leaden feet and the departing vapours of night lay chilliest
finger on the sick and dying, and on those who watch at their
side. From the mantelshelf the lamp emitted its feeble rays, dimly
lighting the lonely chamber, and holding, as with uncertain hand,
the shadows which crowded and cowered in the distant corners and
recesses of the room, and throwing into Rembrandtesque the pallid
face of the wakeful mother, and the flushed and fevered face of
the slumbering child. The little watch beat bravely to the march
of time, eager to keep pace with that never-flagging runner; while
the quick and feeble breathing of the girl told how she was fast
losing in the race with the all-omnipotent hours. On a small table
stood two phials, in which were imprisoned dull-coloured liquids,
powerless, despite their supposed potency, to stay the hunger of
the disease so rapidly consuming the patient; and by their side
was a plate of shrivelled fruit, the departing lusciousness of
which had failed to tempt an appetite in her whose mouth was baked
with the fever that fed on its own flame. There, gathered into a
few cubic feet of space, met the great triune mystery of night, of
suffering, of sin--the unfathomable problems of the universe;
there God, the soul, and destiny, together and in silence, played
out their terribly real parts.
As Mrs. Stott looked at her daughter tossing in restless sleep,
the natal hour came back to her, and in memory she again travailed
in birth. She recalled the joy of the advent of that life now so
fast departing, and tried to say, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord
hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.' The words died
on her lips. Had it been a blessed thing on the part of God to
give to her a child who brought disgrace on her family name? And
now that her child was restored, with a possibility of redeeming
the past, was it a blessed thing of God to take her? As these
hideous thoughts chased one another through her over-wrought mind,
they seemed to embody themselves in the terrible shadows that
leapt and fought like demons on the wall, mere mockeries of her
helplessness and despair.
Her eye, however, fell on the Bible, and taking it up and opening
it at random, she read, 'Remember, O Lord, the children of Edom in
the day of Jerusalem. O daughter of Babylon, who art to be
destroyed, happy shall he be that taketh and dasheth thy little
ones against the stones.' Hurriedly turning over the leaves, her
eyes again fell upon words that went like goads into her heart:
'Let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark; let it look for
light but have none; neither let it see the dawning of the day,
because it shut not up the doors of my mother's womb.'
'What!' cried she, the old Calvinist life reasserting itself in
her soul--'what! have the curses o' God getten howd o' me?'
* * * * *
'Mother!'
It was the voice of Amanda, and its sound called back the ebbing
tides of maternity as the clear notes of a bugle rally the
dispirited and flying forces on an undecided field.
'Mother, will yo' draw that blind?'
'What doesto want th' blind drawin' for, Amanda?'
'I want to see th' morn break.'
'Whatever for, lass?' asked Mrs. Stott, as she drew the cord with
tremulous hand.
For a few minutes the girl looked out at the distant horizon with
a breaking light in her own eyes. Then, taking her mother's hand,
she said:
'Dun yo' see that rim o' gowd (gold) on the hills yonder?'
'Yi, lass; forsure I do. What abaat it?'
'Watch it, mother! See yo', it geds broder--more like a ribbin--a
brode, yollow ribbin, like that aw wore i' mi hat when I were a
little lass. Yo' remember, durnd yo'?--I wore it one charity
sarmons.'
'Aw remember, Amanda,' said the parent, choking with the
reminiscences of the past which the old hat and its yellow ribbon
aroused.
'Naa see, mother,' continued the girl, her eye fixed on the
opening sky; 'it's like a great sea--a sea o' buttercups, same as
used to grow in owd Whittam's field when yo' couldn't see grass
for flaars.'
'Yi, lass, I see,' sobbed Mrs. Stott.
'And thoose claads, mother! See yo' haa they're goin'. And th'
hills and moors? Why I con see them plainer and plainer! Haa grond
they are! They're awlus theer. Them, Mr. Penrose said, stood for
God's love, didn't he, mother?--and them claads as are lifting for
my sins.'
'Yi, lass; he did, forsure.'
The dawn advanced, and before its majestic march there fled the
shadows of night that for such long hours had made earth desolate.
In the light of this dawn were seen those infinite lines of
strength which rose from broad and massive bases, and, sweeping
upwards, told of illimitable tracts beyond--mighty waves on the
surface of the world's great inland seas, on whose crests sat the
green and purple foam of herbage, and in whose hollows lay the
still life of home and pasture. Silent, changeless, secure,
perpetual sublimity rested on their summits, and unbroken repose
lay along their graceful sweeps. They were the joy-bearers to the
poor child of sorrow, who with eager eye looked out on their
morning revelations. To her the mountains had brought peace.
That day was a new day to Amanda--a birthday--a day in which she
realized the all-embracing strength and sufficiency of a Divine
love. As the hours advanced the clouds gathered and showers fell,
only, however, to be swept away by the wind, or dissolved into the
light of the sun. These ever-changing, ever-dissolving,
many-coloured vapours were watched by Amanda, who now saw in them
the fleeting and perishable sins of her past life, and again and
again, as one followed the other into oblivion, she would breathe
a sigh of relief, and then allow her eyes to rest on the great
hills that changed not, and which seemed to build her in with
their strength.
From that day forward a great trust came upon her. She ceased to
fret, and never again recalled what had been. Just as the chill of
winter is forgotten in the glory of the springtide, and just as
the child in the posied meadow sports in unconsciousness of the
nipping frost that a few weeks before forced the tears to his
eyes, so Amanda, playful, gladsome, and full of wonder in the new
world in which she found herself, knew no more her old self, nor
remembered any more her old life. The day had broken and the
shadows flown, and God's child was like a young hart on the
mountains of Bether.
* * * * *
'Mother, dun yo' think they'd put my name on th' Church register
agen at Rehoboth?'
'I cornd say, mi Jass, I'm sure. But why doesto ax me?'
'Becose I should like to dee a member of th' owd place. Yo' know I
were a member once. Sin' I've been lyin' here I've had some
strange thoughts. Dun yo' know, I never belonged to God then as I
do naa, for all I were baptized and a communicant. It's queer,
isn't it?'
'Ey, lass; thaa'd better tell that to Mr. Penrose. I know naught
abaat what yo're talkin' on. Bud it does seem, as thaa ses, quare
that thaa belongs more to God naa nor thaa did when thaa went
away.'
'Nay, mother, it's noan exactly as yo' put it. I durnd mean as
God's changed; it's me as has changed, durnd yo' see? I never knew
or loved Him afore, and I know and love Him naa.'
That afternoon, when Mr. Penrose called, Amanda's mother told him
all her daughter had said, and made known to him as the pastor of
the Church the request for readmission and the administration of
the sacrament.
Mr. Penrose, however, shook his head. As far as he was concerned,
no one would have been more willing. But the deacons ruled his
Church, and many of them were hard and exacting men--men with the
eye and heart of Simon of old, who, while they would welcome
Christ to meat, would put the ban upon 'the woman who was a
sinner.' Nor dared Mr. Penrose administer the sacrament to one
whose membership was not assured, for he ministered to those of a
close sect, and a close sect of the straitest order. As the mother
pleaded for her child, he saw rising before him a difficulty of
which he had often dreamed, but never before faced--a difficulty
of ministering to a Church fenced in by deeds, the letter of which
he could not in his inner conscience accept.
The mother was importunate, however, and eventually the pastor
promised to bring the matter before his deacons.
What the decision of these deacons was will be told in another
Idyll of Rehoboth.
III.
THE COURT OF SOULS.
'I'm noan for bringin' th' lass back into th' Church. Hoo's noan
o'er modest, or hoo would never ax us to tak' her back.'
'Same here, Amos! What does hoo want amang dacent Christian fo'k?'
And so saying, Elias Bradshaw opened a large pocket-knife and
closed it again with a sharp click, and then toyed with it in his
hand.
'It wur bad enugh for th' owd woman to tak' her back wom', but if
we tak' her back into th' Church we's be a thaasand times wur,'
continued Amos.
'But surely,' pleaded Mr. Penrose, 'if the angels welcome a
returning sinner, might we not venture to do the same?'
'We're noan angels yet, Mr. Penrose,' replied Amos. 'It'll be time
enugh to do as th' angels do when we live as th' angels live; an'
I raither think as yo'd clam if yo' were put o' angels' meat. Ony
road, ye con try it if yo' like; it'll save us summat i' th'
offertory if yo' do.'
'Come, Amos, thaa's goin' a bit too fur,' interrupted Abraham
Lord. 'If yo're baan to insult th' parson, yo've no need to insult
them as is up aboon--"ministerin' sperits," as th' apostle cos
em.'
'We know thaa'rt no angel, Amos, baat thi tellin' us,' said
Malachi o' th' Mount. 'And it ever they shap thee into one thaa'll
tak' some tentin!' (minding).
'I durnd know as I want to be one afore mi time, Malachi: an' I'm
noan baan to do as they do till I ged amang 'em. I'd as soon pool
a warp ony day as play a harp; but when th' Almeety skifts me fro'
th' Brig Factory to heaven, mebbe I'll shap as weel at a bit o'
music as ony on yo'.'
'Wilto play thi music o'er sich as Amanda, thinksto?' asked old
Malachi.
'Thee mind thi business, Malachi. When th' Almeety maks me an
angel, I'll do as th' angels do. But noan afore, noather for yo',
nor Amanda Stott, nor Mr. Penrose, nor onybody else, so naa thaa
knows.'
'Spokken like a mon,' assented Elias Bradshaw. 'Stick to thi text,
Amos.'
'And yet, after all,' said Dr. Hale, 'I think we ought to receive
Amanda back again into our communion. The only One who ever
forgave sins drew no line as to their number, nor shade as to
their degree.'
'But durnd yo' think, doctor, that if we do as yo' want us we's be
turnin' th' Church into a shoddy hoile?' asked Elias Bradshaw.
'There are no shoddy souls,' said the doctor.
'No,' continued Mr. Penrose; 'it was not shoddy that Christ came
to seek and save.'
'Who wur it said th' gate were strait and th' road narro'?' cried
out an old man who was always known by the name of 'Clogs.'
'That's no reason why yo' should want to turn th' gate into a
steele-hoile (stile), is it?' retorted Malachi.
'Gate or steele-hoile, it's narro'; and that's enugh for me, an'
it were noan us ut made it narro'; it wur th' Almeety Hissel','
replied Clogs.
'At any rate, He made it wide enough for Amanda,' said Dr. Hale,
'and that is the matter we are now considering.'
'I'm noan so sure o' that, doctor. There's a good bit o' Scripter
agen yo' if yo' come to texes.'
'Then so much the worse for Scripture,' was the unguarded, yet
honest, retort of Mr. Penrose; and Dr. Hale laid a kind hand on
the young minister's shoulder to restrain his haste.
'It seems to me,' said Elias Bradshaw, 'as Mr. Penrose spends a
deal too mich time in poolin' up the stumps and makin' th' strait
gate into a gap as ony rubbige con go thro'. I could like to yer
him preych fro' the fifteenth verse o' th' last chapter i'
Revelation. I once yerd a grond sarmon fro' that text i' th'
pulpit up aboon here; and when it were oer, Dickey o' Sams o' the
Heights went aat o' th' chapel, and tried to draan hissel' i'
Green Fold Lodge. Naa, that's what I co powerful preychin'!'
'Pardon me, Mr. Bradshaw. We are not here to discuss the merits of
preaching. We are here to consider the request of Amanda Stott--'
'An' axin' yor pardon, Mr. Penrose, that's whod I wur comin' to.
I'm noan a fancy talker like yo'. Aw never larned to be, and I'm
noan paid to be. Whod I wur baan to say, if you'll nobbud let me,
wur this: As Jesus Christ wur a deal more particular who He leet
in than who He kept aat. That's all.'
'But who did He keep out?' asked Dr. Hale.
'Haa mony, thinksto, did He leet in, doctor? I could welly caant
um o' on both mi hands.'
'It seems to me yo' want to mak' saints as scarce as white crows,'
said Abraham Lord.
'Nay, Abram; we want to keep th' black 'uns aat o' th' nests.'
'Then yo' mud as weel fell th' rookery,' was Abraham's sharp
retort, which called forth a hearty laugh.
'If I read th' Bible reet,' said Amos Entwistle, returning to the
fray, 'if I read th' Bible reet, a felley once coome to Jesus
Christ an' axed Him if mony or few wur saved; and all he geet for
an answer wur, "Thee mind and geet saved thisel'; it'll tak' thee
all thy time wi'out botherin' abaat others." An' I think it'll
tak' us all aar time baat botherin' abaat Amanda Stott. I move as
we tak' no more notice on her axin' to come back amang us. It's
geddin' lat, an' my porritch is waitin' for me at wom'.'
This was more than Mr. Penrose could bear, and rising to his feet,
he asked, in suppressed tones, that the matter under discussion
might receive the care and wisdom and mercy that a soul demanded
from those who held in their hands the shaping of its earthly
destiny; and then, in a voice stifled with emotion, he ventured to
draw the contrast between the last speaker, who would fain hurry,
for the sake of an evening meal, decisions that had to deal with
the peace of a repentant girl, and He who, in the moments of
bodily hunger, putting aside the refreshment brought by His
disciples, said, 'I have meat to eat that ye know not of.'
Nor did Mr. Penrose plead in vain. Those who listened to him were
moved by his words, and Amos Entwistle sat down, to utter no
further word against Amanda.
From this time the tone of the discussion changed. Not that Mr.
Penrose devoutly listened; indeed, he was listless, only
recovering himself, now and again, as some striking sentence, or
scrap of rude philosophy, fell on his indifferent ear. Leaning
back in his chair, his eye rested on the hard features of the men
sitting on either side of the deacons' table. They were men of
grit, men of the hills, men whose religious ancestry was right
royal. Their fathers had fayed out well the foundations on which
the old chapel stood, and hewn the stones, and reared the walls,
and all for love--and after the close of hard days of toil. They
were men who knew nothing of moral half-lights--there were no
gradations in their sense of right and wrong. Sin was sin, and
righteousness was righteousness--the one night and the other day.
They drew a line, narrow and inflexible, and knew no debatable
zone where those who lingered were neither sinners nor saints. And
so with the doctrines they held. Severity characterized them.
Justice became cruelty, and faith superstition. They knew nothing
of progressive revelations. The old Sinaitic God still ruled; the
mountain was still terrible, and dark with the clouds of wrath.
Fatherhood in the Deity was an unknown attribute, and tenderness a
note never sounded in the creed they held. They had been bred on
meat, and they were strong men. They knew nothing of the tender
tones of Him whose feet became the throne of the outcast. Their
God was a consuming fire.
As Mr. Penrose looked into their faces, many bitter thoughts
poisoned the waters of his soul. He thought of Simon the Pharisee;
he thought, too, of St. Dominic; and of Calvin with the cry for
green wood, so that Servetus might slowly burn. He thought, too,
of the curse of spiritual pride--pride that enthroned men as
judges over the destiny of their fellows, and damned souls as
freely and as coolly as a commander marched his forlorn hope into
the yawning breach. And then, realizing that among such his lot
was thrown--realizing also the dead hand that rested on his
teaching and preaching--his heart went down into a sea of
hopelessness, and he felt the chill of despair.
The gong of the chapel clock announced the hour of nine, in thin,
metallic beats, and looking up, he noted the swealing tapers in
the candelabra over his head. In his over-wrought, nervous
condition, he imagined he saw in one of the flickering, far-spent
lights the waning life of Amanda Stott, and the horrible thought
of eternal extinction at death laid its cold hand on the larger
hope which he was struggling to keep aflame in his darkening soul.
Turning his glances towards the pulpit that rose gaunt and square
above the deacons' pew, and over which hung the old sounding-board,
as though to mock the voices, now for ever silent, that from time
to time had been wont to reverberate from its panels, he began to
wonder whether the message the Church called revelation was not,
after all, as vain as 'laughter over wine'; and as he looked on
the frowning galleries and the distant corners of the chapel,
gloomy and fearsome--the high-backed pews, peopled with shadows
thrown from the waning lights--he felt the force of the words of
one of his masters: 'What shadows we are, and what shadows we
pursue.'
Suddenly he was recalled to his position as the pastor of the
church by the voice of old Enoch, mellow as the tones of the flute
on which he so often tuned his soul in moods of sorrow and sin.
How long Enoch had been talking Mr. Penrose knew not; but what he
heard in the rude yet kindly vernacular of the moors was:
'Let's show mercy, lads! Noan o' us con howd up aar yeds baat it.
Him as has put us here expects us to show yon lass o' Stott's same
as He's shown to us Hissel'. There's one bit o' readin' i' th' New
Testament as noan o' yo' has had owt to say abaat--I mean where
th' Lord tells o' th' two debtors. Th' fust geet let off; but when
he wouldn't let his mate off, it were a sore job for him. Durnd
yo' think as th' Almeety cares as mich abaat us as we care for aar
childer? I somehaa thinks He does. Didn't him as played on th'
harp say, "Like as a faither pitieth his childer, so th' Lord
pitieth them that fear Him"? An' him as said that had a bad lad
an' o'--an' didn't he say he'd raither ha' deed than th' lad? Aw
welly think as th' Almeety con find room for Amanda, and if He
con, I think we mud be like to thrutch (push) her into Rehoboth.
Let's mak' room for her, hoo'l happen not want it so long; and
when hoo's gone we's noan be sorry we took her in; who knows but
what we shall be takin' in the Lord Hissel? I'm no scholard, but
I've read abaat 'em takin' in angels unawares; and th' Lord said
if we took onybody in ut wur aat i' th' cowd, we wur takin' Him
in. If we shut Amanda out we's mebbe shut Him aat, and if He's
aatside, them as is inside will be on th' wrang side. Coome, lads,
let's show mercy.'
There were other voices, however, besides Enoch's, and speakers as
apt at quotation from the Scriptures as he. Indeed, the Bible was
torn into shreds of texts, and--the letter so re-patched as to
destroy the pattern wrought by its great principles of mercy and
love. The grand words--righteousness, grace, law, were clashed,
and wildly rung, like sweet bells jangled out of tune, and the
court of souls resembled the vindictiveness of Miltonic demons
rather than the seat of those who claimed to represent Him who
said: 'I will have mercy and not sacrifice.' When the vote was
taken the door was shut against Amanda.
Passing out of the dimly-lighted chapel into the blackness of the
night, Dr. Hale took the arm of the young minister, saying:
'Let me guide you, Mr. Penrose. I know these roads by instinct.'
'Yes, doctor, I not only need your guidance, but that of someone
else. Black as the night is, it isn't so black as the souls of
those benighted inquisitors we've left behind us. There are stars
behind those clouds; but there are none hidden behind the murky
creed of the deacons of Rehoboth. Do they expect me, doctor, to
carry their decision to Mrs. Stott and her daughter?'
'I believe they do. Hard messages, you know, must be delivered
both by ministers and doctors. It is my lot sometimes to tell
people that their days are numbered, when I would almost as soon
face death myself.'
'Well, I have made up my mind, doctor, to face the resignation of
Rehoboth rather than carry their heartless decision to Amanda.'
'Wait until morning, and then come on to my house and consult with
old Mr. Morell; he is staying with me for a day or two. You never
met with him. Perhaps he can guide, or at any rate help you.
Wisdom lies with the ancients, you know.'
'But are not the men who have refused admission to Amanda the
spiritual children of Mr. Morell? If his preaching has brought
about what we have seen and heard to-night, what guidance or help
can I get from him?'
'Just so,' said the doctor. 'I was not thinking of that. It's true
he was pastor here for over forty years, and our deacons are his
spiritual offspring. For all that, the old man's heart is right if
his head is wrong; and, after all, it's the heart that rules the
life.'
'Nay! no heart could thrive on a creed such as Rehoboth's. Why,
God's heart would grow Jean on it.'
'But Mr. Morell's heart is not lean, Mr. Penrose. It is not, I
assure you,' emphasized the doctor, as his companion uttered a
sceptical grunt. 'He is tenderness incarnate. You know _one_ good
thing came out of Nazareth, despite the scepticism of the
disciple.'
'Certainly a good thing did come out of Nazareth; but Nazareth,
bad as it was, was not a Calvinistic creed. I very much question
whether the creed of Rehoboth can preserve a tender heart.'
'Come and see,' laconically replied Dr. Hale.
'Very well, then, I'll treat my scepticism honestly. I will come
and see. To-night the hour is too late. I will look in to-morrow
morning.'
Mr. Penrose continued his homeward walk, conscious of the first
symptoms of the reaction which follows hours of tension such as
those through which he had just passed. He was limp. Morally as
well as physically his nerve was gone. He thought of the Apostle
who fought with beasts at Ephesus, and envied him his combatants.
His fretful impatience with those who differed from him
theologically rose to a tide of insane hatred, and he lost himself
in a passion against his deacons as bitter as that which they had
shown towards Amanda Stott and himself.
Entering his lodgings, and lighting his lamp, he threw himself on
the couch, resenting in bitterness of spirit the limitations of
creeds, and the exactions imposed on men who, like himself, were
called to minister to brawling sects. Thrice he sat down at his
desk; thrice he wrote out his resignation, and thrice he committed
it to the flames. Then, recalling the words of an old college
professor who often used to tell his students that the second
Epistle of the Corinthians was the ministerial panacea in the hour
of depression, he took up his Testament and read:
_'Ministers of God, in much patience, in afflictions, in
necessities, in distress ... by pureness, by knowledge, by
long-suffering, by kindness, by love unfeigned, by the Holy Ghost,
by the word of truth, by the power of God.'_
And there came on the young pastor a spirit of power, and of love,
and of a new mind, and he slept.
IV.
THE OLD PASTOR.
On the following morning Mr. Penrose set out to call on the old
pastor at the house of Dr. Hale, conjuring up as he went pictures
of the man whom he knew only by report, and, as he deemed,
exaggerated report too. To Rehoboth people Mr. Morell was a
prodigy--a veritable prophet of the Most High; and his successor's
sojourn was not a little embittered by the disparaging contrasts
so frequently drawn between the old order and the new. To be for
ever told the texts from which Mr. Morell used to preach, to hear
in almost every house some pet saying or scrap of philosophy wont
to fall from his lips, to be asked, if not bidden, by the deacons
to tread in the footprints of one who was believed to wear the
seven-league boots, became intolerable; and had not discretion
guarded the speech of Mr. Penrose, many a time his language of
retort would have been strange to covenanted lips. Often, too, he
asked himself what manner of man he must be who nursed and reared
this narrow sect of the hills--a sect setting judgment before
mercy, and law before love--a sect narrowing salvation to units,
and drawing the limit line of grace around a fragment of mankind.