THE HAPPIEST MAN IN THE WORLD.
Most people know what it is to awake from sleep the morning after a great sorrow; some, also, know what it is to awake after a great and unexpected joy. Gladys opened her eyes upon a dark, thick, cheerless November fog in London, one of the most depressing of all the atmospheric influences. But she did not think of the fog. Although she did not at first fully realise the happiness that she had experienced, and was to experience, she felt, on awakening, a strange sensation of spirits so light, and a heart beating to such cheerful measure, that it all seemed too ethereal to be real. She thought it was the continuation of a blissful dream. For many a long year she had retired to rest, and arisen in the morning calm, resigned, nay, cheerful; but it was the calmness and resignation of a soul attuned by prayer and self-restraint to an equanimity that rarely was disturbed by mirth or pleasure. Now, that soul seemed to dance within her to exhilarating melodies. So happy had been her dreams, so joyous her sleep, that her eyes sparkled unwonted fires when she opened them; and as she jumped out of bed, there was an elasticity in her movements that surprised her very self.
Netta and Minette were still sleeping, and as she dressed herself carefully and neatly, she almost forgot that every one else was not as suddenly raised from sorrow to joy as herself.
'He will come to-day,' she thought, as she smoothed her dark hair, 'and I shall meet him as an equal, no longer a suspicion of my truth. He will not know it yet, but I know it, and oh! the difference of feeling that you can clear yourself by a word when you like. Not to him, for he never doubted—generous, kind Mr Owen! but to his father! to all. How can I be thankful enough! and such an uncle and aunt! It must be a dream; but will he care for me still? so long! and after all my coldness. He has asked me again and again, and each time have I refused him; but then I was an Irish beggar, and nothing more, and I would have died rather than have brought disgrace into his family. And still my promise to his father is binding, and without his consent I never could—but where am I wandering? Maybe he'll not care for me now I am all this older—and he so handsome that he may have any one in and about Glanyravon.'
Gladys cast a shy look into her glass, and a delicate blush kindled her cheek as those dark violet eyes glanced from beneath their long black fringes. Gladys! you are but a weak woman after all.
When Gladys was dressed, she gently awoke Minette, and took her into the dressing-room to attire her also.
'Gladys, dear, how pretty you look!' exclaimed the child, 'you have a pink cheek, and your eyes are as bright as the sky; and you have such a pretty gown and collar, and everything. You are quite a lady, now you have left off that gown mamma gave you so long ago. Is Uncle Owen, who is coming to-day, as nice as Uncle Rowland? Do you love him as well, Gladys?'
'He is very, very nice, dear, and as kind as any gentleman in the world.'
The little girl clapped her hands.
'I shall like to go to Glanyravon and make mamma quite well.'
Soon after breakfast, Rowland arrived, accompanied by Owen, who had travelled all night.
Gladys was with Netta in her bedroom, but all the rest of the family welcomed Owen. Mr Jones shook him by the hand with peculiar warmth, because he was given to understand that he loved his newly-found niece.
Minette was soon on his knee, and in less than ten minutes had duly informed him that she loved him next to Uncle Rowland and that Gladys told her he 'was the nicest gentleman in the world.'
Owen laughed heartily at this, to conceal his rising colour, and said,—
'And how is Gladys?'
'Quite well; she is coming to Glanyravon with us, to take care of mamma and me.'
Here Mrs Jones interposed, and explained how matters stood.
In a few moments Gladys appeared to say that Netta was ready in her little sitting-room to see her brothers.
Owen was not shy, so he walked bravely across the room to meet Gladys, and to shake hands with her, so thoroughly con amore that if, as Minette expressed it, her cheek was pink when she entered the room, it was crimson when she quitted it.
Mr and Mrs Jones looked at one another with great satisfaction, and somehow or other Rowland's eyes met Miss Gwynne's, and both smiled involuntarily.
'He is a fine young fellow,' said Mrs Jones, when Owen and Rowland had gone upstairs to Netta, accompanied by Minette.
'I almost wonder how two such sons, with such a fine, sturdy, sensible father, should have had such a silly little sister as that poor child upstairs; but I must go out. Ask them to dinner, my dear, and don't let Gladys tire herself to death before she starts for her journey. Did you ever see any one look prettier in your life than she did when she met that fine young man? What a couple they will make!'
'What a romance you have worked up already, my dear,' said Mrs Jones laughing, 'but certainly one may be proud of Gladys. How thoroughly ladylike she is, and looks. And she is so happy; she told me just now that she felt as if she had suddenly begun a new life.'
'God grant it may be a happy one, and may He bless you, my dear, for taking to the poor child so kindly.'
Miss Gwynne, who had left the party to put on her bonnet, here appeared, and Mr Jones and she set out on parochial business.
When Rowland and Owen had been some time with Netta, they returned to Mrs Jones, who pressed them to come to dinner. They declined, however, having much to talk of, that could not be discussed in public, even before the kindest of friends. Moreover, when Owen had been in London before, he told his brother that he would not dine in any house as guest where Gladys was considered as a servant. In vain his brother assured him that she was more friend than servant—she did not dine with her friends, and therefore he would not dine with them.
When they had left the house, and reached Rowland's lodging, Owen said, his usually joyful face clouded by an expression of sorrow and pain,—
'Curse that fellow! I say, Rowland, I can't help it, it breaks my heart to see Netta as she is; and she will kill mother. As to father, there is no getting a civil word from him ever since the news came.'
'I suppose every one knows it?' said Rowland.
'Of course Aunt 'Lizbeth has employed Mr Rice Rice and a counsel for that scoundrel, to do what they can when the case is tried. You know they have indicted him, and, present or absent, it is to come on at the next assizes. Then, if they prove him guilty, or make out a case against him, or whatever they call it, he will be brought to trial as soon as they can catch him.'
'Sir Samuel Spendall and Sir Horatio Simpson are furious against him, I hear,' said Rowland.
'No wonder; I foresaw something bad when I was at Abertewey. But what of that rascal, Deep?'
'They can make nothing of him; he is already released, and if he knows anything of Howel he has not let it out.'
'I can't help liking poor Aunt 'Lizbeth; she says she will spend every farthing she has for Howel, and when I tell her to remember her old age and keep her money, all I get is, "What will I do if my Howel is ruined? What will I care for money if he is gone?" It is pretty well known that he has forged her name for thousands of pounds, but she won't own it, and swears to all his signatures as her own, I verily believe, with her eyes shut.'
'Does father hear all these things?'
'Nobody dares to speak to him. He opens out to me with a vengeance, and wants a little of your preaching to refine his language. But who can wonder? I am ashamed to show my nose myself. The first bit of pleasure I have had since it began was seeing Gladys look so well and happy this morning. What has happened to her? Is she going to be married? for nothing else have changed a girl's face from November to June. At the same time, she might have a little more feeling for us than to look her best when we are at our worst. Poor Netta! I'm sure she won't live. I've wished myself at sea nearly every day for the last six years, and I'm sure I wish myself there now.'
'My good fellow,' said Rowland, 'don't say that; what should any of us do without you? You are the only stay of our parents at home, and will be poor Netta's last comfort.'
'If I were sure I were of any use I wouldn't mind; but when I see Gladys, or think of her, the truth is I get savage. Perhaps it is a proper punishment for pretending to stay at home on father and mother's account, when it was really on hers. But never mind; I suppose one girl's really as good as another. Will you come down at Christmas, Rowland?'
'I wish I could; but our rector is so ill that there is no chance of his being able to leave Nice this winter, and Jones and I have all the duty. The last account was so bad that Mr Wenlock fears, if he returns at all, it will be only to die.'
We will not follow the brothers further in their conversation; they made the most of the few hours they were together, and after a short night's rest, arose early, breakfasted, and went to fetch Netta.
The sight of her favourite brother, and the prospect of returning home had roused her, and she seemed more herself than she had been since Howel's letter. Gladys was as bright and busy as a queen-bee, and Minette was all tears and smiles.
There were a great many 'last words' to be said, and as all the preparations had been made the previous day, there was plenty of time to say them.
'I don't know how to thank you,' said poor Netta to Mrs Jones and Miss Gwynne, as they were putting on her last warm cloak. The tears were streaming down her pale cheeks, and her hand, as usual, was on her heart.
Mrs Jones kissed her, and Miss Gwynne said cheerfully, 'I shall see you soon, Netta, and I want Mrs Jones to come to Glanyravon with me, so it will not be a long parting.'
'You have been very good to my child and me,—God will bless you!' sobbed Netta.
'I will come again, Mr Jones, and see you, and Mrs Jones, and the little children,' said Minette, who was hugging Mr Jones warmly.
He took her up in his arms, kissed her, and put her into the cab next her mother, who had been placed therein by Rowland.
Gladys' farewells were the last.
'That's what I call something like it, Rowly,' said Owen tapping his brother's shoulder, as he watched Mr and Mrs Jones alternately give Gladys a most affectionate embrace.
'But why does the old parson hug her so? He shouldn't do that if I were Mrs Jones, or if she were Mrs—'
The truth was, that at the last the uncle's feelings overcame Gladys' desire for secrecy, and exploded in a kiss long and fatherly.
When she was in the cab Mr Jones called Owen aside, and said in a whisper,—
'I know you will take care of Gladys, and remember, that although she is ready for everything that is good, she is not strong. If your father makes the least objection to her remaining with your sister, take her to the Park, whence she can return at once to us. As long as I live, no one will neglect her with impunity; but I am sure I can trust you and yours.'
'That you certainly may,' said Owen, nearly shaking Mr Jones' hand off, but saying to himself a few minutes after, 'What could he mean by putting her into my care? If his wife had done it, or Miss Gwynne, well and good; but I declare parsons are no better than the rest of us, I daresay Rowly isn't half as steady as he seems; he and Miss Gwynne are wonderfully polite to one another, and he's as grand as any lord.'
Owen jumped upon the box, and Rowland by the side of Gladys inside the cab, and so they drove off through the thick fog, some five or six miles to the Paddington Station.
Owen took a second-class ticket for himself, but when Netta heard that he had done so she begged so hard to be allowed to travel second class with him, or that he would come with her, that he was obliged to change it, and become, as he expressed it, 'a grand gentleman for once in his life.'
They had a compartment to themselves, into which Rowland went, to be with Netta until the whistle sounded.
'Oh, brother!' sobbed Netta, 'if I never see you again, promise to be kind to Howel; promise to give him whatever I leave for him. Perhaps I shall die,—I don't know. Tell him all you have said to me; try to make him good, and give him the hope you have given me. Will you, brother? Say, will you?'
'I will do everything you wish, my darling sister, if I have the opportunity.'
'And will you write to me about what you have been saying to me?'
'I will, dear, regularly. But you have only to believe and pray. God bless you, Netta, dear! God for ever bless you!'
The guard was at the door, Owen in the carriage. Rowland gave Netta one long, last kiss, and went out upon the platform.
'Kiss me, uncle,' said Minette, putting her little face out of the window.
When she drew it in again she wiped off a tear that Rowland had left upon her cheek.
'Good-bye, Gladys,—good-bye, Owen,' he said, stretching out his hand, which was clasping that of his brother as the train began to move, and separated him from the sister, brother, niece, and friend whom he loved so well.
Poor Netta cried long and quietly in the corner of the carriage in which she had been placed. Of course she had the side without an arm that she might put up her feet when she liked, so Owen and Gladys were placed, of necessity, side by side, and Minette jumped upon Gladys' lap, and began talking of Glanyravon. Owen and Gladys were quite shy with one another. The former studied Bradshaw, the latter occupied herself with Minette.
When Netta ceased crying, Owen tried to engage her attention, and amused her for a time by accounts of home and country news. But by degrees she relapsed into her usual abstraction.
Owen hated railway travelling, and was a great fidget. Out at every station, of course, and alternately reading the newspaper and making remarks upon the confounded November weather when in the carriage. He scarcely addressed Gladys particularly, but talked to Netta or Minette; and Gladys thought him very cold and constrained, but did not know that he was thinking of what Colonel Vaughan had done years ago, and comparing it with Mr Jones' embrace.
'Do you know, Netta, that I am thinking of getting married?' he said suddenly, and thoroughly rousing Gladys.
'Don't be so foolish, Owen! You have been getting married or falling in love ever since you were twelve,' said Netta. 'Who is it now?'
'Miss Richards,—Dr Richards' daughter. It is the talk of the county. You know she has plenty of money.'
Owen cast a side glance towards Gladys and saw her turn quite pale, which was very satisfactory to him.
'Is Miss Richards pretty, uncle?' asked Minette. 'Is she as pretty as Gladys?'
'That depends upon taste.'
'But what do you think, uncle? She must be very pretty, if she is as pretty as my dear Gladys! Isn't Gladys pretty, uncle?'
'Gladys knows what I think on that subject,' said Owen, 'but she doesn't care what I think.'
This was said so that Netta, sitting opposite, did not hear.
'Oh, Mr Owen!' said Gladys, involuntarily.
'Oh, Mrs Snow!' said Owen.
'As the day went on, Netta got very weary, and, finally, slept. Minette, also, in spite of Gladys' resolute efforts to keep her awake, fell fast asleep, curled up in the corner, with her mother's feet in her lap. And so Owen and Gladys were tête-à-tête.
The November day was drawing to a close, and it was dull and dark. Gladys fancied Owen was asleep, and was thinking how very much more cheerful she felt in the morning than she did at that moment; and all because Owen said he was going to be married. She was trying to remember the great blessings she had lately experienced, and that she ought to be thinking of Netta instead of her brother.
At last, Owen started up, and said,—
'Gladys, do you like coming back to Glanyravon?'
'Dearly, sir, if you like to have me.'
'Now, Gladys, that is too absurd! You know I have wanted to have you all these years.'
'I didn't mean that, Mr Owen.'
'Gladys, tell me why that old Jones kissed you.'
'I—I—don't know. Because—because he is fond of me, Mr Owen.'
'That is no reason, Miss Gladys. If it was, somebody else would kiss you, too. Now I have an opportunity, I must ask you a few more questions. I beg you to understand that old Jones, who is so fond of you, put you under my especial care.'
'Oh, Mr Owen!'
'Oh, Mrs Snow! Now, tell me why you let that cunning man of the world, Colonel Vaughan, give you ten shillings? This has been on my mind for six or seven years, and I have never had an opportunity of getting it off before. You know if you won't have me for a lover, you may for a brother.'
'Colonel Vaughan offered me the money, Mr Owen, and I returned it to him. Who could have told you of that?'
'The boy who saw him give you some money, and picked up the half-sovereign you dropped.'
'He gave me money for poor Mr Lloyd, who was ill, and offered me the half-sovereign for myself, which I refused.'
'Why did you refuse it.'
'Because I did not want it, and because he had no right to offer it me.'
'Bravo, Gladys! You are a capital girl!'
'And yet, Mr Owen, you think all sorts of unkind things of me when I am absent. For six years!'
'How can I help it, Gladys? You know that I love you better than my life, and yet you won't care one straw for me.'
'Oh! Mr Owen.'
'I can tell you it is no trifling mark of constancy, for a wandering fellow like me to stick to farming, and doing the dutiful son all these years. I should have been off to sea again long ago but for you, and—'
'And the father and mother, Mr Owen.'
'Well, yes, to a certain extent. But you always answer every question but one like a pure, straightforward young woman, as you are. Why won't you tell me the reason you have for hating me so?'
'I don't hate you, Mr Owen.'
'It must be either love or hate. You don't love me. Do you love any one else?'
'No.'
'Have you a heart to give?'
'Ye—no.'
'Which do you mean?'
'I cannot tell you, indeed I cannot!'
'Oh! Gladys, if you knew the pain! Why will you not make me happy, or at least give me a sensible reason?'
'I—I—promised—oh, Mr Owen.'
'Dear Gladys, what? I will never betray you, and will always be a friend, a brother. Who have you promised? Not to marry, not to love—'
'Your father, Mr Owen. I—I—promised never—to—without his consent.'
Fortunately it was dusk, and the curtain between the double carriage was drawn, and Netta and Minette were, apparently at least, fast asleep, so no one saw Owen jump up from his seat with a kind of bound, seize Gladys' hand, try to look into her face, and finally sit down again, retaining possession of the said hand across the elbow of the carriage.
'Do you mean, Gladys, that you promised never to marry me without my father's consent?'
'Yes.'
'Never to love me without his consent?'
'No.'
'That you don't hate me?'
'No.'
'That if I got his consent you would make me the happiest man in the world?'
'I would try, Mr Owen.'
'Nothing but his consent?
'Nothing, Mr Owen. If you do not change, I cannot.
'Gladys, do not trifle with me. But you could not trifle. Have you cared for me—may I say loved me—all these years?'
'All these years.'
Gladys bowed her head as if in shame over those clasped hands, and a large tear fell upon Owen's. He wanted no other confirmation of her words, and felt, as he had expressed it, the happiest man in the world.