Again Owen kissed his mother, more lovingly than usual, and so they parted for the night.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE FUGITIVE.

Gladys did not go to bed all that night. If her mistress could have watched her occupations, seen her tears, and listened to her prayers, she would, at least, have known that she was grateful. The first thing she did was to finish a cap that she had been making for her, the next to complete a large piece of ornamental netting, that had been long in secret progress, and had been intended as a present for that dear mistress's birthday on the morrow. The third, last and most difficult, was to write a letter. Gladys usually wrote easily and well. She had been accustomed to a.s.sist her father at an early age, and had been carefully taught by her mother, but on the present occasion she considered every sentence with a too painful thoughtfulness, and literally blotted her writing with her tears.

Morning was beginning to dawn before she had finished these tasks, and then she washed her face and hands, took off the pretty cotton gown she had on, and put on the one Netta gave her when first she came to Glanyravon. An old straw hat that she had been in the habit of wearing in the fields, and a tidy, but plain shawl, completed her attire. She had a few shillings which Mr Prothero had given her, and these she put into her pocket, together with a pincushion, and a curious foreign sh.e.l.l, gifts of Owen.

She thought of Netta, and of her very different flight from the same house; she fancied that if she had been in her place, no lover, however dear, could have prevailed upon her to leave so good a mother; but she was different. An orphan and a beggar, she had no right to remain to cause dissension between father and son.

And so she fell upon her knees, and prayed for blessings on every member of that family; she forgot no one, not even poor Owen, whose suit she had rejected. Most especially she prayed that he might be a comfort to his parents, and turn from his wild, wandering ways, to those of rest and sobriety; she particularly used that latter word, which would have sounded formal in less earnest lips.

With tearful eyes, and throbbing heart, but with a resigned spirit, she rose from her knees, took her little bundle in her hand, and went quickly out into the pa.s.sage. She did not trust herself to pa.s.s the doors of her slumbering friends, but went by the back-staircase into the kitchen, and thence into the yard. There was a thick mist over the face of nature, falling like a heavy veil on the rising sun, and making the early day but a lengthened night; not a sound was heard, not an animal had yet been aroused from sleep, save Lion, the large watch-dog, whose duty it was to wake when others slept, and he bounded towards Gladys, and her suppressed, 'Down, Lion, down,' failed to quiet him. As she hurried up the road, he ran after her, and it was not until she reached the gate, that she had courage to command him with heightened voice, and threatening manner, to go home. The dog crouched, and then licked the hand, upraised to send him back. Poor Gladys fell upon his neck, and burst into tears. He licked off the tears with a wistful, canine earnestness and love, and again prepared to follow her.

'Back, good dog! Home, Lion!' said Gladys.

The dog turned away with his tail between his legs, and walked half-way down the road. Gladys hurried through the gate, and along the public road, shutting the gate behind her upon Lion. No sooner was she out of sight than the tail was again in motion, the head turned, and Lion was peering over the hedge after her. As she swiftly pursued her way, turning neither to the right nor to the left, she did not perceive the faithful friend that was literally d.o.g.g.i.ng her steps; but still Lion followed; and thoughtless of master and mistress at home, kept in view the poor beggar-girl who had managed to win his love, together with that of all the animal kind around and about Glanyravon.

Thus pursuing her unknown way, and thus pursued by Lion, we must leave Gladys and return to the farm.

At the usual hour, Mrs Prothero came down to breakfast; no Gladys was visible, and no neat table was laid for the early meal. Mrs Prothero asked the servants if they had seen Gladys, and they said she had not yet come down; not altogether ill-pleased to find the favourite, for once, in fault. Mrs Prothero thought that the events of the past night had probably made her ill; and relenting from her somewhat severe feelings towards her, she went upstairs to see what was the matter.

Receiving no answer to her tap at the door, and call of 'Gladys,' she went into her little room. She saw all neat as usual, and the bed unruffled. Her heart misgave her, and she painfully remembered the morning of Netta's flight. As if by instinct she went to the small dressing-table, and at once had her fears confirmed. Very sadly she took up the pretty cap that was left there, and looked at the large piece of netting to which was appended a paper. She unpinned the paper, and read the following words:--'For my dear mistress, with respectful wishes, and best prayers for many happy returns of the day.'

Mrs Prothero unfolded the work slowly, and saw two handsome, long, netted window curtains, with a fancy border, that must have taken hours from the donor's sleep to accomplish. As she unfolded them, a letter fell upon the floor.

Poor, nervous Mrs Prothero, rubbed her hands over one another several times before she had the courage to pick it up, and then she scarcely dared to open it. As she made the attempt, however, a cry of 'Mother!

mother! why isn't my breakfast ready?' was heard from the foot of the stairs, proceeding from Mr Prothero's l.u.s.ty voice, who was too proud and too angry to call for Gladys.

Mrs Prothero ran downstairs with the letter in her hand.

'My dear David, I am afraid Gladys is gone,' she said tremblingly.

'Well, let her go,' said the farmer. 'A good riddance. But what do you mean?'

Mrs Prothero told of the empty room, unused bed, cap, curtains, and letter.

'This house is bewitched!' said Mr Prothero. 'What's in the letter?'

'Indeed, I don't know, Davy bach!' said the wife, giving him the doc.u.ment.

Mr Prothero took out his gla.s.ses, wiped them deliberately, and put them on, whilst his wife stood before him rubbing her poor little hands as usual.

'What a good hand the girl writes,' said Mr Prothero, as he carefully unfolded the letter, and then began to read aloud as follows:--

'DEAR AND HONOURED MISTRESS,--Before leaving for ever your blessed home, I beg you will allow me to write you a few lines, and I hope you will not think me too bold in so doing. I am going away, because I would not cause trouble to you, or my good, kind master.

May it please G.o.d to bless you both for ever and ever! As long as I live I shall pray for you and love you! If I am too bold, forgive me, but my heart is full. I can only thank you for all you have done for me, by my prayers! Farewell! my dear, kind, honoured mistress and master. You will be rewarded in this world for your care of the poor orphan, who prays to meet you in the next.--GLADYS.'

It was evident that the writer had been obliged to conclude hastily, because her paper was so wet with tears that she could write no more.

When Mr Prothero finished reading, he hemmed two or three times and cleared his throat, and took off his spectacles and wiped them; then perceiving that his wife was crying like a child, he said,--

'Don't be so fullish!' Suddenly recollecting himself, he exclaimed, 'Where's Owen? Go you, mother, and see if we haven't had another 'lopement,'

'No fear of that,' said Mrs Prothero, leaving the room to do her husband's bidding.

She stayed so long that Mr Prothero, out of patience, bustled after her.

He found her standing before an open, half-empty chest of drawers. The room was very untidy, and here, also, the bed had not been slept in the past night.

Mrs Prothero was rubbing her hands and crying pitifully; more from fear of her husband's wrath than from sorrow for Owen, because she had antic.i.p.ated a sudden flight.

Mr Prothero began to stamp with rage. It was a long time before he could speak, and his wife had a certain fear that he would choke. At last words found vent.

'The impudent, lying, hypocritical, young baggage! The ungrateful, disobedient, good-for-nothing brute! Ach a fi! upon 'em both. That's what you get by harbouring Irish beggars!--that's the return they make!

A pale-faced, deceitful hussy!'

'Davy, bach! they are not gone together,' said Mrs Prothero, half-believing at the same time that they were.

'Shall I lay breakfast, ma'am?' interrupted Shanno, putting her head in at the door and grinning suspiciously.

'Go your way, and mind your own business,' said Mr Prothero.

Shanno disappeared.

'I'll go out and see whether either of the horses is gone. Go you and make breakfast--the good-for-nothing--'

'Just let me tell you first what Owen said to me last night,' said Mrs Prothero. 'I don't think he ever deceived us, Davy; and if he did wrong, he was never the one to hide it.'

'Treue for you! Well, what did the young scamp say? I don't blame him half as much as that meek, pale-faced, still-water thing, who's as deep as the north star, I'll be bound.'

'But Owen told me, seriously, that she refused to have anything to say to him, and begged me to be kind to her when he was gone away, for his sake.'

'Nothing but a trap to take you in--the deceitful young puppies--the--the--'

'Go and look about the horses and I'll make breakfast.'

He went accordingly. All the horses were safe. Nothing was missing anywhere but Lion.

'I 'ouldn't take twenty pounds for that dog,' said Mr Prothero when he returned to the house, and sat down to breakfast.

'Hadn't we better send to look for them?' asked Mrs Prothero timidly.