness were like the stabs of a dagger in his heart.

'Womanly weakness! unmanly folly!' you say, some one who has never felt keenly and suddenly the pangs of such a pa.s.sion unrequited. Perhaps so.

But out of our great weakness sometimes grows our strength; out of our bitterest disappointments our sternest resolution. By-and-by such weakness will strengthen; such folly will breed wisdom.

Thus Rowland remained for some time, with unkind and unholy thoughts and feelings rus.h.i.+ng through his mind, like the howling winds through the air in a great storm. Afterwards, he prayed humbly to be forgiven those devilish feelings of anger, pride, hatred of life and mistrust of G.o.d's goodness that a.s.sailed him in that hour of misery. But for the time, they were darting to and fro, and casting out every good thought, and hopeful purpose from his soul, like demons as they were.

But strength came at last, and like one arising out of a horrid dream, Rowland got up from his anguish, and looked out into the night. The moon was too tender and beautiful for his mood at that time; he roughly drew down the blind, took a box of matches from the table, and lighted a candle. Then he paced up and down the room, and suddenly thought of Howel and Netta. He knew not how the transition took place, but he immediately accused himself of having been hard to them. Does any one ever fully sympathise with another, until he has felt as he does? No, we should not judge our weak fellow mortals so harshly, if we knew all their temptations and trials.

Then, again, Miss Gwynne returned to him, with her pride and coldness.