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Gladys, the Reaper by Anne Beale

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GLADYS, THE REAPER

by

ANNE BEALE

Author of _Fay Arlington_, _Simplicity and Fascination_,
_The Miller's Daughter_, etc. etc.




... standing like Ruth amid the alien corn




Griffith Farran Browne & Co. Limited
35 Bow Street, Covent Garden
London

1881







[Illustration: Frontispiece.]





CHAPTER I.

THE FARMER'S WIFE.


It is an evening in June, and the skies that have been weeping of late,
owing to some calamity best known to themselves, have suddenly dried
their eyes, and called up a smile to enliven their gloomy countenances.
The farmers, who have been shaking their heads at sight of the unmown
grass, and predicting a bad hay-harvest, are beginning to brighten up
with the weather, and to consult upon the propriety of mowing to-morrow.
The barometer is gently tapped by many a sturdy hand, and the result is
favourable; so that there are good prospects of a few weeks' sunshine to
atone for the late clouds.

Sunshine: how gracious it is just now! Down yonder in the west, that
ancient of days, the sun throws around him his evening glory, and right
royally he does it. The rain-covered meadows glow beneath it, like so
many lakes--the river looks up rejoicing, and the distant mountains are
wrapped in garments dyed in the old king's own regal colours. The woods
look as smooth and glossy as the braided locks of maidens prepared for
conquests; and the roads and paths that wind here and there amongst the
trees, are as gay as little streamlets in the sun's reflected light.

Suddenly a rainbow leaps, as it were, out of the river, and spans, with
its mighty arch, the country scene before us.

'A rainbow at night
Is the shepherd's delight;'

so the proverbially-grumbling farmers will have another prognostic to
clear their countenances.

Perchance the worthy man who inhabits the farm we have just reached, may
be congratulating himself upon it, as he jogs home from market this
Saturday evening. If he could look upon his homestead with our eyes, I
feel sure he would cease to despond. How cheerily the wide, slated roof
gleams forth from amongst the trees, and returns the warm glance of the
sun with one almost as warm, albeit proceeding from a very moist eyelid!
How gladly the white smoke arises once more, spirally, from the large
chimneys, after having been so long depressed by the heavy atmosphere!
and how the massive ivy that covers the gable end, responds to the songs
of the birds that warble their evening gladness amongst its gleaming
leaves! The face of the dwelling is as cheerful as are the sun, river,
mountains and meads, that it looks down upon from its slight elevation.
Every leaf of the vine and pyrus-japonica that covers its front, is
bedecked with a diamond; and the roses, laburnums, nasturtiums, and
other gay flowers in the garden, drop jewels more freely than the maiden
in the fairy tale, as they glisten beneath the rainbow.

This is what we see from the hawthorn lane below the house; but walking
up into the highroad at the back, the scene changes, and just as our
sympathies with beautiful nature were called forth below, so are they
instantaneously assailed by our fellow-creatures above.

We come to the substantial gate that is the entrance to the pretty farm,
and a curious and a motley group is there. We see such groups almost
daily, here in Carmarthenshire; but as all the counties of England and
Wales are not thoroughfares for the Irish from their country to England,
we will describe these poor people as graphically as we can. There is
evidently a consultation going on amongst them, and the general
attention is directed to one individual of their party.

This is a young girl of some seventeen or eighteen years of age. She is
seated on the ground, and leans her back against the stone wall that
flanks the substantial gate afore mentioned. To judge from her general
appearance she can scarcely belong to the ragged set that surround her,
for there is an attempt at neatness and cleanliness in her attire,
though it is poor enough, that the rest cannot boast of. She wears a
cotton gown, shawl, straw bonnet, and shoes and stockings, which were
once respectable and seem to have been originally intended for her.
True, they are all worn and shabby-looking. The gown is faded, the
bonnet very brown, and the shoes have holes in them; but they indicate
a mind, or station, at least a degree above those of her companions. Her
head is so inclined upon her breast, that it is difficult to see more
than a pale face underneath the bonnet; but a pair of thin white hands
that rest listlessly upon her lap, still tend to induce the notion that
the girl cannot quite belong to the wild-looking company with which she
is mixed up.

Right in front of her, and looking alternately from her to a man to whom
she is talking, stands a middle-aged woman of good-natured but terrified
aspect. A checked and ragged handkerchief confines her black, rough
hair--a torn red cloak covers a portion of her body, and a curious
collection of rags and tatters makes a vain effort to shelter the rest.
In the large hood of the red cloak a hardy-looking infant is tied up,
its little head and hand being alone visible, which are engaged in
munching and holding a crust of bread. At the feet of the woman are
sundry articles, amongst which a bundle of rags, an iron pot, and a tin
saucepan, are the most conspicuous. The man to whom she is talking is a
tall, gaunt specimen of Irish poverty and famine. He holds a rake and
pitchfork in his hand, and leans upon them for support. Gazing into his
face is a rough, surly-looking youth, who seems cordially to agree with
all that he says.

Leaning against the wall that flanks the gate on the side opposite that
which supports the girl, are another man and woman, who cast from time
to time pitying glances at the pale face beneath the straw bonnet. These
are as raggedly picturesque in their attire as the rest--a short red
petticoat, a blanket substituted for a shawl, and a bundle on the back,
distinguish the female; a long great coat and short trousers the male.
They are deep in conversation upon the common theme. A young man of more
stalwart figure stands beside the girl, and failing to attract her
attention, kneels down on one knee and speaks low to her. A little boy
is seated at her feet, alternately stroking her hands, and stirring up a
small puddle of water with a short stick. Two other children are engaged
at a little distance in making a lean cur beg for a mouthful of bread,
which the generous urchins would evidently rather share with the dog
than eat alone.

The one prevailing feature of the party is rags, and how they hold
together no tongue can tell.

At last there is a general movement, as well as general clamour of
voices and much gesticulation. All, old and young, with the exception of
the girl, gather round the woman in the red cloak, and seem to be urging
her to do something that she does not like to do. They point to the
girl, and the appeal is not in vain.

The woman moves slowly and somewhat sulkily towards one of the boys,
takes him by the hand, and returning to the gate, opens it, and walks
down the good broad road that leads to the farm, the boy trotting by her
side. We watch the bright red cloak till it disappears amongst the trees
that surround the house; and turn again to wonder what can be the matter
with the girl. She neither moves nor speaks, although her kindly
companions in turn endeavour to attract her attention.

In the course of a few minutes the red cloak is again seen coming up the
road, closely followed by another figure. We soon hear sounds of earnest
pleading, in a broad Irish brogue, from our friend of the red cloak. As
they approach the gate sound distinctly the words,--

'It's all thrue, my leddy--as thrue as the blessed gospel. I'm afeered
she's dyin' if yer honour's glory won't lend us a hand.'

'I don't know how to believe you, my good woman, for some of you come
every week and deceive me with all kinds of stories.'

'An' she's Welsh, yer honour. She's come to find out her friends, my
leddy! God bless ye, ye've a kind eye and a gintle voice,'

Red cloak spoke the truth. The woman who is now added to the group has
truly 'a kind eye and a gintle voice.' She is short and small of form,
of middle age and matronly appearance; neatly and even handsomely
dressed, as becomes the mistress of one of the largest and wealthiest
farms of a country where large farms are rare. She has a handsome,
placid face, and looks as if the world had moved on quietly and happily
ever since she had been on its surface. Her dark eyes, that must once
have been bright and piercing, are softened down to gentleness by the
quieting hand of time; and the black hair is slightly streaked with
white by the same unsparing fingers. But for this, age would seem to
have little to do with the comely dame who is now bending her
neatly-attired head before the shabby-looking girl against the wall,

'What is the matter with you, my poor girl?' says the 'gintle voice,'

These kind words have a power that the equally kind ones of the rough
friends around had not. The brown straw bonnet is raised from the
breast, and we perceive that the girl is neither dead nor sleeping. We
perceive something more--a pair of the most painfully melancholy, and
beautiful violet eyes that we ever looked into, which are languidly
uplifted to the farm-lady. With the words, 'I am very tired, ma'am,' the
eyes reclose, and we see long black fringes of soft hair rest upon the
pale, thin cheek. The ready tear of compassion springs to the matron's
eyes, as she stoops still lower to feel the pulse in the wan hand.

'What is the matter with her?' she inquires, turning to the bystanders.

'Tis tiert all out she is, my leddy. We come by say from Watherford to
Milford, and thin, yer honour, we come on foot all trough Pembrokeshire,
and County Carmarthin, and now she's jist kilt.'

'But what is she going to do? Why do you come away from Ireland at all?'

'Och, my leddy, shure we're starvin' there. And we jist come to luk for
the work in the harvest, an' we're goin' to Herefordshire to git it. An'
plaase yer honour's glory, she come wid us to this counthry to luk for
her mother's relations that's Welsh, my leddy, small blame to thim,
seein' her mother married an Irishman, and come to live in our
counthry.'

'I will give you a night's lodging, and that is all I can do for you,'
says the gentle mistress of the farm.

'The Lord bless ye, my leddy, the holy angels keep ye, the blessed
Vargin and all the saints--'

'Oh, hush! hush!' exclaims the good woman, highly shocked. 'Help the
poor girl, and come with me.'

The woman went towards the girl, and trying to assist her to rise,
said,--

'Now, Gladys, asthore! An' shure, my leddy, she's a thrue Welsh name.
I'll help ye, my darlin', there! Och! an it's betther she is already, as
soon as she heerd of a night's lodgin'.'

The young man who was kneeling by the girl just now, goes to her other
side, and succeeds in supporting her by putting his arm round her waist,
whilst the woman holds her by one arm; and thus they follow the good
mistress of the farm, followed in their turn by the rest of the party.

They move slowly down the road, underneath the fine oak and ash trees
that shelter the back of the farm, until they reach a large farm-yard,
wherein some thirty fine cows, of Welsh, English, and Alderney breed,
are yielding their rich milk at the hands of some three or four
rough-looking men and women who are kneeling down to get it.

'Come here, Tom,' cries the mistress, authoritatively.

Tom gives a knowing wink to the nearest girl, mutters, 'Irish again,'
and goes to his mistress.

'See if there is good clean straw spread in the barn, Tom, and make
haste.'

Tom goes to a large building outside the farm-yard, whither his mistress
and the rest follow him.

'Plenty of straw, ma'am, good enough for such folk,' says Tom.

'Spread some more, and shut the window in the loft.'

This is done in a slow grumbling way.

The barn is a large, clean, airy building, that must look like a palace
to these ragged, way-worn people.

'Now you may sleep here to-night, provided you go off early and quietly
to-morrow morning. There is a good pump down below, where you can get
water to wash yourselves, and at eight o'clock I shall lock the barn
door; my husband always insists upon that.' Thus speaks the mistress.

'Heaven bless his honour, we're all honest. We wouldn't harm a hair of
your blessed heads. We heerd o' ye many a time, and o' the good lodgin'
and supper--the sun shine upon ye--ye give to the poor Irish on their
thravels.' Thus answers the Irishwoman.

'You tell one another then! And this is why we have more calls than any
one else!'

'The Lord love ye, and why wouldn't we? 'Tis the good as always gets the
blessin'.'

Whilst this little conversation is going on, the girl, Gladys, is laid
upon the shawl-blanket of the woman who wears that singular attire, and
a pillow, half rags, half straw, is contrived for her head. The bonnet
is taken off to increase her comfort, and, as her head falls languidly
back upon the rough pillow, a wan, thin face is disclosed, that, from
the regular outline of the profile, must be pretty, under happier
circumstances, and is interesting.

Whilst the guests prepare to make themselves comfortable in different
ways, the kindly farm-lady leaves them, amid many and enthusiastic
blessings, and returns to the house.

In less than half-an-hour she reappears, followed by a female servant,
both carrying tokens of a true hospitality that expects no return. She
goes towards the poor girl with a small basin of good broth and a plate
of toasted bread, such as might tempt the palate of a more dainty
invalid; whilst the servant places a can of real Welsh broth, smelling
strongly of the country emblem, the leek, in the midst of the hungry
crew who are scattered over the barn. To this she adds various scraps of
coarse bread and hard cheese, which she draws from a capacious apron,
and evidently considers too good for the luckless vagabonds before her.
She is soon, however, as much interested as her mistress in the sick
girl, to whom the latter is administering the warm restorative. Spoonful
after spoonful is applied to her lips, and greedily swallowed though
with evident effort. The toasted bread is soaked in a portion of the
broth, and is also devoured as speedily as offered, with an avidity made
still more painful by the difficulty of swallowing, occasioned by some
obstruction in the throat.

'God help you, poor girl,' says the good Samaritan, as she puts the
last mouthful to the lips of the patient.

The eyes unclose, and a tear falls upon the wan cheek, as a murmured,
'Thank you, my lady,' is faintly heard.

The 'lady' turns away with a heavy sigh, whilst the servant begins to
arrange the blanket-shawl and rags more comfortably, and finally takes
off her large linsey-woolsey apron to make a softer resting-place for
the head and neck of the girl. The grateful friends that stand around
now bless the servant as zealously as they blessed her mistress, and if
she understood the language in which the warm Irish hearts express their
gratitude, she would probably wonder who 'the Vargin and all the holy
saints and angels' are, that are invoked for her sake.

Again the farm-lady goes away, and returns bearing a small bottle of
medicine, that she bids the red-cloaked woman give the sick girl in
about an hour. She then leaves her patient and motley guests to their
supper and night's repose, followed by such prayers as the poor alone
know how to utter, and perhaps how to feel.






CHAPTER II.

THE FARMER.


The rainbow was a true prophet; the sun that went down so gloriously
last night amid the half-dried tears of a lately weeping earth, has
arisen this morning with a resolution to dry up all the remaining tears,
and to make the Sabbath as it should be--a day of rejoicing. Sunrise
amongst the hills and valleys! I wish we all saw it oftener. Not only
would the glorious spectacle make us wiser and better, but the early
rising would be not only conducive to health and good spirits, but to
the addition of a vast amount of time to the waking and working hours of
our very short life.

All nature arouses herself by degrees, as the great source of light
rises from his couch, curtained with rose and daffodil-coloured drapery.
As these gorgeous curtains spread east and west, and he takes his
morning bath in the clouds and vapours, rises up the proud monarch of
the farm-yard, as if in bold rivalry, outspreads his fine plumage in
emulation of the rose and daffodil curtains, and bids him welcome with a
voice so loud and shrill, that he must almost hear it from his domed
throne above. More arbitrary in his kingdom than the sun in his, this
grand Turk insists on arousing all his subjects; and the sleepy inmates
of his harem withdraw their heads from beneath their wings, and, one by
one, begin to smooth their feathers, and to descend lazily from their
dormitories. A faint twittering is heard amongst the ivy-leaves, in
answer to 'the cock's shrill clarion,' and in a few seconds, the little
sleepers amongst the oak and ash trees take it up, and by the time the
sun has come out of his bath, and the cock has ceased crowing, there is
a full chorus of heart stirring minstrelsy round about the quiet farm.
Down below in the meadow, the cattle begin to shake off the dew-drops
from their hides, and to send forth a plaintive low as they slowly seek
their early breakfast in the spangled grass, or by the steaming river.
Away among the hills, the faint bleat of the sheep echoes from heath to
heath, whilst their white fleeces dot the plains. Over the face of happy
nature creeps a glow that seems to come from the heart, and to make her
look up, rejoicing, to the sun as part of herself, and yet a type of the
Great Creator.

But whilst this Sabbath morning hymn thus rises, betimes, to the throne
of Him who sits beyond the sunbeams, tired man sleeps on. The farmer's
household is still slumbering, and after a week of hard labour, taking
an additional hour's repose on that day which was graciously appointed
as a day of rest. Scarcely can the sun peep in through the drawn
curtains and shutters of the windows, and no song of birds, or low of
cows, seems as yet to have reached the closed ears of the sleepers.
Master 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.'

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