THE TEMPTER.
'I particularly wish you to go, Gladys, and there will be plenty of time. He was worse when I saw him yesterday, and I promised to send you to-day to read to him, and take him some wine. I shall not want you till five, and my dress is quite ready. They dine at half-past six, and the evening party are invited for nine, I believe.'
This was said by Miss Gwynne to Gladys, at about half-past two o'clock, on the day of Miss Nugent's festivities.
'Very well, ma'am,' said Gladys, 'I will make as much haste as possible.'
'Do you know where Colonel Vaughan is, Gladys?' asked Miss Gwynne.
'I heard some one say, ma'am, that he and Mr Gwynne had walked to Pentre, to see the dinner on the lawn.'
'Oh! By the way, would you have liked to have gone to see these said diversions? If so, I can send some one else with the wine.'
'Oh no, thank you, ma'am. I would much rather walk to see poor Lloyd.'
'Then you had better make haste.'
Gladys was soon on her way, through the wood, to the farm mentioned in the last chapter. She thoroughly enjoyed her walk on that lovely July day, and thought she had never heard the birds sing so sweetly before.
In truth, Gladys had not been so happy since her sorrows as she was now. She felt independent, and placed in a position where she knew her exact duties. She devoted herself and her time wholly to Miss Gwynne, and was repaid, not only by regular wages, but by kindness, and even affection from her mistress.
There was increased colour on her cheek, brightness in her eyes, mirth in her smile, elasticity in her step, and life in her whole being as she entered the cottage whither she was sent.
She found her patient better, and having given him some wine, read to him, and helped his wife to make his bed. She was preparing to leave the farm, when Owen made his appearance. He came, ostensibly to see the sick man, but prefaced his visit to him by shaking hands with Gladys, and talking to her.
When she left the house, he followed her into the yard.
'I have caught you at last, Gladys. You always run away from me as if I were a monster.'
'No, Mr Owen, you are mistaken.'
'Then why don't you come and see us oftener?'
'Because I have a great deal to do, sir; and I do not think Mr Prothero wishes to see me.'
'You thrive upon your absence, Gladys. I never saw any one look so much better.'
'How is the dear mistress, Mr Owen? and your father? and Lion? and the cows? and—and—'
'Not so fast, Gladys. Come and see. They are all quite well. And the Alderney is my particular charge.'
Gladys blushed and smiled.
'You see I came home because you told me, and am as steady as old Time. Don't I look so? I am going to shave off my beard—do you approve?'
'No,' said Gladys, laughing. She scarcely knew why she felt more at ease with Owen in her present than in her past position.
'Then I won't do it. Did you hear that I was going to be married to Miss Richards, Dr Richards' daughter?'
'Yes, sir. I was told so.'
Why did Gladys blush so very much more than before, and say the 'sir' so stiffly?
'Then you may deny it, for it is not true. I have not changed, Gladys, since—do you remember the Alderney?'
Gladys' smile said that she did.
'But I am on parole, both to you and my father. I am quite ready to break it with your leave.'
'I must go, Mr Owen—Miss Gwynne will be waiting for me. Will you give my duty to the dear mistress?'
'I will take your love to her, Gladys, and keep half of it. May I walk with you?'
'If you please not, Mr Owen. I would rather not.'
'Are you happy? just tell me this.'
'Very—very. Miss Gwynne is so good. I can only be happy. Good-bye, Mr Owen.'
'Good-bye, dear Gladys,' said Owen, pressing her trembling hand that she held out to him, and opening the farm-yard gate for her to go out.
As Gladys hurried on with a light heart and light step, she little thought that those kind eyes which had looked so lovingly at her were clouded with the mists of jealousy in less than five minutes after she had left the farm. She could not guess that the boy who had picked up the half sovereign for Colonel Vaughan would give Owen the history of the same, and would tell him that Gladys had dropped it, but that he was pretty sure she had more money in her hand.
Unconscious of anything but sunshine above and within, she hastened on, thinking of Owen, in spite of her resolution not to think of him—a resolution she was making and breaking from morning till night. Her thoughts were turned into another channel, however, by the appearance of Colonel Vaughan, who suddenly came upon her from one of the many cross-paths in the wood.
She curtseyed slightly, and was about to pass him, but he turned and walked with her.
'Gladys,' he began, 'I wish to know why you refused the money I offered you yesterday.'
'Because, sir, I did not think it right to take it,' answered Gladys, promptly.
'Why! what harm could there have been?'
Gladys quickened her steps, but did not answer.
'Not so fast, Gladys. I have you at last, in spite of yourself. You have avoided me hitherto, both when you were at Prothero's and here, and purposely misunderstood me—now you must walk through the wood with me, and at my pace, for I must speak to you.'
'Sir, Miss Gwynne expects me early,' said Gladys, with wonderful dignity of manner, which was not lost upon the colonel—'she is my mistress, and I must obey her. I shall be obliged by your letting me go on.'
'We will both go on, but leisurely and together. I have much to say to you, and I may not have another opportunity.'
Gladys tried to pass on, but finding that Colonel Vaughan's hand was on her arm, and that he was resolved to detain her, she endeavoured to summon up all her resolution and sense, and to answer his questions, whatever they might be, according to what she might think right.
'You will be so good as to account to my mistress for this delay, sir,' she said. 'I am no longer a free agent.'
'I shall do no such thing; neither will you, I hope?'
'I most certainly shall, if necessary.'
'Never mind; I must know, at all risks, who and what you are.'
'I am Irish on my father's side, and Welsh on my mother's; my name is O'Grady.'
'But you were not born in the position you now occupy?'
'My father was a corporal in the Welsh Fusiliers; I was brought up to work for my bread.'
'And your mother?'
'Was the daughter, I believe, of a clergyman.'
'I was sure of that—and she educated you?'
'She taught me what she herself knew.'
'What brought you into Wales?'
'Starvation.'
'How did you get to Mr Prothero's?'
'I was a beggar and they took me in out of charity.'
'Why did you leave them and come here?'
'Because they wished it.'
'Say because Owen Prothero was in love with you.'
No answer.
'Do you love that rough sailor?'
No answer.
'I must know all, Gladys. I must and will.'
'Colonel Vaughan, I shall only answer such questions as you, as a gentleman, may think you have a right to ask a friendless girl, whom you forcibly detain. You know you have no right to ask this.'
Colonel Vaughan looked at the usually shy girl, and saw a spirit and resolution in her bearing that he had not believed were in her.
'I beg your pardon, Gladys, I was wrong. Can you endure the state of dependence you are now in?'
'I consider myself independent I work for my bread, and am paid for it.'
'But you might be independent without working.'
'Impossible, unless beggary is independence.'
'Quite possible; I am sure you must feel your dependence on such an imperious mistress as you now have.'
'My present mistress, sir, Miss Gwynne, is far too noble to let any one feel dependent, even those who are, like myself, wholly her servants.'
'You like Miss Gwynne?'
'I respect and love her. Perhaps you will now let me go to her.'
'Not yet. This independence. I could make you independent.'
'You! How? Impossible!'
'I love you, Gladys.'
'Me! This to me! Is it to insult me that you have detained me? Let me go, sir—I insist—and my mistress! You, Colonel Vaughan, who have been paying her such attentions as no man has a right to pay a lady unless he loves her, to dare to say this to me, and I a servant in her house. You, sharing her father's hospitality, to deceive her, and insult me. What have I done to encourage you to speak thus to me?'
Gladys stood still amidst the lights and shadows of the sun-crowned trees, and looked the colonel steadily in the face. That look, voice, manner, completed the conquest that had been maturing for weeks and months. The flushed cheek, the sparkling eyes, the tall, slight, erect figure, the voice, deportment—all were those of a lady in mind as well as person.
'Gladys, hear me calmly. I do not wish to insult you; I have never meant anything by my attentions to Miss Gwynne.'
'Then you are a—'
Gladys checked herself.
'A villain, you would say. Not at all. I merely pay Miss Gwynne the civilities due to her. I am not obliged to fall in love with every young lady in whose father's house I am visiting. But I admired you the first moment I saw you; and now, at this moment, I vow that I love you as I never loved in my life before.'
They stood face to face, looking at each other. Gladys' eyes drooped before the gaze of the colonel.
'This to me!' she exclaimed, 'and yet you say you do not insult me! Let me go, sir, I insist!'
She tried to hasten on, but the strong hand was again on her arm.
'I do not insult you, Gladys, I honour and respect you. If you will only say you love me, I will—yes, I will—I think, at least—I will marry you privately, and take you abroad at once. I vow this is more than I ever said to any woman in my life before.'
'And you will repent having said it to me before the night is out, Colonel Vaughan, and you do not mean it. Think of who I am; think of Miss Gwynne; think of yourself. Oh! this is cruel, cruel jesting to all!'
'I was never more serious in my life.'
As Colonel Vaughan said this, he saw nothing, thought of nothing, but the peculiar beauty of the creature who stood, flushed and agitated, at his side. He forgot himself and his purposes, in his temporary blind admiration.
'Now, Gladys, I await your answer,' he said, not doubting what that answer would be.
'I have no answer to give, sir, because I know that, even if you now think yourself in earnest, you will be no longer so to-night.'
'Before we leave this wood, girl, I will and must have an answer, and beware how you irritate me.'
He seized her hand as he spoke, and held it tight.
'You will release me before I answer you, sir; I have gone through too many dangers and temptations to be frightened into speech.'
He released her hand, but kept his eyes fixed on her face. She did not quail, though she felt her heart beat violently.
'If you are serious, sir, I ought, I suppose, to be grateful for so strange an honour; but I do not believe you are so, and my answer is, that a servant such as I, can have nothing to say to a gentleman such as you.'
'A servant! You will be no longer a servant. You are not one at this moment.'
Again he seized her hand. She was frightened, but did not loose her self-command.
'Sir, you had now better let me return home. Miss Gwynne will wonder what has become of me. It is time that she should be ready—that you, sir, should be ready. What will she think and say?'
'I care not; nothing shall turn me from my purpose. You shall not leave this wood until you promise.'
'Then I shall never leave it, sir; and if you persist in detaining me, I will make known to every one, how a gentleman can demean himself to a poor, unprotected girl, who has no friend near her but her God. To Him I appeal for help in this hour, when you, sir, a gentleman and a Christian, so far forget yourself as to insult and persecute me.'
As Gladys spoke, she lifted her eyes solemnly to heaven—both her hands were held by Colonel Vaughan.
As he gazed at her, he suddenly relaxed his hold, saying, 'You are a wonderful girl! I do not persecute you, but I will not give you up.'
No sooner did Gladys feel the grasp loosen, than she made a sudden bound, almost a leap, onwards, and ran with incredible swiftness through the path.
Colonel Vaughan pursued her, but soon found that she ran more swiftly than he did. However, he would not give up the chase, and in spite of the hot sun, ran on, in somewhat undignified haste and anger.
Every one knows that winding paths in plantations are not always perfectly smooth. So found our gallant colonel to his cost.
With his eyes fixed on the quickly vanishing form of Gladys, how was he to see the gnarled root of an oak, that sprung up through the ground, directly in his path? His foot caught in it, and he fell with considerable violence upon his face. He got up again as quickly as he could, cursing his carelessness and folly.
He felt that he had knocked his somewhat prominent nose rather severely, and to his great dismay, found that it was bleeding copiously.
All further pursuit was out of the question. He must staunch the blood of the much-offending member, and being rather giddy for the moment, sat down to do so.
It is said that any sudden and violent blow sobers a drunkard; so did this unforeseen fall sober the mental intoxication of the colonel. As his nose bled, so did his intellect clear. Bleeding, on the old system, was never more successful.
This was truly a descent, if not from the sublime, at least from the heroic, to the ridiculous. Panting with heat, bleeding, apostrophising, the lover came to his senses.
Partly aloud, at intervals, partly muttered between his teeth, he gave forth the following sentences; and when he became calm he thought the subsequent thoughts, which, although he did not rail them forth against the rooks and smaller birds, we will venture to repeat, for the further elucidating the mystery of his mind.
'Fool to let go her arm! No; fool to take it at all! What a girl! I never saw such—pho! How it bleeds! Will it never stop! They'll think there's been a murder here. What could possess me to run after her? A rustic coquette! Rustic! No; a most courtly one. She had me fairly in her power. But she has too much sense to tell. 'Pon my word, I never loved any one so much before. Disgusting! All over my cravat. If I were to meet any one? If Freda were to see me, what would she think or say? And I actually talked of marriage. Let me see; what did I say? But nobody could believe her. Pshaw! what a fool I have been. Suppose she had taken me at my word, and accepted me, I wonder how I could have got out of it! There is such a power in her eyes, that as long as I am looking at them she could make me do anything. I wish she was the heiress, and not Miss Nugent. Yes; and I shall be too late for dinner. What will they think? I vow, I am so giddy I can scarcely walk; and this horrible bleeding won't stop. I must stuff this bunch of keys down my back, and see what that will do. Well! if that isn't enough to cool any one's courage, together with this disgusting—I must go on, and get into my room as quickly as possible. I vow, it is just six o'clock. If she tells Freda! But she won't do that—no woman ever does. She'll think it over, and manage to let me see her again—and then—and then—I shall not be able to resist her eyes, and she shall not be able to resist mine. The witch! A mere servant to do what no woman ever has done, or ever would do—positively refuse me. But she knows her power, I daresay. There it is bleeding again, and I thought I had stopped it. I am just at home though, and if I go round by the stables no one can make any remarks. Confound this—here's the coachman in full hue and cry after me. Yes, I will dress directly. Thomas! tell your master not to wait. The heat has made my nose bleed, and detained me. If he and Miss Gwynne will go on, you can drive back for me, and I shall be in time for the ball. Beg them to make my excuses to Lady Mary Nugent, and explain how it is. You are quite right. It has bled tremendously; but I shall stop it as soon as I get to my room.'
It need not be said that the concluding portion of Colonel Vaughan's speech was addressed to a servant, who came in search of him with the intelligence that the carriage was waiting, and his master ready. He managed to get to his room, however, unperceived, where we will leave him to dress and recover himself at his leisure.