darkness. Yes, the old chapel was illuminated, the windows of that
rude structure glowing with warmth and life; and as she passed the
graveyard a hymn, only too well known to her in the happy days of
the past, reached her ears. Once this had been her sanctuary, a
shelter, a home, where as a happy girl she had sung that very
strain--then a house of prayer, now a temple of judgment. And she
grew rebellious as she saw in her mind the hard faces of its
worshippers, and realized that nothing unholy or unclean must
enter there. The native instinct, however, was too strong; and
passing through the gate, and stealthily crossing the sea of
graves, she paused to peep through the window, and, unobserved,
took in the scene. The old faces--Enoch, and Abraham, and Moses
Fletcher, and Malachi o' th' Mount, and Simon o' Long John's. Yes,
the old faces as she knew them five years ago--the old faces, all
save one. Where was the saintly Mr. Morell? In his place sat a
young man whom she knew not.
Hastening on, she climbed Pinner Brow, on the summit of which
lay her home. As she scaled the height the beacon in her
mother's gable told she was not forgotten. Then it was she
trembled. A rebuke--a curse--a refusal; these she could face.
But forgiveness--welcome--love--_never_! She turned to fly.
* * * * *
'Amanda!'
'Mother!'
The great, good God had ordained that the despairing girl should
fly into the arms of the one who had not forgotten, and who felt
she had nothing to forgive. Amanda found herself in the stillest
and strongest of all havens--the haven of a mother's breast.
In another moment Amanda permitted her mother to lead her as that
mother had been wont to lead her when the warm, strong hand of the
parent was a guiding touch--a magnet of love amid the dangers of
an early life--and when, as now, there was but one shelter of
safety--the home.
No sooner did the two women stand in the light and warmth of the
kitchen-hearth, than the elder fell on the neck of the younger,
and kissed the cold, rain-washed face of her child, with a love
grown fierce by years of hopeless hope and unrequited longing.
Once again those arms, thin and weak with age, grew strong; and in
the resurrection of a mighty passion, all the old womanhood and
motherhood of the parent renewed their youth, and filled out the
shrunken and decrepit form until she stood majestic in the
strength of heaven. To those who had been wont to see Amanda's
mother bent and crushed with years and sorrow, the woman that now
stood in the firelight would not have been recognised as Mrs.
Stott. Once the fairest and most lithesome girl in Rehoboth, the
pride of the village, the sought of many suitors, the proud wife
of Sam Stott of th' Clowes, and the still prouder mother of
Amanda, who matched her alike in beauty and in sprightliness, she
had long been a prey to the sling and arrows of outrageous
fortune. Years had played sad havoc with her, her money taking
wings, her husband dying, and her last hope failing in the hour of
need. Now she was herself again under the renewing hand of love.
As soon as Amanda recovered from the shock of her mother's
appearance, and felt the warmth of her welcome, she gently, yet
determinately, released herself and cried:
'Durnd, mother, durnd! I'm noan come wom' to be kissed nor
forgiven. I've nobbud come wom' to dee.'
'What saysto, lass?' exclaimed Mrs. Stott. 'Come wom' to dee? Nay,
thaa's bin deead long enugh a'ready; it's time thaa begun to live,
and thank God thaa's come back to live at wom'.'
The girl shook her head, a stony stare in her eye, her mouth drawn
into a hard and immobile line. And then, in cold tones, she
continued:
'Nay, mother; I've hed enugh o' life. I tell thee I've come wom'
to dee.'
'Amanda,' sobbed the mother, 'if thaa taks on like that thaa'll
kill me. Thaa's welly done for me a'ready, but I con live naa
thaa's come back, if thaa'll nobbud live an' o', and live wi' me.
Sit thee daan. There's th' owd cheer (chair) waiting for thee.
It's thi cheer, Amanda; awlus wor, and awlus will be. Sit thee
daan. It looks some onely (lonely) baat thee.'
There stood Amanda's chair, the chair of her girlhood, the chair
in which she had sung through the long winter nights, in which her
deft fingers had wrought needlework, the envy of Rehoboth. The old
arms mutely opened as though to welcome her; the rockers, too,
seemed ready to yield that oscillation so seductive to the jaded
frame. And the trimmings! and the cushion! the same old pattern,
somewhat faded, perhaps, but as warm and cosy as in the days of
yore. It was the chair, too, at which she used to kneel, the chair
that had so often caught the warm breath from her lips as she had
whispered, 'Our Father, which art in heaven.' But had she not
forfeited her right to that chair? Of that throne of sanctity she
felt she was now no longer queen. And again, as her mother pressed
her to take her appointed place, she shook her head, her heart
steeled with pride and shame, the hardest of all bonds to break
when imprisoning a human soul.
The poor mother stood at bay--at cruel bay. She had used the
mightiest weapon upon which she could lay her hand, and it had
seemed to shiver in the conflict. But love's armoury is not easily
depleted, and love's spirit is quick to return to the charge.
There was still left to her the warmth of a bosom in which long
years before Amanda had gently stirred, and from which she had
drawn her first currents of life; and once more the mother clasped
her girl, and pressed her lips on the sin-stained face.
'Durnd kiss me, mother,' cried the affrighted girl, stepping back;
'durnd kiss me. Thaa munnot dirty thy lips wi' touchin' mine. If
thaa knew all, thaa'd spurn me more like.'
''Manda,' replied the woman, in the desperation of her love, 'I'll
kiss thee if thaa kills me for't. I connot help it; thaa'rt mine.'
'I wor once, I wor once, but nod now.'
'Yi! lass, but thaa art. Thaa wor mine afore th' devil geet howd
on thee, and thaa's bin mine all th' time he's bed thee, and now
he's done wi' thee, I mean to keep thee all to mysel.'
And afresh the mother bathed the still beautiful face of Amanda
with her tears.
But Amanda was firm. Old as her mother was, she knew that mother's
innocence, and shrank from the thought that one so pure, so
womanly, should hang on those lips so sorely blistered by the
breath of sin; and, once more stretching out her arm, she said:
'Durnd touch me, mother--durnd!'
''Manda,' cried the mother, defiantly and grandly, all the passion
of maternity rising in her heart, ''Manda, thaa cornd unmother me.
I carried thee and suckled thee and taught thee thi prayers in
that cheer, and doesn'd ta think as Him we co'd "Aar Faither" is
aar Faither still?'
'Happen He's yours, mother; but He's noan o' mine.'
'Well, 'Manda, if thaa'rt noan His child, thaa'rt mine, and naught
shall come 'tween me and thee.'
'And dun yo' mean to say that yo' love me as mich naa, mother, as
when aw wor a little un?' asked the girl, her steely eyes
moistening, and the firm line of her drawn mouth tremulous with
rising emotion.
'Yi, lass, and a thaasand times more. Thaa wants more luv' naa nor
then--doesn't ta? And hoo's a poor mother as connot give more when
more's wanted. I'm like th' owd well up th' hill yonder--th'
bigger th' druft (drought) th' stronger th' flow. Thi mother's
heart's noan dry, lass, tho' thi thirst's gone; and I'll luv' thee
though thaa splashes mi luv' back in mi face, and spills it on th'
graand.'
And a third time the woman fell on the girl's neck, and kissed her
flesh into flame with the passion of her caress.
'Durnd, mother! durnd!' said Amanda. 'Blame me, if yo' like; curse
me, if yo' like. But luv' I connot ston'; it drives me mad.'
'Nay, lass; luv' noan drives folk mad. It's sin as does that. As
Mr. Penrose towd 'em at Rehoboth t'other Sunday, it were luv' as
saved th' world, and not wrath; and they say they are baan to
bring him up at th' deacons' meeting abaat it. But he's reet. It's
luv' as saves. It's saved thee to me; it's kept mi heart warm, and
it's kept that lamp leeted every neet for five year.' And then,
seeing tears slowly stealing down her daughter's face, the old
woman said: 'I think we mud as weel put th' leet aat naa thaa's
comed wom', 'Manda?' and as the girl gave no more evidence of
resistance, the mother went to the window, turned down the lamp,
and drew the blind, saying, 'He's answered mi prayers.'
At the going out of that light there went out in Amanda's heart
the false fires of lust and pride and defiance, and in their place
was kindled the light of repentance--of forgiveness and of love.
For five years that faithfully-trimmed lamp told the whole
countryside that Widow Stott was not forgetful of her own; and
when once or twice rebuked by some of the Rehoboth deacons at the
premium which she seemed to put on sin by thus inviting a
wanderer's return, she always replied:
'Blame Him as mak's a woman so as hoo cornd forget her child.'
Now that the lamp was out a flutter of excitement was passing
through the village, Milly Lord being the first to discover it.
She, poor girl! was sitting at her little window listening to the
beat of the rain, and the swish of the grasses that grew in her
garden below--sitting and wondering how it was there were no
'angel een' looking down at the earth, and keeping her eye fixed
on the gable light of Mrs. Stott's lone homestead. Suddenly this
light disappeared. If the sun had gone out at noonday Milly would
not have been more startled. Night after night she had watched
that light, and night after night she had heard her mother tell
the oft-repeated story of Amanda's fall. Once, indeed, Milly
startled her mother in its repetition by saying:
'Happen, if I hadn't lost mi leg, mother, I should ha' sinned as
Amanda did.'
And then Milly's mother drew the girl close to her heart, and
thanked God for a lamb safe in the fold. No wonder when Milly saw
the light go out that she cried:
'Mother! mother! Amanda Stott's come wom'!'
'Whatever will hoo say next?' gasped Mrs. Lord.
'I tell yo' Amanda's come wom'. Th' leet's aat--thaa con see for
thisel!' and the girl was beside herself with excitement.
'So it is,' said Mrs. Lord. 'Bud it's noan Amanda; it's happen her
mother as is takken bad. Awl put o' mi things, and run up and
see.'
Hurrying up the Pinner Brow, it was not long before Mrs. Lord
reached the home of Amanda, and raising the latch, with the
permission which rural friendship grants, she saw the daughter and
mother together on the so long lonely hearth. Taken aback, and
scarcely knowing how to remove the restraint which the sudden
interruption was imposing, she fell upon the instinct of her
heart, and said:
'Well, I never! if our Milly isn't reet! Hoo said as how hoo
know'd Amanda bed come back. Hoo seed th' leet go aat and co'd aat
at th' top o' her voice, "Amanda's come back." Hoo remembers thee,
Amanda, an' hoo's never stop't talkin' abaat thee. Tha'rt eight
year owder nor hoo is--poor lass! hoo's lost her leg sin' thaa
seed her. It wor a bad do, aw con tell thee; but hoo's as lively
as a cricket, bless her! and often talks abaat thee, and wonders
where thaa'd getten to. Let's see, lass, it's five years sin thaa
left us, isn't it?' And then, remembering the whole story of
Amanda, which in her excitement she had forgotten, and the great
trouble and the great joy which that night fought for supremacy in
the little moorland home, she stopped, and with a tear-streamed
face rushed up to Amanda, and said: 'What am I talkin' abaat,
lass? I'd clean forgetten,' and then she, too, imprinted on
Amanda's lips a caress of welcome.
It was late that night when Milly asked her father to go up Pinner
Brow and fetch her mother home. When he reached the house he found
the two women and the girl upon their knees, for Milly's mother
was a good woman, and to her goodness was added a mother's heart.
Her own sorrow had taught her to weep with those who weep, and a
great trial through which she had passed in her girlhood days, and
through which she had passed scathless, led her to look on Amanda
with pitying love. Abraham paused upon the threshold as he heard
the sound of his wife's voice in prayer, and when, half an hour
afterwards, they together descended the brow towards their home,
he said:
'Thaa sees, lass, Milly's angel een wor on th' watch a'ter all.'
'Yi,' said his wife, 'and they see'd a returnin' sinner. But hoo's
safe naa; hoo's getten back to her mother, and hoo's getten back
to God.'
'Where hes hoo bin, missus, thinksto?'
'Nay, lad, I never ax'd her. I know where hoo's getten to, and
that's enugh. I'm noan one for sperrin (asking questions) baat th'
past.'
'But they'll be wantin' to know up at th' chapel where hoo's bin.'
'They'll happen do more good by doin' by Amanda as th' Almeety
does.'
'Doesto mean i' His judgments?'
'Nowe! theer's summat more wonderful nor them.'
'What doesto mean?'
'I mean His FORGEETFULNESS.'
II.
LIGHT AT EVENTIDE.
While Amanda's return aroused the curiosity of Rehoboth, it drew
few callers to the cottage on Pinner's Brow. Not that the
villagers were all wanting in kindliness, but Amanda's mother,
being a woman of strong reserve, had fenced herself off from much
friendly approach; while the nature of the trouble through which
she was now passing was felt by the rude moorlanders to impose
silence, and deter them from all open signs of sympathy.
Apart from Mrs. Lord and a girl friend or two of Amanda's, the joy
of return was pent up in the heart of the mother--a joy which she,
poor thing, would fain have sought to share with others had not
delicacy of instinct and sense of shame forbade. She felt it to be
indeed hard that she could not go among her neighbours and friends
and say, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my child which was
lost.'
But the mother's joy was also mixed with the alloy of Amanda's
despair. On the day after the return, the girl had taken to her
bed; and despite a mother's love and Mrs. Lord's kind counsel and
cheery words, Amanda went down into the valley of the shadow.
Seldom speaking, save to reiterate the statement that she had come
home to die, and that all was dark, she lay anticipating the hour
when, as she said, 'the great God would punish her according to
her sins.' This idea had taken fast hold of her mind: she was
going to hell to burn for ever and for ever, and she would only
get her deserts; she had sinned--she must suffer.
With the strain of constant watching, and the long hours of
solitude, and the nightmare of her girl's damnation hanging over
her yearning heart, the poor mother's condition verged on madness,
until at last she summoned courage to ask Mr. Penrose to call and
drop some crumbs of his Gospel of comfort and love at the bedside
of her child; for, as she said to Mrs. Lord, 'even the dogs eat of
the crumbs that fall from the master's table.' The truth was that
hitherto Mr. Penrose had not cared to risk the scandal which he
knew would be created in the village by a visit on his part to
Amanda Stott. When, however, he received his summons from the
mother, and a sharp reprimand from Dr. Hale, who told him that a
minister was as free to visit without risk to his character as a
doctor, he resolved to throw aside proprieties and obey the call.
As Mr. Penrose was walking up Pinner Brow, towards the house of
Mrs. Stott, he unexpectedly met Amos Entwistle, the senior
superintendent of the Sunday-school, and known to the children as
'Owd Catechism,' because of his persistent enforcement of the
Church tenets on their young minds.
'Good a'ternoon, Mr. Penrose. And what may bring yo' in this
direction?'
'I'm looking after some of my sheep, Amos.'
'Not th' black uns, I hope.'
'No! I am looking after the hundredth--the one that went astray.'
'Better leave her alone, Mr. Penrose. There's an owd sayin' i'
these parts that yo' cornd go into th' mill baat gettin' dusted.
That means in yur talk that yo' cornd touch pitch baat gettin'
blacked. If thaa goes to Mrs. Stott's they'll say thaart goan for
naught good. If thaa wur a married mon, naa, and bed childer, it
'ud happen be different; but bein' single, thaa sees, th' aatside
o' yon threshold is th' reight side for such as thee and me.'
(Amos, be it known, was an old bachelor of over seventy years of
age.)
'Nonsense, Amos; you are reversing the teaching of the Master. He
went after the sinner, did He not?'
'Yi, He did; and He lost His repetation o'er it. They co'd Him a
winebibber, and a friend o' all maks o' bad uns. I couldn't like
'em to say th' same abaat thee. Rehoboth 'ud noan ston' it, thaa
knows.'
Mr. Penrose did not know whether to laugh or to be serious.
Seeing, however, that Amos was in no laughing mood, he turned
somewhat sharply on the old man, and said:
'The Stotts are in trouble, and they ask for my presence,
Good-afternoon; I'm going.'
'Howd on a bit,' said Amos, still holding the minister by the
lapel of his coat. 'Naa listen to me. If I were yo' I wouldn't go.
Th' lass hes made her bed; let her lie on't. Durnd yo' risk yor
repetation by makkin' it yasier, or by takkin' ony o' th' thorns
aat o' her pillow. Rehoboth Church is praad o' her sheep; and it
keeps th' black uns aatside th' fold, and yo'll nobbud ged blacked
yorsel if yo' meddle wi' 'em. But young colts 'll goa their own
gait, so pleeas yorsel.'
At first Mr. Penrose was inclined to think twice over the old
Pharisee's advice; but, looking round, he saw Mrs. Stott's sad
face in her cottage doorway, and her look determined his advance.
In a moment reputation and propriety were forgotten in what he
felt were the claims of a mother's heart and the sufferings of an
erring soul.
'Ay, Mr. Penrose, I'm some fain to see yo',' cried the poor woman,
as the minister walked up the garden-path. 'Amanda's baan fast,
and hoo sez 'at it's all dark.' And then, seizing Mr. Penrose's
hand, she cried: 'Yo' durnd think hoo's damned, dun yo'?'
For years the sound of that mother's voice as she uttered those
words haunted Mr. Penrose. He heard it in the stillness of the
night, and in the quiet of his study; it came floating on the
winds as he walked the fields and moors; and would sound in
mockery as he, from time to time, declared a Father's love from
the old pulpit at Rehoboth. What cruel creed was this, prompting a
mother to believe that God would damn the child whom she herself
was forced, out of the fulness of her undying love, to take back
into her house and into her heart?
As the minister and Mrs. Stott sat down in the kitchen, the poor
woman, in the depths of her despair, again raised her eager face
and asked:
'But yo' durnd think Amanda's damned, dun yo'?'
'No, I do not, Mrs. Stott.'
This was too much for the mother; and now that the highest
passions in her soul received the affirmative of one whom she
looked up to as the prophet of God, she felt her girl was safe.
The fire of despair died out of her eyes, quenched in the tears of
joy, and she realized, as never before, that she could now love
God because God had spared to her, and to Himself, her only child.
'But, Mr. Penrose, Amanda says _it's all dark_. Dun yo' think yo'
could lift th' claads a bit?'
'Well, we'll do our best; but to the One who loves her the
darkness and the light are both alike.'
And with these words on his lips, he followed the mother to where
the sick girl lay.
Mr. Penrose had often heard of Amanda Stott, and of that face of
hers which had been both her glory and her shame. Now, as he
looked upon it for the first time, he saw, as in a glass, the
reflection of a character and a life. There was the gold and the
clay. The brow and eyes were finely shaped and lustrous, giving to
the upper half of the face grandeur and repose, but the mouth and
chin fell off into a coarser mould, and told of a spirit other
than that so nobly framed under the rich masses of her dark hair.
It was a face with a fascination--not the fascination of evil, but
of struggle--a face betraying battle between forces pretty evenly
balanced in the soul. But there was victory on it. Mr. Penrose saw
it, read it, understood it. There were still traces of the
scorching fire; these, however, were yielding to the verdure of a
new life; the garden, which had been turned into a wilderness, was
again blossoming as the rose.
'Amanda, here's Mr. Penrose to see thee. I've bin tellin' him it's
all dark to thee. It is, isn't it?'
But Amanda turned her head towards the wall, and answered not.
'Amanda!' said the mother, in tones that only once or twice, and
that in the great crises of maternity, fall from woman's
lips--'Amanda, speyk. Tell him what's botherin' thee.'
But the girl was silent.
Mr. Penrose was silent also, and nothing was heard in the room
save the tremulous beat of an old watch that hung over the
chimney-shelf--one of the memorials of a husband and father long
since taken, and now almost forgotten.
At last Amanda, without turning her face towards the pastor, said:
'Sir, I'm a sinner--a lost sinner.'
'No, you are not,' replied Mr. Penrose.
And overawed and astonished with the boldness of his statement, he
relapsed into silence.
Amanda turned and looked at him clearly and unflinchingly, and
cried:
'How dare yo' say that?'
'Because you've repented,' was the quiet reply.
'Haa do yo' know I've repented?'
'Because repentance is to come home; and you've come home, have
you not?'
'Repentance is to come wom'?' slowly repeated the girl, as though
some ray of light was penetrating the darkness. 'Repentance is to
come wom', sen yo'?'
'Yes.'
And then Mr. Penrose repeated the words: 'And he arose and came to
his home; and when he was a great way off his father saw him and
ran, and fell on his neck and kissed him.'
'Aw dare say; that's what mi mother did to me on th' neet I come
wom'. But mi mother's noan God, is hoo?'
'No; but if you had had no God, you could not have had a mother.
You tell me your mother kissed you. Did you not feel God's kiss in
that which your mother gave you?'
The girl shook her head; the pastor needed to make his message
more plain.
'It's in this way, you know,' continued Mr. Penrose. 'If there
were no rain in the heavens there would be no springs in the
valleys, would there? The well is filled because the clouds send
down their showers; and so it is with love. Your mother's heart is
full of love because God, who Himself is love, fills it. Your
mother stands to you for God, and she is most like God when she is
doing most for you; and when she kissed you and took you back
again home, she was only doing what God made her do, and what God
did Himself to you through her.'
'But theer's summat else beside forgiveness, Mr. Penrose. I feel
I've lost summat as I con never ged agen. I know I've getten back
wom', but I haven't getten back what awv' lost.'
'You may have it back, though, if it's worth having back. There
was One who came to seek that which was lost. You are like the
woman who lost one of her pieces of silver; but she found it
again, and what you have lost Jesus will find and restore to you.'
'But theer's th' past, Mr. Penrose, as well as th' lost. It's all
theer afore me. Aw see it as plain as aw see yon moors through th'
window, only it's noan green and breet wi' sunshine--it's dark.'
'If God forgets the past, Amanda, why should you recall it? Look
out through that window again. There's a cloud just dying away on
the horizon yonder. Do you see it? It is changing its colour and
losing its shape, and in a moment it will be gone. Watch it! It is
almost gone. See! now it _is_ gone--gone where? Gone into the
light of that sun which is making the moors so green and bright.
Now that is what God is doing with your past--with what you call
your sins--blotting them out like a cloud. It is God's mercy that
stands like the everlasting hills, and it is our sinfulness and
our past that pass away like clouds. As you look at those hills
you must think of His mercy, and as you watch those vanishing
clouds you must think of your past.'
Once more there was silence in the sick-chamber, and the little
watch ran its race with the beating, flickering pulse of Amanda.
The girl turned her face towards the window that overlooked the
moors, and begged her mother to open it so that she might again
feel the cool airs that swept across their heathery wastes.
Mrs. Stott at once unhasped the casement, and a tide of life came
stealing in, noiselessly lifting the curtains, and cooling the
hectic flame that glowed on Amanda's wasted cheeks, and bearing,
too, on its waves fragrances that recalled a long-lost paradise,
and sounds--the echo of days when no discordant note marred the
music of her life. These moorland breezes--how redolent, how
murmurous of what had been! In a few moments Amanda closed her
eyes, the wind caressing her into peacefulness and singing her to
slumber.
* * * * *