CHAPTER VIII.

THE MISER'S SON.

It was Sunday evening, and all the inmates of Glanyravon Farm were either at church or chapel, with the exception of Netta and one of the servants, who remained to watch the sick Gladys. Netta said she had a headache, and preferred staying at home. By way of curing it she put on her best bonnet and went for a walk. As soon as she was out of sight of the house she set off at a pace that did not bespeak pain of any kind.

She soon struck out of the country road, with its hedges of hawthorn, into a field, and thence into a small wood or grove, almost flanking the road. The warm June sun sent his rays in upon her through the trees, and helped them to cast checkered shadows upon her path, lighting up, every here and there, a bunch of fern or flowers, and brightening the trunks of the interlacing trees. As she saw the lights and shadows dancing before her she became serious for a moment, and fancied they were like the will-o'-the-wisp, and portended no good; but she soon quickened her pace, and at the first opening went out again into the road, where the sun was uninterrupted in his gaze, and her few fanciful thoughts took flight.

She glanced furtively into one or two cottages as she pa.s.sed them, and the absence of all inmates seemed to reproach her for her Sunday evening falsehood. At last she reached a small cross-road or lane, down which she turned, heedless of the profusion of wild roses that actually canopied the way. Another path, narrower still, and thickly bordered with blackberry bushes in full blossom, brought her to what seemed a large ma.s.s of brambles, low underwood, and occasional young oaks. There were, however, little patches of gra.s.s here and there amongst the thicket, and into one of these she got with some difficulty. This was the hall from which diverged one or two little pa.s.sages, that looked so dark, narrow, and brambly, that they appeared inaccessible. But Netta managed to push aside some briars with her parasol and enter one. Almost at her first footstep she tore her pretty muslin dress, but folding it closer round her, she pushed her way. The smart pink bonnet was in great danger, but escaped uninjured.

At last she found herself on the brink of a deep ravine, almost precipitous, and heard the sound of rushing water beneath her. Large, gloomy trees outspread their brawny arms on each side of this gorge and lovingly embraced above it, so that the rays of the sun were again thwarted in their purpose, and turned and twisted about before they could glance upon the dark waters below.

Netta did not know all the tangles and tears she was to meet with when she set out on her walk. She had not visited this spot for some time, and then she had taken a more frequented path, on the other side of the ravine. She looked around, and down into the depth below, but she could see nothing but trees and brushwood. She was not strong-minded, so she began to be afraid. However, summoning up her courage, she pushed into a kind of broken stony path, down the side of the gully, and at the expense of a few more rents in the muslin dress, and some scratches on her hands, she succeeded in scrambling to the bottom.

Here was a wild and beautiful scene. A waterfall rolled from a height, over rocks and brushwood, down into a foaming stream beneath, that rushed, in its turn, over huge stones through the dark ravine.

As Netta stood almost at the base of the waterfall, and on the edge of the rapid brook, something like reflection took possession of her volatile mind. There was a solemn gloom and grandeur about the scene that reminded her of the Sabbath she was desecrating, and therewith of her parents, and her duty to them. For a moment--only for a moment--she thought she would return, and strive to atone for the falsehood, by giving up the object of her evening wandering. But a bright gleam of sunshine darted through the trees--the stream foamed and leapt towards it--the waterfall sparkled beneath--the arrowy fern glittered like gold, and Netta's heart forgot her duty, and thought of her recreant lover.

Her repentance must come in gloom, her sin in sunshine.

She plucked a bunch of the wild roses that hung around and above her, and dashed them petulantly into the stream. She watched them as their course was interrupted by the large ma.s.ses of rock, and they were tossed here and there by the angry mischievous water. At last they hung trembling on a huge stone, stranded, as it were, on their impetuous course. Again, for a moment, a serious comparison arose in her mind, and she wondered whether her life might be like that of the flowers she had cast away from her? whether she might be carried, by the force of contending pa.s.sions, and left to wither upon some hard sh.o.r.e that as yet she knew not of. Such ideas naturally present themselves to the mind of all who are not wholly devoid of imagination and when the rapid stream again bore, away the bunch of roses, and Netta saw them no more, she had quite believed that such would be her course upon the troubled waters of the world.

But she was not long left to speculate upon her future. Whilst her eyes were yet fixed upon the spot whence the roses had vanished, she felt a hand on her shoulder, heard a voice call her name, and starting round, saw her cousin Howel behind her. He had crept so softly down that she had not heard him, and she uttered a sharp cry that sounded like one of terror, as she suddenly felt his touch.

'A strange greeting, Netta,' were the first words, after they had shaken hands.

'You frightened me, and why were you not here sooner? I have been waiting an hour,' was the rejoinder, in a tone of voice that belied the radiant joy of the young face.

Suddenly Netta seemed to recollect something that brought a shadow over the sunshine.

'Cousin Howel, I--I am very sorry for you. Poor Uncle Griff! How is aunt?--and you--you look ill, Howel; what is the matter?'

It was difficult for Netta to know what to say about the death of the miser. She was not sorry, and she could not tell how her cousin felt.

'Oh, yes; my mother is pretty well. I have been ill, but shall soon be all right again. Netta, how long is it since we met?'

'A twelvemonth next Friday.'

'You remember the day, dear Netta. Then you do not hate me, although they have done their best to make you do so, by calling me gambler, spendthrift, drunkard, and all the charming etceteras.'

'Oh no, Howel.'

'Take off that bonnet, and let me see if you are altered.' He unfastened the strings, and let the long black curls fall over the girl's neck.

'No, you are only prettier than ever, cousin Netta. How would you look in lace and pearls, and all the goodly array of a fine lady?'

'I don't know, Howel; but tell me what you wanted me for.

'Just let me twist this bunch of roses into your hair first, to see how an evening toilette would become my pretty cousin Netta.'

Howel had torn a spray from the rose-bush at their back, and he inserted it carelessly amongst the curls.

'How well you look, Netta. I should like to see you in a ball-room. We will go together to plenty of b.a.l.l.s, if you will only consent.'

'I don't like those roses, cousin,' said Netta hastily, 'they are unlucky I think,' and she tore them from her hair, and threw them, as she had done the previous ones, into the brook. 'Now let us see where they will go.'

'We have not time, Netta, and I do not know why I am fooling away the hours. You must answer all my questions truly and plainly. I am become a rich man, how rich I do not myself know; and I mean to let every one belonging to me see that I can spend my money like a gentleman, and be as grand as those who have hitherto lorded it over me.'

'Particularly the Rice Rices and Lady Mary Nugent,' interrupted Netta.

'Would you like to be grander than they, Netta? have a finer carriage, more beautiful clothes, a handsomer house, plate, jewels, servants, and all sorts of magnificence?'

'Oh, yes, of all things in the world.'

'Then you shall be my wife, Netta, and we will soon see whether we cannot be as grand as the grandest.'

'Oh, cousin!'

'Well, dear Netta; tell me, are you changed?'

'No, cousin.'

'If I ask your father's consent, and he gives it, will you marry me?'

'You know we settled that long ago, cousin Howel; but father will not consent, unless--unless--'

'Pshaw, but if I ask his consent, and he refuses it, will you marry me then, dear Netta, dear, dear cousin?'

Howel fixed his large, piercing eyes upon Netta, who coloured and trembled, and murmured, 'Oh, Howel, I don't know--how can I?'

'How can you? Who is to prevent you? We can marry and go abroad, and return and ask pardon, and I will take a fine house, and they will be only too proud to own us?'

'Not father, Howel, unless--'

'Unless I become a steady fellow, and settle down, as I mean to do, if you will marry me. But if you refuse me, I shall just go on as I am, or put an end to my wretched life perhaps.'

'Howel, don't be so wicked,' cried Netta, bursting into tears.

'Then, Netta, you must give me your promise to be mine, whether your father consents or not, whenever I write you word, through my mother, that I will have a carriage ready at the corner near the turnpike. But I can settle all particulars at the proper time, provided only you promise. Remember, you have told me hundreds of times that you will be my wife, and neither father nor mother should prevent it.'

'I do not know--I cannot tell whether it would be right.'

'Not right to save me from destruction, to make me what I ought to be, to cleave to your husband as if he were yourself, in spite of parents or relations! I am sure, Netta, that you are taught to do all this; besides, you cannot help it, if you love me. You know that I would have married you when I had nothing, as readily as I will now that I have tens of thousands, and surely this deserves a return?'

Netta began to sob.

'You know how it is, Howel. I am afraid of father, and could not bear to annoy mother, but--'

'But you love me better still, Netta; so do not cry, and we will be as happy as the day is long. Will you promise me?'