THE FRIEND.
Mr Prothero started as soon as his horse was ready, and, it must be confessed, in a very bad temper. As soon as he got out of the precincts of Glanyravon, he began to make inquiries of every one he met, and at every cottage he passed, concerning Gladys. It was evident, from the replies that he received, that if she had gone that road, it was so early in the morning that no one had seen her.
At last he fell in with a farmer's wife whom he knew, who was jogging along on horseback, with a little boy behind her. After the usual greetings, he said,—
'You never come to Glanyravon now, Mrs Davies. I daresay you haven't seen any of our folk for a year?'
'Well, not exactly. But I almost fancied I saw that pretty young 'ooman that lives with you yesterday morning. She was too shabby, or I should have been seure of the face. Only when she saw me she turned away and went on.'
'Which way?'
'Oh, down the Carmarthen road, seure.'
'You'll excuse my hurrying on, Mrs Davies; I want to call at Lewis, Dryslwyn.'
'To be seure. Good morning, Mr Prothero.'
The worthy farmer rode off at a gallop, till he was more than out of sight of Mrs Davies. He stopped at a tidy cottage to speak to an old woman who was washing at the door.
'Did you chance to see a strange young 'ooman go by here yesterday, early?' he asked.
'What young 'ooman?' was the rejoinder.
'Rather shabbily dressed, with blue eyes, and a very pale face?'
'Had she a big black dog along, sir?' asked a boy who came from within the house.
'I think she had.'
'Then granny gave her a cup of tea when she asked for some water, and I gave the dog a piece of my bread and cheese,' said the boy.
'There's sixpence for you, my lad,' said Mr Prothero. 'Was there a young man with the girl?'
'Nobody was along, sir.'
'Which way did she go?'
'By there, to Dryslwyn, sir.'
Mr Prothero rode on to the picturesque village bearing this name. The old ruined castle looked down upon him from its curiously formed, tumulus-looking elevation, as he stopped before a neat farm-house.
'Good morning, Mrs Lewis.'
'Walk in, Mr Prothero. We were talking of you by now. There was a young 'ooman by here yesterday, and John Lewis said he was seure she had your dog with her. She went away so fast, that I hadn't time to ask about the dog.'
'Which way did she go?'
'Down the Carmarthen road.'
'Good morning, Mrs Lewis, thank you. I must look after my dog.'
Mr Prothero found it easiest to ask for the girl with a large black dog, and traced them to within a mile of Carmarthen.
He stopped at a small roadside inn to have a glass of cwrw da. [Footnote: Good ale] Here he asked the landlady of Gladys.
'See her and the dog! Is seure. They come here in the evening, and she asked for a slice of bread and a drink of water, and took out sixpence to pay for it. She gave all the bread to the dog, and my master, who is fond of dogs, told me to give 'em both a good supper. Poor dear! she couldn't help crying; and my master, who is tender-hearted when he sees a girl do be crying, tell me to give her and the dog a good supper and a bed in the barn, which I did, is seure.'
Mr Prothero paid handsomely for his ale, and having learnt that Gladys and Lion went straight to Carmarthen, went thither also. He made some few inquiries at the small inns that he passed, but gained no information. He accordingly rode through the town, and took the direct route to Hob's Point, whence, he knew, she would probably sail for Ireland.
The afternoon was far advanced, still he rode on. He began to feel as anxious as he was angry and annoyed, and declared to himself that he wouldn't turn back until he had found her. He soon began to track her again. All the little boys on the way had noticed the big dog, and could point out the route he and Gladys had pursued.
He stopped at one cottage where the mistress told him that she had made the girl sit down in the porch, because she looked so tired; and at another where she had asked how far it was to Pembrokeshire.
He had ridden about thirty miles, and twilight was creeping on. He began to think of the necessity of finding a night's lodging, and once more consigned Gladys and the Irish generally to any distant region where he should never see them again.
'If she hadn't nursed mother so tenderly,' he muttered to himself, 'I'd turn back now; but as she does seem to be running away from Owen, and not with him, it 'ould be creuel.'
The moon, the young May moon, arose in the heavens, and the farmer quickened his pace, for he knew the road, and that he was a good way from an inn, or, indeed, from any habitation where he could ask a night's lodging. Lights peeped out, one by one, from the cottages as he passed, and when he glanced into them, and saw the cheerful little fires, he thought more compassionately of Gladys, and wondered whether she had found food and lodging for the night.
He was within a mile of a small village that he knew very well, when it was about ten o'clock. The wind blew rather keenly, and he buttoned up his great-coat, and began to whistle, by way of keeping himself warm.
'Come, old girl! we shall soon have something to eat! come along,' he said to his mare, as he gave her a slight touch with his whip.
He was passing by a very lonely quarry in a field by the road-side, about which he had heard some ugly stories of robbers and ghosts years ago. Although he was a courageous, he was a superstitious man, and gave his mare another stroke as he encouraged her to proceed. She started, however, suddenly, and made a kind of halt. The moon was shining so brightly that Mr Prothero could see into the quarry across the hedge, and he fancied he perceived somebody moving about. He urged his horse on by whip and voice, but as he did so, some one jumped over the gate that led into the quarry, and made towards him. He was so much alarmed that he spurred the mare vigorously. He was sure it was a robber. He turned his whip, and held the heavy handle ready for a blow, which fell, in effect on the robber or ghost, or whatever it was, that leapt upon his leg, and seemed, to his imagination, to lay hold of it.
A loud howl, and then a sharp, joyous bark, however, soon told him who the intruder was, and gave him courage to encounter the jumpings and gambols of his own good dog, Lion.
The mare kicked, and Mr Prothero exclaimed, 'Lion! Lion! down, good dog, down! Don't upset me, Lion, bach. Let me get off, Lion! Name o' goodness, be quiet, dog! There; now you may jump as you will. Where is she? Where's Gladys?'
Mr Prothero was off his horse, and Lion was over the hedge in a moment. The former climbed the gate somewhat less speedily—and both were, in a few seconds, in the quarry, where, either dead or asleep, lay Gladys, beneath and upon the hard stones.
As the rays of the moon fell upon her pale face, Mr Prothero almost thought it was death and not sleep; but when Lion began to bark joyously, and to lick the cold hands and cheek, and when Mr Prothero ventured to stoop down and whisper, 'Gladys! Gladys!' and to take one of the damp, clammy hands in his, the white eyelids unclosed, and with a little scream of terror, the poor girl started up.
There, beneath the moonlight, she recognised her master, and falling down on her knees before him, clasped her hands, but uttered no word.
Where was Mr Prothero's ready-prepared lecture on ingratitude? Where were the questions about Owen? Where was the passion of the previous day? He could not tell. He only knew that he raised the poor kneeling girl kindly, almost tenderly. She threw her arms round him, and for the first time kissed him as if he were her father. Then, suddenly, recollecting herself, she exclaimed,—'Oh! Master! Oh, sir! forgive me.'
Her master did not speak, but lifted her in his strong arms, and carried her to the gate; lifted her over, lifted her on his horse, and, amidst the joyous caperings of Lion, mounted himself.
'Put you your arms round me, and hold fast,' he said to Gladys.
'Come you, Lion, good dog! we'll have a supper by now!' And so they all went, as fast as they could, to the neighbouring village.
Mr Prothero, with no small noise and bluster, knocked up the inmates of the little inn of that little place, and succeeded in getting Gladys ensconced by a cheerful fire in the kitchen. The poor girl was benumbed with cold and overpowered with fatigue. The landlady rubbed her feet and hands, administered hot brandy and water, and finally got her to bed.
Mr Prothero kept out of her way lest he should say something that he might afterwards repent of in the warmth of his delight at finding her again. After she was in bed, and he had heard from the landlady that she seemed better and more comfortable, he and Lion had a good supper—a meal the dog appeared thoroughly to enjoy, and which he ate with a ravenous appetite.
Mr Prothero told the landlady to leave Gladys in bed the next morning until nine o'clock, by which hour he supposed she would be sufficiently refreshed, and then retired himself, feeling thankful to Miss Gwynne for having made him do a good action, but still believing that Owen must have been in the secret of Gladys' sudden flight.
Gladys slept soundly until the landlady took her a good breakfast at nine o'clock. She then awoke, refreshed but frightened, and uncertain as to her present state or future proceedings. She was told that Mr Prothero wished to see her as soon as she was dressed, and accordingly when she had eaten her breakfast, she got up. She felt very stiff and weak, and her hands trembled so much that she could scarcely dress herself.
Lion found her out, however, and gained admittance into her bedroom. He was in such very boisterous spirits that he quite cheered her, as pale and frightened she tried to gain courage to meet her master. Before she left the bedroom, she sought for guidance where she was always in the habit of going for help and comfort, and found strength 'according to her day.'
Mr Prothero was waiting for her in the little parlour of the inn. During the morning, having nothing to do, he had employed himself by getting up his temper, and persuading himself that he ought to be very angry with Gladys. He had quite slept off his softer feelings, and whilst at his lonely breakfast had gone through an imaginary quarrel with Owen, and a dispute with his wife, which had so raised his choler, that when Gladys entered he was as red as he usually was when in a passion at home.
Gladys saw that he was angry and trembled very much; but she knew that she had done no wrong, and tried to reassure herself.
Mr Prothero began at once. It must be remarked, however, that he had previously learnt from the landlady that Gladys was pretty well, and had eaten a good breakfast.
'Name o' goodness, young 'ooman, what did you run away from our house for in such a sly, underhand way, and give us all this trouble and bother? Don't suppose I 'ould a run after you, if it wasn't for Miss Gwynne and your mistress.'
'Oh, sir, I am very thankful to ye and to them. I know I don't deserve such kindness.'
'Treue for you there. I should have thought you'd have known that one 'lopement was quite enough from one house. Pray, what have you done with my son Owen?'
'I, sir? Nothing, sir!' said Gladys, trembling at this abrupt question.
Lion licked her hand as if to reassure her.
'You needn't tell no lies about it, because I shall be seure to find out. Where is he gone?'
'Indeed—indeed, I don't know, sir. I thought he was at home at Glanyravon.'
'But he isn't at home. He went off with you.'
'Oh, not with me, sir—not with me, I assure you. I went away that he might stay, and that I might not cause anger between you. I am speaking the truth, sir, indeed I am.'
Mr Prothero looked at the agitated girl, and felt inclined to believe her.
'Tell me why you went away at all, then?'
'Because Mr Owen said to me words that I knew he would be sorry for, and because I saw that you, sir, were displeased at what he said about me.'
'What did he say to you? Tell me the truth.'
'He said, sir—oh! I cannot tell. Perhaps you would be more angry with him if you knew.'
Gladys' head drooped low, and a burning blush overspread her pale face.
'I can't be much more angry with him than I am, but tell you the treuth. Did he want to marry you?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And you—what did you say?'
'That I couldn't marry any one in this world, sir.'
'What do you mean to wait for, then?'
'Nothing, sir, nobody.'
'And what did Owen say to that?'
'I don't think anything more particular passed between us. He was very kind, sir.'
'I daresay. But what made him go away?'
'I think it must have been because he thought you would send me away.'
'And you don't want to marry my son Owen?'
'No, sir.'
Gladys' voice wavered slightly as she said this.
'Ha, ha! He's a fine young man, however.'
'Yes, sir, and very kind.'
'I daresay. Will you promise never to marry him?'
As Mr Prothero asked this question, he looked Gladys full in the face.
She blushed again, but returned his gaze with a quiet, grave look that seemed to wonder at the question. She did not reply at once, and Mr Prothero repeated it, louder than before, with the additional one of 'Do you hear, girl?'
'Sir, I don't like to make promises,' said Gladys; 'suppose the temptation to break it ever came, and proved too strong for me. I might perjure myself.'
'Then you mean to marry my son Owen?'
'No, sir, I don't think I shall ever marry him. As far as I can see now, I am sure I never shall.'
'Name o' goodness, what does the girl mean? You don't mean to marry him, and yet you 'ont promise—what do you mean?'
'I scarcely know myself, sir. But I cannot tell what God may appoint for me in the future, and so I cannot make a solemn promise.'
'Then I 'spose you're going to run off like Netta?'
'No, sir, never.'
'Why, "no, sir," if you 'ont promise?'
'Because I could never do what you and my mistress would dislike.'
'Then you can promise, perhaps, never to marry my son Owen without my consent.'
'Yes, sir, I can—do—that—'
Gladys said these words very slowly, and turned very pale as she said them. She clasped her hands firmly together with a visible effort.
'Well, you're an odd girl; you 'ont promise one thing, and yet you as good as promise it in another way. What's the difference?'
Again the colour came and went.
'It would be wrong, sir, in me to make a son disobey a father, and I wouldn't like to do it; so I can promise that; and maybe you may change.'
'Then you love the boy? Tell me the treuth.'
Gladys began to cry, and was a few moments before she could say, somewhat more resolutely than usual,—
'Sir, my feelings are my own. Mr Owen has been like a brother to me, and the mistress like a mother—and you—oh, sir! should I not love his mother's son?'
Mr Prothero was touched; he could ask no more questions.
'There, there—go you and get ready directly. I promised Miss Gwynne to bring you back to Glanyravon, where she means to make you schoolmistress and lady's maid, and all the rest. I suppose you don't want to go to Ireland?'
'No, sir.'
'Have you any relations there?'
'No, sir.'
'You don't want to leave Glanyravon parish?'
'No, sir. I would rather live and die there than anywhere else in the world.'
'Then go you and get ready; and, mind you, have some ale before you start. I must keep my promise to Miss Gwynne; mind you yours to me. You 'ont encourage my son Owen without my consent'
'No, sir—never. And I do not wish or mean ever to marry any one, if you will only believe me.'
'I don't believe any young 'ooman who says that. You may as well go into a nunnery. But I believe the rest till I find you out to the contrary. Now, go you and get ready.'
'Thank you, sir—thank you.'
Soon after this conversation the farmer had mounted his good mare, who was as much refreshed as her master by a night's rest, and with Gladys, en croupe, and Lion running by his side, he jogged back to his home.
'We shall have a fine long journey, and a tiresome one enough,' he muttered. 'Thirty mile and carrying double is too much for my mare.—take the 'oomen! they'll be the death 'o me, one way and another. There's mother, and Netta, and Miss Gwynne, and now this Gladys! This is the last time I'll put myself out for any of 'em, or my name isn't David Prothero.'