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Gladys, the Reaper by Anne Beale

A >> Anne Beale >> Gladys, the Reaper




'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 a frind in the worrld, yer honour.'

'Her mother and father, sisthers and brothers, all dead of the faver
and the famine.'

'Nobody left but her relations in Carrmarrthinshire, and, maybe, they're
all dead and buried, yer honour's glory.'

'And what'll we do wid her, poor sowl?'

Mrs Prothero was looking compassionately on the poor girl, whilst
sentence upon sentence was poured into her ear; and as the death of her
relation was mentioned, she fancied she perceived a movement in her
seemingly impassive features. She opened her eyes, and looked at Mrs
Prothero, who went to her, and seeing her lips move, knelt down by her
side.

'Let them go, and send me to the workhouse, if you please, my lady,' she
murmured.

Mrs Prothero once more left the barn, promising to return shortly, and,
with trembling steps, again sought the apartment where her lord and
master was reposing. A very decided snore met her ear. She stood by the
bedside, and looked at the tassel, which was the only portion visible of
her better half. She sat down on a chair; she got up again; she fussed
about the room; she even opened the drawers and took out the Sunday
attire of that Somnus before her. But nothing she could do would arouse
him.

At last she gently touched the face. A louder snore was the only reply.
She gave a nervous push to the shoulder, and whispered into the
bed-clothes, 'My dear.'

'Well, what now?' growled the justly irritated sleeper.

'My dear, I am very sorry, but the poor girl is too ill to move, and I
really don't know what is to be done.'

'Upon my very deed, if you are not enough to provoke a saint!' broke out
Mr Prothero, now fairly sitting up in bed. 'If you will encourage
vagrants, get rid of 'em, and don't bother me. I'll tell you what it is,
Mrs Prothero, if all of 'em are not off the farm before I'm up, I'll
give 'em such a bit of my mind as 'll keep 'em away for the future; see
if I don't.'

Mrs Prothero saw that her husband was redder in the face than usual, and
she had a very great dread of putting him in a passion; still she
ventured one word more very meekly.

'But the girl, David?'

'What's the girl to you or me! we've a girl of our own, and half-a-dozen
servant girls. We don't want any more. Send her to the Union.'

'How can we send her?'

'Let the rascally Irish manage that, 'tis no affair of mine; but if you
bother me any more, I vow I'll take a whip and drive 'em, girl and all,
off the premises.'

'Very well, David,' said Mrs Prothero, submissively, and with a heavy
sigh: 'but if the girl should die?'

She walked across to the door, paused on the threshold, and glanced
back; but there was no change in the rubicund face. She went into the
passage, and slowly closed the door, holding the handle in her hand for
a few seconds as she did so. She walked deliberately down the passage,
pausing at each step. Before she was at the end of it, a loud voice
reached her ear. She joyfully turned back and re-entered the bedroom.

'Yes, David?' she said quietly.

'If the girl is really bad, send her in the cart, or let her have a
horse, if you like,' growled Mr Prothero. 'Only I do wish, mother, you
would have nothing to do with them Irishers.'

'Thank you, my dear,' said the quiet little woman. 'Then if the rest go
away, I may manage about the girl?'

'Do what you like, only get rid of 'em somehow.'

'Thank you.'

'Oh, you needn't thank me! I'd as soon send every one of 'em to jail as
not; but I can't stand your puffing and sighing just as if they were all
your own flesh and blood.'

'We're all the same flesh and blood, my dear.'

'I'd be uncommon sorry to think so. I've nothing but Welsh flesh and
blood about me, and should be loath to have any other, Irish, Scotch, or
English either.'

Mrs Prothero disappeared.

'That 'ooman 'ould wheedle the stone out of a mill,' continued the
farmer, rubbing his eyes, and deliberately taking off his night-cap,
'and yet she don't ever seem to have her own way, and is as meek as
Moses. She has wheedled me out of my Sunday nap, so I suppose I may as
well get up. Hang the Irish! There is no getting rid of 'em. She's given
'em a night's lodging, and a supper for so many years, that they come
and ask as if it was their due. But I'll put a stop to it, yet, in spite
of her, or my name isn't David Prothero.'

When Mr Prothero came forth from his dormitory, he was in his very best
Sunday attire. As he walked across the farm-yard in search of his wife,
there was an air about him that seemed to say, 'I am monarch of all I
survey.' Indeed, few monarchs are as independent, and proud of their
independence, as David Prothero of Glanyravon.

He was a tall, muscular man, of some fifty years of age. He was well
made, and of that easy, swinging gait, that is rather the teaching of
Dame Nature, than of the dancing mistress or posture master. His face
was full and ruddy, betokening health, spirits, and that choleric
disposition to which his countrymen are said to incline, whether justly
or unjustly is not for me to determine. His hair had a reddish tinge,
and his whiskers were decidedly roseate, bearing still further testimony
to a slight irrascibility of temperament. But he was a good-looking man,
in spite of his hair and whiskers, which, as his wife admired them, are
not to be despised.

'Where's your mistress, Sam?' roared Mr Prothero across the farm-yard.

'In the barn, master,' answered a man, who was eating bread and cheese
on the gate, and swinging his legs pleasantly about.

'Tell her I want her,'

In answer to the summons, immediately appeared his worthy helpmate. She
carried a very beautiful half-blown rose in her hand, which, as soon as
she approached her husband, she placed carefully in his button-hole,
standing on tiptoe to perform this graceful Sunday morning service.

'Thank you, mother,' said Mr Prothero, smiling, and looking down
complacently on his little wife.

What went with all his lecture upon the profligacy of Irish beggars? I
suppose it was silently delivered from his breast to the rose, for none
of it came to his lips, though it was quite ready to be heard when the
rose made her appearance.

All the Irish are gone except the girl, Davy, _bach_' said quiet Mrs
Prothero, 'and they are gone to the Overseer to tell him about her, and
I will see that she is sent to the workhouse to-night, that is to say if
I can.'

'I suppose you fed and clothed the ragged rascals?'

'I just gave them some scraps for breakfast, and indeed their blessings
did me good,'

'I should think they must. People that left a dying girl behind 'em.'

'They promised to come back and see after her when the hay-harvest is
over. They are going into Herefordshire to get work, and she, poor
thing, is looking for her relations in this county, and meant to get
work here.'

'Well, I want my breakfast. I promised brother Jonathan to go to church
to-day. He is going to preach a charity sermon for the Church Building
Society, and wants my shilling. He and Mrs Jonathan are to come
to-morrow, you know, my dear. I hope in my heart everything is as fine
as fippence, or my lady 'll turn up her nose.'

'I can't make things neater, Davy.'

This was said by Mrs Prothero, in a desponding tone, quite different
from her former quiet cheerfulness, and she accompanied the words by
rubbing her hands nervously one over the other.

'There now, don't look as if you were going to be smothered. Mrs
Jonathan isn't so bad as all that. I wish to goodness Jonathan hadn't
married a fine lady. But then she brought him a good fortune, and it's
all the better for our children.'

'I don't want her money.'

'But if it wasn't for her, my dear, Rowland would never have had an
Oxford edication.'

'I'd as soon he had gone to Lampeter, or been made a good Wesleyan
minister, and then he might have been content to stay in Wales, instead
of going off to England.'

'There, there! never mind! He'll be a bishop some day; and though you do
still incline to the chapel, you'll be proud of that. Now, name o'
goodness, let's have some breakfast.'

With this peculiarly Welsh interjection, Mr Prothero turned towards the
farm, and, followed by his wife, went to the desired repast.






CHAPTER III.

THE FARMER'S DAUGHTER.


'Nobody has come for that poor girl, Netta, and I have'n't the heart to
send her away,' said Mrs Prothero to her only daughter Janetta, towards
the close of the Sunday, the morning of which we noticed in the last
chapter.

'I am sure, mother, you have been plagued quite enough with her already.
You have neither been to church nor chapel, and scarcely eaten a morsel
all the day. I can't imagine what pleasure you take in such people.'

'I wouldn't care if your father was at home; but I don't quite like to
have her into the house without his leave, and she is not fit to be left
in the barn.'

'Into the house, mother! That wild Irish beggar! Why, father would get
into a fury, and I'm sure I should be afraid to sleep in the same place
with such a creature.'

'Oh, my dear child! when will it please the Lord to soften your heart,
and teach you that all men and women are brothers and sisters.'

'Never, I'm sure, in that kind of way.'

Whilst the mother and daughter continue their conversation about Gladys,
of which the above is a specimen, we will glance at Janetta Prothero,
the spoilt daughter of Glanyravon Farm.

She is decidedly a pretty girl? some might call her a beauty. She has
dark eyes, black hair, a clear pink and white complexion, a round,
dimpled cheek, a fair neck, a passable nose, and a very red-lipped,
pouting mouth. She is small of stature--not much taller than her
mother--but so well-formed, that her delicate little figure is quite the
perfection of symmetry. Her movements are languid rather than brisk like
her mother's, and she either has, or is desirous of having, more of the
fine lady in her manners and appearance. We discern, as she talks, more
of obstinacy than reason, and more of pride than sense, in her
conversation, and the face rather expresses self-will than intellect,
although not deficient in the latter.

We are led to suppose, from the appearance of the room in which the
mother and daughter are located, that Miss Janetta is somewhat
accomplished; more so than young ladies in her position commonly were
some thirty or forty years ago. This is a large parlour, with some
pretensions to be called a drawing-room. True, the furniture is of
old-fashioned mahogany, the sofa of hair, the curtains of chintz, and
all that appertains to the master and mistress of the house, of solid
but ancient make. But the square piano, the endless succession of
baskets, card-racks, etc., the footstools with the worsted-work dog and
cat thereon emblazoned, the album and other books, so neatly and
regularly placed round the table, and above all, three heads in very bad
water-colours that adorn the walls--all proclaim the superior education
of the daughter of the house, and her aspirations after modern
gentility.

We will just take up the thread of the conversation of the mother and
daughter at the end of it, and see what conclusions they have arrived
at. In a somewhat doggedly excited tone, Miss Janetta says,--

'Well, mother, I know that father would be very angry, and that she
might give us all low Irish fever. I shouldn't wonder if she brought a
famine with her.'

'Remember, Netta, who said "and if ye have done it unto the least of
these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."'

'If those people are one's brethren, as father says, the sooner we
disown our relations the better.'

Whilst Miss Janetta was uttering this unchristian speech, and greatly
shocking her mother thereby, a young man entered with a book in his
hand, and throwing himself on the sofa, began to read. It was soon,
however, evident that he was listening to the conversation, although he
professedly kept his eyes on his book. Poor Mrs Prothero continued her
efforts to enlist her daughter on the side of charity, but did not
greatly prevail. The young man did not interfere, probably being aware
that it is better to let two women finish their own quarrel.

Again, however, they were interrupted by the appearance of a fourth, and
more animated personage.

'Good evening, Mrs Prothero. How do you do, Netta?' exclaimed the new
comer, shaking Mrs Prothero's hand, and pulling Netta's curls. Hereupon
the young man arose from the sofa, and bowing profoundly, said,--

'Good evening, Miss Gwynne,' with a tone as grave as his appearance.

'I beg your pardon, Mr Rowland,' said the young lady, who we now
introduce in form as Miss Gwynne of Glanyravon Park.

With a very becoming grace, she advanced and held out her hand to Mr
Rowland Prothero, eldest son of the good farmer and his wife, just
returned from Oxford. Mr Rowland slightly touched the hand, bowed again
gravely, and placed a chair for Miss Gwynne.

'I thought I should never come here again,' said that young lady,
turning from Mr Rowland with a nod and a 'thank you,' and retreating
towards the window where the mother and daughter were standing, 'what
with the rain, and poor papa's nervous complaints, and all the affairs,
I declare I have been as busy as possible.'

'Now, Miss Gwynne, I am sure you will agree with me,' cried Netta,
suddenly brightening up and getting animated 'Do you think it right to
encourage those Irish beggars?'

'Right! no, of course I don't.'

'And do you think people ought to allow them to come into the house--to
take them in, and to--to shelter them in short?'

'Decidedly not. I hope you don't do such things, Mrs Prothero?'

There was a wicked twinkle in a merry eye as this was said.

'The truth is, Miss Gwynne,' said Mrs Prothero, slowly rubbing her hands
one over another, 'there is a poor Irish girl in the barn almost dying,
and it is impossible to send her to the Union to-night, or to leave her
where she is.'

'Oh, I'll write an order for the Union in papa's name. You can't believe
a word those Irish say. You had better get her sent off directly.'

This was said with the air of command and decision of one not accustomed
to have her orders disputed.

'But, Miss Gwynne, if you only knew--' began the overwhelmed Mrs
Prothero.

'I know quite well. We are obliged to commit dozens of them as vagrants,
and I should not at all wonder if we should not be compelled to have
you taken up some day for harbouring suspicious characters.'

The tears stood in Mrs Prothero's kind eyes. She had not much authority
amongst the young people apparently.

'There, mother! I knew Miss Gwynne would agree with me.'

'And do you think the law of Christian charity would agree with you,
Netta?' here broke in a grave and stern voice from the sofa.

Both the young ladies coloured at this interruption? Miss Gwynne with
mortified dignity, Netta with anger. Mrs Prothero cast an appealing
glance at her son, who came forward.

'She may have my bed, mother,' said the young man, colouring in his
turn, as he met Miss Gwynne's defiant glance, that seemed to say, 'Who
are you?'

'How very absurd, Mr Rowland,' said that young lady, laughing
scornfully. 'I suppose, according to your law of Christian charity, we
must fill our houses with all the Irish beggars that come through
Carmarthenshire! A goodly company!'

'Have you seen this poor girl. Miss Gwynne?'

'No, certainly not, but I know by heart all she has to say.'

'If you would but just see her,' said Mrs Prothero entreatingly not
daring to contradict the heiress of Glanyravon Park, who had a will of
her own, if Mrs Prothero had not.

'With the greatest pleasure; but I know all the "my leddy's," "yer
honour's," and "the sweet face o' ye," that I shall hear.'

'Don't go, Miss Gwynne, you may take the fever. I wouldn't go for the
world,' cried Netta.

'I am not afraid of fevers or anything else, I hope,' said Miss Gwynne
contemptuously. 'You will be afraid of catching a toothache from
infection next,' and herewith she left the room, followed by Mrs
Prothero.

During their short absence, Mr Rowland Prothero read his sister a very
proper lecture for a clergyman, on Christian charity and filial
obedience, to which she listened with pouting lips and knitted brow, but
with no answering speech, good or bad. She was not silent because she
had nothing to say, but because she was afraid of her brother, who was
the only person of whom she was afraid. Her feelings, however, found
vent in the leaves of a rose that she was pulling to pieces and
scattering ruthlessly.

The lecturer on Christian charity was a tall, gentlemanly-looking young
man, whose apparently habitual gravity of deportment warmed into
earnestness and animation as he talked to his sister. He looked and
spoke as if his soul were in the words he uttered, and as if it had
been choice and not compulsion that led him to become a minister in
Christ's family.

The entrance of Mrs Prothero and Miss Gwynne was a great relief to
Netta. She looked up briskly at the latter, as if sure of sympathy, and
if eyes full of tears could give it, she certainly was satisfied.

Mr Rowland Prothero perceived the tears, and retired to his sofa, taking
up his book and pretending to read.

'Can I help you, Mrs Prothero? There does not seem a moment to lose. I
will send for a doctor, or do anything I can,' said Miss Gwynne.

'Thank you, dear Miss Gwynne,' replied Mrs Prothero, 'I will put her in
Owen's room.'

'Who can we get to bring her in? Shall I go and fetch one of the men?
Netta, do get some one to help us.'

'I will help you, if you will allow me,' said Mr Rowland, rising from
his sofa, and looking at Miss Gwynne with a glance of warm approval.

'Pray do; now; at once. I will go with you whilst your mother prepares
the room. You could carry her quite well, for she is as thin as a ghost;
I never saw such a wretched girl.'

Miss Gwynne hurried to the barn, followed by Rowland. They found Gladys
with a farm-servant by her side, apparently either dead or asleep.

Rowland Prothero knelt down, and took her up gently in his arms, Miss
Gwynne assisting. The poor girl unclosed her eyes, and looked wistfully
at the face that was bending over her.

'You are with friends, and in God's hands,'said Rowland gently, as the
eyes languidly reclosed.

He carried her upstairs to his brother's room, and having placed her on
the bed, left her to the care of his mother and Miss Gwynne.

Whilst they were employed in getting her into bed, a house-servant came
to say that Miss Gwynne was wanted. She found a footman awaiting her,
who told her that his master had sent him in search of her, and was in a
state of great anxiety about her. She ran up to Mrs Prothero for a few
minutes.

'Really papa is too absurd, too provoking,' she said with a vexed voice;
'he has sent after me again, and I am sure he must know I am here. Let
me hear if I can be of any service, Mrs Prothero; I will send anything
in the way of medicine or nourishment. Good-bye, I will come again
to-morrow.'

'Mr and Mrs Prothero, the Vicarage, come to-morrow,' said Mrs Prothero.

'Yes, they are to dine with us on Wednesday, and told me they meant to
sleep here. Good evening. Dear me, how wretched that poor girl looks.'

Miss Gwynne was soon hastening homewards, heedless of the splendid sky
above, or the glowing fields beneath. She was making reflections on the
excellence of Mrs Prothero, the silliness of Netta, the precision of
Rowland, and the misery of the girl Gladys. Thence she turned her
thoughts upon herself, and suddenly discovered that she had been too
decided in at once ordering any person to the workhouse, without at
first knowing the case.

'But it is no wonder that I am too decided sometimes, when my father is
so dreadfully weak and vacillating,' she said to herself; 'indeed I do
not think, after all, that one can be too decided in this irresolute
world.'

This very decided young lady is the only child and supposed heiress of
Gwynne of Glanyravon, as her father is usually called. She is an
aristocratic-looking personage, with a certain I-will-have-my-own-way
air, that you cannot help recognising at once. She is rather taller than
most tall women, and the tokens of decision in her carriage, eyes,
voice, and general deportment would be disagreeable, but for the extreme
grace of her figure, the unaffected ease of her manner, and the
remarkable clearness and sweetness of her voice. She is handsome, too,
with a noble forehead, sensible grey eyes, glossy chestnut hair, and a
very fine complexion. The many of her nominal friends and admirers who
at heart dislike her, prophesy that in a few years she will be coarse,
and say that she is already too masculine; but the few who love her,
think that she will improve both in person and mind, as she rubs off the
pride and self-opinionativeness of twenty years of country life against
the wholesome iron of society and the world. But we shall see.

At present she is fortunate enough to rule everybody she comes in
contact with; her father, his servants, his tenants, the poor, the very
mendicants that come to the door.

Certainly there is something very charming in her appearance, as she
hurries up the fine old avenue that leads to her ancestral home. The
ease of her port, the graceful dignity of her extreme haste, the
heightened colour, and the glowing eye, are all very handsome, in spite
of the coarseness in perspective. The poor footman can scarcely keep up
with her; he has not found the last twenty years at Glanyravon
productive of the same lightness of step to him, as to his young
mistress, and wishes she were a little less agile.

A handsome country house in a good park has not often in itself much of
the picturesque. Ruskin would not consider Glanyravon, with its heavy
porch, massive square walls, and innumerable long windows, a good
specimen of architectural beauty; still it is a most comfortable
dwelling, beautifully situated; and the magnificent woods at the back,
and grand view in front, would make the most unartistic building
picturesque in appearance if not in reality.

Miss Gwynne ran up the broad stairs, through the large hall, and into a
good library. Here a very tall, thin, sickly-looking man was seated in
an easy-chair.

'My dear Freda, I am so thankful you are come!'

'My dear father, how I wish you would not send for me the very moment I
go out. I really cannot be pestered with servants. It fidgets me to
death to have a man walking and puffing after me.'

'But just consider, my love, the lateness of the hour.'

'It is scarcely eight o'clock now, papa, and as light as possible.'

'I am too nervous, my love, to bear your being out alone.'

Miss Gwynne rang the bell authoritatively, and the footman entered.

'Tell Mrs Davies to send some jelly, and whatever strengthening things
there are in the house, to Glanyravon Farm immediately,' she said; then
turning to her father, added, 'do you know, papa, Mrs Prothero has taken
in a sick Irish girl, and I have abetted it.'

'You, child! I hope she has no infectious disease; it quite alarms me.'

'I really don't know. But Mr and Mrs Jonathan Prothero are going to
Glanyravon to-morrow, and remember you invited them to dinner on
Wednesday.'

'I am very sorry! that man kills me with the antiquities of the Welsh
language, and heaven knows what old things that happened before the
flood. But you must entertain them. I suppose we had better ask young
Rowland.'

'Oh, papa! He is so dreadfully quiet and stiff, and thinks there is only
one man who ever went to Oxford, and he is that man; and I can't endure
him.'

'Perhaps not, my dear--indeed, perhaps not.'

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