Gladys, the Reaper Part 84

'Then go you and tell the girl, you may have her, as far as I am concerned,' said Mr Prothero.

'Indeed, father!' said Owen doubtfully.

'Do you want me to swear, sir? Upon my deed, then, you may marry the girl. I have but one objection, and that's the way she came here. The girl's a good girl, and I like her well enough. Now, p'r'aps you 'ont go to sea.'

'Decidedly not; I'm a steady land-lubber for my life: thank you, father.

Shake hands upon it! You won't repent. Kiss me, Netta! You have done it, I know, and you shall dance at the wedding. Now, I'll go and tell Gladys.'

Owen and his father shook hands until their arms ached. Then the brother and sister kissed one another, and, with a sort of greyhound leap, or caper, Owen started off in search of Gladys.

'Father, you will never repent it. Thank you--a thousand times,' said Netta, covering her face with her hands, and bursting into tears.

The worthy farmer cried with her, and thus the father and daughter's love returned and increased.

CHAPTER XLV.

THE BETROTHED.

Owen found Gladys in the dairy with his mother and Minette. She had a candle in one hand, lighting Mrs Prothero, whilst she was looking at the fresh milk just put into the pans; Minette held the other.

'All right, Gladys! all right! Father has consented!' cried Owen, literally tumbling down the pa.s.sage between the milk-pans.

Down went a splendid tin of milk right over Minette. Owen didn't mind.

His arm was round Gladys' waist, and the candle stowed away somewhere, before any one knew what he was about. Mother and niece saw the long, fervent embrace to which Gladys yielded; but Owen didn't mind that. If all the servants, domestic and otherwise, had been there, he wouldn't have cared.

'Oh, Mr Owen!' said Gladys.

'Oh, Mrs. Owen,' said he.

'Mother, she is mine and yours now for ever!' he continued, releasing Gladys somewhat from his firm clasp. 'Father has given her to me. I needn't ask you. We will live all together. I will herd the cows, and she shall milk them.'

'Come into the kitchen, Owen,' said Mrs Prothero, utterly astonished.

'Uncle, you have wet me all over,' sighed Minette.

'Never mind. Come by the fire and dry yourself.'

They all went into the kitchen, which was empty. There, by the blazing wood fire, Owen kissed Gladys and his mother and Minette, and Mrs Prothero kissed Gladys; and the women cried and Owen laughed. It was a long time before he could explain the real state of the case.

'You are quite sure you love me, Gladys? It is not _grat.i.tude_, but love!' said Owen, looking into the pure, l.u.s.trous 'violets dropping dew,' that he had studied so long and so lovingly.

The answering glance and the quick blush were quite satisfactory.

'Then, will you come with me to father and Netta. We owe it all to her--poor dear Netta!'

'Please to wipe my frock first,' said Minette to her grandmother; 'and tell me if uncle is going to marry Gladys. I am so glad.'

The frock was wiped, and Owen took the child up in his arms, and told her to love her new aunt better than ever.

'I can't love her better, uncle,' was the simple a.s.surance of the little girl.

'Nor can I, even as my daughter,' said Mrs Prothero, pressing the hand she held with a mother's love.

They all went to the parlour, where Mr Prothero and Netta were sitting, quite silent, by the fire-light.

Owen led Gladys to his father, who did not well know what to do on the occasion, not being quite satisfied with the respectability of the parentage of his future daughter-in-law.

Gladys summoned all her courage, and standing before Mr Prothero, said firmly,--

'You will be glad, sir, to know that I have found my friends, and that they acknowledge me as their relation. I could never have consented to bring disgrace upon you and yours. I do not think I could have accepted your present great kindness even, had I not been able to make my truth as clear as the noon-day. Mr Jones, with whom Miss Gwynne and I have been living so long, is my uncle--my mother's own brother.'

The general exclamations of surprise may be imagined.

'The girl's dreaming, like Netta,' from Mr Prothero.

'Why didn't you tell me before?' from Owen.

'I knew she was true,' from Mrs Prothero.

'How can this be, Gladys?' from Netta.

Gladys told her story simply. Every one was too much engrossed with it, to think of the pretty picture that wondering family group made; but as we know it already, we will look at the picture whilst she is telling her tale.

The large, old-fas.h.i.+oned sofa is placed at one side of the fire-place, its head against the wall, its foot towards the window, so as to give Netta warmth and the view of the distant hills at the same time. Between the head of the sofa and the fire-place is an arm-chair, also against the wall, Mr Prothero's favourite seat; and Minette's footstool is by the side of her mother, and at the feet of her grandfather.

Netta's pale face is in shadow, but the large, bright black eyes beam upon Gladys, with preternatural l.u.s.tre, and the raven hair s.h.i.+nes against the white pillow that supports her head. The broad, ma.s.sive figure of the father, in its rough work-a-day clothes, is also in shadow. One elbow rests upon the arm of Netta's sofa, one hand smooths mechanically the head of his grandchild, resting against his knee. This large hand and that tender head come within the glow of the fire-light.

His grey head is lifted towards Gladys, on whom his keen black eyes, so like Netta's, are also fixed. Minette, too, sitting at his feet, gazes with child-like wonder on Gladys; her long black curls falling over her pale face. Grandsire, daughter, child, so like one another, and yet so far apart in age. Three types they are of the ancient Briton.

Opposite this trio, with her left hand clasped in that of Netta, and close to her sofa, stands the fair, blue-eyed, graceful Gladys; thoroughly Irish in beauty, if Welsh in heart. The red glare of the large bright fire brings out her sweet, earnest face, and slight form.

Her eyes are cast down, as if they cannot support the gaze of so many other eyes, and her cheeks are flushed with a strange excitement.

Towering a full head above her, his arm round her waist, the thick black beard touching her hair is the manly, handsome Owen. Love, joy, pride, in his honest black eyes, and health on his bronzed and ruddy cheeks.

Seated on the sofa, her arms on Netta's knees, her head, with its silver hair, and plain white lace cap, eagerly pressed forward, is the well-beloved mother. For the first time since Netta's return, grief for the one child, has merged into joy for the other, and prayer and praise for all are in her heart even whilst she listens.

The story is told, Gladys raises her eyes and head somewhat proudly for her. Owen lowers his, and kisses the pure, white forehead. There is silence for a few moments, no one can speak for tears. Owen is the first.

'Well, father! all's right now, at any rate.'

'Treue for you there, Owen, my boy. The only objection is removed; everybody will know now that Gladys was honest, G.o.d bless you both, and make you happy.'

At this moment there was a suppressed sob from Netta. Her mind had wandered from the open, straightforward betrothal of Owen and Gladys, crowned, after years of difficulty, with a father's and mother's blessing, to her own unhallowed marriage--to her lost husband.

Again poor Netta was the object of every one's thoughts, Gladys forgot herself, and Owen his joy, to cheer and comfort her.