THE LADY IN HER OWN RIGHT.
When Freda reached her room, Gladys was awaiting her there.
'Why did you not go to bed, Gladys? you know I dislike your sitting up so late.'
'I could not go to bed, ma'am, feeling that I have offended you, without begging your pardon for having done so.'
'Then all you said was an invention.'
'I said nothing but the truth, ma'am, but perhaps offended you in saying it to you, merely to excuse myself. I am very sorry.'
There were traces of tears on Gladys' face and she looked pale and agitated.
'Gladys, you can go to bed, I have nothing to forgive. If you tell me the truth, I am very sorry for it, and that such words should have been said to you. Of course you did not believe them?'
'No, ma'am, I certainly did not.'
Miss Gwynne was fidgeting with her dress, and Gladys went to assist her, uncalled for. When it was unfastened, Miss Gwynne again said, 'Thank you, that will do; I wish you to go to bed; good-night,' and Gladys again obeyed in sorrow.
Miss Gwynne had little sleep that night, and the next morning she felt very ill. Much as she longed to lie in bed, however, and to avoid meeting Colonel Vaughan again, she got up when Gladys called her, and was, as usual, first downstairs. Much to her satisfaction, her father appeared next, and the colonel soon afterwards. She exerted herself to talk and laugh as usual, and the only difference in her manner to Colonel Vaughan was, that instead of shaking hands with him, as was her custom every morning, she busied herself with the cups and saucers when he approached, and simply said good morning. Her father remarked that she was looking ill, and she said she had one of her old headaches.
When breakfast was over, she expressed her intention of visiting the school, and said that, as Colonel Vaughan was going to Sir Hugh's, she probably should not see him again before he left. She wished him good morning and a pleasant visit, stiffly, but courteously; felt compelled to shake hands with him, and went her way with a proud but aching heart. He also went his, wondering in his very selfish heart whether Freda really cared for him after all, and scheming to see Gladys, whose utter carelessness of him had roused his vanity.
When he had left Glanyravon, with a promise to Mr Gwynne of returning, Freda no longer strove to appear what she was not, and went to bed really ill. She was subject to occasional severe nervous headaches, and was obliged to be very quiet when so attacked, in order to prevent congestion of the brain, which the doctors had once threatened her with. Her father, therefore, insisted on her keeping her room until she was quite well, which she was only too thankful to do, and so great were her actual sufferings from her head, that they distracted her mind from brooding over her real or imaginary miseries.
Gladys waited on her quietly and patiently for about a week, at the end of which time she began to feel better. Her gratitude to Gladys for the perfectly unobtrusive nature of her attention was so great that she felt as if she could never do enough for her, and she frequently assured her that she knew she had been unjust towards her in accusing her of falsehood. She never, however, again mentioned Colonel Vaughan's name to her.
Mr Gwynne paid daily visits to his daughter's sick-room. In spite of her head, she could not help noticing something peculiar in his manner. He did not talk, because conversation was forbidden during these attacks, but there was an increased briskness in his eyes and step as he approached her, and, she fancied, more of anxious care in his tone when he spoke. She was sure he had something to communicate.
'Gladys, what makes you so calm and patient?' she suddenly asked, when she was getting better, and trying to reason herself out of her fancy for Colonel Vaughan.
'Perhaps, ma'am, trouble has made me calm, and I pray to be made patient; but I have a rebellious heart,' was the reply.
'Have you? I am very glad to hear it. Then there is hope for me. Now I am going to get up.'
Freda had made some good resolutions during the intervals of her pain, the principal of which were, entirely to forget Colonel Vaughan, or to feel only intense contempt for him; to be more gentle with her father, and more considerate of his nerves and peculiarities; more patient with the servants, school children, and poor people generally; to do more good, and to be more useful to others; but she had not made these resolutions in Gladys' spirit. They were not made with prayer for help, but in her own strength.
In the same way, she threw off the remains of her headache, and went downstairs again with a prouder step and a prouder heart than when she went up last.
In the library she found her father writing a letter and looking quite animated. He was so sprucely dressed that she asked him if he were going out.
'Not at present,' he said. 'I am so glad you are come down again. There is so much to tell you; I have scarcely been able to keep myself from letting you hear the news. Do you know it is all settled, and Gwynne Vaughan is actually engaged to Miss Nugent! Isn't he a lucky fellow?'
Freda felt suddenly very sick; she sat down in an arm-chair near her father, but did not speak. He looked at her, and said,—
'My dear, you are very pale still. Coming downstairs has been too much, and dressing, and—and—all that sort of thing. Let me ring for Gladys.'
'No, I shall be better directly. Only the exertion—yes, you were telling me—'
Strange that Mr Gwynne never supposed that Freda could be in love with any one. She had refused so many, and was so different from other girls, that the thought never entered his mind, and he had left her alone with Colonel Vaughan, and would have done so with Cupid himself, quite thoughtless of results. Moreover, his own natural inactivity and love of ease, led him to allow her to take her own course, as long as she left him alone to take his.
'Yes; I was saying that it is now quite settled. I believe he proposed the very ball-night to Miss Nugent, at least, and the next day went in form, and after certain preliminaries, was duly accepted by all parties. Of course, he is quite unexceptionable, and she can do as she likes now she is of age. Lady Mary expected a title, and I don't think she is quite satisfied. She told me—at least—they say—at least—of course, there are always objections, and—and—all that sort of thing, you know.'
Freda was too hard at work, trying to overcome a very strong desire to burst into tears, to observe that her father had not once used his favourite phrase, or lost the thread of his words, until he came to 'Lady Mary told me,' so when he stopped, she simply said, 'Really! Yes!' and he went on again.
'I must confess, Freda, I am rather disappointed. I thought Gwynne liked you, and, indeed, I think so still. But—ah! my dear—you are so proud, or cold, or—or—that you refuse every one. It has been suggested to me by—ah! I have remarked, I mean, that you must have a secret liking for some one, not quite what one considers—ah!—eligible—and that—but, I am sure, Freda, I would make any sacrifice for your happiness, and should wish to see you married.'
'What do you mean, papa?' said Freda, effectually roused.
'Well, my dear, it is thought—I mean, I have fancied—I mean Lady—I—I—the fact is, are you attached to Rowland Prothero? Now, I am not angry, Freda; he is one of the nicest young men, and the best—but I should have preferred Gwynne, or Sir Hugh, or—or—in fact, many others, in a worldly point of view. A tenant's son, and only a curate!—and all that sort of thing. But then as Lady—as—as I—as your father, my dear, I should like to make you happy. You see, that day at the vicarage, we—that is to say, I—thought there was something peculiar in his manner and yours; and to be sure, he may be a bishop, he is so good and clever. A great favourite of mine. And if he lives in London, it doesn't so much matter; and—and—in short—Freda—'
'Papa, I understand,' said Freda, rising from her seat with majestic pride, 'Lady Mary has been kind enough to suggest, doubtless for her own ends, what never could have entered your mind. I am very much obliged to you for forgetting, on my account, what I cannot forget on my own, that I am a Gwynne of Glanyravon! and I daresay you meant it kindly. But you may make my compliments to Lady Mary Nugent, and tell her, that if there was anything peculiar in Rowland Prothero's manner on that particular Sunday, it was because he had been bold enough to propose for me, and I had rejected him. You may tell her also that if he had asked her daughter instead, she would have given him herself and her fortune quite as willingly, and, I believe, more willingly, than to Colonel Vaughan. With her it is a case of "first come first served."'
When Freda had given her message to Lady Mary Nugent, she walked out of the room. But scarcely had she crossed the hall when she turned again and re-entered it.
'Papa, I must beg you not to tell Lady Mary Nugent that Rowland Prothero proposed for me. He is at least a gentleman, and a man of honour, and deserves to be treated as such with all due courtesy. The more I see of men, the more I begin to think him one of the few true gentlemen one meets with. I should not even have told you this had it not escaped me in reply to what you said, because I thought it would annoy you, and perhaps make you feel unkindly towards the Prothero family. But you may tell her, if you like, that were Rowland Prothero not the gentleman I begin to perceive he is, Miss Nugent and her money might be his.'
'But, Freda—after all—if you do like him. You see, his uncle married a Perry, one of the oldest families in Herefordshire, niece of the baronet, daughter of the dean, cousin of the present baronet.'
'My dear father! I know all the Perrys by heart. Mrs Jonathan is not likely to have left me ignorant of their antiquity. But, pray, do you want to get rid of me, that you force me upon poor Rowland, or him upon me, whichever it may be?'
'Of course not, my dear. Only I am naturally anxious to see you settled. And if you really like him—'
'But I am settled, and I do not like him; that is to say, I like him well enough, fifty times better than I used to like him, but I have not the most remote intention of marrying him. And now, I should like to know what particular reason Lady Mary Nugent had for putting this absurd notion into your head. There must be something, my dear papa, under all this sudden anxiety to get me married. You used rather to rejoice when I declined settling Glanyravon on a suitor.'
'Yes, my dear—but—you see—it is not quite certain that Glanyravon—I mean that you—I mean that I—in short—the fact is—you are so impetuous, Freda.'
'What can my impetuosity have to do with it?'
Freda saw that her father was more than usually nervous and fidgety, and became alarmed lest there should be some sudden money difficulty, as any threat, however slight, of debt or involvement always made him ill. She sat down beside him, and putting her hand in his, as it rested on a table nervously fidgeting with a pen, she said gently,—
'Now, pappy, I hope we are not all going to jail?'
'By no means; the tenants are most prosperous. I could raise any sum if necessary, and give you a marriage portion suitable in every way.'
What was there in this marriage scheme? Freda grew impatient and indignant again.
'Now, really, papa, this is too absurd; If you have anything on your mind, will you say it?'
'Well—the fact is, Freda, that you—I mean that I, have made up my mind—you see you may marry, and leave me alone, and I should want a companion, and—and all that sort of thing, you know—so I have considered—for your—for our—for my, perhaps—happiness, that it might be well for me to—to—to—in short, my dear—to marry again; in fact, Freda, I have resolved to do so.'
'Lady Mary Nugent!' screamed Freda; 'not her! not her! not settled! oh papa!'
Mr Gwynne had called Freda impetuous, but he was not prepared for the sudden burst of uncontrollable grief that followed his announcement. Often as Freda had jested over the proposal Lady Mary was to make her father, she had never believed that he would marry her. It came upon her like the news of an unexpected death, or great family misfortune. She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed till her father thought she must burst some blood vessel then and there before him. He got up, sat down; went to the bell, touched the rope, let it go; opened the window, put his hand on Freda's bowed head, called her by name, and, in return, was greeted by—
'Not Lady Mary! think of my mother! think of me! oh father! father! cruel! this is too much! Say it is not true; only a jest. What have I done? I will be better, kinder, gentler—I will nurse you, tend you—never marry. I would rather not—I never shall. Nobody loves you as well as I. Your only child. My mother's only child. Say it is not true—oh, say it is not true?'
This was impossible, for Mr Gwynne knew full well that he was pledged beyond recall. But now, as he looked on his daughter, heard her words, thought of her mother, he began to repent of what he had done. He, who hated scenes, dreaded tears, would not annoy Freda for the world, to have raised such emotion! He did not understand it. Lady Mary had assured him Freda would be so glad to be allowed to marry Rowland. And she was so discerning and clever! But he could not bear those sobs.
'Freda! my dear, don't, I beg, I entreat! You will make me so nervous. You know I cannot bear—in short, I feel quite ill. The fact is, you will make yourself ill, and after all, it need make no difference to you. You will be just the same. Freda, I must beg you to desist. I must insist—I will ring for the housekeeper.'
'No, no, papa. Do not let us expose ourselves!' cried Freda, rising suddenly; 'I will go upstairs. Neither you nor I will ever be happy again!'
Freda was about to leave the room, when Mr Gwynne suddenly went up to her, and putting his arm round her neck, whispered, whilst the tears sprang into his eyes,—
'Freda, Freda! my child, forgive me! I didn't think it would vex you so. I scarcely know how it has all happened.'
Poor Freda threw both her arms around her father, and sobbed again. As she leaned on his shoulder, his white hairs touched the brown glossy braids of her head, and his lips kissed them. At that moment he knew that he did not love Lady Mary Nugent as well as he loved his child, and that child was conscious for the first time how very dear her father was to her.
Again she roused herself, and as if ashamed of her emotion, hastened out of the room. She went upstairs, and locking herself in her room, threw herself on her bed. Here she gave way to feelings that were as new as strange to her, unaccustomed as she was to what some one calls 'the luxury of tears.' She scarcely knew whether sorrow or anger predominated, but she was wretched and indignant. Tumultuous thoughts rushed through her mind of the past, present, and probable future! thoughts too numerous and changeable to be transcribed, but which may well be imagined.
At last her pride, that one grand feature of her character, got the better of her grief and anger. She rose from her bed, dried her eyes, arranged her hair, and with a carriage as erect as her soul was haughty, once more entered her father's library. The momentary emotion and pathos of their last embrace had been overpowered in both by stronger sensations; in him by the remembrance of Lady Mary Nugent's fascinations, in her by the sense of that lady's tact and duplicity.
Freda sat quietly down opposite her father, and said abruptly,—
'Papa, this odious subject must be begun and ended between us this day. If you will be good enough to answer me a few questions and to listen to me, I will never mention it again. Are you really engaged to Lady Mary Nugent, or is it a horrible dream?'
'I—yes—I certainly am, my dear—engaged to be married to her ladyship.'
'And you mean to marry her? Impossible!'
'Do you consider me a man of honour? or am I one likely to break my word when pledged?'
'Oh! papa, when a woman proposes and makes love, and waits till the very moment when it suits her own convenience to marry, do you think she deserves consideration? You know that Lady Mary Nugent has done it all herself, and that you would never have taken the trouble, or had the courage to propose for any woman under the sun, if she had not asked you first. You know you do not want to marry. I would give the world to know how she managed to bring you to the point.'
'Really, Freda, this is too—too—personal, and rude, I may call it—and—'
'Forgive me, papa. Of course you are your own master, and are at liberty to be chosen by any woman, but she will not choose me, nor I her. I hate Lady Mary Nugent, despise her most intensely, and shall leave this house before she comes into it; never—'
It seemed as if an invisible hand checked the end of Freda's determination, for she stopped short at the 'never.'
'But what I came particularly to say, papa, is, that I believe I have some little private fortune of my own, my dear mother's, in short, and I suppose I can have that when I like.'
'Certainly—certainly—but—'
'Then I wish both you and Lady Mary Nugent to understand that I shall not live here. Not on your account, but on hers. I ask, as a particular favour, that I may not be informed of the day of your marriage; and I shall make it a point of going away in a month or so, so as to leave you free to act. I shall hope to hear from you, and to write to you. I am only sorry for you, because she cannot understand your tastes; but that is nothing. I don't think either she or her daughter ever read any book but a fashionable novel in their lives. But what is the difference! Money and tact against the world! I cannot help speaking my mind for this first and last time. Forgive me. You will not have me long to speak it, and my successor never spoke her's in her life, so she will not bore you by abruptness and sincerity, as I perhaps have done.'
Freda had spoken so fast that she paused to take breath, and during that necessary process her father wiped his face, as if he, too, were exhausted by her volubility. Freda could scarcely help smiling.
'I am very sorry for everything I have ever done to displease you,' she began again; 'and I only hope you will not be so unhappy, as I am afraid you will be.'
'This is too exhausting!' muttered Mr Gwynne, sinking back in his chair. 'Freda, you really do talk too much. Will you ring for Perkins? I must take a dose of that cordial.'
When the cordial was mentioned, Freda knew that all conversation was at an end. She rang the bell, and when Perkins came, left the room.
She went at once to her writing desk, and wrote the following note:—
'MY DEAREST SERENA,—What you and I have sometimes feared is about to come to pass. My father is going to marry Lady Mary Nugent. Of course I can no longer live here; will you and Mr Jones give me shelter for a time whilst I arrange my thoughts and plans? I will give as little trouble as I can, but I know you will bear with me.—Your loving friend,
'WINIFRED GWYNNE.'
Freda sealed and directed her letter, and then went to the open window, and stood there for some time. A slight shower of rain was falling and a few light clouds were struggling with the afternoon sunbeams. Strong shadows fell from the trees in the Park, equally strong lights were on the distant hills. The river looked hot and hazy, and the cattle had congregated under the arch of the bridge—the only cool spot—as if for shelter from the sun. A shrill, blithe, distant whistle sounded, and the bells of Llanfawr church pealed in the far-away town, just sending their faint echoes across the river.
'What are those bells ringing for?' said Freda, as she wiped away some large tears that were gathering in her eyes. 'They ring for everything; soon it will be for these odious marriages. Why was I ever born? Why, above all, was I born in such a place as this? And to leave it! Yes, Frisk' (to her terrier, that was barking and jumping outside the window), 'you and I must go away. No more quarrels with Jerry; no more fights with Gelert?; no more hunts in the brook. Will you come with me to smoky London? Yes, and hate it as much as I shall. Sleep away your life by a city fire, and grow fat and old, instead of racing after me and Prince. But we shall not live long in a town, Frisk. We shall soon die of sheer laziness, and so much the better—for who will care for us? Lion and Jerry and even Gipsy will forget you; and every one has forgotten me already. Why am I so foolish as to cry so? I never knew how weak I could be until these last few days. But we must be strong, Frisk—we must be strong, and not care for this old place, and the beautiful park, and all the—oh, why will those bells ring? and what are they ringing for? And there is the dinner-bell, too, harsh as my lot. And I must try to be dutiful, and show a bold face and good courage to the world, who will pity me, or rejoice over me, and say that I wanted something to pull down my pride. And so, perhaps, I do; but this shall not be the something. No, no; it shall only make me prouder. Poor papa, too; he will be more wretched than I—I am sure he will. I cannot bear to think of him. Frisk! Frisk! don't make such a noise. Don't jump so, Frisk. There! I will take you in. Good dog! good Frisk! You love me if no one else does; you and Gladys.'