'No,' he said, with a merry laugh; 'I cannot afford to run into debt.'

'Mortgage those entailed farms of yours,' said Howel. 'I wouldn't mind lending you a trifle on them.'

'And I will lend you five pounds without a mortgage,' said Netta.

'Can't afford to borrow or mortgage,' laughed Owen. 'Besides it is nearly Sunday morning, and we must all break up directly,' so he slipped away from his seat, looked on for a few minutes, and when the party were again absorbed in their game, went to bed.

'Well,' he thought; 'I am not as particular as I ought to be, I know, myself; but to play cards into Sunday morning! I could not do this. What would my poor mother say of Netta if she knew it? I will have a serious conversation with her to-morrow, when I suppose she will have an hour to spare, and be off on Monday. I almost wish I had never come. That Madame Duvet, too! One cannot help paying her attention, and she is very handsome and agreeable; but even if there were no Gladys, she wouldn't suit me; and here am I almost making her believe—Pashaw! She don't care for me. What a vain fellow I am! But, I suppose, as Netta says, they admire my beard. All but Gladys, who won't even look at it, or me. I wonder what she would think of me in the midst of all these fine people, dressed up in Howel's London attire! At any rate I shouldn't be half as worthy of her good opinion as when I carried that unfortunate mash to the Alderney, which caused the rumpus with my father. How beautiful the girl looked, leaning upon that fortunate animal; and what a fool I made of myself on the other side of her! Well, I was never so happy at home before; and I know it isn't right to leave my father and mother; and I have never done any good all my life; and I, the eldest son, and very nearly thirty years of age! Poor uncle and aunt gave me an education, to very little purpose I fear; and I shall have to answer for the use I have made of it, just as those Sabbath-breakers downstairs will have to answer for profaning this holy day. Half of it is the force of example. Here is Howel leading Netta to destruction, just as Gladys might lead me to—heaven, I verily believe. Rowland used to argue with me about individual responsibility, and I suppose he was in the right of it.'



CHAPTER XXXI.

THE PATRON'S WIFE.

The following morning, Netta was not well, and did not appear at the breakfast-table. Howel said she had a bad headache, and did not intend going to church.

Breakfast was hurried over to prepare for a six miles' drive to church, and the carriage conveyed the two ladies and three of the gentlemen thither, resplendent with fashion and emblazoned prayer-books. Mr Deep did not go, and Owen determined to remain at home, in order to secure the desired conversation with Netta.

Mr Deep, however, seized upon him first of all.

It had not escaped that keen observer, that Howel had hinted the previous evening that Owen possessed property in reversion; which, indeed, he did, inasmuch as his father was a small landed proprietor, and had several farms of his own, descended to him from his father, and entailed upon Owen.

Mr Deep was reading some racing calendar, and called Owen's attention to his brother-in-law's name in connection with the names of men of note on the turf. Also to his horse, Campaigner as being one of those entered for the Ascot races.

Then he went very cautiously to work to see whether he could not induce Owen to bet; but he, holding up again his nearly empty purse, laughed his merry laugh, and said,—

'I am not to be caught, Mr Deep. I hate horse-racing, and never laid a wager of any kind in my life. That is the only redeeming point in my character. Wild enough I have been, and roving all my life, but I never gambled. Excuse me now, as I must go and see my sister.'

He went accordingly to Netta's room, and after knocking at the door, and hearing that she was still in bed, entered unceremoniously. He was at once struck with the difference between the Netta of the farm, in her little muslin night-cap, that he had often fairly pulled off, to get her to promise to leave the pretty white-curtained bed, and the lady of Abertewey, in lace and fine linen, reclining beneath satin drapery, in a room furnished most luxuriously.

'Well, Netta, I have you alone at last; and now, if your head is not very bad, we will have a regular old-fashioned gossip,' said Owen, stooping to kiss the pretty flushed face of the little sister he dearly loved, despite her follies.

'Did you stop at home for me, Owen? How very kind! I don't think any one else would,' said Netta.

'Oh, yes, many others would if it were necessary; but I wanted to have you all to myself. Now I know you have been longing to ask me a hundred questions, but have never got beyond "How are they all at home?" yet.'

Netta blushed, and stammered out, as an apology, that she had never been at leisure one minute all the week.

By degrees she began to talk of home and her parents, and Owen was glad to find that as she did so she returned to her old, natural self. He told her everything that had happened at Glanyravon since she left it, save and except what related to Gladys. He never even mentioned her name.

Netta had various ebullitions of temper during their conversation and declared herself greatly aggrieved by her father's conduct.

'But it is just as well,' she said, 'for our positions are so different that we should never have got on comfortably. Howel is determined never to make up with father.'

'I am afraid he is not likely to have the option,' said Owen, gravely. 'But you should write and beg his pardon, Netta; you know you acted directly contrary to his wishes.'

'I think I would write, Owen, but Howel won't hear of it; he gets furious if I even name Glanyravon, and can't bear any of 'em except you.'

'Netta, I think you must use your influence to keep Howel from so much horse-racing and betting and card-playing.'

'He don't care for what I say, and goes in a passion when I advise him.'

'But surely you needn't play yourself as you do, and so late! Only think what my mother—'

'Nonsense, Owen. That would be very fine for Rowland; but you needn't take to lecturing. You never were a pattern brother or son either.'

Owen felt his sister's words more keenly than she intended.

'You are right, Netta, but I hope to mend. I must go away to-morrow in order that I may begin. I mean to make some money this next voyage, and come home, and set up as a steady fellow and good son.'

'And marry Madame Duvet? Do you know she is regularly in love with you? and they say she has a large fortune in France.'

'There it may remain for me. But I wish you wouldn't play cards Sundays.'

'They all do it in Paris, Owen, and what's the harm? Besides, it was only Saturday night; and we never do play Sundays, as you will see to-day. By-the-bye, what's gone with that Methodistical, lack-a-daisical Gladys? Is mother as mad about her as ever?'

'She saved your mother's life when there was no one else to nurse her, and is an angel, if ever there was one!'

Netta opened her large black eyes very wide, and burst out laughing.

'Ma foi! is that the last? Well, indeed! I never should have suspected her of making an impression. But she's deep enough for anything. How would father like that? Irish beggar against Abertewey! Come, Howel's better than that any day.

'Handsome is that handsome does,' said Owen, getting very red. 'And Gladys has done well ever since she's been at Glanyravon by every one belonging to us, not excepting yourself.'

'Very much obliged to her, I am sure,' said Netta, suddenly sitting up in bed, and forgetting her headache. 'She needn't trouble herself about me. I fancy we are never likely to cross one another again, unless she chances to come a-begging to Abertewey, and then perhaps—'

'And then perhaps you would give her a penny and send her on to starve. Oh! Netta, Netta, how were you ever my mother's daughter? But once for all, Netta, I will never hear one word spoken against Gladys. I at least am thankful that I still have a mother, and I owe it to her.'

'Dear me! you needn't be in such a huff directly, Owen. How was I to suppose you were in love with an Irish—I beg your pardon, with Miss Gladys O'Grady, County Kilkenny, Ireland? A very pretty name, to be sure! But if you don't go away I shall never be dressed by the time they come from church. There, go like a good boy. I 'ont offend you any more.'

'I will go as soon as you have told me what you and Howel did in Paris. I seem to know nothing of your proceedings for ages past.'

'It was dreadfully dull there at first, and I thought I should have died of it. I quite longed to be at home again. Howel was a great deal out, and I was alone; but then he gave me a singing master, and a French and dancing mistress, and made me work as hard as if I was at school again. In about a month Captain Dancy and Mr Simpson came over, and it was much more pleasant. We used to go to the opera and the play nearly every night, and Captain Dancy introduced me to Madame Duvet, and she introduced me to a great many other ladies, English and French, and we had a good deal of fun. I went to balls and parties, and picture galleries, and the Champs Elysees, and all the fashionable places.'

'But where did Howel meet with Mr Deep?' interrupted Owen.

'Oh! he used to be with him from the first. They are very old friends, Howel says, and have known one another for years; he is a very fashionable man, an attorney by profession. Simpson says that the races couldn't go on without him.'

'I should think not,' said Owen, smiling; 'at all events, Mr Simpson's races would be at a stand still without him. Did you, did Howel play much abroad?'

'Yes, I learned from Madame Duvet? and I think Howel and Mr Deep and the other gentlemen used to play all day. You know they have nothing else to do in Paris. It would be very dull there without cards.'

'Poor Netta! is that what you learned with your little bit of French?'

'I assure you, Owen, Monsieur Letellier and a dozen other Frenchmen said I had a beautiful accent, and that they would have thought I was born in Paris.'

Owen laughed heartily, and Netta was offended, and told him to go away. Just as he was in the act of obeying, Howel appeared.

'What! not up, Netta? How's the head? Owen, there's a letter for you. Llanfach post-mark, and from a lady? such a neat, pretty, ladylike hand! How sly you are to have lady correspondents, and not let us know who the charmer is!'

'Let me see the direction,' said Netta, trying to get the letter from her brother.

'No, no,' said Owen. 'I must keep my secret for the present when it is all settled you shall know.'

'It makes you blush, however,' laughed Howel.

'Is it Mary Jones, or Anne Jenkins, or Amelia Lewis, or Miss Richards, doctor, or Jemima Thomas—or—or—perhaps it is Gladys. Ha, ha! do you know, Howel, Owen's last is mother's Irish girl, Gladys?'

'Really?' sneered Howel. 'My mother tells me that she ran away from Glanyravon, and report says with somebody we know of. But report was false as usual; and she turns up again as Miss Gwynne's lady's maid. Miss Gwynne is about as eccentric as the rest of the clique, and I wish her joy of her bargain. The girl is a beauty, certainly, but—'

'Hush, Howel!' cried Netta; 'Owen was nearly boxing my ears about her just now.'

'Not exactly, Netta,' said Owen, smothering rising anger, and looking very red; 'but I won't hear a word said against her either by man or woman. I am going to read my letter now, and you are going to get up, so I won't stop here any longer,' and Owen left the room.

He went at once to his own bedroom, where he hastily broke open the letter Howel had given him, and read as follows:—

'GLANYRAVON PARK, May——.

'SIR,—I hope you will excuse my boldness in writing to you; but having heard that you are at Abertewey, I take the liberty of doing so, to tell you that your leaving home has made us all very unhappy. Oh! Mr Owen, if you would only go back and see your dear mother and honoured father, and learn how lonely they are without you, I think you would give up the sea, or at least remain with them for some time. If you would write to the master, or say a few gentle words to him, he would overlook your going to see your sister, I am almost sure; and, indeed, it breaks my heart to know that I was the cause of your going away so suddenly, after you had been so long at home, and so good to your parents.

'Then, dear Mr Owen, you, who have been always so kind to me, a poor orphan wanderer, and beggar at your father's gate, do, I pray you, add this one favour more to the many you have done me, and return to your parents, to take leave of them at least before you go away. Hoping you will forgive my writing to you on this subject, believe me to remain, Mr Owen, your obedient and grateful servant, GLADYS O'GRADY.'

When Owen had read this letter twice, he devoutly kissed it, and exclaimed,—

'This favour, Gladys! ay, and a thousand more, if you will only write to me, and let one little "dear" slip in unawares every time you ask one. I suppose I had better write to father to-day, and follow my letter to-morrow.'

Owen sat down at once, and wrote the following brief epistle:—

'MY DEAR FATHER,—If I have offended you in any way, I am very sorry. I didn't mean to do so, and shall return to-morrow to ask pardon in person; but, remember, I am just as much in love with Gladys as ever, and don't mean to curry favour about her. With best love to mother, I am, your affectionate son, OWEN.'

That day at luncheon Owen announced his intention of leaving Abertewey the following morning.

'To see the fair lady who wrote that neat note?' said Howel.

'Probably so,' replied Owen.

'Where are you going? We shall miss you dreadfully,' said Madame Duvet, with an entreating glance.

'I fear we must all leave on Tuesday or Wednesday,' said Miss Simpson: 'at least if you still intend going to London with us, Madame Duvet. I have had a letter from home, positively refusing any further extension of leave, and my brother promises to return with me.'

'We may as well all go together, then,' said Captain Dancy, 'as I must be in town this week; and Deep goes up on Tuesday. When are you coming, Jenkins?'

'Only in time for Ascot. I cannot leave home until to-morrow week, and shall probably only remain the race week. Mrs Jenkins is not going up, and I shall not like to leave her long alone. Owen, you must come over and see her when I am away.'

'I think you had better stay at home, Howel. You will run less risk in taking care of Netta than you will at Ascot.'

'Thanks for your advice, but I know my own business best.'

'I beg your pardon, Howel, I meant no offence. But although I am going home, I don't know how long I may stay there. Perhaps shall be off to sea in a few days.'

'I will use your own words,' said Madame Duvet, 'and say better stay at home, and take care of—let me see—yourself, I suppose. You will run less risk than at sea.'

Owen laughed, and said he would not reply in Howel's words, as he was not sure that he knew his own business best. But he did not add that he should like to take care of Madame Duvet as she wished him to do.

Neither did that afternoon and evening at Abertewey improve Owen's opinion of its inmates. French novels and betting-books were their sermons, and he longed to take his poor little sister Netta away from the contamination of such society. But she came downstairs after luncheon was over, gay and bright in dress and person, and ready for any amount of frivolity. Her countenance clouded over, when she heard how soon the party was to be broken up; but when Howel assured her he should be only a week absent, and that he would take her to town in June, it cleared again.

Owen took his leave of Abertewey the following morning. Netta whispered 'Give my love to mother,' and had a very large tear in her black eye, as he walked away, the remembrance of which often haunted him in after days. Howel told him to come again whenever he liked, and accompanied him as far as the lodge on his homeward journey.

When he reached Glanyravon, he found his mother prepared to receive him with joyful love. His father came in soon after his return, and greeted him as he expected, with a very wrathful lecture, which he bore patiently, and to which he replied as follows:—

'Thank you, father; I am much obliged to you for all your abuse, but I don't think I deserve it. As I am of age, and a few years past that period, you must let me have a will of my own.'

'I think you have always had one,' roared the farmer.

'Yes, but not at home, father. I was obliged to run away to get it. But now I mean to stay at home if you will let me. Gladys is gone away, so I don't stay on her account.'

'I'm not seure of that. You never stayed on ours.'

'Well, I will now. But I can't promise to give up Netta. I've had enough of Abertewey, and don't mean to go there any more as far as I can see at present, and that's all I can say about that matter. As for Gladys, I suppose I must get her consent and yours to marry her, and when I've got them you won't object, I suppose?'

'I think you'd best go off to sea again. I don't want any agreements made here.'

'I am not going to make any agreements, but as I am your eldest son, and the only one able and willing to stay at home and help you and mother, I do not see why you should wish to send me off to sea again, now that I really would be of use to you. I know that I have not been what I ought to have been to you hitherto, and my desire is to make up for the past as well as I can. So, father, you had better take me whilst I am in the humour, and see what you can make of me. Hit the nail while it is hot, and don't discourage me at first starting, or I shall never get on. You know I'm very shy, and want some one to lend me a helping hand. If you're not too hard upon me you may make something useful of me yet.'

Owen put his hand on his father's shoulder, as he wound up his speech, in a coaxing, boyish way, that had always proved irresistible. The honest farmer pished and pshawed, and tried to get into a fresh passion, but meeting Owen's saucy eyes, fairly broke down.

'I tell you what it is, Owen, you're a regular scamp, and always were; but you know better than any of 'em to come over me, so—now, don't be a fool, mother! Just because the good-for-nothing young scoundrel promises to stay at home you must begin to cry. Name o' goodness hold your tongue, and don't be coaxing and kissing me, and all that nonsense. He 'out keep his promise a month, you shall see.'

'So she shall, father, and you and I will shake hands upon it, and I'll be a good boy, and never be naughty any more.'

Father and son shook hands, and mother and son embraced, and future chapters will show whether Owen kept his word.



CHAPTER XXXII.

THE MAN OF THE WORLD.

Two or three months passed, and no particular event happened either at the park or farm, and summer came round again. Gladys was now established at the former, and Owen at the latter, but although they had seen one another frequently at church or at a distance, they had scarcely spoken since they parted on the evening of their remarkable meeting in the cow-house. Gladys scrupulously avoided Owen, and all his endeavours to fall in with her were fruitless.

Colonel Vaughan was again at Glanyravon, and Freda was in buoyant spirits. So, indeed, were her neighbours, the Nugents,—Miss Nugent in particular. She was to be of age in a few days, and grand preparations were making to celebrate the event.

On the morning on which we take up our Glanyravon narrative Miss Nugent is inflicting herself upon Miss Gwynne, who longs to tell her to go away, but is too polite to do so.

'You know, Freda,' she says, 'I have been longing to be of age for yearth. Mamma ath been tho thrict, and kept me tho clothe, that I never dared to thpeak to a gentleman. Now I can do ath I like.'

'And what will you have to say?' asked Freda, bluntly. 'I never hear you venture upon many topics, when you have an opportunity.'

'Oh, Freda! there are tho many thingth.'

'Just tell me one or two.'

'Let me thee. Ballth and contherth, and the opera when I go to London, and—and—muthic—'

'Is that all?'

'You are tho tirethome, Freda; of courthe there are other thingth, but one cannot think of them all at onthe. Every one ithent tho clever ath you. Colonel Vaughan thaid I talked quite enough for any young lady. Gentlemen didn't like ladieth who talked too much.'

'Indeed! Where was your mamma when he said that?'

'Oh! the didn't hear him. Do you know I think the liketh Colonel Vaughan, and ith jealouth of me. He thaid he would come down when I came of age, and tho he did, you see, Freda.'

'To your mamma, or you?'

'To me quite alone. But you needn't look tho croth and fierthe, Freda. I couldn't help hith being polite to me, and paying me complimenth.'

'What compliments?'

'Oh! I can't tell you, he thaid so much about my lookth, that I am thure he made me bluth.'

'Did you believe him?'

'Yeth; and I think he liketh me better than mamma.'

'Do you think there is any one else in the world besides your mamma and yourself?'

'Well, yeth, of courth.'

'Then why don't you sometimes talk of some one else? Do you like Colonel Vaughan, for instance?'

'Oh! I never thaw any one in my life I like tho much, except Rowland Prothero. He ith younger. Mamma thaith—'

'There again, Wilhelmina!'

'I forgot—you are tho quick, Freda. Don't you like Colonel Vaughan?'

'Pretty well sometimes.'

'What a colour you have, Freda. You thouldn't draw tho much. I with I had a tathte for drawing. Colonel Vaughan drawth tho well!'

'What can his drawing well have to do with your drawing?'

'He would look over my drawing then ath he doth yourth, Freda. He thaith you are very clever. But you mutht be nearly five-and-twenty, Freda; and he thaith no woman ought ever to be more than twenty-one,'

'When did he favour you with that remark? I think I once heard him say twenty-five was the most charming age of all.'

At this part of the conversation the subject of it entered the room, and whilst Freda's colour rose higher and higher, and she stooped more closely over her drawing, Miss Nugent got up and greeted him with great delight. Freda made up her mind not to speak, that she might listen to the conversation that ensued.

'Are all the preparations progressing, Miss Nugent? What are we to do to celebrate the great event?' asked the colonel.

'There ith to be an oxth roathed for the poor people, and tea on the lawn, and a ball in the evening, you know, colonel.'

'Oh, yes, I am looking forwards to that, and to the first dance. Remember you promised me.'

'Oh, yeth, I am thure of plenty of partnerth.'

'I should imagine so. We men must have very bad taste if we let you sit down. Did you walk here this morning?'

'No, I rode. The hortheth are taken round. I have been here a long time with Freda. It ith thuch a nice morning, ithn't it, Colonel Vaughan?'

'Delightful! What do you mean to do when you are your own mistress? I quite fancy how grand you will feel when you have struck the magic hour.'

'I darethay I thall be jutht the thame, unleth I get married.'

Freda glances up, and perceives a smile of amusement on Colonel Vaughan's lips, and the usual calm inanity on Miss Nugent's handsome features.

'That will depend on yourself, I am sure,' said the colonel.

Freda looks again, and sees the colonel's magnificent eyes fixed on the young lady, who returns his glance, and simpers out,—

'I darethay it will.'

Colonel Vaughan turns suddenly, and encounters Freda's glance.

'How does the drawing get on Freda? Capitally! What a sky! quite artistic.'

This is said whilst looking over Freda's shoulder, but she does not respond to the remark.

'I wath jutht thaying I with I could draw. It mutht be thuth a nithe amuthement.'

'Very. How is Lady Mary, to-day? I am ashamed to say I forgot to ask for her.'

'Very well, thank you. The thaid you promithed to come over and help to arrange the decorationth. I hope you will.'

'Thank you, yes. Perhaps Miss Gwynne will ride over with me to-morrow; will you, Freda?'

'I am engaged to-morrow,' said Freda shortly.

'You will come at any rate, if Freda won't?' said Miss Nugent; 'the alwayth thayth the ith engaged when we athk her. Now, don't be engaged on Thurthday. I muth go now; will you be tho kind ath to ring for the hortheth, Colonel Vaughan?'

The horses were ordered, and the colonel assisted the young heiress to mount. She looked remarkably well on horseback, and even Freda was obliged to allow that she and her grey mare would have made a fine equestrian statue. She saw Colonel Vaughan look at her, and even watch her down the drive. When he returned to the drawing-room, he said,—

'What is the matter, Miss Freda? Have the domestic deities been adverse this morning? I am afraid you are very—cross,'

'Thank you, Colonel Vaughan. I am not at all—cross.'

'Have I had the misfortune to offend you?'

'You? by no means. But I do not wish to assist in any of the Nugent decorations. I am not so fond of the family as you may imagine; Lady Mary and Miss Nugent are less than indifferent to me. Lady Mary is a mere manoeuvrer, that no straightforward person could like; and Miss Nugent is a mere handsome wax figure, with such clever machinery inside, that she can literally say the words, "mamma thaith." I have heard of a doll who could say "mamma," but she is still cleverer.'

'Colonel Vaughan bit his lips, knit his forehead, but smiled. 'You are severe upon your neighbours, Freda.'

'Do you admire them, then? do you think Miss Nugent altogether charming? or will she be perfect in your eyes the day after to-morrow?'

'If perfection consists in being a beauty and an heiress, I need not go away from Glanyravon to seek one, Freda.'

'Do you stereotype your compliments? I hear that you pay them wherever you go, and I hate compliments, particularly from people whose good opinion I value. Besides, I am neither a beauty nor an heiress, and to be complimented in almost the same words as Miss Nugent is too contemptible.'

'You do not suppose that I class you together, Freda?'

'I am thankful to say that you cannot do that, Colonel Vaughan, at least if I know myself at all; but, after all, I may be infinitely her inferior.'

Freda got up from her drawing with a very flushed face. She knew that she had said more than she meant to say, and that Colonel Vaughan was scrutinising her with his calm, collected mind and penetrating eyes.

'I am going out now, and you promised to ride with papa, I think,' she said abruptly.

'But you must not go until you have told me how I have displeased you,' said Colonel Vaughan, rising and detaining her. He had such a power over her that he always wormed her thoughts out of her.

'I did not like to hear you saying what you did not mean, to Miss Nugent,' said Freda, as if she were obliged to make a confession; 'and I think it beneath a man like you to pay frivolous compliments to a girl you must despise.'

'Oh, is that all! I make a point of complimenting handsome girls, pour passer le temps; it is the only way of getting on with half of them. You must forgive me this once.'

Freda looked at him, and even he, clever as he was, could not tell whether her glance expressed pity, contempt, or love. She turned away, and left the room without speaking; he made another movement to detain her, but she was gone; his thoughts were as follows:—

'Charming girl! yes, she is charming: of a truthful, noble, trusting nature; still too prononcee for a woman. I scarcely think I love, much as I must admire that sort of girl; and as a wife, I should be afraid of her. Yet she provokes me, interests me. She is jealous of those Nugents, and if she doesn't take care, they will cut her out, mother and daughter, with their manoeuvres and wax; and she will be heiress of Glanyravon no longer. Better the waxen heiress, Miss Nugent, with thirty thousand pounds in possession in some thirty-six hours, than the iron heiress, Miss Gwynne, with Glanyravon in futuro.

'Moreover, the one may be moulded into any shape one pleases—the other must have her own opinion, and her own way, unless a man beat her into subjection. Certainly, few people were ever more fortunately, or perplexingly placed, than I am just now.

'Between two young women, handsome, rich, of good family; if I mistake not, in love with me, and to be had for the asking. But if I married Freda, Mr Gwynne would marry Lady Nugent directly; and then one could tell what would become of the property. If, on the other hand, I were to marry Miss Nugent, I should incur the utmost contempt of which Miss Gwynne is capable, and should not wholly esteem myself. But why am I thinking of marrying at all? Because I am forty years old, and found a grey hair in my whiskers yesterday; because I am tired of an unsettled life, and should like to clear off the old place, and end my days there; and because, after all, a married man has a better position than a single one. If that girl Gladys were in the place of either heiress, I would not hesitate a moment. I declare she would grace a coronet; no wonder all the young men round are in love with her. And yet, meet her when I will, I can scarcely get more than 'yes,' and 'no,' out of her.

'It is utterly impossible she can be what she seems, or is supposed to be. I never saw more thoroughly aristocratic beauty in our most aristocratic circles. Miss Nugent is as handsome as a woman can well be, in form and feature; but her eyes are like two frozen pools, whereas this Gladys, are literally two deep blue lakes with stars shining into them, or out of them, or something or other that a poet would describe better than I do. Well, what a fool I am! "A dream of fair women," in my fortieth year, just as I dreamt of them in my sixteenth. The Fates must decide for me, only I wish they would clear up the mystery that hangs over that girl, and give her Miss Nugent's thirty thousand pounds.'

Such were the thoughts that rushed through Colonel Vaughan's mind, as he sat, apparently looking at Freda's drawing in the place that she had vacated. We have unveiled a portion of his mind, because he is too good a tactician to unveil it himself. It is needless to say that this fascinating man, who has that nameless power which some men possess of making all women love him, has himself no heart to bestow on any one. Beyond the gratification of the moment, he is totally indifferent to all the consequences of his powers. He is not a bad man, he would not do anything that the world—his world, at least—would consider dishonourable; but as to reflecting upon the cruelty of inflicting wounds, never to be healed, upon the hearts of young ladies—why, he would as soon reflect upon the wounds he gave an enemy in the battle-field. He considers Cupid as fair game as Mars, and thinks that if women will be weak, and if he is irresistible, it is no fault of his, but rather their and his misfortune.

Young ladies! the vulgar saying that a woman should never give her heart to a man until she is asked for it, is, like many vulgar sayings, a good one. Colonel Vaughan is the type of a class amongst which all are liable to be thrown; and although men of his talent, knowledge of the world, and apparent sincerity are rare, you may each of you meet with one such. If you do, beware of falling in love with him until he plainly tells you that he is in love with you, and asks if you are willing to marry him.

Colonel Vaughan leaves the drawing-room in search of Mr Gwynne, humming a little Scotch air, the refrain of which is 'and troth I'll wed ye a,' a thing he has often wished he could actually do.

He finds Mr Gwynne in his library, and reminds him of the promised ride. The horses are ordered, and they are soon trotting down the drive. As if by mutual consent, they take the turn that leads to Pentre, Lady Mary Nugent's place. It is about a mile from Glanyravon, and beautifully situated on a hill that commands a fine prospect of dale, wood, and river.

The handsome mother and daughter are at home, and hail the arrivals with great glee. As Lady Mary is not at all certain that Colonel Vaughan's attentions are not exclusively meant for her, she divides her civilities with a charming tact between the two gentlemen, and looks so captivating whilst she does so, that the colonel wishes that her statue-like daughter had a little of her animation.

Everything that art and taste can devise is collected to adorn the ladies and their abode, and if nature is lacking within doors, she is profuse in her gifts without.

There is nothing worth recording in the conversation; if Colonel Vaughan had thought it over afterwards, he would probably have laughed at the platitudes he had uttered, and wondered why people paid morning visits. The coming of age was a grand topic, and the colonel promised to go again the following day, and 'help in the decorations.'

When the gentlemen took their leave, Mr Gwynne proposed a ride through his plantations, which he was improving and enlarging. They went accordingly. On their way they stopped at a small farm to inquire for one of Mr Gwynne's tenants, who was dangerously ill. Mr Gwynne dismounted, and as he entered the house, Gladys came out; she curtseyed as she passed Colonel Vaughan, who said,—

'How is the invalid, Gladys? I take it for granted you have been to see him.'

'Yes, sir, Miss Gwynne sent me with some jelly. He is better, I hope?'

'And are you going home now?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Stay one moment; will you give the poor man this half-crown when you see him again?'

Gladys approached, and took the half-crown, but with it there was half-a-sovereign.

'The rest is for yourself, to do what you like with,' added the colonel, in a low voice.

'Thank you, sir, but I never take money,' said Gladys, leaving the gold in his hand, 'I do not need it.'

'Give it to the poor, then,' said the colonel, letting it drop, and looking annoyed.

'Certainly, sir, if you wish it; I will tell Miss Gwynne, and she will know to whom to give it.'

'By no means—I mean it for you.'

'Sir, you will excuse me, I would rather not,' said Gladys, curtseying again, and hastening on.

Colonel Vaughan called to a boy who was near, and told him to pick up the money and give it to him.

'How often does that young lady come here?' he asked.

'Almost every day, sir,' was the reply.

'At what time?'

'In the afternoon, sir, from three to five, or thereabouts.'

'Goes back in time to help Miss Gwynne dress for dinner,' thought the colonel; 'what a lovely face it is! And what grace of movement.'

He watched Gladys cross the farm-yard, and disappear in the plantations, through which there was a private path to the house.

Mr Gwynne and he passed her again as they rode on, and she curtseyed once more, Mr Gwynne nodding to her kindly as she looked at him.

'Who is that girl, Mr Gwynne?'

'Oh! my daughter's maid, I believe. A very pretty, modest young woman, and all that sort of thing. Freda is very fond of her.'

They struck into another path, and Colonel Vaughan saw no more of Gladys that day, though he peeped into various stray corners of the house in the hope of doing so. Moreover, he found Freda captious and cross, and particularly annoyed at his and her father's visit to Pentre. He punished her by playing chess with her father nearly all the evening, and leaving her to a variety of reflections that were anything but satisfactory to her.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

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.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE RIVALS.

We will now return to Miss Gwynne, who pursued her usual avocations until about five o'clock, and then began to wonder what detained Gladys. However, as she was quite independent of maids in her toilette, she went to her room and began to dress herself at the usual hour. She found all her attire already spread upon the bed, as if Gladys anticipated being late; nothing was wanting, and she had nothing to do but to dress.

As it happened, however, she was particularly anxious to look her best that evening; why, she would not even ask herself; but she, who was usually careless of what she wore, provided she were properly attired, began to fidget over wreaths and ornaments as if she were going to her first ball.

'Miss Nugent will be all jewels,' she said, taking up a set of pearls that was on the dressing-table. 'At any rate, I will not be like her. And, of course, she will wear white, so I shall change my mind and won't wear white. Where is Gladys? The only evening I ever really wanted her, she is out of the way.'

Miss Gwynne rang her bell violently, and the housemaid answered it.

'Send Gladys. Surely she is come back.'

'No, ma'am. I can't think where she is. I went a little way to look for her, but she is not in sight. Can I do anything, ma'am?'

'No, thank you; but send Gladys as soon as she comes. Provoking,' continued Miss Gwynne, turning out two or three shelves of a large wardrobe. 'Where are the trimmings of that blue dress? He said I looked best in blue, and so, I think, I do. That wreath of blue forget-me-nots and lilies of the valley, where in the world is it? But forget-me-nots are so ridiculously sentimental; and the turquoise ornaments? I suppose I must wear the bracelets and locket. Oh! here they are; and here are the flowers and trimmings in a box, in the neatest possible order.'

Miss Gwynne began to arrange her hair.

'I declare I have forgotten how to do anything since Gladys has been with me. I cannot put up this braid neatly. I must wait, and it is nearly six o'clock, and dinner at half-past. What does it matter how I look? I daresay Miss Nugent will look twenty times as well, and her mother will dress her up to perfection. But he cannot care for such a girl as that. It is impossible; and he always looks at me with such interest, and has such a kind manner, and says things that convey so much. But if he really cares for me, why does he not say so? He knows papa would consent, and—but he does not know that; I never—Ah! here she is at last! Come in! Where have you been, Gladys? It really is too provoking that you should have stayed so long, when you knew that I particularly wanted you to-day.' Gladys enters the room pale and breathless, just as Miss Gwynne is endeavouring to fasten in the wreath of forget-me-nots and lilies. She does not turn round, and is at the moment too much engrossed with her own appearance to think of Gladys.

'Come quickly and finish my hair, and put in this wreath. We ought to be starting now.'

Gladys obeys without speaking, and steadying her nerves and fingers as best she may, begins to arrange a most elegant and becoming wreath round her young mistress's head. Whilst she does this, and afterwards dresses her and fastens on the turquoise ornaments, she endeavours to collect her thoughts, and to summon courage for what she has resolved to do and say.

Gladys has long known Miss Gwynne's secret; as she discovered that she did not care for Rowland, so she has found out that she cares over much for Colonel Vaughan. She now knows that he is not worthy of her, and that if he should ever ask her to marry him, it would be that he might gain possession of Clanyravon, and not of the warm, sincere heart of its mistress. Gladys feels sure that a man who could say such words as Colonel Vaughan said to her, whether meant seriously or not, could not be worthy of Miss Gwynne; and she determines to open that young lady's eyes to the real state of his mind, even if she loses her favour for ever by so doing.

'I shall save her,' thinks Gladys, 'if I ruin my own happiness.'

When the dressing is completed, Freda stands before a cheval glass to see that all is right. Gladys has never before seen her examine every portion of her attire so minutely, or look so satisfied with the survey. In truth she never before saw her look so handsome, or so perfectly well dressed. The full, light, many-skirted blue dress, with its bouquets of forget-me-nots and lilies, its fringes and ribbons, suits so well the fine complexion of the very distinguished-looking girl who wears it—whilst the wreath slightly crowns the well-shaped head, and falls gracefully down the neck and back in becoming simplicity and elegance.

Poor Freda! She has more colour than usual, more animation in her eyes, and more anxiety at her heart. Were she to analyse her feelings, she would thoroughly despise herself for the envy, vanity, and distrust she would find in them, and think herself unworthy of the name of woman for allowing herself to study to gain the attentions of any man who might feel disposed to give them to another. But her pride is for a time swamped in her weakness; and the hitherto haughty and unsuspectible Miss Gwynne is no better than the most sentimental of school girls.

Whilst Gladys is putting the last pin into the dress, and Freda is still watching her own shadow, there is a knock at the door.

'Make haste, Gladys. The carriage, I suppose. Come in,' says Freda.

'Mr Gwynne wishes to know, ma'am, whether you have seen Colonel Vaughan, or whether he intends dressing at Pentre?' asks the servant who opens the door.

'I have not seen him since the morning, and do not know what he means to do,' is the reply. 'Did you see anything of him when you were out, Gladys?' continues Miss Gwynne, after the servant has left the room.

As she makes the inquiry, she, for the first time catches the reflection of Gladys' face in the glass, and is struck with its unusual pallor. She turns quickly and looks at the girl.

'What is the matter, Gladys? Something must have happened? It must have something to do with Colonel Vaughan. Did you see him? Speak.'

'Yes, ma'am, I saw him in the wood.'

'And is that the reason you are looking so frightened? What has happened to him? Speak, I say, or I must ring the bell and send some one in search of him.'

With her usual impetuosity, Freda's hand was on the bell. Gladys exclaimed quickly,—

'Do not ring, Miss Gwynne. I can tell you all I know. Nothing has happened to injure Colonel Vaughan, bodily at least'

'What do you mean, girl?' said Miss Gwynne, turning round again and facing Gladys.

Gladys stood before her mistress with clasped hands, heaving breast, quivering lips, and downcast eyes. She tried to summon courage and words, but neither would come. How could she crush the love and hopes of one so dear to her? her benefactress, her all? But it must be done.

With one great effort she began, and in as few words as possible, without comment or gloss, related what had passed between her and Colonel Vaughan. She told all, as nearly as she could remember, in his own words, merely omitting what he said about Miss Gwynne.

As she spoke, she felt like a culprit before a judge, who, though conscious of his innocence, has not courage to meet the glance of him on whom his fate depends. But not on her own account had she that throbbing fear at her heart; she felt for her mistress alone.

That mistress stood erect, towering above the drooping girl, like a queen above a slave or suppliant. Red and pale by turns, with compressed lips and flashing eyes, she listened to the tale.

When it was finished, she, too, strove for words, but none came; so she laughed a short, sarcastic laugh, and moved back a few paces. At last,—

'Why do you tell me this ridiculous tale? Have you no better confidante for such absurd imaginations? You have dreamt it, Gladys. I do not believe you. Go!'

Gladys gave one penetrating, truthful look at her mistress, before which the defiant glance fell: but the rigid features alarmed her, and she would fain have remained, had not another. 'Go! I do not want you any longer!' sent her at once from the room.

When Gladys was gone, Miss Gwynne sat down upon the nearest chair, and covered her face with her hands.

Another knock at the door.

'Come in! What do you want?' she exclaimed in a suppressed voice.

'My master says the carriage is ready, and he thinks you had better go, ma'am. Colonel Vaughan has just come in. The heat has made his nose bleed so violently that he cannot be ready for dinner, but will be at Pentre for the ball, ma'am, my master says.'

'Very well; I shall be ready in a few moments.'

Freda rose from her chair, and went to her dressing-table. There was a bottle of eau-de-cologne on it. She poured out nearly half a wine-glassful, added water, and drank the dose. Then she dashed a quantity over her forehead; wetted her handkerchief with more, and having nearly exhausted the bottle, prepared to leave the room. Suddenly she stopped, exclaiming,—

'I cannot go! I feel as if I must faint; yet I must see the farce played out.'

A bitter smile, almost ghastly, passed over her face, as she muttered these words. She took up a splendid bouquet of greenhouse flowers that had been prepared for her, and were placed on the table, almost mechanically, and looking like one in a dream, left the room.

'It is half-past six, Freda,' said Mr Gwynne in the loudest tone of which his voice was capable, as he descended the stairs.

The servants remarked to one another how very ill Miss Gwynne was looking, but her father did not perceive it. He was talking of Colonel Vaughan.

'So provoking of Vaughan, to go and tire himself in the heat, and make his nose bleed, and all that sort of thing.'

Freda did not answer. Her thoughts were running wild—here, there, and everywhere. One moment, she believed that Gladys had been romancing for some purpose of her own; the next, that all she said was true. Then she felt sure that Colonel Vaughan must really love Gladys, and must mean all that he said; and a cold shudder crept over her, as she became aware how much she loved him. Again, she knew that a man of his position could only be trifling with a girl in her's, and was ready to hate and despise one who could be so vile. As she thought and thought, she grew paler and paler—colder and colder; and when she entered Lady Mary Nugent's drawing-room, that lady said,—

'My dear Freda, what is the matter? You look so ill, and feel so cold.'

'Nothing but the heat. It always has this enervating effect on me,' was the answer.

The absence of Colonel Vaughan set the shrewd Lady Mary guessing as to the real cause of the sudden indisposition; she felt sure that something must have passed between him and Freda more exciting than usual to occasion such paleness.

At dinner, Freda was fortunate in being placed next Sir Hugh Pryse, who knew her too well, and was far too fond of her, to make any personal remarks.

Miss Nugent's uncle, Lord Nugent, was the master of the ceremonies for the evening. He had come, as Miss Nugent's guardian, to resign his office, and to be present at her attaining her majority. Freda had once met him before, and liked him. He was now particularly friendly in his manner to her, but when he spoke to her across one intermediate person, she could only answer him in monosyllables. Every one silently remarked her absence of mind and unusual frigidity.

When the dinner was over, of which Freda only remembered that she had had certain viands placed before her, and when the ladies were leaving the dining-room, Colonel Vaughan's voice was heard in the hall. Lady Mary told a servant to show him into the dining-room; and as Freda was crossing the hall, she saw him at the opposite end of it. She hurried into the drawing-room, but was keenly alive to what passed in the hall after she had done so. She heard him, with his usual courtly manner, apologise to Lady Mary Nugent for his non-appearance at the dinner-table, and attribute his accident to his having stood so long on her lawn, in the heat, watching the poor people at their dinner. He added that he was glad to have arrived in time to drink Miss Nugent's health, and proceeded to the dining-room.

Freda did her best to talk to the few, and very select, ladies, who had been honoured by an invitation to dinner; and felt intense relief when, one after another, all the evening-party arrived.

Dancing soon began, and Freda saw Colonel Vaughan and Miss Nugent together in a quadrille. Sir Hugh had asked her to dance with him, but she begged him to let her sit down that first dance, and promised him the next.

Of course she watched the pair in whom she was most interested. She was obliged to confess that Miss Nugent was the handsomest, most elegant, and best dressed girl in the room; as she talked to Colonel Vaughan, she looked almost animated; and he, on his part, seemed as gay and perfectly at his ease, as if there had never been a Gladys in the world. They were, unquestionably a fine, aristocratic couple; danced well, walked well, and to all appearance were well pleased with one another. Lady Mary Nugent watched them quite as narrowly as Freda.

Sick at heart, Freda danced the next dance with Sir Hugh, and managed to avoid coming in contact with Colonel Vaughan, who had secured Lady Mary as his partner. Once or twice, however, Freda caught his keen, searching glance fixed upon her, and knew that he was trying to read her mind, as he had often done before.

It was useless for her to try to avoid him, as he came direct to her to ask her for the next dance. She longed to say that she would never dance with him again, but even she had tact enough to know that it would not do to refuse, for the sake of the effect such a refusal might have both on him and the world. All she could do, however, was to bow her consent, take his arm, and walk, pale, silent, and stately, to the top of a quadrille. They had met Sir Hugh and Miss Nugent, and Colonel Vaughan had secured them as vis-a-vis; for once his tact had failed him, he could not have managed worse.

Freda tried to answer his questions, but in vain; she could not be hypocrite enough to treat him as she was accustomed to do. In him there was no perceptible change; she once fancied she perceived an uneasy expression in his face, as he looked at her, but his manner was friendly, lively, fascinating as ever; he even asked her what was the matter, and said she looked ill. Her answer was contained in the few sarcastic words,—

'The heat. I hear you have suffered from it also.'

Although Freda could not, herself, enter into the conversation she could observe the by-play between the colonel and Miss Nugent; the bashful, simpering smiles of the young lady, the flattering glances of the gentleman. She would not have believed, when she awoke that morning, that it was possible to endure so much real suffering as she was enduring, in the short space of one quadrille.

It was over at last, and Colonel Vaughan led her to a seat amongst some ladies. She said she would go to her father, when she saw that he was going to sit down by her side. He offered her his arm again, and took her to the drawing-room; here she found her father, somewhat apart from the rest of the company, talking to Lady Mary, or more properly being talked to by her. She sat down on a sofa near her father, and bowing statelily to Colonel Vaughan, said,—

'I will not detain you. I shall remain here for the present.'

He made some passing observation to Mr Gwynne, and returned to the drawing-room, followed shortly after by Lady Mary.

Sir Hugh came up and began talking to Freda; he was so kind and so natural even in his loudness, that Freda felt as if she would rather trust him with every secret of her heart, than the polished worldling who had just left her.

'And yet, perhaps,' she thought, 'Gladys has really deceived me, and he is innocent; still, better Gladys than that statue-like Miss Nugent.'

Freda thought the night would never end; she exerted herself to talk and dance, because every one came to ask what was the matter with her, and by the time they went to supper, she was as flushed as she had previously been pale. Lord Nugent was particularly attentive to her, and evidently admired her very much; bitterly she thought that she could gain, unsought, the civilities of one man, whilst she was but too conscious that the one she cared the most for in the world, was devoting himself almost exclusively to the Nugents. But he was unworthy of the heart of any right-minded woman, so she would tear him from hers, and again make her father her first care.

But those despicable Nugents had got possession of him also. He was seated next to Lady Mary at supper, her profile and diamonds were directed at him, and she looked almost as young, and quite as handsome as her daughter. Alas! and again alas! poor Freda!

However, all things come to an end, and an heiress's twenty-first birthday amongst them. Miss Nugent's did not finish till three o'clock in the morning, at which hour, Mr and Miss Gwynne and Colonel Vaughan were driving home from the festivities at Pentre. The gentlemen were keeping up a rather lively conversation on the events of the evening, and the lady was sustaining a very strong conflict with her own pride.

As the carriage rolled past a certain large oak tree in the Park, Freda suddenly remembered Rowland Prothero. About a twelvemonth ago she had left him beneath that oak, humbled and deeply pained, doubtless, by her haughty words. Now she was similarly pained and humbled, and she was, for the first time, aware of the shock her proud refusal of his love must have been to him. Had she not been weak enough to yield her heart unasked, and was it not almost thrown back into her own bosom? She, who had believed herself above the silly romance of her sex, to have sunk below even Miss Nugent. But she would rouse herself from such a mania, and show Colonel Vaughan how thoroughly she despised him.

She did rouse herself, and the first words she heard were,—

'Yes, certainly, very handsome, mother and daughter,' from Colonel Vaughan's lips.

'And which is to be the happy object of your notice, Colonel Vaughan?' she asked, suddenly joining in the conversation. 'I heard grand discussions on the subject on all sides.'

'Really,' replied the colonel, somewhat surprised by the sudden question, 'I did not know I was of so much importance.'

'What! you, about whom every one is speculating.'

'Freda, my dear, I am so glad you are able to speak. I thought you so—ill, dull, unlike yourself, and all that sort of thing.'

'Thanks, papa, I was thoroughly overpowered by the heat; but this delightful breeze has refreshed me. I hope, Colonel Vaughan, you also have got over your weakness. I wonder you ever returned alive from India, if such a day as this was sufficient to upset you.'

Further sarcasm was cut short by their reaching the house, for which Freda was very thankful, at a later period, feeling that she lowered her dignity by allowing herself to allude, however covertly, to Gladys or Miss Nugent. But she was scarcely herself when she did so.

Colonel Vaughan was going to help her out of the carriage, but she passed quickly up the steps without touching his arm.

He had felt her lash, and now fully understood that she knew of his meeting with Gladys, and guessed that he had designs upon Miss Nugent or her fortune. For once in his life he felt somewhat abashed as he met the eye of the pale, haughty girl, whom he really admired twenty times as much as Miss Nugent, or any other young lady of his then devotees. And he admired her still more, as she kissed her father's cheek, nodded a haughty 'good-night' to himself, and went upstairs to her room in the haste of strong excitement.

As soon as she was gone, Colonel Vaughan told Mr Gwynne that he had promised Sir Hugh Pryse to go and spend a week with him, and that he should leave Glanyravon for that purpose on the morrow.

'You will come back again, of course?' said Mr Gwynne.

'Oh yes, certainly! but I have only ten days more leave, and then I must bid you all good-bye again.'

'I am so sorry, and so will be Freda when she hears it. What could have been the matter with Freda to-night, I never saw her so odd? But I suppose it was the heat, and all that sort of thing; good-night. I am tired to death, though it was a charming party, certainly a charming party.'



CHAPTER XXXV.

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.'