Part 43 (1/2)

'I should think she 'ould, seure enough,' said a stentorian voice, as Mr Prothero entered the cow-house, having just heard the last words, and seen the clasped hands.

Gladys looked entreatingly at Owen, who at once said, 'It was my fault that she stayed here, I kept her against her will.'

Gladys glanced gratefully at Owen, and left him with his father; but before she was out of hearing, the farmer's loud voice was audible, informing Owen that he 'didn't want another 'lopement from his house; and that that Irish beggar should leave the place.'

'It was all chance, father, and my fault,' said Owen.

'It's always chance and your fault then. Where Gladys is, you're seure to be pretty near. She's a good sort of young 'ooman enough, but you have no call to be for ever hunting after her.'

'I don't see why I shouldn't if I like. It doesn't hurt anybody, and is only kind to her.'

'But I don't cheuse her to be thinking you're going to make love to her, and by-and-by, perhaps, expecting to--there's no knowing what young 'oomen may expect.'

'She isn't one to expect very much, and I am sure she doesn't take any liberties with any one, or go beyond her place.'

'Treue for you there; but that's no fault of yours. You don't take notice of any other female that I see, and seure you eused to make love to them all in turns.'

'I don't see any girl half as good as Gladys, or worthy to light a candle to her, that's why I have given them all up.'

'Name o' goodness what for? If you are going to make a fool of yourself about her, I'll soon send her away, and stop that anyhow.'

'You may save yourself the trouble, father, for I am going away myself.

I can't be a land-lubber any longer, and I won't, so I shall look out for a s.h.i.+p, pretty soon.'

'All because that girl came here to bother us. Deet to goodness, them Irishers have been the plagues of my life ever since I married.'

'But she's Welsh, father, and you said so yourself.'

'She's a mongrel, and no good ever came out of them.'

'She saved mother's life, anyhow.'

This reflection posed the worthy farmer. He softened somewhat in his reply.

'Treue for you again there. But that's no reason for your going to sea, just when you're getting euseful here.'

'Well, father, thank you for saying for once in my life that I'm useful.

You never said that before.'

'And it don't seem out of any great favour to us that you are euseful now; but only to please an Irish beggar.'

'I tell you what, father, if you were anybody else, you shouldn't call her an Irish beggar.'

As Gladys went on her way, she heard the voices, ever louder and louder; she hurried into the house, and then to her own little bedroom, where she still seemed to hear the words, 'Irish beggar,' and a little spark of the pride of poor human nature kindled in her heart.

'They shall not quarrel about me--they shall not throw my misery after me--they shall not think I want to marry him--I will go away,' were her muttered expressions. 'Why have I lived--why have I been kindly treated?

if I am to be the sport and the by-word of my friends? A poor outcast--an Irish beggar--a lone girl, friendless, homeless, heartless, wretched, miserable! Och hone! what will I do? what will I do?'

She threw herself on her bed and sobbed.