Gladys, the Reaper. Anne Beale
and men alike obtain the bounteous gift of sleep so often denied to the less laborious rich.
We are wrong in supposing that all are slumbering in the farm-house. Quietly the mistress steps out of the back door which she has noiselessly opened, as if afraid of disturbing her household. As the brisk little figure moves across the farm-yard, it is instantly surrounded by a flock of poultry that seem intuitively to expect an alms at her hand, as do the poor Irish who haunt her dwelling. But she has nothing to give them thus early in the morning, and scarcely heeds their cackling and crowing. The fierce house-dog, however, will be noticed as bounding through the poultry, and knocking down one luckless hen, he jumps upon his mistress, and almost oversets her also. The 'Down Lion, down,' of the 'gintle voice,' serves only to make him more demonstrative, as he gambols roughly on her path as she proceeds towards the barn.
Mrs. Prothero—such is the name of our farm-lady—had been haunted all night long by visions of the poor Irish girl. She had not slept as soundly as the other members of her family, because there was a fellow-creature suffering within her little circle. Although she had lived nearly fifty years in the world, and had been variously cheated and imposed upon by beggars of all kinds, her heart was still open to 'melting charity,' and liable to be again and again deceived. As she stopped before the barn door with the key in her hand, Lion began a low growl. He could never get over his antipathy to Irish beggars, and all his mistress's influence was necessary to prevent the growl becoming a bark. She put her ear to the door and listened, but no sound disturbed the stillness within. She knocked gently, but there was no answer. At last she thought she heard a feeble voice say something which she interpreted into 'Come in,' and she turned the key in the lock of the door and opened the top half of it. She looked in, and saw all her mendicant guests in profound repose, excepting the girl Gladys, who endeavoured to rise as she perceived the kindly face, but fell back again immediately. She unclosed the other half of the door, and carefully excluding Lion, by shutting it after her, walked softly across the barn to the rough couch on which Gladys lay. She appeared to be in the same state of exhaustion as on the previous night; and if she had noticed Mrs. Prothero at all, the transient effort was over, and she remained with closed eyes and listless form, whilst the good woman looked at her and felt her pulse. Then her lips moved slightly, as if wishing to say something, but emitted no sound. What was to be done for one in such a helpless state? Mrs. Prothero's kind heart sank within her.
As she did not like to disturb the weary wretches, who were sleeping so soundly in their rags amongst the hay and straw, she prepared to leave the barn; but as she moved away, the girl's eyes unclosed, and glanced dimly at her through a film of tears. Nourishment seemed the only remedy that presented itself to her mind. She smiled kindly at the girl, murmured 'I will come again,' and went through the sleepers towards the door, pausing, however, to look at the peaceful face of the baby, as it lay on its mother's arm, covered with the old red cloak.
She returned to the house, and went to the clean, large dairy, where she took a cup of the last night's milk, already covered with rich cream, from a pan and went with it to the back kitchen, where was a fire, kept up all night by means of the hard Welsh coal, and heat-diffusing balls. She warmed the milk, procured a piece of fine white bread, and once more returned to the barn.
She administered these remedies to her patient, who swallowed them with the same avidity and difficulty as she had done the broth. She fancied she again heard the words, 'God bless you, my lady,' but they were so faint that she was not sure.
Again she threaded her way amongst the sleepers, and left the barn. She went into her garden, and walked for a few moments amongst the flowers, as if for council. The bees were beginning to hum about the hives, and the butterflies to flit amongst the flowers. She stood and looked at the beautiful scene before her—the woods, hills, river, and above, the morning sun—and offered up a prayer and thanksgiving to the Giver of all good things. Her thoughtful face brightened into a smile, and her walk became more brisk as she left her garden, and went again into the farm-yard.
The cow-man was bringing up the cows to be milked, and he looked astonished as he greeted his mistress. So did the two ruddy, disheveled farm maidens, who had barely turned out of their beds to milk the cows, and had paid small attention either to their toilet or ablutions.
The house was perfectly quiet as she entered it, and she crept upstairs, and into her bedroom very softly, for fear of disturbing any one.
'Where in the world have you been, my dear?' greeted her, in a gruff voice from amongst the bed-clothes, that covered a large old-fashioned bed, hung with chintz curtains.
'Go to sleep and don't trouble, Davy, bach', [Footnote: A Welsh term of endearment, equivalent to 'dear,' pronounced like the German.] quietly replied the brisk little dame.
'Go to sleep, indeed! Easier said than done, when one wakes up in a fright, and finds you gone, nobody knows where. Now where have you been? You 'ont let one sleep, even of a Sunday morning.'
'Well, now, don't get into a passion, my dear—I mean, don't be angry.'
'What have I to be angry about when I don't know what you've been doing?'
This was said in an injured tone, as if the heart under the bed-clothes were softer than the voice.
'I didn't mean to say you were angry, only I thought—'
'You thought what?'
'Well, my dear, I have only just been across to the barn.' This was uttered timidly and pleadingly, and as if our good housewife knew she had been doing wrong.
Suddenly, a large red face started up from amongst the bed-clothes, ornamented with a peculiarly-shaped white cap and tassel.
'Now you haven't been after them Irishers again?' exclaimed the owner of the red face. 'The idle vagabonds! I vow to goodness that all our money, and food and clothing, too, I believe, go to feed a set of good-for-nothing, ragged rascals.'
'Hush, Davy! Remember they are God's creatures, and this is Sunday.'
'I don't know that. And if it's Sunday, why mayn't I sleep in peace?'
'Indeed, I am very sorry. But that poor girl I told you of is so ill!'
'Hang the poor girl! Then send her to the workhouse, and they'll give her a lift home.'
'But if she has no home?'
'Then let her go to her parish.'
'But they don't seem to have any parishes in Ireland.'
'No parishes! I suppose that's the geography the vagabonds teach you? Well you pay dear enough for your lessons. But I tell you what, Mary, you just go and tell 'em all to decamp this minute.'
'But the girl is too weak and ill.'
'Then send her to the Union, I say, and they are bound to forward her.'
'But a Sunday! and the House miles away! Oh, Davy, we really cannot do it to-day!'
'What with the Irish, and one charity and another, I declare there's no peace in life! Name o' goodness, 'oornan, why do you harbour such folk? If the girl's too ill to go on with her gang, they must leave her at the Union, or else get the overseers to send for her.'
'Will you just go and look at her?'
'No, I 'ont, and that's plain speaking!'
Here the red face, and white night-cap and tassel, suddenly, disappeared amongst the bed-clothes.
Mrs. Prothero considered a few minutes, and again left the room, and went to the barn. Here, all was confusion and consultation. They had tried to help Gladys to rise, and the girl could not stand.
A clamour of voices assailed Mrs. Prothero, who was bewildered by the noise, and terrified at the remembrance of her husband.
'My good people, I don't know what to advise,' she said at last.
'She don't want to laive Carrmanthinshire, my leddy.'
'We'll be ruined intirely if we stop till she's cured, yer leddyship!'
'Niver