Freda felt her blood creep at that word 'Grandpapa,' and also felt the colonel's glance. He seemed to take a pleasure in watching every expression of her countenance, and it did, unfortunately, always convey her feelings to the watcher.

Freda had never pa.s.sed so uncomfortable a dinner since the day when the present Mrs Vaughan came of age. Probably she was the only one of the party who was conscious of Colonel Vaughan's changed manner and temper, because it was new to her, and she could scarcely believe him to be himself. Her father was wrapped up in his boy--his wife's attention was divided between him and the other children, and Mrs Vaughan smiled and lisped on all by turns.

Freda thought of old times, when her father and herself were so happy together; and then she thought of the last Christmas day in London, when Mr and Mrs Jones, Rowland, and herself dined late off a Glanyravon Park turkey, having first feasted as many poor people as the kitchen would hold, on geese from Glanyravon Farm. Certainly the comparison with her present companions was 'odious' to her.

Freda scarcely knew which was worst--the riotous, untameable spirits of Harold, who did and said what he liked, unchecked either by father or mother, or the cowed and altered manner of the other children in the presence of their father; they, too, had been noisy enough before he arrived.

'It was very good of you to come to-day, Gwynne,' said Lady Mary; 'I scarcely expected you, knowing how you dislike this frosty weather.'

'Freda is attraction enough to draw off the frost, though she has become so much better than her neighbours. Wilhelmina, my dear, why do you let Minnie stuff her mouth so full of orange? The child will choke.'

The dinner came to an end at last, and the children went to bed. Freda played and sung some sacred music at Colonel Vaughan's request, and he complimented her on her improvement, and said he wished his wife played and sung as well, because music was such a resource in a dull country place.

'I suppose you have practised a great deal since you have been in London?' he said.

'Mrs Jones and I play and sing whenever we have time, and I have had some lessons,' replied Freda. 'Besides, one hears all the first musicians and singers, and they teach one.'

'Did you see much of that young parson, Prothero? I remember he was somewhere in your neighbourhood,' asked the colonel.

Freda was sure this question was a feeler, and she answered carelessly,--

'Yes, naturally. He is Mr Jones' brother curate.'

'Now confess, you didn't like those people, and that sort of life? You must have been _ennuyee_ from morning to night.'

'On the contrary, the days were not half long enough.'

'Freda!' exclaimed Mrs Vaughan, 'I get tho tired, and tho doth the colonel, before half the evening ith over.'

'Some one else seems in the same condition,' said Freda. 'Papa is fast asleep.'

'And mamma nearly,' said Mrs Vaughan. 'And I am tho tired. I think Chrithmath dayth are very dull. One dothn't know what to do.'

'That isn't peculiar to Christmas days in your year,' said the colonel, sarcastically; 'but I suppose we had better go to bed. I hope we shall be more amusing to-morrow, Freda. All your old friends, the constant Sir Hugh amongst them, are invited to meet you. Let me light your candle.

Remember, I always used to do that, when we had our snug evenings together such an age ago.'

'Yeth, he often talkth of you, Freda, and thayth you were thuch good company.'

Freda heard Colonel Vaughan sigh, and thought, as she said 'good-night,'

and hastened upstairs, that she ought to be thankful that the imperturbable and dull Wilhelmina Nugent had been the choice of that discontented and irritable colonel, instead of the quick-tempered, independent Winifred Gwynne.

CHAPTER XLVII.

THE DAUGHTER-IN-LAW.

New Year's Day dawned under the influence of a bright sun, and a clear, frosty atmosphere. The old year was dead and buried with all his griefs and joys; his son and heir came forward smiling, to begin his career of times and seasons, clouds and sunbeams.

With him, Owen and Gladys were to commence their united lives. An auspicious morning ushered in this, their bridal day, and the year's birthday. Nature had put on all her jewels in honour of the joint festivities. Her very tears were turned into diamonds that sparkled on her capacious breast, neck, and arms, more brilliantly than stomachers, necklaces and bracelets of gems, on the courtiers of an Indian monarch.

Truly, as the fair and gentle Gladys drove through the roads and lanes that led from the farm to the church, the hedge-rows sparkled with these brilliants, and her very pathway was strewn with them. Attired in that Quaker-like garb of dove-colour and white, her soft cheek tinged as from the sun, her eyes cast down in modest shyness, and her heart beating with quiet happiness, she seemed a fitting bride to wait upon that heir of so many by-gone generations.

And a.s.suredly a happier never drove to a church to meet her expectant bridegroom, her hand clasped lovingly between the kindly palms of her future mother, sitting by her side; and the affectionate glances of her uncle and aunt cast upon her from the opposite seat. She felt as if it were all a dream. She, the Irish beggar--the friendless--the wanderer--the orphan!

And now so honoured! All whom she most cared for in the world, with the exception of Rowland, were a.s.sembled in that village church to meet her.

There were Owen and his father--Miss Gwynne and Minette--Mr and Mrs Jonathan Prothero.

Gentleness, grat.i.tude and simple merit, were, for once rewarded, even in this world.

The kind and worthy Uncle Jonathan--so soon to be _her_ uncle--married her. Her own uncle gave her, with prayers and blessings, to him whom she had loved so long and truly--her former mistress, now her fast friend, and another mistress's grandchild, were her bridesmaids.

If a tear gathered in her eye, it was a tear of joy; and there, at the altar, amongst all those to whom she was henceforth to be united by the ties of relationship, she inwardly vowed to devote herself to their happiness, and to the fulfilment of the promises she was making to him who would be one with her for ever.

The churchyard was full of spectators, as the proud and happy Owen led his bride through it to the vicarage, and the general opinion was, that there had never been married so handsome a couple in the church of Llanfach.

The bells and the sunbeams rang out and shone out together, and all the wedding-party forgot their private sorrows in the joy of the moment.

Even Netta, who had been taken to the vicarage for the occasion, received them with one of her old bright smiles. She threw her arms round Gladys, and called her 'sister.'

'_My_ sister,' she said more than once emphatically.

And if tears would, from time to time, spring into her eyes, as she contrasted herself with Gladys, she brushed them away, and did her best not to cast a shadow from her grief, on the brightness of a brother and sister's joy. That little drawing-room at the vicarage contained as pretty and pleasant a group as could well be seen, of which Owen and Gladys formed the centre figures.

'Now, my good girl, let me give you a real kiss,' said honest Mr Prothero, 'and tell you that I am proud of my daughter. Mother, what do you say?'

'I say, thank G.o.d for all His mercies,' said quiet Mrs Prothero, shaking Gladys' hand, which she seemed loath to part with.

If there is a great variety of character and feeling displayed in shaking hands, there a.s.suredly is, also, in kissing. Gladys experienced it in that same little drawing-room, where she submitted her blushing cheeks to all sorts of impressions.

Mr Prothero gave her three very hearty smacks, which resounded through the room, and seemed to say at once, 'I am your father; his wife's embrace was quieter, but more tender. Mrs Jonathan stooped majestically, and imprinted her lips patronisingly on the forehead, as much as to say, 'I receive you into the family of the Payne Perrys, since you are respectably connected.' Mrs Jones kissed her on the lips, and said, 'G.o.d bless you, my dear.' Miss Gwynne, who hated kissing, and did not consider herself one of the family, looked on, but took no active part.

Was that pride? she asked herself afterwards, and the answer was, 'Yes.'

As to Mr Jones, his embrace made Owen exclaim, 'It is well I know you are her uncle now. I was as jealous as could be when you kissed her in London.' Minette's embrace was a long hug, and when the vicar came in, he wound up the scene by a salute as original as himself, which called forth the following reproof from his brother:--

'Why, man, you don't know how to kiss. You stumbled upon the very tip of her nose, and almost put her eyes out with your spectacles.'

Heedless of the interruption, Mr Jonathan addressed his niece as follows:--

'My dear Niece, Claudia,--I shall henceforth call you by that name, in memory of her of the Epistle, and I so registered it just now, Gladys or Claudia--I wish you and my good nephew, Owen, all happiness and prosperity, both spiritual and temporal. I pray that you may, according to the example of your ill.u.s.trious namesake, devote yourself to works of piety and hospitality, making your husband's home happy, and keeping a place therein for his and your friends.'

'To be sure she will, uncle,' said Owen, 'and we will have an especial corner for you, called "The Claudia," where the little hypocrite shall talk to you of all the druidical remains, and fossil mammoths, that she pretends to be so interested in.'

'You had better come and take off your bonnet now, my dear,' said Mrs Jonathan to the flushed and shy Gladys.