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.'
'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.