Gladys, the Reaper Part 8

'I a.s.sure you it would be quite right, and I don't fear infection and papa would let me do just as I like. In short, I mean to stay, and you must go directly. Is young Jenkins at home, Mr Rowland?'

'Yes, he returned a few hours before his father's death.'

'I suppose that horrid old man died as rich as Croesus, and, according to custom in such cases, his son will spend the money.'

'I wish he had not got it,' said Mrs Prothero.

'That is scarcely a fair wish, mother. Let us hope that he will do well with it.'

'Never, never. He was not born or bred in a way to make him turn out well.'

'Nothing is impossible, mother.'

'You must take care of Netta, Mrs Prothero. But now do go to that wretched Mrs Jenkins, and leave the poor girl to me, and Mr and Mrs Jonathan to Mr Rowland. I hope you have been studying the antiquities of Wales at Oxford, Mr Rowland?'

This was said as Mrs Prothero left the room; and Rowland was startled from a rather earnest gaze on Miss Gwynne's very handsome and animated face, by this sudden appeal to him, and by meeting that young lady's eyes as they turned towards him. A slight blush from the lady and a very deep one from the gentleman were the result. The lady was indignant with herself for allowing such a symptom of female weakness to appear, and said somewhat peremptorily,--

'Will you be so good as to tell Jones to take the horses home, and to let my father know that he must not wait luncheon, or even dinner for me?'

'Excuse me, Miss Gwynne,' said the young man, recovering his composure, 'but I do not think my mother would be justified in allowing you to attend upon that poor girl.'

'Allowing me! Really I do not mean to ask her. I choose to do it, thank you, and I will speak to the servant myself.'

It was now Miss Gwynne's turn to grow very red, as, with haughty port, she swept past Rowland, leaving him muttering to himself.

'What a pity that one so n.o.ble should be so determined and absolute. Let her go, however. n.o.body shall say that I lent a hand to her remaining here. In the first place she runs the risk of infection, in the second every one else thinks she degrades herself by coming here as she does.

Still, her desire to take care of the girl is a fine, natural trait of character. I must just go and look over the _Guardian_. A curacy in England I am resolved to get, away from all temptation. Yet I hate answering advertis.e.m.e.nts, or advertising. If my aunt's friends would only interest themselves in procuring me a London curacy, I think I should like to work there. That would be labouring in the vineyard, with a positive certainty of reaping some of the fruits.'

The soliloquy was interrupted by the reappearance of Mrs Prothero, dressed for her walk.

'Mother, you ought not to let Miss Gwynne stay.'

'I! my dear Rowland! Do you think she would mind what I say to her?'

Miss Gwynne entered.

'I have sent off the servant, and now let me go to the girl.'

This was said with the decision of an empress, and with equal grandeur and dignity was the bow made with which she honoured Rowland as she made her exit, followed meekly by Mrs Prothero.

A short time afterwards she was alone by the bedside of the sick girl.

Every comfort had been provided for her by Mrs Prothero, and Miss Gwynne had little to do but to administer medicines and nourishment.

'Is there anything I can do for you, my poor girl?' she said, leaning over her bed. 'Anything you have to say--any letter I can write--any--'

'If--you--would--pray--my lady,' was the slow, almost inarticulate reply.

Pray! This was what Miss Gwynne could not do. 'Why,' she asked herself, 'can I not say aloud what I feel at my heart for this unhappy creature?

I never felt so before, and yet I know not how to pray.'

She went to the head of the stairs, and called Netta.

'Will you ask your brother whether he will come and read a prayer to the poor girl?' she said.

A few seconds after there was a knock at the door. She opened it and admitted Rowland. He went to the bed, and began to whisper gently of the hope of salvation to those who believe. Gladys opened her eyes, and caught the hand extended to her.

'More--more,' she murmured. 'Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief.'

Rowland read the Office for the Sick, from the prayer book, and she responded inwardly, her lips moving. Miss Gwynne came to the bed, and kneeling down, joined in the prayers.

Again Rowland spoke soothingly to the girl of the need of looking to Christ, the Saviour, alone in the hour of her extremity; and she murmured, 'He is my rock and my fortress.'

'Do you trust wholly in Him?'

'In whom else should I trust? All human friends are gone.'

'Not all, you have friends around you.'

'Have I? Thank you, sir? G.o.d bless you.'

'I will come again and read to you when you are able to bear it.'

Rowland said this and withdrew, without speaking again to Miss Gwynne, or even bowing as he left the room.

'He certainly reads most impressively,' thought Miss Gwynne; 'I could scarcely believe he was not English born and bred; but still he is quite a Goth in manners, and I am sure he thinks no one in the country so clever as himself.'

Rowland met Netta at the foot of the stairs.

'Netta, I really am ashamed to think that you can allow Miss Gwynne to wait upon that girl in your own house.'

'I'm sure, Rowland, Miss Gwynne needn't do it if she didn't choose. I don't want to catch the fever, and I never will run the risk by nursing such a girl as that.'

'Surely, Netta, you cannot be our mother's daughter, or you could not use such unchristian expressions.'

'I'm no more unchristian than other people, but you're always finding fault with me.'

The conversation was interrupted by a loud knocking at the house door, and Farmer Prothero's voice was heard without, calling,--

'Mother, mother, where are you? Here we are, all come!'

Netta flew to open the door, and was soon industriously kissing a lady and gentleman, who had just alighted from a little four-wheeled carriage, and were waiting, with her father, for admission. Rowland, also, in his turn, duly embraced the lady, who seemed much pleased to see him. They brought in various packages, and proceeded to the parlour.

'Where's mother, Netta?' exclaimed Mr Prothero.

Rowland answered for her.

'She is gone to Mrs Griffey Jenkins, father; perhaps you have not heard that Uncle Griff is dead.'

'Not I, indeed. Well! he's as good out of the world as in, though I'm sorry for the old fellow. But what'll we do without mother? She's always nursing somebody or other, either alive or dead.'