thee, and when thaa dees we'll put thee away. Durnd tak' on like
that.'
But the old woman heeded not the kindly words of her son. Her
thoughts were in the past, and she was reliving the years that
were gone. Gazing into the expiring embers, she saw the forms of
long ago; and talking first to herself, and then to her son and
his wife, she continued, in a crooning voice:
'It's fifty year come next Whisundy sin thi faither brought me
here, lad--fifty year, and it only seems like yesterday. We were
wed at th' owd church i' Manchester. Dan o' Nodlocks, as used to
live up at th' Chapel-hill, drove us there and back in his new
spring-cart; and what wi' gettin' there and being spliced, and
comin' wom' we were all th' day at th' job. Th' sun were just
showin' hissel o'er th' hill yonder when we started, and it were
goin' daan o'er th' moors when we geet back; and thi faither,
Jimmy, as he lifted me daan from th' cart and put me in th' porch
yonder, kissed me and said: "Sunshine aatside, Jenny, and sunshine
in." An' that's fifty year ago, lad, and I've never slept out o'
th' owd haas from that neet to this, and I durnd want to leave it
naa.'
'Well, durnd tak' on like that, mother; if tha' does thaa'll break
my heart. We shall happen stop yet, who knows?' and Jim almost
choked with the lie which he told in his wild anguish to stay the
torrent of his mother's grief.
But the crooning old woman heeded him not. With eyes fixed on the
fire she continued to read the horoscope of the past:
'We were some happy, those first years, I can tell thee. Then
little Billy wor born. Poor little Billy! Thaa's been a good lad,
Jim, but I often think what a good un little Billy would ha' been
if he'd lived! But he deed. Ay! I con remember it as though it
were nobbud yesterneet. It was abaat th' deead hour, and I wakened
up sudden-like, for summat towd me all were not reet wi' th' lad.
I made thi faither strike a leet, and then I see'd Billy's een
were set, and his little mouth twitchin'. Thi faither run off,
half dressed as he were, for th' doctor. But it wor no use; Billy
were going cowd in my arms when they both geet back. And then they
laid th' little lad aat in th' owd chamber, and I used to creep
upstairs when thi faither were in th' meadow, and talk to Billy,
and ax him to oppen his een. But it wor all no use, he never glent
at me agen. I never cried, lad--I couldn't. I felt summat wor taan
aat o' me,' and the old woman laid her hand on her heart. 'I was
empty-like; and then five years after, as I lay in bed in th' owd
chamber aboon--same chamber as Billy were laid out in--Mary o'
Sams, who had come to nurse me, said: "Thou mun look up, Jenny,
it's another lad," and she put thee in my arms, and then th'
warkin' went, and I were a happy woman again. I could ha' liked to
ha' kept little Billy, but Him aboon knows best: thaa's bin a good
lad to me, Jimmy.'
Tears began to stream from the eyes of Jimmy's wife; and stooping
down, she lifted her sleeping baby from its cradle, and hugged it
to her breast. The story of little Billy had, for the moment,
softened the heart of this practical and common-sense woman.
'That's reet, lass. Keep him close to thee, he'll need thee and
thaa'll need him afore yo're both done wi' th' world. Since thi
faither deed, Jimmy, I've felt to need thee more and more. It's
ten year this last back-end sin' we buried him. And it's nobbud
just like yesterday. He wor in th' barn when he wor taan,
sudden-like, with apoplex; and he never spoke, or knew me or you
at after. And he wor laid aat in th' owd chamber, too, where they
laid little Billy aat afore him, and where yo' wor born, lad. I
thought I should be laid aat there, and all, and I could ha' liked
it to be so. But I mun be off to bed, childer, it's gettin' lat'.
I shall sleep in th' owd chamber to-neet, wheresomever I sleep
to-morn.'
And so saying, the grandmother took her lamp, and climbed the worn
stone staircase to her room--a staircase trodden so many times in
changing moods of joy and sorrow, and with feet now gladsome and
now weary with honest toil and household care.
When Jimmy and his wife were alone, and the sound of the old
woman's voice no longer fell upon their ears, they realized, as
never before, the anguish of their surroundings. They were
spending their last night in what to one had been a life-long
home, and to the other a shelter of happiness for ten years of
married life. The story was a sad one, and yet, alas! not
uncommon. Crawshaw Fold--the old farmstead--dated back two hundred
years, and from the time of its erection to the present, had known
neither owners nor occupiers save those of the sturdy yeoman
family from which it took its name. It had been the boast of the
Crawshaws that no alien ever lorded it beneath their roof, or sat
as presiding genius at their hearth. They were proud to tell how
all the heirs of Crawshaw Fold only entered its portals by the
mystic gate of birth, nor departed until summoned by the passing
bell. But families, like individuals, grow old, and with the
course of years the richest blood runs thin. Bad seasons, which
are the friends of the money-lender and mortgagee, are the foes of
hereditary descent and family pride, and many are the escutcheons
erased and the lines of lineage broken by reverses wrought through
their fitful moods. The Crawshaws were no exception. A succession
of disasters on their little farmstead brought them to sore
straits, and for deliverance they sought help of one Moses
Fletcher, who advanced money on the deeds of the property. So bad
were the times that James Crawshaw was unable to meet the
interest, and on the morrow Moses was putting in force his claim.
This was the shadow that fell across the hearth--the despair that
was seated like a hideous ghoul by their fireside. In the morning
three generations of Crawshaw would be homeless.
'Well, lad,' said Jimmy's wife, 'it's no use lying daan to dee
afore one's time; there's this little un to fend for, and, as I
say, th' wick is o' more value than th' deeing. Th' owd Book says
as th' deead is to bury th' deead, but I'm noan deead yet.'
'Thaa'rt hard on th' owd woman, lass. It's nobbud natural as hoo
should want to lie daan and dee where all her folk has deed afore
her.'
'Nay, lad, I'm noan hard. Hoo'll go where we go, and we's be doin'
aar duty both to her and th' child here by workin' for 'em,
instead of frettin' and sobbin' as though all wor o'er.'
'Happen so; but thaa's more hope nor I hev. I durnd think th' sun
will ever shine again for us, lass.'
'Get away wi' thee! Th' sun 'll shine to-morn for them as has een
to see.'
Throughout this conversation the footfall of the old grandmother
was heard distinctly on the chamber floor above, for on reaching
her room she did not, as was her wont, seek at once the shelter of
her bed, but, placing the lamp on the table, commenced a fond and
farewell survey of the old chamber. Over the fireplace hung an old
sampler, worked by her deft fingers in girlhood's days--her maiden
name spelt out in now faded silks, with a tree of paradise on
either side and under it the date of a forgotten year; while an
old leather-cased Bible, in which were inscribed the epochs of the
family, lay open upon a chair.
Withdrawing her eyes from these, she slowly turned towards the
clothes-press, and, opening the oaken doors, looked at a suit of
black--'the Sunday best' of her dead husband, left undisturbed
since his sudden decease ten years before. Then, turning to a box
at the foot of the bed--that historic four-poster whereon the twin
messengers of birth and death had so often waited--she knelt and
raised the lid, looking into its secrets by the feeble ray emitted
from the lamp. What she saw therein we care not to tell. Our pen
shall not blur the bloom of that romance and association which for
her the years could not destroy. Enough that this was her ark,
within which were relics as precious as the budding rod and pot of
manna. She was low before her holy of holies--face to face with a
light which falls from the inalienable shrine of every woman who
has been wife and mother, who has loved a husband and carried a
child.
By this time the storm was over, and the winds, lately so
tempestuous, were gathered together and slept. A strange hush--a
hush as of appeased nature--rested like a benediction over the
house. The moon sailed along a swiftly clearing sky of blue, and
shot its silver shafts through the great cloud-bastions that still
barriered the horizon, and lighted up the chamber in which the old
woman was kneeling before her shrine. It was across these God sent
His kindly messenger with noiseless tread to bear her sore and
sorrowing soul 'where the wicked cease from troubling and the
weary are at rest.'
* * * * *
At an early hour the minions of Moses Fletcher, the money-lender,
were hovering round Crawshaw Fold, not daring, however, to enter
until the fateful hour of ten. Jimmy, with his wife, sat before an
untasted breakfast, wondering how it was his mother was so late in
coming downstairs; and when at half-past eight there was no sign
of her appearance, he sent his wife, with a strong feeling of
foreboding, to find out the reason of the delay. Slowly she
climbed the stairs to awaken, as she supposed, the old woman for
the last tragic act of the drama. When she stood upon the
threshold of the chamber, however, she saw at a glance that a
kindly hand had drawn the curtain before the enactment of the
fateful and final scene. Calling her husband, he hurried to her
side; and, together, they raised Jenny from her kneeling posture
before the old chest, and laid her on the bed, thanking God that
for her the worst had been forestalled. Four days afterwards old
Jenny was carried out of the Fold, feet foremost; and, amid a
falling shower of snow, was laid away by the side of little Billy
and the good man with whom, for forty years, she had shared her
life. As the mourners returned, chilled by the winter's blast,
sleek Moses Fletcher crossed their path, an old woman flinging at
him the words:
'Thaa's had th' uttermost farthin', but thaa's God to square wi'
yet.'
II.
THE REDEMPTION OF MOSES FLETCHER.
Moses Fletcher was suffering from what the doctor called 'nervous
shock,' with sundry wounds of a severe nature received in an
attempt to rescue his dog in a canine _mêlée_.
He was a medium-sized man, with a hatchet face, lit by keen gray
eyes, small as a ferret's; and, by way of apology for a mouth,
displayed a thin lip-line which fell at either end with a cruel
and cynical curve.
As he lay in bed, with a face as white as the counterpane which
covered him, he now and again extended his bandaged hand to the
favourite hound that rested on a plaid shawl at his feet, calling
it by endearing names, and welcoming its warm and faithful
caresses.
The chamber was small, but cosy, with many evidences of comfort.
Trellised greenery looked in at him through the deep-splayed
windows, and tapped a welcome on the diamond panes. He had,
however, no ear for this salute. Nor did he eye with delight the
flowering geraniums that clustered so thickly in the pots filling
the sills. Nor did he even care for the great bars of sunlight
that fell in golden splendour across his bed, causing the old dog
to wink, and sneeze, and smile beneath their mellowing beams. No,
these were nothing to him; indeed, they never had been--he had
lived for years oblivious alike to tree and flower and sun.
On the walls of his bedroom hung a number of rude prints, chief
among which was a hideous representation of Jesus Christ driving
the money-changers out of the Temple--the man of gentleness being
represented as a stern, passionless Master, the strength of whose
person was thrown into a relentless face, and a mighty arm
wielding a massive whip. At this figure he often glanced, and now
and again a look of recognition seemed to steal over his features,
as though the essence of his religion was embodied in that act--a
gospel anodyne for a suffering soul.
By the side of his bed was a small table on which lay two books,
the one bound in morocco, the other in leather--a Bible and a
ledger--his sole literature during the weary hours of sickness,
and wittily denominated by his wife, 'the books of mercy and of
judgment.' Indeed, she often told him that he knew 'a deal more o'
th' book o' judgment than he did o' t'other'; and it was even so.
Moses languidly took up his Bible. It was a veritable study in
black and white, many passages being underscored, and many
remaining as unsoiled as though seldom read. Indeed, the Gospels
seldom had been read, while the imprecatory Psalms and the latter
part of the Epistle to the Romans were greasy and stained with oft
perusal. But there was a more remarkable feature about the Bible
than this--its margin was filled with a number of pen-and-ink
notes! figures and calculations of money advanced and interest
drawn and due; his clever, sarcastic wife calling this his
'reference Bible,' and sometimes telling him he was 'mighty i' th'
Scriptures' when his own interest was concerned.
He laid down the Bible and took up his ledger. Ah! how he knew
that book!--to him actually and literally a book of life. He knew
its every page, and every name that headed those pages. True,
Moses knew the generations of the patriarchs, the names of the
sons of Jacob, the chronologies of the Chronicles, but he knew the
families of Rehoboth better. These latter were engraved on the
palms of his hands, and written with corroding ink on the fleshly
tables of his heart. As he turned over the well-thumbed pages he
made many mental calculations, sometimes smiling and sometimes
sighing as his eye fell on an irreclaimable debt. Then, taking up
his pencil, he entered an account on the fly-sheet of the Bible,
and seemed satisfied when he discovered that his illness would not
involve him in the loss which he had anticipated; and smiling the
smile of selfish gain, he closed his eyes and slept.
Poor Moses Fletcher! For with all his riches he was poor--if being
a pauper in the sight of Heaven is to be poor. How he had lived to
make money, and, having made it, how terrible was the cost! Old
Mr. Morell once told him that the angels reversed his balance year
by year, writing in invisible ink against his material profits his
moral and spiritual depreciation. And yet there was one redeeming
feature in the character of Moses--he loved his dog. 'Captain,' as
the brute was called, kept one spot warm in his callous nature, a
little patch of vegetation on the bare surface of his granite
heart. The only noble acts in the life of Moses Fletcher were acts
wrought on behalf of this dog. Years ago he risked his life to
save it, when, as a whelp, mischievous boys sought to drown it in
the Green Fold Lodge; and only a week or two ago he rescued it
from the infuriated grip of a bull-terrier, at the expense of
injuries from which he was now slowly recovering. Wherever Moses
went he was followed by his dog; and if the dog was seen alone it
was known Moses was not far distant. Now, this dog had to suffer
for Moses' sins. It was, as Mr. Penrose used to say, 'a vicarious
dog'--the innocent bearing the sins of the guilty. Affectionate,
faithful, gentle, with no spice of viciousness in its nature, it
was none the less stoned by children and tormented by man and
woman alike. One of Moses' debtors, a stalwart quarryman, once
took it on the moors and sent it home with a spray of prickly
holly tied under its tail. On another occasion, an Irish labourer,
whom Moses put in the County Court, hurled a handful of quicklime
in its eye, by which its sight had been in part destroyed; and its
glossy skin was all patched with bare spots where outraged
housewives had doused it with scalding water.
'We cornd get at _him_,' they used to say, 'but we con get at his
dog, and mak' him smart i' that road.'
The last outrage, however, was by far the most brutal, and it came
about in this manner. It was County Court day at a small market
town over the hills, and Moses, accompanied by his dog, went with
his summonses. One of these was served against a man known as
'Oliver o' Deaf Martha's'--himself the owner of the most
belligerent dog in the neighbourhood--who, like Moses, never moved
without his canine friend. When his summons was heard judgment
went against him, and he was ordered to pay ten shillings a month
until the debt was wiped off. At this he uttered a curse,
muttering to Moses that he would be even with him, but little
thinking his chance would so soon come to hand. Passing out of the
Court into the street, he saw his own dog and that of Moses
snarling at one another, but harmlessly, as both were muzzled.
Taking a knife from his pocket, he cut the leather straps that
bound the mouth of his own dog, and, throwing it at the other,
bade it go to work with its worrying. It needed no second word of
encouragement; and in a moment, the other dog, handicapped by its
muzzle, was at the mercy of its foe. Over and over they rolled,
amid jeers, and cheers, and curses, worrying, foaming, and
choking, until at last the dog owned by Moses was _hors de
combat_, and helpless in the other's grip.
'Fair play!' cried some among the crowd. 'Cut t'other dog's
muzzle!' screamed others. 'Tak' thy dog off, Oliver,' urged a
youth, who saw the injustice of the fight. Yet none dared to
approach.
Suddenly, Moses appeared on the steps of the Court-house, and
seeing the peril of his much-loved dog, rushed into the fray,
defenceless as he was, and seizing his pet, tore it from the grip
of its opponent.
'At him!' cried Oliver, and in another moment Moses and his dog
were on the ground, and powerless beneath the attack of the
bull-terrier. Moses remembered no more. When he came to himself he
was lying in his bed, under the smart of the doctor's caustic and
his wife's fomentations.
'Is th' dog alive, missis?' was the first question he asked. And
when told that it was, he faintly breathed a 'Thank God!' and fell
away into another swoon.
* * * * *
'Here's Mr. Penrose to see thee, Moses; mun I ax him up?'
'Thaa con do as thaa likes.'
'Come upstairs, Mr. Penrose; thaa con see him, he sez, if thaa
likes.'
'All right, Mrs. Fletcher; I'm coming,' and in a moment the
minister was at the bedside of the sick man.
Mr. Penrose and Moses were not the best of friends. Indeed, the
latter had threatened to gag the young preacher with the doctrinal
deeds of Rehoboth, and was only waiting his opportunity. Thus Mr.
Penrose hardly knew how to console this sick member of his flock,
and words refused to flow from his ministerial lips. After a
somewhat awkward pause, however, he ventured to remark:
'This is the second time, I suppose, you have risked your life on
behalf of Captain, Mr. Fletcher.'
'Yi, it is,' responded Mrs. Fletcher. 'He geet rheumatic fayver
six year sin', when he poo'd it aat o' Green Fowd Lodge; and now
he's getten welly worried to deeath by savin' it fro' that
bull-terrier o' Oliver's o' Deaf Martha's.'
'Ay! they'n welly done for us both this time, hevn't they,
Captain?' faintly said Moses, addressing the dog, and extending
his hand wearily for a canine caress. 'But aar time 'll come.
Wee'n nobbud to wait, and we'll mak' it even wi' 'em yet.'
'But you must not forget the Divine injunction, Mr. Fletcher.
"Avenge not yourselves; vengeance is Mine, I will repay."'
'Ay! bless yo',' interrupted the wife, 'they think as he's mad'
'em pay too mich already.'
'Who, Mrs. Fletcher?' asked the minister. 'The Almighty?'
'Nay; I mean our Moses there. They say as he's awlus makin' 'em
pay.'
'Thee howd thi tung. I know mi business baat bein' helped or
hindered by thee, or onybody else.'
This last with biting emphasis, as though to include the pastor.
Then, turning to Mr. Penrose, he continued:
'Hoo'd let 'em off if hoo'd her way, but that's noan o' my creed.'
'I think her creed is the better of the two, though, Mr. Fletcher.
If thine enemy hunger, give him--'
'A summons if he willn'd pay for what he gets.'
'Nay, the Bible does not say so.'
'Ne'er mind th' Bible--it's what aw say.'
After another painful pause, Mrs. Fletcher continued:
'Eh, Mr. Penrose, I do wish aar Moses 'ud find summat else to do
nor lendin' brass and collectin' debts. We haven't a friend i' th'
world naa, and we used never bein' baat. Mi own fo'k wernd look at
me naa, 'cose he caanty-courted aar Bella's husband.'
'Thee howd thi tung, aw tell thee. Aw know mi wark; and if fo'k
willn'd pay for what they get, then they mun be made to.'
'But supposing they cannot pay, Mr. Fletcher--what then?'
'What then? Then they mun go up yon,' and Moses extended his
bandaged hand in the direction of the Union workhouse.
'But you know there was One who said, "Give to him that asketh
thee, and from him that borroweth turn not away."'
'Yi, but He didn'd live at Rehoboth. Th' pulpit's th' place for
that mak' o' talk. It'll do for Sundo; but fo'k as hes their
livin' to ged want noan on't i' th' week.'
'But is getting a living more essential than doing right? If it
came to a choice between the two, which would you select?'
'Aw durnd know as that's ony business o' yours. Th' owd Book yo'
quote fro' says summat abaat a man stonnin' and falling to his own
Judge--doesn'd it?'
'Why keep all your kindness for your dog, Mr. Fletcher? Why not
extend the same acts of mercy to those who are of more value than
many dogs? If you did that your dog would not be your only friend,
nor would it be called upon to suffer for you as it does.'
'I durnd know, Mr. Penrose, as I want ony friends.'
'I think there's one Friend you cannot do without--the one you
recommended me to keep in the pulpit. Don't you think we need Him
in the home as well?'
'Ther's noabry kept Him aat o' aar haas, as I know on, hes ther,
Sally?' said Moses, turning to his wife.
'Doesto think 'at onybody's axed Him?' she replied. 'And if He
coome, what kind o' a welcome would He ged, thinksto? I know thaa
reckons to meet Him on a Sundo, and when thaa sits at "His table,"
as tha co's th' sacrament, and at th' deacons' meetings. But
that's abaat as mich on Him as yo' want, I think.'
Mr. Penrose stood up to leave, but, recollecting himself, he said:
'Shall I pray with you, Mr. Fletcher?'
To which he received the curt reply:
'Thaa con pleeas thisel.'
Mr. Penrose knelt by the bedside of the poor
mammon-worshipper--self-blinded and hardened by the god of this
world--and with a full soul cried:
'Merciful Father! Who hast forgiven so much, and in whose
continued forgiveness lies our only hope, inspire us with the
spirit of Thy forgiveness towards all men, and grant that Thy
great heart, which bears enmity towards none, may so warm these
selfish hearts of ours that we may not only love our neighbours
but our enemies, with the love wherewith we are loved. Pardon our
littlenesses, consume our selfishness, and fashion us after Him
whose strength bore all burdens, whose heart heard all entreaties,
and whose love went out alike to friend and foe. Amen.'
* * * * *
It was in the golden autumn weather when Moses and his dog, for
the first time after the _mêlée_, turned out for an afternoon's
stroll. Both bore sore evidences of the severity of the struggle,
one being bandaged over his forehead, the other following with
tell-tale limp and disfigured coat.
Not caring to face the inquisitorial eye of the villagers, nor
hear the rude sarcasm and stinging wit which he knew they would
hurl at him from their tongues, Moses turned down a foot-road
leading from his garden to Folly Clough, and thus secured the
quiet ever found in those deeply-wooded seams that plough into the
very heart of the moors. Following the water-worn path which wound
in tortuous ascent under clustering trees and between slopes of
bracken, the two soon gained the head of the Clough, and climbed
towards the banks of the Green Fold Lodge, a stretch of water into
which drained the moisture of vast tracts of uplands, its overflow
rushing through flood-gates and pouring its volume through the
Clough to feed the factories below. Seating himself on the bank of
the Lodge, he recalled the day when he rescued his dog from its
chill deeps, and, turning to Captain, he said:
'It wor welly bein' thi grave once, owd lad. Aw wonder why it wor
aw saved thee. Thaa's getten many a lickin' (thrashing) sin' then
on my accaant.'
Whereupon the dog bounded round his feet, and held up its head for
one of those caresses which Moses was never known to extend save
to his dog.
As they rested together Moses continued: